Skip to main content

Full text of "Blackwood's magazine"

See other formats 


Presented  to  the 

UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO 
LIBRARY 

by  the 

ONTARIO  LEGISLATIVE 
LIBRARY 

1980 


£W<?    djsvndvrva 


THE    CARSWFLL    COMPANY    LIMITED 


71139  _ 
BLACKWOO 


.00  , 

i At  is  »*«,*3  SUnVHlKul' 

.MiH    Hit  *V_  _ „- 

,nr,iw>8JH  rfmyi'I  msnocn  '•'' — v$*   tffion 

•»sb»Iq[ 

•m  ir       A        ^^^        A        F^r    ~W   ^LT    T~*l 

i\/l     A    f-2-    A     x,   I    ^    H. 

r»n»ijJjCJL«'-'-;ljL    VJT    /JL   ^J    JL    -L^l     -U-<« 

YOBUOiJuIOYOT      2'  ^AX/**   <*1^ 

%/&&-&&-' 

T7/-VT        VW 

VOJL.  AAA. 

,n(0»w! 
.   srf*  its  v<f  aofls  sd  o;  ;  •{'»«»•»[»  «• 


JULY— DECEMBER,  1831. 


.  o — 


n'J  lo  oiW 


WILLIAM  BLACKWOOD,  EDINBURGH; 


T.  CADELL,  STRAND,  LONDON 
1831.  "^^k***^ 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE, 


No.  CLXXXH.  JULY*  1831.  VOL.  XXX. 


Contents* 

AUDUBON'S  ORNITHOLOGICAL  BIOGRAPHY.  INTRODUCTION,  .  .  I 

ON  PARLIAMENTARY  REFORM  AND  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.  No.  VII. 

WHAT  SHOULD  THE  PEERS  no?  .  .  .  •  .27 

BEECHEY'S  VOYAGE  TO  THE  PACIFIC  AND  BEHRING'S  STRAIT,  .          34 

IRELAND  AND  THE  REFORM  BILL,       .    .  .  .  .  .52 

THE  PLAINT  OF  ABSENCE.     BY  DELTA,  ....          58 

PASSAGES  FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  LATE  PHYSICIAN.  CHAP.  XI. 

THE  RUINED  MERCHANT,          .  .  .  .  .  GO 

THE  BRITISH  PEERAGE,  ......          82 

SOTHEBY  s  HOMER.    CRITIQUE  III.       .....          93 

FAMILY  POETRY.    No.  II.  .  .  .  .  .  .126 

HOMER'S  HYMNS.  No.  I.  THE  POEM  OF  PAN,  :  .  .  128 

THE  RIVER  NIGER.  LETTER  FROM  JAMES  M'QuEEN,  ESQ.  .  .  130 


EDINBURGH  : 

WILLIAM   BLACKWOOD,  NO.  45,  GEORGE  STREET,  EDINBURGH; 
AND  T.  CADELL,  STRAND,  LONDON. 

To  whom  Communications  (post  paid)  may  be  addressed. 
SOLD  ALSO  BY  ALL  THE  BOOKSELLERS  OF  THE  UNITED  KINGDOM. 

PRINTED  BY  BALLANTYNE  AND  CO.  EDINBURGH. 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No,  CLXXXII. 


JULY,  1831. 


VOL,  XXX. 


AUDUBON'S  ORNITHOLOGICAL  BIOGRAPHY. 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE  present  Age,  which,  after  all, 
is  a  very  pretty  and  pleasant  one,  is 
feelingly  alive  and  widely  awake  to 
the  manifold  delights  and  advantages 
with  which  the  study  of  Natural 
Science  swarms,  and  especially  that 
branch  of  it  which  unfolds  the  cha- 
racter and  habits,  physical,  moral, 
and  intellectual,  of  those  most  inte- 
resting and  admirable  creatures- 
Birds.  It  is  familiar  not  only  with 
the  shape  and  colour  of  beak,  bill, 
claw,  talon,  and  plume,  but  with 
the  purposes  for  which  they  are  de- 
signed, and  with  the  instincts  which 
guide  their  use  in  the  beautiful  eco- 
nomy of  all-gracious  Nature.  We 
remember  the  time  when  the  very 
word  Ornithology  would  have  requi- 
red interpretation  in  mixed  com- 
Rany ;  and  when  a  naturalist  was 
)oked  on  as  a  sort  of  out-of-the- 
way  but  amiable  monster.  Now,  one 
seldom  meets  with  man,  woman, 
or  child,  who  does  not  know  a  hawk 
from  a  handsaw,  or  even,  to  adopt  the 
more  learned  reading,  from  a  heron- 
shaw ;  a  black  swan  is  no  longer  er- 
roneously considered  a  rara  avis  any 
more  than  a  black  sheep;  while  the 
Glasgow  Gander  himself,  no  longer 
apocryphal,  has  taken  his  place  in 
the  national  creed,  belief  in  his  ex- 
istence being  merely  blended  with 
wonder  at  his  magnitude,  and  some 
surprise  perhaps  among  the  scien- 
tific, that  he  should  be  as  yet  the 
sole  specimen  of  that  enormous  An- 
ser. 

The  chief  cause  of  this  advance- 
ment of  knowledge  in  one  of  its 
most  delightful  "departments,  has 

VOL.  XXX.  NO.  CLXXXII. 


'been  the  gradual  extension  of  its 
study  from  stale  books,  written  by 
men,  to  that  book  ever  fresh  from, 
the  hand  of  God.  And  the  second 
— another  yet  the  same — has  been 
the  gradual  change  wrought  by  a  phi- 
losophical spirit  in  the  observation, 
delineation,  and  arrangement  of  the 
facts  and  laws  with  which  the  science 
is  conversant,  and  which  it  exhibits  in 
the  most  perfect  harmony  and  order. 
Students  now  range  for  themselves, 
according  to  their  capacities  and 
opportunities,  fields,  woods,  rivers, 
lakes,  and  seas ;  and  proficients,  no 
longer  confining  themselves  to  mere 
nomenclature,  enrich  their  works 
with  anecdotes  and  traits  of  charac- 
ter, which,  without  departure  from 
truth,  have  imbued  bird-biography 
with  the  double  charm  of  reality 
and  romance. 

How  we  come  to  love  the  Birds  of 
Bewick,  and  White,  and  the  two 
Wilsons,  and  Montagu,  and  Mudie, 
and  Knapp,  andSelby,and  Swainson, 
and  Syme,  and  Audubon,  and  many 
others,  so  familiar  with  their  haunts 
and  habits,  their  affections  and  their 
passions,  till  we  feel  that  they  are 
indeed  our  fellow  creatures,  and 
part  of  one  wise  and  wonderful 
system  !  If  there  be  sermons  in 
stones,  what  think  ye  of  the  hymns 
and  psalms,  matin  and  vesper,  of  the 
lark,  who  at  heaven's  gate  sings, — 
of  the  wren,  who  pipes  her  thanks- 
givings as  the  slant  sunbeam  shoots 
athwart  the  mossy  portal  of  the  cave, 
in  whose  fretted  roof  she  builds  her 
nest  above  the  waterfall  ? 

Ay,  these,  and  many  other  blame- 


Audubon's  Ornithological  Biography. 


[July, 


less  idolaters  of  Nature,  have  wor- 
shipped her  in  a  truly  religious  spi- 
rit, and  have  taught  us  their  religion. 
Nor  have  our  poets  been  blind  or 
deaf  to  the  sweet  Minnesingers  of  the 
woods.  Thomson,  and  Cowper,  and 
Wordsworth,  have  loved  them  as 
dearly  as  Spenser,  and  Shakspeare, 
and  Milton.  All  those  prevailing  poets 
have  been  themselves  "  musical  and 
melancholy"  as  nightingales,  and  of- 
ten from  the  inarticulate  language  of 
the  groves,  have  they  breathed  the 
enthusiasm  that  inspired  the  finest 
of  their  own  immortal  strains. 
"  Lonely  wanderer  of  Nature,"  must 
every  poet  be — and  though  often 
self-wrapt  his  wanderings  through  a 
spiritual  world  of  his  own,  yet  as 
some  fair  flower  silently  asks  his  eye 
to  look  on  it,  some  glad  bird  his  ear 
solicits  with  a  song,  how  intense  is 
then  his  perception,  his  emotion  how 
profound,  his  spirit  being  thus  ap- 
pealed to,  through  all  its  human  sen- 
sibilities, by  the  beauty  and  the  joy 
perpetual  even  in  the  most  solitary 
wilderness  1 

Our  moral  being  owes  deep  ob- 
ligation to  all  who  assist  us  to  study 
nature  aright;  for  believe  us,  it  is 
high  and  rare  knowledge,  to  know 
and  to  have  the  true  and  full  use  of 
our  eyes.  Millions  go  to  the  grave 
in  old  age  without  ever  having  learn- 
ed it ;  they  were  just  beginning  per- 
haps to  acquire  it  when  they  sighed 
to  think  that  "  thoy  who  look  out  of 
the  windows  were  darkened  ;"  and 
that,  while  they  had  been  instructed 
how  to  look,  sad  shadows  had  fall- 
en on  the  whole  face  of  Nature,  and 
that  the  time  for  those  intuitions  was 
gone  for  ever.  But  the  science  of 
seeing  has  now  found  favour  in  our 
eyes;  and  "blessings  are  with  them 
and  eternal  praise  who  can  dis- 
cover, discern,  and  describe  the  least 
as  the  greatest  of  nature's  works, 
who  can  see  as  distinctly  the  finger 
of  God  in  the  lustre  of  the  little 
humming-bird  murmuring  round  a 
rose-buen,  as  in  that  of  "  the  star  of 
Jove,  so  beautiful  and  large,"  shining 
sole  in  heaven. 

Take  up  now  almost  any  book  you 
may  on  any  branch  of  Natural  His- 
tory, and  instead  of  the  endless,  dry 
details  of  imaginary  systems  and  clas- 
sifications, in  which  the  ludicrous  lit- 
tlenesses of  man's  vain  ingenuity  used 
to  be  set  up  as  a  sort  of  symbolical 


scheme  of  revelation  of  the  sublime 
varieties  of  the  inferior — as  we  choose 
to  call  it — creation  of  God,  you  find 
high  attempts  in  a  humble  spirit  ra- 
ther to  illustrate  tendencies,  and 
uses,  and  harmonies,  and  order,  and 
design.  With  some  glorious  excep- 
tions, indeed,  the  naturalists  of  the 
day  gone  by,  shewed  us  a  science 
that  was  but  a  skeleton — nothing 
but  dry  bones ;  with  some  inglorious 
exceptions,  indeed,  the  naturalists 
of  the  day  that  is  now,  have  been 
desirous  to  shew  us  a  living,  breath- 
ing, and  moving  body,  to  explain,  as 
far  as  they  might,  its  mechanism  and 
its  spirit.  Ere  another  century  elapse, 
how  familiar  may  men  be  with  all 
the  families  of  the  flowers  of  the 
field,  and  the  birds  of  the  air,  with 
all  theiuterdependencies  of  theircha- 
racters  and  their  kindreds,  perhaps 
even  with  the  mystery  of  that  in- 
stinct which  now  is  Been  working 
wonders,  not  only  beyond  the  power 
of  reason  to  comprehend,  but  of  ima- 
gination to  conceive ! 

Take  up,  we  say,  what  book  you 
will,  and  such  is  its  spirit.  There, 
for  example,  are  these  two  unpre- 
tending, but  enlightened  volumes, 
"  The  British  Naturalist,"  by  Mr 
Mudie,  which,  we  need  not  add,  we 
recommend  to  all  students,  and  how 
much  more  real  knowledge  do  they 
contain  than  many  ambitious  works 
we  could  mention  made  up  of  words 
— words — words — and  words,  too, 
as  fuzionless  as  chips — chips — chips? 
This  contribution  to  natural  history, 
he  tells  us  at  once,  is  sanctioned  by 
no  name  or  authority,  and  pretends 
to  no  systematic  arrangement.  He 
does  not  fear  to  say  that  the  dictum 
of  authority,  and  the  divisions  of 
system,  are  the  bane  of  study  to  the 
people  at  large ;  and  is  it  not,  we 
add,  the  people  at  large,  whom  the 
people  in  few  should  seek  to  in- 
struct in  the  wisdom  that  framed 
the  world  ?  True  it  is,  as  Mr  Mudie 
says,  that  the  dictum  of  authority  re- 
presses the  spirit  of  enquiry,  and  that 
in  the  divisions  of  system  the  parts 
are  so  many,  and  so  scattered,  that 
the  whole  cannot  be  understood.  It 
were  as  easy  to  tell  the  hour  from  the 
disjointed  movements  of  a  number  of 
watches  jumbled  together  in  a  box, 
as  to  find  "  how  Nature  goes,"  from 
the  mere  dissection  of  her  works. 
**  I  do  not  want  to  hear  the  harangue 


1831.] 


Auduboris  Ornithological  Biography. 


of  the  exhibitor ;  I  want  to  see  the  exhi- 
bition itself,  and  that  he  shall  he  quiet, 
and  let  me  study  and  understand  that  in 
my  own  way.  If  I  meet  with  any  ohject 
that  arrests  my  attention,  I  do  not  wish 
to  run  over  the  roll  of  all  objects  of  a  si. 
milar  kind ;  I  want  to  know  something 
about  the  next  one,  and  why  they  should 
be  in  juxtaposition.  If,  for  instance,  I 
meet  with  an  eagle  on  a  mountain  cliff,  I 
have  no  desire  to  be  lectured  about  all 
the  birds  that  have  clutching  talons  and 
crooked  beaks.  That  would  take  me 
from  the  book  of  Nature,  which  is  before 
me, — rob  me  of  spectacle,  and  give  me 
only  the  story  of  the  exhibiter,  which  I 
have  no  wish  either  to  hear  or  to  remem- 
ber. I  want  to  know  why  the  eagle  is 
on  that  el  ill',  where  there  is  not  a  thing 
for  her  to  eat,  rather  than  down  in  the 
plain,  where  prey  is  abundant ;  I  want 
also  to  know  what  good  the  mountain  it- 
self does, — that  great  lump  of  sterility 
and  cold  ;  and  if  I  find  out,  that  the  cliff 
is  the  very  place  from  which  the  eagle 
can  sally  forth  with  the  greatest  ease  and 
success,  and  that  the  mountain  is  the 
parent  of  all  those  streams  that  gladden 
.the  valleys  and  plains,— I  am  informed. 
Nay,  more,  I  see  a  purpose  in  it,— the 
working  of  a  Power  mightier  than  that 
of  man.  My  thoughts  ascend  from  moun- 
tains to  masses,  wheeling  freely  in  abso- 
lute space.  I  look  for  the  boundary:  I 
dare  not  even  imagine  it :  I  cannot  re- 
sist the  conclusion — '  This  is  the  build- 
ing of  God.' 

"  Wherever  I  go,  or  whatever  I  meet, 
I  cannot  be  satisfied  with  the  mere  know- 
ledge that  it  is  there,  or  that  its  form, 
texture,  and  composition,  are  thus  or  thus; 
I  want  to  find  out  how  it  came  there, 
and  what  purpose  it  serves;  because,  as 
all  the  practical  knowledge  upon  which 
the  arts  of  civilisation  are  founded  has 
come  in  this  way,  I  too  may  haply  glean 
a  little.  Nor  is  that  all  :  wonderful  as 
man's  inventions  are,  I  connect  myself 
with  something  more  wonderful  and  more 
lasting ;  and  thus  I  have  a  hope  and  stay, 
whether  the  world  goes  well  or  ill ;  and 
the  very  feeling  of  that,  makes  me  better 
able  to  bear  its  ills.  When  I  find  that 
the  barren  mountain  is  a  source  of  ferti- 
lity, that  the  cold  snow  is  a  protecting 
mantle,  and  that  the  all-devouring  sea  is 
a  fabricator  of  new  lands,  and  an  easy 
pathway  round  the  globe,  I  cannot  help 
thinking  that  that,  which  first  seems  only 
an  annoyance  to  myself,  must  ultimately 
involve  a  greater  good. 

"  This  was  the  application  given  to 
Natural  History  in  the  good  old  days  of 
the  Derhams  and  the  Rays;  and  they 


were  the  men  that  breathed  the  spirit  of 
natural  science  over  the  country.  But 
the  science  and  the  spirit  have  been  se- 
parated ;  and  though  the  learned  have/ 
gone  on  with  perhaps  more  vigour  than 
ever,  the  people  have  fallen  back.  They 
see  the  very  entrance  of  knowledge  guard* 
ed  by  a  hostile  language,  which  must  be 
vanquished  in  single  combat  before  they 
can  enter;  and  they  turn  away  in  des- 
pair." 

That  accomplished  and  philoso- 
phic naturalist,  Professor  Reiinie, 
in  one  of  his  dissertations  prefixed 
to  his  edition  of  Montagu's  Orni- 
thological Dictionary  of  British  Birds, 
has  lately  laid  before  the  public  a 
plan  of  study,  according  to  the  me- 
thod he  has  pursued  in  his  own  re- 
searches, which  beautifully  embodies 
the  spirit  of  these  remarks.  So  sim- 
ple is  it,  that  it  appears  some  inge- 
nious friaad,  to  whom  he  shewed  it 
in  manuscript,  objected  to  it  that  it 
was  no  plan  of  study  at  all.  What  is 
its  method  ?  Why  this  and  no  more 
— but  then  how  much  1  First,  to  ob- 
serve a  fact  or  circumstance  in  the 
fields,  then  to  endeavour  to  discover 
the  design  it  was  intended  to  serve 
by  the  great  Creator,  and  subse- 
quently to  examine  the  statements 
to  be  met  with  in  books,  in  order  to 
compare  them  with  what  you  have 
actually  observed.  On  this  plan, 
he  rightly  says,  any  person  with  a 
little  care  may  become  a  tolerably 
good  naturalist,  the  first  walk  he 
takes  in  the  fields,  without  much 
knowledge  of  books ;  on  the  oppo- 
site and  too  current  plan,  much  stu- 
dy is  indispensable  to  enable  any 
person  to  master  the  theory  or  sys- 
tem, in  relation  to  which  the  ob- 
served facts  are  supposed  to  have 
their  whole  value  and  importance. 
He  agrees  with  the  leading  rule  laid 
down  by  the  illustrious  M.  Levail- 
lant,  that  the  principal  aim  of  a  na- 
turalist ought  to  be  to  multiply  ob- 
servations— that  theories  are  more 
easy  and  more  brilliant  indeed  than 
observations ;  but  it  is  by  observa- 
tion alone  that  science  can  be  en- 
riched, while  a  single  fact  is  fre- 
quently sufficient  to  demolish  a  sys- 
tem. Levaillant  was  himself  one  who 
preferred  reading  the  page  of  nature 
in  the  woods  and  fields  to  the  inferior 
study  of  cabinets  and  books — and 
hence,  Professor  Renuie  observes, 
he  was  stigmatized,  as  another  en- 


4  Auduborfs  Ornithological  Biography.  [July, 

thusiastic  and  genuine  observer,  Au-     the  wings  of  a  dove,  for  already  is  it 


dubon,  is  at  present,  by  cabinet  na- 
turalists, as  a  romancer  unworthy  of 
credit.  'Tie  ever  so.  People  sitting 
in  their  own  parlour,  with  their  feet 
on  the  fender,  or  in  the  sanctum  of 
some  museum,  staring  at  stuffed  spe- 
cimens, imagine  themselves  natural- 
ists ;  and  in  their  presumptuous  and 
insolent  ignorance,  which  is  often  to- 
tal, scorn  the  wisdom  of  the  wander- 
ers of  the  woods,  who  have  for  many 
studious  and  solitary  years  been 
making  themselves  familiar  with  all 
the  beautiful  mysteries  of  instinc- 
tive life. 

Take  two  boys  and  set  them  re- 
spectively to  pursue  the  two  plans 
of  study.  How  puzzled  and  per- 
plexed will  be  the  one  who  pores 
over  the  "  interminable  terms"  of  a 
system  in  books,  having,  meanwhile, 
no  access  to,  or  communion  with  na- 
ture !  The  poor  wretch  is  to  be  pi- 
tied— nor  is  he  any  thing  else  than  a 
slave.  But  the  young  naturalist,  who 
takes  his  first  lessons  in  the  fields,  ob- 
serving the  unrivalled  scene  which 
creation  everywhere  displays,  is 
perpetually  studying  in  the  power  of 
delight  and  wonder,  and  laying  up 
knowledge  which  can  be  derived 
from  no  other  source.  The  rich  boy 
is  to  be  envied,  nor  is  he  any  thing 
else  than  a  king.  The  one  sits  be- 
wildered among  words,  the  other 
walks  enlightened  among  things ;  the 
one  has  not  even  the  shadow,  the 
other  more  than  the  substance — the 
very  essence  and  life  of  knowledge ; 
and  at  twelve  years  old  he  may  be 
a  better  naturalist  than  ever  the  mere 
bookworm  will  be,  were  he  to  out- 
live old  Tommy  Balmer. 

In  education — late  or  early — for 
heaven's  sake  let  us  never  separate 
things  and  words.  They  are  mar- 
ried in  nature ;  and  what  God  hath 
put  together  let  no  man  put  asunder 
— 'tis  a  fatal  divorce.  Without  things, 
words  accumulated  by  misery  in 
the  memory,  had  far  better  die  than 
drag  out  an  useless  existence  in  the 
dark ;  without  words,  their  stay  and 
support,  things  unaccountably  disap- 
pear out  of  the  storehouse,  and  may 
be  for  ever  lost.  But  bind  a  thing 
with  a  word,  a  strange  link,  stronger 
than  any  steel,  and  softer  than  any 
silk,  and  the  captive  remains  for 
ever  happy  in  its  bright  prison-house, 
nor  would  it  flee,  away  had  it  even 


at  rest.  On  this  principle,  it  is  in- 
deed surprising  at  how  early  an  age 
children  can  be  instructed  in  the 
most  interesting  parts  of  natural 
history;  and  in  illustration  of  that, 
Professor  Rennie  aptly  quotes  a  few 
of  Coleridge's  beautiful  lines  to  the 
Nightingale : — 

"  That  strain  again  ! 
Full  fain  it  would  delay  me!  My  dear  babe, 
Who,  capable  of  no  articulate  sound, 
Mars  all  things  with  his  imitative  lisp, 
How  he  would  place  his  hand  beside  his 

ear, 

His  little  hand,  the  small  forefinger  up, 
And  bid  us  listen  !  and  I  deem  it  wide 
To  make  him  Nature's  child." 

Compare  the  intensity  and  truth 
of  any  natural  knowledge  insensibly 
acquired  by  observation  in  very  early 
youth,  with  that  corresponding  to  it 
picked  up  in  later  life  from  books ! 
In  fact,  the  habit  of  distinguishing 
between  things  as  different,  or  of  si- 
milar forms,  colours,  and  characters, 
formed  in  infancy,  and  childhood,  and 
boyhood,  in  a  free  intercourse  and 
communion  with  Nature,  while  we 
are  merely  seeking  and  finding  the 
divine  joy  of  novelty  and  beauty  per- 
petually occurring  before  our  eyes 
in  all  her  haunts,  may  be  made  the 
foundation  of  an  accuracy  of  judg- 
ment of  inappreciable  value  as  an 
intellectual  endowment.  We  must 
all  have  observed  with  Professor 
Rennie,  how  exceedingly  difficult  it 
is  for  persons  arrived  at  manhood 
to  acquire  this  power  of  discrimi- 
nating objects  whose  general  simi- 
larity of  appearance  deceives  a  com- 
mon observer  into  a  belief  of  their 
identity;  though  a  little  care  on  the 
part  of  a  parent  or  teacher  will  ren- 
der it  comparatively  easy. 

So  entirely  is  this  true,  that  we 
know  many  observant  persons,  that 
is,  observant  in  all  things  intimately 
related  with  their  own  pursuits,  and 
with  the  experience  of  their  own 
early  education,  who,  with  all  the 
pains  they  could  take  in  after  life, 
have  never  been  able  to  distinguish 
by  name,  when  they  saw  them,  above 
half-a-dozen,  if  so  many,  of  our 
British  singing  birds;  while  as  to 
knowing  them  by  their  song,  that  is 
wholly  beyond  the  reach  of  their  un- 
instructed  ear,  and  a  shilfa  chants  to 
them  like  a  yellow-yoldrin.  On  see- 
ing  a  small  bird  peeping  out  of  a  hole 


1831.] 


Audubon's  Ornithological  Biography. 


in  the  eaves,  and  especially  on  hear- 
ing him  chatter,  they  shrewdly  sus- 
pect him  to  be  a  sparrow,  though  it 
does  not  by  any  means  follow  that 
their  suspicions  are  always  verified, 
as  our  friend  not  unfrequently  turns 
out  altogether  another  animal — fur- 
ther the  deponent  sayeth  not,-  and 
though,  when  sitting  with  her  white 
breast  so  lovely,  out  of  the  "auld 
clay-bigging,"  in  the  window-corner, 
he  cannot  mistake  Mistress  Swallow, 
yet  when  flitting  in  fly-search  over 
the  lake,  and  ever  and  anon  dipping 
her  wing-tips  in  the  lucid  coolness, 
'tis  an  equal  chance  that  he  misnames 
her  Miss  Martin. 

We  could  give  a  hundred — a  thou- 
sand— ten  thousand  instances  of  the 
most  astonishing  ignorance  shewn 
even  by  naturalists  of  considerable 
reputation — book  and  cabinet  na- 
turalists— with  regard  to  facts  fall- 
ing under  the  most  obvious,  and,  as 
one  might  think,  the  most  universal 
observation  of  men,  whether  natu- 
ralists or  not,  who  have  seen  the 
prudence  and  propriety  of  walking 
with  their  eyes  open.  But  Profes- 
sor Rennie  quotes,  and  remarks  on 
one  in  itself  quite  sufficient  for  our 
purpose,  from  the  "  highly  lauded 
article"  Ornithology,  in  Rees's  Cy- 
clopaedia.— "  Birds  of  the  same  spe- 
cies," says  the  author,  "collect  all 
the  same  materials,  arrange  them  in 
the  same  manner,  and  make  choice 
of  similar  situations  for  fixing  the 
places  of  their  temporary  abodes. 
Wherever  they  dispose  them,  they 
always  take  care  to  be  accommodated 
with  a  shelter;  and  if  a  natural  one 
does  not  offer  itself,  they  very  in- 

feniously  make  a  covering  of  a  dou- 
le  row  of  leaves,  down  the  slope 
of  which  the  rain  trickles,  without 
entering  into  the  little  opening  of 
the  nest  that  lies  concealed  below." 
What  precious  nonsense!  What  a 
pack  of  confusion  !  Does  the  Cyclo- 
psedist,  or  rather  the  Cyclops,  for  he 
could  have  "  had  but  one  eye,  and 
that  was  no  piercer,"  here  speak  of 
all  birds,  or  but  of  some  particular 
species  ? 

In  either  case  alike  is  he  a  dolt. 
If  of  all  birds,  then  he  forgets,  when 
speaking  of  the  care  they  always 
take  to  be  accommodated  with  shel- 
ter, the  numerous  families  which  lay 
their  eggs  on  the  bare  ground,  lea- 
ving them  exposed  the  greater  part 


of  the  day  on  the  sands  of  the  desert, 
the  sea-beach,  or  isolated  rocks.  Ac- 
commodate them  with  shelter,  and 
in  a  couple  of  days  the  shore  will  be 
stinking — nor  will  a  single  sea-fowl 
— all  addled  in  the  yellow — ever 
chip  the  shell.  Of  what "  little  open- 
ing of  the  nest"  does  the  perverse 
and  purblind  old  Monops  prate  ? 
The  wren's  ?  or  the  eagle's  ?  But  the 
wren  (Miss  Kitty)  most  frequently 
builds  her  domicile  out  of  the  flutter 
of  leaves;  on  old  mossy  stumps,  on 
house-walls,  or  the  living  rock  ;  and 
when  in  hedges,  she  would  laugh  at 
the  idea  of  this  dotard  providing  the 
little  opening  of  her  nest  that  lies 
concealed  below,  with  a  double  row 
of  leaves ;  for  hang  the  globe  in  the 
sunshine  or  the  storm,  and  St  Ca- 
therine will  sit  within,  unseared  and 
unscathed,  counting  her  beads — per- 
haps a  score — counting  them  with 
her  fine-feeling  breast  that  broods 
in  bliss  over  the  priceless  pearls. 

As  for  the  Eagle,  the  little  opening 
of  his  nest  doth  verily  not  lie  con- 
cealed below  a  covering  of  a  double 
row  of  leaves ;  but,  eighteen  feet  in 
circumference,  (we  have  measured 
one,)  it  lies  unconcealed,  except  by 
its  height  from  your  ogles,  mayhap 
a  mile  or  a  league,  on  a  cliff-platform, 
occasionally  no  doubt  hidden  in 
clouds ;  and  men,  who  speak  what 
is  now  called  the  English  tongue,  caU 
it  an  Eyrie. 

If  the  old  gentleman  be  not  yet 
quite  dead — and  if  he  be,  then  we 
appeal  to  the  most  scientific  of  his 
surviving  descendants — he  is  hereby 
humbly  requested  to  have  the  good- 
ness to  inform  us  of  the  name,  of  this 
ingenious  bird ;  and  to  tell  us,  in  a 
postscript,  if  ever,  in  all  his  born 
days,  he  saw  a  bird's  nest  of  any  kind 
whatever,  on  cliff  or  castle,  ground 
or  grove,  in  bush,  tree,  hedge,  or  old 
man's  beard. 

But  what  constant  caution  is  per- 
petually necessary  during  the  natu- 
ralist's perusal  even  of  the  very  best 
books  !  From  the  very  best  we  can 
only  obtain  knowledge  at  second 
hand,  and  this,  like  a  story  circulated 
among  village  gossips,  is  more  apt  to 
gain  in  falsehood* than  in  truth,  as  it 
passes  from  one  tft. another;  but  in 
field  study,  we  go  at,  once  to  the 
fountain-head,  and  obtain  our  facts 
pure  and  unalloyed  by  the  theories 
and  opinions  of  previous  observers. 


Audubon's  Ornithological  Biography. 


[July, 


Hence  it  is  that  the  utility  of  books 
becomes  obvious.  You  witness  with 
your  own  eyes  some  puzzling,  per- 
plexing, strange,  and  unaccountable 
— fact;  twenty  different  statements 
of  it  have  been  given  by  twenty  dif- 
ferent ornithologists;  you  consult 
them  all,  and  getting  a  hint  from  one, 
and  a  hint  from  another,  here  a  glim- 
mer of  light  to  be  followed,  and 
there  a  gloom  of  darkness  to  be 
avoided — why,  who  knows  but  that 
in  the  end  you  do  yourself  solve  the 
mystery,  and  absolutely  become  not 
only  happy  but  illustrious  ?  We  can- 
not deny  ourselves  and  friends  the 
pleasure  of  perusing,  in  proof  of  this, 
the  following  passage,  which  exhi- 
bits a  characteristic  specimen  of 
Professor  Rennie's  happy  style  of 
treating  whatever  subject  comes 
within  the  range  either  of  his  reading 
or  his  observation. 

"  You  pay  a  visit,  for  example,  to  the 
nest  of  a  dabchick  or  grebe,  (Podiceps,) 
which  you  had  discovered  some  days  be- 
fore among  reeds  at  the  edge  of  a  pond, 
and  are  surprised  to  find  that  the  eggs 
have  disappeared;  but  much  more  so  on 
taking  up  some  of  the  rode  materials  of 
the  nest,  to  see  the  eggs  snugly  concealed 
beneath.  The  question  immediately  ari- 
ses, Did  the  mother  bird  thus  cover  the 
eggs  herself,  and  if  so,  for  what  purpose 
was  it  done  ?  If  you  be  not  too  impatient, 
(a  state  of  mind  exceedingly  adverse  to 
accuracy  and  originality,)  you  will  endea- 
vour to  ascertain  whether  the  covering  of 
the  eggs  was  peculiar  to  this  individual,  or 
common  to  the  species,  by  repeated  ob- 
servation, as  frequently  as  opportunity 
offers ;  or,  if  patience  fail  you  for  this, 
such  books  as  you  have  access  to  may  be 
consulted.  Look  into  Linnaeus,  and  all 
you  find  is,  that  this  bird  '  builds  a  float- 
ing nest  of  grass  and  reeds.'  Latham 
Bays,  '  the  nest  is  made  of  water-plants 
among  the  reeds,  and  close  to  the  surface 
of  the  water,  floating  independent.'  Wil- 
lugbby,  Ray,  and  Brisson,  say  not  a  word 
about  the  nest  Fleming  says,  the  '  nest 
is  in  marshes  of  aquatic  plants,  and  made 
so  as  to  float.'  '  They  breed,'  says  Gold- 
smith, '  among  reeds  and  flags,  in  a  float- 
ing nest,  kept  steady  by  the  weeds  and 
margin.'  They  '  construct  their  nest,' 
•ays  Griffith,  evidently  copying  Tem- 
nnnck,  «  with  rushes,  &c.,  interlaced, 
Which  they  attach  to  the  stems  of  reeds, 
resting  it  on  their  broken  tops,  or  suffer- 
ing it  to  float."  '  Nest  large,'  according 
to  Jennings,  '  made  of  aquatic  plants  not 
attached  to  any  thing,  but  floats  among 


the  reeds  and  flags  penetrated  by  water.' 
Belon,  who  is  followed  by  Gesner,  Al- 
drovand,  Jonston,  and  M.  Drapiez,  says, 
<  it  nestles  near  the  ground  upon  some 
turfy  clump  in  a  marsh,  difficult  of  ac- 
cess.' '  On  our  large  pools,'  says  Buf- 
fon,  '  they  build  with  reeds  and  rushes 
interwoven,  and  the  nest  is  half  dipped 
in  the  water,  though  not  entirely  afloat, 
as  Linnaeus  asserts,  but  shut  and  attach, 
ed  to  the  reeds.'  Wood  subsequently 
adds,  in  a  note,  *  they  construct  a  float- 
ing nest  of  reeds.'  '  They  build  their 
nests,'  says  Hill,  '  floating  and  loose 
among  the  flags' ;  and  '  being  altogether 
unconnected  with  the  reeds  among  which 
it  floats,  it  sometimes  happens  that  it  is 
blown  from  among  them  into  the  open 
lake.  In  this  situation  the  owner,  like  a 
skilful  pilot,  it  is  said,  steers  the  nest 
into  a  safe  harbour,  by  passing  her  feet 
through  it.' 

"  In  all  these  various  notices  of  the 
nest  in  question,  by  the  well  known  na- 
turalists thus  consulted,  there  occurs  no 
mention  of  any  covering  of  the  eggs, 
though  the  enquiry  has  brought  under 
notice  some  other  curious  particulars, 
which,  no  doubt,  a  young  and  ardent  ob- 
server will  be  anxious  to  verify  on  the 
nest  itself,  from  which  his  book-research 
originated.  Some  of  the  authors,  it  has 
been  seen,  assert  that  the  nest  floats  on 
water,  nay,  that  it  is  purposely  built  to 
float  by  the  mother  bird;  while  others 
make  no  mention  of  its  floating,  aod 
some  expressly  deny  it.  In  a  supposed 
case  like  this,  it  may,  perhaps,  be  deem- 
ed premature  for  me  to  decide ;  but  the 
nests  which  have  fallen  under  my  obser- 
vation, agree  with  those  originally  descri- 
bed by  Belon,"  in  being  built  on  raised 
clumps  in  marshes,  or  at  least  so  sup- 
ported by  water  plants  as  not  to  be  in- 
tended to  float.  That  in  consequence  of 
floods  these  nests  may,  by  accident,  have 
been  found  floating,  it  would  be  wrong  to 
deny,  though  there  can  be  little  doubt 
that  Linnaeus,  who  was  much  too  credu- 
lous of  wonders,  magnified  a  chance  oc- 
currence into  a  general  rule.  The  story 
of  the  mother  bird  navigating  her  nest 
when  it  has  been  carried  away  by  a  flood, 
is  altogether  incredible ;  for  the  nest  is 
not  only  constructed  of  a  bedding  of 
reeds,  rushes,  and  other  water  plants, 
more  than  a  foot  in  thickness,  but  the 
feet  of  the  bird  are  so  broad  and  clumsy, 
that  they  could  not  be  thrust  through  it 
without  entirely  destroying  its  texture. 

"  Pennant,  however,  seems  to  believe 
this  nonsense,  for  he  adds  to  the  account 
— '  In  these  circumstances  the  halcyon's 
nest,  its  floating  house,  fluctivaga  damut, 


1831.] 


Audubon's  Ornithological  Biography. 


as  Statius  expresses  it,  may  in  some  mea- 
sure be  vindicated.'  Ttie  same  author 
also  is  more  particular  about  the  floating 
of  the  nest,  which  he  says  is  built  near 
'  hanks  in  the  water,  but  without  any 
fastening,  so  that  it  rises  and  fulls  as  that 
doe*.  To  make  its  nest,  it  collects  an 
amazing  quantity  of  grass,  water-plants,' 
&c. ;  and  he  adds,  '  it  should  seem  won- 
derful how  they  are  hatched,  as  the  water 
rises  through  the  nest  and  keeps  them 
wet ;  but  the  natural  warmth  of  the  bird 
bringing  on  a  fermentation  in  the  vege- 
tables, which  are  full  a  foot  thick,  makes 
a  hot-bed  fit  for  the  purpose.'  If  our 
young  student,  upon  reading  this  very 
questionable  doctrine,  turn  to  this  Dic- 
tionary, page  127,  he  will  learn  that  Co- 
lonel Montagu  uniformly  found  the  nests 
cold,  and  that,  taking  into  account  the 
chemical  principles  of  fermentation,  it 
was  impossible  they  could  be  warm. 

"  But  Pennant  also  mentions  a  circum- 
stance of  much  more  interest  in  r«tt»reiiee 
to  the  original  enquiry,  when  he  says  that 
this  bird  '  lays  five  or  six  white  eggs,  and 
always  covers  them  when,  it  quits  ttie  nest,'— 
the  very  point  to  ascertain  which  the  re- 
search was  begun.  With  this  authority, 
supported  as  it  is  by  Montagu,  most  stu- 
dents might  rest  satisfied,  but  the  ardent 
naturalist  never  arrives  at  any  conclusion 
like  this,  without  bringing  all  the  facts 
within  his  knowledge  to  bear  upon  it,  in 
order  to  elucidate  connecting  causes  and 
consequences  ;  for  the  fact  being  ascer- 
tained of  the  mother  bird  covering  her 
eggs,  it  becomes  interesting  to  enquire 
\vliy  she  does  thi*. 

"  It  is  admitted  by  all  the  naturalists 
already  quoted,  that  the  nest  in  question 
is  built  on  moist  ground,  if  not  actually 
touching  the  water,  and  that  part  at  least 
of  the  materials  consist  of  moist  water- 
plants,  N>iw,  it  is  indispensable  to  hatch- 
ing, that  the  eggs  be  kept  at  a  high  tem- 
perature, and  not  be  suffered  for  u  mo- 
ment to  cool.  The  natural  heat  of  the 
bird  itself  is  sufficient  for  this  purpose, 
without  the  heat  of  fermentation,  erro- 
neously supposed  by  Pennant;  but  if  she 
quits  them  for  a  moment  to  go  in  pursuit 
of  food,  or  to  withdraw  the  attention  of 
an  intruding  water-spaniel,  or  a  prying 
naturalist,  their  near  vicinity  to  moist 
plants  or  to  water,  would  certainly  prove 
fatal  to  the  embryo  chicks.  In  order  then 
to  prevent  her  brood  from  being  destroy- 
ed by  cold,  the  careful  bird  covers  the 
eggs  with  a  quantity  of  dry  hay,  to  keep 
them  warm  till  her  return. 

"  By  keeping  this  interesting  fact  in 
his  mind,  our  young  naturalist  may  sub- 
sequently find  that  other  birds  employ 


7 

the  same,  or  similar  devices.  The  carrion- 
crow,  (Corvus  corone,)  for  example,  who 
lines  her  nest  with  wool  and  rabbits'  fur, 
always  covers  her  eggs  with  a  quantity  of 
this  before  leaving  her  nest,  no  doubt,  for 
the  same  reason  that  the  dabchick  em. 
ploys  hay.  Again,  several  birds  ot  very 
different  habits,  such  as  the  wood^wren, 
(Sylvia  sibilatrix,) and  the  hay-bird,  (Sylvia 
trocliilus,)  construct  a  permanent  arch  of 
moss  and  dried  grass  over  their  nesta. 
leaving  a  narrow  entrance  in  the  side. 
Having  recently  had  occasion  to  investi- 
gate the  structure  of  various  nests  with 
some  minuteness,  I  have  been  led  to 
adopt  the  opinion,  that  the  arched  coping, 
or  dome,  so  remarkable  in  several  small 
birds  for  ingenious  and  beautiful  work- 
manship, is  designed  to  preserve  their 
animal  heat  from  being  dissipated  during 
the  process  of  incubation ;  an  opinion 
which  appears  to  be  corroborated  by  the 
fact  of  our  native  birds  that  thus  cover  in 
their  nests  at  the  top,  being  all  very  small. 
"  Among  these,  besides  the  wood-wren 
and  the  hay-bird,  are  the  common  wren, 
the  chiff  chaff,  (Syluia  hipolais.)  the  gold- 
crested  wren,  the  bottle-tit,  (Purut  cau- 
datus,  RAY,)  and  the  dipper,  (Cinclut 
aquaticus,  BECHSTEIN.)  There  are  other 
birds,  no  doubt,  little  larger  than  these, 
such  as  the  blackcap  and  the  babillard. 
(Curruca  garrvla,  BKISSON,)  which  do  not 
build  domed  nests ;  but  it  is  worthy  of  re- 
mark, that  the  latter  usually  lay  much  few- 
er eggs;  the  babillard  .seldom  more  than 
four,  and  the  blackcap  four  or  five;  while 
the  gold-crested  wren  lays  from  seven  to 
ten,  the  bottle-tit  from  nine  to  twelve, 
and  the  common  wien  from  eight  to  (some 
say)  fourteen,  and  even  twenty.  It  will 
follow  of  course,  that  in  order  to  hatch 
so  large  a  number,  these  little  birds  re- 
quire all  their  animal  heat  to  be  concen- 
trated and  preserved  from  being  dissipa- 
ted. The  dipper,  indeed,  lays  but  five  or 
six  eggs,  and  weighs  from  six  to  eight 
times  more  than  any  of  our  other  dome 
builders;  but  it  is  to  be  recollected, that, 
from  its  being  a  water  bird,  and  building 
near  water,  it  may  have  more  occasion  to 
use  '  all  appliances'  to  concentrate  its 
heat.  In  tropical  countries,  where  the 
heat  is  great,  such  domed  nests  are  very 
common,  and  are  probably  intended  to 
protect  the  mother  birds,  while  hatching, 
from  the  intense  heat  of  a  perpendicular 
sun;  though  most,  naturalists  think  they 
are  designed  to  avert  the  intrusion  of 
snakes,  —  forgetiing  that,  snakes  would 
more  naturally  run  their  heads  into  a  nest 
with  a  small  .-uie  ttitranre,  than  if  it  were 
open  above.  A  circumstance  which  fell 
under  my  observation,  corroborative  of 


8  Audubon's  Ornithological  Biography, 

this  remark,  I  have  recorded  under  the 
article  Hay  Bird.  Other  birds,  in  warm 
countries,  leave  their  eggs  during  the  day 
exposed  to  the  heat  of  the  sun,  and  only 
sit  upon  them  during  the  night,  or  in 
cloudy  weather,  when  the  temperature  of 
the  air  is  not  sufficiently  high, — a  fact 
which  has  given  origin  to  the  error,  that 
the  ostrich  (StnU/iio  camelus,}  lays  her 
eggs  in  the  sand  and  abandons  them  to 
chance." 


[July, 


What,  then,  in  the  opinion  of  this 
acute  observer  and  enquirer,  is  the 
use  of  what  in  Natural  History  is 
called  a  system  ?  A  methodical  clas- 
sification is  useful  in  as  far  only  as  it 
may  serve  as  a  framework  or  a  cabi- 
net,   into  the  partitions    of  which 
inany  little  facts  may  be  stored  and 
dove-tailed,  that  would  otherwise  be 
scattered  through  the   memory   at 
random,  at  the  great  hazard  of  being 
lost.     The  advantage  of  a  system  of 
this  kind,  then,  consists  in  its  pre- 
serving such  collections  of  facts,  as 
a  cabinet  preserves  a  collection  of 
specimens  ;  and,  provided  the  seve- 
ral facts  be  not  too  far  separated  from 
their  usual  associations,  it  matters 
little  what  other  qualities  the  sys- 
tems possess.      Simplicity,  indeed, 
must  always  be  valuable,  and  a  sim- 
ple system  may  be  likened  to  a  plain 
uuoruamented  cabinet,  where    the 
specimens  hold  a  prominent  place, 
and  the  cabinet  itself  is  almost  over- 
looked; while acomplex  system  may, 
in  the  same  way,  be  likened  to  a 
cabinet  bedizened  with    grotesque 
carving  and  fretwork,  the  compart- 
ments of  which  are  "  curiously  cut," 
and  fantastically  arranged,  consist- 
ing indeed  chiefly  of  empty  frame- 
work, without  a  useful  tact,  or  an 
interesting  specimen  on  which  the 
mind  can  rest;  and  afterwards  Mr 
Rennie  says,  with  equal  truth  and 
boldness,    of   these    same    system- 
mongers,  that  the  alphabet  of  their 
system  is  all  they  study,  yet  they 
scruple  not  to  call  themselves  na- 
turalists, and  the  alphabet  of  their 
system,  Natural  History,  though  they 
might,  with  equal  propriety,  call  the 
twenty-four  letters  in   a  hornbook 
the   History  of  England,  and  rank 
the  village  schoolmaster  who  teaches 
it   with   Hume   or  Lingard.      That 
some  minds  may  be  so  constituted 
as  to  take  pleasure   in   such  nick- 
nack  study,  is  proved  by  the  analo- 


gous pursuits  of  collectors  of  old 
coins  and  medals,  not  for  their  uti- 
lity, but  solely  on  account  of  their 
rarity,  or  to  perfect  a  series;  yet  it 
would  be  as  preposterous  to  rank 
such  mere  collectors  with  a  man  like 
Niebuhr,  who  investigated  medallion 
inscriptions,  in  order  to  elucidate 
the  history  of  Rome,  as  it  would  be 
to  rank  a  mere  systematist  with 
Aristotle,  Ray,  or  John  Hunter. 

A  loud  outcry  will  doubtless  be 
raised  against  Professor  Rennie  on 
account  of  these   opinions,  by  the 
self-appointed   cabinet-ministers    of 
nature,  who   are   assuredly  neither 
her  secretaries  nor  her  interpreters. 
He  need  not  care  for  the  abuse  of 
such  persons — he  writes  for  those 
who  aim  at  philosophical  and  extend- 
ed views  of  nature.    With  all  his  ad- 
miration of  the  enthusiasm,  devotion, 
and  even  genius  of  Liuuceus,  he  can- 
not consider  that  extraordinary  man 
a  philosophic   naturalist.     Linnaeus 
thought  that  the  superiority  of  a  na- 
turalist depended  upon  his  knowing 
the  greatest  number  of  species,  and 
that  the  study  of  Natural  History  con- 
sisted in  the  collection,  arrangement, 
and  exhibition  of  the  various  pro* 
ductions  of  the  earth.     Unquestion- 
ably, by  storing  the  memory  with 
specific  names  and  technical  distinc- 
tions, "  a  good  gossiping  naturalist" 
might  be  made;  but  good  gossiping 
naturalists  are  of  all  old  women  the 
most  wearifu'  and  superfluous,  and 
the  breed  should  be  subjected  to  all 
possible  discouragements.    A  study, 
again,  narrowed  down  as  Linnaeus 
narrowed  it,  and  without  reference 
to  causes,  effects,  or  the  wise  con- 
trivances of  the  Creator,  would  never 
lead  to  the  Natural  History  which 
Lord  Bacon  declares  to  be  the  basis 
of  all  science,  and  "  fundamental  to 
the  erecting  and  building  of  a  true 
philosophy."   Nor  is  Professor  Ren- 
nie singular  in  his  Just  severities  on 
Linnaeus  and  his  followers — for  he 
backs  them  with  the  opinions  of  Dr 
Aikin,  Professor  Lindley,  Mr  White 
of  Selborne,  Mr  Vigors,  Mr  MacLeay, 
Dr  Fleming,  and  Dr  Heineken;  and 
sums  up  all  by  asserting  the  truth  to 
be,  that  the  Linnsean  system  mainly 
contributed  to  extinguish  the  genuine 
study  of  nature,  and  rendered  it  un- 
popular for  many  years,  since  every 
writer  surrendered  himself  uncon- 


1831.] 


Audubon's  Ornithological  Biography. 


ditionally  to  its  shackles,  and,  of 
course,  repelled  every  student  im- 
bued with  a  particle  of  philosophy 
or  of  taste,  or  alive  to  the  glorious 
beauties  of  the  Creation. 

What,  in  good  truth,  can  be  more 
puerile  than  to  limit,  as  Linnaeus  did, 
his  descriptions  of  specific  character 
to  twelve  words — or  than  his  division 
of  one  of  his  works  into  twelve 
parts,  because  there  are  twelve 
months  in  the  year — and  into  three 
hundred  and  sixty-five  paragraphs, 
to  correspond  to  the  number  of  days 
in  the  year  !  Thus,  all  that  Linnaeus 
tells  us  of  the  Bank  Swallow  (Hirun- 
do  riparia — RAY,)  is  contained  in  the 
following  twelve  words  : — "  H. 
riparia,  cinerea,  gula  abdomineque 
albis — Habitat  in  Europae  collibus 
arenosis  abruptis,  foramine  serpen- 
tino."  This  is  all  we  are  taught  to 
believe — "  that  the  industry  of  man 
has  been  able  to  discover  concerning 
it !"  Pennant  and  Latham  are  nearly 
as  brief  and  just  as  meagre,  and  Cu- 
vier  himself  does  not  improve  on  it, 
"  by  gravely  adding  this  absurdity :" 
— "  Elle  pond  dans  des  trous  le  long 
des  eaux.  II  parait  constant  qu'elle 
s'engourdit  pendant  1'hiver,  et  meme 

au'elle  passe  cette  saison  au  fond 
e  1'eau  des  marais  !"  Compare  this 
useless  stuff  with  all  the  interesting 
facts  "  that  the  industry  of  man"  has 
really  accumulated  concerning  the 
same  bird,  and  you  will  acknowledge 
that  Linnaeus,  wonderful  being  as  he 
was,  may,  without  offence  to  any 
rational  mind,  be  safely  pronounced 
an  ignoramus.  The  late  Dr  Heineken, 
speaking  of  Gmelin,  a  disciple  of 
the  Linnaeau  school,  characterises 
him  as  having  "  an  instinctive  pro- 
pensity towards  the  erroneous ;" — 
and  of  that  gifted  person's  "thirteenth 
edition  of  Linnaeus,  as  it  is  called," 
quoth  the  Doctor,"!  have  had  thegood 
fortune  never  to  be  burdened  with 
it — but  in  an  evil  hour,  a  kind  friend 
bestowed  on  me  the  seven  ponderous 
tomes  of  that  kindred  spirit,  Turton." 
Temminck  calls  Gmelin's  edition  of 
Linnaeus  "  the  most  undigested  book 
in  existence."  Of  Temminck's 
"  Manuel  d'Ornithologie,"  Rennie  of 
course  speaks  highly,  which,  though 
essentially  Linnsean,  is  much  more 
circumstantial  and  accurate  than  is 
usual  with  the  disciples  of  that 
school.  It  proves,  however,  that 
Temminck  is  much  better  acquainted 


with  collections  of  stuffed  specimens 
than  with  living  birds,  except  such 
aquatic  ones  as  frequent  the  shores 
of  Holland,  and  in  that  point  of  view, 
it  contrasts  strongly  with  the  Dic- 
tionary of  Montagu — especially  now 
that  that  book  has  been  so  greatly 
enriched  from  many  sources  by  its 
editor.  On  turning  from  Montagu 
to  Temminck,  we  indeed  are  made 
to  feel  the  truth  of  the  observation, 
that  a  lexicon  or  explanatory  cata- 
logue is  of  unquestionable  and  in- 
dispensable use,  for  the  purpose  of 
identifying  the  species  which  may 
come  under  observation,  or  chance 
to  be  connected  with  interesting 
discussion  and  detail;  but  that  no- 
body beyond  the  barriers  of  Lin- 
naeanism  could  ever  dream  of  de- 
signating any  of  these,  useful  though 
they  be,  a  natural  history,  any  more 
than  of  calling  a  book  like  Blair's 
Chronology  the  History  of  the 
World. 

Mr  Rennie  concludes  his  sixty 
page  preface  to  Montagu  with  three 
lists  containing  almost  all  the  names 
of  the  writers  of  any  note  on  orni- 
thology—  rudimental,  literary,  and 
philosophic  naturalists.  Under  the 
first  he  includes  all  works  consist- 
ing of  descriptive  catalogues,  chiefly 
of  museum  specimens,  arranged  sys- 
tematically; including  either  whole 
classes,  or  particular  groups  of  ani- 
mals; the  latter  termed  Monographs, 
and  only  useful  to  aid  the  student 
in  identifying  specimens  by  form, 
colour,  and  structure,  commonly 
omitting  historical  and  philosophi- 
cal details,  and  rarely  like  the  beau- 
tiful account  of  the  British  swallows, 
.which  White  of  Salborne  called  by 
the  now  abused  title  of  Monograph 
— such  works,  particularly  the  Mo- 
nograph, often  dealing  in  critical 
disquisitions  about  names,  divisi- 
ons, and  the  particular  place  a 
species,  genus,  or  group,  ought  to 
occupy  in  the  system  adopted,  ex- 
hibiting, in.many  instances,  passages 
of  worthless  trifling,  undeserving  of 
perusal.  The  second  comprehends 
all  works  consisting  of  notices  and 
details,  sometimes,  though  less  fre- 
quently, derived  from  the  observa- 
tion of  living  Nature  than  from 
closet  reading,  but  often  highly  in- 
teresting and  valuable,  though  very 
commonly  sprinkled  with  inaccura- 
cies. The  third  contains  works 


Auduborfs  Ornithological  Biography. 


10 

consisting  of  personal  observations 
on  the  habits,  character,  or  physio- 
logy of  living  animals,  and  enquiries 
into  the  causes  and  reasons  <>t  what 
is  observed,  for  the  purpose  either 
of  supporting  theories,  often  fanci- 
ful, or  of  illustrating  the  providential 
wisdom  of  the  Great  Creator.  It  is 
to  be  noted,  that  philosophical  na- 
turalists are  often  no  less  deficient 
in  knowledge  of  systematic  catalo- 
gues, than  the  rudimental  naturalists 
are  of  philosophy — both  are  import- 
ant to  be  known.  The  three  lists 
contain,  if  not  a  complete,  a  com- 
prehensive bibliography  of  birds. 

We  have  been  led  into  these  some- 
what detailed  remarks  — some  of 
them  our  own,  and  some  of  them 
Mr  Rennie's — who,  we  are  sure, 
will  not  grudge  us  the  use  of  them 
in  a  magazine  which  occasionally 
touches,  in  its  own  way,  on  zoology 
—from  our  anxiety  to  encourage 
students  in  this  department  of  na- 
tural history,  against  those  depress- 
ing fears  that  must  sometimes  assail 
them  from  the  cold,  dry,  and  hor- 
rid aspect  which  the  science  assumes 
in  the  Linnaean  school.  With  him 
we  do  indeed  lament  that  the  meagre 
index  fashion  of  describing  natural 
productions  was  ever  introduced, 
since,  as  he  says,  it  has  so  seldom 
been  employed  in  the  only  way  in 
which  it  can  be  useful ;  and  it  ap- 
pears to  have  taken  such  deep  root 
as  to  threaten,  like  some  sorts  of 
noxious  weeds,  to  be  incapable  of 
being  eradicated ;  for  by  far  the 
greater  number  of  recent  works  up- 
on the  subject,  even  when  they  pre- 
tend to  novelty  of  system,  have  the 
essential  characteristic  of  the  Lin- 
TKi'Jiu  school,  of  being  most  carefully 
stripped  of  every  interesting  detail, 
and  trimmed  down  to  a  limited  num- 
ber of  lines,  reminding  one  strong- 
ly of  the  old  poets,  who  squared 
their  leaves  into  the  forms  of  adzes, 
hearts,  and  triangles,  and  left  the 
consideration  of  sentiment  and  ima- 
gery to  bards  who  would  not  con- 
descend to  such  puerile  trifling. 

It  has  been  wen  said  by  a  writer  in 
Loudon's  Magazine  of  Natural  His- 
tory, that  "  those  who  employ  them- 
selves in  disguising  and  degrading 
science  by  cacophonous  nomencla- 
ture, and  a  parade  of  barbarous  La- 
t'wity,  which  fools  think  learning, 


[July, 


are  entitled  to  reprobation  and  con- 
tempt. There  are  many  such  in 
France,  and  some  among  ourselves, 
great  men  in  their  little  circles ;  they 
do  well  to  make  the  most  of  this, 
for  they  may  rest  assured  that  how- 
ever high  they  rank  in  their  owu 
estimation,  or  in  that  of  their  co- 
teries, the  world  neither  knows  nor 
cares  any  thing  about  them."  Yet  the 
puerile  triflers  thus  employed  hold 
in  contempt  the  works  that  alone 
deserve  the  name  of  science ;  these 
miserable  manufacturers  of  words 
complaining  in  querulous  tones 
of  their  "  legitimate  productions" 
being  "  left  to  languish  and  decay," 
"  because  the  grown-up  public  are 
satisfied  with  infants'  food  in  the 
shape  of  cheap  compilations,  crude 
translations,  wonders  of  the  insect 
world,  &c.  &c.  with  such  like  uniu- 
Bing  trifles,  fit  only  for  children."  A 
consumptive  blockhead  with  a  queasy 
stomach  might  as  well  call  roast-beef 
and  plum-pudding  "  infants'  food," 
as  the  sapid  and  nutritive  dishes 
which  have  lately  been  set  before 
the  healthy  public,  and  which  she 
has  plentifully  devoured  with  great 
gusto.  Why  a  translation  should 
be  crude  we  do  not  see,  any  more 
than  its  original :  and  the  ninny  of 
ninnies  must  he  indeed  be,  who,  in 
a  nation  owing  a  million  million  of 
d«bt,  and  taxed  accordingly,  com- 
plains of  a  compilation  "  that  it  is 
cheap."  The  sneer  at ' '  wonders  of 
the  insect  world"  is  aimed,  we  pre- 
sume, at  Professor  Rennie's  "  Insect 
Architecture,"  "  Insect  Transforma- 
tions," &c.  j  but  the  person  who 
could  call  such  wonders  as  are  re- 
vealed there,  "  amusing  trifles  fit 
only  for  children,"  must  be  himself 
an  insect  scarce  worthy  even  of  this 
short  notice, — an  ephemeral  and  a 
midge. 

It  is  encouraging,  however,  to 
know,  that  flesh-ana-blood  natural- 
ists are  held  now  in  far  higher  re- 
pute in  Britain  than  the  skeletons. 
The  good  sense  of  the  English  pub- 
lic never  stomached  such  a  work  for 
instance  as  Turton's  seven  ponder- 
ous Linncean  tomes,  which  sell  now 
for  little  more  than  the  price  of  waste 
paper;  and  that  too  at  a  time  when 
the  works  of  genuine  naturalists,  such 
as  White's  Selborne,  and  Knapp's 
Journal  of  a  Naturalist,  are  selling  by 


1831.] 


Auduborfs  Ornithological  Biography. 


thousands,  and  will  continue  to  sell 
to  the  tune  of  tens  of  thousands. 

In  this  state  of  public  opinion  and 
feeling  on  the  subject  of   natural 
knowledge  and  science,  what  fears 
can  be  entertained  for  the  success 
and  glory  of  such  an  ornithologist  as 
Audubon  ?  We  have  seen  that  Pro- 
fessor Rennie  classes  him  along  with 
Levaillant,  in  the  first   order,  into 
which  none  can  be  admitted  but  the 
eons  of  genius,  who,  in  the  spirit  of 
philosophy,    have   pursued  science 
over  the  bosom  of  Nature.     Of  him, 
Swainson  says,  "  there  is  a  freshness 
and    originality  about    his   Essays, 
which  can  only  be  compared  to  the 
unrivalled  biographies    of    Wilson. 
Both  these  men  contemplated  Nature 
as  she  really  is,  not  as  she  is  repre- 
sented in  books;   they  sought  her 
in  her  sanctuaries.     The  shore,  the 
mountain,  and  the  forest,  were  alter- 
nately their  study,  and  there  they 
drank  the  pure  stream  of  knowledge 
at  its  fountain-head.     The  .observa- 
tions  of  such  men  are  the  corner- 
stones of  every  attempt  to  discover 
the  system  of  Nature.    Their  wri- 
tings will  be  consulted  when  our  fa- 
vourite theories  shall  have  passed  into 
oblivion.     Ardently,  therefore,  do  I 
hope,  that  M.  Audubon  will  alter- 
nately become  the  historian  and  the 
painter  of  his  favourite  objects,  that 
he  will  never  be  made  a  convert  to 
any  system,  but  instruct  and  delight 
UH  as  a  true  and  unprejudiced  bio- 
grapher of    Nature."      And  Baron 
Cuvier,  in  a  report  made  to  the  Royal 
Academy  of  Sciences  of  Paris,  after 
having  pronounced  a  splendid  eulo- 
gium  on  Audubon's  "  Quatre  cents 
aessins  qui  contiennent  a-peu  pres 
deux  mille  figures,"  thus  concludes 
his  "  compte  verbal."     "  Formerly 
European  naturalists  had  to  make 
known  to  America  the  treasures  she 
possessed ;  but  now  the  Mitchells, 
the  Harlans,  the  Wilsons,  the  Charles 
Bonapartes,  have  repaid  with  inte- 
rest the  debt  which  America  owed 
to  Europe.  The  History  of  the  Birds 
of  the  United  States,  by  Wilson,  al- 
ready equals  in  elegance  our  most 
beautiful  works  in  ornithology.     If 
ever  that  of  M.  Audubon  be  com- 
pleted, then  it  will  have  to  be  grant- 
ed that  America,  in  magnificence  of 
execution,  has  surpassed   the   Old 
World."    But  before  speaking  of  the 
magnificent  design  of  Audubon,  now 


11 

fast  being  accomplished,  let  us  first 
acquaint  our  readers  with  the  Man. 
In    an    auto-biographical    sketch — . 
would  that  it  had  been   a  finished 
picture — prefixed  to  the  volume  now 
before  us,  he  exhibits  many  traits  of 
his  simple,  single-hoarted,  enthusi- 
astic, enterprising,  and  persevering 
character,  which  it  is  impossible  to 
regard  without  affectionate  admira- 
tion.    He  calls  himself,  in  the  pride 
of  genius  and  patriotism,  an  "  Ame- 
rican Woodsman."    And  when  some 
five  years  ago,  we  first  set  eyes  on 
him  in  a  party  of  literati,  in  "  stately 
Edinborough  throned  on  Crags,"  he 
was  such  an  American  woodsman  as 
took  the  shine  out  of  us  modern  Athe  • 
nians.     Though  dressed,  of  course, 
somewhat  after  the  fashion  of  our- 
selves, his  long  raven   locks  hung 
curling  over  his  shoulders,  yet  un- 
Bhorn  from   the  wilderness.     They 
were  shaded  across  his  open  fore- 
head with  a  simple  elegance,  such 
as   a   civilized   Christian  might   be 
supposed  to  give  his  "  fell  ot  hair," 
when   practising   "  every  man  his 
own   perruquier,"   in   some   liquid 
mirror  in  the  forest-glade,  employ, 
ing,  perhaps,  for  a  comb,  the  claw  of 
the   Bald   Eagle.     His   sallow  fine- 
featured  face  bespoke  a  sort  of  wild 
independence,  and  then  such  an  eye 
— keen  as  that  of  the  falcon !    His 
foreign  accent  and  broken  English 
speech — for  he  is  of  French  descent 
—removed  him  still  farther  out  of 
the  commonplace  circle  of  this  every- 
day world  of  ours — and  his  whole 
demeanour — it  might    be  with    us 
partly  imagination — was  coloured  to 
our  thought  by  a  character  of  con- 
scious freedom  and  dignity,  which 
he  had  habitually  acquired  in  his 
long  and  lonely  wanderings  among 
the  woods,  where  he  had  lived  in 
the  uncompanioned   love    and   de- 
light of  Nature,  and  in  the  studious 
observation  of  all  the  ways  of  her 
winged  children,  that  for  ever  flut- 
tered over  his  paths,  and  roosted  on 
the  tree   at  whose  feet  he   lay  at 
night,  beholding  them  still  the  sole 
images  that  haunted  his  dreams.  All 
this,  we  admit,  must  have  had  over 
it  astrong  tincture  of  imagination;  for 
we  had  been  told  of  his  wandering  life 
and  hiswouderful  pencil;  but  the  en- 
tire appearance  of  the  man  was  most 
appropriate  to  what  had  for  BO  many 
years  been  his  calling,  and  bore  upon 


Audubon's  Ornithological  Biography,  [July, 

gazed  in  ecstasy  upon  the  pearly  and  shi- 
ning eggs,  as  they  lay  imbedded  in  the 
softest  down,  or  among  dried  leaves  and 
twigs,  or  exposed  upon  the  burning  sand 
or  weather-beaten  rock  of  our  Atlantic 
shores.  I  was  taught  to  look  upon  them 
as  flowers  yet  in  the  bud.  1  watched 

ing  pursuit,  it  had  lavished  its"dear-     their.  °Peninff«  \°  see  how  Nature  had 
oaf  nnH   •i;1;,,..^t   ,,.,^;,,,,      AT™.  ,..;n      provided  each  different  species  with  eyes 


it,  not  to  be  mistaken  for  a  moment 
or  overlooked,  the  impress,  not  of  sin- 
gularity, but  of  originality;  in  one 
word,  of  genius — self-nursed,  self- 
ripened,  and  self-tutored  among  the 
inexhaustible  treasures  of  the  Fo- 
rest, on  which,  in  one  soul-engross- 


est  and  divinest  passion.  Nor  will 
this  language  sound  extravagant  to 
those  who  know  Audubon,  and  that 
the  Man  is  never  for  an  hour  distinct, 
in  his  being,  from  the  Ornithologist. 
But  hear  him  speak  of  himself — 

"  I  received  life  and  light  in  the  New 
World.  When  I  had  hardly  yet  learned 
to  walk,  and  to  articulate  those  first  words 
always  so  endearing  to  parents,  the  produc- 
tions of  Nature  that  lay  spread  all  around, 
were  constantly  pointed  out  to  me.  They 
soon  became  my  playmates;  and  before 
my  ideas  were  sufficiently  formed  to  en- 
able me  to  estimate  the  difference  be- 
tween the  azure  tints  of  the  sky,  and  the 
emerald  hue  of  the  bright  foliage,  I  felt 
that  an  intimacy  with  them,  not  consist- 
ing of  friendship  merely,  but  bordering 
on  frenzy,  must  accompany  my  steps 
through  lite ; — and  now,  more  than  ever, 
am  I  persuaded  of  the  power  of  those 
early  impressions.  They  laid  such  hold 
upon  me,  that,  when  removed  from  the 
woods,  the  prairies,  and  the  brooks,  or 
shut  up  from  the  view  of  the  wide  At- 
lantic, I  experienced  none  of  those  plea- 
sures most  congenial  to  my  mind.  None 
but  aerial  companions  suited  my  fancy. 
No  roof  seemed  so  secure  to  me  as  that 
formed  of  the  dense  foliage  under  which 
the  feathered  tribes  were  seen  to  resort, 
or  the  caves  and  fissures  of  the  massy 
rocks,  to  which  the  dark-winged  cormo- 
rant and  the  curlew  retired  to  rest,  or  to 
protect  themselves  from  the  fury  of  the 
tempest.  My  father  generally  accompa- 
nied my  steps, — procured  birds  arid  flowers 
for  me  with  great  eagerness, — pointed 
out  the  elegant  movements  of  the  former, 
the  beauty  and  softness  of  their  plumage, 
the  manifestations  of  their  pleasure  or 
sense  of  danger, — and  the  always  perfect 
forms  and  splendid  attire  of  the  latter. 
My  valued  preceptor  would  then  speak  of 
the  departure  and  return  of  birds  with  the 
seasons,  would  describe  their  haunts,  and, 
more  wonderful  than  all,  their  change  of 
livery ;  thus  exciting  me  to  study  them, 
and  to  raise  my  mind  toward  their  Crea- 
tor. 

"  A  vivid  pleasure  shone  upon  those 
days  of  my  early  youth,  attended  with  a 
calmness  of  feeling,  that  seldom  failed  to 
rivet  my  attention  for  hours,  whilst  I 


either  open  at  birth,  or  closed  for  some 
time  after;  to  trace  the  slow  progress  of 
the  young  birds  toward  perfection,  or  ad- 
mire the  celerity  with  which  some  of 
them,  while  yet  unfledged,  removed 
themselves  from  danger  to  security. 

"  I  grew  up,  and  my  wishes  grew  with 
my  form.  These  wishes,  kind  reader, 
were  for  the  entire  possession  of  all  that 
I  saw.  I  was  fervently  desirous  of  be- 
coming acquainted  with  Nature.  For 
many  years,  however,  I  was  sadly  disap- 
pointed, and  for  ever,  doubtless,  must  I 
have  desires  that  cannot  be  gratified.  The 
moment  a  bird  was  dead,  however  beau- 
tiful it  had  been  when  in  life,  the  pleasure 
arising  from  the  possession  of  it  became 
blunted  ;  and  although  the  greatest  cares 
were  bestowed  on  endeavours  to  preserve 
the  appearance  of  nature,  I  looked  upon 
its  vesture  as  more  than  sullied,  as  requi- 
ring constant  attention  and  repeated 
mendings,  while,  after  all,  it  could  no 
longer  be  said  to  be  fresh  from  the  hands 
of  its  maker.  I  wished  to  possess  all  the 
productions  of  Nature,  but  I  wished  life 
with  them.  This  was  impossible.  Then 
what  was  to  be  done  ?  I  turned  to  my 
father,  and  made  known  to  him  my  dis- 
appointment and  anxiety.  He  produced 
a  book  of  Illustrations.  A  new  life  ran 
in  my  veins.  I  turned  over  the  leaves 
with  avidity;  and  although  what  I  saw 
was  not  what  I  longed  for,  it  gave  me  a 
desire  to  copy  Nature.  To  Nature  I  went, 
and  tried  to  imitate  her,  as  in  the  duys  of 
my  childhood  I  had  tried  to  raise  myself 
from  the  ground  and  stand  erect,  before 
Nature  had  imparted  the  vigour  necessary 
for  the  success  of  such  an  undertaking. 

"  How  sorely  disappointed  did  I  feel 
for  many  years,  when  I  saw  that  my  pro. 
ductions  were  worse  than  those  which  I 
ventured  (perhaps  in  silence)  to  regard  as 
bad,  in  the  book  given  me  by  my  father! 
My  pencil  gave  birth  to  a  family  of  crip- 
ples. So  maimed  were  most  of  them, 
that  they  resembled  the  mangled  corpses 
on  a  field  of  battle, compared  with  the  inte- 
grity of  living  men.  These  difficulties  and 
disappointments  irritated  me,  but  never 
for  a  moment  destroyed  the  desire  of  ob- 
taining perfect  representations  of  Nature. 
The  worse  my  drawings  were,  the  more 
beautiful  did  I  see  the  originals.  To  have 


183 1."]  Audubon's  Ornithological  Biography.  .13 

been  torn  from  the  study,  would  have     my  family.     Yet,  reader,  will  you 
My  time  was  en- 
I  produced  hun- 


been  as  death  to  me 

tirely  occupied  with  it 

dreds  of  these  rude   sketches  annually; 

and  for  a  long  time,  at  my  request,  they 

made  bonfires  on  the  anniversaries  of  my 

birth- day." 


believe  it?  I  had  no  other  object  in 
view,  than  simply  to  enjoy  the  sight 
of  Nature.  Never,  for  a  moment, 
did  I  conceive  the  hope  of  becoming 
in  any  degree  useful  to  my  kind, 
until  I  accidentally  formed  an  ac- 
quaintance with  the  Prince  of  Mu- 
Wlnle  yet  a  boy,  he  was  sent  to  JL  Q  (Charleg  Bonaparte)  at  Phi- 
Paris,  and  studied  drawing  under  ^  ,. J  ^  which  £)ace  j  went> 
David.  "  Eyes  and  noses  belonging  wit,/the  view  of  proceeding  east- 
to  giants,  and  heads  of  horses  repre-  w&rd  ftl  the  coast  »  This  wag 
sented  in  ancient  sculpture,  were  my 
models.  These,  although  fit  subjects 
for  men  intent  on  pursuing  the  higher 
branches  of  the  art,  were  imme- 
diately laid  aside  by  me ;"  and  at  the 


ward  along  the  coast."  This  was 
in  April  1824.  It  does  not  appear, 
however,  that  though 


age  of  seventeen,  he  returned  from 
France  to  the   woods  of  the   New 
World  with  fresh  ardour,  and  com- 
menced a  collection  of  drawings  un- 
der the  title  of  the  "  Birds  of  Ameri- 
ca."   His  father  gave  him  a  beautiful 
"  Plantation"  in   Pennsylvania,    re- 
freshed during  the  summer  heats  by 
the  waters  ot  the  Schuylkil   river, 
and  traversed  by  a    creek   named 
Perkioming.     Its  fine  woodlands,  its 
extensive  fields,  its  hills   crowned 
with  evergreens,  offered  many  sub- 
jects for  his  pencil.     There  too  he 
married— and  children   were    born 
unto  him,   whom  he  did  not  love 
the   less   ardently   and   deeply   be- 
cause of  his  love  of  the  flowers  of 
the  field  and  the  birds  of  the  air. 
In  all  his  subsequent  struggles  with 
uncertain,  if  not  with  evil  fortune, 
when  all  other  friends  frowned,  and 
were  too  ready  to  blame  his  pas- 
sion for  ornithology,  by  which  they 
saw  that  money  might  be  lost  but 
not  won,  his   own  family  still  ap- 
proved of  his  pursuits,  and  cheered 
and  cherished  his  enthusiasm,  that 
was  its  own  reward.     His  residence 
at  the  Pennsylvanian  Plantation  was 
short  as  sweet;  and  for  twenty  years 
his  life  was  a  succession  of  vicissi- 
tudes.    Yet,  amidst  them   all,  his 
ruling  passion  never  ebbed — it  flow- 
ed on  perpetually  towards  the  fo- 
rests.  "  Any  one  unacquainted  with 
the  extraordinary  desire  I  felt  of  see- 
ing and  judging  for  myself,  would 
doubtless  have  pronounced  me  cal- 
lous to  every  sense  of  duty,  and  re- 
gardless of  every  interest.    I  under- 
took long  and  tedious  journeys,  ran- 
sacked   the  woods,  the    lakes,  the 
prairies,  and  the  shores  of  the  Atlan- 
tic.   Years  were  spent  away  from 


Boston  is  a  pretty  town, 
And  so  is  Philadelphy; 

You  shall  have  a  sugar  plum, 
And  I'll  have  one  myself — eh? 


that  any  sweetmeats  or  crumbs  of 
comfort  were  bestowed  on  Audubon, 
who  was  soon  compelled  elsewhere 
to  seek  for  patronage.  He  went  to 
New  York,  where  he  was  received 
with  a  kindness  well  suited  to  ele- 
vate his  depressed  spirits  ;  and  after- 
wards ascending  that  noble  stream, 
the  Hudson,  he  glided  over  the  broad 
lakes,  and  sought  the  wildest  soli- 
tudes of  the  pathless  and  gloomy 
forests. 

There  it  was,  he  tells  us,  in  these 
forests,  that,  for  the  first  time,  he 
communed  with  himself  as  to  the 
possible  event  of  his  visiting  Eu- 
rope. His  drawings  had  multiplied 
on  his  hands  in  spite  of  all  disastrous 
chances — and  he  began  to  fancy  them 
under  the  hands  of  the  graver.  We 
say  in  spite  of  all  disastrous  chances. 

"  An  accident  which  happened  to  two 
hundred  of  my  original  drawings,  nearly 
put  a  stop  to  my  researches  in  ornitho- 
logy. I  shall  relate  it,  merely  to  show 
you  how  far  enthusiasm — for  by  no  other 
name  can  I  call  the  persevering  zeal  with 
which  I  laboured — may  enable  the  ob- 
server of  nature  to  surmount  the  most 
disheartening  obstacles.  I  left  the  viU 
lage  of  Henderson,  in  Kentucky,  situated 
on  the  bank  of  the  Ohio,  where  I  resided 
for  several  years,  to  proceed  to  Philadel- 
phia on  business.  I  looked  to  all  my 
drawings  before  my  departure,  placed 
them  carefully  in  a  wooden  box,  and  gave 
them  in  charge  to  a  relative,  with  in- 
junctions to  see  that  no  injury  should 
happen  to  them.  My  absence  was  of  se- 
veral months ;  and  when  I  returned,  a'ter 
having  enjoyed  the  pleasures  of  home  for 
a  few  days,  I  enquired  after  my  box,  and 
what  I  was  pleased  to  call  my  treasuret 


Audubon' s  Ornithological  Biography. 


14 

The  box  was  produced,  and  opened;— 
but,  reader,  feel  for  me — a  pair  of  Nor- 
way rats  had  taken  possession  of  the 
whole,  and  had  reared  a  young  family 
amongst  the  gnawed  bits  of  paper,  which, 
but  a  few  months  before,  represented 
nearly  a  thousand  inhabitants  of  the  air! 
The  burning  heat  which  instantly  rushed 
through  my  brain  was  too  great  to  be 
endured,  without  affecting  the  whole  of 
my  nervous  system.  I  slept  not  for 
several  nights,  and  the  days  passed  like 
days  of  oblivion, — until  the  animal  pow- 
ers being  recalled  into  action,  through 
the  strength  of  my  constitution,  I  took 
up  my  gun,  my  note-book,  and  my  pen- 
cils, and  went  forth  to  the  woods  as 
gaily  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  I  felt 
pleased  that  I  might  now  make  much 
better  drawings  than  before,  and,  ere  a 
period  not  exceeding  three  years  had 
elapsed,  I  had  my  portfolio  filled  again." 

That  such  a  heroic  adventurer  in 
the  | HI i  -u it  of  knowledge  sliould  live 
and  die  obscure,  was  not  in  the  power 
of  the  most  malignant  star.  But 
Audubon  was  born  under  a  lucky 
conjunction  of  propitious  planets, 
and  already  anticipated  his  fame. 
"  Happy  days !  and  nights  of  plea- 
sing dreams  !  I  read  over  the  cata- 
logue of  my  collection,  and  thought 
how  it  might  be  possible  for  an  un- 
connected and  unaided  individual 
like  myself  to  accomplish  the  grand 
scheme.  I  improved  the  whole  as 
much  as  was  in  my  power;  and 
as  1  daily  retired  farther  from  the 
haunts  of  men,  determined  to  leave 
nothing  undone,  which  my  labour, 
my  time,  or  my  purse  could  accom- 
plish." Eighteen  months  elapsed— 
Audubon  returned  to  his  family,  then 
in  Louisiana,  and  having  explored 
every  portion  of  the  vast  woods 
around,  at  last  sailed  towards  the 
Old  World. 

As  he  approached  the  coast  of 
England,  he  tells  us  that  the  de- 
spondency of  his  spi  rits  became  great. 
True  that  he  had  with  him  letters 
from  American  friends,  and  states- 
men of  great  eminence,  but  he  knew 
not  an  individual  in  the  country,  and 
his  situation  appeared  precarious  in 
the  extreme.  For  a  few  days  in 
Liverpool,  '*  not  a  glance  of  sympa- 
thy did  he  meet  in  his  wanderings;" 
and  he  sighed  for  his  woods.  But 
very  soon  all  his  prospects  brighten- 
ed ;  for  those  ardent  friends  of  merit, 


[July, 


the  Rathbonee,  the  Roscoes,  the 
Trails,  the  Chorleys,  and  the  Mt'llies, 
and  others  too,  took  the  stranger  by 
the  hand ;  "  and  so  kind,"  says  the 
grateful  Audubon,  "  and  beneficent, 
nay,  BO  generously  kind  have  they 
all  been  towards  me,  that  I  can  never 
cancel  the  obligation.  My  drawings 
were  publicly  exhibited,  and  publicly 
praised.  Joy  swelled  in  my  heart. 
The  first  difficulty  was  surmounted. 
Honours  which,  on  application  being 
made  through  my  friends,  Philadel- 
phia had  refused,  Liverpool  fairly 
awarded."  In  Manchester,  his  re- 
ception was  equally  honourable  to 
the  Gregg8,theLloyds,the  Sergeants, 
the  Holmes,  the  Blackwalls,  the 
Bentleys,  and  many  others— names 
which,  as  his  gratitude  delights  to 
record,  so  is  it  pleasant  to  us  to  name 
them  on  this  occasion.  Had  his  re- 
ception in  Liverpool  and  Manchester 
been  cold  or  forbidding,  in  all  pro- 
bability Audubon  had  returned  to 
America,  and  the  world  perhaps 
never  have  heard  of  him  or  his  mag- 
nificent works.  "  Friends,"  says  he, 
with  a  touching  simplicity, "  pressed 
me  to  accompany  them  to  the  pretty 
villages  of  Bakewell,  Matlock,  and 
Buxton.  It  was  a  jaunt  of  pure  en- 
joyment. Nature  was  then  at  her 
best,  at  least  such  was  the  feeling  of 
our  whole  party;  the  summer  was 
full  of  promise." 

Soon  after  his  arrival  in  Edinburgh, 
where  he  soon  found  many  friends, 
he  opened  his  Exhibition.  Four  hun- 
dred drawings — paintings  in  water- 
colours —  or  about  two  thousand 
birds,  covered  the  walls  of  the  Insti- 
tution-Hall, in  the  Royal  Society 
Buildings,  and  the  effect  was  like 
magic.  The  spectator  imagined  him- 
eelfin  the  forest.  All  were  of  the 
size  of  life,  from  the  wren  and  the 
humming-bird  to  the  wild  turkey  and 
the  bird  of  Washington.  But  what 
signified  the  mere  size  ?  The  colours 
were  all  of  life  too — bright  as  when 
borne  in  beaming  beauty  through  the 
woods.  There  too  were  their  attitudes 
and  postures,  infinite  as  they  are  as- 
sumed by  the  restless  creatures,  in 
motion  or  rest,  in  their  glee  and  their 
gambols,  their  loves  and  their  wars, 
singing,  or  caressing,  or  brooding,  or 
preying,  or  tearing  one  another  into 
pieces.  The  trees,  too,  on  which 
they  sat  or  sported,  all  true  to  Na- 


1831.] 


Audubon's  Ornithological  Biography. 


ture,  in  bole,  branch,  spray,  and  leaf; 
the  flowering-shrubs  and  the  ground- 
flowers,  the  weeds  and  the  very  grass, 
all  American — so  too  the  atmosphere 
and  the  skies — all  Transatlantic. 
'Twas  a  wild  and  poetical  vision  of 
the  heart  of  the  New  World,  inha- 
bited as  yet  almost  wholly  by  the 
lovely  or  noble  creatures  that  "  own 
not  man's  dominion."  There  we 
beheld  them  all;  there  was  a  pic- 
ture of  their  various  life.  How  dif- 
ferent from  stuffed  feathers  in  glass 
cases — though  they  too  "  shine  well 
where  they  stand"  in  our  College 
Museum !  There  many  a  fantastic 
tumbler  played  his  strange  vagaries 
in  the  air — there  many  a  cloud- 
cleaver  swept  the  skies — there  living 
gleams  glanced  through  the  forest 
glades  — there  meteor-like  plumage 
shone  in  the  wood-gloom — there 
strange  shapes  stalked  stately  along 
the  shell-bright  shores — and  there, 
halcyons  all,  fair  floaters  hung  in  the 
sunshine  on  waveless  seas.  That  all 
this  wonderful  creation  should  have 
been  the  unassisted  work  of  one 
man — in  his  own  country  almost  un- 
known, and  by  his  own  country 
wholly  unbefriended,  was  a  thought 
that  awoke  towards  "  the  American 
woodsman"  feelings  of  more  than 
admiration,  of  the  deepest  personal 
interest ;  and  the  hearts  of  all  warm- 
ed towards  Audubon,  who  were  ca- 
pable of  conceiving  the  difficulties, 
and  dangers,  and  sacrifices,  that  must 
have  been  encountered,  endured, 
and  overcome,  before  genius  had 
thus  embodied  these  the  glory  of  its 
innumerable  triumphs. 

The  impression  produced  on  all 
minds',  learned  and  unlearned,  by 
this  exhibition,  was  such  as  to  en- 
courage Audubon  to  venture  on  the 
dangerous  design  of  having  the  whole 
engraved.  Dangerous  it  might  well 
be  called,  seeing  that  the  work  was 
to  contain  Four  Hundred  Plates  and 
Two  Thousand  Figures.  "  A  work," 
says  Cuvier,  "  conceived  and  execu- 
ted on  so  vast  a  plan  has  but  one  fault, 
that  its  expense  must  render  it  inac- 
cessible to  the  greatest  number  of 
those  to  whom  it  will  be  the  most 
necessary.  Yet  is  the  price  far  from 
being  exorbitant.  One  livraison  of 
five  plates  costs  two  guineas;  and 
thus  the  five  livraisons  can  be  had  at 
no  very  great  annual  expense.  Most 
desirable  at  least  it  is,  as  well  for  the 


15 

interests  of  art  as  of  science,  that  all 
the  great  public  bodies,  and  all  per- 
sons of  wealth  who  love  to  enrich 
their  libraries  with  works  of  splen- 
dour, should  provide  themselves  with 
that  of  Audubon."  "It  will  depend," 
says  Swainson,  in  the  same  spirit, 
"  on  the  powerful  and  the  wealthy, 
whether  Britain  shall  have  the  honour 
of  fostering  such  a  magnificent  un- 
dertaking. It  will  be  a  lasting  mo- 
nument, not  only  to  the  memory  of 
its  author,  but  to  those  who  employ 
their  wealth  in  patronising  genius, 
and  in  supporting  the  national  cre- 
dit. If  any  publication  deserves  such 
a  distinction,  it  is  surely  this  ;  inas- 
much as  it  exhibits  a  perfection  in 
the  higher  attributes  of  zoological 
painting,  never  before  attempted.  To 
represent  the  passions  and  the  feel- 
ings of  birds,  might,  until  now,  have 
been  well  deemed  chimerical.  Rare- 
ly, indeed,  do  we  see  their  outward 
forms  represented  with  any  thing 
like  nature.  In  my  estimation,  not 
more  than  three  painters  ever  lived 
who  could  draw  a  bird.  Of  these,  the 
lamented  Barrabaud,  of  whom  France 
may  be  justly  proud,  was  the  chief. 
He  has  long  passed  away ;  but  his 
mantle  has,  at  length,  been  recovered 
in  the  forests  of  America." 

Generous  and  eloquent — but, in  the 
line  printed  in  italics,  obscure  as  an 
oracle.  Barrabaud  and  Audubon  are 
two — why  not  have  told  us  who  is 
the  third  ?  Can  Mr  Swainson  mean 
himself.  We  have  heard  as  much 
hinted;  if  so  we  cannot  but  admire 
his  modesty  in  thus  remaining  the 
anonymous  hero  of  his  own  pane- 
gyric. If  not  so,  then  has  he  done 
himself  great  injustice,  for  he  is  a 
beautiful  bird-painter  and  drawer,  as 
all  the  world  knows,  though  assured- 
ly in  genius  far  inferior  to  Audubon. 
Is  the  third  Bewick  ?  If  so,  why 
shun  to  name  "  the  genius  that  dwelt 
on  the  banks  of  the  Tyne  ?"  If  not  so, 
MrSwainson  may  liveand  die  assured, 
in  spite  of  this  sentence  of  exclusion 
from  the  trio,  that  Bewick  will  in 
scecula  scBCulorum  sit  on  the  top  of  the 
tree  of  fame,  on  the  same  branch, 
with  the  most  illustrious,  nor  is  there 
any  fear  of  its  breaking,  for  it  is 
strong,  and  the  company  destined,  to 
bestride  it,  select. 

Audubon  speaks  modestly  of  Lia 
great  work,  but  with  the  enthusiasm 
and  confidence,  natural  and  becom- 


AuJuborfs  Ornithological  Biography. 


ing,  in  a  man  of  such  extraordinary 
genius.  We  cannot  do  better  than  em- 
ploy, when  they  come  to  us,  his  own 
words.  Not  only,  then,  is  every  ob- 
ject, as  a  whole,  of  the  natural  size, 
but  also  every  portion  of  each  object. 
The  compass  aided  him  in  its  delinea- 
tion, regulated  and  corrected  each 
part,  even  to  the  very  fore-shortening. 
The  bill,  feet,  legs,  and  claws,  the 
very  feathers  as  they  project  one  be- 
yond another,  have  been  accurately 
measured.  The  birds,  almost  all  of 
them,  were  killed  by  himself,  and 
were  regularly  drawn  on  or  near  the 
spot.  The  positions,  he  observes,  may 
perhaps,  in  some  instances,  appear 
outre  ;  but  such  supposed  exaggera- 
tions can  afford  subjects  of  criticism 
only  to  persons  unacquainted  with  the 
feathered  tribes,  for  nothing  can  be 
more  transient  or  varied  than  the  at- 
titudes of  birds.  For  example,  the 
heron,  when  warming  itself  in  the 
sun,  will  sometimes  drop  its  wings 
several  inches,  as  if  they  were  dislo- 
cated; the  swan  may  often  be  seen 
floating  with  one  foot  extended  from 
the  body;  and  some  pigeons  turn 
quite  over  when  playing  in  the  air. 
The  flowers,  -plants,  or  portions  of 
the  trees  which  are  attached  to  the 
principal  objects,  have  always  been 
chosen  from  amongst  those  in  the 
Vicinity  of  which  the  birds  were 
found,  and  are  not,  as  some  persons 
have  thought,  the  trees  or  plants  on 
which  they  always  feed  or  perch. 
We  may  mention,  too,  that  Audu- 
bon  invented  ways  of  placing  birds, 
dead  or  alive,  before  him  while  he 
was  drawing  them,  so  that  he  saw 
them  still  in  the  very  attitudes  he 
had  admired  when  they  were  free  in 
the  air,  or  pn  the  bough ;  and,  indeed, 
without  such  most  ingenious  appa- 
ratus of  wires  and  threads  as  he  em- 
ploys, it  was  not  in  mortal  man  to 
have  caught  as  he  has  done,  and  fixed 


them  on  paper,  all  the  characteristic 
but  evanescent  varieties  of  their  mo- 
tion and  their  repose.  His  ingenuity 
is  equal  to  his  genius. 

It  may  be  useful  to  mention  here 
the  particulars  of  the  plan  of  his 
work.  The  size  is  double-elephant 
folio— as  Cuvier  says,  "  qui  ap- 
proche  des  doubles  planches  de  la 
Description  (Denon's)  de  L'Egypte." 
The  paper  being  of  the  finest  quality 
— the  engravings  are,  in  every  in- 
stance, of  the  exact  dimensions  of 
the  drawings,  which,  without  any  ex- 
ception, represent  the  birds,  and 
other  objects,  of  their  natural  size — 
the  plates  are  coloured  in  the  most 
careful  manner  from  the  original 
drawings — the  work  appears  in  num- 
bers, of  which  five  are  published 
annually,  each  number  consisting  of 
five  plates, and  the  price  of  each  num- 
ber is  two  guineas,  payable  on  de- 
livery. The  first  volume,  consisting 
of  one  hundred  plates,  and  represent- 
ing ninety-nine  species  of  birds,  of 
many  of  which  there  are  several 
figures,  is  now  published,  accom- 
panied by  the  volume  from  which 
we  have  given  the  above  interesting 
extracts ;  but  which  is  also  sold  by 
itself,  and  cannot  fail  of  finding  a 
ready  market.  It  is  expected  that 
other  three  volumes  of  equal  size, 
will  complete  the  work ;  and  each 
volume  of  plates  will,  in  like  manner 
with  the  first,  be  accompanied  with 
a  volume  of  letterpress.  These  four 
volumes  of  letterpress  will  be  most 
delightful  reading  to  every  body; 
and  fit  companions  for  those  of  Wil- 
son, which  we  are  happy  to  see  are 
now  in  course  of  publication,  in  a 
cheap  form,  in  Constable's  Miscel- 
lany, under  the  superintendence  of 
that  eminent  naturalist,  Professor 
Jameson.  In  our  next  article  on 
Audubon  we  shall  speak  of  Wilson. 


1831.]          On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


n 


ON  PARLIAMENTARY  REFORM  AND  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 

No.  VII. 

What  should  the  Peers  do  ? 


WE  have  frequently  had  occasion 
to  impress  upon  our  readers  the  eter- 
nal, and,  in  days  such  as  the  present, 
vital  importance  of  the  observation, 
that  all  popular  movements  are  ne- 
cessarily progressive:  that  those  who 
commence  the  agitation  cam  maintain 
their  ascendency  only  by  advancing 
with  the  stream,  and  that  the  moment 
they  attempt  to  coerce  it,  they  are 
buried  in  the  waves.  This  truth, 
which  the  dear  bought  experience  of 
a  revolution  has  rendered  perfectly 
familiar  to  the  French,  is  only  begin- 
ning to  be  understood  in  this  coun- 
try. It  was  for  this  reason,  that  in 
the  beginning  of  this  year  we  com- 
menced a  series  of  papers  "  On  Par- 
liamentary Reform  and  the  French 
Revolution;"  foreseeing, before  "the 
bill"  was  cither  broached  or  pre- 
pared, that  these  two  subjects  were 
inseparably  connected;  that  the  cry 
for  Reform  was  nothing  but  the  form 
which  the  revolutionary  spirit  had 
here  assumed  ;  that  those  who  pre- 
tended to  guide  would  speedily  be 
mastered  by  it ;  and  that  the  only  les- 
sons as  to  the  mode  of  avoiding  its 
fury,  were  to  be  drawn  from  the  ex- 
perience of  its  effects  in  the  neigh- 
bouring kingdom. 

The  principles  which  we  have- 
endeavoured  to  illustrate  have  been 
these : 

1.  That  public  discontent  springs 
from  two  different  causes ;  and,  ac- 
cording as  it  arises  from  the  one  or 
the  other,  requires  to  be  met  by  a 
totally  different  mode  of  treatment. 
That  these  causes  are  experienced 
suffering,  and  desired  power.    That 
the  first  can  never  be  effectually  re- 
medied but  by  the  removal  of  the 
grievances  which  occasion  the  irri- 
tation ;  while  the  second  can  never 
be  successfully  eradicated  but  by  the 
removal  of  the  phantom  which  has 
inflamed  the  passion. 

2.  That  it  is  impossible,  therefore, 
to  be  too  rapid  in  removing  the  real 
grievances  which  have  excited  the 
discontent,  while  it  is  impossible  to 
be  too  sloiv  in  conceding  the  power 

VOL.  XXX.  N<K  CLXXJCII. 


which  is  the  object  of  ambition.  That 
the  removal  of  disabilities,  the  repeal 
of  obnoxious  duties,  the  diminution 
of  burdens,  being  measures  of  relief 
producing  immediate  benefit,  maybe 
relied  on  as  producing  beneficial  con- 
sequences ;  while  the  sudden  con- 
cession of  power  may  as  certainly  be 
expected  to  produce  the  most  disas- 
trous effects. 

3.  That  in   France,  at  the   com- 
mencement of  the  first  revolution, 
both  causes  were  in  operation ;  but 
that  such  were  the  ruinous  results  of 
the  sudden  concession  of  power  to 
the  people,  that  it  overwhelmed  all 
the  beneficial  consequences  of  the 
redress  of  grievances,  and  rendered 
Louis  XVI. — a  reforming  monarch, 
whose  life  was   one  uninterrupted 
series  of  concessions  to  the  people— 
the  immediate  cause  of  the  revolu- 
tion, and  the  most  fatal  sovereign  to 
the  happiness  of  his  country  who 
ever  sat  on  the  French  throne. 

4.  That  in  Great  Britain  real  grie- 
vances do  not  exist;  or,  if  they  do, 
they  admit,  through  the  medium  of 
Parliament,  or  of  the  freedom  of  the 
press,  of  open  discussion  and  ulti- 
mate remedy.      That  the   ferment, 
therefore,  which  has  arisen  since  the 
last  French  revolution  is  owing  en- 
tirely to  the  passion  for  power.  That 
this  passion,  like  every  other  passion, 
is  insatiable,  and  increases  with  every 
successive  addition  made  to  its  gra- 
tification; and  unless  vigorously  re- 
sisted in  the  outset,  will  acquire  fresh 
strength  with  every  victory  it  gains, 
until  at  length,  as  under  the  Reign 
of  Terror,  it  becomes  irresistible. 

5.  That  the  appetite  for  power  once 
fairly  excited  among  a  people,  can 
never,  in  the  present  state  of  society, 
be  satisfied,  if  once  it  is  permitted 
to  acquire  its  full  strength  by  gra- 
tification,  till   universal  suffrage  is 
obtained.  That  in  Lafayette's  words, 
"  every  government  is  to  be  deemed 
an  oligarchy  where  four  millions  of 
men  give  law  to  six  millions,"  and 
therefore,  that  it  is  impossible  to  stop 
short  of  universal  suffrage,  either  in 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.         [July, 


18 

point  of  principle  or  expedience, 
when  once  the  precedent  of  yielding 
to  the  popular  outcry  for  power  is 
established. 

6.  That  universal   suffrage   is   in 
other  words  the  destruction  of  pro- 
perty,  order,  and  civilisation ;   im- 
practicable in  an  old  and  highly  peo- 
pled state,  and  necessarily  destruc- 
tive of  capital,  industry,  life,  and 
property. 

7.  That  history  convinces  us,  that 
the  danger  of  adhering  to  the  con- 
stitution, and  resisting  innovation,  is 
incomparably  less  in  every  free  state 
than  that  of  concession  during  a  pe- 
riod of  excitement.     That  the  exer- 
cise of  social  rights  necessarily  begets 
the  desire  of  perpetuating  them ;  and 
that  this  was  in  an  especial  manner 
the  case  in  England,  distinguished  as 
it  has  been  in  every  age  oy  attach- 
ments to  old  institutions.     That  the 
resistance  of  the  cry  for  Reform,  often 
and  vehemently  raised,  had  never  led 
to  any  convulsion  ;  while  the  great 
rebellion,and  the  re  volution  of  1688, 
were  owing  to  illegal  invasion  of  the 
constitution,  or  the  imprudent  and 
sudden  concession  of  power. 

8.  That  the  history  of  France  and 
England  in  1793  affords  the  most  de- 
cisive proof  of  the  truth  of  these 

•observations ;  the  former  country 
having,  under  the  reforming  sove- 
reign Louis  XVI.,  and  the  reforming 
administration  of  Neckar,  tried  the 
system  of  concession,  and  in  conse- 
quence brought  on  the  revolution; 
the  latter,  under  the  non-reforming 
sovereign  George,  and  the  non-re- 
forming administration  of  Pitt,  re- 
sisted the  demands  of  popular  ambi- 
tion, and  in  consequence  saved  the 
constitution. 

9.  That  the  recent  convulsion  in 
France — originating  in  violent  and 
illegal  usurpations  by  the  reigning 
sovereign,  and  terminating  in  such 
disastrous  consequences  to  the  finan- 
ces,  the  industry,  and   the   happi- 
ness of  the  country — should  prove  a 
lasting  warning  both  of  the  ruinous 
consequences  of  deviating  from  the 
constitution,  and  giving  any  ascend- 
ant to  popular  violence. 

Have  we,  or  have  we  not,  been 
true  prophets  ?  Has  not  every  step 
Which  has  been  taken  demonstrated 
the  justice  of  these  principles  ?  Shall 
we  go  on  in  a  course  from  which  such 
consequences  have  already  been  ex- 
perienced ? 


Has  not  the  cry  for  Reform  in- 
creased an  hundred-fold  since  the 
executive  took  the  lead  in  the  pro- 
posal for  conceding  power  to  the 
people  ?  Do  not  the  Radicals  tri- 
umphantly boast  that  the  Tories 
might,  three  months  ago,  have  fra- 
med a  plan  of  moderate  Reform  which 
would  have  satisfied  the  country; 
but  that  the  time  for  half  measures  is 
now  gone  by,  and  that  they  will  have 
"  the  Bill,  the  whole  Bill,  and  no- 
thing but  the  Bill  ?" — What  does  this 
prove,  but  that  the  prospect  of  con- 
ceded power  has  inflamed  the  pas- 
sions, and  that  a  total  change  in  the 
constitution  must  be  made  to  gratify 
their  vehemently  excited  expecta- 
tions ? 

It  was  long  ago  said  by  Lord  Bur- 
leigh,  that  the  English  constitution 
never  could  be  ruined  but  by  her 
Parliament;  and  the  event  has  now 
proved  the  wisdom  of  the  observa- 
tion. So  long  as  the  government  re- 
mained true  to  itself,  it  shook  off  all 
the  assaults  of  its  enemies  "  like  dew 
drops  from  the  lion's  mane."  But 
that  which  neither  the  decay  of  a 
thousand  years,  nor  the  force  of  em- 
battled Europe,  nor  the  genius  of 
Napoleon,  could  affect,  is  on  the  point 
of  being  accomplished  by  the  suicidal 
hands  of  its  own  children. 

The  prophecy  of  Montesquieu  is 
likely  to  be  inverted.  England  is 
not  in  danger  of  perishing  because 
the  legislature  has  become  more  cor- 
rupt than  the  executive,  but  because 
the  executive  has  become  more  reck- 
less than  the  legislature.  The  poison 
which  is  now  running  through  the 
veins  of  the  empire,  has  been  inhaled 
from  the  most  elevated  sources ;  it 
has  flowed  down  through  the  arteries 
of  the  state  from  its  highest  mem- 
bers. The  "  corruption"  which  has 
proved  fatal  to  the  ancient  and  vene- 
rable fabric,  has  not  been  the  flat- 
tery of  courts,  the  seductions  of 
wealth,  or  the  selfishness  of  pros- 
perity; it  has  been  the  tumult  of 
popular  applause,  and  the  vanity  of 
plebeian  adulation.  Borne  forward 
on  the  gales  of  democratic  ambition, 
the  administration  have  inverted  the 
usual  order  of  national  decline. — 
Symptoms  of  ruin  have  appeared, 
while  yet  the  political  body  was  in 
the  vigour  of  youth  ;  and  long  before 
its  extremities  had  begun  to  feel  the 
decay  of  Time,  the  whole  system 
Jma  been  thrown  into  convulsions 


'1881.]  On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


from  the  vehement  passions  of  the 
heart.  Like  the  American  Indians, 
they  have  lighted  a  forest  to  dress  a 
scanty  meal — but  the  fire  has  proved 
too  strong  for  those  who  kindled  it; 
and,  like  them,  they  are  now  driven 
before  the  flames,  and  dare  not  stop, 
lest  they  should  be  enveloped  in  the 
conflagration. 

What  can  be  expected  from  a 
continuance  of  the  system  of  conces- 
sion ?  Where  are  we  to  stop  ?  Ob- 
serve the  astonishing  progress  which 
democratic  ambition  has  made  in  the 
last  six  months.  What  a  change  of 
ideas,  of  language,  of  expectations  ! 
Already,  what  a  host  of  republican 
writers  have  sprung  up,  and  how  ra- 
pidly have  the  concessions  which  ne- 
cessity has  wrung  out  of  the  conser- 
vative party  augmented  !  The  Times 
declares,  that  if  the  House  of  Lords 
will  not  pass  the  Bill,  "  means  must 
be  taken  to  make  it  part  of  the  law 
of  the  land,  without  giving  their 
Lordships  much  trouble."  A  new 
paper,  "  the  Republican,"  price  one 
halfpenny,  has  already  a  circulation 
of  20,000  copies ;  in  every  page  of 
which,  the  cause  of  republican  insti- 
tutions is  strenuously  advocated. 
The  leading  Ministerial  journals  de- 
clare that  the  Cambridge  election  has 
opened  the  eyes  of  all  men  to  the 
necessity  of  ecclesiastical  reform ;  in 
other  words,  the  confiscation  of  the 
whole  property  of  the  church.  A 
new  journal,  "the  Englishman,"  de- 
voted apparently  to  writing  down 
the  national  debt,  vehemently  urges 
the  adoption  of  that  "  equitable  ad- 
justment" with  the  public  creditor, 
which  has  been  seriously  recom- 
mended by  a  leading  Member  of  Par- 
liament, in  his  pamphlet  on  the  cur- 
rency. The  adherents  of  administra- 
tion make  no  secret  of  their  deter- 
mination, early  next  session,  to  carry 
the  repeal  of  the  corn  laws  through 
a  reformed  Parliament.  Not  a  whis- 
per of  all  this  was  heard  of  six  months 
ago.  It  has  all  sprung  up  like  the 
pestilence,  that  walks  in  darkness, 
since  democratic  ambition  was  ex- 
cited by  Reform ;  in  other  words, 
since  the  prospect  of  power  was  con- 
ceded to  the  people. 

Where,  in  the  name  of  God,  is  all 
this  to  terminate  ?  By  yielding  to  the 
demands  of  the  people,  we  have 
brought  them  on,  even  faster  than 
the  fatal  career  of  the  Constituent 
Assembly,  The  doctrines  broached 


19 

are  now  more  fearful,  the  progress 
of  democratic  ambition  more  rapid, 
than  in  France  in  1789.  We  have 
got,  by  the  effect  of  six  months'  con- 
cession, farther  on  in  the  career  of 
revolution  and  spoliation,  than  the 
French  in  many  years.  It  was  not 
till  1798,  nine  years  after  the  revolu- 
tion commenced,  that  the  funds  in 
that  country  were  attacked,  and  an 
"  equitable  adjustment"  carried,  by 
the  confiscation  of  two-thirds  of  the 
public  debt  of  the  country.  How 
long  will  a  reformed  Parliament,  the 
delegates  of  the  L.10  tenants,  con- 
tinue to  pay  L.29,000,000  a-year  to 
the  holders  of  the  8  per  cents  ?  The 
confiscation  of  ecclesiastical  proper- 
ty was  only  adopted  there  under  the 
pressure  of  immediate  and  overbear- 
ing necessity ;  the  annual  excess  of 
the  public  expenditure  over  the  na- 
tional income,  which  was  L.9,000,000 
yearly  in  1 789,  was  increased  by  the 
deficit  of  the  revenue,  consequent 
on  the  public  convulsions  in  1790,  to 
L.I 6,000,000,  and  no  resource  re- 
mained but  to  lay  their  hands  on  the 
property  of  the  most  defenceless 
parts  of  the  community.  Here  the 
same  measure  is  advocated  without 
any  necessity,  when  the  late  adminis- 
tration left  a  clear  excess  of  income 
above  expenditure  of  L.2,900,000; 
and  even  under  the  severe  infliction 
of  the  Whig  Budget,  Lord  Althorpe 
promises  the  nation  a  surplus  reve* 
nue  of  L.300,000.  Titles  of  dignity 
were  not  assailed  in  France  till  1791, 
two  years  after  the  revolution  was 
established :  the  House  of  Peers  ia 
already  threatened  with  destruction 
the  moment  they  exercise  their  con- 
stitutional rights  of  rejecting  or  mo- 
difying the  Reform  Bill,  the  first  step 
in  the  English  changes.  Utter  igno- 
rance of  history,  or  wilful  blindness 
to  undisputed  facts,  can  alone  con- 
ceal the  painful  truth,  that  since  the 
prospect  of  power  excited  democratic 
ambition  in  this  country,  the  march 
of  revolution  has  been  much  more 
rapid  than  that  which  preceded  the 
Reign  of  Terror. 

What  arrested  this  fatal  progress 
in  Great  Britain  in  1 793  ?  Was  it  the 
system  of  concession — the  doctrine 
that  mobs  are  irresistible — that  the 
good-will  of  the  people  must  be  con- 
ciliated by  yielding  to  their  demands 
— that  public  opinion,  in  other  words, 
the  clamour  of  the  newspapers,  must 
finally  prove  triumphant?  Was  it 


20  On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the.  French  Revolution.          [July, 

in  which  the  Constitution  was  p  laced 
by  the  successful  result  of  the  second 
French  revolution,  and  he  took  the 
only  course,  which,  in  such  circum- 
stances, became  a  wise  statesman  or 
an  experienced  soldier.  It  was  not 
by  conciliation  and  concession  that 
he  resisted  the  invasion  of  Portugal 
in  1810.  The  Whigs  then  strenuously 
recommended  the  same  submission 
to  the  French  which  they  have  since 
made  to  the  Radicals;  but  the  British 
Hero,  disregarding  all  their  prophe- 
cies of  defeat,  resolutely  took  post 
at  Torres  Vedras,  and  from  beneath 
its  iron  ridge  beheld  the  tide  of  inva- 
sion roll  back.  He  was  prepared  to 
have  done  the  same  when  Parliament 
met  in  November  last.  He  would 
have  bravely  headed  the  friends  of 
order  in  resisting  the  assault  of 
anarchy.  He  would  have  gloriously 
brought  them  through  the  struggle ; 
but  at  the  first  appearance  of  danger 
one  half  of  his  troops  deserted  to  the 
enemy!  The  friends  of  Mr  Huskisson 
united  with  the  Ultra-Tories  in  join- 
ing the  ranks  of  innovation;  domestic 
dissension,  the  fatal  heart-burnings 
consequent  on  Catholic  emancipa- 
tion, paralyzed  all  the  efforts  of  the 
conservative  party.  Mr  Sadler,  Sir 
R.Tyvyan,  Sir  E.  Knatchbull,  Mr  C. 
Grant,  Lord  Palmerston,  voted  on 
the  same  side  with  Sir  Francis  Bur- 
dett  and  Mr  Brougham.  Had  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  been  deserted  in 
the  same  manner  in  presence  of  Na- 
poleon, Avhere  would  have  been  the 
deathless  glories  of  the  field  of  Wa- 
terloo ?  Had  such  a  defalcation  taken 
place  from  Mr  Pitt  in  1793,  where 
would  now  have  been  the  British 
constitution  ?  Had  Mr  Burke  and  the 
Whigs  united  with  Mr  Fox,  turned 
out  that  intrepid  statesman,  and  con- 
ceded sovereignty  to  the  people, 
what  would  have  been  the  subse- 
quent fate  of  England  ?  Revolution- 
ary anarchy,  a  sceptre  of  blood,  mili- 
tary subjugation,  and  a  British  Na- 
poleon. 

It  is  painful  to  think  how  different 
might  have  been  the  present  state 
and  future  destinies  of  this  country, 
had  the  friends  of  order  rallied,  as  in 
1793,  round  the  illustrious  hero,  who 
had  the  magnanimity  in  a  moment 
of  peril  to  unfurl  the  flag  of  the  Con- 
stitution, and  nail  her  colours  to  the 
mast.  The  British  Lion  would  not 
then,  as  now,  have  quailed  before  the 
tricolor  ensign:  the  crown  of  Al- 


the  sudden  concession  of  unlook- 
ed-for— unhoped-for-power  to  the 
meanest  of  the  householders  of  great 
towns?  Was  it  the  complete  de- 
struction of  the  whole  constitutional 
influence  of  the  conservative  party 
in  the  Lower  House  ?  If  these  mea- 
sures had  beenadopted,  where  should 
we  have  been  now?  They  were 
adopted  on  the  other  side  of  the 
channel,  and  the  rule  of  Marat  and 
Robespierre  was  the  consequence. 

It  was  not  thus  that  the  British 
aristocracy  of  1 793  fronted  the  dan- 
ger. The  march  of  intellect  had  not 
as  yet  taught  them  that  peril  is  to  be 
evaded  by  weakness,  and  that  pusil- 
lanimity in  presence  of  an  enemy  is 
the  best  way  to  avoid  a  defeat.  They 
had  not  then  learned  that  concession 
to  an  insatiable  opponent  is  the  only 
mode  of  buying  him  off;  and  that 
the  nation  which  gives  a  gratuity  to  its 
invaders,  to  persuade  them  to  retreat, 
is  most  likely  to  be  secured  from 
future  insult.  They  did  not  adopt 
the  pusillanimous  conduct  of  the 
Roman  emperors,  who  raised  vast 
sums  to  persuade  the  barbarians  to 
retreat,  fondly  trusting  that  when 
their  backs  were  once  turned,  they 
would  never  see  their  faces  again. 
They  proceeded  on  the  antiquated 

Erinciple — sanctioned  indeed  by  the 
oman  republic,  adopted  by  all  the 
greatest  of  mankind,  the  parent  of  the 
long  line  of  British  greatness,  but 
wholly  unworthy  of  modern  illu- 
mination— that  in  moments  of  peril, 
the  most  resolute  course  is  the  most 
prudent;  and  that  the  danger  of  re- 
sistance is  incomparably  less  than 
that  of  exciting  the  passions  of  the 
enemy  by  symptoms  of  intimidation. 
Acting  on  this  principle,  that  the  pas- 
sion tor  democratic  power  grows 
with  every  gratification  it  receives, 
the  British  aristocracy  resolutely 
faced  the  danger :  the  great  bulk  of 
the  W7hig  nobles,  acting  under  the 
direction  of  Mr  Burke,  joined  the 
administration;  the  threatened  dis- 
turbances came  to  nothing ;  popular 
ambition,  like  every  other  passion, 
being  deprived  of  its  only  food,  hope, 
gradually  declined ;  and  in  a  few 
years  the  island  exhibited  a  more 
united  people  than  it  had  ever  done 
since  the  Norman  conquest. 

The  Duke  of  Wellington  on  the 
next  crisis  was  fully  aware  of  the 
danger.  That  sagacious  and  intrepid 
jnau  saw  at  once  the  perilous  state 


1831.]         On  Parliamentary  Reform 

fred  would  not  have  been  endangered 
on  the  head  of  the  sovereign;  the 
glories  of  a  thousand  years  would 
not  have  been  sinking  into  a  sea  of 
blood. 

There  never  was  so  mistaken  an 
idea  as  that  which  is  now  frequently 
adopted  by  those  who  perceive  the 
present  dangers  of  the  country,  that 
they  have  arisen  from  the  Duke  of 
Wellington's  declaration  against  Re- 
form. They  have  all  arisen  from  his 
not  being  supported  in  that  declara- 
tion. Had  Mr  Pitt  been  deserted  as 
the  Duke  was,  the  present  crisis 
would  have  occurred  in  1793.  Had 
the  government  then  been  delivered 
overtoareformingadministration,the 
earthquake  which  has  now  shaken 
the  empire  would  have  occurred 
thirty-eight  years  sooner,  and  half 
the  present  generation  would  have 
been  buried  in  its  ruins. 

But  it  is  useless  to  lament  the  past. 
We  refer  to  it  not  for  the  purpose  of 
exciting  unavailing  regret,  but  to  de- 
monstrate the  course  of  the  perilous 
progress  which  the  nation  has  since 
made,  and  to  warn  our  legislature  of 
the  only  course  which  still  promises 
a  chance  of  safety. 

It  is  to  the  PEEKS  of  Britain  that 
we,  in  an  especial  manner,  now  ad- 
dress ourselves.  With  them  it  lies 
to  temper  passing  excitement  by 
permanent  wisdom ;  to  save  an  infa- 
tuated nation  from  itself;  and  per- 
form an  act,  for  which  they  will  ob- 
tain temporary  obloquy  and  eternal 
admiration. 

By  rallying  round  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  in  November  last,  before 
the  excitement  began,  the  conserva- 
tive party  might  have  crushed  the 
hydra  in  its  cradle ;  and  postponed 
for  cooler  times  the  gradual  reforma- 
tion of  the  constitution.  That  oppor- 
tunity is  past;  the  excitement  has 
been  created  by  the  prodigal  gift  of 
power  to  the  populace,  and  it  is  no 
longer  a  transient  passion  of  the  mul- 
titude, but  a  settled  resolution  of  a 
large  part  of  the  Commons.  The 
last  election,  unparalleled  in  the  an- 
nals of  England,  has  demonstrated 
from  whence  the  future  peril  to  the 
constitution  is  to  be  apprehended. 
By  rousing  the  multitude  with  the 
double  prospect  of  their  own  eleva- 
tion and  the  destruction  of  their  su- 
periors ;  by  exciting  imaginary  hopes 
and  chimerical  expectations  among 


and  the  French  Revolution. 


-21 


that  numerous  and  ignorant  class  iu 
whom  the  freehold  qualification  is 
placed;  by  dissolving  Parliament  at 
a  moment  of  the  highest  excitement, 
and  kindling  the  fire  of  misguided 
loyalty  in  the  breasts  of  the  rural 
tenantry,  the  Ministry  have  succeed- 
ed in  obtaining  a  great  majority  in  fa- 
vour of  Reform  in  the  Lower  House. 
Some  concession  must  be  made  to 
the  declared  wish  of  the  majority  in 
point  of  numbers  of  the  nation,  and 
some  change  in  the  constitution  must 
be  admitted  by  its  hereditary  guar- 
dians. 

In  making  this  admission,  we  not 
only  do  not  abandon,  but  adhere 
more  strenuously  than  ever  to  our 
declared  opinion,  that  no  Reform 
should  have  been  conceded  till  the 
excitement  of  the  last  French  Revo- 
lution had  passed  away.  We  shall 
abandon  this  opinion  when  we  are 
shewn  that  Mr  Fox  was  wrong  when 
he  declared,  "  that  all  the  collective 
wisdom  of  mankind  could  not  frame 
a  constitution ;  and  that  that  of  Eng- 
land was  put  together  by  the  hand 
of  time  in  a  way  which  no  future 
architect  could  hope  to  rival."  We 
shall  abandon  it  wnen  we  see  new- 
constitutions  as  stable,  as  free,  and 
as  beneficent,  as  those  which  have 
grown  up  with  the  wants  of  twen- 
ty generations;  when  we  see  the 
people  as  prosperous,  the  public 
wealth  as  flourishing,  the  national 
independence  as  secure,  as  under  the 
pristine  order  of  things;  when  the 
ancient  glories  of  English  story  shall 
have  been  rivalled  by  the  achieve- 
ments of  a  more  popular  dynasty ; 
the  names  of  Bacon  and  Newton 
eclipsed  by  the  discoveries  of  future 
philosophy  ;  the  strains  of  Milton 
and  Shakspeare  abandoned  for  the 
witchery  of  future  rhyme;  the  re- 
membrance of  Cressy  and  Waterloo 
dimmed  by  the  'lustre  of  future 
triumphs ;  the  flag  of  La  Hogue  and 
Trafalgar  forgotten  in  the  splendours 
of  the  British  tricolor. 

But  the  philosopher  may  lament 
the  deplorable  effects  of  popular  de- 
lusion ;  the  historian  may  condemn 
the  fatal  ambition  of  unexperienced 
statesmen  ;  the  legislator  must  deal 
with  mankind  as  they  are :  he  is  ex- 
posed to  the  fury  of  popular  violence, 
and  must  stem  the  torrent  of  reck- 
less ambition.  How  to  do  this  is  now 
the  question.  A  general  who  finds 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.         [July, 


22 

that  his  best  position  has  been  lost 
by  the  divisions  of  those  intrusted 
with  its  defence,  must  take  up  the 
next  best  which  can  be  selected. 
Though  forced  to  abandon  the  ridge 
of  Busaco,  he  may  still  present  an 
impregnable  front  at  Torres  Vedras. 

It  is  in  the  House  of  Peers  that 
this  last  defensive  contest  must  be 
maintained.  Let  not  that  illustrious 
assembly  be  intimidated  by  the  as- 
sertion that  they  are  but  an  insulated 
titled  body,  severed  from  the  people 
by  their  privileges,  possessing  no  part 
in  their  affections.  They  are  but  no- 
vices in  history,  who  do  not  know 
that  it  is  the  Barons  and  landed  aris- 
tocracy of  England,  who  in  every  age 
have  proved  the  firmest  supporters 
of  its  liberties,  and  the  strongest  bul- 
wark alike  against  sovereign  or  po- 
pular tyranny. 

Who  extorted  from  a  feeble  and 
tyrannical  monarch  the  great  charter 
of  English  liberty  at  Runnymede, 
and  compelled  its  renewal  two  and 
thirty  times  on  the  succession  of 
subsequentsovereignsortherepeated 
encroachments  of  the  .crown  ?  Who 
declared  at  Mertown,  in  defiance 
of  ecclesiastical  usurpation,  nolumus 
leges  Angliee  mutare — who  defeated 
the  democratical  insurrection  of  Watt 
Tyler,  and  saved  England  from  the 
horrors  of  servile  insurrection — who 
took  the  lead  against  the  arbitrary 
usurpation  of  Charles  I.,  and  bravely 
conquered  at  Marston  Moor — who 
resisted  the  Catholic  usurpation  of 
James  II.,  and  hurled  a  race  of  arbi- 
trary monarchs  from  the  throne — who 
protected  the  throne  from  the  reck- 
less ambition  of  its  own  Ministers, 
and  saved  the  liberties  of  England 
from  being  sacrificed  by  a  popular 
administration  at  the  shrine  of  Indian 
ambition  ?  The  Peers  of  England—- 
the titled  and  the  untitled  aristocracy 
of  the  realm  ;  and  it  is  to  them  that 
her  good  genius  still  looks  to  throw 
their  shield  over  her  future  destinies. 

Is  it  said  that  the  times  are  now 
changed ;  that  the  whole  weight  of 
the  constitution  virtually  resides  in 
the  Commons ;  that  the  days  of  aris- 
tocracy are  gone  by,  and  that  the 
House  of  Peers  dare  not  now  throw 
out  a  bill  supported  by  the  Com- 
mons and  the  Throne  ?  Here  again 


history  disproves  the  assertion,  and 
recent  events  nullify  its  application. 

It  is  stated  by  Mr  Hume*  and  it 
has  been  repeated  by  Guizot,f  that 
at  the  commencement  of  the  great 
rebellion,  the  landed  estates  ot  the 
House  of  Commons  were  three  times 
as  large  as  those  of  the  House  of 
Peers.  The  Upper  House  consisted 
of  78  members,  and  at  their  delibe- 
rations seldom  more  than  thirty  or 
forty  members  assisted.^  The  whole 
weight  of  the  landed  property  of  the 
kingdom  was  in  the  hands  of  the 
members  of  the  Lower  House,  whose 
leaders,  Sir  Edmund  Hambden,  Sir 
Orlando  Bridgman,  Sir  J.  Hollis,  Sir 
Henry  Vane,  were  the  destined  lead- 
ers of  the  people,  not  only  by  their 
individual  energy,  but  their  vast 
possessions.  The  wars  of  York  and 
Lancaster,  in  which  eighty  princes  of 
the  blood  and  nine-tenths  of  the  an- 
cient nobility  of  England  perished, 
had  fearfully  thinned  the  ranks  and 
dimmed  the  splendour  of  the  Norman 
aristocracy ;  and  the  people,  accus- 
tomed to  see  the  great  estates  of  the 
nobility  forfeited  repeatedly  in  the 
vicissitudes  of  fortune  consequent  on 
the  civil  wars,  had  lost  much  of  their 
respectfor  their  hereditary  legislators. 
When  the  Long  Parliament,  therefore, 
in  return  for  the  innumerable  con- 
cessions of  Charles,  and  the  tame 
submission  of  the  nobles,  voted  the 
House  of  Peers  a  nuisance,  and  ter- 
minated their  legal  existence,  the 
success  of  their  usurpation  was  not 
a  proof  of  the  insignificance  of  the 
aristocracy  in  a  contest  with  the 
Peers ;  but  of  the  inability  of  a  rem- 
nant of  that  body  to  maintain  their 
ground  against  the  great  majority  of 
the  landed  proprietors,  almost  all  the 
commercial  wealth,  and  all  the  reli- 
gious frenzy  of  the  nation. 

Matters  have  since  that  time  been 
completely  changed.  The  policy  of 
all  the  administrations  who  ha  ve  ruled 
the  country  since  the  Revolution,  has 
been  to  call  up  the  most  distinguish- 
ed members  of  the  Lower  House, 
whether  for  talent,  services,  or  pos- 
sessions, to  a  place  in  the  peerage. 
In  consequence  of  the  long  preva- 
lence of  this  system,  not  only  the 
great  bulk  of  the  landed  property, 
but  the  descendants  of  all  the  great- 


•  Hume,  vi.  176. 


f  Guizot,  i.  13. 


Hume,  vi.  278. 


183 1.]         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


est  men  in  the  kingdom,  the  most 
distinguished  representatives  of  its 
commercial  wealth,  and  the  greatest 
of  its  living  orators  and  statesmen, 
have  found  a  place  in  the  hereditary 
legislature.  Not  only  are  the  peers 
now  more  than  four  times  as  nu- 
merous as  they  were  in  the  great 
Rebellion,  but  their  landed  property 
is  at  least  ten  times  as  great,  and 
greatly  exceeds  the  collected  wealth 
of  the  whole  House  of  Commons. 
Among  its  ranks  are  to  be  found  the 
descendants  alike  of  noble  virtue, 
and  of  humble  ability :  of  the  gene- 
rals who  have  led  our  armies  to  vic- 
tory,— the  admirals  who  have  swept 
the  ocean  with  our  fleets, — the  law- 
yers who  have  sustained  our  liber- 
ties by  their  exertions, — the  states- 
men who  have  maintained  our  pro- 
perty by  their  wisdom.  The  peer- 
age is  not  adorned  only  by  the  blood 
of  the  Howards,  the  Percys,  and  the 
Scotts :  its  weight  is  not  increased 
only  by  the  vast  possessions  of  De- 
vonshire, Northumberland,  and  Buc- 
cleuch;  but  it  numbers  among  its 
members  the  immediate  descendants 
of  the  greatest  names  of  Britain, 
whether  of  patrician  or  plebeian  ori- 
gin— of  Marlborough,  Chatham,  and 
Somers — of  Mansfield,  Hardwick, 
and  Loughborough — of  Abercromby, 
Howe,  and  Nelson.  Among  its  pre- 
sent members  are  to  be  found  the 
greatest  statesmen,  generals,  and 
orators  of  the  age — the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington, the  Marquis  of  Anglesea, 
Lord  Lansdowne,  Marquis  Welles- 
ley,  Lord  Brougham,  Lord  Plunkett, 
Lord  Eldon,  Lord  Lyndhurst,  Lord 
Holland,  Earl  Grey,  and  many  others. 
Its  debates  are  conducted  in  a  style 
of  dignity,  moderation,  and  temper, 
which  places  them  foremost  in  the 
rank  of  real  statesmen;  and  it  is  a 
common  observation,  that  on  all  the 
great  questions  that  have  recently 
occupied  the  attention  of  Parliament, 
Catholic  Emancipation,  Criminal 
Law,  the  Corn  Laws,  and  the  Cur- 
rency, the  speeches  in  the  Peers 
have  been  decidedly  superior  in 
point  of  ability  to  those  delivered  in 
the  Lower  House.  Even  on  the 
question  of  Reform,  though  only  in- 
cidentally introduced,  few  speeches 
in  the  Commons  equalled  those  of 
the  Duke  of  Wellington,  Lord  Caer- 
narvon, Lord  Wharncliffe,  and  Lord 
Mansfield. 
It  won't  do,  therefore,  to  direct 


23 

against  a  body  thus  constituted  the 
common  newspaper  slang,  of  their 
being  a  house  of  incurables — the 
last  refuge  of  imbecility — always  be- 
hind the  age,  &c.  &c.  This  wretch- 
ed abuse  may  do  very  well  with  the 
vulgar,  but  with  men  of  thought  and 
information,  who  hear  their  names 
and  read  their  speeches,  it  can  have 
no  weight  whatever. 

While  the  weight  of  the  Peers  has 
thus  immensely  increased,  that  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  considered 
as  composed  of  men  of  extensive 
landed  property,  has  proportionally 
declined.  With  the  exception  of  Sir 
Francis  Burdett,  and  Mr  Coke  of 
Norfolk,  both  of  whom,  in  pursuance 
of  the  same  system,  are  shortly  to  be 
called  to  the  Upper  House,  there  is 
no  man  of  great  landed  property  in 
the  Lower  House.  The  successive 
ennobling  of  the  second  or  third 
generation  of  all  the  principal  land- 
ed proprietors,  has  nearly  exhausted 
the  great  estates  of  the  kingdom. 
Sir  Robert  Peel  is  no  exception. 
He  might  have  been  in  the  Peers 
long  ago  had  he  chosen  to  relinquish 
his  station  of  leader  of  the  conser- 
vative party  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. 

This  gradual  but  unceasing  change 
in  the  composition  of  the  two  Houses, 
must  long  ago  have  brought  on  a 
direct  collision  between  them  ;  in 
other  words,  between  the  property 
and  the  popular  ambition  of  the 
kingdom,  had  not  the  indirect  influ- 
ence of  the  nobility,  through  the  me- 
dium of  the  close  boroughs,  counter- 
acted its  tendency.  This,  as  is  uni- 
versally known,  restored  the  ascend- 
ency of  property  in  the  popular 
branch  of  the  legislature,  and  not- 
withstanding the  increasing  property 
and  weight  of  the  one,  and  the  in- 
creasing energy  and  ambition  of  a 
portion  of  the  other,  prevented  them 
from  coming  into  open  collision. 

Mr  Fox's  India  Bill  in  1783,  first 
proved  the  superior  weight  which 
the  House  of  Peers  had  acquired,  in 
consequence  of  the  cause  now  men- 
tioned, since  the  Revolution  of  1688. 
On  that  occasion,  as  is  well  known, 
the  administration,  strong  in  the  coa- 
lition of  Lord  North  and  Mr  Fox, 
and  supported  by  a  majority  in  the 
House  of  Commons.brougbt  forward 
the  celebrated  Whig  India  Bill.  This 
extraordinary  measure,  based  on  the 
principle  of  throwing  the  whole  pa- 


(>n  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.         [July, 


24 

tronage  of  India  into  the  hands  of 
ministers,  would  have  perpetuated 
the  Whig  ascendency  as  effectually 
as  the  extinction  of  the  one  hundred 
and  sixteen  Tory  members  proposed 
in  the  present  Reform  Bill.  The 
first  measure  of  the  Whigs  in  both 
periods  was  the  same,  viz.  to  make 
the  first  use  of  their  installation  in 
office,  by  intrenching  themselves 
for  ever  in  power.  Mr  Fox  pro- 
posed to  do  it  in  direct  violation 
of  all  the  principles  of  his  life, 
by  throwing  an  enormous  and  fatal 
addition  of  patronage  into  the  hands 
of  the  existing  administration,  with- 
out regard  either  to  the  interests 
of  freedom  in  this  country,  or  the 
chartered  rights  of  the  India  Com- 
pany in  the  Eastern  world  :  The  Re- 
formers propose  to  do  it,in  opposition 
to  the  chartered  rights  of  a  hundred 
and  eight  boroughs,  and  in  defiance 
alike  of  historical  evidence  and  ex- 
perienced utility.  Ambition  equal- 
ly blinded  the  leaders  of  adminis- 
tration in  both  periods :  had  the 
first  measure  succeeded,  it  would 
have  sunk  the  Whig  influence  under 
the  weight  of  sovereign  despotism  ; 
if  the  last  prevails,  it  will  bury  it 
under  the  waves  of  popular  ambi- 
tion. 

But  at  that  critical  period,  the 
firmness  and  sagacity  of  the  House 
of  Peers  saved  the  constitution  and 
liberties  of  England  from  destruc- 
tion. Removed  from  the  strife  of 
ministerial  ambition,  and  perma- 
nently interested  in  the  liberties  of 
the  country  with  which  their  fate 
was  indissolubly  connected,  that  in- 
trepid body  boldly  threw  themselves 
into  the  breach,  and  the  event  soon 
demonstrated  how  rapidly  popular 
favour  will  incline  to  those  who 
bravely  defend  the  constitution. 

On  the  8th  December,  1783,  the 
Whig  India  Bill  was  carried  in  the 
House  of  Commons  by  a  division  of 
208  to  202.  The  Peers,  however, 
did  not  despair.  On  the  second 
reading  of  the  bill,  a  minor  question 
was  carried  against  Ministers  by  a 
majority  of  87  to  79;  and  on  De- 
cember 17th,  the  bill  was  finally 
thrown  out  on  the  third  reading,  by  a 
majority  of  95  to  76.*  Ministers  im- 
mediately resigned — the  seals  were 
given  to  Lord  Temple  as  Secretary 


of  State,  and  Mr  Pitt  was  created 
First  Lord  of  the  Treasury. 

The  House  of  Commons  immedi- 
ately took  fire  :  the  situation  of  the 
new  ministry  was  singular,  and  in- 
deed unprecedented  since  the  Revo- 
lution, being  formed  in  immediate 
opposition  to  the  majority  of  the 
Lower  House.  Mr  Fox  immediate- 
ly carried  a  resolution  in  the  House 
of  Commons  (December  24th)  to 
address  the  Crown,  praying  that  the 
House  should  neither  be  prorogued 
nor  dissolved,  and  the  King,  in  an- 
swer to  this  address,  promised  that 
he  would  do  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other.  The  majority  in  the  Lower 
House  proceeded  to  still  stronger 
measures :  on  January  12th,  theypass- 
ed  a  vote  preventing  payments  from 
being  issued  from  the  bank  for  the 
public  service;  and  on  the 23d, they 
actually  adjourned  the  Mutiny  Bill. 

But  Mr  Pitt  and  the  Peers  were  not 
discouraged.  By  resolutely  main- 
taining the  contest,  they  brought 
fortune  round  to  their  side,  even 
in  circumstances  of  increasing  and 
apparently  hopeless  adversity.  On 
the  14th  January,  Mr  Pitt  brought  in 
his  India  Bill,  which  Mr  Fox  threw 
out  by  a  majority  of  222  to  214 :  and 
in  the  committee  on  the  state  of  the 
nation,  Lord  Charles  Spencer  moved 
"  that  the  continuance  of  the  present 
ministry  was  injurious  to  the  inte- 
rests of  his  Majesty  and  of  the  na- 
tion." This  resolution  was  carried 
against  Mr  Pitt  by  a  majority  of  205 
to  184.  On  February  2d,  another 
resolution  was  carried  against  Mi- 
nisters, expressive  of  the  sense  of 
the  Commons, "  that  the  continuance 
of  the  present  Ministers  in  office 
was  an  obstacle  to  the  formation  of 
a  firm,  efficient,  extended,  and  united 
administration."  On  the  18th  of  the 
same  month,  the  supplies  were  re- 
fused by  the  House  of  Commons; 
and  on  the  21st,  an  address  for  the 
removal  of  Ministers  was  carried  by 
a  majority  of  21. 

But  these  vehement  proceedings  of 
the  Lower  House  only  roused  the 
indomitable  spirit  of  the  British  Aris- 
tocracy. On  the  24th  February,  they 
passed  two  resolutions,  expressing 
at  once  their  decided  disapprobation 
of  the  conduct  of  the  Commons,  and 
their  own  determination  to  support 


Campbell's  Annals,  ii.  170. 


1831.]         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


the  new  minister,  whose  dignity  they 
considered  as  identified  with  that  or 
the  crown.  This  demonstration  of 
firmness  saved  the  constitution.  Find- 
ing that  the  Crown  and  the  Nobles 
were  firm,  the  Commons,  recently 
so  vehement,  gradually  relaxed  in 
their  assumed  tone  of  superiority. 
The  majority  began  to  decline  against 
Mr  Pitt.  A  resolution,  denying  that 
the  Crown  had  a  right  to  choose  its 
ministers  in  opposition  to  the  decla- 
red opinion  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, was  carried  by  a  majority  only 
of  one.  The  supplies  were  all  voted 
before  the  10th  March.  On  the  24th, 
Parliament  was  prorogued,  and  next 
day  dissolved.  The  new  Parliament 
gave  an  overwhelming  majority,  as 
is  always  the  case,  to  the  new  minis  - 
ters.* 

The  history  of  this  memorable  con- 
test demonstrates  the  extraordinary 
addition  of  weight  which,in  the  course 
of  a  century  and  a  half,  the  House  of 
Peers  had  acquired  in  the  constitu- 
tion. It  was  enabled  to  maintain  a 
Jong,  and,  at  first  sight,  almost  des- 
perate, contest  with  the  Lower 
House,  and  at  last  came  off  triumph- 
ant in  the  struggle.  Its  details  are  of 
vital  importance  at  the  present  mo- 
ment. 

The  Peers  now  are,  incomparably, 
in  a  more  favourable  situation  to 
maintain  such  a  contest  than  they 
were  in  1783.  Since  that  time,  above 
an  hundred  members  have  been  add- 
ed to  their  ranks,  and  a  large  portion 
of  plebeian  vigour  and  ability  infu- 
sed into  their  veins.  Almost  all  the 
greatest  men,  of  whatever  descrip- 
tion, have  been  gradually  elevated 
from  the  Lower  House,  the  army, 
and  the  bar,  into  the  hereditary  le- 
gislature. 

Farther,  the  results  of  the  last  elec- 
tion have  completely  altered  the  re- 
lative situation  of  the  two  branches 
of  the  legislature,  and  the  success  of 
the  democratic  party  iri  the  Lower 
House  not  only  calls  for,  but  justifies, 
a  firm  conduct  on  the  part  of  the 
House  of  Peers.  This  is  a  matter  of 
vital  importance,  to  which  we  ear- 
nestly request  particular  attention. 

The  Tories  have  always  maintain- 
ed, and  till  within  the  last  six  months 
the  Whigs  have  uniformly  concurred 
in  the  assertion,  that  the  influence  of 


25 

the  Peerage  and  of  property  was 
best  exerted  indirectly  in  the  Lower 
House,  because  that  prevented  the 
different  branches  of  the  legislature 
from  being  brought  into  open  con- 
flict, and  rendered  the  Commons  the 
arena  where  the  powers  of  the  con- 
stitution balanced  each  other.  It  is 
not  their  fault  if  this  salutary  and 
pacific  state  of  things  under  which 
the  nation  has  reposed  a  century  and 
a  half  in  tranquillity  and  happiness, 
has  not  continued.  They  clearly  saw 
the  advantages  of  this  unobtrusive 
contest;  they  forcibly  pointed  them 
out ;  but  their  opponents,  blind  to  all 
the  lessons  of  experience,  deaf  to  all 
the  dictates  of  wisdom, forgetful  even 
of  their  own  early  principles,  have 
compelled  them  to  abandon  this  pris- 
tine scene  of  combat,  and  to  bring 
the  democracy  into  open  collision 
with  the  aristocracy. 

By  having  done  so,  they  have  aug- 
mented greatly  the  popular,  or  inno- 
vating party,  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons ;  but  they  have  proportionally 
strengthened  the  hands  of  the  con- 
servative influence,  in  the  upper 
branch  of  the  legislature. 

Formerly  the  Peers,  by  means  of 
the  nomination  boroughs,  possessed 
an  extensive  influence  in  the  House 
of  Commons.  It  was  the  constant 
theme  of  the  reformers,  that  a  majo- 
rity in  the  Lower  House  were  nomi- 
nated by  the  nobility.  Whether  this 
was  actually  the  case  or  not,  is  of 
little  importance  now  to  enquire. 
Suffice  it  to  say,  that  this  influence, 
so  much  the  subject  of  complaint,  is 
now  all  but  extinct.  Its  decline  was 
signally  perceptible  on  the  election 
of  last  autumn.  Its  extinction  has 
been  witnessed  in  the  late  contests. 
Everywhere,  almost,  the  influence 
of  property,  rank,  and  possession, 
has  been  thrown  overboard.  The 
whole  counties,  with  the  exception 
of  Salop  and  Buckinghamshire,  have 
returned  reforming  members,  al- 
though the  county  declarations  against 
Reform  shewed  that  the  great  bulk 
of  the  landed  proprietors  decided- 
ly were  opposed  to  the  measures  of 
ministers.  Warwickshire  has  re- 
turned six  radical  members,  though 
almost  every  landed  proprietor  within 
its  bounds  has  signed  the  declaration 
against  Reform.  Essex,  Kent,  Sus- 


*  Campbell's  Annals,  ii.  J  70- 170. 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.         [July, 


sex,  Northumberland,  Cumberland, 
Cornwall,  Devonshire,  Hamsphire, 
have  done  the  same,  although  the  im- 
mense majority  of  their  proprietors 
are  strongly  attached  to  the  conser- 
vative party.  Northamptonshire,  af- 
ter a  severe  contest,  has  followed  the 
example,  although  its  anti-reform  pe- 
tition embraced  two-thirds  of  the 
landed  property  of  the  county. 

On  the  other  hand,  Cambridge, 
Oxford,  and  Trinity  College,  have 
returned  the  anti-reform  candidates. 
The  distinctions  of  Whig  and  Tory, 
of  Churchman  and  Liberal,  have 
been  there  forgotten  in  the  peril  of 
the  constitution.  The  graduates  of 
the  Universities,  comprehending  all 
the  rich  educated  men  in  England,  of 
Whig  and  Tory  principles — the  most 
distinguished  ot  its  philosophers— 
the  most  learned  of  its  historians — 
the  flower  of  its  country  gentlemen 
— the  rising  talent  of  the  bar — the 
respectability  of  the  church — the  or- 
naments of  the  Peerage — have,  by  a 
great  majority,  arranged  themselves 
under  the  banners  of  the  constitu- 
tion. 

In  Scotland,  the  ascendency  of  the 
same  principles  has  been  signally 
evinced.  The  boroughs,  indeed, 
which  are  in  a  great  degree  in  the 
hands  of  incorporations  accessible 
to  the  menaces  and  intimidation 
which  have  been  directed  against 
them,  and  composed  of  men  of  no 
education,  and  incapable  of  discern- 
ing consequences,  have,  with  some 
honourable  exceptions,  swum  with 
the  tide.  But  the  counties,  who  are 
governed  by  the  real  property  of  the 
Kingdom,  have  in  general,  in  defiance 
of  outrage  and  intimidation, unknown 
iq  other  parts  of  the  empire,  firmly 
resisted  the  innovators.  The  great 
and  opulent  counties  of  Mid-Lothian, 
Roxburgh,  Lanark,  Perth,  Fife,  Stir- 
ling, Aberdeen,  and  Ayr,  as  well  as 
the  smaller  counties  of  East  Lothian, 
Berwickshire,  Linlithgow,  Dunbar- 
ton,  Peebles,  Selkirk,  Cromarty, 
Kincardine,  comprehending  nine- 
tenths  of  the  landed  property  of  the 
kingdom,  have  returned  anti-reform 
members.  The  influence  of  the  Pre- 
sident of  the  Board  of  Control,  and 
the  necessity  of  providing  for  needy 
younger  sons,  has  given  Inverness- 
shire  to  the  reformers,  although  it  is 


well  known  that  three-fourths  of  its 
proprietors  are  hostile  to  the  bill,  and 
have  signed  petitions  against  its  lead- 
ing clauses;  but  with  that,  and  the 
exception  of  Sutherland,  Argyle,  and 
Dumfries,  where  the  influence  of  the 
reforming  families  of  the  Staffords, 
the  Argyles,  and  the  Johnstone 
Hopes,  are  predominant,  almost  all 
the  other  counties  have  sided  with 
the  constitution. 

This  state  of  things  is  most  re- 
markable— wholly  unprecedented — 
and  pregnant  with  the  most  import- 
ant instruction.  Wherever  property, 
education,  thought,  and  intelligence, 
had  a  voice,  the  cause  of  order  has 
been  triumphant.  Wherever  the 
numbers  of  the  lower  orders  have 
been  let  in,  the  Demon  of  Anarchy 
has  found  an  entrance.  Extraordi- 
nary as  this  may  at  first  sight  appear, 
it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  when 
historical  experience  is  referred  to, 
or  the  ruling  motives  of  human  ac- 
tions considered. 

Ministers  have  obtained  a  majori- 
ty by  the  same  means  which  enabled 
Henry  VIII.  to  dissolve  the  monaste- 
ries, and  which  gave  the  reforming 
administration  otNeckar  an  absolute 
ascendency  over  the  French  nation. 
This  method  consists  in  rousing  the 
ambition  of  the  many,  by  proposing 
to  divide  among  them  the  influence 
or  possessions  of  the  few. 

It  is  stated  by  Burnet  and  Hallam, 
"  That,  when  Henry  VIII.  commen- 
ced the  dissolution  of  the  monaste- 
ries, their  territorial  possessions 
amounted  to  a  fifth,  and  that  their 
rent  was  a  third  of  the  whole  landed 
revenue  of  the  kingdom."*  How  did 
this  tyrannical  monarch,  in  opposi- 
tion to  every  principle  of  justice,  suc- 
ceed in  carrying  through  this  great 
measure  of  confiscation  V  By  the  sim- 
ple expedient  of  promising  their 
spoils  to  the  temporal  Peers,  and 
enlisting  Ambition  and  Cupidity  on 
the  side  of  Violence.  His  courtiers 
were  rewarded  by  grants  of  the  con- 
fiscated lands; — the  barons  were 
bought  off  by  large  slices  of  the 
church  property ;  and  at  this  day, 
the  chief  families  in  the  kingdom 
date  their  elevation  from  this  grand 
measure  of  feeble  robbery ,f  In  all 
the  subsequent  changes,  they  held, 
with  a  tenacious  grasp,  the  posses- 


*  Burnet,  188;  lUlltm,  i.  104. 


f  Hallam,  i.  107. 


1831.]          On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


sions  thus  acquired ;  and  even  upon 
the  restoration  of  the  Catholic  nobi- 
lity, in  the  time  of  Mary,  it  was 
found  necessary  to  concede  to  their 
possessors  the  confiscated  estates. 

In  like  manner,  when  Neckar,  the 
reforming  minister  of  Louis  XVI., 
was  called,  in  1789,  to  the  reins  of 
government,  he  immediately  recom- 
mended the  convocation  of  the  States 
General,  and,  by  a  royal  ordinance, 
doubled  the  numbers  of  the  represent- 
atives of  the  Tiers  Etat  of  France. 
This  fatal  edict,  issued  six  months 
before  the  assembly  of  the  States 
General,  rendered  the  revolution  in- 
evitable j  because  it  roused  demo- 
cratic ambition  to  the  highest  degree 
in  every  part  of  France,  and  inflamed 
the  lower  orders,  by  the  immediate 
prospect  of  triumphing  over  their 
superiors.  The  people  were  not  so 
dead  to  ambition  as  to  refuse  the 
gift  of  sovereignty  thus  presented  to 
them ;  and  thenceforward,  the  elec- 
tions all  ran  in  favour  of  such  de- 
mocratic representatives,  that  their 
ascendency  in  the  States  General  was 
irresistible ;  and  within  a  few  months 
after  they  met,  the  king,  after  nar- 
rowly escaping  death  at  the  hands  of 
his  subjects,  was  led  in  melancholy 
state  a  prisoner  to  his  own  capital. 

The  case  is  the  same  now  in  this 
island.  The  lower  orders,  inflamed 
and  directed  by  the  democratic  press, 
at  once  perceived,  that  by  means  of 
the  L.IO  householders,  and  the  ex- 
tinction of  all  the  Tory  boroughs, 
their  ascendency  would  become 
complete.  The  sweets  of  popular 
sovereignty — the  dazzling  heights  of 
power — the  substantial  advantages  of 
liberation  from  tithes  and  taxes — 
the  prospect,  at  no  distant  period,  of 
a  division  of  the  estates  of  the  nobi- 
lity, danced  before  their  eyes,  and 
produced  an  universal  intoxication. 
Under  the  influence  of  these  highly 
wrought  feelings,  the  elections  took 
place,  and  every  body  knows  the  re- 
sult. All  the  established  relations 
of  life  were  set  at  nought — the  as- 
cendency of  centuries  was  overturn- 
ed— benefactions  for  ages  were  for- 
gotten— the  tenantry  almost  univer- 
sally revolted  against  their  landlords 
— the  little  urban  freeholders  fol- 
lowed in  the  career  of  the  great  de- 
mocratic towns — antiquity  of  name, 
generosity  of  conduct,  splendour  of 
talent,  fidelity  of  service,  were  alike 
set  at  nought,  and  nothing  became  a 


27 

passport  to  popular  favour,  but  a 
direct  pledge  to  secure  for  the  po- 
pulace the  glittering  prize  thus  placed 
within  their  reach. 

The  present  House  of  Commons, 
therefore,  is  differently  constituted 
from  any  which  have  preceded  it 
since  the  foundation  of  the  monarchy. 
It  is  no  longer  the  mirror  of  the  uni- 
ted wealth,  intelligence,  and  num- 
bers of  the  people.  The  Crown,  the 
Peers,  the  landed  proprietors,  the 
merchants,  the  shipping  interest,  no 
longer  find  themselves  fully  repre- 
sented— the  majority  has  been  re- 
turned by  the  populace,  in  defiance 
of  all  these  interests,  arid  for  the  ex- 
press purpose  of  annihilating  their 
influence  in  the  Legislature.  We  do 
not  say  that  the  gentlemen  returned 
are  for  the  most  part  inclined  to  sup- 
port such  extreme  measures — a  large 
body,  in  despite  of  the  public  fren- 
zy, have  still  been  elected,  steadily 
attached  to  the  constitution  ;  and 
even  of  the  reformers,  a  large  part, 
doubtless,  are  men  of  sense  and  infor- 
mation, who  will  strive  to  moderate 
the  transports  which  have  heaved 
them  into  power.  But  still  the  com- 
position of  the  House  is  avowedly 
and  undeniably  different  from  what 
it  ever  was  before  :  the  number  of 
the  tribunes  of  the  people  is  fearfully 
augmented  :  the  influence  of  pro- 
perty has  been  destroyed :  the  an- 
cient working  and  balance  of  the 
constitution  is  at  an  end. 

In  these  circumstances,  the  strong- 
est argument  against  a  resolute  stand 
by  the  Peers  is  removed.  When  that 
body,  on  former  occasions,  as  on  the 
Catholic  relief  question,  threw  out  a 
bill  which  had  passed  the  other 
branch  of  the  Legislature,  the  objec- 
tion to  such  a  proceeding  was,  that 
the  nobles  were  now  twice  exerci- 
sing their  influence ;  once  by  means 
of  their  nominees  in  the  Lower 
House,  and  again  directly  in  their 
own  branch  of  the  Legislature.  If  a 
bill  is  sent  up  to  the  Peers,  it  was 
said,  it  is  a  proof  that  the  sense  of  the 
nation  is  in  its  favour :  an  assembly 
composed  of  the  representatives  of 
all  classes  have  passed  it,  and  there- 
fore it  would  be  a  dangerous  stretch 
for  the  Peers  to  interpose  their  ne- 
gative. But  the  case  now  is  toto 
ccelo  different.  The  present  House 
of  Commons  is  avowedly  returned, 
not  by  the  Peers,  but  in  spite  of  the 
Peers— not  by  intelligence,  but  in 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


[July, 


spite  of  intelligence — not  by  pro- 
perty, but  in  spite  of  property.  The 
indirect  influence,  therefore,  can  no 
longer  be  exercised;  and  unless  rank, 
property,  and  education,  are  to  be 
sacrificed  at  the  shrine  of  popular 
ambition,  they  must  look  for  their 
representation  to  the  Upper  House. 
The  constitution  no  longer  resembles 
the  ancient  and  stable  British  go- 
vernment ;  it  is  more  nearly  akin  to 
the  Roman  commonwealth — and  if 
they  would  avert  an  Agrarian  law, 
the  patrician  classes  must  oppose 
the  firmness  of  the  senate  to  the 
vehemence  of  the  popular  tribunes. 

In  combating  the  Reform  bill,  there- 
fore, the  Peers  are  not  vainly  strug- 
gling for  their  own  exclusive  privi- 
leges against  the  united  voice  of  the 
nation  —  they  are  throwing  their 
shield  over  all  its  best  and  dearest 
interests;  they  are  protecting  the 
education,  thought,  and  intelligence 
of  the  kingdom  from  the  fury  of 
popular  delusion ;  they  are  saving 
those  qualified  to  govern  from  being 
subjugated  by  those  fitted  only  to  be 
governed.  In  such  a  contest  the  re- 
sult cannot  be  doubtful,  if  property, 
education,  and  worth  are  sufficiently 
firm.  By  supporting  the  aristocracy, 
as  they  did  in  1783,  this  second  Whig 
invasion  of  the  constitution  will  be 
defeated,  as  on  that  memorable  oc- 
casion ;  the  great  bulk  of  mankind, 
who  always  incline  to  the  side  likely 
to  prove  victorious,  will  rally  round 
their  hereditary  leaders ;  and  the 
people,  wakened  from  their  delu- 
sion, will  ultimately  recognise  their 
real  friends,  and  coerce  the  populace 
who  have  usurped  their  name. 

Look  at  other  countries.  What, 
in  a  similar  crisis,  has  been  the  con- 
sequence of  yielding  to  such  ebul- 
litions of  popular  ambition  ?  Has  it 
been  to  confirm  the  existence  of  the 
nobility — to  secure  the  rights  of  the 
people — to  check  the  progress  of 
anarchy  —  to  chain  the  demon  of 
revolution  ?  It  has  been,  on  the  con- 
trary, to  fan  the  flame  of  popular 
discontent  —  to  rouse  the  fury  of 
plebeian  ambition — to  superadd  to 
the  asperity  of  real  grievance  the 
passion  for  chimerical  improvement. 

The  nobles  and  clergy  of  France, 
in  1789,  tried  to  its  utmost  extent 


the  system  of  concession.  For  years 
previous  to  the  assembling  of  the 
States-General,  the  younger  part  of 
the  nobility  had  been  extravagantly 
attached  to  the  principles  of  free- 
dom :  they  were  flattered  by  the 
choice  of  the  populace — they  hoped 
to  head  the  movement;  they  ima- 
gined, that,  by  yielding  to  the  peo- 
ple, they  would  preserve  their  ascen- 
dency over  them,  and  avert  the  dis- 
asters of  popular  commotion.  "  In 
1789,"  says  Segur, "  no  one  in  France 
dreamed  of  the  revolution  which  was 
approaching ;  every  one  imagined, 
that  the  reforms  which  were  com- 
menced would  terminate  the  embar- 
rassment of  the  government,  and  es- 
tablish the  public  felicity.  It  was 
the  era  of  illusion — the  king,  the  mi- 
nisters, the  parliament,  the  three  or- 
ders, were  all  penetrated  with  the 
sincerest  love  of  their  country — it 
seemed  as  if  they  were  swayed  by 
deceitful  dreams.  All  hoped,  by  a 
common  effort,  to  widen  the  base  of 
the  monarchy — restore  the  credit  of 
the  finances— conform  ancient  insti- 
tutions to  modern  improvements — 
efface  all  traces  of  pristine  servitude, 
and  by  blending  popular  influence 
with  monarchical  power,  establish, 
on  an  immovable  basis,  the  public 
felicity."  * — "  The  great  judicial  bo- 
dies, the  nobles,  the  clergy,"  said 
Lafayette,  in  1790 — "  all  those,  in 
fine,  who  are  now  so  vehement  in 
condemning  the  revolution,  have  for 
a  series  of  years  attacked  the  mea- 
sures of  the  crown  with  as  much 
vehemence  as  the  discourses  of  our 
tribune.  They  have,  by  common 
consent,  appealed  to  the  nation  ;  but 
no  sooner  had  the  people  answered 
the  summons,  than  they  saw  their 
danger,  and  sought  to  impose  silence 
upon  its  representatives."^ 

In  pursuance  of  this  delusion,  the 
nobles  and  clergy  of  France,  upon 
the  meeting  of  the  States-General, 
made  the  following  submissions  to 
the  popular  party. 

First,  when  the  great  contest  arose, 
in  June  ]  789,  between  the  three  or- 
ders, as  to  whether  the  public  deli- 
berations should  be  conducted  in  one 
or  separate  chambers,  forty-six  of 
the  peers,  headed  by  the  Duke  of  Or- 
leans, Marquis  Lafayette,  the  Duke 


Segur,  iii.  355. 


f  Ibid.  jii.  453. 


1831.]          On  Parliamentary  Reform 

de  Rochefaucault,  deserted  their 
own  order,  and  joined  the  popular 
assembly. 

Next,  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
seven  of  the  clergy,  chiefly  compo- 
sed of  the  cures,  who  sympathized, 
from  their  rank  in  life,  with  the  Tiers 
Etat,  joinedthe  commons/and  by  this 
great  addition.first  gave  them  anume- 
rical  majority  over  the  other  orders. 

Disheartened  by  these  great  de- 
fections—  intimidated  by  the  cla- 
mours of  the  populace — yielding  obe- 
dience to  the  mandate  of  their  reform- 
ing sovereign,  the  remainder  of  the 
nobles,  with  heavy  hearts,  also  blend- 
ed with  the  Tiers  Etat,  and  formed 
one  assembly,  under  the  name  of  the 
States-General. 

Shortly  after,  the  nobles,  led  away 
by  the  enthusiastic  reception  which 
they  had  experienced,  and  captiva- 
ted by  the  incense  of  popular  ap- 
plause, voluntarily  surrendered  all 
their  exclusive  privileges.  All  the 
rights  of  feudal  property — all  the 
titles  of  honour — all  the  personal  dis- 
tinctions of  rank,  were  given  up  in 
one  night,  well  styled  at  the  time, 
"the  St  Bartholemew  of  Properties!" 

The  whole  exclusive  rights  of 
corporations  of  every  description 
throughout  all  France,  were  next 
given  up  to  the  nation. 

The  tithes  were  then  surrendered 
by  the  clergy,  in  the  hopes  that  by 
this  great  concession  they  would  con- 
ciliate the  good-will,  and  disarm  the 
opposition,  of  the  powerful  leaders  of 
the  people. 

The  game  laws  were  abandoned, 
and  every  corner  of  the  country  tra- 
versed by  motley  groups  in  quest  of 
this  aristocratic  diversion. 

It  must  be  admitted,  that  conces- 
sion and  conciliation  to  popular  am- 
bition, could  not  well  be  carried  far- 
ther by  the  nobles  and  clergy  of 
France,  on  this  occasion.  What  were 
its  consequences  ? 

In  return  for  the  junction  of  the 
clergy  in  their  hour  of  peril,  which 
first  gave  them  a  decided  superiority 
over  the  other  orders,  and  compelled 
their  union  in  one  assembly,  in  con- 
sideration of  the  surrender  of  the 
tithes,  and  the  submission  of  the  ec- 
clesiastical claims  to  the  national 
will,  the  assembly  confiscated  the 
whole  property  of  the  church,  and 
«ent  forth  its  pastors,  wandering  and 
destitute  through  the  realm,  whose 


and  the  French  Revolution.  -29 

liberties  they  had  been  so  mainly  in- 
strumental in  confirming. 

In  return  for  the  voluntary  sur- 
render of  all  their  rights,  as  a  reward 
for  the  abandonment  of  feudal  pow- 
er, titles  of  honour,  and  personal  pri- 
vileges, the  Assembly  banished  and 
proscribed  the  nobles,  confiscated 
their  estates,  and  excited  a  flame, 
which  brought  two-thirds  of  them  to 
the  scaffold. 

In  return  for  the  liberal  conces- 
sions of  the  reforming  monarch  ;  in 
consideration  of  his  having  convoked 
the  States  General,  doubled  the  num- 
ber of  the  Tiers  Etat,  given  them  a 
numerical  supei'iority,  by  ordering 
the  nobles  to  sit  and  vote  with  them 
in  one  assembly;  taken  the  lead  in 
reform,  by  voluntarily  abolishing  all 
the  grievances  of  the  people ;  sanc- 
tioned the  abolition  ot  titles  of  ho- 
nour, corporations,  and  exclusive 
privileges ;  acquiesced  in  the  confis- 
cation of  the  whole  property  of  the 
church ;  published  the  most  severe 
edicts  against  the  emigrant  nobles ; 
declared  war  against  his  nearest  re- 
lation, the  Emperor  of  Austria ;  ac- 
cepted the  constitution  of  1791,  fixed 
on  the  most  democratic  basis ;  ac- 
quiesced in  biennial  parliaments  and 
universal  suffrage  ;  relinquished  the 
appointment  of  bishops,  judges,  and 
officers  of  the  national  guard,  to  the 
people ;  dismissed  his  own  guards, 
and  separated  from  all  his  relations 
but  his  wife  and  children, — the  Revo- 
lutionists led  out  Louis  to  the  scaf- 
fold. 

The  House  of  Peers,  in  the  time 
of  Charles  I.,  also  tried  the  system 
of  conceding  to  popular  frenzy ; 
what  were  its  results  to  the  monarch 
and  to  themselves  ? 

When  the  arbitrary  government, 
illegal  exactions,  and  oppressive  pu- 
nishments of  that  misguided  mo- 
narch, coupled  with  the  religious 
fanaticism  of  the  period,  had  excited 
the  flame  in  England,  which  after- 
wards broke  out  in  the  great  Rebel- 
lion, the  House  of  Peers,  thinned  by 
the  proscriptions  and  bloodshed  of 
the  wars  of  the  Roses,  and  seldom 
mustering  fifty  members  in  any  as- 
sembly, felt  themselves  too  weak  to 
stem  the  torrent.  They  yielded  to 
all  the  violence  of  the  Long  Parlia- 
ment; they  sat  by  in  patient  sub- 
mission, when  they  usurped  all  the 
powers  of  government ;  they  agreed 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.        [June, 


to  the  bill  establishing  triennial  par- 
liaments; they  passed  the  bill  of 
attainder  against  Strafford,  although 
no  grounds  could  be  shewn  to  sup- 
port the  impeachment  previously 
brought  against  him  ;  they  submitted 
to  the  impeachment  of  the  bishops  ; 
they  made  no  attempt  to  check  the 
*'  Remonstrance"  of  the  Commons. 
"  So  violent  was  the  democratic  spi- 
rit of  the  nation,"  says  Hume,  "  that 
a  total  confusion  of  all  rank  and  or- 
der was  justly  to  be  apprehended; 
and  the  wonder  was  not  that  the  ma- 
jority of  the  nobles  should  seek  shel- 
ter under  the  throne,  but  that  any  of 
them  should  venture  to  desert  it.  But 
the  tide  of  popularity  seized  many, 
and  carried  them  wide  of  the  most 
established  maxims  of  civil  policy. 
Among  the  opponents  of  the  King, 
were  many  ot  the  most  distinguish- 
ed members  of  the  peerage — these 
men, finding  that  their  credit  ran  high 
with  the  nation,  ventured  to  encou- 
rage those  popular  disorders,  which 
they  vainly  imagined  they  possessed 
authority  sufficient  to  regulate  or  con- 
trol."* 

In  pursuance  of  the  system  of  con- 
cession, the  Lords  next  passed  the 
famous  bill,  conferring  on  the  Com- 
mons the  whole  power  of  the  sword. 
By  this  bill,  the  lieutenants  of  the 
counties  were  intrusted  with  the 
power  of  raising  an  armed  force; 
they  were  named  by  the  Parliament, 
and  declared  accountable,  not  to  the 
King,  but  to  the  House  of  Com- 
mons.f  "  Should  I  grant  these  de- 
mands," said  the  King,  when  press- 
ed to  interpose  the  royal  assent  to 
this  bill,  "  1  may  have  my  hand  kiss- 
ed ;  the  title  of  majesty  may  be  con- 
tinued to  me,  and  the  King's  autho- 
rity signified  by  both  Houses  may 
still  be  the  style  of  your  commands. 
I  may  have  swords  and  maces  car- 
ried before  me ;  though  even  these 
twigs  would  not  long  flourish,  when 
the  stock  upon  which  it  grew  was 
dead  ;  but  as  to  true  and  real  power, 
I  should  remain  but  the  outside,  but 
the  picture,  but  the  sign  of  a  king." £ 
Yet  even  these  demands  were  agreed 
to  by  the  infatuated  peers. 

If  the  system  of  concession  to  po- 
pular demands  were  ever  destined 
to  be  successful,  here  it  was  tried  on 


the  greatest  scale,  and  with  the  fair- 
est prospects  of  success.  What  were 
its  consequences  ?  Did  it  temper  the 
popular  fury,  place  the  peerage  at 
the  head  of  the  movement,  secure 
their  honours  or  estates,  save  the 
throne  from  destruction  ?  It  did  the 
reverse  of  all  these  things  ;  it  infla- 
med to  madness  the  ambition  of  the 
Commons,  roused  up  what  Lord 
Clarendon  calls  "  the  Root  and 
Branch  men ;"  and  excited  an  uni- 
versal frenzy  throughout  the  nation. 
In  return  for  such  pliant  submission, 
in  reward  for  the  eminent  services 
of  Essex,  and  many  of  the  nobles,  in 
the  Parliamentary  armies,  the  House 
of  Peers  was  voted  a  nuisance  and 
abolished ;  the  nobles  banished,  their 
estates  put  under  sequestration,  and 
the  King  himself,  as  a  return  for  so 
many  concessions,  brought  to  the 
block. 

To  those  who  lay  all  history  and 
experience  aside  as  "  an  old  alma- 
nack," who  set  at  nought  the  lessons 
of  the  past,  and  are  resolved  at  all 
hazards  to  pursue  the  system  of  in- 
considerate innovation,  these  exam- 
ples of  course  will  have  no  weight. 
But  to  those  who  are  of  an  opposite 
opinion,  who  speak  of  renovating, 
not  rebuilding  the  constitution ;  who 
profess  to  be  guided  by  a  retrospect 
of  the  past  in  their  measures  for  the 
future ;  who  believe  that  the  passions 
and  ambition  of  men  are  the  same  in 
all  ages,  when  excited  by  the  same 
causes,  we  earnestly  recommend 
their  consideration.  The  more  they 
are  studied,  the  more  extraordinary 
will  appear  their  application  to  the 
present  times. 

It  is  not  the  mere  force  of  human 
depravity,  or  the  simple  ingratitude 
of  numerous  bodies,  which  made  the 
French  and  English  nobles,  and  the 
French  and  English  church,  fall  the 
first  victims  of  the  Revolution,  which 
they  had  sought  to  appease  by  such 
abject  submissions.  These  submis- 
sions themselves  were  the  cause  of 
their  disasters ;  they  excited  a  spirit 
which  speedily  became  uncontrolla- 
ble ;  they  made  the  great  bulk  of  the 
nation  abandon  a  cause  which  had 
so  evidently  despaired  of  itself. 

What,  on  the  other  hand,  enabled 
the  British  aristocracy  to  suppress 


Hume,  vi.  394. 


t  Ibid,  vi.  410. 


Ibid.  vi.  424, 


1831.]         On  Parliamentary  Reform 

the  fervour  of  revolution,  which 
spread  to  this  country  by  contagion 
in  1793?  What  brought  the  House 
of  Peers  triumphantly  through  the 
contest  with  the  Whigs,  the  House 
of  Commons,  and  the  whole  forces 
of  the  Coalition,  in  1783  ?  The  same 
cause  which  made  Rome  triumphant 
over  Hannibal,  Napoleon  victorious 
at  Arcola,  and  Wellington  at  Water- 
loo. Unconquerable  firmness — de- 
cision in  presence  of  danger — the 
bravery  which,  by  deserving  the 
smiles. of  Fortune,  speedily  obtains 
them. 

"  Quid  in  rebus  civilibus,"  says 
Bacon;  "maxime  prodest — Audacia; 
quid  secundum,  audacia  ;  quid  ter- 
tium,  audacia. — Nihilominus  fasci- 
nat  et  captivos  ducet  eos  qui  vel 
judicio  infirmiores  sunt,  vel  ani- 
mo  timidiores  ;  tales  autem  sunt  ho- 
minurn  pars  maxima — id  circo  vi- 
demus  audaciam  in  democratiis  plu- 
rimum  valuisse ;  apud  senatores  et 
priucipes  certe  minus."*  In  these 
words  is  contained  the  secret  of  the 
success  of  the  aristocracy  on  those 
memorable  occasions,  com  pared  with 
the  utter  prostration  which  followed 
their  submission  in  the  others.  It  is 
the  audacity  of  revolutionary  leaders 
which  so  frequently  gives  them  suc- 
cess ;  because  the  great  bulk  of  man- 
kind are  always  inclined  to  range 
themselves  on  the  firmest  side,  and 
under  the  most  intrepid  leaders.  Let 
the  British  aristocracy  oppose  to  the 
vehemence  of  popular  tribunes  the 
firmness  of  the  Roman  senate,  and 
they  will  speedily  achieve  as  noble  a 
triumph. 

We  have  said  that  the  time  is  gone 
by,  when  unqualified  resistance  to 
Reform  could  have  been  made  :  the 
divisions  of  the  Tories  have  lost  them 
that  vantage  ground  :  the  rejection  of 
the  Reform  Bill  must  be  accompa- 
nied in  one  or  other  House  by  a  more 
rational  plan  for  remodelling  the 
Constitution.  In  considering  this 
subject,  it  is  of  the  utmost  moment 
to  attend  to  what  originally  was  the 
qualification  of  voters,  and  the 
changes  which  time  has  silently 
made  in  those  who  come  up  to  the 
poll. 

In  the  remotest  ages  all  freemen 


and  the  French  Revolution. 


31 


appear  to  have  been  admitted  to  vote. 
This  was  perfectly  safe  during  the 
days  of  baronial  power,  when  the 
nobles  lived  in  armed  state  on  their 
estates;  when  the  poor  were  few  and 
uninformed  ;  when  London  contain- 
ed 30,000  8ouls,f  and  Lancashire  was 
almost  uninhabited ;  when  manufac- 
tures and  printing  were  unknown, 
and  the  greater  part  of  the  rural  la- 
bourers were  disqualified  from  being 
freeholders,  by  actual  slavery.  In 
the  days  of  Gurth  and  Cedric,  of 
Ivanhoe  and  Wamba,  no  peril  from 
democratic  power  was  to  be  appre* 
hended. 

In  the  progress  of  time  the  right 
of  voting  in  the  counties  was  re- 
stricted to  forty  shilling  freeholders, 
the  qualification  which  has  ever  since 
continued.  This  change  took  place 
in  the  time  of  Henry  VI.,  by  the  8th 
statute,  c.  7  of  that  monarch.  It  is 
estimated  by  Sir  James  Macintosh, 
that,  in  the  time  of  Henry  VIII. 
L.30,000  was  equivalent,  taking  the 
value  of  money  and  the  price  of  arti- 
cles, to  L.I, 000,000  of  our  money  :J  in 
other  words,  forty  shillings  was  equal 
in  that  reign  to  above  L.70  a-year  of 
the  present  currency. 

The  progressive  depression  in  the 
value  of  money,  therefore,  which  has 
since  taken  place,  has  operated  as  a 
continual  lowering  of  the  elective 
franchise ;  and  has  brought  it  now  to 
embrace  properties  amounting  in  va- 
lue only  to  one  thirty-third  part  of 
those  originally  admitted  by  the  sta- 
tute of  Henry. 

This  is  a  most  important  consider- 
ation, which  has  never  met  with  the 
attention  it  deserves.  While  the 
people  have  been  constantly  exclaim- 
ing against  the  encroachments  on 
their  power  by  the  nobles,  the  silent 
changes  of  time,  by  incessantly  low- 
ering the  elective  franchise,  have 
more  than  counterbalanced  the  influ- 
ence of  the  higher  classes.  The  dis- 
covery of  the  mines  of  Potosi,  the 
.progress  of  luxury,  Mr  Pitt's  Bank 
Restriction  act,  have  all  added  prodi- 
giously to  their  power.  The  forty 
shilling  freeholders  who  now  come 
up  to  an  English  county  election,  no 
more  resemble  the  military  tenants 
who  formerly  returned  the  knights 


*  Bacon  de  Audacia,  10.  32.         f  Ifallam,  iii.  38.         \  History  of  England,  ii.  54, 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.          [July, 


82 

for  the  shires,  than  a  modern  farm- 
er resembles  the  Barons  of  Magna 
Charta. 

This  increasing  and  prodigious  de- 
gradation of  the  franchise,  by  the 
lowering  in  the  value  of  money, 
would,  when  acting  in  conjunction' 
with  the  vast  increase  of  commercial 
and  manufacturing  wealth,  and  the 
spread  of  political  information  by 
means  of  the  press,  have  long  ago 
overwhelmed  the  Crown  and  the 
Aristocracy,  had  it  not  been  counter- 
acted by  the  decay  of  many  boroughs, 
and  the  influence  acquired  over 
others  by  the  nobles  who  resided  in 
their  vicinity.  This  cause,  as  every 
body  knows,  threw  a  great  number 
of  the  boroughs  into  the  hands  of 
the  Aristocracy,  and  this  alone  coun- 
terbalanced the  continual  additions 
which  the  democratic  influence  was 
receiving  from  the  change  in  the 
value  of  money,  and  progressive  low- 
ering of  the  franchise. 

Seeing  that  the  balance  of  the 
Constitution  was  thus  maintained, 
a  wise  administration,  if  they  deem- 
ed the  nomination  boroughs  an  eye- 
sore to  the  people  which  required  to 
be  removed,  would  have  restored 
matters  to  their  original  situation, 
by  restoring  the  franchise  to  what  it 
was  before  the  change  commenced : 
In  other  words,  by  raising  the  quali- 
fication to  the  present  value  of  forty 
shillings  in  the  days  of  Henry  VI., 
that  is  to  about  L.70  Sterling. 

Instead  of  this,  what  have  they 
done  ?  Proposing,  on  the  one  hand, 
to  extinguish  the  whole  nomination 
boroughs,  do  they  propose,  on  the 
other,  to  reach  to  the  real  standard 
which  prevailed  before  that  species 
of  influence  had  acquired  any  ascend- 
ency ?  On  the  contrary,  they  pro- 
posed to  lower  it  to  the  L.10  house- 
holders: in  other  words,  to  a  class  of 
men,  of  whom  the  great  majority,  so 
far  from  being  worth  L.70  a-year  of 
freehold  property,  are  literally  worth 
nothing.  And  this  is  called  resto- 
ring the  balance  of  the  Constitution, 
and  reverting  to  the  pristine  order  of 
things ! 

A  mechanist  finds  a  machine  in 
which  the  opposite  weights  are  near- 
ly equally  balanced :  conceiving  that 
the  weight  on  one  side  is  not  of  the 
kind  which  he  approves,  he  removes 
two  thirds  of  it.  To  restore  the 
equilibrium  of  the  machine,  what 


corresponding  weight  does  he  with- 
draw from  the  other  side  ?  He  qua- 
druples the  weight  on  the  other  half 
of  the  beam,  ana  still  insists  that  the 
machine  will  balance  itself. 

It  shews  how  deplorably  ignorant 
nineteen  out  of  twenty  are  of  those 
who  speak  in  favour  of  Reform,  when 
it  is  recollected  that  this  obvious  and 
decisive  consideration  has  never 
once  been  alluded  to  by  the  advo- 
cates of  the  proposed  change.  They 
speak  incessantly  of  restoring  the 
Constitution  to  its  pristine  condition, 
when  they  are  seriously  proposing 
to  lower  the  qualification  of  all  the 
borough  voters,  that  is,  of  two-thirds 
of  the  House  of  Commons,  to  less 
than  an  hundredth  part  of  its  former 
amount.  No  one  can  deny,  that  the 
qualification  of  the  majority  of  the 
L.10  house  tenants  will  be  below  an 
hundredth  part  of  the  forty  shilling 
freeholders  in  the  time  of  Henry  VI., 
that  is,  of  L.70  a-year  freehold  pro- 
perty at  this  time.  Three-fourths  of 
the  present  electors  would  be  swept 
off  if  that  standard  were  really  to  be 
adopted:  hardly  one  of  the  L.10 
householders  would  find  an  entrance 
under  the  old  qualification.  The 
freeholders,  instead  of  being  raised 
to  a  million,  would  be  reduced,  in 
all  probability,  to  little  more  than 
a  hundred  thousand.  The  Reform 
candidates  with  such  constituents 
would  have  been  rejected  in  two- 
thirds  of  the  English  counties. 

But  this  is  not  all. — The  Reform- 
ers justify  the  assumption  of  this  low 
standard  of  L.10  householders  for 
the  election  of  these  boroughs,  that 
is,  of  two-thirds  of  the  House  of 
Commons,  upon  the  ground  that  the 
potwallopers  and  scot  and  lot  voters 
are  to  be  disfranchised.  But  when 
does  this  disfranchisement  take  ef- 
fect ?  Upon  the  death  of  the  present 
voters,  and  not  till  then.  Now  it  is 
during  the  lifetime  of  the  present 
voters,  in  the  years  immediately 
succeeding  the  Bill,  that  the  peril- 
ous consequences  of  this  sudden  ad- 
dition to  democratic  ambition  are  to 
be  apprehended.  If  we  get  over  the 
effects  of  that  prodigious  change  for 
ten  or  fifteen  years,  the  remote  ef- 
fects, after  the  excitement  has  sub- 
sided, are  comparatively  little  to  be 
apprehended.  The  whole  present 
democratic  part  of  the  constitution  ; 
all  that  noic  counterbalances  the  no- 


I83L]         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.  83 


mination  boroughs  is  to  be  retained; 
the  pot-wallopers  of  Westminster, 
Soutlnvark,  and  Preston,  are  to  vote 
alongside  of  the  L.10  householders 
of  the  Tower  Hamlets,  Manchester, 
and  Birmingham ;  and  this  at  the 
time  that  the  whole  nomination  bo- 
roughs are  to  be  instantly  destroyed. 
The  vast  addition  to  the  one  side  of 
the  balance  is  to  be  immediately  im- 
posed ;  this  alleged  counteracting 
weight  to  the  other  side,  is  to  be  post- 
poned till  this  period  has  arrived, 
Avhen  it  is  comparatively  little  re- 
quired, and  before  which  the  ma- 
chine will  probably  have  been  de- 
stroyed. 

France,  after  the  experience  of  her 
first  Revolution,  deemed  it  only  safe 
to  give  the  elective  franchise  to 
80,000  of  the  richest  proprietors  in 
that  kingdom,  out  of  a  population  of 
.'30,000,000.  With  such  a  constitu- 
ency^ parliament  so  democratic  was 
returned  as  rendered  it  impossible 
to  carry  on  the  government.  After 
the  impulse  to  popular  power  which 
arose  from  the  second  Revolution, 
the  ministers  of  Louis  Philippe  only 
venture  to  raise  the  number  to 
200,000  voters;  in  other  words,  to 
one  in  one  hundred  and  fifty  of  the 
people.  These  are  the  measures  of 
those  well  versed  in  the  history  of 
revolutions.  The  Reform  Bill  pro- 
poses to  extend  the  right  at  once  to 
a  million  of  voters  out  of  a  popula- 
tion in  Great  Britain  of  16,000,000  : 
in  other  words,  to  one  in  sixteen. 

And  this  is  said  to  be  attending  to 
the  lesson  of  experience ;  securing 
the  ascendency  of  property,  and  re- 
verting to  the  principles  of  the  Con- 
stitution ! 

Without  pretending  to  solve  the 
difficulty  of:  amending  the  repre- 
sentation, we  venture  to  submit  the 
following  principles,  as  essential  to 
the  formation  of  any  stable  govern- 
ment. 

1.  That  no  existing  right  of  re- 
turning a  member  to  Parliament 
should  be  taken  away  without  either 
a  full  equivalent  or  proved  delin- 
quency. It  is  no  doubt  desirable  not 
to  make  the  legislature  too  large; 
but  the  inconvenience  of  having  one 


hundred  more  members  than  at  pre- 
sent, is  trifling  in  comparison  of  the 
evil  of  confiscating  innocent  proper- 
ty :  in  other  words,  unhinging  every 
estate  in  the  kingdom. 

2.  That  if  the  present  system  of 
unequal  and  varied  representation  is 
to  be  broken  in  upon  to  any  extent, 
the  qualification  over  the  whole  king- 
dom should  be  greatly  raised.     Ex- 
perience having  proved  that  it  is  the 
higher  class  of  voters  alone  who  are 
inclined  to  resist  a  subsequent  ex- 
tension of  the  franchise. 

3.  That  it  should  be  made  to  de- 
pend not  on  being  the  tenant,  but  the 
proprietor  of  a  house :  the  latter  of 
these  parties  only  having  a  direct  in- 

,  terest  in  resisting  measures  of  spolia- 
tion. 

4.  That  the  rural  freeholders  only 
should  vote  for  the  county  members, 
and  not  overwhelm  the  influence  of 
landed  property  by  the  introduction 
of  urban  voters,  subject  to  opposite 
prejudices, and  swayed  by  an  adverse 
interest. 

5.  That  if  the   system   of  nomi- 
nation, or  close  boroughs,  is  to  be 
abandoned,  a  freehold  qualification 
should  be  bestowed  on  funded  mo- 
vable property  of  the  same  value  as 
that  which  affords  a  qualification  for 
land  or  houses. 

6.  That  unless  they  retain  their 
present  indirect   representation,  ~a 
certain  number  of  members  should 
be  bestowed  on  our  American  and 
Indian  possessions. 

If  the  leading  principles  of  the 
present  Bill,  viz.  the  disfranchise- 
ment  of  all  the  nomination  boroughs, 
and  the  adoption  of  the  low  freehold 
standard,  are  adhered  to,  the  country 
is  thenceforward  placed  under  the 
dominion  of  the  tenants  of  ten  pound 
houses.  Let  any  man  examine  the 
principles,  habits,  and  information  of 
these  men  in  his  own  neighbourhood, 
and  say,  whether  he  would  willingly 
submit  his  private  affairs  to  their 
management.  If  he  would  not,  is  the 
state,  with  all  its  complicated  inter- 
ests and  weighty  dependencies,  safe 
in  hands  until  to  be  trusted  with  the 
management  of  the  aflttirs  of  a  pri- 
vate family  ? 


VOT,  xxx.  xo.  f:r,xxxTf, 


84  Eeechey's  Voyage  to  the  Pacific  and  Behring's  Strait.         [July, 


BKECHEY'S  VOYAGE  TO  THE  PACIFIC  AND  BEHRING'S  STRAIT.* 


IN  England,  almost  the  first  thought 
of  youth  is  the  sea,  and  the  first  aspi- 
ration of  boyhood  to  be  a  sailor. 
Every  thing  that  we  read,  or  see,  or 
hear,  impresses  on  our  mind  the  same 
feeling;  and  who  cannot  remember 
having  been  enraptured  long,  long 
days  together,  over  the  tales  of 
strange,  new  scenes,  and  dangerous 
passages,  and  wild  adventures,  in 
Anson,  Vancouver,  or  Cook  ?  and 
having  longed  to  see  the  beings  of 
another  world  there  portrayed,  or 
to  wander  through  those  sweet  is- 
lands in  that  ocean,  happily  called 
the  Pacific  ?  Few  there  are  who  have 
not  such  remembrances,  and  the 
book  at  present  under  review  will 
call  up  in  the  minds  of  all  many  a 
pleasant  daydream  of  early  years, 
when  the  thought  of  dangers  and 
difficulties  \vas  as  nothing  before 
the  spirit  of  young  adventure;  and 
every  unknown  spot,  from  the  deso- 
late and  icy  cliffs  of  Cape  Horn,  to 
the  smiling  solitudes  of  Juan  Fer- 
nandez, was  involved  in  the  lustrous 
atmosphere  of  dawning  imagination. 

Amongst  such  scenes  this  voyage 
was  directed;  and  the  account  of  it 
is  conceived  in  the  spirit  of  a  gentle- 
man, and  written  in  the  plain  and 
unaffected  style  of  a  sailor.  Cap- 
tain Beechey  acknowledges  in  the 
Introduction,  that  he  is  not  what  the 
world  calls  a  literary  man,  and  he 
apologizes  for  it,  by  reminding  the 
reader  of  the  early  age  at  which  he 
entered  a  profession  which  claimed 
and  received  all  his  attention.  The 
apology  for  the  absence  of  very  re- 
fined composition  in  the  production 
of  a  sailor,  was  hardly  necessary. 
Pomp  and  elaboration  of  style  is  not 
expected  from  a  naval  man,  nor 
would  it  harmonize  well  with  the 
subject  of  a  voyage.  Neither  is 
there  in  the  mere  wording  of  Cap- 
tain Beechey's  book  any  thing  to  of- 
fend, if  there  be  nothing  to  dazzle ; 
while  the  plain,  straightforward,  sail- 
or-like manner,  in  which  he  de- 
scribes scenes  of  interest,  adventure, 
and  danger,  brings  them  up  more 


forcibly  to  the  mind's  eye,  and  en- 
gages the  feelings  of  the  reader  more 
strongly  in  the  cause  of  the  narra- 
tor, than  any  display  of  artful  elo- 
quence. 

His  style,  in  general,  is  plain  and 
manly ;  and  the  only  passages  which 
appear  at  all  objectionable  in  this 
point,  are  a  very  few,  in  AvhicU  an 
occasional  desire  for  what  is  called 
fine  writing  has  led  him  from  his 
more  simple  and  natural  manner. 

The  land  expeditions  of  Captain 
Franklin  in  the  Arctic  regions,  will 
never  be  forgotten  by  any  one  who 
has  read  the  vivid  account  of  the  suf- 
ferings, dangers,  and  fatigues,  which 
he  and  hia  companions  underwent; 
and  the  feeling  which  every  one 
entertains  in  regard  to  that  gallant 
officer,  would  communicate  itself  in 
some  degree  to  a  voyage  undertaken 
to  co-operate  with,  and  assist  him  in, 
his  second  great  attempt,  even  if  the 
voyage  itself  had  not  possessed  mat- 
ter of  infinite  interest.  But,  apart 
from  all  collateral  causes  of  plea- 
sure, this  book  contains  within  itself 
much  both  to  please  and  delight, 
from  the  vast  variety  of  different 
scenes — the  excitement  of  some — • 
the  splendour  of  others — and  the 
rapid  transition  from  extreme  to  ex- 
treme— from  those  climes  where, 

"  vertical,  the  sun 

Darts  on  the  head  direct  his  forceful  rays ;" 

While 

"  O'er  heaven  and  earth,  far  as  the  ran- 
ging eye 

Can  sweep,  a  dazzling  deluge  reigns ;  and 
all 

From  pole  to  pole  is  undistinguish'd  blaze ;" 

To 

"  Hecla,  .flaming  through  a  waste 

of  snow, 

And  farthest  Greenland ;  to  the  Pole  itself, 
Where  failing  gradual,  life  itself  goes  out." 

Such  scenes  must  always  be  full  of 
interest  to'  those  persons  who  have 
not  seen  them,  from  the  stimulus  they 
give  to  imagination,  and  the  satisfac* 


*  Narrative  of  a  Voyage  to  the  Pacific  and  Behring'a  Strait,  to  co-operate  with 
the  Polar  Expeditions,  &c.  &c,  By  Captain  W.  F,  Beechey,  R,N.  London;  Col- 
burn  and  Bentley.  1831. 


J831.J         Beechey's  Voyage  to  the  Pacific  and  Behring's  Strait.  85 

have  satisfactorily  determined  some 
of  the  most  obscure  points  in  the 
science  of  modern  geography. 

Captain  Beechey  sailed  from  Spit- 
head  on  the  19th  of  May,  1825 ;  and, 
after  a  passage  distinguished  by  no- 
thing ot  any  great  importance,  arri- 
ved at  Rio  Janeiro,  whence  he  pro- 
ceeded, as  soon  as  possible,  towards 
the  Pacific,  doubling  Cape  Horn. 
In  this  part  of  the  passage  some  in- 
teresting scientific  details  are  slight- 
ly touched  upon ;  but,  in  general, 
the  great  mass  of  information  of  this 
kind,  obtained  during  the  voyage,  ia 
collected  in  the  Appendix,  by  which 
means,  the  course  of  the  narrative  is 
allowed  to  proceed  uninterrupted. 
The  accounts  of  the  voyage  round 
Cape  Horn,  and  along  the  Chilian 
coast,  however,  are  entertaining  from 
their  very  simplicity;  and  some  of 
the  descriptions,  without  any  effort, 
and  probably  without  the  writer's 
consciousness,  are  highly  pictu- 
resque. What  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 
was  accustomed  to  call  "  the  repose 
of  a  fine  picture,"  is  often  happily 
transferred  to  descriptive  writing, 
but  it  must  always  be  unaffected 
and  easy.  Such  a  character  runs 
through  the  few  lines  which  de- 
scribe the  approach  to  Talcahuana, 
the  seaport  or  Conception. 


tion  they  afford  to  curiosity ;  and  to 
those  persons  who  have  seen  them, 
from  the  re-awakening  of  drowsy 
memoirs  to  matters  of  thought  and 
feeling  long  past.  But  in  Captain 
Beechey's  book,  there  is  a  mingling 
of  valuable  observation  with  amu- 
sing narrative,  which  merits  more 
detailed  examination. 

In  1 825,  Captains  Parry  and  Frank- 
Jin  set  out  upon  their  last  expedition, 
to  seek  for  a  north-west  passage  to 
the  Pacific;  and  Captain  Franklin 
being  unprovided  with  the  means  of 
returning  to  England  in  case  of  his 
success,  the  Blossom  sloop,  mount- 
ing sixteen  guns,  was  sent  out  to 
Behring's  Strait,  for  the  purposes  of 
meeting  him,  and  of  rendering  as- 
sistance to  either  expedition  whose 
endeavours  might  prove  effectual. 
Precautions  were  taken  to  strengthen 
the  vessel,  and  to  provide  her  with 
every  thing  necessary  for  exploring 
the  coast,  overcoming  the  difficulties 
she  might  meet  with,  and  for  culti- 
vating the  regard  and  friendship  of 
the  natives  in  those  countries  to 
which  she  was  destined. 

Various  officers,  well  known  for 
their  scientific  acquirements,  were 
appointed  to  the  vessel,  and  Captain 
Beechey,  who  had  already  accompa- 
nied two  of  the  northern  expeditions, 
was  placed  in  command.  The  instruc- 
tions given  by  the  Admiralty  were 
minute,  and  somewhat  restrictive. 
TJie  particular  survey  of  various 
points  in  the  Pacific,  the  position  of 
which  was  doubtful,  was  one  great 
object  of  the  voyage;  but  Captain 
Beechey  was  directed  to  make  every 
thing  subservient  to  the  purpose  of 
meeting  Captain  Franklin.  In  case 
of  that  officer  not  appearing  either 
in  1826  or  1827,  the  Blossom  was  to 
remain  as  long  as  possible  in  Beh- 
ring's Strait,  without  running  the 
risk  of  being  forced  to  winter  there ; 
and  then  to  return  directly  home. 
This  command  was  precise,  and  was 
perhaps  both  prudent  and  necessary; 
but  yet,  it  may  be  regretted  now, 
that  a  greater  degree  of  license  was 
not  permitted  both  to  Captain  Frank- 
lin and  Captain  Beechey,  as  those 
two  officers  came  within  so  short  a 
distance  of  each  other,  that  exer- 
tions, slight  in  comparison  to  those 
which  they  had  previously  made, 
would  have  effected  their  meeting, 
and  produced  results  which  wouRl 


"  Our  arrival  off  the  port,  was  on  one  of 
those  bright  days  of  sunshine  which  cha- 
racterise the  summer  of  the  temperate 
zone  on  the  western  side  of  America. 
The  cliffs  of  Quinquina,  an  island  situa- 
ted in  the  entrance  of  the  harbour,  were 
covered  with  birds,  curiously  arranged  in 
rows  along  the  various  strata ;  and  on 
the  rocks  were  numberless  seals  basking 
in  the  sun,  either  making  the  shores  re- 
echo with  their  discordant  noise,  or  so 
unmindful  of  all  that  was  passing-,  as  to 
allow  the  birds  to  alight  upon  them,  and 
peck  their  oily  skin  without  offering  any 
resistance." 

The  dangers  of  the  passage  round 
Cape  Horn  have  been  represented 
as  so  tremendous,  by  those  who 
achieved  the  feat  in  an  age  when  it 
was  seldom  attempted,  that  for  a 
considerable  time,  a  double  license 
was  allowed  to  the  magnifying  and 
story-telling  propensities  of  all  who 
could  boast  of  having  accomplished 
the  undertaking.  Captain  Beechey, 
however,  very  much  reduces  its  ter- 
rors, and  leaves  the  bugbear  of  for- 


.4(1  / 

jner  navigators  greatly  diminished  in 
importance.  The  city  of  Conception 
was  found  by  the  officers  of  the  Blos- 
som just  beginning  to  revive  from 
the  desolating  effects  of  many  years 
of  anarchy  and  turbulence,  and  Cap- 
tain Beechey  dwells  with  philanthro- 
pic pleasure  on  various  objects,  which 
evinced  the  renewal  of  law  and  con- 
fidence, since  the  visit  of  Captain 
Hall.  The  state  of  society,  however, 
does  not  offer  the  most  delightful 
picture,  notwithstanding  the  salu- 
brity of  the  climate,  and  the  vigour 
and  activity  of  the  inhabitants.  The 
same  fierce  and  determined  charac- 
ter, which,  in  days  of  old,  gave  new 
features  (at  least  in  South  American 
warfare)  to  the  struggles  so  beauti- 
fully depicted  in  the  Araucana  of 
Alonzo  de  Ercilla,are  still  to  be  found 
amongst  the  Indians  of  this  province; 
and  as,  thanks  to  European  civilisa- 
tion, they  are  generally  intoxicated, 
their  presence  is  any  thing  but  de- 
sirable. Other  subjects  of  greater 
interest,  however,  still  remain  to  be 
touched  upon ;  and,  after  running  ra- 
pidly over  two  thousand  miles  of  the 
wide  Pacific,  where  the  living  chan- 
ges of  the  capricious  tropics  were  all 
that  accompanied  the  vessel  on  her 
course — now  blazing  round  her  in 
the  lightning — now  sleeping  over  her 
sunshiny  track  in  the  calm  drowsi- 
ness of  an  equatorial  day — the  Blos- 
som approached  at  length  one  of  those 
small  insulated  cradles  of  human 
nature,  which  some  unknown  fate 
has  scattered  so  strangely  over  that 
wide  world  of  waters.  In  truth,  it 
must  be  with  a  sweet,  a  singular, 
and  a  thrilling  feeling,  after  the  eye 
has  rested  for  days  and  weeks  on  no- 
thing but  sky  and  sea,  that  the  voy- 
ager of  the  ocean  first  beholds  one 
of  those  solitary  islands  rising  over 
the  waves,  while  the  firm,  steadfast 
aspect  of  man's  natural  dwelling- 
place,  the  earth,  contrasts  strongly 
Avith  the  fluctuating  instability  of  that 
element  which  he  has  so  boldly  made 
his  home.  How  many,  too,  must  be 
the  expectations  raised  in  the  small 
world — the  microcosm  of  a  ship — 
as  it  sails  up  to  a  little  spot  like  that, 
pitched  in  the  midst  of  the  wild  bil- 
lows, full  of  warm  life,  and  all  life's 
thousand  strange  relationships,  and 
thronging  with  "beings  whose  every 
thought,  and  habit,  and  feeling,  and 
desire,  is  new! 


to  the.  Pacific  find  Bthriiujx  Strait.         f-Tuly, 


To  think  of  the  human  creatures 
who,  in  the  very  youth  of  their  na- 
ture, inhabit  the  islands  of  that  wide 
expanse  of  sea  which  flows  between 
South  America  and  Asia,  instantly 
brings  on  regret  that  it  is  impossible 
so  to  circumscribe  their  communion 
with  the  more  civilized  savages  of 
other  countries,  that  they  should 
neither  be  taught  to  dread  and  fly  the 
sight  of  the  stretched  canvass,  which, 
from  time  to  time,  comes  as  if 

"  a  cloud  had  dropt  from  heaven, 
And  were  sailing  on  the  sea," 

nor  to  learn  vices  and  sorrows  from 
men  who  have  neither  virtue  nor 
happiness  to  impart.  Did  such  men 
as  Cook,  and  La  Perouse,  and  Beech- 
ey, alone  visit  the  infant  tribes  of  the 
Pacific,  the  terrible  changes  which 
have  been  observed  in  the  manners 
of  many  of  these  islanders  would  not 
have  taken  place.  Alterations,  but 
alterations  for  the  better,  would  have 
followed,  and  we  should  have  plant- 
ed neither  the  passion  for  European 
vices,  nor  the  hate  of  European  vio- 
lence. Not  long  ago,  the  inhabitants 
of  Easter  Island  were  only  spoken  of 
as  a  rnild,  though  very  uncivilized 
race;  but  some  trading  vessels,  it  is 
known— and  Captain  Beechey  thinks 
many  more  than  are  known — have 
lately  touched  at  this  island,  and  com- 
mitted acts  of  unjustifiable  violence, 
the  result  of  which  is  proved  by  the 
events  which  attended  the  visit  of 
the  Blossom.  Those  events  them- 
selves are  full  of  interest,  and  there- 
fore, though  the  extract  be  some- 
what long,  it  may  as  well  be  given 
as  a  specimen  of  the  book. 

"  As  the  boats  approached,  the  anxiety 
of  the  natives  was  manifested  by  shouts, 
which  overpowered  the  voices  of  the  offi- 
cers :  and  our  boats,  before  they  gained 
the  beach,  were  surrounded  by  hundreds 
of  swimmers,  clinging  to  the  gunwale,  the 
stern,  and  the  rudder,  until  they  became 
unmanageable.  They  all  appeared  to  be 
friendly  disposed,  and  none  came  empty- 
handed.  Bananas,  yams,  potatoes,  sugar- 
cane»  nets,  idols,  &c.  were  offered  for 
sale,  and  some  were  even  thrown  into 
the  boat,  leaving  their  visitors  to  make 
what  return  they  chose.  Among  the 
swimmers,  there  were  a  great  many  fe- 
males, who  were  equally,  or  more  anxi- 
ous to  get  into  the  boats  than  the  men, 
and  made  use  of  every  persuasion  to  in- 
duce the  cresv  to  admit  them.  But  to  have 


!&)!.]        Beechcy's  Voyage  to  the  Pacific  and  Behrintfs  Strait*. 


acceded  to  their  entreaties  would  Lave 
encumbered  the  party, and  subjected  them 
to  depredations.  As  it  was,  the  boats 
were  so  weighed  down  by  persons  cling- 
ing to  them,  that  for  personal  safety,  the 
crew  were  compelled  to  have  recourse 
to  sticks  to  keep  them  off,  at  which  none 
of  the  natives  took  offence,  but  regained 
their  position  the  instant  the  attention  of 
the  persons  in  the  boat  was  called  to 
some  other  object.  Just  within  the  gun- 
wale there  were  many  small  things  which 
were  highly  prized  by  the  swimmers ; 
and  the  boats  being  brought  low  in  the 
water  by  the  crowd  hanging  to  them, 
many  of  these  articles  were  stolen,  not- 
withstanding the  most  vigilant  attention 
on  the  part  of  the  crew,  who  had  no 
means  of  recovering  them — the  marau- 
ders darting  into  the  water,  and  diving 
the  moment  they  committed  a  theft.  The 
women  were  no  less  active  in  these  pi- 
racies than  the  men  ;  for  if  they  were 
not  the  actual  plunderers,  they  procured 
the  opportunity  for  others,  by  engrossing 
the  attention  of  the  seamen,  by  their  ca- 
resses and  ludicrous  gestures. 

"  In  proceeding  to  the  landing-place, 
the  boats  had  to  pass  a  small  isolated 
rock,  which  rose  several  feet  above  the 
water.  As  many  females  as  could  pos- 
sibly find  room,  crowded  upon  this  emi- 
nence, pressing  together  so  closely  that 
the  rock  appeared  to  be  a  mass  of  living 
beings.  Of  these  Nereids,  three  or  four 
would  shoot  off  at  a  time  into  the  water, 
and  swim  with  the  expertness  of  fish  to 
the  boats  to  try  their  influence  on  their 
visitors.  One  of  them,  a  very  young 
girl,  and  less  accustomed  to  the  water 
than  her  companion?,  was  taken  upon 
the  shoulders  of  an  elderly  man,  conjec- 
tured to  be  her  father;  and  was,  by  him, 
recommended  to  the  attention  of  one  of 
the  officers,  who,  in  compassion,  allowed 
her  a  seat  in  his  boat.  She  was  young 
and  exceedingly  pretty  ;  her  features  were 
small  and  well  made ;  her  eyes  dark,  and 
her  hair  black,  long,  and  flowing;  her 
colour  deep  brunette.  She  was  tattooed 
in  arches  upon  the  forehead,  and,  like  the 
greater  part  of  her  countrywomen,  from 
the  waist  downward  to  the  knee, in  narrow 
compact  blue  line?,  which,  at  a  short  dis- 
tance, had  the  appearance  of  breeches. 
Her  only  covering  was  a  small  triangu- 
lar maro,  made  of  grass  and  rushes ;  but 
this  diminutive  screen  not  agreeing  with 
her  ideas  of  propriety  in  the  novel  situa- 
tion in  which  she  found  herself,  she  re- 
medied the  defect  by  unceremoniously 
nppropriating  to  that  use  a  part  of  one 
nl'  the  officers'  apparel,  and  then  com- 
menced ;i  song  not  altogether  inharmo. 


37 

nious.  Far  from  being  jealous  of  her 
situation,  she  aided  all  her  countrywo- 
men who  aspired  to  the  same  seat  of  ho- 
nour with  herself,  by  dragging  them  out 
of  the  water  by  the  hair  of  the  head  ;  but 
unkind  as  it  might  appear  to  interfere  to 
prevent  this,  it  was  necessary  to  do  so, 
or  the  boats  would  have  been  filled  and 
unmanageable. 

"  As  our  party  passed,  the  assemblage 
of  females  on  the  rocks  commenced  a 
song,  similar  to  that  chanted  by  the  lady 
in  the  boat,  and  accompanied  it  by  ex- 
tending their  arms  over  their  heads,  beat- 
ing their  breasts,  and  performing  a  va- 
riety of  gestures  which  shewed  that  our 
visit  was  acceptable,  at  least  to  that  part 
of  the  community.  When  the  boats  were 
within  a  wading  distance  of  the  shore, 
they  were  closely  encompassed  by  the 
natives,  each  bringing  something  in  his 
hand,  however  small,  and  almost  every 
one  importuning  for  an  equivalent  in  re- 
turn. All  those  in  the  water  were  naked ; 
and  only  here  and  there,  on  the  shore,  a 
thin  cloak  of  the  native  cloth  was  to  be 
seen.  Some  had  their  faces  painted  black 
— some  red — others  black  and  white,  or 
red  and  white,  in  the  ludicrous  manner 
practised  by  our  clowns  ;  and  two  demon  - 
like  monsters  were  painted  entirely  black. 
It  is  not  easy  to  imagine  the  picture  that 
was  presented  by  this  motley  crowd,  un- 
restrained by  any  authority  or  considera- 
tion for  their  visitors,  all  hallooing  to  the 
extent  of  their  lungs,  and  pressing  upon 
the  boats  with  all  sorts  of  grimace  and 
gestures. 

******* 
****** 

"  The  gentleman  who  disembarked 
first,  and  from  that  circumstance  proba- 
bly was  considered  a  person  of  distinc- 
tion, was  escorted  to  the  top  of  the  bank, 
and  seated  upon  a  large  block  of  lava, 
which  was  the  prescribed  limit  to  the 
party's  advance.  An  endeavour  was 
then  made  to  form  a  ring  about  him ; 
but  it  was  very  difficult,  on  account  of 
the  islanders  crowding  to  the  place,  all  in 
expectation  of  receiving  something.  The 
applicants  were  impatient,  noisy,  and  ur- 
gent: they  presented  their  bags,  which 
they  had  carefully  emptied  for  the  pur- 
pose, and  signified  their  desire  that  they 
should  be  filled  :  they  practised  every  ar- 
tifice, and  stole  what  they  could  in  the 
most  careless  and  open  manner:  some 
went  even  farther,  and  accompanied  their 
demands  by  threats.  About  this  time, 
one  of  the  natives,  probably  a  chief, 
with  a  cloak  and  head-dress  of  feathers, 
was  observed  from  the  ship  hastening 
from  Hie  huts  to  the  landing-place,  at* 


Beechey's  Voyage  to  the  Pacific  and  Behring's  Strait.         [July 


35 

tended  by  several  persons  with  short 
clubs.  This  hostile  appearance,  follow- 
ed by  the  blowing  of  the  conch-shell,  a 
sound  which  Cook  observes  he  never 
knew  to  portend  good,  kept  our  glasses 
for  a  while  riveted  to  the  spot.  To  this 
chief,  it  is  supposed,  for  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  distinguish  amongst  the  crowd,  Mr 
Feard  made,  a  handsome  present,  with 
which  he  was  very  well  pleased,  and  no 
apprehension  of  hostilities  was  entertain- 
ed. It  happened,  however,  that  the  pre- 
sents were  expended,  and  this  officer  was 
returning  to  the  boat  for  a  fresh  supply, 
when  the  natives,  probably  mistaking  his 
intentions,  became  exceedingly  clamor- 
ous ;  and  the  confusion  was  farther  in- 
creased by  a  marine  endeavouring  to  re- 
gain his  cap,  which  had  been  snatched 
from  his  head.  The  natives  took  advan- 
tage of  the  confusion,  and  redoubled  their 
endeavours  to  pilfer,  which  our  party 
were  at  last  obliged  to  repel  by  threats, 
and  sometimes  by  force.  At  length, 
they  became  so  audacious,  that  there  was 
no  longer  any  doubt  of  their  intentions, 
or  that  a  system  of  open  plunder  had 
commenced  ;  which,  with  the  appearance 
of  clubs  and  sticks,  and  the  departure  of 
the  women,  induced  Mr  Peard,  very  ju- 
diciously, to  order  his  party  into  the 
boats.  This  seemed  to  be  the  signal  for 
an  assault :  the  chief  who  had  received 
the  present  threw  a  large  stone,  which 
struck  Mr  Peard  forcibly  upon  the  back, 
and  was  immediately  followed  by  a 
shower  of  missiles  which  darkened  the 
air.  The  natives  in  the  water  and  about 
the  boats,  instantly  •  withdrew  to  their 
comrades,  who  had  run  behind  a  bank 
out  of  the  reach  of  the  muskets,  which 
former  experience  alone  could  have 
taught  them  to  fear,  for  none  had  yet 
been  fired  by  us. 

"  The  stones,  each  of  which  weighed 
about  a  pound,  fell  incredibly  thick,  and 
with  such  precision,  that  several  of  the 
seamen  were  knocked  down  under  the 
thwarts  of  the  boat,  and  every  person 
was  more  or  less  wounded,  except  the 
female  to  whom  Lieutenant  Wainwright 
had  given  protection,  who,  as  if  aware 
of  the  skilfulness  of  her  countrymen,  sat 
unconcerned  upon  the  gunwale,  until  one 
of  the  officers,  with  more  consideration 
for  her  safety  than  she  herself  possessed, 
pushed  her  overboard,  and  she  swam 
ashore.  A  blank  cartridge  was  at  first 
fired  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd ;  but 
forbearance,  which,  with  savages,  is  gene- 
rally mistaken  for  cowardice  or  inability, 
only  augmented  their  fury.  The  showers 
of  stones  were,  if  possible,  increased, 
until  the  personal  safety  of  all  rendered 


it  necessary  to  resort  to  severe  measures. 
The  chief,  still  urging  the  islanders  on, 
very  deservedly,  and  perhaps  fortunately, 
fell  a  victim  to  the  first  shot  that  was 
fired  in  defence.  Terrified  by  this  ex- 
ample, the  natives  kept  closer  under 
their  bulwark ;  and  though  they  conti- 
nued to  throw  stones,  and  occasioned 
considerable  difficulty  in  extricating  the 
boats,  their  attacks  were  not  so  effectual 
as  before,  nor  sufficient  to  prevent  the 
embarkation  of  the  crew,  all  of  whom 
were  got  on  board. 

"  Several  dangerous  contusions  were 
received  in  the  affair ;  but,  fortunately,  no 
lives  lost  on  our  part ;  and  it  was  the 
opinion  of  the  officers  commanding  the 
party,  that  the  treacherous  chief  was  the 
only  victim  on  that  of  the  islanders, 
though  some  of  the  officers  thought  they 
observed  another  man  fall.  Considering 
the  manner  in  which  the  party  were  sur- 
rounded, and  the  imminent  risk  to  which 
they  were  exposed,  it  is  extraordinary 
that  so  few  of  the  natives  suffered ;  and 
the  greatest  credit  is  due  to  the  officers 
and  crew  of  both  boats,  for  their  forbear- 
ance on  the  occasion." 

As  little  or  no  hope  remained  of 
entering  into  any  peaceful  relations 
with  the  people  of  this  place,  the 
Blossom  now  pursued  her  course 
for  Ducie's,  ana  thence  to  Elizabeth 
Island,  which  last,  though  small  and 
uninhabited,  offers  a  curious  example 
of  one  of  the  several  modes  of  for- 
mation, by  which  islands  have  been, 
and  probably  are,  continually  pro- 
duced in  the  Pacific.     Volcanic  ap- 
pearances are  distinct  in  so  many 
of   the  principal    groups,  that    no 
doubt  can  exist  of  the  agency  of  that 
phenomenon   in  the   creation   of  a 
great  number;  but,  if  influencing  at 
all    the    peculiar    structure    which 
either  of  these  two  exhibits,  it  must 
be  exerted  in  very  different  manner 
from  that  in  which  it  commonly  acts. 
In  Ducie's  Island,  there  seems  to  be 
but  little  difference  from  the  usual 
coral  formation,  except  that,  at  the 
north-eastern  and  south-western  ex- 
tremities,   projecting    masses    are 
thrown  out  with  a  less  degree  of  in- 
clination than  presented  by  the  ordi- 
nary sides  of  the  island,  and  thus 
two  immense   natural   breakwaters 
are  formed,  which  intercept  the  ac- 
tion of  the  sea  before  it  can  reach 
the  entrance  of  a  little  lagoon  form- 
ed in  the  centre.    "  It  is  singular," 
Captain  Beechey  remarks,   "  that 


1831.]  Becchey's  Voyage  to  the  Pacific  and  Behi  ing's  Strait. 


these  two  buttresses  are  opposed  to 
the  only  two  quarters  whence  their 
structure  has  to  apprehend  danger — 
that  on  the  north-east,  from  the  con- 
stant action  of  the  trade  wind ;  and 
that  on  the  other  extremity,  from  the 
long  rolling  swell  from  the  south- 
west, so  prevalent  in  these  latitudes ; 
and  it  is  worthy  of  observation,  that 
this  barrier,  which  has  the  most  pow- 
erful enemy  to  oppose,  is  carried 
out  much  farther,  and  with  less 
abruptness,  than  the  other." 

Elizabeth  Island  has  very  peculiar 
and  distinct  characters;  and  though 
great  doubt  may  exist  whether  vol- 
canic agency  had  any  share  in  its 
production,  as  Captain  Beechey  ima- 
gines, yet  his  description  is  so  mi- 
nute and  clear,  that  it  may  lead  to  a 
true  solution,  even  if  his  own  be  not 
the  correct  one. 

"  We  found  that  the  island  differed  es- 
sentially from  all  the  others  in  its  vicinity, 
and  belonged  to  a  peculiar  formation,  very 
few  instances  of  which  are  in  existence. 
Wateo,  and  Savage  Islands,  discovered  hy 
Captain  Cook,  are  of  this  number,  and, 
perhaps,  also  Maiden  Island,  visited  by 
Lord  Byron  in  the  Blonde.  The  island 
is  five  miles  in  length,  and  one  in  breadth, 
and  has  a  flat  surface  nearly  eighty  feet 
above  the  sea.  On  all  sides,  except  the 
north,  it  is  bounded  by  perpendicular  cliffs 
about  fifty  feet  high,  composed  entirely 
of  dead  coral,  more  or  less  porous,  honey- 
combed at  the  surface,  and  hardening  into 
a  compact,  calcareous  substance  within, 
possessing  fracture  of  secondary  lime- 
stone, and  has  a  species  of  millepore  in- 
terspersed through  it.  These  cliffs  are 
considerably  undermined  by  the  action  of 
the  waves,  and  some  of  them  appear  on 
the  eve  of  precipitating  their  superincum- 
bent weight  into  the  sea ;  those  which  are 
less  injured  in  this  way,  present  no  alter- 
nate ridges,  or  indication  of  the  different 
levels  which  the  sea  might  have  occupied 
at  different  periods ;  but  a  smooth  sur- 
face, as  if  the  island,  which  there  is  every 
probability  has  been  raised  by  volcanic 
agency,  had  been  forced  up  by  one  great 
SHbterraneous  convulsion.  The  dead  coral, 
of  which  the  higher  part  of  the  island 
consists,  is  nearly  circumscribed  by  ledges 
of  living  coral,  which  project  beyond  each 
other  at  different  depths ;  on  the  northern 
side  of  the  island,  the  first  of  these  had 
an  easy  slope  from  the  beach,  to  a  dis- 
tance of  about  fifty  yards,  when  it  termi- 
nated abruptly  about  three  fathoms  under 
the  water.  The  next  ledge  had  a  greater 
descent,  and  extended  to  two  hundred 


39 

yards  from  the  beach,  with  twenty-five 
fathoms  water  over  it,  and  there  ended 
as  abruptly  as  the  former ;  a  short  dig. 
tance  beyond  which,  no  bottom  could  be 
gained  with  two  hundred  fathoms  of  line. 
Numerous  echini  live  upon  these  ledges; 
and  a  variety  of  richly  coloured  fish  play 
over  their  surface,  while  some  cray-fish 
inhabit  the  deeper  sinuosities.  The  sea 
rolls  in  successive  breakers  over  these 
ledges  of  coral,  and  renders  landing  upon 
them  extremely  difficult.  It  may,  how- 
ever, be  effected  by  anchoring  the  boat, 
and  veering  her  close  into  the  surf,  and 
then,  watching  the  opportunity,  by  jump- 
ing upon  the  ledge,  and  hastening  to  the 
shore  before  the  succeeding  roller  ap- 
proaches. In  doing  this,  great  caution 
must  be  observed,  as  the  reef  is  lull  of 
holes  and  caverns,  and  the  rugged  way  is 
strewed  with  sea-eggs,  which  inflict  very 
painful  wounds;  and  if  a  person  fall  into 
one  of  these  hollows,  his  life  will  be  great- 
ly endangered  by  the  points  of  coral  catch- 
ing his  clothes,  and  detaining  him  under 
water.  The  beach,  which  appears  at  a 
distance  to  be  composed  of  a.  beautiful 
white  sand,  is  wholly  made  up  of  small 
broken  portions"  of  the  different  species 
and  varieties  of  coral,  intermixed  with 
shells  of  testaceous  and  crustaceous  ani- 
mals." 

It  is  this  minute  and  comprehen- 
sive detail — this  dwelling  upon  each 
particular  without  confusing  the 
whole,  which  gives  to  description 
the  stamp  and  impress  of  reality, 
which  enables  science  to  know  and 
judge  without  the  tangible  presence 
of  the  object,  and  presents  to  the 
casual  reader  a  clear  and  complete 
picture,  which  no  vague  and  general 
terms  could  convey.  This  was  one  of 
the  great  points  in  that  wonderful  re- 
formation which  the  Author  of  Wa- 
verley  worked  in  the  world  of  novel- 
writers.  Instead  of  loose  descrip- 
tions, uncertain  figures,  and  a  misty 
atmosphere  of  indefinite  verbiage, 
which  enveloped  every  character  of 
the  former  school,  he  substituted  a 
clear  and  definite  form,  in  which 
each  feature  and  line  had  been 
marked  and  traced  by  a  master's  hand 
and  eye,  and  over  which  the  pictu- 
resque spirit  of  apoeticat  mind  spread 
the  magic  sunshine  of  his  own  vivid 
and  wonderful  imagination.  Others 
followed  with  infinitely  less  power, 
and  less  originality,  but  still  an  im- 
mense improvement  was  produced. 
Every  man  who  knows  any  thing 
intimately,  will  have  the  means  of 


40  Hccdicy's  Voyayt  l<>  iht  Pacific  and  BJniiiffs  Strait. 

describing  it  minutely;  and  though, 
in  general  reasoning,  or  even  in  the 
sallies  of  wit  and  imagination,  it  is 
necessary  to  possess  the  great  talent 
of  casting  away  the  insignificant  and 
the  worthless,  yet  it  is  the  small  fine 
shades,  these  minute  details,  which 
give  identity  to  description,  and  call 
up  every  particular  scene  in  all  its 
individuality  before  the  mind's  eye. 
Captain  Beechey  thus  gives  as  true 
and  distinct  pictures  of  what  he  saw, 
as  if  he  represented  them  by  paint- 
ing to  the  material  organ  of  vision. 
Nor  is  this  confined  to  the  scenery 
alone ;  the  actions  and  habits  of  the 
people  with  whom  he  is  brought  in 
contact  are  all  treated  in  the  same 
graphic  way,  and  we  as  much  see 
Adams,  the  mutineer  of  the  Bounty, 
his  patriarchal  customs,  his  interest- 
ing race,  and  his  beautiful  island,  as 
if  we  had  once  been  there  ourselves, 
.  and  memory  called  up  all  that  we 
then  had  seen.     The  history  of  that 
famous  mutiny  has  been  already  told 
by  Captain  Hey  wood,  and  ornament- 
ed in  the  poetry  of  Byron ;  but  the 
account  given  of  it  by  Adams  him- 
self to  Captain  Beechey,  will  still  be 
read  with  infinite  pleasure,  as  well 
as  the  farther  story  of  the  nascent  na- 
tion on  Pitcairn  Island,  and  of  the 
strange,  but  beautiful  change  from  a 
community  of  violent  and  criminal 
Europeans,  and  wild  licentious  sa- 
vages, to  a  religious,  sober,  orderly 
race,  amongst  whom  violence  is  un- 
known, and  the  lightest  promise  in- 
violable— perhaps  the  grandest  and 
most  splendid  instance  on  record  of 
the  true  influence  of  that  bright  re- 
ligion which  interested  knaves  have 
sometimes    corrupted,    and    proud 
fools  have  pretended  to  despise. 

As  a  whole,  this  account  of  the 
mutineers  of  the  Bounty  would  be 
too  long  for  insertion  here,  and  to 
mutilate  it  would  be  injustice  to  the 
author  and  to  the  public.  The  pre- 
sent state  of  the  island  and  its  inha- 
bitants, however,  is  more  within  the 
limits  of  a  justifiable  extract,  and  is 
full  of  pleasant  feelings  and  antici- 
pations— But  first,  the  appearance  of 
old  Adams  himself. 


[July, 


"  The  interest  which  was  excited  by  the 
announcement  of  Pitcairn  Island  from  the 
roast-head,  brought  every  person  upon 
deck,  and  produced  a  train  of  reflections 
that  momentarily  increased  our  anxiety  to 


communicate  with  its  inhabitants — to  see 
and  partake  of  the  pleasures  of  their  little 
domestic  circle — and  to  learn  from  them 
the  particulars  of  every  transaction  con- 
nected with  the  fate  of  the  Bounty;  but, 
in  consequence  of  the  approach  of  night, 
this  gratification  was  deferred  until  the 
next  morning,  when,  as  we  were  steering 
for  the  side  of  the  island,  on  which  Cap- 
tain Carteret  has  marked  soundings,  in 
the  hope  of  being  able  to  anchor  the  ship, 
we  had  the  pleasure  to  see  a  boat,  under 
sail,  hastening  towards  us.  At  first,  the 
complete  equipment  of  this  boat  raised  a 
doubt  as  to  its  being  the  property  of  the 
islanders ;  for  we  expected  to  see  only  a 
well-provided  canoe  in  their  possession, 
and  we  therefore  concluded  that  the  boat 
must  belong  to  some  whale-ship  on  the 
opposite  side  ;  but  we  were  soon  agree- 
ably undeceived  by  the  singular  appear- 
ance of  her  crew,  which  consisted  of  old 
Adams  and  all  the  young  men  of  the 
island.  Before  they  ventured  to  take 
hold  of  the  ship,  they  enquired  if  they 
might  come  on  board  ;  and  upon  permis- 
sion being  granted,  they  sprang  up  the 
sides,  and  shook  every  officer  by  the  hand 
with  undisguised  feelings  of  gratification. 
"  The  activity  of  the  young  men  out- 
stripped that  of  old  Adams,  who  was  con- 
sequently almost  the  last  to  greet  us.  He 
was  in  his  sixty-fifth  year,  and  was  un- 
usually strong  and  active  for  his  age,  not- 
withstanding the  inconvenience  of  con- 
siderable corpulency.  He  was  dressed  in 
a  sailor's  shirt  and  trowsers,  and  a  low- 
crowned  hat,  which  he  instinctively  held 
in  his  hand,  until  desired  to  put  it  on.  He 
still  retained  his  sailor's  gait,  doffing  his 
hat,  and  smoothing  down  his  bald  fore- 
head whenever  he  was  addressed  by  the 
officers. 

"  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  been  on 
board  a  ship  of  war  since  the  mutiny,  and 
his  mind  naturally  reverted  to  scenes  that 
could  not  fail  to  produce  a  temporary  em- 
barrassment,  heightened,  perhaps,  by  the 
familiarity  with  which  he  found  himself 
addressed  by  persons  of  a  class  with  those 
whom  he  had  been  accustomed  to  obey. 
Apprehension  for  his  safety  formed  no 
part  of  his  thoughts;  he  had  received  too 
many  demonstrations  of  the  good  feeling 
that  existed  towards  him,  both  on  the  part 
of  the  British  Government  and  of  indivi- 
duals, to  entertain  any  alarm  on  that  head : 
and  as  every  person  endeavoured  to  set  his 
mind  at  rest,  he  very  soon  made  himself 
at  home. 

"  The  young  men,  ten  in  number,  were 
tall,  robust,  and  healthy,  with  good-natu- 
red countenances,  which  would  any  where 
have  procured  them  a  friendly  reception ; 


.j          Bcccfmy's  Vvyctyc  to  the  Pacific  and  JJe/tri/iy's  /Strait. 


and  with  a  simplicity  of  manner,  and  a  fear 
of  doing  wrong,  which  at  once  prevented 
the  possibility  of  giving  offence.  Unac- 
quainted with  the  world,  they  asked  a 
number  of  questions  which  would  have 
applied  better  to  persons  with  whom  they 
had  been  intimate,  and  who  had  left  them 
but  a  short  time  before,  than  to  perfect 
strangers  ;  and  enquired  after  ships  and 
people  we  hud  never  heard  of.  Their 
dress,  made  up  of  the  presents  which  had 
been  given  them  by  the  masters  and  sea- 
men of  merchant  ships,  was  a  perfect  cari- 
cature. Some  had  on  long  black  coats, 
without  any  other  article  of  dress,  except 
trowsers,  some  shirts  without  coats,  and 
others  waistcoats  without  either ;  none 
had  shoes  or  stockings,  and  only  two  pos- 
sessed hats,  neither  of  which  seemed  like- 
ly to  hang  long  together." 

After  landing  the  observatory,  and 
partaking  the  hospitality  of  the 
islanders,  the  English  party  were 
shewn  to  the  beds  prepared  for  them, 
consisting  of  mattrasses  of  palm- 
leaves,  covered  with  native  cloth, 
and  sheets  of  the  same  material.  The 
evening  hymn,  sung  by  the  islanders, 
after  the  lights  were  extinguished, 
pleasingly  disturbed  the  first  sleep  of 
their  guests,  and  the  morning  hymn 
broke  their  early  dreams ;  but  the 
evening  and  the  night  passed  away 
otherwise  in  calm  repose ;  and,  the 
next  day,  Captain  Beechey  proceeded 
to  examine  the  island  more  minutely. 

"  We  assembled  at  breakfast  about 
noon,  the  usual  eating  hour  of  the  natives, 
though  they  do  not  confine  themselves  to 
that  period  exactly,  but  take  their  meal 
whenever  it  is  sufficiently  cooked  ;  and 
afterwards  availed  ourselves  of  their  prof- 
fered services  to  shew  us  the  island,  and 
under  their  guidance,  first  inspected  the 
village,  and  what  lay  in  its  immediate 
vicinity.  In  an  adjoining  house,  we  found 
two  young  girls  seated  upon  the  ground, 
employed  in  the  laborious  exercise  of  beat- 
ing out  the  bark  of  the  cloth-tree,  which 
they  intended  to  present  to  us,  on  our  de- 
parture, as  a  keepsake.  The  hamlet  con- 
sisted of  five  cottages,  built  more  substan- 
tially than  neatly  upon  a  cleared  patch  of 
ground,  sloping  to  the  northward,  from 
the  high  land  of  the  interior,  to  the  cliffs 
which  overhang  the  sea,  of  which  the 
houses  command  a  distant  view  in  a 
northern  direction.  In  the  NE.  quarter, 
the  horizon  may  also  be  seen  peeping  be- 
tween the  stems  of  the  lofty  palms,  whose 
graceful  branches  nod  like  ostrich  plumes 
to  the  rcfrcbhing  trade-wind.  To  the  north- 


41 

ward,  and  north-westward,  thicker  groves 
of  palm-trees  rise  in  an  impenetrable  wood, 
from  two  ravines  which  traverse  the  hills 
in  various  directions  to  their  summit. 
Above  the  one,  to  the  westward,  a  lofty 
mountain  rears  its  head,  and  towards  the 
sea  terminates  in  a  fearful  "precipice  filled 
with  caverns,  in  which  the  different  sea- 
fowl  find  an  undisturbed  retreat.  Imme- 
diately round  the  village  are  the  small  en- 
closures for  fattening  pigs,  goats,  and 
poultry  ;  and  beyond  them,  the  cultivated 
grounds  producing  the  banana,  plantain, 
melon,  yam,  taro,  sweet  potatoes,  appai, 
tee,  and  cloth  plant,  with  other  useful 
roots,  fruits,  and  shrubs,  which  extend  far 
up  the  mountain,  and  to  the  southward; 
but  in  this  particular  direction  they  are 
excluded  from  the  view, .  by  an  immense 
banyan  tree,  two  hundred  paces  in  cir- 
cumference, whose  foliage  and  branches 
form  of  themselves  a  canopy  impervious 
to  the  rays  of  the  sun.  Every  cottage  has 
its  outhouse  for  making  clot!),  its  baking 
place,  its  sty,  and  its  poultry-house. 

"Within  the  enclosure  of  palm-trees  is 
the  cemetery  where  the  few  persons  who 
had  died  on  the  island,  together  with  those 
who  met  with  violent  deaths,  are  deposit- 
ed. Besides  the  houses  above  mentioned, 
there  are  three  or  four  others  built  upon 
the  plantations  beyond  the  palm-groves; 
One  of  these,  situated  higher  up  the  hill 
than  the  village,  belongs  to  Adams,  who 
has  retired  from  the  bustle  of  the  hamlet 
to  a  more  quiet  and  sequestered  spot, 
where  he  enjoys  the  advantages  of  an  ele- 
vated situation,  so  desirable  in  warm  coun- 
tries; and  there  are  four  other  cottages  to 
the  eastward,  which  belong  to  the  Youngs 
and  Quintals. 

"  All  these  cottages  are  strongly  built  of 
wood,  in  an  oblong  form,  and  thatched  with 
the  leaves  of  the  palm-tree,  bent  round  the 
stem  of  the  same  branch,  and  laced  hori- 
zontally to  rafters,  so  placed  as  to  give  a 
proper  pitch  to  the  roof.  The  greater 
part  have  an  upper  story,  which  is  appro- 
priated to  sleeping,  and  contains  four  beds 
built  in  the  angles  of  the  room,  each  suffi- 
ciently large  for  three  or  four  persons  to 
lie  on.  They  are  made  of  wood  of  the 
cloth-tree,  and  are  raised  eighteen  inches 
above  the  floor;  a  mattress  of  palm- 
leaves  is  laid  upon  the  planks,  and  above 
it  three  sheets  of  the  cloth-plant,  which 
form  an  excellent  substitute  for  linen. 
The  lower  room  generally  contains  one 
or  more  beds,  but  it  is  always  used  as 
their  eating- room,  and  has  a  broad  table 
in  one  part,  with  several  stools  placed 
round  it.  The  floor  is  elevated  about  a 
foot  from  the  ground,  and,  as  well  as  the 
sides  of  the  house,  is  made  of  btout  plank, 


Beechetfs  Voyage  to  the  Pacific  and  Behrirujs  Strait. 


42 

and  not  of  bamboo  or  stone,  as  stated  by 
Captain  Folger ;  indeed  they  have  not  a 
piece  of  bamboo  on  the  island ;  nor  have 
they  any  mats.  The  floor  is  a  fixture, 
but  the  side-boards  are  let  into  a  groove 
in  the  supporters,  and  can  be  removed  at 
pleasure,  according  to  the  state  of  the 
weather,  and  the  whole  side  may,  if  re- 
quired, be  laid  open.  The  lower  room 
communicates  with  the  upper  by  a  stout 
ladder  in  the  centre,  and  leads  up  through 
a  trapdoor  into  the  bedroom." 

And  again, 

"  During  the  period  we  remained  upon 
the  island,  we  were  entertained  at  the 
board  of  the  natives,  sometimes  dining 
with  one  person,  and  sometimes  with  an- 
other :  their  meals,  as  I  have  before  sta- 
ted, were  not  confined  to  hours,  and  al- 
ways consisted  of  baked  pig,  yams,  and 
taro,  and  more  rarely  of  sweet  potatoes. 

"  The  productions  of  the  island  being 
very  limited,  and  intercourse  with  the 
rest  of  the  world  much  restricted,  it  may 
be  readily  supposed  their  meals  cannot  be 
greatly  varied.  However,  they  do  their 
best  with  what  they  have,  and  cook  it  in 
different  ways,  the  pig  excepted,  which  is 
always  baked.  There  are  several  goats 
upon  the  island,  but  they  dislike  their 
flesh,  as  well  as  their  milk.  Yams  con- 
stitute their  principal  food;  these  are 
broiled,  baked,  or  made  into  pillihey 
(cakes),  by  being  mixed  with  cocoa-nuts, 
or  bruised  and  formed  into  a  soup.  Ba- 
nanas are  mashed  and  made  into  pancakes, 
or,  like  the  yam,  united  with  the  milk  of 
the  cocoa-nut,  into  pillihey,  and  eaten  with 
molasses,  extracted  from  the  tee-root. 
The  taro-root,  by  being  rubbed,  makes  a 
very  good  substitute  for  bread,  as  well  as 
the  bananas,  plantains,  and  appai.  Their 
common  beverage  is  pure  water,  but  they 
made  for  us  a  tea,  extracted  from  the  tee- 
plant,  flavoured  with  ginger,  and  sweet- 
ened with  the  juice  of  the  sugar-cane. 
When  alone,  this  beverage  and  fowl  soup 
are  used  only  for  such  as  are  ill.  They 
seldom  kill  a  pig,  but  live  mostly  upon 
fruit  and  vegetables.  The  duty  of  saying 
grace  was  performed  by  John  Buffet,  a 
recent  settler  among  them,  and  their  cler- 
gyman ;  but  if  he  was  not  present,  it  fell 
upon  the  eldest  of  the  company.  They 
have  all  a  great  dislike  to  spirits,  in  con- 
sequence of  M'Coy  having  killed  himself 
by  too  freean  indulgence  in  them ;  but  wine 
in  moderation  is  never  refused.  With 
this  simple  diet,  and  being  in  the  daily 
habit  of  rising  early,  and  taking  a  great 
deal  of  exercise  in  the  cultivation  of  their 
grounds,  it  was  not  surprising  that  we 
found  them  so  athletic  and  free  from  com- 
plaints. When  illness  does  occur,  their 


[July, 

remedies  are  as  simple  as  their  manner  of 
living,  and  are  limited  to  salt  water,  hot 
ginger  tea,  or  abstinence,  according  to  the 
nature  of  the  complaint.  They  have  no 
medicines,  nor  do  they  appear  to  require 
any,  as  these  remedies  have  hitherto  been 
found  sufficient. 

"  After  their  noontide  meal,  if  their 
grounds  do  not  require  their  attention, 
and-  the  weather  be  fine,  they  go  a  little 
way  out  to  sea  in  their  canoes,  and  catch 
fish,  of  which  they  have  several  kinds, 
large,  and  sometimes  in  abundance ;  but 
it  seldom  happens  that  they  have  this 
time  to  spare ;  for  the  cultivation  of  the 
ground,  repairing  their  boats,  houses,  and 
making  fishing  lines,  with  other  employ- 
ments, generally  occupy  the  whole  of 
each  day.  At  sunset  they  assemble  at 
prayers  as  before,  first  offering  their  ori- 
son and  thanksgiving,  and  then  chanting 
hymns.  After  this  follows  their  evening 
meal,  and  at  an  early  hour,  having  again 
said  their  prayers,  and  chanted  the  even- 
ing hymn,  they  retire  to  rest;  but  before 
they  sleep,  each  person  again  offers  up 
a  short  prayer  upon  his  bed. 

"  Such  is  the  distribution  of  time 
among  the  grown  people;  the  younger 
part  attend  at  school  at  regular  hours, 
and  are  instructed  in  reading,  writing, 
and  arithmetic.  They  have  very  fortu- 
nately found  an  able  arid  willing  master 
in  John  Buffet,  who  belonged  to  a  ship 
which  visited  the  island,  and  was  so  infa- 
tuated with  their  behaviour,  being  him- 
self naturally  of  a  devout  and  serious  turn 
of  mind,  that  he  resolved  to  remain 
among  them;  and,  in  addition  to  the  in- 
struction of  the  children,  has  taken  upon 
himself  the  duty  of  clergyman,  and  is  the 
oracle  of  the  community.  During  the 
whole  time  I  was  with  them,  I  never 
heard  them  indulge  in  a  joke,  or  other 
levity,  and  the  practice  of  it  is  apt  to  give 
offence :  they  are  so  accustomed,  to  take 
what  is  said  in  its  literal  meaning,  that 
irony  was  always  considered  a  falsehood, 
in  spite  of  explanation.  They  could  not 
see  the  propriety  of  uttering  what  was 
not  strictly  true,  for  any  purpose  what- 
ever." 

Some  just  and  kindly  observations 
of  CaptainBeechey's.and  the  pleasing 
information  of  his  Majesty's  govern- 
ment having  taken  measures  for  the 
welfare  and  benefit  of  this  little  co- 
lony, may  well  be  added. 

"  We  soon  found,  through  our  inter- 
course with  these  excellent  people,  that 
they  had  no  wants  excepting  such  as  had 
been  created  by  an  intercourse  with 
vessels.  Nature  has  been  extremely 
bountiful  to  them ;  and  necessity  has 


Beechey' s  Voyage  to  the  Pacific  and  Behring's  Strait. 


1831.] 

taught  them  how  to  apply  her  gifts  to 
their  own  particular  uses.  Still  they 
have  before  them  the  prospect  of  an  in- 
creasing population,  with  limited  means 
of  supporting  it.  Almost  every  part  of 
the  island  capable  of  cultivation,  has  been 
turned  to  account ;  but  what  would  have 
been  the  consequences  of  this  increase,  had 
not  an  accident  discovered  their  situation, 
it  is  not  difficult  to  foresee ;  and  a  reflecting 
mind  will  naturally  trace  in  that  disclosure 
the  benign  interference  of  the  same  hand 
which  has  raised  such  a  virtuous  colony 
from  so  guilty  a  stock.  Adams,  having 
contemplated  the  situation  which  the 
islanders  would  have  been  reduced  to, 
begged,  at  our  first  interview,  that  I 
would  communicate  with  the  government 
upon  the  subject,  which  was  done ;  and  I 
am  happy  to  say  that,  through  the  inter- 
ference of  the  Admiralty  and  Colonial 
office,  means  have  been  taken  for  remo- 
ving them  to  any  place  they  may  choose 
for  themselves ;  and  a  liberal  supply  of 
useful  articles  has  recently  been  sent  to 
them." 

A  very  interesting  sketch  of  Adams, 
whose  patriarchal  look  harmonizes 
well  with  his  patriarchal  name,  and 
his  patriarchal  character,  accom- 
panies Captain  Beechey's  book,  and 
renders  it  altogether  the  most  com- 
plete and  amusing  account  which  has 
ever  been  given  of  a  spot,  where  the 
past,  and  present,  and  future,  are  all 
linked  together  by  a  chain  of  the 
most  singular  interest.  After  leaving 
Pitcairn  Island,  and  steering  "through 
an  archipelago,  which  in  every  day's 
sail  offered  something  new  and  cu- 
rious, the  Blossom  made  an  unkpown 
island,  where,  to  the  surprise  of  all, 
a  colony  of  Christians  from  Otaheite 
was  discovered.  In  many  respects, 
a  degree  of  mystery  seemed  to  hang 
over  these  people,  but  the  very  fact 
of  their  having  found  their  way  thi- 
ther in  an  open  canoe,  when  it  is 
considered  that  their  native  country 
lay  at  six  hundred  miles  distance  in 
the  direction  of  the  trade-wind,  is  in 
itself  a  matter  of  no  slight  impor- 
tance to  science.  The  question  of 
how  these  scattered  dwelling-places 
first  received  their  inhabitants,  has 
been  one  that  has  excited  many  an 
ingenious  investigation,  and  some- 
times shaken  faith  in  the  historical 
truths  of  the  Mosaic  account.  The 
positive  certainty,  however,  though 
the  known  instance  be  singular,  of  a 
large  body  of  men  and  women  having 


been  driven  six  hundred  miles  from 
their  native  country,  against  the  pre- 
vailing wind,  is  sufficient  to  render 
the  explanation  easy,  and  to  sweep 
away  a  thousand  vain  hypotheses. 

The  reasoning  of  Captain  Beechey 
is  simple  and  conclusive.   The  simi- 
larity of  language,  customs,  and  tra- 
ditions, between  the  islanders  of  the 
Pacific  and  the  Malays,  the  people  of 
Sumatra,  Borneo,  and  others  of  the 
samegeneral  class,is  clearly  establish- 
ed. The  navigation  between  the  dif- 
ferent islands  of  thePacific  in  canoes  is 
well  known,  as  well  as  the  custom  of 
warriors,  after  a  defeat,  trusting  them- 
selves to  the  mercy  of  the  waves, 
rather  than  yielding  to  the  cruelty 
of  their  conquerors.  The  only  strong 
objection  to   the  belief  that  these 
islands  were  originally  peopled  from 
Asia,  and  that  the  inhabitants  were 
spread  gradually  from   one  insula- 
ted spot  to  another,  has  ever  been 
the  distance  between  the  different 
points,  which  was  contended  to  be 
impracticable  in  canoes,  especially 
when  the  trade-wind  and  the  gene- 
ral current  were  against  the  attempt. 
But  Captain  Beechey  demonstrates, 
that  the  interruption  of  the  trade- 
winds  by  the  monsoon,  and  the  effect 
of  those  sudden  and  violent  gales,  in 
driving  any  wandering  canoe  far  out 
of  its  course  amongst  the  thronged 
groups  of  the  Pacific,  must  in  many 
instances  bring  about  the  peopling  of 
far  distant  islands,  which  before  were 
destitute  of  inhabitants :   while  the 
clear  fact  of  six  hundred  miles  ha- 
ving thus  been  past  in  an  opposite 
direction  to  the  trade-wind,   gives 
the  lie  to  the  impossibility,  and  leaves 
the  solution  of  the  problem  perfectly 
admissible,  if  not  irrefragably  proved. 
Whatever  has  been  done,  may  be 
done  again,  and  we  may  suppose,  in 
the  absence  of  proof  to  the  contrary, 
that  it  has  been  done  often.     Nor  is 
it  an  absolute  conclusion,  that  the 
precise  distance  of  six  hundred  miles, 
which  this  canoe  reached,  must  have 
been  the  extreme  limit  of  such  adven- 
tures.  But  the  story  of  Tuwarri  and 
his  companions,  is  the  best  elucida- 
tion which  can  be  given  of  the  man- 
ner  in  which  the   seeds   of  future 
nations  have  been  carried  from  island 
to  island;  and  in  which,  while  the 
industrious  little  insects  of  the  coral 
are  grain  by  grain  raising  up  new 
lands  and  continents  out  of  the  broad 


ileechey's  Voyage  to  the  Pacific  and  Behrinys  Sli-ftit.          [July, 

children  might  accompany  him,  as  he  could 
on  no  account  consent  to  a  separation.  Our 
compliance  with  this  request  appeared  to 
render  him  completely  happy;  but,  still 
fearful  of  disappointment,  before  quitting 
the  ship  he  sent  to  ask  if  I  was  in  earnest. 
"  The  next  morning,  on  landing,  we  found 
him,  his  wife,  and  family,  with  their  goods 
and  chattels,  ready  to  embark ;  and  all  the 
islanders  assembled  to  take  leave  of  them. 
But  as  we  wished  to  examine  the  island 
first,  we  postponed  the  ceremony  until  the 
evening.  The  little  colony  gave  us  a  very 
friendly  reception,  and  conducted  us  to 
their  village,  which  consisted  of  a  few  low 
huts,  similar  to  those  at  Barrow  Island  ; 
but  they  had  no  fruit  to  offer  us  excepting 
pandan us-nuts,  which  they  disliked  almost 
as  much  as  ourselves,  and  told  us  they  had 
been  accustomed  to  better  fare." 

After  an  account  of  the  island,  and 
some  remarks  upon  its  inhabitants, 
who  were  all  Christians  from  the 
Society  group,  Captain  Beechey  pro- 
ceeds to  describe  the  parting  of  Tu- 
warri  and  his  companions,  and  then 
details  the  farther  particulars  of  his 
voyage.  After  visiting  Gloucester 
Island,  the  Blossom  proceeded  on- 
ward to  Bow  Island,  and  a  boat  was 
dispatched  to  ascertain  whether  it 
was  possible  for  the  ship  itself  to  en- 
ter the  lagoon.  In  this  boat,  Tuwarri 
was  sent  on  shore  for  the  purpose  of 
communicating  with  the  natives, 
should  any  be  found ;  and  inhabit- 
ants were  soon  observed  upon  the 
beach.  Tuwarri's  horror  of  cannibals 
was  great,  and  his  courage  small,  so 
that  the  appearance  of  the  men  on 
the  shore,  together  with  the  loading 
of  the  muskets  in  the  boat  (in  case  of 
necessity),  gave  him  no  very  pleasant 
sensations.  His  fears,  however,  were 
speedily  removed,  when  the  first 
man  he  met  upon  the  beach  was  his 
own  brother.  The  meeting  was  sin- 
gular and  affecting,  and  as  it  happen- 
ed that  a  brig,  which  had  brought 
Tuwarri's  brother  thither  as  a  diver, 
and  belonged  to  the  English  Pearl 
Company,  was  then  at  the  island, 
with  an  interpreter  on  board,  the 
story  of  the  wanderers  they  had 
found  at  Byam  Island,  was  soon  made 
clear  to  Captain  Beechey  and  his 
crew. 

"  Tuwarri  was  a  native  of  one  of  the 
low  coral  formations  discovered  by  Captain 
Cook  in  his  first  voyage,  called  Anaa  by 
the  natives,  but  by  him  named  Chain 


4-i 

bosom  of  that  distant  sea,  nature — or 

rather  nature's  God — is  leading,  by 

the  path  of  accident,  new  deni/ens 

to  inhabit  and  enjoy  the  new-born 

countries. 

"  Two  days  afterwards,  we  discovered 
a  small  island  in  lat.  19"  W  S.  and  long. 
140°  29'  W.,  which,  as  it  was  not  before 
known,  I  named  Byam  Martin  Island, 
in  compliment  to  Sir  Thomas  Byam  Mar- 
tin, G.C.  B.,the  comptroller  of  the  navy. 
As  we  neared  the  shore,  the  natives  made 
several  fires.  Shortly  afterwards,  three 
of  them  launched  a  canoe,  and  paddled 
fearlessly  to  the  barge,  which  brought  them 
to  the  ship.  Instead  of  the  deep-coloured 
uncivilized  Indians  inhabiting  the  Coral 
Islands  in  general,  a  tall,  well-made  per- 
son, comparatively  fair,  and  handsomely 
tatooed,  ascended  the  side,  and,  to  our  sur- 
prise, familiarly  accosted  us  in  the  Ota- 
heitan  manner.  The  second  had  a  hog 
and  a  cock  tatooed  upon  his  breast — ani- 
mals almost  unknown  among  the  islands 
of  Eastern  Polynesia  ;  and  the  third  wore 
a  turban  of  blue  nankeen.  Either  of  these 
were  distinctions  sufficient  to  excite  con- 
siderable interest,  as  they  convinced  us 
they  were  not  natives  of  the  island  before 
us,  but  had  either  been  left  there,  or  had 
drifted  away  from  some  other  island  ;  the 
latter  supposition  WAS  the  most  probable, 
as  they"  described  themselves  to  have  un- 
dergone great  privation  and  suffering,  by 
which  many  of  their  companions  had  lost 
their  lives,  and  their  canoe  to  have  been 
wrecked  upon  the  island  ;  and  that  they 
and  their  friends  on  shore  were  anxious 
to  embark  in  the  ship,  and  return  to  Ota- 
heite.  A  little  suspicion  was  at  first  at- 
tached to  this  account,  as  it  seemed  impos- 
sible for  a  canoe  to  reach  their  present 
asylum  without  purposely  paddling  to- 
wards it  ;  as  Byam  Martin  Island,  unlike 
Wateo,  upon  which  Omai  found  his  coun- 
trymen, is  situated  six  hundred  miles  from 
Otaheite,  in  the  direction  of  the  trade- 
winds.  We  could  not  doubt,  however, 
that  they  were  natives  of  that  place,  as 
they  mentioned  the  names  of  the  mission- 
aries residing  there,  and  proved  that  they 
could  both  read  and  write.  To  their  so- 
licitations to  return  in  the  ship  to  Ota- 
heite, as  their  number  on  shore  amounted 
to  forty  persons,  I  could  not  yield  ;  and  I 
pointed  out  to  them  the  impossibility  of 
doing  so.  But  that  we  might  learn  the 
real  history  of  their  adventures,  I  offered 
a  passage  to  the  man  who  first  ascended 
the  side,  as  he  appeared  the  most  intelli- 
gent of  the  party.  The  poor  fellow  was 
at  first  quite  delighted,  but  suddenly  be- 
came grave,  and  enquired  il' his  wife  and 


:)  1.1         JtefcJiey'a  Voyngr.  to  the  Pacific  and  /?/•//>•//»/•/'.<;  fl/tnlf. 


Island,  situated  about  .'JOO  miles  to  the 
eastward  of  Otaheite,  to  which  it  is  tri- 
butary. About  the  period  of  the  com- 
mencement of  his  misfortunes,  old  Po- 
marree,  the  King  of  Otaheite,  died,  and 
was  succeeded  by  his  son,  then  a  child. 
On  the  accession  of  this  boy,  several 
chiefs  and  commoners  of  Chain  Island, 
among  whom  was  Tuwarri,  planned  a 
•voyage  to  Otaheite,  to  pay  a  visit  of  cere- 
mony and  of  homage  to  their  new  sove- 
reign. The  only  conveyance  these  people 
could  command  was  double  canoes,  three 
of  which,  of  the  largest  class,  were  pre- 
pared for  the  occasion. 

"  To  us,  accustomed  to  navigate  the 
seas  in  ships  of  many  tons  burden,  pro- 
vided with  a  compass  and  the  necessary 
instruments  to  determine  our  position,  a 
canoe,  with  only  the  stars  for  her  gui- 
dance, and  destined  to  a  place  whose  situa- 
tion could  be  at  the  best  but  approxi- 
mately known,  appears  so  uncertain  and 
frail  a  conveyance,  that  we  may  wonder 
how  any  persons  could  be  found  sufficient- 
ly resolute  to  hazard  the  undertaking. 
They  knew,  however,  that  similar  voy- 
ages had  been  successfully  performed,  not 
only  to  mountainous  islands  to  leeward, 
but  to  some  that  were  scarcely  six  feet 
above  the  water,  and  were  situated  in  the 
opposite  direction";  and  as  no  ill  omens 
attended  the  present  undertaking,  no  un- 
usual fears  were  entertained.  The  ca- 
noes being  accordingly  prepared,  and  duly 
furnished  with  all  that  was  considered 
necessary,  the  persons  intending  to  pro- 
ceed on  this  expedition  were  embarked, 
amounting  in  all  to  150  souls.  What 
was  the  arrangement  of  the  other  two 
canoes  is  unknown  to  us ;  but  in  Tu- 
warri's  there  were  23  men,  15  women, 
and  10  children,  and  a  supply  of  water 
and  provisions  calculated  to  last  three 
weeks.  On  the  day  of  departure,  all  the 
natives  assembled  on  the  beach  to  take 
leave  of  our  adventurers.  The  canoes 
were  placed  with  scrupulous  exactness  in 
the  supposed  direction,  which  was  indi- 
cated by  certain  marks  upon  the  land, 
and  then  launched  into  the  sea  amidst 
the  good  wishes  and  adieus  of  their  coun- 
trymen. With  a  fair  wind  and  full  sail 
they  glided  rapidly  over  the  space,  with- 
out a  thought  of  the  possibility  of  the 
miseries  to  which  they  were  afterwards 
exposed. 

"  It  happened,  unfortunately,  that  the 
monsoon  that  year  began  earlier  than  was 
expected,  and  blew  with  great  violence; 
two  days  were,  notwithstanding,  passed 
under  favourable  circumstances,  and  the 
adventurers  began  to  look  for  the  high 
land  of  Maitea,  an  island  between  Chain 
Island  and  Otaheite,  and  to  anticipate 


the  pleasures  which  the  successful  termi- 
nation of  their  voyage  would  afford  them, 
when  their  progress  was  delayed  by  a 
calm,  the  precursor  of  a  storm  which  rose 
suddenly  from  an  unfavourable  quarter, 
dispersed  the  canoes,  and  drove  them  away 
before  it.  In  this  manner  they  drifted 
for  several  days ;  but,  on  the  return  of 
fine  weather,  having  a  fortnight's  provi- 
sions remaining,  they  again  resolutely 
sought  their  destination ;  but  a  second 
gale  drove  them  still  farther,  back  than 
the  first,  and  lasted  so  long,  that  they  be- 
came exhausted-  Thus  many  days  were 
passed ;  their  distance  from  home  hourly 
increasing;  the  sea  continually  washing 
over  the  canoes,  to  the  great  discomfiture 
of  the  women  and  children;  and  their 
store  of  provision  dwindled  to  the  last  ex- 
tremity. A  long  calm,  and  what  was  to 
them  even  worse,  hot,  dry  weather  suc- 
ceeded the  tempest,  and  drove  them  to  a 
state  of  despair.  From  the  description, 
we  may  imagine  their  canoe  alone,  and 
becalmed  on  the  ocean  ;  the  crew,  perish- 
ing with  thirst  beneath  the  fierce  glare 
of  a  tropical  sun,  hanging  exhausted  over 
their  paddles;  children  looking  to  their 
parents  for  support,  and  mothers  deplo- 
ring their  inability  to  afford  them  assist- 
ance. Every  means  of  quenching  their 
thirst  were  resorted  to ;  some  drank  the 
sea  water,  and  others  bathed  in  it,  or 
poured  it  over  their  heads ;  but  the  ab- 
sence of  fresh  water  in  the  torrid  zone 
cannot  be  compensated  by  such  substi- 
tutes. Day  after  day  those  who  were 
able  extended  their  gourds  to  Heaven,  in 
supplication  for  rain,  and  repeated  their 
prayers,  but  in  vain ;  the  fleecy  cloud, 
floating  high  in  the  air,  indicated  only  an 
extension  of  their  suffering;  distress,  in 
its  most  aggravated  form,  had  at  length 
reached  its  height,  and  seventeen  persons 
fell  victims  to  its  horrors. 

"  The  situation  of  those  who  remained 
may  readily  be  imagined,  though  their 
fate  would  never  have  been  known  to  us, 
had  not  Providence,  at  this  critical  mo- 
ment, wrought  a  change  in  their  favour. 
The  sky,  which  for  some  time  had  been 
perfectly  serene,  assumed  an  aspect  which, 
at  any  other  period,  would  have  filled  our 
sufferers  with  apprehension  ;  but,  on  the 
present  occasion,  the  tropical  storm,  .is  it 
approached,  was  hailed  with  thankfulness, 
and  welcomed  as  their  deliverer.  All 
who  were  able  came  upon  deck  with  blan- 
kets, gourds,  and  cocoa-nut  shells,  and 
extended  them  towards  the  black  cloud, 
as  it  approached,  pouring  down  torrents 
of  rain,  of  which  every  drop  was  of  in- 
calculable value  to  the  sufferers;  they 
drank  copiously  and  thankfully,  and  fill- 
ed every  vessel  with  the  precious  element. 


49  Beechey's  Voyage  to  the  Pacific  and  Behring*s  Strait. 


Thus  recruited,  hope  revived;  but  the 
absence  of  food  again  plunged  them  into 
the  deepest  despair.  We  need  not  relate 
the  dreadful  alternative  to  which  they  had 
recourse,  until  several  large  sharks  rose  to 
the  surface,  and  followed  the  canoe ;  Tu- 
warri,  by  breaking  off  the  head  of  an  iron 
scraper,  formed  it  into  a  hook,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  catching  one  of  them,  which 
was  instantly  substituted  for  the  revolt- 
ing banquet  which  had  hitherto  sustained 
life. 

"  Thus  refreshed,  they  again  worked 
at  their  paddles,  or  spread  their  sail,  and 
were  not  long  before  their  exertions  were 
repaid  with  the  joyful  sight  of  land,  on 
which  clusters  of  cocoa-nuts  crowned  the 
heads  of  several  tufts  of  palm-trees ;  they 
hurried  through  the  surf,  and  soon  reached 
the  much-wished  for  spot,  but  being  too 
feeble  to  ascend  the  lofty  trees,  were  obli- 
ged to  fell  one  of  them  with  an  axe. 

"  On  traversing  the  island,  to  which 
Providence  had  thus  conducted  them, 
they  discovered  by  several  canoes  in  the  la- 
goon, and  path  ways  intersecting  the  woods, 
that  it  had  been  previously  inhabited ; 
and  knowing  the  greater  part  of  the  na- 
tives of  the  low  islands  to  be  cannibals, 
they  determined  to  remain  no  longer  up- 
on it  than  was  absolutely  necessary  to  re- 
cruit their  strength,  imagining  that  the 
islanders,  when  they  did  return,  would 
not  rest  satisfied  with  merely  dispossess- 
ing them  of  their  asylum.  It  was  ne- 
cessary while  they  were  allowed  to  re- 
main, to  seek  shelter  from  the  weather, 
and  to  exert  themselves  in  procuring  a 
supply  of  provisions  for  their  farther  voy- 
age ;  huts  were  consequently  built,  pools 
dug  for  water,  and  three  canoes  added  to 
those  which  were  found  in  the  lake. 

"  Their  situation  by  these  means  was 
rendered  tolerably  comfortable,  and  they 
not  only  provided  themselves  with  neces- 
saries sufficient  for  daily  consumption, 
but  were  able  to  lay  by  a  considerable 
quantity  of  fish  for  sea  stock.  After  a 
time,  finding  themselves  undisturbed, 
they  gained  confidence,  and  defericd  their 
departure  till  thirteen  months  had  elapsed 
from  the  time  of  their  landing.  At  the 
expiration  of  which  period,  being  in  good 
bodily  health,  and  supplied  with  neces- 
saries for  their  voyage,  they  again  launch- 
ed upon  the  ocean  in  quest  of  home. 
They  steered  two  days  and  nights  to  the 
north-west,  and  then  fell  in  with  a  small 
island,  upon  which,  as  it  appeared  to  be 
uninhabited,  they  landed,  and  remained 
three  days,  and  then  resumed  their  voy- 
age. After  a  run  of  a  day  and  a  night, 
they  came  in  sight  of  another  uninhabit- 
ed island.  In  their  attempt  to  land  upon 
It,  their  canoe  was  unfortunately  stove ; 


[July, 

but  all  the  party  got  safe  011  shore.  The 
damage  which  the  vessel  had  sustained 
requiring  several  weeks  to  repair,  they 
established  themselves  upon  this  island, 
and  again  commenced  storing  up  provi- 
sions for  their  voyage.  Eight  months 
had  already  passed  in  these  occupations, 
when  we  unexpectedly  found  them  thus 
encamped  upon  Byam  Martin's  Island, 
with  their  canoe  repaired,  and  all  the  ne- 
cessary stores  provided  for  their  next  ex- 
pedition. 

"  The  other  two  canoes  were  never 
heard  of." 

Tuwarri  was,  after  this,  safely  re- 
stored to  his  native  island,  and  shew- 
ed feelings  of  gratitude  and  attach- 
ment to  those  who  thus  brought  him 
back  from  his  long  and  painful  exile, 
which  raised  him  highly  in  their  opi- 
nion. 

With  great  judgment,  Captain  Bee- 
chey  does  not  dwell  farther  on  Ota- 
heite — which  has  been  so  often  and 
so  well  described— than  is  absolutely 
necessary  to  point  out  the  changes 
which  have  lately  taken  place,  and 
to  detail  the  events  of  his  own  stay. 
His  observations,  however,  on  the 
efforts  of  the  missionaries,  and  the 
consequences  of  the  present  system 
of  biblical  instruction,  are  conceived 
in  a  spirit  of  kindness  and  liberality, 
guided  by  strong  good  sense,  which 
docs  high  honour  to  himself,  and 
may  do  infinite  good,  if  those  enga- 
ged in  the  propagation  of  the  gospel 
will  but  attend  to  the  remonstrances 
of  one  who  evidently  wishes  them 
the  most  complete  success.  Nothing 
requires  more  care  in  examining, 
and  more  cool  judgment  in  deciding, 
than  the  choice  of  persons  to  be  sent 
out  amongst  an  uncivilized  people 
for  the  purpose  of  communicating  to 
them  a  new  religion,  in  which  the 
spirit  is  all,  and  the  forms  are  really 
nothing.  It  is  much  to  be  feared, 
that  amongst  the  islanders  of  the 
South  Sea,  forms  and  words  have 
been,  not  perhaps  more  taught,  but 
certainly  more  learnt,  than  the  es- 
sence, or  spirit.ThisCaptainBeechey's 
observations  tend  to  shew,  but  still 
moie  the  simple  facts  which  he  nar- 
rates. The  great  care  of  all  engaged 
in  sending  missionaries  to  the  South 
Seas,  should  be  against  fanaticism ; 
because  it  is  the  natural,  and  uiihap- 

Eily  too  frequent,  disease  of  that  no- 
le  and    self-devoting    zeal  which 
first  prompts  the  missionary  to  his 


1831.]          Beechey's  Voyage  to  the  Pacific  and  Behr  ing's  Strait. 


arduous  task — because  it  is  the  bane 
of  all  his  efforts — and  because,  in- 
stead of  implanting  good  in  the  savage 
mind  he  goes  to  teach,  it  invariably 
produces  evil.  Zeal  will  never  be 
wanting  in  men  who  abandon  home, 
and  all  home's  ties,  for  the  purpose 
of  diffusing  light  and  civilisation 
amongst  the  dark  and  barbarous; 
the  great  requisite  in  those  that  send 
and  those  that  go,  is  good  sense. 

From  the  group  of  which  Otaheite 
forms  the  chief,  the  Blossom  pro- 
ceeded to  the  Sandwich  Islands ;  and 
the  comparison  between  the  two  is 
treated  by  Captain  Beechey  in  a  most 
able  and  masterly  manner.  The  ra- 
pid advances  of  the  Sandwich  island- 
ers towards  civilisation,  and  the 
causes,  are  displayed,  while  the  nar- 
rative of  the  ship's  proceedings  goes 
on  uninterrupted,  without  the  least 
pretence  of  deep  views  or  fine  rea- 
soning. All  is  simple,  natural,  and 
easy ;  and  the  mind  of  the  reader  is 
gradually  led  on  from  facts  to  con- 
clusions, without  being  whipped  into 
conviction  by  logic,  or  insulted  by 
dogmatism.  The  details,  too,  of 
manners,  customs,  and  scenes  (which 
Captain  Beechey  gives  wherever  any 
thing  new  was  to  be  portrayed)  are 
always  vivid,  clear,  and  interesting, 
and  fill  the  whole  pages  with  spirit 
and  activity. 

The  time  now  began  to  approach 
appointed  for  his  presence  in  Kotze- 
bue  Sound;  and,  sailing  onwards  to- 
wards the  Pole,  he  left  behind  him 
the  happy  climate  and  smiling  islands 
of  the  south,  and  in  a  wonderfully 
short  time  plunged  into  the  midst  of 
snows  and  everlasting  ice.  On  the 
eve  of  the  first  of  June,  the  Blossom 
left  the  Tropic,  and,  on  the  27th  of 
the  same  month,  she  was  at  Kams- 
chatka.  How  her  crew  must  have 
felt  such  a  change  can  only  be  ima- 
gined from  the  bare  fact.  Captain 
Beechey  wisely  gives  no  description; 
but  the  sudden  transition,  within 
three  pages,  from  the*  sunny  valleys 
and  groves  of  palm,  the  smile  and  the 
light,  the  lovely  scenes  and  rich  pro- 
ductions of  the  south,  to  icebergs  and 
frozen  cliffs,  skin-covered  Esqui- 
maux, and  fossil  elephants,  is  the 
most  extraordinary  that  can  be  con- 
ceived)  and  really  reminds  one  of  the 
Icelandic  idea  of  the  punishment  of 
sinful  souls,  which  are  supposed  to 
be  made  red  hot  in  Hecla,  and  then 


47 

plunged  into  the  snows  which  sur- 
round that  mountain.  Here,  how- 
ever, some  of  the  most  interesting 
parts  of  Captain  Beechey's  voyage 
commenced;  and  the  tracking  up  the 
western  coast  of  America,  as  far  as 
latitude  71°  23'  31"  north,  longitude 
145°  21'  30"  west,  will  make  the  ex- 
pedition memorable  for  ever  as  one 
which  has  added  immensely  to  our 
knowledge  of  this  earth  that  we  in- 
habit. Only  146  miles  of  the  coast  of 
Americano  w  remain  to  be  explored— 
the  probabilities  of  a  north-west  pas- 
sage are  greatly  increased — the  hy- 
pothesis is  plausible  of  a  gradual  di- 
minution ot  the  ice  of  the  polar  re- 
gions, which  would  render  that  pas- 
sage available;  and  surely  all  these 
circumstances  may  well  encourage 
the  hope,  that  an  enterprise  which 
has  called  forth  the  energies  of  so 
many  distinguished  men,  and  obtain- 
ed many  important  results  even  in 
the  attempt,  will  not  be  abandoned 
at  a  moment  when  success  is  likejy, 
and  certainty  may,  at  all  events,  be 
ensured.  Had  the  Blossom  been  or- 
dered to  Kotzebue  Sound  one  fort- 
night earlier  in  the  year,  had  she 
possessed  any  means  of  equipping  a 
land  expedition,  even  for  a  short 
journey,  Captain  Franklin  might 
have  been  met,  and  the  great  geo- 
graphical problem  would  have  been 
solved.  Let  us  hope  that  such  a 
plan  may  still  be  adopted,  and  that, 
by  combined  efforts  on  both  sides  of 
the  continent,  the  end  may  still  be 
obtained.  In  regard  to  this  part  of 
the  voyage,  no  extracts  can  be  made. 
The  whole  is  interesting  in  the  high- 
est degree,  but  it  must  be  read  as  a 
whole. 

After  waiting  as  long  as  his  instruc- 
tions permitted,  Captain  Beechey 
gave  up  the  hope  of  meeting  Captain 
Franklin,  and  once  more  turned  to- 
wards the  south.  Pursuing  his  survey 
through  many  parts  of  the  northern 
Pacific,  he  at  length  reached  Cali- 
fornia; where,  during  his  stay  for 
the  purpose  of  procuring  supplies, 
he  obtained  an  immense  mass  of  in- 
formation concern  ing  a  country  very 
little  known.  The  extraordinary  ne- 
glect of  the  Spanish  government,  in 
regard  to  an  extensive  and  fertile 
dependency,  blessed  with  a  delight- 
ful climate  and  a  rich  productive 
soil,  first  calls  Captain  Beechey's  at- 
tention ;  and,  indeed,  it  is  a  curious 


1* 


Voyage,  to  the.  Pacific  and  Jldirirnj  s  tilrait.          [July, 


and  lamentable  fact,  that,  while  the 
thronged  population  of  Europe  offers 
really  no  prospect  but  plague,  battle, 
or  famine,  a  beautiful,  salubrious,  and 
prolific  land  should  be  left  compara- 
tively uninhabited  or  forgotten.  The 
account  of  the  government  and  the 
missions  of  >  Spanish  priests  is  amu- 
sing, shrewd,  and  even  humorous ; 
while  underneath  the  surface  is  much 
matter  for  reflection  and  regret.  The 
description,  however,  of  the  Indians 
of  that  part  of  America — a  race  very 
different  from  the  Mexicans,  the  Pe- 
ruvians, or,  in  fact,  any  of  the  other 
tribes  either  to  the  north  or  south — 
must  be  noticed  more  particularly. 

"  Like  the  Arabs  and  other  wandering 
tribes,  these  people  [the  Indians]  move 
about  the  country,  and  pitch  their  tents 
wherever  they  find  a  convenient  place, 
keeping,  however,  within  their  own  dis- 
trier. 

"  They  cultivate  no  land,  and  subsist 
entirely  by  the  chase,  and  upon  the  spon- 
taneous produce  of  the  earth.  Acorns,  of 
which  there  is  great  abundance  in  the 
country,  constitute  their  principal  vege- 
table food.  In  the  proper  season  they 
procure  a  supply  of  these,  bake  them,  and 
then  bruise  them  between  two  stones  into 
a  paste,  which  will  keep  until  the  follow- 
ing season.  The  paste,  before  it  is  dried, 
is  subjected  to  several  washings  in  a 
sieve,  which,  they  say,  deprives  it  of  the 
bitter  taste  common  to  the  acorn.  We 
cannot  but  remark  the  great  resemblance 
tills  custom  bears  to  the  method  adopted 
by  the  South  Sea  islanders  to  keep  their 
bread-fruit ;  nor  ought  we  to  fail  to  no- 
tice the  manner  in  which  Providence 
points  out  to  the  different  tribes  the  same 
wise  means  of  preserving  their  food,  and 
providing  against  a  season  of  scarcity. 

"  The  country  inhabited  by  the  Indians 
abounds  in  game,  and  the  rivers  in  fish ; 
and  those  tribes  which  inhabit  the  sea- 
coast,  make  use  of  mussels  and  other 
shell- fish,  of  which  the  Haliolis  gigantea  is 
the  most  abundant.  In  the  chase  they 
are  very  expert,  and  avail  themselves  of 
a  variety  of  devices  to  ensnare  and  decoy 
their  game.  The  artifice  of  deceiving 
the  deer,  by  placing  a  head  of  the  animal 
upon  their  shoulders,  is  very  successfully 
practised  by  them.  To  do  this,  they  fit 
the  head  and  horns  of  a  deer  upon  the 
head  of  a  huntsman,  the  rest  of  his  body 
being  painted  to  resemble  the  colour  of  a 
deer.  Thus  disguised,  the  Indian  sallies 
forth  equipped  with  his  bow  and  arrows, 
approaches  the  pasture  of  the  deer,  whose 
actions  and  voice  he  then  endeavours  to 
imitate,  taking  care  to  conceal  hi"  body 


as  much  as  possible;  for  which  purpose 
he  generally  selects  places  which  are 
overgrown  with  long  grass.  This  stra- 
tagem seldom  fails  to  entice  several  of 
the  herd  within  reach  of  his  arrows,  which 
are  frequently  sent  with  unerring  aim  to 
the  heart  of  the  animal,  and  he  falls  with- 
out alarming  the  herd;  but  if  the  aim 
should  fail,  or  only  wound  its  intended 
victim,  the  whole  herd  is  immediately  put 
to  flight." 

Various  stratagems  are  also  detail- 
ed by  which  the  Indians  provide 
themselves  with  wild  fowl;  after 
which  Captain  Beechey  proceeds : 

"  The  occupation  of  the  men  consists 
principally  in  providing  for  their  support, 
and  in  constructing  the  necessary  imple- 
ments for  the  chase,  and  for  their  own 
defence.  The  women  attend  to  their  do- 
mestic concerns,  and  work  a  variety  of 
baskets  and  ornamental  parts  of  their 
dress,  some  of  which  are  very  ingenious, 
and  all  extremely  laborious.  Their  closely 
wove  baskets  are  not  only  capable  of  con- 
taining water,  but  are  used  for  cooking 
their  meals.  A  number  of  small  scarlet 
feathers  of  the  Oriolus  phceniceus  are  wove 
in  with  the  wood,  and  completely  screen 
it  from  view  on  the  outside;  and  to  the 
rim  are  affixed  small  black  crests  of  the 
Californian  partridges,  of  which  birds  a 
hundred  brace  are  required  to  decorate 
one  basket : — they  are  otherwise  orna- 
mented with  beads  and  pieces  of  mother- 
of-pearl.  They  also  embroider  belts  very 
beautifully  with  feathers  of  different  co- 
lours, and  they  work  with  remarkable 
neatness,  making  use  of  the  young  quills  of 
the  porcupine  in  a  similar  manner  to  the 
Canadian  Indians  ;  but  here  they  manu- 
facture a  fine  cloth  for  the  ground,  whereas 
the  Canadians  have  only  the  bark  of  the 
birch-tree.  They  also  manufacture  caps 
and  dresses  for  their  chiefs,  which  are 
extremely  beautiful ;  and  they  have  a 
great  many  other  feathered  ornaments, 
which  it  would  be  stepping  beyond  the 
limits  of  my  work  to  describe. 

"  The  stature  of  the  Indians,  which  we 
saw  in  the  Missions,  was  by  no  means 
diminutive.  The  Alchones  are  of  good 
height,  and  the  Tuluraios  were  thought 
to  be  generally  above  the  standard  of 
Englishmen.  Their  complexion  is  much 
darker  than  that  of  the  South-sea  Island- 
ers, and  their  features  far  inferior  in 
beauty.  In  their  persons,  they  are  ex- 
tremely dirty,  particularly  their  heads, 
which  are  so  thatched  with  wiry  blank 
hair,  that  it  is  only  by  separating  the 
locks  with  the  hand,  that  it  can  be  got  at 
for  the  purpose  of  cleanliness.  Many  are 
seen  performing  such  acts  of  kindoen 
upon  their  intimate  friends ;  and.  as  the 


Beechey's  Voyage  to  the  Pacific  and  Behring's  Strait. 


1881.] 

readiest  means  of  disposing  of  what  they 
find,  consuming  it  in  the  manner  prac- 
tised by  the  Tartars,  who,  according  to 
Hakluyt,  '  cleanse  one  another's  heades, 
and  ever  as  thei  take  an  animal  do  eate 
her,  saeing,  thus  will  I  doe  to  our  ene- 
mies.' 

"  Their  bodies  are,  in  general,  very 
scantily  clothed,  and  in  summer  many  go 
entirely  naked.  The  women,  however, 
wear  a  deer  skin,  or  some  other  covering 
about  their  loins  ;  hut  skin  dresses  are 
not  common  among  any  of  the  tribes  con- 
cerning whom  we  could  procure  any  in- 
formation. The  women  are  fond  of  orna- 
ments, and  suspend  beads  and  buttons 
about  their  persons,  while  to  their  ears 
they  attach  long  wooden  cylinders,  va- 
riously carved,  which  serve  the  double 
purpose  of  ear-rings  and  needle-cases. 

"  Tattooing  is  practised  in  these  tribes 
by  both  sexes,  both  to  ornament  the  per- 
son, and  to  distinguish  one  clan  from  the 
other.  It  is  remarkable  that  the  women 
mark  their  chins  precisely  in  the  same 
way  as  the  Esquimaux. 

"  The  tribes  are  frequently  at  war  with 
each  other,  often  in  consequence  of  tres- 
passes upon  their  territory  and  property ; 
and  weak  tribes  are  sometimes  wholly 
annihilated,  or  obliged  to  associate  them- 
selves with  those  of  their  conquerors ;  but 
such  is  their  warmth  of  passion  and  de- 
sire of  revenge,  that  very  little  humanity 
is  in  general  shewn  to  those  who  fall  into 
their  power.  Their  weapons  consist  only 
of  bows  and  arrows  :  neither  the  toma- 
hawk nor  the  spear  is  ever  seen  in  their 
hands.  Their  bows  are  elegantly  and  in- 
geniously constructed,  and,  if  kept  dry, 
will  discharge  an  arrow  to  a  considerable 
distance.  They  resemble  those  of  the 
Esquimaux,  being  strengthened  by  sinews 
at  the  back  of  the  bow,  but  here  one  sinew, 
the  size  of  the  wood,  occupies  the  whole 
extent  of  the  back,  and  embraces  the  ends, 
where  they  are  turned  back  to  receive  the 
strings ;  the  sinew  is  fixed  to  the  bow 
while  wet,  and,  as  it  becomes  dry,  draws 
it  back  the  reverse  way  to  that  in  which 
it  is  intended  to  be  used.  The  Indian 
manner  of  stringing  these  bows  is  pre- 
cisely similar  to  that  practised  by  the 
lovers  of  archery  in  England  ;  but  it  re- 
quires greater  skill  and  strength,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  increased  curvature  of  the 
bow,  and  the  resistance  of  the  sinew. 

"  The  religion  of  all  the  tribes  is  idol- 
atrous. The  Olchone,  who  inhabit  the 
sea-coast  between  San  Francisco  and 
Monterey,  worship  the  sun,  and  believe 
in  the  existence  of  a  beneficent  and  an  evil 
spirit,  whom  they  occasionally  attempt  to 
propitiate.  Their  ideas  of  a  future  state 
are  very  confined  j  when  a  person  dies, 
VOL,  XXX.  NO,  CLXXXII. 


49 

they  adorn  the  corpse  with  feathers, 
flowers,  and  beads,  and  place  with  it  a 
bow  and  arrows ;  they  then  extend  it 
upon  a  pile  of  wood,  and  burn  It  amidst 
the  shouts  of  the  spectators,  who  wish  the 
soul  a  pleasant  journey  to  its  new  abode, 
which  they  suppose  to  be  a  country  in  the 
direction  of  the  setting  sun.  Like  most 
other  nations,  these  people  have  a  tradi- 
tion of  the  Deluge :  they  believe  also  that 
their  tribes  originally  came  from  the 
north. 

"  The  Indians  in  their  wild  state  are 
said  to  be  more  healthy  than  those  which 
have  entered  the  missions.  They  have 
simple  remedies,  derived  from  certain  me- 
dicinal  herbs,  with  the  properties  of  which, 
they  have  previously  made  themselves 
acquainted.  Some  of  these  roots  are  use* 
ful  as  emetics,  and  are  administered  la 
cases  of  sickness  of  the  stomach  :  they 
also  apply  cataplasms  to  diseased  parts  of 
the  body,  and  practise  phlebotomy  very 
generally,  using  the  right  arm  for  the 
purpose  when  the  body  is  affected,  and 
the  left  when  the  limbs.  But  the  temis- 
cal  is  the  grand  remedy  for  most  of  their 
diseases. 

"  The  very  great  care  taken  of  all  who 
are  affected  with  any  disease  ought  not 
to  be  allowed  to  escape  a  remark.  When, 
any  of  their  relations  are  indisposed,  the 
greatest  attention  is  paid  to  their  wants  ; 
and  it  was  remarked  by  Padre  Arroyo, 
that  filial  affection  is  stronger  in  these 
tribes  than  in  any  civilized  nation  on  the 
globe  with  which  he  was  acquainted." 

From  California  the  Blossom  pro- 
ceeded once  more  to  the  Sandwich 
Islands,  and  thence  was  obliged,  by 
want  of  proper  medicines  and  sup- 
plies, to  proceed  to  China,  where 
her  captain  and  crew  were  subject 
to  the  usual  insolence  of  the  Chinese 
authorities.  Loo  Choo  is  the  next 
point  of  great  interest  at  which  Cap- 
tain Beechey  touched;  and  though. 
Captain  Hall  has  written  well  and 
at  large  upon  that  interesting  group, 
the  visit  of  the  Blossom  will  be  read 
with  infinite  pleasure.  The  charac- 
ter of  the  Chinese,  softened  and  ame- 
liorated in  the  Loochooan,  is  well 
and  ably  depicted,  and  all  the  fine 
and  amusing  absurdities  of  a  vain, 
weak,  crafty  nation,  are  touched  with 
a  light  and  masterly  hand.  Much 
valuable  information  also  is  com- 
municated— information  obtained  by 
observation  of  the  manners  of  the 
people,  not  by  conversation  with 
them,  for  it  appears  that  the  worthy 
natives  of  Napakaug  and  its  vicinity 

D 


Beechey' s  Voyage  to  the  Pacific  andJBe.hring's  Strait.        [July, 


50 

are  the  most  egregious  liars  that  the 
world  ever  produced.  Other  nearly 
unknown  inlands  were  still  to  be 
visited,  and  really  nature,  in  form- 
ing the  Bonin  Isles,  to  which  the 
Blossom  next  steered  her  course, 
Buerns  to  have  drawn  from  all  her 
stores  with  the  most  bountiful  and 
decorating  hand.  We  can  easily 
imagine  two  teamen,  willingly  re- 
maining behind  in  such  a  brilliant 
and  favoured  spot,  after  a  long  and 
tedious  voyage  over  the  broad  un- 
certain sea,  hoping  there  to  find  that 
rest  and  peace  which  is  the  univer- 
sal aspiration  of  all  mankind.  Two 
such  men  were  met  by  Captain 
Beechey,  on  his  arrival  at  the  chief 
of  the  Bonin  Islands,  or  Yslas  del 
Arzobispo.  The  trading  vessel  in 
which  they  had  been  seamen  was 
casually  wrecked  on  the  island,  but 
a  new  bhip  had  been  constructed  by 
their  companions,  who  had  steered 
back  for  Europe.  Such,  however, 
was  the  effect  of  the  climate  and  the 
scene  upon  these  two  men,  that  at 
their  own  desire  they  were  left  be- 
hind, filled  probably  with  as  bright 
imaginations  of  an  earthly  paradise 
as  ever  dazzled  the  eyes  of  any  inex- 
perienced child,  whom  this  school- 
master world  has  never  whipped 
from  any  of  youth's  idle  dreams. 

It  appears,  however,  that  after 
Captain  Beechey  went  away,  habit, 
solitude,  and  monotony,  dispelled  the 
vision,  and  that  they  sought  and 
found  the  means  of  returning  to  Eu- 
rope, leaving  the  island  stored  with 
hogs,  which  the  writer  thinks  likely 
to  do  great  harm  to  the  vegetable 
productions  of  the  place,  —  much 
more  valuable  in  those  latitudes  than 
the  best  pigs  that  ever  became  bacon. 
At  the  same  time,  plenty  of  animal 
food  was  to  be  found  there  already; 
for,  in  addition  to  manifold  sorts  of 
fowl  and  fish  in  various  sandy  bays, 
.  "  the  green  turtle  are  sometimes  so 
numerous  that  they  quite  hide  the 
colour  of  the  shore."  What  a  punish- 
ment for  a  Lord  Mayor's  cook,  who 
had  mismanaged  a  dish  of  fins,  to  set 
him  on  shore  on  that  island  without 
his  utensils  for  cooking  ! 

But  this  long-drawn  article  must 
now  be  closed.  A  high  opinion  has 
been  expressed  of  the  merits  of  this 
book,  and  copious  extracts  have  been 
inserted,  in  order  to  justify  that  opi- 
nion. The  passages  cited  have  been 


taken  without  much  selection,  and 
instead  of  being  choice  sentences, 
which  stand  well  alone,  are  rather 
injured  than  improved  by  being  dis- 
joined from  the  narrative.  In  the 
course  of  these,  however,  various  er- 
rors of  composition  are  observable; 
and  did  the  merits  of  this  work  de- 
pend upon  the  accuracy  of  style, 
more  than  one  fault  would  have  to  be 
remarked,  which  are  now  completely 
forgotten  in  a  mass  of  information, 
interest,  and  amusement,  such  as 
few  works  of  any  day  can  boast. 
These  faults,  indeed, are  noticed  here 
only  because  they  are  of  a  kind  which 
Captain  Beechey  could  easily  avoid, 
and  would  certainly  have  avoided, 
had  he  been  more  habituated  to  lite- 
rary composition  Long  sentences, 
which  for  perspicuity  should  have 
been  divided  into  two  or  three  short 
ones,  and  the  frequent  heedless  re- 
currence of  the  same  word,  and  the 
same  form  of  expression ;  these  are 
the  chief  errors  of  style,  and  these 
might  easily  be  altered.  In  the  whole 
book  there  is  only  one  brief  pas- 
sage—  a  few  pages — which  is  in 
the  least  degree  tedious.  This  is  the 
chronicle  of  the  Kings  of  Loo  Clmo. 
Doubtless  its  insertion  in  some  part 
of  the  work  was  necessary,  but  it 
would  have  been  better  in  the  Ap* 

Eendix.  Having  said  thus  much,  the 
mlts— which  but  little  influence  the 
pleasure  afforded  by  the  book — are 
sufficiently  noticed ;  but  to  point  out 
all  that  is  excellent  and  admirable 
in  the  work,  would  require  far  more 
space  than  any  review  can  grant. 
We  know  of  no  officer  that  ever 
sailed,  who  has  displayed  greater 
faculties  of  observation  than  Captain 
Beechey.  Wherever  he  touches, 
whatever  he  describes,  all  that  can 
interest,  or  amuse,  or  benefit,  is 
seized  at  once,  nor  does  any  one 
possess  a  greater  power  of  present- 
ing a  complete  picture  to  the  miud 
of  the  reader.  At  the  same  time, 
his  observations  on  what  he  sees  are 
replete  with  that  choice  rare  gift, 
good  sense— and,  though  ventured 
sparingly  and  modestly,  are  firm  and 
just.  It  is  difficult  for  a  commander 
to  write  a  long  account  of  an  expe- 
dition conducted  by  himself,  without 
some  degree  of  egotism ;  but  little 
of  it  is  discoverable  in  this  book; 
and  throughout  the  whole,  the  great 
desire  of  giving  full  praise  to  his  offi- 


1831.]         Beechey's  Voyage  to  the  Pacific  and  Behring's  Strait.  51 

cers  and  crew,  is  pleasingly  appa-     which  the  grown  babies  of  society 
rent.  A  frank  and  gentlemanly  spirit,     never  seem  satisfied,  without  imagi- 


and  a  kindly  heart,  give  a  sunshiny 
tone  to  the  whole  composition,  and 
a  strong  feeling  of  reverence  for  true 
religion,  without  the  slightest  touch 
of  fanaticism,  is  seen  wherever  cir- 
cumstances call  for  the  expression 
of  any  opinions  on  the  subject. 

Justice  could  not  be  done  to  the 
scientific  parts  of  the  work,  except 
in  a  review  set  apart  for  that  pur- 
pose. Suffice  it  here  to  say,  that  as 
nothing  was  left  undone  which  could 
fulfil  the  views  of  the  government, 
and  benefit  the  country  by  the  ex- 
pedition, nothing  has  been  omitted 
which  could  give  value  to  the  work ; 
and  while  the  public  in  general  read 
it  for  entertainment,  the  naturalist 
and  the  philosopher  will  find  much 
genuine  information,  and  great  mat- 
ter for  thought. 

Some  beautiful  engravings  by  Fin- 
den  are  scattered  through  the  vo- 
lumes ;  but,  though  this  is  an  age  in 


imagi- 
nation be  helped  out  with  a  picture, 
yet  Captain  Beechey's  descriptions 
are  so  graphic,  that  they  require  little 
assistance  from  the  pencil. 

To  conclude,  the  expedition  of  the 
Blossom  has  been  any  thing  but  in 
vain.  An  accurate  survey  has  been 
made  of  the  greater  part  of  the  Pa- 
cific. A  more  complete  and  general 
account  of  the  islands  of  that  sea, 
than  ever  was  before  obtained,  has 
been  laid  before  the  public.  A  thou- 
sand important  errors  have  been  cor- 
rected, a  thousand  important  facts 
have  been  ascertained.  In  the  Arctic 
regions,  discoveries,  great  in  them- 
selves, and  great  in  their  conse- 
quences, have  been  added  to  those 
which  went  before;  an  hundred  and 
forty-six  miles  alone  remain  untra- 
versed  ;  these  may  easily  be  accom- 
plished, and  certainty  will  be  finally 
won. 


NOTE. 

Although  we  have  purposely  abstained  from  noticing  the  scientific  parts  of  Cap- 
tain Beechey's  narrative,  yet  it  is  but  fair  to  state,  that,  the  theories  which  he  ad- 
vances with  the  modest  diffidence  of  true  genius,  display  an  «-xt.?iitof  views  and  depth 
of  knowledge  wliicli  do  him  the  highest  credit.  The  minute,  circumstantial,  and 
accurate  account  given  of  the  drift  wood  at  page  580,  is  in  itself  highly  valuable,  as 
illustrative  of  a  very  curious  question  ;  and  the  opinion  to  which  Captain  Beechey 
inclines,  that  this  immense  quantity  of  loose  timber  is  borne  down  from  the  interior 
by  the  rivers  running  into  Bristol  Bay,  Port  Clarence,  Norton  and  KotzHme  Sound, 
Schismar,  Hotham,  and  Wainwright's  Inlets,  though  not  absolutely  proved  to  be 
correct,  has  every  probability  in  its  favour. 

In  regard  to  the  currents  also,  Captain  Beechey's  account  is  wonderfully  clear  and 
accurate,  considering  the  difficulty  of  examination,  while  the  »hip  was  close  in  shore 
engaged  in  the  laborious  occupation  of  surveying,  and  the  labour  which  he  bestowed 
in  ascertaining  how  far  these  currents  extended  below  the  surface — tor  it  must  be 
remembered  that  almost  all  currents  are  quite  superficial— entitles  hi:n  to  the  high- 
est praise. 

To  correct  a  clerical  error  in  our  text,  it  may  be  as  well  to  state  here,  that  the 
precise  extent  of  coast  discovered  by  Captain  Beechey 's  expedition,  including  the 
discoveries  of  the  boat,  was  126  miles. 


Ireland  and  the  Reform  Bill, 


[July, 


IRELAND  AND  THE  REFORM  BILL. 


WHAT  a  strange  destiny  is  that  of 
Ireland! — how  incorrigible  in  her 
faults — how  pitiable  in  her  misfor- 
tunes !  The  whole  page  of  her  his- 
tory— the  whole  aspect  of  her  na- 
tional character — are  made  up,  like  a 
German  story,  of  combinations  of 
the  ludicrous  and  the  terrible; — there 
is  no  calm — no  resting-place  of  peace 
and  comfort,  upon  which  the  mind 
can  repose  with  satisfaction  and 
thankfulness.  Whether  we  look 
upon  times  past  or  present,  we  be- 
hold frantic  exultation,  fierce  con- 
tention, and  deep  despair,  following 
each  other  in  rapid  succession — the 
sounds  of  wild  and  fantastic  glee 
seem  scarcely  to  have  died  upon  the 
echoes,  till  they  are  succeeded  by  the 
yells  of  savage  fury, — and  these  again 

Sive  place  to  the  hopeless  wail  that 
espondency  puts   forth   over  the 
dying  and  the  dead. 

The  Irish  seem  to  be  utterly  un- 
teachable  in  the  most  ordinary  les- 
sons of  prudence — all  experience  is 
lost  upon  them,  and  we  would  be 
almost  constrained  to  look  upon 
them  as  a  doomed  people — as  a  race 
foreordained  to  wretchedness,  were 
it  not  that  we  know  that  they  enjoy 
a  great  deal  of  happiness  when  pota- 
toes are  plenty,  and  the  sun  shines 
merrily  above  their  heads  ;  and  when 
the  misery  they  have  suffered,  and 
may  suffer  again,  is  no  more  thought 
of  than  the  dark  clouds  of  November, 
in  this  joyous  month  of  June.  The 
western  shores  of  Ireland  being  open 
to  the  Atlantic  ocean,  the  chilling 
storms  that  sweep  across  that  vast 
mass  of  waters  frequently  injure, 
and  sometimes  totally  destroy,  the 
crops  of  the  farmer,  compensating 
him  only  with  huge  piles  of  sea- 
weed, which  the  force  of  the  storm 
tears  from  the  inaccessible  depths 
of  the  ocean,  and  flings  upon  the 
shore,  from  which  it  is  removed  for 
manure,  or  dried  for  burning.  It 
mighthave  beensupposed  that  where 
such  visitations  were  common,  some 
habits  of  preparation  would  have 
erown  up  among  the  people,  and 
that  they  would  no  longer  trust  en- 
tirely to  the  potatoe — the  stock  of 
which  must  be  renewed  every  sea- 
son. But  there  is  no  such  thing— 


the  peasant  of  Mayo,  or  Gal  way, 
takes  as  little  thought  of  the  vicissi- 
tude of  the  seasons,  as  he  of  Car  low 
or  Kilkenny,  whose  crop  almost 
never  disappoints  him.  Indeed  we 
have  some  doubt  whether  the  Con- 
naught  peasant  would  not  think  it  a 
sinful  mistrust  of  Providence  to 
make  any  unusual  provision  for  the 
future ;  and  when  the  torment  of 
famine  comes,  he  submits  with  me- 
lancholy resignation  to  what  he 
calls  "  the  will  of  God."  In  the 
places  most  subject  to  famine,  there 
is  an  habitual  patience  of  misery, 
which  none  but  those  who  have  wit- 
nessed it  would  deem  possible— 
"  they  die,  and  make  no  sign."  The 
author  of  an  admirable  book,  de- 
scriptive of  the  manners  and  habits 
of  the  peasantry  in  the  part  of  Ire- 
land or  which  we  speak,  says  that 
the  observation,  "  sure  it  was  too 
much  trouble  entirely,"  reconciles 
them  to  the  smoke  that  darkens  their 
little  cabin,  and  the  rain  that  patters 
through  the  unthatched  roof;  and 
the  same  feeling  inclines  them  to 
lie  down  and  die,  when  Providence 
has  blasted  their  potatoe  crop,  and 
deprived  them  of  the  fruit  of  their 
labours.  Hard  as  was  the  task,  it 
was  sometimes  necessary  to  refuse 
that  relief  which  could  not  be  ex- 
tended to  all  in  full  proportion  to 
their  wants ;  but  never  was  the  re- 
fusal met  by  a  murmur  or  a  reproach. 
On  one  such  occasion,  "  God  help 
us !"  was  the  answer  of  the  poor 
man,  with  an  expressive  movement 
of  his  shoulders;  "  God  help  us 
then ;  for  if  your  honour  can  do  no- 
thing for  us,  there  is  no  one  that 
can.  There  is  something  peculiarly 
touching  in  this  submissive  patience ; 
and  clamorous  and  reiterated  suppli- 
cation is  much  more  easily  repulsed, 
than  the  "  God  bless  you — sure  it 
can't  be  helped  then?" 

It  is  among  the  contradictions  that 
belong  to  Ireland,  that  while  no 
soil  in  Europe  is  more  generally  rich 
and  fertile,  in  no  other  country  of 
Europe  have  there  been  such  fre- 
quent recurrences  of  famine.  In 
other  countries  there  has  been  some 
care  for  provision  even  in  war,  but 
in  Ireland  all  was  laid  waste,  and 


1881.] 


Ireland  and  the  Reform  Bill. 


S3 


many  more  perished  by  famine  than 
by  the  sword.  When  Lord  Edward 
Bruce,  the  brother  of  the  deliverer 
of  Scotland,  pushed  his  way  from  the 
north  to  the  south  of  Ireland,  famine 
obliged  him  speedily  to  return;  and 
when  he  got  back  to  Ulster,  so  horri- 
ble was  the  state  of  the  army,  that  the 
dead  bodies  of  those  who  had  died 
were  torn  from  their  graves,  and 
their  flesh  boiled  in  their  own  skulls, 
and  eaten  by  the  famishing  survivors. 
After  Desmond's  rebellion  in  the 
reign  of  Eli/abeth,  Spenser  tells  us 
that  "  out  of  every  corner  of  the 
woods  and  glynnes  they  came  creep- 
ing forth  upon  their  hands,  for  their 
legges  could  not  beare  them ;  they 
looked  like  anatomies  of  death, — 
they  spake  like  ghosts  crying  out  of 
their  graves;  they  did  eate  the  dead 
carrions,  happy  where  they  could 
find  them,  yea,  and  one  another  soon 
after,  insomuch  as  the  very  carcases 
they  sparejd  not  to  scrape  out  of 
their  graves;  and  if  they  found  a 
plot  of  water-cresses  or  shamrocks, 
there  they  flocked,  as  to  a  feast  for 
the  time." 

In  the  rebellions  of  the  two  O'- 
Neales,  the  horrors  of  war  were  also 
greatly  aggravated  by  those  of  famine; 
but  even  in  peace  this  scourge  has 
not  ceased  to  visit  fertile  Ireland,  and 
that  which  did  result  from  the  dire 
necessities  of  warfare,  is  now  the 
consequence  of  errors  in  social 
arrangement,  and  civil  government. 
The  Irish  starve,  while  Ireland  over- 
stocks the  English  market  with  corn 
and  cattle.  The  poor  that  dwell  in 
the  land  have  no  protection,  save 
the  hand  of  casual  charity;  but 
though  all  is  done  by  charity  that 
private  charity  can  do,  what  does  it 
avail  to  "  a  people  in  beggary — a 
nation  whiclx  stretches  out  its  hands 
for  food  ?" 

But  what/says  the  impatient  read- 
er who  gapes  for  the  wisdom  which 
he  doubts  not  is  about  to  be  pour- 
ed forth  touching  the  Irish  Reform 
Bill,  "  what  has  this  to  do  with  the 
matter  in  hand  ?"  "  Most  excellent, 

fraisevvorthy,  and  attentive  reader," 
answer,  "  No  exordium  to  the  brief 
discourse  which  I  intend  to  deliver 
for  your  learning,  can  be  more  na- 
tural, for  it  brings  us  directly  to  the 
consideration  of  the  real  Reform 
which  is  wanting,  and  teaches  us  to 
perceive  the  hojlowness  and  cruel 


absurdity  of  the  sham  Reform  which 
his  Majesty's  Ministers  propose  to  a 
country  in  a  state  so  deplorable." 
The  indignant  language  of  Scripture 
says,  "  shall  he  ask  for  bread,  and 
shall  you  give  him  a  stone !"  But 
even  this  mockery  would  not  be  so 
bad  as  that  of  our  government,  who, 
when  a  people  is  distracted  by  igno- 
rance, barbarism,  and  starvation,  of- 
fer them  a  more  extended  right  of 
returning  representatives  to  the  Im- 
perial Parliament !  This  is  beginning 
at  the  wrong  end  with  a  vengeance. 
Nothing  can  save  Ireland  but  a 
strictness  of  government  coming 
more  near  to  despotism  than  the 
now  existing  British  constitution  will 
admit  of,  even  in  the  most  extreme 
cases ;  and  instead  of  this,  an  attempt 
is  made  to  loosen  the  force  of  govern- 
ment, and  to  scatter  its  power  among 
the  unruly  hands  of  a  wild  and  dis- 
affected multitude.  It  is  not  pos- 
sible to  conceive  more  deplorable 
infatuation ;  and  throughout  Ireland, 
it  is  the  general  fear  of  the  conser- 
vative party,  and  the  universal  boast 
of  the  noisy  supporters  of  the  Revo- 
lutionary Bill,  that  once  it  is  passed, 
it  must  be  followed  by  a  separation 
from  the  legislative  government  of 
England,  or,  at  the  least,  by  an  aban- 
donment of  the  Church  property  to 
the  funds  of  the  State,  and  thence  to 
the  payment  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
clergy.  That  the  English  Reform 
Bill  will  not  satisfy  the  popular  cra- 
ving for  change  which  it  has  excited, 
is  matter  of  reasonable  conjecture ; 
that  the  proposed  Irish  Reform  Bill 
will  not  satisfy  the  Irish,  is  already 
proved  by  Mr  O' Council's  letter,  for 
fie  is  too  cunning  to  have  expressed 
his  dissatisfaction,  without  being  well 
aware  that  he  could  carry  the  mass 
of  the  people  along  with  him : — and. 
now  that  I  have  mentioned  this  let- 
ter, I  shall  say  something  about  it, 
in  conjunction  with  the  proposed 
measure  which  it  criticises.  Feel- 
ing, as  I  do,  as  much  interest  as  a 
foreigner  possibly  can  feel,  in  the 
honour  and  glory  of  the  kingdom  of 
Kerry,  I  reflect  with  no  small  shame 
upon  the  circumstance  of  one  of  its 
representatives  in  Parliament  having 
put  forth  such  a  rambling  piece  of 
botheration  as  this  letter  on  the  Re- 
form Bill.  Indeed  the  fact  of  havirg 
suffered  Dan  O'Connell  to  be  elect- 
ed  for  Kerry,  is  in  my  mind  no  small 


Ireland  and  the  Reform  Bill. 


[July, 


disgrace  to  my  favourite  kingdom; 
and  I  marvel  where  its  ancient  aris- 
tocratic pride  is  gone,  when  a  man, 
whose  grandfather  was  nobody,  has 
been  suffered  to  seize  the  represen- 
tation even  without  a  fight  for  it. 
What  ran  he  feel  for  Kerry,  that  a 
Kerry  man  should  feel  ?  How  can 
he  sympathize  with  the  land  of  lakes 
and  Latin,  of  mountains  and  mathe- 
matics— of  clouds  and  classicality— 
of  scenery  and  science  ?  He  has  no 
feeling  for  any  thing  but  the  rant 
of  radicalism,  with  a  riotous  rabble 
roaring  in  his  rear.  I  am  not,  thank 
Heaven,  a  Member  of  Parliament, 
being  in  no  degree  ambitious  of  the 
martyrdom  of  stewing  in  Saint  Ste- 

S  hens' s  five  nights  in  the  week  from 
une  to  September,  in  the  company 
of  such  a  group  of  talkers  as  the  Re- 
form-stricken populace  returned  at 
the  late  election;  but  if  I  were  thus 
to  suffer,  I  don't  know  the  place  I 
would  more  willingly  suffer  for  than 
Kerry.  Rich  and  rare  is  its  beauty; 
the  very  grass  seems  to  rejoice  in 
growing  as  it  shoots  up,  green  and 
luxuriant,  out  of  the  dark  soil.  Far 
more  delicious  than  the  flesh  of  or- 
dinary sheep  is  thy  small  mutton,  O 
Kerry,  slightly  heather- flavoured  1 
Thy  rivers,  that  "  wander  at  their 
own  sweet  will,"  not  too  huge,  nor 
yet  diminutive — how  exquisite  their 
fish !  How  abundant  and  incompa- 
rable the  trout,  how  admirable  the 
salmon  in  size  and  flavour — better 
than  if  they  were  bigger  1  think,  yet 
a  monster  is  sometimes  taken,  and 
"  what  a  delicate  monster  !"  Excel- 
lent are  thy  small  well-proportioned 
black  cattle,  <hat  spend  their  youth- 
ful days  upon  the  mountain-slopes, 
picking  the  herbage  not  unmixed 
with  heath  ;  and  magnificent  are 
these  mountains,  rearing  their  eagle- 
haunted  tops  into  the  clouds !  Ho- 
nour and  fame  be  unto  you,  Manger- 
ton,  with  the  "  Devil's  punch  bowl" 
lying  deep  and  still  within  your 
bosom,  and  to  you,  loftier  Carran 
Thual,  "  and  the  rest,"  and  your 
neighbouring  lakes,  island-studded ; 
where  the  green  and  crimson  of  the 
arbutus  fe*toon  the  fantastic  rocks, 
drooping  to  the  water,  made  beauti- 
ful with  their  shadows.  The  red 
deer  still  dwells  within  thy  natural 
woods,  fair  Killarney ;  and  we  drop 
our  oars  that  we  rnny  watch  him 
•weeping  along  the  hills — but  he  is 


gone,  and  we  draw  near  the  shore, 
and  climb  our  way  to  where  O'- 
Brien's cascade  thunders  down,  tear- 
ing its  way  through  the  thick  wood, 
in  the  season  the  dwelling-place  of 
innumerable  woodcocks,  which  Pat, 
Dennis,  Dan,  and  Larry,  hunt  down 
to  the  water's  edge,  while  you,  stand- 
ing or  seated  in  your  boat,  deal  death 
continually  from  your  double-bar- 
relled detonator. 

Dan  O'Connell  feels  nothing  of  all 
this,  as  a  representative  of  Kerry 
ought  to  do — the  place  that  his  soul 
loveth  is  that  where  there  is  crowd, 
and  bustle,  and  noise,  and  newspa- 
pers. He  should  represent  some 
town — some  clamorous,  prating, riot- 
ous, litigious  town,  stuffed  with  radi- 
cal manufacturing  men,  and  flaunt- 
ing loquacious  women.  He  should 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  county 
— I  mean  the  kingdom — of  Kerry. 
But  this  digression  may  seem  to  be 
beside  the  matter — so  now  for  the 
letter,  and  the  Bill.  The  letter  com* 
mences  with  the  usual  whining  rant 
about  the  extreme  excellence  of  the 
"  genuine  Irish,"  and  the  bad  usage 
they  have  received  from  the  English. 
Nobody  ever  did  justice  to  Ireland 
who  was  "  impregnated  with  Angle- 
ism."  This  whole  phrase  is  an  O'  Con- 
nellism — "  Angleism"  has  nothing  to 
do  with  English,  and  I  venture  fur- 
ther to  affirm,  that  it  is  not  "  genuine 
Irish" — but  why  should  the  "  Libe- 
rator" be  bound  by  the  trammels  of 
grammar  ?  Let  us  come  to  his  facts: 
— "  We  genuine  Irish,"  he  says, 
"  have  always  behaved  well  to  Eng- 
land— we  deserve  well  of  the  Eng- 
lish people — we  have  observed  every 
national  treaty— we  have  performed 
with  perfect  good  faith  every  stipu- 
lation." It  is  perhaps  not  too  much 
to  affirm,  that  O'Connell  knows  no 
more  of  Irish  history  than  of  English 
grammar — What  he  has  learned  of 
either  is  merely  casual,  such  as  may 
be  picked  up  in  conversation  or 
from  newspapers.  It  would  be  un- 
charitable to  suppose,  that  he  made 
such  an  assertion  about  the  "  genuine 
Irish,"  with  any  knowledge  of  the 
historical  facts  which  it  falsifies. 
The  most  prominently  distinguishing 
feature  ot  their  history,  is  their  in- 
constancy to  political  engagements. 
Other  nations  that  have  been  attacked 
by  a  powerful  enemy,  have  fought 
while  there  was  any  hope  in  resist* 


1831.] 


Ireland  and  the  Reform  Bill. 


ance,  and  when  that  ceased,  they  have 
submitted,  and  become  faithful  to 
their  conquerors,  until  by  degrees 
they  became  incorporated  with  them ; 
but  the  Irish  never  did  make  a  ge- 
neral resistance  to  the  English  — 
their  fashion  was  to  submit,  when- 
ever a  great  force,  or  even  an  im- 
portant individual,  was  at  hand  to 
require  their  submission ;  but  no 
sooner  was  the  power  that  had  over- 
awed their  imagination  withdrawn, 
than  they  broke  their  engagement, 
and  relapsed  into  what  they  called 
independence.  Thus  it  is,  that  in 
truth  "  Ireland  has  never  been  con- 
quered" because  the  Irish  never 
would  wait  for  that  to  happen — they 
yielded  to  the  English — then  began 
to  fight  among  themselves,  and  then, 
being  in  the  humour,  began  to  fight 
against  the  power  to  which  they 
owed  allegiance — and  this  process 
went  on,  not  once  merely,  but  re- 
peatedly. Even  Sir  John  Davies, 
whom  Irish  patriots  love  to  quote, 
because,  being  an  English  lawyer, 
he  has  nevertheless  vowed  at  the 
end  of  his  book,  and  probably  at  the 
end  of  his  bottle  also,  that  "  there  is 
no  nation  of  people  under  the  sun 
that  doth  love  equal  and  indifferent 
justice  better  than  the  Irish,  or  will 
rest  better  satisfied  with  the  execu- 
tion thereof,  although  it  be  against 
themselves," — even  he  tells  us,  that 
in  Henry  the  Eighth's  time  the  Irish 
made  their  fourth  general  submission, 
"  whereof  the  first  was  made  to  King 
Henry  the  Second — the  second  to 
King  John — the  third  to  King  Ri- 
chard the  Second — and  this  last  to 
Sir  Anthony  St  Leger  in  the  thirty- 
third  of  Henry  the  Eighth."  Four 
general  submissions  anterior  to  the 
days  of  Elizabeth,  does  not  look  very 
like  "  the  constant  and  undeviating 
course  of  perfect  good  faith"  of 
which  Mr  Dan  O'Connell  boasts, 
without  in  reality  knowing  any  thing 
at  all  about  the  matter;  yet  it  is  upon 
the  ground  of  the  transcendent  me- 
rits of  the  Irish  in  this  matter  that 
he  demands  a  greater  share  for  Ire- 
land in  the  senate  of  the  United  King- 
dom, than  even  the  new  constitu- 
tion-making Ministry  are  pleased  to 
allow. 

He  has  one  other  argument,  to  be 
Sure,  the  logic  of  which  must  make 
every  undegetierate  Kerryrnan  blush 
up  to,  and  over,  the  ears.  To  the 


55 

Irish,  he  says,  the  British  nation  is 
indebted  for  the  adoption  of  the  prin- 
ciple of  the  Reform  Bill — there  was 
a  majority  of  Scotch  members  against 
that  principle — there  was  a  majo- 
rity of  English  members  against 
that  principle — but  it  was  carried 
through  the  second  reading  by  "  the 
great  and  overwhelming  majority  of 
the  Irish  members  in  its  favour" 
Thus,  because  Ireland,  a  distracted, 
uncivilized  portion  of  the  empire, 
unable  to  pay  any  thing  like  its  fair 
proportion  of  the  taxes,  while  the 
outrageous  habits  of  its  population 
require  an  enormous  expense  for 
civil  and  military  .force  —  because 
Ireland  is  able,  by  the  number  of  its 
representatives,  to  force  the  princi- 
ple of  revolution  upon  the  United 
Kingdom,  in  spite  of  decided  majo- 
rities of  the  representatives  of  the 
wealthy,  and  powerful,  and  peace- 
able portions  of  the  empire  against 
it,  this  Ireland  is  to  get  a  yet  larger 
share  of  the  general  representation  ! 
If  this  be  not  using  the  argumentum 
ad  absurdum,  where  an  argument  of 
serious  cogency  was  intended,  such 
a  blunder  was  never  made.  It  is 
impossible  to  adduce  a  stronger  ar- 
gument than  this,  to  prove  that  the 
reasonable  Reform  of  Irish  represent 
ation  would  be  found  in  its  curtail 
ment. 

My  objection  to  the  Irish  Reform 
Bill  commences  with  the  second 
clause  of  its  preamble — it  is  almost 
needless  to  go  farther  than  this  and 
the  succeeding  clause,  for  if  the 
preamble  be  false,  then  the  mea- 
sure founded  upon  it  is  erroneous, 
ab  initio,  and  ought  not  to  pass. 
The  Irish  Reform  Bill  commences 
thus — "  Whereas  it  is  expedient  to 
diminish  the  expenses  of  elections 
in  Ireland,  and  to  extend  the  elec* 
tive  franchise  to  many  of  his  Ma 
jesty's  subjects  therein,  who  have  not 
heretofore  enjoyed  the  same,  and  to 
increase  the  number  of  representa- 
tives for  certain  cities  and  boroughs 
in  that  part  of  the  United  Kingdom." 
The  first  clause  is  true,  also  it  is  true 
that  the  moon  is  not  made  of  green 
cheese — the  second  and  third  clauses 
are  both  flagrantly  untrue. 

The  propositions  need  but  to  be 
calmly  considered  tor  one  minute  by 
any  man  who  is  noc  mad,  nor  Irish,  to 
appear  in  their  true  colour  of  glaring 
falsehood.  Why  should  the  eiective 


Ireland  and  the  Reform  JBill. 


[July, 


franchise  be  extended  ?  Is  it  because 
the  mass  of  the  Irish  are  becoming 
more  independent  in  their  circum- 
stances— more  attached  to  the  united 
government — more  elevated  in  their 
pursuits — more  peaceable  and  order- 
ly in  their  habits?  The  question 
seems  a  mockery,  in  the  face  of  the 
afflicting  evidence  which  every  day 
affords  proof  that  the  Irish  are  beco- 
ming worse  and  worse — that  wretch- 
edness, fierceness,  ignorance,  super- 
stition— every  thing  that  degrades 
humanity,  is  on  the  increase.  In  the 
name  of  common  sense  then,  what 
can  there  be  more  like  madness  than 
the  proposition  to  extend  the  elective 
franchise  to  many  of  them  who  have 
not  previously  enjoyed  the  same  ? 
Surely  every  sane  man  will  admit 
that  the  elective  franchise  ought  to 
be  limited,  if  possible,  to  such  as  have 
some  property  and  some  intelligence; 
why  then  should  it  be  extended  to  a 
greater  number  of  the  population  of 
Ireland?  Again — what  principle  is 
there  more  established,  than  that 
power  in  the  legislature  should  be 
proportioned  to  power  out  of  the 
legislature  : — Knowledge  is  power — 
Wealth  is  power — population  is  power, 
if  accompanied  by  the  other  two ;  but 
is  a  wild,  unemployed,  ignorant, 
fierce,  famishing  multitude,  an  ingre- 
dient of  national  power  ? — and  if  it  be 
not,  what  is  the  power  in  Ireland 
which  demands  an  increase  in  the 
number  of  its  representatives  ?  Ire- 
land has  nearly  a  sixth  of  the  Parlia- 
mentary representation  of  the  United 
Kingdom, — does  she  contribute  one- 
tenth  in  any  way,  save  in  a  lawless 
and  burdensome  population,  to  the 
public  store  of  the  United  Kingdom  ? 
All  men  and  books,  of  decent  reputa- 
tion, that  treat  of  politics  (to  which 
add  even  the  Times  newspaper,  al- 
though not  of  decent  reputation), 
admit  that  it  is  easier  to  excite  a  pas- 
sion for  liberty,  than  to  qualify  men 
for  the  enjoyment  of  it.  Our  Mini- 
sters have  chosen  the  easier  part; 
but  in  Ireland  the  people  are  as  yet 
utterly  without  the  teaching  which 
would  qualify  them  to  enjoy  the 
political  liberty  they  already  pos- 
sess. In  speaking  of  Ireland  in  this 
paper,  I  should  always  be  under- 
stood as  excluding  the  principal 
part  of  Ulster,  which  is  in  all  re- 
spects as  worthy  as  England  or  Scot- 
Jwad  5  but  for  the  rest,  it  would  be 


much  better  that  for  ten  or  twenty 
years  it  had  no  right  to  send  any 
members  to  Parliament.  It  should 
be  put  under  military  government — 
its  parliament  should  be  a  general 
officer's  staff — its  speaker,  one  who 
could  presently  assist  himself  with 
cannon,  in  the  event  of  his  voice 
being  too  weak  to  be  heard,  and  at- 
tended to.  Such  a  man  as  Sir  Henry 
Hardiuge,  with  a  dozen  good  officers 
to  assist  him,  accountable  only  to 
Parliament  for  the  due  execution  of 
military  authority,  would  probably 
make  Ireland  in  ten  or  fifteen  years 
what  it  should  be  ;  and  certainly  no 
government,  according  to  the  law  of 
England,  as  it  now  stands,  can  do  so. 
Such  laws  as  ours  can  only  serve  our 
purposes  in  society,  while  the  society 
generally  respects  them,  and  feels  an 
interest  in  maintaining  them  in  their 
force.  There  is  no  such  respect- 
no  such  interest  felt  by  the  mass  of 
the  population  in  the  south  and  west 
of  Ireland,  and  therefore  there  is  no 
sufficient  power  in  the  law  to  keep 
them  in  order.  They  are  not  yet 
sufficiently  civilized  to  be  fit  for  the 
enjoyment  of  such  privileges  and 
franchises  as  they  have,  yet  our  Mi- 
nisters, by  the  Reform  Bill,  seek  to 
extend  them ;  and  O' Council  says  the 
bill  is  an  "  insult  and  an  injury,"  be- 
cause the  extension  is  not  carried 
further.  All  this  is  most  pitiable 
ignorance  and  folly — if  statesmen 
wish  to  learn  how  to  make  Ireland 
prosper,  let  them  read  the  history  of 
the  administration  of  Strafford  who 
did  make  Ireland  prosper  astonish- 
ingly. He  was,  however,  despotic 
and  severe,  in  some  cases  inexcusa- 
bly so ;  but  the  evils  of  his  despot- 
ism might  be  avoided,  while  its  good 
might  be  retained,  for  his  despotism 
did  do  good ;  and  nothing  but  a  govern- 
ment approaching  to  despotism,  in  the 
determination  and  swiftness  of  its  ex- 
ecutive authority,  will  break  the  bar- 
barism of  the  Irish  into  a  state  fit  for  a 
large  extension  of  civil  liberty.  Mr 
O'Connell  complains  of  the  Bill,  that 
the  elective  franchise  fixed  in  cities 
and  towns,  that  is,  the  occupation  of 
houses  worth  teu  pounds  a-ycar,  is 
greatly  too  high,  and  will  unjustly 
exclude  too  many  of  the  people.  I 
shall  not  dispute  that  point  with  him  ; 
and  if  all  the  occupiers  of  ten  pound 
houses  are  to  have  the  franchise,  I 
am  ?ure  it  would  be  much  better  tp 


1831.] 


Ireland  and  the  Reform 


extend  it  still  farther— there  would 
be  more  chance  of  honesty  and  right 
feeling  even  in  a  selection  by  the 
whole  mass  of  the  population,  than  in 
one  governed  by  such  a  class  as  this 
Bill  would  confer  the  franchise  upon. 
English  gentlemen  do  not  know  what 
they  are  doing,  in  giving  to  such 
people  as  the  shopkeepers  in  the  Irish 
towns,  the  right  of  returning  a  num- 
ber of  members  to  Parliament  equal 
to  the  whole  amount  of  the  present 
representation  for  Scotland. 

The  Irish  peasant  is  a  wild,  head- 
long, fierce,  frolicsome  fellow,  whose 
nature  is  capable  of  good,  in  spite  of 
his  extreme  imprudence  and  love  of 
mischief;   but  the  low  Irish  shop- 
keeper is,  for  the  most  part,  a  corn- 
pound  of  knavish  cunning  and  bi- 
gotry, fierce  and  obstinate,  in  pro- 
portion to  his  ignorance.  Ireland  is  not 
a  place  where  fair,  straight-forward, 
honest  dealing  will  bring  a  man  on 
in  a  small  way  of  business,  and  those 
who  succeed  in  this  way,  do  so  by 
obsequiousness  and  cunning.    The 
first  object  is  to  make  a  friend  of  the 
priest,  and,  interest  and  superstition 
joining  together,  they  submit  them- 
selves to  him  with  a  desperate  ido- 
latry, which  almost  excludes  all  love 
and  reverence  for   any  thing   else. 
They  look  upon  their  temporal  and 
eternal  welfare  as  placed  in  his  hands, 
and   consider    it^  a  merit    to    hate 
with  unrelenting  hatred,  whatever  is, 
or  seems  to  be,  inimical  to  his  inte- 
rest.   Such  are  the  people  to  whom 
the  Irish  Reform  Bill   proposes  to 
give  more  than  forty  representatives. 
As  yet,  the  towns  of  Ireland  have  re- 
turned   but    one  Roman    Catholic 
member,  a  gentleman  who  is  not  of 
the  Romish  faction  in  politics,  Mr 
Callaghan,  of  Cork.    Were  this  bill 
to  be  passed,  it  is  probable  the  cir- 
cumstances would  be  very  nearly  re- 
versed, and  no  more  than  two  or 
three  Protestants  (except  in  Ulster) 
would  be  returned  for  the  towns.  A 
greater  blow,  therefore,  could  not  be 
given  to  the  Protestant  interest  in 
Ireland,  than  the  bill  would  inflict. 
With  regard  to  the  alteration  of  the 
franchise  proposed  by  the  Reform 
Bill  to  be  effected  in  counties,   it 
would,  so  far  as  it  goes,  do  good.   It 
proposes  to  give  leaseholders  for  21 
years  of  property,  paying  a  rent  of 
L.50  a-year,  a  right  to  vote ;  and  as 
these  are  almost  all  people  of  a  re- 
spectable class  in  society,  Mr  O'Con- 


nell  is  extremely  angry-  with  the  ar- 
rangement, though  "  having  no  kind 
of  inclination  to  assist  in  playing  the 
game  of  the   Tories,    he  refrained 
from  tracing  out  the  defect  until  af- 
ter the  elections  shall  have  termina- 
ted."    He  would  much  rather  give 
the  franchise  to  those  who  have  a 
profit  rent  of  L.I 0  a-year  out  of  lease- 
holds—that  is,  he  would  rather  give 
the  county   franchise    also   to    his 
friends  the  shopkeepers  in  the  towns, 
who  are  in  the  habit  of  taking  leases 
of  land  in  their  neighbourhood,  lay- 
ing out  upon  it  a  little  capital,  and 
then  re-letting  it  in  lots,  at  an  enor- 
mous profit,  to  the  poor  farmer,  whom 
they  grind,  to  obtain  the  uttermost 
farthing  beyond  what  will  support 
him,  or  rather  keep  him  alive,  in  the 
most  miserable  condition  that  can 
be  conceived.  These  petty  landlords, 
the  "  middle  men,"  are  the  greatest 
curse  and  scourge  of  the  Irish  small 
farmer;   they   know    exactly    what 
may  be  screwed  out  of  him,  beyond 
what  will  afford  him  potatoes,  and 
they  exact  it  without  pity,  and  with- 
out even  the  remotest  notion  of  the 
wrong  they  are  doing.     To  these 
O'Counell  wishes  to  give  the  fran- 
chise, merely  because  it  would  give 
him  more  power ;  but  happily  in  this 
matter  the  bill  does  not  serve  his 
purpose.     For  the  same  reason,  he 
roars   out  yet  more  lustily  against 
the  provision  which  takes  away  from 
the  L.10  voters  in  towns,  the  right 
of  voting  for  the  counties  in  which 
the  towns  are  situate.    A  hundred 
of  the  voters  for  the  county  of  Ker- 
ry, are,  as  he  says,  residents  in  the 
town  of  Tralee,  and  would  be  dis- 
franchised, as  relates  to  the  county 
elections,  if  the  bill  were  to  pass. 
Such  a  state  of  things  as  this,  he  adds, 
"  cannot  be;"  and  "  he   hopes  he 
may  add,  it  shall  not  be."    Certainly 
if  it  cannot  be,  he  is  quite  justified 
in  entertaining  a  very  lively  hope 
that  it  shall  not  be ;  but  if  it  were 
to  be,  it  would  be  a  very  important 
improvement.    In  brief,  the  faults  of 
the  Irish  Reform  Bill  consist  in  the 
extension  of  the  number  of  repre- 
sentatives, and  in  giving  the  repre- 
sentation of  the  towns  into  the  hands 
of  the  L.10  householders.  The  other 
arrangements  are  improvements  upon 
the  present  system,  and  the  change 
they  would  effect  would  be  that  of 
strengthening    the    interest   of  the 
gentry.    The  forty-shilling  franchise, 


58 


Ireland  and  the  Reform  Bill. 


which  was  the  great  plague,  is  al- 
ready done  away  with ;  and  let  it  not 
be  said  that  this  measure  is  a  valid 
precedent  for  the  wholesale  disfran- 
chisement  of  the  boroughs  in  Eng- 
land. To  take  away  the  privilege 
of  returning  members  to  Parliament 
from  an  enormous  multitude  of  shoe- 
less, shirtless,  priest-driven  crea- 
tures, as  wild  and  ignorant  as  the 
cattle  upon  the  hills,  is  surely  a  very 
different  sort  of  policy  from  that  of 
taking  away  the  same  privilege  from 
ancient  corporations,  or  from  money- 
ed interests  of  vast  importance  in  the 
country. 

O' Council's  nonsense  about  the 
different  and  more  favourable  treat- 
ment which  England  and  Scotland  re- 
ceive by  their  Reform  Bills,  is  really 
not  worth  following.  It  is  such  ab- 
solute trash  in  writing  and  in  reason- 
ing, as  to  be  fit  only  for  laughing  at 
in  conversation.  What  can  one  say 
to  a  man  who,  in  a  letter  professing 
to  be  a  grave  dissertation  upon  a 
proposed  act  of  the  legislature, 
falls  into  such  silly  rant  as  this  ?— 
"  Justice,  I  exclaim — -justice  for  Ire- 
land !  Real  justice — no  mockery- 
no  delusion  1  Above  all,  no  hypo- 


critical pretences  I    Justice  for  Ire- 
land is  my  motto  /" 

How  piteous  that  the  population 
of  Ireland  should  be  so  much  under 
the  dominion  of  a  man  possessing  so 
little  common  sense,  whenever  he 
rises  above  common  affairs  1  Alas, 
for  Ireland!  she  does  indeed  want 
reform,  very  different  from  Parlia- 
mentary Reform ;  but  where  or  how 
shall  we  look  for  it,  in  such  a  time  of 
public  madness  as  the  present  ?  The 
cry  in  England  at  present  is,  "  Give 
Ireland  poor  laws."  Even  "  The 
Standard,"  whose  knowledge  of  Ire- 
land is  as  certain  as  the  ignorance  of 
others,  calls  for  poor  laws.  But  for 
myself,  I  doubt  the  practicability  of 
a  system  any  thing  like  that  of  Eng- 
land, or  at  all  so  extensive  in  its  ope- 
ration. But  this — this  it  is  that  should 
occupy  the  attention  of  Ministers 
with  regard  to  Ireland,  and  not  the 
senseless  project  miscalled  Reform. 
If  the  Bill  should  pass,  it  will  be  the 
first  part  of  a  three-act  political  dra- 
ma, of  which  the  second  act  will  be 
"  Repeal  of  the  Union,"  and  the  third, 
"  Rebellion  in  Ireland." 

T.  W.  H. 


THE  PLAINT  OF  ABSENCE. 


BY  DELTA. 

1  THINK  of  thee  at  morning,  when  the  shades 

Fly  off  like  spectres  from  the  blessed  sun  j 
I  think  of  thee,  when  twilight's  march  pervades 

The  world,  and  wraps  it  in  her  mantle  dun ; 
Beneath  the  moon,  and  when  the  midnight  skies 
Sparkle  o'er  earth,  with  their  bright  myriad  eyes  :— 
Life  seems  a  wilderness ;  I  look  around 

In  vain  for  thee,  who  spake  to  me  of  heaven : 
My  thoughts  are  mantled  in  a  gloom  profound, 

And  o'er  my  heart  Grief's  furrowing  plough  hath  driven; 

see  no  beauty  in  the  shining  day, 
But  peak  in  loneliness,  and  pine  away: 

Wrapt  in  the  past,  mine  ardent  longings  flee 
To  dwell  with  thee  1 

I  think  of  thee  in  Spring-time,  when  the  flowers 

Expand  in  beauty  to  the  wooing  sun, 
When  sing  the  small  birds  'mid  the  greening  bowers, 

And  from  the  hills  the  ice-freed  waters  run ; 
Amid  the  summer's  wealth,  and  when  the  hues 
Of  Automn  gentlest  pensiveness  infuse; 
And  when  is  howling  the  tempestuous  gale 

Of  Winter  o'er  the  desolated  heath ; 
When  floods  the  rain-shower,  or  the  rattling  hail 

Mantles  the  mountain  in  a  robe  of  death ;  \> 


1831.]  The  Plaint  of  Absence. 

From  the  bleak  pasture  and  the  leafless  free 
I  turn  my  weary  gaze — and  think  of  thee— 
I  think  of  thee — and  lo  !  before  my  eight 
Thou  comest  in  beauty  bright! 

I  think  of  thee— I  muse  on  thee— and  then 

Thou  stand'st  before  me,  idol  of  my  heart, 
In  thy  subduing  loveliness,  as  when, 

Though  link'd  in  spirit,  Fortune  bade  us  part: 
On  thy  sweet  presence  Hope  and  Peace  await, 

And  in  thy  melting  eyes  I  read  my  fate ; 
Thy  voice  comes  o'er  me  like  the  lulling  sound 

Of  desert  fountains  to  the  traveller's  ear ; 
Again  this  dim  earth  grows  enchanted  ground, 

1  cling  to  life,  and  teel  that  thou  art  near; 
The  present  disappears,  the  past  returns, 
And  with  the  light  of  love  my  bosom  burns, 

But  when  I  name  thee,  the  illusions  fade 
To  silence  and  to  shade  ! 

I  think  of  thee — of  all  thy  beauty's  glow, 

Such  as,  when  flashing  on  my  raptured  sight, 
With  bright  brown  hair  and  alabaster  brow, 

With  cheek  of  roses,  and  with  eyes  of  light, 
Thou  stood'st  before  me  in  thy  cloudless  prime, 

An  angel  pilgrim,  sanctifying  time  ! 
And  then  I  think,  since  we  are  sunder'd,  pass 

How  languidly  the  listless  hours  away  ! 
While  Memory  comes,  in  slumber,  with  her  glass, 

When  hush'd  to  peace  is  all  the  strife  of  day, 
To  pour  upon  my  visions  richly  bright 
Joys  that  have  been,  and  hopes  that  set  in  night  \ 

And  in  the  virgin  glory  of  thy  charms, 
I  clasp  thee  in  mine  arms. 

I  think  of  thee,  as  when,  in  happier  hours, 

Thou  stood'st  in  smiles,  a  heaven-descended  guest, 

When  life  seem'd  like  a  garden  strewn  with  flowers, 
And  sorrow  fled  at  thy  benign  behest. 

Alas !  we  little  dreamt  how  soon  the  cloud 
Of  disappointment  pleasure's  sky  may  shroud. 

Oh  Fortune  !  wilt  thou  ever  take  delight 
To  tear  asunder  heart  that  grows  to  heart 

In  mutual  faith — Affection's  blooms  to  blight-- 
To step  between  link'd  souls  and  bid  them  part, 

Hope's  Eden  -tinted  landscapes  to  destroy, 

And  mingle  poison  in  Love's  cup  of  joy  : — 
Alas !  when  shall  the  flowers  of  Pleasure's  Ireo 
Unshaken  pass  by  thee  ? 

I  think  of  thee  at  morn, — at  noon, — at  eve,— 

'Mid  cities  and  in  solitude — I  call 
Thine  image  up,  while  Hope  delights  to  weave 

Love's  rainbow  hues,  and  clothes  thee  in  them  ullj 
Of  thee  I  think  upon  the  shore  and  sea — 

Awake  and  in  my  dreams  I  pine  for  thee ! 
For  'mid  the  changes  of  this  changeful  world 

Thou  hast  been  steadfast  as  the  lucid  star 
Duly  on  Evening's  radiant  map  unfurl'd 

The  first,  and  shining  through  the  dusk  afar. 
I  gaze  from  out  the  deep  abyss  of  care 
To  greet  that  ray — and  ever  it  is  there ; 

Then  bow,  renewed  in  faith,  to  Heaven's  decree. 
The  Heaven,  which  gave  me  thee ! 


eo 


Passages  from,  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


[July, 


PASSAGES  PROM  THE  DIARV  OF  A  LATE  PHYSICIAN. 


CHAP.  XI. 
The  Ruined  Merchant. 


IT  is  a  common  Bay  ing,  that  sorrows 
never  come  alone — that  "  it  never 
rains,  but  it  pours;"*  and  it  has  been 
verified  by  experience,  even  from 
the  days  of  that  prince  of  the  wretch- 
ed— the  man  "  whose  name  was  Job." 
Now-a-days,  directly  a  sudden  accu- 
mulation of  ills  befalls  a  man,  he  utters 
some  rash  exclamation  like  the  one  in 
question,  and  too  often  submits  to  the 
inflictions  of  Providence  with  sullen 
indifference — like  a  brute  to  a  blow — 
or  resorts,  possibly,  to  suicide.  Poor 
stupid  unobserving  man,  in  such  a 
case,  cannot  conceive  how  it  comes 
to  pass  that  all  the  evils  under  the 
sun  are  showered  down  upon  his 
head  —  at  once !  There  is  no  at- 
tempt to  account  for  it  on  reason- 
able grounds — no  reference  to  prob- 
able, nay,  obvious  causes — his  own 
misconduct,  possibly,  or  imprudence. 
In  a  word,  he  fancies  that  the  only 
thing  they  resemble  is  Epicurus'  for- 
tuitous concourse  of  atoms.  It  is  un- 
doubtedly true  that  people  are  occa- 
sionally assailed  by  misfortunes  so 
numerous,  sudden,  and  simultane- 
ous, as'  is  really  unaccountable.  In 
the  majority,  however,  of  what  are 
reputed  such  cases,  a  ready  solution 
may  be  found,  by  any  one  of  obser- 
vation. Take  a  simple  illustration. 
A  passenger  suddenly  falls  down  in 
a  crowded  thoroughfare  ;  and,  when 
down  and  unable  to  rise,  the  one  fol- 
lowing stumbles  over  him — the  next, 
over  him,  and  so  on — all  unable  to 
resist  the  on-pressing  crowd  behind ; 
and  so  the  first-fallen  lies  nearly 
crushed  and  smothered.  Now,  is  not 
this  frequently  the  case  with  a  man 
mid  the  cares  and  troubles  of  life  ? 
One  solitary  disaster — one  unexpect- 
ed calamity — befalls  him;  the  sudden 
shock  stuns  him  out  of  his  self-pos- 
session ;  he  is  dispirited,  confounded, 
paralysed — and  down  he  falls,  in  the 
very  throng  of  all  the  pressing  cares 


and  troubles  of  life,  one  implicating 
and  dragging  after  it  another — till  all 
is  uproar  and  consternation.  Then 
it  is,  that  we  hear  passionate  lament- 
ations, and  cries  of  sorrows  "  never 
coming  alone" — of  all  this  "  being 
against  him ;"  and  he  either  stupidly 
lies  still,  till  he  is  crushed  and  tram- 
pled on,  or,  it  may  be,  succeeds  in 
scrambling  to  the  first  temporary 
resting-place  he  can  espy,  when  he 
resigns  himself  to  stupitied  inaction, 
staring  vacantly  at  the  throng  of  mis- 
haps following  in  the  wake  of  that 
one  which  bore  him  down.  Where- 
as the  first  thought  of  one  in  such 
a  situation  should  surely  be,  "  let 
me  be  '  up  and  doing,'  and  I  may 
yet  recover  myself."  "  Directly  a 
man  determines  to  think"  says  an 
eminent  writer,  "  he  is  wellnigh  sure 
of  bettering  his  condition." 

It  is  to  the  operation  of  such  cau- 
ses as  these,  that  is  to  be  traced,  in  a 
great  majority  of  cases,  the  necessity 
for  medical  interference.  Within  the 
sphere  of  my  own  practice,  I  have 
witnessed,  in  such  circumstances,  the 
display  of  heroism  and  fortitude  en- 
nobling to  human  nature  :  and  I  have 
also  seen  instances  of  the  most  con- 
temptible pusillanimity.  I  have  mark- 
ed a  brave  spirit  succeed  in  buffet- 
ing its  way  out  of  its  adversities ; 
and  I  have  seen  as  brave  a  one  over- 
come by  them,  and  falling  vanquish- 
ed, even  with  the  sword  of  resolution 
gleaming  in  its  grasp ;  for  there  are 
combinations  of  evil,  against  which 
no  human  energies  can  make  a  stand. 
Of  this,  I  think  the  ensuing  melan- 
choly narrative  will  afford  an  illus- 
tration. What  its  effect  on  the  mind 
of  the  reader  may  be,  I  cannot  pre- 
sume to  speculate.  Mine  it  has  op- 
pressed to  recall  the  painful  scenes 
with  which  it  abounds,  and  convinced 
of  the  peculiar  perils  incident  to  ra- 
pidly acquired  fortune,  which  too 


* And  now  behold,  O  Gertrude,  Gertrude—- 
When sorrows  come,  they  come  not  single  spies, 
But  in  battalions  1'V-SnAKsrEA  RE. 


1831.] 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


often  lifts  its  possessor  into  an  ele- 
ment for  which  he  is  totally  unfitted, 
and  from  which  he  falls  exhausted, 
lower  far  than  the  sphere  he  had  left ! 

Mr  Dudleigh's  career  afforded  a 
striking  illustration  of  the  splendid 
but  fluctuating  fortunes  of  a  great 
English  merchant — of  the  magnifi- 
cent results  ensured  by  persevering 
industry,  economy,  prudence,  and 
enterprise.  Early  in  life  he  was  cast 
upon  the  world,  to  do  as  he  would, 
or  rather  could,  with  himself;  for  his 
guardian  proved  a  swindler,  and  rob- 
bed his  deceased  friend's  child  of 
every  penny  that  was  left  him.  On 
hearing  of  the  disastrous  event,  young 
Dudleigh  instantly  ran  away  from 
school,  in  his  sixteenth  year,  and  en- 
tered himself  on  board  a  vessel  tra- 
ding to  the  West  Indies,  as  cabin- 
boy.  As  soon  as  his  relatives,  few 
in  number,  distant  in  degree,  and 
colder  in  affection,  heard  of  this  step, 
they  told  him,  after  a  little  languid 
expostulation,  that  as  he  had  made 
his  bed,  so  he  must  lie  upon  it;  and 
never  came  near  him  again,  till  he 
had  become  ten  times  richer  than  all 
of  them  put  together. 

The  first  three  or  four  years  of 
young  Dudleigh's  novitiate  at  sea, 
were  years  of  fearful,  but  not  un- 
usual hardship.  I  have  heard  him 
state  that  he  was  frequently  flogged 
by  the  captain  and  mate,  till  the  blood 
ran  down  his  back  like  water ;  and 
kicked  and  cuffed  about  by  the  com- 
mon sailors  with  infamous  impunity. 
One  cause  of  all  this  was  obvious;  his 
evident  superiority  over  every  one  on 
board  in  learning  and  acquirements. 
To  such  an  extent  did  his  tormentors 
carry  their  tyranny,  that  poor  Dud- 
leigh's life  became  intolerable ;  and 
one  evening,  on  leaving  the  vessel 
after  its  arrival  in  port  from  the  West 
Indies,  he  ran  to  a  public-house  in 
Wapping,  called  for  pen  and  ink,  and 
wrote  a  letter  to  the  chief  owner  of 
the  vessel,  acquainting  him  with  the 
cruel  usage  he  had  suffered,  and 
imploring  his  interference ;  adding, 
that  if  that  application  failed,  he  was 
determined  to  drown  himself  when 
they  next  went  to  sea.  This  letter, 
which  was  signed  "  Henry  Dud- 
leigh, cabin-boy,"  astonished  and  in- 
terested the  person  to  whom  it  was 
addressed ;  for  it  was  accurately,  and 
even  'eloquently  worded.  Young 
Dudleigh  was  sent  for,  and  after  a 


61 

thorough  examination  into  the  nature 
of  his  pretensions,  engaged  as  a  clerk 
in  the  counting-house  of  the  ship- 
owners, at  a  small  salary.  He  con- 
ducted himself  with  so  much  ability 
and  integrity,  and  displayed  such  a 
zealous  interest  in  his  employers' 
concerns,  that  in  a  few  years'  time  he 
was  raised  to  the  head  of  their  largo 
establishment,  and  received  a  salary 
of  L.500  a-year,  as  their  senior  and 
confidential  clerk.  The  experience 
he  gained  in  this  situation,  enabled 
him,  on  the  unexpected  bankruptcy 
of  his  employers,  to  dispose  most 
successfully  of  the  greater  propor- 
tion of  what  he  had  saved  in  their 
service.  He  purchased  shares  in 
two  vessels,  which  made  fortunate 
voyages  ;  and  the  result  determined 
him  henceforth  to  conduct  business 
on  his  own  account,  notwithstanding 
the  offer  of  a  most  lucrative  situation 
similar  to  his  last.  In  a  word,  he 
went  on  conducting  his  speculations 
with  as  much  prudence,  as  he  un- 
dertook them  with  energy  and  en- 
terprise. 

The  period  I  am  alluding  to  may 
be  considered  as  the  golden  age  of 
the  shipping  interest ;  and  it  will  oc- 
casion surprise  to  no  one  acquainted 
with  the  commercial  history  of  those 
days,  to  hear  that  in  little  more  than 
five  years  time,  Mr  Dudleigh  could 
"  write  himself  worth"  L.20,000.  He 
practised  a  parsimony  of  the  most 
excruciating  kind.  Though  every 
one  on  'Change  was  familiar  with 
his  name,  and  cited  him  as  one  of 
the  most  "  rising  young  men  there," 
he  never  associated  with  any  of  them 
but  on  occasions  of  strict  business. 
He  was  content  with  the  humblest 
fare;  and  trudged  cheerfully  to  and 
from  the  city  to  his  quiet  quarters 
near  Hackney,  as  if  he  had  been  but 
a  clerk  luxuriating  on  an  income  of 
L.50  per  annum.  Matters  went  on 
thus  prospering  with  him,  till  his 
thirty-second  year,  when  he  married 
the  wealthy  widow  of  a  ship-builder. 
The  influence  which  she  had  in  his 
future  fortunes,  warrants  me  in  pau- 
sing to  describe  her.  She  was  about 
twenty-seven  or  twenty-eight  years 
old ;  of  passable  person,  as  far  as 
figure  went,  for  her  face  was  rather 
bloated  and  vulgar ;  somewhat  of  a 
dowdy  in  dress ;  insufferably  vain, 
and  fond  of  extravagant  display;  a 
termagant ;  with  little  or  no  intellect. 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician, 


62 

In  fact,  she  was  the  perfect  antipodes 
of  her  husband.  Mr  Dudleigb  was 
a  humble,  unobtrusive,  kind-hearted 
man,  always  intent  on  business,  be- 
yond which  he  did  not  pretend  to 
know  or  care  for  much.  How  could 
such  a  man,  it  will  be  asked,  marry 
such  a  woman? — Was  he  the  first 
who  has  been  dazzled  and  blinded  by 
the  blaze  of  a  large  fortune  ?  Such 
was  his  case.  Besides,  a  young  widow 
is  somewhat  careful  of  undue  expo- 
sures, which  might  fright  away  pro- 
mising suitors.  So  they  made  a  match 
of  it;  andheresuscitatedtheexpiring 
business  and  connexion  of  his  pre- 
decessor, and  conducted  it  with  a 
skill  and  energy,  which  in  a  short 
time  opened  upon  him  the  floodgates 
of  fortune.  Affluence  poured  in  from 
all  quarters ;  and  he  was  everywhere 
called  by  his  panting,  but  distanced 
competitors  in  the  city,  the  "  fortu- 
nate" Mr  Dudleigh. 

One  memorable  day,  four  of  his 
vessels,  richly  freighted,  came,  al- 
most together,  into  port ;  and  on  the 
same  day  he  made  one  of  the  most 
fortunate  speculations  in  the  funds 
which  had  been  heard  of  for  years ; 
so  that  he  was  able  to  say  to  his  as- 
sembled family,  as  he  drank  their 
healths  after  dinner,  that  he  would 
not  take  a  quarter  of  a  million  for 
what  he  was  worth !  And  there, 
surely,  he  might  have  paused,  nay, 
made  his  final  stand,  as  the  possessor 
of  such  a  princely  fortune,  acquired 
with  unsullied  honour  to  himself, 
and,  latterly,  spent  in  warrantable 
splendour  and  hospitality.  But  no : 
As  is  and  ever  will  be  the  case,  the 
more  he  had,  the  more  he  would 
have.  Not  to  mention  the  incessant 
baiting  of  his  ambitious  wife,  the 
dazzling  capabilities  of  indefinite  in- 
crease to  his  wealth  proved  irresist- 
ible. What  might  not  be  done  by  a 
man  of  Mr  Dudleigh's  celebrity,  with 
a  floating  capital  of  some  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  pounds,  and  as 
much  credit  as  he  chose  to  accept  of? 
The  regular  course  of  his  shipping 
business  brought  him  in  constantly 
magnificent  returns,  and  he  began 
to  sigh  after  other  collateral  sources 
of  money-making;  for  why  should 
nearly  one-half  of  his  vast  means  lie 
unproductive  ?  He  had  not  long  to 
look  about,  after  it  once  became 
known  that  he  was  ready  to  employ 


[July, 


his  floating  capital  in  profitable  spe- 
culations. The  brokers,  for  instance, 
came  about  him,  and  he  leagued  with 
them.  By  and  by  the  world  heard 
of  a  monopoly  of  nutmegs.  There 
was  not  a  score  to  be  had  anywhere 
in  London,  but  at  a  most  exorbitant 
price — for  the  fact  was,  that  Mr  Dud- 
leigh had  laid  his  hands  on  them  all, 
and  by  so  doing  cleared  a  very  large 
sum.  Presently  he  would  play  simi- 
lar pranks  with  otto  of  roses  ;  and  as 
soon  as  he  had  quadrupled  the  cost 
of  that  fashionable  article,  he  would 
let  loose  his  stores  on  the  gaping 
market— by  which  he  gained  as  large 
a  profit  as  he  had  made  with  the  nut* 
megs.  Commercial  people  will  easily 
see  how  he  did  this.  The  brokers, 
who  wished  to  effect  the  monopoly, 
would  apply  to  him  for  the  use  of  his 
capital,  and  give  him  an  ample  in- 
demnity against  whatever  loss  might 
be  the  fate  of  the  speculation;  and, 
on  its  proving  successful,  awarded 
him  a  very  large  proportion  of  the 
profits.  This  is  the  scheme  by  which 
many  splendid  fortunes  have  been 
raised,  with  a  rapidity  which  has 
astonished  their  gainers  as  much  as 
any  one  else !  Then,  again,  he  nego- 
tiated bills  on  a  large  scale,  and  at 
tremendous  discounts ;  and,  in  a 
word,  by  these,  and  similar  means, 
amassed,  in  a  few  years,  the  enor- 
mous sum  of  half  a  million  of  money! 
It  is  easy  to  guess  at  the  concomi- 
tants of  such  a  fortune  as  this.  At 
the  instigation  of  his  wife— for  he 
himself  retained  all  his  old  unobtru- 
sive and  personally  economical  ha- 
bits— he  supported  two  splendid  es- 
tablishments— the  one  at  the  "  West 
End"  of  the  town,  and  the  other  near 
Richmond.  His  wife— for  Mr  Dud- 
leigh himself  seemed  more  like  the 
hired  steward  of  his  fortune  than  its 
possessor — was  soon  surrounded  by 
swarms  of  those  titled  blood-suck- 
ers that  batten  on  bloated  opulence 
which  has  been  floated  into  the  sea 
of  fashion.  Mrs  Dudleigh's  dinners, 
suppers,  routes,  soirees,  fetes  cham- 
petres,  flashed  astonishment  on  the 
town,  through  the  columns  of  the 
obsequious  prints.  Miss  Dudleigh, 
an  elegant  and  really  amiable  girl, 
about  seventeen,  was  beginning  to 
get  talked  of  as  a  fashionable  beauty, 
and,  report  said,  had  refused  her 
coronets  by  dozens !  While  "  young 


1831.] 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


63 


Harry  Dudleigh"  far  out-topped  the 
astonished  Oxonians,  by  spending 
about  half  as  much  again  as  his  noble 
allowance.  Poor  Mr  Dudleigh  fre- 
quently looked  on  all  this  with  fear 
and  astonishment,  and,  when  in  the 
city,  would  shrug  his  shoulders,  and 
speak  of  the  "  dreadful  doings  at  the 
West !"  I  say,  when  in  the  city — 
for  as  8oon  as  he  travelled  west- 
wards, when  he  entered  the  sphere 
of  his  WIFE'S  influence,  his  energies 
were  benumbed  and  paralysed.  He 
had  too  long  quietly  succumbed  to 
her  authority  to  call  it  in  question 
now,  and  therefore  he  submitted  to 
the  splendid  appearance  he  was  com- 
pelled to  support.  He  often  said, 
however,  that  "  he  could  not  under- 
stand what  Mrs  Dudleigh  was  at;" 
but  beyond  such  a  hint  he  never  pre- 
sumed. He  was  seldom  or  never  to 
be  seen  amid  the  throng  and  crush 
of  company  that  crowded  his  house 
evening  after  evening.  The  first  ar- 
rival of  his  wife's  guests,  was  his 
usual  signal  for  seizing  his  hat  and 
stick,  dropping  quietly  from  home, 
and  betaking  himself  either  to  some 
sedate  city  friend,  or  to  his  country- 
house,  where  he  now  took  a  kind  of 
morbid  pleasure  in  ascertaining  that 
his  gains  were  safe,  and  planning 
greater,  to  make  up,  if  possible,  he 
would  say,"  for  Mrs  Dudleigh' s  awful 
extravagance."  He  did  this  so  con- 
stantly, that  Mrs  Dudleigh  began  at 
last  to  expect  and  calculate  on  his 
absence,  as  a  matter  of  course,  when- 
ever she  gave  a  party ;  and  her  good- 
natured,  accommodating  husband  too 
easily  acquiesced,  on  the  ground,  as 
his  wife  took  care  to  give  out,  of  his 
health's  not  bearing  late  hours  and 
company.  Though  an  economical, 
and  even  parsimonious  man  in  his 
habits,  Mr  Dudleigh  had  as  warm 
and  kind  a  heart  as  ever  glowed  in 
the  breast  of  man.  I  have  heard  many 
accounts  of  his  systematic  benevo- 
lence, which  he  chiefly  carried  into 
effect  at  the  periods  of  temporary 
relegation  to  the  city,  above  spoken 
of.  Every  Saturday  evening,  for  in- 
stance, he  had  a  sort  of  levee,  nume- 
rously attended  by  merchants'  clerks 
and  commencing  tradesmen,  all  of 
whom  he  assisted  most  liberally  with 
both  "  cash  and  counsel,"  as  he  good- 
humouredly  called  it.  Many  a  one 
of  them  owes  his  establishment  in 
life  to  Mr  Dudleigh,  who  never  lost 


sight  of  any  deserving  object  he  had 
once  served. 

A  far  different  creature  Mrs  Dud- 
leigh !  The  longer  she  lived,  the  more 
she  had  her  way,  the  more  frivolous 
and  heartless  did  she  become — the 
more  despotic  was  the  sway  she  ex- 
ercised over  her  husband.  When- 
ever he  presumed  to  "  lecture  her," 
as  she  called  it,  she  would  stop  his 
mouth,  with  referring  to  the  fortune 
she  had  brought  him,  and  ask  him 
triumphantly,  "  what  he  could  have 
done  without  her  cash  and  con- 
nexions !"  Such  being  the  fact,  it 
was  past  all  controversy  that  she 
ought  to  be  allowed  "  to  have  her 
fling,  now  they  could  so  easily  af- 
ford it!"  The  sums  she  spent  on 
her  own  and  her  daughter's  dress 
were  absolutely  incredible,  and  al- 
most petrified  her  poor  husband 
when  the  bills  were  brought  to  him. 
Both  in  the  articles  of  dress  and  par- 
ty-giving, Mrs  Dudleigh  was  actua- 
ted by  a  spirit  of  frantic  rivalry  with 
her  competitors ;  and  what  she  want- 
ed in  elegance  and  refinement,  she 
sought  to  compensate  for  in  extrava- 
gance and  ostentation.  It  was  to  no 
purpose  that  her  trembling  husband, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  suggested  to 
her  recollection  the  old  saying, "  that 
fools  make  feasts,  and  wise  men  eat 
them;",  and  that,  if  she  gave  magni- 
ficent dinners  and  suppers,  of  course 
great  people  would  come  and  eat 
them  for  her ;  but  would  they  thank 
her  ?  Her  constant  answer  was,  that 
they  "  ought  to  support  their  station 
in  society" — that  "  the  world  would 
not  believe  them  rich,  unless  they 
shewed  it  that  they  were,"  &c.  &c. 
&c.  Then,  again,  she  had  a  strong 
plea  for  her  enormous  expenditure  in 
the  "  bringing  out  of  Miss  Dudleigh," 
in  the  arrayment  of  whom,  panting 
milliners  "  toiled  in  vain."  In  order 
to  bring  about  this  latter  object,  she 
induced,  but  with  great  difficulty,  Mr 
Dudleigh  to  give  his  bankers  orders 
to  accredit  her  separate  cheques ; 
and  so  prudently  did  she  avail  her- 
self of  this  privilege  for  months, 
that  she  completely  threw  Mr  Dud- 
leigh off  his  guard,  and  he  allowed  a 
very  large  balance  to  lie  in  his  bank- 
ers' hands,  subject  to  the  unrestrict- 
ed drafts  of  his  wife.  Did  the  read- 
er never  happen  to  see  in  socie- 
ty that  horrid  harpy,  an  old  dow- 
ager, whose  niggard  jointure  drives 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


64 

her  to  cards  ?  Evening  after  even- 
ing did  several  of  these  old  creatures 
squat,  toad-like,  round  Mrs  Dud- 
leigh's  card-table,  and  succeeded  at 
last  in  inspiring  her  with  such  a  fren- 
zy for  "  PLAY,"  as  the  most  ample 
fortune  must  melt  away  under,  more 
rapidly  than  snow  beneath  sunbeams. 
The  infatuated  woman  became  noto- 
riously the  first  to  seek,  and  last  to 
leave  the  fatal  card-table ;  and  the 
reputed  readiness  with  which  she 
"  bled,"  at  last  brought  her  the  ho- 
nour of  an  old  Countess,  who  con- 
descended to  win  from  her,  at  two 
sittings,  very  nearly  L.5000.  It  is 
not  now  difficult  to  account  for  the 
anxiety  Mrs  Dudleigh  manifested  to 
banish  her  husband  from  her  parties. 
She  had  many  ways  of  satisfactorily 
accounting  for  her  frequent  drafts 
on  his  bankers.  Miss  Dudleigh  had 
made  a  conquest  of  a  young  peer, 
who,  as  soon  as  he  had  accurately 
ascertained  the  reality  of  her  vastex- 

Eectations,  fell  deeply  in  love  with 
er !  The  young  lady  herself  had 
too  much  good  sense  to  give  him 
spontaneous  credit  for  disinterested 
affection ;  but  she  was  so  dunned  on 
the  subject  by  her  foolish  mother,  so 
petted  and  flattered  by  the  noble,  but 
impoverished  family,  that  sought  her 
connexion,  and  the  young  nobleman, 
himself  a  handsome  man,  so  ardent 
and  persevering  in  his  courtship,  that 
at  last  her  heart  yielded,  and  she 
passed  in  society  as  the  "  envied  ob- 
ject" of  his  affections !  The  notion 
of  intermingling  their  blood  with  NO- 
BILITY, so  dazzled  the  vain  imagina- 
tion of  Mrs  Dudleigh,  that  it  gave  her 
eloquence  enough  to  succeed,  at  last, 
in  stirring  the  phlegmatic  tempera- 
ment of  her  husband.  "  Have  a  noble- 
man for  MY  SON-IN-LAW  !*'  thought  the 

merchant,  morning,  noon,  and  night; 
at  the  East  and  at  the  West  End — in 
town  and  country !  What  would  the 
city  people  say  to  that !  He  had  a 
spice  of  ambition  in  his  composition 
beyond  what  could  be  contented 
with  the  achieval  of  mere  city  emi- 
nence. He  was  tiring  of  it; — he  had 
long  been  a  kind  of  king  on 'Change, 
and,  as  it  were,  carried  the  Stocks 
in  his  pockets.  He  had  long  thought 
that  it  was  "  possible  to  choke  a  dog 
with  pudding,"  and  he  was  growing 
heartily  wearied  of  the  turtle  and  ve- 
nison eastward  of  Temple-Bar,  which 
he  was  compelled  to  eat  at  the  pub- 


[July, 


lie  dinners  of  the  great  companies, 
and  elsewhere,  when  his  own  tastes 
would  have  led  him,  in  every  case, 
to  pitch  upon  "  port,  beef-steaks,  and 
the  papers,"  as  fare  fit  for  a  king ! 
The  dazzling  topic,  therefore,  in 
which  his  wife  held  forth  with  un- 
wearied eloquence,  was  beginning  to 
produce  conviction  in  his  mind ;  and 
though  he  himself  eschewed  his 
wife's  kind  of  life,  and  refused  to 
share  in  it,  he  did  not  lend  a  very 
unwilling  ear  to  her  representations 
of  the  .necessity  for  an  even  increa- 
sed rate  of  expenditure,  to  enable 
Miss  Dudleigh  to  eclipse  her  gay 
competitors,  and  appear  a  worthy 
prize  in  the  eyes  of  her  noble  suitor. 
Aware  of  the  magnitude  of  the  pro- 
posed object,  he  could  not  but  as- 
sent to  Mrs  Dudleigh's  opinion,  that 
extraordinary  means  must  be  made 
use  of;  and  was  at  last  persuaded 
into  placing  nearly  L.20,000  in  his 
new  banker's  hands,  subject,  as  be- 
fore, to  Mrs  Dudleigh's  drafts,  which 
she  promised  him  should  be  as  sel- 
dom and  as  moderate  as  she  could 
possibly  contrive  to  meet  necessary 
expenses  with.  His  many  and  heavy 
expenses,  together  with  the  great  sa- 
crifice in  prospect,  when  the  time  of 
his  daughter's  marriage  should  ar- 
rive, supplied  him  with  new  incen- 
tives to  enter 'into  commercial  spe- 
culations. He  tried  several  new 
schemes,  threw  all  the  capital  he  could 
command  into  new,  and  even  more 
productive  quarters,  and  calculated 
on  making  vast  accessions  of  fortune 
at  the  end  of  the  year. 

About  a  fortnight  after  Mr  Dud- 
leigh had  informed  Mrs  Dudleigh  of 
the  new  lodgment  he  had  made  at 
his  banker's,  she  gave  a  very  large 

evening-party  at  her  house,  in < 

Square.  She  had  been  very  suc- 
cessful in  her  guests  on  the  occasion, 
having  engaged  the  attendance  of 
my  Lords  This,  and  my  Ladies  That, 
innumerable.  Even  the  high  and 

haughty  Duke  "of had  deigned 

to  look  in  for  a  few  moments,  on  his 
way  to  a  party  at  Carlton-House,  for 
the  purpose  of  sneering  at  the  "  splen- 
did cit,"  and  extracting  topics  of 
laughter  for  his  royal  host.  The 

whole  of  Square,  and  one  or 

t\vo  of  the  adjoining  streets,  wero 
absolutely  choked  with  carriages — 
the  carriages  of  HER  guests  !  When 
you  entered  her  magnificent  apart- 


1831.] 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


meats,  and  had  made  your  way 
through  the  soft  crush  and  flutter  of 
aristocracy,  you  might  see  the  lady 
of  the  house  throbbing  and  panting 
with  excitement — a  perfect  blaze  of 
jewellery — flanked  by  her  very  kind 

friends,  old  Lady ,  and  the  well- 

kno\vn  Miss ,  engaged,  as  usual, 

at  unlimited  loo.  The  good  humour 
Avith  which  Mrs  Dudleigh  lost,  was 
declared  to  be  "  quite  charming"  — 
"  deserving  of  better  fortune ;"  and 
inflamed  by  the  cozened  compliments 
they  forced  upon  her,  she  was  just 
uttering  some  sneering  and  insolent 
allusion  to  "  that  odious  city"  while 

old  Lady 's  withered  talons  were 

extended  to  clutch  her  winnings, 
when  there  was  perceived  a  sud- 
den stir  about  the  chief  door — then  a 
general  hush — and  in  a  moment  or 
two,  a  gentleman,  in  dusty  and  dis- 
ordered dress,  with  his  hat  on,  rush- 
ed through  the  astonished  crowd,  and 
made  his  way  towards  the  card-table 
at  which  Mrs  Dudleigh  was  seated, 
and  stood  confronting  her,  extending 
towards  her  his  right  hand,  in  which 
was  a  thin  slip  of  paper.  It  was  Mr 
Dudleigh  !  "  There — there,  madam," 
he  gasped  in  a  hoarse  voice, — "  there, 
woman  ! — what  have  you  done  ? — 
Ruined — ruined  me,  madam,  you've 
rninedme !  My  credit  is  destroyed  for 
ever ! — my  name  is  tainted ! — Here's 
the  first  dishonoured  bill  that  ever 
bore  Henry  Dudleigh's  name  upon  it ! 
— Yes,  madam,  it  is  YOU  who  have 
done  it,"  he  continued,  with  vehe- 
ment tone  and  gesture,  utterly  re- 
gardless of  the  breathless  throng 
around  him,  and  continuing  to  ex- 
tend towards  her  the  protested  bill 
of  exchange. 

"  My  dear ! — my  dear — my — my — 
my  dear  Mr  Dudleigh,"  stammered 
his  wife,  without  rising  from  her 
chair,  "  what  is  the  matter,  love  ?" 

"  Matter,  madam  ? — why,  by  — r-  ! 
— that  you've  ruined  me — that's  all ! 
— Where's  the  L.20,000  I  placed  in 

Messrs 's  hands  a  few  days  ago  ? 

—Where — WHERE  is  it,  Mrs  Dud- 
leigh ?"  he  continued  almost  shout- 
ing, and  advancing  nearer  to  her, 
with  his  fist  clenched. 

"  Henry  !  dear  Henry  ! — mercy, 

mercy  ! "  murmured  his  wife 

faintly. 

"  Henry,  indeed  !  Mercy  ? — Si- 
lence, madam  !  How  dare  you  deny 
me  an  answer  ?  How  dare  you  swiu- 

VOL,  XXX,  NO.  CLXXXII. 


die  me  out  of  my  fortune  in  this 
way  ?"  he  continued  fiercely,  wiping 
the  perspiration  from  his  forehead ; 
"  Here's  my  bill  for  L.4000,  made 

payable   at   Messrs ,   my  new 

bankers ;  and  when  it  was  presented 

this  morning,  madam,  by !  the 

reply  was  '  NO  EFFECTS  !' — and  my 
bill  has  been  dishonoured ! — Wretch! 
what  have  you  done  with  my  money  ? 
Where's  it  all  gone  ? — I'm  the  town's 

talk  about  this bill !— There'll 

be  a  run  upon  me ! — I  know  there 
will — aye — THIS  is  the  way  my  hard- 
earned  wealth  is  squandered,  you 
vile,  you  unprincipled  spendthrift !" 
he  continued,  turning  round  and 
pointing  to  the  astounded  guests, 
none  or whom  had  uttered  a  syllable. 
The  music  had  ceased — the  dancers 
lefttheir  places — the  card-tables  were 
deserted.  In  a  word,  all  was  blank 
consternation.  The  fact  was,  that 

old  Lady ,  who  was  that  moment 

seated,  trembling  like  an  aspen-leaf, 
at  Mrs  Dudleigu  s  right-hand  side, 
had  won  from  her,  during  the  last 
month,  a  series  of  sums  amounting 
to  little  short  of  L.9000,  which  Mrs 
Dudleigh  had  paid  the  day  before  by 
a  cheque  on  her  banker ;  and  that 
very  morning  she  had  drawn  out 
L.  1000  odd,  to  pay  her  coach-maker's, 
confectioner's,  and  milliner's  bills, 
and  supply  herself  with  cash  for  the 
evening's  spoliation.  The  remaining 
L.7000  had  been  drawn  out  during 
the  preceding  fortnight  to  pay  her 
various  clamorous  creditors,  and  keep 
her  in  readiness  for  the  gaming-table. 
Mr  Dudleigh,  on  hearing  of  the  dis- 
honour of  his  bill — the  news  of  which 
was  brought  him  by  a  clerk,  for  he 
was  staying  at  a  friend's  house  in 
the  country — came  up  instantly  to 
town,  paid  the  bill,  and  then  hurried, 
half  beside  himself,  to  his  house  in 
• square.  It  is  not  at  all  won- 
derful, that  though  Mr  Dudleigh's 
name  was  well  known  as  an  eminent 
and  responsible  mercantile  man,  his 
bankers,  with  whom  he  had  but  re- 
cently opened  an  account,  should 
decline  paying  his  bill,  after  so  large 
a  sum  as  L.20,000  had  been  drawn 
out  of  their  hands  by  Mrs  Dudleigh. 
It  looked  suspicious  enough,  truly  ! 
"  Mrs  Dudleigh ! — where — WHERE 
is  my  L  20,000  ?"  he  shouted  almost 
at  the  top  of  his  voice ;  but  Mrs  Dud- 
leigh heard  him  not;  for  she  had 
fallen  fainting  into  the  arms  of  Lady 
E 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


M 

.    Numbers  rushed  forward  to 

her  assistance.  The  confusion  and 
agitation  that  ensued  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  describe  ;  and,  in  the 
midst  of  it,  Mr  Dudleigh  strode  at  a 
t'ui  ions  pace  out  of  the  room,  and 
left  the  house.  For  the  next  three 
or  four  days  he  behaved  like  a  mad- 
man. His  apprehensions  magnified 
the  temporary  and  very  trifling  in- 
jury his  credit  had  sustained,  till  he 
fancied  himself  on  the  eve  of  becom- 
ing bankrupt.  And,  indeed,  where  is 
the  merchant  of  any  eminence,  whom 
such  a  circumstance  as  the  disho- 
nour of  a  bill  for  L.4000  (however 
afterwards  accounted  for)  would 
not  exasperate?  For  several  days 
Mr  Dudleigh  would  not  go  near 
square,  and  did  not  once  en- 
quire after  Mrs  Dudleigh.  My  pro- 
fessional services  were  put  into  re- 
quisition on  her  behalf,  llage,  shame, 
and  agony,  at  the  thought  of  the  dis- 
graceful exposure  she  had  met  with, 
in  the  eyes  of  all  her  assembled  guests, 
of  those  respecting  whose  opinions 
she  was  most  exquisitely  sensitive, 
had  nearly  driven  her  distracted.  She 
continued  so  ill  for  about  a  week,  and 
exhibited  such  frequent  glimpses  of 
delirium,  that  I  was  compelled  to 
resort  to  very  active  treatment  to 
avert  a  brain  fever.  More  than  once, 
I  heard  her  utter  the  words,  or  some- 
thing like  them, — "  be  revenged  on 
him  yet !"  but  whether  or  not  she 
was  at  the  time  sensible  of  the  im- 
port of  what  she  said,  I  did  not  know. 
The  incident  above  recorded — 
which  I  had  from  the  lips  of  Mr  Dud- 
leigh himself,  as  well  as  from  others 
— made  a  good  deal  of  noise  in  what 
are  called  "  the  fashionable  circles," 
and  was  obscurely  hinted  at  in  one 
of  the  daily  papers.  I  was  much 
amused  at  hearing,  in  the  various 
circles  I  visited,  the  conflicting  and 
exaggerated  accounts  of  it.  One  old 
lady  told  me  she  "  had  it  on  the  best 
authority,  that  Mr  Dudleigh  actually 
struck  his  wife,  and  wrenched  her 
purse  out  of  her  hand !"  I  recom- 
mended Mrs  Dudleigh  to  withdraw 
for  a  few  weeks  to  a  watering-place, 
and  she  followed  my  advice ;  taking 
with  her  Miss  Dudleigh,  whose  health 
and  spirits  had  suffered  materially 
through  the  event  which  has  been 
mentioned.  Poor  girl !  she  was  of  a 
very  different  mould  from  her  mo- 
ther, and  suffered  acutely,  though 


[July 


silently,  at  witnessing  the  utter  con- 
tempt in  which  she  was  held  by  the 
very  people  she  made  such  prodigi- 
ous efforts  to  court  and  conciliate. 
Can  any  situation  be  conceived  more 
painful  ?  Her  few  and  gentle  remon- 
strances, however,  met  invariably 
with  a  harsh  and  cruel  reception; 
and  at  last  she  was  compelled  to  hold 
her  peace,  and  bewail  in  mortified 
silence  her  mother's  obtuseness. 

They  continued  at about  a 

month ;  and  on  their  return  to  town, 
found  the  affair  quite  "  blown  over ;" 
and  soon  afterwards,  through  the 
mediation  of  mutual  friends,  the  an- 
gry couple  were  reconciled  to  each 
other.  For  twelve  long  months  Mrs 
Dudleigh  led  a  comparatively  quiet 
and  secluded  life,  abstaining,  with 
but  a  poor  grace  it  is  true,  from  com- 
pany and  cards — from  the  latter  com- 
pulsorily;  for  no  one  chose  to  sit 
down  at  play  with  her,  who  had  wit- 
nessed or  heard  of  the  event  which 
had  taken  place  last  season.  In  short, 
every  thing  seemed  going  on  well 
with  our  merchant  and  his  family. 
It  was  fixed  that  his  daughter  was  to 

become  Lady ,  as  soon  as  young 

Lord should  have  returned  from 

the  continent ;  and  a  dazzling  dowery 
was  spoken  of  as  hers  on  the  day  of 
her  marriage.  Pleased  with  his  wife's 
good  behaviour,  Mr  Dudleigh's  con- 
fidence and  good-nature  revived,  and 
he  held  the  reins  with  a  rapidly- 
slackening  grasp.  In  proportion  as 
he  allowed  her  funds,  her  scared 
"  friends"  flocked  again  around  her ; 
and  by  and  by  she  was  seen  floun- 
cing about  in  fashion  as  heretofore, 
with  small  "  let  or  hinderance"  from 
her  husband.  The  world — the  saga- 
cious world — called  Mr  Dudleigh  a 
happy  man ;  and  the  city  swelled  at 
the  mention  of  his  name  and  doings. 
The  mercantile  world  laid  its  highest 
honours  at  his  feet.  The  Mayoralty 
— a  Bank — an  East-Indian  Director- 
ship— a  seat  for  the  city  in  Parlia- 
ment— all  glittered  within  his  grasp 
—but  he  would  not  stretch  forth  his 
hand.  He  was  content,  he  would 
say,  to  be  "  plain  Henry  Dudleigh, 
whose  word  was  as  good  as  his  bond" 
— a  leading  man  on  'Change — and, 
above  all,  "  who  could  look  every 
one  full  in  the  face  with  whom  he 
had  ever  had  to  do."  He  was  indeed 
a  worthy  man — a  rich  and  racy  spe- 
cimen of  one  of  those  glories  of  our 


1881.] 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  Late  Physician. 


nation— a  true  English  merchant. 
The  proudest  moments  of  his  life 
were  those,  when  an  accompanying 
friend  could  estimate  his  conse- 
quence, by  witnessing  the  mandarin 
movements  that  everywhere  met  him 
—the  obsequious  obeisances  of  even 
his  closest  rivals — as  he  hurried  to 
and  fro  about  the  central  regions  of 
'Change,  his  hands  stuck  into  the 
worn  pockets  of  his  plain  snuff-co- 
loured coat.  The  merest  glance  at 
Mr  Dudleigh— his  hurried,  fidgety, 
anxious  gestures — the  keen,  cautious 
expression  of  his  glittering  grey  eyes 
— his  mouth  screwed  up  like  a  shut 
purse — all,  all  told  of  the  "  man  of  a 
million."  There  was,  in  a  manner, 
a  "  plum"  in  every  tread  of  his  foot, 
in  every  twinkle  of  his  eye.  He  could 
never  be  said  to  breathe  freely--- 
really  to  live — but  in  his  congenial 
atmosphere — his  native  element— 
the  City ! 

Once  every  year  he  gave  a  capital 
dinner,  at  a  tavern,  to  all  his  agents, 
clerks,  and  people  in  any  way  con- 
nected with  him  in  business;  and 
none  but  himself  knew  the  quiet  ec- 
stasy with  which  he  took  his  seat  at 
the  head  of  them  all— joined  in  their 
timid  jokes,  echoed  their  modest 
laughter,  made  speeches,  and  was 
he-speechified  in  turn !  How  he  sate 
while  great  things  were  saying  of 
him,  on  the  occasion  of  his  health's 
being  drunk  !  On  one  of  these  occa- 
sions, his  health  had  been  proposed 
by  his  sleek  head-clerk,  in  a  most 
neat  and  appropriate  speech,  and 
drunk  with  uproarious  enthusiasm  ; 
and  good  Mr  Dudleigh  was  on  his 
legs,  energetically  making  his  annual 
avowal  that  "  that  was  the  proudest 
moment  of  his  life,"  when  one  of  the 
waiters  came  and  interrupted  him, 
by  saying  that  a  gentleman  was  with- 
out, waiting  to  speak  to  him  on  most 
important  business.  Mr  Dudleigh 
hurriedly  whispered  that  he  would 
attend  to  the  stranger  in  a  few  mi- 
nutes, and  the  waiter  withdrew;  but 
returned  in  a  second  or  two,  and  put 
a  card  into  his  hand.  Mr  Dudleigh 
was  electrified  at  the  name  it  bore — • 
that  of  the  great  loan  contractor — 
the  city  Croesus,  whose  wealth  was 
reported  to  be  incalculable !  He  has- 
tily called  on  some  one  to  supply  his 
place;  and  had  hardly  passed  the 
door,  before  he  was  hastily  shaken 


by  the  hands  by ,  who  told  him 

at  once  that  he  had  called  to  propose 
to  Mr  Dudleigh  to  take  part  with 
him  in  negotiating  a  very  large  loan 

on  account  of  the government ! 

After  a  flurried  pause,  Mr  Dudleigh, 
scarce  knowing  what  he  was  saying, 
assented.  In  a  day  or  two  the  trans- 
action was  duly  blazoned  in  the  lead- 
ing papers  of  the  day;  and  every  one 
in  the  city  spoke  of  him  as  one  likely 
to  double  or  even  treble  his  already 
ample  fortune.  Again  he  was  praised 
— again  censured — again  envied !  It 
was  considered  advisable  that  he 
should  repair  to  the  continent,  du- 
ring the  course  of  the  negotiation,  in 
order  that  he  might  personally  su- 
perintend some  important  collateral 
transactions ;  and  when  there,  he 
was  most  unexpectedly  detained 
nearly  two  months.  Alas !  that  he 
ever  left  England !  During  his  ab- 
sence, his  infatuated  wife  betook 
herself—"  like  the  dog  to  his  vomit, 
like  the  sow  to  her  wallowing  in  the 
mire' ' — to  her  former  ruinous  courses 
of  extravagance  and  dissipation,  but 
on  a  fearfully  larger  scale.  Her 
house  was  more  like  an  hotel  than  a 
private  dwelling ;  and  blazed  away, 
night  after  night,  with  light  and  com- 
pany, till  the  whole  neighbourhood 
complained  of  the  incessant  uproar 
occasioned  by  the  mere  arrival  and 
departure  of  her  guests.  To  her 
other  dreadful  besetments,  Mrs  Dud- 
leigh now  added  the  odious  and  vul- 
gar vice  of — intoxication !  She  com- 
plained of  the  deficiency  of  her  ani- 
mal spirits ;  and  said  she  took  liquor 
as  a  medicine  !  She  required  stimu- 
lus, and  excitement,  she  said,  to  sus- 
tain her  mind  under  the  perpetual 
run  of  ill  luck  she  had  at  cards !  It 
was  in  vain  that  her  poor  daughter 
remonstrated,  and  almost  cried  her- 
self into  fits,  on  seeing  her  mother 
return  home,  frequently  in  the  dull 
stupor  of  absolute  intoxication  ! — 
"  Mother,  mother,  my  heart  is  break- 
ing !"  said  she  one  evening. 

"  So — so  is  mine" — hiccuped  her 
parent—"  so  get  me  the  decanter!" 

Young  Harry  Dudleigh  trode  emu- 
lously  in  the  footsteps  of  his  mother; 
and  ran  riot  to  an  extent  that  was 
before  unknown  to  Oxford ! — The 
sons  of  very  few  of  the  highest  nobi- 
lity had  handsomer  allowances  than 
he ;  yet  was  he  constantly  over  head 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


CS 

and  ears  in  debt.  He  was  a  backer 
of  the  ring  ruffians ;  a  great  man  at 
cock  and  dog  fights;  a  racer;  in 
short — a  blackguard  of  the  first 
water.  During  the  recess,  he  had 
come  up  to  town,  and  taken  up  his 
quarters,  not  at  his  father's  house, 
but  at  one  of, the  distant  hotels — 
where  he  might  pursue  his  profligate 
courses  without  fear  of  interruption. 
He  had  repeatedly  bullied  his  mother 
out  of  large  sums  of  money  to  sup- 
ply his  infamous  extravagancies;  and 
at  length  became  so  insolent  and  ex- 
orbitant in  his  demands,  that  they 
quarrelled.  One  evening,  about  nine 
o'clock,  Mrs  and  Miss  Dudleigh  hap- 
pened to  be  sitting  in  the  drawing- 
room,  alone — and  the  latter  was  pale 
with  the  agitation  consequent  on 
some  recent  quarrel  with  her  mo- 
ther; for  the  poor  girl  had  been 
passionately  reproaching  her  mother 
for  her  increasing  attachment  to 
liquor,  under  the  influence  of  which 
she  evidently  was  at  that  moment. 
Suddenly  a  voice  was  heard  in  the 
hall,  and  on  the  stairs,  singing,  or 
rather  bawling,  snatches  of  some 
comic  song  or  other;  the  drawing- 
room  door  was  presently  pushed 
open, and  young  Dudleigh,  more  than 
half  intoxicated,  made  his  appear- 
ance, in  a  slovenly  evening  dress. 

"  Madame  ma  mere — !"  said  he, 
staggering  towards  the  sofa  where 
his  mother  and  sister  were  sitting — 
"  I — I  must  be  supplied — I  must, 
mother  !" — he  hiccuped,  stretching 
towards  her' his  right  hand,  and  tap- 

Eing  the  palm  of  it  significantly  with 
is  left  fingers. 

"  Pho — nonsense  ! — off  to — to  bed, 
young  scape-grace!"  replied  his  mo- 
ther, drowsily — for  the  stupor  of 
wine  lay  heavily  on  her. 

"  "Tis  useless,  madam — quite,  I  as- 
sure you  ! — money — money — money 
I  must  and  will  have  !"  said  her  son, 
striving  to  steady  himself  against  a 
chair. 

"  Why,  Harry,  dear ! — where's  the 
fifty  pounds  I  gave  you  a  cheque  for 
only  a  day  or  two  ago  ?" 

"  Gone !  gone !  the  way  of  all 
money,  madam — as  you  know  pretty 
well !— I —  I  must  have  L.3GO  by  to- 
morrow  " 

"  Three  hundred  pounds,  Henry!" 
exclaimed  his  mother,  angrily. 

"  Yes,  ma'am  !  Sir  Charles  won't 
be  put  off  any  longer,  he  says.  Has 


my — my — word — '  good  as  my  bond 
— as  the  old  governor  says ! — Mo 
ther,"  he  continued  in  a  louder  tone 
flinging  his  hat  violently  on  the 
floor — "  I  must  and  WILL  have  mo 
ney !" 

"Henry — it's    disgraceful  —  infa 
mous — most  infamous  !"  exclaimec 
Miss  Dudleigh,  with  a  shocked  air 
and  raising  her  handkerchief  to  he 
eyes,  she  rose   from  the   sofa,  am 
walked  hurriedly  to  the  opposite  em 
of  the  room,  and  sat  down  in  tears 
Poor  girl !  what  a  mother !  what  a 
brother! — the  young  man  took  the 
place  she  had  occupied  by  her  mo- 
ther's side,  and  in  a  wheedling  coax- 
ing way,  threw  his  arm  round  Mrs 
Dudleigh,    b.iccuping  —  "  mother — 
give  me  a  cheque !  do,  please ! — 'tis 
the   last  time   I'll   ask   you — for  a 
twelvemonth  to  come  ! — and  I  owe 
L.500  that  must  be  paid  in  a  day  or 
two!" 

"  How  can  I,  Harry  ?— dear  Harry 
— don't  be  unreasonable !  recollect 
I'm  a  kind  mother  to  you,"  kissing 
him,  "  and  don't  distress  me,  for  I 
owe  three  or  four  times  as  much 
myself,  and  cannot  pay  it." 

"  Eh !  —  eh  !— cannot  pay  it  ? — 
stuff,  ma'am ! — why — is  the  bank  run 
dry  ?" — he  continued,  with  an  appre- 
hensive stare. 

"  Yes,  love — long  ago !" — replied 
his  mother,  with  a  sigh. 

"Whoo— whoo  !"— he  exclaimed; 
and  rising,  he  walked,  or  rather  stag- 
gered a  few  steps  to  and  fro,  as  if  at- 
tempting to  collect  his  faculties— and 
think  !— 

"  Ah— ha,  ha!— eureka,  ma'am!" 
he  exclaimed  suddenly  after  a  pause, 
snapping  his  fingers — "I've  got  it — 
I  have!— the  PLATE,  mother,— the 
plate  ! — hem  !  raising  the  wind — you 
understand  me  !" 

"  Oh  !  shocking,  shocking!" — sob- 
bed Miss  Dudleigh,  hurrying  towards 
them,  wringing  her  hands  bitterly— 
"oh  mother!  oh  Henry,  Henry! 
would  you  ruin  my  poor  father,  and 
break  his  heart  ?" 

"  Ah,   the  plate,  mother!  —  the 

Klate!" — he  continued,  addressing 
is  mother — then  turning  to  his  sis- 
ter— "  away,  you  little  puss — puss ! 
— what  do  you  understand  about 
business,  eh  ?'' — and  he  attempted  to 
kiss  her— but  she  thrust  him  away 
with  indignation  and  horror  in  her 
gestures. 


Passages  from  ike  Diary  of  a  lite  Physician. 


"Come,  mother! — will  it  do! — a 

lucky  thought !  the  plate ! — Mr 

is  a  rare  hand  at  this  kind  of  thing! 
— a  thousand  or  two  would  set  you 
and  me  to  rights  in  a  twinkling! — . 
come,  what  say  you  ?" 

"  Impossible,  Harry !"  —  replied 
his  mother,  turning  pale, — "'tis  quite 
—'tis — 'tis — out  of  the  question  !" 

"  Pho  !  no  such  thing! — It  mustbc 
done !  —  why  cannot  it,  ma'am  ?" 
enquired  the  young  man  earnestly. 
"  Why,  because — if  you  must  know, 
sirrah !  —  because  it  is  ALREADY 
pawned !" — replied  his  mother,  in  a 
loud  voice,  shaking  her  hand  at  him 
with  passion.  Their  attention  was 
attracted  at  that  moment  towards  the 
door,  which  had  been  standing  a-jar 
— for  there  was  the  sound  of  some 
one  suddenly  fallen  down.  After  an 
instant's  pause,  they  all  three  walked 
to  the  door,  and  stood  gazing  horror- 
struck  at  the  prostrate  figure  of  Mr 
DUDLEIGII  ! 

He  had  been  standing  unperceived 
in  the  door-way — having  entered  the 
house  only  a  moment  or  two  after 
his  son — during  the  whole  of  the  dis- 
graceful scene  just  described,  almost 
petrified  with  grief,  amazement,  and 
horror — till  he  could  bear  it  no  long- 
er, and  fell  down  in  an  apoplectic  fit. 
He  had  but  that  evening  returned 
from  abroad,  exhausted  with  physi- 
cal fatigue,  and  dispirited  iu  mind — 
for  while  abroad,  he  had  made  a  most 
disastrous  move  in  the  foreign  funds, 
by  which  he  lost  upwards  of  sixty 
or  seventy  thousand  pounds  j  and 
his  negotiation  scheme  also  turned 
out  very  unfortunately,  and  left  him 
minus  nearly  as  much  more. — He 
had  hurried  home,  half  dead  Avith 
vexation  and  anxiety,  to  make  instant 
arrangements  for  meeting  the  most 
pressing  of  his  pecuniary  engage- 
ments in  England,  apprehensive, 
from  the  gloomy  tenor  of  his  agent's 
letters  to  him  while  abroad,  that  his 
affairs  were  falling  into  confusion. 
Oh  !  what  a  heart-breaking  scene 
had  he  to  encounter — instead  of  the 
comforts  and  welcome  of  home  ! 

This  incident  brought  me  again 
into  contact  with  this  devoted  family  ; 
for  I  was  summoned  by  the  distract- 
ed daughter  to  her  father's  bedside, 
which  I  found  surrounded  by  his  wife 
and  children.  The  shock  of  his  pre- 
sence had  completely  sobered  both 
mother  and  son,  who  hung  horror- 


69 

stricken  over  him,  on  each  side  of 
the  bed,  endeavouring  in  vain  to  re- 
call him  to  sensibility.  I  had  scarce 
entered  the  room,  before  Mrs  Dud- 
leigh  was  cairied  away  swooning 
in  the  arms  of  a  servant.  Mr  Dud- 
leigh  was  in  a  fit  of  apoplexy.  He 
lay  in  a  state  of  profound  stupor, 
breathing  stentoriously — more  like 
snorting.  I  had  him  raised  into  near- 
ly an  upright  position,  and  immedi- 
ately bled  him  largely  from  thejugu- 
lar  vein.  While  the  blood  was  flow- 
ing, my  attention  was  arrested  by  the 
appearance  of  young  Dudleigh  ;  who 
was  kneeling  down  by  the  bedside, 
his  hands  clasped  convulsively  to- 
gether, and  his  swollen  blood-shot 
eyes  fixed  on  his  father.  "  Father  ! 
father!  father!"  were  the  only  words 
he  uttered,  and  these  fell  quivering 
from  his  lips  unconsciously. — Miss 
Dudleigh,  who  had  stood  leaning 
against  the  bedpost  in  stupified  si- 
lence, and  pale  as  a  statue,  was  at 
length  too  faint  to  continue  any  long- 
er in  an  upright  posture,  and  was  led 
out  of  the  room.  . 

Here  was  misery !  Here  was  re- 
morse ! 

I  continued  with  my  patient  more 
than  an  hour,  and  was  gratified  at  find- 
ing that  there  was  every  appearance 
of  the  attack  proving  a  mild  and 
manageable  one.  I  prescribed  suit- 
able remedies,  and  left, — enjoining 
young  Dudleigh  not  to  quit  his  father 
for  a  moment,  but  to  watch  every 
breath  lie  drew.  He  hardly  seem- 
ed to  hear  me,  and  gazed  in  my 
face  vacantly  while  I  addressed  him. 
I  shook  him  gently,  and  repeated  my 
injunctions  ;  but  all  he  could  reply 
was — "  Oh — doctor — we  have  killed 
him  !" 

Before  leaving  the  house,  I  repaired 
to  the  chamber  where  Mrs  Dudleigh 
lay,  just  recovering  from  strong  hys- 
terics. I  \vasfilledwithastonishment, 
on  reflecting  upon  the  whole  scene  of 
that  evening ;  and,  in  particular,  on 
the  appearance  and  remorseful  ex- 
pressions of  young  Dudleigh.  What 
could  have  happened  ? — A  day  or 
two  afterwards,  Miss  Dudleigh,  with 
shame  and  reluctance,  communica- 
ted tome  the  chief  facts  above  stated ! 
Her  own  health  and  spirits  were 
manifestly  suffering  from  the  dis- 
tressing scenes  she  had  to  endure. 
She  told  me,  with  energy,  that  she 
could  bink  into  the  earth,  on  reflect" 


Passages  from,  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician, 


[July, 


ing  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  such 
a  mother,  the  sister  of  such  a  brother! 
[The  Diary  passes  hastily  over  a 
fortnight, — saying  merely  that  Mr 
Dudleigh  recovered  more  rapidly 
than  could  have  been  expected — and 
proceeds — ] 

Monday,  June,  18 — .    While  I  was 
sitting  beside  poor  Mr  Dudleigh,  this 
afternoon,  feeling  his  pulse,  and  put- 
ting questions  to  him,  which  he  was 
able  to  answer  with  tolerable  dis- 
tinctness, Miss  Dudleigh  came  and 
whispered   that   her   mother,  who, 
though  she  had  seen  her  husband 
frequently,  had  not  spoken  to  him, 
or  been  recognised  by  him  since  his 
illness — was  anxious  then  to  come 
in,  as  she  heard  that  he  was  perfect- 
ly sensible.     I  asked  him  if  he  had 
any  objection  to  see  her ;  and  he  re- 
plied, with  a  sigh, — "  No.    Let  her 
come  in,  and  see  what  she  has  brought 
me  to!"     In  a  few  minutes'  time 
she  was  in  the  room.    I  observed 
Mr  Dudleigh' s  eyes  directed  anxious- 
ly to  the  door  before  she  entered; 
and  the  instant  he  saw  her  pallid 
features,  and  the  languid  exhausted 
air  with  which  she  advanced  towards 
the  bed,  he  lifted  up  his  shaking 
hands,  and  beckoned  towards  her. 
His  eyes  filled  with  tears,  to  over- 
flowing— and  he  attempted  to  speak 
— but  in  vain.    She  tottered  to  his 
side,  and  fell  down  on  her  knees  j 
while  he  clasped  her  hands  in  his, 
kissed  her  affectionately,  and  both 
of  them  wept  like  children ;  as  did 
young  Dudleigh  and  his  sister.    That 
was  the  hour  of  full  forgiveness  and 
reconciliation  !     It  was   indeed    a 
touching  scene.    There  lay  the  deep- 
ly injured  father  and  husband,  his 
grey  hair  grown  long,  during  his  ab- 
sence on  the  continent,  and  his  ill- 
ness, combed  back  from  his  temples; 
his  pale  and  fallen  features  exhibit- 
ing deep  traces  of  the  anguish  he 
had  borne.      He  gave  one  hand  to 
his   son   and  daughter,   while    the 
other   continued    grasped    by  Mrs 
Dudleigh. 

"  Oh,  dear,  dear  husband  ! — Can 
you  forgive  us,  who  have  so  nearly 
broken  your  heart?" — she  sobbed, 
kissing  his  forehead.  He  strove  to 
reply,  but  burst  into  tears  without 
being  able  to  utter  a  word.  Fearful 
that  the  prolonged  excitement  of  such 
au  interview  might  prove  injurious, 
I  gave  Mrs  Dudleigh  a  hint  to  with- 


draw— and  left  the  room  with  her. 
She  had  scarcely  descended  the 
staircase,  when  she  suddenly  seized 
my  arm,  stared  me  full  in  the  face, 
and  burst  into  a  fit  of  loud  and  wild 
laughter.  I  carried  her  into  the  first 
room  I  could  find,  and  gave  her  all 
the  assistance  in  my  power.  It  was 
long,  however,  before  she  recovered. 
She  continually  exclaimed — "  Oh, 
what  a  wretch  I've  been !  What  a 
vile  wretch  I've  been  ! — and  he  so 
kind  and  forgiving,  too  !" 

As  soon  as  Mr  Dudleigh  was  suf- 
ficiently recovered  to  leave  his  bed- 
room— contrary  to  my  vehemently 
expressed  opinion — he  entered  at 
once  on  the  active  management  of 
his  affairs.  It  is  easy  to  conceive  how 
business  of  such  an  extensive  and 
complicated  character  as  his,  must 
have  suffered  from  so  long  an  inter- 
mission of  his  personal  superintend- 
ence— especially  at  such  a  critical 
conjuncture.  Though  his  head-clerk 
was  an  able  and  faithful  man,  he  was 
not  at  all  equal  to  the  overwhelming 
task  which  devolved  upon  him;  and 
when  Mr  Dudleigh,  the  first  day  of 
his  coming  down  stairs,  sent  for  him, 
in  order  to  learn  the  general  aspect 
of  his  affairs,  he  wrung  his  hands  des- 
pairingly, to  find  the  lamentable  con- 
fusion into  which  they  had  fallen. 
The  first  step  to  be  taken,  was  the 
discovery  of  funds  wherewith  to 
meet  some  heavy  demands  which 
had  been  for  some  time  clamorously 
asserted.  What,  however,  was  to  be 
done  ?  His  unfortunate  speculations 
in  the  foreign  funds  had  made  sad 
havoc  of  his  floating  capital,  and  fur- 
ther fluctuations  in  the  English  funds 
during  his  illness  had  added  to  his 
losses.  As  far  as  ready  money  went, 
therefore,  he  was  comparatively  pen- 
niless. All  his  resources  were  so 
locked  up,  as  to  be  promptly  available 
only  at  ruinous  sacrifices ;  and  yet  he 
must  procure  many  thousands  within 
a  few  days — or  he  trembled  to  con- 
template the  consequences. 

"  Call  in  the  money  I  advanced  on 
mortgage  of  my  Lord  's  pro- 
perty," said  he. 

"  We  shall  lose  a  third,  sir,  of  what 
we  advanced,  if  we  do,"  replied  the 
clerk. 

"  Can't  help  it,  sir — must  have 
money — and  that  instantly — call  it 
in,  sir."  The  clerk,  with  a  sigh,  en- 
tered his  orders  accordingly. 


1831.] 


Passages  from  the.  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


71 


"  Ah—let  me  see.  Sell  all  my 
shares  in ." 

"  Allow  me  to  suggest,  sir,  that  if 
you  will  but  wait  two  months — or 
even  six  weeks  longer,  they  will  be 
worth  twenty  times  what  you  gave 
for  them ;  whereas  if  you  part  with 
them  at  present,  it  must  be  at  a  heavy 
discount." 

"  Must  have  money,  sir ! — must ! 
—write  it  down  too,"  replied  Mr 
Dudleigh,  sternly.  In  this  manner 
he  "  ticketed  out  his  property  for 
ruin,"  as  his  clerk  said — throughout 
the  interview.  His  demeanour  and 
spirit  were  altogether  changed ;  the 
first  was  become  stern  and  impera- 
tive, the  latter  rash  and  inconsiderate 
to  a  degree  which  none  would  credit 
who  had  known  his  former  mode  of 
conducting  business.  All  the  pru- 
dence and  energy  which  had  secured 
him  such  splendid  results,  seemed 
now  lost,  irrecoverably  lost.  Whether 
or  not  this  change  was  to  be  account- 
ed for  by  mental  imbecility  conse- 
quent on  his  recent  apoplectic  seizure 
— or  the  disgust  he  felt  at  toiling  in 
the  accumulation  of  wealth  which 
had  been  and  might  yet  be  so  profli- 
gately squandered,  I  know  not ;  but 
his  conduct  now  consisted  of  alter- 
nations between  the  extremes  of 
rashness  and  timorous  indecision. 
He  would  waver  and  hesitate  about 
the  outlay  of  hundreds,  when  every 
one  else — even  those  most  proverb- 
ially prudent  and  sober,  would  ven- 
ture their  thousands  with  an  almost 
absolute  certainty  of  tenfold  profits  ; 
— and  again  would  fling  away  thou- 
sands into  the  very  yawning  jaws  of 
villainy.  He  would  not  tolerate  re- 
monstrance or  expostulation ;  and 
when  any  one  ventured  to  hint  sur- 
prise or  dissatisfaction  at  the  conduct 
he  was  pursuing,  he  would  say  tartly 
"  that  he  had  reasons  of  his  own  for 
what  he  was  doing."  His  brother 
merchants  were  for  a  length  of  time 
puzzled  to  account  for  his  conduct. 
At  first  they  gave  him  credit  for 
playing  some  deep  and  desperate 
game,  and  trembled  at  his  hardihood; 
but  after  waiting  a  while,  and  per- 
ceiving no 

"  wondrous  Issue 

Leap  down  their  gaping  throats,  to  recom- 
pense 
Long  hours  of  patient  hope" 

they  came  to  the  conclusion,  that  as 


he  had  been  latterly  unfortunate,  and 
was  growing  old,  and  indisposed  to 
prolong  the  doubtful  cares  ot  money- 
making — he  had  determined  to  draw 
his  affairs  into  as  narrow  a  compass 
as  possible,  with  a  view  to  withdraw- 
ing altogether  from  active  life,  on  a 
handsome  independence.  Every  one 
commended  his  prudence  in  so  act- 
ing— in  "  letting  well  alone."  "  Easy 
come,  easy  go,"  is  an  old  saw,  but 
signally  characteristic  of  rapidly  ac- 
quired commercial  fortunes ;  and  by 
these,  and  similar  prudential  consi- 
derations, did  they  consider  Mr  Dud- 
leigh to  be  actuated.  This  latter  sup- 
position was  strengthened  by  observ- 
ing the  other  parts  of  his  conduct.  His 
domestic  arrangements  indicated  a 
spirit  of  rigorous  retrenchment.  His 
house  near  Richmond  was  adver- 
tised for  sale,  and  bought  "  out  and 
out"  by  a  man  who  had  grown  rich 
in  Mr  Dudleigh's  service.  Mrs  Dud- 
leigh gave,  received,  and  accepted 
fewer  and  fewer  invitations;  was  less 
seen  at  public  places;  and  drove  only 
one  plain  chariot.  Young  Dudleigh's 
allowance  at  Oxford  was  curtailed, 
and  narrowed  down  to  L.300  a-year ; 
and  he  was  forbidden  to  go  abroad, 
that  he  might  stay  at  home  to  prepare 
for — orders  !  There  was  nothing 
questionable,  or  alarming  in  all  this, 
even  to  the  most  forward  quidnuncs 
of  the  city.  The  world  that  had  bla- 
zoned and  lauded  his — or  rather  his 
family's  extravagance,  now  com- 
mended his  judicious  economy.  As 
for  himself  personally,  he  had  re- 
sumed his  pristine  clock-work  punc- 
tuality of  movements ;  and  the  only 
difference  to  be  perceived  in  his  be- 
haviour, was  an  air  of  unceasing 
thoughtfulness  and  reserve.  This 
was  accounted  for,  by  the  rumoured 
unhappiness  he  endured  in  his  fa- 
mily— for  which  Mrs  Dudleigh  was 
given  ample  credit.  And  then  his 
favourite — his  idolized  child — Miss 
Dudleigh — was  exhibiting  alarming 
symptoms  of  ill  health.  She  was  no- 
toriously neglected  by  her  young  and 
noble  suitor,  who  continued  abroad 
much  longer  than  the  period  he  had 
himself  fixed  on.  She  was  of  too  deli- 
cate and  sensitive  a  character,  to  bear 
with  indifference  the  impertinent  and 
cruel  speculations  which  this  occa- 
sioned in  "  society."  When  I  looked 
at  her — her  beauty,  her  amiable  and 
fascinating  manners — her  high  ao 


7- 

complishments — and,  in  many  con- 
versations, perceived  the  superior 
feelings  of  her  soul — it  was  with 
difficulty  I  brought  myself  to  believe 
that  she  was  the  offspring  of  such  a 
miserably  inferior  woman  as  her 
mother  !  To  return,  however,  to  Mr 
Dudleigh.  He  who  has  once  expe- 
rienced an  attack  of  apoplexy,  ought 
never  to  be  entirely  from  under  me- 
dical surveillance.  I  was  in  the  habit 
of  calling  upon  him  once  or  twice  a- 
week  to  ascertain  how  he  was  going 
on.  I  observed  a, great  change  in 
him.  Though  never  distinguished  by 
high  animal  spirits,  he  seemed  now 
under  the  influence  of  a  permanent 
and  increasing  melancholy.  When  I 
would  put  to  him  some  such  matter- 
of-fact  question  as — "  How  goes  the 
world  with  you  now,  Mr  Dudleigh  ?" 
he  would  reply  with  an  air  of  lassi- 
tude— "  Oh  —  as  it  ought !  as  it 
ought !"  He  ceased  to  speak  of  his 
mercantile  transactions  with  spirit  or 
energy ;  and  it  was  only  by  a  visible 
effort  that  he  dragged  himself  into 
the  city. 

When  a  man  is  once  on  the  inclined 
plane  of  life — once  fairly  "going  down 
hill,"  one  push  will  do  as  much  as 
fifty ;  and  such  an  one  poor  Mr  Dud- 
leigh was  not  long  in  receiving.  Ru- 
mours were  already  flying  about,  that 
his  credit  had  no  more  substantial 
support  than  paper  props ;  in  other 
words,  that  he  was  obliged  to  resort 
to  accommodation-bills  to  meet  his 
engagements.  When  once  such  re- 
ports are  current  and  accredited,  I 
need  hardly  say  that  it  is  "  all  up"  with 
a  man,  in  the  city.  And  ought  it  not 
to  be  so  ?  I  observed,  a  little  while 
ago,  that  Mr  Dudleigh,  since  his  ill- 
ness, conducted  his  affairs  very  dif- 
ferently from  what  he  had  formerly. 
He  would  freight  his  vessels  with 
unmarketable  cargoes — in  spite  of  all 
the  representations  of  his  servants 
and  friends;  and  when  his  advices 
confirmed  the  truth  of  their  surmises, 
he  would  order  the  goods  to  be  sold 
off — frequently  at  a  fifth  or  eighth 
of  their  value.  These,  and  many 
similar  freaks,  becoming  generally 
known,  soon  alienated  from  him  the 
confidence  even  of  his  oldest  con- 
nexions ;  credit  was  given  him  re- 
luctantly, and  then  only  to  a  small 
extent — and  sometimes  even  point 
blank  refused !  He  bore  all  this  with 
apparent  calmness,  observing  simply 


s  f i  uni  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


[July 


that  "  times  were  altered !"  Still  he 
had  a  corps  de  reserve  in  his  favour- 
ite investiture — mortgages:  a  species 
of  security  in  which  he  had  long  had 
locked  up  some  forty  or  fifty  thou- 
sand pounds.  Anxious  to  assign  a 
mortgage  for  L.I 5,000,  he  had  at  last 
succeeded  in  finding  an  assignee  on 
advantageous  terms,  whose  solicitor, 
after  carefully  inspecting  the  deed, 
pronounced  it  so  much  waste  paper, 
owing  to  some  great  technical  flaw, 
or  informality,  which  vitiated  the 
whole !  Poor  Mr  Dudleigh  hurried 
with  consternation  to  his  attorney ; 
who,  after  a  long  shew  of  incredulity, 
at  last  acknowledged  the  existence 
of  the  defect !  Under  his  advice,  Mr 
Dudleigh  instantly  wrote  to  the  par- 
ty whose  property  was  mortgaged, 
frankly  informing  him  of  the  circum- 
stances, and  appealing  to  his  "  ho- 
nour and  good  feeling."  He  might 
as  well  have  appealed  to  the  winds ! 
for  he  received  a  reply  from  the 
mortgager's  attorney,  stating  simply, 
that  "  his  client  was  prepared  to 
stand  or  fall  by  the  deed,  and  so,  of 
course,  must  the  mortgager!"  What 
was  Mr  Dudleigh' s  further  dismay  at 
finding,  on  further  examination,  that 
every  mortgage  transaction,  except 
one  for  L.1500,  which  had  been  in- 
trusted to  the  management  of  the 
same  attorney,  was  equally,  or  even 
more  invalid  than  the  one  above 
mentioned  ! — Two  of  the  heaviest 
proved  to  be  worthless,  as  second 
mortgages  of  the  same  property,  and 
all  the  remainder  were  invalid,  on 
account  of  divers  defects  and  infor- 
malities. It  turned  out  that  Mr  Dud- 
leigh had  been  in  the  hands  of  a 
swindler,  who  had  intentionally  com- 
mitted the  draft  error,  and  colluded 
with  his  principal,  to  outwit  his  un- 
suspecting client  Mr  Dudleigh,  in  the 
matter  of  the  double  mortgages  !  Mr 
Dudleigh  instantly  commenced  ac- 
tions against  the  first  mortgager,  to 
recover  the  money  he  had  advanced 
in  spite  of  the  flaw  in  the  mortgage- 
deed,  and  against  the  attorney  through 
whose  villainy  he  had  suffered  so  se- 
verely. In  the  former,  which  of 
course  decided  the  fate  of  the  re- 
maining mortgages  similarly  situated 
— he  failed ;  in  the  latter,  he  suc- 
ceeded— as  far  as  the  bare  gaining  of 
a  verdict  could  be  so  considered ; 
but  the  attorney,  exasperated  at  be- 
ing brought  before  the  court  and  ex." 


1831.] 


Passages  ft  om  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


73 


posed  by  his  client,  defended  the  ac- 
tion in  such  a  manner  as  did  himself 
no  good,  at  the  same  time  that  it 
nearly  ruined  the  poor  plaintiff;  for 
he  raked  up  every  circumstance  that 
had  come  to  his  knowledge  profes- 
sionally, during  the  course  of  several 
years'  confidential  connexion  with 
Mr  Dudleigh — and  which  could  pos- 
sibly be  tortured  into  a  disreputable 
shape  ;  and  gave  his  foul  brief  into 
the  hands  of  an  ambitious  young 
counsel,  who,  faithful  to  his  instruc- 
tions, and  eager  to  make  the  most  of 
BO  rich  an  opportunity  of  vituperative 
declamation,  contrived  so  to  black- 
en poor  Mr  Dudleigh's  character,  by 
cunning,  cruel  innuendoes,  asserting 
nothing,  but  suggesting  every  thing 
vile  and  atrocious  —  that  poor  Mr 
Dudleigh,  who  was  in  court  at  the 
time,  began  to  think  himself,  in  spite 
of  himself,  one  of  the  most  execrable 
scoundrels  in  existence — and  hurried 
home  in  a  paroxysm  of  rage,  agony, 
and  despair,  which,  but  for  my  being 
opportunely  sent  for  by  Mrs  Dud- 
leigh, and  bleeding  him  at  once,  must 
in  all  probability  have  induced  a  se- 
cond and  fatal  apoplectic  seizure. 
His  energies,  for  weeks  afterwards, 
lay  in  a  state  of  complete  stagnation  ; 
and  I  found  he  was  sinking  into  the 
condition  of  an  irrecoverable  hypo- 
chondriac. Every  thing,  from  that 
time,  went  wrong  with  him.  He 
made  no  provision  for  the  payment 
of  his  regular  debts ;  creditors  pre- 
cipitated their  claims  from  all  quar- 
ters ;  and  he  had  no  resources  to  fall 
back  upon  at  a  moment's  exigency. 
Some  of  the  more  forbearing  of  his 
creditors  kindly  consented  to  give 
him  time,  but  the  small  fry  pestered 
him  to  distraction;  and  at  last  one  of 
the  latter  class,  a  rude,  hard-hearted 
fellow,  cousin  to  the  attorney  whom 
Mr  Dudleigh  had  recently  prosecu- 
ted, on  receiving  the  requisite  "  de- 
nial," instantly  went  and  struck  the 
docket  against  his  unfortunate  debt- 
or, and  Mr  Dudleigh — the  celebrated 
Mr  Dudleigh  —  became  a — BANK- 
RUPT ! 

For  some  hours  after  he  had  re- 
ceived an  official  notification  of  the 
event,  he  seemed  completely  stun- 
ned. He  did  not  utter  a  syllable 
when  first  informed  of  it;  but  his 
face  assumed  a  ghastly  paleness.  He 
walked  to  and  fro  about  the  room — 
now  pausing — then  hurrying  on — 


then  pausing  again,  striking  his  hands 
on  his  forehead,  and  exclaiming  with 
an  abstracted  and  incredulous  air — . 
"  A  bankrupt!  a  bankrupt!  Henry 
Dudleigh  a  bankrupt  ?  What  are  they 
saying  on  'Change!"  —  In  subse- 
quently describing  to  me  his  feelings 
at  this  period,  he  said  he  felt  as 
though  he  had  "  fallen  into  his  grave 
for  an  hour  or  two,  and  come  out 
again  cold  and  stupified." 

While  he  was  in  this  state  of  mind, 
his  daughter  entered  the  room,  wan 
and  trembling  with  agitation. 

"  My  dear  little  love,  what's  wrong  ? 
What's  wrong,  eh  ?  What  has  dashed 
you,  my  sweet  flower,  eh  ?"  said  he, 
folding  her  in  his  arms,  and  hugging 
her  to  his  breast.  He  led  her  to  a 
seat,  and  placed  her  on  his  knee.  He 
passed  his  hand  over  her  pale  fore- 
head. "  What  have  you  been  about 
to-day,  Agnes  ?  You've  forgotten  to 
dress  your  hair  to-day,"  taking  her 
raven  tresses  in  his  fingers ;  "  Come, 
these  must  be  curled !  They  are  all 
damp,  love !  What  makes  you  cry  ?" 

"  My  dear,  dear,  dear  darling  fa- 
ther !"  sobbed  the  agonized  gin,  al- 
most choked  with  her  emotions — 
clasping  her  arms  convulsively  round 
his  neck,  "  I  love  you  dearer — a 
thousand  times — than  I  ever  loved 
you  in  my  life !" 

"  My  sweet  love  !"  he  exclaimed, 
bursting  into  tears.  Neither  of  them 
spoke  for  several  minutes. 

"  You  are  young,  Agnes,  and  may 
be  happy — but,  as  for  me,  I  am  an 
old  tree,  whose  roots  are  rotten!  The 
blasts  have  beaten  me  down,  my  dar- 
ling !"  She  clung  closer  to  him,  but 
spoke  not.  "  Agnes,  will  you  stay 
with  me,  now  that  I'm  made  a — a 
beggar?  Will  you  ?  lean  love  you 
yet — but  that's  all !"  said  he,  staring 
vacantly  at  her.  After  a  pause,  he 
suddenly  released  her  from  his  knee, 
rose  from  his  seat,  and  walked  hur- 
riedly about  the  room. 

"  Agnes,  love  !  Why,  is  it  true — is 
it  really  TRUE  that  I'm  made  a  bank- 
rupt of,  after  all  ?  And  is  it.  come  to 
that  ?"  He  resumed  his  seat,  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands,  and  wept  like 
a  child.  "  'Tis  for  you,  my  darling 
— for  my  family — my  children,  that 
I  grieve !  What  is  to  become  of  you?" 
Again  he  paused."  "  Well !  it  cannot 
be  helped — it  is  more  my  misfortune 
than  my  fault!  God  knows,  I've  tried 
to  pay  my  way  as  I  went  on — and— • 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


[July, 


and — no,  no !  it  doesn't  follow  that 
every  man  is  a  villain  that's  a  bank- 
rupt 1" 

"  No,  no,  no,  father !"  replied  his 
daughter,  again  flinging  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  and  kissing  him  with 
passionate  fondness,  "  Your  honour 
is  untouched — it  is" — 

"  Aye,  love — but  to  make  the  world 
think  so —  There's  the  rub  !  What  has 
been  said  on  'Change  to-day,  Agnes  ? 
That's  what  hurts  me  to  my  soul!" 

*  *  "  Come,  father,  be  calm I 
We  shall  yet  be  happy  and  quiet, 
after  this  little  breeze  has  blown 
over !  Oh  yes,  yes,  father !  We  will 
remove  to  a  nice  little  comfortable 
house,  and  live  among  ourselves  !" 

"  But,  Agnes,  can  YOU  do  all  this  ? 
Can  you  make  up  your  mind  to  live 
in  a  lower  rank — to — to — to  be,  in  a 
manner,  your  own  servant  ?" 

"  Yes,  God  knows,  I  can !  Father, 
I'd  rather  be  your  servant  girl,  than 
wife  of  the  king  I"  replied  the  poor 
girl,  with  enthusiasm. 

"  Oh,  my  daughter ! — Come,  come 
let  us  go  into  the  next  room,  and 
do  you  play  me  my  old  favourite— 
*  O  Nanny,  wilt  thou  gang  wi'  me.' 
You'll  feel  it,  Agnes !"  He  led  her 
into  the  adjoining  room,  and  set  her 
down  at  the  instrument,  and  stood 
by  her  side. 

"  We  must  not  part  with  this  piano, 
my  love, — must  we  ?"  said  he,  put- 
ting his  arms  round  her  neck,  "  we'll 
try  and  have  it  saved  from  the  wreck 
of  our  furniture !"  She  commenced 
playing  the  tune  he  had  requested, 
and  went  through  it 

"  Sing,  love — sing !"  said  her  fa- 
ther. "  I  love  the  words  as  much  as 
the  music !  Would  you  cheat  me, 
you  little  rogue  ?"  She  made  him  no 
reply,  but  went  on  playing,  very 
irregularly  however. 

"  Come !  you  must  sing,  Agnes." 

"  I  can't !  she  murmured.  "  My 
heart  is  breaking !  My — my — bro — " 
and  fell  fainting  into  the  arms  of  her 
father.  He  rung  instantly  for  assist- 
ance. In  carrying  her  from  the  music 
stool  to  the  sofa,  an  open  letter  drop- 
ped from  her  bosom.  Mr  Dudleigh 
hastily  picked  it  up,  and  eaw  that  the 
direction  was  in  the  handwriting  of 
his  son,  and  bore  the  "  Wapping" 
post-mark.  The  stunning  contents 
were  as  follow : — "  My  dear,  dear, 
dear  Agnes,  farewell!  it  may  be 
for  ever!  I  fly  from  my  country! 


While  you  are  reading  this  note,  I 
am  on  my  way  to  America.  Do  not 
call  me  cruel,  my  sweet  sister,  for 
my  heart  is  broken  !  broken !  Yes- 
terday, near  Oxford,  I  fought  with  a 
man  who  dared  to  insult  me  about 
our  family  troubles.  I  am  afraid — 
God  forgive  me — that  I  have  killed 
him!  Agnes,  Agnes, the  blood-hounds 
are  after  me !  Even  were  they  not, 
I  could  not  bear  to  look  on  my  poor 
father,  whom  I  have  helped  to  ruin, 
under  the  encouragement  of  ONE 
who  might  have  bred  me  better !  I 
cannot  stay  in  England,  for  I  have 
lost  my  station  in  society;  I  owe 
thousands  I  can  never  repay ;  be- 
sides— Agnes,  Agnes !  the  blood- 
hounds are  after  me !  I  scarce  know 
what  I  am  saying  !  Break  all  this  to 
my  father — my  wretched  father — as 
gradually  as  you  can.  Do  not  let  him 
know  of  it  for  a  fortnight,  at  least. 
May  God  be  your  friend,  my  dear 
Agnes !  Pray  for  me  I  pray  for  me, 
my  darling  Agnes,  yes,  for  nie,  your 
wretched,  guilty,  heart-broken  bro- 
ther. H.  D."  ' 

"  Ah  I  he  might  have  done  worse  I 
he  might  have  done  worse,"  exclaim- 
ed the  stupified  father.  "  Well,  I 
must  think  about  it !"  and  he  calmly 
folded  up  the  letter,  to  put  it  into 
his  pocketbook,  when  his  daughter's 
eye  caught  sight  of  it,  for  she  had  re- 
covered from  her  swoon  while  he 
was  reading  it;  and  with  a  faint 
shriek,  and  a  frantic  effort  to  snatch 
it  from  him,  she  fell  back,  and  swoon- 
ed again.  Even  all  this  did  not  rouse 
Mr  Dudleigh.  He  sat  still,  gazing 
on  his  daughter  with  a  vacant  stare, 
and  did  not  make  the  slightest  effort 
to  assist  her  recovery.  I  was  sum- 
moned in  to  attend  her,  for  she  was 
so  ill,  that  they  carried  her  up  to 
bed. 

Poor  girl,  poor  Agnes  Dudleigh  ! 
already  had  CONSUMPTION  marked 
her  for  his  own !  The  reader  may 
possibly  recollect,  that  in  a  previous 
part  of  this  narrative,  Miss  Dudleigh 
was  represented  to  be  affianced  to  a 
young  nobleman.  I  need  hardly,  I 
suppose,  inform  him  that  the  "  affair" 
was  "  all  off,"  as  soon  as  ever  Lord 
— —  heard  of  her  fallen  fortunes. 
To  do  him  justice,  he  behaved  in  the 
business  with  perfect  politeness  and 
condescension;  wrote  to  her  from 
Italy,  carefully  returning  her  all  her 
letters ;  spoke  of  her  admirable  qua- 


1831.1 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


lities,  in  the  handsomest  strain ;  and, 
in  choice  and  feeling  language,  re- 
gretted the  altered  state  or  his  affec- 
tions, and  that  the  "  fates  had  ordain- 
ed their  separation."  A  few  months 
afterwards,  the  estranged  couple  met 
casually  in  Hyde  Park,  and  Lord 
«— —  passed  Miss  Dudleigh  with  a 
strange  stare  of  irrecognition,  that 
showed  the  advances  he  had  made 
in  the  command  of  manner !  She  had 
been  really  attached  to  him,  for  he 
was  a  young  man  of  handsome  ap- 
pearance, and  elegant,  winning  man- 
ners. The  only  things  he  wanted 
were  a  head  and  a  heart !  This  cir- 
cumstance, added  to  the  perpetual 
harassment  of  domestic  sorrows,  had 
completely  undermined  her  delicate 
constitution ;  and  her  brother's  con- 
duct prostrated  the  few  remaining 
energies  that  were  left  her. 

But  Mrs  Dudleigh  has  latterly  slip- 
ped from  our  observation.  I  have 
little  more  to  say  about  her.  Aware 
that  her  own  infamous  conduct  had 
conduced  to  her  husband's  ruin,  she 
had  resigned  herself  to  the  incessant 
lashings  of  remorse,  and  was  wast- 
ing away  daily.  Her  excesses  had 
long  before  sapped  her  constitution  ; 
and  she  was  now  little  else  than  a 
walking  skeleton.  She  sate  moping 
in  her  bedroom  for  hours  together, 
taking  little  or  no  notice  of  what 
happened  about  her,  and  manifesting 
no  interest  in  life.  When,  however, 
she  heard  of  her  son's  fate — the  only 
person  on  earth  she  really  loved— 
the  intelligence  smote  her  finally 
down.  She  never  recovered  from 
the  stroke.  The  only  words  she 
uttered,  after  hearing  of  his  depart- 
ure for  America,  were  "  wretched 
woman  !  guilty  mother !  I  have  done 
it  all !"  The  serious  illness  of  her 
poor  daughter  affected  her  scarce  at 
all.  She  would  sit  at  her  bedside, 
and  pay  her  every  attention  in  her 
power,  but  it  was  rather  in  the  spirit 
and  manner  of  a  hired  nurse  than  a 
mother. 

To  return,  however,  to  the  "  chief 
mourner" — Mr  Dudleigh.  The  attor- 
ney, whom  he  had  sued  for  his  vil- 
lainy in  the  mortgage  transactions, 
contrived  to  get  appointed  solicitor 
to  the  commission  of  bankruptcy 
sued  out  against  Mr  Dudleigh ;  and 
he  enhanced  the  bitterness  and  agony 
incident  to  the  judicial  proceedings 


73 

he  was  employed  to  conduct,  by  the 
cruelty  and  insolence  of  his  demea- 
nour. He  would  not  allow  the  slight- 
est indulgence  to  the  poor  bankrupt, 
whom  he  was  selling  out  of  house 
and  home ;  but  remorselessly  seized 
on  every  atom  of  goods  and  furni- 
ture the  law  allowed  him,  and  put 
the  heart-broken  helpless  family  to 
all  the  inconvenience  his  malice 
could  suggest.  His  conduct  was, 
throughout,  mean,  tyrannical — even 
diabolical,  in  its  contemptuous  dis- 
regard of  the  best  feelings  of  human 
nature.  MrDudleigh's  energies  were 
too  much  exhausted  to  admit  of  re- 
monstrance or  resistance.  The  only 
evidence  he  gave  of  smarting  under 
the  man's  insolence,  was,  after  en- 
during an  outrageous  violation  of  his 
domestic  privacy — a  cruel  interfe- 
rence with  the  few  conveniences  of 
his  dying  daughter,  and  sick  wife—- 
when he  suddenly  touched  the  at- 
torney's arm,  ana  in  a  low  broken 

tone  of  voice,  said,  "  Mr ,  I  am  a 

poor  heart-broken  man,  and  have  no 
one  to  avenge  me,  or  you  would  not 
dare  to  do  this"  —  and  he  turned 
away  in  tears  ! — The  house  and  fur- 
niture in  Square,  with  every 

other  item  of  property  that  was  avail- 
able, being  disposed  of,  on  wind- 
ing up  the  affairs,  it  proved  that  the 
creditors  could  obtain  a  dividend  of 
about  fifteen  shillings  in  the  pound. 
So  convinced  were  they  of  the  un- 
impeached — the  unimpeachable  in- 
tegrity of  the  poor  bankrupt,  that 
they  not  only  spontaneously  released 
him  from  all  future  claims,  but  en- 
tered into  a  subscription  amounting 
to  L.2000,  which  they  put  into  his 
hands,  for  the  purpose  of  enabling 
him  to  recommence  housekeeping, 
on  a  small  scale — and  obtain  some 
permanent  means  of  livelihood.  Un- 
der their  advice — or  rather  direc- 
tion, for  he  was  passive  as  an  in- 
fant— he  removed  to  a  small  house  in 
Chelsea,  and  commenced  business 
as  a  coal-merchant,  or  agent  for  the 
sale  of  coals,  in  a  small  and  poor  way, 
it  may  be  supposed.  His  new  house 
was  very  small,  but  neat,  convenient, 
and  situated  in  a  quiet  and  credit- 
able street.  Yes,  in  a  little  one- 
storied  house,  with  about  eight 
square  feet  of  garden-frontage,  re- 
sided the  once  wealthy  and  cele-« 
brated  Mr  Dudleigh  { 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


[July, 


The  very  first  morning  after  Mrs 
Dudleigh  had  been  removed  to  her 
new  quarters,  she  was  found  dead  in 
her  bed  :  for  the  fatigues  of  changing 
her  residence,  added  to  the  remorse 
and  chagrin  which  had  so  long  prey- 
ed upon  her  mind,  had  extinguished 
the  last  spark  of  her  vital  energies. 
When  I  saw  her,  which  was  not  till 
the  evening  of  the  second  day  after 
her  decease,  she  was  lying  in  her 
coffin;  and  I  shall  not  soon  forget 
the  train  of  instructive  reflections 
elicited  by  the  spectacle.  Poor  crea- 
ture— her  features  looked  indeed 
haggard  and  grief- worn  ! — Mr  Dud- 
leigh wept  over  her  remains  like  a 
child,  and  kissed  the  cold  lips  and 
hands,  with  the  liveliest  transports 
of  regret.  At  length  came  the  day 
of  the  funeral,  as  plain  and  unpre- 
tending an  one  as  could  be.  At  the 
Rressing  solicitations  of  Mr  Dud- 
;igh,  1  attended  her  remains  to  the 
grave.  It  was  an  affecting  thought, 
that  the  daughter  was  left  dying  in 
the  house  from  which  her  mother 
was  carried  out  to  burial !  Mr  Dud- 
leigh went  through  the  whole  of  the 
melancholy  ceremony  with  a  calm- 
ness— and  even  cheerfulness — which 
surprised  me.  He  did  not  betray  any 
emotion  when  leaving  the  ground; 
except  turning  to  look  into  the  grave, 
and  exclaiming  rather  faintly — "  Well 
— here  we  leave  you,  poor  wife !" 
On  our  return  home,  about  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  he  begged 
to  be  left  alone  for  a  few  minutes, 
with  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  as  he  had 
some  important  letters  to  write — and 
requested  me  to  wait  for  him,  in 
Miss  Dudleigh's  room,  where  he 
would  rejoin  me,  and  accompany 
me  part  of  my  way  up  to  town.  I 
repaired,  therefore,  to  Miss  Dud- 
leigh's chamber.  She  was  sitting 
up,  and  dressed  in  mourning.  The 
marble  paleness  of  her  even  then 
beautiful  features,  was  greatly  en- 
hanced by  contrast  with  the  deep 
black  drapery  she  wore.  She  re- 
minded me  of  the  snowdrop  she  had 
an  hour  or  two  before  laid  on  the  pall 
of  her  mother's  coffin !  Her  beauty 
was  fast  withering  away  under  the 
blighting  influence  of  sorrow  and  dis- 
ease !  She  reclined  in  an  easy-chair, 
her  head  leaning  on  her  small  snowy 
hand,  the  taper  fingers  of  which  were 
half-concealed  beneath  her  dark  clus- 
tering, uncurled  tresses— 


"  Like  a  white  rose,  glistening  'mid 

evening  gloom." 

"  How  did  he  bear  it?"  she  whis- 
pered, with  a  profound  sigh,  as  soon 
as  I  had  taken  my  place  beside  her. 
I  told  her  that  he  had  gone  through 
the  whole  with  more  calmness  and 
fortitude  than  could  have  been  ex- 
pected. "Ah! — 'Tis  unnatural!  He's 
grown  strangely  altered  within  these 
last  few  days,  Doctor  !  He  never 
seems  to  feel  any  thing!  His  troubles 
have  stunned  his  heart,  I'm  afraid ! 
— Don't  you  think  he  looks  altered?" 

"  Yes,  my  love,  he  is  thinner,  cer- 
tainly— " 

"  Ah — his  hair  is  white  ! — He  is 
old — he  won't  be  long  behind  us  !" 

"  I  hope  that  now  he  is  freed  from 
the  cares  and  distractions  of  busi- 
ness— " 

"  Doctor,  is  the  grave  deep  enough 
for  THREE  ?"  enquired  the  poor  girl, 
abruptly, — as  if  she  had  not  heard 
me  speaking.  "  Our  family  has  been 
strangely  desolated,  Doctor — has  not 
it  ? — My  mother  gone ;  the  daughter 
on  her  deathbed ;  the  father  wretch- 
ed, and  ruined ;  the  son — flown  from 
his  country — perhaps  dead,  or  dy- 
ing ! — But  it  has  all  been  our  own 
fault—" 

"  You  have  nothing  to  accuse  your- 
self of,  Miss  Dudleigh,"  said  I.  She 
shook  her  head,  and  burst  into  tears. 
This  was  the  melancholy  vein  of 
our  conversation,  when  Mr  Dudleigh 
made  his  appearance,  in  his  black 
gloves,  and  crape-covered  hat,  hold- 
ing two  letters  in  his  hand. 

"  Come,  Doctor,"  said  he,  rather 
briskly — "  you've  a  long  walk  before 
you  ! — I'll  accompany  you  part  of 
the  way,  as  I  have  some  letters  to 
put  into  the  post." 

"  Ob,  don't  trouble  yourself  about 
that,  Mr  Dudleigh  ! — I'll  put  them 
into  the  post,  as  I  go  by." 

"No,  no — thank  you — thank  you" — 
he  interrupted  me,with  rather  an  em- 
barrassed air,  I  thought — "  I've  seve- 
ral other  little  matters  to  do — and 
we  had  better  be  starting."  I  rose, 
and  took  my  leave  of  Miss  Dudleigh. 
Her  father  put  his  arms  round  her 
neck,  and  kissed  her  very  fondly. 
"  Keep  up  your  spirits,  Agnes ! — 
and  see  and  get  into  bed  as  soon  as 
possible — for  you  are  quite  exhaust- 
ed !" — He  walked  towards  the  door. 
"  Oh,bless  your  little  heart, my  love !" 
— said  he,  suddenly  returning  to  her,. 


1831.]  Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician 


and  kissing  her  more  fondly,  if  pos- 
sible, than  before.  "  We  shall  not 
be  apart  long,  I  dare  say  !" 

We  set  off  on  our  walk  towards 
town ;  and  Mr  Dudleigh  conversed 
with  great  calmness,  speaking  of  his 
affairs,  even  in  an  encouraging  tone. 
At  length  we  separated.  "  Remem- 
ber me  kindly  to  Mrs ,"  said  he, 

mentioning  my  wife's  name,  and 
shaking  me  Avarmly  by  the  hand. 

The  next  morning,  as  I  sate  at 
breakfast,  making  out  my  daily  list, 
my  wife,  who  had  one  or  the  morn- 
ing papers  in  her  hand,  suddenly  let 
it  fall,  and  looking  palely  at  me,  ex- 
claimed—" Eh,  surely — surely,  my 
dear,  this  can  never  be — Mr  Dud- 
leigh !" — I  enquired  what  she  meant, 
— and  she  pointed  out  the  following 
paragraph : — 

"  ATTEMPTED  SUICIDE. — Yesterday 
evening,  an  elderly  gentleman,  dress- 
ed in  deep  mourning,  was  observed 
walking  for  some  time  near  the  water 
side,  a  little  above  Chelsea-Reach, 
and  presently  stepped  on  board  one 
of  the  barges,  and  threw  himself 
from  the  outer  one  into  the  river. 
Most  providentially  this  latter  move- 
ment was  seen  by  a  boatman  who 
was  rowing  past,  and  who  succeed- 
ed, after  some  minutes,  in  seizing 
hold  of  the  unfortunate  person,  and 
lifting  him  into  the  boat — but  not 
till  the  vital  spark  seemed  extinct. 
He  was  immediately  carried  to  the 
public-house  by  the  water-side, 
where  prompt  and  judicious  means 
were  made  use  of— and  with  suc- 
cess. He  is  now  lying  at  the 

public-house, — but  as  there 

Avere  no  papers  or  cards  about  him, 
his  name  is  at  present  unknown.  The 
unfortunate  gentleman  is  of  middling 
stature,  rather  full  make — of  advan- 
ced years — his  hair  very  grey, — and 
he  wears  a  mourning  ring  on  his  left 
hand." 

I  rung  the  bell,  ordered  a  coach, 
drew  on  my  boots,  and  put  on  my 
walking-dress;  and  in  a  little  more 
than  three  or  four  minutes  was  hurry- 
ing on  my  way  to  the  house  men- 
tioned in  the  newspaper.  A  two- 
penny post-man  had  the  knocker  in 
his  hand  at  the  moment  of  my  open- 
ing the  door,  and  put  into  my  hand  a 
paid  letter,  which  I  tore  open  as  I 
drove  along.  Good  God !  it  was  from 
— Mr  Dudleigh.  It  afforded  unequi- 
vocal evidence  of  the  insanity  which 


71 

had  led  him  to  attempt  his  life.  It 
was  written  in  a  most  extravagant 
and  incongruous  strain,  and  acquaint- 
ed me  with  the  writer's  intention  to 
"  bid  farewell  to  his  troubles  that 
evening."  It  ended  with  informing 
me,  that  I  was  left  a  legacy  in  his 
will  for  L.5000— and  hoping,  that 
when  his  poor  daughter  died,  "  I 
would  see  her  magnificently  buried." 
By  the  time  I  had  arrived  at  the 
house  where  he  lay,  I  was  almost 
fainting  with  agitation:  and  I  was 
compelled  to  wait  some  minutes  be- 
low, before  I  could  sufficiently  re- 
cover my  self-possession.  On  enter- 
ing the  bedroom  where  he  lay,  I 
found  him  undressed,  and  fast  asleep. 
There  was  no  appearance  whatever 
of  discomposure  in  the  features. 
His  hands  were  clasped  closely  to- 
gether— and  in  that  position  he  had 
continued  for  several  hours.  The 
medical  man  who  had  been  sum- 
moned in  over-night,  sate  at  his  bed- 
side, and  informed  me  that  his  pa- 
tient was  going  on  as  well  as  could 
be  expected.  The  treatment  he  had 
adopted,  had  been  very  judicious 
and  successful ;  and  I  had  no  doubt, 
that  when  next  Mr  Dudleigh  awoke, 
he  would  feel  little  if  any  the  worse 
for  what  he  had  suffered.  All  my 
thoughts  were  now  directed  to  Miss 
Dudleigh  j  for  I  felt  sure  that  if  the 
intelligence  had  found  its  way  to  her, 
it  must  have  destroyed  her.  I  ran 
every  inch  of  the  distance  between 
the  two  houses,  and  knocked  gently 
at  the  door  with  my  knuckles,  that  I 
might  not  disturb  Miss  Dudleigh. 
The  servant  girl,  seeing  my  discom- 
posed appearance,  would  have  creat- 
ed a  disturbance,  by  shrieking,  or 
making  some  other  noise,  had  I  not 
placed  my  fingers  on  her  mouth,  and 
in  a  whisper,  asked  how  her  mistress 
was  ?  "  Master  went  home  with  you, 
sir,  did  not  he  ?" — she  enquired  with 
an  alarmed  air. 

"  Yes— yes" — I  replied  hastily. 

"  Oh,  I  told  Miss  so !  I  told  her 
so  !"  , replied  the  girl,  clasping  her 
hands,  and  breathing  freer. 

"  Oh,  she  has  been  uneasy  about 
his  notcominghome  last  night — eh? 
— Ah — I  thought  so,  this  morning, 
and  that  is  what  has  Brought  me  here 
in  such  a  hurry,"  said  I,  as  calmly  as 
I  could.  After  waiting  down  stairs 
to  recover  my  breath  a  little,  I  repair- 
ed to  Miss  Dudleigh's  room.  She 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


73 

was  awake.  The  moment  I  entered, 
she  started  up  in  bed, — her  eyes 
straining,  and  her  arms  stretched  to- 
wards me. 

"  My— my— father!" she  gasp- 
ed ;  and  before  I  could  open  my  lips, 
or  even  reach  her  side,  she  had  fallen 
back  in  bed,  and — as  I  thought — ex- 
pired. She  had  swooned :  and  during 
the  whole  course  of  my  experience, 
I  never  saw  a  swoon  so  long  and 
closely  resemble  death.  For  more 
than  an  hour,  the  nurse,  servant-girl, 
and  I  hung  over  her  in  agonizing  and 
breathless  suspense,  striving  to  de- 
tect her  breath — which  made  no  im- 
pression whatever  on  the  glass  I 
from  time  to  time  held  over  her 
mouth.  Her  pulse  fluttered  and 
fluttered — feebler  and  feebler,  till  I 
could  not  perceive  that  it  beat  at  all. 
"  Well!"  thought  I,  at  last  removing 
my  fingers, — "  you  are  gone,  sweet 
Agnes  Dudleigh,  from  a  world  that 
has  but  few  as  fair  and  good" — when 
a  slight  undulation  of  the  breast, 
accompanied  by  a  faint  sigh,  Indi- 
cated slowly-returning  conscious- 
ness. Her  breath  came  again,  short 
and  faint — but  she  did  not  open  her 
eyes  for  some  time  after.  *  *  * 

"  Well,  my  sweet  girl,"  said  I, 
presently  observing  her  eyes  fixed 
steadfastly  on  me ;  "  why  all  this  ? 
What  has  happened?  What  is  the 
matter  with  you?"  and  I  clasped 
her  cold  fingers  in  my  hand.  By 
placing  my  ear  so  close  to  her  lips 
that  it  touched  them,  I  distinguished 
the  sound—"  My  fa— father  !" 

"  Well  I  And  what  of  your  fa- 
ther ?  He  is  just  as  usual,  and  sends 
his  love  to  you."  Her  eyes,  as  it 
were,  dilated  on  me — her  breath 
came  quicker  and  stronger — and  her 
frame  vibrated  with  emotion.  "  He 
is  coming  home  shortly,  by — by— 
four  o'clock  this  afternoon — yes,  four 
o'clock  at  the  latest.  Thinking  that 
a  change  of  scene  might  revive  his 
spirits,  I  prevailed  on  him  last  night 
to  walk  on  with  me  home — and — and 
he  elept  at  my  house."  She  did  not 
attempt  to  speak,  but  her  eye  con- 
tinued fixed  on  me  with  an  unwa- 
vering look  that  searched  my  very 
•soul !  "  My  wife  and  Mr  Dudleigh 
will  drive  clown  together,"  I  conti- 
nued, firmly,  though  my  heart  sunk 
within  me  at  the  thought  of  the  im- 
probability of  such  being  the  case ; 
"  and  I  shall  return  here  by  the  time 


[July, 


they  arrive,  and  meet  them.  Come, 
come,  Miss  Dudleigh — this  is  weak 
— absurd !"  said  I,  observing  that 
what  I  said  seemed  to  make  no  im- 
pression on  her.  I  ordered  some 
port  wine  and  water  to  be  brought, 
and  forced  a  few  tea-spoonfuls  into 
her  mouth.  They  revived  her,  and 
1  gave  her  more.  In  a  word,  she  ra- 
pidly recovered  from  the  state  of  ut- 
termost exhaustion  into  which  she 
had  fallen;  and  before  I  left,  she 

said  solemnly  to  me,  "  Doctor ! 

If — IF  you  have  deceived  me  I  If 
any  thing  dreadful  has  really  — 
really- — " 

I  left,  half  distracted  to  think  of 
the  impossibility  of  fulfilling  the  pro- 
mise I  had  made  her,  as  well  as  of  ac- 
counting satisfactorily  for  not  doing 
so.  What  could  I  do  ?  I  drove  ra- 
pidly homewards,  and  requested  my 
wife  to  hurry  down  immediately  to 
Miss  Dudleigh,  and  pacify  her  with 
saying  that  her  father  was  riding 
round  with  me,  for  the  sake  of  exer- 
cise, and  that  we  should  come  to  her 
together.  I  then  hurried  through  my 
few  professional  calls,  and  repaired 
to  Mr  Dudleigh.  To  my  unutterable 
joy  and  astonishment,  I  found  him 
up,  dressed — for  his  clothes  had  been 
drying  all  night — and  sitting  quietly 
by  the  fire,  in  company  with  the  me- 
dical man.  His  appearance  exhibit- 
ed no  traces  whatever  of  the  acci- 
dent which  had  befallen  him.  But, 
alas !  on  looking  close  at  him — -on 
examining  his  features  —  Oh,  that 
eye  !  That  smile  !  They  told  of  de- 
parted reason  ! — I  was  gazing  on  an 
idiot !  Oh,  God !  What  was  to  be- 
come of  Miss  Dudleigh  ?  How  was 
I  to  bring  father  and  daughter  face 
to  face  ?  My  knees  smote  together, 
while  I  sate  beside  him  !  But  it  must 
be  done,  or  Miss  Dudleigh's  life 
would  be  the  forfeit !  The  only  pro- 
ject I  could  hit  upon  for  disguising 
the  frightful  state  of  the  case,  was  to 
hint  to  Miss  Dudleigh,  if  she  percei- 
ved any  thing  wild,  or  unusual  in 
his  demeanour,  that  he  was  a  little 
flustered  with  wine !  But  what  a 
circumstance  to  communicate  to  the 
dying  girl !  And  even  if  it  succeeded, 
what  would  ensue  on  the  next  morn- 
ing ?  Would  it  be  safe  to  leave  him 
with  her?  I  was  perplexed  and  con- 
founded between  all  these  painful 
conjectures  and  difficulties ! 

HP  put  on  his  hat  and  great-coat, 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  Late  Physician. 


1831.] 

and  we  got  into  my  chariot  together. 
He  was  perfectly  quiet  and  gentle, 
conversea  on  indifferent  subjects, 
and  spoke  of  having  had  "  a  cold 
bath"  last  night,  which  had  done  him 
much  good !  My  heart  grew  heavier 
and  heavier  as  we  neared  the  home 
where  I  was  to  bring  her  idiot  father 
to  Miss  Dudleigh  I  I  felt  sick  with 
agitation,  as  we  descended  the  car- 
riage steps. 

But  I  was  for  some  time  happily 
disappointed.  He  entered  her  room 
with  eagerness,  ran  up  to  her  and 
kissed  her  with  his  usual  affectionate 
energy.  She  held  him  in  her  arms 
for  some  time,  exclaiming, — "  Oh, 
father,  father !  How  glad  I  am  to  see 
you ! — I  thought  some  accident  had 
happened  to  you  !  Why  did  you  not 
tell  me  that  you  were  going  home 
with  Dr ?"  My  wife  and  I  trem- 
bled, and  looked  at  each  other  de- 
spairingly. 

"  Why,"  replied  her  father,  sitting 
down  beside  her,  "  you  see,  my  love, 

Dr  recommended  me  a  cold 

bath." 

"  A  cold  bath  at  THIS  time  of  the 
year !"  exclaimed  Miss  Dudleigh, 
looking  at  me  with  astonishment.  I 
smiled,  with  ill-assumed  nonchalance. 

"  It  is  very  advantageous  at — at — 
even  this  season  of  the  year,"  I  stam- 
mered, for  I  observed  Miss  Dud- 
leigh's  eye  fixed  on  me  like  a  ray  of 
lightning. 

*  Yes — but  they  ought  to  have 
taken  off  my  clothes  first"  said  Mr 
Dudleigh,  with  a  shuddering  motion. 
His  daughter  suddenly  laid  her  hand 
on  him,  uttered  a  faint  shriek,  and 
fell  back  in  her  bed  in  a  swoon.  The 
dreadful  scene  of  the  morning  was 
all  acted  over  again.  I  think  I  should 
have  rejoiced  to  see  her  expire  on  the 
spot ;  but,  no !  Providence  had  allot- 
ted her  a  further  space,  that  she  might 
drain  the  cup  of  sorrow  to  the  dregs  ! 


Tuesday,   18th  July,  18 .     I 

am  still  in  attendance  on  poor  un- 
fortunate Miss  Dudleigh.  The  scenes 
I  have  to  encounter  are  often  anguish- 
ing, and  even  heart-breaking.  She 
lingers  on  day  after  day  and  week 
after  week  in  increasing  pain  ! — By 
the  bedside  of  the  dying  girl  sits  the 
figure  of  an  elderly  grey-haired  man, 
dressed  in  neat  and  simple  mourn- 


ing — now,  gazing  into  vacancy  with 
"  lack-lustre  eye" — and  then  sud- 
denly kissing  her  hand  with  child- 
ish eagerness,  and  chattering  mere 
gibberish  to  her  I  It  is  her  idiot 
father !  Yes,  he  proves  an  irre- 
coverable idiot — but  is  uniformly 
quiet  and  inoffensive.  We  at  first  in- 
tended to  have  sent  him  to  a  neigh- 
bouring private  institution  for  the 
reception  of  the  insane;  but  poor 
Miss  Dudleigh  would  not  hear  of  it, 
and  threatened  to  destroy  herself,  if 
her  father  was  removed.  She  in- 
sisted on  his  being  allowed  to  con- 
tinue with  her,  and  consented  that 
a  proper  person  should  be  in  con- 
stant attendance  on  him.  She  her- 
self could  manage  him,  she  said ! 
and  so  it  proved.  He  is  a  mere 
child  in  her  hands.  If  ever  he  i» 
inclined  to  be  mischievous  or  obstre- 
perous— which  is  very  seldom — if 
she  do  but  say  "  hush !"  or  lift  up 
her  trembling  finger,  or  fix  her  eye 
upon  him  reprovingly,  he  is  instant- 
ly cowed,  and  runs  up  to  her  to 
"  kiss  and  be  friends."  He  often 
falls  down  on  his  knees,  when  he 
thinks  he  has  offended  her,  and  cries 
like  a  child.  She  will  not  trust  him 
out  of  her  sight  for  more  than  a  few 
moments  together — except  when  he 
retires  with  his  guardian,  to  rest;— 
and  indeed  he  shews  as  little  incli- 
nation to  leave  her.  The  nurse's 
situation  is  almost  a  sort  of  sine- 
cure; for  the  anxious  ofHciousness 
of  Mr  Dudleigh  leaves  her  little  to 
do.  He  alone  gives  his  daughter  her 
medicine  and  food,  and  does  so  with 
requisite  gentleness  and  tenderness. 
He  has  no  notion  of  her  real  state- 
that  she  is  dying ;  and  finding  that 
she  could  not  succeed  in  her  efforts 
gradually  to  apprize  him  of  the 
event,  which  he  always  turned  off 
with  a  smile  of  incredulity,  she  gives 
in  to  his  humour,  and  tells  him—- 
poor girl ! — that  she  is  getting  bet- 
ter !  He  has  taken  it  into  his  head 
that  she  is  to  be  married  to  Lord 

• ,  as  soon  as  she  recovers,  and 

talks  with  high  glee  of  the  magni- 
ficent repairs  going  on  at  his  former 

house  in Square  !     He  always 

accompanies  me  to  the  door;  and 
sometimes  writes  me  cheques  for 
L.50 — which  of  course  is  a  delusion 
only — as  he  has  no  banker,  and  few 
funds  to  put  in  his  hands ;  and  at 
Other  times  slips  a  shilling  or  a  six- 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician, 


pence  into  my  hand  at  leaving — 
thinking,  doubtless,  that  he  has  given 
me  a  guinea. 

Friday. — The  idea  of  Miss  Dud- 
leigh's  rapidly  approaching  marriage 
continues  still  uppermost  in  her  ra- 
ther's  head;  and  he  is  incessantly 
pestering  her  to  make  preparations 
for  the  event.  To-day  he  appealed 
to  me,  and  complained  that  she 
would  not  order  her  wedding-dress. 

"  Father,  dear  father!"  said  Miss 
Dudleigh,  faintly,  laying  her  wasted 
hand  on  his  arm, — "  only  be  quiet 
a  little,  and  I'll  begin  to  make  it! — 
I'll  really  set  about  it  to-morrow  !" 
He  kissed  her  fondly,  and  then  eager- 
ly emptied  his  pockets  of  all  the 
loose  silver  that  was  in  them,  tell- 
ing her  to  take  it,  and  order  the  ma- 
terials. I  saw  that  there  was  some- 
thing or  other  peculiar  in  the  ex- 
pression of  Miss  Dudleigh's  eye,  in 
saying  what  she  did — as  if  some  sud- 
den scheme  had  suggested  itself  to 
her.  Indeed  the  looks  with  which 
she  constantly  regards  hira,  are  such 
as  I  can  find  no  adequate  terms  of 
description  for.  They  bespeak  blend- 
ed anguish— apprehension  —  pity — 
love — in  short,  an  expression  that 
haunts  me  wherever  I  go.  Oh  what 
a  scene  of  suffering  humanity — a 
daughter's  death-bed  watched  by  an 
idiot  father ! 

Monday. — I  now  knew  what  was 
Miss  Dudleigh's  meaning,  in  assent- 
ing to  her  father's  proposal  last  Fri- 
day. I  found,  this  morning,  the  poor 
dear  girl  engaged  on  her  shroud  !— 
It  is  of  fine  muslin,  and  she  is  at- 
tempting to  sew  and  embroider  it. 
The  people  about  her  did  all  they 
could  to  dissuade  her;  but  there  was 
at  last  no  resisting  her  importunities. 
Yes — there  she  sits,  poor  thing, 
propped  up  by  pillows,  making  fre- 
quent but  feeble  efforts  to  draw  her 
needle  through  her  gloomy  work, — 
her  father,  the  while,  holding  one 
end  of  the  muslin,  and  watching  her 
work  with  childish  eagerness.  Some- 
times a  tear  will  fall  from  her  eyes 
while  thus  engaged.  It  did  this 
morning.  Mr  Dudleigh  observed  it, 
and,  turning  to  me,  said,  with  an 
arch  smile,  "  Ah,  ha! — how  is  it  that 
young  ladies  always  cry  about  being 
married  ?"  Oh  the  look  Miss  Dud- 
leigh gave  me,  as  she  suddenly  drop- 
ped her  work,  and  turned  her  head 
aside ! 


Saturday. — Mr  Dudleigh  is  hard 
at  work  making  his  daughter  a  cow- 
slip wreath,  out  of  some  flowers 
given  him  by  his  keeper ! 

When  I  took  my  leave  to-day,  he 
accompanied  me,  as  usual,  down 
stairs,  and  led  the  way  into  the  little 
parlour.  He  then  shut  the  door,  and 
told  me  in  a  low  whisper,  that  he 
wished  me  to  bring  him  "  an  honest 
lawyer/' — to  make  his  will :  for  that 
he  was  going  to  settle  L.200,000  upon 
his  daughter ! — of  course  I  put  him 
off  with  promises  to  look  out  for 
what  he  asked.  It  is  rather  remark- 
able, I  think,  that  he  has  never  once, 
in  my  hearing,  made  any  allusion  to 
his  deceased  wife.  As  I  shook  his 
hand  at  parting,  he  'stared  suddenly 
at  me,  and  said — "  Doctor — Doctor! 
my  daughter  is  VERY  slow  in  getting 
well — is'nt  she  ?" 

Monday,  July  28. — The  suffering 
angel  will  soon  leave  us  and  all  her 
sorrows  ! — She  is  dying  fast:  She  ia 
very  much  altered  in  appearance, 
and  has  not  power  enough  to  speak 
in  more  than  a  whisper — and  that 
but  seldom.  Her  father  sits  gazing 
at  her  with  a  puzzled  air,  as  if  he  did 
not  know  what  to  make  of  her  un- 
usual silence.  He  was  a  good  deal 
vexed  when  she  laid  aside  her  "wed- 
ding-dress,"— and  tried  to  tempt  her 
to  resume  it,  by  shewing  her  a  shil- 
ling!— "While  I  was  sitting  beside 
her,  Miss  Dudleigh,  without  opening 
her  eyes,  exclaimed,  scarcely  audible, 
"  Oh !  be  kind  to  him !  be  kind  to 
him !  He  won't  be  long  here !  He 
is  very  gentle !" 

Evening.  Happening  to  be 

summoned  to  the  neighbourhood,  I 
called  a  second  time  during  the  day 
on  Miss  Dudleigh.  All  was  quiet 
when  I  entered  the  room.  The  nurse 
was  sitting  at  the  window,  reading; 
and  Mr  Dudleigh  occupied  his  usual 
place  at  the  bedside,  leaning  over 
his  daughter,  whose  arms  were  clasp- 
ed together  round  his  neck. 

"Hush!  hush!"— said  Mr  Dud- 
leigh, in  a  low  whisper,  as  I  ap- 
proached,— "Don't  make  a  noise — 
she's  asleep  !" — Yes,  she  was  ASLEEP 
— and  to  wake  no  more  ! — Her  snow- 
cold  arms, — her  features,  which  on 
parting  the  dishevelled  hair  that  hid 
them,  I  perceived  to  be  fallen — told 
me  that  she  was  dead  ! 


She  was  buried  in  the  same  grave 


1831.]. 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  Jute 


Si- 


as  her  mother.  Her  wretched  father, 
contrary  to  our  apprehensions,  made 
no  disturbance  whatever  while  she 
lay  dead.  They  told  him  that  she 
was  no  more — hut  he  did  not  seem 
to  comprehend  what  was  meant. 
He  would  take  hold  of  her  passive 
hand,  gently  shake  it,  and  let  it  fall 
again,  with  a  melancholy  wandering 
stare  that  was  pitiable  ! — He  sate  at 
her  coffin-side  all  day  long,  and  laid 
fresh  flowers  upon  her  every  morn- 
ing. Dreading  lest  some  sudden 
paroxysm  might  occur,  if  he  was 
suffered  to  see  the  lid  screwed 
down,  and  her  remains  removed, 
we  gave  him  a  tolerably  strong  opi- 
ate in  some  wine,  on  the  morning  of 
the  funeral ;  and  as  soon  as  he  was 
fast  asleep,  we  proceeded  with  the 
last  sad  rites,  and  committed  to  the 
cold  and  quiet  grave  another  broken 
heart ! 

Mr  Dudleigh  suffered  himself  to 
be  soon  after  conveyed  to  a  private 
asylum,  where  he  had  every  comfort 
and  attention  requisite  to  his  circum- 
stances. He  had  fallen  into  profound 
melancholy,  and  seldom  or  never 
spoke  to  any  one.  He  would  shake 
me  by  the  hand  languidly  when  I 
called  to  see  him, — but  hung  down 
his  head  in  silence,  without  answer- 
ing any  of  my  questions. 


His  favourite  seat  was  a  rustic 
bench  beneath  an  ample  sycamore- 
tree,  in  the  green  behind  the  house. 
Here  he  would  sit  for  hours  together, 
gazing  fixedly  in  one  direction,  to- 
wards a  rustic  church-steeple,  and 
uttering  deep  sighs.  No  one  inter- 
fered with  him  ;  and  he  took  no 
notice  of  any  one. — One  afternoon 
a  gentleman  of  foreign  appearance 
called  at  the  asylum,  and  in  a  hurried, 
faltering  voice,  asked  if  he  could  see 
Mr  Dudleigh.  A  servant  but  newly 
engaged  on  the  establishment,  im- 
prudently answered  —  "  Certainly, 
sir.  Yonder  he  is,  sitting  under  tha 
sycamore.  He  never  notices  any 
one,  sir."  The  stranger — young 
Dudleigh,  who  had  but  that  morning 
arrived  from  America — rushed  past, 
the  servant  into  the  garden  ;  and 
flinging  down  his  hat,  fell  on  one 
knee  before  his  father,  clasping  his 
hands  over  his  breast.  Finding  his 
father  did  not  seem  inclined  to  no- 
tice him,  he  gently  touched  him  ou 
the  knee, and  whispered — "FATHER!" 
— Mr  Dudleigh  started  at  the  sound, 
turned  suddenly  towards  his  son, 
looked  him  full  in  the  face — fellback 
in  his  seat,  and  instantly  expired  ! 


VOL,  XXX,  NO.  CLXXXII, 


The  British  Peerage. 


[July, 


THE  BRITISH  PEERAGE. 


THE  House  of  Peers  being  the 
body  in  the  state  where  the  next  de- 
fensive contest  of  the  constitution  is 
to  be  maintained,  has  become,  as 
might  be  expected,  the  subject  of 
unmeasured  obloquy  and  misrepre- 
sentation, on  the  part  of  the  Re- 
forming Journals,  for  some  time 
past.  One  would  imagine,  from  the 
Style  of  their  attacks,  that  this  illus- 
trious assembly  was  composed  of 
persons  whose  interests  were  not 
only  inconsistent,  but  adverse  to 
those  of  the  other  classes  of  society 
— that  they  form  a  sort  of  insulated 
junto  in  the  middle  of  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  state — and  that  all  the 
vituperation  so  justly  lavished  on  the 
privileged  ranks  in  the  continental 
states,  may  fairly  be  transferred  to 
the  British  peerage.  The  frequency 
and  hardihood  of  such  assertions,  is 
calculated  not  only  to  impose  upon 
the  uninformed,  but  even  to  induce 
forgetfulness  of  the  truth,  on  the  part 
of  the  learned  By  the  constant  re- 
petition of  falsehood,  even  the  sound 
of  truiii  at  length  appears  strange  to 
ears  once  most  accustomed  to  hear 
it. 

The  circumstance  which  made  the 
aristocracy  so  hateful  to  the  French 
nation,  and  still  renders  it  so  injuri- 
ous in  most  of  the  European  mo- 
narchies is,  that  they  were  not  only 
relieved  from  all  the  burdens  which 
oppressed  the  other  classes,  but  en- 
joyed a  monopoly  of  all  the  honour- 
able situations  of  every  description, 
under  government.  Not  only  were 
all  the  higher  situations,  such  as  am- 
bassadors, generals,  and  admirals, 
but  all  the  inferior  offices,  such  as 
abbacies,  judges,  bishops,  exclusively 
open  to  the  younger  branches  of  the 
nobility.  Unless  a  man  could  prove 
the  nobility  of  his  descent,  he  was 
debarred  from  rising  higher  than  to 
the  rank  of  a  lieutenant  in  the  army 
or  navy ;  and  he  had  no  chance  of 
obtaining  better  preferment  than  a 
country  curacy  of  L.30  or  L.40  a-year 
in  the  church.  The  whole  ecclesi- 
astical dignities  and  emoluments 
were  exclusively  enjoyed  by  the 
aristocracy.  "  It  is  a  terrible  thing," 
said  Pascal,  "  that  influence  of  nobi- 
lity—it gives  a  man  an  ascendency 


which  could  not  be  acquired  by  half 
a  century  of  glory.  Look  at  that 
young  fool — it  is  from  that  stock 
that  we  make  the  bishops,  marshals, 
and  ambassadors  of  France."  The 
line  now  drawn  in  India  between  the 
power  and  eligibility  for  office,  of 
the  British  youth,  and  the  native 
Hindoos,  is  not  more  rigid  than  ex- 
isted in  France,  prior  to  1789,  be- 
tween the  descendants  of  noble  and 
those  of  plebeian  blood.  It  was  this 
invidious  distinction  that  mainly  con- 
tributed to  produce  the  Revolution, 
because  it  inflicted  a  personal  in- 
jury upon  every  man  of  plebeian 
birth,  and  opposed  an  insuperable 
bar  to  the  ambition  and  fortunes  of 
conscious  talent,  in  ninety-nine  out 
of  the  hundred,  in  the  whole  commu- 
nity. "  What  is  the  Tiers  Etat  ?"  said 
the  Abbe  Sieyes,  in  his  celebrated 
pamphlet  at  the  opening  of  the  Con- 
stituent Assembly ;  "  It  is  the  whole 
nation,  minus  150,000  individuals." 
For  this  class  to  monopolize  all  the 
fortunes  and  distinctions  of  the  mo- 
narchy, became,  in  an  age  of  rising 
prosperity,  altogether  insupportable. 
Not  the  corruption  of  the  court,  nor 
the  infidelity  of  the  philosophers, 
produced  the  Revolution,  for  these 
were  of  partial  application,  but  the 
pride  of  the  nobles,  based  on  centu- 
ries of  exclusive  power,  and  intole- 
rable in  an  age  of  rising  improve- 
ment. 

These  privileges  were  accompa- 
nied, on  the  part  of  the  church  and 
the  nobility,  by  a  total  exemption 
from  taxation,  upon  the  principle 
that  the  first  saved  the  state  by  their 
prayers,  and  the  second  defended  it 
by  their  swords.  This  exemption 
was  of  comparatively  little  import- 
ance, during  the  days  of  feudal  pow- 
er, when  taxes  were  inconsiderable, 
and  the  expense  of  government,  from 
the  absence  of  standing  armies,  not 
greater  than  those  of  a  powerful  ba- 
ron. But  when  the  expenses  of  the 
state  increased,  and  the  embarrass- 
ments of  the  Treasury  augmented, 
the  exemption  became  intolerable. 
To  behold  150,000  of  the  richest  per- 
sons in  France,  most  of  whom  were 
perfectly  idle,  and  who  enjoyed  all 
the  lucrative  offices  under  govern- 


1831.] 


The  British  Peerage. 


83 


ment,  altogether  free  from  taxation, 
while  their  poorer  brethren  toiled 
under  the  weight  of  burdens  to  the 
amount  of  L.25,000,000  a-year,  was, 
to  the  last  degree,  exasperating. 

It  added  immensely  to  the  weight 
of  these  grievances  that  the  privi- 
leges of  nobility  were  perpetual,  and 
descended  with  titles  of  honour  to 
all  the  members  of  a  family  indis- 
criminately. The  effect  of  this  was 
to  create  an  exclusive  class  whose 
rights  never  expired,  which  passed 
from  father  to  son  even  to  the  last 
generation,  and  which  had  nothing 
in  common,  either  in  point  of  in- 
terest, feeling,  or  habits,  with  the 
inferior  classes  of  society.  Custom 
and  prejudice,  omnipotent  with  this 
order  in  every  country,  precluded 
any  young  men  of  noble  birth  from 
entering  into  commerce  or  business 
of  any  sort ;  and  the  necessary  con- 
sequence was,  that  the  whole  were 
thrown  upon  the  offices  in  the  dis- 
posal of  government ;  and  every  si- 
tuati  on,  h  o  we  ver  inconsiderable,  was 
sought  after  by  a  host  of  noble  compe- 
titors, to  the  utter  exclusion  of  every 
person  of  plebeian  descent.  But  for 
the  poverty  of  this  needy  race,  which 
rendered  marriage  unfrequent,  save 
in  the  eldest  son  of  the  family,  and 
the  excessive  dissolution  of  their 
manners,  France  would  have  been 
overspread  like  Spain  by  a  race  of 
haughty  idlers,  whose  480,000  Hi- 
dalgos, too  proud  to  do  any  thing  for 
themselves,  spend  their  lives  in  bask- 
ing in  the  sunshine  in  their  provincial 
towns. 

How  different  in  all  these  respects 
is  the  aristocracy  of  England,  and 
how  totally  inapplicable  are  all  the 
ideas  drawn  from  the  situation  of 
foreign  to  the  important  duties  of 
the  British  nobility  !  No  exemption 
from  taxation,noexclusive  privileges, 
no  invidious  distinctions,  separate 
them  from  the  other  classes  in  the 
state.  By  a  fortunate  custom,  which 
has  done  more,  says  Hallam,  for  the 
liberties  of  England  than  any  other 
single  circumstance  in  its  domestic 
policy,  the  distinction  of  titles  has 
been  confined  from  time  immemorial 
to  the  eldest  son  of  the  family,  while 
the  younger  branches,  in  the  estima- 
tion of  law  commoners,  speedily  ac- 
quire the  ideas  of  that  class,  and,  in 
the  space  of  a  few  generations,  be- 
come indistinguishable  from  the  ge- 


neral body  of  the  community.  In 
this  way  the  younger  branches  of 
the  nobility,  the  curse  and  bane  of 
continental  monarchies,  have  be- 
come one  of  the  most  useful  and 
important  classes  in  the  British  com- 
munity, because  they  form  a  link 
between  the  otherwise  discordant 
branches  of  society,  and  blend  the 
dignified  manners  of  elevated,  with 
the  vigour  and  activity  of  humble 
birth.  Here,  in  the  splendid  lan- 
guage of  Mr  Sheridan,  is  no  sullen 
Hue  of  demarcation  for  ever  separat- 
ing the  higher  from  the  lower  orders; 
but  all  is  one  harmonious  whole,  in- 
sensibly passing  as  in  the  colours  of 
the  prism  from  the  bright  glitter  of 
the  orange,  where  the  nobility  bask 
in  the  sunshine  of  rank  and  opu- 
lence, to  the  sober  grey  of  the  indigo, 
where  the  peasant  toils  in  the  shade 
of  humble  life. 

The  prerogative  of  the  Crown  for 
the  creation  of  Peers  has  been  li- 
berally exercised  of  late  years  :  and 
the  nobles  are  now  four  times  as  nu- 
merous as  they  were  during  the  great 
Rebellion.  Who  have  been  the  men, 
who  have  thus  been  elevated  to  the 
rank  of  hereditary  legislators  ?  The 
greatest  and  most  illustrious  charac- 
ters of  their  day — the  statesmen  who 
have  sustained  the  country  by  their 
exertions — the  heroes  who  have  led 
its  armies  to  victory — the  sailors 
who  shook  the  world  with  its  fleets 
— the  patriots  who  have  vindicated 
its  freedom  by  their  courage.  The 
names  of  Marlborough  and  Welling- 
ton, of  Abercrombie  and  Anglesey, 
of  Lynedoch  and  Hill,  recall  the  most 
splendid  passages  in  the  military  an- 
nals of  Britain  :  those  of  Nelson  and 
St  Vincent,  of  Howe  and  Duncan,  the 
most  glorious  triumphs  of  its  Navy : 
those  of  Chatham  and  Somers,  of 
Grenville  and  Wellesley,  the  most 
illustrious  efforts  of  its  statesmen. 
Such  men  not  only  add  dignity  to 
the  assembly  in  which  they  are  pla- 
ced, but  the  prospect  of  obtaining 
so  brilliant  a  distinction  for  their  fa- 
mily, operates  powerfully  on  the  ex- 
ertions of  the  profession  to  which 
they  belong.  When  Nelson  run  his 
own  vessel  between  two  line-of-bat- 
tle  ships  at  St  Vincent's,  and  boarded 
them  both  at  the  same  time,  he  ex- 
claimed, "  A  peerage,  or  Westmin- 
ster Abbey !"  and  a  similar  feeling 
operates  universally,  not  only  upon 


The  British  Peerage. 


(July, 


those  who  have  such  a  distinction 
placed  within  their  reach,  but  who 
can  hope  by  strenuous  exertion  ulti- 
mately to  obtain  it.  No  man  can 
doubt  that  the  prospect  of  hereditary 
honours  being  conferred  upon  the 
leaders  of  the  Army  and  Navy,  ope- 
rates most  powerfully  in  elevating 
the  feelings,  stimulating  the  exer- 
tions, and  sustaining  the  courage  of 
those  employed  in  these  services; 
and  that  but  for  such  distinctions,  not 
only  would  their  caste  in  society  be 
lowered,  but  their  national  usefulness 
diminished. 

By  immemorial  custom  also,  the 
Chancellor  of  England,  a  lawyer,  and 
generally  elevated  from  the  inferior 
stations  of  society,  is  placed  at  the 
head  of  the  House  of  Peers.  It  is  a 
proud  thing,  as  Mr  Canning  well  ob- 
served, for  the  Commons  of  Eng- 
land, "  to  see  a  private  individual, 
elevated  from  obscurity  solely  by  the 
force  of  talent,  take  precedence  of 
the  Howards,  the  Talbots,  and  the 
Percys ;  of  the  pride  of  Norman  an- 
cestry, equally  with  the  splendour  of 
royal  descent."  The  Chancellor  is 
usually  a  man  raised  from  the  lower 
ranks.  Every  lawyer  knows  that 
none  but  those  trained  to  exertion, 
by  early  and  overbearing  necessity, 
can  sustain  the  herculean  labour  of 
rising  to  the  head  of  the  English  Bar. 
It  was  thus  that  Lord  Hardwicke, 
Lord  Loughborough,Lord  Mansfield, 
Lord  Thurlow,  Lord  Ellenborough, 
Lord  Eld  on,  and  Lord  Lyndhurst 
arose ;  they  were  trained  in  the 
school  of  necessity  to  the  exertions 
requisite  to  rise  to  the  summit  of  so 
terrible  an  ascent.  In  this  way  the 
peerage  is  perpetually  renovated  by 
the  addition  of  talent  and  energy 
from  the  walks  of  humble  life,  and 
the  lower  orders  are  attached  to  the 
country,  by  the  possibility  of  rising 
to  the  highest  stations  which  its  go- 
vernment can  afford. 

While,  therefore,  the  aristocracy 
of  the  continental  states,  by  rigidly 
closing  the  door  against  plebeian  abi- 
lity, both  weakened  the  state  by  ex- 
cluding its  ablest  members,  and  irri- 
tated the  lower  orders  by  establish- 
ing an  impassable  barrier  between 
them  and  the  higher ;  the  aristocracy 
of  England,  by  throwing  open  their 
.doors  to  receive  the  most  eminent  of 
its  citizens,  both  brought  the  talents 
of  the  great  body  of  the  people  to 


bear  upon  the  fortunes  of  the  state, 
and  elevated  the  dignity  of  their  own 
body  by  the  successive  acquisition 
of  the  most  illustrious  members  of 
the  commonwealth.  The  peerage 
of  England,  therefore,  so  far  from 
being  a  restraint  upon  the  talent,  or 
a  burden  upon  the  energies,  of  the 
lower  orders,  is  the  highest  encou- 
ragement to  their  vigour  and  exer- 
tions, and  holds  forth  the  glittering 
prize  which  stimulates  the  talent 
and  ensures  the  fortunes  of  thou- 
sands who  are  never  destined  to  ob- 
tain it.  Few  indeed  are  destined  to 
rise  from  private  life  like  a  Hard- 
wicke, a  Mansfield,  or  an  Eldon; 
but  every  man  in  these  situations  re- 
collects the  rise  of  these  illustrious 
men;  and  the  confidence  in  their  own 
good  fortune,  which  is  so  universal 
in  the  outset  of  life,  stimulates  mul- 
titudes, from  these  examples,  to  ex- 
ertions, which,  if  they  do  not  lead  to 
titles,  at  least  contribute  to  success 
and  usefulness. 

It  is  a  common  theme  of  complaint 
with  the  radical  journals,  that  the 
aristocracy  usurp  an  undue  share  of 
patronage  in  the  Navy,  the  Army, 
and  the  Church ;  and  that  unless  a 
young  man  has  connexions  possess- 
ing parliamentary  interest,  he  has  no 
chance  of  elevation  in  any  of  these 
lines.  There  never  was  a  complaint 
worse  founded.  That  the  younger 
branches  of  the  nobility  are  to  be 
found  in  great  numbers  in  these  use- 
ful and  honourable  lines,  is  in  a  pe- 
culiar manner  the  glory  and  the 
blessing  of  England ;  that  instead  of 
Avasting  their  days  in  listless  indo- 
lence, as  in  Spain,  or  in  unceasing 
gallantry,  as  in  Italy,  they  are  to  be 
found  actively  engaged  in  real  busi- 
ness; discharging  the  duty  of  country 
curates,  or  enduring  the  hardships  of 
naval,  or  facing  the  dangers  of  mili- 
tary life,  without  any  distinction 
from  their  humbler  brethren.  De- 
stroy this  invaluable  distinction  ; 
banish  the  sons  of  the  opulent  from 
active  employment,  and  where  will 
they  be  found  ?  At  the  gaming-ta- 
ble or  the  race-course ;  corrupting 
the  wives  of  the  citizens,  or  squan- 
dering the  fortunes  of  ages.  It  is  in 
vain  to  expect  that  men  will  ever  live 
without  an  object:  if  a  good  one  is 
taken  away,  a  bad  one  will  speedily 
succeed:  if  they  are  prevented  from 
following  the  career  of  honour  and 


1831.J 


The  British  Peerage. 


usefulness,  they  will  embrace  that 
of  sensuality  and  corruption. 

If  indeed  the  Aristocracy  had  the 
monopoly  of  any  of  these  depart- 
ments, the  exclusive  privilege  would 
be  equally  injurious  to  themselves 
and  their  inferiors.  But  this  neither 
is,  nor  in  the  present  state  of  hu- 
man affairs  can  be,  the  case.  No  man 
can  pretend  that  the  army,  the  navy, 
or  the  church,  are  exclusively  in  the 
hands  of  the  nobility.  Every  indi- 
vidual is  acquainted  in  his  own  lit- 
tle circle  with  numbers  who  are 
rising  in  these  professions  without 
the  aid  of  any  aristocratic  connexion. 
But  if  the  complaint  be  only  that 
they  encounter  the  nobility  in  their 
struggle  through  life,  then  we  reply 
that  such  competition  is  the  greatest 
public  advantage.  Such  civil  contests 
between  the  different  classes  of  so- 
ciety are  al  ways  for  the  advantage  of 
the  whole  community,  however  pain- 
ful they  may  be  to  individuals.  With- 
out them,  the  energy  of  both  would 
be  enfeebled :  aristocratic  indolence 
would  relapse  into  inactivity — de- 
mocratic vigour  into  sordid  ambition. 
Nor  need  popular  enterprise  envy 
the  sons  of  the  great  the  advantages 
which  in  the  outset  of  life  belong  to 
elevated  birth :  those  very  advan- 
tages in  general  prove  their  ruin,  be- 
cause they  do  not  habituate  the  mind 
to  the  vigorous  exertions  essential 
to  lasting  reputation. 

The  prevailing  tone  and  character 
of  all  the  professions  into  which  the 
Aristocracy  generally  enter,  is  un- 
questionably greatly  elevated  by  the 
intermixture  of  honourable  feeling 
Avhich  they  occasion.  If  Montesquieu 
was  right  in  asserting  that  the  prin- 
ciple of  monarchy  is  honour,  every 
day's  experience  must  convince  us 
that  the  influence  of  the  Aristocracy 
is  not  less  salutary  in  sustaining  the 
dignified  feeling  of  private  life. 
Whence  is  it  that  England,  so  long 
immersed  in  commercial  pursuits, 
which  Napoleon  styled  a  nation  of 
shopkeepers,  still  retains  so  much  of 
the  elevating  influence  of  ancient 
chivalry ;  that  her  warriors  exhibit 
such  undecaying  valour,  her  legisla- 
tors such  moral  courage,  her  higher 
.orders  such  dignified  manners  ?  How 
lias  it  happened  that  the  progress  of 
opulence,  fatal  to  the  growth  of  all 
other  states,  has  here  been  so  long 
co-existent  with  public  virtue  that 


a  thousand  years  of  prosperity  has 
neither  sapped  the  foundation  of 
public  or  private  integrity;  and  that 
though  grey  in  years  of  renown,  she 
still  teems  with  the  energy  of  youth- 
ful ambition  ?  The  answer  is  to  be 
found  in  the  happy  combination  of 
the  nobility  and  the  people ;  in  the 
tempering  the  pride  of  aristocratic 
birth  by  the  vig'our-of  popular  enter- 
prise, and  elevating  the  standard  of 
plebeian  ambition  by  the  infusion  of 
chivalrous  feeling.  Sever  the  con- 
nexion between  these  two  prin- 
ciples, and  what  will  the  nation  be- 
come ?  An  assemblage  of  calculating 
tradesmen,  possessing  no  higher 
standard  of  manners  than  the  Ame- 
ricans, and  no  nobler  feelings  of 
patriotism  than  the  Dutch. 

The  stability  of  the  European 
monarchies,  compared  with  the  ephe- 
meral duration  of  the  Eastern  dy- 
nasties, is  chiefly  to  be  ascribed  to 
the  hereditary  descent  of  honours 
and  estates  in  particular  families. 
It  was  seemingly  an  institution  of 
Providence,  destined,  to  secure  the 
ascendency  of  European  civilisation 
and  the  Christian  religion  over  Ori- 
ental barbarism  and  Mahometan  de- 
gradation, that  the  Barbarians  who 
settled  in  the  Roman  empire,  all  by 
common  consent  established  primo- 
geniture and  the  hereditary  descent 
of  honours :  while  the  divisions  of 
the  same  tribes  who  settled  in  the 
Eastern  empires,  adopted  the  sys- 
tem, that  all  personal  distinctions 
should  expire  with  the  first  posses- 
sor. In  this  single  circumstance  will 
be  found  the  remote  cause  of  the 
steady  progress,  uniform  policy,  and 
stable  government  of  the  European 
states,  compared  with  the  fluctuating 
dynasties, perpetual  convulsions,  ana 
declining  prosperity  of  the  Eastern 
empires.  The  want  of  a  hereditary 
noblesse  has  inflicted  the  same  evils 
on  Persia  and  Turkey,  which  the 
want  of  an  hereditary  crown  has  oc- 
casioned to  Poland. 

Permanence  of  design  and  system 
can  never  be  obtained  till  perma- 
nence of  interest  is  established. 
When  honours  expire,  and  fortunes 
are  divided  on  the  death  of  an  indivi- 
dual, the  seed  which  was  beginning  to 
expand,  is  again  restored,  upon  every 
case  of  individual  dissolution,  to  its 
native  earth ;  and  the  succeeding 
generation,  actuated  by  no  common 


83  The  British 

interest,  is  tossed  on  the  sea  of  life, 
without  any  definite  or  permanent 
object.  The  fortunes  of  the  state 
crumble  with  the  successive  disper- 
sion of  individual  accumulation ; 
and  generation  after  generation  suc- 
ceeds, without  any  addition  either  to 
the  national  stability,  or  any  improve- 
ment in  the  national  fortune. 

It  is  easy  to  declaim,  now  that  we 
have  obtained  the  advantages  of  re- 
gular government,  againstthe  tyranny 
and  oppression  of  the  feudal  nobi- 
lity; without  that  institution,  Euro- 
pean civilisation  would  have  become 
extinct  during  the  anarchy  of  the 
dark  ages,  or  yielded  to  the  fury  of 
Mahometan  conquest.  All  that  we 
now  possess,  or  that  distinguishes  us 
from  the  Asiatic  people — our  laws, 
our  liberties, our  religion — have  been 
preserved  by  the  barrier  of  the  feudal 
aristocracy.  "  Gratefully  we  must 
acknowledge,"  says  Hallam,  "  that 
the  territorial  nobility  were,  during 
the  dark  ages,  the  chief  support  not 
only  against  foreign  invasion,  but 
domestic  tyranny ;  and  that  violence 
would  have  rioted  without  control, 
if,  when  the  people  were  poor  and 
disunited,  the  barons  had  not  been 
independent  and  free."  *  What  was 
it  that  enabled  European  valour  to 
stem  the  torrent  of  Mahometan  con- 
quest— who  saved  Christian  civil- 
isation from  Asiatic  oppression  on 
the  field  of  Tours— rwho  combated 
the  forces  of  the  Saracens  in  their 
own  domains,  and  fought  the  battle 
of  European  freedom  on  the  fields 
of  Palestine  V  Who  expelled  the 
Arabs  from  Spain,  and  maintained 
for  eight  centuries  an  uninterrupted 
contest  with  the  Moorish  spoiler  ? 
The  nobility  of  Europe — the  territo- 
rial barons,  permanently  interested 
in  the  soil  by  the  hereditary  posses- 
sion of  estates,  and  actuated  by  un- 
decaying  spirit  from  the  descent  of 
family  honours.  Compare  the  steady 
progress,  regular  government,  and 
unceasing  improvement,  of  the  Euro- 
pean states,  with  the  perpetual  vacil- 
lation, periodical  anarchy,  and  gene- 
ral slavery  of  the  Asiatic  dynasties, 
and  the  immeasurable  benefits  of  an 
hereditary  nobility  must  appear  ob- 
vious to  the  most  inconsiderate  ob- 
server. 


Peerage.  [July, 

The  freedom  which  is  now  so  much 
the  object  of  deserved  eulogium,  was 
nursed  in  its  cradle  by  the  feudal 
nobility.  It  was  beneath  the  shadow 
of  the  castle-wall  that  industry,  civil- 
isation, and  improvement,  first  took 
root ;  in  every  part  of  Europe  the 
earliest  seeds  of  liberty  expanded 
under  the  protection  of  hereditary 
power.  The  traveller,  as  he  glides 
along  the  Rhine,  or  descends  the  ra- 
pid stream  of  the  Rhone,  or  skirts 
the  tower-clad  heights  of  the  Appe- 
nines,  can  still  discern  in  the  villages 
which  are  clustered  round  the  roots 
of  the  castellated  heights,  the  in- 
fluence  of  aristocratic  power  in  pro- 
tecting the  first  efforts  of  laborious 
industry.  Mngna  Char  la  was  ex« 
torted  from  a  pusillanimous  mo- 
narch by  a  combination  of  the  feu- 
dal nobility :  the  early  liberties  of 
France,  Germany,  and  Spain,  were 
established  by  the  same  influence, 
in  opposition  to  the  encroachments 
of  royal  power.  For  centuries  be- 
fore the  people  had  thought  of  mo- 
ving in  defence  of  their  liberties,  or 
were  capable  of  understanding  the 
meaning  of  freedom,  it  had  been  the 
object  of  repeated  contests  on  the 
part  of  the  hereditary  nobility. 

Nor  let  it  be  imagined,  that  these 
advantages  are  all  past — that  a  new 
era  has  opened  in  human  affairs—- 
and that  having  made  use  of  an  he- 
reditary nobility  in  the  infancy  of 
society,  we  can  now  with  safety  dis- 
card their  assistance.  They  are  not 
less  needed  in  the  advanced  than 
the  early  stages  of  nations:  the  dan- 
gers to  freedom  are  as  great  now  as 
in  the  days  of  Magna  Charta :  the 
power  by  which  it  is  assailed  is  more 
formidable  than  the  array  of  the 
Plantagediet  kings. 

The  danger  to  be  apprehended 
now  is,  that,  by  the  destruction  of 
the  power  of  the  nobility,  we  shall 
be  handed  over,  first,  to  the  horrors 
of  popular  licentiousness,  and,  next, 
to  the  tranquillity  of  undisturbed  des- 
potism. This  is  not  a  fanciful  appre- 
hension— it  is  the  uniform  history  of 
the  decay  of  freedom  in  past  ages : 
future  historians  will  probably  point 
to  the  present  Reform  Bill,  as  the 
first  step  in  the  extinction  of  British 
freedom. 


Middle  Ages, 


1831.] 


The  British  Peerage. 


87 


How  long  did  the  liberties  of  Eng- 
land survive  the  destruction  of  the 
House  of  Peers,  and  the  assumption 
of  absolute  power  by  the  Long  Par- 
liament ?  What  was  the  consequence 
of  the  almost  total  annihilation  of 
the  Norman  aristocracy  by  the  wars 
of  the  Roses  ?  The  despotism  of 
the  Tudors — the  cruel  severity  of 
Henry  VIII.— the  fires  of  Smithfield 
— the  arbitrary  reign  of  Elizabeth. 
It  is  a  fact  well  worthy  of  notice,  that 
the  most  arbitrary  reign  in  the  Eng- 
lish annals,  that  in  which  the  great- 
est number  of  executions  (72,000) 
took  place  on  the  scaffold,  the  great- 
est confiscation  of  private  property 
was  inflicted,  the  most  arbitrary  al- 
terations in  the  laws  effected,  suc- 
ceeded immediately  the  virtual  ex- 
tinction of  the  feudal  nobility  by  the 
civil  wars.  The  spirit  of  the  Com- 
mons perished  with  its  support  in  the 
territorial  aristocracy :  it  seemed  as 
if  the  Barons  of  Runnymede  had 
been  succeeded  by  the  senate  of  Ti- 
berius. To  such  a  degree  of  pliant 
servility  did  the  Commons  arrive, 
that  they  actually  declared  the  King's 
proclamations  equal  to  acts  of  Par- 
liament, and  petitioned  the  monarchs 
for  a  list  of  members  to  be  returned 
in  the  succeeding  Parliament!* 

How  long  did  the  liberties  of  the 
French  monarchy  outlive  the  de- 
cline of  the  feudal  nobility,  under 
the  crafty  policy  of  Mazarine  and 
Kichlieu  ?  What  became  of  the 
boasted  liberties  of  Arragon  and  Cas- 
tile, when  their  nobles  were  crushed 
by  the  despotism  of  the  Austrian 
monarchs,  or  corrupted  by  the  wealth 
of  American  slavery  ?  After  the 
Patricians  were  corrupted,  and  the 
Plebeians  left  alone  in  presence  of 
military  power,  how  long  did  the 
freedom  of  Rome  survive  ?  When 
the  nobility  fought  the  last  battle  of 
Roman  virtue  at  Pharsalia,  did  not 
the  people  fill  the  ranks  of  the  usur- 
per, and  join  with  him  in  forging 
chains  for  their  country?  Did  not 
the  children  of  the  very  men  who 
had  burned  with  Gracchus  in  the 
forum,  and  shaken  by  democratic 
violence  the  firm  bulwark  of  the 
republic,  break,  under  the  dictator, 
the  liberties  of  their  country,  and 
extinguish  its  last  embers  on  the 
field  of  Philippi  ?  Did  not  the  citizens 


of  Rome,  worn  out  with  dissensions 
of  democratic  violence,  and  shattered 
by  the  collision  of  military  with  po- 
pular power,  fly  for  refuge  under  the 
shadow  of  despotism,  and  seek  in 
the  servility  of  the  empire,  that 
security  which  could  no  longer  be 
found  amidst  the  storms  of  the  re- 
public ? 

The  destruction  of  Roman  free- 
dom was  immediately  owing  to  the 
people  revolting  against  the  aristo- 
cracy. The  firmness  and  steadiness 
of  the  senate  had  long  preserved  the 
fortunes  and  favoured  the  growth 
of  the  republic ;  but  when  plebeian 
ambition  prevailed  over  aristocra- 
tic power,  the  vacillation  and  con- 
vulsions immediately  commenced, 
which  were  the  sure  forerunners  of 
military  despotism.  Marius,  the  first 
consul  of  plebeian  blood,  brought 
the  democracy  into  immediate  col- 
lision with  the  aristocracy;  and,  but 
for  the  magnanimous  surrender  of 
absolute  power  by  Sylla,  the  liber- 
ties of  Rome  had  perished  in  the 
first  struggle.  The  democracy  after* 
wards  chose  Caesar  as  their  leader : 
the  eloquent  apologist  of  Catiline's 
Conspiracy  commanded  all  the  suf- 
frages of  the  popular  party  ;  and  by 
a  popular  act,  in  opposition  to  the 
most  vehement  resistance  from  the 
senate,  they  twice  conferred  upon 
him,  for  five  years,  the  important 
province  of  Gaul,  with  five  legions. 
The  subjugation  of  Rome,  therefore, 
and  the  extinction  of  its  freedom, 
was  .only  immediately  owing  to  mi- 
litary ambition  ;  its  remote  cause  is 
to  be  found  in  the  democratic  spirit 
which  had  placed  power  in  the  hands 
of  that  ambition— and  this  was  the 
work  of  the  plebeians,  blindly  rush- 
ing, like  our  reformers,  upon  their 
own  ruin,  out  of  jealousy  to  their 
hereditary  legislators. 

Freedom  in  the  Italian  republics 
was  entirely  of  aristocrat? cal  birth  : 
In  the  freest  period  of  Italian  his- 
tory, 20,000  citizens  in  the  great 
towns  of  Florence,  Genoa,  Milan, 
Venice,  Pisa,  and  Sienna,  gave  law 
to  as  many  millions  of  people.f  When 
the  progress  of  opulence,  when  five 
'centuries  of  civilisation,  had  cor- 
rupted the  citizens  of  the  republics, 
what  became  of  Italian  freedom  ? 
Did  the  people  alone,  without  the 


*  Mackintosh's  England,  vol.  li,  p,  342. 


f  Sismondh 


The  British 


aid  of  their  superiors,  long  maintain 
the  fabric  of  liberty  ?  It  everywhere 
crumbled  into  ruins  ;  in  some  in- 
stances, on  the  first  assault  of  exter- 
nal violence,  in  most,  by  the  volun- 
tary surrender  of  their  liberties  to 
a  neighbouring  tyrant.  Deprived  of 
the  steady  support  and  systematic 
conduct  of  the  aristocracy,  the 
vehemence  of  party  strife  became  so 
excessive,  that  the  tranquillity  of 
despotism  was,  by  common  consent, 
deemed  an  eligible  exchange. 

The  nobility  of  France  were  de- 
stroyed in  the  first  burst  of  the  Revo- 
lution ;  or  rather,  seduced  by  the  ap- 
plauses and  intimidated  by  the  threats 
of  the  people,  they  voluntarily  abdi- 
cated all  their  privileges,  and  trusted 
to  maintain  their  ascendency  by 
heading  the  movement.  From  that 
clay,  not  only  their  own  power  but 
the  liberty  of  the  country  were  de- 
stroyed —  despotism  more  severe 
than  that  of  the  Bourbons — energy 
more  terrible  than  that  of  legiti- 
mate imbecility,  crushed  the  ambi- 
tion of  the  people.  The  tyrants 
of  their  own  creation  were  a  thou- 
sand times  worse  than  those  they 
had  deposed.  The  energy  of  Dan- 
ton,  the  cruelty  of  Robespierre, 
the  despotism  of  the  Directory,  the 
sceptre  of  Napoleon,  by  turns  ruled 
the  state.  Freedom,  more  real  free- 
dom than  France  had  ever  enjoyed 
since  the  days  of  Clovis,was  revived, 
with  the  partial  restoration  of  the 
nobility,  on  the  return  of  Louis  :  it 
has  now  perished  with  the  expulsion 
of  Charles;  and  the  bayonets  of  the 
National  Guards, again, as  in  1790,  be- 
come the  unbalanced  power  in  the 
state.  It  requires  little  foresight  or 
knowledge  of  the  past  to  foresee, 
that  the  present  anomalous  state  of 
things  cannot  permanently  continue 
in  that  country :  and  that  if  the  aristo- 
cracy are  indeed  irrevocably  destroy- 
ed, and  the  people  left  alone  in  pre- 
sence of  military  power, — the  fumes 
of  democratic  ambition  will  speedily 
evaporate,  and  Eastern  despotism 
close  the  scene. 

Effects  so  uniform  following  the 
destruction  of  aristocratic  influence 
in  all  ages  and  countries,  must  have 
proceeded  from  some  common  and 
universal  cause.  Nor  is  it  difficult 
to  see  what  this  cause  is.  The  peo- 
ple without  hereditary  leaders  are 
jike  an  army  without  officers  :  they 


may  succeed  during  a  moment  of 
extraordinary  effervescence,  but  they 
are  incapable  of  the  sustained  and 
systematic  efforts  requisite  for  last- 
ing success.  The  regular  and  uni- 
form conduct  which  is  imprinted  by 
permanence  of  interest  on  the  mea- 
sures of  an  aristocratic,  can  never 
be  attained  by  a  popular  government. 
With  the  excitation  of  the  moment 
their  efforts  relax ;  the  cheers  of  a 
mob  are  succeeded  by  their  unavoid- 
able panics.  The  maxim,  "  varium 
et  mutabile  semper,"  is  the  cha- 
racteristic not  more  of  feminine  in- 
clination than  of  plebeian  ambition. 
New  events  arise,  other  objects  of 
desire  present  themselves;  in  the 
rapid  changes  of  public  men,  which 
the  endless  vacillations  of  popular 
favour  occasion,  all  permanent  or  sys- 
tematic conduct  is  abandoned.  The 
same  generation  Avho  were  intoxi- 
cated with  the  passion  for  freedom, 
in  1 789,  trembled  in  silence  beneath 
the  Reign  of  Terror,  crouched  under 
the  severe  yoke  of  the  Directory, 
and  followed  with  enthusiastic 
shouts  the  car  of  Napoleon. 

Let  any  man  observe  the  rapid,  ex- 
traordinary, and  almost  inconceiv- 
able changes  of  opinion  which  take 
place  in  the  objects  and  desires  of 
the  people,  even  in  the  most  regular 
and  systematic  governments,  and  he 
will  cease  to  be  surprised  at  such 
vacillation  and  weakness  in  their 
conduct,  when  they  are  deprived  of 
their  hereditary  leaders.  Observe 
the  changes  of  opinion  which  have 
occurred  within  our  own  recollec- 
tion. Who  was  so  popular  as  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  after  the  Battle 
of  Waterloo  ?  When  amidst  a  nation's 
transports  he  received  the  thanks  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  or  went  in 
procession  to  St  Paul's,  to  share  in 
the  universal  thanksgiving,  who 
would  have  been  bold  enough  to 
foretell  that  in  fifteen  years  he  should 
be  stoned  like  another  Scipio  through 
the  streets  of  the  capital,  which  he 
had  saved  from  a  greater  than  Hau- 
nibal  ?  Recollect  tie  universal  in- 
toxication on  the  fall  of  Paris  :  could 
any  man  have  believed  in  those  days 
that  in  so  short  a  time  the  glories  of 
that  period  should  in  all  the  popular 
journals  be  the  subject  of  envious 
obloquy  as  triumphs  of  the  borough- 
mongers,  in  which  the  people  had  no 
interest  ?  Who  has  forgot  the  vehe- 


1831.] 

meuce  of  popular  interest  in  the  late 
Queen  ?  The  files  of  the  Times  de- 
monstrate that  the  whole  energies  of 
that  popular  journal  were  for  months 
together  devoted  to  demonstrate  that 
the  driven  snow  was  not  purer  than 
the  virtue  of  that  much  injured 
princess.  In  what  company  is  her 
life  now  to  be  found  in  the  shops  of 
the  metropolis  ?  We  give  no  opinion 
on  the  character  of  that  celebrated 
person  ;  we  mention  only  the  muta- 
bility of  opinion  regarding  her.  What 
volumes  of  panegyrics  have  for  cen- 
turies been  lavished  on  the  British 
Constitution?  What  theme  was,  till 
within  these  few  months,  so  common 
with  the  learned,  so  grateful  to  the 
patriotic,  so  acceptable  to  the  people  ? 
When  did  the  national  theatres  re- 
sound with  such  unanimousapplause, 
as  when  the  British  Constitution  was 
the  subject  of  panegyric,  and  the 
fond  wish  expressed  that  it  should 
be  perpetual  ?  And  now,  what  topic 
is  so  hateful  to  the  people,  as  the 
very  one  which  so  recently  was  an 
universal  favourite;  or  what  senti- 
ments so  sure  a  passport  to  popular 
favour  as  the  most  vehement  con- 
demnation of  those  very  institutions 
which  had  so  long  been  the  subject 
of  their  admiration  ?  In  proportion 
as  the  British  Constitution  has  be- 
come more  popular,  public  opinion 
has  become  more  variable  ;  and  the 
reverence  for  antiquity,  the  sure 
mark  of  stable,  exchanged  for  the 
passion  for  change,  the  invariable 
characteristic  of  declining  institu- 
tions. St  Paul  well  characterised 
not  only  the  Athenian,  but  all  other 
democracies,  when  he  said  that  they 
passed  their  lives  in  hearing  and  see- 
ing something  new. 

It  is  this  excessive  vacillation  of 
all  democratic  societies,  which  ren- 
ders them  the  certain  prey,  in  a  very 
short  time,  either  of  military  despo- 
tism, or  monarchical  power.  The 
continual  change  of  the  leaders  of 
the  people,  with  the  endless  muta- 
tions of  their  affections,  renders  them 
incapable  of  acquiring  any  skill  or 
experience  in  political  life,  or  of 
permanently  prosecuting  any  object 
whatever :  the  people,  however  vehe- 
ment in  support  of  their  liberties  at 
one  time,become  enamoured  of  some 
other  object  at  another,  and  in  the 
prosecution  of  this  new  phantom, 
they  speedily  relinquish  to  ambitious 
hands  the  guidance  of  their  free-. 


The  British  Peerage. 


dom.  Steady  in  nothing  but  the 
unceasing  jealousy  of  their  gover- 
nors,'— they  pull  down  with  mer- 
ciless severity  all  those  who  have 
for  a  few  months  been  placed  at  the 
head  of  affairs.  They  are  tired,  like 
the  Athenian  populace,  of  hearing 
them  called  the  Just.  The  conse- 
quence is,  that  no  steady  system,  and 
no  skill,  either  in  politics  or  war, 
can  be  attained  by  their  leaders :  and 
they  become  incapable  of  resisting 
foreign  subjugation  but  by  crouching 
under  a  despotic  yoke  of  their  own 
creation.  The  fortunes  of  republican 
France  were  rapidly  on  the  decline, 
and  the  existence  of  the  country 
hung  on  a  thread,  when  the  Commit- 
tee of  Public  Safety  arose,  and  crush- 
ing all  the  chimeras  of  general  equa? 
lity,  drew  forth  the  resources  of  the 
country,  by  an  oppression  unparal- 
leled since  the  beginning  or  the 
world. 

Now,  the  liberties  of  a  people, 
after  the  extinction  of  its  hereditary 
legislators,  are  constantly  exposed 
to  attacks  from  persevering  and  reck- 
less ambition.  The  mob  unarmed, 
divided,  and  vacillating,  find  them- 
selves in  presence  of  an  organized 
and  ambitious  military  force.  Du- 
ring the  tumults  and  suffering  con- 
sequent on  civil  convulsions,  the  army 
becomes  not  only  the  only  refuge  of 
the  daring,  but  the  only  organized 
force  in  the  country.  Hence  the  extra- 
ordinary facility  with  which  a  military 
usurper  has,  in  all  ages,  put  the  finish- 
ing stroke  to  public  distractions,  by 
establishing  his  own  power  on  the 
ruins  of  democratic  institutions.  The 
people,  having  destroyed  their  natu- 
ral leaders,  and  overturned  all  the 
settled  relations  of  life,  are  no  more 
capable  of  withstanding  them,  than 
the  rabble  in  the  streets  are  of  resist- 
ing a  charge  of  steel-clad  cuirass- 
iers. 

In  defending,  therefore,  the  insti- 
tutions of  the  country  from  being 
overthrown,  the  British  aristocracy 
are  not  maintaining  any  privileges  of 
their  own  in  opposition  to  the  pub- 
lic welfare :  they  are  preserving  the 
freedom  of  England  from  destruc- 
tion ;  they  are  saving  an  infatuated 
nation  from  the  otherwise  inevitable 
consequences  of  its  own  madness. 
Like  the  Jewish  legislator,  they  are 
called  upon  to  stand  between  the 
people  and  the  plague :  and  the  peo- 
ple to  their  latest  generation  will  bless 


90  The  British  Peerage,  [July, 

tin  >se  who  now  oppose  their  wishes,    course,  there  are  many  exceptions : 

but  this  forms  the  present  great  clas- 
sification of   the  empire.     How  or 


I»  defending  the  interests  of  their 
ov**n  order,  they  are  preserving  the 
on  ly  bulwarks  of  real  freedom  ;  they 
ar>5  standing  between  the  tide  of  de- 
mocratic ambition,  and  the  sword  of 
military  despotism.  If  they  are  des- 
tined to  fall,  with  them  will  perish 
the  last  defenders  of  order  and  free- 
dom ;  and  instead  of  the  stable  and 
beneficent  constitution  of  Britain, 
her  people  will  be  convulsed  in  the 
madness  of  popular  ambition,  or 
mourn  in  silence  beneath  the  weight 
of  despotic  power. 

Let  not  the  British  Aristocracy  be 
deterred  by  the  assertion,  that  they  are 
notsufficieutly  powerful  to  withstand 
the  House  of  Commons.  The  pre^ 
sent  House  is  differently  constituted 
from  any  prior  one  in  English  His- 
tory. By  the  confession  of  the  Re- 
formers, according  to  the  boast  of 
the  radical  journals,  the  influence  of 
the  Peers  has  been  almost  extinguish- 
ed in  the  late  elections.  What  is  the 
legitimate  inference  to  be  drawn 
from  this  circumstance?  It  is  that 
the  conservative  party  now  are  to  be 
found  chiefly  in  the  Upper  House  j 
and  that  the  two  branches  of  the  Le- 
gislature stand,  in  consequence of the 
popular  triumph  at  the  late  elections, 
in  a  totally  different  situation  from 
what  they  ever  did  before.  The 
House  of  Commons,  for  the  first  time 
in  British  annals,  no  longer  fully  re- 
presents all  classes  in  the  state;  a 
majority  has,  from  popular  excite- 
ment, been  returned  of  the  tribunes 
of  the  people  :  and  unless  the  Aris- 
tocracy are  to  be  destroyed,  and  the 
Democratic  Ascendency  rendered 
paramount,  the  Conservative  Party 
must  seek  their  full  representation  in 
the  House  of  Lords. 

In  the  counties  where  the  Reform- 
ers have  triumphed  (and  that  em- 
braces almost  all  England),  the  great 
bulk  of  the  landed  proprietors,  and 
almost  all  the  clergy,  are  opposed  to 
the  Bill.  They  have  been  outvoted  by 
the  multitudes  of  Reformers,- whom 
democratic  ambition,  awakened  by 
the  sudden  and  prodigal  gift  of  po- 
litical power,  brought  up  to  the  poll. 
The  property,  intelligence,  and  edu- 
cation of  the  country,  is  arrayed  on 
one  side;  on  the  other,  numbers, 
energy,  and  popular  ambition.  Of 


empire. 

where  is  the;  vehemence  of  the  tri- 
bunes delegated  to  support  demo- 
cratic power  to  be  resisted  ?  By  the 
firmness  of  patrician  purpose,  and  in 
the  Senate  of  the  British  Empire. 

"  Were  the  love  of  Reform,"  says 
an  author,  generally  supposed  to  be 
Lord  Brougham,  "  a  plant  of  yester- 
day's growth,  it  might  be  safe  to 
prune  it  carelessly,  or  even  pluck  it 
up ; — but  that  which  was  a  few  years 
ago  but  as  a  grain  of  mustard-seed, 
and  the  least  of  plants,  is  now  grown 
to  a  tree,  in  which  the  fowls  of  the 
airbuild  their  nests."*  Of  such  short 
growth,  even  in  the  opinion  of  its 
ablest  supporters,  is  the  present  pas- 
sion for  Reform.  "  A  few  years  ago 
it  was  a  grain  of  mustard-seed,  the 
least  of  plants."  Is  it  for  an  ob- 
ject of  such  ephemeral,  such  tran- 
sient duration,  that  we  are  now  to 
be  required  to  sacrifice  the  British 
constitution  ?  To  overturn  a  sys- 
tem which  has  accommodated  itself 
to  the  wants  of  twenty  generations ; 
which  has  grown  with  our  growth, 
and  strengthened  with  our  strength  j 
which  is  not  a  passion  of  a  few  years' 
growth,  but  the  result  of  experience 
since  the  days  of  Alfred  ?  Lord 
Brougham  says  that  the  passion  for 
reform  has  sprung  up  since  1782, 
from  a  meeting  in  the  Palace  Yard 
at  York  : — Such  is  the  oldest  date  as- 
signed to  the  wish  for  the  new  con- 
stitution ;  while  the  attachment  to 
the  old  is  lost  in  the  obscurity  of  for- 
gotten time. 

"  Can  you  seriously  believe,"  says 
the  same  author,  "  that  such  men  as 
the  Dukes  of  Norfolk,  Somerset,  De- 
vonshire, Grafton,  Bedford,  Lord 
Grosvenor,  Lord  Cleveland,  Lord 
Yarborough,  Lord  Stafford,  Lord 
Winchilsea  and  Manvers,  and  so  many 
others  with  great  estates  and  high- 
sounding  titles,  are  anxious  to  in- 
crease the  democratic  influence  in 
the  constitution  beyond  due  bounds  ? 
The  supposition  that  any  of  these 
men  we  have  mentioned,  who  are 
placed  in  situations  which  render 
them  entirely  independent  of  the  fa- 
vours of  the  crown,  would  support 
a  measure,  the  tendency  of  which 
was  to  endanger  their  possessions, 


Friendly  Advice  to  the  Peers,  p.  17* 


1881.] 


The  British  Peerage. 


01 


and  destroy  their  real  power  and  in- 
fluence, is  to  the  lastdegreeabsurd."* 
We  answer,  that  we  firmly  believe 
they  do  not  expect  such  a  result,  and 
we  as  firmly  believe  that  they  are 
pursuing  a  course  which  will  most 
certainly  have  this  effect.  History  is 
fresh  in  our  recollection ;  this  is  not 
the  first  time  that  nobles.quite  as  ele- 
vated, as  patriotic,  and  as  able  as 
these,  have,  during  the  tempest  of 
Reform,  rushed  on  their  own  de- 
struction. 

Did  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  when  he 
shewed  the  first  example  of  desert- 
ing his  order,  and  fainted  with  emo- 
tion as  he  left  the  chamber  of  the 
hereditary  peers  of  France  to  join 
his  great  name  and  influence  to  the 
Tiers  Et;it,  intend  to  exclude  himself 
from  the  French  throne  ?  Was  he 
aware  that  in  so  doing  he  was  ascend- 
ing the  first  steps  of  that  scaffold,  to 
which  in  less  than  three  years  he  was 
led  in  melancholy  state,  at  the  gate 
of  his  own  palace  ?  Did  the  Marquis 
Rochefoucault,  or  the  Duke  de  Lian- 
court,  the  firm  friend  of  the  people, 
the  enlightened  patron  of  agriculture, 
the  warm  philanthropist,  imagine  that 
in  following  his  example,  they  were 
consigning  themselves  to  the  exile  and 
ruin,  which  so  soon  afterwards  re- 
warded all  their  exertions  in  favour 
of  the  democracy  ?  Did  the  Marquis 
Lafayette,  the  adored  commander  of 
the  National  Guard,  whose  white 
plume  was  the  signal  for  universal 
shouts  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  ima- 
gine that  the  course  he  was  pursuing 
was  destined  to  raise  a  flame  which 
even  his  influence  could  not  subdue, 
and  that  he  should  so  soon  be  com- 
pelled to  seek  for  refuge  from  the 
fury  of  plebeian  ambition  in  the 
security  of  an  Austrian  dungeon  ? 
Did  the  Marquis  of  Crillon  intend, 
in  joining  the  ranks  of  the  Reform- 
ers, to  extinguish  his  high  descent 
on  the  revolutionary  scaffold";  or  the 
heir  of  Montmorency  to  terminate 
the  long  line  of  the  Constables  of 
France,  under  the  axe  of  the  guillo- 
tine ?  Did  the  forty-six  nobles  who, 
in  June  1789,  deserted  the  House 
of  Peers  to  support  the  innovations 
of  the  democracy,  suppose  that  in 
so  doing  they  were  exposing  them- 


selves to  the  confiscation  and  death 
which  so  soon  overtook  them  ?  Did 
Bailly,  the  first  President  of  the  As- 
sembly, the  democratic  mayor  of 
Paris,  the  author  of  the  Tennis  Court 
Oath,  the  most  popular  man  in 
France, intend  to  rouse  a  spirit  which 
should  lead  him  forth  a  miserable 
victim  to  a  cruel  and  lingering  death 
on  the  Champs  de  Mars?  Did  the 
illustrious  Marquis  de  Mirabeau, 
whose  eloquence  had  so  long  shook 
the  assembly,  imagine  that  popular 
rancour  would  pursue  him  even  be- 
yond the  grave,  and  that  his  ashea, 
torn  up  from  the  Pantheon,  should 
be  consigned  amidst  universal  exe- 
cration to  the  winds?  We  have  wit- 
nessed these  events :  the  blood  of 
the  nobles,  whose  lives  paid  the  for- 
feit of  their  misguided  patriotism,  is 
yet  reeking :  the  ability  with  which 
their  conduct  was  eulogized,  is  yet 
fresh  in  our  recollection,  and  yet  we 
are  now  called  upon  to  surrender 
the  constitution,  because  British  is 
following  the  career  of  French  inno- 
vation. 

"  But,  then,"  continues  the  same 
author,  "  it  is  said,  if  you  once  re- 
move the  landmarks  of  the  constitu- 
tion, you  will  be  unable  to  stop  where 
you  wish.  This  argument  would  be 
a  very  true  one  if  it  were  intended  to 
retain  any  of  the  abuses  of  the  sys- 
tem ;  but  as  they  are  to  be  done 
away  with  by  the  Bill,  all  reasonable 
opposition  to  our  representative  sys- 
tem is  removed,  and  its  defenders 
are  thus  placed  on  a  vantage-ground, 
from  whence  they  may  easily  defy 
the  attacks  of  their  enernies."f — Is 
then  the  Reform  Bill  so  very  perfect, 
that  it  will  at  once  cure  all  objec- 
tions, remove  all  complaints,  against 
our  representative  system  ?  Will 
the  excluded  householders — the  mul- 
titude of  unrepresented  proprietors 
— the  vast  swarm  of  ambitious  radi- 
cals, have  nothing  to  say  ?  Is  demo- 
cratic ambition,  oncaexcited,  so  easi- 
ly subdued  ?  Does  the  removal  of  all 
existing  abuses  check  the  progress 
of  revolution?  "  The  concessions 
of  the  king,"  said  Mirabeau,  in  June 
23,  1789,  "have  removed  all  the  real 
grievances  of  France.";):  Did  his  vast 
concessions  preserve  the  aristocracy 


Friendly  Advice  to  the  Peers,  p.  25.  t  Ibid;  p.. 

\  Miguet,  volt  1. 


The  British  Peerage. 


[July, 


or  save  the  throne?  "  I  have  been  an- 
xiously considering,"  said  that  bene- 
ficent monarch,  when  informed  of  his 
sentence  of  death,  "  whether,  during 
the  whole  course  of  my  reign,  I  have 
done  any  thing  to  my  people  witli 
which  I  should  now  reproach  my- 
self; and  I  solemnly  declare,  when 
about  to  appear  at  the  judgment-seat 
of  God,  that  I  have  not :  that  I  have 
never  wished  any  thing  but  their 
happiness."*  And  it  is  in  the  life- 
time of  the  generation  who  have  wit- 
nessed his  execution,  that  the  House 
of  Peers  is  now  called  upon  to  plunge 
into  the  fatal  career  of  innovation. 

"  In  the  timeof  the  civil  war  in  Eng- 
land," continues  the  same  author, "  we 
find  it  stated,  that  in  the  year  1646, 
the  majorities  of  the  Lords  and  Com- 
mons differed  from  each  other  upon 
almost  every  political  topic ;  and  it 
was  only  by  the  reluctant  and  ungra- 
cious yielding  of 'the  former •,  that  bu- 
siness was  able  to  proceed."  What 
was  the  consequence  ?  We  turn  to 
another  page  of  the  same  History, 
and  we  find,  that,  on  the  6th  Feb- 
ruary, 1649,  it  was  voted,  that  the 
House  of  Peers  is  useless,  dangerous, 
and  ought  to  be  abolished.  "  The 
misery  and  disturbances  which  fol- 
lowed these  dissensions  in  the  diffe- 
rent branches  of  the  legislature,  are 
well  known  to  all ;  the  iron  rule  of 
Cromwell,  the  merciless  Restora- 
tion, the  tyranny  and  folly  of  the 
Stuart  brothers."f  In  these  remarks 
historic  truth  has  prevailed  over 
party  ambition.  It  was  "  in  conse- 
quence of  the  ungracious  yielding" 
of  the  Lords  that  the  House  of  Peers 
was  abolished,  the  sovereign  behead- 
ed, and  the  iron  rule  of  Cromwell 
established.  The  democratic  party 
acquired  such  vigour,  and  so  im- 
mensely increased  in  strength  from 
this  great  victory,  that,  thencefor- 
ward, they  became  irresistible. — Let 
their  successors  hear  the  warning 
voice,  and  not  imitate  the  example 
which  brought  such  fatal  conse- 
quences upon  their  forefathers. 

Is  it  said,  that  it  was  the  "  ungra- 
cious yielding"  of  the  Peers  which 
produced  these  disastrous  conse- 
quences, and  that  very  different  re- 
sults would  have  attended  their 


timely  submission  ?  He"re,  again,  his- 
tory comes  in  to  complete  the  lesson 
of  experience.  The  French  nobility 
tried  the  system  of  "  gracious"  con- 
cession ;  at  the  desire  of  their  sove- 
reign they  yielded  the  great  question 
of  voting  together,  or  in  separate 
chambers ;  in  one  night  they  surren- 
dered all  their  privileges — they  re- 
linquished, without  a  struggle,  their 
titles  of  honour.  The  force  of  con- 
cession could  no  farther  go;  and  iu 
return,  the  throne  was  overturned, 
the  aristocracy  destroyed ;  and  they 
were  treated  with  a  degree  of  seve- 
rity to  which  the  proscription  of  the 
Long  Parliament  appears  to  be  an 
act  of  mercy. 

The  author  of  the  Friendly  Advice 
declares,  that  if  the  Reform  .Bill  be 
resisted,  the  Peers  will  be  the  first  vic- 
tims. Whether  this  will  be  the  case 
or  not  is  discussed  in  another  article 
in  this  Number  ;J  but  experience  war- 
rants the  melancholy  presage,  that  if 
it  is  carried,  the  leaders  of  the  move- 
ment will  be  the  first  to  suffer  from 
its  effects.  Within  a  few  months  af- 
ter Neckar,  the  leader  of  the  reform- 
ing ministry  of  France,  had  been  re- 
called by  the  popular  voice  to  the 
helm  of  affairs,  and  traversed  the 
kingdom  in  all  but  regal  procession, 
he  was  exiled, proscribed,  and  ruined, 
by  the  Assembly  which  he  had  first 
installed  in  popular  sovereignty.  La- 
fayette was  the  next  object  of  popu- 
lar execration,  and  his  life  saved  only 
by  voluntary  exile;  the  illustrious 
Bailly,  the  next  victim  of  democratic 
revenge.  Within  three  years  after 
Reform  had  been  commenced  amidst 
unanimous  transports  in  France, 
every  one  of  its  early  leaders  had 
perished  on  the  scaffold,  or  been 
driven,  after  their  fortunes  had  ut- 
terly perished,  into  distant  lands.— 
May  HeaVen  avert  such  scenes  of 
disaster  from  this  kingdom !  but  if 
they  should  occur,  we  shall  at  least 
have  the  consolation  of  reflecting 
that  we  have  warned  the  authors  of 
the  measure  we  deplore  of  its  conse- 
quences to  themsel  ves and  their  coun- 
try; and  incessantly  presented  the 
lessons  of  historic  experience  as  the 
mirror  of  future  fate. 


*  Lacrctcllc. 

f  Parliamwitary  Return) 


t  Friendly  Advice,  p.  30. 
the  Frcnfh  Uevolutiou,  No.  VII, 


1831.] 


Sotheby's  Homer, 


lOTHEBV's    HOMES. 


CRITIQUE  III. 


WE  have  the  highest  respect  for 
Blair's  Lectures  on  Rhetoric  and 
Belles  Lettres.  Dr  Hugh  had  so 
much  taste  and  talent,  that  his  mind 
bordered  on  genius.  It  may  be 
said  to  have  lived  in  the  debateable 
land  between  the  two  great  kingdoms 
of  Reason  and  Imagination.  Not  that 
we  mean  to  say  the  Doctor  was  in 
any  mood  a  poet;  but  in  many  a 
mood  he  loved  poetry,  and  saw  and 
felt  its  beauties.  It  spoke  to  some- 
thing within  him,  which  was  not  mere 
intelligence.  In  short,  Nature  had 
not  gitted  him  with  Imagination  ac- 
tive, but  of  Imagination  passive  she 
had  given  Hugh  a  considerable  share ; 
and  thus,  though  it  was  impossible 
for  him  to  originate  the  poetical,  it 
was  easy  for  him  to  appreciate  it 
when  set  before  him  by  the  makers. 
A  pure  delight  seems  to  have  touch- 
ed his  heart,  in  contemplating  the 
creations  of.  genius,  in  listening  to 
the  inspiration  of  those  on  whom 
heaven  had  bestowed  "  the  Vision 
and  the  faculty  divine."  The  Pro- 
fessor doth  sometimes  prose,  it  must 
be  confessed,  "wearisome  exceed- 
ingly;" but  that  in  some  measure 
was  his  vocation;  and  the  heaviest 
of  all  vehicles  is  perhaps,  in  print,  a 
Lecture.  It  was  his  bounden  duty 
to  be  as  plain  as  a  pike-staff,  perspi- 
cuous as  an  icicle  ;  and  rare  would 
have  been  his  felicity  had  he  esca- 
ped the  "  timmer-tuue"  of  the  one, 
and  the  frigidity  of  the  other,  in  his 
very  elegant  and  useful  prelections. 
Covvper,  in  one  of  his  letters,  com- 
mends Blair's  good  sense,  but  speaks 
most  contemptuously  of  his  utter 
destitution  of  all  original  power 
either  of  thought  or  feeling;  but 
there  the  author  of  the  Task  was  too 
severe,  for  compare  him  with  the 
best  critics  going  or  gone,  and  he 
will  appear 'far  from  barren.  His 
manner  is  somewhat  cold,  but  there 
is  often  much  warmth  in  the  matter 
—and  let  us  say  it  at  once,  he  had, 
in  his  way,  enthusiasm.  In  private 
life  Blair  was  a  man  of  a  constitution 
of  character  by  no  means  unimpa.s- 


sioned ;  his  human  sensibilities  were 
tender  and  acute ;  with  finer  moral, 
or  higher  religious  emotions,  no  man 
was  ever  more  familiar ;  and  with 
these  and  other  endowments,  we  take 
leave  to  think  that  he  was  entitled 
and  qualified  to  expatiate,  ex  cathe- 
dra, nay,  without  offence,  even  now 
and  then  to  prose  and  preach  by  the 
hour-glass,  as  if  from  the  very  pul- 
pit, on  epic  poetry  and  poets,  yea, 
even  on  Homer. 

Mr  Wordsworth  has  been  pleased 
to  say,  that  the  soil  of  Scotland  is 
peculiarly  adapted  by  Nature  for  the 
growth  of  that  weed,  called  the  Cri- 
tic. He  instances  David  Hume  and 
Adam  Smith.  David  certainly  was 
somewhat  spoiled  by  an  over  addic- 
tion to  French  liqueurs ;  and  he  has 
indited  some  rare  nonsense  about 
Shakspeare.  Adam,  too,  for  poetry 
had  a  Parisian  palate ;  and  cared  lit- 
tle for  Percy's  Reliques.  It  seems 
he  once  said  that  the  author  of  the 
ballad  of  "  Clym  of  the  Cleugh," 
could  not  have  been  a  gentleman. 
For  this  sentiment,  he  of  the  Excur- 
sion has  called  the  author  of  the 
Theory  of  Moral  Sentiments  a  weed. 
If  he  be,  then,  to  use  an  expression 
which  Wordsworth  has  borrowed 
from  Spenser,  'tis  "  a  weed  of  glo- 
rious feature."  We  agree  with  Adam 
Smith  in  believing  that  the  ancient 
balladmonger  was  no  gentleman. 
But  we  must  not  "cry  mew"  to  him 
on  that  account ;  for  ancient  ballad- 
mongers  are  not  expected  to  be  gen- 
tlemen; and  they  may  write  admi- 
rably of  deer-stalking,  of  deer-shoot- 
ing, and  deer-stealing,  though  in  the 
rule  of  manners  they  have  not  anti- 
cipated Chesterfield.  We  found  fault 
with  Mr  Wordsworth  for  having  suf- 
fered his  spite  towards  one  of  its 
productions,  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
to  vitiate  his  judgment  of  the  whole 
soil  of  Scotland — and  to  commit  him- 
self before  the  whole  world  by  de- 
claring people  to  be  worthless  and 
ugly  weeds,  who  are  valuable  and 
useful  flowers.  David  and  Adam 
are  Perennials— or,  "  say  rather," 


94  Sofftcbtfs  Homer. 

Immortals.  Both  the  one  and  the 
other  is 

— —  "  like  a  tree  that  grows  . 

Near  planted  by  a  river, 
Which  in  its  season  yield  its  fruit, 

And  its  leaf  fadeth  never."      «•- 

So  is  William  Wordsworth — and  jus- 
tifiably would  he  despise  the  person 
who,  pitying  perhaps  poor  Alice  Fell, 
without  seeing  any  thing  particularly 
poetical  or  pathetic  in  her  old  or  new 
duffle  cloak,  should,  forgetful  of  all 
his  glories,  call  the  author  of  that 
feeble  failure,  a  weed.  True  enough, 
he  is  there  commonplace  as  a  dock- 
en  by  the  way-side ;  but  elsewhere 
rare  as  amaranth,  which  only  grows 
in  heaven. 

The  truth  seems -to  he,  that  the 
soil  of  Scotland  is  most  happily 
adapted  for  the  cultivation  of  philo- 
sophical criticism.  There  was  old 
Kames,  though  flawed  and  cracked, 
a  diamond  almost  of  the  first  water. 
Hold  up  his  Elements  between  your 
eye  and  the  firmament,  and  you  see 
the  blue  and  the  clouds.  To  speak 
sensibly,  he  was  the  very  first  per- 
son produced  by  this  island  of  ours, 
entitled  to  the  character  of  a  philo- 
sophical enquirer  into  the  principles 
of  poetical  composition.  He  is  the 
father  of  such  criticism  in  this  coun- 
try— the  Scottish — not  the  Irish — 
Stagyrite.  He  is  ours — let  the  English 
shew  their  Aristotle.  That  his  blun- 
ders are  as  plentiful  as  blackberries, 
is  most  true;  but  that  they  are  so  is 
neither  wonder  nor  pity ; — for  so  are 
Burke's ; — yet  is  his  treatise  on  the 
Sublime  and  Beautiful,  juvenile  as  it 
is,  full  of  truth  and  wisdom.  Change 
the  image ;  and  fling  Kames's  Ele- 
ments of  Criticism  into  the  fanners 
ftf  Wordsworth's  wrath ;  and  after 
the  air  has  been  darkened  for  a  while 
with  chaff,  the  barn-floor  will  belike 
a  granary  rich  in  heaps  of  the  finest 
white  wheat,  which,  baked  into  bolt- 
ed bread,  is  tasteful  and  nutritive 
sustenance  even  for  a  Lake  poet. 

By  much  criticism,  sincerely  or 
affectedly  philosophical,  has  the  ge- 
nius of  Shakspeare  been  lately  bela- 
boured, by  true  men  and  by  pretend- 
ers— from  Coleridge  and  Lamb,  to 
Hazlitt  and  Barry  Cornwall.  But, 
after  all,  with  the  exception  of  some 
glorious  things  said  by  the  Ancient 
Mariner  and  Elia,  little  new  has 
been  added,  of  much  worth,  to  the 


[July, 


Essays  of  Professor  Richardson,  a 
forgotten  work,  of  which  a  few  co- 
pies have  been  saved  by  thieves 
From  the  moths.  There,  too,  is  Ali- 
son's delightful  book  on  Taste,  in 
which  the  Doctrine  of  Association  is 
stated  with  the  precision  of  the  Phi- 
losopher, and  illustrated  with  the 
prodigality  of  the  Poet.  Compare 
with  it  Payne  Knight's  Analytical 
Enquiry,  and  from  feasting  on  the 
juicy  heart  of  an  orange,  you  are 
starving  on  its  shrivelled  skin.  Of 
the  Edinburgh  Review,  and  Black- 
wood's  Magazine, — mayhap  the  least 
said  is  soonest  mended ;  but  surely 
it  may  be  permitted  us  to  say 
this  much  for  Francis  Jeffrey,  and 
Christopher  North,  that  the  one  set 
agoing  all  the  reviews,  and  the 
other  all  the  magazines,  which  now 
periodically,  that  is  perpetually,  il- 
lumine the  world ;  and  if  the  Quar- 
terly and  its  train  have  eclipsed,  or 
should  eclipse,  the  Blue  and  Yellow, 
and  the  Metropolitan  and  its  train 
take  the  shine  out  of  Her  of  the 
Olive,  let  it  be  remembered  with 
grateful  admiration  what  those  pla- 
nets once  were ;  and  never  for  one 
moment  be  forgotten  the  illustrious 
fact,  that  Scotland  has  still  to  herself 
been  true ;  for  that  certain  new- risen 
Scottish  stars  have  outshone  certain 
old  ones  ;  that — again  to  change  the 
image — the  Tweed  has  lent  its  light 
and  music  to  the  Thames,  and  made 
it,  at  once,  a  radiant  and  a  sonorous 
river. 

As  to  German  philosophical  criti- 
cism, almost  all  that  we  know  of  it  is 
in  Lessing,  Wieland,  Goethe,  and  the 
Schlegels.  We  understand  on  good 
authority,  that  of  Carlisle,  Moir,  and 
Weir,  that  there  are  at  least  seven 
wise  men  in  that  land  of  lumber,  and 
we  understand  on  still  better,  our 
own,  that  there  are  at  least  seventy 
sumphs,  who,  were  the  Thames  or 
the  Rhine  set  on  fire  by  us,  would 
speedily  extinguish  it.  But  of  the 
above  said  heroes,  the  two  first,  like 
Hercules,  conquer  the  bulls  they 
take  by  the  horns  ;  of  Wilhelm  Meis- 
ter  on  Shakspeare,  our  friends  afore- 
said have  expressed  their  reverence; 
but  that,  we  hope,  need  not  hinder 
us  from  hinting  our  contempt; 
and  as  for  the  "  bletherin'  brithers," 
as  the  Shepherd  most  characteris- 
tically called  the  Schlegels,  they 
are  indeed  boys  for  darkening  the 


daylight  and  extinguishing  the  moon 
and  stars.  So,  let  us  return  from  these 
few  modest  remarks  on  the  former 
schools  of  Philosophical  Criticism 
to  where  we  set  out  from,  namely,  the 
Chair  of  Rhetoric  and  Belles  Let- 
tres,  with  Dr  Hugh  Blair  sitting  in 
it  decorously,  and  lecturing  on  Epic 
Poetry,  particularly  on  Homer,  and 
more  particularly  on  the  Iliad.  The 
Doctor  doth  thus  dissert  on  the  open- 
ing of  the  Iliad. 

"  The  opening  of  the  Iliad  posses- 
ses none  of  that  sort  of  dignity,  which 
a  modern  looks  for  in  an  Epic  Poem. 
It  turns  on  no  higher  subject,  than 
the  quarrel  of  two  chieftains  about  a 
female  slave.  The  priest  of  Apollo 
beseeches  Agamemnon  to  restore  his 
daughter,  who,  in  the  plunder  of  a 
city,  had  fallen  to  Agamemnon's 
share  of  booty*  He  refuses.  Apollo, 
at  the  prayer  of  his  priest,  sends  a 
plague  into  the  Grecian  camp.  The 
augur,  when  consulted,  declares,  that 
there  is  no  way  of  appeasing  Apollo, 
but  by  restoring  the  daughter  Of  his 
priest.  Agamemnon  is  enraged  at 
the  augur ;  professes  that  he  likes 
this  slave  better  than  his  wife  Cly- 
temnestra;  but  since  he  must  re- 
store her,  in  order  to  save  the  army, 
insists  to  have  another  in  her  place ; 
and  pitches  upon  Briseis  the  slave  of 
Achilles.  Achilles,  as  was  to  be  ex- 
pected, kindles  into  rage  at  this  de- 
mand ;  reproaches  him  for  his  ra- 
pacity and  insolence,  and,  after 
giving  him  many  hard  names,  so- 
lemnly swears,  that,  if  he  is  to  be 
thus  treated  by  the  general,  he  will 
withdraw  his  troops,  and  assist  the 
Grecians  no  more  against  the  Tro- 
jans. He  withdraws  accordingly. 
His  mother,  the  goddess  Thetis,  in- 
terests Jupiter  in  his  cause  ;  who,  to 
avenge  the  wrong  which  Achilles 
had  suffered,  takes  part  against  the 
Greeks,  and  suffers  them  to  fall  into 
great  and  long  distress  ;  until  Achil- 
les is  pacified,  and  reconciliation 
brought  about  bet  ween  him  and  Aga- 
memnon." 

The  Doctor  has  delivered  his  dic- 
tum that  the  opening  of  the  Iliad 
possesses  none  of  that  sort  of  dignity 
which  a  modern  looks  for  in  an  Epic 
poem.  It  turns,  quoth  he,  con- 
temptuously, on  no  higher  subject 
than  the  quarrel  of  two  chieftains 
about  a  female  slave.  Now  we  wish 
the  worthy  Doctor  had  told  us  what 


Sotheby's  Homer.  95 

is  the  sort  of  dignity  which  a  modern 
looks  for  in  an  Epic  poem — and  that 
he  had  furnished  us  with  a  few  speci- 
mens. The  Doctor  is  not  orthodox 
here — he  is  a  heretic — and  were  he 
to  be  brought  to  trial  before  the 
General  Assembly  of  the  Critical 
Kirk,  his  gown  would,  we  fear,  be 
taken  from  his  shoulders,  and  himself 
left  to  become  the  head  of  a  sect 
which  assuredly,  unlike  some  others, 
would  not  include  any  considerable 
quern  of  womenfolk.  What  higher 
subject  of  quarrel  between  two  chief- 
tains would  Dr  Blair  have  suggested, 
than  abeautiful woman?  ThatBriseis 
was  so — an  exquisite  creature — is 
proved  by  the  simple  fact  of  her 
having  been  the  choice  of  Achilles. 
The  City-Sacker,  from  a  gorgeous 
band,  culled  that  one  Flower,  who 
filled  his  tent  with  "  the  bloom  of 
young  desire,  and  purple  light  of 
love."  The  son  of  Thetis  tells  us  that 
he  loved  her  as  his  own  wife.  Nay, 
she  was  his  wife — he  had  married 
her,  just  as  if  he  had  been  in  Scot- 
land, by  declaring  that  they  two  were 
one  flesh,  in  presence  of  Patroclus, 
and  then  making  a  long  honey-moon 
of  it  in  the  innermost  heart  of  the 
tent.  True,  Briseis  was  a  slave, 
but  how  could  she  help  that  cir- 
cumstance, and  was  it  not  the  merest 
trifle  in  that  age  ?  For  hundreds  of 
miles  round,  while  Achilles  Polior- 
cetes  was  before  Troy,  there  was 
not  a  king's  daughter  who  in  a  day 
might  not  be  a  slave.  Ovid,  we  be- 
lieve, or  some  other  liar,  says,  that 
Briseis  was  a  widow,  and  that 
Achilles  slew  her  husband  when  he 
ravaged  Lyrnessus.  But  she  never 
was  a  widow  in  her  life,  till  that 
fatal  flight  of  the  arrow  of  Paris. 
Till  Achilles  made  her  his  own,  she 
was  a  virgin  princess. 

But  say  that  Briseis  was,  in  matter- 
of-fact,  simply  a  "  Female  Slave." 
She  was  not  a  maid  of  all  work.  Her 
arms  were  not  red,  nor  her  hands 
horny  ;  her  ankles  were  not  like 
bedposts ;  buggers  she  wore  not, 
nor  yet  bauchles.  Her  sandals  so 
suited  her  soles,  and  her  soles  her 
sandals,  that  her  feet  glided  o'er  the 
ground  like  sunbeams,  as  bright  and 
as  silent,  and  the  greensward  grew 
greener  beneath  the  gentle  pressure. 
Her  legs  were  like  lilies.  So  were 
her  arms  and  hands — :her  shoulders, 
neck,  and  bosom ;  and  had  the  Doctor 


Sotheby's  Homer. 


but  once  looked  on  her,  he  would 
have  forgot  his  clerical  dignity,  and 
in  place  of  calling  her  "a  female 
slave,"  have  sworn,  though  a  diviiio, 
by  some  harmless  oath,  that  she  was 
an  angel.  "  A  rose,"  Shakspeare 
says,  "  by  any  other  name  would 
smell  as  sweet."  True,  men  call  her 
the  Queen  of  Flowers.  And  she  is 
so.  But  were  all  the  disloyal  world 
to  join  in  naming  her  the  Slare  of 
Weeds,  still  would  she  be  sole  sove- 
reign of  her  own  breathing  and 
blushing  floral  kingdom.  We  defy 
humanity  to  discrown  or  dethrone 
her — for  she  is  queen  by  divine 
right,  and  holds, by  aheavenly  tenure, 
of  the  sun,  on  condition  merely  of 
presenting  him  with  a  few  dewdrops 
every  dawn,  during  the  months  she 
loves  best  to  illumine  with  her  regal 
lustre.  Just  so  was  it  with  her  whom 
Dr  Hugh  Blair  chose  to  call "  female 
slave."  She  was  free  as  a  fawn  on 
the  hill — as  a  nightingale  in  the  grove 
— as  a  dove  in  the  air — a  bright  bird 
of  beauty,  that  loved  to  nestle  in  the 
storm-laid  bosom  of  the  destroyer. 
Achilles  was  the  slave.  Briseis 
captived  the  invincible — hung  chains 
round  his  neck,  which  to  strive  to 
break  would  have  been  the  vainest 
madness— the  arrow  of  Paris,  it  is 
fabled,  smote  the  only  vulnerable 
epot  of  the  hero — his  heel,  and  slew 
him — but  Briseis  assailed  him  with 
the  archery  of  her  eyes,  and  the 
winged  wounds  went  to  the  very 
core  of  his  heart,  inflicting  daily  a 
thousand  deaths,  alternating  with 
life-fits  that  in  their  bliss  alone  deser- 
ved the  name  of  being.  And  what 
signifies  it  to  Achilles,  that  Dr  Blair 
persists,  like  a  Presbyterian  as  he  is, 
in  calling  his  Briseis  a  female  slave  ? 
The  Professor  should  have  said  a 
seraph. 

The  Doctor  forgot  that  the  loss  of 
a  mistress  is  sadly  felt  by  a  general 
on  foreign  service.  Had  Agamemnon 
been  at  Argos,he  might  not — though 
there  is  no  saying — have  been  so 
savage  on  the  forced  relinquish- 
ment  of  a  Chryseis.  Had  Achilles 
been  in  Peleus'  palace  in  Pthia,  he 
might  have  better  borne  the  want 
of  a  Briseis.  In  the  piping  times  of 
peace,  people's  passions  are  not  so 
impetuous  as  in  the  trumpeting  times 
of  Avar.  Dr  Blair  admits  that  Aga- 
memnon loved  Chryseis  better  than 
Clytenmestra;  indeed  we  have  the 


king  of  men's  own  word  for  it ;  am 
Achilles,  who  was  the  soul  of  trut 
and  honour,  tells  us  that  he  adorec 
his  Briseis,  who,  though  in  childlu 
betrothed  to  one  of  her  own  princes 
fell  into  his  arms  a  virgin,  and  ili; 
on  his  return  to  Pthia,  he  intendef 
to  make  her  his  queen.  Alas !  sue! 
was  not  his  fate !  He  chose  deat 
with  glory,  rather  than  life  wit 
love.  And  as  for  Agamemnon,  he  ii 
deed  returned  to  Argos ;  but  if  those 
Tragic  Tales  be  true  that  shook  the 
stage  with  terror  under  the  genii 
of  -/Eschylus,  better  for  the  king 
men  had  he  too  died  before  Troy ; 
for  the  adulterous  and  murderoi 
matron  slew  him,  even  like  a  bull, 
with  an  axe  before  the  domestic 
altar.  Oh!  that  bloody  bath!  As 
for  his  lovely  and  delicious  leman, 
the  uucredited  prophetess,  the  long- 
haired Cassandra,  Clytemnestra  kill- 
ed her  too,  smiting  her  on  the  broad 
white  forehead,  with  the  same  edge 
that  had  drank  the  gore  of  Agamern- 
non.  But  ere  long  came  the  avenger 
— and  beneath  the  sacred  sword  of 
her  own  son,  the  murderess  "  stoop- 
ed her  adulterous  head  as  low  as 
death."  Then  from  the  infernal 
shades  arose  the  Furies  to  dog  the 
flying  feetof  the  distracted  parricide. 
But  at  last  the  god  of  light  and  the 
goddess  of  wisdom  stretched  the 
celestial  shield  of  their  pity  over 
Orestes,  and  at  their  divine  bidding, 
the  snaky  sisters,  abandoning  their 
victim  restored  to  reason  and  peace, 
thenceforth  Furies  no  more !  all 
over  Greece  were  called  Eume- 
nides ! 

But  let  us  for  a  moment  make  the 
violent  supposition — that  Briseis  was 
a  black — a  downright  and  indispu- 
table negro.  Jove,  we  shall  suppose, 
made  Achilles  a  present  of  her,  on 
his  return  from  one  of  his  twelve 
days'  visits  to  the  blameless  Ethio- 
pians. What  then  ?  Although  The- 
tis had  white'  feet,  that  is  no  reason 
in  the  world  against  her  son's  being 
partial  to  black  ones ;  for  surely  a 
man  is  not  bound  to  love  in  his  mis- 
tress what  he  admires  in  his  mother. 
Neither  is  there  any  accounting  for 
taste  —  nobody  dreams  of  denying 
that  apophthegm.  As  for  blubber- 
lips,  we  cannot  say  that  we  ever  felt 
any  irresistible  inclination  to  taste 
them ;  yet  a  negress's  lips  are  rosy, 
and  her  teeth  lilies,  And  therefore, 


had  Briseis  been  a  negro,  and  Achil- 
las so  capricious  as  to  prefer  her 
black  but  comely  to  paler  beauties, 
the  quarrel  consequent  on  her  vio- 
lent abreption  from  his  arms  by  the 
mandate  of  Agamemnon,  might  not 
have  given  the  opening  of  the  Iliad 
that  sort  of  dignity  which  a  modern 
— that  is  Dr  Blair — looks  for  "in  a 
great  epic  poem  ;  but  still,  as  the  act 
would  have  been  one  of  most  inso- 
lent injustice,  unstomachable  by 
Achilles,  who  was  not  a  person  to 
play  upon  with  impunity,  the  quar- 
rel would  at  least  have  been  natural, 
and  so  would  the  opening  of  the 
Iliad ;  in  which  case,  perhaps,  we 
might  have  dispensed  with  the  dig- 
nity, just  as  we  do  on  seeing  a  deli- 
cate white  Christian  lady  get  married 
and  murdered  by  an  immense  mon- 
ster of  a  Moor,  the  very  pillow  be- 
coming pathetic,  and  the  bed-sheets 
full  of  ruth  and  pity  as  a  shroud 
prepared  for  the  grave. 

Well  would  it  be  for  the  world, 
lay  and  clerical,  civil  and  military, 
were  kings  and  kingdoms  to  go  to- 
gether by  the  ears,  tor  no  less  digni- 
fied cause  than  that  which  produced 
the  quarrel  between  Achilles  and 
Agamemnon.  Indeed,  we  may  safe- 
ly defy  Dr  Blair,  or  any  body  else, 
to  produce  an  instance  of  an  equally 
dignified  cause  of  quarrel  between 
crowned  heads  with  that  which  en- 
nobles the  opening  of  the  Iliad.  Am- 
bassadors keep  hopping  about  at 
much  expense  from  court  to  court 
all  over  Europe,  and  Asia  too  at 
times,  not  to  mention  America  and 
Africa,  maintaining  the  honour  of 
their  respective  sovereigns,  insult- 
ed, it  would  often  seem,  by  such 
senile,  or  rather  anile,  indefinable 
drivelling,  as  would  have  ashamed 
the  auld  wife  herself  of  Auchter- 
muchty  ;  while  state-papers,  as  they 
are  called,presentsuch  agawliinaufry 
of  gossip  as  was  never  equalled  in, 
the  hostile  correspondence  of  a  bro- 
ken-up  batch  of  veteran  village  tab- 
bies, caterwauling  in  consequence  of 
having  all  together  set  their  caps  at 
the  new  minister.  Not  one  war  in 
twenty  that  originates  in  any  more 
dignified  dispute,  than,  in  a  vegetable 
market,  a  squabble  about  a  contested 
string  of  onions,  or,  in  a  fish  one, 
about  the  price  of  some  stinking  had- 
dies.  What  ev  en  is  the  right  of  search  ? 
But  let  us  not  disgust  ourselves  by 

VOL,  XXX.  NO.  OLXX.XII, 


Sotheby's  Homer.  97 

the  recollection  of  the  sickening  sil- 
linesses that  have  so  often  drenched 
Europe  in  blood.  We  do  not  abhor  a 
general  war,  for  we  despise  it.  The 
quarrels  which  cause  general  wars  in 
our  times,  would  indeed  make  pret- 
ty openings  for  great  epic  poems. 
They  would  possess,  we  presume, 
all  that  sort  or  dignity  which  a  mo- 
dern looks  for  in  such  noble  compo- 
sitions. Homer  had  no  idea  of  dig- 
nity ;  Dr  Blair  had ;  Achilles  and 
Agamemnon  went  almost  to  logger- 
heads about  Briseis ;  we  could  men- 
tion kings  who  deluged  their  lands 
in  blood,  tears,  and  taxation,  about  a 
beer-barrel. 

The  excellent  Doctor  talks  with 
uncommon  nonchalance  about  ho- 
nest people's  undignified  daughters. 
The  daughter  of  the  Priest  of  Apol- 
lo, "  in  the  plunder  of  a  city,  had  fall- 
en to  Agamemnon's  share  of  booty." 
She  had ;  and  the  old  gentleman  (as 
dignified  as  if  he  had  been  Modera- 
tor) not  at  all  relishing  it,  complain- 
ed to  the  god  he  served,  who  sent  a 
plague  into  the  Grecian  camp.  Now 
a  plague,  up  to  the  time  of  Dr  Hugh 
Blair,  had  uniformly  been  considered 
a  very  dignified  visitation — and,  beg- 
ging the  Doctor's  pardon,  it  is  consi- 
dered so  still — sufficiently  so  to  sa- 
tisfy the  mind  of  any  moderate  mo- 
dern meditating  on  what  may  be  fit 
matter  for  the  opening  of  a  great 
epic  poem.  The  plague  Apollo  sent 
was  a  very  superior  personage  to 
Cholera  Morbus,  although  even  he 
is  not  to  be  sneezed  at,  even  when, 
on  his  arrival  at  Leith  from  Riga, 
merely  performing  quarantine.  Why, 
Apollo  was  himself  the  plague.  He 
descended  from  heaven  to  earth  vo*r< 
itiKtus.  The  sun  became  a  sha- 
dow— day  grew  night — and  life  was 
death.  Is  not  that  dignity  enough 
for  the  Doctor  ? 

Throughout  the  whole  passage  you 
perceive  the  Doctor  fumbling  at  the 
facetious.  Having  determined  that 
the  opening  of  the  Iliad  should  be 
deemed  deficient  in  dignity,  he 
sketches  it  sneeringly  and  sarcasti- 
cally, and  yet  it  lours  upon  us,  in 
spite  of  his  idle  derision, as  something 
prodigious  and  portentous — black 
with  pestilence  and  war,  disunion, 
despair,  and  death. 

But  ere  we  dismiss  Death  and  the 
Doctor,  observe,  that  while  the  latter 
somewhat  pedantical  personage  is 
0 


98 

supposing  himself  to  be  criticising  in 
this  passage  the  opening  of  the  Iliad, 
and  pointing  out  how  undignified  it 
is,  \vhy,  he  is  sketching,  without  be- 
ing aware  of  it,  the  plan  of  the  whole 
poem — beginning,  middle,  and  end. 
Is  it  all  undignified  together  ?  If  not, 
at  what  point,  pray,  does  the  mean- 
ness merge  into  the  dignified,  and 
the  march  begin  of  the  majestical  ? 
"  Such  is  the  basis  of  the  whole  ac- 
tion of  the  Iliad,"  he  continues, 
meaning  thereby  to  say,  that  it  is  all 
as  insignificant  in  itself  as  the  open- 
ing with  the  quarrel  of  two  chief- 
tains about  a  female  slave.  "  Hence," 
he  well  says, "  rose  all  those  '  speci- 
osa  miracula,'  as  Horace  terms 
them,  which  fill  up  that  extraordi- 
nary poem  ;  and  which  have  had  the 
power  of  interesting  almost  all  the 
nations  of  Europe  during  every  age 
since  the  days  of  Homer.  The  ge« 
neral  admiration  commanded  by  a 
poetical  plan  so  very  different  from 
what  any  one  would  have  formed  in 
our  times  ought  not,  upon  reflection, 
to  be  matter  of  surprise.  For  be- 
sides that  a  fertile  genius  can  enrich 
and  beautify  any  subject  on  which 
it  is  employed,  it  is  to  be  observed 
that  ancient  manners,  how  much  so- 
ever they  contradict  our  present  no- 
tions of  dignity  and  refinement, 
afford,  nevertheless,  materials  for 
poetry  superior  in  some  respects  to 
those  which  are  furnished  by  a  more 
polished  state  of  society.  They  dis- 
cover human  nature  more  open  and 
undisguised,  without  any  of  those 
studied  forms  of  behaviour  which 
now  conceal  men  from  one  another. 
They  give  free  scope  to  the  strong- 
est and  most  impetuous  motions  of 
the  mind,  which  make  a  better  figure 
in  description  than  calm  and  tem- 
perate feelings.  They  shew  us  our 
native  prejudices,  appetites,  and  de- 
sires, exerting  themselves  without 
control.  From  this  state  of  manners, 
joined  with  the  advantage  of  that 
strong  and  expressive  style,  which 
commonly  distinguishes  the  compo- 
sition of  early  ages,  we  have  ground 
to  look  for  more  of  the  boldness, 
ease,  and  freedom  of  native  genius, 
in  compositions  of  such  a  period,  than 
in  those  of  more  civilized  times. 
And  accordingly,  the  two  great  cha- 
racters of  the  Homeric  poetry  are, 
Fire  and  Simplicity." 
The  one  great  original  error  of  sup- 


t  Homer. 

posing  that  the  subject-matter  of  the 
Iliad  is  in  itself  undignified,  and  that 
its  poetical  plan  is,  on  that  account, 
so  very  different  from  what  any  one 
would  have  formed  in  our  times,  runs 
through  the  whole  of  the  passage  we 
have  quoted  from  Blair,  and  vitiates 
the  philosophy  of  its  criticism.  Had 
any  one  in  our  times  chosen  the  sub- 
ject for  an  epic  poem  in  the  heroic 
ages  of  Greece,  he  would  have  been 
puzzled  to  find  one  different  from 
that  of  the  Tale  of  Troy  Divine,  un- 
less, perhaps,  he  had  been  at  once  a 
Homer  and  a  Shakspeare,  and  then 
there  is  no  saying  what  he  might  not 
have  done ;  and  had  any  one  in  our 
times  chosen  to  choose  a  subject  from 
our  times,  or  from  any  other  times 
intermediate  between  that  heroic  and 
this  unheroic  age,  he  might  have 
stretched  his  brain  till  the  crack  of 
doom,  ere  he  had  found  one  more 
dignified ;  even  though  the  Iliad  be- 
gins with  the  wrath  of  Achilles  for 
sake  of  a  female  slave,  Briseis,  is 
conversant  about  the  middle  with 
his  furious  grief  for  loss  of  a  male 
friend,  Patroclus,  draws  to  a  close 
with  the  lamentations  of  two  old 
people,  Hecuba  and  Priam,  and  ends 
with  the  funeral  rites  of  Hector  the 
Tamer  of  Horses. 

But  making  allowance*  for  that 
first  and  fatal  error,  all  must  admit 
that  Blair  speaks  truly  and  finely 
towards  the  close  of  the  paragraph ; 
and  that  he  says  as  much  in  a  tew 
simple  sentences,  and  more,  too, 
than  both  the  Schlegels  put  together, 
in  their  shadowy  style,  would  have 
said  in  a  whole  essay  written  in 
Cloudland.  The  good  Doctor  warms 
as  he  walks — and  finally  escapes  out 
t)f  the  ungenial  gloom  of  heresy,  de- 
claring, with  an  inconsistency  that 
does  him  infinite  credit,  "  that  the 
subject  of  the  Iliad  must  unquestion- 
ably be  admitted  to  be  in  the  main 
happily  chosen." — "  Homer  has,  with 
great  judgment,  selected  one  part  of 
the  Trojan  War,  the  Quarrel  be- 
twixt Achilles  and  Agamemnon,  and 
the  events  to  which  that  quarrel 
gave  rise."  In  short,  the  Professor 
forgets  all  his  former  folly  about 
want  of  dignity  and  so  forth,  and 
expresses  the  admiration  natural  to 
so  fine  a  mind,  of  the  miracle  wrought 
by  Homer. 

We  said  that  we  should  seize  on 
Sotheby,  as  a  subject  for  six  critiques 


J831.3 


Sotheby's  Homer. 


—that  is  to  say,  on  his  translation 
of  the  Iliad,  as  affording  us  fine  op- 
portunities  of  launching  out  upon 
Homer.  In  the  present  utter  dearth 
of  poetry,  caused  by  a  drought  —  "  in 
the  Albion  air  adust"  —  bythepoliti- 
cal  dog-star,  which  not  only  looks  so 
exceedingly  Sirius,  but  foams  at  the 
mouth  like  the  Father  of  Hydropho- 
bia,  if  not  Hydrophobia  himself,  we 
see  nothing  left  for  us  but  to  take  a 
flight  of  a  few  thousand  years  back 
into  antiquity  ;  and  being  partial  to 
the  epic,  we  propose  prosing  away 
thereupon  —  when  wearied  taking  a 
tift  at  Tragedy  —  and  occasionally, 
laying  our  lugs  into  a  cup  of  Lyrics, 
Having  descanted  on  the  First  and 
Sixth  Books  of  the  Iliad,  in  a  style 
not  unsatisfactory  to  those  who  per- 
used  our  articles,  and  inoffensive 
to  those  who,  with  a  skip,  gave  them 
the  go-by  —  both  classes  numerous 
—  suppose,  gruff  or  gentle  reader, 
that  we  take  a  glimpse  of  what  is 
going  on  in  the  Ninth.  Some  of  the 
Books  of  the  Iliad  are,  as  you  know, 
each  in  itself  a  poem.  The  Iliad  is 
a  river,  that  expands  itself  into 
Twenty-Four  Lakes.  Each  Lake  is 


a  beautiful  or  magnificent  watery 
world  in  itself,  reflecting  its  own 
imagery  all  differently  divine.  The 
current  is  perceptible  in  each  that 
flows  through  them  all  —  so  that  you 
have  always  a  river  as  well  as  a 
lake  feeling;  in  the  seclusion  of  any 
one  are  never  forgetful  of  the  rest; 
and  though  contented,  were  there 
neither  inlet  nor  outlet  to  the  circular 
sea  on  which  you  at  the  time  may  be 
voyaging,  yet  assured  all  the  while 
that  your  course  is  progressive,  and 
will  cease  at  last,  only  when  the 
waters  on  which  you  are  wafted 
along  by  heavenly  airs  shall  disap- 
pear  underground  among  some  Old 
Place  of  Tombs, 

Now  the  Night-scene  in  the  Ninth 
Book  is  bright  with  Achilles  —  an  ap- 
pavilion,  who  vanished  from  our  bo- 
dily  eyes  in  the  first,  although  he 
continued  to  move  through  the  suo 
ceeding  seven  —  and  especially  in  the 
sixth  —  before  those  of  our  hnagina- 
tion.  A  night-scene  in  Homer,  even 
without  Achilles,  ia  worth  looking 
at  —  and  therefore  let  us  look  at  it 
without  him  —  Lo,  here  it  is  ! 


Ot  $s,  (tiyct  (ppeveom?,  M  i 
E'tecro  irotnvftM  irvfa.  $i  crtym  xctitra 
£2$  S*  or  Iv  *g«v«  eifpet  Qatiiw  tifttyi 
<S>eimr  u^v^tTntt,  'on  r  'inter*  vwipto 
Ex.  r  'ityotvw  irSiffett  ntoiriti},  xj  Trgaev*;  ct 
'      ' 


xi  xff*' 


Jlettrx 

Toavx, 

Tg&av  xaiovTav  Trvgok  Qeciviro  '\Xio6i  v^L, 

X/A/  teg   Iv  Trtiiy  irv^a.  x-itfiTO'  7rol(>  ?e  intty 

EtXTO  TTlVT^KOVTet,    fftXolS  TTVffif    dtlofAtWO. 

ITTTTOI  ol  K^I  >.tvaov  IgtTFTOfAivci  KJ  ohvpecf, 
EfxoTtf  Trecg   o%ir$tvf  tv'Sgevov  'Ha  fttftvtt, 


CBAfMAW. 

And  spent  all  night  in  open  field  ;  fires  round  about  them  shined, 

As  when  about  the  siluer  moone,  when  aire  is  free'  from  winde, 

And  stars  shine  clear,  to  whose  sweet  beams  high  prospects  and  the  brow* 

Of  all  steepe  hills  and  pinnacles  thrust  up  themselves  for  showes  ; 

And  even  the  lowly  rallies  joy,  to  glitter  in  their  sight, 

When  the  unmeasured  firmament  bursts  to  disclose  her  light, 

And  all  the  signes  in  heaven  are  seen,  that  glad  the  shepheards  harts  ; 

So  many  fires  disclosde  their  beames,  made  by  the  Troian  part, 

Before  the  face  of  lllion  ;   and  her  bright  turrets  show'd. 

A  thousand  courts  of  guard  kept  fires  ;  and  every  guard  allow'd 

Fiftie  stout  men,  by  whom  their  horse  eate  oates  and  hard  white  corne, 

And  all  did  wilfully  expect  the  sillier-throned  morne. 


The  troops  exulting  sat  in  order  round, 
And  beaming  fires  illumin'd  all  the  ground, 


100  Sotheby's  Homer.  [July, 

As  when  the  moon,  refulgent  lamp  of  night, 
O'er  heav'n's  clear  azure  spreads  her  sacred  light, 
When  not  a  breath  disturbs  the  deep  serene, 
And  not  a  cloud  o'ercasts  the  solemn  scene  ; 
Around  her  throne  the  vivid  planets  roll, 
And  stars  uniiumber'd  gild  the  glowing  pole, 
O'er  the  dark  trees  a  yellower  verdure  shed, 
And  tip  with  silver  ev'ry  mountain's  head  ; 
Then  shine  the  vales,  the  rocks  in  prospect  rise, 
A  flood  of  glory  bursts  from  all  the  skies ; 
The  conscious  swains,  rejoicing  in  the  sight, 
Eye  the  blue  vault,  and  bless  the  useful  light. 
So  many  flames  before  proud  Ilion  blaze, 
And  lighten  glimm'ring  Xanthus  with  their  rays, 
The  long  reflections  of  the  distant  fires 
Gleam  on  the  walls,  and  tremble  on  the  spires. 
A  thousand  piles  the  dusky  honours  gild, 
And  shoot  a  shady  lustre  o'er  the  field  ; 
Full  fifty  guards  each  flaming  pile  attend, 
Whose  umber'd  arms  by  fits  thick  flashes  send  ; 
Loud  neigh  the  coursers  o'er  their  heaps  of  corn, 
And  ardent  warriors  wait  the  rising  morn. 

COWPER. 

Big  with  great  purposes  and  proud,  they  sat, 
Not  disarray'd,  but  in  fair  form  disposed 
Of  even  ranks,  and  watch'd  their  num'rous  fires. 
As  when  around  the  clear  bright  moon,  the  stars 
Shine  in  full  splendour,  and  the  winds  are  hush'd, 
„  The  groves,  the  mountain-tops,  the  headland  heights 

Stand  all  apparent,  not  a  vapour  streaks 
The  boundless  blue,  and  ether  opeii'd  wide ; 
All  glitters,  and  the  shepherd's  heart  is  cheer'd. 
So  num'rous  seem'd  those  fires,  between  the  stream 
Of  Xanthus  blazing,  and  the  fleet  of  Greece, 
In  prospect  all  of  Troy,  a  thousand  fires, 
Each  watch'd  by  fifty  warriors,  seated  near  ; 
The  steeds  beside  the  chariot  stood,  their  corn 
Chewing,  and  waiting  till  the  golden-thron'd 
Aurora  should  restore  the  light  of  day. 

SOTHEBY. 

But  Troy  elate,  in  orderly  array 
All  night  around  her  numerous  watch-fires  lay. 
As  when  the  stars,  at  night's  illumin'd  noon, 
Beam  in  their  brightness  round  the  full-orb'd  moon, 
When  sleeps  the  wind,  and  every  mountain  height, 
Rock,  and  hoar  cliff,  shine  tow'ring  up  in  light, 
Then  gleam  the  vales,  and  ether,  widely  riv'n, 
Expands  to  other  stars  another  heav'n, 
While  the  lone  shepherd,  watchful  of  his  fold, 
Looks  wondering  up,  and  gladdens  to  behold. 
Not  less  the  fires,  that  through  the  nightly  hours 
Spread  war's  whole  scene  before  Troy's  guarded  tow'rs, 
Flung  o'er  the  distant  fleet  a  shadowy  gleam, 
And  quivering  play'd  on  Xanthus'  silver  stream. 
A  thousand  fires ;  and  each  with  separate  blaze 
O'er  fifty  warriors  cast  the  undying  rays ; 
Where  their  proud  coursers,  saturate  with  corn, 
Stood  at  their  cars,  and  snuff 'd  the  coming  morn. 

There  you  see,  most  classical  of  lations,  by  four  of  our  true  poets, 

readers,  is  the  close  of  the  eighth  The  Trojans,  with  Hector  at  their 

book,   in    the   original    Greek — and  head,  have,  as  you  know,  given  the 

there   are  four  distinguished  trans-  Greeks  a  total— Agamemnon  dreads 


J83I.] 


Sotheby's  Hurtle r. 


101 


a  fatal — overthrow ;  and  at  sinking  of 
the  sun,  the  whole  Trojan  army,  fifty 
thousand  strong,  are  lying  on  their 
arms  beside  their  watch-fires,  fifty 
warriors  round  each  ;  so  altogether, 
without  aid  of  John  Cocker  or  Joseph 
Hume,  there  are,  you  perceive,  a 
thousand  blazes. 

Now  this  is,  perhaps, the  most  cele- 
brated simile  in  the  Iliad.  It  has  been 
lauded  to  the  skies,  of  which  it  speaks, 
and  from  which  it  is  sprung,  by 
scholars  who  will  here  see  no  beauty 
but  in  the  original  Greek,  and  in  it 
all  beauty ;  while,  by  the  same  scho- 
lars, the  heaven  reflected  in  Pope's 
translation  is  declared  to  be  not  only 
not  Homer's  heaven,  but  no  heaven 
at  all— a  night-scene,  say  they,  such 
as  never  was  seen  on  this  planet,  and 
such  as  on  this  planet  is  impossible. 
People  again,  who  are  no  scholars, 


admire  Pope's  picture  as  celestial, 
and  without  pretending  to  know  that 
language,  devoutly  believe  that  it  ia 
all  one  in  the  Greek.  Now,  observe, 
most  perspicacious  of  perusers  of 
Maga's  face,  and  of  the  face  of  hea- 
ven, that  three  separate  questions 
are  submitted  to  your  decision — 
First,  what  is  the  meaning  and  the 
merit  of  the  said  simile,  as  it  stands 
in  Homer  ?  secondly,  what  is  the 
merit  or  demerit  of  the  said  simile, 
as  it  stands  in  Pope  ?  and,  thirdly, 
what  is  its  character  as  it  stands 
there,  viewed  in  the  light  of  a  trans- 
lation ? 

As  it  is  not  impossible  you  may 
have  forgot  your  Greek,  or  impro- 
bable that  you  may  never  have  re- 
membered it,  allow  us,  with  all  hu- 
mility, to  present  you  with  a  literal 
prose  translation. 


>ORTH. 

But  they,  greatly  elated,  upon  the  space  between  the  two  armies 
Sat  all  the  night ;  and  many  fires  were  burning  to  them. 
But  as  when  the  stars  in  heaven,  around  the  shining  moon, 
Shine  beautiful,  when  the  air  is  windless, 
And  all  the  eminences  appear,  and  pinnacles  of  the  heights, 
And  groves;  and  the  immeasurable  firmament  bursts  (or  expands)  from  below, 
And  all  the  stars  are  seen  ;  and  the  shepherd  rejoices  in  his.  heart : — 
So  numerous,  between  the  ships  and  the  streams  of  Xanthus, 
The  fires  of  the  Trojans  burning  their  fires  appeared  before  Troy. 
For  a  thousand  fires  were  burning  on  the  plain ;  and  by  each 
Sat  fifty  (men)  at  the  light  of  the  blazing  fire. 
And  the  horses  eating  white  barley  and  oats, 
Standing  by  the  chariots,  awaited  the  beautiful-throned  Aurora. 


We  are  now  all  ready  to  proceed 
to  form  and  deliver  judgment.  Ta- 
king, then,  Homer's  Greek  and  Chris- 
topher's English  to  be  one  and  the 
same,  what  was  the  object  of  the  old 
Ionian  in  conceiving  this  vision  of 
the  nocturnal  heaven  ?  Why,  aim  and 
impulse  were  one.  Under  the  ima- 
gination-moving mental  perception 
of  a  thousand  fires  burning  on  the 
earth  between  the  Grecian  ships  and 
the  streams  of  Xanthus,  Homer  sud- 
denly saw  a  similar,  that  is,  for  the 
time  being,  a  kindred  and  congenial 
exhibition,  up  aloft  in  the  heavens. 
That  was  the  impulse.  But  the  mo- 
ment he  saw  the  heavenly  appari- 
tion, he  felt  it  to  be  kindred  and  con- 
genial with  the  one  on  earth,  and  un- 
der the  influence  of  that  feeling,  he 
delighted  to  describe  it,  in  order  to 
glorify  the  one  on  earth — that  was 
his  aim — in  four  and  a  half  hexame- 
ters, which  have  won  the  admiration 
of  the  world. 


But  the  world  often  admires  with- 
out knowing  why,  any  better  than  the 
wiseacres  who,  in  their  pride,  would 
correct  the  world.  Why  then  has 
the  world — meaning  thereby  that  part 
of  it  that  could  or  can  read  Greek — 
admired  so  prodigiously  this  passage? 
Simply,  because  heaven  and  earth, 
the  starry  sky  and  the  field  with 
its  thousand  fires,  appeared  mutual 
reflections  of  each  other;  for  plea- 
sant it  is  for  us  mortal  creatures, 
high  and  low,  rich  and  poor,  to  re- 
cognise a  resemblance  between  our 
limited  and  evanescent  scenery, — 
especially  if  the  work  of  our  own 
hands,  which  watch-fires  are,  the 
same  being  of  wood"  we  ourselves 
have  gathered  and  heaped  up  into 
piles, — and  the  scenery  of  everlast- 
ing infinitude.  Depend  upon  it  this 
emotion  was  in  the  very  rudest 
minds  when  they  kindled  beal-fires. 
To  the  most  beggarly  bonfire  it 
brings  fuel.  Homer  felt  this;  and 


102 


Sotheby's  Homer. 


[July, 


he  knew  that  all  who  should  ever 
listen  to  his  rhapsodies,  either  from 
his  own  lips,  or  from  the  lips  of 
ttoiloi  singing  their  way  on  conti- 
nent or  isle,  would  feel  it;  for  he 
had  no  forewarning  given  him  of  the 
invention  of  printing,  or  of  Pope's  or 
Sotheby's  translation,  or  of  this  arti- 
cle in  Maga. 

So  much  for  the  spirit  of  the  si- 
mile, almost  identifying  for  the  time 
the  scenery  of  earth  and  heaven.  If 
it  does  almost  identify  them,  then  it 
is  successful,  and  the  admiration  of 
the  world  is  legitimate.  But  when 
we  come  to  analyze  the  passage, 
which  is  the  self-same  thing  as  to 
analyze  our  own  perceptions,  what 
do  we  find  ?  Difficulty  and  dark- 
ness in  what  we  thought  facility  and 
light — and  our  faces  are  at  the  wall* 
We  believe  that  we  can  see  as  far 
into  either  a  mill  or  a  milestone  as 
ever  Homer  could;  but  we  doubt  if 
we  can  see  as  far  into  heaven.  For, 
simple  as  it  seems  to  be,  we  do  not 
believe  that  the  man  now  lives  who 
thoroughly  understands  that  simile. 
In  the  first  place,  take  the  line,— 
"  As  when  the  stars  in  heaven  around 
the  bright  moon  shine  beautiful," — 
with  what  object  on  earth  does  the 
"  bright  moon"  correspond  in  hea- 
ven ?  With  none.  The  thousand 
watch-fires  are  like  the  thousand 
stars.  But  no  great  central  queen 
watch-fire,  that  we  are  told  of,  burn- 
ed below — therefore  the  moon,  want- 
ing her  counterpart,  had  perhaps  no 
business  on  high.  Would  not  a  star- 
ry but  a  moonless  sky  have  better 
imaged  the  thousand  fire  encamp- 
ments ? 

This  natural,  nay,  inevitable  feel- 
ing, has  suggested  the  reading  of 
afrga  Qau  tnv  for  <fa>tivw — not  a  very 
Tiolent  change;  and  if  we  suppose 
the  moon  new,  it  will  be  the  next 
thing  to  no  moon  at  all,  and  as  our 
present  wish  is,  at  all  events,  to  get 
"id  of  the  full  moon,  that  reading  is 
for  that  effect  commendable.  But 
then,  alas  !  nothing  less,  we  fear,  will 
satisfy  the  shepherd — not  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd — but  Homer's — than  the 
full  moon.  She  must  be  an  ample 
shiner  so  to  gladden  his  heart.  The 
stars  alone — though  a.^-jr^-jna, — .could 
not  have  done  that  sufficiently  to 
justify  Homer  in  mentioning  his 
gladness  on  such  an  occasion.  Was 
the  moon  then  .young  or  old,  cref- 


cent  or  full — like  Diana's  bow  when 
bent,  "  or  round  as  my  shield  ?" 

It  was  round  as  my  shield.  The 
shepherd's  delight  is  decisive.  It  is, 
then,  a  similitude  of  dissimilitude ; 
and  though  haply  not  the  less  on  that 
account  Homeric — for  Homer  was 
a  strange  old  star-gazer  and  moon- 
mouther,  and  would  often  absurdly 
yield  to  the  temptation  of  a  sudden 
gloriousburst  of  beauty — it  is  so  much 
less  like  that  for  resembling  which 
all  scholars  have  always  admired  it, 
except  a  few  who,  desirous  to  get 
rid  of  an  unnecessary  <p«s*v»iv  «-aumv, 
have  tried  to  prove  her  infancy  by  a 
violent  or  false  reading.  The  truth 
is,  that  we  can  imagine  Homer  men- 
tioning the  full  moon  for  the  sake 
of  her  own  transcendant  beauty, 
though  imaging  nothing  at  the  time 
seen  below  j  but  why  he  should  have 
mentioned  her  at  all  if  »?v,  that  is, 
scarcely  visible,  and  equally  ima- 
ging nothing  at  the  time  below,  sur- 
passes, we  fear,  all  reasonable  con- 
jecture. Be  it  then,  we  repeat,  the 
full  moon. 

But  in  all  this  there  is  no  real  dif- 
ficulty— and  we  have,  as  you  will 
have  perceived,  been  merely  throw- 
ing about  the  waters,  "  like  a  whirl- 
ing mop,  or  a  wild  goose  at  play." 
Now  comes  the  pinch.  Read  the 
Greek  on  to  *«*•«/,  line  sixth — our 
English  on  to  "  groves,"  ditto,  and 
you  have  a  picture  in  which  the  stars 
are  conspicuous — they  are  beautiful 

— qtativnv   ttfi^i   <rtX»ivi)v   ^etivir     ugivgevriu. 

What,  then,  mean  the  mysterious 
words  immediately  following?  "  The 
immeasurable  firmament  bursts  from 
below,  and  all  the  stars  are  seen.*' 
Or  how  do  you  translate  y^-eppa'y1)? 
Another  vision  is  seen  by  Homer — 
whence  and  how  comes  it  ?  You  are 
mute. 

Perhaps  it  thus  fared  with  Homer. 
At  first  there  was  no  wind.  He  says 
so,  and  we  must  believe  him,  how- 
ever suspicious  may  seem  the  asser- 
tion. There  were  some  stars  seen 
around  the  shining  moon — not  many 
— butsuch  as  were  seen,  were  "  beau- 
tiful exceedingly"  —  a^f^-rix.  By 
and  by  the  wind,  which  was  thought 
to  be  absent  or  dead,  began  to  move 
in  the  region — the  clouds  falling 
into  pieces,  opened  a  new  reach  of 
heaven  upwards — vTrtppd'yi)  eto-Trmg 
*<d»)g—  that  is,  to  Homer's  eyes  look- 
ing from  below—and  he  was  not 


1831.J  Jfothely1* a  llother. 

bliiid,  not  he  indeed — there  came  a 
bursting,  or  breaking,  or  expanding, 
or  unfolding,  a  gradual  clarification 
of  the  immeasurable  firmament,  and 
then,  indeed,  all  the  stars  were  seen 

—not  merely  ««•*•£«  tpauvnv  ap.$i  a-sXx- 
(Djv  a^/^8«-£«,  but  -favra.  $t  r'  Ii'Stra/  atrr^K, 

or,  in  the  more  ornate,  or  rather  gor- 
geous language  of  Milton, 

"  Then  glowed  the  firmament  with  living 
sapphires." 

Observe,  Homer  does  not  again  men- 
tion the  moon.  She  was  still  there 
—shield  or  arc-like;  but  even  her 
orb  ceased  to  be  central  to  that  vast 
"  starry  host;"  and  though  doubt- 
less beheld  by  Homer  and  his  shep- 
herd, as  their  hearts  gladdened,  the 
gladness  came  from  the  universal 
face  of  the  boundless  heavens. 

The  picture,  then,  is,  if  such  be  the 
right  interpretation  of  the  words,  of 
a  glory  that  is  progressive;  and  if 
so,  intended  Homer,  think  ye,  or  did 
he  so  unintentionally,  to  depict,  by  the 
gradual  illumination  of  the  heaven, 
the  gradual  illumination  of  the  earth 
— fires  rising  after  fires,  like  stars 
after  stars,  till  the  lower  and  the 
upper  regions  were,  respectively,  all 
hi  a  blaze,  only  the  lower  lights  more 
flashful,  the  higher  subdued  by  dis- 
tance into  a  soft-burning  beauty  ? 

Remember,  both  regions  were  not 
brilliant  at  one  and  the  same  time — 
that  was  impossible  in  nature.  The 
stars,  in  that  clime  so  lustrous,  would 
have  bedimmed  the  fires;  the  fires, 
fed  each  by  fifty  warriors,  would 
have  extinguished  the  stars.  They 
would  have  neutralized  each  other, 
and  the  scene  would  have  been 
"  dark  with  excessive  bright."  But 
the  earth-woke  reality  gave  the  hea- 
ven-born vision ;  and  both  to  this 
day  are  glorious — and  sufficient,  even 
when  separate,  from  dimness  to  re- 
deem this  article,  and  to  shed  a  splen- 
dour over  our  third  critique  on 
Sotheby. 

Let  us  say,  that  such  is  the  double 
soul — the  twofold  life  of  Homer's 
Night-scene — and  see  if — bating  all 
other  objections — it  has  been  trans- 
fused by  Pope  into  his  celebrated 
version.  No.  According  to  our  in- 
terpretation, 

"  Around  her  throne  the  vivid  planets 
roll," 

is  so  far  right.    "  Vivid"  may  do  for 


103 


*,  but  "  roll"  is  very  bad  for 
<pamr.  Roll  perhaps  they  may ;  in- 
deed otherwise  they  would  not  be 
planets ;  but  certainly  not  round  the 
moon.  Homer  was  perhaps  no  great 
astronomer — though  he  knew  well 
the  Planetary  Five.  But  Homer,  who 
had  the  use  of  his  eyes,  never,  drunk 
or  sober,  thought,  when  looking  at 
the  moon,  that  he  saw  "  around  her 
throne  the  vivid  planets  rail."  If  by 
"  her  throne"  Pope  means  the  firma- 
ment, then  he  forgets  the  Greek 
words ;  but  it  is  manifest  he  means 
the  moon  herself,  absurdly  confusing 
with  her  throne  the  queen  who  sits 
thereon,  whom  by  the  way,  he  had 
chosen,  injuriously  to  Nature  and  to 
Homer,  to  call,  a  few  lines  before, 
"  refulgent  lamp  of  night."  How- 
ever, we  have  said  the  line  is  so  far 
right ;  but  that  which  follows,  if  our 
interpretation  of  Homer's  heaven  be 
true,  is  altogether  wrong — 

"  And  stars  unnumber'd  gild  the  glowing 
pole ;" 

for  Homer  yet  has  made  no  mention  of 
stars  unnumbered  ;  if  K<rr^a  a^^t-rtu, 
mean  "  vivid  planets,"  which  it  may, 
Pope  had  no  right  to  surround  them 
with  "  unnumbered  stars,"  for  it  is 
afterwards,  and  when  a  great  change 
has  occurred  to  the  immeasurable 

firmament,  that  fa^ra.  1i  T  tf^irai  u.ar^<x,. 

Homer  speaks  not  of  clouds — though 
we  have  suggested  the  probability  of 
clouds  being  there,  the  disparting  of 
which,  and  their  floating  away  into 
nothing,  finally  revealed  this  infinite 
starriness ;  but  be  that  suggestion  of 
ours  right  or  wrong,  Pope  had  no 
right  to  assure  us  of  what  Homer 
did  not,  "  that  not  a  cloud  o'ercast 
the  solemn  scene."  Homer  says 
merely  that  "  the  eminences  and 
pinnacles  of  the  heights  appear,  and 
the  groves."  Pope  makes  but  sorry 
work  of  that,  by  needless  elabora- 
tion of  its  picturesque  simplicity; 
we  do  not  know  that  he  makes  it 
unnatural,  though  he  does  make  it 
confused ;  though  there  is  far  more 
light,  there  is  far  more  darkness;  and 
the  landscape  is  no  longer  in  aught 
Homeric.  That  much  admired  line, 

"  A  flood  of  glory  bursts  from  all  the 
skies," 

would  almost  seem  to  be  intended 
for  a  version  of  "  <w£«v^sv  §'«^'  vn-fg- 

»,   i-«vr«   J.t  r    u^irtu- 


104 


««rrf« — but  then,  unfortunately,  Pope 
has  given  us  before — "and  stars  un- 
numbered gild  the  glowing  pole ;" 
and  really,  after  the  refulgent  lamp 
of  uight  has  been  hung  on  high,  and 
vivid  planets-roll  round  the  throne  of 
the  moon,  and  stars  unnumbered  gild 
the  glowing  pole,  while  not  a  cloud 
o'ercasts  the  solemn  scene,  how  any 
farther  flood  of  glory  can  burst  from 
all  the  skies,  we  are  not  astronomer 
enough,  either  scientific  or  empirical, 
to  comprehend  or  conjecture — nor 
do  we  believe  that  Pope  himself  had 
any  theory  on  the  subject,  but  wrote 
away  by  caudle-light,  perhaps  in  his 
grotto,  from  memory  somewhat  dim, 
while  the  shining  moon,  it  may  have 
been,  was  herself  in  heaven,  and  the 
boundless  firmament  thick-strewn 
with  stars.  The  scriptural  simplicity 
of,  "  and  the  shepherd  rejoices  in  his 
heart,"  how  far  more  touching  to 
every  one  who  has  walked  over  the 
hills  by  night,  than  Pope's  philoso- 
phical paraphrase  !  As  for  the  appli- 
cation of  the  sky-sight  to  the  ground- 
scene,  we  have  no  room  to  remark 
upon  it,  farther  than  that  while  it 
departs  equally  from  the  original, 
and  is  laboured  overmuch, — it  pos- 
sesses a  certain  shadowy  magni- 
ficence, for  sake  of  which  its  faith- 
lessness, or  departure  from  the  faith, 
may,  in  some  moods  of  mind,  be  for- 
given. 

We  find  that  the  three  questions 
we  wished  you  to  decide  for  us,  are 
running,  or  have  run,  into  one ;  but 
no  great  matter ;  so,  what  think  you, 
on  the  whole,  of  this  famous  passage 
in  Pope's  Homer?  Three  of  our 
best  descriptive  poets,  Wordsworth, 
Coleridge,  and  Southey,  have,  as  you 
probably  know,  declared  it  infa- 
mous; and  Wordsworth,  especially, 
has  not  hesitated  to  hint,  in  his  un- 
ceremonious style,  that  the  many 
millions  of  his  fellow-Christians  who 
have  fallen  into  admiration  of  this 
moonlight  scene,  painted  on  transpa- 
rent paper,  have  been  little  better 
than  blindfolded  fools.  The  entire 
description,  he  avers,  in  words  we 
forget,  but  we  quoted  them  in  our 
Winter  Rhapsody,  is  utter,  contradic- 
tory, and  unintelligible  nonsense.  It 
is  no  such  thing.  We  have  seen  that 
it  is  not  a  translation  of  Homer's 
moonlight  scene,  scarcely  even  a 
paraphrase.  And  we  have  seen,  too, 
that  in  departing  from  Homer,  Poj»c 


Sotheby's  thmer*  [July, 

departed  from  nature ;  but  still  the 
picture  is  beautiful.  Forget  that 
there  is  any  such  passage  in  Homer 
as  that  of  which  it  pretends  to  be  a 
translation.  Read  it  by  itself — try  it 
by  itself — and  we  are  willing  to  wa- 
ger a  crown  with  Wordsworth,  that 
even  he  will  read  Avith  a  benign  as- 
pect this  very  page  of  Maga.  What 
are  its  faults  ?  Why,  we  have  told 
them  already.  There  is  some  vague- 
ness where  there  should  be  none; 
some  repetition,  where  Pope  belie- 
ved he  was  adding  new  touches  ;  and 
perhaps  objects  are  made  to  appear 
in  light  which  must  have  been  in 
shadow ;  but  these  defects,  in  no  of- 
fensive degree,  once  admitted,  there 


"  Breathes  not  the  man  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said," 

this  is  extremely  beautiful.  In  a 
description  of  external  nature,  no 
doubt  a  poet  is  sworn  at  her  shrine  to 
speak  the  truth — that  is  to  say,  to  tell 
all  manner  of  lies  —  provided  only 
they  do  so  coalesce  and  hang  toge- 
ther in  their  beauty,  that  the  poet  be- 
lieves them,  and  eke  the  whole  world. 
That  in  poetry  is  true  which,  on  suf- 
ficient grounds,  and  she  is  often  ea- 
sily satisfied,  Imagination  conceives 
to  be  so  ;  and  Reason  has  no  right  to 
step  insolently  in  upon  Imagination 
in  her  dream,  and  to  dissipate  all  her 
dear  delusions.  As  long  as  Imagina- 
tion tells  only  white  lies,  her  tongue 
should  be  encouraged  to  wag  night 
and  day,  that  she  may  people  the  air 
with  pleasant  fancies.  But  what  we 
were  wishing  to  say  is  this,  that  in 
the  description  of  a  moonlight  scene, 
for  example,  we  must  not  exact  from 
the  poet,  at  every  touch,  the  utmost 
precision;  words,  after  all,  do  not 
paint  to  the  eye,  but  to  the  concep- 
tive  faculty ;  and  the  conceptive  fa- 
culty delights  at  times  in  half-form- 
ed and  hazy  visionariness,  which  it 
may  be  prompted  to  behold  by  the 
power  resident  in  terms  collocated 
in  an  order  that  could  not  resist  the 
onset  of  the  logician.  We  do  not 
mean  to  say  that  poets  are  not  ex- 
pected, like  other  dishonest  people, 
to  speak  sense ;  but  there  are  various 
sorts  of  sense ;  some  have  very  much 
the  appearance  of  nonsense,  and  in 
that  appearance  lies  their  charm  ; — 
let  us  but  see  that  the  supposed 
strange  sweet  specimen  of  some  un- 
substantial seeming,  is  nothing  but 


absolute  sense,  and  we  commit  sui- 
cide. 

Chapman  is  good,  for  he  adheres 
to  Homer.  He  knew  that  Homer 
was  not  a  man  tobother  people  about 
the  moon  and  stars,  and  that,  ex- 
cept for  illustration  of  life,  he  cared 
not  a  straw  for  such  luminaries.  In- 
deed what  great  poet  does  or  ever 
did  ?  The  human  soul  is,  under 
God,  the  centre  of  the  solar  system. 
The  sun  seems  to  support  it— but 
that  is  a  vulgar  scientific  error — were 
we  all  dead,  it  would  fly  into  flinders. 
"  Living  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed," 
Homer  eyed  the  heavens  as  part  of 
his  own  being;  and  so  indeed  did 
all  those  strong-souled  mortals,  who, 
age  after  age,  kept  continually  con- 
structing the  Grecian  Mythology. 
When  constructed,  what  was  it  but 
an  illuminated  manuscript  of  biogra- 
phies and  autobiographies  of  men,  wo- 
men, and  children,  that  had  been  con- 
spicuous and  famous  on  the  terrene, 
and  were  thus  immortalized  in  the 
celestial  ?  True  that  much  of  this  spi- 
ritualization  was  breathed  over  the 
skies,  before  the  invention  of  letters; 
but  that  mattered  little  or  nothing, 
for  natural  and  revealed  religion  was 
older  far  than  Cadmus.  But  not  to 
indulge  in  that  reverie,  suffice  it  now 
to  say,  that  the  aa-^™?  0,16^  was  too 
magnificent  in  Homer's  imagination 
to  be  played  and  dallied  with,  as  a 
baby  does  with  a  doll,  lisping,  "  Oh ! 
how  pretty  !"  He  looked  up — saw 
— and  sung;  and  his  strong  steady 
strain  bespoke,  in  a  few  lines,  the 
depth  of  his  inspiration.  The  sky 
smote  his  soul  with  sudden  percep- 
tion and  emotion  of  beauty  and  su- 
blimity ;  and  he  said,  or  could  say, 
little  more  than  that  the  sky  was 
their  source.  Just  as  when  a  lovely 
lady  smiles  upon  us,  we  exclaim, 
"  Thou  art  beautiful !"  But  to  pa- 
laver away  about  the  paleness  or 
brightness  of  her  countenance,  be- 
longs not  to  the  poetry  of  beatified 
affection.  "  Grace  was  in  all  her 
steps,  heaven  in  her  eye" — he  who 
said  that  of  Eve  said  enough — vo- 
lumes are  in  these  words — and  they 
unfold  themselves  into  millions  of 
unwritten  dreams — as  a  few  seeds 
become  an  umbrageous  and  golden- 
fruited  grove,  filled  with  the  war- 
bling of  nightingales. 

Thus,  in  these  fine  lines  has  Ho- 
mer shewn  a  moonlight  and  starry 


Sotheby's  Homer.  lOj, 

heaven,  that  continueth  to  shine  over" 
the  whole  world,  and  all  the  gene- 
rations of  its  inhabitants.  He  did 
not  set  himself  down  to  paint  it, 
like  an  associate  of  the  Royal  Aca-; 
demy,  as  Pope  did,  bringing  out  the. 
effect  by  long  considered  and  ela- 
borate processes  of  art,  touching  and 
retouching,  occasionally  biting  his 
nails,  and  sucking  his  pen;  but,  as 
Shelley  said,  when 

"  Some  great  painter  dips 
His  pencil  in  the  gloom  of  thunder  and 
eclipse ;" 

so  we  say  did  Homer  dip  his  pencil 
in  moonlight,  and,  lo!  his  picture 
swam  in  lustre  unbedimmable  by  the 
mist  of  years. 

They  who  never  before  read  Ho- 
mer's fine  .Greek  lines,  or  our  fine 
English  ones,  and  turn  to  them  now 
from  Pope's  glittering  paraphrase, 
may  think  them  bald  in  their  simpli- 
city ;  but  study  them  in  silence  with 
your  eyes  shut,  and  you  have  a  pure 
vision  of  the  nocturnal  heavens. 
Chapman  saw  the  very  night  Homer 
did;  and  all  he  wanted  was  ade- 
quate power  of  expression  to  make 
us  see  it  too ;  but  even  in  his  lines 
it  is  serenely  beautiful, — 

"  And  all  the  signs  in  heaven  are  seen 
that  glad  the  shepherd's  heart." 

"  Thrust  up  themselves  for  shews," 
are  words  not  in  Homer,  but  the  feel- 
ing is  in  Homer ;  for  in  his  picture, 

tTi A     tjra.ffn.i    ifx.a'Tff/Kt    x.ex.i   vfoeuavte    a.x.ont     y 0.1 

•ttx.va.1  seem  indeed  alive  and  consci- 
ous in  the  calm,  and  to  look  at  us  in 
their  exaltation.  Chapman  says, 
"  and  even  the  lowly  vallies  joy  to 
glitter  in  their  sight,"— that  is,  the 
sight  of  the  stars — a  fine  line,  but 
rather  Wordsworthian  than  Homeric. 
Homer  mentions  not  "  lowly  val- 
leys;" but  Chapman  seems  so  to  have 
construed  vaira/,  groves.  For  he 
omits  groves;  and  it  is  not  likely 
that  the  word  va«-*<  could  have 
escaped  his  notice.  It  is  not  sur- 
prising that  Pope,  in  this  error, 
should  have  followed  Chapman.  He 
has  "  then  shine  the  vales ;"  but  it  is 
surprising  that  such  a  scholar  as  Sothe- 
by  should — saying  "  then  gleam  the 
vales,"  a  mere  repetition  of  Pope's 
words,  with  "  gleam"  for  "  shine,' 
which  isachange  for  the  worse,  for  no 
man  of  woman  born, we  suspect,  ever 
saw  a  vale — unless  there  was  in  it  a 
river  or  lake — >jlfam  by  moonlight. 


106 


Sotheby's  Hutmr. 


[July, 


But  that  "  the  vales"  should  be  seen 
gleaming  by  one  and  the  same  man 
— say  Homer  or  Sotheby — at  one  and 
the  same  time — is  manifestly  impos- 
sible, according  to  the  present  laws 
of  perspective,  and  in  general  of  op- 
tics. 

Cowper's  translation  is,  as  usual, 
admirable.  Of  him,  as  truly  as  of 
any  man  that  ever  breathed,  may  we 
say,  in  that  fine  line  of  Campbell, 
"  He  mused  on  nature  with  a  poet's  eye." 
He  does  not  fear  to  say  "  the  clear 
bright  moon,"  despising  the  reading 
"  <pnu  »?>,"  and  in  love  with  "  pas/vuv. 
Nor  does  he  fear  to  say,  that  around 
the  "  clear  bright  moon,"  "  the  stars 
shine  in/full  splendour."  Now  Cole- 
ridge asserted  in  one  of  his  lectures 
in  the  Royal  Institution,  that  in  the 
immediate  neighbourhood  of  a  "  re- 
fulgent" moon,  the  stars  must  look 
wan  or  dim,  and  so,  we  understand, 
saith  Wordsworth.  Tis  but  a  mere 
matter  of  moonshine,  it  is  true ;  yet 
worth  settling;  and  we  go  along 
with  Homer  and  Chapman  and  Cow- 
per.  There  cannot  be  two  stronger 
words  than  p«!/mv  and  xfi^i-rta,  ; 
moon  and  stars  were  alike  lustrous. 
"  About  the  silver  moon  stars  shine 
clear,"  are  Chapman's  words,  and 
they  are  in  the  same  spirit.  Cowper's 
you  have  before  you,  more  radiant 
still.  Do  not  abuse  Pope,  then,  O  ye 
lakers,  while  you  let  Homer,  Chap- 
man, and  Cowper  go  Scot-free.  Ho- 
race, too,  speaks  ot  a  lady  bright  as 
the  moon  among  the  lesser  fires, 
meaning  that  they  too  were  bright. 
She  shone  with  a  larger  and  serener 
lustre,  as  if  they  from  "  her  silver  urn 
drew  light."  In  one  line  Cowper 
transcends  all  his  competitors,  and 
equals  his  divine  original — 

"  The  groves,  the  mountain-tops,  the  head- 
land-heights, 
Stand  all  apparent." 

Compare  that  with  Pope,  and  "  Oh ! 
the  difference  to  me !"  But  Pope's 
beautiful  line, 

"  And  not  a  cloud  o'ercasts  the  solemn 
scene," 

was  in  Cowper's  memory  when  he 
said, 

"  Not   a  vapour   streaks    the   boundless 
blue ;" 

for  Homer  says  nothing  of  vapours, 
Hor,  had  not  Pope  negatived  the  ide» 


of  clouds,  had  Cowper.  But  seldoi 
indeed  it  is  that  that  most  origin! 
writer  owes  even  a  word  to  any  body; 
here  Pope  was  natural,  and  Cowper, 
in  unconsciously  remembering  him, 
forgot  Homer.  Neither  does  Homer 
speak  of  "  blue"  as  Cowper  does ; 
yet  blue,  beyond  doubt  or  praise,  it 
the  firmament,  and  there  can  be  no 
harm  in  saying  so.  Cowper  felt  th< 
meaning  of  that  untranslatable  wore 
&7rtpp«yq,  and  his 

"  Ether,  open'd  wide, 
All  glitters," 

is  magnificent — perhaps  even  finer 
than  Homer,  for  it  gives  the  effect  in 
fewer  and  simpler  words — it  is  in- 
deed poetry.  "  And  the  shepherd's 
heart  is  cheer'd,"  is,  like  Homer— 
bible-like  and  divine. 

And  now  for  Sotheby.  He  must 
have  come  to  the  passage  prepared 
for  a  high  achievement.  Has  he  suc- 
ceeded? Not  entirely  to  our  heart's 
desire.  "At  night's  illumined  noon," 
is  a  fine  expression,  had  it  stood  by 
itself — for  it  shews  us  at  once  the 
moon  and  stars  in  heaven.  It  proves 
Sotheby  to  be  a  poet.  But  it  does 
not,  like  the  town  of  Kilkenny, 
"  shine  well  where  it  stands."  That 
nothing  resembling  it  is  in  Homer,  is 
one  fatal  objection  to  it,  on  the  score 
of  fidelity,  the  first  of  virtues  in 
a  translator — herself  the  Queen,  all 
others  being  her  subjects,  and  bright- 
ening and  extending  her  sway.  But 
there  is  another.  Why  is  there  no- 
thing resembling  it  in  Homer  ?  Be- 
cause Homer  is  going  to  shew  us 
"  night's  illumined  noon ;"  and  in 
what  lies  the  illumination.  There- 
fore he  does  not  lay  down  that  the- 
sis, as  Sotheby  does,  and  then  illus- 
trate it  by  divine  discourse.  So 
pregnant  is  that  thesis  of  Sotheby's, 
that  it  is  in  itself  a  shining  ser- 
mon, and  needed  no  preacher.  Mr 
Sotheby  will  see  at  once  that  this 
objection  is,  like  every  objection  of 
ours,  insuperable.  He  has  had  the 
misfortune  to  paint  a  fine  picture  at 
one  sweep ;  and  we  are  so  perfectly 
satisfied  with  it,  that  we  are  dissatis- 
fied with  his  future  filling  up,  and 
eager  to  snatch  the  pencil  out  of  his 
hand.  It  may  seem  hard  to  punish 
a  man  for  a  flash  of  genius,  but  jus- 
tice compels  us  to  do  so;  and  Sotheby 
stands  reproved  before  us,  exalted, 
however,  rather  than  humbled  by 


1831.] 


Sotheby's  Holner. 


101 


the  sentence  of  an  incorruptible 
Rhadamanthus. 

'  Beam  in  their  brightness  round  the  full- 
orb'd  moon," 

is  fine  and  bold  ;  and  also  in  itself  a 
picture.  The  next  two  lines  are  per- 
jfect;  "  then  gleam  the  vales,"  very 
limperfect,  as  we  said  before,  and  we 
do  wish  he  had  given  us  the  woods. 
"  Ether  widely  riven,"  comes  per- 
haps as  near  as  is  possible  to  the  dif- 
ficult 


and  there  is  great  grandeur  in  the 
line, 

"  Expands  to  other  stars  another  hea- 
ven." 

That,  unquestionably,  is  the  vision 
seen  by  Homer.  Would  not  "  for," 
in  place  of  "  to,"  perhaps  be  better  ? 
The  riving  up  from  below  of  the 
boundless  ether  expands  another 
heaven  for  (or  with)  other  stars.  In 
that  expansion  they  have  room  for 
all  their  multitudes  —  then  and  there 
seems  to  be  infinitude.  With  the 
concluding  lines,  fine  as  they  are  in 
themselves,  we  are  not  satisfied. 
Sotheby  knows  as  well  as  any  man 
wherein  lies  the  power  of  Homer's 
immortal  half-hexameter.  Cowper 
caught  it,  and  embodied  it  in  equal 
bulk.  Chapman  likewise  seized  its 
Bpirit.  Pope,  unaffected  apparently 
by  that  scripture,  or  betrayed  into 
forgetfulness  of  its  manifest  charac- 
ter by  the  ruling  passion  in  which 
he  wrote,  ambition  to  excel  Homer, 
diluted  the  simple  sentiment  of  the 
shepherd,  which  is  indeed  nothing 
else  than  natural  religion,  into  feeble 
metaphysics  and  a  cold  philosophy. 
"  Conscious  swains,"  is  silly  ;  and 
"  bless  the  useful  light,"  is  absolute- 
ly the  doctrine  of  the  Utilitarians  ap- 
plied to  the  gratitude  of  the  shep- 
herd, 

"  Where  he  doth  summer  high  in  bliss 
upon  the  hills  of  God  !" 

Our  objections  to  Sotheby's  lines, 
over  and  above  the  main  one,  ampli- 
fication of  simplicity,  are  different 
from  those  urged  against  Pope's,  but 
nearly  as  strong.  "  Watchful  of  his 
fold,"  is  an  idea  always  interesting, 
but  "  watchful"  is,  to  our  ear,  need- 
lessly intense.  In  that  beautiful  chap- 
ter of  tb«  New  Testament,  the  ehep* 


herds  "were  watching  their  flocks 
by  night."  "Watchful '  could  never 
have  entered  into  that  verse.  On  so 
serene  a  night  as  that  Homer  de- 
scribes, when  all  was  peace,  the 
shepherd  could  have  had  no  fears 
about  his  fold.  He  was  sitting  or  ly- 
ing beside  them — but  not  "watchful;" 
he  merely  felt  that  they  Avere  there ; 
for  their  sakes  too,  as  well  as  his 
own,  his  heart  was  cheered  by  the 
heavens  he  looked  on ;  and  happier 
oven  than  he  knew  at  that  hour  was 
the  pastoral  life. 

This  is  but  a  slight  matter;  but  slight 
matters  affect  the  delight  of  the  soul 
in  poetry.  Pope  had  said,  "  eyes  the 
blue  vault,"  and  Sotheby,  betrayed 
into  imitation  by  admiration,  says, 
"looks  wondering  up."  That  the  shep- 
herd looked  up,  there  can  be  no  doubt. 
Homer  took  it  for  granted  that  he 
did ;  for  the  shepherd  was  not  asleep. 
The  truth  is,  that  he  had  been  look- 
ing up_for  a  long  time — bad  seen  the 
moon  rise,  and  the  stars — and  per- 
haps had  been  composing  a  song  on 
a  white-footed  girl  filling  her  urn  at 
the  fountain.  To  suppose  that  he  had 
been  looking  down,  would  be  a  libel, 
not  only  on  that  anonymous  shep- 
herd, but  on  all  Arcadia,  and  the 
golden  age.  But  we  object  more 
stoutly  to  the  word,  "  wondering." 
May  this  be  the  last  line  we  shall 
ever  write,  if  he  did  "  look  wonder- 
ing up."  Shepherds  from  their  in- 
fancy are  star-gazers.  They  are  fa- 
miliar with  the  skies — for  on  the  hill- 
tops they  live,  and  move,  and  have 
their  being,  in  the  immediate  neigh- 
bourhood of  heaven/  At  a  comet 
they  would  wonder— for  he  is  a  wild 
stranger  of  a  hundred  years.  But 
they  do  not  wonder  even  at  meteors, 
for  the  air  is  full  of  them,  and  they 
go  skyring  through  the  stars,and  drop- 
ping down  into  disappearance,  like 
the  half  assured  sights  seen  in  dreams. 
But  the  moon  and  the  planets,  and 
the  fixed  stars,  are  to  the  shepherd 
no  more  wonderful  at  one  time  than 
at  another; — in  one  sense,  indeed, 
they  are  to  him  always  wonderful—- 
for he  wonders,  and  of  his  won- 
dering finds  no  end,  how  and  by 
whom  they  were  made ;  or  he  won- 
ders at  them  in  their  own  beautiful 
eternity.  But  Sotheby's  words  do 
not  imply  this;  they  merely  imply 
that  the  shepherd  wonders  to  behold 
such  a  night  as  that  described  by 


lud 


Sotheby's  Homer. 


Homer.  Why  should  he  ?  'Twas 
but  one  of  thousands  that  had  cano- 
pied his  solitary  grass-bed,  and  its 
sole  power  was  the  peaceful  power 
of  accustomed  gladness — still  renew- 
ed, and  never  fading  in  his  heart— 

ytyriS'.   "Si  T'.  tpgivK  vtnji.ni.     The  truth  is, 

that  three  words  of  Sotheby's  two 
lines  do  of  themselves  produce  the 
whole  desired  effect — "  gladdens  to 
behold."  All  the  rest  are  super- 
fluous. That  is  wholly  nature,  and 
almost  wholly  Homer.  Sotheby,  as 
an  Athenian,  knew  what  was  right 
— he  should  have  been  a  Lacede- 
monian too — and  practised  it. 

It  is  only  with  distinguished  wri- 
ters, like  Sotheby,  that  such  criti- 
cism as  this  would  be  endurable ; 
with  them,  it  is  imperative  on  us ; 
nor,  unless  we  mucn  mistake,  is  it 
without  instruction.  Poetry  is  in- 
deed a  Fine  Art — fine  as  the  pellu- 
cid air,  in  which  you  may  see  a  mote. 
The  perusal  of  his  composition,  ge- 
nerally so  exquisite,  sharpens  all  our 
inmost  senses,  and  makes  us  criti- 
cal as  eagles  floating  over  a  valley. 
And  now  we  pounce  down  on  our 
prey — the  poor  word  "  lone" — and 
swallow  it.  Let  nobody  pity  it,  for 
it  "  had  no  business  there."  In  Ho- 
mer, Toipw  has  no  epithet.  No  need 
to  tell  us  he  was  alone.  The  one 
word  of  itself  does  that — that  he  was 
all  alone,  is  felt  to  be  essential  to 
that  gush  of  gladness.  Homer,  du- 
ring that  description,  was  not  think- 
ing of  any  shepherd.  He  had  the 
heavens  to  himself;  but  no  sooner 
was  the  beauty  of  the  scene  con- 
summate, than  arose  one  image  of 
solitary  life.  He  saw  a  being — and 
that  his  heart  was  glad ;  and  so  dear 
a  thing  is  human  happiness,  that 
sufficient  for  Homer  was  the  joy  of 
one  simple  shepherd  beneath  the 
starry  cope  of  the  ««•««,-  «^»j.  An- 
other great  poet  knew.on  an  occasion 
somewhat  similar,  but  not  the  same, 
the  proper  use  of  the  word  "  alone." 
Thus,  in  Rob  Roy's  Grave,  Words- 
worth,speaking  of  the  remembrances 
or  traditions  of  that  outlaw,  says, 

"  Bear  witness,  many  a  pensive  sigh 

Of  thoughtful  herdsman,  when  he  strays 

Alone  upon  Loch  Veol's  heights, 

And  by  Loch  Lomond's  braes ; 

And,  far  and  near,  through  vale  and  hill, 

Are  faces  that  attest  the  same, 

The  proud  heart  Hashing  through  the  eyes 

At  sound  of  Ritb  Rov  s  name." 


Here  the  bard  had  room  to  employ 
epithets — and  he  had  likewise  le 
sure — for  he   was   quietly  rumin 
ting;  "  thoughtful,"   and  "  alone 
"  Loch  VeoFs  heights,"  and  "  Loc 
Lomond's   braes,"    carry   us    alon  • 
with  the  herdsman  on  his  day-Ion 
world  of  dreams ;   and  descendin 
from  these  solitary  heights,  we  fin 
ourselves    among   "  faces"   in  tht 
vales,  many  faces  far  and  near, 
kindling  at  "  sound  of  Rob  Roy'f 
name,"  a  name  there  pronounced  and 
heard, — but  up  among  the  mountains, 
silent  in  the  herdsman's  heart,  as  he 
walks  "  thoughtful  and  alone,"  in 
his  uncommunicated  memories. 

By  the  Avay,  we  cannot  help  think- 
ing, that  all  the  translators  we  have 
looked  at  have  mistaken  the  mean- 
ing of  the  important  words, — " 
<rraXs^a/a  ynfu^as" — end  of  first  line 
of  the  quotation.  From  Chapman's 
translation  it  does  not  clearly  appear 
what  he  conceived  to  be  the  mean- 
ing of  these  words — though  perhaps 
"  open  field"  answer  to  them,  which 
is  indeed  right,  though  vague.  Pope 
writes, — "  sat  in  order  round," — 
which  shews  his  understanding  of 
the  words — leaving  out  ^rax^a. 
Cowper  says, 

"  They  sat, 

Not  disarray 'd,  but  in  fair  forms  disposed 
Of  even  ranks." 

That  is  his  interpretation  of  i-n  **<>>.'.- 
ft.ua  yt<fv^a,s.  And  Sotheby,  by  far  the 
best  Grecian  of  them  all,  translates 
them  "  in  orderly  array."  All  this 
seems  to  us  very  odd,  for  what  is 
yttfu^a.  ?  Turning  up  Donnegan,  we 
find — "  a  dam  dyke  or  mound — the 
space  between  hostile  armies — a  wall 
— generally  a  bridge ;"  and  he  refers 
us  to  Pindar  for  «rav<rau  y.q^u.  an  istln 
uius.  But  what  does  it  usually 
mean  in  Homer?  In  Iliad  A  371  : 

"  Ti   o    ofifriuii;  ireKiuota   y.^uau,;^   \)V 

Heyne  translated,  "quod  prospicis 
intervallum  inter  utramque  aciem." 
And  he  adds,  "  has  enim  esse  yt$u£u.;, 

xtKtv$ov;,  tiau;  *oKi[*.ov,  patet  6X  ^  374. 
549.  A.I  60.  T.  427.Ta/usra^^«/av."  Oil 

referring  to  these  passages,  we  find 
that  ro  F.tra.[tixai<>»  is  the  meaning  of 
i-jri  vToteftoia  yiq>v£K}.  The  Greeks  had 
been  beat  back — and  the  Trojans  kin- 
dled their  fires  on  the  space  lying  be- 
tween the  two  battles.  We  forget  what 
annotator  on  Milton  it  was  that  pro- 
posed reading  for  "  on  the  rough 


1831.1  Sotheby's  Homer.  109 

»dge  of  battle  ere  it  joined"  "  on  the  "  Flight,  companion  of  soul-chilling 

•oiK'h  bridge  of  battle,"  an  emend-  Fear,  dispatched  from  heaven"  —  so 

ition  for  which  he  got  himself  laugh-  Cowper  translates  it—  or  "  Grief,  the 

id  at.    We   daresay   Milton  wrote  feeble  consort  of  cold  fear,  strangely 

'  edge  j"  but  bridge  is,  we  see,  Ho-  infused  from  heaven"  —  so  chanteth 

neric,    and   therefore    good.      E«  Chapman  —  or  "  Fear,  pale  comrade 

r™/u/i«<a  yj<puj«5  is  "  upon  the  bridge  of  inglorious  flight,  ana  heaven-bred 

rf  battle."      Cowper  and  Sotheby  horror"  —  so  Pope  hath  it  —  or  "  Hea- 

*eem   then  to  have   misunderstood  ven-sent  flight,  chill  Fear's  ally"  —  so 

the  words  here  ;  as  well  as  in  such  sings  Sotheby  —  possessed  the  Gre- 

ather  places  where  they  occur,  as  we  cSans—  and  Agamemnon  commands 

liave  had  leisure  to  turn  up.    If  we  the  heralds  to  call  by  name  each  chief 

ire  mistaken  —  they  will  lay  the  blame  to  council,  but  without  the  sound  of 

partly  at  the  door  of  Heyne.  proclamation.    Let  us  try  the  transla- 

But  let  us  attend  to  the  Greeks,  tors  at  the  following  four  lines. 
rhus  fared  the  Trojan  host;  but 


HOMER. 


"H  TI  XOC 

<x£l;  o  I3ct£vrrtvti 

HORTH  (literal  prose.} 

They  sat  down  therefore  in  the  assembly,  sad  ;  but  Agamemnon 
Stood  up  tears-shedding  —  as  a  fountain  dark-  watered, 

Which  down  a  steep  (goat-defying,  or  rather  leaving)  rock  pours  mist-emitting  water  i 
Thus  did  he,  heavily  groaning  out  words  —  among  the  Greeks  harangue. 

CHAPMAN. 

They  sadly  sate  ;  the  king  arose  and  pour'd  out  tears  as  fast 
As  from  a  lofty  rock  a  spring  doth  his  black  waters  cast. 
And  deeply  sighing  thus  bespake  the  Argives. 

POPE. 

These  surround  their  chief 
In  solemn  sadness  and  majestic  grief. 
The  king  amidst  the  mournful  circle  rose  ; 
Down  his  wan  cheek  a  living  torrent  flows 
So  silent  fountains,  from  a  rock's  tall  head, 
In  sable  streams  soft-trickling  waters  shed. 
With  more  than  viilgar  grief  he  stood  opprest  ; 
Words,  mixt  with  sighs,  thus  bursting  from  his  breast. 

COWPER. 

The  sad  assembly  sat  ;  when  weeping  fast, 
As  some  deep  fountain  pours  its  rapid  stream 
Down  from  the  summit  of  a  lofty  rock, 
King  Agamemnon  in  the  midst  arose, 
And  groaning,  the  Achaians  thus  addressed. 

SOTHBBY. 
Bow'd  by  grief, 

The  summon'd  leaders  gather'd  round  their  chief. 
lit  tears  Atrides  stood  ;  thus  ceaseless  now 
The  dark  streams  gushing  from  a  rocky  brow.n 
He  spake  and  groan'd,  "  Ye  Argive  leaders!  hear!  &c. 

A  simpler,  shorter,  apter  simile  haps  in  English  such  synonimes  could 

than  this,  is  nowhere  to  be  found—  not  have  been  used  —  and  Chapman 

let,  then,  all  these  qualities  be  pre-  confines  himself  to  the   one   word 

served  by  the  translator.    Chapman,  "  black." 

as  he  thinks,  preserves  them  all  —  and  But  the  truth  is,  that  *•?»*  ^t^a^at 

he  is  almost  as  good  as  Homer.  In  the  means  a  fountain  black-  watered,  be- 

priginal,  we  have  ^aan^  and  ^»<(n^  cause  hidden  from  the  light  by  over- 

p*e—  both  signifying,  as  many  say,  hanging  rocks,  or  in  some  great  depth. 

'  black   water"  —  intensifying   the  The  water  is  not  in  itself  black,  or 

gloomy  aspect  of  Agamemnon,  Per-  even  drunily  when   smitten  "  by 


110 

touch  etherial  of  heaven's  fiery  rod" 
— but  pure  as  diamonds.  In  falling 
over  the  face  of  the  inaccessible  rock, 
it  is  not  black,  although  the  face  of 
the  rock  may  be,  and  probably  is ; 
indeed  we  do  not  remember  ever  to 
have  seen  black  water  when  fairly 
poured  out,  unless  you  choose  to  call 
ink  so — and  we  are  sorry  to  say  that  the 
ink  we  are  dribbling  at  this  moment 
is  light-blue — or  unless  you  choose 
to  call  tea  so,  and  we  are  still  sorryer 
to  say  that  the  tea  we  are  sipping  at 
this  moment  is  a  faint  green  ;  while 
Jvaipigav,  though  misnamed  in  lexicons 
dusky,  and  so  forth,  assuredly  is 
"  spray-shedding,"  or  "  mist-emit- 
ting," or  "  vapoury,"  or  something 
of  that  sort — for  which  if  there  be  an 
English  word,  we  cannot  recollect 
its  phiz.  All  the  translators,  there- 
fore, are  mistaken  who  call  the  fall- 
ing water  dark,  or  dusky,  or  sable, 
or  black — confounding  an  accident 
of  its  source  with  a  quality  of  the 
stream — and  libelling  Agamemnon's 
tears.  The  source  from  which  they 
flowed  may  be  said  figuratively  to 
have  been  "  black" — his  heart — and 
his  face  was  gloomy  j  just  as  that 
other  source  and  that  other  face  in 
and  of  the  rock — but  his  tears  were 
clear,  and  glistened,  just  as  the  ll*>£ 
to  which  Homer  likened  them — 
and,  though  the  expression  is  strong 
—so  were  they  mist-emitting,  for  his 
grief  was  very  great. 

It  is  not  easy  to  read  Pope's  para- 
phrase without  anger.  Determined 
was  he  to  improve  upon  Homer; 
and  therefore  will  he  spin  out — beat 
out — his  four  lines  into  eight — not 
giving  us  one  word  in  English  ex- 
actly corresponding  to  one  word  in 
Greek.  Ttnnari; — afflicted — excruci- 
antes  se,  as  Heyne  gives  it,  he  chan- 
ges into — 

"  In  solemn  sadness  and  majestic  grief." 
Now,  that  is  a  downright  lie.  The 
Argive  leaders  were  not  in  "  solemn 
sadness,"  though  we  daresay  their 
countenances  were  considerably 
elongated ;  and  if  they  were  "  in  ma- 
jestic grief,"  it  is  more  than  Aga- 
memnon himself  was,  for  he  wept 
and  groaned,  though  we  daresay  that 
his  presence  was  not  without  dig- 
nity. Here,  then,  is  an  absurd  at- 
tempt to  impose  upon  us,  and  to  win 
from  us  that  sympathy  for  a  set  of 
pompous  magnificoes,  which  we  give 


Homer. 


[July 


at  once  to  men  Tir<ij«r«».  «  Mourn« 
ful  circle"  is  surely  needless  aftei 
"  solemn  sadness  and  majestic  grief.': 
Then  Agamemnon's  cheek  is  super, 
fluously  said  to  be  "  wan ;"  and 
"  briny  torrent"  is  unhappy,  foi 
though  tears  are  salt,  they  are  here 
likened  to  a  freeh-water  spring,  and 
therefore  we  have  no  business  with 
"  brine."  Why  would  not  Pope  say, 
shedding  tears,  or  weeping,  as  Home* 
does  ?  Is  it  not  excessively  childish 
to  translate  A«*gu  ziut 
"  Down  his  wan  cheek  a  briny  torrent 
flows  ?" 

Proceed  on  that  principle  through* 
out,  and  the  Iliad  will  reach  from  this 
to  London. 
"  So  silent  fountains,  from  a  rock's  tall 

head, 
In    sable   streams   soft-trickling   waters 

shed." 

Why  silent  ?  Then  observe  how  very 
awkward  fountains,  plural,  and  a 
rock's  tall  head,  singular!  Homer  is 
not  speaking  of  fountains  in  general, 
but  of  one  "  fountain  black-water'd ;" 
"  soft-trickling"  is  not  the  right  word, 
foT%tti,8tillatt  means  simply  "  sheds," 
and  sheds  by  itself  is  sufficient. 
"  With  more  than  vulgar  grief  he  stood' 
opprest," 

is  a  foolish  interpolation.     Who  tin; 
deuce  ever  thought  the  king  of  men 
vulgar  ?   But,  after  all,  Pope  has  not 
been  able  by  this  line  to  put  him  or 
a  par  with  his  subordinates  who  sur- 
rounded him 
"  In  solemn  sadness  and  majestic  grief.' 
Agamemnon  among  them  looks  like 
an  old  woman.  "  Words  mixed  withj 
sighs"  we  must  not  complain  of,  for! 
they  are  Milton's ;  but  we  want  Ho-j 
mer's — and  he  gives  us  groans,  and) 
deepones — t  fi«?v  <rriva%u*.  However,! 
that  line  will  do.    But  is  not  the] 
whole  a  wilful  wickedness  and  aj 
feeble  failure  ? 

Cowper  is  concise  and  vigorous.  \ 
"  The  sad  assembly  sat"  is  so  espe- 
cially. There  is  much  majesty  inj 
the  rising  of  Agamemnon, "  weeping 
fast  j"  and  the  lines  about  the  foun- 
tain do  finely  shew  us  the  king. 
Cowper  has  chosen  to  sink  the  co- 
lour black.  He  calls  the  fountain 
"  deep ;"  and  as  most  deep  foun- 
tains look  black,  deep  let  it  be ;  but 
"  rapid"  we  do  not  like,  for  water 
falling  down  a  rock  must  be  rapid 


1831.T 


whether  it  will  or  not— we  defy  it 
to  help  itself — and  Cowper  should 
have  given  us  9vtft(«»,  if  he  had  even 
said  "  dismal."  Homer's  S*a<psf«i'  is  a 
strange  word ;  and  though  we  choose 
to  believe  that  it  denotes  spray, 
Cowper  may  have  seen  cause  to  call 
it  rapid.  "  Groaning"  is  good — for 
he  who  sighs  deeply,  groans.  The 
picture  is  in  Cowper's  hands  Homeric. 
Sotheby  is  strong — perhaps  too 
concise — but  that  in  a  translator  of 
Homer  is  a  fine  fault.  "  In  tears 
Atrides  stood"  is  in  itself  excellent; 
but  it  hardly  comes  up  to  the  mean- 
ing of  "ffrecn  lax^vxtta*.  That  epithet 
implies  an  active,  a  profuse,  a  pro- 
digal pouring  out  of  tears — and  such 
pouring  out  there  must  have  been  to 
suggest  the  simile  of  the  dark- watered 
fountain  shedding  its  gloomy,  or  ra- 
pid, or  sprayey  stream,  down  the 
cheek  of  a  lofty  rock.  Homer's 
heroes,  when  they  weep,  do  so  in 
right  good  earnest.  At  the  same 
time,  they  groan,  or  they  roar,  or 
they  roll  themselves  on  the  ground. 
So  did  Achilles.  Andromache  wept 
smilingly — and  her  eyes,  we  ween, 
looked  lovelier  through  their  tears 
— her  whole  face — herself — Love, 
Grief,  and  Pity,  in  one.  "  Cease- 
less" is  not  the  right  word,  for  Aga- 


Sothely's  Homer.  \\\ 

memnon's  tears  did  cease,  while  the 
black-watered  fountain  Homer  had 
in  his  eye  may  be  flowing  down  the 
face  of  the  lofty  rock  at  this  very 
hour. 

"  The  dark  streams  gushing  from  its  rocky 
brow," 

strikes  us  as  very  fine.  Perhaps 
they  were  dark  after  all — and  even 
the  word  "  brow"  has  here  a  beauty 
not  to  be  found  in  the  Greek.  For 
it  shews  us  Agamemnon's;  and  it 
too  was  rocky,  for  the  broad  bone 
above  his  eyes  was  rugged — we  see 
it  now — as  Sotheby  did  when  he 
dropped  that  eloquent  line  on  paper. 
"  He  spake  and  groaned"  ought  to 
be  transposed  thus— He  groaned  and 
spake.  Judging  by  ourselves,  a  man 
ceases  to  groan  almost  as  soon  as  he 
begins  to  speak.  'Tis  well  if  his 
hearers  do  not  then  take  up  what  he 
has  laid  aside ;  though  in  this  case, 
if  the  Argive  leaders  gave  a  groan- 
accompaniment,  'twas  in  dismal  sym- 
pathy with  the  sufferings  of  their 
king. 

Atrides  then  conducts  the  great 
chiefs  of  Greece  to  his  pavilion ;  and 
after  feasting  them  in  kingly  fashion, 
awaits  advice.  Nestor  rises,  and  thus 
harangues : — > 


*£y  o-oi  fitr  A»i|a>,  <no  tf  u 
Aetuv  sa-fi  «v«|,  »£  T«<  Zev?  lyyv#A<J« 
2xij7TTgav  r,  ««  Sifttfetf,  Yvet  <r<p<V< 
T»  «-6  %pv  vrigi  (M8v  <f tiff-Sen  'ixcf,  $' 
K^ywect  0t  Xj  «'AA»,  «r«v  rivet  &v(t«s  <J»»y») 
E'tTrtiv  iig  ayctSoi'    «a  3'  stjsraw,  o,rri  KIV  ttfCf* 
A  i>Tci(>  lyav  £g£#,  ug  pot 
Ov  f/eif  T<S  »««v  «AA 
OJ«v  lya  it&u,  fain       A«<,  »      n  x   tvt, 
'E%trt  rev,  orf,  ?<ayiv«s, 
Xveftivov  'Aftttitof  V€i)j 
Ovn  xcttf  YifV-Ti^ii  yt  vcof   ptchat  y«g  T«< 
v  $1  erS 

«»  Mtivetret  Trig  irureiv, 
iig  £;^£<5  y£g*s"    «AA*  'in 
us  xiv  ( 
A<yg«<o-/y  T'  «y«y«?<r<»,  tTrtovi  n  f 

T«y  J*  ct'vrt  Trpofft 
£2  y£goy,  ay  n  •vj/siio 

' 'Au<reipiw ,  01$'  etvrog  uvctiv»(ttctt'    etvrt  vv 
Aetuv  irrtv  MWP,  ourt  Zfvs  xiigi  (pt^rv" 
'lif  yvv  retirov  trun,  octftetwt  el  /«t«v  'A%ettuv, 


Sotheby's  Homer.  I  July, 

oftueti  T'  «5ng 

tTv  f  li  irtivTte-ri  Trfgix-^vTce.  ou£  ov 
NORTH  (literal  prose  .) 

"  Son  of  Atreus,  —  most  illustrious,  —  king  of  men,  —  Agamemnon, 
In  thec  will  I  end,  from  thee  will  I  begin.     Since  of  many 
Nations  thou  art  king,  and  Jupiter  hath  put  into  thy  hands 
Both  the  sceptre  and  the  laws,  that  for  them  thou  mightst  deliberate, 
Therefore  thee  it  behoves,  above  all  others,  to  speak  your  opinion,  and  to  listen 
And  to  bring  into  effect  another's  (counsel),  when  his  mind  may  move  him 
To  speak  for  the  (common)  good  ;  for  on  thee  will  it  depend  whatever  (counsel 

may  prevail  ; 

But  I  will  speak  whatever  appears  to  me  the  best. 
For  no  one  shall  find  out  better  counsel  than  that 
Which  I  find  out,  both  formerly,  and  also  now, 
From  the  time  when,  oh,  noble  one  !  the  girl  Briseis 
Thou  didst  go  and  take  away  from  the  tent  of  the  enraged  Achilles. 
Not  indeed  according  to  my  counsel  ;  for  greatly  indeed  thee  did  I  for  my  part 
With  many  words  dissuade  ;  but  thou  to  thy  mighty  spirit 
Giving  way,  the  bravest  man  whom  ever  the  Immortals  have  honoured 
Thou  hast  treated  with  disrespect  ;  for  having  taken,  thou  retaincst  his  reward 

but  even  now 
Let  us  deliberate  how  we  may  please  and  prevail  on  him,  by  soothing  gifts,  aui 

honied  words." 

Him,  on  the  other  hand,  addressed  the  king  of  men,  Agamemnon. 
"  Oh,  old  man,  not  falsely  my  errors  hast  thou  enumerated  : 
I  have  done  unjustly,  I  deny  it  not  ;  equal,  indeed,  to  a  numerous 
Host  is  the  man  whom  Jupiter  shall  love  in  his  heart  ; 
Him  indeed  hath  he  now  honoured,  and  hath  humbled  the  nation  of  the  Greek* 
But  since  I  have  erred,  by  yielding  to  my  wayward  mind, 
Again  I  wish  to  appease  him,  and  to  give  him  an  immense  recompense, 
And,  in  the  presence  of  you  all,  the  splendid  gifts  will  I  enumerate." 


Monarch  of  nations  !  whose  superior  sway 
Assembled  states,  and  lords  of  earth,  obey, 
The  laws  and  sceptres  to  thy  hand  are  giv'n, 
And  millions  own  the  care  of  thee  and  heav'n. 

0  king,  the  counsels  of  my  age  attend, 
With  thee  my  cares  begin,  in  thee  must  end. 
Thee,  prince  !  it  fits  alike  to  speak  and  hear, 
Pronounce  with  judgment,  with  regard  give  ear, 
To  see  no  wholesome  motion  be  withstood, 
And  ratify  the  best  for  public  good. 

Nor,  though  a  meaner  give  advice,  repine, 
But  follow  it,  and  make  the  wisdom  thine. 
Hear  then  a  thought,  not  now  conceived  in  haste, 
At  once  my  present  judgment  and  my  past  ; 
When  from  Pelides'  tent  you  forced  the  maid, 

1  first  opposed,  and,  faithful,  durst  dissuade  ; 
But,  bold  of  soul,  when  headlong  fury  fired, 

You  wrong'  d  the  man,  by  men  arid  Gods  admired  ; 

Now,  seek  some  means  his  fatal  wrath  to  end, 

With  pray'rs  to  move  him,  or  with  gifts  to  bend. 

To  whom  the  king  —  With  justice  hast  thou  shown 

A  prince's  faults,  and  I  with  reason  own 

That  happy  man,  whom  Jove  still  honours  most, 

Is  more  than  armies,  and  himself  a  host. 

Blest  in  his  love,  this  wond'rous  hero  stands  ; 

Heav'n  fights  his  war,  and  humbles  all  our  hands. 

Fain  would  my  heart,  which  err'd  through  frantic  rage, 

The  wrathful  chief  and  angry  Gods  assuage. 

If  gifts  immense  his  mighty  soul  can  bow, 

Hear,  all  ye  Greeks,  —  and  witness  what  I  vow. 

COWPER. 

Atrides  !  glorious  monarch  !    king  of  men  ! 
With  thee  shall  I  begin,  witli  thee  conclude, 


3 !'.]  Sotheby^s  Homer.  \  13 

For  thou  art  sov'reign,  and  to  thee  are  given 

From  Jove  the  sceptre  and  the  laws  in  charge, 

For  the  advancement  of  the  general  good. 

Hence,  in  peculiar,  both  to  speak  and  hear 

Become  thy  duty,  and  the  best  advice, 

By  whomsoever  offer'd,  to  adopt 

And  to  perform,  for  thou  art  judge  alone. 

I  will  promulge  the  counsel  which  to  me 

Seems  wisest ;  such,  that  other  Grecian  none 

Shall  give  thee  better  ;  neither  is  it  new, 

But  I  have  ever  held  it  since  the  day 

When,  most  illustrious  !  thou  wast  pleas'd  to  take 

By  force  the  maid  Briseis  from  the  tent 

Of  the  enraged  Achilles  ;  not,  in  truth, 

By  my  advice,  who  did  dissuade  thee  much  ; 

But  thou,  complying  with  thy  princely  wrath, 

Hast  shamed  a  hero  whom  the  gods  themselves  ' 

Delight  to  honour,  and  his  prize  detain'st. 

Yet  even  now  conciliate  him  ;  perchance, 

With  soft  persuasion  and  by  gifts  we  may. 

Then  answer'd  Agamemnon,  king  of  men  : 
Old  chief,  there  is  no  falsehood  in  your  charge 
I  have  offended,  and  confess  the  wrong. 
The  warrior  is  alone  a  host,  whom  Jove 
Troves  as  he  loves  Achilles,  for  whose  sake 
He  hath  A  chain's  thousands  thus  subdued. 
l!iit  if,  the  impulse  of  a  wayward  mind 
Obeying,  I  have  err'd;  behold  me,  now, 
Prepar'd  to  soothe  him  with  atonement  large 
Of  gifts  inestimable,  which  by  name 
I  will  propound  in  presence  of  you  all. 

SOTIIEBV. 

"  Atrides  !  king  of  kings,  my  word  attend  ! 
With  thee  my  speech  begins,  with  thee  shall  end ; 
For  vast  the  sway  by  Jove  to  thee  assign'd — 
Power  that  controls,  and  laws  that  mend  mankind. 
Therefore,  it  thee  behoves,  beyond  Ihe  rest, 
To  speak  thy  thoughts,  and  hear  what  ours  suggest. 
Then  what  may  profit  most  the  public  state, 
'Tis  thine,  O  king  !   by  act  to  consummate. 
I  speak  what  wisdom  prompts,  nor  other  word 
More  wise  than  Nestor's  shall  by  thee  be  heard — 
No  sudden  thoughts  the  words  I  speak  create, 
Long  has  my  spirit  laboured  with  their  weight, 
From  that  dread  hour,  when  thou  by  force  of  arms 
From  scorn'd  Pelides  reft'st  Briseis'  charms. 
In  vain  my  warning  voice  thy  rage  withstood, 
And  strove  to  calm  the  torrent  of  thy  blood, 
When  frantic  passion  bade  thee  proudly  scorn 
The  bravest  hero,  whom  the  gods  adorn, 
Whose  prize  thou  hold'st.     Now  all  your  counsel  bend, 
How  best  to  soothe  the  chief  thou  dared'st  offend; 
How  deprecate  his  wrath — how  win  his  aid, 
By  gifts  to  gain  him,  and  by  prayer  persuade." 
The  King  replied  . — "  O  thou,  for  wisdom  famed, 
Whose  words  of  truth  my  wrong  has  justly  blamed, 
I  own  the  offence,  and  him  whom  favouring  Jove 
Holds  in  his  heart,  I  rate  a  host  above. 
Jove,  to  exalt  his  fame,  our  force  subdues, 
And  Troy's  wide  plain  with  Hellas'  blood  embrues, 
But  whom  I  wrong'd,  let  gifts  unbounded  gain, 
And  reunite  fair  friendship's  broken  chain. 
Be  witness  all  what  now  your  king  proclaims—- 
Hear, while  his  word  each  present  singly  names." 
VOL,  XXX,  NO.  CLXXXH,  H 


Homer. 


[July, 


These  speeches  cannot  be  said 
to  be  remarkable  in  any  way,  but 
they  are  very  pleasant  reading ;  and 
our  hearts  warm  towards  the  speak- 
ers. We  confess  that  Nestor  seldom 
rises  without  causing  us  considerable 
alarm.  We  are  instantly  seized  with 
the  idea  of  a  nightcap,  and  ere  he 
sits  down,  we  are  ready  to  sink  into 
the  arms  of  "  tired  nature's  sweet 
restorer,  balmy  sleep."  Homer  as- 
suredly intended  in  him  to  describe 
that  mysterious  phenomenon — do- 
tage. In  his  youth  he  had  been  no 
mean  warrior,  but  not  much  wiser, 
as  far  as  we  have  heard,  than  his 
neighbours.  But  he  probably  al- 
ways had  a  turn  for  public-speaking ; 
and  it  is  wonderful  how  oratory  grows 
upon  a  person,  when  it  has  happen- 
ed to  meet  with  an  idiosyncracy  open 
to  its  reception,  and  naturally  dis- 
posed not  only  to  imbibe  but  cherish 
the  disease.  Such  a  man  was  Nes- 
tor. Eloquent  overmuch  he  must 
have  been  even  in  middle  life;  in 
old  age  his  wisdom  was  still  more 
heavily  overbalanced  by  the  weight 
of  words ;  but  on  tending  towards  a 
hundred,  and  in  the  First  Book  of 
the  Iliad  it  was  long  since  he  had 
seen  fourscore  we  shall  swear,  his 
most  reverential  admirers  must  con- 
fess that  it  was  well  for  Job  that  he 
did  not  encounter  the  Pylian  sage 
among  the  other  trials  of  his  afflic- 
tion. Yet  was  Nestor  just  the  old 
man  for  an  oracle  among  those  fiery 
Greeks.  His  disposition  was  mild, 
without  being  milky;  he  laid  claim 
chiefly  to  the  wisdom  of  experience; 
and  he  did  not  force  his  opinion  up- 
on any  council.  He  was  no  advice- 
monger.  But  when  king  or  leader 
requested  the  benefit  of  his  time-in- 
structed understanding,  the  sage — 
say  not  he  was  superannuated — did 
then  indeed  pour  out  "  the  treasures 
of  experienced  age,"  after  the  fa- 
shion of  one  of  those  quiet  floods  that 
flow  smoothly  along  a  well-culti- 
vated level,  which  no  doubt  they 
help  to  fertilize ;  though  without  ma- 
nure, for  our  own  parts,  we  have 
never  hoped  high  of  mere  irriga- 
tion. All  noble  nations  reverence 
old  age.  'Tis  natural  for  them  to 
think 

"  That  the  sunset  of  life  gives  it  mystical 
lore;" 

and  none  felt  that  reverence  more 


habitually  than  the  Greeks.  A  word 
from  the  wise,  if  the  wise  was  aged, 
went  far  with  them,  when  fifty  words 
far  wiser  from  the  warlike  would  not 
have  gone  an  inch;  and  thus  "  that 
old  man  eloquent,"  of  whom  we 
speak — not  North  but  Nestor — "  al- 
ways fit  audience  found,  tho'  few," 
a  congregation  assembled  in  council, 
of  Agamemnon  and  all  his  peerage. 

Still  we  maintain  that  Nestor  was 
in  his  dotage.  Every  man,  indeed, 
is  so,  after  sixty,  and  most  before  it 
— with  the  single  exception  perhaps 
of  Homer  himself — and  old  Parr. 
But  then  ordinary  dotage  is  but  dri- 
vel ;  whereas  there  is  a  kind  of  do- 
tage that  sometimes  seems  inspira- 
tion. The  reasoning  powers — if  they 
ever  were  in  any  great  force — are 
numb  or  gone — but  all  conclusions 
that  the  mind  had  kept  drawing  for 
many  long  and  perhaps  many-co- 
loured years,  remain  unimpaired, 
and  in  order,  ready  for  use,  and  at 
any  man's  service,  who  chooses  to 
consult  the  sage.  Full  is  he  of 
"  wise  saws  and  ancient  instances ;" 
and  a  strange  case,  indeed,  will  be 
yours,  if  he  cannot  illustrate  it  by  a 
parallel  passage  in  the  life  of  some 
one  buried  before  your  father  was 
born.  After  all,  what  want  we  but  a 
"  few  strong  instincts,  and  a  few  plain 
rules,"  for  the  conduct  of  the  human 
understanding,  even  in  seasons  of 
perplexity  and  peril  ?  We  fear  to  fol- 
low them,  of  ourselves ;  but  when  an 
old  grey-beard  bids  us  do  so,  as  if  a 
voice  from  Heaven  did  speak,  we 
obey  the  oracle ;  and  then  we  won- 
der at  the  wisdom,  which,  after  all, 
is  but  the  self-same  knowledge  which 
we  feared  to  recognise  as  true,  so 
long  as  we  thought  it  merely  our 
own;  while  it  proceeds  from  that 
principle,  which  we  hesitated,  in  like 
manner,  formerly  to  consider  para- 
mount, but  which  now  we  admit  to 
be  so,  under  the  sanction  of  one 
whom  we  reverence, — and  need  we 
say  that  that  principle  is — Con- 
science ? 

In  saying  that  Nestor  was  in  his 
dotage,  you  perceive,  then,  from  this 
explanation,  that  we  were  desirous 
of  recording  our  most  delicate  testi- 
mony to  his  inappreciable  worth. 
The  Greeks  could  never  have  done 
without  him — and  long  ere  the  open- 
ing of  the  Iliad  must  have  raised  the 
siege  of  Troy.  On  the  present  occa- 


1831.] 


Sotheby's  Homer. 


sion,  in  the  royal  pavilion,  Agamem- 
non knew,  in  his  troubled  conscience, 
that  there  was  but  one  course  for  him 
to  pursue,  in  order  to  avert  destruc- 
tion from  the  Grecian  host — to  con- 
fess the  wrong  he  had  done  Achilles 
—ask  pardon — and  request  his  re- 
turn. No  ghost  needed  to  come  from 
the  grave,  to  tell  him  that — no  Nes- 
tor. But  many  emotions  chained  that 
thought  in  his  heart,  and  shame  upon 
his  lips 

"  Then  clapped  the  padlock  on,  and  snapp'd 
the  lock." 

Nestor  saw  the  inside  of  his  soul 
through  his  eyes ;  and  said  to  him, 
as  Nathan  said  unto  David,  "  Thou 
art  the  man."  Verily  the  king  heard, 
and  was  troubled ;  his  heart  was  sore 
afraid;  and  he  must  send, with  large 
atonement,  a  mission  to  the  Monarch 
of  the  Myrmidons,  the  sole  hope  of 
Greece. 

One  would  think  it  not  difficult  to 
translate  into  good  English  verse  two 
such  sensible  speeches  as  these — and 
to  do  justice  to  Nestor — here  uncom- 
monly concise — and  to  Agamemnon, 
who,  in  both  thought  and  language, 
shews  himself  a  man  and  a  king. 
Yet  Pope's  translation  is  far  from 
being  what  it  ought  to  be — and  of 
neither  speech  so  characteristic  of 
the  speaker  as  the  original.  The 
purport  and  spirit  of  Homer,  says 
Gilbert  Wakefield  truly,  "  are  but 
dimly  seen  beneath  the  ornaments 
which  Pope  has  thrown  over  them. 
The  following  attempt  is  nearly  li- 
teral— 

"  Most  glorious  son  of  Atreus !  king  of 
men ! 

With  thee  my  words  shall  cease,  with 
thee  begin  : 

For  thou  art  king  of  myriads;  thine 
from  Jove, 

The  laws  and  sceptres  to  direct  man- 
kind." 

Gilbert's  version  is  much  the  bet- 
ter; for  Nestor  was  not  magnilo- 
quent. He  loved  many  words,  but 
he  was  not  particularly  partial  to  big 
ones.  "  Of  many  nations  thou  art 
king,"  is,  all  he  says— and  it  is 
enough.  Pope  does  not  say  more — 
but  he  has  a  hubbub  of  sonorous 
words,  which  would  have  sickened 
Agamemnon. 

"Nor,  though  a  meaner  give  advice,  re- 
pine, 

But  follow   it,   and  make  the   wisdom 
thine," 


is  something  very  sententious,  and  so 
far  Nestorian.  But  not  one  word  of 
all  that  does  it  please  the  good  old  man 
to  utter  —  and  therefore  Eustathius' 
comment  upon  it,  praised  by  Pope, 
on  which  he  lectures  on  envy,  is  in 
the  predicament  of  a  sermon  without 
a  text,  nor  would  the  world  have  lost 
any  thing  had  there  been  no  preacher. 
The  well-deserved  compliment  paid 
by  Nestor  to  the  excellence  of  his 
own  advice,  Pope  omits;  and  we 
suspect  he  did  not  see  it.  "  With 
prayers  to  move  him  or  with  gifts  to 
bend,"  is  a  line  which  must  have 
been  pleasant  to  Pope's  ear,  for  he 
has  a  thousand  such  in  his  works. 
But  "  move"  and  "  bend"  make  a 
poor  antithesis,  or  rather  no  antithe- 
sis at  all,  nor  has  moving  any  more 
to  do  with  prayers  than  bending,  nor 
bending  any  more  to  do  with  gifts 
than  moving  ;  and  what  is  unlucky, 
Nestor  does  not  mention  prayers,  but 
"  soothing  gifts  and  honied  words," 
applying  equally  to  both  "  please  and 
prevail"  —  which  is  sound  sense,  and 
good  language,  such  as  always  dis- 
tinguish the  style  of  that  raven-old 
moral  philosopher.  Nor  is  the  King's 
answer  better  off  in  Pope's  hands. 
The  very  first  line  of  it  loses  its  en- 
tire spirit.  Agamemnon  confesses 
his  errors  without  hesitation  or  re- 
servation. "  Oh,  old  man  !  not  false- 
ly my  errors  hast  thou  enumerated. 
I  have  done  unjustly  —  I  deny  it  not." 
We  love  the  king  of  men  for  that  he 
humbles  himself  before  the  princes. 
But  in  Pope,  Atrides  tries  to  shirk 
the  concern  with  the  basest  cunning 
—  to  shift  his  own  personality  off  his 
shoulders  upon  the  imaginary  back  of 
some  supposititious  prince. 

"  With  justice  hast  thou  shewn 

A  prince's  faults,  and  I  with  reason  own." 

The  grammar  is  vile,  too  ;  and  Aga- 
memnon should  have  been  sent  to 
school  for  a  dult.  The  next  is  not  so 
bad,  but  not  one  line  is  exactly  what 
it  should  be  —  which  is  a  pity. 

We  will  trouble  you  to  point  out  a 
single  fault  in  Cowper  —  even  to  a 
word.  You  try,  and  cannot.  Then 
we  will.  He  should  not  have  put 
the  word  "  Achilles"  into  Agamem- 
non's mouth.  Homer  did  not  —  and 
there  were  strong  reasons  for  Aga- 
memnon to  sing, 

"  O,  no,  we  never  mention  him, 
His  name  is  never  heard  ; 


11G 


g 
l 


My  lips  are  now  forbid  to  speak 
That  once-familiar  word." 

With  this  profound  objection—  not 
ours,  but  suggested  by  Pope—  Cow- 
per's  version  is  perfect. 

Sotheby's  ?  About  half  way  be- 
tween Pope's  and  Cowper's,  but 
somewhat  nearer  Cowper's.  The 
character  of  Nestor  is  well  preserved, 
and  the  first  eight  lines  could  hardly 
be  better.  "  No  sudden  thoughts 
the  words  I  speak  create,"  is  a  line 
in  which  thoughts  and  words  strug- 
le for  the  accusative;  and  for  a 
ong  time  it  threatens  to  end  in  a 
drawn  battle,  but  at  last  "  words" 
has  it;  and  vindicates  his  disputed 
title  to  the  accusative.  Yet  has  he 
not  much  to  boast  of—  for  he  is  in  a 
very  doubtful  case.  "  By  gifts  to 
gain  him  and  by  prayers  persuade," 
is  Popeish—  and  that  is  enough  for 
us.  "  I  rate  a  host  above,"  is  con- 
strained —  but  rhyme  is  a  tyrant  —  es- 
pecially "  Jove."  "  Reunite  friend- 
ship's broken  chain,"  is  a  mode  of 
speech  that  Agamemnon  would  never 
have  discovered  had  he  lived  a  thou- 
sand years—  or  if  he  had,  he  would 
not  have  used  it,  till  he  had  re- 
modelled, not  only  his  own  proper 
lingo,  but  the  language  of  all  Greece. 


Sotheby's  Homer.  [July, 

There  are  other  minor  faults.  Mr 
Sotheby  has  unconsciously  contract- 
ed a  constant  habit  of  using  the  word 
"word."  It  ends,  at  least,  a  hun- 
dred lines  in  his  Iliad,  and  becomes 
quite  a  "  catch-word."  In  this  short 
passage  we  have, — "  my  word  at- 
tend,"— "  nor  other  word," — "  the 
words  I  speak," — "whose  word  of 
truth,"—"  while  his  word."  We  add, 
verbum  sapienti.  It  is  odd  enough 
that  in  the  only  two  places  where 
Homer  uses  the  word  "words"  in 
this  passage,  Mr  Sotheby  rejects  it. 
With  the  exception  of  "friendship's 
broken  chain,"  which  must  be  fluno- 
away,  the  faults  we  have  pointed 
out  are  superficial  and  accidental — • 
and  by  an  hour's  labour  of  so  skilful 
an  artist  as  Sotheby  could  be  rubbed 
off,  and  the  metal  left  without  a  stain 
on1  the  silver  polish. 

A  deputation  is  appointed  by  Nes- 
tor to  go  to  Achilles—consisting,  as 
you  know,  of  Phrenix,  Ajax,  and 
Ulysses— attended  by  two  heralds, 
Hodius  and  Eurybates — and  the  Py- 
lian  sage  having  earnestly  exhorted 
the  son  of  Laertes  to  exert  his  pow- 
ers to  the  utmost  to  soothe  Pelides' 
rage — the  embassy  takes  its  depart 
ure  from  the  pavilion. 


ITeAAes 


O,  Since, 

yoeojo^w 


To»  rf 


, 
Tjf  ayt  Super  e 


<ef, 
Imi  n 
7r«'J«5          ^ 

NORTH  (literal  prose). 

They  two,  therefore,  went  along  the  shore  of  the  much-resoundlnjr  sea, 
Many  things  very  much  praying  to  the  earth-encircling  earth-shaker 
That  he  would  easily  bend  the  mighty  mind  of  the  grandson  of  yEacu?, 
And  they  came  to  the  tents  and  the  ships  of  the  Myrmidons  • 
And  there  found  him  soothing  his  spirit  by  means  "of  the  sounding  harp 
Beautiful,  of  exquisite  workmanship,  and  it  had  a  silver  fry.,, 

h  he  took  from  the  spoils,  when  he  destroyed  the  city  of  EUtion. 

' 


Waiting  till  the  grandson  of  .ffiiicus  should  cease  singing. 


,1801.]  Sotheby's  Homer.  117 

And  they  two  went  farther  ben,  (Scoticc,)  and  the  illustrious  Ulysses  led  the  way, 

And  they  stood  before  him  :  amazed,  Achilles  started  up, 

Leaving  his  seat,  along  with  his  harp,  where  he  was  bitting. 

In  the  same  manner  also  Patroclus,  when  he  saw  the  men,  stood  up : 

Them  hoth  receiving  kindly,  addressed  the  swift-footed  Achilles. 

CHAPMAN. 

The  quarter  of  the  Myrmidons  they  reacht,  and  found  him  set, 
Delighted  with  his  solemn  harpe,  which  curiously  was  fret 
With  works  conceited,  through  the  verge:   the  bawdricke  that  embrac't 
His  loftie  neck,  was  silver  twist :    this  (when  his  hand  laid  waste 
Action's  citie)  he  did  chusc,  as  his  especiall  prise, 
And  (louing  sacred  music  well)  made  it  his  exercise : 
To  it  he  sung  the  glorious  deeds  of  great  heroes  dead, 
And  his  true  mind,  that  practice  failed,  sweet  contemplation  fed. 
With  him  alone,  and  opposite,  all  silent  sat  his  friend 
Attentive,  and  beholding  him,  who  now  his  song  did  end. 
Th'  ambassadors  did  forward  preasse,  renowned  Ulysses  led. 
And  stood  in  view  :   their  sodaine  sight  his  admiration  bred, 
Who  with  his  harpe  and  all  arose  :   so  did  Menetius'  sonne 
When  he  beheld  them  :   their  receipt,  Achilles  thus  begun. 

POPE. 

Through  the  still  night  they  march,  and  hear  the  roar 

Of  murmuring  billows  on  the  sounding  shore. 

To  Neptune,  ruler  of  the  seas  profound, 

Whose  liquid  arms  the  mighty  globe  surround, 

They  pour  forth  vows  their  embassy  to  bless, 

And  calm  the  rage  of  stern  Aeacides. 

And  now  arriv'd,  where  on  the  sandy  bay  » 

The  Myrmidonian  tents  and  vessels  lay, 

Amused  at  ease,  the  godlike  man  they  found, 

Pleased  with  the  solemn  harp's  harmonious  sound. 

(The  well  wrought  harp  from  conquer'd  Thebse  came, 

Of  polish'd  silver  was  its  costly  frame.) 

With  this  he  soothes  his  angry  soul,  and  sings 

Th'  immortal  deeds  of  heroes  and  of  kings. 

Patroelus  only,  of  the  royal  train, 

Placed  in  his  tent,  attends  the  lofty  strain: 

Full  opposite  he  sat,  and  listeu'd  long, 

In  silence  waiting  till  he  ce;ised  the  song. 

Unseen  the  Grecian  embassy  proceeds 

To  his  high  tent ;  the  great  Ulysses  leads. 

Achilles  starting,  as  the  chiefs  he  spied, 

Leap'd  from  his  seat,  and  laid  the  harp  aside. 

With  like  surprise  arose  JMenaetius"  son  : 

Pelides  grasp'd  their  hands,  and  thus  begun. 

COWI'ER. 

Along  the  margin  of  the  sounding  deep 

They  passed  to  Neptune,  compasser  of  Earth, 

Preferring  numerous  vows,  with  ardent  prayers, 

That  they  might  sway  with  ease  the  mighty  mind 

Of  fierce  Eactdes.      Arriving  soon 

Among  the  Myrmidons,  their  chief  they  found 

Soothing  liis  sorrow  with  his  silver-fram'd 

Harmonious  lyre,  spoil  taken  when  he  took 

Eetion's  city :    with  that  lyre  his  cares 

He  sooth'd,  and  glorious  heroes  was  his  theme. 

Patroelus  silent  sat,  and  he  alone, 

Before  him,  on  yEacides  intent, 

Expecting  still  when  he  should  cease  to  sing. 

The  messengers  advanced  (Ulysses  first) 

Unto  his  presence ;  at  the  sight,  his  harp 

Still  in  his  hand,  Achilles  from  his  seat 

Started  a^tonish'd  ;  nor  with  less  ainaze 

Patroelus  also,  seeing  them,  arose. 

Achilles  sei/'d  their  hands,  and  thus  he  spake, 


1 18  Sotheby's  Homer. 

SOTHEBT. 

On  their  high  charge  the  delegated  train 

Pursued  their  way  along  the  sounding  main, 

And  to  appease  the  Chief,  devoutly  pray'd, 

And  oft  implored  the  Ocean  monarch's  aid. 

But  when  they  came,  where,  camp'd  along  the  bay, 

Pelides  and  his  host  in  order  lay, 

They  found  him  kindling  his  heroic  fire 

With  high-toned  strains,  that  shook  the  sounding  lyre  ; 

That  silver  lyre  that  erst  the  victor  bore 

His  chosen  prize  from  sack'd  E'e'tion's  store. 

There,  as  the  hero  feats  of  heroes  sung, 

And  o'er  the  glowing  chords  enraptur'd  hung, 

Alone  Patroclus,  list'ning  to  the  lay, 

Watch'd  till  the  impassion'd  rapture  died  away. 

They  forward  march'd,  Ulysses  led  them  on  ; 

They  came,  and  stood  before  fam'd  Peleus'  son. 

Achilles,  wondering,  started  from  his  .seat, 

Sped  forth,  his  lyre  in  hand,  the  chiefs  to  greet : 

Patroclus  rose :  and  strait  Achilles  prest 

Their  hands  in  his,  and  kindly  thus  addrest. 


We  have  always  thought  this  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  pieces  of  poetry 
in  the  whole  world.  It  seems  to  us 
indeed  to  be  perfect.  How  solemn 
the  Mission  moving  along  the  margin 
of  the  sounding  deep,  preferring 
prayers  to  Neptune  that  its  issue 
might  be  fortunate,  for  well  they 
knew  the  character  of  fierce  ^Eacides! 
Not  a  word  is  said  about  the  night ; 
and  that  shews  that  Homer  never 
repeats  himself,  except  when'  he  has 
some  purpose  to  serve  by  the  repe- 
tition. A  thousand  Trojan  watch- 
fires  were  blazing;  but  Phoenix,  Ulys- 
ses, and  Ajax,  all  absorbed  in  their 
prayers  to  Neptune,  saw  them  not— 
and  Homer  himself  had  forgotten 
now  the  vision  of  the  moon  and 
stars.  No  time  is  lost,  and  we  see 
them  already  among  the  Myrmidons. 
Had  it  been  put  beforehand  to  any 
person  of  loftiest  temper,  who,know- 
ing  the  character  of  Achilles,  had 
yet  no  knowledge  of  this  interview, 
how  he  might  imagine  the  god- 
dess-born would  be  found  employed, 
think  ye  that  he  could  ever  have 
made  such  a  noble  guess  as  the 
truth  ?  Never.  Homer  alone  could 
have  thus  exalted  his  hero.  Not 
many  suns  have  yet  gone  down  on 
his  wrath,  and  you  remember  how 
at  its  first  outburst  it  flamed  like  a 
volcano.  It  smoulders  now  in  that 
mighty  bosom — but  the  son  of  Thetis 
is  not  sitting  sullen  in  his  tent — he 
has  forgotten  the  ungrateful,  injuri- 
ous, and  insuUing  Agamemnon,  and 
all  his  slaves.  His  soul  is  with  the 
heroes.  Achilles  is  a  savage — a  bar- 


barian, forsooth — but  half-civilized, 
thoughNereus  himself  was  his  grand- 
sire  I  There  he  sits,  the  bravest  and 
mostbeautiful  of  mortal  men,  a  musi- 
cian, perhaps  a  poet,  for  Homer  tells 
us  not  whether  the  Implacable  is  sing- 
ing his  own  songs,  or  those  of  the 
Ao/Sai.  Yes,  the  Swift-footed  is  a  man 
of  genius  ;  and  among  all  the  spoils 
he  won  when  he  sacked  the  city  of 
Ee'tion,  most  he  prized  that  harp  on 
which  he  is  now  playing — the  harp 
with  the  silver  cross-bar,  and  beauti- 
ful in  its  workmanship,  as  if  formed 
by  Daedalus,  and  fine-toned  its  strings, 
as  if  smitten  by  the  Sun-god's  hand. 
His  proud  soul  would  disdain  to  harp 
even  to  princes.  Patroclus  alone, 
still  and  mute,  is  listening,  hero  to 
hero. 

But  how  have  our  translators  ac- 
quitted themselves  here — let  us  see. 
Chapman  drops  the  epithet  *a^v<p^oi<r- 
Goto,  and  merely  says  the  shore,  which 
was  wrong,  the  noise  of  the  sea  being 
essential  to  a  maritime  night.  "  The 
god  that  earth  doth  bind  in  brackish 
chains,"  are  poor  words — sorry  sub- 
stitutes for  those  two  extraordinary 
ones  yu.int>%u  'Ewaffiyaiiu.  Better  have 
said  simply,  Neptune.  All  the  rest 
is  very  nobly  done.  The  two  lines 
about  Patroclus  are  perfect,  except 
the  words,  "  who  now  his  song  did 
end."  He  waited  till  the  song  should 
end.  And  he  would  have  been  will- 
ing to  wait  till  midnight,  had  Achilles 
not  started  up  on  entrance  of  the 
ambassadors.  "  Who  with  his  harp 
and  all  arose,"  is  very  majestic. 
We  have  just  been  reading  over 


:   1831.] 

Pope  for  the  tenth  time  this  evening, 
and  though  we  might  not  unjustly 
find  some  faint  fault  with  a  few  par- 
ticular words/*yetwe  should  be  asha- 
med of  ourselves  were  we  to  do  so; 
for  he  is  Alexander  the  Great  here, 

"  and  is  attired 

With  sudden  brightness,  like  a  man  in- 
spired." 

The  versification  is  most  harmonious; 
and  the  lines  might  themselves  be 
chanted  to  the  harp.  Pope,  when  hap- 
py, had  a  heroic  genius ;  and  though 
true  it  is  that  he  too  too  often  mise- 
rably misrepresents  Homer,  it  is,  as 
we  have  said,  wilfully,  and  with  ma- 
lice aforethought — seldom  in  igno- 
rance, and  never  in  stupidity ;  but 
knowing  that  his  strength  lay  in  a 
style  essentially  different  from  the 
old  bard's,  it  was  not  to  be  expected, 
perhaps  not  to  be  desired,  that  he 
should  lay  it  aside,  and  endeavour 
to  adopt  Homer's,  or  imitate  it, 
which,  to  a  poet  who  had  attained 
consummate  excellence  of  another 
kind,  would  have  been  accompanied 
with  the  perpetual  constraint  of  dif- 
ficulty, nay,  impossible.  We  must 
take  it,  then,  as  it  is,  and  be  thank- 
ful for  another  Iliad. 

Only  a  great  master  could  safely 
come  after  Pope  in  this  passage,  and 
Cowper  is  a  great  master.  How  dif- 
ferently the  two  speak  of  the  sea, 
yet  both  how  finely!  Pope  brings 
the  voice  of  the  sea  to  our  ears,  by 
almost  an  accumulation  of  epithets 
— means  legitimate,  and  dear  to 
many  delightful  poets.  We 

"  hear  the  roar 

Of  murmuring  billows  on  the  sounding 
shore." 

Cowper  fills  our  ear  with  the  same 
voice  at  once, 

"  Along  the  margin  of  the  sounding  deep." 
Pope  calls  Neptune 

"  Ruler  of  the  seas  profound, 

Whose  liquid  arms  the  mighty  globe  sur- 
round," 

which,  though  far  from  being  in- 
tensely Homeric,  is  not  without 
grandeur.  Cowper  calls  him,  more 
simply  and  Greekishly,  "  compasser 
of  earth,"  nor  dreams  of  telling  us 
that  his  "  arms  are  liquid,"  or  his 
"  chains  brackish,"  liquidity  and 
brackishness  being  qualities  lying 
so  much  on  the  surface,  as  well  as 


**  Homer.  i\(j 

in  the  depths,  that  mention  of  them 
does  not  throw  much  new  or  old 
light  on  the  character  of  Neptune. 
All  the  lines  about  the  heroic  Harp- 
er are  very  fine — the  pauses  so- 
lemn— the  repetition  of  the  word 
"  soothe,"  shews  how  deeply  Cow- 
per felt  for  the  sufferer ;  the  close  is 
full  of  elevation — "  and  glorious  he- 
roes were  his  theme."  The  only 
line  we  do  not  entirely  like,  is, 

"  Expecting  still  when  he  should  cease 
to  sing." 

It  seems  to  intimate  that  Patroclus 
was  impatient  of  the  strain — a  sad 
mistake.  But  perhaps  Cowper  uses 
the  word  "  expecting"  for  waiting ; 
and  if  so,  it  is  all  right. 

"  At  the  sight, 

His  harp  still  in  his  hand,"  &c. 

is  a  picture.   It  is  better  than  Pope's 

"  Achilles,  starting  as  the  chiefs  he  spied, 
Leapt  from  his  seat,   and  laid   the  harp 
aside." 

"  Leapt"  is  undignified — Achilles 
"  started,"  but  Homer  says  "  leaving 
his  seat."  The  start  was  momenta- 
ry,— he  walked  towards  Ulysses 
with  the  calm  air  and  stately  step  of 
the  Hero  of  Heroes. 

Sotheby  is  not  faultless — but  his 
beauties  are  pre-eminent.  His  ver- 
sification, if  interior  to  Pope's,  is  flow- 
ing and  sonorous — and  the  diction 
glows  like  gold.  Perhaps  wisely,  he 
forbears  to  touch  the  "  earth-encir- 
cling earth-shaker,"  and  calls  him  the 
"  ocean-monarch."  Kindling  his  "  he- 
roic fire,"  is  fine  and  true.  So  is, 
"  There  as  the  hero  feats  of  heroes 
sang."  Equally  excellent  is,  "  Alone 
Patroclus  listening  to  the  lay ;"  and 
"  Achilles,  wondering,  started  from 
his  seat."  But  we  said  the  version 
is  not  faultless.  Perhaps  nothing  in 
this  world  is — except  a  lily.  "  De- 
legated train"  is  not  to  our  mind. 
It  is  true  but  formal.  "  Sounding 
strain,"  and  "  sounding  lyre,"  should 
not  have  been  in  one  passage. 
"  Eetion's  store"  smells  of  Boston. 
We  are  sorry  for  it,  but  we  can- 
not admire,  "  Watched  till  the  im- 
passioned rapture  died  away."  Im- 
passioned rapture,  if  we  are  not 
much  mistaken,  is  a  very  unhomeric 
form  and  spirit  of  speech.  But  that 
is  not  our  chief  objection  to  the  line. 
The  impassioned  rapture  did  not  die 
away.  We  do.  not  believe  it  would, 
even  had  Achilles  not  been  inter- 


1-20 


Sotheby's  Homer. 


[July, 


rupted.  His  lyrical  poem  and  music 
would  have  gone  off  in  a  tremendous 
burst — it  would  have  rolled  away  in 
very  thunder.  Such  is  our  belief; 
but  it  was  interrupted — on  the  ap- 
pearance of  Ulysses,  Achilles  stopt 
suddenly,  even  as  we  have  seen  an 
eagle  do  in  the  sky,  when  flying 
at  the  rate  of  a  hundred  miles  an 
hour.  "  Sped  forth,"  gives  us  the 
notion  of  covering  more  ground  than 
Achilles  had  to  do  ere  he  seized  the 
hands  of  the  chiefs.  That  is  a  trifle 
— a  speck — but  the  others  are  flaws. 
So  rare  without  them  is  "  a  gem  of 
purest  ray  serene." 

What  a  glorious  volume  of  odes, 
elegies,  and  hymns,  would  be  "  The 
Lays  of  Achilles!"  But  who  could 
write  it  ?  Let  all  our  poets  form 
themselves  into  an  association,  to  be 
called  the  Achillean,  and  distribute 
among  themselves  the  subjects  of 
song  that  bestrewed  Greece,  and  the 
Isles  of  Greece,  before  the  Trojan 
war.  To  prevent  all  wrangling,  let 
us  who  do  not  belong  to  the  Irritable, 
be  appointed  Perpetual  Prose-Presi- 
dent. The  Achillean  Association,  at 
each  celebration  of  the  anniversay 
of  its  own  birth,  shall  put  into  our 
hands  the  poetry  of  the  preceding 
year,  and  we,  like  an  old  Grecian, 
ore  rotundo,  shall  chant  the  Lays  of 
Achilles  to  the  harp,  an  instrument 
on  which  the  world  acknowledges  we 
excel.  The  ladies  in  the  gallery — 
our  Festival  being  in  Freemasons' 
Hall — will  "  rain  influence  and  dis- 
pense the  prize."  The  prize-poems 
shall  all  be  engrossed  in  the  Album 
of  the  Achillean  Association,  and  at 
the  end  of  ten  years,  a  period  taken 
from  the  Trojan  War,  the  Album  shall 
be  printed  by  Ballantyne,  and  pub- 
lished by  Blackwood,  under  such 
auspices  as  never  before  launched 
into  light  immortal  songs. 

From  the  Achillean  Association, 
we  prophesy  the  revival  of  Lyrical 
Poetry.  "  The  ancient  spirit  is  not 
dead;"  it  but  sleepeth,and  will  awake 
as  if  startled  by  the  sound  of  a  trum- 
pet. Pindars  will  appear — and  Co- 
rinnas  too — for  the  Hemans,  and 
the  Mitford,  and  the  Landon  must  be 
members — and  the  immortal  Joanna. 
Sir  Walter — more  magnificent  than  in 
Marmion — will  invent  moving  mins- 
trelsies for  the  Mythic  tales  of  Old 


Achaia ;  Wordsworth — nobler  even 
than  in  the  Song  at  the  Feast  of 
Brougham  Castle — will  sanctify  in 
dim  religious  light  the  roamings  of 
that  sad  Aleian  field,  and  awaken 
the  whole  world  to  ruth  for  fury- 
haunted  Bellerophon;  Southey— in 
even  loftier  inspiration  than  that 
which  sang  "  Fill  high  the  horn  to 
Hirlas" — will  celebrate  Meleager  and 
the  Boar  of  Caledon;  Coleridge — 
wilder  than  in  the  Ancient  Mariner — 
will  rave  gloriously  of  Jason  and  the 
Golden  Fleece,  and  fling  forth  fiery 
fragments  of  argonautics;  Moore — 
eclipsing  the  light  of  his  own  Loves 
of  the  Angels,  will  breath  Epithala- 
mia  for  Venus  and  Juno,  and  sigh- 
charged  roundelays  sung  to  his  celes- 
tial Lernan  by  Endymion  on  Mount 
Latmos  ;  Crabbe— in  vision  more 
terrible  than  the  madness  of  Sir 
Eustace  Grey  —  will  paint  Her- 
cules Furens,  and  call  his  picture- 
poem  the  Poison' d  Shirt;  Bowles 
— pathetic  more  than  on  the  Grave 
of  the  Last  Saxon — will  murmur  me- 
lody over  Hyacinthus  or  Adonis  ; 
Montgomery — already  familiar  with 
the  world  before  the  flood — will 
darken  the  despair  of  Deucalion — 
and,  illustrious  above  all,  Campbell 
— but  there  is  absolutely  no  end  to 
the  members  of  the  Achillean  Asso- 
ciation !  To,  euffcte  and  vuletc,  all  ye 
bright  sons  of  song,  and  starlike  may 
you  shine  in  the  "  high  heaven  of 
invention !" 

Was  the  tent  of  Achilles,  think  ye, 
lighted  with  gas  ?  Unquestionably. 
The  ages  of  old  were  wonderful  old 
ages.  Not  in  blind  caves  sat  The- 
tis below  the  sea-depths.  Lustrous 
were  all  her  haunts  in  the  groves  of 
coral ;  and  as  she  could  never  have 
stooped  to  burn  oil — indeed  too  well 
did  she  love  the  phoete — she  must 
have  lighted  her  marine  palaces  with 
aerial  fire  ;  nor  can  you  doubt  for  a 
moment  that  she  provided  her  son 
with  the  unmetered  radiance.  As  the 
ambassadors  entered,  the  night-teut 
of  Achilles  was  bright  as  day,  and 
he  himself,  harp  in  hand,  rising  from 
his  seat,  and  advancing  towards 
them,  stately  as  the  beautiful  Apollo. 

Howcourteous  that  princely  greet- 
ing !  No  manners  like  those  of  the 
heroic  age. 


Oi 


avbgi;  ixanrov*  ^  rt 


1831.]  Sotheby's  Homer.  321 


re  7T6g(pt>£se««V 
lyyy?  lovr*' 
vll,  Ko 


Achilles  thus  addresses  the  heroes.  We  adopt  Heyne's  punctuation  in 
the  first  line,  which  is  different  from  others,  and  best,  because  most  in  cha- 
racter with  the  "  imperatoria  brevitas"  of  Achilles. 

NORTH,  (literal  prose. ) 
Hail :  you  are  indeed  friends  who  have  come :  verily  some  necessity  strongly  (presses 

on  you,) 

Who  to  me,  angry  though  I  be,  are  of  the  Greeks  the  most  beloved. 
Thus  indeed  having  spoken,  the  illustrious  Achilles  led  them  farther  ten,  (Scotice  ut 

supra,') 

And  made  them  sit  down  on  reclining  seats,  on  purple  cushions  : 
And  Fatroclus,  who  was  near  him,  he  then  quickly  addressed. 
"  A  larger  goblet,  oh  son  of  Mcnffitius,  set  down, 
And  more  generous  mix  it :  and  for  each  provide  a  drinking  cup  : 
Since  men,  by  me,  the  most  beloved,  are  under  my  roof." 

CHAPMAN. 

Health  to  my  lords !  right  welcome  men  assure  yourselves  to  be; 
Though  some  necessity  I  know  doth  make  you  visit  me, 
Inccnst  with  just  cause  'gainst  the  Greeks.      This  said,  a  covered  seat 
With  purple  cushions  he  set  forth,  and  did  their  ease  entreat ; 
And  said — Now,  friend,  our  greatest  bowle  with  wine  nnmixt,  and  meat, 
Oppose  the  lords  ;  and  of  the  depth  let  every  man  make  proof; 
These  are  my  best  esteemed  friends,  and  underneath  my  roof. 

POPE. 

Princes,  all  hail !   whatever  brought  you  here, 
Or  strong  necessity,  or  urgent  fear ; 
Welcome,  though  Greeks !   for  not  as  foes  ye  came ; 
To  me  more  dear  than  all  that  bear  the  name. 
With  that  the  chiefs  beneath  his  roof  he  led, 
And  placed  in  seats,  with  purple  carpets  spread. 
Then  thus — Patroclus,  crown  the  larger  bowl, 
Mix  purer  wine,  and  open  every  soul. 
Of  all  the  warriors  yonder  host  can  send, 
Thy  friend  most  honours  these,  and  these  thy  friend. 

C'OWPER. 

Hail  friends  !    Ye  all  are  welcome.      Urgent  cause 

Hath  doubtless  brought  you,  whom  I  dearest  hold 

(Though  angry  still)  of  all  Achaia's  host. 

So  saying,  he  introduced  and  seated  them 

On  thrones  with  purple  arras  overspread, 

Then  thus  bespoke  Patroclus  standing  nigh — 

Son  of  MenaHius  !  bring  a  beaker  more 

Capacious,  and  replenish  it  with  wine 

Diluted  less  ;  then  give  to  each  his  cup  ; 

For  dearer  friends  than  those  who  now  arrive 

Beneath  my  roof,  nor  worthier,  have  I  none. 

GILBERT  WAKEFIELD. 

Whether  a  friendly  visit  lead  your  steps, 

Or  some  necessity  impels,  all  hail ! 

To  me,  though  sad,  most  dear  of  all  the  Greeks. 

SOTHEBY. 

Hail  friends  !   ye  come  by  strong  compulsion  moved 
Though  here  I  rage,  I  hail  you  most  beloved. 
He  spoke  ;  and  to  his  tent  the  chieftains  led, 
And  placed  on  seats,  with  purple  arras  spvead. 


Sotfa&jft  Homer. 

Now  haste,  Patroclus,  to  each  guest  assign 
A  larger  beaker  charged  with  stronger  wine, 
To  greet  the  friends,  whose  presence  1  revere, 
Guests  who  beneath  my  roof  most  loved  appear. 


[July, 


That  fine  fiery  fellow  Chapman 
is  seldom  or  never  at  fault,  when  he 
has  to  deal  with  a  burst  of  simple, 
natural  emotion.  His  spirit  is  strung 
to  Homer's.  Like  two  harps  tuned 
together,  when  the  one  is  struck  the 
other  responds — and  'tis  noble  con- 
cert. 'Tis  so  in  this  passage.  A 
marginal  note  says,  "  Achilles'  gentle 
receipt  of  Ulysses,  Ajax,"  &c. ;  and 
it  ia  gentle — for  Achilles,  if  ever 
there  was  one  on  this  earth,  was  a 
gentleman — not  a  finer  one  even  Sir 
Philip  Sydney — whose  Life  and  Ar- 
cadia, by  Gray  of  Magdalen,  we  this 
morning  perused  with  unfaded  de- 
light. "  Of  the  depth  let  every  man 
make  proof,",  is  perhaps  going  a  lee- 
tie  too  far— though,  beyond  doubt, 
Achilles  did  hope  and  trust  that  each 
hero  would  drain  it — not  to  the 
dregs — for  dregs  there  were  none — 
but  till  he  saw  his  face,  a  smiling  ob- 
long, at  the  bottom.  But  the  warmth 
of  welcome,  and  the  simple  style  of 
it,  and  the  dignified  sincerity  of  the 
noble  host,  are  finely  preserved—- 
and Chapman  is  Homer. 

It  is  provoking  to  see  a  man  wil- 
fully going  wrong,  who  knows  per- 
fectly well  how  to  go  right — walking 
with  his  eyes  open  as  if  they  were 
shut — and  knocking  himself  against 
stools  and  chairs,  like  a  blind  blun- 
derer in  a  room  which  he  has  him- 
self set  in  order.  So  doth  Pope. 
"  This  short  speech,"  saith  he,  "  is 
wonderfully  proper  to  the  occasion, 
and  to  the  temper  of  the  speaker. 
One  is  under  a  great  expectation  of 
what  Achilles  will  say  at  the  sight 
of  these  heroes,  and  I  know  no- 
thing in  nature  that  could  satisfy 
it,  but  the  very  thing  he  here  ac- 
costs them  with."  Admirable — but 
why,  then,  Pope!  oh,  Pope  I  didst 
thou perversely  violate  thine  own  true 
sense  of  the  perfect  fitness  of  the  ori- 
ginal, in  thy  translation  ?  "  Or  strong 
necessity  or  urgent  fear,"  is  a  bad 
line;  for  a  stronger  necessity  than 
urgent  fear,  we  defy  you  to  imagine 
— so  "  or"  has  no  office,  and  no  point 
the  antithesis.  "  Welcome,  though 
Greeks,"  is  the  very  reverse  of  the 
feeling  of  Achilles  at  that  moment ; 
he  rejoiced  to  see  them  a*  Greeks. 


"  For  not  as  foes  ye  came"  is  mise- 
rable, and  its  lame  wretchedness  is 
aggravated  by  its  vile  grammar.  The 
change  of  tense  destroys  the  intensi- 
ty— pardon  the  pun.  "  And  open 
every  soul,"  is  paying  a  poor  com- 
pliment to  his  guests.  Their  souls 
were  open ;  nor  was  Achilles  the  man 
to  suspect  that  they  were  shut.  Sin- 
cere as  the  sky  himself,  he  saw  no 
clouds  on  their  brow,  except  of  sad- 
ness, which  the  sunshine  or  his  wel- 
come would  illumine  or  disperse. 
"  Thy  friend  most  honours  these,  and 
these  thy  friend,"  is  very  pretty,  in- 
deed ;  but  Achilles  "  spoke  right  on," 
and  not  like  the  Master  of  Ceremo- 
nies at  Bath.  He  was  no  Beau  Nash. 
How  impertinent,  on  such  an  occa- 
sion, and  from  such  a  man,  a  com- 
pliment to  himself! — Pope  has  now 
dree'd  his  punishment.  He  winces— 
his  back  is  red — he  is  about  to  faint 
— the  army-surgeon  looks  at  his 
watch,  nods,  "  enough,"  and  the  cul- 
prit is  released  from  the  halberts. 

Cowper  is  good — very  good.  "  On 
thrones  with  purple  arras  over- 
spread," glvesgreatgraceanddignity 
to  the  reception  of  the  heroes.  They 
were  placed  as  in  the  days  of  chival- 
ry, "under  the  deas."  Chapman  sup- 
poses each  hero, time  about,  which  is 
fair  play,  to  lay  his  lugs  in  the  same 
"  great  bolle,"  with  an  eye  to  view 
the  bottom,  like  the  Fellows  of  a 
College,  with  their  "  cup,"  at  the 
high  table  on  day  of  Gaudeamus. 
Cowper  supposes  one  "  beaker  more 
capacious,"  replenished  with  wine  di- 
luted less,  and  then  out  of  it  Patro- 
clus  filling  up  each  hero's  own  par- 
ticular cup  to  the  brim,  till  no  heel- 
tap was  detectable,  and  a  bumper 
brimmed  with  beads,  such  as  Gany- 
mede gives  to  Jove  when  there  is 
revelry  in  heaven.  The  terms  in 
which  he  speaks  of  his  visitors  are 
full  of  heart,  such  as  a  hero  uses 
when  speaking  of  heroes.  Cowper  ! 
we  love  thee  well — and  wish  thou 
hadst  not  been  so  often  and  so  long 
so  unhappy  in  this  world.  But  now 
thou  art  in  bliss,  which  is  more  than 
we  shall  venture  to  say  for  old  New- 
ton. 

Sotheby,  as  usual,  is  strong— and 


1831.] 


Sotheby's 


123 


here  strength  was  wanted ;  but  he  is 
constrained — and  his  winged  words 
should  have  been  free  as  sunbeams. 
"  Strong  compulsion  moved,"  is  liker 
Dr  Paley  than  Achilles.  "Though 
here  I  rage,"  is  not  equal  to  Cow- 
per's,  "  though  angry  still."  Achilles 
"  was  angry  still" — yea  he  was  so, 
even  when  to  his  harp  singing  of  he- 
roes. But  he  was  not  at  that  moment 
"raging;"  he  knew  better  than  to 
"  rage,  in  the  unexpected  presence 
of  such  frjends ;  he  was  all  kindness 
and  courtesy;  sunshine  and  music 
shone  and  murmured  along  his 
speech,  which  was  like  a  river- flash ; 
but  all  the  while  in  the  dark  depths 
of  his  sullen  soul,  nevertheless, 
growled  wrath  and  indignation  over 
the  drowned  image  of  Agamemnon. 
Sotheby  strove  with  Homer— at  line 
for  line ;  and  though  in  the  struggle 
he  has  shewn  great  muscle  and  skill, 
the  champion  has  given  him  a  fall- 
back-fall. "  A  larger  beaker,  charged 
with  stronger  wine,"  is  the  best  line 
we  ever  read,  without  the  single 
shadow  of  an  exception.  It  would 
of  itself  atone  for  any  sin  in  composi- 
tion, however  flagrant;  but  Sotheby 
has  committed  no  sins  at  all  in  this 


-he  is  merely  a  little  stiff  or 
so— and  his  stiffness  was  inevitable 
in  the  bold  attempt  to  give  eight  lines 
of  Greek — and  such  lines,  in  eight  of 


English— which,  though  "  by  strong 
compulsion  moved,"  are  pregnant. 

Before  we  can  possibly  under- 
stand any  thing  of  Homer,  it  has 
been  said,  ex-cathedralishly,  that  we 
must  study  the  manners  ofthe  heroic 
ages.  And,  pray,  where  are  we  to 
study  them  ?  Why,  in  Homer  to  be 
sure.  Ho,  ho !  So  you  merely  mean 
that  we  must  read  the  Iliad  ?  Such 
is  the  pompous  impertinence  of  pe- 
dantry, pretending  to  rare  erudition. 
Yet  will  a  German  professor  get  you 
up  a  volume  on  the  Manners  of  the 
Heroic  Ages,'in  which  he  will  seem, 
for  a  while  at  first,  to  have  had  access 
to  information  in  bards  long  anterior 
to  Melesigines.  Fling  him  into  the 
fire,  and  let  him  make  his  escape,  if 
he  can,  up  the  flue,  and  turn  you  to 
your  Homer.  Not  a  syllable,  by  any 
possibility,  or  impossibility,  can  be 
known  of  the  Heroic  ages,  but  from 
him — and  him  you  must  read  along 
with  the  Bible.  Yea !  the  Bible ;  and 
you  will  then  know  the  meaning  of 
the  title  of  a  book  you  may  have 
never  seen,  any  more  than  ourselves 
—Homerus  'ECg«/<£av. 

Here  is  a  specimen  ofthe  manners 
of  the  heroic  age,  how  patriarchal ! 
We  quote  Sotheby,  who  manages 
them,  perhaps,  better  than  any  other 
translator : — 


He  spake  ;  nor  him  Patroclus  disobey'd — 
Then,  nigh  the  fire  his  lord  a  basket  laid, 
There  cast  a  goat's  and  sheep's  extended  chine, 
And  the  huge  carcass  of  a  fatted  swine. 
Serv'd  by  Automedon,  with  dexterous  art 
Achilles'  self  divided  part  from  part, 
Fix'd  on  the  spits  the  flesh,  where  brightly  blaz'd 
The  fire's  pure  splendour,  by  Patroclus  rais'd. 
Patroclus  next,  when  sank  the  flame  subdued, 
O'er  the  rak'd  embers  plac'd  the  spitted  food, 
Then  rais'd  it  from  the  props,  then,  salted  o'er, 
And  duly  roasted,  to  the  dresser  bore : 
Next  to  each  guest,  along  the  table  spread 
In  beauteous  baskets  the  allotted  bread  ; 
Achilles'  self  distributed  the  meat, 
And  plac'd  against  his  own,  Ulysses'  seat. 
And  now  Patroclus,  at  his  lord's  desire, 
The  hallow'd  offering  cast  amid  the  fire — 
The  guests  then  feasted,  and,  the  banquet  o'er, 
When  satiate  thirst  and  hunger  claim'd  no  more, 
And  to  hoar  Phcenix  Ajax  gave  the  sign, 
Ulysses,  mindful,  crown'd  his  cup  with  wine, 
And  to  Achilles  drank  ; 


It  is  not  easy  to  suppose  a  more     steaming  account  of  it,  without  la- 
savoury  supper.   We  never  read  this     menting  that  we  did  not  assist  at  the 


1-24  Sotheby's  Homer. 

feast.  'Tis,  in  truth,  the  model  of  the 
Noctes  Ambrosian as — 

"  There  casta  goat's  and  sheep's  extended 

chine, 
And  the  huge  carcass  of  a  fatted  swine — " 

To  the  life  !  to  the  death  !  Nothing 
wanting  but — oysters. 

In  nothing  was  the  constitution 
of  the  heroes  more  enviable  than 
its  native  power — of  eating  at  all 
times,  and  without  a  moment's  warn- 
ing. Never  does  a  meal  to  any  dis- 
tinguished individual  come  amiss. 
Their  stomachs  were  as  heroic  as 
their  hearts,  their  bowels  magnani- 
mous. It  cannot  have  been  forgot- 
ten by  the  reader,  who  hangs  with  a 
watering  mouth  over  the  description 
of  this  entertainment,  that  about  two 
hours  before,  these  three  heroes, 
Ulysses,  Ajax,  and  old  Phoenix,  had 
made  an  almost  enormous  supper  in 
the  pavilion  of  Agamemnon — 

"  There  to  the  sated  guests,  the  Pylian 

sage 
Unlock'd   the    treasures  of  experienced 

age." 

Sated  they  might  have  been,  a  couple 
of  hours  ago,  at  the  remotest,  but  their 
walk 

"  Along  the  margin   of    the    sounding 
deep," 

had  re-awakened  their  slumbering 
appetite.  At  the  smell  of  the  roasted 
goat,  and  the  "  huge  carcass  of  the 
"  fatted  swine" — a  noble  line — they 
feel  themselves  instantly  sharp-set— 
yawp,  (Scotice)— and  such  another 
knife  and  fork,  that  is,  finger  and 
thumb — we  have  not,  except  perhaps 
in  Picardy,  seen  played  since  the 
Heroic  age.  We  allude  more  parti- 
cularly to  the  performances  of  old 
Phosnix. 

After  all,  there  is  nothing  in  this 
wicked  and  weary  world  like — good 
eating — "  to  which,  if  you  please," 
whispers  the  pensive  Public,  "  add 
good  drinking,"  and  then,  with  that 
yawn  of  hers — "  sound  sleeping" 
— in  common  terms,  "  Bed,  board, 
and  lodging."  Good  washing,  too, 
is  well ;  but  not  vitally  essential  to 
national  comfort — witness  that  wor- 
thy land  lying  north  of  the  Tweed. 
Secret  gluttons  alone  openly  abuse 
gormandizing — men  of  "  steady,  but 
not  voracious  appetites,"  alone  pub- 
licly panegyrize  it.  We  have  known 


[July, 

sallow  sumphs  scowl  from  a  distance 
at  Ambrose's  suppers,  as  illegally 
and  unnaturally  enormous,  who,  af- 
ter dinner  on  a  fast-day,  have  been 
under  the  necessity  of  an  emetic. 
Good  must  be  the  digestion  of  that 
Poet,  whose  genius  is  divine.  A 
bilious  bard  is  abhorred  of  all  the 
Muses,  nor  will  Apollo,  physician 
though  he  be,  prescribe  for  the  Blue 
and  Yellow.  Homer  himself  thought 
nothing  of  a  saddle  of  mutton  or  a 
sirloin  of  beef.  In  a  twinkling  va- 
nished from  his  trencher  a  boar's 
head.  Then  washed  he  all  well 
down  with  a  glorious  goblet. 

There  is  something  exceedingly 
satisfactory  to  our  ear  in  the  sound 
of  the  word — Rations.  A  rational 
repast.  Mark  the  blind  beggar  de- 
vouring bread  and  cheese,  or  mouth- 
fuls  of  cold  rags  of  lean  meat,  by  the 
way-side,  and  you  see  he  is  in  hea- 
ven. He  licks  his  shrivelledjips — 
folds  his  withered  hands — turns  up 
his  sightless  eyes — mutters  some- 
thing not  unheard  afar — and  catch- 
ing up  his  crutch,  hobbles  away  with 
no  unsuccessful  attempt  at  a  song. — 
Lo  !  a  whole  army — nay,  two  whole 
armies — on  the  field  of  battle — di- 
ning !  It  requires  much  caution  and 
dexterity  to  keep  the  biscuits  from 
trundling  into  these  pools  of  blood. 
What  a  ravenous  set — three  courses 
in  one — a  dreadful  dinner  ! — What 
tremendous  thunder  and  lightning 
was  that  ?  Except  our  own  little  ship, 
are  both  fleets  blown  to  atoms  ? 
Not  at  all.  Merely  the  L' Orient. 
And  now  that  the  splash  is  over,  let 
a  double  allowance  of  grog  be  served 
out  to  the  merry  crew  of  the  Victory, 
for  we  are  all  dry  as  devils — If  you 
desire  to  see  indeed  a  dinner,  un- 
der the  delusive  name  of  luncheon, 
endeavour  to  get  access  to  a  popu- 
lar preacher  between  sermons.  By 
that  porter-jug  he  is  a  deep  divine. — 
Why,  a  man  cannot  be  expected  to 
make  even  a  tolerable  appearance 
on  the  scaffold,  without  a  couple  of 
rolls  and  of  eggs  to  breakfast  on  the 
morning  of  execution.  Let  no  man 
be  so  rash  as  to  be  hanged  on  an 
empty  stomach. — Then  at  Funerals, 
watched  ye  ever  the  chief-mourn- 
ers !  How  they  do  tuck  in  the  cold 
ham,  and  the  pigeon-pie,  and  the 
round  !  Sorrow  is  dry ;  and  that  fact, 
in  the  philosophy  of  the  human 
mind,  accounts  for  all  these  empty 


133 1.} 

barrels.  Never  shall  we  forget  the 
Funeral  of  the  Chisholm  ! 

To  return  to  the  Tent  of  Achilles. 
There  sit  Ulysses,  and  Ajax,  and  old 
Phoenix,  hungry  as  hawks,  though 
two  hours  ago  we  saw  them  preying 
in  Agamemnon's  Pavilion. 

"  The  guests  then  feasted,  and  the  ban- 
quet o'er, 

When  satiate,  thirst  and  hunger  claim'd 
no  more,"  &c. 

Thirst  and  hunger — observe — On  a 
full  stomach  !  And  now,  after  that 
second  most  successful  supper,  when 
"  their  leathern  sides  are  stretched 
almost  to  bursting,"  Ulysses  has  the 
face  to  say  to  Achilles, 

"  But  now  we  seek  not  feasts! !" 

Take  the  entertainment  in  the 
Tent — from  first  to  last — and  it  is  a 
noble  one.  Where  saw  ye  ever 
Three  such  Men-cooks  as  Achilles, 
Patroclus.and  Automedon?  Lo!  the 
son  of  Thetis — the  goddess-born — 
with  the  spit  in  his  "  inaccessible 
hands !"  Redder  is  his  fine  face  in 
the  kitchen-fire,  than  it  ever  was  fla- 
ming in  the  van  of  victorious  battle. 
Is  that  an  apron?  And  now  from 
Cooks  the  Three  Princes  become 
Waiters.  Achilles  is  his  own  Butler. 

How  much  more  state  in  the  sim- 
plicity of  these  natural  manners,  than 
in  the  pomp  of  ours,  where  all  is  ar- 
tificial !  A  modern  entertainment  is 
made  mean  by  menials.  It  cannot 
bear  description — nothing  more  con- 
temptible than  a  horse-shoe  table, 
however  august  the  guests,lined  with 
flunkies  at  a  great  city-feast.  Com- 
pare with  this  repast  of  heroes,  in 
the  tent  of  Achilles,  that  given  to 
four  of  the  great  European  monarchs 
some  dozen  years  a'go  in  Guildhall, 
at  which,  if  we  mistake  not,  presided 
the  Lord  Mayor  of  London !  It  is 
Blackwall,  we  think,  who  says,  that 
we  read  with  delight  all  Homer's  most 
minute  descriptions  of  the  houses, 
tables,  and  way  of  living  of  the  an- 


s  Homer.  1-2& 

cients  ;  but,  on  the  contrary, that 
when  we  consider  our  own  customs, 
we  find  that  our  first  business,  when 
we  sit  down  to  poetise  in  the  higher 
strains,  is  to  unlearn  our  daily  way 
of  life ;  to  forget  our  manner  of 
sleeping,  eating,  and  diversions ;  we 
are  obliged  to  adopt  a  set  of  more 
natural  manners,  which,  however, 
are  foreign  to  us  ;  and  must  be  like 
plants  raised  up  in  hot-beds  or  green- 
houses, in  comparison  with  those 
which  grow  in  soils  fitted  by  nature 
for  such  productions.  Nay,  so  far, 
he  continues,  are  we  from  enriching 
poetry  with  new  images  drawn  from 
nature,  that  we  find  it  difficult  to 
understand  the  old.  We  live  within 
doors,  covered  from  nature's  face; 
and  passing  our  days  supinely,  igno- 
rant of  her  beauties.  We  are  apt  to 
think  the  similies  taken  from  her 
low,  and  the  ancient  manners  mean 
or  absurd.  But  let  us  be  ingenuous, 
and  confess,  that  while  the  moderns 
admire  nothing  but  pomp,  and  can 
think  nothing  great  or  beautiful  but 
what  is  the  produce  of  wealth,  they 
exclude  themselves  from  the  plea- 
santest  and  most  natural  images  that 
adorn  old  poetry.  State  and  form 
disguise  men;  and  wealth  and  luxu- 
ry disguise  nature.  Their  effects  in 
writing  are  answerable ;  a  lord-may- 
or's show,  or  grand  procession  of  any 
kind,  is  not  very  delicious  reading,  if 
described  minutely,  and  at  length; 
and  great  ceremony  is  at  least  equal- 
ly tiresome  in  a  poem,  as  in  ordinary 
conversation.  So  far  Blackwall — 
and  he  writes  like  a  philosophic  gen- 
tleman. 

But  Ajax  gives  the  sign  to  old 
Phoenix — and  Ulysses,  crowning  his 
cup  with  wine,  drinks  to  Achilles, 
and,  on  his  legs,  volunteers  a  speech. 
Let  the  wily  orator  stand  there  for 
another  month  or  so — and  then  we 
shall  listen  to  his  eloquence,  and  give 
a  fine  specimen  of  it  from  Sotheby, 
and  "  the  rest." 


12G  Family  Poetry.    No.  II.  [July, 


FAMILY  POETRY.      NO.  II. 

MY  LETTERS. 
"  Litera  toripta  manet."—O\A  Saw. 

ANOTHER  mizzling,  drizzling  day  I 
Of  clearing  up  there's  no  appearance, 

So  I'll  sit  down  without  delay, 
And  here  at  least  I'll  make  a  clearance ! 

Oh  ne'er,  "  in  such  a  day  as  this," 
Would  Dido,  with  her  woes  oppressed, 

Have  woo'd  ./Eneas  back  to  bliss, 
Or  Troilus  gone  to  hunt  for  Cressid ! 

No,  they'd  have  staid  at  home,  like  me, 
And  popp'd  their  toes  upon  the  fender, 

And  drank  a  quiet  cup  of  tea; 
— On  days  like  this  one  can't  be  tender.— 

So,  Molly,  draw  that  basket  nigher, 
And  put  my  desk  upon  the  table — 

Bring  that  portfolio — stir  the  fire — 
Now  off  as  fast  as  you  are  able. — 

First,  here's  a  card  from  Mrs  Grimes, 

**  A  Ball !" — she  knows  that  I'm  no  dancer—- 
That woman's  asked  me  fifty  times, 
And  yet  I  never  send  an  answer. 

"  Dear  Jack, 

Just  lend  me  twenty  pounds, 
Till  Monday  next,  when  I'll  return  it. 
Yours  truly, 

Henry  Gibbs." 

Why,  z da ! 

I've  seen  the  man  but  twice— here,  burn  it. 

One  from  my  cousin,  Sophy  Daw, 

Full  of  Aunt  Margery's  distresses. 
"  The  cat  has  kitten'd  in  '  the  draw,' 

And  ruin'd  two  bran-new  silk  dresses." 

From  Sam,  "  The  Chancellor's  motto" — nay, 
Confound  his  puns,  he  knows  I  hate  'em; 

"  Pro  Rege,  Lege,  Grege" — aye, 
"  For  king  read  mob !"  Brougham's  old  erratum. 

From  Seraph  ina  Price — "  At  two — 

Till  then  I  can't,  my  dearest  John,  stir." 

Two  more,  because  I  did  not  go, 
Beginning  "  Wretch !"  and  "  Faithless  monster !" 

"  Dear  Sir, 

This  morning  Mrs  P, 

Who's  doing  quite  as  well  as  may  be, 
Presented  me  at  half-past  three 

Precisely,  with  another  baby; 


Family  Poetry.    No.  II. 

"  We'll  name  it  John,  and  know  with  pleasure 
You'll  stand" Five  guineas  more,  confound  it! 

I  wish  they'd  call'd  it  Nebuchadnezzar, 

Or  thrown  it  in  the  Thames,  and  drown'd  it. 

What  have  we  next  ?    A  civil  Dun, 
"  John  Brown  would  take  it  as  a  favour"— 

Another,  and  a  surlier  one, 
"  I  can't  put  up  with  sich  behaviour." 

"  Bill  so  long  standing,"—"  quite  tired  out,"— 
"  Must  sit  down  to  insist  on  payment" — 

"  Call'd  ten  times  !" — here's  a  fuss  about 
A  few  coats,  waistcoats,  and  small  raiment  I 

For  once  I'll  send  an  answer,  and  in — 
—form  Mr  Snip  he  needn't  "  call"  so, 

But,  when  his  bill's  as  "  tired  of  standing" 
As  he  is,  beg  'twill  "  sit  down"  also. 

This  from  my  rich  old  uncle,  Ned, 
Thanking  me  for  my  annual  present, 

And  saying  he  last  Tuesday  wed 
His  cook-maid  Nelly — vastly  pleasant ! 

An  ill-spelt  note  from  Tom  at  School, 
Begging  I'll  let  him  learn  the  fiddle — 

Another  from  that  precious  fool 
Miss  Pyefinch,  with  a  stupid  riddle, 

"  If  you  was  in  the  puddle,"  how 

I  should  rejoice  that  sight  to  see  !— 
"  And  you  were  out  on't,  tell  me  now 

What  that  same  puddle  then  would  be  ?" 

"  D'ye  give  it  up  ?"    Indeed  I  do ! 

Confound  these  antiquated  minxes, 
I  won't  play  "  Billy  Black"  to  a  "  Blue," 

Or  CEdipus  to  such  old  Sphinxes. 

A  note  sent  up  from  Kent,  to  show  me, 

Left  with  my  bailiff,  Peter  King, 
"  I'll  burn  them  b y  stacks  down,  blow  me ! 

Yours,  most  sincerely, 

Captain  Swing," 

Four  begging  letters  with  petitions, 

One  from  my  sister  Jane,  to  pray 
I'll  "  execute  a  few  commissions" 

In  Bond  Street,  "  when  I  go  that  way," 

And  "  buy  at  Pearsal's,  in  the  city, 

Twelve  skeins  of  silk  for  netting  purses, 

Colour  no  matter — so  it's  pretty ; 
Two  hundred  pens—— "  two  hundred  curses  ! 

From  Mistress  Jones  :    "  My  little  Billy 

Goes  up  his  schooling  to  begin, 
Will  you  just  step  to  Piccadilly, 

And  meet  him  when  the  coach  comes  in  ? 


Family  Poetry.    No.  II.  [July, 

"  And  then,  perhaps,  you  will  as  well  see 

The  poor  dear  fellow  safe  to  school, 
At  Dr  Smith's,  in  Little  Chelsea  ?" 

Heaven  send  he  flog  the  little  fool  1 

From  Lady  Snooks  :  "  Dear  sir,  you  know, 

You  promised  me  last  week  a  Rebus, 
Or  something  smart  and  apropos 

For  my  new  Album  ?"     Aid  me,  Phoebus ! 

"  My  hint  is  followed  by  my  second ; 

Yet  should  my  first  my  second  see, 
A  dire  mishap  it  would  be  reckon'd, 

And  sadly  shock'd  my  first  would  be ! 

,"  Were  I  but  what  my  Whole  implies, 

And  pass'd  by  chance  across  your  portal, 
You'd  cry,  '  Can  I  believe  my  eyes  ? 

I  never  saw  so  queer  a  mortal !' 

"  For  then  my  head  would  not  be  on, 

My  arms  their  shoulders  must  abandon, 
My  very  body  would  be  gone, 

I  should  not  have  a  leg  to  stand  on !" 

Come,  that's  dispatch'd — what  follows  ? — stay — 

"  Reform  demanded  by  the  nation  ! 
Vote  for  Tagrag  and  Bobtail !" — aye, 

By  Jove,  a  blessed  Reformation  !  ! 

Jack,  clap  the  saddle  upon  Rose, — 

Or  no — the  filly — she's  the  fleeter ; 
The  devil  take  the  rain — Here  goes — 

I'm  off — a  plumper  for  Sir  Peter  ! 


HOMER  S  HYMNS. 


THE  POEM  OF  PAN. 

SING  me  a  song  about  Pan, 

Cloven-foot  Capricorn,  son 
And  darling  of  Hermes ;  who  frisking  it  ran 

O'er  woody  cragg'd  Pisa,  in  fun, 
And  frolic,  and  laughter,  with  skipping  nymphs  after 

Him  shouting  out — Pan — Pan. 

Pan,  merry  musical  Pan, 

Piping  o'er  mountainous  top, 
Rough-headed,  shaggy,  and  rusty  like  tan, 

Dancing  where'er  the  goats  crop, 
The  precipice  round,  as  his  hoofs  strike  the  ground, 

With  their  musical  clop — clop. 

Pan  is  the  lord  of  the  hills, 

With  their  summits  all  cover'd  with  snow ; 
Pan  is  lord  of  the  brooks,  of  the  rivers,  and  rills, 

That  murmur  in  thickets  below ; 
There  he  saunters  along,  and  listens  their  song, 

And  bends  his  shagg'd  ears  as  they  flow. 


1831.]  The  Poem  of  Pan. 

Where  the  goats  seem  to  hang  in  the  air, 

And  the  cliffs  touch  the  clouds  with  their  jags, 
Sometimes  he  hurries  and  leaps  here  and  there, 

Skipping  o'er  white-shining  crags, 
And  quick  to  descry,  with  his  keen  searching  eye, 

Bounds  after  the  swift-footed  stags. 

Pan  drives  before  him  the  flocks, — 

To  shades  of  cool  caverns  he  takes, 
And  gathers  them  round  him ;  and  under  deep  rocks 

Of  the  reeds  his  new  instrument  makes ; 
And  with  out^pipirig  lips  he  blows  into  their  tips, 

And  the  spirit  of  melody  wakes. 

Pan  mighty  wonders  achieves 

With  his  capriciosos,  preferr'd 
To  the  honey-tongued  nightingale,  hid  in  the  leaves 

When  her  out-pouring  'plaining  is  heard. 
For  Pan,  sweet  musician,  with  grace  and  precision, 

Pipes  far  sweeter  notes  than  the  bird. 

As  the  swift-footed  nymphs  round  the  fountains 

Encircle  the  dark-welling  spring, 
And  mock-loving  echo  bears  off  to  the  mountains 

And  throws  back  the  music  they  sing — 
Sly  Pan  he  comes  peeping,  and  daintly  creeping 

Adroitly  bounds  into  the  ring. 

O'er  his  back  is  the  skin  of  the  lynx, 

And  he  leads  with  a  pleasant  constraint 
The  nymphs  to  a  soft  meadow  perfumed  with  pinks 

That  the  crocus  and  hyacinth  paint ; 
And  there  he  rejoices  in  all  their  sweet  voices, 

Rehearsing  their  chronicles  quaint. 

They  sang  of  Olympus  the  blest, 

And  the  gods  in  that  heavenly  hall, 
And  of  Hermes  Inventor,  much  more  than  the  rest, 

Who  Avas  chosen  the  herald  of  all. 
How  seeking  Cyllene,  his  own  fair  demesne,  he 

Drove  goats  as  a  goatherd  to  stall. 

Upon  Arcady's  stream-gushing  rocks 

Descended,  he  chanced  to  behold 
As  he  went  into  service,  and  tended  the  flocks, 

Fair  Dryope's  tresses  of  gold ; 
And  the  passion  excited  was  duly  requited, 

For  she  too  was  not  very  cold. 

She  bore  him  a  wonderful  son, 

Goat-footed,  Capricorn  rough, 
With  a  strange  visage  curl'd  into  laughter  and  fun, 

And  indeed  it  was  frightful  enough : 
For  the  nurse,  in  dismay,  ran  shrieking  away, 

When  she  saw  the  babe  bearded  and  bluff. 

But  Hermes  he  dandled  the  boy, 

And  thought  him  the  merriest  imp, 
He  feather' d  his  ankles  with  infinite  joy, 

For  he  was  not  the  godhead  to  limp ; 
Then  he  wrapp'd  him  up  snug  in  a  hare-skin  rug, 

And  away  he  went  up  to  Olymp. 

VOL.  XXX.  NO.  CLXXXII.  I 


430  The  Poem  of  Pan.  [July, 

Jupiter  sat  not  alone, 

But  his  time  with  his  deities  whil'd, 
When  Hermes  arrived  and  sat  down  at  his  throne,     . 

Look'd  round  to  their  worships  and  smiled, 
Then  his  bundle  untied,  and  pleasantly  cried, 

"  Look  ye  all  at  my  beautiful  child !" 

Raptures  affected  the  gods, 

(On  earth  we  should  say  to  a  man,) 
And  Bacchus  the  most :  winks,  gestures,  and  nod» 

Put  hi  motion  the  whole  divan. 
'Twas  a  *  panto-mime  to  the  gods  sublime 

So  they  gave  him  the  name  of  Pan.  .N 

Pan,  Pan,  merry  Pan- 
Pan,  the  dispenser  of  mirth, 

With  thy  horn,  and  thy  hoof,  and  complexion  of  tan, 
Still  deign  to  visit  this  earth. 

And  thy  praise  shall  be  long,  though  short  is  the  song, 
That  has  told  of  thy  wond'rous  birth. 

*  Because  he  pleased  vutn,  saith  the  original. — All  being  no  play  on  the  word 
Pan,  I  have  chosen  a  word  that  has,  and  perhaps  somewhat  expresses  the  same 
idea. 


THE  RIVER  NIGER — TERMINATION  IN  THE'SEA. 

LETTER  FROM  JAMES  MACQUEEN,  ESQ. 
TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  BLACKWOOD's  MAGAZINE. 


SIR, — Last  autumn  you  received 
an  article  from  me  containing  a  re- 
view of  Clapperton's  last,  Lander's 
first,  and  De  Cattle's  late  travels  in 
Africa,  together  with  such  farther  in- 
formation as  I  had  obtained  relative 
to  the  termination  of  the  great  river 
Niger  in  the  Atlantic  Ocean.  This  arti- 
cle was  in  types,  and  was  to  have  ap- 
peared in  your  September  Number, 
along  with  a  corrected  map  of  the 
course  and  termination  of  the  Niger. 
The  length  of  the  article,  and  the  way 
in  which  your  columns  have  been 
occupied  with  important  political 
discussions,  have  hitherto  prevented 
the  appearance  of  my  communica- 
tion in  your  widely  circulated  publi- 
cation. I  am  now,  however,  better 
pleased  that  it  should  stand  over  till 
the  publication  of  Lander's  new 
work,  as  the  whole  subject  of  Afri- 
can geography  can  then  be  more 
satisfactorily  brought  forward  in  one 
view,  that  enterprising  traveller  ha- 
ving just  arrived  in  England,  with 
the  confirmation,  from  personal  re- 
search and  ocular  demonstration, 


of  the  important  geographical  fact, 
which,  from  long  and  patient  en- 
quiry, and  from  good  authority,  (au- 
thority which  has  not  been,  because 
it  could_"not  be,  contradicted,)  I  had  so 
often,  and  so  many  years  ago,  laid 
before  the  public. 

Justice  to  myself  and  justice  to 
the  important  subject,  however,  re- 
quire of  me  at  this  moment  to  draw, 
and  as  shortly  as  possible,  the  atten- 
tion of  the  public  to  the  facts  con- 
cerning this  case. 

Sixteen  years  ago,  I  pointed  out  in 
a  small  treatise,  published  in  this 
city,  that  the  Niger  terminated  in  the 
Atlantic  Ocean  in  the  Bight  of  Benin 
and  Biafra,  and  it  is  exactly  eleven 
years  since  I  laid  before  his  Majes- 
ty's government,  in  the  several  pub- 
lic departments,  a  memorial,  accom- 
panied by  a  map,  upon  a  very  large 
scale,  pointing  out  the  important  fact, 
and  shewing  the  course  of  the  Niger 
and  its  principal  tributary  streams 
through  the  interior  of  Northern  Af- 
rica, downwards  to  the  Atlantic 
Ocean.  This  memorial  also  went 


1831.] 


The  River  Niger —  Termination  in  the  Sea. 


131 


into  the  commercial  advantages 
which  this  country  might  obtain  by 
planting  a  settlement  on  the  island 
of  Fernando  Po,  a  healthy  and  com- 
manding position  as  a  commercial  de- 
pot, to  carry  on  trade  with  the  in-* 
terior  of  Africa,  by  means  of  the 
navigable  stream  of  the  Niger,  and  it 
offered  to  bring  forward  a  commer- 
cial company  ready  to  undertake  the 
work.  The  pernicious  influence,  how- 
ever, exercised  by  Sierra  Leone,  baf- 
fled the  commercial  object  then  had 
in  view.  In  the  following  year,  1 82 1 , 
I  published  a  small  volume,  accom- 
panied by  a  map  upon  a  reduced 
.scale,  shewing  the  course  and  termi- 
nation of  the  Niger,  with  my  autho- 
rities for  the  same,  and  also  at  con- 
siderable length  pointed  out  the  trade 
and  commerce  which  was  carried  on 
by  the  nations  of  the  interior  with 
the  Moors  and  Arabs  across  the  Great 
Desert,  the  trade  with  the  Europeans 
on  the  south-western  shores  of  Af- 
rica, and  also  the  trade  and  commerce 
carried  on  by  the  nations  of  the  in- 
terior amongst  themselves.  This 
volume  was  published  by  Mr  Black- 
wood,  Edinburgh.  In  June,  1826,  and 
subsequent  to  the  appearance  of  Den- 
ham  and  Clapperton's  Travels,  I  in- 
serted in  your  Magazine  an  article  cor- 
recting the  geography  of  the  courses 
of  the  rivers  in  Eastern  Sudan,  about 
which  I  had  felt  some  doubt  and  dif- 
ficulty in  the  volume  alluded  to,  while 
the  travels  of  our  countrymen  just 
mentioned,  enabled  me  more  clearly 
to  demonstrate  the  passage  of  the  Ni- 
ger southward  to  the  Atlantic,  with 
only  this  difference,  that  the  bed  of 
the  stream  in  its  southern  course,  was, 
as  I  suspected  in  my  first  publica- 
tion, about  a  degree  and  a  half  more 
to  the  westward,  than  it  had  there 
been  laid  down.  I  had,  as  I  have 
already  mentioned,  prepared  last  au- 
tumn another  article,  accompanied 
by  a  corrected  map,  on  a  reduced 
scale,  with  the  addition  of  some  ri- 
vers and  places  which  Clapperton's 
last,  and  Lander's  first  journey  ena- 
bled me  then  to  lay  down,  and  the 
map  is  now  given  with  this  letter. 
This  map  will  give  the  reader  a  cor- 
rect idea  of  the  course  and  termi- 
nation of  the  river  Niger,  and  se- 
veral of  its  tributary  streams  through 
Northern  Central  Africa,  and,  conse- 
quently, render  any  lengthened  nar- 


rative on  these  points,  by  me,  at  this 
moment  unnecessary.  I  think  it  right, 
however,  to  state,  that  I  had,  many 
years  ago,  received  from  different 
individuals,  who  had  traded  up  the 
rivers  in  the  Delta  of  Benin,  to  a  con- 
siderable distance,  positive  inform- 
ation, that  these  rivers  communi- 
cated with  each  other  by  numerous 
branches,  and  that  the  whole  were 
only  branches  of  one  great  river, 
which  descended  from  the  north- 
ward; and  down  which  stream,  these 
informants  told  me,  large  canoes, 
carrying  a  great  quantity  of  mer- 
chandise, and  a  great  number  of 
people,  descended  from  interior  coun- 
tries, distant  one,  two,  and  even  three 
months'  journey,  and  with  which  na- 
tives they  were  in  the  constant  habit 
of  carrying  on  a  considerable  trade, 
by  bartering  European  goods  for 
African  productions,  while  the  fo- 
reign slave-traders  received  almost 
all  the  slaves  they  exported  from 
Africa,  at  the  trading  stations  on  the 
mouths  of  the  different  rivers  in  the 
Delta,  to  which  stations  these  slaves 
had  been  brought  down  from  distant 
countries  in  the  interior,  and  chiefly 
by  a  water  conveyance. 

It  is  with  considerable  satisfaction, 
therefore,  that  I  find  all  the  labours 
and  researches,  and  they  were  neither 
few  nor  light,  which  I  undertook  to 
demonstrate  the  truth,  and  establish 
the  fact,  that  the  long-sought  and 
great  River  Niger  terminated  in  the 
Atlantic  Ocean,  has  been  within  these 
few  days  confirmed  beyond  the  pos- 
sibility of  cavil  or  dispute;  and  also, 
that  it  runs  through  that  portion  of 
Africa  where  I  had  delineated  its 
course  to  be;  and  no  one  can  hail 
with  greater  satisfaction  than  I  do, 
the  arrival  of  the  two  brothers, 
Landers,  with  this  pleasing  intelli- 
gence, nor  be  more  ready  to  render 
them  the  praise  that  is  due  to  their 
enterprise  and  exertions. 

It  is  painful  to  reflect  upon  the 
number  of  valuable  lives  which  have 
been  lost  by  clinging  to  erroneous 
theories,  in  endeavouring  to  solve 
this  great  geographical  problem, 
which  any  one,  who  turned  his  eye 
to  the  Delta  of  Benin,  and  to  the  nu- 
merous rivers  which  enter  the  sea  in 
that  quarter,  must  have  solved  in  a 
moment.  It  is  humiliating  and  dis- 
tressing in  the  extreme  to  a  great 


The  River  Niger—  Termination  in  the  Sea. 


[July, 


commercial  and  maritime  nation  like 
this  to  have  remained  so  long  obsti- 
nately ignorant  of  the  important  fact, 
and  to  have  wasted  so  much  time 
and  money  as  Britain  has  done,  in 
attempting  to  do  good  to  Africa  by 
directing  her  energies  and  resources 
to  the  most  unproductive,  unhealthy, 
impolitic,  and  unprofitable  parts  of 
the  coasts  of  Africa,  while  she  for- 
sook altogether  the  more  productive 
and  wealthy  parts  of  the  country, 
and  that  part  of  the  African  coast, 
from  which  alone  any  European  na- 
tion can,  with  comparative  safety 
and  celerity,  reach  the  more  civi- 
lized, industrious,  and  wealthy  parts 
of  the  interior  of  Northern  Atrica. 
But  let  us  hope  that  a  different 
course  will  now  be  pursued  with 
energy,  and  by  all  the  political 
strength  and  commercial  resources 
which  this  country  can  put  in  ope- 
ration. 

With  these  observations,  I  shall 
proceed  to  take  a  short  survey  of  the 
course  and  termination  of  the  River 
Niger,  and  the  advantages  which  its 
navigable  stream  can  afford  to  the 
commerce  of  Africa,  and  which  it 
will,  I  hope,  speedily  afford  to  the 
commerce  of  this  country. 

The  branch  of  the  Niger  at  present 
best  known  springs  on  the  north- 
eastern side  of  the  mountain  called 
Loma,  in  9°  15'  N.  latitude,  and  9°  86' 
W.  longitude,  about  200  miles  N.E. 
T>y  E.  of  Sierra  Leone,  and  eastward 
of  the  sources  of  the  Rokelle  and 
Kouranho  rivers,  which  run  into  the 
inlet  of  the  sea  on  which  Sierra  Leone 
ia  situated.  From  Loma  the  Niger, 
under  the  name  of  the  Joliba,  bends 
its  course  N.E.  through  Sulimana 
and  Kankan  to  Couroussa,  a  town 
situated  about  80  miles  east  from 
Timboo,  where  De  Caill6,  in  his  late 
journey,  going  eastward,  crossed  it, 
and  found  it,  before  the  inundation 
commenced,  to  be  900  French  feet 
broad,  and  9  feet  deep,  with  a  cur- 
rent at  the  rate  of  2£  miles  per  hour. 
The  magnitude  of  the  river  at  this 
place  goes  to  prove  that,  between 
Loma  and  Couroussa,  the  Niger  must 
have  received  a  large  tribute  from 
the  east,  and  which  I  conceive  to  be 
the  Coomba  or  Zamma  river,  laid 
down  in  my  first  map,  and  which 
river  is  found  to  the  N.YV.  of  Ashan- 
tee,  a  considerable  stream,  running 
westward ;  and,  as  we  find  no  rivers 


entering  the  sea  on  the  Gold  Coast, 
from  the  Assine  river  to  the  Mesurado 
river,  so  it  is  almost  certain  that  the 
Coomba  is  a  branch  of  the  Niger. 
It  is  remarkable  that  Ptolemy  brings 
a  branch  from  the  same  quarter, 
while,  in  some  very  old  and  excellent 
Dutch  maps,  I  find  the  higher  course 
of  the  Joliba  so  laid  down, and  which, 
taking  it  to  be  the  fact,  will  account 
for  its  great  magnitude  at  Couroussa, 
within  100  miles  of  its  reputed 
source. 

De  Caille,  after  crossing  the  river, 
continued  his  journey  S.  E.  about 
180  miles  to  Time,  and  afterwards 
N.  E.  about  90  miles  to  Tangoora, 
crossing  in  his  journey  numerous 
large  streams  descending  from  the 
Kong  chain,  all  running  N.  W.  to  the 
Niger,  particularly  one  at  a  short 
distance  from  Couroussa  named 
Yandan,  450  feet  broad,  and  in  his 
journey  northward  from  Tangoora 
to  Jinne  he  crossed  several  other 
rivers,  all  bending  their  course  N.W. 
to  the  Niger.  From  Couroussa  the 
Niger  continues  its  course  N.  E.  by 
Kaniaba,  having  previously,  and  a 
little  below  Bourre,  received  the 
Tankisso,  (this  stream  was  mistaken 
by  Mollicn  for  the  parent  branch  of 
the  Ba  Fing,  or  Senegal,)  a  consi- 
derable river  which  rises  a  little  to 
the  west,  and  runs  a  little  to  the  south 
of  Timboo.  From  this  junction  the 
Niger  pursues  its  course  to  Bam- 
mako,  situated  in  12°  48'  north  lati- 
tude,and  3°  40'  west  longitude,  where 
Park,  in  his  second  journey,  fell  in 
with  it,  and  found  it  in  the  early  part 
of  the  wet  season  one  mile  broad,  but 
still  confined  within  its  natural  banks. 
From  this  place  the  Joliba  continues 
its  course  nearly  east  by  Yamina, 
Sego,  and  Sansanding,  (here  Park 
embarked  upon  it  in  his  large  canoe 
in  his  last  journey,)  to  Jinne,  where 
it  appears  to  be  divided  into  several 
branches,  or  else  to  receive  from  the 
N.W.  some  tributary  streams. 

Having  visited  Jinne,  De  Caille 
embarked  on  the  eastern  branch, 
about  1200  feet  broad,  at  Cougallia, 
and  proceeded  in  a  course  nearly 
due  north  to  Timbuctoo  in  a  canoe 
of  about  80  tons  burden,  and  accom- 
panied the  greater  part  of  the  way 
by  a  fleet  of  nearly  80  sail  of  vessels 
of  the  same  magnitude,  loaded  with 
goods.  In  his  journey  northwards 
he  passed  the  lake  Dibbie,  the  great 


183L] 


The  River  Niger — Termination  in  the  Sea. 


magnitude  of  which  surprised  him 
exceedingly,  and  which  stretches 
from  east  to  west,  instead  of  from 
north  to  south.  In  this  lake  I  have 
reason  to  believe  the  Niger  is  joined 
by  a  river  of  very  considerable  mag- 
nitude flowing  from  the  N.  W.,  and 
called  by  the  Moors  and  Negroes 
Gozenzair  or  Wad-cl-Fenij.  From 
Jinne  to  Timbuctoo,  the  banks  of  the 
river  were  low  and  marshy.  Below 
Lake  Dibbie  the  river  generally  was 
very  deep,  and  from  half  a  mile  to  a 
mile  broad,  with  a  considerable  cur- 
rent. Although  it  was  at  the  height 
of  the  dry  season  when  De  Caille 
sailed  down  it,  he  found  it  larger 
than  the  Senegal  at  Podor,  only  120 
miles  from  the  sea ;  in  fact,  says  he, 
"  THE  SENEGAL  is  BUT  AN  ORDINARY 

JRIVER  COMPARED  TO  THIS." 

Near  Kabni,  the  port  of  Timbuctoo, 
the  Niger  separates  into  two  branches, 
the  larger  about  three-fourths  of  a 
mile  broad, bending  its  course  E.S.E., 
and  the  smaller  about  100  feet  broad, 
but  deep,  taking  its  course  E.  by  N. 
to  Kabra.  The  celebrated  city  of 
Timbuctoo  is  about  eight  miles  north 
from  Kabra,  and  from  the  most  ac- 
curate information  which  has  as 
yet  been  received,  stands  in  17°  30' 
north  latitude,  and  2|J  east  longi- 
tude. From  Kabra  the  small  branch 
of  the  Niger  turns  S.  E.  and  joins 
the  parent  stream  to  the  eastward, 
from  which  point  we  have  reason  to 
believe  the  Niger  flows,  in  the  gene- 
ral bearing  of  its  course  S.  E.  in  an 
united  stream,  till  it  approaches 
Boussa,  from  which  place  its  course 
is  on  the  general  bearing  south,  until 
it  reaches  the  sea.  From  Timbuctoo 
to  Youri  we  know  very  little  of  the 
Niger  or  the  country  around  it,  ex- 
cept from  the  journey  of  SidiHamed, 
who,  as  regards  the  river,  describes 
it  as  a  very  large  stream,  and  the 
further  fact,  that  Park  navigated  it 
in  safety  to  Boussa.  At  Cabi,  above 
Youri,l\\c  Niger,  which  here  assumes 
the  name  of  Quorra  or  Kowara,  is 
joined  by  a  considerable  river,  and 
which  rises  to  the  east,  and  flows  to 
the  north  of  the  city  of  Saccatoo,  from 
which  place  the  stream  bends  its 
course  S.  W.  to  the  Niger  at  Cabi.  At 
Boussa  the  Niger  divides  itself  into 
three  branches,  two  of  which  are  fill- 
ed with  rocks  and  rapids,  but  still  pas- 
sable by  vessels ;  and  the  other,  call- 
ed Menai,  where  Park  was  lost,  is  a 


133 

deep  still-running  stream.  Bousea  is 
situated  in  6°  11'  east  longitude,  and 
10°  14'north  latitude,  and  consequent- 
ly about  420  British  miles,  in  a  direct 
line  from  the  sea,  at  the  mouth  of 
the  Bonny  river.  Boussa  is  an  island 
formed  by  the  Niger.  At  a  short 
distance  below  Boussa  the  Niger 
unites  in  one  stream,  represented  by 
Clapperton  to  be  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  broad  in  the  dry  season.  The 
magnitude  of  the  Niger  above  Tim- 
buctoo, and  its  magnitude  in  the 
Delta  of  Benin,  as  compared  to  what 
it  is  represented  to  be,  near  Boussa, 
naturally  excites  surprise,  and  can 
only  be  accounted  for,  if  the  width 
given  be  correct,  which,  however,  1 
much  doubt,  from  the  greater  rapidity 
of  its  current  over  the  rapids,  which 
are  found  in  this  part  of  its  course. 
Thus  we  see  the  great  river  Congo, 
which  above  and  below  the  cataracts 
is  from  four  to  _  five  miles  broad,  re- 
duced at  the  great  cataract  to  the 
width  of  only  fifty  yards ! ! 
-  From  Boussa,  the  Niger  proceeds 
south  by  Nyft'e,  and  is  joined  in  this 
part  of  its  course  by  several  consi- 
derable rivers  both  from  the  east  and 
-  from  the  west,  to  Funduh,  a  celebra- 
ted town  situated  to  the  eastward  of 
Katunyah,  the  capital  of  Yarriba. 
The  river  above  Fundah  (here  seve- 
ral miles  broad)  bends  for  a  short 
space  to  the  east,  turned  aside,  per- 
haps, by  the  granite  hills  of  Yarriba. 
At  Fundah,  the  Niger  is  joined  by  a 
large  river  from  the  east,  and  which 
more  probably  is  the  Coodonia,  or 
Kadania,  mentioned  by  Lander  in 
his  first  journey  as  descending  and 
receiving  several  other  important 
streams  which  descend  from  that 
elevated  land  and  chain  of  high  hills 
which  commence  to  the  south  of 
Kano,  in  the  meridian  of  1 1  degrees 
east  longitude,  and  which  hills  stretch 
SSE.  to  the  high  mountains  of  Man- 
dara,  the  mount  Thala  of  Ptolemy ; 
and  which  elevated  chain  just  men- 
tioned intervenes  between  the  rivet 
Shary  and  the  Lake  Tchad,  thus  divi 
ding  the  waters  which  flow  from  the  S. 
and  S.  E.  in  the  Shary,  and  from  the 
west  in  the  river  Yeou  into  that  lake, 
from  the  waters  which,  springing  in 
the  chain  mentioned,  flow  westward 
and  southwestward  to  the  Niger. 
About  Fundah,  also,  I  cling  to  the  be- 
lief, that  the  Niger  is  joined  by  a, 
great  river  descending  by  Mount 


134 


The  River  Niger — Termination  in  the  Sea. 


[July, 


Thala,  from  the  Mountains  of  the 
Moon.  From  Fundah,  the  river 
bends  its  course  south  through  Be- 
nin, in  which  country,  and  probably 
about  7  degrees  of  north  latitude, 
it  separates  into  numerous  branches, 
the  principal  of  which  are  \heRiode 
Formosa,  certainly  the  parent  stream 
which  enters  the  sea  in  the  Bight  of 
Benin,  and  the  Bonny,  and  New  Ca- 
labar rivers,  which  flow  to  the  SE., 
to  the  sea  nearly  opposite  the  Island 
of  Fernando  Po.  These  rivers,  as 
we  shall  presently  see,  are  of  great 
magnitude. 

From  the  Bight  of  Benin  to  the 
Bight  of  Biafra  no  fewer  than  twenty 
rivers  enter  the  sea  through  this  allu- 
vial Delta,  which  is  completely  flood- 
ed to  a  great  distance  from  the  sea, 
during  the  swell  of  the  rivers  in  the 
rainy  season.  The  Rio  de  Formosa 
is  three  and  a  half  British  miles  broad 
at  its  mouth,  where  there  are  two  bars 
of  mud  with  thirteen  feet  water  on 
each.  Upwards  in  its  course  it  spreads 
to  a  breadth  of  four  miles,  and  is  four 
or  five  fathoms  deep,  throwing  off  nu- 
merous branches  to  the  SW.,  S.  and 
SE.  and  on  every  large  branch,  to  the 
\VNW.,  which  joins  the  sea  near  La- 
gos. From  Rio  de  Formosa  to  Cape 
Formosa,  six  rivers,  each  of  consider- 
able magnitude,  enter  the  sea.  The 
Rio  dos  Forcados  is  the  largest  of 
these.  Its  mouth  is  the  first  to  the 
south  of  the  Rio  de  Formosa.  South 
of  it  is  the  large  lake  called  Warree. 
Passing  Cape  Formosa  we  have  six 
rivers  (the  first  and  nearest  the  Cape 
is  the  river  Nun,  by  which  the  Land- 
ers descended  to  the  sea),  which  en- 
ter the  seabefore  we  come  to  the  great 
outlet  of  the  New  Calabar  and  Bonny 
rivers,  which  join  the  sea  by  four 
different  mouths,  the  principal  of 
which  is  eleven  miles  broad,  and  very 
deep,  with  a  large  bank  of  sand  on 
the  west  point,  on  which,  though  the 
water  is  thirty  feet  deep,  the  breakers 
are  fearful,  owing  to  the  prodigious 
force  of  fresh  water  which  here  en- 
counters a  powerful  current  in  the  sea. 
Eastward  we  find  a  great  inlet  of  the 
sea,  at  its  mouth  twelve  miles  broad, 
extending  north  nearly  100  miles, 
and  which  is  joined  by  Cross  river 
coming  from  the  NW.,  and  certainly 
a  branch  of  the  Niger ;  and  by  the 
Rio  Elrei  river  and  Old  Calabar 
river  both  descending  from  the  high 
lands  to  the  sea  eastward ;  but  which 


have,  I  believe,  no  communication 
with  the  Niger. 

I  have  thus,  and  as  concisely  as  pos- 
sible, brought  before  the  reader  the 
course  and  termination  of  this  mighty 
stream,  which  has  baffled  the  re- 
searches of  the  learned  and  the  curi- 
ous for  nearly  three  thousand  years. 
Its  course  in  the  general  bearings  of 
the  line  of  its  bed  will,  from  Loma  to 
Bonny  river,  be  nearly  two  thousand 
six  hundred  British  miles,  without 
reckoning  any  thing  for  the  length 
of  the  Coomba,  probably  the  parent 
stream.  Of  this  course  we  know  it 
is  navigable,  and  has  been  navigated 
from  Couroussa  to  the  sea  a  distance 
of  about  two  thousand  five  hundred 
miles.  The  countries  round  its  banks 
are  in  general  very  populous.  The 
inhabitants  are  comparatively  indus- 
trious, and  to  a  certain  extent  advan- 
ced in  civilisation,  and  they  are 
moreover  great  traders,  and  anxious 
to  engage  in  trade.  The  supply  of 
European  articles  which  they  re- 
ceive is  principally  obtained  from 
the  Moors  and  Arabs,  after  tedious 
and  very  expensive  and  dangerous 
journeys  across  the  Great  Desert, 
which  so  enhances  the  price  that 
few  can  purchase;  but  the  water 
communication,  by  'means  of  the 
Niger,  will  so  greatly  reduce  the 
price,  that  it  will  render  the  con- 
sumption of  European  articles  much 
more  extensive ;  while  the  supply  of 
firearms,  and  other  munitions  of 
war,  which  the  nations  in  the  interior 
will  by  this  means,  and  by  this  com- 
munication, receive,  will  speedily 
enable  them  to  repel  the  fierce  in- 
roads of  the  Fellatahs,  and  other  wan- 
dering Moorish  tribes  who  dwell  on 
the  southern  borders  of  the  Great 
Desert,  and  there  live  by  plundering 
the  caravans  and  the  peaceable  and 
more  industrious  nations  of  the 
south,  which  pernicious  inroads  re- 
tard and  always  will  retard  the  civi- 
lisation of  the  interior  of  Africa.  In 
giving  the  future  trade  with  the  in- 
terior its  proper  and  natural  course, 
namely,  upwards  from  the  Delta  of 
Benin,  by  means  of  the  Niger,  and 
its  tributary  streams,  considerable 
and  serious  impediments  will  no 
doubt  for  a  time  be  thrown  in  the 
way  by  the  ignorance  and  avarice  of 
the  chiefs,  and  the  people  compo- 
sing and  ruling  the  numerous  states 
into  which  Africa  along  the  Niger  is 


1831.]                     The  River  Niger — Termination  in  the  Sea.  l&S 

unhappily  disjointed,  but  these  diffi-  millions  sterling  imports,  and  of  ex- 
culties  and  impediments  willbegra-  ports  to  a  greater  amount;  the  for- 
dually  removed ;  while  at  their  out-  mer  consisting  chiefly  of  the  coar- 
set,  and  in  their  greatest  strength,  ser  and  of  some  fine  articles  of  Bri- 
tney cannot  for  a  moment  be  com-  tish  manufactures  and  produce,  and 
pared  to  the  more  vexatious  impedi-  more  especially,  and  which  are  more 
ments  and  terrific  dangers  which  ac-  eagerly  coveted  than  the  rest,  articles 
company  the  inarch  of  the  trader  necessary  for  domestic  purposes, 
through  the  bands  of  the  ferocious  and  for  the  cultivation  of  the  soil, 
and  half  starved  Moors  and  Arabs  who  trade,  navigation,  and  war,  while  the 
rove  through  the  Great  Desert,  and  exports  from  Africa  in  return  consist 
live  .by  plundering  the  ill-fated  tra-  of  gold-dust  and  various  articles  of 
vellers  who  cross  it.  At  any  rate,  it  raw  produce  of  great  value  and  im- 
is  by  means  of  the  water  communi-  portance  in  carrying  on  the  different 
nation  now  laid  open,  that  the  inte-  branches  of  our  manufactures.  At 
rior  of  Africa  ever  can  be  benefited  this  moment  when  so  many  markets 
by  its  intercourse  with  the  civilized  are  shut  against  us,  and  so  many 
nations  of  Europe,  or  that  these  civi-  more  are  rendered  so  unproductive, 
lized  nations  of  Europe  ever  can  ma-  the  trade  to  which  I  have  alluded  is 
terially  extend  their  trade  with,  and  of  great  importance  to  this  country 
the  consumption  of  European  ar-  to  look  after,  as  by  perseverance  and 
tides  in  the  interior  of  Africa.  judicious  management,  the  greater 
The  exports  and  imports  into  the  portion  thereof,  increased  and  in- 
interior  of  that  country  across  the  creasing,  would  unquestionably  fall 
Great  Desert,  and  from  the  sea-coast  into  our  hands.  I  am,  &c. 
in  the  Bight  of  Benin  and  Biafra,  a-  JAMES  M' 
mount  annually,  as  near  as  I  have  Glasgow,  18th  June,  1831. 
been  able  to  calculate,  to  nearly  two 


"  AT  the  Royal  Geographical  Society,  on  Monday  last,  (13  June,)  Mr  Bar- 
row read  a  short  notice  from  the  chair,  of  the  Messrs  Landers'  recent 
journey  m  the  interior  of  Africa.  Mr  Barrow  began  by  saying,  that,  at  one 
tune,  he  had  hoped  to  be  able  to  lay  a  short  paper  on  this  subject  before 
the  Society  at  its  present  meeting,  with  a  sketch  of  the  route  followed :  but 
having  only  obtained  the  original  documents  that  very  day  at  four  o'clock 
this  was  necessarily  deferred.  In  the  meantime,  referring  to  the  map  in 
'&K-Uf  laPPei:t0"'8  fcft  Journey, he  could  state, generally,  that  Mr  Lander 
and  his  brother  had  landed  at  Badagry,  and  proceeded,  nearly  in  the  tract 
formerly  followed,  to  Boussa  on  the  Niger,  and  afterwards  to  Youri,  which 
they  found  to  he  considerably  farther  north  than  is  laid  down  in  the  map 
and  nearly  west,  as  they  were  told,  of  Soccatoo.  They  had  thence  proceeded 
up  as  far  as  the  river  Cubbie,  a  considerable  tributary  which  passes  Socca- 
too, and  another  town  to  the  eastward  called  Cubbie,  and  Vails  into  the 
Quorra,  or  Niger,  a  little  way  above  Youri ;  and  on  this  they  had  embarked 
on  their  downward  voyage.  Shortly  after  reaching  Funda,  the  last  point 
bold  swIJn11;  Captam  Clapperton's  map,  they  found  the  river  make  a 

othl  JS2    ?t     6  6aSt'  beiDg  5ere  from  five  to  6ix  miles  wide,  and  in 
other  places  it  was  even  broader;  it  thence  turned  south-east   and  cir- 
cled round  to  south,  receiving  in  its   course  another  accession  i 
Shary,  as  it  was  called,  a  river  from  three  to  four  miles  wide!  cSiVom 
the  east ;  but  which  must  not  be  confounded  with  the  river  o 
name  visited  by  Major  Denham,  and  which  falls  into  Lake  Tchad      m 
is  likely  that  the  word  Shary,  or  some  similar  word,  is  a  een eric  term 


sir 


136  The  River  Niger —  Termination  in  the  Sea.  [Ju 

being  taken  prisoners,  lost  all  their  effects,  with  some  portion  also  of  thei 
respective  notes ;  but,  providentially,  what  one  was  deprived  of,  the  other 
was  enabled,  to  a  considerable  extent,  to  preserve ;  so  that,  between  the 
two,  the  joint  narrative  is  nearly  complete.  From  the  point,  then,  where 
Mr  Park  first  embarked,  in  1805,  this  noble  river  has  now  been  traced 
above  two  thousand  miles,  in  the  very  heart  of  Africa ;  and,  in  Mr  Lan- 
der's opinion,  it  is  navigable  for  a  great  portion  of  the  distance  by  small 
steam-boats.  The  natives,  also,  in  the  interior,  are  eager  to  see  more  of  us ; 
and  they  are  even  already  so  far  advanced  in  civilisation  as  to  make  a  trade 
with  them  worthy  of  pursuit.  The  greatest  obstacles  are  the  still  existing 
slave-trade  near  the  mouth  of  the  river,  and  the  hostile  feelings  which  our 
attempts  to  put  an  end  to  it  have  excited  in  the  deluded  population  there. 
Palm  oil  is,  as  yet,  the  only  other  equivalent  for  their  supplies  which  they 
have  been  able  to  produce ;  and  they  naturally  look  forward  with  extreme 
dislike  to  the  prospect  of  the  market  for  their  other  and  more  valuable  ob- 
ject of  barter  being  still  further  curtailed.  They  are,  in  a  word,  the  anti- 
machinists  of  the  African  world,  and  do  not  like  to  see  the  demand  con- 
tract for  manual  labour.  Mutato  nomine,  de  nobis  ipsisfabula  narratur" 

"•  .' 


£We  have  given  the  above  extract  from  the  Literary  Gazette,  con- 
taining a  sketch  by  Mr  Barrow  of  the  discoveries  of  the  Brothers 
Lander,  as  it  exhibits,  in  a  striking  light,  the  extraordinary  sagacity 
of  our  able  correspondent.  It  is  well  known  to  all  who  have  taken  an 
interest  in  the  attempt  made  to  ascertain  the  geography  of  Northern 
Africa,  that  for  many  years  Mr  Macqueen  has  striven  strenuously,  in 
opposition  to  Mr  Barrow  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  and  others,  to  prove 
that  the  Niger  terminated  in  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  in  the  Bight  of  Benin 
and  Biafra.  The  question  is  set  at  rest  by  the  grand  achievement  of 
these  intrepid  men ;  and  we  do  not  doubt  that  Mr  Barrow  will  take 
the  first  opportunity  of  doing  ample  justice  to  the  great  knowledge  and 
powers  of  reasoning  exhibited  by  Mr  Macqueen  in  his  numerous  wri- 
tings on  this  controversy.  One  of  the  numerous  mouths  of  the  Niger 
should  certainly  be  called  the  "  Macqueen."  C.  N.] 


PrUied  l.y  Bailantync  and  Company,  Paul's  Work, 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CLXXXIII.  AUGUST,  1831.  YOL- xxx- 

PART  I. 


UNJMORE.     A  DREAM  OF  THE  HIGHLANDS.     BY  PROFESSOR  WILSON — 
VISION  FIRST.      MORVEN,         .          . 

SECOND.      THE  NAIAD,          4 

THIRD.      THE  LADY  or  THE  CASTLE,  .  .  . 

FOURTH.      THE  SISTERS,         ..... 

FIFTH.      THE  ORATORY,          ..... 

SIXTH.     THE  SEER,  .  .  .         ~     , 

SEVENTH.      THE  DEMON,  .... 

EIGHTH.      THE  CONFESSION,  .... 

NINTH.     EXPIATION,  ..... 

TENTH.      RETRIBUTION,         ..... 

SOME  PASSAGES  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  SIR  FRIZZLE  PUMPKIN.     CONCLUDED, 
LA  PETITE  MADELAINE,  ...... 

HOMER'S  HYMN'S.    No.  II.     THE  BALLAD  OF  BACCHUS, 

MODERN  FRENCH  HISTORIANS.    No.  I.     SALVANDY'S  POLAND,        '    . 
THE  EGLANTINE.    BY  DELTA,  ..... 

AUDUBON'S  ORNITHOLOGICAL  BIOGRAPHY — WILSON'S  AMERICAN  ORNI- 
THOLOGY.    SECOND  SURVEY,        .          .  .  .  •        247 


EDINBURGH : 

^V1LL1AM    BLACKWOOD,   NO.  45,  GEORGE  STREET,   EDINBURGH; 
AND  T.  CADELL,  STRAND,  LONDON. 

To  whom  Communications  (post  paid)  may  be  addressed. 
SOLD  ALSO  BY  ALL  THE  BOOKSELLERS  OF  THE  UNITED  KINGDOM. 


PRINTED  BY  BALLANTYNE  AND  CO.  EDINBURGH. 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No,  CLXXXIIJ.  AUGUST,  1831.  VQL,  XXX. 

PART  I. 


UNWORE,   A  DREAM  OF  THE  HIGHLANDS, 

BY  PROFESSOR  WILSON. 

VISION  FIRST. 

BIORVEN. 

MORVEN  and  Morn  and  Spring  and  Solitude  ! 
As  yet  it  is  scarce  sunrise,  but  the  sun 
Sends  dawn  before  him,  while  his  dazzling  disk- 
Is  soaring  from  the  sea,  a  gentle  light, 
Tender  and  delicate  exceedingly, 
'Neath  which,  as  if  it  were  a  glittering  veil, 
Lies  the  new-woke  and  undisturbed  earth, 
Conscious  once  more  of  the  sweet  hour  of  Prime. 
No  object  in  creation  now  looks  dead. 
Stones,  rocks,  knolls,  heather,  broom,  and  furze  and  fern 
Have  all  a  lifelike  semblance  in  the  hush,       , 
So  strong  is  the  expression  of  their  joy ; 
Alive  appears  each  solitary  tree, 
Half-tree,  half-shrub,  birch  with  its  silver  stem, 
And  hazel  azure-hued ;  with  feeling  smiles, 
The  feeling  of  its  own  fresh  loveliness, 
That  budding  brake ;  and  these  wild  briers  enwreath'd 
With  honey -suckles  wild,  brimful  of  life, 
Now  trail  along,  and  clamber  up  and  fill 
The  air  with  odours,  by  short-sleeping  bee 
Already  visited ;  though  not  a  bird 
Within  the  nested  foliage  more  than  stirs, 
Or  twitters  o'er  the  blissful  wilderness. 
Life  breathes  intenser  beauty  o'er  the  flowers. 
There  within  one  small  round  of  greensward  set 
Dew-diamonded  daisies,  happy  all, 
In  their  own  sweetness  and  simplicity ; 
With  lustre  burnishing  yon  mossy  nook 
An  inexhaustible  hoard  of  primroses, 
Heap'd  up  by  spring  for  the  delight  of  morn, 
Miser  at  once  and  prodigal ;  here  steep'd, 
And  striped  and  starred  in  colours  manifold, 
Mosses  that  'twould  be  sin  to  tread  upon  ; 
And  lo !  the  white  mist  lying  like  a  dream, 
Motionless  almost,  yet  the  while  ascending 
With  gradual  revelation  of  the  desert 

VOL.  XXX.  NO.  CLXXXIII.  K 


138  Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Highlands.  [Aug 

Brightly  and  balmily  swimming  far  and  wide, 
And  yet  the  spirit  of  its  character 
Varying  not  altering,  as  the  circle  spreads 
Serener  and  more  spacious; — Like  the  Land 
Where  old  songs  say  the  Silent  People  dwell, 
And  aye  one  Creature  with  a  Christian  name 
Attends  the  Fairy  Queen,  by  her  beloved 
O'er  all  Elves  else,  though  spite  of  all  that  love, 
Oft  is  her  seven  years'  sojourn  dimm'd  with  tears 
Shed  for  their  sake  who,  since  the  fatal  hour 
That  saw  their  daughter  spirited  away, 
Have  little  done  but  wander  up  and  down 
Wondering  and  weeping,  or  upon  the  brae 
Whence  she  evanished,  with  their  faces  plunged 
In  both  their  hopeless  hands,  sit  side  by  side, 
Far  from  all  human  ken,  from  morn  till  night, 
And  all  on  through  the  moonlight  starriness, 
Without  once  knowing  that  there  is  a  sky. 

Morven  and  Morn  and  Spring  and  Solitude  I 
In  front  is  not  the  Scene  magnificent  ? 
Through  the  mist  partly  broken  into  fragments 
Fleecelike,  and  partly  roll'd  voluminous 
Higher  and  higher  up  what  now  is  seen 
To  be  a  range  of  mountains,  blind-faced  cliffs 
And  hoary  crags  and  blasted  stumps  look  out 
Strangely,  and  all  as  if  they  were  alive, 
From  midst  of  that  disparting  glamoury ; 
While  from  yon  indistinct  and  dubious  gloom, 
Even-now  as  sable  as  a  mass  of  night, 
Softening  and  brightening  into  woodiness 
A  shadowy  slope  with  loveliest  lights  bestrewn, 
(For  see  !  the  Sun  is  in  ascension,) 
Emerges  an  old  Forest.     Haunt,  no  doubt, 
Of  many  a  silvan  shy,  thick-spotted  Roe, 
And  Red- deer  vagrant  from  the  stony  heights 
Below  the  Eagle's  eyry ;  single  trees, 
Each  in  itself  a  grove,  at  intervals 
Gigantic  towering  o'er  a  race  of  giants, 
Illustrious  in  the  yellow  glow  of  Morn. 
And  now  the  mists  fixom  earth  are  clouds  in  heaven ; 
Clouds  slowly  castellating  in  a  calm 
Sublimer  than  a  storm;  while  brighter  breathes 
O'er  the  whole  firmament  the  breadth  of  blue, 
Because  of  that  excessive  purity 
Of  all  those  hanging  snow-white  palaces, 
A  gentle  contrast,  but  with  power  divine. 

Morven  and  Morn  and  Spring  and  Solitude  ! 
A  multitudinous  sea  of  mountain-tops ; 
And  lo  !  th'  uneyeable  sun  flames  up  the  heavens. 
Broad  daylight  now  through  all  the  winding  glen« 
Is  flowing  riverlike,  but  with  no  sound ; 
And  there  are  goings  on  of  human  life 
In  hut  and  shieling  and  in  woodland-bower, 
On  the  green  pastures  and  the  yellow  sands  ; 
And  from  the  high  cliff  the  deer-stalker  sees 
And  hears  the  coble  of  the  fisherman 


Glancing  and  clanking,  as  she  scarcely  seems 
To  move  o'er  the  still  water  sleepily, 
From  her  stern  almost  level  with  the  light 
Letting  her  long  net  drop  into  the  sea. 


1831.1  Vision  First.     Morven.  189 

Harmonious  all  as  music !  For  the  soul, 
Creative  in  the  power  of  her  delight, 
Painter  and  Poet,  though  she  knows  it  not,— 
Believing  all  that  crowd  of  images 
That  o'er  the  mountains  swarm  or  on  the  main 
To  appertain  by  their  appropriate  right 
To  dead  insensate  Nature,  while  in  truth 
From  the  divinity  within  us  born, 
From  life  to  death  they  fluctuate  evermore, — 
Mistakes  her  inward  thoughts  for  outward  things, 
And  erring  in  her  blest  simplicity, 
By  dreams  thus  glorifies  the  universe  I 

Morven !  this  magic  lies  upon  thee  now. 
Imagination,  she  it  is  who  bathes 
With  blue  celestial  as  an  angel's  eyes 
Thy  cloud-sustaining  depths  which  she  calls  Heaven  I 
By  many  an  intermediate  link  of  thought 
She  joins  that  frowning  Family  of  Rocks 
In  strange  relationship,  till  on  the  edge 
Of  the  ffat  moor,  that  moss-enshrouded  Cairn, 
Where  heroes  that  once  fought  with  Fingal  sleep, 
Is  felt  one  with  the  skyey  pinnacle 
Round  which  that  speck— it  is  an  eagle— soars. 
Silent  in  nature  all  thy  waterfalls, 
For  distance  makes  them  dumb  as  wreaths  of  enow ; 
But  in  Imagination's  ear  they  sound 
Thundrous  for  ever  in  the  wilderness. 
Where  now  are  all  thy  rivers  ?  In  black  woods 
Night-hidden  flow  they  through  the  blazing  morn, 
Or  their  imprison'd  foam  is  only  seen 
By  the  fleet  merlin  shrieking  'twixt  the  crags 
That  topple  o'er  the  turmoil  far  below. 
But  she  beholdeth  and  she  heareth  all 
The  dazzling  and  the  din,  the  flowing  peace, 
The  leaping  fury  ;  hers  the  glory,  when 
Sunshiny  rivers  set  the  straths  on  fire  ; 
And  hers  the  gloom,  when  sullen  as  the  grave 
Their  blackness  bears  upon  its  serpent  bulk 
No  image,  but  of  the  huge  thunder-cloud 
That  makes  the  earth  as  grim  as  its  own  heaven. 

Morven  belongs  now  wholly  to  the  Morn  ; 
And  morn's  sole  sovereign,  the  almighty  Sun, 
Surveys  his  kingdom  with  a  regal  eye, 
On  the  blue,  broad,  and  braided  firmament 
Throned,  while  his  cloud-retinue  hovering  hangi 
In  idol-worship  round  the  fount  of  light- 
King  call  him  not,  he  is  indeed  a  God ! 

Look  o'er,  the  edge  of  the  bare  precipice  ! 

Forgotten  are  the  mountains ;  and  your  heart 

Quakes  and  recoils,  as  dizzying  down  and  down 

Ventures  your  eyesight,  often  shut  in  fear, 

Nor  daring  to  become  familiar 

With  that  strange  world  withdrawing  from  your  gaze, 

Most  awful  in  its  still  profundity, 

Nor  of  this  steadfast  earth  !  Why  tremble  so  ? 

Hold  by  the  rock,  lest  wild  imaginings 

Do  tempt  you  headlong  o'er  the  battlements 

Plumb  down  to  undiscoverable  death. 

Unto  the  bottom  of  that  blind  abyss, 

What  a  terrific  distance  from  the  sky ! 


140  Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Highlands.  [Aug. 

There  might  the  floating  eagle's  self  feel  fear ! 
But,  look  again,  and  with  a  steadied  gaze ; 
And  lo  !  the  dangerous  is  the  beautiful, 
The  beautiful  indeed  the  true  sublime. 
What  an  abyss  of  glorious  poetry ! 
All  that  seem'd  mist  and  vapour  like  a  shroud 
In  the  dim  dawning  and  the  clearing  morn, 
In  daylight  is  pure  air.     No — 'tis  not  air, 
Transparent  though  it  be,  and  glimmering  too 
As  gossamer  by  heat  spun  out  of  light, 
A  fine  web  yielding  to  the  insect's  wing ; 
The  solid  earth  was  ne'er  so  shadowy- 
It  is — it  is — the  liquid  element 
An  arm  of  the  great  Sea ! 

A  Highland  Loch ! 

Loch-Sunart !  who,  when  tides  and  tempests  roar, 
Comes  in  among  these  mountains  from  the  main. 
'Twixt  wooded  Ardnamurchan's  rocky  cape 
And  Ardmore's  shingly  beach  of  hissing  spray  ; 
And  while  his  thunders  bid  the  Sound  of  Mull 
Be  dumb,  sweeps  onwards  past  a  hundred  bays 
Hill-sheltered  from  the  wrath  that  foams  along 
The  mad  mid-channel,— all  as  quiet  they 
As  little  separate  worlds  of  summer  dreams, — 
And  by  storm-loving  birds  attended  up 
The  mountain-hollow,  white  in  their  career 
As  are  the  breaking  billows,  spurns  the  Isles 
Of  craggy  Carnich,  and  green  Oronsay 
Drench'd  in  that  sea-born  shower  o'er  tree-tops  driven, 
And  ivyed  stones  of  what  was  once  a  tower 
Now  hardly  known  from  rocks — and  gathering  might 
In  the  long  reach  between  Dungallan  caves 
And  Point  of  Arderinis  ever  fair 
With  her  Elysian  groves,  bursts  through  that  strait 
Into  another  ampler  inland  sea  : 
Till  lo  !  subdued  by  some  sweet  influence, — 
And  potent  is  she  though  so  meek  the  Eve, — * 
Down  sinketh  wearied  the  Old  Ocean 
Insensibly  into  a  solemn  calm, — 
And  all  along  that  ancient  burial-ground, 
(Its  kirk  is  gone,)  that  seemeth  now  to  lend 
Its  own  eternal  quiet  to  the  waves, 
Restless  no  more,  into  a  perfect  peace 
Lulling  and  lull'd  at  last,  while  drop  the  airs 
Away  as  they  were  dead,  the  first  risen  Star 
Beholds  that  lovely  Archipelago, 
All  shadqw'd  there  as  in  a  spiritual  world, 
Where  time's  mutations  shall  come  nevermore ! 

In  Prime  of  Day  such  now  Loch-Sunart's  sleep. 

The  Loch  is  there,  but  where  the  water-line 

Is  lying,  that  mysterious  multitude 

Of  images  in  their  confusion  rich 

Beyond  the  domes  of  sleep,  pile  below  pile 

Descending  and  descending,  disarray 

Fantastic  were  not  the  whole  pomp  sublime, 

Conceals  from  sight,  so  that  the  beauty  seems 

All  of  one  element,  nor  Wonder  finds 

An  end  of  wondering,  nor  Love  end  of  love, 

Gazing  together  down  the  abyss  divine. 

Though  none  on  earth,  there  is  a  breath  in  heaven, 
That  airy  architecture  all  at  once 


.J831.J  Vision  Second.     The  Naiail.  141 

Changes  from  palaces  to  ships  ;  a  fleet 

With  all  sails  set  is  waiting  for  the  wind, 

A  fair  wind  to  the  isles  of  Paradise, 

Bound  thither  for  a  freight  of  golden  joys, 

OQ  hope's  first  voyage  o'er  the  untried  deep. 

That  fleet  hangs  still— but,  lo !  yon  single  ship 

This  moment  hath  slipp'd  anchor,  and  with  flags, 

Like  flying  serpents  that  devour  the  air, 

Brightening  the  blue  above  her  snow-white  wings, 

As  if  a  condor  suddenly  took  flight 

Boldly  she  beareth  from  the  bay,  her  prow 

Enamour'd  of  the  orient,  far  away, 

Out  of  sight  almost,  ere  you  think  farewell, 

And  now  sunk  in  the  sun. 

A  dream !  a  dream  I 


VISION  SECOND. 
THE  NAIAD. 

OUR  waking  is  like  sleep,  our  sleep  like  waking, 
One  undivided  undisturb'd  delight. 
So  let  us  visionaries  on  the  plumes 
Of  our  strong  dream  descend,  and  as  we  sink 
In  such  sweet  fear  as  only  serves  to  give 
A  stronger  power  to  fancy,  admire  the  flowers 
Rock-loving  Spring  doth  sprinkle  o'er  the  sides 
Of  the  black  precipice  all  the  fathoms  down 
That  vast  abyss,  profusely  sowing  them 
In  constellations  round  the  merlin's  nest. 
The  spirit  knows  no  gross  impediments 
In  dreams  ;  but  like  a  thing  aerial 
She  sinks,  and  soars,  and  glides,  and  floats  away 
Delighted,  her  delight  none  witnessing, 
O'er  heaven  and  earth;  nor  doth  she  fear  the  depths 
Of  the  old  sunless  sea,  but  visiteth 
The  kingdoms  of  the  coral,  whose  groves  need 
Nor  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  stars,  nor  any  light, 
Alien  to  their  own  meteorous  waves, 
By  night  as  clear  as  day ;  where  under  roofs 
Of  purple  and  of  crimson,  shining  warm 
Above  the  gentle  yellow  of  the  sands, 
To  Tritons  trumpeting  on  wreathed  shells 
Their  limb-electrifying  melodies 
The  green-hair' d  Nereids  dance,  and  dancing  sing 
Songs  heard  by  seamen  on  their  midnight  watch, 
Who  fondly  dream  it  is  the  Mermaid's  voice 
Hymning  their  gallant  ship,  till  fancy  sees 
The  lovely  creature  sitting  on  a  cape, 
Just  then  a  league-long  line  of  moonshine  streaming 
All  o'er  some  palmy  isle,  that,  as  a  cloud 
Eclipses  the  great  planet,  silently 
Unnamed  for  ever  sinks  into  the  main. 

Alighting  on  this  small  green  circular  mound 
In  this  copse-wood,  beside  the  broken  roof 
Of  this  deserted  shieling,  where  of  old 
Some  goatherd  used  to  live,  let  us  collect 
Our  scatter'd  dreams,  like  rays,  and  pour  them  all 
Into  one  splendour  on  Loch-Unimore  ! 
And  hath  Loch-Sunart  melted  into  air, 
With  all  his  capes  and  isles  ?  No !  in  the  sun 


142  Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Highlands.  [Aug. 

He  lies  beyond  that  mountain,  many  a  league 
Stretch'd  far  and  wide  in  his  magnificence ; 
But  arms  iunumerous  the  sea-giant  hath, 
And  each,  in  course  of  ages,  for  itself, 
Has  scooped  a  glen  out  of  the  living  rocks, 
By  waves  with  tempests  working  and  with  tides, 
And  mountain-torrents,  and  one  river  large, 
Preparing  regions  for  the  abode  of  calms  ; 
Ana  beauty  no  where  owes  to  ocean 
A  lovelier  haunt  than  this  !  Loch-Unimore  ! 
A  name  in  its  wild  sweetness  to  our  ear 
Fitly  denoting  a  dream-world  of  peace  ! 

A  visionary  Semblance  of  a  Boat, 
Its  sails  expanding  on  the  sunshine !  Lo  ! 
A  Boat  it  is — a  Pinnace  beautiful 
As  that  in  which  of  old  Parthenopex 
Sail'd  to  enjoy  the  Queen  of  Fairy  Land. 
There  is  a  bright  confusion  of  two  boats 
Hulls,  masts,  and  sails  and  rigging  ;  but  a  breeze 
Comes  rustling  from  the  woods,  and  creeping  blue 
O'er  the  faint-agitated  waters,  now 
There  is  but  one,  and  she  her  wings  doth  shiver, 
Impatient  as  a  swan  to  stem  the  loch, 
Away  up  to  the  far  head  of  the  glen. 
Call  her  the  NAIAD,  for  upon  her  prow 
You  see  some  cunning  carver  has  contrived, 
With  the  dark  cedar  of  her  polish' d  deck 
Quaint  contrast,  ivory  Image  of  a  Nymph 
Bare  to  the  waist,  and  veil'd  her  lightsome  limbs 
With  sedges  green,  and  water-lilies  fair, 
The  large  white  leaves  with  delicate  yellow  tinged  ; 
When  bends  the  windward-beating  bowsprit,  plunged 
In  freshen'd  beauty,  like  a  living  thing, 
The  lustrous  Creature  in  the  foam  she  loves. 

Built  was  that  Bark  in  some  far  foreign  land ; 
So  tells  her  fine  and  fairy  workmanship, 
And  latine  sails  high-hoisted  elegant ; 


sea 

Mediterranean,  that  beholds  with  pride 
A  thousand  cities  glittering  on  her  breast 
By  sunny  calms  beloved,  and  gentle  gales, 
In  the  perpetual  absence  of  all  storms. 
Such  child  of  sunny  seas  the  NAIAD  seems, 
By  some  mysterious  wafting  hither  borne 
Into  a  Highland  Loch  of  Caledon, 
Without  or  crew  or  pilot,  all  unstain'd 
By  winds  or  waves  the  silver  purity 
Of  her  tall  sails  j  no  speck  upon  the  glow 
That  runs  along  her  sides  in  streaks  of  gold. 

A  stately  figure  on  the  beach,  with  plumes 
High-nodding,  and  in  garb  majestical, 
Such  as  a  Chief  upon  the  mountain  wears, 
When  on  commemorative  festival 
For  some  great  battle  fought  and  won,  he  moves 
To  many-echoed  martial  minstrelsy, 
At  head  of  his  own  Clan.    Lightly  on  board, 
Like  one  of  the  bold  children  of  the  deep, 
Leaping,  he  for  a  moment  eyes  the  sails 


Vision  Second.     The  Naiad.  148 

Cut  with  a  master's  skill,  and  raking  masts, 

With  a  proud  smile ;  and  then  with  mellow  cheers 

Uplifts  the  clouds,  and  over  them  lets  loose 

The  meteors,  just  as  tide-borne  singing  up 

Comes  the  fresh  sea-breeze  with  a  flight  of  gulls; 

And  all  at  once  escaping  from  the  calm 

Of  which  the  NAIAD  was  impatient, 

With  smooth  glide  first,  and  then  with  many  a  bound 

Capricious,  the  gay  Creature  in  her  pride, 

Along  the  woods  flies  right  before  the  wind, 

Steadying  her  motion  to  the  beautiful, 

On  joyful  Voyage  of  Discovery 

Up  that  cliff-strait  well  to  her  Pilot  known, 

Who  at  the  helm  is  sitting  in  a  dream 

Of  infancy  and  boyhood,  these  sweet  waves 

Beyond  all  other  waves  that  ever  flow'd 

By  him  beloved — his  own  Loch-Unimore. 

Whence  comes  he  ?  From  the  shadow  of  what  isle, 
Or  city  of  the  sea  ?  For  heretofore 
That  wild  Bark  never  with  these  mountain  winds 
Dallied,  nor  in  that  sunshine  stream'd  aloft 
Her  bright  emblazonry,  with  stars  and  moons 
And  crescents  deck'd,  and  many  symbols  strange 
Wrought  in  the  changeful  silk,  whose  colours  fine 
Their  radiance  shift  to  faintest  shadows,  wrought 
Perchance  by  lovely  lady's  hands ;  for  he 
Who  at  the  helm  sits,  is  most  beautiful 
Of  mortal  men.    So  felt  that  Island-Queen, 
Now  pining  many  thousand  leagues  away, 
For  his  ship  unreturning,  when  she  saw 
Bearing  majestic  the  Green  Bough  of  Peace 
That  Form  advance  before  his  warriors, 
And  lay  it  at  her  feet  ;  while  all  at  once 
From  wonder  love  came  thrilling ;  and  to  charm 
The  Prince  of  that  Winged  Palace,  the  Isle-Queen 
Did  lead  herself  the  choral  dances  on, 
In  many  a  maze  the  graceful  multitude 
Swimming  along  below  the  torch-like  stars, 
And  moon,  in  those  climes  a  mild  globe  of  fire  ; 
Forgetful  the  Sea-Rover  in  the  light 
Of  those  voluptuous  eyes,  of  all  life  else; 
Nor  ever  came  across  the  palm-tree-shade 
Brighten'd  with  bliss,  one  solitary  thought 
Of  a  pale  face  by  far  Loch-Unimore  ! 

On  his  own  Loch  once  more  the  Chieftain  sails; 
And  shifting  oft  her  courses,  (for  one  hour 
In  that  great  hollow,  many-glen'd,  the  wind 
Blows  never  from  the  same  point  steadily,) 
The  NAIAD  in  the  fiercening  foam  her  prow 
Buries,  and  deeply  gunwale  in,  careers 
In  the  blast's  eye,  contemptuous  of  the  squall 
That  black  as  night  and  quick  as  lightning 
Makes  the  spray  spin  above  her  fearless  flags 
That,  as  she  stoops  unto  the  hurricane, 
One  moment  brush  the  billows,  and  the  next 
High  up  in  air  are  streamering  the  sky. 
That  powerful  helmsman  holds  the  winds  in  fee ; 
They  are  his  slaves,  and  in  their  howling  rage 
The  NAIAD  in  her  beauty  bear  along, 
Now  on  her  starboard  tack  most  beautiful 


144  Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Hiyhlands.  [Aug. 

Scorning  the  shelter  of  the  cliff's,  and  bright 

As  flying  sunshine  cross  the  loch  that  lies 

Pitch-black,  the  very  foam-wreaths  sullenly 

Expiring  in  the  gloom  that  shrouds  the  waves. 

In  wonder  on  the  gliding  Glory  gaze 

Shepherd  and  huntsman  on  the  hills — the  eagle, 

Poised  miles-high  mid  the  clouds,  the  NAIAD  sees, 

And  rifle  by  the  plumed  helmsman's  side ; 

While  upward  turns  the  Chieftain  his  proud  eye 

In  search  of  the  Bird-royal,  as  a  scream 

Directs  it  to  a  speck  within  the  sun. 

The  spirit  of  the  region  fills  with  pride 

The  Chieftain's  heart;  for  are  they  not  his  own, 

Those  dim  blue  glens,  those  shadowy  mountains,  all 

Those  radiant  ranges  of  sun-smitten  cliffs; 

That  meadow'd  plain  as  green  as  emerald, 

With  its  wide  river,  of  the  cataracts 

Forgetful  now,  calm  flowing  to  the  loch,— 

The  loch,  or  call  it  what  it  is,  the  sea ; 

And  lo  !  outstanding  from  that  silvan  height, 

He  hails  the  Castle  of  his  ancestors, 

And  all  its  hoary  towers. 

The  NAIAD  glides 

'Tvvixt  two  huge  rocks,  time  immemorial  call'd 
The  Giants ;  idle  all  at  once  her  sails 
Hang  in  the  airlessness ;  around  her  masts 
Drop  down  the  twining  flags ;  her  bowsprit  sheds 
Asunder  the  soft  branches  on  the  bank 
Of  that  deep  bay,  an  amphitheatre 
Of  loveliest  groves ;  already  is  she  moor'd 
To  an  old  ivied  stump,  well-known  of  old ; 
But  up  to  his  own  Castle  of  the  Cliff 
Why  fly  not  the  wing'd  feet  of  Unimore  ? 
It  was  but  now  he  did  affront  the  light 
With  forehead  fierce  in  its  ancestral  pride 
Beneath  a  Chieftain's  plumes.    But  all  at  once, 
Like  deer  by  far-off  hound-yell  terrified, 
He  bursts  into  the  wood.     Sun-proof  the  Den, 
All  matted  thick  with  briery  tanglement 
Like  Indian  Jungle  where  the  Tiger  growls, 
That  now  doth  harbour  Morven's  Mountain-Lord ; 
Sea-rover  call  him — Pirate — Bucaneir. 
To  bathe  the  burning  forehead  of  remorse 
In  the  chill  water  of  some  sunless  fount, 
Seeks  he  that  savage  penitentiary  ? 


VISION  THIRD. 
THE  LADY  OF  THE  CASTLE. 

MERIDIAN  reigns  o'er  heaven,  and  earth,  and  sea; 
With  a  glad  voice  the  streamy  valleys  sing 
Their  songs  unto  the  mountains,  and  the  crags 
Fling  down  their  joy  into  the  dells  profound; 
The  croaking  raven  happy  up  aloft 
As  on  its  broomy  knoll  the  bleating  lamb. 
In  their  own  world  of  breezy  solitude 
Float  in  fair  flocks  the  gentle  clouds  along, 
In  changeful  beauty  of  soft-shaded  snow 


Vision  Third.     T lie  Lady  of  the  Castle. 

That  drops  no  flake,  diffusing  o'er  the  wide 
Expanse  of  air  and  ether,  all  one  blue, 
Coolness  delightful,  such  as  ever  dwells 
Among  the  glades  of  an  umbrageous  wood. 

But  why  so  mournful  Castle-Unimore  ? 
One  huge  dark  Shadow  in  the  light,  it  seems 
Disconsolate,  as  if  its  dreary  towers 
Would  not  be  comforted,  and  in  their  woe 
Of  desolate  desertion,  sullenly 
The  sun  repelling  with  a  frown  of  scorn. 
Tomblike  it  stands  in  its  black  grove  of  pines  ; 
A  grove  that  bears  on  its  majestic  growth 
The  silence  and  the  storms  of  centuries; 
Yet  see !  its  plain-like  summit  half-way  lies, 
And  hardly  half-way,  with  its  heronry 
Between  the  rock-base  and  the  battlements, 
Breaking,  but  lessening  not  the  regal  height. 

What  ailcth  the  old  Castle  ?  Not  of  yore 
Thus  was  she  wont,  in  the  refulgent  day 
To  look  as  gloomy  as  some  burial-place, 
As  silent.     Rising  o'er  the  mountain-top 
Oft  did  the  Sun  behold  her  glorious 
With  bright  broad  banners  waiting  for  the  wind, 
And  heard  her  pipes  a-dinning  mid  the  dawn 
The  Gathering  of  the  Clans ;  while  plaid  and  plume 
Came  issuing  from  the  mists,  and  form'd  array 
Heroic,  on  the  greensward  esplanade 
Flung  up  in  front  of  all  her  iron  towers 
By  some  strong  earthquake.    Castle-Unimore 
Was  then  the  Heart  of  Morven,  and  it  beat 
So  high  in  pride,  that  the  remotest  glens 
Were  gladden'd,  and  the  deer  upon  the  hill 
Went  belling  fiercely,  even  as  if  they  knew 
Their  forest  chase  belong'd  unto  a  Chief 
Whom  all  the  Highlands  loved,  and  chosen  bards 
Did  celebrate,  the  Brave  and  Beautiful, 
Of  War  the  Whirlwind,  and  the  Calm  of  Peace. 

He  died  !  Where  ?  On  the  bloody  sand.    And  how  ? 
Thrust  through  by  many  bayonets— by  hoofs 
Trampled  of  that  oft-charging  cavalry, 
That  under  cover  of  the  cannonade 
Came  whirlwind-like  among  the  clouds  of  smoke, 
And  laid  a  line  of  lofty  plumage  low 
To  wave  no  more,  and  many  a  noble  face 
All  featureless  and  blind  unto  the  sun 
Left  ghastly.    With  the  Chieftain  all  his  Clan 
Perish' d,  all  but  a  few  red  broken  waves 
That  tempest-driven,  and  scatter' d  into  spray, 
Seem'd  from  the  battle-sea  to  disappear  f 

The  Lily  of  Lochaber, — so  his  Bride, 
The  morning  she  was  brought  by  Unimore 
To  the  bright  glens  of  Morven,  by  the  Clan 
Had  lovingly  been  named, — and  still  the  name 
Belong'd  to  her,  though  the  tall  stalk  was  broken, 
The  leaf  pale,  and  flower  faded, — hung  her  head, 
Just  like  a  lily  trodden  under  foot, 
That  lives  and  still  is  fair  among  the  moss, 
But  daily  dimmer  in  its  withering. 


146  Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Highlands.  [Aug. 

All  fear'd  that  she  would  die ;  but  from  the  dust 
Springeth  the  crush'd  flower,  by  pure  dews  benign 
Encouraged  and  empower'd  once  more  to  face 
The  Sun,  and  wave  her  lovely  locks  in  heaven. 
Out  of  the  Castle's  long-unopen'd  gate 
Again  she  walked  forth  in  her  widowhood 
Down  the  Great  Glen  up  which  she  came  a  Bride, 
And  by  her  steps  there  walk'd  the  gallant  boy 
Call'd  the  Cliff-Climber,  for  his  passion  was 
To  be  with  the  young  eagles  in  the  clouds. 
Morven  beheld  again  her  Unimore ; 
And  glad  was  she  that  for  the  scythe  of  War 
That  flower  had  been  unripe,  or  on  that  day 
In  far-off  fight  he  with  his  sire  had  stood, 
And  with  his  Sire  had  fallen. 

Years  on  years 

Past  by,  and  he  became  a  stately  Tree, 
Conspicuous  from  afar,  beneath  whose  shade 
Sat  Safety ;  and  the  Clan,  to  strength  restored, 
Round  Castle-Unimore  their  battle-cry 
Awoke  again,  and  all  their  war-pipes  yell'd, 
Drowning  the  waterfalls,  Revenge,  revenge  ! 
But  a  strange  son  was  he  of  such  a  sire  ! 
Moody  and  wild,  and  with  large  restless  eyes 
Coalblack  and  lamping,  through  the  loneliest  woods 
He  took  to  wandering  by  himself,  by  night 
More  than  by  day,  and  out  of  savage  caves 
Was  sometimes  seen  to  issue,  when  the  storm 
Mist-driving  swept  the  howling  precipice. 
Different  but  undegenerate  from  his  sires, 
His  soul  was  not  with  Morven.    From  her  cliffs, 
Like  strong-wing'd  Osprey  looking  out  for  prey, 
Stone-still  one  moment,  and  the  next  light-swift, 
He  gazed  afar,  and  wish'd  those  plumes  were  his 
Which  through  the  skies  go  sughing ;  that  in  him 
Might  be  fulfilled  the  ancient  prophecy 
Sung  by  the  Seer  in  the  wilderness, 
"  That  from  his  eyry  built  on  Unimore, 
(One  name  to  castle,  mountain,  moor,  and  loch,) 
Would  fly  forth  the  Sea-Eagle  o'er  the  isles ; 
And  home-returning  after  many  suns, 
Would  fold  awhile  among  his  native  cliffs, 
Fresh-imp'd  and  full  of  flight  his  glorious  wings ; 
Till  driven  away  by  some  calamity 
Cloud-hidden  as  the  unborn  hurricane, 
His  broad  vans  from  the  mountain-top  uplifting 
The  Bird  once  more  his  airy  life  would  wheel 
Far  o'er  the  sea-rim,  and  when  ocean 
Had  girdled  been  by  his  victorious  flight, 
Return  would  he,  dim  generations  dead, 
And  perish  somewhere,  all  his  plumage  torn 
And  rotten  in  old  age,  among  the  cliffs 
Whence  first  he  shot  and  sounded  through  the  sky !" 

One  summer-dawn  all  by  himself  he  sail'd 
Away  in  his  small  skiff,  and  never  more 
Was  seen  in  Morven.    Passion  for  the  sea, 
By  the  black  billows  and  the  hollow  winds 
Had  on  that  Loch  been  blown  into  the  heart 
Of  one  by  nature  for  adventures  born 
Perilous  and  far  ;  and  in  delirium 
Of  wild  imagination  stormwards  borne 


183l.]  Vision  Third.     The  Lady  of  the  Castle.  147 

Into  the  howling  bosom  of  the  Main, 

The  mountaineer  no  beauty  in  his  glens 

Saw,  stretch'd  afar  in  their  still  steadfastness ; 

But  saw  all  beauty  in  the  glens  afloat 

When  seas  are  running  mountains  high,  and  ships 

Descending  and  ascending  gloriously, 

Dallying  with  danger  and  in  love  with  death. 

Bound  for  an  Indian  isle,  a  ship  of  war 
Sail'd,  the  Saldanha,  and  young  Unimore 
From  the  mast-head  survey'd  a  glorious  sea 
With  new  stars  crowded,  lustrous  far  beyond 
The  dim  lights  of  his  native  clime.     His  soul 
Had  its  desire,  when,  blowing  steadily, 
The  breezes  of  the  tropics  fiU'd  her  sails 
Propitious,  and  the  joyful  Vessel  seem'd 
At  her  own  will  to  steer  her  own  lone  way 
Along  her  own  dominion  ;  or  when  calms 
Enchain'd  her  with  her  shadow  in  the  sun, 
As  for  a  day  of  Sabbath  rest, — or  when 
The  black  blast  all  at  once  her  snow-white  sails 
Smote,  till  she  laid  her  streamer' d  glory  down 
Almost  on  level  with  the  deep,  then  rose 
Majestically  back  into  the  storm, 
And  through  the  roar  went  roaring,  not  a  reef 
Ta'en  in,  for  well  did  the  Saldanha  love 
To  see  the  lambent  lightning  sport  and  play 
Round  her  top-gallant,  while  a  cataract 
Of  foam,  split  by  her  prow,  went  rolling  by 
Her  flashing  sides,  and  league-long  in  her  wake 
Tumulted  the  Ocean. 

Many  a  widow'd  tear 
His  Lady-Mother  shed  for  him  in  vain. 
For  after  dismal  silence  fill'd  with  dreams, 
Uncertain  rumours  flew  from  port  to  port, 
And  penetrated,  like  the  plague,  to  homes 
Among  the  mountain-depths — She  had  gone  down, 
'Twas  said,  at  sea,  gone  down  with  all  her  crew. 
Drift-wood  picked  up  upon  the  Indian  shore 
Told  the  Saldanha's  death ;  and  savages, 
Fierce  Malays,  with  their  creases,  boarding  there 
A  native  trader,  other  weapons  shewed 
That  once  belong'd  to  that  ill-fated  ship. 
Rumours  ere  long  were  rife  of  mutineers 
Scuttling  the  ship,  and  that  her  boats  were  seen 
When  she  was  sinking,  making  for  the  shore 
In  spite  of  all  her  shrieks — but  dismal  tales 
Fly  fast  and  far  still  gathering  misery, 
Reddening  with  fouler  blood-streaks,  till  the  eyes 
Of  horror  have  been  feasted,  and  her  ears 
Sated  with  crime  and  death ! 

But  never  more 

Was  the  Saldanha  heard  of,  nor  her  crew- 
Forgotten  the  lost  ship  with  all  her  ghosts. 

Nightlike  blank  blindness  fell  upon  the  soul 
Of  her  the  childless  widow,  black  as  death. 
So  lay  she  motionless  for  two  long  years, 
Nor  saw  nor  heard  one  living  thing,  the  grave 
Not  stiller,  nor  the  bones  that  lie  therein. 
But  wondrous  is  the  principle  of  life, 


148  Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Hiyhlands.  [.Aug. 

And  she  lived  on.   She  breathed,  and  breathed,  and  breathed ; 

And  sometimes  from  her  hollow  breast  she  drew, 

So  said  the  watchers,  a  heart-breaking  sigh 

From  a  heart  broken,  lengthening  piteously 

As  if  it  ne'er  would  end.    But  some  new  change 

Took  place  within  her  brain,  and  she  awoke 

One  morning  with  unclouded  memory, 

And  said,  "  I  know  our  Unimore  is  drown'd!" 

Then  came  long  years  of  hope,  of  dismal  hope, 
Dying  one  day,  and  on  another  bright 
As  madness;  for  Imagination  dreams 
Of  wild  impossibilities,  and  Love 
Will  borrow  for  a  time  the  eagle's  wings 
To  sweep  the  isles  and  rocks,  and  finding  not 
What  she  seeks  there,  the  long-lost  beautiful, 
Goes  down  into  the  caverns  01  the  sea, 
Commanding  them  to  render  up  their  dead. 
So  fared  it  with  this  lady — and  a  Ship 
Sometime  she  saw  come  sailing  up  the  Loch, 
And  call' d  on  all  the  Castle  to  behold 
Her  Unimore's  return.     Then  with  a  smile 
Pressing  her  pale  hand  on  her  forehead  wan, 
Of  Godshe  asked  forgiveness,  and  knelt  doAvn 
Into  a  sobbing  prayer. 

On  tales  she  fed 

Of  battle  and  of  shipwreck,  and  of  boats 
Like  insect-covered  leaves  for  weeks  afloat 
On  the  wide  sea,  all  dropping  one  by  one 
The  famish'd  sailors,  some  delirious, 
From  the  frail  bark — and  of  more  horrid  dooms ! 
In  all  his  shapes  she  madly  cursed  the  sea ; 
Yet  all  the  while  Life  held  her  Unimore. 
The  sea  was  innocent  of  his  decease ; 
Falsely  of  that  sin  hath  she  accused  the  waves ; 
The  shoals  and  rocks  are  guiltless,  though  they  love 
Beneath  the  vessel's  keel  to  lurk,  when  she 
Seems  in  immortal  beauty  sailing  on, 
Yet  in  the  sunshine  by  the  coral  cliff 
Smitten  with  sudden  death.    Her  curses  fall 
In  idle  agony  against  the  winds, 
Though  they  the  storm-proof  cables  vainly  called 
Do  split  like  gossamer,  when  some  ancbor'd  ship, 
As  by  a  sun-stroke  smitten  by  a  storm,  •  ..•<,  ' 

Drifts  shorewards  on  to  wreck ;  or  by  a  cloud, 
A  lurid  cloud,  no  bigger  at  the  first 
Than  a  man's  hand, — for  so  in  tropic  climes 
The  threatening  hurricane  lours  in  heaven, — 
Death-doom'd,  ere  Evening  shews  her  golden  star. 

So  dragg'd  the  dreary  years.    Sometimes  in  dreams, 
As  guilt  knows  well,  and  grief,  and  misery, 
An  apparition,  like  an  angel,  conies 
Gliding  from  heaven,  with  her  relieving  hands 
To  lift  the  leaden  burden  from  our  breast; 
When  all  at  once  her  dewy  eyes  grow  dim, 
Fades  her  celestial  face,  her  figure  melts 
Into  thin  air,  and  waking  in  our  wo, 
Our  souls  are  more  than  ever  desolate. 
Even  so  with  her  who  now  bewail'd  the  dead  ! 
Oft  Resignation  like  an  angel  came, 
Obedient  to  her  prayer  j  but  in  an  hour, 


Vision  Third.     The  Lady  of  the  Castle.  149 

Unwilling  any  longer  to  abide 

On  earth  with  that  poor  child  of  misery, 

With  mournful  beckonings  she  disappear'd 

Away  to  heaven — and  sometimes  in  the  gloom, 

Her  aspect  and  her  bearing  underwent 

To  those  distracted  eyes  a  mortal  change 

At  once  into  Despair ! 

O'er  Morven's  glen 

Did  Superstition  breathe  her  misty  dreams ; 
And  all  their  phantoms  into  that  dim  faith 
In  which  Love,  Grief,  and  Fear  will  comfort  find, 
When  Hope  itself  is  buried  in  the  sea, 
By  all  the  dwellers  in  the  wilderness 
Were  passionately  embraced.    Nor  think  it  strange 
The  Spiritual  should  have  its  separate  worlds. 
In  the  clear  sun-bright  and  unhaunted  sky 
That  canopies  the  common  earth,  it  sees 
All  it  believes ;  there  seems  no  mystery 
In  blade  or  leaf,  in  dewdrop  or  in  flower, 
And  our  unquestioning  souls  are  satisfied. 
But  through  the  outer  air  our  arrowy  eyes 
Pierce,  and  Religion  shews  th'  Invisible 
To  spirit  more  apparent  than  the  earth, 
Which  spurning  we  forget,  nor  know  it  is ; 
And  sometimes  through  those  self-same  regions  goes 
Imagination,  on  her  own  wild  wings, 
And  with  her  own  wild  eyes  disturbing  all 
She  dreams  or  looks  on,  till  with  ghosts  are  rife 
The  visionary  kingdoms  of  the  air, 
And  God's  dominion  made  most  terrible ; 
To  Superstition  doth  Religion  turn, 
Into  a  curse  a  blessing,  or  at  best 
A  dreary,  dim,  delirious  comforting, 
In  which  the  paths  sublime  of  Providence, 
That  run  in  great  lines,  black,  or  bright,  or  broken, 
Magnificent  along  the  mighty  sky, 
Are  brought  down  from  the  Region  to  the  earth 
Where  we  poor  wretches  crawl,  and  all  confused 
Into  a  moaning,  mean  bewilderment, 
We  cry,  "  Behold !  believe  the  Scheme  of  God !" 

No  wonder,  dreaming  of  her  Unimore, 
Of  life,  of  death,  of  burial,  of  a  corpse 
Sunk  in  the  sands  or  weltering  on  the  waves, 
Or  in  the  desert  dust  a  skeleton, 
Or  lying  mangled  with  those  beauteous  limbs 
Where  round  their  great  fires  dance  the  cannibals ; 
No  wonder  the  heart-broken  maniac  saw, — 
And  though  she  knew  it  not,  at  times  she  was 
Indeed  a  maniac, — saw  whatever  sights 
Her  soul  in  its  delirium  chose  to  see  ; 
That  in  recoil  from  its  worst  agonies 
It  sunk  away  in  superstitious  dreams 
Idle  and  fond,  yet  not  unlovely  oft 
And  all  aerial,  nature's  poetry 
When  Inspiration  breathes  on  lonely  Grief. 
From  Linnhe-Loch  unto  the  Hebride  isles 
Strange  tales  were  floating  of  young  Unimore 
Seen  in  his  skiff  by  moonlight,  all  alone 
But  for  one  lady  singing  at  his  side 
Music  that  warbled  like  the  voice  of  shells ; 
And  wonder-loving  Fancy  called  the  Shape 


150  Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Highlands.  [Aug. 

Melodious  in  its  fleeting  beauty  dim, 
The  Lady  of  the  Sea! 

O  weak  of  faith ! 

Who,  in  that  desolation  of  her  soul, 
Turn'd  not  to  God,  and  to  the  Son  of  God, 
And  in  their  Word  found  joy.     She  turn'd  to  both, 
Prostrate  ;  but  both  refused  to  hear  her  cry. 
From  the  deaf  earth,  and  the  remorseless  sea, 
Her  misery  now  asked  nothing;  but  of  heaven 
She  asked  for  peace ;  and  there  did  come  from  heaven 
No  answer ;  then  she  prayed  imploringly 
For  death,  and  stronger  in  her  bosom  burned 
The  fire  of  life ;  all  prayers  were  heard  but  hers ; 
Of  all  poor  creatures  she  alone  was  left 
To  pine  unpitied  with  a  broken  heart ! 
She  clasped,  she  kissed,  and  when  that  she  could  weep, 
With  tears  she  washed  the  crucifix ;  but  cold, 
Oh !  cold  and  hard  to  lip  and  bosom  now 
That  image !  whose  dear  touch,  once  so  divine, 
Did  fill  her  soul  with  bliss  ineffable. 
Then  of  God's  very  being,  and  his  Son's, 
Doubt  grew  out  of  despair.    The  Merciful 
Was  but  a  name — a  mockeiy ;  Jesus'  self 
A  mortal  man,  no  more ;  the  Bible  black 
With  drear  delusion ;  and  the  narrow  house 
Appointed  for  all  living,  dismal  name 
The  grave  !  what  was  it  but  an  earthern  dark, 
Vain  tears  aye  swallowing  up,  and  vainer  prayers, 
Still  drenched  and  still  insatiate ;  from  whose  jaws 
Ne'er  shall  the  dust,  misnamed  a  soul,  arise. 

O  mortal  man !  whose  troubled  days  are  few, 
And  yet  can  hold  within  their  little  span 
Unnumbered  miseries ;  or  with  one  wild  wo, 
As  if  it  were  a  ghost  no  spell  can  lay, 
Not  even  the  cross  of  Christ,  may  day  and  night 
Be  haunted,  till  the  dreariness  of  Time 
Doth  seem  Eternity;  condemn  not  her 
Who  in  her  sore  distraction  thus  denied 
Her  Saviour !     He  beside  the  throne  in  heaven, 
Did  pity  her  for  whom  on  earth  He  died, 
And  sent  two  Blessed  Spirits  at  her  bed 
To  minister !     Of  mortal  mould  were  they, 
But  innocent  as  saints,  as  angels  fair. 
And  when,  out  of  the  windows  of  the  cell 
Of  its  insanity,  her  stricken  soul 
Look'd  on  their  heavenly  faces  and  their  eyes, 
After  a  little  while,  dismay  subsiding 
Into  sweet  awe,  and  awe  into  delight, 
And  then  delight  into  exceeding  love, 
It  was  made  whole  !    Then  did  Religion, 
Like  a  scared  dove  returning  to  her  nest, 
Glide  back  into  the  silence  of  her  heart. 
Into  diviner  holiness  revived 
All  thoughts  that  had  been  holy,  and  all  things 
That  had  been  sacred  into  sanctity 
More  sacred  still ;  and,  as  upon  her  knees 
Weeping  she  sank  before  the  Crucifix 
Between  her  daughters,  so  she  still  did  call 
The  duteous  beings,  all  the  Saints  in  heaven 
Rejoiced  to  hear  them  at  their  orisons. 


1881.]  Vision  Fourth.     The  Sisters.  151 

VISION  FOURTH. 
THE  SISTERS. 

Two  Spirits  at  the  childless  widow's  bed, 
Childless  no  more,  have  by  the  pitying  heavena 
Been  sent  to  minister ;  and  where  do  they, 
In  hut  or  shieling,  in  the  central  gloom 
Of  woods,  or  on  the  mountain's  secret  top 
Now  linger  ?   With  bright  rays  of  happiness, 
Kindling  a  fire  upon  the  poor  man's  hearth, 
Or  lending  lustre  unto  nature's  light, 
Unto  her  shade  a  sweeter  pensiveness  ? 
For  life  and  nature  love  their  presence ;  life 
Relieved  by  the  white  hands  of  charity, 
And  nature  in  her  desert  places  made 
Beneath  their  eyes  to  blossom  like  the  rose ! 

Lo !  down  the  glen  they  come,  the  long  blue  glen- 
Far  off  enveloped  in  aerial  haze 
Almost  a  mist,  smooth  gliding  without  step, 
So  seems  it,  o'er  the  greensward,  shadow-like, 
"With  light  alternating,  till  hand  in  hand 
Upon  a  knoll,  distinctly  visible, 
The  sisters  stand  awhile,  then  lay  them  down 
Among  a  weeping  birch-tree's  whisperings, 
Like  fawns,  and  fix  their  mild  eyes  steadfastly 
Upon  the  clouded  loch ! 

One  face  is  pale 

In  its  own  pensiveness,  but  paler  seems 
Beneath  the  nun-like  braidings  of  that  hair 
So  softly  black,  accordant  with  the  calm 
Divine  that  on  her  melancholy  brow 
Keeps  deepening  with  her  dreams !    The  other  bright, 
As  if  in  ecstasies,  and  brighter  glows 
In  rivalry  of  all  those  sun-loved  locks, 
Like  gold  wire  glittering,  in  the  breath  of  joy 
Afloat,  on  her  smooth  forehead  momently 
Kindling  with  gladder  smile-light.    Those  dark  eyes ! 
With  depths  profound,  down  which  the  more  you  gaze, 
Stiller  and  stiller  seems  the  spiritual  world 
That  lies  sphered  in  their  wondrous  orbs,  beyond 
New  thoughtful  regions  opening  far  beyond, 
And  all  embued  with  the  deep  hush  of  heaven. 
There  quiet  clouds,  there  glimpses  quieter 
Of  stainless  ether,  in  its  purity 
There  a  lone  star  !    But  other  eyes  are  swimming 
With  such  a  lovely,  such  a  loving  light, 
Breathed  o'er  their  surface,  imperceptible 
The  colour  of  the  iris  lost  awhile 
In  its  own  beauty,  and  then  all  at  once 
Perceived  to  be,  as  some  faint  fleeting  cloud 
Doth  for  a  moment  overshadow  them, 
Of  that  same  hue  in  which  the  heaven  delights, 
And  earth  religious  looking  up  to  heaven 
In  unwill'd  happiness ;  when  Awe  retires, 
In  some  dim  cave  her  mute  solemnities 
To  lead  along  unwitness'd,  and  abroad 
O'er  hill  and  valley  hymning  as  they  go, 
In  worship  of  glad  Nature,  Joy  and  Love 
Stand  side  by  side  upon  the  mountain-top. 


152  Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Highlands. 

Them  roaming  o'er  the  wilderness,  the  Bard 
Whose  genius  gives  unto  his  native  glens 
A  beauty  and  a  glory  not  their  own, 
Peopling  the  mists  with  phantoms,  the  wild  Bard 
Whom  Morven,  in  her  sacred  memories 
Dreaming  of  Ossian,  aye  will  link  with  pride 
To  that  great  Son  of  Song,  saw  from  the  cliff 
Whence,  like  an  eagle  from  his  eyry,  he 
Look'd  in  his  inspiration  far  and  Avide 
O'er  the  black  heather  in  its  purple  bloom ; 
And  hi  his  many-measured  odes  and  hymns, 
To  sunshine  calms  and  storms  of  thunder-gloom 
Did  celebrate  their  virtues,  and  the  Forms 
In  which  they  were  enshrined — oh  grief  of  griefs ! 

That  Heaven  sliould  ever  steal  them  from  the  earth ! 

. 

"  Like  the  May-Morning," — so  that  Poet  sang 
In  Gaelic  lyrics  untranslateable, — 
"  Is  she  the  younger  Sister,  when  uie  sun 
With  dropping  flowers  adorns  his  dewy  hair; 
And  with  a  roseate  robe  of  light,  the  God 
Involves  his  silent  feet  how  beautiful 
Upon  the  mountains  !  She  the  while,  his  Bride, 
Veil'd  with  fine  shadows  that  may  not  conceal 
Love  blushes  kindled  by  the  genial  eye 
That  overcomes  all  Nature,  murmurs  low, 
As  if  awaking  in  her  innocence 
From  sleep  into  a  more  delightful  world 
Than  sleep  e'er  dreamt,  a  song  that  sounds  at  first 
Like  that  of  living  water  from  some  spring 
Soft,  softly  welling,  till  her  virgin  fears 
Becalm' d  by  her  own  gracious  Luminary, 
She  unreluctant  meets  her  lord's  embrace 
In  their  still  cloud-pavilion,  while  from  woods 
And  cliffs,  and  lochs  and  seas,  fair  flights  of  birds 
Rise  circling  in  the  air  around  their  bliss, 
And  the  song-gifted,  Nature's  choristers, 
In  deep  dells,  naif- way  up  the  mountain-side, 
All  rustling  restlessly,  till  earth  and  sky 
Is  music  all,  their  hymeneal  sing." 

"  Or  look  ye  on  the  Rainbow" — so  he  sang 
That  wild-eyed  bard,  sole-sitting  on  his  rock, 
There  haunted  by  all  loveliest  images — 
"  Oh !  look  ye  on  the  Rainbow,  in  its  first 
Exceeding  faintness,  like  a  rising;  Thought, 
Or  a  fine  Feeling  of  the  Beautiful, 
An  Evanescence  !  So  you  fear  must  be 
The  slight-tinged  silence  of  the  showery  sky, 
Nor  yet  dare  name  its  name ;  till  breathing  out 
Into  such  colours  as  may  not  deceive, 
And  undelusive  in  their  heavenliness, 
O'er  all  the  hues  that  happy  Nature  knows 
Although  it  be  the  gentlest  of  them  all 
Prevailing  the  celestial  violet, 
To  eyes  by  beauty  made  religious,  lo  ! 
Brightening  the  house  by  God  inhabited, 
The  full-form'd  Rainbow  glows  !  Beneath  her  arch 
The  glittering  earth  once  more  is  paradise ; 
Nor  sin  nor  sorrow  hath  her  dwelling  there, 
Nor  death  ;  but  an  immortal  happiness 
For  us  made  angels  I  Swifter  than  a  dream 


ilj  Vision  Fourth.     The  Sisters.  153 

It  fades— it  flies— and  we  and  this  our  eartli 
Are  disenchanted  back  to  mortal  life  ; 
Earth  to  its  gloom,  we  to  our  miseries. 
So  may  that  Virgin  like  the  Rainbow  die !" 

Then  sang  the  poet — "  Different  as  is  Morn 
From  Night,  with  day's  bright  joyance  dreamt  between 
And  Eve's  dim  meekness,  yet,  when  summer  treads 
The  pathway  of  the  spriug,  the  same  in  both 
The  spirit  of  pervading  purity, 
Their  gentleness  the  same  ;  even  so  is  She, 
The  blue-eyed  Sister  with  the  golden  hair, 
In  beauty  kindred,  as  in  birth,  with  Her 
Whose  locks  are  only  darker  than  her  eyes, 
Where  joy  resembles  grief !  Then  image  Tl?ou, 
O  Night !  aye  melancholy  in  thy  bliss, 
That  raven-tressed  Lady.    Thou  who  walk'at 
With  silent  steps  the  sky,  then  loveliest  sure 
For  most  serenely  sim^.  ,  when  the  moon 
Needs  no  star-train  to  light  thy  visage  up, 
Herself,  perhaps  one  planet  burning  near, 
To  Thee,  oh  Night !  in  thy  still  pensiveness 
Sufficient  beauty  for  the  whole  of  heaven ! 

"  And  there  are  Rainbows,  lady !  like  to  thee. 
Lo  !  on  the  soft  spray  of  the  waterfall, 
The  lovely  lunar  phantom  !  All  at  once, 
No  warning  given  by  some  uncertain  light, 
The  Apparition  spans  the  black  abyss, 
And  it  is  lustrous;  Fancy  dreams  she  sees 
A  golden  palace  rise ;  the  gorgeous  Avails 
Are  pictured  o'er  with  mosses  many-died ; 
Bright  as  in  day  the  clustering  wild-flowers  hang, 
Only  their  glory  softer ;  and  such  trees 
Outstanding  there  in  green  and  yellow  air, 
As  if  their  leaves  and  branches  delicate 
Were  of  that  air  composed,  in  some  sweet  clime 
May  well  be  growing,  where  no  sunshine  comes, 
But  bathed  by  moonlight  in  perpetual  peace  ! 
That  Lunar  Rainbow  on  the  water-flow 
Smiles,  fades,  and  dies — and  such  thy  doom  may  be." 

Oh !  mourn  not,  that  in  nature  transitory 
Are  all  her  fairest  and  her  loveliest  things ; 
And  frail  the  tenure  as  a  web  of  dew 
By  which  they  hold  to  life.     For  therein  lies 
The  might  of  the  refulgent  rose,  the  power 
Of  the  pale  lily's  leaf.    The  sweetest  smile 
That  glides  along  the  face  of  innocence 
Is  still  the  saddest,  and  the  sadness  comes 
From  dim  forebodings  of  an  early  death. 
Those  sudden  goings-down  into  the  grave 
Of  the  young  beautiful,  do  sanctify 
The  light  surviving  in  the  precious  orbs 
Of  eyes  permitted  yet  awhile  to  shine  ; 
And  fathers  seeing  in  their  daughters'  eyes 
A  cloudless  heaven  of  sweet  affection, 
Sometimes  will  shudder,  as  they  think  upon, 
They  know  not  why,  a  Maiden's  Funeral ! 

Like  Shadows  in  the  sunshine,  softening  all 
We  look  on,  till  we  love  it,  and  revealing 

VOL,  XXX.  NO.  CLXXXIII.  L 


154  Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Highlands.  [Aug. 

Fair  sights  in  dimness  only  visible, 

Now  fall  such  mournful  thoughts  upon  the  heads 

Of  these  Twin-Orphans,  and  their  character 

Opens  before  us  in  a  holier  light 

Congenial  with  their  beauty,  both  divine. 

Orphans  they  have  been  since  the  hour  of  birth ; 

Soon  as  their  mother  knew  that  they  were  born, 

And  as  her  eyes  could  see  them,  did  she  die. 

Of  seven  bright  brothers  that  for  their  country  fell, 

The  brightest  he  who  one  short  year  before 

Had  made  her  his  blest  bride.     A  broken  heart 

She  might  have  had ;  but  of  a  broken  heart 

It  was  not  that  she  died.     Consumption  prey'd 

On  her  pure  blood  with  a  low-burning  fire 

Unquenchable,  and  nature's  holy  law, 

For  sake  of  that  sweet  offspring,  did  allow 

The  beatings  of  her  heart  to  linger  on, 

After  her  pulse  was  imperceptible, 

And  some  fear'd  she  was  dead.     The  infants  grew, 

Flowers  not  untended,  orphans  though  they  were, 

Their  mother's  mother  was  their  guardian, 

Into  the  loveliest  children  ever  seen, 

(Such  whisper  came  from  all  who  look'd  on  them) 

So  like  to  one  another  in  all  things, 

Lips,  cheeks,  eyes,  forehead,  figure,  motion,  voice, 

That,  when  the  one  was  absent,  few  could  tell 

The  other's  name ;  but  when  they  smiling  stood 

Together  side  by  side,  and  hand  in  hand, 

Proud  in  their  glee  of  such  comparisons, 

There  was  new  beauty  in  the  difference 

Which  even  then  was  rather  felt  than  seen, 

And  left  to  each  an  equal  share  of  love. 

But  as  the  light  of  childhood  waned  away 
From  their  expanding  foreheads,  the  fair  Twins, 
No  more  before  affection's  eyes  confused 
In  such  intense  similitude,  stood  out 
In  the  clear  air,  each  clothed  with  loveliness 
Unto  herself  peculiar  j  liker  still 
Than  other  sisters,  and  at  times  as  like 
Almost  as  ever ;  most  so  when  they  pray'd  ; 
And  wondrous  like  when  they  together  sang, 
Each  with  a  white  arm  on  the  other's  neck, 
The  gladdest  words  to  melancholy  tunes, 
Or  listen'd  to  some  story  of  distress, 
Or  gave  together  alms  unto  the  poor. 

Their  guardian  died,  and  in  calm  grief  they  gazed 
Upon  her  grave,  and  then  look'd  up  to  heaven. 
On  !  kith  and  kin  !  ye  are  but  homely  names, 
Homely,  and  therefore  holy.     Few  are  they, 
Alas !  who  in  this  hard  world  choose  to  care, 
Themselves  surrounded  with  all  happiness, 
Ever  so  little  for  the  orphan's  head. 
Icecold  the  hand  misnamed  of  Charity,   * 
That  while  some  common  want  it  half  relieves, 
Doth  chill  the  blood  in  the  receiver's  heart, 
Making  a  sin  of  gratitude  ! 

Rise  up ! 

Rise  up  !  ye  Orphans,  from  your  dreamy  bliss, 
Among  the  weeping  birch-tree's  whisperings, 


]  83 1.1  Vision  Fourth.     The  Sisters. 

Fair  Spirits  of  the  Wilderness  !  Oh  !  fair 
Saints  of  the  Altar !  Nature  calls  on  you 
To  vindicate  from  wrong  the  human  heart ! 

On  you  ne'er  frowned  the  hard-eyed  world ;  on  you, 

As  soon  as  Love  expired,  did  Pity  fix 

Her  dewy  eyes ;  and  from  the  city's  din, 

The  day  that  saw  you  at  the  Funeral, 

Walking  and  weeping,  all  array'd  in  white, 

Beside  the  sable  pall,  saw  you  convey'd 

Wondering  away  to  far-off  Unimore  ! 

A  place,  in  your  imagination  from  this  world 

Seeming  withdrawn,  mid  the  sweet  dash  of  waves 

Familiar  music  grown  ere  daylight  died. 

And  ere  the  moon  had  twice  beheld  her  bow 

In  the  calm  sea,  your  gentle  voyaging 

Ceased  softly  in  among  the  loveliest  groves 

Of  woody  Morven,  while  the  anchor  dropp'd 

Down  in  deep  water  close  unto  the  shore, 

And  bound  the  wearied  vessel  to  her  rest, 

Left  by  herself  among  reflected  stars. 

How  sweet  the  smile  upon  the  mournful  face 
That  in  the  gloomy  Castle  welcom'd  you, 
And  with  no  other  bidding  brought  your  lips 
To  meet  the  lips  that  breathed  those  kisses  calm 
Through  both  your  hearts,  ere  the  soft  touch  was  gone, 
O'erflow'd  with  filial  love  !    Ye  knew  not  why 
So  sad  those  eyes,  and  why  those  cheeks  so  pale  ! 
And  yet  not  unacquainted,  though  so  young, 
Were  ye  with  grief,  and  in  your  innocence 
Saw  further  far  into  that  Lady's  heart 
Than  ye  did  know  in  your  simplicity. 
In  sacred  memory  holding  still  the  dead, 
.  Soon  to  that  Lady  did  ye  both  transfer 
The  deep  affection  that  doth  never  die 
On  earth,  when  its  first  object  goes  to  heaven, 
But  gaining  power  from  pity,  and  on  tears 
Feeding  itself  doth  shed,  grows  every  hour 
In  its  composure  fuller  of  delight, 
And  in  delight  all  holy  acts  performs 
Of  duty,  to  the  cold  heart  difficult, 
As  easily  as  it  doth  draw  its  breath, 
And  as  unconsciously.    The  whole  of  life 
As  pious  as  the  hour  employ'd  in  prayer. 

"  She  is  our  father's  sister."     That  one  thought, 
Although  your  father  died  ere  ye  were  born, 
Stirr'd  all  your  being  up,  till  feelings  flow'd, 
Like  many  a  little  rill  from  unknown  springs 
Trickling  their  way,  through  flowery  herbage  green 
To  one  still  stream  that  gives  them  all  a  name, 
And  now  that  name  is  Love. 

O  Creatures  fair ! 

And  innocent  as  fair !  and  spiritual-bright 
As  innocent !  oh !  that  your  dreams  were  ours, 
For  ye  communion  hold  with  highest  Heaven ! 


166  Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Highlands.  [Aug. 

VISION  FIFTH. 
THE  ORATORY. 

THEY  rise  from  dreams,  and  towards  the  Castle  glide, 
Across  the  rills,  where  many  a  lucid  pool 
Reflects  their  figures,  for  a  moment  seen 
Like  water  nymphs  ;  still  gathering  as  they  go 
Delight  from  silence,  and  a  mutual  love 
From  that  partaken  delight.     By  nature's  joy 
Their  hearts  have  now  been  strengthen'd,  and  they  yearn 
For  duty's  mournful  sanctities,  perform'd 
Then  best,  when  from  permitted  happiness, 
Her  face  still  smiling,  Innocence  retires 
With  footsteps  hush'd  disturbing  not  the  hush, 
A  cup  of  healing  though  'tis  fill'd  with  tears 
In  her  angelical  hands,  to  minister 
Around  the  bed  of  Grief! 

This  is  the  day, 

However  bright  it  shine  in  showerless  heaven, 
Wet  in  the  melancholy  glen  below 
With  showers  of  tears,  a  Sabbath  dedicate 
To  Sorrow,  Queen  of  Life,  who  reigns  o'er  all ; 
To  whom  that  childless  mother  pays  her  vows 
Incessantly,  nor  worships  aught  beside ; 
But  this  is  her  great  Festival ;  ten  years 
Have  bathed  and  steep'd  it  in  religion,  kept 
As  hopeless  love's  own  Anniversary 
Of  her  son's  disappearance  from  her  eyes 
Away  to  some  wild  death.    'Tis  near  the  hour 
When  she,  now  palsy-stricken,  on  her  bed, 
With  gentlest  motion  will  be  borne  along 
By  reverent  hands  unto  the  Oratory 
Built  on  a  consecrated  rock  of  old, 
Within  a  dell  close  to  the  Ca'stle-walls, 
Yet  of  all  lonesome  places  in  this  world 
Most  lonesome ;  such  the  depth  of  shaggy  cliffs 
Hawk-haunted,  overarching ;  one  blue  glimpse 
Cross'd  by  a  cloud  upon  the  clearest  day 
All  you  can  see,  when  gazing  from  below 
In  search  of  the  far  intercepted  sky ! 

Wide  open  standeth  the  great  Castle  door, 
And  out  into  the  sunshine  solemnly 
The  still  Procession  moves.    The  lady  lies 
Outstretch'd  and  motionless  upon  her  Bier, 
With  folded  hands  and  her  face  up  to  heaven, 
Clothed  in  white  raiment  like  a  very  shroud, 
Herself  most  like  the  dead.    But  iu  her  eyes 
The  spirit  of  life !  and  blent  divinely  there 
Another  spirit,  religion,  piety, 
That  makes  her  pallid  aspect  beautiful, 
And  as  an  angel's  bright.    The  Crucifix 
Is  on  her  breast,  between  her  wither' d  hands 
That  slightly  tremble — and  you  see  her  lips 
Moving,  as  if  in  prayer — All  else  is  still ! 
Before  the  Bier,  with  long  locks  like  the  snow 
A  holy  man  is  walking;  in  his  hand 
A  holy  hook ;  the  Priest  who  all  his  days, 
While  generations  have  been  blown  away 


Vision  Fifth.     The  Oratory. 

By  war  in  foreign  lands,  or  in  this  glen 

Faded  in  peace,  within  these  Castle  walls 

Hath  lived,  and  taught  unto  the  Shadows  there 

The  truths  eternal  realized  in  heaven. 

By  each  side  of  the  Bier  a  Spirit  walks, 

In  shape  of  these  Twin-Sisters  ;  and  they  turn       ;  m  I' 

At  times  their  sad-eyed  faces  tenderly  ,(j  w^A 

To  her  who  thereon  lies,  but  shed  no  tears, 

For  undisturb'd  are  they  in  pity's  well. 

And  who  are  the  bier-bearers  ?  Men  who  fought, 

That  fatal  day  her  hero-husband  fell, 

Fast  by  their  chief,  and  did  oppose  their  breasts 

To  shield  him  from  the  bayonets  ;  but  all 

In  vain.    Their  grizzled  heads  are  bare  ;  the  plumes, 

Worn  since  that  day  in  melancholy  pride,  ,  lKt 

Lying  somewhere  in  darkness  ;  on  they  go, 

Aged,  but  strong,  and  with  a  stately  step        .-nOo  qat  A 

Subdued  by  pity  and  sorrow;  such  a  step      ••vznR  • 

As  long  ago,  to  them  but  yesterday, 

They  walked  with,  bearing  from  the  battle-field 

The  body  of  their  chieftain,  while  a  pipe, 

One  solitary  pipe,  on  foreign  shores,  ,0  j]  jfl^hcf  t<myroH 

Sounded  the  coronach  of  Unimore. 

- 

The  long  straight  avenue  of  old'  elm-trees 
Cathedral-roof  'd,  the  Bier  hath  pass'd  along, 
And  down  the  greensward  slope  that  gently  dips 
Into  that  variegated  valley  rich 
With  lowland  culture,  southwards  flowing  free  ; 
And  while  from  doors  and  windows  of  the  huts 
Look  pitying  faces  out,  the  Roe-wood  hides  ..»if  "JQ 

The  slow  Procession,  on  an  ancient  road  raw  A 

Clear1  d  by  the  hunters  down  the  dim  descent  ^H  tntlft 
Conducting  to  the  pass  into  the  glen. 
There  in  that  wilder'd  place  of  shatter'd  rock$.lM  ,^«r«yi  v8 
Dinning  with  lonely  waterfalls,  the  path  ,,  ,  j|fU}j 

Green  at  the  base  of  the  black  precipice  <iiiiJiV/ 

It  follows  without  pause  ;  and  underneath       .<  jrs  to  49  Y 
A  narrow  slip  of  sky  cut  off  by  cliffs,    •  .  jgoi/i 

A  solitude  within  a  solitude, 
That  holy  man,  with  his  long  locks  of  snow, 
Still  leading  on  the  Dream,  it  now  ascends        ,15.,  ,f0.,  }{/^ 
A  flight  of  steps  cut  in  the  living  stone,  ,%*.  nl 

Up  to  an  isle-like  silvan  eminence, 
And  with  a  hush  of  reverence,  every  head;.  ,)«Kfo  eblV/ 
A  moment  bow'd  in  prayer,  it  entereth  slow   t(1jf  jwo  ^aA 
The  sacred  stillness  of  the  Oratory  ; 
And  with  exceeding  gentleness,  the  BierJ)(ffi 
On  which  the  lady  seems  to  be  asleep  ,5,,^ 
And  in  her  sleep  to  smile,  is  now  set  dowfl 
Before  the  Altai-  1  :y      lm)h  ^  9jW  ,eom  i|9ei9H 

=  i-l  brfi  '  sill  'to,  Jhiqa  sriT 
"lem  Heaven  that  dwell, 


Created  yet  unfallen,  hierarchies      .;f\Fn  79rj  ^^m 

Blissful  as  bright,  yet  in  beatitude 

Consummate  and  immortal,  looking  down      ,1(j  79jtj  no  f. 

With  pity  far  profounder  than  is  known  .  \.u  -/[tjI-sHg  JeilT 

On  earth,  upon  the  grief  and  guilt  of  earth,  —   ea~  "SafvoM 

Angels  !  with  all  your  eyes  most  merciful 

Oh  !  now  regard  that  Bier  !     And  oh  !  ye  Saints,!   ,|Ofj  ^ 

Whose  mortal  garments  here  the  scorching  <ir^)0j  -,j0fj  p 

Consumed  !  And  ye  whose  agonized  flesh  - 


158  Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Highlands. 

The  arrows  pierced  I  And  ye  who  underwent 

All  dreadful  dyings  unimaginable  I 

Oh  !  ye  on  whom  mysterious  Providence 

Conferred  a  boon  implored  not  in  your  prayers, 

A  long  still  life  of  sanctity  1     Behold 

One  like  yourselves,  when  in  this  dim  sojourn 

You  wept !     Oh !  then,  take  pity  on  her  tears  ! 

For  hers  is  Faith,  and  Hope,  and  Charity ; 

And  humble  is  she  as  a  little  child  ; 

But  in  our  best  affections  here  below 

Lurks  sin  that  taints  them  all,  and  she  who  lies, 

O  sinless  Saints  !  before  you  on  that  Bier, 

Palsied,  and  yielding  unto  all  decrees 

Perfect  submission  in  her  piety, 

Yet  is  her  mother-heart  rebellious,  thronged 

With  blind  repinings,  and  a  ghost  disturbs 

Her  spirit,  even  at  the  Confessional, 

Standing  between  her  and  the  peace  of  God ! 

O  Mother  mild  !  who,  while  the  Angels  sang 

Among  the  midnight  stars  o'er  Bethlehem, 

Thy  Divine  Babe  didst  in  the  manger  lay, 

And  feel  that  place  despised  the  heart  of  heaven  ! 

Thou,  who  upon  the  Mount  of  Calvary, 

Didst  faint  not,  hearing  a  voice  sweetly  say, 

'  Woman,  behold  thy  son  !'    On  Thee  we  call 

Pity  to  shew  unto  a  mother's  grief, 

Supported  not  as  thou  wert,  though  her  heart 

Doth  long,  and  yearn,  and  burn  within  her,  all 

In  vain,  for  reconcilement  to  her  doom  I 

And  Thou,  who  diedst  for  sinners  !  we  do  pray 

Even  unto  Thee,  that  thou  wouldst  pity  her, 

And,  pitying,  pardon,  and  forgive  her  sin, 

And  the  sins  of  us  all !     Thou  biddest  us, 

And  tell'st  us  how,  in  words  from  thine  own  lips, 

Of  Him,  our  Father,  to  ask,  which  is  in  heaven, 

And  that  it  shall  be  given  !     To  Him  we  kneel, — 

We  wretched  sinners  all, — to  Him  who  sits 

Upon  the  Throne  with  Thee,  at  His  right  hand, 

In  light  ineffable  and  full  of  glory ; 

And,  although  dust  we  be,  and  unto  dust 

Return,  yet  all  who  do  believe  His  Word 

Shall  see  his  face,  for  them  death  lose  his  sting, 

The  grave  its  victory !" 

The  Holy  Man 

Stoops  down,  and  from  that  Spectre's  hands  doth  lake, 
For  they  are  powerless  both,  the  Crucifix, 
And  puts  it  to  her  lips.     The  pale  lips  give 
A  kiss  unto  Salvation's  mystic  Sign  ; 
And,  though  tears  drop  not,  there  is  in  her  eyes 
A  dimness  as  of  tears,  a  swimming  smile  ! 
Words  there  are  none,  nor  have  there  been  for  years. 
God  hath  allowed  her  grief  to  take  away 
The  power  of  speech ;  yet  were  it  now  restored, 
Mute  would  she  be ;  for  resignation  breathes 
A  wordless  calm  all  through  a  soul  alive 
With  thoughts  and  feelings,  inexpressible 
But  in  the  language  saints  may  use  in  heaven ! 

All  Heaven  be  with  her  now !  Angels  and  Saints ! 
The  Holy,  Holier,  and  the  Holiest ! 
For,  mercy-sent,  a  dreadful  trial  comes ! 


1831.]  Vision  Fifth.     The  Oratory.  159 

Darkening  the  daylight  blue  without  the  door, 

In  gorgeous  garb,  a  stately  Figure  stands, 

With  plumes  that  touch  the  portal ;  on  the  Bier 

His  shadow  falls,  and  as  her  eyes  behold 

The  beauteous  Apparition  terrible, 

Springs  to  her  feet  th'  unpalsied  mother,  healed 

By  miracle,  before  the  eyes  of  all 

Fear-stunn'd,  and  stretching  forth  her  hungry  arms, 

With  gaze  and  gasp  devouring  him,  shrieks  out, 

"  The  sea  gives  up  its  dead !  My  son !  my  son  !" 

Out  in  the  open  air,  upon  its  Bier, 
The  body  lies ;  and  all  believe  it  dead. 
But  down  the  glen  there  comes  a  mighty  wind, 
Uplifting  all  the  woods,  and  life  returns 
Beneath  the  holy  coolness  fresh  from  heaven. 
"  Where  am  I,  children  ?     God  is  merciful ; 
And  have  we  met  within  his  courts  at  last  ? 
Alas !  I  see  our  mortal  Oratory, 
And  we  are  yet  on  earth !  I  had  a  dream ; 
My  son  did  fill  it  all,  my  undrowned  son ; 
No  unsubstantial  phantom  mocked  my  arms ; 
I  felt,  I  clasped,  I  kissed  him,  and  his  lips 
Were  warm  with  love  and  life.     But  God  is  good, 
And  merciful  exceedingly ;  with  hymns, 
With  hymns  and  psalms  making  sweet  melody, 
And  I  will  join  the  strain,— Bless  ye  the  Lord  1" 

Awe-struck,  they  see  and  hear  the  miracle ! 
Yet  are  not  all  things  both  in  heaven  and  earth 
Miraculous  ?    The  murmur  of  the  bee, 
The  flower  on  which  it  feeds;  the  angel's  song, 
And  on  his  brows  the  blooms  of  Amaranth ! 
Strange  mysteries  lie  asleep  within  our  souls, 
And  haply  ne'er  are  waken'd ;  but  at  times — 
Some  wondrous  times,  when  passion,  in  its  power, 
Rends  up  our  being  like  an  earthquake  shock 
From  its  foundations,  these  strange  mysteries 
Walk  out  among  the  dust,  and  terrify 
The  very  regions  wherein  they  were  born, 
As  if,  in  Nature,  supernatural ! 

The  Mother's  eyes  have  recognised  her  Sort, 
And  know  that  on  him  rests  the  certain  light 
Of  real  life,  undreamt  and  stationary 
In  undeceiving  bliss !    Embraces  there 
Are  given  from  breast  to  breast,  from  lip  to  lip 
Kisses,  so  overcharged  with  ecstasies, 
Each  moment's  touch  to  her  maternal  soul 
Reward  celestial,  more  than  might  suffice 
For  entire  ages  dragged  through  misery. 
That  sacred  greed  may  not  be  satisfied 
Of  famished  Love  !     Like  prisoner  from  some  cell, 
Where  underground  he  was  an  hunger'd,  brought, 
And,  cloth'd  in  purple,  set  down  at  a  feast 
There  to  regale  with  kings !    Oh !  rather  say, 
As  by  the  wafting  of  a  wing  set  down 
In  his  own  house,  where  at  their  frugal  fare, 
His  wife  and  children  unforgetful  sigh 
For  him,  far  off  a  lonely  prisoner, 
Among  them  dropping  suddenly  from  heaven  I 


162  Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Highlands.  [Aug. 

Far  off  the  hollow  noise ;  the  eagle's  self, 

Along  with  his  wild  bark  had  ne'er  been  seen 

Floating  aloft  so  frequent,  in  wide  rings 

Seeking  the  sun  as  he  would  circle  it  ; 

For  never  in  the  memory  of  man 

Had  reign'd  so  many  blue  days  without  break, 

O'er  the  still  vastness  of  the  unclouded  sky. 

Expands  the  Panorama  as  we  gaze, 
Nor  knows  the  roving  vision  where  to  fix } 
Here  won  by  beauty,  by  magnificence 
There  suddenly  assail' d ;  contented  now 
To  linger  in  affection  'mid  the  calm 
Of  loveliness  endearing,  close  at  hand ; 
Now  borne  away  in  passion  to  the  stir 
Of  grandeur  restless  on  the  shadowy  heights. 
From  that  far  flight  it  all  at  once  returns ; 
For  lo !  in  lucid  range  majestical, 
Deep  down  the  disappearing  loch,  how  still, 
And  yet  how  animated,  all  the  cliffs 
With  their  inverted  imagery !     Swans, 
'Mid  mingling  air  and  water,  light  and  shade, 
In  rest  float  imperceptibly  along ; 
But  soon  their  snow-white  pomp  evanishes ; 
For  central  ia  that  wondrous  world,  with  all 
Its  towers,  and  roofs,  and  rocks,  and  woods,  and  groves, 
Serenely  conscious  of  its  Lord's  return 
Hangs  the  Old  Castle  pi-oud  as  in  its  prime, 
With  all  its  banners  drooping  motionless  j 
But  soon  as  the  Great  Cavern  of  the  Gloom 
Doth  blow  its  trumpet  at  meridian, 
The  loch  will  lose  them,  and  the  Castle  stream 
Unfolded  wide  their  bright  emblazonry, 
While,  at  a  signal  given  by  waving  plumes, 
Shall  shout  the  exulting  clan  their  Chieftain's  name, 
And  all  the  echoes  answer,  "  Unimore !" 

His  presence  for  a  month  hath  Morven  felt, 
And  all  that  month  hath  been  one  Festival. 
By  day  among  her  mountains — rest  is  none, 
And  short  by  night  in  shieling  and  in  but 
The  clansmen's  haunted  sleep. 

Their  souls  are  stirred 

As  glooms  by  sunbeams,  and  as  calms  by  blasts  ; 
And  he  their.Chieftain  is  both  sun  and  cloud, 
Sole  source  is  he  of  splendours  and  of  storms, 
O'er  glen  and  forest,  mountain,  sea,  and  loch. 
The  ancient  pastimes  of  the  hills  revive. 
And  sometimes  summoning  all  at  once  his  Clan 
To  gather  round  him  on  that  esplanade 
In  front  of  his  old  Castle,  the  claymore 
That  shone  through  battle,  in  the  sweeping  sway 
Of  his  heroic  sires,  the  Chieftain  draws, 
And  shews  in  clashing  combat  how  the  Gael 
Went  slaughtering  onwards  through  the  fights  of  old, 
Before  the  sons  of  Morven.    Not  an  arm 
Like  his  among  them  all,  when  far  outstretched 
Starts  sudden  into  sinewy  knots  its  strength 
Gigantic ;  to  their  Chieftain's  not  a  breast 
Fit  to  oppose,  though  breasts  are  there  like  boles 
Of  gnarled  oaks  that  in  the  tempests  grow. 


1831.]  Vision  Sixth.     The  Seer.  163 

To-day  their  souls  are  up. 

"  Across  the  seas 

The  wars  are  raging  ;  let  our  plumes  again 
Be  seen  in  line  of  battle  ;  let  our  pipes 
Again  be  heard  amid  the  cannon  din ; 
And  our  Lochaber-axes  hew  their  way 
Again  as  they  were  wont,  when  at  the  head 
Of  his  own  Clan  was  seen  The  Unimore. 
Green  grows  the  grass  again  on  Fontenoye ; 
Culloden's  self  is  green ;  but  be  the  field 
Unfoughten  yet  afar,  all  bloody  red — 
And  red  for  ever  ;  for  from  Morven's  glens 
Revenge  comes  flying,  and  long  heaps  of  dead 
Piled  up  shall  expiate  every  clansman's  sin, 
Who  died  not  on  the  day  his  Chieftain  died." 

Frown'd  then,  as  if  a  black  cloud  shadow'd  it, 
That  broad  high  forehead,  and  the  Chieftain  stood 
With  sun-bronzed  visage  all  inflamed  with  pride, 
And  shame !    For  with  his  sudden  hand  he  veil'd 
His  eyes  no  more  like  eagle's,  and  the  earth 
Suck'd  in  the  glaring  of  their  ghastly  light. 
He  stood  awhile,  as  still  as  pillar-stone 
Stands  by  itself  on  some  wide  moor,  alone 
Amid  the  mists  and  storms.     Then  waved  his  arm — 
"  Off  to  the  mountains — all  my  merry-men ! 
The  red-deer-King  is  belling  on  the  cliff, 
Nor  in  their  eyry  are  the  eaglets  mute  ! 
The  feet  that  tread  the  precipice's  edge 
And  rocks  that  bridge  the  chasms,  they  all  erelong 
In  measured  march  along  the  battle-plain 
Will  move  wet-shod  in  blood ;  but  let  the  Horn 
Now  peaceful  echo  startle  in  her  cave, 
Upon  no  distant  day  the  points  of  war 
To  wind  heroically  up  the  sky, 
When  we  with  loud  shouts  on  the  space  between 
The  armies  both  drawn  up  in  line  of  battle, 
In  Morven-Tartan  bright  our  Rifle  Band, 
An  army  of  itself,  and  clothed  in  fire, 
Shout  fierce  assurance  of  a  victory." 

"  Off  to  the  mountains !"     The  wide  desert  rings 
With  trump,  and  horn,  and  pipe,  and  shoutings  shrill 
As  is  the  goshawk's  cry !     No  Figure  there, 
Though  Morven  mid  her  stately  sons  can  shew 
Giants,  no  Figure  there  like  Unimore's. 
Far  nod  his  plumes  upon  the  mountain-side 
Unovertaken ;  Lewis  Swiftfoot  toils,    . 
Plunging  waist-deep  in  heather,  or  along 
The  smooth  white  bough-like  bareness  of  the  bent 
With  stag-like  bound  ings  measuring  the  moor, 
After  his  Chief  in  vain.    The  deer-hounds  lolling 
Their  red  tongues  gallop  graceful  by  his  side 
As  he  descends  one  mountain,  reascending 
Across  the  glen  another  range  of  cliffs. 
Now  round  the  bases  of  a  hundred  hills 
Expands  the  circling  Tinchel,  till,  behold ! 
A  waving  wood  of  antlers,  on  the  cliff 
Above  them  towering  up  precipitous, 
The  hungry  raven  with  a  sullen  croak 
Of  savage  joy,  as  he  doth  eye  the  quarry, 
Forestalling  his  large  banquet.     From  the  herd 
Not  singled  out,  but  singling  out  himself, 
As  if  he  scorned  the  danger  others  dread, 


164  Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Highlands.  [Au 

The  deer-king  bounding  on  from  crag  to  crag, 

Seen  oftener  m  the  air  than  on  the  earth, 

Faces  the  Tinchel,  and  high  over  head     \M.\\    • 

Of  all  the  hunters,  stooped  their  plumage  then, 

Hoofs,  bulk,  and  antlers  furiously  self-flung 

As  if  discharged  from  the  steep  precipice, 

Goes  glenwards  belling  fierce,  while  Unimore, 

Sparing  another  hour  that  noble  life, 

Motions  all  rifles  down,  and  cheering  on 

The  brindled  deei'-hounds  ravenous  now  as  wolves, 

But  silent  in  their  savage  speed,  and  mute 

When  mouthing  deep  the  flanks  that  heave  with  death, 

Away  into  the  blue  and  distant  day, 

Floating  o'er  lone  Lurgroy  !     Nor  may  the  Chase, 

For  lo !  he  carries  yet  his  antlers  high, 

Founder,  till  Morven's  mountains  all  o'er-run, 

He  swim  Loch-Sunart's  straits,  and  through  the  Pass 

Of  Xalibreccan  inaccessible 

To  all  but  hoofs  like  his,  the  rock-bound  shores 

Reach  of  Kinrira,  and  there  unpursued 

Plunge  panting  in  the  breakers  of  the  sea. 

The  Hunt  is  o'er ;  for  Fingal  on  the  crags 
Of  Achnagavil,  near  the  wild  Loch-Uist, 
Hath  pull  d  the  deer-king  down ;  and  Unimore, 
The  passion  of  the  chase  extinguish'd  quite, 
Turns  from  the  dying  quarry  and  the  hounds 
His  eyes  upon  the  saVage  solitude. 
Here,  in  this  very  place,  the  ghostlike  Seer 
Had  stood  before  him  many  years  ago, 
And  mutter'd  the  strange  prophecy  that  work'd, 
Meeting  with  prepared  passion  in  his  heart, 
Erelong  its  own  fulfilment ;  driving  him 
Aloof  from  all  hereditary  haunts, 
And  family-loves  and  old  remembrances, 
Into  the  crimes  and  perils  of  the  deep. 
He  looks  up  to  the  cave  in  which  the  Seer 
Once  led  his  haunted  life ;  and  from  its  mouth 
Out  crawling  slow,  the  same  wild  Being  lifts 
Its  shapelessness  among  the  shapeless  stones, 
Bent  double  by  the  dismal  dreams  of  age, 
With  rusty  elf-locks  horridly  o'ergrown. 
The  hideous  Figure  by  some  secret  path 
Hath  come  down  from  the  cave,  and  wailingly 
Clasping  his  withered  hands,  and  flinging  back 
The  matted  hair  from  off  his  bloodshot  eyes, 
Falls  down  and  grovels  at  the  Chieftain's  feet. 
"  In  evil  hour,  and  on  a  woful  wind, 
Came  the  Sea-Eagle  back  to  Unimore. 
Wo  to  the  lovely  Fawns  that  sport  and  play 
By  their  fair  selves  among  the  forest  bowers! 
The  cruel  Osprey  with  his  talons  tears 
Their  beauty,  and  they  perish  side  by  side. 
Woe  to  his  Eyry !— to  all  Morven  woe  P 

Viffi'flY/UTb   ..  „...! 

His  princely  head  the  high-born  Chieftain  stoops 

Down  from  its  plumed  pride,  and  supplicates 

The  revelations  of  a  madman's  dream. 

His  young  imagination  had  grown  up 

In  superstitious  awe  of  that  wild  Seer ; 

And  many  a  dim  prediction,  verified 

By  fatal  happenings  far  beyond  the  rim 


Vision  Sixth.     The  Seer. 

Of  an  ungifted  ken,  had  then  inspired 

And  sunk  into  the  soul  of  Unimore, 

In  boyhood  an  unconscious  fatalist, 

A  creed  as  strong  as  e'er  religious  faith  ,-<  ^H*  Ito  TO 

Died  for  in  holiest  martyrdom,  endured  runoff 

In  fire,  for  sake  of  God's  own  oracles.  ;  ,  ^f  */> 

Whole  days  among  the  utter  dreariness 

Of  trackless  moors,  where  not  one  single  rill 

Murmurs,  hut  sometimes  scowls  a  sable  loch 

O'erspread  with  sullen  and  unhallowed  thoughts, 

Sun-hating  and  sun-hated,  —  so  it  seems 

To  life-sick  wanderer  o'er  the  wilderness,  — 

Walked  that  woe-wither'd  Eld  and  that  bright  Gleam 

Of  beauteous  Boyhood  ;  —  strange  companionship  ! 

By  shrouded  corpses  haunted,  and  by  long 

Black  trains  of  visionary  Funerals, 

The  Seer,  and  the  Heir  of  all  the  Hills,  j  mr  /«•  »H 

As  yet  enveloped  in  the  unfaded  light  rufifa/  K* 

Of  being's  glorious  prime.    But  potent  spirits   '^,4 

Are  Fear  and  Wonder  o'er  the  dreams  of 


youth  ; 

Nor  may  the  chains  they  forge,  in  after  life      -aq 
Be  loosened,  for  the  links  are  riveted 
Into  the  very  soul,  and  only  snapped 
At  last  asunder  by  bond-breaking  death. 
"  I  saw  no  vision  of  a  sinking  ship, 
No  wreck  on  shore,  no  corpse  upon  the  sea, 
No  skeleton  imprisoned  in  a  cell 
With  thirst  and  hunger.     Others  wept  thee  dead, 
I  wept  thee  living  as  I  now  do  weep. 
One  stormy  day  I  saw  Ben-Mean-Moor 
Changed  to  a  sea  of  blood,  and  sailing  there  ;f  j,o/ 

With  Iris  black  flag  the  Pirate.     On  the  deck 
There  walked  the  Chief  of  Morven  !     Unimore 
Among  his  Outlaws  all,  a  dreadful  crew; 
And  ever  round  about  her  and  above, 
Wherever  tempest-driven  she  roar'd  along, 
Flitted  a  flock  of  ghosts  —  the  crews  of  ships 
By  Thee  and  thy  fierce  boarders  in  their  wrath 
All  murder'  d." 

. 

A  deep  hollow  voice  repeats, 
"  All  murder'd  !"  Suddenly  wrung  out  of  guilt 
Confession  ;  but  no  sound  of  penitence 
Was  with  the  words,  nor  of  remorse.    The  Chief 
Again  is  standing  stately  o'er  the  Seer 
With  aspect  of  defiance,  —  "  Doom  is  doom, 
Fate,  fate  ;  and  what  the  blind  religionists 
Call  heaven  or  hell  is  but  the  mystery 
Of  each  man's  life,  determined  by  the  stars, 
Here  or  hereafter  ;  if  hereafter  be, 
As  sometimes  dreams  the  Shadow  of  a  Shade  !       ...^  ^ 
But  Seer  of  misery  and  of  madness,  speak  !" 

"  Death  whitens  at  the  bottom  of  a  pool 

That  is  itself  pitch-black.    The  drown'd  are  drawn 

Out  of  the  cruel  depth,  both  dressed  like  brides  ! 

Beneath  the  sunshine  in  each  other's  arms 

I  see  them  lying—  lovely  in  their  lives, 

Nor  in  their  deaths  divided.  —  Fly  !  oh  !  fly  ! 

For  ever  far  from  Morven,  Unimore  ! 

And  thou  mayst  die  forgiven  !     Sometimes  the  shades,  ; 

Deceive  the  Seer,  and  heaven's  own  gracious  light 

Doth  melt  away  the  curse,    O'er  far  Tiree 


166  Unimore,  a  Dream  of  tic  Hiphlfrnds. 

I  Bee  thy  ship  at  anchor,  soon  to  Rail 
Bearing  thee  off  to  sin  in  foreign  lands." 

A  crowd  of  visions  storm  the  Chieftain's  soul,        „ 
Visions  of  misery  all,  and  guilt  and  death  ! 
Remorse  there  sends  her  frightments,  Conscience  hera, 
And  Fear,  that  wild  magician,  worst  of  all ; 
For  Sin  may  scorn  the  spectres  of  the  dead, 
But  quails  in  solitude  before  the  wraiths 
Of  the  doom'd  living,  gliding  by  in  fihrouds, 
Or  only  something  white  that  in  the  gloom 
Glimmers,  a  coming  and  a  going  dim, 
Semblance  of  one  who  soon  shall  be  a  ghost. 

The  Seer  is  in  his  cave ;  the  Chieftain  stands 
Alone,  and  utters  words  scarce  consciously, 
As  if  addressing  his  own  shadow  thrown, 
For  evening  is  descending,  long  and  still, 
Over  the  rocky  hush.     "  Communion  strange 
Through  agency  more  spiritual  than  air, 
Yet  spirit  may  be  air  and  air  be  spirit, 
Has  holden  been,  up  in  his  wolfish  den, 
Between  that  wretch  in  his  insanity, 
And  all  the  sinnings  and  calamities 
Doom'd  to  befall  me  in  this  troubled  life. 
That  is  a  mystery — but  all  is  mystery ; 
Though  Superstition  less  mysterious  far 
Than  what  men  in  their  blindness  choose  to  call 
Religion,  now  benighting  half  the  earth. 
Yet  sometimes  even  I  do  feel  Remorse, 
And  often  Pity  I  But  Remorse  is  vain, 
For  mortal  man  may  not  rebuke  his  fate. 
'Tis  Fate  that  wicked  is,  if  wickedness 
It  be,  that  raging  in  our  passions,  spreads 
Death  with  delight,  and  shrouds  in  misery 
All  perishable  joys.    Old  men  may  nurse 
Remorse,  for  they  are  wise,  and  sin  no  more ; 
Nay,  beautiful  in  them  is  Penitence  ! 
But  every  Passion  in  its  empery 
Doth  laugh  Remorse  to  scorn,  and  scowls  contempt 
On  Penitence.     And  as  for  Pity,  fair, 
Though  fancy-painted  to  our  eyes  she  be, 
What  is  it  but  a  transient  gush  of  tears  ? 
And  what  is  Sorrow,  that  we  pity  it  ? 
A  sigh — a  sob — a  groan — it  is  no  more. 
Hours,  days,  months,  years  of  suffering,  what  are  they 
When  the  grave  yawneth  for  the  skeleton  ? 
All  one  then  Saint  and  Sinner — a  cold  corpse  ! 
Despair  and  Hope,  and  Bliss  and  Agony, 
What  are  they  when  that  feeble  spark  goes  out, 
But  past  convulsions  of  some  living  thing, 
Now  senseless,  soulless,  in  eternal  dust  ?" 

Night  comes  with  all  her  Stars — and  with  her  Moon 
Midnight — and  Dawn  upon  the  Planet  smiles 
And  pales  her  shining — and  refulgent  Morn 
Doth  drown  the  Dawn,  and  ushers  in  the  Day 
Consummate.     All  the  while  hath  Unimor«« 
Been  sitting  in  the  Solitude — his  Life 
Rolling  before  him  like  the  stormy  seas  ! 
But  now  elated  by  the  Sun,  he  moves 
Castle-wards,  nor  for  that  dismal  prophecy 
Caretli  he  more  than  a  distemper'd  dream.. 


Vision  Seventh.     The  Demon.  J67 

VISION  SEVENTH. 
THE  DEMON. 

THE  Lady  of  the  Castle  lives  in  heaven  ; 
Ten  Years  of  Misery  bought  one  Month  of  Bliss, 
Cheap  purchase  of  the  priceless  calm  divine 
Deeper  and  deeper  settling  on  her  soul, 
Farther  and  farther  o'er  its  regions  all 
Expanding,  till,  like  summer-sea,  it  lies, 
Embay'd  in  the  Pacific,  some  still  bay 
Unvisited  by  any  wandering  ship, 
And  known  in  Nature  only  to  the  stars 
And  moon,  that  love  it  as  their  native  sky ! 

The  Past  is  all  obliterate  ;  gone  to  dust 
All  tears,  all  sighs  unto  the  wind  ;  belong 
To  Hope  and  Fear  the  Future,  and  they  two 
Have  left  alone  in  her  beatitude 
Love,  all-in-all  sufficient  for  the  Now, 
The  perfect  Present  that  may  never  die, 
Seeming  immortal  in  its  depth  of  rest. 

In  that  maternal  heart  is  happiness, 
Oh  !  far  beyond  all  happiness  that  e'er 
Did  dwell  in  Eden's  garden,  Paradise  ! 
Imagination,  dreaming  of  the  life 
Before  Sin  brought  the  Fall,  still  misses  there 
The  joy  of  grief,  nor  understands  delight 
Without  the  mournful  sanctity  of  tears. 
But,  in  this  world  of  ours,  this  world  of  woe, 
Lo !  Bliss  is  born  within  a  breaking  heart, 
And  therefore  it  is  Bliss ;  and  hymns  are  heard, 
Thanksgiving  hymns  ascending  up  to  heaven, 
While  bright  congratulation  from  the  stars 
Shines  down  on  eyes  still  wet  with  gratitude. 
Break  the  iron  doors,  and  set  the  prisoner  free, 
Exchanged  Earth's  dark,  damp,  breathless,  narrow  cell 
For  the  bright,  dewy,  breezy,  boundless  cope 
Resplendent  for  the  new  inhabitant 
Of  God's  own  heaven  I     Unchain  the  galley-slave, 
Sink  his  worn  oar  for  ever  in  the  sea, 
And  let  him  tread  again  the  war-ship's  deck, 
Below  the  flag  that  rules  the  world  of  waves, 
Among  the  equal  sons  of  Liberty  ! 
Let  Healing,  on  a  sudden,  smooth  the  bed 
Of  agonized  disease,  and  carry  it 
Out  to  the  shadowy  sunshine  of  the  morn, 
And  bid  the  matron  lift  her  eyes,  and  see 
Kneeling  around  her  all  who  ought  to  kneel, 
While  she  arises,  and  among  the  flowers 
Walks  forth  restored,  nor  fears  the  harmless  dews, 
But  sheds  among  them  some  few  pious  tears. 
Deep  joys  are  those  and  high,  and  woe-born  all ; 
But  far  transcends  them  all  the  joy  that  lifts 
At  once  a  mother's  whole  soul  from  despair, 
And  sets  it  on  a  radiant  eminence 
Within  a  heaven  beyond  the  heaven  of  hope, 
With  her  arms  twined  for  ever  round  the  neck 
Of  him  she  had  thought  dead — her  only  Son  ! 


168  Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Highlands.  [Aug. 

The  Lady  of  the  Castle  hath  no  power 
To  walk  with  her  own  princely  Unimore 
Along  the  greensward  braes,  the  purple  sides 
Of  the  high-heather  mountains  ;  through  the  woods 
Where  beauteous  birch-trees  to  the  stately  oaks 
Whisper  a  gentler  music ;  down  the  glens 
Where  rivers  roll  o'er  frequent  cataracts ; 
Or  into  de'ls,  each  with  its  own  small  rill 
Pellucid,  and  its  humble  scenery 
Of  broomy  knolls  with  delicate  trees  bedropt, 
Within  itself  a  world  in  miniature, 
Where  oft  on  moonlight  nights  the  Fairies  dance, 
And  little  laughter  thrills  the  solitude. 
No  power  hath  she,  to  shieling  and  to  hut 
With  life  besprinkling  the  wide  wilderness, 
With  him  to  walk,  and,  as  those  lofty  plumes 
Below  the  clansman's  lowly  lintel  stoop, 
To  hear  and  see  the  pride  that  brightens  then 
The  dim  abode  of  high-soul'd  poverty, 
Pride  to  love  kindred,  love  to  gratitude, 
And  gratitude  to  patriotism,  name 
That  breathes  the  old  Religion  of  the  Hills. 

No  such  delight  is  hers ;  for  all  her  limbs, 
Soon  as  subsided  the  miraculous  power 
Given  by  her  Passion  in  the  Oratory, 
Relapsed  into  their  palsied  helplessness ; 
And  ever  since  she  hath  exchanged  her  bed 
But  for  that  Bier,  on  which,  when  air  is  calm 
And  sunshine  bright,  and  glimmering  shadows  cool, 
She  lies,  and  by  those  clansmen  carried 
To  consecrated  places, — many  a  one, 
Where  she  and  her  son's  sire  did  sit  of  old 
Among  the  Castle-woods, — there  meditates 
On  the  sweet  mystery  of  her  perfect  bliss, 
Nor  cares  although  no  Unimore  be  there, 
Pursuing  on  the  mountains  his  own  joy ; 
For  she  can  make  his  presence  visible 
By  act  creative  of  her  will,  as  bright 
The  Phantom's  eyes,  as  if  his  very  self 
Were  smiling  on  her  there,  the  Phantom's  voice, 
For  air  hath  then  a  tongue,  as  melting  sweet 
As  if  his  self  were  speaking,  and  the  kiss 
That  she  receiveth  from  imagined  lips 
As  tender,  as  when  stooping  o'er  her  Bier, 
Her  Long-lost  Late-return' d  doth  breathe  his  breath, 
His  own  dear  breath,  to  her  still  like  a  child's, 
Into  the  yearnings  of  his  mother's  soul ; 
One  thought  enough  for  her — He  is  alive ! 

O  sacred  Ignorance  !  O  Delusion  blest ! 
To  her  that  Demon  doth  an  Angel  seem ; 
To  her  Guilt  wears  the  brow  or  Innocence ; 
To  her  Sin  looks  like  Holiness ;  to  her 
Crime  holdeth  up  the  same  unspotted  hands 
Before  the  Altar  of  the  Oratory, 
As  when  her  blameless  boy,  long  long  ago, 
Knelt  down  in  prayer  beside  his  Father's  knees. 
Oh !  if  the  radiant  veil  by  Mercy  drawn 
Before  the  eyes  of  Love,  radiant  but  deep, 
With  most  mysterious  emblems  wrought  therein, 
Whose  beauty  intm-epts  the  ghastly  sights 


881.]  Vision  Seventh.     The  Demon.  169 

To  and  fro  passing  'tween  them  and  the  sky,         '• 
Were  rent  away,  how  suddenly  those  eyes  :    .      . 

Would  then  be  blasted,  and  the  soul  that  gazed  «tt  ywUt 

Out  from  their  tears  upon  some  object  held 

Holiest  of  all  most  holy,  by  a  blow' 

Be  broken  all  at  once,  a  fiendish  blow 

Struck  by  a  hand  unhallowing  in  the  light, 

The  dismal  light  of  truth  that  shews  the  earth 

Fit  habitation  only  for  despair ! 

A  blessing,  therefore,  call  Hypocrisy ! 
Sacred  be  Falsehood !  and  Deceit  a  name 
To  desecrate  blasphemous  !  Sin  this  sphere 
Would  people  else  with  a  distracted  crowd 
Of  ghosts,  in  their  discovered  wickedness 
Daring  no  more  to  look  upon  the  sun  ; 
Nor,  midst  the  upbraidings  of  each  other's  eyes, 
To  hope  for  pardon  from  Almighty  Heaven  1 

And  yet  the  Demon  hath  a  human  heart, 
Nor  is  it  dead  to  filial  piety; 
For  pious  even  is  natural  tenderness, 
Awaking  unawares,  and  unawares 
Partaking  of  mysterious  feeling  born 
Of  origin  celestial — mix'd  with  clay. 
What  else  hath  brought  the  Pirate  from  the  sea  ? 
What  else  hath  shewn  once  more  with  all  its  plumes 
On  his  own  mountains  shining  like  a  star, 
The  chief  of  Morven's  death-denounced  head  ? 
When  sunk  the  bright  Saldanha,  where  wert  thou  ? 
Thy  country's  voice  erelong  will  call  on  thee 
To  tell  in  what  long  darkness  Unimore 
Hath  hid  his  name  and  being,  whither  sail'd 
When  she  was  wreck'd,  as  wave-born  rumours  yet 
Darkfloating  tell,  one  of  the  Frigate's  boats 
Deep-laden  with  a  crew  of  mutineers. 
Build,  captain,  crew,  all  but  her  name  unknown, 
Fleeter  than  winds  and  waves  o'er  many  a  sea, 
For  many  a  year  pursued  in  vain,  hath  flown 
The  Black  Sea-Eagle.    Black  at  times  she  flew, 
As  was  the  tempest  she  delighted  in; 
But  bright  at  times,  with  her  new  bravery  on, 
And  like  some  floating  Palace  built  for  kings, 
Burnish'd  her  hull  and  deck,  and  up  aloft 
Burning  with  meteors  uneclipsed  by  clouds 
Roll'd  idly  towards  her  unapproached  path 
By  single  ship  or  squadron  falling  fast 
To  leeward,  as  the  Pirate,  every  gun 
Silent,  went  windward  fearless  through  the  foam, 

Glorious  in  flight  before  all  enemies. 

•         TjNBWmm  Mian  U 

"  Woe  to  the  lovely  Fawns  that  sport  and  play 
By  their  fair  selves  among  the  Forest-Bowers  ! 
The  cruel  Osprey  with  his  talons  tears 
Their  beauty,  and  they  perish  side  by  side  !" 
So  prophesied  the  cliff-cave  Seer  wild ; 
But  Evil  Thing  or  Thought  may  not  approach 
By  day  their  happy  waking,  nor  by  night 
Their  holy  sleep  ;  for  Powers  Invisible 
Keep  watch  and  ward  o'er  Innocence ;  she  lies 
Safe  in  the  moonlight,  in  the  sunshine  safe 
She  walks,  although  upon  the  precipice 
VOL,  XXX,  NO.  CLXXXIII.  M 


170  Unimore,  a  Tale  of  the  Highlands. 

Her  couch  be  spread,  although  along  its  edge 

Should  glide  her  blind  feet  o'er  the  dread  abyss. 

Then  for  the  Orphan-sisters  have  no  fears ; 

As  fair  as  lilies  and  as  glad  as  larks 

They  grow  and  sing,  while  banks  and  braes  are  bright 

With  their  pale  beauty,  with  their  voices  sweet 

Air,  sky,  and  clouds  for  ever  musical. 

With  mournful  steps  and  melancholy  eyes 
No  more  they  move  around  the  bed  or  bier 
Of  their  blest  Mother  ;  and  if  tears  at  times 
Come  o'er  their  cheeks,  they  are  but  like  the  dew 
On  flowers,  that  only  falls  on  quiet  nights, 
And  melts  on  sunny  morns.     Their  faces  now 
In  joy's  full  daylight  even  more  beautiful 
Than  when  grief,  like  a  gentle  gloaming,  dimm'd 
Their  pensive  loveliness;  for  Nature  wills 
That  cloudless  be  the  clime,  the  ether  pure 
Within  the  eyes  of  young  Virginity, 
Gladdening  whate'er  they  look  on,  in  return 
Gladdened,  till  life  is  all  one  heavenly  smile, 
And  things  insensate  fair  as  those  with  life. 
Around  that  bed  and  bier  they  minister 
With  piety  that  finds  its  own  reward 
In  its  own  perfect  happiness ;  their  hymns, 
Wont  to  ascend  on  high  with  melodies 
Almost  too  sad,  with  harmonies  themselves 
Felt,  in  their  pity,  almost  too  profound, 
Are  warbled  now,  without  offence  to  Heaven, 
With  a  meek  cheerfulness;  and  as  they  sing, 
The  Orphans,  listening  to  their  own  sweet  strains, 
Humbly  believe  that  all  the  prayers  they  breathe 
Do  find  acceptance, — why  their  Mother's  face, 
So  very  pale,  else  seem  so  very  blest ! 
But  ever  when  unto  that  bier  or  bed 
Her  Son  approaches,  then  do  glide  away 
The  thoughtful  Orphans,  often  murmur'd  back ; 
And  at  a  little  distance  they  sit  down, 
Whether  it  be  within  some  forest  glade 
Taking  their  seat  below  another  tree, 
Or  in  deep  window  breathing  mute  apart 
Within  that  holy  room  where  they  had  watch'd 
Alternately,  by  day  and  night,  for  years 
When  he  was  far  away,  whose  presence  now 
Makes  theirs— so  think  they — but  of  little  worth. 
Oh !  meek  mistake  of  sweet  humility  ! 
For  many  cells  are  in  that  Mother's  heart, 
And  open  to  her  Orphans  are  they  all ; 
All  save  the  very  inmost,  dedicate 
To  the  sole  image  of  her  Ummore,  >,«,(, 
When  nature,  by  religion  overcome, 
Feels,  that  in  reverence  of  herself,  the  bliss 
Must  be  all-secret  on  the  Sabbath-hour 
That  sees  once  more  within  a  mother's  arms, 
With  supplicating  prayers  encircling  him, 
A  long-lost  son  beneath  the  eye  of  God. 

But  when  the  pious  Mother  all  alone 
Wish'd  sometimes  to  be  left,  that  she  might  drink 
The  solitary  cup  of  peace  divine, 
Then  with  the  sinless  Orphans  Unimore 
Walk'd,  as  a  gentle  brother  loves  to  walk 


Vision  Seventh.     The  Demon. 

With  his  sweet  sisters  in  their  blossoming 
Flowers  lovelier  growing  every  sunny  day, 
Through  the  wide-warbling  woods,  the  glens  serene 
Lengthening  away  in  endless  solitude, 
Each  beauteous  bending  but  a  novel  glimpse 
Of  the  same  Paradise ;  one  treeless  all, 
And  with  smooth  herbage  green  as  emerald, 
As  if  the  river  once  had  been  a  loch, 
In  olden  time  o'erflowing  all  the  braes; 
Another  broken  here  and  there  with  groves 
Crowning  the  knolls,  the  rocky  side-skreens  strewn 
With  straggling  copse  up  to  the  falcon's  nest ; 
Or  suddenly,  all  sullen  and  austere 
Into  some  place  composed  of  precipice 
Washed  bare  as  sea-cliffs  by  tempestuous  floods, 
Where  goat  doth  never  hang,  nor  red-deer  couch, 
Nor  raven  croak ;  herb,  blade,  bud,  leaf,  and  flower 
All  withered  from  the  utter  barrenness. 
Such  the  grim  desolation  where  Ben-Hun 
And  Craig-na-torr,  by  earthquake  shatterings 
Disjoined  with  horrid  chasms  prerupt,  enclose 
What  Superstition  calls  The  Glen  of  Ghosts. 

4  unooiA 

There  stunned  by  such  soul-shaking  solitudes, 
By  such  heart-soothing  solitudes  subdued, 
Sitting  on  each  side  of  their  Unimore 
Their  brave  and  beauteous  brother,  to  wild  tales 
Of  battle  and  of  shipwreck,  and  of  chains 
For  hopeless  years  worn  in  captivity 
The  Orphans  listened,  and  when  listening  wept, 
And  weeping  felt  that  never  until  then 

Had  they  enjoyed  the  perfect  bliss  of  tears. 

\tt5BlV  ijiunlV*  ;  Mpw  •-,«-»  >iiRl:j'».)>£  bnt]  od 

There  sometimes  at  his  bidding  they  would  sing 
Old  Gaelic  tunes  to  Gaelic  words  as  old, — 
For  with  the  heather-bloom  and  heather-balm 
It  seemed  as  if  these  children  had  imbibed 
Music  and  verse,  and  scarce  their  murmuring  lips 
Betrayed  the  secret  of  their  Lowland  birth ; — 
As  Unimore,  with  smiles,  would  sometimes  say— 
"  So  perfectly  within  that  chapel,  Ye, 
From  holy  ministrations,  in  the  huts 
From  humble  talk,  and  in  our  mother's  room 
From  converse  with  high  thoughts  familiar 
Between  yourselves,  to  charm  the  ear  of  her 
Whose  once-sweet  tongue  had  lost  the  power  of  speech; 
So  perfectly  from  such  dear  lessons,  Ye, 
Through  a  fine  ear  a  fine  soul  listening, 
Have  caught  our  mountain-accents,  and  have  learnt 
Our  many-colour'd  language,  sometimes  bright 
With  rainbow  hues,  and  sometimes  dim  with  shade* 
Flung  from  the  forests,  and  sometimes  with  gloom 
Black,  such  as  falls  down  from  a  thunder-cloud 
On  the  still  dreariness  of  savage  moors ; 
All  imaged  in  that  wondrous  poetry 
Floating  in  fragments  o'er  the  wilderness, 
Songs  Ossianic  never  sung  before 
So  sweetly  as  now  by  my  sweet  Sisters'  lips 
In  sound  accordant,  as  in  sympathy 
Their  souls,  by  Heaven  in  loveliness  enshrined ! 
O  sinless  Orphans  !  never  in  your  prayers, 
When  seas  between  you  and  your  brother  roll 


172  Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Highlands.  [Aug. 

Again  their  howling  multitude  of  waves, 
From  Morven  far,  forget  your  Unimore  I" 

Words  full  of  peril  to  these  simple  ones ! 
But  heard  withouten  fear ;  yet  all  the  while 
That  they  were  singing — all  the  while  that  he 
Was  speaking  to  them  with  a  voice  that  rung 
As  the  harp's  silver  chords  profound  and  clear, 
And  passion-charged  with  tones  electrical — 
Passion  that  seemed  fraternal  tenderness 
For  them  who  on  their  birthday  had  been  left 
Orphans,  as  well  he  knew ;  Oh  !  all  that  while    l(lB[q  j 
Had  they  been  looking,  in  their  innocence, 
Upon  a  form  majestically  fail- 
In  its  ancestral  pride ;  and  in  their  hearts 
Elate  by  that  heroic  poetry, 

They  thought,  nor  knew  that  in  the  thought  was  lodged 
The  fatal  germ  of  a  wild  growth  of  woe, 
That  Chief  so  bright  as  he  before  their  eyes, 
Ne'er  fought  of  old  in  war  of  chariots 
By  Ossian  sung  on  Morven's  Hills  of  Storm  ! 

,    ,.      .^W7-  ,.          ,  iavS'10? 

And  often  m  the  breezy  sunshine,  when  ,,-,  f^jjojr 
The  Loch  was  blue  as  heaven,  and  not  a  cloud 
Could  find  one  spot  of  calm  to  shew  itself 
In  soft  reflection  in  the  shadiest  bay,— {^&K 
Rejoicing  to  forsake  her  anchorage 
Within  that  wooded  amphitheatre, 
Fill'd  full  of  Life  and  Beauty,  and  as  white 
As  snow-wreath  yet  unmelted  in  the  cove 
High  on  the  mountain,  all  her  flags  on  fire 
Up  in  the  air,  and  in  the  waves  below 
Her  burnish'd  gunwale  flushing,  and  her  hujjjj^. 
Fair  as  the  foam  that  murmur' d  round  her  prow, 
The  winds  obedient  to  Her,  as  it  seem'd, 
And  not  She  to  the  winds,  circling  the  Loch, 
Or  shooting  arrow-like  from  end  to  end, 
Or  then,  capricious,  intersecting  it 
With  many  a  figure  most  fantastical, — 
Like  wild-swan  swimming  in  his  stately  play 
All  for  his  mate's  delight  among  the  reeds 
Brooding  in  secret,  or  in  shelter'd  nook 
Among  the  water-lilies  floating  still 
With  her  two  cygnets, — the  long  summer-day 
Too  short  for  all  her  aimless  voyaging,,fi  tf 
For  other  aim  with  her  but  Freedom's  joy 
Was  none,  her  bright  apparel  as  she  flew 
Brightening  as  if  she  gather'd  to  herself 
The  choicest  light  and  would  not  let  it  go, 
The  NAIAD,  making  that  great  liquid  glen 
All  her  own  empire,  steer'd  by  Unimore, 
And  by  his  side  the  Orphans  lost  in  dreams 
Bewildering  all  their  being  with  delights 
Imagination  breathes  o'er  virgin  love, 
Return'd  not  to  her  haven  till  the  Stars 
Shew'd  Eve  had  come,  or  till  the  Moon  arose 
And  closed  the  long  day  with  a  daylike  night. 
HD  wfl'x»'i.  •  <••:••>  '  >c  •>  m  •" "• 


Vision  Eighth.     The  Confession.  173 

'VisiON  EIGHTH. 

THE  CONFESSION. 

••  aJinw  9rn  flR  J<r{  ;  'ifit*i  uatjjor'jr 

THE  Book  of  Nature  and  the  Book  of  God 

Interpreted  by  dreadless  Piety, — 

Pursuing  her  vocation,  unappall'd 

By  mystery  of  evil,  mid  the  stars 

Whose  places  are  appointed  in  the  sky, 

Or  mid  the  goings-on  of  human  hearts 

A  planetary  system  hard  to  scan, 

But  in  its  strange  irregularities 

Obeying  steadfast  laws, — on  every  page 

In  lines  of  light  a  calm  assurance  gives 

To  spiritual  Faith  of  one  immortal  truth, 

"  Beloved  by  Heaven  are  all  the  Innocent!" 

We  see  them  disappear  in  sudden  death, 

And  leaving  tender  spots  of  sunniness 

Darker  than  if  that  radiance  ne'er  had  shone. 

The  beauty  of  their  faces  is  eclipsed 

For  ever ;  and  for  ever  their  sweet  names 

Forgotten,  or  when  read  upon  their  tombs, 

We  know  not  what  surpassing  grace  endow'd 

The  dust  that  once  was  life.    Sometimes  they  wane 

Slowly  and  sadly  into  dim  decay, 

Dying  by  imperceptible  degrees 

Hourly  before  our  eyes  that  still  must  shed 

Their  foolish  tears  for  them  who  for  themselves 

Weep  not,  but  gaze  with  orbs  of  joyful  light 

Upon  the  coming  Dawn.    The  Innocents 

Are  thus  for  ever  melting  from  the  earth, 

Like  dewdrops  all  at  once,  or  like  dewdrops 

Slowly  exhaled.     But  never  in  our  grief 

Lose  we  our  righteous  confidence  in  Heaven. 

Long  as  they  live,  our  spirits  cling  and  cleave 

To  theirs,  unwilling  that  they  should  depart 

From  our  home  to  their  own — our  chilly  clime 

To  that  pure  ether  where  the  lily  white 

Shall  never  droop  nor  wither  any  more, 

Perennial  by  the  founts  of  Paradise. 

But  when  we  see  the  bosom  has  no  breath, 

And  that  indeed  the  lovely  dust  is  dead, 

With  faith  how  surely  resignation  comes, 

And  smiles  away  all  mortal  sorrowing! 

Annihilated  is  all  distance  then 

Between  the  blackness  of  the  coffin-lid 

And  Mercy's  Throne  of  shining  chrysolite  ; 

While  in  the  hush,  at  first  so  terrible, 

As  if  the  spirit  sang  to  comfort  them 

Their  own  child's  blissful  voice  both  parents  hear 

Among  the  halleluyahs.    Death  is  not, 

And  nothing  is  but  everlasting  life. 

"  Beloved  of  Heaven  are  all  the  Innocent !" 

Oh  !  by  this  creed  supported,  look  ye  now 
Upon  these  Orphan  Sisters  !  Mortal  change 
Their  beauty  undergoes ; — each  countenance 
Hath  lost  its  light  celestial,  and  is  dim 
With  troubled  happiness  that  looks  like  grief, 
A  grief  like  woe,  a  woe,  alas !  like  guilt  !— 
And  have  the  Orphans  come  at  last  to  know 


174  Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Highlands.  [Aug 

That  misery  treads  on  fall'n  innocence, 
And  that  the  wages  here  of  sin  are  death  ? 
Fear  not :  they  both  are  wretched — nevermore 
Shall  gladness  dance  within  their  eyes — their  smiles 
Shall  never  more  revive  the  drooping  flowers ; 
And  never  more  shall  any  looks  of  theirs, 
When  gazing  up  they  thither  send  their  souls, 
Lend  their  own  calmness  to  the  calm  of  heaven  I 
Fear  not :  they  both  are  wretched — both  are  blest— 
Nor  blameless  are  they  in  their  wretchedness, 
Nor  in  their  bliss — but  taint  of  sin  is  none 
Upon  their  bosoms,  more  than  on  the  leaves 
Of  rose  or  lily  withering  when  half-blown, 
By  Nature  not  permitted  to  enjoy 
The  loveliness  of  its  own  perfect  prime. 

This  is  their  Birthday.    Seventeen  years  of  peace 
Have  floated  o'er  their  being — a  long  time 
Felt  they,  the  Orphans,  to  look  back  upon, 
As  their  souls,  travelling  always  in  the  light 
Through  crowds  of  happy  thoughts  and  things,  retraced 
Life  in  among  the  fading  memories 
Of  earliest  childhood,  meeting  all  at  once 
The  blank  of  Infancy's  evanished  dream. 
And  yet  how  short  a  time  for  all  that  growth 
Of  heart,  and  mind,  and  soul,  and  spirit !  All 
The  flowers  and  fruitage  on  the  wondrous  Tree 
Of  Being  from  a  germ  immortal  sprung. 
Profound  the  wisdom  is  of  Innocence. 
She  taught  the  Orphans  all  their  knowledge,  high 
As  are  the  stars,  yet  humble  as  the  flowers ; 
And  bathed  it  all  in  Feeling,  as  the  light 
Of  stars,  when  at  their  brightest,  radiant, 
And  soft  as  is  the  bloom  of  flowers,  when  they 
Look  fearless  back  upon  their  earliest  spring. 
She  taught  them  Pity  and  the  lore  of  Grief, 
Whose  language  is  the  inarticulate  breath 
Of  sacred  sighs,  and  written  on  the  air 
In  purest  tears,  mysterious  characters 
Seen  in  the  sun  when  Nature's  self  is  blest. 
She  gave  unto  the  Orphans'  quiet  eyes 
The  Sense  of  Beauty  that  makes  all  the  earth 
Without  an  effort,  and  unconsciously, 
Fair  as  the  sinless  soul  that  looks  on  it. 
She  fill'd  their  spirits  with  o'erflowing  Love, 
Till  on  the  flower  the  peaceful  butterfly 
Was  thought  a  holy  thing,  because  its  life 
Appear' d  so  happy,  and  the  flower  itself 
Fairer,  for  that  it  seem'd  to  feel  the  joy 
Asleep  upon  its  balm.    With  loftier  love 
She  did  their  hearts  inspire,  the  love  of  all 
Which  in  itself  is  loveliest,  and  they  knew 
It  must  be  their  own  filial  piety, 
When  at  their  mother's  side,  at  morn  and  eve, 
Knelt  all  their  knees  together  down  at  once 
Before  the  Throne  of  God.    And  Innocence 
It  was,  none  other,  who  the  holy  light 
Of  Conscience  gently  brought  upon  their  eyes, 
And  shew'd  the  paths  of  duty  in  that  light 
To  be  mistaken  never,  strewn  with  flowers 
That  lay  as  soft  as  snow  beneath  their  feet 
But  ever  when  into  that  Oratory 


Vision  Eighth.     The  Confession.  175 

They  walk'd,  and  by  their  mother's  bier  knelt  down 

Beside  the  Altar,  then  did  Innocence 

Surrender  up  her  trust,  and  from  the  skies 

Into  that  Sabbath-calm  Religion  came, 

Descending  duly  as  the  Orphans  hymn'd 

Their  Miserere ;  hers  the  voice  that  said, 

While  their  lips  linger' d  on  the  Crucifix, 

"  For  His  sake,  Children,  are  your  sins  forgiven !" 

Such  was  their  life — but  now  that  life  is  gone. 
Upon  their  very  Birthday,  Unimore 
Has  sail'd  away  to  joiii  his  Ship  that  lies 
Beyond  the  farthest  of  the  Hebride  Isles, 
With  promise  to  his  Mother  and  to  them 
Ere  Winter  is  heard  howling  to  return, 
And  leave  the  glens  of  Morven  ne'er  again. 
They  had  not  heart  together  to  behold, 
Carrying  the  sunshine  with  her  down  the  Loch, 
The  NAIAD,  that  appeared  to  dance  away 
Heedless  of  all  the  hills,  and  rocks,  and  woods, 
As  she  were  longing  for  some  far-off  home, — 
All  at  an  end  their  blissful  voyagings 
In  that  bright  Bark,  and  never  more  they  felt 
To  be  renew'd  in  this  forsaken  life, — 
Dancing  away,  impatient  as  the  Mew 
That,  wearied  of  the  inland  stillness,  wheels 
Her  joyful  flight  back  to  her  native  sea. 
Apart  the  Orphans  on  the  Naiad  gazed, 
And  long  kept  gazing  on  the  vacant  waves 
Long  after  by  eclipsing  promontory 
Had  been  cut  off  her  white  wings  from  the  day ; 
One  sitting  on  a  greensward-brae  far  up 
Among  the  rocks,  One  on  the  Western  Tower ; 
Each  knowing  in  her  utter  misery 
What  pangs  are  rending  then  her  sister's  heart ; 
But  both — O  rueful  selfishness  of  woe  ! 
Insensible  to  pity,  and  absorpt 
In  suffering  kindred,  so  they  feel,  to  guilt.  % 

?f>^jj:  K.I  »  "i'-'r  r»l>-'^ift  (*J«")>  J497WJ  nl 

At  last  the  rocky  solitude  has  grown 
Unto  the  wretched  Creature  weeping  there 
No  more  supportable  j  and  from  the  Tower 
Blindly  comes  down  her  Sister  by  dark  stairs ; 
Both  walking  in  one  woe  towards  the  place 
Where  first  before  their  eyes  stood  Unimore, 
And  seized  upon  their  hearts  that  ne'er  again 
Did  beat  as  quietly  as  they  used  to  beat 
When  bliss  sufficient  for  the  day  it  was 
To  see  the  glad  light  in  each  other's  eyes, 
To  blend  their  voices  in  the  same  sad  song, 
And  at  some  tale  of  sorrow  to  enquire, 
One  of  the  other,  how  it  chanced  that  smiles 
Were  sweetest  then  when  most  bedimm'd  with  tears. 
Before  the  Altar  of  the  Oratory 
They  meet — and  start  each  other's  face  to  see 
So  woe-begone — for  each  is  like  a  ghost, 
And  both  do  look  as  longing  for  the  grave. 

They  sit  down  speechless  on  the  Altar  steps ; 
And  now  revives  the  sacred  sympathy 
That  used  to  link  their  happy  souls  in  one, 
As  if  their  fair  breasts  mutually  exchanged 


176  Uhimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Hiyhlands.  [Aug. 

Lives,  nor  the  transfer  knew  in  the  divine 

Delight  of  equal  and  of  perfect  love. 

Around  each  other's  necks  they  lay  their  arms, 

And  for  forgiveness  sob  out  syllabi  ings 

Of  broken  supplications  and  stopt  prayers, 

Dismal  implorings  indistinct  and  dim 

Address'd  now  to  each  other,  now  to  God  ; 

And  as  the  name  sends  shivering  through  their  frames, 

Mysteriously  pervaded  from  their  birth 

With  all  the  self-same  sensibilities, 

One  shudder,  by  the  lips  of  both  at  once 

Convulsively  is  uttered  —  "  Unimore  !"        ob  b'wod  1 

^fjo.te-TRjIA  ooJ  obiesd  bnnJa  aid  asjI^J  1.  0A 
The  bright-hair'd  Orphan  first  hath  found  her  voice 
Fit  for  confession,  and  her  sister  folding 
More  closely  to  her  breast  that  soul  and  soul 
May  touch,  again  she  prays  forgiveness, 
And  wanders  through  the  story  of  her  love, 
Her  love  for  him  who  has  forsaken  her, 
And  left  her  bosom  for  the  stormy  seas.    "liifp 
"  Oh  I  Sister  !  well  I  knew  that  for  his  sake  'lirfw  stoil 
Not  loath  wouldst  thou  be  any  hour  to  die  ;  rsb  eUioa  iiiO 
For  in  my  heart  the  love  that  burn'd  alway 
Sleeping  or  waking,  told  me  that  in  thine 
The  same  fire  was  consuming  all  thy  peace;  -asMura  ^ 
And  much  I  wept  for  thee,  when  Unimore  <;r«  aril 
Beseech'd  me  to  become  his  wedded  wife>j(  sail  il'wz  Juil 
Yea  !  happiest  of  the  happy  had  I  been 
In  these  my  days  of  blameless  innocence, 
Had  I  upon  my  death-bed  been  but  told 
That  Heaven  had  a  long  life  of  love  in  store 
For  thee  and  him,  nor  would  the  Funeral 
Of  such  a  wretch,  alas  !  as  I  am  now,  -.isef  >rm  (baenBsIaa'J 
Have  needed,  half-forgotten  in  your  bliss,     <foiw  Jon  al 
To  dim  the  sunshine  on  your  marriage  morn.  197911 
Oh  !  sister  !  pardon  while  thou  pitiest  me  ; 
If  pardon  anywhere  below  the  skies 
Can  be  extended  to  my  cruel  sin! 
That  very  day  on  which  I  saw  thee  lie->f  ob  } 
Down  in  thy  hopeless  love  for  Unimore, 
And  heard  thee  muttering  in  distressful  sleep?  uui^i  vw 
Prayers  for  an  early  death—  that  very  sun 
Beheld  me  in  my  sorrow  and  my  shame, 
Sailing  with  him  away  to  Oronsay  ; 
And  in  the  Chapel  on  that  fatal  Isle 
We  stood  beside  the  Altar,  and  its  Priest 
Before  pur  Maker  and  our  Saviour  made 
Our  beings  one;  but  sin  unhallow'd  it^nfib  .era  i 
And  fill'd  the  sacred  service  full  of  tears, 
Tears  of  remorse,  and  tears  of  penitence^  I  Mo  adt  aba;. 
For  greater  wickedness  on  earth  than  mine      n£>na< 
There  might  not  be,  who  overcome  by  prayers 
From  him  who  had  no  pity,  did  consent 
To  break,—  I  see  it  breaking,  so  is  mine,—    saiJ* 
' 


,  , 

My  sister's  heart,  in  which  there  was  no  guile, 
Nothing  but  love  for  me  and  Unimore  !"— 

She  speaks  unto  the  dead  —  her  sister's  eyes 
Are  fix'd  and  glazed,  her  face  is  as  the  clay 
Clammy  and  cold,  and  rigid  is  her  frame, 
As  if  laid  out  for  burial  in  its  shroud. 
"  O  Unimore  !  thou  broken  hast  my  heart, 


Vision  Eighth.     The  Confession.  1 77 

And  I  have  broken  hers !  soon  has  our  sin 
Destroy'd  us  all.    Thy  ship  will  sink  at  sea, 
And  tliou  wilt  perish,  for  in  Providence 
No  trust  canst  thou  have,  nor,  I  fear,  belief ! 
This  dreadful  sight  hath  open'd  thy  wife's  eyes, 
Thy  bride's,  thy  widow's :  but  for  holy  names 
Like  these,  thou  carest  not  in  thy  cruelty, 
Nor  wouldst  thou  shed  one  tear  to  see  us  both 
Lying  alone  here  miserably  dead!1'  »i>smq  ^'ei 

t89rtilidrs09e  9rnr>g-1l98  srft  > 
Enters  the  Old  Priest,  with  his  locks  of  snow 
And  bow'd  down  figure  reverential,  uiJu  * 
And  takes  his  stand  beside  the  Altar-steps, 
With  withered  hands,  in  attitude  of  prayer     <f^hd 
Clasp'd  o'er  the  Orphans. 

luoa  60B  IWOP  IB  if*  Jeiwd  'wrf  oJ  ^foaofo  sio'  . 

«  Father !  I  have  killM 

My  Sister  !  she  hath  died  for  Unimore's  trft  ewbrmv 
And  for  my  sin.    Oh  !  water  from  the  fpnfci  to'i 
With  holy  sprinklings  may  restore  her  life  '  ieri  I 
A  little  while,  and  in  forgiveness 
Our  souls  depart  to  judgment!'?'1 

yawls  b'mud  iadl  svoi  jrfi  Jiaari  xm  **'* 1O>^ 

"Daughter!  thou 

Art  guiltless,  and  thy  Sister  knows  no  guilt, 
Except  the  stain  of  fall'n  humanity ! 
But  guilt  lies  heavy  on  this  hoary  head ; 
For  I  it  was  who,  in  my  old  age,  won 
From  the  plain  path  of  duty,  did  declare      ' 
Thy  Sister  wedded  unto  Unimore 
Before  this  very  Altar,  though  I  knew 
He  was  a  man  of  guilt  and  many  crimes 
Uneleansed,  uncleanseable ;  for  Penitence 
Sails  not  with  him  upon  the  seas,  Remorse 
Shall  never  walk  among  the  hideous  crew    '*  erlJ 
That  on  their  Pirate-Leader  yell  for  blood. 
I  loved  his  noble  sire— too  well  I  love  niv/^i 
Him  in  his  sin — and  have  brought  miseryabnaJ 
On  all  I  most  do  love  and  reverence 
On  earth,  his  Sainted  Mother,  and  his  Wife 
Now  lying  at  thy  feet.     Forgiveness       a  99tf 
Is  wanted  most  by  the  old  foolish  man 
Who  thus  hath  steep'd  his  hoary  locks  in  shame, 
And  to  the  Demon  given  thy  sister's  soul. 
Oh!  little  need  has  now  thy  innocence    • 
For  intercession  of  the  holy  Saints. 
But  I  will  sprinkle  ashes  on  my  head !  ! 

Pray  for  me,  daughter — for  I  need  thy  prayers !" 

.fia  9ill  fa'Iff  t  '  •• 

Kneels  the  old  Priest  upon  the  Altar-steps,  xnm  'i 
And  bending  low,  his  long  locks  overflow 
The  Orphans'  heads  both  lying  tranquilly, 
Nor  any  motion  have  their  bosoms  now } 
Heart-beating  there  is  none — a  single  sigh 
Was  all  he  heard,  when  sinking  gently  down, 
Beside  that  other  body,  she  to  whom 
He  had  been  speaking  in  her  paleness  lay 
Corpselike  to  his  dim  eyes  most  pitiful : 
And  is  it  thus  that  they  do  celebrate 
Their  Birthday — shall  it  be  their  day  of  death ! 

•K.  V  d  Jg  i»'    T 


178  Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Highlands.  [Aug. 

•jLjiiUw  fl«i»  m  i,<Tf: 
VISION  NINTH. 

i83ft»3.  3dlL 

EXPIATION. 

OH  !  if  our  eyes  could  look  into  the  hearts 
Of  human  dwellings  standing  quietly 
Beneath  the  sunrise  in  sweet  rural  spots, 
Far  from  all  stir,  and  haply  green  and  bright 
With  fragrant  growth  of  dewy  leaves  and  flowers, 
Where  bees  renew  their  murmuring  morn,  and  birda 
Begin  again  to  trill  their  orisons, 
Nature  and  Life  exchanging  their  repose 
For  music  and  for  motion,  happier  both 
And  in  their  happiness  more  beautiful 
Than  sleep  with  all  its  dreams, — Oh  1  if  our  eyes 
Could  penetrate  these  consecrated  walls 
Whose  stillness  seems  to  hide  an  inward  bliss 
Diviner  than  the  Dawn's,  what  woful  sights 
Might  they  behold  !  Hands  clasp'd  in  hopeless  prayers 
By  dying  beds,  or  pale  cheeks  drench'd  in  tears 
Beside  cheeks  paler  far,  in  death  as  white 
As  the  shroud-sheets  on  which  the  corpses  lie; 
Or  tossings  of  worse  misery  far,  where  Guilt 
Implores  in  vain  the  peace  of  Penitence, 
Or  sinful  Passion,  struggling  with  Remorse, 
Becomes  more  sinful,  in  its  mad  desire 
To  reconcile  with  God's  forbidding  laws 
A  life  of  cherish'd  vice,  or  daringly 
Doubts  or  denies  eternal  Providence  1 

-,,_:  ,,->i-i..   i  '»j:  '-H'i  -o*j 

Where,  then,  would  be  the  Beauty — where  the  Bliss 
Of  Dawn  that  comes  to  purify  the  earth 
And  all  that  breathes  upon  it,  at  the  hour 
Chosen  for  her  own  delight  by  Innocence  ! 
There  would  they  still  be,  gracious  and  benign 
And  undisturbed  all  by  grief  or  guilt 
Powerful  to  curl  the  heart's-blood  into  ice 
That  blows  may  break  not,  but  one  drop  of  dew, 
Powerless  to  stir  upon  the  primrose  leaf. 
The  fairest  things  in  nature  sympathize 
In  our  imaginations  with  our  life, 
Only  as  long  as  we  are  virtuous ; 
Nor  lovely  seems  the  lily  nor  the  rose, 
When  our  white  thoughts  have  all  been  streak'd  by  sin, 
Or  guilt  hath  bathed  them  in  appalling  hues 
Of  its  own  crimson,  such  as  Nature  sheds 
On  no  sweet  flowers  of  hers,  though  they  are  bright 
On  earth  as  setting  suns  are  bright  in  heaven. 

Look  now  on  Castle  Unimore !  The  stars 
Shine  clear  above  its  turrets — and  the  moon 
With  her  mild  smiling  gladdens  all  the  heaven ; 
Serene  the  blue  sky — the  white  clouds  serene, 
The  mountain-tops  are  as  serene  as  they ; 
Serenely  to  the  Loch  are  flowing  on 
The  rivers,  and  on  its  serenity 
With  folded  wings  sit  all  the  birds  of  calm ; 
While  many  echoes  all  confused  in  one, 
A  sound  mysterious  coming  from  afar, 


Vision  Ninth.    Expiation.  }  70 

But  deepen  Nature's  universal  hush, 
A  strange  song  singing  in  the  solitude ! 

Peace  reigneth  here — if  there  on  earth  be  Peace ; 
And  Peace  profound  is  Nature's  holiest  Joy. 
But  doth  the  Lady  of  the  Castle  share 
The  calm  celestial  ?  Doth  its  blessing  sink 
Into  our  Orphans'  hearts  ?  Unfold,  ye  gates  1 
Ye  massy  walls,  give  way,  and  let  the  eyes 
Of  Fear,  and  Love,  and  Pity,  penetrate 
Into  the  secret  hold  of  Misery  1 

.,l*/ 

And  is  the  secret  hold  of  Misery 
So  still  a  place  as  this  ?  without  one  sigh- 
Without  one  groan — no  voice  of  weeping  heard— 
At  times  no  loud  lament — She  bides  not  here—- 
Or if  she  bide,  then  Misery's  self  is  dead. 

wil*Yf  !>•>•* V.»-««ii'«r.i   Srt->jl.t  '*,Ki;  ?H^V|  iliUliO 

Among  the  moonlight  glimmer,  lo !  the  Bier 
On  which  the  pious  Lady  visiteth 
The  Oratory  on  the  Isle  of  Rocks, 
Within  the  Glen  of  Prayer  I  A  little  lamp 
Is  now  seen  mingling  with  the  light  from  heaven 
Its  own  wan  lustre,  and  a  face  appears, 
A  face  and  figure  of  One  lying  still, 
So  very  still,  from  forehead  unto  feet, 
That  the  soul  knows  at  once  it  is  not  sleep. 
And  she  is  in  her  shroud — her  thin  hands  yet 
Are  folded  on  her  breast,  as  they  were  wont 
To  be  when  living,  and  the  fingers  hold 
With  unrelaxing  clasp  the  Crucifix ; 
But  they  are  hidden  by  that  awful  veil 
Whose  moulderings  many  ages  will  go  on 
Invisibly,  nor  thought  of  in  the  air 
Where  mortals  breathe  in  their  forgetfulness 
Of  all  that  doth  belong  to  buried  death. 
Sprinklings  of  flowers  there  are  upon  the  shroud 
Pale  as  itself,  by  whose  hands  sprinkled  there 
No  need  to  tell  j  and,  lo !  upon  the  rest 
On  which  the  head  reposes,  there  is  placed,— 
The  bright-hair'd  Orphan  drew  it  in  her  bliss, 
Her  dark-hair' d  Sister  hath  bestow'd  it  well, — 
A  picture  of  her  son — her  Unimore ! 

..»,.;  -,.  .;i.iO 

Divine  had  been  that  mother's  close  of  life 
Illumined  by  the  presence  of  her  Son, 
Lifting  his  bright  head  up  above  the  sea ; 
And  heaven  decreed  her  death  should  be  divine. 
She  knew  not  of  his  sins,  for  she  was  blind 
To  all  on  earth  but  that  delightful  face 
Which  she  had  seen  in  many  a  hideous  grave 
Haunting  her  hourly,  night  and  day,  for  years; 
And  deaf  to  all  but  that  delightful  voice 
Which  from  the  still  dust,  or  the  howling  waves, 
Had  come  with  all  the  music  loved  of  yore, 
And  more  than  all  the  music  on  her  soul 
Uproused  by  that  maternal  ecstasy, 
To  more  than  life-prime's  passion-power  restored. 
She  loved  him  more  distractedly  than  e'er 
She  loved  his  sire,  although  all  cruel  deaths 
For  him  she  would  have  died.    A  mother's  heart 
Seems  to  contain  uufathom'd  depths  of  love 


180  Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Highlands. 

Beyond  the  reach  and  needing  not  the  aid 
Of  a  son's  love  to  feed  it,  in  itself 
For  ever  fed  by  Nature's  mystic  springs, 
In  their  warm  gushings  inexhaustible/ 

And  freezing  only  in  the  frost  of  death. 

tfanTfmfrp      :  ,.,:....;.., 

Unquestioning  Happiness  had  embraced  the  Boon. 
Her  speech  had  been  restored  that  she  might  breathe 
Prayers  audible  to  her  own  grateful  heart, 
That  she  might  blessings  pour  herself  could  hear 
On  that  undrown'd  and  dazzling  head  of  his 
That  bore  upon  it  the  whole  light  of  heaven. 
She  knew  not  of  his  life  upon  the  sea 
Save  of  his  shipwrecks— of  his  life  on  land 
Save  of  the  cells  of  his  captivities. 
That  he  did  love  the  Orphan- sisters  well, 
And  that  they  well  did  love  her  Unimore 
She  knew,  and  happy  often  was  to  think 
That  he  who  was  a  Brother  to  them  now 
Would  be  a  Father  when  their  Mother  died. 
She  saw  the  Naiad  dancing  out  of  day, 
And  had  no  fears.    "  Mid-summer  gales,"  he  said, 
"  Blow  softly  ever  mid  the  Hebrides, 
And  the  young  moon  some  gentle  night  will  see 
My  Bark  returning  gaily  up  the  glen, 
All  ended  then  her  ocean-voyagings 
In  the  home-haven  of  Loch-Ummore." 
She  told  her  Daughters  all  that  day  to  leave 
Their  Mother  to  herself— and  when  at  eve 
They  had  been  carried  in  a  dying  state 
Into  the  Castle  from  the  Oratory, 
That  dismal  trial  had  her  soul  been  spared ; 
For  like  a  shadow  on  a  sunny  place 
Had  death  fall'n  on  the  quiet  of  her  Bier, 
And  while  the  Orphans  dree'd  their  agonies 

Her  heart  was  hush'd — her  spirit  was  in  heaven. 

.vfnq  ujifn  nJr«  DirtaiJfife  asA'' 

'Tis  midnight  now— and  on  to-morrow  inoflitni 
Which  is  the  Sabbath,— they  have  chosen  well 
Her  burial-day,— soon  after  dawn  the  Bier 
Will  be  borne  down  into  the  Glen  of  Praye*,"" 
And  Funeral-service  in  the  Oratory 
Read  o'er  it  by  the  humbled  Priest,  whose  age 
By  one  short  week  appeareth  laden  sore 
With  weight  worse  than  of  years,  the  Body  then 
Within  the  Cemetery  of  the  Isle  of  Rocks 
Will  be  interred,  while  in  the  Western  TowCi1 
A  lonely  watch  is  o'er  the  Orphans  kept 
That  they  may  rise  not  from  their  restless  beds, 

And  walk  in  fond  delirium  to  the  grave. 

*-i»Je  IIK  M'j'jiTi  niiT t  iiT5irTr"9rjsv  biuow  .tifafni  h  i 

Fair  Ghosts  f  who  through  the  Castle  glide  by  nights, 
Haunting  its  long-drawn  corridors  obscure, 
And  always  visiting  this  noiseless  room 
At  the  same  hour,  with  love  that  erreth  not, 
It  is  so  spiritual,  and  so  true  to  time 
The  sacred  impulses  that  reign  in  sleep  ! 
Fair  Ghosts  of  them  still  living!  Not  with  fear — 
Though  on  their  steps  mysterious  waiteth  awe 
And  wonder — not  with  fear  do  we  behold 
The  pale-faced  Orphans  walking  in  their  dreams ! 
Unclosed  their  eyelids,  but  their  eyes  as  eweet, 


Vision  Ninth.    Expiation.  181 

Fixed  though  they  be,  as  when  in  wakefulness 

They  used  to  watch  beside  their  mother's  bed  ! 

Deep  reconcilement  hath  now  link'd  their  souls, 

Else  never  had  their  bodies  glided  thus 

In  sleep's  celestial  union,  up  and  down 

The  castle-gloom  and  glimmer  sanctified 

By  saintly  shew  of  such  exceeding  love  jjnirroiteaupn 

Who  wrought  the  shrouds  in  which  ye  snow-white  walk! 

Who  for  the  tomb  adorn'  d  you  with  pale  flowers 

By  pity  gather'd  in  the  shady  nookjj^r.f  jtftjjnr  9rfa  ted 

Of  forest-woods  where  loveliest  leaves  are  dim,  rKfa  { 

And  wither  as  they  smile—  as  ye  do  noT?,nOq0  97:)Cf  jBri' 

In  dying  beauty  visiting  the  deadly  gy  ^o  Jon  vritnf  3 

Your  own  hands  wrought  the  shrouds  —  your  own  hands  dropt 

The  rathe  flowers  here  and  there  upon  the  folds  ; 

As  they  had  done  unto  the  flowery  shrou&j  5(5  9Jf  j£j7 

Of  her  ye  come  to  kiss  now  in  your  sleep.  ^^  j^  5n/ 

What  reverential  kneelings  at  the  bier  lu(  j,™  W9) 

And  what  love  mingled  with  the  revereuc^  [,,£„  m{  jBi{T 

Divided  only  by  your  mother's  corse 

You  kneel,  nor  yet  in  that  communion  know  ,(^  WB8  91jg 

How  neaj  to  one  another  !  Unhnore     e1Be^  oa  f>fil{  baA 

Is  now  forgotten  as  he  ne'er  had  been  ;          (  .  joa  Wof  8.  »* 

His  image  is  permitted  not  to  come 

On  worship  such  as  this  ;  again  your  life          r  jjljBg  ^ifi 

In  maiden  innocence  unstain'd  flows  on 

Through  the  still  world  of  melancholy  dreams;   {  9jj  a{ 

And  in  delusion  breath'  d  from  heaven  you  weep    ,j  9  jg 

For  sole  sake  of  your  mother,  who  has  died, 

You  think,  without  a  glimpse  of  her  lost  son. 

Lo  !  each  alternately  a  kiss  lets  fall 

On  the  shut  eyes,  and  cheeks  and  forehead  swath*  d, 

Nor  fears  the  white  lips,  nor  their  touch  though  cold  ,o^ 

Refuses,  as  they  seem  to  meet  with  theirs^'  ,{tB.3f»  bnH 

In  unexpired  affection  !  But  no  word         9({j  Q[\s{jf  b0/ 

The  one  or  other  speaks  —  serenely  mute  ;.VVI  jTB9Ii  19H 

Then  satisfied  with  filial  piety, 

The  kneelers  slowly  rise  up  to  their  feetjf{0fn^|ra  gjT 

And  of  each  other's  presence  unaware, 

Though  all  the  while  their  fix'd  eyes  fill'd  with  iQy^-^q 

Straight  on  each  other's  faces  seem  to  look,,.UHj 

First  one  and  then  the  other  on  her  breast 

Doth  fold  her  hands,  and  gently  bows  her  head     ,  j^ 

Towards  the  Bier  ;  then  ghostlike  glide  awa.jr0(|^  9n.  . 

Both  to  their  chamber  in  the  Western  Tower. 

And  when  they  lie  down  in  each  other's  arms^u  aj^ 

May  all  good  angels  guard  the  Orphans'  couch  ! 


.  ,.  ,  .    >>  &  itRw  v^no  ji 

The  Moon  is  in  meridian  —  and  in  lull.  ./R(i,  v,,,i, 

In  the  whole  sky  were  not  a  single  star 
Midnight  would  yet  be  bright  ;  but  there  are  stars 
In  thousands  ;  all  the  Fix'd  Array  is  there 
In  ranges  loftier  in  infinitude 
And  loftier  as  you  gaze  ;  while  nearer  earth 
Burn  the  large  Planets,  objects  of  our  love 
Because  placed  in  their  beauty  more  within 
The  reaches  of  our  souls  when  roaming  heaven. 
Look  !  look  unto  the  Castle  battlements  ! 
There  are  the  Orphans  walking  in  their  sleep. 
Dreadless  along  the  precipice  they  glide 
Above  the  coignes  that  hide  the  marten's  nest  ; 
But  down  the  depth  they  gaze  not,  all  their  eyes 


Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Highlandt. 

Are  fixed  afar  upon  the  starry  Loch. 

See  on  the  Western  Tower  is  sitting  lone 

The  dark-haired  Orphan,  and  that  dark  hair  hanga, 

Escaping  from  the  fillet  round  its  braids, 

In  sable  shadows  o'er  the  enow-white  shroud. 

"  Why  didst  thou  leave  the  Orphans,  Unimore  ? 

Thou  shouldst  have  staid  with  us  a  little  while, 

And  seen  the  wretches  laid  into  their  graves !" 

Lying  upon  the  Eastern  Battlement, 

All  heedlessly  diffused  as  if  in  dreams 

Among  the  sunshine  on  the  greensward  brae, 

The  bright-haired  Orphan,  with  her  golden  locki 

Dim  in  the  piteous  moonlight,  sings  a  song 

Of  human  love,  as  holy  as  a  hymn 

Of  love  divine,  and  still  at  every  close 

Pathetic,  breathes  the  name  of  Unimore. 

At  the  same  time  they  cease  their  singing  wild, 

And  passing  to  and  fro  along  the  edge 

Of  death,  unconscious  of  th'  abyss  profound, 

Still  as  they  meet,  but  meeting  never  touch, 

They  blend  their  mournful  voices  into  one, 

Hymning  the  same  strain  to  the  Throne  of  Grace, 

The  same  strain  they  did  at  the  Altar  sing, 

Kneeling  together  in  the  Oratory 

The  day  that  witness'd  Unimore's  Return. 

..    I:-    l>oi->0« 

Mute,  motionless  the  gazers  all  below; 
No  stir,  no  whisper ;  for  they  dread  to  wake 
The  shrouded  Sleepers  safe  now  in  their  sleep, 
But  were  it  broken,  what  a  fearful  fall 
Instant  would  dash  their  bodies  into  death  ! 
There  stands  apart  the  melancholy  Seer, 
And  in  humiliation  there  the  Priest ; 
There  maidens  stand  who  from  the  mountains  came 
To  tend  the  dying  Orphans,  or  to  weep 
Their  unavailing  tears;  and  clansmen  there 
In  moody  silence  thinking  on  their  Chief, 
And  wondering  in  their  fealty  that  one 
So  bright  and  brave,  and  like  his  blameless  sire, 
Could  so  have  sinn'd ;  yet  after  him  their  prayers 
Are  sent  to  guard  his  Ship  upon  the  sea. 

»€{>'(•"»  '.Vtbm'i.i   -i!  ir--..;ii.»  ';  .  '  ti""b  \-u  '.nut-   ,;»sW 

Lo !  gliding  o'er  the  greenward  esplanade 
In  front  of  the  old  Castle,  side  by  side, 
Yet  touching  not  their  figures  nor  their  hands, 
Shadowy  and  strange  the  shrouded  Sisters  go, 
And  carry  now  their  snow-white  beauty  dim 
Away  to  the  dark  woods !  Then  disappear, 
Each  by  a  well-known  pathway  of  her  own, 
Into  the  Glen  of  Prayer.    All  follow  them 
With  reverential  footsteps  stilFd  by  fear 
And  by  love  hasten'd,  down  the  shaggy  depth, 
At  whose  base  roars  a  river  bridged  with  trees 
Storm-laid  across  the  chasms,  by  their  old  roots 
Held  fast,  and  on  the  opposing  precipice 
Green  their  top  branches,  living  bridges  blight 
With  mossy  verdure,  but  their  shaking  stems 
Hanging  unledged  o'er  foamy  waterfalls. 

A  perilous  place  !  But  oft  their  sportive  feet 
Have  glided  o'er  these  bridges,  as  the  fawns 
Fearless  behind  their  dam,  when  she  instructs 


Vision  Ninth.    Expiation.  183 

Their  steps  in  danger,  ere  the  hunter's  horn 

Startle  her  lonely  lair;  and  they  have  learnt 

To  look  down  o'er  the  chasms,  like  youngling  birds 

All  unafraid  within  their  hanging  nests 

Above  the  spray  of  cataracts ;  their  eyes 

Familiar  with  the  foam  that  floats  below 

As  with  the  clouds  that  sail  along  the  sky. 

And  on  these  bridges  oft  hath  Unimore 

Led  them  along,  a  Sister  on  each  side, 

For  so  he  then  would  call  them — and  sometimes 

There  glided  with  him  only  one,  alone 

With  her  Destroyer, — then  she  was  his  Bride  I 

aid 

The  Group  is  gather'd  on  the  Isle  of  Rocks ; 
And  lo !  across  the  giant  pine-tree  flung 
From  cliff  to  cliff  across  a  chasm,  midway 
Between  the  blue  air  and  the  water  black, 
The  Orphans  walk,  and  as  they  walk  they  meet, 
And  meeting  they  awake.    The  dismal  noise 
Below  them  of  the  boiling  cataract, 
The  horrid  glimmer  of  the  swimming  cliffs, 
And  dim  affrightments  of  the  hideous  chasm 
Enveloping  their  being  all  at  once 
In  what  now  seemeth  death,  a  shrilly  shriek 
From  both  their  bosoms  wrench  insanely  out, 
"  O  God  of  mercy — save  us,  Jesu !  save !" 
And  yet  each  fearing  for  the  other  more 
Than  for  herself,  with  mutual  clasp  they  clutch 
Each  other's  bodies  in  a  last  embrace, 
And  from  the  pine-tree  swerving," not  a  hand 
Stretch'd  from  on  high  to  save,  into  the  Pool 
Raging  below  they  drop,  and  whirl'd  a  while 
Like  weeds  or  branches  round  about  on  foam, 
They  disappear,  while  all  the  Isle  of  Rocks 
Is  one  wild  outcry  vainly  piercing  heaven  ! 

oioH;  »r<»»»i -fiurv  tie  ^       ftfc/Bfur  lidufT 

Despair  may  seek  to  lift  the  coffin-lid 
As  if  it  madly  dreamt  life  might  be  there  I 
Despair  may  go  into  the  mouldy  vault 
And  strive  to  think  the  echo  of  its  feet 
The  stirring  of  the  shrouded.     But  Despair 
May  shoot  not  down  that  chasm  its  blinded  eyes, 
And  know  not  that  the  Orphans  are  with  God. 

sbi*  vd  "!,„  ,-,[.., M  )  {>(..  <*i<t  jo  mo-i't  «I 

There  is  no  shrieking  now;  upon  their  knees 
Around  the  kneeling  Priest  drop  one  and  all ; 
All  but  the  Seer — and  he  his  wither'd  hands 
Uplifts,  and  with  wild  wavings  down  the  Glen 
Motions  the  Clansmen,  who  arise  and  go 
Where'er  he  wills ;  for  he  obeys  his  Dreams, 
And  they  believe  that  in  the  wilderness 
Dreams  shadow  the  whole  imagery  of  Death. 
The  River,  splinter'd  on  the  Isle  of  Rocks, 
Through  separate  chasms  goes  boiling,  all  unseen; 
But  reappearing  as  the  Isle  slopes  down 
Into  a  silvan  scene,  where  all  is  peace, 
Gently  it  flows  along  the  Cemetery 
That  in  the  quiet  water  hangs  its  tombs. 
Thither  they  go,  and  on  the  bank  sit  down 
Like  men  in  idlesse  gazing  on  the  foam ; 
When  lo !  faint- whitening  in  a  lucid  pool 


184  Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Highlands.  [Aug. 

With  a  strong  current,  moving  slowly  on 
All  eyes  at  once  behold  the  blended  shrouds  ! 
No  need  to  drag  them  from  the  water — they 
Are  on  the  silver  sand.     With  tenderest  hands 
They  lift  the  Orphans  and  their  bodies  lay, 
Weeping,  for  men  are  not  ashamed  to  weep 
When  pity  bids  them,  on  a  greensward  bed 
Warm'd  by  the  earliest  touches  of  the  dawn, 
For  all  the  Stars  have  faded,  and  the  Moon 
Is  gone,  although  they  knew  it  not  till  now, 
And  almost  perfect  day  has  filled  the  skies. 

All  there  have  often  seen  the  face  of  death, 
And  almost  always  'tis  the  face  of  peace. 
But  this  is  not  the  face  of  death  and  peace, 
It  is  the  face  of  an  immortal  joy. 
Fear  left  it  falling  o'er  the  precipice, 
And  Love  bestowed  her  beauty  on  the  eyes 
Though  they  we  shut,  and  on  the  lips,  though  they 
Are  white  almost  as  forehead  or  as  breast, 
And  these  are  like  the  snow.     One  Face  it  seems ; 
While  each  is  lovely,  both  the  calm  of  Heaven ! 

Where  art  thou,  Unimore  ?    Thou  art  forgiven 
By  them  who  died  for  thee — Oh !  may  thy  sins 
Find  mercy,  though  no  mercy  thou  didst  shew 
Unto  these  loving  Orphan-Innocents  ! 
Perhaps,  even  now,  a  dream  assails  thy  Ship 
Shewing  this  sorry  sight — this  greensward  bed — 
These  bodies — of  these  bright,  these  sable  locks 
Most  mournful  mixture — this  death-fast  embrace 
Not  even  to  be  unlocked  within  the  tomb. 
"  Judge  not,  lest  thou  be  judged  !"  the  Scriptures  say. 
Lodged  in  that  mystery  is  celestial  light ; 
Let  man  seek  in  the  Bible  and  he  finds 
What  Mercy  means,  and  what  is  Conscience, 
And  what  it  is  that  puts  out  or  that  dims 
That  light  which  is  a  law  to  all  the  race ; 
For  evfl-thoughts  and  evil-doings,  all 
That  is  by  God  forbidden,  bring  on  death 
On  those  we  love,  as  if  we  hated  them ; 
Nor  halts  the  sinner  upon  shore  or  sea 
Till  he  lets  perish  his  immortal  soul ! 

Down  from  the  Castle  comes  the  Lady's  Bier ; 
And  all  together  shall  the  Three  repose 
Within  one  grave.    Sleep-walking  is  there  none, — 
Though  superstition  sees  it  in  the  gloom 
And  tells  of  unlaid  ghosts, — when  "  dust  to  dust" 
Hath  once  been  said  by  holy  lips,  and  seal'd 
The  Tomb's  mouth  with  a  melancholy  stone 
Inscribed,  when  Love  has  sacred  leisure  found 
From  weeping  over  it,  by  moonlight  niffhts, 
With  Grief  and  Pity. 

The  whole  Clan  is  there ; 
And  now  the  Funeral-rites  are  all  perform'd ; 
And  dying  daisies,  with  their  whitening  leaves 
Ere  mid-day  to  be  wither' d,  on  the  turf 
Are  almost  all  that  tells  it  was  disturbed, 
So  perfect  is  the  peace  that  seals  the  grave 
And  gives  the  sleepers  to  oblivion. 


1831.]  Vision  Ninth.     Expiation. 

Oblivion !  no — the  memory  of  their  lives, 

So  innocent  that  were  and  beautiful, 

And  to  the  brim  filled  full  of  happiness 

Till  of  a  sudden  mortal  misery  came 

With  no  forewarning,  and  dissolved  the  dream 

In  cold  but  welcome  death,  the  memory 

Of  lives  so  lovely  and  exceeding  pure, 

When  all  the  old  heads  stooping  there  have  gone 

Down  to  the  dust,  will  in  the  breasts  survive 

Of  all  these  mournful  maidens  and  these  youths 

Mingling  their  hearts,  as  they  will  sometimes  do 

When  meeting  on  the  mountains  they  deplore 

Long  afterwards  the  affliction  that  befell 

In  that  lone  burial-place ;  they  will  recite 

In  Sabbath  quietude  the  Tale  of  Tears, 

Unto  their  children's  children,  weeping  eyes 

For  many  a  generation  witnessing 

For  them  who  live  and  die  in  piety 

How  still  and  strong  the  sanctity  of  grief ! 

And  thus  the  Orphans  from  their  graves  will  breathe 
A  blessing  o'er  their  own  sweet  wilderness  ; 
And  if  their  Ghosts  before  the  misty  sight 
Of  pity-wakened  Fancy  on  the  moors 
In  melancholy  moonlight  seem  to  glide 
And  o'er  the  mountains,  when  the  stars  are  dim 
In  dewy  mist,  and  all  the  tender  skies 
Benignly  smile  in  sympathy  with  souls 
Blest  with  a  cherish'd  sorrow,  in  such  robes 
As  sainted  spirits  are  believ'd  to  wear 
When  singing  round  the  Throne,  all  spotless  white, 
The  Orphan-sisters  o'er  the  solitude 
Will  holiness  diffuse,  love  without  fear, 
Sent  down  by  Mercy  silent  messengers 
To  all  that  suffer  but  commit  no  wrong 
Of  heavenly  comfort,  and  to  all  that  sin 
Of  pardon,  if  that  they  repentant  be, 
Pardon  through  Jesus,  and  Forgiveness  wide 
As  God's  etherial  house,  Infinitude. 

No  longer  linger  oa  the  Orphans'  Grave* 
Ye  Virgin  mourners !  For  their  Mother  weep 
No  more  !  Earthborn  our  thoughts  of  Space  and  Time, 
Partaking  of  our  prison !  But  the  light 
Shot  down  to  us  by  sun  or  star  is  slow 
When  dreamt  of  with  the  spirit's  instant  gleam 
From  death  to  life — its  change  from  earth  to  heaven. 
A  moment's  Bliss  within  those  shining  courts 
Is  in  itself  long  ages — such  their  Bliss 
For  whom  you  now  are  blindly  shedding  tears. 
The  morning-dews  have  melted  all  away, 
So  let  your  tears !  Oh !  what  a  joyful  burst 
Of  woodland  melodies  o'er  flows  the  glen  ! 
Rejoicing  nature  o'er  the  Cemetery 
Pours  light  and  music—why  so  sad  your  souls? 
The  day-spring  from  on  high  doth  visit  them, 
A  still  small  voice  is  whispering— Peace !  Peace !  Peace ! 


VOL.  xxs.  KO.  CLXXXJII. 


180  Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Highlands.  [Aug. 

VISION  TENTH. 
RKTRIHUTION. 

ALONG  Imagination's  air  serene 
And  on  her  sea  serene  we  fly  or  float, 
Like  Birds  of  Calm  that  with  the  moonlight  glide 
Sometimes  upon  the  wing,  sometimes  with  plumes 
Folded  amid  the  murmur  of  the  waves, 
Far  up  among  the  mountains  to  the  head 
Of  some  great  Glen,  enamour'd  of  the  green 
And  flowery  solitude  of  inland  peace. 
Yet  there  the  Birds  of  Calm  soon  find  that  mists, 
And  clouds,  and  storms,  and  hurricanes  belong 
Not  to  the  sea  alone ;  as  we  have  found 
That,  in  the  quiet  Regions  of  the  Soul, 
Removed,  as  we  did  dream,  from  sorrow  far 
And  sin,  there  yet  are  doleful  visitings 
Of  Sin  and  Sorrow  both.     But  as  the  Birds, 
Returning  to  the  Ocean,  take  with  them 
All  the  sweet  memories  only,  and  forget 
The  blasts  that  to  their  native  haunts  again 
Bore  them  away  reluctant,  nor  do  fear 
Another  time  to  let  themselves  be  borne 
On  the  same  waftings  back  to  the  same  place 
Where  they  had  wheel'd  about  so  happily, 
Or  on  the  greensward  walk'd  among  the  lambs ; 
Even  so  do  we  on  our  return  to  Life 
Tumultuous  even  far  more  than  is  the  Sea, 
Take  with  us  all  the  sweetest  memories 
Of  that  still  place  which  we  had  visited 
In  our  calm-loving  dreams,  forgotten  all 
Or  but  remember'd  dimly  the  distress 
That  even  there  did  come  to  trouble  us ; 
Nor  loath,  but  earnest,  even  most  passionate 
To  wing  our  way  back  to  the  solitude 
Once  more,  and  there  relapse  into  the  bliss 
That  once  so  softly  breath'd  o'er  Innocence. 

Back  through  the  glimmering  regions  of  the  past 
Then  let  us  fly  again — and  on  a  time 
Take  up  our  visionary  residence, 
Half-way  between  this  glorious  summer-day 
Lying  refulgent  on  Winander's  waves 
And  isles,  and  shores,  and  woods,  and  groves,  and  all 
Her  shadowy  mountains  well  beloved  of  heaven, 
And  that  sad  morn  but  sweet  when  we  beheld 
The  Orphan  Sisters  with  their  Mother  laid 
Beyond  the  reach  of  sorrow,  which  had  found 
Their  dwelling  out,  though  it  was  far  remote 
And  solitary,  amid  Morven's  glens 
O'er  which  the  lonely  Eagle  loved  to  sail. 

Again  we  sit  in  the  dim  world  of  dreams. 
O  er  Morven  forty  years  have  come  and  gone 
Since,  on  the  morning  of  that  Funeral, 
The  Isle  of  Rocks  within  the  Glen  of  Prayer 
Beheld  the  gathered  Clan  of  Unimore 
Upon  their  knees  around  the  Oratory, 
Beseeching  heaven  to  take  into  its  rest 
The  spirits,  of  the  buried.    Time  and  tide 


1831.]  Vision  Tenth.    Retribution.  187 

Have  washed  away,  like  weeds  upon  the  sands, 

Crowds  of  the  olden  life's  memorials, 

And  mid  the  mountains  you  as  well  might  seek 

For  the  lone  site  of  Fancy's  filmy  dreams. 

Towers  have  decay'd,  and  moulder' d  from  the  cliffs, 

Or  their  green  age  or  grey  has  help'd  to  build 

New  dwellings  sending  up  their  household  smoke 

From  treeless  places  once  inhabited 

But  by  the  secret  eylvans.    On  the  moors 

The  pillar-stone,  rear'd  to  perpetuate 

The  fame  of  some  great  battle,  or  the  power 

Of  storied  necromancer  in  the  wilds, 

Among  the  wide  change  on  the  heather-bloom 

By  power  more  wondrous  wrought  than  his,  its  name 

Has  lost,  or  fallen  itself  has  disappeared ; 

No  broken  fragment  suffer'd  to  impede 

The  glancing  ploughshare.    All  the  ancient  woods 

Are  thinn'd,  and  let  in  floods  of  daylight  now, 

Then  dark  and  dern  as  when  the  Druids  lived. 

Narrow'd  is  now  the  red-deer's  forest-reign; 

The  royal  race  of  eagles  is  extinct; 

But  other  changes  than  on  moor  and  cliff 

Have  tamed  the  aspect  of  the  wilderness. 

The  simple  system  of  primeval  life, 

Simple  but  stately,  hath  been  broken  down ; 

The  Clans  are  scatter'd,  and  the  Chieftain's  power 

Is  dead,  or  dying — but  a  name — though  yet 

It  sometimes  stirs  the  desert.     On  the  winds 

The  tall  plumes  wave  no  more — the  tartan  green 

With  fiery  streaks  among  the  heather-bells 

Now  glows  unfrequent — and  the  echoes  mourn 

The  silence  of  the  music  that  of  old 

Kept  war-thoughts  stern  amid  the  calm  of  peace. 

Yet  to  far  battle-plains  still  Morven  sends 

Her  heroes,  and  still  glittering  in  the  sun, 

Or  blood-dimm'd,  her  dread  line  of  bayonets 

Marches  with  loud  shouts  straight  to  victory. 

A  soften'd  radiance  now  floats  o'er  her  glens ; 

No  rare  sight  now  upon  her  sea-arm  lochs 

The  Sail  oft  veering  up  the  solitude ; 

And  from  afar  the  noise  of  life  is  brought 

Within  the  thunder  of  her  cataracts. 

These  will  flow  on  for  ever ;  and  the  crests, 

Gold-tipt  by  rising  and  by  setting  suns, 

Of  her  old  mountains  inaccessible, 

Glance  down  their  scorn  for  ever  on  the  toils 

That  load  with  harvests  new  the  humbler  hills 

Now  shorn  of  all  their  heather-bloom,  and  green 

Or  yellow  as  the  gleam  of  Lowland  fields. 

And  bold  hearts  in  broad  bosoms  still  are  there 

Living  and  dying  peacefully;  the  huts 

Abodes  are  still  or  high-soul'd  poverty ; 

And  underneath  their  lintels  Beauty  stoopa 

Her  silken-snooded  head,  when  singing  goes 

The  Maiden  to  her  father  at  his  work 

Among  the  woods,  or  joins  the  scanty  line 

Of  barley-reapers  on  their  narrow  ridge 

In  some  small  field  among  the  pastoral  braes. 

Still  fragments  dim  of  ancient  Poetry 

In  melancholy  music  down  the  glens 

Go  floating ;  and  from  shieling  roofd  with  boughs 

And  turf-wall' d,  high  up  in  some  lonely  place 


18(3  Unitnore,  a  Dream  of  the  Highlands.  [Aug 

Where  flocks  of  sheep  are  nibbling  the  sweet-grass 
Of  midsummer,  and  browsing  on  the  plants 
On  the  cliff-mosses  a  few  goats  are  seen 
Among  their  kids,  you  hear  sweet  melodies 
Attuned  to  some  traditionary  tale 
By  young  wife  sitting  all  alone,  aware 
From  shadow  on  the  mountain-horologe 
Of  the  glad  hour  that  brings  her  husband  home 
Before  the  gloaming  from  the  far-off  moor 
Where  the  black  cattle  feed — there  all  alone 
She  sits  and  sings,  except  that  on  her  knees 
Sleeps  the  sweet  offspring  of  their  faithful  loves. 

What  change  hath  fall'n  on  Castle  Unimore  ? 
Hath  her  Last  Chieftain  been  forgotten  quite, 
His  Lady-Mother  once  to  Morven  dear, 
The  Orphans  whom  her  Bard  did  celebrate 
By  names  he  borrowed  from  the  lavish  sky 
That  loved  its  kindred  loveliness  to  lend 
To  the  fair  Spirits  of  the  Wilderness  ? 

Behold  the  Glen  of  Prayer,  the  Isle  of  Rocks, 
The  Oratory,  and  the  Place  of  Tombs  ! 
And  a  small  Congregation  gather'd  there 
As  if  it  were  the  Sabbath,  and  the  bell 
Among  the  silent  mountains  had  been  chiming 
The  peaceful  people  to  the  House  of  God. 
O  sacred  Pity  !  or  a  holier  name 
Shall  we  unblamed  bestow  on  Thee  who  art 
No  other  than  Religion,  when  the  soul 
Receives  thee  coming  like  the  dewy  dawn 
Through  dimness  waxing  bright  ?  Thou  dost  preserve 
The  pleasant  memories  of  all  mournful  things, 
Making  sweet  Grief  immortal,  when  she  takes 
The  placid  look  and  gentle  character 
Of  Sorrow,  softening  every  sight  she  sees 
Through  the  slight  mist  of  something  scarcely  tears. 
*  The  fate  of  the  Fair  Orphans  has  become 
A  holy  Legend  now;  for  few  survive 
Who  saw  them  buried,  and  tradition  tells 
The  outline  only  of  their  story,  drawn 
In  colours  dim,  but  still  the  hues  of  heaven. 
Calm  Anniversary  of  a  troubled  day  ! 
There  sit  the  people,  some  upon  the  tombs, 
Upon  the  turf-heaps  some,  and  the  low  wall 
That  winds  its  ivy  round  the  burial-place 
Is  covered  here  and  there — a  cheerful  shew ; 
As  if  it  were  some  annual  Holiday, 
Or  Festival -devoted  unto  Mirth 
Who  only  waits  the  to-fall  of  the  night 
To  wake  the  jocund  sound  of  dance  and  song. 
And  yet  o'er  all  a  shade  of  melancholy 
Seems  breathing,  more  than  what  may  appertain 
To  these  still  woods. 

Lo !  form'd  in  fair  array, 
A  Band  of  Maidens  in  their  best  attire, — 
Such  as  they  wear  when  walking  with  a  Bride 
Back  from  the  Chapel  to  her  Father's  house 
Which  she  must  now  be  leaving,  or  when  all 
The  happy  congregation  bless  the  babe 
Held  gently  up  to  the  Baptismal  Font,— 


1831.]  Vision  Tenth.    Retribution. 

One  Tomb  encircle,  by  itself  aloof 

A  little  way  from  all  the  rest,  one  Tomb 

That  in  the  very  heart  of  sunshine  sleeps; 

And  hark !  they  scatter  over  it,  than  flowers 

More  sweet,  the  holy  harmony  of  hymns ! 

There  lie  the  unforgotten  Orphans — there 

Lieth  their  Mother's  dust.     The  marble  shews 

Their  sacred  names  bedimm'd  with  weather-stain?, 

But  still  distinct,  for  the  defacing  moss 

Is  suffer'd  not  to  gather  on  the  lines 

Oft  look'd  on  reverentially  by  eyes 

That  sometimes  let  the  quiet  tear-drops  fall 

Upon,  the  holy  text  that  strews  the  grave. 

The  Hymns  are  silent  on  the  lips  that  sang 
So  dolefully,  but  Echo  in  the  cliff 
Warbles  one  moment  the  concluding  strain; 
And  now  the  birds,  that  all  the  while  were  mute 
On  hearing  of  that  plaintive  melody, 
Take  up  the  dirge  to  tunings  of  their  own 
Inspired  by  Fancy  with  an  alien  woe, 
For  glad  are  they  within  their  summer-bowers ; 
Though  they  too  have  their  sorrows,  when  their  nests 
During  short  absence  sometimes  disappear 
With  all  the  nestlings,  and  the  grove  is  pierced 
With  rueful  cries  of  restless  agony 
Fluttering  from  tree  to  tree,  and  sore  amazed 
In  instinct's  passion  at  the  grievous  loss 
That  leaves  the  bare  bough  unendurable; 
Till  far  away  the  shrieking  Parents  fly^ 
And  sit  down  mute  upon  some  desert-stone, 
As  dimly  sad  as  human  wretchedness  ! 

Laden  with  old  age,  lo !  a  white-hair'd  Man, 
An  unknown  Stranger  coming  from  afar, 
Enters  the  burial-place,  nor  from  the  ground 
Uplifteth  yet  his  eyes.    But  now  their  lids 
Are  raised,  exposing  melancholy  orbs 
And  dim  just  like  the  blind's.     "  Shew  me  their  Tomb !" 
He  seems  to  see  it ;  and  he  lays  him  down 
On  the  white  slab  in  all  his  misery, 
Moaning  their  names,  and  with  his  wither'd  lips 
Kissing  the  letters,  but  without  a  tear. 
Long  has  it  been  since  that  old  Phantom  wept. 
His  brain  is  dry,  and  in  those  shrunken  hands 
Scarce  creeps  the  livid  blood — and  now  a  voice 
Hollowly  utters,  "  I  am  Unimore !" 

Clansmen,  behold  your  Chief!  What  think  ye  now, 
Old  men  who  walk'd  with  Unimore  of  old, 
Following  his  high  plumes  o'er  the  mountain-cliffs, 
What  think  ye  now  of  Morven's  Morning-Star  ? 
These  locks  of  miserable  snow  did  once 
Dim  the  dark  purple  on  the  raven's  wing; 
That  crawling  form,  like  to  a  young  oak-tree 
When  sunshine  smites  its  glory,  once  did  stand 
Magnificent ;  in  feeble  hollowness 
Expires  the  voice  that  on  the  battle-deck 
At  head  of  all  his  Boarders,  fear  and  death 
Oft  scattered,  when,  her  Bloody  Flag  hung  high, 
The  Black  Sea-Eagle  thunder'd  o'er  the  foam,-~ 
Clansmen,  behold  your  Chief! 


Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Highlands.  [Aug. 

A  few  old  men, 

True  to  the  sacred  love  that  burn'd  of  yore 
And  faithful  to  all  ancient  memories, 
Walk  slowly  towards  him,  and  kneel  down  mute 
Beside  the  wearied  wanderer  who  hath  found 
At  last  a  place  of  rest.     Sighs,  sobs,  and  groans 
Go  echoing  round  and  round  the  Isle  of  Rocks. 
"  And  is  it  thus  our  Unimore  returns 
To  his  own  Morven !  better  had  the  sea 
Swallow'd  his  ship,  than  thus  to  send  our  Chief 
Back  to  his  home,  which  must  now  be  the  Grave !" 

No  words  the  Phantom  hears ;  his  soul  has  gone 
A  long  long  journey,  back  to  that  bright  month 
Of  wicked  love  and  fatal,  when  he  woo'd 
And  won  the  Orphans,  miserable  brides 
Yet  sinless,  by  their  nuptials  both  undone. 
Dim  are  his  eyes,  but  now  they  penetrate 
The  marble  and  the  earth  beneath,  and  see 
What  is  no  longer  there,  the  very  shrouds 
Flower-woven,  and  the  lovely  faces  wan, 
Looking  as  they  did  look  that  sunny  morn 
The  sisters  perish'd,  walking  in  their  sleep. 
Swept  from  his  memory  many  a  once-deep  trace 
By  passion  and  by  trouble  graven  there 
As  if  by  eating  fire ;  but  all  the  lines 
Of  all  that  love  disastrous  yet  are  left, 
Of  all  that  guilt  inexpiable,  of  all 
That  sin  that  seemeth  far  beyond  the  reach 
Of  Heaven's  own  mercy.    As  if  yesterday 
Had  been  their  day  of  burial,  he  beholds 
The  open  grave,  and  he  the  thunder  hears 
With  hollow  peals  within  the  grave,  when  falls 
The  first  dread  shovelling  in  of  dust  to  dust, 
That  to  the  ears  of  stricken  agony 
Doth  to  its  centre  shake  the  solid  earth. 

The  story  of  their  death,  like  wintry  wail 
Of  winds  at  midnight  round  the  Pirate's  ship, 
Had  access  found  unto  the  solitudes 
Of  the  wide  sea.    For  dire  catastrophes 
Make  themselves  known  in  many  wondrous  ways, 
Sometimes  by  single  syllables,  that  come 
With  pauses  long,  like  tellings  of  a  knell ; 
Sometimes  in  revelations  made  in  dreams. 
If  waking  ears  be  deaf,  or  if  the  air 
Bring  not  the  ghastly  tidings,  Conscience 
Confounds  us  with  the  truth  in  troubled  sleep. 

"  I  smote  their  breasts— I  broke  their  hearts — I  dash'd 
Their  spotless  bodies  o'er  the  cataract — 
I  murder'd  them  in  all  their  Innocence  !— 
The  sorrow  that  belongs  of  right  to  Sin 
I  shot  into  the  soul  of  Piety  ! 
Stealing  upon  the  Orphans  at  their  prayers, 
And  violating  the  celestial  calm 
Which  even  I,  an  atheist,  felt  was  breathed 
From  heaven,  and  from  the  power  that  reigns  in  heaven!" 

No  pity  needeth  Penitence,  for  soft 
And  sweet,  like  distant  music,  are  her  dreams; 
But  all  the  tears  that  pity  hath,  too  few 


1831.]  Vision  Tenth.    Retribution. 

To  give  unto  Remorse,  that  swalloweth  up 

Its  own,  nor  in  them  any  blessing  knows 

Though  pour'd  in  floods,  all  falling  fruitlessly 

As  tropic  torrents  on  the  desert  sands. 

Many  beseechings  strive  to  pacify 

The  Wretchedness  that  once  was  Unimore ; 

But  crazed,  they  soon  perceive,  by  misery  crazed, 

Is  now  the  old  man's  brain.    Wild  wanderings  take 

His  dim  eyes  up  and  down  the  Isle  of  Rocks, 

And  up  and  down  all  o'er  the  Glen  of  Prayer, 

As  if  pursuing  phantoms. 

"  Look  not  so  ! 

Oh !  hide  from  me  your  melancholy  eyes, 
And  all  their  meek  upbraidings  I    Not  from  heaven 
Should  spirits  thus  come  upon  a  sinner's  curse, 
To  make  the  misery  more  than  he  can  bear, 
And  misery  much  already  hath  he  borne. 
Ye  from  your  Bliss  have  seen  my  mortal  woe, 
Shipwreck'd  and  sold  to  slavery,  and  ye  ken 
What  I  do  not,  how  it  did  come  that  chains 
Were  round  about  my  body  and  my  limbs 
For  many  sunless,  many  moonless  years, 
In  a  strange  place — it  seemed  to  be  a  celi, 
Sometimes  as  sultry  as  the  desert,  cold 
Sometimes  as  ice ;  and  strangers  passing  by 
Did  shuddering  say,—'  The  wretch  is  still  insane !' 
Save !  save  the  Orphan-Sisters  !  See  !  they  stand 
Upon  the  Pine-Tree  Bridge.   I  hear  them  cry 
For  succour  and  for  help  on  Unimore. 
And  I  will  save  you,  for  these  arms  are  strong, 
And  fleet  these  limbs  as  Red-Deer's  on  the  hill!" 

Lo !  lifting  up  his  frame,  almost  as  straight 
And  tall  as  when  in  his  majestic  prime, 
A  stately  Spectre,  shatter'd  by  the  blows 
Of  Time  and  Trouble,  Misery,  and  Despair, 
And,  worst  of  all  sin-smiters,  gaunt  Remorse, 
Totters  away  among  the  tombs  and  out 
Of  the  hush'd  Cemetery  in  among  the  woods,— 
The  Chief  of  Morven,  princely  Unimore  I 
A  shadow  now !  a  Phantom  !  Ghost,  or  Dream ! 
Lo  !  on  the  Pine-Tree  Bridge  the  Spectre  stands! 
Outstretch'd  his  arms  as  in  the  act  to  save 
The  visionary  Orphans !  Stormy  years 
Have  prey'd  upon  the  stem  of  that  fall'n  Pine 
Since  last  it  shook  beneath  his  tread — the  lightnings 
Have  smitten  it,  and  o'er  that  Bridge  the  roe 
Would  walk  not,  instinct-taught  that  it  is  frail 
And  hung  on  danger.     With  a  splintering  crash 
It  snaps  asunder,  frush  as  willow-wand, 
And  with  the  Phantoms  of  the  Orphans  down 
Precipitate  with  the  sheer  Cataract 
Into  the  unfathom'd  depth  sinks  Unimore. 


Some  Passages  in  the  Life  of  Sir  Frizzle  Pumpkin.  [Aug. 

•  ' .'j ••'    uv./r  .,->ijKH'i  •  ••stt  •  baft- .I?»IT*T '»>•••  -it 

SOME  PASSAGES  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  SIR  FRIZZLE  PUMPKIN. 


(  Concluded  from  the  April  Number.) 


^  BLESSED  with  a  wife  whose  affec- 
tion till  this  hour  has  been  unvarying 
in  every  trial,  I  found  myself  more 
fondly  attached  to  life  and  safety 
than  before.  I  trembled  at  every 
order  from  the  war-office,  lest  it 
should  doom  my  regiment  to  the 
glories  of  foreign  service;  and,  in 
fact,  if  I  were  to  relate  to  you  the 
whole  pusillanimity  of  my  feelings, 
you  would  scarcely  believe  that  1 
managed  so  to  conceal  them  as  to 
escape  observation  and  disgrace. 
This,  however,  I  did.  People  are 
luckily  very  much  in  the  habit  of 
attaching  the  idea  of  heroism  and 
courage  to  a  long  sword  and  feathers. 
There  is  no  surer  protection  from 
bullying  and  insult  than  a  military 
dress.  I  therefore  hail  as  a  brother 
coward,  anxious  to  make  up  in  ap- 
pearance what  he  wants  in  reality, 
any  one,  who,  in  the  piping  times  of 
peace,  infests  the  coffee-room  or  the 
theatre  in  the  habiliments  of  war. 
His  courage  decreases  in  my  estima- 
tion as  his  spurs  are  lengthened  ;— 
a  braided  surtout  you  may  treat  as 
cavalierly  as  you  like — but  if  in  ad- 
dition to  that  the  poltroon  shelters 
his  cowardice  beneath  a  hat  with  a 
military  cock,  a  regimental  stock, 
and  jingling  spurs  of  inordinate  lon- 
gitude, you  may  very  safely  kick 
him  on  the  slightest  provocation 
without  any  chance  of  disagreeable 
consequences.  I  speak  on  this  sub- 
ject from  experience.  My  uniform, 
I  am  convinced,  stood  sponsor  on 
many  occasions  for  my  courage,  and 
I  remained  undiscovered  only  be- 
cause I  was  entirely  unsuspected. 
Even  my  wife  till  this  hour  believes 
me  to  be  a  very  lion  in  the  pugna- 
city of  my  disposition.  She  talks  of 
me  as  a  volcano  whose  proper  at- 
mosphere is  fire  and  smoke, — as  a 
sort  of  dare-devil,  to  whom  life  af- 
fo'rds  no  enjoyment  equal  to  the  op- 
portunity of  throwing  it  away;  and 
absolutely,  at  this  moment,  is  pining 
for  the  breaking  out  of  a  war,  that  I 
may  be  enabled,  so  she  says,  to  revel 
in  the  delights  of  a  campaign, — 
which,  in  my  apprehension,  is  only 
another  word  for  the  expression  in 
the  litany  of  "battle,  murder,  and 


sudden  death," — to  which  petition, 
by  the  bye,  I  always  (perhaps  invo- 
luntarily) feel  a  peculiar  glow  of  sin- 
cerity and  devotion  as  I  enunciate 
the  response. 

But  I  must  get  on  with  my  story : 
My  happiness  was  complete — my 
father-in-law  continued  his  kind- 
ness— and  from  every  member  of 
his  family  I  received  tokens  of  the 
highest  consideration.  My  rival,  how- 
ever, Fitz  D' Angle,  did  not  bear 
his  disappointment  with  the  equa- 
nimity which  his  apparent  indif- 
ference had  led  me  to  expect.  Whe- 
ther he  in  any  way  suspected  how 
matters  were,  I  do  not  know,  but 
he  certainly,  whenever  circumstan- 
ces brought-  us  together,  treated 
me  with  a  coldness  and  hauteur 
which  I  felt  very  frequently  ap- 
proached to  the  limits  of  insult.  I 
bore  his  behaviour  with  my  usual 
calmness;  for  though  I  hated  him, 
and  was  vexed  beyond  measure  by 
the  mode  of  conduct  which  he  as- 
sumed towards  me,  yet  fear  predo- 
minated, and  I  cautiously  abstained 
from  giving  offence,  and  laboured 
most  assiduously  to  avoid  the  neces- 
sity of  taking  it.  But  in  vain.  One 
evening  there  was  a  large  party  at 
the  distinguished  old  Countess  of 
Fribbleton's.  The  whole  suite  of 
noble  apartments  was  thrown  open, 
and  the  company  consisted  of  the 
elite  of  the  society  of  London.  I 
went  along  with  my  wife  and  the 
Marquis ;  and  as  I  never  had  any 
great  predilection  for  entertainments 
of  that  kind,  I  retired  to  as  quiet  a 
situation  as  I  could  find,  and  look- 
ed with  considerable  interest  on 
the  glittering  scene.  At  the  period 
I  mention,  England  was  in  arms  a- 
gainst  nearly  all  the  world,  and  war 
was  of  course  a  very  general  subject 
of  conversation.  Amongst  the  com- 
pany were  many  officers  of  distinc- 
tion. In  a  short  time  a  group  of 
military  men  had  gathered  near  the 
place  where  I  sat,  and  discussed 
with  great  earnestness  the  move- 
ments of  the  contending  armies. 
Upon  several  occasions  my  opinion 
Avas  asked,  and  listened  to,  even  by 
the  grey-haired  veterans  of  a  hun- 


1831.]  Some  Passages  in  the  Life  of  Sir  Frizzle  Pumpkin. 

dred  fights,  with  deference  and  re- 
spect.   But  Fitz  D' Angle,  who  was 
one  of  the  party,  bore  on  his  fine 
aristocratic     features    a    sneer    of 
haughty  scorn,  which  I  attempted  in 
vain   to   avoid  noticing.     To  every 
tliiiig  I  said  he  made  some  frivolous 
or  disparaging  reply,  till  at  last  I  evi- 
dently perceived  that  several  of  the 
auditors   seemed  surprised  at  my 
passive    endurance  of  his  imperti- 
nence.    But  the  effort  to  summon, 
courage  to  take  the  expected  notice 
of  his  behaviour  was   beyond  my 
power;  and  I  still  submitted  with 
outward    calmness,    though    inter- 
nally a  victim  to  the  mingled  strug- 
gles of  anger  and  fear.     The  Mar- 
quis now  joined  the  group,  and  I 
was  in  hopes  his  presence  might  act 
as  a  restraint  on  Fitz  D' Angle.     But 
that   individual  perceived  he  was 
very  safe  in  the  conduct  he  pursued; 
and,  again,  when  I  was  answering  a 
question,  which  the  celebrated  Field 
Marshal  Firespit  did  me  the  honour 
to  propose  to  me,  he  contradicted 
me  in  one  of  my  assertions,  without 
any    of  the    circumlocutions    with 
which  a  gentleman  generally  softens 
the  expression  of  a  difference  in  opi- 
nion.    I  stopt  short  and  looked  him 
full  iu  the  face,  and  though  at  that 
moment  I  felt  as  uncomfortable  as  I 
had  ever   done  in  my  life,   not  a 
muscle  moved,    not  a  nerve   was 
shaken,   and  even  the  bold  eye  of 
Fitz  D' Angle  sank  beneath  the  fixed 
but  inexpressive  look.    My  eye  was 
literally  dead, — it  had  absolutely  di- 
vested itself  of  all  meaning  whatso- 
ever, and  in  that  instance  it  was  a 
complete  index  to  my  mind.     I  was 
at  that  moment  as  perfectly  without 
an  idea  of  any  sort  or  kind  as  a  sta- 
tue ;  I  knew  not  whether,  as  the  vul- 
gar saying  has  it,  I  stood  on  my  head 
or  my  heels;  and  the  silence  produ- 
ced by  my  lengthened  gaze,  added 
to  my  embarrassment.     At  last  Fitz 
D' Angle  recovered  his  self-posses- 
sion, and  said,  "  Colonel  Pumpkin, 
Avill  you  be  kind  enough,  sir,  to  ex- 
plain the  meaning  of  the  look  you 
have  done  me  the  honour  to  fix  on 
me  for  the  last  few  minutes  ?" — "  My 
look,  sir?"  I  said.  "  Yes,  your  look; 
for  allow  me  to  tell  you,  that  I  per- 
mit no  such  rude  and  insulting  stare 
to  be  fixed  on  me  by  a  prince  or 
peer,  and  far    less  by  a  parvenu." 
Here   I  saw  a   slight   opening  for 


193 


escape,  and  replied, — "Mr  Fitz 
D' Angle,  I  waive  on  this  occasion  all 
discussions  with  respect  to  birth, — • 
yours  I  know  is  lofty,  mine  I  con- 
fess to  be  comparatively  humble — 
but  were  our  situations  in  that  re- 
spect changed,  depend  on  it  I  should 
scorn  to  cast  any  thing  in  your  teeth 

"  —  "Except  your   head  1" 

continued  the  old  Marquis,  who  evi- 
dently enjoyed  the  scene.  Fitz 
D' Angle  lost  all  patience  upon  this. 
"  Sir,  your  infamous  conduct  in  in- 
flicting such  an  injury  on  an  unpre- 
pared man,  is  only  equalled  by  your 
cowardly  baseness  in  thus  referring 
to  it.  I  shall  expect  satisfaction." 
— "  Stay,  Mr  Fitz  D' Angle,"  I  said 
in  a  state  of  the  highest  alarm,  "  I 
shall  do  all  I  can  to  avoid  a  due], 
which  I  have  always  dreaded  more 
than  almost  any  thing  else;  I  shall 
fairly  tell  you  how  every  thing  oc- 
curred— I  shall  confess  to  you,  once 
for  all,  that  you  have  on  many  occa- 
sions shewed  much  more  courage 
than  ever  I  possessed,  and  that  I  am 
anxious  to  avoid  even  the  remotest 
chance  of  depriving  your  country  of 
such  valuable  services,  as  I  doubt 
not  you  have  often  rendered  her." 
As  I  said  these  words,  there  was  a 
concealed  sort  of  smile  went  round 
the  circle,  and,  darting  on  me  a  look 
of  even  greater  rage  than  before, 
Fitz  D' Angle  turned  away,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  left  the  room.  My  con- 
fusion at  this  incident  was  unbound- 
ed. I  felt  there  was  no  possibility 
of  drawing  back,  that  fight  I  must, 
and  death  and  infamy  presented 
themselves  to  my  imagination  in 
every  hideous  form. 

The  Marquis  slapt  me  on  the  shoul- 
der, "  Gave  it  him  well,  my  boy ;  cur<- 
sed  severe  though  on  the  little  silken 
puppy — Why,  man,  what  services  has 
he  rendered  ?  Gad  that  was  the  beet 
hit  of  all.  Come,  let's  have  a  bottle 
or  two  of  wine,  it  will  steady  your 
hand  in  the  morning;  you  shall  sleep 
at  my  house  to-night,  and  we  shall 
singe  Master  Fitz's  whiskers  at  peep 
of  day.  Come  along."  And  away  we 
went.  As  unconscious  as  a  child,  I 
followed  the  old  warrior — arrived  at 
his  house — Avas  seated  at  table  with 
half  a  dozen  bottles  before  us,  and 
had  swallowed  several  bumpers,  one 
after  another,  as  fast  as  they  could  be 
poured  out,  before  i  recovered  my 
senses  enough  to  recollect  the  disa* 
;•  \asill  stto 


Some  Passages  in  the  Life  of  Sir  Frizzle  Pumpkin.          [Aug. 

venture.  In  a  short  time  I  heard  the 
Major  retire,  and  I  resumed  my  seat 
by  the  side  of  the  Marquis.  "  All 
right,  my  boy,"  he  said  when  I  went 
in  ;  "  Major  Blood  seems  a  pleasant 
gentlemanly  man,  and  agreed  to  the 
shortest  possible  distance  the  mo- 
ment I  proposed  it.  Long  pistols,  six 
paces,  fire  at  the  dropping  of  the 
handkerchief,  that's  the  short  way  of 
doing  business ;  now  fill  your  glass, 
— Shall  von  kill  him  flip  first.  fir«  9" 


194 

greeable  scrape  in  which  I  was  in- 
volved. When  the  whole  scene  re- 
curred to  my  remembrance,  I  search- 
ed through  every  expression  which  I 
had  uttered,  to  discover,  if  possible, 
some  opportunity  to  retract  'or  ex- 
plain. But  I  could  find  no  means 
whatsoever.  What  I  had  said  in  the 
alarm  of  the  moment  by  way  of 
soothing  his  irritation,  had  unfortu- 
nately increased  it.  I  therefore  en- 
deavoured to  make  up  my  mind  to 
undergo  the  risk  of  a  meeting.  I 
comforted  myself  with  thinking  of 
the  multitude  of  duels  which  are 
fought  every  year  without  being 
attended  with  bloodshed — but  then 
always  at  the  end  of  a  long  list  of 
these  innocent  encounters  came  the 
appalling  recollection  of  some  horri- 
ble meeting  where  both  the  princi- 
pals were  killed,  and  this  reduced 
me  to  the  same  state  of  apprehension 
as  at  first.  In  the  midst  of  these  disa- 
greeable reflections,  a  gentleman  was 
announced  as  coming  from  Mr  Fitz 
D' Angle.  Mechanically,  I  took  the 
note  which  he^presented  me,  read  it, 
and  gave  it  over  to  the  Marquis  with- 
out saying  a  word.  It  was  to  the  fol- 
lowing effect : 

"  Sir, — after  the  sneer  at  my  want 
of  service,  and  the  implication  against 
my  courage  in  which  you  thought 
proper  to  indulge,  by  comparing  it 
with  the  heroism  which,  I  allow,  you 
have  on  every  occasion  displayed, 
you  will  not  be  surprised  at  the 
course  I  have  taken.  My  friend,  Ma- 
jor Blood,  will  arrange  every  thing 
for  as  speedy  a  meeting  as  possible 
with  any  gentleman  you  may  choose 
to  appoint.  I  remain,  sir,  your  obe- 
dient servant, 

"  HENRY  FITZ  D' ANGLE." 

"  Fore  George  !"  said  the  Marquis, 
when  he  had  read  it,  "this  is  capital, 
— there  is  more  in  the  younker  than 
I  gave  him  credit  for.  Pummy,  my 
boy,  leave  the  room  for  a  few  mi- 
nutes, and  Major  Blood  and  I  will 
settle  the  preliminaries, — you  shall 
soon  come  back,  and  we  can  have  a 
comfortable  evening."  Marvelling  at 
the  strange  idea  some  people  enter- 
tained of~a  comfortable  evening,  I 
did  as  I  was  desired ;  I  heard  from 
the  adjoining  room  the  low  sound  of 
their  conversation,  and  sometimes  I 
caught  the  quick  short  laugh  of  the 
Marquis,  from  which  I  could  perceive 
he  was  delighted  with  the  whole  ad- 


•Shall  you  kill  him  the  first  fire  ?' 
— "  Kill  him?  Good  God !  Ihope  not." 
"  That's  a  good  kind-hearted  fellow ! 
No,  no,  I  snould  not  like  to  see  him 
altogether  killed,  but  you  shall  have 
my  own  hair-triggers,  the  same  that 
did  for  my  poor  friend  Danby,  in  72 
—and  egad  you  must  wing  him  ;  I 
should  recommend  the  right  arm,  but 
of  course  in  that  you  will  please  your- 
self— half  past  5,  Wimbledon  Com- 
mon— Don't  you  think  every  thing 
most  delightfully  settled  ?"—"  Oh 
delightfully !"  I  said,  without  exactly 
understanding  what  the  word  meant, 
and  drank  offmy  wine  with  the  cool- 
est air  in  the  world.  My  conversation 
you  will  believe  was  not  very  viva- 
cious. Indeed  there  was  no  great 
occasion  for  me  to  speak  at  all ;  the 
Marquis  was  in  extravagantly  high 
spirits,  and  told  me  several  of  his 
feats  in  the  same  way  in  his  youth. 
He  never  for  a  moment  seemed  to 
doubt  that  I  entered  with  great  en- 
joyment into  all  his  anecdotes,  but, 
alas  !  my  thoughts  ran  in  a  very  dif- 
ferent channel.  I  cannot  say  that  the 
fear  of  death  was  the  most  powerful 
of  my  tormentors, — the  dread  of  dis- 
grace was  still  greater ;  I  felt  almost 
certain  that  my  secret  could  be  kept 
no  longer,  that  my  nerve  would  at 
last  give  way,  and  I  knew  that  the 
slightest  tremor  would  betray  me  at 
once  to  so  calm  and  quicksighted  a 
judge  as  the  Marquis.  But  the  even- 
ing at  last  came  to  an  end.  The  old 
man  shook  me  very  affectionately  by 
the  hand,  before  we  separated  for  the 
night,  and  said,  "  Sleep  soundly,  my 
boy,  it  will  do  your  aim  good  in  the 
morning — what  I  like  about  you  is 
your  coolness — no  boasting,  no  pas- 
sion, all  as  composed  as  if  you  were 
only  going  to  breakfast — you'll  wing 
him  to  a  certainty  ;  so  now  good 
night." 

I  shall  not  attempt  any  description 
of  my  thoughts  when  left  to  myself. 
Suffice  it,  that  after  a  sleepless  night 
I  proceeded  with  the  Marquis  in  his 


1831.]  Some  Passages  in  the  Life  of  Sir  Frizzle  Pumpkin.  195 

barouche  to  the  place  of  meeting.  In 
a  few  minutes  after  our  arrival,  the 
opposite  parties  came  upon  the 
ground.  I  can  scarcely  go  on  with 
what  followed,  for  at  the  time  I  was 
totally  unconscious  of  every  thing 
that  occurred.  My  knowledge  of  it 
is  derived  from  what  was  told  me 
after  it  was  over.  We  were  placed 
opposite  each  other  at  what  I  could 
not  help  even  then  considering  a  most 
appalling  degree  of  propinquity ;  I 
looked  as  fixedly  as  I  could  at  my 
opponent,  but  a  mist  of  some  sort  or 
other  was  spread  before  my  eyes, 
and  I  could  see  merely  the  outline  of 
his  figure,  though  he  was  not  farther 
from  me  than  eighteen  feet.  The 
handkerchief  dropt,  I  pulled  the  trig- 
ger, and  stood  in  the  exact  attitude  in 
which  I  had  been  placed  by  my  se- 
cond. There  was  a  considerable  bus- 
tle the  moment  after  I  had  fired,  but 
my  faculties  were  so  entranced  by  my 
fear  and  agitation,  that  I  could  not 
discover  the  cause  of  the  disturbance. 
At  last  the  Marquis  came  up  to  me 
and  whispered  something  or  other, 
the  import  of  which  I  did  not  exactly 
catch.  I  expected  he  would  have  put 
another  pistol  into  my  hand,  but  in 
this  I  was  disappointed.  Surprised  at 
the  delay,  I  said  to  him,  "  Is  it  all 
over  ?" — "  No — I  hope  it  is  not  over 
with  him  yet ;  but  he  is  desperately 
\vounded ;  let  us  return  to  town,  he 
has  a  surgeon  with  him.  Egad,  it  was 
just  in  the  place  I  told  you ;  a  little  be- 
low the  right  shoulder — Did  not  the 
trigger  go  easily  ? — Allons,  allons." 
Mr  Fitz  D' Angle  recovered,  and 
my  fame  was  still  farther  increased. 
The  Marquis  was  in  raptures  with 
my  calmness  and  self-possession, 
and  even  Major  Blood  and  my  anta- 
gonist bore  testimony  to  the  un- 
daunted resolution  and  coolness  of 
my  behaviour.  The  duel  made  a 
considerable  noise  at  the  time,  and 
various  grounds  were  assigned  for 
it ;  but  all  accounts  agreed  m  stating 
that  I  was  entirely  free  from  blame, 
as  I  had  avoided  taking  notice  of  the 
intentional  disrespect  of  my  oppo- 
nent as  long  as  I  possibly  could.  It 
had  even  reached  the  ears  of  the 
most  exalted  personage  in  the  realm, 
as  I  discovered  the  next  time  I 
presented  myself  at  court.  "  Baa 
thing — bad  thing,  indeed — duel,  duel, 
Colonel  Pumpkin;  —  but  couldn't 
help  it— bore  it  long  as  you  could. — 


Keep  your  bullets  for  the  enemy 
next  time,  Colonel ; — we  can't  let 
you  risk  your  life  any  more. — No 
duels — no  more  duels." 

The  war  in  which  we  were  enga- 
ged assumed  at  this  time  a  very  cri- 
tical appearance.  Our  allies  had  been 
vanquished  in  every  battle,  and  consi- 
derable apprehensions  were  enter- 
tained of  an  invasion  of  our  own 
shores.  In  order  to  guard  against 
this,  forces  were  stationed  almost  all 
along  the  coast,  and  I  was  appointed 
to  the  chief  command  of  a  very  large 
district  of  country,  and  an  amount  of 
force  of  above  seventy  thousand  men. 
In  this,  I  of  course  include  the  yeo- 
manry and  the  militias.  I  was  now 
Major-General  before  I  was  eight- 
and-twenty  years  of  age,  a  thing 
which,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  had  at 
that  time  no  parallel  in  the  service. 

I  fixed  my  headquarters  at ,  as 

being  the  point  in  my  district  most 
remote  from  the  scene  of  danger,  and 
kept  a  considerable  force  in  my  own 
immediate  neighbourhood,  in  order 
to  cover  my  escape,  should  the  ene- 
my succeed  in  effecting  a  landing. 
Whether  it  was  that  I  pulled  the 
reins  of  discipline  too  tight,  or  from 
some  other  cause,  I  do  not  pretend  to 
decide,  but  in  a  short  time  I  percei- 
ved that  with  the  men  under  my 
command  I  was  decidedly  unpopu- 
lar. My  personal  want  of  courage 
made  me  peculiarly  strict  in  exacting 
the  most  rigorous  attention  to  duty ; 
and  I  have  often  summoned  the  poor 
fellows  from  their  quarters  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice,  in  order  to  see  what 
chance  of  safety  I  should  have  secu- 
red to  myself  in  case  of  an  actual 
surprise.  All  this,  aided,  I  have  no 
doubt,  by  other  causes,  produced  the 
effect  which  I  am  now  going  to  re- 
late. In  one  of  the  regiments  which 
I  had  retained  near  me,  there  were  a 
great  many  men,  I  was  sorry  to  be 
informed,  who  applied  themselves 
more  to  political  discussions  than  is 
usual  in  a  British  soldier.  These 
were  in  the  habit  of  reading  several 
radical  and  disaffected  publications, 
which  were  allowed,  by  the  supine- 
ness  of  the  government,  to  spread 
abroad  their  anti-national  princi- 
ples, even  in  that  period  of  immi- 
nent danger  to  the  state.  This,  in 
due  course  of  time,  had  the  effect 
which  might  have  been  expected. 
The  officers  exerted  themselves  in 


Some  Passages  in  the  Life  of  Sir  Frizzle  Pumpkin. 


196 

vain  to  bring  back  their'men  to  cheer- 
fulness and  content;  and  though  dis- 
cipline was  still  preserved,  and  the 
forms  of  military  subordination  gone 
through,  it  was  evident  that  the  whole 
of  that  regiment  waited  only  for  an 
opportunity  to  shew  the  Jacobin  spi- 
rit with  which  they  were  possessed. 
To  a  man  of  the  disposition  which  I 
have  now  confessed  myself  to  be, 
you  will  have  no  difficulty  in  ima- 
gining the  alarm  which  this  state  of 
things  produced.  I  feared  to  send 
them  to  a  distance,  as  I  concluded 
ray  greatest  safety  rested  in  their 
being  kept  in  awe  by  the  vicinity  of 
the  other  troops,  and  I  was  equally 
disinclined  to  allow  them  to  remain, 
as  I  was  afraid  their  rage,  being  re- 
strained from  an  open  manifestation, 
might  secretly  wreak  itself  on  so  un- 
popular a  commander  as,  under  those 
circumstances,  I  undoubtedly  was. 
The  officers  of  my  staff  perceived 
my  uneasiness,  though  none  of  them 
ventured  to  enquire  into  the  cause. 
My  usual  calmness  and  taciturnity 
stood  me  in  good  stead.  I  never 
adverted  to  the  subject  of  my  alarm 
—I  was  afraid  to  let  my  mind  rest 
upon  it,  and  I  felt  convinced,  if  I 
trusted  myself  to  converse  on  the 
affair  at  all,  I  should  inevitably  be- 
tray the  uusqldierly  extent  of  my  tre- 
pidation. In  this  state  of  affairs  time 
wore  on.  One  day,  when  I  dined 
with  the  regiment  which  caused 
these  apprehensions,  my  fears  were 
worked  up  to  a  pitch  which  I  was 
almost  certain  must  have  betrayed 
me.  After  dinner,  a  note  was  put 
into  my  hand,  which  I  immediately 
guessed  to  contain  some  information 
connected  with  the  subject  of  my 
alarm.  I  accordingly  took  an  early 
opportunity  of  looking  into  it,  and 
found  it  to  contain  the  following 
words  : — "  If  you  leave  the  barracks 
to-night  after  half  past  nine,  you  are  a 
dead  man.  This  is  a  friend's  warn- 
ing— neglect  it  not."  I  pulled  out 
my  watch  in  a  moment — it  wanted 
just  ten  minutes  to  ten.  I  gave  my- 
self up  for  lost.  In  what  way  could 
I  invent  an  excuse  for  stopping  in 
the  barracks  all  night?  How  could  I 
order  out  a  guard  to  see  me  safe  to 
my  headquarters,  when,  in  all  pro- 
bability, it  would  be  composed  of  the 
very  persons  whom  I  was  anxious  to 
escape  ?  I  was  uncertain  what  to  do. 
I  had  thoughts  of  assuming  the  ap- 
pearance of  helpless  intoxication, 


and  picking  up  some  other  indivi- 
dual's hat  and  cloak  by  mistake,  in 
hopes  of  deceiving  my  enemies  by  a 
change  of  costume ;  but  there  were 
insuperable  objections  to  that  mode 
of  proceeding.  I  sat  in  a  state  of 
complete  bewilderment  and  dismay. 
I  thought  it  better  to  make  my  exit 
with  as  little  bustle  as  possible,  and 
I  accordingly  sent  off  my  aid-de-camps 
on  different  messages,  and  at  last, 
about  half  past  ten,  took  my  leave  of 
the  party,  and  proceeded  into  the  bar- 
rack-yard alone.  I  moved  as  quietly 
as  I  could,  keeping  carefully  under 
the  shadow  of  the  walls,  till,  when 
I  got  very  nearly  to  the  gate  with- 
out interruption,  I  was  startled  on 
hearing  a  conversation  carried  on 
in  whispers,  a  little  in  advance. 
The  words  were,  of  course,  inau- 
dible, though  I  paused  and  listen- 
ed with  the  utmost  anxiety ;  but  as 
the  party  were  evidently  advan- 
cing to  where  I  stood,  I  slipt  cau- 
tiously into  an  empty  barrack-room 
on  the  ground-floor,  in  hopes  of  let- 
ting them  pass  without  attracting 
their  observation.  I  placed  myself, 
for  the  greater  security,  behind  a 
large  screen  in  a  recess  of  the  apart- 
ment, on  which  a  number  of  sol- 
diers' great-coats,  and  other  articles 
of  apparel,  were  suspended)  and 
waited  in  the  agonies  of  hope  and 
fear,  till  I  should  hear  their  steps  die 
away  in  the  distance;  but,  to  my 
horror  and  amazement,  the  persons, 
whoever  they  were,  paused  at  the 
very  door  I  had  entered,  and  in  a  few 
moments  I  heard  the  subdued  voices 
of  many  men,  and  was  aware  that 
they  had  come  into  the  very  room 
to  which  I  had  fled  for  safety.  I 
heard  a  coarse  rough  voice  say,  "The 
tyrant  stays  late  to-night — but  it's 
his  last  dinner,  he  had  better  enjoy 
it  as  long  as  he  can." — "  Hush,  hush," 
said  another — "  let  us  to  business. 
You,  Bill  Halliday,  watch  and  give 
us  notice  of  his  coming;  and  don't 
be  so  ready  with  your  knife — you 
had  nearly  settled  Captain  Jenkins, 
the  aid-de-camp,  in  mistake  for  the 
General  himself;  and  now,  com- 
rades, let  us  renew  our  oath  of  se- 
crecy." He  then  called  over  the 
names  of  about  eight  persons,  who 
answered  severally  as  they  were 
called;  and  the  spokesman  conti- 
nued, "  You  swear  to  be  firm  and 
determined  in  the  great  object  we 
have  undertaken,  to  stab  our  tyrant, 


1831.]  Some  Passages  in  the  Life  of  Sir  Frizzle  Pumpkin.  197 

the  General,  through  the  heart  this 
night;  to  set  fire  to  the  barracks  im- 
mediately after,  and  prevent  the  of- 
ficers' escape  from  the  mess-room 
when  it  is  in  flames  ?" — "  We  swear !" 
~-u  And  you  also  swear,  whatever 
enquiries  are  made,  whatever  pro- 
mises are  held  out,  or  whatever  sus- 
picions are  entertained,  never  to  di- 
vulge your  knowledge  of  this  plot, 
whichever  of  us  proves  lucky  enough 
to  free  the  regiment  from  such  de- 
testable tyrants."  —  "  We  swear!" 
And  the  villains,  by  the  light  of  a  dark- 
lantern,  subscribed  their  names  to  a 
paper  containing  these  horrible  re- 
solutions ;  and  I  heard,  in  my  place 
of  concealment,  the  scraping  of  the 
pen  which  thus  doomed  me  to  ine- 
vitable death.  Need  I  tell  you  that 
every  thing  I  had  previously  suffered 
was  as  nothing,  compared  to  the 
dreadful  situation  in  which  I  was 
then  placed !  I  have  often  wondered 
since  that  insanity  was  not  produced 
by  the  intense  horror  of  that  appal- 
ling moment.  The  watch  they  had 
stationed  at  the  door  now  came  in, 
and  informed  them  that  their  victim 
approached.  In  a  moment  they  all 
rushed  out  of  the  room,  and  as  it 
was  by  this  time  pitch-dark,  I  am 
ashamed  to  confess  that  a  faint  hope 
sprang  up  in  my  bosom  that  the  des- 
peradoes might  mistake  their  ob- 
ject, I  intended  at  one  time  to  rush 
out  with  the  crowd,  in  hopes  of  not 
being  noticed  in  the  hurry,  but  I  had 
allowed  the  opportunity  to  pass.  I 
however  possessed  myself  of  the  pa- 
per they  had  left  upon  the  table,  and 
also  of  the  lantern;  and  had  scarcely 
time  to  resume  my  place  of  conceal- 
ment when  they  returned  into  the 
room,  and  I  gathered  from  their  con- 
versation that  a  captain's  guard  was 
marching  up  the  quadrangle  from 
the  gate.  I  listened  with  the  most 
paintul  suspense  to  the  measured 
tramp  of  many  men ;  they  approach- 
ed— they  arrived  opposite  the  win- 
dow of  the  room.  I  heard  the  com- 
mand given  to  halt;  and,  as  my  only 
chance  of  safety,  I  started  up,  and 
pushing  over  the  screen  behind  which 
I  had  sheltered,  into  the  very  midst 
of  the  conspirators,  I  rushed  to  the 
door,  gained  the  outside,  and  in  an 
instant  informed  the  captain  in  com- 
mand, of  my  name  and  rank,  and  or- 
dered him  to  guard  the  door ;  and, 
on  pain  of  death,  to  suffer  no  one  to 


escape.  I  now  walked  deliberately 
back  into  the  dining-room,  where  the 
officers  were  still  assembled,  and  or- 
dered the  Major  to  go  down  to  No. 
4  of  the  right-hand  side  of  the  quad- 
rangle, and  to  bring  the  men  he 
found  in  that  room  before  me,  sepa- 
rately, and  disarmed.  I  informed 
the  astonished  group  of  officers  that 
I  had  for  some  time  suspected  the 
disaffection  of  the  regiment;  I  pro- 
duced the  paper  with  the  signature 
of  the  conspirators  attached,  and  you 
will  readily  suppose  the  horror  and 
surprise  of  every  one  who  listened 
to  my  story.  This  you  have,  no 
doubt,  heard  related  in  a  very  differ- 
ent manner.  The  newspapers,  I  re- 
member, were  full  for  several  months 
of  my  intrepidity  ;  and  again,  by  a 
most  curious  concurrence  of  circum- 
stances, I  was  declared  to  be  a  hero, 

when  the  fact  was  that ;  but  no 

matter ;  I  have  striven  not  to  be  a 
coward,  but  in  vain.  Public  opinion 
about  this  time  was  strongly  ex- 
pressed on  the  incapacity  of  our  ge- 
nerals on  foreign  service,  and  there 
was  almost  an  unanimous  desire  that 
they  should  be  superseded.  I  need 
not  inform  you  of  the  command  to 
which,  contrary  to  my  wishes  and 
expectations,  I  was  soon  after  this 
appointed. 

I  was  given  to  understand,  on  ha- 
ving my  destination  pointed  out  to 
me,  that  the  loftiest  expectations 
were  entertained  of  my  success,  and 
the  minister  at  war  paid  me  the 
highest  compliments,  on  the  courage 
and  ability  I  had  already  displayed. 
The  object  of  all  these  hopes  and 
compliments — loaded  with  the  good 
wishes  of  the  whole  nation — I  de- 
clare to  you,  sir,  that  even  then  I 
found  it  impossible  to  summon  the 
smallest  resolution ;  I  trembled  as 
much  as  ever  at  the  remotest  ap- 
pearance of  danger ;  and  while  the 
thousands  who  cheered  me  enthu- 
siastically as  I  slept  on  board  a  trans- 
port on  my  way  to  the  scene  of  war- 
fare, believed  that  my  thoughts  were 
proudly  fixed  on  glory  and  ambition, 
alas  !  they  were  only  directed  to  the 
appearance  of  the  sea,  which  was  a 
great  deal  more  rough  than  suited 
my  inclination.  A  thousand  tales  of 
shipwreck  and  suffering  came  vividly 
into  my  mind,  and  at  every  heave  of 
the  vessel  I  repented  more  and  more 
intensely  that  J  had  not  long  ago  con- 


198 


Some  Passages  in  the  Life  of  Sir  Frizzle  Pumpkin, 


[Aug. 


fessed  my  weakness,  and  enjoyed 
safety  on  dry  ]and,  even  although  it 
should  be  accompanied  with  con- 
tempt. But  it  was  my  fate,  and  I  sub- 
mitted. Besides  my  staff,  there  went 
out  with  me  in  the  transport  a  large 

portion  of  the th  regiment  of  foot. 

For  several  days  our  voyage  was 
smooth  and  easy.  Even  I  had  in  some 
degree  recovered  my  usual  spirits,  and 
every  thing  seemed  going  on  as  fa- 
vourably as  we  could  wish.  Towards 
evening,  however,  of  the  seventh  day 
from  our  leaving  the  shores  of  Eng- 
land, a  strange  sail  appeared  at  a 
considerable  distance,  and  created 
some  degree  of  alarm  even  among 
the  hardy  sailors.  As  night  was  clo- 
sing in  upon  us  fast,  we  were  in  hopes 
of  avoiding  her  in  the  darkness ;  and, 
till  the  dawn  again  appeared,  we 
made  all  the  sail  we  could.  By 
the  first  grey  twilight  of  the  morn- 
ing, it  was  evident  our  hopes  were 
fallacious.  The  ship  had  gained  upon 
us  in  the  night,  and  was  crowding  all 
her  canvas  to  come  up  with  us.  A 
consultation  was  immediately  held, 
and  the  master  of  our  vessel  candidly 
told  us,  that  should  our  pursuer  prove 
to  be  an  enemy,  resistance  was  per- 
fectly fruitless,  as  it  was  clear  she 
was  a  frigate  of  the  very  largest 
class.  I  sat  in  silence  and  conster- 
nation ;  several  of  my  officers  advi- 
sed our  defending  ourselves  to  the 
last — my  own  desire  was  to  surren- 
der on  the  first  summons,  and  so 
save  the  effusion  of  blood.  The  fri- 
gate now  drew  near,  and  firing  a 
gun  across  our  bows,  shewed  French 
colours.  We  kept  all  sail  up,  and 
made  the  best  of  our  way.  My  fear 
now  got  the  upper  hand  of  my  dis- 
cretion, and  I  said  to  the  master  of 
the  transport,  "  Trust  to  me  on  this 
occasion  ;  I  and  the  soldiers  will  go 
below — it  will  save  many  lives; 
yield  as  soon  as  you  can;  but  for 
any  sake  let  us  get  quickly  under 
hatches."  As  I  said  this  I  ordered 
my  soldiers  down  below,  and  slunk 
as  quickly  into  the  hold  as  I  possibly 
could,  as  I  felt  certain  the  next  gun 
Avould  be  fired  upon  us  in  earnest. 
I  lay  below  in  utter  darkness  for  I 
suppose  an  hour,  my  apprehensions 
increasing  with  every  minute.  Af- 
ter so  considerable  a  lapse  of  time, 
as  I  heard  no  more  firing,  and  had 
perceived  a  great  bustle  upon  the 
deck,  I  concluded  that  we  were 


fairly  captured,  and  were  pursuing 
our  way  to  the  enemy's  coast.  The 
heat  where  I  lay  was  oppressive; 
many  of  my  men  were  huddled  to- 
gether, and  there  was  beginning  to 
be  felt  a  great  scarcity  of  fresh  air. 
The  hatches  were  down,  but  luckily 
not  fixed.  Unable  any  longer  to  bear 
the  confinement,  I  said,  "  Now,  my 
lads,  let  us  get  as  quick  as  we  can 
upon  deck ;  if  the  enemy  makes  any 
shew  of  violence,  we'll  assure  them 
we're  perfectly  prepared  to  strike." 
These  words,  which  I  uttered  in  the 
most  hopeless  despondency,  seemed 
to  inspire  my  soldiers  with  the  ut- 
most courage.  A  universal  shout 
was  the  only  answer  they  vouch- 
safed, and  in  a  moment  the  hatches 
were  thrown  up;  several  muskets 
were  discharged — I  heard  the  strug- 
gles of  men  upon  the  slippery  deck, 
and  ere  I  reached  the  scene  of  ac- 
tion eight  Frenchmen  lay  dead,  and 
about  twelve  others  were  driven  for- 
ward into  the  poop,  and  were  crying 
for  quarter  with  the  most  frantic  ex- 
clamations. When  I  appeared  there 
was  a  general  hurra;  and  being  half 
bewildered  with  the  suddenness  of 
the  whole  transaction,  I  ordered  the 
firing  immediately  to  cease,  and  as- 
sured the  Frenchmen  of  their  safety 
under  my  protection.  The  master, 
who  had  been  confined  in  his  cabin, 
now  joined  the  group  on  deck,  and 
assured  me  he  had  acted  exactly  ac- 
cording to  my  orders,  though  he 
could  not  have  supposed  so  gallant 
an  achievement  would  be  the  result 
of  what  he  had  done.  Luckily  none 
of  our  men  were  seriously  hurt;  and 
I  heard  an  old  sergeant,  who  had 
been  near  me  in  the  hold,  expatia- 
ting very  warmly  on  my  transcend- 
ent courage,  and  he  concluded  his 
panegyric  by  a  compliment  to  my 
wit :  "  Dammee,  says  I  to  myself,  says 
I,  when  we  was  all  ordered  below, 
what's  young  Thunderbolt  [the  sou- 
briquet by  which  I  was  known  in 
the  ranks]  arter  now  ?  Well,  we  lays 
down  in  that  'ere  hole,  and  the  Ge- 
neral he  never  says  nothin'  at  all,  but 
sits  as  quiet  and  cool  as  if  he  was  over 
a  glass  b'  gin  and  water ;  thinks  I  to 
myself,  this  here  will  never  do  by  no 
means  whatsomnever ;  but  then,  ye 
see,  he  says,  says  he  at  last,  just  as  if 
he  was  goin'  into  no  danger  at  all,  says 
he,  Dammee,  says  he,  we'll  shew  them 
there  Frenchmen  how  us  Britons  can 


1831.]  Same  Passages  in  the  Life  of  Sir  Frizzle  Pumpkin.  199 


strike;  and  I  think  as  how  we  has 
struck 'em.poordevils,  sore  enough." 
We  pursued  our  way  without  any 
farther  molestation,  and  arrived  at 
our  destination  in  time  to  disembark 
the  same  evening.  As  I  was,  of 
course,  in  the  greatest  haste  to  join 
the  main  army,  1  considered  myself 
lucky  in  procuring  a  conveyance  in 
the  town  at  which  we  landed ;  and 
accompanied  by  a  single  aid-de-camp, 
I  set  off  for  the  neighbourhood  of 
'.  ,  in  which  our  army  was  at 
that  time  encamped.  Night  came 
down  upon  us  almost  before  we  were 
aware  j  and  just  as  we  entered  the 
range  of  mountains  which  skirts  the 

province  of ,  we  were  enveloped 

in  total  darkness.  My  companion, 
after  several  apologies  for  his  drow- 
siness, resigned  himself  quietly  to 
sleep.  I  was  most  anxious  to  follow 
his  example,  but  I  was  aware  the 
country  was  in  a  very  lawless  state, 
and  my  apprehensions  of  the  bri- 
gands effectually  drove  off  my  slum- 
bers. At  every  lurch  in  that  execra- 
ble road,  I  feared  it  was  some  impe- 
diment thrown  in  our  way,  to  enable 
the  robbers  to  execute  their  purpose ; 
and  besides,  my  alarm  was  still  more 
excited,  as  I  knew  it  was  no  uncom- 
mon thing  for  the  postilions  them- 
selves to  be  in  league  with  the  most 
ferocious  of  the  banditti.  Torment- 
ed with  these  thoughts,  I  had  no  re- 
freshing sleep,  yet  the  motion  of  the 
carriage,  and  the  coolness  of  the  night 
air,  joined  to  the  fatigue  of  a  long 
voyage,  threw  me  every  now  and 
then  into  a  disturbed  sort  of  slum- 
ber, from  which  ever  and  anon  I 
started  up,  terrified  by  the  most  appal- 
ling dreams.  At  last  the  worst  of 
my  fears  seemed  to  stand  a  fair 
chance  of  being  realized.  The  car- 
riage all  at  once  stood  still,  though 
it  was  now  so  dark  that  I  could  not 
see  the  cause  of  the  delay.  I  heard, 
however,  the  tread  of  a  horse,  and  in 
a  moment  after  the  window  was  let 
down,  and  some  hard  substance  hit 
me  a  violent  blow  on  the  temple. 
Without  premeditation,  in  the  hrst 
natural  effort  of  my  fright,  I  laid  firm 
hold  of  the  assaulting  obj  ect,and  found 
it  to  be  a  pistol  of  enormous  size,  point- 
ed directly  to  my  head.  With  the 
eagerness  of  self-preservation,  I  turn- 
ed it  to  a  side,  and  grasped  with  all 
the  strength  I  could  muster,  the  arm 
of  the  assailant,  All  this  passed  in 


silence.  For  myself,  I  was  much  too 
agitated  to  speak,  and  the  person  who 
attacked  us  maintained  an  equal  re- 
serve. I  could  at  last  only  summon 
breath  enough  to  say  to  the  postilion, 
"Drive  on,  or  you  may  expect  instant 
death ;"  and  in  a  moment  he  put  his 
horses  into  motion,  while  I  still,  rigid- 
ly but  unconsciously,  retained  my 
hold  of  the  arm  of  our  antagonist.  A 
groan,  extorted  from  him  by  the  ago- 
ny of  the  first  jerk,  shewed  me  that 
his  arm  was  either  very  much  strain- 
ed, or  perhaps  broken,  by  coming  in 
contact  with  the  window  of  the  car- 
riage,— for  I  gave  all  my  weight,  and 
all  my  strength,  which  was  at  that 
time  very  remarkable,  to  retain  my 
grasp.  In  order  to  ease  his  wounded 
limb  as  much  as  possible,  he  made 
his  horse  go  close  to  our  side ;  his 
groans  at  every  tug  were  very  dis- 
tressing, and  I  doubt  not  if  I  had 
been  my  own  master  at  the  time,  my 
compassion  would  have  induced  me 
to  let  him  go.  But  with  the  instinct 
of  self-protection,  I  kept  him  close 
prisoner  in  spite  of  his  manifest  suf- 
ferings. Day  broke  while  we  were 
yet  in  these  relative  positions,  and 
my  companion  was  still  sound  asleep. 
At  length  we  arrived  at  a  village  m 
the  occupation  of  our  troops,  and  the 
morning  reveille  was  just  fsounded 
as  we  drove  up  the  narrow  street. 
The  robber  was  still  by  our  side,  his 
arm  still  convulsively  clutched  by 
me  from  within ;  and  as  the  carriage 
drew  up  where  a  regiment  had  taken 
its  station  for  parade,  the  astonish- 
ment of  the  soldiers  was  visibly  de- 
picted on  their  countenances  at  so 
unusual  a  sight.  My  aid-de-camp  at 
this  time  awakened,  and  I  think  his 
astonishment  was  one  of  the  most 
amusing  exhibitions  I  had  ever  seen. 
In  few  words  I  related  how  it  had 
occurred,  and  he  immediately  jump- 
ed out  and  secured  the  unfortunate 
and  now  completely  subdued  depre- 
dator. When  it  was  ascertained  in 
the  ranks  who  I  was,  and  the  story, 
with  many  embellishments,  found 
its  way  among  the  men,  their  mani- 
festations of  delight  could  scarcely 
be  controlled.  The  man  was  soon 
recognised  to  be  a  brigand  of  asto- 
nishing reputation, — second  only  in 
atrocity  and  fame  to  the  celebrated 
Polinario.  Many  parties  had  been 
sent  after  him  in  pursuit,  but  he  had 
hitherto  eluded  their  search,  or  even 


Some  Passages  in  the  Life  of  Sir  frizzle  Pumpkin. 


200 

sometimes  ventured  on  a  daring  and 
successful  resistance.  He  was  there- 
fore an  object  of  no  common  curio- 
sity, and  the  odd  manner  of  his  cap- 
ture added  in  no  small  degree  to  the 
feeling.  His  arm,  I  found,  was  bro- 
ken ;  and  the  agony  of  the  pain 
seemed  to  have  entirely  mastered 
his  spirit,  for  he  never  even  attempt- 
ed to  release  himself,  and  seemed 
only  happy  if  by  yielding  his  arm 
freely  to  the  motions  of  the  carriage, 
he  could  prevent  any  addition  to  his 
pangs.  I  was  sorry  that  dire  neces- 
sity exacted  his  life,  but  the  gibbet 
was  a  punishment  his  cruelty  and 
lawlessness  had  richly  earned, — yet 
I  was  not  altogether  pleased  with  the 
noise  my  share  in  his  capture  made, 
as  I  was  aware,  among  people  of  his 
class,  it  might  incite  his  associates  to 
revenge  his  loss  upon  the  individual 
who  caused  it.  However,  it  made 
me  only  the  more  strict  in  maintain- 
ing rigid  discipline;  and  in  a  few 
months  after  my  arrival  I  had  brought 
the  forces  under  my  command  to  a 
state  of  military  organization  to  which 
they  had  not  previously  been  accus- 
tomed. 

I  need  not  engage  your  attention 
with  a  detail  of  my  proceedings 
while  I  was  attached  to  the  grand 
army,  and  under  the  control  of  the 
supreme  head.  My  fame  then  only 
increased  as  being  a  sharer  of  the 
laurels  of  the  whole  army;  it  was 
only  when  placed  in  an  independent 
command,  that  fortune  wove -a  chap- 
let  for  my  own  peculiar  brows.  In 
the  spring  of  the  year  18 — ,  whilst 
our  glorious  chief  was  pursuing  his 

successes  in  the  provinces  of • 

and ,  I  was  detached  to  the  neigh- 
bourhood of ,  to  watch  the  move- 
ments of  the  Due  de .  This,  you 

are  aware,  was  one  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished of  the  "  sons  of  the  em- 
pire." He  had,  it  is  true,  been  out- 
manoeuvred on  one  occasion  by  his 
Grace,  but  you  must  know,  as  a  mi- 
litary man,  that  the  excellence  of  his 
dispositions,  and  the  orderliness  of 
his  retreat,  amply  redeemed  what  he 
had  lost  in  professional  reputation. 
Against  him  I  was  sent  with  a  large 
though  mixed  force ;  and  if  even  un- 
der the  protection  of  the  whole  Bri- 
tish army  I  felt  tormented  with  al- 
most unceasing  terrors,  you  may 
guess  what  my  feelings  were  on  be- 
ing given,  up  to  the  fury  of  the  Due 


[Aug. 


de by  myself.    The  feelings  of 

Daniel  on  descending  into  the  lion's 
den,  if  he  had  not  been  preternatu- 
rally  endowed,  must  have  borne  a 
great  resemblance  to  mine  on  under- 
taking this  expedition.  However,  I 
submitted  with  my  usual  philosophy 
to  what  was  unavoidable,  and  set  out 
upon  my  march  with  "  the  pomp 
and  circumstance  of  glorious  war," 
though  a  victim  all  the  time  to  the 
most  fearful  forebodings,  and  start- 
led at  the  shadows  of  coming  evil. 
On  arriving  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
enemy,  I  made  it  my  first  business 
to  strengthen  my  own  position  as 
much  as  possible.  For  this  purpose 
I  formed  lines,  on  a  smaller  scale 
indeed,  but  as  similar  as  I  could  to 
those  of  Torres  Vedras.  Secure  in 
my  entrenchments,  or,  when  I  did 
move  out,  always  cautious  to  leave  a 
certainty  of  a  retreat  into  them  once 
more,  I  watched  the  enemy  with 
more  comfort,  and  a  greater  feeling 
of  security,  than  I  had  experienced 
for  many  years.  The  foe  seemed  to 
be  as  cautious  as  myself;  but  my 
situation  was  infinitely  to  be  prefer- 
red. I  was  well  supplied  with  every 
sort  of  provision,  my  position  was 
nearly  impregnable,  and  the  whole 
circumjacent  country  was  command- 
ed by  the  disposition  of  my  troops. 
From  day  to  day  my  courage  waxed 
higher  and  higher,  till  at  last,  on  see- 
ing the  enemy  so  long  quiescent,  I 
made  no  doubt  that  pusillanimity 
was  the  cause  of  their  repose,  and 
rejoiced,  with  a  joy  which  I  find  it 
impossible  to  describe,  that  the  Due 

de was  as  great  a  coward  as 

myself.  Full  of  these  hopes,  I  now 
on  several  occasions  ventured  be- 
yond my  lines  to  reconnoitre.  But 
even  at  those  times  I  did  not  by  any 
means  trust  myself  with  few  attend- 
ants. I  was  generally  accompanied 
by  a  large  staff,  and  had  my  move- 
ments covered  by  several  thousands 
of  the  troops.  The  enemy,  on  my 
first  presenting  myself  in  this  man- 
ner, made  demonstrations  of  an  ac- 
tive attack,  upon  which  I  immediate- 
ly withdrew  to  my  entrenchments, 
and  was  thankful  I  had  for  that  time 
effected  my  escape.  But  when  for 
several  days  I  had  repeated  the  same 
operation,  they  no  longer  shewed 
any  symptoms  of  opposition,  but  al- 
lowed me  in  peace -and  safety  to  go 
along  the  whole  extent  of  their  line, 


Some  Passages  in  the  Life  of  Sir  Frizzle  Pumpkin. 


1831.] 

and  did  not  seem  to  be  incommoded 
by  the  movements  of  so  consider- 
able a  force.  When  I  had  gone  on 
in  this  manner  for  nearly  three  weeks, 
(for  I  was  delighted  with  the  cou- 
rage I  had  at  last  been  enabled  to 
assume,)  things  quite  unexpectedly 
took  a  very  different  turn.  A  regi- 
ment of  British  cavalry,  the  Irish 
brigade,  andaregiment  of  Cacadores, 
were  the  party  appointed  to  cover 
my  progress.  They  staid,  of  course, 
at  a  considerable  distance  from  my 
staff,  but  somewhat  closer  to  the 
enemy,  in  order  to  intercept  any 
force  which  might  be  sent  against 
us.  The  enemy,  I  was  surprised  to 
see,  had  changed  the  disposition  of 
his  troops.  He  had  drawn  them  closer 
to  the  hill  on  which  my  camp  was 
placed,  and  formed  them  into  a  se- 
micircle round  its  base.  Accord- 
ingly, on  reaching  the  end  of  their 
line,  1  found  myself  alarmingly  near 
to  the  outposts  of  their  right  wing,  and 
hastily  turned  my  horse,  in  order  to 
retire  to  my  entrenchments.  But, 
skirting  the  hill  at  a  fearful  pace,  and 
making  rapidly  for  the  place  where 
I  stood,  I  saw  a  large  body  of  the 
enemy's  cavalry.  In  an  instant  I  put 
spurs  to  my  horse,  and  flew  like  the 
wind.  I  waved  my  hat  for  my  escort 
to  come  to  my  assistance,  and  began 
utterly  to  despair,  as  I  saw  but  small 
prospect  of  escape.  At  last  I  joined 
the  forces,  which  were  hurrying  to 
my  aid,  and  still  in  terror  and  hope- 
lessness urged  my  horse  to  the  very 
top  of  his  speed.  The  cavalry  dash- 
ed after  me  with  the  wildest  impe- 
tuosity— and  ere  I  could  check  my 
horse,  he  had  breasted  the  hill,  and 
we  rushed,  like  a  torrent  of  sword 
and  plume,  into  the  totally  unprepa- 
red masses  of  the  enemy's  left  wing. 
A  prodigious  slaughter  immediately 
took  place  ;  I  shut  my  eyes  to  the  hor- 
rid sights  I  saw  everywhere  around 
me,  and  as  I  had  no  hopes  of  ever 
finding  my  way  out  of  the  melee, 
unless  supported  by  the  whole  ar- 
my, I  sent  an  aid-de-camp  to  the  se- 
cond in  command,  and  ordered  an 
immediate  charge  of  the  whole  line. 
Down  the  gentle  declivity  of  that 
hill  rushed  three-and-twenty  thou- 
sand men,  in  double  quick  time, — I 
heard  a  tremendous  volley,  followed 
by  a  still  more  awful  shout,  and  na- 
ture reeled  before  me.  I  saw  no 

VOL.  XXX,  NO.  CLXXXIII. 


201 

more,  and  sank  in  a  delirium  of  fear 
and  horror,  quite  insensible,  upon 
the  ground.  The  victory  was  by  far 
the  most  complete  that  had  been 
gained  during  the  whole  war — there 
were  8000  men  killed,  and  13,000 
prisoners,  besides  an  immense  quan- 
tity of  military  stores.  But  the  con- 
sequences of  the  battle  were  still 
more  important.  The  enemy  aban- 
doned the  whole  province,  and  the 
impregnable  fortress  of  — —  im- 
mediately surrendered.  I  rejoiced, 
on  recovering  my  senses,  to  find  I 
had  been  wounded.  I  was  shot 
through  the  arm,  and  the  horse  1 
rode  was  killed  by  a  bayonet  stab. 

The  whole  glory  of  the  victory  was 
attributed  to  me.  The  plan  of  indu- 
cing the  enemy  to  strengthen  his 
right  wing,  and  then  leading  the  at- 
tack so  instantaneously  upon  his 
weakened  left,  was  considered  one 
of  the  most  illustrious  incidents  in 
the  art  of  war ;  and  I  have  blushed 
over  and  over  again  to  hear  it  com- 
pared in  intricacy  of  plot,  and  bril- 
liancy of  execution,  to  the  Duke  of 
Marlborough's  celebrated  passage  of 
the  causeway  of  Arleux,  in  which 
he  outwitted  the  great  Marshal  Vil- 
lars.  The  honours  that  were  heaped 
upon  me  Avere  quite  overpowering. 
I  received  the  thanks  of  both  Houses 
of  Parliament,  and  was  presented 
with  the  freedom  of  the  city  of  Lon- 
don in  a  gold  box.  The  gratitude  of 
the  Spanish  nation  knew  no  bounds. 
I  was  the  theme  of  many  of  their 
songs ;  I  was  called  in  some  of  then- 
ballads  only  inferior  to  the  Cid  ;  and 
in  honour  of  me,  by  a  delicate  com- 
pliment of  that  highly  chivalrous  na- 
tion, a  Pumpkin  became  a  favourite 
dish  at  the  tables  of  the  highest  of 
their  nobility.  In  the  meantime  my 
wound  gave  me  no  small  inconve- 
nience; some  of  the  minor  nerves 
were  lacerated,  and  afflicted  me  with 
intolerable  pain.  This,  joined  to  the 
continuance  of  my  fears,  (for  every 
new  success  seemed  only  to  make 
me  more  timorous  and  apprehen- 
sive,) preyed  seriously  upon  my 
health.  His  Grace  wrote  me  a  let- 
ter with  his  own  hand,  thanking  me 
for  the  assistance  I  had  rendered  him, 
and  complimenting  me  on  the  abi- 
lity I  had  displayed.  This  I  perhaps 
prized  more  than  any  of  the  other  ho- 
nours ;  but,  alas !  what  right  can  I 


Some  Passages  in  the  Life  qf  $ir  Frizzle  Pumpkin. 


202 

advance  to  all  these  praises ';  Many 
a  more  courageous  man  than  I  am, 
I  was  well  convinced,  had  been  shot 
for  the  basest  cowardice, — and  yet ! 
— I  have  really  suffered  more  from 
the  goadings  of  my  conscience,  and 
the  reproaches  of  my  own  heart  at 
my  paltriness  in  remaining  silent  un- 
der so  much  unmerited  eulogium, 
than  I  should  have  undergone  had 
I  boldly  stated  the  truth,  and  con- 
signed myself  to  infamy  and  security 
at  once.  Even  now,  however,  it  is 
not  too  late,  and  I  find  my  heart  re- 
lieved of  an  intolerable  burden  even 
by  the  confession  I  have  now  made 
to  you. 

But  to  proceed.  The  state  of  my 
health  necessitated  my  return  to  Eng- 
land. I  gave  up  my  command,  I 
may  safely  say,  with  far  more  plea- 
sure than  I  had  assumed  it,  and  set 
out  with  great  satisfaction  on  my 
homeward  way.  It  was  now  the  be- 
ginning of  winter.  The  wind  blew 
most  tempestuously  when  I  arrived 
upon  the  coast.  This  circumstance, 
added  to  the  weakening  effects  of  my 
wound,  reduced  me  to  a  lower  point 
of  pusillanimity  than  I  ever  remem- 
ber to  have  reached.  In  fact,  I  was 
totally  unmanned,  and  thought  my 
only  plan  to  avoid  observation  in  go- 
ing from  the  little  boat  on  board  the 
transport,  was  to  affect  an  utter  in- 
sensibility, from  the  painfulness  of 
my  arm.  I  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the 
boat,  totally  absorbed  in  the  contem- 
plation of  my  danger,  and,  luckily 
without  any  very  manifest  display 
of  my  cowardice,  I  got  hoisted  up 
on  the  deck  of  the  transport ;  and  al- 
though even  she  was  tossed  with  fear- 
ful violence,  I  considered  myself  to 
be  now  in  a  place  of  comparative 
safety.  I  found  myself  unable  to 
stand  the  atmosphere  below ;  so  with 
cloaks  and  other  appliances,  I  made 
a  sort  of  couch  upon  the  deck,  and 
lay  down  upon  it,  overcome  partly 
by  my  state  of  health,  and  partly  by 
my  fears.  Opposite  to  me  was  laid 
another  sufferer,  though  I  was  at  first 
so  occupied  with  my  own  wants,  that 
I  had  no  great  time  or  inclination  to 
scrutinize  his  features  attentively; 
but  even  in  the  cursory  glance  I  gave 
him,  there  was  something  in  his  ap- 
pearance which  reminded  me  of  some 
one  I  had  seen  before.  But  he  seem- 
ed so  wasted  by  disease,  that  even 
if  I  had  been  intimately  acquainted, 


[Aug. 


L  knew  I  should  have  found  it  diffi- 
cult to  recognise  him.    For  the  first 
two  days  I  thought  he  was  quite  de- 
serted, but  on  the  morning  of  the 
third,  a  beautiful  little  boy,  about 
six  or  seven  years  of  age,  came  up 
from  below,  where  he  had  been  de- 
tained by  sickness,  and  watched  his 
couch  with  the  most  tender  affection. 
The  weather  had  now  in  some  degree 
moderated,  though  the  swell,  to  one 
unaccustomed  to  the  sea,  was  still 
very  unpleasant.  I  got  up  and  moved 
about  a  little,  and  entered  into  con- 
versation with  the  little  boy  who  had 
attracted  my  observation.     His  fa- 
ther I  did  not  disturb,  as  he  looked 
so  languid  I  was  afraid  he  might  be 
harassed  and  incommoded  if  I  ad- 
dressed him.     I  sat  on  the  taffril  and 
spoke  to  the  little  boy,  who  with  all 
the    wildness    and    fearlessness   of 
youth,    rejoiced    in    rambling    and 
climbing  all  over  the  ship.     My  rank 
made  no  impression  on  him.   He  sat 
upon  my   knee,    and  admired   my 
dress  with  the  most  confiding  inno- 
cence ;  and  I  was  delighted  to  en- 
courage his  familiarity.     One  morn- 
ing, as  I  leant  over  the  side  in  a  vio- 
lent qualm  of  sea-sickness,  the  little 
boy  was  amusing  himself  by  climb- 
ing up  one  of  the  ropes  which  hung 
directly  above  where  I  stood.  I  cau- 
tioned him  two  or  three  times  of  the 
danger  of  his  sport,  but  he  still  per- 
sisted in  going,  by  his  hands  alone, 
as  high  up  the  rope  as  he  could.     I 
heard  a  slight  scream,  and  the  next 
moment  was  overwhelmed  with  a 
great  weight,  and  was  instantly  over- 
balanced and  driven  into  the  sea.     I 
have  no  recollection  of  any   thing 
more,  except  a  strange  thundering 
sound  in  my  ears,  and  the  flashing  of 
red  lights  in  my  eyes.  A  boat  was  in- 
stantaneously put  down,  and  I  was 
picked  up  quite  insensible ;  the  boy 
also,  who  had  caused  the  catastrophe 
by  losing  his  hold  and  falling  on  my 
head,  was  saved  from  his  perilous 
situation,  and  we  were  conveyed  on 
board  after  our  safety  had  been  de- 
spaired of.     When  I  came  perfectly 
to  myself,  I  found  the  invalid  had 
been  carried  across  the  ship  to  the 
side  of  my  couch,  and  there  he  lay 
with  the  intent  eyes  of  earnest  affec- 
tion watching  for  my  recovery.   His 
boy  was  lying  sound  asleep  in  his 
arms.    He  said,  when  I  opened  my 
eyes — "  This  is  the  second  time,  Ge- 


1881.]  Some  Passages  in  the  Lift  of  Sir  Frizzle  Pumpkin.  208 


neral,  I  have  been  indebted  to  you 
more  than  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  re- 
pay— first, — for  I  see  you  do  not  in 
these  wasted  features  recognise  a 
friend  of  your  youth, — when  you  sa- 
ved me  in  the  bathing-ground  at 
.,  when  you  were  a  simple  en- 
sign, and  I,  what  I  am  now— a  poor 
lieutenant." 

"  Jack  Wharton  !"  I  said,  in  asto- 
nishment. 

"  The  same — No  one  has  rejoiced 
more  in  your  rapid  and  brilliant  pro- 
gress than  I  have,  though  my  own,  I 
grieve  to  say,  has  been  very  differ- 
ent. But  now  this  second  time  you 
have  saved  my  boy,  my  poor  little 
Frederick,  and  Jack  Wharton  can 
only  thank  you  with  his  tears." 

And  poor  Wharton  wept  like  a 
child.  I  said  nothing  to  all  this,  for 
I  knew  even  if  I  told  him  the  truth, 
that  my  precipitation  into  the  water 
was  by  no  means  voluntary,  he  would 
not  have  given  credit  to  the  state- 
ment ;  so  I  was  forced  passively  to 
submit  to  the  admiration  of  the  whole 
crew  for  the  heroism  of  the  achieve- 
ment, when  the  fact  was  that  the 
child  himself  had  knocked  me  over 
the  side,  and  nearly  been  the  cause 
of  my  death.  My  friend's  had  been 
the  usual  fate  of  military  men — he 
had  stood  all  the  dangers  of  several 
campaigns,  and  had  risen  no  higher 
than  lieutenant;  I  am  happy,  how- 
ever, to  say  I  had  it  in  my  power  to 
be  of  essential  service  to  him  after- 
wards, and  to-morrow,  I  believe,  I 
shall  have  the  honour  of  introducing 
you  to  Colonel  Wharton.  I  may  con- 
clude the  story  of  my  professional 
progress  by  informing  you  that  in  a 
short  period  after  my  arrival,  I  was 
advanced  to  the  highest  step  in  the 
army  save  one,  and  that  my  sovereign 
was  graciously  pleased  to  confer  on 
me  the  honour  of  a  baronetcy,  and 
the  knighthood  of  the  Bath,  and  that 
Parliament  voted  me  money  to  pur- 
chase an  estate,  and  settled  two 
thousand  a-year  on  my  lineal  repre- 
sentative for  three  generations. 

This,  sir,  from  the  story  you  have 
heard,  will  afford  you  ground  for 
moralizing.  Here  am  I,  a  man  of  no 
strength  of  mind,  a  man  of  no  per- 
sonal courage,  celebrated  from  one 
end  of  the  kingdom  to  the  other,  for 
the  possession,  in  a  peculiar  degree, 
of  both  these  qualities.  I  have  risen 
to  the  summit  of  a  soldier's  ambU 


tion,  and  to  the  eye  of  philosophy  I 
present  as  interesting  a  subject  of 
contemplation  as  would  be  the  ele- 
vation to  the  seals  of  a  lawyer  igno- 
rant beyond  measure  of  the  law,  or 
the  translation  to  such  a  see  as  Win- 
chester, of  a  clei'gyman  unendowed 
with  either  learning,  or  piety,  or  ta- 
lents. That  such  an  event  never  oc- 
curred in  any  profession  but  my 
own,  I  would  fain  hope ;  but  I  trust 
that,  while  I  thus  unburden  myself 
of  a  secret  which  has  preyed  on  my 
conscience  for  many  years,  you  will 
allow  that,  poor  and  contemptible  as 
my  conduct  has  in  reality  been,  I 
have  never  added  to  my  baseness  by 
arrogance  and  pride.  You  now,  I 
feel  convinced,  look  on  me  with 
loathing  and  abhorrence  j  but,  be- 
lieve me,  that  whatever  your  feelings 
may  be,  mine  are  a  thousaud  times 
more  humiliating,  a  thousand  times 
more  bitter ! 

Here  the  General  paused,  and  laid 
his  head  upon  his  hand — for  my  own 
part  I  did  not  know  what  to  do.     I 
did  not  at  first  believe  a  single  word 
of  what  he  said  about  his  want  of 
courage ;   but  as  he   proceeded   in 
his  story,  I  began  to  think  he  could 
scarcely  mean  all  that  long  rigma- 
role for  a  hoax,  and  accordingly  I 
felt  it  impossible  to  offer  him  the 
slightest  consolation.     Whilst  I  was 
hesitating  what  to  say,  for  the  un- 
fortunate General  was  now  sobbing 
convulsively  in  the  bitterness  of  his 
self-upbraiding,  we  were  startled  by 
the    most    horrific    shrieks   I    ever 
heard,  and  above  the  clamour  which 
immediately  arose,  we  heard  the  cries 
of  "  Fire !  fire !"  and  then  the  wildest 
ejaculations  of  "  Help !  help  !  save 
us !   save  us !"     I  darted  with  the 
speed  of  lightning  to  the  door,  but 
the  whole  passage  was  filled  with 
smoke;  I,  however,  as  the  only  chance 
of  escape,  (after  telling  the  Gene- 
ral, who  sat  still,  lost  apparently  in 
grief,  that  no  time  was  to  be  lost,) 
sprang  down   the    already  blazing 
staircase,  and  "providentially  arrived 
safe.     The  heat  and  agitation,  how- 
ever, had  been  too  much  for  me,  and 
I  sank  in  a  swoon  upon  the  grass  the 
moment  I  reached  the  lawn.    When 
I  recovered  my  senses,  the  fire  had 
made  the  most  alarming  progress. 
It  burst  in  vivid  wreaths  out  of  al- 
most all  the  windows,  and  the  smoke, 


Some  Passages  in  the  Life  of  Sir  Frizzle  Pumpkin. 


204 

thickly  eddying  round  the  whole 
building,  hid  all  the  portions  of  it 
Avhich  were  not  actually  in  a  blaze. 
The  servants,  and  many  country  peo- 
ple from  the  neighbouring  village, 
gazed  at  the  progress  of  the  devour- 
ing element  in  helpless  consternation 
and  dismay.  Many  of  them  were  in 
tears,  and  I  heard  them  uttering  the 
most  heart-rending  lamentations  over 
the  inevitable  fate  of  their  mistress. 
She  had  retired  to  her  couch  at  an 
early  hour,  and  the  flames -now  to- 
tally enveloped  the  suite  of  apart- 
ments which  she  had  occupied.  I 
made  several  attempts  to  dash  through 
ihe.  flames,  and  save  the  unfortunate 
lady — and  also  had  no  doubt  the  Ge- 
neral would  be  overcome  by  his  ter- 
rors, and  be  incapacitated  from  es- 
cape. In  the  midst  of  these  vain 
and  impotent  endeavours,  AVB  saw 
some  dark  object  moving  along  the 
corridor.  It  proceeded  quietly  and 
sedately,  whatever  it  was;  and  the 
superstitious  peasantry  began  to  give 
all  up  for  lost,  when  they  saw  what 
they  considered  the  demon  of  fire 
himself  so  deliberately  taking  his 
path  amidst  the  flames.  I,  however, 
caught  a  single  glimpse,  which  satis- 
fied me  it  was  the  General ;  and  I 
now  in  truth  believed  that  his  fears 
had  turned  his  brain,  and  that  he 
threw  himself  in  his  delirium  upon 
certain  death.  We  traced  him,  how- 
ever, as  he  passed  each  window,  and 
at  last  saw  him  dive  suddenly  into 
the  hottest  of  the  fire,  and,  to  our 
amazement,  emerge  in  the  anteroom 
of  her  ladyship's  bedchamber.  We 
could  even,  above  the  roaring  of  the 
flames,  hear  a  scream  of  delight; 
and  in  another  instant,  again  we  tra- 
ced the  figure  pursuing  its  fiery  way 
with  a  burden  in  its  arms,  and  a 
shout  of  hope  and  exultation  among 
the  spectators  could  no  longer  be 
restrained.  The  walls  themselves 
began  to  crack  and  totter  in  many 
places,  and  several  of  the  floors  had 
already  given  way,  yet,  apparently 
undismayed,  the  figure  flitted  across 
each  successive  window  of  the  cor- 
ridor, and  by  some  means  or  other 


[Aug. 


came  down  the  blazing  staircase  un- 
injured. I  saw,  to  my  delight  and 
amazement,  it  was  indeed  the  Gene- 
ral, with  the  still  beautiful  and  fas- 
cinating Lady  Anabella  closely  cling- 
ing to  his  neck.  1  rushed  to  him  in 
a  moment,  and  offered  him  my  as- 
sistance, but  he  was  apparently  as 
calm  and  collected  as  he  had  ap- 
peared that  very  day  at  the  head  of 
his  own  table.  Her  ladyship,  too, 
recovered  herself  very  soon,  and  re- 
lated her  escape,  with  the  fondest 
acknowledgments  of  her  husband's 
matchless  intrepidity.  To  all  that 
she  said  he  made  no  answer  what- 
soever ;  he  seemed,  indeed,  scarcely 
to  listen  to  what  she  was  saying ; 
but  after  she  had  been  given  over  to 
the  care  of  her  maids,  he  took  me 
aside,  and  told  me,  that  in  a  state 
of  the  greatest  agitation  he  walked 
along  the  corridor,  in  hopes  of  finding 
his  way  down  the  back  stairs  which 
communicated  with  the  garden.  He 
found  the  door  locked,  and  entered 
Lady  Annabella's  room,  with  the  in- 
tention of  leaping  out  of  her  win- 
dow ;  but  she  sprang  upon  him,  and 
seized  him  round  the  neck — and  then 
his  apprehension  rose  to  such  a  pitch 
that  he  lost  all  command  of  himself, 
and  how  he  found  his  way  into  the 
open  air  he  was  altogether  unable  to 
guess.  After  giving  me  this  account, 
he  slipt  quietly  away  from  the  bus- 
tle, and  left  me  musing  on  what  a 
confoundedly  useful  sort  of  coward- 
ice it  was,  which  enabled  the  man 
always  to  be  terrified  at  the  right 
time ;  and  the  sum  of  my  musing  was 
this,  that  it  will  be  a  pretty  consi- 
derable particular  long  time  before 
all  my  courage,  and  dashing,  and  in- 
trepidity, will  raise  me  to  be  a  Ge- 
neral of  Division,  with  a  splendid 
fortune — a  baronetcy — and  two  thou- 
sand a-year  settled  on  my  lineal  re- 
presentative for  three  generations. 
So  much  better  is  it,  as  Solomon  or 
some  other  person  has  said  in  his 
proverbs,  to  be  born  with  a  silver 
spoon  in  one's  mouth  than  a  wooden 
ladle. 


J831.J 


La  Pvtile  Mu'lelaine. 


206 


LA  PETITE  MADELAINE. 


I  WAS  surprised  the  other  day  by 
a  visit  from  a  strange  old  lady, 
brought  hither  to  be  introduced  to 
me,  at  her  own  request,  by  some 
friends  of  mine  with  whom  she  was 
staying  in  this  neighbourhood.  Ha- 
ving been,  I  was  informed,  intimately 
acquainted,  in  her  early  years,  with  a 
branch  of  my  mother's  family,  to 
which  she  was  distantly  related,  she 
had  conceived  a  desire  to  see  one  of 
its  latest  descendants,  and  I  was  in 
consequence  honoured  with  her  visit. 
But  if  the  honour  done  me  was  un- 
questionable, the  motive  to  which  I 
was  indebted  for  it  was  not  to  be 
easily  divined ;  for,  truth  to  speak, 
little  indication  of  good  will  towards 
me,  or  of  kindly  feeling,  was  dis- 
cernible in  the  salutation  of  my  visi- 
tor, in  her  stiff  and  stately  curtsy, 
her  cold  ceremonious  expressions, 
and  in  the  sharp  and  severe  scrutiny 
of  the  keen  grey  eyes,  with  which 
she  leisurely  took  note  of  me  from 
head  to  foot. 

Mrs  Ormond's  appearance  was 
that  of  a  person  far  advanced  in 
years ;  older  than  my  mother  would 
have  been  if  still  living;  but  her 
form,  of  uncommon  height,  gaunt, 
bony,  and  masculine,  was  firm  and 
erect  as  in  the  vigour  of  life,  and  in 
perfect  keeping  with  the  hard-fea- 
tured, deep-lined  countenance,  sur- 
mounted by  a  coiffure  that,  perched 
on  the  summit  of  a  roll  of  grizzled 
hair,  strained  tight  from  the  high  and 
narrow  forehead,  was,  with  the  rest 
of  her  attire,  a  fac-simile  of  that  of 
my  great-aunt  Barbara  (peace  be  to 
her  memory  !)  as  depicted  in  a  cer- 
tain invaluable  portrait  of  that  vir- 
tuous gentlewoman,  now  deposited, 
for  more  inviolable  security,  in  the 
warmest  corner  of  the  lumber-room. 

Though  no  believer  in  the  influ- 
ence of  "  the  evil  eye,"  there  was 
something  in  the  expression  of  the 
large,  prominent,  light  grey  orbs,  so 
strangely  fixed  upon  me,  that  had  the 
effect  of  troubling  me  so  far,  as  to 
impose  a  degree  of  embarrassment 
and  restraint  on  my  endeavours  to 
play  the  courteous  hostess,  and  very- 
much  to  impede  all  my  attempts  at 
conversation. 


As  the  likeliest  means  of  breaking 
down  the  barrier  of  formality,  I  in- 
troduced the  subject  most  calcula- 
ted, it  might  be  supposed,  to  awaken 
feelings  of  mutual  interest.  I  spoke 
of  my  maternal  ancestry — of  the 
Norman  blood  and  Norman  land 
from  which  the  race  had  sprung,  and 
of  my  inherited  love  for  the  birth- 
place of  those  nearest  and  dearest  to 
me  in  the  last  departed  generation; 
though  the  daughter  of  an  English 
father,  his  country  was  my  native,  as 
well  as  my  "  Fatherland." 

Mrs  Ormond,  though  the  widow 
of  an  English  husband,  spoke  with  a 
foreign  accent  so  familiar  to  my  ear, 
that,  in  spite  of  the  sharp  thin  tones 
of  the  voice  that  uttered  them,  I 
could  have  fancied  musical, had  there 
beenagleam  of  kindness  in  her  steady 
gaze.  But  I  courted  it  in  vain.  The 
eyes  of  Freya  were  never  fixed  in 
more  stony  hardness  on  a  rejected 
votary,  than  were  those  of  my  stern 
inspectress,  on  my  almost  depreca- 
ting face ;  and  her  ungracious  reserve 
baffled  all  my  attempts  at  conversa- 
tion. 

All  she  allowed  to  escape  her,  in 
reference  to  the  Norman  branches 
of  our  respective  families,  was  a  brief 
allusion  to  the  intimacy  which  had 
subsisted  between  her  mother  and 
my  maternal  grandmother;  and  when 
I  endeavoured  from  that  slight  clue 
to  lead  her  farther  into  the  family 
relations,  my  harmless  pertinacity 
was  rebuked  by  a  shake  of  the  head 
as  portentous  as  Lord  Burleigh's, 
accompanied  by  so  grim  a  smile,  and 
a  look  of  such  undefinable  meaning, 
as  put  the  finishing  stroke  to  my  pre- 
vious bewilderment,  and  prevented 
me  from  recalling  to  mind,  as  I  should 
otherwise  have  done,  certain  circum- 
stances associated  with  a  proper 
name — that  of  her  mother's  family, 
which  she  spoke  with  peculiar  em- 
phasis— and  having  done  so,  and  in 
so  doing  (as  she  seemed  persuaded) 
"  spoken  daggers"  to  my  conscience, 
she  signified  by  a  stately  sign  to  the 
ladies  who  had  accompanied  her, 
that  she-was  ready  to  depart,  and  the 
carriage  being  announced,  forthwith 
arose,  and  honouring  me  with  a  fare- 


206 


La,  Petite  Madelaine. 


well  curtsy,  as  formal  as  that  which 
had  marked  her  introduction,  sailed 
out  of  the  apartment,  if  not  with 
swan-like  grace,  with  much  of  that 
sublimer  majesty  of  motion,  with 
which  a  heron  on  a  mud-bank  stalks 
deliberately  on,  with  head  erect  and 
close  depending  pinions.  And  as  if 
subjugated  by  the  strange  influence 
of  the  sharp  grey  eyes,  bent  on  me 
to  the  last  with  sinister  expression, 
unconsciously  I  returned  my  grim 
visitor's  parting  salutation,  with  so 
profound  a  curtsy,  that  my  knees 
(all  unaccustomed  to  such  Richard- 
sonian  ceremony)  had  scarcely  re- 
covered from  it,  when  the  closing 
door  shut  out  her  stately  figure,  and 
it  was  not  till  the  sound  of  carriage- 
wheels  certified  her  final  departure, 
that,  recovering  my  own  identity,  I 
started  from  the  statue-like  posture 
in  which  I  had  remained  standfng 
after  that  unwonted  genuflection,  and 
sank  back  on  the  sofa  to  meditate  at 
leisure  on  my  strange  morning  ad- 
venture. 

My  ungraeiou*  visitor  had  left  me 
little  cause,  in  truth,  for  pleasing  me- 
ditation, so1  far  as  h«r  gaunt  self  was 
immediately  concerned,  but  a  harsh 
strain,  or  an  ungraceful  object,  will 
sometimes  (as  well  as  the  sweetest 
and  most  beautiful)  revive  a  long 
train  of  interesting  associations,  and 
the  plea  alleged  for  her  introduction 
to  me,  had  been  of  itself  sufficient  to 
awaken  a  chord  of  memory,  whose 
vibration  ceased  not  at  her  departure. 
On  the  contrary,  I  fell  forthwith  into 
a  dreaming  mood,  that  led  me  back 
to  recollections  of  old  stories,  of  old 
times — such  as  I  had  loved  to  listen 
to  in  long  past  days,  from  those  who 
had  since  followed  in  their  turn  the 
elders  of  our  race  (whose  faithful 
historians  they  were)  to  the  dark 
and  narrow  house  appointed  for  all 
living. 

Who  that  has  ever  been  addicted 
to  -the  idle,  and  I  fear  me  profitless, 
speculation  of  waking  dreams,  but 
may  call  to  mind  how,  when  the 
spell  was  on  him,  as  outward  and 
tangible  things  (apparently  the  ob- 
jects of  intent  gaze)  faded  on  the 
eye  of  sense,  the  inward  vision  pro- 
portionately cleared  and  strengthen- 
ed— and  circumstances  Jong  unre- 
in erabered — names  long  unspoken — 
histories  and  descriptions  once  at- 


[Aug. 

tended  to  with  deep  interest,  but 
long  past  from  recollection,  are  con- 
fined, as  it  were,  from  the  dark  re- 
cesses of  the  mind,  at  first  like  wan- 
dering atoms  confused  and  undefi- 
ned, but  gradually  assuming  distinct- 
ness and  consistency,  till  the  things 
that  be  are  to  us  the  unreal  world, 
and  we  live  and  move  again  (all  in- 
tervening space  a  blank)  among  the 
things  that  have  been  ? 

Far  back  into  that  shadowy  region 
did  I  wander,  when  left  as  described 
by  "  the  grim  white  woman,"  to  pon- 
der over  the  few  words  she  had 
vouchsafed  to  utter,  and  my  own 
"  thick-coming  fancies."  The  one 
proper  name  she  had  pronounced — 
that  of  her  mother's  family,  had 
struck  on  my  ear  like  afamiliar  sound 
— yet — how  could  I  have  heard  it  ? 
If  ever — from  one  person  only — from 
my  dear  mother's  lips — "  De  St  Hi- 
laire !" — again  and  again  I  slowly 
repeated  to  myself— and  then — I 
scarce  know  how — the  Christian 
name  of  Adrienne  rose  spontaneously 
to  my  lips,  and  no  sooner  were  the 
two  united,  than  the  spell  of  memo- 
ry was  complete,  and  fresh  on  my 
mind,  as  if  I  had  heard  it  but  yester- 
day, returned  the  whole  history  of 
Adrienne  de  St  Hilaire. 

Adrienne  de  St  Hilaire  and  Made- 
laine  du  Resnel  were  far  removed 
cousins;  both  demoiselles  de  bonnes 
families,  residing  at  contiguous  cha- 
teaux, near  a  small  hamlet  not  far 
from  Caen,  in  Normandy ;  both  well 
born  and  well  connected,  but  very 
unequally  endowed  with  the  gifts  of 
fortune.  Mademoiselle  de  St  Hilaire 
was  the  only  child  and  heiress  of 
wealthy  parents,  b»th  of  whom  were 
still  living.  Madelaine  du  Resnel, 
the  youngest  of  seven,  left  in  ten- 
der infancy  to  the  guardianship  of 
a  widowed  mother,  whose  scanty 
dower  (the  small  family  estate  de- 
volving on  her  only  son)  would 
have  been  insufficient  for  the  sup- 
port of  herself  and  her  younger  chil- 
dren (all  daughters),  had  she  not 
continued  mistress  of  her  son's 
house  and  .establishment  during  his 
minority. 

"  La  petite  Madelaine"  (as,  being 
the  latest  b«rn,  she  was  long  called 
by  her  family  and  friends)  opened 
her  eyes  upon  this  mortal  scene  but 
a  week  before  her  father  was  carried 


1831.] 

to  his  grave,  and  never  was  poor  babe 
so  coldly  welcomed  under  circum- 
stances that  should  have  made  her 
doubly  an  object  of  tenderness. 

"  Petite  malheureuse !  je  me  serois 
bien  passee  de  toi,"  was  the  mater- 
nal salutation,  when  her  new-born 
daughter  was  first  presented  to  Ma- 
dame du  Resnel —  a  cold-hearted, 
strong-minded  woman,  more  absorb- 
ed in  the  change  about  to  be  opera- 
ted in  her  own  situation  by  her  ap- 
proaching widowhood,  than  by  her 
impending  bereavement  of  a  most 
excellent  and  tender  husband.  But 
one  precious  legacy  was  in  reserve 
for  the  forlorn  infant.  She  was  clasp- 
ed to  the  heart  of  her  dying  father — 
his  blessing  was  breathed  over  her, 
and  his  last  tears  fell  on  her  innocent, 
unconscious  face.  "  Mon  enfant !  tu 
ne  corinoitra  jamais  ton  pere,  mais  il 
veillera  sur  toi,"  were  the  tender, 
emphatic  words  with  which  he  re- 
signed her  to  the  arms  of  the  old 
servant,  who  failed  not  to  repeat 
them  to  her  little  charge  when  she 
was  old  enough  to  comprehend  their 
affecting  purport.  And  well  and  ho- 
lily  did  la  petite  Madelaine  treasure 
that  saying  in  her  heart  of  hearts; 
and  early  reason  had  the  poor  child 
to  fly  for  comfort  to  that  secret  source. 
Madame  du  Resnel  could  not  be  ac- 
cused of  over-indulgence  to  any  of 
her  children — least  of  all  to  the  poor 
little  one  whom  she  looked  on  from 
the  first  almost  as  an  intruder ;  but 
she  felt  maternal  pride  in  the  resem- 
blance already  visible  in  her  elder 
daughters,  to  her  own  fine  form  and 
handsome  features, — while  la  petite 
Madelaine,  a  small  creature  from  her 
birth,  though  delicately  and  perfect- 
ly proportioned — fair  and  blue-eyed, 
and  meek-looking  as  innocence  it- 
self, but  without  one  feature  in  her 
face  that  could  be  called  handsome, 
had  the  additional  misfortune,  when 
about  five  years  old,  to  be  marked — • 
though  net  seamed — by  the  small- 
pox, from  which  cruel  disease  her 
life  escaped  almost  miraculously. 

"  Qu'elle  est  affreuse !"  was  the 
mother's  tender  exclamation  at  the 
first  full  view  of  her  restored  child's 
disfigured  face.  Those  words,  young 
as  she  was,  went  to  the  poor  child's 
heart,  that  swelled  so  to  bursting,  it 
might  have  broken,  (who  knows  ?) 
but  for  her  hoarded  comfort:  and 
she  sobbed  herself  to  sleep  that  night, 


La  Petite  Madelaine. 


207 


over  and  over  again  repeating  to  her- 
self, "  Men  papa  veille  sur  moi." 

If  there  be  much  truth  in  that  poet- 
ical axiom, 

"  A  fav»urke  has  ne  friend," 

it  is  at  least  as  frequently  evident, 
that  even  in  domestic  circles,  the  de- 
gree of  favour  shewn  by  the  head  of 
the  household  to  any  individual  mem- 
ber, too  often  regulates  the  general 
tone  of  consideration ;  and  that  even 
among  the  urchins  of  the  family,  an 
instinctive  perception  is  never  wanlr 
ing,  of  how  far,  and  over  whom,  they 
may  tyrannize  with  impunity. 

No  creature  in  whose  nature  was 
a  spark  of  human  feeling,  could  ty- 
rannize over  la  petite  Madelaine,— 
she  was  so  gentle,  so  loving,  (when 
she  dared  shew  her  love,)  so  perfect- 
ly tractable  and  unoffending ;  but  in, 
the  Chateau  du  Resnel,  no  one  could 
have  passed  two  whole  days  without 
perceiving  she  was  no  favourite,  ex- 
cept with  one  old  servant — the  same 
who  had  placed  her  in  her  dying  fa* 
ther's  arms,  and  recorded  for  her  his 
last  precious  benediction — and  with 
her  little  brother,  who  always  vow- 
ed to  those  most  in  his  confidence! 
and  to  Madelaine  herself,  when  her 
tears  flowed  for  some  short,  sharp 
sorrow,  that  when  he  was  a  man, 
"  toutes  ces  demoiselles" — meaning 
his  elder  sisters  and  monitresses— 
should  go  and  live  away  Where  they 
pleased,  and  leave  him  and  la  petite 
Madelaine  to  keep  house  together. 

Except  from  these  two,  any  one 
would  have  observed  that  there 
were  "  shortcomings"  towards  her; 
"  shortcomings"  of  tenderness  from 
the  superiors  of  the  household  — 
"  shortcomings"  of  observances  from 
the  menials  ;  any  thing  was  good 
enough  for  Madelaine — any  time  was 
time  enough  for  Madelaine.  She  had 
to  finish  wearing  out  all  her  sisters' 
old  frocks  and  wardrobes  in  general, 
to  eat  the  crumb  of  the  loaf  they  had 
pared  the  crust  from,  and  to  be  sa- 
tisfied with  half  a  portion  of  soupe 
au  lait,  if  they  had  chosen  to  take 
double  allowance ;  and,  blessedly 
for  la  petite  Madelaine,  it  was  her  na- 
ture to  be  satisfied  with  every  thing 
not  embittered  by  marked  and  inten- 
tional unkindness.  It  was  her  nature 
to  sacrifice  itself  for  others.  Might 
that  sacrifice  have  been  repaid  by  a 
return  of  love,  her  little  heart  would 


•208 


La  Pet  UK  Mudelaine. 


[Aug. 


have  overflowed  with  happiness.  As 
it  was,  she  had  not  yet  learnt  to  rea- 
son upon  the  want  of  sympathy ;  she 
felt  without  analyzing.  She  was  not 
harshly  treated, — was  seldom  found 
fault  with,  though  far  more  rarely 
commended, — was  admitted  to  share 
in  her  sisters'  sports,  with  the  pro- 
viso that  she  had  no  choice  in  them, 
— old  Jeannette  and  le  petit  frere 
Armand  loved  her  dearly  ;  so  did 
Roland,  her  father's  old  faithful 
hound, — and  on  the  whole,  la  petite 
Madelaine  was  a  happy  little  girl. 

And  happier  she  was,  a  thousand 
times  happier,  than  her  cousin  Adri- 
enne — than  Aftrienne  de  St  Hilaire, 
the  spoilt  child  of  fortune  and  of  her 
doting  parents,  who  lived  but  in  her, 
and  for  her,  exhausting  all  the  inge- 
nuity of  love,  and  all  the  resources 
of  wealth,  in  vain  endeavours  to  per- 
fect the  felicity  of  their  beautiful  but 
heartless  idol. 

The  families  of  St  Hilaire  and  Du 
Resnel  were,  as  has  been  mentioned, 
distantly  related,  and  the  ties  of  kin- 
dred were  strengthened  by  similarity 
of  faith,  both  professing  that  of  the 
Reformed  Church,  and  living  oiithat 
account  very  much  within  their  own 
circle,  though  on  terms  of  perfect 
good-will  with  the  surrounding  Ca- 
tholic neighbourhood.  Mile,  de  St 
Hilaire  might  naturally  have  been 
expected  to  select  among  the  elder 
of  her  cousins,  her  companion  and 
intimate,  their  ages  nearly  assimila- 
ting with  her  own ;  but,  too  cold- 
hearted  to  seek  for  sympathy,  too 
proud  to  brook  companionship  on 
equal  terms,  and  too  selfish  and  in- 
dolent to  sacrifice  any  caprice,  or 
inake  any  exertion  for  the  sake  of 
others,  she  found  it  most  convenient 
to  patronise  la  petite  Madelaine, 
whose  gentle  spirit  and  sweet  tem- 
per ensured  willing  though  not  ser- 
vile compliance  with  even  the  unrea- 
sonable fancies  of  all  who  were  kind 
to  her,  and  whose  quickness  of  intel- 
lect and  excellent  capacity  more  than 
fitted  her  for  companionship  with 
Adrienne,  though  the  latter  was  six 
years  her  senior.  Besides  all,  there 
was  the  pleasure  of  patronage — not 
the  least  influential  motive  to  a  proud 
and  mean  spirit,  or  to  the  heart  of  a 
beauty,  wellnigh  satiated,  if  that  were 
possible,  by  the  contemplation  of  her 
own  perfections.  When  la  petite 
Madelaine  was  ten  years  old,  and  la 


belle  Adrieunc  sixteen,  it  therefore 
happened  that  the  former  was  much 
oftencr  to  be  found  at  Chateau  St 
Hilaire,  than  at  le  Manoir  du  Res- 
nel ;  for  whenever  the  parental  ef- 
forts of  Monsieur  and  Madame  de 
St  Hilaire  failed  (and  they  failed  too 
often)  to  divert  the  ennui,  and  satisfy 
the  caprices,  of  their  spoiled  darling, 
the  latter  was  wont  to  exclaim,  in  the 
pettish  tone  of  peevish  impatience, 
"  Faites  done  venir  la  petite  Made- 
laine !"  and  the  innocent  charmer  was 
as  eagerly  sought  out  and  welcomed 
by  the  harassed  parents  as  ever  Da- 
vid was  sought  for  by  the  servants 
of  Saul,  to  lay  with  the  sweet  breath- 
ings of  his  harp  the  evil  spirit  that 
possessed  their  unhappy  master. 
Something  similar  was  the  influence 
of  la  petite  Madelaine's  nature  over 
that  of  her  beautiful  cousin.  No 
wonder  that  her  presence  could 
scarcely  be  dispensed  with  at  Cha- 
teau St  Hilaire.  Had  her  own  home 
been  more  a  home  of  love,  not  all 
the  blandishments  of  the  kindest 
friends,  not  all  the  luxuries  of  a 
wealthy  establishment,  would  ever 
have  reconciled  her  to  be  so  much 
separated  from  her  nearest  connex- 
ions. But,  alas  I  except  when  her 
services  were  required  (and  no  spa- 
ring and  light  tasks  were  her  assign- 
ed ones),  she  was  but  too  welcome 
to  bestow  her  companionship  on 
others;  and  except  Roland,  and  le 
petit  frere,  who  was  there  to  miss  la 
petite  Madelaine  ?  And  Roland  was 
mostly  her  escort  to  St  Hilaire ;  and 
on  fine  evenings,  when  le  petit  frere 
had  escaped  from  his  tutor  and  his 
sisters,  Jeannette  was  easily  persua- 
ded to  take  him  as  far  as  the  old 
mill,  half-way  between  the  chateaux, 
to  meet  her  on  her  way  home.  Those 
were  pleasant  meetings.  Madelaine 
loved  often,  in  after  life,  to  talk  of 
them  with  that  dear  brother,  always 
her  faithful  friend.  So  time  went  on 
— Time,  the  traveller  whose  pace  is 
so  variously  designated  by  various 
humours — is  always  the  restless,  the 
unpausing — till  Mademoiselle  de  St 
Hilaire  had  attained  the  perfection 
of  blooming  womanhood — the  glow- 
ing loveliness  of  her  one-and-twen- 
tieth  summer— and  la  petite  Made- 
laine began  to  think  people  ou»ht 
to  treat  her  more  like  a  woman — tor 
was  she  not  fifteen  complete  '?  Poor 
little  Madelaine  !  thou  hadbt  indeed 


1831. j 


La  Petite  Madelaine. 


209 


arrived  at  th.it  most  womanly  era. 
But,  to  look  at  that  small  slight  form, 
still  childishly  attired  in  frock  and 
sash,  of  the  simplest  form  and  home- 
liest materials, — at  that  almost  infan- 
tine face,  that  looked  more  youthful, 
and  almost  beautiful,  when  it  smiled, 
from  the  effect  of  a  certain  dimple 
in  the  left  cheek  (Adrienne  always 
insisted  it  was  a  pock-mark)  ; — to 
look  at  that  form  and  face,  and  the 
babyish  curls  of  light-brown  hair  that 
hung  about  it  quite  down  the  little 
throat,  and  lay  clustering  on  the 
girlish  neck — who  could  ever  have 
thought  of  paying  thee  honour  due 
as  to  the  dignity  of  confirmed  wo- 
manhood ? 

So  it  was  Madelaine's  fate  still  to 
be  "  La  petite  Madelaine" — still  no- 
body—  that  anomalous  personage 
who  plays  so  many  parts  in  society ; 
as  often  to  suit  his  own  convenience 
as  for  that  of  others;  and  though 
people  are  apt  to  murmur  at  being 
forced  into  the  character,  many  a 
one  lives  to  assume  it  willingly — as 
one  slips  off  a  troublesome  costume 
at  a  masque,  to  take  shelter  under  a 
quiet  domino.  As  for  la  petite  Ma- 
delaine,  who  did  not  care  very  much 
about  the  matter,  though  it  was  a 
little  mortifying  to  be  patted  on  the 
head,  and  called  "  bonne  petite," 
instead  of  "  mademoiselle,"  as  was 
her  undoubted  right,  from  strangers 
at  least,  it  was  better  to  be  some- 
body in  one,  or  two  hearts  (le  petit 
frere  et  Jeannette),  than  in  the  mere 
respects  of  a  hundred  indifferent 
people ;  and  as  for  la  belle  cousine, 
Madelaine,  though  on  excellent  terms 
with  her,  never  dreamed  of  her  ha- 
ving a  heart, — one  cause,  perhaps, 
of  their  mutual  good  understanding; 
for  la  petite  Madelaine,  actuated  by 
instinctive  perception,  felt  that  it 
would  be  perfectly  irrational  to  ex- 
pect warmth  of  affection  from  one 
constituted  so  differently  from  her- 
self; so  she  went  on,  satisfied  with 
the  consciousness  of  giving  pleasure, 
and  with  such  return  as  was  made 
for  it. 

But  la  petite  Madelaine  was  soon 
to  be  invested  Avith  a  most  import- 
ant office;  one,  however,  that  was 
by  no  means  to  supersede  her  cha- 
racter of  Nobody,  but,  enigmatical  as 
it  may  sound,  to  double  her  useful- 
ness in  that  capacity — while,  on  pri- 
vate and  particular  occasions,  she 


was  to  enact  a  somebody  of  infinite 
consequence — that  of  confidante  in 
a  love  affair — as  la  belle  cousine 
was  pleased  to  term  her  liaison  with 
a  very  handsome  and  elegant  young 
officer,  who,  after  some  iaint  oppo- 
sition on  the  part  of  her  parents, 
was  duly  installed  at  St  Hilaire,  as 
the  accepted  and  acknowledged  lo- 
ver of  its  beautiful  heiress.  Walter 
Barnard  (for  he  was  of  English  birth 
and  parentage)  the  youngest  of  three 
brothers,  the  elder  of  whom  was  a 
baronet,  was  most  literally  a  soldier 
of  fortune,  his  portion,  at  his  father's 
death,  amounting  to  no  more  than  a 
pair  of  colours  in  a  marching  regi- 
ment—  and  the  splendid  income 
thereunto  annexed.  But  high  in 
health  and  hope,  and  "  all  the  world 
before  him  where  to  choose" — of 
high  principles — simple  and  unvitia- 
ted  habits — the  object  of  the  love  of 
many  friends,  and  the  esteem  of  all 
his  brother  officers — the  young  man 
was  rather  disposed  to  consider  his 
lot  in  life  as  peculiarly  fortunate, 
till  the  pressure  of  disease  fell  heavy 
on  him,  and  he  rose  from  a  sick-bed 
which  had  held  him  captive  many 
weeks,  the  victim  of  infectious  fever, 
so  debilitated  in  constitution  as  to 
be  under  the  necessity  of  obtaining 
leave  of  absence  from  his  regiment, 
for  the  purpose  (peremptorily  insist- 
ed on  by  his  physician)  of  seeking 
the  perfect  change  of  air  and  scene, 
which  was  essential  to  effect  his 
restoration.  He  was  especially  en- 
joined to  try  the  influence  of  another 
climate — that  of  France  was  prompt- 
ly decided  on — not  only  from  the 
proximity  of  that  country  (a  consi- 
deration of  no  small  weight  in  the 
young  soldier's  prudential  calcula- 
tions), but  because  a  brother  officer 
was  about  to  join  a  part  of  his  family 
then  resident  at  Caen  in  Normandy, 
and  the  pleasure  of  travelling  with 
him,  settled  the  point  of  Walter's 
destination  so  far — and,  as  it  fell  out, 
even  to  that  other  station  in  the 
route  of  life,  only  second  in  awful- 
ness  to  the  "  bourne  from  whence 
no  traveller  returns."  His  English 
friends,  who  had  been  some  years 
inhabitants  of  Caen,  were  acquaint- 
ed with  many  French  families  in 
that  town  and  its  vicinity,  and, 
among  others,  Walter  was  introdu- 
ced by  them  at  the  Chateau  de  St 
Hilaire,  where  the  Protestant  Eng~ 


210 


La  Petite  Madelaine. 


lish  were  always  welcomed  with 
marked  hospitality.  The  still  lan- 
guishing health  of  the  young  soldier 
excited  peculiar  interest ;  he  was  in- 
vited to  make  frequent  trials  of  the 
fine  air  of  the  chateau  and  its  noble 
domain.  A  very  few  sufficed  to 
convince  him  that  it  was  far  more 
salubrious  than  the  confined  atmo- 
sphere of  Caen ;  and  very  soon  the 
fortunate  invalid  was  installed  in  all 
the  rights  and  privileges  of  "  L'Ami 
de  la  Maison." 

Circumstances  having  conducted 
our  dramatis  personee  to  this  point, 
how  could  it  fall  out  otherwise  than 
that  the  grateful  Walter  should  fall 
desperately  in  love  (which,  by  the  by, 
he  did  at  first  sight)  with  la  belle 
Adrienne,  and  that  she  should  deter- 
mine to  fall  obstinately  in  love  with 
him  !  He,  poor  fellow  !  in  pure  sim- 
plicity of  heart,  really  gazed  himself 
into  a  devoted  passion  for  the  youth- 
ful beauty,  without  one  interested 
view  towards  the  charms  of  the  heir- 
ess. But,  besides  thinking  him  the 
handsomest  man  she  had  ever  seen, 
she  was  determined  in  her  choice, 
by  knowing  it  was  in  direct  opposi- 
tion to  the  wishes  of  her  parents, 
who  had  long  selected  for  her  fu- 
ture husband  a  person  so  every 
way  unexceptionable,  that  their  fair 
daughter  was  very  likely  to  have  se- 
lected him  for  herself,  had  they  not 
committed  the  fatal  error  of  express- 
ing their  wishes  with  regard  to  him. 
There  was  PERSUASION  and  DISSUA- 
SION— mild  opposition  and  systema- 
tic wilfulness — a  few  tears,  got  up 
with  considerable  effort — vapeurs 
and  migraines  in  abundance — loss  of 
appetite — hints  about  broken-hearts 
— and  the  hearts  of  the  tender  parents 
could  hold  out  no  longer — Walter 
Barnard  was  received  into  the  fami- 
ly, as  the  future  husband  of  its  lovely 
daughter. 

All  this  time,whathad  become  of  la 
petite  Madelaine  ?  What  does  become 
of  little  girls  just  half  way  through 
their  teens,  when  associated,  under 
similar  circumstances,  with  young 
ladies  who  are  women  grown?  Why, 
they  are  to  be  patient  listeners  to 
the  lover's  perfections  when  he  is 
of  the 


[Aug. 

tender  commuuings  on  mossy  banks, 
under  willows  ana  acacias,  by  pond- 
sides  and  brook-sides — by  day-light, 
and  twilight,  and  moonlight— at  all 
seasons,  and  in  all  temperatures — so 
that  by  the  time  the  pastoral  con- 
cludes with  matrimony,  it  may  be  ac- 
counted an  especial  mercy  if  the 
"  mutual  friend"  is  not  crippled  with 
the  rheumatism  for  life,  or  brought 
into  the  first  stage  of  a  galloping 
consumption.  No  such  fatal  results 
were,  however,  in  reserve  for  the 
termination  of  la  petite  Madelaine's 
official  duties;  and  those,  while  in 
requisition,  were  made  less  irksome 
to  her  than  they  are  in  general 
to  persons  so  circumstanced ;  in 
part  through  the  happy  influence 
of  her  own  sweet  nature,  which 
always  apportioned  to  itself  some 
share  of  the  happiness  it  witnessed ; 
in  part  through  her  long-acquired 
habits  of  patience  and  self-sacrifice ; 
and,  in  part  also,  because  Walter 
Barnard  was  an  especial  favourite 
with  her — and  little  wonder  that  he 
was  so — the  gay  and  happy  young 
man,  devoted  as  he  was  to  Adrienne 
in  all  the  absorbing  interest  of  a  first 
successful  passion,  had  yet  many  a 
kind  word  and  beaming  smile  to 
spare  for  the  poor  little  cousin,  who 
often  but  for  him  would  have  sat 
quite  unnoticed  at  her  tent-stitch, 
even  in  the  family  circle;  and  when 
she  was  the  convenient  tiers  in  the 
romantic  rambles  of  himself  and  his 
lady-love,  thanks  to  his  unfailing 
good-nature,  even  then  she  did  not 
feel  herself  utterly  forgotten. 

For  even  in  spite  of  discouraging 
looks  from  la  belle  Adrienne,  of 
which  in  truth  he  was  not  quick  to 
discern  the  meaning,  he  would  often 
linger  to  address  a  few  words  to  the 
silent  little  girl,  who  had  been  tutor- 
ed too  well,  to  speak  unspoken  to,  or 
even  to  walk  quite  within  ear-shot  of 
her  soi-disant  companions.  And  when 
he  had  tenderly  assisted  Adrienne 
to  pass  over  some  stile  or  brooklet 
in  their  way,  seldom  it  happened  but 
that  his  hand  was  next  at  the  service 
of  Madelaine ;  and  only  those  whose 
spirits  have  been  long  subdued  by  a 
sense  of  insignificance,  impressed  by 
the  slighting  regards,  or  careless  no- 
tice of  cold  friends,  or  condescend- 


out  of  the  way,  and  more  patient 
companions  (because  perfectly  un- 
noticed at  such  times)  of  the  lovers'     ing  patrons,  can  conceive  the  enthu- 
romantic  walks  ;    shivering  associ-     siastic  gratitude   with  which  those 
ates  (at  discreet  distance)  of  their     trivial  instances  of  kindness  were 


1831.] 


La  Petite,  Madelaine. 


treasured  up  in  her  heart's  records. 
So  it  was,  that  la  petite  Madelaine, 
far  from  wearying  or  Walter's  praises, 
when  it  pleased  Adrienne  to  descant 
upon  them  in  his  absence,  was  apt 
to  think  her  fair  cousin  did  him  scant 
justice,  and  that  if  she  had  been 
called  on  for  his  eulogist,  oh !  how 
far  more  eloquently  could  she  speak ! 
In  short,  la  petite  Madelaine,  inex- 
perienced, as  of  course  she  was,  in 
such  matters,  saw  with  the  acuteness 
of  feeling,  that  Walter  had  obtained 
an  interest  only  in  the  vanity  and 
self-love,  not  in  the  heart  of  his  fair 
mistress.  "  Poor  Adrienne  !  she  can- 
not help  it,  if  she  has  no  heart,"  was 
Madelaine's  sage  soliloquy.  "  Mais 
quel  dommage  pouT  ce  bon  Walter, 
qui  en  a  tant !" 

"  Le  bon  Walter"  might  possibly 
have  made  the  same  discovery,  had 
the  unrestricted  intercourse  of  the 
lovers  been  of  long  continuance ;  and 
he  might  have  also  ascertained  an- 
other point,  respecting  which  certain 
dubious  glimmerings  had  begun  at 
intervals  to  intrude  themselves  on 
his  meditations  couleur  de  rose, — was 
it  possible  that  the  moral  and  intel- 
lectual perfections  of  his  idol,  could 
be  less  than  in  perfect  harmony  with 
her  outward  loveliness  ?  The  doubt 
was  sacrilegious,  detestable,  dismis- 
sed with  generous  indignation,  but 
again,  and  again,  some  demon,  (or 
was  it  is  his  good  genius  ?)  recalled 
a  startling  frown,  an  incautious  Avord 
or  tone,  a  harsh  or  fretful  expression 
from  the  eye  and  voice  of  his  belo- 
ved, addressed  to  la  petite  cousinc, 
or  to  himself,  when  in  lightness  of 
spirit,  and  frank-hearted  kindness, 
he  had  laughed  and  talked  with  the 
latter,  or  with  a  young  engaging 
sister.  And  then,  except  on  one 
topic,  his  passion  for  la  belle  Adri- 
enne, and  her  transcendent  charms, 
of  which,  as  yet,  he  was  ever  ready 
to  pour  out  the  heart's  eloquent  non- 
sense, somehow  their  conversations 
always  languished.  She  had  no  eye 
for  the  natural  beauties,  of  which  he 
was  an  enthusiastic  admirer ;  yawn- 
ed or  looked  puzzled,  or  impatient, 
when  he  stopped  to  gaze  upon  some 
glorious  sunset,  or  violet-hued  dis- 
tance, melting  into  the  roseate  sky. 
And  though  she  did  not  reject  his 
offering  of  wild  roses,  or  dewy  ho- 
ney-suckles, it  was  received  with  a 
half-contemptuous  indifference,  that 


invited  no  frequent  renewal  of  the 
simple  tribute  ;  and  from  the  date  of 
a  certain  walk,  when  the  lover's  keen 
glance  observed  that  the  bunch  of 
wild  flowers,  carelessly  dropt  by 
Adrienne  a  few  minutes  after  he  had 
given  them  to  her,  were  furtively 
picked  up  by  la  petite  Madelaine, 
as  she  followed  in  the  narrow  wood- 
path,  and  placed  as  furtively  withiri 
the  folds  of  her  fichu,  if  Monsieur 
Walter,  from  that  time  forth,  pulled  a 
wild  rose  from  the  spray,  or  a  violet 
from  the  bank,  it  was  tendered  with 
a  smile  to  one  whose  hand  at  least 
was  less  careless  than  Adfienne's  ,• 
and  for  her  heart,  that  mattered 
not  (farther  than  in  brotherly  kind- 
ness) to  the  reputed  possessor  of  la 
belle  St  Hilaire's.  Yet,  in  long  after 
days,  when  silver  threads  began  to 
streak  the  soft  fair  hair  of  Madelaine 
du  R6snel,  and  the  thick  black  clus- 
tering curls  of  Walter  Barnard  were 
more  than  sprinkled  with  the  same 
paly  hue,  he  found  in  turning  over 
the  leaves  of  an  old  French'  romance, 
in  which  her  name  was  inscribed, 
the  dried,  faded,  scentless  forms  of 
what  had  been  a  few  sweet  wild 
flowers.  On  the  margin  of  the  page, 
to  which  time  had  glued  them,  was 
a  date,  and  a  few  written  words. 
And  the  sight  of  those  frail  memo- 
rials, associated  with  th'ose  age-tint- 
ed characters,  must  have  awakened 
tender  and  touching  recollections  in 
his  heart  who  gazed  upon  them  ;  for 
a  watery  film  suffused  his  eyes  as 
he  raised  them  from  the  volume,  and 
turned  with  a  half  pensive  smile  to 
one  who  sat  beside  him,  quietly 
busied  with  her  knitting  needles,  in 
providing  for  his  winter  comfort. 

"  Mais  revenons  a  nos  moutons." 
Our  present  business  is  with  the 
young  lover  and  his  fair  mistress,  and 
the  still  younger  Madelaine.  Time 
will  overtake  them  soon  enough. 
We  need  not  anticipate  his  work. 
The^old  inexorable  brought  to  a  con- 
clusion Walter's  leave  of  absence, 
just  as  certain  discoveries  to  which 
we  have  alluded,  were  beginning  to 
break  upon  him ;  just  as  la  belle 
Adrienne  began  to  weary  of  playing 
atparfait  amour,  enacting  the  ado- 
rable to  her  lover,  and  the  aimdble 
to  her  cousin  in  his  presence;  just 
as  Monsieur  and  Madame,  her  weak 
but  worthy  parents,  were  secretly 
praying  for  their  future  son-in-law's 


L<i  'Petite  Madelaine. 


[Aug. 


departure,  iu  the  forlorn  hope  (as 
they  had  stipulated,  that  even  les 
Jiancailles  should  not  take  place  for 
a  twelvemonth  to  come)  that  some 
unexpected  page  might  yet  turn  over 
in  the  chapter  of  accidents,  whereon 
might  be  written  the  name  of  Jules 
Marquis  D'Arval,  instead  of  that  of 
the  landless,  untitled  Walter  Bar- 
nard, for  the  husband  of  their  beauti- 
ful heiress. 

Just  at  this  critical  juncture  arri- 
ved the  day  of  separation, — of  sepa- 
ration for  a  year  certain !  Will  it  be 
doubted  that  with  the  parting  hour, 
rushed  back  upon  Walter's  heart 
a  flood  of  tenderness,  even  more  im- 
passioned than  that  with  which  it 
had  first  pledged  itself  to  the  beauti- 
ful Adrienne?  The  enthusiasm  of 
his  nature,  acting  as  a  stimulus  to 
her  apathetic  temperament,  commu- 
nicated to  her  farewell  so  much  of 
the  appearance  of  genuine  feeling, 
that  the  young  soldier  returned  to 
his  country,  and  to  his  military  du- 
ties, embued  with  the  blissful  assu- 
rance that, whatever  unworthy  doubts 
had"  been  suggested  occasionally  by 
fallacious  appearances,  the  heart  of 
his  fair  betrothed  was  as  faultless  as 
her  person,  and  exclusively  devoted 
to  himself.  So  wholly  had  the  "  sweet 
sorrow"  of  that  farewell  absorbed 
his  every  faculty,  that  it  was  not  till 
he  was  miles  from  St  Hilaire  on  his 
way  to  the  coast,  that  Walter  re- 
membered la  petite  Madelaine;  re- 
membered that  he  had  bid  HER  no 
farewell ;  that  she  had  slipt  away 
to  her  own  home  the  last  evening  of 
his  stay  at  St  Hilaire,  unobserved  by 
all  but  an  old  bonne,  who  was  com- 
missioned to  say  Mademoiselle  Ma- 
delaine  had  a  headach,  and  that  she 
had  not  reappeared  the  next  morn- 
ing, the  morning  of  his  departure. 
"  Dear  little  Madelaine  !  how  could 
I  forget  her  ?"  was  the  next  thought 
to  that  which  had  recalled  her.  "  But 
she  shall  live  with  us  when  we  are 
married."  So  having  laid  the  flat- 
tering unction  to  his  conscience,  by 
that  satisfactory  arrangement  for  her 
future  comfort,  he  "  whistled  her 
image  down  the  wind"  again,  and 
betook  himself  with  redoubled  ar- 
dour to  the  contemplation  of  Adri- 
eiine. 

And  where  was  la  petite  Made- 
laine ? — What  became  of  her,  and 
what  was  she  doing  that  livelong 


day  ?  Never  was  she  so  much  want- 
ed at  St  Hilaire — to  console — to  sup- 
port— to  occupy  the  "  fair  forsaken ;" 
and  yet  she  came  not. — "  What  insen- 
sibility ! — what  ingratitude !  at  such  a 
time !" — exclaimed  the  parents  of  the 
lovely  desolate — so  interesting  in  her 
becoming  character  of  a  lone  bird 
"  reft  of  its  mutual  heart,"  so  ami- 
able in  her  attempted  exculpation  of 
the  neglectful  Madelaine !  "  She 
does  not  mean  to  be  unkind — to  be 
cruel — as  her  conduct  seems" — sweet- 
ly interposed  the  meek  apologist. — 
"  But  she  is  thoughtless — insouciante 
— and  you  know,  chere  Mamau !  I 
always  told  you  la  petite  Madelaine 

has  no  sensibility  —  Ah  Ciel !" 

That  mine  were  less  acute  ! — was,  of 
course,  the  implied  sense  of  that  con- 
cluding apostrophe — and  every  one 
will  feel  the  eloquence  of  the  appeal, 
so  infinitely  more  affecting  than  the 
full  length  sentence  would  have  been. 
If  vagueness  is  one  great  source  of 
the  sublime — it  is  also  a  grand  secret 
in  the  arcana  of  sensibility. 

But  we  may  remember  that  poor 
little  Madelaine  had  slipt  away  to  her 
own  home  the  preceding  evening, 
pleading  a  headach  as  the  excuse 
for  her  evasion.  Perhaps  the  same 
cause — (was  it  headach?)  holds  her 
still  captive  in  her  little  chamber, 
the  topmost  chamber  in  the  western 
pepper-box  turret,  four  of  which 
flank  the  four  corners  of  the  old 
Chateau  du  Resnel.  Certain  it  is,  from 
that  same  lofty  lodging  Madelaine 
has  not  stirred  the  livelong  day — 
scarcely  from  that  same  station — 

"  There  at  her  chamber  window  high, 

The  lonely  maiden  sits — 
Its  casement  fronts  the  western  sky, 

And  balmy  air  admits. 

"  And  while  her  thoughts  have  wau- 
dered  far 

From  all  she  hears  and  sees, 
She  gazes  on  the  evening  star, 

That  twinkles  thro'  the  trees — 

"  Is  it  to  watch  the  setting  sun, 

She  does  that  seat  prefer  ? 
Alas  !   the  maiden  thinks  of  one, 

Who  little  thinks  of  her." — 

"  Eternal  fidelity"  —  being,  of 
course,  the  first  article  agreed  and 
sworn  to,  in  the  lovers'  parting  cove- 
nant, "  Constant  correspondence," 
as  naturally  came  second  in  the  list; 
and  never  was  eagerness  like  Wai- 


1831.] 


La  Petite  Madelaine. 


213 


ter's,  to  pour  out  the  first  sorrows  of 
absence,  in  his  first  letter  to  the  be- 
loved, or  impatience  like  his,  for  the 
appearance  of  her  answer.  After 

some  decorous  delay (a  little 

maiden  coyness  was  thought  deco- 
rous in  those  days) — it  arrived,  the 
delightful  letter !  Delightful  it  would 
have  been  to  Walter,  in  that  second 
effervescence  of  his  first  passion,  had 
the   penmanship  of  the  fair  writer 
been  barely  legible,  and  her  episto- 
lary talent  not  absolutely  below  the 
lowest  degree  of  mediocrity.  Walter 
(to  say  the  truth)  had  felt  certain  in- 
voluntary misgivings  on  that  subject. 
Himself,  not  only  an  ardent  admirer 
of  nature,  but  an  unaffected  lover  of 
elegant  literature,  he  had  been  fre- 
quently mortified  at  Adrienne's  appa- 
rent  indifference   to   the    one,  and 
seeming  distaste  to  the  other.     Of 
her  style  of  writing  he  had  found 
no   opportunities    of  judging.     Al- 
bums were  not  the  fashion  in  those 
days — and  although,  on  the  few  oc- 
casions of  his  absence  from  StHilaire, 
after  his  engagement  with  Adrienne 
(Caen  being  still  his  ostensible  place 
of  residence),  he  had  not  failed  to 
indite  to  her  sundry  billets,  and  even 
full  length  letters,  dispatched  (as  on 
a   business   of    life   and  death)  by 
bribed   and    special    messengers, — 
either   Mile   de  St  Hilaire  was  en- 
gaged or  abroad  when  they  arrived 
— or  otherwise  prevented  from  re- 
plying;   and   still   more   frequently 
the  lover  trod  on  the  heels  of  his  dis- 
patch.    So  it  chanced  that  he  had 
not  carried  away  with  him  one  hoard- 
ed treasure  of  the  fair  one's  writing. 
And  as  to  books— he  had  never  de- 
tected the  dame  de  ses  pensees  in 
the  act  of  reading  any  thing  more  in- 
tellectual than  the  words  for  a  new 
Vaudeville,  or  a  letter  from  herParis 
milliner.     He  had  more  than  once 
proposed  to  read  aloud  to  her— but 
either  she  was  seized  by  a  fit  of  un- 
conquerable yawning  before  he  pro- 
ceeded far   in   his  attempt — or  the 
migraine,  or  the  vapours,  to  which 
distressing  ailments  she  was  consti- 
tutionally   subject  —  were    sure    to 
come  on  at  the  unfortunate  moment 
of  his  proposition — and  thus,  from  a 
combination  of  untoward  accidents, 
he  was  not  only  left  in  ignorance  of 
his   mistress's    higher   attainments, 
but,  at   certain  moments  of  disap- 
pointed feeling,  to  form  conjectures 


on  the  subject,  compared  to  which 
"  ignorance  was  bliss;"  and  to  some 
lingering  doubts  of  the  like  nature — 
as  well  as  to  lover-like  impatience, 
might  be  attributable  the  nervous 
trepidation  with  which  he  broke  the 
seal  of  her  first  letter.  That  letter  ! 
— The  first  glimpse  of  its  contents 
was  a  glimpse  of  Paradise ! — The 
first  hurried  reading  transported  him 
to  the  seventh  heaven — and  the 
twentieth  (of  course,  dispassionately 
critical)  confirmed  him  in  the  frui- 
tion of  its  celestial  beatitudes.  Seri- 
ously speaking.Walter  Barnard  must 
have  been  a  fool,  as  well  as  an  ingrate, 
if  he  had  not  been  pleased — enrap- 
tured with  the  sweet,  modest,  wo- 
manly feeling  that  breathed  through- 
every  line  of  that  dear  letter.  It  was 
no  long  one — no  laboured  production 
—  (though  perfectly  correct  as  to 
style  and  grammar) ;  but  the  artless 
affection  that  evinced  itself  in  more 
than  one  sentence  of  those  two  short 
pages,  would  have  stampt  perfection 
on  the  whole,  in  Walter's  estimation, 
had  it  not  (as  was  the  case)  been 
throughout  characterised  by  a  beau- 
tiful, yet  singular  simplicity  of  ex- 
pression, which  surprised  not  less 
than  it  enchanted  him.  And  then — 
how  he  reproached  himself  for  the 
mixed  emotion ! — Why  should  it  sur- 
prise him  that  Adrienne  wrote  thus? 
His  was  the  inconceivable  dulness — 
the  want  of  discernment — of  intui- 
tive penetration  into  the  intellectu- 
al depths  of  a  character,  veiled  from 
vulgar  eyes,  by  the  retiringness  of 
self-depreciating  delicacy,  but  which 
to  him  would  gradually  have  reveal- 
ed itself,  if  he  had  applied  himself 
sedulously  to  unravel  the  interesting 
mystery. 

Thenceforward,  as  may  well  be  ima- 
gined, the  correspondence,  so  happily 
commenced,  was  established  on  the 
most  satisfactory  footing,  and  nothing- 
could  exceed  the  delightful  interest 
with  which  Walter  studied  the  beauti- 
ful parts  of  a  character,which  gradual- 
ly developed  itself  as  their  epistolary 
intercourse  proceeded,  now  enchant- 
ing  him  by  its  peculiar  naivete,  and 
innocent  sportiveness,  now  affecting 
him  more  profoundly,  and  not  less 
delightfully,  by  some  tone  of  deep 
feeling  and  serious  sweetness,  so 
well  in  unison  with  all  the  better  and 
higher  feelings  of  his  own  nature, 
that  it  was  with  more  than  lover-like 


214 


La  Petite  Madelaine. 


fervour  he  thanked  Heaven  for  his 
prospects  of  happiness  with  the  dear 
and  amiable  being,  whose  personal 
loveliness  had  now  really  sunk  to 
a  secondary  rank  in  his  estimation  of 
her  charms.  A  slight  shade  of  the  re- 
serve which,  in  his  personal  inter- 
course with  Adrienne,  had  kept  him 
so  unaccountably  in  the  dark  with 
respect  to  her  true  character,  was 
still  perceptible,  even  in  her  delight- 
ful letters,  but  only  sufficiently  to  give 
a  more  piquant  interest  to  their  cor- 
respondence. It  was  evident  that  she 
hung  back,  as  it  were,  to  take  from 
his  letters  the  tone  of  her  replies; 
that  on  any  general  subject,  it  was 
for  him  to  take  the  lead,  though, 
having  done  so,  whether  in  allusion 
to  books,  or  on  any  topic  connected 
with  taste  or  sentiment,  she  was  ever 
modestly  ready  to  take  her  part  in 
the  discussion,  with  simple  good 
sense  and  unaffected  feeling.  It  was 
almost  unintentionally  that  he  made 
a  first  allusion  to  some  favourite 
book;  and  the  letter,  containing  his 
remark,  was  dispatched  before  he 
recollected  that  he  had  once  been 
baffled  in  an  attempt  to  enjoy  it  with 
Adrienne,  by  the  manner  (-more  dis- 
couraging than  indifference)  with 
which  she  received  his  proposition, 
that  they  should  read  it  together. 
He  wished  he  had  not  touched  upon 
the  subject.  Adrienne,  excellent  as 
was  her  capacity — spiritual  as  were 
her  letters,  might  not  love  reading. 
He  would,  if  possible,  have  recalled 
his  letter.  But  its  happy  inadver- 
tence was  no  longer  matter  of  re- 
gret when  the  reply  reached  him. 
That  very  book — his  favourite  poet — 
was  Adrienne's  also  !  and  more  than 
one  sweet  passage  she  quoted  from 
it!  His  fa  vourite  passages  also!  Was 
ever  sympathy  so  miraculous !  And 
that  the  dear  diffident  creature 
should  so  unaccountably  have  avoid- 
ed, when  they  were  together,  all 
subjects  that  might  lead  to  the  dis- 
covery ! 

The  literary  pretensions  of  the 
young  soldier  were  by  no  means 
those  of  profound  scholarship,  of 
deep  reading,  or  even  of  a  very  re- 
gular education ;  but  his  tastes  were 
decidedly  intellectual,  and  the  charm 
of  his  intercourse  with  Adrienne 
was  in  no  slight  degree  enhanced 
by  the  discovery,  that  on  all  subjects 
with  which  they  were  mutually  ac« 


[Aug. 

quainted,  she  was  fully  competent 
to  enter  with  equal  interest. 

Absence  and  lengthened  separa- 
tion are  generally  allowed  to  be 
great  tests  of  love,  or,  more  proper- 
ly speaking,  of  its  truth.  In  Walter's 
case,  they  hardly  acted  as  such,  for 
distance  had  proved  to  him  ,but  a 
lunette  d'approche,  bringing  him  ac- 
quainted with  those  rare  qualities  in 
his  fair  mistress  which  had  been  im- 
perceptible during  their  personal  in- 
tercourse. With  what  impatience, 
knowing  her  as  he  now  did,  did  he 
anticipate  the  hour  of  their  union ! 
But  it  was  with  something  like  a 
feeling  of  disappointment  that  he  re- 
marked in  her  letters  a  degree  of 
uneasiness  on  that  tender  subject, 
to  which  (as  the  period  of  departure 
drew  nearer  to  a  close)  he  was  fain 
to  allude  more  frequently  and  fond- 
ly. One  other  shade  of  alloy  had 
crossed  at  intervals  his  pleasure  in 
their  correspondence.  Many  kind 
enquiries  had  he  made  for  la  petite 
Madelaine,  and  many  affectionate 
messages  had  he  sent  her.  But  they 
were  either  wholly  unnoticed,  or  an- 
swered in  phrase  the  most  formal 
and  laconic — 

"  Mile,  du  Resnel  was  well- 
obliged  to  Monsieur  Walter  for  his 
polite  enquiries. — Desired  her  com- 
pliments." 

It  was  in  vain  that  Walter  ven- 
tured a  half-sportive  message  in  re- 
ply to  this  ceremonious  return  for 
his  frank  and  affectionate  remem- 
brances— that,  in  playful  mockery,  he 
requested  Adrienne  to  obtain  for 
him  "  Mademoiselle  du  HcsncVs  for- 
giveness for  his  temerity  in  still  de- 
signating her  by  the  familiar  title  of 
La  Petite  Madelaine"  The  reply 
was,  if  possible,  more  brief  and  chill- 
ing— so  unlike  (he  could  not  but 
remark)  to  that  he  might  reasonably 
have  expected  from  his  grateful  and 
warm-hearted  little  friend,  that  a 
strange  surmise,  or  rather  a  revived 
suspicion,  suggested  itself  as  the  pos- 
sible solution  of  his  conjectures.  But 
was_it  possible, — (Walter's  face  flush- 
ed as  he  thought  of  his  own  possible 
absurdity  in  so  suspecting,) — Was  it 
in  the  nature  of  things,  that  Adrienne, 
— the  peerless — the  lovely  and  be- 
loved— should  conceive  one  jealous 
thought  of  the  poor  little  Madelaine? 
The  supposition  was  almost  too  ri- 
diculous to  be  harboured  for  a  mo« 


1831.] 


La  Petite  Madeluine, 


215 


ment — and  yet  he  remembered  cer- 
tain passages  in  their  personal  in- 
tercourse, when  the  strangeness  (to 
use  no  harsher  word)  of  Adrienue's 
behaviour  to  her  cousin,  had  awa- 
kened in  him  an  indefinite  conscious- 
ness that  his  good-humoured  notice 
of  the  poor  little  girl,  and  the  kind 
word  he  was  ever  prompt  to  speak 
in  her  praise  when  she  was  absent, 
were  likely  to  be  any  thing  but  ad- 
vantageous to  her  in  their  effect  on  the 
feelings  of  her  patroness.  One  cir- 
cumstance, in  particular,  recurred  to 
him, — the  recollection  of  a  certain 
jour  de  fete,  when  la  petite  Made- 
laine  (who  had  been  dancing  at  a 
village  gala,  kept  annually  at  the 
Manoir  du  R6sne"l  in  honour  of 
Madame's  name-day)  presented  her- 
self, late  in  the  evening,  at  St  Hi« 
laire,  so  blooming  from  the  effects  of 
her  recent  exhilirating  exercise— 
her  meek  eyes  so  bright  with  the 
excitement  of  innocent  gaiety,  and 
her  small  delicate  figure  and  youth- 
ful face  set  oft"  so  advantageously 
by  her  simple  holiday  dress,  espe- 
cially by  her  hat,  a  la  bergere,  gar- 
landed with  wild  roses,  that  even  the 
old  people,  M.and  Mad.de  StHilaire, 
complimented  her  on  her  appear- 
ance, and  himself  (after  whispering 
aside  to  Adrienne) — "  La  Petite  est 
jolie  a  ravir,"  had  sprung  forward, 
and  whirled  her  round  the  salon  in  a 
tour  de  danse,  the  effect  of  which 
impromptu  was  assuredly  not  to 
lessen  the  bloom  upon  her  cheeks, 
which  flushed  over  neck  and  brow, 
as,  with  the  laughing  familiarity  of  a 
brother,  he  commended  her  tasteful 
dress,  and  especially  the  pretty  hat, 
which  she  must  wear,  and  that  only, 
he  assured  her,  when  she  wished  to 
be  perfectly  irresistible.  Walter's 
sportive  sally  was  soon  over,  and 
Madelaine's  flush  of  beauty  (the  ma- 
gical effect  of  happiness)  was  soon 
laded.  Both  yielded  to  the  influ- 
ence of  another  spell — that  wrought 
by  the  coldly  discouraging  looks  of 
Adrienne,  and  by  the  asperity  of  the 
few  sentences,  which  were  all  she 
condescended  to  utter  during  the 
remainder  of  the  evening.  When  la 
petite  Madelaine  reappeared  the 
next  morning  with  her  cousin  (who, 
on  the  plea  of  a  migraine,  remained 
till  late  in  her  own  apartments), 
Walter  failed  not  to  remark  that  her 
eyes  were  red  and  heavy,  and  that 


her  manner  was  more  constrained 
than  usual ;  neither  did  it  escape  his 
observation  when  Sunday  arrived, 
that  the  tasteful  little  hat  had  been 
strangely  metamorphosed,  and  that 
when  he  rallied  her  on  her  capri- 
cious love  of  changes,  which  had 
only  spoiled  what  was  before  so  be- 
coming, she  stole  a  half-fearful  glance 
at  Adrienne,  while  rather  confusedly 
replying  that  "  it  was  not  her  own 
doing,  but  that  Ma'amselle  Justine, 
her  cousin's  femme-de-chambre,  had 
been  permitted  by  the  latter  to  ar- 
range it  more  fashionably."  The 
subject  dropped  then,  and  was  never 
resumed ;  but  Walter  then  made  his 
own  comments  on  it.  And  now  that 
the  peculiar  tone  of  Adrienne's 
letters  in  referring  to  Madelaine, 
brought  former  circumstances  vivid- 
ly to  mind,  it  is  not  surprising  that 
he  fell  into  a  fit  of  musing  on  the 
possibility,  which  he  yet  rebuked 
himself  for  suspecting.  It  must  be 
confessed  that  his  reflections  on  the 
subject  were  of  a  less  displeasing 
nature  than  those  which  had  sug- 
gested themselves  on  former  occa- 
sions, before  epistolary  correspond- 
ence with  his  fair  betrothed  had 
given  him  that  insight  into  her  cha- 
racter and  feelings,  which,  strange 
to  say,  he  had  failed  to  obtain  during 
their  personal  communication.  Now 
he  felt  assured,  that  if  indeed  she 
were  susceptible  of  the  weakness  he 
had  dared  to  suspect,  it  was  mingled 
with  no  unkindly  feelings  towards 
her  unoffending  cousin,  but  sprang 
solely  from  the  peculiar  sensitive- 
ness of  her  nature,  and  the  exclusive 
delicacy  of  her  affection  for  himself. 

Where  ever  was  the  1  over — (we  say 
not  the  husband) — who  could  dwell 
but  with  tenderest  indulgence  on  an 
infirmity  of  love  so  flattering  to  his 
own  self-love  and  self-complacency  ? 
We  suspect  that  Walter's  fervour 
was  any  thing  but  cooled  by  the 
fancied  discovery ;  and  his  doubts 
on  the  subject,  if  he  still  harboured 
any,  were  wholly  dispelled  by  a 
postscript  to  Adrienne's  next  letter, 
almost  amounting,  singular  as  was 
the  construction,  to  an  avowal  of  her 
own  weakness. 

In  the  three  fair  pages  of  close 
writing  of  which  that  letter  consist- 
ed, was  vouchsafed  no  word  of  re- 
ply to  an  interrogatory — the  last,  he 
secretly  resolved,  he  would  ever 


21G 


La  Petite  Madelaine. 


[Aug. 


venture  on  that  subject — whether 
his  "  little  cousin  Madelaine,"  as  he 
had  sometimes  sportively  called  her 
by  anticipation,  had  quite  forgotten 
her  friend  Walter.  But  on  one  of 
the  outside  folds,  evidently  an  after- 
thought, written  hurriedly,  and,  as 
it  seemed,  with  a  trembling  hand, 
was  the  following  postscript : — 

"  La  Petite  Madelaine  se  souvient 
toujours  du  bon  Walter — Comment 
feroit-elle  autrement? 

"  Mais,  cependant,  qu'il  ne  soit 

Slus  question  d'elle  dans  les  lettres 
e  Mons.  Walter." 

"  A  most  strange  fancy !  an  un- 
accountable caprice  of  this  dear 
Adrienne's  !"  was  Walter's  smiling 
soliloquy.  "  Some  day  she  shall 
laugh  at  it  with  me — but  for  the  pre- 
sent and  for  ever,  be  the  dear  one's 
will  my  law."  Thenceforth  "  il 
n'etoit  plus  question  de  la  Petite 
Madelaine,"  in  Walter's  letters,  and 
in  those  of  Adrienne  she  was  never 
more  alluded  to. 

Mademoiselle  de  St  Hilaire's  mind 
was  about  this  time  engrossed  by 
far  more  important  personages  than 
her  absent  lover,  or  her  youthful 
friend.  The  present  occupants,  her- 
self— (no  ntw  one  truly) — and  a  cer- 
tain Marquis  D'Arval,  who  would 
probably  have  been  her  first  choice, 
if  he  had  not  been  the  selected  of 
her  parents.  Not  that  she  had  by 
any  means  decided  on  the  rupture 
of  her  engagements  with  Walter,  (if 
indeed  such  a  contingency  had  ever 
formed  the  subject  of  her  private 
musings)  ;  neither,at  any  rate,  would 
she  have  dissolved  it,  till  his  return 
should  compel  her  to  a  decision.  For 
his  letters  were  too  agreeable,  too 
spiritual — too  full  of  that  sweet  in- 
cense that  never  satiated  her  vanity, 
to  be  voluntarily  relinquished. 

But  in  the  meantime,  the  corre- 
spondence, piquant  as  it  Avas — a 
charming  passe-temps!  —  could  not 
be  expected  to  engross  her  wholly. 
Many  vacant  hours  still  hung  upon 
her  hands,  wonderful  to  say,  in  spite 
of  those  intellectual  and  elegant  pur- 
suits, the  late  discovery  of  which  had 
so  enraptured  the  unsophisticated 
Walter.  Who  so  proper  as  the  Mar- 
quis D'Arval,  then  on  a  visit  at  the 
Chateau, — her  cousin  too — besides 
being  the  especial  favourite  of  her 
parents — (dutiful  Adrienne  !) — to  be 
the  confidential  friend  of  la  belle 


delaissee?  To  be  in  fact  the  sub- 
stitute of  the  absent  lover,  in  all  those 
petit s  soins  that  so  agreeably  divert 
the  ennui  of  a  fine  lady's  life,  and  for 
which  the  most  sentimental  corre- 
spondence can  furnish  no  equivalent  ? 
In  the  article  of  petit  soins  indeed, 
(the  phrase  is  perfectly  untransla- 
table,) the  merits  of  D'Arval  were 
decidedly  superior  to  those  of  his 
English  competitor,  whose  English 
feelings  and  education  certainly  dis- 
qualified him  for  evincing  that  pecu- 
liar tact  and  nicety  of  judgment  in 
all  matters  relating  to  female  decora- 
tion and  occupation,  so  essential  in 
the  cavalier  servente  of  a  French 
beauty.  Though  an  excellent  French 
scholar,  Walter  never  could  compass 
the  nomenclature  of  shades  and  co- 
lours, so  familiar  and  expressive  to 
French  tongues  and  tastes.  He  blun- 
dered perpetually  between  "  rose 
tendre,"  and  "  rose  foucee ;"  and  was 
quite  at  fault  if  referred  to  as  arbi- 
trator between  the  respective  merits 
of  "  Boue  de  Paris,"  or  "  Crapeau 
mort  d'amour." 

Achilles,  in  his  female  weeds,  was 
never  more  awkward  at  his  task  than 
poor  Walter,  when  appointed,  by  es- 
pecial favour,  to  the  office  of  arran- 
ging the  ribbon  collar,  or  combing 
the  silken  mane  and  ruffled  paws  of 
Silvie,  Adrienne's  little  chif.n  lion. 
And  though  ready  enough  (as  we 
have  seen)  to  importune  his  mistress 
with  worthless  offerings  of  paltry 
wild-flowers,  it  never  entered  his 
simple  fancy  to  present  her  with 
small,  compact  bouquets,  sentimen- 
tally and  scientifically  combined,  (the 
pensee  never  omitted,  if  in  season",) 
the  stems  wound  together  with  silk 
of  appropriate  hue,  or  wrapped  round 
with  a  motto,  or  well-turned  couplet. 
In  these,  and  all  accomplishments  of 
a  similar  nature,  Walter  Barnard's 
genius-  was  immeasurably  distanced 
by  that  of  the  Marquis  D'Arval. 

The  latter  was  also  peculiarly  in- 
teresting in  his  character  of  a  de- 
spairing lover;  and  his  attentions 
were  particularly  well-timed,  at  a 
season  when  the  absence  of  the  hap- 
py lover  had  made  a  vacuum  in  the 
life  (of  course  not  the  heart)  of 
Adrienne,  who  on  her  part  was  actu- 
ated by  motives  of  pure  humanity 
in  consoling  D'Arval  (as  far  as  cir- 
cumstances permitted)  for  the  suc- 
cess of  his  rival,  by  proofs  of  liev 


183!.] 


La  Petite  Maddaine. 


217 


warmest  friendship,  and  tenderest 
commiseration. 

Since  the  Marquis's  arrival  at  St 
Hilaire,  his  universal  genius  had  in 

freat  measure  superseded  la  petite 
[adelaine  in  her  office  of  exorcist 
to  the  demon  of  ennui,  her  fair  cou- 
sin's relentless  persecutor.  She  was 
therefore  less  frequently,  or  rather 
less  constantly,  at  the  Chateau — 
though  still  summoned  to  secret  con- 
ference in  Adrienne's  boudoir,  and 
often  detained  there  for  hours  by 
consultations  or  occupations  of  that 
private  and  confidential  nature,  so 
interesting  to  the  generality  of  young 
ladies  who  have  lovers  in  their  hearts 
or  heads,  though  the  details  might  be 
insipid  to  the  general  reader,  if  it 
were  even  allowable  to  reveal  mys- 
teries little  less  sacred  than  the  Eleu- 
siuian. 

It  might  have  been  inferred,  how- 
ever, that  la.  petite  Madelaine  was 
but  an  unwilling  sharer  of  those  se- 
cret conferences ;  for  she  often  re- 
tired from  them  with  looks  of  more 
grave,  and  even  careful  expression, 
than  were  well  in  character  with  the 
youthful  countenance,  and  an  air  of 
dejection  that  ill  suited  the  recent 
listener  to  a  happy  lovetale.  And 
when  her  services  (whatever  were 
their  nature)  were  no  longer  requi- 
red, Adrienne  evinced  no  inclina- 
tion to  detain  her  at  St  Hilaire. 

She  was  still,  however,  politely 
and  even  kindly  welcomed  by  the 
owners  of  the  Chateau;  but  when 
no  longer  necessary  to  the  content- 
ment of  their  idolized  daughter,  the 
absence  or  presence  of  la  petite 
Madelaine  became  to  them  a  matter 
of  the  utmost  indifference,  and  by 
degrees  she  became  painfully  sensi- 
ble that  there  is  a  wide  difference  in 
being  accounted  nobody  with  respect 
to  our  individual  consequence,  or  in 
relation  to  our  capabilities  for  con- 
tributing, however  humbly,  to  the 
comfort  and  happiness  of  others.  To 
the  first  species  of  insignificance  Ma- 
delaine had  been  early  accustomed, 
and  easily  reconciled  j  but  the  se- 
cond pressed  heavily  on  her  young 
heart — and  perhaps  the  more  so,  at 
St  Hilaire,  for  the  perpetually-recur- 
ring thoughts  of  a  time  still  recent 
—Qf  the  happy  time,"  as  that  poor 
girl  accounted  it  in  her  scant  expe- 
rience of  happiness) — when  she  had 

VOL.  XXX.  NO.  CLXXXIII. 


a  friend  there  who,  however  his  heart 
was  devoted  to  her  cousin,  had  never 
missed  an  occasion  of  shewing  kind- 
ness to  herself,  and  of  evincing  to 
her  by  those  attentions,  which  pass 
unnoticed  when  accepted  as  a  due, 
but  are  so  precious  to  persons  situ- 
ated as  was  la  petite  Madelaine,  that 
to  him,  at  least,  her  pains  and  plea- 
sures, her  tastes,  her  feelings,  and 
her  welfare,  were  by  no  means  indif- 
ferent or  unimportant.  The  dew  of 
kindness  never  falls  on  any  soil  so 
grateful  as  the  young  heart  unaccus- 
tomed to  its  genial  influence.  After 
benefits,  more  weighty  and  import- 
ant, fail  not  in  noble  natures  to  inspire 
commensurate  gratitude — but  they 
cannot  call  forth  that  burst  of  enthu- 
siastic feeling,  awakened  by  the  first 
experienced  kindness,  like  the  sud- 
den verdure  of  a  dry  seed  bed  called 
into  life  and  luxuriance  by  the  first 
warm  shower  of  spring. 

La  petite  Madelaine's  natural 
home  was  at  no  time,  as  has  been  ob- 
served, a  very  happy  one  to  her. 
And  now  that  it  was  more  her  home 
than  for  some  years  it  had  been,  time 
had  wrought  no  favourable  change 
in  her  circumstances  there.  Time 
had  not  infused  more  tenderness  to- 
wards her  into  the  maternal  feelings 
of  Madame  du  Re'snel — though  it 
had  worked  its  usual  effect  of  increa- 
sing the  worldliness,  and  hardening 
the  hardness  of  her  nature.  Time 
had  not  dulcified  the  tempers  of  the 
three  elder  Mademoiselles  du  Res- 
nel,  by  providing  with  husbands  the 
two  cadettes  between  them  and  Ma- 
delaine. And  time  had  cruelly  cur- 
tailed the  few  home  joys  of  the  poor 
Madelaine,  by  sending  le  petit  frere 
to  college,  and  by  delivering  up  to 
his  great  receiver,  Death — her  only 
other  friend — the  faithful  and  affec- 
tionate Jeanette.  Of  the  few  that  had 
once  loved  her  in  her  father's  house, 
only  the  old  dog  was  left  to  welcome 
her  more  permanent  abode  there ;  and 
one  would  have  thought  he  was  sensi- 
ble of  the  addedresponsibilities  death 
and  absence  had  devolved  upon  him. 
Forsaking  his  long-accustomed  place 
on  the  sunny  pavement  of  the  south 
stone  court-yard,  he  established  him- 
self at  the  door  of  the  salon  if  she 
was  within  it,  himself  not  being  pri- 
vileged to  enter  there — or  with  his 
young  mistress  in  her  own  little  turret 


218 


La  Petite  Madelaine. 


[Aug. 


chamber,  where  he  had  all  entrees — 
or  even  to  her  favourite  arbour  in 
the  garden  he  contrived  to  creep 
with  her,  though  his  old  limbs  were 
too  feeble  to  accompany  her  beyond 
that  short  distance.  And  when  they 
were  alone  together,  he  would  look 
up  in  her  face  with  such  a  "  human 
meaning"  in  his  dim  eyes,  as  spoke  to 
Madelaine' s  heart,  as  plainly  and  more 
affectingly  than  words  could  have 
spoken — "  I  only  am  left  to  love  my 
master's  daughter,  and  who  but  her 
cares  for  old  Roland  ?" 

In  the  meantime,  Walter's  year 
of  probation  was  fast  drawing  to  a 
close ;  and  his  return  to  St  Hilaire, 
and  all  thereon  depending,  was  look- 
ed forward  to  with  very  different 
feelings  by  himself,  (the  happy  ex- 
pectant !)  by  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Chateau,  and  by  its  still  occasional 
inmate,  the  little  Maiden  of  the  Ma- 
noir,  whose  meditations  on  the  sub- 
ject were  not  the  less  frequent  and 
profound,  because  to  her  it  was  ob- 
viously one  of  little  personal  inte- 
rest. Monsieur  and  Madame  de  St 
Hilaire  had  watched  with  intense 
anxiety  the  fancied  progress  of  the 
Marquis  D'Arval  in  supplanting  the 
absent  Walter  in  the  affections  of 
their  daughter.  But  experience  had 
taught  them,  that  the  surest  means 
of  effecting  their  wishes,  was  to  re- 
frain from  expressing  them  to  the 
dutiful  Adrienne.  So  they  looked 
on,  and  kept  silence,  with  hopes  that 
became  fainter  as  the  decisive  pe- 
riod approached,  and  they  observed 
that  the  lovers'  correspondence  was 
unslackened,  and  the  Marquis  made 
no  interesting  communication  to 
them  of  that  success  on  his  part, 
which  he  was  well  aware  they  would 
receive  as  most  gratifying  intelli- 
gence. On  the  contrary,  he  found 
it  necessary,  about  this  time,  to  make 
a  journey  to  Paris,  and  to  his  estates 
inLanguedoc;  but  as  he  still  seemed 
devoted  to  Adrienne — and  his  devo- 
tions were  evidently  accepted  with 
the  sweetest  complacency — the  be- 
wildered parents  still  cherished  a  be- 
lief that  the  young  people  mutually 
understood  each  other — that  D'Ar- 
val's  temporary  absence  Lad  leen 
concerted  between  them,  from  mo- 
tives of  prudence  and  delicacy  with 
respect  to  Walter,  and  that  when  the 
latter  arrived,  their  daughter  would 

either  require  him  to  release  her 


from  her  rash  engagement,  or  em- 
power them  to  acquaint  him  with 
her  change  of  sentiments. 

Nothing  could  be  farther  from 
truth,  however,  than  this  fancied 
arrangement  of  the  worthy  elders. 
Whatever  were  D'Arval's  ultimate 
views  and  hopes,  he  had  contented 
himself  during  his  visit  with  playing 
the  favourite  lover  pro  tempore. 
Perhaps  he  was  too  honourable  to 
take  further  advantage  of  his  rival's 
absence — perhaps  too  delicate — too 
romantic  to  owe  his  mistress's  hand 
to  any  but  her  cool  after  decision — 
unbiassed  by  his  fascinating  pre- 
sence. In  short,  whatever  was  the 
reason,  he  was  au  desespoir  ! — ac- 
cable  I — anianti ! — But  he  departed, 
leaving  la  belle  Adrienne  very  much 
in  doubt  whether  his  departure  was 
desirable  or  otherwise.  It  certainly 
demolished  a  pretty  little  airy  fabric 
she  had  amused  herself  with  con- 
structing at  odd  idle  moments  of 
tender  reverie.  Such  as  a  meeting 
of  the  rivals — jealousy — reproaches 
— an  interesting  dilemma — despera- 
tion on  one  side  (she  had  not  set- 
tled which) — rapture  on  the  other — 
defiance  to  mortal  combat — blood- 
shed, perhaps.  But  these  feelings 
drew  a  veil  over  the  imaginary  pic- 
ture, and  passed  on  to  the  sweet 
anticipation  of  rewarding  the  survi- 
vor. If  the  marring  of  so  ingenious 
a  fancy  sketch  were  somewhat  vexa- 
tious, on  the  other  hand,  it  would  be 
agreeable  enough  to  be  quite  at  li- 
berty (for  a  time  at  least),  after  Wal- 
ter's return,  to  resume  her  former 
relations  with  him.  And  as  to  the 
result,  whatever  was  fits  impatience, 
that  might  still  be  delayed,  and  the 
Marquis  would  return.  She  was 
sure  of  him,  if  after  all  she  should 
decide  in  his  favour;  and  then, who 
could  tell — the  fancy  sketch  might 
be  completed  at  last.  La  petite  Ma- 
delaine was  not  of  course  made  the 
depository  of  her  fair  cousin's  pri- 
vate cogitations;  but  she  had  her 
own,  as  has  been  observed,  and  she 
saw,  and  thought,  and  drew  her  in- 
ferences— devoutly  hated  Le  Mar- 
quis D'Arval — could  not  love  hoi- 
cousin— and  pitied — Oh  !  how  she 
pitied  le  bon  Walter ! 

Le  bon  Walter,  whose  term  of 
banishment  was  now  within  three 
weeks  of  expiration,  would  have  ac- 
counted himself  the  most  enviable 


1831.] 


La  Petite  Madelaine* 


of  mortals,  but  for  his  almost  ungo- 
vernable impatience  at  the  tedious 
interval  which  was  yet  to  separate 
him  from  his  beloved;  and  for  a 
slight  shade  of  disquietude  at  cer- 
tain rumours  respecting  a  certain 
Marquis  D'Arval,  which  had  reach- 
ed him  through  the  medium  of,the 
friend  (the  chaplain  of  his  regiment), 
whose  visit  to  his  family  established 
at  Caen,  had  been  the  means  of  in- 
ducing Walter  to  accompany  him 
thither,  little  dreaming,  while  quiet- 
ly acquiescing  in  his  friend's  arrange- 
ments, to  what  conclusions  (so  mo- 
mentous   for    himself)    they  were 
unwittingly  tending.     The   brother 
and  sister-in-law  of  Mr  Seldon  (the 
clerical  friend  alluded  to)  were  still 
resident  at  Caen,  and  acquainted, 
though   not  on  terms  of  intimacy, 
with  the  families  of  St  Hilaire  and 
Du  Resnel.      La  petite    Madelaine 
was,  however,  better  known  to  them 
than  any  other  individual  of  the  two 
households.     They  had  been  at  first 
kindly  interested  for  her,  by  obser- 
ving the  degree  of  unmerited  slight 
to  which  she  was  subjected  in  her 
own  family,  and  the  species  of  half 
dependence  on  the  capricious  kind- 
ness of  others,  to  which  it  had  been 
the   means*  of  reducing  her.     The 
subdued  but  not  servile  spirit  with 
which  she  submitted  to  undeserved 
neglect  and  innumerable  mortifica- 
tions, interested    them    still    more 
warmly  in  her  favour;  and  on  the 
few  occasions  when  they  obtained 
permission  for  her  to  visit  them  at 
Caen,   the  innocent  playfulness   of 
her  sweet  and  gentle  nature  shone 
out  so  engagingly  in  the  sunshine  of 
encouragement,  and  her  affectionate 
gratitude  evinced  itself  so  artlessly, 
that  they  felt  they  could  have  loved 
her  tenderly,  had  she  been  at  liberty 
to  give  them  as  much  of  her  society 
as  she  was   inclined   to   do.     But 
heartlessness  and  jealousy  are  not 
incompatible,  and    Mile,  de  St  Hi- 
laire was  jealous  of  every  thing  she 
condescended  to  patronise.  Besides, 
la  petite    Madelaine  had  been  too 
useful  to  her  in  various  ways  to  be 
dispensed  with  ;  and  when,  latterly, 
the  capricious  beauty  became  indif- 
ferent, or  rather  averse  to  her  con- 
tinuance at  the  Chateau  beyond  the 
stated  period   of  secret  service  in 
the  mysterious  boudoir,  Madelaine 
waa  well  content  to  escape  to  her 


own  unkindly  home ;  and,  strange  to 
say,  better  satisfied  with  the  loneli- 
ness of  her  own  little  turret  cham- 
ber, or  the  dumb  companionship  of 
poor  Roland,  and  with  the  drudgery 
of  household  needlework  (always 
her  portion  at  home),  than  even  in 
the  society  of  her  amiable  friends  at 
Caen,  which  she  might  then  have 
resorted  to  more  unrestrainedly. 
But  though  they  saw  her  seldom, 
the  depression  of  her  spirits,  and  her 
altered  looks,  passed  not  unnoticed 
by  them.  And  although  she  uttered 
no  complaint  of  her  cousin,  it  was 
evident  that  at  St  Hilaire  she  was 
no  longer  treated  even  with  the  fit- 
ful kindness  and  scant  consideration 
which  was  all  she  had  ever  experir 
enced.  These  remarks  led  natural- 
ly, on  the'part  of  the  Seldons,to  close 
observance  of  the  conduct  of  Mile. 
de  St  Hilaire  with  the  Marquis  DV 
Arval — a  subject  to  which  commpiji 
report  had  already  drawn  their  attenr 
tion,  and  which,  as  affecting  the  wel- 
fare of  their  friend  Walter  Barnard, 
could  not  be  indifferent  to  them. 
They  saw  and  heard  and  ascertain,- 
ed  enough  to  convince  them  that  hia 
honest  affections  and  generous  con* 
fidence  were  unworthily  bestowed, 
and  that  a  breach  of  faith  the  most 
dishonourable  was  likely  to  prove 
the  ultimate  reward  of  his  high-raised 
expectations.  So  satisfied,  they  felt 
it  a  point  of  conscience  to  commu- 
nicate to  him,  through  the  medium 
of  his  friend  (and  in  the  way  and  to 
the  extent  judged  advisable  by  the 
latter),  such  information  as  might,  in 
some  degree,  prepare  him  for  the 
shock  they  anticipated,  or  at  least 
stimulate  him  to  sharp  investigation. 
The  office  devolved  upon  Mr  Seldon 
was  by  no  means  an  enviable  one; 
but  he  was  too  sincerely  Walter's 
friend  to  shrink  from  it,  and  by  caiL- 
tious  degrees  he  communicated  to 
him  that  information  which  had  cast 
the  first  shade  over  his  love-dream 
of  speedy  reunion  with  the  object  of 
his  affections. 

It  was  well  for  the  continuance  of 
their  friendship,  that  Mr  Seldon,  in 
his  communication  to  Walter,  had 
not  only  proceeded  with  infinite  cau- 
tion, but  had  armed  himself  with 
coolness  and  forbearance  in  the  re- 
quisite degree,  for  the  young  man's 
impetuous  nature  flamed  out  indig- 
nantly at  the  first  insinuation  against 


220 

the  truth  of  his  beloved. 

angry   interruptions, 


La  Petite  Madelaine. 
And  when, 


at  last — after 

and  wrathful  sallies  innumerable — 
he  had  been  made  acquainted  with 
the  circumstances,  which,  in  the  opi- 
nion of  his  friends,  warranted  sus- 
picions so  unfavourable  to  her,  he 
professed  utter  astonishment,  not 
unmixed  with  resentment,  at  their 
supposing  his  confidence  in  Adrien- 
ne  could  be  for  one  moment  shaken 
by  appearances  or  misrepresenta- 
tions, which  had  so  unworthily  im- 
posed on  their  own  judgment  and 
candour. 

After  the  first  burst  of  irritation, 
however,  Walter  professed  his  entire 
conviction  of,  and  gratitude  for  the 
good  intentions  of  his  friends ;  but  re- 
quested of  Seldon,  that  the  subject, 
which  he  dismissed  from  his  own 
mind  as  perfectly  unworthy  of  a  se- 
cond thought,  should  not  be  revived 
in  their  discussions;  and  Seldon, 
conscientiously  satisfied  with  having 
done  as  much  as  discretion  warrant- 
ed in  the  discharge  of  his  delicate 
commission,  gladly  assented  to  the 
proposition. 

But  in  such  cases,  it  is  easier  to 
disbelieve  than  to  forget ;  and  it  is 
among  the  countless  perversenesses 
of  the  human  mind,  to  retain  most 
tenaciously,  and  recur  most  pertina- 
ciously to  that  which  the  will  pro- 
fesses most  peremptorily  to  dismiss. 
Walter's  disbelief  was  spontaneous 
and  sincere.  So  was  his  immediate 
protest  againstever  recurring,  even  in 
thought,  to  a  subject  so  contemptible. 
But,  like  the  little  black  box  that 
haunted  the  merchant  Abudah,  it 
lodged  itself,  spite  of  all  opposition, 
in  a  corner  of  his  memory,  from 
which  not  all  his  efforts  could  expel 
it  at  all  times ;  though  the  most  suc- 
cessful exorcism  (the  never-failing 
pro  tempore)  was  a  reperusal  of 
those  precious  letters,  in  every  one 
of  which  he  found  evidence  of  the 
lovely  writer's  ingenuousness  and 
truth,  worthy  to  outweigh,  in  her 
lover's  heart,  a  world's  witness 
against  her.  But  from  the  hour  of 
Seldon's  communication,  Walter's 
impatience  to  be  at  St  Hilaire  be- 
came so  ungovernable,  that  finding 

his  friend  (Mr was  again  to  be 

the  companion  of  his  journey)  not 
unwilling  to  accompany  him  imme- 
diately, he  obtained  the  necessary 
furlough,  although  it  yet  wanted  near- 


[Aug 

ly  three  weeks  of  the  prescribed 
year's  expiration;  and  although  he 
had  just  dispatched  a  letter  to  the 
lodge  of  his  love,  full  of  anticipation, 
relating  only  to  that  period — he  was 
on  his  way  to  the  place  of  embarka- 
tion, before  that  letter  had  reached 
French  ground,  and  arrived  at  Caen 
(though  travelling,  to  accommodate 
his  friend,  by  a  circuitous  route)  but 
a  few  days  after  its  reception  at  St 
Hilaire. 

•  The  travellers  reached  their  place 
of  destination  so  early  in  the  day,  that 
after  a  friendly  greeting  with  Mr  and 
Mrs   Charles    Seldon    (though   not 
without  a  degree  of  embarrassment 
on  either  side,  from  recollection  of  a 
certain  proscribed  topic),  Walter  ex- 
cused himself  from  partaking  their 
late  dinner,  and  with  a  beating  heart 
(in  which,  truth  to  tell,  some  unde- 
finable  fear  mingled  with  delightful 
expectation)  took  his  impatient  way 
along    the    well-remembered    foot- 
paths,   that    led    through    pleasant 
fields  and  orchards,  by  a  short  cut, 
to  the  Chateau  de  St  Hilaire.     He 
stopt  for  a  moment  at  the  old  mill, 
near  the  entrance-gate  of  the  domain, 
to  exchange  a  friendly  greeting  with 
the  miller's  wife,  who  Avas  standing 
at  her  door,  and  dropt  him  a  curtsy 
of  recognition.     The  mill  belonged 
to  the  Manoir  du  Resnel,  and  its  re- 
spectable   rentiers  were,  he  knew, 
humble  friends   of  la  petite  Made- 
laine;   so,  in  common  kindness,  he 
could  do  no  otherwise  than  linger  a 
moment,  to  make  enquiries  for  her 
welfare,  and  that  of  her  fair  cousin, 
and  their  respective  families.  It  may 
be  supposed  that  Walter's  latent  mo- 
tive for  so  general,  as  well  as  parti- 
cular an  enquiry,  was  to  gain  from 
the  reply  something  like  a  glance  at 
the  Carte  du  Pais  he  was  about  to 
enter — not  without  a  degree  of  ner- 
vous trepidation,  with  the  causeless- 
ness  of  which  he  reproached  himself 
in  vain,  though  he  had  resisted  the 
temptation  of  putting  one  question 
to  the  Seldons,  who  might  have  drawn 
from  it  inferences  of  misgivings  on 
his  part,  the  existence  of  which  he 
was  far  from  acknowledging  even  to 
his  own  heart. 

"  Mademoiselle  Madelaine  was  at 
the  Chateau  that  evening,"  the  dame 
informed  him — "  and  there  was  no 
other  company,  for  M.  le  Marquis 
left  it  for  Paris  three  days  ago." 


1831.] 


La  Petite  Madelaine. 


221 


—Walter  drew  breath  more  freely  at 
that  article  of  intelligence. — "  Some 
people  had  thought  M.  le  Marquis 
would  carry  off  Mademoiselle  after 
all"— (Walter  bit  his  lip)  ;— "  but 
now  Monsieur  was  returned,  doubt- 
less"— and  a  look  and  simper  of  vast 
knowingness  supplied  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  sentence.  "  Au  reste— 
Mademoiselle  was  well,  and  as  beau- 
tiful as  ever ;  but  for  '  cette  chere 
petite,'  [meaning  la  petite  Made- 
laine],— she  was  sadly  changed  of 
late,  though  she  did  not  complain  of 
illness — she  never  complained,  though 
every  body  knew  her  home  was  none 
of  the  happiest,  and  (for  what  cause 
the  good  dame  knew  not)  she  was 
not  so  much  as  formerly  at  St  Hi- 
laire." 

Walter  was  really  concerned  at  the 
bonne  femme's  account  of  his  little 
friend,  but  at  that  moment  he  could 
spare  but  a  passing  thought  to  any 
subject  save  one  ;  and  having  glean- 
ed all  the  intelligence  he  was  likely 
to  obtain  respecting  it,  he  cut  short 
the  colloquy  with  a  hasty  "  Bon 
8oir,"  and  bounded  on  his  way  with 
such  impetuous  speed,  that  the  en- 
trance gate  of  St  Hilaire  was  still 
vibrating  with  the  swing  with  which 
it  had  closed  behind  him,  when  he 
was  half  through  the  avenue,  and 
just  at  one  of  its  side  openings  into 
a  little  grove,  or  labyrinth,  in  which 
•was  a  building,  called  Le  Pavillion 
de  Diane.  He  stopt  to  gaze  for  a 
moment  at  the  gleam  of  its  white 
walls,  discernible  through  an  open- 
ing in  the  thicket,  for  the  sight  was 
associated  with  many  "  blissful  me- 
mories." But  the  present  was  all  to 
him,  and  again  he  was  starting  on- 
ward, when  his  steps  were  arrested 
by  sounds  that  mingled  with  the 
cooing  of  the  wood-pigeon  among 
"  the  umbrageous  multitude  of 
leaves." 

Other  sounds  were  none  at  that 
stillest  hour  of  the  still  sultry  even- 
ing ;  and  among  the  mingled  tones, 
Walter's  ear  caught  some  not  to  be 
mistaken,  for  the  voice  that  uttered 
them  was  that  of  Adrienne.  Its 
breathings  were,  however,  in  a  high- 
er and  less  mellifluous  key  than 
those  of  the  plaintive  bird ;  but  a 
third  voice,  sweeter  than  either,  ut- 
tered a  low  undertone,  and  that 
voice  was  the  voice  of  Madelaine. 


Quick  Avas  the  ear  of  Walter  to  re- 
cognise and  distinguish  those  fami- 
liar accents,  but  its  sense  of  melody 
yielded  of  course  to  the  fond  preju- 
dice, which  could  not  have  been  ex- 
pected to  find  harshness  in  the  tones 
of  his  mistress,  or  allow  superior 
sweetness  to  those  of  another  voice. 
Whatever  were  his  secret  thoughts 
on  that  head,  it  is  not  to  be  supposed 
that  at  such  a  moment  he  stopped  to 
compare  the  "  wood  notes  wild,"  as 
coolly  and  critically  as  if  he  were 
weighing  the  merits  of  a  pair  of  opera 
singers.  No — after  a  second  of  at- 
tention— not  half  a  one  of  doubt — 
he  sprang  aside  from  the  road  lead- 
ing to  the  mansion,  and  was  lightly 
and  swiftly  threading  the  tortuous 
wood-path,  and  could  now  discern, 
through  one  of  its  bowery  arch- 
ways, the  sparkling  of  the  little  foun- 
tain that  played  before  one  of  the 
three  entrances  to  the  pavilion,  and 
another  turn  of  the  silvan  puzzle 
would  have  brought  him  to  the  epot ; 
but  in  his  impatience  he  lost  the 
well-known  clue,  and  in  a  moment 
found  himself  at  the  back,  instead  of 
the  front  of  the  small  temple.  The 
corner  would  have  been  rounded 
at  three  steps — but  at  that  critical 
moment,  a  word  spoken  by  the  most 
vehement  of  the  fair  colloquists — 
spoken  at  the  highest  key  of  a  voice, 
whose  powers  Walter  was  now  for 
the  first  time  fully  aware  of — arrest- 
ed his  steps  as  by  art  magic.  His 
own  name  was  uttered,  associated 
with  words  of  such  strange  import, 
that  Walter's  astonishment,  overpow- 
ering his  reflective  faculties,  made 
him  excusable  in  remaining,  as  he 
did,  rooted  to  the  spot,  a  listener  to 
what  passed  within. 

That  strange  colloquy  consisted, 
on  one  side,  of  taunts — and  accusa- 
tions— and  menaces.  On  the  other, 
of  a  few  deprecating  words — a  sigh 
or  two — and  something  like  a  sup- 
pressed sob — and  lastly,  of  an  assu- 
rance, uttered  with  a  trembling  voice 
— that  the  speaker  "  never  had  har- 
boured the  slightest  thought  of  be- 
traying the  secret  she  was  privy  to, 
or  entertained  any  hope  less  humble 
than  to  be  permitted  to  stay  unnoti- 
ced and  unremembered  in  her  own 

home" where    she  "  would  be 

equally  uncared  for,"  was  probably 
her  heart's  muttered  conclusion,  for 


222 


La  Petite  Madelaine. 


[Aug. 


the  word  home  trembled  on  her 
tongue,  and  she  burst  into  an  agony 
of  tears. 

Neither  the  gentle  appeal,  nor  the 
gush  of  distressful  feeling  in  which 
it  terminated,  seemed  to  touch  the 
heartless  person  it  was  addressed  to, 
for  there  was  no  Softening  in  the 
Voice  with  which,  as  she  quitted  the 
pavilion,  she  issued  her  commands, 
that  on  her  return  some  half-hour 
hence,  "  the  letter  should  be  finish- 
ed, and  not  more  stupidly  than  usual, 
or  it  would  be  a  refaire"  And  so 
departed  the  imperious  task-mistress, 
and  as  her  steps  died  a.way,  and  the 
angry  rustling  of  her  robes,  the  tin- 
kling of  the  little  fountain  was  again 
heard  chiming  with  the  stock  doves' 
murmurs,  and  within  the  temple  all 
was  profoundly  still,  except  at  inter- 
vals, a  smothered  sob,  and  then  a 
deep  and  heart-relieving  sigh,  the  last 
audible  token  of  subsiding  passion. 
And  Walter  was  still  rooted,  spell- 
bound— immovable  in  the  same  spot. 
Lost  in  a  confusion  of  thoughts,  that 
left  him  scarcely  conscious  of  his 
own  identity,  of  the  reality  of  the 
scene  around  him,  or  of  the  strange 
circumstances  in  which  he  found 
himself  so  suddenly  involved — more 
than  a  few  moments  it  required  to 
restore  to  him  the  power  of  clear 
perception  and  comprehension,  but 
not  one,  when  that  was  regained,  to 
decide  on  the  course  he  should  pur- 
sue. 

Quickly  and  lightly  he  stept  round 
the  angle  of  the  building  to  the  side 
entrance  (like  the  two  others,  "an 
open  archway),  through  which  his 
eye  glanced  over  the  whole  interior, 
till  it  rested  on  the  one  living  object 
of  interest.  At  some  little  distance, 
with  her  back  towards  him,  sat  la 
petite  Madelaine,  one  elbow  resting 
on  the  table  before  her,  her  head 
disconsolately  bowed  on  the  sup- 

Eorting  hand,  which  half  concealed 
er  face ;  the  other,  with  a  pen  held 
nervelessly  by  the  small  fingers,  lay 
idle  beside  the  half-finished  letter 
outspread  before  her.  Once  she 
languidly  raised  her  head,  and  look- 
ed upon  it,  with  a  seeming  effort 
dipped  her  pen  in  the  ink,  and  held 
it  a  moment  suspended  over  the  line 
to  be  filled  up.  But  the  task  seemed 
too  painful  to  her,  and  with  a  heavy 
sigh  she  suffered  her  head  to  drop 
aside  into  its  former  position,  and 


her  hand,  still  loosely  holding  the 
inactive  pen,  to  fall  listlessly  upon 
the  paper.  During  this  short  panto- 
mime, Walter  had  stolen  noiselessly 
across  the  matted  floor,  to  the  back 
of  Madelaine's  chair,  and  knowing 
all  he  now  knew,  felt  no  conscientious 
scruple  about  the  propriety  of  read- 
ing over  her  shoulder  the  contents 
of  the  unfinished  letter.  They  were 
but  what  he  Was  prepared  to  see, 
and  yet  his  trance  of  amazement  was 
for  a  moment  renewed  by  ocular  de«- 
ministration  to  the  truth  of  what  had 
been  hitherto  revealed  to  one  of  his 
senses  only.  The  letter  was  to  him- 
self— the  reply  to  his  last,  addressed 
to  Mile,  de  St  Hilaire— the  continu- 
ation of  that  delightful  series  he  had 
for  the  last  twelvemonth  nearly  been 
in  the  blissful  habit  of  receiving 
from  his  adored  Adrienne.  Here 
was  the  same  autograph — the  same 
tournure  de  phrase — the  same  tone 
of  thought  and  feeling  (though  less 
lively  and  unembarrassed  than  in  her 
earlier  letters) — and  yet  the  hand 
that  traced — the  mind  that  guided — 
and  the  heart  that  dictated — were 
the  hand  and  mind  and  heart  of  Ma- 
delaine du  Resnel ! 

"  Madelaine!  dear  Madelaine!" 
were  the  first  whispered  words,  by 
which  Walter  ventured  to  make  his 
presence  known  to  her.  But  low  as 
was  the  whisper — gentle  as  were  the 
accents — a  thunder-clap  could  not 
have  produced  an  effect  more  elec- 
tric. Starting  from  her  seat  with  a 
half  shriek,  she  would  have  fallen  to 
the  ground  from  excess  of  agitation 
and  surprise,  but  for  Walters  sup- 
porting arm,  and  it  required  a  world  of 
soothing  and  affectionate  gentleness 
to  restore  her  to  any  degree  of  self- 
possession.  Her  first  impulse  on  re- 
gaining it,  was  the  honourable  one, 
of  endeavouring  to  remove  from 
Walter's  observation  the  letter  that 
had  been  designed  for  his  perusal 
under  circumstances  so  different ; 
but  quietly  laying  his  hand  upon  the 
outspread  paper,  as  she  turned  to 
snatch  it  from  the  table,  with  the 
other  arm  he  gently  drew  her  from 
it  to  himself,  and  with  a  smile  in 
which  there  was  more  of  tender  than 
bitter  feeling,  said — "  It  is  too  late, 
Madelaine — I  know  all — who  could 
have  thought  you  such  a  little  im- 
postor !"  Poor  little  Madelaine  !  ne- 
ver was  mortal  maiden  BO  utterly 


1831.] 


La  Petite  Madelaine. 


223 


confounded — so  bewildered  as  she, 
by  the  detection,  and  by  her  own 
hurried  and  almost  unintelligible  at- 
tempts to  deprecate  what,  in  the 
simplicity  of  her  heart,  she  fancied 
must  be  the  high  indignation  of  Wal- 
ter at  her  share  of  the  imposition  so 
long  practised  on  him. 

Whether  it  was,  that  in  the  course 
of  her  agitated  pleading,  she  spied 
relenting  in  the  eyes  to  which  hers 
were  raised  so  imploringly,  or  a 
something  even  more  encouraging 
in  their  expression,  or  in  the  pres- 
sure of  the  hands  which  clasped  hers, 
upraised  in  the  vehemence  of  sup- 
plication, certain  it  is,  that  she  stopt 
short  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence — 
with  a  tear  in  her  eye  and  a  blush 
on  her  cheek,  and  something  like  a 
dawning  smile  on  the  lip  that  still 
quivered  with  emotion,  and  that 
"  Le  bon  Walter"  magnanimously 
illustrated  by  his  conduct  the  hack- 
neyed maxim,  that 
"  Forgiveness  to  the  injured  doth  be- 
long,"— 

and  that  plenary  absolution,  and  per- 
fect reconciliation,  were  granted  and 
effected,  may  be  fairly  inferred  from 
the  testimony  of  the  miller's  wife, 
who,  still  lingering  at  the  threshold 
when  the  grey  twilight  was  bright- 
ening into  cloudless  moonlight,  spied 
Walter  and  Madelaine  advancing 
slowly  down  the  dark  chestnut  ave- 
nue, so  intent  in  earnest  conversa- 
tion (doubtless  on  grave  and  weighty 
matters),  that  they  passed  through 
the  gatej  and  by  the  door  where  she 
stood,  without  once  looking  to  the 
right  or  left,  or,  in  consequence,  ob- 
serving their  old  friend  as  she  stept 
forward  to  exchange  the  evening  sa- 
lutation. The  same  deponent,  more- 
over, testified,  that  (from  no  motive 
of  curiosity,  but  motherly  concern 
for  the  safety  of  Madelaine,  should 
Walter,  striking  off  into  the  road  to 
Caen,  leave  her  at  that  late  hour  to 
pursue  her  solitary  way  through  the 
Manoir)  she  took  heed  to  their  fur- 
ther progress,  and  ascertained,  to 
her  entire  satisfaction,  that  so  far 
from  unknightly  desertion  of  his  fair 
charge,  Walter  (seemingly  inclined 
to  protract  his  guardianship  to  the 
last  possible  moment)  accompanied 
her  through  her  home  domain  till 
quite  within  sight  of  the  Chateau, 
and  even  there  lingered  so  long  in 
his  farewell,  that  it  might  have  tired. 


out  the  patience  of  the  miller's  wife, 
if  the  supper  bell  had  not  sounded 
from  the  mansion,  and  broken  short 
as  kind  a  leave-taking  as  ever  pre- 
ceded the  separation  of  dearest 
friends. 

It  must  be  quite  needless  to  say, 
that  Walter  Barnard  appeared  not 
that  night  at  the  Chateau  de  St  Hi- 
laire,  where  his  return  to  Normandy 
was,of  course,  equally  unknown  with 
his  late  visit  to  the  pavilion.  Great 
was  the  wrath  of  the  lovely  Adrienne, 
when,  on  h  er  return  thither,  soon  after 
the  expiration  of  the  time  she  had 
allotted  for  the  performance  of  Ma- 
delaine's  task,  she  found  la  place 
vuide — that  the  daring  impertinent 
had  not  only  taken  the  liberty  of  de- 
parting undismissed  (doubtless  in 
resentment  of  fancied  wrongs),  but 
had  taken  with  her  the  letter  that 
was  to  have  been  finished  in  readi- 
ness for  the  postman's  call  that  even* 
ing  on  his  way  to  Caen.  The  contre- 
temps was  absolutely  too  much  for 
the  sensitive  nerves  of  la  belle 
Adrienne,  agitated  as  they  had  been 
during  the  day,  by  a  communication 
made  to  her  parents,  and  through  them 
"  to  his  adorable  cousin,"  by  the 
Marquis  D' Arval,  that  his  contract  of 
marriage  with  a  rich  and  beautiful 
heiress  of  his  own  province,  was  on 
the  point  of  signature. 

"  Le  perfide !"  was  the  smothered 
ejaculation  of  his  fair  friend  on  re- 
ceiving this  gratifying  intelligence 
from  her  dejected  parents,  thus  com- 
pelled to  relinquish  their  last  feeble 
hope  of  seeing  their  darling  united 
to  the  husband  of  their  choice.  To 
the  darling  herself  the  new  return  of 
Walter  became  suddenly  an  object 
of  tender  interest.  Nothing  coula  be 
so  natural  as  her  immediate  anxiety 
to  express  this  impatience  in  a  reply 
to  his  last  letter,  and  nothing  could 
be  more  natural  than  that  she  should 
fall  into  a  paroxysm  of  nervous  irri- 
tation at  the  frustration  of  this  amia- 
ble design,  by  the  daring  desertion 
of  her  chargee  d'affaires.  But  she 
was  too  proud  to  send  for  her,  .or  to 
her.  It  would  look  like  acknow- 
ledgment of  error.  She  would  "  die 
first,"  and  "  the  little  impertinent 
would  return  of  her  own  accord, 
humble  enough,  no  doubt,  and  she 
should  be  humbled."  But  for  the 
next  two  days  nothing  was  heard  or 
seen  of  "  the  little  impertinent"  at 


224 


La  Petite  Maddaine. 


[Aug. 


the  Chateau  de  St  Hilaire.  On  the 
third,  still  no  sign  of  her  repentance, 
by  reappearance,  word,  or  token. 
On  the  fourth,  Adrienne's  resolution 
could  hold  out  against  her  necessi- 
ties no  longer,  and  she  was  on  the 
point  of  going  herself  in  quest  of  the 
guilty  Madelaine,  when  she  learnt 
the  astounding  tidings  that  Walter 
had  been  five  days  returned  to  Caen, 
and  on  that  very  morning  when  the 
news  first  reached  her, 

But  Walter's  proceedings  must  be 
briefly  related  more  veraciously 
than  by  the  blundering  tongue  of 
common  rumour,  which  reported 
them  to  Adrienne.  He  had  returned 
to  Caen,  and  to  the  hospitable  home 
of  his  English  friends,  to  whose  ear, 
of  course,  he  confided  his  tale  of  dis- 
appointed hopes.  But,  as  it  should 
seem  by  the  mirthful  bearing  of  the 
small  party  assembled  that  night 
round  the  supper-table  after  his  af- 
fecting disclosure,  not  only  had  it 
failed  in  exciting  sympathy  for  the 
abused  lover,  but  he  himself,  by  some 
unaccountable  caprice,  was,  to  all 
appearance,  the  happiest  of  the  so- 
cial group. 

Grave  matters,  as  well  as  trivial, 
were,  however,  debated  that  night 
round  the  supper  table  of  the  Eng- 
lish party;  and  of  the  four  assembled, 
as  neither  had  attained  the  coolness 
and  experience  of  twenty-six  com- 
plete summers,  and  two  of  the  four 
(the  married  pair)  had  forfeited  all 
pretensions  to  worldly  wisdom,  by  a 
romantic  love  match,  it  is  not  much 
to  be  wondered  at,  that  Prudence 
was  scarcely  admitted  to  a  share  in 
the  consultation,  and  that  she  was 
unanimously  outvoted  in  conclusion. 

The  cabinet  council  sat  till  past 
midnight,  yet  Walter  Barnard  was 
awake  next  morning,  and  "  stirring 
with  the  lark,"  and  brushing  the 
dewdrops  from  the  wildbrier  sprays, 
as  he  bounded  by  them  through  the 

fields,   on   his  way  to not  St 

Hilaire. 

Again  in  the  gloaming  he  was 
espied  by  the  miller's  wife,  thread- 
ing the  same  path  to  the  same  tryst- 
ing-place — for  that  it  was  a  trysting- 
place  she  had  ocular  demonstration 
— and  again  the  next  day  matins  and 
vespers  were  as  duly  said  by  the 
same  parties  in  the  same  oratory, 
and  Dame  Simonne  was  privy  to  the 
same,  and  yet  she  had  not  whispered 


her  knowledge  even  to  the  reeds. 
How  much  longer  the  unnatural  re- 
tension  might  have  continued,  would 
have  been  a  curious  metaphysical 
question,  had  not  circumstances,  in- 
terfering with  the  ends  of  science, 
hurried  on  an  "  unforeseen  conclu- 
sion." 

On  the  third  morning  the  usual 
tryst  was  kept  at  the  accustomed 
place,  at  an  earlier  hour  than  on  the 
preceding  days  j  but  shorter  parley 
sufficed  on  this  occasion,  for  the  two 
who  met  there  with  no  cold  greet- 
ing, turned  together  into  the  pleasant 
path,  so  lately  traced  on  his  way 
from  the  town  with  beating  heart,  by 
one  who  retraced  his  footsteps  even 
more  eagerly,  with  the  timid  compa- 
nion, who  went  consentingly,  but  not 
self-excused. 

Sharp  and  anxious  was  the  watch 
kept  by  the  miller's  wife  for  the  re- 
turn of  the  pair,  whose  absence  for 
the  next  two  hours  she  was  at  no 
loss  to  account  for;  but  they  tarried 
beyond  that  period,  and  Dame  Si- 
monue  was  growing  fidgety  at  their 
non-appearance,  when  she  caught 
sight  of  their  advancing  figures,  at 
the  same  moment  that  the  gate  of  the 
Manoir  swung  open,  and  forth  is- 
sued the  stately  forms  of  Madame 
and  Mesdemoiselles  Du  Resnel ! 

Dame  Simonne's  senses  were  well- 
nigh  confounded  at  the  sight,  and 
well  they  might,  for  well  she  knew 
what  one  so  unusual  portended — 
and  there  was  no  time — not  a  mo- 
ment— not  a  possibility  to  warn  the 
early  pedestrians  who  were  approach- 
ing, so  securely  unconscious  of  the 
impending  crisis.  They  were  to  have 
parted  as  before  at  the  Manoir  gate — 
to  have  parted  for  many  months  of 
separation — one  to  return  to  Eng- 
land, the  other  to  her  nearer  home, 

till  such  time  as But  the  whole 

prudential  project  was  in  a  moment 
overset.  The  last  winding  of  the 
path  was  turned,  and  the  advancing 
parties  stood  confronted!  For  a  mo- 
ment, mute,  motionless  as  statues— 
a  smile  of  malicious  triumph  on  the 
countenances  of  Mesdemoiselles  du 
Resnel — on  that  of  their  dignified 
mother,  a  stern  expression  of  con- 
centrated wrath,  inexorable,  impla- 
cable. But  her  speech  was  even 
more  calm  and  deliberate  than  usual, 
as  she  requested  to  know  what  busi- 
ness of  importance  had  led  the  young 


1831.] 


La  Petite  Maddaine. 


225 


lady  so  far  from  her  home  at  that 
early  hour,  and  to  what  fortunate 
chance  she  was  indebted  for  the 
escort  of  Monsieur  Barnard  ?  The 
(jrand  secret  might  still  have  been 
kept.  Walter  was  about  to  speak — 
he  scarce  knew  what — perhaps  to 
divulge  in  part — for  to  tell  all  pre- 
maturely was  ruin  to  them  both. 
But  before  he  could  articulate  a 
word  Madame  du  Resnel  repeated 
her  interrogatory  in  a  tone  of  more 
peremptory  sternness,  and  la  petite 
Madelaine,  trembling  at  this  sound, 
quailing  under  the  cold  and  search- 
ing gaze  that  accompanied  it,  and 
all  unused  to  the  arts  of  deception 
and  prevarication,  sank  on  her  knees 
where  she  had  stopt  at  some  distance 
from  her  incensed  parent,  and  fal- 
tered out  with  uplifted  hands, — • 
"  Mais — mais,  maman!  je  viens  de 
me  marier !" 

The  truth  was  told — the  full,  the 
simple  truth — and  no  sooner  told 
than  Walter's  better  nature  rejoiced 
at  the  disclosure,  rejoiced  at  its  re- 
lease from  the  debasing  shackles  im- 
posed by  worldly  considerations,  and 
grateful  to  the  young  ingenuous  crea- 
ture whose  impulsive  honesty  had 
saved  them  both  from  perseverance 
in  the  dangerous  paths  of  deception, 
even  at  the  cost  of  those  important 
ad  vantages  which  might  have  result- 
ed from  a  temporary  concealment  of 
their  union.  Tenderly  raising  and 
supporting  her  he  was  now  free  to 
call  his  own  in  the  sight  of  men  and 
angels,  he  drew  her  gently  towards 
the  incensed  parent,  the  expected 
storm  of  whose  just  wrath  he  pre- 
pared himself  to  meet  respectfully, 
and  to  deprecate  with  all  due  humi- 
lity. But  the  preparation  proved 
perfectly  unnecessary.  Madame  du 
Resnel,  whose  rigidity  of  feature  had 
relaxed  into  no  change  of  line  or 
muscle  indicative  of  surprise  or  emo- 
tion at  her  daughter's  abrupt  con- 
fession, now  listened  with  equally 
imperturbable  composure  to  Walter's 
rather  hurried  and  confused  attempts 
at  excusing  what  was,  in  the  strict 
sense,  inexcusable  ;  and  to  his  frank 
and  manly  professions  of  attachment 
to  her  daughter,  and  of  his  desire,  if 
he  might  be  received  as  a  son  by  that 
daughter's  mother,  to  prove,  by  every 
act  of  his  future  life,  his  sense  of  such 
generous  forgiveness.  Having  heard 
him  to  the  end,  with  the  most  exem- 


plary patience  and  faultless  good 
breeding,  Madame  du  Resnel  beg- 
ged to  assure  Monsieur  Barnard, 
that,  "  so  far  from  assuming  to  her- 
self any  right  of  censure  over  him  or 
his  actions,  past,  present,  or  to  come, 
she  begged  leave  to  assure  him  she 
was  incapable  of  such  impertinent 
interference  ;  and  that,  with  regard 
to  the  lady  who  had  ceased  to  be  her 
daughter  on  becoming  the  wife  of 
Monsieur  Barnard,  she  resigned  from 
that  moment  all  claims  on  the  duty 
she  had  violated,  and  all  control  over 
her  future  actions.  Les  eft'ets  ap- 
partenant  a  Mademoiselle  Madelaine 
du  Resnel — [poor  little  Madelaine, 
few  and  little  worth  were  thy  worldly 
goods  !] — should  be  ready  for  deli- 
very to  any  authorized  claimant." — 
"  Au  reste" — Madame  du  Resnel  had 
the  honour  to  felicitate  Monsieur 
and  Madame  Barnard  on  their  aus- 
picious union,  and  to  wish  them  a 
very  good  morning — an  adieu,  sans 
au  revoir — with  which  tender  con- 
clusion, she  dropped  a  profound  and 
dignified  curtsy,  and  with  her  at- 
tendant daughters  (who  dutifully  fol- 
lowed the  maternal  example)  pass- 
ed through  the  gate  of  the  Manoir, 
and  closed  it  after  her,  with  no  vio- 
lence, but  a  deliberate  firmness,  that 
spoke  to  those  without  more  con- 
vincingly than  words  could  have  ex- 
pressed it — "  Henceforward,  and  for 
ever,  this  barrier  is  closed  against 
you." 

That  moment  was  one  of  bitter- 
ness to  the  new-made  wife — to  the 
discarded  daughter  j  and,  for  a  time, 
all  the  feelings  that  had  led  to  her 
violation  of  filial  duty — all  the  ex- 
cuses she  had  framed  to  herself  for 
breaking  its  sacred  obligations — all 
the  "  shortcomings"  of  love  she  had 
been  subjected  to  in  her  own  home 
— andall — aye,evenall  thelove,  pass- 
ing speech,  which  had  bound  up  her 
life  with  Walter  Barnard's— all  was 
forgotten — merged  in  one  absorb- 
ing agony  of  distress,  at  the  sudden 
and  violent  wrench-asunder  of  Na- 
ture's first  and  holiest  ties.  She  clung 
to  the  side-post  of  the  old  gate  that 
opened  to  her  paternal  domain — to 
the  house  of  her  fathers.  She  kissed 
the  bars  that  excluded  her  for  ever. 
Was  it  for  ever  ?  A  gleam  of  hope 
brightened  in  her  streaming  eyes — 
"  Her  dear  Armand  !  Le  petit  frere, 
would  return  to  the  Manoir,  and  he 


22G 


La  Petite 


would  never  shut  its  gates  against 
poor  Madelaine." 

Her  husband  availed  himself  of 
the  auspicious  moment;  he  encou- 
raged her  hopes,  and  she  listened 
with  the  eager  simplicity  of  a  child  j 
he  spoke  words  of  comfort,  and  she 
was  comforted ;  of  love,  and  she  for- 

fot  her  fault  and  her  remorse — her 
ome — her  friends — the  world — and 
every  thing  in  it  but  himself. 

Three  days  from  that  ever-memo- 
rable morning,  la  petite  Madelaine 
stood  with  her  husband  upon  Eng- 
lish ground,  but  for  him,  a  stranger 
in  a  strange  land — the  portionless 
bride  of  a  poor  subaltern.  For 
though  she  had  brought  with  her  all 
the"  effets"  which,throughMadame's 
special  indulgence,  she  had  been 
permitted  to  remove  from  her  own 
little  turret  chamber,  they  helped  but 
poorly  towards  the  future  menage, 
consisting  only  of  her  scanty  ward- 
robe, a  few  books  (her  most  pre- 
cious property),  a  little  embroidered 
purse,  containing  a  louis-d'or,  sun- 
dry old  silver  coins,  and  pieces  de 
dix  sous,  a  bonbonniere  full  of 
dragees,  a  birthday  present  from  le 
petit  frere,  a  gold  etui,  the  gift  of 
her  grandmother,  and  a  pair  ofsilver 
sugar-tongs,  the  bequest  of  old  Jean- 
nette.  To  this  splendid  inventory 
she  was,  however,  graciously  allowed 
to  annex  the  transfer  of  honest  Ro- 
land, her  father's  ancient  servitor, 
who,  as  if  endowed  with  rational 
comprehension,  made  shift  to  leap 
into  the  cart  which  conveyed  to  Caen 
the  poor  possessions  of  his  master's 
daughter,  and  came  crouching  to  her 
feet,  with  looks  and  actions  needing 
no  interpretation  to  speak  intelligi- 
bly— "  Mistress  !  lead  on,  and  I  will 
follow  thee." 

The  married  pair  were  indeed 
embarked  together  on  a  rough  sea, 
with  little  provision  for  the  voyage, 
to  which  they  had  been  in  a  manner 
prematurely  driven;  but,  by  the 
blessing  of  Providence,  they  wea- 
thered out  its  storms,  now  sheltering 
for  a  season  in  some  calm  and  friend- 
ly haven,  and  anon  compelled  (but 
with  recruited  courage)  to  renew 
their  conflict  with  the  winds  and 
waves.  But  throughout  their  hearts 
were  strong,  for  they  were  faithfully 
united;  and  that  devoted  affection 
for  her  husband,  which  had  saved 


Madelaine.  [Aug. 

the  heart  of  Madelaine  from  break- 
ing in  its  first  and  sharpest  agony 
(the  sharpest,  because  mingled  with 
remorse),  was  the  continued  support 
and  sweetener  of  her  after  life, 
through  a  lot  of  infinite  vicissitude. 

If  haply  I  have  evinced  some  par- 
tiality to  poor  little  Madelaine,  even 
in  the  detail  of  her  unsanctioned 
nuptials,  accuse  me  not,  reader,  of 
making  light  of  the  sin  of  filial  dis- 
obedience. I  have  told  you  that  she 
judged  herself; — let  you  and  I  do 
likewise,  and  abstain  from  passing 
sentence  on  others.  But  if  your 
Christian  charity,  righteous  reader  ! 
is  so  rigidly  exacting,  as  to  require 
punishment  as  well  as  penitence,  be 
comforted  even  on  that  score,  and 
lay  the  assurance  to  your  feeling 
heart,  that  la  petite  Madelaine  had 
her  full  share  of  worldly  troubles ; 
the  last  and  crowning  one  of  ajl,  that 
she  was  doomed  to  be,  by  some 
years,  the  survivor  of  the  husband  of 
her  youth — the  friend  and  companion 
of  her  life — the  prop  and  staff  of  her 
declining  days. 

But  she  was  not  long  an  outcast 
from  her  own  people  and  her  early 
home.  "Le  petit  frere"  found  means, 
soon  after  the  attainment  of  his  ma- 
jority, and  the  full  rights  and  titles 
it  conferred  on  him,  as  lord  of  him- 
self and  the  Manoir  du  Resnel,  to 
prevail  on  his  lady  mother  (who  still 
remained  mistress  of  the  establish- 
ment) to  receive,  on  the  footing  of 
occasional  guests,  her  long-banished 
child,  with  her  English  husband. 
From  that  time,  Monsieur  du  Resnel 
proved  himself,  on  all  occasions,  the 
affectionate  brother,  and  unfailing 
friend  of  Walter  and  Madelaine;  and 
the  good  understanding  then  esta- 
blished between  themselves  and  Ma- 
dame du  Resn61  was  never  interrupt- 
ed, though  jealousies  among  the  elder 
sisters  were  always  at  work  to  un- 
dermine it,  by  innumerable  petty 
artifices.  Madame  was  not  their 
dupe,  however.  Nature  had  formed 
her  with  a  cold  heart,  but  a  strong 
understanding.  She  felt  and  knew 
that  the  respect  and  attention  inva- 
riably shewn  towards  her  by  Made- 
laine and  her  husband,  were  the  fruits 
of  right  principle  and  kindly  disposi- 
tion, unswayed  by  any  interested  con- 
sideration, and  that  her  other  daugh- 
ters were  actuated  by  the  sordid  view 


1831.] 

of  appropriating  to  themselves  exclu- 
sively, at  her  decease,  the  small 
hoard  she  might  have  accumulated 
in  the  long  course  of  her  rigid  and 
undeviating  economy.  As  the  bur- 
den of  years  pressed  more  heavily 
upon  her,  she  became  more  and  more 
sensible  of  the  worth  and  tenderness 
of  her  once  slighted  Madelaine ;  and 
when  circumstances  made  it  expe- 
dient that  she  should  remove  from 
her  son's  roof,  she  took  up  her  last 
lodging  among  the  living  under  that 
of  the  dutiful  child,  whose  widowed 
sorrows  were  soothed  by  her  tender 
performance  of  the  sacred  duty  which 
had  thus  unexpectedly  devolved 
upon  her. 

When  the  mother  and  daughter 
were  reunited  under  circumstances 
so  affecting,  the  latter  had  almost 
numbered  the  threescore  years,  so 
near  the  age  of  man ;  and  the  former, 
with  all  her  mental  faculties  in  their 
full  vigour,  and  retaining  her  bodily 
strength  and  all  her  senses  to  an  ex- 
traordinary degree,  was  on  the  verge 
of  fourscore  years  and  five.  But  the 
tender  and  unremitting  cares  of  her 


La  Petite  Madelaine. 


filial  guardian  were  blessed  for  three 
years  longer  in  their  pious  aim, — 
"  T"  explore  the  wish — explain  the  ask- 
ing eye, 

And  keep  awhile  one  parent  from  the  sky." 
Then  the  full  of  days  was  summoned 
to  depart,  and  J— yes — /  remember 
well  the  last  scene  of  her  long  pil- 
grimage, though  a  little  child  when 
present  at  it,  and  carried  in  my 
nurse's  arms  to  the  chamber  of  death. 
My  mother  was  there  also,  for  she 
was  the  grand-daughter  of  that  aged 
dying  woman — the  daughter  of  Wal- 
ter Barnard  and  Madelaine  du  Res- 
nel.  And  so  it  came  to  pass,  that 
la  petite  Madelaine  was  my  own 
dear  grandmother,  and  that  the  fact 
was  (I  suppose)  written  on  my  fore- 
head, for  the  future  investigation  of 
that  "  grim  white  woman,"  the 
daughter  of  Adrienne  de  St  Hilaire, 
who,  impelled  by  curiosity,  and 
armed  with  hereditary  hate,  dismay- 
ed me  by  that  mysterious  visit,  which, 
opening  up  the  forgotten  sources  of 
old  traditional  memories,  gave  rise 
to  my  after  daydream  and  to  this 
long  story.  C. 


HOMER'S  HYMNS. 
No.  II. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BACCHUS. 

OF  the  son  of  the  glorious  Semele 

Is  a  wondrous  tale  to  tell, 
How  he  lay  on  the  shore  of  the  boundless  sea, 

On  a  rock  by  the  billow's  swell ; 
In  the  very  spring-tide  of  youth  was  he 

When  beauty  doth  most  excel. 

Round  his  ample  breast  was  a  purple  vest, 

And  his  locks  of  the  raven  shade 
Floated  behind  to  the  gentle  wind, 

And  over  his  shoulders  play'd ; 
And  there  came  in  view  a  roving  crew, 

That  follow'd  the  pirate's  trade. 

And  they  were  Tuscan  mariners, 

Bold  pirates  every  one, 
And  ill-betoken'd  their  evil  stars, 

When  their  cruizing  was  begun  ; 
Though  the  bark  was  tight,  and  bounded  light 

To  the  coast  as  they  did  run. 


228  Homer's  Hymns,  [Aug. 

And  they  spied  the  youth,  as  they  plough'd  the  brine, 

Drew  near  and  plann'd  surprise ; 
And  with  nod  and  wink,  and  speechless  sign, 

His  comrade  did  each  advise  ; 
And  blessing  the  ship  for  a  gainful  trip, 

Leap'd  over  and  seized  the  prize. 

They  deem'd  him  a  youth  of  noble  race, 

And  thought  to  bind  him  fast ; 
And  they  took  him  on  board  in  little  space, 

And  cords  about  him  cast — 
But  away  flew  the  bands  from  his  feet  and  hands, 

Like  chaff  before  the  blast. 

Now  the  son  of  the  glorious  Semele 

All  unconcern' d  he  sat, 
And  his  dark  eye  shone  most  laughingly, 

But  the  Pilot  was  struck  thereat, — 
And  cried  to  his  crew  that  around  him  drew, 

"  My  comrades,  mark  you  that ! 

"  Hold,  hold  ye,  for  this  no  mortal  is, 

As  you  may  plainly  know, 
For  a  god  is  he,  and  strong,  1  wis, 

To  work  or  weal  or  woe — 
Perchance  'tis  Jove  from  his  throne  above, 

Or  the  god  of  the  silver  bow. 

"  Or  Neptune,  maybe,  stern  god  of  sea — 

So  celestial  to  behold : 
The  planks  of  the  ship  from  their  ribs  would  slip, 

Ere  imprison  immortal  mould; 
For  Olympian  gods  are  fearful  odds, 

That  mortals  should  strive  to  hold. 

"  Turn  ye  the  oar  to  the  dark-edged  shore, 

And  the  youth  in  safety  land, 
And  speed  ye,  before  ye  hear  the  roar 

Of  a  storm  ye  may  not  withstand — 
For  beshrew  me  if  his  wrath  he  pour, 

'Twill  be  with  a  mighty  hand." 

But  the  Captain  stood  in  another  mood, 

And  spake  as  he  would  command  : 
"  Up  to  the  gale  with  yard  and  sail, 

And  talk  not  to  me  of  land — 
Leave  the  youth  to  me,  and  away  to  sea, 

He  shall  visit  a  distant  strand; 

"  Cyprus  or  Egypt,  or  farther  away, 

To  the  Hyperborean  coast, 
And  mayhap  by  the  way  he'll  find  tongue  to  say 

What  parentage  he  may  boast, 
Their  state  and  thrift,  his  fortune's  gift, 

And  of  that  we  make  the  most !" 

Thus  the  captain  spake,  the  mast  was  placed, 

Up  went  the  yard  and  sail, 
And  not  a  rope  but  was  tightly  bran-d, 

As  it  fill'd  before  the  gale. 
But  how  shall  I  tell  what  next  befell, 

And  with  wonders  fill  my  tale ! 


1831.]  Homer's  Hymna.  229 

Odours  were  first  of  the  luscious  vine, 

Fresher  than  honied  banks, 
And  a  stream  divine  of  ambrosial  wine 

Trickled  about  the  planks — 
But  the  mariner's  cheer  was  check'd  by  fear, 

That  they  could  not  give  it  thanks. 

Then  a  vine-tree  rose  and  tendrils  flung 

The  sail  and  sailyard  round, 
And  wherever  they  clung  rich  clusters  hung, 

And  the  mast  dark  ivy  bound, 
That  twined  about,  and  the  berries  stood  out, 

For  much  they  did  abound. 

The  rests  wherein  their  oars  they  plied, 

Each  one  a  garland  bore, 
Then  the  staring  mariners  stoutly  cried 

To  the  Pilot  to  steer  to  shore. 
Then  a  lion  across  the  deck  did  stride 

And  horribly  loud  did  roar. 

In  midships  he  rose  a  rampant  bear, 

And  his  shaggy  hide  he  shook, 
Then  a  lion  he  from  the  prow  did  glare, 

And  so  deadly  was  his  look, 
That  the  frighten'd  crew  to  the  stern  they  flew 

And  each  his  place  forsook, 

And  round  the  Pilot  in  fear  did  cling, 

For  he  was  the  best  of  the  crew ; 
Then  the  Lion-God  glared,  and  with  one  spring 

The  caitiff  Captain  slew ; 
From  the  side  of  the  ship,  with  plunge  and  slip, 

Into  the  sea  they  flew. 

As  the  mariners  plunged  into  the  sea, 

They  were  all  of  them  Dolphins  made ; 
But  the  son  of  the  glorious  Semele 

Alone  the  Pilot  staid, 
The  man  bless'd  he  from  his  terror  free, 

And  pleasantly  to  him  said — 

"  Courage,  my  friend,  stand  firm  above, 

A  worthy  part  was  thine  ; 
The  offspring  of  Jove  and  Semele's  love 

Am  I,  and  the  God  of  Wine ; 
Shouting  and  song  to  me  belong, 

And  the  gift  of  the  generous  vine." 

"  Hail,  son  of  the  beauteous  Semele  ! 

I  know  thee  well,  thou  art 
Giver  of  Mirth  and  Revelry, 

To  me  sweet  joys  impart ; 
For  the  song  of  Bard,  thou  dost  regard, 

Comes  warmest  from  the  heart." 


830 


Modern  French  Historians. 


[Aug. 


MODERN  FRENCH  HISTORIANS. 

No.  I. — SALVANDY. 


THE  recent  events  in  Poland  have 
awakened  the  old  and  but  half-ex- 
tinguished interest  of  the  British 
people  in  the  fate  of  that  unhappy 
country.  The  French  may  regard 
the  Polish  legions  as  the  vanguard 
only  of  revolutionary  movement :  the 
radicals  may  hail  their  struggle  as 
the  first  fruits  of  political  regenera- 
tion :  the  great  majority  of  observers 
think  of  them  only  as  a  gallant  peo- 
ple, bravely  combating  for  their  in- 
dependence, and  forget  the  shades 
of  political  difference  in  the  great 
cause  of  national  freedom. 

The  sympathy  with  the  Poles,  ac- 
cordingly, is  universal.  It  is  as 
strong  with  the  Tories  as  the  Whigs, 
with  the  supporters  of  antiquated 
abuse  as  the  aspirants  after  modern 
improvement.  Political  considera- 
tions combine  with  generous  feeling 
in  this  general  interest.  And  num- 
bers who  regard  with  aversion  any 
approach  towards  revolutionary  war- 
fare, yet  view  it  with  complacency 
when  it  seems  destined  to  interpose 
Sarmatian  valour  between  European 
independence  and  Muscovite  ambi- 
tion. 

The  history  of  Poland,  however, 
contains  more  subjects  of-  interest 
than  this.  It  is  fraught  with  political 
instruction,  as  well  as  romantic  ad- 
venture, and  exhibits  on  a  great  scale 
the  consequences  of  that  democratic 
equality  which,  with  uninformed  po- 
liticians, is  so  much  the  object  of 
eulogium.  The  French  revolution- 
ists, who  sympathize  so  vehemently 
with  the  Poles  in  their  contest  with 
Russian  despotism,  little  imagine 
that  the  misfortunes  of  that  country 
are  the  result  of  that  very  equality 
which  they  have  made  such  sacri- 
fices to  attain ;  and  that  in  the  weak- 
ness of  Poland  may  be  discerned  the 
consequences  of  the  political  system 
which  they  consider  as  the  perfec- 
tion of  society. 

Poland  in  ancient  possessed  very 
much  the  extent  and  dominion  of 
Russia  in  Europe  in  modern  times. 
It  stretched  from  the  Baltic  to  the 
Euxine;  from  Smolensko  to  Bohe- 
mia: and  embraced  within  its  bosom 


the  whole  Scythia  of  antiquity — the 
storehouse  of  nations,  from  whence 
the  hordes  issued  who  so  long  press- 
ed upon  and  at  last  overthrew  the 
Roman  empire.  Its  inhabitants  have 
in  every  age  been  celebrated  for  their 
heroic  valour :  they  twice  captured 
the  ancient  capital  of  Russia,  and 
the  conflagration  of  Moscow,  and 
retreat  of  Napoleon,  were  but  the 
repetition  of  what  had  resulted  five 
centuries  before  from  the  appear- 
ance of  the  Polish  eagles  on  the 
banks  of  the  Moskwa.  Placed  on 
the  frontiers  of  European  civilisa- 
tion, they  long  formed  its  barrier 
against  barbarian  invasion  :  and  the 
most  desperate  wars  they  ever  main- 
tained were  those  which  they  had  to 
carry  on  with  their  own  subjects,  the 
Cossacks  of  the  Ukraine,  whose 
roving  habits  and  predatory  life  dis- 
dained the  restraints  of  regular  go- 
vernment. When  we  read  the  ac- 
counts of  the  terrible  struggles  they 
maintained  with  the  great  insurrec- 
tion of  these  formidable  hordes  un- 
der Bogdan,  in  the  17th  century,  we 
are  transported  to  the  days  of  Scy- 
thian warfare,  and  recognise  the  fea- 
tures of  that  dreadful  invasion  of  the 
Sarmatian  tribes,  which  the  genius  of 
Marius  averted  from  the  Roman  re- 
public. 

Nor  has  the  military  spirit  of  the 
people  declined  in  modern  times. 
The  victories  of  Sobieski,  the  deli- 
verance of  Vienna,  seem  rather  the 
fiction  of  romance  than  the  records 
of  real  achievement.  No  victory  so 
glorious  as  that  of  Kotxim  had  been 
gained  by  Christendom  over  the  Sa- 
racens since  the  triumphs  of  Richard 
on  the  field  of  Ascalon :  And  the 
tide  of  Mahommedan  conquest  would 
have  rolled  resistlessly  over  the 
plains  of  Germany,  even  in  the  reign 
of  Louis  XIV.,  if  it  had  not  been  ar- 
rested by  the  Polish  hero  under  the 
walls  of  Vienna.  Napoleon  said  it 
was  the  peculiar  quality  of  the  Po- 
landers  to  form  soldiers  more  rapidly 
than  any  other  people.  And  their 
exploits  in  the  Italian  and  Spanish 
campaigns  justified  the  high  eulo- 
gium and  avowed  partiality  of  that 


183].] 


Modern  French  Historians. 


231 


great  commander.  No  swords  cut 
deeper  than  theirs  in  the  Russian 
ranks  during  the  campaign  of  1812, 
and  alone,  amidst  universal  defec- 
tion, they  maintained  their  faith  in- 
violate in  the  rout  at  Leipsic.  But 
for  the  hesitation  of  the  French  em- 
peror in  restoring  their  indepen- 
dence, the  whole  strength  of  the 
kingdom  would  have  been  roused  on 
the  invasion  of  Russia ;  and  had  this 
been  done,  had  the  Polish  monarchy 
formed  the  support  of  French  am- 
bition, the  history  of  the  world  might 
have  been  changed ; 

"  From  Fate's  dark  book  one  leaf  been 

torn, 
And  Flodden  had  been  Bannockburn." 

How,  then,  has  it  happened  that 
a  country  of  such  immense  extent, 
inhabited  by  so  martial  a  people, 
whose  strength  on  great  occasions 
was  equal  to  such  achievements, 
should  in  every  age  have  been  so 
unfortunate,  that  their  victories 
should  have  led  to  no  result,  and 
their  valour  so  often  proved  inade- 
quate to  save  their  country  from 
dismemberment  ?  The  plaintive 
motto,  Quomodo  Lapsus  ;  Quidfeci, 
may  with  still  more  justice  be  ap- 
plied to  the  fortunes  of  Poland  than 
the  fall  of  the  Courtenays.  "  Always 
combating,"  says  Salvandy,  "  fre- 
quently victorious,  they  never  gain- 
ed an  accession  of  territory,  and  were 
generally  glad  to  terminate  a  glori- 
ous contest  by  a  cession  of  the  an- 
cient provinces  of  the  republic." 

Superficial  observers  will  answer, 
that  it  was  the  elective  form  of  go- 
vernment; their  unfortunate  situa- 
tion in  the  midst  of  military  powers, 
and  the  absence  of  any  chain  of 
mountains  to  form  the  refuge  of  un- 
fortunate patriotism.  But  a  closer 
examination  will  demonstrate  that 
these  causes  were  not  sufficient  to 
explain  the  phenomenon ;  and  that 
the  series  of  disasters  which  have  so 
long  overwhelmed  the  monarchy, 
have  arisen  from  a  more  permanent 
and  lasting  cause  than  either  their 
physical  situation  or  elective  govern- 
ment. 

The  Polish  crown  has  not  always 
been  elective.  For  two  hundred  and 
twenty  years  they  were  governed 


by  the  race  of  the  Jagellons  with  as 
much  regularity  as  the  Plantagenets 
of  England;  and  yet,  during  that 
dynasty,  the  losses  of  the  republic 
were  fully  as  great  as  in  the  subse- 
quent periods.  Prussia  is  as  flat, 
and  incomparably  more  sterile  than 
Poland,  and,  with  not  a  third  of  the 
territory,  it  is  equally  exposed  to  the 
ambition  of  its  neighbours :  Yet 
Prussia,  so  far  from  being  the  sub- 
ject of  partition,  has  steadily  increas- 
ed in  territory  and  population.  The 
fields  of  Poland,  as  rich  and  fertile 
as  those  of  Flanders,  seem  the  prey 
of  every  invader,  while  the  patriot- 
ism of  the  Flemings  has  studded 
their  plains  with  defensive  fortresses 
which  have  secured  their  indepen- 
dence, notwithstanding  the  vicinity 
of  the  most  ambitious  and  powerful 
monarchy  in  Europe. 

The  real  cause  of  the  never-ending 
disasters  of  Poland,  is  to  be  found  in 
the  democratic  equality,  which,  from 
the  remotest  ages,  has  prevailed  in 
the  country.  The  elective  form  of 
government  was  the  consequence 
of  this  principle  in  their  constitu- 
tion, which  has  descended  to  them 
from  Scythian  freedom,  and  has  en- 
tailed upon  the  state  disasters  worse 
than  the  whirlwind  of  Scythian  in- 
vasion. 

"  It  is  a  mistake,"  says  Salvandy, 
"  to  suppose  that  the  representative 
form  of  government  was  found  in 
the  woods  of  Germany.  What  was 
found  in  the  woods  was  Polish 
equality,  which  has  descended  unim- 
paired in  all  the  parts  of  that  vast 
monarchy  to  the  present  times.*  It 
was  not  to  our  Scythian  ancestors, 
but  the  early  councils  of  the  Chris- 
tian church,  that  we  are  indebted 
for  the  first  example  of  representa- 
tive assemblies."  In  these  words  of 
great  and  philosophic  importance  is 
to  be  found  the  real  origin  of  the 
disasters  of  Poland. 

The  principle  of  government,  from 
the  earliest  times  in  Poland,  was, 
that  every  free  man  had  an  equal 
right  to  the  administration  of  public 
aft'airs,  and  that  he  was  entitled  to 
exercise  this  right,  not  by  represen- 
tation, but  in  person.  The  result  of 
this  was,  that  the  whole  freemen  of 
the  country  constituted  the  real  go- 


*  Salvandy,  vol.  i,  Tableau  Historian?. 


282 


Modern  French  Historians. 


[Aug. 


vernment;  and  the  diets  were  at- 
tended by  100,000  horsemen ;  the 
great  majority  of  whom  were,  of 
course,  ignorant,  and  in  necessitous 
circumstances,  while  all  were  pene- 
trated with  an  equal  sense  of  their 
importance  as  members  of  the  Polish 
state.  The  convocation  of  these  tu- 
multuous assemblies  was  almost  in- 
variably the  signal  for  murder  and 
disorder.  Thirty  or  forty  thousand 
lackeys,  in  the  service  of  the  nobles, 
but  still  possessing  the  rights  of  free- 
men, followed  their  masters  to  the 
place  of  meeting,  and  were  ever  ready 
to  support  their  ambition  by  military 
violence,  while  the  unfortunate  na- 
tives, eat  up  by  such  an  enormous 
assemblage  of  armed  men,  regarded 
the  meeting  of  the  citizens  in  the 
same  light  as  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Grecian  city  did  the  invasion  of 
Xerxes,  when  they  returned  thanks 
to  the  gods  that  he  had  not  dined  in 
their  neighbourhood,  or  every  living 
creature  would  have  perished. 

So  far  did  the  Poles  carry  this 
equality  among  all  the  free  citizens, 
that  by  an  original  and  fundamental 
law,  called  the  Liberum  Veto,  any 
one  member  of  the  diet,  by  simply 
interposing  his  negative,  could  stop 
the  election  of  the  sovereign,  or  any 
other  measure  the  most  essential  to 
the  public  welfare.  Of  course,  in  so 
immense  a  multitude,  some  are  al- 
ways to  be  found  fractious  or  venal 
enough  to  exercise  this  dangerous 
power,  either  "from  individual  per- 
versity, the  influence  of  external 
corruption,  or  internal  ambition ;  and 
hence  the  numerous  occasions  on 
which  diets,  assembled  for  the  most 
important  purposes,  were  broken  up 
without  having  come  to  any  deter- 
mination, and  the  Republic  left  a 
prey  to  anarchy,  at  the  time  when  it 
stood  most  in  need  of  the  unanimous 
support  of  its  members.  It  is  a  stri- 
king proof  how  easily  men  are  de- 
luded by  this  phantom  of  general 
equality,  when  it  is  recollected  that 
this  ruiqous  privilege  has,  not  only 
in  every  age,  been  clung  to  as  the 
Magna  Cltarta  of  Poland,  but  that 
the  native  historians,  recounting  dis- 
tant events,  speak  of  any  infringe- 
ment upon  it  as  the  most  fabil  mea- 
sure to  the  liberties  and  welfare  of 
the  country. 

All  In  in  i  MI  i  institutions,  however, 
must  be  subject  to  some  check, 


which  renders  it  practicable  to  get 
through  business  on  urgent  occa- 
sions, in  spite  of  individual  opposi- 
tion. The  Poles  held  it  utterly  at 
variance  with  every  principle  of  free- 
dom to  bind  any  free  man  by  a  law 
to  which  he  had  not  consented.  The 
principle,  that  the  majority  could 
bind  the  minority,  seemed  to  them 
inconsistent  with  the  most  element- 
ary ideas  of  liberty.  To  get  quit  of 
the  difficulty,  they  commonly  mas- 
sacred the  recusant ;  and  this  ap- 
peared, in  their  eyes,  a  much  loss 
serious  violation  of  freedom  '  than 
out-voting  him ;  because,  said  they, 
instances  of  violence  are  few,  and 
do  not  go  beyond  the  individual  suf- 
ferers ;  but  when  once  the  rulers  es- 
tablish that  the  majority  can  com- 
pel the  minority  to  yield,  no  man 
has  any  security  against  the  violation 
of  his  freedom. 

Extremes  meet.  It  is  curious  to 
observe  how  exactly  the  violation 
of  freedom  by  popular  folly  coin- 
cides in  its  effect  with  its  extinction 
by  despotic  power.  The  bow-string 
in  the  Seraglio,  and  assassination  at 
St  Petersburg,  are  the  limitations 
on  arbitrary  power  in  these  despotic 
states.  Popular  murders  were  the 
means  of  restraining  the  exorbitant 
liberty  of  the  Poles  within  the  limits 
necessary  for  the  maintenance  of  the 
forms  even  of  regular  government. 
Strange,  as  Salvandy  has  well  obser- 
ved, that  the  nation  the  most  jealous 
of  its  liberty,  should,  at  the  same 
time,  adhere  to  a  custom  of  all  others 
the  most  destructive  to  freedom ; 
and  that,  to  avoid  the  government  of 
one,  they  should  submit  to  the  des- 
potism of  all ! 

It  was  this  original  and  fatal  pas- 
sion for  equality,  which  has  in  every 
age  proved  fatal  to  Polish  independ- 
ence— which  has  paralyzed  all  the 
valour  of  her  people,  and  all  the  en- 
thusiasm of  her  character — and  ren- 
dered the  most  warlike  nation  in 
Europe  the  most  uufot'tun&te.  The 
measures  of  its  government  partook 
of  the  unstable  and  vacillating  cha- 
racter of  all  popular  assemblages. 
Bursts  of  patriotism  were  succeeded 
by  periods  of  dejection ;  and  the 
endless  changes  in  the  objects  of 
popular  inclination,  rendered  it  im- 
practicable to  pursue  any  steady  ob- 
ject, or  adhere,  through  all  the  va- 
rieties of  fortune,  to  one  uniform 


1881 J 


No.  I.     Salvandy. 


system  for  the  good  of  the  state. 
Their  wars  exactly  resembled  the 
contests  in  La  Vendee,  where,  a  week- 
after  the  most  glorious  successes, 
the  victorious  army  was  dissolved, 
and  the  leaders  wandering  with  a 
few  followers  in  the  woods.  At  the 
battle  of  Kotzim,  Sobieski  com- 
manded 40,000  men,  the  most  regu- 
lar army  which  for  centuries  Po- 
land had  sent  into  the  field;  at  their 
head,  he  stormed  the  Turkish  en- 
trenchments, though  defended  by 
80,000  veterans,  and  300  pieces  of 
cannon ;  he  routed  that  mighty  host, 
slew  50,000  men,  and  carried  the 
Polish  ensigns  in  triumph  to  the 
banks  of  the  Danube.  But  while 
Europe  resounded  with  his  praises, 
and  expected  the  deliverance  of  the 
Greek  empire  from  his  exertions, 
his  army  dissolved — the  troops  re- 
turned to  their  homes — and  the  in- 
vincible conqueror  was  barely  able, 
with  a  few  thousand  men,  to  keep 
the  field. 

Placed  on  the  frontiers  of  Europe 
and  Asia,  the  Polish  character  and 
history  have  partaken  largely  of  the 
effects  of  the  institutions  of  both 
these  quarters  of  the  globe.  Their 
passion  for  equality,  their  spirit  of 
freedom,  their  national  assemblages, 
unite  them  to  European  indepen- 
dence ;  their  unstable  fortune,  per- 
petual vacillation,  and  chequered 
annals,  partake  of  the  character  of 
Asiatic  adventure.  While  the  states 
by  whom  they  are  surrounded,  have 
shared  in  the  steady  progress  of  Eu- 
ropean civilisation,  the  Polish  mo- 
narchy has  been  distinguished  by  the 
extraordinary  vicissitudes  of  Eastern 
story.  Elevated  to  the  clouds  during 
periods  of  heroic  adventure,  it  has 
sunk  to  nothing  upon  the  death  of  a 
single  chief;  the  republic  which  had 
recently  carried  its  arms  in  triumph 
to  the  neighbouring  capitals,  was 
soon  struggling  for  its  existence  with 
a  contemptible  enemy  ;  and  the  bul- 
wark of  Christendom  in  one  age, 
was  in  the  next  razed  from  the  book 
of  nations. 

Would  we  discover  the  cause  of 
this  vacillation,  of  which  the  deplora- 
ble consequences  are  now  so  strong- 
ly exemplified,  we  shall  find  it  in  the 
passion  for  equality  which  appears 
in  every  stage  of  their  history,  and 
of  which  M.  Salvandy,  a  liberal  his- 

VOL.  XXX,  NO.  CLXXXJII, 


233 

torian,  has  given  a  powerful  pic- 
ture :— 

"  The  proscription  of  their  greatest 
princes,"  says  he,  "  and,  after  their  death, 
the  calumnies  of  posterity,  faithfully  echo- 
ing  the  follies  of  contemporaries,  have 
destroyed  all  those  who  in  different  ages 
have  endeavoured,  in  Poland,  to  create  a 
solid  or  protecting  power.  Nothing  is 
more  extraordinary  than  to  hear  the  mo- 
dern annalists  of  that  unfortunate  people, 
whatever  their  country  or  doctrine  may 
be,  mechanically  repeat  all  the  national 
outcry  against  what  they  call  their  des- 
potic tyrants.  Facts  speak  in  vain  against 
such  prejudices.  In  the  eyes  of  the  Poles, 
nothing  was  worthy  of  preservation  in 
their  country  but  liberty  and  equality  ; — 
a  high-sounding  expression,  which  the 
French  Revolution  had  not  the  glory  of 
inventing,  nor  its  authors  the  wisdom  to 
apply  more  judiciously. 

"  Contrary  to  what  has  occurred  every- 
where else  in  the  world,  the  Poles  have 
never  been  at  rest  but  under  the  rule  of 
feeble  monarchs.  Great  and  vigorous 
kings  were  uniformly  the  first  to  perish  ; 
they  have  always  sunk  under  vain  at- 
tempts to  accustom  an  independent  nobi- 
lity to  the  restraints  of  authority,  or  soft- 
en to  their  slaves  the  yoke  of  bondage. 
Thus  the  royal  authority,  which  elsewhere 
expanded  on  the  ruins  of  the  feudal  sys- 
tem, has  in  Poland  only  become  weaker 
with  the  progress  of  time.  All  the  efforts 
of  its  monarchs  to  enlarge  their  preroga- 
tive have  been  shattered  against  a  com- 
pact, independent,  courageous  body  of 
freemen,  who,  in  resisting  such  attempts, 
have  never  either  been  weakened  by  divi- 
sion nor  intimidated  by  menace.  In  their 
passion  for  equality,  in  their  jealous  inde- 
pendence, they  were  unwilling  even  to 
admit  any  distinction  between  each  other; 
they  long  and  haughtily  rejected  the  titles 
of  honour  of  foreign  states,  and  even  till 
the  last  age,  refused  to  recognise  those 
hereditary  distinctions  and  oppressive  pri- 
vileges, which  are  now  so  fast  disappear- 
ing from  the  face  of  society.  They  even 
went  so  far  as  to  insist  that  one,  in  mat- 
ters of  deliberation,  should  be  equal  to  all. 
The  crown  was  thus  constantly  at  war 
with  a  democracy  of  nobles.  The  dynasty 
of  the  Piasts  strove  with  much  ability  to 
create  in  the  midst  of  that  democracy,  a 
few  leading  families  ;  by  the  side  of  those 
nobles,  a  body  of  burghers.  These  things, 
difficult  in  all  states,  were  there  impos- 
sible. An  hereditary  dynasty,  always 
stormy  and  often  interrupted,  was  unfit 
for  the  persevering  efforts  requisite  for 
such  a  revolution.  In  other  states  the 


234 


Modern  French  Historians. 


[Aug. 


monarch s  pursued  an  uniform  policy,  and 
their  subjects  were  vacillating;  there,  the 
people  were  steady,  and  the  crown  change- 
able. "—I.  71. 

"  In  other  states,  time  had  everywhere 
established  the  hereditary  descent  of  ho- 
nours and  power.  Hereditary  succession 
was  established  from  the  throne  to  the 
smallest  fief,  from  the  reciprocal  necessi- 
ty of  subduing  the  vanquished  people, 
and  securing  to  each  his  share  in  the 
conquests.  In  Poland,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  wayvvoods,  or  warlike  chieftains,  the 
magistrates  and  civil  authorities,  the  go- 
vernors of  castles  and  provinces,  so  far 
from  founding  an  aristocracy  by  establish- 
ing the  descent  of  their  honours  or  offices 
in  their  families,  were  seldom  even  no- 
minated by  the  king.  Their  authority, 
especially  that  of  the  Falatins,  excited 
equal  umbrage  in  the  sovereign  who 
should  have  ruled,  as  the  nobles  who 
should  have  obeyed  them.  There  was  thus 
authority  and  order  nowhere  in  the  state. 

"  It  is  not  surprising  that  such  men 
should  unite  to  the  pride  which  could  bear 
nothing  above,  the  tyranny  which  could 
spare  nothing  below  them.  In  the  dread 
of  being  compelled  to  share  their  power 
with  their  inferiors  elevated  by  riches  or 
intelligence,  they  affixed  a  stigma  on  every 
useful  profession  as  a  mark  of  servitude. 
Their  maxim  was,  that  nobility  of  blood 
was  not  lost  by  indigence  or  domestic 
service,  but  totally  extinguished  by  com- 
merce or  industry.  This  policy  perpetu- 
ally withheld  from  the  great  body  of  serfs 
the  use  of  arms,  both  because  they  had 
learned  to  fear,  but  still  continued  to  des- 
pise them.  In  fine,  jealous  of  every  spe- 
cies of  superiority  as  a  personal  outrage, 
of  every  authority  as  an  usurpation,  of 
every  labour  as  a  degradation,  this  society 
was  at  variance  with  every  principle  of 
human  prosperity. 

"  Weakened  in  this  manner  in  their 
external  contests,  by  their  equality  not 
less  than  their  tyranny,  inferior  to  their 
neighbours  in  number  and  discipline,  the 
Poles  were  the  only  warlike  people  in 
the  world  to  whom  victory  never  gave 
either  peace  or  conquest.  Incessant  con- 
tests with  the  Germans,  the  Hungarians, 
the  pirates  of  the  north,  the  Cossacks  of 
the  Ukraine,  the  Osmanlis,  occupy  their 
whole  annals ;  but  never  did  the  Polish 
eagles  advance  the  frontiers  of  the  repub- 
lic. Poland  saw  Moravia,  Brandenburg, 
Pomerania,  escape  from  its  government, 
as  Bohemia  and  Mecklenburg  had  for- 
merly done,  without  ever  being  awakened 
to  the  necessity  of  establishing  a  central 
government  sufficiently  strong  to  coerce 
and  protect  so  many  discordant  materials. 
She  was  destinnd  to  drink  to  the  last 


dregs  the  bitter  consequences  of  a  pitiless 
aristocracy  and  a  senseless  equality. 

"  Vainly  did  Time,  whose  ceaseless 
course,  by  breaking  through  that  fierce 
and  oppressive  equality,  had  succeeded 
where  its  monarchs  had  failed,  strive  to 
introduce  a  better  order  of  things.  Po- 
land was  destined,  in  all  the  ages  of  its 
history,  to  differ  from  all  the  other  Eu- 
ropean states.  With  the  progress  of 
wealth,  a  race  of  burghers  at  length  sprung 
up— an  aristocracy  of  wealth  and  posses- 
sions arose ;  but  both,  contrary  to  the  ge- 
nius of  the  people,  perished  before  they 
arrived  at  maturity.  The  first  was  speedi- 
ly overthrown  ;  in  the  convulsion,  conse- 
quent upon  the  establishment  of  the  last, 
the  national  independence  was  destroy- 
ed."—I.  74 

Of  the  practical  consequences  of 
this  fatal  passion  for  equality  in  the 
legislature  and  the  form  of  govern- 
ment, our  author  gives  the  following 
curious  account: — 

"  The  extreme  difficulty  of  providing 
food  fortheir  comitiaof  100,000 citizens  on 
horseback,  obliged  the  members  of  the  Diet 
to  terminate  their  deliberations  in  a  few 
days,  or  rather  to  separate,  after  having 
devoured  all  the  food  in  the  country,  com- 
menced a  civil  war,  and  determined  no- 
thing. The  constant  recurrence  of  such  dis- 
asters, at  length  led  to  an  attempt  to  intro- 
duce territorial  deputies,  invested  with  full 
power  to  carry  on  the  ordinary  and  rou- 
tine business  of  the  state.  But  so  adverse 
was  any  delegation  of  authority  to  the  ori- 
ginal nature  of  Polish  independence,  that 
this  beneficial  institution  never  was  esta- 
blished in  Poland  but  in  the  most  incom- 
plete manner.  Its  introduction  corrected 
none  of  the  ancient  abuses.  The  King 
was  still  the  president  of  tumultuous  as- 
semblies ;  surrounded  by  obstacles  on 
every  side;  controlled  by  generals  and  mi- 
nisters not  of  his  own  selection;  obliged  to 
defend  the  acts  of  a  cabinet  which  he  could 
not  control,  against  the  cries  of  a  furious 
diet.  And  these  diets,  which  united,  sabre 
in  hand,  under  the  eye  of  the  sovereign, 
and  still  treated  of  all  the  important  affairs 
of  the  state — of  war  and  peace,  the  elec- 
tion of  a  sovereign,  the  formation  of  laws 
—which  gave  audience  to  ambassadors, 
and  administered  justice  in  important 
cases— were  still  the  Champs  de  Mars  of 
the  northern  tribes,  and  partook  to  the 
very  last  of  all  the  vices  of  the  savage 
character.  There  was  the  same  confu- 
sion of  powers,  the  same  elements  of  dis- 
order, the  same  license  to  themselves,  the 
same  tyranny  over  others. 

"  This  attempt  at  a  representative  go- 
vernment was  destructive  to  the  last 
shadow  of  the  royal  authority ;  the  meet- 


1831.] 

ings  of  the  deputies  became  fixed  and  fre- 
quent ;  the  power  of  the  sovereign  was 
lost  without  any  permanent  body  arising 
to  receive  it  in  his  room.  The  system  of 
deputations  made  slow  progress  ;  and  in 
several  provinces  was  never  admitted. 
General  diets,  where  the  whole  nation 
assembled,  became  more  rare,  and  there- 
fore more  perilous ;  and  as  they  were  con- 
voked only  on  great  occasions,  and  to 
discuss  weighty  interests,  the  fervour  of 
passion  was  superadded  to  the  inexperi- 
ence of  business. 

"  Speedily  the  representative  assem- 
blies became  the  object  of  jealousy  on  the 
part  of  this  democratic  race;  and  the 
citizens  of  the  republic  sought  only  to  li- 
mit the  powers  which  they  had  conferred 
on  their  representatives.  Often  the  jea- 
lous multitude,  terrified  at  the  powers 
with  which  they  had  invested  the  depu- 
ties, were  seized  with  a  sudden  panic,  and 
hastened  together  from  all  quarters  with 
their  arms  in  their  hands  to  watch  over  their 
proceedings.  Such  assemblies  were  styled 
«  Diets  under  the  Buckler.'  But  gene- 
rally they  restricted  and  qualified  their 
powers  at  the  moment  of  election.  The 
electors  confined  their  parliaments  to  a 
circle  of  limited  questions:  gave  them 
obligatory  directions ;  and  held,  after  every 
session,  what  they  called  post-  comitial  diets ; 
the  object  of  which  was  to  exact  from  every 
deputy  a  rigid  account  of  the  execution  of 
his  mandate.  Thus  every  question  of  im- 
portance was,  in  effect,  decided  in  the  pro- 
vinces before  it  was  debated  in  the  national 
assembly.  And,  as  unanimity  was  still 
considered  essential  to  a  decision,  the 
passing  of  any  legislative  act  became  im. 
possible  when  there  was  any  variance  be- 
tween the  instructions  to  the  deputies. 
Thus  the  majority  were  compelled  to  dis- 
regard  the  protestations  of  the  minority; 
and,  to  guard  against  that  tyranny,  the 
only  remedy  seemed  to  establish,  in  fa- 
vour of  the  outvoted  minority,  the  right  of 
civil  war.  Confederations  were  establish- 
ed; armed  leagues,  formed  of  discontented 
nobles,  who  elected  a  marshal  or  president, 
and  opposed  decrees  to  decrees,  force  to 
force,  diet  to  diet,  tribune  to  tribune  ;  and 
had  alternately  the  King  for  its  leader  and 
its  captive.  What  deplorable  institutions, 
which  opened  to  all  the  discontented  a  legal 
channel  for  spreading  anarchy  through 
their  country!  The  only  astonishing 
thing  is,  that  the  valour  of  the  Polish  no- 
bility so  long  succeeded  in  concealing 
these  mortal  defects  in  their  institutions. 
One  would  have  imagined  that  a  nation, 
under  such  customs,  could  not  exist  a  year; 
and  yet  it  seemed  never  weary  either  of 
victories  or  folly."— I,  116. 


No.  I.    Salvandy. 


No  apology  is  necessary  for  the 
length  of  these  quotations ;  for  they 
are  not  only  illustrative  of  the  causes 
of  the  uniform  disasters  of  Poland, 
but  eminently  instructive  as  to  the 
tendency  of  democratic  institutions 
all  over  the  world. 

There  is  no  danger  that  the  inhabi- 
tants of  England  or  France  will  flock 
in  person  to  the  opening  of  Parlia- 
ment, and  establish  diets  of  two  or 
three  hundred  thousand  freemen, 
with  sabres  by  their  sides ;  but  there 
is  a  very  great  danger,  that  they  will 
adopt  the  democratic  jealousy  of  their 
representatives,  and  fix  them  down 
by  fixed  instructions  to  a  course  of 
conduct  which  will  both  render  nu- 
gatory all  the  advantages  of  a  delibe- 
rative assembly,  and  sow  the  seeds 
of  dissension,  jealousy,  and  civil  war 
between  the  different  members  of 
the  state.  This  is  the  more  to  be  ap- 
prehended, because  this  evil  was  felt 
m  the  strongest  manner  in  France 
during  the  progress  of  the  Revolu- 
tion, and  has  appeared  in  America 
most  remarkably  even  during  the 
brief  period  of  its  political  existence. 

The  Legislators  of  America  are 
not  in  any  sense  statesmen  ;  they  are 
merely  delegates,  bound  to  obey  the 
directions  of  their  constituents,  and 
sent  there  to  forward  the  indivi- 
dual interest  of  the  province,  dis- 
trict, or  borough  which  they  re- 
present. Their  debates  are  languid 
and  uninteresting;  conducted  with 
no  idea  whatever  of  convincing,  but 
merely  of  shewing  the  constituents 
of  each  member  what  he  had  done 
for  his  daily  hire  of  seven  dollars. 
The  Constituents  Assembly  met,  with 
cahiers  or  instructions  to  the  depu- 
ties from  all  the  electors ;  and  so 
much  did  this  jealousy  of  the  legis- 
lature increase  with  the  progress  of 
the  movements  in  France,  that  the 
surest  road  to  popularity  with  the 
electors  was  soon  found  to  be,  the 
most  abject  professions  of  submis- 
sion to  their  will.  Every  one  knows 
how  long  and  vehemently  annual 
parliaments  have  been  demanded  by 
the  English  radicals,  in  order  to  give 
them  an  opportunity  of  constantly 
exercising  this  surveillance  over  their 
representatives;  and  how  many  mem- 
bers of  the  present  House  of  Com- 
mons are  under  a  positive  pledge  to 
their  constituents  on  more  than  one 
raomeutQus  question.  It  is  interest- 


23G 


Modern  French  Historians. 


[Aug. 


ing  to  observe  hoxv  much  mankind, 
under  all  varieties  of  climate,  situa- 
tion, and  circumstances,  are  govern- 
ed by  the  same  principles;  and  to 
trace  the  working  of  the  same  causes 
in  Polish  anarchy,  French  revolu- 
tions, American  selfishness,  and  Bri- 
tish democracy. 

Whoever  considers  the  matter  dis- 
passionately, and  attends  to  the  les- 
sons of  history,  must  arrive  at  the 
conclusion, that  this  democratic  spirit 
cannot  coexist  with  regular  govern- 
ment or  national  independence  in 
ancient  states;  and  that  Polish  an- 
archy is  the  necessary  prelude  in  all 
such  communities  to  Muscovite  op- 
pression. The  reason  is  eternal,  and 
being  founded  in  the  nature  of  things, 
must  be  the  same  in  all  ages.  When 
the  true  democratic  spirit  is  once  ge- 
nerally diffused,  men  invariably  ac- 
quire such  an  inordinate  jealousy  of 
their  superiors,  that  they  thwart  all 
measures,  even  of  the  most  obvious 
and  undeniable  utility;  and  by  a 
perpetual  change  of  governors,  gra- 
tify their  own  equalising  spirit,  at 
the  expense  of  the  best  interests  of 
the  state.  This  disposition  appears 
at  present  in  France,  and  England, 
in  the  rapid  changes  of  administra- 
tion which  have  taken  place  within 
the  last  few  years,  to  the  total  de- 
struction of  any  uniformity  of  go- 
vernment, or  the  prosecution  of  any 
systematic  plan  for  the  public  good : 
it  appears  in  America  in  the  execra- 
ble system  of  rotation  of  office,  in 
other  words,  of  the  expulsion  of 
every  man  from  official  situations, 
the  moment  he  becomes  qualified  to 
hold  them,  which  a  recent  able  ob- 
server has  so  well  exposed  ;*  it  ap- 
peared in  Poland  in  the  uniform 
weakness  of  the  executive,  and  pe- 
riodical returns  of  anarchy,  which 
rendered  them,  in  despite  of  their 
native  valour,  unfortunate  in  every 
contest,  and  at  last,  led  to  the  parti- 
tion of  the  republic. 

Never  was  there  a  truer  observa- 
tion, than  that  wherever  the  ten- 
dency of  prevailing  institutions  is 
hurtful,  there  is  an  under  current 
perpetually  flowing,  destined  to  cor- 
rect them.  As  this  equalising  and 
democratic  spirit  is  utterly  destruc- 
tive to  the  best  interests  of  society, 


and  the  happiness  of  the  veiy  people 
who  indulge  in  it,  so  by  the  wisdom 
of  nature,  it  leads  rapidly  and  cer- 
tainly to  its  own  destruction,  The 
moment  that  it  became  paramount 
in  the  Roman  Republic,  it  led  to  the 
civil  convulsions  which  brought  on 
the  despotism  of  the  Caesars ;  its  ca- 
reer was  rapidly  cut  short  in  France 
by  the  sword  of  Napoleon ;  it  exter- 
minated Poland  from  the  book  of 
nations;  it  threatens  to  close  the 
long  line  of  British  greatness ;  it  will 
convulse  or  subjugate  America,  the 
moment  that  growing  republic  is 
brought  in  contact  with  warlike 
neighbours,  or  finds  the  safety-valve 
of  the  back  settlements  closed  against 
the  escape  of  turbulent  multitudes. 
The  father  of  John  Sobieski,  whose 
estates  lay  in  the  Ukraine,  has  left  a 
curious  account  of  the  manners  and 
habits  of  the  Cossacks  in  his  time, 
which  was  about  200  years  ago. 
"  The  great  majority,"  said  he,  "  of 
these  wandering  tribes,  think  of  no- 
thing but  the  affairs  of  their  little 
families,  and  encamp,  as  it  were,  in 
the  midst  of  the  towns  which  be- 
long to  the  crown  or  the  noblesse. 
They  interrupt  the  ennui  of  repose 
by  frequent  assemblies,  and  their 
comitia  are  generally  civil  wars, often 
attended  by  profuse  bloodshed.  It 
is  there  that  they  choose  their  het- 
man,  or  chief,  by  acclamation,  follow- 
ed by  throwing  their  bearskin  caps 
in  the  air.  Such  is  the  inconstancy  in 
the  multitude,that  they  frequently  de- 
stroy their  own  work  ;  but  as  long  as 
the  hetman  remains  in  power,  he  has 
the  right  of  life  and  death.  The  town 
Tretchmiron,  in  KiovSa,  is  the  arsenal 
of  their  warlike  implements  and 
their  treasure.  There  is  deposited 
the  booty  taken  by  their  pirates  in 
Romelia  and  Asia  Minor ;  and  there 
are  also  preserved  with  religious 
care,  the  immunities  granted  to  their 
nation  by  the  republic.  There  are 
displayed  the  standards  which  the 
king  sends  them,  whenever  they  take 
up  arms  for  the  service  of  the  re- 
public. It  is  round  this  royal  stand- 
ard that  the  nation  assemble  in  their 
comitia.  The  hetman  there  does  not 
presume  to  address  the  multitude 
but  with  his  head  uncovered,  with  a 
respectful  air,  ready  to  exculpate 


Captain  Hall, 


1831.] 


himself  from  all  the  charges  brought 
against  him,  and  to  solicit  humbly 
his  share  of  the  spoils  taken  from  the 
enemies.  These  fierce  peasants  are 
passionately  fond  of  war ;  few  are 
acquainted  with  the  use  of  the  mus- 
ket; the  pistol  and  sabre  are  their 
ordinary  weapons.  Thanks  to  their 
light  and  courageous  squadrons,  Po- 
land can  face  the  infantry  of  the  most 
powerful  nations  on  earth.  They  are 
as  serviceable  iu  retreat  as  in  suc- 
cess j  when  discomfited,  they  form, 
with  their  chariots  ranged  in  several 
lines  in  a  circular  form,  an  entrench- 
ed camp,  to  which  no  other  fortifica- 
tions can  be  compared.  Behind  that 
tabor,  they  defy  the  attacks  of  the 
most  formidable  enemy." 

Of  the  species  of  troops  who  com- 
posed the  Polish  army,  our  author 
gives  the  following  curious  account, 
— a  striking  proof  of  the  national 
weakness  which  follows  the  fatal 
passion  for  equality,  which  formed 
their  grand  national  characteristic : 

"  Five  different  kinds  of  soldiers  com- 
posed the  Polish  army.     There  was,  in 
the  first  place,  the  mercenaries,  composed 
of  Hungarians,  Wallachians,   Cossacks, 
Tartars,  and  Germans,  who  would  have 
formed  the  strength  and  nucleus  of  the 
army,  had  it  not  been  that  on  the  least 
delay  in  their  payments,  they  invariably 
turned   their  arms   against  the  govern- 
ment :     the  national  troops,   to   whose 
maintenance  a  fourth  of  the  national  reve- 
nue was  devoted  :   the  volunteers,  under 
which  name  were  included  the  levies  of 
the  great  nobles,  and  the  ordinary  guards 
which  they  maintained  in  time  of  peace  : 
the  Pospolite,  that  is,  the  array  of  the 
whole  free  citizens,  who,  after  three  sum- 
monses from  the  king,  were  obliged  to 
come  forth  under  the  banners  of  their 
respective  palatines,  but  only  to  remain 
a  few  months  in  the  field,  and  could  not 
be  ordered  beyond  the  frontiers.     This 
last  unwieldy  body,  however  brave,  was 
totally  deficient  in  discipline,  and  in  ge- 
neral served  only  to  manifest  the  weak- 
ness of  the  republic.    It  was  seldom  call- 
ed forth  but  in  civil  wars.     The  legions 
of  valets,  groom?,  and  drivers,  who  en- 
cumbered the  other  force,  may  be  term- 
ed a  fifth  branch  of  the  military  force  of 
Poland ;  but  these  fierce  retainers,  natu- 
rally warlike  and  irascible,   injured  the 
army  more  by  their  pillage  and  dissen- 
sions, than  they  assisted  it  by  their  num- 
bers. 

"  All  these  different  troops  were  defi- 
cient in  equipment;  obliged  to  provide 


No.  /.     Salvantty.  287 

themselves  with  every  thing,  and  to  co!» 
lect  their  subsistence  by  their  own  autho 
rity,  they  were  encumbered  with  an  incre- 
dible quantity  of  baggage- waggons,  des-- 
lined,  for  the  most  part,  less  to  convey 
provisions  than  carry  off  plunder.  They 
had  no  corps  of  engineers  ;  the  artillery, 
composed  of  a  few  pieces  of  small  ca- 
libre, had  no  other  officers  than  a  few 
French  adventurers,  upon  whose  adhe- 
rence to  the  republic  implicit  reliance  could 
not  be  placed.  The  infantry  were  few 
in  number,  composed  entirely  of  the 
mercenary  and  royal  troops  ;  but  this 
arm  was  regarded  with  contempt  by  the 
haughty  nobility.  The  foot  soldiers  were 
employed  in  digging  ditches,  throwing 
bridges,  and  cutting  down  forests,  rather 
than  actual  warfare.  Sobieski  was  ex. 
ceedingly  desirous  of  having  in  his  camp 
a  considerable  force  of  infantry  ;  but  two 
invincible  obstacles  prevented  it, — the 
prejudices  of  the  country,  and  the  penury 
of  the  royal  treasury. 

"  The  whole  body  of  the  Pospolite, 
the  volunteers,  the  valets  d'armee,  and  a 
large  part  of  the  mercenaries  and  national 
troops,  served  on  horseback.     The  heavy 
cavalry,   in  particular,    constituted   the 
strength  of  the  armies ;  there  were  to  be 
found  united,  riches,  splendour,  and  num- 
ber.    They  were  divided  into  cuirassiers 
and  hussars ;  the  former  clothed  in  steel, 
man  and  horse  bearing  casque  and  cuirass, 
lance  and  sabre,  bows  and  carabines ;  the 
latter  defended  only  by  a  twisted  hauberk, 
which  descended  from  the  head,  over  the 
shoulders  and  breast,  and  armed  with  a 
sabre    and  pistol.      Both   were   distin- 
guished by  the  splendour  of  their  dress 
and  equipage,  and  the  number  and  costly 
array  of  their  mounted  servants,  accou- 
tred in  the  most  bizarre  manner,  with 
huge  black  plumes,  and  skins  of  bears 
and  other  wild  beasts.     It  was  the  boast 
of  this  body,  that  they  were  composed  of 
men,  all  measured,  as  they  expressed  it, 
by  the  same  standard ;  that  is,  equal  in 
nobility,  equally  enjoying  the  rights  to 
obey  only  their  God  and  their  swords, 
and  equally  destined,  perhaps,  to  step  one 
day  into  the  throne  of  the  Piasts  and  the 
Jagellons.     The  hussars  and  cuirassiers 
were  called   Towarzirz,   that  is,  compa- 
nions;   they  called  each  other  by  that 
name,  and  they  were  designated  in  the 
same  way  by  the  sovereign,  whose  chief 
boast  would  be  Primus  inter  pares,  the 
first  among  equals." — I.  129.      .  Jj  )39i 
With  so  motley  and  discordant  a 
force,  it  is  not  surprising  that  Poland 
was  unable  to  make  head  against  the 
steady  ambition  and  regular  forces  of 
the  military  monarchies  with  which 


Modern  French  Historians. 


238 

it  was  surrounded.  It8  history  ac- 
cordingly exhibits  the  usual  feature 
of  all  democratic  societies — occa- 
sional bursts  of  patriotism,  and  splen- 
did efforts  followed  by  dejection,  an- 
archy, and  misrule.  It  is  a  stormy 


[Aug. 

the  most  part  ill-  armed,  assembled  in  haste, 
destitute  of  resources,  magazines,  or  pro- 
visions—worn out  with  the  fatigues  and 
the  privations  of  a  winter  campaign.  Deep 
ditches,  the  rocky  bed  of  torrents,  preci- 
pitous walls  of  rock,  composed  the  field 


es  of  lightning,  never  by  the  steady 
radiance  of  the  morning  sun. 

One  of  the  most  glorious  of  these 
flashes  is  the  victory  of  Kotzim,  the 
first  great  achievement  of  John  So- 
bieski. 

"  Kotzim  is  a  strong  castle,  situated 
four  leagues  from  Kamaniek,  on  a  rocky 
projection  which  runs  into  the  Dneiper, 
impregnable  from  the  river,  and  surround- 
ed on  the  other  side  by  deep  and  rocky 
ravines.     A  bridge  thrown  over  one  of 
them,  united  it  to  the  entrenched  camp, 
where  Hussein  Pacha  had  posted  his 
army.     That  camp,  defended  by  ancient 
fieldworks,  extended  along  the  banks  of 
the  Dneiper,  and  was  guarded  on  the 
side  of  Moldavia,  the  sole  accessible  quar- 
ter, by  precipices  cut  in  the  solid  rock, 
and  impassable  morasses.      The  art  of 
the  Ottomans  had  added  to  the  natural 
strength  of  the  position  ;  the  plain  over 
which,  after  the  example  of  the  Romans, 
that  military  colony  was  intended  to  rule, 
was  intersected  to  a  great  distance  by 
canals  and  ditches,   whose   banks  were 
strengthened  by  palisades.     A  powerful 
artillery  defended  all  the  avenues  to  the 
camp,  and  there  reposed,  under  magnifi- 
cent tents,    the   Turkish  generalissimo 
and  eighty  thousand  veterans,  when  they 
were  suddenly  startled  by  the  sight  of 
the   Polish    banners,    which  moved  in 
splendid    array   round    their    entrench- 
meats,  and  took   up  a  position  almost 
under  the  fire  of  their  artillery. 

"  The  spot  was  animating  to  the  recol- 
lections of  the  Christian  host.  Fifty  years 
before,  James  Sobieski  had  conquered  a 
glorious  peace  under  the  walls  of  that  very 
castle :  and  against  its  ramparts,  after  the 
disaster  of  the  Kobilta,  the  power  of  the 
young  Sultan  Osman  had  dashed  itself  in 
vain.  Now  the  sides  were  changed;  the 
Turks  held  the  entrenched  camp,  and  the 
army  of  the  son  of  James  Sobieski  filled 
the  plain. 

"  The  smaller  force  had  now  to  make 
the  assault;  the  larger  army  was  en- 
trenched behind  ramparts  better  fortified, 
better  armed  with  cannon,  than  those 
which  Sultan  Osman  and  his  300,000 
Mussulmen  sought  in  vain  to  wrest  from 
the  feeble  army  of  Wladislaus.  The 
Turks  were  now  grown  grey  in  victories, 
and  the  assailants  were  young  troops,  for 


combat  an  enemy  reposing  tranquilly 
under  the  laurels  of  victory,  beneath 
sumptuous  tents,  and  behind  ramparts 
defended  by  an  array  of  300  pieces  of 
cannon.  The  night  passed  on  the  Polish 
side  in  mortal  disquietude  ;  the  mind  of 
the  general,  equally  with  the  soldiers, 
was  overwhelmed  with  anxiety.  The 
enterprise  which  he  had  undertaken  seem- 
ed above  human  strength;  the  army  had 
no  chance  of  safety  but  in  victory,  and 
there  was  too  much  reason  to  fear  that 
treachery,  or  division  in  his  own  troops, 
would  snatch  it  from  his  grasp,  and  de- 
liver down  his  name  with  disgrace  to 
posterity. 

"  Sobieski  alone  was  inaccessible  to 
fear.  When  the  troops  were  drawn  forth 
on  the  following  morning,  the  Grand  Het- 
man  of  Lithuania  declared  the  attack  des- 
perate, and  his  resolution  to  retreat. 
«  Retreat,'  cried  the  Polish  hero,  '  is  im- 
possible. We  should  only  find  a  dis- 
graceful death  in  the  morasses  with  which 
we  are  surrounded,  a  few  leagues  from 
hence ;  better  far  to  brave  it  at  the  foot 
of  the  enemy's  entrenchments.  But 
what  ground  is  there  for  apprehension  ? 
Nothing  disquiets  me  but  what  I  hear 
from  you.  Your  menaces  are  our  only 
danger.  I  am  confident  you  will  not 
execute  them.  If  Poland  is  to  be  effaced 
from  the  book  of  nations,  you  will  not 
allow  our  children  to  exclaim,  that  if  a 
Paz  had  not  fled,  they  would  not  have 
wanted  a  country.'  Vanquished  by  the 
magnanimity  of  Sobieski,  and  the  cries  of 
Sapieha  and  Radziwik,  the  Lithuanian 
chief  promised  not  to  desert  his  country- 
men. 

"  Sobieski  then  ranged  his  faltering 
battalions  in  order  of  battle,  and  the 
Turks  made  preparations  to  receive  be- 
hind their  entrenchments  the  seemingly 
hopeless  attack  of  the  Christians.  Their 
forces  were  ranged  in  a  semicircle,  and 
their  forty  field-pieces  advanced  in  front, 
battered  in  breach  the  palisades  which 
were  placed  across  the  approaches  to  the 
Turkish  palisades.  Kouski,  the  command- 
er of  the  artillery,  performed  under  the 
superior  fire  of  the  enemy,  prodigies  of 
valour.  The  breaches  were  declared 
practicable  in  the  evening;  and  when  night 
came,  the  Christian  forces  of  the  two 
principalities  of  Walachia  and  Moldavia 
deserted  the  camp  of  the  Infidels,  to  range 


1831.]  AT<7.  J. 

themselves  under  the  standard  of  the 
cross ;  a  cheering  omen,  for  troops  never 
desert  but  to  the  side  which  they  imagine 
will  prove  successful. 

"  The  weather  was  dreadful ;  the  snow 
fell  in  great  quantities  j  the  ranks  were 
obstructed  by  its  drifts.  In  the  midst  of 
that  severe  tempest,  Sobieski  kept  his 
troops  under  arms  the  whole  night.  In 
the  morning  they  were  buried  in  the  snow, 
exhausted  by  cold  and  suffering.  Then 
he  gave  the  signal  of  attack.  '  Compa- 
nions,' said  he,  in  passing  through  the 
lines,  his  clothes,  bis  hair,  his  mustaches 
covered  with  icicles, '  I  deliver  to  you  an 
enemy  already  half  vanquished.  You  have 
Buffered,  the  Turks  are  exhausted.  The 
troops  of  Asia  can  never  endure  the  hard- 
ships of  the  last  twenty,  four  hours. 
The  cold  has  conquered  them  to  our 
hand.  Whole  troops  of  them  are  already 
sinking  under  their  sufferings,  while  we, 
inured  to  the  climate,  are  only  animated 
by  it  to  fresh  exertions.  It  is  for  us  to 
save  the  republic  from  shame  and  slavery. 
Soldiers  of  Poland,  recollect  that  you 
fight  for  your  country,  and  that  Jesus 
Christ  combats  for  you.' 

"  Sobieski  had  thrice  heard  mass  since 
the  rising  of  the  sun.  The  day  was  the 
file  of  St  Martin  of  Tours.  The  chiefs 
founded  great  hopes  on  his  intercession  : 
the  priests,  who  had  followed  their 
masters  to  the  field  of  battle,  traversed 
the  ranks,  recounting  the  actions  of 
that  great  apostle  of  the  French,  and  all 
that  they  might  expect  from  his  known 
zeal  for  the  faith.  He  was  a  Slavonian 
by  birth.  Could  there  be  any  doubt,  then, 
that  the  Christians  would  triumph  when 
his  glory  was  on  that  day  in  so  peculiar 
a  manner  interested  in  performing  mi- 
racles in  their  favour  ? 

"  An  accidental  circumstance  gave  the 
highest  appearance  of  truth  '  to  these 
ideas.  The  Grand  Marshal,  who  had 
just  completed  his  last  reconnoissance 
of  the  enemy's  lines,  returned  with  his 
countenance  illuminated  by  the  presage 
of  victory — '  My  companions,'  he  ex- 
claimed, '  in  half  an  hour  we  shall  be  lod- 
ged under  these  gilded  tents.'  In  fact, 
he  had  discovered  that  the  point  against 
which  he  intended  to  direct  his  principal 
attack  was  not  defended  but  by  a  few 
troops  benumbed  by  the  cold.  He  im- 
mediately made  several  feigned  assaults 
to  distract  the  attention  of  the  enemy, 
and  directed  against  the  palisades,  by 
which  he  intended  to  enter,  the  fire  of  a 
battery  already  erected.  The  soldiers 
immediately  recollected  that  the  preced- 
ing evening  they  had  made  the  utmost 
efforts  to  draw  the  cannon  beyond  that 
point,  but  that  a  power  apparently  more 


Salvandy. 


239 


than  human  had  chained  them  to  the 
spot,  from  whence  now  they  easily  beat 
down  the  obstacles  to  the  army's  ad- 
vance, and  cleared  the  road  to  victory. 
Who  was  so  blind  as  not  to  see  in  that 
circumstance  the  miraculous  intervention 
of  Gregory  of  Tours  ! 

"  At  that  moment  the  army  knelt 
down  to  receive  the  benediction  of  Fa- 
ther Przeborowski,  confessor  of  the 
Grand  Hetman ;  and  his  prayer  being 
concluded,  Sobieski,  dismounting  from 
his  horse,  ordered  his  infantry  to  move 
forward  to  the  assault  of  the  newly 
opened  breach  in  the  palisades,  he  him- 
self, sword  in  hand,  directing  the  way* 
The  armed  valets  followed  rapidly  in 
their  footsteps.  That  courageous  band 
were  never  afraid  to  tread  the  path  of 
danger  in  the  hopes  of  plunder.  In  a 
moment  the  ditches  were  filled  up  and 
passed ;  with  one  bound  the  troops  ar- 
rived at  the  foot  of  the  rocks.  The  Grand 
Hetman,  after  that  first  success,  had 
hardly  time  to  remount  on  horseback, 
when,  on  the  heights  of  the  entrenched 
camp,  were  seen  the  standard  of  the  cross 
and  the  eagle  of  Poland.  Petrikowski 
and  Denhoff,  of  the  royal  race  of  the 
Piasts,  had  first  mounted  the  ramparts, 
and  raised  their  ensigns.  At  this  joyful 
sight,  a  hurra  of  triumph  rose  from  the 
Polish  ranks,  and  rent  the  heavens ;  the 
Turks  were  seized  with  consternation ; 
they  had  been  confounded  at  that  sudden 
attack,  made  at  a  time  when  they  ima- 
gined the  severity  of  the  weather  had 
made  the  Christians  renounce  their  pe- 
rilous enterprise.  Such  was  the  confu- 
sion, that  but  for  the  extraordinary 
strength  of  the  position,  they  could  not 
have  stood  a  moment.  At  this  critical 
juncture,  Hussein,  deceived  by  a  false  at- 
tack of  Czarnicki,  hastened  with  his  ca- 
valry to  the  other  side  of  the  camp,  and 
the  spahis,  conceiving  that  he  was  flying, 
speedily  took  to  flight. 

"  But  the  Janizzaries  were  not  yet  van- 
quished. Inured  to  arms,  they  rapidly 
formed  their  ranks,  and  falling  upon  the 
valets,  who  had  dispersed  in  search  of 
plunder,  easily  put  them  to  the  sword. 
Fortunately,  Sobieski  had  had  time  to 
employ  his  foot  soldiers  in  levelling  the 
ground,  and  rendering  accessible  the  ap- 
proaches to  the  summits  of  the  hills. 
The  Polish  cavalry  came  rushing  in  with 
a  noise  like  thunder.  The  hussars,  the 
cuirassiers,  with  burning  torches  affixed 
to  their  lances,  scaled  precipices  which 
seemed  hardly  accessible  to  foot  soldiers. 
Inactive  till  that  moment,  Paz  now  roused 
his  strength.  Ever  the  rival  of  Sobieski, 
he  rushed  forward  with  his  Lithuanian 
nobles  in  the  midst  of  every  danger,  to 


( >  lil,^»  • 
240  Modern  French  Historians. 

Ife   ,u,W   hvo    Oj  lltUO{    <nM 

endeavour  to  arrive  first  in  the  Ottoman 
camp.  It  was  too  late; — already  the 
flaming  lances  of  the  Grand  lletman 
gleamed  on  the  summits  of  the  entrench- 
ments, and  ever  attentive  to  the  duties  of 
a  commander,  Sjbieski  was  employed  in 
re-forming  the  ranks  of  the  assailants,  dis- 
ordered by  the  assault  and  their  success, 
and  preparing  for  a  new  battle  in  the 
midst  of  that  city  of  tents,  which,  though 
surprised,  seemed  not  subdued. 

"  But  the  astonishment  and  confusion 
of  the  besieged,  the  cries  of  the  women, 
shut  up  in  the  Harams,  the  thundering 
charges  of  the  heavy  squadrons  clothed  in 
steel  invulnerable,  and  composed  of  im- 
petuous young  men,  gave  the  Turks  no 
time  to  recover  from  their  consternation. 
It  was  no  longer  a  battle,  but  a  massacre. 
Demetrius  and  the  Lithuanian  met  at  the 
same  time  in  the  invaded  camp.  A  cry 
of  liorror  no\vrose  from  the  Turkish  ranks, 
and  they  rushed  in  crowds  to  the  bridge 
of  boats  which  crossed  the  Dniester,  and 
formed  the  sole  communication  between 
Kotzim,and  the  fortified  city  of  Kamaniek. 
In  the  struggle  to  reach  this  sole  outlet 
from  destruction,  multitudes  killed  each 
other.  But  Sobieski's  foresight  had  de- 
prived the  vanquished  even  of  this  last 
resource.  His  brother-in-law,  Radzewil, 
had  during  the  tumult  glided  unpercei- 
ved  through  the  bottom  of  the  ravines, 
and  at  the  critical  moment  made  himself 
master  of  the  bridge,  and  the  heights  which 
commanded  it.  The  only  resource  of 
the  fugitives  was  now  to  throw  themselves 
into  the  waves.  20,000  men  perished  at 
that  fatal  point,  either  on  the  shores  or 
in  the  half-congealed  stream.  Insatiable 
in  carnage,  the  hussars  led  by  Maziniki 
pursued  them  on  horseback  into  the  bed 
of  the  Dneiper,  and  sabred  thousands  when 
straggling  in  the  stream.  40,000  dead 
bodies  were  found  in  the  precincts  of  the 
camp.  The  water  of  the  river  for  several 
leagues  ran  red  with  blood,  and  corpses 
were  thrown  up  with  every  wave  on  its 
deserted  shores. 

"  At  the  news  of  this  extraordinary 
triumph,  the  Captain  Pacha,  who  was 
advancing  with  a  fresh  army  to  invade 
Poland,  set  fire  to  his  camp,  and  hasten- 
ed across  the  Danube.  The  Moldavians 
and  Walachians  made  their  submission  to 
the  conqueror,  and  the  Turks,  recently  so 
arrogant,  began  to  tremble  for  their  capi- 
tal. Europe,  electrified  with  these  suc- 
cesses, returned  thanks  for  the  greatest 
victory  gained  for  three  centuries  over  the 
infidels.  Christendom  quivered  with  joy, 
as  if  it  had  just  escaped  from  ignominy 
and  bondage." — II.  130—153. 

"  But  while  Europe  was  awaiting  the 
intelligence  of  the  completion  of  the  over- 


[Aug. 

throw  of  the  Osmanlis,  desertion  and 
flight  had  ruined  the  Polish  army.  Whole 
Palatinates  had  abandoned  their  colours. 
They  were  desirous  to  carry  off  in  safety 
the  spoils  of  the  East,  and  to  prepare  for 
that  new  field  of  battle  which  the  election 
of  the  King  of  Poland,  who  died  at  this 
juncture,  presented.  Sobieski  remained 
almost  alone  on  the  banks  of  the  Dnies- 
ter. At  the  moment  when  Walachia  and 
Moldavia  were  throwing  themselves  under 
the  protection  of  the  Polish  crown,  when 
the  Capitan  Pacha  was  flying  to  the  foot 
of  Balkan,  and  Sobieski  was  dreaming 
of  changing  the  face  of  the  world,  his  army 
dissolved.  The  Turks,  at  this  unexpected 
piece  of  fortune,  recovered  from  their  ter- 
ror ;  and  the  rule  of  the  Mussulmen  was 
perpetuated  for  two  centuries  in  Europe." 
—II.  165. 

This  victory  and  the  subsequent 
dissolution  of  the  army,  so  charac- 
teristic both  of  the  glories  and  the 
inconstancy  of  Poland,  great  as  it  was, 
was  eclipsed  by  the  splendours  of  the 
deliverance  of  Vienna.  The  account 
of  the  previous  election  of  this  great 
man  to  the  throne  of  Poland  is  sin- 
gularly characteristic  of  Polish  man- 
ners. 


"  The  plain  of  Vola  to  the  west  of  War- 
saw had  been  the  theatre,  from  the  ear- 
liest times,  of  the  popular  elections.  Al- 
ready the  impatient  Pospolite  covered 
that  vast  extent  with  its  waves,  like  an 
army  prepared  to  commence  an  assault 
on  a  fortified  town.  The  innumerable 
piles  of  arms ;  the  immense  tables  round 
which  faction  united  their  supporters; 
a  thousand  jousts  with  the  javelin  or  the 
lance;  a  thousand  squadrons  engaged 
in  mimic  war;  a  thousand  parties  of  pala- 
tines, governors  of  castles,  and  other  dig- 
nified authorities  who  traversed  the  ranks 
distributing  exhortations,  party  songs,  and 
largesses  ;  a  thousand  cavalcades  of  gen- 
tlemen, who  rode,  according  to  custom, 
with  their  battle-axes  by  their  sides,  and 
discussed  at  the  gallop  the  dearest  inte- 
rests of  the  republic ;  innumerable  quar- 
rels, originating  in  drunkenness,  and  ter- 
minating in  blood :  Such  were  the  scenes 
of  tumult,  amusement,  and  war, — a  faith- 
ful mirror  of  Poland, — which,  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  reach,  filled  the  plain. 

"  The  arena  was  closed  in  by  a  vast 
circle  of  tents,  which  embraced,  as  in  an 
immense  girdle,  the  plain  of  Vola,  the 
shores  of  the  Vistula,  and  the  spires  of 
Warsaw.  The  horizon  seemed  bounded 
by  a  range  of  snowy  mountains,  of  which 
the  summits  were  portrayed  in  the  hazy 
by  their  dazzling  whittness,— 


1831.] 


No.  L  Saloandy. 


241 


Their  camp  formed  another  city,  with  its 
markets,  its  gardens,  its  hotels,  and  its 
monuments.  There  the  great  displayed 
their  Oriental  magnificence  ;  the  nobles, 
the  palatines,  vied  with  each  other  in  the 
splendour  of  their  horses  and  equipage ; 
arid  the  stranger  who  beheld  for  the  first 
time  that  luxury,  worthy  of  the  last  and 
greatest  of  the  Xomade  people,  was  never 
weary  of  admiring  the  immense  hotels, 
the  porticoes,  the  colonnades,  the  gal- 
leries of  painted  or  gilded  stuffs,  the  cas- 
tles of  cotton  and  silk,  with  their  draw- 
bridges, towers,  and  ditches.  Thanks  to 
the  recent  victory,  a  great  part  of  these 
riches  had  been  taken  from  the  Turks. 
Judging  from  the  multitude  of  stalls,  kit- 
chens, baths,  audience  chambers,  the  ele- 
gance of  the  Oriental  architecture,  the 
taste  of  the  designs,  the  profusion  of 
gilded  crosses,  domes,  and  pagodas,  you 
would  imagine  that  the  seraglio  of  some 
Eastern  sultan  had  been  transported  by 
enchantment  to  the  banks  of  the  Vistula. 
Victory  had  accomplished  this  prodigy; 
these  were  the  tents  of  Mahomet  IV., 
taken  at  the  battle  of  Kotzim,  and  though 
Sobieski  was  absent,  his  triumphant  arms 
surmounted  the  crescent  of  Mahomet. 

"  The  Lithuanians  were  encamped  on 
the  opposite  shores  of  the  Vistula ;  and 
their  Grand  Hetman,  Michel  Paz,  had 
brought  up  his  whole  force  to  dictate 
Jaws,  as  it  were,  to  the  Polish  crown. 
Sobieski  had  previously  occupied  the 
bridge  over  the  river  by  a  regiment  of 
hussars,  upon  which  the  Lithuanians 
seized  every  house  in  the  city  which 
wealth  could  command.  These  hostile 
dispositions  were  too  significant  of  fright- 
ful disorders.  War  soon  ensued  in  the 
midst  of  the  rejoicings  between  Lithua- 
nia and  Poland.  Every  time  the  oppo- 
site factions  met,  their  strife  terminated 
in  bloodshed.  The  hostilities  extended 
even  to  the  bloody  game  of  the  Klopiches, 
which  was  played  by  a  confederation  of 
the  boys  in  the  city,  or  of  pages  and  va- 
lets, who  amused  themselves  by  forming 
troops,  electing  a  marshal,  choosing  a 
field  of  battle,  and  fighting  there  to  the 
last  extremity.  On  this  occasion  they 
were  divided  into  corps  of  Lithuanians 
and  Pales,  who  hoisted  the  colours  of 
their  respective  states,  got  fire-arms  to 
imitate  more  completely  the  habits  of  the 
equestrian  order,  and  disturbed  the  plain 
everywhere  by  their  marches,  or  terri- 
fied it  by  their  assaults.  Their  shock 
desolated  the  plain  ;  the  villages  were  in 
flames;  the  savage  huts,  of  which  the 
suburbs  of  Warsaw  were  then  composed, 
were  incessantly  invaded  and  sacked  in 
that  terrible  sport,  invented  apparently 

' 


to  inure  the  youth  to  civil  war,  and  ex- 
tend even  to  the  slaves  the  enjoyments  of 
anarchy. 

"  On  the  day  of  the  elections  the  three 
orders  mounted  on  horseback.  The 
princes,  the  palatines,  the  bishops,  the 
prelates,  proceeded  towards  the  plain  of 
Vola,  surrounded  by  80,000  mounted  ci-  - 
tizens,  any  one  of  whom  might,  at  the 
expiry  of  a  few  hours,  find  himself  King 
of  Poland.  They  all  bore  in  their  couri- 
tenances,  even  under  the  livery  or  banners 
of  a  master,  the  pride  arising  from  that 
ruinous  privilege.  The  European  dress 
nowhere  appeared  on  that  solemn  occa- 
sion. The  children  of  the  desert  strove 
to  hide  the  furs  and  skins  in  which 
they  were  clothed  under  chains  of  gold 
and  the  glitter  of  jewels.  Their  bon- 
nets were  composed  of  panther-skin, 
plumes  of  eagles  or  herons  surmounted 
them :  on  their  front  were  the  most 
splendid  precious  stones.  Their  robes 
of  sable  or  ermine  were  bound  with  vel- 
vet or  silver:  their  girdle  studded  with 
jewels;  overall  their  furs  were  suspend- 
ed chains  of  diamonds.  One  hand  of 
each  nobleman  was  without  a  glove ;  on 
it  was  the  splendid  ring  on  which  the  arms 
of  his  family  were  engraved ;  the  mark,  as 
in  ancient  Rome,  of  the  equestrian  order. 
A  new  proof  of  this  intimate  connexion 
between  the  race,  the  customs,  and  the 
traditions  of  the  northern  tribes,  and  the 
founders  of  the  Eternal  City. 

"  But  nothing  in  this  rivalry  of  magni- 
ficence could  equal  the  splendour  of  their 
arms.  Double  poniards,  double  scymi- 
tars,  set  with  brilliants ;  bucklers  of  cost- 
ly workmanship,  battle-axes  enriched  in 
silver,  and  glittering  with  emeralds  and 
sapphires;  bows  and  arrows  richly  gilt, 
which  were  borne  at  festivals,  in  remem- 
brance of  the  ancient  customs  of  the  coun- 
try, were  to  be  seen  on  every  side.  The 
horses  shared  in  this  melange  of  barbar- 
ism and  refinement;  sometimes  cased  in 
iron,  at  others  decorated  with  the  richest 
colours,  they  bent  under  the  weight  of 
the  sabres,  the  lances,  and  javelins  by 
which  the  senatorial  order  marked  their 
rank.  The  bishops  were  distinguished 
by  their  grey  or  green  hats,  and  yellow 
or  red  pantaloons,  magnificently  embroi- 
dered with  divers  colours.  Often  they 
laid  aside  their  pastoral  habits,  and  signal* 
ized  their  address  as  young  cavaliers,  by 
the  beauty  of  their  arms,  and  the  ma- 
nagement of  their  horses.  In  that  crowd 
of  the  equestrian  order,  there  was  no  gen. 
tleman  so  humble  as  not  to  try  to  rival 
this  magnificence.  Many  carried,  in  furs 
and  arms,  their  whole  fortunes  on  their 
backs-.  Numbers  bad  sold  their  votes  to 

»  J3YO  9tl) 


Modern  French  Historians. 


some  of  the  candidates,  for  the  vanity  of 
appearing  with  some  additional  ornament 
before  their  fellow. citizens.  And  the 
people,  whose  dazzled  eyes  beheld  all  this 
magnificence,  were  almost  without  cloth- 
ing ;  their  long  beards,  naked  legs,  and 
filth,  indicated,  even  more  strongly  than 
their  pale  visages  and  dejected  air,  all  the 
miseries  of  servitude."— II.  190-197. 

The  achievement  which  has  im- 
mortalized the  name  of  John  Sobieski 
ia  the  deliverance  of  Vienna  in  1683 
—of  this  glorious  achievement  M.  Sal- 
vandy  gives  the  following  interesting 
account:  — 

"  After  a  siege  of  eight  months,  and 
open  trenches  for  sixty  days,  Vienna  was 
reduced  to  the  last  extremity.  Famine, 
disease,  and  the  sword,  had  cut  off  two- 
thirds  of  its  garrison ;  and  the  inhabitants, 
depressed  by  incessant  toil  for  the  last 
six  months,  and  sickened  by  long  deferred 
hope,  were  given  up  to  despair.  Many 
breaches  were  made  in  the  walls ;  the 
massy  bastions  were  crumbling  in  ruins, 
and  entrenchments  thrown  up  in  haste 
in  the  streets,  formed  the  last  resource  of 
the  German  capital.  Stahremborg,  the 
governor,  had  announced  the  necessity  of 
surrendering  if  not  relieved  in  three  days ; 
and  every  night  signals  of  distress  from  the 
summits  of  the  steeples,  announced  the 
extremities  to  which  they  were  reduced. 

"  One  evening,  the  sentinel  who  was 
on  the  watch  at  the  top  of  the  steeple  of 
St  Stephen's,  perceived  a  blazing  flame 
on  the  summits  of  the  Calemberg  ;  soon 
after  an  army  was  seen  preparing  to  de- 
scend the  ridge.  Every  telescope  was 
now  turned  in  that  direction,  and  from 
the  brilliancy  of  their  lances,  and  the 
splendour  of  their  banners,  it  was  easy  to 
see  that  it  was  the  Hussars  of  Poland,  so 
redoubtable  to  the  Osmanlis,  who  were 
approaching.  The  Turks  were  imme- 
diately to  be  seen  dividing  their  vast  host 
into  divisions,  one  destined  to  oppose 
this  new  enemy,  and  one  to  continue  the 
assaults  on  the  besieged.  At  the  sight  of 
the  terrible  conflict  which  was  approach- 
ing, the  women  and  children  flocked  to 
the  churches,  while  Stahremborg  led  forth 
all  that  remained  of  the  men  to  the 
breaches. 

"  The  Duke  of  Lorraine  set  forth  with 
a  few  horsemen  to  join  the  King  of  Po- 
land, and  learn  the  art  of  war,  as  he  ex- 
pressed it,  un-der  so  great  a  master.  The 
two  illustrious  commanders  soon  con- 
certed a  plan  of  operations,  and  Sobieski 
encamped  on  the  Danube,  with  all  his 
forces,  united  to  the  troops  of  the  empire. 
It  was  with  tears  of  joy,  that  the  sove- 
reigns, generals,  and  the  soldiers  of  the 


[Aug. 

Imperialists  received  the  illustrious  chief 
whom  heaven  had  sent  to  their  relief. 
Before  his  arrival  discord  reigned  in  their 
camp,  but  all  now  yielded  obedience  to 
the  Polish  hero. 

"  The  Duke  of  Lorraine  had  previous* 
ly  constructed  at  Tuln,  six  leagues  below 
Vienna,  a  triple  bridge,  which  Kara 
Mustapha,  the  Turkish  commander,  al- 
lowed to  be  formed  without  opposition. 
The  German  Electors  nevertheless  hesi- 
tated to  cross  the  river ;  the  severity  of 
the  weather,  long  rains,  and  roads  now  al- 
most impassable,  augmented  their  alarms. 
But  the  King  of  Poland  was  a  stranger 
alike  to  hesitation  as  fear;  the  state  of 
Vienna  would  admit  of  no  delay.  The 
last  dispatch  of  Stahremborg  was  simply 
in  these  words :  '  There  is  no  time  to 
lose.  * — '  There  is  no  reverse  to  fear,' 
exclaimed  Sobieski ;  '  the  general  who  at 
the  head  of  300,000  men  could  allow  that 
bridge  to  be  constructed  in  his  teeth,  can- 
not fail  to  be  defeated.' 

"  On  the  following  day  the  liberators 
of  Christendom  passed  in  review  before 
their  allies.  The  Poles  marched  first; 
the  spectators  were  astonished  at  the 
magnificence  of  their  arms,  the  splendour 
of  the  dresses,  and  the  beauty  of  the 
horses.  The  infantry  was  less  brilliant; 
one  regiment  in  particular,  by  its  batter- 
ed appearance,  hurt  the  pride  of  the  mo- 
narch—' Look  well  at  those  brave  men,' 
said  he  to  the  Imperialists ;  '  it  is  an  in- 
vincible battalion,  who  have  sworn  never 
to  renew  their  clothing,  till  they  are  ar- 
rayed in  the  spoils  of  the  Turks.'  These 
words  were  repeated  to  the  regiments ; 
if  they  did  not,  says  the  annalist,  clothe 
them,  they  encircled  every  man  with  a 
cuirass. 

"  The  Christian  army,  when  all  assem- 
bled, amounted  to  70,000  men,  of  whom 
only  30,000  were  infantry.  Of  these  the 
Poles  were  18,000. — The  principal  dis- 
quietude of  the  king  was  on  account  of 
the  absence  of  the  Cossacks,  whom  Myn- 
zwicki  had  promised  to  bring  up  to  his  as- 
sistance.—He  well  knew  what  admi- 
rable scouts  they  formed :  the  Tartars  had 
always  found  in  them  their  most  formi- 
dable enemies.  Long  experience  in  the 
Turkish  wars  had  rendered  them  exceed- 
ingly skilful  in  this  species  of  warfare : 
no  other  force  was  equal  to  them  in  seiz- 
ing prisoners  and  gaining  intelligence. 
They  were  promised  ten  crowns  for  every 
man  they  brought  in  after  this  manner : 
they  led  their  captives  to  the  tent  of 
their  king,  where  they  got  their  promised 
reward,  and  went  away  saying,  '  John,  I 
have  touched  my  money,  God  will  repay 
you.'— Bereaved  of  these  faithful  assist- 
ants, the  king  was  compelled  to  expose 


1881.] 


No.  I. 


his  hussars  in  exploring  the  dangerous 
defiles  in  which  the  army  was  about  to 
engage.  The  Imperialists,  who  could  not 
comprehend  his  attachment  to  that  undis- 
ciplined militia,  were  astonished  to  hear 
him  incessantly  exclaiming,  '  Oh  !  Myn- 
zwicki,  Oh!  Mynzwicki.'  " 

A  rocky  chain,  full  of  narrow  and 
precipitous  ravines,  of  woods  and 
rocks,  called  the  Calemberg  in  mo- 
dern times,  the  Mons  Mtms  of  the 
Romans,  separated  the  two  armies : 
the  cause  of  Christendom  from  that 
of  Mahomet.  It  was  necessary  to 
scale  that  formidable  barrier;  for 
the  mountains  advanced  witha  rocky 
front  into  the  middle  of  the  Danube. 
Fortunately,  the  negligence  of  the 
Turks  had  omitted  to  fortify  these 
posts,  where  a  few  battalions  might 
have  arrested  the  Polish  army. 


"  Nothing  could  equal  the  confidence 
of  the  Turks  but  the  disquietude  of  the 
Imperialists.     Such  was  the  terror  im- 
pressed by  the  vast  host  of  the  Mussul- 
man, that  at  the  first  cry  of  Allah!  whole 
battalions  took  to  flight.     Many   thou- 
sand peasants  were  incessantly  engaged 
in  levelling  the  roads  over  the  mountains, 
or  cutting  through  the  forest.     The  foot 
soldiers  dragged  the  artillery  with  their 
arms,   and  were  compelled  to  abandon 
the  heavier  pieces.     Chiefs  and  soldiers 
carried  each   his   own  provisions :    the 
leaves  of  the  oak  formed  the  sole  subsist- 
ence of  the  horses.     Some  scouts  reached 
the  summit  of  the  ridge  long  before  the 
remainder  of  the  army,  and  from  thence 
beheld   the   countless    myriads   of    the 
Turkish  tents  extending  to  the  walls  of 
Vienna.     Terrified  at  the  sight,  they  re- 
turned in  dismay,  and  a  contagious  panic 
began  to  spread  through  the  army.     The 
king  had  need,  to  reassure  his  troops,  of  all 
the   security   of   his    countenance,    the 
gaiety  of  his  discourse,  and  the  remem- 
brance of  the  multitudes  of  the  infidels 
whom  he  had  dispersed  in  his  life.     The 
Janizzaries  of  his  guard,  who  surrounded 
him  on  the  march,  were  so  many  living 
monuments  of  his  victories,  and  every 
one  was  astonished  that  he  ventured  to 
attack   the   Mussulmen   with   such    an 
escort.     He  offered  to  send  them  to  the 
rear,  or  even  to  give  them  a  safe  conduct 
to  the  Turkish  camp,  but  they  all  an- 
swered with  tears  in  their  eyes,  that  they 
would    live   and   die   with   him.      His 
heroism    subjugated   alike  Infidels  and 
Christians,  chiefs  and  soldiers. 

"  At  length,  on  Saturday,  September 
llth,  the  army  encamped,  at  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  forenoon,  on  the  sterile  and 


Salvandy.  243 

inhospitable  summit  of  the  Calemberg, 
and  occupied  the  convent  of  Camaldoli 
and  the  old  castle  of  Leopoldsburg.  Far 
beneath  extended  the  vast  and  uneven 
plain  of  Austria  :  its  smoking  capital,  the 
gilded  tents,  and  countless  host  of  the 
besiegers  ;  while  at  the  foot  of  the  ridge, 
where  the  mountain  sunk  into  the  plain, 
the  forests  and  ravines  were  occupied  by 
the  advanced  guards,  prepared  to  dispute 
the  passage  of  the  army." 

There  it  was  that  they  lighted  the 
fires  which  spread  joy  and  hope 
through  every  heart  at  Vienna* 

"  Trusting  in  their  vast  multitudes, 
the  Turks  pressed  the  assault  of  Vienna 
on  the  one  side,  while  on  the  other  they 
faced  the  liberating  army.  The  Turkish 
vizier  counted  in  his  ranks  four  Chris- 
tian princes  and  as  many  Tartar  chiefs. 
All  the  nobles  of  Germany  and  Poland 
were  on  the  other  side  :  Sobieski  was  at 
once  the  Agamemnon  and  Achilles  of 
that  splendid  host. 

"  The  young  Eugene  of  Savoy  made 
his  first  essay  in  arms,  by  bringing  to  So- 
bieski the  intelligence  that  the  engage- 
ment was  commenced  between  the  ad- 
vanced guards  at  the  foot  of  the  ridge. 
The   Christians  immediately  descended 
the  mountains  in  five  columns  like  tor- 
rents,  but  marching  in  the  finest  order : 
the  leading  divisions  halted  at  every  hun- 
dred paces  to  give  time  to  those  behind, 
who  were  retarded  by  the  difficulties  of 
the  descent,  to  join  them.     A  rude  para- 
pet, hastily  erected  by  the  Turks  to  bar 
the  five  debouches  of  the  roads  into  the 
plain,  was  forced  after  a  short  combat. 
At  every  ravine,  the  Christians  experi- 
enced fresh  obstacles  to  surmount :  the 
spahis  dismounted  to  contest  the  rocky 
ascents,  and  speedily  regaining  their  hor- 
ses when  they  were  forced,  fell  back  in 
haste  to  the  next  positions  which  were  to 
be  defended.    But  the  Mussulmen,  defi- 
cient in  infantry,  could  not  withstand  the 
steady  advance  and  solid  masses  of  the  Ger- 
mans, and  the  Christians  everywhere  gain- 
ed ground.    Animated  by  the  continued 
advance  of  their  deliverers,  the  garrison 
of  Vienna  performed   miracles    on  the 
breach ;  and  Kara  Mustapha,  who  long 
hesitated  which  battle  he  should  join, 
resolved  to  meet  the  avenging  squadrons 
of  the  Polish  king. 

"  By  two  o'clock  the  ravines  were 
cleared,  and  the  allies  drawn  up  in  the 
plain.  Sobieski  ordered  the  Duke  of 
Lorraine  to  halt,  to  give  time  for  the 
Poles,  who  had  been  retarded  by  a  cir- 
cuitous march,  to  join  the  army.  At 
eleven  they  appeared,  and  took  their 
post  on  the  right.  The  Imperial  eagles 


244 


Modern  French  Historians. 


saluted  the  squadrons  of  gilded  cuirasses 
with  cries  of  •  Long  live  King  John 
Sobieski!'  and  the  cry,  repeated  along 
the  Christian  line,  startled  the  Mussul- 
man force.  Trfid  ai  qu  bsasqo  e&il 

"  Sobieski  charged  in  the  centre,  and 
directed  his  attack  against  the  scarlet  tent 
of  the  sultan,  surrounded  by  his  faithful 
squadrons— distinguished  by  his  splendid 
phi  me,  his  bow,  and  quiver  of  gold,  which 
hung  on  his  shoulder— most  of  all  by  the 
enthusiasm  which  his  presence  every- 
where excited.  He  advanced,  exclaim- 
ing, '  Non  nobis,  Domine,  sed  tibi  sit 
gloria!'  The  Tartars  and  the  spahis  fled 
when  they  heard  the  name  of  the  Polish 
hero  repeated  from  one  end  to  the  other 
of  the  Ottoman  lines.  '  13y  Allah,'  ex- 
claimed Sultan  Gieray,  '  the  king  is  with 
them  !'  At  this  moment  the  moon  was 
eclipsed,  and  the  Mahometans  beheld 
with  dread  the  crescent  waning  in  the 
heavens. 

tMMafii  the  same  time,  the  hussars  of 
Prince  Alexander,  who  formed  the  lead- 
ing column,  broke  into  a  charge  amidst 
the  national  cry,  '  God  defend  Poland  !' 
The  remaining  squadrons,  led  by  all  that 
was  noblest  and  bravest  in  the  country, 
resplendent  in  arms,  buoyant  in  courage, 
followed  at  the  gallop.  They  cleared 
without  drawing  bridle,  a  ravine,  at  which 
infantry  might  have  paused,  and  charged 
furiously  up  the  opposite  bank.  With 
such  vehemence  did  they  enter  the  ene- 
my's ranks,  that  they  fairly  cut  the  army 
in  two,— -justifying  thus  the  celebrated 
saying  of  that  haughty  nobility  to  one  of 
their  kings,  that  with  their  aid  no  reverse 
was  irreparable ;  and  that  if  the  heaven 
itself  were  to  fall,  they  would  support  it 
on  the  points  of  their  lances. 

"  The  shock  was  so  violent  that  almost 
all  the  lances  were  splintered.  The  Pa- 
chas of  Aleppo  and  of  Silistria  were  slain 
on  the  spot ;  four  other  pachas  fell  under 
the  sabres  of  Jablonowski.  At  the  same 
time  Charles  of  Lorraine  had  routed  the 
force  of  the  principalities,  and  threatened 
the  Ottoman  camp.  Kara  Mustapha  fell 
at  once  from  the  heights  of  confidence  to 
the  depths  of  despair.  '  Can  you  not  aid 
me  ?'  said  he  to  the  Kara  of  the  Crimea. 
'  I  know  the  King  of  Poland,'  said  he, 
'  and  I  tell  you,  that  with  such  an  ene- 
my we  have  no  chance  of  safety  but  in 
flight.'  Mustapha  in  vain  strove  to  rally 
his  troops ;  all,  seized  with  a  sudden  pa. 
nic,  fled,  not  daring  to  lift  their  eyes  to 
heaven.  The  cause  of  Europe,  of  Christ- 
ianity, of  civilisation,  had  prevailed.  -Th« 
wave  of  the  Mussulman  power  had  reti- 
red, and  retired  never  to  return. 

"  At  six  in  the  evening,  Sobieski  enter- 


ed  the  Turkish  camp.  He  arrived  first 
at  the  quarters  of  the  vizier.  At  the  en- 
trance  of  that  vast  enclosure  a  slave  met 
him,  and  presented  him  with  the  charger 
and  golden  bridle  of  Mustapha.  He  took 
the  bridle,  and  ordered  one  of  his  follow- 
ers to  set  out  in  haste  for  the  Queen  of 
Poland,  and  say  that  he  who  owned  that 
bridle  was  vanquished  ;  then  planted  his 
standard  in  the  midst  of  that  armed  cara- 
vansera  of  all  the  nations  of  the  East,  and 
ordered  Charles  of  Lorraine  to  drive  the 
besiegers  from  the  trenches  before  Vienna. 
It  was  already  done ;  the  Janizzaries  had 
left  their  posts  on  the  approach  of  night, 
and,  after  sixty  days  of  open  trenches,  the 
imperial  city  was  delivered..  •  [RO? 

"  On  the  following  morning  the  mag- 
nitude of  the  victory  appeared.  One  hun- 
dred and  twenty  thousand  tents  were 
still  standing,  notwithstanding  the  at- 
tempts at  their  destruction  by  the  Turks ; 
the  innumerable  multitude  of  the  Orient- 
als had  disappeared ;  hut  their  spoils, 
their  horses,  their  camels,  their  splen- 
dour, loaded  the  ground.  The  king  at 
ten  approached  Vienna.  He  passed 
through  the  breach,  whereby  but  for  him 
on  that  day  the  Turks  would  have  found 
an  entrance.  At  his  approach  the  streets 
were  cleared  of  their  ruins ;  and  the  peo- 
ple, issuing  from  their  cellars  and  their 
tottering  houses,  gazed  with  enthusiasm 
on  their  deliverer.  They  followed  him  to 
the  church  of  the  Atigustins,  where,  as  the 
clergy  had  not  arrived,  the  king  himself 
chanted  Te  Deum.  This  service  was 
soon  after  performed  with  still  greater  so- 
lemnity in  the  cathedral  of  St  Stephen ; 
the  king  joined  with  his  face  to  the 
ground.  It  was  there  that  the  priest 
used  the  inspired  words—'  There  was  a 
man  sent  from  heaven,  and  his  name  was 
John.'  "—III.  50.  101. 


During  this  memorable  campaign, 
Sobieski,  who  through  life  was  a  ten- 
der and  affectionate  husband,  wrote 
daily  to  his  wife.  At  the  age  of  fif- 
ty-four he  had  lost  nothing  of  the 
tenderness  and  enthusiasm  of  his 
earlier  years.  In  one  of  them  he 
says,  "  I  read  all  your  letters,  my 
dear  and  incomparable  Maria,  thrice 
over;  once  when.  I  receive  them, 
once  when  I  retire  to  my  tent  and 
am  alone  with  my  love,  once  when  I 
sit  down  to  answer  them.  I  beseech 
you,  my  beloved,  do  not  rise  so 
early ;  no  health  can  stand  such  ex- 
ertions ;  if  you  do,  you  will  destroy 
my  health,  and  what  is  worse,  injure 
your  own,  which  is  my  eole  consola- 


1831.1  No.  L    Salvaftdy.  "245 

J  '  tlliOlbfcUOii  9ilJ  D9.IUV 

tion  in  this  world."    When  offered  which  has  taken  place  in  France  since 

the  throne  of  Poland,  it  was  at  first  her  political  convulsions  commenced, 

proposed  that  he  should  divorce  his  and  the  new  field  which  their  genius 

wife,  and  marry  the  widow  of  the  has  opened  up  in  historical  disquisi- 

late  king,  to  reconcile  the  contending  tions.     On  comparing  the  historians 

faction.    "  I  am  not  yet  a  king,"  said  of  the  two  countries  since  the  resto- 

he,  "  and  have  contracted  no  obliga-  ration,  it  seems  as  if  they  were  teem- 

tions  towards  the  nation :  Let  them  ing  with  the  luxuriance  of  a  virgin 

resume  their  gift  j  I  disdain  the  throne  soil ;  while  we  are  sinking  under  the 

if  it  is  to  be  purchased  at  such  a  sterility  of   exhausted    cultivation, 

price."  Steadily  resisting,  as  we  trustwe  shall 

It  is  superfluous,  after  these  quo-  ever  do,  the  fatal  march  of  French 

tations,  to  say  any  thing  of  the  merits  innovation,  we  shall   yet  never  be 

of  M.  Salvandy's  work.     It  unites,  found  wanting  in  yielding  due  praise 

in  a  rare  degree,  the  qualities  of  phi-  to  the  splendour  of  French  talent ; 

losophical  thought  with  brilliant  and  and  in  the  turn  which  political  spe- 

vivid  description  ;  and  is  one  of  the  culation  has  recently  taken  among 

numerous  instances  of  the  vast  su-  the  most  elevated  minds  in  their 

periority  of  the  Modern  French  His-  active  metropolis,  we  are  not  with- 

torians  to  most  of  those  of  whom  out  hopes  that  the  first  rays  of  the 

Great  Britain,  in  the  present  age,  can  dawn  are  to  be  discerned,  which  is 

boast.    If  any  thing  could  reconcile  destined  to  compensate  to'mankind 

us  to  the  march  of  revolution,  it  is  for  the   darkness  and  blood  of  the 

the    vast    developement    of  talent  revolution.          'l}i  ^m 

<!>  00f>  '    W'    lB«OJjBn9flJ 

— - • " '.ariMMUpft  3ffllllBfl!9l  aU'i 

•»rtJ  ni  "BafintJt  bna  Jasldon  ew 
,.M,,THE  EGLANTINE  Oi  ,iW,0i,d  *miB  fli  iOSbnaiqw 

,«noiw*,h»iH9i«     ^»ft?r>  *HH      .«P«*8  »*  to  fcMrolbft 

BY  DELTA*  « 

.,,HUm'  aprwrju ,      •*&*&  bi»*  -bapwq  97«d  idgHO  iplmaa; 
THE  sun  was  setting  m  the  summer  west 
With  golden  glory,  'mid  pavilions  vast 
Of  purple  and  gold  ;  scarcely  a  zephyr  breathed  ; 
The  woods  in  their  umbrageous  beauty  slept; 
The  river  with  a  soft  sound  murmured  on;      x'-te"*1 
Sweetly  the  wild  birds  sang;  and  far  away 
The  azure-shouldered  mountains,  softly  lined, 

Seemed  like  the  boundaries  of  Paradise. 

,89'jnsl  U9rfJ  lo  elnioq  sdl  no 

9ffl»s     From  early  morn  the  day  had  o'er  me  passed 
In  occupied  perplexity,  the  cares 

Which  seem  inseparate  from  the  lot  or  one  joq?  arfj  no 

Who  breathes  in  bustling  scenes — the  crowded  walks 
Of  man  encountering  man  in  daily  life,  '       ;  j  lo  MhBlD  9mil 

Where  interest  jars  with  interest,  and  eachy  ?.9,)i{Bqian;iq  sdJ  lo  soioi 
Has  ends  to  serve  with  all.  But  now  the  eve  .  ^^3  haoioJiO  sd) 
Brought  on  its  dewy  pinions  peace  ;  the  stir 

Died  on  my  ear ;  its  memory  from  my  min|,  „  ^t6q^  no  adJ  pb  aiii 
(Longing  for  quiet  and  tranquillity)  J,  lo  61BjS  arij  Ol  9ti  bi^g  's  »m 
Departed  half;  and,  in  the  golden  glgn^bnakft  J'i  %niX  »ilJ  woail  T  * 
Of  the  descending  sun,  my  spirit  drapJbua  fa^  j8flj  voo^  Hal  I  bna  * 
Oblivion  to  the  discords  and  the  cares,  rt  }0  a-jflsib  on  avfid  yn  \m 
That,  while  they  fall  on,  petrify  the  heart. ,  nic/  ni  BilqBjBuK 

.>bue  K  riJiw  bssisa  .lie  jeqooU  aid 
It  is  a  melancholy  thing,  ('twas  thus    ij  jlii  ol  8(lil 
The  tenor  of  my  meditations  ran,) 
That  such  a  separation  should  exist  4  beA  tnoiJ* 

Between  our  present  and  our  bye»past  thought«/lu«8i 
That  scarcely  seem  the  extremities  of  life  -1  &  19V9tI  b 
Parts  of  the  self-same  being,     -wln*  UewdoB  «?ait 


•  The  Eglantine. 

Time  and  Fate 

Year  after  year  such  alteration  find 
Or  make,  that,  when  we  measure  infancy 
With  boyhood — boyhood  with  maturer  youth—- 
And with  each  other  manhood's  ripened  years, — 
Our  own  selves  with  our  own  selves — there  is  seen 
Less  difference  'tween  the  acorn  and  the  oak, 
Than  that  which  was,  with  that  which  is :  but  yet, 
So  melt  insensibly  day  into  day, 
Month  into  month,  the  summer's  mellowing  heat 
To  yellow  autumn — a  vicissitude 
Unjarring,  though  continuous,  that  we  seem 
To  know  not  or  Life's  onward  voyage,  until 
Earth's  headlands  are  lost  sight  of  in  the  deaths 
Of  those  we  prized — rocks  interrupt  our  paths — 
Or  shipwreck  threatens  in  fate's  lowering  storm. 

Thus  pondering  as  I  paced,  my  wanderings  led 
To  a  lone  river  bank  of  yellow  sand, — 
The  loved  haunt  of  the  ouzel,  whose  blithe  wing 
Wanton'd  from  stone  to  stone, — and,  on  a  mound 
Of  verdurous  turf  with  wild-flowers  diamonded, 
(Harebell  and  lychnis,  thyme  and  camomile,) 
Sprang  in  the  majesty  of  natural  pride 
An  Eglantine — the  red  rose  of  the  wood — 
Its  cany  boughs  with  threatening  prickles  arm'd, 
Rich  in  its  blossoms  and  sweet-scented  leaves. 

The  wild-rose  has  a  nameless  spell  for  me ; 

And  never  on  the  roadside  do  mine  eyes 

Behold  it,  but  at  once  my  thoughts  revert 

To  schoolboy  days  :  why  so,  I  scarcely  know — 

Except  that  once,  while  wandering  with  my  mates, 

One  gorgeous  afternoon,  when  holiday 

To  Nature  lent  new  charms — a  thunder-storm 

O'ertook  us,  cloud  on  cloud — a  mass  of  black, 

Dashing  at  once  the  blue  sky  from  our  view, 

And  spreading  o'er  the  dim  and  dreary  hills 

A  lurid  mantle. 

To  a  leafy  screen 

We  fled,  of  elms ;  and  from  the  rushing  rain 
And  hail  found  shelter,  though  at  every  flash 
Of  the  red  lightning,  brightly  heralding 
The  thunder-peal,  within  each  bosom  died 
The  young  heart,  and  the  day  of  doom  seemed  come. 

At  length  the  rent  battalia  cleared  away, 
The  tempest-cloven  clouds ;  and  sudden  fell 
A  streak  of  joyful  sunshine :  On  a  bush 
Of  wild-rose  fell  its  beauty : — All  was  dark 
Around  it  still,  and  dismal ;  but  the  beam 
(Like  Hope  sent  down  to  re-illume  Despair) 
Burned  on  the  bush,  displaying  every  leaf, 
And  bud,  and  blossom,  with  such  perfect  light 
And  exquisite  splendour,  that  since  then  my  heart 
Hath  deem'd  it  Nature's  favourite,  and  mine  eyes 
Fall  on  it  never,  but  that  thought  recurs, 
And  memories  of  the  bye-past,  sad  and  sweet. 


1881.] 


Audubon's  Ornithological  Biography, 


247 


AUDUBON'S  ORNITHOLOGICAL  BIOGRAPHY.* 
WILSON'S  AMERICAN  ORNITHOLOGY.f 


SECOND  SURVEY. 


AMONG  the  many  million  moods  of 
our  own  mind,  that  come  and  go  like 
rainbows,  uniting  heaven  and  earth 
by  lovely  lines  ot  living  lustre — alas ! 
too  evanescent — one  has  frequently 
visited  us  with  soft  and  sweet  solici- 
tation to  indite  in  a  few  wee  bit 
bookies,  in  themselves  a  Library  of 
Useful  and  Entertaining,  or,  in  other 
words,  Instructive  and  Interesting 
Knowledge — The  Lives  of  the  Natu- 
ralists. 

Compare  naturalists  with  any  other 
sect,  religious  or  irreligious,  such  as 
poets,  philosophers,  physicians,  di- 
vines, admirals,  generals,  or  worthies 
in  general,  civil  or  military,  lay  or  cle- 
rical, and  you  will  acknowledge  that 
they  are,  peculiarly,  a  peculiar  people, 
zealous  in  good  works.  Poets  are  per- 
haps not  always  very  unamiable ;  but 
they  are  most  of  them  oddities,  and 
are  too  often  unintelligible  both  in 
theory  and  practice.  The  acquired 
habit  of  employing  a  language  such 
as  no  plain  prose  person  in  his  seven 
senses  might,  could,  would,  or  should 
employ,  were  you  to  bribe  him  with 
a  stamp-mastership,  seems  to  have  a 
strong,  but,  under  the  circumstances, 
neither  a  strange  nor  singular  influ- 
ence on  the  original  constitution  of 
their  whole  character.  Let  us  not 
mince  the  matter — but  say  at  once 
that  many  of  them  are  inspired  idiots, 
while  too  many  drop  the  adjective, 
and  are  simply  (it  is  all  one  in  the 
Greek,  /S/wr»s-)  private  gentlemen. 
Philosophers,  again,  are  sad  simple- 
tons— especially  such  as  have  been 
afflicted  with  the  metaphysics.  It  is 
their  affair  to  study  the  human  mind, 
as  it  exhibits  itself  to  what  is  called 
the  mental  eye,  which  mental  eye 
turns  inwards,  we  are  told,  and  nar- 
rowly inspects  all  the  premises.  The 
palace  of  the  soul  is  unquestionably 


a  building  of  much  magnitude  and 
magnificence ;  but  the  Cretan  Laby- 
rinth was  a  joke  to  it  in  inextricable 
intricacy ;  and  though,  when  looking 
at  it  from  without,  and  at  some  dis- 
tance, you  suppose  it  illuminated, 
like  a  large  cottonmill  in  honour  of 
the  Glorious  Unit,  yet  on  entering  it, 
either  by  vestibule  or  postern-gate, 
you  find  yourself  in  the  predicament 
of  the  Jewish  lawgiver  on  the  going 
out  of  his  candle — all  the  interior  is 
dark  as  Erebus.  The  mental  eye, 
turn  inwards  as  it  may,  sees  not  a 
single  particle  or  article  of  any  sort 
whatsoever,  any  more  than  in  an  un- 
born, or  rather  unconceived  maga- 
zine, or  other  miscellaneous  work. 
There  is  an  unaccountable  noise, 
very  like  the  sea ;  and  the  poor  phi- 
losopher is  afraid  to  set  one  foot  be- 
fore the  other,  lest  he  should  walk 
over  the  edge  of  an  abyss  like  that 
which,  among  the  Peaks  of  Derby- 
shire, bears  the  name  of  an  indivi- 
dual at  once  illustrious  and  obscure, 
but  who,  on  the  present  occasion — for 
there  are  persons  and  places  which 
we  never  mention  'fore  ears  polite 
— must,  like  most  of  our  other  contri- 
butors, remain  anonymous.  Never- 
theless, though  the  truth  should  not 
always  be  spoken  in  plain  and  plump 
expression,  it  should  always  be  writ- 
ten, figuratively  or  in  apothegm ; 
and  therefore  we  say— Sages  are 
Sumphs.  Of  physicians,  thank  hea- 
ven, we  know  nothing  and  none — 
except  our  family  physician,  who, 
we  devoutly  trust  and  pray,  will  long 
keep  out  of  the  Family  Library,  which 
treats  but  of  the  defunct.  Their 
lives  are  all  led  in  one  long  line  of 
prescriptions ;  and  though  Cholera 
Morbus  and  other  diseases  are,  on 
Burke's  principles— pain,  danger,fear, 
and  terror — exceedingly  sublime, 


*  Edinburgh  :  Adam  Black  ;  R.  Havell,  junior,  engraver,  77,  Oxford  Street,  and 
Longman  and  Co.,  London ;  George  Smith,  Liverpool ;  F.  Fowler,  Manchester ; 
Thomas  Robinson,  Leeds;  E.  Charnley,  Newcastle;  Pool  and  Booth,  Chester; 
Beilby,  Knott,  and  Beilby,  Birmingham, 

f  Constable's  Miscellany. 


S48 


Audition's  Ornithological  Biography— 


yet  we  take  leave  to  think  a  cholic 
more  so  than  a  dose  of  glaubers,  and 
the  patient  on  a  bed,  from  which  he 
has  kicked  sheets,  blankets,  and  co- 
verlet, and  is  writhing  away  like  a 
wounded  worm  or  a  scotched  ser- 
pent, out  of  all  sight  more  impressive 
than  the  doctor,  with  his  FEE-fa-fum, 
sitting  with  all  due  composure  on  a 
quiet  chair,  where  "  he  expects  the 
issue  with  repose."  Of  di  vines,  thank 
heaven,  we  know  even  less,  if  that 
indeed  be  possible,  than  of  physi- 
cians. A  few  of  the  old  English 
ones,  such  as  Jeremy  Taylor  and 
Isaac  Barrow,  were  "  the  wale  o'  auld 
men ;"  and  we  shall  ever  venerate 
the  memory  of  Dr  Macknight.  But 
of  the  Lives  of  British  Divines — and 
there  are  none  else — the  less  that  is 
written  the  better — they  are  almost 
all  so  wearisomely  worthy — so  fa- 
tiguingly  free  from  those  faults  with- 
out which  a  man  may  be  respectable, 
but  can  never  hope  to  win  our  ad- 
miration. Therefore  "  dinna  wauken 
sleepin'  dougs,"  but  let  the  clergy 
sleep  and  snore,  and  sermonize  on 
in  that  peaceful  privacy  so  engaging 
in  the  Christian  life,  whether  it 
be  a  life  enlightened  by  Episcopal- 
ianisin,  redolent  of  Presbytery,  or 
embued  with  dissent  without  dissen- 
tion,  a  nonconformity  conformable 
with  all  the  laws  of  good  citizenship, 
morality,  and  religion.  With  all  ad- 
mirals we  have  cultivated  friendship 
since  first  we  launched,  on  the  mare 
parvum  of  a  puddle  pretending  to 
be  a  pond,  a  boat  of  bark,  with  pa- 
per sails,  drawing  the  eighth  of  an 
inch  of  water,  tonnage  one  hundred 
wafers,  and  celebrated  in  the  naval 
annals  of  Mearns,  under  the  name 
of  The  Butterfly,  for  freight  and  pas- 
sage apply  to  the  King  of  the  Fai- 
ries, in  the  holms  of  Humby,  close 
by  the  Brigg  of  Yearn.  Since  that 
service,  we  have  occasionally  circum- 
navigated the  globe,  till,  in  fact,  we 
began  to  get  sick  of  doubling  Cape 
Horn.  The  last  great  action,  in  which 
we  more  than  assisted,  was  the  attack 
on  Algiers.  We  stood  by  the  side  of 
the  gallant  Mylne,  in  the  form  of  a 
volunteer,  and  are  ready  to  say  that 
considerable  execution  was  done  on 
our  quarter-deck,  by  the  splinters  of 
our  crutch.  We  attribute  our  deaf- 
ness to  the  noise  we  made  in  the 
world  on  that  day,  but  we  cannot 
lament  the  loss  of  a  single  sense— 


[Aug. 

a  sufficient  number  remain  unimpair- 
ed—  incurred  in  liberation  of  the 
Christian  captives.  Campbell's  Lives 
of  the  Admirals  is  one  of  our  vade- 
mecums,  and  so  is  the  Naval  Chro- 
nicle, which,  from  the  necessary 
number  of  volumes,  became,  how- 
ever, rather  a  heavy  work.  James's 
Naval  History — we  love  to  carry  our 
head  high  even  in  sleep — we  use  as 
a  pile  of  pillows1  on  Clerk  of  Eldin's 
book  about  Breaking  the  Line  (an  old 
achievement),  which  has  long  been 
our  bolster  ;  and  had  we  not  got 
through  so  much  of  our  longevity,  we 
should  cheerfully  accept  Mr  Mur- 
ray's very  handsome,  indeed  gene- 
rous offer,  of  five  thousand  guineas, 
for  a  more  Philosophical  and  Poeti- 
cal and  Political  History  of  the  Flag 
that  has  "  braved  a  thousand  years 
the  battle  and  the  breeze."  But  we  re- 
luctantly leave  the  glory  of  that  great 
work  to  Basil  Hall,  than  whom  the 
British  navy  contains  not  a  man  bet- 
ter skilled  in  the  science,  not  even 
excepting  Maryatt,  both  of  pen  and 
cutlass.  He  is  a  true  son  of  a  sea- 
gun.  Generals,  again,  are  our  parti- 
cular friends,  "  and  that  is  sure  a 
reason  fair"  not  to  write  their  bio- 
graphies. Impartiality  could  not  be 
reasonably  expected  from  a  person 
not  only  on  the  crutch,  but  the  staff. 
To  that  excellent  periodical,  then, 
the  United  Service  Journal,  we  leave 
our  "  great  commanders"  alike  of 
the  battalion,  light-bobs,  and  grena- 
diers— not  forgetting  the  rifle-bri- 
gade, the  bravest  of  the  brave,  and 
with  all  kind  regards  to  Captain  Kin- 
caid,  whose  Memoirs  of  the  Green- 
Glancers  would  inspire  with  valour 
a  constitutional  coward,  had  he  even 
been  suckled  by  a  White  Doe.  Peace 
to  the  manes,  and  fame  to  the  name, 
of  Sir  Sidney  Beckwith  !  A  man,  as 
Napier  says,  who  was  equal  to  any 
emergency,  and  more  than  once  in 
Spain  retrieved  a  disastrous  day.  As 
for  Napier  himself,  his  "  Spanish 
Campaigns"  are  immortal.  His  fa- 
mous passage  about "  the  astonishing 
infantry,"  the  fifteen  hundred  un- 
wounded  survivors  of  the  six  thou- 
sand British  heroes,  crowning  the 
hill  with  fire,  and  dying  it  in  blood, 
at  Albuera,  will  be  quoted  as  long  as 
we  are  a  military  people,  and  that  we 
trust  will  be  till  we  fade  away  with- 
in the  Millennium,  (yet  we  devout- 
ly hope  afar  off,)  as  the  most  spirit- 


Wihoris  American  OrnitJiology. 


stirring  specimen,  in  any  tongue,  of 
the  Moral  and  Physical  Sublime.  The 
sooner,  too,  that  J.  G.  P.  11.  James, 
(whynot  the  whole  alphabet  at  once?) 
the  author  of  the  History  of  Chivalry, 
and  of  those  admirable  romances,  Ri- 
chelieu, Darnley,  De  L'Orme,  and 
Philip  Augustus,  lets  us  hear  his  trum- 
pet the  better — sounding  its  points  of 
war — a  reveille  to  the  "  Command- 
ers" now  sleeping  in  the  dust — all 
their  brows,  before  imagination's 
eyes,  crowned  and  shadowed  with 
unwithering  laurels.  Of  Worthies 
in  general,  civil  and  military,  we  have 
neither  space  nor  time,  business  nor 
leisure,  now  to  say  one  half  of  what 
they  deserve — so  we  hand  them  over 
— and  from  him  they  will  receive  the 
best  treatment — to  Patrick  Tytler, 
Esq.,  the  ingenious,  learned,  and  elo- 
quent historian  of  Scotland,  a  coun- 
try which  contains,  we  verily  believe, 
more  Worthies  than  all  the  rest  of 
the  world. 

The  gentle  reader  must  be  pleased 
to  observe,  that  having  announced  our 
intention  to  shew  that  Naturalists  are 
the,  only  people  who  deserve  having 
their  lives  taken,  we  have  been  be- 
trayed by  the  benignity  of  our  nature 
into  an  animated  panegyric  on  all 
other  mortal  men.  This  is  so  like 
Us.  We  assume  the  appearance  of 
the  satirical — and  instantly  relapse 
into  the  reality  of  the  eulogistic.  We 
exchange  an  attitude  which  threatens 
war  and  annihilation,  for  a  posture 
pregnant  with  praise  and  perpetual 
life;  just  as  if  Jem  Warde  or  Simon 
Byrne,  while  extending  his  maulies 
in  a  nourish  apparently  prelusive  of 
a  knock-down,  were  suddenly  to  pat 
you  on  the  cheek  as  gently  as  if  he 
were  making  love  to  a  modest  Hi- 
bernian maiden  in  a  booth  atDonny- 
brook  Fair.  Yet,  to  balance  this  ca- 
price on  the  other  side,  the  obser- 
vant reader  cannot  well  have  failed 
to  remark,  during  his  fifteen  years' 
assiduous  study  of  the  Star  of  the 
North,  that  sometimes  while,  accord- 
ing to  all  reasonable  expectation, 
founded  on  all  reasonable  grounds, 
we  seem  about  to  pat,  as  if  with  a 
velvet  cat's-paw,  the  cheek  of  out- 
dear,  we  smite  him  on  the  os  front  is 
as  with  an  iron  gauntlet.  Like  a 
bull  in  a  china  shop,  or  even  on  a 
heather  mountain,  there  is  no  de- 
pendence to  be  placed  on  our  temper. 
We  have  always  a  sharp — but  some- 

V-OL.  XXX.  NO.   CI.XXXIII. 


times  a  sullen  eye  in  our  head — and 
we  are  aware  of  our  infirmity — a 
hereditary  predisposition — with  dif- 
ficulty to  be  distinguished  from  in- 
stinct— for  instinct,  too,  is  mutable 
and  precarious — to  tossing.  Bell- 
ing the  Cat  is  easier  than  bell- 
ing the  Bull — which  is  beyond  the 
power  even  of  a  Douglas— and  he 
who  should  try  it,  would  be  as  infa- 
tuated a  quack  as  the  Great  Glasgow 
Gander.  Once  on  a  time  an  awkward 
squad  of  Whigs,  consisting  of  some 
scampish  scores,  under  the  excite- 
ment of  a  paltry  Peter  the  Hermit, 
attempted  a  crusade  against  Mount 
Taurus;  it  being  their  intention  to 
saw  off  the  points  of  bis  horns,  affix 
a  board  to  his  forehead,  and  perhaps 
to  perpetrate  even  greater  enormities 
— more  disloyal  lese  majestie  against 
the  Sovereign  Lord  of  Herds,  majes- 
tically but  peacefully  lowing  in  the 
verdant  pastures.  One  growl  —  an 
earth-shaking  lion's  was  comparative 
silence  —  produced  unmentionable 
effects  on  the  ragged  and  rascal  Rash- 
ness that  took  to  flight  in  a  shower 
of  vermin'd  tatters.  Ever  since,  the 
sun  has  lingered  in  the  same  sign — 
or  alternated  with  one  other — lead- 
ing his  shining  life  equally  divided 
between  Taurus,  Christopher  North, 
and  Virgo,  which  is  but  the  classical 
and  celestial  name  of — Maga — name 
figurative  too — for  is  it  not  recorded 
in  the  Book  of  the  Chaldees,  by 
the  pen  of  the  Inspired  Shepherd — 
"  That  her  number  is  as  the  number 
of  a  virgin  when  the  days  of  her  vir- 
ginity have  expired  ?" 

Having  thus  arrived  by  short  and 
easy  stages  to  the  end — we  beg  your 
pardon — to  the  beginning  of  our  day's 
journey,  let  us  introduce  you  to  a 
brace  of  Naturalists,  whom  we  are 
confident  you  will  take  to  at  once  most 
kindly,  and  thank  us  for  giving  you 
the  opportunity  of  cultivating  their 
friendship — Alexander  Wilson  and 
John  James  Audubon. — Ah  !  gentle- 
men, so  you  are  already  acquainted  y 
Well — away  with  us  to  the  woods! 

Wilson  was  a  weaver — a  Paisley 
weaver — an  useful  occupation,  and 
a  pleasant  place,  for  which  we  en- 
tertain great  regard.  He  was  like- 
wise a  pedlar — and  the  hero  of  many 
an  Excursion.  But  the  plains  and 
braes  of  Renfrewshire  were  not  to 
him  prolific — and  in  prime  of  life, 
after  many  difficulties  and  disap- 
R 


250  Auduborfs  Ornithological  Biography-*  [Aug. 

that  could  lend  one  cheerful  thought, 
are  hung  in  solemn  white ;  and  there, 
stretched  pale  and  lifeless,  lies  the 
awful  corpse ;  while  a  few  weeping 
friends  sit,  black  and  solitary,  near 
the  breathless  clay.  In  this  other 
place,  the  fearless  sons  of  Bacchus 
extend  their  brazen  throats,  in  shouts 
like  bursting  thunder,  to  the  praise 
of  their  gorgeous  chief.  Opening 
this  door,  the  lonely  matron  ex- 

sion  made  in   1789  "along  the  east     plores,  for  consolation,  her  Bible: 
coast  of  Scotland  with  his  miscella-    and,  in  this  house,  the  wife  brawls, 


pointments,  he  purchased  with  his 
"  sair-won  penny-fee"  a  passage  to 
America.  We  say  after  many  diffi- 
culties and  disappointments,  some  of 
which  he  owed  to  his  own  impru- 
dence, for  it  was  not  till  the  ruling 
Rassion  of  his  genius  found  food  ever 
•esh  and  fair  in  Ornithology,  that  his 
moral  and  intellectual  character  set- 
tled down  into  firm  formation.  In  a 
Journal  which  he  kept  of  an  excur- 


neous  pack  on  his  shoulders, 

"  A  vagrant  merchant,  bent  beneath  his 
load," 

and  a  prospectus  of  a  volume  of 
poems  m  his  pocket,  we  find  these 
sentences.  "  1  have  this  day,  I 
believe,  measured  the  height  of  an 
hundred  stairs,  and  explored  the  re- 
cesses of  twice  that  number  of  mi- 
serable habitations  j  and  what  have 
I  gained  by  it  ? — only  two  shillings 
of  worldly  pelf!  but  an  invaluable 
treasure  of  observation.  In  this 
dome,  wrapt  up  in  glitter- 
ing silks,  and  stretched  on  the  downy 
sofa,  recline  the  fair  daughters  of 
wealth  and  indolence — the  ample 
mirror,  flowery  floor,  and  magni- 
ficent couch,  their  surrounding  at- 
tendants ;  while,  suspended  in  his 
wiry  habitation  above,  the  shrill- 
piped  canary  warbles  to  enchant- 
ing echoes.  Within  the  confines  of 
that  sickly  hoyel,  hung  round  with 
squadrons  of  his  brother  artists,  the 
pale-faced  weaver  plies  the  resound- 
ing lay,  or  launches  the  melancholy 
murmuring  shuttle.  Lifting  this 
simple  latch,  and  stooping  for  en- 
trance to  the  miserable  hut,  there 
sits  poverty  and  ever-moaning  dis- 
ease, clothed  in  dunghill  rags,  and 
ever  shivering  over  the  fireless  chim- 
ney. Ascending  this  stair,  the  voice 


the  children  shriek,  and  the  poor  hus- 
band bids  me  depart,  lest  his  terma- 
f ant's  fury  should  vent  itself  on  me. 
Q  short,  such  an  inconceivable  va- 
riety daily  occurs  to  my  observation 
in  real  life,  that  would,  were  they 
moralized  upon,  convey  more  max- 
ims of  wisdom,  and  give  a  juster 
knowledge  of  mankind,  than  whole 
volumes  of  Lives  and  Adventures, 
that  perhaps  never  had  a  being,  ex- 
cept in  the  prolific  brains  of  their 
fantastic  authors." 

The  writer  of  an  excellent  me- 
moir of  Wilson  in  Constable's  Mis- 
cellany (Mr  Hetherington,  author  of 
a  poetical  volume  of  much  merit — 
Dramatic  Scenes — characteristic  of 
Scottish  pastoral  life  and  manners) 
justly  observes,  "  that  this,  it  must 
be  acknowledged,  is  a  somewhat 
prolix  and  overstrained  summing  up 
of  his  observations:  but  it  proves 
Wilson  to  have  been,  at  the  early  age 
of  twenty-three,  a  man  of  great  pe- 
netration, and  strong  native  sense ; 
and  shews  that  his  mental  culture 
had  been  much  greater  than  might 
have  been  expected  from  his  limited 
opportunities."  At  a  subsequent  pe- 
riod, he  retraced  his  steps,  taking 
with  him  copies  of  his  poems  to  dis- 
tribute among  subscribers,  and  en- 
deavour to  promote  a  more  exten- 
sive circulation.  Of  this  excursion 


of  joy  bursts  on  my  ear, — the  bride-  also  he  has  given  an  account  in  his 
groom  and  bride,  surrounded  by  journal,  from  which  it  appears  that 
their  jocund  companions,  circle  the  his  success  was  far  from  encouraging. 


sparkling  glass  and  humorous  joke, 
or  join  in  the  raptures  of  the  noisy 
dance — the  squeaking  fiddle  breaking 
through  the  general  uproar  in  sud- 
den intervals,  while  the  sounding 
floor  groans  beneath  its  unruly  load. 
Leaving  these  happy  mortals,  and 
ushering  into  this  silent  mansion,  a 
more  solemn — a  striking  object  pre- 
sents itself  to  my  view.  The  win- 
dows, the  furniture,  and  every  thing 


Among  amusing  incidents,  sketches 
of  character,  occasional  sound  and 
intelligent  remarks  upon  the  man- 
ners and  prospects  of  the  common 
classes  of  society  into  which  he  found 
his  way,  there  are  not  a  few  beveie 
expressions  indicative  of  deep  disap- 
pointment, and  some  that  merely  Ic- 
hpcnk  the  keener  pangs  of  woundtd 
pride  founded  on  conscious  iruiit. 
"  Ytu,"  tajs  he,  on  cue  cccu.tr, 


1831.] 


Wilson's  American  Ornithology. 


"  whose  souls  are  susceptible  of  the 
finest  feelings,  who  are  elevated  to 
rapture  with  the  least  dawnings  of 
hope,  and  sunk  into  despondency 
with  the  slightest  thwartings  of 
vour  expectations — think  what  I 
felt !"  Wilson  himself  attributed  his 
ill  fortune,  in  his  attempts  to  gain 
the  humble  patronage  of  the  poor 
for  his  poetical  pursuits,  to  his  occu- 
pation. "  A  packman  is  a  character 
which  none  esteems,  and  almost 
every  one  despises.  The  idea  that 
people  of  all  ranks  entertain  of  them 
is,  that  they  are  mean-spirited  lo- 
quacious liars,  cunning  and  illiterate, 
watching  every  opportunity,  and 
using  every  mean  art  within  their 
power  to  cheat."  This  is  a  sad  ac- 
count of  the  estimation  in  which  a 
trade  was  then  held  in  Scotland, 
which  the  greatest  of  our  living  poets 
has  attributed  to  the  chief  character 
in  a  poern  comprehensive  of  philoso- 
phical discussions  on  all  the  highest 
interests  of  humanity.  But  both  Wil- 
son and  Wordsworth  are  in  the  right ; 
both  saw  and  have  spoken  truth. 
Most  small  packmen  must  be,  in 
some  measure,  what  Wilson  says 
they  were  generally  esteemed  to  be 
— peddling  pilferers,  and  insignificant 
swindlers.  Poverty  sent  them  swarm- 
ing over  bank  and  brae,  and  the 
"  sma'  kintra  touns"— and  for  a  plack 
people  will  forget  principle  who 
have— as  we  say  in  Scotland — miss- 
ed the  world,  Wilson  knew  that  to 
a  man  like  himself  there  was  de- 
gradation in  such  a  calling — and  he 
latterly  vented  his  contemptuous 
sense  of  it,  exaggerating  the  base- 
ness of  the  name  and  nature  of  pack- 
man. But  suppose  such  a  man  as 
Wilson  to  have  been  one  of  but  a 
few  packmen  travelling  regularly 
for  years  over  the  same  country, 
each  with  his  own  district  or  do- 
main— and  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  he  would  have  been  an  object 
both  of  interest  and  of  respect — his 
opportunities  of  seeing  the  very  best 
and  the  very  happiest  of  humble  life 
— in  itself  very  various — would  have 
been  very  great ;  and  with  his  origi- 
nal genius,  he  would  have  become, 
like  Wordsworth's  Pedlar,  a  good 
Moral  Philosopher. 

Without,  therefore,  denying  the 
truth  of  his  picture  of  packmanship, 
we  may  believe  the  truth  of  a  pic- 
ture entirely  the  reverse,  from  the 


•  251 

hand  and  heart  of  a  still  wiser  man- 
though  his  wisdom  has  been  gather- 
ed from  less  immediate  contact  with 
the  coarse  garments  and  clay-floors 
of  the  labouring  poor.  Thus  speaks 
Wordsworth — "  At  the  risk  of  giving 
a  shock  to  the  prejudices  of  artificial 
society,  I  have  ever  been  ready  to 
pay  homage  to  the  Aristocracy  of 
Nature ;  under  a  conviction  that  vi- 
gorous human-heartedness  is  the 
constituent  principle  of  true  taste. 
It  may  still,  however,  be  satisfactory 
to  have  prose-testimony,  how  far  a 
character,  employed  for  purposes  of 
imagination,  [he  alludes  to  the  Ped- 
lar in  his  noble  poem  the  Excur- 
sion,] is  founded  upon  general  fact. 
I  therefore  subjoin  an  extract  from 
an  author  who  had  opportunities  of 
being  well  acquainted  with  a  class 
of  men  from  whom  my  own  person- 
al knowledge  emboldened  me  to 
draw  this  portrait."  Wordsworth 
quotes  a  passage  from  Heron's  Tour 
in  Scotland — in  which  there  are  these 
impressive  sentences. 

"  It  is  farther  to  be  observed,  for 
the  credit  of  this  most  useful  class  of 
men,  that  they  commonly  contribute, 
by  their  personal  manners,  no  less 
than  by  the  sale  of  their  wares,  to  the 
refinement  of  the  people  among 
whom  they  travel.  Their  dealings 
form  them  to  great  quickness  of  wit 
and  acuteness  of  judgment.  Having 
constant  occasion  to  recommend 
themselves  and  their  goods,  they  ac- 
quire habits  of  the  most  obliging  at- 
tention, and  the  most  insinuating  ad- 
dress. As  in  their  peregrinations 
they  have  opportunity  of  contempla- 
ting the  manners  of  various  men  and 
various  cities,  they  become  eminent- 
ly skilled  in  the  knowledge  of  the 
world.  As  they  wander,  each  alone, 
through  thinly-inhabited  districts,  they 
form  habits  of  re/lection  and  of  su- 
blime contemplation.  With  all  these 
qualifications,  no  wonder  that  they 
should  often  be,  in  remote  parts  of 
the  country,  the  best  mirrors  of  fa- 
shion, and  censors  of  manners ;  and 
should  contribute  much  to  polish 
the  roughness,  and  soften  the  rusti- 
city of  our  peasantry.  It  is  not  more 
than  twenty  or  thirty  years,  since  a 
young  man  going  from  any  part  of 
Scotland  to  England,  of  purpose  to 
carry  the  pack,  was  considered  as 
going  to  lead  the  life,  and  acquire 
the  fortune,  of  a  gentleman,  When, 


252  Audubori's  Ornithological  Biography— •  {Aug- 

after  twenty  years'  absence,  in  that  and  such  have  been  Wordsworth's 

honourable  line  of  employment,  he  wanderings   among  all  the  solitary 

returned  with  his  acquisitions  to  his  beauties  and  sublimities  of  nature, 

native  country,  he  was  regarded  as  Yet  the  inspiration  he  "  derived  even 

a  gentleman  to  all  intents  and  pur-  from  the  light  of  setting  suns,"  was 

poses."  not  so  sacred  as  that  which  often 

It  is  pleasant  to  hear  Wordsworth  kindled  within  his  spirit  all  the  divi- 

speak  of  his  own  "  personal  know-  nity  of  Christian  man,  when  conver- 

ledge"  of  packmen  or  pedlars.     We  sing  charitably  with  his  brother-man, 

cannot  say  of  him  in  the  words  of  a  wayfarer  on  the  dusty  high-road, 

Burns,  "  the  fient  a  pride  nae  pride  or  among  the  green  lanes  and  alleys 

had  he;"  for  pride  and  power  are  of    merry   England.    Thence  came 

brothers   on   earth,  whatever   they  the  Creation — both  bright  and  so- 

may  prove  to  be  in  heaven.    But  his  lemn — of  the  Sage,  bumble  but  high, 

prime  pride  is  in  his  poetry;  and  he  of  the  finest  of  Philosophical  Poems 

had  not  now  been"  sole  king  of  rocky  — with  soul  "  capacious  and  serene," 

Cumberland,"   had  he  not  studied  the   Sage  at  whom — oh !    ninny  of 

the   characters  of  his   subjects — in  ninnies,  we  have  been  assured  that 

"  huts  where  poor  men  lie" — had  he  you  have  sneered,  to  the  capricious 

not  "  stooped  his  anointed  head"  be-  beck  of  Mr  Jeffrey,  himself  a  man, 

neath  the  doors  of  such  huts,  as  will-  in  his  wiser  moods,  to  honour  most, 

ingly  as  he  ever  raised  it  aloft,  with  as  Wordsworth  always  does,  "  the 

all  its  glorious  laurels,  in  the  palaces  Aristocracy  of  Nature,"  which  you, 

of  nobles  and  princes.    Burns  has  presumptuous  simpleton,  must  needs 

said,  too,  despise;   and  would — if  you  knew 

"  The  Muse,  nae  poet  ever  fand  her,  how  to  set  about  it— perhaps  eke — 

Till  by  himsell  he  loved  to  wander,  Reform  !     Now  we   shall    shut   and 

Adown  some  trotting  burn's  meander,"  seal  your  mouth  in  perpetual  dumb- 

&c.  ness,  with  a  magical  spell. 

"  In  days  of  yore  how  fortunately  fared 
The  Minstrel !  wandering  on  from  Hall  to  Hall, 
Baronial  Court  or  Royal ;  cheer'd  with  gifts 
Munificent,  and  love,  and  Ladies'  praise  ; 
Now  meeting  on  his  road  an  armed  Knight, 
Now  resting  with  a  Pilgrim  by  the  side 
Of  a  clear  brook  ; — Beneath  an  Abbey's  roof 
One  evening  sumptuously  lodged  ;  the  next 
Humbly,  in  a  religious  Hospital ; 
Or  with  some  merry  Outlaws  of  the  wood  ; 
Or  haply  shrouded  in  a  Hermit's  cell. 
Him,  sleeping  or  awake,  the  Robber  spared  ; 
He  walk'd — protected  from  the  sword  of  war 
By  virtue  of  that  sacred  Instrument 
His  Harp,  suspended  at  the  Traveller's  side ; 
His  dear  companion  wheresoe'er  he  went, 
Opening  from  Land  to  Land  an  easy  way 
By  melody,  and  by  the  charm  of  verse. 
Yet  not  the  noblest  of  that  honour'd  Race 
Drew  happier,  loftier,  more  empassion'd  thoughts 
From  his  long  journeyings  and  eventful  life, 
Than  this  obscure  Itinerant  had  skill 
To  gather,  ranging  through  the  tamer  ground 
Of  these  our  unimaginative  days  ; 
Both  while  he  trode  the  earth  in  humblest  guise, 
Accoutred  with  his  burden  and  his  staff; 
And  now,  when  free  to  move  with  lighter  pace. 

;,,,,,,         ,  '(:.,.-     i*> 

"/*]•       "  What  wonder,  then,  if  I,  whose  favourite  School 
x-Kib  >    Hath  bi-en  the  fields,  the  roads,  and  rural  lanes, 

.  Look'd  on  this  Guide  with  reverential  love? 

St  B  DilB—      Each  with  the  other  pleased,  we  now  pursued 
Our  journey — beneath  favourable  skies. 

ri«  ill  1  •       1     . 

i  urn  whercsoeer  we  would,  he  was  a  light 


1831-1  Wilson's  American  Ornitholoyy.  253 

Unfailing  :  not  a  hamlet  could  we  pass,          ;..  '^M^  7JO9VJj  ToJlfi 
Rarely  a  house,  that  did  not  yield  to  him  "lo.Mi[  aldaiiroiio: 

Remembrances ;  or  from  his  tongue  call  forth  ( ? . w       ^ 

Some  way-beguiling  tale.      Nor  less  regard  ^  . 

Accompanied  those  strains  of  apt  discourse, 
Which  Nature's  various  objects  might  inspire  ; 
And  in  the  silence  of  his  face  I  read 
His  overflowing  spirit.      Birds  and  beasts, 
And  the  mute  fish  that  glances  in  the  stream, 
And  harmless  reptile  coiling  in  the  sun, 
And  gorgeous  insect  hovering  in  the  air, 
The  fowl  domestic,  and  the  household  dog, 
In  his  capacious  mind — he  loved  them  all  : 
Their  rights  acknowledging,  he  felt  for  all. 
Oft  was  occasion  given  me  to  perceive 

How  the  calm  pleasures  of  the  pasturing  Herd        u  «i  ybhq  9i 
To  happy  contemplation  sooth'd  his  walk  ; 
How  the  poor  Brute's  condition,  forced  to  ruA   buii 
Its  course  of  suffering  in  the  public  road,      ;iir[ 
Sad  contrast !  all  too  often  smote  his  heart  ^,(u-  .Jf 
With  unavailing  pity.      Rich  in  love 
And  sweet  humanity,  he  was,  himself^,  ;i 

To  the  degree  that  he  desired,  beloved. 

— Greetings  and  smiles  we  met  with  all  day  long          ,JOJ1O 

Prom  faces  that  he  knew ;  we  took  our  seats 

By  many  a  cottage  hearth,  where  he  received 

The  welcome  of  an  Inmate  come  from  far. 

—Nor  was  he  loath  to  enter  ragged  huts, 

Huts  where  his  charity  was  blest ;  his  voice 

Heard  as  the  voice  of  an  experienced  friend. 

And,  sometimes,  where  the  Poor  Man  held  dispute 

With  his  own  mind,  unable  to  subdue 

Impatience,  through  inaptness  to  perceive 

General  distress  in  his  particular  lot ; 

Or  cherishing  resentment,  or  in  vain 

Struggling  against  it,  with  a  soul  perplex'd, 

And  finding  in  herself  no  steady  power 

To  draw  the  line  of  comfort  that  divides 

Calamity,  the  chastisement  of  Heaven, 

Prom  the  injustice  of  our  brother  men  ; 

To  Him  appeal  was  made  as  to  a  judge ; 

Who,  with  an  understanding  heart,  allay'd 

The  perturbation  ;  listen'd  to  the  plea ; 

Resolved  the  dubious  point;  and  sentence  gave 

So  grounded,  so  applied,  that  it  was  heard 

With  softeu'd  spirit — even  when  it  condemn'd." 

Who,  on  perusing  that  passage,  and  "Wilson,  on  the  breaking  out  of  the 

meditating  thereon,  but  will  exclaim  flames  of  the  French  Revolution,  like 

with  us,  in  the  words  of  the  same  many  other  ardent  spirits,  thought 

bard — applying  to  himself  the  fulfill-  they  were  fires  kindled  by  a  light 

ed  prophecy — but  trusting  that  the  from  heaven.  He  associated  himself 

event  in  the  last  line  will  be  far  with  the  Friends  of  the  People — 

away, —  most  of  whom  soon  proved  them- 

"  Blessings  be  with  them  and  eternal  selves  to  be  the  Enemies  of  the  Hu- 

praise  !  man  Race.  His  biographer  in  Con- 

The  POETS  who  on  earth  have  made  us  stable's  Miscellany— unlike  one  or 

heirs  two  others  elsewhere — saw  Wilson's 

Of  truth  and  pure  delight  by  heavenly  conduct,  in  all  things  connected  with 

lays —  "  this  passage  in  his  life,"  in  its  true 

O  might  my  name  be  number'd  among  light.  That  gentleman  does  not  ca- 

theirs!  lumniate  the  respectable  townsmen 

Then  gladly  would  I  end  my  mortal  days."  of  the  misguided  Poet — and  a  Poet 

This  is  an  episode.  he  was— for  bringing  him  to  legal 

r 


Audubon's  Ornithological  Biography-* 


254 

punishment  for  an  unprincipled  act, 
(an  attempt  to  extort  money  for  the 
suppression  of  satire,  or  rather  gross 
and  false  abuse  of  private  character,) 
which  he  committed,  at  a  time  when 
his  moral  sense — in  after  time  firm, 
clear,  and  pure — was  weakened,  dis- 
turbed, and  darkened  by  dangerous 
dreams  and  delusions,  which  his  own 
reason  soon  afterwards  dispelled. 
"  His  conduct  had  given  umbrage  to 
those  in  power,  and  he  was  marked 
as  a  dangerous  character.  In  this 
condition,  foiled  in  his  efforts  to  ac- 
quire a  poet's  name ;  depressed  by 
poverty;  hated  by  those  who  had 
smarted  beneath  his  lash ;  and  sus- 
pected on  account  of  his  politics ;  it 
is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  Wilson 
listened  willingly  to  the  flattering 
accounts  regarding  America,  and 
speedily  resolved  to  seek  that  abode 
of  Utopian  excellence."  His  deter- 
mination was  high-hearted  and  he- 
roic, for  the  means  were  so  which 
enabled  him  to  carry  it  into  execu- 
tion. "  When  he  finally  determined 
on  emigration,  he  was  not  possessed 
of  funds  sufficient  to  pay  his  passage. 
In  order  to  surmount  that  obstacle, 
he  adopted  a  plan  of  extreme  dili- 
gence at  his  loom,  and  rigid  personal 
economy;  by  which  means  he  amass- 
ed the  necessary  sum.  After  living 
for  a  period  of  four  months,  at  the  rate 
of  one  shilling  per  week,  he  paid  fare- 
well visits  to  several  of  his  most  in- 
timate friends,  retraced  some  of  his 
old  favourite  haunts,  and  bidding 
adieu  to  his  native  land,  set  out  on 
foot  for  Port-Patrick," — thence  sailed 
to  Belfast,  and  then  embarked  on 
board  an  American  ship  bound  to 
Newcastle,  in  the  State  of  Delaware, 
where  he  arrived  on  the  14th  of  July, 
1794,  "  with  no  specific  object,  with- 
out a  single  letter  of  introduction, 
and  with  only  a  few  shillings  in  his 
pocket."  He  had  then  just  comple- 
ted his  twenty-eighth  year. 

For  eight  years,  Wilson  struggled 
on — now  a  copperplate-printer — now 
a  weaver — now  a  pedlar — now  a 
land-measurer — now  a  schoolmaster 
— and  now  of  a  composite  occupa- 
tion and  nondescript.  But  he  was 
never  idle  in  mind  nor  body — always 
held  fast  his  integrity;  and  having 
some  reason  to  think  angrily — though 
we  doubt  not,  lovingly — of  Scotland 
—he  persisted  resolutely,  if  not  in 
thinking,  in  speaking  and  writing 


[Aug. 


highly  of  American  life  and  charac- 
ter—also of  "  every  kind  of  peaches, 
apples,  walnuts,  and  wild  grapes,  not 
enclosed  by  high  walls,  nor  guarded 
by  traps  and  mastiffs."  He  adds, 
"  When  I  see  them  sit  down  to  a 
table,  loaded  with  roasted  and  boiled, 
fruits  of  different  kinds,  and  plenty 
of  good  cider,  and  this  only  the  com- 
mon fare  of  the  common  people,  I 
think  of  my  poor  countrymen,  and 
cannot  help  feeling  sorrowful  at  the 
contrast."  These  and  other  lamen- 
tations of  his  over  the  wretchedness 
of  "  cauld  kail  in  Aberdeen  and  cus- 
tocks  in  Strathbogie,"  have  too  much 
in  them  of  bile  and  spleen  ;  nor  does 
it  appear  that,  with  all  his  extraordi- 
nary talents,  at  the  end  of  eight  years, 
he  was  better  off — or  so  well — in  the 
New  World  as  he  would  probably 
have  been,  with  equally  proper  and 
prudent  conduct,  in  the  old.  Phila- 
delphia was  not  a  kinder  mother  to 
him  than  Paisley  had  been — and  in 
the  land  of  liberty  it  appears  that  he 
had  led  the  life  of  a  slave.  Man 
does  not  live  by  bread  alone — and 
certainly  not  by  peaches,  apples, 
walnuts, and  wild  grapes — with  plen- 
ty of  good  cider.  There  were  en- 
joyments partaken  of  by  the  poor  all 
over  Scotland,  during  those  eight 
years,  which  few  or  none  knew  bet- 
ter how  to  appreciate  than  this  highly- 
gifted  man,  utterly  unknown  to  the 
people  of  Amei'ica;  nor,  in  the  na- 
ture of  things,  could  they  have  had 
existence.  But  Wilson,  in  spite  of 
his  vainly-cherished  dissatisfaction 
with  the  state  of  things  in  his  native 
country,  loved  it  tenderly,  and  ten- 
derly did  he  love  the  friends  'there 
whom  he  never  expected  again  to 
see ;  for  his  heart,  though  it  was  not 
addicted  to  outward  overflowings, 
was  full  of  the  holiest  feelings  and 
affections,  and  it  was  deep.  Its  depth 
sometimes  seems  sullen — but  the 
time  was  near  when  it  was  to  be  re- 
visited with  sunshine,  and  to  murmur 
music.  In  a  letter  to  his  father  from 
Milestown,  Philadelphia,  August, 
1798,  he  shews  every  disposition  that 
best  becomes  a  man.  "  I  should  be 
very  happy,  dear  parents,  to  hear 
from  you,  and  how  my  brother  and 
sisters  are.  I  hope  David  will  be  a 
good  lad,  and  take  his  father's  advice 
in  every  difficulty.  If  he  does,  I  can 
tell  him  he  will  never  repent  it;  if 
he  does  not,  he  may  regret  it  bitterly 


1831.] 


Wilson's  American  Ornithology. 


255 


with  tears.  This  is  the  advice  of  a 
brother,  with  whom  he  has  not  yet 
had  time  to  be  much  acquainted,  but 
who  loves  him  sincerely.  I  should 
wish,  also,  that  he  would  endeavour 
to  improve  himself  in  some  useful 
parts  of  learning,  to  read  books  of 
information  and  taste,  without  which 
a  man,  in  any  country,  is  but  a  clod- 
pole  ;  but,  beyond  every  thing  else, 
let  him  cherish  the  deepest  gratitude 
to  God,  and  affectionate  respect  for 
his  parents.  I  have  thought  it  my 
duty,  David,  to  recommend  these 
amiable  virtues  to  you,  because  I  am 
your  brother,  and  very  probably  I 
may  never  see  you.  In  the  experi- 
ence I  have  had  among  mankind,  I 
can  assure  you  that  such  conduct 
will  secure  you  many  friends,  and 
support  you  under  your  misfortunes; 
for,  if  you  live,  you  must  meet  with 
them — they  are  the  lot  of  life." 

During  his  residence  at  Miles- 
town,  it  appears  that  he  performed  a 
journey  on  foot,  in  twenty-eight  days, 
of  nearly  eight  hundred  miles,  into 
the  state  of  New  York,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  visiting  and  assisting  a  family 
of  relatives  from  Scotland. 

In  the  year  1802,  he  became  a 
teacher  in  a  seminary  in  the  town- 
ship of  Kingsep,  near  Gray's  Ferry, 
on  the  river  Schuylkill,  a  few  miles 
from  Philadelphia.  Here  he  became 
acquainted  with  that  excellent  man 
and  naturalist,  William  Bartram,  and 
with  Lawson  the  engraver,  from 
whom  he  took  lessons  in  drawing, 
and  who  afterwards  greatly  impro- 
ved his  delineations  of  his  darling 
birds.  Here,  too,  he  became  ac- 
quainted with  the  books  on  Natural 
History  of  Edwards  and  Catesby; 
nor  do  we  believe  that  up  to  that 
time  had  he  any  knowledge  of  orni- 
thological science.  His  poems,  writ- 
ten before  he  left  Scotland,  do  not, 
as  far  as  we  remember,  discover  any 
unusually  strong  symptoms  of  a 
passion  for  plumage ;  and  proba- 
bly he  knew  no  more  about  the 
"  Birds  of  Scotland,"  than  what  he 
had  gathered  from  involuntary  no- 
tices in  his  delight,  when  taking  his 
evening  walks  on  the  Braes  of  Bal- 
whidder,  or  among  the  woods  of 
Crookstone,  or  when  trudging  with 
his  pack  among  solitary  places,  where 
the  linnet  sang  from  the  broom  or 
brier  thickets.  It  is  true  that  he 
took  a  fowling-piece  with  him  to 


America,  and  his  very  first  act,  as 
Mr  Hetherington  says,  on  his  arrival 
there,  was  shooting  a  red-headed 
woodpecker,  on  his  way  from  New- 
castle to  Philadelphia.  During  an 
excursion,  too,  in  the  autumn  of 
1795,  as  a  pedlar,  through  a  consi- 
derable part  of  the  state  of  New 
Jersey,  he  kept  a  journal,  in  which 
there  are  notices  of  the  principal 
natural  productions,  and  sketches  of 
the  indigenous  quadrupeds  and  birds. 
His  passion  for  ornithology,  soon  as 
fairly  awakened,  rose  up  like  a  slum- 
bering fire  blown  on  by  a  strong 
wind;  and  in  1802,  when  cheered 
and  encouraged  by  Bartram,  Law- 
son,  and  others,  he  began  no  doubt 
to  indulge  in  daydreams,  which 
were  soon  nobly  realized.  At  this 
period  he  appeared  subject  to  deep 
despondency  and  depression;  for 
his  mind  was  constantly  working 
and  brooding  over  dim  and  indefinite 
plans  and  systems  for  the  future. 
"  Coming  events  cast  their  shadows 
before,"  and  he  was  wrestling  with 
doubt,  fear,  and  hope,  and  a  strange 
host  of  phantoms,  indicating  to  him 
the  paths  of  his  destined  vocation. 

Writing  to  a  friend  in  Paisley,  in 
June  1803,  he  says,  "  Close  applica- 
tion to  the  duties  of  my  profession, 
which  I  have  followed  since  1795, 
has  deeply  injured  my  constitution ; 
the  more  so,  that  my  rambling  dis- 
position was  the  worst  calculated  of 
any  one's  in  the  world  for  the  aus- 
tere regularity  of  a  teacher's  life. 
I  have  had  many  pursuits  since  I  left 
Scotland — mathematics,  the  German 
language,  music,  drawing,  and  lam 
now  about  to  make  a  collection  of  all 
our  finest  birds"  And  in  a  letter  to 
Bartram,  written  about  this  time,  he 
says  finely,  "  I  sometimes  smile  to 
think,  that  while  others  are  immer- 
sed in  deep  schemes  of  speculation 
and  aggrandizement,  in  building 
towns  and  purchasing  plantations,  I 
am  entranced  in  contemplation  over 
the  plumage  of  a  lark,  or  gazing,  like 
a  despairing  lover,  on  the  lineaments 
of  an  owl.  While  others  are  hoard- 
ing up  their  bags  of  money,  without 
the  power  of  enjoying  it,  I  am  col- 
lecting, without  injuring  my  con- 
science, or  wounding  my  peace  of 
mind,  those  beautiful  specimens  of 
Nature's  works  that  are  for  ever 
pleasing.  I  have  had  live  crows, 
hawks,  and  owls;  opossums,  squir- 


Audufion's  Ornithological  Biography — 


256 

rels,  snakes,  lizards,  &c.  &c.,  so  that 
my  room  lias  sometimes  reminded 
me  of  Noah's  ark ;  but  Noah  had  a 
wife  in  one  corner  of  it,  and  in 
this  particular  our  parallel  does  not 
altogether  tally.  I  receive  every 
subject  of  natural  history  that  is 
brought  to  me ;  and,  though  they  do 
not  march  into  my  ark  from  all 
quarters,  as  they  did  into  that  of  our 
great  ancestor,  yet  I  find  means,  by 
the  distribution  of  a  few  fi  vepenny 
bits,  to  make  them  find  the  way  fast 
enough.  A  boy,  not  long  ago,  brought 
me  a  large  basketful  of  crows.  I 
expect  his  next  load  will  be  bull 
frogs,  if  I  don't  soon  issue  orders  to 
the  contrary.  One  of  my  boys 
caught  a  mouse  in  school,  a  few 
days  ago,  and  directly  marched  up 
to  me  with  his  prisoner.  I  set  about 
drawing  it  that  same  evening;  and 
all  the  while  the  pautings  of  its  little 
heart  shewed  it  to  be  in  the  most 
extreme  agonies  of  fear.  I  had  in- 
tended to  kill  it,  in  order  to  fix  it  in 
the  claws  of  a  stuffed  owl ;  but,  hap- 
pening to  spill  a  few  drops  of  water 
near  where  it  was  tied,  it  lapped  it 
up  with  such  eagerness,  and  looked 
in  my  face  with  such  an  eye  of  sup- 
plicating terror,  as  perfectly  over- 
came me.  I  immediately  untied  it, 
and  restored  it  to  life  and  liberty. 
The  agonies  of  a  prisoner  at  the 
stake,  while  the  fire  and  instruments 
of  torment  are  preparing,  could  not 
be  more  severe  than  the  sufferings 
of  that  poor  mouse ;  and,  insignifi- 
cant as  the  object  was,  I  felt  at  that 
moment  the  sweet  sensations  that 
mercy  leaves  on  the  mind  when  she 
triumphs  over  cruelty." 

In  1804,  accompanied  by  two 
friends,  Wilson  set  out  on  a  pedes- 
trian journey  to  the  Falls  of  Niagara; 
and  having  dropped  them,  (not  the 
Falls,)  after  an  absence  of  fifty-nine 
days,  he  returned  home,  having  with 
gun  and  baggage  traversed  nearly 
1300  miles  — to  use  his  own  words 
— "  through  trackless  snows,  and 
uninhabited  forests — over  stupen- 
dous mountains,  and  down  danger- 
ous rivers — passing  over  as  great 
a  variety  of  men  and  modes  of  li- 
ving, as  the  same  extent  of  country 
can  exhibit  in  any  part  of  North 
America.  Though  in  this  tour  I  have 
bad  every  disadvantage  of  deep  roads 
and  rough  weather — hurried  marches 
and  many  other  inconveniences  to  eu- 


[Aug. 


counter, — yet  so  far  am  I  from  being 
satisfied  with  what  I  have  seen,  or 
discouraged  by  the  fatigues  which 
every  traveller  must  submit  to,  that 
I  feel  more  eager  than  ever  to  com- 
mence some  more  extensive  expedi- 
tion, where  scenes  and  subjects,  en- 
tirely new  and  generally  unknown, 
might  reward  niy  curiosity;  and 
where,  perhaps,  my  humble  acquisi- 
tions might  add  something  to  the 
stores  of  knowledge.  For  all  the 
hazards  and  privations  incident  to 
such  an  undertaking,  I  feel  confident 
in  my  own  spirit  and  resolution. 
With  no  family  to  enchain  my  affec- 
tions ;  no  ties  but  those  of  friend- 
ship; with  the  most  ardent  love  to 
my  adopted  country;  with  a  consti- 
tution which  hardens  amidst  fatigues ; 
and  with  a  disposition  sociable  and 
open,  which  can  find  itself  at  home 
by  an  Indian  fire  in  the  depth  of  the 
woods,  as  well  as  in  the  best  apart- 
ment of  the  civilized  ;  for  these,  and 
some  other  reasons  that  invite  me 
away,  I  am  determined  to  become  a 
traveller.  But  I  am  miserably  defi- 
cient in  manyacquirementsabsolutely 
necessary  for  such  a  character.  Bo- 
tany, mineralogy,  and  drawing,  I 
most  ardently  wish  to  be  instructed 
in.  Can  I  yet  make  any  progress  in 
botany,  sufficient  to  enable  me  to  be 
useful  ?  and  what  would  be  the  most 
proper  way  to  proceed  ?  I  have  many 
leisure  moments  that  should  be  de- 
voted to  this  pursuit,providedlcould 
have  hopes  or  succeeding.  Your  opi- 
nion on  this  subject  will  confer  an 
additional  obligation  on  your  affec- 
tionate friend." 

In  the  spring  of  1805,  he  had  made 
many  drawings  of  the  birds  to  be 
found  in  Pennsylvania,  and  endea- 
voured to  acquire  the  art  of  etching 
under  the  instructions  of  Mr  Lawson, 
but  with  no  very  distinguished  suc- 
cess. He  had  planned  his  great  work, 
"  American  Ornithology ;"  and  was 
anxious  that  Mr  Lawson  should  en- 
gage in  it  as  a  joint  concern ;  but  on 
his  declining  to  do  so,  Wilson  decla- 
red with  solemn  emphasis,  his  unal- 
terable resolution  to  proceed  alone 
in  the  undertaking,  if  it  should  cost 
him  his  life.  "  I  shall  at  least  leave 
a  small  beacon  to  point  out  where  I 
perished."  He  now  became  Editor 
of  an  edition  ofllces'sNew  Cyclo- 
paedia, published  by  Mr  Bradford, 
bookseller  in  Philadelphia,  and  re- 


1801.] 


Wilson's  American  Ornithology. 


linquished  the  life  of  a  schoolmaster, 
He  proceeded  with  vast  energy  in 
his  ;rreat  work — his  fame  had  al- 
ready waxed  great — and  now  Wil- 
son must  have  enjoyed  happiness. 
In  1807,  he  made  a  pedestrian  ex- 
cursion throughpart  ot  Pennsylvania, 
collecting  new  specimens,  and  pro- 
curing additional  information.  And 
in  September  1808,  the  first  volume 
of  the  American  Ornithology  made 
its  appearance. 

"  When,"  quoth  his  American  bio- 
grapher, "  the  superb  volume  was 
presented  to  the  public,  their  delight 
was  equalled  only  by  their  astonish- 
in  ent,  that  America,  as  yet  in  its  in- 
fancy, should  produce  an  original 
work  in  science,  which  could  vie  in 
its  essentials  with  the  proudest  pro- 
ductions of  a  similar  nature  of  the 
European  world."  All  that  is  very 
line.  But  it  appears  that  to  a  letter 
written  by  Wilson  in  1806,  about  his 
proposed  work,  and  other  schemes, 
to  Jefferson,  the  President,  no  an- 
swer was  returned ;  and  in  giving 
existence  to  this  great  work,  Wil- 
son says,  "  I  have  expended  all  I 
have  been  saving  since  my  arrival  in 
America.  Whether  I  shall  be  able 
to  realize  a  fortune  by  this  publica- 
tion, or  receive  first  costs,  or  suffer 
the  sacrifice  of  my  little  all,  is  doubt- 
ful." He  speaks  with  pride,  in  a 
letter  to  his  father,  "  of  the  favour- 
able reception  he  met  with  among 
many  of  the  first  characters  in  the 
United  States;"  but  we  cannot  see 
on  what  ground  his  American  bio- 
grapher chuckles  over  the  notion 
that  his  country,"  yet  in  its  infancy," 
produced  a  work  which  struck  the 
Transatlantic  public  and  republic 
with  equal  delight  and  astonishment. 
\Vilson,  a  Scotch  weaver  and  pack- 
man, produced  the  said  work — Ame- 
rica produced  but  the  birds — and  for 
having  done  so  we  give  her  all  due 
credit.  But  we  must  not  forget  that 
Paisley,  not  Philadelphia,  produced 
Wilson. 

The  first  volume  of  the  Ornitho- 
logy having  been  produced  by  hook 
and  crook,  we  leave  you  to  judge 
whether  by  Wilson  or  by  America^ 
pray  did  the  New  World  with  a  ma- 
ternal eye  regard  her  offspring  ?  Did 
she  exult  to  behold  the  bantling, 
suckle  it  at  her  own  breast,  or  hire  a 
wet  nurse  as  bounteous  as  Cybele  ? 
We  are  sorry  to  say  that  she  did  all 


she  could  in  an  honest  underhand 
way  to  commit  infanticide.  Siie 
adopted  starvation,  cold,  and  neglect, 
as  the  means  of  murder — but  the  vi- 
gorous offspring  of  the  heart  and 
brain  of  a  Paisley  weaver  outlived 
the  withering  treatment — and  as  it 
is  only  in  infancy  that  such  creatures 
ever  die — it  is  now  immortal.  In 
September  1808,  Wilson  journeyed 
eastward — and  during  winter  ho  vi- 
sited the  southern  states,  exhibiting 
liis  book,  and  trying  to  procure  sub- 
scribers. He  was  almost  everywhere 
discountenanced,  or  sneered  at,  or 
frowned  upon ;  but  not 

.(,>   l'(l<>l~>   }  li    .fljip'jl 

"  Chill  Penury  repress'd  his  noble  rage, 
Nor  I'roze  the  genial  current  of  his  soul." 

The  man  who  had  lived  so  long  in  his 
native  town  on  a  shilliny  a-week,  that 
he  might  raise  the  means  of  emigra- 
ting to  America  when  without  any 
specific  purpose  at  all,  was  not  likely 
to  faint  or  fail  now  that  he  knew  he 
was  on  the  path  of  glory.  "  What- 
ever be  the  result  of  these  matters," 
said  he,  "  I  shall  not  sit  down  with 
folded  hands,  whilst  any  thing  can 
be  done  to  carry  my  point,  since  God 
helps  them  who  help  themselves." 
He  more  than  suspected  that  he  "  had 
been  mistaken  in  publishing  a  book 
too  good  for  the  country."  But 
though  we  cannot  but  smile  at  the 
silly  boast  of  Wilson's  American  bio- 
grapher, we  have  no  wish  to  blame 
America  for  her  behaviour  to  her 
adopted  citizen.  It  deserves  neither 
praise  nor  blame.  It  was  natural, 
and  perhaps  inevitable  behaviour,  in 
such  a  personage  as  she  who  still 
rejoices  in  the  strong  name— United 
States.  She  had  something  else  to 
do — we  need  not  be  more  explicit — 
than  to  delight  in  Ornithology^ ;' It 
must  have  appeared  to  her  very  ab- 
surd, all  this  bustle  about  birds. 

"  lam  fixing  correspondents,"  saith 
Wilson,  "  in  every  corner  of  these 
northern  regions,  like  so  many  pick- 
ets and  outposts ;  so  that  scarcely  a 
wren  or  tit  shall  be  able  to  pass 
along  from  York  to  Canada  but  I 
shall  get  intelligence  of  it."  The 
man  must  have  seemed  crazy ;  and 
then,  dollars  were  dollars.  Literary 
patronage  depends  entirely  on  the 
state  of  the  currency.  But  let  it  de- 
pend on  what  it  may,  Europe  is  as 
bad  as  America,  and  worst-,  in  hoi- 
neglect  of  genius — and  no  country 


Audubon's  Ornithological  Biography — 


258 

in  Europe  so  bad  as  England.  She 
has  given  stones  to  a  greater  number 
of  men  who  asked  for  bread,  than 
any  other  corn-growing  country  ex- 
tant—  and  yet,  with  Bloomfield's 
death  at  her  door  but  yesterday,  she 
blusters  about  Scotland's  usage  of 
Burns,  who  has  been  dead  half  a 
century.  That  poor  Scotland  should 
starve  her  poets  to  death,  is  more 
her  misfortune  than  her  sin.  For  of 
a  country  "  where  half-starv'd  spi- 
ders feed  on  half-starv'd  flies,"  where 
nothing  edible  in  the  shape  of  ani- 
mal food  is  to  be  found,  but  sheep's- 
heads  singed  in  smithies,  who  but  a 
big  blustering  Englishman,  with  his 
paunch  with  fat  capon  lined,  and 
bacon,  and  all  manner  of  grease, 
would  abuse  the  Noblemen  and  Gen- 
tlemen for  having  allowed  the  Devil 
to  run  away  with  an  Exciseman  ? 
It  would  be  easy  to  burst  out  in  in- 
dignant declamation  against  the  ig- 
norance and  insensibility  of  Brother 
Jonathan.  But  we  eschew  such  sa- 
tire, when  we  think  how  "  he  laid 
his  axe  thick  trees  upon" — how  he 
built  up  cities — and  how  in  good 
time  he  constructed  ships — and  such 
ships !  Lord  bless  ye !  did  you  ever 
see  them  sail  ?  Why,  "  her  tackling 
rich  and  her  apparel  high," — a  fif- 
teen-hundred tonner  works  as  easy 
on  the  swell  of  the  Atlantic,  as  the 
Victory  or  Endeavour  on  the  smooth 
of  Windermere  !  No  straining — no 
creaking — no  lumbering — no  lurch- 
ing ;  merely  murmuring  in  her  ma- 
jesty, light  and  bright  she  goes,  as  if 
she  were  indeed  a  Creature  of  the 
Element.  At  such  a  sight,  the  idea 
of  a  dock-yard  never  enters  your 
mind — if  you  have  a  soul  for  the 
sea.  You  look  aloft,  and  you  can- 
not help  blessing  "  the  bit  of  striped 
bunting" — and  the  fair — thank  Hea- 
ven now — the  friendly  stars.  True, 
that  the  Shannon  smashed  the  Che- 
sapeak  in  eleven  minutes — boarded 
and  took  her  in  about  the  time  we 
take  to  eat  an  egg;  and  immortal 
fame  be  to  Broke,  nor  forgotten  ever 
the  gallant,  but  on  that  day  luckless, 
Lawrence !  But  more  formidable  Fri- 
gates— "  if  they  will  allow  us  to  call 
them  so" — never  fought  or  flew — 
than  American  single-deckers  of  the 
line.  What  else  are  they  ?  At  long 
bowls  they  know  right  well  how  to 
play — and  at  close  quarters  'tis  dan- 
gerous to  bring  an  action  against 


[Aug. 


them  for  assault  and  battery.  The 
truth  is,  they  fought  as  well  as  we 
did — to  fight  better,  we  defy  the 
whole  race  of  men  or  devils.  There- 
fore their  Frigates  took  ours— and 
they  always  will  take  ours — as  long 
as  the  present  constitution  of  the 
British  navy  endures,  and  of  the  pre- 
sent earth,  air,  fire,  and  water.  When 
a  British  Forty-four  takes  an  Ame- 
rican Seventy-four — and  that  was 
somewhere  about  the  proportion  of 
the  force  in  all  cases  where  we  were 
captured — we  shall  be  on  the  look- 
out for  some  great  change  in  the  na- 
ture of  things  in  general,  and  pre- 
pare for  emigration  to  a  land  from 
whose-  bourne  no  traveller  returns, 
except  Hamlet's  Father,  and  a  few 
other  thin  Ghosts. 

Having  thus  vindicated  the  New 
World  to  her  heart's  satisfaction,  we 
may  observe,  that  Wilson,  walking 
with  his  book  under  his  arm,  was 

i'ustly  one  of  the  proudest  of  men. 
n  New  York,  the  Professors  of  Co- 
lumbia College  "  expressed  much 
esteem  for  his  performance."  What 
could  they  do  more  ?  At  Hartford, 
the  publisher  of  a  newspaper  "  ex- 
pressed the  highest  admiration  of  it" 
— was  not  that  nuts  ?  Wilson  crack'd 
them,  and  eat  the  kernels ;  but  says, 
with  a  sly  simplicity,  "  this  is  a  spe- 
cies of  currency  that  will  neither 
purchase  plates  nor  pay  the  printer; 
but,  nevertheless,  it  is  gratifying  to 
the  vanity  of  an  author,  when  no- 
thing better  can  be  got."  Having  gone 
as  far  east  as  Portland,  in  Maine, 
where  he  had  an  opportunity  of  see- 
ing and  conversing  with  people  from 
the  remotest  boundaries  of  the  Uni- 
ted States,  and  received  much  in- 
formation from  them  with  regard  to 
the  birds  that  frequent  those  north- 
ern regions,  he  directed  from  Port- 
land his  way  across  the  country, 
"  among  dreary,  savage  glens,  and 
mountains  covered  with  pines  and 
hemlocks,  amid  whose  black  and 
half-burnt  trunks,  and  the  everlast- 
ing rocks  and  stones,  this  country 
'grinned  horribly'" — till  150  miles 
brought  him  to  Dartmouth  College, 
New  Hampshire,  on  the  Vermont 
line,  where  "  he  paid  his  addresses 
to  the  Fathers  of  Literature,  and  met 
with  a  kind  and  obliging  reception. 
Dr  Wheeloch,  the  President,  made 
him  oat  at  his  table ;  and  the  Pro- 
fessors vied  with  each  other  to  oblige 


1831.] 


Wilson's  American  Ornithology. 


259 


him" — as  all  Professors  ought  to  do 
towards  all  good  men  and  ornitho- 
logists. In  Annapolis  he  passed  his 
Book  through  both  houses  of  the 
legislature ;  where,  quoth  he,  "  the 
wise  men  of  Maryland  stared  and 
gaped,  from  bench  to  bench;  but 
never  having  heard  of  such  a  thing 
as  120  dollars  for  a  Book;  the  ayes 
for  subscribing  were  none  ;  and  so  it 
was  unanimously  determined  in  the 
negative." 

That  was  shocking;  nor  can  we 
read  it  without  a  cold  shudder — 
without  our  flesh  crawling  and  creep- 
ing over  our  bones  like  a  congrega- 
tion of  spiders — we  who  live  in  a 
glorious  country  with  a  reforming 
King,  in  which  ten  of  our  most  dis- 
tinguished literary  men,  somewhat 
superannuated  or  so  in  their  learn- 
ing or  genius — wearied  and  worn 
out  some  of  them  with  drudgery  that 
at  last  becomes  dreary  and  dismal — 
all  virtuous  and  honourable,  elderly 
or  old  poor  men — were,  t'other  day, 
deprived  of  their  paltry  pittances  of 
L.I 00  a-year,  while  feasts  were  in 
the  act  of  being  gobbled  up  in  Guild- 
halls, or  gluttony  knows  where,  by 
persons  whose  motto  is  retrench- 
ment, at  an  expense,  and  to  the  tune, 
of  thousands  upon  thousands.  We 
like  to  call  things  by  their  right  names 
— and  this  was  in  cold  blood  rob- 
bery and  murder. 

Through  North  Carolina  Wilson 
pursued  cheerily  his  unaccompanied 
way,  and  found  multitudes  of  Birds 
that  never  winter  in  Pennsylvania. 
He  speaks  with  a  stern  and  sullen 
delight — as  well  he  might — of  its 
immense  solitary  pine  savannahs — 
through  which  the  road  winds  among 
stagnant  ponds,  swarming  with  alli- 
gators— dark,  sluggish  creeks,  of  the 
colour  of  brandy,  over  which  are 
thrown  high  wooden  bridges  with- 
out railings,  and  so  crazed  and  rot- 
ten as  not  only  to  alarm  one's  horse, 
but  also  the  rider,  and  to  make  it  a 
matter  of  thanksgiving  to  both  when 
they  get  fairly  over,  without  going 
through ;  enormous  cypress  swamps, 
which,  to  a  stranger,  have  a  striking, 
desolate,  and  ruinous  appearance. 
He  desires  the  friend  to  whom  he  is 
writing  to  picture  to  himself  a  forest 
of  prodigious  trees,  rising  thick  as 
they  can  grow  from  a  vast,  flat,  and 
impenetrable  morass,  covered  for 
ten  feet  from  the  ground  with  reeds. 


The  leafless  limbs  of  the  cypresses 
are  covered  with  an  extraordinary 
kind  of  moss  from  two  to  ten  feet 
long,  in  such  quantities,  that  fifty 
men  might  conceal  themselves  in 
one  tree.  Nothing,  he  says,  struck 
him  with  such  surprise,  as  the  pros- 
pect of  several  thousand  acres  of 
such  timber,  loaded,  as  it  were,  with 
many  million  tons  of  tow  waving  in 
the  wind.  Through  solitary  pine  sa- 
vannahs and  cypress  swamps,  the 
enthusiastic  Ornithologist  thus  jour- 
neyed on,  sometimes  thirty  miles 
without  seeing  a  hut  or  a  human 
being ;  but  on  one  occasion  he  found 
himself  all  at  once  in  not  only  civi- 
lized, but  elegant  society.  "  The 
company  consisted  of  237  can-ion 
crows  (vultur  atratus),  five  or  six 
dogs,  and  myself,  though  I  only  kept 
order,  and  left  the  eating  part  en- 
tirely to  others.  I  sat  so  near  the 
dead  horse,  that  my  feet  touched 
his ;  and  yet,  at  one  time,  I  counted 
39  vultures  on  and  within  him,  so 
that  hardly  an  inch  of  his  flesh  could 
be  seen  for  them." 

In  January,  1810,  was  published 
his  second  volume,  and  Wilson  im- 
mediately set  out  for  Pittsburg,  on 
his  route  to  New  Orleans.  From 
Pittsburg  he  descended  the  Ohio  by 
himself  m  a  skiff — his  stock  of  pro- 
visions consisting  of  some  biscuit 
and  cheese,  and  a  bottle  of  cordial— 
his  gun,  trunk,  and  greatcoat,  occu- 
pied one  end  of  the  boat — he  had  a 
small  tin  to  bale  her,  and  to  take  his 
beverage  from  the  stream.  "  I  launch- 
ed into  the  stream,  and  soon  winded 
away  among  the  hills  that  every- 
where enclose  this  noble  river.  The 
weather  was  warm  and  serene,  and 
the  river  like  a  mirror,  except  where 
floating  masses  of  ice  spotted  its  sur- 
face, and  which  required  some  care 
to  steer  clear  of;  but  these,  to  my 
surprise,  in  less  than  a  day's  sailing 
totally  disappeared.  Far  from  being 
concerned  at  my  new  situation,  I  felt 
my  heart  expand  with  joy  at  the 
novelties  which  surrounded  me;  I 
listened  with  pleasure  to  the  whist- 
ling of  the  red  bird  on  the  banks  as 
I  passed,  and  contemplated  the  fo- 
rest scenery,  as  it  receded,  with  in- 
creasing delight.  The  smoke  of  the 
numerous  sugar  camps  rising  lazily 
among  the  mountains,  gave  great 
effect  to  the  varying  landscape  ;  and 
the  grotesque  log  cabins  that  here 


Audubon's  Ornithological  Biography — 


260 

and  there  opened  from  the  woods, 
were  diminished  into  mere  dog- 
houses by  the  sublimity  of  the  im- 
pending mountains.  If  you  suppose 
to  yourself  two  parallel  ranges  of 
forest-covered  hills,  whose  irregular 
summits  are  seldom  more  than  three 
or  four  miles  apart,  winding  through 
an  immense  extent  of  country,  and 
enclosing  a  river  half  a  mile  wide, 
which  alternately  washes  the  steep 
declivity  on  one  side,  and  leaves  a 
rich,  forest-clad  bottom  on  the  other, 
of  a  mile  or  so  in  breadth,  you  will 
have  a  pretty  correct  idea  of  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  Ohio.  The  banks 
of  these  rich  flats  are  from  twenty  to 
sixty  and  eighty  feet  high  ;  and  even 
these  last  were  within  a  few  feet  of 
being  overflowed  in  December,  1808. 

"  I  now  stripped  with  alacrity  to 
my  new  avocation.  The  current 
went  about  two  and  a  half  miles  an 
hour,  and  I  added  about  three  and  a 
half  miles  more  to  the  boat's  way 
with  my  oars. 

"  I  rowed  twenty  odd  miles  the 
first  spell,  and  found  I  should  be 
able  to  stand  it  perfectly  well.  About 
an  hour  after  night,  I  put  up  at  a 
miserable  cabin,  fifty-two  miles  from 
Pittsburg,  where  I  slept  on  what  I 
supposed  to  be  corn  stalks,  or  some- 
thing worse;  so,  preferringthe  smooth 
bosom  of  the  Ohio  to  this  brush  heap, 
I  got  up  long  before  day,  and,  being 
under  no  apprehension  of  losing  my 
way,  I  again  pushed  out  into  the 
stream.  The  landscape  on  each  side 
lay  in  one  mass  of  shade ;  but  the 
grandeur  of  the  projecting  headlands 
and  vanishing  points,  or  lines,  was 
charmingly  reflected  in  the  smooth 
glassy  surface  below.  I  could  only 
discover  when  I  was  passing  a  clear- 
ing by  the  crowing  of  cocks,  and  now 
and  then,  in  more  solitary  places, 
the  big-horned  owl  made  a  most  hi- 
deous hollowing,  that  echoed  among 
the  mountains.  In  this  lonesome 
manner,  with  full  leisure  for  obser- 
vation and  reflection,  exposed  to 
hardships  all  day,  and  hard  berths 
all  night,  to  storms  of  rain,  hail,  and 
enow — for  it  froze  severely  almost 
every  ni^ht — 1  persevered,  from  the 
24th  of  February  to  Sunday  evening, 
March  17,  when  I  moored  my  skiff 
safely  in  Bear  Grass  Creek,  at  the 
rapids  of  the  Ohio,  after  a  voyage  of 
seven  hundred  and  twenty  miles. 
My  hands  suffered  the  most ;  and  it 


[Aug. 


Avill  be  some  weeks  yet  before  they 
recover  their  former  feeling  and  flex- 
ibility. It  would  be  the  task  of  a 
month  to  detail  all  the  particulars  of 
my  numerous  excursions  in  every 
direction  from  the  river."  This  is 
but  a  short  specimen  of  this  journal. 
Read  the  whole,  if  you  would  know 
Wilson. 

Pass  we  on  to  the  year  1812.  He 
was,  in  it,  elected  a  member  of  the 
American  Philosophical  Society;  and 
in  1813  he  had  completed  the  lite- 
rary materials  of  the  eighth  volume 
of  his  work.  "  He  now  eujx>yed," 
Mr  Hetherington  says  well,  "  the 
satisfaction  of  knowing  that  his  la- 
bours had  not  been  vain,  and  that 
the  value  of  his  work  was  generally 
appreciated  ;  for  although  emanating 
from  a  republican  country,  there  was 
at  this  period  not  a  crowned  head  in 
Europe  who  had  not  become  a  sub- 
scriber to  the  American  Ornitholo- 
gy." But  the  end  of  his  career  was 
at  hand.  His  constitution  had  been 
shook  and  undermined  by  much  bo- 
dily fatigue  and  many  mental  anxie- 
ties. His  genius  had  "  o'er-inform- 
ed  its  tenement  of  clay."  The  dy- 
sentery— which  had  attacked  him  on 
his  skiff-voyage  down  the  Ohio,  and 
which  he  had  then  vanquished  by  a 
wild-strawberry  diet,  at  the  advice 
of  a  wild  Indian  physician — returned 
to  the  charge — and  under  the  assault, 
Alexander  Wilson,  the  Paisley  Poet, 
and  American  Ornithologist — having 
"  given  the  world  assurance  of  a 
man" — laid  down  his  head  and  died 
—on  the  23d  of  August,  1813,  in  the 
48th  year  of  his  age. 

Such  is  a  slight  sketch  indeed  of 
the  life  of  this  extraordinary  and 
highly-gifted  man — Wilson,  the,  Ame- 
rican Ornithologist,  as  he  is,  and  will 
continue  to  be  called,  par  eminence. 

"  To-morrow  for  fresh  fields  and  pastures 
new," 

was  the  inspiring  feeling  with  which, 
on  nil  his  journeys,  he  lay  down 
every  night  in  the  wilderness.  For 
"  fields  and  pastures" — though  they 
too  abound  in  the  New  World— sub- 
stitute swamps  and  forests.  He  was 
a  man  of  genius — and  Nature  and 
Scotland  had  given  him  an  undaunt- 
ed heart.  The  Birdcry  of  North 
America,  it  may  be  said,  belonged  to 
him  who  first  in  _ their  native  haunts 
devoted  his  prime  of  life  to  the  study 


183.1.] 


Wilson's  American  Ornithology. 


261 


of  all  their  kinds,  and  who  died  for 
Ornithology's  sake.  Precursor  in 
those  woods  among  the  Winged  Peo- 
ple he  had  none;  none  that  deserve 
to  have  their  names  written  on  the 
same  page  with  his ;  but  he  has  a 
successor — as  the  world,  old  .and 
new,  must  be  made  to  know  by 
means  of  Maga  the  Mercurial — and 
that  successor,  who  is  he  but  Audu- 
bon? 

It  is  only  from  the  lips  of  envy  or 
jealousy,  or  some  other  green  and 
yellow  wretch,  that  comparisons  are 
odious — from  the  lips  of  rose-cheek- 
ed and  bright-eyed  admiration — and 
such  is  the  countenance  of  Maga — 
they  are  odoriferous  as  violets.  But 
our  mode  of  making  comparisons  is 
as  simple  as  it  is  philosophical — 
"  Alexander  Wilson  and  John  James 
Audubon!"  We  call  on  them — and 
they  appear  and  answer  to  their 
names — yea,  the  one  has  done  so 
from  the  dust — the  other  emerges 
"bright  from  the  living  umbrage.  But 
Ave  are  notin  the  least  afraid  of  ghosts 
— and  Wilson  is  a  gracious  spirit. 
He  and  Audubon  stand  side  by  side 
— they  grasp  each  other's  hand — and 
during  that  cordial  greeting  all  eyes 
may  see  that  they  are  of  the  same 
stature — the  crowns  of  their  heads 
touch — to  a  hair-breadth — the  mark 
six  feet — the  perfection  of  altitude — 
on  the  standard.  They  are  brothers 
— and  their  names  will  go  down  to- 
gether— for  "  they  have  writ  their 
annals  right" — with  pen  and  pencil 
< — nor  will  their  superiors  be  found 
anywhere — their  equals  few — in  all 
the  highest  haunts  of  Ornithological 
science.  Wilson  had  the  happy  for- 
tune to  be,  with  his  happy  genius — 
First  in  Hand.  But  Audubon  has 
alf  the  natural  endowments  and  ac- 
quired accomplishments  that  could 
alone  enable  a  man  to  play  the  same 
noble  game  with  the  same  success — 
who  came — Second ;  and  the  two 
together  have  skirred  the  \vhole  con- 
tinent. The  odds  are  great  against 
the  birth  of  a— Third. 

Audubon  and  Wilson  met;  but 
their  parting  seems  mysterious ;  and 
some  one  or  other  of  those  strange 
and  inexplicable  chances  or  acci- 
dents, which  in  this  world  sometimes 
make  much  evil,  seems  to  have  stept 
in  between  the  course  of  their  sub- 
sequent lives,  (Wilson  died  three 
years  after  this  meeting,)  and  pre- 


vented those  sympathies,  which 
otherwise  must  have  been  kindled, 
from  linking  them  in  the  pursuits  to 
which  they  were  with  soul  and 
body  devoted  with  equal  enthusiasm. 
Perhaps  it  was  as  well  or  better 
that  it  should  have  been  so  ;  for  men 
of  great  original  genius  in  the  same 
walk,  were  they  to  meet  often  per- 
sonally on  the  same  path,  might 
dash.  We  say  the  same  walk ;  for 
on  that  walk — it  being  the  whole 
American  continent — there  are  many 
million  paths;  and  Wilson  and  Au- 
dubon were  led  by  nature  along 
them,  far  apart,  each  following  bis 
own  impulses,  indulging  his  own 
dreams,  and  creating  his  own  pic- 
tures. 

It  was  at  Louisville,  in  Kentucky, 
where  the  great  ornithologists  met, 
in  March,  1810— Wilson  then  in  the 
blaze  of  his  European  as  well  as 
American  reputation — Audubon  ut- 
terly unknown.  To  Louisville  he 
had  removed  on  his  marriage,  and 
much  of  his  time  there  was  employ- 
ed in  his  ever  favourite  pursuit.  He 
drew  and  noted  the  habits  of  every 
thing  he  procured;  and  even  at 
an  age  when  Wilson  had  never 
had  a  pencil  in  his  hand  but  to  jot 
down  his  placks,  Audubon,  instructed 
by  the  tuition  of  David,  was  already  a 
skilful  draughtsman.  Louisville  is  a 
place  of  much  beauty — beingsituatcd 
on  the  banks  of  La  Belle  Riviere, 
just  at  the  commencement  of  the 
famed  rapids,  commonly  called  the 
Falls  of  the  Ohio.  The  prospect  of  the 
town,  Audubon  tells  us,  is  such,  that 
it  would  please  even  the  eyes  of  a 
Swiss.  It  extends  along  the  river 
for  seven  or  eight  miles,  and  is 
bounded  on  the  opposite  side  by  a 
fine  range  of  low  mountains,  known 
by  the  name  of  the  Silver  Hills. 

In  our  last  Number  we  made  our 
readers  acquainted  with  such  cir- 
cumstances in  the  early  life  and  pur- 
suits of  Audubon,  as  he  has  been 
pleased  to  tell  us  in  his  most  amu- 
sing and  interesting  volume,  the  first 
of  four  which  he  intends  shall  con- 
tain not  only  the  history  of  all  the 
Birds  whose  histories  are  best  worth 
the  telling,  but  many  of  his  own  ad- 
ventures. "  There  are  persons,"  he 
says,  "  whose  desire  of  obtaining  ce- 
lebrity induces  them  to  suppress  the 
knowledge  of  the  assistance  which 
they  have  received  in  the  composi- 


262  Audition's  Ornithological  Biography —  [Aug. 

tion  of  their  works.     In  many  cases,     reaching  the  place  of  our  destination  in  a 


in  fact,  the  real  author  of  the  draw- 
ings or  the  descriptions  in  books  on 
Natural  History  is  not  so  much  as 
mentioned,  while  the  pretended  au- 
thor assumes  to  himself  all  the  merit 
which  the  world  is  willing  to  allow 
him.  This  sort  of  candour  I  could 
never  endure.  On  the  contrary,  I 
feel  pleasure  in  here  acknowledging 
the  assistance  which  I  have  received 
from  a  friend,  Mr  William  Magilli- 
vray,  who  being  possessed  of  a  libe- 
ral education,  and  a  strong  taste  for 
the  study  of  the  natural  sciences,  has 
aided  me,  not  in  drawing  the  figures 
of  my  illustrations,  nor  in  writing  the 
book  in  your  hand,  although  tully 
competent  for  both  tasks,  but  in 
completing  the  descriptive  details, 
and  smoothing  down  the  asperities 
of  my  Ornithological  Biographies." 

To  render  more  pleasant  the  task 
— as  our  friend  is  pleased  to  call  it — 
of  following  him  through  the  mazes 
of  descriptive  ornithology,  he  endea- 
vours— and  most  successfully — to 
relieve  our  tedium  by  occasional  de- 
scriptions of  the  scenery  and  man- 
ners of  the  land  which  has  furnished 
the  objects  that  engage  our  attention. 
The  natural  features  of  that  land  are 
not  less  remarkable  than  the  moral 
character  of  her  inhabitants  j  and  we 
cannot  find  abetter  subject  with  which 
to  begin  "  than  one  of  those  magni- 
ficent rivers  that  roll  the  collected 
waters  of  her  extensive  territories  to 
the  ocean." 

Wilson  went  down  the  Ohio  from 
Pittsburg  to  the  Falls,  alone  in  a 
skiff.  But  Audubon,  though  as  fond 
of  a  solitary  life  as  any  man  that  ever 
bawled  before  he  got  out  of  the 
wood,  had  early  discovered  that  it 
was  by  no  means  good  for  a  man  to 
be  alone  always  ;  and  had  therefore 
provided  himself  with  a  wife. 

"  When  my  wife,  my  eldest  son  (then 
an  infant),  and  myself  were  returning 
from  Pennsylvania  to  Kentucky,  we 
found  it  expedient,  the  waters  being  un- 
usually low,  to  provide  ourselves  with  a 
skiff',  to  enable  us  to  proceed  to  our  abode 
at  Henderson.  I  purchased  a  large,  com- 
modious, and  light  boat  of  that  denomi- 
nation. We  procured  a  mattrass,  and 
our  friends  furnished  us  with  ready  pre- 
pared viands.  We  had  two  stout  Negro 
rowers,  and  in  this  trim  we  left  the  vil- 
luge  of  Shippingport,  in  expectation  of 


very  few  days. 

"  It  was  in  the  month  of  October. 
The  autumnal  tints  ali^ady  decorated  the 
shores  of  that  queen  of  rivers,  the  Ohio. 
Every  tree  was  hung  with  long  and  flow- 
ing festoons  of  different  species  of  vines, 
many  loaded'  with  clustered  fruits  of  va- 
ried brilliancy,  their  rich  bronzed  car- 
mine mingling  beautifully  with  the  yel- 
low foliage,  which  now  predominated 
over  the  yet  green  leaves,  reflecting  more 
lively  tints  from  the  clear  stream  than 
ever  landscape  painter  portrayed  or  poet 
imagined. 

"  The  days  were  yet  warm.  The  sun 
had  assumed  the  rich  and  glowing  hue 
which  at  that  season  produces  the  singu- 
lar phenomenon  called  there  the  '  Indian 
Summer.'  The  moon  had  rather  passed 
the  meridian  of  her  grandeur.  We  glided 
down  the  river,  meeting  no  other  ripple 
of  the  water  than  that  formed  by  the 
propulsion  of  our  boat.  Leisurely  we 
moved  along,  gazing  all  day  on  the  gran- 
deur and  beauty  of  the  wild  scenery 
around  us. 

"  Now  and  then,  a  large  cat-fish  rose 
to  the  surface  of  the  water  in  pursuit  of 
a  shoal  of  fry,  which,  starting  simultane- 
ously from  the  liquid  element,  like  so 
many  silvery  arrows,  produced  a  shower 
of  light,  while  the  pursuer  with  open  jaws 
seized  the  stragglers,  and,  with  a  splash 
of  his  tail,  disappeared  from  our  view. 
Other  fishes  we  heard  uttering  beneath 
our  bark  a  rumbling  noise,  the  strange 
sounds  of  which  we  discovered  to  proceed 
from  the  white  perch,  for  on  casting  our 
net  from  the  bow  we  caught  several  of 
that  species,  when  the  noise  ceased  for  a 
time. 

"  Nature,  in  her  varied  arrangements, 
seems  to  have  felt  a  partiality  towards 
this  portion  of  our  country.  As  the  tra- 
veller ascends  or  descends  the  Ohio,  he 
cannot  help  remarking  that  alternately, 
nearly  the  whole  length  of  the  river,  the 
margin,  on  one  side,  is  bounded  by  lofty 
hills  and  a  rolling  surface,  while  on  the 
other,  extensive  plains  of  the  richest  allu- 
vial land  are  seen  as  far  as  the  eye  can 
command  the  view.  Islands  of  varied 
size  and  form  rise  here  and  there  from 
the  bosom  of  the  water,  and  the  winding 
course  of  the  stream  frequently  brings  you 
to  places  where  the  idea  of  being  on  a 
river  of  great  length  changes  to  that  of 
floating  on  a  lake  of  moderate  extent. 
Some  of  these  islands  are  of  considerable 
size  and  value;  while  others,  small  and 
insignificant,  seem  as  if  intended  for  con- 
trast, and  as  serving  to  enhance  the  ge- 
neral interest  of  the  sceuery.  These  lit- 


Wilson's  American  Ornithology. 


1831.] 

tie  islands  are  frequently  overflowed  du- 
ring great  freshets  or  floods,  and  receive 
at  their  heads  prodigious  heaps  of  drifted 
timber.  We  foresaw  with  great  concern 
the  alterations  that  cultivation  would  soon 
produce  along  those  delightful  banks. 

"  As  night  came,  sinking  in  darkness 
the  broader  portions  of  the  river,  our 
minds  became  affected  by  strong  emotions, 
and  wandered  far  beyond  the  present  mo- 
ments. The  tinkling  of  bells  told  us  that 
the  cattle  which  bore  them  were  gently 
roving  from  valley  to  valley  in  search  of 
food,  or  returning  to  their  distant  homes. 
The  hooting  of  the  Great  Owl,  or  the 
muffled  noise  of  its  wings  as  it  sailed 
smoothly  over  the  stream,  were  matters 
of  interest  to  us ;  so  was  the  sound  of  the 
boatman's  horn,  as  it  came  winding  more 
and  more  softly  from  afar.  When  day- 
light returned,  many  songsters  burst  forth 
with  echoing  notes,  more  and  more  mel- 
low to  the  listening  ear.  Here  and  there 
the  lonely  cabin  of  a  squatter  struck  the 
eye,  giving  note  of  commencing  civilisa- 
tion. The  crossing  of  the  stream  by  a 
deer  foretold  how  soon  the  hills  would  be 
covered  with  snow. 

"  Many  sluggish  flat-boats  we  overtook 
and  passed:  some  laden  with  produce 
from  the  different  head- waters  of  the  small 
rivers  that  pour  their  tributary  streams 
into  the  Ohio  ;  others,  of  less  dimensions, 
crowded  with  emigrants  from  distant 
parts,  in  search  of  a  new  home.  Purer 
pleasures  I  never  felt ;  nor  have  you, 
reader,  I  ween,  unless  indeed  you  have 
felt  the  like,  and  in  such  company. 

"  The  margins  of  the  shores  and  of  the 
river  were  at  this  season  amply  supplied 
with  game.  A  wild  turkey,  a  grouse, 
or  a  blue-winged  teal,  could  be  procured 
in  a  few  moments ;  and  we  fared  well, 
for,  whenever  we  pleased,  we  landed, 
struck  up  a  fire,  and,  provided  as  we  were 
with  the  necessary  utensils,  procured  a 
good  repast. 

"  Several  of  these  happy  days  passed, 
and  we  neared  our  home,  when  one  even- 
ing, not  far  from  Pigeon  Creek  (a  small 
stream  which  runs  into  the  Ohio,  from 
the  State  of  Indiana),  a  loud  and  strange 
noise  was  heard,  so  like  the  yells  of  Indian 
warfare,  that  we  pulled  at  our  oars,  and 
made  for  the  opposite  side  as  fast  and  as 
quietly  as  possible.  The  sounds  increa- 
sed, we  imagined  we  heard  cries  of  '  mur- 
der ;'  and  as  we  knew  that  some  depre- 
dations had  lately  been  committed  in  the 
country  by  dissatisfied  parties  of  abori- 
gines, we  felt  for  a  while  extremely  un- 
comfortable. Ere  long,  however,  our 
minds  becamemore  calmed,  and  we  plain- 
ly discovered,  that  the  singular  uproar 
was  produced  by  uu  enthusiastic  set  of 


263 


Methodists,  who  had  wandered  thus  far 
out  of  the  common  way,  for  the  purpose 
of  holding  one  of  their  annual  camp  meet- 
ings, under  the  shade  of  a  beech  forest. 
Without  meeting  with  any  other  inter- 
ruption, we  reached  Henderson,  distant 
from  Shippingport  by  water  about  two 
hundred  miles. 

"  When  I  think  of  these  times,  and  call 
back  to  my  mind  the  grandeur  and  beauty 
of  those  almost  uninhabited  shores ;  when 
I  picture  to  myself  the  dense  and  lofty 
summits  of  the  forest,  that  everywhere 
spread  along  the  hills,  and  overhung  the 
margins  of  the  stream,  unmolested  by  the 
axe  of  the  settler ;  when  I  know  how 
dearly  purchased  the  safe  navigation  of 
that  river  has  been  by  the  blood  of  many 
worthy  Virginians ;  when  I  see  that  no 
longer  any  aborigines  are  to  be  found 
there,  and  that  the  vast  herds  of  elks, 
deer,  and  buffaloes  which  once  pastured 
on  these  hills  and  in  these  valleys,  making 
for  themselves  great  roads  to  the  several 
salt-springs,  have  ceased  to  exist  ;  when 
I  reflect  that  all  this  grand  portion  of  our 
Union,  instead  of  being  in  a  state  of  na- 
ture, is  now  more  or  less  covered  with 
villages,  farms,  and  towns,  where  the  din 
of  hammers  and  machinery  is  constantly 
heard  ;  that  the  woods  are  fast  disappear- 
ing under  the  axe  by  day,  and  the  tire  by 
night ;  that  hundreds  of  steam-boats  are 
gliding  to  and  fro,  over  the  whole  length 
of  the  majestic  river,  forcing  commerce 
to  take  root  and  to  prosper  at  every  spot ; 
when  I  see  the  surplus  population  of 
Europe  coming  to  assist  in  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  forest,  and  transplanting  ci- 
vilisation into  its  darkest  recesses ; — when, 
I  remember  that  these  extraordinary 
changes  have  all  taken  place  in  the  short 
period  of  twenty  years,  I  pause,  wonder, 
and,  although  I  know  all  to  be  fact,  can 
scarcely  believe  its  reality. 

"  Whether  these  changes  are  for  the 
better  or  for  the  worse,  I  shall  not  pretend 
to  say  ;  but  in  whatever  way  my  conclu- 
sions may  incline,  I  feel  with  regret  that 
there  are  on  record  no  satisfactory  ac- 
counts of  the  state  of  that  portion  of  the 
country,  from  the  time  when  our  people 
first  settled  in  it.  This  has  not  been  be- 
cause no  one  in  America  is  able  to  accom- 
plish such  an  undertaking.  Our  Irvings 
and  our  Coopers  have  proved  themselves 
fully  competent  for  the  task,  It  has 
more  probably  been  because  the  changes 
have  succeeded  each  other  with  such  ra- 
pidity, as  almost  to  rival  the  movements 
of  their  pen.  However,  it  is  not  too  late 
yet ;  and  I  sincerely  hope  that  either  or 
both  of  them  will  ere  long  furnish  the 
generations  to  come  with  those  delightful 
descriptions  which  they  are  so  well 


264 


Audition's  Ornithological  Biography— 


lifted  to  give,  of  the  original  state  of  a 
country  that  has  been  so  rapidly  forced  to 
change  her  form  and  attire  under  the  in- 
fluence of  increasing  population.  Yes;  I 
hope  to  read,  ere  I  close  my  earthly  career, 
accounts,  from  those  delightful  writers,  of 
the  progress  of  civilisation  in  our  western 
country.  They  will  speak  of  the  Clarks, 
the  Crogharis,  the  Boons,  aud  many  other 
men  of  great  and  daring  enterprise. 
They  will  analyze,  as  it  were,  into  each 
component  part,  the  country  as  it  once 
existed,  and  will  render  the  picture,  as  it 
ought  to  be,  immortal." 

There  arc  about  a  dozen  passages 
in  the  volume  of  the  same  kind — all 
excellent — and  some  sublime.  The 
following  is  so. 

"  THE  HURRICANE. 

"  Various  portions  of  our  country  have 
at  different  periods  suffered  severely  from 
the  influence  of  violent  storms  of  wind, 
some  of  which  have  been  known  to  tra- 
verse nearly  the  whole  extent  of  the 
United  States,  and  to  leave  such  deep 
impressions  in  their  wake  as  will  not 
easily  he  forgotten.  Having  witnessed 
one  of  these  awful  phenomena,  in  all  its 
grandeur,  I  shall  attempt  to  describe  it 
for  your  sake,  kind  reader,  and  for  your 
sake  only,  the  recollection  of  that  asto- 
nishing revolution  of  the  etherial  element 
even  now  bringing  with  it  so  disagreeable 
a  sensation,  that  I  feel  as  if  about  to  be 
affected  by  a  sudden  stoppage  of  the  cir- 
culation of  my  blood. 

"  I  had  left  the  village  of  Shawaney,  si- 
tuated on  the  hanks  of  the  Ohio,  on  my 
return  from  Henderson,  which  is  also  si- 
tuated on  the  banks  of  the  same  beautiful 
stream.  The  weather  was  pleasant,  and 
1  thought  not  warmer  than  usual  at  that 
season.  My  horse  was  jogging  quietly 
along,  and  my  thoughts  were,  for  once  at 
least  in  the  course  of  my  life,  entirely  en- 
gaged in  commercial  speculations.  I  had 
forded  Highland  Creek,  and  was  on  the 
eve  of  entering  a  tract  of  bottom  land  or 
valley  that  lay  between  it  and  Canoe 
Creek,  when,  on  a  sudden,  I  remarked  a 
great  difference  in  the  aspect  of  the 
heavens.  A  hazy  thickness  had  over- 
spread the  country,  and  I  for  some  time 
expected  an  earthquake,  but  my  horse  ex- 
hibited no  propensity  to  stop  and  prepare 
for  such  an  occurrence.  I  had  nearly  ar- 
rived at  the  verge  of  the  valley,  when  1 
thought  fit  to  stop  near  a  brook,  and  dis- 
mount to  quench  the  thirst  which  hud 
come  upon  me. 

"  I  was  leaning  on  ray  knees,  with  my 
lips  about  to  touch  the  water,  when,  from 
my  proximity  to  the  earth,  I  heard  a  dis- 


tant murmuring  sound  of  an  extraordi- 
nary nature.  I  drank,  however,  and  as  I 
rose  on  my  feet,  looked  towards  the 
south-west,  where  I  observed  a  yellowish 
oval  spot,  the  appearance  of  which  was 
quite  new  to  me.  Little  time  was  h-fc 
me  for  consideration,  as  the  next  moment 
a  smart  breeze  began  to  agitite  the  taller 
trees.  It  increased  to  an  unexpected 
height,  and  already  the  smaller  branches 
and  twigs  were  seen  falling  in  a  slanting 
direction  towards  the  ground.  Two  mi- 
nutes had  scarcely  elapsed,  when  the 
whole  forest  before  me  was  in  fearful  mo- 
tion. Here  arid  there,  where  one  tree* 
pressed  against  another,  a  creaking  noise 
was  produced,  similar  to  that  occasioned 
l>y  the  violent  gusts  which  •ornetime.a 
sweep  over  the  country.  Turning  in- 
stinctively towards  the  direction  from 
which  the  wind  blew,  I  saw,  to  my  great 
astonishment,  that  the  noblest  trees  (if  the 
forest  bent  their  lofty  heads  for  a  while, 
and  unable  to  stand  against  the  blast,  were 
falling  into  piece?.  First,  the  brandies 
were  broken  off  with  a  crackling  noise  ; 
then  went  the  upper  part  of  the  massy 
trunks;  and  in  many  places  whole  trees 
of  gigantic  size  were  falling  entire  to  the 
ground.  So  rapid  was  the  progress  of 
the  storm,  that  before  I  could  think  of 
taking  measures  to  insure  my  safety,  the 
hurricane  was  passing  opposite  the  place 
where  I  stood.  Never  can  I  forget  the 
scene  which  at  that  moment  presented  it- 
self. The  tops  of  the  trees  were  seen 
moving  in  the  strangest  manner,  in  the 
central  current  of  the  tempest,  which  car- 
ried along  with  it  a  mingled  mass  of  twigs 
and  foliage,  that  completely  obscured  the 
view.  Some  of  the  largest  trees  were  seen 
bending  and  writhing  under  the  gale  ; 
others  suddenly  snapped  across ;  and 
many,  after  a  momentary  resistar.ee,  fell 
uprooted  to  the  earth.  The  mass  of 
branches,  twigs,  foliage,  and  dust  th.it  mo- 
ved through  the  air,  was  whirled  onwards 
like  a  cloud  of  feathers,  and  on  passing, 
disclosed  a  wide  space  filled  with  fallni 
trees,  naked  stumps,  arid  heaps  of  shape- 
less ruins,  which  marked  the  path  of  the 
tempest.  This  space  was  about  a  fourth 
cf  a  mile  in  breadth,  and  to  my  imagina- 
tion resembled  the  dried-up  bed  ol  the 
Mississippi,  with  its  thousands  of  planters 
and  sawyers,  strewed  in  the  sand,  and  in- 
clined in  various  degrees.  The  horrible 
noise  resembled  that  ol  the  great  cataract  s 
of  Niagara,  and  as  it  howled  along  in  the 
track  of  the  desolating  tempest,  produced 
a  feeling  in  my  mind  which  it  were  im- 
possible to  describe. 

"  The  principal  force  of  the  hurrionne 
was  now  over,  although  millions  of  twigs 


1831.] 


Wilson's  American  'Ornithology. 


265 


and  small  branches,  that  had  been  brought 
from  a  great  distance,  were  seen  follow- 
ing the  blast,  as  if  drawn  onwards  by  some 
mysterious  power.  They  even  floated  in 
the  air  for  some  hours  after,  as  if  sup- 
ported  by  the  thick  mass  of  dust  that  rose 
high  above  the  ground.  The  sky  had  now 
a  greenish  lurid  hue,  and  an  extremely 
disagreeable  sulphureous  odour  was  dif- 
fused in  the  atmosphere.  I  waited  in 
amazement,  having  sustained  no  material 
injury,  until  nature  at  length  resumed  her 
wonted  aspect.  For  some  moments,  I 
felt  undetermined  whether  1  should  re- 
turn to  Morgantown,  or  attempt  to  force 
my  way  through  the  wrecks  of  the  tem- 
pest. My  business,  however,  being  of  an 
urgent  nature,  I  ventured  into  the  path  of 
the  storm,  and  after  encountering  innu- 
merable difficulties,  succeeded  in  crossing 
it.  I  was  obliged  to  lead  my  horse  by  the 
bridle,  to  enable  him  to  leap  over  the 
fallen  trees,  whilst  I  scrambled  over  or 
under  them  in  the  best  way  I  could,  at 
times  so  hemmed  in  by  the  broken  tops 
arid  tangled  branches,  as  almost  to  become 
desperate.  On  arriving  at  my  house,  I 
gave  an  account  of  what  I  had  seen, 
when,  to  my  surprise,  I  was  told  that 
there  had  been  very  little  wind  In  the 
neighbourhood,  although  in  the  streets 
and  gardens  many  branches  and  twigs  had 
fallen  in  a  manner  which  excited  great 
surprise. 

"  Many  wondrous  accounts  of  the  de- 
vastating effects  of  this  hurricane  were 
circulated  in  the  country,  after  its  occur- 
rence. Some  log-houses,  we  were  told, 
had  been  overturned,  and  their  inmates 
destroyed.  One  person  informed  me  that 
a  wire-sifter  had  been  conveyed  by  the 
gust  to  a  distance  of  many  miles.  An- 
other had  found  a  cow  lodged  in  the  fork 
of  a  large  half-broken  tree.  But,  as  I  am 
disposed  to  relate  only  what  I  have  my- 
self seen,  I  shall  not  lead  you  into  the 
region  of  romance,  but  shall  content  my- 
self with  saying  that  much  damage  was 
done  by  this  awful  visitation.  The  valley 
is  yet  a  desolate  place,  overgrown  with 
briers  and  bushes,  thickly  entangled 
amidst  the  tops  and  trunks  of  the  fallen 
trees,  and  is  the  resort  of  ravenous  ani- 
mals, to  which  they  betake  themselves 
when  pursued  by  man,  or  after  they  have 
committed  their  depredations  on  the 
farms  of  the  surrounding  districts.  I  have 
crossed  the  path  of  the  storm,  at  a  dis. 
tance  of  a  hundred  miles  from  the  spot 
where  I  witnessed  its  fury,  and,  again,  four 
hundred  miles  farther  off,  in  the  State  of 
Ohio.  Lastly,  I  observed  traces  of  its 
ravages  on  the  summits  of  the  mountains 
connected  with  the  Great  Pine  Forest  of 
VOL.  XXX.  NO.  CLXXXJII. 


Pennsylvania,  threehundred  miles  beyond 
the  place  last  mentioned.  In  all  these 
different  parts,  it  appeared  to  me  not  to 
have  exceeded  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in 
breadth." 

During  all  Wilson's  journeying 
amongst  the  woods,  he  does  not 
tell  us  of  any  danger  of  life  or  limb 
encountered — except  on  one  occa- 
sion—and even  then  it  was  but  a 
dream.  Neither  does  Audubon — ex- 
cept on  one  occasion — which,  how- 
ever, seems  to  have  been  closer  on  a 
catastrophe.  We  shall  quote  both 
descriptions— and  first  Wilson's. 

"  Between  this  and  Red  River,  the 
country  had  a  bare  and  desolate  appear- 
ance. Caves  continued  to  be  numerous; 
and  report  made  some  of  them  places  of 
concealment  for  the  dead  bodies  of  certain 
strangers  who  had  disappeared  there.  One 
of  these  lies  near  the  banks  of  the  lied 
River,  and  belongs  to  a  person  of  the 

name  of  ,  a  man  of  notoriously  bad 

character,  and  strongly  suspected,  even  by 
his  neighbours,  of  having  committed  a 
foul  murder  of  this  kind,  which  was  re- 
lated to  me,  with  all  its  miuutife  of  hor- 
rors. As  this  man's  house  stands  by  the 
roadside,  I  was  induced,  by  motives  of 
curiosity,  to  stop  and  take  a  peep  of  him. 
On  my  arrival,  I  found  two  persons  in 
conversation  under  the  piazza,  one  of 
whom  informed  me  that  he  was  the  land- 
lord. He  was  a  dark  mulatto,  rather 
above  the  common  size,  inclining  to  cor- 
pulency, with  legs  small  in  proportion  to 
his  size,  and  walked  lame.  His  counte- 
nance bespoke  a  soul  capable  of  deeds  of 
darkness.  I  had  not  been  three  minutes  in 
company,  when  he  invited  the  other  man 
— who  I  understood  was  a  traveller — and 
myself,  to  walk  back  arid  see  his  cave,  to 
which  I  immediately  consented.  The 
entrance  is  in  the  perpendicular  front  of  a 
rock,  behind  the  house  ;  has  a  door,  with 
lock  and  key  to  it,  and  was  crowded  with 
pots  of  milk,  placed,  near  the  running 
stream.  The  roof  and  sides,  of  solid  rock, 
were  wet  and  dropping  with  water.  De- 
siring   to  walk  before  with  the  lights, 

I  followed,  with  my  hand  on  my  pistol, 
reconnoitering  on  every  side,  and  listen- 
ing to  his  description  of  its  length  and 
extent.  After  examining  this  horrible 
vault  for  forty  or  fifty  yards,  he  declined 
going  any  farther,  complaining  of  a  rheu- 
matism ;  and  I  now  first  perceived  that 
the  other  person  had  staid  behind,  and 
that  we  two  were  alone  together.  Confi- 
dent in  mymeansof  self-defence,  whatever 
mischief  the  devil  might  suggest  to  him,  I 
fixej  my  eyes  steadily  on  him,  and  observed 
S 


Audubon's  Ornithological  Biography — 


266 

to  him,  that  he  could  not  be  ignorant  of  the 
reports  circulated  about  the  country  rela- 
tive to  this  cave.  '  I  suppose,'  said  I, 
'  you  know  what  I  mean  ?'— '  Yes,  I  un- 
derstand you,'  returned  he,  without  ap- 
pearing the  least  embarrassed, — '  that  I 
killed  somebody,  and  threw  them  into 
this  cave.  I  can  tell  you  the  whole  be- 
ginning of  that  damned  lie,'  said  he ;  and, 
without  moving  from  the  spot,  he  detailed 
to  me  a  long  story,  which  would  fill  half 
my  letter,  to  little  purpose,  and  which, 
with  other  particulars,  I  shall  reserve  for 
your  amusement  when  we  meet.  I  asked 
him  why  he  did  not  get  the  cave  exami- 
ned by  three  or  four  reputable  neighbours, 
whose  report  might  rescue  his  character 
from  the  suspicion  of  having  committed 
so  horrid  a  crime?  He  acknowledged  it 
would  he  well  enough  to  do  so,  but  did 
not  seem  to  think  it  worth  the  trouble ; 

and  we  returned  as  we  advanced, 

walking  before  with  the  lights.  Whether 
this  man  be  guilty  or  not  of  the  transac- 
tion laid  to  his  charge,  I  know  not ;  but 
his  manners  and  aspect  are  such  as  by  no 
means  to  allay  suspicion." 

AUDUBON. — "  THE  PRAIRIE. 

"  On  my  return  from  the  Upper  Mis- 
sissippi, I  found  myself  obliged  to  cross 
one  of  the  wide  prairies,  which,  in  that 
portion  of  the  United  States,  vary  the 
appearance  of  the  country.  The  weather 
was  fine,  all  around  me  was  as  fresh  and 
blooming  as  if  it  had  just  issued  from  the 
bosom  of  nature.  My  knapsack,  my  gun, 
and  my  dog,  were  all  I  had  for  baggage  and 
company.  But,  although  well  moccasined, 
I  moved  slowly  along,  attracted  by  the 
brilliancy  of  the  flowers,  and  the  gambols 
of  the  fawns  around  their  dams,  to  all 
appearance  as  thoughtless  of  danger  as  I 
felt  myself. 

"  My  march  was  of  long  duration;  I 
saw  the  sun  sinking  beneath  the  horizon 
long  before  I  could  perceive  any  appear- 
ance of  woodland,  and  nothing  in  the 
shape  of  man  had  I  met  with  that  day. 
The  track  which  1  followed  was  only  an 
old  Indian  trace,  and  as  darkness  over- 
shaded  the  prairie,  I  felt  some  desire  to 
reach  at  least  a  copse,  in  which  I  might 
lie  down  to  rest.  The  night-hawks  were 
skimming  over  and  around  me,  attracted 
by  the  buzzing  wings  of  the  beetles  which 
form  their  food,  and  the  distant  howling 
of  wolves  gave  me  some  hope  that  I 
should  soon  arrive  at  the  skirts  of  some 
woodland. 

"  I  did  so,  and  almost  at  the  same  in- 
stant a  fire-light  attracted  my  eye.  I 
moved  tosvards  if,  full  of  confidence  that 
It  proceeded  from  the  camp  of  some  wan. 


[Aug. 


dering  Indians.  I  was  mistaken  : — I 
discovered  by  its  glare  that  it  was  from 
the  hearth  of  a  small  log  cabin,  and  that 
a  tall  figure  passed  and  repassed  between 
it  and  me,  as  if  busily  engaged  in  house- 
hold arrangements. 

"  I  reached  the  spot,  and  presenting 
myself  at  the  door,  asked  the  tall  figure, 
which  proved  to  he  a  woman,  if  I  might 
take  shelter  under  her  roof  for  the  night. 
Her  voice  was  gruff,  and  her  attire  negli- 
gently thrown  about  her.  She  answered 
in  the  affirmative.  I  walked  in,  took  a 
wooden  stool,  and  quietly  seated  myself 
by  the  fire.  The  next  object  that  at- 
tracted my  notice  was  a  finely  formed 
young  Indian,  resting  his  head  between 
his  hands,  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees. 
A  long  bow  rested  against  the  log  wall 
near  him,  while  a  quantity  of  arrows  and 
two  or  three  racoon  skins  lay  at  his  feet. 
He  moved  not;  he  apparently  breathed 
not.  Accustomed  to  the  habits  of  the 
Indians,  and  knowing  that  they  pay  little 
attention  to  the  approach  of  civilized 
strangers,  (a  circumstance  which  in  some 
countries  is  considered  as  evincing  the 
apathy  of  their  character,)  I  addressed 
him  in  French,  a  language  not  un fre- 
quently partially  known  to  the  people  in 
that  neighbourhood.  He  raised  his  head, 
pointed  to  one  of  his  eyes  with  his  finger, 
and  gave  me  a  significant  glance  with  the 
other.  His  face  was  covered  with  blood. 
The  fact  was,  that  an  hour  before  this,  as 
he  was  in  the  act  of  discharging  an  arrow 
at  a  racoon  in  the  top  of  a  tree,  the  arrow 
had  split  upon  the  cord,  and  sprung  back 
with  such  violence  into  his  right  eye  as 
to  destroy  it  for  ever. 

"  Feeling  hungry,  I  enquired  what  sort 
of  fare  I  might  expect.  Such  a  thing  as 
a  bed  was  not  to  be  seen,  but  many  large 
untanned  bear  and  buffalo  hides  lay  piled 
in  a  corner.  I  drew  a  fine  time. piece 
from  my  breast,  and  told  the  woman  that 
it  was  late,  and  that  I  was  fatigued.  She 
had  espied  my  watch,  the  richness  of  which 
seemed  to  operate  upon  her  feelings  with 
electric  quickness.  She  told  me  that  there 
was  plenty  of  venison  and  jerked  buffalo 
meat,  and  that  on  removing  the  ashes  I 
should  find  a  cake.  L'ut  my  watch  had 
struck  her  fancy,  and  her  curiosity  had 
to  be  gratified  by  an  immediate  sight  of 
it.  I  took  off  the  gold  chain  that  secu- 
red it  from  around  my  neck,  and  pre- 
sented it  to  her.  She  was  all  ecstasy, 
spoke  of  its  beauty,  asked  me  its  value, 
and  put  the  chain  round  her  brawny  neck, 
saying  how  happy  the  possession  of  such 
a  watch  would  make  her.  Thoughtless, 
and,  as  I  fancied  myself,  in  so  retired  a 
spot,  secure,  I  paid  little  attention  to  her 


1831.] 


Wilson's  American  Ornithology* 


207 


talk  or  her  movements.  I  helped  my 
dog  to  a  good  supper  of  venison,  and  was 
not  long  in  satisfying  the  demands  of  my 
own  appetite. 

"  The  Indian  rose  from  his  seat,  as  if  in 
extreme  suffering.  He  passed  and  re- 
passed  me  several  times,  and  once  pinch- 
ed me  on  the  side  so  violently,  that  the 
pain  nearly  brought  forth  an  exclamation 
of  anger.  I  looked  at  him.  [lis  eye  met 
mine ;  but  his  look  was  so  forbidding,  that 
it  struck  a  chill  into  the  more  nervous  part 
of  my  system.  He  again  seated  himself, 
drew  his  butcher-knife  from  its  greasy 
scabbard,  examined  its  edge,  as  I  would 
do  that  of  a  razor  suspected  dull,  replaced 
it,  and  again  taking  his  tomahawk  from 
his  back,  filled  the  pipe  of  it  with  to- 
bacco, and  sent  me  expressive  glances 
whenever  our  hostess  chanced  to  have 
her  back  toward  us. 

"  Never  until  that  moment  had  my 
senses  been  wakened  to  the  danger  which 
I  now  suspected  to  be  about  me.  I  re. 
turned  glance  for  glance  to  my  compa- 
nion, and  rested  well  assured  that,  what- 
ever enemies  I  might  have,  he  was  not 
of  their  number. 

"  I  asked  the  woman  for  my  watch, 
wound  it  up,  and  under  pretence  of  wish- 
ing to  see  how  the  weather  might  pro- 
bably be  on  the  morrow,  took  up  my 
gun,  and  walked  out  of  the  cabin.  I 
slipped  a  ball  into  each  barrel,  scraped 
the  edges  of  my  flints,  renewed  the  pri- 
mings,  and  returning  to  the  hut,  gave  a 
favourable  account  of  my  observations. 
I  took  a  few  bear-skins,  made  a  pallet  of 
them,  and  culling  my  faithful  dog  to  my 
side,  lay  down,  with  my  gun  close  to  my 
body,  and  in  a  few  minutes  was,  to  all 
appearance,  fast  asleep. 

"  A  short  time  had  elapsed,  when  some 
voices  were  heard,  and  from  the  corner 
of  my  eyes  I  saw  two  athletic  youths 
making  their  entrance,  bearing  a  dead 
stag  on  a  pole.  They  disposed  of  their 
burden,  and  asking  for  whisky,  helped 
themselves  freely  to  it.  Observing  me 
and  the  wounded  Indian,  they  asked  who 
I  was,  and  why  the  devil  that  rascal 
(meaning  the  Indian,  who,  they  knew, 
understood  not  a  word  of  English)  was 
in  the  house.  The  mother — for  so  she 
proved  to  be,  bade  them  speak  less  loud- 
ly, made  mention  of  my  watch,  and  took 
them  to  a  corner,  where  a  conversation 
took  place,  the  purport  of  which  it  re- 
quired little  shrewdness  in  me  to  guess. 
I  tapped  my  dog  gently.  He  moved  his 
tail,  and  with  indescribable  pleasure  I 
saw  his  fine  eye  alternately  fixed  on  me 
and  raised  towards  the  trio  in  the  corner, 


I  felt  that  he  perceived  danger  in  my 
situation.  The  Indian  exchanged  a  last 
glance  with  me. 

"  The  lads  had  eaten  and  drunk  them- 
selves into  such  condition,  that  I  already 
looked  upon  them  as  hors  de combat,-  and 
the  frequent  visits  of  the  whisky  bottle 
to  the  ugly  mouth  of  their  dam,  I  hoped 
would  soon  reduce  her  to  a  like  state. 
Judge  of  my  astonishment,  reader,  when 
I  saw  this  incarnate  fiend  take  a  large 
carving. knife,  and  go  to  the  grindstone  to 
whet  its  edge.  I  saw  her  pour  the  wa- 
ter on  the  turning  machine,  and  watched 
her  working  away  with  the  dangerous 
instrument,  until  the  cold  sweat  covered 
every  part  of  my  body,  in  spite  of  my 
determination  to  defend  myself  to  the 
last.  Her  task  finished,  she  walked  to 
her  reeling  sons,  and  said,  '  There,  that'll 
§oon  settle  him  !  Boys,  kill.you  ..  , 

and  then  for  the  watch.' 

"  I  turned,  cocked  my  gun-locks  silent- 
ly, touched  my  faithful  companion,  and 
lay  ready  to  start  up  and  shoot  the  first 
who  might  attempt  my  life.  The  moment 
was  fast  approaching,  and  that  night  might 
have  been  my  last  in  this  world,  had  not 
Providence  made  preparations  for  my  res- 
cue. All  was  ready.  The  infernal  hag  was 
advancing  slowly,  probably  contemplating 
the  best  way  of  dispatching  me,  whilst 
her  sons  should  be  engaged  with  the  In- 
dian. I  was  several  times  on  the  eve  of 
rising,  and  shooting  her, on  the  spot:— 
but  she  was  not  to  be  punished  thus. 
The  door  was  suddenly  opened,  and  there 
entered  two  stout  travellers,  each  with 
a  long  rifle  on  his  shoulder.  I  bounded 
up  on  my  feet,  and  making  them  most 
heartily  welcome,  told  them  how  well  it 
was  for  me  that  they  should  have  arrived 
at  that  moment.  The  tale  was  told  in  a 
minute.  The  drunken  sons  were  secu- 
red, and  the  woman,  in  spite  of  her  de- 
fence and  vociferations,  shared  the  same 
fate.  The  Indian  fairly  danced  with  joy, 
and  gave  us  to  understand  that,  as  he 
could  not  sleep  for  pain,  he  would  watch 
over  us.  You  may  suppose  we  slept 
much  less  than  we  talked.  The  two 
strangers  gave  me  an  account  of  their 
once  having  been  themselves  in  a  some- 
what similar  situation.  Day  came,  fair 
and  rosy,  and  with  it  the  punishment  of 
our  captives. 

"  They  were  now  quite  sobered.  Their 
feet  were  unbound,  but  their  arms  were 
still  securely  tied.  We  marched  them  in- 
to the  woods  off  the  road,  and  having 
used  them  as  Regulators  were  wont  to 
use  such  delinquents,  we  set  fire  to  the 
cabin,  gave  all  the  skins  and  implements 


268 


Audubons  Ornithological  Biography — 


[Aug. 


to  the  young  Indian  warrior,  and  proceed- 
ed, well  pleased,  towards  the  settlements. 

"  During  upwards  of  twenty-five  years, 
when  my  wanderings  extended  to  all  parts 
of  our  country,  this  was  the  only  time  at 
which  my  life  was  in  danger  from  my  fel- 
low-creatures.  Indeed,  so  little  risk  do 
travellers  run  in  the  United  States,  that 
no  one  born  there  ever  dreams  of  any  to 
be  encountered  on  the  road ;  and  I  can 
only  account  for  this  occurrence  by  sup- 
posing that  the  inhabitants  of  the  cabin 
were  not  Americans. 

"  Will  you  believe,  good-natured  read- 
er, that  not  many  miles  from  the  place 
where  this  adventure  happened,  and 
where,  fifteen  years  ago,  no  habitation  be- 
longing to  civilized  man  was  expected, 
and  very  few  ever  seen,  large  roads  are 
now  laid  out,  cultivation  has  converted 
the  woods  into  fertile  fields,  taverns  have 
been  erected,  and  much  of  what  we  Ame- 
ricans call  comfort,  is  to  be  met  with  ? 
So  fast  does  improvement  proceed  in  our 
abundant  and  free  country." 

Audubon  gives  us  the  following 
amusing  account  of  the  gentlemen 
mentioned  in  the  above  extract — the 
Regulators.  Here  it  is. 

"  THE  REGULATORS. 
"  The  population  of  many  parts  of  Ame- 
rica is  derived  from  the  refuse  of  every 
other  country.  I  hope  I  shall  elsewhere 
prove  to  you,  kind  reader,  that  even  in  this 
we  have  reason  to  feel  a  certain  degree  of 
pride,  as  we  often  see  our  worst  denizens 
becoming  gradually  freed  from  error,  and 
at  length  changing  to  useful  and  respect- 
able citizens.  The  most  depraved  of 
these  emigrants  are  forced  to  retreat  far- 
ther and  farther  from  the  society  of  the 
virtuous,  the  restraints  imposed  by  which 
they  find  incompatible  with  their  habits, 
and  gratification  of  their  unbridled  pas- 
sions. On  the  exlreme  verge  of  civilisa- 
tion, however,  their  evil  propensities  find 
more  free  scope,  and  the  dread  of  punish- 
ment for  their  deeds,  or  the  infliction  of 
that  punishment,  are  the  only  means 
that  prove  effectual  in  reforming  them. 

"  In  those  remote  parts,  no  sooner  is 
it  discovered  that  an  individual  has  con- 
ducted himself  in  a  notoriously  vicious 
manner,  or  has  committed  some  outrage 
upon  society,  than  a  conclave  of  the  ho- 
nest citizens  takes  place,  for  the  purpose 
of  investigating  the  case,  with  a  rigour 
without  which  no  good  result  could  be 
expected.  These  honest  citizens,  se- 
lected from  among  the  most  respectable 
persons  in  the  district,  and  vested  with 
powers  suited  to  the  necessity  of  pre- 
serving order  on  the  frontiers,  are  na- 


med Regulators.  The  accused  person  is 
arrested,  his  conduct  laid  open,  and  if 
he  is  found  guilty  of  a  first  crime,  he  is 
warned  to  leave  the  country,  and  go  far- 
ther from  society,  within  an  appointed 
time.  Should  the  individual  prove  so  cal- 
lous as  to  disregard  the  sentence,  and 
remain  in  the  same  neighbourhood,  to 
commit  new  crimes,  then  woe  be  to  him  ; 
for  the  Regulators,  after  proving  him 
guilty  a  second  time,  pass  and  execute  a 
sentence,  which,  if  not  enough  to  make 
him  perish  under  the  infliction,  is  at  least 
for  ever  impressed  upon  his  memory. 
The  punishment  inflicted  is  generally  a 
severe  castigation,  and  the  destruction  by 
fire  of  his  cabin.  Sometimes,  in  cases  of 
reiterated  theft  or  murder,  death  is  con- 
sidered necessary  ;  and,  in  some  in- 
stances, delinquents  of  the  worst  species 
have  been  shot,  after  which  their  heads 
have  been  stuck  on  poles,  to  deter  others 
from  following  their  example.  I  shall 
give  you  an  account  of  one  of  these  des- 
peradoes, as  I  received  it  from  a  person 
who  had  been  instrumental  in  bringing 
him  to  punishment. 

"  The  name  of  MASON  is  still  familiar 
to  many  of  the  navigators  of  the  Lower 
Ohio  and  Mississippi.  By  dint  of  indus- 
try in  bad  deeds  he  became  a  notorious 
horse-stealer,  formed  a  line  of  worthless 
associates  from  the  eastern  parts  of  Vir- 
ginia (a  State  greatly  celebrated  for  its 
fine  breed  of  horses)  to  New  Orleans, 
and  had  a  settlement  on  Wolf  Island, 
not  far  from  the  confluence  of  the  Ohio 
and  Mississippi,  from  which  he  issued 
to  stop  the  flat-boats,  and  rifle  them  of 
such  provisions  and  other  articles  as  he 
and  his  party  needed.  His  depredations 
became  the  talk  of  the  whole  Western 
Country;  and  to  pass  Wolf  Island  was 
not  less  to  be  dreaded  than  to  anchor 
under  the  walls  of  Algiers.  The  horses, 
the  negroes,  and  the  cargoes,  his  gang 
carried  oil"  and  sold.  At  last,  a  body  of 
Regulators  undertook,  at  great  peril,  and 
for  the  sake  of  the  country,  to  bring  the 
villain  to  punishment. 

"  Mason  was  as  cunning  and  watchful 
as  he  was  active  arid  daring.  Many  of  his 
haunts  were  successively  found  out  and 
searched,  but  the  numerous  spies  in  his 
employ  enabled  him  to  escape  in  time. 
One  day,  however,  as  ke  was  riding  a 
beautiful  horse  in  the  woods,  he  was  met 
by  one  of  the  Regulators,  who  imme- 
diately recognised  him,  but  passed  him 
as  if  an  utter  stranger.  Mason,  not 
dreaming  of  danger,  pursued  his  way  lei- 
surely, as  if  he  had  met  no  one.  But  he 
was  dogged  by  the  Regulator,  and  in  such 
a  manner  as  proved  fatal  to  him.  At 


1831.] 


Wilson's  American  Ornithology. 


dusk,  Mason  having  reached  the  lowest 
part  of  a  ravine,  no  doubt  well  known  to 
him,  hoppled  (tied  together  the  fore-legs 
of)  his  stolen  horse,  to  enable  it  to  feed 
during  the  night  without  chance  of  stray- 
ing far,  and  concealed  himself  in  a  hollow 
log  to  spend  the  night.  The  plan  was 
good,  but  proved  his  ruin, 

"  The  Regulator,  who  knew  every  bill 
and  hollow  of  the  woods,  marked  the 
place  and  the  log  withithe  eye  of  an  ex- 
perienced hunter,  and  as  he  remarked 
that  Mason  was  most  efficiently  armed, 
he  galloped  off  to  the  nearest  house, 
where  he  knew  he  should  find  assistance. 
This  was  easily  procured,  and  the  party 
proceeded  to  the  spot.  Mason,  on  being 
attacked,  defended  himself  with  desperate 
valour;  and  as  it  proved  impossible  to 
secure  him  alive,  he  was  brought  to  the 
ground  with  a  rifle  ball.  His  head  was 
cut  off,  and  stuck  on  the  end  of  a  broken 
branch  of  a  tree,  by  the  nearest  road  to 
the  place  where  the  affray  happened. 
The  gang  soon  dispersed,  in  consequence 
of  the  loss  of  their  leader ;  and  this  inflic- 
tion of  merited  punishment  proved  bene- 
ficial in  deterring  others  from  following 
a  similar  predatory  life. 

"  The  punishment  by  castigation  is 
performed  in  the  following  manner.  The 
individual  convicted  of  an  offence  is  led 
to  some  remote  part  of  the  woods,  under 
the  escort  of  sometimes  forty  or  fifty  Re- 
gulators. When  arrived  at  the  chosen 
spot,  the  criminal  is  made  fast  to  a  tree, 
and  a  few  of  the  Regulators  remain  with 
him,  whilst  the  rest  scour  the  forest,  to 
assure  themselves  that  no  strangers  are 
within  reach  ;  after  which  they  form  an 
extensive  ring,  arranging  themselves  on 
their  horses,  well  armed  with  rifles  and 
pistols,  at  equal  distances,  and  in  each 
other's  sight.  At  a  given  signal  that 
1  all's  ready,'  those  about  the  culprit, 
having  provided  themselves  with  young 
twigs  of  hickory,  administer  the  number 
of  lashes  prescribed  by  the  sentence,  un- 
tie the  sufferer,  and  order  him  to  leave 
the  country  immediately. 

"  One  of  these  castigations  which  took 
place  more  within  my  immediate  know- 
ledge, was  performed  on  a  fellow  who 
was  neither  a  thief  nor  a  murderer,  but 
who  had  misbehaved  otherwise  sufficient- 
ly to  bring  himself  under  the  sentence, 
with  mitigation.  He  was  taken  to  a 
place  where  nettles  were  known  to  grow 
in  great  luxuriance,  completely  stripped, 
and  so  lashed  with  them,  that  although 
not  materially  hurt,  he  took  it  as  a  hint 
not  to  be  neglected,  left  the  country,  and 
was  never  again  heard  of  by  any  of  the 
party  concerned. 


269 

"  Probably  ut  the  moment  when  I  am 
copying  these  notes  respecting  the  early 
laws  of  our  frontier  people,  few  or  no 
Regulating  Parties  exist,  the  terrible  ex- 
amples that  were  made  having  impressed 
upon  the  new  settlers  a  salutary  dread, 
which  restrains  them  from  the  commis- 
sion of  flagrant  crimes." 

The  Loves  of  the  Birds  are  as  good 
a  subject  for  poetry  as  the  Loves  of 
the  Poets  themselves,  or  even  of  the 
Angels,  nay  of  the  Triangles.     No 
other  naturalist  has  spoken  so  well 
about  them   as  Audubon.     Many  a 
happy  honey-moon  he    celebrates. 
The  wild  American  Turkey  makes 
love,  if  possible,  more  absurdly  than 
the  tame  Glasgow   Gander.     Early 
in  spring,  the  sexes  separate,  which 
is   a   signal  for   courtship.     When 
a  female  utters  a  call-note,  all  the 
gobblers  within  hearing  return  the 
sound,  in  peals  of  grotesque  thun- 
der.    They*  then  rush  to   the  spot 
whence  the  call-note  seemed  to  pro- 
ceed, and  whether  the  lady   be  in 
sight  or  not,  they  spread  out  and 
erect  their  tail,  draw  the  head  back 
on  the  shoulders,  depress  the  wings 
with  a  quivering  motion,  and  strut 
pompously  about,  emitting  every  now 
and  then  at  the  same  time  a  succes- 
sion of  puffs  from  the  lungs,  and  stop- 
ping now  and  then  to  look  and  listen. 
But  whether  they  spy  the  female  or 
not,  they  continue  to  puff  and  strut 
about,  moving  with  as  much  celerity 
as  their  ideas  of  ceremony  seem  to 
admit.     Some  scores  behaving  after 
this  fashion  must  present  an  impo- 
sing aspect  both  in  front  and  rear ; 
and  there  is  often  a  succession  of 
bloody  combats.     Audubon  says  he 
has  often  been  much  diverted  while 
watching  the  males  in  fierce  conflict, 
by  seeing    them    move    alternately 
backwards  and  forwards,  as  either 
had  obtained  a  better    hold,    their 
wings  drooping  and  their  tails  partly 
raised,  and  their  heads  covered  with 
blood.    If,  as  they  thus  struggle  and 
gasp  for  breath,  one  of  them  should 
lose  his  hold,  his  chance  is  over ;  for 
the  other,  still  holding  fast,  hits  him 
violently  with  his  spurs  and  wings, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  brings  him  to 
the  ground.   The  moment  he  is  dead, 
the  conqueror  treads  him  under  foot, 
but  what  is  strange,  not  with  hatred, 
but  with  all  the  motions  which  he 
employs  in  caressing  the  female.  To« 


Audubon's  Ornithological  Biography — 


270 

wards  very  young  ladies — pouts — 
the  old  gobbler  alters  his  mode  of 
procedure.  He  struts  less  pompous- 
ly and  more  energetically,  moves  with 
rapidity,  sometimes  rises  from  the 
ground,  taking  a  short  flight  round 
the  hen,  as  is  the  manner  of  some  pi- 
geons,— the  red-breasted  thrush  and 
many  other  birds — and  on  alighting, 
runs  with  all  his  might,  at  the  same 
time  rubbing  his  tail  and  wings  along 
the  ground,  for  the  space  of  perhaps 
ten  yards.  He  then  draws  near  the 
timorous  female — allays  her  fears  by 
purring — and  wins  her  assent  As 
soon  as  the  lady  begins  to  lay,  she 
hides  herself  from  her  lord,  who 
would  break  her  eggs  if  he  could 
find  them;  and  soon  after,  he  be- 
comes a  sloven,  sneaking  about 
without  a  gobble  in  him,  craven  and 
crest-fallen,  emaciated  and  ticky — 
from  which  wretched  condition  he 
in  due  time  is  restored  by  the  judi- 
cious use  of  gentle  purgatives,  with 
which  he  provides  himself  in  a  par- 
ticular species  of  grass  growing  in 
the  neighbourhood.  So  much  for  the 
intrigues  of  the  turkeys.  Turn  to 
the  loves  of  the  chaste  connubial  Ca- 
rolina Turtle  dove.  Their  marriage- 
bliss  affords  a  subject  for  one  of  Au- 
dubon's  most  exquisite  paintings. 
But  he  describes  it  in  words. 

"  I  have  tried,  kind  reader,  to  give 
you  a  faithful  representation  of  two 
as  gentle  pairs  of  turtles  as  ever 
cooed  their  loves  in  the  green  woods. 
I  have  placed  them  on  a  branch  of 
Stuartia,  which  you  see  ornamented 
with  a  profusion  of  white  blossoms, 
emblematic  of  purity  and  chastity. 

"  Look  at  the  female,  as  she  assi- 
duously sits  on  her  eggs,  embosomed 
among  the  thick  foliage,  receiving 
food  from  the  bill  of  her  mate,  and 
listening  with  delight  to  his  assu- 
rances of  devoted  affection.  Nothing 
is  wanting  to  render  the  moment  as 
happy  as  could  be  desired  by  any 
couple  on  a  similar  occasion. 

"  On  the  branch  above,  a  love  scene 
is  just  commencing.  The  female, 
still  coy  and  undetermined,  seems 
doubtful  of  the  truth  of  her  lover, 
and,  virgin-like,  resolves  to  put  his 
sincerity  to  the  test,  by  delaying  the 
gratification  of  his  wishes.  She  has 
reached  the  extremity  of  the  branch, 
her  wings  and  tail  are  already  open- 
ing, and  she  will  ny  off  to  some  more 
sequestered  spot,  where,  if  her  lover 


[Aug. 


should  follow  her  with  the  same  as- 
siduous devotion,  they  will  doubt- 
less become  as  blessed  as  the  pair 
beneath  them. 

"  The  dove  announces  the  approach 
of  spring.  Nay,  she  does  more  : — 
she  forces  us  to  forget  the  chilling 
blasts  of  winter,  by  the  soft  and  me- 
lancholy sound  of  her  cooing.  Her 
heart  is  already  so  warmed  and  so 
swelled  by  the  ardour  of  her  pas- 
sion, that  it  feels  as  ready  to  expand 
as  the  buds  on  the  trees  are,  under 
the  genial  influence  of  returning 
heat. 

"  The  flight  of  this  bird  is  extremely 
rapid,  and  of  long  duration.  When- 
ever it  starts  from  a  tree  or  the 
ground,  on  being  unexpectedly  ap- 
proached, its  wings  produce  a  whist- 
ling noise,  heard  at  a  considerable 
distance.  On  such  occasions,  it  fre- 
quently makes  several  curious  wind- 
ings through  the  air,  as  if  to  prove 
its  capability  of  efficient  flight.  It 
seldom  rises  far  above  the  trees,  and 
as  seldom  passes  through  dense 
woods  or  forests,  but  prefers  follow- 
ing their  margins,  or  flying  about  the 
fences  and  fields.  Yet,  during  spring, 
and  particularly  whilst  the  female  is 
sitting  on  her  eggs,  the  male  rises  as 
if  about  to  ascend  to  a  great  height 
in  the  air,  flapping  his  wings,  but  all 
of  a  sudden  comes  downwards  again, 
describing  a  large  circle,  and  sailing 
smoothly  with  wings  and  tail  ex- 
panded, until  in  this  manner  he  a- 
lights  on  the  tree  where  his  mate  is, 
or  on  one  very  near  it.  These  ma- 
noeuvres are  frequently  repeated 
during  the  days  of  incubation,  and 
occasionally  when  the  male  bird  is 
courting  the  female.  No  sooner  do 
they  alight  than  they  jerk  out  their 
tail  in  a  very  graceful  manner,  and 
balance  their  neck  and  head." 

The  loves  of  the  Turkey  and  Turtle 
are  not  more  different  than  are  those 
of  the  Great-horned  Owl  and  the 
Humming-bird.  The  curious  evolu- 
tions of  the  male  Owl  in  the  air,  or  his 
motions  when  he  has  alighted  near 
his  beloved,  Audubon  confesses  his 
inability  to  describe.  The  bowings 
and  the  snappings  of  his  bill  are  ex- 
tremely ludicrous ;  and  no  sooner  is 
the  female  assured  that  the  atten- 
tions paid  her  by  her  lover  are  the 
result  of  a  sincere  affection,  than  she 
joins  in  the  motions  of  her  future 
mate.  At  this  juncture  both  maybe 


1881.] 


Wilson's  American  Ornithology. 


271 


said  to  be  dancing-mad  ;  little  dream- 
ing, saith  oui'  "  American  Woods- 
man," like  most  owls  on  such  occa- 
sions, of  the  possibility  of  their  be- 
ing one  day  horn-mad.  But  look  on 
that  picture  and  on  this.  They  are 
Humming-birds. 

"  I  wish  it  were  in  my  power  at 
this  moment  to  impart  to  you,  kind 
reader,  the  pleasures  which  I  have 
felt  whilst  watching  the  movements, 
and  viewing  the  manifestation  of 
feelings  displayed  by  a  single  pair  of 
these  most  favourite  little  creatures, 
when  engaged  in  the  demonstration 
of  their  love  to  each  other : — how 
the  male  swells  his  plumage  and 
throat,  and,  dancing  on  the  wing, 
whirls  around  the  delicate  female ; 
how  quickly  he  dives  towards  a 
flower,  and  returns  with  a  loaded 
bill,  which  he  offers  to  her  to  whom 
alone  he  feels  desirous  of  being 
united ;  how  full  of  ecstasy  he  seems 
to  be  when  his  caresses  are  kindly 
received;  how  his  little  wings  fan 
her,  as  they  fan  the  flowers,  and  he 
transfers  to  her  bill  the  insect  and 
the  honey  which  he  has  procured 
with  a  view  to  please  her ;  how  these 
attentions  are  received  with  appa- 
rent satisfaction;  how,  soon  after, 
the  blissful  compact  is  sealed ;  how, 
then,  the  courage  and  care  of  the 
male  are  redoubled;  how  he  even 
dares  to  give  chase  to  the  tyrant 
fly-catcher,  hurries  the  blue-bird 
and  the  martin  to  their  boxes;  and 
how,  on  sounding  pinions,  he  joy- 
ously returns  to  the  side  of  his  love- 
ly mate.  Reader,  all  these  proofs  of 
the  sincerity,  fidelity,  and  courage, 
with  which  the  male  assures  his 
mate  of  the  care  he  will  take  of  her 
while  sitting  on  her  nest,  may  be 
seen,  and  have  been  seen,  but  can- 
not be  portrayed  or  described. 

"  Could  you,  kind  reader,  cast  a 
momentary  glance  on  the  nest  of  the 
Humming-bird,  and  see,  as  I  have 
seen,  the  newly-hatched  pair  of 
young,  little  larger  than  humble- 
bees,  naked,  blind,  and  so  feeble  as 
scarcely  to  be  able  to  raise  their 
little  bills  to  receive  food  from  the 
parents;  and  could  you  see  those 
parents,  full  of  anxiety  and  fear, 
passing  and  repassing  within  a  few 
inches  of  your  face,  alighting  on  a 
twig  not  more  than  a  yard  from  your 
body,  waiting  the  result  of  your  un- 
welcome visit  in  a  state  of  the  ut- 


most despair, — you  could  not  fail  to 
be  impressed  with  the  deepest  pangs 
which  parental  affection  feels  on  the 
unexpected  death  of  a  cherished 
child.  Then  how  pleasing  is  it,  on 
your  leaving  the  spot,  to  see  the  re- 
turning hope  of  the  parents,  when, 
after  examining  the  nest,  they  find 
their  nurslings  untouched!  You 
might  then  jndge  how  pleasing  it  is 
to  a  mother  of  another  kind,  to  hear 
the  physician  who  has  attended  her 
sick  child  assure  her  that  the  crisis 
is  over,  and  that  her  babe  is  saved. 
These  are  the  scenes  best  fitted  to 
enable  us  to  partake  of  sorrow  and 
joy,  and  to  determine  every  one  who 
views  them  to  make  it  his  study  to 
contribute  to  the  happiness  of  others, 
and  to  refrain  from  wantonly  or  ma- 
liciously giving  them  pain." 

Birds  are  as  jealous  in  love  as  men 
— all  but  the  Golden-Winged  Wood- 
pecker. No  fightings  occur,  no  jea- 
lousies seem  to  exist  among  these 
bright  beaux  and  belles,  who,  for 
many  reasons,  are  darlings  of  Audu- 
bon.  "  It  is  generally  agreeable,"  says 
he,  "  to  be  in  the  company  of  indivi- 
duals who  are  naturally  animated  and 
pleasant.  For  this  reason,  nothing 
can  be  more  gratifying  than  the  so- 
ciety of  woodpeckers  in  the  forests. 
No  sooner  has  spring  called  them  to 
the  pleasant  duty  of  making  love,  as 
it  is  called,  than  their  voice,  which, 
by  the  way,  is  not  at  all  disagreeable 
to  the  ear  of  man,  is  heard  from  the 
tops  of  high,  decayed  trees,  proclaim- 
ing with  delight  the  opening  of  the 
welcome  season.  Their  note  at  this 
period  is  merriment  itself,  as  it  inti- 
mates a  prolonged  and  jovial  laugh, 
heard  at  a  considerable  distance. 
Several  males  pursue  a  female,  reach 
her,  and,  to  prove  the  force  and 
truth  of  their  love,  bow  their  heads, 
spread  their  tail,  and  move  sidewise, 
backwards  and  forwards,  perform- 
ing such  antics,  as  might  induce  any 
one  witnessing  them,  if  not  of  a  most 
morose  temper,  to  join  his  laugh  to 
theirs.  The  female  flies  to  another 
tree,  where  she  is  closely  followed 
by  one,  two,  or  even  half-a-dozen  of 
these  gay  suitors, and  where  again  the 
same  ceremonies  are  gone  through. 
No  fightings  occur,  no  jealousies 
seem  to  exist  among  these  beaux, 
until  a  marked  preference  is  shewn 
to  some  individual,  when  the  reject- 
ed proceed  in  search  of  another  fe* 


AuduboiCs  Ornithological  Bioyfaphy— 


272 

male.  In  this  manner  all  the  Gold- 
en-winged Woodpeckers  are  soon 
happily  mated.  Each  pair  immedi- 
ately proceed  to  excavate  the  trunk 
of  a  tree,  and  finish  a  hole  in  it  suf- 
ficient to  contain  themselves  and 
their  young.  They  both  work  with 
great  industry  and  apparent  plea- 
sure. Should  the  male,  for  instance, 
be  employed,  the  female  is  close  to 
him,  and  congratulates  him  on  the 
removal  of  every  chip  which  his  bill 
sends  through  the  air.  While  he 
rests,  he  appears  to  be  speaking  to 
her  on  the  most  tender  subjects,  and 
when  fatigued,  is  at  once  assisted 
by  her.  In  this  manner,  by  the  al- 
ternate exertions  of  each,  the  hole  is 
dug  and  finished.  They  caress  each 
other  on  the  branches — climb  about 
and  around  the  tree  with  apparent 
delight — rattle  with  their  bill  against 
the  tops  of  the  dead  branches — chase 
all  their  cousins  the  Red-heads — 
defy  the  Purple  Grakles  to  enter 
their  nest — feed  plentifully  on  ants, 
beetles,  and  larva?,  cackling  at  in- 
tervals— and  ere  two  weeks  have 
elapsed,  the  female  lays  either  four 
or  six  eggs,  the  whiteness  and  trans- 
parency of  which  are  doubtless  the 
delight  of  her  heart.  If  to  raise  a 
numerous  progeny  may  contribute 
to  happiness,  these  Woodpeckers  are 
in  this  respect  happy  enough,  for 
they  have  two  broods  each  season  ; 
and  as  this  might  induce  you  to  ima- 
gine Woodpeckers  extremely  abun- 
dant in  America,  I  may  at  once  tell 
you  that  they  are  so." 

But  perhaps  the  most  beautiful 
passage  in  the  volume  is  Audubon's 
description  of  the  matrimonial  de- 
lights of  the  Mocking  Bird.  "  It  is 
where  the  Great  Magnolia  shoots  up 
its  majestic  trunk,  crowned  with  ever- 
green leaves,  and  decorated  with  a 
thousand  beautiful  flowers,  that  per- 
fume the  air  around  ;  where  the  fo- 
rests and  fields  are  adorned  with 
blossoms  of  every  hue ;  where  the 
golden  Orange  ornaments  the  gar- 
dens and  groves;  where  Biguonias  of 
various  kinds  interlace  their  climb- 
ing stems  around  the  White-flowered 
Stuartia,  and  mounting  still  higher, 
cover  the  summit  of  the  lofty  trees 
around,  accompanied  with  innume- 
rable Vines,  that  here  and  there  fes- 
toon the  dense  foliage  of  the  magni- 
ficent woods,  lending  to  the  vernal 
breeze  a  slight  portion  of  the  perfume 


[Aug. 


of  their  clustered  flowers;  where  a 
genial  warmth  seldom  forsakes  the 
atmosphere;  where  berries  and  fruits 
of  all  descriptions  are  met  with  at 
every  step  ; — in  a  word,  kind  reader, 
it  is  where  Nature  seems  to  have 
paused,  as  she  passed  over  the  Earth, 
and  opening  her  stores,  to  have 
strewed  with  unsparing  hand  the 
diversified  seeds  from  which  have 
sprung  all  the  beautiful  and  splendid 
forms  which  I  should  in  vain  attempt 
to  describe,  that  the  Mocking  Bird 
should  have  fixed  its  abode,  there 
only  that  its  wondrous  song  should 
be  heard. 

"  But  where  is  that  favoured  land  ? 
— It  is  in  that  great  continent  to 
whose  distant  shores  Europe  has 
sent  forth  her  adventurous  sons,  to 
wrest  for  themselves  a  habitation 
from  the  wild  inhabitants  of  the  fo- 
rest, and  to  convert  the  neglected 
soil  into  fields  of  exuberant  fertility. 
It  is,  reader,  in  Louisiana  that  these 
bounties  of  nature  are  in  the  greatest 
perfection.  It  is  there  that  you 
should  listen  to  the  love-song  of  the 
Mocking  Bird,  as  I  at  this  moment 
do.  See  how  he  flies  round  his  mate, 
with  motions  as  light  as  those  of  the 
butterfly !  His  tail  is  widely  expand- 
ed, he  mounts  in  the  air  to  a  small 
distance,  describes  a  circle,  and, 
again  alighting,  approaches  his  belo- 
ved one,  his  eyes  gleaming  with  de- 
light, for  she  has  already  promised 
to  be  his  and  his  only.  His  beautiful 
wings  are  gently  raised,  he  bows  to 
his  love,  and  again  bouncing  up- 
wards, opens  his  bill,  and  pours 
forth  bis  melody,  full  of  exultation 
at  the  conquest  he  has  made. 

"  They  are  not  the  soft  sounds  of 
the  flute  or  of  the  hautboy  that  I  hear, 
but  the  sweeter  notes  of  Nature's 
own  music.  The  mellowness  of  the 
song,  the  varied  modulations  and 
gradations,  the  extent  of  its  compass, 
the  great  brilliancy  of  execution,  are 
unrivalled.  There  is  probably  no 
bird  in  the  world  that  possesses  all 
the  musical  qualifications  of  this 
king  of  song,  who  has  derived  all 
from  Nature's  self.  Yes,  reader,  all ! 

"  No  sooner  has  he  again  alighted, 
and  the  conjugal  contract  has  been 
sealed,  than,  as  if  his  breast  was  a- 
bout  to  be  rent  with  delight,  he  again 
pours  forth  his  notes  with  more  soft- 
ness and  richness  than  before.  He 
soars  higher,  glancing  around, 


Wilson's  American  Ornithology. 


18;3 1 .] 

with  a  vigilant  eye,  to  assure  himself 
that  none  lias  witnessed  his  bliss. 
When  these  love-scenes,  visible  only 
to  the  ardent  lover  of  nature,  are 
over,  he  dances  through  the  air,  full 
of  animation  and  delight,  and,  as  if 
to  convince  his  lovely  mate  that  to 
enrich  her  hopes  he  has  much  more 
love  in  store,  he  that  moment  begins 
anew,  and  imitates  all  the  notes 
which  nature  has  imparted  to  the 
other  songsters  of  the  grove. 

"  For  a  while  each  long  day  and 
pleasant  night  are  thus  spent  ,•  but  at 
a  peculiar  note  of  the  female  he 
ceases  his  song,  and  attends  to  her 
wishes.  A  nest  is  to  be  prepared, 
and  the  choice  of  a  place  in  which 
to  lay  it  is  to  become  a  matter  of 
mutual  consideration.  The  Orange, 
the  Fig,  the  Pear-tree  of  the  gardens 
are  inspected ;  the  thick  brier  pat- 
ches are  also  visited.  They  app'ear 
all  so  well  suited  for  the  purpose  in 
view,  and  so  well  does  the  bird 
know  that  man  is  not  his  most  dan- 
gerous enemy,  .that  instead  of  reti- 
ring from  him,  they  at  length  fix  their 
abode  in  his  vicinity,  perhaps  in  the 
nearest  tree  to  his  window.  Dried 
twigs,  leaves,  grasses,  cotton,  flax, 
and  other  substances,  are  picked  up, 
carried  to  a  forked  branch,  and  there 
arranged.  The  female  has  laid  an 
egg,  and  the  male  redoubles  his  ca- 
resses. Five  eggs  are  deposited  in 
due  time,  when  the  male,having  little 
more  to  do  than  to  sing  his  mate  to 
repose,  attunes  his  pipe  anew.  Every 
now  and  then  he  spies  an  insect  on 
the  ground,  the  taste  of  which  he  is 
sure  will  please  his  beloved  one. 
He  drops  upon  it,  takes  it  in  his  bill, 
beats  it  against  the  earth,  and  flies  to 
the  nest  to  feed  and  receive  the 
warm  thanks  of  his  devoted  female. 

"  When  a  fortnight  has  elapsed, 
the  young  brood  demand  all  their 
care  and  attention.  No  cat,  no  vile 
snake,  no  dreaded  hawk,  is  likely  to 
visit  their  habitation.  Indeed  the 
inmates  of  the  next  house  have  by 
this  time  become  quite  attached  to 
the  lovely  pair  of  Mocking  Birds, 
and  take  pleasure  in  contributing  to 
their  safety.  The  dew-berries  from 
the  fields,  and  many  kinds  of  fruit 
from  the  gardens,  mixed  with  in- 
sects, supply  the  young  as  well  as 
the  parents  with  food.  The  brood 
is  soon  seen  emerging  from  the  nest, 
and  in  another  fortnight,  being  now 


273 


able  to  fly  with  vigour,  and  to  pro- 
vide for  themselves,  they  leave  the 
parent  birds,  as  many  other  species 
do." 

There  is  every  excuse  for  people 
in  general  falling  into  all  manner  of 
misconceptions  regarding  the  cha- 
racter of  birds.  "  Indeed,  it  may  be 
asked  by  the  judicious  hooker,  why 
should  they  be  more  rational  on  that 
subject  than  any  other?  But  inde- 
pendently of  that  query,  birds  often 
appear  to  such  persons,  judging 
from,  of,  and  by  themselves,  to  be  in 
mind  and  manners  the  reverse  of 
their  real  character.  They  judge 
the  inner  bird  by  outward  circum- 
stances inaccurately  observed.  There 
is  the  owl.  How  little  do  the  people 
of  England  know  of  him — even  of 
him  the  barn-door  and  domestic  owl 
— yea,  even  at  this  day — we  had  al- 
most said  the  Poets  ?  Shakspeare,  of 
course,  and  his  freres,  knew  him  to 
be  a  merry  fellow — quite  a  madcap 
— and  so  do  now  all  the  Lakers. 
But  Cowper  had  his  doubts  about  it; 
and  Gray,  as  every  schoolboy  knows, 
speaks  of  him  like  an  old  wife,  or 
rather  like  an  uninspired  idiot.  The 
force  of  folly  can  go  no  farther,  than 
to  imagine  an  owl  complaining  to 
the  moon  of  being  disturbed  by 
people  walking  in  a  country  church- 
yard. And  among  all  our  present 
bardlings,  the  owl  is  supposed  to  be 
constantly  on  the  eve  of  suicide.  If  it 
were  really  so,  he  ought  in  a  Chris- 
tian country  to  be  pitied,  not  pelted, 
as  he  is  sure  to  be,  when  accident- 
ally seen  in  sunlight — for  melancholy 
is  a  misfortune,  especially  when  he- 
reditary and  constitutional,  as  it  is 
popularly  believed  to  be  in  the  Black- 
billed  Bubo,  and  certainly  was  in  Dr 
Johnson.  In  young  masters  and 
misses,  we  can  pardon  any  childish- 
ness ;  but  we  cannot  pardon  the  an- 
tipathy to  the  owl  entertained  by  the 
manly  minds  of  grown-up  English 
clod-hoppers,  ploughmen,  and  thresh- 
ers.' They  keep  terriers  to  kill  rats 
and  mice  in  barns,  and  they  shoot 
the  owls,  any  one  of  whom  we  would 
cheerfully  back  against  the  famous 
Billy.  "  The  very  commonest  ob- 
servation teaches  us,"  says  the  au- 
thor of  the  "  Gardens  of  the  Mena- 
gerie," "  that  they  are  in  reality  the 
best  and  most  efficient  protectors  of 
our  corn-fields  and  granaries  from 
the  devastating  pillage  of  the  swarmq 


Audubon's  Ornithological  Biography—* 


274 

of  mice  and  other  small  rodents" 
Nay,  by  their  constant  destruction 
of  these  petty  but  dangerous  ene- 
mies, the  owls,  he  says,  "  earn  an 
unquestionable  title  to  be  regarded 
as  among  the  most  active  of  the  friends 
of  man;  a  title  which  only  one  or 
two  among  them  occasionally  forfeit 
by  their  aggressions  on  the  defence- 
less poultry."  Roger  or  Dolly  behold 
him  in  the  act  of  murdering  a  duck- 
ling, and,  like  other  light-headed, 
giddy,  unthinking  creatures,  they  for- 
get all  the  service  he  has  done  the 
farm,  the  parish,  and  the  state  ;  he  is 
shot  in  flagranti  delicto,  and  nail- 
ed, wide-extended  in  cruel  spread- 
eagle,  on  the  barn-door.  Others  again 
call  them  dull  and  shortsighted — > 
nay,  go  the  length  of  asserting  that 
they  are  stupid — as  stupid  as  an 
owl.  Why,  our  excellent  fellow, 
when  you  have  the  tithe  of  the  ta- 
lent of  the  common  owl,  and  know 
half  as  well  how  to  use  it,  you  may 
borrow  the  medal.  The  ancients 
saw  the  owl  in  a  true  light — as  they 
did  almost  every  thing  else — and 
knew  the  Bird  of  Wisdom.  Au- 
dubon  delights  in  owls,  and  carried 
one — the  Mottled,  or  Little  Screech 
Owl — in  his  coat  pocket,  alternately 
travelling  by  land  and  water,  from 
Philadelphia  to  New  York — and  he 
unluckily  lost  it  at  sea,  in  the  course 
of  his  last  (his  second)  voyage  to 
England.  On  alighting,  our  friend 
immediately  bends  his  body,  turns 
his  head  to  look  behind  him,  per- 
forms a  curious  nod,  shakes  and 
plumes  himself,  and  then  resumes 
his  flight  in  search  of  prey.  He  now 
and  then,  while  on  wing,  produces 
a  clicking  sound  with  his  mandibles, 
to  manifest  his  courage,  as  Audubon 
thinks,  and  "  let  the  bearer  know 
that  he  is  not  to  be  meddled  with." 
His  notes  are  uttered  in  a  tremu- 
lous, doleful  manner,  and  somewhat 
resemble  the  chattering  of  the  teeth 
of  a  person  under  the  influence  of 
extreme  cold,  although  much  louder. 
On  the  roofs  of  houses  the  little  fel- 
low will  utter  his  ditty  for  hours,  as 
if  he  were  in  a  state  of  great  suffer- 
ing, whereas  he  is  the  happiest  of 
Yankees,  the  song  of  all  birds  being 
an  indication  of  content  and  liappi- 
The  Barred  Owl,  again,  is 
one  of  Audubon's  most  esteemed 
friends.  "  How  often,  when  snugly 
tented  under  the  boughs  of  my  tem- 


[Aug. 


porary  encampment,  and  preparing 
to  roast  a  venison  steak,  or  the  body 
of  a  squirrel,  on  a  wooden  spit,  have 
I  been  saluted  with  the  exulting 
bursts  of  this  nightly  disturber  of 
the  peace,  that,  but  for  him,  would 
have  prevailed  around  me,  as  well 
as  in  my  lonely  retreat !  How  often 
have  I  seen  this  nocturnal  marauder 
alight  within  a  few  yards  of  me,  ex- 
posing his  whole  body  to  the  glare 
of  my  fire,  and  eye  me  in  such  a  cu- 
rious manner,  that,  had  it  been  rea- 
sonable to  do  so,  I  would  gladly 
have  invited  him  to  walk  in  and  join 
me  in  my  repast,  that  I  might  have 
enjoyed  the  pleasure  of  forming  a 
better  acquaintance  with  him !  The 
liveliness  of  his  motions,  joined  to 
their  oddness,  have  often  made  me 
think  that  his  society  would  be  at 
least  as  agreeable  as  that  of  many  of 
the 'buffoons  we  meet  with  in  this 
world.  But  as  such  opportunities 
of  forming  acquaintance  have  not 
existed,  be  content,  kind  reader, 
with  the  important  information  which 
I  can  give  you  of  the  habits  of  this 
Sancho  Panza  of  the  woods."  The 
discordant  screams  of  this  owl — its 
whah  !  rvhah  I  whah  !  may  be  com- 
pared, he  says,  "  to  the  affected 
bursts  of  laughter  which  you  may 
have  heard  from  some  of  the  fa- 
shionable members  of  our  species," 
— such,  for  example,  as  "  Joanna's 
laugh" — the  laugh  of  the  "  fair  Jo- 
anna," celebrated  by  Wordsworth. 
That  young  lady  laughed  so  far 
beyond  the  whah  !  whah  !  whah  !  of 
the  Barred  Owl,  that  the  peal  awa- 
kened all  the  echoes  of  the  three 
northern  counties.  Had  the  ghost 
of  the  Lord  Chesterfield  been  in 
the  north,  what  would  he  have 
said  ?  Nay,  what  else  could  any 
Christian  have  supposed,  but  that 
an  ourang-outang  had  escaped  from 
Pidcock  or  Wombwell,  and  gone 
mad  among  the  mountains — or  that 
Christopher  North,  or  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd,  or  Pan  himself,  had  given 
the  Glaramara-shaking  guffaw  ?  The 
woods  of  Louisiana  swarm  with 
these  owls.  Should  the  weather  be 
lowering,  and  indicative  of  the  ap- 
proach of  rain,  their  cries  are  so 
multiplied  during  the  day,  and  to- 
wards evening,  and  they  respond  to 
each  other  in  tones  so  strange,  that 
one  might  imagine  some  extraordi- 
nary fete  about  to  take  place  among 


1881.] 

them.  On  approaching  one  of  them, 
its  gesticulations,  position,  and  ap- 
pearance,   are    funny    enough.     It 
lowers  its  head,  throws  forward  the 
lateral  feathers  thereof,  which  has 
thus  the  appearance  of  being  sur- 
rounded by  a  broad  ruff,  looks  to- 
wards you  as  if  half-blind,  and  moves 
its  head  to  and  fro  in  so  extraordi- 
nary a  manner,  as  almost  to  induce 
you  to  fancy  that  part  dislocated 
from  the  body.     It  follows  all  your 
motions  with  its  eyes ;  and  should  it 
suspect  any  treacherous  intentions, 
flies  off  to  a  short  distance,  alighting 
with  its  back  to  the  person,  and  im- 
mediately turning  about  with  a  sin- 
glejump.to  recommence  its  scrutiny. 
If  you  shoot  at  and  miss  it,  then,  and 
not  till  then,  for  it  cares  not  about 
your  hallooing,  it  removes  to  a  con- 
siderable distance,  after  which  its 
whah  ! — whah  ! — whah  !    is  uttered 
with   considerable  pomposity.     He 
flies  in  silent,  simple,  and  sublime 
style.     Often  has  Audubon  "  disco- 
vered  one   passing  over  him,   and 
only  a  few  yards  distant,  by  first 
seeing  its  shadow  on   the  ground, 
during  clear  moonlight  nights,  when 
not    the    faintest  rustling  of  their 
wings  could  be  heard."     He  once 
saw  one,  annoyed  by  crows,  soar  up 
into  the  air,  describing  small  circles, 
eagle-fashion,  till  it  disappeared  in 
the  zenith.    You  often  see  Barred 
Owls  by  day — but  their  imperfect 
power  of  sight  then,  like  that  of  their 
other    brethren,    leads    them    into 
scrapes.     Audubon   once   saw  one 
alight  on  the  back  of  a  cow,  which 
it  left  so  suddenly  on  Brucky  walk- 
ing on,  as  to  convince  him  that  it 
had  mistaken  the  animal  for  some- 
thing  lifeless.     At  other  times,  he 
has  observed  that  the  approach  of 
the  grey  squirrel  intimidated  them, 
though  the  owl  destroys  great  num- 
bers of  them   during   the   twilight. 
For  this  reason,  in  one  of  his  draw- 
ings, which  we  remember  puzzled 
us,  he  has  represented  the  Barred 
Owl  gazing   in  amazement,  as  on 
something  miraculous,   on   one    of 
these  squirrels,  placed  only  a  few 
inches  from  him  :— had  it  been  twi- 
light, he  had   swallowed   him   like 
winking.  What  would  Dr  Shaw  have 
said  on  seeing  such  a  picture  ? 

But  of  all  the  owls  that  we  do  see, 
thefaci/e  princeps  is  the  Great  Horn- 
ed Owl.  He  is  the  owl  of  owls. 


Wilson's  American  Ornithology. 


275 


Were  you  to  see  him  flying,  you 
would  either  forget  or  remember  the 
Eagle.    He  sails  high  aloft,  and  in 
large  circles,  rising  and  falling,  by 
means  of  the  slightest  inclination,  al- 
most imperceptible,  of  tail  or  wings. 
Swift  as  light  he  glides,  and  as  si- 
lent, over  the  earth,  dropping  on  his 
prey  as  suddenly  as  if  himself  were 
shot  dead  on   the   spot.     At  other 
times  he  alights  in  a  moment  on  a 
stump,  and  snaking  and  arranging  his 
feathers,  "  utters  a  shriek  so  horrid, 
that  the  woods  echo  to  the  dismal 
sound.  Now  it  seems  as  if  you  heard 
the  barking  of  a  cur-dog ;  again,  the 
notes  are  so  rough  and  mingled  to- 
gether, that  they  might  be  mistaken 
for  the  last  gurglings  of  a  murdered 
person,  striving  in  vain  to  call  for  as- 
sistance ;  at  another  time,  when  not 
more  than  fifty  yards  distant,  it  ut- 
ters its  more  usual  hoo  !  hoo  I  hoo  ! 
in  so  peculiar  an  under  tone,  that  a 
person  unacquainted  with  the  notes 
of  this  species,  might  easily  conceive 
them   to  be  produced  by    an   owl 
more  than  a  mile  distant."     He  is  a 
more   wonderful  ventriloquist  than 
even  Mons.  Alexander.    During  the 
utterance  of  all  these  cries,  it  moves 
its  body,  and  more  particularly  its 
head,     in    various     ways,     putting 
them  into  positions,  all  of  which  ap* 
pear  to  please  it  much,  however  gro- 
tesque they  may  seem  to  the  eye  of 
man.    In  the  interval  following  each 
cry,  it  snaps  its  bill,  as  if  by  way  of 
amusement;  or,  like  the  wild-boar 
sharpening  the  edges  of  its  tusks,  it 
perhaps  expects  that  the  action  will 
whet  its  mandibles ;  and  in  that  ex- 
pectation,   probably,  is  not   disap- 
pointed.   It  lives  upon  wild  turkeys, 
pheasants,  poultry,  ducks,  squirrels, 
hares,  and  oppossums,  and  on  dead 
fish  flung  up  on  the  shores.     In  an 
article  on  our  friend  Selby's  splendid 
book,  some  years  ago,  we  are  incli- 
ned to  believe  we  wrote  something 
or  other  not  much  amiss  about  owls. 
But  let  Christopher  North  hide  his 
dumb  and  diminished  head,  and  let 
the  world  hear  Audubon  :— 

"  It  is  during  the  placid  serenity  of  a 
beautiful  summer  night,  when  the  current 
of  the  waters  moves  silently  along,  re- 
flecting from  its  smooth  surface  the  silver 
radiance  of  the  moon,  and  when  all  else 
of  animated  nature  seems  sunk  in  repose, 
that  the  great  horned  owl,  one  of  the 
Nimrods  of  the  feathered  tribes  of  our 


-276 


Auilubon's  Ornithvlvgical  Biography — 


[Aug. 


forests,  may  be  seen  bailing  silently  and 
yet  rapidly  on.  intent  on  the  destruction 
of  the  objects  destined  to  form  his  food. 
The  lone  steersman  of  the  descending 
boat  observes  the  nocturnal  hunter,  gli- 
ding on  extended  pinions  across  the  river, 
sailing  over  one  hill  and  then  another,  or 
suddenly  sweeping  downwards,  and  again 
rising  in  the  air  like  a  moving  shadow, 
now  distinctly  seen,  and  again  mingling 
with  the  sombre  shades  of  the  surround- 
ing woods,  fading  into  obscurity.  The 
bark  has  now  floated  to  some  distance, 
and  is  opposite  the  newly  cleared  patch  of 
ground,  the  result  of  a  squatter's  first  at- 
tempt at  cultivation,  in  a  place  lately 
shaded  by  the  trees  of  the  forest.  The 
moon  shines  brightly  on  his  hut,  his  slight 
fence,  the  newly  planted  orchard,  and  a 
tree,  which,  spared  by  the  axe,  serves  as  a 
roosting-place  for  the  scanty  stock  of 
poultry  which  the  new  comer  has  'pro- 
cured from  some  liberal  neighbour. 
Amongst  them  rests  a  turkey-hen,  cover- 
ing her  offspring  with  extended  wings. 
The  great  owl,  with  eyes  keen  as  those  of 
any  falcon,  is  now  seen  hovering  above 
the  place.  He  has  already  espied  the 
quarry,  and  is  sailing  in  wide  circles  me- 
ditating his  plan  of  attack.  The  turkey- 
hen,  which  at  another  time  might  be 
sound  asleep,  is  now,  however,  so  intent 
on  the  care  of  her  young  brood,  that  she 
rises  on  her  legs  and  purs  so  loudly,  as 
she  opens  her  wings  and  spreads  her  tail, 
that  she  rouses  her  neighbours,  the  hens, 
together  with  their  protector.  The  cack- 
lirigs  which  they  at  first  emit  soon  be- 
come a  general  clamour.  The  squatter 
hears  the  uproar,  and  is  on  his  feet  in  an 
instant,  rifle  in  hand  ;  the  priming  ex- 
amined, he  gently  pushes  open  his  half 
closed  door,  and  peeps  out  cautiously,  to 
ascertain  the  cause  by  which  his  repose 
has  been  disturbed.  He  observes  the 
murderous  owl  just  alighting  on  the  dead 
branch  of  a  tall  tree,  when,  raising  his 
never-failiug  rifle,  he  takes  aim,  touches 
the  trigger,  and  the  next  instant  sees  the 
foe  falling  dead  to  the  ground.  The  bird 
is  unworthy  of  his  farther  attention,  and 
is  left  a  prey  to  some  prowling  oppossum 
or  other  carnivorous  quadruped.  Again, 
all  around  is  tranquillity.  In  this  man- 
ner falls  many  a  great  horned  owl  on  our 
frontiers,  where  the  species  abounds." 

The  transition  from  owl  to  eagle  is 
easy  and  natural — and  therefore  one 
more  quotation  from  Audubon — 
"  alike,  but  oh  !  how  different."  The 
bald-headed  eaerle  ! 

O 

"  The  figure  of  this  noble  bird  is  well 
known  throughout  the  civilized  world, 
emblazoned  as  it  is  on  our  national  stand* 


ard,  which  waves  in  the  breeze  of  every 
clime,  bearing  to  distant  lands  the  remem- 
brance of  a  great  people  living  in  a  state 
of  peaceful  freedom.  May  that  peaceful 
freedom  last  for  ever  ! 

"  The  great  strength,  daring,  and  cool 
courage  of  the  white-headed  eagle,  joined 
to  his  unequalled  power  of  flight,  render 
him  highly  conspicuous  among  his  bre- 
thren. To  these  qualities  did  he  add  a 
generous  disposition  towards  others,  he 
might  be  looked  up  to  as  a  model  of  nobi- 
lity. The  ferocious,  overbearing,  and 
tyrannical  temper  which  is  ever  and  anon 
displaying  itself  in  his  actions,  is,  never- 
theless, best  adapted  to  his  state,  and  was 
wisely  given  him  by  the  Creator  to  enable 
him  to  perform  the  office  assigned  to  him. 

"  To  give  you,  kind  reader,  some  idea 
of  the  nature  of  this  bird,  permit  me  to 
place  you  on  the  Mississippi,  on  which 
you  may  float  gently  along,  while  ap- 
proaching winter  brings  millions  of  water- 
fowl on  whistling  wings,  from  the  coun- 
tries of  the  north,  to  seek  a  milder  climate 
in  which  to  sojourn  for  a  season.  The 
eagle  is  seen  perched,  in  an  erect  attitude, 
on  the  highest  summit  of  the  tallest  tree 
by  the  margin  of  the  broad  stream.  His 
glistening  but  stern  eye  looks  over  the  vast 
expanse.  He  listens  attentively  to  every 
sound  that  comes  to  his  quick  ear  from 
afar,  glancing  now  and  then  on  the  earth 
beneath,  lest  even  the  light  tread  of  the 
fawn  may  pass  unheard.  His  mate  is 
perched  on  the  opposite  side,  and  should 
all  be  tranquil  and  silent,  warns  him  by 
a  cry  to  continue  patient.  At  this  well- 
known  call,  the  male  partly  opens  his 
broad  wings,  inclines  his 'body  a  little 
downwards,  and  answers  to  her  voice  in 
tones  not  unlike  the  laugh  of  a  maniac. 
The  next  moment,  he  resumes  his  erect 
attitude,  and  again  all  around  is  silent. 
Ducks  of  many  species,  the  teal,  the  wi- 
geon,  the  mallard,  and  others,  are  seen 
passing  with  great  rapidity,  and  following 
the  course  of  the  current ;  but  the  eagle 
heeds  them  not :  they  are  at  that  time 
beneath  his  attention.  The  next  moment, 
however,  the  wild  trumpet-like  sound  of 
a  yet  distant  but  approaching  swan  is 
heard.  A  shriek  from  the  female  eagle 
comes  across  the  stream, — for,  kind  read- 
er, she  is  fully  as  alert  as  her  mate.  The 
latter  suddenly  shakes  the  whole  of  his 
body,  and  with  a  few  touches  of  his  bill, 
aided  bytheaction  of  his  cuticular  muscles, 
arranges  his  plumage  in  an  instant.  The 
snow-white  bird  is  now  in  sight  :  her 
long  neck  is  stretched  forward,  her  eye  is 
on  the  watch,  vigilant  as  that  of  her  ene- 
my; her  large  wings  seem  with  difficulty 
to  support  the  weightof  her  body,  although 
they  flap  incessantly.  So  irksome  do  her 


1831.] 


Wilson's  American  Ornithology. 


277 


exertions  seem,  that  her  very  legs  are 
spread  beneath  her  tail,  to  aid  her  in  her 
flight.  She  approaches,  however.  The 
eagle  has  marked  her  for  his  prey.  As 
the  swan  is  passing  the  dreaded  pair,  starts 
from  his  perch,  in  full  preparation  for  the 
chase,  the  male  bird,  with  an  awful  scream, 
that  to  the  swan's  ear  brings  more  terror 
than  the  report  of  the  large  duck-gun. 

"  Now  is  the  moment  to  witness  the 
display  of  the  eagle's  powers.  He  glides 
through  the  air  like  a  falling  star,  and, 
like  a  flash  of  lightning,  comes  upon  the 
timorous  quarry,  which  now,  in  agony 
and  despair,  seeks,  by  various  manoeuvres, 
to  elude  the  grasp  of  his  cruel  talons.  It 
mounts,  doubles,  and  willingly  would 
plunge  into  the  stream,  were  it  not  pre- 
vented by  the  eagle,  which,  long  possessed 
of  the  knowledge  that  by  such  a  strata- 
gem the  swan  might  escape  him,  forces  it 
to  remain  in  the  air  by  attempting  to 
strike  it  with  his  talons  from  beneath. 
The  hope  of  escape  is  soon  given  up  by 
the  swan.  It  has  already  become  much 
weakened,  and  its  strength  fails  at  the 
sight  of  the  courage  and  swiftness  of  its 
antagonist.  Its  last  gasp  is  about  to  es- 
cape, when  the  ferocious  eagle  strikes  with 
his  talons  the  under  side  of  its  wing,  and 
with  unresisted  power  forces  the  bird  to 
fall  in  a  slanting  direction  upon  the  near- 
est shore. 

"  It  is  then,  reader,  that  you  may  see 
the  cruel  spirit  of  this  dreaded  enemy  of 
the  feathered  race,  whilst,  exulting  over 
his  prey,  he  for  the  first  time  breathes  at 
ease.  He  presses  down  his  powerful  feet, 
and  drives  his  sharp  claws  deeper  than 
ever  into  the  heart  of  the  dying  swan.  He 
shrieks  with  delight,  as  he  feels  the  last 
convulsions  of  his  prey,  which  has  now 
sunk  under  his  unceasing  efforts  to  render 
death  as  painfully  felt  as  it  can  possibly 
be.  The  female  has  watched  every  move- 
ment of  her  mate  ;  and  if  she  did  not 
assist  him  in  capturing  the  swan,  it  was 
not  from  want  of  will,  but  merely  that 
she  felt  full  assurance  that  the  power  and 
courage  of  her  lord  were  quite  sufficient 
for  the  deed.  She  now  sails  to  the  spot 
where  he  eagerly  awaits  her,  and  when 
she  has  arrived,  they  together  turn  the 
breast  of  the  luckless  swan  upwards,  and 
gorge  themselves  with  gore." 

From  these  pictures  of  birds  of 
prey,  how  pleasant  to  turn — had  we 
room — to  others  equally  admirable 
of  birds  of  peace,  his  woodpeckers, 
thrushes,  and  orioles  !  But  we  shall 
find  room  in  many  other  Numbers  to 
bring  forward  into  light  some  of  his 
loveliest  portraits.  All  the  great  orni- 
thologists, indeedjLevaillantjBewicK', 


Vigors,  Richardson,  Swainson,  et  ce- 
teri,  must  come  under  inspection  and 
review,  each  having  a  field-day  to  his 
own  corps. 

Let  us  conclude  with  a  few  words 
more  about  Wilson  and  Audubon. 
For  they  are  the  Two  Great  American 
Woodsmen. 

We  have  seen,  that  till  he  was  be- 
tween thirty  and  forty  years  of  age, 
Wilson  had  not  only  never  studied 
ornithology  as  a  science,  but  that  he 
had  paid  no  greater  attention  to  the 
habits  of  birds  than  almost  any  other 
poetical  observer  of  nature.  All  at 
once  he  plunged  both  into  theory 
and  practice — and  soon  became,  in 
the  highest  and  most  extensive  sense 
of  the  term,  an  ornithologist.  Audu- 
bon, again,  was  a  bird-fancier  before 
he  was  even  a  boy — when  a  mere 
child — an  infant.  The  feeling  and 
the  knowledge,  too,  of  those  earliest 
days,  however  vague,  dim,  and  im- 
perfect, must  have  had  influence  on 
all  his  subsequent  studies,  when  pur- 
sued with  all  the  enthusiasm  and  de- 
votion of  manhood.  He  had  been  fa- 
miliar with  a  thousand  delightful 
things,  for  many  and  many  a  year  be- 
fore he  ever  once  dreamt  of  deriving 
from  them  any  advantage  but  pure 
delight.  Fame  or  fortune  was  not  in 
his  visions;  "  he  loved  what  he  looked 
on,"  and  was  happy  in  the  woods.  Wil- 
son, almost  as  soon  as  he  gave  way  to 
his  passion  for  this  "  living  know- 
ledge," conceived  the  grand  plan  of 
an  American  Ornithology — and  he 
began  to  carry  it  into  effect  at  a  time 
when  it  may  be  said,  without  detract- 
ing from  his  transcendent  merit,  nay, 
it  cannot  be  said  without  shewing  that 
merit  in  more  striking  colours,  that 
he  was  deficient  in  some  acquirements 
essential  toits  successful  completion. 
The  truth  is,  that  Wilson  never  was  a 
first-rate — nay,  he  never  was  even  a 
second — never  a  third-rate  draughts- 
man. How  could  he  be  ?  The  fin- 
gers of  a  man's  hand,  at  forty,  are 
strong  and  sinewy — and  his  were  so ; 
but  not  then  can  they  acquire  the 
fine  ductility  demanded  by  a  fine 
process,  entirely  new  to  the  opera- 
tor. His  perception  of  the  beauty  of 
birds  was  as  intense  as  any  man's 
could  be;  and  he  knew  well  their 
lives  and  characters.  But  to  draw 
them,  in  all  their  attitudes  and  pos- 
tures, "  when  motion  or  rest  in  a 
place  is  signified,"  in  a  man  at  his 


Audition's  Ornithological  Biography— 


278 

time  of  life,  and  with  his  previous 
pursuits,  would  have  implied  the 
possession  of  a  power  little  short  of 
miraculous.  He  never  attempted 
to  do  so,  nor,  we  dare  say,  did  he 
ever  believe  It  possible  ;  for  we  are 
apt  to  bound  our  imaginations  in 
such  matters  by  our  own  powers  ; 
and  Wilson  had  a  high  opinion  of 
himself — without  which,  indeed,  he 
had  never  achieved  immortality. 
It  is  astonishing  how  well  he  did 
draw,  under  such  disadvantages ;  and 
Lawson,  the  engraver,  who  had  the 
specimens  before  him,  it  is  well 
known,  greatly  improved  upon  the 
spirited  but  somewhat  rude  sketches 
from  which  he  had  to  work.  The 
work  is  a  splendid  one ;  but  com- 
pare the  birds  there,  bright  and  beau- 
tiful as  they  are,  and  wonderfully 
true,  too,  to  nature,  with  the  birds  of 
Audubon,  and  you  feel  at  one  glance 
the  immeasurable  and  mysterious 
difference  between  the  living  and  the 
dead. 

Audubon's  birds  fly  before  you — or 
you  are  tempted  to  steal  upon  them 
unawares  in  their  repose,  and  catch 
them  on  the  bough  they  beautify. 
As  one  of  his  falcons  goes  by,  you  hear 
the  suijh  of  his  wings,  and  his  shrilly 
cry.  There  is  one  picture,  particu- 
larly, of  a  pair  of  hawks  dining  on 
teals,  on  which  we  defy  you  to 
look  without  seeing  the  large  fiery- 
eyed  heads  of  the  hook-beaks  moving 
as  they  tear  the  bloody  and  fleshy  fea- 
thers, meat  and  drink  in  one,  the 
gore-gouts  of  carnal  plumage  drop- 

Sing  from,  or  sticking  in  the  mur- 
erous  sharpness  of  their  wide-ga- 
ping jaws  of  destruction ;  if,  indeed, 
you  can  keep  your  eyes  off  their  yel- 
low iron  legs,  stamping  and  clutch- 
ing in  maddened  strides  and  put- 
stretchings,  in  the  drunken  delirium 
of  their  famine  that  quaffs  and  gob- 
bles up  the  savage  zest  of  its  grati- 
fied passion.  "  The  Bill — the  whole 
Bill— and  nothing  but  the  Bill"— 
even  with  "  all  the  Talents" — is  a 
poor,  frigid,  foolish  concern ;  but  the 
"  Beak — the  whole  Beak — and  no- 
thing but  the  Beak"— to  which  add 
all  "  the  Talons" — shews  Audubon 
to  be  such  a  Radical  Reformer  as 
could  only  burst  out  upon  us  from 
an  American  wilderness,  steeped  in 
its  spirit,  and  familiar  with  secret 
murder.  He  may  not  thank  us  for 
the  compliment;  but  with  suspi- 


cious  and  alarming  mastery  doth  he 
paint  all  Birds  of  Prey. 

If  we  are  grossly  mistaken,  and 
blinded  by  national  prejudice  and 
pride,  we  trust  to  the  often- expe- 
rienced kindness  of  our  English  cri- 
tics to  correct  our  ignorant  error; 
but  we  confess,  that  we  cannot  help 
expressing  our  belief,  that  in  no 
country  in  the  whole  world  do  the 
lower  orders  exhibit  such  enlighten- 
ment as  in  Scotland.  In  England,  a 
superior  country  to  ours  in  many 
things,  do  you  often  meet  with  wea- 
vers, packmen,  and  so  forth,  who 
write  prose  and  verse  better  than 
yourself,  who  have  been  educated  at 
Rugby  and  Oxford  ?  No— seldom — 
or  never.  Now,  in  Scotland,  we 
never  took  a  week's  walk  without 
"  foregathering"  with  several  such 
worthies.  Don't  suppose  we  are 
speaking  of  Burns's,  and  Hoggs,  and 
Cunninghames — we  might  travel  far 
and  wide  before  we  met  them  or 
their  "  likes" — and  you  have  your 
men  of  genius  to  shew  too,  whose 
heads  from  humble  shades  "  star- 
bright  appeared."  We  beg  leave  to 
direct  your  attention  to  the  people 
in  general — at  large  • — in  town  or 
country — the  labouring  poor.  Did 
you  ever  know  one  among  them  at 
all  to  be  compared  with  Alexander 
Wilson,  as  he  shewed  himself  even 
before  his  emigration  to  America? 
We  doubt  it.  Now,  we  have  known 
hundreds  —  hundreds  who  never 
were  worth  twenty  pounds  over 
their  debts  in  their  lives,  who  were 
clothed  in  coarse  raiment,  and  fared 
wretchedly  every  day,  who  could 
and  did  write  as  well,  either  in  prose 
or  verse,  as  either  you  or  we  could 
do  for  our  souls.  This  may  not  be 
saying  very  much  after  all — but  still 
their  attainments  must  have  been 
respectable — beyond  and  above  what 
you,  at  least,  could  have  expected 
from  persons  in  their  station. 

Wilson,  though  he  spoke  and  wrote 
so  excellently,  was  not  looked  on  at 
all  in  the  light  of  a  prodigy — nor, 
though  he  had  a  good  opinion  of 
himself,  did  he  use  to  stand  still  and 
admire  his  shadow  in  the  sun — say- 
ing, "  that  is  the  shadow  of  a  pheno- 
menon." Why  ?  Because  he  walk- 
ed to  and  fro  among  men,  \\-\w, 
though  certainly  his  inferiors,  were 
not  so  entirely  so  as  to  feel  it  very 
sensibly;  in  short,  he  everywhere 


1831.] 


Wilson's  American  Ornithology . 


found  his  admitted  equals.  This 
Paisley  Packman  then  carried  to 
America  a  mind  not  only  strong  by 
nature,  but  well  cultivated  by  edu- 
cation. His  feelings,  and  his  imagi- 
nation, and  his  intellect,  were  all  en- 
lightened ;  and  he  was,  absolutely,  a 
man  of  literature.  He  added  greatly 
to  his  knowledge  by  serious  study 
in  America;  but  his  soul  was  strung 
to  the  same  high  tone  that  it  sound- 
ed there  in  his  beautiful  descriptions 
of  the  woods  of  the  New  World  and 
their  winged  inhabitants,  during  his 
toilsome  trudgings  about  with  his 
pack,  among  the  scenery  of  his  na- 
tive Renfrewshire.  He  wrote  always 
well ;  as  well  at  first  as  at  last  j  more 
practice  merely  gave  him  more  facili- 
ty; and  the  many  new  objects  submit- 
ted to  his  senses  inspired  his  fancy, 
and  awoke  all  the  poetry  of  his  na- 
ture. Had  he  been  from  boyhood  a 
draughtsman,  we  should  not  have  had 
from  his  genius  such  written  pictures. 
But  the  pen  was  an  instrument  he 
knew  the  use  of  early;  the  pencil  he 
took  up  after  he  had  become  apower- 
ful  writer;  and  as  for  the  engra- 
ver's tools — over  them  he  had  never 
acquired  mastery — how  should  he  ? 
With  Audubon,  as  we  have  hinted, 
it  was  the  reverse.  The  son  of  a 
gentleman,  he  enjoyed  some  advan- 
tages which  W'ilson  did  not;  but 
Wilson,  being  a  Scotchman,  enjoyed 
others  which,  as  we  have  hinted,  fell 
not  to  the  lot  of  Audubon.  The  Ame- 
rican was  not  bred  up  among  a  book- 
loving  people,  (very  different  from 
the  reading  public,)  and  he  was  a 
naturalist  of  the  woods  before  he 
was  a  philosopher  of  the  study.  So 
far  from  being  illiterate,  he  has  read 
all  that  is  worth  reading,  in  his  own 
science,  and  much  beside ;  but  we 
do  not  believe  that,  till  within  these 
few  years,  he  had  any  practice  in 
composition.  With  his  magical  pen- 
cil, what  use  had  he  for  the  pen  ? 
Yet  Genius,  if  from  circumstances 
behind  hand  in  any  common  accom- 
plishment, soon  supplies  it — soon 
makes  up  its  lee-way — or  rather,  it 
has  only  to  try  to  do  what  it  had 
never  done  before,  and  it  succeeds 
in  it  to  admiration.  Audubon,  who 
had  written  but  little  even  in  his 
native  tongue  —  French — under  a 
powerful  motive,  took  to  writing 
English;  and  he  was  not  long  of 
learning  to  write  it  well,  not  only 


279 

with  fluency,  but  eloquence,  as  the 
fine  extracts  we  have  quoted  shew 
in  unfading  colours. 

Here  then  lies,  we  shall  not  say  the 
superiority  of  Audubon  over  Wilson ; 
but  here  lies  his  strength  which  con- 
stitutes and  preserves  his  equality 
with  that  great  Ornithologist.  Wil- 
son, on  the  whole,  is  the  better  wri- 
ter of  the  two — indeed  he  is  the  best 
painter  in  words  of  birds  that  the 
world  has  yet  seen,  or  may  ever  see 
—when  or  where  the  world  ever  saw 
or  may  see,  we  know  not —  a  paint- 
er of  birds  in  water  colours  or  in  oils 
superior,  or  equal  to  Audubon.  And 
as  Wilson  likewise  paints  with  his 
pencil  birds  most  beautifully,  and  far 
indeed  above  th  e  eo  m  mon  run,  so  doth 
Audubon  with  his  pen;  and  farther,  as 
Wilson's  exquisite  feeling  of  the  beau- 
ty of  birds  enabled  him  to  paint  them 
with  the  pencil  in  a  style  far  beyond 
what  he  could  ever  have  reached 
without  it,  on  account  of  his  deficien- 
cies as  a  late-taught  draughtsman  to 
the  last  imperfectly  skilled  in  the  art; 
so  hath  Audubon's  equally  exquisite 
sense  of  their  beauty  enabled  him  to 
paint  them  with  his  pen  in  a  style 
far  beyond  what  he  could  ever  have 
done  without  it,  on  account  of  his 
want  of  practice  in  writing,  an  art 
which — except  in  his  love-letters  to 
the  excellent  lady  who,  for  twenty 
happy  years  and  upwards,  has  been 
his  wife,  and  which  neither  we  nor 
the  world  have  any  thing  to  do  with, 
— he  had  not  much  cultivated  in  the 
woods.  Finally,  each  in  his  own  pe- 
culiar walk  is  unexcelled — we  think 
unequalled ;  while  both  are  good — 
nay,  we  might  safely  say,  comparing 
them  with  other  Ornithologists,  both 
are  great — in  all  the  other  endow- 
ments and  accomplishments  we  look 
for  in  Ornithologists  of  the  first  order. 

We  have  been  anxious,  at  the 
risk  of  some  prolixity,  to  direct  the 
attention  of  the  public  to  this  mat- 
ter; for  Audubon  has  embarked  his 
very  mortal  being  in  the  magnificent 
work,  entitled,  the  "  Birds  of  Ameri- 
ca." It  is  now  going  on — by  sub- 
scription— and  its  success  will  ena- 
ble him  to  devote  his  whole  life — 
without  mental  anxiety — to  the  pro- 
secution of  science.  An  edition  of 
Wilson  is,  we  understand,  about  to 
be  published  in  London,  with  colour- 
ed plates,  by  a  most  respectable  book- 
seller. We  wish  it  all  good— and  it 


Audubori's'  Ornithological  Biography. 


280 

will  deserve  all  good — for  we  have 
said  not  a  word  in  disparagement  of 
Wilson's  Drawings,  which  are  ad- 
mirable. But  seeing  is  believing  ; 
and  therefore  we  hope,  that  all 
who  take  such  an  interest  in  Orni- 
thology, as  induces  them  to  sub- 
scribe to  or  encourage  such  works, 
will  go  and  judge  for  themselves  of 
the  genius  of  Audubon.  His  original 
drawings  are  all  to  be  seen  at  Mr 
Havell's,  No.  77,  Oxford  Street.  Mr 
Ha  veil,  a  brother,  we  believe,  of  the 
celebrated  landscape-painter,  is  an 
engraver  of  great  merit — and  his  skill 
has  found  noble  employment  in  per- 
petuating the  creations — for  they  are 
all  full  of  imagination — of  the"  Ame- 
rican Woodsman."  We  have  heard 
some  of  our  best  engravers  speak  in 
the  highest  terms  of  the  execution  of 
the  plates  that  have  appeared,  since 
the  work  came  into  the  hands  of  Mr 
Havell.  •  Audubon  at  first  employed 
MrLizars  of  Edinburgh ;  but  that  ad- 
mirable artist  himself  recommended 
his  friend  to  get  the  work  executed 
iu  London,  that  it  might  have  the  ad- 
vantage of  his  own  personal  super- 
intendence during  the  first  years  of 
its  progress.'  It  is  now  beyond  all 
risk  of  failure — but  all  lovers  of  ge- 


[Aug. 


nius  must  earnestly  wish  that  its 
success  may  be  triumphant,  and  re- 
pay its  author  with  comfort  and 
competence,  for  all  the  difficulties 
and  dangers  which  he  has  encoun- 
tered- and  overcome  during  a  life 
devoted  to  one  soul-engrossing  pur- 
suit. 

Audubon,  ere  this  paper  meets  the 
eye  of  the  public,  will  be  in  Paris, 
which  he  visits  before  making  a  voy- 
age and  a  journey  to  the  Pacific- 
May  propitious  winds  fill  the  sails  of 
his  ship — and  pleasant  breezes  play 
round  the  canvass  walls  of  his  tent ! 
For  some  time  past  he  has  been  en- 
gaged in  making  oil-pictures  from 
his  sketches  and  water-colour  draw- 
ings— every  bird  as  large  as  life — 
from  the  Eagle  of  Washington  to  the 
Humming-bird.  A  young  artist  of 
great  talent,  well-known  in  Edin- 
burgh, Kidd,  will  be  occupied  du- 
ring Audubon's  absence  on  such  pic- 
tures ;  and  in  a  very  few  years,  it  is 
expected  that  there  will  be  completed 
by  Audubon,  Kidd,  and  others— Four 
Hundred  Subjects !  Audubon  pur- 
poses opening,  on  his  return,  an  Or- 
nithological Gallery,  of  which  may 
the  proceeds  prove  a  moderate  for- 
tune ! 


Edinburgh  .•  Printed  by  Ballantyne.$  Co.  Part's  Wcrft,' 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CLXXXIV.  AUGUST,  1831.  VOL.  XXX. 

PART  II. 


ON  PARLIAMENTARY  REFORM  AND  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.  No.  VIII.  281 

A  CONVERSATION  ON  THE  REFORM  BILL,  .  .  4  .  296 

ON  THE  APPROACHING  REVOLUTION  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN,  AND  ITS 

PROXIMATE  CONSEQUENCES.  IN  A  LETTER  TO  A  FRIEND,  .  318 
FRIENDLY  ADVICE  TO  THE  HOUSE  OF  LORDS — OBSERVATIONS  ON  A 

PAMPHLET,  &c.    .  .  .  .  .  .  830 

RATIONAL  FEAR,  OR  "  FRIENDLY  ADVICE  TO  THE  LORDS,"  .  .  348 

THE  GREEK  DRAMA.  No.  I.  THE  AGAMEMNON  OF  ^ESCHYLUS,  .  350 

THE  LATE  DEBATES  ON  REFORM,  ,  .  .  .  ',  .  391 

NOCTES  AMBROSIAN^E,  No.  LVII.  .  .  .  .  :'  .  400 


EDINBURGH : 

WILLIAM  BLACKWOOD,  NO.  45,  GEORGE  STREET,  EDINBURGH; 
AND  T.  CADELL,  STRAND,  LONDON. 

To  whom  Communications  (post  paid)  may  be  addressed. 
•OLD  ALSO  BY  ALL  THE  BOOKSELLERS  OF  THE  UNITED  KINGDOM 

PRINTED  BY  BALLANTYNB  AND  CO.  EDINBURGH. 


BLACKWOOD'S 


EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CLXXXIV. 


AUGUST,  1831. 
PART  II. 


VOL.  XXX. 


ON  PARLIAMENTARY  REFORM  AND  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 


No.  VIII. 


EVERY  person  who  has  reflected 
on  the  past  history  of  the  world, 
must  have  felt  that  there  are  certain 
periods,  when  all  the  ordinary  princi- 
ples which  regulate  human  affairs 
seem  to  fail :  when  new  and  unheard 
of  passions  agitate  mankind,  and 
society,  instead  of  flowing  on  with 
the  steady  current  of  ordinary  pros- 
perity, seems  to  glide  with  the  swift 
smoothness  of  the  torrent  ere  it  is 
precipitated  over  the  cataract.  At 
such  periods,  all  the  former  motives 
of  conduct  lose  their  influence ;  the 
prejudices,  the  associations  of  anti- 
quity are  forgotten ;  the  oldest  affec- 
tions give  way  to  new-born  enthu- 
siasm :  national  character  itself  is 
subverted  ;  states  grey  in  years  are 
agitated  by  the  caprice  of  childhood, 
or  the  passions  of  youth, — and  whole 
generations  rush  upon  destruction, 
in  defiance  alike  of  the  lessons  of 
experience,  and  the  dictates  of  wis- 
dom. 

Such  a  period  was  that  commen- 
cing with  Gracchus  in  the  Roman 
Republic,  and  terminating  with  Ca?- 
sar.  Democratic  ambition  then  shook 
the  state;  the  steady  and  prosper- 
ous rule  of  the  senate  was  over- 
thrown ;  jealousy  of  the  nobility 
blinded  the  plebeians  to  all  the  glo- 
ries of  their  guidance ;  popular  vi- 
gour, admirable  as  a  spring,  tore  the 
machine  of  society  to  pieces,  when 
deprived  of  its  regulating  weight;  the 

VOL.  XXX.  NO.  CLXXXIV. 


conquests  of  the  armies  were  arrest- 
ed ;  the  horrors  of  civil  dissension 
succeeded  the  triumphs  of  the  le- 
gions ;  and  Rome  itself,  weary  of 
bloodshed,  and  decimated  by  pro- 
scriptions, sought,  under  the  despot- 
ism of  the  empire,  that  security  which 
could  no  longer  be  found  amidst  the 
storms  of  the  republic.  Not  the  arms 
of  the  barbarians,  not  the  limits  of 
the  world,  stopt  the  majestic  career 
of  Roman  victories;  but  the  jealousy 
of  the  nobility,  and  the  passions  of 
the  people.  It  was  this  which  ter- 
minated the  steady  and  uniform  rule 
of  the  senate,  which  brought  popular 
ambition  at  once  in  contact  with  mi- 
litary power,  and  rendered  even  the 
name  of  liberty  odious,  from  the  re- 
membrance of  the  suffering  with 
which  it  had  been  attended.  When 
Providence  deemed  it  time  to  arrest 
the  course  of  Roman  conquest,  and 
preserve  alive  in  Scythian  wilds  the 
destined  seed  of  European  freedom, 
it  required  no  avenging  angel  to  per- 
form the  task  :  Human  violence  was 
equal  to  its  performance  ;  it  unchain- 
ed the  passions  in  the  Forum,  and 
the  uplifted  arm  of  conquest  was 
stayed. 

Another  period,  equally  memorable 
both  in  the  violence  of  its  passions 
and  the  magnitude  of  its  effects,  is 
that  of  the  Crusades.  All  the  strong- 
est and  most  deeply-rooted  feelings 
of  humanity  were  set  at  nought  du- 
T 


28-2  On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.  [Aug. 


ring  those  memorable  conflicts.  The 
affections  of  youth,  the  interests  of 
manhood,  the  habits  of  age,  were 
alike  subverted ;  the  ambition  of 
centuries  was  forgotten ;  the  feuds 
of  generations  were  healed  ;  the  lion 
lay  down  with  the  kid,  and  the  ser- 
pent with  the  dove }  estates  held 
since  the  subversion  of  the  em- 
pire were  alienated;  the  habits  of 
family,  the  ^attachment  to  home, 
the  ties  of  parents,  the  endearments 
of  children,  were  obliterated ;  and 
millions,  blessed  with  all  the  enjoy- 
ments of  life,  voluntarily  laid  them 
aside  to  seek  an  entrance  to  paradise 
through  the  breach  of  Jerusalem. 
Successive  generations  perished  in 
the  struggle ;  the  bones  of  Europe 
whitened  the  fields  of  Asia;  and,  af- 
ter a  century's  exhaustion,  and  the 
completion  of  the  purposes  intended 
by  providence,  mankind  began  to  re- 
cover from  their  frenzy,  and  the  or- 
dinary motives  of  human  conduct 
resumed  their  sway. 

At  a  still  later  time,  the  commence- 
ment of  the  French  Revolution  was 
distinguished  by  an  equally  unac- 
countable mental  hallucination,  from 
the  throne  to  the  cottage.  For  many 
years  preceding  that  memorable 
event,  the  whole  established  ideas  of 
every  class  of  society  had  been  sub- 
verted. Fashion,  whose  frivolities 
follow  the  temper  of  the  times,  had 
long  indicated  the  change ;  the  light 
baubles  which  glittered  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  stream  were  perpetually 
changing.  Anglomania  ruled  the  ca- 
binet ;  English  fashions  were  uni- 
versal among  the  people.  Disdaining 
all  the  ancient  usages  of  their  coun- 
try, the  French  set  themselves  se- 
riously to  copy  English  folly  in  man- 
ner, and  German  discipline  in  the 
army;  and  while  the  nobility  ruined 
their  fortunes  in  feeble  imitation  of 
English  racing,  the  affections  of  the 
soldiery  were  lost  by  the  severities 
of  Prussian  punishments.  Presently 
sterner  feelings  arose  ; — the  passion 
for  change,  always  more  or  less  allied 
to  revolution,  was  transferred  from 
trifles  to  realities — from  changes  in 
customs  or  amusements,  to  subver- 
sion of  institutions,  and  overthrow  of 
thrones.  By  a  delusion  which,  but 
for  recent  experience,  would  have 
been  deemed  inconceivable,  not  only 
thepeople.butthe  nobility, were  fore- 
most in  the  innovating  passion,  The 


government,  with  the  universal  ap- 
plause of  the  country,  aided  the 
Americans  to  throw  off  the  rule  of 
England,  without  the  remotest  sus- 
picion that  the  example  of  resistance 
might  be  contagious  ;  and  the  young 
nobility  made  the  theatre  of  Versailles  ' 
resound  with  applause,  when  on  the 
stage  were  uttered  praises  of  repub- 
lican equality,  or  execrations  on  the 
rule  of  kings,  without  conceiving  it 
possible  that  their  privileges  could 
be  endangered  by  such  sentiments. 
The  few  sagacious  men  who  foresaw 
the  consequences  of  these  extraordi- 
nary changes  met  with  universal  de- 
rision. The  States-General  were  as- 
sembled amidst  the  unanimous  tran- 
sports of  the  nation ;  the  age  of  gold 
was  universally  expected  from  the 
regeneration  of  mankind;  and  all 
were  astonished  when  in  its  stead 
the  rule  of  iron  commenced. 

But  of  all  the  delusions  which  have 
convulsed  mankind,  that  which  has 
now  seized  the  British  nation  is  the 
most  extraordinary,  and  promises,  in 
its  future  consequences,  to  be  the 
most  important. 

The  future  historian,  when  he  re- 
lates that  a  total  alteration  of  the 
British  Constitution  was  carried  by 
a  majority  of  136  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  will  ask  what  were  the  ex- 
perienced grievances,  the  acknow- 
ledged faults,  the  irremediable  de- 
fects, which  called  for  so  prodigious 
a  change,  and  justified  the  repeal  of 
institutions  which  had  withstood  the 
shock  of  a  thousand  years  ? 

He  will  be  answered,  that  this  con- 
stitution was  admitted,  even  by  its 
adversaries,  to  be  the  most  perfect 
form  of  government  which  had  ever 
appeared  upon  earth  :  that  it  was 
not  the  work  of  theorists,  or  framed 
by  those  who  could  not  foresee  the 
changes  of  society,  but  had  been 
moulded  by  the  hand  of  Time,  ac- 
cording to  the  successive  wants  of 
forgotten  generations;  that  under  its 
provisions  the  interests  of  all  classes 
were  adequately  attended  to,  and 
a  due  provision  made  for  the  exten- 
sion of  freedom,  with  the  crowing 
intelligence  of  the  people;  that  tlio 
spring  of  democratic  ambition  was 
restrained  by  the  weight  of  antiqua- 
ted possession,  and  the  rigour  of 
aristocratic  rule,  tempered  by  the  in- 
fluence of  popular  representation  ; 
that  it  combined  the  stability  of  ai  is- 


1831.]        On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


283 


tocratic,  with  the  occasional  vigour 
of  democratic,  societies ;  that  the  li- 
berties of  the  people  had  been  gra- 
dually extended  with  the  change  of 
Time,  and  were  never  so  consider- 
able as  at  the  moment  of  its  abrupt 
dissolution. 

He  will  ask,  what  were  the  national 
disasters  which  had  produced  this 
dissatisfaction  at  institutions  in  their 
internal  effect  so  admirable;  what 
had  been  the  defects  which  had 
soured  the  temper  of  the  people ; 
what  the  lost  provinces  which  had 
hurt  their  patriotic  pride ;  what  the 
national  humiliation  which  had  made  . 
them  avenge  upon  their  own  govern- 
ment  the  disgrace  of  foreign  adven- 
ture ? 

He  will  be  answered,  that  this  irre- 
vocable act  was  committed  at  the 
moment  of  the  highest  prosperity  of 
Great  Britain ;  at  the  conclusion  of 
its  greatest  war,  and  in  the  very 
zenith  of  its  power  and  glory ;  that 
the  generation  who  destroyed  the 
institutions  under  which  their  fathers 
had  prospered,  was  that  which  had 
shared  in  the  glories  of  Trafalgar 
and  Waterloo ;  that  the  British  navy 
was  then  omnipotent  on  the  ocean, 
and  its  standard  victorious  in  every 
part  of  the  globe ;  that  an  hundred 
millions  of  men  obeyed  its  laws,  and 
it  outnumbered  the  Czar  of  Russia, 
as  much  in  the  number  of  its  sub- 
jects, as  it  exceeded  the  Roman  Em- 
pire in  the  extent  of  its  dominions ; 
that  the  sun  never  set  on  its  domains, 
for  before  his  declining  rays  had 
ceased  to  illuminate  the  towers  of 
Quebec,  his  rising  beams  glittered  on 
the  domes  of  Calcutta. 

He  will  enquire  what  were  the 
domestic  grievances  which  had  ren- 
dered men  insensible  to  this  weight 
of  national  glory ;  what  the  practical 
evils  which  defeated  the  purposes  of 
the  social  union,  and  rendered  an 
overthrow  of  ancient  institutions  de- 
sirable at  any  hazard  ? 

He  will  be  answered,  the  last  days 
of  the  British  Constitution  were  the 
most  beneficial  in  the  Legislature,  and 
the  most  prosperous  in  the  country ; 
that  fifteen  years  of  peace  had  healed 
the  wounds  of  war,  and  augmented, 
to  an  unprecedented  degree,  the  rich- 
es of  the  country ;  that  its  citizens 
numbered  all  the  Sovereigns  of  Eu- 
rope among  their  debtors,  and  enter- 
prise over  all  the,  world  was  sus* 


tained  by  its  capital ;  that  while  all 
the  other  Sovereigns  of  Europe  had 
augmented  their  revenues  since  the 
peace  of  Paris,  the  British  Govern- 
ment had  taken  twenty  millions 
from  the  burden  of  its  subjects ; 
that  its  manufacturers  clothed  the 
world  with  their  fabrics,  and  its  com- 
merce whitened  the  ocean  with  their 
sails ;  that  the  exports  of  the  country 
had  never  been  so  great,  and  its  re- 
venue never  so  flourishing  ;  that 
under  all  the  difficulties  arising  from 
a  contest  of  unexampled  magnitude, 
a  sensible  reduction  had  been  made, 
since  the  peace,  in  the  amount  of  the 
public  debt ;  that  its  agriculture, 
Keeping  pace  with  the  wants  of  a 
rapidly-increasing  population,  had 
more  than  doubled  its  produce  iri 
half  a  century;  that  its  poor  were 
prosperous,  even  in  spite  of  the  in- 
flux of  innumerable  settlers,  spring- 
ing from  the  barbarism  of  the  Sister 
Island  ;  and  that  the  paupers  of  Eng- 
land, maintained  by  a  law  of  Christian 
charity,  were  in  better  condition  than, 
the  peasantry  of  most  of  other  coun- 
tries. 

He  will  ask,  what  was  the  previ- 
ous character  of  the  people  who,  in 
such  circumstances,  and  at  such  a 
time,  hazarded  all  the  blessings  of 
their  situation  inquest  of  chimerical 
improvements  ;  what  extraordinary 
vacillation,  or  love  of  change,  made 
them  incur  so  desperate  a  hazard; 
and  what  example  of  beneficial 
change, had  occurred  in  their  previ- 
ous history  to  justify  so  gratuitous 
and  uncalled  for  an  alteration  ? 

He  will  be  answered,  that  the  peo- 
ple who,  with  their  eyes  open,  and 
when  fully  warned  of  the  consequen- 
ces, took  this  extraordinary  step, 
was  the  nation  in  the  world  who  had 
been  most  distinguished  by  their  he- 
reditary attachment  to  old  institu- 
tions ;  who  had  founded  their  policy 
for  eight  hundred  years,  upon  the 
massive  "  Nolumus  leges  Anglice 
mutare  ;"  who  had  handed  down 
the  constitution,  inviolate  from  the 
Saxon  Heptarchy ;  preserved  it  alike 
amidst  Plantagenet  violence,  Tudor 
severity,and  Stuart  despotism;  saved 
it  during  the  madness  of  civil  dissen- 
sion in  the  Wars  of  the  Roses,  and 
the  fury  of  religious  animosity  in  the 
days  of  the  Covenant;  who  had  kept 
alive  the  sacred  fire,  equally  amidst 
the  extremities  of  Danish  invasion,  the 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.         [Aug. 


284 

insolence  of  Norman  conquest,  and 
the  usurpation  of  republican  frenzy; 
who  had  tempered  the  triumph  of 
Re  volution  by  the  steadfast  adherence 
to  ancient  custom,  and,  while  they 
expelled  a  dynasty  from  the  throne, 
maintained  inviolate  the  structure  of 
the  government. 

He  will  ask,  what  were  the  fortu- 
nate and  bewitching  examples  of  in- 
novation, which  had  made  the  Eng- 
lish people  forget  all  these  advanta- 
ges, and  abandon  all  these  principles ; 
which  induced  them  to  surrender 
their  high  place  as  the  leaders  of  ci- 
vilisation, to  follow  in  the  wake  of 
foreign  revolution  ;  and  converted 
the  pride  of  British  freedom  into  the 
slavish  imitation  of  French  democra- 
cy ?  . 

He  will  be  answered,  that  these 
fundamental  changes  in  the  consti- 
tution, took  place  at  the  very  time 
that  revolution  had  exhibited  its 
most  terrific  features,  and  the  perils 
of  innovation  had  been  most  con- 
vincingly demonstrated ;  during  the 
lifetime  of  many  who  had  seen  the 
church,  the  nobility,  and  the  throne 
of  France  perish  in  the  whirlwind 
excited  by  their  precipitate  reforms  ; 
among  the  sons  of  the  generation 
who  had  witnessed  the  prostration  of 
thirty  millions  of  men  under  the  guil- 
lotine of  the  Convention — who  had 
beheld  that  great  country  incessantly 
agitated  since  the  commencement  of 
her  revolution,  torn  by  years  of 
anarchy,  trembling  under  the  reign 
of  blood,  and  crushed  under  the  car 
of  "Napoleon — who  had  mourned  the 
failure  of  every  endeavour  to  frame 
theoretical  constitutions  in  so  many 
other  states — seen  Spain,  Portugal, 
Piedmont,  Naples,  and  South  Ame- 
rica, convulsed  by  the  vain  attempt 
to  establish  free  governments,  and 
relapsing  into  closer  bondage  from 
the  defeat  of  their  efforts.  He  will 
be  answered,  that  the  British  revo- 
lution took  place  at  the  moment 
when  France  was  suffering  under 
the  destruction  of  her  recently  esta- 
blished institutions — when  the  anar- 
chy of  Belgium  was  withering  the 
prosperity  of  her  beautiful  provinces 
— and  the  British  manufacturers  thri- 
ving on  the  ruin  of  their  democratic 
neighbours ;  that  it  was  this  very  ex- 
ample which  overthrew  the  venera- 
ble fabric  of  the  English  constitution, 
and  that  the  English  people  relin- 


quished their  ancient  post  in  the 
van  of  civilisation,  and  followed  in 
the  rear  of  France,  because  they  saw 
that,  after  forty  years'  experience, 
the  people  of  that  country  were  ina- 
dequate to  the  formation  of  a  stable 
government. 

He  will  ask,  whether  this  perilous 
change  was,  adopted  in  consequence 
of  an  universal  delusion havingseized 
the  people  ;  whether,  as  in  France, 
the  rage  for  innovation  had  destroyed 
the  strongest  intellects ;  whether  the 
nobility  fled  on  the  appearance  of 
danger,  or  a  slavish  press  precluded 
the  possibility  of  truth  being  made 
public  ? 

He  will  be  answered,  that  such 
was  not  the  character  of  England ; 
that  Talent  put  forth  its  energies  in 
the  cause  of  freedom,  aud  Property 
remained  tranquil  in  the  midst  of 
alarm,  and  Honour  was  to  be  found 
at  the  post  of  danger ;  that,  at  the 
prospect  of  peril  to  the  constitution, 
all  the  best  feelings  of  our  nature 
were  revived  in  a  large  and  gifted 
body;  that  genius,  long  a  stranger 
to  the  conservative  party,  instantly 
joined  their  ranks,  and  united  with 
learning  in  resistance  to  revolution; 
that  names  destined  for  immortality 
threw  their  shield  over  the  state, 
and  philosophy  vindicated  its  noble 
destiny,  and  history  illuminated  pre- 
sent danger ;  that  a  House  of  Com- 
mons was  dissolved  because  it  refu- 
sed to  sacrifice  the  constitution,  and 
passion  appealed  to  in  default  of 
reason ;  that  the  question  was  dis- 
cussed for  half  a  year,  and  all  the 
consequences  of  the  innovation  fully 
explained;  that  the  generosity  of 
youth  joined  the  perilous  side,  and 
the  flower  of  England,  at  both  uni- 
versities, gave  to  patriotism  what 
they  had  refused  to  power ;  that  the 
talent  arrayed  in  defence  of  the  con- 
stitution overshadowed  its  adversa- 
ries, and  numbered  among  its  ranks 
the  hero  who  had  conquered  Napo- 
leon by  his  arms,  and  the  genius 
which  had  captivated  the  world  by 
its  fancy. 

When  all  these  things  are  consi- 
dered, and  the  result  is  proved  to 
have  been,  that  the  awful  changes 
were  adopted  by  an  immense  majority 
both  in  the  Commons  and  the  nation, 
it  will  afford  matter  for  the  most 
profound  meditation,  and  probably 
open  up  new  views  as  to  the  destiny 


1831.]        On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


of  Europe  and  the  government  of 
the  world. 

The  moralist  who  attends  to  the 
influence  of  excessive  prosperity 
upon  the  individual  character ;  who 
has  observed  how  it  corrupts  a  once 
noble  nature,  generates  guilty  pas- 
sions, and  induces  deserved  misfor- 
tune, will  perhaps  be  inclined  to 
consider  this  very  prosperity  as  the 
cause  of  the  disasters  which  follow- 
ed. He  willobserve,  that  long  conti- 
nued success  renders  nations,  as  well 
as  individuals,  blind  to  the  causes 
from  which  it  has  flowed ;  that  the 
advantages  of  present  situation  are 
forgotten  in  the  blessings  by  Avhich 
it  has  been  attended,  and  the  mise- 
ries of  change  unknown  to  those  who 
have  never  experienced  them.  As 
the  individual,  ruined  by  excess  of 
enjoyment,  is  allowed  to  taste  the 
bitterness  of  adversity,  and  learn,  in 
the  wretchedness  of  want,  the  mag- 
nitude of  the  blessings  which  he  has 
thrown  away;  so  nations,  corrupted 
by  a  long  tide  of  prosperity,  are  al- 
lowed to  plunge  into  centuries  of 
suffering,  and  regain,  amidst  the 
hardships  of  a  distracted,  that  wis- 
dom which  they  had  lost  under  the 
blessings  of  a  beneficent  govern- 
ment. 

The  religious  observer,  who  is  im- 
pressed with  the  reality  of  the  mo- 
ral government  of  the  world ;  who 
recollects  how  this  island  has  been 
preserved,  like  the  ark  of  old,  amidst 
the  floods  of  revolution — what  an  ex- 
traordinary combination  of  circum- 
stances was  required  for  its  deliver- 
ance, and  how  little  would  have  bu- 
ried it  for  ever  in  the  waves ;  who 
remembers  the  fate  of  the  apostate 
Julian,  and  compares  it  with  the 
recent  catastrophe  of  Napoleon;  who 
has  seen  all  these  blessings  forgot- 
ten— all  the  principles  which  led  to 
them  abandoned — all  gratitude  for 
them  extinguished ;  who  has  wit- 
nessed the  spread  of  revolutionary 
ambition  among  so  many  millions 
of  our  people,  and  sighed  over  the 
march  of  infidel  fanaticism ;  who 
reflects  on  the  corruption  of  the 
higher,  and  the  profligacy  of  the 
lower  orders ;  who  has  seen  British 
enthusiasm  applaud  the  convulsion 
which  tore  down  the  cross  from 
every  steeple  in  Paris,  and  effaced 
the  image  of  our  Saviour  from  all 
its  churches;  who  beholds  all  that 


285 

is  sacred  or  venerable  in  our  insti- 
tutions assailed  by  an  infuriated 
multitude,  and  the  bulk  of  the  nation 
calmly  awaiting  the  work  of  destruc- 
tion ;  who  recollects  that  we  have 
conquered  in  the  sign  of  the  cross, 
and  perceives  how  any  allusion  to  re- 
ligion is  now  received  in  the  Legis- 
lature— will  probably  conclude  that 
Heaven  has  withdrawn  its  protec- 
tion from  those  who  were  unworthy 
of  it,  and  that,  in  return  for  such  sig- 
nal ingratitude,  and  marked  derelic- 
tion of  duty,  we  are  delivered  over 
to  the  fury  of  our  own  passions. 

The  historian,  who  has  reflected 
on  the  rise,  progress,  and  decay  of 
nations — who  has  observed  how  in- 
variably a  limit  is  put  to  the  exten- 
sion of  empires,  when  the  destined 
purposes  of  their  existence  have 
been  fulfilled — who  recollects,  that 
it  is  the  progressive  which  is  the 
.comfortable,  and  the  stationary  which 
is  the  melancholy,  condition  of  man- 
kind— who  surveys  the  magnitude  of 
our  empire,  embracing  every  quar- 
ter of  the  globe,  and  the  density  of 
our  population,  unable  to  find  a  vent 
even  in  those  immense  possessions 
— who  looks  back  on  the  long  line 
of  British  greatness,  and  considers 
what  our  people  have  done  for  the 
advancement  of  knowledge,  the  ex- 
tension of  civilisation,  and  the  in- 
crease of  happiness,  will  perhaps 
arrive  at  the  melancholy  conclusion, 
that  that  line  of  splendour  is  about 
to  terminate,  that  the  sun  which  has 
for  so  many  ages  illuminated  the 
world  is  sinking  in  the  west,  and 
that  a  long  night  of  suffering  must 
precede  the  aurora  of  another  hemi- 
sphere. 

It  is  the  strength  of  the  arguments 
which  have  been  so  often  adduced, 
and  are  so  utterly  disregarded  by  the 
majority  of  the  people,  which  con- 
firms us  in  these  melancholy  presages. 
If  the  matter  were  at  all  doubtful — if, 
as  on  the  Catholic  question,  import- 
ant arguments  could  be  urged  on 
both  sides,  and  facts  in  history  ap- 
pealed to  in  confirmation  of  either 
view,  there  could  be  no  reason  to 
despair  of  the  commonwealth,  be- 
cause the  opposite  side  to  that  which 
we  had  espoused  proved  successful. 
But  when  the  overwhelming  strength 
of  the  arguments  on  one  side,  is  con- 
trasted with  the  overwhelming  mass 
of  proselytes  on  the  other — when. 


286  On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution, 


recent  equally  with  ancient  expe- 
rience warn  us  of  our  fate — when 
the  slightest  acquaintance  with  his- 
tory, as  well  as  the  smallest  obser- 
vation of  the  present  times,  lead  to 
the  same  conclusion — when  thought, 
and  talent,  and  information,  have 
been  so  strenuously  exerted  in  the 
cause  of  order,  and  yet  all  is  una- 
vailing, the  conclusion  is  unavoida- 
ble, that  we  have  arrived  at  one  of 
those  eras  in  human  affairs,  when 
an  universal  passion  seizes  mankind, 
and,  for  purposes  at  the  time  inscru- 
table to  human  wisdom,  reason  ge- 
nerally gives  way  to  frenzy. 

Without  going  beyond  the  limits  of 
this  Miscellany,  or  the  able  articles  in 
the  Quarterly  Review,  we  venture  to 
assert,  that  considerations  will  be 
found  against  Reform,  utterly  deci- 
sive in  the  eyes  of  reason,  and  which 
it  will  be  a  never-failing  source  of 
astonishment  with  posterity,  did  not, 
at  the  time,  command  universal  as- 
sent. We  are  perfectly  certain  that 
all  dispassionate  enquirers  who  are 
familiar  with  history,  (for  the  opi- 
nion of  none  else  is  worth  attending 
to,)  will,  after  a  few  years  are  over, 
coincide  in  this  conclusion.  These 
considerations  have  produced  their 
full  effect  on  the  thinking  few.  But 
who  is  to  influence  the  unthinking 
many  ?  In  vain  would  every  man  in 
England,  capable  of  judging  on  such 
a  question,  coincide  in  opposing  Re- 
form, if  the  headstrong  multitude  in 
whom  political  power  is  vested,  have 
been  stimulated  to  insist  for  its  ac- 
quisition. 

The  three  circumstances  which 
render  the  present  Reform  utterly 
fatal  to  every  interest  of  society,  and 
totally  inconsistent  with  the  durabi- 
lity of  the  empire,  are  its  being 
based  on  an  uniform  system  of  re- 
presentation, the  overwhelming  pre- 
ponderance which  it  gives  to  mem- 
bers over  property,  and  the  total 
absence  of  any  means  of  representa- 
tion to  our  colonial  possessions — all 
these  points  have  been  repeatedly 
illustrated.  But  as  long  as  there  is 
life  there  is  hope,  and  while  there  is 
a  chance,  by  any  means,  of  averting 
the  catastrophe,  nothing  shall  be  left 
undone  on  our  parts  which  can  pre- 
vent it. 

Uniformity  of  representation,  beau- 
tiful in  theory,  is  the  fatal  rock  on 
which  all  theoretical  constitutions 


[Aug. 

have  hitherto  split ;  and,  to  the  end 
of  time,  must  render  them  unfit  for 
the  government  of  mankind.  The 
French  established  one  uniform  sys- 
tem of  representation  in  1790,  by 
which  every  man  worth  three  days'  la- 
bour had  a  vote.  It  was  speedily  mer- 
ged in  the  reign  of  terror.  Taught 
by  this  dear-bought  experiment,  they 
established,  on  the  fall  of  Robes- 
pierre, a  representative  system 
founded  on  a  much  higher  qualifica- 
tion, and  guarded  by  the  protection 
of  a  double  set  of  electors.  It  was 
terminated  in  five  years  by  the  sword 
of  Napoleon.  The  constitution  of 
Louis  XVIII.  conferred  the  right  of 
voting  upon  all  persons  paying  300 
francs  a-year  of  direct  taxes ;  and 
the  public  discontents  under  it  went 
on  accumulating,  till,  to  resist  imme- 
diate destruction,  Charles  X.  was 
driven  to  the  hazardous  expedient  of 
abolishing  the  right  of  representa- 
tion in  one  half  of  the  electors — an 
act  of  violence  which  immediately 
led  to  his  overthrow.  All  the  other 
nations  who  have  attempted  the  for- 
mation of  constitutions,  have  done 
the  same,  and  all  these  constitutions 
are  already  extinct. 

Such  similarity  of  effects  cannot 
be  ascribed  to  chance.  It  springs  ne- 
cessarily from  the  fatal  principle  of 
uniformity  in  representation,  because 
that  uniformity  necessarily  excludes 
a  great  proportion  of  the  nation  from 
the  legislature.  The  electors,  com- 
posed, or  what  is  the  same  thing,  for 
the  most  part  composed  of  a  certain 
class  in  society,  cannot  sympathize 
with  other  bodies ;  they  are  careless 
as  to  their  complaints,  indifferent  to 
their  welfare,  swayed  probably  by  an 
adverse  interest;  and  the  inevitable 
consequence  is,that  the  ejected  classes 
become  discontented,  and  public  dis- 
satisfaction goes  on  accumulating,  till 
it  terminates  in  a  convulsion. 

Nothing  but  the  great  inequality 
in  the  representation,  has  so  long 
preserved  the  British  constitution 
from  this  catastrophe.  It  is  of  no  im- 
portance in  whom  the  right  of  vo- 
ting is  vested;  if  it  is  placed  in  any 
one  class  exclusively,  the  constitu- 
tion must  be  of  an  ephemeral  dura- 
tion. Had  it  been  exclusively  vest- 
ed in  the  peers,  or  the  greater  land- 
holders, the  increasing  discontents, 
and  expanding  ambition  of  the  mid- 
dling orders,  must  long  ago  have  over- 


1831.]        On,  Parliamentary  Reform  and  tlie  French  Revolution. 


turned  the  government.  Had  it  been 
vested  in  the  forty-shilling  freehold- 
ers, their  indifference  to  the  wants  of 
the  manufacturing  and  commercial 
classes  would  have  led  to  a  similar 
result.     Had  it  been  confined  to  the 
nomination  boroughs,   British  free- 
dom would  have  been  crushed  in 
the  grasp  of  the  aristocracy ;  had  it 
been   everywhere  extended  to    the 
potwallopers,  it  would  have    been 
torn  in  pieces  by  the  madness  of  the 
democracy.    It  is  the  combination  of 
all  these  powers  in  the  formation  of 
the  representation,  which  has  so  long 
preserved  entire  the  fabric   of  the 
constitution,  because  it  has  given  to 
each  interest  a  direct  and  immediate 
access    to   the   legislature,  without 
being  indebted  for  it  to  the  tolerance 
or  indulgence  of  the  other  classes. 
The  nobility  place  their  younger  sons 
in  the  House  by  means  of  the  nomi- 
nation boroughs,  and  rest  in  peace, 
satisfied  that  they  will  be  at  their 
posts  to  defend  the  interests  of  the 
higher  classes  of  society.    The  mer- 
chants sway  the  votes  of  the  smaller 
boroughs  in  which  they  possess  an 
ascendency,  and  find  their  way  into 
Parliament  through  the  influence  of 
commercial  wealth.     Colonial  opu- 
lence purchases  its  share  of  the  no- 
mination boroughs  ;  and,  entering  at 
the  gate  of  corruption,  defends  the 
interests  of  millions  of  our  distant 
subjects.     The  agricultural  class  re- 
turn the  county  members,  and  the 
radicals,    triumphant  in    the   great 
towns,  are  satisfied  with  their  vic- 
tory, and  return  an  adequate  share 
of  the  whole  representation.     No- 
thing but  this  unequal,  heterogene- 
ous, and  varied  representation,  could 
so  long  have  held  together  the  va- 
ried and  conflicting  interests  of  the 
British  empire. 

No  human  wisdom  could  have 
framed  such  a  system.  Its  utility 
could  not  have  been  anticipated,  a 
priori.  Its  irregularity  would  have 
displeased  a  theoretical  statesman. 
It  is  just  for  this  reason  that  it  has 
been  so  durable,  because  it  was 
not  formed  on  abstract  principle, 
but  on  practical  experience ;  be- 
cause each  class  which  required  a 
share  in  the  representation,  has,  in 
the  lapse  of  time,  discovered  an  in- 
let which  conferred  it;  and  the  fabric, 
moulded  into  the  requisite  form  by 
the  wants  of  successive  generations, 


287 

has  afforded  shelter  and  accommo- 
dation to  its  numerous  and  varied 
inmates. 

It  is  evident,  however,  that,  under 
such  a  system,  one  class  might  be- 
come preponderating ;  the  aristo- 
cracy might  have  usurped  the  share 
of  the  people,  or  the  people  might 
have  overthrown  the  necessary  au- 
thority of  the  aristocracy.  It  is  the 
complaint  of  the  reformers  that  this 
last  has  been  the  case ;  that  a  majo- 
rity of  the  House  is  returned  by  the 
nominees  of  individuals  whose  inte- 
rest is  adverse  to  that  of  the  rest  of 
the  empire.  Let  us  consider  whe- 
ther this  is  the  case. 

The  proof  of  the  aristocracy  being 
too  powerful  in  the  legislature,  is  of 
course  to  be  found  in  the  measures 
it  adopts,  and  the  tendency  of  the 
elections  which  create  it.  If  the 
House  of  Commons  has  of  late  years 
been  inclined  to  abridge  the  liberty 
of  the  subject,  increase  the  privileges 
of  the  aristocracy,  crush  the  freedom 
of  the  press,  then  it  is  manifest  that 
the  aristocratic  class  has  become  too 
powerful  in  the  legislature.  If  the 
result  of  elections  has  been  to  in- 
crease this  tendency;  if  with  every 
successive  Parliament  a  fresh  addi- 
tion is  made  to  the  already  over- 
whelming influence  of  the  great  fa- 
milies; then  it  is  plain,  that  the 
system  of  representation  does  not 
afford  an  adequate  check  against  the 
danger,  and  that  a  change  in  the 
mode  of  election,  in  other  words,  a 
Parliamentary  Reform,  is  necessary, 

But  if  the  reverse  of  all  this  has 
been  the  case ;  if  the  influence  of 
of  the  aristocracy  has  been  sensibly 
and  evidently  declining :  if  the  mea- 
sures of  Parliament  are  daily  be- 
coming more  favourable  to  public 
freedom,  and  the  remnants  of  an- 
cient severity  are  fast  wearing  out 
of  our  statute-book,  then  it  is  evi- 
dent that  no  change  in  the  composi- 
tion of  the  House  of  Commons  is 
requisite.  If  each  successive  elec- 
tion adds  to  the  strength  of  the  po- 
pular party  in  the  legislature — if 
multitudes  of  boroughs  are  throwing 
off  the  yoke  of  authority  and  return- 
ing democratic  candidates,  instead 
of  those  who  heretofore  commanded 
their  suffrages ;  then  it  is  plain  that 
the  system  of  representation  stands 
in  need  of  no  amendment,  at  least 
on  the  popular  side ;  and  that  under 


288          On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


.[Aug. 


the  subsisting  inlets  to  democratic 
ambition,  a  sufficient  number  of 
members  in  that  interest  find  an  en- 
trance. 

That  the  last  of  these  alternatives 
is  the  fact,  is  matter  of  proverbial 
notoriety.  The  reformers  were 
themselves  the  first  to  proclaim  it, 
when  they  announced,  with  such  sa- 
tisfaction, the  unprecedented  num- 
ber of  boroughs  which  were  thrown 
open,  in  other  words,  gained  over  to 
the  democratic  influence,  at  the 
election  which  preceded  the  fall  of 
the  Wellington  administration.  The 
last  election  has  demonstrated  its 
truth  beyond  the  possibility  of  dis- 
pute ;  because  the  democratic  in- 
fluence has  become  so  overwhelm- 
ing, that  the  conservative  party  has 
been  reduced  at  one  blow,  from  300 
to  230  members,  and  a  majority  of 
136  have  voted  the  adoption  of  a 
new  and  highly  democratic  consti- 
tution. 

After  this  result  without  reform, 
what  becomes  of  the  argument,  that 
a  change  in  the  representation  has 
become  necessary  to  enable  the 
people  to  keep  their  ground  against 
the  increasing  preponderance  of  the 
aristocracy  ?  It  is  apparent  that  the 
argument  is  at  an  end ;  that  the  dan- 
ger is  now  to  be  apprehended  from 
the  other  quarter ;  that  the  risk  now 
is,  that  the  constitution  is  to  be  torn 
in  pieces  by  the  democracy;  and 
that  the  wisdom  of  real  statesmen 
should  be  incessantly  directed  to 
protecting  the  bulwarks  which  face 
the  people.  And  yet  this  is  the  ar- 
gument and  this  the  time  which  is 
chosen  for  their  demolition ! 

Were  the  standard  of  qualification 
for  the  new  electors  altogether  un- 
exceptionable, still  it  would  be  a 
sufficient  and  fatal  objection  to  its 
adoption,  that  it  is  based  on  an  uni- 
form system,  and  vests  political 
power  exclusively  in  one  class  of 
society.  If  the  right  of  election  were 
confined  to  the  owners  of  houses  of 
L.50  or  L.I 00  a-year,  this  objection 
would  be  equally  strong:  the  im- 
mense body  of  the  other  classes 
would  be  totally  unrepresented,  and 
of  course  discontented.  Mr  Hunt 
has  already  pointed  this  out:  he 
.  says  he  has  heard  on  the  one  side  of 
the  House,  eloquent  speeches  in  fa- 


vour of  the  L.10  voters,  and  on  the 
other,  in  support  of  the  borough- 
mongers;  but  nothing  in  favour  of 
the  working  classes,  in  other  words, 
of  twenty  millions  of  the  people. 
The  effect  is  already  becoming  ap- 
parent; political  power  is  to  be 
vested  exclusively  in  the  class  of 
small  shopkeepers,  and  owners  of 
lodging-houses ;  the  immense  Jnte- 
rests  now  represented  by  the  anti- 
reformers,  and  the  vast  multitudes 
now  represented  by  the  potwallop- 
ers,  are  alike  threatened  with  dis- 
franchisement.  And  yet  with  a  sys- 
tem so  clearly  leading  to  such  re- 
sults, we  are  seriously  told  that  the 
question  will  be  for  ever  "  settled," 
and  all  farther  contention  for  politi- 
cal power,  extinguished  by  the  total 
exclusion  of  members  on  the  one 
hand,  and  property  on  the  other, 
from  any  share  in  the  representa- 
tion! 

Foreigners  frequently  have  said 
that  the  great  difference  between 
their  free  constitutions  and  that  of 
England  is,  that  "  minorities  with 
them  are  not  represented,  and  that 
the  grievances  and  complaints  of  the 
bulk  of  the  nation  never  are  heard 
in  the  legislature."  The  observation 
is  perfectly  well-founded,  and  places 
in  a  striking  point  of  view,  the  prac- 
tical effect  of  that  uniformity  in  re- 
presentation, so  specious  in  theory, 
and  so  ruinous  in  practice.  The 
French  constitutional  monarchy  fell 
a  victim  to  its  adoption :  the  na- 
tional discontent,  long  deprived  of  a 
free  vent  in  the  legislature,  at  length 
brought  about  the  Revolution.  And 
yet  with  this  result  before  our  eyes, 
it  is  this  ruinous  system  which  we 
are  about  to  copy,  and  the  ancient 
safety-valves  of  the  constitution  to 
close  for  ever ! 

But  there  is  too  much  reason  to 
fear,  that  the  effects  now  contem- 
plated will  not  follow  the  Reform 
Bill ;  that  in  spite  of  all  the  efforts 
of  the  aristocratic  party  of  the 
Whigs,  numbers  will  become  trium- 
phant over  property,  and  the  ancient 
institutions  of  the  country  swept 
away  in  the  flood  of  democracy. 

We  have  already  stated,  on  the 
authority  of  Sir  James  Mackintosh, 
in  a  former  number  of  this  series,* 
that  the  value  of  a  forty  shilling  free- 


rarliiiwcntary  Reform,  No.  7. 


1831.]          On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.  289 


hold,  when  that  standard  was  estab- 
lished in  the  time  of  Henry  VI.,  was, 
taking  the  value  of  money,  and  the 
mode  of  living,  jointly  into  account, 
about  L.70  a-year  of  our  present 
money.  If,  therefore,  we  were  to 
revert  to  the  original  class  of  voters, 
it  should  be  confined  to  the  owners 
of  property  of  the  value  of  L.70 
a-year.  Whereas  by  the  new  bill,  it 
is  to  be  extended  to  the  L.  10  tenants 
in  every  borough  in  the  kingdom. 

The  members  returned  by  bo- 
roughs are  to  be  somewhat  above 
300  in  the  reformed  Parliament; 
those  returned  by  counties  about 
150.  In  other  words,  two-thirds  of 
the  House  of  Commons  is  to  be  re- 
turned by  L.10  tenants. 

We  stated  in  a  former  Number,* 
that  this  class  would  prove  incom- 
parably more  numerous  than  go- 
vernment, proceeding  on  the  returns 
of  the  tax-office,  was  aware  of ;  and 
that  in  Scotland,  instead  of  their 
amounting  to  35,000  as  held  forth, 
they  would  be  found  to  exceed 
100,000. 

A  very  slight  degree  of  enquiry 
has  now  demonstrated  the  correct- 
ness of  our  statements.  Lord  John 
Russell,  in  bringing  the  bill  into  the 
new  Parliament,  has  stated  that  the 
tax-office  returns  had  proved  per- 
fectly fallacious  on  this  head,  and 
that  in  six  boroughs  into  which  en- 
quiry had  been  made,  the  number 
of  L.10  houses  had  been  found  to 
be  from  three  to  fifteen  times  as  great 
as  the  tax-office  had  indicated. 

There  is  in  the  outset  a  very  great 
danger  in  the  sudden  extension  of  po- 
litical power  to  so  prodigious  a  class  as 
this  numerous  body  of  householders 
in  the  boroughs  of  the  empire.  The 
constitution  hitherto,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  potwalloping  boroughs, 
which  were  comparatively  few  in 
number,  has  made  the  freehold  qua- 
lification depend  upon  the  posses- 
sion of  property — ot  property  to  the 
amount  of  L.70  a-year  in  the  time  of 
Henry  VI.,  which  has  gradually  de- 
clined with  the  change  in  the  value 
of  money  to  its  present  inconsider- 
able amount.  It  is  the  continual  de- 
clining of  this  standard  from  the 
change  in  the  value  of  money,  which 
has  made  the  democracy  gradually 
become  so  powerful  in  Parliament, 
by  bringing  up  constantly  enlarged 


numbers,  and  diminished  property 
to  the  poll.  This  change  was  not 
perceived  during  the  war,  because 
the  interest  of  the  people  was  for- 
cibly turned  from  the  whirl  of  events 
in  another  direction ;  but  it  has  be- 
come more  and  more  conspicuous 
at  every  election  since  the  peace, 
and  is  now  so  important  an  element 
in  the  constitution,  as  to  form  a  com- 
plete and  sufficient  counterpoise  to 
the  power  of  the  aristocracy. 

But  the  sudden  extension  of  the 
rights  of  voting  to  L.10  householders 
all  over  the  empire,  is  so  prodigious 
a  change,  that  its  effects  are  incal- 
culable. For  the  first  time  since  the 
foundation  of  the  monarchy,  it  places 
political  power  in  the  hands  ot  num- 
bers, and  severs  it  from  property. 
There  are  to  be  156,000  voters  for 
the  sixteen  members  returned  for 
London  and  the  contiguous  suburbs : 
of  these  at  least  100,000  will  be  men 
of  no  property.  What  security  is 
there  for  property,  institutions,  pub- 
lic policy,  or  private  rights,  under 
such  a  system  ?  The  other  great 
towns  will  be  swayed  by  multitudes 
in  the  same  manner.  Manchester 
and  Birmingham  will  each  of  them 
have  10,000  votes.  Edinburgh  and 
Glasgow  at  least  as  many.  It  is  easy 
to  anticipate  what  species  of  mem- 
bers they  will  return  ;  we  have  only 
to  look  at  the  members  returned  for 
Southwark  and  Westminster,  Mid- 
dlesex and  Liverpool. 

It  is  quite  evident  that  the  county 
members  returned  by  the  forty  shil- 
ling freeholders,  have  of  late  years 
been  constantly  becoming  more  and 
more  inclined  to  the  popular  side. 
This  is  the  constant  boast  of  the  re- 
formers. Two-thirds  of  them  voted 
for  the  expulsion  of  the  Duke  of 
Wellington's  administration — a  still 
greater  number  for  the  Reform  Bill 
in  the  late  Parliament — and  nearly 
all  of  them  have  now  been  returned 
in  the  democratic  interest.  This  de- 
monstrates the  practical  working  of 
the  forty  shilling  freeholders  in  the 
time  of  peace,  even  among  the  rural 
tenantry,  and  the  freeholders  of  small 
towns,  the  very  class  over  whom  it 
is  generally  supposed  the  influence 
of  property  is  most  predominant 

How,  then,  is  it  possible  to  expect 
that  the  L.10  tenants  are  to  be  influ- 
enced ?  If  all  the  weight  of  property, 


Parliamentary  Reform,  No.  6. 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.        [Aug« 


290 

exerted  to  the  utmost,  is  thrown 
overboard  by  the  holders  of  freehold 
property,  how  is  it  to  influence  the 
tenantry,  who  have  none  ?  If,  when 
the  aristocracy  strained  every  nerve, 
and  expended  their  wealth  with  pro- 
digal liberality,  they  were  so  gene- 
rally defeated,  even  among  the  hold- 
ers of  property,  what  hope  is  there 
that  it  can  retain  any  ascendency 
over  those  who  have  none  ?  It  is 
quite  evident  from  recent,  equally 
with  former  experience,' that  they  will 
be  lost  in  the  flood  of  democracy,  and 
that,  like  the  nobles  and  clergy  in 
the  French  constituent  asssembly, 
their  cries  will  be  drowned  in  the 
shouts  of  victorious  multitudes. 

We  know  that  the  supporters  of 
the  Reform  Bill  among  the  higher 
ranks  of  the  Whigs,  make  no  secret 
of  their  belief  that  it  will  prove 
"highly aristocratic."  We haveheard 
of  more  than  one  cabinet  minister, 
loud  in  public  in  support  of  popular 
principles,  who,  in  the  guarded  circle 
of  the  exclusives,  declares  his  belief 
that  it  will  essentially  strengthen  the 
hands  of  the  landed  interest.  Lord 
Grey  has  openly  declared  in  the 
House  of  Peers,  that  it  was  con- 
structed on  conservative  principles ; 
and  it  is  impossible  to  conceive  that 
men  of  their  station  in  society,  and 
stake  in  the  country,  should  have  in- 
tentionally proceeded  on  any  other 
principle.  But  on  what  grounds  is 
their  belief  rested  ?  Is  it  on  the  signal 
success  with  which,  in  all  the  open 
places,  they  have  overthrown  the 
conservative  party,  by  raising  the 
cry  of  Reform  ?  Who  is  so  blind  as 
not  to  see  that  a  still  more  demo- 
cratic faction  will  in  like  manner 
supplant  them  ;  and  that,  in  the  same 
way,  as  they  have  defeated  their  ad- 
versaries by  promising  to  the  elec- 
tors the  spoils  of  Tory  influence,  the 
Radicals  will  destroy  them  by  offer- 
ing them  the  division  of  Whig  ascen- 
dency ? 

The  prize  which  future  dema- 
gogues will  be  able  to  offer  to  this 
immense  and  needy  body  of  consti- 
tuents, will  be  far  more  substantial, 
and  infinitely  more  generally  allu- 
ring, than  that  which  has  proved 
sufficient  in  the  Lower  House  to 
demolish  the  long-established  influ- 
ence of  the  Tory  aristocracy.  They 


will  represent  to  them,  in  language 
intelligible  to  every  capacity,  "  The 
Whigs  promised  you  a  reform  in  the 
representation;  but  their  high-sound- 
ing declamations  have  come  to  no- 
thing :  they  have  filled  your  mouths 
with  an  empty  spoon :  the  Parlia- 
ment is  reformed,  •  but  bread  is  as 
dear,  tithes  as  burdensome,  taxes  as 
grinding,  work  as  scarce  as  before. 
Fools !  to  suppose  they  could  stop 
the  current  of  improvement:  that, 
after  having  gained  the  victory,  you 
would  pause,  and  decline  to  take  its 
fruits.  We  offer  you  a  substantial 
Reform — repeal  of  the  Corn  Laws — 
abolition  ot  tithes — reduction  of 
taxes  : — If  you  will  support  the  re- 
form candidate  you  will  never,  after 
this  year,  pay  tithes  to  the  parson; 
you  will  get  bread  at  threepence  a 
quartern  loaf ;  you  will  have  no  as- 
sessed taxes  to  pay ; — tea  will  be  at 
two  and  sixpence  the  pound — beer 
will  be  half  its  present  price — spirits 
will  be  sixpence  a  bottle."  With 
such  boons  presented  to  their  imagi- 
nations, and  such  a  prospect  of  liber- 
ation from  universally  felt  burdens, 
can  we,  after  the  experience  of  the 
last  election,  doubt  the  speedy  tri- 
umph of  the  radical  faction  ? 

It  the  recent  contests  have  done 
nothing  else,  they  have  at  least  con- 
ferred one  benefit  upon  future  ages, 
by  throwing  a  great  and  unexpected 
light  upon  the  march  of  Revolution, 
and  the  principles  which  govern  man- 
kind in  periods  of  political  convul- 
sion. The  most  important  truth 
which  they  have  elucidated,  is  that 
which  we  formerly  stated,*  viz.,  that 
in  periods  of  agitation  the  lower  class 
of  electors  invariably  coincide  with 
the  innovating  party,  and  instead  of 
resisting  the  admission  of  additional 
numbers  into  their  ranks,  strenuously 
support  it.  On  what  other  principle 
can  we  explain  the  remarkable  fact, 
that  the  English  county  freeholders 
have  so  generally  supported  a  Bill 
which  goes  ultimately  to  abridge 
their  number,  and  augment  to  a  fear- 
ful extent  the  multitude  of  the  bo- 
rough electors  ?  that  the  freeholders 
of  England  have,  by  an  immense 
majority,  returned  a  Parliament,  des- 
tined to  disfranchise  168  seats,  and 
introduce  600,000  new  electors  into 
the  Constitution  ? 


Parliamentary  Reform,  No.  4. 


1881.]         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


291 


The  same  result  took  place  in  all 
periods  of  more  than  usual  excite- 
ment, during  the  French  Revolution. 
The  clergy,  albeit  placed  in  the  van 
of  battle,  and  the  first  to  be  struck 
down  by  the  reformers,  yet,  by  a 
great  majority,  supported  the  Tiers 
Etat  in  their  early  struggles  in  the 
constituent  assembly ;  and  it  was  the 
junction  of  127  of  their  members  to 
the  reforming  party  which  first  gave 
them  a  decided  majority  over  the 
other  bodies.  The  same  took  place  at 
all  the  successive  appeals  to  the  peo- 
ple; the  members  returned  were  more 
and  more  democratical  at  every  elec- 
tion, until  at  length  the  passions  they 
excited  became  so  ungovernable,  that 
nothing  but  the  despotism  of  Robes- 
pierre could  reconstruct  the  disjoint- 
ed materials  of  society.  With  una- 
vailing regret,  and  with  bitter  execra- 
tions at  their  own  folly,  did  the  French 
clergy,  when  deprived  of  all  their 
property  by  that  faction  whom  they 
had  so  strenuously  supported,  look 
back  to  their  conduct  in  joining  them ; 
but  their  cries  were  drowned  in  the 
applause  of  new  and  still  more  in- 
sane electors,  and  their  enthusiasm 
drowned  at  last  in  their  own  blood. 

The  reason,  though  hot  obvious  at 
first  sight,  is  quite  conclusive,  and  be- 
ing founded  in  human  nature,  must  be 
the  same  in  all  ages.  The  lower  class 
of  electors  sympathize  with  the  feel- 
ings and  wishes  of  their  own  class  in 
society,  as  much  as  the  higher  or- 
der do  with  theirs.  When  popular 
enthusiasm  has  been  from  any  cause 
excited,  the  electors,  incapable  for 
the  most  part  of  thought,  but  per- 
fectly susceptible  of  passion,  are  car- 
ried away  by  the  current.  They  be- 
long to  the  mob  and  are  swayed  by 
its  cheers. 

If  their  interest  is  consulted,  the 
result  is  the  same.  They  find  that  by 
adhering  to  the  conservative  party, 
they  get  nothing  but  a  continuation 
of  all  the  burdens  and  difficulties 
which  have  been  felt  as  so  grievous, 
and  the  abolition  of  which  is  demand- 
ed with  such  vehement  cries  by  their 
compatriots.  By  increasing  the  power 
of  the  democracy,  therefore,  they  are 
promised  an  immediate  and  tangible 
advantage,  in  the  repeal  of  Taxes, 
and  all  oppresive  burdens  ; — by  sup- 
porting the  aristocracy,  they  can 
expect  nothing  but  a  continuance  of 
the  state  of  society,  which  already 


exists,  and  with  which  they  are  pro- 
bably sufficiently  dissatisfied. 

When  the  elective  franchise  is 
vested  in  a  higher  class  of  more  in- 
telligence, and  whose  interests  are 
bound  up  with  the  preservation  of 
the  existing  order  of  things,  the  re- 
verse is  the  case ;  because  they  sym- 
pathize with  the  higher  orders,  have 
something  to  lose  by  innovation,  and 
are  aware  of  the  hoi'rors  of  revolution. 
This  was  demonstrated  in  the  most 
signal  manner  in  the  recent  elections 
in  Scotland.  A  great  majority  of  the 
county  members  was  there  returned 
against  Reform ;  the  voters  there  be- 
ing all  the  larger  landed  proprietors, 
and  their  connexions  or  dependants, 
to  whom  they  have  alienated  the  free- 
hold qualification.  The  contrast 
which  this  affords  to  what  occurred 
in  England  is  most  remarkable,  and 
highly  instructive  as  to  the  oppo- 
site principles  which  govern  the  dif- 
ferent classes  of  mankind  in  such  pe- 
riods of  political  agitation. 

Now  the  Reform  Bill,  by  vesting  a 
preponderating  influence  in  the  ten 
pound  householders,  has  thrown  the 
government  of  the  country  precisely 
into  the  hands  of  those  whom  theory 
and  experience  combine  in  convin- 
cing us  will  be  most  inclined,  on  the 
recurrence  of  a  similar  convulsion, 
to  range  themselves  with  the  level- 
ling party.  Having,  for  the  most 
part,  little  or  no  property,  they  will 
feel  that  they  have  nothing  to  lose 
by  disturbance ;  while,  by  joining  the 
movement  party,  they  may  hope  to 
obtain  at  length  the  fruit  of  their  po- 
litical labours.  Their  cordial  co- 
operation in  introducing  the  five 
pound  householders,  or  the  universal 
suffrage  men,  may  hereafter  be  relied 
on,  with  as  much  certainty,  and  on 
the  same  principle  on  which  they 
have  so  strenuously  supported  the 
extension  of  the  suffrage  at  the  recent 
election. 

The  universal  opposition  which 
sprung  up  on  the  part  of  the  Radi- 
cals, in  every  part  of  the  country,  to 
the  proposed  alteration  of  Ministers 
on  the  clause  regarding  the  payment 
of  rents,  is  a  signal  proof  of  the  class 
of  men  into  whose  hands  the  desti- 
nies of  the  country  are  to  be  deliver- 
ed. The  Times  declared  it  Avould 
disfranchise  nine-tenths  of  the  pro- 
posed electors  of  London.  Every- 
where the  democratic  party  took  fire 


292  On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.         [Aug. 


at  the  intelligence  of  the  proposal. 
The  Birmingham  Political  Union 
Club  instantly  remonstrated  with  the 
Prime  Minister  on  the  subject;  and 
Government,  however  strong  against 
the  conservative  party  in  front,  ha- 
ving no  defence  against  the  Radicals 
in  their  rear,  were  immediately  com- 
pelled to  abandon  it.  The  reason 
why  it  was  so  universally  unpopular 
is,  that  the  holders  of  ten  pound 
houses  are  generally  so  totally  des- 
titute of  credit,  that  their  landlords 
have  no  security  for  their  rent  unless 
it  is  collected  weekly,  monthly,  or 
quarterly;  and,  therefore,  any  enact- 
ment which  should  exclude  all  pay- 
ing their  rents  more  frequently  than 
once  in  six  months  from  the  elective 
franchise,  would  exclude  the  great 
bulk  of  the  new  class  of  voters  al- 
together. That  government  were 
perfectly  right  in  their  attempt  to 
exclude  this  indigent  and  needy 
class  from  political  influence,  is  per- 
fectly clear;  and  their  restoration 
to  a  place  which  will  enable  them 
to  command  the  legislature,  is  in- 
finitely to  be  deplored.  But  what 
shall  we  say  of  a  new  constitution, 
which  intrusts  the  government  of  the 
country  to  hands  whom  its  advocates 
are  the  first  to  declare  no  landlord 
would  trust  for  an  arrear  of  six  months' 
rent  ? 

That  it  was  the  extreme  indigence 
of  the  majority  of  the  ten  pound  te- 
nants, and  not  any  general  custom  as 
to  the  term  for  paying  rents,  which 
rendered  this  clause  so  obnoxious  to 
the  Radical  party,  is  obvious,  from 
the  consideration,  that,  had  it  been 
otherwise,  it  would  have  been  per- 
fectly easy  to  have  adapted  the  term 
of  paying  rents  to  the  law  regarding 
the  elective  franchise.  No  landlord 
of  solvent  tenants,  who  could  be  safe- 
ly trusted  for  an  arrear  of  six  months' 
rent,  would  ever  hesitate  to  make  his 
rent  payable  at  these  terms,  and 
thereby  render  them  qualified  to 
vote.  The  proposed  clause,  there- 
fore, would  have  been  perfectly  in- 
nocuous as  to  all  solvent  or  respect- 
able tenants,  even  of  ten  pound 
houses,  and,  of  course,  much  more 
so  for  all  above  that  class.  The  re- 
forming newspapers  are  not  solici- 
tous to  preserve  the  votes  of  the  opu- 
lent tenants  in  the  Regent's  Park  and 
at  the  west  end  of  the  town.  Mr 
Hume  was  perfectly  right  when  he 


recently  declared,  that  no  Radicals 
worth  speaking  of  live  to  the  west  of 
Temple  Bar.  The  extreme  anxiety 
of  the  reformers,  therefore,  to  get 
quit  of  the  proposed  clause,  arose 
from  its  obvious  tendency  to  disfran- 
chise that  numerous  and  needy  class, 
who  could  not  be  trusted  with  an 
arrear  of  ten  pounds  rent  for  six 
months — that  is,  who  were  not,  in 
their  landlord's  estimation,  worth 
five  pounds  in  the  world.  The  Times 
says,  the  clause  would  have  disfran- 
chised nine-tenths  of  the  London 
voters ;  nine-tenths,  therefore,  of 
these  voters  cannot  be  trusted  for  five 
pounds  !  And  yet  this  is  the  system 
which  is  gravely  brought  forward  as 
a  measure  "highly  aristocratic," and 
which  will  for  ever  found  represen- 
tation on  the  secure  basis  of  pro- 
perty. 

The  latest  debates  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  which  are  continued  on 
the  side  of  Opposition  with  a  degree 
of  vigour  and  ability  above  all  praise, 
have  brought  to  light  a  most  decisive 
fact  as  to  these  ten  pound  voters. 
Mr  Croker,  to  whose  talents  and  in- 
dustry the  cause  of  order  owes  so 
much,  has  drawn  the  attention  of 
Parliament  to  the  important  fact, 
that,  while  the  Reform  Bill  is  going 
through  the  House,  another  bill,  in- 
troduced under  the  sanction  of  Mi- 
nisters by  the  member  for  Shrews- 
bury, has  liberated  tenants  of  houses 
rented  at  L.I 2  a-year,  and  any  lower 
sum,  from  the  payment  of  poor's 
rates,  upon  the  ground  of  their  being 
unable,  from  their  indigence,  to  pay 
them.  That  is,  the  holder  of  a  house 
rented  at  twelve  pounds  a-year  is  too 
poor  to  be  able  to  contribute  to  the  re- 
lief of  the  poor;  but  the  holder  of  one 
rented  at  ten  pounds  is  nut  too  poor 
to  be  intrusted  with  the  appoint- 
ment of  legislators,  or  the  exaction 
of  pledges  from  the  delegates  to 
future  Parliaments.  If  the  Reformers 
would  declare  honestly,  "  Our  object 
is  to  give  pauperism  an  ascendency 
over  property,"  we  would  at  once 
see  their  consistency ;  but  to  allege 
that  they  are  fixing  the  representa- 
tion on  the  basis  of  property,  and  at 
the  same  time  extend  the  franchise 
to  the  overwhelming  multitudes, 
whom  their  own  measures  declare 
to  be  all  but  insolvent,  is  as  palpable 
an  absurdity  as  ever  was  imposed 
upon  mankind. 


1831.]          On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  'Revolution.  293 


The  secret  and  undivulged  hopes 
of  the  aristocratic  reformers  are 
founded  on  the  ascendency  they  hope 
to  acquire  over  the  small  towns,  espe- 
cially those  not  connected  with  ma- 
nufactures ;  and  for  this  reason  it  is 
that  Lord  Milton  has  proposed  to 
double  the  number  of  members  to 
be  returned  by  the  small  boroughs ! 
a  measure  which  it  is  hoped  will  give 
an  addition  of  fifty  votes  to  the  con- 
servative side.  We  earnestly  hope, 
for  the  sake  of  the  country,  that,  if 
the  bill  is  destined  to  pass,  it  will  be 
with  this  counterpoise  to  the  demo- 
ratic  faction ;  though,  from  the  ob- 
vious weakness  of  Government  on 
the  side  of  the  Radical  party,  we 
are  much  afraid,  that,  if  the  newspa- 
pers open  their  fire ,  it  will  be  imme- 
diately abandoned,  and  some  un- 
lucky "  mistake"  alleged  to  account 
for  its  appearance  in  the  Bill. 

But  to  what  does  the  Bill  amount, 
if  this  the  real  view  of  the  Conser- 
vative Whigs  is  well-founded  ?  To 
this,  and  this  only  :  That  a  new  set 
of  close  boroughs  will  gradually  rise 
up  on  the  ruins  of  the  old  ones ;  and 
that,  after  having  violently  dispos- 
sessed the  electors  of  168  seats,  they 
will  quietly  rear  up  168  others  to  sup- 
ply their  place.  If  the  plan  does  not 
amount  to  this,  it  amounts  to  nothing. 
For,  if  the  great  proprietors  round 
these  little  boroughs  do  not  gain  a 
dominion  over  them,  and  range  them 
under  their  respective  banners,  it  is 
impossible  to  see  what  protection 
they  will  afford  against  the  future 
inarch  of  revolution.  But  if  this  is  to 
be  the  result,  on  what  principle  of 
justice  or  expedience  are  the  present 
boroughs  to  be  disfranchised  ?  Is  it 
just  to  punish  one  set  of  boroughs 
for  having  fallen  under  the  dominion 
of  the  neighbouring  magnate,  if  the 
real  object  of  the  Bill  is  to  rear  up 
another  set,  equally  subservient,  and 
at  least  as  numerous  ?  Is  it  expe- 
dient to  make  such  anxious  provi- 
sion for  the  gradual  formation  of  a 
new  phalanx  of  close  boroughs,  if 
the  argument  be  well  founded  that 
the  present  ones  are  a  blot,  which 
must,  at  all  hazards,  per  fas  autnefas, 
be  expunged  from  the  constitution  ? 

But  in  truth  we  fear  that  the  hopes 
of  the  aristocratic  Reformers  on  this  ' 
subject  are    completely  fallacious, 
and  that  the  Radicals  who  have  so 
strenuously  supported  the  Bill,  are 


much  better  aware  of  its  real  demo- 
cratic tendency.  This  opinion  is 
founded  on  the  following  circum- 
stances : 

The  great  and  universal  support 
which  the  radicals,  in  every  part  of 
the  country,  have  given  to  the  Bill, 
is  the  best  evidence  of  what  its  work- 
iii"  in  the  small  boroughs  will  be. 
Whatever  may  be  said  of  the  framers 
of  the  Bill,  nobody  will  accuse  the 
Ultra-Reformers  of  being  ignorant  of 
what  will  augment  their  power  ;  and 
if  the  clause  regarding  the  small  bo- 
roughs had  been  adverse  to  their  in- 
terest, there  can  be  no  doubt  that  it 
would  have  been  as  universally  op-, 
posed,  as  that  regarding  the  quarter- 
ly rents.  The  fact  of  its  not  being  so, 
is,  in  our  apprehension,  decisive  evi- 
dence, that  from  the  lowness  of  the 
qualification,  and  the  indigent  state 
of  the  majority  of  the  ten  pound  vo- 
ters, they  may  safely  be  relied  on  in 
any  future  crisis,  as  likely  to  join  the 
revolutionary  party. 

The  great  number  of  small  boroughs 
of  this  description  varying  from  4000 
to  15,000  inhabitants,  who  have  re- 
cently thrown  off  their  allegiance  to 
the  neighbouring  aristocrats,  and 
joined  the  democratic  party,  affords 
decisive  evidence,  that  some  great 
and  general  cause  is  in  operation, 
which  all  the  former  relations  of  life 
and  channels  of  influence  are  unable 
to  counteract.  That  the  fact  is  so,  is 
the  constant  boast  of  the  democratic 
party;  and  of  its  reality  the  two  last 
elections  afford  decisive  evidence. 
But  if  this  be  the  evident  tendency  of 
human  affairs;  if  aristocratic  influence 
is  rapidly  on  the  wane,  even  in  bo- 
roughs which  have  been  close  for 
centuries  ;  on  what  rational  grounds 
are  the  hopes  of  the  aristocrats  found- 
ed, that  they  will  be  able  quietly  to 
usurp  a  dominion  over  the  new  bo- 
roughs which  the  bill  is  to  create  ? 
It  is  quite  evident  that  they  are  de- 
ceiving themselves  as  to  the  tendency 
of  the  tide  on  which  they  are  now 
borne  forward,  and  that  the  moment 
they  attempt  to  coerce  or  direct  it, 
their  influence  will  be  shattered  as  . 
rapidly  and  as  fatally  as  that  of  Neckar 
and  the  French  liberal  nobility  who 
placed  themselves  at  the  head  of 
their  revolution. 

The  two  great  powers  operating  on 
human  affairs,  which  are  producing 
this  progressive  increase  of  democra- 


294  On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.         [Aug. 


tical  influence,  are  the  extension  of 
manufactures,  and  the  influence  of 
the  daily  press. 

Manufactures,  in  every  age  and 
quarter  of  the  globe,  have  been  the 
prolific  source  of  democratic  feeling. 
We  need  not  appeal  to  history  for  a 
confirmation  of  this  eternal  truth  ; — 
its  exemplification  is  too  manifest  in 
the  present  times,  to  admit  of  a  mo- 
ment's doubt.    Now,  of  the  whole 
population   of  Great  Britain,    two- 
thirds  are,  according  to  the  census  of 
1821,  employed  in  trade  and  manu- 
factures ;  and,  by  the  recent  enume- 
ration, the  proportion  will  probably 
be  still  greater.     It  is  this  fatal,  and 
now  irretrievable   direction  of  our 
industry,  which  renders  the  Reform 
Bill  so  eminently  hazardous.     The 
great  bulk  of  these  manufacturers  re- 
side in   the  small  towns  ;  the  mem- 
bers they  return  will  be  the  faithful 
mirror  of  their  democratic  opinions. 
Their  number  is  daily  increasing ; — 
every  successive  year  brings  one  of 
the  rural  boroughs  within  the  vortex 
of  manufacturing  wealth,  and  the  con- 
tagion of  manufacturing  democracy. 
Look  at  Preston,  Stockport,  Salford, 
Bolton,  Halifax,  Macclesfield,  in  Eng- 
land ;  or  Kilmarnock,  Airdrie,  Mon- 
trose,  or  Paisley,  in  Scotland,  and  an 
idea  may  be  formed  of  the  democra- 
tic tendency  of  small  manufacturing 
towns.     The  neighbouring  proprie- 
tors have  no  sort  of  influence  over 
such  places,  for  this  obvious  reason, 
that  the  subsistence  of  the  great  bulk 
of  their  inhabitants  in  no  degree  de- 
pends on  their  custom,  but  on  the 
employment  of  the  master  manufac- 
turers, with  whom  the  landed  inte- 
rest have  no  connexion.     It  is  a  chi- 
merical hope  which  the  aristocratic 
reformers  entertain,  that  they  will  be 
able  to  maintain  any  sort  of  ascend- 
ency over  such  boroughs.     As  well 
might  they  expect  to  sway  the  vast 
population  of  the  Tower  Hamlets,  or 
Manchester. 

The  next  great  power  which  is 
continually  at  work  in  England  to 
augment  the  influence  of  the  demo- 
cratic party  among  the  small  bo- 
roughs, is  the  influence  of  the  daily 
press. 

That  the  press  is  democratic  is  ob- 
vious from  the  fact,  that  with  the 
exception  of  three  journals,  the  whole 
London  daily  papers  are  on  the  re- 
forming side,  The  proportion  in  the 


provincial  press  is  nearly  as  great;  and 
but  for  the  support  of  the  old  families 
in  the  country,  the  whole  county  pa- 
pers would  be  of  the  same  charactei*. 
This  is  not  a  mere  casual  circum- 
stance; it  has  been  gradually  and 
steadily  increasing  for  the  last  fifteen 
years,  and  we  are  only  now  begin- 
ning to  experience  its  terrible  effects. 
The  full  operation  of  this  democratic 
system  of  journals,  may  be  seen  in 
America,  where  it  has  long  been  no- 
torious, that  no  virtue  or  talent  in 
the  States  is  so  powerful  but  what 
the  daily  journals  can  at  any  time 
drive  it  into  exile;  and  the  evils  of 
the  liberty  of  the  press  have  been 
found  to  be  such,  that  Jefferson  has 
declared,  in  his  correspondence,  that 
they  have  exceeded  any  thing  known 
from  its  suppression. 

Surprise  is  often  expressed  by  in- 
considerate observers  at  this  ten- 
dency; but  the  reason  is  apparent, 
and  being  founded  in  the  nature  of 
things,  must,  in  the  present  state  of 
society,  remain  permanent.  It  arises 
from  the  extension  of  the  power  of 
reading  to  the  lower  orders,  and 
their  elevation  to  political  activity 
by  means  of  a  rapid  and  extensive 
system  of  internal  communication. 
The  lower  classes  in  towns,  and, 
above  all,  in  manufacturing  towns, 
are  constantly  inclined  to  be  demo- 
cratical,  because  the  love  of  power 
is  inherent  in  the  human  heart;  they 
are  insatiable  for  abuse  of  their 
superiors,  because  it  consoles  them 
for  the  inequality,  and  what  they 
naturally  consider  the  injustice  of 
fortune  ;  they  are  incapable  of  form- 
ing a  rational  opinion  on  public  af- 
fairs, because  their  necessary  labour 
precludes  them  from  acquiring  the 
requisite  information  ;  and  while  na- 
ture has  been  prodigal  to  all  of  pas- 
sion, she  has  been  sparing  to  most 
of  reason. 

These  dispositions  being  eternal 
and  immutable,  must  be  calculated 
upon  as  fixed  principles  in  human 
affairs.  Nature  has  given  to  all  the 
passion  for  power ;  she  has  given  to 
few  the  means  of  using  it :  ohe  has 
given  to  all  the  power  of  reading,  to 
few  the  power  of  thinking;  to  all 
leisure  for  the  daily  press,  to  few 
the  means  of  reading  works  of  supe- 
rior utility.  The  introduction  of  the 
immense  multitudes,  who  can  read, 
and  not  think— who  can  relish  abuse 


1831.]         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.  §95 


of  their  superiors,  and  not  trace  its 
consequences — who  can  assail  others, 
but  not  act  themselves — into  politi- 
cal influence  and  activity,  is  the  real 
cause  of  the  democratic  character  of 
the  daily  press.  Editors  of  newspa- 
pers find  by  experience  that  they 
lose  their  circulation,  if  they  cease 
to  "  inarch  with  the  revolution." 
The  great  majority  of  readers  being 
now  of  the  lower  orders,  the  great 
majority  of  papers  is  what  is  adapted 
to  their  taste,  suited  to  their  capa- 
city, and  agreeable  to  their  wishes. 

It  is  evident  that  this  tendency  is 
on  the  increase ;  and  it  is  the  com- 
bined operation  of  the  Reform  Bill 
with  the  vast  increase  of  our  manu- 
factures, and  the  increasing  demo- 
cracy of  the  Journals,  which  renders 
the  future  prospects  of  the  country 
so  melancholy.  Education  well  in- 
tended, but  it  will  probably  be  found 
unhappily  directed,  has  long  been 
furnishing  the  lower  orders  with  the 
means  of  inhaling  the  poison.  Policy, 
systematically  pursued  for  centuries, 
has  increased  to  an  unnatural  ex- 
tent, the  proportion  of  our  manufac- 
turers. Internal  communication  im- 
mensely improved,  has  brought  all 
the  provinces  close  to  the  metropo- 
lis, and  communicated  to  Cornwall 
and  Caithness  the  passions  of  Lon- 
don. It  is  in  this  inflammable  and 
perilous  state  of  society  that  the  Re- 
form Bill  comes  in,  and  pours  into 
these  rash  and  inexperienced  hands 
the  fatal  gift  of  despotic  power ! 
Had  imagination  figured  a  course  of 
events  calculated  to  tear  society  in 
pieces,  it  could  not  have  combined 
elements  better  calculated  to  accom- 
plish the  work. 

Nothing  can  be  more  evident  than 
that  the  course  of  knowledge  cannot 
be  arrested  ;  prosecutions  are  no 
answer  to  arguments  ;  chains  will 
not  now  fetter  the  human  soul.  The 
march  of  democracy  cannot  be  pre- 
vented ;  the  wrath  of  Heaven  must 
take  its  course,  and  wisdom  must 
be  gained  in  the  school  of  adversity— 
Our  people  must  learn  from  their  own 
suffering,  since  they  will  not  learn 
it  from  that  of  others,  that  the  gift 
of  unbounded  political  power  is 


fatal  to  those  who  receive  it;  that 
despotism  may  flow  from  the  work- 
shop of  the  artisan,  as  well  as  the 
palace  of  the  sovereign,  and  that 
those  who,  yielding  to  the  wiles  of 
the  Tempter,  will  eat  of  the  forbid- 
den fruit,  must  be  driven  from  the 
joys  of  Paradise,  to  wander  in  the 
suffering  of  a  sinful  world. 

One  only  ray  of  hope  breaks  in 
amidst  the  melancholy  anticipations 
which  arise  to  our  country,  and  the 
civilized  world,  from  the  dreadful 
sea  of  democracy,  in  which,  to  all 
appearance,  we  are  about  to  be  over- 
whelmed. 

Genius,  long  a  stranger  to  the  side 
of  Order,  will  resume  its  place  by 
her  side ;  she  will  give  to  a  suffering, 
what  she  refused  to  a  ruling  cause. 
The  indignation  of  Virtue,  the  satire 
of  Talent,  will  be  reserved  for  the 
panders  to  popular  gratification; — 
Not  the  tyranny  of  Emperors,  or 
the  adulation  of  Courtiers,  but  the 
sycophancy  of  journals,  the  baseness 
of  the  press,  the  tyranny  of  the  mob, 
will  employ  the  pencil  of  the  Ta- 
citus who  portrays  the  decline  of 
the  British  empire.  While  the  crowd 
of  vulgar  writers,  servilely  fawning 
dn  the  ruling  power,  are  following 
in  the  career  of  Revolution,  the  mas- 
ter spirits  who  are  destined  to  re- 
form and  bless  mankind,  will  boldly 
espouse  the  opposite  side, and,  taught 
by  present  suffering  and  degrada- 
tion, produce  the  works  destined  to 
instruct  and  direct  a  future  age.  It 
is  this  reaction  of  Genius  against 
Violence,  which  steadies  the  march 
of  human  events,  and  renders  the 
miseries  of  one  age  the  source  of 
prosperity  and  elevation  to  that 
which  succeeds  it;  and  whatever 
may  be  our  fears  as  to  the  temporary 
ascendency  of  violence  or  anarchy 
from  the  measure  which  we  deplore, 
we  have  none  as  to  the  final  tenden- 
cy of  such  changes  to  mankind  ;  we 
can  discern  the  rainbow  of  Peace, 
though  not  ourselves  destined  to 
reach  the  ark  of  Salvation ;  and  look 
forward  with  confidence  to  the  ele- 
vation and  improvement  of  the  spe- 
cies, from  amidst  the  storm  which  is 
to  subvert  the  British  empire. 


296 


A  Conversation  on  the  Reform  Bill. 


[Aug. 


A  CONVERSATION  ON  THE  REFORH  BILL. 


THE  late  Elections,  and  the  East 
Wind,  and  the  Cholera  Morbus,  and 
the  RefornrBill,  are  the  topics  which 
at  present  engross  every  man's  at- 
tention; but,  with  sane  thinkers  of 
every  denomination,  the  clouds  which 
darken  the  political  horizon  seem  to 
be  regarded  with  more  apprehension 
than  plague  or  pestilence;  I  sup- 
pose, upon  the  approved  principle, 
that  it  is  better  to  tall  into  the  hands 
of  God  than  into  the  hands  of  man. 

"  What  will  become  of  us  ?"  said 
one,  who,  up  to  the  present  period, 
belonged  to  the  party  miscalled  Libe- 
ral, but  who  now  began  distinctly  to 
perceive  the  folly  of  the  measures 
which  they  have  pursued.  "  Is  this 
crude  and  profligate  scheme  to  pass 
into  a  law,  or  may  we  still  rely  upon 
the  '  vis  medicatrix1  of  the  Constitu- 
tion ?" — "  God  only  knows,"  said  his 
friend ;  "  if  the  visitation  with  which 
we  are  threatened  be  proportioned 
to  our  deserts,  it  cannot  be  a  light 
one.  We  have  been  long  spared.  The 
calamities  of  other  nations  seem  to 
have  been  lost  upon  us ;  and  it  may, 
perhaps,  be  the  gracious  intention  of 
Providence,  that  what  we  have  failed 
to  learn  from  example,  we  should  be 
taught  by  experience." — "  And  yet," 
added  Mr  Brownlow,  the  name  of 
the  first  speaker,  "  I  cannot  think 
the  Duke  was  right  in  his  vehement 
denial  of  the  necessity  of  all  reform. 
Surely  the  state  of  the  representa- 
tion is  such  as  to  admit  of  some  im- 
provement." —  His  friend  replied, 
"  The  Duke,  it  is  probable,  meant  no 
more  than  that  the  present  House  of 
Commons  is  better  fitted  for  the  ju- 
dicious discharge  of  its  legislative 
functions,  than  any  that  may  be  as- 
sembled after  what  is  called  the 
Reform,  shall  have  taken  place.  In 
this  he  was  undoubtedly  right.  He 
may,  however,  have  expressed  him- 
self unguardedly." — "  That,"  said 
Brownlow,  "  is  what  I  lament  and 
complaia  of.  He  has  made  the  ques- 
tion of  Reform  turn  upon  the  perfec- 
tion, or  the  imperfection,  of  the  pre- 
sent system.  If  the  friends  of  the 
proposed  measure  can  shew  that  the 
present  system  is  defective,  they 
seem  to  think  that  they  have  done 
all  that  is  necessary  to  recommend 
their  abominable  scheme.  This  is  un- 


fortunate. The  public  have  not  been 
fairly  told  first  to  '  look  on  this  pic- 
ture, then  on  that,'  but  have  been 
called  upon  to  decide  upon  the  ab- 
solute excellence  of  the  one,  from 
blemishes  and  imperfections  which 
may  be  discovered  in  the  other." 

"The  Duke,"  said  Mr  Courtney,  the 
elder  speaker,  "  is  certainly  charge- 
able with  some  such  indiscretion  as 
you  have  described.  It  is,  however, 
but  right  to  observe,  that  the  advan- 
tage which  the  reformers  have  had 
on  the  present  occasion,  is  not  much 
greater  than  that  which  theory  must 
always  possess  over  practice.  Of 
the  present  system  it  may  be  truly 
said,  that  we  lose  sight  of  what  may 
have  been  the  theory,  in  considering 
the  practice.  Of  the  proposed  mea- 
sure it  may  also  be  affirmed,  that 
its  supporters  lose  sight  of  what 
must  be  the  practice,  in  considering 
the  theory.  No  political  system  ever 
yet  worked  precisely  as  its  origina- 
tors intended.  Who  could  have  ac- 
quiesced iik  an  arbitrary  command 
to  send  representatives  for  the  pur- 
pose of  assenting  to  predetermined 
taxation,  the  germ  ot  constitutional 
liberty  ?  As  little  can  the  reformers 
see,  in  their  favourite  measure,  whicli 
proposes  so  considerably  to  increase 
the  power  of  the  Commons,  the  germ 
of  a  despotism  which  must  crush 
their  freedom." — "  Unquestionably," 
said  Brownlow,  "  theorists  do  pos- 
sess a  great  advantage  in  argument 
over  practical  philosophers,  and  one 
that  is  frequently  fatal  to  the  best  in- 
terests of  mankind.  Where  other 
men  must  walk,  they  can  fly.  But  is  it 
not  extraordinary,  that  in  the  present 
case,  where  so  many  weighty  inte- 
rests are  involved,  men  can  be  per- 
suaded to  risk  so  much  positive  good 
for  merely  speculative  advantages  ?" 

"  It  would  be  extraordinary,"  re- 
joined Mr  Courtney,  "  if,  in  any  age 
or  country,  we  discovered  men  clear- 
sighted respecting  their  own  true  in- 
terests. Unfortunately,  they  are  not 
so :  Every  great  movement,  either 
for  the  better  or  the  worse,  which 
history  has  chronicled,  has  been  more 
or  less  accomplished  by  some  popu- 
lar delusion.  Even  lengthened  pro- 
sperity becomes  distasteful  to  a  na- 
tion, from  its  very  continuance,  as 


1831.) 


A  Conversation  on  the  Reform  Sill. 


the  Israelites  tired  of  the  manna  which 
was  sent  from  heaven.  In  propor- 
tion as  they  are  free  from  real  ills, 
they  suffer  their  minds  to  be  engaged 
in  the  contemplation  of  imaginary, 
and  thus  become  the  easy  dupes  of 
artful  or  deluded  incendiaries.  My 
decided  opinion  is,  that  the  world 
has  never  yet  witnessed  a  form  of 
government  which  secures  so  much 
Freedom  and  happiness  as  that  un- 
der which  we  at  present  live,  and 
which  is,  I  fear,  about  to  undergo  a 
fatal  alteration."  —  "But,  my  dear 
friend,"  said  Brownlow,  "  greatly  as 
I  respect  your  judgment,  I  must  say, 
that  there  were  some  things  in  our 
present  system  which  might  have 
been  altered  for  the  better;  and  if 
the  late  government  had  only  been  a 
little  complying  in  a  few  particulars, 
all  might  yet  be  well.  Surely  the 
great  manufacturing  towns  ought  to 
be  represented ;  and  why  defend 
such  absurd  anomalies  as  Gatton  and 
Old  Sarum  ?"  Brownlow  was  per- 
haps stimulated  to  this  sally  by  the 
appearance  of  one  who  resolutely 
defended  the  whole  of  the  Ministe- 
rial measure,  and  upon  whose  sup- 
port he  calculated,  in  the  argument 
which  it  was  his  object  to  provoke. 

"  I  have  been  saying,"  said  he, 
"  Bird,  to  our  friend  Courtney,  that  if 
the  late  ministryhad  been  wise  enough 
to  concede  a  few  things,  such  as  re- 
presentatives to  Birmingham  and 
Manchester,  and  the  disfranchisement 
of  some  of  the  very  rotten  boroughs, 
the  people  would  have  been  abun- 
dantly satisfied,  and  the  present  ex- 
traordinary bill  would  never  have 
been  heard  of." — "  It  may  be  so," 
said  Bird  ;  "  the  tub  might  for  a  sea- 
son amuse  the  whale,  but  in  that  case 
we  should  not  have  the  complete  and 
glorious  measure  that  is  at  present 
about  to  pass  into  a  law.  I  thank  the 
Duke  heartily  for  what  he  has  done. 
He  is,  in  truth,  the  reformer.  The 
people  have  often  suffered  from  the 
ignorance  or  the  imbecility  of  minis- 
ters. '  Quicquid  delirant  reges,  plec- 
tuntur  Achivi.'  It  is  right  that  for 
once  their  folly  or  their  wickedness 
should  be  advantageous  to  their 
country." 

"But  are  you  sure,"  said  Courtney, 
mildly,  "  that  the  intended  Reform 
will  be  productive  of  advantage  ?" 
— "  I  am,  sir,"  he  replied,  "  as  I 
can  be  of  any  thing  not  demonstra- 

'     VOL.  XXX.  NO,  CI/XXXIY, 


297 

tively  certain." — "  And  upon  what 
rests .  your  assurance  ?"  the  other 
asked ;  "  is  it  deducible  from  theory, 
or  founded  upon  experience  ?" 

Bird  seemed  puzzled.  He  did  not 
choose  to  reply.  For  advantages  so 
confidently  predicted  upon  mere 
theory,  and  for  the  blessings  of  that 
"  untried  form"  of  political  being 
upon  which  we  are  aboutto  enter,  he 
could  not  as  yet  pretend  experience. 
His  answer  was  therefore  vague. — 
"  Surely  no  one  at  the  present  day 
can  defend  the  rotten  boroughs.  Is 
it  right  that  places  without  inha- 
bitants should  have  representatives  ? 
Can  mockery  of  the  people  be  car- 
ried farther  than  that?  Is'  it  right 
thatlargeand  populous  places  should 
be  without  representatives?  That 
manufacturers  should  be  congrega- 
ted in  such  numbers,  and  capital  ac- 
cumulated in  such  masses,  as  to  be 
capable  of  supplying  the  wants  of 
the  civilized  world,  and  yet  be  with- 
out an  organ  by  whom  their  interests 
may  be  defended  in  Parliament?  It 
requires  no  great  extent  of  political 
philosophy  to  pronounce  all  that 
wrong ;  and  any  system  which  reme- 
dies so  monstrous  an  abuse,  must,  so 
far  at  least,  be  a  good  one." 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Courtney, 
with  great  calmness,"  how  far  a  small 
extent  of  political  philosophy  may 
justify  a  great  deal  of  political  rash- 
ness. But  I  have  often  conversed  with 
reformers  upon  the  subject  of  rotten 
boroughs,  and  never  yet  have  heard 
them  assailed  by  any  thing  more  for- 
midable than  '  the  sound  and  fury' 
of  very  vehement  declamation." — 
"  What,  sir,"  said  Bird,  "is it  notright 
that  the  people  should  be  represent- 
ed ?"— "  It  is,  sir,"  he  was  answered, 
"  ivTten  it  is  necessary,  but  not  other- 
wise. The  country  has  a  right  to 
the  services  of  the  people  in  that, 
and  any  other  way  which  its  inte- 
rests may  require.  If  these  interests 
require  universal  suffrage,  universal 
suffrage  would  be  right.  If  they  re- 
quire a  restricted  suffrage,  that  would 
be  the  more  advisable.  But  what 
I  mean  to  express  is  this,  that  the 
.right,  whatever  it  is,  should  be  de- 
termined by  the  expediency;  and 
this,  again,  must  be  determined  by 
the  fitness  of  our  mode  of  electing 
legislators  for  preserving  and  perpe- 
tuating the  essentials  of  the  consti- 
tution." 


A  Conversation  on  the  Reform  Bill. 


[Aug. 


"  And  what  can  be  more  essen- 
tial to  the  constitution  than  that 
the  people  should  be  represented  ?" 
said  Bird.—"  This,"  said  Mr  Court- 
ney— "  that  they  may  be  represent- 
ed in  such  a  manner  as  will  best 
conduce  to  the  end  for  which  repre- 
sentation was  intended.  Pray,  Mr 
Bird,  do  you  consider  that  the  elec- 
tive franchise  was  conferred  upon 
the  people  for  their  own  individual 
benefit,  or  for  the  good  of  the  nation 
at  large?"—"  For  the  good  of  the 
nation  at  large,  surely,"  said  Bird. — 
"  Then,  If  by  limiting  it,  that  good 
ftiay  be  more  certainly  attained  than 
by  leaving  it  unrestricted,  what 
would  you  conclude  ?" 

Bird.  That  it  should  be  limited. 
Therefore  it  is  that  I  am  against  uui- 
rersal  suffrage. 

Courtney.  And  would,  I  presume, 
be  against  any  species  of  suffrage  that 
might  be  shewn  to  be  detrimental  to 
thejHibllc  good? 

Bird.  Undoubtedly.  I  am  not  one 
of  those  who  regard  the  elective  fran- 
chise as  a  privilege  by  which  I  am 
dignified,  and  which  I  enjoy  for  my 
own  personal  benefit.  1  look  upon 
it  as  imposing  a  puhlic  duty,  which 
I  am  called  upon  to  discharge  for  the 
benefit  of  my  country. 

Court.  Your  view,  in  that  particu- 
lar, coincides  precisely  with  mine.  I 
will  take  for  granted,  that  you  consi- 
der that  form  of  government  under 
which  we  live  a  mixed  one,  contain- 
ing a  due  admixture  of  monarchy, 
aristocracy,  and  democracy. 

Bird.  Just  so. 

Court.  Now,  is  it  not  essential  to 
our  happy  constitution,  that  the  ele- 
ments which  compose  it  should  all 
be  preserved,  and  that  no  one  prin- 
ciple should  be  suffered  to  predomi- 
nate to  the  destruction  of  another? 

Bird.  Undoubtedly.  And  it  was 
because  James  the  Second  sought  to 
encroach  upon  the  rights  of  the  peo- 
ple that  he  was  compelled  to  abdi- 
cate. 

Court.  But  what  will  you  aay  if 
the  people  should  encroach  upon 
the  privileges  of  the  nobility,  and  the 
rights  of  the  crown  ?  Are  you  pre- 
pared, in  that  case,  to  deal  with 
even-handed  justice  ? 

Bird.  I  hope  I  should  be,  if  such 
n  case  arose.  But  the  Reform  Bill 
does  not  contemplate  any  such  usurp- 
ation. It  merely  seeks  to  reclaim 
for  the  people  wfiat  was  always 


their  own.  Neither  the  crown  nor 
the  aristocracy  should  complain  of 
not  being  permitted  to  nominate  re- 
presentatives of  the  people. 

Court.  No,  if  such  nomination 
tended  to  give  any  undue  predomi- 
nance to  these  two  estates  of  the 
realm.  But  if  it  was  only  a  kind  of 
make-weight,  by  which  they  were 
enabled  to  retain  their  necessary  in- 
fluence, the  withdrawal,  or  even  the 
restriction  of  such  a  privilege,  may 
totally  disturb  the  balance  of  the 
Constitution.  Now  that  is,  I  con- 
fess, what  I  fear  must  be  the  neces- 
sary result  of  the  Reform  Bill,  if  it 
should  pass  into  a  law.  I  contend 
not  for  the  privileges  of  the  aristo- 
cracy merely  as  an  aristocracy,  nor 
of  the  crown  merely  as  the  crown, 
but  for  the  rights  and  dignity  of 
both,  as  part  and  parcel  of  the  go- 
vernment under  which  we  live.  And 
if  I  rise  in  their  defence  upon  the 
present  occasion,  it  is  from  no 
other  motive  than  that  which  would 
impel  me  to  give  them  my  most  stre- 
nuous opposition  if  I  could  consider 
them  as  the  invaders  of  public  li- 
berty. 

Bird.  To  me  the  nomination  of 
members,  to  serve  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  by  the  nobility  or  the 
crown,  appears  a  monstrous  ano- 
maly. 

Court.  What  do  you  mean  by  an 
anomaly  ? 

Bird.  That  which  is  contrary  to 
rule. 

Court.  The  rule  you  suppose  to 
be,  that  none  but  commoners  should 
interfere  in  elections  ? 

Bird.  Undoubtedly. 

Court.  But  has  that  been  the 
usage  ? 

Bird.  No ;  and  it  is  of  that  I  com- 
plain. 

Court.  Here,  then,  you  have  a  rule 
contradicted  by  what  you  acknow- 
ledge to  be  usage ;  for  you  are  far 
too  well  informed  not  to  know,  and 
too  candid  not  to  acknowledge,  that 
either  the  crown  or  the  aristocracy, 
and  frequently  both,  have  exercised 
an  influence  over  the  returns  that 
have  been  made  to  the  Commons 
House  of  Parliament.  Indeed,  you 
are  well  aware  that  that  influence 
never  was  less  than  it  is  at  present. 
May  I  not,  therefore,  as  confidently 
plead  prescription  for  such  a  prac- 
tice, as  you  object  to  it,  because  it  is 
contrary  to  rule  ?  If  you  can  point 


1831.] 


A  Conversation  on  the  Reform  Bitt. 


out  no  period  of  our  history  in  which 
it  did  not  exist,  although  you  may 
rail  at  it  as  contrary  to  law,  and  stig- 
matize it  as  anomalous,  I  am  at  least 
equally  justified  in  defending  it,  as 
agreeable  to  the  spirit  of  the  Consti- 
tution. Give  me  leave  to  ask  you, 
Mr  Bird,  is  the  royal  prerogative 
now  what  it  was  formerly  ? 

Bird.  No.  It  is  considerably  a- 
bridged. 

Court.  Is  the  power  of  the  nobles 
what  it  was  formerly  ? 

Bird.  No.  Their  power,  as  nobles, 
is  certainly  considerably  contracted. 
They  formerly  exercised  something 
little  short  of  sovereignty  within 
their  respective  domains. 

Court.  Then  if  the  crown  is  not 
to  become  a  cipher,  and  the  nobles 
so  many  counters  in  the  state ;  if 
they  are,  in  a  word,  to  continue  sub- 
stantive estates  of  the  realm,  what 
they  have  lost  in  one  way,  they  must, 
to  a  certain  extent,  gain  in  another. 
For  the  curtailment  of  prerogative, 
to  the  degree  in  which  it  has  been 
curtailed,  and  for  the  abrogation  of 
privileges,  to  the  degree  in  which 
they  have  been  abrogated,  there  must 
be  some  compensation.  Those  who 
are  desirous  of  changing  the  whole 
form  of  our  government,  may  very 
consistently  desire  that  the  power 
of  the  Commons  should  go  on  in- 
creasing, and  that  of  the  other  bran- 
ches ot  the  legislature  go  on  dimi- 
nishing, until  pure  republicanism  is 
superinduced  upon  the  platform  of 
our  constitutional  monarchy.  But 
those  who  are  undesirous  of  such  a 
change,  cannot  contemplate  what  is 
about  to  be  done  without  fearful  ap- 
prehensions. 

Bird.  I  confess  I  cannot  entertain 
any  fearful  apprehensions,  because  a 
few  noblemen  will  no  longer  be  per- 
mitted to  return  members  to  Parlia- 
ment. 

Court.  And  yet  you  have  seen 
cause  to  be  very  angry,  because  such 
a  privilege  has  been  allowed  them. 
Surely,  my  dear  sir,  if  its  abroga- 
tion be  unimportant,  its  continuance 
cannot  have  been  dangerous.  But 
the  question  is  not,  whether  a  few 
noblemen  are  or  are  not  to  have  the 
privilege  of  sending  members  to 
Parliament,  but  whether  the  House 
of  Lords  is  to  retain  or  to  lose  its 
relative  importance,  as  compared 
with  the  House  of  Commons— whe- 


299 

ther  one  estate  is  or  is  not  to  obtain 
an  undue  preponderance  over  the 
other  two  estates  of  the  realm,  and 
thus  overthrow  the  balance  of  the 
Constitution  ?  I  cannot  but  think 
that  you  view  this  important  ques- 
tion too  much  as  an  advocate,  and 
too  little  as  a  statesman. 

Bird.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Court.  This — that  you  argued  as 
if  you  were  retained  by  the  people 
for  the  purpose  of  making  out  a  case 
for  them,  as  against  the  nobility  and 
the  crown,  and  not  like  one  who 
contemplated  the  point  at  issue  in 
all  its  bearings,  and  felt  a  desire  that 
a  decision,  which  is  to  affect  the 
whole  form  of  our  government, 
should  be  formed  with  a  due  regard 
to  all  the  elements  of  which  it  is 
composed.  You  forget  that  the  Con- 
stitution is  monarchical,  in  contend- 
ing for  the  pure  democracy  of  the 
House  of  Commons.  Give  me  leave 
to  ask  you  which  of  the  three  es- 
tates da  you  consider  at  present  the 
most  influential  ? 

Bird.  Assuredly  the  Commons; 
It  is  more  powerful  than  the  other 
two  together. 

Court.  I  think  it  is.  If  the  House 
of  Commons  resolutely  determine 
to  carry  any  measure,  they  must,  in 
the  long  run,  be  successful  against 
any  opposition  which  they  could 
encounter  from  the  Lords  and  the 
Crown.  This  being  so,  does  that 
estate  require  more  power  which  is 
already  so  powerful  'i  Do  the  other 
estates  possess  any  exorbitant  power, 
when  united  they  are,  confessedly, 
unequal  to  a  contest  with  the  popu- 
lar branch  of  the  Constitution  ?  De- 
pend upon  it,  it  is  because  the  Com- 
mons have  already  acquired  so  much, 
that  they  require  more.  It  is  be- 
cause the  crown  and  the  nobility 
have  lost  so  much,  and  are,  in  con- 
sequence, so  defenceless,  that  their 
privileges  are  to  be  still  farther  in- 
vaded. I  confess  I  should  rather 
see  the  office  perish,  after  all  that 
gave  it  importance  and  dignity  was 
taken  away,  than  continue  to  exist 
in  a  state  of  pitiable  imbecility, 
which  can  only  excite  the  sorrow  of 
its  friends,  and  the  derision  of  its 
enemies. 

Bird.   But  are  the  people  to  be 
mocked  by  unreal  representatives  ? 

Court.  Is  the  country  to  be  mock- 
ed by  an  unreal  constitution  ?  It  lias 


300 


A  Conversation  on 


been  well  said,  in  one  of  the  late 
discussions,  that  if  the  present  Bill 
should  pass,  our  Constitution  will  no 
longer  be  described  as  composed  of 
Kuig,  Lords,  and  Commons,  but  of 
Co  -.unions,  Lords,  and  King.  That 
which  has  always  been  first  will  be 
last,  and  the  last  first.  The  popular 
will  will  encroach  upon  the  func- 
tions of  the  national  judgment  ;  and 
upon  the  most  important  questions 
thatcottce.ru  the  honour  or  the  inte- 
rests of  the  country,  neither  the  wis- 
dom of  the  hereditary  counsellors  of 
t!i;'  state,  nor  the  firmness  of  the  so- 
vereign, can.  long  prevail  against  the 
"  sic  volo,  sic  jubeo,"  of  a  radical 


Bird.  I  cannot  but  think  that  you 
are  croaking.  I  remember  predic- 
tions of  the  very  same  kind,  when 
the  Test  and  Corporation  Act  was 
repealed,  and,  still  more  recently,  at 
the  passing  of  the  Catholic  Bill. 
You  surely  caunot  forget  them  ? 
«i  fiCdwrf.-/  No:  nor  should  you  fail 
to  perceive  that  they  are  all  in  pro- 
gress towards  fulfilment.  The  repeal 
of  the  Test  and  Corporation  Act 
facilitated  the  passing  of  the  Catho- 
lic Bill,  as  that  now  facilitates  the 
proposed  Reform  in  Parliament.  Had 
the  Duke  wisely  made  a  stand  upon 
the  first  question,  and  taken  the  pro- 
per means  of  enlightening  the  public 
mind,  he  would  not  live  to  witness 
the  overthrow  of  the  Constitution. 
But  he  thrust  emancipation  down 
the  throats,  of  -the  people  of  Eng- 
land, and  they  will  no\v,  in  iheir 
turn,  thrust  Reform  down  his  throat. 

Brownlout  {who  here  interposed}. 
Well,  1  must  say  that  the  mischief,  if 
any,  which  has  arisen  from  passing 
the  Catholic  Bill,  has  been  produced 
chiefly  by  its  opponents.  Had  they 
not  been  driven  into  opposition  to 
the  Duke  by  a  resentment  that  pre- 
vailed against  their  better  judgment, 
he  could  not  have  been  compelled 
to  resign,  and  the  present  disastrous 
measure,  would  never  have  been 
contemplated,  SOBIJ  mi  {  nso  ,nifiss 

Court.  But  the  Duke  should  have 
calculated  upon  that  resentment.  I 
do  not  justify  it;  on  the  contrary,  I 
deplore  it;  but,  I.  say,  it  was  inevi- 
table. No  Parliamentary  leader  can 
safely  disregard  the  honest  prejudi- 
ces of  his  adherents.  The  Duke  de- 
liberately sacrificed  the  Tory  party 
to  the  carrying  of  the  Catholic  Bill. 
Would  that  he  could,  even  now,  see 


the  Refoim  Bill,  (Aug. 

his  error !  But  I  much  fear  that  the 
same  obstinacy  which,  made  him 
persist  in  it  at  first,  will  prevent  his 
acknowledgment  of  it,  even  when 
the  consequences  are  so  obviously 
deplorable. 

Brown.  I  am  glad,  however,  to 
perceive  that  the  Tory  party,  or 
what  is  left  of  it,  are  acting  together 
with  spirit  and  unanimity.  They 
have  at  length  been  brought  to  a 
sense  of  their  common  interest,  and 
no  longer  choose  to  resemble  the 
man  who,  to  destroy  the  rats,  burnt 
his  stack  of  corn. 

Court.  I  will  not  be  a  prophet  of 
evil,  and  therefore  shall  only  express 
my  fervent  wishes  that  the  mischief 
which  they  have  done  may  not  be 
irremediable.  It  can  only  be  coun- 
teracted by  a  cautious  and  temperate 
co-operation,  in  opposition  to  the 
present  ministers,  very  different  in- 
deed from  the  indiscretion  and  mis- 
policy  which  provoked  that  quarrel 
amongst  themselves  that  threatens 
to  be  so  fatal  to  the  country. 

Bird.  A  quarrel  which  I  cannot 
lament,  as  it  has  led  to  results  most 
desirable.  I  cannot,  for  the  life  of 
me,  see  how  the  rotten  boroughs  are 
essential  to  the  constitution.  >, ft\± 

Court.  Do  you  consider  the  House 
of  Lords  essential  to  the  constitution  ? 

Bird.  Why  yes ; — But  not  a  House 
of  Lords  possessing  so  extensive  an 
influence  in  the  House  of  Commons. 

Court.  And  yet  you  have  admit- 
ted what  amounts  to  an  acknowledg- 
ment, thatwithoutsome.9?<cA  influence 
it  could  not  maintain  its  position  ns 
a  substantive  estate  of  the  realm  ;  for 
it  does  not  possess  one  particle  of 
influence  beyond  what  is  strictly  de- 
fensive. The  times  have  gono  by 
when  the  influence,  either  of  the 
Lords  or  of  the  Crown,  could  en- 
danger public  liberty.  The  reaction  is 
now  the  other  way.  And  yet  you  are 
for  fortifying  and  reinforcing  a  De- 
mocracy, which  has  already  become 
paramount,  against  privileges  which 
have  long  been  innocuous,  and  are 
now  contemptible.  Depend  upon  it, 
sir,  the  more  intelligent  of  those 
who  advocate  the  present  measure, 
do  so,  not  in  the  vain  expectation  of 
improving  the  present  form  of  go- 
vernment, but  with  the  certainty  of 
establishing  pure  republicanism  up- 
on the  ruins  of  our  hallowed  consti- 
tution. ,-.  ii.f.i  > 
Bird,  Such  are  not  my  views.  I 


1831.] 


A  Convocation  on 


look  upon  the  extinction  of  the  rotten 
boroughs  as  a  real  and  solid  improve- 
ment. The  time  was  when  these  bo- 
roughs were  not  rot'ten — when  they 
returned"  bonafide"  representatives 
of  the  people.  Where  can  be  the  harm 
that  such  should  be  the  case  again  ? 

Court.  The  time  never  was  when 
the  nobility,  as  a  body,  possessed  less 
influence  than  they  do  at  present. 
The  harm  of  abridging  that  influence, 
which  is  at  present  scarcely  sufficient 
for  the  maintenance  of  their  rights 
and  dignities,  I  have  already  decla- 
red. Supposing  them  without  any 
such  influence,  which  is  the  state  of 
things  you  contemplate,  and  suppo- 
sing that,  in  such  a  case,  they  had  the 
temerity  to  differ  from  the  House  of 
Commons,  what  would  be  the  conse- 
quence ? 

Bird.  That  they  should  yield.  That 
must  be  the  case  in  the  event  of  any 
collision  even  at  present. 

Court.  So  that  it  is,  at  all  events, 
quite  clear,  that,  whatever  the  Lords 
may  suffer  from  the  usurpation  of 
the  Commons,  the  Commons  can  suf- 
fer nothing  from  the  usurpation  of 
the  Lords.  That  is,  in  the  nature  of 
things,  an  evil  not  tobe  apprehended  ; 
and  yet  it  is  the  apprehension  of  it 
which  could  alone  justify  the  Reform 
Bill. 

Bird.  The  spirit  of  the  age  will 
justify  the  Reform  Bill.  Men  are  not 
now  to  be  hard-worked  or  trammel- 
led as  they  were  formerly. 

Court.  And  yet  it  is  quite  possi- 
ble that  ignorance  and  prejudice  may 
be  found  to  be  as  vexatious  taskmas- 
ters as  ever  were  superstition  and 
tyranny.  The  mob  have  never  been 
merciful  or  enlightened  rulers.  And 
our  present  Reformers  are  for  resol- 
ving every  thing  into  the  volition  of 
the  mob.  They  have  evoked  a  demon 
whom  they  cannot  command; — and 
the  time  may  not  be  far  distant  when 
they  shall  deplore,  with  unavailing 
regret,  that  they  were  ever  impelled, 
by  the  spirit  of  faction,  or  the  lust  of 
power,  to  bring  a  withering  curse 
upon  themselves  and  their  country. 

Bird.  But  would  you  admit  of  no 
change  in  the  present  system  ?  Is  it, 
in  your  opinion,  so  absolutely  perfect 
as  not  to  be  susceptible  of  improve- 
ment ? 

Court.  Your  last  question  answers 
itself.  Nothing  human  can  be  perfect. 
To  your  first  question  I  reply,  that  I 


Ae  Reform  Bill.  301 

would  admit  of  no  change  that  WSLK 
merely  speculative,  and  that  I  would 
admit  of  any  change  that  might 
be  approved  by  reason,  and  justified 
by  experience. 

Brown.  I  am  desirous  of  hearing 
you  explain  yourself  more  fully  upon 
that  point.  In  the  first  place,  what  do 
you  mean  by  merely  speculative 
changes  pJflfiftoqfrii 

Court.  Changes  which  have  fov 
their  object  a  greater  degree  of  mere- 
ly theoretical  perfection,  and  which 
are  not  required  by  any  pressing  ne- 
cessity in  the  actual  state  of  affairs. 
For  instance,  my  friend  Bird  com- 
plains that  Gatton  and  Old  Sarum  send 
representatives  to  Parliament,  •  He 
would  have  them  forthwith  disfran- 
chised, I  ask  what  evil  hare  they 
done  —  and  I  am  not  satisfied  that 
such  a  sentence  should  be  carried 
into  effect  against  them,  until  I  am 
clearly  convinced  that  the  privilege 
which  they  have  so  long  exercised  is 
injurious  to  the  country.  WheneTer 
it  can  be  proved  that  is  the  case,  I 
surrender  them  to  the  tender  mer- 
cies of  the  Reformers.*  &  b*h 

Brown.  I  think,  Bird,  that  is  a  fail- 
proposal.  Are  you  ready  to  close 
with  it1?  •-*•'•' 

Bird.  Nay,  nay.  If  you  defend 
Gatton  and  Old  Sarum,  I  have  no  more 
to  say.  After  that  you  would,  defend 
any  thing. 

Court.  It  is  not  necessary  to  de- 
fend them  until  they  are  assailed  by 
some  specific  allegation.  I  can  only 
say,  that  if  any  such  allegation  is  to 
be  made,  I  am  ready  to  listen  to  it  ; 
and  if  proved,  to  act  upon  it.  What 
more  would  you  have  ?  The  only 
difference  between  us  upon  this 
point  is,  that  you  would  first  'con- 
demn, and  then  enquire.  I  would 
first  enquire,  and  then,  if  necessary, 
condemn.  I  hope  I  should  not  acquit 
against  proof,  but  I  would  not  con- 
demn without  proof,  or  punish  with- 
out conviction.  I  ask  you,  therefore, 
again,  can  you  trace  any  specific  evil 
under  which  the  country  labours  to 
the  representatives  of  Gatton  and  Old 


Bird.    I  cannot.    ;aJ  ;Ji  siofqeb 
Court.     Have  you  any  reason  to 
believe  that  they  have  not  generally 
discharged  their  duty  in  Parliament 
as  honestly  and  as  ably  as  any  other 
members?^  **A* 
Bird,    I  have  not.  *H  t«l>  ^ 


S02 


A  Conversation  on 


Court.  Then  why  disfranchise 
them  ? 

Bird.  Because  I  would  not  have 
the  mere  nominees  of  an  aristocrat 
usurp  the  places  of  representatives 
of  the  people. 

Court.  In  other  words,  because 
you  wish  to  curtail  the  influence  of 
the  House  of  Lords,  and  augment  the 
influence  of  the  House  of  Commons. 
Now,  I  aBk  you,  upon  the  whole  is 
that  necessary  ? 

Bird.  For  that  view  of  the  sub- 
ject, I  must  acknowledge  that  the 
House  of  Commons  is  at  present  in 
no  great  danger  from  the  House  of 
Lords.  It  can,  at  least,  maintain  its 
own.  But  Gatton  and  Old  Sarum  are 
notoriously  bought  and  sold.  Surely 
you  will  not  defend  that  ? 

Court.  If  that  be  notorious,  it 
can  be  proved;  and  if  it  be  proved, 
you  have  your  remedy.  But  I  much 
doubt  that  it  is  as  you  say.  However, 
I  leave  that  consideration  as  I  found 
it  Are  you  willing  to  make  their 
disfranchisement  depend  upon  the 
notoriety  of  their  corruption  ? 

Bird.  Why,  no.  A  thing  may  be 
tolerably  certain  without  being  sus- 
ceptible of  such  proof  as  would  jus- 
tify a  conviction  in  a  court  of  jus- 
tice. And  the  representatives  of  the 
people  ought  to  be  like  Casar's  wife, 
not  only  free  from  corruption,  but 
from  the  very  suspicion  of  corrup- 
tion. Now,  it  is  certainly  known  that, 
with  respect  to  these  boroughs,  that 
is  not  the  case.  They  are  a  great 
offence  to  the  people. 

Court.  When  do  you  call  a  mem- 
ber of  Parliament  corrupt  ? 

Bird.  When  he  is  influenced  by 
a  personal  consideration  to  vote 
against  what  he  knows  to  be  the  in- 
terest of  his  country. 

Court.  No  matter  what  that  per- 
sonal consideration  is  ? 

Bird.  No  matter  what  that  con- 
sideration is. 

Court.  Whether  the  emoluments 
of  office  or  mob  popularity — popu- 
lar applause  or  public  plunder? 

Bird.    Assuredly. 

Court.  Then  I  am  bold  to  affirm 
that  few  of  our  flaming  patriots  can 
escape  the  charge  of  political  cor- 
ruption;— for  few  of  them,  indeed  I 
know  not  any,  who  .are  not  as  basely 
solicitous  for  the  favour  of  the  mob, 
as  any  of  their  opponents  can  be  for 
the  favour  of  the  Minister ;  so  that 


the  Reform  Bill  [Aug. 

you  see  it  does  not  follow  that  by 
throwing  open  the  rotten  boroughs, 
you  can  do  away  with  all  corruption. 
Bird.  Why,  there  is  this  difference, 
the  people  generally  choose  those 
who  agree  with  them  in  all  cardinal 
points :  so  that  there  is  no  forte  put 
upon  their  inclinations.  They  are, 
to  all  intents  and  purposes,  free 
agents. 

Court.  And  may  not  the  same  be 
said  of  the  nominees  of  the  borough 
proprietors  ?  Surely  no  patron  will 
choose  a  representative  who  does 
not  agree  with  him  in  all  principal 
points;  so  that  there  is  no  force  put 
upon  his  inclinations.  If  the  truth 
were  known,  I  believe  it  would  be 
found,  that  the  instances  of  depar- 
ture from  principle,  for  the  purpose 
of  securing  mob  popularity,  are 
much  more  numerous  than  those 
which  take  place  from  any  other 
cause.  "  We  are  called  Indepen- 
dents" said  a  poor  dissenting  minis- 
ter once  to  me,  "  but  we  are  the 
most  dependent  creatures  in  the 
whole  world." 

Brown.  Undoubtedly,  Bird,  that 
is  true.  Neither  Hunt  nor  O'Connell, 
nor  Hobhouse,  nor  Hume,  dare  dis- 
pbey  the  behests  of  their  constitu- 
ents;— and  they  can  no  more  be 
called  independent,  than  the  man 
who  chooses  to  remain  in  prison  can 
be  called  free. 

Bird.  But  it  is  one  thing  to  be 
under  the  influence  of  the  people, 
who  always,  at  least,  intend  to  judge 
aright ;  another  to  be  under  the  in- 
fluence of  a  boroughmonger,  who 
seldom  looks  beyond  his  own  per- 
sonal interest. 

Court.  Good  intentions  do  not 
confer  the  ability  of  judging  wisely 
respecting  important  questions  of 
state  policy;  and  the  decisions  of 
a  tumultuous  assembly  are  never 
maturely  digested.  They  are  much 
more  frequently  the  ebullitions  of 
passion  than  the  deductions  of  rea- 
son. Besides,  no  individual  com- 
Kosing  one  of  a  tumultuous  assem- 
ly  feels  accountable  for  the  instruc- 
tions which  are  given  to  the  repre- 
sentatives, and,  therefore,  they  are 
never  given  with  that  anxious  fore- 
sight and  circumspection  which  be- 
long to  more  responsible  advisers. 
They  are,  in  fact,  in  general,  charac- 
terised by  haste,  indiscretion,  igno- 
rance, prejudice,  and  precipitancy. 


1831.1 


A  Conversation  on  the  Reform  Bill. 


Of  the  borough  proprietors,  it  must 
be  admitted,  that  they  have  a  stake 
in  the  country;  and  they  will  be 
amongst  the  first  to  feel  the  conse- 
quences of  any  serious  errors  which 
are  committed  by  our  rulers.  Their 
interests  are  identified  with  the  secu- 
rity of  established  order.  Granting, 
therefore,  that  their  intentions  are  to 
serve  themselves,  these  can  only  be 
carried  into  effect  by  consulting  the 
wellbeing  of  the  country.  At  least 
they  must  be  very  shortsighted  not 
to  see  that  their  own  interests  are 
insecure,  in  whatever  degree  the 
honour,  the  dignity,  and  the  stability 
of  the  government  are  endangered. 
Brown.  And,  in  point  of  tact,  the 
steadiness  and  consistency  which 
have  characterised  our  government, 
could  only  have  been  produced  by 
the  manner  in  which  the  legislative 
body  have  been  brought  under  the 
influence  of  a  responsible  executive, 
by  means  of  the  close  boroughs.  It 
was  thus  only  that  the  credit  of  the 
country  could  be  maintained,  its  co- 
lonial possessions  secured,  and  its 
good  faith  preserved  inviolate.  A 
government  depending  upon  mob 
popularity,  may  be  said  to  be  living 
from  hand  to  mouth.  The  most  they 
can  do  is  to  make  provision  for  the 
day  passing  over  them. 

Court.  In  truth,  sir,  the  change 
which  we  are  about  to  undergo,  will 
be  felt  by  the  statesman  to  be  like 
passing  from  a  trade-wind  into  the 
region  of  storms.  There  are  few  of 
our  reformers  who  possess  the  power 
of  saying  to  the  troubled  elements 
which  they  have  excited,  "  Peace,  be 
still." 

Brown.  I  believe  there  are  still 
fewer  who  possess  the  inclination. 

Court.  But  let  me  not  be  under- 
stood as  saying,  that  demagogues 
are  without  their  use.  They  excite 
the  public  spirit;  they  keep  alive  a 
constitutional  jealousy  of  oppres- 
sion. When  thus  occupied,  they  are 
in  their  proper  place,  and  not  when 
they  are  at  the  head  of  the  national 
councils.  They  resemble  salt,  which, 
though  not  fit  to  be  used  for  food  by 
itself,  is  the  means  of  preserving 
food  much  longer  than  it  could  be 
kept  without  it.  In  fact,  one  of  my 
.objections  to  this  Bill  is,  that  it  will 
take  the  demagogues  out  of  that  po- 
sition, where  they  may  be  innocent- 
ly, if  not  advantageously  employed, 


303 

and  put  them  into  one  where  they 
must  be  mischievous.  This  is  a  great 
evil.  We  stand,  at  present,  upon 
the  verge  of  the  precipice,  and  the 
blind  are  about  to  lead  the  blind. 

Brown.  If  they  were  only  blind, 
the  evil  would  not  be  so  great ;  con- 
scious blindness  begets  a  sense  of 
helplessness.  The  misfortune  at 
present  is,  that  our  political  buzzards 
fancy  they  can  see  better  than 
other  people.  By  and  bye  they  will 
find  their  mistake. 

Court.  Not,  I  fear,  until  it  may  be 
too  late  for  the  country  to  retrace  its 
steps.  A  little  folly  may  do  more 
harm  than  much  wisdom  can  repair. 
It  is  easy  to  pull  down  :  That  only 
requires  physical  strength.  It  is 
difficult  to  build  up:  That  requires 
much  physical  strength  and  moral 
wisdom. 

Brown.  The  late  Opposition  will 
make  but  a  bad  Ministry,  and  the 
late  Ministry  but  a  bad  Opposition. 

Court.  I  am  not  so  sure  of  the 
latter  proposition.  It  is  true  that  the 
present  Opposition  cannot  brandish 
the  tomahawk  or  the  scalping  knife 
with  either  the  recklessness  or  the 
skill  of  their  late  opponents ;  but 
they  have  been,  at  length,  thorough- 
ly excited  and  united,  by  the  dangers 
with  which  they  are  threatened  j 
and  will,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  oppose 
themselves  to  the  tide  of  innovation, 
as  one  man.  All  is  lost  if  they  now 
should  cherish  any  petty  jealousies 
or  resentments. 

Brown.  But  there  is  no  hope  of 
stopping  the  Bill  in  the  Commons  ? 

Court.  No.  And  I  am,  there- 
fore, of  opinion,  that  the  conserva- 
tive party  should  not  even  attempt 
to  qualify  it.  They  should  suffer  it 
to  pass  in  its  naked  deformity,  and  to 
go  to  the  dernier  resort  with  all  its 
imperfections  on  its  head. 

Brown.  Aye : — the  longer  and  the 
more  conspicuously  the  cloven  foot  is 
exposed,  the  better.  There  are  many 
who  may  yet  be  brought  to  see,  the 
difference  between  what  is  divine 
and  what  is  diabolical.  The  tempter 
has  succeeded  with  the  Commons, 
bysaying,  "  All  these  will  Igivethee, 
if  thou  wilt  fall  down  and  worship 
me  !"  To  the  Lords  he  uses  a  dif- 
ferent language,  and  threatens,  if 
they  are  not  obedient  to  his  bidding, 
"  to  take  from  them  even  that  which 
they  have." 


304 


A  Conversation  on  tie  He/arm  Sill. 


Court.    In    tbe  Lords    must    be 


fought  the  great  battle  of  the  con- 
stitution;—a  battle  which  will  deter- 
mine the  fate  of  England  for  at  least 
a  century  to  come.  The  Barons  at 
Runnymede  did  not  act  a  more  im- 
portant part  than  that  which  must 
be  acted  by  the  Peers  spiritual  and 
temporal  of  the  present  Parliament. 
It  is  fearful  to  contemplate  the  pos- 
sible result. 

Bird.  It  is  indeed,  if  the  Lords 
should  be  insane  enough  to  reject  a 
measure  upon  which  the  people  may 
now  be  said  to  have  decided.  They 
may,  perhaps,  delay,  they  cannot 
stop  it;  and,  in  the  end,  it  will  be 
worse  for  themselves. 

Court.  Is  this  the  language  of  a 
man  who  contends  that  the  popular 
branch  of  the  constitution  requires 
additional  power? 

Bird.  I  hope  they  will  always  have 
power  enough  to  assert  their  rights. 
'Cfflf$*'.l  only  hope  that  they  may 
tjaye  a  sufficient  sense  of  right  to 
confine  themselves  within  the  bounds 
of  their  legitimate  authority.  If  the 
Lords  threatened  them  for  not  pass- 
ing a  Bill  which  originated  in  the 
Upper  House,  what  a  cry  would 
be  raised  of  unconstitutional  in- 
terference? How  would  the  coun- 
try resound  with  denunciations  a- 
gainst  the  invaders  of  liberty  ?  But 
when  they  are  threatened  for  not 
passing  a  Bill  which  has  originated 
in  the  Lower  House,  and  which  me- 
ditates an  almost  total  extinction  of 
their  authority,  against  such  over- 
weening arrogance,  such  contume- 
lious injustice,  no  voice  is  raised, 
and  thev  are  thought  the  most  un- 
reasonable men  alive  because  they 
do  not  submit,  without  a  struggle, 
to  what  amounts  to  political  annihi- 
lation. One  is  reminded  of  the  story 
which  Johnson  tells  of  the  man  who 
was  skinning  the  eels,  and  who 
damned  them  "for  not  lying  still  I" 

Brown.  Unquestionably,  it  is  a 
great  aggravation  of  all  this,  that  it 
is  done  upon  the  supposition,  that 
the  Lords  are  too  powerful  for  the 
Commons ! 

Court.  Yes.  Upon  a  supposition 
falsified  by  the  spirit  of  the  whole 
proceeding !  The  Lords  are  told 
they  have  too  great  an  influence  in 
the  Commons,  in  the  very  breath 
which  tells  them,  that  it  is  only  by  a 
tame  acquiesence  in  the  decision  of 


the  Commons,  that  they  have  any 
chance  of  preserving  their  indepen- 
dence! They  are  bullied  as  being 
too  weak,  while  they  are  calumniated 
as  being  too  powerful !  There  is 
something  ludicrous  in  the  present 
position  of  affairs,  which  would  pro- 
voke merriment,  if  the  consequences 
were  not  so  fatal.  What  it  will  end 
in,  God  only  knows. 

Bird.  It  will  end  in  the  defeat  of 
an  odious  oligarch y.  ft  • 

Court.  Wbut  you  call  an  oligarchy 
is  identified  with  a  race  of  glory  and 
prosperity,  which,  either  tor  splen- 
dour or  continuance,  is  unexampled 
in  the  history  of  the  world.  No  na- 
tion has  ever  yet  enjoyed  so  much 
liberty,  and  been  free  at  the  same 
time  from  foreign  and  domestic 
evils.  If  the  government  may  be 
judged  of  by  its  results,  if  the  tree 
may  be  known  by  its  fruits,  where 
will  you  find  fairer  fruits  of  trade 
and  commerce,  of  virtue  and  happi- 
ness, of  science  and  civilisation, 
than  in  the  hitherto  happy  England? 

Bird.  What  do  you  call  the  na- 
tional debt? 

Court.  The  cheap  purchase  with 
our  money  of  a  national  security, 
which  other  nations  were  unable  to 
purchase  with  their  blood.  You 
know  well  that  there  never  was  a 
war  more  universally  popular  than 
that  in  which  it  was  contracted.  It 
was  literally  forced  upon  a  minister, 
who  had  all  but  predetermined  to 
remain  at  peace,  and  whose  earliest 
and  most  cherished  anticipations  of 
fame,  were  founded  upon  the  hope 
of  being  able  to  place  the  finances 
of  the  country  upon  a  solid  basis, 
during  a  season  of  tranquillity  and 
retrenchment.  But  he  was  forced 
to  give  way  to  the  universal  feeling, 
that  neither  our  honour  nor  our  in- 
terest could  permit  us  to  endure  the 
aggression  of  Jacobin  France  any 
longer.  When  he  was  once  fairly 
engaged  in  the  contest,  he  carried  it 
on  with  a  noble  ardour.  And  let 
it  not  be  forgotten,  that  the  war  may 
be  said  to  have,  in  a  great  measure, 
created  its  own  resources.  Our  pros- 
peri  Ey,  during  every  year  of  its  con- 
tinuance, more  than  kept  pace  with 
its  expenses.  The  manufacturing 
interest  was  prodigiously  benefited 
by  it;  and  more  waste  lands  were 
reclaimed  in  Ireland,  by  reason  of 
the  demand  for  corn  to  which  it 


1831.] 


A  Conversation  on  tlie  Reform  Bill. 


gave  rise,  than  had  been  brought  in- 
to cultivation  for  the  preceding  cen- 
tury. When,  therefore,  the  national 
debt  is  mentioned,  it  is  enough  to 
say,  that  it  was  incurred  in  the  pro- 
secution of  a  just  and  necessary 
war ;  and  that  resources  were  deve- 
loped during  the  progress  of  it, 
which  rendered  it,  even  in  a  pecu- 
niary point  of  view,  rather  a  gain 
than  a  loss  to  the  country.  If  the  in- 
fluence which  the  minister  possessed 
in  the  House  of  Commons  was  re- 
quired for  carrying  it  on,  that,  in  it- 
self, is  sufficient  to  prove  that  such 
influence  is  sometimes  necessary. 

Brown.  When  I  hear  the  na- 
tional debt  referred  to  as  one  of  the 
evils  arising  out  of  the  borough  sys- 
tem, I  am  tempted  to  think  that,  in 
case  the  proposed  reform  should 
take  place,  the  national  creditor  will 
not  be. very  safe.  Indeed,  he  is  al- 
ready denounced  by  those  who  are 
either  indiscreet  or  honest  enough 
to  confess  the  lengths  to  which  they 
are  ready  to  go,  when  once  the  mob 
have  become  our  masters. 

Court.  Yes.  This  great  measure 
will,  in  that  particular,  operate  the 
very  reverse  of  a  statute  of  bankrupt- 
cy, and  make  debtors  arbitrators  of 
the  fair  demands  of  their  creditors. 
The  question  will  no  longer  be  how 
much  they  honestly  owe,  but  how 
much  they  are  willing  to  pay.  The 
difference  between  "  meum  and 
tuum"  will  soon  be  lost  sight  of, 
and  Cobbett  will  have  an  opportunity 
of  rejoicing  at  the  all  but  universal 
reception  of  what  has  long  been 
with  him  a  favourite  principle,  that 
the  payment  of  our  debts  ought  to 
be  regulated  by  our  convenience. 
But  the  Church  will  probably  be  the 
first  to  suffer.  By  attacking  the 
Funds,  our  reformers  would  only  be 
gratifying  their  cupidity : — by  attack- 
ing the  Church,  they  would  at  the 
same  time  gratify  their  cupidity  and 
their  resentment. 

Brown.  And  when  these  two 
great  interests  are  thus  destroyed, 
what  becomes  of  the  security  of  pri- 
vate property  ? 

Bird.  I  think,  gentlemen,  you  are 
reckoning  without  your  host.  If  we 
may  judge  from  the  state  of  the 
funds,  the  stock-holders  do  not  con- 
ceive themselves  in  very  great  dan- 
ger. 

Court.  Neither  did  they  when  the 


South  Sea  bubble  was  afloat!  All  I 
shall  say  is,  that  my  fears  are  not 
dissipated  by  their  credulity.  The 
phenomenon  to  which  yon  allude,  is, 
however,  remarkable.  You  take,  it 
as  demonstrating  the  force  of  truth ; 
I  look  upon  it  as  exemplifying  the 
prevalence  of  delusion. 

Bird.  But  can  it  be  seriously  sup- 
posed, that  the  noblemen  and  gen- 
tlemen who  have  espoused  the  cause 
of  reform,  would  do  so  if  they  con- 
sidered apprehensions  like  yours  well 
founded  V  Surely,  if  the  constitution 
is,  as  you  suppose,  to  be  subverted 
by  the  present  measure,  Lord  Grey, 
and  his  colleagues  and  supporters, 
could  not  sanction  it.  You  will  al- 
low, at  least,  that  they  have  a  stake 
in  the  country,  which  they  ought  not 
to  place  upon  the  hazard  of  such  a 
die. 

Court.  Do  you  think  Lord  Grey 
and  his  colleagues  could  have  re- 
mained in  office  if  they  had  not 
brought  forward  the  present  mea- 
sure ? 

Bird.  Candidly,  I  do  not  think 
they  could.  Some  such  measure  was 
absolutely  necessary  to  rally  round 
them  the  support  of  tlic  country. 
The  people  would  not  be  satisfied 
with  any  thing  short  of  a  substantial 
measure  of  reform. 

Court.  Then  that  is  quite  suffi- 
cient to  prove  that  they  are  not  men 
who,  in  this  instance  at  least,  sacri- 
fice power  for  the  sake  of  principle; 
— and  however  we  may  respect  their 
arguments,  we  are  not  called  up;?!i 
to  shew  any  great  deference  to  their 
authority.  You  say  they  have  a- 
dopted  the  only  means  by  which 
they  could  secure  the  support  of  the 
people.  I  say  they  have  adopted  the 
only  means  by  which  the 

"  Axnbubiarum  collegia,  pharmacopolise," 

the  ruffianism  of  England,  of  every 
grade  and  order,  could  be  conci- 
liated, and  brought  to  bear, in  its  con- 
centrated energy,  against  the  party 
to  whom  they  have  always  beeii  op- 
posed. We  are  not,  therefore,  to 
consider  their  acts  as  evidence  only 
of  their  unbiassed  and  deliberate 
judgment.  We  know  not  how  far  the 
desire  of  power,  of  which  they  had 
begun  to  taste  the  sweets,  ami  the 
indisposition  to  surrender  that  power 
into  the  hands  of  hated  enemies, 
may  have  blinded  them  to  a  percep- 


306 


A  Conversation 


tion  of  impending  dangerg.  But  the 
fullest  description  of  such  dangers 
might  be  altogether  insufficient  to 
extort  from  them  a  renunciation  of 
their  official  emoluments  and  consi- 
derations. They  seem  to  have  play- 
ed their  political  part  with  the  reck- 
lessness and  desperation  of  game- 
sters, who  are,  generally  speaking, 
as  well  convinced  of  the  ruinous  na- 
ture of  the  propensity  which  they 
indulge,  as  any  moralist  by  whom 
their  conduct  is  criticised;  the  only 
difference  is,  that  they  are  more  un- 
der the  influence  of  a  passion  which 
stifles  conscience,  and  tyrannizes 
over  reason. 

Brown.  Besides,  if  men  of  high 
rank  and  consideration  were  never 
drawn  into  revolutionary  projects, 
revolutions  never  could  occur.  Be- 
fore, therefore,  the  reformers  per- 
suade us  that  a  revolution  is  not  at 
present  likely  to  occur,  because  the 
patrons  of  the  present  Bill  are  men 
of  station  and  property,  they  should 
attempt  to  prove  to  us  that  no  revo- 
lution has  occurred  in  the  history  of 
the  world.  The  truth  is,  that  many 
wise  men  desire  some  reform  ;  many 
weak  men  desire  a  very  consider- 
able reform ;  and  the  Ministers  have, 
by  the  present  measures,  contrived 
to  unite  these  with  the  still  more 
numerous  party  of  wicked  men  who 
will  be  satisfied  with  no  reform,  but 
that  which  must,  eventually,  subvert 
the  constitution. 

Court.  I  confess,  I  am  more  dis- 
posed to  impute  the  errors  into 
which  men  fall  upon  that  subject, 
to  ignorance,  than  to  wickedness. 
Wickedness  implies  more  capacity 
than  I  think  they  possess.  It  is  not 
so  much  that  they  desire  to  destroy, 
as  that  they  do  not  understand  the 
constitution.  Socrates  used  to  say 
of  the  Athenian  government,  that  he 
never  pitied  them  for  the  turbulence 
which  they  experienced,  as  they 
never  took  any  sufficient  pains  to  in- 
struct the  people. 

Brown.  At  least,  that  cannot  be 
said  of  our  government; — as  more 
public  money  has  already  been  spent 
in  the  cause  of  education,  than  would 
purchase  the  fee-simple  of  all 
Greece ! 

Court.  Alas!  But  to  how  little 
purpose!  all  that  has  as  yet  been 
done  has  only  served  to  superadd  to 
ignorance,  conceit  and  presump- 
tion ! 


on  the  Reform  Bill.  {Aug. 

Bird.  Nay,  nay,  Mr  Courtney,  I 
think  you  are  now  downright  illibe- 
ral. I  did  not  believe  that  there  was 
any  one  who  denied  the  great  pro- 
gress which  the  minds  of  the  people 
have  made  in  our  day  in  almostevery 
species  of  knowledge.  Surely  you 
must  allow,  that  the  amount  of  edu- 
cation is  much  more  considerable 
than  it  was  a  century  ago  ? 

Court.  There  is  more  information, 
there  may  be  more  knowledge,  but 
there  is  certainly  less  Avisdom  —  that 
is,  the  wisdom  of  the  present  day 
bears  a  smaller  proportion  to  the  ex- 
isting stock  of  information  and  know- 
ledge, than  it  did  at  almost  any  for- 
mer period. 

Brown.  I  should  be  glad  to  hear 
you  explain  yourself  on  that  subject 
more  at  large. 

Court.  It  lies  in  a  nutshell.  "  A 
little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing." 
Our  people  know  just  enough  to 
excite  their  vanity,  without  knowing 
sufficient  to  enlighten  their  judg- 
ments. They  have  lost  the  modesty 
of  ignorance,  and  have  acquired  no- 
thing better  in  its  stead.  It  was  far 
safer  that  they  should  feel  a  sense  of 
helplessness,  which  made  them  de- 
pend upon  others,  than  be,  as  they 
are,  puffed  up  by  a  groundless  confi- 
dence in  themselves.  And  what  is 
the  consequence?  The  present  state 
of  things.  The  cobblers  and  tailors  of 
our  day  have  learned  to  sneer  at  the 
wisdom  of  our  ancestors. 

Brown.  But,  surely,  every  thing 
must  have  a  beginning.  The  rude 
mass  must  first  be  taught  to  read. 
We  are  not  to  expect  that  they  shall 
pass,  all  at  once,  from  the  rudiments 
of  learning  to  sound  knowledge.  That 
would  be  as  vain  as  to  expect  that 
there  should  be  a  coincidence  be- 
tween the  periods  of  seed-time  and 
harvest.  Let  us  "  cast  our  bread  upon 
the  waters,"  by  giving  all  the  en- 
couragement in  our  power  to  ele- 
mentary education,  and  we  may  be 
sure  that  we  "  shall  find  it  after  many 
days." 

Court.  There  never  was  a  period 
when  elementary  instruction  of  every 
kind  was  more  within  the  reach  of 
all  classes  of  the  people;  at  least  of 
all  those  classes  who  are  capable  of 
receiving  any  instruction  at  all.  That 
is,  certainly,  not  the  want  under 
which  the  people  labour.  They  may 
be  doomed  "to  perish  for  lack  of 
knowledge,"  but  not  for  lack  of  ele- 


1831.]  A  Conversation  on 

mentary  instruction.  I  should  as  soon 
think  of  constructing  a  tank  in  a 
country  irrigated  by  natural  streams, 
as  of  endowing  institutions  for  the 
purpose  of  giving  the  people  what 
they  have  such  ample  opportunities 
of  procuring  for  themselves.  No.  My 
complaint  against  our  course  of  pro- 
ceeding in  these  matters  is  this.  In 
the  first  stages  of  their  progress,  we 
encumber  the  people  with  assistance 
which  they  do  not  want.  In  the 
after  stages,  we  leave  them  without 
that  assistance  when  it  is  absolutely 
necessary.  They  require  no  great 
encouragement  tobe  induced  to  learn 
to  read ;  but,  in  the  precise  scope 
and  tendency  of  their  studies,  they 
do  stand  in  need  of  counsel  and  di- 
rection. We  are  ready  enough  to 
furnish  all  that  can  stimulate,  we  are 
slow  to  afford  that  which  would  steady 
them.  And,  as  we  have  sown,  so  we 
must  reap.  We  have  "  sown  the 
wind,"  and,  I  fear,  we  are  destined 
to  "  reap  the  whirlwind  !" 

Brown.  But  no  system  of  instruc- 
tion which  could  be  devised  would 
make  the  people  all  philosophers.  I 
think  we  do  all  that  we  can  do.  We 
facilitate  the  acquisition  of  those  ac- 
quirements which  are  indispensable 
to  the  attainment  of  knowledge.  The 
use  they  make  of  them  must  depend 
upon  themselves. 

Court.  In  what  consists  the  neces- 
sity of  facilitating  what  is  at  present 
so  very  obvious  and  so  very  easy  ? 
We  are  industriously  occupied  in  re- 
moving the  mole-hills  which  lie  in  the 
way  of  the  acquisition,  while  we  do 
not  even  so  much  as  attempt  to  re- 
move the  mountains  which  so  greatly 
obstruct  the  proper  use  of  know- 
ledge. We  do  the  thing  we  should 
not  do,  and  we  leave  undone  the 
thing,  and  the  only  thing,  to  which 
we  should  have  applied  ourselves 
with  any  extraordinary  solicitude.  If 
we  were  half  as  anxious  about  learn- 
ing made  useful,  as  we  profess  to  be 
about  learning  made  easy,  all  might 
be  well. 

Brown.  Pray,  what  is  your  notion 
of  the  precise  mode  in  which  govern- 
ment should  proceed  upon  that  im- 
portant subject  ? 

Court.  I  do  not  think  it  wise  in 
government  to  interfere  much  in  the 
details  of  national  education.  These 
may  be  left,  and  should  be  left  to  the 
people  themselves.  They  cannot, 


the  Reform  Bin,  507 

however,  be  too  careful  in  training 
the  race  of  men  by  whom  thepeopleare 
to  be  educated.  For  these  they  should 
have  model  schools.  The  course  of 
instruction  should  be  such  as  to  dis- 
abuse them  of  many  of  the  popular 
errors  and  prejudices  which  too  fre- 
quently belong  to  that  class  of  per- 
sons, and  which  they  are  so  mischie- 
vously efficacious  in  disseminating 
amongst  the  people.  Every  encou- 
ragement should  be  given  to  them  to 
carry  this  education  beyond  those  li- 
mits within  which  it  is  at  least  as  lia- 
ble to  be  perverted  to  evil,  as  to  be 
employed  for  good  purposes ;  and 
thus  to  establish  them  upon  the  "terra 
firma"  of  sound  principle.  The  mis- 
fortune is,  that  up  to  that  point  to 
which  the  acquisition  of  knowledge 
is  agreeable,  it  may  be  mischievous  ; 
and  some  way  must  be  made  upon 
that  part  of  the  road,  which  is  both 
steepand  rough,  before  itcan  become 
decidedly  useful.  It  should,  there- 
fore, be  the  object  of  every  wise  go- 
vernment to  encourage,  in  that  class 
of  humble  aspirants  after  literary 
distinctions,  (to  whose  lot  it  will  fall, 
whether  well  or  ill  educated,  to  form 
the  opinions  of  the  little  circles  of 
which  they  are  the  centres,)  such  a 
degree  of  knowledge  as  may  prove 
an  antiseptic  to  the  dangerous  opi- 
nions, both  moral  and  political, 
which  are,  at  present,  so  prevalent, 
and  which  cannot  spread  much  far- 
ther, or  continue  much  longer,  with- 
out subverting  the  foundations  of 
social  order. 

Brown.  The  idea  is  a  good  one  ; 
I  wonder  it  has  not  been  adopted. 

Court.  Nothing  is  more  certain 
than  that  all  minds  above  the  com- 
mon order  are  naturally  insubordi- 
nate;— and  it  is  not  until  they  are 
instructed  and  disciplined  by  much 
thought  and  some  experience,  that 
they  learn  to  value  and  respect  those 
artificial  distinctions  which  are  ne- 
cessary for  the  wellbeing  of  civil 
society.  Now,  those  who  feel  with- 
in them  claims  to  personal  consi- 
deration, are  much  more  disposed  to 
desire  the  acknowledgment  of  them, 
than  to  follow  up  that  course  of 
study,  by  the  prosecution  of  which 
they  must  be  disabused  of  their  vain 
ideas  of  self-importance.  The  for- 
mer course  is  easy,  agreeable,  and, 
as  it  would  appear,  personally  ad- 
vantageous ; — the  latter,  irksome, 


.  .  .  . 

80S  A  Conversation  on  the  Reform  Hill. 


arduous,  and  \\\  requited.  Hundreds 
may  be  taught  to  read,  of  whom  few 
can  be  trained  to  think; — and  the 
million  will  always  derive  their  opi- 
nions from  the  master  miuds  that 
have  attained  an.  ascendency  over 
them.  Is  it  not,  therefore,  most  im- 
portant, that  the  judgments  of  those 
who  must  thus,  in  the  nature  of 
things,  influence  the  national  senti- 
ment, should  be  properly  qualified 
for  that  species  of  intellectual  sove- 
reignty, which  they  are  called  to 
exercise  over  their  fellow  men  ? 
When  we  look  for  the  causes  of  the 
great  unsettlement  of  the  foundation 
of  government,  which,  more  than 
any  other  symptom,  is  characteris- 
tic of  the  present  times,  we  are  told 
"  the  schoolmaster  is  abroad"  And 
it  must  be  acknowledged,  that  the 
answer  completely  solves  the  pro- 
blem. Men  who  possess  most  degree 
of  strength  of  mind,  and  decision  of 
character,  which  enable  them,  if  I 
may  so  speak,  to  fugle  for  the  society 
in  which  they  live,  are  without  the 
knowledge  or  the  desire  which 
would  either  prompt  or  enable  them 
to  impart  to  it  sound  views  or  whole- 
some counsel.  The  blind  thus  lead 
the  blind; — and  the  consequences 
are,  that  deplorable  state  of  things 
which  might  have  been  foreseen,  and 
which  a  different  system  would,  I 
believe,  have  prevented. 

Brown.  I  am  unwilling  to  appear 
a  caviller.  But  surely  you  do  not 
trace  the  evils  by  which  we  are  at 
present  beset,  to  the  attempts  which 
have  been  made  to  open  the  miuds 
of  the  people?  ,  j  bliud 

Court.  Observe,  I  do  not  object 
to  any  system  of  national  education 
which  would  really  have  the  effect 
of  enlightening  and  improving  the 
public  mind.  Oa  the  contrary,  I 
propose  such  a  system  ;  and  object 
to  the  present  only  because  its  ten- 
dency but  thwarts  the  intentions  of 
those  by  whom  it  has  been  promo- 
tod.  The  people  have  been  excited 
by  it  to  intellectual  activity,  and  left 
without  safe  instructors.  The  old 
bottles  have  been  filled  with  new 
wine.  If  the  choice,  therefore,  lay 
between  the  present  system,  and  no 
system  at  all,  I  confess  I  should  in- 
cline rather  to  leave  the  people  as 
they  were,  than  incur  the  risk  or 
be  responsible  for  the  mischief  of 
over- excitement  and  misdirection. 


For,  in  that  case,  the  choice  would 
not  be  between  ignorance  and  know- 
ledge, between  darkness  and  light, 
between  total  blindness  and  the  per- 
fect use  of  the  eyes  ;  but,  to  continue 
the  last  metaphor,  between  blindnees 
and  that  state  of  bewildering  vision 
which  might  arise  from  having  the 
eye  imperfectly  couched  for  a  cata- 
ract. There  could  be  no  comparison 
between  the  sense  of  helplessness 
which  attended  the  former  state,  ami 
in  which  the  mind  might  readily 
learn  to  acquiesce,  and  that  restless- 
ness and  impatience  which  must  bo- 
engendered  by  the  manner  in  which 
light  had  been  let  in  upon  the  organ 
which  was  so  unfitted  to  receive  it — 
by  which  the  individual  was  at  tin1 
same  time  rendered  unable  to  direct 
himself,  and  unwilling  to  be  directed 
by  others.  We  are  not,  however,  re- 
duced to  that  alternative.  The  ques- 
tion is  not  whether  knowledge,  and 
the  means  of  acquiring  knowledge, 
should  be  imparted  or  withheld ;  but 
only  how  it  may  be  most  efficiently 
communicated.  My  plan  is  simple. 
I  would  no  more  interfere  with  thp 
ordinary  routine  of  education,  than  1 
would  interfere  with  the  ordinary 
diet  of  the  people.  I  would,  how- 
ever, establish  seminaries  for  the  im- 
provement of  those  who  are  to  be  the 
instructors  of  youth,  and  take  cr.rs 
to  give  them  such  advantages  as  mus<t 
ensure  them  a  preference  as  teachers. 
The  people  have,  generally  speaking, 
sagacity  enough  to  discover  the  dif- 
ference between  well-qualified  and 
ill-qualified  schoolmasters;  and  if  we 
furnish  them  with  the  former,  we 
may  be  tolerably  sure  of  not  casting 
our  pearls  before  swine. 

Brown.  You  are  certainly  right  in 
your  last  observation.  I  have  never 
known  an  instance  where  a  good  and 
an  indifferent  schoolmaster  were 
equally  accessible,  and  where  the 
former  was  not  preferred ;  provided 
there  was  no  meddling  or  interfering 
with  the  people,  to  procure  him  ;i 
preference.  In  that  case,  indeed,  the 
tide  may  set  in  against  him. 

Court.  And  of  such  meddling  am! 
interference  there  has  been  vastly 
too  much.  Y\  herever  it  takes  placo, 
the  people  always  begin  to  suspect 
some  sinister  object.  It  is  far  better 
to  leave  them  to  themselves.  I  have 
known  some  excellent  schoolmasters 
who  were  h-unted  out  of  their  re- 


1831.] 

spective  communities  by  the  injudi- 
cious patronage  of  those  who  meant 
them  well.  Too  many  are  disposed 
at  the  present  day  to  thrust  educa- 
tion down  the  throats  of  the  people 
whether  they  will  or  no.  They  thus 
only  excite  a  repugnance  to  it,  which 
would  not  otherwise  exist,  and  pro- 
duce a  reaction  which  more  than  de- 
feats their  object.  /Ij-v.»ht»q<i 

Bird.  Most  of  what  you  have  lat- 
terly said,  has  my  most  hearty  con- 
currence. I  could  mention  many  in- 
stances in  proof  of  the  assertion,  that 
the  people,  when  not  interfered  with, 
in  general  prefer  the  best  schoolmas- 
ter, even  though  he  should  be  a  per- 
son of  a  different  religious  persuasion 
from  themselves.  Ihaveknownmany 
Roman  Catholic  priests  educated  by 
Protestant  clergymen ;  but,  I  am 
firmly  persuaded,  if  any  attempt  had 
been  made  to  induce  their  parents  to 
send  them  to  what  would  be  called 
heretical  schools,  they  would  as  soon 
have  consented  to  send  them  to  the 
devil. 

Brown.  Yes.  In  the  one  case  bi- 
gotry  is  suffered  to  slumber,  and  good 
sense  to  operate.  In  the  other  case, 
the  reverse  of  this  takes  place.  Our 
proselyting  people  too  often  mistake 
ofticiousness  for  activity,  and  indis- 
cretion for  zeal. 

Court.  Indeed,  if  those  who  have 
exhibited  such  a  laudable  desire  for 
the  spread  of  education,  were  aware 
of  the  great  importance  of  not  forcing 
if  upon  the  people,  and  of  suffering 
l!ie  appetite  for  it  to  be  excited,  be- 
fore the  intellectual  banquet  by  which 
it  is  to  be  gratified  is  exposed  to  their 
view,  they  would  proceed  in  a  dif- 
ferent manner  for  the  accomplish- 
ment of  their  interesting. object.  At 
present,  nothing  can  exceed  their 
earnestness  with  the  people  to  send 
their  children  to  their  schools.  If 
the  thing  were  properly  managed, 
the  parents  should  make  interest  to 
have  their  children  admitted  to  them. 
They  should  be  made  to  feel  the  ad- 
vantages of  education;  and  if  that 
were  done,  it  would  be  as  little  ne- 
cessary to  solicit  them  to  permit  their 
children  to  be  educated,  as  to  permit 
Them  to  be  fed.  As  the  thing  stands 
at  present,  it  wears  a  suspicious  ap- 
pearance, and  the  schools  are  consi- 
dered little  better  than  so  many  traps 
for  converts.  But  you,  Mr  Bird, 
cannot,  or,  at  le^st,  ought  not  to  be 
•  • 


A  Conversation  on  the  Reform  Bill. 


309 

very  angry  with  a  system  that  may 
be  said  to  have  contributed  its  full 
proportion  towards  giving  you  your 
majority  upon  the  Reform  Bill. 

Bird.     How  is  that? 

Court.  To  what  do  you  attribute 
the  success  of  your  favourite  mea- 
sure ? 

Bird.  To  its  popularity  —  other 
circumstances,  also,  favouring  — 
it  having  suited  the  views  of  Minis- 
ters to  recommend  it:  nor  should  I 
omit  to  mention  how  much  we  are 
indebted  to  our  patriot  King. 

Court.  Just  so.  Its  popularity  is 
the  "sine  quanon"  of  its  success.  If 
the  measure  were  not  popular,  the 
views  of  Ministers  would  not  be  an- 
swered by  bringing  it  forward ;  and, 
undoubtedly,  it  would  not  have  been 
suggested  by  the  Sovereign.  Now, 
what  is  the  secret  of  its  popularity  ? 
The  presumptuous  self-confidence 
that  has  been  generated  by  what  is 
miscalled  national  education  —  that 
degree  of  education  which  enables 
a  rustic  and  a  mechanical  population 
to  familiarize  themselves  with  the 
sedition  and  the  blasphemies  of  Cob- 
bett  and  Tom  Paine.  This  it  is  that 
has  been  the  medium  of  that  delusion 
that  is  at  present  so  extensively 
prevalent.  It  is  easy  to  excite  a  pre- 
judice against  our  venerable  institu- 
tions. Their  defects  are  obvious  : 
any  charlatan  may  declaim  upon  them 
with  a  certainty  of  reaping  a  harvest 
of  applause.  Not  so  the  uses  to 
which  they  are  subservient ; — these 
are  not  very  readily  made  intelligi- 
ble to  vulgar  and  half-instructed 
minds.  Therefore  it  is  that  those, 
who  would  build  up  or  preserve, 
contend  with  such  fearful  disadvan- 
tages against  those  who  would  pult 
down  or  destroy.  And  th«refbre  it 
is  that  the  people  have  returned  ia 
majority  of  political  mountebanks  to 
Parliament. 

Brown.  It  must  be  allowed  that 
the  people  are  leavened  with  a  strong 
prejudice  against  aristocracy. 

Court.  I  do  not  say  that  it  is  not  an 
honest  prejudice,  but  I  am  sure  it  is 
not  on  that  account  the  less  an  un- 
fortunate one,  or  likely  to  be  unat- 
tended by  most  deplorable  results. 
The  people  will  themselves  find  out 
their  error  when  it  is  impossible  to 
retrace  their  steps. 

Bird.  Well,  gentlemen,  you  may 
talk  as  you  please ;  but  I  cannot  con- 
f9iib»im  r 


310 

sent  to  think  the  people  either  pur- 
blind or  ignorant,  because  they  think 
that  such  places  as  Birmingham  and 
Manchester  should  be  represented  in 
Parliament. 

Court.  Let  us  understand  each 
other  upon  that  part  of  the  subject. 
If  you  can  prove  that  the  interests  of 
these  important  towns  require  repre- 
sentation, 1  am  content  that  they 
should  have  them ;  and  still  more 
so,  if  it  should  appear  that  they  are 
necessary  for  the  wellbeing  of  the 
country  at  large.  But  if  yOu  require 
them,  without  any  reference  either 
to  local  or  to  general  interests,  I  must 
demur.  You  must  pardon  me  if  I 
cannot,  in  such  case,  see  the  reason- 
ableness of  imposing  upon  either 
Birmingham  or  Manchester  the 
onus  of  sending  representatives  to 
Parliament. 

Bird.  The  onus !  But  it  is  a  glo- 
rious privilege  !  You  say  that  a  rea- 
son is  necessary  to  justify  the  con- 
ferring of  such  a  privilege ;  I  say 
that  a  reason  is  necessary  to  justify 
the  withholding  of  it. 

Court.  That  it  is  a  privilege,  in  a 
certain  sense,  I  will  not  deny ; — just 
as  a  man  of  honour  will  feel  it  a  pri- 
vilege to  have  any  opportunity  afford- 
ed him  of  serving  his  country.  You 
do  not  mean  that  it  is  a  privilege 
which  men  may  employ  for  their  own 
personal  advantage  ? 

Bird.     Undoubtedly  not. 

Court.  Then  the  privilege  of 
serving  our  country  in  the  senate, 
only  differs  from  that  of  serving  our 
country  in  the  field,  by  being  a  pri- 
vilege of  a  different  kind.  And  yet, 
if  Birmingham  and  Manchester  were 
exempted  from  a  general  ballot,  when 
the  militia  were  called  out,  they  would 
scarcely  consider  it  a  very  great  grie- 
vance. Why,  then,  do  the  populace 
of  these  manufacturing  towns  (for  I 
deny  that  the  feeling  extends  beyond 
the  populace)  grumble  so  loudly  that 
they  are  not  called  upon  to  exercise 
the  elective  franchise?  If  they  can 
shew  any  such  necessity  for  it,  as  I 
have  before  intimated,  1  am  willing 
that  they  should  be  gratified.  But 
if  they  cannot,  I  do  not  see  any  pub- 
lic object  which  could  be  gained  by 
conferring  it ;  and  even  if  I  did  not  see 
(which  1  do  see)  grounds  to  suspect 
that  it  might,  in  such  case,  be  abused, 
I  could  not  consent  to  waste  the  time 
and  disturb  the  peaceful  avocations 


the  Reform  Bill.  [Aug. 

of  the  inhabitants,  without  a  prospect 
of  some  adequate  advantage. 

Bird.  Oh !  the  agitation  of  a  con- 
tested election  serves  to  keep  the 
spirit  of  the  country  alive.  It  is  upon 
that  that  we  must  depend  for  the 
preservation  of  the  constitution. 

Court.  Granted.  But  is  that  spirit 
at  present  likely  to  die  ?  Does  the 
constitution  stand  in  need  of  any 
increase  of  those  agitating  influences, 
which,  no  doubt,  in  their  degree,  are 
necessary  to  preserve  it  ?  Agitation 
is  not  a  good  "  per  se."  It  is  only, 
at  best,  a  kind  of  necessary  evil.  Our 
object  should  be,  not  to  have  as  much 
of  it  as  we  can,  but  as  little  as  we 
may.  Agitation  is  but  a  means  of 
manifesting  democratic  energy.  And 
unless  we  are  of  opinion  that  the  de- 
mocratic branch  of  the  constitution 
requires  additional  strength,  any  in- 
crease of  agitation  may  be  safely 
dispensed  with.  Thunder  and  light- 
ning are  useful,  inasmuch  as  they 
serve  to  purify  the  atmosphere  ;  but 
it  is  not,  surely,  desirable  that  they 
should  prevail  longer  than  may  be 
necessary  for  that  purpose.  Remem- 
ber, however,  that  I  am  not  for  ex- 
empting Birmingham  and  Manches- 
ter from  the  tax  of  sending  members 
to  Parliament,  if  it  can  be  shewn  that 
the  interests  of  the  country  require 
it.  All  I  say  is,  that  such  a  case  has 
not  yet  been  made  out.  The  differ- 
ence between  you  and  me,  upon  that 
part  of  the  subject,  amounts  to  no 
more  than  this; — you  would  have 
these  populous  places  represented, 
whether  there  be  a  necessity  for  it 
or  no;  I  would  wait  for  the  proof 
of  the  necessity. 

Bird.  I  think  it  must  be  self-evi- 
dent that  the  interests  of  these  large 
manufacturing  towns  require  the 
protection  and  the  patronage  .of  re- 
presentatives. 

Court.  That  is  certainly  not  self- 
evident.  I  believe,  on  the  contrary, 
it  has  never  happened  that  they 
have  been  at  a  loss  for  an  organ  by 
Avhich  their  wants  and  their  wishes 
might  be  made  known  to  Parlia- 
ment. I  believe,  moreover,  that  if 
they  get  representatives,  their  inte- 
rests are  much  more  likely  to  be  ne- 
glected than  they  are  at  present.  It 
is  only  a  few  years  since  one  of  these 
large  towns  petitioned  against  being 
represented  ;  so  convinced  were  the 
sober-minded  and  intelligent  indivi- 


1881.] 


A  Conversation  on  the  Reform  Sill. 


duals  who  then  had  some  influence 
over  the  people,  that  the  boon  of 
sending  members  to  Parliament 
would  but  poorly  compensate  for 
the  faction,  the  turmoil,  and  the  ex- 
pense of  a  contested  election.  It 
also  perhaps  occurred  to  them,  that 
the  individuals  likely  to  be  chosen 
by  the  populace,  would  not  be  those 
to  whom  their  interests  might  be 
most  safely  intrusted. 

Brown.  Well,  I  cannot  but  think 
with  Bird,  that  Birmingham  and 
Manchester  oughtto  be  represented — 
not,  I  confess,  because  their  interests 
require  it,  for  I  believe  them  to  be 
taken  very  good  care  of;  nor  yet 
from  any  conviction  that  the  people 
of  tliose  towns  will  exhibit  very  great 
wisdom  in  their  choice  of  members, 
but  simply,  because  they  desire  it; 
and  to  that  extent,  I  think,  they 
might  be  safely  gratified.  Indeed, 
had  something  of  that  kind  been 
done  early,  the  present  calamitous 
measure  might  have  been  averted. 

Court.  I  cannot  but  differ  from 
you  most  decidedly.  The  present 
awful  position  of  affairs  has  arisen 
much  more  from  the  manner  in  which 
the  people  have  been  gratified  by 
untimely  concessions,  than  from  the 
manner  in  which  their  inclinations 
have  been  resisted.  Had  every  thing 
been  done  long  ago  which  those  who 
are  called  moderate  reformers,  re- 
quired, it  would  only  have  approach- 
ed us  nearer  to  the  brink  of  the  pre- 
cipice, and  cleared  the  Avay  for  the 
sweeping  measure  which  is  now 
about  to  obliterate  the  landmarks  of 
the  constitution.  No.  If  there  be 
one  duty  more  incumbent  than  an- 
other upon  Parliament,  in  watching 
over  the  public  weal,  it  is  to  distin- 
guish between  the  sense  and  the 
nonsense  of  the  people.  For  that 
purpose  they  are  called  together,  and 
when  they  suffer  a  popular  delusion 
to  prevail  against  their  better  judg- 
ment, they  must  be  considered  worse 
than  useless.  They  cannot,  in  truth, 
protect  the  interests;  without  fre- 
quently arraying  themselves  against 
the  prejudices  of  the  people.  Their 
functions  are  deliberative.  They  are 
bound  to  receive  the  petitions,  to 
listen  to  the  wishes,  but  to  exercise 
a  calm  and  unbiassed  judgment  upon 
the  demands  of  their  constituents. 
Indeed,  any  other  conduct  would  be 
as  treacherous  to  their  constituents 


311 

as  it  would  be  unworthy  of  them- 
selves. "  Interdum  vulgus  rectum 
videt,"  and  in  those  cases  it  is  plea- 
sant to  agree  with  them.  But  it  fre- 
quently happens  that  measures  which 
are  popular  are  not  wise ;  and  it 
would  be  a  most  deplorable  state  of 
things  if  the  folly  of  the  multitude 
were,  in  such  cases,  to  control  the 
judgment  of  Parliament. 

Brown.  And  yet,  the  great  argu- 
ment for  the  present  measure  is, 
that  the  people  will  have  it. 

Court.  Yes,  its  Parliamentary  ad- 
vocates, by  their  harangues  in  the 
House,  and  upon  the  hustings,  first 
stimulate  the  people  to  clamour  for 
it,  and  they  then  make  that  clamour 
a  reason  why  it  should  be  conceded. 
The  people  are  deceived  into  the 
belief  that,  in  the  first  place,  the 
measure  about  to  pass  will  only  re- 
store things  to  their  original  state ; 
in  the  next  place,  that  the  influence 
of  the  people  has  declined,  while 
that  of  the  aristocracy  has  been  in- 
creasing; in  the  third  place,  that 
what  are  called  rotten  boroughs  are 
dangerous  to  the  liberties  of  the  peo- 
ple ;  in  the  fourth  place,  that  govern- 
ment possesses  more  influence  than 
is  necessary  to  carry  on  the  affairs  of 
the  nation ;  in  the  fifth  place,  that 
the  public  mind,  as  distinct  from  the 
popular  will,  will  be  more  truly  re- 
presented by  a  larger  extension  of 
the  elective  franchise;  and  when 
upon  every  one  of  these  points  they 
are  defeated,  and  it  is  shewn  that 
they  have  deceived  the  people  by 
false  representations,  they  make  the 
very  clamour,  which  has  been  the 
consequence  of  those  ten  thousand 
times  refuted  falsehoods,  an  all-pre- 
vailing argument  for  passing  a  mea- 
sure, which,  even  upon  their  own 
shewing,  can  only  be  justified  by  the 
presumption  of  their  truth !  Let 
them  take  but  half  the  pains  to  unde- 
ceive the  people  that  they  have  taken 
to  deceive  them,  and  I  will  answer 
for  it,  that  the  clamour  will  rapidly 
subside.  But  let  them  not,  at  all 
events,  insult  us  by  the  mockery  of 
saying,  that  the  clamour  of  the  mul- 
titude should  induce  the  legislature 
to  pass  this  Bill,  while  in  the  same 
breath,  they  are  compelled  to  admit, 
that  that  clamour  is  groundless. 

Bird.  If  we  can  carry  the  mea- 
sure, we  are  quite  willing  to  leave 
you  in  possession  of  the  argument, 


A  Conver3<ili<jn  on  the  Reform  Bill. 


[Aug. 


Court.  I  believe  you; — for  an 
over  solicitude  about  the  argument 
would  not  greatly  help  you  to  carry 
the  measure.  Your  friends  have  gone 
to  work  in  a  more  efl'ectual  manner. 
We  may  apply  to  them  what  Gold- 
smith said  of  Jolmsou ;  when  their 
pistol  missed  lire,  they  knocked  us 
down  with  the  but-end  of  it.  But  I 
."an  not  sure  that  you  will  have,  it 
quite  your  own  way  after  all.  The 
people  are  rapidly  awakening  from 
th«ir  delusion.  They  are  every  day 
more  and  more  undeceived.  They 
begin  to  see,  with  tolerable  clearness, 
tin-,  motives  which  have  led  his  Ma- 
jesty's Ministers  to  introduce  the 
present  Bill.  The  worth,  the  learn- 
ing, and  the  property  of  the  country, 
have  already  declared  against  it. 
The  three  Universities  have  given  a 
noble  proof  of  wisdom  and  indepen- 
dence, in  resisting  the  whole  in- 
fluence of  government,  and  return- 
ing anti-revolutionary  members.  If 
all  this  should  be  in  vain,  we  must 
only  lament  it,  and  submit.  There 
is,  however,  something  within  me 
which  forbids  despondency,  and 
which  encourages  the  hope  that  that 
Providence  which  has  hitherto  so 
signally  defended  us,  will  still  be  our 
shield  against  impending  dangers. 
Let  but  the  Lords  do  their  duty,  and 
all  will  yet  be  well.  I  cannot,  I  will 
not  despair  of  the  fortunes  of  my 
country. 

Brown.  I  should  like  to  know 
from  you  whether  you  think  it  likely 
that  we  shall  outlive  the  present  cri- 
sis. 

Court.  Whether  the  storm  that 
impends  will  blow  over,  or  be,  in- 
deed, as  terrible  as  our  fears  may 
lead  us  to  apprehend,  is  more  than  I 
can  venture  to  pronounce  at  present. 
Appearances  are  much  against  us; 
and  yet  matters  have  not  proceeded 
so  far  in  the  wrong  direction  as  to  be 
utterly  irretrievable.  If  the  Lords 
be  firm,  the  constitution  will  be 
safe.  The  good  sense  of  the  country 
is  every  day  becoming  more  and 
more  awakened  to  the  true  character 
of  the  present  measure ;  and  if  the 
Peers  be  true  to  themselves,  they 
will  not  be  left  long  without  a  con- 
siderable accession  of  popular  sup- 
port in  resisting  its  further  progress. 
Indeed,  it  has  sometimes  struck  me, 
that  Providence  has  permitted  the 
present  crisis  for  the  purpose  of  ex- 


hibiting, in  a  manner  neither  to  be 
mistaken  nor  forgotten,  the  baseness 
and  wickedness  of  one  party,  and 
the  weakness  and  folly  of  the  other. 
Without  having  been  thus  wrought, 
as  it  were,  "  in  discrimena  rerum" 
who  could  believe  that,  for  the  de- 
sire of  office,  the  Whigs  were  ready 
to  tear  the  Constitution  limb  from 
limb,  and  cast  it  into  Medea's  caul- 
dron;— or  that  such  awful  calami- 
ties as  those  which  impend  should 
follow  from  the  division  amongst  the 
Tories !  The  Tories  have  joined  with 
their  inveterate  enemies  for  the  pur- 
pose of  aggrandizing  the  Whigs ! 
The  Whigs  have  joined  with  tJieir 
inveterate  enemies  for  the  purpose 
of  destroying  the  Tories !  Now,  if 
the  present  crisis  shall  have  caused 
the  Conservative  party  to  see.  their 
error,  they  may  yet  dissipate,  by 
their  union,  the  dangers  which  have 
been  caused  by  their  divisions.  They 
now  see  what  they  have  to  expect 
from  the  professions  of  moderate  re- 
formers, when  such  men  as  Lord 
Palmerston  and  Charles  Grant  are 
found  ready  and  willing,  upon  an 
emergency,  to  lead  off  the  first  set  in 
the  gallopade  of  revolution.  Indeed, 
if  they  are  not  convinced,  from  what 
has  occurred,  that  the  enemies  of 
our  venerable  institutions  can  only 
be  counteracted  by  the  concentrated 
energies  of  all  the  friends  of  social 
order,  they  would  not  be  convinced 
even  though  one  rose  from  the  dead. 
If  this  effect  were  to  be  produced 
by  the  present  disastrous  position  of 
affairs,  it  would  more  than  repay  \u 
for  all  our  apprehensions.  Then,  in- 
deed, there  would  be  point  in  Sir 
Francis  Burdett's  quotation  from 
Shakspeare, 

"  Out  of  that  nettle  danger  we  pluck  the 
flower  safety," 

but  a  point  that  bore  against  himself. 
And  all  this  is  possible.  Nothing 
has  as  yet  occurred  which  renders 
"  a  consummation  so  devoutly  to  be 
wished,"  even  improbable.  When  I 
think  of  England  ;  when  I  look  back 
upon  her  history;  when  I  call  to 
mind  her  ancient  renown  and  her 
accumulated  glories;  when  I  con- 
sider the  purity  of  her  religion ;  the 
excellence  of  her  la\vs ;  the  extent 
and  variety  of  her  Colonial  posses- 
sions; the  vastness  of  her  Eastern 
empire,  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  be- 


1831.] 


A  Conversation  on  the  Reform  Bill. 


lieve  that  all,  all  are  to  be  sacrifi- 
ced to  that  ominous  conjunction 
of  folly  and  wickedness  that  is  at 

present  lord  of  the  ascendant : 

and  yet,  when  I  look  for  the  power 
by  which  it  is  to  be  defeated,  where 
is  it  to  be  found  ?  Where  is  the  lofty 
eloquence,  the  sound  and  rooted 
principle,  the  unbending  integrity, 
which  distinguished  the  Conserva- 
tive party  in  this  country  at  the  time 
of  the  French  Revolution?  .At  that 
time  there  was  a  sufficiency  of  con- 
stitutional feeling  amongst  the  Whigs, 
to  make  them  disregard  their  preju- 
dices, and  in  the  day  of  peril,  join 
with  the  Tories.  There  now  appears 
to  be  such  a  lack  of  wisdom,  or  such 
a  want  of  integrity  amongst  many 
of  the  Tories,  as  to  cause  them  in  the 
day  of  still  greater  peril,  to  consort 
with  the  enemies  of  social  order ! 
The  master  mind  is  wanting.  In  po- 
litics no  less  than  in  religion,  the 
sheep  will  scatter  if  they  have  no 
shepherd.  "  A  stranger's  voice  they 
will  not  hear,  for  they  know  not  the 
voice  of  a  stranger."  This  it  is  that, 


313 

when  the  other  pleasing  view  pre- 
sents itself,  dispirits  and  casts  me 
down.  Where  is  the  seer-like  saga- 
city of  Burke ;  the  trumpet-toned 
eloquence  of  Pitt,  and  his  keen  and 
tempered  honour  ?  Alas !  Echo  an- 
swers, "  Where  !"  But  I  do  not  de- 
spair. The  hour  of  deepest  darkness 
is  that  which  precedes  the  dawn.  It 
is  our  parts  to  use  every  means  in 
our  power  for  the  discomfit  of  one  of 
the  most  atrocious  feats  of  political 
legerdemain  that  ever  yet  was  prac- 
tised upon  the  honest  credulity  of  a 
people.  Let  us  do  every  thing  we 
can  to  stand  between  them  and  the 
certain  ruin  upon  which  they  seem 
intent  to  rush.  Black  as  are  the 
clouds  that  lour  upon  us,  let  us  abate 
no  jot  of  hope  or  of  heart  in  the  pre- 
sent contest.  And  when  we  thus  shew 
ourselves  men,  and  are  resolved  to 
do  our  best,  it  may  be  that  that  Gra- 
cious Being,  whom  we  have  so  grie- 
vously offended  by  our  backsliding 
and  our  transgressions,  will  be  sa- 
tisfied with  something  less  than  the 
sacrifice  of  the  cons  titution. 


ON  THE  APPROACHING  REVOLUTION  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN,  AND  ITS  PROXIMATE 

CONSEQUENCES. 

IN  A  LETTER  TO  A  FRIEND. 


Fuit  Ilium  !  You  know  my  thoughts 
by  this  motto.  We  are  lost.  The 
game  is  up.  Ruin  is  not  approach- 
ing; but,  as  respects  its  causes — 
causes  by  this  time  past  recall,  inex- 
orable, immitigable — is  already  ac- 
complished for  you  and  me,  and  for 
all  who  stand  in  our  situation.  What 
is  that  ?  The  situation  of  men  not 
young,  burdened  in  comparison  of 
those  who  areso  with  the  impedimenta 
of  regular  armies,  contrasted  with 
houseless  freebooters — under  com- 
plex obligations  moral  or  civil,  and 
above  all,  fatally  dependent,  to  the 
extent  of  our  whole  fortunes  and  pe- 
cuniary interests,  upon  a  government, 
which  for  a  momentary  self-interest 
has  suddenly  entered  upon  a  career 
of  desperate  infatuation,  with  no 
power  to  retread  its  steps.  A  demon 
has  been  evoked,  which  no  art  of 
theirs  can  exorcize — the  demon  of 
robbery  and  confiscation,  at  the  bid- 
ding of  a  mob.  How  I  shall  be  affected 
by  this,  you  know.  All  that  I  possess 

VOL.  XXX.  NO,  CLXXXIV. 


— all  that  I  ever  shall  possess,  is  in  the 
English  funds,  from  which  it  never 
can  be  liberated  without  the  consent 
of  trustees;  for  that  consent  there 
will  then  first  arise  Avhat  will  seem 
to  them  adequate  grounds,  when  the 
last  moment  will  have  expired  for 
acting  upon  it ;  that  is,  when  the  first 
movements  of  a  reformed  Parliament 
shall  have  sounded  an  alarm  to  all 
funded  property ;  such  an  alarm  as 
will  in  one  day  produce  a  national 
panic — a  rush — asanvequipeut  strug- 
gle to  effect  sales  upon  the  worst 
terms — a  consequent  inability  to  ef- 
fect them  upon  any — an  absolute 
necessity  to  await,  like  prisoners 
bound  and  chained,  the  final  award 
of  a  senate,  whom  each  successive 
election  will  render  more  ferocious, 
more  servile  to  the  populace,  and  by 
fifty  motives  more  eager  for  public 
spoliation — as  a  measure  which  on 
the  one  hand  will  be  harmless  to  all 
who  are  in  the  secret  beforehand,  and 
on  the  other  hand  will  be  the  best 


On  the  Approaching  Revolution  in  Great  Britain. 


314 

advertisement  to  republican  consti- 
tuents of  thorough-going  republican 
principles. 

Mark  what  I  say :  the  very  earliest 
note  of  alarm  will  be  already  too  late 
for  any  measure  of  precaution.  The 
peculiar  character  of  the  peril  which 
threatens  you  and  me  lies  in  this — 
that  the  first  cloud,  which  will  be  ad- 
mitted as  such,  the  faintest  stain  upon 
that  horizon  which  you  now  think  so 
clear,  will  announce  that  the  evil  is 
irreversible  and  irreparable.  For 
what  is  it  that  will  be  allowed  by 
the  sceptical,  such  as  yourself,  for  a 
solid  ground  of  alarm — except  some 
serious  entertainment  by  Parliament 
of  a  proposal  for  extinguishing  more 
or  less  of  the  national  debt  ?  Nothing 
short  of  that  will  be  received  as  any 
evidence  of  an  overt,  practical,  state 
conspiracy  against  the  public  faith. 
Well,  one  night  suffices  for  this.  One 
vote  will  unveil  the  tendency  of  opi- 
nion in  that  quarter  which  will  then 
be  more  than  ever  all-powerful.  The 
succeeding  morning  will  disperse  the 
fatal  vote  through  the  post-horns  of 
all  Europe :  and  should  the  execution 
even  sleep  for  a  few  months,  from 
that  hour  never  again  will  it  be  possi- 
ble that  confidence  should  revive,  or 
suspicion  slumber,  with  regard  to  that 
immense  property  which  draws  its 
very  existence  from  the  intentions  of 
the  legislature.  Wounds  in  so  sensi- 
tive an  organ  as  that  of  public  credit 
are  never  healed.  Merely  to  take 
time  for  reflection  is  to  wither  it  root 
and  branch.  The  woman,  who  deli- 
berates on  a  proposal  of  dishonour, 
is  already  dishonoured.  And  a  Par- 
liament which  allows  of  so  much  as 
a  debate  upon  a  proposition  for  break- 
ing faith  with  public  creditors,  has 
already  broken  faith  in  the  highest 
degree  :  for  by  that  one  act  the  value 
of  the  property  at  stake  (a  property 
so  subtle,  and  for  its  very  substance 
so  tremulously  dependent  upon  sha- 
dows— upon  public  opinion,  or  un- 
fathered rumours,  and  sympathizing 
with  the  most  capricious  trepida- 
tions of  political  hope  or  fear!)  is 
unavoidably  attainted.  In  the  very 
best  result,  under  the  most  favoura- 
ble circumstances,  it  would  be  prac- 
tically sequestrated  for  a  long  period; 
and  no  sales  would  be  effected,  ex- 
cept as  we  sometimes  see  almost 
desperate  debts  in  private  life  bought 
up  by  speculators  for  trifling  consi- 


[Aug. 


derations.  But  the  ultimate  issue 
must  be  absolute  ruin  (and  I  repeat 
that  this  ruin  will  not  come  gradu- 
ally or  can  come  otherwise  than  per 
saltum)  to  all  who  stand  in  your  si- 
tuation or  mine. 

Those,  it  seems,  are  virtually  the 
same ;  our  interests  are  the  same ; 
and  of  necessity  we  are  threatened 
by  equal  dangers.  Yet  in  esti- 
mating these  dangers,  we  differ  aa 
far  as  it  is  possible  to  do.  How  is 
that?  We  estimate  them  upon  a 
different  scale.  You  hold  that  to 
be  imaginary,  which  to  my  judge- 
ment appears  not  so  much  proba- 
ble as  inevitable.  In  any  case  our 
difference  is  unfortunate  :  I,  for  my 
comfort,  should  adopt  your  views;  or 
you,  for  your  welfare,  mine.  Strange 
enough  it  might  seem  that  we  can 
differ :  for  property  and  extensive 
self-interest  proverbially  make  men 
sensitive  to  alarm,  and  sharpen  their 
instincts  of  long-sighted  apprehen- 
sion. It  should  appear,  therefore, 
that  either  I  must  be  under  some 
unusual  delusion  of  the  kind  to  which 
hypochondriacs  are  liable,— or  you 
must  differ  from  men  in  general  by 
a  feature  which  almost  belongs  to 
human  nature.  Meantime  you  allow 
me  for  a  better  politician  than  your- 
self. And  that  goes  far  to  explain 
the  difference  between  us.  Suffer 
me  to  say  that  I  am  a  much  better 
politician,  better  by  as  many  degrees 
of  difference  as  can  be  supposed  be- 
tween a  very  observing,  reflecting, 
comparing  politician,  and  one  who, 
with  all  those  faculties  in  a  higher 
degree,  has  never  applied  them  to 
politics  in  any  shape  whatever ;  in  a 
word,  between  a  good  politician 
(sit  verbo  venia  /)  and  none  at  all ; 
in  a  word,  between  the  best  and  the 
worst.  No  blame  to  you — that  in  a 
class  of  speculations,  foreign  to  your 
habits  of  study  and  your  original 
disposition,  you  retain  the  natural 
blindness  of  simplicity.  No  reproach 
to  you — that  you  cannot  perceive 
dangers  which  the  good  are  indis- 
posed to  believe  possible,  and  which, 
even  with  every  allowance  for  the 
evil  which  actual  experience  pre- 
pares us  to  expect,  would  really  not 
have  been  possible  except  under 
very  unusual  concurrences  of  advan- 
tage for  the  incendiaries  of  our  days. 

Let  me  then,  professing  to  be  a 
good  interpreter  of  political  signs  and 


1881.] 


On  the  Approaching  Revolution  in  Great  Britain. 


aspects,  speaking  to  you  as  a  bad 
one,  but  otherwise  as  agreeing  with 
you  in  situation  and  capital  interests, 
lay  before  you  the  grounds  upon 
which  I  believe  those  interests  to  be 
something  more  than  threatened. 
For  you,  however,  that  word  threat- 
ened may  still,  I  would  hope,  express 
the  whole  extent  of  the  evil.  You 
perhaps  have  it  in  your  power  to  act 
upon  the  sense  of  danger  which  I 
may  succeed  in  impressing.  For 
myself,  I  repeat,  that  is  impossible. 
I  am  a  ruined  man  beyond  retrieve. 
The  sands  which  I  see  before  me, 
stretching  across  the  very  path  of  my 
course  as  clearly  as  any  one  object 
whatsoever,  on  which  sands  I  am 
doomed  to  see  my  children  stranded, 
—I  shall  then  only  succeed  in  ma- 
king evident  to  others  who  have  a 
concurrent  authority  with  my  own, 
when  that  Parliamentary  blow  shall 
have  been  struck,  which,  though  first 
and  merely  prefatory  in  the  whole 
series  of  coming  attacks,  will,  for 
its  effect  on  public  credit,  be  abso- 
lutely final  and  conclusive.  This 
above  all  others  is  one  of  the  cases 
in  which  Madame  du  Deffand's  bon 
mot  takes  place,  that  ce  n'est  que  le 
premier  pas  gui  coute :  for  I  presume 
that  no  man  would  imagine  a  differ- 
ence for  this  case  between  a  regular 
act  of  Parliament  in  all  its  full-blown 
solemnities,  and  a  simple  resolution 
—leave  to  bring  in  a  bill — or  any 
other  expression  of  the  Parliament- 
ary disposition  once  sanctioned  by 
a  vote  of  the  House.  The  predomi- 
nant intention  in  those  who  have  the 
rjower — that  is  the  one  thing  need- 
ful to  be  known  :  that  must  of  neces- 
sity ascertain  the  value  of  a  property 
which  has  none  at  all  but  what  it 
derives  from  general  confidence  in 
the  will  and  the  power  of  the  go- 
vernment to  recognise  its  existence, 
ratify  its  real  amount,  and  provide 
for  its  bonafide  discharge.  Waiting 
then,  as  I  am  doomed  to  wait,  for 
the  first  open  avowal  of  a  reformed 
Parliament,  that  the  national  creditor 
is  to  be  sacrificed  to  the  nation,— 
one  class  of  proprietors  plundered  in 
order  to  create  a  bonus  for  the  rest, 
— waiting  thus  far,  I  shall  necessarily 
have  waited  too  long  :  evasion  will 
then  be  too  late  :  and  hence  I  affirm 
that  my  ruin  is  signed  and  sealed. 
Yours,  I  trust,  lies  more  w  ithinyour 
own  power. 


315 

With  this  view  of  my  own  inevit- 
able fate,  with  this  absolute  certainty 
that  my  children  will  be  turned 
adrift,  and  for  myself,  at  a  time  of 
life  when  energy  languishes,  and  re- 
pose becomes  indispensable,  that  I 
shall  be  summoned  to  some  hateful 
toil,  in  order  to  face  the  necessities 
of  mere  animal  existence, — you  will 
suppose  that  I  am  not  likely  to  ap- 
proach my  theme  with  much  good 
temper.  In  some  sense  you  are 
right :  It  is  true  that  I  am  consumed 
with  a  burning — a  just — I  will  pre- 
sume to  say,  a  righteous  indignation 
at  the  atrocious  scenes  now  passing 
in  this  country.  True  it  is  that  I 
sicken  with  disgust  at  seeing  those 
things  sanctioned  [sanctioned?  nay 
moved  and  precipitated]  by  the 
very,  rulers  of  the  land  which  but  a 
few  years  since  were  agitated  as  the 
mere  reveries  of  sedition,  by  a  fevfr 
branded  and  stigmatized  incendiaries. 
True  it  is  that  I  shudder  at  seeing 
ministers,  senates,  and  the  nobles  of 
the  land  co-operating  with  drunken 
zealots  to  bring  about  changes — for 
less  than  the  least  of  which  but  a 
dozen  of  years  ago,  men,  women,  and 
children,  having  the  excuse  of  utter 
ignorance,  were  hunted  by  cavalry, 
cut  down  or  trampled  under  their 
horses'  hoofs  by  yeomanry,  thrown 
by  crowds  into  dungeons,  and  after- 
wards pursued  to  ruin  and  beggary, 
—exiled,  or  even  decimated  by  the 
executioner.  _True,  also,  that  I 
loathe  the  very  sound  of  my  mother- 
tongue,  when  I  can  hear  English 
senators  having  the  utter  baseness  to 
pretend  the  sanction  for  their  present 
designs  of  William  Pitt,  whose  very 
dust  would  be  agitated  —  whose 
bones  would  tremble — in  his  grave, 
could  he  be  made  sensible,  with  a  hu- 
man sympathy,  of  what  is  now  going 
on  in  that  England  which  he  once 
protected  from  a  pollution  less  for- 
midable, and  a  less  desolating  revo- 
lution. All  this,  and  much  more 
than  this,  is  true.  It  is  true  also  that 
this  body  of  indignation  is  barbed 
and  pointed  by  the  deep  contempt 
which  attaches  to  the  particular  mo- 
tive for  the  existing  schemes  on  the 
part  of  the  present  ministry.  Selfish 
and  personal  we  may  be  sure  it  was : 
so  much,  I  fear,  may  safely  be  antici- 
pated of  the  motives  which  govern 
all  trading  politicians  as  a  class :  and 
so  far  there  would  be  nothing  dig- 


On  the  Approaching  Revolution  in  Great  Britain. 


316 

tinguishing  or  characteristic  in  the 
motives  of  this  present  ministry,  ex- 
cept indeed  for  the  degree  :  because 
many  men,  who  will  yield  to  a  selfish 
motive,  will  not  therefore  suffer  it  to 
carry  them  the  whole  length  of  revo- 
lution. But,  allowing  for  this  intensity 
of  degree,  as  respected  the  mere  qua- 
lity of  their  motives,  perhaps  they 
would  have  pretty  much  resembled 
other  hungry  partisans,  famished  by 
an  absolute  exclusion  from  office 
through  a  long  quarter  of  a  century, 
were  it  not  tor  the  purely  casual, 
and  merely  occasional  origin  even  of 
this  vulgar  impulse.  Here,  then,  is 
something  distinguishing.  Not  that 
they  were  thinking  of  Reform,  still 
less  seriously  meditating  any  thing 
BO  exquisitely  revolting  to  their  aris- 
tocratic tastes ;  no !  but  merely  be- 
cause a  conspicuous  minister,  in  his 
plain  and  downright  spirit,  possibly 
also,  by  way  of  tempting  and  pro- 
voking his  own  expulsion  from  of- 
fice and  its  hateful  toils,  had  sud- 
denly chosen  to  say,  Reform  there 
shall  be  none  ! — simply  upon  that 
hint;  and  because  the  consequent 
clamour  created  an  opening  to  po- 
pularity, for  any  body  upon  earth 
who  would  start  the  counter-cla- 
mour, and  say,  Reform  is  wanted, 
and  Reform  there  shall  be  !  upon  no 
more  self-originated  basis  than  this 
— upon  no  principle  or  pretence  less 
casual — less  sudden — less  tumultu- 
ary— less  extemporaneous — did  the 
Grey  ministry  ascend  the  posts  which 
perhaps  the  Duke  of  Wellington  ea- 
gerly vacated.  Bad  enough  it  would 
have  been,that  the  Greys  are  shaking 
the  very  foundations  of  our  civil  in- 
stitutions, and  removing  all  the  an- 
cient props  and  buttresses,  in  order 
to  profit  by  a  momentary  burst  of 
popularity,  in  ministering  to  a  taste 
which  they  abominate — in  all  con- 
science this  is  selfish  enough,  and 
abjectly  personal  enough,  to  support 
a  reasonable  weight  of  disgust.  But 
even  this,  being  no  more  (except  as 
in  degree  it  may  happen  to  be  more) 
than  what  other  parties  have  done 
before,  is  not  a  ground  for  so  serious 
a  disgust  as  it  is  to  witness  a  drama 
of  civic  ferment  and  convulsion, 
which,  in  itself,  and  apart  from  its 
political  changes,  is  already  little 
short  of  a  revolution,  by  its  violence 
and  its  peril  to  social  order,  solemnly 
planned  and  carried  through,  upon 


[Aug. 


the  invitation  or  challenge  of  a  chance 
expression  from  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington !  Waiving,  for  one  moment, 
the  question  of  value ;  supposing  it 
possible  that  the  meditated  reforms 
may  be  really  such, — assuming  that 
they  are  salutary  or  even  'indispen- 
sable to  the  state — still  it  is  granted 
to  me,  that,  for  mere  magnitude, 
they  are  the  most  important  ever 
operated,  except  by  fire  and  sword, 
and  by  the  blind  force  of  circum- 
stances, or  by  the  violent  reaction  of 
sudden  emancipation  from  long  op- 
pression and  misrule.  Except  the 
hrst  French  Revolution,  nowhere  do 
we  read  of  one  so  extensive  in  the 
spirit  of  its  changes,  as  this  which  is 
now  agitated.  Yet  it  is  undeniable, 
and  the  gravity  of  regular  history 
must  descend  to  record,  that,  for  its 
origin,  it  is  built  on  a  mere  reverbe- 
ration of  one  petulant  word,  drop- 
ped in  a  moment  of  irritation  by  the 
Duke  of  Wellington.  One  sally  of 
intemperance  less  upon  his  part,  and 
the  coming  "  Reforms"  would  never 
have  been  heard  of.  Worthy  founda- 
tion for  the  wildest  and  most  sweep- 
ing Revolution  that  this  country  has 
ever  experienced ! 

Anger,  therefore,  and  contempt 
are  unavoidable;  for  these  you  must 
allow.  But  you  need  apprehend  no 
violence — no  intemperance.  Where 
there  is  hope,  there  will  be  internal 
conflict :  and  all  conflict  implies 
violence.  But  for  me,  and  all  who, 
like  me,  are  forcibly  tied  to  the  fates 
of  an  infatuated  government,  hope  is 
too  utterly  extinct — the  ruin  too  ab- 
solute— to  leave  that  ground  of  irri- 
tation behind.  With  the  bitterness  of 
despair  I  possess  its  calmness.  Ha- 
tred, it  is  impossible  in  the  nature  of 
things,  but  I  must  occasionally  feel 
towards  those  who  are  uprooting 
the  whole  structure  of  rny  civil  and 
domestic  happiness ;  but  this  shall 
betray  me  into  no  indecency  of  lan- 
guage. Nay,  I  will  confess  to  you, 
that  the  prospect  of  a  revenge  as 
deep  and  deadly  as  my  own  ruin, 
gives  me  no  comfort.  Inevitably,aiid 
even  perhaps  sooner  than  the  crash 
which  will  descend  upon  myself  and 
mine,  I  shall  see  the  authors,  the 
rich  and  titled  champions  of  this  re- 
volution, prostrate  and  grovelling  in 
the  same  dust  to  which  they  have 
humbled  those  of  my  standing. 
Their  gay  titles  and  decorations  of 


1831.] 


On  the  Approaching  Revolution  in  Great  Britain. 


honour— their  privileges  and  prece- 
dency— their  parks,  manors,  and  pa- 
laces, will  be  swept  away  in  that 
same  tremendous  deluge  which  they 
have  let  loose  upon  my  unpretend- 
ing fortunes.  Fierce  Septembrizers 
will  stable  in  the  ancient  halls  of 
Woburn ;  and  the  hoof  of  modern 
Sansculotterie,  heavier  by  far  than 
that  of  ancient  Vandalism,  will  tram- 
ple on  the  bowers  of  Chatsworth. 
That,  to  some  people,  would  be  a 
sort  of  indemnity.  Socios  habuisse 
dolorisy  has  been  often  held  a  conso- 
lation, even  where  the  socii  happen- 
ed to  be  fellow  victims  of  a  common 
calamity  to  which  neither  had  been 
contributors;  but  Christian  charity 
might  pardon  a  little  exultation  over 
such  partners  in  affliction  as  were 
its  sole  originators.  And  certainly 
even  I,  perhaps,  shall  give  way  to  a 
single  laugh,  when  the  old  dotard, 
who  has  broke  up  the  dikes,  and 
brought  in  the  sea  upon  us  all,  is 
seen  magnificently  wielding  a  bul- 
rush as  it  advances,  and  in  the  mid 
raving  of  the  "  trampling  waves,"  is 
heard  feebly  and  stridulously  pro- 
claiming, "  Take  notice  !  I  will  de- 
fend my  order !  With  this  invincible 
bulrush  I  will  defend  my  order!" 
That  will  be  droll  even  in  such  a 
tragedy.  Certainty  it  will.  But  the 
passion  of  laughter  at  such  a  season 
will  be  fugitive,  or  will  but  exalt  the 
sorrow  of  the  time.  And  a  good 
man,  even  though  he  were  amongst 
the  victims  of  that  dotard's  folly,will 
be  tempted  to  say,  "  Old  greybeard ! 
think  not  of  thy  order,  which  has 
now  passed  into  the  kingdom  of  for- 
gotten dreams !  Tekel,  Upharsin !  be 
thankful  if  a  bed  is  left,  and  a  corner 
where  silence  and  quiet  may  yet  be 
found  for  a  penitent  retrospect  of 
the  few  and  evil  days  through  which, 
in  a  fatal  hour  for  England,  supreme 
power  was  granted  to  hands  and 
heads  like  thine !"  No,  we  shall  be 
avenged !  Memorably  we  shall  be 
avenged !  But  that  prospect  has  no 
consolations  for  me.  And  if  I  exult 
not  in  anticipating  this  perfect  ven- 
geance, you  may  be  sure  that  I  will 
give  way  to  no  weak  or  passionate 
violence  in  commenting  on  the  crime, 
or  exploring  its  proximate  effects. 
To  that  task  I  now  briefly  address 
myself. 

In  the  year  1815, when  tbetroubled 
drama  of  the  French  Revolution  was 


317 

wound  up  by  the  solemn  and  unpar- 
alleled catastrophe  of  Waterloo,  I 
believe  that  most  of  us  looked  back 
upon  the  awful  twenty-five  years 
which  had  brought  us  to  that  great 
Sabbath  of  repose  for  afflicted  Eu- 
rope, as  a  period  that  had  not  been, 
nor  could,  by  possibility,  be  rival- 
led in  the  splendour  and  marvellous 
character  of  its  events.  In  the  spirit 
of  that  poet,  who  then  addressed  his 
sublime  adjuration  to  the  planet — 

"  Rest,  rest,  perturbed  earth  !"  &c. 

most  of  us  were  disposed  to  fear,  even 
whilst  offering  thanksgivings  that 
once  again  the  fields  of  Europe  were 
to  be  cleansed  from  blood  and  car- 
nage, a  period,  by  comparison,  of 
wearisome  monotony.  Viewed  from 
a  station  so  closely  contiguous  to  the 
fearful  scenes  we  had  lived  through 
since  infancy,  we  could  not  but  an- 
ticipate, that  the  ensuing  years  of 
peaceful  restoration  would  wear  an 
insipid  character  of  feebleness  and 
languor.  Yet,  in  rebuke  of  all  our 
sagacity,  we  have  travelled  on  from 
woe  to  woe,  from  one  mystery  of 
change  to  another ;  and  in  reality  the 
colour  of  the  times,  and  the  aspect 
of  the  political  heavens,  since  Water- 
loo, has  been  even  more  portentous 
than  before.  Sometimes  it  has  im- 
pressed me  with  a  sense  of  shadowy- 
ness  and  unreality  in  all  that  I  have 
witnessed,  when  I  recollect  how 
utterly  the  whole  equipage  of  royal 
phantoms  that  rose  from  the  earth 
at  the  bidding  of  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte— how  absolutely  these  have 
perished !  Things  that  but  yester- 
day were  as  substantial  as  ourselves, 
and  familiar  as  household  words, 
now,  like  some  pageantry  in  the 
clouds,  are  all  "  dislimned"  (to  use 
the  Shakspearian  word),  repose  in 
the  same  blank  forgetfulness  with 
the  Ptolemies  and  Pharaohs  of 
Egypt,  and  have  left  us  no  certain 
memorials  that  ever  they  existed. 
The  wreck  of  that  system  is  the 
more  memorable,  because  its  rise 
and  its  setting  were  equally  within 
our  personal  ken,  and  equally  rapid. 
We,  that  witnessed  the  one,  witness- 
ed the  other.  And  I  repeat,  that  a 
feeling  of  non-reality,  as  though  hol- 
lowness  were  at  the  heart  of  all 
things,  is  the  main  and  most  abiding 
impression  left  behind  by  that  gor- 
geous and  perishable  vision. 


On  the  Approaching  Revolution  in  Great  Britain. 


318 

Yet  I  repeat  also  that  changes  not 
less  mighty,  nor  less  rapid,  have 
been  unfolding  in  this  post- Waterloo 
period  of  time.  A  system  of  things 
more  ancient,  institutions  more  ve- 
nerable than  those  which  composed 
the  Bonaparte  system,  are  giving 
way  on  every  side,  and  crumbling 
down  into  the  same  hasty  dissolu- 
tion. In  all  this,  no  doubt,  there  is 
a  fulfilment  of  the  mysterious  pur- 
poses of  Providence.  But  Provi- 
dence acts  by  human  means,  and  by 
the  agency  of  natural  causes.  Under 
Heaven,  we  may  trace  the  ruins 
which  are  now  tumbling  about  us  in 
every  direction,  and  the  accelerated 
pace  at  which  our  political  changes 
have  moved  for  the  last  three  or  four 
years,  principally  to  two  causes- 
the  astonishing  apostasies  of  our 
leading  men,  and  latterly  to  the  irri- 
tating example  of  France  in  her  Re- 
volution of  July  1830.  One  man, 
the  most  brilliant  of  our  orators,  for 
a  dazzling  bait  that  too  powerfully 
tempted  his  ambition,  in  a  single 
hour  perjured  himself  to  all  poste- 
rity, and  turned  his  whole  life  into  a 
lie.  He  broke  faith  with  those  whom, 
from  his  youth  up,  he  had  honoured 
as  saints ;  he  made  an  unhallowed 
league  with  all  that  he  had  denoun- 
ced as  traitorous,  abominable,  and 
accursed  in  the  political  councils  of 
England.  By  their  ill-omened  aid, 
he  put  his  enemies  under  his  feet : 
he  ran  rapidly  up  the  ascent  to  that 
giddy  altitude  which  he  courted  : 
he  reached  the  topmost  pinnacle  of 
that  aerial  eminence ;  and  there  he 

found  awaiting  him a  coffin,  a 

short  agony,  and  a  sudden  death. 
Among  the  thousands  of  splendid 
martyrs  to  ambition,  he,  for  himself, 
is  already  half  forgotten.  But  the 
evil  which  he  left  behind  him  in 
that  brief  and  memorable  passage  of 
his  life,  will  never  be  forgotten.  His 
crime  is  immortal.  All  principles  were 
then  scattered  to  the  winds ;  all  fide- 
lity to  party  connexions,  or  old  pro- 
fessions, was  then  trampled  under 
foot  with  scorn  and  drunken  mock- 
ery :  nor  has  it  ever  been  possible, 
since  that  day,  to  reassemble  any 
body  of  champions  under  ancient 
banners,  or  to  make  any  practical 
appeal  to  the  old  authentic  standard 
of  political  principles.  All  is  anarchy 
since  that  great  and  general  apostasy. 
Had  this  evil  been  capable  of  in- 


lAug. 


crease,  as  perhaps  it  was  not,  or  of 
ratification,  as  it  was,  one  man  only 
remained  in  this  country  influential 
enough  to  inflict  either;  and  that 
was  the  Duke  of  Wellington.  Any 
other  man  would  have  wrecked  him- 
self, rather  than  the  debris  of  politi- 
cal principle,  by  the  second  great 
apostasy,  in  the  affair  of  the  Catholic 
Relief  Bill ;  Sir  Robert  Peel,  in  fact, 
diil  so.  But  this  great  servant  of  the 
country  borrowed  weight  enough 
from  the  large  body  of  his  past  merits 
to  accredit  a  counterbalancing  mis- 
chief by  coming  in  aid  of  Mr  Can- 
ning's example,  and  giving  the  last 
ahock  to  whatever  might  yet  remain 
of  consistency  or  ancient  faith.  Old 
denominations  then  went  finally  to 
wreck.  New  ones  have  since  been 
introduced,  such  as  liberal,  and  il- 
liberal, &c.  j  so  vague  as  to  have  no 
reference  to  any  one  political  system 
of  Europe,  rather  than  another;  so 
comprehensive  as  to  define  no  prin- 
ciple nor  exclude  any  mode  of  error. 

This  process  of  sap  and  hasty  dis- 
solution, applied  to  all  party  con- 
nexions, and  ancient  obligations  of 
political  creed,  left  England  open  to 
revolution,  in  any  shape  which  cir- 
cumstances might  determine.  That 
determination  was  given  by  the 
French  Revolution  of  last  year.  Un- 
heard of  profligacy,  in  public  lead- 
ers, prepared  the  minds  of  men  for 
bending  to  any  revolutionary  im- 
pulse. That  impulse  was  given  by 
our  dangerous  neighbours. 

By  these  fatal  coincidences  it  was, 
connected  with  the  prodigious  ex- 
tension of  late  years  given  to  the 
shallow  schemes  of  popular  educa- 
tion, that  the  ground  was  cleared  for 
the  present  Reform  Bill.  These 
were  the  previous  conditions  for  its 
entertainment  by  the  middle  classes 
of  the  nation — the  respectable — the 
sober-minded.  And  observe —  a 
fact  which  has  often  been  noticed— 
hitherto  it  has  been  the  happiness  of 
England,  the  natural  happiness  ari- 
sing out  of  her  wise  institutions, 
that  no  madness  of  the  populace  can 
avail  any  thing  for  permanent  effects, 
unless  as  it  is  strengthened  by  cor- 
responding madness,  in  the  property 
and  respectability  of  the  land.  Such 
was  our  happiness.  But  that  will 
soon  cease  to  be  more  than  a  bright 
remembrance  for  us.  The  days  are 
numbered  which  will  maintain  thW 


1831.] 


On,  the  Approaching  Revolution  in  Great  Britain. 


319 


admirable  balance  of  forces,  through 
which  it  became  impossible  that  the 
popular  power  could  ever  be  exerted 
in  its  omnipotence,  except  in  such  a 
conjunction  with  the  enlightened 
interests  of  the  nation,  as  ascertained 
its  safety,  and  ensured  a  wise  direc- 
tion to  its  motions — a  mechanism, 
never  reached  by  Athenian  wisdom 
or  Roman,  through  which  it  became 
impossible  that  the  hand  should  find 
its  energies,  unless  where  the  eye 
was  awake,  which  would  not  suft'er 
the  sails  to  fill,  unless  when  the  helms- 
man was  at  his  post.  This  privilege 
we  hold  in  right  of  our  constitution. 
This  we  shall  soon  cease  to  hold. 
For  the  present,  however,  we  have 
it ;  and  nothing  could  have  ensured 
that  co-operation  of  the  middle  and 
the  lowest  classes,  which  we  now 
behold,  short  of  that  treason  to  itself 
in  the  very  highest  and  most  influ- 
ential class,  which  two  great  ser- 
vants of  the  state  first  originated,  and 
which  the  subsequent  convulsions 
in  France  have  made  irresistibly  con- 
tagious. Tantus  molts  erat — so  tran- 
scendant,  so  awfully  beyond  all 
bounds  of  calculation — was  the  pre- 
vious combination  of  conditions, 
which  must  meet  to  make  this  mea- 
sure possible.  The  mind  of  any 
reasonable  man  is  aghast  at  the  sum 
of  obstacles,  of  sheer  impossibilities 
as  five  years  ago  they  would  have 
been  pronounced,  which  actually 
have  been  surmounted  to  bring  us 
up  to  the  station  which  we  now  oc- 
cupy. And  far  less,  it  may  be  bold- 
ly maintained,  is  the  interval  between 
that  station  and  the  fiercest  demo- 
cracy, than  the  space  which  we  have 
already  traversed.  So  that  merely 
as  a  question  of  probability  and 
chance,  no  man  could  think  it  a  vi- 
sionary speculation  to  predict,  that 
a  nation,  which  had  so  summarily 
and  so  totally  annihilated  its  aristo- 
cracy as  a  moral  force,  should,  in 
twelve  months  hence,  solemnly  an-' 
nihilate  its  monarchy. 

As  a  matter  of  probability,  I  say, 
that  the  last  supposition  would  be 
much  less  outrageous  now,  than  the 
other  would  have  seemed  to  us  all 
five  short  years  ago.  But  chance 
and  probability  are  not  the  grounds 
which  I  shall  take.  The  changes 
which  are  already  fixed  and  settled, 
involve  other  changes  as  inevitably 
as  any  that  are  involved  in  the  or- 


derly succession  of  physical  deve- 
lopements  under  the  great  laws  of 
nature.  Let  us  consider. 

But  first  I  postulate  thus  much — 
that  you  look  upon  the  Reform  Bill 
as  virtually  passed  into  the  law  of 
the  land.  This  I  require  of  your 
good  sense.  For  no  matter  what 
struggle  may  be  made  for  the  mo- 
ment in  the  Tipper  House — no  matter 
what  modifications  of  the  bill  in  its 
first  outline  may  be  conceded,  for  the 
present,  to  the  fears  of  one  quarter, 
or  the  noble  violence  of  another — it 
is  now  past  all  human  resistance  to 
stand  between  the  awakened  mad- 
ness of  the  people,  and  the  cujrtif 
licentious  power  which  has  been 
brought  to  their  lips.  Were  it  pos- 
sible that  the  firmness  of  the  Lords 
should  not  be  quelled  by  the  terri- 
fic menaces  of  the  people,  were  it 
possible  that  this  firmness  should 
succeed  in  somewhat  abating  the 
enormous  increase  of  power,  which 
the  Reform  will  throw  into  the  hands 
of  the  democracy, — still,  in  the  very 
happiest  result,  and  under  every  re- 
straint of  the  mischief  that  can  be 
supposed,  the  next  or  reformed 
House  of  Commons  will  assemble 
with  a  prodigious  expansion  of  de- 
mocratic strength.  That,  which  was 
found  not  quite  practicable  in  its 
utmost  extent  for  a  Parliament  as 
now  constituted,  will  be  the  easiest 
of  conquests  for  the  infant  Hercules 
in  its  recomposition.  The  Lords 
themselves,  whatever  might  be  their 
conscientious  aspirations,  would  lose 
all  cohesion  and  determination  when 
overawed  by  the  double  terrors  of 
an  infuriated  populace,  and  a  change 
of  character  so  eminent  in  the  rival 
House,  that  by  mere  rapturous 
acclamation  in  one  moment  under 
its  new  composition,  it  would  carry, 
in  their  uttermost  latitude,  all  those 
changes  which,in  this  present  House, 
have  been  the  subjects  of  voting  and 
lengthened  debate.  Whatsoever  may 
fail  of  passing  in  a  Parliament  of  the 
present  constitution,  supposing  that 
any  thing  should  fail,  will  pass  with- 
out almost  needing  an  exertion  of 
those  new-born  forces  which  must 
inevitably  belong  to  that  democratic 
Parliament,  sure  to  result  from  the 
Reform  Bill, though  emasculated  ten 
times  more  than  is  possible.  This  is 
what  people  overlook.  Refuse  what 
you  will,  for  the  moment,  to  the  cla- 


On  the  Approaching  Revolution  in  Great  BritaitR 


32O 


incurs  of  the  democracy,  yet  by  con- 
ceding to  them  that  w«  <:*>  of  Archi- 
medes— that  vantage-ground  for 
planting  democratic  engines  which 
you  do  and  must  concede  in  a  consti- 
tution of  the  elective  franchise  so  en- 
tirely democratized — you  give  them 
in  effect,  the  power  of  helping  them- 
selves to-morrow,  contemptuously 
and  vindictively, to  everything  which 
you  have  refused  to-day.  Between 
giving  so  much  as  the  Reform  Bill, 
most  rigorously  circumscribed,  can- 
not but  give,  and  giving  every  thing 
that  is  demanded — the  ultimate  dif- 
ference will  be,  that  with  the  very 
same  extent  of  virtual  power  confer- 
red,— in  the  one  case  you  will  have 
offered  one  more  affront  to  the  vin- 
dictive, and  in  the  other  case  will 
have  lavished  one  more  bounty  on 
the  ungrateful.  Practically,  and 
twelve  months  hence,  all  the  differ- 
ence will  be  levelled  and  forgotten. 

The  Bill,  therefore,  will  pass;  and, 
finally,  the  whole  Bill,  and  nothing 
but  the  Bill ;  the  little  trifle  of  dif- 
ference being  this,  shall  the  total 
boons  of  that  bill  be  given  to  the 
people,  or  taken  by  the  people  ? 
Shall  the  whole  power  of  our  three 
estates  be  conferred  on  the  democra- 
tic branch  by  Parliament  as  it  now 
is,  or  by  Parliament  as  it  shall  be 
under  its  new  constitution  ?  A  differ- 
ence which  you  and  every  man  must 
allow  to  be  utterly  immaterial,  if  you 
allow  it  to  be  truly  stated. 

Now,  to  determine  this,  let  us  en- 
quire what  will  be  the  minimum  of 
new  privileges  acquired  to  the  people 
by  the  Reform  Bill  under  any  modi- 
fication. There  are  many  innova- 
tions, in  some  measure  wanton  in- 
novations, contemplated  by  the  pre- 
sent Bill,  which,  because  they  are 
grievously  unjust,  and  because  they 
sport  with  the  rights  of  property, 
and  with  inveterate  prescription,  in 
a  degree  scandalous  for  a  govern- 
ment to  sanction,  public  censors  do, 
and  indeed  ought  to  dwell  on  with 
exemplary  indignation.  For  all  in- 
justice, and  all  levity  in  dealing  with 
rights  so  sacred  as  those  or  pro- 
perty, are  important,  and  in  the  case 
of  a  state  perpetrator  are  ominously 
BO.  In  that  view  I  cannot  condemn 
those  who  have  lingered  dispropor- 
tionately upon  these  aspects  of  the 
Bill.  Else,  and  for  the  immediate 
question  at  issue,  such  writers  wrong 


[Aug. 


it,  and  defraud  it  of  its  dues,  by 
drawing  off  the  eye  from  the  capital 
mischief.  For,  say  I,  perish  for  the 
moment  this  franchise,  or  that  fran- 
chise, which  is  attacked  with  the 
same  reckless  fury  that  the  French 
Convention  manifested  in  their  at- 
tacks on  old  corporate  rights !  Leave 
these  cases  for  some  after  reckoning, 
if  ever  we  should  be  in  the  condi- 
tion to  give  it  effect.  And,  meantime, 
let  us  apply  ourselves  to  that  part  of 
the  evil,  which,  if  once  made  opera- 
tive, will  bar  all  redress  for  the  whole 
and  for  each  several  part.  And  what 
is  that  ?  Simply  the  transfer  of  the 
whole  elective  weight,  the  capital  in- 
fluence for  determining  the  character 
and  complexion  of  the  Commons' 
House  of  Parliament,  from  the  pro- 
perty of  the  land,  from  the  aristo- 
cracy modified  by  a  large  infusion 
of  democratic  sympathies,  to  the 
most  desperate  part  of  the  demo- 
cracy, and  that  which,  for  strong 
reasons,  will  pay  the  blindest  obe- 
dience to  democratic  passions.  For 
one  moment,  let  us  pause  to  con- 
sider— who  they  are  that  now  admi- 
nister the  elective  power  in  the  close 
boroughs,  and  what  sort  of  people  it 
is  to  whom  this  power  will  be  soon 
transferred. 

Many  persons  both  in  and  out  of 
Parliament  are  daily  expressing  an 
affected  wonder  that  the  "  rotten" 
parts  of  the  constitution  should  be 
regarded  with  peculiar  affection  as 
organs  of  its  sanity,  by  some  classes 
of  constitutional  purists.  And  they 
find  the  same  cause  for  astonishment 
inanotherself-contradiction,  as,  upon 
their  way  of  stating  the  case,  it  might 
seem  to  be,  viz.  that  a  practice  which 
the  laws  directly  prohibit  (as  e.  g. 
the  interference  of  peers  in  elec- 
tions) should  be  susceptible  of  any 
defence  or  palliation.  He,  however, 
who  allows  himself  to  be  duped  by 
a  metaphor  or  by  a  verbal  anomaly, 
will  never  want  matter  for  his  won- 
der in  politics,  or  even  in  plainer 
speculations.  These  pleasantries  will 
hardly  require  an  answer,  unless 
where  (as  sometimes  happens)  they 
do  really  impose  on  those  who  em- 
ploy them.  With  regard  to  the  term 
"  rotten  boroughs,"  that  metaphor  is 
one  of  conventional  usage;  but  as 
well  might  a  man  found  an  argument 
on  the  word  Reform,  as  technically 
employed  at  present  to  designate  a 


1831.]  Oft  the  Approaching  Revolution  in  Great  Britain. 


321, 


particular  measure,  both  by  those 
who  approve  it  and  by  those  who 
hold  it  to  be  the  utmost  possible  cor- 
ruption of  the  constitution — as  rea- 
sonably might  he  insist  that  a  "  re- 
form" could  not  be  injurious,  as  ex- 
pect us  to  acknowledge  any  argu- 
ment against  the  system  of  close 
boroughs  from  the  epithet  "  rotten," 
applied  merely  as  a  term  of  conve- 
nience, to  distinguish  one  class  from 
another.  The  most  violent  Catholic 
does  not  refuse  the  term  "  reformed 
religion"  as  a  technical  designation 
of  that  faith  which  he  abominates ; 
nor  xlo  we  Protestants  refuse  to  him 
the  denomination  of  "  Catholic," 
though,  if  understood  otherwise  than 
as  a  term  of  convenience,  used  con- 
ventionally for  distinction's  sake, 
this  one  word  would  concede  the 
whole  controversy  between  Papist 
and  Protestant  in  favour  of  the  first. 
It  is  enough  to  say,  that  whenever  a 
disputant  is  so  weak  as  to  urge  such 
technical  usages  in  the  way  of  an 
argument,  he  merely  admonishes  his 
antagonist  to  refuse  the  usage  in 
question,  and  to  substitute  some 
neutral  expression  not  liable  to  this 
captious  abuse. 

With  regard  to  the  apparent  ano- 
maly— that  any  practice  should  by 
possibility  be  in  the  spirit  of  the 
constitution,  which  the  laws  point- 
edly forbid,  that  is  no  unusual  case 
in  any  country.  Ancient  laws  justly 
denounce  many  practices  to  which 
the  revolutions  worked  by  time  in 
manners,  usages,  institutions,  and 
the  relations  of  all  these  to  property 
and  political  influence,  give  a  new 
character  and  significance.  Well  it 
is  for  any  country,  when  the  great 
influences  of  things  outweigh  the 
ritual  of  words,  and  are  able  silently 
and  gradually  to  adjust  themselves 
to  the  spirit  and  intention  of  the 
laws.  A  constitution  framed  with 
that  wisdom  which  all  of  us  ascribe 
to  the  last  reviewers  and  finishing 
inspectors  of  the  constitution  in 
1668-9,  will  manifest  its  excellence 
chiefly  in  this  point — that  it  will  be 
ductile  to  the  true  substantial  neces- 
sities of  time  and  change,  and  will 
adapt  itself  by  its  own  vis  medicatrix 
naturae  to  the  exigencies  of  things, 
not  seek  to  maintain  a  verbal  con- 
formity to  the  mere  letter  of  human 
ordinances.  When  there  is  any  an- 
tinomy, real  or  apparent,  between  a 


gradual  accommodation  to  time  and»urrt 
change  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  po- 
sitive prescription   of  law   on    the 
other,  there  is  always  a  presumption 
in  favour  of  the  first.     For  Nature  is 
true  to  herself;  and  an  institution/ j 
wisely  framed,  like  the  British  con- 
stitution, may  be  properly  called  *,  ,ir 
work  of  nature,  for  this  reason — that 
it  was  not  struck  out  like  the  French^  l!; 
constitution  of  1792,  at  one  beat  and. 
by  human  hands,  but  grew  up  silentrf ;  g 
ly  from  age  to  age  as  a  passive  de»<lf»r 
position  from  the  joint  and  recipvo-t,,^ 
cal   action  of  every   thing   in  lawj,  lj 
manners,  religion,  institutions,  and 
local  necessities,  which  can  possibl jfr.  r;>5 
combine  to  frame  a  durable  product},,  , 
for  a  people  living  in  the  same  soil 
and  climate,  and  inheriting  in  every 
generation  the  same  tastes,  habits,  and 
wants.     In  this  view  it  is  .that  I  call 
the  men  of  King  William's  revolu- 
tion merely  the  last  revisers  of  the 
constitution  ;  for  in  fact  that  const** 
tution  was  the  growth  of  ceuturie&fcntf 
and  though  it  was  altered  and  finally    , 
settled  in  one  capital  article  at  that 
period,  viz.  in  the  exact  order  and  , ,• 
course  prescribed  to  the  Protestant 
succession,  yet  in  all  its  other  great 
features  it  had  much   more  exten- 
sively developed  itself  in  the  reign 
of  Charles  I. ;  and  in  some  great  par- 
ticulars through  that  of  Charles  II. 
In  reality  (speaking  generally)  the 
Revolution  of  1688  was  rather  de- 
claratory of  the  constitution,  than 
originally  enactory.  And  universally 
I  mean  to  deny  that  any  one  epoch, 
or  course  of  years,  can  be  consider- 
ed as  the  birth  period  of  the  consti- 
tution.    What  I  understand  by  the 
constitution,  that  is,  the  system  of 
restraints  and  guards  within  which 
as  a  mould  the  laws  were  trained  to 
flow,  grew  up  as  occasions  offered 
for  developing  it.     It  was  not  any 
man,  Parliament,  body  of  men,  or 
succession  of  men,  that  created  it; 
but  gradually  it  created  itself,  slowly 
accumulating   by  the  contributions 
of  successive  ages.     Many  genera- 
tions united  their  gifte  to  this  stu- 
pendous creation.     And  more  than 
the  labours  of  all  generations  toge- 
ther, in  the  sense  of  conscious  con*  t<» 
tributors,  were  the  labours  of  time 
itself,  and  the  silent  effects  of  neces- 
sities suffered  to  work  out  their  own 
demands,  errors  of  excess  or  of  de- 
fect suffered  to  work  out  their  own 


3-2-2 


On  the  Approaching  Revolution  in  Great  Britain. 


[Aug. 


redress,  and  changes  in  one  quarter 
suffered  to  work  out  in  another  their 
own  corresponding  accommodations. 
In  this  view  it  is,  and  on  the  highest 
principles,  that  we  may  call  this  fa- 
mous Constitution,  in  one  sense,  a 
work  of  nature — without  meaning 
therefore  to  deny  that  it  is  the  most 
splendid  monument  of  the  wisdom 
of  man.  In  reality,  Time,  and  Na- 
ture, and  Man,  have  all  co-operated 
in  rearing  up  this  great  edifice; 
though  man  alone  will  now  finally 
dissolve  it. 

Hence,  in  any  question  of  opposi- 
tion between  a  particular  law  and 
the  practical  administration  of  the 
constitution,  the  presumption  will 
always  lie  against  the  former.  An 
individual  legislator  must  often  be 
in  error ;  and  never  more  than  when 
he  seeks  to  accommodate  the  laws 
to  his  private  sense  and  theory  of 
the  constitution,  or  to  authenticate 
by  express  ordinance  a  dubious  in- 
terpretation of  his  own.  Real  abuses 
may  certainly  creep  in :  but,  gene- 
rally speaking,  it  is  much  more  pro- 
bable that  what  a  shallow  and  literal 
interpreter  takes  for  abuses,  are 
practical  accommodations  to  the 
changes  wrought  by  time. 

With  regard  to  the  particular  case 
before  us — the  interference  of  peers 
in  elections — there  may  be  an  appa- 
rent indecorum  in  such  acts;  but, 
substantially,  they  are  right  and  war- 
rantable. There  was  indeed  a  pe- 
riod when  such  interferences  would 
have  been  truly  unconstitutional. 
But  at  this  day  it  is  far  otherwise ; 
for  two  great  changes  have  been 
wrought  by  time  in  the  position  of 
the  peerage  to  the  third  estate.  First, 
they  are  no  longer  in  essential  op- 
position to  the  Commons.  In  the 
reign  of  James  I.  and  his  son,  it  is 
evident  that  the  gentry  had  become 
a  powerful  class  by  means  of  the 
alienated  landed  estates  which  they 
had  gradually  bought  from  the  no- 
bility, or  other  sources.  Henry  VII., 
by  those  measures  which  he  took  for 
weakening  the  nobility,  viz.,  by  faci- 
litating the  alienation  of  their  landed 
estates — Henry  VIII.,  by  his  success- 
ful attack  upon  the  church,  unlocked 
and  thawed,  as  it  were,  the  frozen 
masses  of  territorial  property  which 
had  been  sequestered  into  compara- 
tively a  few  hands.  The  diffusion  of 
these  amongst  younger  sons,  &c.,  gra- 


dually raised  up  a  very  powerful  and 
intelligent  body  of  gentry,  or  (as  in 
other  parts  of  Europe  they  are  call- 
ed) lesser  nobility.  At  first,  they 
had  no  adequate  organ  for  impress- 
ing their  due  influence  upon  state 
a  Hairs  ;  for  the  uniform  doctrine  of 
Elizabeth,  and  her  two  immediate 
successors,  was — that  the  House  of 
Commons  had  no  concern  with  fo- 
reign affairs,  or  indeed  any  affairs 
that  rose  to  a  state  importance.  And 
it  was  precisely  from  the  recent  rise 
of  this  great  body,  and  the  want  of 
any  sufficient  provision  in  the  laws  or 
usages  for  protecting  their  develope- 
ment,  that  Charles  I.  was  betrayed 
into  his  fatal  quarrel  with  them,  un- 
der a  full  belief  that  he  was  simply 
maintaining  his  own  plain  rights ; 
and  the  mere  letter  of  the  law,  in 
many  instances,  warranted  that  be- 
lief. For  in  fact  a  new  power  was 
then  unfolding  in  the  state,  which 
required  protection  both  against 
crown  and  aristocracy,  and  which 
found  even  a  war  necessary  to  give 
full  effect  to  its  rights.  How  differ- 
ent the  situation  of  the  House  of 
Commons  already  in  the  reign  of 
Charles  II. !  It  had  then  taken  its 
place  as  the  main  organ  in  the  state, 
and  it  was  rather  from  the  jealousy 
of  pride,  than  the  jealousy  of  fear, 
that  it  has  since  had  occasion  to  for- 
bid the  interference  of  peers  in  elec- 
tions. 

Secondly,  it  must  be  remembered 
that  a  peer  cannot  interfere  as  a 
peer :  In  that  character  he  has  no 
longer  any  distinct  or  peculiar 
powers.  His  interference  must  be 
m  the  character  of  a  great  landed 
proprietor.  Now,  in  that  character, 
he  cannot  exercise  any  influence 
which  is  not  salutary  at  this  day  as  a 
counter-weight ;  for  another  change 
which  we  owe  to  the  progress  of 
time,  lies  in  the  prodigious  expansion 
of  the  commercial  and  manufactu- 
ring body,  their  wealth  and  influence. 
This  has  long  been  a  growing  in- 
fluence ;  —  it  is,  per  se,  a  revolu- 
tionary influence ;  and  the  whole 
conservative  interest  of  the  country 
— the  fixed  and  abiding  influence  of 
the  land — can  with  difficulty  make 
head  against  it.  To  rob  it  of  any  one 
element,  is  in  effect  to  aid  a  body  of 
democratic  and  revolutionary  forces, 
already  prodigiously  in  excess. 

But  it  such  are  the  hands  from 


1831.] 


On  the  Approaching  Revolution  in  Great  Britain. 


which  the  elective  power  is  now 
finally  taken  away  by  the  Reform 
Bill,  next  let  us  see  into  what  sort  of 
hands  it  is  thrown.  Who  are  they  that 
will  hereafter  make  the  majority,  the 
great  majority,  in  electioneering  con- 
tests ?  Confessedly,  whether  for 
counties,  cities,  or  boroughs,  they 
are  the  petty  shopkeepers,  or  per- 
sons representing  the  very  same 
class  of  influences.  Now,  if  ever 
there  was  a  mistake  committed  in 
this  world,  and  on  a  capital  point,  it 
is  with  regard  to  the  temper  and  dis- 
position of  that  order  of  men.  I 
have  observed  them  much,  and  long  : 
I  have  noticed  their  conduct  in  elec- 
tions, their  uniform  way  of  voting, 
when  they  happened  to  have  votes, 
the  furious  partisanship  of  their  can- 
vassings,  the  class  of  newspapers 
which  they  encourage,  the  general 
spirit  of  their  conversation  on  poli- 
tics ;  in  short,  no  symptom  from 
which  their  predominant  inclinations 
can  be  collected,  has  escaped  me  for 
the  last  sixteen  years ;  that  is,  since 
the  general  close  of  European  wars 
has  left  men  entirely  free  and  undis- 
turbed for  the  consideration  of  do- 
mestic politics.  The  result  of  my  ob- 
servations is,  that,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  here  and  there  an  individual 
bribed,  as  it  were,  to  reserve  and 
duplicity,  by  his  dependence  on  some 
great  aristocratic  neighbour,  this  or- 
der of  men  is  as  purely  Jacobinical, 
and  disposed  to  revolutionary  coun- 
sels, as  any  that  existed  in  France  at 
the  period  of  their  worst  convulsions. 
To  hear  them  talk,  you  would  ima- 
gine that  we  lived  under  a  govern- 
ment as  oppressive,  and  a  court  as 
profligate,  as  that  of  Louis  XIV.  Yet 
at  this  moment  the  King's  Ministers 
build  entirely,  for  the  safety  of  their 
schemes,  upon  the  supposed  interests 
of  these  men.  As  if  even  on  that 
head  the  immediate  and  the  appa- 
rent did  not  often  triumph  over  the 
real  and  the  remote.  But  these  men, 
are  infinitely  careless  of  their  inte- 
rests in  all  matters  of  politics.  And 
.why  ?  They  do  not  believe  that  any 
paramount  question  of  interest  is  at 
stake  for  them.  They  confide  in  the 
general  stability  of  our  laws  and  in- 
stitutions, to  protect  their  capital, 
rights  of  person  and  property ;  and 
for  all  else  they  conclude,  that  any 


323 

popular  revolution  cannot  but  be- 
friend their  order,  at  the  cost  of  the 
higher.  Their  capacity  of  sinking  is 
limited,  as  they  will  perceive,  by 
their  present  situation,  so  near  to  the 
base  of  society.  But  their  prospects 
in  the  opposite  direction,  so  natu- 
rally suggested  by  each  man's  ambi- 
tion and  vanity,  seem  altogether  in- 
definite. The  single  step  which  they 
can  lose,  is  soon  reascended;  and 
for  the  many  which  they  can  gain, 
new  chances  seem  opened,  over  and 
above  such  as  exist  already,  by  the 
confusions  of  a  revolution. 

But  suppose  it  were  otherwise,  is 
it  any  thing  new  to  see  men  armed 
by  their  passions  against  their  du- 
bious interests  ?  Their  passions,  their 
antipathies,  their  sympathies,  all 
pledge  them  to  revolutionary  poli- 
tics. It  is  not  their  miserable  ten 
pounds,  or  whatever  the  thing  may 
be,  which  will  carry  them  back  to 
sounder  politics.  Many  a  man  of 
this  class  has  intelligence  and  cul- 
ture enough  to  feel  most  sensibly 
the  mortifications  of  self-love  and 
pride  in  the  relations  which  subsist 
between  his  own  rank  and  the  gen- 
try. 

In  the  immediate  prospect  of  what 
he  will  think  retribution,  and  in  the 
chances  opened  to  his  personal  am- 
bition, even  if  he  should  have  saga- 
city enough  to  see  that  his  own  class, 
as  a  whole,  will  share  the  ruin  of 
those  above  them,  each  man  will  find 
a  reason  in  his  own  particular  case, 
for  discovering  a  perfect  conform- 
ity of  language  between  his  pas- 
sions of  revenge  and  his  final  inte- 
rests. But,  say  you,  "  of  revenge ! 
for  what  ?"  My  friend,  throw  your 
eyes  back — and  tell  me  what  par- 
ticular wrongs  armed  the  grave  re- 
ligious citizens  of  the  commercial 
towns  during  the  great  Parliamentary 
war  against  the  Cavaliers?  Why 
was  it  that  London  by  itself,  the 
trading  part  of  London,  proved  a 
mine  of  wealth  to  the  Parliament, 
and  actually  at  times  sustained  the 
whole  weight  of  the  contest  against 
the  King,  feeding  the  other  side  both 
with  men  who  turned  the  day  (aa 
once  at  Newbury),  and  with  money, 
whilst  the  Cavaliers  were  crippled 
from  the  first  by  want  of  funds  ? 
How  came  Birmingham,  Bristol, 


On  the  Approaching  Revolution  in  Great  Britain. 


324 

Coventry,  Manchester*  (already  a 
place  of  some  trade) — in  short  all 
towns  in  which  the  spirit  of  trade 
predominated,  to  be  rancorously 
united  against  the  royal  party  ?  Or, 
coming  nearer  to  our  own  times, 
why  were  the  humbler  citizens  of 
France  universally  and  vindictively 
hostile  to  the  noblesse  and  the  court  ? 
Revenge,  the  spirit  of  revenge,  ex- 
isted keenly  where  no  specific  or  in- 
dividual injuries  were  alleged.  But 
the  revenge  was  general — to  the 
spirit  of  aristocratic  manners,  which 
the  stage — the  manners  and  usages 
of  society — and  the  tone  of  social 
intercourse — all  united  to  represent 
as  coloured  with  contempt  and  dis- 
dain for  the  Bourgeoisie.  The  whole 
wealth  of  the  wealthiest  order  in 
France,  the  Bankers — Financiers — 
and  Maltotiers,  could  scarcely  ac- 
quire for  them  an  uneasy  admission 
to  the  society  of  the  titled  noblesse. 
And  a  noblesse,  the  least  elevated  in 
Europe,  having  sunk  in  fact  through 
the  policyf  of  Richelieu  and  Maza- 
rine to  a  mere  privileged  gentry, 
had  yet  for  centuries  shewn  them- 
selves more  disdainful  than  the  mag- 
nificent grandees  of  Spain  or  Great 
Britain,  of  all  alliances  with  roturi- 
ers. 

The  same  abuses,  it  is  true,  do  not 
exist  with  us.  The  army,  navy,  and 
every  department  of  civil  life,  are 
open  alike  to  the  ambition  of  all. 
But  the  spirit  of  plebeian  envy  in 
every  society  arms  a  certain  body 
of  low-minded  jealousy  against  the 
aristocracy.  The  non-existence  of 
any  oppressive  privileges  in  favour 
of  our  aristocracy  makes  this  jea- 
lousy much  less  excusable ;  but  it 
is  not  therefore  at  all  the  less  real. 

Meantime,  you  will  allege,  that  a 
jealousy,  not  barbed  and  sustained 
by  the  memory  of  deep  oppressions, 
cannot  be  so  powerful  or  terrific  a 
force  in  civic  struggles  as  it  was  in 


[Aug. 


France.  Granted :  but  of  what  avail 
is  that,  so  long  as  it  can  be  shewn 
that  this  jealousy  is  equal  to  the 
service  upon  which  it  will  now  be 
thrown  ?  That  service  will  not  lie 
in  directly  executing  the  bloody 
atrocities  of  a  Revolution,  or  per- 
haps in  formally  effecting  a  Revolu- 
tion,—but  in  opening  to  others  the 
road  to  such  a  Revolution  through 
the  successive  changes  in  the  com- 
position of  Parliament. 

And  here  I  would  wish  earnestly 
to  call  your  attention  to  one  great 
lesson  of  history,  viz.  the  extreme 
abruptness,  and  the  violent  per  sal- 
tum  rapidity  with  which  changes 
advance,  when  one  of  the  earliest 
among  those  changes  has  been  in 
the  very  constitution  of  that  power 
by  which  all  the  rest  were  to  be 
effected.  For  example,  in  France, 
by  fatal  advice  the  States  General 
are  convoked.  This  body  meets  in 
a  temper  of  mind  not  perhaps  more 
revolutionary  than  the  present  House 
of  Commons.  Accordingly  their  own 
measures  restrained  by  their  pecu- 
liar constitution  would  hardly  in  a 
century  have  precipitated  France 
into  those  bloody  scenes  which  ac- 
tually followed.  But  the  States 
General  dissolve,  and  provide  a  suc- 
cessor which  resumes  their  func- 
tions with  powers  perilously  ex- 
tended. And  a  change  was  thus 
accomplished  within  12  or  ISmonths 
in  the  temper  of  France,  a  progress 
was  made  in  violence  and  sangui- 
nary fury,  which  seems  miraculously 
out  of  proportion  to  the  interval  of 
time.  Things  were  done  in  1792 
and  1793,  which  in  1790  would  have 
been  pronounced  romantically  im- 
possible. Had  the  10th  of  August 
1792,  had  the  execution  of  the  king 
in  January  1793,  been  anticipated, 
even  as  ultimate  possibilities  in 
1790,  they  would  have  been  scouted 
as  atrocious  insults  to  the  loyal-heart- 


*  In  some  places,  as  particularly  in  Lancashire,  the  disproportion  of  Catholics  a 
little  disturbed  the  rule,  which  else  was  a  general  one — that  disaffection  to  the  go- 
vernment kept  pace  with  commercial  activity. 

f  i.  e.  By  the  policy  which  diffused  them  so  far  beyond  the  limits  within  which 
titles  can  maintain  any  reverence.  The  French  noblesse  had  no  grandeur.  No  man 
could  be  impressed  reverentially  by  titles  which  nosed  him  in  every  corner  of  every 
town.  And  yet  they  were  divided  from  the  classes  below  them  by  impassable  dis- 
tinctions, viz.  odious  privileges  and  more  odious  exemptions.  Thus,  whilst  destroyed 
as  objects  of  respect,  they  were  maintained  in  every  thing  which  made  them  objects 
of  hatred  and  jealousy.  A  more  contradictory  organization  cannot  be  imagined. 


1881.] 


On  the  Approaching  Revolution  in  Great  Britain. 


ed  sentiments  of  chivalry,  which  even 
in  that  year  continued  to  protect  the 
throne.  So  again  with  respect  to 
the  English  House  of  Commons ; 
whenever  assembled  before  Novem- 
ber 1641,  how  affectionate — how  re- 
verential to  the  King  is  the  language 
of  their  most  fervent  remonstrances ! 
Soon  after  that  time  came  a  mighty 
revolution  in  their  own  constitution  ; 
an  act  was  extorted  from  the  King's 
weakness,  by  which  he  solemnly  re- 
nounced his  constitutional  power  of 
dissolving  them  at  pleasure.  Here 
ceased  the  precarious  tenure  of  their 
power ;  they  now  obtained  an  exist- 
ence as  an  independent  and  rival 
power  in  the  state ;  and  in  a  few 
months  after  we  find  their  armies 
fighting  pitched  battles  with  the 
King. 

In  either  of  these  cases  the  very 
persons,  who  led  the  chase  and  fi- 
gured as  the  most  tempestuous  of 
the  public  disorganizes,  would  to 
their  own  hearts  have  denied  the 
possibility  of  their  own  violences 
but  twelve  months  before  they  oc- 
curred. In  the  language  of  Scrip- 
ture, and  with  the  sincerity  of  him 
to  whom  that  language  is  ascribed, 
they  would  have  said — "  Is  thy  ser- 
vant a  dog  that  he  should  do  this 
thing  ?"  when  speaking  of  that  very 
thing  which  not  long  after  they  ac- 
tually did.  Neither  the  powers  were 
then  developed  which  enabled  them 
to  do  such  things;  nor  the  guilty 
wishes  which  arose  upon  the  tempt- 
ation of  those  new-born  powers. 
Doubtless  the  Duke  of  Orleans  as 
little  believed  in  1791  that  he  should 
vote  for  the  death  of  the  King  in  Ja- 
nuary 1793,  as  in  January  1793  he 
believed  that  his  own  death  was  at 
hand  upon  the  same  scaffold.  Ro- 
bespierre himself  in  1792  appeared 
to  Madame  Roland  no  more  than  a 
vain  and  conceited  young  man,  whom 
accident  and  opportunity,  concurring 
with  a  weak  moral  nature,  soon  after 
raised  into  an  immortal  monster  of 
cruelty. 

The  very  same  course  is  now  lead- 
ing to  the  same  results  amongst  our- 
selves, both  for  men  and  for  bodies 
of  men.  Before  the  present  Parlia- 
ment shall  be  dissolved,  they,  like 
the  States  General,  will  have  provi- 
ded powers  for  a  succeeding  Parlia- 
ment terrifically  greater  than  any 
which  they  possessed  themselves, 


325 


Indeed,  when  we  reflect  on  the  pro- 
digious revolution  which  is  already 
accomplished  in  the  principles  and 
temper  of  Parliament,  even  previ- 
ously to  any  change  whatever  in  its 
constitution,  and  that  at  this  moment 
a  sort  of  language  is  held  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  which  but  four 
or  five  years  ago  stamped  a  man  as 
a  public  incendiary, — probably  you 
will  agree  with  me  that  an  equal 
progress  for  the  next  equal  term  of 
years  would  suffice  to  bring  us  to 
the  same  crisis  by  a  simple  revolu- 
tion in  principles,  which,  as  things 
now  are,  we  are  destined  to  reach  by 
a  revolution  in  the  constitution  of 
Parliament.  Certainly  between  a 
House  which  consigned  the  whole 
question  of  Reform,  and  its  sup- 
porters, in  common  with  petty  lar- 
ceny and  its  admirers,  to  the  consi- 
deration of  Bow  Street,  and  that 
same  House  cherishing  this  cause  as 
its  peculiar  and  darling  trust — the 
interval  cannot  be  thought  narrower 
than  between  that  point  which  it  has 
now  reached,  when  all  the  lines  of 
difference  have  confessedly  vanish- 
ed that  could  distinguish  his  Majes- 
ty's ministers  from  what  were  once 
called  Radicals,  and  that  point  at 
which  the  abolition  of  the  other 
House,  or  of  the  throne,  will  be  dis- 
cussed with  temper  and  seriousness. 
I,  for  my  part,  deny,  that  in  thus  bi- 
secting the  ground,  and  leaving  to 
the*  Honourable  House  for  its  arrear 
of  labour,  up  to  the  total  dissolution 
of  our  polity,  about  the  same  pro- 
portion of  change  that  it  has  already 
accomplished, — I  deny  peremptorily 
that  there  would  be  any  injustice. 
Still  I  admit,  that  were  our  ruin  left 
simply  to  the  progress  of  revolution- 
ary opinion,  and  to  the  future  con- 
sistency of  individuals,  we  might 
have  many  chances  of  escape.  For 
as  the  consequences  of  the  new  doc- 
trines began  to  unfold  themselves,  it 
would  always  be  in  the  power  of  an 
independent  House  of  Commons, 
even  at  the  sacrifice  of  their  own 
consistency,  to  stop  short  in  their 
career  of  mischief,  and  refuse  to  fol- 
low it  into  its  final  consequences. 
But,  as  things  actually  are,  this  re- 
source in  the  late  repentance  of  our 
representatives  will  be  impossible. 
No  errors  from  a  revolution  of  opi- 
nion, could  ever  carry  us  farther  than 
was  agreeable  to  the  patrons  of  those 


On  the  Approaching  Revolution  in  Great  Britain. 


326 

errors.  But  a  revolution  in  the  very 
composition  of  the  House,  denies  us 
all  benefit  of  such  a  redress.  For 
the  men,  who  could  be  supposed 
capable  of  repenting  these  errors, 
will  no  longer  hold  the  places  in 
which  their  repentance  can  be  avail- 
able. 

The  next  House  of  Commons,  a 
House  returned  under  the  new  Re- 
form Bill,  will  be  composed  of 
men  having  as  little  power  to  re- 
sist their  democratic  constituents, 
as  it  is  likely  that  they  will  have 
will  or  interest  to  do  so.  The  mem- 
bers will  have  become,  what  all 
eminent  senators  have  hitherto  pro- 
tested against  becoming,  bona  fide 
attorneys  or  procurators  for  those 
whom  they  represent.  They  will  no 
doubt  receive  regular  instructions 
by  the  post  as  to  the  conduct  they 
are  expected  to  hold  on  each  public 
question  as  it  arises ;  and  will  have 
a  regular  notice  to  quit,  as  Sir  Ro- 
bert Wilson  notoriously  had  in  the 
last  Parliament,  so  soon  as  they  dis- 
appoint the  expectations  of  their 
constituents.  Or  suppose  that  the 
very  next  Parliament  should  yet 
cling  a  little  to  the  usage  and  prece- 
dent of  their  predecessors,  still  you 
must  recollect  the  accelerated  pace 
at  which  each  successive  Parliament 
will  win  upon  the  last.  The  present 
House  of  Commons,  revolutionary 
enough  one  would  think,  are  fram- 
ing powers  to  insure  a  successor 
much  more  revolutionary  than  them- 
selves— because  elected  by  far  more 
democratic  electors.  It  is  hardly  to 
be  supposed  that  the  next  House 
will  rest  satisfied  with  the  measure 
of  change  conceded  by  a  Parliament 
so  much  more  under  aristocratic  fet- 
ters than  themselves.  They  will, 
therefore,  still  farther  enlarge  the 
powers  of  the  next  electors.  The 
qualification  will  be  reduced,  the 
elective  franchise  prodigiously  ex- 
tended. With  a  view  to  the  speedier 
attainment  of  these  farther  altera- 
tions in  the  constitution  of  Parlia- 
ment, there  will  probably  be  a  rapid 
succession  of  short  Parliaments  ad- 
vancing by  accelerated  steps  to  the 
ultimate  objects  of  the  ballot,  uni- 
versal suffrage,  &c.  And  thus  it  will 
happen  that  what  I  am  now  going  to 
anticipate,  supposing  that  it  should 
exceed  the  efforts  or  the  wishes  of 
the  very  next  Parliament,  will  ine- 


[Aug. 


vitably  come  within  those  of  the 
second  or  third  Parliaments  from 
the  date  of  the  present  Reform  Bill. 
Ask  yourself,  my  friend,  in  what  re- 
spect it  can  be  shewn  to  exceed  the 
powers  of  those  who  will  now  be 
authorized  to  correct  in  each  suc- 
ceeding election,  by  their  choice  of 
men,  and  their  peremptory  demand 
of  pledges,  whatsoever  they  may 
have  found  unconforming  to  their 
views  in  the  last  ? 

I  affirm  then  that,  acute  and  saga- 
cious in  matters  of  direct  pecuniary 
interest  as  the  largest  class  of  elec- 
tors may  well  be  pronounced,  it  will 
cost  but  a  few  steps  of  reasoning 
and  tentative  enquiry  to  bring  them 
to  the  very  clearest  perception  of 
the  one  sole  reform  in  their  pecu- 
niary burdens,  by  which  Parliament 
can  amend  their  condition.  Church 
property,  it  has  been  said,  and  colo- 
nial property,  will  be  immediately 
attacked.  I  doubt  it  not.  But  more, 
much  more,  from  hatred  to  the  hold- 
ers of  that  property,  than  from  any 
views  of  private  benefit  to  the  assail- 
ants. Or,  if  any  such  views  are  en- 
tertained at  present,  a  short  enquiry' 
will  speedily  disabuse  them  of  that 
error.  The  nation  are  happily  not 
yet  prepared  to  dispense  with  the 
ministrations  of  Christian  teachers 
and  pastors.  This  body  of  men  must 
be  paid.  And  it  is  well  known  that 
the  revenues  of  the  English  and  Irish 
churches,  however  splendid  they 
may  seem,  from  the  inequality  of 
their  present  distribution,  are  not  in 
reality  quite  equal  as  a  whole  to  the 
revenues  of  the  Scottish  church, 
which  has  never  been  thought  too 
amply  endowed.  In  reality,  I  believe, 
that  the  English  church  would,  up- 
on a  complete  equalization  of  its  be- 
nefices, allow  L.303  to  each  incum- 
bent, and  the  Scottish  about  L.305, 
or  rather  more.  In  this  there  is 
clearly  no  resource  for  revolution- 
ary cupidity.  Reduce  the  clergy  to 
the  very  lowest  scale  upon  which 
respectability  could  be  maintained, 
and  it  will  not  be  possible  to  abstract 
more  than  half  a  million  per  annum 
for  the  uses  of  confiscation.  Colo- 
nial property,  with  its  present  bur- 
dens, will  offer  still  less  to  the  spe- 
culator in  robbery.  For  the  slaves 
must  be  taken  with  the  estates;  and, 
considering  the  changes  past  and  to 
come  in  colonial  affairs,  the  mere 


1831.] 


On  the  Approaching  Revolution  in  Great  Britain. 


maintenance  of  an  idle  body  of 
slaves  (for  such  they  must  become 
under  the  operation  of  the  new  pro- 
jects for  their  total  emancipation) 
Avill  go  near  to  swallow  up  the  entire 
rental  of  the  land. 

These  dismissed,  we  come  to  the 
public  establishments — army,  navy, 
and  the  whole  of  our  civil  services. 
Here  it  will,  at  first  sight,  be  thought 
possible  to  make  great  reductions. 
But  all  such  hopes  will  soon  be 
found  practically  chimerical.  Re- 
trenchment has  already  in  many  in- 
stances gone  too  far.  And  the  time 
is  at  length  come,  when  every  re- 
duction of  salary  begins  to  shew  it- 
self immediately  in  a  defective  dis- 
charge of  public  duty ;  besides  that, 
the  main  and  engrossing  services  are 
those  which  are  most  absolutely  de- 
termined by  necessities  not  domes- 
tic, but  foreign  and  external.  The 
army  and  navy  cannot  be  redu- 
ced in  any  degree  that  could  make 
itself  felt  nationally,  unless  by  en- 
dangering our  foreign  garrisons,  and 
sacrificing  Ireland.  The  most  re- 
volutionary Parliament,  in  this  point, 
will  be  compelled  to  tread  in  the 
steps  of  their  unreformed  predeces- 
sors. 

The  result  then  is — that  the  Na- 
tional Debt  will  offer  the  one  sole 
bait  to  the  rapacity  of  our  new  elec- 
tors. Nothing,  it  will  be  felt  at 
once,  can  be  effected  to  lighten  the 
public  burdens  in  a  degree  which 
will  bring  home  the  alleviation  sen- 
sibly to  each  man's  purse,  short  of 
some  large  reduction  of  interest  on 
the  national  debt.  And  of  necessity, 
the  reduction  of  interest  is  pro  tanto 
a  reduction  of  the  capital,  the  amount 
of  which  is  of  course  estimated  upon 
the  scale  of  the  annual  interest.  But 
in  reality,  the  capital  will  sink  in 
much  more  than  that  proportion.  It 
is  the  augury,  the  omen,  which  will 
chiefly  be  regarded.  Perhaps  at  first 
no  more  than  a  third  will  be  ex- 
tinguished. But  that  third,  by  anni- 
hilating the  sanctity  of  the  property, 
will  reduce  the  remainder  to  so  un- 
certain a  tenure,  that  it  will  no 
longer  be  saleable  unless  as  on  the 
terms  of  a  desperate  debt. 

Such  is  my  conclusion:  and  con- 
sidering the  absolute  powers  of  dic- 
tation which  the  new  electors  will 
enjoy,  and  the  great  extension  of 
those  powers  which,  every  Parlia- 


827 

ment  so  chosen  cannot  fail  to  make 
under  the  authority  of  their  revolu- 
tionary constituents  —  considering 
also  the  hopelessness  of  all  other  re- 
sources put  together,  and  the  im- 
mediate relief  from  this  alone,  (for 
out  of  every  three  guineas  of  taxa- 
tion, recollect  that  in  round  terms 
two  go  to  the  payment  of  public  in- 
terest;)— I  do  not  see  how  my  con- 
clusion can  be  resisted — that,  with- 
in five  years  from  this  date,  succes- 
sive extinctions  of  the  funded  debt 
will  have  annihilated  that  species  of 
property,  made  a  wreck  of  the  pub- 
lic faith,  and  reduced  to  beggary  all 
those  who  had  no  other  dependence. 

Will  this  be  the  climax  of  our  mis- 
fortunes ?  Far  from  it !  Though  no 
change  can  arise  which  will  person- 
ally affect  myself  and  those  in  mjr 
circumstances  with  ruin  so  absolute 
and  so  rapid,  yet  for  the  nation  at 
large — for  this  mighty  nation,  hitherto 
so  great  and  glorious — other  changes 
are  demonstrably  at  hand,  which 
make  me  ashamed  almost  of  dwelling 
on  any  thing  so  trivial  by  comparison 
as  my  own  private  ruin.  Of  the 
extent  to  which  these  changes  will 
go,  that  they  will  and  must  travel 
the  whole  length  of  absolute  destruc- 
tion to  our  present  mixed  form  of 
government,  I  cannot  hide  from  my- 
self. That  the  narrow-minded  and 
sordid  electors,  to  whom  our  future 
destinies  are  confided,  will  consent 
even  on  pecuniary  considerations,  to 
pay  an  annual  million  for  a  monarchy 
and  the  equipage  of  its  establish- 
ments, which  on  the  cheap  American 
plan  can  be  replaced  at  once  by  an 
administration  at  board  wages  under 
a  Consul,  President,  or  other  repub- 
lican officer — no  man  can  suppose. 

Put  that  question  to  such  electors, 
and  the  answer  will  be  carried  by 
acclamation.  Yet  such  are  effectually, 
nor  is  it  even  denied  by  Lord  Grey, 
the  class  of  persons  who  will  mould 
the  preponderating  complexion  of 
our  future  senates.  Against  that 
danger  what  is  Lord  Grey's  single 
counterweight  in  the  opposite  scale  ? 
His  reliance  on  the  disposition  of 
these  electors  as  governed  by  their 
supposed  interests.  So  that  if  that 
interest  should  be  even  what  Lord 
Grey  assumes  in  kind,but  ridiculous- 
ly too  weak  in  degree ;  or  if  it  should 
be  estimated  altogether  differently 
both  in  kind  and,  in  degree  by  the 


On  the  Approaching  Revolution  in  Great  Britain. 


328' 

electors  themselves ;  or  if  (though 
being  all  that  Lord  Grey  supposes) 
it  should  meet  with  other  conflicting 
interests  real  or  apparent,  or  should 
give  way  before  the  contagious  pas- 
sions of  our  revolutionary  times, — • 
in  any  one  of  these  cases  it  is  evident 
that,  even  upon  Lord  Grey's  confes- 
sion, his  sole  dependency  will  have 
proved  baseless  and  hollow. 

Upon  one  question  only  I  must 
ingenuously  confess,  that  I  am  still 
in  the  dark  :  will  the  coming  convul- 
sions of  the  state  resemble,  or  even 
approach,  the  French  revolution  in 
scenes  of  bloodshed  and  proscrip- 
tion ?  Shall  we  also  have  our 
"  reign  of  terror  V"  On  this  I  should 
be  glad  to  hear  your  opinion.  For 
myself,  on  the  one  hand,  I  have  a 
deep  reliance  on  the  vast  superiority 
of  this  nation  to  all  the  Southern 
nations  of  the  Continent  in  upright- 
ness, gravity  of  temperament,  and 
strength  of  moral  principle.  The 
French,  when  excited,  are  a  cruel 
people :  ferocity  and  levity  are  still 
great  elements  in  their  character. 
We,  beyond  all  nations,  are  a  just 
and  a  benignant  people.  And  it 
were  strange  indeed,  if  the  posses- 
sion of  civil  freedom  for  so  long  a 
period,  the  long  discipline  of  our 
equal  laws,  and  our  incomparable 
institutions,  had  left  us  in  no  better 
training  for  facing  a  period  of  social 
violence  and  conflict,  than  a  people 
who  had  been  long  corrupted  by 
a  vicious  and  oppressive  form  of 
polity.  We  have,  besides,  a  sort  of 
guarantee  in  our  past  experience. 
With  all  its  violence,  our  great  revo- 
lution of  1642-8,  though  conducted 
by  an  appeal  to  arms,  was  not  dis- 
figured by  any  lawless  outrage, blood- 
shed, or  proscriptions.  The  worst 
that  can  be  alleged  against  the  Par- 
liamentary side,  are  one  or  two  cases 
of  attainder,  which,  like  the  Roman 
"  privilegia,"  are  so  far  always  op- 
pressive, that  they  are  laws  levelled 
against  individuals,  and  confessions, 
therefore,  that  under  the  regular  pro- 
cess of  the  existing  laws,  no  case  of 
guilt  could  have  been  established. 
But  with  these  allowances,  never  in 
any  instance  could  the  Roman  maxim 
be  less  truly  applied,  that  Leges  inter 
arma  silent.  On  the  contrary,  law 
reigned  triumphantly  throughout  the 
war.  As  to  our  next  and  final  revo- 
lution, it  was  notoriously  bloodless. 


These  facts  of  experience,  combined 
with  the  national  character,  are 
strong  presumptions  in  favour  of  the 
more  cheerful  view.  Yet,  on  the 
other  hand,  there  is  one  signal  dif- 
ference in  our  present  position  which 
justifies  great  doubts.  In  all  former 
dissensions,  the  different  orders  of  the 
state  were  divided  upon  a  principle 
far  different  from  that  which  will 
now  govern  their  party  distribution. 
The  gentry,  and  even  a  large  part  of 
the  nobility,  notoriously  ranged  them- 
selves with  the  people  in  the  Parlia- 
mentary struggle.  It  is  true  that 
the  novi  homines — the  parvenus — 
the  men  who  built  upon  wealth  and 
commerce — in  a  large  majority  fol- 
lowed the  Parliament :  the  older 
gentry,  the  higher  nobility,  adhered 
to  the  King.  Whatsoever  was  an- 
cient, hereditary,  and  "time-honour- 
ed," sought  shelter  under  the  shadow 
of  royalty.  Whatsoever  was  novel, 
aspiring,  revolutionary, — whatsoever 
tended  to  change,  or  was  of  itself  the 
product  of  change,  gathered  about 
the  Parliament.  Even  the  religious 
distinctions  obeyed  this  instinct.  All 
modes  of  dissent  and  heterodoxy 
sheltered  themselves  in  London : 
whilst  the  ancient  Catholic  faith,  in 
its  most  bigoted  shapes,  to  the  great 
offence  of  many  ardent  friends  of  the 
King,  (such  as  LordSunderland,e.r7.) 
was  sure  of  countenance  at  the 
court  in  Oxford.  Thus  the  two 
forces, which  in  duebalance  maintain 
great  kingdoms,  the  innovating  and 
the  conservative  principles,  were 
ranged  against  each  other.  But 
otherwise  there  was  a  just  proportion 
of  all  orders  on  each  sides;  and 
there  were,  besides,  many  exceptions 
to  the  general  tendency.  But  at 
present  the  lower  classes  will  be 
ranged  as  a  separate  interest  against 
the  aristocracy.  And  the  temptations 
to  violence  will  be  far  stronger, 
when  the  democratic  interest  is  in- 
sulated, as  it  were,  and  no  longer  acts 
under  the  restraining  influence  of 
education,  and  the  liberality  of  en- 
lightened views. 

On  this  part  of  our  prospects,  I  re- 
peat that  1  do  not  pretend  to  see  my 
way.  All  is  darkness.  We  are  now 
in  some  respects  in  the  situation  of 
Rome  at  the  period  of  the  Trium- 
virates ;  we  are  on  the  brink  of  the 
same  collision  between  our  aristo- 
cracy and  our  people ;  but  with  this 


1831.] 


On  the  Appfoaching  Revolution  in  Great  Britnin, 


difference,  that  we  have  wantonly 
•  invited  and  precipitated  the  collision 
into  which  Rome  was  gradually 
drawn  by  the  silent  force  of  circum- 
stances. Cicero,  and  the  lingering 
patriots  of  his  party,  violently  oppo- 
sed the  democracy,  and  supported 
the  authority  of  the  Senate,  under 
the  vain  hope  that  they  could  stem 
the  tide  which  set  in  so  irresistibly 
towards  the  overthrow  of  the  civil 
balance.  Csesar,  on  the  other  hand, 
threw  himself  on  the  democracy, 
with  the  certain  prospect,  that  after  a 
momentary  triumph  to  this  faction, 
a  despotism  in  some  hands  or  other 
was  ready  to  swallow  up  both  orders 
of  the  state.  In.  that  view  he  was 
as  sagacious  and  clearsighted  as  Ci- 
cero was  blind.  The  fulness  of  time 
was  come ;  and  the  headlong  tend- 
ency to  a  strong  despotism  in  military 
hands,  as  the  sole  means  for  impo- 
sing peace  on  the  endless  factions  of 
rival  nobles  amongst  a  most  cor- 
rupt populace,  is  evident  from  this — 
that  no  change  of  circumstances  by 
the  assassinations  of  particular  em- 
perors, ever  availed  to  restore  the  an- 
cient form  of  polity.  Vantage-ground 
and  an  open  stage  were  many  times 
offered  to  the  old  republican  ener- 
gies; but  those  energies  were  vainly 
invoked  by  here  and  there  a  solitary 
patriot ;  for  they  had  been  long  dead, 
and  in  reality  were  already  expiring 
in  the  times  of  Sylla  and  Marius. 

Whether  we  are  destined  to  travel 
upon  this  old  Roman  road;  whether 
after  a  brief  triumph  to  the  democra- 
tic forces  of  our  constitution,  they 
and  the  aristocracy  will  sink  through 
an  interspace  of  anarchy  into  one 
common  ruin  under  a  stern  dictator- 
ship; or  whether  we  shall  pass  for 
Borne  generations  into  the  condition 
of  an  American  republic, — and  in 
either  state  what  will  be  the  amount 
of  our  foreign  weight  and  considera- 
tion in  the  system  of  Europe  ? — these 
are  questions  upon  which  I  see  great 


329 

difficulties  in  coming  to  any  conjec- 
tural solution.  But,  under  every  re- 
sult as  to  that  question,  as  respects 
our  domestic  peace  and  honour,  it  is 
but  too  manifest  that  the  government 
have  given  away  and  wantonly  trans- 
ferred the  whole  substantial  powers 
of  the  state  from  those  hands  in  which 
the  positive  experience  of  centuries 
had  justified  unlimited  confidence  ; 
that  they  have  thrown  this  power 
into  the  hands  of  an  order,  the  most 
dangerous  of  any  in  the  State,  more  so 
even  than  the  mere  populace,  for  this 
reason,  that,  with  wishes  pointing  in 
the  same  general  direction,  a  mob  has 
far  less  intelligence,  less  fixed  adhe- 
rence to  principles,  is  more  frequent- 
ly swayed  by  merely  personal  con- 
siderations, such  as  might  often  hap- 
pen advantageously  to  thwart  their 
political  leanings,  and  has  fewer  fa- 
cilities of  combination  for  a  common 
purpose;  that  they  have  thus  destroy- 
ed the  true,  ancient  equilibrium  of 
forces,  which  time  and  the  wisdom  of 
man  had  united  to  mature.  It  is  but 
too  manifest  that  henceforward  they 
have  committed  our  safety  to  a  blind 
agency  of  chance,  or  else  to  an  arbi- 
trary valuation  of  the  motives  and  the 
interests  which  are  likely  to  prepon- 
derate in  a  rank  of  which  they  must 
necessarily  know  nothing;  that  they 
have  invited  a  sweeping  course  of 
public  spoliation ;  that  an  infinite  suc- 
cession of  change  is  certain,  but  the 
point  of  rest  to  which  it  tends,  the 
kind  of  catastrophe  which  will  set  a 
limit  to  these  changes,  is  wrapped  up 
in  unfathomable  darkness;  that  the 
state  is  henceforward  doomed  to 
transmigrate  through  many  shapes  of 
revolution — Heaven  avert  what  we 
have  so  much  apparent  cause  to  add, 
in  the  memorable  words  of  Burke, 
"  And  in  all  its  transmigrations  to  be 
purified  by  fire  and  blood !" 
Yours,  my  dear  friend, 
ever  most  truly, 

EMERITUS. 


VOL,  XXX,  NO.  CLXXXTV. 


330 


Friendly  Advice  to  the  Lords— 


[Aug. 


FRIENDLY  ADVICE  TO  THE  LORDS.*— OBSERVATIONS  ON  A  PAMPHLET,  &C.t 


THE  first  of  these  is  the  paltriest, 
the  second  the  most  puzzling,  of 
pamphlets.  By  paltry  we  mean  pi- 
tiful, and  by  puzzling  we  mean  per- 
plexing; and  by  affixing  these  epi- 
thets to  the  two  pamphlets  respect- 
ively, we  mean  to  insinuate  that  the 
first  is  pitiful  in  the  eyes  of  all  who, 
feeling  contempt  for  the  meanest 
thing,  despise  alike  the  counsellor 
and  his  hypocritical  counsel,  both  as 
insolentas  they  are  silly ;  and  that  the 
second  must  be  most  perplexing  to 
the  pin-point  soul  of  the  scribbler 
whom  it  forces  to  submit  to  scarifi- 
cation. The  Adviser,  in  short,  is  the 
silliest  of  Sumphs,  except  Snewell 
Snokes;  and  the  Observer,  except 
Christopher  North,  the  most  saga- 
cious of  Sages. 

We  are  aware,  that  the  "  Friendly 
Advice"  has  been  attributed  to  no 
less  a  personage  than  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor. Not  by  a  few  "feebles"  only, 
(an  expression,  by  the  way,  which, 
to  our  shame  and  sorrow  be  it  spo- 
ken, we  have  been  in  the  habit  of 
frequently  using  in  this  Magazine 
for  many  years,  and  which  we  now 
make  a  present  of  to  the  above 
Pamphleteer  and  Plagiary,  who  has 
impudently  stolen  it,  and  got  him- 
self lauded  therefor,  as  if  it  were 
an  original  article  of  his  own,  well 
worth  wearing  on  gala-days,  and  not 
one  of  our  cast-off  duds,  which  we 
sported  only  when  in  dishabille,)  but 
absolutely  by  the  Leading  Journal  of 
Europe.  Not  by  foolish  gossips  with- 
out the  walls  of  Parliament,  but  by 
more  foolish  gawkies  within— exempli 
gratia^y  Master  William  Brougham, 
who  announced  his  illustrious  bro- 
ther the  author  of  the  "  Friendly  Ad- 
vice," in  snappish  answer  to  a  sup- 
posed sarcasm  of  Sir  George  Mur- 
ray, who,  in  an  oracular  sentence  of 
an  eloquent  speech,  had  dimly  and 
darkly  prophesied  the  speedy  ap- 
pearance on  the  political  stage  of  a 
second  Cromwell. 

In  spite,  however,  of  the  public 


opinion,  and  of  the  opinion  of  the 
Leading  Journal,  and  of  all  the  fol- 
lowing Journals,  and  of  Master  Wil- 
liam Brougham,  we  must  respect- 
fully persist  in  thinking  and  saying, 
that  the  Pamphlet  which  we  have 
stigmatized  as  the  paltriest  that  ever 
was  stitched,  was  not  written  by  the 
Keeper  of  the  King's  Conscience. 
We  agree  with  the  "  Observer,"  that 
it  is  the  production  of  the  same  pig- 
my (the  dwarf  strutting  before  the 
giant  who  never  heaves  in  sight) 
who  last  summer  penned  a  pair 
of  pamphlets  of  the  paltriest  stuff 
upon  the  Wellington  Administra- 
tion. They,  too,  were  doggedly, 
and  dogmatically,  and  disgusting- 
ly, ascribed  to  Henry  Brougham  ; 
nor  could  the  rigmarole  of  a  Ridg- 
wayremove  that  impression,  strange- 
ly indented  some  way  or  other  into 
the  mind  of  the  Pensive  Public. 
Ridgway  rigmaroled,  and  Brougham 
vapoured,  (when  sneered  at  in  court 
by  Scarlet  for  praising  himself  in  the 
Edinburgh  Review — a  publication  in 
which,  all  the  world  knows,  he  never 
wrote  a  line  in  his  life,  nor  ever  waa 
buttered  till  his  sleek  aspect  shone 
again,  any  more  than  in  this  Maga- 
zine,) but  still  the  Twins  were  affi- 
liated upon  the  Man  of  the  People, 
and  an  order  was  issued  that  he 
should  support  the  Starvelings.  That 
order  he  ventured  to  disobey;  and 
the  wretched  spawn — little  better 
than  abortions — being  deprived  of 
paternity  —  emitted  a  few  cries  — 
gasped — fell  into  convulsions — died 
— and  were  buried,  like  the  other 
gets  of  paupers,  in  an  obscure  nook 
of  Cripplegate  Churchyard. 

We  cannot  help  thinking  it  most 
lucky  for  the  fair  fame  of  his  Lordship, 
that  the  frail  mother  of  the  former 
ricketties  has  produced  a  Third— in 
form  and  features  so  like  its  elder 
brethren — and  so  unlike  his  Lord- 
ship's acknowledged  though  anony- 
mous offspring — as  to  leave  no  doubt 
on  the  minds  of  the  judicious,  that  it 


*  Friendly  Advice,  most  respectfully  submitted  to  the  House  of  Lords,  on  tlio 
Reform  Bill.  London:  Ilidgway.  1831. 

f  Observations  on  n  P.impli'et  fa'sely  attrilm'ed  to  a  Great  Person.  London : 
Murray.  183J. 


1831.] 


Observations  on  a  Pamphlet, 


331 


must  have  been  the  offspring  of  her 
illegitimate  loves  with  the  same  dis- 
mal Dunce,  who  last  summer  had 
prevailed  over  her  virgin  innocence, 
and  who  has  no  more  chance  of  be- 
ing Lord  High  Chancellor  of  Eng- 
land, than  Taylor  the  Blasphemer 
has  of  being  the  Archbishop  of  Can- 
terbury. The  face  is  remarkable  for 
the  same  sickly  want  of  any  thing 
like  even  infantile  expression — and 
there  is  a  mysterious  something  in 
its  sighs,  which  never  reach  a  squall, 
speaking  in  inarticulate  tones,  more 
convincing  than  the  most  powerful 
oratory,  that  she  ('tis  a  girl  this  time) 
could  by  no  possibility  in  nature, 
freakish  as  nature  is,  be  entitled  to 
look  up  to  one  of  the  ablest  men  of 
the  age  as  her  Sire.  We  pronounce 
his  Lordship,  in  this  affair,  immacu- 
late. 

That  the  Three  Pamphlets  are  all 
from  one  and  the  same  pen — and 
that  pen  not  Lord  Brougham's — is 
prettily  proved  by  the  Observer. 

"  It  may  be  remembered,  that,  about 
the  middle  of  last  summer,  a  systematic 
and  inveterate  course  of  attack  was  com- 
menced against  the  Wellington  admini- 
stration, by  the  publication,  in  quick  suc- 
cession, of  two  pamphlets,  which  com- 
mon rumour  attributed  at  the  time  to 
the  distinguished  and  versatile  person  who 
has  since  become  Lord  Chancellor  of 
England.  Mr  llidgway,  indeed,  put  forth 
letter  after  letter,  to  prove  that  the  pamph- 
lets  were  none  of  Mr  Brougham's.  But 
his  efforts  somehow  were  unlucky  enough 
to  produce  an  effect  exactly  contrary  to 
that  intended.  Those  who  before  be- 
lieved, were  confirmed ;  those  who  had 
doubted,  doubted  no  more ;  and  so  strong 
did  the  presumption  of  authorship  appear 
to  every  one,  that  we  need  take  no 
shame  in  acknowledging  ourselves  among 
the  dupes  of  the  general  delusion.  At 
length,  however,  we  are  undeceived,  by 
the  perusal  of  another  little  political  tract 
from  the  same  manufactory,  ushered  into 
the  world  within  these  few  weeks,  under 
the  specious  title  of  '  Friendly  Advice, 
most  respectfully  submitted  to  the  Lords, 
on  the  Reform  Bill.'  In  its  style  and 
moral  tone,  its  Scriptural  phraseology, 
its  fashion  of  reasoning,  its  undisguised 
contempt  for  the  intellects  and  consciences 
of  those  whom  it  addresses,  and,  above 
all,  a  certain  happy  facility  in  handling 
every  topic  fitted  to  work  on  the  baser 
propensities  of  our  nature,  this  produc- 
tion bears  an  affinity  to  the  two  others 
so  very  remarkable,  that  there  can  be 


no  mistake  as  to  the  identity  of  thtir  ori- 
gin. Whoever  may  be  the  author,  it  is 
quite  clear  that  all  three  are  the  work 
of  one  and  the  same  individual.  Arid 
such  being  the  case,  who  will  be  so  per- 
verse as  to  maintain  any  longer,  that  that 
individual  can  be  Lord  Brougham  ?  The 
supposition  would  be  too  indecent." 

The  most  audacious  and  ingenious 
malignity  could  not  answer  that  ; 
but  the  Observer  clenches  his  argu- 
ment by  saying,  that  he  takes  it  to 
be  a  settled  point  —  a  sort  of  funda- 
mental truth,  as  it  were  —  that  Chan- 
cellors never  write  pamphlets.  The 
incessant  cares  and  labours  of  that 
high  office  should  of  themselves,  in- 
deed, be  quite  enough  in  conscience 
to  exercise  the  faculties  of  any  mor- 
tal man.  And  for  a  Chancellor  to 
descend  from  his  estate,  to  mingle 
in  the  base  squabbles,  the  backbi- 
tings,  the  treacheries,  and  all  the 
worst  abominations  of  the  London 
Press,  would  be  a  sign  of  the  times 
almost  aa  prodigious  as  the  Clare 
Election,or  even  the  late  Dissolution 
itself. 

To  make  assurance  doubly  sure, 
the  Observer,  in  his  noble  zeal  — 
and,  in  a  political  opponent,  nothing 
can  be  nobler  —  to  vindicate  the 
Chancellor  from  a  foul  charge  at 
first  brought  forward  against  him 
by  inveterate  enemies,  and  after- 
wards by  foolish  friends,  who  were 
so  blind  as  not  to  see  the  drift  of 
all  this,  and  so  silly  as  to  esteem  it 
a  compliment  to  the  powers  of  their 
matchless  miracle  —  proceedsto  shew 
that  the  authorship  of  the  pamphlet 
in  hand  could  never  belong  to  a  man 
who  is  not  only  presumed  to  have 
in  keeping  his  own  conscience,  but 
likewise  that  of  the  King.  Surely, 
says  he  warmly,  when  we  find  a 
writer  urging  the  opinions  or  wishes 
of  the  King  —  not  of  the  King's  go- 
vernment, but  of  the  King  in  his  pro- 
per person,  as  distinct  from  his  go- 
vernment and  ministers  —  when  we 
find  a  writer  insisting  on  such  royal 
predilection,  as  a  reason  irresistible 
to  dissuade  the  Lords  from  opposing 
a  great  public  measure  —  surely,  of 
all  the  subjects  of  the  realm,  the  last 
whom  any  man  could,  in  common 
charity,  suspect  of  promulgating 
such  doctrine,  is  the  individual,  who, 
being  himself  the  first  legal  function- 
ary of  the  state,  is  bound,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  to  be  the  most  jealous 


MS 

guardian  of  constitutional  precedent; 
and  who,  moreover,  as  keeper  of  the 
King's  conscience,  must  be  presumed 
peculiarly  alive  to  the  imperative 
duty,  in  all  cases,  of  preserving  in- 
violate the  King's  secrets. 

This  is  irresistibly  put,  and  the 
lame  libellers  of  Lord  Brougham 
have  not  a  leg  to  stand  on.  What ! 
can  party  spite  be  so  credulous  as  to 
believe  for  a  moment  that  the  most 
confidential  of  all  the  King's  servants 
would  be  so  lost  to  honour,  honesty, 
and  decency,  as  to  divulge  the  se- 
cret of  his  Majesty's  personal  wishes 
or  opinions,  on  a  measure  which 
was  not,  at  the  time,  even  before 
Parliament  ? 

But  there  is  something  especially 
base,  in  attributing  to  Lord  Brough- 
am a  pamphlet,  in  which  persons 
are  spoken  of  disrespectfully,  of 
whom  he,  a  nobleman  now,  and  a 
gentleman  always,would  rather  have 
burned  his  right  hand  than  have 
sneered  at,  through  the  lips  of  such 
a  mean  and  monstrous  mask  as  the 
fool  of  a  mountebank  might  rejoice 
in,  when  capering  on  a  platform  at 
Bartholomew  Fair.  Could  Lord 
Brougham  have  ever  so  far  forgotten 
the  dignity  of  his  character  and  his 
rank,  as  to  vent  scurrilities,after  such 
fashion,  on  "  those  great  borough- 
mongers,  the  Lowthers  ?"  No — no 
— no.  AH  the  man — all  the  gentle- 
man— all  the  nobleman  within  him — 
would  have  recoiled  loathingly  from 
the  most  distant  conception  of  such 
vulgar  meanness ;  as  they  would  also 
have  risen  indignantly  at  the  idea  of 
breathing,  through  such  bedaubed 
slobberers,  the  name  of  Lord  Mans- 
field, whom  Lord  Brougham  must 
respect,  if  for  nothing  else  than  the 
memorable  castigation  that  patriot 
inflicted  upon  him  on  the  last  day  of 
the  late  Parliament. 

But  irresistible  as  this  array  of 
reasons  against  the  calumnious  at- 
tribution of  the  pamphlet  to  the 
Chancellor  must  be,  to  all  minds  not 
perverted  by  the  basest  party-spirit, 
others  even  more  irresistible  are 
drawn  from  the  whole  style  of  the 
performance.  It  lisps,  it  burrs,  it 
stutters.  Not  so  Henry  Brougham  of 
yore— not  so  now,  Lord  Vaux.  He 
has  the  reputation  of  being  a  scholar. 
This  pamphlet,  we  shall  shew,  is 
written  by  a  person  ignorant  even  of 
tUe  common  rules  of  grammar.  He, 


Friendly  Advice  to  the  Lords—' 


[Aug. 


by  his  eloquence,  "  wielded  at  will 
that  fierce  democratic,"  the  House  of 
Commons, — nay,  he  did  more— he 
often  prevented  the  Representation 
from  falling  asleep.  The  pamphleteer 
producesbut  a  plufT,such  as  a  school- 
boy makes  with  a  halfpenny  worth  of 
coarse-grained  gunpowder,  in  a  hole 
in  the  mud,  on  the  king's  birthday ; 
contriving,  however,  by  blowing  at 
the  dilatory  nitre,  to  be  sent  home  to 
his  parents,  sans  eyelashes,  and  sans 
eyebrows,  and  with  cheeks  like 
peeled  purple  potatoes — a  singular 
spectacle,  and  difficult  of  treatment. 
For  while  pity  would  fain  "  her  soul- 
subduing  voice  apply"  to  his  scorch- 
ed ear,  and  whisper  poultice,  anger 
anticipates  that  dewy-eyed  angel,  by 
grasping  the  luckless  offender  by  the 
hair  of  the  head,  and  "  giein'  the 
ne'er-do-weel  his  licks,"  to  the  dis- 
turbance of  the  neighbourhood  and 
all  its  echoes. 

We  ought  to  beg  pardon  of  that 
illustrious  statesman  for  even  em- 
ploying in  his  vindication  so  ludi- 
crous an  image.  But  we  make  amends 
by  quoting  from  the  Observer's  de- 
fence of  his  Lordship,  and  castiga- 
tion of  the  swindler  who  has  been 
trying  to  personate  the  Chancellor, 
the  following  admirable  passage  : 

"  However  this  may  be,  it  was,  un- 
doubtedly, to  be  expected  that,  if  the  Lord 
Chancellor  deigned  to  publish,  it  would 
be  to  instruct  the  world  on  the  merits  of 
the  measure,— .to  demonstrate  its  prac- 
ticability and  safety, — or  illustrate  its  sa- 
lutary efficacy.  And  no  sophistry  or  as- 
severation shall  ever  persuade  us  that  a 
piece  of  rhetoric,  which  resembles  nothing 
so  much  as  one  of  those  compositions 
commonly  called  '  threatening  letters,' 
sufficiently  familiar,  doubtless,  to  his 
lordship's  forensic  experience  in  another 
court,  could  have  emanated  from  such  an 
authority ! 

"  It  seems  pretty  plain  then,  on  the 
whole,  that  some  pestilent  knave, — some 
graceless,  meddling  mountebank,  who 
takes  delight  in  aping  the  oddities  arid 
shewing  up  the  foibles  of  his  betters, — 
has  been  playing  the  champion  of  the 
Whig  party  in  Lord  Brougham's  shape ; 
and  having  succeeded  so  well  in  Novem- 
ber last,  under  the  mask  of  a  lawyer's 
gown  and  wig,  in  cajoling  the  high  To- 
ries, and  frightening  the  country  gentle- 
men, the  same  clever  imp  has  now  been 
at  work  again,  pranking  it  in  the  Chan- 
cellor's robes  of  office,  and  laying  about 
him  with  the  mace  and  seal*,— in  the 


Observations  on  a  Pamphlet, 


1831.] 

fancy,  doubtless,  that  his  poor  antics 
would  be  a  choice  parody  on  the  real 
drama  so  recently  enacted,  under  the 
same  garb,  and  on  the  same  theatre, — 
and  puffed  up  by  the  vanity  of  his  past 
exploits,  to  try  the  efficacy  of  similar 
mummeries  on  the  nerves  of  our  heredi- 
tary legislators." 

"  Having  thus,"  quoth  the  Ob- 
server, "  disposed  of  the  question  of 
authorship,  and  dismissed  Lord 
Brougham  and  his  zany  altogether 
from  our  minds,  we  can  proceed, 
with  the  less  embarrassment,  to  sub- 
mit a  few  observations  which  sug- 
gest themselves  on  the  subject-mat- 
ter of  this  publication."  Suppose 
that  Christopher  North,  too,  pro- 
ceeds, without  any  embarrassment 
at  all,  not  to  make  reflections  per- 
haps, for  reflections — though  notsuch 
as  those  the  Observer  casts  on  his 
subject — at  the  close  of  the  day  get 
very  long,  or,  as  the  Americans  say, 
tedious,  and  we  are  as  anxious  to  get 
to  bed  as  if  we  had  been  leaving  the 
House  at  eight  in  the  morning  after 
eight  divisions.  Indeed  it  is  no  cus- 
tom of  ours  to  cast  reflections  on  any 
body — but  look  here — you  Friendly 
Adviser — here  is  the — KNOUT. 

You,  sir,  are  a  slave.  You  are  not 
one  of  the  Illiberals — one  of  the  Ser- 
viles  ,•  but  you  are  a  bought  and  sold 
slave.  It  is  not  that  the  weals  of  the 
lash  are  upon  your  back  —  though 
they  will  be  there  before  we  have 
done  with  you — it  is  not  that  you  ex- 
hibit the  gall-scars  of  the  chains — 
but  the  chains  themselves  clank  on 
your  hands  as  you  lift  them  up  at 
your  task-work— and  you  absolutely 
hug  them  while  you  suppose  your 
manumission  has  been  purchased  by 
a  Fund,  and  that  you  are  a  Freed- 
man. 

All  loyal  men  and  true  drink  the 
King's  health,  after  Nox  NOBIS,  Do- 
MIXE,  at  public  feasts.  They  drink 
it  with  three  times  three — or  nine 
times  nine— and  having  done  so  Avith 
heart  and  hand— hip  !  hip  !  hurrah  ! 
they  quaff  the  rosy  rummers  to  the 
celebration  of  other  worthies  and 
other  sentiments.  So  in  a  political 
treatise,  a  good  subject  names  his 
king,  once,  if  it  be  right  he  should  do 
so  at  all,  with  a  manly  reverence, 
and  then  proceeds  to  illumine  the 
world  by  extending  his  torchlight 
over  the  darkness  of  manya  profound 
abyss,  But  this  mean  creature  mouths 


333 


away  in  his  manacles  about  "  our 
gracious  Monarch,"  till  in  our  insult- 
ed and  sickened  loyalty  we  give  him 
— the  Knout. 

Hear  how  he  yelps !  see  how  he 
fawns — crawls — creeps  and  grovels 
— wriggling  away  like  a  slimy  but 
fangless  serpent  licking  up  bran  and 
dust.  "  A  moderate  degree  of  fore- 
sight would  have  shewn  the  Tories 
that  such  must  have  been  the  event 
of  a  general  election — with  the  KING, 
the  Government,  and  the  People,  all 
united  in  favour  of  this  one  great 
measure."  "  On  the  morning  it  [the 
dissolution]  took  place,  though  no 
longer  a  secret  to  any  one  who  would 
open  their  ears  to  hear  the  news! 
they  were  still  incredulous — and  still 
continued  so,  till  the  first  gun  which 
announced  his  MAJESTY'S  approach 
to  Westminster  rung  in  their  ears,  the 
knell  to  their  breasts."  "  And  for  this 
reason,  that,  as  we  before  stated,  the 
KING,  his  faithful  Commons,  and  the 
People,  being  all  united  for  the  suc- 
cess of  the  Reform  Bill."  "  It  is 
impossible  that  you  can  hope,  with 
the  KING,  Ministers,  and  Commons 
against  you,  to  prevent  the  measure 
of  Reform  from  taking  effect."  "  But 
then  the  KING  and  the  great  body  of 
the  People  were  with  them."  "  They 
will  hardly  move  an  amendment  on 
the  address  to  THE  KING."  "  They 
may  affirm,  and  vow,  and  swear,  and 
smite  their  breasts,  shed  abundant 
tears,  and  heave  deep  sighs,  and  call 
God  to  witness  that  they  have  no 
enmity  to  THE  KING'S  Government.'* 
"  Every  one  of  its  members  will  be 
out  of  THE  KING'S  service  on  the  mor- 
row." "  Who  dares  ADVISE  HIS  SO- 
VEREIGN- to  form  a  Ministry  of  New- 
castles,  and  Peels,  and  Lowthers,  and 
Knatchbulls  ?"  "  They  will  ponder 
well,  and  long,  and  calmly,  before 
they  place  themselves  in  collision 
tvith  a  reforming  Sovereign,  a  reform- 
ing House  of  Commons,  and  a  re- 
forming People." 

Has  it  not  the  soul  of  a  slave  that 
parrots  thus — King  !  King  !  King  ! 
But  it  all  won't  do — it  will  deceive 
nobody — 'tis  mock  loyalty  all — and 
this  vile  asp,  that  now  puts  out  its 
tongue  to  lick  the  royal  hand,  would 
like  better  to  bite  it,  for  such  is  its 
nature.  In  plain  words— it  is  not 
the  language  of  loyalty — but  of  a 
king-hater — traitorously  employing 
his  name  as  a  means  of  inducing  the 


S3i 


Friendly  Advice  to  the  Lords—* 


[Aug. 


nobility  of  England  to  desert,  or  ra- 
ther to  undermine  his  throne.  Or 
rather  it  is  a  knavish  radical,  fool- 
ishly presuming  at  one  and  the  same 
time  to  cajole  and  bully  the — Peer- 
age. 

We  have  said  ere  now  that  in  all 
this  king-slobbering  there  is  much 
that  is  nauseous  and  revolting;  it 
shews  the  true  nature  of  the  beast—- 
that is  the  Whig.  The  Examiner 
objects  to  our  objection  to  this  dis- 
gusting degradation  of  sovereign  and 
subject ;  and  says  that  it  is  delight- 
ful to  find  a  king  acting  so  as  to  be 
Worthy  of  affection.  It  is — but  we 
trust  that  a  patriot  king  is  not  in  his- 
tory so  very  rare  a  sight;  at  all 
events,  when  he  does  appear,  let  the 
lovers  of  liberty  hail  his  advent,  not 
on  their  knees  or  faces,  but  on  their 
feet,  and  with  no  downcast  eyes. 
That  insolent  Whigs,  all  at  once, 
should  outdo  the  most  submissive 
Tories  in  their  prostrations  before 
the  footstool,  is  not  Reform,  but  Re- 
volution. There  must  always  be 
some  excuse  for  ultra  Tories  when 
they  abase  themselves  too  much  be- 
fore their  Lord  the  King.  But  there 
never  can  be  any  for  the  persons  we 
speak  of,  when  they  debase  them- 
selves as  before  a  tyrant — they  in 
whom  resides  the  majesty  of  the 
people.  If  such  behaviour  would  be 
contemptible  in  us,  it  must  be  far 
more  so  in  those  who  have  all  their 
lives  (falsely)  abused  us  for  it,  and 
who  were  at  all  times  glad  to  fling 
muck  and  mire  at  what  they  chose 
to  call  our  idols — Kings.  But  in  all 
this — it  is  alleged— they  but  shew 
their  gratitude.  That  is  not  true. 
Gratitude  is  never  fulsome.  Adula- 
tion always  is ;  and  we  put  it  to  the 
candour  of  the  Examiner,  and  manly 
reformers  such  as  he,  if  they  do  not 
regard  the  slavish  slang  of  this 
"  Friendly  Adviser"  with  contempt 
and  disgust  ?  This  part  of  his  pam- 
phlet is  absolutely  the  infra-coarse 
whitey-brown  of  Ultra -Toryism. 
Ours  is  the  wire-wove,  hot-pressed, 
finest  paper  of  Constitutionalism. 
That  the  King's  sentiments  are  those 
of  his  ministers,  is,  we  presume,  all 
that  any  person  is  at  present  entitled 
to  say,  who  has  not  the  honour  of 
enjoying  so  very  familiar  a  friend- 
Ship  with  his  Majesty,  as  to  have  had 
frequent  opportunities  of  hearing  his 
royal  bosom  unburden  itself  through 


royal  lips,  of  the  exultation  with 
which  it  overflows  on  the  near 
prospect  of  an  entire  change  of  the 
constitution.  "  We  think  we  may 
assert,"  says  an  admirable  writer  in 
the  Quarterly  Review,  "  without 
danger  of  contradiction,  that  his  Ma- 
jesty's personal  feelings  are  in  entire 
accordance  with  his  constitutional 
duties ;  that  he  supports  his  mini- 
sters because  he  believes  they  have 
the  confidence  of  the  other  branches 
of  the  legislature,  but  that  beyond 
that  measure  of  support,  his  Majesty 
is  not,  either  in  his  public  or  his  pri- 
vate character,  disposed  to  interfere ; 
and  that  if  his  faithful  hereditary 
counsellors  —  made  hereditary,  and 
appointed  counsellors,  by  the  consti- 
tution, for  such  special  epochs  as 
the  pr esc nt— will  intimate  that  they 
have  withdrawn  their  confidence 
from  the  present  ministers,  his  Ma- 
jesty will  feel  not  the  slightest  pri- 
vate, and  he  certainly  could  feel  no 
constitutional,  reluctance  in  parting 
with  them." 

The  Friendly  Adviser  having  ex- 
hibited himself  in  the  presence  of 
majesty  in  the  imposing  posture  of 
all-fours,  begins,  by  cringing  and 
fawning,  to  curry  favour  with  the 
Lords.  "  We  address  the  House  of 
Lords  upon  this  occasion  with  un- 
feigned respect."  He  is  not  such  an 
adept  in  hypocrisy  as  he  imagines. 
His  feigning  is  as  visible  to  the  na- 
ked eye  as  his  fawning ;  cringing  is 
in  itself  a  betrayal  of  craft  and  cun- 
ning, and  the  fellow  who  comes 
sneaking  up  to  your  side  with  his  hat 
in  one  hand,  and  his  petition  in  the 
other,  ye  may  be  sure,  if  he  cannot 
swindle,  will  insult  you,  and  tell  you 
that  you  are  no  gentleman.  "  We 
acknowledge  that  they  possess  among 
them  great  talents  and  much  inde- 
pendence; we  hope  it  will  be  found 
that  these  qualities  are  coupled  with 
wisdom"  He  has  already  bestowed, 
it  seems,  his  "unfeigned  respect"  on 
a  set  of  men  who,  for  any  thing  he 
knows,  have  no  "  wisdom"  He  ex- 
presses a  fond  hope  that  the  persons 
he  unfeignedly  respects,  may  not  be 
fools.  There  the  cloven  footpeeps  out, 
but  here  the  poor  devil  holds  it  up  to 
public  inspection,  believing  all  the 
while  that  it  will  pass  for  a  sheep's- 
trotter.  "  But  why,"  it  may  be  ask- 
ed, "  do  we  suppose  that  any  set  of 
men  can  act  thus  madly  ?  Simply  be- 


183 1.] 


Observations  on  a  Pamphlet,  fcc. 


cause  of  their  previous  conduct." 
His  hopes  of  finding  "  wisdom"  among 
those  whom  he  regards  witli  "  un- 
feigned respect,"  have  vanished  even 
while  he  has  been  speaking;  and  he 
supposes  that  they  will  "act madly" 
now,  because  madness  has  always 
characterised  their  previous  conduct. 
"  Because,"  quoth  he,  "  they  have 
never  conceded  any  thing  to  the 
wishes  of  the  people,  till  all  the  grace 
of  concession  was  gone,  because  they 
have  never  seen  the  signs  of  the 
times — because  they  have  never  been 
warned  by  the  past,  or  alive  to  the 
future." 

This  is  wretched  scribbling — it  is 
indeed  the  scrawl — we  use  the  word 
for  the  last  time  —  of  one  of  the 
"  Peebles."  "  Warned  by  the  past, 
or  alive  to  the  future  !"  What  an  at- 
tempt at  an  antithesis ! 

He  now  waxes  witty,  as  follows  :— 
"  When  Sir  Joseph  Jekyll  died,  he 
left  his  fortune  to  pay  the  national 
debt.  *  Sir,'  said  Lord  Mansfield  to 
one  of  his  relations,  '  Sir  Joseph  was 
a  good  man  and  a  good  lawyer,  but 
his  bequest  is  a  foolish  one — he  might 
as  well  have  attempted  to  stop  the 
middle  arch  of  hlackfriars'  Uridge 
with  his  full-bottomed  wig  /'  So  say 
we  to  these  opponents  of  reform,  and 
we  particularly  beg  the  attention  of 
Lord  Mansfield's  descendant  to  the 
apophthegm  of  his  ancestor.  The 
House  of  Lords  can  no  more  stop 
the  success  of  reform  than  Sir  Jo- 
seph's JekylPs  bequest  could  pay  the 
national  debt,  or  his  wig  impede  the 
current  of  the  river  Thames.  Many 
of  the  persons  we  are  now  address- 
ing are,  doubtless,  like  Sir  Joseph 
Jekyll,  good  men  ;  and  some  of  them, 
like  him,  may  be  good  lawyers,  but 
their  conduct,  like  his  bequest,  is  ex- 
ceedingly foolish.  Nay,  it  is  worse 
than  foolish,  and  is  dangerous  in  the 
extreme."  In  Joe  Miller,  this  witti- 
cism of  Lord  Mansfield  is  told  right 
merrily  and  conceitedly  —  and  we 
smile.  But  this  lumbering  logger- 
head murders  Joey.  The  practical  ap- 
plication shews  the  dunce.  "  The 
House  of  Lords  can  no  more  stop  the 
success  of  reform  than  Sir  Joseph 
JekylPs  bequest  could  pay  the  na- 
tional debt,  or  his  wig  impede  the 
current  of  the  river  Thames."  Pomp- 
ous blockhead,  he  is  an  absolute  Ni- 
codemus. 

He  calls  Lord  Mansfield's  atten« 


tion  to  the  "  apophthegm  of  his  an- 
cestor."  Apophthegm  is  a  word  tho 
Shepherd  is  partial  to  in  the  Noctes ; 
and  from  his  lips — the  lips  of  genius 
— it  has  an  almost  universal  applica- 
tion. But  this  story  of  the  wig  is 
not  an  "apophthegm  of  his  ancestor;" 
an  apophthegm  is  "  a  valuable  max- 
im," and  none  but  an  ignorant  idiot 
could  have  thus  abused  the  term — 
but  he  wished  to  shew  his  learning, 
and  here  is  the  result.  The  story,  as 
it  stands  in  Joe,  is  but  a  miserable 
affair  and  truly  wretched  ;  such  a  wit- 
ticism might  pass  casually  in  conver- 
sation from  a  great  man — and  we  can 
pardon  Joe  for  having  recorded  it; 
but  commented  on,  and  politically 
applied,  it  sickens  one  with  a  sense 
of  smallness  in  the  vapid  fool,  who 
thinks  himself  not  only  facetious,  but 
sarcastic,  while  "  he  respectfully 
submits  it  to  the  Lords." 

But  mad  as  has  always  been  "the 
previous  conduct"  of  that  "  set  of 
men"  whom  he  addresses  "  with 
unfeigned  respect,"  he  tells  us  that 
they  are  now  "  playing  a  deeper  and 
more  hazardous  stake  than  they  ever 
did  before.  They  now  find  them- 
selves not  opposed  to  a  party,  but 
face  to  face  with  a  whole  people. 
In  such  a  position,  we  most  respect- 
fidly  warn  them  of  the  consequences 
of  an  unwise  resistance.  These  con- 
sequences are  such  as  we  tremble  even 
to  think  upon."  He  told  us  in  the 
preceding  paragraph  that  the  set  of 
men  whom  he  addresses  with  un- 
feigned respect,  had  never  "  conce- 
ded any  thing  to  the  wishes  of  the 
people,"  "  never  seen  the  signs  of  the 
time,"  "  never  been  warned  by  the 
past  or  alive  to  the  future" — and  here 
we  have  him  unpardonably  contra- 
dicting himself,  by  saying  that  hither- 
to they  were  only  "  opposed  to  a 
party."  Still  the  insolent  sycophant 
warns  them  "  most  r  expect  fully" -*• 
and,  in  a  condition  suitable  to  the 
meanness  of  his  employment,  "  he 
trembles  even  to  think  of  the  conse- 
quences" No  Englishman  ought  ever 
to  tremble — nor  does  any  true-heart- 
ed Englishman  ever  do  so — except, 
perhaps,  when  rashly  sitting — as  we 
once  did — on  the  top  of  a  coach, 
during  the  skating  season,  without 
drawers,  and  in  nankeen  pantaloons. 
"  Yon  trembling  coward  who  forsook 
his  master,"  presents  a  picture  of  the 
most  pitiable  degradation  that  ever 


336 


Friendly  Advice  to  the  Lords 


befell  a  man.  What  might  not  be  ap- 
prehended, ou  the  actual  coining  of 
the  danger  feared,  from  a  person  who 
trembles  even  to  think  of  it  f  We 
forbear  to  mention  it. 

He  is,  of  course,  as  redundant  in 
the  expression  of  his  fears  as  his  fa- 
vours— never  had  poltroon  such  ef- 
frontery in  the  avowal  of  his  coward- 
ice. But  he  forgets  that,  however 
deficient  in  "  wisdom"  the  nobility 
of  England  may  be,  according,  at 
least,  to  his  notion  of  wisdom,  yet 
have  they  never  been  deficient  in 
courage.  He  truly  and  falsely  says, 
"  here  the  nobility  have  for  the  most 
part  as  plebeian  an  origin  as  the  peo- 
ple." We  are  all  "  sprung  of  earth's 
nrst  blood,  have  titles  manifold" — 
and  we  all  despise  the  counsels  of 
hollow-hearted,  knee-knocking  Fear, 
"  trembling  even  to  think  on  conse- 
quences." To  say  that  the  people 
have  a  plebeian  origin,  while  perfect- 
ly true,  is  also  as  silly  as  is  suitable 
to  the  usual  stupidity  of  this  assu- 
ming sumph  ;  that,  according  to  any 
use  of  the  term  plebeian  that  can 
here  have  any  meaning,  the  greater 
part  of  the  nobility  of  England  are  of 
such  an  origin,  is  an  assertion  as  un- 
doubtedly false.  But  be  that  as  it  may, 
the  argumentum  ad  timorem  is  at  all 
times  and  in  all  places  scouted  in  this 
country  with  indignation  and  con- 
tempt. In  his  trembling  how  tauto- 
logical grows  the  Craven !  "  It  is 
dangerous  in  the  extreme."  "  It  may 
be  pregnant  with  evil."  "  It  may 
cause  convulsion  in  this  now  happy 
land — nay,  even  civil  war."  "  Anar- 
chy and  confusion  would  be  thus 
produced."  "  Great  is  their  danger 
who  resist  the  united  will  of  a  great 
nation."  "  It  endangers  the  peace 
of  the  country,  the  security  of  the 
throne,  the  stability  of  their  own  or- 
der." "  These  are  the  fearful  con- 
summations." "  This  catastrophe." 
"  We  fear  the  tenure  of  the  Lords, 
as  a  branch  of  the  legislature,  would 
be  an  insecure  one."  "  We  say  we 
fear,  because  we  are  well  convinced." 
"  No  man  who  calmly  reflects  on 
their  position  can,  without  serious 
alarm,  contemplate  the  probable  (is 
it  not  the  inevitable  ?)  result  of  such 
recommendation  being  obeyed.  " 
"  These  surely  are  not  times  for  the 
'  privileged  order'  to  set  themselves 
against  the  whole  current  of  public 
opinion,"  «  Can  the  Lords  in  safety 


[Aug. 

stand  apart  from  the  whole  people  ?" 
"  Can  they  safely  for  their  own  or- 
der proclaim,"  &c.  "  Here  we  must 
speak  out,  for  this  is  of  all  delusions 
by  far  the  most  dangerous."  "  The 
inevitable  consequences  of  a  con- 
trary line  of  conduct  in  the  Lords 
from  the  one  we  have  suggested  and 
advised,  are  so  evident  and  so  fright- 
ful, that  it  is  not  necessary  to  enter 
more  into  detail  respecting  them." 
"  We  intreatthe  anti-reforming  peers 
to  weigh  calmly  and  dispassionately 
in  the  balance,  the  certain  evils  which 
must  result?"  "  Whether  England 
shall  be  a  peaceable  and  happy,  or  a 
disturbed  country."  "  You  will 
bring  immediate  and  certain  anarchy 
on  your  country."  "  If,  therefore, 
the  Lords  wish  to  preserve  their 
eminent  station,  and  if,"  &c.  "  Thus 
then  the  last  state  of  the  Lords 
would  be  worse  than  the  first."  "  In 
such  a  case  the  war  between  the  two 
Houses  would  be  internecine  ;  and 
if  this  were  once  commenced,  it  is 
not  difficult  to  foresee  which  party 
would  be  victorious,  especially  when 
the  one  would  be  backed  by  the 
whole  power  of  the  people,"  &c. 
"  An  unwise  resistance  to  the  just 
wishes  of  the  community,  is  sure  to 
entail  misery  upon  the  country,  and 
more  especially  upon  that  branch  of 
its  government  which  stands  promi- 
nently forward  in  the  ungracious  of- 
fice of  refusal."  "  May  such  times 
and  such  scenes  be  far  from  us — we 
feel  confident  they  will  be  so — but 
if  any  thing  could  bring  them  upon 
us,  it  would,  be  any  rash  determi- 
nation against  the  opinions  of  the 
other  estates  of  the  realm." 

The  celebrated  letter  of  the  fa- 
mous old  woman  ordering  a  duffle- 
cloak,  was  a  joke  to  this  epistle  of 
the  Friendly  Adviser.  He  is  a  worse 
infliction  on  fallen  humanity  than 
Mr  Gait's  "  wearifu'  woman"  in  the 
steamer.  May  we  humbly  hope  that 
he  has  made  himself  understood — 
intelligible  to  the  Lords  ?  Some  of 
them  we  cheerfully  grant  are  some- 
what obtuse.  At  it  again,  my  old 
lady — keep  jogging  them  below  the 
fifth  rib  with  that  endless  elbow. 
But  you  have  forgotten  one  argu- 
ment. You  have  addressed  not  one 
single  syllable  to  their  fears.  Pic- 
ture their  danger — shew  them  that 
they  are  all  standing  on  the  edge  of 
a  precipice— 'threaten  to  shove  them 


1831.J 


Observations  on  ft  Pamphlet, 


837 


over — take  a  run  for  that  purpose 
— they  will  stand  a  little  to  the  one 
side— and  over  the  edge  you  will 
plump  yourself,  not  like  a  green 
goose,  in  unfledged  virginity,  but 
like  the  old  Glasgow  Gander  him- 
self, with  bottom  bare,  and  wings 
plucked,  and  with  a  thud  and  a 
squelch  astonish  some  large  toad 
a-squat  among  the  nettly  dockens. 
You  will  indeed. 

Such  being  the  Friendly  Adviser's 
opinions  regarding  a  constitutional 
monarchy,  the  peerage,  and  fears  and 
dangers  in  general,  let  us  follow  him 
into  his  particulars,  and  see  how  he 
illustrates  his  "  apophthegms."  He 
says,  that "  the  King,  the  government, 
and  the  people  are  all  united  in  favour 
of  that  one  great  measure."  Here 
the  Friendly  Adviser  utters  what  he 
knows  to  be  a  falsehood.  Taking  the 
sum  of  all  the  polls  in  all  the  con- 
tested counties,  17,866  freeholders 
voted  for  the  reform  candidates — 
16,280  against  them ;  while  it  may  be 
safely  affirmed,  that  in  very  few  in- 
stances were  they  supported  by  the 
resident  gentry  in  a  larger  proportion 
than  about  an  eighth  of  the  whole.  He 
also  knows  a  vast  number  of  the  peo- 
ple are  necessarily  as  ignorant  of  the 
contents  of  the  Bill  as  they  are  of  the 
contents  of  the  Vedas  or  the  Shasters 
— that  a  vast  number  of  them  are  ut- 
terly indifferent  to  the  whole  concern 
— that  a  vast  number  never  even 
heard  of  it — that  a  vast  number  have 
as  vague  a  dread  of  it  as  he  is  endea- 
vouring to  inspire  into  the  hearts  of 
the  Lords — that  a  vast  number  like  it, 
merely  because  they  go  upon  the  ge- 
neral principle  of  taking  all  they  can 
get  of  every  thing — that  a  vast  num- 
ber, who  were  red-hot  in  its  favour 
a  few  months  ago,  and  hissed  and 
vapoured  alarmingly,  if  you  threw 
cold  water  upon  them,  are  now  as 
cool  as  cucumbers — that  a  vast  num- 
ber are  beginning  to  stretch  out  their 
arms  and  yawn — that  many  more  than 
we  could  mention  are  at  this  moment 
fast  asleep — and  that  all  fear  of  a  ge- 
neral rising  is  lost  in  serious  appre- 
hension that  the  people  have  become 
comatose. 

If  the  nobility,  for  the  most  part, 
be  of  plebeian  origin,  as  the  Friendly 
Adviser  says,  so  must  be  the  gentry. 
Now,  are  they  unanimous  tor  the 
Bill  ?  Is  the  House  of  Commons 
unanimous  ?  Entirely  so— with  the 


exception  of  a  trifling  opposition  of 
some  two  hundred  and  titty  or  so — 
not  worth  mentioning ;  while  in  the 
ranks  of  the  reformers,  it  might  seem 
invidious  to  point  out  by  name  scores 
of  the  lukewarm,  dozens  of  the  cold 
as  charity,  the  trimmers,  the  rene- 
gades, and  the  apostates. 

Out  of  the  House,  the  majority  of 
the  gentlemen  of  England  against 
the  Bill  is  prodigious.  The  Whig  Uni- 
versity of  Cambridge  shewed  her  opi- 
nion of  the  Bill — and  but  for  the 
deserved  popularity  of  Mr  Caven- 
dish there,  on  account  of  his  high 
scientific  acquirements,  and  the  total 
absence  of  all  such  pretensions  from 
both  the  successful  candidates,  an 
absence  which  we  cordially  lament 
and  pity,  the  majority  against  the 
Billmen  would  have  been  far  greater. 
For  many  voted — and  we  do  not — 
cannot  blame  them — for  the  men  of 
talents  and  acquirements,  sacrificing 
for  their  sakes,  or  rather  setting  aside, 
their  political  principles  or  predilec- 
tions. Oxford  has  spoken,  and  spo- 
ken well — through  the  mouth  of  her 
admirable  representative,  Sir  Robert 
Inglis.  Nor  have  her  bachelors  and 
undergraduates  been  mute.  That  ac- 
complished nobleman,  Lord  Mahon, 
has  presented  a  petition  to  Parliament 
against  the  Reform  Bill,  signed  by  770 
of  them — about  three-fourths  of  all 
the  junior  members.  These  are  the 
flower  of  the  English  youth.  We  could 
direct  you  elsewhere  for  the  weeds. 

That  multitudes  of  enlightened  and 
honourable  men  of  all  ranks  are  for 
the  measure,  we  know ;  nor  should 
we  dream  of  denying  it;  but  all  we 
meant  to  shew  by  the  above  senten- 
ces is,  that  the  Friendly  Adviser  knew, 
when  he  said  "  that  the  King,  the 
government,  and  the  people,  were  all 
united  in  favour  of  this  one  Great 
Measure,"  that  he  was  uttering  a 
falsehood. 

The  poor  creature  cannot  be  con- 
sistent with  his  "trembling"  self, 
even  for  two  aspen  leaves.  Speaking 
of  the  Catholic  Question,  he  says  in 
suicidal  style,  "  It  is  true  they  [the 
Lords]  rejected  the  Catholic  Ques- 
tion, till  Ireland  was  all  but  in  open 
rebellion — but  then  the  King  and  the 
great  body  of  the  people  of  England 
were  with  them"  &c.  Ireland  is  now, 
we  presume,  no  longer  in  all  but 
open  rebellion.  But  if  the  carrying 
pi  the  Catholic  Question  calmed  the 


Friendly  Advice  to  the  Lords — 


338 

waves,  or  rather  extinguished  the 
fires,  why  was  Mr  Stanley  so  anxious 
t'other  day  "  to  quench  the  flame  of 
bold  rebellion,  even  in  the  rebel's 
blood  ?"  Why  sought  he,  to  make  the 
possession  of  unbrandedarms,byany 
Irishman,  after  the  Registry  act,  fe- 
lony, and  punishable  by  transporta- 
tion ?  That  by  the  way.  But  will 
the  "  Friendly  Adviser"  be  pleased  to 
answer  this  short  and  simple  ques- 
tion ?  If  it  be  the  duty  of  the  Lords 
to  pass  the  Reform  Bill  because 
the  King  and  people  wish  it,  how 
comes  it  that  it  was  their  duty, 
which  he  says  it  was,  to  pass  the 
Catholic  Emancipation  Bill,  in  the 
face  of  the  King  and  of  the  Great 
Body  of  the  People  of  England,  and 
in  opposition  to  all  their  united  sen- 
timents and  opinions  ?  When  he  has 
answered  that  question  to  the  satis- 
faction of  any  one  living  thing  ap- 
parently in  human  shape,  we  shall 
give  him  a  sugar-plum. 

We  have  said,  in  other  words,  that 
the  "  Friendly  Adviser"  cannot  be 
Lord  Brougham,  (Lord  Brougham ! !) 
because  he  writes  as  an  ass  brays — 
loud  and  long,  with  much  repetition  of 
the  same  old  see-saws  and  modern  in- 
stances, and  with  convulsive  heavings, 
as  if  his  lungs  were  not  merely  made 
of  leather,  but  placed  preposterously 
far  back  in  the  animal  economy,  as 
if  the  creature  mistook  the  matter, 
and  failed  to  observe  that  it  was  the 
intention  of  nature  he  should  "  go 
sounding  on  his  dim  and  perilous 
way"  in  the  opposite  direction.  In 
proof  of  this,  we  beg  leave  to  quote 
a  verse  from  the  Vicar.  "  It  would 
seem,  by  the  language  we  sometimes 
hear  as  proceeding  from  the  Lords, 
that  a  very  inadequate  estimate  is 
formed,  at  least  by  many  of  their  Lord- 
ships, of  the  extent  and  vehemence 
with  which  the  desire  of  Reform  per- 
vades and  possesses  the  people  of  this 
country."  Gramercy!  what  com- 
position !  But  look  at  this.  "  It  is 
doubtless  impossible  for  the  House 
of  Lords  to  stem  the  tide  of  Reform 
— but  in  attempting  to  do  it,  the 
rash  act  may  endanger  their  own 
safety,  and  with  theirs  that  of  all  of 
us,  who  are,  to  a  certain  degree,  in 
the  same  boat  with  them."  Only 
think  of  all  of  us  being  in  a  boat,  to 
a  certain  degree!  Some  of  us  are 
holding  by  the  gunwale  with  our 
hands,  others  by  our  teeth— some 


[Aug. 

are  hanging  half  out  and  half  in,  like 
poor  Paddy  Byrne  balancing  himself 
on  the  ropes — some  are  dangling 
over  the  stern — but  not  one  of  us  all 
is  fairly  in  the  same  boat  with  the 
Lords,  who  keep  carrying  on,  under 
a  load  of  canvass,  while  we,  poor 
devils,  are  fast  dropping  astern  into 
Davy's  Locker.  The  "  Friendly  Ad- 
viser" should  have  submitted  his 
foul  sheets  to  the  inspection  of  the 
First  Lord  of  the  Admiralty. 

The  demand  for  Reform  is  not 
only  loud  now,  but  the  Friendly 
Adviser  says  that  for  half  a  century 
it  has  been  strong,  though  often  si- 
lent. To  "  resist  a  sudden  popular 
impulse,"  the  wiseacre  says,  is  the 
duty  of  all  good  statesmen ;  but  the 
people  are  now  obeying,  not  a  sud- 
den impulse,  but  the  dictates  of  the 
experience  and  wisdom  of  many  me- 
ditative years.  In  one  sentence  we 
answer  him — and  by  one  sentence 
we  put  him,  not  to  a  certain  degree, 
but  fairly,  out  of  our  Boat.  For  the 
thirty  years  during  which  this  ques- 
tion has  occasionally  been  agitated 
"  out  and  in  doors,"  all  the  leading 
Whigs,  except  Sir  F.  Burdett  and  a 
few  others  now  dead,  have,  we  be- 
lieve, spoken  and  written,  in  a  spirit 
of  the  most  rooted  animosity,  of  all 
the  principles  of  the  Bill.  And  we 
refer  the  Friendly  Adviser  to  the 
Edinburgh  Review  during  that  pe- 
riod ;  or,  to  make  shorter  work  of  it, 
to  an  article  in  the  June  number  of 
this  Magazine,  in  which  he  will  find 
collected  all  the  chief  arguments 
against  this  Bill  from  the  pens  of 
Brougham,  Mackintosh,  Alien,  Jef- 
frey, and  others,  who,  though  per- 
haps hardly  entitled  even  now,  and 
certainly  not  then,  except  the  Chan- 
cellor, to  the  title  of  leading  Whigs, 
were  employed  by  them  to  support 
the  party,  and  in  so  doing,  bestowed, 
unsparingly,  lavishly,  profusely,  and 
extravagantly,  every  term  of  con- 
tempt and  contumely  with  which 
their  vocabulary  of  abuse,  not  a  poor 
one,  but  rich,  could  furnish  them, 
upon  the  heads  of  all  those  who  then 
preached  the  doctrines  they  them- 
selves now  preach — and  supported 
the  "  wild  schemes"  which  they 
themselves  have  now  embodied  in  a 
Bill,  which  is,  it  seems,  to  be  the  sal- 
vation of  this  sinking  land.  If  the 
desire  and  the  demand  for  such  Re- 
form as  they  would  now  give  ua 


Observations  on  a  Pamphlet, 


1831.] 

were  indeed  as  violent  and  as  loud, 
or  deep  and  not  loud,  in  those  days 
as  in  these,  then  are  all  the  present 
reformers  abaser  and  more  dishonest 
crew  than  we  have  always  believed 
many  of  them  to  be,  perhaps  most 
of  them — for  they  must  have  had 
strong  reasons  indeed  for  sacrificing 
the  best  interests  of  their  country, 
and  suffering  the  great  body  of  the 
people  to  pine  under  the  oppression 
of  the  peerage. 

But  even  here  the  drawling  dri- 
veller cannot  stick  to  himself  for  two 
clumsy  pages.  "  Were  the  love  of 
reform  a  plant  of  yesterday's  growth, 
it  might  be  safe  to  prune  it  carelessly, 
and  even  to  pluck  it  up.  But  that 
which  was  a  few  years  ago  but  as  a 
grain  of  mustard  seed,  and  the  least 
of  plants,  is  now  grown  to  a  tree  in 
which  '  the  fowls  of  the  air  build 
their  nests. '  "  This  is  very  fine,  and 
intended  to  be  Scriptural.  But  he 
writes  as  wretchedly  about  plants  as 
boats.  He  intends  a  contrast  between 
a  plant  of  "  yesterday,"  and  one  of 
"  a  few  years;"  but  there  is  none — 
they  are  the  same.  For  both  ex- 
pressions not  only  imply,  but  ex- 
plicitly express,  short  duration  op- 
posed to  long — so  the  fribble  falls 
through  the  commonest  metaphor. 
But  not  only  so — he  contradicts  him- 
self; for  while  the  expression,  "  a 
few  years,"  means  what  it  says,  he 
is  anxious  to  prove  that  the  desire 
for  reform  has  been  strong  "  for  many 
years  " — for  fifty  at  least ;  thus  cut- 
ting the  throat  of  his  own  simile,  as 
usual  with  him,  and  pigs  in  general, 
who,  when  afloat,  enjoy  not  the  con- 
venience and  luxury  of  being  "  in 
the  same  boat,  to  any  degree  what- 
ever," but  keep  swimming  away  sui- 
cidally,  till  they  perish  and  sink, 
"  far,  far  at  sea."  But  this  is  not  the 
whole  amount  of  his  stupidity.  He 
says,  that  if  the  "  love  of  reform  were 
a  plant  of  yesterday's  growth,  it 
might  be  safe  to  prune  it  carelessly" 
A  pretty  plant,  indeed,  the  love  of 
reform  !  But  we  beg  to  refer  the 
Friendly  Adviser  to  Mr  Macnab,  of 
our  Botanical  Garden  here,  or  to  any 
of  his  Majesty's  gardeners  at  Kew,  or 
elsewhere,  and  they  will  tell  him, 
that  the  younger  a  plant  is,  the  more 
need  is  there  to  prune  it "  carefully" 
if  you  wish  to  keep  it  alive  ;  and  if 
you  wish  to  kill  it,  then  there  is  no 
occasion  to  prune  it  at  all  j  nor 


389 


would  any  body  but  an  idiot  speak  of 
pruning  it  carelessly,  as  the  present 
idiot  does,  in  the  vain  imagination  of 
being  apretty  writer — among  his  ma- 
ny other  accomplishments — a  poet. 
Then,  Avhat  does  he  mean  by  saying, 
"  it  might  be  safe  to  pluck  it  up  ?" 
Safe  to  whom  ?  To  the  plucker  or 
the  pluckee  ?  Pray,  in  this  case, 
who  are  "  the  fowls  of  the  air  f" 
Who  are  the  birds  at  this  moment 
roosting  in  the  "  tree"  of  the  "  love  of 
reform,"  within  these  "  few  years," 
a  "  plant"  of  "  yesterday,"  "  the 
least  of  plants,"  and  a  "  mustard- 
seed,"  which  it  might  once  have  been 
safe  "  carelessly  to  prune,"  or  even 
"  to  pluck  up ;"  but  which,  the  truth 
is,  "  that  this  great  question  has  been 
continually  making  great  progress  ?" 

The  man  who  volunteers  printed 
advice  to  the  Peers,  ought  to  be  at 
least  so  much  of  a  scholar  as  to  shew 
that  he  has  received  the  education 
of  a  gentleman. 

We  have  seen  the  kind  of  "respect" 
he  entertains  for  the  Lords  Tempo- 
ral. How  is  he  affected  towards  the 
Lords  Spiritual  ?  As  a  Radical.  "  A 
word  must,  however,  be  said  of  a 
corporate  body  which  has  disgraced 
itself  in  the  contest — Cambridge 
University,  and  the  clergy  thereof." 
"  A  corporate  body" — how  erudite  ! 
"  Cambridge  University" — how  ele- 
gant !  Do  say,  next  time — if  it  be 
only  to  please  us — the  University  of 
Cambridge.  "  The  clergy  thereof!" 
Why,  the  schoolmaster  is  abroad — 
the  pamphlet  must  be  the  produce 
of  some  peddling  pedagogue  in  the 
suburb  of  a  Mechanics'  Institute. 
"  There  are  few  observers  of  the 
signs  of  the  times,  who  are  not  in- 
timately persuaded  that  those  reve- 
rend persons  already  bitterly  repent 
their  over 'exertions,  and  curse  their 
victory"  "  We  hope  and  trust  the 
repentance  comes  not  too  late."— 
"FRIENDS  TO  THE  CONSTITUTION  AND 
TO  THE  CHURCH  ESTABLISHMENT  ! ! ! 
we  are  truly  anxious  that  the  follies 
of  those  unwise  clergymen  may  not 
be  visited  upon  their  order  at  large. 
As  we  should  deeply  lament  any  ill- 
placed  and  tinjust  spirit  of  retaliation, 
we  hope  and  trust  the  heads  of  the 
clerical  body  will,  by  their  wisdom 
and  moderation,  SAVE  THE  CHURCH  ! 
If,  indeed,  the  Right  Reverend  Bench 
should  unhappily  pursue  the  course 
now  repented  of  at  the  University— 


34D 


Friendly  Advice 


[of  Cambridge  ?]-— if  they  should  set 
themselves  in  hostile  array  against 
the  WHOLE  NATION'S  wishes  —  then 
indeed  would  our  fears  wax  great, 
not  for  the  fate  of  the  Reform  Bill, 
but  for  the  fortunes  of  the  English 
Church.  And  we  verily  believe  that 
establishment,  with  all  its  imperfec- 
tions and  even  abuses,  to  be  the  best, 
because  the  most  learned,  tolerant, 
and  beneficent,  which  has  been  set- 
tled anywhere  in  the  world." 

We  are  not  such  careful  "  obser- 
vers of  the  Times"  as  the  Friendly 
Adviser  is ;  but  we  read  that  news- 
paper sufficiently  to  see  that  it  ab- 
hors the  clergy  and  the  Church.  We 
must  have  some  better  authority  than 
that  of  the  Times  for  the  alleged  fact 
of  the  bitter  repentance  of  those 
"  reverend  persons"  who  helped  to 
oust  the  reforming  candidates  for 
"  the  University,"  before  we  believe 
that  they  already  "  curse  their  vic- 
tory." Seldom — we  may  say  never, 
except  in  cases  of  delirious  or  insane 
conversion — do  sinners  all  of  a  sud- 
den fall  into  repentance,  and  curse 
their  victories,  even  when  the  con- 
quests have  been  of  a  more  carnal 
kind  than  that  of  "  those  reverend 
gentlemen."  Pray  how  does  this 
Friendly  Adviser  reconcile  his  friend- 
ship for  the  Church  Establishment, 
and  his  "  verily  we  believe"  of  its 
learning,  toleration,  and  beneficence, 
with  his  beggarly  and  sneaking  abuse 
of  a  vast  majority  of  its  ministers  ? 
What  a  pitiful  person  must  he  be,  to 
designate  the  conscientious  opinions 
of  more  than  three -fourths  of  the 
body  whom  he  pretends  to  venerate, 
"  the  follies  of  those  unwise  clergy- 
men!" Pray  of  whom  is  their  "  order 
at  large"  composed,  but  of  them- 
selves ?  And  if  three-fourths  and 
more  of  themselves  be  against  the 
Bill,  (we  fear  not  to  say  seven- 
eighths,)  why,  according  to  his  own 
rule  of  three,  the  "  order  at  large"  is 
"  unanimous ;"  and  what  becomes, 
in  his  view  of  the  matter,  of  their 
learning,  their  toleration,  and  their 
beneficence  ? 

The  Spiritual  Lords  are  to  follow 
the  Temporal — "  down  the  broad 
way  that  leadeth  unto  destruction" 
— if  they  presume  to  oppose  the  Bill 
— "  if  they  should  unhappily  pursue 
the  course  now  repented  of  at  the 
University."  Bishops  are  perhaps 
jiot  euch  bold  fellows  now-a-days  as 


to  the  Lords—  [Aug. 

they  were  during  the  Civil  Wars — 
yet  we  know  more  than  one  gracing 
the  bench  who  would  think  little— 
if  need  were — to  smite  this  "  Friend- 
ly Adviser"  on  the  sconce  with  his 
crosier,  even  as  butcher  felleth  ox, 
or  as  Christopher  with  his  crutch 
kills  a  Cockney.  They  have  no  in- 
tention, we  dare  promise  for  them, 
"  of  setting  themselves  in  hostile 
array  against  the  whole  nation's 
wishes."  For  were  all  the  men  and 
women  who  dislike  or  despise,  fear  or 
hate  the  Reform  Bill — all  the  adults 
and  the  adolescent  of  both  sexes 
who  regard  it  with  doubt,  indigna- 
tion, or  disgust — to  be  taken  out  of 
the  "  whole  nation,"  why,  the  whole 
nation  would  cut  as  poor  a  figure  as 
the  year  would  do,  were  you  to  cut 
out  all  the  prime  of  spring,  summer, 
autumn,  and  winter,  and  leave  only 
the  cold,  raw,  damp,  drizzly,  muggy 
days  of  each  season,  formed  into  a 
dismal  season  of  themselves,  and 
then  call  it  the  whole  year. 

With  respect,  again,  to  the  "  im- 
perfections, and  even  abuses"  of  the 
English  Church  Establishment,  it 
would  be  most  unscriptural  doctrine 
to  deny  them — for  parsons  are  men. 
But  we  shall  probably  be  thought  not 
very  far  wrong  in  saying  that  love 
and  friendship,  while  they  anxious- 
ly seek  all  opportunities  and  zea- 
lously employ  all  means  of  render- 
ing their  objects  worthier  and  more 
worthy  of  affection,  do  not  bruit 
abroad  their  failings  or  defects  from 
the  house-tops,  more  especially  at 
times  when  their  character  and  office 
happen  to  be  assailed  by  the  vilest 
vituperations  from  wretches  with 
whom  any  sympathy  of  sentiment 
would  be  unendurable  degradation 
to  any  Christian  man. 

To  shew  his  regard  for  the  Church, 
we  presume  it  is,  that  the  Friendly 
Adviser,  throughout  his  pamphlet, 
aims  at,  or  rather  apes  the  language  of 
the  Bible.  But  he  could  not  have 
Written  the  Chaldee  Manuscript — no 
— not  he  indeed — not  he — he  knows 
not  the  Scriptures  half  as  well  as  the 
Shepherd's  "  wee  Jamie."  To  im- 
press the  Peers — Temporal  and  Spi- 
ritual— with  a  profound  sense  of  his 
attainments  in  theology — he  makes 
frequent  use  of  such  expressions  as 
these — "Seeing  they  do  not  see — and 
hearing  they  do  not  understand" — 
"  Wise  in  their  generation"—"  Hi& 


183].] 


Observation,1!  on  a  Pamphlet,  <SfC. 


341 


own  knows  him  not" — "  The  fowls 
of  the  air  build  their  nests" — "Peace 
to  all  such,"— and  others,  of  which 
one  or  two  are  so  shockingly  blas- 
phemous in  their  application  to  poli- 
tical affairs,  that  we  "  hope  and  trust" 
(lie  uses  this  slang  perpetually  and 
unconsciously)  the  poor  creature  did 
not  know  they  were  in  the  Bible — 
ov  if  he  did,  that  he  had  no  notion 
of  their  awful  meaning. 

Having  told  the  Lords — exactly 
seventy-nine  times — (we  have  count- 
ed them) — that  they  must  pass  the 
Bill  or  die  of  cholera  morbus,  why 
won't  he  "  condescend,"  as  we  say 
in  Scotland,  on  some  explanation  of 
wherein  lies  the  danger  of  the  dis- 
ease ?  They  must  die — if  they  refuse 
to  follow  his  regimen — but  what  is 
to  kill  them  ?  The  blockhead  cannot 
tell  for  the  life  of  him — though  he 
repeatedly  makes  the  attempt — as, 
for  example,  in  this  fine  burst  of 
drivel,  which  is,  you  will  allow, 
unique  in  the  history  of  the  fatuous. 

"  Can  they  [the  Lords],  safely  for 
their  own  or der, proclaim  themselves 
the  only  obstacle  to  the  attainment 
of  the  desire  of  the  whole  nation's 
heart  ?  We  answer,  plainly  and  short- 
ly— NO."  Why,  this  is  the  seventy- 
third  time  he  has  thunder'd  out  what, 
for  want  of  a  better  word,  we  shall 
call  his  "  apophthegm,"  or  "  anathe- 
ma." We  see  him,  for  the  three- 
score and  thirteenth  time,  standing 
with  his  arms  akimbo,  like  the  "  Lit- 
tle Corporal," — heels  in,  toes  out,  in 
the  first  position — shoulders  well 
squared — spine  straight — pot-belly 
protuberant — and  .<Eolian  cheeks, 
somewhat  rubicund  or  so — for  'tis 
plain  he  tipples — distended  to  a  por- 
tentous amount  by  the  imprison'd 
flatulency — when  all  at  once,  like 
the  thunder  of  a  brown-paper  bag, 
schoolboy-pluffed  and  cracked,  the 
Friendly  Adviser,  as  if  his  mouth 
were  on  the  trombone,  blurts  out 
(blurts  is  not  the  word — we  leave 
you  to  find  it)  NO.  And  this  he 
chooses  to  call  "  Friendly  Advice,  re- 
spectfully addressed  to  the  Lords,  on 
the  Reform  Bill.  Second  edition, 
Price  One  Shilling !" 

But,  "  give  us  pause."  This  mo- 
nosyllable—simple chap  as  he  seems 
— is  a  most  mysterious  fellow — he 
is  "  big  with  the  fate  of  Cato  and  of 
Rome."  For,  quoth  the  Friendly 
Adviser,  "  in  this  word  are  included 


many  reasons  and  motives,"  &c.  Far 
more  reasons  and  motives  were  in- 
cluded in  Lord  Burleigh's  famous 
shake  of  his  head ;  but  his  Lordship, 
we  believe,  left  them  to  the  imagi- 
nation. The  Friendly  Adviser  (by 
many  thought  a  Lord  too)  had  very 
nearly  destroyed  the  spell,  by  men- 
tioning a  few  dozens  of  the  "  many 
reasons  and  many  motives"  included 
in  NO.  But  he  thinks  better  about 
it,  and  says,  with  a  face  which  out- 
Solomons  Solomon, "  WHICH  WE,WHO 

HAVE  LIVED  THROUGHOUT  THE  YEARS 
1820  AND  1829,  HAD  RATHER  NOT  UE- 

VELOPE  !"  This  is  most  fearful ! 
What  a  Michael-Scott-looking,  or  ra- 
ther what  a  Merlin-mouthed  old  Wi- 
zard of  Woe  he  looks,  issuing  from 
his  cave,  and  "frightening  the  isle 
from  its  propriety,"  by  this  inhu- 
man volunteer  of  a  refusal  to  deve- 
lope  the  salutary  and  forewarning 
horrors  of  the  years  1820  and  1829, 
which  this  mysterious  and  superna- 
tural Being  "  has  lived  through!" 
Alive  as  far  back  in  time  as  the  ima- 
gination can  reach — alive  even  in 
the  1820 !  It  seems  less  like  living  in 
time  than  in  eternity  !  Poor  fellow  ! 
can  he  be  Mr  Godwin's  St  Leon,  or 
Mrs  Norton's  Undying  One  ?  Mr 
Croly's  Salathiel?  Shelley's  Wan- 
dering Jew  ?  or  is  he — Moshy  Ton- 
son  ? 

The  Friendly  Adviser,  in  one  or 
two  small  spots,  attempts  refutations 
of  arguments  against  the  Bill.  Thus 
— "  But  then,  say  others  of  the  oppo- 
nents of  the  Reform  Bill,  if  you  once 
remove  the  ancient  landmarks  of  the 
constitution,  you  will  be  unable  to 
stop  when  you  wish.  This  argu- 
ment would  be  a  true  one,  if  it  were 
intended  to  retain  any  of  the  abuses 
of  the  system  ;  but  as  they  are  to  be 
done  away  with  by  the  Bill,  all  rea- 
sonable opposition  to  our  represent- 
ative system  is  removed,"  &c. — "  The 
cool  effrontery  of  this,"  says  the  Ob- 
server, "  is  quite  delicious  in  its 
way."  What,  we  ask,  does  the  Ad- 
viser mean  by  "  all  reasonable  oppo- 
sition?" Who  are  to  judge  whether 
or  not  any  abuses  be  left  ?  The  Mob. 
Or,  if  that  word  be  disagreeable  to 
any  ears,  "  the  People."  Now,  the 
Observer  asks  the  Adviser,  "  will 
they  tell  us,  that  a  Bill  which,  out  of 
283  nomination  seats  in  the  House 
of  Commons,  abolishes  only  168 — 
which  gives  to  the  great  city  of  Glas- 


542 

gow,  with  near  200,000  souls,  only 
one  Member,  while  it  leaves  to  va- 
rious little  towns,  with  4000  inhabi- 
tants, two  a-piece — which  affords  no 
check  on  election  bribery — which 
makes  no  change  in  the  duration 
of  Parliaments — which  upholds  the 
practice  of  open  voting,  and  esta- 
blishes a  limited  qualification  for 
electors — will  these  patrons  and  ora- 
cles of  the  Friendly  Adviser,  satisfy 
us  with  the  assurance,  that  such  a 
Bill  retains  none  of  what  they  are 
pleased  to  call  the  '  abuses'  of  the 
existing  system  ?" 

But  here  the  Adviser,  as  usual,  re- 
futes himself;  for  a  few  pages  far- 
ther on,  when  speaking  of  what  would 
happen  in  the  event  of  a  new  Minis- 
try being  formed,  and  another  disso- 
lution of  Parliament,  he  says,  "  it  is 
obvious  it  would  be  the  returning  of 
a  House  of  Commons  twice  as  re- 
forming, and  ten  times  as  radical,  as 
the  present."  How  could  that  be, 
if  the  plan  of  the  present  Reformers 
is  such  as  destroys  all  abuses  ?  There 
is  a  hidden  mystery  involved  in  the 
proportion  of  two  to  ten — between 
Reformers  and  Radicals,  which  were 
we  to  call  upon  the  Friendly  Adviser 
to  illumine,  he  would  cry  out — NO. 
"  For  if  the  country  is  to  a  man  for 
reform  nmo>  what  will  it  be,"  &c. 
These  are  his  words :  "  To  a  man  !" 
• — "  His  effrontery  is  indeed  delici- 
ous." He  then  exclaims,  "  Such  is 
the  Bill  which  the  Peers  are  urged 
to  reject !"  having  not  said  one  syl- 
lable about  the  bill,  except  that  "  the 
country  to  a  man  is  for  reform."— 
"  Such  is  the  simpleton  who  now 
urges  the  Peers  to  pass  the  Bill !" 

Here  is  a  specimen  of  the  style  in 
which  the  Observer  settles  the  Ad- 
viser. 

"  The  Friendly  Adviser  adverts  to  the 
Revolution  of  1688  as  an  analogous  case, 
and  seeks  to  cajole  the  apprehensions 
of  liis  readers  with  the  suggestion,  that 
'  Doubtless  the  advocates  of  abuses  at  that 
time  held  the  same  arguments  as  those 
of  the  present  day  do  now.  They  said, 


•  Friendly  Advice  to  the  Lords— 


[Aug. 

of  course— You  cannot  stop  here — your 
Bill  of  Rights,  which  contents  the  Libe- 
rals of  this  year,  will  not  content  those  of 
the  next — you  will  be  impelled  from  con- 
cession to  concession,  till  the  power  of 
the  Crown  is  at  an  end !  But  what,'  he 
continues,  '  has  really  happened  ?  The 
Bill  of  Rights  has  remained  the  same, 
and  has  been  the  text- book  of  our  liber- 
ties, without  variation  or  change,  ever 
since.'  And,  in  support  of  this  purely 
hypothetical  and  fictitious  analogy,  he 
adduces  this  garbled  quotation  from  Mr 
Hallam  :  '  A  very  powerful  minority  be- 
lieved the  constitution  to  be  most  vio- 
lently shaken,  if  not  destroyed.'  The  pas- 
sage, as  it  really  stands,  and  ought  to  have 
been  quoted,  is  as  follows :  '  There  was 
yet  a  very  powerful  minority,  who  believed 
the  constitution  to  be  most  violently  sha- 
ken, if  not  irretrievably  destroyed,  and 
the  rightful  Sovereign  to  have  been  excluded 
by  usurjxttion.'  The  concluding  member 
of  the  eminent  historian's  *  sentence, 
which  he  has  omitted,  is  obviously  the 
key  to  that  which  precedes.  Indeed,  it 
can  scarcely  be  necessary  to  remind  any 
one,  who  lias  ever  attended  seriously  to 
this  important  page  of  English  history, 
that  the  Bill  of  Rights  was  merely  a  de- 
claratory statute,  fixing  certain  points  of 
constitutional  law,  which  had  been  un- 
settled by  the  encroachments,  or  doubt- 
ful claims,  of  the  prerogative  in  the  pre- 
ceding reigns.  It  established  no  new 
principle,  except  in  whut  concerned  the 
power  of  suspending  laws  by  regal  autho- 
rity; it  scarcely  even  introduced  any  new 
limitation; — in  every  other  respect  it  left 
the  frame  of  the  government  exactly  as 
it  found  it.  There  was  but  one  violent 
change  accomplished  by  the  Revolution 
of  1688,  and  that  was  the  change  in  the 
line  of  succession.  And  if  there  were 
those,  who  feared  that  by  such  change 
the  principle  of  hereditary  title  itself 
might  be  shaken,  and  the  constitution  so 
brought  into  danger.it  maybe  allowed  that 
their  fears  were  not  entirely  unreason- 
able. But,  fortunately,  in  all  other  par- 
ticulars, the  spirit  of  the  Revolution  was 
eminently  conservative.  It  neither  dis- 
turbed, nor  destroyed,  nor  created.  Nay, 
in  its  very  manner  of  violating  the  rule 
of  inheritance  itself,  there  was  a  reve- 
rence shewn  for  the  principle,  which 


*  "  It  fs  truly  agreeable,  by  the  way,  to  be  able  to  point  out  in  this  gentleman,  one 
great  light  of  the  Whig  doctrine,  who  has  on  this  occasion  stuck  by  his  principles, 
in  preference  to  his  party.  Mr  Hallam's  name  occurs  among  the  subscribers  of  the 
late  constitutional  declaration  from  Staffordshire.  Alas!  for  Sir  James  Mackintosh 
and  Mr  Jeffrey !  With  what  thoughts  must  the  latter  now  consider  his  own  review 
of  Mr  Hidlam's  Constitutional  History,  published  only  two  short  years  ago !" 


1831.] 


Observations  on  a  Pamphlet, 


543 


served  greatly  to  modify  the  evil  influence 
of  the  measure,  and  ultimately  to  avert 
the  mischief  so  generally  anticipated.  It 
were  endless  to  enumerate  all  the  other 
circumstances,  both  of  the  event  and  of 
the  times,  in  which  the  Revolution  of 
1688  differed  from  that  meditated  in 
1831." 

The  "  Friendly  Adviser"  is  one  of 
those  slaves  by  name,  nature,  educa- 
tion, and  habit,  who  cannot,  even  for 
a  moment,  imagine  the  possibility  of 
certain  persons,  at  the  heels  of  whose 
understanding  he  hobbles  in  chains, 
being  in  the  wrong  in  any  one  judg- 
ment it  may  have  pleased  their 
mightinesses  to  form  on  any  subject 
human  or  divine. 

"  Can  you,"  quoth  he,  with  uplift- 
ed eyes  and  hands,  "  can  you  se- 
riously believe  that  such  men  as  the 
Dukes  of  Norfolk,  Somerset,  Devon- 
shire, Grafton,  Bedford— Lord  Gros- 
venor,  Lord  Cleveland,  Lord  Yar- 
borough,  Lord  Stafford,  [he  adds 
Lord  Winchelsea,  whom  we  exclude 
from  his  list,]  and  so  many  others 
with  great  estates  and  high-sounding 
titles,  are  anxious  to  increase  the 
democratic  influence  in  the  country 
beyond  its  due  bounds  ?"  Now,  not 
to  mince  the  matter,  we  shall  merely 
say,  in  answer  to  this  question,  that 
though  "  these  be"  very  respectable 
noblemen,  their  opinions  taken  col- 
lectively, and  put  into  the  balance 
against  the  arguments  which  the  Ad- 
viser sees  kicking  the  beam,  would 
have  less  weight  than  as  many  fea- 
thers from  the  tails  of  as  many  geese. 
They  may  not  be  anxious  to  increase 
the  democratic  influence  in  this 
country  beyond  due  bounds — they 
may  be  more  anxious  to  diminish  it 
within  undue  bounds — they  may  be- 
lieve that  the  Bill  has  been  brought 
forward  for  no  more  patriotic  pur- 
pose than  to  secure  them  in  the  pos- 
session of"  their  high-sounding  titles 
and  great  estates ;"  but  they  may  be 
mistaken — surely  they  may  be  mis- 
taken— the  supposition  is  neither  vio- 
lent nor  monstrous  that  they  may  be 
mistaken — wiser  men  than  they — yea, 
even  our  Friendly  Adviser  himself — 
has  been  mistaken — all  the  world 
knows  that  one  and  all  of  these  very 
noblemen  have  been  even  most  gross- 
ly mistaken — and  on  one  or  two  occa- 
sions one  or  two  of  them  most  fatally 
so — and,  therefore,  whatever  may  be 
their  "  anxieties,"  we  do  "  seriously 


believe"  that  they  are  mistaken  now 
— and  that,  too,  in  spite  "  of  their 
great  estates  and  high-sounding 
titles." 

The  Friendly  Adviser  is  at  one 
time  so  insolent  to  the  Peers,  and  at 
another  so  much  of  the  sycophant, 
that  'tis  not  easy  to  know  what  he 
would  be  at  with  the  "  Order."  He 
sometimes  struts  and  swaggers  be- 
fore them  like  a  turkey  gobbler, 
emitting  his  wrathful  puff,  treading 
the  ground  with  steps  like  threats, 
and  unfurling  his  fan-like  tail,  to  the 
exposure  of  his  posteriors  in  the 
very  face  of  the  peerage.  'Tis  then 
he  deserves  and  gets  a  kick.  At 
other  times  he  assumes  the  sem- 
blance of  a  spaniel, — and  crawling 
after  the  fashion  of  that  amiable  ani- 
mal but  too  submiss,  with  his  feet, 
legs,  sides,  belly,  and  almost  his  very 
back  on  the  ground,  with  his  head, 
too,  and  ears  sweeping  the  dust,  and 
his  tail  also,  whose  convulsive  wag- 
gings  are  surcharged  with  fear  and 
deprecation,  as  you  have  often  seen 
a  spaniel  act  towards  persons  who, 
though  his  masters,  were  not  his 
owners,  and  who  either  had  no  whips 
in  their  hands,  or  no  intention  of 
then  and  there  using  their  whips; 
and  on  such  occasions,  instead  of 
one  kick,  he  deserves  and  gets  a  de- 
vil's dozen,  till  his  yowl  alarms  the 
welkin.  Thus  he  says,  "  We  ad- 
dress ourselves  to  the  Mansfields, 
Newcastles,  Kenyons,  Camdene, 
Northumberlands,  Buccleuchs  —  to 
the  men  incapable  of  sordid  feelings 
—and  in  whose  hands  at  this  mo- 
ment rests,  as  we  verily  believe,  whe- 
ther England  shall  be  a  peaceable 
and  a  happy,  or  a  disturbed  and  a 
distracted  country."  The  poor  ani- 
mal is  in  an  unhappy  taking— a  sad 
quandary  among  "  persons  of  great 
estates  and  high-sounding  titles"— 
and  had  better  make  a  safe  retreat 
to  his  kennel. 

The  "  Observer"  well  says,  it  may 
be  observed,  without  the  least  inten- 
tional disrespect  to  the  noble  indivi- 
duals whom  the  Adviser  fawns  on  as 
friends  of  Reform,  "  that  neither 
their  large  estates,  nor  hereditary 
honours,  necessarily  imply  the  pos- 
session of  any  extraordinary  powers 
of  nerve  or  intellect,  any  pretensions 
to  superior  foresight,  any  exemption 
from  prejudice,  credulity,  indecision, 
or  any  euch-like  infirmities  of  tern- 


344 


Friendly  Advice  to  the  Lords— 


[Aug. 


perament — or,  in  short,  any  peculiar 
capacity  or  calling — to  think  tor  other, 
men."  He  adds,  that  in  promoting 
the  Reform  Bill,  some  of  them  at 
least  arc  supporting  a  measure  which 
not  only  has  a  tendency  to  destroy, 
but  actually  does  destroy  "  their  real 
power  and  influence,"  is  not  a  mat- 
ter of  speculation,  but  of  fact,  what- 
ever may  be  pretended  as  to  the  rest 
of  the  hypothesis. 

"  Those  who,  in  their  own  intellectual 
helplessness,  are  so  ready  to  catch  at 
every  thread  of  opinion,  cast  out  though 
it  may  be  at  random,  from  tbe  mind  of 
another,  would  do  well,  before  they  en- 
tirely pin  their  faith  on  the  dictum  of  any 
individual,  merely  because  he  happens  to 
hold  a  somewhat  larger  stake  than  his 
neighbours  in  the  prosperous  issue  of  the 
question,  would  do  well  first  to  ascertain, 
whether  that  very  individual  be  not  really 
in  the  same  helpless  predicament  as  them- 
selves, borrowing  the  confidence  which  he 
affects,  from  the  countenance  of  another, 
and  satisfied  perhaps  to  commit  his  for- 
tunes blindfold  to  the  same  ark,  which 
bears  an  Earl  Grey,  a  Marquis  of  Lans- 
do\vne,  a  Lord  Durham,  or  some  such 
luminary,  whom  he  has  set  up  in  his  ima- 
gination for  a  legislative  oracle.  Nor  let 
it  be  said  that,  at  all  events,  these  last- 
named  statesmen  must  have  applied  their 
own  minds  to  the  subject,  must  have 
well  weighed  its  hazards,  and  that  they 
cannot  therefore  but  be  the  safe  guides  in  a 
venture  on  which  all  that  they  hold  most 
dear  in  the  world  is  embarked.  Those 
who  reason  thus,  know  little  of  the  effects 
of  any  violent  party  excitement  on  the  hu- 
man mind,  how  it  can  sometimes  obscure 
judgment,  and  even  pervert  principle. 
We  should  bear  in  recollection,  that  this 
is  not  a  mere  conflict  of  doctrines— it  is 
a.  struggle  for  power.  And  when  we  see 
one  man,  born  to  ten  thousand  a-year, 
setting  his  last  acre  on  a  cast  of  the  dice, 
and  another  man  of  sane  mind  consent- 
ing to  beggar  himself  and  his  posterity 
for  ever,  rather  than  yield  an  inch  of 
ground  in  a  contested  election,  it  requires 
surely  no  extraordinary  stretch  of  the 
imagination  to  conceive,  that,  in  the  ar- 
dour of  a  pursuit  which,  more  perhaps 
than  any  other,  calls  into  activity  all  the 
stronger  passions  of  our  nature,— vanity, 
avarice,  ambition,— that,  so  stimulated, 
individuals  should  be  found  to  forget 
sometimes  every  social  duty,  and  to  throw 
not  self  only,  but  wife,  children,  birth- 
right,  country — all  into  the  game !" 

There  is  no  novelty  in  these  very 
excellent  remarks,  any  more  than 
there  is  in,  ours,  equally  excellent,  now 


and  heretofore;  their  sole  merit  on 
this  occasion  consists  in  their  shew- 
ing the  Friendly  Adviser  to  be  ar.  ass. 
But  we  have  shewn  him  to  be  an  ass, 
and  something  more  and  worse — and 
"  proof  thereof "  is  in  every  page  of 
the  Paltry's  pamphlet.  Thus.  He  has 
been  shewing — insolently  and  insult- 
ingly— for  a  spaniel  sometimes  snarls 
— that  the  English  nobility  having,  for 
the  most  part,  an  origin  as  plebeian  as 
the  people,  are  on  that  account  pro- 
digious favourites  with  the  people, 
and  the  more  so  because  there  is  not 
in  England  as  there  used  to  be  in 
France  before  the  Revolution,  any 
feudal  intrenchment  of  separate  pri- 
vileges and  separate  interests,  which 
divided  the  higher  orders  in  that 
unfortunate  country  from  the  great 
body  of  the  people.  In  short— it  is 
with  us  here  all  right — and  the  feel- 
ing between  the  nobility  and  the  peo- 
ple "  is  of  a  friendly  kind,  and  one 
that  is  fostered  by  the  communica- 
tion of  mutual  benefits."  But  hear 
the  Paltry.  "  There  is  but  one  thing 
which  would  sever  this  union  ;  arid 
that  would  be,  if  the  House  of  Lords 
were  obstinately  to  oppose  on  any  one 
great  question,  the  deliberate  wishes 
of  the  rest  of  the  nation."  So  the  Pal- 
try thinks  that  a  union  between  the 
people  and  the  Peerage,  cemented 
and  ratified  by  the  deepest  convictions 
in  the  minds  of  both  parties  of  mu- 
tual good-will  and  common  interests, 
would  be  dissolved  by  the  people,  on 
the  very  first  occasion  on  Avhich  the 
Peers  opposed  their  wishes — "  upon 
any  one  great  question."  This  does 
not  look  like  union  either  very  firm, 
or  very  cordial,  or  very  rational ;  but 
what  does  the  Adviser  mean  by  "de- 
liberate ?"  And  what  does  he  mean 
by  "  obstinate  ?"  And  what  does  he 
mean  by  the  "rest  of  the  nation  ?" 

The  Paltry  drivels  on  as  follows. 
"  This  would  be  to  engender  sus- 
picion against  them — to  make  the 
people  think  that  their  interests  and 
those  of  the  nobility  must  be  differ- 
ent ;  and  if  such  an  opinion  once 
gained  ground,  we  fear  the  tenure  of 
the  Lords,  as  a  branch  of  the  legisla- 
ture, would  be  but  an  insecure  one." 
The  opinion  has  gained  ground ;  and 
no  wonder ;  for  it  has  been  the  drift 
of  all  the  drivel  for  a  good  many 
years,  to  incense  all  the  lower  ranks 
against  all  the  higher;  and  a  woeful 
change  has  taken  place  in  the  dis- 


1831.] 


Observations  on  a  Pamphlet, 


position  of  "  merry  England."  The 
bluff  English  yeoman  even,  in  too 
many  places,  no  longer  regards  the 
English  gentleman  with  that  kindli- 
ness that  of  yore  used  to  warm  his 
honest  heart,  and  shine  over  his  in- 
dependent demeanour,  which  it  did 
one's  eyes  good  to  look  on,  and  made 
one's  soul  proud  of  the  land  we  live 
in,  when  such  were  the  sons  of  its 
soil,  and  such  were  the  free  love  they 
bore  its  lords.  As  for  the  march-of- 
mind  mechanics,  the  intellectualized 
artificers,  washed  and  unwashed,  the 
ten-pound  pauper  worse  surely  than 
any  paper  voters,  their  own  organs 
the  newspapers  speak  their  senti- 
ments,— and  these  sentiments  are 
just  what  you  would  have  expected 
from  their  faces,— hatred  bitter  and 
blackguard  of  all  whom  the  Friendly 
Adviser  pretends  that  he  and  they 
regard  with  affection  and  respect. 
They  are  about  as  well  convinced  as 
he  is — for  he  and  such  as  he  have 
convinced  them — "  that  the  best  in- 
terests of  this  country  are  involved 
in  their  retaining  that  power  and 
that  station  in  the  govermnento/Me 
state,  which  at  present  belongs  to 
them" — a  power  which  they  are  to 
relinquish,  on  the  first  occasion  they 
are  ordered  to  do  so — commanded  by 
the  uplifted  fists  of  the  people — un- 
washed, and  as  yet  unweaponed,  it 
is  true — but  as  audaciously  uplifted 
as  if  they  already  grasped  the  pikes 
and  muskets  with  which  the  Friend- 
ly Adviser  has  threatened  the  Lords, 
in  seventy-three  separate  and  inde- 
pendent denunciations. 

We  have  now  plucked  this  goose 
— we  have  stilled  his  gabble — and 
we  have  knocked  from  under  his 
clumsy  bottom  the  one  leg  on  which 
he  was  so  proud  of  standing — hissing 
on  all  the  loyal  lieges. 

We  turn  to  a  Bird  of  another  fea- 
ther— of  another  flight — of  another 
Bill — that  is  to  say,  with  a  beak — 
and  with  talons  that  smite — even  as 
an  eagle,  byway  of  frolic,  would  smite 
a  gander — for  the  mere  sake  of  en- 
joying that  indescribable  union  of 
quack,  gabble,  gobble,  bubble-and- 
squeak  outcry  of  lamentation,  repen- 
tance, expostulation,  and  palinode, 
forming  one  supernatural  and  su- 
peranserine  hullaballoo,  with  which 
an  animal  of  the  above  species  assails 
the  skies,  when  all  on  a  sudden  he 
feels  assurance  within  the  inmost 

VOL.  XXX,  NO.  CLXXXIV. 


345 

recesses  of  his  stomach  that  he  is 
about  to  be  put  to  death  for  the  be- 
nefit of  clergy,  or  of  some  Peer,  per- 
haps of  high-sounding  title  and  great 
estate. 

The  Observer  is  a  man  of  great 
talents,  and  he  is  an  admirable  wri- 
ter. Many  a  goose  must  have  died 
on  his  account — besides  all  those 
whom  he  himself  has  slain— besides 
all  those  whom  he  may  have  eaten 
with  sage-stuffing  and  apple-sauce— 
without  which  indeed  your  goose  is 
wersh — even  he  of  stubble,  who  is 
killed  at  Christmas.  For  he  who 
holds  the  pen  of  such  a  rough  and 
ready  writer,  must  have  used  many 
and  many  a  gross  of  quills.  But 
while  there  is  death  in  his  satire — 
(ours  is  but  playful) — there  is  life 
in  his  "  friendly  advice,"  and  thete 
is  wisdom  in  his  warnings — warn- 
ings of  evil,  accompanied  with  mea- 
sures to  ward  that  evil  off,  or  stifle 
and  strangle  it  as  it  struggles  into 
birth.  He  neither  cringes  nor  ca- 
joles— fawns  nor  insults — but  speaks 
like  a  man  addressing  men — be  they 
the  Peerage  or  the  People.  The  cha- 
racter of  obstinacy  as  little  belongs 
to  his  opinions .  as  that  of  delibera- 
tion belongs  to  those  of  the  million. 

He  acknowledges  that  it  may  be 
difficult  to  eradicate  from  the  minds 
of  those  classes,  of  whose  delibera- 
tive habits  the  Adviser  thinks  so 
highly,  the  various  popular  errors  at 
once  so  level  to  their  understand- 
ings, and  so  seductive  to  their  ego- 
tism. But  he  holds  it  is  in  the  na- 
ture of  man,  that  all  paroxysms  of 
irrational  and  gregarious  excitement, 
have  their  ebbs  as  well  as  their 
floods  ;  and  that  there  are  arguments 
springing  continually  out  of  the 
course  of  events,  which  may  not  be 
addressed  in  vain  even  to  minds  the 
most  obtuse  to  the  impressions  of 
doctrinal  instruction. 

"  The  truth  is,  that  this  Reform  ques- 
tion is  pressing,  at  the  present  moment, 
like  an  incubus,  on  the  industry  and  in- 
ternal commerce  of  the  country.  All 
great  private  undertakings  are  suspended. 
The  opulent  of  every  class,  (but  those 
more  especially  who  derive  their  incomes 
from  the  funds,  from  the  clerical  or  legal 
professions,  or  from  any  department  of 
the  public  service,)  oppressed  with  a 
growing  sense  of  the  insecurity  of  their. 
resources,  are  limiting  their  expenditure 
very  generally  to  articles  of  urgent  neces- 


Friendly  Advice  to  the  Lords— 


346 

sity;— and  that  instinctive  propensity  to 
hoard  the  precious  metals,  the  sure  fore- 
runner of  great  national  convulsions,  is 
already  beginning  to  operate  on  prices,  as 
well  in  this  country  as  over  the  conti- 
nent. Tradesmen  and  shopkeepers  of 
all  classes  and  degrees  throughout  the 
country,  (even  those  of  the  metropolis 
are  no  exception,  notwithstanding  the 
advantage  they  have  derived  from  the 
prolonged  season  and  the  uninterrupted 
succession  of  court  gaieties,)  are  already 
suffering  severely  from  this  foretaste  of 
revolution ;— they  begin  to  perceive,  that 
their  own  prosperity  is  more  intimately 
connected  with  that  of  their  customers 
than  it  had  before  occurred  to  them  to 
imagine,  and  are  looking  to  the  future 
with  forebodings  somewhat  different 
from  those  which  filled  their  minds  two  or 
three  months  ago, — when  they  supposed, 
that  dividends  might  continue  to  be  paid, 
while  all  taxes  should  be  abolished,— 
and  that  the  price  of  every  article  of  life 
might  be  reduced  one-half,  with  a  special 
reservation  only  in  favour  of  the  particu- 
lar commodity  in  which  the  individual 
himself  might  chance  to  deal!  But  for 
the  brisk  export  trade,  which  has  kept 
our  great  manufacturing  establishments 
in  activity,  this  moral  paralysis  would 
have  been  still  more  universal  and  con- 
tagious ;  nor  would  any  grade  of  society 
have  escaped  its  warning  influence. 

"  In  a  community,  however,  of  which 
all  the  interests  are  so  nicely  and  various- 
ly blended,  the  feelings  which  have  once 
attained  a  certain  ascendency  among  any 
given  class  of  the  population,  are  sure, 
erelong,  to  diffuse  themselves  by  sympa- 
thy to  those  who  come  next  in  contact 
with  them.  We  believe  that,  even  among 
the  operatives,  the  yeomanry,  the  jour- 
neymen  of  the  different  trades,  and  other 
individuals  whom  the  warning  may  scarce- 
ly  have  yet  reached  in  a  practical  or  po- 
tential shape,  there  are  those  who  already 
begin  to  doubt,  whether  the  abolition  of 
close  boroughs  is  to  bring  them  so  many 
blessings  as  they  had  been  taught  to  ex- 
pect. If  their  opinions  in  favour  of  Re- 
form have  not  yet  undergone  any  exten- 
sive change,  their  desire  for  it  is  at  least 
becoming  daily  less  ardent.  And  in  this 
metropolis,  more  particularly,  the  apathy 
with  which  the  public  are  just  now  await- 
ing the  promulgation  of  the  new  Bill  is 
too  marked  to  escape  observation." 

The  "  Friendly  Adviser,"  with  a 
tremulous  sob,  arid  a  trembling  paw, 
sighed  and  scribbled  upon  the  Peers 
to  take  warning  from  events — to  re- 
member that  what  happened  once 
may  happen  again— that  the  House 


[Aug. 


of  Peers  may  be  declared  "  useless 
and  dangerous" — their  hereditary 
titles  marked  for  proscription — the 
doom  of  death  denounced  against 
"  their  Order."  "  If,"  says  the  Ob- 
server—  in  eloquent  language,  de- 
lightfully contrasting  with  the  most 
elaborate  and  ineffectual  throes  of  the 
costive  and  hide-bound  Adviser — 
"  if  such  times  are  to  be  our  fate,  we 
shall  owe  them  not  to  men's  courage, 
but  to  their  cowardice — not  to  the 
overmuch  zeal  and  devotion  of  indi- 
viduals, in  the  discharge  of  their 
duty,  but  their  proneness  to  betray 
it.  Alas  !  for  the  aristocracy  of  this 
country,  when  they  shall  be  reduced 
to  traffic  for  the  prolongation  of  a 
precarious  existence,  by  the  viola- 
tion of  their  oaths  and  the  abandon- 
ment of  their  functions.  Brief  and 
miserable  indeed  will  then  be  the 
remainder  of  their  lease !  If  the  Peers 
desire  to  make  good  all  the  worst 
assertions  of  their  enemies — if  they 
desire  to  stand  self-convicted  before 
mankind  as  drones  and  incumbrances 
in  the  scheme  of  society — if  they 
would  furnish  their  future  assailants 
with  arguments  unanswerable  for  the 
suppression  of  their  order — they  have 
only  to  record  their  utter  inutility  as 
a  conservative  body — to  prove  their 
incapacity  for  the  place  assigned  to 
them  in  the  constitution,  as  barriers 
against  popular  encroachment,  by  de- 
sertingtheirpostsatthe  very  moment 
when  on  their  firmness  and  energy 
depends  the  common  salvation."  His 
Majesty's  Ministers  are  now  all  as 
mum  as  mice,  which  is  not  surprising, 
seeing  that  most  of  them  are  rats. 
They  will  not  utter  even  one  small 
insignificant  squeak,  but  keep  look- 
ing with  little  dim  bleared  eyes  out 
of  their  holes,  munching  away  at 
their  cheese-parings — but  not  always 
in  such  safety  as  they -imagine — for 
Mr  Croker  out-Herods  Herod  in  his 
"  Murder  of  the  Innocents."  Why, 
really,  the  Lord  Advocate's  illustra- 
tion of  the  poor  Babes  in  the  Wood  was 
not  happy ;  nor  is  there  any  danger 
that  the  impossible  propagation  he 
deprecates  will  ever  be  attempted  by 
the  people  of  this  country,  fond  as 
they  are  of  the  Bill,  though  far  from 
amorous  of  some  of  its  amendments. 
Another  Frankenstein  will  never  ap- 
pal us,  in  the  shape  of  one  great  big 
blockhead  made  up  of  a  number  of 
small  babies.  No  political  Mrs  Shelley 


1831.1 

will  ever  produce  such  a  miscella- 
neous abortion.  As  well  make  one 
schoolmaster  out  of  fifty  scholars,and 
then  set  him  to  work  at  his  own  bum- 
brushing,  by  way  of  reforming  and 
strengthening  his  constitution.  As 
well  out  of  fifty  rats,  each  as  clumsy 
as  a  Calcraft,  make  one  cat  with  claws 
as  cutting  as  a  Croker.  But  a  truce 
to  such  trifling — and  let  us  conclude 
with  one  assertion,  and  with  one  ex- 
tract. The  peers  will  reject  the  Bill, 
because — 

"  An  idea — a  most  erroneous  idea — is 
entertained  by  some,  that,  although  on  all 
ordinary  questions  which  are  brought  be- 
fore them,  it  may  be  the  duty  of  the 
Lords  to  exercise  an  independent  judg- 
ment, there  is  yet  an  exception  to  that 
rule  in  a  case  like  this,  where  the  mea- 
sure relates  exclusively  to  the  composi- 
tion of  another  branch  of  the  legislature, 
and  by  that  branch  has  been  adopted 
and  recommended. — Why,  certainly,  if 
the  matter  were  one  which  concerned 
only  the  six  hundred  and  fifty-eight  indi- 
viduals who  sit  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons,— if  it  were  a  mere  arrangement 
for  their  personal  convenience,  and  which 
would  in  no  degree  affect  the  welfare  of 
the  rest  of  the  community,  there  might 
be  something  in  this  distinction.  But  it 
will  scarcely  be  contended,  thatthe  change 
contemplated  to  be  produced  by  the  Re- 
form Bill  would  not  extend  far  beyond 
the  walls  of  the  House  of  Commons, — 
that  it  is  not  calculated,  vitally  and  in  an 
unprecedented  degree,  to  affect  the  inte- 
rests and  even  to  disturb  the  structure 
of  society, — and  that  it  concerns  not  the 
Peers  themselves,  first,  in  their  indivi- 
dual capacities  as  members  of  that  so- 
ciety, and  secondly,  as  an  hereditary 
body,  having  certain  functions  to  per- 
form in  the  state,  and  enjoying  certain 
privileges,  honours,  and  powers,  to  which 
the  enactments  of  the  Bill  indeed  may 
have  no  direct  application,  but  which  are 
not  the  less  sure  to  feel  certain  ultimate 
consequences  from  their  practical  opera- 
tion. And  if  it  be,  on  the  one  hand,  em- 
phatically and  incontestably  the  office  of 
the  Peers,  to  guard  the  institutions  of  the 
country  against  any  sudden  bursts  of  po- 
pular violence,  that  might  prove  too 
overpowering  for  the  other  House,  con- 
nected as  that  House  is  with. the  people, 
and  open  to  impression  from  their  man- 
dates,— and  on  the  other  hand,  if  they 
(the  Peerage)  are  bound  by  the  most  sa- 
cred of  all  obligations,  to  maintain  entire 
those  powers  and  immunities,  which,  as  a 
body,  they  hold  in  trust  for  the  public 
good,— -we  really  cannot  understand  how 


Observations  on  a  Pamphlet,  t$c.  847 

the  obligation  should  be  either  more  or 
less  cogent,  because  the  blow,  which  is 
to  crush  the  national  institutions  or  shake 
the  foundations  of  the  aristocracy,  may 
have  been  more  immediately  aimed  at 
the  fabric  of  the  House  of  Commons. 

"  Let  it  not  be  supposed,  that  we  are 
here  contending  for  the  possibility  of  the 
House  of  Peers  maintaining  a  successful 
contest  for  ever,   on  this  or   any  other 
given  question,  against  the  other   two 
estates  of  the  realm.    Our  argument  goes 
to  no  such  inference.     The  case,  we  ap- 
prehend, stands  thus.— Either  the  pre- 
vailing desire  for  Parliamentary  Reform, 
(in  so  far  as  the  desire  does  prevail,)  is 
the  result  of  a  deliberate  and  rooted  opi- 
nion, formed  after  mature  reflection,  and 
strongly  cherished  by  the  great  body  of 
the  educated  and  intelligent  classes  of  so- 
ciety ;  or  it  is  not.     If  it  be  not,  few  will 
be  found,  we  presume,  to  contend,  that 
the  Lords  would  be  justified  in  passing 
the  Bill,  merely  on  account  of  the  tem- 
porary support  which  it  receives  from  the 
King  and   Commons; — neither,  in  that 
case,  can  there  be  the  least  ground  to  ap- 
prehend, that  such  support  will  be  more 
than  temporary.     If,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  desire  in  question  be  the  offspring  of 
a  mature  and  sound  conviction,  in  the 
minds  of  those  who  alone  are  competent 
to  form  any  judgment  on  the  subject,  and 
if  that  conviction  shall  continue  unshaken, 
— it  follows  as  a  matter  of  moral  neces- 
sity, that  a  comparatively  small  body  like 
the  Lords  must  eventually  yield  to  the 
general  demand.    And  they  will  so  yield, 
on  conviction,  not  on  compulsion.     The 
very  case  supposed  implies  that  the  Re- 
formers  have  reason  on  their  side;  and 
the  Lords  are  not,  more  than  other  men, 
constituted  by  nature  to  resist  long  the 
sustained    pressure    of    public    opinion 
founded  on  reason.     Our  observation,  of 
course,  has  reference  to  the  opinion  only 
of  the  instructed  and  enlightened  public  ; 
—for,  as  we  have  said,  in  every  gradation 
of  the  social  state,  from  the  most  despo- 
tic monarchy  to  the  wildest  republic,  it 
is  an  unalterable  law,  that,  either  by  di- 
rect or  indirect  means,  the  few  govern 
the  many. 

"  Until,  however,  by  such  legitimate  pro- 
cess as  we  have  described,  their  consci- 
ences be  satisfied  of  the  justice  and  expe- 
diency of  passing  a  measure  of  the  nature 
of  this  Bill,  we  hold  it  to  be  the  incon- 
testable duty  of  the  Lords,  to  give  it  their 
determined  resistance.  And  what  is  the 
duty  of  all,  is  necessarily  the  duty  of  each. 
Let  it  not  be  imagined,  that,  in  a  crisis 
like  this,  it  is  possible  for  any  one  to  es- 
cape, through  the  mere  participation  of 
others,  from  any  portion  of  that  higli  moral 


Observations  on  a  PampJilet, 


348 

responsibility  wbich,  to  the  extent  of  his 
part,  attaches  equally  to  every  individual 
mixing  in  the  drama.  It  becomes  the 
man,  who  would  really  be  thought  a  loyal 
and  honest  citizen,  to  act  in  such  circum- 
stances, as  if  on  him  alone  rested  the 
fate  of  the  country ;  and  to  remember  al- 
ways, that  whatever  may  be  lost  through 
his  negligence  or  tergiversation,  however 
many  there  may  be  to  partake  the  shame, 
will  assuredly  be  laid  to  his  account. 

"If  the  discussion  be  so  prolonged  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  as  to  allow  time  for 
the  full  reaction  of  opinion,  before  the 
Bill  reaches  the  Peers,  we  have  little  or 
no  apprehension,  that  the  free  delibera- 
tions of  their  Lordships  will  have  any  very 
strong  spirit  of  resistance  to  encounter 
from  the  part  of  the  country.  But,  even 
if  it  should  be  otherwise, — if  on  the  Lords 
the  task  should  fall — the  arduous  but  sa- 
cred task — of  having  to  stem  the  current 
of  popular  frenzy, — we  cannot  allow  our- 
selves for  an  instant  to  suspect, — base 
and  many  though  the  examples  have  been 
of  truckling  timidity  and  time-serving 
treachery,  which  in  the  last  six  months  it 
has  been  our  pain  to  witness, — we  do  not 
suspect,  but  that  there  is  enough  of  man- 
hood yet  left  in  the  noble  blood  of  Eng- 
land, to  ensure  the  faithful  end  fearless 
performance  of  that  office." 

That  is  the  proper  spirit  in  which 
a  gentleman  writes  about  the  Peers. 
No  railing — 'no  reviling — no  fawn- 
ing—  no  cringing;  but,  being  Bri- 
tish-born, let  us  speak  to  high  and 
low  alike,  like  the  sons  of  freemen. 
Let  our  hands  and  our  heads  be 
above  board— and  no  kicking  below 
the  table.  It  is  vulgar.  Let  all  who 
think  it  is  the  duty  of  the  Peers  to 
pass  the  Bill,  say  so,  and  give  their 
reasons ;  and  if  they  say  so  at  once 
courteously  and  rationally,  they  will 
be  listened  to ;  but  none  but  slaves 
will  talk  of  fear,  and  none  but  knaves 
will  counsel  Peer  or  peasant,  under 


[Aug. 


any  circumstances,  to  violate  his  con- 
science.    That  any  Peer  can  be  con- 
scientiously   opposed    to   the   Bill, 
seems  almost  beyond  the  belief  of 
the  Friendly  Adviser;  and  therefore 
he  treats  all  opposition  as  mere  idi- 
otcy,  of  which  the  quack,  however, 
offers  no  cure.     The  truth  is,  that 
the  Peers  are  now  placed  in  a  situ- 
ation which   demands  magnanimity 
of  soul ;  and  by  exerting  it  they  will 
save    the    constitution.      Listen    to 
"  Friendly  Advisers"  they  never  will 
— even  for  a  moment.     "  A  truce — 
a  short  and  hollow  truce — they  may 
purchase,    perhaps,  with  disgrace ; 
but  they  will  part,  irretrievably,  with 
that  surer  stay  which  they  possess  in 
the  estimation  of  honourable  men. 
The  very  caitiffs  at  whose  feet  they 
have  crouched,  will  be  the  first  to 
spurn  them ! !"  But  there  will  be  no 
such  spurning ;  for  we  are  happy  to 
know  that  such  threatening  and  bul- 
lying have  inspired,  all  over  the  re- 
spectable orders  of  society,  one  feel- 
ing of  genuine  disgust.     Indeed,  in 
Britain,  a  blackguard  must  not  bully 
even  a  beggar.     But  bullying  noble- 
men and  gentlemen,  meets  with  in- 
stant chastisement,  mental  or  manual 
as  it  may  chance — fist  and  foot  being 
the  most  appropriate  and  prompt  re- 
ply to  all  "  Friendly  Advisers,"  who 
come  swaggering  up  to  you  to  beg, 
borrow,  swindle,  steal,  or  rob,  on  the 
King's  highway.     It  is  not  easy  to 
stomach  an  insolent  appeal  to  one's 
cowardice — especially  when  prece- 
ded by  an  assertion  that  you  have  no 
conscience.   But  we  are  getting  tau- 
tological, AVC  find,  in  the  expression 
of  our  contempt  for  these  cullies — 
and  therefore  perhaps  you  will  par- 
don us  for  embodying  it  in  a  new 
form — in   verse  —  in   the   following 
song. 


RATIONAL  FEAR  J 

OR  "  FRIENDLY  ADVICE  TO  THE  LORDS." 

"  Tlic  safety  of  rational  fear." — BROUGHAM  and  JIZFTRI  v,  passim. 

1. 

YE  nobles  and  prelates,  the  pride  of  our  land, 
Come  learn  to  obey,  when  you  dare  not  command ; 
Subscribe  your  own  sentence — submit  to  your  fate, 
And  give  up  the  ghost  without  farther  debate. 
For  your  Schoolmaster  tells  you— that  brave  pamphleteer, 
That  you  now  must  be  counsell'd  by— Rational  FEAR  ! 


Rational  Fear.  349 

'2. 

And  surely  when  danger  is  gathering  around, 
And  the  spirit  of  evil  seems  fairly  unbound — 
When  the  hand  and  the  heart  of  "  all  good  men  and  true," 
Should  be  set  'gainst  the  schemes  of  the  Radical  Crew, 
Nothing  less  should  possess  the  proud  soul  of  a  Peer, 
Than  Brougham's  old  familiar — Rational  Fear  ! 

•;.•»  •   '   i  .<•<»• 

3. 

When  by  "  Friendly  Advisers"  you're  ask'd  to  resign 
The  honours  of  many  a  time-honour' d  line; 
When  your  rights  are  invaded,  to  stand  tamely  by, — 
And,  in  short,  to  consent  just  "  to  lie  down  and  die, — 
You  doubtless  must  lend  a  considerate  ear 
To  the  Schoolmaster's  argument — Rational  Fear ! 

.l..".'-«l>; 

4. 

And  if  such  Advisers  our  King  should  persuade 
That  Peers  for  their  purpose  are  easily  made, 
The  high  blood  of  England  might  spurn  the  disgrace 
Of  the  mushroom-like  fungus,  and  time-serving  race- 
But  the  blood  of  a  Clifford,  a  Howard,  De  Vere, 
May  be  cooled  down  to  reason  by — Rational  Fear ! 

5. 

Time  was — or  at  least  so  our  Chronicles  tell — 
When  COURAGE  was  found  just  to  answer  as  well ; 
But  things  are  now  alter'd — and  all  our  discourse 
Now  turns  on  the  virtues  of  physical  force  ; 
And  where  is  the  recusant,  wrongheaded  Peer, 
Who  seeks  not  the  safety  of — Rational  Fear  ? 

,;    .»; ••»  ••./•'  ••.,;,>•(</  '.f<f    -I  »>:,!! 

6-  •  //   ir,!W'i!ln*r.i  i. 

There's  ELDON,  who's  weather'd  full  many  a  storm 
As  threatening  as  this  of  our  threaten'd  Reform, 
And  WELLINGTON,  who,  as  our  story-books  say, 
Has  witness'd  some  sharpish  affairs  in  his  day — 
Even  they  must  now  learn  from  our  great  pamphleteer 
To  fly  to  the  refuge  of — Rational  Fear ! 

•j  • /    1 1     .-I'.ir.t  -jilt 

7. 

There's  Mansfield,  and  Wortley,  and  Winchelsea,  too, 
Who  so  oft  have  been  tried,  and  so  long  been  found  true  ; 
They  once  were  the  guardians  of  Church  and  of  State, 
But  a  duty  like  this  is  now  long  out  of  date — 
For  who  thinks  of  duty  when  danger  is  near, 
Who  has  learnt  the  new  doctrine  of— Rational  Fear  ? 

8. 

Then,  brave  Peers  of  England!  come  seal  your  own  doom 
In  the  fashion  prescribed  by  your  schoolmaster  Brougham, 
In  the  honour  and  safety  you  all  must  agree 
Of  escaping  from  danger,  by  felo-de-se — 
Then  refuse  not  the  Friendly  Advice  of  a  Peer, 
Who  so  well  knows  the  virtues  of— Rational  Fear ! 


350 


Greek  Drama.    No.  I. 


[Aug. 


GREEK  DRAMA. 

No.  I. 

THE  AGAMEMNON  OF  AESCHYLUS.* 


PHILOSOPHICAL  critics — from  Aris- 
totle to  North — have  often  been  plea- 
sed to  institute  enquiries  into  the 
grounds  of  the  comparative  difficul- 
ty, importance,  and  grandeur  of  the 
different  kinds  of  poetical  composi- 
tion. But,  in  our  humble  opinion, 
they  might  have  far  better  employed 
their  time  and  talents  in  elucidation 
of  the  principles  common  to  all  de- 
partments ot  the  Art  sacred  to  "  the 
Vision  and  the  Faculty  Divine." 
The  same  genius,  in  our  humble 
opinion  —  shines  in  them  all — the 
Genius  of  the  Soul.  Sometimes  we 
see  it  lustrous  in  Epic — sometimes 
in  Dramatic — sometimes  in  Lyrical 
Poetry.  Observing  some  mysterious 
law  of  heaven,  it  assumes  now  the 
shape  of  a  Homer,  or  a  Dante,  or  a 
Milton — now  of  an^Eschylus,a  Shak- 
speare,  or  a  Baillie — now  of  a  Pin- 
dar, a  Chiabrera,  or  a  Wordsworth. 
It  sleepeth  perhaps  for  a  long  time, 
but  is  never  dead;  it  effulges  by 
eras ;  the  same  spirit,  believe  us, 
but  in  different  manifestations ;  while 
"  far  off  its  coming  shone,"  clothed, 
in  divers  climes  and  ages,  in  various 
raiment — yet  ever  and  everywhere 
but  one  glorious  apparition. 

The  truth  of  this  assertion — at  first 
pei'haps  startling — is  so  clear  the 
moment  you  consider  it  calmly,  that 
it  needs  neither  proof  nor  attesta- 
tion. Two  sentences  will  shew  it  in 
the  light  of  day.  Homer  was  the 
Father  of  Epic  Poetry — because  in 
him  the  Genius  of  the  Soul,  obeying 
heavenly  instinct  and  instruction, 
chose  to  be  Epic.  But  how  drama- 
tic too,  and  how  lyric  likewise,  is 
the  blind  Melesegines !  Had  it  not 
been  his  doom  to  pour  forth  Epics — 
had  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  "  slum- 
bered yet  in  uncreated  dust" — what 
had  hindered  him  from  bequeathing 
to  his  kind  Tragedies  and  Odes  ? 
Milton  walked  in  his  blindness  up 


and  down  the  whole  of  Paradise — 
Lost  and  Regained.  But  is  Samson 
Agonistes  not  a  tragedy  ?  If  it  be  not, 
neither  will  the  Last  Day.  Is  his 
Christmas  Hymn  not  an  ode  ?  Then 
never  by  human  hand  become  ange- 
lical, shall  harp-string  be  smote  in 
heaven.  In  these  A«/S»/  you  perceive 
the  Genius  of  the  Soul,  though  essen- 
tially epic,  sometimes  changed  be- 
fore our  eyes,  the  colours  continuing 
celestial,  into  dramatic  and  lyric 
forms.  Oftener,  perhaps,  it  abides 
in  one  and  the  same  form,  in  one 
and  the  same  breast — as  in  the  South- 
ern or  the  Northern  Ariosto — where 
we  behold  it  raging  in  the  irregular 
epic.  Or  as  in  Collins,  the  pensive 
chorister — or  in  Wordsworth,  the 
high-priest  of  Nature's  joy — immor- 
tal lyrists  both — and  coeval  with  all 
future  time.  And  thus  we  designate 
the  Singers  by  the  strongest  mani- 
festation and  most  permanent  in  their 
being,  of  the  Genius  of  the  Soul — we 
class  them  accordingly — and  we  set 
them — not  order  above  order — for 
we  are  speaking  of  the  highest — but 
in  radiant  rows — in  dazzling  files — 
on  parallel  levels — within  holy  re- 
gions which  on  earth  are  heaven — 
and  these  are  the  Hierarchies. 

So  fareth  it  with  all  favoured  mor- 
tals, in  whose  breasts  abide — tempo- 
rarily— or  always — the  Genius  of  the 
Soul.  True  to  their  high-calling, 
and  dedicated  to  its  duties,  they 

"  Walk  the  impalpable  and  burning  sky ;" 

and  all  good  people  below  devoutly 
exclaim,  "  Lo !  the  Poets."  All  but 
the  many  whose  eyes  are  with  their 
feet — and  their  feet  among  the  weeds; 
all  but  the  few  who  with  evil  eyes 
1  ook  even  upon  the  stars.  The  ground- 
grovellers  know  not  of  the  existence 
of  the  luminaries  who  shine  in  the 
cerulean ;  the  heaven-haters  look  up 
and  "  curse  their  light." 


*  Family  Library — Dramatic  Series,  No.  IV.  Potter's  ^schylus.  Murray.  1831. 
— The  Agamemnon  of  JEschylus,  translated  by  John  Symmons,  A-M.  late  Student  of 
Christ  Church.  Taylor  and  Hessey.  1824. 


1831.] 


Greek  Drama.     No.  I. 


851 


But  it  has  been — is — and  ever  will 
be — with  Poetry  as  with  Religion. 
They  suffer  scathe  and  scorn  From 
heretics  and  unbelievers.  The  Pri- 
mal Creed — natural  and  revealed — 
becomes  obscured  to  the  eyes  of  the 
half  initiated,  and  they  cease  to  read 
aright  the  lines  of  light— the  letters 
of  gold — in  which  it  is  written,  by 
a  hand,  on  the  walls  of  the  house 
we  inhabit.  The  uninitiated  deny 
that  the  characters  are  there  at  all — 
for  they  have  scribbled  them  all 
over  with  their  own  worthless  or  un- 
hallowed alphabet.  To  them  the  few 
syllables  still  visible  seem  to  belong 
to  a  dead  language — all  that  is  alive  is 
but  their  own  jargon.  Just  as  if  on  the 
leaves  of  a  Bible — rain-washed  and 
weather-stained  —  some  wretched 
person  were  to  scrawl  blasphemy 
or  pollution. 

It  behoves  all  who  love  the  Beau- 
tiful, which  is  the  Immortal,  to  guard 
from  profanation,  or  oblivion,  all  holy 
relics.  Such  are  words — the  words 
of  the  wise — and  beyond  and  above 
all  others  in  power  and  glory — of  the 
Great  Poets.  They  must  be  guard- 
ed in  sanctuaries — when  no  longer 
breathed  from  living  lips  in  intercom- 
munion of  spirit  with  spirit  enshrined 
in  mortal  mould.  Dead  languages  in 
one  sense  they  are — for  dead  are  all 
— or  worse  than  dead,  of  whom  they 
were,  or  are,  the  native  speech.  But 
living  languages  in  another  sense  are 
they — for  from  the  silent  page  they 
still  breathe  inspiration.  Spoken  are 
they  no  more  in  their  power  and  pu- 
rity— or  spoken  not,  perhaps,  at  all, 
any  more  than  the  Sanscrit,  which 
they  say  never  was  spoken ;  but 
what  music  begins  to  play  as  soon 
as  we  open  the  leaves  of  the  book ! 

"  And  now  'tis  like  all  instruments — 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute  ; 
And  now  'tis  like  an  angel's  song, 
That  bids  the  heavens  be  mute." 

Is  it  not  so  with  the  relics  of  Gre- 
cian Poetry  ?  Is  Homer  dead  ?  No 
more  dead  than  that  star — 

"  The  star  of  Jove  so  beautiful  and  large." 

They  who  can  read  Greek,  see  him 
as  he  is  in  the  sky — they  who  can- 
not, see  him  in  reflection,  as  if  it  were 
in  a  lake  or  the  sea.  Or  say  rather, 
in  the ' "  pure  well  of  English  unde- 
filed" — of  Chapman,  or  Pope,  or 
Cowper,  or  Sotheby.  He  has  been 


translated/ro/n  the  skies — and  some- 
times we  scarcely  know  whether  we 
be  gazing  on  the  orb  or  its  image. 

Are  jEschylus,  and  Sophocles,  and 
Euripides  dead  ?  No;  the  Wondrous 
Three  are  still  in  constellation. 
Bright  are  they  as  when  first  they 
shone,  thousands  of  years  ago,  in  the 
heavenly  sky.  But  which  are  they  ? 
In  what  quarter  of  the  region  hang 
their  golden  lamps  ?  Yonder.  You 
see  the  glorious  gems — enclosing  as 
in  a  triangle  a  deep-blue  portion  of 
stainless  ether.  The  apex-star  is 
^schylus — to  the  east  is  Sophocles 
— to  the  west,  Euripides  ! 

Now  think  we  of  Milton's  praise 
of  the  "  Attic  Tragedies  of  stateliest 
and  most  regal  argument."  Now  we 
remember  and  murmur  to  ourselves 
— from  the  Paradise  Regained — 

"  Thence  what  the  lofty,  grave  Tragedians 

taught 

In  Chorus  or  Iambic,  teachers  best 
Of  moral  wisdom,  with  delight  received 
In  brief  sententious  precepts,  while  they 

teach 
Of  fate,  and  chance,  and  change  in  human 

life, 

High  actions  and  high  passions  best  descri- 
bing I" 

These  last  two  lines  how  preg- 
nant !  They  involve  the  whole  Phi- 
losophy of  the  Grecian  stage.  What 
are  all  lectures  on  that  drama — if 
good  for  any  thing — in  French,  Eng- 
lish, or  German — but  discourses  on 
that  Text !  And  like  the  texts  in  the 
Bible — how  it  teaches  us  all  that  can 
be  known — without  the  useless  as- 
sistance of  Sermons  !  Schlegel,  for 
example,  is  a  good  preacher — an 
orthodox  divine.  But  what  light 
throws  he  over  the  Greek  Tragedy, 
but  scatterings  from  that  Urn  ? 

But  you  are  turning  your  eyes 
away  from  the  Three  Luminaries — 
and  now  you  are  fixing  them  upon 
One — on  a  single  Star — all  by  itself 
— so  it  seems — although  in  the  midst 
of  thousands.  It  shines  so  softly  and 
so  sweetly  in  its  transcendent  bright- 
ness, that  it  seeks  neither  to  repel 
nor  to  extinguish,  nor  to  dim  the 
lower  and  the  lesser  lights — but 
rather  to  render  them  all  lovelier 
and  happier  in  the  heavens.  Aye—- 
that is  Shakspeare. 

In  him,  far  and  high  beyond  all 
other  manifestation,  shone  in  drama- 
tic form  the  Genius  of  the  Soul*  The 


352 


Greek  Drama.     No.  I. 


earthen  O  became  before  his  eyes 
the  wooden  O — and  the  wooden  O 
became  the  earthen. 

"  All  the  world's  a  stage 
And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  play- 
ers !" 

The  Rules  of  the  Drama!  Do  not 
speak  of  them — we  beseech  you; 
for  with  him  they  were  the  Rules  of 
Life.  What  cared  he  for  Farce — or 
Comedy — or  Tragedy,  but  as  he 
saw  them  laughing,  weeping,  going 
mad,  and  dying — in  Man  ?  Broad 
grins  and  deep  groans  were  all  alike 
food  to  Shakspeare — the  fool  with 
his  cap  and  bells — the  Imperial  Eye, 
whose  "  bend  did  awe  the  world ;" 
"  the  rump-fed  ronyon,"  wife  to  the 
Master  of  the  Tiger — the  "  Gentle 
Lady  married  to  the  Moor;" — Dame 
Quickly  with  Falstaff — the  fat  buck 
— in  the  clothes  basket  beneath  a  foul 
load  of  linen — and — CORDELIA  ! 

It  is  the  fashion,  Ave  perceive, 
to  sneer  at  Samuel  Johnson.  But 
he  had  a  soul  that  saw  into  Shak- 
speare's.  How  else  could  he  have 
written  these  words  ? 

"  Each  change  of  many-colour'd  life  he 

drew — 
Exhausted  worlds — and   then    imagined 

new. 
Existence  saw  him  spurn   her  bounded 

reign  ; 
And   panting   Time  toil'd  after  him  in 

vain  !" 

Many-coloured  life !  That  is  fine. 
Change  !  Good.  Shift  its  position 
but  an  inch — and  it  shifts  its  hues — 
like  the  neck  of  a  bird.  So  did 
Shakspeare  in  all  his  pictures.  Then 
he  was  a  scientific  painter.  For  he  was 
taught  by  Apollo.  He  knew  whence 
came  the  lights  and  the  shadows.  He 
was  the  weather-wisest  of  all  mortal 
men.  On  rising  of  a  morning,  he 
had  but  to  take  one  look  at  the  Lift 
of  Life — he  saw  how  the  wind  blew 
— from  what  airt — the  main  current 
— and  by  intuition  was  given  him  the 
knowledge  of  the  character  of  all 
the  clouds.  Therefore  he  foresaw 
and  prophesied  meridian,  noon,  eve, 
and  night — and  whether  still  or 
stormy  the  "  witching  hour."  That 
— or  something  like  it — is  what 
Samuel  the  Sage  meant  by  saying  of 
Shakspeare, 
"  Each  change  of  many-colour'd  life  he 


[Aug. 

And  what  difficulty  can  there  be  in 
knowing  what  he  meant  by  saying, 

"  Exhausted  worlds,  and  then  imagined 
new?" 

There  is  no  exaggeration  in  the  ex- 
pression, "  exhausted  worlds."  It 
is  a  noble  hyperbole.  He  did  not 
exhaust  them,  as  a  chemist  exhausts 
air  below  a  glass,  leaving  there  per- 
haps a  mouse  to  die,  because  it  can 
no  longer  expire.  Neither  did  he  ex- 
haust them  as  you  exhaust  an  orange 
by  sucking  it — not  perhaps  in  the 
most  elegant  style  supposable — and 
then  throwing  the  peel  to  a  school- 
boy, who,  being  fond  of  fruit,  despi- 
seth  not  the  dessert.  But  he  exhaust- 
ed worlds — as  you  exhaust  the  face 
of  the  maiden  you  love — by  drink- 
ing all  its  beauty — a  drink  divine — 
till  you  are  transported  out  of  your- 
self, as  by  the  inspiration  of  the  Gas  of 
Paradise.  The  face  continues  to  over- 
flow with  beauty;  but  you  have  put 
it  into  poetry,  and  should  any  other 
bard  attempt  to  do  so  after  you,  he 
finds  that  you  have  exhausted  the 
subject — that  brow  of  Egypt  is  still 
bright  as  ever — but  he  must  seek 
for  another  Cleopatra.  Every  soul 
of  passion  and  genius  thus  exhausts 
worlds — thereby  making  them  his 
own ;  but  Shakspeare  reduced  more 
worlds  than  any  other  man  that  ever 
breathed  to  a  state  of  exhaustion — 
and  that  is  all — and  enough  too — 
that  Sam  of  Lichfield  meant  to  say 
of  Will  of  Stratford.  But  unfortu- 
nately for  most  men,  after  they  have 
exhausted  worlds,  they  cannot  ima- 
gine new;  they  are  under  the  ne- 
cessity of  allowing  them  to  recover 
from  the  state  of  exhaustion,  and  so 
to  live  on  upon  them  till  they  die. 
Shakspeare,  again,  has  no  sooner 
done  with  all  the  worlds  that  lie 
about  us,  round  our  feet  or  over  our 
heads,  in  the  atmosphere  and  on  the 
ground  of  reality,  than  he  "  ima- 
gines new,"  nor  could  any  thing  sa- 
tisfy him  but  to  exhaust  them  like- 
wise ;  so  that  had  he  not  died  at  the 
age  of  fifty-seven,  we  believe  he 
would,  there  is  but  too  much  reason 
to  fear,  have  exhausted  all  the  worlds 
lying  in  the  universe  of  Imagination 
— and  there  would  have  been  no 
more  Poetry — no  more  Poets ! 

"  Existence  saw  hjra  spurn  her  bounded 
reign." 


1831.] 

And  so  she  did.  Observe,  you  must 
lay  the  emphasis  on  the  word  bound- 
ed. Johnson  has  already  said  that 
Shakspeare  "  exhausted  worlds." 
Now,  he  speaks  of  the  style  in  which 
Shakspeare  spurn' d — not  exhausted, 
mind  you — but  spurn' d  existence. 
He  lost  all  patience  with  existence, 
because  her  reign  was  bounded. 
Bounded  by  what  ?  Why,  you  nin- 
ny, by  space !  One  kingdom  lies 
here  —  another  there  ;  two  poles 
there  are  at  the  least,  though  Parry 
never  touched  one.  The  magnetic 
poles  are  four.  Europe  is  one  con- 
tinent— Africa  a  second — Asia  a 
third — and  America  is  very  gene- 
rally supposed  to  be  a  fourth. 
Now,  all  this  is  what  Johnson  meant 
by  "  bounded  reign;"  and  this  is 
what  Shakspeare  could  not  endure 
— therefore  "  existence  saw  him 
spurn"  it — and  he  absolutely  went 
so  far  as  to  create  an  existence 
of  his  own  with  an  unbounded  reign 
— making  his  Bohemia  a  maritime 
kingdom,  famous  for  the  multitude 
of  its  seaport  towns,  while  it  con- 
tinued all  the  time  to  be  just  as 
conspicuous  as  ever  among  inland 
communities,  pretty  well  in  towards 
the  centre  of  its  own  continent. 

"  Panting  Time  toil'd  after  him  In  vain," 

is  a  line  that  by  no  means  caricatures 
the  "lame  and  impotent  conclusions" 
of  Saturn,  when  absurdly  attempt- 
ing to  keep  up  with  Shakspeare. 
Saturn  sometimes  contrived  to  keep 
pretty  close  to  him  in  the  daytime 


Greek  Drama.    No.  I. 


353 


even  by  rail-roads.  But  in  the  Drama 
of  Fictitious  Life,  what  have  we  to 
do  with  our  bodies  ?  Nothing  but  to 
sit  upon  them — still  and  civil.  We 
are  but  the  spectators  and  the  audi- 
ence. And  what  cares  the  Mind 
about  Time  and  Place  ?  Not  one  brass 
farthing.  As  to  the  actors,  we  do  not 
expect  more  of  them  than  to  pretend 
plausibly  being  one  hour  at  Thebes, 
and  the  next  at  Athens.  'Tis  all 
smooth  sliding  and  plain  sailing  over 
land  and  sea  in  shandrydan  or  ship 
of  Imagination.  "  Here  away,  Jack — 
there  away,  John !"  Hero  and  heroine 
are  both  off  at  the  nail  as  quickly  and 
naturally  as  bits  of  wet  paper — and 
back  again  as  dry  as  whistles. 

It  would  appear,  however,  that 
though  all  mankind,  rude  and  civil- 
ized, have  recognised  this  power  of 
the  Mind  to  go  where  and  when  it 
would,  all  over  the  fields  of  space 
and  time,  in  the  seven-league  boots 
of  Fancy,  yet  that  they  have  all  al- 
ways had  some  confused  notion  that 
the  mind  could  only  exercise  that 
power  with  satisfaction  to  itself, 
when  its  eyes  were  shut;  and  that 
though  it  rejoiced  in  the  divine  right 
of  flying  in  thought,  and  making 
others  fly  in  thought  along  with  it, 
to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth 
in  the  space  of  a  couple  of  minutes, 
it  has  been  slow  to  assure  itself  that  it 
possessed  an  almost  equal  and  entire- 
ly the  same  kind  of  power  over  those 
comparatively  hulking  concerns, 
things  as  over  thoughts,  over  bodies 
as  well  as  souls,  over  the  "  very  guts 


— but  in  the  night  Shakspeare  always     in  a  man's  brain,"  as  well  as  the 


shot  so  far  a-head,  that  the  betting  in 
all  the  circles  was  all  on  one  side — 
all  givers  and  no  takers — all  against 
Time,  who,  on  many  occasions,  came 
panting  up  at  the  end  of  the  play, 
weeks  —  months  —  years  after  the 
spectators  had  left  the  ground,  and 
when  there  was  no  more  appearance 
of  a  race  than  if  it  had  been  a  Sun- 
day between  sermons  in  Scotland. 

This  may  seem  a  light  way  of 
speaking  of  the  Swan  of  Avon.  But, 
after  all  the  solemn  stuff  that  has 
been  uttered  about  the  Unities,  per- 
haps we  shall  be  excused  for  our 
philosophical  frivolities.  The  Uni- 
ties of  Time  and  Place  in  the  Drama 
of  Real  Life  we  must  observe,  whe- 
ther we  will  or  no — because  we  are 
then  obliged  to  obey  our  bodies.  We 
shall  not  be  able,  to  get  over  them 


thinking  principle.  Accordingly,  in 
all  theatres  of  which  we  ever  read, 
there  has  been  respect  shewn  to 
Time  and  Space — an  attempt  to  com- 
press Time  into  such  a  period  as 
might  be  thought  to  pass  while  the 
people  were  staring,  and  to  compress 
Space  within  that  part  of  "  bounded 
existence,"  at  the  door  of  which 
tickets  had  been  taken  and  money 
paid,  whether  Temple  or  Barn. 

Distrustful  of  her  power  of  self- 
delusion,  thus  has  always  acted  the 
Mind  with  theatrical  representations. 
Nor  can  we  either  blame  her,  or 
think  that  she  did  much  amiss.  Her 
object  was  a  good  one — to  preserve 
in  a  Fiction  of  Life  the  Unities  that 
reign  in  the  Reality — and  thus  to 
have  a  true  resemblance. 
All  dramas*  we  ever  heard  of  be< 


354 


Greek  Drama.    No.  /. 


[Aug. 


gan  thus — and  all  dramas — but  the 
English — have  stuck  to  this  scheme 
— some  closer,  and  others  more 
laxly;  but  on  no  stage  but  the  Eng- 
lish have  we  ever  heard  of  a  young 
lady  woo'd  in  the  first  act,  married 
in  the  second,  seen  enciente  in  the 
third,  brought  to  bed  in  the  fourth, 
and  in  the  Fifth  leaning  upon  the 
arm  of  her  son,  who  has  just  suc- 
ceeded, on  the  death  of  his  father, 
to  a  fine  landed  property,  and  come 
to  pay  a  visit  in  the  jointure-house 
to  his  Lady-mother,  who  looks  so 
charmingly  in  weeds,  that  no  doubt 
she  will  get  another  husband  in  the 
Afterpiece. 

With  respect,  again,  to  Unity  of 
Action — that  seemeth  to  be  a  higher 
and  a  profounder  Thought.  The 
soul  seeks  it  in  all  Fiction  and  in  all 
Truth.  But  it  often  knows  not  when 
it  has  got  it,  and  when  it  has  not  got 
it — in  either;  and  when  it  does  know, 
its  knowledge  comes  by  feeling,  and 
the  feeling  is  the  sole]  assurance  of 
the  Unity.  It  needs  little  reflection 
to  see,  that  the  preservation  of  the 
Unities  of  Time  and  Place  may  de- 
stroy or  prevent  the  Unity  of  Action. 
But  it  would  seem,  that  generally)they 
are  an  assistance,  in  skilful  hands'; 
and  that  extreme  license  and  lati- 
tude, or  rather  the  allowed  disregard 
or  violation  of  the  Unities  of  Time 
and  Place,  while  often  a  great  help 
to  genius  in  its  endeavour  to  attain 
Unity  of  Action,  furnish  strong  temp- 
tation, and  do  of  themselves  almost 
necessarily  lead  to  the  destruction 
of  that  Unity  in  dramatists  of  inte- 
rior endowment.  Being  at  liberty 
to  do  as  they  will  with  place  and 
time,  they  submit  reluctantly  to  the 
restrictions  of  severe  science  on  the 
other — and  thus  are  dramas  con- 
ceived and  executed,  which  are  but 
a  series  of  fallings-out  in  Time  and 
Place,  not  Ones — Wholes — Cycles 
— but  Parts,  Fragments,  and  Fictions. 
And  this  is  bad. 

Now,  we  cannot  but  come  to  this 
conclusion  at  last— that  the  law  of 
the  Unities  is  death  to  weak  drama- 
tists. Claims  such  as  they  impose, 
strong  genius  alone  can  bear.  In- 
ferior powers  "  drag  at  each  remove 
a  lengthen'd  chain,"  till  they  get 
lame,  halt,  and  at  last  sink  down  as 
if  they  were  dead.  They  give  up 
the  ghost— when  they  find  how  diffi- 
cult it  is  to  introduce  him  — that 


place  and  time  make  him  a  most 
unmanageable  spectre.  But  inferior 
powers  may  contrive  to  construct  a 
very  passable  drama,  when  free  from 
all  such  fetters  and  drawbacks  on 
their  onward  movements  towards  a 
catastrophe.  "Time  and  the  hour 
run  through  the  roughest  play" — and 
the  piece  is  given  out  for  repetition 
amidst  great  applause ;  whereas, 
had  the  author  been  obliged  to  work 
upon  another  model,  it  is  questionable 
if  his  work  had  not  been  "  unani- 
mously damned  with  a  great  ma- 
jority." 

Of  this  we  are  convinced  as  of  our 
own  existence,  that  had  the  law  of  the 
three  Unities  prevailed  in  this  coun- 
try, we  should  not  have  had  such  a 
multitude  of  dramatic  compositions 
which,  while  they  display  genius, 
and  much  power  over  the  passions, 
are  so  crude,  so  imperfect,  and  so 
barbarous,  as  to  be  utterly  unworthy 
the  name  of  works  of  art.  They 
have  poetry  in  them — but  they  are 
not  poems.  They  are  tragic — but 
they  are  not  tragedies.  Sayings 
and  Doings  they  are — but  neither 
regular  nor  irregular  Dramas. 

Why,  with  all  our  admiration — 
high  and  just — of  the  elder  English 
dramatists — great  you  may  call  them 
if  you  choose — how  few  of  their 
plays  can  we  bear  to  see  acted — how 
few  of  them  can  we  read  without  a 
frequent,  or  perpetual  feeling  of 
dissatisfaction  accompanying  the 
awkwardness  of  their  plots — of  the 
evolution  of  thei  r  incidents  and  events 
— and  the  imperfect  developements 
of  their  characters !  Few  indeed. 
Shakspeare  alone  triumphs  over  our 
souls — his  tragedies  alone  fulfil  their 
destinies — his  catastrophes,  and  few 
else,  satisfy  our  entire  capacities 
of  passion.  He  alone  "  exhausts 
worlds"  of  woe — he  alone  preserves 
the  Unities  in  his  utter  forgetfulness 
of  their  existence.  For  we  see 
through  the  magic  power  of  tears ; 
and  in  that  mist  Time  stops  or  flies 
unheeded;  Space  is  expanded  or 
contracted ;  and  we  are  sensible  but 
to  our  own  mortal  miseries,  which 
have  all  their  source  and  their  termi- 
nation in  the  spiritual  kingdom — of 
which  Space  and  Time  are  not  then 
known  even  to  be  so  much  as 
accidents.  There  often  is  "  Satan's 
invisible  kingdom  displayed" — and 
there  we  sometimes  behold  the 


1831.] 

beauty  of  the  soul  almost  as  if  it 
were  fair  and  fresh  from  the  hand  of 
God. 

This  brings  us  close  upon  our 
more  immediate  subject — the  Greek 
Drama.  In  it  the  Unities  seem  to 
reign  with  sovereign  power — where- 
as they  are  subjects  all  of  a  kingly 
genius.  As  works  of  arts  and  sci- 
ence, those  tragedies  are  perfect. 
Are  they  lifeless  ?  No— instinct  with 
spirit.  Are  they  cold?  No — they 
burn  with  fire.  Are  they  stiff?  As 
Apollo  when  he  slew  the  serpent. 
Are  they  natural  ?  Aye — and  what 
is  more — likewise  preternatural — 
and  supernatural — for  the  actors  are 
men — and  demigods — and  gods — 
and  earth  is  shewn — as  it  is — in  in- 
tercommunion with  heaven. 

We  feel  assured  that  all  who  know 
those  tragedies,  will  agree  with  us  in 
thinking  them  far  nobler  works  of  the 
Genius  of  the  Soul  than  any  others 
except  Shakspeare's.  And  perhaps 
they  may  agree,  too,  with  us,  hi 
thinking,  that  the  reason  why  they 
are  so  is,  that  what  the  Greek  trage- 
dians attempted  and  performed  was 
an  achievement  fairly  within  the 
reach  of  a  high  intellect  and  imagi- 
nation, inspired  as  those  were  which 
created  the  "  Attic  tragedies  of 
stateliest  and  most  regal  argu- 
ment," by  as  many  and  as  strong 
causes  of  inspiration  as  ever  bore 
upon  man's  spiritual  being ;  where- 
as what  Shakspeare  attempted  and 
performed  seems  to  be  beyond  the 
reach — and  far  beyond  the  reach — of 
any  other  mortal  creature  that  ever 
appeared  on  this  planet  in  the  flesh. 

For  what  did  they  attempt — and 
what  did  they  perform  ? — Milton  has 
told  us— and  we  are  afraid  to  say  an- 
other word.  But  they  did  this — they 
illustrated  some  high  ancestral  story 
— or  fable — in  all  its  grand  outlines 
and  proportions  familial'  to  the 
whole  of  Greece.  They  illustrated 
it  by  poetry — and  dance  and  music. 
Heroes  and  heroines  of  the  olden 
time  restored  to  life — stood  on  a  mag- 
nificent stage  in  all  their  majesty — 
in  a  glorious  theatre — before  all  the 
illustrious  People  of  Athens.  All  that 
was  mean  and  low — and  even  in  the 
ancient  Athens  there  was  much— even 
in  the  age  of  Pericles — ceased  to  be ; 
the  solemnities  alone  were  seen 
of  the  heroic  ages  —  and  coming 
and  going  the  celestial  Sanctities. 


Greek  Drama.    No.  7. 


355 


Wound  up  to  that  highest  pitch,  the 
soul  was  still  sustained  by  the  scene 
far  above  this  common  world,  of 
which  it  yet  beheld  a  glorified  sha- 
dow ;  or  rather  the  light  which  shone 
of  old — and  which  had  "  languished, 
grown  dim,  and  died,"  on  earth,  de- 
scended again  upon  it,  and  in  all 
the  splendid  pomp  and  august  cere- 
monial of  an  imaginative  religion. 
Dresses  —  decorations — language  — 
music — all  partook  of  "  the  conse- 
cration and  the  Poet's  dream" — all 
were  august — all  congenial  with  the 
"  stateliest  and  most  regal  argument" 
—more  august  in  that  representa- 
tion in  which  Genius  reigned,  than 
ever  had  been  the  Tragedies  them- 
selves, acted  in  life  to  the  pouring 
out  of  richest  blood,  by  the  heroes 
that  fought  at  Troy,  or  by  their  sires' 
sires,  whose  dooms  darkened  or 
brightened  the  fabulous  histories  of 
most  remote  antiquity.  All  that  the 
soul  ever  imagined  was  shewn  to 
the  senses ;  and  that  mighty  Theatre 
became  a  world,  in  which  elated 
and  ennobled  Imagination  believed 
the  wonders  it  saw  to  be  very  reali- 
ties. There  shone  Agamemnon  be- 
fore his  palace-gates  at  Argos,  glo- 
rious from  the  Fall  of  Troy — there 
the  Furies  shook  their  unextinguish- 
ed  torches  and  their  snaky  locks — 
there  Minerva  and  Apollo  stood,  with 
the  light  of  heaven  on  their  heads — 
and  the  eye  of  Greece  beheld  the 
presence  of  her  tutelary  Deities. 
Such  was  the  Drama — and  it  was 
felt,  indeed,  to  be  Divine. 

The  accomplished  Editor  of  Potter, 
in  the  Family  Dramatic  Library,  has 
some  beautiful  paragraphs  on  the 
character  of  the  Greek  Drama.  And 
we  wish  we  had  left  ourselves  room 
to  quote  some  of  them;  but  we  are 
too  much  addicted  to  the  habit  of 
writing  to  leave  ourselves  oppor- 
tunities of  profiting  so  often  as  we 
might  do,  by  the  talents  of  our 
friends.  One  fine  passage,  however, 
we  must  quote. 

"  To  those  who  have  the  power  of 
reading  these  noble  productions  of 
antiquity  in  the  original  language, 
and  to  those  who  possess  the  still 
rarer  faculty  of  being  able  to  abstract 
themselves  from  modern  usages  and 
feelings,  and  of  throwing  themselves 
back  into  the  times  from  which  these 
intellectual  banquets  were  derived, 
Milton's  high  commendation  of  its 


uses  and  delights  will  seem  little,  if 
at  all,  overcharged.  Such  persons 
find  themselves  at  once  thrown  back 
upon  a  state  of  things,  for  which  mo- 
dern compositions  can  furnish  no 
equivalent.  Lofty  figures  stalk  be- 
fore their  eyes;  visions  of  heroic 
greatness  and  superhuman  dignity 
become  familiar  to  their  thoughts ; 
they  hold  converse  with  majestic 
minds,  which  the  storms  of  fate  might 
shake  but  could  not  subdue ;  and  if 
they  come  out  of  this  intercourse 
without  experiencing  those  feverish 
excitements  and  gusts  of  passion,  by 
which  the  modern  drama  at  once  de- 
lights and  enervates  the  mind,  they 
feel  in  themselves  that  calm  repose 
or  chastened  emotion  which  were 
the  legitimate  and  wiser  aims  of  the 
ancient  drama,  and  of  which  the  one 
will  be  found  the  best  relief  against 
the  cares,  as  the  other  will  be  the 
surest  preservative  against  the  pains 
of  life." 

Mr  Campbell — as  fine  and  as  true 
a  critic  as  he  is  an  original  and  ima- 
ginative poet — has  some  admirable 
observations  on  Lillo,  "  the  tragic 
poet  of  middling  and  familiar  life," 
which  bear  strongly  on  our  present 
subject.  He  has  been  speaking  of 
Lilio's  Arden  of  Fcversham,  in  which 
there  is  a  scene  of  intended  murder 
so  true  to  nature,  that  the  audience, 
it  is  said,  with  one  accord  rose  up 
and  interrupted  it.  Mr  Campbell 
admits  that  this  was  a  proof  of  the 
power  of  the  dreadful  semblance  of 
reality ;  but  what  we  \vant  is  the 
"  magic  illusion  of  poetry."  He 
continues — "  Undoubtedly  the  ge- 
nuine delineation  of  the  human  heart 
will  please  us,  from  whatever  sta- 
tion or  circumstances 'of  life  it  is  de- 
rived. In  the  simple  pathos  of  Tra- 
gedy, probably  very  little  difference 
will  be  felt,  from  the  choice  of  cha- 
racters being  pitched  above  or  be- 
low the  line  of  mediocrity  in  station. 
But  something  more  than  pathos  is 
required  in  Tragedy ;  and  the  very 
pain  that  attends  our  sympathy,  re- 
quires agreeable  and  romantic  asso- 
ciations of  the  fancy  to  be  blended 
with  its  poignancy.  Whatever  at- 
taches ideas  of  importance,  publici- 
ty, and  elevation,  to  the  objects  of 
pity,  forms  a  brightening  and  allu- 
ring medium  to  the  imagination, 
herself,  with  all  her  simpli- 


Gteek  Drama.    Wo.  I.  (Aug. 

city  and  democracy,  delighted  on  the 
stage  to 

let  gorgeous  Trngedy 


In  sceptcr'd  hall  come  sweeping  by.' 

"  Even  situations  far  depressed 
beneath  the  familiar  mediocrity  of 
life,  are  more  picturesque  and  poet- 
ical than  its  ordinary  level.  It  is 
certainly  in  the  virtues  of  the  fid- 
dling ranks  of  life,  that  the  strength 
and  comforts  of  society  chiefly  de- 
pend, in  the  same  manner  as  we 
look  for  the  harvest  not  on  cliffs  and 
precipices,  but  on  the  easy  slope 
and  the  uniform  plain.  But  the 
painter  does  not  in  general  fix  on 
level  situations  for  the  subjects  of 
his  noblest  landscapes.  There  is  an 
analogy,  I  conceive,  to  this,  in  the  mo- 
ral painting  of  Tragedy.  Disparities 
of  station  give  it  boldness  of  outline. 
The  commanding  situations  of  life 
are  its  mountain  scenery — the  re- 
gion where  its  storm  and  sunshine 
may  be  portrayed  in  their  strongest 
contrast  and  colouring." 

In  such  a  Drama,  we  hope  you 
will  agree  with  us  in  thinking,  that 
the  Unities  were  Cardinal  Virtues. 
The  scheme  was  severe  as  it  was 
stately — truth  idealized.  Therefore 
violence  must  be  done — if  possible 
— to  nothing  in  nature — else  had  art 
been  stained  with  imperfection.  As 
things  were,  so  let  them  be — only 
lifted  up  into  greater  majesty — but 
obedient  still — as  the  meanest — to 
the  sovereign  laws. 

But  remember  that  this  wonderful 
people — the  poets  of  this  wonderful 
people — which  is  the  same  thing — 
had  an  invention  by  which  they  gave 
the  Unities  a  far-extended  reign. 
We  allude  to  the  Trilogy.  Three 
plays  were  written  on  one  subject — 
each  a  perfect  whole  in  itself — but 
the  three  also  a  whole — so  that  com- 
prehensively each  play  was  an  act, 
— and  of  three  acts  consisted  the 
Triune  Drama.  Was  not  this  great  ? 
Shakspeare  has  something  like  it 
in  the  first  and  second  part  of  his 
historical  plays.  For  Shakspeare  has 
every  thing;  but  his  first  and  second 
parts  have  neither  separately  nor 
conjointly  the  power  and  glory  of 
the  Grecian  Trilogy.  They  have  not 
indeed — you  must  not  be  angry— • 
for  we  speak  the  truth. 

JSow,  whether  or  not  Trilogies 


1831.] 

were  acted  in  succession,  all  on  one 
day,  to  the  same  audience,  we  do  not 
know ;  nor  do  we  well  see  how  we 
should,  any  more  than  Augustus  W. 
Schlegel,  who  was  a  far  more  learned 
man  than  Christopher  North,  and  a 
far  more  unprincipled  and  hypocri- 
tical plagiary.  But  this  we  do  know 
— that  there  was  nothing  to  prevent 
it — and  that  if  they  were,  then  we 
lament  that  we  were  not  born  a  few 
thousand  years  ago,  that  we  might 
have  sat  out  a  Trilogy.  The  Trilogy  of 
Agamemnon,  the  Coephorse,  and  the 
Eumenides,  might  have  been  per- 
formed, we  should  think,  all  within 
the  fifteen  hours;  certainly  within 
the  twenty-four;  and  would  it  not 
have  been  easier  to  look  and  listen 
for  that  time  to  such  an  exhibition — 
opera  and  tragedy  all  in  one — dance, 
music,  and  poetry — to  say  nothing 
of  the  scenery  and  the  assemblage — 
than  to  sit  for  six  hours — no  uncom- 
mon occurrence — in  the  pit  of  Covent 
Garden  or  Drury  Lane — under  the 
infliction  of  the  most  dismal  of  all 
imaginable  trash — or  in  St  Stephen's 
Chapel — twice  that  length  of  time — 
to  trash,  dismal  far  beyond  imagina- 
tion, and  incredible  even  to  those 
who  ultimately  died  under  it  ? 

But  besides  the  audience  or  spec- 
tators— and  the  actors  and  their  stage 
— there  was  that  sublime  idealism—- 
the Chorus — the  ideal  representa- 
tive of  Human  Nature  in  its  charac- 
ter of  sympathetic  witness  —  and 
judge — we  had  almost  said — the  Sha- 
dow of  the  Man  within  the  Breast — 
the  Conscience.  "  The  Chorus,"  as 
Mr  Symmons  finely  says,  "  was  the 
original  and  substantive  part  of  the 
representation.  The  (jetting  it  up 
was  a  matter  of  state,andthe  frequent 
contention  of  the  Tribes,  who  vied 
with  each  other  in  the  exhibition 
of  their  respective  Choruses.  The 
first  persons  in  each  Tribe  were  ap- 
pointed Choragi,  and  rivalled  each 
other  in  the  splendour  and  appara- 
tus of  their  Choruses,  who  were 
chosen,  taught,  and  practised  for 
some  time  before  the  grand  Lencean 
and  Dionysian  Festivals.  It  was  a 
grand  national  exhibition  of  music 
and  dancing;  and  the  poets,  pro- 
perly speaking,  tacked  on  the  dia- 
logue to  heighten  the  pleasure,  and 
diversify  the  amusement.  From  the 
splendour  of  the  representation,  and 
the  beauty  of  the  dresses,  the  dan- 


Greek  Drama.    No.  I. 


357 


cing  and  the  music,  associated  with 
the  finest  flights  of  poetry,  the  Cho- 
rus was  probably  the  most  attractive 
part  of  the  representation  ;  though  to 
us,  stripped  of  all  its  adjuncts,  it  is 
the  least  interesting,  and  considered, 
in  a  modern  play,  as  a  useless  in- 
eumbjiance.  Rousseau,  in  his  re- 
marks on  the  opera  of  Alcestis,  has 
some  very  pertinent  remarks  both  on 
the  dramas  and  language  of  Greece ; 
contending  that  the  former  were 
operas,  and  that  the  latter  was  of  so 
musical  a  nature,  that  its  mere  pro- 
nunciation, when  in  verse,  constitu- 
ted music ;  whereas,  he  says,  in  all 
modern  languages  the  association  of 
music  with  words  is  unnatural,  and 
hardly  tolerable.  Hence  with  us  in 
operas,  where  music  prevails,  sense, 
poetry,  and  dramatic  interest  vanish ; 
very  differently  in  Greece,  where 
one  heightened  the  pleasure  of  the 
other."  But  its  true  character  will 
best  appear  when  we  come  to  the 
Tragedy  of  Agamemnon — in  which 
the  Chorus  is  perhaps  the  grandest 
in  the  Greek  Drama. 

Suppose  Tragedies  with  such  an 
aim,  and  on  such  a  model,  composed 
by  genius  of  the  highest  order,  work- 
ing under  inspiration,  and  yet  obe- 
dient to  the  severest  laws — and  see 
you  not  at  once  that  they  must  be 
most  glorious  works ! 

Turn  we  then  again,  for  a  moment, 
to  Shakspeare.  His  dramas  were 
written  for  a  mean  theatre,  and  a 
miserable  stage.  Orchestra !  Why, 
yes,  a  couple  of  fiddlers.  Chorus  V 
None — except  in  a  couple  of  in- 
stances or  so — a  prologue.  Ancestral 
tales  of  heroic  ages  ?  Sometimes — 
for  our  civil  wars  were  wars  of 
heroes.  But  all  ages — all  characters 
— all  occupations — all  ranks — were 
almost  alike  to  him ;  what  he  wanted 
were — men  and  women. 

"  Creation's  heir  !  the  world  !   the  world 
is  thine !" 

All  passions — all  emotions — all  affec- 
tions— all  sentiments — all  opinions — 
all  fears — all  hopes — all  desires — 
whatever  constitutes  the  heart,  the 
soul,  and  the  mind — were  the  sub- 
ject-matter of  Shakspeare's  plays. 
Majesty —  magnificence  —  dignity  — 
splendour  —  state — pomp — why  he 
beheld  them  all  "  in  the  light  of  com- 
mon day" — his  genius  was  "  wide 
and  general  RS  the  casing  air" — and 


358 


Greek  Drama.    No.  I. 


all  the  world  of  "  man  and  nature, 
and  of  human  life,"  swam  before 
his  eyes  as  God  made  it,  and  as 
sin  and  trouble  changed  it  from  the 
day  of  the  Fall.  Heroes  !  hide  all 
your  diminished  heads  before  — 
Hamlet  the  Dane !  Heroines  !  fade 
away  in  presence  of  Desdemona ! 
But  we  must  positively  say  not  one 
single  word  more — at  present — about 
Shakspeare — or  we  shall  never  get 
at  vEschylus.  We  shall  have  said 
enough — and  all  we  wished  to  say — 
if  we  have  succeeded — even  imper- 
fectly— in  proving  that  the  Greek 
Drama  is  in  idea — and  the  execution 
nobody  denies  is  nearly  perfect — 
great  and  glorious — but  that  the  idea 
of  the  English  Drama  is  greater  and 
more  glorions  far — only  that  Shak- 
speare alone  has  realized  it,  and  that 
in  all  other  hands  so  many  imperfec- 
tions have  clouded  it,  and  marred 
its  majesty,  that  he  being  placed  aloof 
and  "  left  alone  in  his  glory,"  all 
other  Tragedians,  though  often  Shak- 
spearean  too,  must  veil  their  faces 
though  bright,  and  stoop  their  heads 
though  anointed,  when  brought  for 
comparison  into  the  presence  of  JEs- 
chylus,  Sophocles,  and  Euripides. 
In  greatest  attempts  it  is  indeed  glo- 
rious even  to  fail,  but  not  so  glorious 
sure,  as  in  attempts  only  not  the 
greatest,  to  be  crowned  with  consum- 
mate success  and  perfect  triumph. 

Of  the  three,  jEschylus  is  the  great- 
est, for  his  genius  is  the  most  origi- 
nal, and  it  has  the  most  power.  The 
soul  of  Sophocles  possessed  in  per- 
fection the  sense  of  grace  and  beauty; 
that  of  Euripides  breathed  in  a  per- 
petual atmosphere  of  tenderness  and 
pathos;  the  whole  being  of  yEschylus 
was  embued  with  the  sublime.  So, 
speaking  generally  and  of  course 
vaguely,  may  we  along  with  all  others 
characterise  with  truth  the  respective 
genius  of  these  illustrious  poets.  But 
we  shall  speak  falsely,  if  we  mean  for 
a  moment  to  deny  to  any  one  of  the 
Three  the  possession  of  any  one  gift 
which  may  have  been  bestowed  more 
bountifully  on  one  or  other  of  his 
compeers.  For  ./Eschylus,  while  his 
thoughts  are  vast  and  stupendous, 
and  his  region  the  Sublime,  is  often 
visited  with  the  loveliest  imagery. 
"  Beauty  pitches  her  tents  before 
him;"  and  he  holds  in  his  hands  the 
golden  key  that  opens  the  door  of 
the  "  sacred  source  of  sympathetic 


[Aug. 

tears."  So  too,  though  Sophocles 
loves  to  range  through  all  the  rich- 
est realms  of  Beauty — his  images 
being  all  exquisite — (far-sought-and- 
brour/ht-from  -  the -foreign  -  climes  -  of- 
by-others'-nntouched  footsteps  ;)  and 
though  he  wantons  in  the  profusion 
df  the  flowers  of  fancy  that  some- 
times obstruct  his  path  through  the 
meads  of  asphodel,  or  among  the 
olive  groves  tilled  with  the  songs  of 
nightingales,  yet  Sophocles  is  some- 
times— not  seldom — sublime ;  and, 
perhaps,  his  sublimity  is  the  noblest 
of  all  sublimities,  for  it  seems  to  be 
but  Beauty  changing  its  character  as 
it  ascends  the  sky— even  as  one 
might  think  a  Dove  high  up  in  the 
sunshine,  and  soaring  so  loftily  that 
eye  can  no  more  discern  her  silver 
plumage — an  Eagle ;  nor  in  such 
heavenward  flight  would  the  Bird 
of  Venus  be  not  as  sublime  as 
the  Bird  of  Jove.  Euripides,  again, 
is  the  Poet  of  the  Pathetic.  But 
the  wrath  of  Medea,  and  the  mad- 
ness of  Orestes,  are  excelled  in  su- 
blimity by  no  poetry  alive ;  and 
though  he  affected,  or  let  us  say 
rather,  with  the  boldness  of  a  great 
master  (for  Euripides  was  a  Words- 
worth and  Wordsworth  is  a  Euri- 
pides), bore  with  him  into  highest 
tragedy  a  style  simpler  and  less  or- 
nate, humbler  than  had  belonged  to 
it  before,  for  which  Aristophanes 
lashed  him  without  ruffling  his  skin, 
yet  are  many  of  his  Choruses  the 
perfection  of  poetical  language,  as 
well  as  of  feeling,  fancy,  and  thought, 
and  thousands  of  his  Iambics  such 
as  thrill  the  soul  within  you — if  you 
have  such  a  thing  within  you — with 
that  shiver  and  shudder  that  shews 
the  presence — the  access  of  the  Su- 
blime. Schlegel  and  Mitchell,  follow- 
ing Aristophanes,  have  been  very 
hard  on  poor  Euripides.  But  So- 
crates and  Milton  loved  him — and 
so  doth  North — and  you  shall  see, 
before  Christmas  perhaps,  (Euri- 
pides was  sprung  from  the  people — 
Aristophanes  was  a  nobleman,)  what 
wisdom  there  may  be  in  the  sneer  at 
— "  the  son  of  the  old  herb-woman." 
Mr  Symmons,  when  speaking  of 
the  extreme  difficulty  of  doing  any 
thing  like  justice  in  translation  to 
the  Greek  tragedians,  says  beauti- 
fully, "  Those  languages  also  admit- 
ted of  a  greater  variety  of  tropes  and 
figures  and  metaphors,  (some  of 


1831.] 


Greeli  Drama.    No.  L 


859 


which,  such,  for  instance,  as  hypal- 
lage,  though  so  frequent'in  the  Greek 
tragedians,  are  yet  unknown  to  mo- 
dern languages,)  which  gave  a  spring 
and  soar  to  the  wings  of  the  poets. 
From  its  infinite  variety  and  rich- 
ness, its  plastic  nature,  and  the  capa- 
city of  its  compounds,  the  language 
accommodated  itself  to  all  varieties 
of  natural  talent,  supplying  com- 
pound epithets  for  the  dithyrambics 
and  metaphors  for  the  tragedians; 
and  equally  answered  to  the  bus- 
kined  magnificence  of  ^Escbylus,  the 
forensic  subtlety  of  Euripides,  and 
the  soft  and  voluptuous  colouring  of 
Chseremon.  The  style  of  each  great 
master  kept  aloof  from  that  or  an- 
other, and  afforded  to  the  public  an 
infinite  variety  of  amusement.  Of 
the  contrast  of  styles,  the  Frogs  of 
Aristophanes  presents  us  with  a 
most  delightful  and  entertaining  spe- 
cimen in  the  ludicrous  contention  be- 
tween ^Eschylus  and  Euripides,  be- 
tween the  high-crested  cavalier  dic- 
tion of  the  one,  and  the  slender  filings 
and  scrapings  of  the  tongue  of  the 
other.  In  short,  no  two  nearly  con- 
temporary poets  of  our  own  coun- 
try could  afford  so  striking  a  con- 
trast, which  must  be  ascribed,  not 
merely  to  the  difference  of  their  ge- 
niuses, but  also  to  the  great  scope 
and  versatility  of  their  language.  The 
most  unskilful  auditor  of  Athens 
might  safely  pronounce  from  which 
of  the  two  poets  it  proceeded." 

This  is  admirable  ;  it  is  finely  phi- 
losophical. So,  indeed,  are  all  the 
observations  and  reflections  of  this 
scholar.  He  brings  to  his  work  all 
the  accomplishments  of  a  first-rate 
translator,  and  he  knows  the  diffi- 
culties he  has  to  encounter  and  to 
overcome.  For  he  tells  us  that  times, 
customs,  religion,  and  manners,  are 
all  changed — words  which  vibrated 
on  the  ear,  and  went  straight  to  the 
heart  of  an  Athenian,  causing  a  thrill 
through  their  crowded  Theatres,  are 
known  t»  us  only  by  the  dim  light  of 
lexicons,  context,  and  glossaries  ; 
and  even  when  understood,  we  search 
in  vain  for  corresponding  expressions 
in  our  own  language.  Words  conse- 
crated to  religious  uses,  long  since 
forgotten,  have  become  untransla- 
table. An  immeasurable  distance, 
therefore,  must  there  always  be  be- 
tween an  ancient  original  (especially 
a  Tragedy  or  an  Ode)  and  a  modern 


translation;  that  is,  not  only  the  differ- 
ence between  the  genius  of  the  wri- 
ters, but  the  still  greater  difference  be- 
tween the  genius  of  languages  and 
ages.  The  Greek  Poetry  pleased,  and 
was  imposing  in  its  simplicity  and 
nakedness ;  it  has  a  charm  perfectly 
impossible  to  be  conveyed  to  those 
who  have  not  read  it  in  the  original ; 
whereas  an  attempt  at  the  same  sim- 
plicity in  an  uncongenial  and  less 
powerful  language,  or  a  less  poetical 
age  and  country,  would  produce  only 
a  displeasing  effect;  "pretty  nearly," 
adds  Mr  Symmons,  though  we  con- 
fess we  do  not  see  the  propriety  or 
applicability  of  the  image,  "  pretty 
nearly  what  would  be  produced  by 
the  exhibition  of  a  modern  beau, 
stript  of  his  clothes,  by  theside  of  the 
naked  beauties  of  Antinous,  Adonis, 
or  Apollo !"  Why,  if  the  Modern 
Beau  were,  which  he  most  likely 
would  turn  out  to  be,  a  poor  mi- 
shapen  ricketty  Cockney,  he  would 
look  extremely  absurd  naked,  even 
standing  by  himself  on  the  banks  of  the 
Serpentine ;  but  if  he  were  a  young 
Life-guardsman,  of  a  noble  family, 
we  believe  he  might  stand  compari- 
son with  any  statue  that  ever  breath- 
ed in  marble. 

Mr  Symmons  says  truly,  that  while 
the  two  great  Epics  of  antiquity  have 
been  rendered  in  our  own  language 
by  some  of  the  greatest  geniuses  of 
earlier  and  more  modern  times,  the 
Gawin  Douglases,  the  Chapmans, 
the  Popes,  and  the  Drydens,  the  few 
remains  (alas  !  how  few !)  of  the  no 
less  celebrated  Greek  Tragedians 
have  not  been  equally  fortunate ; 
and  with  the  exception  of  Gascoyne, 
whose  Phoenissse  is  partly  an  origi- 
nal composition,  and  partly  a  close 
and  very  spirited  translation,  these 
master-pieces  have  never  been  at- 
tempted except  merely  in  our  own 
times;  and  or  those  who  have  at- 
tempted them,  general  opinion  is  dis- 
posed to  think  but  indifferently  of 
Franklin  and  Woodhall  in  toto,  (Mr 
Symmons  wrote,  we  believe,  or 
should  suppose,  before  the  publica- 
tion of  Mr  Dale's  very  beautiful 
translation  of  Sophocles),and  of  Pot- 
ter in  his  versions  of  Sophocles  and 
Euripides,  though  inclined  to  make 
an  exception  in  favour  of  his  ^Eschy- 
lus.  This  exception  appeared  to  Mr 
Symmons  as  unfounded,  or  as  ari- 
sing rather  out  of  the  nature  of  the 


360 


Greek  Drama,    No.  I. 


[Aug. 

less  egotistically — WE,  may  on  our  own 
account  be  looked  at,  not  only  without 
wholly  obscured,  than  from  any  great     much  displeasure,  but  with  no  in- 
merit  in  the   translator,  and  there-     considerable   delight.      We   recom- 


original,  the  beauties  of  which  were 
of  too  transcendent  a  nature  to  be 


fore  he  was  emboldened  to  attempt 
the  Agamemnon.  He  speaks,  how- 
ever, with  a  manly  modesty,  of  his 
own  translation.  The  only  advan- 
tage which  he  hopes  his  own  attempt 
may  boast  over  rotter's,  is  that  it  is 
a  more  faithful  transcript,  and  that 
the  numerous  errors,  totally  subver- 
sive of  the  sense,  to  be  met  with  in 
Potter,  are  avoided.  He  has  striven 
to  be  as  literal  as  possible ;  though 
he  fears  that  in  endeavouring  to  give 
the  sense  of  ^Eschylus,  when  some- 
times that  sense  was  untranslatable  li- 
terally, in  paraphrases,  he  may  have 
fallen  into  languor  and  difl'useaess. 

With  Mr  Symmons's  judgment  on 
Potter,  mildly  as  it  is  delivered,  we 
cannot  altogether  agree — from  his 
judgment  on  himself  modestly  as  it 
is  delivered,  we  wholly  dissent. 
Potter  is  sadly  inaccurate,  and  no 
wonder;  for  he  engaged  with  the 
most  difficult  perhaps  of  all  the 
Greek  Poets,  (Lycophron  is  not  dif- 
ficult, he  is  impossible,)  and  he  was 
no  great  Greek  scholar.  He  goes  right 
in  the  teeth  of  the  sense  a  hundred 
times ;  and  many  thousand  times  he 
slurs  it  over  in  such  a  strange  style 
that  we  defy  you  to  tell  whether  he 
understood  it  or  not;  while  often 
and  often,  his  verses  flow  on  sono- 
rously, with  about  as  much  meaning 
as  the  Thames  or  the  Tweed,  when, 
laying  your  ear  to  the  bank,  you  en- 
treat him, — not  to  speak  up,  for  he  is 
loud  enough, — but  for  heaven's  sake 
not  to  keep  murmuring  on  in  that  un- 
intelligible strain  which  is  not  even  so 
much  as  oracular,  but  mere  sound — 
music  if  you  will;  while  ever  as  you 
fondly  imagine  that  the  river  is  about 
to  make  a  confidential  communica- 
tion, he  passes  you  off  with  the  li- 
quid lapse  of  a  superficial  shallow, 
or  confounds  you  utterly  with  the 
thunder  of  a  waterfall.  Still,  Potter 
is  often  excellent ;  and  though  it 
would  be  going  too  far  to  call  him  a 
Poet,  he  had  poetry  in  his  soul ;  he 
certainly  exhibits  at  times  a  lofty 
enthusiasm  ;  and  his  version  of  JEs- 
chylus,  though  about  as  fit  to  be 
compared  with  the  original  "  as  7  to 
Hercules,"  may  be  read  with  high  sa- 
tisfaction—just  as  /,  that  is—  to,speak 


mend,  therefore,  the  Fourth  Volume 
of  the  Dramatic  Series  of  the  Family 
Library  to  all  families  desirous  of 
acquiring  the  best  knowledge  within 
their  power  of  the  Greek  stage,  and 
we  hope  that  the  editor  will  give  us 
— after  like  fashion — Sophocles  and 
Euripides.  This  volume  is  edited  by 
an  elegant  and  accomplished  scho- 
lar— who  has  enriched  it  with  seve- 
ral short  but  pithy  dissertations.  The 
translations  of  the  Dramas  are  not 
given  entire — but  he  has  judiciously 
selected  the  finest  parts  of  Potter, 
preserving  the  order  of  each  Drama 
— and  filling  up  the  lacuna}  with 
prose  sketches  of  the  matter  left  out 
— so  that  you  are  carried  along  the 
main-current  of  song ;  and  these  oc- 
casional breaks  may  be  compared  to 
little  pleasant  green  islands,  to  which 
you  float  away  into  moods  of  repose 
and  of  meditation  on  the  wondrous 
scenery  through  which  you  have 
been  descending  in  a  visionary 
dream. 

The  Agamemnon,  by  itself,  is  as 
noble  a  tragedy  as  ever  "went  sweep- 
ing by"  alontf  the  floor  of  a  stage. 
But  it  is  but  One  of  Three  ;  and  the 
Three  together  are  one  Tragedy — 
called,  as  you  know,  a  Trilogy ; — and 
that  Trilogy  of  all  Trilogies  extant  is 
the  grandest  and  the  most  sublime. 
Of  the  Coephora*  and  theEumenides 
you  shall  hear  and  see  all  the  most 
glorious  features — by  and  by — but 
now  for  the  Agamemnon,  who  was, 
as  you  know,  King  of  Men. 

Schlegel  gives  an  analysis  of  this 
play  in  his  eloquent  Lectures  on 
Dramatic  Literature;  but  we  shall 
give  no  formal  analysis — we  shall  let 
evolve  before  your  eyes  the  whole 
bright  consummate  Flower — bright 
with  a  dreadful  purple  and  crimson, 
for  every  leaf  is  streaked  with 
blood. 

The  drama  opens  with  the  solilo- 
quy of  a  watchman  on  the  top  of  a 
lonely  tower  of  Atreus'  palace  in 
Argos,  placed  there  "  like  a  night- 
dog,"  to  bark  as  soon  as  he  shall 

"  See  the  appointed  signal, 
The  fire  In  the  hnri/.oii,  whose  red  diuvn 
spread  the  dowiif'ull  of  proud  Ilion's 
toweis, 


1831.] 


Greek  Drama.    No.  /. 


361 


Swifter  than  noisy  fame,  or  murmuring 

tongues." 

For  ten  years  has  he  kept  his  watch, 

"  Sprinkled    with    dews,     unvisited    by 
dreams." 

The  picture  reminds  one  of  our  own 
Great  Minstrel.  The  watchman  says, 

"  Meanwhile  it  pleases  me  by  fits  to  pipe, 
Or   sing  some  roundelay;  for  song   has 

charms 
To  pass  dull  time,  and  wheedle  drowsy 

sleep." 

Schlegel  says,  that  it  was  of  im- 
portance to  Clytemnestra  that  she 
shouldbe  aware  of  Agamemnon's  ap- 
proach (for  you  know  she  had  de- 
signed to  murder  him),  and  that  there- 
fore "  the  night-dog"  was  placed  on 
the  Tower  to  bark  at  the  coming 
king.  But  this  is  one  of  Schlegel's 
many  mistakes,  though  he  has  not  to 
answer  for  all  the  errors  and  igno- 
rance in  Black's  Translation — for  ex- 
ample, not  for  that  learned  per- 
son's assertion  that  Agamemnon  was 
"  strangled  in  the  bath,"  as  Homer 
says,  "  like  an  ox  at  the  stall."  He 
was  not  strangled  in  the  bath,  nor 
was  Homer's  ox  strangled  at  the 
stall ;  in  both  cases  the  business  was 
done  by  the  axe.  The  agreement  that 
beacon-fires  should  declare  the  Fall 
of  Troy,  was  made  between  Aga- 
memnon and  Clytemnestra  before  the 
army  left  Argos,  before  the  fleet  left 
Aulis,  and  at  that  time  she  had  not 
sold  her  soul  to  Pluto  and  Egisthus. 
Philosophical  critics  should  read 
the  poets  they  lecture  on,  and  so 
should  their  translators. 

All  at  once  the  beacon  blaze  bursts 
upon  the  night,  and  the  watchman 
exclaims, — 

"  O  hail,  thou  lamp  of  darkness !  in  the 

night 

Shedding  a  splendour  of  diurnal  beams, 
Bringing  to  Argos  jubilee  and  joy, 
And  many  achoir  with  thy  eventful  light." 

He  then,  after  some  fine  poetry, 
(and  why  should  he  not  be  poetical, 
who  has  watched  the  stars  for  ten 


«trsV  a 


years  from  the  top  of  a  lonely  tower  ?) 
in  which  he  gives  dark  hints  that  all 
has  not  been  going  on  well  in  the 
palace,  descends  to  communicate  the 
intelligence  to  the  queen. 

The  Chorus  then  enter — composed 
of  old  men  and  wise — the  senators 
of  Argos~and  sing  their  lofty  strains 
in  front  of  the  palace.  It  is  indeed 
an  Ode.  The  Chorus  begins  to  sing 
of  the  sailing  of  the  Fleet  to  Troy — 
in  poetry  worthy  of  the  magnificent 
array — when  suddenly  he  exclaims, 

"  See  !  all  the  altars  of  Our  city  gods, 
The  Powers  of  Heaven  above  and  Hell 

below, 
With  heap'd  oblations  blazing  glow!" 

Clytemnestra,  on  the  watchman's 
words,  has  thus  kindled  the  city, 
which  is  now  alive  with  the  "  solemn 
stir  of  sacrifice."  The  Chorus  knows 
not  —  though  he  conjectures — the 
reason  of  all  the  joyful  and  religious 
fires — but,  kindled  into  higher  en- 
thusiasm by  the  hundred  blazes — 
continues  to  sing  of  the  expedition 
to  Troy.  It  is  a  song  of  triumph  ; 
and  yet  melancholy  breathes  over 
it  all — as  if  inspired  by  the  presaging 
fear  of  somemightymisfortune.  With 
wonderful  skill  ^Eschylus  has  scatter- 
ed and  sprinkled  sadnesses  and  misgi- 
vings and  forebodings  over  the  whole 
ode,  which  is  one  of  gloomy  exulta- 
tion. The  Chorus  alludes  to  that  fatal 
sacrifice  at  Aulis,  to  free  the  wind- 
bound  Fleet — the  sacrifice  of  Iphi- 
genia.  Fatal,  not  only  because  that 
Innocent  died  to  expiate  some  mys- 
terious wrong  done  by  her  sire 
Agamemnon  to  Diana,  (mysterious 
it  is  in  JSschylus — in  Sophocles  'tis 
said  to  have  been  his  slaying  a  White 
Doe  sacred  to  the  goddess,)  but  fatal 
because  Wrath  for  that  cruel  wrong 
done  to  her  child  is  one  of  the  real 
or  pretended  reasons  of  Clytemnes- 
tra's  murderous  hatred  of  Agamem- 
non. We  shall  quote  the  celebrated 
passage  descriptive  of  the  sacrifice, 
in  the  original — in  a  literal  prose 
translation — in  Potter — and  in  Sym- 
mons. 


VOL.  XXX.  NO.  CLXXXIV. 


Greek  Drama.    No.t  [Aug. 

Jlcttrt  &vft£i  7r 
etifiw, 


B/ai  •Xpth.Hut  T   ciiotv^u  fttm. 


NORTH. 

But  her  prayers,  and  her  callings  upon  her  father, 

And  her  virgin  life,  of  no  value 

Held  the  battle-loving  chiefs. 

And  her  father  ordered  the  faggot-burners  (priests),  after  the  prayer, 

(  Her)  on  the  altar,  after  the  manner  of  a  she-goat, 

Fallen  and  involved  in  her  robes, 

Fallen  (on  the  ground)  in  a  swoon, 

To  lift  up,  and  to  set  a  guard  on  her  beautiful-faced  mouth, 
(  And)  on  her  voice  cursing  the  house, 
By  means  of  violence  and  the  dumb  force  of  muzzles. 
And  pouring  out  on  the  ground  the  die  of  the  saffron,  (t.  e.  dropping  her  saffron-co- 

loured veil,) 

She  kept  wounding  each  of  the  sacrincers  with  a  pity-loving  dart  from  her  eyes, 
Beauteous  as  though  in  a  picture,  to  address  them 
Wishing,  since  often  in  the  hospitable  banquet  halls  of  her  father 
She  had  sung  :  for  the  chaste  unmarried  one,  with  her  voice,  of  her  father 
Beloved,  the  pious,  (lit.  often-pouring  out  libations,)  well-fated 
Life>  was  lovingly  in  the  habit  of  honouring. 

POTTER. 

Arm'd  in  a  woman's  cause,  around 
Fierce  for  the  war  the  princes  rose  ; 
No  place  affrighted  pity  found. 
In  vain  the  virgin's  streaming  tear, 
Her  cries  in  vain,  her  pleading  pray'r, 

Her  agonizing  woes. 
Could  the  fond  father  hear  unmoved  ? 
The  Fates  decreed  :    the  king  approved  : 
Then  to  th'  attendants  gave  command 

Decent  her  flowing  robes  to  bind  ; 
Prone  on  the  altar  with  strong  hand 

To  place  her,  like  a  spotless  hind  ; 
And  check  her  sweet  voice,  that  no  sound 
Unhallow'd  might  the  rites  confound. 
EPODE.  Rent  on  the  earth  her  maiden  veil  she  throws 
That  emulates  the  rose  ; 

And  on  the  sad  attendants  rolling 
The  trembling  lustre  of  her  dewy  eyes, 

Their  grief-impassion'd  souls  controlling, 

That  ennobled,  modest  grace, 

Which  the  mimic  pencil  tries 

In  the  imaged  form  to  trace, 
The  breathing  picture  shews  : 

And  as,  amidst  his  festal  pleasures, 
Her  father  oft  rejoiced  to  hear 

Her  voice  in  soft  mellifluous  measures 
Warble  the  sprightly-  fancied  air  — 
So  now  in  act  to  speak  the  virgin  stands  ; 

But  when,  the  third  libation  paid, 

She  heard  her  father's  dread  commands 

Enjoining  silence,  she  obey'd  ; 


1831.]  Greek  Drama.    No.  I.  863 

And  for  her  country's  good, 
With  patient,  meek,  submissive  mind 

To  her  hard  fate  resign'd, 
Four'd  out  the  rich  stream  of  her  blood. 

SYMMONS. 

Mailed  chiefs,  whose  bosoms  burn 
For  battle,  heard  in  silence  stern 
Cries  that  calFd  a  father's  name, 
And  set  at  naught  pray'rs,  cries,  and  tears, 
And  her  sweet  virgin  life  and  blooming  years. 
Now  when  the  solemn  prayer  was  said, 
The  father  gave  the  dire  command 

To  the  priestly  band, 

Men  with  strong  hands  and  ruthless  force, 
To  lift  from  earth  that  maiden  fair, 
Where  she  had  sunk  in  dumb  despair, 
And  lay  with  robes  all  cover'd  round, 
Hush'd  in  a  swoon  upon  the  ground, 
And  bear  her  to  the  altar  dread, 
Like  a  young  fawn  or  mountain  kid : 
Then  round  her  beauteous  mouth  to  tie 
Dumb  sullen  bands  to  stop  her  cry, 
Lest  aught  of  an  unholy  sound 
Be  heard  to  breathe  those  altars  round, 
Which  on  the  monarch's  house  might  hang  a  deadly  spell. 
Now  as  she  stood,  and  her  descending  veil, 
Let  down  in  clouds  of  saffron,  touch 'd  the  ground, 
The  priests,  and  all  the  sacrificers  round, 
All  felt  the  melting  beams  that  came, 
With  softest  pity  wing'd,  shot  from  her  lovely  eyes. 
Like  some  imagined  pictured  maid  she  stood, 
So  beauteous  look'd  she,  seeming  as  she  would 
Speak,  yet  still  mute :  though  oft  her  father's  halls 

Magnificent  among, 

She,  now  so  mute,  had  sung 

Full  many  a  lovely  air, 

In  maiden  beauty,  fresh  and  fair ; 
And  with  the  warbled  music  of  her  voice 
Made  all  his  joyous  bowers  still  more  rejoice ; 
While  feast,  and  sacrifice,  and  choral  song, 
Led  the  glad  hours  of  lengthen'd  day  along. 

Our  literal  prose  translation  we  all?  The  words  of  .^schylus,  however 
give  merely  for  the  use  of  the  Eng-  —not  the  words  of  Potter.  Words  are 
lish  reader,  that  he  may  have  some  wonderful  magicians,  and  almost  no- 
notion  of  the  simple,  but  rich  and  thing  is  beyond  their  power.  Be- 
grand  style  in  which  Jfischylus  at  all  sides,  in  wise  men's  lips  they  know 
times  delights,  even  in  the  pathetic,  their  power,  and  never  use  it  but 
which  with  him  is  always  also  the  when  it  is  sure  to  tell — else  they  are 
picturesque.  Potter's  verses  are  mute.  Potter  adds  well,  "  As  she 
pretty — and  we  are  sorry  for  it.  had  been  admitted  to  her  father's 
They  have  little  or  nothing  about  feasts,  and  accustomed  to  entertain 
them — Greekish.  Yet  Potter  felt  him  with  her  songs,  she  presumed 
the  beauty  of  the  passage,  though  he  on  his  fondness,  and,  throwing  off 
could  not  transfuse  it  into  his  own  her  maiden  veil — as  its  colour  signi- 
words.  He  says,  in  a  note,  "  The  fies — [which  colour  JEschylus  calls 
behaviour  of  Iphigenia  is  described  saffron,  Potter  rose] — stood  in  the 
with  inimitable  beauty ;  there  is  a  act  to  speak  to  him ;  but  hearing  his 
pathos  in  her  actions,  in  her  eyes,  voice  commanding  silence,  she  obey- 
in  her  attitude,  beyond  the  power  of  ed  with  meek  submission.  This  is 
words"  No;  notbeyond  the  power  of  the  painting  of  a  great  master."  It  is. 
words.  For  do  not  words  give  them  Symmons  is  far  superior  to  Potter, 


361 


Greek  Drama.    No.  I. 


[Aug. 


and  is  very  fine.  'Tis  a  noble  para- 
phrase in  the  spirit  of  the  original. 
All  the  intense  words  he  strives  to 
keep ;  but  some  of  them  tear  them- 
selves out  of  his  grasp,  and  will  not 
be  translated.  Throughout  the  whole, 
however,  you  see  the  Greek  scholar, 
and  enough,  too,  to  convince  you  that 
Mr  Symmons  is  himself  a  Poet. 

This  Chorus  is  complicated — for 
there  is  an  ode  within  an  ode.  Cal- 
chas  it  is — the  Prophet,  of  whom 
Agamemnon,  at  the  opening  of  the 
Iliad,  says,  that  from  his  lips  he  never 
heard  but  evil — that  wails  a  wild  and 
melancholy  and  woful  strain  respect- 
ing the  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia,  and 
the  wrath  of  Clytemnestra.  And 
that  strain  is  given  by  the  Chorus. 
Thus  in  Symmons— 
"  Ha !  from  the  dropping  blood  arises 

rife, 

Discord  and  consanguineous  strife, 
And  woman's  deadly  rage  with  blacken- 
ing face  behind. 

Homeward  returning  see  her  go, 
And  sit  alone  in  sullen  woe ; 
And  child-avenging  singer  waits, 
Guileful  and  horrid,  at  the  Palace  gates  !" 

With  the  sound  of  these  prophetic 
strains  yet  in  their  ears,  the  Chorus 


sees  the  approach  of — Clytemnes- 
tra. Their  strain  has  prepared  us  for 
something  dreadful  in  the  face  and 
figure  of  the  avenging  Queen — 

"  For  ne'er  was  mortal  sound  so  full  of 
woe." 

She  comes — and  then  we  have  such 
a  description  as  makes  the  glow- 
worm light  of  modern  poetry 
"Pale  its  ineffectual  fires." 
She  comes  rejoicingly— -exultingly— 
floating  on  stately  and  beautiful  in 
her  revenge — of  which  the  passion 
about  to  be  satiated  and  appeased, 
breaks  out  into  a  glorious  burst,  that 
shews  how  sin  and  wickedness  can 
make  a  Poetess  of  the  Highest  Or- 
der. 

She  tells  the  Chorus  that  Troy  has 
been  taken,  and  they  ask,  "  How 
long  ago?  When  was  the  city  sack- 
ed?" She  replies,  "  Twas  in  the 
night  that  bore  this  rising  light." 
The  Chorus,  incredulous,  asks  again, 
"  But  how  ?  What  messenger  could 
come  so  fast  ?"  And  this  is  her  glo- 
rious'reply — in  the  Greek  of  ^Eschy- 
lus — in  the  literal  prose  English  of 
North — in  the  poetical  versions  of 
Potter  and  Symmons. 


KAYTAIMN  HSTPA. 


wcT«s  Je  tp(>v)CTov  Jfvg'  ttTf  uyya^ov 

"i$q  p 
fteyatv  ol 


Tl,   7TOVTOV   UITTI   VUTKTCM, 
TTO^IVTOV  ^CtftTT  Ot^OS   7Tf>0?   VO 

i;  uf  rt$  »j 
Munic-rtv 


cntif&ctmi 
Kcti 


Hyu^iv  «AA»iv  Exap^^v  irofiTrov 
<!>««;  ol  •n/itevofMrw  ovx.  tivctm 
Q>f>ov(>ci,  Trhtov  x.ee,lov<rct  ruv  sJg 
Autv/jv  o  vTrlg  To^yaTrty  'irn 

Oga?  T  ITT  A/y/TTAayxrav  IfyK 
"flr^vvi  Ssir^av  [t*  %ctTi£ta-$xt 
i  o  dvo»ioiirig  a,$!>vc 


1831.]  Greek  Drama.     No.  I.  365 


ir^v  v 

v  sir'  jWjj^Ev,  fg 
eiiTrog,  oirTvyUTovecg 


'ATt^uy  Ig  ro^e  fncn'jrrs*  <ray«s 


ewe 
Ta<«<  Jz  re/     o* 


<*  J'  o  TrewTog  xxt  Tihlvraiog  o 
' 


CHOKUS.  And  who  of  messengers  could  have  come  with  such  expedition  ? 

NORTH. 

CLY.   Vulcan  from  Ida  out-sending  a  brilliant  blaze  ; 
But  (one)  beacon  (another)  beacon  of  Courier  fire  dispatched. 
Ida  first  to  the  Hermaeau  promontory  of  Lemnos; 
Then  a  third  large  torch  from  the  island 
Did  Jove's  pinnacle  of  Athos  receive, 

And  the  pine-torch  flared  aloft,  so  that  (there)  skimmed  along  on  the  surface  of  the  sea 
The  strength  of  the  posting  light,  for  our  gratification, 
The  golden-gleaming  splendour,  like  a  sun, 
Announcing  to  the  watch-towers  of  Macistus. 
And  it  neither  lingering,  nor  laggardly  by  sleep 
Subdued,  omitted  not  its  office  of  messenger  ; 
But  at  a  distance  the  beacon-light  to  Euripus'  streams  coming, 
Gives  the  signal  to  the  warders  of  Messapius. 

And  they  in  their  turn  kindled  up,  and  heralded  onward  the  blaze, 
Touching  with  fire  a  heap  of  aged  heather  ; 
But  the  vigorous  torch,  in  no  respects  bedimmed, 
Leaping  over  the  plain  of  Asopus  —  like 
A  resplendent  moon—  to  the  promontory  of  Cithreron, 
Roused  up  another  relay  of  onward-sped  fire. 
And  the  far-sent  light,  rejected  not 

The  warders,  —  who  kindled  up  more  than  those  mentioned  ; 
And  the  blaze  skimmed  over  the  lake  .Gorgopis  ; 
And  having  reached  the  mountain  JEgiplanctus, 
Stirred  up  (the  warders)  that  the  order  of  the  fire  might  not  fail— 
And  kindling  up,  they  send  on,  with  ungrudging  fury, 
A  mighty  beard  of  flame,  and  gleaming  (so  as) 

Onward  to  overleap  the  summit  looking  down  on  the  Saronic  gulf; 
Then  impetuous  it  rushed,  and  arrived  at 
Arachne's  height  watch-towers  near  the  city  ; 
And  then  to  this  house  of  the  sons  of  Atreus  rushed 
This  light,  —  not  unrelated  to  the  fire  of  Ida. 
Such  indeed  to  me  are  the  laws  of  the  torch-bearers, 
Accomplished  one  after  another  in  mutual  succession  ; 
But  the  first  and  the  last  runner  has  the  victory. 
Such  a  signal  and  watchword  tell  I  to  you  ; 
My  husband  having  announced  it  to  me  from  Troy. 

POTTER. 

The  fire,  that  from  the  height  of  Ida  sent 

Its  streaming  light,  as  from  th'  announcing  flame 

Torch  blazed  to  torch.     First  Ida  to  the  steep 

Of  Lemnos  ;   Athos'  sacred  height  received 

The  mighty  splendour  ;  from  the  surging  back 

Of  Hellespont  the  vig'rous  blaze  held  on 

Its  smiling  way,  and  like  the  orient  sun 

Illumes  with  golden-gleaming  rays  the  head 

Of  rocky  Macetas  ;  nor  lingers  there, 

Nor  winks  unheedful,  but  its  warning  flames 

Darts  to  Euripus'  fitful  stream,  and  gives 

Its  glitt'ring  signal  to  the  guards  that  hold 

Their  high  watch  on  Mesapius.      These  enkindle  . 


Greek  Drama.    Ne,  I.  [Aug. 

The  joy-announcing  fires,  that  spread  the  blaze  * 

To  where  Erica  hoar  its  shaggy  brow 

Waves  rudely.     Unimpair'd  the  active  flame 

Bounds  o'er  the  level  of  Asopus,  like 

The  jocund  Moon,  and  ou  Cithteron's  steep 

Wakes  a  successive  flame ;  the  distant  watch 

Discern  its  gleam,  and  raise  a  brighter  fire, 

That  o'er  the  lake  Gorgopis  streaming  holds 

Its  rapid  course,  and  on  the  mountainous  heights 

Of  yEgiphmctus  huge,  swift-shooting  spreads 

The  lengthen'd  line  of  light.   Thence  onwards  wave* 

Its  fiery  tresses,  eager  to  ascend 

The  crags  of  Prone,  frowning  in  their  pride 

O'er  the  Saronic  gulf :  it  leaps,  it  mounts 

The  summit  of  Arachne,  whose  high  head 

Looks  down  on  Argos  :  to  this  royal  seat 

Thence  darts  the  light  that  from  th'  Jdaean  fire 

Derives  its  birth.      Rightly  in  order  thus 

Each  to  the  next  consigns  the  torch,  that  fills 

The  bright  succession,  whilst  the  first  in  speed 

Vies  with  the  last :  the  promised  signal  this 

Giv'n  by  my  lord  t'  announce  the  fall  of  Troy. 

SYMMONS. 

'Twas  Vulcan :  sending  forth  the  blazing  light 

From  Ida's  grove,  and  thence  along  the  way 

Hither  the  estafette  of  fire  ran  quick : 

Fire  kindled  fire,  and  beacon  spoke  to  beacon, 

Ida  to  Lemnos,  and  the  Hermtean  ridge : 

Next  Athos,  craggy  mountain,  Jove's  own  steep, 

Took  the  great  torch  held  out  by  Vulcan's  isle. 

Standing  sublime,  the  seas  to  overcast, 

Shone  the  great  strength  of  the  transmitted  lamp  ; 

And  the  bright  heraldry  of  burning  pines 

Shone  with  a  light  all  golden  like  the  sun 

Rising  at  midnight  en  Macistus'  watchtower  i 

Nor  did  Macistus  not  bestir  him  soon, 

Oppress'd  with  sleep,  regardless  of  his  watch  ; 

But  kindled  fires,  and  sent  the  beacon-blaze 

To  distance  far  beyond  Euripus'  flood, 

To  watchmen  mounted  on  Messapian  hills ; 

They  answer'd  blazing,  and  pass'd  on  the  news, 

The  grey  heath  burning  on  the  mountain  top. 

And  now  the  fiery,  uuobscured  lamp, 

At  distance  far  shot  o'er  Asopus'  plain ; 

And  up  the  steep  soft  rising,  look  the  moon, 

Stood  spangling  bright  upon  Citlucroii's  hill. 

There  rose,  to  give  it  conduct  on  the  road, 

Another  meeting  fire ;  nor  did  the  watch 

Sleep  at  the  coming  of  the  stranger  light, 

But  burnt  a  greater  blaze  than  those  before  : 

Thence  o'er  the  lake  Gorgopis  stoop'd  the  light, 

And  to  the  mount  of  JEgiplancton  came, 

And  bade  the  watch  shine  forth,  nor  scant  the  blaze. 

They  burning  high  with  might  unquenchable, 

Send  up  the  waving  beard  of  fire  aloft, 

Mighty  and  huge,  so  as  to  cast  its  blaze 

Beyond  the  glaring  promontory  steep 

Athwart  the  gulf  Saronic  all  on  fire ; 

Thence  stoop'd  the  light,  and  reach'd  our  neighbour  watch-tow'r, 

Arachne's  summit;  and  from  thence,  derived 

Here  to  the  Atridae's  palace,  comes  this  light 

From  the  long  lineage  of  the  Id.-can  fire. 

Such  is  the  course  of  the  lamp-bearing  games, 

When  torches  run  in  solemn  festivals 


1831.] 


Qreeh  Drama.    No.  I.  367 

One  from  another,  in  succession  fill'd, 
And  the  last  runner  and  the  first  is  victor. 
Such  are  my  proofs,  and  such  the  signal  news, 
Sent  by  my  consort  from  the  plains  of  Troy, 
excellent.      He  makes     kindled  by  the  same  fires— in  this 


Potter  is 

a  mistake  or  two— but  of  no  very 
great  moment— for  he  has  caught  the 
spirit  of  the  passage,  and  gives  it 
with  great  animation.  It  would  not 
be  easy  to  do  it  better,  or  so  well. 
Following  a  faulty  reading,  he  intro- 
duces the  Hellespont;  whereas  the 
word  which  he  understood  as  Hel- 
lespont signifies  the  rising  of  the 
beacon  over  the  sea.  And  he  has 
ignorantly  and  absurdly  made  the 
word  "  Erica,"  which  signifies  heath, 
(heather  Scotice,  ac  multo  melius,)  a 
proper  name,  and  made  it  a  moun- 
tain with  a  "  shaggy  brow,"  thereby 
improperly  adding  another  station. 
But  let  these  mistakes  pass,  and  let 
us  repeat  our  praise  of  his  most  spi- 
rited translation. 

But  Symmons  has  far  excelled— 
outshone  Potter — nor  is  he  one  whit 
inferior  to  ^Eschylus.  It  may  look  as 
if  his  description  were  elaborated 
into  even  greater  splendour;  but 
that  effect  is  produced  by  the  lari- 

fuage  in  which  he  writes ;  he  had  to 
nd  equivalents — equipollents  for 
the  luminous  and  leaping  Greek 
words — and  if  they  were  nowhere  to 
be  found,  because  they  do  not  exist, 
he  was  forced  by  necessity  to  fix 
upon  others  that  might  do  the  busi- 
ness— and  he  has  done  so  with  the 
eye  and  imagination  of  a  true  poet. 
We  are  happy  to  see  a  third  translation 
of  the  Agamemnon,  advertised  to  be 
published  by  Murray — the  translator 
being  Dr  Harford — to  us  a  name  yet 
unknown ;  but  if  he  beat  Symmons 
in  this  passage — or  indeed  in  any 
other — we  shall  sound  his  praises  all 
over  the  globe. 

"  The  Bard  of  the  North,"  says 
Mr  Symmons,  "  has  several  spirited 
descriptions  of  the  burning  of  bea- 
cons, which  glow  with  all  the  splen- 
dour of  his  vivid  imagination."  Here 
is  one  of  them,  which  has  this  mo- 
ment been  pointed  out  to  us  by  our 
ingenious  friend,  Mr  James  Ballan- 
tyne,  who  every  month  presses  Maga 
to  his  bosom  till  she  leaves  his  em- 
brace blushing  like  the  rosy  morn. 
It  is  delightful  to  compare  the  pic- 
tures of  the  Great  and  Kindred  Poets, 
when  their  imaginations  have  been 


instance — beacons. 

"  Is  yon  the  star,  o'er  Penchryst  Pen, 

That  rises  slowly  to  her  ken, 

And,  spreading  broad  its  wavering  light, 

Shakes  its  loose  tresses  on  the  night  ? 

Is  yon  red  glare  the  western  star  ?— * 

O,  'tis  the  beacon-blaze  of  war ! 

#  *  *  * 

The  ready  page,  with  hurried  hand, 
Awaked  the  need-fire's  slumbering  brand, 

And  ruddy  blush'd  the  heaven ; 
For  a  sheet  of  flame,  from  the  turret  high, 
Waved  like  a  blood-flag  on  the  sky, 

All  flaring  and  uneven. 
And  soon  a  score  of  fires,  I  ween, 
From  height,  and    hill,  and  cliff,   were 

seen; 

Each  with  warlike  tidings  fraught ; 
Each  from  each  the  signal  caught ; 
Each  after  each  they  glanced  to  sight, 
As  stars  arise  upon  the  night. 
They  gleam'd  on  many  a  dusky  tarn, 
Haunted  by  the  lonely  earn  ; 
On  many  a  cairn's  grey  pyramid, 
Where  urns  of  mighty  chiefs  lie  hid ; 
Till  high  Dunedin  the  blazes  saw, 
From  Soltra  and  Dumpender  Law ; 
And  Lothian  heard  the  Regent's  order, 
That    all   should   bowne   them   for   the 

Border. " 

At  the  conclusion  of  Clytemnestra's 
description,  the  Chorus  says— 
"  Hereafter  to  the  gods,  O  Queen  !    I'll 

pray. 
But  now,  in  wondering  pleasure  at  thy 

words 
I  fain  would  stand,  and  hear  them  o'er 

again." 

So  say  we  of  Sir  Walter's. 
Clytemnestra  having  thus  glorious- 
ly gloated  over  the  beacon-lights  an- 
nouncing that  her  husband  would 
soon  be  at  hand  for  her  to  murder 
him — though  of  that  dreadful  design 
as  yet  the  Chorus  knew  not — she 
goes  on  uttering  her  dark  sentences, 
and  Potter  felt  the  meanings  of  her 
speech  well — and  well  does  he 
comment  on  it — "  It  was  observed  in 
the  preface  to  this  tragedy,  that  the 
character  of  Clytemnestra  was  that 
of  a  high-spirited,  close,  determined, 
dangerous  woman.  This  character 
now  begins  to  unfold  itself.  She 
had,  with  deep  premeditation,  plan- 
ned the  murder  of  her  husband ;  he 
was  now  returning;  her  soul  must  of 


Greek  Drama.    No.  I. 


[Aug. 


course  be  full  at  this  time  of  her 
horrid  design,  and  all  her  thoughts 
intent  upon  the  execution  of  it.  We 
have  in  the  speech  (the  one  that  fol- 
lows) a  strong  proof  of  this ;  she  is 
dark,  sententious,  and  even  religious, 
so  the  Chorus  understandsherwords, 
and  so  she  intends  they  should ;  but 
the  very  expressions  by  which  she 
wishes  to  conceal  her  purpose,  by 
being  ambiguous,  and  by  conveying 


a  double  meaning,  so  far  mark  the 
working  of  her  mind,  as  to  give  us  a 
hint  what  she  is  revolving  there."  Read 
— with  this  intimation— is  there  not  a 
fearful  grandeur  in  these  dark  lines  ? 
She  has  been  speaking  of  the  de- 
struction of  Troy — sullenly  and 
fiercely — and  not  with  that  bright 
exultation  that  would  otherwise  have 
been  natural  to  the  wife  of  the  De- 
stroyer. 


.    .  If  they  (the  victors)  shew 
Due  reverence  and  homage  to  the  Gods 
Of  that  forsaken  City  and  their  fanes, 
They  may  chance  'scape  such  sad  vicissitude, 
Nor  feel  themselves  what  they  inflict  on  others ; 
But  let  no  inferior  lust,  no  thirst  of  gold, 
Light  on  their  longing  for  disastrous  spoils, 
Mad  passion  for  those  things  'tis  sin  to  love ! 
Let  them  beware ;  they  still  want  Heaven's  high  favour 
To  bring  them  back  unhurt ;  they  still  have  left 
The  whole  side  of  the  Stadium's  length  to  run. 
But  should  they  come,  their  forfeits  on  their  heads,. 
With  Heaven's  high  wrath  benighted,  then  indeed 
The  curse  of  blood  might  follow  at  their  heels, 
And  Troy's  ensanguined  sepulchres  yield  up 
Their  charnell'd  dead  to  cry  aloud  for  vengeance, 
E'en  should  not  Fortune  blow  them  other  ills. 
These  are  but  woman's  words ;  but  O  prevail 
Our  better  destinies;  nor  let  the  balance 
Hang  in  suspence;  of  many  an  ojffer'd  blessing, 
I  would  have  fixed  my  heart  and  chosen  this. 


Clytemnestra  re-enters  her  palace 
— and  the  Chorus  again  uplifts  its 
lugubrious  strain — singing  dolefully 
of  the  destruction  of  Troy — and  along 
with  it  that  of  many  of  the  Grecian 
heroes.  Agamemnon,  they  know,  is 
about  to  return ;  but  still  their  song 
is  sad — and  strewed  with  melancholy 
images.  That  strange  air  of  aimless 
fear  still  hangs  over  it — and  we  lis- 
ten to  it  with  that  indefinite  appre- 
hension which  these  two  celebrated 
lines  in  Lochiel's  Warning  inspire, 

"  Though  dim  and  despairing  my  sight  I 

may  seal, 
Yet  man  cannot  hide  what  heaven  would 

reveal." 

Thus,  in  place  of  hymning  the  living 
heroes,  and  at  their  happy  head  the 
King  of  Men — they  chant  the  dirges 
of  the  dead. 

"  Instead  of  mnn,  to  each  man's  home 

Urns  and  ashes  only  come, 

And  the  armour  which  they  wore  ; 

Sad  relics  to  their  native  shore. 

For  Mars,  the  barterer  of  the  lifeless  clay, 

"Who  sells  for  gold  the  slain, 


And  holds  the  scale,  in  battle's  doubtful  day, 
High  balanced  o'er  the  plain, 
From  Ilium's  walls  for  men  returns 
Ashes  and  sepulchral  urns ; 
Ashes  wet  with  many  a  tear, 
Sad  relics  of  the  fiery  bier. 
Round  the  full  urns  the  general  gronii 
Goes,  as  each  their  kindred  own. 
One  they  mourn  in  battle  strong, 
And  one,  that  mid  the  armed  throng 
He  sunk  in  glory's  slaughtering  tide, 
And  for  another's  consort  died — 
Such  the  sounds  that,  mixed  with  wail, 
In  secret  whispers  round  prevail ; 
And  Envy,join'd  with  silent  griefs, 
Spreads  'gainst  the  two  Atrida;  Chiefs, 
Who  began  the  public  fray, 
And  to  vengeance  led  the  way. 

*          *          #          *    '      * 

My  soul  stands  tiptoe  with  affright  ; 
I  stand  like  one  with  listening  ear, 
Ready  to  catch  the  sound  of  fear  ; 
And  lift  my  eyes  to  see  some  sight 
Coming  from  the  pall  of  night. 
For  Gods  behold  not  uncoucern'd  from 

high, 

When  smoking  slaughter  mounts  the  sky, 
The    mighty    murderers  of  the  direful 

plain. 


1831.]  Greek  'Drama.    No.  I. 

For  then  the  Black  Erinnyes  vise,  She  then   says    to    the   Chorus  —  HO 

With  Time  their  helper,  and  with  Fate  doubt    with    a    savage    scowl    of    a 

reversed,  ,  smile—- 

And make   the  mighty  justice-slighting 

man  . 

Pale  in  the  midst  of  Glory's  proud  ca-  "  Now  we  have  got,  my  lords,  one  who 

reer,"  &c.  wil1  sPeak'  . 

Speak  to  your  doublings  —  not  with  treach- 
Clytemnestra,  who,  we  may  sup-  erous  flames 

pose,  has  been  inspecting  within  the  of  mountain  wood  arid  ruddy  smoke,  but 
palace  all  the  preparations  and  in-  one 

struments    for  murder  —  trying  the  ^ho,  face  to  face,  will  swell  our  joy 
fatal  tunic  with  which  her  heroic  more  high  ; 

husband's  arms  are  to  be  inextrica-  Oh,  butmytongueabhors  ill-boding  words  — 

bly  involved  —  feeling  the  edge  of  the  All  looks  well  now  —  God  grant  it  so  may 
axe  with  her  delicate  but  firm  fin-  end." 

ger  —  all  the  while  giving  such  a  smile 

to  her  paramour  —  Clytemnestranovv  »pne  Watchman  spoke  well—the  He- 

re-appears —  and  hails  the  approach  raid,  who  is  a  higher  character,  speaks 

of  a  herald  fast  approaching  from  the  still  'better  —  and  we  have  chosen  his 

beach  with  his  olive-boughs  —  using  fine  speech  as  another  test  of  the 

this  singular  but  strong  expression,  comparative  merits  of  Potter  and 

"  Lo  !  Mud's  brother,  Symmons. 
The  parching,  thirsty  dust,  proclaims  his 
speed." 

KHPYH. 

'la  TTxr^Soy  oi/Jcts  ' 
Amaru  <ri  <p'tyyu  TW      e(pmo^ 
IIoAAwv  fctytia-uv  l^TTt^av  pitx* 
Ov     st    TTo  '       ' 


Nv»  x,oiigt  plv  £$#y,  %x^  $  «A/ow  <f>oto?, 
"fTr&Tos  TI  X,apct,g  Ztvg,  o  TIvSios  f   «"#?> 

To|»<j  ixTnuv  [AYix-ir  it$  ytftcZs  /3eA»* 
"A/<5  Traes.  2,x.eic6v$OY  qhSt?  <*vȣ<rW 


ctvrs 


Avoe.%     AwoXAov.  rovf  T  ctywyi 
,  rov  r   fptov 


"Hgwj  rt  row?  mp-otvTct.?,  tvptvt?  7r 

ST^T  ' 

' 


'la  pihe&Qoe,  ficurihiav,  ipihatt  Fri-yeti, 

XlftllOt    Tt  &SIX.61,   (ietlftOVIS   T    «VT1)A<«< 

E*'  TTOV  •Tcx'hctt,  (p&t<ipoi(rt  roiirio   ofif-txa-i 
-- 


Hxit  yap  vpiv  (pus  Iv  ivtp^ovy  tp'£<av 
Kcti  TOira    izTras-t  xoivov  ' 


x.cti  f/cif> 
rov  o<xj)<po 
7,  r 


T<»^<?  y«§  avrt 
o  dp^S.^.ct,  rov  T 


870;  Greek  Drama.    No.  Z  [Aug. 

Tou  ovrtov  &  jftetgrt  tuii 


NOETH. 

Oh  paternal  soil  of  the  Grecian  land  ! 
In'  this  tenth  light  of  the  year*  have  I  reached  thee, 
Of  many  broken  hopes  having  realized  hut  one. 
For  never  could  I  have  confidently  hoped  that  in  this  land  of  Argot 
I  should,  when  dead,  be  a  sharer  in  a  much-wished  -for  tomb  : 
Hail  now,  O  Earth,  and  hail,  thou  light  of  the  sun, 
And  Jupiter  supreme  over  the  country,  and  the  Pythian  king, 
From  thy  bow  no  longer  discharging  weapons  against  us  : 
Implacable  enough  at  Scamander  wert  thou  to  us  ; 

But  now  on  the  other  hand  be  thou  a  saviour,  and  a  deliverer  of  ui  from  our  struggles, 
O  King  Apollo.     The  gods-that-preside-over-games  also 
All  I  invoke,  and  my  protector 
Mercury,  the  herald  beloved,  of  heralds  the  divinity, 
And  the  heroes  (demigods)  sending  us  forth,  (and)  gracious  again 
To  receive  the  army  spared  by  the  spear. 
Hail,  ye  palaces  of  kings,  abodes  beloved, 
Venerable  seats,  and  sun-exposed  deities, 
If  erst  you  ever  (did),  —  do  you  now  with  these  eyes  serene 
Receive  becomingly  the  king,  after  a  long  time. 
For  he  hath  come—  a  light  in  the  night  —  bringing  to  yon, 
And  to  all  these  in  common  King  Agamemnon. 
Propitiously  then  salute  him  —  for  this  is  becoming— 
Who  dug  up  Troy  with  the  spade  of  justice-bearing 
Jupiter,  whereby  the  foundation  hath  been  upturned. 

And  the  altars  are  nameless^  (things  whereof  nothing  can  be  known)  and  the  gods'  seats, 
And  the  seed  of  all  the  land  is  utterly  destroyed. 
Having  imposed  on  Troy  such  a  yoke, 
The  king,  the  son  of  Atreus  the  Elder,  a  prosperous  man, 
Has  come,  of  being  honoured  the  most  worthy  of  mortals 
That  now  are  •.   for  neither  Paris  nor  his  associate  city 
Boasts  that  the  deed  done  was  greater  than  the  suffering  ; 
For  having  incurred  the  penalty  of  rapine  and  of  theft 
He  hath  forfeited  his  pledge  of  security  ;  and  his  utterly-ruined, 
Aboriginal,  paternal  house  hath  he  mowed  down. 
Doubly  then  have  the  children  of  Priam  rendered  back  the  price  of  their  offences. 

fOTTER. 

Hail,  thou  paternal  soil  of  Argive  earth  ! 

In  the  fair  light  of  the  tenth  year  to  thee 

Return'd,  from  the  sad  wreck  of  many  hopes 

This  one  I  save  ;  saved  from  despair  e'en  this  ; 

For  never  thought  I  in  this  honour'd  earth 

To  share  in  death  the  portion  of  a  tomb. 

Hail  then,  loved  earth  ;  hail,  thou  bright  sun  ;  and  thou, 

Great  guardian  of  my  country,  Jove  supreme  ; 

Thou,  Pythian  king,  thy  shafts  no  longer  wing'd 

For  our  destruction  ;  on  Scamander's  banks 

Enough  we  mourn'd  thy  wrath  ;  propitious  now 

Come,  King  Apollo,  our  defence.     And  all 

Ye  Gods,  that  o'er  the  works  of  war  preside, 

I  now  invoke  ;  thee,  Mercury,  my  avenger, 

Revered  by  heralds,  that  from  thee  derive 

Their  high  employ  ;  you  heroes,  to  the  war 

That  sent  us,  friendly  now  receive  our  troops, 

The  relics  of  the  spear.     Imperial  walls, 

Mansion  of  kings,  ye  seats  revered  ;   ye  Gods, 

That  to  the  golden  sun  before  these  gates 

Present  your  houour'd  forms  ;  if  e'er  of  old 

*   For  —  this  light  of  the  tenth  year. 
•J-  "AiVr«i,  from  *  priv.  and  "«•«/*/,  to  know  ;  that  whereof  nothing  can  be  known. 


1831,]  Greek  Drama.    No.  I.  371 

Those  eyes  with  favour  have  beheld  the  king, 
Receive  him  now,  after  this  length  of  time, 
With  glory ;  for  he  comes,  and  with  him  brings 
To  you,  and  all,  a  light  that  cheers  this  gloom  : 
Then  greet  him  well ;  such  honour  is  his  meed, 
The  mighty  king,  that  with  the  mace  of  Jove 
Th'  avenger,  wherewith  he  subdues  the  earth, 
Hath  levell'd  with  the  dust  the  towers  of  Troy  ; 

Their  altars  are  o'erturn'd,  their  sacred  shrines,  T  , 

And  all  the  race  destroy'd.     This  iron  yoke 
Fix'd  on  the  neck  of  Troy,  victorious  comes 
The  great  Atrides,  of  all  mortal  men 
Worthy  of  highest  honours.     Paris  now, 
And  the  perfidious  state,  shall  boast  no  more 
His  proud  deeds  unrevenged :  stript  of  his  spoils, 
The  debt  of  justice  for  his  thefts,  his  rapines, 
Paid  amply,  o'er  his  father's  house  he  spreads 
With  twofold  loss  the  wide-involving  ruin. 
SYMMONS. 

Ho  ho !  my  native  and  paternal  soil ! 

Ho  ho !  my  country,  and  the  sweet  approach 

Of  Argive  land  !  in  ten  long  years  return'd, 

I  stand  upon  thee  gladly,  O  my  country  ! 

And  save  this  one  of  many  a  shipwreck'd  hope. 

O  much  I  fear'd  I  ne'er  should  see  thy  shores, 

Nor  when  I  died,  be  gather'd  to  thy  lap. 

Now  Earth,  all  hail !   all  hail,  thou  Sun  of  light ! 

And  Jove,  this  realm's  great  paramount!  and  thou, 

O  King  of  Pytho,  hurling  from  thy  bow 

Thy  shafts  no  more'against  us  ;  full  enough. 

We  felt  thy  ire  by  sad  Scamander's  banks : 

Now  be  our  saviour,  and  our  lord  of  games, 

O  King  Apollo  !  and  I  call  ye  all, 

Ye  Gods  of  Festivals,  and  thee,  my  patron, 

Sweet  Herald  God  !  whom  heralds  most  adore ; 

And  ye,  the  worshipp'd  Heroes  of  old  times, 

Who  sent  your  armed  sons  to  battle  forth ; 

Receive  what  now  remains  of  us,  the  gleanings 

Of  hostile  spears.      O  palace  of  our  kings  ! 

Dear  roofs,  and  venerated  judgment-seats! 

And  ye,  sun-facing  images  of  Gods ! 

Now,  now,  if  ever,  beam  with  joyful  eyes 

Upon  your  king  returning ; — lo  !  he  comes, 

King  Agamemnon,  bringing  now  at  last 

A  light  iu  darkness,  and  a  general  shine 

On  you,  on  all  the  people,  on  all  those 

Who  throng  around.     But  greet  him,  greet  him  well, 

(Such  honour  is  the  mighty  conqueror's  meed,) 

Who,  arm'd  with  vengeance  and  the  mace  of  Jove, 

Unloosed  the  stony,  massy  girths  of  Troy. 

Ay,  now  Jove's  spade  has  finish'd  its  dread  work, 

And  made  a  mound  of  all  that  mighty  field  ; 

Altars  and  fanes  in  unknown  ruins  lie, 

And  without  seed  lies  all  the  blasted  land. 

Thus  comes  Atrides  from  the  siege  of  Troy, 

Which  'neath  his  yoke  has  bent  her  turrets  high. 
O  happy,  glorious,  honourable  man, 
Deserving  praise  of  men,  far,  far  beyond 

What  any  worthy  of  this  age  can  claim. 
The  vaunts  of  Troy  and  Paris  are  no  more, 
Boasting  the  arm  of  Justice  could  not  reach  them ; 
But  it  has  spann'd  them  with  a  hand  as  large 
As  their  offendings  :   the  convicted  thief 
Has  lost  his  main-prize,  and  the  ravisher 


372  Greek  Drama.     No.  I. 

Has  with  his  beauteous  fair  one  lost  himself, 
And  bared  his  father's  house  to  the  dire  edge 
Of  naked  ruin  ;  and  old  Priam's  sons 
Have  with  their  blood  his  double  forfeits  paid. 


[Aug. 


Potter  excellent — Symmons  admi- 
rable. 

The  Chorus  thus  accosts  the  elo- 
quent Herald— 

"  Herald  of  the  Argives  from  the  Host, 

all  health, 
And  joy  be  with  thee  !" 

Herald — 

"  Take  me  to  ye,  Gods, 
I  ne'er  can  live  to  greater  joy  than  this ! 
Meanwhile,  where  is  Clytemnestra  ?" 

Symmons  has  rightly  put  into  the 
mouth  of  the  Chorus  the  above  words, 
whichPotter,merelytooppose!Ieath, 
whom  he  hated  almost  as  bitterly  as 
Gifford  did  Monk  Mason  and  Coxe- 
ter,  assigns  to  Clytemnestra.  "  Pot- 
ter," quoth  Symmons,  "  was  to  that 
critic  what  the  elephant  is  said  to  be 
to  the  rhinoceros."  Symmons  tells 
us — and  we  tell  you — to  observe, 
that  Clytemnestra,  during  this  whole 
scene,  being  now  fully  apprized  of 
the  taking  of  Troy,  and  or  the  ap- 
proaching return  of  her  husband, 
and  finding  herself  brought  by  events 
to  the  eve  of  what  she  had  long  me- 
ditated, is  apart,  wrapt  in  gloomy 
meditations,  and  gaining  time  to  col- 
lect herself.  In  the  meantime,  the 
dialogue  goes  on  between  the  He- 
rald and  the  Chorus,  which  is  very 
artfully  conducted  by  the  Poet,  and 
rendered  intentionally  obscure ;  the 
Chorus  appearing  fearful  of  being 
overheard  or  understood  by  Cly- 
temnestra, in  their  covert  complaints 
of  her  and  Egisthus  during  their 
regency,  under  which  it  is  ^insinua- 
ted, that  it  would  have  been  a  crime 
to  have  expressed  great  regret  at 
the  absence  of  Agamemnon.  The 
Herald's  part  is  also  very  character- 
istic; his  curiosity  is  momentarily 
raised  by  the  insinuations  of  the 
Chorus ;  but  on  their  declining  to  be 
immediately  explicit,  buoyant  with 
the  joy  of  the  moment,  he  forgets 
them  and  their  complaints,  and  re- 
turns to  the  narrative  of  his  adven- 
tures. For  that  narrative  we  have  no 
room — but  it  is  the  best  in  poetry  of 
the  sufferings  of  campaigning — and 
contains  a  glorious  description  of  a 
bivouack. 


The  Unity  of  Action — and  no  ac- 
tion can  be  simpler — is  preserved  in 
this  play;  but  there  seems  to  be 
a  violation  of  the  Unity  of  Time. 
For  what  but  a  miracle  could  have 
brought  the  Herald  home  so  soon, 
supposing  the  exhibition  of  the  bea- 
cons to  have  taken  place  immediate- 
ly on  the  taking  ot-Troy?  But  the 
truth  is,  as  Mr  Symmons  says  and 
shews,  that  the  Greek  poets  did  not 
observe  the  minor  Unities  of  Time  and 
Place  so  scrupulously  as  the  French. 
Sophocles  presents  in  his  Trachinia3 
a  more  glaring  example,  in  the  mis- 
sion of  Hyllus  and  his  return,  (a  dis- 
tance of  120  Italian  miles,)  which 
took  place  during  the  acting  of  a 
hundred  lines.  In  the  Eumenides, 
jEschylus  opens  the  play  at  Delphi, 
and  ends  it  at  Athens.  Aristotle,  as 
Twining  properly  remarks,  does  not 
lay  down  the  Unity  of  Time  as  a 
rule  ;  but  says  that  Tragedy  endea- 
vours to  circumscribe  the  period  of 
its  action  to  one  revolution  of  the 

SUn  :    «  Se  on  f&aZ.iff'ret  viigarai   uva  (J.itx,v 

5T-0/309V    I1S.I6U    ilt/IZI    ri   /AIX04V    2  £«  A>.«T  T  =  <  V. 

But  Mr  Symmons  observes  that, 
strictly  speaking,  the  Unity  of  Time 
is  not  violated  in  this  play.  How 
so  ?  Why,  ^Eschylus  the  Bold  has  ha- 
zarded a  miracle  off  the  stage,  artifi- 
cially or  clandestinely  concealed 
from  the  attention  of  the  spectators ; 
but  every  thing  on  the  stage  proceeds 
rapidly  and  consecutively  in  the 
space  of  a  day,  and  nothing  there  oc- 
curs to  mark  any  greater  lapse  of 
time.  The  passions,  the  feelings  of  the 
audience,  under  the  influence  of  so 
great  a  Poet,  could  admit  of  no 
marked  delay,  no  interval ;  all  their 
faculties  being  wound  up,  and  hur- 
rying on  to  the  horrid  catastrophe. 
Potter,  too,  writes  with  the  same  fine 
feeling  of  the  truth.  "  ./Eschylus,"  lie 
says,  "  was  as  sensible  as  any  of  his 
critics  could  be  of  the  impropriety 
of  making  Agamemnon  appear  at 
Argos  the  day  after  Troy  was  taken, 
but  his  plan  required  it,  and  it  is  so 
finely  executed,  that  he  must  be  a 
critic  minorum  gentium  who  objects 
to  it.  The  whole  narrative  of  the 
Herald  is  calculated  to  soften  this 


Greek  Drama.     No.  T. 


1831.] 

impropriety;  a  tempest  separates  the 
royal  ship  from  the  Fleet ;  some  god 
preserves  it,  and  Fortune,  the  deli- 
verer, guides  it  into  the  harbour ; 
every  thing  is  as  rapid  and  impetu- 
ous as  the  genius  of  ^Eschylus,  and 
the  expression  is  so  carefully  guard- 
ed, that  no  hint  is  given  of  the  ves- 
sel's being  at  sea  more  than  one 
night."  Miiller,  we  are  happy  to  see, 
though  a  German,  also  applauds  all 
this  daring,  and  says  vigorously,  that 
^Eschylus  "  fieri  jussit!"  He  order- 
ed it  so,  and  it  was  right. 

Clytemnestra,  who  had  been  apart 
during  the  previous  conversation  be- 
tween the  Herald  and  the  Chorus, 
now  approaches,  and  addresses  the 
Herald  in  a  long  hypocritical  speech 
— of  which  the  hypocrisy — "  the  only 
evil  thing  that  walks  unseen,"  is  per- 
fect. She  sends  a  message  to  her 
Lord. 

"  Go  bear  this  message  to  my  noble  lord : 
'  Come  quickly  to  thy  city,  much-loved 

Prince, 
Come  to  thy  consort  true,  whom  thou  wilt 

find 
Such  as  thou  left'st,  a  watch-dog  on  thy 

hearth, 
Good,  gentle,  kind  to  thee,  but  to  thy  foes 


378 


A  bitter  enemy  ;  alike  in  all  Ihings  ; 
Otic  who  has  kept  the  print  yjion  thy  s'als 
For  years  unbroken  and  inviolate  ; 
From  all  but  thee  a  stranger  still  to  plea- 
sure, 

And  by  the.  breath  of  evil  fame  unsullied 
As  the  pure  metal  from  the  dyer's  art.' " 

Lichas,  in  the  Trachiniae,  bears  the 
same  message  from  Deianira  to  Her- 
cules. But  Mr  Symmons  finely 
points  out  the  difference  between 
the  simplicity  of  her  innocence,  and 
the  arttulness  of  the  other's  guilt. 
Deianira,  innocent  and  attached,  says 
nothing  of  her  innocence  or  her  at- 
tachment ;  but  Clytemnestra,  guilty, 
loudly  professes  both  one  and  the 
other. 

The  Herald  then  gives  that  most 
eloquent  description  of  storm  and 
shipwreck  alluded  to  by  Potter,  and 
the  Chorus  —  Clytemnestra  having 
entered  the  palace — again  takes  up 
the  strain — almost  as  doleful  as  be- 
fore— but  containing  one  passage  of 
consummate  beauty,  of  which  we 
give  Mr  Summons's  translation.  It 
is  a  description  of  Helen — the  De- 
stroyer of  Ships — or  of  Helandros — 
the  Destroyer  of  Men — or  of  Helep- 
tolis — the  Destroyer  of  Cities. 


SYMMONS. 

When  first  she  came  to  Ilion's  towers, 

O  what  a  glorious  sight,  I  ween,  was  there ! 

The  tranquil  beauty  of  the  gorgeous  queen 

Hung  soft  as  breathless  summer  on  her  cheeks, 

Where  on  the  damask  sweet  the  glowing  Zephyr  slept ; 

And  like  an  idol  beaming  from  its  shrine, 

So  o'er  the  floating  gold  around  her  thrown.   ,»'iit\ 

Her  peerless  face  did  shine ; 

And  though  sweet  softness  hung  upon  their  lids, 

Yet  her  young  eyes  still  wounded  where  they  look'd. 

She  breathed  an  incense  like  Love's  perfumed  flower, 

Blushing  in  sweetness ;  so  she  seem'd  in  hue, 

And  pained  mortal  eyes  with  her  transcendent,  view  : 

E'en  so  to  Paris'  bed  the  lovely  Helen  came. 

But  dark  Erinnys,  in  the  nuptial  hour, 

Rose  in  the  midst  of  all  that  bridal  pomp, 

Seated  midst  the  feasting  throng, 

Amidst  the  revelry  and  song ; 

Erinnys,  led  by  Xenius  Jove, 

Into  the  halls  of  Priam's  sons, 

Erinnys  of  the  mournful  bower, 
Where  youthful  brides  weep  sad  in  midnight  hour. 

But  why  tarries  Agamemnon  ?  Where  linger  the  wheels  of  his  chariot  ? 
He  comes— he  comes— and  with  him  the  captive  Cassandra.  The  Chorus 
thus  hails  the  king : 

"  O  king!  O  sacker  of  Troy,  town  divine! 

Sprung  from  Atreus'  godlike  line, 

How  shall  I  speak  thee  ?  How  admire  ?"  &c, 


874  Greek  Drama.    No.  I.  [Aug. 

Agamemnon,  before  making  any  reply  to  their  greeting,  says  be  must  first 
salute  Argos,  and  the  indigenous  Gods  of  the  Land.  Having  done  so,  how 
like  a  Warrior-King  he  speaks  of  war ! 

"  Ye  may  now  see  the  captive  city  far 

In  smoke  discernible  :  its  embers  burn. 

The  hurricane  of  Ate  scarce  is  spent : 

The  ashes  pale  laid  on  their  fever'd  bed, 

Together  with  the  dying  city  die, 

And  gather  up  their  latest  breath  to  blow 

Clouds  of  rich  freightage  to  the  vasty  skies  ! 

For  this  we  are  your  debtor*,  mighty  Gods, 

And  we  must  pay  you  with  a  mindful  heart, 

And  celebration  of  recording  rites, 

For  our  great  hunters'  toils  with  cunning  hand 

Laid  to  our  hearts'  content,  and  haughty  Troy 

(All  for  a  woman  lost)  razed  to  the  ground ; 

Bearing  the  Argive  dragon  when  the  Horse 

Yean'd  in  the  city  its  terrific  birth, 

Who  bounding  burst,  with  helm  and  high-tost  shield 

Brandish'd  in  air,  horrific  on  the  night, 

The  Pleiads  setting  in  their  paly  spheres; 

And  the  fierce  lion  made  a  bound  in  air, 

And  high  o'er  tower  and  temple  rampant  came, 

And  with  red  jaws  lick'd  up  the  blood  of  kings." 

The  King  of  Men  then  moralizes  and  philosophises  to  the  Chorus  in  a  Style 
worthy  of  him,  and  then  looking  at  his  palace,  says— . 

"  But  now  straight  entrance  to  the  house  111  make, 
There  to  pour  out  the  gladness  of  my  soul 
Before  the  hearths  unto  my  household  Gods, 
Who  gave  me  conduct  to  far  distant  climes, 
And  now  return  me  to  their  sacred  domes  j 
And  may  firm  victory  abide  for  aye, 
Since  hitherto  my  steps  she  has  attended." 

And   now    Clytemnestra    comes     and  frigid.    So  it  is— and  why  ?  Be- 
tortn  from  the  palace— and  how  doth     cause  her  heart  was  hot  with  its  own 

hell— and  therefore,  to  prevent  the 

«  She-wolf  of  Greece,  with  unrelentless     Z^T  f?°?  *™*™%  outof  her 
fs  mouth,  she  first  compressed  her  lips 

That  tearcsVthe  bowels  of  thy  mangled      ***  £¥  ^T^V^ '  When  ^ 
mate!».  felt  that  she  had  the  flames  safely 

smothered  for  a  while,  she  became 

How  dost  thou  hide  thy  murderous  prolix — and  then  she  ventured  steal- 
intents  in  that  deep  and  high  swell-  thily  upon  affectionateness  of  man- 
ing  bosom,  on  which  lay  last  night  ner— and  then  at  last  she  hailed  the 
the  head  of  Egisthus  ?  That  learn-  doomed  Hero  with  the  honeyed 
ed  wiseacre,  Is.  Casaub,  dares  to  say  words  of  connubial  love  and  delight, 
— "  Congressus  primus  Clytemnes-  adoration  and  venerence.  And  Is. 
trse  et  Agamemnonis.  HJBC  tota  pars  Casaub  said,  ^Eschylus  inscite  !  But 
friget.  jEschylus  inscite  ;  Seneca  Potter,  who  was  a  fine  fellow,  knew 
evitavit  haec."  And  afterwards  he  better,  and  his  words  are  worthy  of 
saith — "  Hie  proimum  Clytemnes-  being  recorded  in  Maga.  "  Accord- 
tra  Agamemnonem,  quam  frigide,  ing  to  the  simplicity  of  ancient 
quam  prolixe !"  Poor  gentleman  !  manners,"  quoth  this  excellent  and 
he  prefers  Seneca  to  ^Eschylus  !  eloquent  clergyman,  "  Clytemnestra 
^Eschylus,  in  the  opinion  of  Is.  Ca-  should  have  Availed  to  receive  her 
saub  wrote  here  ignorantly — with  husband  in  the  house;  but  her  af- 
no  knowledge  of  human  nature  !  fected  fondness  led  her  to  disregard 
The  address  of  Clytemnestra  is  cold  decorum.  Nothing  can  be  concei- 


1831.]  Greek  Drama.    No.  1.  875 

ved  more  artful  than  her  speech ;  beyond  nature,  which  expresses  her 
but  that  shews  that  her  heart  had  strong  passions  in  broken  sentences, 
little  (no)  share  in  it;  her  pretended  and  with  a  nervous  brevity,  not  with 
sufferings  [she  asserts  she  nad  thrice  the  cold  formality  of  a  set  harangue, 
tried  to  hang  herself,  but  always  Her  last  words  are  another  instance 
unfortunately  got  cut  down.  C.  N.]  of  the  double  sense  which  expresses 
during  his  absence,  are  touched  with  reverence  to  her  husband,  but  in- 
great  delicacy  and  tenderness ;  but  tends  the  bloody  design  with  which 
had  they  been  real,  she  would  not  her  soul  was  agitated." 
have  stopped  him  with  the  querulous  Thus  far  Potter,  who  had  a  soul 
recital;  the  joy  for  his  return,  had  to  understand  ^Eschylus  —  though 
she  felt  that  joy,  would  have  broke  hardly  a  pen  equal  to  translate  him 
out  first;  this  is  deferred  to  the  lat-  — but  Mr  Symmons  has — and  what 
ter  part  of  her  address;  then,  in-  can  be  nobler,  in  his  version,  than 
deed,  she  has  amassed  every  image  the  concluding  part  of  Clytemnes- 
expressive  of  emotion ;  but  her  soli-  tea's  address  ? 
citude  to  assemble  these,  leads  her 

.....         Meantime 

The  gushing  fountains,  whence  so  many  tears 
Chasing  each  other  trickled  on  my  cheeks, 
Are  quite  run  out,  and  left  without  a  drop } 
And  these  sad  eyes,  which  so  late  took  their  rest, 
Are  stain'd  with  blemish  by  late  watching  hours, 
Weeping  for  thee  by  the  pale  midnight  lamp, 
That  burnt  unheeded  by  me.     In  my  dreams 
I  lay,  my  couch  beset  with  visions  sad, 
And  saw  thee  oft  in  melancholy  woe ! 
More  than  the  waking  Time  could  show,  I  saw 
A  thousand  dreary  congregated  shapes, 
And  started  oft,  the  short-lived  slumber  fled, 
Scai-ed  by  the  night-fly's  solitary  buzz  : 
But  now  my  soul,  so  late  o'ercharged  with  woe, 
Which  had  all  this  to  hear,  is  now  the  soul 
Of  one  who  has  not  known  what  mourning  Is, 
And  now  would  fain  address  him  thus,  e'en  thus  : 
This  is  the  dog  who  guards  the  wattled  fold ; 
This  is  the  mainsheet  which  the  sails  and  yards 
Of  some  tall  ship  bears  bravely  to  the  winds ; 
This  is  the  pillar  whose  long  shaft  from  earth 
Touches  the  architrave  of  some  high  house ; 
A  child  who  is  the  apple  of  the  eye 
To  the  fond  father  who  has  none  but  him ; 
Ken  of  the  speck  of  some  fair-lying  land, 
Seen  by  pale  seamen  wellnigh  lost  to  hope • 
A  fair  day,  sweetest  after  tempest  showers ; 
A  fountain  fresh,  with  crystal  running  clear, 
To  the  parch'd  traveller  who  thirsts  for  drink : 
So  in  each  shift  of  sad  necessity 
'Tis  sweet  to  be  deliver'd  hard  beset. 
Thus  my  fond  heart,  with  speeches  such  as  these, 
Pays  to  his  worthiness  what  she  thinks  due : 
Let  no  one  grudge  me  the  sweet  pleasure  now, 
But  think  upon  the  sorrows  I  have  borne. 
But  now,  O  thou  most  precious  to  my  eyes ! 
Light  from  thy  car :  but  soft ;  step  not  on  earth 4 
Lay  not  thy  foot,  O  king  !   Troy's  overturner, 
On  the  bare  ground.     Why  dally  ye,  my  women, 
Who  have't  in  charge,  by  my  command,  to  lay 
The  field  with  tapestry  whereon  he  walks  ? 
Quick  strew  it,  cover  it ;  let  all  the  road 
Be  like  a  purple  pavement  to  the  house. 
That  Dice  to  bis  house  may  lead  him  on 


376  Graft  Drama.    No. ./» 

As  the  unhoped-for  comer  should  be  led : 
]VJy  care,  that  sloops  not,  shall  do  all  the  rest; 
Do  all  that  duty  at  my  hand  requires, 
If  Gods  will  hear  me,  and  the  Fates  allow. 

The  king  replies  with  much  tender-     is  not  insensible  to  the  fame  which 
ness,  calling  Clytemnestrft  attends  him    as  the    conqueror   of 

Asia — but  he  shews  that  manly  firm- 
Daughter  of  Leda!  guardian  of  my     negs    of   mm(1    &ml   that    be/om;ng 

house  moderation  which  distinguishes  the 

Well  has    thou  spoken,  a*  a  true  w.fe     .sober    ^    rf  ^   ^inf  of   Argos 

from  the  barbaric  pride  of  an  Asia- 

but  he  tries  to  dissuade  her  from  tic  monarch.   The  part  which  he  has 

lier  fond  intention  of  strewing  his  to  act  is  indeed  short — but  it  gives 

path    with     purple    garments— pa-  us  a  picture  of  the  highest  military 

geantries  these  fit  only  for  the  gods,  glory  and  of  true  regal  virtue,  and 

Well    saith   Potter,  that   Agamem-  shews  us  that,  as  a  man,  he  was  mo- 

non  appears  here  in  the  most  ami-  dest,  gentle,  and  humane, 
able  light— :he  knows  his  dignity  and 

•  A  being,  as  T  am,  but  of  to-day, 

To  walk  in  such  high  state  bedizen'd  out 

With  flaunting  purples,  studiously  devised 

With  quaint  embroidery,  beneath  my  feet — 

Not  without  fears  and  terrors  could  I  do  it! 

According  to  a  man's  height,  not  a  God's, 

Take  measure  of  the  duty  thou  would'st  pay  me. 

Though  not  on  purple  rests  she  her  bare  feet, 
.  -    .         Nor  yet  with  cloth  of  gold  is  cover'd  o'er, 

Fame  is  heard  far  and  wide — so  loud  she  cries. 

To  be  possest  of  that  clear  soul  within 

That  thinks  no  folly,  but  is  wise  and  meek, 
'  Ts  the  most  precious  jewel  God  can  give  : 

And  blazon  not  the  happiness  of  man 

Till  he  has  ended  life,  still  ever  blest 

In  that  sweet  state  which  fixed  to  the  end 

Stands  like  a  constant  summer  all  his  days. 

Let  me  speed  thus  hereafter  in  all  things 


As  well  as  up  to  now,  my  soul  will  be 
Full  of  a  happy  confidence  serene. 

But  Clytemnestra  will  not  be  dis-  then,  shewing  Cassandra,  requests 

suaded  from  her  fond  purpose  of  the   Queen  to  be  kind  to  her  —  for 

strewing  the  ground  with   purple  that  "  God  beholds  the  gentle  ruler 

garments  for  his  feet,  walking,  after  governing  with  mildness  his  subject 

that  ten    years'   absence,   into  his  slaves."    He  then  declares  that  he 

Palace  —  and    the   King    relenting,  is  ready  so  to  walk  into  the  Palace 

nt  last  gives  his  consent.    He  calls  as  she  wishes. 

on  "  some  one"  to  "  take  off  the  ..  , 

.,        c          ,  i      c          ,  .      *•„„»»»  I  will  unto  the  mansions  of  the  house 

pride  or  sandals  trom  Ins  teet  —  ,T        ,.    ^ 

"   i,      r  i     i         i_*              v       »  Move,  footing  it  on  purples  as  I  go. 
"  the  thralls  of  the  haughty  treading," 

Test  the  "  grudge  of  some  god's  eye         Then  exclaims  Clytemnestra  — 
throw  its  long  cast  upon  him"  —  and 

Who'll  quench  that  sea,  which  gives  us  plenteous  store 
Of  beaming  purples  from  her  azure  caves, 
Eternal  dyer  of  the  blood-red  robes, 
That  sparkle  o'er  the  silver's  paly  shine? 
Thy  house,  O  King,  has  plenteous  store  of  these  ; 
•"  •  'Tis  no  poor  house,  blest  be  the  gracious  Gods  ! 

*  These  gorgeous  robes  were  dust  beneath  my  feet, 

•  When  deep  in  domes  oracular  I  pray'd, 

KissM  the  pale  shrines,  and  pour'd  forth  many  a  vow 

81 


XJti.  .  IO7 


1881.]  Greek  Drama.     No,  I. 

To  give  the  Gods  all  I  could  give,  in  barter 

Of  their  kind  grace  to  save  a  life  so  dear  ! 

The  root  is  living,  and  the  lauiel  thrives, 

And  makes  a  sweet  walk  for  us  under  shade, 

When  the  hot  dog-star  rages  in  the  skies. 

The  lord  is  come  !   the  household  hearth  burns  bright, 

And  merrily  the  winter  days  we  pass. 

And  now  the  pale  grapes  turn  to  luscious  wine, 

The  vintage  comes,  Jove  treads  the  purple  vat ; 

We  joy  beneath  the  noontide  air  imbrown'd, 

Stretch'd  in  cool  zephyrs  under  bovver  and  hall, 

And  sweetly  live  !    Our  lord  he  is  at  home  ! 

A  man  in  prime,  frequenting  his  glad  halls. 

Jove  !  Jove  !   thou  perfect  and  perfecting  one, 

Perfect  my  prayers,  and  whatsoe'er  to  do 

Thou  hast  in  hand,  to  do  it  be  thy  care. 


3?7 


All  this  is  very  dreadful — nor  do  we 
hesitate  to  say,  equal  to  any  thing  in 
Shakspeare.  In  translating  ^Eschy- 
lus.Symmons  has  here  "quitted  him- 
self like  Samson." 

How  characteristic  and  sublime 
this  last  speech  of  Clytemnestra ! 
With  all  the  pomp,  profusion,  and 
prodigality  of  a  Queen,  hasshe  lavish- 
ed cost  upon  cost  unappreciable,  on 
the  pageant  that  leads  her  victim  into 
th«  house  of  murder;  and  with  what 
a  frenzied  eloquence  of  exulting  joy 
does  she  pour  over  it  intenser  splen- 
dour !  She  bathes  and  steeps  it  all 
in  the  poetry  of  blood.  When  she 
calls  the  sea 

"  Eternal  dyer  of  the  blood-red  robes," 

you  feel  on  what  her  imagination  is 
running— the  tunic  in  which  her 
husband  is  about  to  be  helplessly 
involved  in  the  bath,  empurpled  then 
as  the  garments  on  which,  to  gratify 
her,  he  now  sets  unwillingly  his 
princely  feet.  She  pours  a  brighter 
light,  because  never  before  was  her 
heart  so  elate,  upon  the  household 
hearth,  than  ever  she  saw  it  shining 
with  ere  she  meditated  murder. 
"  The  lord  is  come !  the  household  hearth 
burns  bright !" 

And  then  how  she  revels,  seemingly 
in  a  holy  joy,  over  the  holiest  images 
of  domestic  bliss  !  She  would  have 
said  to  her  husband,  "there's  blood 
upon  thy  face!"  She  would  have 
touched  it  with  her  lips — licked  it 
with  her  tongue — an  antepast  of  her 
revenge.  Believe  all  that  welcoming 
sincere,  and  she  seems  au  angel. 
Know  that  'tis  all  deceitful,  and  she 
is  worse  than  the  wickedest  of  the 

VOL.  XXX.  NO.  CLXXXIV. 


Demons.  How  religious !  How  im- 
pious !  How  blasphemous ! 

"  Jove  !  Jove !   thou  perfect  and  perfect- 
ing one, 

Perfect  my  prayers,  and  whatsoe'er  to  do 
Thou  lia-t  in  hand,  to  do  it  he  thy  care." 

Turn  from^Eschylus  to  Shakspeare* 
from  Agamemnon  to  Macbeth.  When 
King  Duncan  is  about  to  enter  the 
Castle  in  which  he  is  murdered, 
what  says  he  ? 

"  This  Castle  hath  a  pleasant  seat ;  the 

air 

Nimbly  and  sweetly  recommends  itself 
Unto  our  gentle  senses. 

Banquo.     This  guest  of  summer, 
The    temple-haunting    martlet,  does  ap- 
prove, 
By  his  lov'd  mansionry,  that  the  heaven '» 

breath 
Smells  wooingly  here;   no  jutty,  frieze, 

buttress, 
Nor  coigne  of  vantage,  but  this  bird  hath 

made 
His  pendent  bed  and  procreant  cradle  : 

Where  they 
Most  breed  and  haunt,  I  have  observed, 

the  air 
Is  delicate." 

And  how  does  Lady  Macbeth  re- 
ceive her  king?— she  who  some  short 
hour  before  had  said, 

"  Come  !  thick  night, 
And  pall  thee  in  the  dunnest    smoke  of 

hell  ! 
That  my  keen  knife  see  not  the  wound  it 

makes  !" 

Why,  she  receives  her  king  as  a  lady 
should,  with  bland  aspect  and  a  gen- 
tle voice,  but  over -courteously ,  mark 
ye  that,  for  the  wife  of  a  Highland 
Thane. 

2B 


378 


Greek  Drama.    No,  I. 


[Aug. 


"  All  our  service 
In  every  point  twice  done,  and  then  done 

double, 

Were  poor  and  single  business,  to  contend 
Against  those  honours  deep  and  broad 

wherewith 
Your  Majesty  loads  our  house  :  for  those 

of  old, 

And  the  late  dignities  heap'd  up  to  them, 
We  rest  your  hermits." 

"Tis  not  so  bad,  perhaps,  to  murder 
one's  king  as  one's  husband.  But 
both  are  bad,  very  bad ;  and  then  such 
hypocrisy  is  unpardonable ! 

People  will  write  about  what  they 
do  not  understand — perhaps  we  are 
doing  so  now — but  we  hope  the  best. 
The  ingenious  reviewer  of  Schlegel 
on  the  Drama,  in  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
view, (the  number  is  an  old  one,  and 
the   reviewer,   we  believe,  was  Mr 
Hazlitt,  who  could  not  read  the  Greek 
alphabet,)  endeavours,  after  Schlegel, 
to  state  the  essential  distinction  be- 
tween the  peculiar  spirit  of  the  mo- 
dern or  romantic  style  of  art,  and  the 
antique  or  classical.  All  he  can  make 
out  is  this — that  the  moderns  employ 
a  power  of  illustration  which  the  an- 
cients did  not,  in  comparing  the  ob- 
ject to  other  things,  and  suggesting 
Other  ideas  of  beauty  or  love  than 
those  which  seem  to  be  naturally  in- 
herent in  it.     And   he  explains  his 
meaning  by  reference  to  Shakspeare's 
description  of  soldiers  going  to  battle, 
.Yjnr"  All  plumed  like  estriches,  like 
eagles  new  bathed,  wanton  as  goats, 
wildas  young  bulls."  "  That,"  he  says, 
"is  too  bold,  figurative,  and  profuse  of 
dazzling  images,  for  the  mild  equable 
tone  of  classical  poetry,  which  never 
loses  sight  of  the  object  in  the  illus- 
tration.    The  ideas  of  the  ancients 
were   too   exact   and   definite,   too 
much  attached  to  the  material  form 
or  vehicle  in  which  they  were  con- 
veyed, to  admit  of  those  rapid  com- 
binations, those  unrestrained  flights 
of  fancy,  which,  glancing  from  earth 
to  heaven,  unite  the  most  opposite 
extremes,  and   draw  the    happiest 
illustrations   from  things   the  most 
remote."     Alas!  for  the  futility  of 
philosophical    criticism,   when    the 
philosopher  and  critic  happens  to  be 
utterly  ignorant  of  the  life  and  soul 
of  the  subject-matter  on  which  he 
philosophizes  !  There  is  no  glancing 
from  earth  to  heaven  in  thai  passage 
of  Shakspeare.      The    images    are 
closely  connected  with  each  other, 


and  with  the  earth  —  estriches  and 
eagles—  goats  and  bulls.  But  let  the 
reader  look  back  "on  Clytemnestra's 
first  speech  of  welcome  to  Agamem- 
non, and  to  her  speech  on  his  agree- 
ing to  walk  over  the  purple  path  to 
the  palace  —  and  then  consider  with 
himself  on  the  knowledge  or  igno- 
rance, the  wisdom  or  folly,  of  saying 
that  the  ancients  "  never  lost  sight 
of  the  object  in  the  illustration;" 
and  that  to  do  so  would  not  be  con- 
sistent with  the  "  mild  equable  tone 
of  classical  poetry  !  !  !" 

Agamemnon  is  now  within  the  pa- 
lace which  he  will  never  again  leave 
alive,  and  the  Chorus  renews  his 
waitings  —  more  wotul,  the  nearer 
they  come  to  the  catastrophe.  Por- 
tents keep  flitting  before  his  eyes, 
and  then  again  he  recovers  cou- 
rage, and  chants  a  less  lugubrious 
strain.  He  labours,  says  Mr  Sym- 
mons,  under  a  forced  and  involun- 
tary inspiration.  In  his  character  of 
man,  and  with  reference  merely  to 
his  human  faculties,  he  is  described 
as  totally  unconscious  and  unsuspi- 
cious of  a  plot,  not  only  then,  but 
even  subsequently,  when  the  catas- 
trophe is  presented  more  to  his  eyes  ; 
but  in  his  character  of  prophet,  and 
actuated  by  a  sudden  inspiration,  he, 
throughout  one  passage  in  this  Ode, 
darkly  adumbrates  the  death  of  Aga- 
memnon. He  sings, 

"  Many  a  time  the  gallant  Argosie, 
That  bears  man's  destiny  with  outspread 

sails, 

In  full  career  before  the  prosperous  gales, 
Strikes  on  a  hidden  rock, 
And  founders  with  a  hideous  shock  !" 

That  image  is  perhaps  but  the  sug- 
gestion of  a  melancholy  fancy,  brood- 
ing over  the  instability  of  human  af- 
fairs. But  having  been  led  to  this 
point  by  an  involuntary  train  of  re- 
flections, here,  says  Mr  Symmons, 
very  finely,  "  here,  as  it  were,  he 
scents  the  blood  ;  he  catches,  as  it 
were,  a  glimpse  behind  the  curtain, 
when  all  of  a  sudden  it  drops,  and 
leaves  him  in  darkness,  amidst  the 
embers  of  his  expiring  inspiration." 
Thus,— 


But  O  !  upon  the  earth  when  once 

Black  deadly  blood  of  man, 

Mho  will  fall   up  the  bla<k  bleed    from 

the  Around— 
With  moving  incantation's  charm? 


1831.] 

Check'd  not  Jove  himself  the  man, 

The  mighty  leech,  who  knew  so  well  the 

art 
To  raise  the  silent  dead  ? 

I  pause!  some  fate  from  Heaven  forbids 

The  fate  within  me  utter  more, 

Else  had  my  heart  outran  my  tongue, 

And  pour'd  the  torrent  o'er. 

Silence  and  darkness  close  upon  my  soul, 

She  roars  within,  immured, 

And  in  the  melancholy  gloom 

Of  dying  embers  fades  away  ! 

But  where,  all  this  time,  has  been 
Cassandra?  Sitting  mute  and  mo- 
tionless in  her  chariot,  before  the  pa- 
lace. Agamemnon  and  his  train  have 
all  entered  within  the  gates,  all  but 
the  Trojan  Princess  and  Prophetess. 
But  Clytemnestra  having  got  her 
prime  victim  into  her  clutches,  now 
seizes  upon  the  captive.  She  comes 
out  to  order  in  Cassandra,  with  words 
of  kindness  and  insult,  that  harrow 
up  one's  soul.  "  Come  forth  out  of 
that  wain,  nor  be  too  overweening 
—too  high-stomached  for  thy  lot. 
What!  she  hears  me  not — the  lan- 
guage she  is  mistress  of  is  strange — 
and  like  the  swallow's,  a  barbarian 
talk.  Nay,  I  have  no  time  to  dally 
with  her.  Cannot  she  at  least  speak 
with  inarticulate  barbarian  hand  ?" 
Still  Cassandra  utters  not  a  word. 
The  Chorus,  always  kind,  tries  to 
soothe  her  into  speech  ;  but  she  re- 
mains stone-still  and  stone -mute. 
Her  looks  are  waxing  wild.  For  the 
Chorus  says,  "  That  stranger  maid, 


Greek  Drama.    No.  I. 


the  manner  of  her  bearing  is,  as  it 
were,  of  a  wild  beast's  newly  caught !" 
— "  Why,  yes,"  cries  Clytemnestra, 
savagely  ;  "  why,  sure  she  looks  as 
if  she  would  rave — she  who  comes 
among  us  from  a  new-sacked  city 
with  all  its  horrors  fresh  upon  her 
soul !  She  champs,  and  knows  not 
yet  how  to  bear  the  bridle  ;  but  soon 
shall  her  bloody  mettle  be  foamed 
away.  But  no  longer  will  I  submit 
to  such  dishonouring;  thus  casting 
away  words  upon  Her  !"  and  Cly- 
temnestra re-enters  the  palace. 

Then  comes  the  Scene  of  Scenes 
— the  Inspiration  of  Inspirations — 
the  Immortal  Prophetic  Ravings  of 
Cassandra.  We  remember  dear  old 
Henry  Mackenzie  once  descanting 
to  us  with  his  mild  volubility  on  the 
prodigious  power  the  Poets  of  our 
modern  ages  possessed  in  describing 
the  workings  of  disordered  intellect — 
a  power  which,  he  said,  was  unknown 
to  the  ancients.  He  had  forgotten  all 
the  Three  Greek  Tragedians;  but  we 
ventured  to  read  off-hand — transla- 
ting as  we  went — the  madness  of  Cas- 
sandra. The  old  man  was  astonish- 
ed, and  confessed  that  it  was  equal 
to  any  thing  in  Shakspeare — to  Lear! 

O  woe,  woe,  woe  !    O  Earth  !    O  Gods ! 
Apollo !   Apollo ! 

So  raves  she  for  a  while,  the  Chorus 
catching  the  contagion,  and  wailing 
in  dismal  harmony  with  the  Prophet- 
ess. Symmons  has  here  all  the  spirit 
of  yEschylus. 


CASSANDRA. 

Ha  !  ha  !  that  dismal  and  abhorred  house  ! 
The  good  Gods  hate  its  dark  and  conscious  walls ! 
It  knows  of  kinsmen  by  their  kinsmen  slain, 
And  many  a  horrid  death-rope  swung  ! 
A  house,  where  men  like  beasts  are  slain  ! 
The  floor  is  all  in  blood ! 

CHORUS. 

The  stranger  seems  sharp-scented  like  a  hound, 
And  searches  as  for  bodies  she  would  find  ! 

CASSANDRA. 

These  are  my  witnesses  !   I  follow  them  ! 
Phantoms  of  children  !  terribly  they  weep  ! 
Their  throats  cut !  and  the  supper  that  I  see 
Of  roast  flesh  smoking,  that  their  father  eat*  ! 

CHORUS. 

We  heard,  O  prophetess,  of  thy  great  name ; 
Aye— but  we  want  no  prophets  in  this  house. 

CASSANDRA. 

Alas !  ye  Gods,  what  is  she  thinking  on  ? 

And  what  is  this  that  looks  so  young  and  fresh  ? 

Mighty,  mighty  is  the  load 

She  is  unravelling  in  these  dark  halls  ! 


A  ,«>7i      ,m\u»<l  &•&  tx»  .  f.M  i 

980  GVef  h  Drama.    No.  1.  [Aug. 


A  foul  deed  lor  her  dear  1'i-ifinU  ploltelb  she,  ,  i 
Too  sore  to  bear,  and  waxing  past  all  cure  !  ..-<  {,„/ 
Where's  Suoeour?  lied  far  off!  Where's  Help?  it  stands  at  bay  ! 

tei9Woi  bbbtdujj       CHORUS.  ,  ^jbij 

What  means  she  now  ?  'twas  lately  AtreuV  feast; 
'Tis  an  old  story,  and  the  city's  talk. 

,89-tiup  xI«A*«AMU«A.  |«  JO 

Alas!  ah  wretch,  ah!   what  art  thou  aliout?,,  jjiuaru? 
A  man's  in  the  bath—  beside  him  there  stands    ...     ., 
One  wrapping  him  round—  the  bathing  clothes  drop, 
Like  shrouds  they  appear  to  me,  dabbled  in  blood  ! 
<)  for  to  see  what  stands  there  at  the  end  !    ooofd  ,i«vT 
Yet  'twill  be  quick  —  'tis  now  upon  the  stroke  !     .f^nT 
A  hand  is  stretch  'd  out—  and  another,  too  ! 
As  though  it  were  a-  grasping—  look,  look,  look! 

setiod  ^iCHOfcVfcsujo  y|A  -wad  gitiina  10 
'Tis  yet  all  dark  to  me  :  by  riddles  posjfonl^d  »d*  nl 
I  find  no  way  in  these  blind  oracles.  ,1  sdi  «<jitis  ria»3 

tjit»3J  Iff.  CASSANDRA.  ,|  1&A  HO  mjtoH 

.  Ha,  ha  !     Alas,  alas  !     What's  that  ?  ,  .id  -.i  ,j(  // 

Is  that  hell's  dragnet  that  I  see?          >[«q  u[  b'rioJ9-iJ3 
Dragnet!  or  woman  !  she,  the  very  she        ii  ob  !  sH 
Who  slept  beside  thee  in  the  midnight  bower*  brfj  ^H 
Wife  and  rourd'ress  !   Howl,  dark  quirsssAij  adaidivVL 
Howl  in  limbreld  anthems  dark 
.•For.  A  treus'  deadly  line, 

And  the  stony  shower  of  blood.  ..(•  in<)d  ,«»moO 
!  aeuod  eirfr  i'  CHORDS.  ?rtj  IIsv?  -vottil  I  .tadT 
Ye  Gods  !  what  vengeance  of  a  Fury's  this 

I  —  eiP  ^atefisf^HMliiHd'i'st  take  up  hw  clarion  in  these  halls?       )fj,| 
Jlhi  9jfoqg  I  Jjjd  ,•!•.'  As  I  heard  thy  doleful  word, 

9nonnol889Tg8flBJJvr'Chasi:d  is  my  merry  sprite,  ,{(J0  9fj|  8B7/  ft,|  J  oIIoqA 

«'.ef.v,  And  trickling  up  my  heart  has*  run    f.,f{jB91(l 
The  Idood-d  n  ip  changed  to  saffron  hue  ; 
Which  from  the  spear-fallen  man  <  Q  .> 
!  wnP"»P»  aPace  uP°n  the  ground,  8tlfsfl  9dT 

Flitting  together  with  the  rays  ,R  ,rfj  OJ  JTBH 
Of  the  setting  sun  of  life.  .od  io  M9lliss!{,  9lJT 


, 

Ha,  ha  !  see  there  !  see  there  ! 

Keep  the  bull  from  the  heifer,  drive,  drive  her  away  ! 

The  bull  is  eiichat'ed  and  houdwink'd,  and  roars  ; 

His  black  branching  horns  have  received  the  death  stab! 

He  sprawls  and  falls  headlong  !   he  lies  in  the  bath, 

Beside  the  great  smouldering  cauldron  that  burns 

The  an  ild  ro  1  1  burns,  —  it  has  a  deadly  blue  ! 

In  many  a  lovely  lay  Cassandra  then  put  that  bad  sprite  into  thy  mind  — 

laments  her  lost  delights  —  when  like  with  the  power  of  a  demon,  and  with 

a  nightingale  she  used  to  sing  in  her  strong  heavy  spells,  making  death- 

native  groves  —  and  interweaves  mag-  bearing  outcries  and  horrible  moans  ! 

ni  fit-cut    pictures    of  the   destruc-  I   am   confounded  —  and   know   not 

tion  of  Troy.     All  holy  feasts,   sa-  what  may  be  the  end."  Cassandra 

crifice,  and  blood  of  kine,  when  her  cries,  "  Butthou'lt  know  it  soon  !  No 

father  kept  festival  in  his  old  bow-  longer  like  a  bride  veils  the  God  his 

ers,  all  unavailing  !  Nought  availed  visage  !  The   oracle  peeps  through 

the  sacrifice  gorged  with  the  blood  the    mistiness  —  driving  the   clouds 

of  the  rich  meadow-feeders,  to  save  eastwards  —  Blow  !  blow  !  ye  winds  ! 

the  sacred  city  !  "She  passed  through  for   soon    he   will  come!    he   will 

the   storm  of    passion   and    suft'cr-  come  !    rolling  his   woes  upon   the 

ing,  even  as  I  now  shall  pour  out  beach  of  storms  !  soon  out  of  the 

soon    my    warm    blood    upon    the  troubled  deep  will  he  stir  up  huger 

earth!"     "  Hush!  hush  !"  sings  the  far,  and  dashing  in  daylight  a  wave 

Chorus  —  "  'Tis  some  God  who  hath  against  the  eastern  clift'!" 


1831.1  Greek  Drama.    No.  I.  381 

,Sfif.  .     v\  iViv  A  0~<H 

I  shall  have  no  more 

To  teach  you  in  enigmas ;    I'll  speak  plaiti.*1^  Juoi  A 
And  be  ye  witness  whilst  I,  snuffing  blood,"'  vio*  x»T 
*«  "'Run  on  the  footsteps  of  things  done  of  old;urf  aVwd/f 
Pale  phantoms  brood  within  yon  guarded  towers, 
And  ne'er  do  vanish  from  the  spectred  halbwjsrti  JfcdV/ 
Screams  are  heard  nightly,  and  a  dismal  diii>'o  na  siT' 
Of  strange,  terrific,  and  unearthly  quires, 
Singing  in  horrid,  full  harmonic  chowH'»fw  As  :  a»f  A 
Like  what  they  sing  of  !  nothing  good  friftrnnlniim  A 
And  there  are  those,  who  bide  within  the  housef  J'iO 
Right  hard  to  drive  such  inmates  out  of  d<toMpHe  »A'iJL 
For,  blood  of  mortal  man  since  they  have  drank,iol  O 
Their  riot  more  unquenchable  does  gr^wpjsd  Hi'wJ'  )sT 
The  Masque  of  Sisters  !  the  Erinnyes  drearsf  bnad  A 
They  are  all  seated  in  the  rooms  above,1'  li  dguorfj  aA 
Chanting  how  Ate  came  into  the  house 
In  the  beginning  r  gloomily  they  lookJ'isfo  He  *«"(  aiT 
Each  sings  the  lay  in  catches  round,  each  bms>«  bnd  1 
Foam  on  her  lips,  and  gnashes  grim  her  teeth, 
Where  heavily  the  incestuous  brother  sleeps, 
Stretch'd  in  pale  slumber  on  the  haunted  be«U  JeifJ  el 
Ha  !   do  the  shafts  fly  upright  at  the  mark?    ttnjjBitl 
Fly  the  shafts  right,  or  has  the  yew-bow  uiws'd  ?)>dW 
Mcthinks  the  wild  beast  in  the  covert's  hit;  bn«  »UW 
Or  rave  I,  dreaming  of  prophetic  lies,  " ; 

Like  some  poor  minstrel  knocking  at  the  dooris? 
Come,  bear  thou  witness,  out  with  it  on  oath, 
That  I  know  well  the  old  sins  of  this  house  ! 


"Who  gave  thee,"  asks  the  Chorus,  breath  of  love  and  pleasing  fire — I 
"  the  prophetic  power  ?"  "  Apollo !  said  it  should  be,  but  I  spoke  him 
Apollo !  he  was  the  champion  who  false — and  for  my  transgression  none 

vehemently  breathed  upon  me  the     believed  my  words." 
;««<[  fori&M  o.»  I'^itetlj  qoi&.boold  QdT 

"  O!  O!  hn!  ho!  alas! 

The  pains  again  have  seized  me !   my  brain  turns  ! 
Hark  to  the  alarum  and  prophetic  cries  ! 
The  dizziness  of  horror  swims  my  head  ! 
D'ye  see  those  yonder,  sitting  on  the  towers? 
Like  dreams  their  figures!   Blood-red  is  their  hairl 
Like  young  ones  murder'd  by  some  kinsmen  false; 
Horrible  shadows !  with  hands  full  of  flesh  ! 
Their  bowels  and  their  entrails  they  hold  up, 
Their  own  flesh,  O  most  execrable  dish? 
They  hold  it ;  out  of  it  their  father  ate ! 
But  in  revenge  of  them  there's  one  who  plots, 

-— bniffl  idt  oJnA  certain  homebred,  crouching,  coward  lion  ;,.f  ^f97Of  fi  ^a&m  OJ 
Ai'w  bnw  .noiij'^?0"  his  lair  the  rolling  liou  ftRgfty—elffaifeb  Jaoliad  a-asma) 
-rijKsb  aa^Bm^Sr?  keePs  b»u8e  cl°se»  until  the  coming  of  ^  9rfg  af^o.-j^lj,  K 
iRilBom^Uino.Wy  ^ster!  said  I  master?  Out!  alasl^j  bas__^  *  97i,8ft 
ion  woarf  bm,Iamaslave  and  I  must  bear  the  yoke^  lo  Mluto|  fa^afa 
£-ibaF8eB'3  ".b1gingofthesh1ps,andsackerofgreat'Iroyl  ,}A  Hj,  ,  . 

Ihou  knowst  not  what  a  hateful  bitch s  toncue, 
Glozing  and  fawning,  sleekfaced  all  the  while, 
Will  do!  like  Ate  stealing  in  the  dark! 

Out  on  such  daring!   female  will  turn  slayer  S^™™  "«  ."» 
And  kill  the  male  !  What  name  to  call  her  ?  SnatS,  BOjhaM  9^ 
Horrible  monster,  crested  amphisbana, 
Or  some  dire  Scylla  dwelling  amid  rocks  ! 
Ingulfing  seamen  In  her  howling  caves! 

The  raving  of  Hell's  mother  fires  her  cheeks^oa  I  88  fl9V9  ,g(  f 
And,  like  a  pitiless  Mars,  her  nostrils  breath^  nriuw  ^m  no  ;a 
9 •/«•//  8  irigil'p!  'IrfaiiH"  "! drifts 

eiT'  "— »i/j 


382 


Greek  Drama.    No.  I. 

To  all  around  her  war  and  trumpet's  rage. 

0  what  a  shout  was  there  !    it  tore  the  skies 
As  in  the  battle  when  the  tide  rolls  back! 

'Twas  the  great  cbampioness — how  fierce,  how  fell ! 

No,  'tis  all  joy,  and  welcome  home,  sweet  lord, 

The  war  is  o'er,  the  merry  feast's  begun. 

Well,  well,  ye  don't  believe  me — 'tis  all  one. 

For  why  ?  what  will  be,  will  be ;  time  will  come ; 

Ye  will  be  there,  and  pity  me,  and  say, 

'  She  was  indeed  too  true  a  prophetess.' 

CHORUS. 

The  Thyestean  feast  of  children's  flesh ! 

1  know  it,  and  I  shudder  !   Fear  is  on  me, 
Hearing  it  nothing  liken'd  at  or  sketch'd, 
The  very  truth  ;  but  for  those  other  things, 

I  heard  !  and  fall'n  out  from  the  course  I  ran. 

CASSANDRA. 

I  say  thou  shall  see  Agamemnon's  death ! 

CHORUS. 

Hush,  hush,  unhappy  one,  lie  still  thy  tongue !" 


[Aug. 


"What  MAN?"  asks  the  Chorus, 
"  What  man  such  execrable  deed 
designs?"  "  Of  murder  are  their 
thoughts  ?"  "  I  heard  strange  things 


— strange  rumours  1 — yet  the  name 
of  a  murderer  I  heard  not !"  "  And 
yet  I  know  the  Greek  tongue— 
aye — I  could  speak !" 


"  O  what  a  mighty  fire  comes  rolling  on  me ! 
Help!  help!  Lycean  Apollo!  Ah  me !  ah  met 
She  there,  that  two-legg'd  lioness !  lying  with 
A  wolf,  the  highbred  lion  being  away, 
Will  kill  me !  woful  creature  that  I  am ! 
And  like  one  busy  mixing  poison  up, 
She'll  fill  me  such  a  cup  too  In  her  ire ! 
She  cries  out,  whetting  all  the  while  a  sword 
'Gainst  him,  'tis  me,  and  for  my  bringing  here 
That  such  a  forfeit  must  be  paid  with  death  ! 
O  why  then  keep  this  mockery  on  my  head  ? 
Off  with  ye,  laurels,  necklaces,  and  wands ! 
The  crown  of  the  prophetic  maiden's  gone ! 


Away,  away  !  die  ye  ere  yet  I  die ! 

I  will  requite  your  blessings,  thus,  thus,  thu*  ! 

Find  out  some  other  maiden,  dight  her  rich, 

Ay,  dight  her  rich  in  miseries  like  me  ! 

And  lo !   Apollo  !  himself  !  tearing  off 

My  vest  oracular !   Oh  !  cruel  God  ! 

Thou  hast  beheld  me,  e'en  In  these  thy  robes, 

Scoff'd  at  when  I  was  with  my  kinsmen  deaf, 

And  made  my  enemies'  most  piteous  despite, 

And  many  a  bad  name  bad  I  for  thy  Sake ; 

A  Cybele's  mad-woman,  beggar  priestess, 

Despised,  unheeded,  beggar'd  and  in  hunger  ; 

And  yet  I  bore  it  all  for  thy  sweet  sake. 

And  now  to  fill  thy  cup  of  vengeance  up, 

Prophet,  thou  hast  undone  thy  prophetess  ! 

And  led  me  to  these  passages  of  death ! 

A  block  stands  for  the  altar  of  my  sire  ; 

It  waits  for  me,  upon  its  edge  to  die, 

Stagger'd  with  blows — in  hot  red  spouting  blood ! 

Oh  !  oh  !  but  the  great  Gods  will  hear  my  cries 

Shrilling  for  vengeance  through  the  vaulted  roofs ! 

The  Gods  will  venge  us  when  we're  dead  and  cold. 

Another  gallant  at  death-deeds  will  come! 


[  Tearing  her  robes. 


1831.]  Greek  Drama.    No.  1.  38$ 

Who's  at  the  gates  ?  a  young  man,  fair  and  tall,* 

A  stranger,  by  his  garb,  from  foreign  parts ; 

Or  one  who  long  since  has  been  exiled  here: 

A  stripling,  murderer  of  his  mother's  breast  ! 

Brave  youth,  avenger  of  his  father's  death  ! 

He'll  come  to  build  the  high- wrought  architrave, 

Surmounting  all  the  horrors  of  the  dome. 

I  say,  the  Gods  have  sworn  that  be  shall  come. 

His  father's  corse  (his  crest  lies  on  the  ground) 

Rises,  and  towers  before  him  on  the  road  ! 

What,  mourning  still?  what,  still  my  eyes  in  tears? 

And  here,  too,  weeping  on  a  foreign  land? 

I,  who  have  seen  high-towered  Ilion's  town 

Fall,  as  it  fell ;  whilst  they  who  dwelt  therein 

Are,  as  they  are  !  before  high-judging  Heaven! 

I'll  go  and  do  it !   I'll  be  bold  to  die  ! — 

I  have  a  word  with  ye,  ye  gates  of  Hell ! 

[  To  the  gates  of  the  palace  as  she  is  about  to  enter. 
I  pray  ye,  let  me  have  a  mortal  stroke, 
That  without  struggling,  all  this  body's  blood 
Pouring  out  plenteously,  in  gentle  stream 
Of  easy  dying,  I  may  close  my  eyes !" 

"  O  woful  creature,"   sings  the  burning  sacrifice  I" — "  Like  is  the 

Chorus  —  "  woful,  too,  and  wise!  vapour  as  from  out  a  tomb  P' — "A. 

O  maid !  thou  hast  been  wandering  dismal   character    thou    givest  this 

far  and  wide!  But  if  in  earnest  thou  house!" — "  Well!  well!   I'll  enter, 

dost  know  thy  fate,  why  like  a  hei-  carrying  with  me  all  my  shrieks  !  I'll 

fer,  goaded  by  a  God,  why  fearless  enter !  E'en  in  these  horrid  domes 

dost  thou   walk   to    the    altar  ?" — •  I'll  wail  aloud  myself  and  Agamem- 

"  Foh  !  foh  !  foh  !" — "  What  means  non.  Life,  farewell !  I've  had  enough 

fob  !   foh  !    Some    loathing    at   thy  of  thee  !  But  remember  me  !  A  dy- 

heart  ?"  — "    The    house    breathes  ing  woman  speaks!   For  maid  one 

scents     of     murderous     dropping  day  shall  die  wife!   man  for  man! 

blood !" — "  How  so  ?   'tis  smell  of  for  that  ill-starred  husband  !" 

"  Once  more !  once  more !  oh  let  my  voice  be  heard  ! 

I  love  to  sing  the  dirges  of  the  dead, 

My  own  death  knell,  myself  my  death  knell  ring  ! 

The  sun  rides  high,  but  soon  will  set  for  me; 

O  sun !    I  pray  to  thee  by  thy  last  light, 

And  unto  those  who  will  me  honour  do, 

Upon  my  hateful  murderers  wreak  the  blood 

Of  the  poor  slave  they  murder  in  her  chains, 

A  helpless,  easy,  unresisting  victim  ! 

O  mortal,  mortal  state !  and  what  art  thou? 

E'en  in  thy  glory  comes  the  changing  shade, 

And  makes  thee  like  a  vision  glide  away  '. 

And  then  misfortune  takes  the  moisten'd  sponge, 

And  clean  effaces  all  the  picture  out!" 

Cassandra  enters  the  palace,  and  of  olden  times,  and  dying  to  pay  for- 

the  Chorus,  confounded  and  lost  in  feit  to  the  dead !   Oh !  who  of  mor- 

awe,  moralizes  over  the  dangerous  tals,  as  he  hears  this  story  told,  would 

glories  of  high  estate.   "  The  Gods,"  wish  not  that  his   own  horoscope 

they  say,  "  have  blessed  the  arms  of  might  be  beneath  a  low  and  liarm- 

our  king !  The  Gods  have  given  him  less  star  !" 
the  city  of  Priam.    Home  has  he  re-  «  AGAMEMNON  (within.) 

turned  with  celestial  honours.     But  O  !   O  !  WITHIN  THERE  !   O  !   STABB'O  TO 
what !  if  now  he  is  to  rue  the  blood  DEATH  ! 

. — , . 

*f  Orestes, 


364 


(A-edl  J)ta»HK  - 


[Aug. 


and  then  to  smite  him  on  the  fore- 
head with  her  two-edged  axe — once 
and  again — till  down  he  fell — as  Ho- 
mer says  somewhere  in  the  Odyssey 
— like  an  ox  at  the  stall.  There  was 
no  one  who  dared,  at  the  instigation 
of  Cassandra,  to  "  keep  the  heifer 

f,-,***\       4-1.  <i        Iviil?     "  (H!!.*!       f>-j\fn/l        l.il.l      +st 


FIRST  CHORUS.  "    Uorfj  5*  r«mj 
HlST  !  SOME  ONE  CRIES  !     I  HEAKB  A  Y0K1: 

CRY,  STABB'D  !  :  1^1  ^H)  bif>  bn^ff  i.i 

AGAMEMNON. 

O!  O!  AGAIN!   ANOTHER  BLOW  !   O!  O! 

SECOND  CHORUS.   -3JR  JlOfit  I'.Kl 

'Tis  THE  KING'S  VOICE  !   YE  GODS!  THB 

DEED  is  DOING!  from  the  bulj»     ghe  g-ored  himto 

THIRD  CHORUS.  death— and  then  filled  all  the  byre 

HARK  !   LET  US  QUICKLY  COUNSEL  WHAT  TO        -    ?,i       i  i • .1     1 u_ii_  — 


FOURTH 


ALL  THE  STREETS, 
HELP!   HELP!  AND  SUCCOUR 
LACE-GATES  !" 


with  her  lowings  and  her  bellow- 
ings,  till  echoes  shook  all  the  stalls, 
and  the  floor  ran  with  blood.  You 
would  not  surely  have  had  the  cow- 
ardly /Egisthus  to  slay  his  sovereign  ? 
ynuj  Jfe  .WAS  a  dolt — she  was  a  demon. 
"  Fierce  as  .ten  furies,  terrible  as 
Who  had  murder'd  the  King  of  Men  'i  hell," — she  strode  out  of  the  bath — 
who  ?  Why — who  could  it  with  any  forth  from  the  palace — and,  lo !  she 
propriety  have  been  but  the  Queen  of 
Women  ?  'Twas  fitting  that  none  but 
Clytemnestra  should  murder  Aga- 
memnon. He  was  her  own  husband 


— she  alone  had  a  right  to  shew  him 
Into  the  bath — with  her  own  hands 


cornes  with  the  bloody  axe  over  her 
shoulders,  and  proclaims  the  deed 
to  the  Chorus,  that  they,  like  ballad- 
singers,  may  chant  it  over  Argos. 
"  Here  you  have  a  full  and  particu- 
lar account,"  &c.  Lo  !  she  comes  ! 
ehe  is  here — and  hush  !  for  she  is 


to  put  the  tunic  tenderly  over  his 

shoulders — and  to  enclose  his  heroic     about  to  speak. 

arms  within  its  inextricable  foldsMi'11 

These  hands  nave  struck  Ae  btcr^V 

'Tis  like  the  deeds  that  have  been  done  of  yore  ! 
Past !  and  my  feet  are  now  upon  the  spot ! 
And  so  I  did  it,  and  I'll  not  deny  it, 
That  fly  he  could  not,  nor  himself  defend  ! 
yln'tji-;    bit;    A  net  without  an  outlet,  as  it  were 

A  drag  for  fishes,  round  about  I  staked,  t  baR  tnj£9 

,vJ  a-moly  An  evil  garment !  yet  all  richly  wrought!  ,i(J  fli  qu  ai  luoa  'rail  .Kin 
I  smote  him  twice  :  after  two  groans  his  limlw  ni  irwob  81  luoa  «»jrf 
Sunk  under  him,  and  then  upon  the  ground  9if — ')l-»R'i  OB  9jlil 
I  clove  at  him  again  with  a  third  blow,-  g  aJil  e(v/o 
To  quit  my  vow  to  Hades  under  ground,  .  n-)>{')i'ttB 
Warden  of  dead  men  in  the  pale  blue  lake  1,;  ^fjj  lv)'f 
Thus  falling,  his  own  life  he  renders  up,  <,'  fjRm  |>|o 

'         •  ''  Sighing  and  sobbing  such  a  mighty  gush, 
oJ    bstno-   Which  spouted  from  his  streaming  wounds  amain, 
That  he  cast  on  me  the  black  bloody  drops, 
In  that  black  dew  rejoicing,  as  the  seed*  '"'«  dtsit  eqotb  ; 

10li  OJ  Joy  at  the  coming  of  the  heaven-sent  shewef  «*>D  «9 
Raining  upon  them,  in  the  blowing  hour, 
When  the  sweet  blossoms  glow  with  purple  birth*'  ,amoo 
This  being  e'en  so,  ye  prime  of  Argive  men, 
Rejoice  ye,  if  rejoicing  be  your  mood. 
I  am  so  full  of  jwy,  that  if  't  were  seemly    •',  uoo*»  buA  ' 
To  pour  libations  on  a  corpse,  I  wou'd  do  it*  lin't  arf)  /fj 
And  just  it  were — .aye,  most  exceeding  just.!  F>/u:  »*/.  -^8 
With  such  accursed  potions  he  who  her« 
Has  fill'd  a  chalice,  drinks  it  off  himself! 

idW 


g  Site  —  flO9§JCf 
fi    SlJlI    8060^ 
,,,nt  i{^-tK.} 
fi  ^o  ?J,,,i)B,, 


Amazement !  that  a  woman  should  thu-.  speak  ! 
What  horrid  boldness !  <>Vr  her  husband'u  corse  ! 


,  gn07        CLYTEJINESTttA.  ,dt 

Ve  try  me  like  a  woman  weak  in  mind-  !  v/oJ 

My  heart  shakes  not,  my  tongue  procUiinvi  the  deed. 


18;j|.j  Greek  Drama.     l\'o.  f. 

And  tliou,  or  praise,  or  blame  me,  as  thou  wilt,  TOKJ  iv>)>i 

"fin  one  to  me.      He  there  is  Agamemnon,    >i  I    !  esi*  •>  ;*/o  JKO^  !  i»iH 

My  spouse  —  a  corpse  !  this  right  hand  did  the  work,   >-,i  •/  r?  ,-ra-j 

A  righteous  handicraftsman  !     Even  so  ! 

CHOKUS.  oJtt   H:iUIOX/>     '  VJADA    !O    !< 

What  evil  thing,  O  woman  !   hast  thou  ate,  .euaoH'j  u/oJ-ie 

Eatable,  nursed  upon  earth's  vewom'd  lap,  <    *Y    !  ajio/  ?V/!i2I   3HT  «lTl 

Or  potable,  from  out  the  hoary  sea, 

That  thou  hast  put  this  sacrifice  to  burn         .*-JHOH  )  O.HIHT 

Amidst  the  curses  of  the  tongues  of  men  ?  \-  1  x">iUi>  ?'J  w  J  !  *»AH 

Thou  hast  cast  him  from  thee,  thou  hast  cut  him  off, 

Thou'It  be  cast  off  thyself! 

A  mighty  liatc  unto  thy  country's  inew!/«  .  a*  A.  ,K/.OT  am  SPIAJI  e'lsJ 

(T.YTEMXESTRA. 

Now  ye  do  doom  me  from  this  city  flight 

And  hatred,  and  to  have  the  tongues  of  men 

In  curses  on  me  ;  but  to  this  man  then, 

No,  not  one  word  in  pity  didst  tKbttt^ty"?*  **  ^ 

Who  thought  no  more  his  tender  child  to  spare 

Than  a  young  lamb  from  fleecy  pastures  torti  ' 

From  out  the  midst  of  his  unnumbei-Vi  she«pj 

His  child,  and  mine  !   the  dearest  of  my  Womb  !  bllioila 

When  he  her  blood  a  drear  enchantment  pomfldtsn  88V/  all    .nodmsm 

To  lull  the  bowlings  of  the  Thracian  blasts  h  trf^h  K  bjjri  90offi  sds  —  • 

Wasn't  that  a  man  to  drive  out  from  the  gate*'!    rfjlv/  —  rflsd  9rfJ  OlCt 


g  10  V  To  expiate  pollutions  ?      But  to  me,     >.»   vh-jbns)  oinul 
Sitting  in  audience  of  my  deeds,  ' 

A  harsh  judge  !     But  I  say  this  unto  thee  l/M-rJxem  8}i  niffoiv  «OITK 
Threaten  away,  for  I  too  am  prepared 
In  the  like  manner  —  rule  me,  if  thou  canst  )?9JT  _^._.,-- 
Get  by  thy  hand  the  mastery  —  rule  me  then—- 
But if  the  contrary  be  the  doom  of  God,     .lfn  f,nB  \ 
I'll  teach  ye  lessons  for  greybeards  to  learn^'j.^  J 


ion  J 


Then  follows  a  dreadful  colloquy  Thon'It  wring  thy  hands,   and  vainly 

"between  Clytemnestra  and  the  Cho-  moan 

rus.     Her  soul  is  up  in  the  clouds  —  Thy  friends  avray  !   Thy  murderers  by, 

his  soul  is  down  in  the  dust     She  Thou  wilt  pay  blow  for  blow  !" 

yells  like  an  eagle-he  sobs  like  a  What  hath  ghe  to          in  an8vver  to 

pigeon—she  growls  like  a  lion—he  that?    Quails  she>  in  her      ide  of 

groans  like  a  stricken  deer—  what  ]ace>  already  with  reinor9e  ?   Sees 

careth  the  Fury  for  the  idle  impre-  *he  already  the  snaky  sigter8  ?  Shud- 

catious  of  a  silly  old  man  ?  He  tells  derg  ghe  at  the  avenging  phantom  of 

ner»  her  own  son—Orestes  doomed  to 

"  Thy  soul  is  maddening  yet  shed  in  expiation  his  own  mother's 

As  on  the  gore  drops  fresh  and  wet  !  blood  ?  You    shall  hear.     She   calls 

A  drop  upon  thy  eyes  does  show  on  the  Chorus  to  listen  to  her  de- 

Of  unavenged  blood  !                  tin»t(  fence.    .»  'ib  nnqo  gniui&fi 
The  time  will  come,  when,  left  alone,  „  wof^  amo«!«old  Joswe  9dt  nacl'W 

,nfm,  ••«  o»*9  ^lisd  gidT 

OLTTEMNESTRA^niai' 

"  And  thou  shalt  hear  my  just  and  solemn  oath! 
By  the  full  vengeance  tak'eii  for  my  child,   itadil 
By  Ate  and  Erinnys,  at  whose  shrines—  aiaw  1 
I've  slain  this  man,  a  bloody  sacrifice, 
I  think  not  in  the  House  of  Fear  to  walk, 
Whilst  on  my  hearth  ./Egisthus  burneth  fire, 
As  he  is  wont,  his  heart  still  true  to  mine  : 
For  he's  my  boldness,  and  no  little  shield. 
Low  lies  the  man  who  did  me  deadly  wrong  ; 
Low  lies  the  minion  of  Troy's  fair  Chrysefo: 
And  she  his  captive,  and  his  soothsayer, 
His  paramour,  his  lovely  prophetess, 


386  Greek  D^ama.    No.  I.  [Aug. 

She  whom  lie  trusted,  true  to  him  in  bed, 
And,  on  the  naval  galleys  as  she  rode, 
Not  unrequited,  what  these  two  have  done ! 
For  he  e'en  so ;  and  she  most  like  a  swan 
Kept  siingiiig  still  her  last  song  in  the  world, 
A  deadly,  wailing,  melancholy  strain  : 
Now  on  the  earth  she  lies,  stretch'd  out  in  blood, 
And  her  dishevell'd  tresses  sweep  the  ground  : 
Cold  sweats  of  death  sit  on  her  marble  face  ; 
His  love !  his  beauty !  'Twas  to  me  he  brought 
This  piece  of  daintiness." 

The  drama  is  done — well  done  we  that  the  spirit  that  breathes  through 

think — but  there  remains  a  dreadful  it  (the  want  of  the  divine  music  of 

dialogue  yet  between  the  Queen  and  the  Greek  versification  is  a  sad  one), 

the  Chorus.  Mr  Symmons  has  made  may  be  given  better  in  very  literal 

poetry  of  it — but  we  venture  to  hope  prose.  Let  ustry — sometimes  at  a  loss. 

CHORUS. 

Alas  !  alas !  O  that  some  fate,  not  agonizing  nor  couch-confining,  with  speed  might 
come, — bringing  upon  us  the  endless  sleep !  Since  now  the  most  benignant  Guardian, 
of  the  State  has  been  overpowered,  and  endured  the  last  extremity  from  the  hands  of  his 
own  wife !  For  by  his  own  wife  hath  he  been  murdered  !  Oh  law-violating  Helen  ! 
who  singly  having  destroyed  many  heroes  innumerable  lives  at  Troy,  hast  now 
cropped  as  a  flower  the  life  of  the  noblest  of  them  all — the  high-honoured  Agamem- 
non, by  an  inexpiable,  an  unwashed  murder ' 

CI.YTEMNESTRA. 

Do  not  thou,  we  beseech  thee,  overwhelmed  by  these  things,  pray  for  the  lot  of 
death  !  Neither  turn  thou  thy  wrath,  we  beseech  thee,  against  Helen — because  she  was, 
as  thou  sayest,  a  man-exterminator — because  singly  she  slew,  forsooth,  the  lives  of  the 
Grecian  heroes — because  she,  so  sayest  thou.  hath  caused  an  incomprehensible  distress ! 
Why  blame — why  be  thus  wrathful  with  Helen? 

CHORUS. 

Oh  Deity  !  who  pressest  heavily  upon  this  house,  and  the  two  descendants  of  Tan 
talus,  and  who  confirmest  in  women  a  heart  gnawing  strength,  equal  to  that  of  men  ! 
But  see — see  like  a  hateful  raven,  lawlessly  placing  herself  on  the  body,  and  hear  how 
she  glories  hymning  a  strain ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA* 

Why — now  thou  hast  rectified  the  judgment  of  thy  mouth,  by  naming  the  Family 
Demon !  the  Demon  of  the  House !  For  from  this  source  the  blood-licking  lust  is 
nourished  in  its  bowels,  and  before  that  the  former  affliction  had  ceased,  lo  !  a  new 
blood-shedding  ! 

HORUS. 

Assuredly  thou  referrest  to  a  Demon  in  this  house  mighty  and  heavy  in  his  wrath  ! 
Alas,  alas,  a  grievous  evil  of  destructive  and  insatiable  fortune  ! — Alas,  alas,  by  means 
of  Jupiter,  the  Cause  of  all,  the  Worker  of  all !  For  what  is  brought  about  for 
mortals  without  Jupiter?  Which  of  these  things  is  not  God-ordained?  Alas,  alas,  O 
King !  O  King  !  How  shall  I  weep  for  thee !  What  can  1  say  out  of  a  woful  heart ! 
Thou  liest  in  the  meshes  of  this  spider,  breathing  out  thy  life  by  an  unholy  death  ! 
Alas,  me — me !  subdued  by  a  treacherous  destiny,  there  thou  liest  on  this  servile 
couch,  by  means  of  a  two-edged  weapon  brandished  in  the  hand. 

CLYTKMNESTRA. 

Thou  assertest  that  this  deed  is  mine.  But  do  not  affirm  ******  that  I 
am  the  wife  of  Agamemnon !  The  ancient  grim  Fury  of  Atreus,  that  stern  ban- 
queter, impersonating  the  wife  of  him  that  lies  dead,  she  hath  punished  him — sacri- 
ficing over  the  young  a  full-grown  victim ! 

CHORUS. 

But  that  you  are  sackless  of  this  murder  who  shall  testify  ?  How  ?  How  ?  The 
Fury,  indeed,  sprung  from  his  father  may  have  been  a  fellow-helper !  Black  Discord 
constrains  them  by  the  kindred  afflux  of  blood  ;  whither  also  advancing,  Black  Dis- 
cord shall  give  them  over  to  an  offspring-devouring  horror.  Alas,  alas,  O  King,  O 


CLY1KMKKSTRA. 

Methinks  that  he  met  with  a  death  not  unbecoming  a  freeman.     He  did  not, 


1831.]  Greek  Drama.    Wo.  I.  387 

indeed,  inflict  mischief  on  this  house  in  a  guileful  manner— no,  not  he;  hut  then 
my  fair  Branch  sprung  from  him — my  much-wept  Iphigenia — having  used  her  un- 
worthily  why,  let  him  not,  now  that  he  has  received  a  worthy  recompense,  vaunt 

exultingly !  Let  him  not  exult,  having  expiated,  by  a  sword-inflicted  death,  the  deed 
which  he  was  the  first  to  do — the  sacrifice  of  my  Iphigeuia ! 

CHORUS. 

I  am  at  a  loss — being  deprived  of  judgment — bow  I  shall  turn  my  kindly  cares--, 
for  this  house  is  falling  around  me  into  ruin.  But  I  dread — I  dread — the  house- 
shaking,  blood-covered  rattling  of  the  tempest !  For  the  sprinkling  drop  by  drop 
ceases ;  and  Fate,  for  some  other  matter  of  vengeance,  is  sharpening  retribution 
on  other  whetstones ! 

SEMICHOR. 

Alas !  Earth !  Earth  !  Oh  that  thou  had'st  received  me,  before  I  had  looked  upon 
this  Man,  now  occupying  the  earth-lying  couch  of  the  silver-sided  bath  !  Who 
shall  bury  him  ?  Who  lament  him?  Wilt  thou  dare  to  do  this,  having  slain  thy  own 
husband  ?  Wilt  thou  dare  to  bewail  his  spirit,  and  for  a  dreadful  deed  unjustly  to 
perform  an  ungrateful  service  ?  Ungrateful  to  the  murdered  !  Alas!  alas!  Who, 
pouring  out  with  tears  a  funeral  eulogium  on  the  godlike  man,  shall  mourn  in 
truthfulness  of  soul  ? 

CT/YTEMNESTEA. 

It  suits  you  not  to  speak  of  this  concern  !  By  our  hand  he  fell — he  died.  And  we 
will  bury  him — not  with  family- lamentations — but  Iphigenia,  his  daughter,  shall 
cordially,  as  she  ought,  meet  her  father  at  the  swift-flowing  Ferry  of  Sorrows,  and 
folding  him  in  her  arms,  shall  kiss  her  father!  Ha!  ha! 

CHORUS. 

This  reproach  springs  from  a  former  reproach  ;  but  all  is  mystery.  She — Iphigenia 
•—cuts  him  off  who  cut  her  off — the  Slayer  drees  his  weird.  But  it  remains  that  she, 
the  other  Perpetrator,  should  suffer  in  Jove's  destined  time.  For  who  could  expel 
from  the  bouse  this  devoted  family  ?  Are  they  not  all  glued  and  fastened  to  one 
another,  and  to  calamity  ? 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

The  Divine  Decree  hath  justly  fallen  on  this  Man.  Look  at  him  !  My  wish,  then, 
is  to  frame  a  Covenant  with  the  Demon  of  the  Plisthenidse ;  and  though  difficult 
to  be  borne,  yet  to  bear  all  these  things !  As  to  what  remains,  let  the  Demon  depart 
and  afflict  another  family  with  self-inflicted  death.  Provided  I  have  but  a  small 
portion  of  the  possessions,  it  is  quite  enough  for  me — having  driven  from  the  house 
mutual-murdering  madnesses ! 

iEgisthus  now  appears  for  the  first  horrid  conduct  of  Agamemnon's  fa- 
time,  and  it  seems  to  have  been  the  ther  Atreus  to  his  (./Egistlius,)  father 
aim  of  JSschylus  to  make  him  as  Thyestes — the  old  story  of  the  stew- 
contemptible  as  was  consistent  with  ed  children.  He  therefore  calls  him- 
the  laws  of  the  drama.  He  vindi-  self  "  righteous  executioner." 
cates  the  murder,  on  the  score  of  the 

"  I  have  my  wrongs  too,  like  my  wretched  sire, 
For  I  was  with  him  when  he  took  to  flight, 
And  all  his  children  follow'd  at  his  back, 
Thirteen  in  number.      I,  the  youngest,  was 
Then  in  my  swaddling  clothes,  a  child  in  arms, 
Not  conscious  of  the  horrors  of  that  day  ; 
But  I  grew  up,  and  Dice  rear'd  my  head, 
And  brought  me  home  :   though  exil'd,  I  was  near, 
Revolving  curiously  each  means  of  death, 
And  all  the  phantoms  of  the  assassin's  soul ; 
And  I  have  gall'd  him  :  now,  if  it  is  my  fate, 
Why,  let  me  die:    I  cannot  fall  disgraced, 
Now  I  have  seen  him  wrapt  in  Dice's  toils." 

The  Chorus,  however,  cannot  sto-  "  Sure  as  thou  livest,  I  say,  thou  shalt  not 
mach  this  argument — which  might  'scape 

perhaps  have  availed  a  nobler  man  The  volleys  of  the  people,  stony  showers, 

—and  they  threaten  him  with  an  evil  And  their  just  curses,  huiTd  at  thy  head !" 
end. 


388  Greek  Drama. 

The  Chorus  then  upbraids  him  with 
having  had  the  villainy  to  plot,  with- 
out the  courage  with  his  own  hand 
to  perpetrate,  the  murder.  But  there 
YEgistlms  has  him  on  the  hip— for 
he  cries  vauntingly,  Khl  .Jr 
"Why, -you  dull  fool  I  'twas  stratagem 

and  guile ! 

And  who  so  fit  as  Woman  for  the  plot  ? 
'Twould  have  marr'd  all  had  I  but  shewn 
«->d  !>•'  my  face; 

I  must  have  been  suspected  as  his  lor, 
His  ancient,  old,  hereditary  foe. ,i;\A  •iHl 
But  now  'tis  done,  aud  I  am  at  my  ease  • 
I'll  take  his  treasures,  and  I'll  mount  hi* 

throne." 


He  then,  after  the  fashion  of  usurp- 
ers, threatens  to  scourge,  imprison, 
and  kill  all  who  are  disobedient,  and 
especially  the  Chorus.  But  the  Cho- 
rus is  not  to  be  intimidated  in.  the 
discharge  of  his  duty,  and  keeps  sa- 
tirizing the  coward  to  such  a  pitch 
of  virulence,  threatening  to  call  in 
armed  people  to  kill  the  cowardly 
murderer  of  the  king,  that  but  for  the 
interposition  of  Clytemnestra,  we 
suspect  the  old  gentleman  would 
have  bit  the  dust.  Clytemnestra  is 
now  the  most  merciful  of  murder- 
esses, and  glides  purring  round  about 


[Aug. 

pily— aud  some -.persons  may  object 
to  it  on  that  score,  who  wish  always 
"  to  assert  eternal  Providence,  and 
justify  the  ways  of  God  to  man." 
But  in  the  first  place,  remember  that 
it  is  a  Greek  tragedy,  and  what  Mil- 
ton says  of  Fate.  ^Eschylus  lived 
before  the  Christian  era  some  hun- 
dred years,  aud  the  wisest  men  held 
then  strange  doctrines  about  Jove. 

But,  secondly,  though  the  last 
words  that  fall  from  the  lips  of  Cly- 
temuestra  are,  -uf()^fo3px 

"  Axxl  order  all  things   in    this    house 
aright," 

we  have  our  own  doubts  about  her 
being  able  to  accomplish  her  house- 
hold plans.  We  question  if  she  were 
perfectly  happy  that  night  in  the  arms 
of  her  paramour.  Who  knows  but 
that  she  walked  about  the  palace  in 
her  sleep,  wringing,  as  if  washing 
her  hands,  like  another  great  sinner, 
and  muttering,  "Out,  damned  spot!" 
Sleep  has  a  very  sensitive  conscience. 
Somnus  is  as  good  as  a  Chorus,  and 
the  moment  an  atrocious  criminal 
shuts  his  or  her  eyes,  the  inner  king- 
dom undergoes  a  reform,  which  cer- 
tainly is  revolution.  You  are  wrong, 
then,  in  saying,  that  the  tragedy  end- 


her  prey  like  a  satiated  tigress.  How     ed  happily-for  Cly temnestra-hang- 
RWP"t!  ed  herself! 


sweet  ! 

•t.ij   l«>   'i-)H')"-jif\  r>~ii'»'iiip  A  iv»<)b 
"  Stay,  stay,  dearest  JEgisthus  !  stay  thy 
i     i.     handa! 
Let's  not  do  further  harm.     Behold,  here 

lies 
A  wretched  harvest  which  we  have  to 

reap  ! 
We  have  had  enough  of  woe  !  Let's  not  be 

bloody  ! 

But  go,  old  men  !  repair  .into  your  homes 
Before  aught  happens  !  'Twas  the  Time 

anil   Fate 

That  made  us  act  e'en  so  as  we  have  acted  : 
Butwith  the  deed  sufficient  hart  been  done  ! 
And  we  are  plunged,  alas  !  full  deep  in 

woe, 
Struck  by  the  demon  in  his  horrid  rage." 

The  Chorus  takes  the  hint,  aud  de- 
parts —  muttering  something  about  — 
Orestes. 


g    fffl      -CI.YTEMNF.STKA  ( 

"  Think  nought  of  these  vain  barkings  : 

Sin  and  I         /<-jJ      ,'njpulloy 
Will  take  the  rule,  the  sceptre,  and  the 

might, 

And  order  all  things  in  this  house  aright." 
[Exeunt  omnes. 
The  drama,  then,  ends  well—  Jiap- 


Hanged  herself!  Shocking!  But 
'tis  not  mentioned  in  my  Lempriere. 
Well,  then,  she  did  not  hang  herself; 
but  a  beautiful  young  man,  almost  a 
boy,  a  mere  lad,  cut  her  throat,  and 
haggled  her  body  into  pieces.  Her 
own  Son!  and  that  was  retribution. 
An  eye  for  an  eye— a  tooth  for  a  tooth 
— blood  for  blood.  'Tis  a  law  as 
old  as  the  hills — and  often  has  the 
fulfilment  of  the  law  made  the  hills 
blush  red,  without  the  aid  of  the 
setting  sun.  Rivers  of  gore  have 
run  down  their  sides,  and  all  the 
trees  round  about  been  like  purple 
beeches,  from  the  spray  of  such 
ghastly  waterfalls.  Yes  !  as  one  of 
our  own  dramatists  says, 

"   The   element  of  water  moistens    the 

earth, 

But  blood  flies  upwards,  and  bedews  the 
heavens !" 

'i.  1'f   i»<f  i 

What  think  ye  was  really  the 
character-  of  Clytemnestra  ?  Did  her 
hatred  of  her  husband  originate  in 
the  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia  ?  Perhaps. 


firfclt  Drama.   No.  T. 


No  mother  can  endure"  to  see  Iier 
daughter  killed  "like  a  kid,"  by  her 
own  father,  even  on  the  altar.  But 
we  fear  that  her  hatred  of  her  hus- 
band grew  out  of  her  love  for  her 
paramour — not  the  reverse  process. 
The  adulteress  longed  to  be  a  mur- 
deress. The  two  characters  are  kin- 
dred and  congenial — and  walk  hand 
in  hand.  Besides  ten  years  is  a  long 
absence — and  many  are  the  trials 
and  temptations  of  a  lone  "  widow- 
woman."  jEgisthus  was  probably 
the  finest  man-animal  in  Argos — 
nay,  in  all  Greece.  And  know  you 

the   full   force  of infatuation  ? 

Then — are  you  a  miserable  man  or 
woman — and  beware  I 

But  all  this  throws  but  faint  light 
on  the  darkness  of  the  mystery  of 
that  guilt.  The  secret  to  be  told  is 
the  constitution  of  Clytemnestra's 
own  soul.  Thoughts  that  entered 
there  changed  their  colour.  Some 
waxed  wondrous  pale — and  others 
grew  fiery  red — some  were  mute 
and  sullen — others  hissed  like  ser- 
pents— and  some  roared  like  very 
thunder — rolling  all  round  the  hori- 
zon with  multiplying  echoes,  and 
then  dying  on  the  far  distance  like 
an  earthquake. 

But  whatever  was  the  constitution 
of  her  soul,  her  conduct  was  magna- 
nimous. It  shewed  her  soul  was — 
large.  It  could  hold  a  prodigious  sum 
of  wickedness.  It  was  like  one  of  the 
Cauldrons  of  the  Bullers  of  Buchan. 
They,  you  know,  are  not  only  always 
black,  but  always  boiling,  and  the 
reason  is,  that  day  and  night  the 
abysses  are  disturbed  by  the  sea.  The 
sea  will  not  let  them  rest  in  peace — 
but  fills  them,  whether  they  will  or 
no,  with  perpetual  foam — everlast- 
ing breakers— an  eternal  surf.  In  the 
calmest  day,  the  lull  itself  is  dread- 
ful ;  yet  is  the  place  not  without  its 
beauty,  and  all  the  world  confesses 
that  it  is  sublime. 

This  is  impressive,  you  say,  but 
vague.  Aye — vague  enough— dim 
and  dismal — and  so  is  Sin.  But  we 
beg  leave  to  say  something  more  defi- 
nite. Issuing  from  her  Palace,  to 
give  orders  that  the  whole  city  should 
be  set  ablaze  with  sacrificial  fires, 
Clytemnestra  looked  every  inch  a 
Queen.  Her  figure  dilated  almost  to 
gigantic  height — yet  still  "grace  was 
:in  all  tier  steps."  Her  face  was  fierce 
but  fair — bold  but  bright — for  was 


she  not  the  sistfir  of  Helen  ?  Stately 
stood  she,  as  Juno's  self,  and  glori- 
ous   exceedingly   were    the    white 
wavings  of  her  arms,  as  she  describ- 
ed the  "  Fires  that  drew  their  lineage 
from  Mount  Ida;"  the  Poetess  of  the 
Burning  Beacons.     Never  was  sove- 
reign so  bid  hail  as  Agamemnon,  on 
his  return  to  Argos,  by  her  whose 
words   flowed  richer  than  the  pur- 
ple robes  she  bade  be  strewed  be- 
neath the  victorious  feet  of  her  lord 
the  king.     As  she  followed  him  into 
the  palace,  she  was — was  she  not, 
a   magnificent    Erinnys  ?     See    her 
with   haughty  head   encircled  with 
scorn   and  tire,  frowning  fear  and 
fright  upon  the  soul  of  Cassandra, 
then  awakened  to  the  doom  of  death ! 
Imagine  the  Fury  with  uplifted  axe 
— and  then,  with  brain-beaten  fore- 
head, her  victim  falling,  a  Groan,  at 
her  feet  beside   the   Bloody   Bath. 
Won't  you  believe  her  own  word  ? 
See  her  then  sprinkling  herself  with 
her    husband's   blood,  as  with  the 
dewdrops    of   the   sunny   morning. 
Then   down  on  your  knees  before 
her — as  red  from  the  sacrifice  she 
issues  forth  exultingly  into  the  light 
of  day,  before  her  own  palace — for 
now  it  is  her  own — in  the  heart  of 
her  own  Argos — for  now  she  is  in- 
deed a  Queen — in  presence  of  the 
Chorus,  who,  you  know,  are  the  re- 
presentatives of  Humanity — with  the 
dim   axe   cresting  her  crown— and 
justifying    the   deed — with   her  "  I 
did  it!"— and  then  say  if  she  be  not 
a  more  glorious  being  far  than  mor- 
tal eyes  have  beheld  before  or  since 
— and  that  but  one  being  ever  lived 
on  earth  who  might  have  personated 
the  fateful  Phantom — who  else  but — 
nay  do  not  start  at  "  the  change-  that 
comes  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream" — 
who  else  but  SARAH  SIDDONS/?  im 

And  have  we  not  a  single  word  to 
say  for  Cassandra  V  Not  one.  Yet 
methinks  there  is  one  yet  alive  who 
might  once  have  well  personated  the 
raving  Prophetess.  Beautiful  must 
have  looked  the  captive  Princess  in 
her  car,  mute  and  motionless  as  a 
statue,  during-  all  that  kind,  but  cruel 
colloquy,  between  Clytemnestra, 
Agamemnon,  and  the  Chorus,  that 
determined  the  fate  of  the  King,  and 
of  her  his  bosom-slavo,  by  the  fate  of 
war.  Yet,  though  Agamemnon  en- 
joyed what  was  refused  to  Apollo, 
in  soul  Cassandra  was  still  a  virgin. 


390 


Greek  Drama.    No.  I. 


But  when  Apollo  overshadowed  her, 
and  her  soul  awoke  to  all  those 
sights  of  blood,  then  fell  down  from 
its  holy  fillet  all  that  bright  length 
of  sun-loved  hair,  and  shrouded  her 
fragile  form  in  the  mystery  of  mad- 
ness, dishevelled  in  harmony  with 
the  music  that  wailed  from  her  in- 
spired lips  !  Never  was  madness  so 
disastrous  and  so  diviue  as  hers — 
Poetess,  Priestess,  and  Prophetess 
—raging  and  raving  with  the  God. 
And  when  in  the  act  of  flinging  away 
all  her  secret  adornments,  that  they 
migh',  not  be  profaned  by  the  gush- 
ing of  her  own  blood,  how  piteously 
roust  she  have  implored  the  Chorus, 
only  for  their  compassion!  And  when 
turning  to  take  one  last  look  of  the 
Day,  of  the  Sun-God,  who  had  turn- 
ed towards  her  with  passion,  and 
was  shining  now  on  her  dying  day, 
who  would  have  resembled  the  de- 
lirious victim  on  the  threshold  of 
the  Palace  of  Blood,  who  but  she 
who  was  so  beauteous  as  Juliet,  on 
the  Balcony  and  in  the  Tomb — who 
but  THE  O'NEIL? 

Agamemnon  we  saw  but  for  a 
shortest  hour — a  glorious  tree  doom- 
ed to  fall  in  a  moment  axe-stricken 
by  i  he.  woodswoman.with  all  its  shade 
and  sunshine,  leaving  a  gap  in  the  sky. 
Never  saw  we  but  one  man  who 
looked  on  the  stage  like  the  "  King 
of  Men."  Well  would  the  Grecian 
regal  robes  have  become  his  majes- 
tic form, —  well  would  that  noble 
face — though  haply  'twas  more  of 
the  "  Antique  Roman's"  than  the 
Greek's  —  have  shed  its  mild  and 
monarchical  light  over  Queen — Cas- 
sandra— Chorus — all  ArgosI  Who 
might  have  adumbrated  Agamemnon 
the  Sovereign  Shadow — who  but — 
KEMBLE  ? 


[Aug. 

Who,  the  Chorus?  There  have 
been  persons  who  thought  the  Cho- 
rus a  blot  on  the  Greek  Drama !  I 
They  would  have  washed  it  out — or 
cut  out  the  piece — and  left  a  hole  in 
the  veil.  Others  have  called  it  an  en- 
cumbrance—a drag.  It  is  precisely 
such  an  encumbrance  as  a  man's 
soul  is  to  his  body.  But  let  us  not 
allude  to  fools.  The  Chorus  in  the 
Agamemnon  is  a  noble  character. 
He  keeps  to  the  affair  in  hand— as  if 
he  were  himself  the  chief  actor— yet 
he  is  never  too  forward— and  on  the 
wished-for  opening  of  his  lips  you 
hear  "the  still  sad  music  of  humani- 
ty !"  Who  shall  be  the  Chorus  ?  We 
must  have  fifteen  elderly  gentlemen. 
Let  Oxford— Cambridge— The  Silent 
Sister— Edinburgh— Aberdeen— each 
send  Three  Professors  —  and  then 
let  Christopher  North  be  appointed 
THE  CHORAGUS  OF  THE  CHORAGI. 
But  alas  !  Kemble  sleeps— The  Sid- 
dons  "  has  stooped  her  anointed 
head  as  low  as  death  ;"  The  O'Neil, 
"  in  the  blaze  of  her  fame,"  fell  down 
into  private  life,  and  in  among  all  its 
obscure  virtues  ;  so,  how  now,  alas  ! 
shall  we  ever  be  able  to  get  vp  the 
Agamemnon  ? 

Let  it  remain,  then,  for  ever,  an 
unacted  Drama.  But  what  forbids 
that  it  be  acted— on  that  private  stage 
which  every  man  may  behold  night- 
ly—free  of  all  expense— in  the  Thea- 
tre of  his  own  Imagination  ?  There 
is  the  glorious  Greek— there  is  the 
no  less  glorious  English.  Look  at  the 
words — and  'tis  as  into  a  magic  mir- 
ror. The  curtain  is  drawn  up — and 
lo!  SiddonsasClytemnestra!  O'Neil 
as  Cassandra!  Kemble  as  Agamem- 
non—and Christopher  North  as  Cho- 
ragus  of  Choragi !  Hear  him  ! 


CHRISTOPHER  NORTH  AS  CHORAGUS  OF  CHORAGI. 

But  Justice  sheds  her  peerless  ray 

In  low-roof  d  sheds  of  humble  swain, 

And  gilds  the  smoky  cots  where  low-bred  virtue  dwells 

But  with  averted  eyes 

The  Maiden  Goddess  flies, 

The  gorgeous  Halls  of  State,  sprinkled  with  gold, 
Where  filthy-handed  Mammon  dwells; 
She  will  not  praise  what  men  adore, 
Wealth  sicklied  with  false  pallid  ore, 
Though  drest  in  pomp  of  haughty  power, 
But  still  leads  all  things  on,  and  looks  to  the  last  hour ! 


1831.] 


The  Late  Debates  on  Reform. 


391 


MR  NORTH, 

IN  addressing  to  you  a  few  words 
of  commentary  upon  the  recent  dis- 
cussions in  Parliament  relative  to  the 
Ministerial  project  of  Reform,  I  must 
cry  you  mercy,  upon  grounds  some- 
what new.     It  in  possible  that,  after 
my  own  fashion,  I  may  attempt  to 
offer  a  little  reasoning,  or  perchance 
I  may  touch  upon  something  appli- 
cable to  the  general  principle  of  the 
Bill;  and  I  am  aware  how  much,  in 
either  case,  1  should  offend  against  the 
prevailing  fashion  ;  but  I  trust  to  the 
usual  slowness   with   which  gentle- 
men of  your  age  take  up  the  new- 
fangled notions  of  the  world,  for  per- 
mitting me  yet  a  little  while  to  pro- 
ceed in  the   old   way,  unceneufed. 
For  my  part,  being  upon  the  spot, 
and  seeing  how  things  go  on,  I  am 
not  much  surprised  that  the  Ministers 
who  lead  the  fashion  here,  and,  by 
means  of  newspapers,  lead  even  un- 
fashionable  people    very    much    by 
the  nose,  I  am  not  surprised  that  they 
discountenance  reasoning,    because 
it  naturally  makes  them  feel  uncom- 
fortable ;  and  who  would  not  choose 
their  own  comfort  when  they  can  ? 
But  I  do  think  it  a  little  hard,  that 
they  should  manifest  such  a  sulky 
impatience  of  our  parting  adieus  to 
the  old  system,  and  insist  upon  our 
flinging  it  from  us  with  as  light  and 
careless  a  mind,  as  we  should  cast  off 
an  old  and  worn-out  garment.     Per- 
haps they  may  venture  to  say,  that 
being  now  instructed  by  their  mar- 
vellous wisdom,  for  the  first  time,  in 
the  anomalous  enormities  of,  the  re- 
presentative   constitution,    we    are 
bound,  immediately  upon  the  disco- 
very, to  turn  it  off  with  a  bad  cha- 
racter;  but  this  would  be  a  false  pre- 
tence— there  is  not  one  jot  or  tittle 
of  originality  in  all  the  evil  speaking 
which  has  of  late   been   squeaked, 
spluttered,  or  bellowed  forth  about 
the  representation  of  the  people  in 
the  Commons'  House  of  Parliament. 
It  is  merely  an  old  dish  hashed  up 
again,  to  satisfy  the  capricious  appe- 
tite of  the  mob,  and  only  made  a 
little  more  nauseous  than  it  hereto- 
fore was,  by  the  witless  impertinence 
of  modern  \Vhiggis-m  w  hich  is  mixed 
up  with  it.    The  shallow,  lumbering, 
stupid  Radicals  of  the  city,  whose  in- 
tellect is  in  their  stomachs— who  can 


digest  nothing  but  food,  erect  their 
huge  immensity  of  ears,  and  their  eyes 
sparkle  between  their  leathern  lids, 
like  a  pool  of  mud  in  a  shower,  when 
they  hear  of  Lord  Johnny  Russell's 
prodigious  discoveries  of  anomalies 
in  the  constitution,  which  they  had 
never  thought  of  before.  But  where 
is  the  man  of  any  sense  and  infor- 
mation, who  has  heard  one  particle 
from  all  the  speeches  of  all  the  Mi- 
nisterial members  who  have  spoken, 
on  the  Reform  Bill,  that  he  did  not 
perfectly  well  know  before  ?  Was  it 
not  as  notorious  as  any  fact  in  his- 
tory, that  the  representative  system 
was  full  of  anomalies  ?  that  repre- 
sentatives were  attached  to  places 
with  no  inhabitants,  and  places  full 
of  inhabitants  were  without  any  re- 
presentative whom  they  could  claim 
directly  as  their  own  ?  Has  not  this 
matter  been  reviewed  by  every  prac- 
tical statesman,  and  political  philo- 
sopher, who  has  spoken  or  written 
about  the  constitution  of  England, 
and  until  now,  without  any  of  those 
symptoms  of  virtuous  horror,  and 
pious  indignation,  which  the  mise- 
rable cant  and  quackery  of  modern 
politicians  inflict  upon  us  ? 

It  will  not  be  suspected,  except  by 
the  very  ignorant,  that  Paley  was  de- 
ficient in  sense  to  understand,  or 
honesty  to  state  what  ought  to  be 
understood  by  others,  respecting  the 
representative  system  of  Great  Bri- 
tain; and  let  us  look  for  a  moment 
at  a  very  small  part  of  what  he  says 
upon  the  subject,  which,  by  the  way, 
will  also  serve  to  shew  how  very  ori- 
ginal are  the  discoveries  of  Lord 
Johnny  Russell,  and  others  who  have 
toiled  after  him,  in  his  brilliant 
course  of  exposure  of  anomalies. 
"  There  is  nothing,"  says  Paley,  "  in, 
the  British  constitution  so  remark- 
able as  the  irregularity  of  the  popu- 
lar representation ;  it  my  estate  be 
situate  in  one  county  of  the  king- 
dom, I  possess  the  ten-thousandth 
part  of  a  single  representative ;  if  in 
another,  the  thousandth ;  it  in  a  par- 
ticular district,  I  may  be  one  in 
twenty  who  choose  two  representa- 
tives; if  in  a  still  more  favoured 
spot,  I  may  enjoy  the  right  of  ap- 
pointing two  myself.  If  I  have  been 
born,  or  dwell,  or  have  served  an 
apprenticeship  in  one  town,  I  am  re- 


&>•-*  The  Late.  Debates  on  Reform.  [Aug. 

presented  in  the  National  Assembly  the  danye.r  of  the  f.ip<nmetit.  We 
by  two  deputies,  in  the  choice  of 
whom  I  exercise  an  actual  and  sen- 
sible share  of  power ;  if  accident 
has  thrown  my  birth,  or  habitation, 
or  service  into  another  town,  I  have 
no  representative  at  all,  nor  more 
power  or  concern  in  the  election  of 
those  who  make  the  laws  by  which 
I  am  governed,  then  if  I  was  a  sub- 
ject of  the  Grand  Signior  : — and  this 
particularity  exists  without  any  pre- 
tence whatever  of  merit  or  of  pro- 
priety, to  justify  the  preference  of 
one  place  to  another.  To  describe 
the  state  of  national  representation 
as  it  exists  in  reality,  it  may  be  af- 
firmed, I  believe,  with  truth,  that 
about  one-half  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons obtain  their  seats  in  that  as- 
sembly, by  the  election  of  the  peo- 
ple, the  other  half  by  purchase,  or  by 
the  nomination  of  single  proprietors 
of  great  estates." 

Well,  good  reader,  what  think 
-you  of  the  originality  of  Lord  John- 
ny's discoveries  after  this  ?  Does  it 
not  appear  that  Paley  understood  as 
well  as  he,  the  anomalies  of  the  re- 
presentation ?  I  will  not  insult  your 
taste,  by  asking  did  he  not  express 
them  better.  How  unutterably  small 
does  Lord  Johnny's  poor,  puerile, 
trashy  speech  appear,  with  its  puling 
drawingroom  illustration  of  the 
"intelligent  foreigner,"  when  con>- 
pared  with  the  vigorous  plainness  of 
Paley's  statement.  It  is  like  a 
maiden  essay  in  a  juvenile  annual, 
compared  with  one  of  Christopher 
North's  papers  in  Blackwood's  Ma- 
gazine. But  how  does  the  real  phi- 
losopher follow  up  his  manly  and  for- 
cible statement  of  the  truth  ?  Is  it 
by  a  scheme  for  overturning  the 
system,  and  substituting  a  more  re- 
gular one  of  his  own  invention  in  its 
place  ?  No.  This  is  left  for  the 
shallow  presumption  of  the  Lord 
Johnnys  of  our  day.  After  his  de- 
scription of  the  irregularity  of  the 


popular  representation,  Paley  con- 
tinues— "This  is  a  flagrant  incon- 
gruity in  the  constitution,  but  it  is 
one  of  those  objections  which  strike 
most  forcibly  at  first  sight.  The  ef- 
fect of  all  reasoning  upon  the  sub- 
ject is  to  diminish  the  first  impres- 
sion ;  on  which  account  it  deserves 
the  more  attentive  examination,  that 
we  may  be  assured,  before  we  ad- 
venture upon  a  reformation,  that 
the  magnitude  of  the  evil  justifies 


have  a  House  of  Commons,  in  which 
are  found  the  most  considerable 
landholders  and  merchants  of  the 
kingdom;  the  heads  of  the  army,  the 
navy,  and  the  law;  the  occupiers  of 
great  offices  in  the  state,  together 
with  many  private  individuals,  emi- 
nent by  their  knowledge,  eloquence, 
or  activity.  Now,  if  the  country  be 
not  safe  in  such  hands,  in  whose 
may  it  confide  its  interests?  If  such 
a  number  of  men  be  liable  to  the  in- 
fluence of  corrupt  motives,  what  as- 
sembly of  men  will  be  secure  from 
the  same  danger?  Does  any  new 
scheme  of  representation  promise  to 
collect  together  more  wisdom,  or  to 
produce  firmer  integrity ';  In  this 
view  of  the  subject,  and  attending, 
not  to  ideas  of  order  and  propor- 
tion (of  which  many  minds  are  much 
enamoured),  BUT  TO  EFFECTS  ALONE, 
we  may  discover  just  excuses  for 
those  parts  of  the  present  represen- 
tation, which  appear,  to  a  hasty  ob- 
server, most  exceptionable  and  ab- 
surd." 

Here  we  find  the  modesty  and  the 
wisdom  of  a  true  philosopher,  whose 
direct  and  simple  object  being  to 
teach  men  the  real  effect  of  the  poli- 
tical institutions  under  which  they 
live,  appeals  at  once  to  the  practical 
operation  of  the  system,  omitting  to 
trouble  himself  with  a  profitless 
chase  after  "  ideas  of  order  and  pro- 
portion," which  have  nothing  to  do 
with  the  substantial  welfare  of  socie- 
ty. The  pert  and  pragmatical  Lord 
John  takes  a  different  course  —  he 
will  not  condescend  to  stoop  his 
lordly  mind  to  the  consideration  of 
practical  effects,  but  chuckling  over 
his  discovery  of  irregularities  which 
every  one  knew  before,  proceeds 
to  propound  a  new  system,  which, 
after  all,  creates  almost  as  many  ano- 
malies as  it  rectifies,  while  it  over- 
turns the  long  tried  practical  sys- 
tem, and  introduces  novelties,  of 
which  the  probable  result  will  be 
strife,  and  eventual  destruction  to 
the  tri-partite  constitution. 

So  much  for  an  introduction  to 
my  Parliamentary  notice.  Perhaps 
it  may  seem  not  very  germane  to  the 
matter,  but  to  all  who  have  caught 
the  Ministerial  influenza,  and  who 
participate  in  the  surly  impatience 
of  debate,  which  government  mem- 
bers so  indecently  manifest,  some 
apology  is  necessary  for  entering 


1831.] 


The  Late.  Debates  on  Reform. 


393 


upon  the  subject  .at  all ;  and  the  con- 
sideration, that  wise  men  have  long 
ago  seen  all  the  evils  which  are  now 
so  much  and  so  vauntingly  noised 
abroad,  and  have  thought,  that  "  the 
effect  of  reasoning  upon  the  subject 
is  to  diminish  the  first  impression," 
will,  I  should  hope,  have  some  suc- 
cess in  persuading  the  public  to  look 
with  patience  upon  a  review  of  what 
has  taken  place  in  the  grand  council 
of  the  nation,  upon  a  matter  so  mo- 
mentous. , 

We  commence  with  the  second 
reading  of  the  Bill,  to  which  there 
was  a  little  preliminary  discussion, 
which  it  would  be  a  thousand  pities 
to  omit,  throwing,  as  it  did,  so  strong 
a  light  upon  the  wishes  and  capabi- 
lities of  Ministers,  and  shewing  how 
much  their  integrity  towards  the 
public  harmonized  with  their  ho- 
nourable conduct  towards  an  indivi- 
dual. I  allude  to  the  case  of  Greg- 
son  versus  Inadvertence,,  which  was 
opened  on  the  part  of  the  plaintiff 
by  Mr  Estcourt,  on  Lord  John  Rus- 
sell moving  the  order  of  the  day  for 
the  second  reading  of  the  Reform 
Bill.  The  case  was  this:— The  Mi- 
nisters ordered  Mr  Gregson  to  put  a 
clause  into  the  bill,  which  he,  the  said 
Mr  Gregson,  saw,  as  any  man  of 
.much  less  knowledge  and  acuteness 
than  he  would  have  seen,  must  cut 
out  about  nine-tenths  of  all  house- 
holders in  towns  from  any  benefit 
under  the  bill.  He  stated  this  to  the 
Ministers;  they  hesitated  fora  little, 
but,  after  consideration,  persevered 
iu  having  the  clause  inserted.  The 
bill  was  published,  and  immediately 
a  popular  storm  arose,  which  made 
Ministers  feel  excessively  uncom- 
fortable ;  so  they  said,  and  swore, 
and  wrote  letters,  asserting  iu  the 
most  solemn  manner  that  the  clause 
was  an  inadvertence,  and  the  govern- 
ment newspapers  (of  course  without 
orders)  insinuated  that  an  enemy 
had  done  it — that  a  Tory  underling 
had  stolen  in,  and  sowed  his  vile 
tares  among  the  precious  wheat  of 
the  Ministers.  Now,  the  only  sub- 
ordinate that  could  have  done  it  was 
Mr  Gregson ;  so  he  went  to  that  emi- 
nent statesman,  and  sheep-farmer, 
and  successful  financier,  Lord  Al- 
thorp,  and  demanded  that  he  should 
exert  a  small  portion  of  his  elo- 
quence in  the  House  of  Commons, 
to  clear  his  (Mr  Gregson's)  charac- 

VOL,  XXX,  NO,  CLXXXIV. 


ter  from  the  imputation.  His  Lord- 
ship promised  that  he  would  do  even 
so;  but  somehow  or  another  it  turn- 
ed out  that  lie  had  no  opportunity  ; 
upon  which  down  came  Mr  Est- 
court, with  a  bundle  of  papers  in  his 
hand,  which  seemed  to  frighten  the 
Treasury  Bench  as  much  as  if  he  had 
pointed  upon  it  an  eigh teen-pounder, 
charged  to  the  teeth  with  grape-shot, 
and  ready  to  be  fired,  and  he  inform- 
ed the  Ministers,  that  if  they  would 
not  explain,  he  would. 

Then,  with  rueful  countenances, 
and  most  unwilling  speech,  Lords 
Althorp  and  John  Russell,  piece  by 
piece,  and  after  repeated  interroga- 
tories, made  confession  of  the  matter 
as  I  have  related  it;  admitting  that  the 
inadvertence  was  a  thing  done  after 
caution  given, and  consideration  had, 
and  that  no  Tory,  nor  subordinate, 
nor  any  but  themselves,  was  the 
author  or  contriver  of  the  offensive 
clause.  And  these  are  the  Ministers 
who,  after  this  affair,  assume  an  un- 
usually insolent  and  despotic  deport- 
ment in  the  House  of  Commons !  If 
the  world  were  what  it  ought  to  be 
— if  what  is  called  character  and  the 
.respect  for  it,  were  not  in  a  consider- 
able degree  a  mere  affectation  and  a 
farce,  these  men  would  have  found 
it  extremely  convenient  to  make  a 
tour  of  the  Continent  for  a  few  years, 
until  time  had  weakened  the  feelings 
of  scorn  and  indignation  which  a 
certain  description  of  conduct  ought 
to  excite ;  but  the  world  is  gulled  by 
names,  and  the  affair  still  passes  with 
the  million  as  an  "  inadvertence" — 
that  is  to  say,  a  thing  done  deliberate- 
ly, and  persevered  in  after  caution 
given  as  to  its  consequences,  is  des- 
cribed by  a  word  signifying  an  action 
done  hastily, and  without  observation 
of  its  natural  effect !  How  acute  and 
"  intelligent"  does  this  prove  the 
public  to  be — how  honest  the  public 
instructors,  the  newspapers,  who 
swallow  and  support  the  "  inadver- 
tence"— how  admirable  and  honour- 
able the  conduct  of  Ministers,  and 
how  worthy  they  are  to  be  intrusted 
with  new-modelling  the  Constitution 
of  Great  Britain !  But  LORD  GREY 
wrote  his  name  to  a  paper  declaratory 
that  this  clause  was  an  "  inadver- 
tence."— Alas !  for  "  the  order,"  by 
which  he  once  boasted  he  would 
"  stand  or  fall ;"  this  is  falling  indeed, 
and  in  a  way  the  most  ignominious ! 
2c 


391 

Sir  John  Walsh  commenced  the 
discussion  on  the  second  reading  of 
the  Bill.  His  speech  was  a  temperate 
statement  of  facts,  upon  the  face  of 
them  pernicious,  which,  in  this  coun- 
try and  elsewhere,  had  grown  out  of 
the  Reform  Bill,  and  the  revolution- 
ary principles  upon  which  the  Bill 
was  founded.  These  facts  were,  the 
unconstitutional  pledges  required 
from,  and  given  by,  members  of  the 
House  to  their  constituents  ;  the 
riots  in  this  country,  and  the  dis- 
tracted and  dangerous  state  of  France. 
Mr  Fynes  Clinton  also  dwe}t  on  the 
pernicious  effect  and  gross  inconsis- 
tency of  pledges  to  the  people  on  the 
part  of  those  who  assembled  to  judge 
for  the  people — he  insisted  on  the 
democratic  tendency  of  the  bill,  and 
the  certainty  that  it  would  not  give 
satisfaction  to  the  Radical  party,  who 
would  demand  further  change  after 
that  now  proposed  was  accomplished. 

Sir  James  Mackintosh  began  by 
drawing  some  nice  and  refined  dis- 
tinctions. He  said  that  candidates 
might  state  their  opinions  to  their 
constituents,  and  yet  not  bind  them- 
selves— that  the  events  in  France 
were  not  brought  about  by  demo- 
cratic principles,  but  by  those  who 
wished  to  establish  unbounded  and 
uncontrolled  power — that  Ministers 
only  proposed  to  do  in  gross,  what  Mi- 
Pitt  had  proposed  to  do  in  detail, 
and  by  purchase;  then  followed  a 
number  of  abstract  propositions,  re- 
lative to  the  general  policy  of  free 
states,  and  the  distinctions  between 
property  and  political  rights.  He 
did  not  say  one  word  about  any 
specific  practical  good  which  the 
change  that  he  advocated  would 
effect. 

Mr  Bruce  made  an  excellent 
speech,  full  of  sound  sense  and  man- 
ly spirit.  He  was  sometimes  inter- 
rupted with  great  rudeness  by  the 
trained  bands  of  the  Ministers,  who 
thought  they  might  venture  upon 
this  method  of  putting  down  a  new 
member ;  but  in  spite  of  these  ob- 
stacles, Mr  Bruce  made  a  strong  im- 
pression upon  the  House.  He  set 
out  with  an  argumentative  caution—- 
which it  were  to  be  wished  was  more 
generally  imitated — by  stating  ex- 
pressly what  the  question  was 
which  he  opposed. — "  It  was  not," 
he  said,  "  whether  we  should  or 
should  not  have  a  reform  in  the  re- 


The  Late  Debates  on  Reform. 


[Aug. 


presentation,  but  whether  or  not  the 
Ministerial  Bill  was  to  be  passed." 
He  denounced  the  injustice  of  the 
government  who  misrepresented 
their  opponents  in  this  measure,  as 
being  necessarily  the  friends  of  cor- 
ruption, and  enemies  of  all  improve- 
ment ;  he  was  himself,  he  said,  a 
friend  to  reasonable  and  constitu- 
tional reform,  but  he  thought  all  the 
alterations  which  were  necessary 
could  be  effected  without  endanger- 
ing the  constitution,  or  risking  the 
tranquillity  of  the  country  by  a  mea- 
sure so  rash,  sweeping,  and  ill  con- 
sidered as  the  present. 

This  distinction,  although  obvious 
enough,  is  certainly  one  which  is  too 
much  passed  over  by  people  in  gene- 
ral, and  too  apt  to  be  thought  of  on- 
ly when  they  are  reminded  of  it,  by 
the  idle  babbling  trash  of  the  news- 
papers, about  "  bit  by  bit"  reform- 
ers. Is  it  only  in  Parliamentary  re- 
form that  a  rational  medium  be- 
comes ridiculous  ?  or  have  modern 
politicians  discovered  a  new  general 
principle  in  the  affairs  of  mankind,  to 
the  effect  that  extremes  are  the  most 
wise  and  safe  ?  Is  there  to  be  no 
choice  between  the  headlong  extre- 
mity of  a  revolution,  and  the  inac- 
tive endurance  of  what  we  believe 
to  be  capable  of  amendment?  Such  a 
doctrine  is  a  fitting  item  in  the  list 
of  preposterous  follies  with  which 
Ministers  have  supported  their  mea- 
sure, and  which  thoughtless  people 
have  swallowed  as  reason,  because 
it  was  given  as  such  by  hired  news- 
papers. 

Mr  Cutlar  Fergusson,  a  man  of 
considerable  ability,  and  very  con- 
siderable heat  and  vehemence  of 
manner,  answered  Mr  Bruce.  The 
chief  point  of  his  argument  was,  that 
there  could  be  no  real  representa- 
tion of  the  people,  because  many  of 
the  representatives  were  not  chosen 
by  the  people.  This  is  a  common 
but  very  fallacious  ground  of  objec- 
tion to  the  present  system.  It  does 
not  follow  that  a  member  of  Parlia- 
ment will  not  act  for  the  people's 
good  if  he  be  not  chosen  by  the 
people;  and  though  it  were  much  to 
be  lamented,  if  there  were  not  mem- 
bers chosen  by  all  varieties  and 
shades  of  interests,  whether  popular 
or  otherwise,  yet,  to  suppose  that  be- 
cause some  members  are  nominated 
by  Peers,  they  must,  therefore,  be  in- 


The  Late  Debates  on  Reform. 


different  to  the  interests  of  the 
people,  and  consequently  unfit  for 
the  Commons'  House  of  Parliament, 
is-a  mere  phantom  of  a  discontented 
imagination,  and^wholly  irreconcile- 
able  with  practical  truth.  Have  we 
ever  found  that  the  Peers  themselves 
have  been  more  neglectful  of  the 
people's  interests  in  the  public  ques- 
tions that  come  before  them,  than 
the  Commons  ?  And  if  we  have  not, 
why  is  it  to  be  assumed  that  the  no- 
minees of  Peers  in  the  Lower  House 
are  so  ?  Nay,  more,  I  venture  to 
affirm,  that  if  we  appeal  to  the  surest 
test,  that  of  experience,  it  will  be 
found  that  the  most  illustrious 
friends  of  the  people  who  have  ever 
appeared  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
were  not  popular  representatives, 
but  obtained  their  opportunities  of 
doing  good  through  the  instrumen- 
tality of  nomination  boroughs.  Even 
that  recreant  from  the  cause  of  mo- 
derate reform,  Lord  John  Russell, 
did  admit,  that  but  for  these  con- 
venient boroughs,  Sir  Samuel  Ro- 
milly  would  probably  have  never  sat 
in  Parliament.  It  is  quite  certain 
that  the  present  Lord  Chancellor 
never  would,  at  least  in  the  Lower 
House:  he  might,  by  devoting  all  his 
energies  to  his  profession,have  reach- 
ed the  Upper  House  as  a  Law  Lord, 
but  except  through  such  a  friendly 
door  as  the  nomination  borough  of 
Winchelsea,  he  never  would  have 
obtained  the  Parliamentary  reputa- 
tion, which,  at  last,  made  him  Mem- 
ber for  Yorkshire : — yet  Mr  Fergus- 
son  would  be  as  ready  as  any  to  ad- 
mit that  he  was  no  idle  or  inattentive 
advocate  of  the  popular  cause. 

Lord  Porchester,  whoalsodeclared 
himself  a  friend  to  Reform,  although 
an  enemy  to  the  measure  of  the  Mi- 
nisters, delivered  a  speech  of  which 
the  combined  force  and  elegance 
very  much  captivated  the  House.  The 
noble  lord  having,  as  he  stated, spent 
much  of  his  life  abroad,  contrasted, 
with  much  point  and  felicity,  the 
attempted  constitutions  of  the  conti- 
nent, which  were  framed  upon  the 
understood  theory  of  our  system, 
with  our  practical  constitution,  and 
argued  that  their  failure  was  in  con- 
quence  of  the  adoption  of  theories, 
similar  to  those  upon  which  the 
scheme  of  the  Reform  Bill  was  found- 
ed. It  was  because  they  had  adopt- 
ed our  three  estates  as  branches  of 


395 

government,  independent,  and  capable 
of  balancing  and  controlling  each  other. 
They  unconsciously  adopted  our 
constitution,  not  as  it  was  grounded 
on,  and  supported  by  practice,  but 
as  they  found  it  laid  down  on  paper. 
This  is,  indeed,  the  grand  error  of 
the  Ministerial  Reformers — of  such 
of  them  as  are  sincere  and  honest  in 
the  advocacy  of  the  Bill.  Forget- 
ting the  sober  caution  of  Englishmen, 
they  would  leave  the  good  they  have, 
to  fly  to  an  apparent  but  impractica- 
ble improvement — they  would  leave 
the  substance  to  grasp  at  a  pleasing 
shadow,  and  desert  experience,  to 
embrace  a  dream  of  the  imagination, 
which  sober  meditation  would  tell 
them  could  never  be  realized.  The 
different  estates  of  the  realm  must, 
in  practice,  blend  with  one  another ; 
and  if  the  theory  of  their  separate 
existence  and  independent  action  be 
attempted  to  be  realized,  they  must 
clash,  and  the  weaker  must  fall  be- 
fore the  stronger. 

Mr  Gaily  Knight  supported  the 
Bill  upon  a  practical  ground.  He 
said  the  people  were  not  satisfied 
with  the  representation — they  felt  it 
as  a  grievance,  and  when  that  grie- 
vance was  removed,  they  would  be 
satisfied,  but  not  till  then.  This 
would  be  a  cogent  argument,  if 
the  fact  were  true,  but  I  do  not 
believe  it  is.  It  is  impossible  that 
the  dissatisfaction  can  arise  out  of 
a  settled  conviction  of  wrong  ;  for 
if  it  did,  it  would  not  all  at  once  rise 
to  such  a  height,  when  the  grievance 
is  no  more  liow  than  it  has  been 
since  the  Revolution.  It  is  the  result 
of  an  excitement  arising  out  of  the 
circumstances  of  the  time — the  revo- 
lutionary spirit  of  the  continent,  and 
the  pains  taken  by  crafty  misrepre- 
sentation, and  by  various  means  of 
inflaming  the  passions  of  the  people, 
to  create  the  discontent  for  a  party 
purpose.  The  people  do  not  feel 
any  practical  grievance  from  the  state 
of  the  representation,  and  the  dissa- 
tisfaction would  die  away,  as  soon 
as  the  artificial  means  of  excitement 
were  withdrawn. 

Mr  R.  A.  Dundas  took  the  lead  in 
the  debate  the  next  evening,  and  de- 
livered a  most  excellent  speech,  rich 
in  historical  knowledge,  and  exceed- 
ingly effective  in  the  candid  and 
common  sense  views  of  the  question. 
He  admitted  the  blemishes  on  the 


396 


The  Lute  Debate's  on  Reform. 


[Aug. 


surface  of  the  representative  system, 
but  denied  the  necessity  for  the  vio- 
lent change  which  was  contemplated, 
and  which  he  described  as  a  viola- 
tion of  common  sense,  and  a  gross 
infraction  upon  the  established  Con- 
stitution. The  Ministers  might  have 
introduced  a  modified  plan  of  Re- 
form, conferring  proper  rit/hts  upon 
intelligence  and  property^  to  which 
they  would  be  likely  to  have  the 
consent  of  all  moderate  men,  in  and 
out  of  the  House ;  but  they  chose  in- 
stead, to  upset  the  whole  of  our  an- 
cient institutions,  for  the  trial  of  a 
wild  and  unnecessary  experiment. 

Sir  John  Malcolm  opposed  the  bill, 
and  has  acquired  thereby  the  honour 
of  the  dirty  vituperation  of  the  mean 
and  malignant  Ministerial  press,  of 
which  the  venomous  rancour  is  gene- 
rally in  proportion  to  the  virrues  and 
lofty  reputation  of  the  individual  at- 
tacked. Sir  John  Malcolm's  charac- 
ter, as  a  gallant  soldier,  and  a  dis- 
tinguished man  of  letters,  is  happily 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  paltry  abuse 
which  has  been  directed  against  him 
— the  filth  falls  back  on  those  who 
cast  it.  Sir  John  said,  that  from  his 
experience  in  life  (and  few  men  have 
abetterrightto  speak  on  this  ground,) 
he  looked  to  results  rather  than  to 
theories,  to  the  fruits  of  an  existing 
system,  rather  than  to  any  specula- 
tive good,  which  might  be  imagined 
to  confer  some  benefit  upon  the  com- 
munity. Now  if  the  Reform  Bill 
were  carried,  men  of  experience  in 
East  India  matters  would  be  exclu- 
ded from  seats  in  Parliament;  and  for 
the  sake  of  India,  where  the  growing 
reform  had  reduced  all  manner  of 
profits  full  thirty  per  cent,  he  must 
protest  against  such  a  measure  being 
passed  into  a  law. 

Sir  Edward  Bering  well  maintain- 
ed the  reputation  which  he  acquired 
in  the  preceding  session.  He  con- 
tended that  the  effect  of  the  working 
of  the  close  boroughs  was  a  whole- 
some and  necessary  check  upon  the 
influence  of  popular  opinion,  and  re- 
gulated the  operation  of  sudden  and 
mischievous  fluctuations  in  the  po- 
pular wishes,  before  they  were  felt 
in  the  acts  of  the  legislature.  At  all 
events,  those  who  proposed  to  re- 
move them,  were  bound  to  shew  that 
they  had  not  been  essential  to  the 
benefits  which  the  constitution  had 
conferred  upon  this  happy  country, 


and  that  the  same  glorious  results  in, 
the  power  and  greatness  of  the  coun- 
try, would  have  been  produced  with- 
out them. 

This  certainly  is  a  legitimate  argu- 
ment :  when  men  propose  an  import- 
ant change,  and  particularly  a  change 
which  partakes  of  the  nature  of  pe- 
nalty and  confiscation,  the  onus  pro- 
bandi  of  delinquency  unquestion- 
ably lies  with  them.  In  the  present 
question,  it  is  not  so  much  the  busi- 
ness of  the  opponents  of  the  mea- 
sure to  defend  the  boroughs,  as  it  is 
of  those  who  vote  for  their  abolition 
to  establish  the  case  of  damage  and 
injury  to  the  common  weal  from 
their  existence. 

Mr  Lytton  Bulwer  addressed  the 
House,  according  to  the  newspaper 
phrase,  at  some  length.  This  gentle- 
man quoted  Bolingbroke,  and  talked 
much  of  the  aristocracy  ;  there  was 
little  in  his  speech  to  call  forth  either 
censure  or  praise,  and  it  was  perhaps 
upon  the  whole  less  offensive  than 
might  have  been  expected  from  one 
whose  dandyish  affectation,  and  spite- 
fulness,  do  so  much  to  mar  the  kind 
of  small  literary  ability  which  he 
possesses,  and  which  has  obtained 
him  some  reputation  in  the  circula- 
ting libraries. 

After  MrLyon,  Mr  Edmund  Peel, 
and  Mr  Rice  Trevor,  had  spoken 
against  the  bill,  and  Mr  Godson  and 
Colonel  Torrens  in  its  favour,  Mr 
Macaulay  favoured  the  House  with 
a  speech  which  has  made  a  consider- 
able fuss.  Lord  Althorp,  in  his  feli- 
citous and  original  way,  described  it 
as  an  eloquent  discourse  which  had 
"  electrified"  the  House.  The  truth 
is,  that  the  independent  member  for 
Calne  has  been  taking  very  great 
pains  of  late  to  improve  himself  as  a 
speaker,  and  has  reaped  the  usual 
reward  of  diligence,  in  very  consi- 
derable improvement.  His  discourse 
is  not  now  the  hurried,  mumbling, 
confused  thing  that  it  was,  when 
he  began  to  "electrify"  the  House  ; 
and  his  lisp,  and  affectation  of  bril- 
liancy, do  not  come  quite  so  offen- 
sively upon  the  ear  and  the  under- 
standing. Considerable,  however, 
as  the  improvement  is,  and  praise- 
worthy the  excessive  labour  by 
which  it  has  been  accomplished,  yet 
it  is  obvious  enough,  that  Mr  Mac- 
aulay is  not,  nor  is  likely  to  be, 
a  ready  and  able  debater,  JNothing 


.1831.] 


The  Late  Debutes  on  Reform. 


307 


could  be  more  evident  than  that 
the  speech  about  which  the  great 
fuss  has  been  made,  was  from  be- 
ginning to  end  a  prepared  speech ; 
it  scarcely  touched  on  those  which 
had  gone  before  it  during  the  same 
night,  and  was  full  of  suggested  ob- 
jections which  he  had  prepared  him- 
self to  argue  against,  upon  the  chance 
of  their  being  used  by  his  opponents. 
As  they  say  Mr  Macaulay  is  a  vastly 
clever  young  man,  and  as  he  him- 
self is  manifestly  very  much  of  that 
opinion,  I  shall  do  him  the  favour  of 
giving  him  a  little  insight  into  what 
he  must  become,  in  order  to  have 
the  ability  for  a  successful  debater; 
and  even  then,  Heaven  knows  what 
may  stand  in  the  way,  to  prevent 
such  ability  from  being  allowed  its 
full  eft'ect  in  the  House  of  Commons. 
He  must  be  able  at  the  moment,  and 
on  the  spur  of  the  occasion,  to 
grapple  with  the  arguments,  or  ex- 
pose the  no-arguments  of  his  op- 
ponents— to  ridicule  their  wit,  and 
make  their  humour  appear  absur- 
dity— to  compress  all  the  argument 
they  may  have  used  into  a  little 
space,  and  to  demolish  it  with  ruth- 
less vigour;  and  then,  upon  the  ruins 
of  their  wit,  humour,  and  argument, 
to  raise  up  a  splendid  superstructure 
of  serious  eloquence,  the  happy  re- 
sult of  knowledge,  imagination,  and 
felicity  of  language  and  action.  A 
man  capable  of  doing  this  would 
have  the  requisites  for  a  Parliamen- 
tary debater — such  a  man  is  not  Mr 
Macaulay,  nor,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  is 
he  likely  to  be. 

The  chief  argument  in  his  speech 
was,  that  the  elective  franchise  could 
not  be  property,  and,  therefore,  the 
arguments  directed  against  disfran- 
chisement,  on  the  ground  of  its  be- 
ing similar  in  its  nature  to  confisca- 
tion, did  not  hold  good.  Now,  with- 
out entering  into  the  lengthy  and 
difficult  discussion  of  the  nature  of 
property,  and  the  distinction  to  be 
drawn  between  it  and  a  franchise, 
it  is  sufficient  for  the  practical  ques- 
tion to  state,  that  even  if  the  franchise 
were  not  strictly  property,  the  thing 
to  which  it  is  commonly  annexed, 
and  which  derives  in  many  cases  its 
sole  value  from  the  annexation,  is 
beyond  question  property,  and  re- 
cognised as  such  by  the  law  of  the 
land ;  and  if  the  exchangeable  and 
legally  recognised  value  of  a  thing  be 


swept  away  by  the  obvious  and  im- 
mediate operation  of  an  act  of  Parlia- 
ment, though  Mr  Macaulay  should 
go  on  "  electrifying"  the  House  till 
doomsday  with  his  eloquence,  still 
every  man  of  common  sense  must 
admit,  that  such  an  act  of  Parlia- 
ment is  an  act  which  substantially 
and  effectually  confiscates  property. 

The  electrifier  was  followed  by 
Mr  W.  Bankes  and  the  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer,  when  Sir  George 
Murray  rose  and  delivered  one  of 
those  admirable  discourses,  which, 
for  their  clear  and  unambitious  for- 
cibleness,  and  elevated  plainness, 
eminently  distinguish  him  among 
the  public  men  of  the  day.  Mini- 
sters, he  said,  contended  that  it 
would  give  stability  to  the  throne, 
and  security  to  the  people — he  be- 
lieved that  it  would  shake  the  mo- 
narchy, and  make  the  House  of 
Commons  a  more  efficient  instru- 
ment in  the  hands  of  the  democracy 
for  the  purpose  of  embarrassing  the 
government.  He  thought  that  the 
monarchical  principle  was  not  con- 
fined to  the  throne  alone,  nor  the 
aristocratical  principle  included  only 
within  the  walls  of  the  House  of 
Peers.  To  the  blending  of  the  three 
powers  we  owed  our  present  happy 
condition,  under  which  we  had  the 
power  of  making  gradual  improve- 
ments, without  the  risk  of  great  and 
dangerous  changes.  If  the  three 
powers  should  be  separated— if  the 
Crown  should  be  left  to  defend  the 
monarchical  principle,  and  the  House 
of  Peers  to  defend  the  aristocratical 
principle,  whilst  the  House  of  Com- 
mons would  be  occupied  in  advan- 
cing the  spirit  of  democracy — he 
thought  that  both  the  spirit  and  the 
practice  of  the  British  Constitution 
would  be  effectually  destroyed. 

On  the  third  evening  of  the  debate 
there  were,  in  the  beginning,  many 
speeches,  good,  bad,  and  indifferent, 
which  I  must  take  the  liberty  of  pass- 
ing over  without  any  special  remark, 
save  this,  that  a  person  "  commonly" 
called  Lord  William  Lennox,  talked 
much  about  morality,  and  the  iniquity 
of  those  who,  in  indolence  and  sloth, 
co)isumed  t/ie  bread  that  others  had 
toiled  for.  I  should  have  thouglit  that 
he  would  rather  have  avoided  such 
topics,  but  there  is  no  accounting 
for  tastes.  The  crowd  being  dis- 
patched, let  me  dwell  for  a  moment 


398 


The  Late  Debates  on  Reform. 


[Aug. 


on  honest  old  Charley  Wetherell'e 
harangue.  Let  not  this  man  be 
taken  for  a  mere  humourist — his 
knowledge  is  deep  and  various,  and 
he  uses  it  with  great  acuteness  and 
vigour, — but  assuredly  his  humour 
is  the  richest  treat  which  the  debates 
of  the  House  of  Commons  afford. 
How  ridiculous  he  made  poor  Mr 
Strickland  appear,  in  the  very  outset. 
"I  claim  for  myself,"  said  Sir  Charles, 
"  as  member  for  the  cottages  of 
Boroughbridge,  as  great  a  share  of 
independence  as  the  honourable 
member  who  represents,  as  he  has 
told  us,  the  great  province  of  York  ; 
the  borough  I  represent  forms  but  a 
speck  in  that  province,  and  although 
I  do  not  hold  of  the  honourable  mem- 
ber as  lord,  nor  by  villanage,  or  any 
feudal  tenure,  still  I  tender  him  my 
most  respectful  recognition  of  pro- 
vincial superiority." 

A  more  rash  and  tyrannical  inno- 
vation on  the  constitution  than  the 
present  had,  he  said,  never  been  at- 
tempted,— the  tendency  of  the  mea- 
sure was  to  democratize,  he  had  al- 
most said  to  sanscutottize  the  consti- 
tution. The  ten  pound  voters  were 
a  mere  mockery  of  a  representative 
body.  He  ventured  to  assert  it  as  a 
proposition  in  the  abstract,  that  ten 
pound  men  were  not  fit  for  the  en- 
joyment of  the  elective  franchise. 
What !  he  would  ask  the  gentlemen 
opposite,  was  this  their  conservative 
body  ?  the  respectable  constituency 
of  the  parish  workhouse !  For  his 
part  he  considered  that  to  solicit 
votes  in  the  lazaretto — in  pauper 
establishments — was  degrading  to 
the  character,  qualifications,  and  sta- 
tion of  a  representative. 

The  debate  was  wound  up  (for  we 
account  Sir  Francis  Burdett's  forced 
harangue  for  nothing)  by  a  speech 
from  Sir  Robert  Peel,  which  was 
one  of  the  most  completely  effective 
addresses  that  it  is  perhaps  possible 
to  imagine  upon  a  question  distorted 
by  misrepresentation,  and  obscured 
by  the  heap  of  words  without  know- 
ledge, which  its  advocates  had 
thrown  around  it.  It  should  be  un- 
derstood that  Sir  Robert  Peel's 
speeches  do  not  astonish  by  their 
brilliancy,  nor  greatly  delight  by  their 
eloquence,  nor  impress  us  with  those 
feelings  of  profound  respect,  that 
the  lofty  good  sense  and  occasional 
pathos  of  such  a  man  as  Sir  George 


Murray  cause  to  arise  within  us; 
but  he  brings  the  most  powerful  ar- 
guments so  well  together,  and  pours 
them  upon  us  with  such  an  easy  re- 
dundancy of  well-chosen  and  most 
appropriate  words,  that  sometimes, 
as  on  the  occasion  of  this  concluding 
speech,  irresistible  conviction  flows 
through  the  minds  of  his  auditory, 
that  he  must  be  right.  There  per- 
haps never  was  in  Parliament  a  more 
powerful  effect  of  this  nature  produ- 
ced than  by  the  speech  to  which  I 
now  allude,  and  never  was  it  more 
strongly  felt  that  a  Parliamentary 
majority  is  one  thing,  and  the  pre- 
ponderance of  sentiment,  even  with- 
in the  walls  of  Parliament,  another. 
I  shall  not  attempt  to  state  the  argu- 
ments, or  quote  parts  of  a  speech, 
which  every  one  who  takes  the 
slightest  interest  in  Parliamentary 
Reform  ought  to  read  carefully,  and 
more  than  once.  If  Sir  Robert  Peel 
were  at  all  times,  and  in  all  circum- 
stances of  political  controversy,  as 
worthy  of  praise,  as  he  is  when  he 
thinks  proper  to  be  in  earnest  in  de- 
bate, the  cause  which  he  supports 
would  be  very  greatly  indebted  to 
his  advocacy. 

The  nominees  of  the  mob,  of 
course,  carried  the  majority — 367 
Members  voted  for  the  Bill,  and  231 
against  it. 

In  the  Committee  on  the  Bill,  the 
debate,  if  that  can  be  called  a  debate 
in  which  the  argument  was  all  one 
way,  has  been  marked  by  circum- 
stances of  unusual  clamour  on  one 
side,  and  unusual  perseverance  on 
the  other.  The  Ministerialists  are 
obviously  afraid  of  argument,  and 
no  less  afraid  of  the  effects  of  delay 
and  deliberation  upon  the  public 
mind.  They  would  therefore,  if  pos- 
sible, push  the  measure  forward  with 
breathless  haste,  and  in  pursuit  of 
this  object  have  manifested  a  despo- 
tic intemperance,  alternately  sullen 
and  clamorous,  such  as  has  seldom 
been  manifested  by  any  Ministry  in 
circumstances  however  desperate. 
On  the  first  night  it  was  attempted 
to  clamour  down  Captain  Gordon, 
upon  which  the  Opposition  deter- 
mined to  stop  such  a  proceeding  by 
adjournment.  The  Ministerialists 
were  not  disposed  either  to  adjourn 
or  to  listen  to  debate — the  Opposi- 
tion persevered,  and  a  battle  of  ad- 
journments ragedfrom  twelve  at  night 


1831.] 


The  Late  Debates  on  Reform. 


399 


until  seven  in  the  morning.    Since 
then,  the  Government  party,  finding 
that  the  Opposition  are  not  to   be 
put  down  by  senseless  noise,  have 
sat  for  the  most  part  in  sullen  silence, 
waiting  for  divisions,  in  which  they 
know  their  only  chance  of  victory  lies. 
Hitherto  the   Committee  has  been 
chiefly  engaged  with  the  discussion 
of  preliminary  suggestions  relative 
to  the  mode  of  proceeding  with  the 
first  clause.     On  the  first  evening 
the  principal  discussion  related  to 
whether  or  not  counsel  should  be 
heard  at  the  bar  in  behalf  of  Apple- 
by,  which,  upon  the  principle,   or 
avowed  principle  of  the  Bill  itself, 
ought  not  to  appear  in  the  first  clause 
containing  schedule  A.     It  is  stated 
in  the  petition  from  the  borough, 
and  can  be  proved  by  evidence  un- 
questionable, that  it  contains  more 
than  2000  inhabitants,  which  the  wis- 
dom of  the  Ministry  has  fixed  as  the 
limit  within  which  total  disfranchise- 
ment  must  be  inflicted.     The  Go- 
vernment refused  to  hear  counsel 
upon  the  point,  and  were  supported 
by  a  majority  in  which  poor  Alder- 
man Thompson  was  not;  for  happen- 
ing to  be  born  in  the  town,  or  some- 
where in  its  vicinity,  and  knowing 
its  local  circumstances  well,  for  very 
shame's  sake,  he  voted  on  the  side 
of  truth,  and  then,  like  a  poor  con- 
temptible creature,  apologized  for  so 
doing,  to   his  radical   constituents, 
who  threatened  to  have  him  turned 
out  of  the  representation   of  Lon- 
don for  not  having  voted  as   they 
pleased. 

The  second  evening's  discussion 
was  on  Mr  Wynne's  amendment  to 
settle  the  new  enfranchisement  part 
of  the  Bill  first,  and  then  proceed  to 
try  what  room  could  be  made  for 
the  new  places  by  disf'ranchisement 
of  the  old.  This  amendment  was 
rejected  by  a  majority  of  118,  al- 
though scarcely  any  attempt  was 
made  to  argue  against  it. 

The  third  evening,  Sir  Robert  Peel 
tried  the  general  question  of  disfran- 
chisement,  by  moving  an  omission  of 
a  word  in  the  first  clause,  which 
would  have  rendered  the  whole  of  it 
nugatory.  It  was  determined  against 
him  by  a  majority  of  97,  the  argu- 
ment being,  as  on  the  night  before, 
entirely  on  the  side  of  the  Opposition. 
The  fourth  evening  was  devoted 
to  the  consideration  of  Sir  A.  Ag- 


new's  proposition  to  put  the  bo- 
roughs, intended  by  the  bill  to  be 
disfranchised,  in  groups,  and  allow 
each  of  them  a  share  in  the  election 
of  representatives.  This  was  defeat- 
ed by  a  majority  of  11 1,  the  triumph 
in  debate  being  conspicuously  with 
the  minority.  During  the  whole  of 
the  discussion  in  the  committee,  Mr 
Croker  has  taken  a  prominent  part, 
but  on  the  fourth  evening  he  grap- 
pled with  the  Lord  Advocate,  and 
amid  the  cheers  and  laughter  of  the 
House,  gave  the  learned  lord  such  a 
dressing,  as  it  is  supposed  will  be 
likely  to  keep  him  very  quiet  for 
some  time  to  come.  Never  did  a 
man  of  reputation  seem  so  small,  as 
did  the  poor  Lord  Advocate  at  the 
close  of  Mr  Croker's  speech  on  Fri- 
day night  the  15th  July,  A.  D.  1831. 

This  evening  the  committee  are  to 
be  at  it  again,  and  in  the  meantime 
the  most  dismal  howling  that  you 
can  possibly  conceive  is  set  up  about 
the  delay  which  the  Opposition  occa- 
sion in  the  progress  of  the  Bill.  Un- 
doubtedly the  Opposition  do  cause 
delay,  and  why  not  ?  It  is  their  duty, 
thinking  as  they  do,  to  strangle  the 
measure  outright  if  possible,  and  if 
not  to  delay  it,  taking  chance  for 
what  Providence  may  dispose  in  the 
lapse  of  time.  But  there  is  another  yet 
more  powerful  reason  for  delay — it  af- 
fords time  for  the  people  to  delibe- 
rate, and  to  recover  from  the  frantic 
excitement  into  which  they  were 
wrought,  by  all  manner  of  fantastical 
lies  told  to  them  from  the  hustings, 
and  elsewhere.  Already  the  effect  of 
delay  and  of  thinking  upon  the  sub- 
ject, is  seen  in  the  diminished  passion 
about  the  bill,  and  why  should  it  not 
be  protracted,  that  people  may  think 
yet  more  about  it,  and  scrutinize,  by 
the  light  of  passing  events,  the  mo- 
tives of  those  who  have  promoted  it. 
Further — the  deliberate  judgment  of 
the  people  of  England  is  either  in  fa- 
vour of  the  Reform  proposed  by  Mi- 
nisters, or  it  is  not.  If  it  is,  then  no 
delay  can  affect  the  ultimate  success 
of  the  measure,  for  the  conviction  of 
deliberate  judgment  is  not  a  thing 
to  fluctuate  or  fade  away — if  it  is 
not,  the  bill  ought  not  to  pass.  Why 
then  should  Ministers  and  their  ad- 
herents clamour  about  delay  ? 

T.'W.  H. 

London,  July  19,  1831. 


400  Xoctes  AmbrosiancE.     No.  L  VIL  rAu<». 

r 

' 

!'»*O'>    »">W«J    '>i  )t>   !!• 
'.'"•':  ,'lO.tiftf  ,*nfi<f  v. 

•    '.'MJ    ..(.->;    ..il!»    .'!'»   K.1      • 

Uoctts  amfitosfanne. 

TV«    TVTI 

y<ii,K[       ...  W»  JjVll.  'UlN-' 

XPH  A'EN  STMnOSIIi  KTAIKHN  nEPINISSOMENAHN 
HAEAKH  TIAAONTA  KA0HMENON  OINOHOTAZEIN. 


{_  . 


,  . 

Lji  *.»* 


is  a  distich  by  wise  old  Phocylides, 
An  ancient  who  wrote  crabbed  Greek  in  no  silly  days  ; 
Meaning^  "  'Tis  RIGHT  FOR  GOOD  WINEBIBBING  PEOPLK, 

NOT  TO  LET  THE  JUG  PACE  ROUND  THE  BOARD  LIKE  A  CRIPPLE; 
BUT  GAILY  TO  CHAT  WHILE  DISCUSSING  THEIR  TIPPLE." 

An  excellent  rule  of  the  hearty  old  cock  'tis  — 
And  a  very  fit  motto  to  put  to  our  Nodes.] 

;bae      C.X.ap.Ambr. 

s  HI'  r»*«f.  tl  /tiai.j  wo  ji.iit  -MI  baur'n  oJ  fan^oaoi  )n> 

TICKLER. 

IN  my  opinion,  the  circumstances  you  speak  of  with  such  abhorrence, 
are  the  very  things  that  alone  render  the  whole  concern  in  any  sort  toler- 
able. My  good  fellow,  do  but  look  round  this  room.  You'll  allow  it  con- 
tains about  as  many  cubic  feet  as  the  City  of  Athens,  and  it  is  near  planted 
by  a  river,  and  all  about  it  are  trees  of  lordly  stature. 

NORTH. 

"  And  branches  grow  thereon." 

TICKLER. 

Well,  dear,  only  conceive  of  this  room  being  partitioned  into  some  score 
of  sections  answering  in  shape  and  dimensions  to  the  cabin,  lady's  cabin, 
state-rooms,  steerage,  &c.  &c.  &c.  of  a  crack-steamer,  and  people  these  do- 
miciliuncula  with  such  an  omnigatherum  of  human  mortals  as  Captain 
Macraw  or  Captain  Maclaver  is  in  the  habit  of  transporting  from  Leith  to 
London,  or  vice  versa. 

NORTH. 

God  forbid  !  —  the  half  payers,  milliners'  apprentices,  and  all  ? 

TICKLER. 

Yes  —  every  soul  of  them  —  shut  them  all  up  here  together  for  three 
days  and  nights,  more  or  less,  to  eat,  drink,  sleep,  snore,  walk,  strut,  hop, 
swagger,  lounge,  shave,  brush,  wash,  comb,  cough,  hiccup,  gargle,  dispute, 
prose,  declaim,  sneer,  laugh,  whisper,  sing,  growl,  smile,  smirk,  flirt,  fondle, 
preach,  lie,  swear,  snuff,  chew,  smoke,  read,  play,  gasconize,  gallivant,  etce- 
tera, etceterorum. 

NORTH. 

Stop,  for  God's  sake  - 

TICKLKR. 

Not  I  —  cage  your  Christians  securely,  give  them  at  discretion  great  big 
greasy  legs  of  Leicestershire  mutton  ;  red  enormous  rounds  of  Bedford 
beef;  vast  cold  thick  inexpugnable  pies  of  Essex  veal  ;  broad,  deep,  yel- 
low, fragrant  Cheshire  cheeses  ;  smart,  sharp,  white,  acidulous  ginger  beer, 
—strong,  heavy,  black  double  X  —  new  rough  hot  port  in  pint  bottles;  the 
very  elite  of  Cape  sherry  "  of  the  earth  earthy  ;"  basketfuls  of  cracked  bis- 
cuits; slices  of  fat  ham  piled  inch  thick  on  two  feet  long  blue  and  white 
ashets  ;  beautiful  round  dumpy  glassed  jugs  of  tepid  Thames  water,  charm- 
ing whitey-bro\vn  porringers  of  nutty-brown  soft  sugar,  corpulent  bloated 
seedy  lemons,  with  green-handled  saw-edged  steel  knives  to  bisect  them  ; 
gills  of  real  malt  whisky,  the  most  genuine  Cognac  brandy,  the  very  gran- 
dest of  old  antique  veritable  Jamaica  ruin,  and  Schiedam  Hollands  —  tall, 


1 .]  Nudes  Ambrosiana.     .<Yo.  L  VJL  40 1 

tlihi,  glaring  tallow  candles  in  dim  brazen  candlesticks,  planted  few  and  far- 
between  on  deal  tables  covered  with  freeze  tablecloths,  once  green  and 
nappy,  now  bare,  tawny,  and  speckled  with  spots  of  gravy,  vinegar,  punch, 
toddy,  beer,  oil,  tea,  treacle,  honey,  jam,  jelly,  marmalade,  catsup,  coffee, 
capellaire,  soda-water,  seidlitz  draughts,  cocoa,  gin  twist,  Bell'sale,  heavy  wet, 
blue  ruin,  max,  cider,  rhubarb,  Eaude  Cologne,  chocolate,  onion  sauce,  to- 
bacco, lavender,  peppermint,  sneeze,  slop,  barley-sugar,  soy,  liquorice, 
oranges,  peaches,  plums,  apricots,  cherries,  geans,  apples,  pears,  grosets, 
currants,  turnips,  lozenges,  electuaries,  abstersives,  diuretics,  eau-medi- 
cinale,  egg,  bacon,  milk  punch,  herring,  sausage,  fried  tripe,  toasted  Dunlpp, 
livers,  lights,  soap,  caudle,  cauliflower,  tamarinds,  potted  char,  champagne, 
lunelle,  claret,  hock,  purl,  perry,  ealoop,  tokay,  gingerbread,  scalloped 
oysters,  milk,  ink,  butter,  jalap,  pease-pudding,  blood — — 

NORTH. 
Oh !  horrible— most  horrible— enough,  enough. 

SHEPHERD. 

Hae  dune,  hae  dune,  man — od'  ye're  eneugh  to  gar  a  sow  scunner — 

TICKLER. 

You  agree,  then,  with  my  original  position.  The  only  circumstances  that 
render  the  concern  in  any  shape  or  sort  tolerable,  are  the  very  things  you 
set  out  with  abusing.  The  locomotion,  the  sea  blast,  the  rocking  of  the 
waves,  the  creaking  and  hissing  of  the  machinery — in  short,  whatever  has 
a  direct  and  constant  tendency  to  remind  us  that  our  misery  is  but  for  a 
certain  given  number  of  hours — in  other  words,  that  you  are  not  in  hell, 
but  only  in  purgatdry.  And  I  have  said  nothing  as  to  the  night-work — the 

Kilmarnocks — the  flannels,  the  sights  and  the  sounds 

NORTH. 

I  shall  sconce  you  a  bumper  for  every  disgusting  image  you  please  your- 
self with  cooking — stop  at  once — let  us  suppose  your  voyage  over,  and  the 
immortal  traveller  treads  once  more  the  solid  earth  of  Augusta  Trinoban- 
tum.  How  long  was  it  since  you  had  been  in  town,  Timothy?  <{fcaA 

TICKLER. 

I  never  go  up  except  when  the  Whigs  are  in  power — ergo,  I  had  seen  no- 
thing of  the  great  city  since  the  year  of  grace  1805.  I  confess  I  was  curious 
to  behold  once  more  the  dom«  of  St  Paul's,  and  snuff  yet  again  the  air  of 
Westminster,  to  walk  down  Regent's  Street,  and  hear  a  debate  in  St  Ste- 
phen's, and  above  all  to  take  by  the  hand  some  half  dozen  good  fellows -of 
my  own  standing,  who  still  keep  up  the  fashions  and  customs,  as  well  ds 
principles,  of  the  better  time — Sidmouth,  for  example,  Eldon,  Sir  William 
Grant,  and  one  or  two  more  that  have  stuck  to  Pitt  and  Port  through  evil 
report  and  good.  These,  lads,  are  the  salt  of  the  earth  ! 

NORTH. 

"'And  you  found  them  all  in  good  savour  ?  How  does  Old  Bags  look  ? — 
And  the  worthy  Doctor  ?  I  hope  years  sit  light  on  that  lofty  fabric  ?— rAnd 
Grant,  my  own  dear  crony,  can  he  still  take  his  two  bottles  as  in  the  days 
of  yore  ? 

TICKLER. 

Aye,  or  three,  on  due  occasion.  'Faith  we  had  some  rare  doings,  I  pro- 
mise ye.  One  evening  we  were  at  The  Thatched  House,  seven  in  number, 
not  one  of  us  under  seventy-six,  Eldon  in  the  chair,  and  Tom  Hill  croupier 
—and  how  many  bottles,  think  ye,  shed  the  blood  of  old  Oporto  ?  sixteen, 
by  Jupiter !  over  and  above  the  Madeira,  during  dinner,  and  perhaps  some 
three  or  four  flasks  of  your  light  French  stuff,  which  no  man  rcgardeth. 

NORTH. 

Bravely  done,  of  a  truth.— But  tell  me  how  they  all  look  ?  At  least  you 
must  have  seen  a  considerable  change,  my  old  friend  ? 

TICKLER. 

Why — yes — some.  But  that's  a  sore  subject.  However,  Iknew  them  all  again 
at  first  sight;  and,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  that's  more  than  they  did  for  me.  Who  do 
you  think  the  Ex-chancellor  took  me  for  when  we  first  foregathered  on  the 
shady  side  of  sweet  Pall  Mall '?  You  may  guess  for  a  twelvemonth — even  Sir 
Francis  Burdett — and,  I  must  confess,  when  the  baronet  was  pointed  out  to 


402  Noctes  Ambrosiuncc.    No.  L  VII.  [Aug. 

me,  a  night  or  two  after,  in  the  House  of  Commons,  I  did  see  something 
monstrous  like  what  stares  me  in  the  face  every  morning  at  shaving  time. 
But  indeed  there  were  more  people  that  fell  into  the  same  mistake — Ha ! 
ha !  ha !  Will  you  believe  it  ?  The  lackeys  at  Lord  Hill's  fSte  champfyre, 
thundered  out,  "  Sir  Francis  Burdett,  Sir  Francis  Burdett,"  whenever  I 
put  my  head  out  of  the  carriage  window;  and,  in  spite  of  all  my  reclama- 
tions, I  was  ushered,  under  these  colours,  into  the  very  presence  of  William 
the  Fourth  I 

HOGG. 

Sir  Francis  must  be  a  grand-looking  auld  carle,  I  can  tell  him.  Does  he 
stand  sax  feet  four  in  his  stockings,  at  this  time  o*  day,  after  a'  his  doings  ? 

TICKLER. 

Not  quite — but  at  a  little  distance  the  mistake  might  be  excusable.  I  flat- 
ter myself,  in  my  new  archer's  coat  and  epaulets,  I  looked  toll-loll  for  an 
octagenarian,  and  my  double  ganger  set  his  Windsor  uniform  deuced  well 
too.  The  fact  is,  we  are,  as  to  the  outward  man,  two  uncommon  respect- 
able looking  specimens  of  the  last  age — but  entre  nous,  I  should  not  be 
much  delighted  to  think  the  resemblance  went  farther.  He's  quite  gone, 
poor  creature — never  was  a  more  miserable  break  down  than  his  attempt 
to  answer  Peel.  It's  all  off  with  him  in  that  way — mere  drivels,  my  dears 
— never  witnessed  any  thing  more  humbling — voice  cracked — gesture  fret- 
fully impotent — words  a  hodge-podge  of  the  bald  and  the  tumid — sentences 
without  head  or  tail — the  whole  oratio  a  very  whine  of  rant — equally  re- 
mote from  the  simplicity  of  youth,  the  vigour  of  manhood,  and  the  gravity  of 
age.  Let  me  tell  you,  a  man  at  my  time  of  life,  in  possession  of  such  facul- 
ties as  it  pleased  God  to  give  him,  would  gladly  walk  ten  miles  in  a  sleet, 
rather  than  find  himself  obliged  to  sit  out  such  an  ominous  exhibition  "  as 
yon." 

NORTH. 

Poor  Sir  Francis !  The  last  time  I  heard  him  speak  it  was  a  different 
story.  And  by  the  bye,  he  spoke  in  Latin.  It  was  at  a  meeting  of  the  Ox- 
ford Convocation  about  an  Anti-Catholic  petition,  some  twenty  years  ago^ 
I  suppose.  I  happened  to  be  spending  a  few  days  at  the  time  with  Tatham, 
and  he  carried  me  with  him,  and  I  shall  never  forget  the  stupor  and  horror 
which  the  Radical  M.  A.'s  fluent,  elegant,  harangue  created  among  some  of 
the  worthy  Glostershire  parsons  who  had  come  up  with  their  little  dozy 
speeches,  stuck  full  of  porro,  and  mehercle,  andesse  videtur,  all  cut  and  dry 
in  the  crowns  of  their  caps — but  this  is  an  old  story,  and  he  was  then  as  fine 
looking  a  Jacobin  of  fifty  or  so,  as  ever  I  clapt  eyes  on.  Sic  transit. 

TICKLER. 

We'll  let  that  flie  stick  to  the  wa'. — Well,  he  was  the  only  man  I  heard 
speak  on  this  great  occasion  that  I  had  ever  heard  before,  and  I  might  be 
excused  when  I  looked  round  among  so  many  new  faces,  and  wished  some 
others  of  the  elder  day  had  been  spared  in  place  of  this  gentleman,  who,  in 
his  best  time,  was  egregiously  overrated,  and  who  certainly  cannot  be  un- 
der rated  now.     Well  might  Lord  Mahon  quote — 
O  for  one  hour  of  Wallace  wight, 
Or  well  skill'd  Bruce,  to  rule  the  fight! 

and  express  the  sad  regret  with  which,  having  the  same  morning  conversed 
with  Pitt's  elder  brother,  entire  in  all  his  powers,  he  considered  the  untime- 
ly blow  that  had  deprived  this  second  and  darker  crisis  of  Jacobinism  of 
the  great  leader  that  conducted  us  through  the  first !  Pitt  would  have  been 
only  seventy-four  had  he  lived  to  this  time — Canning  but  sixty  !  Well,  both 
—or  with  either — things  could  never  have  come  to  this  pass. 

NORTH. 

Well,  I'm  never  for  losing  heart  de  republicd,  and  I  own  nothing  gives  me 
more  comfort,  "under  existing  circumstances,"  as  the  phrase  is,  than  the 
blaze  of  youn^  talent  on  the  right  side  which  these  Whig  doings  have  been 
the  means  of  bringing  to  light  and  action.  You  mentioned  Lord  Mahon, 
Timothy— I  have  read  his  Belisarius,  and  all  his  speeches,  and  hang  me  if 
I  don't  think  he's  a  man — and  there's  Lord  Porchester,  and  Baring  Wall, 
and  I  know  not  how  many  more  of  them.  What  did  you  think  of  these 


1881.J  Nodes  Ambrosiante.    No.  L  VII.  403 

youths  ?  What  like  are  they  ?  Come,  describe  fairly  and  honestly,  and  in 
the  meantime,  here,  James,  fill  a  bumper  to  the  rising  Tories.  Nil  deeper- 
andum. 

SHEPHERD. 

Here's  to  them,  then,  wi'  right  good  will— and  may  they  ay  keep  in  mind 
that  Willie  Pitt  was  as  young  as  the  youngest  o'  them  when  he  saved  his 
country— and  that  in  spite  o'  rather  abler  chields,  I  reckon,  than  either  Lord 
Durham  or  this  Lord  John  Russell,  that  I  mind  a  bit  sniffling  pregma- 
dainty  chattering  laddie  aboot  auld  John  Playfair's,  only  yesterday  as  it  was. 

NORTH. 

Come,  Shepherd,  speak  respectfully  of  the  powers  that  be. 

TICKLER. 

The  powers  !  God  help  them  !  May  this  glass  be  my  last  if  every  harsher 
feeling  was  not  melted  into  gentle  pity  every  time  I  cast  an  eye  along 
the  Treasury  Bench — the  bench  where  I  remember— but  what  signifies  re- 
membering. There  they  are,  and  once  more  say  I,  Gqd  help  them  I 

NORTH. 

An  unintellectual  looking  set  on  the  whole,  eh  ?— and  yet  they  have  got 
some  fairish  heads  among  them  too — there's  Grahame,  a  handsome  fellow 
I  thought  him,  when  he  came  here  at  the  time  of  the  King's  visit  in  1822-- 
and  Denman — he  certainly  struck  me  as  a  fine  looking  person  on  the  Queers 
trial — and  then  there's  our  own  good  little  friend,  the  Advocate.  Come,  it 
can't  be  so  very  poor  a  shew  after  all,  Timotheus. 

TICKLER. 

De  gustibus—l  tell  you  honestly,  if  I  were  a  barrister  and  saw  before  me 
a  jury-box  furnished  with  a  baker's  dozen  of  such  physiognomies,  I  should 
consider  it  my  duty  to  my  client,  to  pitch  my  argument  on  any  thing  but 
a  high  key. 

NORTH. 

Has  Lord  Althorp  nothing  of  the  fine  old  Spenser  face  about  him  ? 

TICKLER. 

A  good  deal.  The  lines  are  there.  The  resemblance  to  some  even  of  the 
ablest  of  the  race  is  striking— but  so  much  the  worse.  I  know  few  things 
more  painful  than,  in  visiting  some  man  of  great  intellectual  rank,  to  see  his 
son  carving  the  mutton  at  the  foot  of  his  table,  so  like  him  that  you  would 
have  detected  the  connexion,  had  you  met  the  youth  at  Cairo,  and  yet  so 
visibly  a  fool,  that  your  eye  is  relieved  by  turning  to  a  dish  of  turnips.  Lord 
Althorp  has  handsome  features,  but  oh  !  how  heavily  they  are  carved.  His 
eye  is  well  set,  and  the  colour  is  beautiful,  but  not  one  spark  of  fire  is  there 
to  bring  it  out  of  the  category  of  beads.  The  lips  too  are  prettily  enough 
defined,  but  no  play  of  meaning,  good  or  bad,  beyond  a  mere  booby  sim- 
per, ever  ripples  across  them.  His  forehead  is  villainous  low,  and  eke  nar- 
row— the  hair  coarse,  wiry,  and  growing  down  into  his  eyes — the  whiskers 
gross,  bushy,  grazier-like — the  cheeks  mere  patches  of  pudding — the  chops 
chubby  and  chaw-baconish,  the  neck  short,  the  figure  obese ;  the  whole 
aspect  that  of  a  stout  but  decidedly  stupid  farmer  of  seven-and-forty. 

NORTH.  ,. 

You  should  have  advised  George  Cruikshank  to  make  a  study  of  him 
for  Parson  Trullibar  in  the  new  edition  of  Joseph  Andrews. 

TICKLER. 

A  good  hint — and  then  his  speaking,  it  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  a 
painful  medley  of  grunt,  stutter,  gasp,  and  squeak.  Every  moment  you 
expect  him  to  break  through  outright — he  hums  and  haws  for  three  minutes, 
and  then  hawks  up  the  very  worst  of  all  possible  words,  and  then  flounders 
on  for  a  little,  boggling,  and  hammering,  and  choaking,  till  he  comes  to 
another  apparently  full  stop — then  another  grand  husky  blunder,  some 
superlative  betise,  to  tug  him  out  of  the  rut— and  then  another  short 
rumble  of  agonizing  dulness — and  then  having  explained  nothing  but  his 
own  hopeless  incapacity,  down  the  unhappy  lump  at  last  settles,  and  pulls 
his  hat  over  the  bridge  of  his  nose,  and  puffing  and  panting  as  if  he  had 
been  delivered  of  a  very  large  piece  of  dough — while  'hear  !  hear  !  hear  ! 
bursts  in  symphonous  cadence  from  the  manly  bass  of  Grahame,  and  the 


404  Xoctes  Ambrosiana,    No.  Z  VII.  [Aug. 

dignified  tenor  of  Lord  Advocate  Jeffrey,  and  the  angelic  treble  of  the 
noble  Paymaster  of  his  Majesty's  Forces — and  Peel  smiles — one  little  be- 
nignant dimple — and  Holmes  is  troubled  with  his  old  cough — and  Mack- 
intosh casts  upwards  a  large  grey  melancholy  eye,  as  if  there  were 
something  wrong  in  the  ventilator — and  O' Council  folds  his  brawny  arms, 
and  shews  his  teeth  like  a  sportive  mastiff — and  the  honourable  Member 
for  Preston  thrusts  his  clean  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  his  cleaner  tongue 
into  his  cheek.  ,  M.O 

SHEPHERD. 

What  a  pictur  I  But  tell  us  mair  aboot  the  Preston  Cock,  as  Cobbett  ca's 
him — hoo  does  he  look  amang  the  Gentles  ? 

TlCKLKR.lt  bl-ii 

Why,  I  can  suppose  he  looked  oddly  enough  when  he  first  took  his  seat— 
but  in  the  present  House  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  should  have  been  much  at  a  loss 
to  pick  out  the  blacking  man.  There  they  sit,  a  regular  Mountain,  Alp  on 
Alp,  up  to  the  window — at  least  sixty  or  seventy  strong — He  of  the  Van  in 
front  of  course,  immediately  behind  him  the  Agitator — about  half-way  up 
Joseph  Hume  and  Alderman  Wood — and  as  yet  nameless  ragamuffians  piled 
thick  and  high  to  the  rearward.  I  surveyed  with  wonder  and  admiration 
the  future  lords  of  England. 

NORTH. 

"  Auspicium  melioris  auree, 

Et  specimen  venientis  sevi  V—Elieu  I 

SHEPHERD. 

Are  the  picturs  like  O'Connell  ? — But  stop,  ye  have  not  said  a  word 
about  Hunt. 

TICKLER. 

Hunt  is  a  comely,  rosy,  tall,  white-headed,  mean-looking,  well-gaitered 
tradesman,  of,  1  take  it,  sixty — nothing  about  him  that  could  detain  any  eye 
for  a  second,  if  one  did  not  know  who  he  was.  His  only  merits  are  his 
impudence — and  his  voice — the  former  certainly  first-rate — the  latter,  as 
far  as  power  goes,  unique.  In  vain  do  all  sides  of  the  House  unite,  cough, 
and  shuffle,  and  groan,  and  "  door  J  door!"  and  "  bar  !  bar!"  to  drown 
him — in  vain — "  Spoke  !  Spoke  !  Mr  Speaker  ! — Order  there  !  I  rise— « 
Spoke — Question!  Question! — Chair!  Chair!  Chair!" — in  vain  is  it  all- 
he  pauses  for  a  moment  until  the  unanimous  clamour  of  disgust  is  at  its 
height,  and  then  repitching  his  note,  apparently  without  an  effort,  lifts  his 
halloo  as  clear  and  distinct  above  the  storm,  as  ever  ye  heard  a  minster  bell 
tolling  over  the  racket  of  a  village  wake. 

SHEPHERD. 

Aye — he  has  had  great  advantages  o'  edycation.  It  taks  time  afore  your 
practised  street-singer  is  able  to  bring  hersell  doon  till  the  paurlor. 

TICKLER. 

Something  in  that — but  the  organ  of  the  animal  is  really  a  superb  one—- 
and his  language,  though  with  no  pretensions  to  grammar,  is  copious,  volu- 
ble, average  blackguardism  enough — and  he  is  never  put  out,  not  he.  I 
wish  you  had  seeu  how  he  smashed  Colonel  Evans,  when  that  gallant  look- 
ing Radical,  who,  I  don't  well  know  why,  chooses  to  sit  on  the  Ministerial 
benches,  insinuated  something  about  Hunt  being  bribed  by  the  Tories. 
"  The  honourable  member  for  Rye,"  sings  out  Blacking,  "  as  paid  me  a 
helegant  compliment.  I  thanks  him  for  my  eart,  and  in  return  1  beg  leave 
to  hassure  him  that  vensummever  he  brings  forward  that  there  motion 
against  the  wile  law  of  primogeniture,  he  said  so  much  about  down  at  Pres- 
ton, he  may  count  on  my  vawmest  support."  The  Colonel  is  one  of  the 
handsomest  fellows  in  the  House,  tall,  swarthy,  and  with  the  mien  of  a 
Murat;  but  on  this  occasion  he  was  fain  to  grin  a  ghastly  smile,  and  gulp 
down  his  confusion  in  a  very  feeble  attempt  at  a  chuckle.  Hunt  has  great 
self-possession.  Indeed,  I  have  not  heard  of  any  symptoms  to  the  con- 
trary, except  twice — once  when  the  lofty  Speaker  surprised  him  by  the 
cordiality  with  which  he  gave  him  his  ungloved  hand,  at  his  original  intro- 
duction; and  again,  when  he  heard  Peel  for  the  first  time.  They  told  me 
OH  this  occasion  he  sat  gaping  and  staring,  as  if  he  had  been  suddenly  en- 


1831.]  Nodes  Ambrosiana.     No.  L  VII.  405 

dowed  with  a  new  sense,  and  burst  out,  when  the  Baronet  sat  -down,  with 
an  involuntary  exclamation,  half-delight,  half-torture,  of,  "  My  eye  !  when  a 
geinman  can  speak,  it  is  sommat?"  He  added,  recovering  himself  with  a 
nod  to  the  Treasury  Bench,  "  Them  there  be'ant  his  ninepins — be's  they  ?" 
All  this  quite  audible. 

SHEPHERD. 

Weel,  bribe  or  nae  bribe,  the  chield  has  dune  a  gude  darg  to  the  cause — 
an'  if  I  was  Peel,  1  wad  inveete  him  till  his  denner.  Od',  there's  nae  smed- 
dum  in  being  ower  skeigh  and  dainty  in  times  like  thir.  I  wad  e'en  gie 
him  his  skinfu'  o'  Burdux,  and  keep  him  in  right  humour  to  gie  a  skelp 
nows  and  thans  on  bits  that  a  body  wadna  maybe  like  to  file  his  ain  fingers 
wi".  Od  !  He's  a  useful  chield  that  Hunt.  1'se  hae  a  pat  o'  his  blackin'  or 
I  gang  hame — it  I  wull. 

TICKLER. 

It  is  satisfactory  to  see  the  radicalism  of  the  three  united  nations  so  bril- 
liantly embodied,  all  within  the  space  of  a  few  square  feet,  in  this  hero  of 
Preston — O' Council,  and  our  own  dearly  beloved  brother  Joseph.  Hunt  is 
a  mere  bawling  animal,  after  all, — a  good-natured  brazen-faced  blockhead, 
who  has  waxed  fat  and  surly,  on  unmerited  success  and  imaginary  evils; 
He  is,  I  warrant  him,  one  of  your  sleek-headed  men  that  sleep  o'nights,  and, 
were  a  real  tussle  a-coming,  would  be  heard  of  no  more.  He  is,  besides, 
on  the  wane  as  to  the  physique:  But  not  so  either  of  his  worthy  com- 
peers. Oh  no !  They  are  men  of  another  mould — but  you  have  seen 
Hume. 

SHEPHERD. 

No,  I  never  did  ;  but  somehoo  or  ither  I've  aye  had  a  notion  that  he  was 
just  sic  anither  as  the  Stot. 

TICKLER. 

By  no  means.  Hume  is  a  short,  broad,  stiff-built,  square-headed,  copper- 
faced  fellow,  as  unlike  your  friend  as  possible  in  feature,  complexion,  ges- 
ture, and  dialect — a  sheer  Aberdonian — cold,  callous,  contemptibly  ignorant 
and  ludicrously  conceited,  I  admit — but  all  this  in  a  style  purely  and  entirely 
northawa',  to  which  nothing  simile  out  secundum  was  ever  generated  on  this 
side  of  the  Friths.  I  should  suppose  it  would  be  easy  to  muster  a  hundred 
such  like  among  the  bailies  of  Dundee,  the  cashiers  of  the  Banff  and  For- 
far  Banks — the  men-midwives,  if  such  exist,  of  Montrose  and  Elgin — and 
the  skippers  and  lodging-house  keepers  of  Arbroath  and  Peterhead.  Joseph 
is  the  only  representative  that  Scotland  has  sent  up,  in  our  time  at  least,  of 
that  particular  section  and  phasis  of  the  national  character  of  which  the 
English  farce-makers  have  all  along  made  their  prize.  He  exhibits  all  our 
uncomely  parts  in  brave  relief — not  one  iota  of  the  redeeming  points — and 
when,  under  the  coming  "  dynasty  of  the  hucksters,"  the  petty,  griping, 
long-cowled,  dingy-faced  denizens  of  the  ten-pound  tenements  in  our  third- 
rate  towns  shall  have  the  affairs  in  their  own  hands,  verily  there  will  be  no 
lack  of  Josephs  on  the  benches  of  St  Stephen's. 

NORTH. 

The  long-cowled,  dingy-faced  denizens  of  such  third-rate  towns  as  I  am 
acquainted  with,  would  have  more  sense  than  you  give  them  credit  for. 
Your  notions,  Timothy,  are  as  bigotedly  aristocratic  as  ever.  Confound 
yon  !  "  Were  there  nothing  but  gentlemen  in  the  glorious  first  regiment  ?" 
—for  shame  !  for  shame  ! 

TICKLER. 

Peccavi.  But  all  I  meant  to  say  was,  that  the  first  Parliament  chosen 
under  the  new  system  would  be  sure  to  abound  in  cattle  of  that  low-brow- 
ed breed.  I  know  our  countrymen  of  all  classes  too  well  to  have  any 
fears  that  such  could  be  the  case  permanently — aye,  or  even  on  the  second 
general  election — but  the  chances  as  to  the  first  brush  appear  to  me  to  be 
undoubtedly  as  I  stated  them ;  and  will  any  Christian  be  pleased  to  calcu- 
late the  probable  effects  of  one  House  of  Commons  of  average  longevity 
containing  only  a  couple  of  dozens  of  Joseph  Humes  ? 

SHEPHERD. 

Wad  it  no  be  something  like  as  if  there  war  to  be  a  couple  o'  dizzens  o' 


406  Nodes  Ambrotianee.     No.  LVII.  [Aug. 

men-mid  wives  in  Montrose  or  Elgin  ?  Wadna  they  just  cut  ilk  ither'a  throats 
as  to  the  matter  o'  buzzness  ? 

NORTH. 

Why,  that  would  depend  on  the  rate  at  which  the  procreation  of  iniquities 
and  absurdities  might  happen  to  go  on  under  the  benign  influence  of  the 
ministerial  JEstrum.  But  I  confess  I  am  more  afraid  of  the  O'Connells 
than  the  Humes. 

TICKLER. 

I  don't  agree  with  you  there.  O'Connell  looks,  and  is,  a  thousand  times 
a  cleverer  fellow  than  our  countryman ;  and,  in  Ireland,  I  can  well  believe, 
one  such  agitator  may  be  more  dangerous  that  a  score  of  tattling  Josephs 
would  ever  be  here  in  Scotland.  But  in  England  I  should  anticipate  diffe- 
rent things.  There  is  a  great  gulf  fixed  between  all  English  feeling  and 
the  only  feelings  to  which  O'Connell  has  accustomed  himself  to  appeal; 
but  there  has  been  for  at  least  200  years,  a  close  sympathy  between  certain 
great  orders  of  the  English  population,  and  that  meaner  nature  of  the  Scotch 
which  now  stands  before  them  condensed  and  typified  in  the  express  image 
of  Joseph  Hume.  O'Connell  wishes  to  hew  down  the  Church,  qua  a  papist 
—that  won't  pass ;  but  the  other  is  a  hamstringing  Mar-Prelate,  and  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  English  dissenters  say,  in  good  faith,  God  speed 
him  I 

NORTH. 

O'Connell,  I  take  it  for  granted,  has  the  appearance  of  belonging  to  a 
different  order  of  society  from  Hunt  and  Hume. 

TICKLER. 

It  is  natural  to  suppose  so  of  a  man  at  the  head  of  the  Dublin  bar  ;  and, 
perhaps, it  maybe  affectation  in  part,  that  renders  the  fact  apparently  so  much 
otherwise.  O'Connell  is,  however,  cast  in  a  clownish  mould.  Indeed,  if  I 
wished  to  let  you  see  the  difference  between  an  Irish  gentleman  and  an  Irish 
raff,  I  don't  know  that  I  could  do  better  than  place  him  alongside  of  the 
Knight  of  Kerry.  It  would  be  about  as  complete  in  its  way  as  a  juxtapo- 
sition of  Joseph  Hume  and  Sir  George  Murray ;  or  of  Colonel  Anson  and 
the  Blacking- Man.  For  the  very  type  of  a  mob-mystifier,  however,  give  me 
nobody  but  Dan.  He  is  a  tall  braggadocio,  but  so  broad  set  that  he  does  not 
set-in  above  the  middle  stature.  His  chest  is  enormous — his  arms  are  a 
blacksmith's — his  legs  a  chairman's,  and  he  bears  himself,  sitting,  standing,  or 
walking,  with  the  air  of  a  butcher.  The  head  is  a  vast  round  mass  of  the 
true  Paddy  organization,  as  if  hewn  out  on  purpose  for  Donnybrook ;  and 
the  countenance  all  over — broad  ruddy  cheek,  scowling  unsettled  brow, 
small  wild  grey  eye,  bland  oily  lips,  and  huge  tusks  of  teeth — presents  such 
a  melange  of  physical  vigour,  animal  hilarity,  ferocity,  craft,  and  fun,  as, 
wherever  you  encountered  it,  no  human  being  could  for  a  moment  hesitate 
to  pronounce  Milesian.  He  has  a  fine  rich  manly  voice,  and  a  brogue  worthy 
of  the  organ;  and  of  course  he  possesses  all  the  skill  of  a  practised  barris- 
ter in  handling  such  topics  as  his  nature  is  tempted  to  grapple  with.  The 
ascendency  he  has  gained  over  the  poor  tremblers  of  the  Treasury  bench,  is 
such  as  might  have'been  expected  after  a  crowd  of  puny  whipsters  should 
have  experienced  the  pushes  and  digs  of  a  veritable  athlete  in  a  row  of  their 
own  tempting.  The  circumstances,  however,  have  done  much  to  disgrace 
them.  O'  Connell,  Gregson,  Cobbett, — these  words,  being  interpreted,  sig- 
nify, Mene  Tekel  Upharsin.  See  the  Book  of  Daniel,  James. 

NORTH. 

The  fine  gold  would  certainly  seem  to  have  been  dimmed  a  little  in  cer- 
tain quarters.  The  whole  of  that  transaction  about  Mr  Gregson  appeared 
to  me  to  come  out  as  shabby  as  possible — low,  cunning,  cowardly,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  so  infernally  stupid !  What  could  be  the  hope  or  purpose  of 
such  conduct? 

TICKLER. 

The  rationale  of  it  can  only  be  discovered  in  the  casual  co-operation  of 
such  qualities  as  the  malignity  of  a  Lambton,  the  dulness  of  an  Althorp, 
and  the  pertness  of  a  Russell. 


1831.]  Nodes  Ami  romance.     Nu.  L  VII.  407 

NORTH. 

Why,  since  Northampton,  you  seem  to  me  to  give  folk  credit  for  rather 
too  entire  a  defalcation  of  all  the  other  demagogical  elements,  except  the  mere 
asinine  one.  But,  indeed,  I  wonder  you  should  have  lived  so  many  years 
in  the  world  without  discovering  that  your  donkey  himself  has  occasionally 
a  fair  enough  spice  of  cunning  in  his  composition — clumsy,  coarse,  easily 
detected,  and  not  hard  to  be  baffled,  I  allow — but  still  genuine  quadrupedal 
cunning.  What  says  the  poet  ? 

"  Fiction  from  us  the  public  Btill  must  gull, 
They  think  we're  honest,  for  they  know  we're  dull." 

As  for  the  noble  Paymaster,  after  making  away  with  all  his  own  speeches, 
and  essays,  and  histories,  with  so  ready  a  display  of  suivorousness,  one  can 
hardly  be  expected  to  wonder  at  any  occasional  specimen  of  verbal  oblivi- 
ousness  in  that  quarter — or,  indeed,  of  any  exhibition  of  impudence  in  any 
fashion  whatever. 

TICKLER. 

Pass  the  bottle. — It  will  be  a  pretty  story  for  posterity,  if  we  really  go  down 
this  bout,  that  old  Mother  Constitution  had  her  quietus  from  such  hands — 
a  bitter,  bilious,  coxcomb — a  bluff,  boorish,  dunderpate — and  a  shrill,  dap- 
per poetaster,  four  feet  ten  inches  high  I 

SHEPHERD. 

That  will  be  Lord  John.  I  never  read  ony  of  his  poms  for  my  part— 
'faith  I  hate  pom-reading — But  I  mind  him  weel  when  he  was  at  the  Specu- 
lative, and  if  I  was  to  say  what  I  thought  at  the  time,  od  he  seemed  to  me 
rather  a  smart  bit  body.  Playfair  aye  ca'd  him  a  wonder  for  cleverness ; 
but  a'  Whig's  swans,  as  we  a'  ken,  are  aften  eueugh  geese. 

TICKLER. 

Aye  even  on  the  Thames. — I  confess  I  never  read  all  Lord  John's  poetical 
works  either ;  but  I  have  read  quite  as  much  of  them,  I  will  be  bound,  as 
any  person,  not  a  professed  reviewer,  ever  had  patience  for.  Blood  from  a 
turnip  !  This  is  a  queer  world.  Several  great  men  have  been  very  little 
ones ;  but  is  it  not  a  strange  fact  that  all  very  little  men  appear  to  have  a 
notion  that  they  are  born  for  greatness  ? 

NORTH. 

You  never  forget  your  own  six  feet  four. 

TICKLER. 

It  is  easy  to  say  that ;  but  it  won't  answer  my  question.  I  ask  you  if 
you  ever  met  a  very  little  man  that  had  not  an  egregious  conceit  of  him- 
self? • 

SHEPHERD. 

They  a'  marry  strappers  o'  women— that's  a  fact. 

TICKLER. 

Exactly — and  it  is  the  same  with  them  throughout.  Here,  now,  is  a  young 
gentleman  of  the  highest  quality,  and  endowed,  I  suppose,  with  quantum  suff. 
of  the  other  gifts  of  fortune — why  could  he  not  permit  his  small  mind  to  in- 
habit quietly  its  well-matched  tenement  ?  Poetry,  Tragedy,  History,  Ora- 
tory ! — to  be  at  once  a  Byron,  a  Baillie,  a  Hallam,  and  a  Canning  !  And 
now  to  be  a  Pericles,  too,  or  a  Gracchus,  or  a  Brissot — or  God  knows  what! 
Well,  we  can't  help  laughing,  notwithstanding  all  that  has  been,  and  is  like 
to  be  I 

"  Ah !  Corydon,  Corydon  !  quse  te  dementia  cepit  1" 

NORTH. 

Your  laugh  is  wild  enough ;  but  I  confess  I  see  as  yet  no  symptoms  of 
your  "  severest  woe." 

TICKLER. 

Pooh  !  'tis  not  come  to  that  yet. — These  lads  have  a  sore  tussle  before 
them  yet  ere  they  gain  their  ends.  (Sings.) 

"  To  the  Lords  of  Convention  'twas  Clavers  that  spoke, 

Ere  the  king's  crown  goes  down  there  be  crowns  to  be  broke." 

NORTH. 
Say  nothing  about  either  kings  or  crowns,  but  tell  us  honestly,  how  doe 


,40&  Nodes  Ambrosiana.    No,  L  VII.  [Aug. 

Lord  John  perform  ?    I  must  have  seen  him,  I  suppose,  and  heard  him,  too> 
but  my  memory  is  treacherous. 

TICKLKR. 

Why,  he's  a  very  small  concern  of  a  inanuikin,  no  doubt;  but  John  Bull 
was  quite  wrong  in  likening  him  to  an  apothecary's  boy.  No,  no,  he  has, 
notwithstanding  his  inches,  perfectly  the  air  of  high  birth  and  high  breed- 
ing. His  appearance  is  petty — not  mean — and  such  I  fancy  to  be  the  case 
intellectual  as  well.  The  features  are  rather  good  than  otherwise.  Bald- 
ness gives  something  of  the  show  of  a  forehead — sharp  nose — figure  neatish 
—a  springy  step.  The  voice  is  clear,  though  feeble — the  words  are  smooth 
decorous  words,  arranged  in  trim  deftly-balanced  sentences — the  sense, 
however  atrocious,  is  obvious  to  the  lowest  capacity — and  he  gets  on  as 
easily  in  expounding  the  merits  of  a  New  Constitution  for  Old  England 
as  our  dear  friend  Johnny  Ballantyne,  (of  whom,  by  the  bye,  his  outward 
man  put  me  strongly  in  mind,)  as  dear  jocund  Johnny,  poor  fellow,  used 
to  do  in  opening  up  to  the  gaxe  of  the  curious,  in  former  days,  a  fresh  im- 
portation of  knicknackeries  from  the  Palais  Royal,  or  riband-boxes  from 
Brussels.  Alas !  poor  Yorick  ! 

NORTH. 

"  And  if  I  die  this  day  near  Illium's  wall, 
At  least  by  Hellas'  noblest  hand  I  fall — 
Beneath  volcanic  steel  this  breast  shall  bleed, 
These  limbs  be  trampled  by  Pelides'  steed !" 
TICKLER. 

I  should  rather  have  likened  Lord  Johnny  to  the  Ajax  Oileus,  O'Connell 
being  the  Ajax  Telamonius,  of  Reform,  Burdett  its  Nestor,  Jeffrey  its 
Ulyssesx  and  our  friend  of  the  blacking-van  the  Thersites.  The  Pelides  of 
the  occasion,  such  as  he  is,  must  be  recognised  in  Stanley.  He  is  the  only 
one  of  the  crew  that  brings  any  thing  like  "  arms  divine"  into  the  field. 
But  it  won't  do  to  follow  out  the  joke — for  he  ia  no  match  for  Hector. 

NORTH. 

Judging  from  the  debates,  I  should  say  Stanley  shewed  more  of  what  they 
call  Parliamentary  talent  than  any  one  of  his  party.  The  reporters  are  such 
queer  rogues,  that  it  is  impossible  almost  to  know  whether  any  given  speech 
was  or  not  in  the  reality  an  eloquent  one  ;  but  one  can't  be  mistaken  as  to 
the  readiness  of  his  replies — his  off-hand  side-hits — his  complete  possession 
of  himself,  his  business,  and  the  house.  Well,  'tis  a  pity — but  we  can't  help 
it.  Alas !  for  Latham  house  !  Does  his  aspect,  now,  recall  any  of  the  old 
Ferdinandos  ? 

TICKLER. 

He  is  a  pale,  middle-sized,  light-haired,  at  first  sight  rather  ordinary  look- 
ing lad — of  perhaps  five-and-thirty — but  the  eye  is  brilliant,  the  forehead 
compact,  and  the  mouth  full  of  decision  and  vigour.  He  speaks  unaffect- 
edly, with  perfect  ease  and  coolness,  is  afraid  of  nobody,  has  repartee  at 
command,  and  occasionally  rises  into  spunky  declamation.  I  never  saw 
either  his  father  or  the  old  earl ;  and  not  being  rich  enough  to  possess  a 
Lodge,  have  not  had  the  means  of  comparing  his  corporeal  presence  with 
any  of  the  ancestral  shadows.  But  come  what  may,  there  can  be  little  doubt 
this  youth  is  destined  to  play  a  considerable  part,  and  leave  a  name  marked 
in  eternum,  whether  for  good  or  evil.  I  must  say  he  was  almost  the  only 
one  of  them  that  impressed  me  with  any  thing  like  kindly  feelings.  He 
has  the  air  of  a  man  of  blood,  honesty,  temper,  spirit,  and  intelligence — and 
not  one  atom  of  conceit  that  I  could  discover.  But  that  want,  indeed,  was 
to  be  expected  from  the  quality  of  his  brains. 

NORTH. 

Yes,  yes — men  of  real  talent  in  general  under-rate  themselves — by  the 
bye,  I  believe  I  might  safely  say  so  of  all  men  of  genius. 

TICKLKR. 

May  be — but  so  does  not  either  Charles  Grant,  or  Robert  Grant,  or  Lord 
Palmerston,  or  any  other  that  I  forgathered  with  of  that  by-all-but-them- 
selves-compassionated  junto,  who,  having  spent  their  lives  in  worshipping 
Canning,  are  now,  before  he  is  well  cold  in  his  grave,  staking  honour,  and 


1881.]  Noclfs  Ambrosiana.    No.  LVIT.  409 

even  existence,  on  the  doctrines  and  principles,  of  which,  young  and  old, 
and  with  his  dying  breath,  he  was  the  bitterest  in  hatred,  and  the  most  elo- 
quent in  denunciation.  These  gentlemen,  I  am  concerned  to  say,  appeared 
to  me  to  look  about  them,  one  and  all,  with  an  air  not  only  not  ot  contri- 
tion, shame-facedness,  and  humble  mind,  but  of  considerable  satisfaction — as 
who  should  say  :  The  experience  of  three  years  and  a  half  that  have  passed 
since  the  death  of  George  Canning,  anno  atatis  57,  has  been  more  than  suf- 
ficient to  place  us  not  only  on  a  level  with,  but  ten  miles  above  HIM — OUR 
chief,  OUR  philosopher,  OUR  creed-maker  and  creed-expounder,  OUR  only 
faith,  hope,  salvation, presidium  et  dulce  decus.  Here  WE  are — behold  and. 
reverence  in  us  the  candid,  consistent,  above  all,  the  conscientious  disciples 
and  followers,  but  now  despisers  and  insulters,  of  THE  ANTIJACOBIN  !  This 
is  pretty  well.  "  My  foot  mine  officer,"  quoth  poor  King  Lear. 

NORTH. 

Many  are  the  degrees  of  human  hatred — but  the  highest,  by  far  and  long- 
away,  is  that  with  which  the  really  small  man  hates  the  really  great  man, 
that,  from  circumstances,  he  is  obliged  to  obey.  Welcome,  sweet,  and 
blessed  to  the  long-suffering  spirit  is  the  hour  when  that  generous  feeling 
may  at  length  shew  itself  in  manly  openness  and  majestic  safety. 

TICKLER. 

It  must,  however,  be  admitted,  that,  croose  as  they  all  look,  they  have  as 
yet  been  confoundedly  shy  of  the  gab  on  this  grand  occasion.  As  far  as  I 
recollect,  one  speech  from  Robert  Grant  is  all  the  clique  have  as  yet  pro- 
duced; and  surely  that  was  not  a  very  splendid  bit  of  Claphamism. 

NORTH. 

Splendid  mud.  Tell  it  hot  in  Gath.  Well,  Jeffrey,  at  all  events,  kept  up 
our  credit 

TICKLER. 

He  certainly  kept  up  any  thing  rather  than  the  credit  of  Whiggery,  Blue 
and  Yellow,  and  the  Right  Honourable  Francis.  I  never  was  more  sur- 
prised than  when,  having  heard  at  Bellamy's  that  he  was  on  his  legs,  I  ran 
down,  and  became  witness,  ocular  and  auricular,  of  the  style  and  method 
in  which  he  had  thought  fit  to  present  himself  to  the  House.  I  have  not 
frequented  the  Jury  Court  of  late  years,  it  is  true — "but  I  certainly  should 
hardly  have  recognised  anything  whatever  of  my  old  acquaintance.  First 
of  all,  he  looked  smaller  and  greyer  than  I  could  have  anticipated — then  his 
surtout  and  black  stock  did  in  nowise  set  him — then  his  attitude  was  at 
once  jaunty  and  awkward,  spruce  and  feckless.  Instead  of  the  quick,  vo- 
luble, fiery  declaimer  of  other  days  or  scenes,  I  heard  a  cold  thin  voice 
doling  out  little,  quaint,  metaphysical  sentences,  with  the  air  of  a  provincial 
lecturer  on  logic  and  belles  lettres.  The  House  were  confounded — they 
listened  for  half  an  hour  with  great  attention,  waiting  always  for  the  real 
burst  that  should  reveal  the  redoubtable  Jeffrey — but  it  came  not — he  took 
out  his  orange,  sucked  it  coolly  and  composedly — smelt  to  a  bottle  of  some- 
thing— and  sucked  again — and  back  to  his  freezing  jargon  with  the  same 
nonchalance.  At  last  he  took  to  proving  to  an  assembly  of  six  hundred 
gentlemen,  of  whom  I  take  it  at  least  five  hundred  were  'squires,  that  pro- 
perty is  really  a  thing  deserving  of  protection. — "  This  will  never  do,"  pass- 
ed round  in  a  whisper. — Old  Maule  tipt  the  wink  to  a  few  good  Whigs  of 
the  old  school,  and  they  adjourned  up  stairs — the  Tories  began  to  converse 
de  omnibus  rebus  et  quibusdam  aliis — -the  Radicals  \vere  either  snoring  or 
grinning— and  the  great  gun  of  the  north  ceased  firing  amidst  such  a  hub- 
bub of  inattention,  that  even  I  was  not  aware  of  the  fact  for  several  minutes. 
After  all,  however,  the  concei'n  read  well  enough  in  the  newspapers.  The 
truth  is,  he  had  delivered  a  very  tolerable  article  ;  but  as  to  the  House  of 
Commons,  a  more  complete  failure  there  never  was  nor  will  be. 

NORTH. 

Aye,  aye,  no  man  on  the  borders  of  sixty  should  dream  of  taking  the  field 
in  a  new  region — least  of  all  in  tJiat ;  and  if  he  has  achieved  a  considerablo 
reputation  of  another  sort  elsewhere,  so  much  the  worse  for  him  still.  Jef- 
frey should  have  let  Cockburn  be  Advocate.  His  loud,  but  mellow  brogue, 
his  plausible,  homely,  easy  singsong,  would,  I  suspect,  have  had  a  better 

VOL.  XXX.  NO.  CLXXXIV.  2  D 


410  Noctet  Ambrosiance.    No.  L  VII.  [Aug. 

chance  up  yonder.  And  I'm  sure  his  clever,  decided,  man-of-the-world 
tact  in  actual  business,  would  have  been  found  far  more  serviceable  than  all 
Jeffrey's  elegant  qualities  put  together  here.  Cockburn  would  never  liave 
got  into  all  these  ludicrous  scrapes — Forfar,  Edinburgh,  Haddington,  Stir- 
ling.— Why,  our  friend  has  already  dabbled  in  more  hot  water,  and  all  of 
his  own  boiling,  too,  than  ever  troubled  the  honest  Major  during  ten  long 
years  of  the  tufted  gown. 

TICKLER. 

Here's  a  bumper,  and  a  full  one,  to  good  Sir  William — and  may  we  soon 
see  him  in  that  gown  again,  or  in  a  warmer  one  !— Fill  your  glass,  James. 
You  can't  do  it  to  a  worthier  or  a  worse  used  man — but  byganes  are  by- 
ganes;  and  I  venture  to  say,  if  ever  we  see  a  Tory  government  again,  we 

shall  see  one  above  such  doings  as  the  Abercrombie  job 

NORTH. 

Utinam.  The  Duke,  at  least,  has  seen  enough  of  such  manoeuvres.  But 
since  Jeffrey  is  Advocate,  I  heartily  wish  he  may  secure  something  worthy 
of  his  reputation  and  standing  before  his  office  fails  him. 

TICKLER. 

With  all  my  heart  You  will  laugh  when  I  say  it;  but  do  you  know  it  is 
a  plain  simple  fact,  that  this  Tom  Macaulay  put  me  much  more  in  mind  of 
the  Jeffrey  of  ten  years  ago,  than  did  the  Jeffrey  ipsissimus  of  hodie. 

NORTH. 

You  pay  Mr  Macauley  a  high  compliment— the  highest,  I  think,  he  has 
ever  met  with. 

TICKLER. 

Not  quite — for  it  is  the  fashion,  among  a  certain  small  coterie  at  least,  to 
talk  of  him  as  "  the  Burke  of  our  age." — However,  he  is  certainly  a  very 
clever  fellow,  the  cleverest  declaimer  by  far  on  that  side  of  the  House,  and, 
had  he  happened  to  be  a  somebody,  we  should,  no  doubt,  have  seen  Tom  in 
high  places  ere  now. 

NORTH. 

A  son  of  old  Zachary,  I  believe?  Is  he  like  the  papa? 

TICKLER. 

So  I  have  heard — but  I  never  saw  the  senior,  of  whom  some  poetical 
planter  has  so  unjustifiably  sung — 

"  How  smooth,  persuasive,  plausible,  and  glib, 
From  holy  lips  is  dropp'd  the  specious  fib." 

The  son  is  an  ugly,  cross-made,  splay-footed,  shapeless  little  dumpling  of 
a  fellow,  with  a  featureless  face  too — except  indeed  a  good  expansive  fore- 
head— sleek  puritanical  sandy  hair — large  glimmering  eyes — and  a  mouth 
from  ear  to  ear.  He  has  a  lisp  and  a  burr,  moreover,  and  speaks  thickly  and 
huskily  for  several  minutes  before  he  gets  into  the  swing  of  his  discourse ; 
but  after  that,  nothing  can  be  more  dazzling  than  his  whole  execution. 
What  he  says  is  substantially,  of  course,  mere  stuff  and  nonsense;  but  it  is 
so  well  worded,  and  so  volubly  and  forcibly  delivered — there  is  such  an 
endless  string  of  epigram  and  antithesis — such  a  flashing  of  epithets — such 
an  accumulation  of  images — and  the  voice  is  so  trumpetlike,  and  the  action 
BO  grotesquely  emphatic,  that  you  might  hear  a  pin  drop  in  the  House. 
Manners  Sutton  himself  listens.  It  is  obvious  that  he  has  got  the  main  parts 
at  least  by  heart — but  for  this  I  gave  him  the  more  praise  and  glory.  Alto- 
gether, the  impression  on  my  mind  was  very  much  beyond  what  I  had  been 
prepared  for — so  much  so,  that  I  can  honestly  and  sincerely  say  I  felt  for 
his  situation  most  deeply,  when  Peel  was  skinning  him  alive  the  next 
evening,  and  the  sweat  of  agony  kept  pouring  down  his  well-bronzed  cheeks 
under  the  merciless  infliction. 

NORTH. 

The  feeling  does  credit  to  your  heart.  Have  you  read  his  article  on 
Byron  in  the  Edinburgh? 

-  TICKLER. 

Not  I.  I  wonder  how  many  articles  on  Byron  we  are  expected  to  read. 
la  there  to  be  no  end  of  this  jabber — this  brainless  botheration  about  a 
case  as  plain  as  a  pikestaff,  and 'that  lies  too  in  a  nutshell  ? 


1831.]  Noctes  Ambrosicina.     No.  L  VII.  411, 

NORTH. 

Macauley's  paper,  however,  is  an  exceedingly  clever  thing,  and  you 
ou<yht  to  glance  your  eye  over  it.  The  Edinburgh  has  had  nothing  so  good 
these  several  years  past.  In  fact,  it  reads  very  like  a  paper  in  one  of  their 
early  numbers — much  the  same  sort  of  excellencies— the  smart,  rapid, 
popgun  impertinence — the  brisk,  airy,  new-set  truisms,  mingled  with  cold, 
shallow,  heartless  sophistries — the  conceited  phlegm,  the  affected  abrupt- 
ness, the  unconscious  audacity  of  impudence— the  whole  lively,  and  amu- 
sing, and  much  commended  among  the  dowagers— 

TICKLER. 

Especially  the  smut.    Well,  I  shall  read  it  by  and  bye. 

NORTH. 

You  said  he  was  the  best  declaimer  on  that  side.    Did  you  hear  Shiel  ? 

TICKLER. 

I  did — and  he  is  a  very  clever  one  too — but  not  so  effective  as  Macauley. 
I  daresay  he  may  be  the  abler  man,  take  him  all  in  all,  of  the  two;  but  his 
oratory  is  in  worse  taste,  and,  at  any  rate,  too  Irish  to  be  quite  the  thing 
yonder.  The  House,  however,  gave  him  a  most  gracious  hearing,  and  I  for 
one  was  much  edified. 

NORTH. 
The  thing  looked  very  well  in  the  Report.    How  does  he  look  himself? 

TICKLER. 

He's  another  of  your  little  fellows— but  not  in  the  least  like  either  Lord 
Johnny,  or  Jeffrey,  or  Macauley.  A  more  insignificant  person  as  to  the  bodily 
organ  I  never  set  spectacles  on.  Small  of  the  smallest  in  stature,  shabby 
of  the  shabbiest  in  attire,  fidgety  and  tailorlike  in  gesture,  in  gait  sham- 
bling and  jerking — with  an  invisible  nose,  huge  nostrils,  a  cheesy  com- 
plexion, and  a  Jewish  chin.  You  would  say  it  was  impossible  that  any 
thing  worth  hearing  should  come  from  such  an  abortion.  Nor  do  the  first 
notes  redeem  him.  His  voice  is  as  hoarse  as  a  deal-board,  except  when  it 
is  as  piercing  as  the  rasp  of  a  gimlet ;  and  of  all  the  brogues  I  have  heard, 
his  is  the  most  abominable — quite  of  the  sunk  area  school.  But  never 
mind — wait  a  little — and  this  vile  machinery  will  do  wonders. 

NORTH. 

We  can  wait.    Fill  your  glass. 

TICKLER. 

To  make  some  amends  for  her  carelessness  to  all  other  external  affairs,  Na« 
ture  has  given  him  as  fine  a  pair  of  eyes  as  ever  graced  human  head — large, 
deeply  set,  dark,  liquid,  flashing  like  gems ;  and  these  fix  you  presently  like  a 
basilisk,  so  that  you  forget  everything  else  about  him  ;  and  though  it  would 
be  impossible  to  conceive  any  thing  more  absurdly  ungraceful  than  his 
action — sharp,  sudden  jolts  and  shuttles,  and  right-about  twists  and  leaps — 
all  set  to  a  running  discord  of  grunts  and  screams — yet  before  he  has 
spoken  ten  minutes,  you  forget  all  this  too,  and  give  yourself  up  to  what  I 
have  always  considered  a  pleasant  sensation — the  feeling,  I  mean,  that  you 
are  in  the  presence  of  a  man  of  genius. 

NORTH. 

Even  his  poetry  shewed  something  of  the  real  fire. 


tailpiece 
established 

better  than  either  Robert  Grant,  or  Denman  (he,  indeed,  was  bitter  bad),  or 
Sir  James  Grahame  (whom  I  thought  cold  and  pompous,  and  somehow  not 
in  earnest),  or  Hobhouse  (who,  however,  is  far  above  the  common  pitch),  or 
even  O'Connell,  or  indeed  any  of  them,  but  Macauley.  I  am  not  of  course 
comparing  such  folk  seriously  with  Jeffrey  or  Mackintosh — they  belong  to 
another  sort  of  calibre;  but  on  this  occasion,  BO  chilled  and  hampered 
were  they  at  every  turn  with  their  own  recorded  opinions,  reviews,  lec- 
tures, speeches,  and  histories,  that  they  cut  but  indifferent  figures— and 
the  novi  homunculi  had  the  Whig  garland  among  them—— 


l2  Nodes  Ambrosia/ice.    ATo.  L  VIL  [Aug. 

•••• 


rpl     _.  .    .       ..   *°5T"-4 

fhi)  lory  evergreens  being  divided  between  -  • 


TICKLER. 


. 

Let  ine  see.  I  need  not  say  any  thing  of  Peel;  for  since  the  Chancellor's 
departure,  he  is  more  entirely  and  completely  the  lord  and  master  of  that 
queer  place  than  any  man  has  been  since  the  death  of  Pitt.  Even  Pitt  had 
his  Fox  to  grapple  with)  and  Canning  had  his  Brougham  ;  but  now  there  is 
no  competition  —  not  even  the  semblance  of  a  rivalry.  Neither  need  I  bo 
talking  about  Croker  to  you  —  you  well  know,  that  nothing  but  his  position 
in  the  government,  and  yet  out  of  the  Cabinet,  could  have  prevented  him 
from  being  the  first  speaker  of  his  time  long  ere  this  time  of  day.  His 
dealing  with  Jeffrey  was  like  the  wolf  dandling  the  kid.  He  'tore  him  to 
pieces  with  the  ease—  I  wish  I  could  help  adding,  with  the  visible  joy  —  of 
a  demon.  The  effect  was  such,  that  after  ten  minutes,  the  "Whigs  could  not 
bear  it.  They  trooped  out  file  after  file,  black,  grim,  scowling,  grinding 
their  teeth,  in  sheer  imbecile  desperation.  A  great  lord  of  the  party, 
who  sat  just  before  me  under  the  gallery,  whispered  to  his  neighbour, 
"  God  —  damn  —  him"  with  a  gallows  croak,  and  strode  out  of  the  place,  as 
if  he  had  been  stung  by  a  rattlesnake. 

NORTH. 

I  have  heard  Croker  in  days  past,  and  can  easily  conceive  what  he  mubt 
be  now  that  the  fetters  of  office  no  longer  cramp  him.  His  action  struck 
me  as  somewhat  brusque  —  but  his  voice  is  a  capital  one,  and  he  is  not  likely 
to  be  at  a  loss  for  words  or  ideas.  What  a  blasted  disgrace  to  the  party 
that  they  kept  him  out  of  the  Cabinet,  and  set  over  his  head,  among  others, 
so  many,  comparatively  speaking,  sheer  blockheads  —  some  of  whom,  more- 
,wer,  have  deserted  us  In  vr^tu^in  ! 

TICKLER. 

Aye,  aye,  that's  but  one  leaf  dirt  of  the  black  volume,  that  may  now,  I  fear, 
be  safely  christened  their  Doomsday  Book.  Only  to  think  of  such  blind, 
base,  self-murdering  iniquity  !  high  ho  ! 

NORTH. 

Mr  William  Bankes  was  extolled  in  the  Quarterly,  I  saw.  But  that,  per* 
haps,  might  be  accounted  for. 

TICKLER. 

1  assure  you  he  deserved  a  deuced  deal  more  than  they  said  of  him, 
nevertheless.  I  own  I  had  taken  up  a  prejudice  against  him,  considering 
.him  as  a  mere  dandy-traveller,  sketcher,  reviewer,  diner-out,  &c.;  but,  to 
my  infinite  astonishment,  I  saw  a  plain,  unaffected,  gentlemanlike,  but 
utterly  undandylike,  person  rise  on  the  second  bench,  and  heard  him  deal 
out  with  equal  ease,  in  the  same  clear  manly  tone,  delicate  banter,  grinding 
sarcasm,  lucid  narrative,  pathetic  excursus,  and  splendid  peroration.  The 
effect  was,  T  presume,  almost  as  unexpected  by  others  as  by  me  —  for  he 
has  spoken  very  seldom  —  but  it  was  great  and  decided  ;  and  why  William 
Bankes  was  not  Irish  Secretary,  or  something  of  the  sort,  ten  years  back,  if 
it  was  not  prevented  by  his  own  indolence  or  shyness,  I  am  at  a  loss  to 
account  for  in  any  manner  at  all  creditable  to  our  quondam  high  and  mighty 
masters  —  now  our  humble  brethren  in  the  —  to  them  —  new  calamities  of  in- 
dependence. 

NORTH. 

Win',  I  think  the  practice  of  our  present  rulers  ought  to  be  considered 
before  we  speak  too  harshly  of  the  late  ones.  When  out  of  place,  they  were 
always  held  up  by  us,  as  well  as  others,  as  a  set  of  persons  who  really  did 
behave  well  to  their  own  followers,  and  therein  affording  a  marked  contrast 
to  the  Tories.  And  to  be  sure  they  did  so.  Praise  and  pudding  they 
grudged  not,  neither  did  they  spare.  Their  reviews  were  encomiastic, 
their  houses  were  open,  their  fetes  were  brilliant,  their  private  patronage 
unwearied  and  thoroughgoing  —  their  adversaries,  as  in  dignity  bound, 
adopting  in  all  these  particulars  the  diametrically  opposite  line.  But  now 
that  they  are  really  in,  now  that  the  real  loaves  and  fishes  are  in  their  dis- 
posal —  what,  after  all,  do  we  pern-he  in  their  doings,  that  ought  to  make 
us  think  with  new  regret  of  the  obtuse  ehabbincss  of  their  predecessors  ?  In 


1831.]  Noctcs  Ambrosiunce.    No.  L  VII.  4l3 

BO  far  as  I  can  gather,  they  have  condensed  the  good  things  within  as  nar- 
row, as  aristocratir,  nay  almost  BsfbmiKar  a  circle,  as  could  well  have 
been  chalked  out  for  their  adoption  by  the  worst  enemy  of  their  sway.  Is 
it  not  so — how  did  it  strike  you  on  the  spot? 

TICKLER. 

Very  agreeably.  When  I  heard  such  a  tallowfaeed  cheeseparing  of  a 
beardless,  bucktoothed  ninny  as  Lord  Howick  yelping  down  the  law,  God 
help  him !  for  the  Colonial  Empire  of  Great  Britain,  and  found,  on  enquiry, 
that  he  was  not  generally  considered  as  greatly  more  idiotic  than  most 
others  of  the  new  Under-Secretaries,  junior  Lords  of  the  Treasury,  &c.  &c. 
my  spirit  rejoiced  within  me,  and  I  snuffed  the  air  six  inches  farther  above 
the  surface  of  the  terraqueous  globe. 

NORTH. 

I  sincerely  hope,  when  the  right  folks  get  back,  we  shall  see— —You 
smile,  I  perceive 

TICKLER. 

They  get  back !  My  dear  Christopher,  how  can  you  talk  such  nonsense  ? 
No — no — no— no — Ante  leves  ergo 

Sooner  the  ass  in  fields  of  air  shall  graze, 
Or  Russell's  tragedy  claim  Shakspeare's  bays ; 
Sooner  shall  mack'rel  on  Pall  Mall  disport, 
Or  Jeffrey's  hearers  think  his  speech  too  short ; 
Sooner  shall  Wisdom  flow  in  Howick's  strain, 
Or  Modesty  invest  Macauley's  brain, 
Than  Tories  rule  on  British  soil  again  ! 

NORTH. 

I  bet  you  a  riddle  of  claret  they  are  in  power  again  in  two  months.  Of 
that  I  have  very  little  doubt; — would  to  God  I  could  be  as  sure  of  their 
behaving  themselves  as  they  ought  to  do  after  the  thing  is  done  I 

TICKLER. 

Upon  what,  in  the  name  of  Jupiter,  do  you  build  your  hopes  ?  I  met 
with  nobody  in  London  who  even  hinted  at  the  possibility  of  such  things ; 
and  since  I  left  it — you  see  what  majorities  ! 

NORTH. 

Never  mind.  I  put  not  my  faith  in  princes— for  that  would  be  forgetting 
the  words  of  Holy  Writ ;  but,  begging  your  pardon,  I  still  put  my  faith  in 
Peers.  The  Committee  will  cut  the  Bill  well  down  yet  before  it  goes  to  the 
Lords,  and  the  Lords  will  do  the  rest  of  the  business,  and  Lord  Grey 
will  resign  next  morning,  and  William  the  Fourth,  nolens  volens,  will  send 
for  Sir  Robert  Peel,  and  Sir  Robert  Peel  will  make  up  a  Cabinet  within 
eight-and-forty  hours,  and  deliver  a  plain,  perspicuous  oration,  detailing 
what  Reform  he  is  willing  to  patronise,  and  dissolve  the  Parliament—- 

TICKLER. 

And  what  then  ? 

NORTH. 

Why,  nothing  uncommon.  The  majority  of  the  House  of  Commons  are 
not — not  beingybo/s,  mere  fools  they  cannot  possibly  be — sincere ;  and  they 
will  be  delighted  to  find  their  Bill  destroyed,  and  they  will  vapour  and 
palaver,  and  do  nothing.  By  that  time,  moreover,  the  horrible  stagnation 
in  every  branch  of  internal  trade,  for  which  the  nation  has  to  thank  Lord 
Grey,  and  of  which  people  even  in  lofty  places  are  already  beginning  to 
feel  the  effects,  will  have  come  to  such  a  pass  as  to  command  attention  in 
all  quarters  to  something  much  more  interesting,  as  well  as  important,  than 
any  reform.  By  that  time,  again,  there  will  be  no  Peers  in  France,  and  the 
Duke  of  Orleans  will  be  safely  housed  in  his  old  villa  at  Twickenham, 
(which,  like  a  sensible  man,  he  has,  I  am  told,  always  refused  to  let) — and 
there  will  be  war  by  land,  and  war  by  sea — and  there  will  be  a  bit  of  a  dust 
at  Manchester  or  elsewhere,  and  it  will  be  laid  in  blood,  and  the  new  Par- 
liament will  be  chosen  in  peace  and  jollity,  and  consist,  with  few  excep- 
tions, of  gentlemen — and  Peel's  Reform — bad  enough  probably,  but  still 
something  bearable  as  compared  with  this  iniquity — will  be  introduced, 


414  Nodes  Ambrosianoe.    No.  LVIL  [Aug. 

and  we  shall  jog  on  pretty  much  in  the  old  way  again — that  is,  conquer 
right  and  left  as  long  as  any  body  dares  to  keep  the  neld  before  us,  be  too 
grand  not  to  sacrifice  all  we  have  gained  at  the  cost  of  our  own  gold  and 
blood  whenever  a  peace  is  to  be  made,  and  then,  Europe  being  once  more 
settled,  buckle  ourselves  once  more  to  the  glorious  task  of  unsettling  Eng- 
land— that  is  to  say,  adopt  Whig  measures — on,  and  on,  until  the  national 
appetite  is  at  last  so  depraved  that  it  calls  out  for  some  radical  bolus,  and 
nothing  can  save  us,  or  our  children  rather,  from  bolting  the  murderous 
crudity,  except,  at  the  distance  perhaps  of  twenty  years,  just  such  another 
series  of  sayings  and  doings  as,  please  God,  will  for  ever  illustrate,  in  Tory 
annals,  the  memory  of  the  autumn  of  1831. 

TICKLER. 

Ha !  ha !  ha ! — well,  I  wished  to  hear  what  your  unbiassed  opinion  might 
be — and,  forgive  me,  told  a  little  bit  of  a  fib  by  way  of  eliciting  it  in  its  full 
splendour.  The  fact  is,  you  have  just  adopted  the  view  I  found  most  com- 
mon among  people  of  all  parties  in  the  capital — Whigs,  Tories,  Radicals, 
all  alike.  .  The  only  chance,  every  one  seemed  to  think,  of  any  serious  dis- 
turbance, was  connected  with  one  great  man (Here  the  honour- 
able member  became  inaudible.) 

NORTH. 


TICKLER. 
>      • 


SHEPHERD.  ~ 

s  5 -a 

••••••••• JS  O  OT 

NORTH. 

pa  «g 

fc'ga 

TICKLER.  '-"'•a 

If  he  does,  it  will  be  against  the  grain.  It  does  very  well  to  talk  about 
certain  things — but  we  all  know  what  life  he  leads,  what  company  he  keeps, 
what  tastes  he  cultivates,  and  I  tell  you  he  is  no  more  the  man  to  be  up 
and  doing  in  such  a  business  than  you  or  I,  or  any  other  old  hero  of  the 
Flatfoots — Corporal  Casey  himself  included. — (Sings.) 

SONG. 
TUNE— Dearest  Helen,  I'll  love  thee  no  more. 

IN  the  summer,  when  flowers  in  the  woodlands  were  springing, 
And  the  strawberry  pints  met  our  eyes  by  the  score, 

And  our  only  town  blackbird  in  Queen  Street  was  singing, 
Word  came  that  the  Flatfoots  were  a  regiment  no  more, 
A  regiment  no  more — a  regiment  no  more; 

And  our  only  town  blackbird  in  Queen  Street  was  singing, 
Word  came  that  the  Flatfoots  were  a  regiment  no  more. 

O  then,  what  despair  was  thy  lot,  Captain  I! Amy, 
As  the  sergeant  march'd  pensively  up  to  thy  door, 

And  demanded  thy  sword,  and  thy  sword-belt  of  shamois  ; 
How  dreadful  and  deep  were  the  oaths  that  ye  swore, 
The  oaths  that  ye  swore — the  oaths  that  ye  swore  ! 

And  demanded  thy  sword,  and  thy  sword-belt  of  shamois, 
How  dreadful  and  deep  were  the  oaths  that  ye  swore. 

Stap  my  vitals,  adzooks !  burn  my  gown,  blast  my  wig,  now 

This  news  will  put  all  the  Good  Town  in  uproar ; 
This  is  done  by  some  d d  economical  Whig,  now 

Great  Mars  f  my  career  in  thy  service  is  o'er, 

In  thy  service  is  o'er — in  thy  service  is  o'er ; 
This  is  done  by  some  d d  economical  Whig,  now 

Great  Mars  !  my  career  in  thy  service  is  o'er. 


1831.]  Nodes  Ainbrosiana.    No.  L  VII.  415 

And  you,  my  dear  lads,  none  will  ever  surpass  ye, 

Together  we've  served  in  the  hottest  warfare ; 
We  have  gather'd  our  laurels  upon  the  Crosscausey, 

We  have  dyed  with  our  best  blood  the  Fishmarket  Stair ; 

The  Fishmarket  Stair — the  Fishmarket  Stair ; 
We  have  gather'd  our  laurels  upon  the  Crosscausey, 

We  have  dyed  with  our  best  blood  the  Fishmarket  Stair. 

SHEPHERD. 

Weel  eneugh,  sirs.  But  hear  till  me — dinna  hinner  me  frae  singing.  I'll 
sing  you  a  sang,  an  auld  ane  frae  my  Jacobite  Relics ;  an'  though  the  folks 
are  now  beginnin'  to  surmeese  that  I  made  the  feck  o'  the  auld  Jacobite 
sangs  mysell,  ye're  no  to  gie  a  shadow  o'  insinuation  that  I  made  this  ane, 
else,  should  the  King  chance  to  be  introduced  to  me  when  he  comes  to 
Scotland,  he  might  cast  it  up  to  me. 

Would  you  know  what  a  Whig  is,  and  always  was, 
I'll  show  you  his  face,  as  it  were  in  a  glass : 
He's  a  rebel  at  heart,  with  a  villainous  face, 
A  saint  by  profession,  who  never  had  grace. 
Cheating  and  lying  are  puny  things, 
Rapine  and  plunder  but  venial  sins ; 
His  dear  occupations  are  ruin  of  nations, 
Subverting  of  crowns,  and  deceiving  of  kings. 

To  shew  that  he  came  from  a  home  of  worth, 
'Twas  bloody  Barbarity  gave  him  birth- 
Ambition  the  midwife  that  brought  him  forth — 
And  Lucifer's  bride  that  call'd  him  to  earth — 
Judas  his  tutor  was  till  he  grew  big — 
Hypocrisy  taught  him  to  care  not  a  fig 
For  all  that  was  sacred  :  so  thus  was  created 
And  brought  to  this  world  what  we  call  a  Whig. 

Spew'd  up  amang  mortals  from  hellish  jaws, 
He  suddenly  strikes  at  religion  and  laws, 
With  civil  dissensions  and  bloody  inventions, 
He  tries  to  push  through  with  his  beggarly  cause 
Still  cheating  and  lying,  he  plays  his  game, 
Always  dissembling — yet  still  the  same, 
Till  he  fills  the  creation  with  crimes  of  damnation, 
Then  goes  to  the  devil,  from  whence  he  came. 

He  is  the  sourest  of  sumphs,  and  the  dourest  of  tikes, 
Whom  nobody  trusts  to  and  nobody  likes ; 
He  will  fawn  on  your  face  with  a  leer  on  his  snout, 
And  snap  at  your  heels  when  your  back's  turn'd  about; 
Whene'er  he's  kick'd  out,  then  he  raises  a  rout, 
With  howling  and  growling,  and  biting  about; 
But  when  he  gets  in,  O  !  there  is  such  a  fleer 
Of  flattery  and  flummery,  'tis  shameful  to  hear. 

If  you  give  him  a  ladle  or  rough  paritch-stick, 
Or  the  fat  fouthy  scum  of  a  soudy  to  lick, 
You'll  see  how  the  cur  up  his  birses  will  fling, 
With  his  mouth  to  the  meat,  and  his  tail  to  the  king; 
He'll  lick  the  cook's  hand,  and  the  scullion's  wrang  side, 
But  masters  and  misses  his  heart  downa  bide. 
Kick  him  out,  cuff  him  out — mind  not  his  din, 
For  he'll  funk  us  to  death  if  you  let  him  bide  in. 

NORTH. 
In  the  meantime  there  can  be  no  sort  of  doubt  that,  considering  they 


416  Nodes  Ambrosia  nee.    No,  L  VII.  [Aug. 

have  been  in  office  only  eight  months,  they  have  done  about  as  much  to 
disgrace  themselves  as  any  preceding  set,  the  Talents  excepted,  ever  were 
able  to  accomplish  within  as  many  years.  This  is  consolatory. 

TICKLER. 

The  unvarnishiiig  of  Whig  reputations,  under  but  so  brief  an  exposure 
to  the  biting  air  of  Downing  Street,  has,  indeed,  been  proceeding  at  a  fine 
pace; — let  them  make  out  the  twelvemonths,  in  God's  name  ! 

NORTH. 

No  man  more  cordially  wished  to  see  them  in  than  I  did ;  and,  but  that 
I  now  see  in  their  endurance  the  imminent  ruin  of  Old  England,  God  knows 
no  man  would  less  wish  to  see  them  out.  But  their  proceedings  have 
changed  things  more  important  than  my  little  private  wishes  as  to  the  locum- 
tenencies  of  Whitehall ;  and,  to  be  honest,  I  now  almost  begin  to  blame  my- 
self for  the  hand  I  had  in  turning  out  their  predecessors. 

TICKLER. 

Never  repent  of  that.  They  neglected  their  duty,  and  you  did  yours. 
Not  being  either  a  Rowite  or  a  Secondsighter,  you  could  not  foretell  the 
consequences  of  the  Wellingtonian  downfall — and  in  personal  respect  to  the 
immortal  Duke  himself,  I  am  sure  the  worst  of  your  enemies  can  never 
pretend  to  say  you  were  deficient.  The  cursed  Currency  concern  of  1819 
was,  after  all,  the  father  of  the  national  distress — the  national  distress  was 
the  parent  of  the  national  Discontent — Discontent  has  in  all  ages  been  the 
progenitor  of  Delusion — and  Delusion  alone  could  ever  have  given  breath 
and  being  to  such  a  monster  as  the  Durham  Bill.  Do  you  watch  the  turn 
of  the  tide,  and  do  your  duty  when  the  Tories  come  in,  as  steadily  as  you 
did  before  they  went  out.  It  is  to  be  hoped  they  have  got  a  lesson — and 
that  neither  by  the  patronage  of  Whigs,  nor  the  adoption  of  Whig  measures, 
will  Tories  again,  at  least  in  pur  time,  undermine  at  once  their  own  power, 
and,  what  is  of  rather  more  importance,  the  constitution  of  their  country. 
But  whether  the  lesson  be  or  not  taken  at  headquarters,  my  dear  North, 
never  do  you  shrink  from  your  old  rules — "  stare  super  antiquas  vias"— 
"  nolumus  leais  Analice  mutari" — "  respect  the  landmarks" — and  "  let  iveel 
bide  !" 

NORTH. 

Fear  God  and  honour  the  king ! — quand  meme. 

TICKLER. 

Quand  mhne  !   Quand  mhne  !   Quand  meme  !    Ah  !  North, 

"  Hence  spring  these  tears — this  Ilium  of  our  foes  : 
Cold  wax  his  friends,  whose  faith  is  in  his  woes !" 

So  says  Dryden — and  such,  I  fear,  is  the  case  at  present  in  too  many  quar- 
ters ;  but  it  will  never  be  so  with  us.  We  know  our  duty  better — and  we 
understand,  I  venture  to  say,  the  facts  of  the  case  better.  In  spite  of 
Sir  James  Scarlett's  law  we  pity,  but  at  the  same  time,  in  spite  of  Lord 
Grey's  bill/we  honour  ;  and  the  time  will  come  for  us  to  vindicate,  defend, 
liberate,  and  uphold. — I  confess  I  witnessed  certain  scenes — Ascot — Drury 
Lane — even  the  Painted  Chamber — even  the  House  of  Lords  itself — with 
feelings  of  deeper  pain  than  I  could  have  believed  any  things  of  that  nature 
could  nave  had  power  to  stir  up,  now-a-days,  in  these  old  tough  heartstrings. 

NORTH. 

"  A  deathlike  silence,  and  a  drear  repose  ?" 

TICKLER. 

An  unanimous,  bellowing,  blustering,  hallooing  mob,  a  divided,  distrust- 
ful gentry,  an  insulted  but  unshaken  peerage,  a  doomed  but  determined 
prelacy— these  are  strange  signs,  and  sorrowful. 

NORTH. 
A  vulgarized  court,  a  despairing  Family,  and  a  trembling  Crown ! 

TICKLER. 
England  has  unquestionably  seen  no  such  danger  since  the  meeting  of 


1831.J  Nodes  Ambrosiance.    No.  L  VI I.  41 1 

the  Long  Parliament;— but  this,  I  still  hope,  will  be  known  in  history  as 
the  Short  one. 

NORTH. 

A  charitable  hope.  Well,  if  the  Peers  be  made  of  such  stuff  as  I  believe 
they  are,  it  is  like  to  be  more  short  than  merry,  at  all  events.  How  do  the 
Bishops  look? 

TICKLER. 

Quite  firm ;  but  I  never  doubted  as  to  them.  What  did  me  the  real 
good  was  to  have  all  my  little  qualms  about  the  lay  Lords  laid — which 
they  were  by  a  single  glance  round  the  House,  while  the  King  was  read- 
ing his  Ministers'  longwinded  and  very  single-minded  Speech.^.  That  satis- 
fied me;  and  I  own  I  am  much  deceivea  if  the  effect  was  not  quite  as 
decided,  although  not  peradventure  so  consolatory,  in  a  certain  quarter. 
His  Majesty  looked,  to  my  eye,  any  thing  but  comfortable ;  but,  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  he  is  evidently  in  very  feeble  bodily  health,  and  it  was  a  hot  day, 
and  the  crowd  was  pestiferous,  and  an  unconsecrated  crown  is  perhaps 
heavier  than  usual,  so  that  the  circumstance  might  be  otherwise  accounted 
for.  Can't  say — merely  give  you  my  impressions  of  the  moment — looked, 
I  thought,  flustered  and  unhappy — boggled  several  times  in  the  reading, 
and  changed  colour  oddly. 

NORTH. 

"Tis  odd  enough ;  but  his  Majesty  is  the  only  one  of  his  father's  sous  I 
never  happened  to  behold  in  the  flesh.  Which  of  the  family  does  he  most 
resemble  ?  If  one  could  trust  Lawrence's  picture,  I  should  say  the  old 
King  himself. 

TICKLER. 

I  rather  think  it  is  so; — but  by  far  the  best  likenesses  are  those  of  H.  B., 
whoever  may  answer  to  those  immortal  initials ;  and  of  all  his  admirable 
ones,  the  best  by  far  is  that  in  the  print  of  the  Old  Wicked  Grey  running 
off  with  John  Gilpin,  while  Lord  Brougham  cries  "  Go  it !  go  it ! — never 
mind  the  Ducks  and  Geese,"  (meaning  the  Peers  and  Parsons,  who  are 
typified  as  huge  waddlers  of  the  South,  and  great  Ganders  of  Lambeth,  with 
coronets  and  mitres  on  their  heads),  and  Mrs  Gilpin  appears  above  on  the 
balcony  with  her  half-crown,  screaming  to  the  bystanders.  The  face  of  the 
headlong  Captain  of  the  Train-bands  is  perfect  in  every  lineament — and  I 
think  the  anonymous  genius  of  our  day,  who  has  already  beat  Gilray  to 
sticks,  must  have  been  in  the  House  of  Lords  upon  the  recent  grand 
occasion  I  have  been  alluding  to. 

NORTH. 

Remember  to  bid  the  Bailie  order  it  down.  Are  we  never  to  see  these 
things  in  Auld  Reekie  until  they  be  out  of  date  ?  The  "  Never  mind  the 
Ducks  and  Geese"  would  be  a  fair  motto  for  a  new  edition  of  the  "  Friendly 
Advice." 

TICKLER. 

The  Ducks  and  Geese,  however,  will  be  found  quite  capable  of  hold- 
ing their  own,  and  suffer  neither  Rats  nor  Weasels  to  disturb  the  Wash  of 
Edmonton  with  impunity. 

NORTH. 

They  had  as  well.  If  they  don't,  they  are  done.  Do  any  of  the  "  ORDER," 
I  wonder,  sincerely  and  seriously  believe  that  we  of  the  inferior  classes^ 
who  have  always  stood  by  them,  in  opposition  to  the  folks  who,  after  daub- 
ing them  with  dirt  all  their  lives,  are  now  trying  to  half-bully,  half-cajole 
them  into  an  abandonment  of  their  highest  and  most  sacred  duties, — do 
any  of  these  high  and  mighty  personages  seriously  believe  that  we  poor 
Tory  gentlemen  have  been  actuated  in  our  feelings  and  conduct  regarding 
them  by  mere  vulgar  admiration  and  humble  worship  of  the  pomps  and 
vanities  of  long  pedigrees,  magnificent  chateaus,  and  resplendent  equi- 
pages ?  Do  any  of  them  believe  that  it  is,  per  se,  simply,  and  of  itself,  a 
matter  of  joy,  and  satisfaction,  and  exultation  to  us,  to  behold  a  certain 
number  of  individuals,  most  of  them  neither  wiser,  nor  cleverer,  nor  more 
active,  nor  even  better-looking  than  ourselves  —  many  of  them,  indeed, 
neither  better  born  nor  better  bred  than  the  ordinary  run  of  the  gentry;— 


418  Noctes  Ambrosiana.    No.LVIL  [Aug. 

do  they  fancy  it  is  a  pure  unmixed  essential  delight  to  us,  I  say,  to  behold 
them  in  the  possession  of  honours  and  eminences,  and  wealth,  luxury, 
and  grandeur  of  all  possible  sorts,  to  which  we  ourselves  make  no  pre- 
tensions— to  share  in  which  we  have  neither  hope  nor  wish  ?  If  so,  I  can 
assure  them  they  have  the  misfortune  to  labour  under  a  grievous  mistake. 
I,  Christopher  North,  am  not  a  bit  more  incapable  than  any  radical  in  the 
laud  of  appreciating  the  conveniences,  excellences,  comfort,  glory,  and 
triumph  of  having  nobody  above  me.  You  and  I  have  not  lived  in  the 
world  (some  seventy  years,  Timothy,  eh  ?)  without  having  mixed  a  good 
deal  with  people  of  all  classes ; — we  have  not  passed  through  "  this  visible 
diurnal  sphere"  without  having  experienced  occasionally,  quite  as  feeling- 
ly as  others,  "  the  proud  man's  contumely,"  more  especially  in  its  most 
offensive  form  of  condescension.  We  have  all  had  our  eyes  and  ears  about 
us,  my  friend,  and  our  brains  and  our  hearts  too, — and  our  support  of  the 
British  Aristocracy  has  been,  and  is,  bottomed  on  principles  entirely  uncon- 
nected with  the  selfish  part  of  our  own  natures.  That  institution  has  never 
presented  any  thing  at  all  likely  to  gratify  either  the  personal  vanity  or  the 
personal  pride  of  individuals  in  our  situation.  We  have  stuck  by  it  as  a 
great  bulwark  of  the  Constitution — a  great  safeguard  of  the  rights  and  pri- 
vileges of  our  fellow-subjects  of  all  classes — a  mighty  barrier,  reared  ori- 
ginally perhaps  between  the  Crown  and  the  people,  to  protect  them  from 
each  other's  violence,  but  chiefly  valuable  in  our  eyes,  nodie  and  de  facto, 
as  a  barrier  between  numbers  on  the  one  side  and  property  on  the  other. 
If  the  Prince  is  so  unfortunate  as  to  have  a  set  of  Revolutionists  for  his 
Ministers,  and  if,  following  too  literally  (as,  under  supposable  circum- 
stances of  more  kinds  than  one,  a  very  well-meaning  Prince  might  do)  the 
letter  of  the  Constitutional  doctrine,  he  allows  them  to  do  wrong'  in  his 
name,  according  to  the  measure  and  modesty  of  their  own  discretion, 
the  Prince  himself  becomes  for  the  moment  merged  in  the  mob — and  it  is 
the  business  of  the  Peerage  to  defeat  the  mob,  for  the  express  purpose,  not 
only  of  protecting  US,  but  of  rescuing  and  emancipating  HIM.  Let  them  be 
found  false  and  faithless  on  one  such  occasion — let  them  convince  the 
loyal  gentry  that  they  have  been  all  along  buttressing  the  predominance  of 
a  set  of  functionaries,  who,  when  the  great  moment  for  discharging  the  essen- 
tial function  arrives,  want  either  honesty  to  recognise,  or  courage  to  fulfil, 
at  whatever  hazard,  the  demands  of  the  critical  hour ; — let  them  practically 
bring  home  this  conviction  to  our  bosoms,  and  they  may  depend  upon  the 
fact — that  thenceforth,  even  from  that  moment,  they  have  not  one  consci- 
entious adherent  below  the  immediate  connexions  of  their  own  small, 
and  then  isolated,  circle. —  Oh!  ho!  we  must  have  something  for  our 
booin' ! 

TICKLER. 

What  an  honest  fellow  is  "The  Examiner!"  He,  I  see,  tells  the  Lords 
very  plainly  that  their  lease  is  nearly  out,  whatever  course  they  may  pur- 
sue on  this  occasion.  Assuming  as  an  undeniable  fact,  that  a  decided,  a 
vast  majority  of  them  are  against  the  revolutionary  robbery,  he  says — "  You 
will  either  act  according  to  your  own  absurd  opinion,  or  you  will  not  If 
you  do,  the  nation  will  cashier  you  for  your  presumption.  If  you  do  not, 
— if  you,  by  your  conduct  on  this  occasion,  manifest  a  becoming  sense  of 
your  own  incapacity  to  oppose  the  popular  feeling  when  strongly  pro- 
nounced on  a  momentous  question,  the  conclusion  will  of  course  force 
itself  on  the  dullest  understanding,  that  you  are  of  no  use — that  the  order 
had  as  well  cease  to  exist."  I  won  t  swear  to  the  words,  but  that,  I  am  sure, 
is  this  clever  and  candid  Republican's  sense — and  I  perceive  you  agree 
with  him. 

NORTH. 

To  be  sure  I  do.  Indeed  all  through  this  battle  The  Examiner,  and  The 
Examiner  alone  of  the  Ministerial  prints,  has  met  the  case  fairly  and 
directly. 

TICKLER. 

He  has — and  I  give  him  credit  for  so  doing.  But  you  need  be  under  no 
apprehensions  of  the  second  horn  of  his  dilemma.  Never  was  such  a  con- 


1831.]  Noctes  Ambrosiana.    No.  LVIT.  419 

trast  as  the  bold,  uncompromising  attitude  of  the  Opposition  in  the  Lords, 
and  the  crouching,  craven,  convict-like  bearing  of  the  deluders  and  deluded 
who  occupy  the  right-hand  side  of  the  Woolsack.  The  Bishops  were  the 
only  people  on  that  side  of  the  House  who  looked  any  thing  like  men— and 
it  is  now  no  secret  that  whenever  the  Bill  is  tabled  there,  they  are  to  walk 
across  the  floor  in  a  body  (all  but  old  doited  Norwich) — a  thing  unexam- 
pled since  the  days  of  THE  IMMORTAL  SEVEN  ! — I  wish  you  could  see  our 
muster  in  that  quarter— Wellington,  Eldon,  Mansfield,  Caernarvon,  North- 
umberland, Wharncliffe,  Tenterden— and  a  dozen  more  of  them— confront- 
ing such  things  as  the  old  Jacobin,  trembling  in  his  blue  ribbon,  and  his 
poor,  silly  socii  criminis — his  Holland,  bloated  with  vanity  and  impotence, 
unwieldy  as  the  Monument,  fat  and  feebleness  in  every  inch — Lansdowne, 
wasted,  worn,  enervate  Lansdowne — Swag  Sefton — but  why  should  we 
bother  ourselves  with  such  nonentities  ?• — The  most  pitiable,  however,  are 
the  Canningite  Lords — and  I  own  I  was  vexed,  on  more  accounts  than  either 
one,  two,  or  three,  when  I  saw  such  people  as  Goderich  and  Melbourne 
mixed  up  with  Ulick,  Marquess  of  Clanricarde !  Simon  Peter !  Simon 
Peter ! 

NORTH. 

'Tis  well.  By  the  bye,  it  always  strikes  me  as  something  more  comfort- 
able in  itself,  than  exactly  intelligible  according  to  the  received  theory  of 
actual  feeling  in  certain  quarters,  that  the  heiress  of  England  should  all  this 
while  be  intrusted  to  the  care  and  keeping  of  a  noble  Tory  lady — the  good 
and  graceful  Duchess  of  Northumberland ! 

TICKLER, 

I  must  leave  that  puzzle  to  Lord  Prudhoe's  friend,  the  Magician  of 
Cairo. 

NORTH. 

Who  ? — Magician  of  Cairo  ? — Are  you  coming  Magraubin  over  us  ? 

TICKLER. 

You  have  not  heard  the  story,  then  ?  1  thought  it  must  have  found  its 
way  ere  now  into  the  newspapers. 

NORTH. 

Not  a  bit  of  it.  Come,  we've  had  enough  of  King,  Lords,  Commons, 
and  Newspapers— by  all  means,  supper,  and  tip  us  your  diablerie. 

[Rings,  and  orders  lobsters  and  cold  punch. 

TICKLER. 

I  know  you  will  laugh  at  what  I  am  about  to  tell  you — but  I  can  only  say 
I  heard  it  at  second  hand — no  more — from  one  of  the  two  gentlemen  who 
are  responsible  for  having  made  this  concern  the  tabletalk  of  all  London. 
They  are  both  men  of  the  very  highest  character,  and  they  are  about,  it  is 
said,  to  publish,  jointly,  a  volume  of  travels  in  Africa,  including,  among 
other  marvels,  this  same  apparently  unaccountable  narration. 

NORTH. 
Name — name. 

TICKLER. 

Lord  Prudhoe,  brother  to  the  Duke  of  Northumberland,  and  his  friend 
and  companion,  Major  Felix.  They  have  just  returned  from  Egypt,  and 

except  Reform,  and  Cholera,  and  Lady ,  their  story  was,  I  think 

I  may  safely  say,  the  only  thing  I  heard  spoken  about  at  any  of  the  Clubs  I 
frequented. 

NORTH. 

Which  were     .  • 

TICKLER. 

White's— the  Cocoa— the  Alfred— the  Travellers'— the  Athenseum— and 
the  Senior  United  Service. 

NORTH. 
How  the  devil  are  you  a  member  of  the  last  ? 

TICKLER. 

Multis  nominibus.  As  Ex-fugleman  of  the  Flatfoots— as  Brigadier-Gene- 
ral in  the  Scotch  Body  Guard — and  as  Deputy-Lieutenant  in  the  counties 
of  Mid-Lothian,  Lanark,  Renfrew,  Dumbarton,  Ayr,  Argyle,  Perth,  Fife,  and 
Banff, 


420  Nodes  Ambrosianee.    No.  L  VH.  t Aug. 

NORTH. 
And  how  of  the  Traveller  ? 

TICKLER. 

As  having  accompanied  Baxter  in  "  Garrion  for  ever,"  in  the  Kremlin, 
August  the  15th,  1821. — As  having  eat  eighteen  inches  on  end,  unbroken, 
of  macaroni,  out  of  the  basket  of  the  late  King  of  Naples,  the  King's  Own, 
in  his  own  market-place,  12th  September,  1823. — As  having  smoked  fifteen 
cigars  at  one  sitting  with  old  Matthias,  among  the  ruins  of  Agrigentum,  in 
autumn  1824.  As  having  got  dead  drunk  on  new  rum  within  the  spray  of 
Niagara,  with  the  Teeger,  in  the  dog-days  of  1827. — And  finally,  as  having 
ridden  the  Spring  Circuit  of  last  year — only  7000  miles— in  doeskin  jacket, 
dogskin  breeches,  bullskin  boots,  and  whalebone  broadbrim,  with  the  Ho- 
nourable Mr  Justice  Menzies  of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope. 

NORTH. 

The  Athenaeum  ? 

TICKLER. 

An  original  member— proposed  by  William  Spenser — seconded  by  Wil- 
liam Sotneby. 

NORTH. 
The  Alfred  ? 

TICKLER. 

Proposed  in  1785  by  Lord  Thurlovv — seconded  by  Bishop  Watson — ad- 
mitted unanimously. 

NORTH. 
Cocoa  ? 

TICKLER. 

Got  in  through  Sheridan  about  the  time  of  the  mutiny  of  the  Nore. 

NORTH. 
White's  ? 

TICKLER. 

Proposed  by  Canning — seconded  by  Castlereagh,  just  before  their  split. 

NORTH. 
Very  well. — Now  fill  your  glass,  and  to  your  story. 

TICKLER. 

Lord  Prudhoe  and  Major  Felix  being  at  Cairo  last  autumn,  on  their  re- 
turn from  Abyssinia,  where  they  picked  up  much  of  that  information  which 
has  been  worked  up  so  well  by  Captain  Bond  Head  in  his  Life  of  Bruce, 
found  the  town  in  a  state  of  extraordinary  excitement,  in  consequence  of 
the  recent  arrival  in  those  parts  of  a  celebrated  Magician  from  the  centre  of 
Africa,  somewhere  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon.  It  was 
universally  said,  and  generally  believed,  that  this  character  possessed  and 
exercised  the  power  of  shewing  to  any  visitor  who  chose  to  comply  with 
his  terms,  any  person,  dead  or  living,  whom  the  said  visitor  pleased  to  name. 
The  English  travellers,  after  abundant  enquiries  and  some  scruples,  repaired 
to  his  residence,  paid  their  fees,  and  were  admitted  to  his  Sanctum. 

NORTH. 

Anno  Domini  millesimo  octingentesimo  trentesimo  ? 

TICKLER. 

Imo.  They  found  themselves  in  the  presence  of  a  very  handsome  young 
Moor,  with  a  very  long  black  beard,  a  crimson  caftan,  a  snow-white  turban, 
eighteen  inches  high,  blue  trowsers,  and  yellow  slippers,  sitting  cross-legged 
on  a  turkey  carpet,  three  feet  square,  with  a  cherry  stalk  in  his  mouth,  a  cup 
of  coffee  at  his  left  elbow,  a  diamond-hefted  dagger  in  his  girdle,  and  in  his 

right  hand  a  large  volume,  clasped  with  bra/en  clasps 

NORTH, 

The  Svpellex  is  irreproachable. 

TICKLER. 

Laugh  as  you  please — but  let  me  tell  my  story.  On  hearing  their  errand, 
he  arose  and  kindled  some  spices  on  a  sort  of  small  altar  in  the  middle  of 
the  room.  He  then  walked  round  and  round  the  altar  for  half  an  hour  or 
so,  muttering  words  to  them  unintelligible ;  and  having  at  length  drawn 
three  lines  of  chalk  about  the  altar,  ajid  placed  himself  upright  beside  the 


1831.]  Noctes  Ambrosian*.    No,  LVH.  421 

flame,  desired  them  to  go  seek  a  Seer,  and  he  was  ready  to  gratify  them  in 
all  their  desires. 

NORTH. 
Was  he  not  a  Seer  himself  ? 

TICKLER. 

Not  at  all— but  you  mistake  the  business— Did  you  never  read  the  His- 
tory  of  Cagliostro  ? 

NORTH. 

Not  I. 

TICKLER. 

If  you  had,  you  would  have  known  that  there  were  in  the  old  days,whple 
schools  of  magicians  here  in  Europe,  who  could  do  nothing  in  this  line 
without  the  intervention  of  a  pure  Seer — to  wit,  a  Maiden's  eye.  This  Afri- 
can belongs  to  the  same  fraternity— he  made  them  understand  that  nothing 
could  be  done  until  a  virgin  eye  was  placed  at  his  disposal. 

NORTH. 
Had  he  never  a  niece  in  the  house  ? 

TICKLER. 

Pooh !  pooh ! — Don't  jeer.  I  tell  you  he  bade  them  go  out  into  the  streets 
of  Cairo,  and  fetch  up  any  child  they  fancied,  under  ten  years  of  age.  They 
did  so ;  and  after  walking  about  for  half  an  hour,  selected  an  Arab  boy,  not 
apparently  above  eight,  whom  they  found  playing  at  marbles. 

NORTH. 
What  was  he  ? 

TICKLER. 

I  can't  tell  you — nor  could  they — but  he  was  a  child,  and  they  bribed  him 
with  a  few  halfpence,  and  took  him  with  them  to  the  studio  of  the  African 
Roger  Bacon. 

NORTH. 

QQ  on— T  attend Fill  your  glass. — Was  all  this  after  dinner,  by  the 

bye? 

TICKLER. 

The  gentlemen  were  impransi — and  a  d— — d  deal  more  sober  than  you 
ever  were  even  before  breakfast. 

NORTH. 
Perge,  puer ! 

TICKLER. 

Now  listen,  like  a  sensible  man,  for  five  minutes.  The  child  was  much 
frightened  with  the  smoke,  and  the  smell,  and  the  chatter,  and  the  mutter- 
ing— but  by  and  bye  he  sucked  his  sugar  candy,  and  recovered  his  tranquil- 
lity, and  the  Magician  made  him  seat  himself  under  a  window — the  only  one 
that  had  not  been  darkened,  and  poured  about  a  table-spoonful  of  some  black 
liquid  into  the  hollow  of  the  boy's  right  hand,  and  bade  him  hold  the  hand 
steady,  and  keep  his  eye  fixed  upon  the  surface  of  the  liquid ;  and  then, 
resuming  his  old  station  by  the  brazier,  sung  out  for  several  minutes  on 
end — What  do  you  see  ?  Allah  bismilla !  What  do  you  see  ?  Illalla  Resoul 
Allah !  What  do  you  see  ?  All  the  while  the  smoke  curled  up  faster  and 
faster 

NORTH. 

Of  course — of  course. 

TICKLER. 

Presently  the  lad  said :  "  Bismlllah  \  I  see  a  horse — a  horseman — I  see  two 
horsemen — I  see  three — I  see  four — five — six — I  see  seven  horsemen,  and 
the  seventh  is  a  Sultan" — "  Has  he  a-flagr"'  cries  the  Magician. — "  He  has 
three,"  answered  the  boy.—"  'Tis  well,"  says  the  other,  "  now  halt !"  and 
with  that  he  laid  his  stick  right  across  the  fire,  and,  standing  up,  addressed 
the  travellers  in  these  words : — "  Name  your  name — be  it  of  those  that  are 
upon  the  earth,  or  of  those  that  are  beneath  it  j  be  it  Frank,  Moor,  Turk,  or 
Indian,  prince  or  beggar,  living  and  breathing,  or  resolved  into  the  dust  of 
Adam,  3000  years  ago — speak,  and  this  boy  shall  behold  and  describe 
him !" 


422  Noctes  Ambrosiante.    No*  L  VII.  [Aug. 

NORTH. 
Very  good — now  be  so  good  as  bring  on  Lord  Prudhoe. 

TICKLER. 

I  can't  say  whether  he  or  Mr  Felix  named  the  first  name— but  it  was 
WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE.  The  Magician  made  three  reverences  towards  the 
window,  waved  his  wand  nine  times,  sung  out  something  beyond  their  in- 
terpretation, and  at  length  called  out,  "  Boy,  what  do  you  behold  ?" — "  The 
Sultan  alone  remains,"  said  the  child — "  and  beside  him  I  see  a  pale-faced 
Frank — but  not  dressed  like  these  Franks — with  large  eyes,  a  pointed  beard, 
a  tall  hat,  roses  on  his  shoes,  and  a  short  mantle  !"  You  laugh — shall  I 
proceed  ? 

NORTH. 

Certe'— What  next  ? 

TICKLER. 

The  other  asked  for  Francis  Arouet  de  Voltaire,  and  the  boy  immedi- 
ately described  a  lean,  old,  yellowrfaced  Frank,  with  a  huge  brown  wig,  a 
nutmeg-grater  profile,  spindle  shanks,  buckled  shoes,  and  a  gold  snuff- 
box! 

NORTH. 

My  dear  Tickler,  don't  you  see  that  any  print-book  must  have  made  this 
scoundrel  familiar  to  such  phizzes  as  these  ? 

TICKLER. 

Listen.    Lord  Prudhoe  now  named  Archdeacon   Wrangham,  and  the 
Arab  boy  made  answer,  and  said,  "  I  perceive  a  tall  grey-haired  Frank, 
with  a  black  silk  petticoat,  walking  in  a  garden,  with  a  little  book  in  his' 
hand.    He  is  reading  on  the  book — his  eyes  are  bright  and  gleaming — his 
teeth  are  white— he  is  the  happiest-looking  Frank  I  ever  beheld." 

NORTH. 

Go  on. 

TICKLER. 

I  am  only  culling  out  three  or  four  specimens  out  of  fifty-  Major  Felix 
now  named  a  brother  of  his,  who  is  in  the  cavalry  of  the  East  India  Com- 
pany, in  the  presidency  of  Madras.  The  Magician  signed,  and  the  boy 
again  answered,  "  I  see  a  red-haired  Frank,  with  a  short  red  jacket,  and 
white  trowsers.  He  is  standing  by  the  sea-shore,  and  behind  him  there  is  a 
black  man,  in  a  turban,  holding  a  beautiful  horse  richly  caparisoned." — 
"  God  in  Heaven !"  cried  Felix. — "  Nay,"  the  boy  resumed,  "  this  is  an  odd 
Frank — he  has  turned  round  while  you  are  speaking,  and,  by  Allah  !  ho 
has  but  one  arm !" — Upon  this  the  Major  swooned  away.  His  brother  lost 
his  left  arm  in  the  campaign  of  Ava!  Verlum  non  amplius.  Seeing  is  belie- 
ving. 

NORTH. 

Why  the  devil  did  they  not  bring  Maugraby  with  them  to  England? 

TICKLER. 

Perhaps  the  devil's  power  only  lingers  in  Africa  f 

NORTH. 

Tell  that  to  the  marines. 

SHEPHERD. 

I'll  tell  ye  a  ten  thoosan'  times  mair  extraordinar  story  than  that  o'  Lord 
Proud-O's — gin  I  had  only  something  till  eat.  But  I  wad  defy  Shakspeare 
himsell  to  be  trawgic  on  an  empty  stammack.  Oh  !  when  wull  thae  dear 
guttural  months  be  comin'  in  again — the  months  wi'  the  RRR's !  Without 
eisters  this  is  a  weary  warld.  The  want  o'  them's  a  sair  drawback  on  the 
simmer.  (Enter  Supper.)  What !  Groose  ?  Groose  afore  the  Tualt  ? 
That's  a  great  shame.  Gie's  the  auld  Cock.  [  They  sup. 


Edinburgh  :  Printed  by  Ballantyne  $  Co.  Paul's  Work,  Canongate. 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CLXXXV.  SEPTEMBER,  1831.  VOL.  XXX. 


tfontentd* 

THE  WISHING-TREE,  •  • 428 

ON  PARLIAMENTARY  REFORM  AND  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.    No.  IX.  432 

AN  AWFU'  LEEIN'-LIKE  STORY.    BY  THE  ETTRICK  SHEPHERD,        *.'  4*;.  448 

SIR  H.  PARNELL  ON  FINANCIAL  REFORM,          tV%      .»'       *       •      _•  ^57 

AN  HOUR'S  TALK  ABOUT  POETRY,        .......  475 

ON  THE  FOREIGN  POLICY  OF  THE  WHIG  ADMINISTRATION.  No.  I. — 

BELGIUM, 491 

OPINIONS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  REPUBLICAN,  AND  OF  A  BRITISH  WHIG  ON 

THE  BILL,          .       •       •    '»       .        .        .       .       •     -  •  506 

DREAMS  OF  HEAVEN.    BY  MRS  HEMANS,  .        ...        .        .  529 

To  A  BUTTERFLY  NEAR  A  TOMB.  BY  MRS  HEMANS,  .  ,  .  530 

NOCTES  AMBROSIAN^:.  No.  LVIII.  .  .  .  531 


EDINBURGH : 

WILLIAM  BLACKWOOD,  NO.  45,  GEORGE  STREET,  EDINBURGH J 
AND  T.  CADELL,  STRAND,  LONDON. 

To  whom  Communications  (post  paid)  may  be  addretsed. 
SOLD  ALSO  BY  ALL  THE  BOOKSELLERS  OF  THE  UNITED  KINGDOM, 

PRINTED  BY  BALLANTYNE  AND  CO.  EDINBURGH. 


This  day  is  Published,  price  8s. 

THE  EDINBURGH  LAW  JOURNAL,  No.  III., 

For  August,  1831. 

CONTENTS.—-  1.  Lawyer- Reform,  or  Observations  on  the  Prevailing  Moral  Stand- 
ard of  Legal  Practice,  and  Hints  for  a  Revision  of  it  by  the  Profession. — II.  Dis- 
tinction between  Civil  and  Ecclesiastical  Jurisdiction. — III.  Principles  of  Prescrip- 
tion, with  the  History  of  its  Rise  and  Progress  in  the  Law  of  Scotland. — IV.  Teind 
Court. — V.  Considerations  as"  to  the  Expediency  of  Imposing  on  a  Judge  the  Duty 
of  Examining  into  Correctness  of  the  Statements  of  the  Parties — VI.  Suggestions 
for  the  Improvement,  of  Courts  of  Justice,  No.  I. — VII.  On  the  Forms  and  Style 

of  Land  Rights  in  Scotland VIII.   Transactions  of  Society  for  the  Consideration 

of  Questions  relating  to  the  Form  of  Process.— IX.  Remarks  on  Recent  Decisions. 
— X.  Legal  intelligence — Sequestrations  awarded  by  the  Court  of  Session,  from  12th 
March  to  llth  July,  1831 — Cessiones  Bonorum,  for  the  same  period List  of  Per- 
sons confirmed  as  Trustees  on  Sequestrated  Estates,  from  12th  March  to  llth  July, 
1831.— Discharges. 

Printed  for  WILLIAM  BLACKWOOD,  Edinburgh  j 
And  T.  CADELL,  Strand,  London. 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CLXXXV.         SEPTEMBER,  1831.  VOL,  XXX. 


THE  WISHING-TREE. 
BY  THE  TRANSLATOR  OF  HOMER'S  .HYMNS. 


"Ev&"  an  ffatftr.y  a£i 

MfA/avas  Xs/jMaiy'  ngivov  $ieg%tretim 

EURIF.  Hippolytus,  1.  74. 

PART  I. 

MARY  M'GRAGH  sat  under  the  tree, 

That  grows  on  the  skirts  of  Fairy-  land  ; 

"  And  oh,  I  wish,  I  wish,"  quoth  she, 
"  A  buckle  of  gold,  and  a  silver  band, 

And  a  silken  gown  of  the  purest  white. 

Oh,  how  would  I  shine  at  the  Ball  to-night !" 

Now,  Mary  M'Gragh,  dost  thou  not  see 
The  boughs  how  they  quiver  above  thy  head  ? 

Knowest  thou  not  the  Wishing-Tree, 
That  ev'ry  green  leaf  is  a  Fairy's  bed. 

And  they're  bending  out  over,  thy  bidding  to  take, 

And  'tis  that  which  maketh  the  leaves  to  shake  ? 

Then  Mary  M'Gragh  she  wish'd  more  and  more 

A  costly  wardrobe  all  complete, 
As  ever  the  Queen  of  Sheba  wore — 

For  wishes  are  seldom  too  discreet; 
And  fast  as  the  words  flew  out  of  her  mouth, 
Away  went  the  Fairies  north  and  south. 

Away  went  the  Fairies  east  and  west, 

As,  by  the  laws  of  Faierie, 
They  are  bound  to  do  for  every  guest 

That  wisheth  beneath  the  Wishing-Tree  ; 
But  how  they  sped,  and  the  work  went  on, 
Wait  but  a  while  and  you'll  hear  anon. 

But  first  I  must  ring  my  magical  bell, 
To  call  my  own  dear  Sprite  to  my  ear, 

To  read  me  The  Fairy- Chronicle ; 

And  all  you  can  comprehend  you'll  hear, 

Yet  a  thousand  to  one  you  take  for  lies 

What's  read  from  the  book  or  seen  with  these  eyes. 

VOL.  XXX,  NO.  CLXXXV.  2  E 


424  The  Wishing-Tree.  [Sept. 

PART  II. 

"  WORK  on,  work  on,"  quoth  the  Fairy  Queen, 
"  Work  on,  work  on,  my  merry  sweet  elves, 

In  air  so  bright  or  on  earth  so  green, 
Under  the  boughs  or  on  lichen  shelves, 

\)nd?r  the  pebbles  in  glassy  wells, 

The  bat's  dark  holes,  or  in  waxen  cells." 

They  stitch,  they  hammer,  they  line,  they  mark, 
And  though  fifteen  hundred  beetles'  snouts 

Are  splitting  the  reeds  and  sawing  the  bark, 
And  each  master-workman  has  fifty  scouts, 

Yet  you  could  but  hear  such  hum  as  floats, 

When  sunbeams  sport  with  the  busy  motes. 

A  veil  they  made  of  the  spider's  thread, 
And  the  gossamer's  floating  film  they  spin, 

With  flowers  of  jasmine  overspread, 
For  a  gown  of  the  finest  mosselin  j 

And  another  they  peel  from  the  silken  skin 

That  lines  the  tulip,  farthest  in. 

And  to  edge  and  trim  the  mosselin  sleeves, 

Myriads  of  insects  are  set  to  trace 
The  fibres  among  the  fallen  leaves, 

Of  which  they  make  the  finest  lace—- 
And finer  and  better,  sure  I  am, 
Ne'er  came  from  Bruxelles  or  Nottingham. 

The  sparkles  they  fly  from  the  beetle's  wing, 

As  they  clip  it  and  file  it  for  a  clasp, 
As  the  golden  dust  from  brooch  or  ring 

That  shineth  beneath  a  jeweller's  rasp; 
And  as  they  flew  they  bronzed  the  streaks 
In  the  tulips,  that  look'd  like  Nature's  freaks. 

Full  fifty  thousand  Dumbledoors 

The  Elves  they  slew  with  a  forked  pin, 
For  a  velvet  boddice,  except  the  gores, 

And  they  were  made  of  the  black  mole's  skin  ; 
The  boddice  was  clasp'd  with  beetles'  wings, 
Prick'd  with  needles  of  hornets'  stings. 

They  took  a  tuft  of  the  trembling  grass, 

Sprinkled  with  dust  of  daffodil, 
Till  it  shone  as  it  shook  like  yellow  glass, 

Or  light  that  sunbeams  might  distil. 
And  oh,  it  was  a  most  rare  device, 
For  a  feather  of  Bird  of  Paradise. 

From  the  damask-rose  they  cull'd  drops  of  dew, 
And  made  of  them  crystals  ruby-stain'd — 

They  pinch'd  the  glow-worms  black  and  blue, 
And  filch'd  their  light  when  they  were  pain'd, 

Which  in  sand,  in  spar,  and  pebble  set, 

Became  amethyst,  diamond,  pearl,  and  jet. 

A  thousand  merry-men  hunt  the  shrubs, 
With  links  from  the  wild-foal's  mane  to  hind, 

Living  and  writhing,  the  hairy  grubs, 
For  a  tippet  of  the  Boa-kind. 


1831.]  The  Wishing- Tree. 

And  the  calceolaria's  dew-steep'd  woof, 
They  form  into  slippers  water-proof. 

Were  I  of  the  milliner  craft,  I  ween, 
I  might  the  trinkums  all  explain, 

Nor  refer  to  the  Ladies'  Magazine 

For  the  fashions  that  enter  damsels'  brain  ; 

But  I  know  of  gowns  there  were  fifty-three, 

Besides  a  bright  green  from  the  tulip-tree. 

And  of  every  texture  they  were  made, 
Mosselin,  and  velvet,  and  gros-de- Naples  ; 

And  the  boxes  in  which  they  were  nicely  laid, 
Were  all  veneer'd  with  the  birds'-eye  maple. 

And  there  they  were,  all  speck  and  span, 

As  ever  came  home  from  a  milliner  man. 


PART  III. 

Now  perhaps  you  marvel  all  the  while, 

That  Fairies  should  both  toil  and  spin, 
And  think  that  I  speak  in  too  loose  a  style 

Of  beings  of  such  a  kith  and  kin. 
But  I've  learnt  their  lore,  and  boldly  state, 
They  can  substances  change,  but  not  create. 

And  suppose  they  had  furnish'd  sweet  Mary's  dress, 
With  a  snap  of  the  fingers  sans  stitch  or  stroke, 

They  would  be  sorry  patterns  of  idleness. 
But  Fairies  must  work  like  other  folk, 

Though  with  spells  over  water,  earth,  and  air, 

That  can  change  them  to  things  most  strange  and  rare. 

But  there  must  be  the  seeds,  as  the  syrup  laid 

The  essence  of  honey  in  patient  flowers—- 
And the  sweetest  of  love  that  ever  was  made, 

Has  been  ta'en  from  the  fragrance  of  true-love  bowers, 
And  gentle  thoughts  from  sunny  looks, 
And  the  soul  of  music  from  running  brooks. 

You  cannot  pick  love  from  a  pavement-stone, 

For  the  chissel  has  chipp'd  it  all  away ; 
But  invisible  hands  have  its  essence  sown, 

O'er  that  which  is  cover'd  with  lichens  grey. 
And,  pray  tell  me,  who  would  enter  the  lists, 
With  Fays,  the  marvellous  Alchymists  ? 

Yet  these  are  but  mysteries  and  cabbala, 

That  little  concern  or  you  or  me  ; 
And  have  nothing  to  do  with  Mary  M'Gragli, 

All  the  while  under  the  Wishing-Tree  ; 
To  whom,  at  the  winking  of  her  eyes, 
The  Queen  of  the  Fairies  convey'd  the  prize. 

If  Thetis  brought  to.  her  mortal  son, 
All  nicely  pack'd  in  her  own  sweet  arms, 

An  armoury  suit  that  might  weigh  a  ton — 
You  have  learn'd  very  little  of  spells  and  charmi, 

Not  to  know  that  a  box  of  Millinerie, 

Might  drop  at  the  foot  of  a  Wishing-Tree. 


426  The  Wishing- Tree.  [Sept. 

And  Thetis  she  was  but  a  nymph  marine, 

But  England,  and  Scotland,  and  Erin-go-Bragh— 

Why  shouldn't  pur  own  good  Fairy  Queen 
Do  much  better  things  for  Mary  M'Gragh  ? 

And  the  Elves  work  harder  there  and  then, 

Than  ever  could  fifty  milliner  men. 

Mary  M'Gragh  was  still  bending  her  head, 

And  her  lips  apart  shew'd  rows  of  pearls ; 
And  her  eyes  a  lucid  wonder  shed, 

For  I  saw  it  myself  through  her  drooping  curls  ; 
And  her  delicate  fingers  were  pois'd  as  much, 
Or  more,  in  surprise,  than  rais'd  to  touch. 

Not  the  fam'd  fingers  of  rosy  Morn, 

Nor  of  Iris,  that  with  one  touch  of  joy 
Old  Somnus  awak'd  at  his  gates  of  horn, 

Nor  the  fairer  fingers  of  Helen  of  Troy, 
When  she  pointed  from  tower  of  Pergama, 
Were  at  all  like  those  of  Mary  M'Gragh. 

She  was  a  beauty  of  such  degree  ! 

As  a  vision  seen  in  a  pleasant  trance, 
When  the  sunshine  under  the  green-wood  tree 

Plays  on  the  pages  of  old  Romance. 
And  who  would  not  be  an  Errant  Knight 
For  a  smile  from  beauty  half  so  bright  ? 

But  Chivalry's  gone, — monies  and  rents 
Are  the  only  things  "  to  have  and  to  hold ;" 

And  unless  it  brings  lands  and  tenements, 
Beauty  's  scarce  worth  its  weight  in  gold. 

Now  Mary  bent  down,  with  a  wond'ring  look, 

Like  a  wood-nymph  over  a  glassy  brook. 

O  but  it  was  the  pleasantest  sight, 

And  many  the  pleasant  sights  are  seen, 
By  favour'd  eyes,  'twixt  the  yellow  light 

That  flicker'd  amid  the  shadows  green ; 
But  all  that  pass'd  between  her  and  the  Fay, 
As  I  didn't  well  hear,  I  will  not  say. 

But  the  Fairy  gave  to  the  Maiden  a  rose, 

The  which  in  her  bosom  she  must  wear ; 
That  did  an  invisible  Sprite  enclose ; 

"  And  be  this,"  quoth  she,  "  thy  special  care, 
For  there  needeth  that  faithful  sentinel 
Potent  and  perfect  to  keep  the  spell. 

"  Oh !  guard  it  sure,  'tis  a  precious  flower, 

For  the  like  it  groweth  not  in  ground; 
It  was  gather'd  in  our  innermost  bower, 

That  arm'd  Elves  ever  do  stand  around ; 
And  folded  within  there  lurketh  an  Elf, 
That  will  work  thee  good  as  I  myself." 

PART  IV. 

Now  the  damsel  stood  at  her  chamber  door, 

Her  finger  press'd  on  her  rosy  lip; 
But  the  merry  Elves  had  been  there  before, 

For  they  are  the  porters  that  nimbly  trip. 


1831.]  Tlte  Wishing-Tree.  427 

And  when  her  own  boudoir  she  had  won, 
She  found  the  rich  presents  every  one. 

Four-and-twenty  invisible  sprites 

Around  her  toilet  busily  run ; 
They  rub  the  mirrors,  and  trim  the  lights, 

Till  each  one  blazes  a  perfect  sun ; 
Boxes,  and  cushions,  and  pins  are  laid, 
As  if  each  had  been  bred  a  lady's  maid. 

Nor  needed  they  odours  to  dispense, 

For  the  Rose  threw  airs  of  such  rich  spice, 
As  gave  a  new  soul  to  every  sense, 

As  it  was  fresh  from  Paradise. 
And  Mary  M'Gragh  in  the  midst  did  shine, 
Like  Venus  in  her  own  golden  shrine. 

But  little  becometh  it  us  to  pry, 

Since  we  are  not  of  the  sister  choir, 
Or  into  Venus's  sanctuary, 

Or  the  same  thing,  Mary  M'Gragh's  boudoir ; 
One  only  fact  I  venture  to  tell, 
And  that  I  take  from  the  Chronicle. 

When  Mary,  sweet  maiden,  was  finely  dress'd, 
'  Quoth  she,  "  Come  hither,  thou  Fairy  Rose," 
And  she  took  it  and  plac'd  it  on  her  breast, 

And  to  fasten  it  there,  alas  !  she  chose 
A  pin,  whose  head  was  a  painted  star, 
A  toy  she  had  bought  at  a  Ladies'  Bazaar. 

This  star  a  lady  of  vast  renown 

Had  caus'd  some  starving  wretch  to  fix ; 
And  bated  the  price  to  halt-a-crown, 

And  sold  it  for  shillings  forty-six. 
No  wonder  the  solder  would  not  hold, 
And  I  doubt  myself  if  the  pin  was  gold. 

Ob,  Mary,  thy  lifted  fingers  stay 

From  the  brittle  ware, — a  gentle  sprite 
Thrice  thrust  it  aside,  thrice  push'd  it  away— • 

Oh  thou  wilt  rue  the  choice  to-night — 
But  let  us  turn  to  a  gayer  rhyme, 
For  sorrow  will  come  in  its  own  good  time. 

The  four-aud-twenty  serving  sprites, 

That  waited  around  her  toilet  all, 
They  tended  the  maiden  as  liveried  knights, 

As  Mary  M'Gragh  went  forth  to  the  Ball; 
There  they  attend  on  Mary  M'Gragh, 
And  then  vanish  into  the  orchestra. 

And  ere  the  musicianers  did  begin, 

Their  fairy  airs  on  book  they  prick ; 
And  creep  into  every  violin, 

And  new-rozin  every  fiddlestick : 
And  the  fiddlers  wink'd  as  the  music  rose, 
For  they  thought  it  came  from  their  own  elbows. 

And  as  Mary  M'Gragh  walk'd  up  the  room, 

The  rose  it  sent  sweet  odours  round ; 
And  the  music  mix'd  with  the  rare  perfume, 

And  it  verily  was  enchanted  ground, 


The  Wishing- Tree.  [Sept. 

And  the  Master  and  King  of  the  Ceremonies 
Clapp'd  both  his  hands  in  ecstasies. 

Sweet  music,  it  through  the  soul  doth  thrill, 

And  dancing  is  sweet — m  the  minuet — 
And  sweeter  still  in  the  soft  quadrille — 

But,  ladies,  beware  of  a  pirouette — 
And  never,  oh  never,  be  indiscreet, 
To  copy  the  Poets'  "  twinkling  feet," 

Let  your  steps  be  graceful  every  one, 

Ne'er  put  your  tender  feet  in  rage ; 
You  needn't  quite  walk ;  but  oh,  never  run, 

Nor  ape  the  twistings  of  the  stage — 
But  move  like  the  stream  of  the  pleasant  Lynn, 
That  disturbs  not  the  image  of  beauty  within. 

The  charm  work'd  well  in  each  gentle  dance, 

And  better  still  in  the  promenade  ; 
But  Mary  M'Gragh,  what  sad  mischance 

Could  make  thee  attempt  the  gallopade  ? 
It  cost  thee  the  heart,  it  lost  thee  the  hand, 
Of  the  finest  lord  in  all  the  land. 

A  noble  youth  of  a  vast  estate 

Fell  deeply  in  love  with  Mary  M'Gragh, 
And  so  felt  his  heart  to  palpitate, 

As  it  never  had  done  at  an  opera : 
The  Fisherman  Cupid  his  heart  had  hook'd, 
So  he  look'd  and  sigh'd,  and  sigh'd  and  look'd. 

But  when  Mary  encouuter'd  that  fatal  dance, 

The  Rose  it  trembled,  as  if  a  blast 
Had  chill'd  all  its  leaves — but  not  a  glance 

Did  the  maiden  unto  the  warning  cast — 
Thrice  the  pink  leaves  changed  to  a  deadly  white, 
And  the  fiddles  in  sympathy  scream'd  affright. 

Ah  !  Mary,  why  didst  thou  so  dance  and  spin, 
Or  why  didst  thou  go  to  the  Ladies'  Bazaar, — 

For,  oh,  it  was  that  fatal  pin, 

That  toy  with  its  flimsy  faithless  star — 

Was  it  such  vile  thing  as  this  you  chose, 

To  hold  that  precious  enchanted  Rose  ? 

The  star  it  snapt  from  the  brittle  pin, 

At  the  very  last  turn  of  a  pirouette ; 
And  the  shock  was  felt  by  Sprite  within, 

Who  boldly  the  moment  of  peril  met: 
For  he  threw  his  weight  and  clung  with  his  might, 
On  the  mosselin  that  edged  her  bosom  white. 

As  mareschal  or  squire  at  tournament, 

With  chevaux  de  frise  and  palisade, 
Parteth  the  field  from  the  Royal  Tent, 

Blazing  with  beauty  and  rich  brocade — 
So  the  Sprite  of  the  Rose  in  the  mosselin  fold, 
Guarded  his  fairer  field  of  gold. 

And  as  ever  and  anon  the  youth, 

That  noble  suitor,  he  whisper' d  speech—- 
That Mary  M'Gragh  took  all  for  truth, 

That  I  will  not  assert  or  dare  impeach.— 


1881. j  The  Wis?ting-Tree.  429 

Her  modest  sweet  joy  and  bliss  to  tell, 
Her  bosom  it  fitfully  rose  and  fell. 

And  ever  it  shone  as  the  purest  snow 

In  the  moonlight's  soft  and  magical  hour ; 
And  the  guardian  Sprite  moved  to  and  fro, 

Like  a  Cupid  rock'd  in  his  cradle  bower, 
Or  small  bark  riding  as  t'were  by  spell, 
That  rises  and  falls  with  the  bosom's  swell. 

But  the  stoutest  bark  may  prove  a  wreck, 

The  fairest  schemes  in  their  fall  are  found, 
Scarcely  the  light  fan  touch'd  her  neck — 

And  the  Rose,  the  Rose  it  falls  to  ground. 
Mary  M'Gragh,  thou  hast  broken  the  spell, 
And  art  but  another  Cinderell. 

Oh,  there's  nothing  on  earth  can  vex  me  more, 

Than  beauty  brought  to  such  despite — 
It  woundeth  my  heart  to  the  very  core, 

Till  tears  do  blot  the  words  I  write. 
For  as  much  as  e'er  miser  adored  his  pelf, 
I'm  in  love  with  Mary  M'Gragh  myself. 

The  spell  it  dissolves  as  the  new-fallen  snow, 

When  it  melteth  under  an  April  sun  j 
And  courting  the  green  bank's  genial  glow, 

Come  sweet  primroses  one  by  one. 
So  melteth  the  spell,  and  alas  therefore, 
Her  beauty  it  shineth.  more  and  more. 

The  mosselin  it  is  but  gossamer's  thread, 

And  cobwebs  drop  for  hanging  sleeves, 
The  boddice  shrinks  to  a  wretched  shred, 

The  Nottingham  lace  to  brown  dead  leaves  : 
Worthless  as  garlands  at  morning  light, 
That  beauty  had  charm'd  in  the  blaze  of  night. 

Thus  at  Amphitrite's  marriage  festoons  that  hung 
From  the  chamber  of  pearls  in  Neptune's  hall, 

As  worthless  things,  were  afterwards  flung, 
For  dolphin  and  porpoise  to  sport  withal. 

The  relics  whereof,  to  this  very  day, 

Float  as  sea-weeds  into  creek  and  bay. 

So  the  nice  fabric  of  charm  and  spell, 

That  dazzled  all  eyes  and  shone  so  bright, 
Or  dwindled  and  shrunk,  and  wither'd  and  fell, 

To  cobweb,  leaf,  and  dust,  or  blight. 
Oh,  strange  is  the  art  of  Faierie, 
That  can  turn  such  weed  to  Millinerie ! 


PART  V. 

Now,  think  ye  the  four-and-twenty  elves, 
That  lackey'd  the  damsel  everywhere, 

Thought  only  of  their  own  dear  selves, 
Like  simpering  fops  around  maidens  fair? 

They  were  quick  to  see,  and  quick  to  come, 

As  the  seven  great  champions  of  Christendom. 


480  The  Wishing- Tree.  .-[Sept. 

They  smear' d  the  eyes  of  every  beau, 

With  an  illusion  so  supreme, 
That  what  each  one  saw  he  did  not  know, 

Or  thought  he  only  dream'd  a  dream. 
And  they  damp'd  the  lights  that  shone  too  clear, 
Where  she  stood  beneath  the  chandelier. 

And  some  they  uubraided  every  braid, 

And  let  her  rich  tresses  flow  and  twine, 
Oh,  then  she  was  like  a  fair  mermaid, 

Glistening  fresh  from  the  sun-lit  brine ; 
Or  a  statue  of  marble  in  midst  of  spray, 
Round  which  the  dazzling  fountains  play. 

But  the  strangest  thing  is  yet  to  tell, 
At  the  which  both  damsel  and  dame  withdrew ; 

For  soon  as  th*  enchanted  floweret  fell, 
It  vanish' d,  as  from  its  leaves  there  flew 

A  Cupid  in  height  about  inches  two, 

Add  the  eighth  of  an  hazel-nut  thereto. 

As  a  partridge  under  a  sandy  ledge, 

Warming  her  unfledg'd  brood  in  the  sun, 
Startled  by  step  through  the  yielding  hedge, 

Far  from  the  path  of  her  nest  doth  run, 
With  straining  foot,  and  outstretch'd  wing, 
Thus  to  conceal  their  harbouring; 

Or  in  flight  shall  suddenly  drop  to  ground, 
And  feign  to  be  wing'd  and  wounded  sore, 

And  flutter  and  struggle,  and  run  and  bound, 
To  draw  her  pursuer  away  the  more — 

Till  her  brood  be  safe  from  obtruding  eye, 

Then,  Avhirring  away,  she  bids  good-bye. 

So  he  fluttered  and  bounded  alone  the  floor, 

And  partly  did  run  and  partly  fly; 
And  as  he  approach'd  the  folding  door, 

After  him  dame  and  damsel  hie ; 
And  as  ever  he  twang'd  his  little  bow, 
After  him  ever  the  more  they  go. 

But  when  he  had  reach'd  the  anteroom, 

To  catch  him  they  all  were  so  alert, 
Poor  Mary  was  left  alone — to  whom 

He  fell  as  a  prize  I  not  assert; 
Some  say  Lady  Juliet  pick'd  him  up, 
And  hid  him  under  a  coffee-cup. 

But  if  it  were  so,  Lady  Juliet 

Should  a  lodging  more  to  his  taste  have  found, 
And  have  certainly  known  that  such  a  pet 

Is  not  a  stray  ox  to  be  put  in  pound — 
So  the  moment  she  thought  to  be  sure  of  her  prey, 
He  slipp'd  through  her  fingers  and  ran  away. 

Some  say,  that  he  vanish' d  away  in  smoke, 
Some  in  Barbara's  bosom,  while  playing  whist, 

(An  elderly  maiden,)  and  made  her  revoke, 
And  lose  a  single;  and  some  insist, 

That  in  order  no  longer  to  be  forlorn, 

She  eloped  with  an  Ensign  the  very  next  morn, 


183I.J  The  Wishing-Trec.  431 

That  I  vouch  for  these  tales,  I  do  riot  say, 

For  folk  that  seem  best  to  understand, 
Boldly  assert,  to  this  very  day, 

That  he's  still  safe  and  sound  in  Fairy-land ; 
And  all  that  would  that  urchin  see, 
Must  seek  him  in  realms  of  Faierie. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  the  rooms  were  clear'd, 

And  Mary  M'Gragh  was  left  alone, 
When  with  two  stout  chairmen  the  Elves  appeared, 

(And  they  acted  by  senses  not  their  own.) 
So  Mary  M'Gragh,  as  the  elves  foreran, 
Was  carried  home  safe  in  a  Bath  sedan. 

They  tuck'd  up  the  maiden  warm  in  bed, 
Some  of  them  watch'd  on  the  counterpane, 

Some  at  the  foot,  and  some  at  the  head, 

And  calm'd  with  rare  essence  her  wilder' d  brain, 

And  inspired  a  dream,  that  made  her  forget 

The  Wishing-Tree,  and  the  Pirouette. 

Her  suitor  at  heart  grew  sick  and  sore, 

That  heart  he  never  would  transfer, 
So  they  hurried  him  off  on  a  foreign  tour, 

But  "  Oh  no !  they  never  mentioned  her." 
And  so  often  his  woes  he  did  rehearse, 
That  they  speedily  sang  them  about  in  verse. 

That  painted  star  was  never  more  seen, 

For  t'was  made  a  football  for  Elfin  shoon, 
And  sporting  one  night  before  the  Queen, 

They  scornfully  kick'd  it  over  the  moon — 
And  the  pin — but  I  would  not,  after  that  kick, 
,  Lose  sight  of  a  rocket  to  look  for  its  stick. 

It  would  grieve  me  sore,  as  grieve  it  ought, 

If  you  think  I  mean  in  any  degree, 
That  Ladies  of  pure  and  noble  thought, 

Shouldn't  sit  under  a  Wishing-Tree  : 
I  would  but  entreat  them  to  better  thrift, 
Than  a  careless  hold  of  a  Fairy  gift. 

And  Fairies,  dear  Sprites,  seem  ever  to  me, 

To  invest  with  spells  all  womankind, 
Till  men  do  adore,  and  bow  the  knee, 

Which  maketh  folk  say  that  Love  is  blind. 
And  I  think  it  but  honest,  the  rest  of  your  lives, 
That  you  keep  up  the  spell,  tho'  you  should  be  wives ! 

Rubies  ne'er  grow  upon  currant-trees ; 

The  fairest  fruit  that  is  bought  and  s"old, 
Ne'er  came  from  the  fam'd  Hesperides; 

Nor  are  all  golden  apples  that  glitter  gold. 
As  you'll  find,  if  you  purchase  the  trumpery  ware 
At  Ladies'  Bazaars,  in  Vanity  Fair. 


432 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.       [Sept, 


,ON  PARLIAMENTARY  REFORM  AND  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION, 

No.  IX. 

CONSEQUENCES  OF  REFORM. 


"HE  was  well  acquainted/'  said 
John  Sobieski,  in  bis  latter  years,  to 
the  senators  of  Poland,  "  with  the 
griefs  of  the  soul,  who  declared  that 
small  distresses  love  to  declare  them- 
selves, but  great  are  silent.  This 
world  will  hereafter  be  mute  with 
amazement  at  us,  and  our  councils — 
Nature  herself  will  be  astonished  ! 
That  beneficent  parent  has  gifted 
every  living  creature  with  the  in- 
stinct of  self-preservation,  and  given 
the  most  inconsiderable  animals 
arms  for  their  defence.  We  alone 
turn  ours  against  ourselves!  That 
instinct  is  taken  from  us,  not  by 
a  resistless  force,  not  by  an  inevita- 
ble destiny,  but  by  a  voluntary  in- 
sanity, by  our  own  passions,  by  the 
desire  of  mutual  destruction.  Alas  ! 
what  will  one  day  be  the  mournful 
surprise  of  posterity  to  find  that 
from  the  summit  of  glory,  from  the 
period  when  the  Polish  name  filled 
the  universe,  our  country  has  fallen 
into  ruins  ;  and  fallen  for  ever !  I 
have  been  able  to  gain  for  you  victo- 
ries, but  I  feel  myself  unable  to  save 
you  from  yourselves.  Nothing  re- 
mains to  be  done  but  to  place  in  the 
hands,  not  of  destiny,  for  I  am  a 
Christian,  but  of  a  powerful  and  be- 
neficent Deity,  the  fate  of  my  beloved 
country.  Believe  me,  the  eloquence 
of  your  tribunes,  instead  of  being 
turned  against  the  throne,  would  be 
better  directed  against  those  who,  by 
their  insane  passions,  are  bringing 
down  upon  our  country  the  cry  of 
the  prophet,  which  I,  alas  !  hear  too 
clearly  rolling  over  our  heads — '  Yet 
forty  years  and  Nineveh  isno  more.'"* 

Such  was  the  mournful  prophecy 
of  the  greatest  and  best  of  the  Polish 
kings,  of  the  deliverer  of  Vienna 
from  Mahometan  conquest,  and  the 
hero  of  Christendom  against  savage 
invasion,  extorted  by  the  spec- 
tacle of  the  democratic  ambition 
which  distracted  his  country,  and  the 
passions  which  turned  all  the  ener- 


gies of  the  lower  orders  against  the 
sway  of  their  superiors.  We  have 
witnessed  its  accomplishment  ;  we 
have  seen  the  parties  in  the  state  in- 
cessantly actuated  by  mutual  hatred, 
until  at  length  the  insane  ambition  of 
a  "  plebeian  noblesse,"  to  use  an  ex- 
pression of  Sobieski,f  called  in  the 
aid  of  foreign  powers,  and  the  Em- 
press Catherine,  invoked  by  the  mad- 
ness of  Polish  democracy,  stifled  the 
long  period  of  its  anarchy  with  the 
weight  of  military  power. 

It  is  from  a  still  higher  pinnacle  of 
glory,  from  prosperity  of  a  longer 
duration,  and  happiness  resting  on  a 
more  durable  basis,  that  the  same 
insane  democratic  ambition  is  about 
to  precipitate  the  British  empire. 
What,  in  Sobieski's  words,  will  be 
the  mournful  surprise  of  posterity, 
when  they  find,  that  from  the  sum- 
mit of  so  much  glory — from  the  time 
when  the  British  name  filled  the  uni- 
verse— from  the  age  of  Nelson  and 
Wellington,  of  Scott  and  Byron,  we 
have  fallen  into  the  convulsions 
which  are  the  forerunner  of  ruin ! 
Fallen,  too,  not  by  the  force  of  exter- 
nal power,  not  by  the  arms  of  Na- 
poleon, or  the  force  of  Russia,  but 
by  the  madness  of  our  own  passions 
— by  the  guilty  ambition  of  democra- 
tic leaders — by  the  riot  and  intoxica- 
tion produced  by  unparalleled  and 
undeserved  prosperity  among  our 
people. 

There  is  no  period  in  the  English 
annals,  which,  in  point  of  general 
prosperity,  can  be  compared  with 
that  which  elapsed  from  the  battle 
of  Waterloo  to  the  commencement 
of  the  reform  question.  We  say  ge- 
neral prosperity,  because  we  are  as 
much  aware  as  any  one  can  be  of 
the  magnitude  and  severity  of  the 
distress,  which,  during  the  same  time, 
affected  numerous  individuals  and 
classes  of  society.  Indeed,  the  se- 
verity of  this  distress  among  many, 
contrasted  with  the  general  opulence 


Salvandy,  ill.  375, 


t  Rulhiere,  i.  32. 


183.1.J         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


433 


and  well-being  with  which  they  were 
surrounded,  has  been,  without  doubt, 
one  among  the  many  causes  of  the 
wide-spread  discontent  which  has 
generated  the  desolating  passion  for 
democratic  power.  But  while  this 
is  admitted  on  the  one  hand,  it  must 
be  conceded  on  the  other,  that  the 
general  prosperity  of  the  empire,  has, 
during  that  period,  reached  a  height 
never  before  equalled.  Facts  undis- 
puted, decisive  facts,  place  this  be- 
yond a  doubt. 

The  population  of  the  island  has, 
during  this  time,  very  greatly  in- 
creased ;  and  the  sum  of  the  national 
wealth  has  increased  in  a  still  greater 
proportion.  Since  181 1,  the  popula- 
tion of  the  whole  empire  has  in- 
creased above  a  fourth,  and  that  of 
the  great  towns,  generally  speaking, 
above  a  half.  The  census  of  1821, 
and  that  just  completed,  demonstrate 
this  remarkable  fact.  The  popula- 
tion of  the  British  empire  is  now 
doubling  once  in  forty-two  years  :* 
a  more  rapid  progress  than  the  Uni- 
ted States  of  North  America,  in  which, 
although  the  numbers  double  in  some 
of  the  states  in  twenty-five,  the  ave- 
rage over  the  Union  is  once  in  fifty- 
two  years.-^  Such  a  rapid  increase 
— the  effects  of  the  extraordinary 
growth  of  our  manufactures,  and  the 
prodigious  demand  for  labour  by  the 
vast  armaments  of  the  war — is  not 
of  itself  any  sure  criterion  of  general 
prosperity ;  but,  coupled  with  a  cor- 
responding or  greater  increase  of 
national  wealth,  and  general  prospe- 
rity^  it  is  a  most  decisive  proof. 
Whatever  may  be  said  of  the  growth 
of  innumerable  beggars,  as  in  Ire- 
land, it  is  quite  clear,  that  a  nation 
which  is  at  once  adding  to  its  num- 
bers, and  in  creasing  their  prosperity, 
is  in  the  highest  state  of  public  wel- 
fare. 

Now  no  one  can  move  from  home; 
he  can  hardly  walk,  either  in  the 
streets  or  the  fields,  without  being 
sensible,  that  in  the  last  twenty  years 
the  middling  and  lower  orders  have 
prodigiously  increased  in  happiness 
upon  the  whole,\n  this  country.  Look 
at  the  dwellings  of  the  middling  ranks : 
How  they  have  expanded  m  size, 
augmented  in  comforts,  increased  in 
elegance !  What  multitudes  of  villas 


have,  during  that  time,  grown  up 
round  all  the  great  cities,  indicating 
at  once  the  improved  tastes,  easy 
circumstances,  and  prosperous  lives 
of  their  inhabitants  I  What  crowds  of 
open  carriages  are  to  be  everywhere 
seen  in  the  streets,  filled  with  the 
sons  and  daughters  of  the  middling 
ranks ;  a  species  of  vehicle  literally 
unknown  during  the  war ;  a  luxury 
confined  to  the  great  and  the  afflu- 
ent, during  the  most  prosperous  pe- 
riods of  any  former  peace.    Enter 
the  shops,  not  only  of  the  metropo- 
lis, but  of  any  considerable  towns  in 
the  country;  what  luxury  and  opu- 
lence meet  your  eye;  what  multi- 
tudes of  inventions  to  catch  the  taste 
of  opulence;  what  innumerable  com- 
forts to  gratify  the  wishes  of  indus- 
try !  Enter  the  private  houses  of  the 
citizens— their  dress,  their  furniture, 
their  habits  of  life,  bespeak  the  ge- 
neral ease  of  their  condition.    The 
houses  of  shopkeepers  and  artisans 
are  better  furnished  than  those  of  the 
nobility  were  thirty  years  ago ;  and 
the  dwellings  of  private  gentlemen 
are  arrayed  in  a  style  of  sumptuous 
elegance,  which  a  century  back  was 
confined  to  the  palaces  of  princes. 

In  another  costly  and  beneficial 
species  of  luxury,  the  change  is  still 
more  extraordinary.  The  taste  for 
travelling  has  become  universal,  not 
only  among  the  higher  but  the  mid- 
dling orders.  Steam-boats  have  fur- 
nished the  means  of  visiting  the  most 
distant  quarters  of  the  empire,  with 
ease  and  expedition  to  multitudes, 
who,  twenty  years  ago,  never  thought 
of  stirring  from  home.  There  is 
hardly  a  shopboy  in  London  who  has 
not  seen  the  Highlands  of  Scotland, 
or  the  Lakes  of  Cumberland ;  and  the 
scenes  which  we  formerly  read  of  in 
Coxe  and  Eustace,  as  remote  and  to 
most  inaccessible  quarters  of  the 
globe,  are  now  as  familiar  to  every 
gentleman,  as  the  principal  objects 
in  his  own  country. 

Nor  is  this  great  and  increasing 
expenditure  the  result,  as  many  ima- 
gine, of  an  increased  turn  for  ex- 
pense merely  among  the  middling 
order.  Facts  demonstrate  the  re- 
verse. The  common  complaint,  that 
capital  cannot  find  an  investment, 
that  the  bankers  have  more  money 


Dupin,  p.  32, 


f  Hall's  America,  vol.  iii.  App. 


434  On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.        [Sept- 


thrown  on  their  hands  than  they 
,  know  what  to  do  with,  is  decisive 
evidence,  that  great  as  the  industry 
of  the  country  is,  the  accumulated 
savings  of  its  industry  are  still  greater. 
The  funds,  the  great  savings'  bank 
of  the  middling  orders,  maintain 
their  high  price,  notwithstanding  the 
gloomy  aspect  of  the  Continental 
horizon,  and  the  imminent  peril  of 
domestic  convulsion :  a  clear  proof 
that  the  opulence  of  the  middling 
ranks,  upon  the  whole,  is  so  great, 
that  it  cannot  find  any  adequate 
means  of  employment.  Ask  any 
banker  in  the  kingdom,  he  will  tell 
you,  that  the  industrious  classes  in 
the  kingdom  never  had  such  exten- 
sive balances  in  their  hands,  and  that 
they  literally  are  at  a  loss  to  find  an 
outletfor  the  accumulation  of  somany 
rills.  Enquire  of  the  attorneys 
whence  they  draw  the  immense  loans 
which  are  advanced  in  mortgage 
on  landed  estates,  and  threaten,  be- 
fore long,  to  effect  a  general  change 
in  the  state  of  landed  property  in 
every  part  of  the  kingdom,  and  they 
will  answer,  that  they  find  them  with 
ease  among  the  industrious  classes 
in  the  towns;  and  that  the  owner  of 
many  a  noble  palace  is  in  truth  little 
better  than  a  trustee  permitted  to  ga- 
ther in  his  rents,  for  the  use  of  the 
thriving  citizens,  among  whom  they 
are  ultimately  divided. 

The  general  revenues,  and  returns 
of  industry  in  the  state,  demonstrate 
the  same  truths.  The  exports,  the 
imports,  the  tonnage  of  our  shipping, 
the  produce  of  our  colonies,  demon- 
strate this  beyond  a  doubt.  They 
are  all  much  greater  than  they  were 
during  the  greatest  years  of  the 
war.  The  exports,  which  only  once 
during  the  war  (in  1809)  reach- 
ed L.40,000,000,  now  amount  to 
L.52,000,000 ;  and  if  the  great  change 
in  the  value  of  money  is  taken  into 
account,  it  is  not  going  too  far  to 
assert,  that  this  latter  sum  indicates 
double  the  produce  of  industry  with 
the  greatest  ever  raised  in  Britain 
before  the  battle  of  Waterloo.  The 
shipping  now  in  employment  is 
greater  than  it  was,  even  during  the 
monopoly  of  the  ocean  by  British 
fleets,  in  the  time  of  the  Continen- 
tal blockade.  The  revenue  of 
L.50,000,000,  now  raised,  is  at  least 
equal  to  what  L.70,000,000  would 
have  been  during  the  war  prices ;  a 


sum  greater  than  was  raised  by  tax- 
ation in  Britain,  even  during  the  pro- 
lific days  of  the  income  tax. 

The  agriculture  of  the  empire  has 
augmented  in  a  similar  proportion. 
It  is  impossible  to  travel  anywhere 
without  being  struck  with  the  vast 
improvement  of  the  cultivation  du- 
ring the  last  fifteen  years:  an  im- 
provement which  is  most  remark- 
able, even  greater  than  took  place 
during  the  high  prices  of  the  war. 
Immense  districts,  which  in  our  re- 
collection were  purple  with  heath,  or 
golden  with  furze,  have  now  yielded 
to  the  steady  efforts  of  laborious  in- 
dustry; and  the  abode,  within  these 
few  years,  of  the  hare  and  the  lap- 
wing, are  now  teeming  with  luxuri- 
ant and  never-ending  harvests.  In 
spite  of  the  terrible  difficulties  ari- 
sing from  the  change  of  the  currency, 
and  the  adaptation  of  rents  to  a  new 
scale  of  prices,  the  aspect  of  the 
country,  and  the  condition  of  the  far- 
mers, demonstrate  that  the  spring 
of  agricultural  prosperity  is  yet  un- 
dimiuished  ;  while  the  remarkable 
facts,  fatal  to  the  Malthusian  para- 
dox, that  with  a  population  doubling 
in  an  old  state  every  forty-two  years,  • 
the  produce  of  the  soil  has  augment- 
ed in  a  still  greater  progression  ;  and 
that  the  era  of  the  most  rapid  in- 
crease of  our  population,  is  the  same 
with  that  which  has  witnessed  our 
total  emancipation  from  any  depend- 
ence on  external  nations  for  subsist- 
ence; and  the  universal  complaint 
of  farm-produce  being  redundant  in 
the  hands  of  the  cultivators,  encou- 
rage the  pleasing  hope,  that  the  vital 
resources  of  the  country  are  yet  far 
from  having  approached  their  ulti- 
mate limits. 

What  renders  this  rapid  and  ex- 
traordinary increase  of  general  pros- 
perity the  more  remarkable  is,  that  it 
has  taken  place  under  circumstances 
which  would  have  weighed  to  the 
earth  the  industry  of  most  other 
states.  Without  descending  to  de- 
tails, it  is  sufficient  to  enumei'atc 
three,  one  would  have  thought,  to 
have  put  an  entire  stop  to  the  growth 
of  industry  among  our  people. 

The  first  of  these  is  the  national 
debt.  The  annual  payment  of  from 
eight-and-twenty  to  thirty  millions 
to  the  public  creditors,  is  a  burden 
far  greater  than  ever  before  was 
borne  by  any  other  nation,  The  an- 


1881.]          On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution,  485 


nual  charge  of  the  national  debt,  the 
magnitude  of  which  was  the  imme- 
diate cause  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion, was  only  L.I  1,000,000  sterling 
annually,  by  far  the  greater  part  of 
which  was  in  the  perishable  form  of 
life  annuities. 

The  second  is  the  extraordinary 
change  of  prices  which  has  resulted 
from  the  suspension  of  cash  payments 
during  the  war,  and  their  subse- 
quent resumption  by  the  act  of  1819 
— without  involving  ourselves  in  the 
rjuestio  vexata  of  the  currency,  it  is 
sufficient  to  mention  the  admitted 
facts,  that  prices  were  more  than 
doubled  by  the  first  act,  and  nearly 
halved  by  the  second ;  that  all  the 
lasting  contracts  of  individuals  were 
formed  on  the  basis  of  the  war,  and 
their  payment  left  to  be  provided  for 
by  the  diminished  resources  of  the 
peace  prices;  and  that  the  national 
debt,  contracted  when  money  was  at 
its  lowest  value,  requires  now  to  be 
provided  for,  when  prices  have  so  al- 
tered that  it  has  risen  to  almostdouble 
its  original  amount.  What  fatal  ra- 
vages has  this  rapid  and  unparalleled 
change  made  in  the  fortunes  of  indi- 
viduals; how  many  old  families  has 
it  levelled  to  the  dust;  how  much 
meritorious  industry  has  it  extin- 
guished for  ever!  Yet  it  is  in  the 
midst  of  this  wide-spread  suffering 
produced  by  these  changes  that  the 
national  opulence  has  made  such  un- 
precedented progress. 

3.  Though  last  not  least,  our  la- 
bouring classes  have,  during  all  this 
period,  had  to  sustain  the  competi- 
tion, bear  the  burden,  and  withstand 
the  demoralization  arising  from  the 
incessant  emigration  of  Irish — an 
evil  peculiar  to  Britain,  and  perhaps 
greater  than  any  which  now  afflicts 
any  civilized  state.  Humboldt  was 
the  first  who  brought  to  light  the 
important,  and  almost  incredible  fact, 
thatbetween  the  years  1801  and  1821, 
a  million  of  Irishmen  settled  in  Great 
Britain,*  being  at  the  rate  of  50,000 
a-year  ;  and  since  the  introduction  of 
steam-boats,  the  numbers  have  been 
probably  still  greater.  There  is  no 
instance  of  the  influx  of  barbarous 
settlers  on  record  to  such  an  extent, 
even  when  the  Goths  overwhelmed 
the  Roman  empire. 


Nor  has  the  national  strength  of 
England  during  this  period  been  un- 
worthy of  the  extraordinary  pros- 
perity which  she  had  attained,  or 
the  unparalleled  burdens  which  she 
bore.  In  the  midst  of  profound  peace 
in  Europe,  she  has  sustained  in  the 
East  the  character  of  a  mighty  con- 
queror; the  Mahrattas,  the  Goor- 
kahs,  the  Pindarris,  have  succes- 
sively yielded  to  her  arms;  and  at 
the  same  time  that  the  strength  of 
the  Indian  empire  was  engaged  in 
an  arduous  struggle  in  the  Burmese 
invasion,  the  force  collected  fifteen 
hundred  miles  above  Calcutta  for 
the  seige  of  Bhurtpore,  exceeded  the 
native  English  that  conquered  at 
Waterloo. 

What  is  it  that  has  sustained  the 
British  empire  under  such  heavy 
burdens,  poured  into  its  bosom  such 
a  flood  of  prosperity,  and  rendered 
it  capable  of  exerting  in  a  distant 
colony  such  stupendous  strength  ? 
It  is  the  stability  and  good  faith  of 
the  government,  and  the  credit  and 
security  of  individuals ;  and  both 
these  pillars  of  national  prosperity 
are  likely  to  be  destroyed  under  the 
effects  of  the  Reform  Bill. 

Uniform  policy,  unshaken  fide- 
lity in  the  performance  of  engage- 
ments, are  to  a  state  what  credit  is 
to  individuals — a  source  of  wealth, 
a  fund  of  strength  beyond  what  ima- 
gination can  conceive.  It  is  this  ma- 
gical power  which  has  sustained  the 
British  empire  through  all  its  perils ; 
and  it  is  this  operating  in  the  innu- 
merable, though  unseen  channels  of 
private  life,  which  has  counteracted 
so  many  and  such  formidable  evils, 
and  rendered  the  years  following  a 
war  of  unexampled  magnitude,  the 
brightest  and  most  splendid  in  the 
British  annals.  This  has  been  the 
sheet  anchor  of  our  salvation  through 
all  the  past  perils  of  our  way;  this 
it  is  which  has  covered  our  land 
with  such  unparalleled  private  opu- 
lence ;  and  this  it  is  which,  in  the 
madness  of  democratic  ambition,  we 
are  about  to  destroy  for  ever  ! 

We  shall  suppose,  for  the  sake  of 
argument,  that  the  immediate  conse- 
quences of  Reform  are  not  to  be  so 
disastrous  as  its  opponents  predict; 
and  as  the  example  of  all  similar 


*  Humboldt's  Voyages,  Statistique,  vol.  ix. 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


486 

innovations  prognosticate ;  we  shall 
suppose  that  the  prodigious  and  un- 
expected victory  over  the  aristo- 
cracy, does  not,  to  any  alarming  de- 
gree, increase  the  ambition  of  the 
democratical  party — that  the  ten 
pound  tenants  return  upon  the  whole 
as  respectable  men  as  could  be  ex- 
pected— that  no  immediate  convul- 
sion takes  place — that  the  secret 
hopes  of  the  Whig  leaders  are  grati- 
fied, and  the  aristocrats  of  their  party 
acquire  silently,  but  steadily,  an  ab- 
solute sway  over  a  great  part  of  the 
small  boroughs  in  their  neighbour- 
hood—and that  things  go  on  under 
the  new  constitution  as  much  in 
their  former  course  as  the  magni- 
tude of  the  changes  which  have  been 
adopted  render  possible.  This,  it 
will  be  admitted,  is  as  favourable  a 
view  of  the  effects  of  Reform  as  its 
most  sanguine  advocates  could  de- 
sire, and  the  question  is,  what  effect 
will  it  have,  even  in  such  a  view,  on 
the  British  empire  ? 

In  considering  this  question,  it 
must  be  recollected,  that  if  the  pro- 
sperity of  the  country  of  late  years 
has  been  unprecedented,  so  also  is 
the  artificial  and  complicated  form 
which  society  has  assumed.  In  a  vast 
commercial  country  such  as  this, 
where  upwards  of  twenty  millions 
of  souls  are  dependent  on  the  daily 
wages  of  labour,  and  totally  des- 
titute of  property  of  every  sort ; 
where  so  great  a  proportion  of  the 
industry  of  the  country  is  put  in 
motion  by  capital,  and  so  large  a 
portion  of  that  capital  is  entirely  de- 
pendent on  credit;  where  so  many 
millions  exist  on  the  variable  mar- 
ket for  manufactures,  and  an  inex- 
haustible source  of  pauperism  is  al- 
ways at  hand  in  the  redundant  po- 
pulation of  the  sister  island;  it  is 
evident  that  the  prosperity  of  each 
class  is  inseparably  interwoven  with 
that  of  every  other,  and  that  it  is 
impossible  that  a  great  blow  can  be 
struck  either  at  landed  opulence  or 
commercial  credit,  without  produ- 
cing a  degree  of  wide-spread  misery, 
to  which  there  has  nothing  similar 
occurred  in  modern  Europe.  We 
have  ascended  the  giddy  summits  of 
national  grandeur,  and  the  world  is 
in  admiration  at  the  height  to  which 
we  have  reached  :  but  every  foot  of 
the  ascent  has  removed  us  farther 


[Sept. 

from  its  base,  and  a  false  step  would 
precipitate  us  at  once  into  a  fathom- 
less abyss.  The  fabric  we  have  rear- 
ed is  gigantic ;  but  the  base  has  not 
expanded  with  the  rapid  progress 
of  the  higher  parts  of  the  edifice  :  its 
equilibrium  is  unstable,  and  a  rude 
shock  would  precipitate  the  whole 
into  the  dust  never  more  to  arise. 

Now  the  first  effect  of  the  passing 
of  the  Reform  Bill  of  course  will  be 
the  repeal  of  the  corn  laws.  There 
is  no  man  in  his  senses  who  can  he- 
sitate a  moment  as  to  that  conse- 
quence :  Ministers  make  no  secret 
of  their  intention  to  propose  it  among 
the  first  measures  to  the  reformed 
Parliament,  and  it  will  be  one  of  the 
numerous  subjects  on  which  such 
peremptory  pledges  will  be  exacted 
from  the  Member  as  to  render  its 
passing  a  matter  of  moral  certainty  ; 
— when  it  is  recollected  that  300  Eng- 
lish members  of  the  Reformed  House 
are  to  be  for  the  boroughs,  and  only 
150  for  the  counties,  it  may  easily 
be  anticipated  that  this  effect  is-  cer- 
tain. And  in  vairi  will  the  House  of 
Peers  strive  to  resist  such  a  result : 
their  power  must  have  been  so  com- 
pletely extinguished  before  the  Re- 
form Bill  is  past,  that  any  resistance 
on  their  part  would  be  speedily 
overcome. 

This  first  and  unavoidable  conse- 
quence of  Reform  will  at  once  set 
the  manufacturing  classes  at  vari- 
ance with  the  agricultural  interest : 
and  then  will  commence  that  fatal 
war  between  the  different  classes  of 
society  which  has  hitherto  been  on- 
ly repressed  by  the  weight  and 
authority  of  a  stable,  and,  in  a  cer- 
tain degree,  hereditary  government. 
When  it  is  recollected  that  wheat 
can  be  raised  with  ease  in  Poland 
at  prices  varying  from  l?s.  to  20s. 
a-quarter,  and  that  it  can  be  laid 
down  on  the  quay  of  any  harbour  in 
Britain  at  from  33s.  to  40s.  it  may 
easily  be  anticipated  what  a  revolu- 
tion in  prices  will  in  the  'first  in- 
stance be  effected  by  this  measure. 
We  say  in  the  first  instance  ;  for  no- 
thing seems  clearer  than  that  the 
ultimate  effect  will  be,  by  throwing 
a  large  portion  of  British  land  out  of 
cultivation,  and  in  its  stead  produ- 
cing a  more  extensive  growth  of 
gram  on  the  shores  of  the  Vistula, 
to  restore  the  equilibrium  between 


J881.]         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.  487 


the  supply  of  corn  and  its  consump- 
tion, and,  by  means  of  destroying  a 
large  portion  of  British  agriculture, 
raise  the  prices  again  to  their  former 
standard. 

The  Reformers  will  observe,  that 
even  this  first  effect  of  lowering 
prices  is  not  to  be  deprecated,  be- 
cause it  is  in  truth  depriving,  in 
their  elegant  language,  the  borough- 
mongers  of  the  means  of  enriching 
themselves  on  the  labour  of  the 
people.  We  agree  in  this  position, 
so  far  as  the  interests  of  the  land- 
lords are  concerned :  because  no- 
thing is  clearer  than  that  no  one  class 
should  be  permitted  by  monopoly 
to  enrich  itself  on  the  industry  of 
their  neighbours.  But  if  the  ulti- 
mate effect  is  to  be,  that  after  the 
lapse  of  a  few  years,  and  the  des- 
truction of  a  large  part  of  our  agri- 
culture, prices  are  to  be  restored 
to  their  former  level,  and  the  mo- 
nopoly quietly  handed  over  to  the 
foreign  cultivator,  by  reason  of  his 
permanent  and  indestructible  ad- 
vantages in  the  price  of  labour,  the 
absence  of  taxes,  and  the  richness  of 
soil ;  then  the  question  comes  to  be, 
whether  this  temporary  reduction  of 
price  is  worth  being  purchased  at 
the  price  of  the  misery  and  confu- 
sion which  it  would  produce  ? 

Now  the  misery  arising  from  the 
reduction  of  the  resources  of  the 
farmer  could  not  be  confined  to  his 
own  class  in  society :  it  would  im- 
mediately and  seriously  affect  the 
manufacturing  and  commercial  in- 
terests. This  great  trade  of  every 
country,  as  Mr  Smith  long  ago  re- 
marked, is  between  the  town  and 
the  country  :  by  far  the  greatest  part 
of  the  produce  of  our  looms  is  con- 
sumed by  those  who  directly  or 
indirectly  are  fed  by  the  British 
plough.  Not  the  haughty  aristocrat 
only,  who  spends  his  life  in  luxuri- 
ous indolence  among  his  hereditary 
trees;  but  the  innumerable  classes 
who  are  maintained  by  his  rents  and 
fed  by  his  expenditure — the  numer- 
ous creditors  who  draw  large  parts 
of  his  rent  through  their  mortgage, 
and  live  in  affluence  in  distant  towns 
upon  the  produce  of  his  land — the 
farmers  who  subsist  in  comparative 
comfort  on  the  industry  which  they 
exert  on  his  estates — the  tradesmen 
and  artisans  who  are  fed  by  his  ex- 
penditure on  the  wants  of  his  ten- 


antry— all  would  suffer  alike  by  such 
a  change  of  prices  as  should  seri- 
ously affect  the  industry  of  the  cul- 
tivators. Every  tradesman  knows 
how  much  he  is  dependent  on  the 
expenditure  of  those  who  directly 
or  indirectly  are  maintained  by  the 
land,  and  what  liberal  purchasers 
landlords  are,  compared  to  those 
who  subsist  by  manufactures ;  and 
it  is  probable  that  the  first  and 
greatest  sufferers  by  the  repeal  of 
the  corn  laws,  would  be  many  of 
those  very  persons  whose  blind  cry 
for  Reform  had  rendered  it  unavoid- 
able. 

Now  the  discouragement  of  Bri- 
tish agriculture  consequent  on  a  free 
trade  in  corn  would  be  permanent, 
although  the  benefit  to  the  inhabit- 
ants of  towns  could  only  be  tem- 
porary. After  the  destruction  of  a 
large  portion  of  British  agriculture 
had  been  effected  by  the  immense 
inundation  of  foreign  grain,  prices 
would  rise  again  to  their  former  le- 
vel, because  the  monopoly  would 
then  be  vested  in  the  hands  of  the 
foreign  growers ;  and  the  bulky  na- 
ture of  grain  renders  it  physically 
impossible  to  introduce  an  unlimited 
supply  of  that  article  by  sea  trans- 
ports :  but  the  condition  of  British 
agriculture  would  not  be  materially 
benefited  by  the  change;  because 
prices  would  rise  solely  in  conse- 
quence of  the  British  grower  being, 
for  the  most  part,  driven  out  of  the 
field,  and  could  be  maintained  at  a 
high  level  only  by  his  being  kept  from 
an  extensive  competition  with  the  fo- 
reign cultivator.  Should  the  British 
farmers,  recovering  from  their  con- 
sternation, recommence  the  active 
agriculture  which  at  present  main- 
tains our  vast  and  increasing  popu- 
lation, the  consequence  would  be, 
that  prices  would  immediately  fall 
to  such  a  degree,  as  speedily  to  re- 
duce them  to  their  natural  and  un- 
avoidable state  of  inferiority  to  the 
farmers  of  the  continent. 

In  considering  this  subject,  there 
are  two  important  circumstances  to 
be  kept  in  view,  proved  abundantly 
by  experience,  but  which  have  not 
hitherto  met  with  the  general  atten- 
tion which  they  deserve. 

The  fiiist  of  these  is,  that  in  agri- 
culture, differing  in  this  respect  from 
manufactures,  the  introduction  of 
machinery,  or  the  division  of  labour, 


438  On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.         [Sepf; 


can  effect  no  reduction  whatever  in 
the  price  of  its  produce,  or  the  fa- 
cility of  its  production;  and  perhaps 
the  best  mode  of  cultivation  yet 
known  is  that  which  is  carried  on  by 
the  greatest  possible  application  of 
human  labour,  in  the  form  of  spade 
cultivation.  It  is  in  vain,  therefore, 
for  a  state  like  England,  burdened 
with  high  prices,  and  an  excessive 
taxation,  the  natural  consequence  of 
commercial  opulence,  to  hope  that 
its  industry  can  in  agriculture,  as  in 
manufactures,  withstand  the  compe- 
tition of  the  foreign  grower:  ma- 
chinery, skill,  and  capital  can  easily 
counteract  high  prices  in  all  other 
articles  of  human  consumption;  in 
agriculture  they  can  produce  no 
such  effect.  This  is  a  law  of  nature 
which  will  subsist  to  the  end  of  the 
world. 

The  second  is,  that  a  comparative- 
ly small  importation  of  grain  pro- 
duces a  prodigious  effect  on  the 
prices  at  which  it  is  sold.  The  im- 
portation of  a  twentieth  part  of  the 
annual  consumption  does  not,  it  is 
calculated,  lower  prices  a  twentieth, 
but  a  half;  and  so  on  with  the  im- 
portation of  smaller  quantities.  This 
has  always  been  observed,  and  is 
universally  acknowledged  by  politi- 
cal economists.  Although,  there- 
fore, the  greatest  possible  importa- 
tion of  foreign  grain  must  always 
bear  a  small  proportion  to  the  con- 
sumption of  the  whole  people,  yet 
still  the  effect  upon  the  current  rate 
of  prices  would  be  most  disastrous. 
The  greatest  importation  ever  known 
was  in  1801,  when  it  amounted,  in 
consequence  of  the  scarcity,  to  an 
eighteenth  part  of  the  annual  con- 
sumption ;  but  the  free  introduction 
of  much  less  than  that  quantity 
would  reduce  the  price  of  wheat  in 
the  first  instance,  in  an  ordinary  year, 
to  45  shillings  tlve  quarter. 

The  repeal  of  the  Corn  Laws, 
therefore,  is  calculated  to  inflict  a 
permanent  wound  on  the  agricultural 
resources  of  the  empire,  and  perma- 
nently injure  all  the  numerous  classes 
who  depend  on  that  branch  of  indus- 
try, £nd  confer  only  a  temporary  be- 
nefit, by  the  reduction  of  prices,  on 
the  manufacturing  labourers.  The 
benefit  is  temporary,  and  mixed  up, 
even  at  first,  with  a  most  bitter  por- 
tion of  alloy ;  the  evil  lasting  and  un- 
mitigated by  any  benefit  whatever. 


But  it  is  precisely  because  this  re- 
peal is  calculated  to  effect  this  tem- 
porary and  immediate,  however  ulti- 
mately ruinous,  reduction  of  prices, 
that  its  adoption  may  be  calculated 
upon  as  a  matter  of  perfect  certainty 
by  the  Reformed  Parliament.  Great 
bodies  of  men  never  look  beyond 
the  immediate  consequences  of  their 
actions.  If  it  was  otherwise,  vice,  im- 
providence, and  intoxication  would 
be  banished  from  the  world,  for  no- 
thing is  more  certain  than  that  all 
these  things  are  ultimately  hurtful 
to  those  who  indulge  in  them ;  not- 
withstanding which,  the  march  of 
intellect  has  effected  no  diminution 
whatever  in  their  indulgence.  If 
men  had  looked  beyond  the  imme- 
diate effects  of  present  objects,  the 
Reform  candidates  would  never  have 
been  supported  at  the  recent  elec- 
tions by  the  rural  freeholders;  for 
nothing  is  more  certain,  than  that,  in 
bringing  them  into  the  legislature, 
they  were  laying  the  surest  founda- 
tion for  their  own  ultimate  ruin. 
But  men  never  do  this;  history, 
equally  with  recent  experience,  de- 
monstrates that  large  bodies,  even 
of  the  most  intelligent  men,  never 
look  beyond  present  consequences; 
and  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the 
L.10  householders  will  form  an  ex- 
ception to  the  general  rule. 

But  if  the  argument  of  the  Re- 
formers were  really  well  founded, 
that  the  repeal  of  the  Corn  Law?, 
which  they  so  strenuously  support, 
would  permanently  and  materially 
lower  the  price  of  grain,  the  conse- 
quences would  be  still  more  disas- 
trous, and  such  a  consummation 
would  hasten  a  catastrophe,  which  it 
is  much  to  be  feared  no  human  ef- 
forts, under  the  new  constitution, 
will  be  able  permanently  to  avert. 

Let  it  be  conceded  that  the  hopes 
of  the  Reformers  are  realized ;  that 
by  drawing  our  supplies  from  the 
shores  of  the  Vistula  and  the  Seine, 
instead  of  those  of  the  Thames  and 
the  Forth,  the  price  of  wheat  is 
permanently  lowered  from  GOs.  to 
80s.  a-quarter,  or  about  half  its  pre- 
sent standard.  Let  it  be  supposed 
that  the  stagnation,  want  of  employ- 
ment, and  misery  consequent  upon 
a  large  portion  of  our  agricultural  la- 
bourers being  thrown  out  of  employ- 
ment, is  got  over;  that  fundsdestined 
for  the  payment  of  our  mortgage  ere- 


1831.]         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


ditors  are  somehow  or  other  provi- 
ded from  other  sources;  and  that  the 
tradesmen  and  artificers  who  now 
depend  on  the  land  for  their  employ- 
ment, have  contrived  to  get  other 
customers,  who  have  supplied  their 
place.  Let  all  this  be  supposed,  and 
then  let  it  be  coolly  considered  what 
effect  such  a  change  must  have  on 
the  engagements  of  individuals,  and 
of  the  state. 

If  wheat  be  permanently  lowered 
from  60s.  to  30s.  a-quarter,  or  in  any 
considerable  though  lesser  degree, 
the  first  consequence  must  be  that 
the  money  price  of  every  article 
must  fall.  As  the  price  of  grain 
necessarily  determines  the  money 
wages  of  labour,  and  they  form  the 
chief  element  in  the  price  of  every 
article  of  life,  it  follows  that  a  great, 
a  sensible  reduction  in  the  price  of 
grain  must  necessarily  aft'ect  the 
price  of  all  other  articles,  and  the 
money  income  of  every  man  in  the 
kingdom.  Indeed,  this  is  so  far  from 
being  disputed  by  the  Reformers, 
that  it  forms  the  chief  argument 
adduced  by  them  for  the  repeal  of 
the  Corn  Laws  ;  because,  they  con- 
tend, that  by  lowering  the  wages  of 
labour,  and  the  money  price  of  every 
article  of  consumption,  the  British 
manufacturers  will  be  better  able  to 
withstand  foreign  competition  in  the 
supply  both  of  the  home  and  the  fo- 
reign market. 

Such  a  change  of  prices  might  be 
innocuous,  if  individuals  and  the 
public  could  begin  anew  on  such  a 
basis,  and  there  were  no  subsisting 
money  engagements,  which  must  be 
provided  for  at  the  reduced  rate  of 
incomes.  But  how  is  such  a  state 
of  things  to  go  on,  when  individuals 
and  the  state  are  under  so  many  en- 
gagements, which  cannot  be  averted 
without  private  or  public  bankrupt- 
cy ?  That  is  the  question,  which  in 
a  complicated  state  of  society,  such 
as  we  live  in,  where  industry  is  so 
dependent  on  credit,  is  vital  to  every 
interest. 

There  is  hardly  an  individual  pos- 
sessed of  property  in  the  country, 
who  is  not  immediately  or  ultimate- 
ly involved  in  money  engagements. 
The  landlords  are  notoriously  and 
proverbially  drowned  in  debt,  and  it 
is  calculated  that  two-thirds  of  the 
produce  of  the  soil  finds  its  way  ul- 
timately into  the  pocket  of  the  pub- 

VOL.  XXX,  NO.  CLXXXV. 


439 

lie,  or  the  private  creditor.  Farmers 
are  all  more  or  less  involved  in  en- 
gagements either  with  their  land- 
lords, or  the  banks  who  have  advan- 
ced their  money;  merchants  and 
manufacturers  have  their  bills  or 
cash  accounts  standing  against  them, 
which  must  be  provided  for,  what- 
ever comes  of  the  prices  of  the  arti- 
cles in  which  they  deal ;  and  private 
individuals,  even  of  wealthy  for- 
tunes, have  provisions  to  their  wives, 
sisters,  brothers,  or  children,  which 
must  be  made  up  to  a  certain  money 
amount,  if  they  would  avert  the  evils 
of  bankruptcy.  Now,  if  the  views 
of  the  Reformers  are  well  found- 
ed, and  a  great  reduction  is  effected 
in  the  price  of  grain, and  consequent- 
ly in  the  money  income  of  every 
man  in  the  kingdom,  through  the 
free  trade  in  corn :  How  are  these 
undiminished  money  obligations  to 
be  made  good  out  of  the  diminished 
pecuniary  resources  of  the  debtors 
in  them  ?  Mr  Baring  has  estimated 
that  the  change  in  the  value  of  mo- 
ney, consequent  on  the  resumption 
of  cash  payments,  altered  prices 
about  25  per  cent ;  and  every  body 
knows  what  wide-spread,  still  exist- 
ing and  Irremediable  private  distress 
that  change  produced.  What  then 
may  be  anticipated  from  the  far 
greater  change  which  is  contempla- 
ted as  likely  to  arise  from  a  free 
trade  in  grain  ? 

But  serious  as  these  evils  are,  they 
are  nothing  comparable  to  the  dread- 
ful consequences  which  would  re- 
sult to  public  credit  from  the  change, 
and  the  wide-spread  desolation  which 
must  follow  a  serious  blow  to  the 
national  faith. 

It  is  well  known  with  what  diffi- 
culty the  payment  of  the  annual 
charge  of  the  national  debt  is  provi- 
ded for,  even  under  the  present  scale 
of  prices,  and  how  much  those  diffi- 
culties were  increased  by  the  change 
of  prices  and  diminished  income  of 
every  person  consequent  on  the  re- 
sumption of  cash  payments.  Indeed, 
such  was  the  effect  of  that  change, 
that  had  it  not  been  counterbalanced 
by  a  very  great  increase  both  of  our 
agricultural  and  manufacturing  pro- 
duce at  the  same  time,  it  would 
have  rendered  the  maintenance  of 
faith  with  the  public  creditor  impos- 
sible. Now,  if  such  be  the  present 
state  of  the  public  debt,  even  under 

2F 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.        [Sept. 


440 

the  unexampled  general  prosperity 
which  has  pervaded  the  empire  since 
the  peace,  and  with  all  the  security 
to  the  public  faith  which  arises  from 
the  stable,  consistent,  and  uniform 
rule  of  the  British  aristocracy ;  how 
is  the  charge  of  the  debt  to  be  pro- 
vided for  under  the  diminished  na- 
tional income  arising  from  the  much 
hoped-for  change  of  prices  conse- 
quent on  the  Reform  Bill  and  repeal 
of  the  Corn  Laws,  and  the  increased 
national  impatience  arising  from  the 
consciousness  of  the  power  to  cast 
off  the  burden  for  ever  ! — Great  and 
reasonable  fear  may  be  felt,  whether 
under  any  circumstance  the  mainte- 
nance of  the  national  faith  inviolate 
is  practicable  for  any  considerable 
length  of  time  ;  no  doubt  can  be  en- 
tertained, that  under  a  reform  Par- 
liament, and  a  free  trade  in  grain,  it 
will  be  impossible. 

Indeed,  whoever  seriously  consi- 
ders the  subject,  must  perceive,  that 
independent  of  any  change  of  prices 
resulting  from  the  Corn  Laws,  the 
preservation  of  the  national  debt  will 
pe  impracticable  if  the  present  great 
Contest  be  gained  by  the  reformers. 
The  outcry,  hereafter  raised  against 
the  fundholders,  will  be  far  greater, 
and  much  more  generally  alluring 
than  that  now  directed  with  so  much 
vehemence  against  the  aristocracy. 
In  truth,  it  is  as  the  outwork  of  that 
grand  achievement  that  the  demoli- 
tion of  the  aristocracy  is  pursued 
with  so  much  fury.  Having  once 
gained  political  power,  can  we  ex- 
pect that  the  lower  orders  will  de- 
cline to  reap  its  fruits ;  that  after 
having  stormed  the  breach,  they  will 
generously  forego  the  plunder  of  the 
captured  city  ?  Nothing  is  now  said 
about  the  funds,  because  a  general 
sense  of  the  danger  which  threat- 
ens that  large  portion  of  the  na- 
tional capital,  would  probably  prove 
fatal  to  the  Reform  Bill ;  but  let  the 
victory  once  be  gained,  and  the  out- 
cry will  speedily  be  turned  in  that 
direction. 

Without  supposing  that  either  a 
reformed  Parliament,  or  the  Minis- 
ters whom  it  places  at  the  head 
of  affairs,  will  be  much  inclined  to 
pursue  such  desperate  measures,  the 
consequences  of  reform  will  speedi- 
ly make  them  unavoidable.  The 
aristocracy  being  destroyed,  so  far 
as  political  power  is  concerned,  and 


the  people  having  got  the  complete 
command  of  the  country,  by  means 
of  the  pledged  delegates  whom  they 
return  to  Parliament,  the  whole  ve- 
hemence of  the  democratic  party, 
flushed  with  victory,  increased  in 
numbers,  and  eager  for  plunder,  will 
then  be  directed  against  the  fund- 
holders.  The  eyes  of  that  body  will 
then  be  opened;  deprived  of  the 
shelter  of  the  aristocracy,  which  now 
protects  them  from  the  storm,  by 
drawing  its  fury  upon  themselves, 
they  will  perceive  their  danger;  and 
the  rapid  fall  of  the  public  securities 
will  indicate  the  approach,  and  aug- 
ment the  reasons  for  their  destruc- 
tion. Industry,  now  sustained  and 
encouraged  in  every  quarter  by  pub- 
lic credit,  will  wither  and  languish ; 
commerce  will  diminish,  speculation 
will  decline ;  distrust  will  succeed  to 
confidence,  despair  to  hope ;  and 
starving  millions,  deprived  of  bread, 
by  the  natural  consequences  of  their 
present  inconsiderate  conduct,  will 
demand,  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  that 
the  fundholders  be  no  longer  permit- 
ted to  wring  out  of  an  industrious 
and  suffer  ing  people  the  fruits  of  their 
toil.  Meanwhile  the  revenue  will 
failj  credit,  that  most  sensitive  of 
created  things,  will  be  violently  sha- 
ken, and  Government,  pressed  by 
demands  on  the  Treasury,  and  threat- 
ened by  the  menace  of  the  people, 
will  be  compelled  to  adopt  some  ex- 
traordinary measures  for  their  re- 
lief. 

As  the  Church  is  the  most  de- 
fenceless body  in  the  state,  and  the 
one  which  has  long  been  marked  out 
as  the  first  victim,  it  is  probable  that 
its  revenues  will  first  be  seized  to 
make  good  the  exigencies  of  Go- 
vernment. This  is  the  natural  pro- 
gress of  all  such  changes;  and  ac- 
cordingly, seven  years  before  the  re- 
volutionary Government  of  France 
proclaimed  a  bankruptcy,  and  cut  off 
two-thirds  of  the  national  debt,  the 
whole  revenues  of  the  Church  had 
been  seized  for  the  public  service. 
The  revolutionary  press  of  the  coun- 
try has  long  prepared  the  public  for 
this  event,  by  announcing,  that  al- 
though, without  doubt,  the  rights  of 
the  clergy  to  their  tithes  is  as  good 
as  the  right  of  the  laity  to  their 
estates,  yet  Government  has  an  un- 
questionable right  to  regulate  its 
destination ;  in  other  words,  to  seize 


1 83 1 .]  On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


for  the  public  service  all  that  now  is 
devoted  to  the  maintenance  of  reli- 
gion. 

Were  we  actuated  with  the  malice 
of  demons,  we  should  feel  a  malig- 
nant joy  in  contemplating  the  con- 
sternation which  will  fill  the  rural 
freeholders  when  they  find  that  the 
Reform  Bill,  from  which  they  hoped 
so  much,  from  which  they  were  pro- 
mised a  liberation  from  tithes,  taxes, 
and  every  vexatious  burden,  has  in 
truth  only  embittered  their  condi- 
tion ;  and  that,  instead  of  the  parson 
collecting  a  twentieth  of  the  produce, 
an  inexorable  tax-gatherer  enforces 
payment  of  the  full  tenth,  and  that 
instead  of  selling  their  wheat  at  three 
pounds  a-quarter,  they  can  only  get 
thirty  shillings.  But  the  evil  is  too 
serious  and  wide-spread  to  admit  of 
such  a  feeling ;  and  there  is  no  class 
whose  future  state  under  the  conse- 
quences of  reform  we  commiserate 
more  than  that  of  the  rural  tenantry, 
Buttering,  as  they  will  be,  under  di- 
minished sales,  lowered  prices,  and 
increased  burdens,  embittered  as  it 
will  be  by  the  recollection  how  large 
a  share  they  have  had  in  bringing 
these  evils  upon  themselves. 

The  spoils  of  the  Church,  how- 
ever, will  afford  only  a  temporary 
relief.  There  are  10,000  parishes  in 
England,  and  the  average  income  of 
the  whole  is  stated  at  L.802  a-year. 
Three  millions  a-year,  therefore,  will 
be  all  that  can  be  got  out  of  the 
Church,  and  if  to  this  be  added 
L.2,000,000  a-year  more,  as  the  pro- 
bable amount  of  all  the  mortmain 
and  charitable  bequests  in  the  king- 
dom, the  total  sum  annually  avail- 
able to  the  state  will  not  exceed 
L.5,000,000.  But  as  property  of  every 
sort,  and  above  all  funded  property, 
would  be  violently  shaken  by  such 
measures,  and  as  the  immediate  ef- 
fect of  such  a  panic  would  be  to  af- 
fect, in  the  most  serious  manner, 
commercial  and  manufacturing  cre- 
dit, it  may  fairly  be  anticipated  that 
the  revenue,  under  the  effect  of  such 
changes,  will  fall  off  at  least  as  much 
as  it  has  gained  by  destroying  both 
the  Church  and  the  mortmain  and 
charitable  institutions  of  the  king- 
dom. That  this  supposition  is  great- 
ly under  the  truth,  is  sufficiently 
proved  by  the  fact,  that  in  France, 


where  commercial  credit  waa  so 
much  less  extensive  than  it  is  in 
this  country,  the  revenue  fell  down 
within  a  year  after  the  meeting  of 
the  States  General,  and  before  any 
blood  had  been  shed  on  the  scaf- 
fold, from  L.24,000,000  annually  to 
L.I  7,000,000.* 

Finding  then  that  the  Church  baa 
afforded  no  effectual  relief — that  the 
revenue  is  rapidly  diminishing — that 
the  public  distress  is  daily  increa- 
sing— and  that  clamorous  millions 
are  insisting  for  relief,  the  legisla- 
ture will  be  compelled  to  lower  the 
interest  or  abridge  part  of  the  capi- 
tal of  the  national  debt.  We  believe 
that  even  under  a  reformed  and  high- 
ly democratic  Parliament,  such  a 
measure  as  this  will  not  be  taken 
without  extreme  reluctance  :  the  fa- 
tal consequences  of  infringing  on 
public  credit  in  a  commercial  coun- 
try, must  force  themselves  on  the 
most  inconsiderate.  But  the  cha- 
racter of  the  legislature  will  before 
that  time  have  undergone  a  com- 
plete change.  The  numerous  and 
weighty  interests  now  represented 
by  the  nomination  boroughs  will  no 
longer  be  able  to  raise  their  voice  in 
Parliament :  and  if  they  are,  a  relent- 
less majority,  tied  down  by  pledges 
to  their  imperious  constituents,  will 
dispose  of  their  opposition  as  effec- 
tually as  the  resistance  to  reform 
has  been  overthrown  in  the  present 
legislature. 

The  measure  of  cutting  down  or 
seriously  diminishing  the  funds,  be- 
ing one  of  great  magnitude  and  aw- 
ful consequences,  will  be  as  much 
disguised  as  possible.  It  will  be 
brought  forward  at  first  in  the  shape 
of  a  tax  on  transfers,  or  some  such 
measure,  based  on  the  principle  of 
effecting  an  equitable  adjustment  with 
the  public  creditor — or  in  all  proba- 
bility a  paper  circulation,  possessing 
a  forced  and  legal  circulation,  will 
be  issued  by  Government,  and 
the  dividends  paid  in  that  shape. 
But  in  whatever  way  it  is  done,  the 
effect  will  be  the  same :  public  cre- 
dit will  be  violated,  and  from  that 
instant  a  fatal  and  irrecoverable  blow 
is  struck  at  the  industry,  and  most 
of  all,  the  commercial  industry,  of 
Great  Britain. 

The  ultimate  consequences  of  such 


Travels,  rol.  1.  482. 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.         [Sept- 


442 

an  event  are  incalculable.  But  some 
of  its  earliest  effects  may  be  antici- 
pated. The  moment  that  a  serious 
blow  is  once  struck  at  the  public 
funds,  their  complete  destruction  is 
unavoidable.  This  must  be  evident 
to  every  one  who  considers  how  de- 
pendent the  revenue  of  the  empire 
is  on  the  produce  of  the  excise  and 
customs,  and  how  completely  they 
rise  or  fall  with  the  progress,  tran- 
quillity,and  confidence  of  the  people. 
But  how  is  confidence  to  be  main- 
tained, industry  encouraged,  or  com- 
mercial enterprise  fostered,  amidst 
the  consternation  consequent  on  an 
attack  on  the  funds  ?  It  is  quite  evi- 
dent that  they  must  all  be  paralysed ; 
and  that  the  first  blow  at  public  cre- 
dit, by  destroying  the  source  from 
which  the  legitimate  revenue  of  the 
country  flows,  must  soon  render  their 
complete  destruction  unavoidable, 
even  if  Government  had  the  strong- 
est disposition  to  avert  the  catas- 
trophe. 

The  reformers  maintain,  that  such 
an  event  is  by  no  means  to  be  so 
much  deprecated  as  is  usually  ima- 
gined :  that  the  land  and  labour  of 
the  country  would  remain  even  after 
such  a  convulsion ;  and  that,  liberated 
from  the  load  which  now  oppresses  it, 
the  industry  of  Great  Britain  would 
commence  a  new  career  of  splen- 
dour and  usefulness.  There  might  be 
Borne  foundation  for  this  argument  if 
it  was  foreign  debt  which  was  thus 
expunged :  but  what  shall  we  say, 
when  we  recollect  that  it  is  our  own 
capital  which  we  are  thus  destroy- 
ing :  the  reservoir  which  sustains  all 
the  industry  of  the  country,  main- 
tains its  labour,  feeds  its  millions, 
that  we  are  closing  for  ever.  The 
land  and  labour  of  the  country  will 
indeed  survive  the  shock;  but  depri- 
ved of  capital,  the  agriculture  will 
be  unable  to  feed  its  numerous  inha- 
bitants, and  destitute  of  credit,  its 
manufacturers  will  be  obliged  to  dis- 
miss their  starving  millions. 

The  moment  that  a  national  bank- 
ruptcy is  either  directly  or  indirect- 
ly declared,  the  Bank  of  England  will 
stop  payment,  or  what  is  the  same 
thing,  discharge  its  engagements 
only  in  a  forced  and  depreciated 
paper  currency.  Let  us  not  deceive 
ourselves  with  the  example  of  1797  : 
a  suspension  of  cash  payments  fol- 
lowing an  attach  on  public  credit  \v\\\ 
be  very  different  in  its  consequences, 


from  the  suspension  which  then  took 
place  under  a  stable  Government  to 
maintain  its  public  faith.  The  dread- 
ful catastrophe  of  December  1825, 
may  afford  a  faint  image  of  the  terri- 
ble convulsion  which  then  would  take 
place. 

Every  Bank  in  the  kingdom  will 
immediately  be  beset ;  then  will 
begin  the  closing  of  those  credits 
which  sustain  the  present  industry ; 
the  destruction  of  that  capital  which 
has  rewarded  the  past  labour  of  the 
country.  Every  post  will  bring  the 
intelligence  of  the  failure  of  some 
banking  or  commercial  house  of  long 
established  character, and  every  hour 
augment  the  anxiety  of  agitated 
multitudes,  eagerly  seeking  the  re- 
scue of  their  property.  Then  will 
begin  the  terrible,  long  delayed,  but 
now  inexorable  accounting  between 
debtor  and  creditor  all  over  the 
country.  The  Banks  will  be  dun- 
ned for  payment  of  their  notes  and 
deposit  receipts,  till  their  doors  are 
closed,  and  insolvency  declared  : 
they  in  return  will  issue  peremp- 
tory orders  for  the  immediate  call- 
ing up  of  their  cash  accounts,  en- 
forcing of  their  debts,  withdrawing 
their  credits.  Bills  will  no  longer 
be  discounted  j  no  renewals  of  pro- 
missory notes  take  place ;  no  staving 
off  the  dismal  day  of  payment  any 
longer  be  allowed.  Instant  peremp- 
tory payment  of  every  shilling  that 
every  man  owed  will  be  imposed 
by  inexorable  necessity,  even  on 
the  most  humane  and  considerate 
creditors.  Every  man  will  find  his 
whole  creditors  on  his  back  at  once ; 
and  how  is  he  to  provide  for  their 
payment  amidst  the  diminished  sales, 
suspended  credit,  and  increasing 
difficulties  of  those  who  owed  him 
money.  The  only  class  who  will 
thrive  amidst  the  general  ruin  will 
be  the  officers  or  the  law ;  the 
only  writs  unceasingly  in  force,  the 
capias  ad  satisfaciendum,  or  the 
fieri  facias,  and  the  only  mansions 
crowded  with  inhabitants,  the  work- 
houses, the  hospitals,  and  the  jails. 

We  do  not  think  that  imagination 
can  figure,  or  description  exaggerate, 
the  heart-rending,  the  wide-spread 
misery  consequent  on  such  a  catas- 
trophe. In  a  country  such  as  this, 
where  two-thirds  of  the  inhabitants 
depend  on  trade  and  manufactures, 
that  is,  derive  their  daily  bread  from 
the  sale  of  their  produce,  and  where 


1831.]         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.  443 


above  twenty  millions  of  souls  are 
destitute  of  property  of  any  sort,  and 
will  be  reduced  to  beggary  the  mo- 
ment that  they  cease  to  receive  their 
wages,  it  is  impossible  to  imagine  the 
consequences  of  such  a  disaster.  The 
far  famed,  but  as  yet  imperfectly  un- 
derstood misery  arising  among  the 
poor  from  the  French  revolution,  can 
convey  but  a  faint  idea  of  what  it 
would  produce  in  this  country. 

How  are  the  poor-rates  to  be  main- 
tained, or  the  multitudes  of  starving 
artisans  fed,  during  such  a  succes- 
sion of  misfortunes  ?  When  four  or 
five  millions  of  men  are  thrown  out 
of  employment  by  the  breaking  up 
of  our  great  manufactories,  and  the 
universal  stagnation  of  business,  who 
is  to  feed  the  starving  multitude  ? 
The  ordinary  resources — the  much- 
tried  charity  of  the  country,  the 
poor-rates,  how  burdensome  soever 
to  those  who  pay  them,  will  be  to- 
tally inadequate  to  the  enormous 
burden.  Some  great  and  extraordi- 
nary resource  must  be  fallen  upon 
to  meet  the  unparalleled  suffering; 
and  what  the  sovereign  multitude 
will  demand,  is  known  by  expe- 
rience from  what  they  have  de- 
manded in  similar  circumstances  in 
France. 

The  confiscation  of  the  great  pro- 
perties, is  one  obvious  resource 
which,  under  the  pressure  of  such 
unheard  of  suffering,  government, 
how  anxious  soever  to  avoid  such  a 
measure,  will  be  totally  unable  to 
withstand.  It  will  be  imperiously 
dictated  to  the  twenty-one  delegates 
from  London,  by  their  constituents, 
and  supported  by  the  cries  of  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  starving  citi- 
zens. It  will  be  demanded,  in  a 
voice  of  thunder,  by  the  300  repre- 
sentatives of  the  boroughs  of  Eng- 
land. In  vain  will  the  county  mem- 
bers, awakened  at  last  by  the  temr 
pest  approaching  their  own  doors  to 
the  fatal  consequences  of  their  pas- 
sion for  reform,  strive  to  avert  the 
catastrophe.  "  Shall  the  borough- 
mongers  be  permitted  to  enjoy  the 
fruits  of  their  iniquity  amidst  the 
general  suffering  of  the  country — 
shall  bloated  aristocrats  feed  on  the 
fruits  of  their  long  usurped  domi- 
nion over  the  people  ?"  will  then  be 
the  universal  cry.  Their  doom  will 
be  sealed,  amidst  the  same  shouts  of 
laughter,  and  yells  of  radical  exulta- 
,  which  were  raised  through  the 


country  on  the  disfranchisement  of 
the  nomination  boroughs.  The  vio- 
lent clamour  of  four  or  five  hundred 
individuals,  the  victims  of  spoliation, 
will  be  drowned  in  the  shouts  of 
millions  eager  to  share  their  spoils. 

The  radicals  are  already  prepa- 
ring for  such  an  event.  A  paragraph 
has  lately  made  the  round  of  the  pub- 
lic press,  stating  that  government  is 
in  possession  or  a  list  of  1500  indivi- 
duals, resident  in  and  near  London, 
whose  fortunes  would  pay  the  na- 
tional debt.  The  radical  newspa- 
pers are  openly  hinting  at  the  neces- 
sity of  some  more  equitable  distri- 
bution of  property  than  now  exists. 
The  thing  is  unavoidable,  if  political 
power  is  once  thrown  into  the  hands 
of  the  multitude  by  the  Reform  Bill. 
It  is  not  in  human  nature,  that,  after 
a  great  victory  has  been  gained,  the 
conquerors  should  decline  to  take 
its  fruits ;  that  starving  multitudes, 
with  power  in  their  hands,  should 
die  of  famine,  when  those  whom  they 
have  been  taught  to  regard  as  their 
enemies,  are  still  possessed  of  the 
wealth  which  they  have  been  so  se- 
dulously told  has  been  wrung  out 
of  their  labour.  The  demolition  of 
the  great  properties,  under  such 
circumstances  of  public  suffering, 
would  be  a  far  more  easy  matter 
than  the  destruction  of  the  ancient 
constitution  has  been  to  the  present 
reformers. 

How,  if  such  a  measure  of  spolia- 
tion is  brought  forward  under  cir- 
cumstances of  severe  and  unmitiga- 
ted national  distress,  is  it  to  be 
averted,  after  the  Reform  Bill  has 
placed  absolute  power  in  the  hands 
of  the  tenants  or  ten  pound  houses 
in  towns,  and  the  owners  of  forty 
shilling  freeholders  in  the  country? 
That  the  proprietors  threatened  with 
destruction  will  raise  the  most  vio- 
lent outcry,  may  safely  be  anticipa- 
ted ;  but  what  chance  has  it  of  avert- 
ing the  catastrophe  ?  Their  resist- 
ance, it  will  be  said,  is  the  cry  of  the 
thief  who  is  led  out  to  the  scaffold — 
the  struggles  of  the  robber,  to  avoid 
restitution  of  his  plunder.  Every 
man  in  the  country  will  be  told,  that 
he  is  personally  interested  in  sup- 
porting this  grand  measure  of  nation- 
al retribution;  the  millions  of  star- 
ving poor  will  be  fed  out  of  the 
spoils  of  the  boroughmongers ;  the 
working  classes  will  at  once  be  relie- 
ved from  taxes,  the  harbours  from 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.        [Sept. 


customs,  the  interior  from  excise. 
We  have  seen  what  a  tempest  was 
excited,  even  amongst  a  prosperous 
body  of  freeholders  by  the  prospect 
of  mere  political  power  ;  what  may 
be  anticipated  from  the  offer  to  star- 
ving millions  of  the  substantial  be- 
nefits of  property  worth  eight  hun- 
dred millions  ? 

Let  it  not  be  supposed,  that  the 
peril  which  such  a  measure  would 
occasion  to  their  own  property, 
would  for  a  moment  deter  the  ten 
pound  tenants  from  exacting  from 
their  constituents  pledges  to  sup- 
port this  grand  aristocratic  spolia- 
tion. For  the  grand  feature,  the 
awful  peril  of  the  new  constitution, 
consists  in  this,  that  an  overwhelm- 
ing majority  is  placed  in  the  hands 
pt  persons  who  have  no  property. 
The  radicals  let  this  out  completely, 
when  they  unanimously  declared 
that  nine-tenths  of  the  electors  in  bo- 
roughs throughout  the  kingdom  were 
persons  whom  no  landlord  would 
trust  for  an  arrear  of  five  pounds  of 
tent  for  six  months.  What  have  such 
persons  to  fear  from  a  division  of 
the  estates  of  the  aristocracy  ?  Evi- 
dently nothing ;  but  every  thing  to 
hope. 

There  is  no  example  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  world,  of  small  proprie- 
tors ever  resisting  an  agrarian  law ; 
on  the  contrary,  they  have  invaria- 
bly, in  every  age  and  country,  been 
its  most  strenuous  supporters.  From 
the  days  of  Gracchus  to  those  of 
Danton,  such  ever  has  been  the  cha- 
racter of  democratic  movements. 
The  little  proprietors  invariably  act 
upon  the  principle,  "  Give  us  the 
spoils  of  our  superiors,  and  trust 
us  with  the  protection  of  our  own 
estates :  the  sabre  of  the  sultan  does 
not  fall  on  the  dust :  the  thunder 
strikes  the  palaces  of  princes,  but 
spares  the  cottages  of  the  poor." 
These  were  the  maxims  on  which 
the  Roman  citizens,  most  of  whom 
had  landed  property,  acted,  in  so 
long  contending  for  the  agrarian 
law;  and  these  were  the  maxims  on 
which  the  French  electors  proceed- 
ed, when  they  supported  the  confis- 
cation of  landed  property  from  the 
emigrants  to  the  amount  of  above 
five  hundred  millions  sterling. 

The  next  measure  to  which  expe- 


rience justifies  us  in  predicting  the 
government  will  be  driven,  will  be 
the  imposition  «f  a  maximum  on  the 
price  of  grain,  and  the  establishment 
of  forced  requisitions,  in  other  words, 
downright  robbery  from  the  farmers, 
for  the  support  of  the  great  cities. 

This  measure  was  early  had  re- 
course to  in  the  French  Revolution. 
In  the  distress  and  convulsions  con- 
sequent on  the  universal  shock  to 
credit  and  stoppage  of  industry,  the 
cultivation  of  the  country  was  ruin- 
ously neglected ;  and  the  multitudes 
in  the  towns  speedily  began  to  cla- 
mour for  a  maximum  to  the  price  of 
provisions.  The  peasants,  inured  to 
the  excitation  and  rapid  gains  of  a 
revolution,  could  not  endure  the 
steady  labour  required  in  cultiva- 
tion ;  and  from  that  cause,  joined  to 
the  general  insecurity  which  pre- 
vailed, the  supply  of  provisions  be- 
came scanty,  and  prices  rose  to  an 
exorbitant  height.  The  needy  mul- 
titudes in  Paris  and  the  great  towns 
immediately  clamoured  for  a  maxi- 
mum; and  the  national  representa- 
tives, terrified  at  the  threats  of  the 
mob,  by  whom  they  were  beset,  and 
unable  to  withstand  the  demands  of 
the  sovereign  multitude,  who  dicta- 
ted to  their  representatives,  esta- 
blished a  maximum  on  the  price  of 
provisions.  The  consequence,  of 
course,  was,  that  the  farmers  de- 
clined to  bring  their  produce  to 
market;  and  as  this  threatened  the 
inhabitants  of  towns  with  starvation, 
the  system  was  adopted  of  forced 
requisitions  from  the  cultivators  for 
the  use  of  the  great  cities.  No  less 
than  19,000  men  were  employed  in 
the  convention  in  carrying  into  exe- 
cution this  system  of  forced  requisi- 
tions ;  and  bloodshed  and  massacre 
frequently  attended  the  forcible  sei- 
zure of  the  farmer's  produce.  From 
the  supplies  thus  extorted,  no  less 
than  690,000  citizens  of  Paris  were 
daily  fed  by  the  government;  and 
rations  served  out  to  them  as  to  the 
garrison  of  a  fortified  town.  Some 
of  the  worst  revolts  in  the  revolu- 
tion arose  from  the  diminution,  in 
times  of  scarcity,  of  the  rations  then 
served  out  to  the  sovereign  multi- 
tude.* 

There  cannot  be  the  smallest 
doubt  that  such  a  system  would  be 


Thiers,  Rev.  Franc,  rll.  40,  49, 


1831.]          On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.  445 


forced  on  the  British  government  by 
the  necessities  of  the  labouring  class- 
es in  this  island,  much  sooner  in  a 
revolution  here  than  it  was  in  the 
neighbouring  kingdom.  The  work- 
ing classes  in  France  were  imme- 
diately thrown  out  of  employment 
by  the  commencement  of  the  trou- 
bles ;  but  England  has  not  the  means 
of  providing  for  her  cast  off  millions, 
which  the  career  of  conquest  opened 
to  her  predecessor  in  reform.  In 
1793,  the  French  Convention  ordain- 
ed the  levy  of  1,500,000  men;  and  the 
enormous  requisition  was  not  only 
answered,  but  additional  multitudes 
flocked  to  the  national  standard, 
many  doubtless  animated  by  patrio- 
tic enthusiasm,  but  many  more  dri- 
ven into  the  army  as  the  only  mode 
of  acquiring  a  subsistence.  When 
this  enormous  mass  of  armed  men 
drove  back  the  invaders,  several 
hundred  thousands  lived  on  the 
plunder  of  foreign  states ;  and  the 
needy  government  eagerly  adopted 
the  system  that  war  should  maintain 
war,  to  throw  on  the  vanquished 
countries  the  support  of  their  con- 
querors. Upwards  of  a  million  pe- 
rished in  two  years  in  the  struggle, 
and  ceased  to  disturb  the  govern- 
ment either  by  their  clamour  or  their 
necessities.  But  we  have  no  such 
wholesale  method  of  getting  quit  of 
our  reformers.  Our  warfare  must 
be  within :  the  limits  of  our  island 
render  it  totally  impossible  to  preci- 
pitate on  foreign  shores  the  millions 
whom  the  insane  passions  of  our 
demagogues  have  deprived  of  bread. 
Whatever  is  done  for  them  must  be 
done  within  our  own  bounds;  and 
how,  with  our  immense  manufactu- 
ring population,  and  the  never-fail- 
ing millions  of  Ireland,  subsistence 
is  to  be  found  for  the  people,  during 
the  panic  and  convulsions  of  a  revo- 
lution, it  is  for  those  to  determine 
who  now  advocate  the  Reform  Bill. 
We  can  figure  to  ourselves  the  rage 
of  the  farmers,  when  armed  batta- 
lions come  out  of  the  cities,  as  they 
did  in  France,  to  seize  their  produce, 
and  compel  its  sale  at  a  ruinously 
low  price ;  but  when  it  does  occur, 
they  may  possibly  recollect  that  they 
were  forewarned  of  what  was  await- 
ing them,  and  that  their  own  folly  has 
brought  such  a  catastrophe  on  them- 
selves. 

The  circumstance  which  renders 
the    occurrence    of   such  extreme 


measures,  it  is  to  be  feared,  un- 
avoidable, if  once  the  legislative 
authority  is  vested  in  the  multitude, 
is,  that  the  democratic  party,  when 
the  catastrophe  arrives,  never  ascribe 
it  to  themselves,  but  always  to  their 
opponents;  and  propose  as  reme- 
dies, not  to  stop  short,  but  to  advance 
more  rapidly  in  the  career  of  revo- 
lution. This  is  human  nature.  Men 
never  have,  and  never  will  admit  that 
their  own  folly  has  landed  them  in 
suffering ;  they  uniformly  allege  that 
it  has  arisen  from  the  opposition  they 
have  experienced.  In  every  crisis  of 
the  French  revolution,  the  remedy 
uniformly  proposed  by  the  democra- 
tic and  ruling  party  was,  not  to  stop 
in  the  career  of  revolution,  but  urge 
on  its  advance.  The  greater  the  dis- 
tress, the  more  poignant  the  suffer- 
ing, the  more  violent  are  the  revolu- 
tionary remedies  which  are  propo- 
sed ;  and  hence  it  is,  that  a  career  of 
revolution  once  blindly  entered  on 
is  irrecoverable,  and  that  the  severity 
of  present  suffering  becomes  the  pa- 
rent of  yet  stronger  measures,  and 
more  acute  distress,  till  the  extremi- 
ty of  disaster  at  length  works  out  its 
own  cure. 

We  already  see  this  principle  com- 
mencing its  operation  in  this  coun- 
try. The  uncertainty  of  the  future, 
the  prospect  of  convulsion,  has  al- 
ready produced  a  powerful  effect  on 
the  employment  of  capital ;  the  re- 
servoirs which  have  hitherto  fed 
the  industry  of  the  country  are 
beginning  to  fail.  This  is  loudly 
proclaimed  by  the  Radicals  them- 
selves— "  It  is  unnecessary,"  says 
the  Spectator,  "  to  dwell  on  the  ge- 
neral stagnation  of  business  occa- 
sioned by  the  suspense  as  to  the 
fate  of  the  Reform  Bill.  Every  one 
who  lives  by  his  industry  acknow- 
ledges that  he  feels  in  his  own 
person  a  portion  of  the  evil  result- 
ing from  intense  political  suspense." 
"  We  venture  to  say  there  is  hardly 
a  tradesman  in  London  who  could 
persevere,  without  ruin,  in  his  pre- 
sent expenses,  with  his  present 
amount  of  business;  of  course,  as 
the  business  of  the  dealer  falls  off, 
the  orders  to  the  manufacturer  de- 
crease, and,  finally,  the  labourer  suf- 
fers in  his  turn.  To  what  such  dis- 
tress would  probably  lead,  may  be 
inferred  from  the  actual  state  of  mind 
of  the  working  classes.  Cease  to 
employ  agricultural  labourers,  and 


446  On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


they  may  find  food  in  the  fields  and 
barns  near  which  they  live  ;  but 
throw  out  of  employment  a  dense 
mass  of  manufacturing  work  people 
in  such  a  state  of  political  excite- 
ment as  they  are  now  in,  and  neces- 
sarily the  rapid  starvation  of  some 
will  convert  the  rest  into  frantic 
wolves,  who  would  pour  into  the  dis- 
tricts where  food  was  by  any  means 
attainable  ;  and,  yielding  to  a  mixed 
passion  of  rage  and  fear,  spread  de- 
solation over  the  land.  What  is  true 
of  the  London  dealer,  is  true  also  of 
every  trade  and  profession  which 
promotes  industry  and  creates  em- 
ployment for  labour.  The  very 
sources  of  wealth,  accumulation,  and 
production,  are  in  the  course  of 
being  dried  up.  Nature  is  inactive 
for  a  short  while  preceding  her  most 
terrible  convulsion.  In  the  political 
economy  of  this  nation,  stngnation 
and  torpor  indicate  a  coming  earth- 
quake." Butwhatistheremedy  which 
the  Radicals  propose  for  this  admit- 
ted evil  ?  Not  to  retrace  their  steps 
— not  to  pause  in  the  career  of  inno- 
vation— but  to  advance  in  it  with  re- 
doubled velocity,  and  adopt  still  more 
violent  measures  for  the  distress 
which  their  own  changes  have  occa- 
sioned. It  will  be  the  same  in  all 
the  future  convulsions  consequent 
on  the  innovations  we  have  com- 
menced; the  suffering  will  always 
be  ascribed  not  to  the  revolution, 
but  to  the  resistance  it  has  experien- 
ced, and  the  remedy  adopted  the  en- 
forcing of  more  rigorous  measures, 
and  the  sacrifice  of  some  new  and 
more  opulent  classes  in  society. 

Amidst  such  an  unstable  and  ruin- 
ous system,  how  is  the  colonial  em- 
pire of  Britain  to  be  maintained  ? 
The  answer  is  obvious — it  will  spee- 
dily be  dismembered,  and  England, 
in  addition  to  the  destruction  of  its 
freedom  and  its  prosperity,  will  have 
to  mourn  the  loss  of  its  immense  co- 
lonial possessions. 

When  the  news  of  the  defeat  of  the 
timber  duties  were  received  in  Cana- 
da, the  most  extravagant  rejoicings 
took  place  :  Ministers  were  hung  m 
effigy  amidst  universal  bonfires,  and 
the  inhabitants  fondly  hoped  that  the 
insane  measure  of  encouraging  the 
industry  of  foreigners,  instead  of 
that  of  our  own  subjects,  was  for 
ever  defeated.  What  their  feelings 
now  are,  may  be  easily  understood. 


[Sept. 

They  are  penetrated  with  the  most 
lively  apprehensione,butby  no  means 
with  the  alarm  prevalent  in  this  coun- 
try, because  the  remedy  is  easy ;  they 
have  only  to  declare  themselves  in- 
dependent, and  the  sway  of  the  Bri- 
tish multitude  over  them  at  least  is 
at  an  end. 

The  taxes  proposed  by  Ministers 
may  convey  a  clear  idea  of  the  po- 
licy which  will  be  imposed  on  our 
future  government  by  the  sovereign 
multitude.  They  proposed  to  tax 
Cape  wine  ad  internecionern,  and  di- 
minish the  duties  on  French  wines ; 
and  to  destroy  Canadian  industry, 
by  lowering  the  tax  ou  Baltic  timber. 
Such  conduct  would  be  inconceiv- 
able, if  it  were  not  that  history  in- 
forms us  that,  in  all  ages,  those  who 
rule  by  the  multitude,  are  driven  to 
similar  measures  to  maintain  their 
ascendency  over  them ;  and  that  the 
mob,  for  an  immediate  advantage  to 
themselves,  are  always  willing  to  sa- 
crifice the  interests  of  the  remote 
dependencies  of  the  empire.  The 
mob  of  Paris,  and  of  all  the  great 
towns  in  France,  were  clear  for  the 
law  of  the  maximum  in  the  price  of 
provisions,  though  it  brought  imme- 
diate ruin  on  their  country  neigh- 
bours, and  ultimate  misery  on  them- 
selves. 

Three  measures  may  be  expected 
after  the  Reform  Bill  has  come  into 
operation;  and  which  no  wisdom  or 
firmness,  on  the  part  either  of  govern- 
ment or  the  legislature,  will  be  able 
to  avert. 

1.  The  duties  on  Baltic  timber  will 
be  repealed.  This  measure  will  be 
warmly  supported  by  the  ten  pound 
householders  :  To  such  men,  the  pro- 
spect of  getting  the  best  wood  at 
half  its  present  price,  will  be  au  in- 
vincible argument  for  such  a  mea- 
sure. By  this  means  Canada  will  be 
lost ;  and  a  colony  possessing  nearly 
a  million  of  souls,  taking  off  annually 
30,000  emigrants,  employing  400,000 
tons  of  British  shipping,  and  consu- 
ming L. 2,500,000  of  British  manufac- 
tures, will  be  lost  to  the  empire. 

•1.  The  protecting  duties  on  East 
India  sugar  will  be  repealed,  and  the 
immediate  emancipation  of  the  ne- 
groes forced  on  the  West  India  pro- 
prietors. By  these  means,  either  the 
flame  of  revolt  will  be  spread  among 
the  slave  population,  and  130  millions 
of  British  capital  perish  in  the  llames 


1831.]         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution, 


which  have  consumed  St  Domingo, 
and  rendered  that  flourishing  co- 
lony a  desert,  or  the  planters  will 
throw  themselves  into  the  arms  of 
the  Americans.  In  either  view,  the 
West  Indies,  the  great  nursery  of 
our  seamen,  will  be  for  ever  lost  to 
England.  The  mother  country,  dis- 
tracted with  its  own  troubles,  will 
be  as  unable  to  preserve  its  domi- 
nion over  those  distant  possessions, 
as  the  French  revolutionary  govern- 
ment was  to  save  the  wreck  of  its 
once-flourishing  West  India  colonies. 
3.  India,  and  the  China  trade,  will 
be  thrown  open  to  the  clamorous 
multitudes,  who  will  seek  in  the  East- 
ern world  that  subsistence  which 
the  passions  of  the  demagogues  have 
denied  them  in  their  own  country. 
They  will  carry  with  them  to  the 
shores  of  the  Ganges  the  fierce  pas- 
sions and  unbending  democracy  of 
the  mother  state ;  and  the  airy  fa- 
bric of  our  Indian  empire,  now  up- 
held only  by  the  steady  rule  of  a 
stable  and  despotic  government,  will 
be  overthrown.  Fifty  thousand  men 
can  never  maintain  their  sway  over 
one  hundred  millions,  but  by  the 
firm  hand  of  absolute  power.  The 
passions  of  a  democracy  will  speed- 
ily tear  that  splendid,  but  unstable 
and  flimsy  empire,  in  pieces.  The 
loss  of  all  our  colonies  may  be  looked 
forward  to  as  the  inevitable  result  of 
the  Reform  Bill.  How  can  it  be 
otherwise  with  a  measure  which  at 
once  disfranchises  all  the  colonial 
interests,  which  closes  the  door  by 
which  they  have  hitherto  been  re- 
presented ? 

Such  extreme  disasters  will  for 
certain  produce  one  effect.  All  par- 
ties will  become  weary  of  distraction 
and  suffering ;  the  period,  the  ine- 
vitable period,  will  arrive,  when  the 
dominion  of  a  firm  hand  will  be 
required  to  stanch  the  wounds  of 
the  state.  A  Cresar,  a  Cromwell,  a 
Napoleon,  will  seize  the  sceptre,  and 
military  despotism  close  the  drama 
of  British  reform.  It  will  close  it 
after  years  of  anguish  and  suffering ; 
after  the  empire  has  lost  its  colonies, 
and  with  them  its  naval  suprema- 
cy; after  unheard-of  suffering  has 
tamed  our  people,  and  the  glories  of 
the  British  name  are  closed  for  ever. 

In  the  preceding  view,  melancholy 
and  overcharged  as  it  may  appear  to 


447 

many,  we  have  yet  carefully  omitted 
the  darker,  but  not  improbable  parts 
of  the  picture  ;  we  have  not  suppo- 
sed a  civil  war  in  the  empire;  we 
have  not  supposed  any  guilty  ambi- 
tion or  insane  passions  either  in 
our  government  or  legislature ;  we 
have  presumed  that  they  are  to  do 
every  thing  to  stem  the  torrent  after 
it  was  put  in  motion.  In  truth,  that 
is  the  most  probable  course  of  events. 
It  is  not  so  much  by  the  guilt  of  am- 
bition, as  the  irresistible  force  of 
events,  that  great  national  catas- 
trophes arise.  Cromwell  said,  that 
no  man  rises  so  high  as  when  he  does 
not  know  where  he  is  going;  and 
the  observation  is  true  of  the  leaders 
in  all  popular  movements.  It  is  the 
pressure  from  below  which  pushes 
them  forward ;  the  fatal  consequen- 
ces of  one  irretrievable  step,  which 
precipitates  nations,  as  well  as  indi- 
viduals, into  a  career  of  guilt.  The 
authors  of  the  most  terrible  measures 
are,  generally,  not  by  nature  worse 
than  most  other  men ;  they  are  car- 
ried onward  by  the  course  of  events, 
because  they  feel  that  to  recede  is 
impossible. 

Already  evident  symptoms  of  this 
progress  are  appearing  in  this  coun- 
try. Ministers,  because  the  Reform 
Bill  has  not  advanced  with  greater 
rapidity,  have  already  lost  much  of 
their  popularity.  The  "  idiotic  gab- 
ble" of  Sir  James  Mackintosh  is  ridi- 
culed in  The  Examiner,  because  he 
has  asserted  in  his  history  the  eter- 
nal truth,  that  constitutions  cannot 
be  framed  successfully  but  in  a  long 
course  of  time ;  the  imbecility  and 
weakness  of  administration  is  alrea- 
dy the  object  of  incessant  obloquy 
from  the  radical  press.  This  is  just 
what  we  always  predicted ;  the  lead- 
ers of  the  movement  are  invariably 
the  first  to  be  discarded  the  moment 
they  impose  the  least  check  on  the 
passions  of  the  people.  Now  is  the 
last  opportunity  before  finally  sur- 
rendering the  government  to  the 
multitude,  when  this  fatal  descent 
can  be  arrested ;  and  no  duty  was 
ever  discharged  by  men,  so  import- 
ant as  is  now  about  to  devolve  on  the 
British  Peers,  of  standing  between 
the  people  and  the  plague,  and  saving 
an  infatuated  nation  from  the  conse- 
quences of  its  own  madness. 


448 


An  Awfaf  Leeirf-like  Story. 


[Sept. 


AN  AWFU'  LEEIN'-LIKE  STORV. 


BY  THE  ETTRICK  SHEPHERD. 


"  GUDE  forgi'e  us,  Mr  Sholto,is  this 
you  ?  Sic  a  fright  as  I  got !  What  for 
are  ye  gaun  staumrin'  nmangthe  dead 
fo'k's  graves,  at  this  time  o'  night  ?" 

"  Hark  ye,  Andrew,  you  are  an  ho- 
nest man." 

"  Thank  ye,  sin" 

"  I  think  lean  trust  you  with  a  hint; 
for,  if  I  cannot  trust  you,  I  know  of 
no  other  on  whom  I  can  depend.  I 
was  thinking  of  opening  a  grave  to- 
night." 

"  If  I  war  you,  I  wadna  do  that,  Mr 
Sholto.  Ay,  ay !  An'  has  your  des- 
perate fortune  driven  you  to  be  a 
doctor,  an'  ye' re  gaun  to  study  the 
mussels  ?" 

"  What  is  your  opinion,  Andrew, 
about  my  uncle's  will — do  you  be- 
lieve that  he  executed  one  in  my  fa- 
vour ?" 

"Eh?  What  has  that  ado  wi'howk- 
ing  up  the  dead  ?  I  ken  he  made  a 
will  in  your  favour,  an'  carried  it 
very  muckle  in  his  pouch — the  warst 
place  that  it  could  be  deposited  in ; 
for  you  were  wild,  an'  he  was  auld 
and  cross — an'  I  fear  he  has  brunt  it, 
an'  ye'll  never  be  a  plack  the  better 
o'  a'  his  riches.  Your  cousin,  Lord 
Archibald,  has  got  it,  and  he'll  keep 

it.  But,  L sauf  us  !  What  are  ye 

gaun  to  howk  up  the  dead  for  ?" 

"  Why,  Andrew,  you  may  perhaps 
account  it  a  foolish  fancy ;  but  a  des- 
perate man  is  often  driven  to  despe- 
rate expedients.  What  would  you 
think  if  my  uncle  had  taken  that  will 
to  the  grave  wi'  him  ?" 

"  I  wadna  wonder  a  bit.  But  then 
there's  this  to  consider, — How  was 
he  to  get  it  to  the  grave  wi'  him  ? 
The  coffin  wasnamade till  after  he  was 
dead  ;  an'  wad  it  no  rather  pinch  him 
to  get  haud  o'  the  will,  after  that  ?" 

"  I  have  very  powerful  reasons  for 
suspecting  that  my  uncle's  will  has 
been  deposited  in  his  coffin  by  some 
interested  person,  or  bribed  person ; 
else,  what  has  become  of  it  ?  It  could 
scarcely  have  been  burnt  at  this  sea- 
son, because  there  were  no  fires  in 
the  house,  save  that  in  the  kitchen, 
where  there  would  have  been  too 
many  witnesses.  But  if  his  will  was 
in  his  pocket,  and  his  clothes  in  the 
room,  it  was  an  easy  matter  to  slip 
the  deed  into  the  coffin.  Now,  An- 


drew, will  you  assist  me  in  making 
the  search  ?" 

"  The  deil  a  bit,  sir.  I  daurna;  an' 
troth,  I  think  your  powerful  reasons 
nae  reasons  at  a'." 

"  I  have  other  reasons  than  these, 
Andrew,  which  I'm  not  at  liberty  to 
tell." 

"  Then,  if  ye  winna  tell  them,  ye 
shall  howk  the  dead  out  o'  his  grave 
yoursell,  for  me.  The  truth  is,  that 
I  hae  a  particular  aversion  at  dead 
fo'k  j  but  I  wad  venture  gayen  far  for 
a  secret  like  that." 

"  What  was  your  opinion  of  my  fa- 
ther, Andrew  ?" 

"  He  was  a  very  honest,  good-natu- 
red, simple  man ;  but  he  had  a  fault 
— an'  an  unco  bad  ane,  too." 

"  A  fault  ?  What  do  you  mean,  An- 
drew— what  was  it  ?" 

"  O,  it  was  an  ill  fault,  sir.  He  was 
useless.  He  never  had  the  power  to 
do  a  good  turn  either  to  himsell,  or 
any  other  body." 

"  Do  you  think  my  father  will  be 
in  heaven,  Andrew  ?" 

"  Eh !— Hem !  I  cou'dna  say.  It  is 
rather  a  kittle  question,  Mr  Sholto. 
I  hope  he  is,  however ;  but  wadna 
say  ower  far.  Good-night,  sir.  I 
wadna  open  the  grave,  an  I  war  you. 
It  will  maybe  bring  the  law  down  on 
your  head." 

"  Stop,  stop,  Andrew.  I  cannot  do 
without  your  assistance,  so  I  must 
tell  you  every  thing.  You  know  my 
father  was  an  honest  and  a  truthful 
man  while  on  earth,  and  would  not 
have  told  a  lie,  with  his  knowledge. 
Now,  my  father  has  appeared  to  me, 
and  told  me  in  plain  and  direct  terms, 
that  my  rights  are  lying  in  thatgrave." 

"  Mr  Sholto,  I'm  feared  that  your 
misfortunes  have  disarranged  your 
mind — that's  putten  you  a  wee  daft, 
as  it  war;  or  else  you're  telling  me 
a  fib,  to  induce  me  to  assist  you  in 
an  unlawful  deed.  Ye  surely  dinna 
pretend  to  say  that  your  dead  father 
really  appeared  to  you  in  his  bodily 
shape,  and  gae  you  this  piece  o'  in- 
telligence ?" 

"Again  and  again  in  his  bodily  shape 
has  he  appeared  to  me,  and  told  me 
this.  I  saw  him  as  plainly  as  I  see 
you;  and  heard  his  words  aa  distinct- 
ly as  I  hear  yours." 


1881.] 


An  Awfif  Leeirf-like  Story. 


"  Alas,  I  fear  the  mind  has  been 
wandering.  But  even  suppose  it  has, 
I  can  hardly  blame  you  for  making  the 
attempt,  for  even  an  ideal  hint  frae  a 
parent  beyond  the  grave  has  an  im- 
pression wi't.  But  they  said  your 
uncle  was  buried  in  an  iron  chest." 

"  So  he  was,  but  I  have  the  key  of 
it ;  for  though  not  the  lineal  heir,  I 
was  the  nearest-of-kin,  and  the  bu- 
rial-place is  mine.  So  now,  good 
Andrew,  pray  assist  me;  and  if  I 
succeed  in  procuring  the  rights  to  my 
uncle's  property  and  riches,  which 
you  know  should  all  have  been  mine, 
your  reward  shall  be  liberal." 

"  We'll  do  it  in  open  day,  then, 
an'  I  will  assist  you.  The  burial- 
ground  is  your  ain,  an'  I  dinna  see 
how  any  body  can  hinder  you  to 
delve  in  it  as  muckle  as  you  like; 
but  as  to  assisting  you  in  the  howe 
o'  the  night,  I  fear  my  conscience 
wadna  stand  it." 

"  We  will  not  be  suffered  to  do  it 
by  day.  The  church  officers  would 
have  us  taken  up  for  violating  the 
sepulchres  of  the  dead.  And,  more- 
over, I  want  to  have  it  done  most 
secretly,  for  fear  of  disappointment, 
for  I  have  no  doubt  but  that  Lord 
Archibald  knows  very  well  where  the 
deed  is  deposited.  And  now  I  have 
all  the  mattocks  prepared,  so,  dear 
Andrew,  let  us  proceed." 

After  much  hesitation,  and  bar- 
gaining for  an  yearly  salary,  Andrew 
consented,  and  the  two  fell  to  work 
about  nine  o'clock  on  an  October 
night.  There  was  a  tall  iron  railing 
round  the  cemetery,  with  pikes  on 
the  top  as  sharp  as  needles,  and  of 
this  Sholto  had  the  key,  which  like- 
wise opened  the  iron  chest  in  which 
the  coffin  was  deposited,  for  Sholto's 
mother  was  sister  to  the  deceased, 
and  retained  her  right  in  that,  with- 
out being  able  to  realize  anything  be- 
side. The  two  adventurers,  there- 
fore, weened  themselves  quite  safe 
from  any  surprise ;  and  Andrew, 
being  well  accustomed  to  work  with 
pick  and  spade,  wrought  away  stre- 
nuously and  successfully,  while 
Sholto  could  make  him  but  little 
help.  But  during  all  the  time,  An- 
dew  stipulated  that  Sholto  himself 
was  to  search  the  coffin,  for  he  said, 
that  into  contact  with  a  dead  man  at 
the  howe  o'  the- night,  for  the  saul  o' 
him,  he  durst  not  come. 

It  was  a  laborious  task,  for  the 


grave  was  deep,  and  until  once  the 
whole  of  the  earth  was  cleared 
away,  the  lid  of  the  iron  chest  could 
not  be  raised  straight  up  so  as  to  let 
the  coffin  out.  They  at  last  effected 
it :  The  lock  was  opened,  and  the  lid 
set  straight  up,  leaning  against  the 
side  of  the  grave;  and  just  while 
both  their  heads  were  down,  as  they 
were  striving  to  unscrew  the  coffin- 
lid,  the  corpse  within  gave  three  or 
four  sharp  angry  raps  at  the  head  of 
the  coffin,  right  above  the  face. 

"  L sauf  us  !  What  was  that?" 

cried  Andrew. 

"  Was  it  not  you  ?"  returned  the 
other. 

"  Na.  It  wasna  me,"  rejoined  the 
frighted  menial,  his  whole  frame  and 
tongue  becoming  rigid  with  terror. 

"  Why,  you  ridiculous  old  bump- 
kin, do  you  mean  to  fright  me  away 
from  the  prize,  now  that  it  is  so  near- 
ly attained;  do  not  I  know  that  it 
was  you,  and  that  it  could  be  no  one 
else  ?" 

"  As  I  live  and  breathe,  and  look  up 
to  Heaven,  it  was  not  me,"  said  An- 
drew. 

"  Come,  come,  no  more  fooling. 
Begin  and  work — we  shall  be  at  our 
wit's  end  in  a  few  seconds." 

"  I  wish  I  were  sure  that  I  warna 
at  mine,  already.  Come  away — come 
away  out  o'  this  place,  for  the  sake 
o'  Heaven !" 

"  Why,  fool,  how  is  it  possible  my 
uncle  can  be  alive  in  that  chest  till 
now,  with  all  that  iron  and  earth 
above  him  ?  But,  say  that  he  were, 
would  we  not  be  the  most  hard- 
hearted and  inexcusable  sinners, 
were  we  to  go  away  and  not  let  him 
out  ?" 

"  Let  him  out !  d'ye  say  ?  L , 

an  he  war  to  rise  out  there  even  now, 
I  wad  dee  i'  this  spot.  Maister 
Sholto — Maister  Sholto  !  As  I  live 
an'  breathe,  (an'  it's  a'  ane  can  ken,) 
I  thought  I  heard  him  laughin' !" 

"  Laughing  ?" 

"  Ay — smirkin'  akind  o'  suppressed 
laugh  at  me." 

"  I  cannot  comprehend  this.  On 
my  soul,  I  believe  I  heard  some  li- 
ving sounds.  Fall  on  and  work,  I 
beseech  you." 

But  Andrew  had  dropped  his  mat- 
tock into  the  grave,  and  working  was 
over  with  him  for  that  night.  He, 
however,  began  to  stoop  and  grope 
for  his  screwdriver,  while  Sholto  feH 


450 


An  Awfu*  Leeirt-like  Story. 


[Sept. 


to  the  coffin  again  with  eager  but 
unpractised  hands.  At  this  juncture, 
while  Andrew's  head  was  down,  and 
Sholto  fumbling  about  the  lid,  the 
raps  on  the  coffin-lid  were  repeated, 
accompanied  by  these  words,  in  an 
angry  tone, — 

'"  Who's  there?  What  do  you 
want  ?" 

Andrew  roared  out  in  bellowings 
so  short,  loud,  and  energetic,  that 
they  were  enough  to  awaken  the 
dead,  and  breasting  up  from  the 
deep  grave  against  the  loose  mould, 
it  gave  way  with  him,  and  he  fell 
back  flat  into  the  grave.  Rattle  quoth 
the  coffin,  and  that  instant  Andrew 
felt  the  weight  of  a  giant  above  him, 
while  a  dead  cold  hand  seized  him 
by  the  throat,  and  a  voice  of  terror 
uttered  these  ominous  words  close 
at  his  ear, — 

«  You villain,  I  have  caught 

•  •• 

you!'  .[/ 

Andrew  offered  no  resistance .  He 
cried  out  as  long  as  he  had  any  voice, 
and  when  that  failed  him,  he  was 
passive,  every  joint  of  his  body  be- 
coming as  supple  as  a  wet  clout,  and 
from  thenceforward  he  was  depri- 
ved of  all  sense  or  feeling,  and  knew 
not  what  the  dead  man  was  doing 
with  him,  whether  he  was  dragging 
him  into  the  coffin  beside  himself, 
or,  away  to  that  dreadful  place  ap- 
pointed for  the  habitation  of  wicked 
men;  but,  certes,  he  had  a  sort  of 
half  feeling  that  he  was  being  drag- 
ged away  to  some  place  or  other. 

Andrew's  next  appearance  must 
be  taken  from  the  description  of 
others.  It  was  in  a  sort,  ot  prison, 
or  watch-house,  in  which  there  was 
a  dim  light,  and  a  number  of  hideous 
figures  stalking  to  and  fro,  but  to 
none  of  them  would  Andrew  utter  a 
word.  It  was  in  vain  that  they  asked 
questions  at  him,  for  his  mind  was 
not  there ;  and  he  only  stared  about 
him  with  looks  so  wild,  that  he  made 
the  motley  community  bray  out  in 
laughter.  The  first  words  that  he 
said,  and  thnt  was  long  after  hia  ad- 
mission, were,  "  Where  is  he  him- 
se'Il;"  meaning  the  devil,  as  some 
supposed,  -but  perhaps  with  more 
probability  the  baron  whom  he  had 
awakened  from  the  dead,  for  he  had 
supposed  all  that  while  that  he  was 
in  hell. 

Sholto  was  first  examined,  who 
stubbornly  declined  all  explanation 


of  his  motives,  and  appeared  in  the 
deepest  distress  imaginable.  But 
when  Andrew  was  brought  in  before 
the  judge,  a  most  novel  and  ludi- 
crous scene  was  enacted.  Andrew 
was  still  deranged  in  his  mind,  and 
so  completely  deprived  of  judgment, 
that  he  seemed  to  entertain  no  idea 
in  what  place  he  was,  or  who  he 
was  among.  He  fixed  long  and  ter- 
rified looks  on  his  conductors  alter- 
nately, and  then  towards  other  parts 
of  the  chamber,  and  at  last,  when  he 
was  addressed  by  the  judge's  clerk, 
his  looks  turned  in  that  direction ; 
but  there  was  no  speculation  in  his 
eyes — they  were  unstable  and  gla- 
ring, and,  though  looking  with  ter- 
rible eagerness,  they  beheld  nothing 
distinctly,  while  to  every  question 
his  answer  was,  "  Eh  ?  Aye.  Where 
is  he  himsell?" 

When  they  asked  who  he  wanted , 
he  said  he  wanted  nobody — he  only 
wished  to  learn  what  was  become  of 
him.  This,  after  long  winding  about, 
turned  out  to  be  the  late  baron  whom 
he  was  enquiring  after;  Andrew  be- 
ing impressed  with  the'  firm  belief, 
that  the  old  rascal  had  banged  from 
the  coffin  in  a  great  rage,  and  seized 
him  by  the  throat.  When  at  last 
they  brought  Andrew  to  answer,  his 
narration  certainly  was  the  most 
strange  and  incoherent  ever  deli- 
vered in  a  court.  It  appears  there 
had  been  no  impressions  left  on  his 
mind,  but  the  late  scene  of  the  grave, 
and  the  wonderful  fact  of  the  old 
baron  having  been  still  alive.  I 
shall  insert  a  few  of  the  questions 
and  answers  here,  verbatim,  for  the 
amusement  of  the  curious  in  legal 
proceedings. 

"  What  were  your  motives  for  vio- 
lating the  sanctuary  of  the  dead  >" 

"  1  had  nac  motives  for't,  sir — nane 
at  a'.  I  gaed  because  Mr  Sholto  or- 
dered me  to  gang,  an'  sair,  sair  against 
my  will." 

"  Then,  of  course,  he  would  re- 
veal to  you  what  his  motives  were  ?" 

"  Aye ;  but  let  him  speak  for  him- 
sell. He  certainly  had  motives  o' 
fiae  ordinal-  kind,  now  when  I  think 
on't." 

"  Then,  as  an  honest  man,  declare 
wliat  these  were." 

"  There,  sir,  ye  hae  touched  me  i' 
the  quick,  for  an  honest  man  I  will  be. 
Why  then,  sir,  an  your  father's  ghost 
had  come  back  frar>  the  dead,  an' 


1831.] 


An  Awfu  LeeM -like  Story. 


tauld  you  iu  plain  terms  that  they 
had  buried  your  brother  alive,  what 
would  you  have  done  ?" 

"  Misbelieved  the  ghost,  certainly, 
and  left  the  dead  to  their  repose. 
Or  if  I  had  opened  the  tomb,  I  would 
have  done  it  at  noonday,  before  wit- 
nesses." 

"  There  you  would  have  been  right, 
sir.  It's  the  very  thing  I  adviseu." 

"  But  this  is  a  most  untangible  in- 
ference of  yours,  Andrew;  I  have 
nothing  from  it.  Do  you  pretend  to 
say  and  affirm,  that  Mr  Sholto's  fa- 
ther appeared  to  him,  and  told  him 
that  the  baron  was  buried  alive  V" 

"  That  he  did !  An'  tauld  him  nae 
mair  than  the  truth  either,  whilk  I 
fand  to  my  experience." 

"  Consider  what  you  are  saying, 
sir,  and  where  you  are  saying  it. 
You  are  raving,  or  beside  yourself. 
You  do  not  pretend  to  say,  that  you 
found  the  old  gentleman  alive  below 
the  earth  till  now  ?" 

"  That  I  do !  We  fand  him  alive 
wi'  a  vengeance,  an'  as  mad  as  a 
March  hare  at  being  disturbit." 

Here  the  courjt  burst  into  laughter, 
and  the  judge  said,  "  I  can  make  no- 
thing of  this  fellow,  who  seems  quite 
beside  himself.  What  hold  can  be 
laid  on  such  asseverations  as  these  ? 
But  as  little  can  I  divine  for  what 
purpose  the  tomb  was  violated." 

"  D'ye  no  believe  what  I  say,  sir," 
cried  Andrew,  fiercely;  "  d'ye  no 
believe  that  we  fand  the  auld  gentle- 
man leevin' ?  If  ye  diuna  believe't, 
I'll  swear't.  We  fand  him  leevin'  an' 
life-like ;  an'  though  he  was  aye  cross 
nu'  ill  natured  a'  his  life,  I  never  saw 
him  as  mad  as  he  was  yestreen.  O, 
a  perfect  dragon  !  Rap,  rap,  on  the 
inside  o'  the  coftm  lid!  '  Wha's 
there  ?  What  d'ye  want  wi'  me, 

d d  rascals  V'  O,  a  perfect  viper ! 

He  was  an  angry  man  afore,  but 
death  has  put  him  clean  mad.  When 
he  heard  that  I  was  trying  to  make 
my  escape,  he  dang  the  coffin  lid  a' 
in  flinters,  bang'd  up,  an'  got  hand 
o'  my  fit,  an'  back  he  gart  me  come 
like  a  clout  into  the  howe  o'  the 
grave.  Then  on  aboon  me  he  gets, 
swearin'  like  a  trooper,  an'  wi'  a 
hand  as  cauld  as  death  he  grippit  me 
by  the  thrapple,  an'  soon  took  the 
hale  power  out  o'  my  body.  Then 
he  took  me  on  his  back  ae  while,  an' 
draggit  me  by  the  neck  anither,  for 
a  bunder  miles,  till  he  brought  me 


451 

here ;  an,  if  ye  dinna  believe  me,  he 
is  here  some  gate  to  answer  for  him- 
sell." 

At  the  incoherence  of  this  story 
all  the  people  stared  at  one  another, 
convinced  that  Andrew  was  raving  ; 
till  Lord  Archibald  requested  the 
clerk  to  ask  Andrew  if  he  heard  no- 
thing anent  a  lost  will,  that  was 
the  cause  of  the  grave  having  been 
opened. 

"  A  will !"  said  Andrew,  like  one 
awakening  out  of  a  sleep.  "  What's 
your  will,  sir  ?  What  was  I  saying  ? 
I  rather  doubt  my  wits  are  gane  a 
grazing  the  night,  an'  I  wish  ye  wad- 
na  speir  ony  mair  at  me,  for  fear  I 
be  nae  correct." 

The  judge  acquiesced  in  the  rea- 
sonableness of  the  demand,  and  dis- 
missed him.  He  and  Sholto  were 
remanded  to  prison,  and  being  con- 
fined together,  they  were  miserable 
comforters  to  each  other.  Mr  Sholto 
was  in  utter  despair  at  the  loss  of 
the  will,  when,  as  he  said,  he  was 
assured  it  was  within  his  grasp ;  and 
as  the  grave  gate  and  iron-chest  were 
all  left  wide  open,  and  Lord  Archi- 
bald manifestly  knowing  the  circum- 
stances of  the  case,  his  chance  was 
for  ever  lost,  and  he  was  left  a  beg- 
gar for  life. 

"  O,  dear  Mr  Sholto,  ye  maunna 
lay  it  sae  sair  to  heart,"  said  An- 
drew. "  It  was  maybe  a'  delusion 
thegither.  A  ghaist's  word's  nae 
muckle  to  trust,  for  naebody  kens 
whether  he  has  had  the  information 
frae  a  good  spirit  or  an  evil  ane, 
an'  a'  depends  on  that.  Where  was 
it  you  met  the  old  gentleman?" 

"  I  thought  it  was  on  the  green  at 
St  Andrew's,  and  his  look  was  so 
fraught  with" 

"  Ye  thought  it  was  on  the  green  at 
St  Andrew's?  An'  was  it  no  there, 

then  r  ^       ro  ?i[  bnij  :  o-ioiif  .tort 

.  It  was  in  a  night  vision  that  I 
saw  and  spoke  with  him,  old  fool." 

"  A  night  vision  ?  Whew !  I  wad- 
na  gie  a  doit  for't,  man.  Od,  if  I 
had  kend  it  had  been  naething  but 
a  dream,  ye  should  hae  cuttit  out  my 
twa  lugs  ere  I  had  engaged  in  it.  If 
I  war  to  tell  you  sic  dreams  as  I  hae 
had !  A  mere  delusion  and  a  whim 
of  an  eeritated  mind.  An'  then,  for 
aught  I  ken,  we'll  baith  be  hanged 

for  it-YioRimnjts  lajfi  sew  o 

"  Hung  for  it !  We  have  commit- 
ted no  delinquency  whatever,  and 


An  Awfu'  Leein'-like  Story. 


[Sept. 


they  cannot  touch  a  hair  of  our 
heads,  or  a  penny  of  our  purses.  The 
whole  is  Lord  Archibald's  doing, 
watchers  and  all,  which  might  well 
convince  you  of  the  truth  of  ray  in- 
formation." 

"  The  hale  of  it  is  beyond  my  com- 
prehension ;  but,  maist  of  a',  how  the 
auld  rascal  should  still  hae  been  lee- 
vin!  What  think  you  o'  that,  Mr 
Sholto  ?  He  maun  surely  hae  been  a 
deevil,  for  nae  earthly  creature  could 
hae  subsistit  five  minutes  in  sic  cir- 
cumstances." 

"  I  cannot  yet  fathom  the  noises 
from  the  grave,  but  am  convinced 
they  could  have  been  nothing  super- 
natural. I  was  seized  by  three  strong 
men  outside  the  iron  gate." 

"  Aye,  but  I  was  seized  by  the  old 
baron  himself.  He  split  the  coffin 
lid  up  through  the  middle,  an'  bang- 
ed up  in  sic  a  rage,  that  I  was  nae 
mair  in  his  hands  than  a  rabbit  atween 
the  jaws  of  a  fox." 

This  being  a  new  piece  of  intelli- 
gence to  Sholto,  he  listened  with  ad- 
miration, but  at  the  same  time  laugh- 
ed till  the  tears  ran  over  his  cheeks 
at  the  ludicrous  conviction  and  seri- 
ousness of  Andrew ;  so  we  shall  leave 
them  to  reason  out  this  important 
matter,  and  proceed  to  the  other  in- 
cidents of  this  eventful  night. 

"  Our  Shepherd  has  often  lee'd  ter- 
ribly to  us,  but  nothing  to  this."  It 
is,  nevertheless,  beloved  reader,  li- 
terally true,  and  happened  on  this 
wise. 

Lord  Archibald  knew  that  the  late 
baron  had  made  a  will  in  favour  of 
his  sister's  profligate  son ;  but  he 
knew  also  that  that  will  was  not  re- 
gistered, and  that  there  was  nothing 
but  the  bare  deed  itself  that  stood 
between  him  and  the  whole  of  the 
bar  on' s  disposable  property.  He  had, 
therefore,  studied  every  mean  to  get 
possession  of  that  deed,  and  had 
brought  things  to  a  train  by  which 
he  hoped  to  succeed,  when  all  at 
once  the  baron  was  cut  off  suddenly 
by  one  of  those  paralytic  shocks  so 
common  of  late  years,  and  died  in 
the  sixty-fourth  year  of  his  age. 

Lord  Archibald  had  then  no  other 
resource  than  to  send  a  female  de- 
pendant of  his,  a  Mi.ss  Aymers,  on 
whose  knavish  acuteness  he  had  full 
reliance — having  experienced  it  to 
his  cost — with  a  grand  recommenda- 
tion as  a  fit  person  for  laying  out  and 
dpcoratiner  the  dead.  Her  services 


were  readily  accepted,  and  the  baron 
having  died  in  his  elbowchair,  and 
Miss  Aymers  gotten  her  cue,  she  in- 
stantly got  hold  of  the  will,  and  con- 
cealed it  in  her  bosom.  But  Mr 
Sholto's  mother  arriving  with  an  of- 
ficial person,  they  locked  the  door, 
put  seals  on  the  bureau  and  drawers, 
and  read  a  warrant  for  searching 
every  person  present  before  one  of 
them  left  the  room.  Thus  circum- 
stanced, Miss  Aymers  had  no  other 
shift  than  to  slip  the  deed  into  the 
coffin,  among  the  wood  shavings  with 
which  it  was  filled.  She  hardly 
hoped  to  succeed,  but  so  quick  waa 
her  motion,  and  so  natural  and  sim- 
ple her  demeanour,  that  no  eye  be- 
held her.  The  old  lady  being  parti- 
cularly jealous  of  her,  as  suspecting 
whence  she  came,  stripped  her  na- 
ked, and  searched  her  with  her  own 
hands,  but  found  nothing. 

Miss  Aymers  returned  to  her  pro- 
tector with  the  news  of  her  success, 
but  he  lay  on  a  bed  of  nettles  till  the 
funeral  was  over;  and  even  then, 
though  no  will  was  found,  and  he 
fell  heir  to  all  the  heritable  proper- 
ty, he  felt  ill  at  ease,  and  set  a  pri- 
vate watch  over  the  burial-place 
night  and  day,  on  pretence  of  some 
fears  that  his  old  relative's  body 
might  be  exhumed. 

A  considerable  time  elapsed,  and 
there  having  been  no  appearance  of 
any  person  meddling  with  the  tomb, 
Lord  Archibald  had  given  his  watch- 
er orders  to  discontinue  his  attend- 
ance on  such  a  day";  but  before  that 
day  came,  he  was  astounded  at  hear- 
ing that  Sholto  had  been  seen  prying 
narrowly  about  the  tomb,  opening 
the  iron  door,  surveying  the  grave, 
and  then  looking  all  about  as  if  to 
discover  some  place  of  concealment; 
and  finally,  that  he  had  conveyed 
mattocks  by  night,  and  concealed 
them  artfully  within  the  iron  rail- 
ing. 

Lord  Archibald  was  then  sure  that 
all  was  not  as  it  should  be,  and  took 
his  mistress  severely  to  task  for  be- 
traying his  secret.  She  denied  it, 
first  with  tears,  and  afterwards  with 
rage,  and  they  parted  in  the  worst  of 
terms;  for  he  naturally  supposed 
that  "no  other  could  have  divulged 
the  secret  but  herself,  and  her  infi- 
delity cut  him  to  the  heart,  and  in 
particular  her  having  betrayed  his 
guilt  to  such  a  low  blackguard  as  he 
accounted  his  cousin  Sholto  to  be. 


1831,] 


An  Awfti  Leein'-like  Story. 


453 


The  night  following  the  discovery 
of  the  mattocks,  Lord  Archibald  pla- 
ced a  watch  of  four  men,  all  at  equal 
distances  around  the  tomb,  with  long 
speaking  trumpets,  with  which  they 
could  whisper  to  one  another ;  and 
the  men  had  orders,  if  any  attempt 
was  made  to  exhume  the  body,  that 
they  were  to  suffer  them  to  proceed 
until  they  came  to  the  inner  bier,  or 
wooden  coffin,  but  by  no  means  to 
suffer  the  aggressors  to  open  that, 
but  to  seize  them  and  convey  them 
to  prison.     The  men  executed  their 
orders  to  a  tittle ;  but  not  being  able 
to  see  from  behind  the  railing,  the 
precise  moment  that  they  came  to 
the  inner  coffin,  one  of  them  crept 
in  at  the  door,  and  round  behind  the 
heap  of  mould,  where,  setting  by  his 
head,  quite  unperceived,  he  watched 
all  their  motions,  and  heard  every 
word  that  passed.     Then  when  they 
began  to  unscrew  the  coffin  lid,  from 
some   waggish   impulse   he  gave  a 
sharp  rap  with  his  trumpet  on  the 
coffin  ;  and  afterwards  as  they  were 
again  beginning  to  proceed,  he  thrust 
the  mouth  of  his  trumpet  as  deep 
down  into  the  grave  at  the  head  of 
the  coffin  as  he  could,  and  speaking 
from  amongst  the  mould,  he  demand- 
ed, "  Who's  there?  What  do  you 
want  ?" 

This  was  too  much  even  for  the 
bold  and  determined  heart  of  Sholto 
to  stand ;  he  sprang  from  the  grave, 
and  was  instantly  seized  by  three 
strong  men,  pinioned  and  conveyed 
to  prison.  Honest  Andrew  was  seized 
lying  iu  the  depths  of  the  grave  as 
described,  and  knew  nothing  about 
Mr  Sholto's  seizure,nor  indeed  about 
any  thing  save  that  he  had  been  seized 
by  the  dead  man,  his  old  master,  who 
had  with  a  supernatural  strength 
dragged  him  away  to  prison. 

No  sooner  were  the  aggressors 
fairly  lodged  in  the  jail,  than  Lord 
Archibald  dispatched  two  watchers 
to  keep  nigh  to  the  open  grave  till 
day,  but  neither  to  touch  aught  them- 
selves, or  suffer  the  least  intrusion. 
The  men  went  well  armed;  but 
strange  to  say,  at  their  very  first  en- 
trance within  the  churchyard,  they 
perceived  something  approaching 
them.  The  morning  was  excessive- 
ly dark,  but  straight  from  the  open 
grave  there  ascended  a  tall,  pale, 
ghost-like  figure,  covered  with  pale 
light,  and  from  which  issued  a  smell 


of  brimstone  perfectly  suffocating. 
The  men's  senses  were  totally  be- 
numbed. In  language  quite  inarticu- 
late,  they  challenged    it,   charging 
it  to  stop  and  speak,  but  it  came 
gliding    on    towards    them.     They 
tired  a  pistol  at  it,  but  it  came  gliding 
on.    They  could  stand  it  no  longer, 
but  turning,  they  fled  with  precipi- 
tation—the ghost  pursuing  them  till 
they  took  refuge  in  a  tavern.     After 
fortifying  their  hearts  well  with  spi- 
rits, and  loading  their  pistols  anew, 
they  sallied  forth  once  more  before 
the  break  of  day,  but  saw  nothing  ; 
and  before  the  sun-rising,  great  num- 
bers of  the  citizens  had  arrived,  the 
word  having  spread  overnight  from 
the  council-chamber,  or  rather  the 
watch-house.     But  the  two  guards 
suffered  no  person  to  come  within 
the  iron  railing,  until  the  arrival  of 
Lord   Archibald,  with    the   church 
officers,  and  other  official  people ; 
when,  to  the  utter  consternation  of 
all  who  had  heard  Andrew's  extra- 
ordinary narrative  before  the  judge 
of  the  night,  it  was  found  that  the 
lid  of  the  coffin  was  splintered  in 
two,  lying  loose  above,  and  the  corpse 
up  and  away,  grave-clothes  and  alto- 
gether.    There  was  nothing  left  but 
the  wood  shavings,  and  a  part   of 
them  were  lying  in  the  line  from  the 
grave  to  the  gate,  which  the  dead 
man  had  shaken  from  him  in  his 
struggle  with  Andrew.    So  the  mul- 
titude said,  and  so  they  thought,  for 
what  else  could  they  think,  as  the 
watchman  who  deceived  Andrew, 
and  seized  him  in  the  grave,  thought 
proper  to  keep  his  experiment  a  se- 
cret, in  order  to  frighten  and  asto- 
nish the  people  the  more.     Indeed, 
there  was  none  that  made  a  greater 
stir  about  it  than  himself.    In  conse- 
quence  of   all  this,  the    bruit  got 
abroad  that  Mr  Sholto  Douglas  and 
his  humble  friend,  Andrew  Cranston, 
had  gone  forth  by  night  to  take  the 
body  of  the  late  baron  from  the  tomb, 
in  order  to  ask  him  some  questions 
about  a  will,  they  having  had  intima- 
tion that  he  was  buried  alive ;  but 
that,  on  their  opening  up  his  snug 
iron  chest,  he  got  into  such  a  rage 
that  he  cursed  and  swore  at  them ; 
and  when  they  would  not  desist,  he 
split  the  coffin  with  his  fist,  sprung 
out  and  seized  Andrew  by  the  throat, 
grooffling  him  in  the  grave.   That  he 
then  took  him  away,  and  pushed  him 


4j4  An  Awfrf  Lceirf-like  Story. 

into  the  watch-Louse,  where  he  left 

him  to  justice,  and  ran  oft'  and  hid 

himself,  for  fear  that  they  might  bury 

him  alive  again. 
Andrew  made  oath  to  the  truth  of 

this,  so  it  could  not  he  contradicted. 

Philosophers  winked  and  shook  the 

head ;  tradesmen,  at  first  hearing  it, 

scratched  their  elhows,  hotched  and 

laughed ;   but,  by  degrees,  as   the 

facts  came  out,  one  by  one,  the  pu- 
pils of  their  eyes  were  enlarged,  and 

they  generally  exclaimed  that  the 

like  of  it  never  was  heard  of  in  any 
land.  Such  was  the  story  that  got 
abroad,  and  has  continued  as  a  tradi- 
tionary story  to  this  day  ;  and  it  is  so 
good  a  story,  and  so  perfectly  ridi- 
culous, that  it  is  a  pity  either  to  add 
to  or  diminish  it.  But  we  story-tell- 
ers, in  our  eagerness  to  trace  the  real 
course  of  natural  events,  often  spoil 
the  story,  both  to  ourselves  and 
others.  And  as  I  know  more  about 
it,  I  am  obliged  to  tell  the  truth. 

In  the  meantime,  Lord  Archibald 
was  chagrined,  beyond  measure,  at 
the  loss  of  the  will,  not  doubting  that 
it  was  fallen  into  the  hands  of  his 
opponent;  for  though  it  was  mani- 
fest that  he  and  Andrew  had  not  got 
it,  yet  who  else  could  have  removed 
it,  as  well  as  the,  body,  save  some  one 
in  his  interest  ?  He  soon  began  to 
suspect  Miss  Aymers,  the  only  per- 
son alive  possessed  of  the  secret; 
and  grievously  did  he  repent  his  ac- 
cusation of  her,  and  the  parting  with 
her  on  such  bad  terms,  knowing  that 
the  revenge  of  an  insulted  mistress 
was  beyond  calculation.  The  first 
thing,  therefore,  that  he  did,  was  to 
go  and  implore  her  forgiveness,  and 
a  renewal  of  their  former  confidence ; 
but  she  spurned  him  from  her  in  the 
highest  disdain,  refusing  all  inter- 
course with  him  for  ever. 

This  being  the  last  blow  to  Lord 
Archibald's  hopes  of  retaining  either 
the  estate  or  his  reputation,  he  wait- 
ed on  Mr  Sholto,  and  astonished  him 
by  a  proposal  to  halve  his  uncle's 
estate  with  him,  stating,  that  his  con- 
science had  checked  him  for  keeping 
possession  of  the  whole,  being  con- 
vinced that  his  late  uncle  had  intend- 
ed leaving  him  a  part.  Sholto  ex- 
pressed the  utmost  gratitude  for  his 
relation's  generous  resolve,  saying 
he  never  thought  to  be  so  much  be- 
holden to  man.  But  Sholto  was  still 
more  astonished  when  he  insisted 


[Sept. 

on  the  transfer  being  made  immedi- 
ately, and  the  residue  being  secured 
to  himself,  by  the  signature  of  Shol- 
to, the  nearest  blood  relation  of  the 
deceased. 

Sholto  could  not  understand  this, 
but  made  no  objections  to  the  ar- 
rangement. However,  men  of  busi- 
ness could  not  be  had  on  the  instant, 
and  the  transaction  was  postponed 
to  a  future  day.  The  estate  was 
parted  by  arbiters,  and  every  tiling 
was  arranged  for  the  final  transaction 
to  the  satisfaction  of  all  parties;  wheii 
one  morning,  just  as  Sholto  was  set- 
ting out  for  the  ratification  of  the 
treaty,  a  modest  sly-looking  young 
man  called,  and  requested  to  speak 
with  Mr  Sholto  before  he  went 
away.  "  Well,  what  is  5r,  sir?  A  mes- 
sage from  Mr  Marginer  I  suppose  ?" 

"No,  sir,  it  is  a  message  from  a 
very  different  personage.  Pray,  do 
you  know  what  has  become  of  your 
uncle  the  baron  '(" 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  such  a 
question?  Why,  I  know  that  he 
died  and  was  buried,  and  that  his 
body  was  nefariously  and  most  un- 
accountably taken  from  the  tomb." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that,  sir  ?" 
^  "  As  sure  as   ocular   demonstra- 
tion and  reason  can  make  me." 

"  Well,  sir,  1  have  only  to  tell  you, 
that  you  are  mistaken.  Is  it  not  pos- 
sible, think  you,  that  the  dead  can 
live  again  ?" 

"  Yes,  at  the  Resurrection,  but 
not  till  then.  I  know  that  tho  souls 
of  the  dead  live  in  unknown  and  un- 
explored regions,  but  the  body  of 
my  uncle  saw  corruption,  and  can- 
not live  again  till  the  last  day." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  understand  there  is 
something  that  you  should  have  had 
of  him,  and  of  which  you  have  been 
deprived,  not  through  any  intention 
of  his.  What  will  you  give  me,  and 
I  will  instantly  bring  you  to  the 
speech  of  him?" 

"  Stranger,  you  are  either  mocking 
me,  or  you  are  mad.  I  would  not 
go  to  the  speech  of  him  to  be  king  of 
the  realm.  Would  you  make  another 
Saul  of  me,  and  take  me  to  speak  to 
demons  in  human  shape  ?" 

"  I  am  quite  serious,  Mr  Sholto; 
for  a  proper  remuneration  I  will 
take  you  to  the  speech  of  him  ;  and, 
moreover,  I  will  ensure  to  you  the 
document  from  his  own  hand,  that 
will  ensure  your  right  and  title  to  the 


1831.] 

whole  of  his  estate,  heritable  and 
personal." 

"  No,  no,  I  will  have  nothing  to  do 
with  either  you  or  him ;  I  will  ven- 
ture upon  no  experiment  so  revolt- 
ing. Bring  me  the  document  your- 
self, and  your  reward  shall  he  libe- 
ral. Then  I  shall  believe  you,  but 
at  present  your  proposal  is  to  me  in- 
comprehensible." 

"  1  again  assure  you,  that  I  am 
perfectly  serious.  And  as  no  man 
alive  can  procure  you  that  docu- 
ment save  myself,  give  me  a  bond 
on  his  estate  for  five  thousand 
pounds,  and  the  will  shall  be  yours. 
Only  you  are  to  come  or  send,  and 
receive  it  from  his  own  hand,  and 
see  him  once  more  face  to  face. 
Some  word  may  accompany  it,  which 
is  unmeet  for  me  to  hear.  I  pray 
you  go.  It  is  requisite  you  should. 
Only  I  must  first  have  a  bond  of  you 
for  five  thousand  pounds,  and  the 
property  is  yours." 

"  Why  that  I  would  not  grudge, 
for  I  have  this  day  to  8ip;n  away  five 
times  that  sum  to  secure  the  rest. 
Take  my  man  with  you.  Bring  me 
the  will,  and  your  request  thall  be 
granted."  He  rung  the  bell,  and  An- 
drew entered.  "  Andrew,  this  gentle- 
man knows,  it  appears,  where  my 
dead  uncle  is  lying  concealed.  He 
wants  to  send  the  will,  and  some 
particular  word  to  me.  Will  you  be 
so  good  as  to  go  with  the  man  and 
fetch  both  ?" 

"  Gang  yoursell,  Mr  Sholto ;  for 
me,  1  wadna  gang  for  the  hale  warld. 
The  moment  that  he  clappit  his  een 
on  me,  he  wad  flee  at  my  thrapple, 
an'  doun  wi'  me,  an'  than  take  me 
by  the  neck  ower  his  shoutber,  an' 
aif  to  the  watch-house  prison  wi' 
me;  I  kend  aye  he  was  up  an'  leevin. 
But  his  maun  surely  bean  unearthly 
unnatural  kind  of  life.  Where  is  the 
auld  villainy" 

"  Where  God  will.  Go  with  me, 
and  you  shall  see  him,  and  receive 
the  deed  signed  and  sealed  from  his 
own  hand.  It  is  a  pity  to  throw 
away  such  a  fortune  through  mere 
cowardice." 

"  It  is  that.     Shall  I  meet  him  in 
fair  daylight,  and  in  company  ?" 
_ "  I  shall  go  with  you,  if  you  de- 
sire it;  no  other  may." 

"  Aye,  we  maun  hae  another  ane, 
for  he  has  mair  nor  the  strength  o' 
twa  men  sin'  he  dee'd.  Let  me  hae 

VOL.  XXX,  NO,  CLXXXV. 


An  Awfu1  Leein'-like  Story. 


455 

twa  stout  fallows  wi'  me,  an'  I'll 
venture,  for  my  master's  sake  an' 
my  ain.  I  never  was  frightit  in  open 
daylight  yet." 

Away  went  Andrew  on  his  peril- 
ous expedition,  while  Sholto  kept 
out  of  the  way,  and  did  not  go  to 
ratify  the  grievous  bargain  with  Lord 
Archibald,  until  he  saw  what  would 
be  the  issue  of  this  mad  adventure. 
One  messenger  arrived  after  another 
for  him,  but  he  was  nowhere  to  be 
found.  And  although  he  suspected 
the  stranger's  message  to  be  all  a 
trick,  in  order  to  play  off  some  fool- 
ery upon  him,  for  which  reason  he 
kept  aloof,  yet  at  times  there  was  a 
seriousness  in  the  young  man's  man- 
ner, that  left  an  impression  of  his 
sincerity. 

In  the  course  of  two  hours  An- 
drew returned,  so' changed  in  every 
feature,  that  no  person  could  have 
known  him.  His  eyes  were  open, 
and  would  not  wink,  and  his  mouth 
wide  open,  while  the  power  to  shut 
it  remained  not  with  him.  But  he 
held  the  will  firm  grasped  in  his  hand, 
signed  and  sealed,  and  all  correct. 
He  was  supported  by  the  stranger, 
who  also  appeared  greatly  agitated. 
Sholto  signed  the  bond  cheerfully, 
which  was  in  due  time  honoured — 
took  possession  of  the  baron's  whole 

Eroperty   without    opposition,    and 
ord  Archibald  retired  to  Switzer- 
land. 

But  now  for  the  unparalleled  re- 
covery of  this  famous  document ; 
and  though  there  never  was  a  more 
lying-like  story  than  the  one  told  by 
Andrew  Cranston,  he  yet  brought 
substantial  proofs  with  him  of  its 
correctness.  And  it  is  believed,  that, 
barring  a  little  exaggeration  of  his 
own  prowess,  it  is  mostly  conform- 
able to  truth.  We  must  have  the 
relation  in  Andrew's  own  words. 

"  Wre  had  nae  sooner  left  our  house, 
than  the  chap  turn'd  thoughtfu'  an' 
gae  ower  speaking,  an'  I  jealoused 
he  was  turnin'  frightit,  an'  that  some 
awfu'  an'  tremendous  encounter  lay 
afore  us.  Still  it  was  daylight,  an'  I 
thought  it  couldna  be  waur  that 
time  than  it  had  been  afore  in  the 
graves ;  sae  on  I  ventured.  We 
ca'd  at  a  doctor  o'  physic's  shop  for 
an  assistant.  The  lad  was  sweer 
sweer  to  gang,  an'  made  many  ob- 
jections that  I  couldna  hear;  but  I 
thought  I  heard  them  speak  about 


456 


An  Awfu'  Leeirf-lihe  Story. 


[Sept. 


*  blinding  his  een,'  sae  I  laid  my  lugs 
i'  my  neck,  an'  said  naething.  Weel, 
on,  on,  on  we  gangs,  till  we  came 
foment  the  head  o'  the  Kirk  Wynd, 
when  the  chap  turns  to  me  wi'  a 
pale  face  an'  a  quiverin*  lip,  an'  he 
says  to  me, '  Andrew  Cranston,'  says 
he, '  ye  maun  allow  us  to  tie  up  your 
een' here,(eyeslbelieveheca'd  them, 
but  that's  a'  ane.)  '  What  for  that,  an' 
it  be  your  will,  sir,'  says  I.    '  Why, 
the  poor  old  baron  has  got  such  a 
fright  at  being  buried  alive,'  said  he, 

*  that  no  other  impression  haunts  his 
spirit  but  that  of  being  buried  alive 
again.     And  if  you  were  to  find  out 
the  place  of  his  concealment,  it  would 
put  him  so  mad,  that  all  attempts  to 
recover  the  will  would  prove  inef- 
fectual.' 

" '  He's  a  queer  chap,'  said  I,  *  for 
a  madder  man  I  never  saw  than  he 
was  when  wakened  out  o'  the  grave ; 
an*  wha  wad  think  he  wad  be  sae 
terrified  to  gang  into  it  again  ?  Gude- 
ness  guide  us,  is  he  just  like  other 
leevin'  mortal  men,  after  lying  sae 
lang  i'  the  grave  ?' 

"  '  Why,  he  is  both  a  living  man 
and  a  dead  man,  Andrew ;  or  rather, 
he  is  neither  a  living  man  nor  a  dead 
one,  but  something  between  them. 
You  have  a  strange  sight  to  see — a 
dead  body  inhabited  by  a  living 
spirit.' 

"'Idinna  care  suppose  ye  do  tie  up 
my  een,'  says  I,  '  an'  be  sure  ye 
dinna  tak  the  bandage  oil'  again  till 
we  come  back  to  this  bit,  or  else  I 
will  find  out  the  place  where  he  is.' 
Accordingly,  they  tied  up  my  een 
that  I  coudna  see  a  stime,  an'  we 
turns  hereaway  and  thereaway,  I 
kendna  where,  till  at  length  ae  lock 
gangs  wi'  a  great  jangle,  an'  then 
another  lock  gangs  wi'  a  great  jangle, 
an'  then  I  began  to  find  a  damp  dead 
smell,  waur  than  a  grave.  Mercy  on 
us  I  where  are  we  gaun  now,  thinks 
I  to  mysell,  and  began  rather  to  draw 
back.  '  I'll  not  gang  ane  other  step,' 
says  I,  *  till  I  see  where  I  am.' 

"  It  was  an  unlucky  saying,  for  that 
moment  the  rascal  slipped  the  ban- 
dage off  my  een,  an'  where  I  was  I 
never  ken  to  this  day,  an'  never 
will  ken  till  the  day  of  judgment. 
There  were  dead  skeletons  stand- 
ing a'  around  me,  wi'  no  ae  pickin'  o' 
flesh  on  their  banes.  Their  een  were 
a'  out,  an'  naething  but  holes  where 
their  noses  an'  mouths  should  hue 
been,  My  flesh  turned  cauld,  and 


my  blood  fruze  in  my  heart,  an'  I 
hadna  power  to  advance  a  step. 
'  Come  on,  come  on,  Andrew,'  says 
the  chap,  for  there  was  nane  but  ane 
wi'  me  then.  '  Come  on.  See,  he's 
up  here.' 

"  I  lookit  as  weel  as  I  was  able,  an' 
there  in  truth  I  saw  the  Baron  at 
the  upper  end  of  that  frightsome 
place,  standing  a  fearsome  sight  in.- 
deed.  He  had  a  white  winding-sheet 
about  him,  and  his  face  was  as  white 
as  the  sheet.  Een,  lips,  an'  cheeks, 
were  a'  o'  the  same  dead  wan  colour. 
He  was  still  nothing  but  a  corpse — a 
cauld,lifeless  corpse — butyethe  held 
up  the  will  in  his  right,  and  began  a 
speaking  to  me  in  a  dead  man's  voice. 
My  heart  could  stand  nae  mair.  The 
chap  pushed  me  forret — and  I  shot 
backward — till  seeing  that  I  was 
coming  in  contac  wi'  this  miraculous 
leevin' corpse — Ifaintit — faintit  clean 
away;  but  I  heard  aye  his  awsome 
voice  soundin'  i'  the  lugs  o'  my 
soul,  though  my  body  was  nae  better 
nor  that  of  a  dead  man. 

"  Weel  I  can  tell  you  nae  mair ;  for 
when  I  came  to  mysell,  I  Avaa  lying 
in  another  house,  an'  some  doctors 
standin'  round  me  wi'  their  lances 
an'  knives  in  their  hands,  glowrin' 
like  chaps  catched  in  an  ill  turn ;  an' 
I'm  aye  convinced  to  this  day,  that 
they  were  either  gaun  to  mak'  a 
skeleton  o'  me,  or  a  leevin'  corpse. 
However,  I  brought  hame  the  will 
safe  in  my  neive,  that  has  made  my 
master  a  man.  I  bought  it  dear  first 
an'  last,  but  hae  nae  reason  to  rue 
what  I  did." 

Now  this  story  is  true,  but  again 
needs  explanation.  But  is  it  not  a 
pity  to  explain  away  so  good  and  so 
ridiculous  a  story,  which  was  most 
solemnly  believed  by  the  principal 
actor  ?  All  that  I  choose  to  tell  you  is 
this :  The  young  man  who  received  the 
L.5000  was  a  surgeon  and  apothecary ; 
the  betrothed  sweetheart,  and  shortly 
afterwards  the  husband,  of  Miss  Sally 
Aymers,  who,  it  will  be  remembered, 
was  an  offended  girl  of  great  shrewd- 
ness and  activity.  This  is  the  main 
cue  to  the  story;  and  after  this,  if 
any  gentleman  in  Britain  or  her 
colonies  (I  except  Ireland)  will  ex- 
plain to  me  perfectly,  how  every 
circumstance  was  effected,  I  shall  be 
in  his  debt  for  the  best  bowl  of 
whisky-toddy  ever  was  drunk.  And 
if  any  lady  do  it,  I  shall  be  in  hers 
for  a  song. 


1831.] 


Sir  H.  Parnell  on  Financial  Reform. 


457 


SIR  H,  PARNELL  ON  FINANCIAL  REFORM. 


TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  liLACKYVOOD's  MAGAZINE 


SIR, 


SIR  HENRY  PARNELL  is  now  a  part 
of  the  Ministry,  the  Board  of  Trade 
is  in  the  hands  of  a  zealous  believer 
in  his  opinions,  and  his  official  bre- 
thren have  given  proof  that  in  vari- 
ous essentials  they  regard  him  as  a 
leader.  His  book  on  Financial  Re- 
form may  be  in  some  measure  deem- 
ed an  exposition  of  the  policy  which 
will  be  generally  acted  on  by  the  ex- 
isting Cabinet,  and  this  gives  it  an 
importance  to  which  it  has  no  claim 
on  intrinsic  merit.  I  am  in  conse- 
quence led  to  bestow  on  it  some  re- 
marks, the  more  especially,  because, 
while  it  professes  to  treat  on  finan- 
cial matters,  the  leading  part  relates 
to  things  wholly  different.  Under 
the  pretence  of  lightening  the  burden 
of  taxation,  its  great  object  is  to  sub- 
ject commercial  law  to  sweeping 
change,  and  establish  another  new 
system  of  trade. 

I  say  another  new  system ;  for  Sir 
Henry  opposes  himself  decidedly  to 
that  of  Mr  Huskisson.  The  latter  and 
his  friends  always  represented  that 
their  system  was  to  be  one  of  protec- 
tion— was  at  least  to  give  protection 
equal  to  the  difference  between  Bri- 
tish and  foreign  taxation.  Sir  Henry, 
however,  deems  it  to  be  quite  as  bad 
as  the  old  prohibitory  one,  and  will 
tolerate  no  protection  in  either  law 
or  duty  j  he  will  levy  trifling  duties 
on  foreign  goods  for  the  sake  of  re- 
venue, but  for  no  other  object. 

Of  course,he  naturally  pronounces 
that  Mr  Huskisson's  free  trade  mea- 
sures have  not  been  in  the  least  in- 
jurious, and  that  the  unexampled  dis- 
tress which  has  so  long  sat  on  the 
community,  is  only  one  of  the  occa- 
sional fits  which  are  unavoidable.  As 
his  theory  makes  this  in  him  a  matter 
of  necessity,  his  proofs  mustnot  pass 
Avithout  notice. 

These  proofs  are, — Extracts  from 
writers  or  former  times,  shewing  that 
they  represented  the  country  to  be 
irrecoverably  sinking  ;  they  are 
worthless,  because  the  present  cir- 
cumstances of  the  country  are  whol- 
ly different  from  what  they  were  in 


former  periods,— Extracts  from  the 
newspapers  of  last  year,  stating  that 
trade  was  reviving  amidst  a  few  ma- 
nufacturing interests  :  it  was  pub- 
lished by  these  papers  and  known  to 
all,  that  the  revival  was  principally- 
produced  by  the  revolutionary  move- 
ments on  the  continent  which  trans- 
ferred an  immense  mass  of  business 
from  continental  merchants  and  ma- 
nufapturers  to  British  ones ;  but  this 
fact,  shewing  that  it  flowed  from  an 
accidental  and  temporary  cause,  is 
carefully  suppressed  by  Sir  Henry. 
At  the  time  when  he  wrote,  agricul- 
ture and  other  interests  were  in  the 
greatest  suffering.  The  revival  has 
had  little  effect  in  raising  general 
wages  from  the  famine  point  to  which 
they  had  fallen ;  it  is  now  vanishing, 
and  under  it  the  great  body  of  the  com- 
munity has  never  tasted  prosperity ; 
but,  on  the  contrary,  the  landowners 
have  been  compelled  to  reduce  large- 
ly their  rents.  Sir  Henry  pronounces 
that  the  arguments  and  conclusions 
of  those  who  charge  free  trade  with 
being  injurious,  are  "  quite  worth- 
less." On  what  does  he  ground  this 
oracular  decision  ?  He  gives  ex- 
tracts from  official  documents  to  shew 
that  the  free-trade  system  has  had 
little  effect  in  admitting  foreign  goods. 
It  might  have  been  expected  that  in 
common  fairness  his  extracts  would 
have  extended  to  all  the  commodities 
affected  by  the  system  ;  but  instead 
of  this,  he  leaves  many  important  ones 
unnoticed.  All  men  know  that  the 
changes  in  the  navigation  and  com 
laws,  the  enlarged  use  of  foreign 
salted  provisions,  cordage,  sails,  &c. 
by  the  colonies  and  shipping,  the  re- 
duction of  duties  on  foreign  seeds, 
skins,  lead,  &c.,  and  the  loss  of  boun- 
ties to  the  fisheries,  &c.,  were  as  much 
a  part  of  the  free-trade  system,  as 
the  admission  of  foreign  silks  and 
gloves.  Nevertheless,  on  its  effects 
here,  Sir  Henry's  extracts  are  totally 
silent;  not  a  line  does  he  oiler  to 
prove  that  there  has  been  no  material 
import  of  foreign  corn,  &c.  Agricul- 
ture, on  which,  according  to  some 
high  authorities,  half  the  population 


*4*8  -Sir  Jt.  Parnelt  on 

depends,  and  which  cannot  "be  dis- 
tressed without  involving  the  other 
half  in  suffering,  has  notoriously 
been  most  deeply  injured  by  the  sys- 
tem ;  and  he  does  not  even  attempt 
to  demonstrate  the  contrary. 

He  states — "  The  great  increase  in 
the  quantity  of  raw  silk  imported, 
proves  that  the  depressed  state  of  the 
silk  trade  in  1829  was  wholly  owing 
to  over-production.  Whatever  doubt 
may  have  been  felt  on  this  point,  is 
now  completely  removed  by  the  pre- 
sent revival  of  the  trade,  notwith- 
standing that  the  importation  of  fo- 
reign silk  goods  is  still  going  on." 

"lybes'he  disclose  what  the  import  of 
raw  silk  was  in  1829  ?  No.  In  that 
year  it  fell  off  about  fifty  per  cent, 
yet  the  trade  was  in  great  suffering 

"liritH  the  middle  of  1830.  In  botli 
years  the  import  of  foreign  silks  was 
very  large.  "We  are  therefore  to  be- 
lieve that,  because  the  trade  revived 
when  business  in  France  was  sus- 
pended by  the  revolution,  this  im- 
port had  not  the  least  share  in  in- 
rreasing  the  stock  of  silks  in  the 
market"* 

Touching  gloves,  Sir  Henry  says — 

' .  AWitt  kia  gloves  manufactured  in 
England  are  made  with  foreign  skins, 
and  as  none  but  kid  gloves  are  im- 
ported, the  great  increase  which  has 
taken  place  of  late  in  the  quantity  of 
kid  skins  imported,  shews  that  the 
depression  at.  the  glove  trade  was 
also  owing  to  over  production."  In 
1827,  8(55,176,— in  1828,  1,203,109, 
and  in  1829, 8G5, 1 57  pairs  of  foreign 
gloves  were  imported;  we  are,  how- 
ever, to  believe  that  they  did  not  in 
the  least  enlarge  the  supply  of 
gloves,  solely  because  there  was  an 
increase  in  the  import  of  skins ! 

It  is  known  to  all,  that  when  foreign 
silks  and  gloves  were  admitted,  the 
jkitish  manufacturers  were  compel- 
led to  make  a  very  large  reduction 
of  price,  as  the  only  means  of  saving 
their  trade;  that  this  reduction  was 
made  chiefly  through  the  sacrifice  of 
their  profits  and  wages,  and  that  it 
filled  the  silk  trade  with  insolvency. 

•^'lt"fe  'Equally  well  known,  that  in 
these  trades,  and  various  others,  the 

''litijibftof  foreign  goods  has  only  been 
prevented  by  the  most  injurious  sa- 
crifice of  profits  and  wages ;  and,  of 


Financial  Reform. 


[Sept. 


course,  that  such  sacrifice  has  been 
produced  by  the  free-trade  system. 
What  has  the  community  been  ascri- 
bing its  distress  to  ?  Principally  bad 
profits  and  wages :  the  master  has 
complained  that  he  could  not  obtain 
remunerating  prices,  and  the  la- 
bourer, that,  by  working  over-hours, 
he  could  not  earn  bread  for  his  fa- 
mily. Nevertheless,  Sir  Henry  does 
not  deign  to  say  a  word  on  the  ef- 
fects of  the  system  in  these  matters ; 
his  argument  really  is — it  has  caused 
no  material  import  of  foreign  goods ; 
ergo,  it  has  done  no  injury,  although 
it  has  produced  the  very  things  which 
overwhelm  you  with  distress. 

That  individual  cannot  be  a  very 
competent  financier,  who  never  en- 
quires what  effect  his  measures  will 
have  on  profits  and  wages — the  only 
sources  from  which  revenue  can  be 
drawn. 

After  saying  what  we  have  quoted, 
Sir  Henry  delivers  himself  of  this 
astounding  extract—"  So  that,  on  the 
whole,  it  may  be  stated,  in  the  most 
unqualified  language,  that  it  is  a  false 
inference  to  draw  from  the  distress 
which  did  prevail  some  time  ago  in 
these  manufactures,  that  the  altera- 
tion of  the  laws  in  1825  was  instru- 
mental in  producing  it."  Without 
uttering  a  single  syllable,  even  in  the 
way  ot  assertion,  to  shew  that  the 
alteration  did  not  produce  stagnation 
and  fall  of  prices,  which  involved 
the  two  trades  in  loss  and  distress  ; 
and  did  not  bind  them  to  prices 
which  would  not  yield  other  than 
distress  profits  and  wages,  he  pro- 
nounces the  indisputable  fact,  that 
it  did  so,  to  be  a  false  inference.  It 
may  be  stated  in  the  most  unquali- 
fied language,  that  Sir  H.  Parnell  is 
about  the  last  of  living  men  who 
ought  to  charge  others  with  false  in- 
ference. 

While  he  oracularly  puts  forth  the 
assumption  in  the  teeth  of  all  proof, 
that  a  system,  which  has  deeply  dis- 
tressed more  than  half  the  commu- 
nity, has  done  no  injury;  he  holds 
the  taxes  to  be  almost  equally  guilt- 
less. The  fact  that  far  more  than 
the  existing  ones  were  paid  with 
great  ease  a  few  years  ago,  compels 
us  to  believe  that  the  taxes  have  not 
been  in  themselves  a  cause  of  suffer- 


bns 


piJuan     ,  .     .  .    -  ..  ,  ....  .    .      •><  ,<4:  i;u  vnur 

e  s»lk  trade  has  been  again  for  some  time,  and  still  is,  in  great  depression. 


1831.]  /Sir  H.  Parnell  on  Financial  Reform. 

ing ;  but  we  are  constrained  by  Sir 


409 


Henry's  doctrines  to  think  that  they 
have  been  made  an  instrument  in 
producing  it.  He  very  truly  observes 
that  the  pressure  of  taxes  ought  to 
be  estimated  with  reference  to  "  the 
amount  of  the  national  income,  con- 
sisting of  the  incomes  of  all  the  classes 
of  the  community  out  of  which  the 
taxes  arc  paid"  It  necessarily  fol- 
lows, that  variations  in  this  income 
may  make  the  same  amount  of  taxes 
at  one  time  light,  and  at  another  in- 
tolerable in  its  pressure — that  a  di- 
minution of  it  must  be  equal  to  a 
proportionate  increase  of  taxes.  Of 
course,  without  proof  that  the  in- 
comes of  all  the  classes  of  the  com- 
munity out  of  which  the  taxes  are 
paid  have  sustained  no  decline,  his 
assumption  that  taxes  cause  little  in- 
jury, is  destroyed  by  his  own  doc- 
trine. ,  i$1h 
What  would  form  such  proof? 
Evidence  shewing  that  rents,  farm- 
ing, manufacturing,  and  trading  pro- 
fits, and  wages  of  all  descriptions, 
have  not  been  reduced.  Not  a  tittle 
of  such  evidence  does  he  give;  from 
the  official  account  of  the  import  of 
some  articles,  and  the  consumption 
of  others,  he  tortures  a  vague  as- 
sumption, that  general  income  has 
largely  increased.  To  shew  how 
thoroughly  worthless  it  is,  we  need 
only  state,  that,  notwithstanding  the 
increase  which  has  taken  place  in 
the  import  of  cotton,  wool,  and  silk, 
in  the  last  seventeen  years,  profits 
and  wages  have  in  the  same  period 
fallen  very  greatly  in  the  cotton, 
woollen,  and  silk  trades.  Now  what- 
ever may  have  been  the  increase  of 
population,  the  comparative  pres- 
sure of  taxes  must  be  estimated  by 
the  difference  of  income  to  the  indi- 
vidual ;  if  the  capitalist  have  only 
half  the  profit  he  had  six  or  seven 
years  ago,  and  the  workmen  have 
only  half  the  wages,  the  pressure  of 
taxes  has  really  been  very  greatly 
increased.  All  men  know  that  in 
the  last  few  years,  rents,  farming, 
and  other  profits,  general  wages — in 
a  word, "  the  incomes  of  all  the  classes 
of  the  community  out  of  which  the 
taxes  are  paid" — have  been  reduced 
far  more  in  proportion  than  taxes; 
therefore  the  pressure  of  the  latter 
has  been  much  augmented.  Never- 
theless, he  says,  "  The  annual  in- 


payment of  their  taxes,  is  probably 
greater  at  the  present  time  than  at 
any  former  period  of  our  history  !" 

The  following  are,  Sir  Henry's  opi- 
nions. Only  certain  of  the  taxes, 
amounting  to  about  eleven  millions, 
are  seriously  injurious,  and  they  are 
so  merely  from  being  erroneously 
levied :  if  they  were  raised  as  the 
remaining  thirty-nine  millions  are, 
"  the  whole  re.venue  would  be  paid 
without  any  seripu.s  injury."  Much 
of  the  evil  charged  on  taxes,  is  really 
produced  by  "  monopolies  and  pro- 
tections." By  the  corn  law,  the  pro- 
tecting duties  on  East  Indian  and 
foreign  sugar,  the  East  India  Com- 
pany's tea  monopoly,  and  the  pro- 
tecting duties  on  timber  in  favour 
of  the  shipowners  and  Canada  mer- 
chants, "  L.I 7,000,000  a-year  are  ta- 
ken from  the  pockets  o£  the  people, 
just  as  if  corn,  sugar,  tea,  and  timber 
were  taxed  to  that  amount,  and  the 
produce  paid  into  the  Exchequer. 
The  system  of  monopoly  and  pro- 
tection affects  almost  every  branch 
of  industry,  and  imposes,  by  increa- 
sing prices,  many  more  millions  of 
charge  on  the  public  than  these 
L.I 7,000,000,  all  which  press  on  the 
resources  of  the  count vy,  exactly  in 
the  same  way  as  a  similar  amount  of 
increased  prices  arising  from  taxa- 
tion, and  thus  make  the  taxes  appear 
to  be  much  more  burdensome  than 
they  really  are.  .^  j 

On  what  does  Sir  Henry  found  the 
distinction  he  draws  between  the 
eleven  and  the  thirty-nine  millions 
of  taxes  ?  Perhaps  the  former  press 
more  heavily  on  general  income  than 
the  latter  ?  No ;  they  are  injurious 
because  they  do  not,  like  the  rest, 
press  on  income.  He  says,  "  If  taxes 
fall  on  industry — that  is,  on  raw  ma- 
terials, on  manufactures,  or  on  trade 
— they  raise  prices;  by  raising  prict-s 
they  diminish  the  consumption  of  {he- 
productions  of  industry,  and  thus 
diminish  the  employment  of  capital 
and  labour,  and  check  the  accumula- 
tion of  new  capital.  But  if  taxes  fall 
on  persons  not  in  business,  who  have 
incomes  derived  from  rents,  tithes, 
dividends  on  stock,  interest  on  mort- 
gages, salaries  under  government, 
and  other  such  incomes,  (of  necessi- 
ty wages  must  be  here  included,) 
industry  is  but  little  injured  by  these 
taxes,  in  comparison  to  what  it  is  by 


come  of  the  people,  even  after  the     those  taxes  before  mentioned:  and 
*     f    '  ,. 


460 


the  country  may  go  on  paying  them, 
without  any  great  impediment  to  its 
becoming  richer  and  richer.  It  may 
be  true,  that  each  individual  who  pays 
a  tax  of  this  kind,  will  spend  less  on 
the  productions  of  industry ;  but  as, 
in  point  of  fact,  what  he  pays  is  trans- 
ferred by  government  in  various  ways 
to  other  individuals,  the  money  paid 
for  the  tax  is  still  expended  on  such 
productions.  So  that  before  a  cor- 
rect opinion  of  the  actual  effects  of 
taxation  can  be  formed,  it  is  necessary 
to  examine,  and  make  a  distinction  be- 
tween the  portion  of  taxes  which  falls 
on  industry,  and  that  which  does  hot." 

"  With  respect  to  the  evils  which 
the  taxes  occasion,  the  true  state  of 
the  case  is,  that  certain  of  them  which 
fall  on  raw  materials,  manufactures, 
and  trade,  and  others  which  are  car- 
ried to  excess  on  some  of  the  princi- 
pal articles  of  consumption,  (together 
producing  a  net  revenue  of  about 
L.I  1,000,000,)  are  as  injurious  as  it 
is  possible  for  taxes  to  be ;  but  that 
the  rest  of  the  taxes,  which  produce 
about  L.39,000,000,  are  paid,  for  the 
most  part,  voluntarily,  and  out  of  the 
surplus  of  the  incomes  of  individuals 
over  and  above  what  is  requisite  for 
purchasing  the  necessaries  of  life ; 
and  although  these  taxes  produce 
many  inconveniences  and  vexations, 
they  are  not  oppressive  and  destruc- 
tive in  the  way  they  are  commonly 
supposed  to  be."  Sir  Henry  states 
farther,  that  L.2  7,500,000  of  the  re- 
venue in  1827,  was  levied  on  articles 
of  luxury,  "  not  used  by  the  labour- 
ing class  but  to  a  limited  amount ; 
this  revenue  is  paid  by  the  wealthier 
classes,  and  the  duties  have  little  in- 
fluence on  wages  and  profits,  and 
consequently  on  national  industry." 

It  is  somewhat  amazing,  that,  after 
speaking  thus,  he  says  in  another 
part  of  his  work — "  The  makers  of 
the  laws  have  contrived  to  throw  the 
great  burden  of  taxation,  first,  by 
their  selection  Of  the  taxes  imposed, 
and  secondly,  by  their  selection  of 
the  taxes  repealed,  from  off  their 
shoulders  upon  the  industrious  class- 
es ;  so  that  out  of  the  L.50,000,000 
of  annual  revenue,  not  more  than 
L.6,000,000  falls  upon  the  property 
of  landlords."  This,  which  has  for 
its  object  to  strike  a  blow  at  land- 
owners, might  be  safely  left  to  the 
refutation  he  bestows  on  it  himself; 
but  I  will  observe,  with  regard  to  the 


SSir  H.  Parnell  on  Financial  Reform, 


[Sept 


taxes  imposed,  direct  ones  have  been 
intended  to  fall  the  most  heavily  on 
Wealthy  landowners,  who  at  this  mo- 
ment pay  several  which  scarcely 
reach  the  rest  of  the  community. 
The  industrious  classes  are  to  a  great 
extent  exempted  from  direct  taxes. 
Touching  indirect  ones,  every  com- 
modity, more  especially  consumed 
by  the  rich,  is,  on  his  own  doctrines, 
taxed  to  the  utmost  point  which  con- 
sumption will  sanction;  nay, he  main- 
tains that  foreign  spirits,  French 
wines,  &c.,  are  taxed  far  too  much. 
Turning  to  taxes  repealed — who  re- 
pealed that  on  property  ?  In  reality, 
Sir  Henry's  political  brethren,  and  I 
suspect  he  aided  them,  although  I 
have  not  the  means  at  hand  of  ascer- 
taining how  he  voted.  Almost  every 
other  has  been  repealed  for  the  ex- 
press purpose  of  benefiting  the  in- 
dustrious classes  in  one  way  or  an- 
other. While  he  censures  the  repeal 
of  the  beer  duties,  he  is  compelled 
to  confess  it  took  place  for  this  pur- 
pose. In  almost  every  important 
reduction  of  taxes  which  has  been 
made,  his  own  doctrines  have  been 
acted  upon,  and  his  party  and  him- 
self have  warmly  concurred. 

Of  course,  his  scheme  is,  to  abo- 
lish or  transfer  the  obnoxious  eleven 
millions  of  taxes,  and  destroy  all  mo- 
nopolies and  protections.  In  the 
first  place,  let  us  compare  these 
taxes  with  such  as  he  spares  on 
the  ground  of  innocence.  They  are 
the  duties  on  hemp,  barilla,  thrown 
silk,  timber,  bricks  and  tiles,  paper, 
glass,  soap,  starch,  foreign  spirits, 
and  tobacco.  We  do  not  name  the  re- 
pealed ones  on  coals,  &c.  And  some 
of  his  innoxious  ones  are,  the  duties 
on  malt,  hops,  sugar,  port  wine,  tea, 
coffee,  &c. 

Malt  is  just  as  much  a  raw  mate- 
rial as  barilla,  thrown  silk,  or  any 
other  of  his  raw  materials ;  and  it 
pays  almost  as  much  duty  as  them 
all.  The  duty  on  it  must  have  ns 
much  effect  in  raising  price  and  di- 
minishing consumption  as  any  other ; 
but  he  says  it  is  not  too  high.  Does 
this  inconsistency  arise  from  his  ani- 
mosity towards  the  landed  interest  ? 

He  decides  that  taxes  on  raw  arti- 
cles and  manufactures  are  injurious, 
because  they  raise  prices,  and  thereby 
reduce  consumption  and  employment 
for  capital  and  labour.  Now  it  is  a 
leading  principle  with  him  and  his 


1831.] 

brethren,  that  all  imported  goods 
must  be  really  paid  for  with  manu- 
factures j  if,  therefore,  taxes  on  su- 
gar, port,  coffee,  &c.,  reduce,  as  on 
his  doctrine  they  must,  the  consump- 
tion of  these  articles,  they  must, 
necessarily,  equally  reduce  the  con- 
sumption of  the  manufactures  given 
in  payment  for  them.  It  inevitably 
follows  that  these  taxes  are  quite  as 
injurious,  as  his  eleven  millions  of 
condemned  ones. 

•  To  better  his  case  Sir  Henry  inti- 
mates, that  taxes  on  materials  "  pro- 
duce an  evil  of  the  greatest  magni- 
tude," by  increasing  the  cost  of  pro- 
duction, and  lessening  the  means  of 
competition  in  the  export  trade. 
This  is  unpardonable,  because  he 
knows  it  has  been  the  system  of  this 
country  to  allow,  in  drawback,  the 
duty  contained  in  the  cost  of  export- 
ed goods. 

On  his  own  doctrines,  therefore, 
nearly  thirty  millions  of  his  thirty- 
nine  innocent  ones,  are  just  as  inju- 
rious as  the  eleven  he  is  hostile  to. 
It  is  Sir  Henry  who  thus  refutes 
himself,  but  I  shall  carry  refutation 
a  little  farther. 

Let  us  glance  in  detail,  at  his  ob- 
jections to  the  duties  he  censures. 
The  duty  of  L.4.  13s.  4d.  per  ton  on 
hemp  is  injurious,  because  it  raises 
the  prices  of  "  sails,  cordage,  and 
those  kinds  of  linen  which  are  in 
general  demand ;  and  by  thus  dimi- 
nishing the  consumption  of  them,  it 
diminishes  the  employment  of  capi- 
tal and  labour."  The  duty  received 
on  hemp,  in  1827,  was  something 
more  than  L. 104,000;  and  will  any 
man  in  his  senses  believe  that  this 
trifling  sum,  spread  over  all  the 
trades  which  use  hemp,  could  affect 
prices  so  as  to  injure  consumption  ? 
It  has  been  abundantly  proved  by 
the  fruits  of  relieving  hats,  leather, 
&c.,  from  duty,  that  the  abolition  of 
this  on  hemp  would  scarcely  be  felt 
by  the  consumer. 

The  duty  on  barilla,  which  "  is 
used  in  large  quantities  in  making 
soap,  raises  the  prices  of  the  mate- 
rials of  several  manufactures."  This 
duty,  perhaps,  amounts  to  L.45,000, 
or  L.50,000  per  annum,  and  its  re- 
moval would  not  reach  the  consumer. 
"  It  was  originally  and  avowedly  im- 
posed as  a  protection  of  the  manu- 
facture of  kelp,  for  the  exclusive 


Sir  H.  Parnell  on  Financial  Reform. 


461 


benefit  of  a  few  families  in  Scotland.'* 
It  was  lately  stated  in  Parliament, 
that  these  "  few  families"  compre- 
hend many  thousand  souls,  and  also, 
that  a  great  number  of  Irish  souls 
were  dependent  on  the  manufacture. 

"  If  thrown  silk  were  free  of  duty, 
the  price  would  be  reduced  by  the 
amount  of  the  duty;  for  our  own 
throwsters,  in  order  to  secure  a  sale 
for  their  silk,  would  be  obliged  to  in- 
troduce such  improvements  as  would 
enable  them  to  go  into  competition 
with  free  foreign  thrown  silks.  If 
they  could  not  make  such  improve- 
ments, and  lower  their  prices,  then 
the  silk  manufacturers  would  be  sup- 
plied with  oreign  silks:" — that  is, 
the  greater  part  of  the  capital,  and 
almost  half  the  labour  employed  in 
the  silk  trade,  would  be  destroyed, 
and  rendered  idle. 

"  The  duty  on  timber  affects  and 
injures  industry  in  a  great  variety  of 
ways,  in  consequence  of  its  being  so 
much  used  in  ships,  buildings,  ma- 
chinery, &c."  "  It  would  appear  as 
if  it  were  an  indispensable  prelimi- 
nary to  securing  a  permanently  suc- 
cessful competition  with  foreign 
ship-builders,  to  admit  timber  to  be 
imported  free  of  all  duty."  Sir  Henry, 
however,  contents  himself  with  re- 
commending such  a  change  of  duty 
as  would  render  it  impossible  for 
American  timber  to  be  "  imported 
and  sold  with  profit."  The  leading 
shipowners  possess  infinitely  more 
talent  and  knowledge  of  their  own 
business  than  Sir  H.  Parnell,  and 
they  aver,  that  the  change  he  propo- 
ses, would  injure  them  far  more  on 
the  one  hand,  than  benefit  them  oil 
the  other.  When  Ministers  disclosed 
their  intention  of  altering  the  duty, 
the  agents  for  the  sale  of  Baltic  tim- 
ber immediately  demanded  a  large 
advance  of  price ;  and  there  is  no 
doubt  that  they  would  obtain  a  con- 
siderable permanent  advance,  should 
they  gain  the  colonial  part  of  the 
trade.  It  may  be  confidently  assumed, 
that  colonial  timber,  by  enlarging 
supply  and  keeping  down  price, 
makes  the  difference  of  duty  in  its 
favour  almost  a  nominal  matter  to 
the  community.  Sir  Henry's  objec- 
tion, howevef,  to  the  timber  duty,  is 
— it  injures  industry.  There  is  always 
an  excess  of  ships,  houses,  factories, 
machinery,  &c.;  and  that  is  not  the 


462 


Sir  II.  Parncll  on  Financial  Reform, 


[Sept. 


least  reason  for  believing  that  the 
total  repeal  of  the  duty  would  make 
in  ihern  the  smallest  increase. 

The  duty  on  common  bricks  and 
tiles,  is  something  less  than  Gs.  per 
thousand,  and  few  people  will  think 
that  its  abolition  would  have  any 
effect  in  carrying  still  further  the 
excess  of  building. 

His  remark  that  the  duties  on  tal- 
low and  soap  are  "  exceedingly  in- 
jurious to  manufactures,"  may  be 
disposed  of  by  the  remark,  that  the 
very  few  manufactures  affected  by 
them  make  no  complaint.  The  duty 
on  foreign  tallow  is  only  3s.  2d.  per 
cut.,  and  it  can  have  little  effect  on 
the  general  price,  because  tallow  is  to 
so  great  an  extent  produced  at  home. 

Let  us  now  look  at  his  obnoxious 
duties  on  manufactures.  If  that  on 
paper  subject  the  manufacturer  to 
vexatious  regulations,  I  have  no- 
thing to  do  with  them ;  the  matter 
before  me  is  their  effect  on  consump- 
tion. Looking  at  the  cheapness  and 
uses  of  paper,  there  is  no  ground  for 
believing  that  exempting  it  from  duty 
would  materially  increase  its  con- 
sumption :  it  is  evident  that  the  lat- 
ter in  warehouses,  shops,  counting- 
houses,  &c.  would  be  to  a  great  ex- 
tent what  it  is,  if  the  price  were  re- 
duced one  half.  Sir  Henry  says, — 
"  The  greatest  evil  of  all  is,  the  high 
price  of  books  which  it  (the  duty) 
gives  rise  to."  This  is  something 
worse  than  assumption  ;  the  duty  is 
so  far  from  making  books  dear,  that 
it  does  not  affect  the  price  of  many, 
and  it  only  adds  a  trifle  to  that  of 
others,  so  far  as  regards  the  con- 
sumer. ^jfij 
Touching  glass,  he  says, — "  Ttye 
taking  off  the  duties  would  lead  to  an 
unlimited  extension  of  this  manufac- 
ture." What  is  his  evidence?  The  use 
of  a  great  number  of  articles  now  con- 
fined to  the  richer  classes  "  would  be- 
come universal  among  the  lower  or- 
ders." What  articles?  He  only  deigns 
to  name  plate  glasses  !  If  the  latter 
were  only  about  sixpence  per  Ib. 
cheaper,  every  house  in  the  United 
Kingdom — Ireland,  of  course,  inclu- 
ded— would  be  furnished  with  them! 
It  is  manifest  that  the  consumption 
of  fflass  in  windows,  bottles,  and  the 
jirticles  used  »y  the  upper  and  middle 
classes,  would  not  be  increased  by 
the  repeal  of  the  whole  duty ;  and 
that  it  would  rise  very  little  amidst 


the  lower  orders  if  the  price  were 
reduced  one  half.    The  duty  is  re- 
turned upon,  yet  he  gravely  asserts ' 
it  prevents,  exportation ! 

I  say  nothing  in  favour  of  the  duty 
on  soap.  .igod  sur 

On  the  whole,  then,  the  hemp  duty 
falls  to  a  large  extent  where  con- 
sumption is  not  affected  by  a  trilling 
difference  of  price,  and  its  abolition 
would  scarcely  reach  the  consumer 
where  the  contrary  is  the  case — the 
abolition  of  the  barilla  duty  would 
take  employment  from  a  very  large 
portion  of  capital  and  labour,  with- 
out cheapening  manufactures  suffi- 
ciently to  promote  consumption — 
the  abolition  of  the  duty  on  thrown 
silk  might,  on  Sir  Henry's  admission, 
destroy  some  millions  of  capital,  and 
deprive  perhaps  200,000  souls  of  em- 
ployment; and  foreign  thrown  silk 
would  certainly  be  considerably  rai- 
sed, if  the  manufacturers  had  to  de- 
pend solely  on  itj  therefore  silks 
would  be  little  cheapened  to  the  con- 
sumer— the  timber  duty  falls  princi- 
pally where  it  cannot  affect  con- 
sumption, and  in  other  quarters  its 
repeal  would  not  reach  the  con- 
sumer; a  vast  portion  of  the  con- 
sumers would,  on  their  own  decla- 
rations, be  grievously  injured  in  their 
power  to  consume  by  the  repeal — 
the  duty  on  bricks  and  tiles  falls 
where  it  manifestly  little  affects 
consumption — and  it  is  evident  that, 
to  an  enormous  extent,  the  con- 
sumption of  paper  and  glass  would , 
not  be  enlarged  by  giving  them  ex- 
emption from  duty.  It  will  be  ob- 
served that  not  one  of  these  duties 
materially  affects  the  lower  classes 
of  consumers  ;  if  some  of  them  make 
linens,  silks,  and  glass  a  fraction 
dearer,  there  are  cottons,  earthen- 
ware, &c.  as  substitutes.  It  is  certain 
that  the  abolition  of  duty  would  raise 
several  of  these  articles  abroad,  and 
in  consequence  the  benefit  would  be 
in  a  great  measure  monopolized  by 
foreigners.  The  price  of  tallow,  for 
example,  must  be  mainly  governed 
by  its  production  at  home ;  therefore 
the  repeal  of  the  duty  would  be  little 
more  than  an  addition  to  the  price  of 
the  foreign  produce.  -,->;<--\ 

Sir  Henry  decides  that  the  repeal 
of  the  duties  on  ashes  and  barilla,  m 
glass,  paper, hemp,  thrown  silk,  coals, 
and    in    part    soap,   amounting    to 
L.3,000,000,  would  lead  to  "  an  5m- 


1881.]  Sir  H.  Parnett  on 

mense  extension  of  all  these  trades, 
and  the  employment  of  some  hun- 
dred thousand  more  workmen,  and 
also  a  much  larger  amount  of  capi- 
tal." Now,  a  financier  ought  to  know 
that,  at  the  best,  the  repeal  of  any 
duty  cannot  add  much  more  than  its 
amount,  and  the  interest  of  the  capi- 
tal employed  by  it,  to  consumption. 
Assuming,  then,  that  the  L.3,000,000 
were  wholly  expended  in  additional 
consumption,  and  that  half  the  sum 
\vere  paid  for  labour,  it  would  em- 
ploy about  60,000  workmen  at  10s. 
per  week  each.  He  owns  that  it 
might  destroy  the  employment  of  the 
silk  throwsters,  and  it  would  have 
the  same  effect  to  the  people  em- 
ployed in  manufacturing  kelp  :  thus 
while  (>(),()()<)  people  might  gain  em- 
ployment on  the  one  hand,  great 
part  of  300,000  would  lose  it  on 
the  other.  But,  unhappily  for  him, 
Sir  Henry's  other  doctrines  will  not 
allow  that  the  repeal  of  these  duties 
would  raise  consumption.  He  says 
they  raise  prices ;  and  it  follows  that 
they  are  really  paid  by  consumers, 
and,  of  course,  in  a  large  degree  by 
people  whose  income  arises  from 
rents,  tithes,  dividends,  &c.  As  he 
holds  that  taxing  these  people  does 
no  injury  to  general  consumption, 
because  the  state  expends  the  money 
on  it  which  they  otherwise  would  ex- 
pend ;  it  must  be  true  that  the  repeal 
would  merely  transfer  expenditure 
from  the  state  to  individuals,  and 
would  yield  very  little  benefit  to  such 
consumption.  As  to  capital,  every 
pretender  to  financial  knowledge 
ought  to  be  aware,  that  duties  form 
a  great  source  of  employment  to  it; 
for  example,  a  tobacco  manufacturer 
requires  L. 10,000  for  doing  that  bu- 
siness which  he  could  do  with  L.I  000, 
if  his  article  were  free  from  duty. 
The  abolition  of  the  duties  would  di- 
minish employment  for  capital.  Put- 
ting this  out  of  sight,  the  silk  throw- 
sters and  kelp  manufacturers  employ 
perhaps  six  or  eight  millions  of  ca- 
pital—double or  treble  the  amount 
of  these  duties,  and  the  repeal  would 
destroy  much  of  it,  and  probably 
transfer  the  employment  of  the  rest 
to  foreign  capital. 

Now  let  the  repeal  of  these  duties 
be  contrasted  with  that  of  some  of 
his  innoxious  ones.  Looking  at  sugar 
and  tea,  they  rank  almost  next  to 
bread  as  necessaries  with  all  classes 


Financial  Reform. 

of  the  community.  Sugar  or  treacle 
is  used  by  the  very  poor  who  cannot 
afford  to  buy  shambles'  meat  or  even 
bread,  and  not  an  article  can  b« 
named  which  is  in  more  universal 
use.  The  duties  on  these  commo- 
dities really  fall  on  the  consumers, 
and  the  fact  that  a  vast  portion  of  the 
latter  would  use  twice  the  quantity 
they  do  if  they  had  the  means,  suffi- 
ciently proves  how  far  they  govern 
consumption.  Their  repeal  would 
injure  no  part  of  the  community.  It 
is  certain  that  if  sugar  were  freed 
from  duty,  an  enormous  additional 
quantity  would  be  consumed,  and 
that  this  quantity  would  be  paid  for 
with  the  productions  of  industry. 
Thus  then  stands  the  contrast.  If 
Sir  Henry's  injurious  duties  were 
repealed,  the  benefit  would  be  chiefly 
confined  to  producers,  importers, 
foreigners,  and  the  wealthier  classes 
— to  a  very  large  extent  it  could 
not  raise  the  consumption  of  the  ar- 
ticles on  which  the  duties  rest,  or 
reach  the  consumer — in  a  great  mea- 
sure it  would  be  the  gain  of  one  part 
of  the  community,  though  the  loss  of 
another — it  would  destroy  far  more 
employment  than  it  would  create — 
the  mass  of  the  population  could  de- 
rive no  advantage  from  it — and  it 
would  practically  transfer  taxes  from 
the  foreign  to  the  British  subject. 
If  his  innoxious  ones  were  repealed, 
the  benefit  would  go  chiefly  to  con- 
sumers— it  would  greatly  increase 
consumption — it  would  injure  none, 
and  be  universally  advantageous — it 
would  make  great  additions  to  em- 
ployment— and  it  would  be  espe- 
cially beneficial  to  the  mass  of  the 
community. 

Sir  Henry  is  the  most  unfortunate 
of  mortals  in  his  illustrations.  He 
lauds  the  Wellington  Ministry  for 
abolishing  the  duty  on  leather,  but 
is  hugely  wroth  with  it  for  doing  the 
same  with  that  on  ale  instead  of 
those  we  have  named.  It  is  asserted 
on  all  hands  that  the  removal  of  duty 
has  not  cheapened  leather  goods,  anjd 
of  course  it  cannot  have  increased 
consumption.  Beer  is  far  more  ge- 
nerally a  necessary  than  tobacco,  and 
the  duty  on  it  was  most  unjust,  be- 
cause it  was  levied  only  on  the  poorer 
classes.  He  says,  with  ignorance 
perfectly  astonishing — "  by  far  the 
greater  part  of  the  people  of  England, 
and  all  the  people  of  Ireland  and 


464 


Sir  H.  Parmll  on 


Scotland,  derive  no  advantage  from 
the  repeal."  The  error  is  too  glaring 
to  need  correction  from  us.  "  Upon 
closely  examining,"  he  states,  "  the 
probable  effects  of  the  repealing  of 
the  duty  on  beer,  none  can  be  found 
which  at  all  approach  in  general  use- 
fulness those  consequences  which 
would  certainly  have  sprung  from 
the  repealing  of  the  duties  just  men- 
tioned ;"  (those  oh  thrown  silk,  ba- 
rillas, &c.)  What  are  the  certain 
effects  which  have  flowed  from 
experiment?  An  increase  of  inalt 
and  hop  duty,  going  far  towards  re- 
placing to  the  revenue  the  lost  beer 
one ;  a  mighty  increase  of  employ- 
ment to  British  and  Foreign  growers 
and  carriers  of  barley,  hop-growers, 
maltsters,  brewers,  manufacturers  of 
glass  and  pewter,  cork-cutters,  ale- 
dealers,  &c. ;  and  a  large  increase 
to  the  comforts  —  I  might  almost 
say  the  necessaries — of  the  body  of 
the  community.  All  this  stands  on 
the  favourable  side,  without  a  single 
item  on  the  other.  Nevertheless  he 
gravely  assures  us  that  the  repeal 
of  the  leather  duty  was  a  wise  pro- 
ceeding; and  that  the  repeal  of  the 
beer  one  was  "  a  great  error,"  and 
will  yield  no  benefit  compared  with 
such  an  abolition  of  duties,  as  mani- 
festly would  be  almost  a  dead  loss 
to  the  revenue,  and  would  create  in- 
finitely more  injury  on  the  one 
hand  than  gain  on  the  other. 

We  will  now  look  at  Sir  Henry's 
injurious  taxes  on  luxuries.  In  that 
guilty  spirit  of  prejudice  which  ac- 
tuates them  throughout,  the  econo- 
mists admit  scarcely  any  thing  to  be 
a  necessary  save  corn;  sugar,  tert, 
shoes,  and  even  linen  shirts,  they  class 
amidst  luxuries.  As  the  poor  can 
about  as  easily  find  a  substitute  for 
bread,  as  they  can  for  tea  and  sugar 
or  treacle,  the  latter  have  as  much 
right  to  be  ranked  amidst  necessaries 
as  the  former. 

He  pronounces  that  some  of  the 
customs  duties  "  are  so  high  that  the 
effect  is  in  some  cases  to  diminish  the 
revenue,  and  in  all  to  create  smug- 
gling— and  farther,  to  greatly  dimi- 
nish the  importation  of  the  articles 
on  which  they  fall,  to  diminish  the 
demand  for,  and  the  exportation  of, 
our  o\vn  manufactures."  On  this 
ground  he  calls  them  "  exceedingly 
injurious." 

To  shew  the  worthlessness  of  the 


Financial  Reform.  [Sept. 

official  doctrine  so  often  put  forth, 
that  the  state  of  the  revenue  will 
not  allow  reduction  of  taxes,  Sir 
Henry  observes — "  there  is  no  diffi- 
culty in  proving  by  reference  to  ex- 
perience, that  a  diminution  of  tax- 
ation is  not  necessarily  followed  by 
a  diminution  of  revenue."  If  expe- 
rience would  only  furnish  the  com- 
fortable proof,  we  might  abolish 
fevery  duty  and  tax  without  reducing 
the  revenue  ;  but  unhappily  its  evi- 
dence is  of  a  contrary  character. 

Sir  Henry's  first  example  of  the 
evil  of  excessive  duties  relates  to 
those  on  brandy  and  geneva.  The 
consumption  of  them  was  greater  in 
the  four  years  preceding  1807,  when 
the  duty  was  14s.  a  gallon,  (W.  M.) 
than  it  Avas  in  the  four  following 
1814,  when  the  duty  was  18s.  lOd. 
a  gallon,  (W.  M.)  He  assigns  no 
reason  for  the  diminution  save  the 
increase  of  duty.  Now  it  happens 
that  on  an  average  of  the  three  years 
preceding  1812,  when  the  duty  had 
not  been  raised,  the  consumption  had 
declined  nearly  one-fourth,  as  com- 
pared with  his  first  average  of  four 
years ;  and  this  shews  that  other 
causes  as  well  as  duty  operated  to 
produce  the  decline. 

For  several  years  before  the  close 
of  the  war  foreign  spirits  were  al- 
most driven  out  of  consumption,  not 
by  duty,  but  by  the  difficulties  which 
the  war  threw  in  the  way  of  obtain- 
ing them  :  and  in  this  term  English 
gin  raised  itself  by  improvement, 
from  universal  dislike,  into  general 
favour.  When  they  were  again  ad- 
mitted by  peace,  they  had  to  encoun- 
ter this  formidable  competitor,  and 
soon  after  they  had  to  encounter  an- 
other, equally  formidable,  in  the 
shape  of  whisky.  These  causes  of 
their  reduced  consumption,  our  finan- 
cier does  not  notice.  Nevertheless, 
the  use  of  brandy  and  geneva  ban 
greatly  increased  since  1818,  and  is 
double  what  it  was  for  some  time 
before. 

Brandyj  geneva,  rum,  whisky,  and 
gin,  are  only  varieties  of  the  same 
article  j  and  the  duty  on  the  two  for- 
mer is  less  a  revenue,  than  a  protect- 
ing one :  Its  leading  object  is  to  pro- 
mote the  consumption  of  domestic 
and  colonial  spirits.  Every  one 
knows  that  it  makes  no  difference  to 
the  revenue,  if  that  which  causes  a 
decline  in  one  article,  produce  an 


1881.] 


Sir  H.  Parnell  on  Financial  Reform. 


465 


equal  increase  in  another.  In  an- 
other part  of  his  work,  Sir  Henry 
confesses  that  the  increase  in  domes- 
tic spirits  BBS  very  far  outweighed 
the  decline  in  foreign ;  therefore,  the 
high  duty  on  the  latter  must  have 
been  harmless.  He  proposes  that 
the  duty  on  brandy  and  geneva  shall 
be  made  the  same  as  that  on  British 
spirits,  allowing  Is.  Gd.  per  gallon  to 
gin,  so  long  as  the  corn  law  may  en- 
dure. It  is  very  clear  that  the  main 
eft'ect  of  this  would  be— the  substi- 
tution of  foreign  spirits  for  British 
in  consumption. 

Sir  Henry  says,  it  is  a  matter  of 
indifference  to  the  revenue,  whether 
it  be  collected  on  foreign  or  home- 
made spirits  :  —  Also,  "  If  more 
brandy,  and  rum,  and  less  British 
spirits,  should  be  consumed,  more 
British  goods  would  be  exported  to 
pay  for  the  brandy  and  rum;  and 
there  would  be  a  smaller  demand  for 
corn,  and  consequently  the  public 
would  have  an  advantage,  by  its  be- 
coming cheaper."  He  speaks  thus 
of  rum,  immediately  after  declaring 
that  the  high  duty  on  brandy  and 
hollands  was  imposed  to  promote  its 
consumption ;  and  when  his  propo- 
sal would,  on  the  whole,  rather  less- 
en than  enlarge  its  means  of  compe- 
ting with  domestic  spirits,  it  cannot 
now  maintain  its  ground  against 
whisky  in  England. 

His  plan,  on  his  own  admissions, 
would  drive  an  enormous  quantity 
of  domestic  and  colonial  spirits  out 
of  consumption,  and  greatly  diminish 
the  consumption  of  corn,  the  employ- 
ment for  industry  amidst  colonists, 
distillers,  rectifiers,  and  corn  grow- 
ers, and  their  means  of  paying  taxes. 
As  to  his  assertion  that  more  goods 
Avould  be  exported,  it  is  enough  to 
say,  that  the  brandy  would  be  bought 
of  a  country  which  rigidly  excludes 
our  manufactures,  and  the  geneva  of 
another  which  acts,  as  far  as  pos- 
sible, on  the  same  policy.  The  dog- 
ma of  Sir  Henry  and  his  brethren, 
that  foreign  goods  must,  of  necessity, 
be  paid  for  with  manufactures,  is  be- 
low notice.  It  is  refuted  by  official 
documents,  and  if  it  be  true,  it  must 
be  equally  so,  that  nothing  can  alter 
the  state  of  the  exchanges.  They 
might  as  well  assert  that  Brighton 
cannot  buy  goods  of  London,  with- 
out  paying  for  them  with  its  manu- 
factures. The  producers  of  domes- 


tic and  colonial  spirits  take  all  kinds 
of  the  productions  of  native  indus- 
try in  payment ;  those  of  foreign 
spirits  would  take  scarcely  any, 
therefore  exports  would  lose  from 
the  change.  He  does  not,  as  we  un- 
derstand him,  state  distinctly  what 
the  new  duty  ought  to  be,  but  he 
says,  it  should  be  sufficiently  low,  to 
prevent  smuggling,  and  also  it  should 
be  raised  on  whisky  in  Scotland  and 
Ireland.  The  matter  then  stands 
thus : — Sir  Henry  proposes  what  he 
confesses  would  grievously  injure  a 
mighty  portion  of  the  community, 
and  reduce  its  means  of  paying  taxes 
— cause  a  dead  loss  of  L.I, 500,000  to 
the  revenue,  and  raise  spirits  to  the 
people  of  Scotland  and  Ireland.  His 
great  objects  are,  benefit  to  the  re- 
venue ! !  I  and  the  prevention  of 
smuggling.  With  regard  to  the  lat- 
ter, it  is  manifest  from  what  he  says 
of  raising  the  duty  in  Scotland  and 
Ireland,  that  he  would  leave  it  suffi- 
ciently high  to  employ  the  smuggler, 
and  increase  smuggling  prodigiously, 
if  the  Preventive  Service  should  be 
abolished ! 

The  next  of  his  excessive  duties  is 
that  on  tobacco.  He  would  reduce 
the  duty  on  it  to  Is.  per  lb.,  solely 
to  prevent  smuggling.  After  such 
reduction,  the  smuggler  would  gain 
in  a  single  hogshead  of  tobacco  a 
profit  of  perhaps  L.70  on  L.24 ;  and 
it  would  produce  abundance  of  smug- 
gling without  the  Preventive  Service. 
But,  in  such  case,  he  says  the  duty 
should  be  still  farther  reduced.  Well, 
he  owns  the  first  reduction  would 
cause  a  loss  of  L.I, 500,000  to  the  re- 
venue; and,  of  course,  the  second 
would  raise  it  to  nearly  L.2,000,000  ; 
after  this,  the  Preventive  Service 
would  be  as  necessary  as  ever,  if 
the  duty  on  foreign  spirits  should 
not  be  reduced  to  almost  nothing. 

Another  of  his  excessive  duties  is 
that  on  French  wine.  It  injures  con- 
sumption, and  its  reduction  might 
lead  to  a  less  restricted  trade  with 
France.  With  regard  to  the  former, 
such  wine  is  only  one  variety  among 
many  of  the  same  commodity,  and 
the  chief  efi'ect  of  the  duty  must  be, 
to  cause  other  wines  to  be  used  in- 
stead of  it.  Sir  Henry's  prejudices 
appear  here  in  a  ludicrous  manner ; 
lie  says — "  As  England  need  no  longer 
be  bound  by  the  Methuan  treaty,  the 
duty  on  French  wines  should  be 


Sir  H.  Parnell  on  Financial  -Reform. 


[Sispt. 


lowered  below  that  on  stronger 
wines,  so  as  to  allow  the  former  to 
he  purchased  at  more  moderate  pri- 
ces." In  this  he  actually  proposes 
the  monstrous  injustice  of  making 
duty  the  lightest  on  the  highest  qua- 
lity, imposing  twice  as  much  ad 
valorem  duty  on  port  and  sherry  as 
on  French  wines,  and  exempting  the 
rich  in  a  great  degree  from  the  duty 
paid  by  the  less  wealthy.  He  per- 
petrates this  outrage  on.  his  own 
principles,  to  cause  the  perpetration 
of  another,  viz.  the  preventing  of  the 
people  from  going  to  the  cheapest 
and  best  market  for  their  wines. 
Portugal  can  undersell  France,  there- 
fore the  latter  shall  have  a  bounty 
from  the  taxes  of  England — the  com- 
munity shall  be  forced  by  heavy  duty 
to  consume  bad  claret  instead  of 
wholesome  port — discriminating  du- 
ties are  baleful  when  they  favour  the 
wine  and  timber  of  your  own  colo- 
nies, but  they  are  beneficial  when 
they  favour  the  wine  of  a  foreign 
nation,  which  rigorously  excludes 
your  manufactures  !  The  leading 
object  of  this  sage  scheme,  is  to  sub- 
stitute the  inferior  wine — for  the  bet- 
ter qualities  could  not  be  sufficiently 
cheapened  by  the  total  abolition  of 
duty — of  a  country  which,  to  the 
utmost  point,  will  not  take  goods  in 
payment,  for  the  good  wine  of  an- 
other country  which  will  give  our 
manufactures  a  monopoly  of  its  mar- 
Jfet  But  there  is  the  less  restricted 
trade  to  gain.  Well,  reduce  the 
duty  on  brandy  and  wine  as  he  pro- 
poses, and  what  temptation  will 
France  have  to  abandon  her  prohi- 
bitions ?  None.  To  induce  her  to 
abandon  them,  our  master  of  finance 
destroys  the  only  things  which  can 
make  it  her  interest  to  do  so.  j<>j}£[ 

Brandy,  Geneva,  tobacco,  and 
French  wines,  are  really  luxuries; 
with  the  exception  of  tobacco,  they 
are  little  used  by  the  body  of  the 
community,  aud  the  use  of  it  is  by 
no  means  general  amidst  the  latter  ; 
and  Sir  Henry,  on  the  whole,  would 
make  them  very  little  cheaper  than 
the  equally  good  articles  consumed 
in  lieu  of  them.  As  he  is  so  excess- 
ively anxious  to  reduce  the  taxes  on 
such  luxuries,  let  us  look  at  what  he 
says  of  commodities  which  are  much 
less  luxuries  than  necessaries  to  the 
mass  of  the  population. 

Tea  is  u  necessary  at  two  of  the 


daily  meals  of  man,  woman,  and 
child — poor  and  rich.  He  says— 
"  Although  there  appear  to  be  some 
very  strong  reasons  in  favour  of  re- 
ducing the  duty  on  tea,  as  this  arti- 
cle is  not  smuggled,  it  is  not  advi- 
sable to  make  any  change  until  the 
monopoly  of  the  East  India  Company 
be  got  rid  of;  for  however  low  the 
duty  might  be  reduced,  it  does  not 
follow  that  the  price  would  fall,  be- 
cause the  Company  have  the  power 
of  keeping  it  up,  by  limiting  at  their 
pleasure  the  quantity  imported  and 
sold.  He  pronounces,  that  the  mo- 
nopoly makes  tea,  exclusive  of  duty, 
twice  as  dear  as  it  ought  to  be,  and 
therefore  concludes,  "  it  is  not  im- 
possible but  that  tea  would  bear  a 
duty  of  100  per  cent,  if  the  trade  in 
it  were  free  and  the  price  lowered." 

He  asserts  tea  is  not  smuggled — 
it  is,  to  a  very  large  extent.  Putting 
this  aside,  he  admits  it  is  greatly 
adulterated ;  and  is  not  adulteration 
quite  as  destructive  to  revenue  and 
morals  as  smuggling?  Farther,  smug- 
gled spirits  and  tobacco  are  not 
more  injurious  to  health  than  those 
on  which  duty  is  paid;  but  adulte- 
rated tea  is  highly  so.  On  this 
point,  there  is  therefore  much  greater 
cause  to  reduce  duty  on  tea,  than 
there  is  to  reduce  it  on.  spirits  and 
tobacco.  ;  mioi noqo-iq  B  Jud  ; 

His  insinuation  against  the  East 
India  Company  only  shews  the  vio- 
lence of  his  prejudices.  Who  can 
believe,  that  if  Is.  or  Is.  Gd.  were 
taken,  from  the  duty  on  tea,  the 
Company  would  add  the  sum  to  the 
price  ?  [ma  ayiuoloo  sibul 

Thus,  the  duty  of  100  per  cent  on 
this  universal  necessary  is  to  re- 
main, even  though  the  monopoly  be 
abolished,  in  disregard  of  poisonous 
adulteration,  and  consequent  loss  of 
revenue  and  consumption,  present 
and  future.  -jfBO'uf  ,ui 

Sugar  is  still  more  a  necessary; 
it  is  used  at  all  the  daily  meals  of  all 
classes.  Saying  nothing  of  its  nutri- 
tious nature,  it  is  of  the  first  value 
in  converting  fruits  and  other  arti- 
cles into  food — in  increasing  food, 
touching  both  variety  and  quantity. 
Sir  Henry  says  the  duty,  which  he 
estimates  at  100  per  cent,  is  not  too 
high.  Wherefore  ?  Because  he  as- 
serts consumption  has  risen  concur- 
rently with  duty.  To  show  hpw 
worthless  his  unfair  selections  from 


1831.] 


Sir  H.  Parnell  on  Financial  Reform. 


official  documents  in  proof  are,  we 
will  observe  that  the  consumption 
of  sugar  was  greater  in  the  twelve 
years  which  preceded  181-2,  than  in 
the  twelve  following  ones ;  and  that 
in  the  four  which  preceded  1830,  it 
was  stationary.  It  is  his  doctrine 
that—"  In  no  instance  is  an  increase 
of  duty  followed  by  an  equal  in- 
crease of  revenue;"  and  this  is  pre- 
cisely the  same  as  asserting,  that  in 
every  case  increase  of  duty  dimi- 
nishes consumption;  nevertheless, 
in  the  teeth  of  it,  he  virtually  avers 
that  the  consumption  of  sugar  has 
not  been  injured  by  the  doubling  of 
its  duty. 

Sir  Henry's  great  objection  to  the 
high  duties  on  foreign  spirits,  tobac- 
co, and  French  wines,  is  that  they 
injure  consumption;  now,  it  so  hap- 
pens, that  for  a  considerable  number 
of  years,  the  consumption  of  these 
tides  has  increased  as  much  in  Bri- 
tain as  that  of  sugar;  and  it  inevita- 
bly follows,  thatconsumption  in  them 
has  not  been  more  injured  by  their 
duties,  than  it  has  been  in  sugar  by 
the  duty  on  the  latter.  The  reduc- 
tion he  proposes  touching  them 
would  evidently,  in  spirits  and  wine, 
only  transfer  consumption  from  one 
variety  of  a  commodity  to  another, 
without  materially  raising  that  of  the 
whole;  but  a  proportionate  reduction 
of  the  sugar  duty  would  add  very 
greatly  to  consumption.  On  the  lat- 
ter po'int,  we  must  call  Sir  Henry  as 
a  witness;  he  states — if  foreign  and 
East  India  sugar  were  admitted  at 
the  duty  paid  by  that  of  the  West 
India  colonies,  and  the  latter  were 
allowed  to  refine,  such  a  reduction 
of  price  would  be  the  consequence, 
as  would  add  about  one-seventh  to 
consumption.  Mr  Huskisson  repre- 
sented the  monopoly  enjoyed  by 
these  colonies  to  be  of  little  benefit 
to  them,  because  they  were  compell- 
ed to  take  the  prices  obtained  by  fo- 
reign producei's  of  sugar ;  and  the 
same  is  taught  by  Sir  Henry's  bre- 
thren ;  of  course,  the  fall  of  price 
could  only  be  small.  Suppose  we 
take  it  at  3s.  per  cwt.,  this  is  one- 
eighth  of  the  duty.  He  proposes  that 
foreign  spirits  and  tobacco  shall  be 
relieved  from  two-thirds  of  their 
duty  ;  let  us  therefore  enquire  what 
similar  treatment  of  sugar  would  pro- 
duce. If  a  reduction  of  3s.  per  cwt. 
would  add,  as  he  says,  500,000  cwt.  to 


467 

consumption,  one  of  16s.  would  add 
more  than  2,500,000  cwts. — would 
raise  consumption  from  3,600,000  to 
6,100,000  cwt.  We  speak  solely  on 
Sir  Henry's  data;  yet  he  maintains 
that  the  sugar  duty  is  not  so  high  as 
to  injure  consumption,  and  that  it 
was  "  a  great  error,"  to  reduce  the 
duty  3s.  per  cwt.  in  the  last  session. 

He  confesses  his  reduction  on  spi- 
rits and  tobacco  would  cause  a  dead 
loss  to  the  revenue  of  L. 3,000,000 ; 
were  the  sugar  duty  reduced  to  two- 
thirds,  the  loss  to  the  revenue,  allow- 
ing for  the  increase  of  consumption, 
would  be  much  less.  While  hia  re- 
duction would  be  scarcely  felt  by 
the  mass  of  the  community,  that  on 
sugar  would  be  universally  benefi- 
cial. 

What  ships  would  carry  the  addi- 
tional quantity  of  sugar  ?  British  ones 
solely.  What  would  be  given  in  pay- 
ment for  it  ?  The  productions  of  na- 
tive industry.  Who  would  receive 
the  profit  on  it?  British  subjects. 
The  benefits  to  industry  and  trade 
would  be  at  least  one  hundred  times 
greater  than  those  which  would  flow 
from  the  reduction  on  spirits  and 
tobacco. 

I  will  now  notice  one  of  the 
most  amazing  assumptions  ever  put 
forth  by  mortal  prejudice  and  frailty. 
Sir  Henry  finds  that  the  consumption 
of  malt  has  been  stationary  for  the 
last  forty  years.  It  might  be  expect- 
ed an  individual  who  holds  that 
increase  of  duty  invariably  lessens 
consumption,  would  charge  this  on 
the  heavy  duties  imposed  on  malt 
and  beer.  He,  however,  in  relent- 
less demolition  of  his  own  doctrine, 
wholly  exonerates  these  duties,  and 
throws  the  blame  on  the  excise  regu- 
lations. Perhaps  the  latter  would 
not  sufler  people  to  drink  more  than 
a  certain  quantity  of  beer,  or  they 
would  not  permit  brewers  to  brew- 
more,  or  they  prohibited  maltsters 
from  making  more  than  a  certain  por- 
tion of  malt  ?  No  such  thing, — they 
placed  no  limits  on  driuking,brewing, 
and  malting.  How  then,  in  the  name 
of  wonder,  did  they  keep  the  con- 
sumption of  malt  stationary  ?  They 
vexed  and  injured  the  maltster. 
Well,  this  could  not  diminish  con- 
sumption, if  he  still  made  as  much 
malt  as  he  could  sell.  But  they  add- 
ed a  trifle  to  the  price  of  malt.  This, 
at  any  rate,  could,  pot  injure  con- 


468 


Sir  H.  Parnett  on  Financial  Reform. 


sumption,  if  the  heavy  duties  did  not. 
Alas  !  as  Sir  Henry  otters  no  other 
solution,  I  can  only  reply  farther 
by  the  assumption,  that  people,  in 
pity  for  the  poor  maltster,  and  indig- 
nation against  the  exciseman,  must 
have  scorned  to  enlarge  their  pota- 
tions of  beer  and  ale  ;  if  these  drink- 
in*  times  be  not  over  much  in  favour 
ofjmy  assumption,  I  cannot  help  it. 

It  so  happens  that  the  repeal  of 
the  duty  on  malt  liquor  has  at  once 
produced  a  very  great  increase  in 
the  consumption  of  malt  in  spite  of 
the  regulations  :  There  is  too  much 
reason  to  suspect  it  has  had  such 
operation  from  sheer  malice  against 
Sir  Henry,  for  condemning  it. 

This  is  not  the  only  awkward  and 
unpleasant  part  of  the  matter  to  our 
Financier.  If  the  malt  and  beer  duties 
had  no  share  in  keeping  the  con- 
sumption of  malt  stationary,  it  inevi- 
tably follows  that  the  duties  on  fo- 
reign spirits  and  tobacco  have  no 
share  in  injuring  their  consumption, 
particularly  as  the  latter  has  risen 
considerably  in  late  years.  The  com- 
parative amount  of  duties  is  nothing, 
for  he  tells  us  it  is  when  they  injure 
consumption  that  they  are  injurious. 
In  this  malt  affair,  Sir  Henry  heroi- 
cally cuts  to  pieces,  in  lofty  disdain 
of  giving  quarter,  all  his  arguments 
and  conclusions  for  proving  that  du- 
ties on  foreign  spirits,  tobacco, 
French  wines,  barilla,  glass,  &c.  &c. 
are  so  excessive  as  to  diminish  con- 
sumption. 

Even  this  is  not  all.  He  praises 
Lord  Goderich,  as  the  first  Minister 
who  reduced  true  principles  to  prac- 
tice. Now  this  Minister  declared 
that  by  doing  it,  he  made  the  colonies 
integral  parts  of  the  empire;  of  course 
we  are  to  believe  that  Jamaica  and 
Canada  are  in  reality  as  much  integ- 
ral parts  of  the  empire  as  Kent  and 
Middlesex.  Sugar  and  malt  are  ma- 
terials of  manufactures,  and  also  ma- 
nufactures ;  they  are  as  much  so  as 
barilla,  thrown  silk,  glass,  and  soap; 
and  the  producers  of  sugar  are  to  be 
deemed  a  part  of  the  community.  If 
duties  on  them  be  not  injurious  to 
industry  and  trade,  his  reasoning  to 
show  that  duties  on  other  materials 
and  manufactures  are  so  injurious,  is 
of  necessity  overthrown  by  himself. 

Farther,  Sir  Henry  warmly  cen- 
sures the  duty  on  soap  for  being  in- 
jurious to  the  poor.  The  pound  of 


[Sept. 

hard  soap  pays  a  duty  of  3d.,  and  its 
shop  price  is  now  7d. — the  pound 
of  sugar  pays  a  duty  of  2id.,  and 
its  price  is  5d.  and  6d.,  excepting 
the  best  quality — the  ounce  of  tea, 
such  as  is  consumed  by  the  labour- 
ing orders,  pays  a  duty  of  about  1  £d., 
and  its  price  is  3d.  or  4d.  I  shall 
not  err  'greatly  if  I  state  the  weekly 
consumption  of  a  labourer's  family 
to  be  one  pound  of  soap,  two  pounds 
of  sugar,  and  three  ounces  of  tea.  It 
follows  that  this  labourer  pays  a  tax 
weekly,  on  soap,  of  3d. ;  on  sugar,  of 
5d. ;  and  on  tea  of  4d.  or  5d. ;  and  it 
follows  in  addition,  that  the  reduc- 
tion of  half  the  duty  on  sugar  or  tea 
would  benefit  him  nearly  as  much  as 
that  of  the  whole  soap  duty.  We 
need  not  say  that  soap  is  much  less 
a  necessary  than  sugar  and  tea.  Sir 
Henry  utterly  destroys  his  doctrine 
that  the  duty  on  the  first  article  is 
injurious  to  the  poor,  by  assuming 
that  those  on  the  two  latter  are  not 
so. 

Thus,  while  he  is  anxious  to  abo- 
lish duties  on  such  luxuries  as  we 
have  described  brandy,  &c.  to  be,  he 
is  equally  anxious  to  retain  them  on 
articles  which  are,  in  a  great  mea- 
sure, necessaries,  although  their  abo- 
lition on  these  articles  would  yield 
incalculably  more  benefit  of  every 
kind,  than  it  would  yield  on  the  luxu- 
ries. 

I  must  observe,  that  Sir  Henry's 
proofs  in  support  of  his  doctrine, 
that  increase  and  decrease  of  duty 
must  lessen  and  enlarge  consumption, 
display  groat  unfairness.  I  have  alrea- 
dy shewn,  that  in  accounting  for  the 
decline  in  the  consumption  of  foreign 
spirits,  he  takes  no  notice  of  the  ef- 
fects of  war  and  the  improved  qua- 
lity of  domestic  spirits.  In  account- 
ing for  that  of  tobacco  in  Ireland, 
he  says  nothing  of  the  tobacco  grown 
there.  In  accounting  for  that  in  glass, 
and  various  other  articles,  he  makes 
no  mention  of  the  operation  of  na- 
tional distress  on  the  means  of  con- 
suming, or  the  changes  of  custom. 
In  several  cases  he  obtains,  by  an 
unjust  selection,,  of  years,  a  result 
very  different  from  that  which  a  just 
selection  would  have  given.  Sir 
Henry's  evidence,  that  the  revenue 
drawn  from  an  article  may  increase 
after  the  duty  on  it  is  reduced,  is  of 
no  value ;  because  the  reduction  can- 
not, in  any  case,  add  as  much  to  con- 


Sir  II.  Parnell  on  Financial  Reform. 


469 


sumption  as  will  produce  its  own 
amount  of  revepue.  Suppose  that  the 
price  of  an  article  consists  of  duty 
to  the  extent  of  two-thirds,  and  that 
L.2,000,000  of  the  duty  are  taken  off; 
if  the  community  expend  the  whole 
in  consuming  an  additional  quantity 
of  the  article,  only  two-thirds  of  it 
can  go  into  the  Exchequer.     There 
will  be  a  gain  to  industry  on  the  one 
hand,  but  on  the  other  there  will  be 
some  increase  of  price,  and  the  loss 
of   government  expenditure.     The 
great  increase  in  the  consumption  of 
spirits,  has  been  in  a  large  degree 
caused  by  the  transfer  of  the  con- 
sumption of  other  things  to  them ; 
the  habit  of  drinking  has  been  pro- 
duced by  their  cheapness,  and  the 
habitual  drinker  confines  to  them,  as 
far  as  possible,  his  expenditure.   Sir 
Henry  gives  an  extract  from   the 
Edinburgh   Review,  which    states, 
that  if  a  commodity  be  kept  from  the 
reach  of  the  lower  classes  by  high 
duty,  the  removal  of  the  latter  may 
give  it  a  great  consumption  among 
them.     This  is  true ;  but  if  they  do 
not  pay  the  high  duty,  its  abolition 
can  add  little  to  their  means  of  con- 
suming, therefore  they  can  only  con- 
sume the  commodity  through  a  trans- 
fer of  consumption.     Suppose  that 
the  price   of   port  wine   consisted 
chiefly  of  duty ;   if  the  latter  were 
taken  off,  these  classes  would  be 
great  consumers  of  the  wine ;  but  as 
they  now  consume  none,  they  could 
only  be  so  by  consuming  less  of  other 
things.     The   increase  in  the   con- 
sumption of  spirits  has  greatly  redu- 
ced that  of  other  commodities.    The 
revenue  is  not  benefited,  if  it  gain 
on  one  article  by  losing  on  another. 
Sir  Henry's  doctrine  is,  that  duties 
injure  consumption,  by  raising  prices 
to  the  consumer ;    it  follows,  then, 
that  their  abolition  cannot  benefit  it, 
if  it  do  not  reduce  prices.  Of  course, 
before    abolishing    any  duty,  it   is 
essential  to   ascertain,  1.  Who  the 
real  consumers  are ;  and,  2.  Whether 
it  will  reduce  price  to  them. 

The  real  consumers  of  wine  and 
cotton  are,  not  the  merchants  and 
manufacturers,  but  those  who  drink 
wine  and  wear  wrought  cottons  ;  in 
like  manner,  the  real  consumers  of 
timber,  bricks,  and  tiles,  are  not  the 
builders  and  owners  of  ships  and 
houses,  but  those  who  last  consume 
goods  on  which  freight  is  paid,  and 


pay  rents.  If  the  abolition  of  the 
duties  on  timber,  bricks,  and  tiles, 
will  not  reduce  freights  so  far  as  to 
reduce  the  price  of  goods  to  the  com- 
munity at  large,  or  enlarge  the  em- 
ployment of  shipping  in  other  ways, 
or  diminish  rents,  the  cost  of  wooden 
implements;  it  will  not  increase  conr 
sumption,  because  it  will  not  reduce 
prices  to  the  real  consumers.  It 
may  add  something  to  the  profits  of 
shipowners,  the  proprietors  of  build- 
ings and  building-ground,  &c. 

Now  Sir  Henry  gives  an  intermi- 
nable list  of  articles,  the  custom  du- 
ties on  which  are  all  to  be  swept  away 
in  a  mass,  because  the  articles  are 
used  in  manufactures.  A  glance  may 
convince  any  man  that  the  abolition, 
in  most  cases,  would  not  yield  the 
least  benefit  to  the  real  consumer. 
From  the  official  account  of  the  re- 
venue produced  by  the  articles  in 
1827, 1  will  give  a  few  extracts : — 

Cork,  with  a  duty  of  8s.  per  cwt., 
produced  nearly  L.2 1,000.  The  real 
consumers  of  it  are  those  who  drink 
wine,bottled  ale,and  porter,medicine, 
&c.;  and  would  they  buy  these  cheap- 
er, if  such  duty  were  abolished  ? 

Mahogany,  with  a  duty  of  50s.  per 
ton,  produced  nearly  L.70,000  ;  and 
would  furniture  made  from  it  be 
cheaper,  if  such  duty  were  abolish- 
ed? 

Human  hair,  with  a  duty  of  Is.  per 
Ib.  produced  nearly  L.3000 ;  and 
would  articles  made  from  itbe cheap* 
er  by  the  abolition  of  the  duty  ? 

Hides,  with  a  duty  of  4s.  8d.  dry, 
and  2s.  4d.  wet,  per  cwt.,  produced 
L.26,000;  and  would  the  articles 
made  from  them  be  cheapened  by 
the  abolition  of  such  a  duty  ? 

Indigo,  with  a  duty  of  3d.  on  Bri- 
tish, and  4d.  on  foreign,  per  Ib.,  pro- 
duced L.3 1,000 ;  and  would  the  abo- 
lition of  the  duty  cheapen  goods 
dyed  with  it  ? 

Seeds  of  all  kinds,  with  various 
duties,  produced  nearly  L.I 07,000  ; 
and  would  their  exemption  from  duty 
cheapen  clover,  vegetables,  mustard, 
&c? 

Raw  silk,  with  a  duty  of  Id.  per 
Ib.,  produced  nearly  L.I 6,000;  and 
would  the  removal  of  such  a  duty 
cheapen  wrought  silks  ? 

Tallow,  with  a  duty  of  3s.  2d.  per 
cwt.,  produced  nearly  L.100,000 ;  and 
would  the  abolition  of  such  duty 
cheapen  caudles  and  soap  ? 


Sir  If.  Parnell  on  Financial  Reform. 


470 

Foreign  raw  cotton,  with  a  duty  of 
from  one  farthing  to  a  halfpenny  per 
lb.,  produced  above  L.332,000 ;  and 
would  the  removal  of  this  duty  cheap* 
en  wrought  cottons  ? 

Wool,  with  a  duty  of  from  J  to  Id. 
per  lb.,  produced  L  106,000;  and 
would  woollens  be  cheapened  by  the 
abolition  of  this  duty  ? 

Quicksilver,  with  a  duty  of  6d.  per 
lb.,  produced  nearly  L.5000 — rags, 
with  one  of  5s.  per  ton,  produced 
L.2,000 — saltpetre,  with  one  of  6d. 
per  cwt.,  produced  L.4000  —  and 
slates,  with  various  ones,  produced 
L.39,000 ;  would  the  abolition  of  these 
duties  lower  prices  and  house  rent 
to  the  real  consumers  ? 

These  are  fair  specimens  of  the 
whole.  In  most  cases,  the  duty  forms 
such  a  trifling  part  in  the  price  of 
the  manufactured  goods  into  the  com- 
position of  which  each  article  enters, 
that  its  abolition  would  not  enable 
the  retailer  to  reduce  his  prices.  In 
many,  the  article  is  produced  at  home, 
and  the  removal  of  import  duty  would 
have  no  effect  on  its  price  worthy  of 
notice.  The  general  abolition  of  the 
duties  might  cause  the  manufacturer 
and  wholesale  dealer  to  make  a  small 
reduction  of  price,  but  not  one  which 
would  enable  the  retailer  to  reduce 
his.  In  very  many  cases,  it  would 
only  cause  foreign  producers  to  raise 
in  proportion  their  prices ;  but,  ge- 
nerally, it  would  not  cheapen  manu- 
facturedgoods  to  the  real  consumers. 

Sir  Henry  says,  it  would  enable 
our  manufacturers  to  take  two  or 
three  per  cent  less  for  their  goods 
abroad.  If  it  really  would  take  so 
much  from  the  cost  of  production, 
the  manufacturer,  .wholesale  dealer, 
and  retailer,  have  commonly  each 
his  profit  on  a  manufactured  article ; 
and  should  they  divide  three  per 
cent  among  them,  would  the  retailer 
reduce  his  price  by  being  enabled  to 
buy  one  per  cent  cheaper?  But  in 
many  cases  the  duty  does  not  amount 
to  more  than  one,  or  even  a  half  per 
cent,  in  the  price  of  the  wrought 
commodity.  He  represents  that  our 
manufacturers,  by  being  enabled  to 
sell  so  much  cheaper,  might  gain 
markets  abroad  from  foreign  compe- 
titors. If  they  would  make  this  re- 
duction in  their  prices,  could  not 
the  foreign  competitors  reduce  theirs 
by  lowering  wages,  or  some  raw 
article  ?  Yes,  the  loss  of  a  consider- 


[Sept. 


able  market  would  alone  reduce 
wages,  &c.,  to  these  foreigners. 

The  whole  of  these  duties  amount- 
ed in  1827,  exclusive  of  that  on  coals, 
which  has  properly  been  abolished, 
to  more  than  L.3,300,000.  This  in- 
cludes the  timber  duties.  With  re- 
gard to  the  latter,  the  shipowners 
declare  that  abolition  would  greatly 
reduce  their  ability  to  consume  tim- 
ber, and  I  have  already  shewn  that 
it  could  scarcely  reach  the  real  con- 
sumers. Touching  the  rest,  it  is 
manifest  that  the  real  consumers 
would  draw  hardly  any  reduction  of 
prices  from  their  abolition. 

The  duty  on  bricks  and  tiles, 
starch,  glass,  and  paper,  produces 
L.  1,700,000;  it  is  evident  that  the 
abolition  would  have  little  effect  on 
price  to  the  real  consumer,  and  would 
yield  trifling  benefit  to  consump- 
tion. 

Sir  Henry  owns  that  his  proposed 
reduction  of  the  duty  on  foreign  spi- 
rits and  tobacco  would  cause  a  loss 
to  the  revenue  of  L.3,000,000.  As  it 
would  make  spirits  dearer  in  Scot- 
land and  Ireland,  and  do  little  more 
in  England  than  cause  one  kind  to 
be  used  instead  of  another;  more- 
over, as  it  would  lessen  the  means 
of  consumption  to  a  large  part  of 
the  community ;  it  could  add  little 
to  the  general  consumption  of  spi- 
rits. It  might  raise  much  that  of 
tobacco. 

Our  Financier  then, would  abolish 
duties  to  the  amount  of  L.8,000,000, 
in  order  to  increase  consumption, 
when  it  is  matter  of  demonstration 
that  the  abolition  on  the  whole  could 
scarcely  reach  the  real  consumer, 
and  would  add  nothing  to  consump- 
tion worthy  of  notice.  Although  it 
might  increase  the  profits  of  one 
part  of  the  community,  it  would 
lessen  in  a  greater  degree  those  of 
the  other ;  therefore  the  balance  on 
them  would  be  against  consump- 
tion. Assuming  that  the  inhabitants 
of  the  colonies  practically  form  a 
part  of  the  community,  an  enormous 
part  of  the  latter's  trade  in  produ- 
cing, manufacturing,  and  carrying, 
would  be  transferred  by  the  abolition 
to  foreign  countries.  Through  this, 
and  the  ability  given  them  to  raise 
their  prices,  foreigners  would  mono- 
polize the  chief  part  of  the  benefit. 
To  a  vast  part  of  the  population  of 
this  empire,  the  abolitiou  would  be 


1831.] 


£!/>•  H,  Parnell  on  Financial  Reform. 


equivalent  to  the  imposition  of  a 
grievous  amount  of  new  taxes.  What 
real  difference  is  there  between  com- 
pelling the  farmer  to  pay  L.20  per 
annum  in  additional  taxes,  and  taking 
the  same  sum  from  him  by  reducing 
the  price  of  his  corn  ? 

As  the  abolition  would  add  nothing 
of  moment  to  consumption,  it  would 
cause  a  dead  loss  of  about  .£8,000,000 
to  the  revenue — Can  this  sum  be 
spared  ?  No,  replies  Sir  Henry  ;  but 
to  cover  it,  there  will  be  savings ; 
the  Preventive  Service  can  be  abo- 
lished. 

Many  of  your  readers  are  old  enough 
to  know  from  experience,  that  when 
the  duty  on  spirits  and  tobacco  was 
about  as  low  as  he  proposes  to  make 
it,  smuggled  spirits,  tobacco,  and  tea, 
abounded  more  than  they  now  do. 
To  prevent  smuggling,  the  Preven- 
tive Service  must  be  preserved,  or 
the  duty,  on  not  only  spirits  and  to- 
bacco, but  tea  and  some  other  arti- 
cles, must  be  reduced  to  almost  no- 
thing. If,  therefore,  this  service  be 
abolished,  additional  duties,  amount- 
ing to  perhaps  thrice  the  sum  it  costs, 
must  be  abolished  also,  or  the  reve- 
nue must  lose  more  than  such  sum 
through  smuggling.  No  saving  can 
be  found  here. 

Then,  says  our  Financier,  much 
new  revenue  could  be  gained  by  per- 
mitting machinery  to  be  exported  at 
a  moderate  duty.  What  would  ma- 
chinery be  exported  to  do  ?  To  'ena- 
ble foreign  countries  to  manufacture 
for  themselves,  instead  of  buying  of 
us ;  this  is  certain,  because  the  kinds 
of  it  not  wanted  solely  for  such  pur- 
pose, have  now  freedom  of  export. 
Sir  Henry  holds,  that  what  we  have 
to  fear  most  in  respect  of  trade  and 
finances,  is  the  increase  of  manufac- 
turing in  other  countries.  As  the 
export  of  machinery  would  have  no 
other  object  than  to  promote  such 
increase,  it  is  clear,  on  his  own  doc- 
trine, that  it  would  produce  to  the 
revenue  much  more  loss  than  gain. 

Then  there  is  retrenchment.  At 
the  best,  it  can  only  yield  a  trifle. 

And  Sir  Henry  says,  there  must  be 
new  taxes,  and,  especially,  an  income 
tax.  The  other  measures  would 
self-evidently  cause  an  additional 
loss  of  revenue ;  therefore,  at  the 
best,  his  abolition  of  L.8,000,000  of 
old  taxes  would  render  it  necessary 
to  levy  the  same  amount  of  new 

VOT,.  XXX.  NO,  CLXXXV. 


ones.  If  our  Financier  would  only 
cheapen  goods  on  the  one  haud  as 
much  as  he  would  reduce  the  in- 
comes of  those  who  buy  them  on 
the  other,  he  would  at  any  rate  in- 
flict no  loss  on  consumers,  although 
he  would  bestow  on  them  no  pro- 
fit; but  unhappily  he  does  some- 
thing infinitely  worse.  He  cheap- 
ens scarcely  any  thing  of  moment  to 
real  consumers,  and  still  he  claps  on 
them  L.8,000,000  of  new  taxes.  This 
is  not  all;  he  causes  a  very  great 
dead  loss  of  income  to  a  vast  por- 
tion of  the  community,  consisting  of 
the  corn-growers,  shipowners,  distil- 
lers, &c.  &c.  by  abolishing  old  taxes, 
and  then  he  heaps  on  it  a  huge  load 
of  new  ones.  If  his  plan  would 
transfer  the  burden  of  taxation  from 
the  poorer  classes  to  the  more  wealthy 
ones,  much  might  be  said  in  its  fa 
vour;  but  it  will  not.  On  the  one  hand, 
he  does  not  cheapen  any  article  of 
consequence  to  the  poorer  classes, 
saving  tobacco ;  and  on  the  other,  he 
in  various  callings  deprives  them  of 
employment,  or  compels  their  em- 
ployers to  reduce  largely  their  inade- 
quate wages. 

Let  us  now  glance  at  that  part  of 
Sir  Henry's  scheme  which  relates  to 
the  abolition  of  the  corn,  and  all  other 
protecting  laws.  He  intimates,  that 
this  would  be  in  effect  almost  equal 
to  the  repeal  of  all  actual  taxes,  which 
brilliant  discovery  he  compasses  by 
means  of  the  assumption — these  laws 
raise  prices,  the  advance  is  so  much 
loss  to  the  community  at  large,  and 
is  only  a  gain  to  a  comparatively  few 
individuals. 

I  need  not  waste  time  in  proving, 
that  from  price  profits  and  wages  are 
drawn;  a  reduction  of  it  by  improve- 
ment, or  repeal  of  duty,  will  not  in- 
jure them;  but  that  advised  by  Sir 
Henry,  is  to  be  made  solely,  saving 
what  may  flow  from  accident,  by  a 
reduction  of  profits  and  wages.  The 
assertion  of  him  and  his  brethren, 
that,  with  regard  to  the  corn  law, 
the  loss  will  rail  exclusively  on  the 
landowner,  is  completely  at  variance 
with  all  reason  and  experience.  The 
free  agency  of  the  farmer  is,  he  must 
give  the  rent  demanded  by  his  land- 
lord, or  abandon  the  only  business 
he  knows ;  and,  in  consequence,  he 
often  gives  it  when  it  will  scarcely 
allow  him  the  poorest  livelihood* 
That  of  the  labourer  is,  he  must  take 


472 


Sir  H.  Parnell  on 


such  wages  as  bis  employer  will  give 
him.  The  landowner  has  the  farmer 
and  labourer  at  his  mercy,  and  in  all 
cases  he  compels  them  to  bear  their 
full  share  of  any  loss  caused  by  a 
fall  of  prices. 

As  compensation  to  the  landown- 
ers, Sir  Henry  recommends,  1st,  The 
abolition  of  poor-rates  for  able-bo- 
died labourers.  This  would  be  so 
much  loss  to  the  working  classes  of  all 
descriptions;  with  the  existing  excess 
of  labour,  it  could  not  fail  of  causing 
them  much  farther  loss  by  a  reduc- 
tion of  wages  j  and  therefore  it  would 
do  great  injury  to  the  landowners  in 
its  effects  on  the  consumption  and 
prices  of  agricultural  produce.  2d, 
He  advises  the  commutation  of  tithes, 
and  granting  of  long  leases;  but  these 
are  to  be  the  means  of  forcing  pro- 
duction on  the  better  soils,  by  addi- 
tional capital  and  labour,  and  making 
corn  still  cheaper  than  the  abolition 
of  the  law  would  do.  Such  forced 
production  is  equal,  in  respect  of 
cost,  to  the  culture  of  inferior  land  ; 
therefore  with  very  low  prices  it 
could  only  be  resorted  to  with  pro- 
portionally low  rents.  If  rents  be, 
as  the  economists  state,  governed  by 
prices,  his  compensation  would,  on 
his  own  grounds,  considerably  lower 
them ;  and,  in  addition,  he  intimates 
that  it  might  put  inferior  land  out  of 
cultivation. 

In  manufactures,  the  loss  would  of 
necessity  fall  principally  on  the  la- 
bouring ranks.  Improvements  are 
of  casual  parentage,  and  should  linen 
manufacturers,  &c.  have  to  reduce 
their  prices,  they  would  be  compel- 
led to  throw  it  in  a  great  measure  on 
wages,  or  abandon  their  trade. 

With  regard  to  the  protecting  du- 
ties, and  restrictions  affecting  the 
colonial  and  shipping  interests,  Sir 
Henry  advises  their  abolition,  partly 
for  the  express  purpose  of  admitting 
foreign  manufactures  into  the  colo- 
nies, giving  carrying  to  foreign  ships, 
and  reducing  freights.  He  owns  it 
might  do  some  injury  to  manufac- 
tures, and  this  would,  of  course,  reach 
the  working  classes  as  well  as  their 
employers.  The  West  India  colonies, 
he  represents,  are  to  find  compensa- 
tion in  the  reduced  prices  of  salted 
provisions,  lumber,  &c.  ;  but  this  will 
do  very  little  towards  covering  the 
loss  they  are  to  sustain  in  their  own 
prices,  and  it  will  do  nothing  iu  the 


Financial  Reform.  [Sept. 

way  of  balancing  their  loss  of  sale, 
which  must  flow  from  the  consump- 
tion of  foreign  «ugar  and  spirits. 
Then  it  will  inflict  great  injury  on 
other  colonies.  The  shipowners  are 
not  only  to  reduce  their  freights,  but 
to  lose  a  vast  portion  of  their  trade, 
both  colonial  and  foreign:  the  car- 
riage of  Canadian  timber,  a  large 
part  of  the  carriage  to  and  from  the 
West  Indies,  and  the  benefits  yielded 
by  the  enumerated  articles,  are  to 
be  taken  from  them.  The  petty  gain 
to  them,  on  the  one  hand,  will  be 
worthless  in  the  scale  against  the 
gigantic  loss  on  the  other.  Here,  too, 
heavy  injury  must  fall  on  the  labour- 
ing orders. 

On  the  doctrines  of  Sir  Henry, 
profits  and  wages  are  not,  and  can- 
not be,  higher  in  the  protected  inte- 
rests, than  they  are  in  others :  they 
would,  especially  wages,  be  very 
greatly  reduced  in  the  former,  and, 
on  the  same  doctrines,  they  would 
fall  in  an  equal  degree  in  the  latter. 
If  it  be  true,  that  they  cannot  be  per- 
manently higher  in  one  trade  than 
another,  it  must  be  equally  so,  that 
a  reduction  of  them  in  the  agricultu- 
ral,and  various  other  parts  of  the  com- 
munity, must  extend  itself  through 
the  whole. 

It  is  from  all  this  very  apparent, 
that  the  abolition  of  protections,  and 
the  subsidiary  measures  advocated 
by  Sir  Henry,  would  throw  very 
heavy  loss  on,  not  "  the  few,"  but 
the  body  of  the  population.  The 
labouring  classes  in  general  would 
lose  much  more  from  the  reduction 
of  wages,  parish-relief,  and  employ- 
ment, than  they  would  gain  from  the 
cheapening  of  corn.  If  they  could 
even  commonly  keep  in  employ- 
ment, they  would,  at  the  best,  be 
bound  to  far  lower  wages  than  they 
now  obtain.  With  them,  the  small 
and  middling  tradesmen  would,  of 
necessity,  suffer  deeply.  I  need  not 
say  more,  to  shew  that  "  the  few" 
alone  would  be  the  gainers,  and  that 
"  the  many" — those  who  are  called 
"  the  consumers" — would,  in  effect, 
have  their  taxes  much  more  than 
doubled,  and  the  prices  of  what  they 
buy  greatly  raised. 

It  is  a  leading  object  with  Sir 
Henry  to  promote  the  accumulation 
of  public  wealth  or  capital.  This 
point  may  be  the  most  correctly 
judged  of  by  looking  at  the  great 


1831.] 


Sir  H.  Parnell  on  Finaniccd  Reform. 


interests  of  the  empire  severally,  in- 
stead of  the  whole  community  indis- 
criminately. These  interests  form 
the  sources  of  accumulation.  When 
agriculture  is  prosperous,  its  savings 
are  of  vast  amount,  and  they  are 
more  generally  diffused  through  so- 
ciety, more  regular  in  their  opera- 
tion, more  widely  employed  in  as- 
sisting small  and  middling  capitalists, 
and  less  liable  to  cause  excess  of 
money  or  goods,  than  those  of  any 
other  interest:  to  a  large  extent  they 
form  a  fund  in  the  hands  of  town 
and  country  bankers  for  the  support 
of  manufactures  and  trade.  Agri- 
culture, in  regard  to  both  landowner 
and  farmer's  price  and  extent  of  pro- 
duction, is  to  be  stripped  by  Sir 
Henry's  scheme's  of  the  means  of 
accumulation.  A  glance  at  the  num- 
ber of  mercantile  houses  engaged  in 
the  colonial  trade,  and  the  amount 
of  British  capital  vested  in  the  co- 
lonies on  mortgage,  &c.  will  shew 
that  the  colonial  interests  form  a 
mighty  source  of  accumulation.  This 
source  is  to  be  confessedly  greatly 
reduced  in  regard  to  both  price  and 
production.  The  shipping  interest 
has  been  a  gigantic  source  of  accu- 
mulation, ana  it  also  is  to  be  much 
cut  down  in  profit  and  employment. 
Various  manufacturing  interests  are 
avowedly  to  have  their  powers  of 
accumulating  reduced  in  the  same 
manner.  The  wages  of  the  working 
orders  form  the  great  source  of  ac- 
cumulation to  small  and  middling 
tradesmen ;  and  it  is  to  sustain  very 
large  diminution.  Where  is  the  evi- 
dence to  prove  that  other  interests 
and  parts  of  the  community  will  have 
their  power  to  amass  capital  propor- 
tionally augmented  ?  There  is  none, 
and  it  is  manifest  that  the  commu- 
nity as  a  whole  must  lose  an  im- 
mense portion  of  such  power. 

Another  point  connected  with  tins 
must  be  noticed.  Sir  Henry's  plan, 
as  he  intimates,  is  to  take  L.  12,500,000 
from  the  incomes  of  landowners : 
assuming  that  this  sum  is  the  in- 
terest of  capital  at  3  per  cent,  the 
plan  must  at  once  annihilate  about 
L.400,000,000  of  capital  belonging  to 
the  owners  of  land.  The  capital  of 
farmers  must  be  destroyed  in  pro- 
portion to  the  fall  in  the  price  of 
corn ;  and  that  of  colonial  proprie- 
tors, shipowners,  &c,  must  sustain 


473 

very  large  diminution.  Thus  his 
measures  for  promoting  the  accu- 
mulation, must  at  once  destroy  se- 
veral hundred  millions  of  capital. 

It  is  somewhat  incomprehensible 
that  he  never  takes  into  calculation 
the  loss  his  schemes  are  to  inflict  on 
different  parts  of  the  community. 
If,  as  he  admits,  his  reduction  of 
duty  on  foreign  spirits  might  cause 
them  to  be  used  instead  of  British 
ones ;  the  spirits  consumed,  and  not 
only  them,  but  the  corn  and  other 
articles  from  which  they  are  extract- 
ed, would  be  produced  by  foreign, 
instead  of  British,  capital  and  in- 
dustry. Could  even  the  British  find 
employment  in  fabricating  goods  to 
buy  the  foreign  spirits  with,  this 
would  be  only  a  transfer,  but  not  an 
increase  of  employment.  He  how- 
ever speaks  as  though  the  employ- 
ment provided  by  the  goods  export- 
ed to  buy  the  foreign  spirits  with 
would  be  wholly  additional^  created 
by  the  reduction.  If  the  latter  should 
compel  the  corn-growers  to  produce 
less  corn  and  take  lower  prices,  it 
would  at  any  rate  greatly  reduce 
their  means  of  consumption;  but 
this  he  does  not  notice.  At  the  best, 
the  silk  throwsters  and  kelp  manu- 
facturers could  only  retain  their 
trade,  without  protecting  duty,  by 
very  greatly  reducing  their  wages ; 
and  their  means  of  consumption 
would  necessarily  be  much  reduced 
by  it;  farther,  the  abolition  of  the 
duty  would  be  the  loss  of  so  much 
revenue  to  the  country :  these  mat- 
ters, however,  he  does  not  deign  to 
take  into  account.  But  would  his 
schemes  do  no  more  than  make  what 
his  brethren  call  a  transfer  of  em- 
ployment ?  Suppose  that  this  coun- 
try should,  instead  of  throwing  silk 
at  home,  buy  thrown  silk  abroad,  and 
that  this  would  add  to  the  value  of 
its  imports  L.8,000,000 ;  would  this 
enable  it  to  add  L.8,000,000  to  its 
exports  ?  Suppose  that  it  should 
produce  less  corn  to  the  value  of 
L.10,000,000,  and  buy  it  abroad; 
would  this  enable  it  to  swell  its  ex- 
ports with"  an  additional  value  of 
L.10,000,000  ?  If  it  would,  this  in- 
evitably follows : — Should  England 
annually  buy  abroad,  instead  of  pro- 
ducing at  home,  corn,  cattle,  spirits, 
thrown  silk,  &c.  &c.  which  give  em- 
ployment to  200,000,000  of  her  capi- 


Sir  H.  Parnell  on  Financial  Reform. 


474 

tal,  and  5,000,000  of  her  inhabitants, 
this  alone  would  give  to  the  world 
at  large  NEW,  ADDITIONAL  employ' 
mentforL.200,000,000  of  capital,  and 
5,000,000  of  souls.  This,  we  say, 
inevitably  follows,  because  while  it 
is  self-evident  that  other  nations 
would  gain  the  additional  employ- 
ment, the  Economists  insist  that 
England  would  lose  none,  but  would 
merely  make  a  transfer  within  her- 
self, which  would  even  give  her  an 
increase.  Cannot  every  one  see  that 
it  is  utterly  impossible — that  the 
doctrine  on  which  Sir  Henry  rests 
is  as  self-evidently  false  and  impos- 
sible as  any  Popish  legend  or  Ara- 
bian night's  tale  ;  and  that  the  trans- 
fer would  be  like  that  of  a  family's 
custom  from  shop  to  shop,  a  trans- 
fer of  employment  from  England  to 
other  nations,  in  which  what  they 
would  gain  she  would  lose  ? 

But  he  displays  something  more 
indefensible  than  this.  Heavy  duties 
on  malt  and  beer  do  no  harm,  but 
on  paper  and  glass  they  are  highly 
injurious — on  sugar  and  tea  they  do 
not  reduce  consumption,  but  on  fo- 
reign spirits  and  soap  they  reduce  it 
greatly — the  consumption  of  sugar 
as  not  injured  by  the  duty,  yet  it 
would  be  largely  raised  by  a  trifling 
reduction  of  the  price — a  discrimi- 
nating duty  to  favour  the  wine,  tim- 
ber, and  other  productions  of  our 
own  colonies  is  pernicious,  but  one 
to  favour  the  productions  of  one 
foreign  nation  against  those  of  an- 
other by  sacrifice  of  revenue  would 


be  beneficial — to  force  by  duty  our 
own  inferior  articles  into  consump- 
tion instead  of  the  better  ones  of 
foreigners,  is  foolish  and  mischie- 
vous ',  but  to  force  in  the  same  way 

•  ij'i 

I/oft  . 
id  e'»o 
w*' 

•/;  ifi'i/tij'utft^ 

3'JIIO,  >«1)  to  Jll2tl  n 


,     [Sept. 

the  bad  wines  of  France  into  con- 
sumption, instead  of  the  good  ones 
of  Portugal  and  Spain,  would  be 
wise  and  advantageous — bounties 
and  protecting  duties  are  a  source 
of  loss  when  given  to  our  own  capi- 
tal and  industry;  but  they  would 
be  one  of  gain  if  given  to  those  of 
France — duties  which  scarcely  reach 
the  real  consumer  do  mighty  injury 
to  consumption ;  but  those  which 
fall  chiefly  on  him  do  it  no  harm — 
these  opinions  can  hardly  have  any 
other  parent  than  prejudice.  Far- 
ther, every  duty  which  presses  di- 
rectly or  otherwise  on  foreigners  is 
to  be  abolished  or  reduced,  no  mat- 
ter what  evil  it  may  inflict  on  his 
Majesty's  subjects — all  duties  which 
press  on  the  landed,  colonial,  and 
shipping  interests  are  to  be  preser- 
ved, unless  their  abolition  would 
benefit'  foreigners,  and  all  which 
protect  these  interests  are  to  be  abo- 
lished— and  a  change  is  to  be  made 
in  taxation,  which  directly  and  vir- 
tually will  increase  enormously  the 
taxes  of  the  most  distressed  part  of 
the  population  for  the  benefit  of  the 
other.  It  is  charity  to  ascribe  all 
this  to  nothing  worse  than  prejudice, 
yet  Sir  Henry  like  his  brethren  inti- 
mates, that  all  who  dift'er  from  him 
are  interested  and  prejudiced. 

I  have  said  that  his  opinions  are 
of  importance,  because  there  is  dan- 
ger that  they  will  be  reduced  to 
practice  by  government.  Let  all 
who  have  property  to  lose  be  on 
their  guard,  and  let  thorn  remember 
that  they  can  onlv  save  it  bv  hearty 
,,„;,„,  '  bmra  enrol  89^9 

T  nm   sir    &r    &r 

X  tllli,  oil,  <xi  .  Os.1  . 

12  ujrtr  mii^B  fa9(It  aoqo  ot 
'io  (loitoldw'MtAbhKna.jio 


unon. 


•mo 
tarfj  Jud  ,9^8  Icohgoq  £  e\  <mro  tudJ— 

,0190*1  JB910  91IO  b9')JjbO7q  JOfl  3BrI  Jl 

.ifldmoni  fi  '/oTt    urn);   lit   ~Aoo(  jaul- 

ttfl — ^lOfH9M)O8a*UJ689lCl 

itjused  ,[-, 

,  inn- 

siB9  aSflo — ii o  9\j?^ 
o — oJ  nft> 


.<oj  03  boo- 
fjfTR 


. 


:.<•', 

ujodA 
••  -afB'i^  ^Ihmq  ,IIui-9loni 

•••H    8    81 


An  Hour's  Talk  about  Poetry. 


475 


is  a  poetical  age ;  but  has  it 
produced  one  Great  Poem  ?  Not 
one.  If  you  think  it  has,  you  will 
perhaps  favour  us  with  the  name  of 
the  author  and  his  work.  But  haply 
you  may  first  demand  of  us  what  we 
mean  by  a  Great  Poem  ?  If  you  do, 
we  shan't  answer  you  ;  for  we  deal 
not  in  reasonings,  but  in  assertions. 
Reasonings  are  apt  to  be  tedious  and 
unsatisfactory;  assertions  are  short — 
and  if  correct — which  ours  always 
are — they  carry  their  own  demonstra- 
tion along  with  them — neatly  folded 
up — and  all  that  you  have  to  do  is  to 
allow  them  to  evolve  themselves  at 
their  leisure  in  the  light  of  truth, 
till  they  appear  before  you  like 
"bright  consummate  flowers,"  which 
it  is  pleasant  to  gaze  on,  and  profit- 
able to  gather.  From  the  commence- 
ment of  our  career  we  have  flourish- 
ed on  assertions,  while  most  of  our 
contemporaries  have  "  faded,  lan- 
guished, grown  dim,  and  died,"  on 
demonstrations.  We  learned  this 
great  secret  from  the  observation 
and  meditation  of  half  a  century; 
and  applying  to  literature  the  phi- 
losophy of  life,  we  have  become  im- 
mortal. In  vain  would  you  search 
through  nearly  twenty  decades  of 
Maga  for  one  specimen  of  an  argu- 
ment above  an  inch  long;  whereas  in 
every  page  the  most  astounding  as- 
sertions stare  you  in  the  face,  till  you 
are  out  of  countenance,  and  shut  youi' 
eyes  in  the  sudden  and  insupportable 
effulgence  of  the  naked  truth — only 
to  open  them  again  with  gifted  vision 
on  a  wider  revelation  of  earth  and 
heaven. 

We  therefore  repeat  our  assertion 
— that  ours  is  a  poetical  age,  but  that 
it  has  not  produced  one  Great  Poem. 
Just  look  at  them  for  a  moment. 
There  is  thePleasures  of  Memory — an 
elegant,  graceful,  beautiful,  pensive, 
and  pathetic  poem,  which  it  does  one's 
eyes  good  to  gaze  on — one's  ears 
good  to  listen  to — one's  very  fingers 
good  to  touch,  so  smooth  is  the  ver- 
sification and  the  wire-wove  paper. 
Never  will  the  Pleasures  of  Memory 
be  forgotten  till  the  world  is  in  its 
dotage.  But  is  it  a  Great  Poem  ? 
About  as  much  so  as  an  ant  or  a 
mole-hill,  prettily  grass-grown  and 
leaf-strewn,  is  a  mountain  purple 


with  heather  and  golden  with  woods. 
It  is  a  symmetrical  erection— in  the 
shape  of  a  cone — and  the  apex  points 
heavenwards ;  but  'tis  not  a  sky- 
piercer.  You  take  it  at  a  hop — and 
pursue  your  journey.  Yet  it  en- 
dures. For  the  rains  and  the  dews, 
and  the  airs  and  the  sunshine,  love 
the  fairy  knoll,  and  there  it  greens 
and  blossoms  delicately  and  delight- 
fully, half  a  work  of  art  and  half  a 
work  of  nature. 

Then,  there  is  the  poetry  of  Crabbe. 
We  hear  it  is  not  popular.  If  so, 
then  neither  is  human  life.  For  of 
all  our  living  poets,  he  has  most  skil- 
fully "  woven  the  web  and  woven 
the  woof"  of  all  his  compositions 
with  the  materials  of  human  life — 
homespun  indeed — but  though  often 
coarse,  always  strong — and  though 
set  to  plain  patterns,  yet  not  unfre- 
quently  exceeding  fine  is  the  old 
weaver's  workmanship.  Aye — hold 
up  the  product  of  his  loom  between 
your  eye  and  the  light,  and  it  glows 
and  glimmers  like  the  peacock's 
back  or  the  breast  of  the  rainbow. 
Sometimes  it  seems  to  be  but  of 
the  "  hodden  grey;"  when  sunbeam 
or  shadow  smites  it,  and  lo !  it  is 
burnished  like  the  regal  purple.  But 
did  the  Borough-monger  ever  pro- 
duce a  Great  Poem  ?  You  might  as 
well  ask  if  he  built  St  Paul's. 

Breathes  not  the  man  with  a  more 
poetical  temperament  than  Bowles. 
No  wonder  that  his  eyes  "  love  all 
they  look  on,"  for  they  possess  the 
sacred  gift  of  beautifying  creation, 
by  shedding  over  it  the  charm  of 
melancholy.  "  Pleasant  but  mourn- 
ful to  the  soul  is  the  memory  of  joys 
that  are  past" — is  the  text  we  should 
choose  were  we  about  to  preach  on 
his  genius.  No  vain  repinings,  no  idle 
regrets,  does  his  spirit  ever  breathe 
over  the  still  receding  Past.  But 
time-sanctified  are  all  the  shews  that 
arise  before  his  pensive  imagination 
— and  the  common  light  of  day,  once 
gone,  m  Ins  poetry  seems  to  shine 
as  if  it  had  all  been  dying  sunset  or 
moonlight,  or  the  new-born  dawn. 
His  human  sensibilities  are  so  fine  as 
to  be  in  themselves  poetical ;  and  his 
poetical  aspirations  so  delicate  as  to 
be  felt  always  human.  Hence  his 
Sonnets  have  been  dear  to  poets—' 


476 


An  Hour's  Talk 


having  in  them  "  more  than  meets 
the  ear" — spiritual  breathings  that 
hang  around  the  words  like  light 
around  fair  flowers ;  and  hence,  too, 
have  they  been  beloved  by  all  natu- 
ral hearts  who,  having  not  the  "  fa- 
culty divine,"  have  yet  the  "  vision" 
— that  is,  the  power  of  seeing  and  of 
hearing  the  sights  and  the  sounds 
which  genius  alone  can  awaken, 
bringing  them  from  afar,  out  of  the 
dust  aud  dimness  of  evanishment. 
But  has  Bowles  written  a  Great 
Poem?  If  he  has,  then,  as  he  loves  us, 
let  him  forthwith  publish  it  in  Maga. 
What  shall  we  say  of  the  Pleasures 
of  Hope  ?  That  the  harp  from  which 
that  music  breathed,  was  an  ./Eolian 
harp  placed  in  the  window  of  a  high 
hall,  to  catch  airs  from  heaven,  when 
heaven  was  glad,  as  Avell  she  might 
be  with  such  moon  and  such  stars, 
and  streamering  half  the  region  with 
a  magnificent  aurora  borealis.  Now 
the  music  deepens  into  a  majestic 
inarch — now  it  swells  into  a  holy 
hymn — and  now  it  dies  away  elegiac- 
like,  as  if  mourning  over  a  tomb. 
Vague,  indefinite,  uncertain,  dream- 
like, and  visionary  all ;  but  never 
else  than  beautiful;  and  ever  and 
anon,  we  know  not  why,  sublime. 
It  ceases  in  the  hush  of  night — and 
we  awaken  as  if  from  a  dream.  Is 
it  not  even  so  ?  As  for  Gertrude  of 
Wyoming,  we  love  her  as  if  she  were 
our  own  only  daughter — filling  our 
life  with  bliss,  and  then  leaving  it  de- 
solate. Even  now  we  see  her  ghost 
gliding  through  those  giant  woods  ! 
As  for  Lochiel's  Warning,  there  was 
heard  the  voice  of  the  Last  of  the 
Seers.  The  Second  Sight  is  now  ex- 
tinguished in  the  Highland  glooms — 
the  Lament  wails  no  more, 

"  That  man  may  not  hide  what  God  would 
reveal !" 

Never  saw  we  a  ship  till  Campbell 
indited  "  Ye  mariners  of  England." 
Sheer  hulks  before  our  eyes  were  all 
ships  till  that  strain  arose — but  ever 
since  in  our  imagination  have  they 
brightened  the  roaring  ocean.  And 
dare  we  say,  after  that,  that  Camp- 
bell has  never  written  a  Great  Poem  ? 
Yes — in  the  face  even  of  the  Metro- 
politan. 

It  was  said  by  the  Edinburgh  He- 
view,  that  none  but  maudlin  milliners 
and  sentimental  ensigns  supposed 
that  James  Montgomery  was  a  poet. 


about  Poetry.  [Sept. 

Then  is  Maga  a  maudlin  milliner — 
and  Christopher  North  a  sentimental 
ensign.  We  once  called  Montgo- 
mery a  Moravian;  and  though  he 
assures  us  that  we  were  mistaken, 
yet  having  made  an  assertion,  we 
always  stick  to  it,  and  therefore  he 
must  remain  a  Moravian,  if  not  in 
his  own  belief,  yet  in  our  imagina- 
tion. Of  all  religious  sects,  the  Mo- 
ravians are  the  most  simple-mind- 
ed, pure-hearted,  and  high-souled 
—and  these  qualities  shine  serenely 
in  the  Pelican  Island.  In  earnest- 
ness and  fervour,  that  poem  is  by 
few  or  none  excelled ;  it  is  embalm- 
ed in  sincerity,  and  therefore  shall 
fade  not  away,  neither  shall  it  moul- 
der— not  even  although  exposed  to 
the  air,  and  blow  the  air  ever  so 
rudely  through  time's  mutations. 
Not  that  it  is  a  mummy.  Say  rather 
a  fair  form  laid  asleep  in  immortali- 
ty— its  face  wearing,  day  and  night, 
summer  and  winter,  look  at  it  when 
you  will,  a  saintly — a  celestial  smile. 
That  is  a  true  image ;  but  is  the  Pe- 
lican Island  a  Great  Poem  ?  We  pause 
not  for  a  reply. 

Lyrical  Poetry,  we  opine,  hath 
many  branches — and  one  of  them, 
"  beautiful  exceedingly,"  with  bud, 
blossom,  and  fruit  of  balm  and 
brightness,  round  which  is  ever  heard 
the  murmur  of  bees  and  of  birds, 
hangs  trailingly  along  the  mossy 
greensward,  when  the  air  is  calm, 
and  ever  and  anon,  when  blow 
the  fitful  breezes,  it  is  uplifted  in 
the  sunshine,  and  glows  wavingly 
aloft,  as  if  it  belonged  even  to  the 
loftiest  region  of  the  Tree  which  is 
Amaranth.  That  is  a  fanciful,  per- 
haps foolish  form  of  expression,  em- 
ployed at  present  to  signify  song- 
writing.  Now,  of  all  the  song-wri- 
ters that  ever  warbled,  or  chanted, 
or  sung,  the  best,  in  our  estimation, 
is  verily  none  other  than  Thomas 
Moore.  True,  that  Robert  Burns 
has  indited  several  songs  that  slip 
into  the  heart,  just  like  light,  no  one 
knows  how,  filling  its  chambers 
sweetly  and  silently,  and  leaving  it 
nothing  more  to  desire  for  perfect 
contentment.  Or  let  us  say,  some- 
times when  he  sings,  it  is  like  lis- 
tening to  a  linnet  in  the  broom,  a 
blackoird  in  the  brake,  a  laverock  in 
the  sky.  They  sing  in  the  fulness  of 
their  joy,  BS  nature  teaches  them — 
and  so  did  he — and  the  man,  wo- 


1631.] 


man,  or  child,  who  is  delighted  not 
with  such  singing,  be  their  virtues 
what  they  may,  must  never  hope  to 
be  in  Heaven.  Gracious  Providence 
placed  Burns  in  the  midst  of  the 
sources  of  Lyrical  Poetry — when  he 
was  born  a  Scottish  peasant.  Now, 
Moore  is  an  Irishman,  and  was  born 
in  Dublin.  Moore  is  a  Greek  scho- 
lar, and  translated — after  a  fashion 
— Anacreon.  And  Moore  has  lived 
all  his  life  long  in  towns  and  cities 
— and  in  that  society  which  will 
suffer  none  else  to  be  called  good. 
Some  advantages  he  has  enjoyed 
which  Burns  never  did — but  then 
how  many  disadvantages  has  he  un- 
dergone, from  which  the  Ayrshire 
Ploughman,  in  the  bondage  of  his 
poverty,  was  free !  You  see  all  that 
at  a  single  glance  into  their  poetry. 
But  all  in  humble  life  is  not  high — all 
in  high  life  is  not  low — and  there  is 
as  much  to  guard  against  in  hovel  as 
in  hall — in  "  auld  clay-bigging"  as 
in  marble  palace.  Burns  too  often 
wrote  like  a  rude,  unpolished  boor 
— Moore  has  too  often  written  like 
a  mere  man  of  fashion.  But  take 
them  both  at  their  best — and  both 
are  glorious.  Both  are  national  poets 
— and  who  shall  say  that  if  Moore 
had  been  born  and  bred  a  peasant, 
as  Burns  was,  and  if  Ireland  had 
been  such  a  land  of  knowledge,  and 
virtue,  and  religion  as  Scotland  is 
— and  surely,  without  offence,  we 
may  say  that  it  never  was,  and 
never  will  be — though  we  love  the 
Green  Island  well — that  with  his 
fine  fancy,  warm  heart,  and  exquisite 
sensibilities,  he  might  not  have  been 
as  natural  a  lyrist  as  Bums,  while, 
take  him  as  he  is,  who  can  deny  that 
in  richness,  in  variety,  in  grace,  and 
in  almost  all  the  power  of  art,  he  is 
infinitely  superior  to  his  illustrious 
rival  ?  Of  Llallah  Rookh  and  the 
Loves  of  the  Angels,  we  defy  you  to 
read  a  page  without  admiration ;  but 
the  question  recurs,  and  it  is  easily 
answered,  we  need  not  say  in  the 
negative,  did  Moore  ever  write  a 
Great  Poem  ? 

Let  us  make  a  tour  of  the  Lakes. 
Rydal  Mount!  Wordsworth!  The 
Bard  !  Here  is  the  man  who  has  de- 
voted his  whole  life  to  poetry.  It  is 
his  profession.  He  is  a  poet  just  as 
his  brother  is  a  clergyman.  He  is 
the  Head  of  the  Lake  School,  just  as 
his  brother  is  Master  of  Trinity.  No- 


An  Hour's  Talk  about  Poetry.  477 

thing  in  this  life  and  in  this  world 
has  he  had  to  do,  beneath  sun,  moon, 
and  stars,  but 


"  To  murmur  by  the  living  brooks 
A  music  sweeter  than^their  own." 

What  has  been  the  result?  Five 
volumes  (oh !  why  not  five  more  ?) 
of  poetry  as  beautiful  as  ever  charm- 
ed the  ears  of  Pan  and  of  Apollo. 
The  earth — the  middle  air — the  sky 
— the  heaven — the  heart,  mind,  and 
soul  of  man — are  "  the  haunt  and 
main  region  of  his  song."  In  descri- 
bing external  nature  as  she  is,  no 
poet  perhaps  has  excelled  Words- 
worth— not  even  Thomson — in  em- 
buing  her  and  making  her  pregnant 
with  spiritualities,  till  the  mighty 
mother  teems  with  "  beauty  far  more 
beauteous"  than  she  had  ever  re- 
joiced in  till  he  held  communion 
with  her — therein  lies  his  own  espe- 
cial glory,  and  therein  the  immortal 
evidences  of  the  might  of  his  crea- 
tive imagination.  All  men  at  times 
"  muse  on  nature  with  a  poet's  eye," 
— but  Wordsworth  ever — and  his 
soul  has  grown  religious  from  wor- 
ship. Every  rock  is  an  altar — every 
grove  a  shrine.  We  fear  that  there 
will  be  sectarians  even  in  this  Na- 
tural Religion  till  the  end  of  time. 
But  he  is  the  High  Priest  of  Nature 
— or,  to  use  his  own  words,  or  near- 
ly so,  he  is  the  High  Priest "  in  the 
metropolitan  temple  built  by  Nature 
in  the  heart  of  mighty  poets."  But 
has  he — even  he — ever  written  a 
Great  Poem  ?  If  he  has — it  is  not 
the  Excursion.  Nay — the  Excur- 
sion is  not  a  Poem.  It  is  a  series 
of  Poems,  all  swimming  in  the  light 
of  poetry,  some  of  them  sweet  and 
simple,  some  elegant  and  graceful, 
some  beautiful  and  most  lovely, 
some  of  "  strength  and  state,"  some 
majestic,  some  magnificent,  some 
sublime.  But  though  it  has  an  open- 
ing, it  has  no  beginning;  you  can 
discover  the  middle  only  by  the  nu- 
merals on  the  page ;  and  the  most 
serious  apprehensions  have  been 
very  generally  entertained  that  it 
has  no  end.  While  Pedlar,  Poet,  and 
Solitary  breathe  the  vital  air,  may  the 
Excursion,  stop  where  it  will,  be 
renewed ;  and  as  in  its  present  shape 
it  comprehends  but  a  Three  Days' 
Walk,  we  have  but  to  think  of  an 
Excursion  of  three  weeks,  three 
months,  or  three  years,  to  feel  the 


478, 


'fftlh  about 


[Sept. 


difference  between  a  Great  and  a 
Long  Poem.  Thru  the  life  of  man 
is  not  always  limited  to  the  term  of 
threescore  and  ten  years !  What  a 
Journal  might  it  prove  at  last !  Poet- 
ry in  profusion  till  the  land  over- 
flowed ;  but  whether  in  one  volume, 
as  now,  or  in  fifty,  in  future,  not  a 
Great  Poem — nay,  not  a  Poem  at  all 
— nor  ever  to  be  so  esteemed,  till 
the  principles  on  which  Great  Poets 
build  the  lofty  rhyme  are  exploded, 
and  the  very  names  of  Art.  and 
Science  smothered  and  lost  in  the 
bosom  of  Nature,  from  which  they 
arose. 

Let  the  dullest  clod  that  ever  ve- 
getated, provided  only  he  be  alive 
and  hears,  be  shut  up  in  a  room  with 
Coleridge,  or  in  a  wood,  and  subject- 
ed for  a  few  minutes  to  the  etherial 
influence  of  that  wonderful  man's 
monologue,  and  he  will  begin  to  be- 
lieve himself  a  Poet.  The  barren 
wilderness  may  not  blossom  like  the 
rose,  but  it  will  seem,  or  rather  feel 
to  do  so,  under  the  lustre  of  an  ima- 
gination exhaustless  as  the  sun. 
You  may  have  seen  perhaps  rocks 
suddenly  so  glorified  by  sunlight 
with  colours  manifold,  that  the  bees 
seek  them  deluded  by  the  show  of 
flowers.  The  sun,  you  know,  does 
not  always  shew  his  orb  even  in  the 
daytime — and  people  are  often  ig- 
norant of  his  place  in  the  firmament. 
But  he  keeps  shining  away  at  his 
leisure,  as  you  would  know  were 
he  to  suffer  eclipse.  Perhaps  he 
— the  sun — is  at  no  other  time 
a  more  delightful  luminary,  than 
when  he  is  pleased  to  dispense  his 
influence  through  a  general  haze, 
or  mist — softening  all  the  day  till 
meridian  is  almost  like  the  after- 
noon, and  the  grove,  anticipating 
gloaming,  bursts  into  "  dance  and 
minstrelsy"  ere  the  god  go  down  in- 
to the  sea.  Clouds  too  become  him 
well — whether  thin  and  fleecy  and 
braided,  or  piled  up  all  round 
about  him  castlewise  and  cathedral- 
fashion,  to  say  nothing  of  temples 
and  other  metropolitan  structures ; 
nor  is  it  reasonable  to  find  fault 
with  him,  when,  as  naked  as  the  hour 
he  was  born,  "  he  flames  on  the 
forehead  of  the  morning  sky."  The 
grandeur  too  of  his  appearance  on 
setting  has  become  quite  proverbial. 
Now  in  all  this  lie  resembles  Cole-  , 
ridge.  It  is  easy  to  talk-not  very ' 


difticultto  speechify— hard  to  speak ; 
but  to  "  discourse"  is  a  gift  rarely 
bestowed  by  Heaven  on  mortal  man. 
Coleridge  has  it  in  perfection. 
While  he  is  discoursing,  the  world 
loses  all  its  commonplaces,  and  you 
and  your  wife  imagine  yourself 
Adam  and  Eve  listening  to  the 
affable  archangel  Raphael  in  the 
Garden  of  Eden.  You  would  no 
more  dream  of  wishing  him  to  be 
mute  for  awhile,  than  you  would  a 
river  that  "  imposes  silence  with  a 
stilly  sound."  Whether  you  under- 
stand two  consecutive  sentences,  we 
shall  not  stop  too  curiously  to  en 
quire;  but  you  do  something  better, 
you  feel  the  whole  just  like  any 
other  divine  music.  And  'tis  your 
own  fault  if  you  do  not 

"  A  wiser  and  a  better  man  arise  to-mor- 
row's morn." 

[  -.odw  ,'^qBq  v  if  ativt  'i'i' 

Reason  is  saidtobe  one  faculty,  and 

Imagination  another — but  there  can- 
not be  a  grosser  mistake ;  they  are 
one  and  indivisible ;  only  in  most 
cases,  like  man  and  wife,  they 
live  like  cat  and  dog,  in  mutual 
worrying,  or  haply  sue  for  a  divorce; 
whereas  in  the  case  of  Coleridge 
they  are  one  spirit  as  well  as  one 
flesh,  and  keep  billing  and  cooing  in 
a  perpetual  honey-moon.  Then  his 
mind  is  learned  in  all  the  learning  of 
the  Egyptians,  as  well  as  the  Greeks 
and  Romans ;  and  though  we  have 
heard  simpletons  say  that  he  knows 
nothing  of  science,  we  have  heard 
him  on  chemistry  puzzle  Sir  Hum- 
phrey Davy — and  prove  to  our  en- 
tire satisfaction,  that  Leibnitz  and 
Newton,  though  good  men,  were 
but  indifferent  astronomers.  Be^,,, 
sides,  he  thinks  nothing  of  inventing 
a  new  science,  with  a  complete  no- 
menclature, in  a  twinkling — and 
should  you  seem  sluggish  of  appre- 
hension, he  endows  you  with  an  addi- 
tional sense  or  two,  over  and  above 
the  usual  seven,  till  you  are  no  longer 
at  a  loss,be  it  even  to  scent  the  music 
of  fragrance,  or  to  hear  the  smell  of 
a  balmy  piece  of  poetry.  All  the,,, 
faculties,  both  of  soul  and  sense,  seem 
amicably  to  interchange  their  func- 
tions and  their  provinces  ;  and  you 
fear  not  that  the  dream  may  dissolve, 
convinced  that  you  are  in  a  future 
state  of  permanent  enjoyment.  Nor 
are  we  now  using  any  exaggeration  ; 
for  if  you  will  but  think  how  uuutter-j ,  / 


J831.]  An  Hour's  Talk 

ably  dull  are  all  the  ordinary  sayings 
and  doings  of  this  life,  spent  as  it  is 
with  ordinary  people,  you  may  ima- 
gine how,  in  sweet  delirium,  you 
'may  be  robbed  of  yourself  by  a  sera- 
phic tongue  that  has  fed  since  first 
it  lisped  on  "  honey-dews,"  and  by 
lips  that  have  "  breathed  the  air  of 
Paradise,"  and  learned  a  seraphic 
language,  which  all  the  while  that  it 
is  English,  is  as  grand  as  Greek,  and 
as  soft  as  Italian.  We  only  know 
this,  that  Coleridge  is  the  alchymist 
that  in  his  crucible  melts  down  hours 
to  moments — and  lo  !  diamonds 
sprinkled  on  a  plate  of  gold. 

What  a  world  would  this  be  were 
all  its  inhabitants  to  riddle  like  Pa- 
ganini,  ride  like  Ducrow,  discourse 
like  Coleridge,  and  do  every  thing 
else  in  a  style  of  equal  perfection! 
But,  pray,  how  does  the  man  write 
poetry  with  a  pen  upon  paper,  who 
thus  is  perpetually  pouring  it  from 
his  inspired  lips  ?  Read  the  Ancient 
Mariner,  the  Nightingale,  and  Ge- 
nevieve.  In  the  first,  you  shudder 
at  the  superstition  of  the  sea — in  the 
second,  you  slumber  in  the  melodies 
of  the  woods — in  the  third,  earth  is 
like  heaven; — for  you  are  made  to 
feel  that 

"  All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  arc  hut  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  holy  tiame  !" 

Has  Coleridge,  then,  ever  written  a 
Great  Poem  ?  No  ;  for  besides  the 
Regions  of  the  fair,  the  wild  and  the 
wonderful,  there  is  another,  up  to 
which  his  wing  might  soar;  for  the 
plumes  are  strong  as  soft.  But  why 
should  he  who  loveth  to  take  "  the 
wings  of  a  dove  that  he  may  flee 
away"  to  the  bosom  of  beauty,though 
there  never  for  a  moment  to  be  at 
rest — why  should  he,  like  an  eagle, 
soar  into  the  storms  that  roll  above 
this  visible  diurnal  sphere  in  peals 
of  perpetual  thunder  ? 

Wordsworth,  somewhere  or  other, 
remonstrates,  rather  angrily,  with 
the  Public,  against  her  obstinate  ig- 
norance shewn  in  persisting  to  put 
into  one  class  himself,  Coleridge, 
and  Southey,  as  birds  of  a  feather, 
that  not  only  flock  together  but  war- 
ble the  same  sort  of  song.  But  he 
elsewhere  tells  us  that  he  and  Cole- 
ridge hold  the  same  principles  in  the 
Art  Poetical,  and  among  his  Lyrical 


about  Poetry.  479 

Ballads  he  admitted  the  three  finest 
compositions  of  his  illustrious  Com- 
peer. The  Public  therefore  is  not 
to  blame  in  taking  him  at  his  word, 
even  if  she  had  discerned  no  family 
likeness  in  their  genius.  Southey 
certainlyresembles  Wordsworth  less 
than  Coleridge  does — but  he  lives  at 
Keswick,  which  is  but  some  dozen 
miles  from  Rydal,  and  perhaps  with 
an  unphilosophical  though  pensive 
Public  that  link  of  connexion  should 
be  allowed  to  be  sufficient,  even 
were  there  no  other  less  patent  and 
material  than  the  Macadamized  turn- 
pike road.  But  true  it  is  and  of 
verity,  that  Southey,  among  our  li- 
ving Poets,  stands  aloof  and  "  alone 
in  his  glory."  For  he  alone  of  them 
all  has  adventured  to  illustrate,  in 
Poems  of  magnitude,  the  different 
characters,  customs,  and  manners  of 
nations.  Joan  of  Ark  is  an  English 
and  French  story — Thalaba  an  Ara- 
bian one — Kehama  is  Indian — Madoc 
Welsh  and  American — and  Roderic 
Spanish  and  Moorish ;  nor  Avould  it 
be  easy  to  say  (setting  aside  the  first, 
which  was  a  very  youthful  work) 
in  which  of  these  noble  Poems  Mr 
Southey  has  most  successfully  per- 
formed an  achievement  entirely  be- 
yond the  power  of  any  but  the  high- 
est genius.  In  Madoc,  and  especial- 
ly in  Roderic,  he  has  relied  on  the 
truth  of  nature — as  it  is  seen  in  the 
history  of  great  national  transactions 
and  events.  In  Thalaba  and  in  Ke- 
hama, though  in  them  too  he  has 
brought  to  bear  an  almost  boundless 
lore,  ne  follows  the  leading  of  Fancy 
and  Imagination,  and  walks  in  a 
world  of  wonders.  Seldom,  if  ever, 
has  one  and  the  same  Poet  exhibited 
such  power  in  such  different  kinds 
of  Poetry,  in  Truth  a  Master,  and  in 
Fiction  a  Magician.  Of  all  these 
Poems  the  conception  and  the  exe- 
cution are  original ;  in  much  faulty 
and  imperfect  both;  but  bearing 
throughout  the  impress  of  highest 
genius;  and  breathing  a  moral  charm, 
in  the  nydst  of  the  wildest  and  some- 
times even  extravagant  imaginings, 
that  shall  preserve  them  for  ever  from 
oblivion,  and  embalm  them  in  the 
spirit  of  love  and  of  delight.  Fairy 
Tales — or  tales  of  witchcraft  and 
enchantment,  seldom  stir  the  ho- 
liest and  deepest  feelings  of  the 
heart;  but  Thalaba  and  Kehama 
do  BO ;  "the  still  sad  music  of  liii;: 


>ft 

)IT 
HI 

ia 

9l 

>f! 

6 

['// 
HI 
1O 


m 
01 
9Vf 

ad 
>dj> 

ifiG 
ion 
rw 


hi 


An,  Hottr's  Talk  about  Poetry. 


480 

manity"  is  ever  with  us  among  all 
most  wonderful  and  wild;  and  among 
all  the  spells,  and  charms,  and  talis- 
mans that  are  seen  working  strange 
effects  before  our  eyes,  the  strongest 
of  them  all  are  ever  felt  to  be  Piety 
and  Virtue.  What  exquisite  pictures 
of  domestic  affection  and  bliss !  what 
sanctity  and  devotion !  Meek  as  a 
child  is  Innocence  in  Southey's  poe- 
try, but  mightier  than  any  giant. 
How 

"  Like  a  spirit,  still  and  bright, 
With  something  of  au  augel  light," 

matron  or  maid,  mother  or  daughter 
— in  joy  or  sorrow — as  they  appeal- 
before  us,  doing  or  suffering,  "  beau- 
tiful and  dutiful,"  with  Faith,  Hope, 
and  Charity  their  guardian  angels, 
nor  Fear  ever  once  crossing  their 
path!  We  feel  in  perusing  such 
pictures — "  Purity!  thy  name  is 
woman !"  and  are  not  these  Great 
Poems  ?  We  are  silent.  But  should 
you  answer  "  yes,"  from  us,  in  our 
present  mood,  you  shall  receive  no 
contradiction. 

The  transition  always  seems  to 
us,  we  scarcely  know  why,  as  natural 
as  delightful  from  Southey  to  Scott. 
We  intend  some  happy  hour  or  other 
to  draw  parallel  characters  of  these 
two  chiefs,  not  exactly  after  the 
manner  of  Plutarch.  For  the  pre- 
sent let  it  suffice — for  nothing  can 
be  more  sketchy  than  this  outline 
of  an  article — that  we  suggest  to 
you  that  they  alone  of  all  the  poets 
of  the  day  have  produced  poems 
in  which  are  pictured  and  nar- 
rated, epicly,  national  characters, 
and  events,  and  actions,  and  catas- 
trophes. Southey  has  heroically 
invaded  foreign  countries;  Scott  as 
heroically  brought  his  power  to  bear 
on  his  own  people ;  and  both  have 
achieved  immortal  triumphs.  But 
Scotland  is  proud  of  her  great  na- 
tional minstrel — and  as  long  as  she 
is  Scotland,  will  wash  and  warm  the 
laurels  round  his  brow,  with  rains 
and  winds  that  will  for  ever  keep 
brightening  their  glossy  verdure. 
Whereas  England,  ungrateful  ever 
to  her  men  of  genius,  already  often 
forgets  the  poetry  of  Southey,  while 
Little  Britain  abuses  his  patriotism 
in  his  politics.  The  truth  is,  that 
Scotland  had  forgotten  her  own  his- 
tory till  Sir  Walter  burnished  it  all 
up  till  it  glowed  again— it  is  hard  to 


[Sept. 


say  whether  in  his  poetry  or  in  his 
prose  the  brightest — and  the  past 
became  the  present.  We  know  now 
the  character  of  our  own  people 
as  it  shewed  itself  in  war  and  peace, 
in  palace,  castle,  hall,  hut,  hovel, 
and  shieling,  through  centuries  of 
advancing  civilisation,  from  the  time 
when  Edinburgh  was  first  ycleped 
Auld  Reekie,  down  to  the  period 
when  the  bright  idea  first  occurred 
to  her  inhabitants  to  call  her  the 
Modern  Athens.  This  he  has  effect- 
ed by  means  of  about  one  hundred 
volumes,  each  exhibiting  to  the  life 
about  thirty  characters,  and  each 
character  not  only  an  individual  in 
himself  or  herself,  but  the  represen- 
tative— so  we  offer  to  prove  if  you 
be  sceptical — of  a  distinct  class  or 
order  of  human  beings,  from  the 
Monarch  to  the  Mendicant,  from  the 
Queen  to  the  Gipsy — as  for  example, 
from  the  Bruce  to  Sir  Richard  Mo- 
niplies,  from  Mary  Stuart  to  Meg 
Merrilies.  We  shall  never  say  that 
Scott  is  Shakspeare ;  but  we  shall  say 
that  he  has  conceived  and  created — 
you  know  the  meaning  of  these  words 
— a  far  greater  number  of  charac- 
ters— of  real  living  flesh-and-blood 
human  beings — and  that  more  natu- 
rally, truly,  and  consistently,  than 
Shakspeare ;  who  was  sometimes 
transcendently  great  in  pictures  of 
the  passions — but  out  of  their  range, 
which  surely  does  not  comprehend 
all  rational  being — was — nay,  do  not 
threaten  to  murder  us — a  confused 
and  irregular  delineator  of  human 
life.  All  the  world  believed  that 
Sir  Walter  had  not  only  exhausted 
his  own  genius  in  his  poetry,  but 
that  he  had  exhausted  all  the  matter 
of  Scottish  life — he  and  Burns  toge- 
ther— and  that  no  more  ground  un- 
turned up  lay  on  this  side  of  the 
Tweed.  Perhaps  he  thought  so  too 
for  awhile — and  shared  in  the  gene- 
ral and  natural  delusion.  But  one 
morning  before  breakfast  it  occurred 
to  him,  that  in  all  his  poetry  he  had 
done  little  or  nothing — though  more 
for  Scotland  than  any  other  of  her 
poets — or  perhaps  than  all  put  toge- 
ther— and  that  it  would  not  be  much 
amiss  to  commence  a  New  Series  of 
Inventions.  Hence  the  Prose  Tales — 
Novels — and  Romances — not  yet  at 
an  end — fresh  floods  of  light  pour- 
ing all  over  Scotland — and  occasion- 
ally illumining  England,  France,  and 


1831.] 


An  Hour's  Talk  about  Poetry. 


481 


Germany, and  even  Palestine — what- 
ever land  had  been  ennobled  by  Scot- 
tish enterprise,  genius,  valour,  and 
virtue.  Now,  we  beg  leave  to  decline 
answering  our  own  question — has  he 
ever  written  a  Great  Poem  ?  We  do 
not  care  one  straw  whether  he  has 
or  not ;  for  he  has  done  this — he  has 
exhibited  human  life  in  a  greater 
variety  of  forms  and  lights,  all  defi- 
nite and  distinct,  than  any  other  man 
whose  name  has  reached  our  ears — 
and  therefore,  without  fear  or  trem- 
bling, we  tell  the  world  to  its  face, 
that" he  is,  out  of  all  sight,  the  great- 
est genius  of  the  age,  not  forgetting 
Goethe,  the  Devil,  and  Dr  Faustus. 

"  What  ?   Scott  a  greater  genius 
thanByron!"  Yes — beyond  compare. 
Byron  had  a  vivid  and  strong,  but  not 
a  wide,  imagination.     He  saw  things 
as   they  are,  occasionally   standing 
prominently  and  boldly  out  from  the 
flat  surface  of  this  world ;   and  in 
general,  when  his  soul  was  up,  he  de- 
scribed them  with  a  master's  might. 
We  speak  of  the  external  world — 
of  nature  and  of  art.     Now  observe 
how  he  dealt  with  nature.     In  his 
early  poems    he   betrayed  no  pas- 
sionate love  of  nature,  though  we  do 
not  doubt  that  he  felt  it ;  and  even  in 
the  first  two  cantos  of  Childe  Harold 
he  was  an  unfrequent  and  no  very 
devout  worshipper  at  her  shrine. 
We  are  not  blaming  his  lukewarm- 
ness  ;    but    simply   stating    a  fact. 
He  had  something  else  to  think  of, 
itwould  appear  ;  and  proved  himself 
a  poet.    But  in  the  third  canto,  "  a 
change  came  over  the  spirit  of  his 
dream,"  and  he  "  babbled  o'  green 
fields,"  floods  and  mountains.    Un- 
fortunately, however,  for  his  origi- 
nality, that  canto  is  almost  a  cento — 
his  model  being  Wordsworth.     His 
merit,  whatever  it  may  be,  is  limited 
therefore  to  that  of  imitation.     And 
observe,  the  imitation  is  not  merely 
occasional,  or  verbal ;  but  all   the 
descriptions   are    conceived  in  the 
spirit  of  Wordsworth,  coloured  by  it 
and  shaped — from  it  they  live,  and 
breathe,  and  have  their  being — and 
that  so  entirely,  that  had  the  Excur- 
sion and  Lyrical  Ballads  never  been, 
neither  had  any  composition  at  all 
resembling,  either  in  conception  or 
execution,  the  third  canto  of  Childe 
Harold.    His  soul,  however,  having 
been  awakened  by  the  inspiration  of 
the  Bard  of  Nature,  never  afterwards 


fell  asleep,  nor  got  drowsy  over  her 
beauties  or  glories;  and  much  fine 
description   pervades   most   of   his 
subsequent  works.    He  afterwards 
made  much  of  what  he  saw  his  own 
— and   even   described  it   after  his 
own    fashion;    but   a  far  mightier 
master  in  that  domain  was  his  in- 
structor   and    guide  —  nor    in    his 
noblest  efforts  did  he  ever  make  any 
close  approach  to  the  beauty  and 
sublimity  of  those  inspired  passages, 
which    he    had    manifestly  set    as 
models  before  his  imagination.  With 
all  the  fair  and  great  objects  in  the 
world  of  art,  again,  Byron  dealt  like 
a  poet  of   original    genius.     They 
themselves,  and  not  descriptions  of 
them,  kindled  his   soul ;   and  thus 
"  thoughts  that  breathe,  and  words 
that  burn,"  do  almost  entirely  com- 
pose the  fourth  canto,  which  is  worth, 
ten  times  over,  all  the  rest.    The 
impetuosity  of  his  career  is  astonish- 
ing; never  for  a  moment  does  his 
wing  flag ;  ever  and  anon  he  stoops 
but  to  soar  again  with  a  more  majestic 
sweep ;  and  you  see  how  he  glories  in 
his  flight— that  he  is  proud  as  Lucifer. 
The  two  first  cantos  are  frequently 
cold,  cumbrous,  stiff,  heavy,  and  dull ; 
and,  with  the  exception  of  perhaps 
a  dozen  stanzas,  and  these  far  from 
being  of  first-rate  excellence,  they 
are  found  wofully  wanting  in  ima- 
gination.   Many  passages  are  but  the 
baldest  prose.    Byron,  after  all,  was 
right  in  thinking — at  first — but  poor- 
ly of  these  cantos, — and  so  was  the 
friend,    not     Mr     Hobhouse,    who 
threw  cold  water  upon    them    in 
manuscript.    True,  they  "  made  a 
prodigious   sensation,"    but   bitter- 
bad  stuff  has  often  done  that;  while 
often  unheeded  or  unheard  has  been 
an  angel's  voice.    Had   they  been 
suffered  to  stand   alone,   long  ere 
now  had  they  been  pretty  well  for- 
gotten ;  and  had  they  been  followed 
by  other  two  cantos  no  better  than 
themselves,  then  had  the  whole  four 
in  good  time  been  most  certainly- 
damned.    But,  fortunately,  the  poet, 
in  his  pride,  felt  himself  pledged  to 
proceed;  and  proceed  he  did  in  a 
superior  style ;  borrowing,  stealing, 
and  robbing,  with  a  face  of  aristo- 
cratic   assurance    that    must   have 
amazed  the  plundered;   but  inter- 
mingling with  the  spoil  riches  fairly 
won  by  his  own  genius  from  the  ex- 
haustless  treasury  of  nature,  who 


482  Jtji  How's  Talk  about  Poetry. 


[Sept, 

ments  ;  but  he  was  not  a  sublime 
Seer.  His  Ode — as  it  is  absurdly 
called — on  the  Superstitions  of  the 
Highlands,  is  uninspired  by  the  fears 
that  beset  fancy,  and  but  an  elegant 
and  eloquent  narration  of  sights  and 
sounds  that,  had  they  been  seen  and 
heard  aright,  would  have  wailed  iu 
rueful  and  ghastly  strains,  curdling 
the  blood.  "  The  Passions"  is  an 
unimpassioned  Series  of  Portraits — 
from  which  Reynolds  or  Lawrence 
might  have  painted  graceful  pictures. 
But  he  calls  "  no  spirits  from  the 
vasty  deep."  Now  Passions  are  spi- 
rits, and  the  human  heart  is  a  "  vasty 
deep  ;"  and  therefore  Collins's  Ode 
on  the  Passions  is  but  a  poor  per- 
formance. But  he  had  a  soul  finely 
strung  to  the  obscure  pathetic— and 
it  often  yields  melancholy  murmurs 
by  moonlight  "  when  the  high  woods 
are  still,"  which  spell-like  sadden  the 
imagination,  making  the  night  pen- 
sive. Gray,  again,  had  no  pathos. 
His  famous  Elegy  pleases  and  ele- 
vates the  mind,  for  the  feelings  and 
thoughts  flow  naturally,  and  the  lan- 
guage and  versification  are  elegant 
in  the  extreme — scholarlike  without 
being  pedantic — in  the  best  sense 
classical — and  free  from  flaws,  like 
"  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene."  Then, 
the  subject  is  of  universal  and  eter- 
nal interest.  It  is,  therefore,  an  im- 
mortal Elegy — and  "  Its  Curfew  tolls" 
will,  we  fear ,r  continue  to  be  the  pest 
and  plague  of  all  rising  generations, 
till  the  Schoolmaster  now  abroad  be 
dead.  As  to  his  Odes — with  fine  pas- 
sages— they  are  but  cold  and  clumsy 
concerns.  Their  day  is  over.  We 
ourselves  love  to  read  them  for  the 
sake  of  the  mere  sound,  which  is 
rushing  and  river-like,  and  some- 
times we  think  we  hear  the  sea — 
sullen  afar  oft" — or  near  at  hand,  in  a 
high  tide,  and  dashing  rejoicingly 
among  the  rocks.  He  was  a  skil- 
ful artist — but  no  Pindar — though 
he  describes  grandly  the  Theban 
eagle.  Mason  had  more  poetry  in 
him  than  Gray  —  but  he  threw  it 
away  on  unhappy,  at  least  unfit  sub- 
lid  himself  m  the  shadowy  twilight  jects,  and  he  always  wrought  after  a 
which  they  afford.  Filmy  visions  model.  All  his  writings — except  a 
floated  before  his  half-shut  eye— and  few  beautiful  lines  in  his  English 
they  were  beautiful;  but  unsubstan-  Garden,  which  one  meets  with  now 
tial  all,  and  owning  remotest  kindred  and  then  in  quotation,  without  know- 
with  the  flqsh-and-blood  creatures  of  ing  whence  they  come — are  forgot- 
tliis  our  living  world.  He  loved  to  ten  now  by  all  the  world — except  by 
dream  of  superstitions  and  enchant-  a  few  old  parsons  not  yet  died  out; 


loved  her  wayward,  her  wicked,  and 
her  wondrous  sou.  Is  Childe  Ha- 
rold, then,  a  Great  Poem  ?  What ! 
with  one  half  of  it  little  above  me- 
diocrity, one  quarter  of  it  not  origi- 
nal either  in  conception  or  execution, 
and  the  remainder  glorious  ?  As  for 
his  tales — the  Giaour,  Corsair,  Lara, 
Bride  of  Abydos,  Siege  of  Corinth, 
and  so  forth — they  are  all  spirited, 
energetic,  and  passionate  perform- 
ances— sometimes  nobly  and  some- 
times meanly  versified — but  dis- 
playing neither  originality  nor  fer- 
tility of  invention,  and  assuredly  no 
wide  range  either  of  feeling  or  of 
thought,  though  over  that  range  a 
supreme  dominion.  Some  of  his 
dramas  are  magnificent — and  over 
many  of  his  smaller  poems,  pathos 
and  beauty  overflow.  Don  Juan 
exhibits  almost  every  kind  of  clever- 
ness— :and  in  it  the  degradation  of 
poetry  is  perfect  Many  of  these  hints 
will  doubtless  appear  impertinent 
and  heterodox :  but  we  would  not 
advise  any  hostile  critic  in  any  pe- 
riodical work  to  attempt  to  prove 
them  so  ;  for  if  lie  do,  he  may  count 
upqn  the  crutch. 

There  are  not  a  few  other  praise- 
worthy poets  adorning  this  age,  of 
whom  it  would  be  far  from  unplea- 
sant to  speak ;  but  we  appear  to  nave 
proved  our  point  that  the  age  has 
not  produced  a  single  Great  Poem. 
It  is,  however,  as  we  said  before,  a 
most  poetical  age ;  and  were  we  to 
gather  together  all  the  poetry  it  has 
produced,  and  fling  it  into  one  heap, 
what  an  Olympus ! 

Just  take  a  moment's  glance  at  the 
period  that  elapsed  between  Pope 
and  Cpwper,  and,  mercy  on  us !  what 
a  period  of  drought  and  sterility  ! 
Versification  flourished,  and  all  else 
depayed.  Among  the  crowd,  of  fan- 
cy there  was  a  little — of  feeling  less 
—  and  of  imagination  none  —  while 
intellect  was  so  feeble  it  could  hardly 
crawl.  Among  the  honoured,  Collins 
was  a  poet,  and  his  name  was  Fine 
Ear.  But  feeling  his  own  weakness, 
e  took  refuge  in  abstractions — and 


An  Hour's  Talk  about  Poetry.  483 

sacred  the  Hearth.  Now,  in  the  Task, 
the  Hearth  is  the  heart  of  the  poem, 

finest  fellows  that  ever  breathed—    just  as  it  is  of  a  happy  house.     No 
and  the  Gods  had  made  him  poeti-     other  poem  is  so  full  of  domestic 


1831.] 

but  his  name  will  survive.     A  sad 
case  !  Tom  Warton  was  one  of  the 


poet 

cal,  hut  not  a  poet.  He  loved  poetry 
dearly  —  and  he  wrote  its  history 
well  ;  that  book  being  a  mine.  He 
loved  nature  dearly  too  ;  and  some 
beautiful  sonnets  did  he  indite  about 
the  Isis,  and  the  Charwell,  and  the 
rural  scenery  about  Oxford,  and  Ox- 
ford's self  —  she  who  is  worthy  of  an 
immortal  song.  In  short,  Collins, 
Gray,  and  Warton,  were  three  such 
men  as  one  will  not  often  meet  with 
on  a  summer's-day.  But  had  they 
genius  sufficient  to  glorify  an  era  ? 
No  —  no  —  no. 

To  what  era,  pray,  did  Thomson 
belong  —  and  to  what  era  Cowper  ? 
To  none.  Thomson  had  no  precur- 
sor —  and  till  Cowper  no  follower. 
He  effulged  all  at  once  suulike  —  like 
Scotland's  storm-loving,  mist-ena- 
moured sun,  which  till  you  have  seen 
on  a  day  of  thunder,  you  cannot  be 
said  ever  to  have  seen  the  sun.  Cow- 
per folio  wed  Thomson  merely  in  time. 
We  should  have  had  the  Task,  even 
had  we  never  had  the  Seasons.  These 
two  were  "  Heralds  of  a  mighty 
train  issuing  ;"  add  them,  then,  to 
the  worthies  of  our  own  age,  —  and 
they  belong  to  it,  —  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  poetry  of  the  modern  world  —  to 
which  add  that  of  the  ancient  —  if 
multiplied  by  ten  in  quantity  —  and 
by  twenty  in  quality  —  would  not  so 
variously,  so  vigorously,  so  magnifi- 
cently, so  beautifully,  and  so  truly 
image  the  form  and  pressure,  the 
life  arid  spirit  of  the  mother  of  us  all 
—  Nature.  Are  then  the  Seasons  and 
the  Task  Great  Poems  ?  Yes.—  Why  ? 
We  shall  tell  you  in  two  separate 
articles.  But  we  presume  you  do 
not  need  to  be  told  that  that  poem 
must  be  great,  which  was  the  first 
to  paint  the  rolling  mystery  of  the 
year,  and  to  shew  that  all  its  Seasons 
were  but  the  varied  God  ?  The  idea 
was  original  and  sublime  ;  and  the 
fulfilment  thereof  so  complete,  that 
some  six  thousand  years  having 
elapsed  between  the  creation  of  the 
world  and  of  that  poem,  some  sixty 
thousand,  we  prophesy,  will  elapse 
between  the  appearance  of  that 
poem  and  the  publication  of  another 
equally  great,  oh  a  subject  external 


poem 

happiness — humble  and  high;  none 
is  so  breathed  over  by  the  spirit  of 
the  Christian  religion. 

We  have  not  forgotten  an  order  of 
poets,  peculiar,  we  believe,  to  our 
own  enlightened  land — a  high  order 
of  poets  sprung  from  the  lower  or- 
ders of  the  people — and  not  only 
sprung  from  them,  but  bred  as  well 
as  born  in  "  the  huts  where  poor  men 
lie,"  and  glorifying  their  condition 
by  the  light  of  song.  Such  glory  be- 
longs—we believe — exclusively  to 
this  country  and  to  this  age.  Mr 
Southey,  who  in  his  own  high  genius 
and  fame  is  never  insensible  to  the 
virtues  of  his  fellow-men,  however 
humble  and  obscure  the  sphere  in 
which  they  may  move,  has  written  a 
volume — and  a  most  interesting  one 
— on  the  poets  of  this  class  in  other 
ages  of  our  literature.  Nor  shall  we 
presume  to  gainsay  one  of  his  bene- 
volent words.  But  this  we  do  say, 
that  all  the  verse-writers  of  whom 
he  there  treats,  and  all  the  verse- 
writers  of  the  same  sort  of  whom  lie 
does  not  treat,  that  ever  existed  on 
the  face  of  the  earth,  shrink  up  into 
a  lean  and  shrivelled  bundle  of  dry 
leaves  or  sticks,  compared  with  these 
Five — Burns,  Hogg,  Cunninghame, 
Bloomfield,  and  Clare.  It  must  be 
a  celestial  soil — the  soil  of  this  Bri- 
tain— which  sends  up  such  products 
— and  we  must  not  complain  of  the 
clime  beneath  which  they  grow  to 
such  stately  height,  and  bear  such 
glorious  fruitage.  The  spirit  of  do- 
mestic life  must  be  sound  and  strong 
— the  natural  knowledge  of  good  and 
evil  must  be  high — the  religion  true 
— the  laws  just — and  the  government, 
on  the  whole,  good,  methinks,  that 
have  all  conspired  to  educate  these 
children  of  genius,  whose  souls  Na- 
ture has  framed  of  the  finer  clay. 

Such  men  seem  to  us  more  clearly 
and  certainly  men  of  genius,  than 
many  who,  under  different  circum- 
stances, may  have  effected  far  higher 
achievements.  For  though  they  en- 
joyed in  their  condition  ineffable 
blessings  to  dilate  their  spirits,  and 
touch  them  with  all  tenderest 
thoughts,  it  is  not  easy  to  imagine 


to  the  mind,   equally   magnificent,    the  deadening  or  degrading  influen- 
W,  farther  presume,  that  you  hold    ces  to  whirl,  by  their  condition  they 


484 

were  inevitably  exposed,  and  which 
keep  down  the  heaven-aspiring  flame 
of  genius,  or  extinguisli  it  wholly,  or 
hold  it  smouldering  under  all  sorts 
of  rubbish.  Only  look  at  the  attempts 
in  verse  of  the  common  run  of  clod- 
hoppers. Buy  a  few  ballads  from 
the  wall  or  stall — and  you  groan  to 
think  that  you  have  been  bora — 
such  is  the  mess  of  mire,  mud,  and 
filth  which  often,  without  the  slight- 
est intention  of  brutality,  those  rural, 
city,  or  suburban  bards  of  the  lower 
orders  prepare  for  boys,  and  virgins, 
and  matrons,  who  all  devour  it  greed- 
ily, without  suspicion  of  its  being  a 
foul  and  fetid  stir-about  of  grossness 
and  obscenity.  Strange,  as  true,  that 
even  in  that  mural  minstrelsy,  occa- 
sionally occurs'a  phrase  or  line,  and 
even  stanza,  sweet  and  simple,  and 
to  nature  true  j  but  consider  them  in 
the  light  of  poetry  read,  recited,  and 
sung  by  the  people,  and  you  might 
well  be  appalled  and  disgusted  by 
the  revelation  therein  made  of  the 
coarse,  gross,  and  beastly  tastes, 
feelings  and  thoughts  of  the  lower 
orders.  And  yet  in  the  midst  of  all 
the  popularity  of  such  productions, 
the  best  of  Burns'  poems,  his  Cot- 
tar's Saturday  Night,  and  most  de- 
licate of  his  songs,  are  still  more  po- 
pular, and  read  by  the  same  classes 
with  a  still  greater  eagerness  of  de- 
light I  Into  this  mystery  we  shall  not 
now  enquire;  but  we  mention  it 
now  merely  to  shew  how  divine  a 
thing  true  genius  is,  which,  burning 
within  the  bosoms  of  a  few  favourite 
sons  of  nature,  guards  them  from  all 
this  pollution,  lifts  them  up  above 
it  all,  purifies  their  whole  being,  and 
without  consuming  their  family  af- 
fections or  friendships,  or  making 
them  unhappy  with  their  lot,  and 
disgusted  with  all  about  them,  re- 
veals to  them  all  that  is  fair  and 
bright  and  beautiful  in  feeling  and 
in  imagination,  makes  them  very 
poets  indeed,  and  should  fortune 
favour,  and  chance  and  accident, 
gains  for  them  wide  over  the  world, 
living  and  dead,  the  glory  of  a  poet's 
name. 

From  all  such  evil  influences  in- 
cident to  their  condition — and  we  are 
now  speaking  but  of  the  evil — The 
Five  emerged;  and  first  in  beauty 
and  in  brightness  —  Burns.  Our 
dearly  beloved  Thomas  Carlyle  is 
reported  to  have  said  at  the  dinner 


An  Hour's  Talk  about  Poetry. 


[Sept. 


lately  given  to  Allan  Cunninghame  in 
Dumfries,  that  Burns  was  not  only 
one  of  the  greatest  of  poets,  but  like- 
wise of  philosophers.  We  hope  not. 
What  he  did  may  be  told  in  one  short 
sentence.  His  genius  purified  and 
ennobled  in  his  imagination  and  in 
his  heart  the  character  and  condition 
of  the  Scottish  peasantry — and  re- 
flected them,  ideally  true  to  nature, 
in  the  living  waters  of  Song.  That 
is  what  he  did ;  but  to  do  that,  did 
not  require  the  highest  powers  of  the 
poet  and  the  philosopher.  Nay,  had 
he  marvellously  possessed  them,  lie 
never  would  have  written  a  single 
line  of  the  poetry  of  the  late  Robert 
Burns.  Thank  Heaven  for  not  having 
made  him  such  a  man — but  merely 
the  Ayrshire  Ploughman.  He  was 
called  into  existence  for  a  certain 
work,  for  the  fulness  of  time  was 
come — but  he  was  neither  a  Shak- 
speare,  nor  a  Scott,  nor  a  Goethe; 
and  therefore  he  rejoiced  in  writing 
the  Saturday  Night,  and  the  Twa 
Dogs,  and  The  Holy  Fair,  and  O'  a' 
the  Airts  the  Wund  doth  blaw,  and 
eke  the  Vision.  But  forbid  it,  all 
ye  Gracious  Powers !  that  we  should 
quarrel  with  Thomas  Carlyle — and 
that,  too,  for  calling  Robert  Burns 
one  of  the  greatest  of  poets  and  phi- 
losophers. 

If  he  were,  then  so  is  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd.  The  truth  ought  always  to 
be  spoken ;  and  therefore  we  say  that 
in  fancy  and  in  imagination  James 
Hogg — in  spite  of  his  name  and  his 
teeth — is  superior  to  Robert  Burns, 
and  why  not  ?  The  Forest  is  a  better 
schoolroom  than  ever  Burns  studied 
in;  and  it  once  overflowed  with 
poetical  traditions.  But  comparisons 
are  always  odious;  and  the  great 
glory  of  James  is,  that  he  is  as  unlike 
Robert  as  ever  one  poet  was  unlike 
another,  as  we  once  shewed  in  an 
article  many  years  ago,  which  we 
modestly  believe  exhausted  the  sub- 
ject, and  left  nothing  valuable  to  be 
said  about  the  genius  of  either  bard. 
So  have  we  written  of  Allan  Cun- 
ninghame— though  of  him  we  pur- 
pose to  write  again — for  while  as  a 
poet  he  is  well  worthy  to  be  one  of 
the  Three — he  must  be  spoken  of 
properly — out  of  poetry — as  a  man 
of  great  talents  in  literature. 

The  Five,  then,  belong  to  this 
age ;  and  that  is  a  glory,  as  we  said, 
peculiar  to  itself;  For  they  alone  de- 


1831.]  An  Hottr's  Talk 

serve  the  name  of  Poets,  of  all  the 
aspirants  belonging  to  the  people — 
born  and  bred  among  them — and 
singing  of  their  condition.  No  in- 
considerable talent  and  ingenuity 
some  others  similarly  circumstanced 
in  youth  or  all  life  long  have  exhi- 
bited ;  but  as  to  poetry,  properly  so 
called,  it  was  not  in  them ;  they  did 
nothing  worthy  of  remembrance — 
and  they  are  all  forgotten  for  ever. 

But  there   is   another  glory  be- 
longing to  this  age,  and  almost  to 
this  age  alone  of  our  Poetry — the 
glory  of  Female  Genius.    We  have 
heard  and  seen  it  seriously  argued 
whether  or  not  women  are  equal  to 
men ;  as  if  there  could  be  a  mo- 
ment's doubt  in  any  mind  unbesot- 
ted  by  sex,  that  they  are  infinitely 
superior ;     not    in    understanding, 
thank  Heaven,  nor  perhaps  even  in 
intellect,  but  in  all  other  impulses 
of  soul  and  sense  that  dignity  and 
adorn  human  beings,  and  make  them 
worthy  of  living  on  this  delightful 
earth.     Men  for  the  most  part  are 
such  worthless  wretches,  that  we 
wonder  how  women  condescend  to 
allow  the  world  to  be  carried  on ; 
and  we  attribute  that  phenomenon 
solely  to  the  hallowed  yearnings  of 
maternal  affection,  which  breathes 
as  strongly  in  maid  as  in  matron, 
and  may  be  beautifully  seen  in  the 
child  fondling  its  doll  in  its  bliss- 
ful   bosom.     Philoprogenitiveness ! 
But  not  to  pursue  that  interesting 
speculation,  suffice  it  for  the  present 
to  say,  that  so  far  from  having  no 
souls,  a  whim  of  Mahomet's,  who 
thought  but  of  their  bodies,  women 
are   the  sole   spiritual   beings  that 
walk  the  earth  not  unseen;   they 
alone,  without  pursuing  a  compli- 
cated and  scientific  system  of  decep- 
tion and  hypocrisy,  are  privileged 
from  on  high  to  write  poetry.     We 
— men  we   mean — may  assume    a 
virtue,  though  we  have  it  not,  and 
appear  to  be  inspired  by  the  divine 
afflatus.  Nay,  we  sometimes — often 
— are  truly  so  inspired,  and  write 
like  Gods.    A  few  of  us — not  we — 
are  subject  to  fits,  and    in    them 
utter  oracles.     But  the  truth  is  too 
glaring  to  be  denied,  that  all  male 
rational  creatures  are  in  the  long 
run  vile,  corrupt,  and  polluted ;  and 
that  the  best  man  that  ever  died  in 
his  bed  within  the  arms  of  his  dis- 
tracted wife,  is  wickeder  far  than  the 


about  Poetry. 


485 


worst  woman  that  was  ever  iniqui- 
tously  hanged  for  murdering  what 
was  called  her  poor  husband,  who 
in  all  cases  righteously  deserved  his 
fate.  Purity  of  mind  is  incompati- 
ble with  manhood ;  and  a  monk  is  a 
monster — so  is  every  Fellow  of  a 
College — and  every  Roman  Catho- 
lic Priest,  from  Father  O'Leary  to 
Dr  Doyle.  Confessions,  indeed  ! 
Why,  had  Joseph  himself  confessed 
all  he  had  ever  felt  and  thought — 
for  we  acquit  him  of  any  flagrant 
faux-pas — to  Potiphar's  wife,  she 
would  have  frowned  him  from  her 
presence  in  all  the  chaste  dignity 
of  virtuous  indignation,  and  so  far 
from  tearing  off  the  hem  of  his  gar- 
ment, would  not  have  touched  it  for 
the  whole  world.  But  all  women 
— till  men  by  marriage,  or  by  some- 
thing, if  that  be  possible,  worse  even 
than  marriage,  reduce  them  nearly 
to  their  own  level — are  pure  as  dew- 
drops  or  moonbeams,  and  know  not 
the  meaning  of  evil.  Their  genius 
conjectures  it;  and  in  that  there  is 
no  sin.  But  their  genius  loves  best 
to  image  forth  good,  for  'tis  the 
blessing  of  their  lives,  its  power  and 
its  glory ;  and  hence,  when  they 
write  poetry,  it  is  religion,  sweet, 
soft,  solemn,  and  divine. 

Observe,  however — to  prevent  all 
mistakes — that  we  speak  but  of  Bri- 
tish women— and  of  British  women 
of  the  present  age.  Of  the  German 
Fair  Sex  we  know  little  or  nothing ; 
but  daresay  that  the  Baroness  la 
Motte  Fouque'  is  a  worthy  woman, 
and  as  vapid  as  the  Baron.  Neither 
make  we  any  allusion  to  Madame 
Genlis,  or  other  illustrious  Lemans 
of  the  French  school,  who  charitably 
adopted  their  own  natural  daughters, 
while  other  less  pious  ladies,  who 
had  become  mothers  without  being 
wives,  sent  theirs  to  Foundling  Hos- 
pitals. We  restrict  ourselves  to  the 
Maids  and  Matrons  of  this  Island- 
find  of  this  Age — and  as  it  is  of  ge- 
nius that  we  epeak, — we  name  the 
names  of  Joanna  Baillie,  Mrs  Tighe, 
Felicia  Hemaus,  Lucy  Eliza  Landon, 
and  the  Lovely  Norton — while  we 
pronounce  several  other  sweet- 
sounding  Christian  surnames  in 
whispering  under-tones  of  affection, 
almost  as  inaudible  as  the  sound 
of  the  growing  of  grass  on  a  dewy 
evening. 

Corinna  and  Sappho  must  have 


486  An  Hour's  Talk  about  Poetry. 

been  women  of  transcendent  genius 
so  to  move  Greece.  For  though  the 
Greek  character  was  most  impressi- 
ble and  combustible,  it  was  so  only 
to  the  finest  finger  and  fire.  In  that  de- 
lightful land  dunces  were  all  dumb. 
Where  genius  alone  spoke  and  sung 
poetry,  how  hard  to  excel !  Corinna 
and  Sappho  did  excel — the  one  con- 
quering Pindar — and  the  other  all 
the  world  but  Phaon. 

But  our  own  Joanna  has  been 
visited  with  a  still  loftier  inspiration. 
She  has  created  tragedies  which 
Sophocles — or  Euripides — nay,  even 
jEschylus  himself  would  have  feared, 
in  competition  for  the  immortal  gar- 
laud.  Plays  on  the  Passions !  "  How 
absurd  !"  said  one  philosophical 
writer.  "  This  will  never  do  !"  It 
has  done — perfectly.  What,  pray,  is 
the  aim  of  all  tragedy  ?  The  Stagy- 
rite  has  told  us — to  purify  the  pas- 
sions by  pity  and  terror.  They  venti- 
late and  cleanse  the  soul — till  its 
atmosphere  is  like  that  of  a  calm, 
bright  summer  day.  All  plays, there- 
fore, must  be  on  the  Passions.  And 
all  that  Joanna  intended — and  it  was 
a  great  intention  greatly  effected — 
was  in  her  series  of  dramas  to  steady 
her  purposes  by  ever  keeping  one 
mighty  end  in  view,  of  which  the 
perpetual  perception  could  not  fail 
to  make  all  the  means  harmonious, 
and  therefore  majestic.  One  pas- 
sion was,  therefore,  constituted  so- 
vereign of  the  soul  in  each  glorious 
tragedy — sovereign  sometimes  by 
divine  right — sometimes  an  usurper 
— generally  a  tyrant.  In  De  Montort 
we  behold  the  horrid  reign  of  Hate. 
But  in  his  sister — the  seraphic  sway 
of  Love.  Darkness  and  light  some- 
times opposed  in  sublime  contrast — 
and  sometimes  the  light  swallowing 
up  the  darkness — or  "  smoothing  its 
raven  down  till  it  smiles."  Finally, 
all  is  black  as  night  and  the  grave — 
for  the  light,  uuextinguished,  glides 
and  gleams  away  into  some  far-off 
world  of  peace.  Count  Basil !  A 
woman  only  could  have  imagined 
that  divine  drama.  How  different 
the  love  Basil  feels  for  Victoria  from 
Antony's  for  Cleopatra!  Pure,  deep, 
high  as  the  heaven  and  the  sea.  Yet 
on  it  we  see  him  borne  away  to 
shame,  destruction,  and  death.  It  is 
indeed  his  ruling  passion.  But  the 
day  before  he  saw  her  face — his 
ruling  passion  was  tho  loye  of  glory. 


[Sept. 

And  the  hour  he  died  by  his  own 
hand  was  troubled  into  madness  by 
many  passions  ;  for  are  they  not  all 
mysteriou  -!y  Jinked  together,  some- 
times a  dreadful  brotherhood  ? 

We  must  really  not  much  longer 
delay  our  long-projected  panegyric 
OH  the  genius  of  our  Lady-poets.  Let 
them  be  assured,  that  the  Old  Man 
loves  them  all,  as  they  would  wish 
to  be  loved  ;  and  that  he  would  not 
"  let  even  the  winds  of  heaven  visit 
their  faces  too  roughly."  Not  too 
roughly;  but  long  may  the  winds  of 
heaven  visit  them  freHy  and  boldly, 
for  there  is  health  and  beauty  in  the 
breeze  ;— and  as  for  the  sunshine  and 
the  moonshine, may  they  let  fall  their 
lights  and  their  shadows  unobstruct- 
ed on  countenances  "  instinct  with 
spirit,"  whether  dim  in  pensiveness 
or  radiant  with  joy — still  in  all  ex- 
pression "  beautiful  exceedingly," 
tor  it  alone  deserves  the  name,  the 
Beauty  of  the  Soul. 

Well  may  our  land  be  proud  of 
such  women.  None  such  ever  be- 
fore adorned  her  poetical  annals. 
Glance  over  that  most  interesting 
volume,  "  Specimens  of  British 
Poetesses,"  by  that  amiable  and 
ingenious  man,  the  Reverend  Alex- 
ander Dyce,  and  what  effulgence 
begins  to  break  towards  the  close 
of  the  eighteenth  century !  For 
hundreds  of  years  the  genius  of 
English  women  had  ever  and  anon 
been  shining  forth  in  song;  but  faint, 
though  fair,  was  the  lustre,  and 
struggling,  imprisoned  in  clouds. 
Some  of  the  sweet  singers  of  those 
days  bring  tears  to  our  eyes  by  their 
simple  pathos,  —  for  their  poetry 
breathes  of  their  own  sorrows,  and 
shews  that  they  were  but  too  familiar 
with  grief.  But  their  strains  are  mere 
melodies  "  sweetly  played  in  tune." 
The  deeper  harmonies  of  poetry  seem 
to  have  been  beyond  their  reach. 
The  range  of  their  power  was  limit- 
ed. Anne,  Countess  of  Winchelsea 
— Catherine  Phillips,  known  by  the 
name  of  Orinda— and  Mrs  Anne  Kil- 
legrew,  who,  Dryden  says,  was  made 
an  angel,  "  in  the  last  promotion  to 
the  skies" — shewed,  as  they  sang  on 
earth,  that  they  were  all  worthy  to 
sing  in  Heaven.  But  what  were  their 
hymns  to  those  that  are  now  war- 
bled around  us  from  many  sister 
spirits,  pure  in  their  lives  as  they, 
but  brighter  far  in  their  genius,  and 


1831.] 


An  Hour's  Talk  about  Poetry. 


more  fortunate  in  its  nurture  !  Poet- 
ry from  female  lips  was  then  half  a 
wonder  and  half  a  reproach.  But 
now  'tis  no  longer  rare — not  even 
the  highest — yes,  the  highest — for 
Innocence  and  Purity  are  of  the 
highest  hierarchies ;  andthethoughts 
and  feelings  they  inspire,  though 
breathed  in  words  and  tones,  "  gen- 
tle and  low,  an  excellent  thing  in 
woman,"  are  yet  lofty  as  the  stars, 
and  humble  too  as  the  flowers  be- 
neath our  feet. 

And  now  we  are  upon  the  verge 
of  another  era  of  Poetry,  when  the 
throne  was  occupied  by  Dryden,  and 
then  by  Pope — searching  still  for  a 
Great  Poem.  Did  either  of  them  ever 
Avrite  one  ?  No — never.     Sir  Walter 
says  finely  of  glorious  John, 
"  And  Dryden,  in  immortal  strain, 
Had  raised  the  Table  Round  again, 
But  thnt  a  ribald  King  and  Conrt 
Bade  him  play  on  to  make  them  sport, 
The  world  defrauded  of  the  high  design, 
Profaned    the   God-given   strength,  and 
marr'd  the  lofty  line." 

But  why,  we  ask,  did  Dryden  suf- 
fer a  ribald  king  and  court  to  de- 
base and  degrade  his  immortal  strain  ? 
Because  he  was  poor.  But  could  he 
not  have  died  of  cold,  thirst,  and 
hunger— in  a  state  of  starvation  ? 
Have  not  millions  of  men  and  wo- 
men done  so,  rather  than  sacrifice 
their  conscience  ?  And  shall  we 
grant  to  a  great  poet  that  indulgence 
which  many  a  humble  hind  would 
have  flung  with  scorn  in  our  teeth, 
and  rather  than  have  availed  himself 
of  it,  faced  the  fagot,  or  the  halter, 
or  the  stake  set  within  the  sea-flood  ? 
But  it  is  satisfactory  to  know  that 
Dryden,  though  still  glorious  John, 
was  not  a  Great  Poet.  His  soul, 
we  know,  was  insensible  to  the  pa- 
thetic and  the  sublime — else  had  his 
genius  held  fast  its  integrity — been 
ribald  to  no  ribald — and  indignantly 
kicked  to  the  devil  both  court  and 
king.  Pope,  again,  with  the  common 
frailties  of  humanity,  was  a  pure, 
pompous  little  fellow  of  a  poet — 
and  played  on  his  own  harp  with 
fine  taste,  and  great  execution.  We 
doubt,  indeed,  if  such  a  finished 
style  has  ever  been  heard  since,  from 
any  of  the  King  Apollo's  musicians. 
His  versification  sounds  monotonous 
only  to  ears  of  leather.  That  his 
poetry  has  no  passion  is  the  creed 
of  critics'  *'  of  Cambyses'  vein  :"  as 

VOL.  XXX.  NO.  CLXXXV. 


487 

for  Imagination,  we  shall  continue 
till  such  time  as  that  faculty  has 
been  distinguished  from  Fancy,  to 
see  it  shining  in  the  Rape  of  the 
Lock,  with  a  lambent  lustre ;  if  high 
intellect  be  not  dominant  in  his 
Epistles  and  his  Essay  on  Man,  we 
advise  you  to  look  for  it  in  Keates, 
or  Barry  Cornwall ;  and  could  a  man, 
whose  heart  was  not  heroic,  have 
given  us  another  Iliad,  which  may 
be  read  with  transport,  even  after 
Homer's  ? 

In  Johnson's  Lives  of  the  Poetas- 
ters,may  be  spied  with  a  microcosm, 
a  variety  of  small  fry,  wriggling  about 
in  the  waters  of  Helicon,  which  the 
creatures  at  last  contrive  so  to  mud- 
dy, that  they  elude  observation,  even 
through  that  microscopic  instrument; 
and  in  Chalmers's  edition  of  the  Bri- 
tish Poets,  the  productions  of  people 
are  inserted,  who  must,  when  alive, 
have  been  almost  too  stupid  for  the 
ordinary  run  of  social  life.  Some 
folks  are  born,  it  is  proverbially  said, 
with  a  silver  spoon  in  their  mouths, 
and  others  with  a  wooden  ladle. 
The  expression  is  strongly  obste- 
trical ;  and  of  difficult  delivery. 
But  what  is  more  perplexing  still, 
some  are  born  poets,  whom  the 
world  persists  in  thinking  prosers — 
and  some  are  born  prosers,  and  live 
and  die  in  complete  possession  of  all 
the  faculties  essential  to  the  support, 
of  that  character,  whom  the  world,  or 
the  world's  counsellors  and  guides, 
the  critics,  insist  upon  dubbing  poets, 
wreathing  their  brows  with  laurels, 
and  consigning  them  to  immortal 
fame.  Some  of  them — persons  not 
destitute  of  common  sense — such  as 
the  Sprats,  the  Dukes,  the  Pomfrets, 
and  the  Yaldens — must  have  been 
themselves  much  astonished  at  such 
procedure  on  the  part  of  the  public 
— while  others  have  exclaimed,  like 
their  kindred,  "  See  !  how  we  apples 
swim  !"  In  former  ages,  this  fortu- 
nate and  unfortunate  breed  flourished 
in  England — nor  are  they  yet  ex- 
tinct. The  dunces  are  not  yet  dead 
— and  occasionally  the  empty  skull 
gets  a  leaf  of  laurel.  But  to  do  our 
poetasters  justice — many  of  them 
are  in  a  degree  poetical,  and  really 
write  verses  very  prettily  indeed — 
in  a  style  seldom  sufficiently  felici- 
tous to  shield  them  from  a  certain 
sharp  of  contempt  from  their  contem- 
poraries, but  often  superior  to  the 


488 


An  Hour's  Talk  about  Poetry. 


[Sept. 


very  highest  and  most  successful 
efforts  or  many  who,  in  former  times, 
were  asked  to  sup  in  taverns  as  per- 
sons of  wit.  A  first-rate  poetaster 
of  this  age  would  have  been  almost 
a  second-rate  poet  of  other  ages  we 
could  mention  — provided  he  had 
written  as  well  then  as  he  does  now; 
but  there  comes  the  rub,  for  he 
owes  the  little  power  he  now  pos- 
sesses and  flourishes  in,  to  a  sort  of 
convulsion  communicated  to  him  by 
the  electricity  of  poetical  genius 
flashing  night  and  day  all  over  the 
horizon ;  whereas  had  he  lived  then, 
when  the  atmosphere  was  not  so 
fully  charged,  ten,  nay,  twenty  to 
one,  he  had  vegetated  quietly  like 
other  plants,  and  faded  away  with- 
out a  single  struggle  of  inspiration. 

We  have  not  yet,  it  would  seem, 
found  the  object  of  our  search — a 
Great  Poem.  Let  us  extend  our 
quest  into  the  Elizabethan  age.  We 
are  at  once  sucked  into  the  theatre. 
With  the  whole  drama  of  that  age  we 
are  conversant  and  familiar ;  but 
whether  we  understand  it  or  not,  is 
another  question.  It  aspires  to  give 
representations  of  Human  Life  in  all 
its  infinite  varieties,  and  inconsist- 
encies, and  conflicts,  and  turmoils 
produced  by  the  Passions.  Time 
and  space  are  not  suffered  to  inter- 
pose their  unities  between  the  Poet 
and  his  vast  design,  who,  provided 
he  can  satisfy  the  souls  of  the  spec- 
tators by  the  pageant  of  their  own 
passions  moving  across  the  stage, 
may  exhibit  there  whatever  he  wills 
from  life,  death,  or  the  grave.  "Pis 
a  sublime  conception — and  some- 
times has  given  rise  to  sublime  per- 
formance ;  but  in  our  opinion,  has 
been  death  to  the  drama — in  all  hands 
— but  in  those  of  Shakspeare.  Great 
as  was  the  genius  of  many  of  the  dra- 
matists of  that  age,  not  one  of  them 
has  produced  a  Great  Tragedy.  A 
Great  Tragedy  indeed!  What!  with- 
out ha  mony  or  proportion  in  the 
plan — with  all  puzzling  perplexities, 
and  inextricable  entanglements  in 
the  plot — and  with  disgust  and  hor- 
ror in  the  catastrophe  ?  As  for  the 
characters — male  and  female — saw 
ye  ever  such  a  set  of  swaggerers  and 
rantipoles  as  they  often  are,  in  one 
act — Methodist  preachers,  and  de- 
mure young  women  at  a  love-feast 
in  another — absolute  heroes  and  he- 
roines of  high  calibre  in  a  third— 


and  so  on,  changing  and  shifting  name 
and  nature,  according  to  the  laws  of 
the  Romantic  Drama  torsooth — but  in 
hideous  violation  of  the  laws  of  na- 
ture— till  the  curtain  falls,  over  a 
heap  of  bodies  huddled  together 
without  regard  to  age  or  sex,  as  if 
they  had  been  overtaken  in  liquor, 
and  were  all  dead-drunk !  We  admit 
that  there  is  gross  exaggeration  in 
the  picture.  But  there  is  always 
truth  in  a  tolerable  caricature — and 
this  is  one  of  a  tragedy  of  Webster, 
Ford,  or  Massinger. 

It  is  satisfactory  to  know  that  the 
good  sense,  and  good  feeling,  and 
good  taste  of  the  people  of  England 
will  not  submit  to  be  belaboured  by 
editors  and  critics  into  admiration  of 
such  enormities.  The  Old  English 
Drama  lies  buried  in  the  dust  with 
all  its  tragedies.  Never  more  will 
they  disfigure  the  stage.  Scholars 
read  them,  and  often  with  delight, 
admiration,  and  wonder.  For  genius 
is  a  strange  spirit,  and  has  begotten 
strange  children  on  the  body  of  the 
Tragic  Muse.  In  the  closet  it  is  plea- 
sant to  peruse  the  countenances,  at 
once  divine,  human,  and  brutal,  of 
the  incomprehensible  monsters — to 
scan  their  forms,  powerful  though 
mishapen  —  to  watch  their  move- 
ments, vigorous  though  distorted — 
and  to  hold  up  one's  hands  in  amaze- 
ment on  hearing  them  not  seldom 
discourse  most  excellent  music.  But 
we  should  shudder  to  see  them  on 
the  stage  enacting  the  parts  of  men 
and  women — and  massacre  the  ma- 
nager. All  has  been  done  for  the 
least  deformed  of  the  tragedies  of  the 
Old  English  Drama  that  humanity 
could  do,  enlightened  by  the  Christ- 
ian religion;  but  Nature  has  risen 
up  to  vindicate  herself  against  such 
misrepresentations  as  they  afford  ; 
and  sometimes  finds  it  all  she  can  do 
to  stomach  Shakspeare. 

But  the  monstrosities  we  have 
mentioned  are  not  the  worst  to  be 
found  in  almost  every  scene  of  the 
said  Old  English  Drama.  Others 
there  are  that,  till  civilized  Christen- 
dom fall  back  into  barbarous  Hea- 
thendom, must  for  ever  be  unendu- 
rable to  human  ears,  whether  long 
or  short — we  mean  the  obscenities. 
That  sin  is  banished  for  ever  from 
our  literature.  The  poet  who  might 
dare  to  commit  it,  would  be  imme- 
diately hooted  out  of  society,  and 


1831.] 


An  Hour's  Talk  about  Poetry. 


489 


sent  to  roost  in  barns  among  the 
owls.  But  the  Old  English  Drama 
is  stuffed  with  ineffable  pollutions ; 
and  full  of  passages  that  the  lowest 
prostitute  would  be  ashamed  to  read 
aloud  in  the  stews.  Therefore,  let 
them  rot.  We  have  not  seen  that 
volume  of  the  Family  Dramatists 
which  contains  Massinger.  But  if 
made  fit  for  female  reading,  his 
plays  must  be  mutilated  and  man- 
gled out  of  all  likeness  to  the  origi- 
nal wholes.  But  to  free  them  even 
from  the  grossest  impurities,  with- 
out destroying  their  very  life,  is  im- 
possible ;  and  it  would  be  far  better 
to  make  a  selection  of  fine  passages, 
after  the  manner  of  Lamb's  speci- 
mens— but  with  a  severer  eye—than 
to  attempt  in  vain  to  preserve  their 
character  as  plays,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  expunge  all  that  is  too  dis- 
gusting, perhaps,  to  be  dangerous  to 
boys  and  virgins.  Full-grown  men 
may  read  what  they  choose — per- 
haps without  suffering  from  it;  but 
the  modesty  of  the  young  clear  eye 
must  not  be  profaned — and  we  can- 
not, for  our  own  part,  imagine  a  Fa- 
mily Old  English  Dramatist. 

And  here  again  bursts  upon  us 
the  glory  of  the  Greek  Drama.  The 
Athenians  were  as  wicked,  as  licen- 
tious, as  polluted,  and  much  more 
so,  we  hope,  than  ever  were  the 
Englishers ;  but  they  debased  not 
with  their  gross  vices  their  glorious 
tragedies.  Nature  in  her  higher 
moods  alone,  and  most  majestic  as- 
pects, trode  their  stage.  Buffoons, 
and  ribalds,  and  zanies,  and  "  rude 
indecent  clowns,"  were  confined  to 
comedies  ;  and  even  there  they  too 
were  idealized,  and  resembled  not 
the  obscene  samples  that  so  often 
sicken  us  in  the  midst  of  "  the  act- 
ing of  a  dreadful  thing"  in  our  thea- 
tres. They  knew  that  "  with  other 
ministrations,  thou,  O  Nature  !" 
teachest  thy  handmaid  Art  to  soothe 
the  souls  of  thy  congregated  children 
— congregated  to  behold  her  noble 
goings-on,  and  to  rise  up  and  depart 
elevated  by  the  transcendent  pa- 
geant. The  Tragic  Muse  was  in 
those  days  a  Priestess — tragedies 
were  religious  ceremonies — tor  all 
the  ancestral  stones  they  celebrated 
were  under  consecration — the  spirit 
of  the  ages  of  heroes  and  demigods 
descended  over  the  vast  amphithea- 
tre; and  thus  were  -<Eschylus,  and. 


Sophocles,  and  Euripides,  the  guar- 
dians of  the  national  character,  which, 
wo  all  know,  was,  in  spite  of  all  it 
suffered  under,  high  indeed,  and  for 
ever  passionately  enamoured  of  all 
the  forms  of  greatness. 

Forgive  us— spirit  of  Shakspeare ! 
that  seem'st  to  animate  that  high- 
brow'd  bust — if  indeed  we  have 
offer'd  any  show  of  irreverence  to 
thy  name  and  nature — for  now,  in 
the  noiselessness  of  midnight,  to  our 
awed  but  loving^  hearts  do  both  ap- 
pear divine  !  Forgive  us — we  be- 
seech thee — that  on  going  to  bed — 
which  we  are  just  about  to  do — we 
may  be  able  to  compose  ourselves 
to  sleep — and  dream  of  Miranda  and 
Imogen,  and  Desdemona  and  Cor- 
delia. Father  revered  of  that  holy 
family  !  by  the  blue  light  in  the  eyes 
of  Innocence  we  beseech  thee  to 
forgive  us! — Ha!  what  old  ghost 
art  thou — clothed  in  the  weeds  of 
more  than  mortal  misery — mad,  mad, 
mad — come  and  gone — was  it  Lear  ? 

We  have  found,  then — it  seems— 
at  last — the  object  of  our  search — 
a  Great  Poem — aye — four  Great 
Poems  — Lear — Hamlet — Othello — 
Macbeth.  And  was  the  revealer  of 
those  high  mysteries  in  his  youth  a 
deer-stealer  in  the  parks  of  Warwick- 
shire, a  linkboy  in  London  streets  ? 
And  died  he  in  his  grand  climacteric 
in  a  dimmish  sort  of  a  middle-sized 
tenement  on  Stratford-on-Avon,  of  a 
surfeit  from  an  over-dose  of  home- 
brewed humming  ale !  Such  is  the 
tradition. 

Had  we  a  daughter — an  only 
daughter — we  should  wish  her  to  be 

"  Like  heavenly  Una  with  her  milk-white 
lamb." 

In  that  one  line  has  Wordsworth 
done  an  unappreciable  service  to 
Spenser.  He  has  improved  upon  a 
picture  in  the  Fairy  Queen — making 
"  the  beauty  still  more  beauteous," 
by  a  single  touch  of  a  pencil  dipped 
in  moonlight — or  in  sunlight  tender 
as  Luna's  smiles.  Through  Spenser's 
many  nine-lined  stanzas  the  lovely 
lady  glides  along  the  wild — and  our 
eyes  follow  in  delight  the  sinless 
wanderer.  In  Wordsworth's  one 
single  celestial  line  we  behold  her 
but  for  a  moment  of  time,  and  a 
point  of  space — an  immortal  idea  at 
one  gaze  occupying  the  spirit. 
And  is  not  the  Fairy  Queen  a  Great 


An  How's  Talk  about  Poetry. 


490 

Poem  ?  Like  the  Excursion,  it  is  at  all 
events  a  long  one — "  slow  to  begin, 
and  never  ending."  That  fire  was  a 
fortunate  one  in  which  so  many  books 
of  it  were  burnt.  If  no  such  fortu- 
nate fire  ever  took  place,  then  let  us 
trustthat  the  moths  drillingly  devour- 
ed the  manuscript — and  that  'tis  all 
safe.  Purgatorial  pains — unless  in- 
deed they  should  prove  eternal— are 
insufficient  punishment  for  the  impi- 
ous man  who  invented  Allegory.  If 
you  have  got  any  thing  to  say,  sir, 
out  with  it — in  one  or  other  of  the 
many  forms  of  speech  employed 
naturally  by  creatures  to  whom  God 
has  given  the  gift  of  "  discourse  of 
reason."  But  as  youhope  to  be  saved, 
(and  remember  your  soul  is  immor- 
tal,) beware  of  misspending  your  life 
in  perversely  attempting  to  make 
shadow  light  and  light  shadow.  Won- 
derful analogies  there  are  among  all 
created  things — material  and  imma- 
terial— and  millions  so  fine  that  Poets 
alone  discern  them — and  sometimes 
succeed  in  shewing  them  in  words. 
Most  spiritual  region  of  poetry — and 
to  be  visited  at  rare  times  and  sea- 
sons— nor  long  there  ought  bard  to 
abide.  For  a  few  moments  let  the 
veil  of  Allegory  be  drawn  before  the 
face  of  truth,  that  the  light  of  its 
beauty  may  shine  through  it  with  a 
softened  charm — dim  and  drear — like 
the  moon  gradually  obscuring  in  its 
own  halo  on  a  dewy  night.  Such  air- 
woven  veil  of  Allegory  is  no  human 
invention.  The  soul  brought  it  with 
her  when 

"  Trailing  clouds  of  glory  slie  did  come 
From  heaven  \vhich  is  her  home." 


[Sept. 


Sometimes,  now  and  then,  in  moods 
strange  and  high — obey  the  bidding 
of  the  soul — and  allegorize  ;  but  live 
not  all  life-long  in  an  Allegory  — 
even  as  Spenser  did — Spenser  the  di- 
vine— for  lo,  and  behold !  he  with 
all  his  heavenly  genius — and  brighter 
•visions  never  met  mortal  eyes  than 
his — what  is  he  but  a  "  dreamer 
among  men,"  and  what  may  save 
that  wondrous  poem  from  the  doom 
of  the  dust  ? 

To  this  conclusion  must  we  come 
at  last — that  in  the  English  language 
there  is  but  one  Great  Poem.  What ! 
said  you  not  that  Lear,  and  Hamlet, 
and  Othello,  and  Macbeth,  were  all 
Great  Poems  ?  We  did — but  therein 
we  erred — for  all  the  four  have  un- 
dergone— in  the  hands  of  their  crea- 
tor— disfiguration.  There  is — we  re- 
peat it — but  one  Great  Poem  alone 
in  our  tongue — Paradise  Lost.  So 
go — and 

"  Gaze  on  that  mighty  Orb  of  Song, 
The  Divine  Milton." 

«  Fluxit— Dpmine!"  The  sand  in 
the  hourglass  is  still.  "  To-morrow 
for  severer  thought" — as  old  Crewe 
has  it  at  the  conclusion  of  his  Lewes- 
don-Hill — but  now  for  bed — as  he 
was  then  "  for  breakfast" — yet  not 
till  we  have  said  our  prayers.  Let 
no  man  hope  to  sleep  soundly — for 
many  nights  on  end — who  forgets 
that  knees  were  given — along  with 
many  other  purposes — for  genuflec- 
tion—and that  among  all  mankind  is 
the  natural  posture  of  thanksgiving. 
Eugete  et  valele,  arnica  !  formosis- 
ftimce  ! 


1831.]          On  the  Foreign  Policy  of  the  Whig  Administration. 


491 


ON  THE  FOREIGN  POLICY  OF  THE  WHIG  ADMINISTRATION 

No.  I. — BELGIUM. 


WITH  such  rapidity  do  events,both 
domestic  and  foreign,  now  succeed 
each  other,  that  before  we  are  well 
aware  of  what  is  doing  at  home,  our 
external  policy  has  undergone  a  to- 
tal alteration.  A  reforming  admi- 
nistration, not  content  with  new-mo- 
delling ourinternal  government,  have 
seized  the  first  opportunity  of  chan- 
ging our  external  relations  :  while 
all  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  destruc- 
tion of  our  ancient  institutions,  they 
have  at  once  abandoned  the  oldest 
allies,  and  relinquished  the  most  fix- 
ed principles  of  British  policy.  With 
one  hand  they  have  repudiated  the 
glories  of  Salamanca  and  Vittoria, 
with  the  other,  surrendered  the 
trophies  of  Blenheim  and  Waterloo. 
We  do  not  believe  that  Ministers 
either  intend  to  do,  or  are  aware 
that  they  are  doing,  these  things.  We 
give  Earl  Grey  full  credit  for  the 
sincerity  of  his  declaration,  that  no 
man  in  the  British  dominions  is  more 
anxious  to  uphold  the  national  ho- 
nour, and  maintain  the  national  in- 
terests, than  hejs.  What  we  assert 
is,  that  the  passion  for  innovation 
has  blinded  our  rulers  to  the  conse- 
quences of  their  actions ;  and  want 
of  due  consideration  precipitated 
them  into  measures  as  fatal  to  the 
future  liberties  of  Europe,  as  the 
Reform  Bill  promises  to  be  to  the 
freedom  of  this  country. 

The  uniform  policy  of  England 
since  the  Treaty  of  Westphalia 
moulded  the  powers,  and  the  pre- 
ponderance of  France  lixed  the  po- 
licy of  Europe,  has  been,  to  support 
the  Low  Countries,  on  the  one  hand, 
and  Portugal  on  the  other,  against 
the  ambition  of  that  powerful  state. 
Lightly  as  in  a  moment  of  political 
passion  we  may  speak  of  the  wis- 
dom of  our  ancestors,  this  system  was 
neither  based  in  unfounded  jealousy, 
nor  unreasonable  apprehension.  Ex- 
perience has  proved,  in  every  age, 
that  France,  unless  strictly  coerced, 
is  too  powerful  for  any  of  the  ad- 
joining states;  and  that  the  moment 
she  acquires  a  decided  preponder- 
ance in  Europe,  her  resources  are 
directed  ^with  unceasing  hostility 


against  this  country.  It  is  only,  there- 
fore, by  coercing  the  ambition  of  that 
country  while  yet  in  its  cradle,  by 
raising  up  against  it  a  barrier  which 
in  its  infantine  state  cannot  be  pass- 
ed, that  the  storm  can  be  averted 
from  our  own  shores,  and  Europe 
saved  from  the  necessity  of  contend- 
ing for  its  independence,  not  with 
France  alone,  but  with  France  aid- 
ed by  the  strength  of  all  the  con- 
quered states  in  its  vicinity. 

Without  referring  to  other  ex- 
amples of  this  important  truth,  it  is 
sufficient  to  refer  to  the  wars  of 
Marlborough  and  the  French  Revo- 
lution. The  barrier  towns  in  the 
Netherlands  hardly  existed  in  the 
early  part  of  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV., 
and  the  consequence  was,  that  in  a 
single  campaign,  that  ambitious  mo- 
narch overrun  the  Netherlands,  cross- 
ed the  Rhine,  and  but  for  a  series  of 
accidents,  and  most  intrepid  conduct 
on  the  part  of  the  Dutch,  would  have 
carried  the  French  standards  to  Am- 
sterdam, and  established  the  empire 
of  the  Grand  Nation  one  hundred  and 
twenty  years  before  the  days  of  Na- 
poleon. There  immediately  succeed- 
ed the  usual  features  of  French  am- 
bition :  Franche  Compte,  Lorrain, 
and  Alsace  were  united  to  the  mo- 
narchy :  the  treaty  with  Spain  gave 
to  the  Grande  Monarque  the  abso- 
lute disposal  of  the  resources  in  the 
Peninsula,  and  the  conquest  of  the 
Low  Countries  put  its  powerful 
armies  in  possession  of  a  salient 
angle,  from  which  they  threatened 
all  the  divided  and  exposed  states  of 
the  German  Empire. 

Europe  then  perceived  its  danger ; 
an  alliance  of  Austria,  Britain,  and 
Holland  was  formed  to  oppose  a 
barrier  to  the  ambition  of  France, 
and  after  a  long  contest,  and  various 
vicissitudes  of  fortune,  the  French 
were  driven  back,  the  Low  Countries 
recovered,  and  the  barrier  of  forti- 
fied towns  erected,  which  for  an 
hundred  years  restrained  the  domi- 
neering power  of  that  ambitious 
state  within  its  natural  limits. 

But  what  a  prodigious  exertion  of 
strength  and  talent  was  required  to 


On  the  Foreign  Policy  of  the  Whig  Administration. 


492 


effect  this  alteration !  The  genius  of 
Marlborough,  the  sword  ofEugene, 
were  exerted  year  after  year  in  the 
mighty  undertaking  j  the  victories 
of  Blenheim  and  Ramilies,  of  Oude- 
nard  and  Malplaquet;  the  sieges  of 
Mons  and  Tournay;  of  Lisle  and 
Landrecy;  an  unconquerable  hero, 
and  a  quarter  of  a  century  of  com- 
bats were  required  for  its  accom- 
plishments. Had  the  barrier  of  Fle- 
mish towns  existed  in  1682,  the 
French  arm  ies  would  never  have  been 
enabled  to  pass  the  frontier,  and  the 
imminent  peril  to  European  inde- 
pendence, the  enormous  expendi- 
ture of  British  wealth,  the  formation 
of  the  national  debt  prevented. 

The  great  barrier  of  fortified  towns 
which  was  erected  after  the  Treaty 
of  Utrecht,  proved  a  bridle  in  the 
mouth  of  France,  which  restrained 
its  ambition  for  nearly  a  century. 
The  longest  peace  which  had  sub- 
sisted in  Europe  for  two  hundred 
years,  followed  its  formation.  From 
1714  till  1739,  a  period  of  five-and- 
twenty  years,  England  was  at  peace 
with  France.  All  the  subsequent 
efforts  of  French  ambition  were  shat- 
tered against  that  formidable  barrier; 
and  though  the  genius  of  Marshal 
Saxe  for  a  time  penetrated  through 
the  Low  Countries,  the  line  was  re- 
stored by  the  Treaty  of  Aix  la  Cha- 
pelle,  and  Europe  still  preserved, 
for  half  a  century  more,  from  the  in- 
roads of  its  most  redoubtable  enemy. 

At  length,  in  an  evil  hour,  the  Em- 
peror Joseph,  dazzled  by  the  mar- 
riage of  Marie  Antoinette  with  the 
King  of  France,  misled  by  the  re- 
volutionary fervour  of  the  time,  dis- 
gusted with  the  expense  of  main- 
taining so  costly  a  barrier,  doubtful 
of  the  fidelity  of  the  Belgian  garri- 
sons  who  held  the  fortresses,  resol- 
ved upon  their  demolition.  "  Europe," 
says  General  Jomini,  "  beheld  with 
astonishment  that  celebrated  barrier, 
erected  at  so  vast  an  expense,  the 
theatre  of  so  much  glory,  conquered 
at  so  immense  an  expenditure  of 
blood  and  treasure,  so  necessary  to 
the  liberties  of  Europe,  sacrificed  to 
the  dreams  of  philanthropy,  or  the 
calculations  of  an  ill-judged  econo- 
my!"* The  fatal  consequences  were 
not  at  the  time  anticipated ;  the  man- 


[Sept. 

date  of  destruction  went  forth,  and 
the  plough  soon  moved  over  the  site 
of  the  ramparts  which  had  been  de- 
fended by  the  heroism  of  Boufflers, 
or  formed  by  the  genius  of  Vauban. 
It  was  not  long  before  Austria 
bitterly  repented  this  act  of  folly. 
The  French  Revolution  arose :  the 
Prussian  armies  were  repulsed  from 
Champaigne,  and  Dumourier,  flushed 
with  victory,  advanced  to  the  con- 
quest of  the  Netherlands.  Then 
were  seen  the  fatal  consequences  of 
the  destruction  of  the  barrier  fort- 
resses. The  forces  which  fought  at 
Jemappes  did  not,  on  either  side,  ex- 
ceed 80,000  men ;  the  loss  of  the 
vanquished  did  not  amount  to  3000 
men ;  yet,  this  inconsiderable  victory 
gavethe  whole  Netherlands  to  France. 
An  army  which  would  hardly  have 
been  adequate  to  the  siege  of  one  of 
the  barrier  towns, — a  victory  which 
would  not  have  advanced  it  five 
miles  through  that  iron  frontier, — at 
once  delivered  over  the  whole  of 
those  rich  provinces  to  the  republi- 
cans :  a  territory  won  by  Marlbo- 
rough and  Eugene  by  inches,  gained 
after  ten  campaigns,  purchased  by 
the  lives  of  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  men,  was  overrun  in  a  few  weeks 
by  an  army  which  would  not  have 
formed  a  wing  of  their  vast  array. 

The  Austrians  now  took  the  alarm 
— they  reinforced  the  troops  under 
Cobourg,  and  the  battle  of  Nerwinde, 
in  spring  1798,  restored  to  their 
empire  the  whole  Netherlands,  and 
had  wellnigh  proved  fatal  to  France. 
The  forces  arrayed  on  either  side 
on  this  occasion  did  not  exceed 
40,000  men ;  the  loss  of  the  van- 
quished Republicans  was  only  4000 
men  !  yet  this  inconsiderable  battle 
again  delivered  over  the  whole  Low 
Countries  to  new  masters.  "  The 
retreating  French,"  says  Jomini,  "  in 
an  open  country,  without  mountains 
or  great  rivers,  bereftof  its  fortresses, 
could  make  no  head  against  the  ad- 
vancing columns  of  the  Austrians, 
even  though  hardly  superior  in  num- 
bers. The  destruction  of  the  barrier 
towns  then  proved  as  fatal  to  the  Re- 
publicans as  the  year  before  it  had 
done  to  the  Imperial  forces." 

Again  the  fortune  of  war  brought 
the  Allies  to  the  French  frontier. 


Guerres  de  la  Revolution,  ii.  p,  236. 


1881.]          On  the  Foreign  Policy  of  the  Whig  Administration. 


493 


England  joined  the  coalition,  a  vast 
army  was  formed,  the  Republicans 
were  defeated  at  Famars,  the  camp 
of  Caesar  stormed,  and  the  invasion 
of  the  Republic  was  attempted  — 
what,  then,  saved  France  from  de- 
struction in  that  hour  of  extremest 
peril,  when  Lyons  and  Toulon  were 
in  arms  against  the  Convention,  when 
a  devouring  flame,  emanating  from 
La  Vendee,  consumed  the  western 
provinces,  and  120,000  victorious 
troops  were  ready  to  pour  in  on  the 
northern  frontier  ?  Not  the  valour 
of  her  armies,  for  they  had  been  re- 
peatedly defeated,  and  were  shut  up 
n  fortified  camps,  unable  to  keep 
the  field :  not  the  great  Republican 
levies,  for  they  were  not  ordered 
for  three  months  afterwards,  and  did 
not  appear  in  arms  till  the  following 
spring :  not  revolutionary  ardour, 
for  it  had  been  weighed  in  the  ba- 
lance and  found  awanting  —  what 
protected  them  was  the  triple  line  of 
their  undcstroyed  fortresses.  It  was 
this  iron  barrier  which  broke  all  the 
efforts  of  the  coalition :  within  its 
ramparts  the  undisciplined  levies, 
unable  to  keep  the  field,  were  secure- 
ly disciplined;  and  beneath  its  walls 
the  vast  army  of  the  invaders  was 
compelled  to  linger,  till  the  efforts 
of  the  Convention  for  the  armament 
of  the  interior  had  produced  an  un- 
conquerable force. 

The  Allies  have  been  severely  cen- 
sured, after  the  capture  of  Valen- 
ciennes, for  dividing  their  forces,  and 
proceeding,  the  one-half  to  the  siege 
of  Dunkirk,  the  other  to  that  of 
Quesnoy.  But,  admitting  that  they 
erred  in  pursuing  separate  objects, 
the  siege  of  some  of  the  frontier  fort- 
resses was  unavoidable  ;  for  no  in- 
vading force,  unless  it  consists  of  the 
enormous  masses  which,  in  1814,were 
precipitated  on  France,  could  ven- 
ture to  penetrate  into  that  country, 
leaving  an  unsubdued  line  of  fort- 
resses behind  them.  Whatever  fort- 
resses they  had  besieged,  the  result 
would  have  been  the  same,  because 
the  time  spent  in  their  reduction  must 
have  given  leisure  to  the  Convention 
to  complete  the  vast  armaments  in 
the  interior,  and  overwhelm  the  in- 
vaders in  the  next  campaign  with  an 
irresistible  superiority  of  force. 

The  Allies  succeeded  in  reducing 
the  principal  frontier  fortresses  of 
France  j  Quesnoy,  Conde,  Valenci- 


ennes, and  Landrecy,  were  succes- 
sively taken;  but  the  time  lost  in 
reducing  them  in  spring  1794, proved 
the  salvation  of  the  Republic.  The 
immense  levies  ordered  by  the  Con- 
vention in  September,  1793,  were, 
during  the  following  winter,  equip- 
ped and  disciplined,  and  the  French 
armies,  during  the  course  of  the  fol- 
lowing campaigns,  at  length  acquired 
a  decisive  numerical  superiority  over 
those  of  the  Allies.  The  battle  of 
Fleurus  was  fought,  and  though  the 
action  was  nearly  drawn,  and  the  loss 
of  the  Imperialists  did  not  exceed 
5000  men,  yet,  as  they  fell  back  on 
the  following  day,  all  the  immense 
advantages  of  a  victory  accrued  to 
the  Republicans.  Flanders,  again 
bereft  of  its  frontier  towns,  fell  a 
prey  to  the  invaders;  the  French 
armies  advanced  to  Amsterdam,  and 
the  frontiers  of  the  Republic  were 
permanently  advanced  to  the  Rhine. 
The  consequences  of  this  great 
eventare  sufficiently  known.  Austria, 
Prussia,  Italy,  Spain,  and  Portugal, 
successively  were  subdued  by  the 
conqueror ;  Russia  itself  maintained 
a  doubtful  contest  on  the  ISiemen, 
and  the  whole  forces  of  Europe  were 
speedily  arrayed  in  fierce  hostility 
against  this  country.  But  for  the 
unparalleled  victory  of  Trafalgar,  the 
unconquerable  firmness  of  Welling- 
ton, and  the  matchless  constancy  of 
Russia,  there  was  an  end  of  the  Bri- 
tish empire — a  wonderful  and  un- 
precedented combination,  which  may 
not  occur  again  for  a  thousand  years, 
and  on  the  recurrence  of  which  no 
future  statesman  can  possibly  calcu- 
late ! 

Taught  by  these  disasters,  the 
European  powers  resolved  to  oppose 
anew  to  French  ambition  the  barrier 
which  had  been  erected  by  the  genius 
of  Marlborough,  and  which  the  ex- 
perience of  eighty  years  had  proved 
to  be  so  effectual.  The  triumphs  of 
Wellington  had  again  given  the  Allies 
the  command  of  Flanders,  and  there 
they  resolved  to  erect  the  flood- 
gates, which  might  restrain  the  tor- 
rent, before  it  had  precipitated  itself 
with  resistless  violence  over  Europe. 
The  barrier  fortresses,  insanely 
destroyed  by  Joseph,  were  again 
erected,  and  a  bridle  imposed  on 
French  ambition,  which  might  re- 
strain it  to  its  original  limits,  and 
prevent  it  from  again  arming  one- 


On  the  Foreign  Policy  of  the  Whiy  Administration. 


lialt'  of  Europe  for  tho  subjugation  of 
the  other.  The  consequences  have 
again  demonstrated  the  wisdom  of 
the  measure  :  France,  thrown  back 
upon  its  natural  limits,  ceased  to 
have  the  power  of  agitating  Europe ; 
and  the  barrier  fortresses  proved  as 
effectual  a  bulwark  to  the  adjoining 
states,  as  they  did  after  they  were 
first  purchased  by  the  conquests  of 
Marlborough.  Five  millions  ster- 
ling, principally  British  treasure,  was 
expended  on  the  reconstruction  of 
this  essential  security  tp  European 
freedom,  under  the  direction  of 
Wellington ;  and  what  has  been  the 
consequence  ?  Sixteen  years  of  pro- 
found peace,  undisturbed  by  Gallic 
aggression.  The  only  two  long  pe- 
riods of  repose  which  Europe  has 
had  for  two  centuries,  have  been 
those  which  immediately  followed 
the  first  formation  and  reconstruc- 
tion of  the  barrier  line. 

The  circumstances  which  render 
a  line  of  fortresses  in  Flanders  indis- 
pensable to  the  liberties  of  Europe 
are  three.  1.  The  existence  of  an 
extensive  and  formidable  line  within 
the  French  frontier;  consisting  of 
Dunkirk,  Lille,  Valenciennes,  Ques- 
noy,  Landrecy,  Maubeuge,  Cambray, 
&c.,  which  not  only  have  in  every 
age  proved  an  almost  invincible  de- 
fence against  foreign  aggression,  but 
given  to  an  invading  French  force  a 
base  for  their  hostile  operations,  which 
increases  to  a  very  great  degree  their 
chances  of  success.  2.  The  flat  and 
defenceless  nature  of  the  Flemish 
plains,  destitute  alike  of  forests, 
mountains,  or  defensible  rivers,  and 
affording  no  rallying  point  whatever 
to  a  retreating  army.  3.  The  im- 
mense importance,  in  a  political 
point  of  view,  of  these  opulent  pro- 
vinces— not  only  capable  of  yielding 
inexhaustible  supplies  of  wealth  and 
warlike  stores,  but  giving  to  their 
possessors  the  command  of  an  ad- 
vanced post  in  the  centre  of  Europe, 
strongly  fortified,  and  almost  im- 
pregnable to  an  invasion  from  the 
eastward,  from  whence  they  threaten 
with  destruction  all  the  Germanic 
states. 

The  Archduke  Charles,  whose  mi- 
litary abilities  are  so  well  known  to 
Europe,  was  the  first  who  pointed 


out,  in  an  accurate  and  conclusive 
manner,  the  immense  advantages 
which  the  French  fortresses  give  to 
the  armies  of  that  nation,  not  only  in 
a  war  of  defence,  but  of  aggression  ; 
and  the  fatal  source  of  weakness 
which  the  want  of  such  a  barrier  of 
frontier  towns  has  always  proved  to 
the',German  armies,alike  in  defensive 
and  offensive  contests.*  When  the 
thing  is  once  stated,  it  becomes  obvi- 
ous to  the  meanest  capacity.  Within 
the  numerous  and  strong  fortresses 
of  French  Flanders,  the  stores,  ma- 
gazines, and  equipments  of  an  inva- 
ding army  are  securely  lodged ;  its 
parks  of  artillery,  trains  of  pontoons, 
siege  equipage,  and  caissons,  rapidly 
issue  from  their  Avails,  and  put  an 
invading  army  at  once  in  a  condi- 
tion to  pursue,  with  celerity  and 
confidence,  an  early  success.  If  they 
are  victorious,  they  can  advance 
without  hesitation,  into  the  enemy's 
territory,  secure  of  drawing  all  the 
necessary  supplies  from  the  impreg- 
nable base  in  their  rear.  If  they 
meet  with  a  check,  they  have  it  al- 
ways in  their  power  to  fall  back  on 
their  own  fortresses,  without  the 
risk  of  sustaining  any  serious  loss 
in  magazines,  artillery,  or  military 
stores,  in  the  course  of  their  retreat. 
Should  the  hostile  army  invade  their 
territory,  it  speedily  finds  itself  en- 
tangled within  a  line  of  fortresses 
which  cannot  be  passed  without  ex- 
posing the  invaders,  if  their  force  is 
not  ot  overwhelming  magnitude,  to 
certain  destruction,  nor  reduced  but 
by  numerous  sieges,  and  the  con- 
sumption of  several  campaigns.  In 
this  way  the  possession  of  a  strong 
line  of  frontier  fortresses  is  of  equal 
importance  to  an  invading  and  a  de- 
fending army ;  and  the  want  of  it  is 
the  great  cause  both  of  the  failure  of 
wars  of  aggression,  and  the  difficulty 
of  maintaining  a  defensive  contest. 

Napoleon's  wars  afford  decisive 
evidence  of  the  truth  of  these  prin- 
ciples. When,  in  1790>,  he  had  de- 
feated the  Piedmontese  government 
by  the  triumphs  commencing  at 
Montenotte,  he  immediately  exacted 
from  them  the  surrender  of  Coni, 
Alexandria,  and  the  citadel  of  Turin, 
the  keys  of  the  Sardinian  monarchy. 
From  this  base  he  carried  on  a  suc- 


Strttteffie,  vol.  i.  ^7 


1831.]          On  the  Foiviijn  Policy  of  the  Whiy  Administration. 


cessful  war  of  invasion,  till  he  was 
met  by  the  great  fortress  of  Mantua. 
And  of  such  importance  was  this 
single  fortress  to  the  Austrian  mo- 
narchy, that  it  enabled  them  to  with- 
stand the  destruction  of  three  pow- 
erful armies,  and  above  100,000  men. 
And  during  its  gallant  defence,  time 
was  given  to  assemble  no  less  than 
four  successive  armies  for  the  pro- 
tection of  the  state.  No  sooner,  how- 
ever, was  Mantua  taken,  than  the 
fate  of  the  war  was  rapidly  decided  ; 
from  the  secure  base  of  that  great 
fortress,  Peschiera,  and  other  smaller 
forts,  the  invading  army  rapidly  fol- 
lowed up  the  career  of  success.  In 
vain  was  the  Archduke  Charles,  the 
victor  of  Jourdan,  summoned  from 
the  Rhine  with  his  victorious  batta- 
lions, to  stem  the  torrent.  The  Alps 
could  not  withstand  the  conqueror 
whom  the  bastions  of  Mantua  had 
so  long  arrested,  and,  within  a  few 
weeks,  the  Austrian  monarchy,  des- 
titute now  of  any  fortified  towns, 
was  reduced  to  sue  for  an  ignomi- 
nious peace. 

The  first  use  made  by  the  same 
consummate  master  of  the  military 
art  of  his  victory  at  Marengo,  was  to 
enforce  the  surrender  ot  Mantua, 
Coni,  Alexandria,  and  Turin,  before 
he  would  agree  to  an  armistice : 
and  the  consequence  of  the  loss  of 
these  fortresses  was,  that  Austria, 
though  the  war  was  still  in  Pied- 
mont, far  from  the  hereditary  fron- 
tiers of  the  empire,  was  compelled 
to  submit  to  the  disastrous  treaty  of 
Luueville. 

In  the  next  war,  Napoleon  attack- 
ed Austria  on  the  side  where  no  fort- 
resses exist  for  its  defence ;  and 
where,  in  consequence  of  their  want, 
the  vulnerable  quarter  has  always 
been  found  for  the  monarchy.*  In 
the  valley  of  the  Danube,  a  disaster 
is  irreparable  ;  no  frontier  towns  ex- 
ist to  cover  the  heart  of  the  state ; 
and  a  single  defeat  brings  the  con- 
queror to  the  gates  of  Vienna.  There 
it  was,  accordingly,  that  both  in 
1805  and  1809,  he  inflicted  such  dis- 
astrous wounds  on  that  great  mili- 
tary power,  and  so  rapidly  brought 
to  a  conclusion  a  contest,  which,  in 
former  years,  had  been  so  long  pro- 
tracted. No  frontier  fortresses  ex- 
isted to  check  the  advance  of  the 


495 

conqueror,  or  afford  an  asylum  to 
the  broken  battalions  of  the  van- 
quished. A  single  defeat  on  the 
frontier  brought  the  invader  to  the 
heart  of  the  empire ;  and  a  second 
disaster  there  compelled  the  conclu- 
sion of  peace. 

What  led  to  the  disaster  of  Napo- 
leon in  Russia  ?  Not  the  severity  of 
the  cold,  for  that  was  greater  in 
1794,  when  the  republican  armies  in 
Holland  were  pursuing  an  uninter- 
rupted career  of  success;  not  the 
conflagration  of  Moscow,  for  ample 
towns  remained  in  its  vicinity  for 
the  cantonment  of  the  whole  army ; 
but  the  fatal  advance  into  an  ene- 
my's country,  without  any  adequate 
base  offortresses,  to  nourish  the  war 
during  the  advance,  and  protect  its 
retreat  in  case  of  disaster.  That 
great  commander,  better  aware  than 
any  man  alive,  of  the  value  of  forti- 
fied towns,  was  led  to  forget  it  in 
consequence  of  the  intoxication  pro- 
duced by  a  long  career  of  success, 
and  he  lost  his  crown  in  conse- 
quence. What  would  have  been  the 
fate  of  the  war  had  Riga,  Smolen- 
sko,  Witepsk,  and  other  places,  been 
formed  into  vast  places  d'armes,  for 
the  base  of  future  operations ;  and 
the  advance  into  the  interior  of  the 
empire  postponed  till  the  following 
season,  when  the  fine  weather  had 
returned,  and  the  army  was  protect- 
ed from  disaster,  by  their  secure 
places  in  its  rear  ? 

The  formation  of  a  line  of  fron- 
tier fortresses,  therefore,  is  at  once 
the  rich  protection  to  an  empire  in 
defence,  and  the  only  secure  foun- 
dation for  a  hostile  enterprise  against 
its  enemies.  And  of  all  countries  in 
the  world,  the  Low  Countries  are 
those  which  most  require  such  a 
protection;  both  because  they  are  im- 
mediately in  contact  with  the  great 
military  monarchy  of  France,  in  the 
very  quarter  where  its  fortresses 
are  the  strongest,  and  where  the 
genius  of  Vauban  had  formed  such 
a  formidable  base  for  future  con- 
quest; and  because  the  fiat  open 
nature  of  the  country  renders  it  to- 
tally impossible  for  a  defeated  army, 
without  such  support,  to  oppose  any 
effectual  resistance  to  the  advance 
of  its  opponents. 

The  late  campaigns  in  Flanders 


*  Archduke  Charles,  i.  280= 


On  the  Foreign  Policy  of  the  Whig  Administration.         [Sept. 


496 

have  completely  demonstrated  these 
truths.  During  the  wars  of  Eugene 
and  Marlborough,  French  Flanders 
was  the  most  difficult  country  in 
Europe  to  conquer ;  it  cost  more  to 
gain  fifty  miles  in  that  country  than 
to  subdue  a  vast  monarchy  in  any 
other  part  of  Europe.  Its  formi- 
dable line  of  fortresses  was  the  cause 
of  this  difficulty.  Marlborough  was 
severely  censured  at  the  time  for 
attacking  France  in  that  quarter; 
for  taking  the  bull  by  the  horns,  as 
the  newspapers  of  the  time  express- 
ed it.  This  only  proves  how  little 
they  knew,  and  how  much  he  knew, 
of  the  military  art.  He  attacked 
France  in  Flanders,  because  the 
conquest  of  the  kingdom  was  effect- 
ed by  little  and  little  among  its 
strong  bulwarks ;  because  the  inva- 
ding army  was  exposed  to  none  of 
the  peril  which  attends  an  advance 
into  an  enemy's  country,  without 
any  adequate  support,  while  con- 
quest, once  achieved,  was  in  no  dan- 
fer  of  being  lost ;  and  because  the 
rentier  towns,  when  once  acquired, 
were  a  base  for  future  operations, 
which  would,  in  a  single  campaign, 
have  prostrated  the  French  mo- 
narchy. He  took  the  bull  by  the 
horns,  because  it  is  by  doing  so  that 
it  can  be  most  easily  thrown  down. 
The  event  proved  the  truth  of  his 
views.  No  sooner  was  the  barrier 
completely  broken  through  by  the  re- 
duction of  Landrecy,  than  the  French 
felt  their  weakness,  and  the  Grande 
Monarque  was  compelled  to  accept 
an  ignominious  peace.  But  for  the 
removal  of  Marlborough,  and  the  se- 
cession of  the  English,  Paris  would 
have,  in  the  next  campaign,  seen  the 
British  standards  within  its  walls, 
and  the  triumphs  of  1815  been  anti- 
cipated by  an  hundred  years. 

After  the  destruction  of  the  bar- 
rier towns  by  Joseph,  Flanders,  as 
we  have  seen,  was  never  capable, 
either  in  the  hands  of  the  Republi- 
cans, or  the  Austrians,  of  opposing 
any  sort  of  resistance  to  a  victorious 
army.  A  single  defeat,  even  of  the 
most  inconsiderable  kind,  always  led 
to  the  subjugation  of  the  whole  of 
Belgium.  When  Napoleon  and  Wel- 
lington measured  swords  there,  the 
result  was  the  same.  On  occasion  of 
the  sudden  return  of  the  French  Em- 
peror, there  was  not  time  to  arm  or 
equip  the  French  fortresses,  and 


those  of  Belgium  were  still  in  the 
dismantled  state  in  which  they  had 
been  left  by  Joseph ;  and  thus  the 
towns  on  both  sides  were  without 
the  means  of  defence.  The  conse- 
quence was,  that  a  single  decisive 
defeat  overthrew  the  French  em- 
pire ;  and  there  can  be  as  little 
doubt  that  as  great  a  disaster  sus- 
tained by  the  allies,  would  have  at 
once  re-established  the  empire  of 
the  Great  Nation. 

What  renders  the  maintenance  of 
a  great  line  of  barrier  fortresses  in 
Flanders  of  such  vital  importance  to 
Europe  is,  that  when  once  the  French 
standards  are  advanced  to  the  Rhine, 
they  are  not  only  in  possession  of  a 
line  which  enables  them  to  bid  defi- 
ance to  all  ordinary  attacks,  but  of  a 
base  from  which  offensive  operations 
against  either  Prussia,  Austria,  or 
the  smaller  Germanic  States,  can 
with  ease  and  security  be  under- 
taken. The  possession  of  the  great 
line  of  fortresses  from  the  Alps  to 
the  ocean,  embracing  Huningen, 
New  Brissach,  Sar  Louis,  Strasbourg, 
Mayence,  Luxembourg,  Antwerp, 
Maestricht,  &c.,  enables  them  with 
ease  and  safety  to  advance  their 
armies  into  any  of  the  adjoining 
States.  It  brings  up  the  great  arse- 
nals of  France  close  to  the  enemy's 
frontier.  No  corresponding  fortress- 
es exist  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Rhine  ;  the  invading  force  can  meet 
with  no  effectual  check  till  it  arrives 
at  the  Prussian  or  Austrian  monar- 
chies ;  that  is,  till  it  has  organized 
one  half  of  Europe  against  the  other. 

The  reason  of  this  immense  supe- 
riority of  the  fortresses  on  the  French 
over  those  on  the  German  side  of 
the  Rhine  is,  thata  rich,  compact,  and 
powerful  monarchy  exists  on  the  one 
side,  and  on  the  other  a  succession  of 
little  states,  possessed  of  no  military 
strength,  actuated  by  no  common  in- 
terest, and  generally  divided  among 
each  other.  From  Basle  to  Antwerp, 
all  on  the  French  side  obeys  one 
master,  acknowledges  one  interest, 
is  actuated  by  one  national  feeling; 
but  on  the  German,  all  is  division, 
distraction,  and  weakness.  The 
States  of  Baden,  Hesse  d'Armstadt, 
Swabia,  Frankfort,  Bavaria,  Saxony, 
Cologne,  and  Westphalia,  are  not 
only  all  divided  among  each  other, 
but  totally  incapable  either  of  main- 
taining costly  fortresses,  or  keep- 


1831.]  On  the  Foreign  Policy  of  the  Whig  Administration. 


ing  on  foot  a  powerful  military  force. 
Great  part  of  the  country  is  in  the 
hands  of  little  potentates,  whose  re- 
venues and  territory  do  not  exceed 
those  of  the  Dukes  of  Northumber- 
land or  Buccleuch.  From  these  little 
electors  nothing  efficient  in  the  way 
of  resisting  French  aggression  can 
be  expected.  But  the  immense  ad- 
vantage of  the  French  in  advancing 
from  their  great  line  of  Rhenish  for- 
tresses into  Germany  always  has 
been,  that  they  get  at  once  into  an 
opulent  country,  perfectly  capable 
of  maintaining  war,  abounding  in  re- 
sources for  a  victorious  army,  but 
incapable,  by  reason  of  its  divided 
state,  and  want  of  fortresses,  of  op- 
posing any  effectual  resistance  to  the 
invaders.  Thus,  the  elan  of  conquest, 
the  enthusiasm  arising  from  suc- 
cess, is  at  once  communicated  to  the 
French  troops ;  they  make  a  success- 
ful irruption  into  the  small  and  feeble 
states  adjoining  their  own  frontier, 
and  one  half  of  Germany  is  con- 
quered before  they  arrive  at  any 
states  capable  of  arresting  their 
course.  Then  begins  the  system  of 
making  war  support  war  ;  the  victo- 
rious army  lives,  is  paid,  is  nourish- 
ed, with  the  resources  of  the  con- 
quered states,  and  before  it  ap- 
proaches the  serious  conquest  with 
Austria  or  Prussia,  it  has  organized 
one  half  of  Germany  into  open  hos- 
tility with  the  remainder.  Napoleon 
clearly  saw  this  immense  advantage ; 
he  early  organized  the  Confederation 
of  the  Rhine  as  the  outwork  of 
French  ambition ;  and  the  whole 
force  with  which  he  vanquished 
Austria  at  Abensberg,  and  great  part 
of  that  which  conquered  at  Jena,  was 
drawn  from  the  territories  on  the 
right  bank  of  the  Rhine. 

It  is,  therefore,  a  matter  of  vital 
importance  to  the  independence  of 
Europe,  that  some  means  should 
exist  of  arresting  France  before  it 
comes  to  the  Rhine ;  and  of  prevent- 
ing that  great  military  power  from 
making  the  fortresses  on  that  river 
the  base  of  offensive  operations  a- 
gainst  the  rest  of  Europe.  Experi- 
ence has  proved,  that  as  soon  as  it 
acquires  that  line  it  becomes  irresist- 
ible. The  reason  is  obvious.  Ger- 
many has  no  better  defence  against 
an  invader  possessed  of  the  fortress- 
es on  the  Rhine,  than  France  had 
against  Marlborougb,  when  he  had 


497 

taken  all  the  frontier  towns  of  Flan- 
ders. Nay,  it  has  much  less;  for 
Louis  XIV.  could  still  have  oppo- 
sed to  the  Allies  the  resources  of  an 
united  and  powerful  monarchy, 
whereas  Germany,  in  the  first  in- 
stance, can  only  present  a  succession 
of  weak  and  divided  principalities. 

The  central,  compact,  situation  of 
France  gives  it  additional  advanta- 
ges of  the  most  decisive  kind,  in  a 
contest  with  the  European  powers. 
Having  the  advantage  of  unity  of 
action  and  government,  they  can  at 
any  time  draw  troops  rapidly  from 
one  frontier  to  augment  the  army  on 
the  other,  long  before  the  Germans, 
.  acting  on  a  wider  circle,  and  depen- 
dent on  separate  cabinets,  can  bring 
the  corresponding  forces  to  support 
the  menaced  points.  Nor  is  there 
any  risk  in  so  doing ;  for  the  fortress- 
es on  all  the  frontiers  render  it  im- 
possible that  any  serious  impression 
can  be  made  on  the  weakened  part, 
before  reinforcements  are  brought 
up  from  some  other  quarter;  while 
the  advantage  of  a  preponderating 
force  thus  suddenly  thrown  into  one 
part  of  the  field  of  action,  generally 
proves  decisive  of  the  campaign. 
This  great  advantage  was  repeatedly 
and  strikingly  exemplified  during 
the  early  revolutionary  wars.  The 
conquest  of  Toulon  enabled  Carnot 
instantly  to  move  a  force  into  Rous- 
sillou,  which  speedily  rendered  the 
French  victorious  in  that  quarter. 
The  prisoners  taken  in  Mayence  and 
Valenciennes  during  the  same  cam- 
paign, and  liberated  on  their  parole, 
were  of  essential  service  to  the  re- 
public at  Lyons  and  La  Vendee.  The 
reverse  on  the  Upper  Rhine,  at  Kay- 
surlauterre,  in  1794,  was  speedily 
compensated  by  a  detachment  of 
10,000  men  from  the  army  in  Savoy. 
And  the  battle  of  Fleurus,  and  con- 
quest of  the  Low  Countries,  were  the 
immediate  consequence  of  the  de- 
tachment of  Jourdan,  with  40,000 
men,  from  the  army  of  the  Meuse  to 
Flanders,  which  gave  the  republi- 
cans on  the  Sambre  a  decisive  supe- 
riority over  Prince  Cobourg ;  which 
the  Allies,  acting  on  an  exterior  circle, 
and  depending  on  disunited  cabinets, 
had  no  means  of  compensating. 

These  considerations  prove  the 
importance,  nay,  the  absolute  neces- 
sity, of  opposing  to  France  some  ef- 
fectual barrier  in  the  Low  Countries, 


On  the  Foreign  Policy  of  the  Whiy  Administration.          [Sept. 


498 

and  preventing  it  from  assuming  that 
menacing  position,  in  the  centre  of 
Europe,  which  their  possession  gave 
them  during  the  reigns  of  Louis 
XIV.  and  Napoleon.  If  the  line  of 
the  Rhine  be  once  acquired  by  the 
French,  it  requires  years  of  combats, 
and  oceans  of  blood,  to  drive  them 
from  it;  \vhilethey  have  it,  the  liberty 
of  no  European  state  can  for  a  mo- 
ment be  depended  on.  The  advance 
to  the  Niemen  or  Vienna  may  take 
place  in  a  single  campaign,  and  Eng- 
land find  itself  compelled  to  face  an 
alliance  of  enemies  from  Cadiz  to  the 
Baltic. 

It  was,  therefore,  a  measure  of  the 
very  greatest  wisdom  in  the  Con- 
gress of  Vienna  to  establish  the 
kingdom  of  the  Netherlands,  possess- 
ing a  rich  territory,  and  6,000,000  of 
inhabitants,  as  a  check  to  France,  in 
that  vital  quarter,  to  European  free- 
dom ;  and  to  engage  Prussia  to  sup- 
port it  by  the  possession  of  impor- 
tant provinces  also  on  the  left  bank 
of  the  Rhine.  These  kingdoms  uni- 
ted, and  backed,  as  it  was  supposed 
they  would  be,  in  the  event  of  any 
serious  danger,  by  the  power  of  Eng- 
land, would,  it  was  thought,  be  able 
to  oppose  an  effectual  barrier  to  the 
ambition  of  France ;  and  thus  the 
great  problem  of  European  poli- 
cy seemed  to  be  solved,  that  of  giv- 
ing the  German  States  a  firm  and 
solid  foundation  so  near  France,  as 
to  prevent  any  measures  of  aggres- 
sion from  that  ambitious  state,  ^fhis 
was  the  only  arrangement  made  by 
the  Congress  of  Vienna,  which  has 
met  with  universal  approbation;  and 
indeed  the  evils  ot  French  domi- 
nation had  been  too  recently  and 
severely  experienced,  to  admit  of 
any  doubt  as  to  the  propriety  of  the 
arrangement. 

To  secure  this  object,  however,  it 
was  indispensable  that  the  famous 
line  of  barrier  fortresses  should  be 
restored ;  because  without  that,  Bel- 
gium, single-handed,  would  be  expo- 
sed to  the  weight  of  French  ambi- 
tion, before  the  distant  powers  inte- 
rested in  its  support  could  bring  up 
their  forces  to  its  relief.  If  we  con- 
sider that  the  French  armies,  issuing 
from  the  all  but  impregnable  fort- 
resses of  its  northern  frontier,  can  in 
three  days  be  at  Brussels  ;  and  that 
months  must  elapse  before  the  Aus- 
trian or  Prussian  forces  can  reach 
that  city,  it  is  evident  that  Belgium, 


on  the  first  burst  of  European  hosti- 
lities, must  be  exposed  to  destruc- 
tion, unless  such  a  barrier  is  given 
to  it  as  requires  a  succession  of  re- 
gular sieges  for  their  reduction.  The 
moment  this  was  done,  the  indepen- 
dence of  the  Netherlands,  and  the 
liberties  of  Europe,  were  secure  ; 
because,  if  an  invading  army  once 
gets  entangled  in  a  line  of  fortresses, 
ample  time  is  afforded  to  distant 
states  to  advance  to  the  succour  of 
the  menaced  point. 

This  was  accordingly  done ;  the 
barrier  fortresses  were  reconstruct- 
ed, under  the  superintendence  of  the 
Duke  of  Wellington,  by  a  most  lavish 
expenditure  of  British  wealth ;  and 
France  was  reduced  to  the  condition 
in  which  she  was  in  1 789.  Strong  in 
her  own  invincible  frontier,  she  was 
now  deprived  of  the  means  of  making 
them  the  base  of  attack  on  the  Ger- 
man states ;  because  if  she  ventured 
into  Belgium,  she  encountered  a  line 
of  fortified  towns  as  numerous  and 
as  strong  as  her  own — and  if  she 
broke  into  Germany,  the  fortified 
posts  in  the  Netherlands  constituted 
an  advanced  position,  from  whence 
the  northern  powers  of  England  and 
Prussia  might  threaten  her  frontier 
fortresses,  and  draw  back  her  armies 
to  the  defence  of  their  own  country. 
Situated  as  the  Belgian  fortresses 
were,  they  thus  constituted  a  secu- 
rity to  all  Europe,  and  protected 
Vienna  as  completely  by  their  threat- 
ening vicinity  to  the  French  capital, 
as  they  did  Berlin,  by  blocking  up 
the  direct  road  to  that  metropolis. 

It  is  in  this  view  that  the  posses- 
sion of  the  Flemish  barrier  is  of  such 
vital  importance  to  the  liberties  of 
Europe,  and  that  no  such  security 
can  be  obtained  by  a  similar  line  of 
defence  on  the  Rhine  or  elsewhere 
in  Germany.  Its  value  consists  in 
its  proximity  to  the  French  capital, 
and  in  the  consequent  impossibility 
of  that  power  making  any  serious  ir- 
ruption into  Germany,  while  so  for- 
midable a  base  for  offensive  opera- 
tions exists  in  the  hands  of  its  ene- 
mies, so  near  its  own  capital.  All 
the  French  conquests  in  Europe,  ac- 
cordingly, have  begun  with  the  sub- 
jugation of  Flanders;  and  none  of 
their  enterprises  ever  produced  any 
serious  impression,  but  such  as  were 
founded  on  the  previous  occupation 
of  the  line  of  the  Rhine.  The  inva- 
sion from  other  quarters  was  a  mat- 


1831.1  On  the  Foreign  Policy  of  the  Wliig  Administration. 


tcv  of  comparatively  little  import- 
ance, but  the  reduction  of  the  Fle- 
mish towns  of  Valenciennes,  Ques- 
noy,  and  Landrecy,  was  a  source  of 
excessive  solicitude  to  the  French 
Convention ;  and  if  duly  followed 
up,  would  have  terminated  the  Re- 
volutionary wars  just  twenty  years 
before  the  capture  of  Paris.  The 
extreme  anxiety  which  France  has 
always  shewn  for  the  advance  of  its 
frontier  to  the  Rhine,  shews  the  sense 
its  inhabitants  entertain  of  the  im- 
portance of  this  barrier  to  Europe. 
They  are  perfectly  aware  that,  as 
long  as  it  is  in  the  hands  of  the  Allies, 
foreign  conquest  on  their  part  must 
be  always  extremely  difficult,  and, 
if  the  advantage  thus  given  be  duly 
improved  by  their  enemies,  totally 
impossible.  They  are  desirous  to  get 
to  the  Rhine,  because  they  know 
that,  having  gained  that  advance,  the 
subsequent  subjugation  of  Europe  is 
a  matter  of  comparative  ease. 

But  how  shortsighted  are  the  con- 
clusions of  human  foresight !  Hard- 
ly had  Europe  begun  duly  to  appre- 
ciate the  immense  advantages  of  the 
reconstruction  of  the  barrier  fort- 
resses in  the  Netherlands — hardly 
had  its  good  effects  been  experi- 
enced by  the  unbroken  peace  which 
had  subsisted  since  their  formation, 
when  they  are  voluntarily  destroyed 
by  the  very  powers  who  had  waded 
through  oceans  of  blood  to  construct 
them  !  A  revolution  succeeds  in 
Paris;  the  contagion  spreads  to  Brus- 
sels ;  a  reforming  administration  suc- 
ceeds in  this  country,  and  they  re- 
solve to  destroy  great  part  of  that 
very  barrier  which  Marlborough  had 
won,  and  Wellington  regained,  the 
fruits  of  Blenheim  and  Waterloo,  of 
Ramilies  and  Vittoria;  the  want  of 
which  had  first  opened  the  flood- 
gates of  conquest  to  the  revolution- 
ary armies,  and  the  reconstruction 
of  which,  at  a  cost  to  this  country  of 
eight  hundred  millions,  had  proved 
an  effectual  barrier  to  French  ambi- 
tion ! 

What  period  do  they  select  for  this 
voluntary  abdication  of  the  most  sub- 
stantial fruits  of  a  war  from  which 
England  has  suffered  so  much,  for 
this  opening  the  gates  of  Europe  to 
French  ambition?  The  moment  when 
France,  in  the  fervour  of  a  new  Re- 
volution, was  regaining  the  redoubt- 
able energy  of  1793;  when,  to  the 
democratic  ambition  of  that  memo- 


499 


rable  period,  was  superadded  the 
recollection  of  Napoleon's  triumphs 
and  the  talent  of  Napoleon's  gene- 
rals ;  when  Marshal  Soult  had  or- 
ganized 500,000  men,  under  all  that 
remained  of  the  officers  of  the  grand 
army ;  when  a  vast  force  was  ready 
to  pour  into  Flanders,  and  resume  the 
march  of  Dumourier  and  Pichegru, 
and  efface  the  lion  of  the  field  of 
Waterloo ! 

Under  whose  auspices  is  this  un- 
paralleled work  of  destruction  be- 
gun ?  Under  the  sanction  of  the  very 
men  who  had  seen  the  consequences 
of  the  ruin  of  that  important  line  of 
fortresses  by  the  infatuated  policy  of 
Joseph  in  1787;  who  had  seen  the 
Low  Countries  overrun  by  Dumou- 
rier, and  annexed  to  France  by  Pi- 
chegru, solely  in  consequence  of 
their  annihilation ;  who  had  watched 
the  progress  of  French  ambition, 
from  the  time  that  it  won  this  van- 
tage-ground, till  it  reached  the  Krem- 
lin ;  who  had  repeatedly,  during  that 
terrible  conflict,  counselled  peace 
with  France,  as  the  only  means  of 
saving  England  from  destruction! 

What  were  the  powers  which  the 
European  monarchies  in  general,  and 
England  in  particular,  enjoyed  at  the 
period  when  this  demolition  was 
agreed  to,  for  the  preservation  of 
these  fortresses  ?  Powers  the  most 
indubitable,  and  means  of  enforcing 
them  the  most  effectual.  Their  de- 
struction was  agreed  to  by  the  very 
states  who  had  advanced  the  funds 
for  their  erection,  and  possessed  an 
unquestionable  right  to  insist  for 
their  preservation;  for  whose  pro- 
tection this  costly  barrier  had  been 
reconstructed,  and  by  whose  troops 
they  at  first  were  garrisoned  ;  at  the 
time  when  the  settlement  of  the 
Belgian  affairs  was  the  subject  of  con- 
sideration by  the  five  great  powers, 
and  a  congress  was  actually  sitting  in 
London  for  their  definitive  arrange- 
ment !  Their  destruction  was  agreed 
to  by  a  British  Ministry  at  the  very 
time  that  a  monarch  was  setting  out 
from  London  for  the  throne  of  Brus- 
sels, and  when  any  conditions  they 
chose  to  annex  would  have  been 
gladly  agreed  to  by  the  half-British 
sovereign  elected  to  fill  it ! 

When  these  things  are  calmly  con- 
sidered byposterity ;  when  theyread 
that  England  voluntarily  relinquished 
what  it  had  cost  it  so  much  to  gain  ; 
that  the  gates  of  Europe  were  thrown 


On  the  Foreign  Policy  of  the  Whig  Administration.         [Sept. 


open  to  French  ambition  at  the  very 
time  when  the  perilous  and  fiery  state 
of  that  country  required  that  they 
should  be  closed  with  more  than  or- 
dinary care;  that  the  men  who  did 
this  were  those  who  had  themselves 
witnessed  the  fatal  consequences  of  a 
similar  proceeding  on  the  part  of  the 
Emperor  Joseph,  only  forty  years 
before  ;  —  that  all  this  was  done, 
without  a  murmur  throughout  Eng- 
land, or  a  feeling  of  regret,  at  aban- 
doning at  once  their  oldest  allies, 
their  most  favourite  objects  of  ambi- 
tion, or  their  most  useful  trophies  ;  it 
may  safely  be  anticipated  that  their 
surprise  will  be  equalled  only  by 
their  indignation. 

It  is  in  vain  to  say,  that  these  for- 
tresses are  too  costly  for  Belgium, 
disunited  from  Holland.  It  is  not  the 
barrier  of  the  Netherlands  which  was 
there  constructed,  but  the  barrier  of 
Europe.  If  Belgium  could  not  main- 
tain the  line  alone,  the  burden  should 
have  been  shared  by  the  states  who 
participated  in  the  security  which  it 
afforded:  England,  Prussia  and  Aus- 
tria, who  contributed  to  its  forma- 
tion, for  whose  joint  behoof  it  was 
constructed, should  have  contributed 
to  its  maintenance.  If  the  Belgian 
troops  could  not  be  trusted,  the  im- 
perial garrisons  should  have  been 
charged  with  their  defence.  Belgium 
should  have  been  made  a  part  of  the 
Germanic  confederation.  France 
should  have  been  made  to  feel  that 
if  she  invaded  one  village  in  the  Ne- 
therlands, 300,000  armed  men  would 
speedily  be  on  the  Rhine.  It  is  by 
such  a  measure,  and  such  a  measure 
alone,  that  this  important  but  incon- 
siderable state  could  be  enabled  to 
maintain  its  ground  against  its  war- 
like and  restless"  neighbour  ;  that  a 
state  of  four  millions,  the  advanced 
guard  of  Germany,  could  be  saved 
from  the  grasp  of  one  of  thirty-three 
millions.  To  set  down  Belgium  with 
a  divided  population,  with  its  demo- 
cratic party  strongly  inclined  to  an 
union  with  France,  without  a  barrier 
line  of  fortresses,  within  a  hundred 
and  eighty  miles  of  Paris,  is  to  place 
the  lamb  before  the  wolf  to  be  de- 
voured. 

It  is  most  extraordinary  to  see  how 
the  same  absurdities  are  committed 
age  after  age  by  nations,  just  as  the 


same  vices  are  committed  generation 
after  generation  by  individuals.  Jo- 
seph assigned  as  his  reason  for  dis- 
mantling the  fortresses  of  Flanders, 
that  they  were  "  too  expensive  to  be 
upheld,  and  that  he  could  not  rely 
on  the  fidelity  of  the  Flemish  garri- 
sons after  the  contagion  of  the  first 
French  revolution  had  reached  the 
Low  Countries."*  He  in  consequence 
dismantled  them.  Flanders  was  in- 
stantly overrun  by  France.  Revolu- 
tionary energy  was  in  consequence 
of  that  success  converted  into  mili- 
tary passion,  and  every  monarchy  in 
Europe  was  successively  overturned 
from  the  impetus  thus  communica- 
ted to  French  ambition,  and  the  van- 
tage-ground thus  gained  by  French 
ability.  With  infinite  difficulty,  after 
a  war  of  twenty  years  duration,  and 
the  expenditure  of  800  millions,  Eng- 
land regains  the  barrier,  and  perfect 
securitytoEurope  is  the  consequence. 
A  second  French  Revolution  occurs, 
Belgium  is  again  convulsed  by  the 
democratic  fever,  and  Earl  Grey 
again  declares  that  they  must  be  de- 
molished, "  because  their  mainten- 
ance is  too  expensive,  and  the  fide- 
lity of  the  Belgian  garrisons  is  doubt- 
ful." The  same  statesman  who  had 
witnessed  the  march  of  Pichegru  and 
Dumourier,  throws  open  the  gates  of 
Flanders  to  Marshal  Soult !  Videte 
quamparva  sapientia  regiturmundus  ! 
It  won't  do  to  say,  that  Prussia 
and  Austria,  who  are  more  interest- 
ed than  we  are  in  the  preservation 
of  the  barrier,  have  consented  to  its 
demolition.  We  can  judge  of  con- 
sequences as  well  as  the  Austrians  : 
the  history  of  Eugene  and  Marlbo- 
rough,  of  Pichegru  and  Wellington,  is 
as  familiar  to  us  as  to  the  statesmen 
on  the  continent.  Because  they  have 
been  guilty  of  an  absurdity,  is  that 
any  reason  why  we  should  be  the 
same  ?  because  they  repeat  a  former 
error,  is  that  an  excuse  for  our  fall- 
ing into  the  same  mistake  ?  This  is 
not  the  first  occasion,  on  which  the 
shortsighted  or  niggardly  policy  of 
those  very  powers  has  blinded  them 
to  the  consequences  of  their  actions, 
and  brought  unheard  of  disasters 
on  Europe.  Because  the  Emperor 
Francis  renews  the  fatal  policy  of 
the  Emperor  Joseph,  is  that  an  ex- 
cuse for  our  forgetting  the  conse- 


.Tomin*.  \. 


1831.] 


On  the  Foreign  Policy  of  the  Whig  Administration, 


quences  of  the  first  disastrous  act  ? 
Because  Prussia,  intent  on  the  first 
Polish  insurrection,  withdrew  in  1794 
from  the  first  contest  with  France, 
and,  in  consequence,  suffered  a  power 
to  grow  up,  which  repaid  its  retire- 
ment by  the  battle  of  Jena  and  the 
treaty  of  Tilsit,  is  that  any  reason 
why,  on  the  breaking  out  of  a  second 
Polish  war,  we  should  follow  its  bad 
example  ?  Because  Prussia  looked 
on,  with  sullen  apathy,  while  Aus- 
tria and  Russia  fought  the  last  bat- 
tle of  European  freedom  on  the  field 
of  Austerlitz,  is  that  a  sufficient 
ground  for  our  adopting  a  similar 
course  ?  Because  Austria  refused  to 
move  when  Prussia  fearlessly  ad- 
vanced to  Jena,  or  the  balance  of 
fate  hung  even  between  Alexander 
and  Napoleon  after  the  carnage  of 
Eylaw,  is  that  any  excuse  for  our 
blindly  attaching  ourselves  to  the 
policy  of  such  shortsighted  poten- 
tates ? 

But,  in  truth,  it  is  quite  clear  that 
England  has  been  the  prime  mover 
in  tliis  enormous  error,  and  that  it  is 
because  England  consented  to  the  de- 
molition of  the  fortresses,  that  Prus- 
sia and  Austria  deemed  it  unavail- 
ing to  make  any  opposition.  In  truth, 
there  is  no  state  to  which  the  main- 
tenance of  the  barrier  is  of  such  im- 
portance as  Great  Britain,  because 
there  is  none  which  is  so  imme- 
diately and  vitally  threatened  by  its 
demolition.  Antwerp  is  far  nearer 
London  than  it  is  either  to  Berlin  or 
Vienna  :  the  hatred  at  England  more 
deeply  rooted  in  France,  than  either 
that  at  Austria  or  Prussia.  The  im- 
mense importance  attached  by  Na- 
poleon to  the  possession  of  the  Low 
Countries  ;  the  vast  efforts  which  he 
made  for  the  construction  of  a  naval 
depot  at  Antwerp,  proves  what,  in 
his  estimation,  was  the  point  from 
whence  the  naval  supremacy  of  Eng- 
land could  be  successfully  assailed. 
It  is  never  to  be  forgotten,  that  the 
only  naval  disasters  of  England  pro- 
ceeded from  the  Belgian  shores ;  that 
it  was  Van  Tromp  who  affixed  a 
broom  to  his  mast-head  to  sweep  the 
Channel,  when  the  English  navy  was 
crowding  into  its  harbours ;  that  it 
was  from  Dutch  ports  that  the  fleet 
issued  which  fired  the  English  guard- 
ships  in  the  Medway,  and  made  the 
citizens  of  London  tremble  for  their 
capital ;  and  that,  in  the  last  war,  no 
such  worthy  antagonists  of  English 


501 

valour  were  to  be  found,  as  those 
which  De  Winter  led  from  the  Texel. 
A  long  and  weary  march  awaits  the 
French  armies  on  the  Rhine,  before 
they  reach  the  centre  of  Austrian  or 
Prussian  power;  how  many  rivers 
to  be  passed — how  many  mountains 
crossed — how  many  armies  encoun- 
tered; but  in  twelve  hours  they  may 
reach  the  coasts  of  Kent  or  Essex 
from  Dunkirk  or  Ostend ;  and  the 
same  wind  which  confines  the  Eng- 
lish fleet  in  their  harbours,  may  waft 
to  the  centre  of  British  greatness 
the  concentrated  armies  of  the  half 
of  Europe.  When  England  sees  the 
whole  powers  of  Europe,  from  the 
Pyrenees  to  the  Texel,  arrayed  in 
fierce  hostility  against  this  country; 
when,  with  diminished  resources, 
probably  without  the  strength  dert- 
ved  from  her  colonial  empire,  she 
is  driven  to  fight  for  her  independ- 
ence on  the  shores  of  Kent,  or  on  the 
German  ocean — then  she  will  recol- 
lect what  she  owes  to  those  who,  at 
the  same  time  that  they  deprived 
her  of  her  internal  strength  and  pro- 
bably in  the  end  her  colonial  posses- 
sions, by  exciting  the  democratic  pas- 
sions of  the  people,  demolished  the 
barrier  she  had  won  by  the  triumph 
of  Waterloo,  and  left  the  road  open 
for  the  French  battalions  to  resume 
their  threatening  position  on  the 
Dutch  shores. 

But  rapid  as  are  the  changes  we 
have  been  contemplating,  others  still 
more  appalling  are  in  the  hand  of  fate. 
Hardly  was  the  mandate  for  the  de- 
struction of  the  Belgian  fortresses 
issued  from  London,  when  new  events 
succeed  :  the  French  are  called  in  by 
Leopold  I.  to  aid  them  in  their  con- 
test with  the  Dutch :  fifty  thousand 
men  have  already  crossed  the  fron- 
tier :  before  this  they  have  probably 
passed  the  plain  of  Waterloo  ;  and  a 
British  fleet  is  perhaps  about  to  unite 
with  the  French  army  in  wresting 
Antwerp  from  the  House  of  Orange. 
We  shall  perhaps  see  the  standard 
of  England  unite  with  the  Eagles  of 
France  in  combating  its  oldest  allies ; 
the  plain  of  Waterloo  may  behold  the 
English  battalions,  united  with  the 
French,  crushing  the  Dutch  and 
Prussian  forces ;  and  the  tricolour 
flag,  amidst  the  cannon  of  the  French 
army  and  the  British  navy,  re-hoisted 
on  the  walls  of  Antwerp. 

It  is  not  time  yet  to  enquire  into 
the  causes  of  these  stupendous  events ; 


On  the  Foreign  Policy  of  the  Whig  Administration. 


502 

the  necessary  papers  have  not  yet 
been  laid  before  the  public,  and  the 
peculiar  share  which  our  govern- 
ment had  in  the  transaction  cannot 
with  certainty  be  ascertained.  We 
shall  revert  to  the  all-important  sub- 
ject, big  with  the  future  fate  of  Eng- 
land, in  our  next  number;  in  the 
meantime  certain  points  appear  to  be 
fixed  in  the  long  pending  negotiation 
between  Belgium  and  Holland,  from 
Avhich  the  general  chai-acter  of  the 
transaction  may  be  gathered. 

1.  When  the  Belgian  revolution 
broke  out,  and  the  King  of  Holland, 
in  consequence  of  the  failure  of  the 
attack  on  Brussels,  was  unable  to  re- 
sume his  authority  over  Belgium,  the 
five  great  powers  assumed  to  them- 
selves the   office  of  mediators  and 
ai'biters  to  settle  the  affairs  of  the 
Netherlands,  and  prevent  their  lead- 
ing to  a  general  war  in  Europe.   The 
King  of  Holland  was,  by  threats  of 
instant  war,  forced  to  submit  to  their 
arbitration.   In  this  proceeding  there 
was,  to  say  the  least,  a  very  violent 
stretch,   and  such    powerful   states 
should  have  been,  in  an  especial  man- 
ner, careful  that  they  committed  no  in- 
justice in  the  course  of  their  forcible 
mediation. 

2.  The  five  powers  recognised,  it 
would  appear,  the  right  of  the  King 
of  Holland  to  Limburg  and  Luxem- 
bourg, but  they  insisted  on  his  accept- 
ing compensation  for  that  part  of  his 
dominions.     They  could  not  have 
done  otherwise,  for  Luxembourg  is 
the  hereditary  property  of  the  house 
of  Nassau,  and  Limburg  part  of  the 
old  Seven   United  Provinces.     The 
King  of  Holland  has  now  refused  to 
do  so,  in  other  words,  he  refused  to 
accede  to  the  partition  of  his  admit- 
ted dominions. 

3.  The  crown  was  given  to  Leo- 
pold, and  the  integrity  of  his  terri- 
tories, including  Limburg  and  Lux- 
embourg,   guaranteed    by  the   five 
powers  before  they  knew  whether  or 
not  the  Dutch  would  agree  to  their 
cession  to  the  Belgians.   Leopold  set 
off  for  Brussels  while  as  yet  the  ex- 
tent of  his  dominions  was  unfixed, 
before  the  answer  of  the  King  of 
Holland  to  that  project  for  dismem- 
bering his  territories  had  been  re- 
ceived. 

4.  The  Dutch,  determined  not  to 
admit  this  partition  of  their  territory, 
resolve  to  resist,  and  invade  the  Bel- 
gian dominions  j  Leopold  invokes  the 


[Sept. 


aid  of  the  French,  and  Soult  gives 
orders  to  50,000  men  to  follow  the 
footsteps  of  Pichegru,  amidst  the 
acclamations  of  the  populace,  who 
foresee  in  this  event  the  restoration  of 
the  Rhenish  frontier,  and  the  revival 
of  the  triumphs  of  the  great  nation. 

5.  What  step  England  has  taken, 
or  is  about  to  take  in  this  coalition, 
for  the  partition  of  its  oldest  ally,  or 
forwarding  of  the  French  standards 
to  the  Scheldt,  is  not  yet  apparent, 
but  one  thing  is  clear,  that  without 
being  confident  of  the  concurrence 
of  the  British  Cabinet  the  French 
Government  would  never  have  ven- 
tured on  such  a  step ;  and  that  if 
once  they  regain  the  Rhine, their  arms, 
or,  what  is  the  same  thing,  their  pa- 
ramount influence,  will  never,  but 
by  another  convulsion  in  Europe  si- 
milar to  that  which  occurred  in  1814, 
be  brought  to  recede  from  that  me- 
nacing line. 

Thus  a  general  war  is  threatened 
in  Europe,  for  no  other  purpose  but 
to  dismember  the  kingdom  of  the  Ne- 
ther lands,  which  the  five  powers  had 
guaranteed  to  their  sovereign ;  and 
establish  a  revolutionary  power,  the 
outwork  of  France,  on  the  Belgian 
plains. 

What  right  had  the  great  powers 
to  compel  King  William  to  part  with 
Limburg  or  Luxembourg  ?  What 
right  had  they  to  debar  him  from  en- 
deavouring to  regain  his  dominion 
over  the  revolted  inhabitants  of  Bel- 
gium? What  right  had  they  to  de- 
clare that  any  act  of  hostility  com- 
mitted by  him  against  the  revolu- 
tionary forces  of  Belgium  would  be 
considered  by  them  as  a  declaration 
of  war  against  themselves  ?  Evident- 
ly the  same  right  which  the  parties 
to  the  partition  of  Poland  had  to  ef- 
fect the  division  of  that  unhappy 
kingdom — the  right  of  the  strongest, 
the  title  flowing  from  the  possession 
of  absolute  and  resistless  power. 

Admitting  that  the  guarantee  which 
the  great  powers  gave  to  the  domi- 
nions of  the  King  of  the  Netherlands 
did  not  call  upon  them  to  interfere 
in  the  disputes  between  him  and  his 
subjects,  the  question  remains,  did 
it  authorize  or  justify  them  in  debar- 
ring him  from  interfering ;  in  per- 
mitting the  revolted  subjects  to  elect 
a  new  king,  and  declaring  war  against 
him  because  he  attempts  to  preserve 
his  kingdom  from  a  farther  partition 
at  the  command  of  the  allied  powers. 


1831.]  On  the  Foreign  Policy  of  the  Whig  Administration. 


Ireland  revolts  from  England,  and 
the  British  forces  are  repulsed  in  an 
attempt  to  regain  possession  of  Dub- 
lin ;  immediately  the  four  great 
powers  declare  that  the  contest  must 
cease,  and  that  they  will  consider  any 
act  of  hostility  committed  by  England 
against  Ireland  as  a  declaration  of 
war  against  themselves.  Overawed 
by  so  formidable  a  coalition,  the 
English  desist  from  hostilities ;  nego- 
tiations are  conducted  at  Paris,  and 
the  high  and  resistless  mediating 
powers  insist  that  Ireland  shall  be 
separated  from  England,  and  that  in 
addition  the  British  government  shall 
accept  a  compensation  for  Ireland 
and  /Scotland,  which  shall  be  annex- 
ed to  the  nascent  Irish  kingdom.  In- 
dignant at  such  atrocious  proceed- 
ings, the  English  have  recourse  to 
arms  to  prevent  the  partition  of  their 
territory,  and  instantly  the  newly 
elected  King  of  Ireland  invokes  the 
aid  of  the  French  government,  and  a 
hundred  thousand  men  are  immedi- 
ately transported  to  Ireland  to  aid 
him  in  beating  down  the  efforts  of 
England.  Divested  of  diplomatic 
phraseology,  this  is  precisely  the  case 
which  has  now  occurred  in  the  Low 
Countries. 

We  exclaim,  and  history  will  never 
cease  to  exclaim,  against  the  parti- 
tion of  Poland ;  and  our  sympathies 
are  strongly  excited  in  favour  of  a 
gallant  people  struggling  to  preserve 
their  national  independence.  But 
what  will  history  say  to  the  partition 
of  the  Netherlands,  by  the  very 
sovereigns  who  had  erected  that 
kingdom,  in  violation  of  their  solemn 
guarantee  for  its  integrity  ?  What 
shall  we  say  to  England  permitting 
France  to  invade  and  crush  its  an- 
cient allies  the  Dutch,  because  they 
were  bravely  struggling  to  regain 
those  dominions  which  the  honour 
of  England  was  pledged  to  maintain 
for  them  ? 

'  It  won't  do  to  wrap  up  this  fla- 
grant instance  of  allied  oppression 
under  the  fine  words  that  the  Bel- 
gian question  was  complicated  ;  that 
the  peace  of  Europe  was  at  stake ; 
that  Holland  could  not  regain  Bel- 
gium, or  such  diplomatic  evasions. 
The  question  which  posterity  will 
ask  is,  What  right  had  the  allies  to 
prevent  King  William  from  striving 
to  regain  Ms  dominions  ?  and  what 
title  had  they  to  compel  him  to  accept 
VOL.  xxx.  NO,  CLXXXV, 


303 

a  compensation  for  an  important 
territory,  to  which  they  admitted  his 
right?  Till  a  satisfactory  answer 
is  given  to  these  questions,  the  voice 
of  ages  will  class  this  usurpation 
with  the  partition  of  Poland;  and 
history  will  record  that,  in  betraying 
its  oldest  allies,  and  abandoning  the 
trophies  of  Waterloo,  England  sur- 
rendered not  only  its  public  faith, 
but,  in  the  end,  its  national  inde- 
pendence. 

There  was  one  occasion,  and  but 
one,  in  which,  for  a  few  years,  the 
arms  of  England  were  united  with 
those  of  France  in  an  attack  on  the 
United  Provinces.  During  the  cor- 
rupt and  disgraceful  reign  of  Charles 
II.,  the  Leopards  of  England  and  the 
Lilies  of  France,  joined  in  a  crusade 
against  Dutch  independence.  The 
arbitrary  government  of  Charles  co- 
alesced with  the  despotic  Ministers 
of  Louis  XIV.  to  break  down  that 
last  hold  of  civil  liberty.  The  an- 
cestor of  the  present  King  William 
gloriously  resisted  the  disgraceful 
union ;  and  England  expiated,  by  the 
triumphs  of  Marlborough,  the  foul 
blot  on  her  national  character.  The 
events  of  the  present  time  demon- 
strate, that  there  are  passions  as  fatal 
to  national  interests,  as  blinding  to 
the  sense  of  national  honour,  as  those 
which  made  the  Ministers  of  Charles 
II.  swerve  from  the  policy  of  their 
ancestors,  and  that  the  passion  for 
innovation  may  produce  alliances  as 
extraordinary,  and  lead  to  acts  of 
usurpation  as  violent,  as  those  which 
flow  from  the  cabinets  of  Kings. 

In  making  these  observations  we 
disclaim  imputing  any  improper  or 
unworthy  motives  to  Administration ; 
we  do  not  say  they  act  from  any 
motive  unworthy  of  a  British  cabi- 
net :  what  we  say  is,  that  the  passion 
for  innovation  has  blinded  their  judg- 
ment as  well  as  that  of  a  great  part 
of  our  people. 

It  is  of  no  importance  whether  the 
Flemish  fortresses  are  occupied  by 
French  or  Belgian  troops ;  whether 
the  French  have  stipulated  to  retire 
after  they  have  chastised  the  King 
of  Holland,  or  have  made  no  such 
agreement.  In  either  view  the  effect 
will  be  the  same  ;  substantially  and 
really,  if  not  formally,  French  power 
and  influence  will  be  advanced  to 
the  Rhine,  and  the  equilibrium  ot 
Europe  destroyed.  Belgium  will  be 
2K 


504 


On  the  Foreign  Policy  of  the  Whiff  Administration,          [Sept. 


the  outwork  of  France ;  the  second- 
born  of  the  revolutionary  monarchies 
will  inseparably  depend  on  its  elder 
sister.  Opposed  in  its  infancy  to 
Prussia,  Austria,  and  Holland,  it  will 
depend  for  its  existence  on  its  alli- 
ance with  France.  England  has  con- 
trived, by  its  unjust  severity  towards 
Holland,  to  throw  Belgium,  with  all 
its  magnificent  fortresses  and  opu- 
lent territory,  for  ever  into  the  arms 
of  the  ancient  enemy  of  European 
freedom.  Leopold  I.  will  be  to 
Louis  Philip  what  Jerome,  or  the 
Rhenish  Confederation,  was  to  Napo- 
leon, if  his  dominions  are  not  swal- 
lowed up  by  that  ambitious  power. 
The  resources,  the  wealth,  the  power 
of  his  kingdom,  will  be  as  effectually 
at  the  command  of  the  cabinet  of  the 
Tuileries,  as  if  it  formed  part  of  the 
soil  of  France. 

The  time  will  come  when  the  pas- 
sions and  illusions  which  have  pro- 
duced these  extraordinary  events 
will  be  no  more.  Interest  and  reason 
will  at  length  restore  the  ancient  di- 
visions of  France  and  England,  what- 
ever may  be  the  government  which 
ultimately  obtains  in  both  countries. 
The  march  of  intellect  will  not  alter 
these  relations  ;  Republican  France 
will  be  as  much  an  object  of  jealousy 
to  Republican  England,  as  ever  was 
the  ambition  of  Louis  XIV.  or  the 
power  of  Napoleon.  The  time  will 
come  when  the  ruling  power  in 
France,  by  whatever  name  it  is  called, 
will  direct  the  forces  of  that  power- 
ful state,  then  advanced  to  the  Rhine, 
against  this  country;  when  the  ri- 
valry of  five  hundred  years  will  be 
revived,  and  the  never  to  be  forgiven 
triumph  of  Waterloo  avenged.  Then 
will  England  feel  the  want  of  that 
firm  ally,  which  she  would  have  found 
in  the  King  of  the  Netherlands ;  then 
will  she  feel  what  it  was  to  yield  up 
Belgium  to  French  domination  ;  then 
will  she  discover  what  she  has  lost 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  what  is  her 
national  security  when  the  barrier 
of  Marlborough  and  Wellington  was 
abandoned. 

To  support  Poland  against  Russia, 
and  the  Netherlands  against  France, 
is  the  clear  and  obvious  policy  of  all 
the  other  European  powers.  To 
prevent  Russia  from  advancing  to 
the  Vistula,  and  France  to  the  Rhine, 
is  equally  the  part  of  a  real  friend 
to  freedom.  The  establishment  of 
either  of  these  powers  on  these 


rivers  is  fatal  to  the  independence 
of  the  intermediate  states,  and  leaves 
only  one  field  of  conflict  between 
equally  despotic  masters.  The  prin- 
ciples of  justice  are  here  clearly  in 
unison  with  the  dictates  of  policy  ;  to 
do  so  is  to  support  the  weak  against 
the  strong,  and  prevent  national  in- 
dependence from  being  sacrificed  at 
the  shrine  of  military  ambition.  We 
have  done  the  reverse  of  both;  we 
have  suffered  Russia  to  bring,  it  is  to 
be  feared,  irresistible  forces  to  the 
Vistula,  and  ourselves  aided  in  bring- 
ing the  French  standards  to  the  Rhine! 
The  first  was  perhaps  beyond  our 
power  to  prevent ;  the  second  was 
mainly  owing  to  our  instrumentality, 
and  could  not  have  occurred  with- 
out our  consent.  The  two  most  de- 
plorable events  to  European  freedom 
are  taking  place  at  the  same  time. 
Despotic  power  is  crushing  the  ef- 
forts of  independence  in  the  east, 
while  democratic  ambition  is  com- 
mencing its  career  of  tyrannic  con- 
quest in  the  west.  Declining  to 
stem  the  first,  we  actually  support 
the  last;  and  that  at  a  time  when 
the  language  of  freedom  is  in  every 
mouth,  and  the  principles  of  justice 
are  said  to  rule  the  regenerated  em- 
pire of  the  country. 

We  have  no  doubt  that  the  French 
Government  have  pledged  them- 
selves to  withdraw  their  troops  after 
the  independence  of  Belgium  is  se- 
cured :  we  have  as  little,  that  Louis 
Philip  is  at  present  sincere  in  that 
declaration,  and  that  our  Govern- 
ment have  given  faith  to  these  as- 
surances, and  would  not  have  sanc- 
tioned the  march  of  the  French 
troops  on  any  other  condition.  All 
that  does  not  in  the  least  alter  the 
nature  of  the  case,  or  furnish  any 
excuse  for  the  great  error  which  we 
have  committed.  Still  the  facts  re- 
main that  the  French  armies  are  ad- 
vanced to  the  Rhine  ;  that  Belgium 
is  placed  under  their  grasp;  that  it 
is  made  the  outwork  of  the  revolu- 
tionary system.  The  barrier  of  Eu- 
rope is  not  only  lost,  but  it  is  placed 
in  the  enemy's  hands.  Who  can  fore- 
see that  in  the  numerous  chances  of 
war  likely  to  follow  that  event,  an 
excuse  will  not  remain  for  their 
permanently  garrisoning  their  allies' 
fortresses  ?  That  a  subsidiary  force 
will  not  be  stationed  at  Brussels, 
giving  to  the  cabinet  of  Versailles 
the  complete  command  of  the  JsTe- 


1,831.]  On  the  Foreign  Policy  of  the  Whig  Administration. 


therlands  ?   Who  can  answer  for  it, 
that  the  French  troops,  having  re- 
gained this  darling  object  of  their 
ambition,  will  retire  at  the  mandate 
of  their  sovereign  ?     That  they  will 
not  fraternize  vvitli  the  braves  Beiges, 
and  declare  with  the  National  Con- 
vention in  the  time  of  Dumourier, 
"  that  treaties  made  with   despots 
can  never  bind  the  free  and  enfran- 
chised people  of  Belgium  ?  Who  can 
guarantee  for  three  months  the  ex- 
istence  of   Louis    Philip's  govern- 
ment, or  the  observance  of  the  trea- 
ties which  he  may  have  made  ?  Who 
can  be  assured  that  the  soldiers  who 
in  a  moment  violated  their  oaths  to 
Charles  X.  will  not  as  summarily 
dispossess  the  present  monarch,  and 
trample  under  their  feet  the  treaties 
of  a  Bourbon  prince  ?    Is  it  any  ex- 
cuse for  a  governor  who  opens  the 
gates  of  a  fortress  to  an  unruly  body 
of  armed  men,  that  they  promised 
not  to  spoil  or  slay  the  garrison? 
England  should  know  that  the  French 
soldiers  are  in  a  state  of  ebullition 
and  excitement,  which  it  requires  all 
the  address  of  the  French  king  to 
repress ;  and  that  if  they  ever  take 
the  bit  into  their  mouths,  on  the  fa- 
vourite project  of  re-annexing  Bel- 
gium to  the  Great  Nation,  it  is  highly 
improbable  that  he  will  be  able  to 
keep  his  seat,  if  he  strives  to  check 
them.     Herein,  therefore,  lies  the 
enormous  fault  of  our  present  po- 
licy— that  we  have  opened  the  gates 
of  Belgium  to  revolutionary  soldiers, 
long  panting  for  the  possession  of 
that  country,  at  the  moment  of  their 
greatest  excitement;    that  we  have 
permitted  the  possession  of  the  Low 
Countries  to  the  very  power  which 
has  most  severely  felt  their  loss,  and 
at  a  time  when  its  authority  over  its 
own  armies  was  least  established; 
and   intrusted  the    maintenance   of 
European  independence,  not  to  the 
barrier  of  Marlborough  and  Welling- 
ton, not  to  the  terror  of  Vittoria  or 
Waterloo,  but  to  the  good  faith  of 
an  ambitious  army,  whose  standards 
were  still  stained  by  an  act  of  trea- 
son. 

The  events  of  the  war,  short  as  it 
has  hitherto  been,  have  completely 
demonstrated  the  impolicy  of  our 
interference  in  behalf  of  the  revolu- 
tionary state  in  Belgium.  The  Bel- 
gians have  been  totally  defeated  iu 
two  battles  -,  nothing  but  the  rapid  ad- 


505 

vance  of  the  French  saved  Brussels 
from  falling  into  the  hands  of  its 
former  master.  The  braggadocios 
of  the  Belgian  revolt  have  all  fled 
without  firing  a  shot;  a  nation  of 
four  millions  of  men  has  confessed 
its  inability  to  contend  for  a  month 
with  one  of  two.  But  for  our  inter- 
ference, and  French  celerity,  the 
King  of  the  Netherlands  would  ere 
this  have  solved  the  "  Belgian  Ques- 
tion" in  the  most  effectual  of  all  ways, 
by  stifling  the  absurd  and  groundless 
revolt  in  his  dominions,  and  Bel- 
gium, reunited  to  Holland,  instead 
of  being  the  advanced  post  of  revo- 
lutionary France,  would  have  been 
the  barrier  of  European  freedom. 

The  grand  error  which  our  Go- 
vernment committed,  and  for  which 
no  sort  of  defence  has  or  can  be  of- 
fered, is,  that  they  let  Leopold  accept 
the  crown,  and  take  possession  of 
his  dominions,  before  their  bounda- 
ries were  fixed ;  and  that  they  gua- 
ranteed to  him,  in  conjunction  with 
France,  part  of  the  old  Dutch  pro- 
vinces, including  Maestricht,  of  vital 
importance  to  Holland,  and  part  of 
the  old  inheritance  of  the  house  of 
Nassau,  including  the  noble  fortress 
of  Luxembourg,  of  vital  importance 
to  Prussia,  when  they  did  not  know 
that  the  King  of  Holland  would  sur- 
render these  important  parts  of  his 
dominions.  By  so  doing,  they  ne- 
cessarily threw  the  apple  of  discord 
between  him  and  these  two  powers, 
and  gave  to  France  the  long-wished 
for  opportunity  of  regaining  its  hold 
of  Belgium,  not  only  when  England 
had  tied  itself  not  to  resist,  but 
when  it  was  bound  to  aid  their  ad- 
vance !  Leopold,  of  course,  must 
henceforth  be  the  vassal  of  France, 
and  all  his  strength  thrown  into  the 
scale  of  the  revolutionary  system. 
A  greater  error  never  was  commit- 
ted by  any  diplomatists,  and  its  con- 
sequences, whether  present  or  ulti- 
mate, cannot  fail  to  be  disastrous; 
for  experience  will  prove  a  third 
time,  since  the  two  lessons  already 
received  are  not  sufficient,  that 
France,  having  the  control  of  Bel- 
gium, is  too  strong  for  Europe  ;  and 
that  the  vantage-ground,  now  incon- 
siderately abandoned,  must  be  re- 
gained at  as  great  an  expenditure  of 
blood  and  treasure  as  it  was  origi- 
nally acquired. 


50(3 


Opinions  of  an  American  Republican, 


[Sept. 


OPINIONS  Of  AN  AMERICAN  REPUBLICAN,*  AND  OF  A  BRITISH 
ON  THE  BILL. 


WE  have  considered  the  Question 
of  Reform  under  all  its  aspects — 
most  of  them  repulsive — and  some 
of  them  formidable  j  nor,  as  far  as 
we  have  seen,  have  any  of  our  argu- 
ments against  the  measure  met  with 
any  but  the  most  impotent  efforts  at 
refutation.  We  have  hewed  down 
all  the  billmen  who  rashly  ventured 
to  oppose  us,  in  all  directions,  with 
our  Lochaber-axes  j  while  the  wretch- 
ed survivors,  crying  craven,  have 
shrieked  on  their  knees  for  quarter 
never  granted,  or,  as  we  have  gone 
trampling  over  them  prone  on  the 
dust,  have  pretended  to  be  dead. 

Now  none  of  their  ragged  regi- 
ments will  shew  fight  at  all,  but 
keep  moving  from  position  to  posi- 
tion, without  firing  a  shot — their 
colours,  however,  flying  all  the  while 
— the  tricolour  no  less — and  their 
instrumental  bands  playing  most  un- 
raartial  music,  to  the  tune  of  Ca  ira.  All 
this  pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance 
of  war,  is  somewhat  provoking  to  our 
vanguard,who would  fain  have  abrush 
at  their  rear,  which  looks  so  bulky, 
that  it  must  surely  be  fortified  against 
the  prick  of  bayonet  by  filed  news- 
papers, purchased  at  trade  price  from 
liberal  publishers,  who,  in  these  days, 
sport  Patriots,  without  duly  consi- 
dering who  is  at  last  to  pay  the  pipers. 
But  vain  such  shields  to  save  their 
overtaken  posteriors  from  the  lead 
or  steel  of  our  rifles,  that  easily  pene- 
trate the  thickest  moniplies — and  bite 
to  the  hip-bone,  till  the  radicals  roar 
again  in  ludicrous  agonies.  Such  is 
the  usual  style  in  which  we  dissolve 
political  unions. 

The  cuckoo  cry  of  the  Bill — the 
whole  Bill— and  nothing  but  the  Bill 
— is  no  longer  heard  in  the  land. 
About  the  middle  of  April,  the  voice 
of  that  bird  is  heard  among  our  braes ; 
in  a  month  or  so,  it  begins  to  stam- 
mer in  its  simple  song,  and  by  mid- 
summer the  foolish  gowk  has  flown 
to  another  clime.  But  though  the 
gowks  are  gone,  you  still  see  flying 


about  the  titlings.  But  hedge-spar- 
rows are  not  worth  powder  and  shot, 
so  let  them  flutter  about  the  bushes. 
The  Reformers  deny  that  there  has 
been  "  a  reaction."  But  will  they 
deny  that  they  are  laughed  at  by 
many  millions  of  the  people  of  Bri- 
tain ?  Blind  and  deaf  as  most  of 
them  long  tried  to  be — winking  and 
shutting  their  eyes — and  allowing 
the  wax  to  accumulate  in  their  ears 
— have  they  the  face  to  declare,  that 
they  do  not  now  see  and  hear  the 
shouts  of  scorn  by  which  they  are 
on  all  sides  assailed  ?  Their  sense  of 
the  absurd  must  be  indeed  obtuse 
if  they  do  not  feel  their  condition ; 
for  are  they  not  all  by  the  ears, 
kicking  and  cuffing  one  and  another, 
rugging  hair,  and  pulling  noses,  and 
calling  names,  and  numbers  of  them 
absolutely  greeting?  The  loud  crow 
has  been  subdued  into  a  low  chuckle 
— the  low  chuckle  has  dwindled  into 
a  peevish  pip — and  the  peevish  pip 
itself  evaporated  in  a  ghastly  gape, 
that  seems  to  have  lost  its  bill.  The 
poultry  is  beginning  to  moult— is 
sadly  out  of  feather — and  had  better 
go  to  roost. 

At  first  all  Reformers  shook  hands 
like  brothers,  and  swore  by  the  Bill 
eternal  friendship.  Ye  Gods !  how 
they  did  gabble.  The  quacking  of 
the  Great  Glasgow  Gander  himself 
was  drowned  in  the  general  chorus 
that  shook  the  Dubs.  Up  on  its  tip- 
toes rose  the  entire  Goosery — flap 
went  every  wing — wriggled  every 
doup — and  at  once  outstretched  was 
every  long  neck,  a-hiss  and  awry 
across  the  common.  The  borough- 
mongers  were  alarmed — as  well  they 
might  be — for  the  air  was  whitened 
with  a  fearful  shower  of  feathers. 
They  quailed  at  the  cry  of  these 
sons  of  freedom ;  for  every  goose 
seemed  a  swan — and  the  yellow  gos- 
ling to  the  eyes  of  fear  was  undis- 
tinguishable  from  the  whitey-brown 
Gander.  But  a  truce  to  ornitholo- 
gical illustration. 


*  North  American  Review  for  July  1831. 
t  Ministerial  1'Ian  of  Reform.     By  Lieut, 
1831. 


Col,  >Tattliew  Stewart,     Edinburgh, 


1831.] 


and  of  a  British  Whig  on  the 


We  beg  the  Reformers  to  recover 
their  tempers.  Should  they  carry 
on  much  longer  at  this  rate,  we  shall 
have  them  cutting  each  other's 
throats. 

"  Behold  how  good  a  thing  it  is, 

And  how  becoming  well, 
Together  such  as  brethren  are 

lu  unity  to  dwell !" 

In  mere  worldly  prudence  they 
should  remember  the  bundle  of  sticks. 
True,  most  of  the  said  sticks  are  ra- 
ther rottenish  j  and  though  they  were 
millions — what  is  their  strength  to 
that  of  the  bole  of  the  old  Oak-Tree 
— of  the  British  Constitution?  Taken 
in  dozens — scores — hundreds — or 
even  thousands — a  man  of  moderate 
muscle  breaks  them  across  his  knee 
with  all  the  ease  in  the  world.  Sin- 
gle sticks  snap  if  you  but  touch  them 
with  your  little  finger. 

Few  Reformers  are  gentlemen. 
Those  few  at  the  social  and  festal 
board  sink  the  Bill.  The  million — 
wherever  sections  of  them  chance  to 
be — open  in  full  cry  —  regardless 
what  may  be  the  political  opinions 
even  of  the  good  men  at  whose  feasts 
they  are  permitted  to  sit.  They  de- 
serve to  be  shewn  the  door.  But 
your  Anti-reformer  being  a  Tory,  is 
of  course  a  gentleman — and  at  table 
— without  compromising  his  consci- 
ence— behaves  courteously  even  to 
your  Radical.  Were  the  Bill  to  pass, 
the  manners  of  the  nation  would  be 
as  bad,  or  even  worse  than  its  mo- 
rals— and  all  mild  men  would  emi- 
grate to  America. 

The  Reformers  have  been  at  their 
wit's  end — for  some  weeks — with 
rage — because  the  Opposition  have 
chosen  to  discuss — clause  by  clause 
— the  demerits  of  the  Bill.  Grant 
that  their  conduct  has  been  frivolous 
and  vexatious ;  yet,  why  not  make 
allowance  for  the  "  fond  reluctant 
amorous  delay,"  of  men  who  are 
never  more  to  be  members  of  Parlia- 
ment ?  Niggards !  to  deny  to  us  a 
few  more  last  gasps  !  Were  we  as- 
sured, beyond  all  mistake,  that  all 
the  Whigs  in  the  House  were  on  the 
eve  of  dissolution,  we  should  cheer- 
fully let  them  expire  in  the  most  pro- 
tracted agonies.  That  known  sen- 
timent, "  hurry  no  man's  cattle," 
would  breathe  in  music  from  our 
benign  lips,  and  when  all  was  over, 
then  "  let  the  dead  bury  the  dead." 
Whereas  the  Whigs  grudge  the  Tories 


507 

a  few  weeks'  respite — and  would  fain 
order  them  all  off,  not  only  pinioned, 
but  gagged,  to  immediate  execution. 
Monsters ! 

But  pray,  howhappens  itthat  every 
other  day,  during  these  discussions, 
thus  protracted  by  a  factious  and  frac- 
tious Opposition,  ever  and  anonstart- 
ethup  some  Reformer, to  propose  his 
improvement  upon  the  Bill,  that  ere- 
while  was  so  perfect  ?  But  for  us, 
poor  dying  creatures,  it  would  have 
been  huddled  over  with  all  its  hide- 
ous anomalies — and  an  end  at  once 
put  to  the  new  constitution.  The 
Reformers  owe  us  anunliquidateable 
debt  of  gratitude.  Yet  see  how  de- 
spitefully  they  use  us — but  for  whose 
unwearied  patriotism,  they  and  their 
children  had  for  ever  been  slaves. 

We  said — alittle  way  back — should 
the  Bill  pass.  What  Bill  ?  Which  of 
the  many  Bills  that  have  lately  been 
before  Parliament?  The  Ministry, 
like  jugglers,  have  been  playing  at 
cup  and  balls.  They  lay  a  bill  on 
the  table,  arid  tell  you  to  look  at  it — 
and  at  its  provisions.  Down  goes 
the  cup  to  keep  it  warm ;  up  goes 
the  cup  to  let  it  cool — and  the  Re- 
formers themselves  cannot  trust  their 
eyes,  when  they  see  the  green  cloth 
as  bare  as  the  palm  of  their  hand. 
The  Bill  has  vanished  bodily — or  per- 
haps there  is  lying  in  its  stead  a  scare- 
crow of  a  schedule — the  handiwork 
of  an  accomplished  mountebank.  • 

We  neveruse  hard  words — unwill- 
ing to  insult,  and  resolute  not  to  be 
insulted,  without  instant  application 
of  the  point  of  the  pen  to  the  offend- 
ing member.  But  the  Reformers  are 
not  so  mealy-mouthed,  and  for  some 
time  past  have  been  rudely  calling 
the  Ministers  fools  and  knaves.  We 
can  with  difficulty  bring  ourselves  to 
think  them  so ;  and  hope  that  several 
of  their  acts,  which  at  present  cer- 
tainly do  seem  both  foolish  and  kna- 
vish, may  prove  susceptible  of  some 
sort  of  palliating  explanation  and 
apology.  Thus  their  apparently  base 
and  unprincipled  attempt  to  sacrifice 
their  assistant,  Mr  Gregson,  without 
whom  they  could  not  have  drawn  a 
bill  even  to  be  dishonoured,  and  must 
have  been  long  ere  now  declared 
bankrupt,  may  possibly  be  placed  in 
a  different  light  before  they  are  all 
dead,  and  buried,  and  forgotten.  So 
may  their  attempt — seemingly  still 
worse — in  spite  of  his  remonstrances 
— to  destroy  nine-tenths  of  the  ten- 


Opinions  of  an  American  Republican, 


508 

pound  voters— to  nip  that  constitu- 
ency in  the  "  morn  and  liquid  dew  of 
youth,"  when  contagious  blastments 
are  most  imminent.  As  to  the  matter 
of  the  division  of  counties,  we  point- 
ed out  the  necessary  consequences 
of  that  operation  months  ago — and 
BO — if  we  mistake  not — virtually  did 
Sir  John  Walsh.  The  Reformers  can- 
not stomach  it — for  it  seemeth  unto 
their  dazzled  optics,  that  his  Majesty's 
Ministers  are  taking  from  the  people 
with  one  hand  what  they  are  giving 
them  with  the  other — and  that  is  a 
kind  of  "  jukery-pawkery"  not  re- 
lished by  John  Bull. 

Pray — what  of  all  this  procedure 
on  the  part  of  his  Ministry — is  the 
opinion  of   the   King  ?     We   have 
that  of  the  people — but  loyal  sub- 
jects like  us  cannot  be  happy  with- 
out  that   of    our    Modern    Alfred. 
It   seemeth   now  that   nobody   ap- 
proves  of  the   Bill.      It  is  abused 
piecemeal,  or  in  the  "  tottle  of  the 
whole,"   on  all  hands,  and  by   all 
tongues.  His  Majesty  is  now  mute — 
and  therefore,  we  presume,  hostile ; 
the  Ministry  is  divided  on  some  of 
the  most  important  clauses — on  some 
the  Opposition  vote  with  Ministers 
to  stultify  the  whole  measure — the 
Press  is  growling  like  a  bear  with 
a  sore  head  —  and  the  people  are 
getting  savage  in  penny  pamphlets 
and  farthing  Political  Unions.    How 
stand  the  Lords  ?    Why — like  cro- 
codiles— with  their   hands  in  their 
breeches  pockets.  But  will  they  pass 
the  Bill  ?   Not  surely  till  they  have 
digested  it.     But  will  they  digest  it  ? 
Not  surely  till  they  have  swallowed 
it    But  will  they  swallow  it  ?   Why 
the  deuce  should  they  swallow  what 
nobody  else  can  bolt  ?  But  will  they 
try  to  gulp  it  ?  Perhaps  they  may,  if 
you  will  lay  it  before  the  Peers  on  a 
plate.     But  the  Bill  is  lost — and  no- 
body knows   where  to  find  it.     It 
must    be    recovered  —  prepared — 
cooked — dished — and    set    on    the 
table  before  the  Lords.     The  Lords 
have  then  surely  an  equal  right  with 
the  Commons  to  decide  whether  or 
no  it  be  edible — and  if  they  dislike 
its  taste,  "  with  sputtering  noise  to 
reject  it."  In  the  Commons,  the  Bill 
has  been  so  modified  and  transmo- 
grified, that   its   own  father — who- 
ever he  may  be — cannot  know  it. 
In  the  Lords,  it  may  be  rightfully 
subjected  to  similar  treatment.  What 
shape  it  may  assume  after  going 


[Sept. 


through  such  farther  parliamentary 
process,  it  will  be  interesting  to  ob- 
serve. But  it  can  hardly  turn  out  a 
greater  curiosity. 

Was  it  originally  an  aristocratical 
or  a  democratical  Bill  ?  Which  of 
the  two  is  it  now  ?  And  which  of  the 
two  will  it  be  at  last  ?  The  Marquis 
of  Cleveland  no  doubt  conceits  that 
it  is  aristocratical.  The  President  of 
the  Dirty  Shirt  trusts  not;  and  in 
Cockayne  there  is  a  chuckle  heard, 
because  it  is  considered  nuts  to  the 
Canaille. 

Admit  all  this  variety  of  opinion 
in  our  own  country,  what  is  thought 
of  the  Bill  abroad?  What  thinks 
Jonathan?  Here  is  the  July  number 
of  that  most  able  periodical,  the 
North  American  Review.  And  here 
is  a  most  able  article  entitled  the 
Prospect  of  Reform  in  Europe- 
written  not  by  a  fierce  but  a  firm  re- 
publican. A  few  words  about  it. 

This  enlightened  American  is  a 
genuine  patriot — and  therefore  loves 
— honours — and  would  fight  and  die 
for  the  liberties — the  laws — and  in- 
stitutions of  his  native  land.  He  be- 
lieves them  all  to  be  founded  in 
justice — takes  it  for  granted  that 
they  are — and  hardly  thinks  it  worth 
his  while — on  his  own  side  of  the 
water— to  explain  the  principles  of 
his  political  creed,  which  is  that  of 
all  true  Americans.  A  hereditary 
monarchy — a  hereditary  nobility — an 
established  church — the  law  of  pri- 
mogeniture—  are  all  pernicious — 
and  can  be  defended  only  on  the 
same  grounds  as  all  other  antiqua- 
ted, unequal,  and  abusive  corporate 
monopolies.  These  make  up— he 
says — the  arbitrary  Aristocratic  Sys- 
tem ;  and  those  who  support  it, 
and  who  are  far  more  numerous 
than  those  benefited  by  it,  are  the 
aristocratic  party.  The  liberal 
party — he  says — are  those  who  are 
of  a  contrary  opinion  on  all  these 
points.  A  mighty  war  is  now  about 
to  be  carried  on  all  over  Europe  be- 
tween these  two  parties — a  war  of 
opinion — which  he  cannot  doubt  will 
terminate — however  remote  the  pe- 
riod— and  however  bloody  the  in- 
terval —  in  favour  of  the  liberals, 
and  in  the  utter  destruction  of  all 
aristocratical  governments. 

This  is  plain  speaking  and  single 
dealing,  and  therefore  we  admire  it. 
Into  the  philosophy  of  our  Transat- 
lantic brother's  political  faith  we 


1831.] 


and  of  a  British  Whiff  on  the  Bill. 


shall  not  now  enquire.  But  what  is 
his  opinion  of  our  Plan  of  Reform? 
The  opinion  of  him,  an  outspoken, 
atancli,  and  sincere  republican  ? 

In  the  first  place,  he  is  too  enlight- 
ened a  person  not  to  know  well  that 
there  is  not  now  in  the  world  an- 
other such  constitution  as  the  Bri- 
tish. We  do  not  mean  that  he  thinks 
it  a  good  one — it  is,  he  thinks,  bad. 
But  he  knows  it  is  unique ;  and 
therefore  the  prospect  of  Reform  in 
Britain  is  different,  before  his  eyes, 
from  the  prospect  of  reform  in  any 
other  kingdom  of  Europe.  In  Bri- 
tain, he  admits  that  the  question  of 
reform  is  the  most  difficult  in  prac- 
tice that  can  be  imagined — requiring 
for  its  happy  solution  the  utmost 
wisdom  and  calmness — for  that  it  is 
no  less  than  the  question  of  discard- 
ing the  one  system  and  introducing 
the  other — a  point  on  which  there 
are  as  many  opinions  as  there  are  in- 
dependent thinkers.  It  is  likely,  he 
thinks,  to  be  agitated  on  fields  of 
battle,  and  by  infuriated  armies. 
But  though,  generally  speaking, 
there  are,  he  adds,  the  friends  and 
enemies  of  reform,  divided  into  the 
two  great  parties  of  which  he  has 
spoken,  not  a  small  portion  of  the 
aristocratic  party  are  willing  to  aban- 
don a  little  to  save  the  rest ;  and  some 
of  the  liberal  party  agree  to  bate 
something  by  way  of  concession,  ra- 
ther than  wade  through  blood  for  the 
whole,  with  the  risk  of  gaining  no- 
thing. The  action  and  reaction  of 
these  feelings  for  several  genera- 
tions in  England,  has  produced  that 
compromise  which  is  called  the 
Constitution,  which  contains  some- 
thing of  the  aristocratic,  and  some- 
thing of  the  democratic  principle. 
This,  he  says  well,  renders  the  ques- 
tion of  reform  singularly  complica- 
ted in  Britain ;  and  authorizes  each 
party  to  maintain,  that  its  favourite 
principle  is  the  principle  of  the  con- 
stitution. 

In  the  course  of  the  struggle 
•which  this  writer  thinks  he  sees  im- 
pending, dynasties  will  very  likely 
be  set  up  and  expelled — kings  voted 
in  and  voted  out — republics  pro- 
claimed and  crushed — governments 
will  dissolve  into  anarchies — and 
anarchies  ripen,  or  rot  into  military 
despotisms,  and  these  vicissitudes 
will  fill  up  generations. 

Our  friend  is  a  gloomy — may  he 
prove  a  false  prophet.  But  he  speaks 


509 

solemnly;  and  he  gives  reasons  for 
the  faith  that  is  in  him  worthy  the 
consideration  of  all  those  who  hope 
better  things  for  the  future  destinies 
of  England.  He  seeks  not  to  dis- 
guise his  opinion,  that  those  States 
are  in  danger  of  the  greatest  changes 
which  are  organized  —  as  that  of 
Britain  is — on  a  mixed  principle. 
For  the  doctrine  of  checks  and  ba- 
lances may  be  harmless  in  a  quiet 
time,  and  in  the  undisturbed  action 
of  the  machine  ;  but  when  by  some 
disturbing  force  the  equilibrium  is 
destroyed,  one  principle  must  pre- 
vail to  the  subversion  of  the  other. 

According  to  this  view,  he  holds 
that,  in  the  present  state  of  the 
world, the  two  simplest  governments 
are  greatly  the  safest,  and  least  like- 
ly to  be  affected  by  the  convulsions 
of  the  times — those  of  Russia  and 
the  United  States.  The  former  he 
thinks  safe,  for  there  does  not  ap- 
pear to  be  any  considerable  number 
of  persons  desirous  of  change,  or 
disaffected  to  the  present  order  of 
things  —  consequently,  there  is  no 
antagonist  principle.  The  govern- 
ment of  his  own  country,  of  a  totally 
different  character,  he  thinks  is  safe 
for  the  game  reason.  Whatever 
local  discontents  may  have  been 
created  by  individual  measures,  the 
number  is  exceedingly  small  of  those 
who  wish  for  a  stronger  or  a  weaker 
government.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
considers  the  condition  of  England 
as  highly  critical,  since  it  has  long 
been  her  boast  that  she  has  a  mixed 
constitution.  One  thing,  he  says,  is 
certain — that  a  pure  representative 
government  (by  pure,  he  means 
equal)  cannot  exist  when  two  of  the 
great  estates  of  the  realm  are  here- 
ditary. In  her  constitution,  there- 
fore, he  looks  forward  to  an  inevi- 
table and  great  change.  Of  this  great 
change,  France  has  already  gone 
through  many  stages.  Either  the 
extremity  of  the  old  abuses,  or  the 
ardent  temper  of  the  French  people, 
or  some  unexplained  fatality,  push- 
ed the  first  movements  of  reform 
into  the  wildest  excesses  of  revolu- 
tion ;  and  from  that  the  State  swung 
back  to  a  military  despotism.  The 
surface  of  the  waters  has  since  been 
broken  and  tost,  and  the  men  and 
things  moving  on  it  have  been 
strangely  driven  about,  and  seem- 
ingly without  a  course.  But  the 
under-current,  he  believes,  sets  deep 


510  Opinions  of  an  American  Republican, 

and  strong  towards  a  republic.    He 
has  no  doubt  that  the  present  state 
of  things  is  provisional — that  the  peo- 
ple who,  through  their  deputies,  have 
chosen  Louis  Philip,  will  choose  his 
successor — and  probably  for  a  limit- 
ed period.     For  is  it  likely,  he  asks 
with  much  animation,  that  that  prince 
will  be  permitted   to   transmit  his 
crown  to  his  son,  who  has  been  com- 
pelled to  obliterate  the  emblems  of 
his  family  from  the  seal  of  state? 
Or  is  the  chief  magistracy  of  the 
country  so  much  more  of  a  trifle  than 
ihejfleur-de-lis,  that  the  King,  who  is 
obliged  to  abandon  the  one,  can  keep 
the  other  ?   Nor  is  the  state  of  things, 
he  thinks,  widely  different  in  Eng- 
land.    True,  that  the  temperament 
of  the  people  is  less  mercurial  than 
that  of  the  French — but  the  popular 
feeling  is  not  less  intense.     But  for 
the  unequal  division  of  property  in 
England,  he  thinks  the    monarchy 
might  pass  into  an  elective  govern- 
ment without  a  convulsion — but  that 
the  extreme  inequality  of  fortunes 
gives  an  ominous  character  to  the 
contest  which  he  believes  is  about  to 
ensue.   There  are  too  many  who  have 
nothing  to  lose — one  party  contends 
for  the  preservation  of  privileges  too 
vast  to  be  resigned ;  the  other  con- 
tends— so  he  says — for  life.   It  is  the 
unyielding  ambition   of  those  who 
have  all,  against  the  utter  recklessness 
of  those  who  have  nothing,  at  stake. 
And  in  this  condition  of  things,  what 
is  the  Plan  of  Reform  proposed  by  the 
Ministers  of  England  ?     To  what  in- 
fluence was  granted,  he  asks,  Catho- 
lic Emancipation  ?     To  that  of  the 
fear  of  physical  force.     And  certain- 
ly it  was  so — though  of  the  meaning 
of  the  word  Fear,  different  explana- 
tions were  given — as  might  have  been 
expected — by  Peel  and  Wellington. 
Taught  by  that  concession  how  pow- 
erful they  are,  will  the  people,  asks 
he,  be  more  or  less  loyal  to  the  anti- 
quated parts   of   the   constitution  ? 
What  then — again  recurs  the  ques- 
tion— what  is  this  plan  of  Reform  in 
Parliament  ?     It  is,  says  the  honest 
American  Republican — it  is  what  it 
has  been  declared  to  be  by  the  most 
eminent  of  those  who  have  opposed 
it  in  Parliament — a  Revolution.   It  is 
a  great  change,  carrying  within  itself 
a  pledge  of  farther  change.     The  in- 
dignant disclaimer  of  his  Britannic 
Majesty's  Ministers,  Jonathan  treats 
with  as  sovereign  contempt  as  Chris- 


[Sept, 

topher.  He,  like  us,  loves  to  call 
things  by  their  right  names— and  this 
Reform  is  Revolution. 

Let  us  see  how  he  makes  good  his 
assertion. 

The  Plan  of  Reform  was  contrast- 
ed by  Mr  Macauley — borrowing  from 
Mr  Canning — with  the  Rule-  of-Three 
System  of  the  United  States.  That 
system  he  and  others  declared  to 
be  unfit  for  England,  however  well 
adapted  for  America  But  this  writer 
argues,  that  the  event  will  prove  that, 
should  the  Bill  pass,  nothing  short 
of  the  Rule-of-Three  Plan  will  satisfy 
the  people  of  England.  But  what 
is  the  Rule-of-Three  Plan  ?  He  thus 
instructs  us : — 

It  is  simply  this :  That  if  40,000 
inhabitants  choose  one  representa- 
tive, 80,000  shall  choose  two.    Now, 
he  requests  that  it  may  be  observed, 
that  it  is  not  at  present  a  question, 
whether  the  present  system  of  re- 
presentation in  Great  Britain  works, 
or  does  not  work,  as  well  as  the 
American,  or  any  other;  but  whether 
a  great  change  in  the  actual  system, 
called   a  Reform,  which  begins  by 
wholly  disfranchising  sixty  boroughs, 
because  their    population   is   under 
2000,  and  deprives  of  half  their  fran- 
chise forty-  sevenboroughs  more,  (we 
speak  not  of  schedules,  more  parti- 
cularly as  they  now  stand,)  whose 
population  is  under  4000 — can  stop 
there  ?    No  man  in  his  senses,  and 
out  of  England,  would  hesitate  one 
moment  to  answer  the  question  in 
the  negative.     It  is  not  pretended — 
as  he  remarks — that  these  sixty  bo- 
roughs are  more  corrupt  than  others 
— nor  denied  that  they  have,  on  an 
average,  sent  a  fair  proportion  of  the 
ablest  and  most  eminent  Members 
to  Parliament.     It  is  not  pretended 
that  their  corporate  franchise  is  not 
as  good  and  valid  as  any  other  right 
in  the  kingdom  which  rests  on  tra- 
dition and  prescription.    It  is  simply 
assumed  as  a  principle,  that  no  com- 
munity possessed  of  less  than  4000 
shall  send  more  than  one.  The  Ame- 
rican Republican  wishes  to  know, 
whether  this  is  not,  thus  far,  the  Rule- 
of-Three  System  acknowledged  to  be 
just,  by  being  adopted? 

But  once  adopted — what  can  pos- 
sibly prevent  its  leading  much  far- 
ther ?  That  consequence  is  inevita- 
ble from  the  establishment  of  the 
principle.  What  reason  can  be  given 
(do  give  him  one,  for  we  cannot)  to 


and  of  a  British  Whig  on  the  Sill. 


J83L] 

satisfy  the  inhabitants  of  some  of  the 
popular  towns  having  no  representa- 
tive at  all,  and  to  which  it  is  not  pro- 
posed to  give  any  ?  Look  at  Lord 
John  Russell's  amendments.  Is  not 
one  of  them  that  every  town  of  a 
population  over  10,000  shall  have  a 
member?  Isnotthata  farther  conces- 
sion made  on  the  Rule-of-Three  prin- 
ciple ?  But  the  Ministry  having  been 
thus  obliged  to  make  it,  will  the  peo- 
ple of  England,  the  North  American 
Reviewer  asks,  be  contented  with  the 
contrast  between  the  old  boroughs 
under  4000  sending  one  member, 
and  the  new  boroughs  over  10,000 
sending  no  more  ?  They  are  not  all 
fools. 

To  all  such  questions — on  the  pre-' 
sent  system — the  answer — says  the 
American — is  ready  ;  on  the  propo- 
sed system,  there  can  be  none.  As 
things  are,  it  is  answered  at  once — 
the  British  Constitution  does  not 
propose  a  geographical  representa- 
tion— it  fixed  certain  boroughs,  some 
large  and  some  small,  possessed  of 
the"  right  of  sending  a  member  to 
Parliament,  for  along  period  of  years, 
some  of  them  from  time  immemorial 
— the  system  in  practice  operates 
well,  and  it  does  not  profess  to  be 
founded  on  the  Rule-ot-Three. 

What  say  the  Reformers  in  reply 
to  that  ?  Why  they  say  that  the  system 
does  not  work  well — that  the  House 
of  Commons  has  lost  the  respect  of 
the  people — that  it  is  an  abuse  which 
cannot  be  longer  borne — that  bo- 
roughs of  less  than  two  thousand 
should  not  send  representatives,  al- 
though they  have  done  it  by  a  pre- 
scription as  old  as  any  title  in  the 
kingdom  —  and  that  it  is  an  equal 
abuse  that  boroughs  of  between  2000 
and  4000  should  send  more  than  one 
member. 

Be  it  so — replies  the  American. 
But  in  that  case,  cannot  all  the  unre- 
presented towns  in  the  kingdom, 
whose  population  exceeds  2000,  say, 
that  if  you  discard  tradition,  and  go 
upon  reasonableness  and  fitness,  our 
right  is  as  good  as  that  of  the  repre- 
sented boroughs  ?  Surely  they  can, 
and  will. 

The  necessity  of  farther  reform, 
he  argues,  will  be  made  more  appa- 
rent, as  soon  as  the  application  of 
the  new  and  uniform  system  of  suf- 
frage shall  take  place.  Will  Leeds, 
and  Manchester,  and  Liverpool  sub- 
mit to  be  represented  by  the  same 


511 


number  of  members  as  the  old  bo- 
roughs, whose  population  is  ever  so 
little  over  4000  ?  Surely  not.  Those 
who  suffer  by  the  imperfect  applica- 
tion of  the  Rule-of-  Three  system—- 
that is,  the  majority  of  the  people — 
will  clamour  to  have  it  carried  through, 
and  they  will  have  reason  and  justice 
on  their  side.  The  Reviewer  adds,  that 
Mr  Canning  and  the  Anti-reformers 
could  answer  them,  but  Lord  John 
Russell  cannot.  The  vice  of  the  pro- 
posed system  is,  that  it  is  the  Rule- 
of-Three  plan,  with  a  blunder  in 
working  the  question.  The  mode- 
rate Reformers — and  Lord  John  Rus- 
sel  and  the  rest,  all  began  with  call- 
ing themselves  so — sin,  then,  quoth 
the  acute  American,  at  once  against 
the  genius  of  the  British  Constitution 
(he  does  not  greatly  admire  it,  but 
knows  what  it  is)  and  the  four  rules 
of  arithmetic.  They  can  stand  neither 
upon  Lord  Coke  nor  Cocker;  the 
jus  parliamentarium,  nor  the  multi- 
plication table. 

We  have  not  thus  given  our  Ame- 
rican brother's  views  on  the  propo- 
sed reform  as  at  all  original.  We  have 
ourselves,  and  many  others  besides 
us,  enforced  them  in  other  words  in 
more  than  one  article.  But  we  are 
bigots,  and  Tories — wedded  to  the 
system  of  all  old  abuses — and  our 
opinion  is  of  little  worth.  Hear,  then, 
ye  Whigs,  and  give  ear,  O  ye  Radi- 
cals, to  a  compatriot  of  Washington 
and  Franklin ! 

But  our  bold-spoken  Republican 
does  not  stop  here.  He  pursues  the 
scheme  into  other  results,  which  to 
him  seem  inevitable,  and  which  he 
would  be  the  last  to  deplore — as  ul- 
timately they  would,  according  to 
his  creed,  prove  the  greatest  of  bless- 
ings. What  are  some  of  those  re- 
sults ?  Extinction  of  the  monarchy 
— of  the  House  of  Lords — and  of  the 
Established  Church. 

When  these  institutions  are  sub- 
jected to  the  test  of  the  political 
metaphysics,  which  decide  that  no 
borough  of  less  than  2000  inhabitants 
shall  retain  the  practice  of  choosing 
members,  how,  asks  the  American 
Reviewer,  can  they  stand?  The  right 
of  Old  Sarum  to  send  members  to 
Parliament,  is  assuredly  as  ancient  as 
the  House  of  Lords.  Old  Sarum 
was  a  city  before  the  Peers  of  Eng- 
land were  a  House  of  Parliament. 
The  whole  Parliament  of  England 
once  sat  within  the  walls  of  that 


Opinions  of  an     merican  Republican, 


[Sept. 


ancient  city,  now  to  be  deprived 
of  the  franchise  which  it  has  enjoyed 
for  so  many  centuries.  It  is  true, 
he  adds,  that  Old  Sarum,  now  redu- 
ced to  a  wheat-field,  enclosed  by  a 
mound,  is  a  very  different  thing  from 
what  it  was  when  it  was  first  sum- 
moned by  the  king's  writ  to  send 
burgesses  to  Parliament.  But  is  it 
more  changed  than  the  House  of  Lords 
is  changedfrom  its  original  character 
and  composition?  No.  The  contrast 
of  the  present  with  the  ancient  con- 
dition of  Old  Sarum,  is  not  greater 
than  the  contrast  of  the  present  with 
the  ancient  character  of  the  English 
Peerage.  It  is  but  a  few  years  ago 
since  this  very  Lord  John  Russell 
(who,  we  beg,  will  re-purchase  his 
historical  works  from  us,  now  that 
there  is  no  demand  for  snuff-pa- 
per) declared  in  Parliament,  that 
the  right  of  Old  Sarum  to  send 
members  to  Parliament  was  as  sacred 
as  that  of  his  own  illustrious  house 
to  its  titles  and  estate.  So  many 
others  will  think,  ere  long;  and  how 
sacred  that  is,  needs  not  now  to  be 
told  to  zealous  Radical  Reformers. 
While,  then,  you  disfranchise  Old 
Sarum,  says  Jonathan  to  John,  be- 
cause it  is  a  -theoretical  absurdity 
that  an  individual  nobleman  should, 
as  its  proprietor,  return  two  mem- 
bers to  Parliament,  how  can  you  de- 
fend the  still  more  stupendous  ab- 
surdity that  some  three  or  four  hun- 
dred noble  individuals,  neither  rich- 
er nor  more  enlightened  than  as  many 
thousands  in  the  community  around 
them,  should  actually  compose  one 
flntire  House  of  Legislation,  indepen- 
dent of  the  people  and  the  Crown, 
and  transmit  this  great  franchise  to 
their  posterity  ? — Aye,  that  question, 
already  put  a  hundred  times,  and  in 
a  hundred  frowning  forms,  by  the 
Examiner  and  other  formidable  root- 
and-branch  men,  should  the  Bill  pass, 
or  any  thing  like  the  Bill,  may  soon  be 
put,  not  in  words,  but  in  blows,  not 
at  the  point  of  the  pen,  but  of  the 
sword,  by  fiercer  Republicans  than 
any  now  breathing  undisturbed  in 
the  prosperous  land  beyond  the  At- 
lantic. We  differ  toto  ccelo  from  the 
Examiner,  and  the  North  American 
Review,  on  almost  all  great  political 
questions  involving  the  principles  of 
human  happiness  and  improvement, 
— that  is,  in  their  application  to  Eng- 
land; but  we  believe,  or  rather 
know,  that  in  their  two  heads  is  a 


larger  quantity  of  sound,  firm  brain, 
than  in  the  noddles  of  hundreds  and 
thousands  of  ninnies  now  yelping 
for  Reform  in  fear  or  hope  of  Re- 
volution, or  in  utter  ignorance  of  the 
meaning  of  the  watchword,  which, 
being  a  monosyllable,  (Bill,)  they  are 
able  to  articulate. 

But  there  has  been  a  great  cla- 
mour for  Reform — there  is  none 
against  the  House  of  Lords.  All  is 
hush — you  hear  not  the  angry  voice 
of  the  people — the  vox  Dei.  Yes — 
we  do  hear  it — a  low,  sullen,  savage 
growl — ere  long,  if  things  go  on  thus, 
•to  be  a  yell,  as  of  the  red  men  of  the 
woods  leaping  out  of  covert  with 
their  tomahawks  upon  a  sleeping 
horde.  Is  a  majority  of  the  people 
of  England,  asks  the  American,  nu- 
merically taken,  friendly  to  an  he- 
reditary house  of  legislation  ?  We 
hope  they  are.  But  what  then?  There 
may  be  much  indifference  where 
there  is  no  enmity — and  the  fa- 
vour in  which  that  House  is  held  by 
many  may  be  lukewarm.  How  can  it 
be  otherwise  ?  People  do  not  pas- 
sionately regard  such  institutions. 
They  approve  of  them — and  wish 
them  well ;  and  many,  no  doubt, 
would  struggle  to  uphold  them,  if 
they  were  seen  to  be  in  jeopard y. 
But  hate  is  nimble  and  active — plot- 
ting and  persevering — sleepless,  or 
pursues  its  object  in  dreams. 

Recollect  the  manner — quoth  our 
American — in  which  the  axe  was 
laid  at  the  root  of  the  House  of  Lords 
in  the  time  of  Cromwell.  We  know 
— says  he — that  the  statesmen  who 
bring  forward  the  present  measure 
do  not  propose  to  destroy  the  peer- 
age; but  will  the  like  forbearance  be 
observed  by  the  agitators,  whom  that 
measure  will  bring  into  Parliament, 
and  by  the  people,  whom  that  mea- 
sure will  instruct  in  their  strength, 
and  animate  in  their  zeal  ? 

The  Reviewer  concludes  with  some 
strong  sentences  about  the  fate  of  the 
Crown  and  the  Church.  They  are, 
he  says,  the  traditionary  institutions 
of  England.  But  it  is  not  two  cen- 
turies since  the  great  usurper  heaved 
them  from  their  foundations.  Now 
he  holds  that,  by  the  Bill,  the  conser- 
vative principle  of  the  whole  British 
Constitution  will  be  destroyed.  Even 
he,  as  a  Republican,  does  not  think — 
as  our  reformers  do — that  the  British 
Constitution  is  doomed  to  irremedi- 
able abuse — to  the  forced  toleration 


1831.] 


and  of  a  British  Whiff  on  the  Bill. 


518 


of  any  and  every  existing  evil.  But 
he  thinks  that  the  only  principle  of 
reform  which  is  consistent  with  its 
preservation,  is  the  temperate  cor- 
rection of  practical  evils,  by  specific 
remedies  applied  to  the  individual 
case — that  general  and  theoretic  re- 
medies are  inadmissible;  for  that  it 
would  be  far  better  at  once  to  de- 
Btroy  the  monarchy,  which,  of  course, 
he,beinganhonestRepublican,  thinks 
a  flagrant  abuse. 

He  finishes  the  discussion  of  this 
part  of  his  general  subject — which  is, 
Reform  in  Europe — with  two  import- 
ant reflections.  First,  that  if  this  plan 
prevail,  the  ancient  system  will  be 
in  fact  acknowledged  to  be  abusive, 
and  the  Reform  will  be  the  constitu- 
tion— a  new  constitution  resting  on  a 
totally  new  principle — to  wit,  that  no 
institution  shall  be  allowed  to  con- 
tinue in  England,  however  ancient 
the  prescription  on  which  it  rests, 
that  cannot  be  justified  to  reason.  And 
what  is  right  reason  ?  Often  hard  to 
say.  Will  such  a  principle — once 
admitted  and  acted  on,  not  only  as 
paramount  but  sole  —  stop  at  the 
present  measure  of  Reform  in  the 
House  of  Commons  ?  Secondly,  he 
remarks,  that  in  calculating  the  pro- 
gress of  Reform  in  England,  it  is 
certain  that  it  will  be  governed  by 
powerful  influences  exterior  to  Eng- 
land— and  independent  of  her  con- 
trol. A  narrow  channel  divides  her 
from  a  country  whose  institutions 
were  as  ancient,  and,  till  they  fell, 
were  believed  to  be  as  solid,  as  those 
of  England.  In  the  progress  of  forty 
years  of  tremendous  revolution  and 
fearful  vicissitudes,  France  has  reach- 
ed a  system  greatly  exceeding  the 
English  in  its  popular  character,  and 
is  verging  towards  one  still  more 
completely  popular.  Nobody  be- 
lieves that  the  peerage  there  will 
have  along  existence.  But  interna- 
tional sympathy  is  powerful  over 
national  fates.  The  institution  that 
falls  before  reform  in  one  country, 
will  it  stand  fast  in  another,  before 
the  same  power  proceeding  on  the 
vires  acquirit  eundo  principle  ? 

Such  is  a  precis  or  abridgement  of 
the  opinions  of  an  enlightened  Re- 
publican on  the  Plan  of  Reform — a 
voice  from  America. 

Turn  we  now  to  the  opinions,  on 
the  same  subject,  of  an  enlighten- 
ed British  Whig — worthy  son  of  an 


illustrious  sire — of  no  less  a  man 
than  Dugald  Stewart.  Nobody  will 
accuse  or  suspect  him  of  being  hos- 
tile to  a  liberal  creed  or  system  of 
political  philosophy — nobody  who 
reads  his  two  pamphlets,  which  to- 
gether would  form  a  large  octavo 
volume,  will  doubt  his  talents — no- 
body who  knows  what  the  course 
of  his  life  has  been,  will  deny  that 
his  opportunities  of  becoming  ac- 
quainted with  the  actual  working  of 
constitutions,  have  been  excellent 
— nor  will  any  body  who  knows  any 
thing  of  the  man  himself,  refuse  to 
give  him  the  praise  of  incorruptible 
integrity  and  brightest  honour.  Let 
us  direct  attention,  then,  to  some  of 
his  opinions — and,  as  in  the  case  of 
our  American  friend,  as  much  as 
possible  in  his  own  elegant  language. 
Let  us  select  from  about  800  full  and 
pregnant  pages,  as  many  passages  as 
our  limited  article  will  hold,  and  pre- 
sent them  to  the  public  in  an  abridge- 
ment. On  a  future  occasion,  we  hope 
to  be  able  to  return  to  these  admi- 
rable pamphlets.  Whigs  scorn,  we 
know,  to  be  enlightened  by  Tories, 
and  thence  their  ignorance  ;  but 
Tories  draw  light  from  all  urns  that 
contain  it,  and  thence  their  illumi- 
nation. 

Colonel  Stewart  starts  with  the 
celebrated  aphorism  of  Lord  Bacon, 
that  all  innovations  in  the  govern- 
ment of  nations,  should  be  effected 
in  imitation  of  those  silent  and  im- 
perceptible permutations,  which  re- 
sult from  the  continued  and  insen- 
sible accommodation  of  institutions 
to  the  changes  which  arise  in  the 
circumstances  of  the  communities  to 
which  they  belong.  And  the  object 
of  both  pamphlets  may  be  said  to  be, 
to  prove  and  illustrate  its  applica- 
tion to  all  changes  in  the  represent- 
ation of  the  people — to  shew,  that 
the  imitation  should  extend  to  the 
careful  and  scrupulous  adaptation  of 
the  alterations  to  the  changes  which 
society  is  undergoing,  or  has  under- 
gone. 

Very  different  from  this  are,  in  his 
belief,  the  measures  contemplated  by 
those  who  call  themselves  Reformers 
of  any  class  and  description :  For, 
try  them  by  the  test  of  established 
rules  of  political  wisdom,  and  none 
of  them  will  stand  the  trial.  What 
are  some  of  these  established  rules  ? 
That,  in  order  to  establish  a  thing 


514 


Opinions  of  an  American  Republican 


[Sept. 


to  be  an  abuse,  it  is  not  enough  to 
shew  that  an  actual  usage  is  a  devia- 
tion from  the  original  purport  of  the 
institution ;  it  must  be  shewn  to  be 
the  immediate  and  active  source  of 
evil  existing  or  contingent; — that 
there  is  no  panacea  in  politics  any 
more  than  in  medicine — no  remedy 
that  is  equally  applicable  to  all 
abuses,  and  therefore  the  remedy 
proposed  for  each  must  be  specific ; — 
that  such  is  the  unavoidable  imper- 
fection of  all  human  affairs,  that  there 
is  hardly  any  unmixed  good,  and 
least  of  all  in  the  arbitrary  and  con- 
ventional institutions  of  men — so 
that,  after  an  abuse  has  been  pointed 
out,  it  must  be  shewn  that  it  is  not  the 
necessary  and  inseparable  concomi- 
tant of  some  advantage  which  more 
than  compensates  its  injurious  in- 
fluence ; — that  it  must  be  shewn  that 
the  proposed  remedy'is  not  a  mere 
experiment,  and  that  it  will  be  ade- 
quate to  the  removal  of  the  evil,  or, 
at  all  events,  presents  a  very  strong 
probability  of  being  useful ; — that  it 
must  be  shewn  that  it  is  not  opera- 
tive in  more  ways  than  one — and 
that  it  will  neither  do  more,  or  go 
farther  than  can  be  calculated  on, 
or  bring  any  evil  along  with  it  as 
bad  or  worse  than  that  which  it  is 
intended  to  correct.  If,  indeed,  he 
well  says,  a  proposed  measure  of 
reform  will  stand  a  scrutiny  by  such 
criteria  as  these,  it  may,  it  would 
seem,  be  safely  acted  on.  The  gra- 
dual and  successive  correction  of 
abuses,  by  such  a  process  of  exami- 
nation as  this,  is  among  the  highest 
and  most  important  objects  to  which 
the  legislative  wisdom  of  a  people 
can  be  directed — for  it  is,  in  fact, 
assisting  nature,  and  accelerating  the 
salutary  process  of  innovation  which 
time  effects. 

Tried  by  such  rules  as  these,  alas, 
for  the  schemes  of  our  Reformers ! 
There  is  no  indication  of  the  previ- 
ous abuses,  which  they  profess  their 
ability  to  rectify — but  a  remodelling 
of  the  constitution  of  Parliament  is 
represented  as  the  certain  cure  of  all. 
Neither  is  it  possible  to  ascertain 
the  connexion  between  the  defects 
which  they  aim  at  destroying,  and 
the  advantages  with  which  many  of 
them  are  allied.  The  changes  to  be 
introduced  into  the  formation  of 
Parliament — about  the  precise  na- 
ture of  which,  we  see  now  that  hardly 


any  two  of  them  are  agreed — is  a  pure 
and  most  hazardous  experiment  on 
the  principles  of  government,  which  - 
can  neither  be  shewn  to  be  adequate 
to  the  remedy  of  the  evils  ot  the 
times,  nor  reduced  to  any  calcula- 
tion as  to  the  nature  or  limits  of  its 
operation.  Viewed  in  the  only  light 
in  which  it  can  be  viewed,  and  rea- 
soned about  as  a  direct  measure  of 
reform,  it  must  be  taken  as  the  pro- 
posed remedy  for  the  defects,  real 
or  supposed,  in  the  deliberative  and 
legislative  organs  of  the  state;  and 
the  effect  would  be— so  all  its  most 
zealous  friends,  except  an  unintel- 
ligible few,  desire  and  believe — to 
bring  the  direction  of  the  public  coun- 
cils and  public  affairs  much  more  un- 
der the  influence  of  the  lower  classes 
of  society ;  and  by  so  doing,  to  pro- 
duce, not  a  reform  of  abuses,  but  a 
clearing  away  of  all  the  obstacles  to 
innovation,  and  a  breaking  down  of 
all  the  bulwarks  which  the  existing 
order  of  society  affords  to  the  con- 
stitution to  which  it  has  given  rise. 
Such  an  operation  on  the  govern- 
ment of  a  country,  Colonel  Stewart 
says,  is  not  reform,  but  tantamount 
to  a  revolution— and  a  revolution, 
not  in  aid  of  the  provisions  of  nature, 
but  tending  directly  to  their  sub- 
version. 

What  is  the  nice  problem  to  be 
solved  in  the  formation  of  its  institu- 
tions, in  as  far  as  government  is  sub- 
servient to  the  pursuit  of  the  public 
prosperity  and  welfare  ?  Why,  to  con- 
centrate in  the  deliberate  portion  of 
the  State  all  the  intelligence  of  the 
community — to  secure  to  it  the  gui- 
dance of  the  national  councils,  and  to 
keep  it  steadily  in  its  object  to  the 
furtherance  of  the  general  weal. 
Without  entering  into  an  enumera- 
tion of  the  various  devices  that  have 
been  resorted  to  for  this  purpose,  has 
it  ever  yet  been  denied — (if  so  by 
whom  ?) — that  none  have  ever  been 
found  more  efficacious  in  practice 
than  those  which  the  institutions  of 
this  country  provide  ?  Where  else  has 
there  been  the  same  identification  in 
the  sources  of  the  prosperity  of  the 
whole  community — such  facilities 
and  motives  to  the  diffusion  of  know- 
ledge—and  a  representation,  in  the 
composition  of  which  arc  so  consult- 
ed all  orders  and  interests  of  the 
state  ?  Nowhere  else — nor  has  any 
educated  Reformer  ever  ventured, 


and  of  a  British  Whig  on  the  Bill. 


1831.J 

in  express  terms,  to  say  so,  even 
when  addressing  the  uneducated 
agape  round  the  hustings. 

But  many  evils  are  endured  by 
the  people  of  Britain.  Many.  But  in 
order  to  justify  changes  in  any  de- 
gree, such  as  those  now  proposed 
to  be  introduced,  does  Colonel  Stew- 
art speak  paradoxically,  when  he 
says,  that  it  should  be  clearly  shewn 
that  the  existing  institutions  are  re- 
sponsible for,  and  have   been,  the 
sources  of  the  evils  which  the  people 
endure  ?  But  these  evils,  he  says — 
and  every  honest  man  who  gives  his 
honesty  fair  play,  knows,  if  he  does 
not  say  the  same  thing — these  evils, 
resolving  themselves  almost  entirely 
into  the  pressure  of  the  times,  and 
the  stagnation  of  industry,  are  the  re- 
sult, not  of  the  institutions,  but  of 
the  policy  which  has  been  pursued. 
The  history  of  that  policy  is  itself, 
he   maintains,  a  remarkable  proof 
of   the   utter  inexpediency    of   gi- 
ving farther  weight  to  the  popular 
voice    in    the   direction   of   affairs. 
For  we  are  now  paying  the  penal- 
ty of  a  Avar  policy,  and  expenditure 
of  unexampled   extravagance;    but 
the  very  extravagance  of  the  expen- 
diture circulated  large  sums  among 
the   people,  and  produced   all  the 
appearance  of  unusual  prosperity; 
and   the   multitude,  who  are  inca- 
pable of  looking  to  distant  conse- 
quences, and  who  judge  always  by 
their  experience  of  the  immediate 
effects,  upheld   the  views  of  those 
at  the  head  of  affairs,  at  last  almost 
by  universal  acclamation.      So  far, 
therefore,  he  adds,  from  its  being  the 
fact  that  the  popular  voice  is  of  no 
avail  in  the  direction  of  the  public 
concerns,  there  is  not  an  instance  in 
which  it  lias  been  long,  and  steadily, 
and  decidedly  exerted,   that  it  has 
not  prevailed  in  the  end  over  every 
other  interest  in  the  State.     It  is  un- 
necessary for  us  to  say,  that  our  po- 
litics are,  in  many  points  of  import- 
ance, not  those  of  Colonel  Stewart; 
but  to  all  that  he  has  here  said,  in  as 
far  as  bears  upon  the  argument  in 
hand,  we  give  our  most  unhesitating 
and   unqualified  assent — and   trust, 
with  him,  that  the  people  of  England 
will  be  wiser  than  lend  their  counte- 
nance to  any  hazardous  experiments 
upon  government  under  the  name  of 
reform,  knowing,  as  they  must  do, 
and  have  been  often  taught  by  bitter 


515 

experience,  the  extreme  liability  of 
all  numerous  bodies  of  men  to  sud- 
den impulse,  and  the  manner  in 
which  deliberation  becomes  diffi- 
cult in  proportion  to  the  number  of 
those  by  whom  questions  are  to  be 
discussed,  and  some  approximation 
to  a  common  opinion  formed  by 
their  combined  reflection. 

Colonel  Stewart  has  a  pride — as 
well  he  may — in  quoting  the  philo- 
sophy of  his  father,  now  never  quoted 
by  the  Whigs,  for  its  whole  spirit — 
mild,  because  meditative — and  calm, 
because  profound— is  adverse  to  their 
reckless  and  shallow  schemes  of  go- 
vernment. That  great  man  has  beau- 
tifully said,  "  The  nature  and  spirit 
of  a  government,  as  it  is  actually  ex- 
ercised at  a  particular  period,  can- 
not always  be  collected;  perhaps  it 
can  seldom  be  collected  from  an  ex- 
amination of  written  laws,  or  of  the 
established  forms  of  a  constitution. 
These  may  continue  the  same  for  a 
long  course  of  ages,  while  the  go- 
vernment may  be  modified  in  its 
exercise,  to  a  great  extent,  by  gra- 
dual and  indescribable  alterations  in 
the  ideas,  manners,  and  character  of 
the  people,  or  by  a  change  in  the 
relations  which  the  different  orders 
in  the  community  bear  to  each  other. 
In  every  country  whatever,  besides 
the  established  laws,  the  political 
state  of  the  public  is  affected  by  an 
infinite  variety  of  circumstances,  of 
which  no  words  can  convey  a  con- 
ception, and  which  are  to  be  collected 
only  from  actual  observation."  And 
never,  says  his  enlightened  son,  was 
this  remark,  as  to  the  operation  of 
society  itself  upon  government,  its 
evident  effects  on  its  own  institu- 
tions, and  on  the  direction  of  its  af- 
fairs, more  strikingly  displayed,  than 
in  our  own  country.  Never  in  any 
other  country  did  such  operation 
result  from  the  combined  influence 
of  so  many  causes,  so  complicated 
or  so  difficult  to  trace  and  to  assign. 
It  is  scarcely  too  much  to  say,  that 
there  is  hardly  an  interest,  however 
trifling — or  active  principle,  however 
imperceptible — that  does  not,  in  the 
end,  produce  some  effect  on  our  na- 
tional councils.  Only  consider,  for  a 
moment,  the  immense  contribution 
of  light,  of  intelligence,  of  experi- 
ence, which  society  itself  is  daily 
and  hourly  affording  in  aid  of  the 
legislative  wisdom  of  Parliament ! 


516 


Opinions  of  an  American  Republican, 


[Sept. 


Only  consider  for  a  moment  the 
prodigious  influence  which  public 
opinion  has  acquired  in  shaping  the 
result  of  its  deliberations,  not  only 
by  carrying  that  of  its  members  along 
with  it,  but  in  the  expression  of  a 
wish  which  they  find  themselves 
compelled  to  respect.  From  the 
unrestricted  nature  of  social  inter- 
course, what  multitudes  of  persons 
who  have  no  vote  in  either  of  the 
legislative  bodies,  are  constantly 
tin-owing  out  ideas  in  conversation, 
and  contributing  to  fashion  the  judg- 
ment which  is  ultimately  to  be  pro- 
nounced on  public  questions  by  those 
who  have  !  There  is  besides  hardly 
any  great  practical  question  which 
occurs  with  respect  to  public  affairs, 
in  which  many  individuals  are  not 
directly  consulted  by  leading  mem- 
bers among  their  opponents,  or 
directly  brought  before  one  of  the 
Houses  of  Parliament  to  undergo 
an  examination  on  subjects  with 
which  they  are  known  to  be  con- 
versant. And,  above  all,  from  the 
freedom  of  the  press,  and  the  pre- 
vailing activity  of  the  human  intellect, 
a  vast  supply  of  thought,  and  of  fact, 
and  of  suggestion,  is  constantly 
thrown  out  as  a  contribution  to  use- 
ful knowledge,  or  to  stimulate  the 
reflection  of  others.  From  similar 
causes,  the  controlling  influence  of 
the  general  opinion  comes  to  be  as  effi- 
cient as  its  power  of  direction;  inso- 
much, that  there  is  hardly  any  ques- 
tion on  which  the  public  voice  con- 
tinues to  be  sufficiently,  pertina- 
ciously, and  generally  pronounced, 
that  it  does  not  overcome  all  oppo- 
sition in  its  effects  on  government. 
Colonel  Stewart  confesses  that  he 
cannot  see  in  what  respect  a  greater 
popular  influence  on  the  direction  of 
affairs  could  be  desirable. 

If  such  be  the  influence  of  the  pre- 
vailing voice  beyond  the  walls  of  the 
senate  and  the  council  chamber  on 
the  determination  of  questions  within, 
surely,  says  this  judicious  friend  of 
the  people,  surely  every  precaution 
should  be  taken  to  insure  its  going 
on  good  grounds,  before  it  becomes 
too  imperative  to  be  resisted;  and 
that  it  should  be  long  and  decidedly, 
as  well  as  loudly  pronounced,  before 
it  is  acknowledged  to  be  the  voice 
of  the  nation.  The  instability  and 
mutability  of  opinion  among  the  mul- 
titude, and  among  all  assemblies 


of  the  people,  has  been  the  remark 
of  all  writers  and  speakers  in  every 
free  state  of  antiquity,  where  their 
opinions  exerted  any  influence.  But 
that  is  not  all — for  the  ignorance 
and  want  of  discrimination  of  the 
great  bulk  of  mankind,  their  po- 
verty of  idea,  and  their  little  familiar- 
ity in  the  habits  of  thinking  with 
such  subjects,  disables  them  from 
perceiving  the  total  inadequacy  of 
the  expedients  proposed  to  the  pur- 
poses they  are  intended  to  answer  ; 
or  how  far  the  changes  recommend- 
ed fall  short  of  the  excellence  they 
are  represented  to  possess.  If  a 
measure  has  but  a  portion  of  good, 
or  the  semblance  of  good,  it  passes 
with  them  for  perfection.  In  deli- 
cate questions  of  government,  of 
civil  right,  and  of  legislation,  they 
are  as  little  capable  of  giving  a  judg- 
ment, as  they  are  of  relishing  the 
beauties,  or  detecting  the  defects,  of 
the  nobler  productions  of  the  painter 
or  the  sculptor.  But  he  adds — Un- 
fortunately among  us  every  person 
thinks  himself  qualified  to  judge  of 
the  most  difficult  and  abstract  ques- 
tions connected  with  the  structure 
and  operation  of  human  society,  be- 
cause every  man  is  entitled  to  form 
an  opinion  on  all  public  affairs.  But, 
in  his  mind,  and  in  that  of  all  wise 
men,  this  rashness  and  presump- 
tion of  ignorance  is  one  of  the  strong- 
est reasons  for  keeping  the  delibe- 
rative function  of  the  state  sufficient- 
ly clear  of  its  influence,  to  prevent  it 
from  taking  the  guidance  of  the  na- 
tion, and  either  forcing  the  legisla- 
ture on  pernicious  measures,  or 
thwarting  and  perverting  every  line 
of  policy,  the  ultimate  result  of  which 
it  cannot  foresee.  In  his  opinion,  the 
views  of  the  Reformers  evidently  lead 
to  that  effect ;  to  render  the  members 
of  the  Commons'  House  of  Parliament 
more  amenable  to  their  constituents, 
and,  by  giving  to  the  lower  classes  of 
society  a  larger  share  in  the  privilege 
of  nomination,  to  reduce  them  to  a 
complete  dependence  on  the  people. 
After  some  other  excellent  obser- 
vations, and  ingenious  and  philoso- 
phical explanations,  Colonel  Stewart, 
who  loves  the  people  far  better  than 
those  who  are  now  pandering  to  their 
appetencies,  says,  that  one  would 
suppose,  from  the  language  of  the 
Reformers,  that  some  inconveni- 
ence, some  injurious  disability,  or 


1831.1 


and  of  a  British  Whig  on  the  Bill. 


some  degrading  distinction  was  af- 
fixed to  certain  classes  of  the  popu- 
lation which  at  present  regulate  the 
exercise  of  the  elective  franchise. 
But  there  is  no  present  advantage  to 
be  made  of  this  privilege,  unless  the 
clamourers  for  reform  actually  want 
to  make  money  of  their  more  extend- 
ed right  of  suffrage,  and  to  come  into 
the  market  to  sell  their  votes.  It  is, 
then,  a  perfectly  unprofitable  right  to 
those  who  possess  it.  The  law — he 
truly  says — excludesnoclassofmen; 
it  merely  limits  the  exercise  of  a 
particular  function  to  men  placed  in 
certain  circumstances,  in  which  it  is 
open  to  all  to  place  themselves ;  and 
very  many  opulent  persons  (pro- 
bably thyself,  reader)  neither  pos- 
sess the  privilege,  nor  care  to  ac- 
quire it. 

But,  then,  think  of  the  present 
shocking  state  of  corruption.  Colo- 
nel Stewart  does  think  of  it,  and  is 
sorry  for  it;  but  how  is  it  to  be  cured  ? 
Why,  by  what  else  but  an  increase  of 
knowledge  and  virtue.  But  it  is,  he 
says,  for  the  Reformers  to  shew  that 
there  would  be  less  corruption  in 
elections,  by  exposing  tojts  influence 
a  much  larger  mass  of  poverty,  and 
more  wisdom  in  the  legislature,  by 
bringing  both  its  formation  and  mea- 
sures more  under  the  direction  of  a 
much  larger  proportion  of  igno- 
rance. 

Colonel  Stewart  still  holds  to  that 
faith  in  which  his  great  father  in- 
structed him — which,  when  the  Edin- 
burgh Review  was  in  "  its  high  and 
palmy  state,"  Mr  Jeffrey  often  elo- 
quently expounded,  but  which  he 
and  all  his  brother  Reformers  have 
now  pretended  to  abjure.  We  allude 
to  the  only  sound  and  true  constitu- 
tional doctrine  concerning  the  influ- 
ence of  the  House  of  Peers.  Colonel 
Stewart  shews  that  while  the  real 
power  of  the  nobility,  as  a  separate 
class  in  the  state,  has  declined  since 
the  feudal  times — the  consequence  of 
wealth,  of  talent,  and  of  official  situa- 
tion, the  frequency  of  intermarriages 
with  the  commonalty,  and,  above  all, 
the  great  increase  of  numbers,  has 
brought  them  much  more  on  a  level, 
in  public  estimation,  in  point  of  dig- 
nity, with  the  rest  of  the  population, 
and  blended  their  interests  in  a  much 
greater  degree  with  those  of  the  rest 
of  the  nation.  From  this  decrease 
in  the  power  of  the  House  of  Lords, 


517 

and  the  multiplication  of  the  ties 
which  connect  its  members  with  the 
Commons,  the  consequence  has  been, 
that  whatever  influence  individuals 
of  the  Upper  House  may  possess,  is 
exerted  in  determining  the  return  of 
members  for  the  Lower.  Circum- 
stances have  thus  very  happily  come 
to  exert  a  compensating  effect,  in 
preserving,  in  some  degree,  the  ope- 
ration of  the  effective  principles  of 
the  constitution,  by  partially  viola- 
ting its  theoretical  forms.  By  this 
means,  the  nobility  come  to  be  re- 
presented, along  with  the  other  in- 
terests of  the  nation,  in  the  House 
which  has  concentrated  the  whole 
power  of  the  state,  according  to  the 
personal  influence  of  its  members 
with  the  community — by  individuals 
of  their  own  families,  or  by  friends ; 
and  from  no  source,  in  the  history 
of  the  nations,  have  men  of  better 
talents,  or  of  more  earnest  zeal  for 
liberty,  been  drawn.  This  conse- 
quence has  an  effect  in  two  ways  in 
harmonizing  the  operation  of  the 
constitution.  First  of  all,  it  tends  to 
preserve  the  importance  of  the  Up- 
per House,  and  to  give  additional 
authority  to  their  decisions,  as  ma- 
nifesting the  opinion  of  many  in- 
fluential men;  and  secondly.it  breaks 
the  collision  between  the  Houses 
when  they  come  to  differ  in  opinion, 
by  enabling  the  voice  of  the  Upper 
in  some  degree  to  operate  in  modi- 
fying the  voices  of  the  Lower,  and 
by  neutralizing  the  feeling  of  hosti- 
lity which  on  such  occasions  might 
arise,  by  infusing  a  proportion  of 
elements  likely  to  be  of  the  same 
opinion  in  both.  This  weight  of  in- 
fluence, and  this  approximation  of 
interests  between  the  two  Houses 
of  Legislature,  is  essentially  neces- 
sary to  the  functions  they  have  to  per- 
form, as  the  deliberative  body.in  such 
a  constitution  and  state  of  society  as 
ours.  Were  they  to  be  reduced  to 
the  condition  of  a  mere  council,  to 
advise  the  best  measures  for  the 
common  good,  without  any  means 
to  render  their  resolutions  obligato- 
ry on  the  community,  they  would 
either  lose  all  power,  or  the  resolu- 
tions of  the  two  Houses  would  be  at 
frequent  variance.  In  this  way,  the 
views  of  the  Reformers  would"  ruin 
the  legislation  of  the  country  alto- 
gether. The  measure  which  they 
would  apply  to  the  Commons'  House 


518 


Opinions  of  an  American  Republican, 


[Sept, 


of  Parliament,  would  destroy  the 
consequence  of  the  Lords,  and  ren- 
der it  perfectly  nugatory  as  a  means 
of  subjecting  the  proceedings  of  the 
Lower  Chamber  to  a  revision ;  and 
the  Commons,  while  it  was  freed  en- 
tirely from  their  checlc,  would  be 
reduced  to  the  condition  of  a  mere 
organ,  to  carry  into  effect  the  sove- 
reign will  of  the  most  ignorant  and 
precipitate  part  of  the  community. 
When  both  the  lights  of  the  nation 
had  been  thus  put  out,  it  would  not 
be  long  before  such  calamities  and 
confusion  were  brought  on  the  coun- 
try, as  would  effectually  sicken  the 
people  with  their  advisers ;  and  the 
nation  would  probably  be  disposed 
to  cry  out,  with  Samson,  "  O  Lord 
God,  remember  me,  I  pray  thee,  this 
once,  that  I  may  be  at  once  avenged 
of  these  Philistines  for  my  ttvo 
eyes !" 

All  this  is  here  strongly  put;  but 
by  and  by  Colonel  Stewart  rises  into 
a  higher  strain;  and  when  he  is 
speaking  of  the  education  of  the  peo- 
ple, in  relation  to  the  proposed  plans 
of  reform,  we  could  almost  believe 
that  we  were  listening  to  his  father. 
We  have  almost  all  along  been  using 
Colonel  Stewart's  words ;  but  here 
there  must  be  neither  alteration  nor 
abridgement — nor  yet  small  type. 

"  Of  those  who  receive  the  bless- 
ings of  a  liberal  education,  there  are 
few  who  are  capable  of  arriving  at 
original  truth  for  themselves,  and  not 
a  ntucli  greater  number  who  are 
competent  to  examine,  to  any  satis- 
factory purpose,  the  real  evidence 
for  those  views  which  they  have 
taken  up  from  others.  The  influence 
of  parental  authority, — the  weight 
with  which  the  precepts  of  our  early 
instructors  were  clothed, — and  the 
contagious  effect  of  prevailing  opi- 
nions^ which  leads  men  to  consider 
every  additional  supporter  of  the 
same  doctrine  in  the  light  of  a  fresh 
testimony  to  fact,  and  to  suppose, 
that  what  every  body  believes  must 
be  true,  determines  the  creed  on 
most  subjects  of  by  far  the  greater 
proportion  of  mankind.  This  power- 
ful propensity  of  human  nature,  it  is 
reasonable  to  suppose,  has  not  been 
implanted  in  our  constitution  for 
useless,  much  less  for  pernicious 
purposes;  and  if  we  compare  the 
vast  mass  of  the  community  who  are 
denied  the  blessings  of  the  best  in- 


struction which  the  state  of  society 
in  which  they  live  can  afford;  the 
still  greater  number  of  those  whose 
occupation,  in  the  active  pursuits  of 
life,  precludes  them  from  that  patient 
and  systematical  reflection  indispen- 
sable for  such  investigations ;  it  will 
be  evident,  that  although  this  princi- 
ple of  human  nature  may  occasion- 
ally prolong  error,  that,  as  error  will 
pass  away  and  the  truth  remain,  a 
provision  has  wisely  been  made  for 
the  communication  to  the  mass  of 
the  population  of  the  best  lights 
which  the  human  understan  dinghas 
acquired,  and  the  final  generaliza- 
tion of  the  fruits  of  knowledge.  Scep- 
tics may  assert  that  a  state  of  philo- 
sophical doubt  and  indecision,  as  to 
all  conclusions,  is  the  most  advantage- 
ous state  of  the  human  intellect;  but 
the  real  philosopher  will  find,  I  ap- 
prehend, in  the  irksome  and  rest- 
less dissatisfaction  of  his  unsettled 
thoughts,  only  a  spur  to  more  pro- 
found enquiry,  and  to  the  great  bulk 
of  mankind,  who  have  neither  leisure, 
nor  capacity,  nor  vigour  of  mind,  to 
clear  up  their  difficulties  for  them- 
selves, such  a  state  of  uncertainty  is 
ruinous  to  their  principles,  and  the 
fertile  source  of  the  mostrecklessand 
criminal  excesses.  I  certainly  would 
be  one  of  the  very  last  persons  to 
say  any  thing  that  would  discredit 
the  attempts  that  have  been  so  suc- 
cessfully made  of  late  years  for  the 
diffusion  of  education  and  of  know- 
ledge. But  it  is  rarely  that  many 
well-meaning  and  sensible  persons 
concur  in  an  opinion,  (however  er- 
roneous to  the  extent  to  which  their 
fears  induce  them  to  push  it,)  with- 
out having  some  shew  of  reason  in 
their  error.  Even  as  it  is,  the  advan- 
tages which  society  has  derived  from 
the  education  of  the  lower  orders, 
far  outweigh  the  evils  it  has  pro- 
duced ;  but  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  the  first  effects  of  tillage  to  the 
human  mind  is,  in  a  certain  degree, 
to  unsettle  its  opinions,  and  to  shake 
it  loose  from  many  ideas  which  it 
had  been  accustomed  to  respect  as 
truth,  and  to  give  it  a  tendency  to 
question  many  others.  The  simple 
and  sublime  truths  of  morality  and 
religion,  which  are  instilled  into  the 
mind  in  infancy  and  early  youth, 
amid  the  scenes  of  untroubled  do- 
mestic happiness,  the  endearments 
of  parental  affection,  and  the  enjoy- 


1831.] 


and  of  a  British  Whig  on  the  Bill. 


519 


ments  of  home,  come  to  be  associa- 
ted with  all  the  errors  with  which 
they  were  first  united,  and  as,  (as 
has  been  often  remarked,)  '  a  little 
learning  is  a  dangerous  thing,'  it 
often  happens  that,  in  weak  minds, 
which  rest  satisfied  with  a  superficial 
enquiry,  as  they  came  together,  to- 
gether they  go ;  it  being  rashly  in- 
ferred, when  it  is  found  that  much 
that  the  understanding  has  been 
taught  to  receive  as  gospel  will  not 
stand  the  test  of  enquiry,  that  all 
they  have  received  on  the  faith  of 
others  has  been  merely  an  imposi- 
tion on  their  credulity.  The  evils 
of  this  description,  inseparable  from 
the  first  breaking  in  of  the  light  on 
the  understandings  of  a  people,  may 
be  considerable,  but  should  certainly 
not  deter  the  friends  of  humanity 
from  pursuing  their  pious  endea- 
vours ;  it  cannot  be  doubted,  that,  as 
man  becomes  a  more  intellectual 
and  rational  being,  he  will  become 
also  a  more  moral  and  better  mem- 
ber of  society.  The  important  in- 
ference it  should  suggest  is,  that,  as 
education  is  rendered  more  general, 
it  should  be  rendered  also  more  ju- 
dicious ;  and  that,  as  it  is  manifestly 
impossible  to  educate  a  nation  of 
philosophers,  capable  of  new-found- 
ing their  opinions  for  themselves,  on 
a  sound  deduction  of  conclusions 
from  their  natural  evidence,  that 
sufficient  care  should  be  taken  not 
to  set  them  afloat  without  a  com- 
pass on  a  boundless  sea  of  specula- 
tion, by  emancipating  them  from  the 
influence  of  all  those  truths  which, 
in  infancy,  they  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  revere. 

"  In  matters  of  mere  belief,  which 
affect  only  the  happiness  of  the  in- 
dividual, such  evils  may  be  left  to 
their  natural  cure ;  but,  unfortu- 
nately, such  a  state  of  dissatisfac- 
tion, with  its  existing  opinions  in 
the  public  mind,  is  apt  to  be  pro- 
ductive of  more  practical  conse- 
quences, and,  as  has  been  remark- 
ed by  a  writer,  (speaking  of  the 
fanaticism  which  prevailed  in  the 
days  of  Cromwell,) — '  As  religious 
zeal  was  the  cause  of  one  revolu- 
tion, so  the  prevalence  of  irreligion 
would  one  day  be  the  source  of 
another ;'  I  leave  it  to  the  judg- 
ment of  the  discerning,  whether 
there  are  not  symptoms  in  the  state 
of  the  times  of  the  possibility  of  such 
a  result. 

VOL.     XXX.  NO.  CLXXXV, 


"  While  the  minds  of  the  half-edu- 
cated are  in  this  state  of  intellectual 
ferment  and  undirected  activity,  is 
it  wise,  is  it  safe  to  attempt  to  bring 
the  legislative  and  governing  power 
of  the  state  so  completely  under  the 
immediate  controul  of  the  popular 
impulse,  as  it  would  be,  were  the 
views  of  the  reformers  to  be  reduced 
to  practice  ?  In  all  times,  and  in  all 
states,  there  have  been  found  men 
cupidi  rerum  novarum — anxious  for 
change, some  from  discontent — some 
from  a  restless  spirit  of  enterprise 
that  will  be  doing — some  from  the 
pressure  of  intolerable  evils — and 
some  from  an  impatience  of  insignifi- 
cance and  the  hope  of  rising  to  import- 
ance amid  the  troubles  of  the  times. 
These  are  the  spirits  ever  ready  to 
ignite  the  combustible  matter  of  a 
state;  and  no  better  preparation  for  a 
general  flame  can  be  imagined,  than 
the  unsettling  the  minds  of  men  on 
all  that  they  have  been  accustomed  to 
respect  in  the  constitution  of  their 
country, and  then  throwing  into  their 
hands  a  power  which  it  is  in  vain 
afterwards  to  attempt  to  control. 
'  II  faut  prendre  les  temps  quand  les 
eaux  sont  basses  pour  travailler  aux 
digues ;' — and  the  waters  are  at  the 
present  moment  neither  low  nor 
tranquil ;  and  if  we  attempt  now  to 
disturb  the  bulwarks  of  the  consti- 
tution, by  altering  their  shape,  while 
the  tide  is  high  and  its  current  strong, 
it  will  burst  the  barrier  at  the  first 
breach,  and  sweep  all  that  industry 
and  knowledge  has  done  in  irresist- 
ible ruin  before  it. 

"  The  passing  events  in  other  coun- 
tries present  a  powerful  motive  to 
the  friends  of  social  order,  and  of 
rational  liberty,  to  be  contented  with 
the  measure  of  good,  which  is  cer- 
tainly and  safely  within  their  power. 
The  great  and  enlightened  kingdom 
of  France  is  labouring  to  procure  for 
herself  what  we  possess  j  and  the  ex- 
treme difficulty  which  she  finds  in 
adjusting  her  institutions  to  her  state 
of  society,  and  the  evident  want  of 
harmony  with  which  the  various 
constitutions  have  worked,  might 
teach  us  a  salutary  lesson  of  the  in- 
finite value  of  forms  capable  of  gi- 
ving a  steady  direction  to  the  national 
councils ; — while  they  insure  to  every 
man  all  the  freedom  of  thought  and 
of  action  that  the  most  sanguine 
friend  of  liberty  could  desire, — 
while  they  possess,  in  a  mo«t  ama,- 
2  L 


520 


Opinions  of  an  American  Republican,  '[Se 


zing  decree,  a  power  of  adaptation  to 
the  vicissitudes  in  the  social  sys- 
tem— and  while  they  contain  within 
themselves  the  means  of  speedy  and 
effectual  correction  to  any  evil  re- 
sulting from  their  own  defective  ope- 
ration, of  which  the  community  may 
ever  have  an  yjust  reason  to  complain. 
The  people  of  France  hadjust^and 
weighty,  and  sufficient  grounds  to 
run  every  risk  to  refound  their  go- 
vernment on  suhstantial  principles 
of  civil  right, — to  establish  a  right 
to  exercise  the  sovereign  power  of 
the  state  of  their  own  creation, 
— to  determine  its  operations  by 
specific  limits,  and  to  furnish,  for  the 
example  of  future  generations,  a  sa- 
lutary warning  of  the  punishment  to 
be  inflicted  for  the  most  flagrant  vio- 
lations of  established  conditions,  and 
the  most  daring  outrages  on  national 
liberty.  In  every  form  of  govern- 
ment, those  who  administer  it  must 
be  trusted  with  power,  and  if  they 
are  not  to  exercise  it  under  the  re- 
sponsibility of  the  heaviest  penalty, 
when  they  employ  it  to  subvert  the 
public  freedom,  no  scheme  of  liberty 
can  be  possible  in  the  world.  If  the 
late  ministers  of  France  are  not  in 
the  present  age  the  objects  of  the 
indignation  which  they  deserve,  it  is 
lit  at  least  that  they  should  be  made 
.,,0' terror  to  the  ages  that  are  to  come ; 
and  if  France  hesitates  to  do  her 
duty  to  mankind  in  this  respect,  we 
may  say  to  her  with  the  poet, 

^Nectua  et  sontem  tantnmmodo  ssecula 

norint, 
Perpeturo  criraen  posteritatis  ens.' 

There  the  attempt  on  the  rights  of 
the  community  by  their  rulers  was 
wanton,  unprovoked,  and  uncalled 
for.  In  this  country,  the  discontent 
with  the  existing  state  of  the  govern- 
ment is  nearly  equally  causeless. 
The  people  feel  their  own  power, 
and  are  impatient  to  shew  it.  They 


„ 


suffer  severely  from  the  pressure  of 
the  times,  and  are  justly  discontent- 
ed; and  they  present,  therefore,  ma- 
terials of  the  most  alarming  descrip- 
tion for  the  purposes  of  excitement; 
but  the  evils  of  which  they  really 
have  to  complain,  can  only  be  cured 
by  cool  and  deliberate  reflection,  and 
by  a  firm  and  steady  government; 
and  they  are  hastening  to  produce  a 
state  of  things  in  which  the  voice  of 
reason  will  be  heard  no  more,  and 
where  the  rudder  of  the  state  will 


be  rendered  powerless  in  the  strong- 
est and  most  skilful  hands.  The  re- 
medy for  the  evils  of  the  country,  it 
cannot  be  too  often  urged,  is  not  to 
be  found  in  a  change  in  the  mechan- 
ism of  government,  but  of  the  mea- 
sures which  the  government  ought 
to  adopt." 

Colonel  Stewart  then   proceeds, 
after  much  able  disquisition  on  the 
natural  sources  of  power  in  acommu- 
nity,  to  consider  the  effects  likely  to 
be  produced  on  the  connexion  of 
the  legislature  with  the  population, 
by  the  change  which  the  measure 
would  occasion  in  the  character  and 
quality  of  the  elective  body.     He 
observes,  that  a  representative  go- 
vernment may   derive  its  support, 
either  by  connecting  itself  respec- 
tively with  each  individual  of  a  large 
numerical  majority  of  the  people,  or 
by  connecting  itself  with  those  lead- 
ing and  influential  persons  who  carry 
along  with  them,  from  steady  gene- 
ral causes,  a  large  portion  oi  the 
community.     In  the  first  case,  each 
person   acts    independently   of   his 
neighbour;  in  the  other,  masses  of 
individuals   act  together,  from   the 
influence  of  the  natural  associating 
principles  by  which  they  are  com- 
bined.    In  so  far  as  a  government 
adopts  the  former  of  these  views,  it 
tends  towards  a  republic.     In  so  far 
as  it  adopts  the  latter,  it  derives  its 
support  from  the  natural  principles 
of  government.     In  every  form  of 
society  there  are  individuals  who, 
from  a  variety  of  causes,  are  enabled 
to  exorcise  a  powerful  eway  over 
many  others — great   capitalists — or 
company  of  capitalists — great  land- 
holders— great  bankers   or  monied 
men — aspiring  and  hopeful  politi- 
cians— and  many  other  classes  of 
persons,  who  all  possess  powerful 
sources  of  influence  in  the  commu- 
nity.    In  proportion  as  the  number 
and  consequence  of  such  classes  in- 
crease in  a  nation,  the  less  will  it 
be  fit  to  exist  as  a  republic,  or  to 
have  a  government  formed  upon  its 
principles.     The  genius  of  the  Eng- 
lish constitution  has  in  all  times  hi- 
therto recognised  these  permanent 
sources  of  natural  power;  and  has 
most  happily  adopted  the  forms  of 
government  to  give  them  eflect,  by 
the  very  circumstances  of  their  ha- 
ving been   moulded   and  bent  into 
shape  by  the  successive  agency  of 
these  operative  causes  themselves. 


1831.] 


and  of  a  British  Whig  on  the  Bill. 


Colonel  Stewart  believes,  that  while 
the  provisions  of  the  measure  act 
in  a  very  limited  degree  in  increa- 
sing numerically  its  points  of  direct 
contact  with  the  population,  they 
will  weaken  and  deteriorate  all  those 
ties  which  have  hitherto  rendered  the 
people  amenable  to  the  steady  direc- 
tion of  permanent  natural  causes  of 
influence,  and  abandon  altogether 
the  hold  of  government  over  what 
is  left  of  them,  as  the  basis  of  its 
controlling  power  with  the  commu- 
nity. The  measure  rests  the  power 
of  government  entirely  on  the  sup- 
port of  the  people;  and  he  cannot 
see  by  what  means  it  is  to  maintain 
its  sway  over  the  aristocracy,  if  it  is 
not  on  all  occasions  to  hold  up  in 
terror  to  them  (as  in  the  present 
instance)  the  consequences  to  be 
apprehended  from  the  unbridled 
fury  of  the  populace.  Most  un- 
worthy, indeed,  he  calmly  says, 
would  it  be  of  the  legislature  to 
give  way  to  the  complaints  of  the 
people,  unless  they  were  founded  in 
reason,  and  could  be  complied  with 
without  injury  to  the  essential  in- 
terest and  wellbeing  of  the  nation,  a 
point  of  which  the  people  cannot  be 
judges.  The  influence,  for  example, 
of  the  nomination  of  members,  in- 
volves questions  of  great  nicety  and 
difficulty,  and  certainly  should  not 
have  been  decided  in  compliance 
with  the  complaints  of  the  people,  if 
the  case  was  not  most  perfectly  made 
out  that  it  was  itself  an  evil  perni- 
cious to  the  constitution.  That  it  was 
so,  the  Reformers  have  completely 
failed  to  shew;  and  in  default  of 
argument  have  had  recourse  to  the 
un worthy  expedient  of  intimidation, 
by  holding  out  the  necessity  of  yield- 
ing to  the  prevailing  clamour,  to  pre- 
vent the  people  from  being  irritated 
into  violence.  The  principle  of  the 
measure,  he  says,  is  that  of  pleasing 
the  people  by  an  obedience  to  their 
demands,  and  the  principle  once 
adopted,  seems  to  lay  the  govern- 
ment prostrate  at  their  feet. 

We  have  had  incessantly  dinned 
into  our  ears,  during  these  last  few 
months,  the  phrase  or  "  restoring  the 
lost  confidence  of  the  people  in  their 
representatives."  That  phrase,  says 
Colonel  Stewart,  may  mean  some- 
thing, or  it  may  mean  nothing.  If 
it  implies  merely  that  the  people, 
smarting  under  the  weight  of  taxa- 


521 

tion,  and  the  pressure  of  the  times, 
and  consequently  discontented  with 
their  own  situation,  and  with  the 
government,  to  which  they  ascribe 
their  suffering,  will  be  soothed  into  a 
temporary  satisfaction  with  the  legis- 
lature by  its  compliance  with  their 
wishes,  as  to  -a  measure  which  they 
have  been  long  and  carefully  taught 
to  consider  as  the  remedy  for  their 
ills,  it  probably  amounts  to  a  pretty 
accurate  statement  of  the  facts  of  the 
case ;  but  were  this  the  only  ground 
on  which  the  framcrs  of  the  Bill  re- 
lied for  the  attainment  of  their  ob- 
ject, it  would  be  found  perfectly  nu- 
gatory ;  for  there  is  no  standing  still 
in  a  process  of  this  description.  The 
measure  can  remove  none  of  the 
real  causes  of  the  distress  of  the 
times ;  that  has  been  admitted  a 
thousand  times  by  the  ablest  of  the 
Reformers  themselves ;  similar  dis- 
contents and  irritation  will  again 
arise,  and  a  similar  emollient  again 
be  repeated,  till  there  would  be  left 
no  semblance  of  a  constitution  or 
of  a  government.  If  it  be  intended 
again,  to  intimate,  by  the  restoration 
of  the  confidence  of  the  people  in 
the  legislature,  that  the  promoters  of 
the  present  measure  of  Reform  have 
had  in  view  the  introduction  of  a 
closer  connexion  with  their  repre- 
sentatives and  the  aristocracy,  the 
assertion  is  made  in  the  face  of  all 
truth.  For,  by  destroying  all  per- 
manent personal  influence  in  the  re- 
turn of  members,  and  extending 
the  elective  franchise  indiscriminate- 
ly to  all  householders  paying  a  rent 
of  L.10,  and  to  L.10  copyholders  in 
the  counties,  and  L.50  leaseholders, 
the  relation  between  the  govern- 
ment and  the  population  has  been 
completely  changed.  The  only 
source  of  support  to  which  the  go- 
vernment can  now  trust,  is  that  of 
the  approbation  of  the  elective  body 
thus  constituted,  and  the  selection  of 
the  policy  of  the  country  is  thus  in  a 
great  measure  transferred  from  the 
legislature,  instead  of  its  proper  de- 
liberative character,  invested  with 
that  of  the  executive  agent  of  the 
people. 

Colonel  Stewart  considers,  with 
great  ability,  the  effect  which  this 
measure  of  reform  will  produce  on 
the  nature  of  those  great  interests 
which  ought  of  their  own  accord,  in 
a  great  degree,  to  shape  for  the  com- 


522 


Opinions  of  an  American  Republican, 


[Sept. 


mon  benefit  the  course  of  the  policy 
of  the  government.  Among  other 
important  effects,  he  adverts  to  the 
great  independence  which  it  profess- 
edly aims  at  introducing  in  the  ex- 
ercise of  the  elective  right  by  each 
individual,  an  independence  neces- 
sarily weakening  the  effect  produced 
by  the  great  classes  of  interests  in 
the  mass,  and  powerfully  tending, 
therefore,  to  dissolve  the  influence 
of  all  the  natural  sources  of  authori- 
ty, and  of  national  wellbeing.  The 
class  of  people  to  whom  the  mea- 
sure will  chiefly  extend  the  right  of 
.franchise,  will  be,  he  says,  the  mas- 
ter workmen,  retailers,  and  shop- 
keepers. Would  that  among  them 
were  not  included  multitudes  of  per- 
8QHS;  of  a  very  different  character — 
as  we  have  shewn  from  statistical 
documents  whose  accuracy  cannot 
be  impugned,  and  by  insolent  igno- 

§nce  alone  has  ever  been  denied.  A 
idy  of  such  small  capitalists  will  thus 
s  most  potent  indeed — who,  though 
certainly  feeling  very  sensibly  the 
.consequences  resulting^  from  the  fluc- 
tuations iu  the  state  of  the  country, 
are  so  far  removed  from  the  causes 
•J$ isuch  changes  themselves,  and  are 
so   incapable   of    discovering   their 
first  impressions  on  the  great  springs 
,ftfl  national  prosperity,  that  neither 
their  experience  of  the  evil,  nor  their 
inferences    from    it,   are,  generally 
speaking,  of  any  use  as  an  index  to 
the  direction  of  public  affairs.  Never 
did  any  man  utter  more  important 
Otmths  in  fewer  words  than  Colonel 
Stewart  has  done  in  these  calm  sen- 
teiicqs.     He  has  drawn  the  true  cha- 
racter and  condition  of  a  constitu- 
ency, of  which  to  utter  one  syllable 
iu  disparagement,  was,   in  the  de- 
bates in  Parliament,  thought  by  the 
Reformers  sufficient  cause  to  exclude 
any  speaker  from  the  ranks  of  ra- 
tionality, and  to  stamp  him  an  imbe- 
cile.    But  Colonel  Stewart,  and  they 
who  think  with  him  on  this  mighty 
question,  know  better,  and  love  bet- 
ter the  true  interests  of  their  fellow- 
.'j/yfiijccts,  whom  Providence  lias  pla- 
ced in  a  humble  condition,  than  the 
Reformers.     He  declares  that  if  the 
representative  system  wanted  reform 
in  any  particular  more  than  another, 
the  desideratum  was  to  find  means 
of  giving  a  more  decided  influence 
to  the  interests  of  Operative  Indus- 
try 011  the  mechanism  of  government. 


This  great  interest — in  spite  of  the 
insolent  slang  of  those  multitudinous 
incarnations  of  superhuman  stupidi- 
ty, Political  Unions— the  interest  of 
by  far  the  most  numerous  portion  of 
the  population,  the  present  measure 
will  deprive  of  all  their  legitimate  in- 
fluence. 

By  the  present  scheme,  four-fifths 
of  the  members  of  the  community 
are  completely  excluded  from  the 
direct  influence  of  the  elective  right; 
and  the  great  question,  therefore,  is, 
as  to  the  change  produced  in  the 
relation  of  the  community  to  the 
elective  body,  who  are  thus  to  be 
empowered  to  exercise  the  right  in 
the  common  behalf.  The  numerical 
increase  in  the  body,  although  of  little 
importance,  in  so  far  as  it  adds  to 
the  direct  points  of  contact  between 
the  members  of  the  government  and 
the  people  (for  what  is  the  greatest 
supposable  number  of  the  voters  to 
the  twenty-two  millions  ?)  is  of  im- 
mense effect  on  the  character  of  the 
elective  body  itself.  Let  us  not  say 
— Colonel  Stewart  says  it  not — that 
the  corporate  bodies  of  towns,  or 
the  privileges  of  election  conferred 
in  many  cases  on  burgesses,  were 
always  provided  on  just  principles ; 
but  he  and  we  do  maintain,  that  an 
elective  body  of  that  description, 
though  susceptible  of  great  improve- 
ment, was  much  better  calculated, 
with  all  its  defects,  to  afford  an  ade- 
quate representation  of  the  people  than 
that  which  the  measure  substitutes 
for  it.  Colonel  Stewart  says  rightly, 
that  the  magistrates  or  burgesses  of 
the  towns,  it  not  the  most  leading  and 
influential  individuals  in  the  place, 
were  at  least  men  of  some  considera- 
tion and  substance ;  each  of  whom 
necessarily  connected  himself  with 
many  individuals  of  every  class  and 
description  of  the  population,  and 
who  formed  (if  not  the  best)  a  pretty 
fair  species  of  jury,  to  decide  on  the 
behalf  of  the  borough  the  fitness  of 
the  representative.  According  to  the 
proposed  plan,  the  individual  conse- 
quence of  each  of  these  men  is  no 
greater  than  that  of  any  other  person 
who  pays  a  rent  of  L.10;  their  con- 
sequence with  the  representative  is 
no  greater;  their  power  in  insuring 
an  election,  it  is  professedly  the  ob- 
ject of  the  measure  to  destroy.  But 
the  connexion  of  a  rent-payer  of 
L.IO  a-year  with  the  poorer  classes 


1831.} 


and  of  a  British  Wlwj  on  the  Sill. 


amounts  to  nothing — and  thus,  while 
by  far  the  greater  part  of  the  inhabit- 
ants of  towns  are  excluded  from  the 
right  of  franchise,  the  principles 
which  might  have  secured  them  an 
adequate  representation,  are  entirely 
cut  off  from  all  operation  either  on 
the  people  or  the  government.  It 
narrows,  in  fact,  the  constitution,  in 
BO  far  as  it  goes,  to  about  a  fifth  part 
of  the  population,  and  leaves  all  the 
rest  of  the  community  without  any 
(legitimate)  means  of  affecting  the 
legislative  organs  of  the  state.  But 
how,  adds  this  able  writer  with  great 
animation — how  an  artificial  limita- 
tion of  the  principles  of  the  consti- 
tution, where  there  is  no  natural 
power  on  the  part  of  those  who  are 
to  exercise  the  function  of  consti- 
tuting the  legislature,  to  create  a 
right  to  make  laws  binding  on  the 
whole  community  whose  interests 
theirs  do  not  involve,  is  to  operate 
in  such  times  as  the  present,  it  is  for 
the  framers  of  the  measure  to  explain. 
Universal  suffrage  would  be  an  evil, 
and  a  dangerous  innovation  on  the 
constitution,  but  it  would  be  a  less 
evil  in  point  of  injustice,  and  per- 
haps not  more  dangerous  as  to 
immediate  consequences,  than  this. 
Much  wretched  nonsense  has  been 
vented  by  the  Reformers — mostly 
the  shallowest  of  men — about  the 
power  and  the  stake  in  the  coun- 
try, possessed  by  the  classes  whom 
the  bill  would  make  the  constitu- 
ency. They  take  it  for  granted  that 
every  person  enjoying  such  a  stake 
(all  persons  inhabiting  a  L.10  a-year 
house),  would  necessarily  be  actua- 
ted by  a  sufficient  motive  in  resist- 
ing all  tendency  to  turbulence  and 
change.  To  do  so  is  his  interest. 
But  this  able  writer  most  truly  ob- 
serves, that  the  interest  of  a  consti- 
tuent of  the  government,  in  its  sup- 
port, will  be  proof  only  against  such 
motives  for  its  subversion  or  alter- 
ation, as  shall  not  open  to  him  an 
expectation  of  privileges  more  im- 
portant than  those  which  the  system 
confers ;  and  the  influence  of  the 
possessor  of  a  stake  in  the  country, 
as  a  motive  to  the  preservation  of 
order,  will  be  effectual,  so  long  only 
as  it  may  be  possible  to  exclude  from 
his  anticipations  the  prospect  of  bet- 
tering his  condition  by  the  hazards 
of  change.  But  both  these  motives 
will  certainly  cease  to  operate  as 


steady,  actuating  principles  of  con- 
duct, long  before  we  descend  so  low 
in  society  as  the  classes  of  people 
who  inhabit  houses  of  L.10  yearly 
rent.  On  the  eve  of  revolution  or 
civil  convulsion,  it  is  not  the  mem- 
bers of  the  community  who  are  at 
the  very  bottom  of  the  scale,  who 
look  forward  with  ambitious  hopes 
to  place  themselves  in  the  enviable 
situations  which  they  see  occupied 
by  those  who  have  previously  been 
most  favoured  by  fortune.  The  great 
mass  of  the  lower  orders,  when  they 
think  they  cannot  change  much  for 
the  worse,  and,  consequently,  have 
little  to  risk  but  the  casualties  of  the 
law,  are  in  general  actuated,  in  their 
speculations  of  amelioration,  merely 
by  some  vague  anticipations  of  bet- 
tering their  condition,  or  of  allevia- 
ting the  pressure  of  evils  which  they 
feel,  or  which  they  fancy  they  suf- 
fer. But.it  is  those  who  already 
possess  a  certain  pre-eminence  over 
them,  and  who  already  enjoy  some 
consequence  in  their  own  estimation, 
who  imagine,  that  in  pulling  down 
all  that  is  really  exalted,  and  sub- 
verting the  order  of  society,  they 
will  still  retain,  with  respect  to  their 
co-operators,  the  relative  situation 
which  they  already  possess,  and  be 
borne  on  the  waves  of  popular  com- 
motion, to  the  proudest  stations  of 
society.  It  is,  then,  those  alone  who 
are  decidedly  in  possession  of  the 
advantages  which  a  state  of  society 
yields,  who  will  find  in  the  motive 
of  property  an  actuating  principle,  to 
resist  whatever  shall  appear  likely  to 
place  these  advantages  in  jeopardy. 

These  reflections  are,  we  think, 
profoundly  true,  and  prove  how  phi- 
losophically Colonel  Stewart  has  con- 
sidered, not  only  the  character  of  so- 
ciety, but  the  nature  of  the  human, 
mind.  But  supposing  that  their  stake 
in  the  country  was  such,  as  to  afford 
a  sufficient  security  to  government 
for  the  steady  support  of  every  man, 
included  in  the  present  elective  body, 
he  reminds  us  that  the  elective  body 
will  not  amount  to  a  fifth  part  of  the 
whole  population ;  and  that  by  thus 
drawing  this  strong  line  of  demarca- 
tion between  those  who  are  consi- 
dered the  upholders  of  government, 
and  those  against  whom  it  is  upheld, 
the  one  part  of  the  community  is,  as 
it  were,  arrayed  against  the  other, 
with  fearful  numerical  odds  against 


824 


Opinions  of  an  American  Republican, 


[Sept, 


the  class  to  whom  the  support  of  the 
social  system  is  confessedly  confided 
by  the  principles  of  this  new  order 
of  things. 

The  measure,  then,  will  benefit  no 
order — but  injure  all.  Colonel  Stew- 
art would  have  the  interests  of  the 
very  humblest  attended  to  as  well  as 
those  of  the  very  highest;  but  the, 
interest  of  both  will,  he  thinks,  be 
destroyed  by  the  Bill.  He  is  the 
champion  of  the  cause  of  the  poor — 
of  the  rich,  and  of  the  noble.  And 
therefore  he  prefers  the  present  sys- 
tem to  that  proposed,  because  by  its 
principles,  ir  an  adequate  represent- 
ation is  not  afforded  for  all  the  vari- 
ous orders  and  interests  of  society, 
it  comes  SQ  near  it  that  it  will  be  dif- 
ficult to  adjust  therp  so  well  by  any 
positive  estimate  and  artificial  con- 
trivance for  giving  them  a  more  ex- 
act relative  effect.  He  has  shewn  how 
by  the  bill  the  cottager,  the  opera- 
tive manufacturer,  and  artisan  will 
have  no  legitimate  influence  on  the 
representation — and  he  gives  his  rea- 
sons for  fearing  that  the  measure, 
though  it  will  not  indeed  destroy  at 
once  the  existing  aristocracy,  will 
materially  change  its  political  nature 
— will  qualify  and  professedly  di- 
minish its  influence  on  public  affairs, 
and  with  the  community  will  render 
men  indifferent  to  the  part  they  act 
in  a  cause  in  which  they  will  speedi- 
ly find  themselves  ciphers — will  in 
time  destroy  the  Upper  House  of  the 
legislature  entirely  as  a  field  of  pub- 
lic exertion,  and  convert  it  into  a 
useless  and  tawdry  ornament  of  the 
state.  As  the  influence  of  this  aris- 
tocracy declines,  the  influence  of 
wealth,  encouraged  by  the  operation 
given  to  it  by  the  provisions  of  the 
present  Bill,  will  necessarily  gain 
ground  in  the  nation,  and  will  con- 
tribute by  its  rise  to  change,  in  a  great 
measure,  the  national  character.  For 
in  a  country  possessing  the  sources 
of  opulence  to  such  an  extent  as  this 
country  does,  there  must  always  be 
an  aristocracy  very  far  removed  from 
the  mass  of  the  people  by  a  vast  su- 
periority in  point  of  fortune.  Destroy 
the  present  aristocracy,  and  another 
aristocracy  would  speedily  arise. 

The  whole  question,  in  this  re- 
spect, is  as  to  the  political  character 
of  that  aristocracy.  Abolish  the  pre- 
sent, recruited  as  it  is  from  among  the 
numbers  of  those  who  have  immoiv 


talized  their  names  by  the  most 
splendid  achievements  by  sea  and 
land  recorded  in  history — of  those 
who  have  bled  for  the  freedom  or 
defence  of  the  country — of  those 
who  have  risen  to  eminence  at  the 
bar  and  in  the  senate — and  which 
perpetuates  the  memory  of  all  that 
has  been  most  illustrious  in  the  pub- 
lic walks  of  life — and  leave  the  void 
to  be  supplied  by  the  operation  of 
those  causes  which  rear  up  another 
from  the  influence  of  wealth,  and  the 
glory  of  our  national  character  will 
be  "  shorn  of  its  beams."  The  prac- 
tical and  political  use — Colonel  Stew- 
art farther  very  finely  says — result- 
ing to  the  community  from  all  the 
proud  distinctions  which  it  confers 
on  the  body  of  the  aristocracy  which 
it  recognises,  is  the  tendency  of  such 
an  institution  to  fan  the  fire  of  youth- 
ful genius,  and  to  stimulate  men  to 
an  honourable  ambition  to  acquire 
the  same  eminence,  by  deserving  it 
at  the  hands  of  their  country.  In 
this  country,  if  the  frame  of  society 
is  not  absolutely  perfect  on  either 
side  of  the  question  in  this  respect 
— it  yet  fetters  no  man  to  his  station 
— opposes  no  obstacle  to  his  advance- 
ment— and  affords  facilities,  by  the 
aid  of  which  merit  seldom  fails  to 
attain  some  degree  of  consideration. 
Among  the  aristocracy  there  are  men 
who  neither  fear,  nor  have  occasion 
to  fear,  the  juxtaposition,  or  the  com- 
petition of  the  most  distinguished  of 
those  who  spring  from  the  class  of 
life  beneath  them — men  who  possess 
a  nobility  of  nature  which  no  patents 
can  confer — who  delight  in  acknow- 
ledging a  sympathetic  affinity  with 
merit  wherever  they  find  it — and 
who  are  always  ready  to  stretch 
forth  a  helping  hand  to  its  advance- 
ment, when  it  deserves  their  re- 
gard. But,  he  adds,  there  is  an  aris- 
tocracy, when  untempered  by  such 
elements,  apt  to  be  actuated  by  very 
different  feelings,  and  whosejealousy 
of  merit,  while  it  is  rising,  can  only 
be  equalled  by  the  baseness  of  their 
servility  to  it,  when  it  is  up;  and 
that  is  the  pure  and  unadulterated 
aristocracy  of  wealth,  who  view  the 
influence  of  merit  as  a  distinct  and 
hostile  pretension,  in  which  they 
have  no  share,  and  who  think  it  a 
sufficient  motive  of  enmity  to  any 
man  if  he  belongs  to  this  obnoxious 
class. 


1831.1 


and  of  a  British  Whig  on  the  Bill 


Colonel  Stewart  thus  sums  up 
most  of  his  important  opinions  iu  a 
masterly  peroration. 

"  I  have  traced  the  nature  of  this 
representation  through  these  ancient 
precedents,  for  although  the  wisdom 
of  our  ancestors, — the  maxims  of 
rude  and  remote  ages, — are  of  little 
authority,  yet  the  practical  expe- 
rience of  many  centuries  is  of  great 
value  :  '  Recte  enim,'  as  LorcT  Ba- 
con has  remarked,  '  recte  eriim  ve- 
ritas  temporis  filia  dicitur  non  auc- 
toritatis.'  And  it  must  be  evident 
that  the  object  of  the  government 
has  always  been, 

"  1st,  To  collect  together  a  suffi- 
cient body  (five  or  six  hundred)  of 
the  most  competent  and  responsible 
from  among  the  upper  classes  of  so- 
ciety, invested  with  full  powers,  as 
the  representatives  of  the  whole  na- 
tion,— to  examine,  deliberate  upon, 
and  decide  for,  and  on  the  behalf,  of 
the  whole  community,  the  merits  of 
all  public  questions ; — an  expedient 
the  most  fortunate  for  the  wise  di- 
rection of  the  national  councils  that 
has  ever  been  suggested  by  the  wit 
of  man  or  the  influence  of  circum- 
stances, in  the  history  of  common- 
wealths. 

"  2dly,  That  this  national  coun- 
cil, like  every  other  part  of  the  con- 
stitution, of  which  it  is  the  basis, 
is  for  the  behoof  and  on  the  part  of 
the  whole,  and  of  every  party  of  the 
community,  and  is  as  much  bound 
to  watch  over  the  happiness  and  in- 
terests of  the  poorest  classes  as  of 
the  most  opulent, — is  as  much  bound 
to  redress  the  wrongs  of  the  peasant 
as  of  the  peer, — and  is  as  much 
bound  to  maintain  the  rights  of  the 
humblest  members  of  the  nation  as 
of  the  prince. 

"  3dly,  That  it  is,  accordingly,  the 
duty  of  such  men,  honestly,  con- 
scientiously, and  fairly  to  give  the 
nation  the  benefit  of  their  best  and 
most  dispassionate  judgment,  after 
due  investigation,  on  all  eases  sub- 
mitted for  debate  and  deliberation, 
without  regard  to  popular  clamour 
or  the  opinions  of*  their  constitu- 
ents; but,  as  Lord  Coke  expresses 
it, '  to  be  constant,  stout,  inflexible, 
and  not  to  be  bowed  and  turned 
from  the  right  and  publike  good,  by 
feare,  favour,  promises,  rewards.' 

"  tyhly,  That  the  duty  of  this  na- 
tional assembly  is  to  manage  the 


525 

public  concerns, — to  devote  their 
attention  to  the  great  questions  of 
general  interest,  and  not  to  manage 
or  superintend  or  provide  for  the 
local  interests  of  the  particular  com- 
munities of  the  counties  or  great 
cities,  farther  than  they  constitute 
cases  falling  under  the  former  de- 
scription, and  bearing  directly  on 
the  great  interests  of  the  nation. 

"  Sthly,  That  the  office  of  the 
King  and  of  the  Lords  in  the  con- 
stitution, as  parts  of  the  great  deli- 
berative assembly  of  the  nation,  the 
High  Court  of  Parliament  (as  con- 
tradistinguished from  the  executive 
functions  of  the  government)  is 
merely  to  contribute  an  additional 
means  of  caution  and  of  direction 
to  the  resolutions  of  this  great  re- 
presentation of  the  whole  popula- 
tion, without  whose  supplies  the 
power  of  government  cannot  sub- 
sist,— without  whose  approbation  no 
measure  can  be  put  in  effect,  or  no 
regulation  pass  into  a  law, — and 
against  whose  continued  and  gene- 
ral concurrence  no  opposition  can 
long  be  made. 

"  In  all  these  respects,  the  provi- 
sions of  the  present  Bill  are  a  mani- 
fest departure  from  the  principles  of 
the  constitution ;  in  the  first  place, 
both  by  the  operation  of  the  measure, 
and  on  the  principle  which  has  been 
avowedly  and  professedly  acted  upon, 
in  the  efforts  of  Its  promoters  to  carry 
it.  The  members  will  be  virtually 
deprived  of  their  full  powers,  and 
forestalled  in  the  right  of  delibera- 
tion, by  denouncing  every  man  to 
his  constituents  as  unfit  and  un- 
worthy to  represent  them,  who  will 
not  give  a  previous  pledge  to  act  in 
a  manner  consonant  to  their  pre-de- 
terminations.  Such  a  representative 
may  go  to  Parliament  to  weigh  evi- 
dence, and  to  listen  to  speeches,  but 
he  is,  in  fact,  the  mere  spokesman  of 
another  body  out  of  doors ;  for  nei- 
ther fact  nor  argument  are  to  be  per- 
mitted to  shake  his  vote.  It  would 
be  every  way  as  reasonable  to  allow 
no  man  to  enter  a  jury-box  who  was 
not  pledged  to  hang  the  prisoner. 
The  operation  of  the  Bill  in  this  re- 
spect, in  altering  the  constitution, 
will  be,  (in  so  far  as  it  is  effectual,) 
to  leave  the  deliberation  and  deci- 
sion of  all  questions  to  the  several 
elective  bodies,  each  of  which  is  to 
discuss  the  meaiure,  and  form  its 


526  Opinions  of  an  American  Republican,  [Sept. 

own  opinion,  and  the  representative     though  not  subsisting  themselves  by 

thewages  of  labour,  were  powerfully 


sent  to  Parliament  as  their  proxy,  to 
state  the  determination  to  which  each 
has  come.  The  decision  of  all  ques- 
tions will  in  this  manner  be  trans- 
ferred to  the  people,  and  their  opi- 
nions collected  on  the  principle  of 
the  Comitia  Curiata  of  Rome, — eve- 
ry elective  body  voting  as  one  of  the 
Curia.  And  here  let  me  remark,  that 
the  prevalence  of  an  opinion,  were 
it  universal  throughout  the  nation, 
is  no  argument  for  its  solidity.  Peo- 
ple are  much  more  apt  to  be  united, 
and  speedily  united,  in  favour  of  error 
than  in  favour  of  truth.  Prejudice  is 
manifold  and  contagious  —  truth  is 
single, and  but  slowly  to  be  propaga- 
ted, as  the  state  of  the  worldevinces — 
and  the  cause  is  evident.  In  the  one 
case,  the  appeal  is  made  to  the  will, 
through  the  medium  of  the  passions 
and  the  imagination,  motives  which 
precipitate  the  mind  to  sudden  as- 
sent, and  to  which  the  ignorant  and 
unthinking  are  peculiarly  suscepti- 
ble. In  the  other,  to  reason  and 
judgment,  motives  by  which  the 
mind  is  only  to  be  slowly  influenced, 
as  it  may  be  possible  to  produce  con- 
viction,— and  to  which  but  few  are 
accessible,  '  at  magnum  certe  dis- 
crimen  inter  rebus  civilibus  mutatio 
ctiam  in  melius  respecta  est,  ob  per- 
turbationem  j  cum  civilia,  auctori- 
tate,  consensu,  fama  et  opinione,  non 
demonstratione  nitantur.' 

"  In  the  secondrespect,  the  Bill  will 
alter  entirely  the  character  of  the 
elective  body.  And  instead  of  the 
electors  exercising  the  right  on  be- 
half of  the  whole  community,  the 
part  of  the  population  possessed  of 
property  will  exercise  the  right  in 
their  own  behalf,  to  the  exclusion  of 
those  who  have  none — a  part  of  the 
population  opposed  in  point  of  in- 
terest to  those  who  are  left  out  of 
the  system,  and  therefore  unfit  to  be 
intrusted  with  the  exercise  of  their 

Rrivilege; — the  portion  of  thepopu- 
ition  which  subsists  on  rent  and  the 
profits  of  capital,  in  contradistinction 
to  the  much  more  numerous  class 
which  subsist  by  the  wages  of  labour. 
The  previous  constitution  of  the  elec- 
tive body  was  subject  to  no  such  ob- 
jection. It  was  composed  of  a  mix- 
ture of  all  classes ;  and  if  not  a  per- 
fectly fair  mixture,  or  constituted  on 
the  best  principles,  it  gave  effect  to 
the  influence  of  many  classes  who, 


interested  in  promoting  the  welfare 
of  this  part  of  the  community,  and 
in  holding  the  balance  between  them 
and  their  employers. 

"  In  the  third  case,  as  the  Bill  (as 
shewn  in  the  first  instance)  will  alter 
the  deliberative  character  of  the  Par- 
liament, so  it  will  alter  in  the  same 
manner  the  nature  of  the  functions 
which  the  constitution  has  assigned 
to  each  member.  Instead  of  going  to 
Parliament  as  the  counsellor  of  the 
King,  to  advise  the  executive  govern- 
ment, and  to  answer  only  for  the  sup- 
port and  adherence  of  the  people  to 
such  measures  as  his  deliberate  judg- 
ment approves,  he  will  be  sent  there 
to  vote  under  the  dictation  of  his  con- 
stituents, whose    opinions   will    be 
formed  in  clubs,  and  lodges,  and  tu- 
multuous meetings  of   the  people. 
The  constitution  requires  the  com- 
munity to  find  five  or  six  hundred 
men    to  exercise    the    deliberative 
function  in  their  behalf — men  who 
are  to  be   considered  wiser,  more 
educated,  more  deeply  and  sensibly 
interested  in  the  public  welfare  than 
the  average  of  the  nation  can  be  sup- 
posed to  be,  and  who  are  to  give  the 
merits  of  every  question  a  thorough 
scrutiny,  and  to  do  the  best  they  can 
for  the   public   with  respect  to  it. 
The  right  of  deciding  the  fitness  of 
these  representatives,  the  electors  of 
each  borough  and  county  exercise 
(as  I  have  shewn)  for  the  whole  na- 
tion, and  there  the  function  which 
the  constitution  assigns  them  ceases. 
The  member,  when  returned^  is  no 
longer  the  delegate  of  the  body  of 
his  constituents,  but  the  representa- 
tive of  the  commonalty  of  England 
— invested  with  his  aliquot  part  of 
their  whole  power.    But  if  the  elec- 
tive body  are  to  superadd  to  this, 
their  constitutional  office,  a  right  of 
superintendence  and  censorship,  not 
as  to  the  purity  of  public  conduct, 
but  as  to  the  wisdom  of  the  decisions 
formed  by  their  respective  represen- 
tatives, which  the  constitution  does 
not  give — and  to  declare  that  no  man 
shall  be  returned  who  does  not  pre- 
viously forestall  his   vote  —  or,  re- 
elected,  who  incurs  their  displeasure 
by  his  views  of  policy — to  what  end 
is  freedom  of  opinion  and  liberty  of 
debate  so  vigilantly  secured  to  the 
great  council  of  the  nation,  if  they 


and  of  a  British  Whig  on  the  Sill. 


1831.] 

are  by  the  people  themselves  to  be 
thus  taken  away  ?    He  alone  is  en- 
titled to  the  name  of  a  patriot — he 
alone    evinces    public    virtue  —  he 
alone  is  the  real  friend  of  his  country 
and  of  the  people — he  alone  is  fit  to 
be  their  representative,  who,  disdain- 
ing the  adulation  of  their  flattery,  and 
despising  their  threats,  stands  firm 
to  the  well-founded  conclusions  to 
which  his  reason  has  led  him,  and 
tells  them,  disregardless  of  all  per- 
sonal consequences,  what  it  is  in  his 
honest  opinion  for  their  interest  to 
do.     That  an  individual  may  differ 
from  his  constituents  in  opinion,  in 
some  respects,  is  no  reason  for  not 
electing  him,  if  they  are  satisfied  that 
he  is  a  wise,  and  honest,  and  cautious 
man.     It  is  by  the  collision  of  opi- 
nions that  the  truth  is  elicited,  and 
if  a  majority  of  individuals  of  one 
way  of  thinking  are  to  be  insured  by 
any  possible  means  before  cases  of 
doubtful  expediency  are  discussed, 
it  is  to  little  purpose  to  send  men  to 
Parliament  to  clear  such  difficulties 
up. 

"  Lastly,  the  operation  of  the  Bill 
will  be,  by  identifying  the  represent- 
ative with  his  constituents, — extin- 
guishing all  or  the  greater  part  of 
those  elective  bodies  who  had  either 
feeble  local  interests  or  none, — and 
conferring  the  privilege  on  the  great 
mercantile  towns,  where  the  local 
interests  are  likely  to  be  the  upper- 
most consideration  in  every  man's 
mind — to  introduce  a  principle  like 
that  of  an  Amphictyonic  council  into 
the  constitution.     The  members  re- 
presenting the  local  interests  will  be 
ready  to  concur   in  passing   every 
measure  that  tends  to  promote  the 
particular  interests  of  any  one  place, 
that  the  private  interests  of  their  own 
constituents  may  be,  when  an  oppor- 
tunity occurs,  inlike  manner,  con  suit- 
ed— a  motive  from  which  it  is  essen- 
tial that  the  determinations  of  the 
great  council  of  the  nation  should  be 
kept  perfectly  free ;  for  there  is  no 
promoting    any   particular  interest 
but  at  the  expense  of  that  fair  com- 
petition on  which  the  promotion  of 
the  public  interest  in  such  cases  de- 
pends. 

"  If  the  principles  of  the  Bill  were 
good  for  any  thing,  they  are  good  for 
a  great  deal  more  than  its  provisions 
eft'ect.  If  it  is  wise  to  abandon  the 


627 


present  system  of  representation,  and 
to  act  upon  the  principle  of  distri- 
buting the  members  to  the  several 
parts  and  towns  of  the  '^kingdom  ac- 
cording to  the  local  population,  or 
local  wealth,  or  the  local  capacity  to 
contribute  to  the  public  burdens,— 
then,  undoubtedly,  the  more  com- 
pletely and  perfectly  this  view  was 
carried  into  eifect,  the  more  unex- 
ceptionable would  be  the  Bill.    Re- 
duce the  number   of  members  re- 
turned by  England,  and  give  the 
other  parts  of  the  empire,  Ireland  and 
Scotland,  their  fair  share.     If  it  is 
wise  to  extend  the  basis  of  the  elec- 
tive body,  as  it  is  called, — the  exten- 
sion is  perfectly  inadequate.    It  de- 
stroys the  character  of  the  elective 
body  as  a  part  acting  for,  and  exer- 
cising the  rights  of,  the  whole ;  and 
does  not  restore  to  the  people  what 
was  held  in  trust  for  them.  If  it  was 
wise  to  assign  the  representation  to 
towns  according  to  a  scale  of  popu- 
lation,— then  it  would  necessarily  be 
better  to  take  the  population  returns 
of  the  kingdom,  and  give  the  borough 
members  at  once  to  those  places 
that  stood  first  in  point  of  numbers  - 
on  the  list.  If  it  is  to  be  represented 
as  so  imperative  a  public  duty  in 
every  man  to  abstain  from  influen- 
cing the  votes  for  candidates  by  any 
prospect  of  advantage,  or  by  the  use 
of  his  right  of  property, — then  let  the 
government  that  aims  at  such  reform 
begin  by  setting  the  example,   in, 
cases  where  the  scruples  in  men's 
minds  may  be  of  deeper  consequence 
than  in  the  choice  of  a  candidate. — > 
Let  government  trust  to  reason  and 
argument  to  secure  a  majority ;  let 
no    attempt  be  made   to  debauch 
men's  minds  by  the  allurements  of  a 
peerage,  or  the  honour  and  emolu- 
ments of  office ;  let  no  man  be  dis- 
placed from  his  situation  for  the  de- 
livering of  a  conscientious  opinion, 
— or  denounced  as  unfit  to  represent 
the  people  because  he  had  the  ho- 
nesty to  oppose  at  once  the  folly  of 
the  government  and  the  infatuation 
of  the  multitude.    If  we  are  to  have 
a  reform  of  abuses,  let  it  be  thorough 
and  complete,  fair  and  universal  ;— 
but  let  us  not  have  the  sources  of 
all  personal  influence,  by  which  the 
power  of  the  Minister  may  be  tem- 
pered, broken  down,  that  govern- 
ment may  acquire  an  arbitrary  right 


328, 


Opinions  of  an  American  Republican,  &c. 


[Sept. 


of  employing  unopposed  the  whole 
power  of  the  Crown  to  domineer 
over  the  opinions  of  men, — #nd  en- 
joy an  undisputed  monopoly  in  poli- 
tical corruption.  If  government  lay 
down  such  principles  as  those  which 
they  have  put  forth  as  the  basis  on 
which  the  government  is  to  be  esta- 
blished, it  is  absurd  to  suppose  that 
things  can  rest  where  they  have  left 
them.  Their  own  views,  their  own 
arguments,  in  as  far  as  they  carry 
any  weight  with  them,  lead  to  much 
greater  changes;  and  the  country 
will  never  be  satisfied  till  it  obtains 
them." 

Colonel  Stewart  concludes  his  se- 
cond pamphlet  with  some  eloquent 
Sassages,  expressive  of  the  most  in- 
ignant  reprobation  of  the  means  by 
which  the  measure  has  been  support- 
ed— means,  he  says,  hardly  less  ex- 
ceptionable than  the  measure  itself, 
or  less  a  departure  from  the  princi- 
ples of  the  constitution;  for  the 
freedom  of  opinion  which  the  con- 
stitution requires  that  every  mem- 
ber should  exercise,  has  been  com- 
pletely violated  by  attempts  to  fore- 
stall these  opinions,  and  by  subject- 
ing members  to  a  species  of  politi- 
cal catechism,  to  bind  them  down  to 
an  engagement  to  support  popular 
measures;  and  finally,  the  extraor- 
dinary spectacle  has  been  exhibited 
of  an  appeal  from  the  wisdom  of  the 
British  Parliament  to  the  voice  of 
a  suffering  and  excited  people,  on  the 
most  momentous  and  difficult  ques- 
tion which  has  been  agitated  since 
the  Revolution.  If  a  regular  princi- 
ple of  an  appeal  to  the  people  is  to 
be  recognised  in  the  constitution,  he 
thinks  it  would  be  much  better  to 
organize  some  species  of  Comitia,  by 
which  their  decision  might  be  ascer- 
tained, than  to  render  it  necessary  to 
dissolve  Parliament  till  such  time  as 
a  set  of  representatives,  sufficiently 
subservient  to  their  wishes,  could  be 
found. 

Much  and  oft  have  we  been  told 
by  the  Reformers  to  look  at  the  signs 
of  the  times — and  we  have  looked 
at  them  with  all  our  eyes.  But  what, 
says  Colonel  Stewart,  is  the  good  of 
the  study  of  signs,  if  it  be  not  com- 
bined with  the  study  of  causes  ?  and 
surely  he  is  a  sorry  statesman  who 
is  to  have  his  measures  prescribed 
by  his  fears  of  a  storm  every  time 
that  he  hears  the  murmuring^  of 


faction,  or  who  makes  any  other  use 
of  the  symptoms  of  the  state  of  af- 
fairs, than  to  direct  his  attention  to 
those  principles  by  which  the  course 
of  events  may  be  swayed,  or  to  the 
precautions  to  be  taken  successfully 
for  evils  that  may  be  inevitable.  In 
order  to  render  political  foresight 
and  wisdom  possible  or  of  any  avail, 
those  principles  by  which  Provi- 
dence has  obviously  intended  that 
the  improvement  of  the  world 
should  be  effected,  must  be  kept  free 
from  all  contamination,  from  dark 
and  secret  attempts  to  organize  so- 
ciety by  other  means,  or  to  control 
the  natural  course  of  events. 

We  have  thus  done  what  we  pro- 
posed to  do — we  have  given  an  ab- 
stract, abridgement,  or  precis,  of  the 
deliberate  and  matured  opinions  on 
the   Plan  of  Reform  by  which  this 
country  is  to  be  regenerated,  of  an 
enlightened    American    Republican 
and  of  an  enlightened  British  Whig. 
With  regard  to  America,  we   have 
reason  to  know  that  these  opinions 
are  universal — that  all  men  there  of 
any  reflection  at  all  are  unanimous 
in  pronouncing  that  the  Bill  is  death 
to  the  British  Constitution.     And  to 
the  honour  of  our  Transatlantic  bre- 
thren, let  it  be  said,  that  millions  la- 
ment that  such  an  evil  should  befall 
— such  a  calamity,  to  the  civilized 
world.     They  love  their  own  insti- 
tutions,   and    are   justly  proud   of 
them  ;  but  they  know  well  that  none 
resembling  them  could  exist  happily 
in  Britain.     Therefore  they  look  to 
a  dreadful  breaking-up  of  those  old 
establishments,  under  the  shelter  of 
which  have  grown  and  been  guarded 
the  liberties  of  their  "  father-land" — 
and  they  see  distraction  and  misery 
in  the  gloom  of  the  future.     Indeed, 
but  one   opinion  on   this   question 
prevails  all  over  Europe  as  well  as 
America.     But  let  us  end  as  we  be- 
gan, in  a  cheerful  spirit.     The  Mini- 
sters themselves  have  for  a  month 
or  two  been  massacring  the  measure 
— nor  have  the  Opposition  by  any 
means  been  idle  —  but  have    with 
great  alacrity  lent  their  assistance  to 
the  process   of  strangulation.     We 
begin   absolutely  to  pity  the  Bill. 
We  feel  the  tears  rushing  in — for  its 
death-throes  are  frightful — but  we 
hope  to  preserve  our  composure  at 
the  funeral.     Nor  in  due  time  shall 
we  refuse  to  write  its  epitaph. 


Dreams  of  Heaven. 


52ft 


DREAMS  OF  HEAVEN. 


BY  MRS  HEMANS. 

DREAM'ST  thou  of  Heaven  ? — What  dreams  are  thine  ? 

Fair  child,  fair  gladsome  child ! 
With  eyes  that  like  the  dewdrop  shine, 

And  bounding  footstep  wild. 

Tell  me  what  hues  th'  immortal  shore 

Can  wear,  my  Bird !  to  thee, 
Ere  yet  one  shadow  hath  pass'd  o'er 

Thy  glance  and  spirit  free  ? 

"  Oh  !  beautiful  is  heaven,  and  bright 

With  long,  long  summer  days  ! 
I  see  its  lilies  gleam  in  light, 

Where  many  a  fountain  plays. 

"  And  there  unchecked,  methinks,  I  rove, 

Seeking  where  young  flowers  lie, 
In  vale  and  golden- fruited  grove — 

Flowers  that  are  not  to  die!" 


Thou  Poet  of  the  lonely  thought, 

Sad  heir  of  gifts  divine  ! 
Say,  with  what  solemn  glory  fraught 

Is  Heaven  in  dream  of  thine  ? 

"  Oh !  where  the  living  waters  flow 

Along  that  radiant  shore, 
My  soul,  a  wanderer  here,  shall  know 

The  exile-thirst  no  more  ! 

"  The  burden  of  the  stranger's  heart 

Which  here  unknown  I  bear, 
Like  the  night-shadow  shall  depart, 

With  my  first  wakening  there. 

"  And  borne  on  eagle-wings  afar, 
Free  thought  shall  claim  its  dower 

From  every  sphere,  from  every  star, 
Of  glory  and  of  power." 

O  woman  !  with  the  soft  sad  eye 

Of  spiritual  gleam ! 
Tell  me  of  those  bright  realms  on  high, 

How  doth  thy  deep  heart  dream  ? 

By  thy  sweet  mournful  voice  I  know, 

On  thy  pale  brow  I  see, 
That  thou  hast  lov'd  in  silent  woe, 

Say,  what  is  Heaven  to  thce  ? 

"  Oh  !  Heaven  is  where  no  secret  dread 
May  haunt  Love's  meeting  hour ; 

Where  from  the  past,  no  gloom  is  shed 
O'er  the  heart's  chosen  bower  : 

"  Where  every  sever'd  wreath  is  bound; 

And  none  have  heard  the  knell 
That  smites  the  soul  in  that  wild  sound— 

Farewell,  Belov'd!  farewell !" 


Hi'iM  If  lit 

•>yjfi>  to 


noi.fr 


B30  To  a  Butterfly  near  a  Tomb. 


TO  A  BUTTERFLY  NEAR  A  TOMB. 
BY  MRS  HEMANS. 

I  STOOD  where  the  lip  of  Song  lay  low, 
Where  the  dust  was  heavy  on  Beauty's  brow  ; 
Where  stillness  hung  on  the  heart  or  Love, 

And  a  marble  weeper  kept  watch  above. 
F         i 

I  stood  in  the  silence  of  lonely  thought, 
While  Song  and  Love  in  my  own  soul  wrought* 
Though  each  unwhisper'd,  each  dimm'd  with  fear, 
Each  but  a  banish'  d  spirit  here. 

y»  .00  HI 

Then  didst  thou  pass  me  in  radiance  by, 
Child  of  the  Sunshine,  young  Butterfly,^  »  ^V  wAT  i 
Thou  that  dost  bear,  on  thy  fairy  wingVvs  *re&mn  «K 
No  burden  of  inborn  suffering  ! 

H'j  A  aai.i  QSAOH  SHT  ax'jtm  SOA^  rrn  :THT  T;U  OT  roW 
Thou  wert  flitting  past  that  solemn  tomb, 
Over  a  bright  world  of  joy  and  bloon»t 
And  strangely  I  felt,  as  I  saw  thee 

o  /The  all  that  sever'd  thy  life  and  mine. 

Mine,  with  its  hidden  mysterious  things, 

Of  Love  and  Grief,  its  unsounded  springs, 

And  quick  thoughts,  wandering  o'er  earth  and  sky, 

With  voices  to  question  Eternity  ! 

I 


Thine,  on  its  reckless  and  glancing  way, 
Like  an  embodied  breeze  at  play  ! 
Child  of  the  Sunshine,  thou  wing'd  and  free, 
One  moment—  one  moment—  I  envied  thee  ! 


Thou  art  not  lonely,  though  born  to  roam, 

Thou  hast  no  longings  that  pine  for  home; 

Thou  seek'st  not  the  haunts  of  the  bee  and  bird,  '"^ 

To  fly  from  the  sickness  of  Hope  deferr'd. 

'  iiyilJio 


In  thy  brief  being  no  strife  of  mind, 

No  boundless  passion,  is  deeply  shrined;    Mvy\ 

But  I-as  I  gazed  on  thy  swfft  flight  by, 

One  hour  ofmy  soul  seem'd  Infinity  ! 
na  to  am?  y  •  .  l)ifa  aoiiayiaado  1<>  asm  sill 


Yet,  ere  I  turned  from  that  silent  place, 
Or  ceased  from  watching  thy  joyous  race, 
Thou,  even  Thou,  on  those  afry  wings, 

Didst  waft  me  visions  of  brighter  things ! 
evra  Hro  T  6  b 

Thou,  that  dost  image  the  freed  soul's  birth, 
And  its  flight  away  o'er  the  mists  of  earth, 
Oh !  fitly  Thou  shinest  mid  flowers  that  rise 

Round  the  dark  chamber  where  Genius  lies ! 
9/Ba  OJ  ra'j 

; 


i  -'•• 


1831.]  Noctes  Ambrosiance.    No.  LVHI*  631 


.a  MOT  A 

.8HAM3H  zau  va 
,wol  \R]  $008  lo  qH  orfJ  siarfw  OOOTB  1 

$octes  gmftroftfmt  Ae* 

{9V0U.  lO  J'lE'id  JJtlJ  flO  ^Ulffl  8H9GUIJ8  016)11  Af 

.ovoda  ibijsvr  iqaJ  iagaew  oidism  a  bet  A 

No.  LVIII. 
^irguoifa  ^fonoJ  lo  aoasli«  sift  ni  boojg  I 

XPH  A'EN  rmnosin  KTAIKHN  nspiNissoMENAnN 

HAEA  KflTIAAONTA  KA0HMENON  OINOIIOTAZEIN. 

PHOC.  ap.  Ath. 

<Xd  900flib«T  «i  ora  easq  uo^h  JabiL  nad'J 
[  TAf«  ts  a  distich  by  wise  old  Phocylides, 
An  ancient  who  wrote  crabbed  Greek  in  no  silly  days  ; 
Meaning,  "  'Tis  EIGHT  FOR  GOOD  WINEBIBBING  PEOPLE, 

NOT  TO  LET  THE  JUG  PACE  ROUND  THE  BOARD  LIKE  A  CRIPPLE; 
BUT  GAILY  TO  CHAT  WHILE  DISCUSSING  THEIR  TIPPLE." 

An  excellent  rule  of  the  hearty  old  cock  'tis—- 
And a  very  Jit  motto  to  put  to  our  Noctes.] 

.  ap.  Ambr. 


H0oirat8Xifl  asbbtd  atf  iiriw  ^willL  J/'JIIOK 
SCENE  —  Buchanan  Lodge.    TIME—  Seven  o*  Clock. 

I^AtZ  J/Uls  ilJ  ivh  *    J       **    lillll  *1  'Tl^iYF  iopHMtlvll-!   21  JHin   I)II/i 

Claret—  the  Standard,  Post,  Albion,  Bull,  Age,  Alfred,  &;c.,  and  various 
flew  Boohs  on  the  Table,    ao  ^^ 


l^nf'!  '  bsifaodms  HP 

As  for  Mr  Bulwer,  laying  Hie  most  hackneyed  common-places  out  of 
view,  the  majestic  features,  elegant  mien,  intense  loves,  and  indomitable 
nerves  which  his  heroes  share  with  ten  thousand  Belvilles  and  Delvilles  — 
these  air-drawn  personages  are  nothing,  if  not  coxcombical.  Who  can  think, 
with  common  patience,  of  his  endless  chatter  about  their  tapering  fingers, 
their  "  feet  small  to  a  fault,"  their  velvet  robes-de-chambre,  and  the  violet 
damask  curtains  of  their  dressing-rooms  ? 

NORTH. 

Horrid  puppyism  !  —  These  books,  however,  all  contain  detached  scenes 
of  interest  and  power,  both  serious  and  comic  —  they  are  all  written  with 
ease  and  vigour,  and  abound  in  sentences  and  expressions  which  speak 
the  man  of  observation  and  reflection  —  they  convey  the  impression  of  an 
ardent,  ambitious,  energetic  mind,  and  of  an  elegant  taste  in,  letters.  It  is 
very  true,  that  these  things  are  not  enough  to  constitute  a  good  novelist  ;  I 
will  even  admit  that  the  good  parts  of  what  he  has  as  yet  written  would 
have  been  more  acceptable  if  presented  piecemeal,  in'the  shape  of  magazine 
articles  ;  but  still  I  can  see  no  reason  to  doubt,  that  if  Mr  Bulwer  will  give 
himself  fair  play  —  if  he  will  condescend  to  bestow  more  thought,  before 
he  begins  his  book,  on  what  it  is  to  be  —  to  consider  that  the  materials 
which  might  do  well  for  a  single  volume  may  all  but  evaporate  into  thin  air 
when  diffused  over  the  surface  of  three  —  to  write  more  slowly  than  he  has 
hitherto  done  —  and  to  correct  (which  hitherto  he  does  not  seem  to  have 
done  at  all)  before  he  publishes—  he  may  win  a  permanent  place 

TICKLER. 

His  politics  —  — 

NORTH. 

His  politics  I  care  noth'ng  about;  Politic?,  truly  !—  The  general  tone  of 


682  Noctes  Ambrosiante,     No.  L  VIII.  [Sept. 

his  morality  is  of  a  cast  rather  above  what  has  of  late  been  common  among 
writers  of  his  order — many  beautiful  and  generous  sentiments  are  unaffect- 
edly introduced  in  his  pages,  and  it  would  afford  me  very  sincere  gratifica- 
tion to  find  him  doing  more  justice  to  himself. 

TICKLER. 

God  knows,  there  are  warning  examples  enough.  Had  gash  John  Gait, 
now,  instead  of  spinning  out  one  hasty  trio  after  another,  until  "  panting  Puff 
toils  after  him  in  vain,"  proceeded  as  he  began,  leisurely  condensing,  in  brief, 
compact  tales,  "  the  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye,"  who  can  doubt  that  by  this 
time  the  Ayrshire  Legatees,  the  Annals  of  the  Parish,  and  the  Provost, 
would  have  been  considered  as  the  mere  prolusions  and  inceptive  experi- 
ments of  his  fancy,  instead  of  remaining,  after  the  lapse  of  ten  years,  the 
only  ones  among  his  novels  that  can  be  regarded  with  any  approach  to 
satisfaction  by  those  who  estimate  his  capacity  as  it  deserves  ?  His  histo- 
rical romances  in  the  higher  vein  are  already  as  dead  as  if  no  Waverleys 
and  Old  Mortalities  haa  ever  called  them  into  the  mockery  of  life ;  and  of 
his  comic  novels,  in  three  volumes,  although  each  contains  obviously  the 
elements  of  a  capital  single  volume,  there  is  probably  not  one  that  has  ever 
been  read  through  a  second  time. 

NORTH. 

Considered  as  a  novel,  perhaps  the  last  that  I  have  seen,  Lawrie 
Todd,  is  the  least  worthy  of  him  j  yet  it  would  be  impossible  to  praise  too 
highly  the  exquisitely  quaint  humour  of  various  conceptions,  the  gems  of 
shrewd  sarcastic  philosophy  which  here  and  there  shine  out  in  its  narra- 
tive, or  the  dramatic  beauty  of  various  fragments  of  its  dialogue.  To  see 
such  things  so  thrown  away  is  to  me  melancholy.  No  doubt  that  particular 
book  will  have  very  extensive  success  in  the  market,  because  of  the  valu- 
able practical  suggestions  to  persons  emigrating  to  America ;  but  I  certainly 
must  regret  that  such  materials  should  have  been,  comparatively  speaking, 
sacrificed. 

TICKLER. 

Confoundjhaste  and  hurry  !  What  else  can  account  for  Theodore  Hooke's 
position  ?  Who  that  has  read  his  "  Sayings  and  Doings,"  and,  above  all,  his 
"  Maxwell,"  can  doubt,  that  had  he  given  himself  time  for  consideration 
and  correction,  we  should  have  been  hailing  him,  ei'e  now,  nem.  con.,  as 
another  Smollett,  if  not  another  Le  Sage  ?  Had  he,  instead  of  embroider- 
ing his  humour  upon  textures  of  fable,  as  weakly  transparent  as  ever  issued 
from  the  loom  of  Minerva  Lane,  taken  the  trouble  to  elaborate  the  warp 
ere  he  set  about  weaving  the  woof — which  last  could  never  have  been  any 
trouble  to  him  at  all — upon  what  principle  can  any  man  doubt  that  he 
might  have  produced  at  least  one  novel  entitled  to  be  ranked  with  the 
highest  ?  Surely  sheer  headlong  haste  alone — the  desire,  cost  what  it  may, 
to  fill  a  certain  number  of  pages  within  a  given  time — could  ever  have 
tempted  such  a  writer,  one  whose  perceptions  of  the  ludicrous  have  such 
lightning  quickness,  into  tampering  with  such  materials  as  make  up,  with- 
out exception,  his  serious,  and  above  all,  his  pathetic  scenes.  Those  solemn 
common-places  produce  the  same  painful  sense  of  incongruous  absurdity 
which  attends  the  admixture  of  melo-dramatic  sentimentalities  in  a  broad 
farce  at  the  Haymarket.  Loves  and  tears,  and  grand  passions,  and  midnight 
hags,  and  German  suicides,  alongside — parietibus  nullis — of  his  excellency 
the  Governor-General,  and  Mr  Godfrey  Moss !  What  would  one  say  to 
Julia  de  Roubigne,  spun  thread  about  in  the  same  web  with  Humphrey 
Clinker  ? 

NORTH. 

I  agree  with  you,  and  I  sincerely  hope  this  novel-improvisatore  will  pause 
ere  it  is  too  late,  and  attempt  something  really  worthy  of  his  imagination. 
But  as  it  is,  such  is  the  richness  of  the  vis  comica  showered  over  these 
careless  extravaganzas,  that  unless  he  himself  throws  them  into  the  shade 
by  subsequent  performances,  I  venture  to  say  they  have  &  better  chance  of 
being  remembered  a  hundred  years  hence  than  any  contemporary  produc- 


1831.]  Noctes  AmbrosiancB.     No.  LVIJI.  533 

tions  of  their  class — except  only  those  of  the  two  great  lights  of  Scotland 
arid  Ireland — "  jamdudum  adscripta  Camomis." 

TICKLKK. 

I  would  also  except  Miss  Susan  Ferrier.  Her  novels,  no  doubt,  have 
many  defects — their  plots  are  poor — their  episodes  disproportionate  — 
and  the  characters  too  often  caricatures :  but  they  are  all  thick  set  with 
such  specimens  of  sagacity,  such  happy  traits  of  nature,  such  flashes  of 
genuine  satire,  such  easy  humour,  sterling  good  sense,  and,  above  all — 
God  only  knows  where  she  picked  it  up — mature  and  perfect  knowledge  of 
the  world,  that  I  think  we  may  safely  anticipate  for  them  a  different  fate 
from  what  awaits  even  the  cleverest  of  juvenile  novels. 

NORTH. 

They  are  the  works  cf  a  very  clever  woman,  sir,  and  they  have  one  feature 
of  true  and  very  melancholy  interest,  quite  peculiar  to  themselves.  It  is  in 
them  alone  that  the  ultimate  breaking  down  and  debasement  of  the  Highland 
character  has  been  depicted.  Sir  Walter  Scott  had  fixed  the  enamel  of  ge- 
nius over  the  last  fitful  gleams  of  their  half  savage  chivalry ;  but  a  humbler 
and  sadder  scene — the  age  of  lucre-banished  clans — of  chieftains  dwind- 
led into  imitation-squires — and  of  chiefs  content  to  barter  the  recollections 
of  a  thousand  years  for  a  few  gaudy  seasons  of  Almack's  and  Crockford's 
— the  euthanasia  of  kilted  aldermen  and  steam-boat  pibrochs  was  reserved 
for  Miss  Ferrier. 

TICKLER. 

She,  in  general,  fails  almost  as  egregiously  as  Hooke  does,  in  the  pathetic ; 
but  in  her  last  piece  tbere  is  one  scene  of  this  description,  worthy  of  either 
Sterne  or  Goldsmith.  I  mean  where  the  young  man,  supposed  to  have  been 
lost  at  sea,  revisits,  after  a  lapse  of  time,  the  precincts  of  his  home,  watch- 
ing, unseen,  in  the  twilight,  the  occupations  and  bearings  of  the  different 
members  of  the  family,  and  resolving,  under  the  influence  of  most  generous 
feeling,  to  keep  the  secret  of  his  preservation. 

NORTH. 

I  remember  it  well ;  and  you  might  bestow  the  same  kind  of  praise  on 
the  \vhole  character  of  Molly  Macaulty.  It  is  a  picture  of  humble,  kind- 
hearted,  thorough-going  devotion,  and  long-suffering,  indefatigable  gentle- 
ness, of  which,  perhaps,  no  sinner  of  our  gender  could  have  adequately  filled 
up  ,the  outline.  Miss  Ferrier  appears  habitually  in  the  light  of  a  somewhat 
hard  satirist;  but  there  is  always  a  fund  of  romance  at  the  bottom  of  every 
true  woman's  heart.  Who  has  tried  to  stifle  and  suppress  that  element  more 
carefully  and  pertinaciously — and  yet  who  has  drawn,  in  spite  of  herself, 
more  genuine  tears  than  the  authoress  of  Simple  Susan  ? 

TICKLER. 

Aye,  who  indeed  !  But  she's  up  to  any  thing. 

NORTH. 

It  is  perhaps  a  safe  general  rule  to  seek,  elsewhere  than  in  the  pathetic, 
the  main  sustaining  texture  of  the  fictitious  narrative  of  large  dimensions. 
Even  Clarissa  Harlowc  has  sunk  under  the  weight  of  her  eight  volumes. 
But  it  is  not  the  less  true,  that  no  skill  has  ever  succeeded — perhaps  genius, 
using  the  word  in  its  higher  sense,  has  never  tried — to  fix  prevailing  inte- 
rest in  the  novel,  any  more  than  in  the  drama,  on  any  character  destitute  of 
some  touches  of  the  softer  kind. 

TICKLER. 

This  spark,  Bulwer,  and  the  other  lads  we  have  been  talking  over,  ap- 
pear all  to  have  been  of  that  way  of  thinking.  They  have  all  made  the 
substratum  worldly,  and  endeavoured  to  inlay  it  with  fragments  of  the  pa- 
thetic. 

NORTH. 

Yes — and  they  have  failed,  in  my  humble  opinion,  in  producing  the  de- 
sired efl'ect — not  from  want  of  talent,  but  from  want  of  previous  medita- 
tion. You  must  prepare  some  depth  of  soil  before  you  plant  noble  seeds. 
If  one  or  two  shoot  up  amidst  a  vegetation,  the  general  character  of  which 
bespeaks  them  uncongenial,  the  idea  of  artifice  is  at  once  suggested,  and 
not  a  whit  less  painfully  than  when  gaudy  patches  of  colour,  such  as  would 


634  Nodes  Ambrosiante.    No.  Z  VIIL  [Sept. 

be  at  home  in  a  conservatory,  are  met  with  "  under  the  shade  of  venerable 
boughs." 

TICKLER. 

Witness  Theodore  Hooke's  blarney  pathetics  on  the  one  hand,  and  the 
muddy  merriment  of  the  German  novelists  of  the  present  time  and  their 
English  imitators,  on  the  other.  -  -, 

NORTH.  -»J3Mn»^}  ^MRJMrifeftT 

The  true  master  is  he  who  pitches  his  main  key  neither  on  mirth  nor  on 
sadness,  but  on  the  calm  contemplativeness  of  good  sense ;  from  that  ho 
may  descend,  on  occasion,  without  degradation,  and  rise  without  the  ap- 
pearance of  painful  effort,  to  say  nothing  of  rash  presumption.  But  is  not 

this,  in  all  Cases,  sraXXnf  •rn^ets  nhivreuav  ivri'yn'ivnfj.u.  j 

TICKLER. 

Aye — and  is  it  not  here  that  the  secret  of  the  proverbial  ill  success  of 
juvenile  novelists  lies  ?  Their  own  minds  are  as  yet  too  much  under  the 
sway  of  their  emotions,  whether  grave  or  gay,  to  have  had  leisure  for  ana- 
lyzing them  to  their  roots,  and  observing  iu  what  relations,  as  well  as  forms, 
nature  means  them  to  be  developed. 

NORTH. 

It  asks  a  short  apprenticeship  to  imitate  the  most  brilliant  parterre ;  but 
half  a  lifetime  of  herbalism  to  be  able  to  produce  a  tolerable  fac-simile  of  ;i 
single  square  yard  of  mountain  turf. 

TICKLER.      .  iK-m**  »*»UI  ftotfetofeKSftit 

That's  well  said,  Christopher.  ...* »»  ^rf  %j»q 

NORTH,  vi  *&  *L  «ba* 

Why,  I'm  no  Johnson,  I  allow,  but  I  can  now  and  then  turn  out  a  toler- 
ably rounded  pebble.  Thank  God,  I  have  never  had  a  Boswell. 

TICKLER.         iVjn>»(fcti>n  nrnnntrnj 

You  seem,  to  have  bestowed  much  consideration  on  novel- writing.  Why 
have  you  never  tried  it  ? 

NORTH.  •  .W.J 

Wait  a  little.    You  shall  see  what  you  shall  see. 

TICKLER. 

Yours,   I  presume,  will  be  a  ten-years'  job — a  real  elaborate  master- 
,  piece. 

jlU-m    JTt  NORTH. 

Why,  sir,  I  consider  it  as  a  cursedly  difficult  line.  la  fact,  it  has  often  struck 
me  that  something  like  what  has  been  said  of  the  Italian  language,  that  there 
is  none  of  which  a  passable  command  may  be  attained  so  easily,  and  none 
in  which  real  mastery  asks  more  unwearied  application,  might  be  applied 
to  this  same  craft  of  novel-writing.  I  have  my  doubts  if  even  the  drama  de- 
mands, on  the  whole,  either  greater  natural  talents,  or  more  deliberate  study 
of  the  world,  or  more  systematic  investigation  of  the  principles  of  art,  than 
this  form  of  composition,  in  which  every  unfledged  stripling  pours  out,  now- 
a-days,  the  rawnesses  of  his  petulance,  in  such  haste  and  levity,  ami  with 
such  pitiable  ignorance  or  contemptible  neglect  of  its  objects  and  rules. 

TICKLER.  jjh  pgtf  JAlftf 

I  am  happy  to  observe  you  so  rarely  meddle  with  the  stuff  in  old  Maga — 
certainly  to  notice  the  thousand-and-one  abortions  of  this  class,  which  are 
ushered  into  the  world  every  season  with  "  puffs  preliminary,"  unparalleled 
in  any  preceding  period  for  impudence  and  mendacity,  would  be  an  unpar- 
donable waste  of  time  and  paper. 

NORTH.  UQ  *,(,   MKUufafti  IftM 

Yes,  truly.  If  any  adult  creatures  believe,  on  the  authority  of  a  news- 
paper paragraph,  that  a  "wholly  new  view  of  fashionable  life,  in  some  of  its 
most  guarded  circles,"  is  about  to  burst  on  the  eyes  of  mankind  from  tin- 
pages  of  "  Almack's,"  or"  The  Exclusives,"  or  "  The  Spring  in  Town,"  or 
"  A  Week  on  the  Steyne,"  or  "  Wedded  Life  in  the  Upper  Ranks,"  or  "Mo- 
thers and  Daughters,  a  Tale  of  1830,"  or  "  The  Premier,"  or  "The  King's 
Secret,"  what  the  deuce  can  I  or  any  other  compassionate  Christian  do  to 
help  them  out  of  their  delusion  ?  If  they  know  any  thing  at  all  about  novel- 

-  -4  r«r  Ff* 


1831.]  Noctes  Ambrosiance.    No.  L  VI II.  535 

publishers  and  newspaper-columns,  they  are  well  aware  that  the  latter  are 
open  to  whatever  the  former  choose  to  indite  of  and  concerning  the  wares 
in  which  they  deal,  upon  terms  precisely  similar  to  those  on  which  profess- 
ed advertisements  are  admitted ;  and  if,  Mr  Tickler,  not  ignorant  of  this 
undisputed  fact,  they  will  still  persist  in  putting  a  whit  more  credence  in 
the  editorial  "we,"  so  prostituted,  than  in  an  auctioneer's  blazon  about  his 
Titians  and  Corregios,  why,  what  remedy  can  be  looked  for  ? 

TICKLER. 

Only  one — the  ruin  of  the  circulating  libraries — a  consummation  which, 
I  am  told,  a  very  few  more  seasons  of  perseverance  in  the  existing  system 
as  to  these  matters  must  produce. 

NORTH. 

Explain  yourself,  and  pass  the  decanters. 

TICKLER. 

To  buy  all  or  most  of  the  gaudy  duodecimos  of  the  season  is  what  not 
the  wildest  devourer  of  such  fare  ever  dreams  of — few  private  individuals 
think  of  buying  any  of  them.  But  there  are  hundreds  and  thousands  who 
lend  to  the  "  paid  paragraphs"  such  a  measure  of  credence  as  renders  them 
impatient  to  see  each  successive  abomination  as  soon  as  it  quits  the  manu- 
factory; and  the  keeper  of  the  library  is  in  fact  obliged  to  procure,  at  the 
first  moment,  dozens  and  scores,  in  some  cases  even  hundreds,  of  copies  of 
a  book,  which  announced,  forsooth,  as  containing  the  quintessence  of  a 
distinguished  life's  experience,  illuminated  by  the  brilliant  touches  of  a 
masterly  pen,  has  every  chance,  ere  three  weeks  elapse,  to  be  condemned 
on  all  hands  as  the  equally  ignorant  and  stupid  galimatias  of  some  malevolent 
schoolboy — or,  perhaps,  the  sickly  trash  of  some  half-forgotten  anecdote, 
served  up  with  a  sauce  meant  to  be  piquante,  of  vicious  sentimentality, 
by  some  worn-out  divorcee.  Another  production  of  the  same  order,  trumpet- 
ed with  equal  effrontery,  and  for  the  moment  with  equal  success,  has  next 
its  run,  and  then,  like  the  former,  sinks  into  mere  lumber  on  the  unhappy 
non-circulator's  shelves,  and  so  on. 

NORTH. 

Uno  avulso  non  deficit  alter  Aeneus — 

TICKLER. 

The  number  of  establishments  thus  impoverished  within  these  few  years 
would,  I  was  assured,  if  one  could  procure  an  accurate  estimate,  astound 
even  persons  conversant  with  the  details  of  the  bookselling  business  in  its 
more  respectable  branches  ;  and  the  proprietors  of  those  which  have  as  yet 
stood  the  drain,  and  hold  out,  from  obvious  motives,  no  public  ensign  of  dis- 
pleasure or  alarm,  do  not  hesitate,!  was  also  assured,  to  confess  in  private  that, 
if  the  system  goes  on  much  longer,  the  best  of  them  must  yield  in  their  turn. 
Already  they  liave  made  some  rather  vigorous  efforts  to  emancipate  them- 
selves from  the  wheel  to  which  profligate  cunning  has  bound  them ;  and  on 
one  recent  occasion  an  exposure,  which  at  least  ought  to  have  been  deci- 
sive, was  very  narrowly  escaped. 

NORTH. 

What  was  this  ? 

TICKLER. 

The  story  will  amuse  you.  Not  contented  with  the  usual  machinery  of 
the  newspapers,  the  publisher  of  a  certain  forthcoming  "  fashionable  novel" 
of  last  season,  ventured  to  send  round  his  clerk  to  the  different  circulating 
libraries,  with  a  distinct  intimation  from  himself,  that  it  was  the  work  of — 
her  Royal  Highness  the  Duchess  of  Gloucester !  The  number  of  copies 
ordered  was,  of  course,  altogether  unusual.  The  first  ten  pages  satisfied 
every  one — they  were  exquisitely  vulgar  in  diction,  and  the  substance 
something  even  worse.  The  parties  taken  in  plucked  up  spirit,  and  the 
result  had  like  to  have  been  serious. 

NORTH. 

What  brass ! 

TICKLER. 

I  believe  it  turned  out  that  the  real  author  of  the  filth  wrs  an  Unitarian 
teacher  somewhere  in  Lancashire. 

VOL.  XXX.  NO.  CLXXXV.  2  M 


536  Nodes  Ambrosiancs.    No.  L  VIII.  [Sept. 

NORTH. 

I  am  afraid  you  are  quite  right,  that  the  chief  blame  in  this  mystery  of 
iniquity  lies  at  the  door  of  the  publishers;  but  it  is  only  fair  to  remember 
the  candid  admission  of  Le  Sage,  that  "  un  libraire  et  un  auteur  sont  deux 


Sage's  account  of  a  trick  exactly 
time  in  this  line,  and  superior,  in  his  opinion,  "  aux  tours  les  plus  ingenieux 
de  Guzman  d'Alfarache." 

TICKLER. 

The  world  is  the  same — and  will  continue  to  be  so.  Several  persons  well 
connected,  and  one  or  two  of  considerable  standing  personally  in  society, 
have  unquestionably  permitted  themselves  to  wink  at  and  share  in  the 
lucre  of  these  recent  deceptions — and  "  Cuiprodest  damnum, fecit" 

NORTH. 

Why,  that  such  transactions  have  left  a  stain  upon  names  which  the  world 
had  been  accustomed  to  respect,  is,  I  fear,  notorious.  I  for  a  while  listened 
to  certain  humiliating  rumours  with  incredulous  contempt — but  time  pass- 
ed on — disclosure  succeeded  disclosure. 

TICKLER. 

One  can't,  however,  doubt  that  the  public  have  been  eager,  and  there- 
fore culpable  dupes.  But  for  the  wide  prevalence  of  more  than  one 
base  feeling  in  the  general  mind,  such  deceptions  most  assuredly  could 
never  have  been  found  enlisting  in  their  train  some,  at  least,  of  these 
gentlemen.  Does  this  vile  hankering  after  the  fruits  of  real  or  supposed 
espionage  among  the  circles  of  what  is  called  fashionable  life — this  dirty 
curiosity  for  minute  details  of  what  passes  in  the  interior  of  "  exclusive" 
saloons — this  prurient  appetite  for  malicious  anecdotes  and  voluptuous  de- 
scriptions, mixed  up  with  thinly  veiled  corruptions  and  travesties  of  noble 
and  distinguished  names — does  this  overgorged  and  yet  insatiable  appetite 
merit  no  epithet  worse  than  vulgar?  It  unquestionably  co-exists  with  a 
more  open  arraignment  of  all  aristocratical  privileges  and  pretensions  than 
ever  before  formed  a  marking  feature  in  the  habitual  language  and  conver- 
sation of  any  considerable  portion  of  English  society — and,  I  must  say,  I 
think  it  very  possible,  that,  in  other  days,  the  two  things  may  be  laid  to- 
gether very  little  to  the  credit  of  contemporary  good  faith. 

NORTH. 

Peutetre. 

TICKLER. 

Peutfitre  ? — Frivolous  and  flimsy  as  these  works  are,  sir,  they  will  be 
pointed  to  hereafter,  as  indicating  a  prevalent  tone  of  thought  and  feeling 
not  more  mean  than  malignant, — a  slave-like  admiration  of  external  dis- 
tinctions, miserably  inconsistent  with  a  rational  appreciation  either  of  the 
blessings  which  all  orders  of  society  owe  to  the  establishment  of  lawful 
gradations  of  ranks,  or  of  the  beautiful  arrangement  by  which  our  own 
forefathers  secured  to  genius  and  virtue,  in  whatever  walk  of  life  deve- 
loped, the  possibility  of  attaining  to  the  highest — but  consistent  enough  with 
shortsighted  jealousy  and  impatient  envy,  a  crouching  rancour,  and  all  the 
craft  of  venom. 

NORTH. 

Your  opinion  is  mine.  And  surely,  surely,  nothing  but  the  extravagance 
with  wliich  this  gross  public  appetite  enabled  booksellers  to  pay  for  "  Tales 
of  Fashionable  Life,"  written  by  denizens  of  Grub  Street,  could  ever  have 
tempted  persons,  really  familiar  in  any  sort  with  the  habits  and  manners  of 
the  people  whose  movements  illustrate  the  columns  of  the  Morning  Post, 
to  enter  upon  this  particular  species  of  novel. 

TICKLER. 

Certainly  not, — but,  though  a  few  such  persons  have  recently  done  so, 
the  staple  supply  of  the  market  continues  to  come  from  the  original  manu- 
facturers, on  whose  department  they  have  intruded.  So  completely,  in- 
deed, had  the  Siruists  taken  possession  of  the  public  ear,  that  the  others 
found  themselves  obliged  to  give  hi  to  an  established  taste,  and  to  limit 


1831.]  Noctea  Ambrosianee.    No.LVIH.  537 

their  ambition  to  doing  better  than  their  predecessors,  what,  but  for  such 
predecessors,  they  would  never  have  dreamt  of  doing  at  all. 

NORTH. 

It  is  impassible  to  account  otherwise  for  the  eternally  recurring  elabo- 
rate descriptions  of  fine  dresses,  fine  furniture,  fine  dinners,  and  fine  equi- 
pages, which  burden  every  chapter  even  of  such  of  these  fashionable  novels 
as  intrinsic  evidence  of  a  better  sort  traces  to  the  pens  of  persons  of  dis- 
tinction. When  a  man  is  continually  reminding  you  that  he  eats  his  mess 
with  a  silver  spoon,  one  may  be  tolerably  sure  that  he  was  born  to  a  wooden 
one;  and  the  crawling  vulgarity  that  could  alone  have  set  up  details  of 
this  order,  as  a  necessary,  nay,  a  primary  feature — that  speaks  for  itself. 

TICKLER. 

It  is  as  if  butlers  and  fiddlers  had  taken  in  hand  to  depict  what  it  was 
their  business  to  serve. 

NORTH. 

The  eye  is  essentially  incompetent,  and  the  point  de  vue  hopelessly  false. 
These  are  precisely  the  last  circumstances  on  which  it  would  have  occur- 
red naturally  to  even  the  silliest  of  the  porphyrogeniti  to  dilate. 

TICKLER. 

Exactly  so ; — but  how  are  foreigners  to  see  through  all  this  ?  These 
same  novels  have  been  most  widely  circulated,  not  only  in  this  country, 
but  on  thfl  continent  of  Europe— indeed,  our  literature  is  now  almost 
universally  studied  there — and  every  book  that  acquires  any  degree 
of  popularity  here  is  sure  to  be  translated  forthwith  into  at  least  the  two 
most  extensive  languages — and,  in  the  United  States,  editions  on  editions 
even  of  the  worst  of  them  appear  to  have  been  called  for.  They  are  thus 
read  by  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  who  have  no  chance  whatever  of 
comparing  the  manners  which  they  represent  with  those  actually  prevail- 
ing in  England;  and  are  criticised  in  innumerable  journals,  more  especial- 
ly in  America,  as  furnishing  data  of  undoubted  authenticity  whereon  to 
form  a  grave  estimate  of  the  moral  and  social  condition  of  our  upper  classes. 
I  really  can't  help  suspecting  that  in  this  way,  far  more  than  in  any  other, 
the  vogue  of  these  lucubrations  has  been  productive  of  serious  evil.  In 
short,  I  do  and  must  ascribe,  in  no  slight  degree,  to  this  circumstance,  the 
almost  universal  zeal  with  which  foreign  journalists,  even  of  the  highest 
class,  have  of  late  been  echoing  those  false  and  fiendish  libels  of  our  Utili- 
tarian doctrinaires,  which,  until  of  late,  had  moved  among  ourselves  hardly 
any  deeper  feeling  than  a  contemptuous  ridicule — those  long  scorned  and 
neglected  diatribes,  which  uniformly  and  systematically  describe  the  Bri- 
tish nation  as  oppressed  and  ground  to  the  dust  by  the  tyranny  and  exac- 
tions of  a  small,  compact  caste  of  rapacious  aristocrats — animated  by  feel- 
ings and  principles  entirely  selfish  and  peculiar — in  their  personal  habits 
as  effeminately  profligate  as  the  old  courtiers  of  the  Damns  Aurea  or  the 
(Eil-de-boeuf—s.ntl  but  adding  insult  to  injury  by  controlling  every  branch 
of  government  and  legislation  for  the  purposes  of  their  own  gratification, 
through  an  impudent  mock-machinery  of  free  institutions. 

NORTH. 

Perhaps  one  might  also  trace  a  considerable  reaction  of  the  foreign  opi- 
nions, thus  fraudulently  influenced,  in  the  general  tone  of  our  own  period- 
ical miscellanies.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  that  tone  has  undergone  a 
most  remarkable  change,  in  reference  to  many  of  the  most  important  sub- 
jects that  fall  within  their  province,  within  these  few  years.  Unquestion- 
ably, with  a  scanty  handful  of  exceptions,  even  the  soi-disant  Tory  press 
of  recent  times  has  been  advocating,  at  least  by  innuendo  and  insinuation, 
political  doctrines  which,  but  four  or  five  years  ago,  were  hardly  avowed 
except  by  the  most  audacious  of  the  mob-worshippers. 

TICKLER. 

There  may  have  been  something  of  this  too — but,  after  all,  it  must  be 
owned,  that  such  consequences  could  never  have  flowed  from  the  circula- 
tion of  pictures  of  manners  altogether  false  and  unfounded.  No,  sir,  in  the 
very  worst  of  these  delineations  there  has,  unhappily,  been  a  substratum  of 
truth ;  perhaps  the  very  darkest  of  them  have  failed  in  rendering  complete 


588  Nodes  Ambrosiance.     No.  L  VIII.  [Sept. 

justice  to  the  moral  and  political  profligacy  of  one  circle  of  the  British 
aristocracy.  But  the  mischief  and  the  misery  is,  that  principles,  feelings, 
and  manners,  the  prevalence  of  which  in  that  particular  circle  could  never 
be  denied,  have  been  passed  on  the  easy  credence  of  ignorant  foreigners, 
and  multitudes  equally  unobservant  as  unreflective  at  home,  as  common  to 
the  upper  classes  in  this  country  as  a  body — whence,  in  great  measure,  at 
least  according  to  the  best  of  my  belief  and  conviction,  that  wide-spread 
prejudice  against  the  aristocracy,  that  real  and  rooted  hostility  to  the  esta- 
blished distinctions  of  ranks  among  us,  which  I  see  around  me. 

NORTH. 

And  in  which  the  shortsighted  ambition  of  an  English  party  has  found, 
and  has  not  feared  to  employ,  a  too  efficient  lever  of  revengeful  ambition. 

TICKLEHil    \Kftb  '. 

The  heads  of  that  party  are  themselves  aristocrats— nay,  "  Pharisees  of 
the  Pharisees;"  they  belong,  most  of  them,  to  the  very  highest  and  haughti- 
est houses  in  the  empire.  How  then  to  reconcile  their  personal  position, 
their  habitual  prejudices  and  connexions,  and  modes  of  life  and  conversa- 
tion, with  their  deliberate  instrumentality  in  helping  on  that  principle 
against  which,  if  further  strengthened,  their  own  boasted  "  order"  could  no 
more  stand  than  could  a  Chinese  pagoda  against  an  American  hurricane  1 

NORTH.  nncnoT 

Here,  indeed,  is  a  difficulty  which,  were  history  silent,  unassisted  reason 
might  confess  it  impossible  to  solve.  But  history  is  not  silent,  hi  how 
dense  and  impenetrable  a  shallowness  of  mist  vanity  can  cover  the  pre- 
cipice towards  which  overreaching  ambition  spurns  its  victim  ! — that,  sir,  is 
an  old  tale,  that  may  very  likely  be  new  again.  Have  you  read  that  mas- 
terly sketch  of  the  downfall  of  Athens  and  Rome  in  the  last  Quarterly  ?  It 
is  a  splendid  performance,  and  every  word  of  it  God's  truth. 

TICKLER. 

Yes,  indeed. 

NORTH. 

Gospel  every  line,  sir.  Never  yet  was  any  ancient  government  over- 
thrown from  within,  otherwise  than  through  the  exertions  of  persons  who, 
upon  all  rational  principles  of  action,  should  have  been  among  the  steadiest 
ot  its  upholders.  A  party  of  the  Roman  nobility  enabled  the  lower  orders 
to  weaken  and  degrade  the  upper,  until,  after  a  brief  interval  of  anarchy,  all 
orders  were  happy  to  take  refuge  from  each  other's  violence  ia  a  despotism 
— "  mutuo  metu  odioque  cuncta  turbata  et  fessa  in  unum  cessere."  Let 
Segur  tell  how  it  was  in  France — let  him  explain  the  delusion  under  which 
so  many  of  the  glittering  grand  seigneurs  of  his  day  walked  merrily  to  their 
doom — the  mad  conceit  which  prevented  them  from  perceiving  that  they 
were  in  a  false  position  when  they  at  once  echoed  the  "  liberalism"  /of  their 
enemies,  and  hoped  to  retain,  nay,  to  improve,  the  luxurious  eminence  to 
which  they  had  been  born.  "  Gracchi  ante  Syllam ;" — there  were  Mira- 
beaus  before  there  were  Dantons— and  of  all  the  French  nobility  ;can  we 
name  more  than  one — if  indeed  one — that  ultimately  profited  by  the  Revo- 
lution, to  which  so  many  hundreds  of  them  contributed — and  which,  had 
they  understood  their  interests,  and  acted  as  a  body,  could  never  have 
been  <  mVi-tq  oMtriri(oJ  tw/?)  u^sob-B-lljiii  evodnn^yd 

TICKLER.,  f  eubluDBMim  voml£  ns  of  £>•• 

Thus  it  is,  you  see,  whatever  we  begin  with,  we  are  sure  to  end  in  poli- 
tics. But  it's  the  same  with  every  body,  and  every  thing.  The  bottle's 
out. 

NORTH  (rings.) 

Another  bottle  of  the  same.— Well,  well,  let's  come  back  to  your  London 
budget. 

TICKLER. 

Why,  I  think  I  gave  you  quite  enough  of  that  last  time—of  the  House  of 
Commons  at  any  rate. 

NORTH. 

I  was  much  amused  with  your  sketches  ;  when  inspired  by  the  Genius 
of  Disgust,  you  are  rather  a  dab  at  that  sort  of  scraping— but  on  the  whole, 

:->: 


. 

1831.]  Nodes  AwbrosiuiHs.     No.  L  VIII.  539 

'tis  pretty  clear  you  came  away  with  quite  a  different  sort  of  feeling  from 
Lord  Byron's,  wlicn  he  said  he  could  not  conceive  of  himself  as  being  a  bit 
more  frightened  to  speak  there,  than  before  any  other  possible  synod  of 
five  hundred  human  souls — Methodists  in  a  barn,  Mussulmen  in  a  mosque 
—or  Jack-tars  and  their  Dollys  in  the  pit  at  Portsmouth. 

TICKLER. 

And  a  pretty  judge  he  was  of  all,  or  any  one  of  these  questions—!  like 
the  coolness  of  his  notion,  that  it  was  quite  certain  he  could  have  spoken  to 
purpose  either  in  barn,  or  mosque,  or  the  other  place  of  worship  you  allu° 
ded  to.  His  attempts  in  the  House  of  Lords  were  wretched  pieces  of 
puerile  puppyism,  one  and  all  of  them,  by  every  account ;  and  I  take  it  the 
audience  there  are  a  deuced  deal  more  like  the  congregations  he  chatters 
about,  than  any  St  Stephen's  is  in  the  custom  of  producing. 

NORTH. 

More  distinguished  for  Christianity,  for  gravity,  or  for  bravery?— for 
which  ?  or  for  all  ? 

TICKLER. 

For  all  of  these  things,  my  dear,  and  for  tolerance  too,  which  must  have 
been  more  for  Lord  Byron's  behoof  when  he  uttered  that  glib  smart 
oratiuncle,  which  Tommy  Moore  is  evidently  ashamed  to  insert  in  his 
Omnigatherum.  No,  no,  Christopher — laugh  who  will  at  the  Collective 
Wisdom,  but  let  no  man,  who  has  never  tried  the  trick,  make  light  of  the 
Collective  Taste. 

Nescis,  heu,  nescis  dominae  fastidia  Roma?  ; 

Crede  mihi,  nimium  Martia  turba  sapit. 
Majores  nusquam  ronchi,  juvenesque  senesque 
Et  pueri  nasum  Rhinocerotis  habent. 

NORTH. 
Please  to  interpret  your  Hebrew. 

TICKLER. 

Depend  upon't,  Don  Juan  was  quite  out, 
When  at  the  Commons  he  turn'd  up  his  snout ; 
I  never  heard  such  marrow-freezing  mirth, 
-10 hr  As  they  have  ready  for  a  Blunder's  birth — 

And  there's  more  mercy  in  your  sea-wolf's  horn,""*  »M>! 
Than  when  a  bit  of  Blackguard  wakes  their  scorn.  "&-io 

NORTH. 

ifiw  •!<»!     And  M.  P.  on  the  whole's  a  brute  more  knowing 
li  nThan  Turk,  or  Whitfieldite,  or  Jack-cwn-blowing. 

/'JjH  JjSlf1  TICKLER.  BIS  HI  *»d'— U1OOD 

Ay — but  still,  how  to  account  for  the  absolute  effect  of  the  compound, 
that,  I  confess,  is  quite  beyond  me.  I  look  round  and  perceive,  certainly, 
a  rather  shabby,  and  perhaps,  on  the  whole,  dull-looking  congregation  of  the 
children  of  Adam.  Here  and  there  one  catches  a  dancing  eyeball,  no  doubt, 
but  the  general  aspect  is,  if  any  thing,  inert.  Whence,  then,  the  unques- 
tioned result— that  never  yet  was  so  sharp,  so  delicate,  so  exquisite  a  critic, 
as  the  Amalgam  ?  Whence,  above  all,  comes  it  that  in  no  age  have  there 
been  above  half-a-dozen  even  tolerable  performers,  out  of  an  assembly  thus 
imbued  to  an  almost  miraculous  extent  with  the  sense  of  what  performance 
rhetorical  ought  to  be  ? 

fJ-JVS  i>          NORTH. 

Why,  I  can't  understand  the  puzzle.  If  you  come  to  this,  I  should  like  to 
know  in  what  age  there  have  been  more  than  half  a  dozen  great  hands  in  any 
one  given  department  of  human  exertion.  I  should  like  to  know  upon  what 
principle  you  see  nothing  wonderful  in  the  fact  that  there  should  be,  at  this 
moment,  in  Great  Britain  at  the  very  utmost  six  poets  (and  only  two  in  the 
rest  of  the  world,  Goethe  and  Beranger) — certainly  not  above  six  philoso- 
phers— certainly  not  six  physicians  worthy  of  the  name— certainly  nothing 
like  six  preachers  whom  any  human  creature  would  wish  to  hear  twice- 
most  assuredly  not  six  lawyers  whom  either  of  us  would  fee — nor  six  paint- 
ers to  whose  productions  a  sane  man  would  give  house-room — probably 
not  three  sculptors  to  whom  either  you  or  I  would  sit  for  our  busts,  or  in 


540  Nodes  Ambrosiance.    No.  L  VIII.  [Sept 

case  of  unl.imely  death,  wish  a  grateful  nation  to  intrust  our  monumental 
statues — nay,  to  come  lower  down,  not  six  tailors  whose  coats  we  could 
.wear — not  six  shoemakers  to  whose  tender  mercies  we  would  submit  our 
corns— not  six  cutlers  capable  of  turning  out  a  really  sweet  razor — I  say,  I 
am  at  a  loss  to  understand  upon  what  principle  you  sit  undisturbed  amidst 
all  this  prevalence  of  paucity  in  the  various  departments  of  poetry,  science, 
predication,  law,  physic;,  painting,  sculpture,  sneidericks,  sabligaculicks,  and 
tonsoricks — and  yet  stare,  and  of  your  staring  find  no  end,  because  the  ora- 
tors of  St  Stephen's  are  seldom  more  numerous  than  the  sages  of  Greece, 
or  the  wonders  of  the  world. 

TICKLER. 

How,  then,  do  you  account  for  the  practical  acumen  of  the  congregated 
blunts  ? 

NORTH. 

Just  as  T  do  for  many  other  queer  things  in  this  world  of  men,  women, 
and  consequently  children — upon  the  principle  of  animal  magnetism.  When 
a  multitude  of  human  beings  are  gathered  together  in  one  place,  the  efflu- 
via of  the  more  energetic  two  or  three  dozen  gives  tone  to  the  atmosphere — 
and  your  Coal-heaver  or  Caddie  in  the  gallery  appreciates  a  Kemble  in  Cato 
because  there  is  a  Ballantyne  in  the  side-box — and  Grizzy,puir  lassie,  whose 
head  on  Saturday  at  e'en  was  much  on  a  par  with  her  mopstick's,  has  on  Sun- 
day at  noon  a  soul  not  unworthy  of  the  ministrations  of  a  Chalmers,  simply 

because  the  pew  b'efore  her  holds  my  dear  Adelaide ,  and  in  the  same 

field  with  a  L'Amy  hardly  shall  even  a  Sir  Frizzle  Pumpkin  be  a  coward— 
or  a  Lord  Nugeut  be  a  ponderous,  while  he  has  to  inhale  ever  and  anon, 
nolens  volens,  the  vital  air  that  has  passed  the  minute  before  through  the 
lungs  of  a  Canning. 

TICKLER. 

At  this  rate,  if  we  had  a  House  of  Commons  consisting  of  six  hundred 
clever  fellows,  interspersed  with  only  some  fifty  fools,  the  fifty  might  really 
be  converted  into  very  rational  animals.  Nay,  in  a  House  altogether  made 
up  of  Peels,  Crokers,  Hardinges,  Inglises,  Holmeses,  Vyvyans,  Malions, 
Porchesters,  Dawsons,  Jeffreys,  Mackintoshes,  Shiels,  Macauleys,  and  Stan- 
leys, and  dotted  with  one  single  stray  Booby,  the  solitary  dunderhead  might, 
ere  long,  undergo  so  essential  a  modification,  that  your  Althorpe  should  be 
capable,  not  only  of  understanding  a  speech,  but  of  making  one. 

NORTH. 

Quite  possible.    But  you  are  too  fond  of  extreme  cases. 

TICKLER. 

You  open  a  curious  view  of  more  things  than  one.  If  you  are  right,  it 
must  certainly  be  true,  as  the  Apostle  Paul  says,  that  evil  communications 
corrupt  good  manners. 

NORTH. 

I  know  of  no  author  whose  observations  display  more  talent  and  saga- 
city than  that  Apostle's,  and  I  heartily  wish  preachers  of  the  Gospel  in 
general  would  endeavour  to  make  themselves  as  well  acquainted  with  men 
and  women,  over  and  above  Greek  and  Hebrew,  as  he  seems  to  have  been. 
This  text,  however,  is  Menander's,  not  St  Paul's— and  by  the  by,  I  wonder 
how  the  Presbytery  of  Glasgow,  with  St  Paul  quoting  that  quizzical  writer 
before  them,  could  entertain  that  overture  of  Lapslie's  against  our  friend 
John  Gait's  novels— But  there  can  he  no  doubt  of  the  fact — you  may  depend 
on  it  that  neither  character  nor  intellect  can  ever  be  proof  against  an  atmo- 
sphere vilely  compounded.  I  have  my  doubts  whether  Lucretia  would  have 
come  forth  with  a  tithe  of  her  mental  purity  from  a  midnight  ball-room 
stuck  full  of  Messalinas;  or  whether  Lord  Bacon  himself  could  have  penned 
the  worst  page  either  of  his  Organon  or  his  Essays,  after  attending  a 
sederunt  of  his  Majesty's  present  cabinet.  I  feel  the  thing  myself — I  have 
done  so,  indeed,  through  life.  What  a  pair  of  twaddlers  we  should  both  of 
us  have  been  by  this  time,  had  we  dined  this  blessed  day  in  company  with 
a  committee  of  Geordie  Brodie's  Union  '? — and  yet  it's  but  nine  hours,  man, 
by  the  clock— and  behold,  we  have  barely  drawn  our  third  cork !  Here's  to 
you. 


1831.]  Nodes  Ambrosianas.    No.  L  VIII.  541 

TICKLER. 

Well  done,  Albertus  Magnus !  This  is  really  a  first-rate  bin.  Heavens ! 
what  would  I  have  given  for  a  cool  long-necker  of  this  stuff  now  and  then 
during  some  of  these  sudorific  speeches  of  late,  as  Alderman  Wood  calls 
them  !  Nothing  surprises  me  so  much  as  the  physical  endurance  of  modern 
British  senators. 

NORTH. 

Why,  Pve  always  been  of  old  Sheridan's  opinion,  that  cold  punch 
ought  to  be  allowed  in  the  House  of  Commons.  The  Speaker  and  the 
Clerks,  and  perhaps  the  Sergeant-at-Arms,  had  as  well  stick  to  lemon- 
ade; but  surely,  surely,  the  actual  gladiators  should  have  wherewithal  to 
stimulate  as  well  as  moisten  the  clay.  And  then  what  good  humour — what 
truly  Christian  charity — what  inoffensive  fun — what  calm  discourse  of  rea- 
son !  -How  easily  and  pleasantly  would  the  evenings  pass  in — as  Unimpre 
hath  it,— 

"  In  the  perpetual  absence  of  all  storms!" 

Why,  the  sittings  of  St  Stephen's  would,  hi  fact,  be  sublimed  into  so  many 
Noctes  Amfirosiance. 

TICKLER. 

Long  corks  are  certainly  no  friends  to  long  speeches — and  perhaps  we 
might  ourselves  accept  of  seats  in  the  House,  if  it  were  thus  really  and 
truly  made  a  Reformed  one.  Hitherto  I  have  always  considered  that  no 
independent  gentleman,  destitute  of  sinister  views,  could  submit  to  the 
concern,  without  bringing  some  suspicion  on  his  intellects. 

NORTH. 

It  never  was  any  thing  better  than  a  purgatory  of  a  place — and  but  for 
Bellamy's,  it  must  have  been  a  perfect  hell  upon  earth.  In  my  day,  to  tell 
the  truth,  I  seldom  left  the  kitchen  except  when  I  knew  some  crack  chiel 
was  on  his  legs.  The  beef-steaks  and  mutton-chops  there  used  to  be  prime ; 
—and  certainly  a  cool  bottle  of  claret  never  tasted  better  than  when  inter- 
posed between  two  hot  jammings  in  the  conventicle  below.  Does  not  all 
this  go  on  as  it  used  to  do  ? 

TICKLER. 

Ah !  the  high  and  palmy  state  of  wine-bibbery  is  now  among  the  fails — 
there — elsewhere — indeed  everywhere,  I  think,  except  here.  My  dear 
North,  as  poor  Hermand  used  to  say  in  his  latter  days,  "  I  believe  we  shall 
be  left  alone  in  the  world,  drinking  claret !"  Bellamy's  is,  I  grieve  to  say , 
a  deserted  place  now-a-days.  The  members  all  dine  before  they  go  down 
at  some  of  their  clubs  in  St  James's  Street  or  Pall  Mall,  where,  it  must  be 
owned,  they  have  airier  apartments,  and  shorter  bills.  The  young  hands 
are  mostly  milksops,  and  Avhen  they  go  up  stairs  at  all,  call  for  tea  or  soda- 
water;  nothing  redeems  them  except  their  occasional  halt  in  the  smoking- 
room.  As  for  the  dear  old  kitchen,  I  did  not  observe  a  single  pretty  fact 
among  the  handmaidens,  and  the  only  man  that  appeared  to  be  decentlj 
regular  in  his  attentions  to  the  cold  round  on  the  side-table,  and  the  turn' 
bier  thereafter,  was  our  trusty  crony  of  the  days  of  yore,  honest  Maule  ol 
Panmure.  I  hope  they  will  make  an  earl  of  him  for  his  pains  at  the  ap> 
preaching  re-coronation — I  say  re — for,  you  know,  William  the  Fourth  has 
already,  after  the  fashion  of  Napoleon  the  First,  placed  the  diadem  on  his 
own  head. 

NORTH. 

A  mere  oversight — and  alluded  to  in  the  Quarterly  in  a  spirit  and  styl< 
which,  all  things  considered,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  pronounce  hellish. 

TICKLER. 

My  dear  Christopher,  if  every  body  had  your  temper,  this  would  aftei 
all  be  but  a  milk-and-water  world.  A  congregation  of  Norths  would,  ac 
cording  to  your  own  theory,  have  magnetically  mollified  a  Swift  into  z 
Fenelon. 

NORTH. 

I  have  often  heard  that  I  am  too  good-natured  for  this  state  of  existence 
But  these  things  can't  be  helped.  I  fancied  a  dose  of  you  might  do  some- 
thing for  me — but  you  see  how  it  is— 

"  The  elements  were  gently  mingled," 


542  Nodes  ^rnJbrosiana.    No.  L  VII I.  [Sept. 


!  .'  '  ^  £, 

He  who  thus  endowed  as  with  a  sens^  hQ-m  1(>  9(im,{ 
And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbulence,  ^  -ti  ^  ^^  . 
£  yet  a  soul  whose  master-bias  leans  JnJBg  ^  bnK 


m    '  .  ill-Li  J  •     il 

To  innocent  delights  and  gentle  scenes.  ,a)  ^di  ajli  blo-t 

This  is  the  ruthless  Christopher — this  is  he 
Whom  of  every  man  in  ink  would  wish  to  be." 

NORTH. 

Don't  murder  Wordsworth.    Here's  his  head  on  my  new  snuffbox. 
"  Can  I  forget  what  charms  did  once  adorn 
My  garden,  stored  with  pease,  and  mint,  and  thyme, 
And  rose  and  lily  for  the  Sabbath  morn  ; 
The  Sabbath  bells,  and  their  delightful  chime ; 
The  gambols  and  wild  freaks  at  shearing  time ; 
My  hen's  rich  nest  through  long  grass  scarce  espied; 
The  cowslip-gathering  in  June's  dewy  prime ; 
The  swans  that,  when  I  sought  the  water-side, 
From  far  to  meet  me  came,  spreading  their  snowy  pride  ?" 

TICKLER. 

I  know  of  no  match  for  you,  but  one — good,  old,  simple,  worthy, 
straightforward,  unsuspicious,  single-hearted,  heavenly-minded,  Charles 
Maurice  de  Talleyrand-Perigord.  You  two  should  be  driven  in  a  curri- 
cle  

sdawmH  bur,  ,anoJ*fi*lWr  bos 

^MfflSS  ba*  JqunoJni  P^bjmlua  sd  19V9  bluo.  *  gggj9^ 

"  Oh  no !  we  neyer,  mention  him." 

"'  QH?'vi?l9BT8foi<i  ah{  moil  nthf  v/jnb  oT 
Name — Name. 


i  od  oi-  a;-    u*  ax™Tti;r™£9im£W7  oa  °  *uoifi1,0 

-—  .  He,  above  the  rest         .  ,[lBaigsooo  *raA  1  ,ll«  t 


- 

-—  .      ,  .  ,[lBa9gsooo  *ra 

In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent,        .,  9lit   n 
Stood  like  a  tower.  rfon  t,?,™^  ts'ilt 


NORTH. 

Thank  ye  —  Well,  I  don't  doubt  Talleyrand  among  the  Whigs  has  been 
almost  M  mUdh  it  home  as  Kit  North  among  the  Cockneys. 

TICKLER.     ^  ,  i>f/  fans  .MSWiq  ^ 

I  can  suppose  it.    You  have  met? 

NORTH. 

Not  since  1786  —  The  Abbe'  de  Perigord  was  then  a  fascinating  young 
gentleman.     I  supped  with  him  two  or  three  times  at  Madame  de  Sillery'^,,,  [ 
—  He  was  very  fond  of  Pamela,  and  very  agreeable  to  every  body.    How 
has  he  borne  the  tear  and  wear  of  years,  and  oathp,  and  protocols  'i 

TICKLER. 

Why,  I  saw  little  change,  all  things  considered,  since  I  was  in  Paris  during,  ,j«, 
the  days  of  Le  Citoyen  Bonaparte,  Premier  Consul  de  la  Republique  une 
et  indivisible.  The  coat  he  came  to  the  levee  with  was,  indeed,  I  could 
almost  swear,  the  identical  one  I  saw  him  in  at  Bony's  grand  military  fete 
in  honour  of  the  death  of  Washington  —  an  old  blue  habit  gullone,  to  wit, 
with  the  hip  buttons  about  a  foot  lower  down  than  is  the  fashion  in  these  de- 
generate days,  and  wide  enough  to  have  embraced  another  devout  ex-bishop 
of  equal  girth,  without  pinching.  His  lameness  has,  of  course,  become  more 
troublesome  and  apparent;  ho  stoops  somewhat  —  considerably  indeed  — 
and  his  hair,  which  lie  still  wears  in  the  ancient  cut,  grand  redundant  flowing 
curls  gathered  half-way  down  the  backbone  in  a  black  ribbon  a  la  Riche- 
lieu, has  turned  as  white  as  driven  snow,  or  even  as  Queen  Caroline's 
reputation  ;  but  otherwise  the  man  remains  much  in  statu  quo  —  the  brow 
smooth  and  unwrinkled  as  in  the  first  candid  dawn  of  its  juvenile  inno- 
cence —  the  eye  —  the  large,  open,  clear,  blue  eye,  not  a  whit  less  calm,  gentle, 
serene,  and  apostolic  —  the  original  rnild,  soft,  paternal  smile  on  the  good 
Father  in  God's  pale  lips  —  the  Complexion  of  the  same  cold,  fixed,  colour- 
less, passionless  purity  —  the  whole  air  now,  as  then,  that  of  a  human 


1831.]  Noctes  Ambrosiana.     No.  LVIII.  543 

bein»  refined  and  exalted  by  the  unvaried  exercise  of  faith,  hope,  chanty, 
mercy,  forgiveness,  long-suffering,  meekness,  and  all  evangelical  virtues, 
into  a  frame  of  mind  so  entirely  seraphic,  that  one  can  hardly  look  at  him 
without  feeling  as  if  some  delicious  old  melancholy  miserere  were  in  pro- 
gress, and  this  saint  upon  earth  were  waiting  for  the  last  note  of  the  organ, 
to  fold  his  thin  transparent  ivory  fingers,  and  say,  "  Let  us  pray!" 

NORTH.  •>  "to  oiori  "J 

"  Far  in  a  wild,  unknown  to  public  view, 

From  youth  to  age  a  reverend  hermit  grew4,-J07/  isb'turri  J'aofl 

The  mess  his  bed,  the  cave  his  humble  cell, 

His  food  the  fruits,  his  drink  the  crystal  well  ; 

Remote  from  men,  with  God  he  pass'd  his  days, 

Prayer  all  his  business,  all  his  pleasure  praise."       ,n 

TICKLER. 

The  best  possible  inscription  for  the  next  print  of  St  Charles  Maurice.  I 
shall  suggest  it  to  my  friend  Dr  Dibdin,  with  a  view  to  —  "  The  Sunday 
Library." 

NORTH.    ,-rjB5  9fj)  jypfO  C 

By  all  means.'  But  surety  it  is  impossible  not  to  agree  with  Bucking- 
ham, in  Richard  III. 

«  Wheu  holy  and  devout  religious  men 

Are  at  their  beads,  'tis  hard  to  draw  them  thence  : 

So  sweet  is  zealous  contemplation." 

What  a  pity  that  your  Falcks,  and  Palmerstons,  and  Wessenberge,  and 
such  like  lewd  cattle,  should  ever  be  suffered  to  interrupt  and  bother  this 
"  Christian  prince"— 

"  When  in  no  worldly  suit  would  he  be  moved 

To  draw  him  from  his  pious  exercise  !" 

TICKLER. 

If  the  cogitations  of  so  venerable  a  "  palmer  grey"  were  to  be  interrupt- 
ed at  all,  I  have  occasionally  been  tempted  to  wish,  that,  in  place  of  Lord 
Palmerston,  the  ungracious  intrusion  had  fallen  to  the  lot  of  some  such 
person  as  that  elegant  nobleman's  ancestor,  Sir  William  Temple. 

NORTH.          j,fuob  I'npjj  I  tils,"  —  $X 

Why,  Sir  William  seems  to  have  regarded  many  subjects,  France 
Holland  among  others,  with  rather  different  optics  ;  but  the  world  is  ma- 
king progress,  and  we  have  the  happiness  to  belong  to  an  exceedingly  en-     ' 
lightened  and  far-sighted  generation,  one  of  whose  most  precious  luminaries 
is,  I  understand,  the  Viscount  Palmerston. 

TICKLER. 

Undoubtedly—  and  a  very  handsome  luminary,  moreover,  I  assure  you. 
I  have  not  often  met  with  a  dandy  of  fifty  worthy  of  holding  the  candle  txwri  asr 
him. 

NORTH.        ,snjjj  [[B  ts§tTBilo  'JU'H  ' 

Physically?  or  Intellectually  ?  or  both?  ,,)D  oJ  lo  * 

TICKLER. 

The  Physique,  taking  the  lustra  of  the  chandelle  (qui  vaut  bien  son  jeuy^.oml 
into  account,  appears  blameless.     He  is  a  well-made,  light-limbed,  middle-nmi  a 
sized  man,  with  the  spring  of  thirty  in  him,  hodie,  and  a  headpiece  which, 
but  for  some  considerable  thinning  of  locks,  and  a  certain  frostification  ins'iana 
progress  among  most  elaborately  tended  whiskers  of  almost  Berghamesqueups'  t 
dimensions,  might  still,  being  copperplated,  wake  soft  sighs  in  the  fafelouoi 
reader  of  the  Forget-me-not,  "  when  the  days  of  the  years  of  her  virginity 
are  expired."    As  to  the  rest,  I  did  not  hear  him  speak  ;  but  from  all  1  have 
read  and  heard,  I  am  inclined  to  look  on  him  as  the  ablest  man  in  the  cabi- 
net after  Brougham  and  Stanley.     Great,  no  doubt,  is  the  space  between  si  uq? 
the  two  I  have  named,  and  very  considerable  may  be  the  space  between 
even  the  latter  and  lower  of  them  and  this  Viscount  ;  but  I  should  be  sorry^e^frc 
indeed,  to  have  to  measure  the  interval  between  him  and  any  others  of  the 
cabinet,  those  of  them  at  least  that  have  their  seats  in  the  House  of  Com-    » 

iY>rvno      "TUOlOJJ   *O3XCI 

mon8' 


, 
inet,  those  of  them  at  least  that  have  their  seats  in  the  House  of  Com- 

no      "TUOlOJJ   *O3XCI  »DIO  J     jl  IV*> 

n8'  siiJ    a<»il»  -     ™a   us  9todv 


544  Nodes  Ambrosiana.    No.  L  VIII.  [Sept. 

NORTH. 

I  remember  the  last  time  I  met  with  poor  Canning,  where  he  and  I  hare 
spent  so  many  happy  days  together,  on  the  Queen  ofthe  Lakes,  he  spoke  of 
Lord  Palmerston  in  terms  of  considerable  warmth.  I  think  the  expression 
was, "  If  I  could  only  shake  this  puppy's  luxurious  habits,  he  might  make  a 
fair  second-rater."  George  was  ahvays  fond  of  nautical  allusions.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  bitterness  with  which,  talking  of  Brougham  on  the  same 
occasion,  he  called  him  "  that  damned  four-decker  of  theirs." 

TICKLER. 

How  little  did  he  think  in  those  days  that  that  four-decker  should  ever 
call  himself  Admiral ! 

NORTH. 

Aye,  or  live  to  see  so  many  of  the  old  fleet  following  her,  with  the  tri- 
colour at  the  mast-head ! 

TICKLER  (sings.) 
"  O  little  did  my  mither  think, 

The  day  she  cradled  me, 
What  band  I  was  to  travel  in — 
Or  the  death  that  I  should  dee." 

NORTH  (sings.) 
"  My  mither  she  was  a  gude  auld  wife, 

Though  ance  she  gaed  astray, 
And  if  she  had  seen  what  1  should  come  to, 
Her  heart  it  had  been  wae." 

TICKLER  (sings.') 
"  At  the  auld  ingle-side,  her  hand  on  the  wheel, 

The  wee  laddie  at  her  knee, 
That  he  e'er  should  gang  rovin'  wi'  tinkler  loons, 
The  thought  wad  hae  blinded  her  ee." 

NORTH  (sings.') 

"  The  thought  would  ha'  blinded  her  ee, 
For  her  heart  it  was  in  the  right  place, 
And  she  took  meikle  tent  o'  me, 
An'  ca'd  me  a  bairn  o'  grace." 
TICKLER  (sings.) 
"  She  ca'd  me  a  bairn  o'  grace — 

But  I've  turned  out  a  ne'erdoweel, 
Oh !  but  this  is  an  awfu'  place, 
And  my  master's  the  horned  Deil." 

NORTH. 

I  agree  with  Robert  Burns  that  that's  one  of  the  most  pathetic  of  all  our 
old  Scotch  ditties — and  really  you  have  done  your  part  well.  Your  opi- 
nion, on  the  whole,  then,  is,  that  Lord  Palmerston  has  been  Beneventedj 
or  Circumvented,  or  something  of  the  sort,  on  some  recent  occasions. 

TICKLER. 

Me  ! — I  could  never  have  thought  of  insinuating  any  thing  of  the  kind. 
The  Lord  forbid  !  If  Palmerston  heard  you,  he  would  think  nothing  of 
eating  you  up.  I  assure  you  he  is  a  nobleman  who  entertains  just  and 
adequate  notions  of  his  own  talents  and  importance  in  the  world — Bene- 
vented  indeed ! 

NORTH. 

Heigho! — When  I  was  in  Muscovy,  Mr  Tickler,  in  the  days  of  my 
youth,  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  Count  Alexis  Orloff,  (who  indeed  has  men- 
tioned me  in  one  of  his  letters  to  that  illustrious  man,  Sir  John  Sinclair,  in 
terms  so  laudatory,  that  I  almost  blushed  to  read  them,)  and  among  other 
wonderful  exhibitions  of  his  gigantic  strength  that  I  witnessed,  one  was  this : 
At  the  beginning  of  a  field^day,  he  would  walk  up  to  the  right-hand  company 
of  the  Grenadier  Guards,  and  selecting  two  ofthe  most  swaggering-looking 
of  the  Philistines,  seize  them  simultaneously,  each  by  the  waistband  of  the 
breeches,  and  forthwith  bring  their  two  beautifully-powdered  headpieces 
together,  a  foot  or  so  above  his  own,  with  a  gentle  rat-tat-tat.  He  would 
then  set  the  Adonises  down  again,  to  re-adjust  their  strut  according  to 


1831.]  Nodes  Ambrosianas.    No.  LVIII.  545 

their  fancy.    The  Empress,  good  soul,  took  a  sort  of  pleasure  in  this, 
now. 

TICKLER. 

That  was  Chesmenski  ? — so  called  for  some  battle ? 

NORTH. 

For  his  sea  victory  over  the  Infidel  at  Chesme.  By  the  way,  what  ca- 
pital titles  of  this  kind  the  Russians  make — Sabalcanski — Sadounaski — 
and  so  forth.  Your  friend,  the  Imperturbable,  has  had  honourable  addi- 
tions enough  in  his  time,  to  be  sure — but  what  would  you  say  to  Soap- 
greyski,  or  Palmerstonscoffski,  eh  ? 

TICKLER. 

Or  Lambtonbamski  ? — but,  between  ourselves,  Christopher,  the  folk  up 
yonder  give  the  Premier  himself  very  little  either  of  the  credit  or  the  dis- 
credit of  this  Cabinet's  proceedings.  Lord  Grey  is,  in  fact,  off  the  hooks. 

NORTH. 

In  my  private  opinion  he  was  always  a  humbug ; — but  it  can't  be  age 
that  has  altered  him  for  the  worse,  if  he  really  has  undergone  such  a 
mutation. 

TICKLER. 

I  don't  know.  Years  are  like  miles  in  walking,  or  glasses  in  drinking. 
What  would  be  nothing  to  you,  or  old  Circumvento,  or  Captain  Barclay, 
might  knock  up  another  performer.  It  is  certain  that  Lord  Grey  is  no 
longer  any  thing  like  the  man  he  was.  Even  the  beautiful  print,  a  natter- 
ing one  of  course,  which  adorns  one  of  the  cleverest  and  most  captivating 
numbers  of  our  excellent  friend  Jerdan's  admirable  Portrait  Gallery,  con- 
fesses something  of  the  fact.  He  has  a  worn-out,  wasted  look,  somehow; 
indeed,  a  more  melancholy  physiognomy  I  have  not  often  seen  on  human 
shoulders — a  truly  pitiable  mixture  of  the  arrogant  and  the  fretful,  the 
peevish  and  the  pompous. 

NORTH. 

I  have  had  my  eye  on  him,  less  or  more,  these  five-and-forty  years,  and 
I  know  no  public  man  of  whose  conduct,  throughout  that  long  period,  one 
must  trace  so  much  to  temper,  so  very  little  to  principle.  Considering  that 
he  has  all  along  had  his  self-love  at  the  helm,  and  how  very  seldom  be 
has  had  the  wind  with  him,  it  can  surely  be  no  great  wonder  that  his  aspect 
should  by  this  time  o'  day  have  acquired  a  touch  or  two  of  the  subacerb. 

TICKLER. 

I  give  him  credit  for  more  talent  than  you  ever  did  ;  but,  on  the  whole, 
I  agree  with  you  as  to  the  moral  branch  of  the  question. 

"  Dimidium  donare  Lino,  quam  credere  totuin, 
Qui  mavult — mavult  perdere  dimidium." 

NORTH. 

Lord  Grey  has  been  a  public  man  for  near  fifty  years.  Will  you  have 
the  goodness  to  say  in  what  he  has  ever  shewn  any  thing  worthy  of  being 
talked  of  as  talent?  You  don't  surely  reckon  such  speaking  as  his  for 
much? 

TICKLER. 

Why,  nobody  has  a  higher  respect  for  really  good  speaking  than  I  have, 
or  a  baser  contempt  for  all  speaking  below  the  first-rate.  In  his  earlier 
day  he  may  have  had  many  betters;  but,  as  it  is,  he  is  now  reckoned  the 
first  in  that  house,  at  least  after  the  Chancellor,  and  I  presume  we  must  not 
say,  even  across  a  round  table,  that  that  can  be  nothing. 

NORTH. 

Reckoned  indeed  !    What  did  you  think  yourself  ? 

TICKLER. 

As  to  that — pass  the  bottle — I  am  a  poor,  bigoted,  old,  provincial  ultra-Tory 
in  a  pigtail,  and  my  sentiments  on  such  a  subject  must  of  course  be  unworthy 
of  your  attention.  But  if  I  were  to  be  so  very  audacious  as  to  speak  the 
truth,  I  should  say,  that  in  figure,  in  feature,  in  countenance,  in  attitude, 
in  gesture,  in  dignity  of  presence,  in  compass  of  voice,  in  energy  of  lan- 
guage, in  every  thing  that  goes  to  make  up  the  outward  form  and  shape  of 


346  Nodes  Ambrosiunce.    No.  L  VIII.  [Sept. 

oratory,  Lord  Grey  is  surpassed  far  beyond  the  measurement  of  inches — 
s  conspicuously,  to  my  mind,  than  he  is  in  other  particu- 


lars of  a  still  higher  order,  I  mean  extent  of  knowledge,  breadth  of  vie  v,  .>, 
power  of  reasoning,  soundness  of  principle,  and  honesty  of  purpose  —  by  your 
own  excellent  friend,  the  Earl  of  Mansfield.  By  their  fruits  shall  ye  know 
them;  read  their  last  speeches;  —  or  compare  Lord  Howick  with  Lord 
Stormont. 

bris  ,{bboi  eiort  rfittfbiftftrft  bsistfl 


I  think  you  said  you  were  present  the  night  of  the  Dissolution. 

TICKLER. 

I  was,  and  Lord  Mansfield,  in  his  robes,  thundering  aperto  ore,  while  this 
precious  Premier  and  his  colleagues  sat  quaking  before  him,  presented,  to 
my  mind,  a  spectacle  than  which  Quousque  tandem  could  never  have  been 
more  grand,  imposing,  sublime.  The  triumph  of  sincerity  over  craft,  of 
patriotism  over  self-seeking,  of  pride  over  presumption,  and,  I  will  add,  of 
genius  over  charlatanerie,  Avas  never  more  complete.  The  hand  that  drew 
Paul  preaching  at  Athens  might  have  found  a  study  in  that  scene. 

NORTH. 

How  did  Brougham  look  ? 

TICKLER. 

As  pale  as  death,  and  as  sulky  as  the  devil,  to  be  sure.  But  we  must  not 
mix  him  up  with  the  Shallows.  Well,  it  did  me  good  to  hear  his  voice 
again  —  'tis  at  this  hour  the  same  that  we  remember  —  Auld  Edimbrae  in 
every  tone,  as  perfect  as  "  Caller  baddies!"  —  But,  my  eye  !  he  makes  a 
rum-looking  Lord  Chancellor  ! 

NORTH 

Did  ye  forgather  in  private? 

TICKLER. 

Several  times  —  once  at  Lord  Eldon's,  and  another  day,  a  regular  jollifi- 
cation, at  the  Beefsteaks,  besides  sundry  routs  and  soirees  of  all  sorts.  He 
was  always  delightful,  quite  the  old  man,  full  of  mirth,  and  good-humour, 
quizzing  Reform  and  Useful  Knowledge,  and  Jeremy  and  Lord  Johnny,  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  stuff  of  the  day,  and  filling  his  glass  to  the  brim,  like  an 
honest  fellow—  just  as  in  the  days  of  yore,  man,  with  the  Knight  of  Haw- 
thornden,  and  Sandy  Finlay. 

NORTH. 

Aye,  aye.  —  I  always  said  he  would  come  to  something.  Lord  !  It  seems 
but  yesterday  that  I  was  first  introduced  to  him  at  old  Davie  Willison's, 
when  he  was  trotting  about  the  printing-office,  with  the  first  proof-sheets 
of  the  Edinburgh  Review! 

TICKLER. 

Clever  fellows  had  much  reason  to  complain  of  the  old  system,  no 
question. 

™r  NORTH. 

We  shall  see  what  he  makes  of  it-—  'tis  a  pretty  mess;  and  if  somehow  01 
other  he  do  not  help  us  after  all,  I  don't  very  well  see  how  we  are  ever  to 
get  out  of  it.  God  only  knows  what  his  real  feelings  and  views  may  be. 

TICKLER. 

Aye  —  but  that  he  has  either  love,  or  affection,  or  respect  for  any  of  his  pre- 
sent accomplices,  is  what  I  shall  not  be  in  a  hurry  to  believe.  He  always 
disliked  and  despised  Lambton  —  and  Grey,  down  tothelasthour  of  extremes! 
unavoidable  necessity,  did  every  thing  he  could  to  merit  his  abhorrence  —  he 
must  have  known  as  well  as  I,  how  the  pokerly  old  impostor  talked  of  his 
speeches  in  Yorkshire  only  this  time  twelvemonth  —  but,  indeed,  the  whole 
affair,  first  and  last,  was  transparent.  Lord  "  Silver  Po"  has  been  his  butt 
these  twenty  years.  Goderich,  Palmerston,  Grant,  and  Melbourne,  were  the 
old  enemies  of  one  who  has  too  much  sense  to  be  of  a  forgiving  disposition. 
Grahame  is  a  blown  bladder  —  Althorpe  a  dult  unredeemed—  and  I  don't  sup- 
pose the  scribe  of  Don  Carlos  can  be  considered  with  very  reverential  feel- 
ings by  the  reviewer  of  The  Excursion. 

NORTH. 

He  is  playing,  no  doubt,  his  own  game,  and  we  shall  see  how  it  turns  up. 


1831.]  Nodes  Ambrosiana.    No.  L  VIII.  347 

,)(r,    {TICKLER. 

For  my  part,  if  we  were  to  choose  a  President,  he  should  have  my  vote 
sooner  than  any  of  the  bunch. 

NORTH.  -,-,ui>fijJV-    .  , 

The  Lord  Harry  has  more  brains,  I  admit,  than  all  the  others  put  to- 
gether. 

TICKLER. 

Yes,  yes,  and  he  has  watered  them  with  more  toddy,  and  latterly  claret, 
than  would  float  the  whole  kit  to  perdition.  And  then  he  is  the  only  one 
in  the  set  that  has  none  of  the  damned,  stiff,  idiotic  trash  of  official  dignity 
about  him.  I  can  tolerate  any  thing  rather  than  that  sort  of  gammon, 
for  my  part— but  'tis  one  of  the  old  vices  of  the  Whigs— and  perhaps  not 
the  least  of  them.  -  R  .bntai  <{i 

NORTH.       •piiWiss    3«|?OB(»uVn*Ot9«iifl' 

Other  people  besides  you  are  beginning  to  find  this  out.  I  think  that  s  the 
last  number  of  the  New  Monthly.at  your  elbow— please  reach  it  over.  Aye, 
aye,  here  is  the  passage— now  listen,  Timothy,  to  this  oracle  of  Liberalism— 
(reads)—"  Lord  Grey  perhaps  is  not  aware  that  the  stateliness  of  his  official 
manner  alienates  and  offends  many  of  those  who  support  his  Government 
in  the  House  of  Commons.  Lord  Grey  seems  to  think  that  the  Reform  Bill 
is  all-sufficient ;  that  the  framing  of  it  is  a  merit  which  supersedes  those  con- 
ciliatory deferences  without  which  no  Minister  can  or  ought  to  rule  a  free 
people  and  their  representatives.  The  Reform  Bill  is  certainly  his  sheet- 
anchor,  and  without  it  his  Administration  would  have  been  wrecked  by  this 
time.  But  it  is  not  enough  for  him  to  say,  '  I  am  the  Reform  Minister, 
therefore  your  voices ;'  he  should,  if  the  word  be  admissible,  pojnuarite 
both  himself  and  his  Administration."  ,  tq  ^  todtc$ioft  91  bid 

TICKLER. 
There  it  is.     Ha !  ha !  Ji$/,,B  ^ 

•**  has  8}uoT?^9ffftr8  a^bnocf  ^dBtfe^Si  sdi  is  taol)&3 
Hear  the  dog  out— i,.^  fo  [i^  n&m  bin  adJ  9tiuo, tlu.ljri§ileb  BWffJg  saw 
"  The  composition  and  character  of  Lord  Grey's  Ministry  are  110  earnest 
of  its  endurance.  The  chief  members  of  it,  without  the  excuses  which  may 
be  made  for  the  Premier,  are  charged  with  the  same  haughty  negligence  and 
reserve.  This  is  a  characteristic  vice  of  the  Whigs.  It  would  appear  as  if, 
in  making  their  party  professions  of  identity  with  the  people,  they  were 
afraid  of  beiug  taken  by  the  people  at  their  word.  They  may  with  advan- 
tage take  a  lesson  in  this  respect  from  the  Tories,  who,  to  do  them  justice, 
are  more  agreeable  and  unpretending  in  their  intercourse  and  manners." 
So  says  the  New  Monthly  Magazine,  (according  to  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
"  the  very  flower  of  periodical  literature,")  No.  cxxviii.  August  1,  1831,  p. 
160.  What  say  you?  lU{n  fc£fi  ev/oIM 

TICKLER. 

I  say  the  passage  does  credit  to  the  flower  periodical — and  consider  what 
he  says  about  the  agreeableness  and  unpretendingness  of  the  Tories,  as  not 
a  bit  less  applicable  to  us  in  all  other  branches  of  our  literary  conduct 
and  demeanour,  than  in  our  official  capacities.  We  are,  in  fact,  delightful 
fellows  — even  the  Radicals  like  us,  to  say  nothing  of  respecting  us,  five  hun- 
dred per  cent  above  any  of  our  rivals.  None  of  your  prim,  prigmadainty, 
"  thank  God  I  am  not  as  this  publican"  airs,  among  us  !  Aristocratical  su- 
perfinery,  Exclusiveness,  Pelhamism,  Almackism,  allj  that  species  of  abo- 
mination, whether  in  life  public,  or  life  private,  in  politics,  in  punchification, 
in  love,  or  in  letters,  we  leave  entirely  to  the  "  friends  of  the  people."  Our 
motto,  in  fact,  ought  to  be  those  two  capital  lines  of  the  old  Bilbilite —  ijgsqg 

"  Bellus  homo,  et  magnus,  vis  idem,  Cotta  videri; 

Sed  qui  bellus  homo  est,  Cotta,  pusillus  homo  est." 

tirasfl"}  bl»» 

Of  all  horrible  monsters  defend  me  from  your  democratrdandy.    >j  9iuB(fB-.£) 

NORTH.  -jg  gjfj  aabq 

I  think  I  can  repeat  a  better  thing  of  Mr  Martial's  on  the  same  subject — 
'tis  really  quite  wonderful  how  little  the  world  has  changed. — What  sig- 
nifies talking  of  Le  Sage  and  a  century  ago  ?— Might  not  every  word  of  this, 


Noctes  Ambrosiana.    No.  L  Vllt  [Sept. 

now,  have  been  written  in  Mayfair,  anno  domini  1831,  just  as  well  as  in  the 
Suburra  regnante  Divo  Vespasiano  ? 

Cotile,  bellus  homo  es:  dicunt  hoc,  Cotile,  inulti. 

Audio  r  sed  quid  sit,  die  mihi,  bellus  homo  ? 
Bellus  homo  est  flexos  qui  digerit  ordine  crines, 

Balsama  qui  semper,  cinnama  semper  olet : 
Cantica  qui  Nili,  qui  Gaditana  susurrat; 

Qui  movet  in  varios  brachia  volsa  modos; 
Inter  fcemineas  tota  qui  luce  cathedras 

Desidet,  atque  aliqua  semper  in  aure  sonat; 
Qui  legit  liinc  illinc  missas,  scribitque  tabellas; 

Pallia  vicini  qui  refugit  cubiti : 
Qui  scit  quam  quis  amet,  qui  per  convivia  currit : 

Hirpini  veteres  qui  bene  novit  avos. 
Quid  narras  ?  hoc  est,  hoc  est  homo,  Cotile,  bellus : 

Res  praetricosa  est,  Cotile,  bellus  homo." 

TICKLER. 

How  perfect — every  thing  down  to  National  Melodies,  and  three-cor- 
nered billets,  and  the  Colonel's  grandam,  and  the  genuine  liberal's  horror 
of  coming  in  contact  with  a  fellow-creature  whose  coat  was  not  cut  by 
Baron  Stultze — "Pallia  vicini  qui  refugit  cubiti!" — the  picture  of  the 
Whig  philanthropist  is  complete.  Thank  Heaven  !  we  never  had  many  of 
this  order  of  cattle  among  us,  and  most  of  them  have  taken  this  opportu- 
nity of  leaving  us. 

NORTH. 

Dtendy  brither,  part  in  peace  ! , 

•  TICKLER. 

I  wish  to  God  Lord  "  Bluster"  could  hear  you. 

NORTH. 

Undoubtedly,  if  he  and  Lord  King  could  be  prevailed  on  to  pair  off  sine 
die  into  the  shades  of  private  enjoyment,  the  two  great  parties  would  be 
delivered  of  their  two  most  annoying  excrescences.  But  how  long,  after 
all,  will  Brougham's  new  style  of  Jobation  be  tolerated  among  these  good- 
natured  nobles  of  ours  ? — Surely,  surely,  the  blacking-man  in  the  Commons 
is  a  mere  flea-bite  to  the  effect  of  him  in  that  china  shop ! 

TICKLER. 

No  question  of  that — Plunkett  did  something  to  break  the  ice ;  but  he  has 
indeed  introduced  to  their  lordships'  personal  consideration,  in  the  most 
ample  manner,  the  scope  and  capacity  of  a  system-  of  rhetoric  as  unlike 
what  they  had  ever  been  used  to  before,  as  the  boundings  of  the  bolero 
are  to  the  skimmifications  of  the  quadrille.  The  worst  of  it  is,  that  after  all, 
neither  talent  nor  pluck  of  the  very  first  order  are  requisite  to  enable  a  man 
to  make  a  pretty  fairish  display  in  that  line,  if  he  can  but  once  bring  him- 
self to  try  it — and  example  is  catching,  and  some  day  or  other  the  joke  may 
really  be  taken  up  in  earnest — and  as  my  noble  and  ci-devant  learned  com- 
potator  on  the  woolsack  may  perhaps  be  aware,  his  past  life,  and  even  some 
parts  of  his  conduct  and  procedure  in  his  present  high  capacity,  might  be 
turned  to  tolerable  account,  in  hands  neither  quite  so  nervous  as  his  own, 
nor  quite  so  nimble  as  poor  Canning's. 

NORTH. 

I  agree  with  you  in  entertaining  a  sincere  admiration  for  Brougham's  abi- 
lities ;  and  though  I  have  never  had  much  intercourse  with  him  in  private 
life,  can  well  understand  your  having  a  sort  of  liking  for  him  too,  but  some- 
how, "  it  does  so  happen,"  as  Canning  used  to  say, — it  does  so  happen,  that 
I  never  think  of  his  history  and  position,  without  feeling  a  sort  of  cloud 
come  over  my  mind's  eye.  Depend  upon  it,  that's  not  a  man  destined  to 
end  smoothly.  He  can't  stop  where  he  is,  and  whether  he's  to  soar  or  to 
sink  the  deponent  knoweth  not. 

TICKLER. 

Castlereagh  went  mad,  and  died  miserably— Canning  touched  the  verge 


1831.]  Noctes  Ambrosiana.    No.  LVm.  549 

of  madness,  and  the  cord  snapt.    He  is  tasking  both  intellect  and  temper 
to  a  pitch  far  beyond  either  of  them. 

NORTH. 
It  were  time  he  should  reflect ! 

TICKLER. 

Yes,  truly.  Here  he  is  administering,  at  an  hour's  notice,  the  highest 
judicial  office  in  the  world,  with  just  as  much  knowledge  of  equity  law  as 
a  very  clever  man  may  be  expected  to  have  picked  up  insensibly,  fortui- 
tously, indistinctly,  and  in  short  worthlessly,  of  the  proper  business  of  a 
most  difficult  profession  toto  ccelo  different  from  his  own. 

NORTH. 

As  much,  for  example,  as  John  Hope  may  know  of  lithotomy,  or  Dr  Aber- 
cromby  of  Craig  De  Feudis. 

TICKLER. 

Even  so,  and  this  in  the  presence  of  a  bar  grown  grey  at  the  feet  of  time- 
honoured  John  of  Newcastle. 

NORTH. 

Why,  when  one  reflects  on  the  hundred  and  forty  millions  of  property 
actually  depending  on  the  knowledge,  judgment,  diligence,  and  patience 
of  the  Chancellor  of  England,  several  things  that  have  happened  in  our  day 
are  almost  enough  to  make  a  poor  simple  body  start. 

TICKLER. 

Then  there  is  the  cockpit,  where  the  decisions  of  all  the  courts  of  Hin- 
doo law,  and  Persian  law,  and  Cingalese,  and  Malay,  and  Dutch,  and  Spa- 
nish law,  and  the  old  French  law,  and  Code  Napoleon  law,  and  the  Danish 
law,  established  throughout  our  Eastern  empire,  the  Cape,  the  Mauritius, 
the  Canadas,  the  West  Indian  Islands,  and  Demerara,  have  to  be  overhaul- 
ed. Then  there  is  the  overhauling  of  English,  Irish,  and  Scotch  appeals  in 
the  Lords — the  latter  part,  however,  being  of  all  his  business  what  he  is 
most  up  to. 

NORTH. 

Aye,  and  then  we  have  what  few  Chancellors,  even  of  those  that  had  not 
their  own  proper  business  to  learn,  were  ever  much  used  to  dabble  in — 
the  actual  tear  and  wear  of  party  politics — the  stroke-oar  of  vituperation — 
the  near  wheel  of  sarcasm — the  burden  intolerable  of  bolstering  up  his  own 
blockheads  at  all  times  and  seasons  with  one  shoulder,  while  he  has  to  shew 
the  other  a  cold  one  rather,  with  equal  promptitude  and  alacrity,  whenever 
it  is  desirable  to  squabash  their  antagonists. 

TICKLER. 

If  we  add  to  this  the  severe  duty  of  dining  out  and  giving  dinners  to 
Ministers  and  diplomats  ;  likewise,  the  imperious  necessity  of  being  visible 
at  every  levee,  and  drawingroom,  and  at  every  dancing  disjune,  ball,  hop, 
rout,  or  assembly  given  or  held  by  a  great  lord  or  lady  of  the  right  side — 
moreover,  of  being  audible  at  every  meeting  about  the  abolishment  of 
chimney-sweeps,  and  the  emancipation  of  Blacky,  and  the  persecution  of 
Professor  Pattison — necnon,  the  simplification  of  common  law,  and  the  recti- 
fication of  equity  procedure — necnon,  the  keeping  of  the  Chancery  lunatics 
— necnon,  the  keeping  of  the  conscience  of  King  William  the  Fourth — nec- 
non, the  newspapers — necnon,  the  editing  of  Paley's  Natural  Theology  in 
company  with  Charles  Bell — furthermore,  the  writing  of  Friendly  Advice 
to  the  Peers  in  pamphlets,  and  eke  the  reviewing  of  the  said  pamphlets  in 
the  Edinburgh  Review;  and  finally,  the  building  of  a  back-jam  to  Brougham- 
Hall — to  say  nothing  of  receiving  and  bamming  all  the  deputations  of  all 
the  congregations  of  confusion-mongers,  and  reading  and  answering  all  the 
communications  of  all  the  quacks  that  think  they  have  hit  upon  inventions 
of  momentous  importance,  whether  in  law  or  literature,  or  pneumatology, 
or  geology,  or  astronomy,  or  gastronomy,  or  ribbon-weaving,  or  timber- 
cleaving,  or  brass,  or  gas,  or  codification,  or  church-reformation — when  one 
takes  all  these  concerns  in  at  one  comprehensive  glance  through  space  and 
matter,  I  think  it  must  be  obvious  to  the  meanest  capacity  that  Henry  Lord 
Brougham  and  Vaux,  God  bless  him,  satagit  rerum  suarum — in  fact  that  he 
has  a  deuced  deal  more  to  do  thau  ever  bothered  the  brains  of  the  immortal 
Walter  Shandy. 


550  Nodes  Ambroaianae.    No.  L  VIII.  [Sept. 

NORTH. 

Suave  mari  maguo  turbantibus  sequora  ventis, 
E  tuto  alterius  sievuin  spectare  laborera. 

I  don't  say  that  we  are  likely  to  look  on  quite  e  tuto— but  at  all  events 
we  may  hope  to  see  the  upshot. 

TICKLER. 

Some  accursed  blow-up  ? — some  hideous  irresistible,  irremediable  smash  ? 
— some  fierce,  horrid,  simultaneous  rush  of  a  thousand  insulted,  trampled 
principles  and  practices,  all  bursting  with  volcanic  violence  into  a  sudden 
roar  of  ruin  and  destruction  ? — fear,  indignation,  anger,  hatred,  scorn,  pride, 

contempt,  terror,  all  concentrated  into  one  awful  avenging  Niagara  ? 

NORTH. 

Or  what  say  you  to  something  in  the  opposite  way  ?  The  hot  galloping 
pulse  of  diseased  excitement  suddenly,  somehow,  subsides  to  a  walk — a 
piece  of  clear  cold  ice  is  clapped  by  some  invisible  hand  upon  the  burning 
temples — the  mist  disperses — the  open  serene  light  of  day  falls  on  the  land- 
scape—  the  crazy  heights  —  the  fearful  chasms — the  wide  black  abysses 
yawning  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  are  revealed  in  their  nakedness — 
the  bewildered  somnambulist  comes  to  himself— he  pauses,  trembles,  and 

kneels 

TICKLER. 
'Tis  all,  perhaps,  on  the  cards. 

NORTH. 

It  is  my  fixed  opinion,  that  unless  Brougham,  in  some  way  or  other,  calls 
a  halt,  and  Peel  and  he  somehow  or  other  come  together,  no  human  power 
can  avert  a  revolution  from  Old  England.  I  don't  allude  particularly  to 
this  Reform  Bill — that's  but  one  link  in  the  chain — and  by  revolution  I  mean 
nothing  short  of  a  complete  upset,  not  merely  of  bishops,  and  lords,  and 
kings,  but  of  all  law,  and  all  property,  and  all  social  order — a  chaos  of  dirt 
and  blood — aye,  and  a  more  fearful  one  than  even  the  French  have  waded 
through,  if,  indeed,  their  wading  can  yet  be  talked  of  as  over. 

TICKLER. 

You  look  too  gloomingly  at  every  thing  to-night.  Pray,  take  three  grains 
of  blue  pill  at  bedtime,  and  a  Seidlitz  in  the  morning.  Do,  that's  a  good 
fellow. 

NORTH. 

Gloomingly  at  every  thing  ?  Not  a  bit.  I  see  things  in  as  clear  a  day- 
light as  ever  blessed  mortal  vision ;  and  I  see  them  with  unshrinking  or- 
gans, and  I  consider  them  with  unshaken  mind.  'Tis  as  well  to  be  pre- 
pared. 

TICKLER. 

What  say  you  to  the  American  funds  ? 

NORTH. 
I  die  in  the  last  ditch,  sir. 

TICKLER. 

By  fcll  means — but,  inter  nos,  I  have  already  put  aside  L.  10,000  there,  my 
cock,  and,  moreover,  I  have  made  conquest,  as  we  Parliament-house  lads  say, 
of  a  small  croft  of , some  fifty  thousand  acres,  about  forty  of  them  cleared, 
towards  the  Allegheny  region.  Omneforti  solum  patria — that  is  to  say,  if 
you  knock  my  old  friend  John  Bull  on  the  head,  I  mean  to  take  up  with 
brother  Jonathan — who,  after  all,  is  a  very  decent  fellow,  and,  in  my  opinion, 
more  likely  to  have  peace  and  quiet  under  his  own  fig-tree,  by  and  by,  than 
any  other  gentleman  of  our  acquaintance. 

NORTH. 

A  prudent  hedge — but  somehow  I  can't  bring  myself  to  have  any  serious 
apprehensions  as  to  my  acres. 

TICKLEH. 

You  think  they  will  stick  for  your  time;  and  having  no  particular  family 
that  I  am  aware  of,  you  probably  look  no  farther :  One  cheerer  more  ? 

NORTH. 

With  all  my  heart,  most  upright  and  conscientious  Laird  of  Southside  ! 

TICKLER. 

Come,  don't  let  us  quarrel,  my  dear;  you  shall,  if  the  worst  comes  to  the 

ivni-af    tiaira  a   ,- 1. .1  > ..  1 ,/, !•  fnt\t  t\ta  TM-/M^liot*B  <iiu>    lirmrovoi^  in   mir  TYanantlnn- 


1831.]  Noctes  Ambrosiance.    No.  LVIIf.  631 

tic  mansion.  I  have  already  consulted  Willie  Burn  about  the  plan,  and  we 
purpose  astonishing  the  natives  with  thejfef  ade  of  "  Mount  What-then," — 
whereof  the  lord  and  master  desires  little  better  than  to  say  with  the  wise 
man  of  old— 

"  Hoc  petit — esse  sui  nee  magni  ruris  arator, 

Sordidaque  in  parvis  otia  rebus  arnat, 
Quisquam  picta  colit  Spartan!  frigora  saxi, 

Et  matutinum  portat  ineptus  ave  ; 
Cui  licet  exuviis  nemoris  rurisque  beato, 

Ante  focum  plenas  explicuisse  plagas  ? 
Et  piscem  tremula  salientem  ducere  seta, 

Flavaque  de  rubro  promere  niella  cado  ? 
Finguis  inequales  onerat  cui  villica  mensas, 

Et  sua  non  emptus  praeparat  ova  cinis  ? 
Non  amet  hanc  vitam,  quisquis  ma  non  ainet,  opto  ; 

Vivat,  et  urbanis  albus  in  ofticiis." 

NORTH. 

Being  still  a  country  gentleman,  I  may  be  permitted  to  solicit  an  inter- 
pretation, in  the  dialect  of  the  Chaldee. 

TICKLER. 

What,  off-hand  ? — Hang  it,  I  wish  we  had  Rabbi  Theodore  Ben-Hook  at 
our  elbow — But  let's  try —  ,mj»« 

Be  mine,  in  Yankyland,  some  fair  domain, 
Snug  house,  trim  garden,  and  decorous  train ; 
A  stream  where  trout  and  salmon  may  be  found, 
Pond  stock'd  with  carp,  and  hills  whose  grouse  abound ; 
'Gainst  rainy  days  a  library,  and  in't 
A  sofa,  and  Gil  Bias,  in  large  black  print; 
At  six,  two  courses,  exquisite  though  plain, 
Dark  nutty  sherry,  dry  well-iced  champagne ; 
A  flask  of  sound  Bourdeaux  to  clear  my  head, 
Coffee,  broil'd  bone,  hot  punch — and  so  to  bed. 
Such,  and  so  sad,  were  Exile's  dreary  scene- 
Yet  better,  trust  me,  than  the  guillotine. 

j»        t.         -* »-.  NORTH. 

Very  well  indeed — pass  the  Bourdeaux. 

TICKLER. 

*  Non  amet  hanc  vitam,  qusquis  me  non  amet,  aio ; 
Htereat — et  collum  det,  Torycida,  tibi !" 

Chaldaiee —  iffamft  MtofttoaA  »rfj  Mi  MM  IM  ttfU 

Stay  if  you  will,  and  cut  some  airy  jigs, 

One  morning  to  the  plaudits  of  the  Whigs  ; 

Who,  three  weeks  after,  (witness  Greece,  Rome,  France !) 

Will  try  their  genius  at  the  selfsame  dance. 

Why,  I  could  go  on  at  this  rate  as  easily  as  ever  J)r  Johnson  did  with  his 
quizzifications  of  the  Percy  Reliques — 

"  I  put  my  hat  upon  my  headj 
And  walk'd  into  the  Strand, 
And  there  I  met  another  man 
With  his  hat  in  his  hand." 

WORTH. 

Probatum  cst.  And  yours  is  the  nobler  metre,  too — the  true  English 
heroic,  in  spite  of  William  Wordsworth  and  all  the  Lakers.  The  landlord's 
bottle,  Tickler. 

TfCKLER. 

The  hen,  of  course 'the  old  fifteen  ? 

NORTH  (n'n^s.) 
Sir  David,   a  magnum  bonnm  of  the-  green  sral  X.  Y.  2.    (Enter  Tappit 

VOL.  XXX.  NO,  CLXXXV.  2  N 

- 


532  Noctes  Amlrosiance.    No.  L  VIII.  [Sept. 

Hen.) — Come,  Timothy,  you  seem  in  wind  to-night— tip  us  a  song,  old 
fellow. 

TICKLER. 

To  be  sure,  dearest— Here  goes. 

> 

AIR — Not  Far  from  Town. 

Who  dares  to  say 

d  iuo-7  c      That  Albert  Cay  ^^ 

Is  not  the  king  of  wine  ?— 

Whose  bins  inspire 

Such  generous  fire, 
When  cordial  Tories  dine  ? 

When  soup  and  fish, 

In  lordly  dish, 

The  opening  banquet  crown, 
v  With  curious  lip 

They  slowly  sip 
His  Sherry  richly  brown ; 

*M(f. 

But  when  ragouts, 

And  savoury  stews, 
In  central  splendour  reign, 

His  care  unlocks 

The  Hock  of  Hocks, 
And  glory  of  Champagne. 

*«»  t**9q«<n  9flj  bos  ,buei^ 

To  float  their  grouse, 
One  copious  rouse 
Of  soft  Burgundian  dew 
He  next  commends 
To  Virtue's  friends — 
Or,  if  they're  thirsty,  two. 

Whate'er's  their  plan, 

With  Parmesan, 
North— Wiltshire  or  Gruyere— 

They  call  for  Port? 

Why,  that's  his  forte  .•— • 
Yetfortius  foams  his  Beer. 

Admitting  this 

Sounds  not  amiss, 
Yet  still  I  must  declare, 

To  me  no  treat 

Seems  quite  complete, 
Unless  the  Quaigh  be  there. 

And  sure  I  am, 

Whatever  Dram 
Your  bowels  judge  the  best, 

Bid  Dantzic  flow, 

Or  Cura9oa, 
His  Caulker  stands  the  test;— • 

Whose  drops  discuss' d, 

I  hope  and  trust, 
With  Apostolic  zeal, 

Your  kiss  will  greet 

The  old  Lafitte, 
That's  stampt  with  Albert's  seal. 


183 1.]  Nodes  Ambrosiance.    No.  L  VIII.  553 

Till  morning  glows 

Make  that  your  dose— 
And  toast  the  King  of  Wine, 

Whose  bins  inspire 

Celestial  fire, 
When  cordial  Tories  dine. 

NORTH. 

Thank  je—terque  quaterque  your  debtor— Here's  to  your  Bacchus ! 

TICKLER. 

Here's  to  the  great  Inspirer — Evoe !  Evoe !  Eroe ! 

NORTH. 

Having  thus  got  rid  of  our  maidenhead,  I  crave  a  bond  fide  bumper  to 
the  worst  used  man  in  Europe,  the  King  of  the  Netherlands ! 

TICKLER. 

Libenter.  God  bless  his  Majesty,  and  may  the  worthy  Dutch  nation  be- 
lieve any  thing,  rather  than  that  the  real  British  nation  consider  the  heroes 
of  the  protocols  with  a  whit  less  contempt  and  indignation  than  them- 
selves ! 

NORTH. 

Amen !  They  are,  of  all  the  nations  of  Europe,  the  one  most  like  our- 
selves in  almost  every  thing  that  goes  to  make  up  the  substance  of  a  national 
character.  Their  language  is  the  likest  ours, — so  are  their  manners,  their 
pursuits,  their  morals,  their  religion,  their  political  institutions,  and  their 
personal  cleanliness.  When  we  have  been  true  to  ourselves,  we  have 
always  been  true  to  them ;  and  whenever  we  have  deserted  them,  it  has 
been  amongst  the  worst  symptoms  of  our  rulers,  preferring  either  French 
gold,  or  French  flattery,  to  the  interests  of  old  England,  and  the  respect  of 
mankind.  I  cared  little,  comparatively,  which  course  we  might  steer  be- 
tween the  asinine  bigots  and  the  monkeyish  liberals  of  Portugal,  or  even 
between  the  Turk  and  the  Greek,  (though  the  former,  I  opine,  has  been  a 
right  shabbily  entreated  gentleman  in  these  days,)  or  between  the  Russian 
and  the  Polack,  though  I  had  always  a  tendre  for  the  latter — but  I  own  it 
does  make  my  blood  approach  the  boil  to  think  that  British  statesmen  of 
1831,  have  been  capable  of  desiring,  or  incapable  enough  to  be  humbugged 
into  assisting  in,  the  humiliation  of  the  House  of  Orange,  before  the  united 
tricolours  of  French  and  Belgian  Jacobinism. 

TICKLER. 

You  have  heard  Talleyrand's  last  ? 

NORTH. 

Not  I. 

TICKLER. 

"  Nos  troupes  resteront  dans  la  Belgique — ou  Us  ne  resteront  pas.  S'ils 
ne  restent  pas,  bon  soir,  M.  Perier ! — S'ils  restent,  au  diable,  Milor  Grey !" 

NORTH. 
Well  said,  old  sneck  drawer  ! 

TICKLER. 

By  the  by,  did  I  tell  you  that  good  thing  of  Croker's  the  other  night  ? 
Lord  Palmerston  has  scarcely  been  visible  in  the  House  of  late — he  came 
in  on  this  occasion  with  the  usual  listless  superfine  air,  and  sitting  down, 
and  pulling  his  hat  over  his  brows,  began  fumbling  among  the  leaves  of 
The  Bill  with  some  indications  of  curiosity.  Our  friend  the  ex-secretary 
tosses  him  a  slip  of  paper  across  the  table,  with  these  words  :  "  Dear  P.— If 
you  be  looking  for  Holland,  you  will  find  it  in  Schedule  A. 

"  Yours,  affectionately, 

"  J.  W.  C." 

NORTH. 

Very  good  indeed — Croker  all  over. 

TICKLER. 

The  fine  Roman  hand  to  a  T. 

NORTH. 

Well,  I  don't  know  how  long  Lord  Grey  and  Lord  Palmerston,  and  that 


554  Noctes  Ambrosiana.    No.  L  VI I  I.  [Sept. 

excellent  consistent  enemy  of  French  ambition,  my  Lord  Holland,  may  be 
able  to  parry  ;off  the  thrusts  rhetorical  of  the  Aberdeens,  and  Orfords, 
and  Valletorts,  and  Vyvyans — that  may  last  a  long  while — but  this  I  know, 
that  every  sound-hearted  and  clear-headed  Englishman  has  an  intimate 
conviction  that,  cloak  it,  wrap  it,  disguise  it,  deny  it,  forswear  it  as  they 
may,  the  present  government  here  is  tarred  with  the  same  stick  as  the 
movement-faction  m  France,  in  Belgium,  in  Portugal,  in  Spain,  in  Germany, 
in  Italy — the  holy  cause  of  insurrection  all  over  the  world  is  their  hobby. 
They 'hate  a  dirty  sympathy,  and  all  their  friends  that  have  courage  to 
speak  out  exult  and  glory  in  the  fact,  with  the  anti-ecclesiastical  and  anti- 
monarchical  principles,  wherever,  and  under  whatever  form  or  shape  de- 
veloped ;  and  we  shall  see  the  upshot  ere  long,  nearer  home  than  Mr  Stanley 
anticipates. 

Holland  House  has  but  transferred  its  allegiance  from  Longwood  to  the 
Palais-Royal — but  Palmerston  was  an  eleve  of  Percival. 

NORTH. 

Pooh!  'tis  all  pet  and  puppery  with  him.  Some  are  old,  pig-headed, 
and  sulky — some  middle-aged  and  stupid — some  young,  rash,  and  perhaps 
desperate  from  sheer  excess  of  vanity — tout  no  matter  what  the  variety  of 
motives — they  appear  to  go  on  merrily  together  in  the  magnum  opus  gemi- 
num  of  revolutionizing  Europe,  and  dissolving  the  British  empire.  Stanley 
will,  however,  be  the  first  to  find  out  what  they  are  all  really  working  to  j 
and  if  he  should  bid  them  good  by,  they  have  not  a  leg  to  stand  upon. 

TICKLER. 

Seeing  all  this  so  clearly,  I  am  astonished  that  you  continue  to  be  so 
much  in  the  mulligrubs  anent  the  General  Question.  Why,  man,  we  are, 
after  all,  a  sensible,  shrewd,  sagacious  sorjt  of  nation,  and  no  conjurer  that 
ever  shifted  a  sovereign  could  succeed  in  persuading  us  long  that  even  a 
red  cap  is  a  sufficient  apology  for  total  absence  of  brain.  Let  them  go  on. 
They  are  nearing  the  end  of  their  tether,  and  may  not  improbably  find  it 
terminate  in  a  loop. 

NORTH 

I  am  not  thinking  about  them.    Who  comes  next? 

\j  yaw     ?  rrir-uiT-o  '-"iS  V79n  udJ  o.  a'eiH 


TICKLER. 

Deil-may-care — any  change  must  be  for  the  better ;  and,  thank  God!  were 


shabby,  quirky  selfishness,  booby  duplicity,  blustering  cunning,  grasping, 
cowardly  greediness, — they  have,  I  say,  established  the  universal  national 
perception,  penetration,  pity,  and  contempt  of  their  true  character  and 
capacity  as  Parliamentmen  and  as  Statesmen,  in  word  and  action,  in  omis- 
sion and  commission,  on  so  broad  a  bottom  of  disgust,  that,  were  their  Bill 
passed  to-morrow,  and  the  House  dissolved,  as  it  of  course  must  imme- 
diately be,  there  can  be  no  doubt,  whatever  other  pledges  the  new  candi- 
dates might  be  called  on  to  give,  nine  out  of  ten  of  them  would  be  obliged 
to  promise  to  concur  in  an  address  to  the  king  to  dismiss  the  most  disho- 
nest of  bunglers,  the  most  blundering  of  tricksters. 

NORTH. 

You  talk  as  if  you  suspected  the  Peers  of  having  profited  by  the  FIEND- 
LY  ADVICE,  and  really  got  rid  of  their  old  mulish  repugnance  to  the 
idea  of  cutting  their  own  throats. 

TICKLER.  'T-90B91 

Not  at  all.  I  was  only  putting  the  worst  possible,  or,  I  should  rather 
say,  imaginable  case.  A  dissolution,  produced  by  the  passing  of  the  Bill, 
Avould,  whatever  else  it  might  do,  unship  these  fellows.  The  dissolution 
that  it-ill  come — the  dissolution  consequent  on  their  being  unshipt  by  the. 
Lords,  must  be  a  more  agreeable  prospect  to  people  of  your  kidney, 

NORTH. 

The  Times  and  so  forth  still  talk  Justilv  of  new  creations  on  a  large 


1831.}  Noctes  Ambronianae.    No.  LVIlL 

TICKLER. 

Ay,  and  some  of  the  Whig  Dons  of  the  third  and  fourth  orders  here  are, 
I  observe,  cocking  their  ears  very  prettily  on  the  occasion.  There  has 
even  been  some  chaffing  about  a  couple  of  coronets  among  my  old  brethren 
the  W.S.'s.  This  would  be  pleasant. 

NORTH.  .  ,,f  jnsmcrrv 

Won't  you  have  the  magic  initials  restored  on  the  doorplate  ? 

TICKLER. 

I  shall  consider;  but  to  be  serious,  this  plan  is  not  the  thing.  As  Brougham 
said  of  the  White  Doe  of  Rylstone,  "  This  will  never  do."  The  Peer- 
age has  been  already  extended  very  considerably  beyond  the  due  limits — 
and  the  Peers  themselves  are  abundantly  aware  of  the  fact — and,  from  all 
I  can  understand,  significant  enough  hints  have  recently  reached  the  pro- 
per quarter,  that  for  every  new  peer  created  for  such  a  purpose,  the  revo- 
lutionary cabinet  might  depend  on  losing  at  least  two  of  the  votes,  they 
were  otherwise  to  count  on  among  the  old  ones.  Even  Lord  Radnor,  I 
hear,  has  spoken  out  on  this  head — and  both  Lord  Tavistock  and  Lord 
Titchfield  have  refused  point-blank  to  go  up.  Nobody  dreams  that  less 
than  a  clear  addition  of  fifty  would  have  the  least  chance  of  turning  the 
scale  in  their  favour ;  so  you  may  set  your  heart  at  ease  on  this  part  of  the 
play.  The  idea  of  that  method  of  solving  the  knot  is  as  dead  as  Julius 
Ciesar.  As  for  the  story  about  the  neutrality  of  the  Bishops,  that  was 
mere  gammon.  Neutrality  indeed ! — (Sings.) 

"  The  squire,  whose  good  grace  was  to  open  the  scene, 
Seem'd  not  in  great  haste  that  the  shew  should  begin, 
Derry  down,  down,  down." 
Howley  neutral !  Blomfield neutral !  Van-Mildert  neutral!  Philpotts  neutral ! 

•I  like  that. 

NORTH. 

If  some  of  these  gentlemen  of  the  shovel-hat,  particularly  the  last  and 
ablest,  would  speak  as  well  as  vote,  my  Lord  of  Brougham  might  chance 
to  meet  his  match,  I  calculate. 

TICKLER. 

Bide  a  wee.  There's  a  braw  time  comin'.  He's  get  his  fail-in'  bclyve. 
Here's  to  the  new  Bishop  of  Deny — the  Comte's  Eveque  !  Why  the  deuce 
don't  they  find  some  Archbishopric  for  Sidney  Smith  ? 

NORTH. 

That  would  be  rather  strong — but  if  I  were  Lord  Anglesea,  I  am  free  to 
say,  he  should  on  the  first  opportunity  be  Dean  of  St  Patrick's.  That 
would  carry  a  moral  fitness  on  the  face  of  it. 

TICKLER. 

And  of  course  we  should  have  the  charges  in  rhyi&&-~f?emph  gratui,-~ 
(Sings.)  ••<uaamjeibjB<I  gjs  ^Ji-.u 

"  Reverend  brethren,  fish  not,  shoot  not, 
Reel  not,  quadrille  not,  fiddle  not,  flute  not, 
But  of  all  things,  it  is  my  devoutest  desire,  sirs, 
That  the  parson  on  Sunday  should  dine  with  the  squire,  sirs." 

But  I  fear  there's  little  chance  of  any  very  good  thing  for  our  ton  of  priest. 
Blue  and  Yellow  won't  make  up,  to  that  extent,  for  the  want  of  a  leetle 
squeeze  of  the  sangre  azul. 

NORTH. 

Would  to  God  we  had  no  worse  things  to  speculate  on,  than  the  giving 
of  Dr  Jonathan  Swift's  deanery  to  the  most  humorous  of  extant  Divines  ! 
Sidney's  a  jewel  in  his  way. 

TICKLER. 

To  be  serious — I  agree  with  you,  that  it  is  time  to  be  looking  a  little  for- 
ward in  good  earnest.  I  have  a  respect,  without  bamming,  for  your  saga- 
city ;  indeed  I  have  long  suspected  you  of  not  being  quite  canny  in  the 
article  of  foresight,  and  you  would  do  me  a  special  kindness  if  you  would 
untwist  your  lege,  and  sit  up,  and  tell,  Baucis  verbis,  what  you  really  do  e$« 
peet  to  come  upon  us, 


Nodes  Ambrosiana.    No.  L  VIIL  [Sept. 

NORTH. 

I  am  no  witch,  but  I  hold  to  the  opinion  I  have  all  along  expressed,  that 
this  nonsense  will  either  blow  over  entirely  in  the  course  of  the  next  two 
or  three  months,  or  this  nation  will  find  itself  in  the  full  career  of  a  worse 
than  French  revolution.  My  hope  of  the  milder  issue  is  daily  strengthen- 
ing— I  am  not  sanguine  as  to  the  concern,  by  no  means ;  but  I  think  I  do 
see  considerable  symptoms  of  a  reaction.  The  excellent  arguments  in  the 
Quarterly,  and,  I  may  add,  in  the  Magazine,  and  the  many  really  valuable 
pamphlets  put  forth  on  the  same  side,  more  especially  Sir  John  Walsh's, 
Colonel  Stewart's,  and  the  anonymous  "Observations"  on  Brougham's  Ad- 
vice, have  not  been  in  vain.  The  subject  has  been  tossed  about  and  twist- 
ed in  every  possible  shape  in  these  publications — the  blood  and  marrow 
of  every  limb  of  the  Whig  abortion  have  been  sucked  out  and  analyzed, 
all  its  bones  have  been  broken,  and  its  inherent  rottenness  has  been 
thoroughly  exposed.  As  for  the  Ministers  themselves,  they  have  been 
entirely  and  hopelessly  beaten,  mauled,  jellified,  annihilated — by  John  Wil- 
son Croker  and  his  co-operatives ;  so  much  so,  that  wherever  I  go,  in 
whatever  company  I  mix,  I  can  honestly  say  I  never  do  now  hear  from 
Whig,  Radical,  or  any  other  person,  even  a  syllable  in  their  defence.  They 
are  given  up.  Their  food  is  the  bread  of  contempt,  and  their  drink  is  the 
waters  of  scorn.  A  feeling  of  mingled  wonder  and  disgust  is  prevalent, 
even  where  but  a  few  weeks  ago  they  were  worshipped  as  demigods. 

TICKLER. 

Of  the  five  hundred  at  Sir  Edward  Knatchbull's  dinner  t'other  day,  500 
were  Kentish  Yeomen', — and  that's  but  one  fact  out  of  fifty  I  could  fling  ye. 

NORTH. 

General  discredit  havingthus,  to  all  appearance,  settled  on  their  understand- 
ings and  motives,  I  presume  no  one  would  be  much  surprised  at  any  judg- 
ment that  might  fall  on  them.  The  better  orders  are  indeed  well  prepared 
for  some  such  catastrophe — and  I  think  it  is  coming,  and  that  speedily.  But 
it  is  needless  to  disguise  from  ourselves  the  melancholy  truth,  that  men  who 
act  upon  no  principle  except  that  of  self-interest,  have,  even  under  the  most 
dreary  of  apparent  circumstances,  considerable  advantages  and  resources ; 
and  if  they  do  not  go  down  at  once,  I  am  prepared  to  see  them  avoid,  or 
rather  procrastinate  their  doom,  only  in  one  way — I  mean  by  hazarding 
some  new  appeal  to  the  passions  of  the  mob — in  short,  outheroding  Herod, 
and  tabling  some  bill,  or  doing  some  deed,  so  extravagantly  atrocious,  as  to 
throw  all  that  has  been  into  the  shade,  and  rousing  anew  the  full  tide 
of  folly,  frenzy,  and  ferocity,  in  their  blasted  favour. 

TICKLER. 

In  which  case  the  descensus  in  avernum  would  proceed  at  a  locomotive 
"rate. 

NORTH. 

Yes.  We  should  see  a  constitutional  assembly  next  winter — the  Bishops 
unfrocked,  the  Peers  unermined,  the  three  per  cents  struck  down  to  two 
(to  begin  with),  the  pensions  abolished,  and  the  corn  law  scattered  to  chaff 
— all  within  the  course  of  the  spring — and  then,  most  probably,  according 
to  the  old  chant  of  Mother  Skipton's  doggerel — 

u  A  bloody  summer,  and  no  king." 

TICKLER. 

I  doubt  as  to  the  blood.  Who  is  enough  in  earnest  to  fight  for  any  thing 
but  property  ?  And  if  a  general  attack  upon  property  should  really  take 
place,  where  are  the  materials  for  any  thing  like  a  defence  ? 

NORTH. 

Why,  I  can  easily  suppose  that — the  present  concern  being  got  rid  of — 
the  agricultural  population  at  large — excepting,  of  course,  those  counties  in 
which  the  illegal  system  of  the  poor  laws  has  had  time  to  work  its  proper 
consequences  on  the  mind  of  man,  woman,  and  child — might  very  probably 
be  stimulated  to  take  the  side  of  the  conservators.  In  fact,  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  such  would  be  the  case  in  Scotland  and  Wales  universally,-  and 
I  cau't  well  question  it  would  be  about  as  generally  so  in  the  north  of 


1831.]  Nodes  Ambrosian®.    No.  L  VIII.  557 

England,  where  the  gentry,  as  a  class,  have  all  along  done  their  duty,  and 
are  liked  and  respected  accordingly.  We  should  have,  then,  the  manufac- 
turing mob  on  the  one  side,  the  farmers  and  peasantry,  as  a  body,  on  the 
other.  So  far  the  match  might  perhaps  be  not  unequal— the  accumulation 
of  the  former  in  particular  places  making  up,  considerably  at  least,  for  their 
absolute  inferiority  of  numbers.  If  so,  the  question  would  really  be  a  sim- 
ple one— Which  side  would  the  army  take  ?  And  how  they  would  be,  de- 
pends of  course  mainly  on  the,  in  my  opinion,  altogether  open  point,  whe- 
ther the  movement  had,  or  had  not,  government  patronage  on  its  side.  I 
don't,  of  course,  mean  the  patronage  of  this  government— that  would  be 
long  over  ere  then. 

TICKLER. 

In  so  far  as  I  know  the  British  army,  it  might  be  counted  on  with  great 

'  p 

security. 

NOKTH. 

We  need  not  bother  ourselves  about  the  Irish— that  affair  would  be  in 
other  hands  before  then. 

TICKLER. 

What  if  the  army  should  be  as  disunited  as  the  rest? 

NORTH. 

Possibly.  And  in  that  case  we  should  indeed  see  campaigning.  There 
never  was  such  an  army  as  OURS  is  at  this  moment  since  the  battle  of  Phar- 
salia ;  and  I  see  no  reason  to  anticipate  that,  if  it  were  divided,  the  upshot 
should  be  reached  in  less  than  the  five  long  years  it  cost  Csesar  and  Pom- 
pey  to  decide  their  quarrel.  There  are,  probably,  among  the  regimental 
officers  abundance  of  old  Peninsulars,  who  would  have  no  great  objections 
to  play  for  such  stakes  as  they  have  read  or  heard  of  elsewhere.  The 
worst  of  all  is,  that  we  should  want  now-a-days  that  strong,  fervid  feeling 
of  religious  obligation  which  did  prevail  among  us  in  the  days  of  Charles 
the  First,  and  which,  even  in  the  midst  of  horrors,  did  continually  operate 
as  a  check  on  all  sides.  Read  the  Memoirs  of  a  Cavalier,  or  Mrs  Hutchin- 
son's,  or  Lady  Fanshawe's,  and  consider  for  a  moment  what  a  dismal  con- 
trast, as  to  details,^,  seven  years'  term  of  modern  civil  war  would  be  likely 
to  present.  I  abhor  the  thought. 

TICKLER. 

It  must  be  some  comfort  to  you,  that,  according  to  your  theory,  Scotland 
here  would  escape. 

NORTH. 

We  must  not  be  too  sure  of  that  neither.  I  suspect  we  should  have  a 
fierce  tussle  even  here,  though  comparatively  a  very  brief  one.  Most  pro- 
bably our  yeomanry — the  finest  fellows  I  do  believe  that  ever  were  embo- 
died in  military  corps  since  the  world  began,  the  most  steady,  honest, 
trustworthy,  and  kindhearted  good  men,  I  venture  to  say,  that  ever  wore 
uniform — Our  yeomanry  would  most  probably  put  down  any  insurrection 
in  this  quarter  in  a  month — but  granting  that,  good  God,  what  a  month  ! 
It  would  be  a  horrid  time,  indeed,  for  old  cocks  like  us,  that  could  not 
mount  and  take  a  hand  in  the  game.  Only  think  of  Glasgow,  or  dear  Pais- 
ley, in  the  power  of  the  rascals  for  a  week — yea,  for  a  day  ! 

TICKLER. 

Let's  have  a  bowl,  my  dear  Kit.  (Rings — enter  Punch.}  Ay,  this  will 
do.  Only  think  of  the  barricades  of  the  Saltmarket — the  a  la  lanternes  of 
the  Trongate. — the  Candleriggs — Balaam's  Passage — Gibson's  Wynd — 
the  Dean's  Brae — the  dragonnades  of  the  Drygate — the  noyades  of  the 
Peat-Bog — the  gallopades  of  the  Green — the  storm  of  the  Stockwell — 
the  chevauz-de-frise  of  Shettlestone — the  bombarding  of  the  Broomie- 
law — the  gauberts,  the  steam-boats,  the  deacons — and  the  bailies,  honest 
men — the  provost — the  ministers,  and  the  professors,  and  the  principal 
— and  the  Western  Club,  and  the  Maitland  Club— and  the  elders  o'  the 
Ooter  Kirk — and  Colonel  Hunter  and  the  volunteers  encamped  out  some- 
where about  Castlemilk,  waiting  for  Sif  Michael  Stewart  and  Blythswood, 
and  the  Ayrshire  yeomanry,  and  Captain  Lockhart  and  the  Douglas  troop, 
and  Sir  John  Hope,  and  Donald  Home,  and  the  souters  o'  Selkirk,  and  so 


558  Nodes  Arnbrosiana.    No.  L  VIII.  [Sept. 

forth,  to  hazard  an  attack  on  the  tete-du-pont  of  the  Gorbals — bells  toll- 
ing— mills  blazing — drums  beating — blackguards  hurraing — women  bawl- 
ing— bairns  squeeling — West  India  merchants'  heads  on  the  rails  o' 
George's  Square — the  Arnswell  running  red  wi'  the  blood  of  Bogles,  and 
Stirlings,  and  Oswalds,  and  Dennistouns,  and  Dunwuddies,  and  Corbetts, 
and  Monteiths,  and  all  our  dear  old  friends  that  we  have  taken  so  many 
comfortable  bowls  with  in  our  time  ! 

NORTH. 

The  poor  Odontist ! — he  was  weel  awa'  frae  the  evil  to  come ! 

TICKLER. 

He  lies  snug  beneath  Dr  Mitchell's  Meeting-house,  and  the  more  shame 
that  they  did  not  lay  him  beside  Captain  Paton  in  the  Ramshorn ! 

NORTH. 

He  was  aye  ower  gude  for  them— Have  they  given  him  an  Epitaph,  by 
e    ^  „,!/•.«•»         ii:l  8yil  W<>1  J'a'to  ''O 

TICKLER* 

Yes,  and  I  think  I  can  repeat  it,  though  it  is  some  time  since  I  won  his 
L.5,  poor  fellow  !  by  inditing  it. — Little  did  we  think — it  was  one  evening 
at  Nelson's  monument — The  inimitable  Nasus  Aduncus,  Cyril  Thornton, 
was  my  competitor,  with  something  about 

"  As  clever  a  dentist 

Aseverwas'prenticed, 

Till  death's  cunning  clavy 

Extracted  his  jaw»L 
but  I,  alas !  as  the  executors  agreed,  took  a  more  proper  tone — voila. 

SAPPY  AND  JOLLY,  YET  NOR  SUMPH  NOR  SOT, 
MlLD,  MIRTHFUL,  MUSICAL,  SHRKWD,  QUAINT,  AND  QUEER, 
THE  ODONTIST-BARD  OF  MILLER  STREET,  JAMES  SCOTT, 
ABSURD  AND  GENEROUS,  QUIZZED  AND  WEPT,  LIES  HERE. 

NORTH. 

As  Lord  Erskine  said  to  Dr  Parr — "  Sir,  among  many  better  reasons  for 
wishing  I  may  die  before  you,  I  have  a  selfish  one — that  you  may  write 
my  Epitaph." 

TICKLER. 

Requiescat  Odontistes  !  I  obey  the  tingle  of  thy  ladle. — Shan't  we  have 
out  the  old  Shandrydan,  now,  and  make  a  run  to  see  the  rescue  of  Ruglen  ? 
"  Third  Bulletin — Army  of  The  West — Headquarters,  Carmunnock,"  eh  ? 

NORTH. 

Don't  be  too  sure  that  we  shall  have  nothing  to  heat  our  fingers  nearer 
home.  What  say  you  to  a  sortie  before  the  Yeomanry  can  be  assembled, 
and  a  rush  upon  Auld  Reekie,  to  carry  off  the  President  and  the  Justice 
Clerk  ? 

TICKLER. 

What  would  Mr  Waddell  say  ?  Tell  it  not  in  the  Bill-chamber — let  not 
this  thing  be  heard  of  among  the  Macers. 

NORTH. 

Jeffrey  must  take  the  command — Cockburn,  Ivory,  Cunningham,  and  the 
rest,  for  lieutenants. 

TICKLER  (sings.) 

„    ...  /    f,  ,. 

^-British  Grenadiers. 

"  Our  troop  contains  some  spoonies, 

That  shame  their  bonny  nags, 
And  bump  upon  their  saddles 

Like  to  a  miller's  bags  ; 
But  these,  our  pride  and  glory, 

Sit  firm  upon  their  rears ; 
In  fact,  they're  more  like  Centaurs, 

Than  common  cavaliers. 

Ph,  the  trot,  trot,  tramp,  tramp,  tramp, 
Qf  Jeffrey's  cavalier?," 


1831.]  Nodes  Ambrosittna.    No,  L  VIII.  5,59 

NORTH. 

That's  too  bad  of  you.    Well— what  next  ? 

(  '      ~\ 
TICKLER  (sings.) 

AIR — Sonny  Dundee. 

«  He  spurr'd  to  the  foot  of  the  high  Castle  rock, 
And  to  the  gay  Gordon  he  gallantly  spoke, 
Let  Mons  Meg  and  her  Maidens  three  volleys 
For  the  love  o'  the  bonnet  o'  Bonny  Dundee.'1 
Come,perge.  .,i--gaiJ«         ,.       x     >d  d JB«m<»d  ^iraa  esil  9H 

«  rr-t     ^    j      t,      N,ORT?ty ing V'&<Lwj(I  XSU""  bib  V9iit  SsAf 
"  The  Gordon  he  asks  of  him  whither  he  goes— 

Wheresoe'er  shall  guide  me  the  Sprite  of  Montrose, 
Your  grace  in  short  space  shall  hear  tidings  of  me, 
Or  that  low  lies  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee." 
'Tis  with  you,  sir.  j  rf  frf  j  b      g  Y 

TICKLER  (sings.) 

"  The  kettledrums  clash'd,  and  the  trumpets  were  blown, 
He  waved  his  proud  arm,  and  the  horsemen  rode  on, 
Till  o'er  Ravelstone  crags  and  on  Clermiston  lee, 
Died  away  the  wild  war-note  o'  Jeffrey  the  wee !" 

NORTH. 

This  boy  will  be  the  death  of  me.     Oh !  hoh  !  hoh ! 

Is  Christopher  gone?— is  the  great  North  no  more? 

"  Oh  !  when  the  volleying  Weaver  played  7<iq>g 
Against  the  bloody  Depute's  blade,riTHIlt  UJij/[ 
Why  was  not  I  beside  him  laid  ? 
Enough— he  fell  in  glory's  rank. 
Enough — he  died  with  conquering  Frank. 

NORTH.  •  -id  o   bifia  9tn>fai3  b'to  J  «A 

No  subject  is  too  sacred  for  your  ridicule.  Your  spirit  is  intensely,  incu- 
rably, and  irredeemably  diabolical.  But  I  forget— ye  are  but  a  Croescause* 

way  soldier — ye  never  saw  a  real  battle • 

TICKLER. 
Me  I  Lord  forbid !  roar  t0fibx"ib«8iI8  bio  edi  JUG 

NORTH. 

Old  as  ye  are,  and  laugh  as  you  may,  I  think  you  are  like  to  see  such 
things  ere  you  die.  Sir,  I  have  seen  them.  Godlike  in  form  and  attitude, 
and  almost  in  intellect — clear-sighted,  rational,  contemplative,  eloquent — 
voluptuous,  courteous,  gentle,  brave,  upright,  gallant,  romantic — a  prince 
among  mortal  things,  but  a  little  lower  than  the  angels — once  let  his  blood 
boil  beneath  the  hot  breath  of  trumpets,  and  Man  is  but  the  fiercest  of  the 
fer&,  :.caa£: 

tgnoBifeBuu  gaorriB  'So  biasii  at1  gairf  J  elcts 
So  I  have  heard — much  the  same  in  a  fox  chase. 
>ns  .niBdjmimuj'J)  .'fio/I  .cnudV   NORTH.  ;ataoo  srfJ.QjLBJ  teutn  \9Tltel 
War  is  the  game,  sir — life,  honour,  glory,  are  a  grand  stake.     The  air 
above  is  mad,  and  the  earth  staggers  and  reels,  when  the  old  original  savage 
of  the  woods  bursts  splendidly  horrible  from  amidst  the  snapt  fetters  of 
custom,  and  the  pretty  flimsy  veils  and  mantlings  of  your  civilisation  are 
beat  and  trodden  into  mud  and  Lethe,  and  the  beautiful  wild-beast  burns 
and  pants  for  brotherly  blood, 

TICKLER. 

"  La  Victoire  marchera  au  pas  de  charge !  L'aigle  et  les  couleurs  nation* 
aux  voleront  du  clocher  en  clocher  jusqu'aux  tours  de  Notre  Dame !" 

NORTH. 

You  have  repeated  one  of  the  finest  sentences  that  ever  came  from  the 
lips  or  the  pen  of  the  greatest  orator  of  modern  ages; — Napoleon  Bonay 
parte !  What  a  flame  of  glory  kindled  him  on  such  occasions — "  Quarante 
a;hni«B  voijs  regardent  du  haut  de  ces  Pyramides  !"•*-"  Qu'il  soit  dft  do. 


560  Noctes  Ambrosiance.    No.  L  VIII.  [Sept. 

chacun — II  etoit  dans  cette  grande  bataille  sous  les  murs  de  Moscow!"    I 
wonder  at  nothing  that  these  men  did. 

TICKLER. 
"  Up,  Guards,  and  at  them"— served  the  turn. 

NORTH. 

Yes,  truly — what  a  fine  story  is  that  Sir  Walter  tells  us  in  some  of  his 
notes  about  the  grim  old  Douglas  at  Ancrum  Moor !  He  was  just  about 
to  charge,  when  a  heron  sprung  up  between  and  the  English  van.  "  Aha!" 
he  cried,  **  would  to  God  my  gude  grey  hawk  were  here,  that  we  might  <£ 
yoke  thegilher  !" 

TICKLER. 

Well  said,  old  Bell-the-Cat ! — Ay,  ay,  'tis  that  kind  of  allocutio  that 
will  always  do  the  trick  with  us.  None  of  your  flowers  of  flummery 
here  ! 

'NORTH. 
I  trust  our  own  old  Plain  Speaker  has  a  campaign  or  two  in  him  yet. 

TICKLER. 

Ay,  barring  accidents,  a  round  dozen  of  them,  if  need  be.  He  had  been 
pulled  down  a  little  with  the  grippe  when  I  saw  him  first ;  but  before  I  left 
town,  his  cheeks  had  plumped  out  again,  and  he  looked  fit  for  any  thing. 
His  eye  has  lost  nothing  of  its  eagle  brightness  ;  he  walks  to  this  hour  as 
straight  as  a  ramrod ;  and  his  leg  is  as  perfect  as  it  could  have  been  at 
thirty.  He  is  to  the  fore  yet,  thank  God — heart,  soul,  bone,  and  blood — 
but  if  it  were  otherwise,  we  have  pretty  cards  in  the  pack. 

NORTH. 

Combermere — Hill — Kemp — all  fine  fellows,  and  in  full  vigour. 

TICKLER. 

Ay,  and  Murray  and  Hardinge,  either  of  them  well  worth  your  three. 

NORTH. 

What  a  beautiful  picture  of  the  old  cavalier  is  Sir  George  Murray.  I 
know  nothing  like  it  in  that  style. 

TICKLER. 

Nor  I,  and  PickersgilFs  portrait,  in  this  year's  exhibition,  does  him  as 
much  justice.by  Jupiter.as  either  Lawrence,or  Vandyke,  or  Velasquez  could 
have  done.  But  somehow,  Sir  George  appears  to  me  to  carry  a  certain 
tinge  of  languor  about  him — his  eye  is  so  gentle,  calm,  melancholy,  pen- 
sive— I  should  doubt  of  there  being  quite  enough  stimulus. 

NORTH. 

No  fears, — the  first  "  clarion — clarion  wild  and  shrill"  would  send  the 
blood  tumbling  through  him  like  another  Garry.  We  have  always  had 
Platoffs  and  Bluchers  among  us  enow,  I  warrant  ye — but  we  have  some- 
times felt  the  want  of  a  Gneisenau — and  this  soft-eyed  hero  appears  to  stand 
second  to  Wellington  in  the  opinion  of  most  of  his  compeers. 

TICKLER. 

He  is  a  cock  of  the  right  feather  to  be  sure,  and  speaks,  by  the  by,  as 
well  as  if  he  had  never  had  another  trade. 

NORTH. 
Peradventure  better. 

TICKLER. 

However — I  am  no  judge  of  such  concerns,  of  course — but  I  strongly  sus- 
pect if  there  were  a  war  either  at  home  or  abroad,  the  army  would  expect  to 
see  Hardinge  as  far  forward  as  any  body  but  the  Duke. 

NORTH. 

We  shall  have  work  for  Murray  here  among  ourselves.  Scotland  will 
look  to  him  in  the  first  instance. 

"  There  are  hills  beyond  Pentland  and  streams  beyond  Forth, 
If  there's  lords  in  the  Lowlands  there's  chiefs  in  the  North. 
There  are  wild  Dunniewassels  three  thousand  times  three, 
Will  cry, '  Hoich  !  for  the  bonnet  of  bonny  Dundee  !'  " 
What  a  grand  ballad  that  is !  It  haunts  me  like  a  spirit. 

TICKLER. 
'Tis  a  clever  thing. 


1881.]  Nodes  Ambrosiana.    No.  L  VIII.  561 

NORTH. 
You  heard  Sir  Henry  Hardinge  too  ? 

TICKLER. 

Several  tiroes ;  but  never  a  set  speech.  He  may  not,  perhaps,  be  exactly 
an  orator,  which,  among  other  and  better  things,  Nature  certainly  meant 
Murray  to  be;  but  he  has  complete  command  of  clear,  terse,  nervous 
language — is  quick  as  lightning  at  retort — has  a  full,  masculine,  sonorous 
voice — considerable  dignity  of  action,  too — and,  above  all,  carries  with  him 
such  an  air  of  upright,  manly  single-mindedness,  high  noble  feeling,  and 
unaffected  modesty,  that,  judging  from  the  little  I  saw,  I  am  not  sure  if  any 
body  in  the  House  produces  altogether  a  more  powerful  effect.  His  defence 
of  Philpotts  was  a  first-rate  thing,  and  did  that  job  as  well  as  any  Cicero 
could  have  come  up  to. 

NORTH. 

Why,  that  could  not  have  been  a  difficult  job — for  the  Bishop's  justification 
of  facts  was  clear  as  day.  Sir  Henry  lost  an  arm,  didn't  he,  at  Waterloo  ? 

TICKLER. 

I  don't  know  where  it  happened,  but  that,  you  know,  is  a  mutilation  which 
takes  grace  from  no  man.  He  is  the  perfect  model  of  a  soldier — a  short,  com- 
pact, firm,  handsome  figure,  all  buttoned  up  to  the  chin  in  blue  and  black, 
and  a  countenance  which,  though  without  the  statuesque  elegance  of  Bo- 
naparte's, reminded  me  more  of  that  in  the  extraordinary  mass  of  brow,  the 
large,  deep-cut,  grey,  fiery  eye,  the  solid  contour  of  the  jaw,  the  fall  of  the 
hair,  and  the  whole  style  of  complexion,  than  any  other  head  I  remember 
to  have  met  with.  This  is  one  or  our  very  first  cards.  If  things  go  well,  he 
must  be  a  Secretary  of  State  in  the  next  Cabinet — if  darkly,  he  must  come 
down  and  raise  the  standard  in  Yorkshire — for  that,  I  believe,  is  his  calf- 
country. 

NORTH. 

A  fine  fellow  you  describe.  Come,  the  bowl's  near  out — God  save  the 
King,  and  let's  to  bed. 

5' 

TICKLER. 

God  save  the  King,  say  ye  ?  Well,  I'll  try  my  hand, 
AIR — National  Anthem. 

Whate'er  thy  creed  may  be, 
Party,  or  pedigree, 

I  ask  not  what— 
So  heart  and  blood  be  free, 
Each  pulse  confirms  to  thee 
High  honour's  first  decree, 

THOU  SHALT  NOT  RAT. 

Perish  the  caitiff  base, 
Who  dares  desert  the  place 

Whereon  he  sat. 
Why  was't  the  old  serpent  fell, 
But  that  he  did  rebel 
'Gainst  this  grand  oracle— 

THOU  SHALT  NOT  RAT  ? 

Calcraft's  mean  soul  also,    - 
Shall  hiss  and  stink  below, 
Be  sure  of  that — 
Wherefore  the  FIEND  defy  I 
Turn  not  a  walking  lie ! 
Commit  no  Whiggery ! 

TlIOU  SHALT  NOT  RAT, 
NORTH. 

Not  bad,— Come,  Timotheus,  'tis  well  on  to  one  o'clock,  and  this  is  a 


562  Noctes  Ambrosiance.    No.  L  VIII.  [Sept. 

decent  house,  and  we  must  e'en  turn  in.  Tip  me  just  one  touch  of  the 
fiddle  ere  we  go — you  have  never  yet  even  attempted  to  give  me  a  notion 
of  this  murderous  Paganini. 

TICKLER. 
To  hear  is  to  obey.    The  violin  is  behind  you  there,  in  the  corner. 

GRAND  OVERTURE — (with  the  Pizzicato  Movement.) 
SONATA  MAESTOSA  SENTIMENTALE. 

NORTH. 
Wonderful,  incredible,  sublime  ! — Worth  twenty  uxorcides ! 

TICKLER. 

Now  for  a  stave  of  the  old  order,  with  an  accompaniment  on  the  fourth 
string.     Fill  my  glass  with  brandy — Here's  to  Douglas  Cheape,  George 
Joseph  Bell,  George  Brodie,  and  all.good  fellows — Tory,  Whig,  and  Radi- 
cal !     Attend— (sings.)  a)Oq  g8  W-iobiafTO')  mod  H 
AIR — George  Dempster. 

Pray  for  the  soul 

Of  Timothy  Tickler, 
For  the  church  and  the  bowl 

A  determinate  stickler ! 

tno  -rtA 

Born  and  bred  in  the  land 

Where  Fyne  herrings  they  munch, 
And  a  capital  hand 

At  concocting  of  punchy  a'til)  baA 

slqosq  9riJ  is'o  D919WO1  t»H 
From  that  great  bumper-school 

To  Auld  Reekie  he  came, 
And  drew  in  his  stool 

To  a  desk  in  the  same; 

'  ^1$  an  dgiiodT 
BUt  though  W.  S., 

And  ambitious  to  thrive, 
Even  his  foes  must  confess, 

Cheated  no  man  alive  j 

.  m»7«T  -  i/. 

Neither  harried  poor  gentry 

Of  house  or  ot  land, 
Nor  bolted  the  country 

With  cash  "  in  his  hand ;" 

'ir§9t  storn  A 
But  by  early  rising, 

And  working  late, 
With  smeddum  surprising 

Improved  his  estate ; 

Yuj< 
Which  to  guard  from  the  crew 

Of  the  Kobespierres, 
He  was  fugleman  to 

Charlie  Hope's  volunteers ; 

And,  not  fancying  hell, 

Spite  of  infidel  jeers, 
Had  a  pew  to  himsell 

In  the  Old  Grey-Freres. 

Thus  our  friend  did  advance 

Past  the  middle  of  life, 
Spurning  Sautan  and  France, 

And  eschewing  a  wife  j 


1831.]  Nodes  Ambrosiance.    No.  LVIIT.  563 

Till  he  of  the  stuff, 

In  a  pair  of  old  hose, 
Had  put  by  Quantum  Suff. 

As  we  may  suppose. 

When  halt  and  give  o'er, 

Let  the  single-roll  drop, 
Took  the  plate  frae  the  door,        ^,,^ 

And  shut  up  the  shop. 

After  which,  at  fullleisure, 

With  cool  cutting  digs, 
,1  »ifc  no  ,»,.  He  consulted  his  pleasure 

In  whanging  at  Whigs, 
»  bus  ^iri//  «xioT-  "  Tmfi  <9iJxnH  egio^O  JfaS  .  qo^ol 

Whom  considering  as  puts 

Ever  bent  on  what's  ill,  -HI/, 
He  so  poked  in  the  guts 

With  the  point  of  his  quill,    iot  VBIC{ 


That  their  whole  generation^lo 

With  trembling  and  fear, 
And  most  rueful  vexation, 

Eyed  this  Volunteer, 

'  MiiW 

Where  tall  as  a  Steeple, 

And  thin  as  a  Shadow, 
He  towered  o'er  the  people 

On  the  Links  or  The  Meadow.      >vl 

oT 
Yet  among  Tory  lads 

Of  the  God-fearing  breed, 
Though  as  grey  as  their  dads, 

He  was  welcome  indeed  ; 

Still  maund'ring  and  hav'ring 

And  refreshing  the  body 
At  Ambrose's  Tavern 

With  tumblers  o'  toddy  ; 

Frae  June  to  December,erfJ  f 

Frae  December  to  June, 
A  more  regular  Member 

Was  not  in  the  toun  ; 

• 

For  his  powers  peristaltic 

Were  sure  as  a  gun, 
And  though  full  as  the  Baltic, 

He  headach  had  none. 

This  respectable  course 

Did  our  Elder  pursue, 
Till  the  Raffs  rose  in  force 

In  the  year  thirty-two  -f 

When,  just  after  the  King 

And  his  innocent  Queen, 
I'm  assured  the  next  thing 

For  their  damn'd  Guillotine 


564  Nodes  Ambrosiance.    No,  L  VIII.  [Sept. 

Was  the  neckbone  to  smite 

Of  this  sober  old  sage, 
Putting  out  the  first  light 

Of  that  scoundrelly  age  ; 

But,  his  years  by  that  time 

Being  eighty  and  three, 
He,  though  still  in  the  prime 

O'  his  punch-bibbing  glee, 

Not  a  word  exclamavit 

At  so  hasty  a  call, 
But  off  wi'  his  gravat, 

Long  pigtail,  and  all  — 

And  calmly  submitting, 

Awaited  the  thud, 
Which  his  occiput  splitting, 

Brain,  marrow,  and  blood, 

Furnished  ocular  nuts, 

And  moreover  auricular, 
To  those  sons  of  Whig-sluts 

Who  thus  tickled  the  Tickler  j 

But  left  every  good  Tory 

To  pray  that  his  soul 
May  be  seated  in  glory, 

By  the  side  of  a  bowl  — 

In  scecla  saclorum, 

Every  night  of  the  week, 
With  a  goblet  before  him, 

And  a  pipe  in  his  cheek  I 

CHORUS. 
With  a  pipe  in  his  cheek, 

And  a  goblet  before  him, 
Every  night  of  the  week, 

In  scecla  sceclorum  I 


Well,  now,  I'm  wound  up  for  once.    Good  landlord,  you  may  desire  your 
old  woman  up  stairs,  like  Miladi  Macbeth  — 

-  to  ring  upon  the  bell, 
When  that  my  drink  is  ready. 

NORTH. 

That's  true  —  I  had  forgot  the  egg-wine  ;  and,  by  the  by,  'tis  a  pity  I  for- 
got to  order  Gurney  this  evening,  for  old  Ebony  is  constantly  bothering  me 
about  that  confounded  Monthly  of  his,  and  half  his  talk  for  the  last  three 
days  might  be  summed  up  in  the  words  of  your  fat  favourite  of  Bilboa  — 

-  "  Hi  LlBELLI, 

TANQUAM  CONJUGIBUS  suis  MARITI, 

NON  POSSUNT  SINE  NOCTIBUS  PLACERE." 

[Curtain  drops. 


Edinburgh  ;  Printed  by  Bdlantyne  $  Co.  Paul's  Work,  Canongate. 


No.  CLXXXVI.  OCTOBER,  1831.  VOL.  XXX. 


PASSAGES  FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  LATE  PHYSICIAN.    CHAP.  XII. 

Mother  and  Son,      .....«.;..  565 

A  Word  with  the  Reader  at  Parting,          .         .          .         .          .         .  599 

ON  PARLIAMENTARY  REFORM  AND  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.    No.  X. — 

WHAT  is  THE  BILL  NOW  ?.,.        .        .        .        .        .  600 

EXTRACTS  FROM  AN  UNSEASONABLE  STORY. 

CHAP.  I. — Orange  Processions,           .         .         .         .         .          .         .  61  u 

CHAP.  II. — Reasons  and  Representations,        V,         .         .          .         .  623 

CHAP.  III. — Enquiry,  Justice,  and  Expediency,                               .         .  627 

MOORE'S  LORD  EDWAKD  FITZGERALD,          .                 ....  631 

THE  LUNATIC'S  COMPLAINT.    By  DELTA,   .                 .        .        .        .  G4  G 

THE  MAGIC  MIRROR.    BY  THE  ETTRICK  SHEPHERD,           .        .        .  650 
IGNORAMUS  ON  THE  FINE   ARTS.     No.  III. — HOGARTH,   BEWICK,   AND 

GREEN, 055 

HOMER'S  HYMNS.     No.  III. — APOLLO,          ......  669 

TOD'S  ANNALS  AND  ANTIQUITIES  OF  RAJAST'HAN,         ....  681 

MARGUERITE  OF  FRANCE.     BY  MRS  HEMANS,               ....  C97 

THE  FREED  BIRD.     BY  THE  SAME, C99 

LINES  WRITTEN  ON  TWEEDSIDE,  SEPT.  18, 1831,       •  •     '.«        .       .  701 

WHAT  SHOULD  THE  PEERS  DO  ?            .                 702 


EDINBURGH : 

WILLIAM  BLACKWOOD,  NO*  45,  GEORGE  STREET,  EDINBURGH  ; 
AND  T.  CADELL,  STRAND,  LONDON. 

To  whom  Communications  (post  pan])  may  le  addressed* 
SOLD  ALSO  BY  ALL  THE  BOOKSELLERS  OF  THE  UNITED  KINGDOM, 

PRINTED  BY  DALLAN'TYNR  AND  CO.  EDINBURGH* 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CLXXXVI. 


OCTOBER,  1831. 


VOL,  XXX. 


^PASSAGES  FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  LATE  PHYSICIAN. 

CHAP.  XII. 
Mother  and  Son—A  Word  with  the  Reader  at  Parting. 

MOTHER  AND  SON. 


THIS  is  the  last,  and — it  may  be 
considered — most  mournful  extract 
from  my  Diary.  It  appears  to  me  a 
touching  and  terrible  disclosure  of 
the  misery,  disgrace,  and  ruin  con- 
sequent on  GAMBLING.  Not  that  I 
imagine  it  possible,  even  by  the  most 
moving  exhibition,  to  soften  the 
more  than  nether-millstone  hardness 
of  a  gamester's  heart,  or  enable  a 
voluntary  victim  to  break  from  the 
meshes  in  which  he  has  suffered 
himself  to  be  entangled; — but  the 
lamentable  cries  ascending  from  this 
pit  of  horror,  may  scare  off  those 
who  are  thoughtlessly  approaching 
its  brink.  The  moral  of  the  following 
events  may  be  gathered  up  into  a 
word  or  two : — Oh !  be  wise,  and  be 
wise  in  time  ! 

I  took  more  than  ordinary  pains  to 
acquaint  myself  with  the  transac- 
tions which  are  hereafter  specified  ; 
and  some  of  the  means  I  adopted 
are  occasionally  mentioned,  as  I  go 
on  with  the  narrative.  It  may  be  as 
well  to  state,  that  the  events  detail- 
ed, are  assigned  a  date  which  barely 
counts  within  the  present  century. 
I  have  reason, nevertheless,  to  know, 
that,  at  least,  one  of  the  guilty  agents 
still  survives  to  pollute  the  earth 
with  his  presence ;  and  if  that  indi- 
vidual should  presume  to  gainsay 
any  portion  of  the  following  narra- 
tive, his  impotent  efforts  will  meet 
with  the  disdain  they  merit. 

VOL.  XXX.  CLXXXVI. 


Mr  Beauchamp  came  to  the  full  re- 
ceipt of  a  fortune  of  two  or  three  thou- 
sand a-year,  which,  though  hereditary, 
was  at  his  absolute  disposal — about 
the  period  of  his  return  from  those 
continental  peregrinations  which  are 
judged  essential  to  complete  an  Eng- 
lish gentleman's  education.  Exter- 
nal circumstances  seemed  to  combine 
in  his  favour.  Happiness  and  honour 
in  life  were  ensured  him,  at  the  cost 
of  very  moderate  exertions  on  his 
own  part,  and  those  requisite,  not  to 
originate,  or  continue  his  course- 
but  only  to  guide  it.  No  one  was 
better  apprized  than  himself,  of  the 
precise  position  he  occupied  in  life : 
yet  the  apparent  immunity  from  the 
cares  and  anxieties  of  life,  which 
seemed  irrevocably  secured  to  him, 
instead  of  producing  its  natural  ef- 
fect on  a  well-ordered  mind,  of  sti- 
mulating it  to  honourable  action,  led 
to  widely  different,  most  melancholy, 
but  by  no  means  unusual  results — a 
prostitution  of  his  energies  and  op- 
portunities to  the  service  of  fashion- 
able dissipation.  The  restraints  to 
which,  during  a  long  minority,  he 
had  been  subjected  by  his  admi- 
rable mother,  who  nursed  his  fortune 
as  sedulously,  but  more  successfully, 
than  she  cultivated  his  mind  and 
morals — served,  alas  !  little  other 
purpose  than  to  whet  his  appetite 
for  the  pleasurable^pursuits  to  which 
2  o 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


566 

he  considered  himself  entitled,  and 
from  which  he  had  been  so  long  and 
unnecessarily  debarred.  All  these 
forbidden  fruits  clustered  before 
him  in  tempting,  but  unhalloAved 
splendour,  the  instant  that  Oxford 
threw  open  its  portals  to  receive 
him.  He  found  there  many  spirits 
as  ardent  and  dissatisfied  with  past 
restraints  as  himself. — The  princi- 
pal features  of  his  character  were 
flexibility  and  credulity;  and  his 
leading  propensity — one  that,  like 
the  wrath  of  Achilles,  drew  after  it 
innumerable  sorrows — the  love  of 
play. 

The  first  false  step  he  made,  was 
an  unfortunate  selection  of  a  tutor ; 
a  man  of  agreeable  and  compliant 
manners,  but  utterly  worthless  in 
point  of  moral  character;  one  who 
had  impoverished  himself,  when  first 
at  College,  by  gaming,  but  who,  ha- 
ving learned  "  wisdom,"  was  now  a 
subtle  and  cautious  gamester.  He 
was  one  of  a  set  of  notorious  pluckers, 
among  whom,  shameful  to  relate, 
were  found  several  young  men  of 
rank ;  and  whose  business  it  was  to 
seek  out  freshmen  for  their  dupes. 
Eccles — the  name  I  shall  give  the 
tutor — was  an  able  mathematician ; 
and  that  was  the  only  thing  that 
Beauchamp  looked  to  in  selecting 
him.  Beauchamp  got  regularly  in- 
troduced to  the  set  to  which  his  tutor 
belonged ;  but  his  mother's  lively 
and  incessant  surveillance  put  it  out 
of  his  power  to  embarrass  himself 
by  serious  losses.  He  Avas  long 
enough,  however,  apprenticed  to 
guilt,  to  form  the  habits  and  disposi- 
tion of  a  gamester.  The  cunning 
Eccles,  when  anxiously  interrogated 
by  Mrs  Beajichamp  about  her  son's 

general  conduct,  gave  his  pupil  a 
ourishing  character,  both  for  moral 
excellence  and  literary  attainments, 
and  acquitted  him  of  any  tendency 
to  the  vices  usually  prevalent  at 
College.  And  all  this,  when  Eccles 
knew  that  he  had  seen,  but  a  few 
weeks  before,  among  his  pupil's 
papers,  copies  of  long  bills,  accepted 
payable  on  his  reaching  twenty-one 
— to  the  tune  of  L.loOO ;  and,  further, 
that  he,  the  tutor  himself,  was  the 
holder  of  one  of  these  acceptances, 
which  ensured  him  L.500  for  the 
L.300  he  had  kindly  furnished  lor  his 
pupil !  His  demure  and  plausible 
air  quite  took  with  the  unsuspicious 


[Oct. 


Mrs  Beauchamp ;  and  she  thought 
it  impossible  that  her  son  could  find 
a  fitter  companion  to  the  continent. 

On  young  Beauchamp's  return  to 
England,  the  first  thing  he  did  was 
to  dispatch  his  obsequious  tutor  into 
the  country,  to  trumpet  his  pupil's 
praises  to  his  mother,  and  apprize 
her  of  his  coming.  The  good  old 
lady  was  in  ecstasies  at  the  glowing 
colours  in  which  her  son's  virtues, 
were  painted  by  Eccles  ; — such  uni- 
form moderation  and  prudence, 
amidst  the  seductive  scenes  of  the 
continent ;  such  shining  candour ; 
such  noble  liberality ! — In  the  fulness 
of  her  heart,  Mrs  Beauchamp  promi- 
sed the  tutor,  who  was  educated  for 
the  church,  the  next  presentation  to 
a  living  which  was  expected  very 
shortly  to  fall  vacant; — as  some 
"  small  return  for  the  invaluable  ser- 
vices he  had  rendered  her  son  !" 

It  was  a  memorable  day  Avhen 
young  Beauchamp,  arrived  at  the 
Hall  in shire,  stood  sudden- 
ly before  his  transported  mother,  in 
all  the  pride  of  person,  and  of  appa- 
rent accomplishments.  He  was  in- 
deed a  fine  young  fellow  to  look  at. 
His  well-cast  features  beamed  with 
an  expression  of  frankness  and  gene- 
rosity ;  and  his  manners  were  exqui- 
sitely tempered  with  cordiality  and 
elegance.  He  had  brushed  the  bloom 
off  continental  flowers  in  passing, 
and  caught  their  glow  and  perfume. 

It  was  several  minutes  before  he 
could  disengage  himself  from  the 
embraces  of  his  mother,  who  laugh- 
ed and  wept  by  turns,  and  uttered 
the  most  passionate  exclamations  of 
joy  and  affection.  "  Oh,  that  your 
poor  old  father  could  see  you  !"  she 
sobbed,  and  almost  cried  herself  into 
hysterics.  Young  Beauchamp  was 
deeply  moved  with  this  display  of 
parental  tenderness.  He  saw  and 
felt  that  his  mother's  whole  soul 
was  bound  up  with  his  own;  and, 
with  the  rapid  resolutions  of  youth, 
he  had  in  five  minutes  changed  the 
whole  course  and  scope  of  his  life 
— renounced  the  pleasures  of  Lon- 
don, and  resolved  to  come  and  set- 
tle on  his  estates  in  the  country, 
live  under  the  proud  and  fond  eye 
of  his  mother,  and,  in  a  word,  tread 
in  the  steps  of  his  father.  He  felt 
suddenly  imbued  with  the  spirit  of 
the  good  old  English  country  gentle- 
man, and  resolved  to  live  the  life  of 


183  L] 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


one.  There  was,  however,  a  cause 
in  operation,  and  powerful  opera- 
tion, to  bring  about  this  change  of 
feeling,  to  which  I  have  not  yet  ad- 
verted. His  cousin,  Ellen  Beau- 
champ,  happened  to  be  thought  of 
by  her  aunt,  as  a  fit  person  to  be 
staying  with  her  when  her  son  arri- 
ved. Yes — the  little  blue-eyed  girl 
with  whom  he  had  romped  fifteen 
years  ago,  now  sate  beside  him  in 
the  bloom  of  budding  womanhood — 
her  peachy  cheeks  alternatelypale  and 
flushed  as  she  saw  her  cousin's  en- 
quiring eye  settled  upon  her,  and 
scanning  her  beautiful  proportions. 
Mr  Beauchamp  took  the  very' first 
opportunity  he  could  seize  of  ask- 
ing his  mother,  with  some  trepida- 
tion, "  whether  Ellen  was  enga- 
ged!" 

"  I  think  she  is  not"  replied  his 
delighted  mother,  bursting  into  tears, 
and  folding  him  in  her  arms — "  but 
I  wish  somebody  would  take  the  ear- 
liest opportunity  of  doing  so." 

"  Ah,  ha  ?— Then  she's  Mrs  Beau- 
champ,  junior !"  replied  her  son, 
with  enthusiasm. 

Matters  were  quickly,  quietly,  and 
effectually  arranged  to  bring  about 
that  desirable  end — as  they  always 
are,  when  all  parties  understand  one 
another  ;  and  young  Beauchamp 
made  up  his  mind  to  appear  in  a  new 
character — that  of  a  quiet  country 
gentleman,  the  friend  and  patron  of 
an  attached  tenantry,  and  a  promi- 
sing aspirant  after  county  honours. 
What  is  there  in  life  like  the  sweet 
and  freshening  feelings  of  the  wealthy 
young  squire,stepping  into  the  sphere 
of  his  hereditary  honours  and  influ- 
ences, and  becoming  at  once  the  re- 
vered master  of  household  and  te- 
nantry, grown  grey  in  his  father's 
service — the  prop  of  his  family — and 
the  "  rising  man"  in  the  county  ? 
Young  Beauchamp  experienced  these 
salutary  and  reviving  feelings  in  their 
full  force.  They  diverted  the  cur- 
rent of  his  ambition  into  a  new 
course,  and  enabled  him  keenly  to 
appreciate  his  own  capabilities.  The 
difference  between  the  life  he  had 
just  determined  on,  and  that  he  had 
formerly  projected,  was  simply — so 
to  speak — the  difference  between 
being  a  Triton  among  minnows,  and 
a  minnow  among  Tritons.  There, 
residing  on  his  own  property,  sur- 
rounded by  his  own  dependents,  and 


567 

by  neighbours  who  were  solicitous 
to  secure  his  good  graces,  he  could 
feel  and  enjoy  his  own  consequence. 
Thus,  in  every  point  of  view,  a  coun- 
try life  appeared  preferable  to  one 
in  the  "  gay  and  whirlpool  crowded 
town." 

There  was,  however,  one  indivi- 
dual at Hall,  who  viewed  these 

altered  feelings  and  projects  with  no 
satisfaction  ;  it  was  Mr  Eccles.  This 
mean  and  selfish  individual  saw  at 
once  that,  in  the  event  of  these  altera- 
tions beingcarried  into  effect,  his  own 
nefarious  services  would  be  instant- 
ly dispensed  with,  and  a  state  of  feel- 
ings brought  into  play,  which  would 
lead  his  pupil  to  look  with  disgust  at 
the  scenes  to  which  he  had  been  in- 
troduced at  college  and  on  the  con- 
tinent. He  immediately  set  to  work 
to  frustrate  the  plans  of  his  pupil. 
He  selected  the  occasion  of  his  being 
sent  for  one  morning  by  Mr  Beau- 
champ  into  his  library,  to  commence 
operations.  He  was  not  discouraged, 
when  his  ci-devant  pupil,  whose  eyes 
had  really,  as  Eccles  suspected,  been 
opened  to  the  iniquity  of  his  tutor's 
doings,  commenced  thanking  him  in 
a  cold  and  formal  style  for  his  past 
services,  and  requested  presentation 
of  the  bill  he  held  against  him  for 
L.500,  which  he  instantly  paid.  He 
then  proceeded,  without  interrup- 
tion from  the  mortified  Eccles,  to 
state  his  regret  at  being  unable  to 
reward  his  services  with  a  living,  at 
present ;  but  that  if  ever  it  were  in 
his  power,  he  might  rely  on  it,  &c. 
&c.  &c.  Mr  Eccles,  with  astonish- 
ment, mentioned  the  living  of  which 
Mrs  Beauchamp  had  promised  him 
the  reversion ;  but  received  an  eva- 
sive reply  from  Mr  Beauchamp,  who 
was  at  length  so  much  irritated  at 
the  pertinacity,  and  even  the  re- 
proachful tone  with  which  his  tutor 
pressed  his  claim,  that  he  said  sharp- 
ly, "  Mr  Eccles,  when  my  mother 
made  you  that  promise,  she  never 
consulted  me,  in  whose  sole  gift  the 
living  is.  And  besides,  sir,  what  did 
she  know  of  our  tricks  at  French 
Hazard,  and  Rouge  et  Noir  ?  She 
must  have  thought  your  skill  at  play 
an  odd  recommendation  for  the  du- 
ties of  the  church."  High  words,  mu- 
tual recriminations,  and  threats,  en- 
sued, and  they  parted  in  anger.  The 
tutor  resolved  to  make  his  "ungrate- 
ful" pupil  repent  of  his  misconduct, 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


568 

and  he  lacked  neither  the  tact  nor  the 
opportunities  necessary  for  accom- 
plishing his  purpose.  The  altered 
demeanour  of  Mrs  Beauchamp,  to- 
gether with  the  haughty  and  con- 
strained civility  of  her  son,  soon 
warned  Mr  Eccles  that  his  departure 
from  the  Hall  could  not  be  delayed ; 
and  he  very  shortly  withdrew. 

Mr  Beauchamp  began  to  breathe 
freely,  as  it  were,  when  the  evil  spi- 
rit, in  his  tutor's  shape, was  no  long- 
er at  his  elbow,  poisoning  his  prin- 
ciples, and  prompting  him  to  vice  and 
debauchery.  He  resolved,  forthwith, 
to  be  all  that  his  tutor  had  represented 
him  to  his  mother  ;  to  atone  for  past 
indiscretions,  by  a  life  of  sobriety 
and  virtue.  All  now  went  on  smooth- 
ly and  happily  at  the  Hall.  The  new 
squire  entered  actively  on  the  duties 
devolving  upon  him,  and  was  engaged 
daily  driving  his  beautiful  cousin 
over  his  estate,  and  shewing  to  his 
obsequious  tenantry  their  future 
lady.  .  On  what  trifling  accidents  do 
often  the  great  changes  of  life  de- 
pend ! — Mr  Beauchamp,  after  a  three 
months'  continuance  in  the  country, 
was  sent  for  by  his  solicitor  to  town, 
in  order  to  complete  the  final  ar- 
rangements of  his  estate  ;  and  which, 
he  supposed,  would  occupy  him  but 
a  few  days.  That  London  visit  led  to 
his  ruin !  It  may  be  recollected  that 
the  execrable  Eccles  owed  his  pupil 
a  grudge  for  the  disappointment  he 
had  occasioned  him,  and  the  time 
and  manner  of  his  dismissal.  What 
does  the  reader  imagine  was  the  dia- 
bolical device  he  adopted,  to  bring 
about  the  utter  ruin  of  his  unsuspi- 
cious pupil  ?  Apprized  of  Mr  Beau- 
champ's  visit  to  London, — [Mr  Eccles 
had  removed  to  lodgings,  but  a  little 
distance  from  the  Hall,  and  was  of 
course  acquainted  with  the  leading 
movements  of  the  family" — he  wrote 
the  following  letter  to  a  Baronet  in 
London,  with  whom  he  had  b«en 
very  intimate  as  a  "Plucker"  at  Ox- 
ford— and  who  having  ruined  him- 
self by  his  devotion  to  play — equally 
in  respect  of  fortune  and  character 
— was  now  become  little  else  than  a 
downright  systematic  sharper. 

"  DEAR  SIR  EDWARD, 
"  YOUNG  Beauchamp,  one  of  our 
quondam  pigeons  at  Oxford,    who 
has  just  come  of  age,  will  be  in  Lon- 
don next  Friday  or  Saturday,  and 


[Oct. 


put  up  at  his  old  hotel,  the  — — .  He 
will  bear  plucking.  Verb.  suf.  The 
bird  is  somewhat  shy — but  you  are 
a  good  shot.  Don't  frighten  him. 
He  is  giving  up  life,  and  going  to 
turn  Saint !  The  fellow  has  used  me 
cursedly  ill;  he  has  cut  me  quite, 

and  refused  me  old  Dr 's  living. 

I'll  make  him  repent  it !   I  will  by 

"  Yours  ever,  most  faithfully, 

"  PETER  ECCLES." 
"  To  SIR  EDWARD  STREIGHTON. 

"  P.S.  If  Beauchamp  plucks  well, 
you  won't  press  me  for  the  trifle  I 
owe— will  you  ?  Burn  this  note." 

This  infernal  letter,  which,  by  a 
singular  concurrence  of  events,  got 
into  the  hands  where  /  saw  it,  laid 
the  train  for  such  a  series  of  plotting 
and  mano3uvring,  as,  in  the  end,  ruin- 
ed poor  Beauchamp, and  gave  Eccles 
his  coveted  revenge. 

When  Beauchamp  quitted  tho 
Hall,  his  mother  and  Ellen  had  the 
most  solemn  assurance  that  his  stay 
in  town  would  not  be  protracted 
beyond  the  week.  Nothing  but  this 
could  quiet  the  good  old  lady's  ap- 
prehensions, who  expressed  an  un- 
accountable conviction  that  some 
calamity  or  other  was  about  to  as- 
sail their  house.  She  had  had  a 
dreadful  dream, she  said;  but  when 
importuned  to  tell  it,  answered,  that 
if  Henry  came  safe  home,  then  she 
would  tell  them  her  dream.  In 
short,  his  departure  was  a  scene  of 
tears  and  gloom,  which  left  an  im- 
pression of  sadness  on  his  own  mind, 
that  lasted  all  the  way  up  to  town. 
On  his  arrival,  he  betook  himself  to 

his  old  place,  the hotel,  near 

Piccadilly ;  and,  in  order  to  expedite 
his  business  as  much  as  possible, 
appointed  the  evening  of  the  very 
day  of  his  arrival  for  a  meeting  with 
his  solicitor. 

The  morning  papers  duly  apprized 
the  world  of  the  important  fact,  that 
"  Henry  Beauchamp,  Esquire,  had 

arrived  at 's,  from  his  seat  in 

shire;"  and  scarce  ten  minutes 

after  he  had  read  the  officious  an- 
nunciation at  breakfast,  his  valet 
brought  him  the  card  of  Sir  Edward 
Streighton. 

"  Sir  Edward  Streighton !"  ex- 
claimed Beauchamp,  witli  astonish- 
ment, laying  do\vn  the  card  ;  adding, 
after  a  pause,  with  a  cold  and  doubt- 


1831.]  Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 

fill    air.   "  Slifivv   in    Sir   Edward,   of     that,  lift   "  knfiw  all  1 


ful  air,  "  Shew  in  Sir  Edward,  of 
course." 

In  a  few  moments  the  baronet  was 
ushered  into  the  room — made  up  to 
his  old  "  friend,"  with  great  cordiali- 
ty, and  expressed  a  thousand  win- 
ning civilities.  He  was  attired  in  a 
style  of  fashionable  negligence ;  and 
his  pale  emaciated  features  ensured 
him,  at  least,  the  shew  of  a  welcome, 
with  which  he  would  not  otherwise 
have  been  greeted;  for  Beauchamp, 
though  totally  ignorant  of  the  pre- 
sent pursuits  and  degraded  character 
of  his  visitor,  had  seen  enough  of 
him  in  the  heyday  of  dissipation,  to 
avoid  a  renewal  of  their  intimacy. 
Beauchamp  was  touched  with  the 
air  of  languor  and  exhaustion  assu- 
med by  Sir  Edward,  and  asked  kind- 
ly after  his  health. 

The  wily  Baronet  contrived  to  keep 
him  occupied  with  that  topic  for 
nearly  an  hour,  till  he  fancied  he  had 
established  an  interest  for  himself  in 
his  destined  victim's  heart.  He  told 
him,  with  a  languid  smile,  that  the 
moment  he  saw  Beauchamp's  arri- 
val in  the  papers,  he  had  hurried,  ill 
as  he  was,  to  pay  a  visit  to  his  "  old 
chum,"  and  "  talk  over  old  times." 
In  short,  after  laying  out  all  his 
powers  of  conversation,  he  so  inter- 
ested and  delighted  his  quondam  as- 
sociate, that  he  extorted  a  reluctant 
promise  from  Beauchamp  to  dine 
with  him  the  next  evening,  on  the 
plausible  pretext  of  his  being  in  too 
delicate  health  to  venture  out  him- 
self at  night-time.  Sir  Edward  de- 
parted, apparently  in  a  low  mood, 
but  really  exulting  in  the  success 
with  which  he  considered  he  had 
opened  his  infernal  campaign.  He 
hurried  to  the  house  of  one  of  his 
comrades  in  guilt,  whom  he  invited 
to  dinner  on  the  morrow.  Now,  the 
fiendish  object  of  this  man,  Sir  Ed- 
ward Streighton,  in  asking  Beau- 
champ  to  dinner,  was  to  revive  in 
his  bosom  the  half-extinguished  em- 
bers of  his  love  for  play  !  There  are 
documents  now  in  existence  to  shew 
that  Sir  Edward  and  his  companions 
had  made  the  most  exact  calculations 
of  poor  Beauchamp's  property,  and 
even  arranged  the  proportions  in 
which  the  expected  spoils  were  to 
be  shared  among  the  complotters ! 
The  whole  conduct  of  the  affair  was 
intrusted,  at  his  own  instance,  to  Sir 
Edward ;  who,  with  a  smile,  declared 


569 


that  he  "  knew  all  the  crooks  and 
crannies  of  young  Beauchamp's 
heart;"  and  that  he  had  already  set- 
tled his  scheme  of  operations.  He 
was  himself  to  keep  for  some  time 
in  the  background,  and  on  no  occa- 
sion to  come  forward,  till  he  was 
sure  of  his  prey. 

At  the  appointed  hour,  Beauchamp, 
though  not  without  having  experien- 
ced some  misgivings  in  the  course  of 
the  day,  found  himself  seated  at  the 
elegant  and  luxurious  table  of  Sir 
Edward,  in  company  with  two  of  the 
baronet's  "choicest  spirits."  It  would 
be  superfluous  to  pause  over  the  ex- 
quisite wines,  and  luscious  cookery, 
which  were  placed  in  requisition  for 
the  occasion,  or  the  various  piquant 
and  brilliant  conversation  that  flash- 
ed around  the  table.  Sir  Edward 
was  a  man  of  talent  and  observation; 
and  foul  as  were  the  scenes  in  which 
he  had  latterly  passed  his  life,  was 
full  of  rapid  and  brilliant  repartee, 
and  piquant  sketches  of  men  and 
manners,  without  end.  Like  the  poor 
animal  whose  palate  is  for  a  moment 
tickled  with  the  bait  alluring  it  to 
destruction,  Beauchamp  was  in  ecsta- 
sies !  There  was,  besides,  such  a 
flattering  deference  paid  to  every 
thing  that  fell  from  his  lips — so  much 
eager  curiosity  excited  by  the  ac- 
counts he  gave  of  one  or  two  of  his 
foreign  adventures— such  an  interest 
taken  in  the  arrangements  he  con- 
templated for augmentinghis  estates 

in shire,  &c.  &c.  that  Beauchamp 

never  felt  better  pleased  with  him- 
self, nor  with  his  companions.  About 
eleven  o'clock,  one  of  Sir  Edward's 
friends  proposed  a  rubber  at  whist, 
"  thinking  they  had  all  of  them  talk- 
ed o'ne  another  hoarse,"  but  Sir  Ed- 
ward promptly  negatived  it.  The 
proposer  insisted,  but  Sir  Edward 
coldly  repeated  his  refusal.  "  /  am 
not  tired  of  my  friends'  conversa- 
tion, though  they  may  be  of  mine ! 
And  I  fancy,  Beauchamp,"  he  con- 
tinued, shaking  his  head  with  a  seri- 
ous air,  "  you  and  I  have  burnt  our 
fingers  too  often  at  college,  to  be  de- 
sirous of  renewing  our  pranks." 

"  Why,  good  God,  Sir  Edward  !" 
rejoined  the  proposer,  "  what  do  you 
mean  ?  Are  you  insinuating  that  I 
am  fond  of  deep  play? — /,  I  that  have 
been  such  a  sufferer  ?" — How  was  it 
that  such  shallow  trickery  could  not 
be  seen  through  by  a  man  who  knew 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


570 

any  thing  of  the  world?  The  answer 
is  obvious — the  victim's  penetration 
had  deserted  him  :  Flattery  and  wine 
— what  will  they  not  lead  a  man  to  ? 
In  short,  the  farce  was  so  well  kept 
up,  that  Beauchamp,  fancying  he 
alone  stood  in  the  way  of  the  even- 
ing's amusements,  felt  himself  called 
upon  to  "  beg  they  would  not  consult 
him,  if  they  were  disposed  for  a  rub- 
ber; as  he  would  make  a  hand  with 
the  greatest  pleasure  imaginable." 
The  proposer  and  his  friend  looked 
appealingly  to  Sir  Edward. 

"Oh!  God  forbid  that  I  should 
hinder  you,  since  you're  all  so  dis- 
posed," said  the  Baronet,  with  a  po- 
lite air  j  and  in  a  few  minutes  the 
four  friends  were  seated  at  the  whist 
table.  Sir  JEdward  was  obliged  to 
send  out  and  buy,  or  borrow  cards  ! 
"He  really  so  seldom,"  &c.&c.  "espe- 
cially in  his  poor  health,"  &c.  &c. ! 
There  was  nothing  whatever,  in  the 
conduct  of  the  game,  calculated  to 
arouse  a  spark  of  suspicion.  The  three 
confederates  acted  their  parts  to  ad- 
miration, and  maintained  through- 
out the  matter-of-fact,  listless  air  of 
men  who  have  sat  down  to  cards, 
each  out  of  complaisance  to  the 
others !  At  the  end  of  the  second 
rubber,  which  was  a  long  one,  they 
paused  a  while,  rose,  and  betook 
themselves  to  refreshments. 

"  By  the  way,  Apsley,"  said  Sir 
Edward,  suddenly,  "have  you  heard 
how  that  extraordinary  affair  of  Ge- 
neral   's,  terminated  ?" 

"  Decided  against  him,"  was  the 
reply;  "  but  I  think  wrongly.  At 
's,"  naming  a  celebrated  cote- 
rie, "  where  the  affair  was  ulti- 
mately canvassed,  they  were  equally 
divided  in  opinion ;  and  on  the 
strength  of  it  the  General  swears  he 
wont  pay." 

"  It  is  certainly  one  of  the  most 
singular  things !" 

"  Pray,  what  might  the  disputed 
point  be  ?"  enquired  Beauchamp, 
sipping  a  glass  of  liqueur. 

"  Oh,  merely  a  bit  of  town  tittle- 
tattle,"  replied  Sir  Edward,  careless- 
ly "  about  a  Rouge  et  Noir  bet  be- 
tween Lord and  General . 

I  dare  say,  you  would  feel  no  inter- 
est in  it  whatever." 

But  Beauchamp  did  feel  interest- 
ed enough  to  press  his  host  for  an  ac- 
count of  the  matter ;  and  he  present- 
ly found  himself  listening  to  a  story 


[Oct. 


told  most  graphically  by  Sir  Ed- 
ward, and  artfully  calculated  to  in- 
terest and  inflame  the  passions  of 
his  hearer.  Beauchamp  drank  in 
eagerly  every  word.  He  could  not 
help  identifying  himself  with  the 
parties  spoken  of.  A  Satanic  smile 
flickered  occasionally  over  the  coun- 
tenances of  the  conspirators,  as  they 
beheld  these  unequivocal  indica- 
tions that  their  prey  was  entering 
their  toils.  Sir  Edward  represented 
the  hinge  of  the  story  to  be  a  moot- 
point  at  Rouge  et  Noir ;  and  when  he 
had  concluded,  an  animated  discus- 
sion arose.  Beauchamp  took  an  ac- 
tive part  in  the  dispute,  siding  with 
Mr  Apsley.  Sir  Edward  got  flus- 
tered /  and  began  to  express  himself 
rather  heatedly.  Beauchamp  also 
felt  himself  kindling,  and  involunta- 
rily cooled  his  ardour  with  glass  af- 
ter glass  of  the  wine  that  stood  be- 
fore him.  At  length,  out  leaped  a 
bold  bet  from  Beauchamp,  that  he 
would  make  the  same  point  with 
General  .  Sir  Edward  shrug- 
ged his  shoulders,  and  with  a  smile 
declined  "  winning  his  money,"  on 
a  point  clear  as  the  noonday  sun ! 
Mr  Hillier,  however,  who  was  of  Sir 
Edward's  opinion,  instantly  took 
Beauchamp ;  and,  for  the  symmetry 
of  the  thing,  Apsley  and  Sir  Edward, 
in  spite  of  the  tatter's  protestation  to 
Beauchamp,  betted  highly  on  their 
respective  opinions.  Somebody  sug- 
gested an  adjournment  to  the  "  esta- 
blishment" at  Street,  where 

they  might  decide  the  question ;  and 
thither,  accordingly,  after  great  shew 
of  reluctance  on  the  part  of  Sir  Ed- 
ward, they  all  four  repaired. 

The  reader  need  not  fear  that  I 
am  going  to  dilate  upon  the  sicken- 
ing horrors  of  a  modern  "  Hell !" 
for  into  such  a  place  did  Beauchamp 
find  himself  introduced.  The  infernal 
splendour  of  the  scene  by  which  he 
was  surrounded,  smote  his  soul  with 
a  sense  of  guilty  awe  the  moment 
he  entered,  flushed  though  he  was, 
and  unsteady  with  wine.  A  spectral 
recollection  of  his  mother  and  Ellen, 
wreathed  with  the  halos  of  virtue 
and  purity,  glanced  across  his  mind ; 
and  for  a  moment  he  thought  him- 
self in  hell !  Sick  and  faint,  he  sate 
clown  for  a  few  moments  at  an  un- 
occupied table.  He  felt  half  deter- 
mined to  rush  out  from  the  room. 
His  kind  friends  perceived  his  agita- 


1831.] 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


tion.  Sir  Edward  asked  him  if  he 
were  ill  ?  but  Beauchamp,  with  a 
sickly  smile,  referred  his  sensations 
to  the  heated  room,  and  the  unusual 
quantity  of  wine  he  had  drunk.  Half 
ashamed  of  himself,  and  dreading 
their  banter,  he  presently  rose  from 
his  seat,  and  declared  himself  reco- 
vered. After  standing  some  time  be- 
side the  rouge  et  noir  table,  where 
tremendous  stakes  were  playing  for, 
amidst  profound  and  agitating  silence 
— where  he  marked  the  sallow  fea- 
tures of  General and  Lord , 

the  parties  implicated  in  the  affair 
mentioned  at  Sir  Edward's  table, 
and  who,  having  arranged  their  dis- 
pute, were  now  over  head  and  ears 
in  a  new  transaction — the  four  friends 
withdrew  to  one  of  the  private  tables 
to  talk  over  their  bet.  Alas,  half-an- 
hour's  time  beheld  them  all  at  ha- 
zard ! — Beauchamp  playing!  and 
with  excitement  and  enthusiasm 
equalling  any  one's  in  the  room.  Sir 
Edward  maintained  the  negligent  and 
reluctant  air  of  a  man  overpersua- 
ded  into  acquiescence  in  the  wishes 
of  his  companions.  Every  time  that 
Beauchamp  shook  the  fatal  dice-box, 
the  pale  face  of  his  mother  looked 
at  him ;  yet  still  he  shook,  and  still 
he  threw — for  he  won  freely  from 
Apsley  and  Hillier.  About  four  o'- 
clock he  took  his  departure,  with 
bank-notes  in  his  pocketbook  to  the 
amount  of  L.95,  as  his  evening's 
winning. 

He  walked  home  to  his  hotel  weary 
and  depressed  in  spirits,  ashamed 
and  enraged  at  his  own  weak  compli- 
ances and  irresolution.  The  thought 
suddenly  struck  him,  however,  that 
he  would  make  amends  for  his  mis- 
conduct, by  appropriating  the  whole 
of  his  unhallowed  gains  to  the  pur- 
chase of  jewellery  for  his  mother 
and  cousin.  Relieved  by  this  con- 
sideration, he  threw  himself  on  his 
bed,  and  slept,  though  uneasily,  till 
a  late  hour  in  the  morning.  His  first 
thought  on  waking  was  the  last  that 
had  occupied  his  mind  overnight; 
but  it  was  in  a  moment  met  by  an- 
other and  more  startling  reflection — 
What  would  Sir  Edward,  Hillier,  and 
Apsley  think  of  him,  dragging  them 
to  play,  and  winning  their  money, 
without  giving  them  an  opportunity 
of  retrieving  their  losses !  The  more 
he  thought  of  it,  the  more  was  he  em- 
barrassed ;  and  as  he  tossed  about  on 


571 

his  bed,  the  suspicion  flashed  across 
his  disturbed  mind,  that  he  was  em- 
broiled with  gamblers.  With  what 
credit  could  he  skulk  from  the  at- 
tack he  had  himself  provoked  ?  Per- 
plexed and  agitated  with  the  dilem- 
ma he  had  drawn  upon  himself,  he 
came  to  the  conclusion,  that,  at  all 
events,  he  must  invite  the  baronet 
and  his  friends  to  dinner  that  day, 
and  give  them  their  revenge,  when 
he  might  retreat  with  honour,  and 
for  ever.  Every  one  who  reads  these 
pages  will  anticipate  the  event. 

Gaming  is  a  magical  stream;  if  you 
do  but  wade  far  enough  into  it,  to 
wet  the  soles  of  your  feet,  there  is  an 
influence  in  the  waters,  which  draws 
you  irresistibly  in,  deeper  and  deep- 
er, till  you  are  sucked  into  the  roar- 
ing vortex,  and  perish.  If  it  were 
not  unduly  paradoxical,  one  might 
say  with  respect  to  gaming,  that  he 
has  come  to  the  end,  who  has  made 
a  beginning.  Mr  Beauchamp  post- 
poned the  business  which  he  had 
himself  fixed  for  transaction  thai 
evening,  and  received  Sir  Edward 
— who  had  found  out  that  he  could 
now  venture  from  home  at  nights—- 
and his  two  friends,  with  all  appear- 
ance of  cheerfulness  and  cordiality. 
In  his  heart  he  felt  ill  at  ease  ;  but 
his  uneasiness  vanished  with  every 
glass  of  wine  he  drunk.  His  guests 
were  all  men  of  conversation ;  and 
they  took  care  to  select  the  most  in- 
teresting topics.  Beauchamp  was 
delighted.  Some  slight  laughing  al- 
lusions were  made  by  Hillier  and 
Apsley  to  their  overnight's  adven- 
ture; but  Sir  Edward  coldly  cha- 
racterised it  as  an  "  absurd  affair," 
and  told  them  they  deserved  to  suf- 
fer as  they  did.  This  was  exactly 
the  signal  for  which  Beauchamp  had 
long  been  waiting ;  and  he  proposed 
in  a  moment  that  cards  and  dice 
should  be  brought  in  to  finish  the 
evening  with.  Hillier  and  Apsley 
hesitated ;  Sir  Edward  looked  at  his 
watch,  and  talked  of  the  opera. 
Beauchamp,  however,  was  peremp- 
tory, and  down  they  all  sate — and  to 
hazard!  Beauchamp  was  fixedly 
determined  to  lose  that  evening  a 
hundred  pounds,  inclusive  of  his 
overnight's  winnings;  and  veiled  his 
purpose  so  flimsily,  that  his  oppo- 
nents saw  in  a  moment  "  what  he 
was  after."  Mr  Apsley  laid  down 
the  dice-box  with  a  haughty  air,  and 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


572 

said,  "  Mr  Beaucliamp,  I  do  not  un- 
derstand you,  sir.  You  are  playing 
neither  with  boys  nor  swindlers ;  and 
be  pleased,  besides,  to  recollect  at 
whose  instance  we  sate  down  to  this 
evening's  hazard." 

Mr  Beauchamp  laughed  it  off,  and 
protested  he  did  his  best.  Apsley, 
apparently  satisfied,  resumed  his 
play,  and  their  victim  felt  himself  in 
their  meshes — that  the  "  snare  of  the 
fowler  was  upon  him."  They  played 
with  various  success  for  about  two 
hours ;  and  Sir  Edward  was  listlessly 
intimating  his  intention  to  have  a 
throw  for  the  first  time,  "  for  com- 
pany's sake,"  when  the  card  of  a 
young  nobleman,  one  of  the  most 
profligate  of  the  profligate  set  whom 
Beauchamp  had  known  at  Oxford, 
was  brought  in. 

"  Ah !  Lord !"  exclaimed  Sir 

Edward,  with  joyful  surprise,  "  an 
age  since  I  saw  him ! — How  very 
strange — how  fortunate  that  I  should 
happen  to  be  here ! — Oh,  come, 
Beauchamp," — seeing  his  host  dis- 
posed to  utter  a  frigid  '  not  at  home,' 
— "  come,  must  ask  him  in !  The 
very  best  fellow  in  life  !"  Now,  Lord 
— —  and  Sir  Edward  were  bosom 
friends,  equally  unprincipled,  and 
that  very  morning  had  they  arranged 
this  most  unexpected  visit  of  his  Lord- 
ship !  As  soon  as  the  ably-sustained 
excitement  and  enthusiasm  of  his 
lordship  had  subsided,  he  of  course 
assured  them  that  he  should  leave 
immediately,  unless  they  proceeded 
with  their  play,  and  he  stationed  him- 
self as  an  on-looker  beside  Beau- 
champ. 

The  infernal  crew  now  began  to 
see  they  had  it  "  all  their  own  way." 
Their  tactics  might  have  been  finally 
frustrated,  had  Beauchamp  but  pos- 
sessed sufficient  moral  courage  to 
yield  to  the  loud  promptings  of  his 
better  judgment,  and  firmly  deter- 
mined to  stop  in  time.  Alas!  how- 
ever, he  had  taken  into  his  bosom 
the  torpid  snake,  and  kept  it  there 
till  it  revived.  In  the  warmth  of 
excitement  he  forgot  his  fears,  and 
his  decaying  propensities  to  play 
were  rapidly  resuscitated.  Before 
the  evening's  close,  he  had  entered 
into  the  spirit  of  the  game  with  as 
keen  a  relish  as  a  professed  game- 
ster !  With  a  sort  of  frenzy  he  pro- 
posed bets,  which  the  cautious  ba- 
ronet and  his  coadjutors  hesitated, 


[Oct. 


and  at  last  refused,  to  take !  About 
three  o'clock  they  separated,  and  on 
making  up  accounts,  they  found  that 
so  equally  had  profit  and  loss  been 
shared,  that  no  one  had  lost  or  gain- 
ed more  than  L.20.  Beauchamp  ac- 
cepted a  seat  in  Lord 's  box  at 

the  opera  for  the  next  evening;  and 
the  one  following  that  he  engaged  to 
dine  with  Apsley.  After  his  guests 
had  retired,  he  betook  himself  to 
bed,  with  comparatively  none  of 
those  heart-smitmgs  which  had  kept 
him  sleepless  the  night  before.  The 
men  with  whom  he  had  been  play- 
ing were  evidently  no  professional 
§amblers,  and  he  felt  himself  safe  in 
leir  hands. 

To  the  opera,  pursuant  to  promise, 
he  went,  and  to  Apsley's.  At  the 
former  he  recognised  several  of  his 
college  acquaintance;  and  at  the  lat- 
ter's  house  he  spent  a  delightful 
evening,  never  having  said  better 
things,  and  never  being  more  flatter- 
ingly attended  to;  and  the  night's 
social  enjoyment  was  wound  up  with 
a  friendly  rubber  for  stakes  laugh- 
ably small.  This  was  Sir  Edward's 
scheme,  for  he  was  not,  it  will  be 
recollected,  to  "  frighten  the  bird." 
The  doomed  Beauchamp  retired  to 
rest,  better  satisfied  with  himself  and 
his  friends  than  ever;  for  he  had 
transacted  a  little  real  business  du- 
ring the  day ;  written  two  letters  to 
the  country,  and  dispatched  them, 
with  a  pair  of  magnificent  bracelets 
to  Ellen ;  played  the  whole  evening 
at  unpretending  whist,  and  won  two 
guineas,  instead  of  accompanying 
Lord  and  Hillier  to  the  esta- 
blishment in street,  where  he 

might  have  lost  hundreds.  A  wor- 
thy old  English  Bishop  says,  "  The 
devil  then  maketh  sure  of  us,  when 
we  do  make  sure  of  ourselves," — a 
wise  maxim  !  Poor  Beauchamp  now 
began  to  feel  confidence  in  his  own 
strength  of  purpose.  He  thought  he 
had  been  weighed  in  the  balance, 
and  not  found  wanting.  He  was  as 
deeply  convinced  as  ever  of  the  per- 
nicious effects  of  an  inordinate  love 
of  play;  but  had  he  that  passion? 
No!  He  recollected  the  healthful 
thrill  of  horror  and  disgust  with 
which  he  listened  to  Lord 's  en- 
treaties to  accompany  him  to  the 
gaming-house,  and  was  satisfied.  He 
took  an  early  opportunity  of  writing 
home,  to  apprize  his  mother  and 


1831.] 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


673 


cousin  that  he  intended  to  continue 
in  town  a  month  or  six  weeks,  and 
assigned  satisfactory  reasons  for  his 
protracted  stay.  He  wrote  in  the 
warmest  terms  to  both  of  them,  and 
said  he  should  be  counting  the  days  till 
he  threw  himself  in  their  arms.  "  'Tis 
this  tiresome  Twister,  our  attorney, 
that  must  answer  for  my  long  stay. 
There  is  no  quickening  his  phlegma- 
tic disposition !  When  I  would  hurry 
and  press  him,  he  shrugs  his  shoul- 
ders, and  says  there's  no  doing  law 
by  steam.  He  says  he  fears  the 
Chancery  affairs  will  prove  very  te- 
dious ;  and  they  are  in  such  a  state 
just  now,  that,  were  I  to  return  into 
the  country,  I  should  be  summoned 
up  to  town  again  in  a  twinkling.  Now 
I  am  here,  I  will  get  all  this  business 
fairly  off  my  hands.  So,  by  this  day 
six  weeks,  dearest  coz,  expect  to 
see  at  your  feet,  yours,  eternally, — 
H.  B." 

But,  alas,  that  day  saw  Beauchamp 
in  a  new  and  startling  character — 
that  of  an  infatuated  gamester ! — 
During  that  fatal  six  weeks,  he  had 
lost  several  thousand  pounds,  and 
had  utterly  neglected  the  business 
which  brought  him  up  to  town, — for 
his  whole  heart  was  with  French 
Hazard  and  Rouge  et  Noir !  Even 
his  outward  appearance  had  under- 
gone a  strange  alteration.  His  cheeks 
and  forehead  wore  the  sallow  hue  of 
dissipation — his  eyes  were  weak  and 
bloodshot — his  hands  trembled — and 
every  movement  indicated  the  high- 
est degree  of  nervous  irritability.  He 
had  become  vexed  and  out  of  temper 
with  all  about  him,  but  especially 
with  himself,  and  never  could  "  bring 
himself  up  to  par"  till  seven  or  eight 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  at  dinner ,when 
he  was  warming  with  wine.  The  first 
thing  in  the  mornings,  also,  he  felt 
it  necessary  to  fortify  himself  against 
the  agitations  of  the  day,  by  a  smart 
draught  of  brandy  or  liqueur  !  If 
the  mere  love  of  temporary  excite- 
ment had  been  sufficient,  in  the  first 
instance,  to  allure  him  on  to  play, 
the  desire  for  retrieving  his  losses 
now  supplied  a  stronger  motive  for 
persevering  in  his  dangerous  and 
destructive  career.  Ten  thousand 
pounds,  the  lowest  amount  of  his 
losses,  was  a  sum  he  could  not  afford 
to  lose,  without  very  serious  incon- 
venience. Gracious  God! — what 
would  his  aged  mother — what  would 


Ellen  say,  if  they  knew  the  mode 
and  amount  of  his  losses  ? —  The 
thought  distracted  him  !  He  had 
drawn  out  of  his  banker's  hands  all 
the  floating  balance  he  had  placed 
there  on  arriving  in  town;  and,  in 
short,  he  had  been  at  last  compelled 
to  mortgage  one  of  his  favourite 
estates  for  L.8000  j — and  how  to  con- 
ceal the  transaction  from  his  mother, 
Avithout  making  desperate  and  suc- 
cessful efforts  to  recover  himself  at 
play,  he  did  not  know.  He  had  now 
got  inextricably  involved  with  Sir 
Edward  and  his  set,  who  never  al- 
lowed him  a  moment's  time  to  come 
to  himself,  but  were  ever  ready  with 
diversified  sources  of  amusement. 
Under  their  damned  tutelage,  Beau- 
champ  commenced  the  systematic 
life  of  a  "  man  about  town,"— in  all 
except  the  fouler  and  grosser  vices, 
to  which,  I  believe,  he  was  never 
addicted. 

His  money  flew  about  in  all  direc- 
tions. He  never  went  to  the  esta- 
blishment in street,  but  his  over- 
nights I.O.U.'s  stared  him  in  the  face 
the  next  morning  like  reproachful 
fiends  ! — and  he  was  daily  accumu- 
lating bills  at  the  fashionable  trades- 
men's, whom  he  gave  higher  prices, 
to  ensure  longer  credit.  While  he 
was  compelled  to  write  down  confi- 
dentially to  old  Pritchard,  his  agent, 
for  money,  almost  every  third  or 
fourth  post,  his  correspondence  with 
his  mother  and  cousin  gradually 
slackened,  and  his  letters,  short  as 
they  were,  indicated  effort  and  con- 
straint on  the  part  of  the  writer.  It 
was  long,  very  long,  before  Mrs 
Beauchamp  suspected  that  any  thing 
was  going  wrong.  She  was  com- 
pletely cajoled  by  her  son's  accounts 
of  the  complicated  and  harassing 
affairs  in  Chancery,  and  considered 
that  circumstance  fully  to  account 
for  the  brevity  and  infrequency  of 
his  letters.  The  quicker  eyes  of 
Ellen,  however,  soon  saw,  in  the 
chilling  shortness  and  formality  of 
his  letters  to  her,  that  even  if  his  re- 
gard for  her  personally  were  not 
diminishing,  lie  had  discovered  such 
pleasurable  objects  in  town  as  ena- 
bled him  to  bear,  with  great  fortitude, 
the  pangs  of  absence  ! 

Gaming  exerts  a  deadening  influ- 
ence upon  all  the  faculties  of  the 
soul,  that  are  not  immediately  occu- 
pied in  its  dreadful  service.  The 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


[Oct 


heart  it  utterly  withers:  and  it  was 
not  long,  therefore,  before  Beau- 
champ  was  fully  aware  of  the  alter- 
ed state  of  his  feelings  towards  his 
cousin,  and  satisfied  with  them. 
Play — play — PLAY,  was  the  name 
of  his  new  and  tyrannical  mistress  ! 
Need  I  utter  such  commonplaces 
as  to  say,  that  the  more  Beauchamp 
played,  the  more  he  lost;  that  the 
more  he  lost,  the  deeper  he  played ; 
and  that  the  less  chance  there  was, 
the  more  reckless  he  became  ? — I 
cannot  dwell  on  this  dreary  por- 
tion of  my  narrative.  It  is  sufficient 
to  inform  the  reader,  that,  employed 
in  the  way  I  have  mentioned,  Beau- 
champ  protracted  his  stay  in  Lon- 
don iofive  months.  During  this  time 
he  had  actually  gambled  away  THREE- 
FOURTHS  of  his  whole  fortune.  He 
was  now  both  ashamed  and  afraid  of 
returning  home.  Letters  from  his 
poor  mother  and  Ellen  accumulated 
upon  him,  and  often  lay  for  weeks 
unanswered.  Mrs  Beauchamp  had 
once  remonstrated  with  him  on  his 
allowing  any  of  his  affairs  to  keep 
him  so  long  in  town,  under  the  pe- 
culiar circumstances  in  which  he 
was  placed  with  respect  to  Ellen : 
but  she  received  such  a  tart  reply 
from  her  son  as  effectually  prevent- 
ed her  future  interference.  She  be- 
gan to  grow  very  uneasy — and  to  sus- 
pect that  something  or  other  unfor- 
tunate had  happened  to  her  son. 
Her  fears  hurried  her  into  a  disre- 
gard of  her  son's  menaces;  and  at 
length  she  wrote  up  privately  to 
Mr  Twister,  to  know  what  was  the 
state  of  affairs,  and  what  kept  Mr 
Beauchamp  so  harassingly  employ- 
ed. The  poor  old  lady  received  for 
answer — that  the  attorney  knew  of 
nothing  that  need  have  detained  Mr 
Beauchamp  in  town  beyond  a  week; 
and  that  he  had  not  been  to  Mr 
Twister's  office  for  several  months  ! 
Pritchard,  Mr  Beauchamp's  agent, 
was  a  quiet  and  faithful  fellow,  and 
managed  all  his  master's  concerns 
with  the  utmost  punctuality  and  se- 
crecy. He  had  been  elevated  from 
the  rank  of  a  common  servant  in  the 
family  to  his  present  office,  which 
he  had  filled  for  thirty  years,  with 
unspotted  credit.  He  had  been  a 
great  favourite  with  old  Mr  Beau- 
champ,  who  committed  him  to  the 
kindness  of  Mrs  Beauchamp,  and  re- 
quested her  to  continue  him  in  his 


office  till  his  son  arrived  at  his  ma- 
jority. The  good  old  man  was 
therefore  thoroughly  identified  with 
the  family  interests  ;  and  it  was  na- 
tural that  he  should  feel  both  dis- 
quietude and  alarm  at  the  demands 
for  money,  unprecedented  in  re- 
spect of  amount  and  frequency, 
made  by  Mr  Beauchamp  during  his 
stay  in  town.  He  was  kept  in  pro- 
found darkness  as  to  the  destination 
of  the  money;  and  confounded  at 
having  to  forward  up  to  London  the 
title-deeds  and  papers  relating  to 
most  of  the  property.  "  What  can 
my  young  squire  be  driving  at?" 
said  Pritchard  to  himself:  and  as  he 
could  devise  no  satisfactory  answer, 
he  began  to  fume  and  fret,  and  to 
indulge  in  melancholy  speculations. 
He  surmised  that  "  all  was  not  going 
on  right  at  London :"  for  he  was  too 
much  a  man  of  business  to  be  ca- 
joled by  the  flimsy  reasons  assigned 
by  Mr  Beauchamp  for  requiring  the 
estate  papers.  He  began  to  suspect 
that  his  young  master  was  "  taking 
to  bad  courses;"  but  being  enjoin- 
ed silence  at  his  peril,  he  held  his 
tongue,  and  shrugging  his  shoulders, 
"  hoped  the  best."  He  longed  every 
day  to  make,  or  find,  an  opportunity 
for  communicating  with  his  old  mis- 
tress :  yet  how  could  he  break  his 
master's  confidence,  and  risk  the 
threatened  penalty! — He  received, 
however,  a  letter  one  morning  which 
decided  him.  The  fearful  contents 
were  as  follow  : — 

"  Dear  and  faithful  old  Pritchard 
— There  are  now  only  two  ways  in 
which  you  can  shew  your  regard  for 
me — profound  secrecy,  and  imme- 
diate attention  to  my  directions.  I 
have  been  engaged  for  some  time  in 
delusive  speculations  in  London, 
and  have  been  dreadfully  unfortu- 
nate. I  must  have  fifteen,  or  at  the 
very  lowest  ten  thousand  pounds,  by 
this  day  week,  or  be  ruined;  and  I 
purpose  raising  that  sum  by  a  mort- 
gage on  my  property  in shire. 

I  can  see  no  other  possible  way  of 
meeting  my  engagements,  without 
compromising  the  character  of  our 
family — the  honour  of  my  name. 
Let  me,  therefore,  have  all  the  need- 
ful papers  in  time,  in  two  days'  time 
at  the  latest. — Dear  old  man  !— for 
the  love  of  God,  and  the  respect  you 
bear  my  father's  memory,  keep  all 


1831.] 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


this  to  yourself,  or  consequences 
majr<follow,  which  I  tremble  to  think 
of  !  I  am,  &c.  &c. 

"  HEVRY  BEAUCHAMP. 
"  .     '    Hotel,  4  o'clock,  A.M." 

This  letter  was  written  with  evi- 
dent hurry  and  trepidation ;  but  not 
with  more  than  its  perusal  occasion- 
ed the  affrighted  steward.  He  drop- 
ped it  from  his  hands,  elevated  them 
and  his  eyes  towards  heaven,  and 
turned  deadly  pale.  He  trembled 
from  head  to  toot;  and  the  only 
words  he  uttered  were  in  a  low 
moaning  tone,  "  Oh,  my  poor  old 
master!  Wouldn't  it  raise  your 
bones  out  of  the  grave  ?  Could  he 
any  longer  delay  telling  his  mistress 
of  the  dreadful  pass  things  were 
come  to  ?" 

After  an  hour  or  two  spent  in  ter- 
ror and  tears,  he  resolved,  come  what 
might,  to  set  off  for  the  Hall,  seek  an 
interview  with  Mrs  Beauchamp,  and 
disclose  every  thing.  He  had  scarce 
got  half  way,  when  he  was  met  by 
one  of  the  Hall  servants,  who  stop- 
ped him,  saying — "  Oh,  Mr  Steward, 
I  was  coming  down  for  you.  Mis- 
tress is  in  a  way  this  morning,  and 
wants  to  see  you  directly." 

The  old  man  hardly  heard  him  out, 
and  hurried  on  as  fast  as  possible  to 
the  Hall,  which  was  pervaded  with 
an  air  of  excitement  and  suspense. 
He  was  instantly  conducted  into 
Mrs  Beauchamp's  private  room.  The 
good  old  lady  sate  in  her  easy-chair, 
her  pallid  features  full  of  grief,  and 
her  grey  locks  straying  in  disorder 
from  under  the  border  of  her  cap. 
Every  limb  was  in  a  tremor.  On 
one  side  of  her  sate  Ellen,  in  the 
same  agitated  condition  as  her  aunt ; 
and  on  the  other  stood  a  table,  with 
brandy,  hartshorn,  &c.  &c.,  and  an 
open  letter. 

"  Be  seated,  Pritchard,"  said  the 
old  lady,  faintly.  The  steward  pla- 
ced his  chair  beside  the  table.  "  Why, 
what  is  the  matter  with  you,  Prit- 
chard ?"  enquired  Miss  Beauchamp, 
startled  by  the  agitation  and  fright 
manifested  in  the  steward's  counte- 
nance. He  drew  his  hand  across 
his  forehead,  and  stammered  that  he 
was  grieved  to  see  them  in  such 
trouble,  when  he  was  interrupted 
by  Mrs  Beauchamp  putting  the  open 
letter  into  his  hand,  and  telling  him 
to  read  it,  The  steward  could  scarce 


575 

adjust  his  glasses,  for  he  trembled 
like  an  aspen  leaf.  He  read  — 

"  Madam, 

"  My  client,  Lady  Hester  Gripe, 
having  consented  to  advance  a  fur- 
ther sum  of  L.22,000,  to  Mr  Henry 
Beauchamp,  your  son,  on  mortgage 
of  his  estates  in  -  shire,  I  beg  to 
know  whether  you  have  any  annuity 
or  rent-charge  issuing  therefrom, 
and  if  so,  to  what  amount.  I  beg  you 
will  consider  this  enquiry  strictly 
confidential,  as  between  Lady  Hester 
and  Mr  Beauchamp,  or  the  negotia- 
tions will  be  broken  off;  for  her  la- 
dyship's extreme  caution  has  indu- 
ced her  to  break  through  my  promise 
to  Mr  Beauchamp,  of  not  allowing 
you,  or  any  one  else,  to  know  of  the 
transaction.  As,  however,  Mr  Beau- 
champ  said  that  even  if  you  did 
know,  it  was  not  of  much  conse- 
quence, I  presume  I  have  not  gone 
very  far  wrong  in  yielding  to  her  la- 
dyship's importunities.  May  I  beg 
the  favour  of  a  reply,  per  return  of 
post.  I  have  the  honour,  &c.  &c. 
&c. 

"  Furnival's  Inn,  London." 

Before  the  staggered  steward  had 
got  through  half  this  letter,  he  was 
obliged  to  lay  it  down  for  a  moment 
or  two,  to  recover  from  his  trepida- 
tion. 

"  A  FURTHER  sum  !"  he  muttered. 
He  wiped  the  cold  perspiration  from 
his  forehead,  and  dashed  out  the 
tears  from  his  half-blinded  eyes,  and 
resumed  his  perusal  of  the  letter, 
which  shook  in  his  hands.  No  one 
spoke  a  syllable  ;  and  when  he  had 
finished  reading,  he  laid  down  the 
letter  in  silence.  Mrs  Beauchamp 
sate  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  with 
her  eyes  closed.  She  murmured 
something  which  the  straining  ear  of 
the  steward  could  not  catch. 

"  What  was  my  lady  saying,  miss  ?" 
he  enquired.  Miss  Beauchamp  shook 
her  head,  without  speaking,  or  re- 
moving her  handkerchief  from  her 


"  Well,  God's  holy  will  be  done  !" 
exclaimed  Mrs  Beauchamp,  feebly, 
tasting  a  little  brandy  and  water; 
"  but  I'm  afraid  my  poor  Henry  — 
and  all  of  us  —  are  ruined  !" 

"  God  grant  not,  my  lady  !  Oh, 
don't  —  don't  say  so,  my  lady  !"  sob- 
bed the  steward,  dropping  involun- 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


[Oct. 


tarily  upon  his  knees,  and  elevating 
his  clasped  hands  upwards. — "  Tis 
true,  my  lady,"  he  continued,  "  Mas- 
ter Henry — for  I  can't  help  calling 
him  so — has  been  a  little  wild  in 
London — but  all  is  not  yet  gone — 
oh  no,  ma'am,  no  !" 

"  You  must,  of  course,  have  known 
all  along  of  his  doings — you  must, 
Pritchard  !"  said  Mrs  Beauchamp,  in 
a  low  tone. 

"  Why,  yes,  my  lady,  I  have — but 
I've  gone  down  on  my  knees  every 
blessed  night,  and  prayed  that  I 
might  find  a  way  of  letting  YOU 
know" 

"  Why  could  you  not  have  told 
me  ?"  enquired  Mrs  Beauchamp, 
looking  keenly  at  the  steward. 

"  Because,  my  lady,  I  was  his 
steward,  and  bound  to  keep  his  con- 
fidence. He  would  have  discharged 
me  the  moment  I  had  opened  my 
lips." 

Mrs  Beauchamp  made  no  reply. 
She  saw  the  worthy  man's  dilemma, 
and  doubted  not  his  integrity,  though 
she  had  entertained  momentarily  a 
suspicion  of  his  guilty  acquiescence. 

"  Have  you  ever  heard,  Pritchard, 
how  the  money  has  gone  in  Lon- 
don ?" 

"  Never  a  breath,  my  lady,  that  I 
could  rely  on." 

"  What  have  you  heard?— That  he 
frequents  gaming-houses  ?"  enqui- 
red Mrs  Beauchamp,  her  features 
whitening  as  she  went  on.  The  stew- 
ward  shook  his  head.  There  was 
another  mournful  pause. 

"  Now,  Pritchard,"  said  Mrs  Beau- 
champ,  with  an  effort  to  muster  up 
all  her  calmness — "  tell  me,  as  in  the 
sight  of  God,  how  much  money  has 
my  son  made  away  with  since  he 
left?" 

The  steward  paused  and  hesitated. 

"  I  must  not  be  trifled  with,  Prit- 
chard," continued  Mrs  Beauchamp, 
solemnly,  and  with  increasing  agita- 
tion. The  steward  seemed  calcula- 
ting a  moment. 

"  Why,  my  lady,  if  I  must  be  plain, 
I'm  afraid  that  twenty  thousand 
pounds  would  not  cover" 

"  TWENTY  THOUSAND  POUNDS  !" 
screamed  Miss  Beauchamp,  spring- 
ing out  of  her  chair  wildly ;  but  her 
attention  was  in  an  instant  absorbed 
by  her  aunt,  who,  on  hearing  the  sum 
named  by  the  steward,  after  moving 
her  fingers  for  a  moment  or  two,  as 


if  she  were  trying  to  speak,  sudden- 
ly fell  back  in  her  seat  and  swooned. 

To  describe  the  scenes  of  conster- 
nation and  despair  which  ensued, 
would  be  impossible.  Mrs  Beau- 
champ's  feelings  were  several  times 
urging  her  on  the  very  borders  of 
madness;  and  Miss  Beauchamp  look- 
ed the  image  of  speechless,  breath- 
less horror.  At  length,  however, 
Mrs  Beauchamp  succeeded  in  over- 
coming her  feelings — for  she  was  a 
woman  of  unusual  strength  of  mind 
— and  instantly  addressed  herself  to 
meet  the  naked  horrors  of  the  case, 
and  see  if  it  were  possible  to  disco- 
ver or  apply  a  remedy.  After  a  day's 
anxious  thought,  and  the  shew  of  a 
consultation  with  her  distracted  niece, 
she  decided  on  the  line  of  operations 
she  intended  to  pursue. 

To  return,  however,  to  her  son. 
Things  went  on  as  might  be  suppo- 
sed from  the  situation  in  which  we 
left  him — worse  and  worse.  Poor 
Beauchamp's  life  might  justly  be 
said  to  be  a  perpetual  frenzy — passed 
in  alternate  paroxysms  of  remorse, 
despair,  rage,  fear,  and  all  the  other 
baleful  passions  that  can  tear  and 
distract  the  human  soul.  He  had 
become  stupified,  and  could  not 
fully  comprehend  the  enormous  ruin 
which  he  had  precipitated  upon  him- 
self— crushing  at  once  "  mind,  body, 
and  estate."  His  motions  seemed 
actuated  by  a  species  of  diabolical 
influence.  He  saw  the  nest  of  hor- 
nets which  he  had  lit  upon,  yet 
would  not  forsake  the  spot !  Alas, 
Beauchamp  was  not  the  first  who 
has  felt  the  fatal  fascination  of  play, 
the  utter  obliviousness  of  consequen- 
ces which  it  induces  !  The  demons 
who  fluttered  about  him,  no  longer 
thought  of  masking  themselves,  but 
stood  boldly  in  all  their  naked  hi- 
deousness  before  him.  For  weeks 
together  he  had  one  continual  run 
of  bad  luck,  yet  still  he  lived  and 
gambled  on  from  week  to  week, 
from  day  to  day,  from  hour  to  hour, 
in  the  delusive  hope  of  recovering 
himself.  His  heart  was  paralyzed — 
its  feelings  all  smothered  beneath 
the  perpetual  pressure  of  a  game- 
ster's anxieties.  It  is  not,  therefore, 
difficult  for  the  reader  to  conceive 
the  ease  with  which  he  dismissed  the 
less  and  less  frequently  intruding 
images — the  pale,  reproachful  faces 
~ot  his  mother  and  cousin  J 


1831.] 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


Sir  Edward  Streighton,  the  most 
consummate  tactician,  sure,  that  ever 
breathed,  had  won  thousands  from 
Beauchamp,  without  affording  him 
a  tangible  opportunity  of  breaking 
with  him.  On  the  contrary,  the  more 
Beauchamp  became'  involved — the 
deeper  he  sunk  into  the  whirlpool  of 
destruction — the  closer  he  clung  to 
Sir  Edward;  as  if  clinging  to  the 
devil,  in  hell,  would  save  one  from  its 
fires  I  The  wily  baronet  had  contri- 
ved to  make  himself,  in  a  manner, 
indispensable  to  Beauchamp.  It  was 
Sir  Edward,  who  taught  him  the 
quickest  way  of  turning  lands  into 
cash  ;  Sir  Edward,  who  familiarized 
him  with  the  correctest  principles  of 
betting  and  handling  the  dice ;  Sir 
Edward,  who  put  him  in  the  way  of 
evading  and  defying  his  minor  cre- 
ditors ;  Sir  Edward,  who  feasted  and 
feted  him  out  of  his  bitter  ennui  and 
thoughts  of shire ;  Sir  Ed- 
ward, who  lent  him  hundreds  at  a  mo- 
ment's warning,  and  gave  him  the 
longest  credit ! 

Is  it  really  conceivable  that  Beau- 
champ  could  not  see  through  the 
plausible  scoundrel  ?  enquires  per- 
haps a  reader.  No,  he  did  not — till 
the  plot  began  to  develope  itself  in 
the  latter  acts  of  the  tragedy  !  And 
even  when  he  did,  he  still  went  on — 
and  on — and  on — trusting  that  in 
time  he  should  outwit  the  subtle 
devil.  Though  he  was  a  little  shocked 
at  finding  himself  so  easily  capable 
of  such  a  thing,  he  resolved  at  last, 
in  the  forlorn  hope  of  retrieving  his 
circumstances,  to  meet  fraud  ivith 
fraud.  A  delusion  not  uncommon 
among  the  desperate  victims  of  gam- 
bling, in  the  notion  that  they  have 
suddenly  hit  on  some  trick  by  which 
they  must  infallibly  win.  This  is  the 
ignis  fatuus  which  often  lights  them 
to  the  fatal  verge.  Such  a  crotchet 
had  latterly  been  flitting  through  the 
fancy  of  Beauchamp  ;  and  one  night 
—or  rather  morning — after  revolving 
the  scheme  over  and  over  again  in 
his  racked  brain,  he  started  out  of 
bed,  struck  a  light,  seized  a  pack  of 
cards,  and,  shivering  with  cold — for 
it  was  winter — sate  calculating  and 


577 

maneuvering  with  them  till  he  had 
satisfied  himself  of  the  accuracy  of 
his  plan  ;  when  he  threw  them  down, 
blew  out  his  candle,  and  leaped  into 
bed  again,  in  a  fit  of  guilty  ecstasy. 
The  more  he  turned  the  project  in 
his  mind,  the  more  and  more  feasible 
did  it  appear.  He  resolved  to  in- 
trust no  one  breathing  with  his  secret. 
Confident  of  success,  and  that  with 
but  little  effort  he  had  it  in  his  power 
to  break  the  bank,  whenever,  and  as 
often  as  he  pleased— he  determined 
to  put  his  plan  into  execution  in  a  day 
or  two,  on  a  large  scale ;  stake  every 
penny  he  could  possibly  scrape  toge- 
ther, and  win  triumphantly.  He  in- 
stantly set  about  procuring  the  requi- 
site funds.  His  attorney — a  gambler 
himself,  whom  he  had  latterly  picked 
up,  at  the  instance  of  Hillier,  as  "  a 
monstrously  convenient  fellow,"  soon 
contrived  to  cash  his  I.O.U.'s  to  the 
amount  of  L.5000,  on  discovering 
that  he  had  still  available  property 

in shire,  which  he  learnt  at 

a  confidential  interview  with  the  so- 
licitor in  Furnival's  Inn,  who  was 
negotiating  the  loan  of  L.22,000  from 
Lady  Gripe.*  He  returned  to  make 
the  hazardous  experiment  on  the 
evening  of  the  day  on  which  he  re- 
ceived the  L.5000  from  his  attorney. 
On  the  morning  of  that  day  he  was, 
further,  to  hear  from  his  steward  in 
the  country  respecting  the  mortgage 
of  his  last  and  best  property. 

That  was  a  memorable— a  terrible 
day  to  Beauchamp.  It  began  with 
doubt — suspense — disappointment ; 
for,  after  awaiting  the  call  of  the 
postman,  shaking  with  agitation,  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  his  red  jacket, 
passing  by  his  door — on  the  other 
side  of  the  street.  Almost  frantic, 
he  threw  up  the  window,  and  called 
out  to  him — but  the  man  had  "  none 
to  day."  Beauchamp  threw  himself 
on  his  sofa,  in  agony  unutterable. 
It  was  the  first  time  that  old  Pritch- 
ard  had  ever  neglected  to  return 
an  answer  by  return  of  post,  when 
never  so  slightly  requested.  A  thou- 
sand fears  assailed  him.  Had  his 
letter  miscarried  ?  Was  Pritchard 
ill,  dying— or  dead  ?  Had  he  been 


*•  It  is  my  intention,  on  a  future  occasion,  to  publish  some  account  of  the  extra- 
ordinary means  by  which  this  old  woman  amassed  a  splendid  fortune.  She  was  an 
inveterate  swindler  at  cards  ;  and  so  successful,  that  from  her  gains  at  ordinary  play, 
she  dresv  a  capital  with  which  she  traded  in  the  manner  mentioned  above, 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


[Oct. 


frightened  into  a  disclosure  to  Mrs 
Beauchamp  ?  And  did  his  MOTHER, 
at  length — did  ELLEN — know  of  his 
dreadful  doings  ?  The  thought  was 
too  frightful  to  dwell  upon!  — 
Thoroughly  unnerved,  he  flew  to 
brandy — fiery  fiend,  lighting  up  in 
the  brain  the  flames  or  madness! — 
He  scarce  knew  how  to  rest  during 
the  interval  between  breakfast  and 
dinner ; — for  at  seven  o'clock,  he,  to- 
gether with  the  rest  of  the  infernal 
crew,  were  to  dine  with  Apsley. 
There  was  to  be  a  strong  muster ; 
for  one  of  the  decoys  had  entrapped 
a  wealthy  simpleton  who  was  to 
make  hia  "  first  appearance"  that 
evening.  After  walking  for  an  hour, 
to  and  fro,  he  set  out  to  call  upon  me. 
He  was  at  my  house  by  twelve  o'- 
clock. During  his  stay  in  town,  I 
had  frequently  received  him  in  qua- 
lity of  a  patient,  for  trifling  fits  of  in- 
disposition, and  low  spirits.  I  had 
looked  upon  him  merely  as  a  fashion- 
able young  fellow,  who  was  "  upon 
town,"  doing  his  best  to  earn  a  little 
notoriety,  such  as  was  sought  after 
by  most  young  men  of  spirit — and 
fortune! — I  also  had  been  able  to 
gather  from  what  he  let  fall  at  several 
interviews,  that  the  uneven  spirits  he 
enjoyed,  were  owing  to  his  gambling 
propensities:  that  his  excitement  or 
depression  alternated  with  the  good 
or  ill  luck  he  had  at  play.  I  felt  in- 
terest in  him;  for  there  was  about 
him  an  air  of  ingenuousness  and 
straight-forwardness,  which  captiva- 
ted every  one  who  spoke  with  him. 
His  manners  had  all  the  ease  and 
blandness  of  the  finished  gentleman; 
and  when  last  I  saw  him,  which  was 
about  two  months  before,  he  appeared 
in  good  health  and  cheerful  spirits — 
a  very  fine,  if  not  strictly  handsome 
man.  But  now  when  he  stood  before 
me,  wasted  in  person,  and  haggard 
in  feature— full  of  irritability  and  pe- 
tulance— I  could  scarce  believe  him 
the  same  man ! — I  was  going  to  ask 
him  some  question  or  other,  when  he 
hastily  interrupted  me,  by  extending 
towards  me  his  two  hands,  which 
shook  almost  like  those  of  a  man  in 
the  palsy,  exclaiming — "  This — this, 
Doctor,  is  what  I  have  come  about. 
Can  you  cure  THIS — by  six  o'clock 


to-day  ?"  There  was  a  wildnesa  in 
his  manner,  which  led  me  to  suspect 
that  his  intellect  was  disordered.  He 
hurried  on  before  I  had  time  to  get 
in  a  word — "  If  you  cannot  steady 

my  nerves  for  a  few  hours,  I  am " 

he  suddedly  paused,  and  with  some 
confusion  repeated  his  question.  The 
extravagant  impetuosity  of  his  ges- 
tures, and  his  whole  demeanour, 
alarmed  me. 

"  Mr  Beauchamp,"  said  I,  seriously, 
"  it  is  now  two  months  since  you  ho- 
noured me  with  a  visit;  and  your 
appearance  since  then  is  wofully 
changed.  Permit  me,  as  a  respectful 

friend,  to  ask  whether ?"  He 

rose  abruptly  from  his  seat,  and  in  a 
tone  bordering  on  insult,  replied, 
"  Dr ,  I  came,  not  to  gratify  cu- 
riosity, but  to  receive  your  advice 
on  the  state  of  my  health.  If  you  are 
not  disposed  to  afford  it  me,  1  am  in- 
truding." 

"  You  mistake  me,  Mr  Beauchamp," 
I  replied,  calmly,  "  motives,  and  all. 
I  do  not  wish  to  pry  into  your  aft'airs. 
I  desired  only  to  ascertain  whether  or 
not  your  mind  was  at  ease."  While 
I  was  speaking,  he  seemed  boiling 
over  with  suppressed  irritability ; 
and  when  I  had  done,  he  took  his 
hat  and  stick,  flung  a  guinea  on  my 
desk,  and  before  I  could  recover 
from  the  astonishment  his  extraordi- 
nary behaviour  occasioned  me,  strode 
out  of  the  room. 

How  he  contrived  to  pass  the  day 
he  never  knew;  but  about  five  o'clock 
he  retired  to  his  dressing-room  to  pre- 
pare for  dinner.*  His  agitation  had 
reached  such  a  height,  that  after  seve- 
ral ineffectual  attempts  to  shave  him- 
self,he  was  compelled  to  send  for  some 
one  to  perform  that  operation  for  him. 
When  the  duties  of  the  dressing- 
room  were  completed,  he  returned 
to  his  sitting-room,  took  from  his  es- 
crutoire  the  doomed  bank-notes  for 
L.5000,  and  placed  them  in  his  poc- 
ketbook.  A  dense  film  floated  before 
his  eyes,  when  he  attempted  to  look- 
over  the  respective  amounts  of  the 
bills,  to  see  that  all  was  correct.  He 
then  seized  a  pack  of  cards,  and  tried 
over  and  over  again  to  test  the  accu- 
racy of  his  calculations.  He  laid 
them  aside,  when  he  had  satisfied 


*   Mr  Beauchamp  had  removed  from   his  hotel  into  private  lodgings  noar  Pall 
Mall,  about  a  month  before  the  above-mentioned  visit  to  me, 


1881.] 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


himself — locked  his  door,  opened  his 
desk,  and  took  out  pen  and  paper. 
He  then  with  his  penknife  pricked 
the  point  of  one  of  his  fingers,  filled 
his  pen  with  the  blood  issuing  from 
it,  and  wrote  in  letters  of  blood  a 
solemn  oath,  that  if  he  were  but  suc- 
cessful that  evening  in  "  winning 
back  his  own,"  he  would  forsake 
cards  and  dice  for  ever,  and  never 
again  be  found  within  the  precincts 
of  a  gaming-house  to  the  latest  hour 
of  his  life.  I  have  seen  that  singular 
and  affecting  document.  The  letters, 
especially  those  forming  the  signa- 
ture, are  more  like  the  tremulous 
handwriting  of  a  man  of  eighty,  than 
of  one  but  twenty-one !  Perceiving 
that  he  was  late,  he  hurriedly  affixed 
a  black  seal  to  his  signature, — once 
more  ran  his  eye  over  the  doomed 
L.5000,  and  sallied  out  to  dinner. 

When  he  reached  Mr  Apsley's,  he 
foundall  the  company  assembled,  ap- 
parently in  high  spirits,  and  all  eager 
for  dinner.  You  would  not  have 
thought  of  the  black  hearts  that  heat 
beneath  such  gay  and  pleasing  ex- 
teriors as  were  collected  round  Aps- 
ley's table  !  Not  a  syllable  of  allu- 
sion was  made  during  dinner  time 
to  the  subject  which  filled  every 
one's  thoughts — play.  As  if  by  mu- 
tual consent,  that  seemed  the  only  in- 
terdicted topic;  but  as  soon  as  din- 
ner and  dessert,  both  of  them  first- 
rate,  were  over,  a  perfectly-under- 
stood pause  took  place ;  and  Beau- 
champ,  who,  with  the  aid  of  frequent 
draughts  of  champaigne,  had  worked 
himself  up  to  the  proper  pitch,  was 
the  first  to  propose,  with  eagerness, 
the  fatal  adjournment  to  the  gaming 
table.  Every  one  rose  in  an  instant 
from  his  seat,  as  if  by  appointed  sig- 
nal, and  in  less  than  five  minutes' 
time  they  were  all,  with  closed  doors, 
seated  around  the  tables. 

"  Here  piles  of  cards,  and  there  the 
damned  dice." 

They  opened  with  hazard.  Beau- 
champ  was  the  first  who  threw,  and 
he  lost ;  but  as  the  stake  was  compa- 
ratively trifling,  he  neither  was,  nor 
appeared  to  be,  annoyed.  He  was 
saving  himself  for  Rouge  et  Noir ! — > 
The  rest  of  the  company  proceeded 
with  the  game,  and  got  gradually  in- 
to deeper  play,  till  at  length  heavy 
betting  was  begun.  Beauchamp,  who 
declined  joining  them,  sat  watching 
with  peculiar  feelings  of  mingled 


579 

sympathy  and  contempt  the  poor  fel- 
low Avhom  the  gang  were  "  pigeon- 
ing." How  painfully  it  reminded 
him  of  his  own  initiation  !  A  throng 
of  bitter  recollections  crowded  irre- 
sistibly through  his  mind,  as  he  sate 
for  a  while  with  leisure  for  contem- 
plation. The  silence  that  was  main- 
tained was  broken  only  by  the  rat- 
tling of  the  dice-box,  and  an  occa- 
sional whisper  when  the  dice  were 
thrown. 

The  room  in  which  they  were  sit- 
ting was  furnished  with  splendour 
and  elegance.  The  walls  were  entirely 
concealed  beneath  valuable  pictures, 
in  massive  and  tasteful  frames,  the 
gilding  of  which  glistened  with  a  pe- 
culiarly rich  effect  beneath  the  light 
of  a  noble  or-molu  lamp,  suspended 
from  the  ceiling.  Ample  curtains  of 
yellow-flowered  satin,  drawn  closely 
together,  concealed  the  three  win- 
dows with  their  rich  draperies ;  and 
a  few  Gothic  fashioned  bookcases, 
well  filled,  were  stationed  near  the 
corners  of  the  room,  with  rare  spe- 
cimens of  Italian  statuary  placed  up- 
on them.  The  furniture  was  all  of 
the  most  fashionable  and  elegant  pat- 
terns ;  and  as  the  trained  eye  of 
Beauchamp  scanned  it  over,  and 
marked  the  correct  taste  with  which 
every  thing  wasdisposed,  the  thought 
forced  itself  upon  him — "  how  many 
have  been  beggared  to  pay  for  all 
this!"  His  heart  fluttered.  He  gazed 
on  the  flushed  features,  the  eager 
eyes,  the  agitated  gestures  of  those 
who  sat  at  the  table.  Directly  oppo- 
site was  Sir  Edward  Streighton, look- 
ing attentively  at  the  caster— his  fine 
expansive  forehead  bordered  with 
slight  streaks  of  black  hair,  and  his 
large  lustrous  eyes  glancing  like 
lightning  from  the  thrower  to  the 
dice,  and  from  the  dice  to  the  bet- 
ters. His  features,  regular,  and  once 
even  handsome,  bore  now  the  deep 
traces  of  long  and  harrowing  anxiety. 
"  O  that  one,"  thought  Beauchamp, 
"  so  capable  of  better  things,  bearing 
on  his  brow  nature's  signet  of  supe- 
riority, should  have  sunk  into— a 
swindler!"  While  these  thoughts 
were  passing  through  his  mind,  Sir 
Edward  suddenly  looked  up,  and  his 
eyes  settled  for  an  instant  on  Beau- 
champ.  Their  expression  almost  with- 
ered him !  He  thought  he  wasgazing 
on  "  the  dark  and  guilty  one"  who 
had  coldly  led  him  up  to  ruin's 
brink,  and  was  waiting  to  precipitate 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


580 

him.  His  thoughts  then  wandered 
away  to  long  banished  scenes — his 
aged  mother,  his  ruined,  forsaken 
Ellen,  both  of  whom  he  was  beggar- 
ing, and  breaking  their  hearts.  A 
mist  seemed  diffused  through  the 
room,  his  brain  reeled  ;  his  long- 
stunned  heart  revived  for  a  moment, 
and  smote  him  heavily.  "  O  that  I  had 
but  an  opportunity,  never  so  slight 
an  opportunity,"  he  thought,  "  of 
breaking  from  this  horrid  enthral- 
ment,  at  any  cost !"  He  started  from 
his  painful  reverie,  and  stepped  to  a 
side-table  on  which  a  large  bowl  of 
champaigne-punch  had  just  been 
placed,  and  sought  solace  in  its  in- 
toxicating fumes.  He  resumed  his 
seat  at  the  table ;  and  he  had  looked 
on  scarcely  a  few  minutes,  before  he 
felt  a  sudden,  unaccountable  impulse 
to  join  in  at  hazard.  He  saw  Apsley 
placing  in  his  pocketbook  some  bank- 
notes, which  he  had  that  moment  re- 
ceived from  the  poor  victim  before 
spoken  of — and  instantly  betted  with 
him  heavily  on  the  next  throw.  Aps- 
ley, somewhat  surprised,  but  not 
ruffled,  immediately  took  him  ;  the 
dice  were  thrown — and  to  his  own 
astonishment,  and  that  of  all  present, 
Beauchamp  won  L.300  —  actually, 
lonafide,  won  L.300  from  Apsley,  who 
for  once  was  off  his  guard!  The 
loser  was  nettled,  and  could  with  dif- 
ficulty conceal  his  chagrin;  but  he 
had  seen,  while  Beauchamp  was  in 
the  act  of  opening  his  pocketbook, 
the  amount  of  one  or  two  of  his  lar- 
gest bills,  and  his  passion  subsided. 
At  length  his  hour  arrived.  Rouge 
et  Noir  followed  hazard,  and  Beau- 
champ's  pulse  quickened.  When  it 
came  to  his  turn,  he  took  out  his 
pocketbook  and  coolly  laid  down 
stakes  which  aimed  at  the  bank.  Not 
a  word  was  spoken;  but  looks  of 
wonder  and  doubt  glanced  darkly 
around  the  table.  What  was  the  fan- 
cied manoeuvre  which  Beauchamp 
now  proceeded  to  practise  I  know 
not,  for,  thank  God,  I  am  ignorant — 
except  on  hearsay — of  both  the  prin- 
ciples and  practice  of  gaming.  The 
eagle-eye  of  Apsley,  the  tailler,  was 
on  Beauchamp's  every  movement.  He 
tried — he  LOST,  halfhis  large  stake! 
He  pressed  his  hand  upon  his  fore- 
heau — he  saw  that  every  thing  de- 
pended on  his  calmness.  The  voice 
of  Apsley  sounded  indistinctly  in  his 
ears,  calling  out,  "  un  rrfait  t rente  et 


[Oct. 


un  /"  Beauchamp  suffered  his  stakes 
to  remain,  and  be  determined  by  the 
next  event.  He  still  had  confidence 
in  his  scheme;  but  alas,  the  bubble 
at  length  burst,  and  Beauchamp  in  a 
trice  found  himself  minus  L.3000. 
All  hope  was  now  over,  for  his  trick 
was  clearly  worth  nothing,  and  he 
had  lost  every  earthly  opportunity  of 
recovering  himself.  YET  HE  WENT 
ON — and  on — and  on ; — and  on  ran 
the  losing  colour,  till  Beauchamp  lost 
every  thing  he  had  brought  with  him ! 
He  sat  down,  sunk  his  head  upon  his 
breast,  and  a  ghastly  hue  overspread 
his  face.  He  was  offered  unlimited 
credit.  Apsley  gave  him  a  slip  of 
paper  with  I.  O.  U.  on  it,  telling  him 
to  fill  it  up  with  his  name,  and  any 
sum  he  chose.  Beauchamp  threw 
it  back,  exclaiming,  in  an  under-tone, 
"  No, — swindled  out  of  all." 

"  What  did  you  say,  sir  ?"  enqui- 
red Apsley,  rising  from  the  table,  and 
approaching  his  victim. 

"  Merely  that  I  had  been  swindled 
out  of  all  my  fortune,"  replied 
Beauchamp,  without  rising  from  his 
seat.  There  was  a  dead  silence. 

"  But,  my  good  sir,  don't  you  know 
that  such  language  will  never  do  ?" 
enquired  Apsley,  in  a  cold  contemp- 
tuous tone,  and  with  a  manner  ex- 
quisitely irritating. 

Half  maddened  with  his  losses — 
with  despair,  and  fury — Beauchamp 
sprung  out  of  his  chair  towards 
Apsley,  and  with  an  absolute  howl, 
dashed  both  his  fists  into  his  face. 
Consternation  seized  every  one  pre- 
sent. Table,  cards,  and  bank-notes, 
all  were  deserted,  and  some  threw 
themselves  round  Beauchamp,  others 
round  Apsley,  who,  sudden  as  had 
been  the  assault  upon  him,  had  so 
quickly  thrown  up  his  arms,  that  he 
parried  the  chief  force  of  Beau- 
champ's  blow,  and  received  but  a 
slight  injury  over  his  right  eye. 

"  Pho  !  pho  !  the  boy  is  drunk"  he 
exclaimed  coolly,  observing  his  fran- 
tic assailant  struggling  with  those 
who  held  him. 

"  Ruffian  !  swindler !  liar !"  gasped 
Beauchamp.  Apsley  laughed  aloud. 

"  What !  dare  not  you  strike  me  in 
return  ?"  roared  Beauchamp. 

"  Aye,  aye,  my  fine  fellow,"  re- 
plied Apsley,  with  imperturbable 
nonchalance,  "  but  dare  you  have 
struck  me,  when  you  were  in  cool 
blood,  and  I  on  my  guard  ?" 


1831.] 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


"  Struck  you,  indeed,  you  abhor- 
red"  

"  Let  us  see  then  what  we  can  do 
in  the  morning,  when  we've  slept 
over  it,"  retorted  Apsley,  pitching 
his  card  towards  him  contemptu- 
ously. "  But,  in  the  meantime,  we 
must  send  for  constables,  unless  our 
young  friend  here  becomes  quiet. 
Come,  Streighton,  you  are  croupier 
— come,  Hillier — Bruton — all  of  you, 
come — play  out  the  stakes,  or  we 
shall  forget  where  we  were." 

Poor  Beauchamp  seemed  sudden- 
ly Ccilmed  when  Apsley's  card  was 
thrown  towards  him,  and  with  such 
cold  scorn.  He  pressed  his  hands  to 
his  bursting  temples,  turned  his  des- 
pairing eyes  upwards,  and  muttered, 
as  if  he  were  half-choked,  "  Not  yet 
— not  yet !"  He  paused — and  the 
dreadful  paroxysm  seemed  to  sub- 
side. He  threw  one  of  his  cards  to 
Apsley,  exclaiminghoarsely,  "When, 
where,  and  how  you  will,  sir  !" 

"  Why,  come  now,  Beau,  that's 
right — tliafs  like  a  man!"  said  Aps- 
ley, with  mock  civility.  "  Suppose 
we  say  to-morrow  morning  ?  1  have 
cured  you  of  roguery  to-night,  and, 
with  the  blessing  of  God,  will  cure 
you  of  cowardice  to-morrow.  But, 
pardon  me,  your  last  stakes  are  for- 
feit," he  added  abruptly,  seeing  Beau- 
champ  approach  the  spot  where  his 
last  stake,  a  bill  for  L.100,  was  lying, 
not  having  been  taken  up.  He  look- 
ed appealingly  to  the  company,  who 
decided  instantly  against  him.  Beau- 
champ,  with  the  hurry  and  agitation 
consequent  on  his  assault  upon  Aps- 
ley, had  forgotten  that  he  had  really 
played  away  the  note.  "  Well,  sir, 
there  remains  nothing  to  keep  me 
here,"  said  Beau  champ,  calmly — with 
the  calmness  of  despair — "  except 
settling  our  morning's  meeting. — 
Name  your  friend,  sir,"  he  continued 
sternly — yet  his  heart  was  breaking 
within  him. 

"  Oh — aye,"  replied  Apsley,  care- 
lessly looking  up  from  the  cards  he 
was  shuffling  and  arranging.  "  Let 
me  see.  Hillier,  will  you  do  the 
needful  for  me  ?  I  leave  every  thing 
in  your  hands."  After  vain  attempts 
to  bring  about  a  compromise — for 
your  true  gamblers  hate  such  affairs, 
not  from  personal  fear,  but  the  pub- 
licity they  occasion  to  their  doings — 
matters  were  finally  arranged;  Sir 
Edward  Streighton  undertaking  for 

VOL.  XXX.  NO.  CLXXXVI. 


581 

Beauehamp.  The  hour  of  meeting 
was  half  past  six  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing; and  the  place,  a  field  near 
Knightsbridge.  The  unhappy  Beau- 
champ  then  withdrew,  after  shaking 
Sir  Edward  by  the  hand,  who  pro- 
mised to  call  at  his  lodgings  by  four 
o'clock — "  for  we  shall  break  up  by 
that  time,  I  dare  say,"  he  whispered. 
When  the  door  was  closed  upon 
Beauchamp,  he  reeled  off  the  steps, 
and  staggered  along  the  street  like  a 
drunken  man.  Whether  or  not  he 
was  deceived,  he  knew  not ;  but  in 
passing  under  the  windows  of  the 
room  where  the  fiendish  conclave 
were  sitting,  he  fancied  he  heard  the 
sound  of  Joud  laughter.  It  was 
about  two  o'clock  of  a  winter's  morn- 
ing. The  snow  fell  fast,  and  the  air 
was  freezingly  cold.  Not  a  soul  but 
himself  seemed  stirring.  A  watch- 
man, seeing  his  unsteady  gait,  crossed 
the  street,  touched  his  hat,  and  ask- 
ed if  he  should  call  him  a  coach ;  but 
he  was  answered  with  such  a  ghast- 
ly imprecation,  that  he  slunk  back 
in  silence.  Tongue  cannot  tell  the 
distraction  and  misery  with  which 
Beauchamp's  soul  was  shaken.  Hell 
seemed  to  have  lit  its  raging  fires 
within  him.  He  felt  affrighted  at 
being  alone  in  the  desolate,  dark, 
deserted  streets.  His  last  six  months' 
life  seemed  unrolled  suddenly  before 
him  like  a  blightiug  scroll,  written  in 
letters  of  fire.  Overcome  by  his  emo- 
tions, his  shaking  knees  refused  their 
support,  and  he  sate  down  on  the 
steps  of  a  house  in  Piccadilly.  He 
told  me  afterwards,  that  he  distinct- 
ly recollected  feeling  for  some  im- 
plement of  destruction ;  and  that  if 
he  had  discovered  his  penknife,  he 
should  assuredly  have  cut  his  throat. 
After  sitting  on  the  stone  for  about 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  bareheaded — 
for  he  had  removed  his  hat,  that  his 
burning  forehead  might  be  cooled—; 
he  made  towards  his  lodgings.  He 
thundered  impetuously  at  the  door, 
and  was  instantly  admitted.  His 
shivering,  half-asleep  servant  foil 
back  before  his  master's  affrighting 
countenance,  and  glaring  bloodshot 
eyes.  "  Lock  the  door,  sir,  and  fol- 
low me  to  my  room,"  said  Beauchamp, 
in  a  loud  voice. 

"  Sir — sir — sir,"  stammered  the 
servant,  as  if  he  were  going  to  ask 
some  question. 

"  Silence,  sir !"  thundered  his  mas- 
2p 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physiciant 


58'2 

ter;  and  the  man,  laying  down  his 
candle  on  the  stairs,  went  and  barred 
the  door.  Beauchamp  hurried  up 
stairs,  and  opened  the  door  of  his 
sitting-room.  He  was  astonished 
and  alarmed  to  find  a  blaze  of  light 
in  the  room.  Suspecting  fire,  he 
rushed  into  the  middle  or  the  room, 
and  beheld — his  mother  and  cousin 
bending  towards  him,  and  staring 
fixedly  at  him  with  the  hue  and  ex- 
pression of  two  marble  images  of 
horror !  His  mother's  white  hair  hung 
dishevelled  down  each  side  of  her 
ghastly  features ;  and  her  eyes,  with 
those  of  her  niece,  who  sate  beside 
her,  clasping  her  aunt  convulsively 
round  the  waist,  seemed  on  the  point 
of  starting  from  their  sockets.  They 
moved  not — they  spoke  not.  The 
hideous  apparition  vanished  in  an 
instant  from  the  darkening  eyes  of 
Beauchamp,  for  he  dropped  the 
candle  he  held  in  his  hand,  and  fell 
at  full  length  senseless  on  the  floor. 
#  *  # 

It  was  no  ocular  delusion— nothing 
spectral — but  HORROR  looking  out 
through  breathing  flesh  and  blood, 
in  the  persons  of  Mrs  Beauchamp 
and  her  niece. 

The  resolution  which  Mrs  Beau- 
champ  had  formed,  on  an  occasion 
which  will  be  remembered  by  the 
reader,  was  to  go  up  direct  to  Lon- 
don, and  try  the  effect  of  a  sudden 
appearance  before  her  erring,  but 
she  hoped  not  irreclaimable  son.  Such 
an  interview  might  startle  him  into 
a  return  to  virtue.  Attended  by  the 
faithful  Pritchard,  they  had  arrived 
in  town  that  very  day,  put  up  at  an 
hotel  in  the  neighbourhood,  and, 
without  pausing  to  take  refresh- 
ments, hurried  to  Mr  Beauchamp's 
lodgings,  which  they  reached  only 
two  hours  after  he  had  gone  out  to 
dinner.  Seeing  his  desk  open,  and 
a  paper  lying  upon  it,  the  old  lady 
took  it  up,  and,  freezing  with  fright, 
read  the  oath  before  named,  evi- 
dently written  in  blood.  Her  son, 
then,  was  gone  to  the  gaming-table 
in  the  spirit  of  a  forlorn  hope,  and 
was  that  night  to  complete  his  and 
their  ruin !  Yet,  what  could  they  do  ? 
Mr  Beauchamp's  valet  did  riot  know 
where  his  master  was  gone  to  din- 
ner, nor  did  any  one  in  the  house, 
or  they  would  have  sent  off  instantly 
to  apprize  him  of  their  arrival  As 
it  was,  however,  they  were  obliged  to 


[Oct. 


wait  for  it;  and  it  may  therefore  be 
conceived  in  what  an  ecstasy  of  agony 
these  two  poor  ladies  had  been  sit- 
ting, without  tasting  wine  or  food,  till 
half  past  two  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
when  they  heard  his  startling  knock 
—his  fierce  voice  speaking  in  curses 
to  the  valet,  and  at  length  beheld 
him  rush,  madman-like,  into  their  pre- 
sence, as  has  been  described . 

When  the  valet  came  up  stairs 
from  fastening  the  street-door,  he 
saw  the  sitting-room  door  wide  open; 
and  peeping  through  on  his  way  up 
to  bed,  was  confounded  to  see  three 
prostrate  figures  on  the  floor — his 
master  here,  and  there  the  two  ladies 
locked  in  one  another's  arms,- all  mo- 
tionless. He  hurried  to  the  bell,  and 
pulled  it  till  it  broke,  but  not  till  it 
had  rung  such  a  startling  peal,  as 
woke  every  body  in  the  house,  who 
presently  heard  him  shouting  at  the 
top  of  his  voice,  "  Murder !  Murder ! 
Murder !"  All  the  affrighted  inmates 
were  in  a  few  seconds  in  the  room,  half 
dressed,  and  their  faces  full  of  terror. 
The  first  simultaneous  impression  on 
the  minds  of  the  group  was,  that  the 
persons  lying  on  the  floor  had  been 
poisoned;  and  under  such  impres- 
sion was  it  that  I  and  two  neighbour- 
ing surgeons  were  summoned  on  the 
scene.  By  the  time  I  had  arrived, 
Mrs  Beauchamp  was  reviving ;  but 
her  niece  had  swooned  away  again. 
The  first  impulse  of  the  mother,  as 
soon  as  her  tottering  limbs  could 
support  her  weight,  was  to  crawl 
trembling  to  the  insensible  body  of 
her  son.  Supported  in  the  arms  of 
two  female  attendants,  who  had  not 
as  yet  been  able  to  lift  her  from  the 
floor,  she  leant  over  the  prostrate 
form  of  Beauchamp,  and  murmured, 
"  Oh,  Henry!  Henry!  Love!  My 
only  love  !"  Her  hand  played  slowly 
over  his  damp  features,  and  strove 
to  part  the  hair  from  the  forehead — 
but  it  suddenly  ceased  to  move — 
and  on  looking  narrowly  at  her,  she 
was  found  to  have  swooned  again. 
Of  all  the  sorrowful  scenes  it  has 
been  my  fate  to  witness,  I  never  en- 
countered one  of  deeper  distress 
than  this.— Had  I  known  at  the  time 
the  relative  situations  of  the  parties ! 

I  directed  all  my  attentions  to  Mr 
Beauchamp,  while  the  other  medical 
gentlemen  busied  themselves  with 
Mrs  Beauchamp  and  her  niece.  I 
was  not  quite  sure  whether  my  pa- 


1831.] 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


tient  were  not  in  a  fit  of  epilepsy  or 
apoplexy,  for  he  lay  motionless, 
drawing  his  breath  at  long  and  pain- 
ful intervals,  with  a  little  occasional 
convulsive  twitching  of  the  features. 
I  had  his  coat  taken  off  immediately, 
and  bled  him  from  the  arm  copious- 
ly; soon  after  which  he  recovered 
his  consciousness,  and  allowed  him- 
self to  be  led  to  bed.  He  had  hardly 
been  undressed,  before  he  fell  fast 
asleep.  His  mother  was  bending  over 
him  in  speechless  agony — for  ill  and 
feeble  as  she  was,  we  could  not  pre- 
vail on  her  to  go  to  bed — and  I  was 
watching  both  with  deep  interest  and 
curiosity,  convinced  that  I  was  wit- 
nessing a  glimpse  of  some  domestic 
tragedy,  when  there  was  heard  a  vio- 
lent knocking  and  ringing  at  the 
street-door.  Every  one  started,  and 
with  alarm  enquired  what  that  could 
be  ?  Who  could  be  seeking  admis- 
sion at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning? 

Sir  Edward  Streighton  ! — whose 
cab,  with  a  case  of  duelling  pistols 
on  the  seat,  was  standing  at  the  door 
waiting  to  convey  himself  and  Beau- 
champ  to  the  scene  of  possible 
slaughter  fixed  on  overnight.  He 
would  take  no  denial  from  the  ser- 
vant ;  declared  his  business  to  be  of 
the  most  pressing  kind;  and  affected 
to  disbelieve  the  fact  of  Beauchamp's 
illness — "it was  all  miserable  fudge," 
and  he  was  heard  muttering  some- 
thing about  "  cowardice  !  "  The 
strange  pertinacity  of  Sir  Edward 
brought  me  down  stairs.  He  stood 
fuming  and  cursing  in  the  hall ;  but 
started  on  seeing  me  come  down 
with  my  candle  in  my  hand,  and  he 
turned  pale. 

"  Dr !"  he  exclaimed,  taking 

off  his  hat ;  for  he  had  once  or  twice 
seen  me,  and  instantly  recognised 
me,  "  Why,  in  the  name  of  heaven, 
what  is  the  matter  ?  Is  he  ill  ?  Is  he 
dead?  What?" 

"  Sir  Edward,"  I  replied,  coldly, 
"  Mr  Beauchamp  is  in  dangerous,  if 
not  dying,  circumstances." 

"  Dying  circumstances  !"  he  echo- 
ed with  an  alarmed  air.  "  Why — has 
he — has  he  attempted  to  commit  sui- 
cide ?"  he  stammered. 

"  No,  but  he  has  had  a  fit,  and  5s 
insensible  in  bed.  You  will  permit 
me  to  say,  Sir  Edward,"  I  continued, 
a  suspicion  occurring  to  me  of  his 
design  in  calling,  "  that  this  untime- 
ly visit  looks  as  if"——. 


588 

"  That  is  my  business,  Doctor," 
he  replied,  haughtily,  "  not  yours, 
My  errand  is  of  the  highest  import* 
ance ;  and  it  is  fitting  I  should  be 
assured,  on  your  solemn  word  of  ho- 
nour, of  the  reality  of  Mr  Beau* 
champ's  illness." 

"  Sir  Edward  Streighton,"  said  I, 
indignantly,  "  you  have  had  my  an- 
swer, which  you  may  believe  or  dis- 
believe, as  you  think  proper ;  but  I 
will  take  good  care  that  you  do  not 
ascend  one  of  these  stairs  to-day." 

"  I  understand  it  all  !•"  he  answer- 
ed with  a  significant  scowl,  and  left 
the  house.  I  then  hastened  back  to 
my  patient,  whom  I  now  viewed 
with  greater  interest  than  before; 
for  I  saw  that  he  was  to  have  fought 
a  duel  that  morning.  Coupling  pre- 
sent appearances  with  Mr  Beau- 
champ's  visit  to  me  the  day  before, 
and  the  known  character  of  Sir  Ed- 
ward, as  a  professed  gambler,  the  key 
to  the  whole,  seemed  to  me,  that  there 
had  been  a  gaming-house  quarrel. 

The  first  sensible  words  that  Mr 
Beauchamp  spoke,  were  to  me : 
"  Has  Sir  Edward  Streighton  call- 
ed ? — Is  it  four  o'clock  yet  ?"  and 
he  started  up  in  his  bed,  staring 
wildly  around  him.  Seeing  himself 
in  bed — candles  about  him — and  me 
at  his  side,  he  exclaimed,  "  Why,  I 
recollect  nothing  of  it !  Am  I  wound- 
ed ?  What  is  become  of  Apsley  ?" 
He  placed  his  hand  on  the  arm  from 
which  he  had  been  bled,  and  feeling  it 
bandaged,  "  Ah  ! — in  the  arm — How- 
strange  that  I  have  forgotten  it  all ! 
— How  did  I  get  on  at  Hazard  and 
Rouge  et  Noir? — Doctor,  am  I  badly 
wounded  ? — Bone  broken  ?" 

My  conjecture  was  now  verified 
beyond  a  doubt !  He  dropped  asleep, 
from  excessive  exhaustion,  while  I 
was  gazing  at  him.  I  had  answered 
none  of  his  questions — which  were 
proposed  in  a  dreamy  unconnected 
style,  indicating  that  his  senses  were 
disturbed.  Finding  that  I  could  be 
of  no  further  service  at  present,  I 
left  him,  and  betook  myself  to  the 
room  to  which  Mrs  Beauchamp  had 
been  removed,  while  I  was  conver- 
sing with  Sir  Edward.  I  found  her 
in  bed,  attended  by  Miss  Beauchamp, 
,who,  though  still  extremely  languid, 
and  looking  the  picture  of  broken- 
heartedness,  had  made  a  great  exer- 
tion to  rouse  herself.  Mrs  Beau- 
Champ  looked  dreadfully  ill,  The 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


584 

nerves  seemed  to  have  received  a 
shock  from  which  she  might  be  long 
in  recovering.  "  Now,  what  is  break- 
ing these  ladies'  hearts  ?"  thought  I, 
as  I  looked  from  one  agitated  face  to 
the  other. 

"  How  is  my  son  ?"  enquired  Mrs 
Beauchamp,  faintly. 

I  told  her,  I  thought  there  was  no 
danger  j  and  that,  with  repose,  he 
would  soon  recover. 

"  Pray,  madam,  allow  me  to  ask — 
Has  he  had  any  sudden  fright  ?  I 
suspect"  Both  shook  their 

heads,  and  hung  them  down. 

"  Well — he  is  alive,  thank  Heaven 
— but  a  beggar !"  said  Mrs  Beau- 
champ.  "  Oh,  Doctor,  he  hath  fallen 
among  thieves  !  They  have  robbed, 
and  would  have  slain  my  son— my 
first  born — my  only  son  !" 

I  expressed  deep  sympathy.  I 
said,  "  I  suspect,  madam,  that  some- 
thing very  unfortunate  has  happen- 
ed." 

She  interrupted  me  by  asking  me, 
after  a  pause,  if  I  knew  nothing  of 
his  practices  in  London,  for  the  last 
few  months,  as  she  had  seen  my 
name  several  times  mentioned  in  his 
letters,  as  his  medical  adviser.  I 
made  no  reply.  I  did  not  even  hint 
my  suspicions  that  he  had  been  a  fre- 
quenter of  the  gaming-table ;  but  my 
looks  startled  her. 

"  Oh,  Doctor ,  for  the  love  of 

God,  be  frank,  and  save  a  widowed 
mother's  heart  from  breaking!  Is 
there  no  door  open  for  him  to  es- 
cape ?" 

Seeing  they  could  extract  little  or 
no  satisfactory  explanations  from 
me,  they  ceased  asking,  and  resigned 
themselves  to  tears  and  sorrow.  Af- 
ter rendering  them  what  little  ser- 
vice was  in  my  power,  and  looking 
in  at  Mr  Beauchamp's  room,  where  I 
found  him  still  in  a  comfortable 
sleep,  I  took  my  departure,  for  the 
dull  light  of  a  winter  morning  was 
already  stealing  into  the  room,  and  I 
had  been  there  ever  since  a  little  be- 
fore four  o'clock.  All  my  way  home 
I  felt  sure  that  my  patient  was  one 
of  the  innumerable  victims  of  gam- 
bling, and  had  involved  his  family  in 
his  ruin. 

Mr  Beauchamp,  with  the  aid  of 
quiet  and  medicine,  soon  recovered 
sufficiently  to  leave  his  bed ;  but  his 
mind  was  evidently  ill  at  ease.  Had 
I  known  at  the  time  what  I  was  af» 


[Oct. 


terwards  apprized  of,  with  what  in- 
tense and  sorrowful  interest  should 
I  have  regarded  him  ! 

The  next  week  was  all  agony;  hu- 
miliation, confessions,  and  forgive- 
ness. The  only  one  item  in  the 
black  catalogue  which  he  omitted  or 
misrepresented,  was  the  duel  he  was 
to  have  fought.  He  owned,  after 
much  pressing,  in  order  to  quiet  his 
mother  and  cousin,  that  he  had  fought, 
and  escaped  unhurt.  But  Beau- 
champ,  in  his  own  mind,  was  resol- 
ved, at  all  events,  to  give  Apsley  the 
meeting,  on  the  very-  earliest  oppor- 
tunity. His  own  honour  was  at  stake ! 
— His  own  revenge  was  to  be  sated ! 
The  first  thing,  therefore,  that  Beau- 
champ  did,  atter  he  was  sufficiently 
recovered  to  be  left  alone,  was  to 
drop  a  hasty  line  to  Sir  Edward 
Streighton,  informing  him  that  he 
was  now  ready  and  willing — nay, 
anxious — to  give  Apsley  the  meeting 
which  he  had  been  prevented  doing, 
only  by  his  sudden  and  severe  ill- 
ness. He  entreated  Sir  Edward  to 
continue,  as  heretofore,  his/Henc?,  and 
to  hasten  the  matter  as  much  as  pos- 
sible ;  adding  that  whatever  event 
might  attend  it,  was  a  matter  of  utter 
indifference  to  one  who  was  weary 
of  life.  Sir  Edward,  who  began  to 
wish  himself  out  of  a  very  disagree- 
able affair,  returned  him  a  prompt, 
polite,  but  not  very  cordial  answer ; 
the  substance  of  which  was,  that 
Apsley,  who  happened  to  be  with 
Sir  Edward  when  Beauchamp's  let- 
ter arrived,  was  perfectly  ready  to 
meet  him  at  the  place  formerly  ap- 
pointed, at  seven  o'clock,  on  the  en- 
suing morning.  Beauchamp  was 
somewhat  shocked  at  the  suddenness 
of  the  affair.  How  was  he  to  part, 
overnight — possibly  for  ever — trom 
his  beloved,  and  injured  as  beloved, 
mother  and  cousin  ?  Whatever 
might  be  the  issue  of  the  affair,  what 
a  monster  of  perfidy  and  ingratitude 
must  he  appear  to  them  ! 

Full  of  these  bitter,  distracting 
thoughts,  he  locked  his  room-door, 
and  proceeded  to  make  his  will.  He 
left  "  every  thing  he  had  remaining 
on  earth,  in  any  shape,"  to  his  mo- 
ther, except  a  hundred  guineas  to  his 
cousin  to  buy  a  mourning  ring.  That 
over,  and  some  few  other  arrange- 
ments completed,  he  repaired,  with 
a  heart  that  smote  him  at  every  step, 
to  his  mother's  bedside ;  for  it  was 


1831.] 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


night,  and  the  old  lady,  besides, 
scarce  ever  left  her  bed.  The  un- 
usual fervour  of  his  embraces,  to- 
gether with  momentary  fits  of  ab- 
sence, might  have  challenged  obser- 
vation and  suspicion  ;  but  they  did 
not.  He  told  me  afterwards,  that  the 
anguish  he  suffered,  while  repeating 
and  going  through  the  customary 
evening  adieus  to  his  mother  and 
cousin,  might  have  atoned  for  years 
of  guilt ! 

After  a  nearly  sleepless  night, 
Beauchamp  rose  about  five  o'clock, 
and  dressed  himself.  On  quitting  his 
room,  perhaps  the  last  time  he  should 
quit  it  alive,  he  had  to  pass  by  his  mo- 
ther's door.  There  he  fell  down  on 
his  knees ;  and  continued  with  clasp- 
ed hands  and  closed  eyes,  till  his 
smothering  emotions  warned  him  to 
begone.  He  succeeded  in  getting 
out  of  the  house  without  alarming 
any  one ;  and,  muffled  in  his  cloak, 
made  his  way  as  fast  as  possible  to 
Sir  Edward  Streighton's.  It  was  a 
miserable  morning.  The  untrodden 
snow  lay  nearly  a  foot  deep  on  the 
streets,  and  was  yet  fluttering  fast 
down.  Beauchamp  found  it  so  fa- 
tiguing to  plunther  on  through  the 
deep  snow,  and  was  so  benumbed  with 
cold,  that  he  called  a  coach.  He  had 
great  difficulty  in  rousing  the  driver, 
who,  spite  of  the  bitter  inclemency 
of  the  weather,  was  sitting  on  his 
box,  poor  fellow,  fast  asleep,  and 
even  snoring — a  complete  hillock  of 
snow,  which  lay  nearly  an  inch  thick 
upon  him.  How  Beauchamp  envied 
him  !  The  very  horses, too, lean  and 
scraggy  as  they  looked — fast  asleep 
— how  he  envied  them  ! 

It  was  nearly  six  o'clock,  when 
Beauchamp  reached  Sir  Edward's 
residence.  The  Baronet  was  up,  and 
waiting  for  him. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Beauchamp — how 

d'ye  do  ! — How  the  d are  you 

to  fight  in  such  a  fog  as  this?"  he 
enquired,  looking  through  the  win- 
dow, and  shuddering  at  the  cold. 

"  It  must  be  managed,  I  suppose. 
Put  us  up  as  close  as  you  like,"  re- 
plied Beauchamp,  gloomily. 

"  I've  done  all  in  my  power,  my 
dear  fellow,  to  settle  matters  amica- 
bly, but  'tis  in  vain,  I'm  afraid.  You 
must  exchange  shots,  you  know! — 
J  have  no  doubt,  however,"  he  con- 
tinued, with  a  significant  smile, "  that 
'the  thing  will  be  properly  conducted, 


585 
You 


Life  is  valuable,  Beauchamp  ! 
understand  me  ?" 

"  It  is  not  to  me — I  hate  Apsley 
as  I  hate  hell." 

"  My  God,  Beauchamp !  What  a 
bloody  humour  you  have  risen  in  !" 
exclaimed  the  baronet,  with  an  an- 
xious smile.  He  paused,  as  if  for 
an  answer,  but  Beauchamp  conti- 
nued silent. — "  Ah,  then,  the  sooner 
to  business  the  better.  And  hark'ee, 
Beauchamp,"  said  Sir  Edward,  brisk- 
ly, "  have  your  wits  about  you,  for 
Apsley,  let  me  tell  you,  is  a  splendid 
shot." 

"  Pooh  !"  exclaimed  Beauchamp, 
smiling  bitterly.  He  felt  cold  from 
head  to  foot,  and  even  trembled;  for 
a  thousand  fond  thoughts  gushed 
over  him.  He  felt  faint,  and  would 
have  asked  for  a  glass  of  wine  or 
spirits;  but  after  Sir  Edward's  last 
remark,  that  was  out  of  the  question. 
It  might  be  misconstrued  ! 

They  were  on  the  ground  by  seven 
o'clock.  It  had  ceased  snowing,  and 
in  its  stead  a  small  drizzling  rain  was 
falling.  The  fog  continued  so  dense 
as  to  prevent  their  seeing  each  other 
distinctly  at  a  few  yards'  distance. 
This  puzzled  the  parties  not  a  little, 
and  threatened  to  interfere  with 
business. 

"  Every  thing,  by ,  is  against 

us  to-day!"  exclaimed  Sir  Edward, 
placing  under  his  arm  the  pistol  he 
was  loading,  and  buttoning  his  great- 
coat up  to  the  chin, — "  this  fog  will 
hinder  your  seeing  one  another,  and 

this rain  will  soak  through  to 

the  priming  !  In  fact,  you  must  be 
put  up  within  eight  or  ten  feet  of 
one  another." 

"  Settle  all  that  as  soon,  and  as  you 
like,"  replied  Beauchamp,  walking 
away  a  few  steps. 

"  Hallo— here  ! — here  !"  cried  Sir 
Edward, — "  Here  !  here  we  are,  Hil- 
lier,"  seeing  three  figures,  within  a 
few  yards  of  them,  searching  about 
for  them.  Apsley  had  brought  with 
him  Hillier  and  a  young  surgeon. 

The  fog  thickened  rapidly  as  soon 
as  they  had  come  together,  and  Aps- 
ley and  Beauchamp  took  their  stands 
a  little  distance  from  their  respective 
friends. 

"  Any  chance  of  apology  ?"  enqui- 
red Hillier — a  keen-eyed,  hawk-no- 
sed, ci-devant  militaire, 

"  The  deyi,l  a,  bit.  Horridly  sar 
vage !" 


586 


Passages  from  the,  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


[Oct. 


w  Then,  let  us  make  haste,"  replied 
Hillier,  with  sangfroid. 

"  Apsley  got drunk  after  you 

left  this  morning,  and  I've  had  only 
half  an  hour's  sleep,"  continued  Hil- 
lier, little  suspecting  that  every  word 
they  were  saying  was  overheard  by 
Beauchamp,  who,  shrouded  by  the 
fog,  was  standing  at  but  three  or  four 
yards'  distance. 

"  Apsley  drunk  ?  Then  'twill  give 
Beauchamp,  poor  devil,  a  bit  of  a 
chance — and  this  fog  1  How  does  he 
stand  it?  Cool?" 

"  As  a  cucumber.  That  is  to  say, 
he  is  cold — very  cold — ha,  ha !  But 
I  don't  think  he  funks  either.  Told 

me  he  hated  Apsley  like ,  and 

we  might  put  him  up  as  we  liked  I 
But  what  does  your  man  say  ?" 

"Oh,  full  of  '  pooh-poohs!'  and 
calls.it  a  mere  bagatelle." 

"Do  mischief?— eh?" 

"  Oh — he's  going  to  try  for  the 
arm  or  knee,  for  the  fellow  hurt  his 
eye  the  other  night." 

"  What— in  this  fog  !  My !'» 

"  Oh,  true.  Forgot  that.  What's 
to  be  done  ? — Come,  it's  clearing  off 
a  bit." 

"  I  say,  Hillier,"  whispered  Sir 
Edward  in  a  low  tone — "  suppose 
mischief  should  be  done  ?" 

"  Suppose  !  —  and  suppose— it 
shouldn't?  You'll  never  get  your 
pistol  drove  ! — So,  now  !" 

"  Now,  how  far  ?" 

"  Oh,  the  usual  distance.  Step 
them  out  the  baker's  dozen.  Give 
them  every  chance,  for  God  favours 
them." 

"  But  they  won't  see  one  another 
any  more  than  the  dead  I  'Tis  a 
complete  farce — and  the  men  them- 
selves will  grumble.  How  can  they 
mark?" 

"  Why,  here's  a  gate  close  by.  I 
came  past  it.  'Tis  white  and  large. 
Put  them  in  a  line  with  it." 

"  Why,  Beauchamp  will  be  hit, 
poor  devil !" 

"  Never  mind — deserves  it,  d 
fool !" 

The  distance  duly  stepped  out, 
each  stationed  his  man. 

"  I  shall  not  stand  against  this  gate, 
Streighton,"  said  Beauchamp,  calmly. 
The  Baronet  laughed,  and  replied, 
"  Oh,  you're  right,  my  dear  fellow. 
We'll  put  you,  then,  about  three  or 
four  yards  from  it  on  one  side." 
They  were  soon  stationed,  and  pis- 


tols put  into  their  hands.  Both  ex- 
claimed loudly  that  they  could  not 
see  their  man.  "  So  much  the  bet- 
ter. A  chance  shot ! — We  shan't  put 
you  any  nearer,"  said  Sir  Edward — • 
and  the  principals  sullenly  acquit 
esced. 

"  Now,  take  care  to  shoot  at  one 
another,  not  at  us,  in  this  cursed 
fog,"  said  Sir  Edward,  so  as  to  be 
heard  by  both.  "  We  shall  move  off 
about  twenty  yards  away  to  the  right 
here.  I  will  say — one  !  two !  three ! 
—and  then,  do  as  you  like." 

"  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  you !" 
added  Hillier. 

"  Come,  quick  !  quick ! — 'Tis  cur- 
sedly cold,  and  I  must  be  at  ——'» 
by  ten,"  cried  Apsley,  petulantly. 
The  two  seconds  and  the  surgeon 
moved  off.  Beauchamp  could  not 
catch  even  a  glimpse  of  his  antago- 
nist— to  whom  he  was  equally  invisi- 
ble. "  Well,"  thought  they,  "  if  we 
miss,  we  can  fire  again  !"  In  a  few 
moments  Sir  Edward's  voice  called 
out  loudly — one  ! — two  ! — THREE  !" 

Both  pistol-fires  flashed  through 
the  fog  at  once,  and  the  seconds  rush- 
ed up  to  their  men. 

"  Beauchamp,  where  are  you?"— 
"  Apsley,  where  are  you?" 

"  Here  !"  replied  Beauchamp ;  but 
there  was  no  answer  from  Apsley. 
He  had  been  shot  through  the  head ; 
and  in  groping  about,  terror-struck, 
in  search  of  him,  they  stumbled  over 
his  corpse.  The  surgeon  was  in  an 
instant  on  his  knees  beside  him,  with 
his  instruments  out,  but  in  vain.  It 
was  all  over  with  Apsley.  That 
heartless  villain  was  gone  to  his  ac- 
count. Beauchamp's  oullet,  chance- 
shot  as  it  was,  had  entered  the  right 
temple,  passed  through  the  brain, and 
lodged  in  the  opposite  temple.  The 
only  blood  about  him  was  a  little 
which  had  trickled  from  the  wound, 
down  the  cheek,  on  the  shirt-collar. 

"  Is  he  killed?"  groaned  Beau- 
champ,  bending  over  the  body,  and 
staring  at  it  affrightedly ;  but  before 
he  could  receive  an  answer  from  Sir 
Edward  or  Hillier,  who,  almost  petri- 
fied, grasped  each  a  hand  of  the  dead 
body — he  had  swooned.  The  first 
words  he  heard,  on  recovering  his 
senses,  were—"  Fly !  fly !  fly !"  Not 
comprehending  their  import,  he  lan- 
guidly opened  his  eyes,  and  saw 
people,  some  standing  round  him, 
and  others  bearing  away  the  dead 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


1831.1 

body.  Again  he  relapsed  into  un- 
consciousness— from  which  he  was 
aroused  by  some  one  grasping  him 
rather  roughly  by  the  shoulder.  His 
eyes  glanced  on  the  head  of  a  con- 
stable's staff,  and  he  heard  the  words 
— "  You're  in  my  custody,  sir." 

He  started,  and  stared  in  the  offi- 
cer's face. 

"  There's  a  coach  awaiting  for  you, 
sir,  by  the  road-side,  to  take  you  to 
— —  office."  Beauchamp  offered  no 
resistance.  He  whispered,  merely— 
"  Does  my  mother  know  ?" 

How  he  rode,  or  with  whom,  he 
knew  not ;  but  he  found  himself, 
about  nine  o'clock,  alighting  at  the 
door  of  the  Police  Office,  more  dead 
than  alive. 

While  Beauchamp  had  lain  insen- 
sible on  the  ground,  the  fog  had  com- 
pletely vanished;  and  Sir  Edward 
and  Hillier,  finding  it  dangerous  to 
remain,  as  passengers  from  the  road- 
side could  distinctly  see  the  gloomy 
group,  made  off,  leaving  Beauchamp 
and  the  surgeon  with  the  corpse  of 
Apsley.  Sir  Edward  flew  to  his  own 
house,  accompanied  by  Hillier; — the 
latter  hastily  wrote  a  note  to  Apsley's 
brother,  informing  him  of  the  event ; 
and  Sir  Edward  dispatched  his  own 
valet  confidentially  to  the  valet  of 
Beauchamp,  communicating  to  him 
the  dreadful  situation  of  his  master, 
and  telling  him  to  break  it  as  he 
could  to  his  friends.  The  valet  in- 
stantly set  off  for  the  field  of  death, 
not,  however,  without  apprizing,  by 
his  terrified  movements,  his  fellow- 
servants  that  something  terrible  had 
happened.  He  found  a  few  peo- 
ple still  standing  on  the  fatal  spot, 
from  whom  he  learned  that  his  mas- 
ter had  been  conveyed  a  few  minutes 

before  to  the  Street  Office — 

whither  he  repaired  as  fast  as  a  hack- 
ney coach  could  carry  him.  When 
he  arrived,  an  officer  was  endeavour- 
ing to  rouse  Mr  Beauchamp  from  his 
stupor,  by  forcing  on  him  a  little  bran- 
dy and  water,  in  which  he  partly  suc- 
ceeded. Pale  and  breathless,  the 
valet  rushed  through  the  crowd  of 
officers  and  people  about  the  door, 
and  flung  himself  at  his  master's  feet, 
wringing  his  hands,  and  crying — "Oh 
master  ! — Dear  master  ! — What  have 
you  done!  You'll  kill  your  mother!" 
Even  the  myrmidons  of  justice  seem- 
ed affected  at  the  poor  fellow's  an- 
guish j  but  his  unhappy  master  only 


587 


stared  at  him  vacantly,  without  speak- 
ing. When  he  was  conducted  into 
the  presence  of  the  magistrate,  he 
was  obliged  to  be  supported  with  a 
chair  :  for  he  was  overcome,  not  only 
by  the  horrible  dilemma  to  which  he1 
had  just  brought  himself,  but  his  spi- 
rits and  health  were  completly  bro- 
ken down,  as  well  by  his  recent  ill- 
ness, as  the  wasting  anxieties  and 
agonies  he  had  endured  for  months 
past.  The  brother  of  Apsley  was 
present,  raving  like  a  madman ;  and 
he  pressed  the  'case  vehemently 
against  the  prisoner.  Bail  was  offer- 
ed, but  refused :  and  Beauchamp  was 
eventually  committed  to  Newgate,  to 
take  his  trial  at  the  next  Old  Bailey 
Sessions.  Sir  Edward  Streighton  and 
Hillier  surrendered  in  the  course  of 
the  day,  but  were  liberated  on  their 
own  heavy  recognisances,  and  two 
sureties  each  in  a  thousand  pounds, 
to  appear  and  take  their  trial  at  the 
Old  Bailey. 

But  what  tongue  can  tell,  what  pen 
describe,  the  maddening  horrors — 
the  despair — of  the  mother  and  the 
betrothed  bride  ?  Not  mine.  Their 
sorrows  shall  be  sacred  for  me. 

— —  "  For  not  to  me  belongs, 
To  sound  the  mighty  sorrows  of  thy  breast, 
But  rather  far  off  stand,  with  head  and 

hands 
Hung  down,  in  fearful  sympathy.     Thy 

Ark  of  grief 
Let  me  not  touch,  presumptuous." 

To  keep  up,  however,  in  some  de- 
gree, the  continuity  of  this  melancho- 
ly narrative,  I  shall  state,  merely, 
that  I,  who  was  called  in  to  both  mo- 
ther and  niece  a  few  minutes  after 
the  news  had  smitten  them  like  the 
stroke  of  lightning  to  the  earth — won- 
dered, was  even  confounded — to  find 
either  of  them  survive  it,  or  retain  a 
glimpse  of  reason.  The  conduct  of 
Ellen  Beauchamp  ennobled  her,  in 
my  estimation,  into  something  above 
humanity.  She  succeeded,  at  length, 
in  overmastering  her  anguish  and 
agitation,  in  order  that  she  might 
minister  to  her  afflicted  aunt,  in 
whose  sorrow  all  consciousness  or 
appreciation  of  her  own  seemed  to 
have  merged.  For  a  whole  week 
Mrs  Beauchamp  hovered,  so  to  speak, 
about  the  open  door  of  death,  held 
back,  apparently,  only  by  a  sweet 
spirit  or  sympathy  and  consolation — 
her  niece !  The  first  words  she  dis- 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


588 

tinctly  articulated,  after  many  hours 
spent  in  delirious  muttering,  were, 
"  I  will  see  my  son — I  will  see  my 
son !"  It  was  not  judged  safe  to  trust 
her  alone  without  medical  assistance 
for  at  least  a  fortnight.  Poor  Pritch- 
ard,  for  several  nights,  slept  outside 
her  bedroom  door. 

The  first  twenty-four  hours  of 
Beauchamp's  incarceration  in  New- 
gate were  horrible.  He  who,  on  such 
slight  temptation,  had  beggared  him- 
self, and  squandered  away  in  infamy 
the  fortunes  of  his  fathers;  who  had 
broken  the  hearts  of  his  idolizing 
mother — his  betrothed  wife;  who 
had  MURDERED  A  MAN — was  now 
ALONE  ! — alone,  in  the  sullen  gloom 
of  a  prison. 

The  transaction  above  detailed, 
made  much  noise  in  London;  and 
disguised  as  it  here  is,  in  respect  of 
names,  dates,  and  places,  there  must 
be  many  who  will  recollect  the  true 
facts.  There  is  ONE  whose  heart 
these  pages  will  wither  while  he  is 
reading ! 

Most  of  the  journals,  influenced 
by  the  vindictive  misrepresentations 
of  Apsley's  brother,  gave  a  most  dis- 
torted version  of  the  affair,  and,  pre- 
sumptuously anticipating  the  decrees 
of  justice,  threw  a  gloomy  hue  over 
the  prospects  of  the  prisoner.  He 
would  certainly  be  convicted  of  mur- 
der, they  said,  executed,  and  dissect- 
ed!— The  judges  were,  or  ought  to 
be,  resolved  to  put  down  duelling, 
and  "  never  was  there  a  more  fitting 
opportunity  for  making  a  solemn  ex- 
ample," &c.  &c.  &c.  One  of  the  pa- 
pers gave  dark  hints,  that  on  the  day 
of  trial  some  extraordinary  and  in- 
culpating disclosures  would  be  made 
concerning  the  events  which  led  to 
the  duel. 

Mrs  Beauchamp  made  three  at- 
tempts, during  the  third  week  of  her 
son's  imprisonment,  to  visit  him,  but, 
in  each  instance,  fainted  on  being 
lifted  into  the  carriage ;  and  at  length 
desisted,  on  my  representing  the  dan- 

S;r  which  attended  her  attempts. 
er  niece  also  seemed  more  dead 
than  alive  when  she  accompanied  her 
aunt.  Pritchard,  however,  the  faith- 
ful, attached  Pritchard,  often  went 
to  and  fro  between  Newgate  and  the 
house  where  Mrs  Beauchamp  lodged, 
two  or  three  times  a-day,  so  that 
they  were  thus  enabled  to  keep  up 
a  constant  but  sorrowful  correspond- 


[Oct 


ence.  Several  members  of  the  fa- 
mily had  hurried  up  to  London  the 
instant  they  received  intelligence  of 
the  disastrous  circumstances  above 
detailed,  and  it  was  well  they  did. 
Had  it  not  been  for  their  affectionate 
interference,  the  most  lamentable 
consequences  might  have  been  anti- 
cipated to  mother,  niece,  and  son. 
I,  also,  at  Mrs  Beauchamp's  pressing 
instance,  called  several  times  on  her 
son,  and  found  him,  on  each  visit, 
sinking  into  deeper  and  deeper  des- 
pondency ;  yet  he  seemed  hardly 
sensible  of  the  wretched  reality  and 
extent  of  his  misery.  Many  a  time 
when  I  entered  his  room — which 
was  the  most  comfortable  the  gover- 
nor could  supply  him — I  found  him 
seated  at  the  table,  with  his  head 
buried  in  his  arms ;  and  I  was  some- 
times obliged  to  shake  him,  in  order 
that  I  might  arouse  him  from  his  le- 
thargy. Even  then  he  could  seldom 
be  drawn  into  conversation.  When 
he  spoke  of  his  mother  and  cousin, 
it  was  with  an  apathy  which  affected 
me  more  than  the  most  passionate 
lamentations. 

I  brought  him  one  day  a  couple  of 
white  winter-roses  from  his  mother 
and  Ellen,  telling  him  they  were  sent 
as  pledges  of  love  and  hope.  He 
snatched  them  out  of  my  hands,  kiss- 
ed them,  and  buried  them  in  his  bo- 
som, saying,  "  Lie  you  there,  em- 
blems of  innocence,  and  blanch  this 
black  heart  of  mine  if  you  can !".  I 
shall  never  forget  the  expression,  nor 
the  stern  and  gloomy  manner  with 
which  it  was  uttered.  I  sate  silent 
for  some  minutes. 

"  Doctor,  Doctor,"  said  he,  hastily, 
placing  his  hands  on  his  breast, 
"  they  are — I  feel  they  are  thawing 
my  frozen  feelings ! — they  are  soft- 
ening my  hard  heart!  Oh  God,  mer- 
ciful God,  I  am  becoming  human 
again !"  He  looked  at  me  with  an 
eagerness  and  vivacity  to  which  he 
had  long  been  a  stranger.  He  ex- 
tended to  me  both  his  hands ;  I  clasp- 
ed them  heartily,  and  he  burst  into 
tears.  He  wept  loud  and  long. 

"  The  light  of  eternal  truth  breaks 
in  upon  me !  Oh  my  God,  hast  thou 
then  not  forgotten  me  ?"  He  fell 
down  on  his  knees,  and  continued, 
"  Why,  what  a  wretch — what  a  mon- 
ster have  I  been !"  He  started  to  his 
feet.  "  Ah,  ha!  I've  been  in  the 
Ijon's  den,  and  am  plucked  out  of 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


1831.] 

it !"  I  saw  that  his  heart  was  over- 
burdened, and  his  head  not  yet  clear- 
ed. I  said  therefore  little,  and  let 
him  go  on  by  fits  and  starts. 

"  Why,  I've  been  all  along  in  a 
dream !  Henry  Beauchamp !  In  New- 
gate !  On  a  charge  of  murder ! — 
Frightful !"  He  shuddered.  "  And 
my  mother — my  blessed  mother ! — 
where — how  is  she?  Her  heart  bleeds 
— but  no — no — no,  it  is  not  broken  ! 
—and  Ellen— Ellen— Ellen"— After 
several  short  choking  sobs,  he  burst 
again  into  a  torrent  of  tears.  I  strove 
to  soothe  him,  but "  he  would  not  be 
comforted."  "  Doctor,  say  nothing 
to  console  me ! — Don't,  don't,  or  I 
shall  go  mad !  Let  me  feel  all  my 
guilt ;  let  it  crush  me !" 

My  time  being  expired,  I  rose  and 
bade  him  adieu.  He  was  in  a  mu- 
sing mood,  as  if  he  were  striving,  with 
painful  effort,  to  propose  some  sub- 
ject to  his  thoughts — to  keep  some 
object  before  his  mind — but  could 
not.  I  promised  to  call  again,  be- 
tween then  and  the  day  of  his  trial, 
which  was  but  a  week  off. 

The  excruciating  anxiety  endu- 
red by  these  unhappy  ladies,  Mrs 
Beauchamp  and  her  niece,  as  the 
day  of  trial  approached — when  the 
life  or  death  of  one  in  whom  both 
their  souls  were  bound  up,  must  be 
decided  on — defies  description.  I 
never  saw  it  equalled.  To  look  on 
the  settled  pallor — the  hollow  hag- 
gard features — the  quivering  limbs 
of  Mrs  Beauchamp — was  heart- 
breaking. She  seemed  like  one  in 
the  palsy.  All  the  soothing,  as  well 
as  strengthening  medicines,  which 
all  my  experience  could  suggest, 
were  rendered  unavailing  to  such  a 
"  mind  diseased,"  to  "  raze"  stick  "  a 
written  sorrow  from  the  brain." 
Ellen,  too,  was  wasting  by  her  side 
to  a  mere  shadow.  She  had  writ- 
ten letter  after  letter  to  her  cousin, 
and  the  only  answer  she  received 
was, — 

"  Cousin  Ellen!  How  can  you, 
how  dare  you,  write  to  such  a  wretch 
as — Henry  Beauchamp !" 

These  two  lines  almost  broke  the 
poor  girl's  heart.  What  was  to  be- 
come of  her  ?  Had  she  clung  to  her 
cousin  through  guilt  and  through 
blood,  and  did  he  now  refuse  to  love 
her,  or  receive  her  proffered  sympa- 
thy ?  She  never-  wrote  again  to  him, 
till  her  aunt  implored,nay, command- 


589 

ed  her  to  write,  for  the  purpose  of 
inducing  him  to  see  them  if  they 
called.  He  refused.  He  was  inflex- 
ible. Expostulation  was  useless.  He 
turned  out  poor  Pritchard,  who  had 
undertaken  to  plead  their  cause,  with 
violence  from  his  room.  Whether 
he  dreaded  the  effects  of  such  an  in- 
terview on  the  shattered  nerves,  the 
weakened  frame,  of  his  mother  and 
cousin,  or  feared  that  his  own  forti- 
tude would  be  overpowered,  or  de- 
barred himself  of  their  sweet  but 
sorrowful  society,  by  way  of  penance, 
I  know  not,  but  he  returned  an  un- 
wavering denial  to  every  such  appli- 
cation. /  think  the  last-mentioned 
was  the  motive  which  actuated  him  ; 
for  I  said  to  him,  on  one  occasion, 
"  Well,  but,  Beauchamp,  suppose 
your  mother  should  die  before  you 
have  seen  her,  and  received  her  for- 
giveness ?"  He  replied,  sternly, 
"  Well,  I  shall  have  deserved  it."  I 
could  account  for  his  feelings,  with- 
out referring  them  to  sullenness  or 
obstinacy.  His  heart  bled  at  every 
pore-  under  the  unceasing  lashings  of 
remorse !  On  another  occasion,  he 
said  to  me, "  It  would  kill  my  mother 
to  see  me  here.  She  shall  never  die 
in  a  prison !" 

The  day  previous  to  his  trial  I 
called  upon  him,  pursuant  to  my  pro- 
mise. The  room  was  full  of  counsel 
and  attorneys ;  and  numerous  papers 
were  lying  on  the  table,  which  a  clerk 
was  beginning  to  gather  up  into  a 
bag  when  I  entered.  They  had  been 
holding  their  final  consultation ;  and 
left  their  client  more  disturbed  than 
I  had  seen  him  for  some  days.  The 
eminent  counsel  who  had  been  re- 
tained, spoke  by  no  means  encourage- 
ingly  of  the  expected  issue  of  the 
trial,  and  reiterated  the  determina- 
tion to  "  do  the  very  uttermost  on  his 
behalf."  They  repeated,  also,  that 
the  prosecutor  was  following  him  up 
like  a  bloodhound ;  that  he  had  got 
scent  of  some  evidence  against  Beau- 
champ,  in  particular,  which  Avould 
tell  terribly  against  him — and  make 
out  a  case  of  "  malice  prepense." — 
And,  as  if  matters  had  not  been  al- 
ready sufficiently  gloomy,  the  attor- 
ney had  learned,  only  that  afternoon, 
that  the  case  was  to  be  tried  by  one 
of  the  judges  who,  it  was  rumoured, 
was  resolved  to  make  an  example  of 
the  first  duellist  he  could  convict ! 

"  I  shall  undoubtedly  be  sacrificed, 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  Late  Physician. 


590 

aa  my  fortune  has  already,"  said 
Beauchamp,  with  a  little  trepidation. 
"  Every  thing  seems  against  me.  If  I 
shouldbe  condemned  to  death — what 
is  to  become  of  my  mother  and 
Ellen  ?" 

"  I  feel  assured  of  your  acquittal, 
Mr  Beauchamp,"  said  I,  not  know- 
ing exactly  why,  if  he  had  asked  me. 

"I  am  a  little  given  to  supersti- 
tion, Doctor,"  he  replied — "  and  I 
feel  a  persuasion — an  innate  con- 
viction— that  the  grand  finishing 
stroke  has  yet  to  descend — my  mi- 
sery awaits  its  climax." 

"  Why,  what  can  you  mean,  my 
dear  sir? — Nothing  new  has  been 
elicited." 

"  Doctor,"  he  replied,  gloomily — 
"  I'll  tell  you  something.  I  feel  I 
OUGHT  to  die !" 

"  Why,  Mr  Beauchamp  ?"  I  enqui- 
red, with  surprise. 

"  Ought  not  he  to  die  who  is  at 
heart  a  murderer  ?"  he  enquired. 

"  Assuredly." 

"  Then  I  am  such  an  one.  I  MEANT 
to  kill  Apsley.  I  prayed  to  God 
that  I  might.  I  would  have  shot 
breast  to  breast,  but  I  would  have 
killed  him,  and  rid  the  earth  of  such 
a  ruffian,"  said  Beauchamp  rising, 
with  much  excitement,  from  his 
chair,  and  walking  hurriedly  to  and 
ifro.  I  shuddered  to  hear  him  make 
such  an  avowal,  and  continued  si- 
lent. I  felt  my  colour  changed. 
i  "  Are  you  shocked,  Doctor  ?"  he 
enquired,  pausing  abruptly,  and 
looking  me  full  in  the  face.  "  I  re- 
peat it,"  clenching  his  fist — "  I  would 
have  perished  eternally  to  gratify 
my  revenge.  So  would  you,"  he 
continued,  "  if  you  had  suffered  as 
I  have."  With  the  last  words  he  ele- 
vated his  voice  to  a  high  key,  and 
his  eye  glanced  on  me  like  light- 
ning, as  he  passed  and  repassed  me. 

"  How  can  we  expect  the  mercy 
we  will  not  shew?"  I  enquired, 
mildly. 

"  Don't  mistake  me,  Doctor,"  he 
resumed,  without  answering  my  last 
question—"  It  is  not  death  I  dread, 
disturbed  as  I  appear,  but  only  the 
mode  of  it.  Death  I  covet,  as  a  relief 
from  life,  which  has  grown  hateful ; 
but,  great  Heaven,  to  be  HUNG  like 
*  dog !" 

"  Think  of  hereafter !"  I  exclaim- 
ed. 

"  Pshaw !  I'm  past  thoughts  of  that. 


[Oct. 


Why  did  not  God  keep  me  from  the 
snares  into  which  I  have  fallen  ?" 

At  that  moment  came  a  letter,  from 
Sir  Edward  Streighton.  When  he 
recognised  the  superscription,  he 
threw  it  down  on  the  table,  exclaim- 
ing, «  There  !  This  is  the  first  I  have 
heard  from  this  accomplished  scoun- 
drel, since  the  day  I  killed  Apsley." 
He  opened  it,  a  scowl  of  fury  and 
contempt  on  his  brow,  and  read  the 
following  flippant  and  unfeeling  let- 
ter :— 

"  Dear  Brother   in   the    bonds   of 
blood ! 

"  My  right  trusty  and  well-belo- 
ved counsellor,  and  thine  —  Hil- 
lier,  and  thy  unworthy  E.  S.,  intend 
duly  to  take  our  stand  beside  thee, 
at  nine  o'clock  to-morrow  morning, 
in  the  dock  of  the  Old  Bailey,  as  per 
recognisances.  Be  not  thou  cast 
down,  O  my  soul ;  but  throw  thou 
fear  unto  the  dogs !  There's  never  a 
jury  in  England  will  convict  us,  even 
though,  as  I  hear,  that  bloody-mind- 
ed old is  to  try  us  !  We've  got 

a  good  fellow,  (on  reasonable  terms, 
considering,)  to  swear  he  happened 
to  be  present,  and  that  we  put  you 
up  at  40  paces!  And  that  he  heard 
you  tender  an  apology  to  Apsley ! 
The  sweet  convenient  rogue!!!  What 
think  you  of  that,  dear  Beau  ?  Yours 
ever — but  not  on  the  gallows. 

"  EDW.  STREIGHTON. 

"  P.S.  I  wish  Apsley,  by  the  way, 
poor  devil !  had  paid  me  a  trifling 
hundred  or  two  he  owed  me,  before 
going  home.  But  he  went  in  a  hur- 
ry, 'tis  true.  Catch  me  ever  putting 
up  another  man  before  asking  him  if 
he  has  any  debts  unprovided  for !" 

"  There,  there,  Doctor !"  exclaim- 
ed Beauchamp,  flinging  the  letter  on 
the  floor,  and  stamping  on  it — "  ought 
not  I  to  go  out  of  the  world,  for  al- 
lowing such  a  fellow  as  this  to  lead 
me  the  dance  of  ruin  ?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  Oh,  did  you  but  know  the  secret 
history  of  the  last  six  months,"  he 
continued,  bitterly,  "  the  surpassing 
folly — the  black  ingratitude — the  vil- 
lainies of  all  kinds  with  which  it  was 
stained,  you  would  blush  to  sit  in 
the  same  room  with  me !  Would  not 
it  be  so?" 

"  Come,  come,  Mr  Beauchamp, 
you  are  raving!"  I  replied,  giving 


1881.] 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  Late  Physician. 


591 


him  my  hand,  while  the  tears  half 
blinded  me,  for  he  looked  the  pic- 
ture of  contrition  and  hopelessness. 

"  Well,  then,"  he  continued,  eye- 
ing me  steadfastly,  "  I  may  do  what 
I  have  often  thought  of.  You  have  a 
kind  considerate  heart,  and  I  will 
trust  you.  By  way  of  the  heaviest 
penance  I  could  think  of — but,  alas, 
how  unavailing!  I  have  employed 
the  last  week  in  writing  my  short, 
but  wretched  history.  Read  it — and 
curse,  as  you  go  on,  my  folly,  my 
madness,  my  villainy  !  I've  often  laid 
down  my  pen,  and  wept  aloud,  while 
writing  it;  and  yet  the  confession 
has  eased  my  heart.  One  thing,  I 
think,  you  will  see  plainly — that  all 
along  I  have  been  the  victim  of  some 
deep  diabolical  conspiracy.  Those 
two  vile  fellows  who  will  stand  be- 
side me  to-morrow  in  the  dock,  like 
evil  spirits — and  the  monster  I  have 
killed — have  been  the  main  agents 
throughout.  I'm  sure  something  will, 
ere  long,  come  to  light,  and  shew  you 
I  am  speaking  the  truth.  Return  it 
me,"  he  continued,  taking  a  packet 
from  his  table  drawer,  sealed  with 
black,  "  in  the  event  of  my  acquit- 
tal, that  I  may  burn  it;  but,  if  I  am 
to  die,  do  what  you  will  with  it. 
Even  if  the  world  know  of  it,  it  can- 
not hurt  me  in  the  grave,  and  it  may 
save  some  from  Hazard  and  Rouge 
et  Noir  !  Horrible  sounds  !" 

I  received  the  packet  in  silence, 
promising  him  to  act  as  he  wished. 

"  How  will  my  mother — how  will 
Ellen — get  over  to-morrow  ?  Heaven 
have  them  in  its  holy  keeping  !  My 
own  heart  quails  at  to-morrow  ! — I 
must  breathe  a  polluted  atmosphere; 
I  must  stand  on  the  precise  spot  which 
has  been  occupied  by  none  but  the 
vilest  of  my  species;  I  shall  have 
every  eye  in  court  fixed  upon  me 
—  some  with  horror,  others  de- 
testation— and  some,  pity — which  is 
worse  than  either.  1  must  stand  be- 
tween two  that  I  can  never  look  on 
as  other  than  devils  incarnate !  My 
every  gesture  and  motion — every 
turn  of  my  face — will  be  noted  down 
and  published  all  over  the  kingdom, 
with  severe,  possibly  insulting  com- 
ments. Good  God — HOW  am  I  to 
bear  it  all?" 

"  Have  you  prepared  your  de- 
fence, Mr  Beauchamp  ?"  I  enquired. 
He  pointed  languidly  to  several 
sheets  of  foolscap,  full  of  scorings 


out,  and  said,  with  a  sigh,  "  I'm 
afraid  it  is  labour  lost.  I  can  say  lit- 
tle or  nothing.  I  shall  not  lie,  even 
for  my  life !  I  have  yet  to  finish  it." 

"  Don't,  then,  let  me  keep  you 
from  it!  May  God  bless  you,  my 
dear  sir,  and  send  you  an  acquittal 
to-morrow !  What  shall  I  say  to  your 
mother — to  Miss  Beauchamp,  if  I 
see  them  to-night  ?" 

His  eyes  glistened  with  tears — he 
trembled — shook  his  head,  and  whis- 
pered, "  What  CAN  be  said  to  them !" 

I  shook  him  fervently  by  the  hand. 
As  I  was  quitting  the  door,  he  bec- 
koned me  back. 

"  Doctor,"  he  whispered,  in  a 
shuddering  tone,  "  there  is  to  be  an 
execution  to-morrow  !  Five  men  will 
be  hanged  within  ten  yards  of  me ! 
I  shall  hear  them,  in  the  night,  put- 
ting up  the — gallows !" 

The  memorable  morning,  for  such 
it  was,  even  to  me,  at  length  dawn-? 
ed.  The  whole  day  was  rainy,  cold, 
and  foggy,  as  if  the  elements,  even, 
had  combined  to  depress  hearts  al- 
ready prostrate !  After  swallowing  a 
hasty  breakfast,  I  set  off  for  the  Old 
Bailey,  calling,  for  a  few  minutes,  on 
Mrs  Beauchamp,  as  I  had  promised 
her.  Poor  old  lady !  She  had  not 
slept  half  an  hour  during  the  whole 
night ;  and  when  I  entered  the  room, 
she  was  lying  in  bed,  with  her  hands 
clasped  together,  and  her  eyes  clo- 
sed, listening  to  one  of  the  church 
prayers,  which  her  niece  was  read- 
ing her.  I  sat  down  in  silence;  and 
when  the  low  tremulous  voice  of 
Miss  Beauchamp  had  ceased,  I  shook 
her  cold  hand,  and  took  my  seat  by 
her  aunt.  I  pushed  the  curtain  aside 
that  I  might  see  her  distinctly.  Her 
features  looked  ghastly.  What  sa- 
vage work  grief  had  wrought  there ! 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  live  through 
this  dreadful  day,"  said  she — "  I 
feel  every  thing  dissolving  within 
me ! — I  am  deadly  sick  every  mo- 
ment; my  heart  flutters  as  if  it 
were  in  expiring  agonies;  and  my 
limbs  have  little  in  them  more  than 
a  corpse ! — Ellen,  too,  my  sweet 
love  ! — she  is  as  bad — and  yet  she 
conquers  it,  and  attends  me  like  an 
angel !" 

"  Be  of  good  heart,  my  dear  ma- 
dam," said  I,  "matters  are  by  no 
means  desperate.  This  evening — 
I'll  take  my  life  for  it— you  shall 
have  your  son  in  your  arms !" 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


592 

"  Ha!" — quivered  the  old  lady, 
clapping  her  hands,  while  a  faint 
hysteric  laugh  broke  from  her 
colourless  lips. 

"  Well,  I  must  leave  you — for  I 
am  goiug  to  hear  the  opening  of  the 
trial ;  I  promised  your  son  as  much 
last  night." 

"  How  was  he  ?"  faintly  enquired 
Miss  Beauchamp,  who  was  sitting 
beside  the  fire,  her  face  buried  in  her 
hands,  and  her  elbows  resting  on  her 
knees.  The  anguish'ed  eyes  of -her 
aunt  also  asked  me  the  question, 
though  her  lips  spoke  not.  I  assured 
them  that  he  was  not  in  worse  spirits 
than  I  had  seen  him,  and  that  I  left 
him  preparing  his  defence. 

"  The  Lord  God  of  his  fathers 
bless  him,  and  deliver  him !"  moaned 
Mrs  Beauchamp. — As,  however,  time 
passed,  and  I  wished  to  look  in  on 
one  or  two  patients  in  my  way,  I  be- 
gan to  think  of  leaving — though  I 
scarce  knew  how.  I  enjoined  them 
to  keep  constantly  by  Mrs  Beau- 
champ  a  glass  of  brandy  and  water, 
with  half  a  tea-spoonful  of  laudanum 
in  it,  that  she  or  her  niece  might 
drink  of  it  whenever  they  felt  a  sud- 
den faintness  come  over  them.  For 
further  security,  I  had  also  stationed 
for  the  day,  in  her  bedroom,  a 
young  medical  friend,  who  might 
pay  her  constant  attention.  Arrange- 
ments had  been  made,  I  found,  with 
the  attorney,  to  report  the  progress 
of  the  trial  every  hour  by  four  regu- 
lar runners. 

Shaking  both  the  ladies  affection- 
ately by  the  hand,  I  set  off.  After 
seeing  the  patients  I  spoke  of,  I  hur- 
ried on  to  the  Old  Bailey.  It  was 
striking  ten  by  St  Sepulchre's  clock 
when  I  reached  that  gloomy  street. 
The  rain  was  pouring  down  in 
drenching  showers.  I  passed  by  the 
gallows,  which  they  were  taking 
down,  and  on  which  five  men  had 
been  executed  only  two  hours  before. 
Horrid  sight ! — the  whole  of  the 
street  along  the  sessions'  house  was 
covered  with  straw,  thoroughly  soak- 
ed with  wet ;  and  my  carriage  wheels 
rolled  along  it  noiselessly.  I  felt  my 
colour  leaving  me,  and  my  heart 
beating  fast,  as  I  descended,  and  en- 
tered the  area  before  the  court- 
house, which  was  occupied  with 
many  anxious  groups  conversing  to- 

§  ether,  heedless  of  the  vain,  and  en- 
eavouring  to  get  admittance  into 


[Oct. 

the  court.  The  street-entrance  was 
crowded;  and  it  was  such  a  silent — 
gloomy  crowd,  as  I  never  before 
saw ! — I  found  the  trial  had  com- 
menced— so  I  made  my  way  instant- 
ly to  the  counsel's  benches.  The 
court  was  crowded  to  suffocation; 
and  among  the  spectators,  I  recog- 
nised several  of  the  nobility.  Three 
prisoners  stood  in  the  dock — all  of 
gentlemanly  appearance ;  and  the 
strong  startled  light  thrown  on 
them  from  the  mirror  over-head, 
gave  their  anxious  faces  a  ghastly 
hue.  How  vividly  is  that  group, 
even  at  this  distance  of  time,  before 
my  eyes ! — on  the  right-hand  side 
stood  Sir  Edward  Streighton — dress- 
ed in  military  style,  with  a  black 
stock,  and  his  blue  frock-coat,  with 
velvet  collar,  buttoned  up  close  to 
his  neck.  Both  his  hands  rested  on 
his  walking-stick ;  and  his  head,  bent 
a  little  aside,  was  attentively  direct- 
ed towards  the  counsel  for  the 
crown,  who  was  stating  the  case  to 
the  jury.  Hillier  leaned  against  the 
left-hand  side  of  the  dock,  his  arms 
folded  over  his  breast,  and  his  stern 
features,  clouded  with  anxiety,  but 
evincing  no  agitation,  were  ga- 
thered into  a  frown,  as  he  listened 
to  the  strong  terms  in  which  his 
conduct  was  being  described  by  the 
counsel.  Between  these  stood  poor 
Beauchamp — with  fixed,  and  most 
sorrowful  countenance.  He  was 
dressed  in  black,  with  a  full  black 
stock,  in  the  centre  of  which  glisten- 
ed a  dazzling  speck  of  diamond. 
Both  his  hands  leaned  upon  the 
dock,  on  which  stood  a  glass  of 
spring-water  ;  and  his  face  was  turn- 
ed full  towards  the  judge.  There 
was  an  air  of  melancholy  compo- 
sure and  resignation  about  his  wast- 
ed features;  and  he  looked  dread- 
fully thin  and  fallen  away.  His  ap- 
pearance evidently  excited  deep  and 
respectful  sympathy.  How  my  heart 
ached  to  look  at  him,  when  my 
thoughts  reverted  for  an  instant  to 
his  mother  and  cousin  !  There  was, 
however,  one  other  object  of  the 
gloomy  picture,  which  arrested  my 
attention,  and  has  remained  with  me 
ever  since.  Just  beneath  the  witness- 
box,  there  was  a  savage  face  fixed 
upon  the  counsel,  gloating  upon  his 
exaggerated  violence  of  tone  and 
manner.  It  was  Mr  Frederick  A  ps- 
ley,  the  relentless  prosecutor,  I 


1831.] 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


never  saw  such  an  impersonation  of 
malignity.  On  his  knees  lay  his  fists, 
clenched,  and  quivering  with  irre- 
pressible fury;  and  the  glances  he 
occasionally  cast  towards  the  pri- 
soners were  absolutely  fiendish. 

The  counsel  for  the  prosecution 
distorted  and  aggravated  every  oc- 
currence on  the  fatal  night  of  the 
quarrel.  Hillier  and  Apsley,  as  he 
went  on,  exchanged  confounded 
looks,  and  muttered  between  their 
teeth : — but  Beauchamp  seemed  un- 
moved— even  when  the  counsel  seri- 
ously asserted  he  should  be  in  a  con- 
dition to  prove — that  Beauchamp 
came  to  the  house  of  the  deceased 
with  the  avowed  intention  of  pro- 
voking him  into  a  duel ;  that  he  had 
been  attempting  foul  play  through- 
out the  evening  ;  and  that  the  cause 
of  his  inveteracy  against  the  decea- 
sed, was  the  deceased's  having  won 
considerably. 

"  Did  this  quarrel  originate,  then, 
in  a  gaming-house?"  enquired  the 
judge,  sternly. 

"  Why — yes,  my  lord — it  did,  un- 
doubtedly." 

"  Pray,  are  the  parties  professed 
gamblers !" 

The  counsel  hesitated.  "  I  do  not 
exactly  know  what  your  lordship 
means  by  professed  gamblers,  my 

"  Oh !"  exclaimed  the  judge,  signi- 
ficantly, "  go  on — go  on,  sir."  I  felt 
shocked  at  the  virulence  manifested 
by  the  counsel ;  and  I  could  not  help 
suspecting  him  of  uttering  the  gross- 
est falsehoods,  when  I  saw  all  three 
of  the  prisoners  involuntarily  turn 
towards  one  another,  and  lift  up  their 
hands  with  amazement.  As  his  ad- 
dress seemed  likely  to  continue 
much  longer,  profound  as  was  the 
interest  I  felt  in  the  proceedings,  I 
was  compelled  to  leave.  I  stood  up 
for  that  purpose,  and  to  take  a  last 
look  at  Beauchamp — when  his  eye 
suddenly  fell  upon  me.  He  started 
— his  lips  moved — he  looked  at  me 
anxiously — gave  me  a  hurried  bow, 
and  resumed  the  attentive  attitude  in 
which  he  had  been  standing. 

I  hurried  away  to  see  my  patients, 
several  of  whom  were  in  most  criti- 
cal circumstances.  Having  gone 
through  most  on  my  list,  and  being 
in  the  neighbourhood,  I  stepped  in 
to  see  how  Mrs  Beauchamp  was  go- 
ing on.  When  I  entered  her  bed- 


593 

room,  after  gently  tapping  at  the 
door,  I  heard  a  hurried  feeble  voice 
exclaim,  "  There !  there !  who  is 
that  ?"  It  was  Mrs  Beauchamp,  who 
endeavoured,  but  in  vain,  to  raise 
herself  up  in  bed,  while  her  eyes 
stared  at  me  with  an  expression  of 
wild  alarm,  which  abated  a  little,  on, 
seeing  who  I  was.  She  had  mistaken 
me,  I  found,  for  the  hourly  messen- 
ger. I  sat  down  beside  her.  Several 
of  her  female  relatives  were  in  the 
room — a  pallid  group — having  arri- 
ved soon  after  I  had  left. 

"  Well,  my  dear  madam,  and  how 
are  you,  now  ?"  I  enquired,  taking 
the  aged  sufferer's  hand  in  mine. 

"  I  may  be  better,  Doctor — but 
cannot  be  worse'.  Nature  tells  me, 
the  hour  is  come  !" 

"  I  am  happy  to  see  you  so  well- 
so  affectionately  attended  in  these 
trying  circumstances,"  said  I,  look- 
ing around  the  room.  She  made  me 
no  reply — but  moaned — "  Oh  !  Hen- 
ry, Henry,  Henry ! — I  would  to  God 
you  had  never  been  born ! — Why 
are  you  thus  breaking  the  heart  that 
always  loved  you  so  fondly !"  She 
shook  her  head,  and  the  tears  trem- 
bled through  her  closed  eyelids. 
Miss  Beauchamp,  dressed  in  black, 
sat  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  speechless, 
her  head  leaning  against  the  bed- 
post, and  her  pale  face  directed  to- 
wards her  aunt. 

"  How  are  you,  my  dear  Miss 
Beauchamp '?"  enquired  I.  She  made 
me  no  answer,  butcontinuedlooking 
at  her  aunt. 

"  My  sweet  love  !"  said  her  mo- 
ther, drawing  her  chair  to  her,  and 
proffering  her  a  little  wine  and  wa- 
ter, "  Doctor is  speaking  to  you. 

He  asks  you  how  you  are  !"  Miss 
Beauchamp  looked  at  me,  and  press- 
ed her  white  hand  upon  her  heart, 
without  speaking.  Her  mother  look- 
ed at  me  significantly,  as  if  she  beg- 
ged I  would  not  ask  her  daughter  any 
more  questions,  for  it  was  evident 
she  could  not  bear  them.  I  saw  se- 
veral slips  of  paper  lying  on  a  va- 
cant chair  beside  the  bed.  They 
were  the  hourly  billets  from  the  Old 
Bailey.  One  of  them  was, — "  12  o'- 
clock,  O.B.  Not  quite  so  encouraging. 
Our  counsel  can't  make  much  im- 
pression in  examination.  Judge 
seems  rather  turning  against  pri- 
soner." 

"  1  o'clock,  0.  B.  Nothing  particu- 


Pastages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


£94 

lar  since  last  note.  Prisoner  very 
calm  and  firm." 

"  2  o'clock,  O.  B.  Still  going  on  as 
in  last." 

"  3  o'clock,  O.  B.  Mr  Beauchamp 
just  read  his  defence.  Made  favour- 
able impression  on  the  court. — Many 
in  tears. — Acknowledged  himself 
ruined  by  play.  General  impression, 
prisoner  victim  of  conspiracy." 

Such  were  the  hourly  annunci- 
ations of  the  progress  of  the  trial, 
forwarded  by  the  attorneys,  in  whose 
handwriting  each  of  them  was.  The 
palsying  suspense  in  which  the  in- 
tervals between  the  receipt  of  each 
was  passed,  and  the  trepidation  with 
which  they  were  opened  and  read, 
no  one  daring  scarce  to  touch  them 

but  Mr ,  the  medical  attendant, 

cannot  be  described.  Mr  M  in- 
formed me  that  Mrs  Beauchamp  had 
been  wandering  deliriously,  more  or 
less,  all  day,  and  that  the  slightest 
noise  in  the  street,  like  hurrying 
footsteps,  spread  dismay  through  the 
room,  and  nearly  drove  the  two  prin- 
cipal sufferers  frantic.  Miss  Beau- 
champ,  I  found,  had  been  twice  in 
terrible  hysterics,  but,  with  marvel- 
lous self-possession,  calmly  left  the 
room  when  she  felt  them  coming 
on,  and  retired  to  the  farthest  part 

of  the  house.  While  Mr  M and 

I  were  conversing  in  a  low  whisper 
near  the  fire-place,  a  heavy,  but 
muffled  knock  at  the  street-door,  an- 
nounced the  arrival  of  another  ex- 
press from  the  Old  Bailey.  Mrs 
Beauchamp  trembled  violently,  and 
the  very  bed  quivered  under  her,  as 
she  saw  the  billet  delivered  into  my 
hands.  I  opened  it,  and  read  aloud, — 

"  4  o'clock,  O.B.  Judge  summing 
up.  Sorry  to  say,  a  little  unfavour- 
able to  prisoner.  Don't  think,  how- 
ever, prisoner  will  be  capitally  con- 
victed." Within  this  slip  was  an- 
other, which  was.from  Beauchamp 
himself,  and  addressed, — 

"  Sweet  loves  !  Courage  I  The 
crisis  approaches.  I  am  not  in  de- 
spair. God  is  merciful !  May  he 
bless  you  for  ever  and  ever,  my  mo- 
ther, my  Ellen !— H.  B." 

The  gloomy  tenor  of  the  last  bil- 
let— for  we  could  not  conceal  them 
from  either,  as  they  insisted  on  seeing 
them  after  we  had  read  them — ex- 
cited Mrs  and  Miss  Beauchamp  al- 
most to  frenzy.  It  was  heart-rend- 


lOct. 


ing  to  see  them  both  shaking  in  every 
muscle,  and  uttering  the  most  pite- 
ous moans.  I  resolved  not  to  quit 
them  till  the  event  was  known  one 
way  or  another,  and  dismissed  Mr 

M ,  begging  him  to  return  home 

with  the  carriage,  and  inform  my 
wife  that  I  should  not  dine  at  home. 
I  then  begged  that  some  refreshment 
might  be  brought  in,  ostensibly  for 
my  dinner,  but  really  to  give  me  an 
opportunity  of  forcing  a  little  nou- 
rishment on  my  patients.  My  mealj 
however,  was  scanty  and  solitary; 
for  I  could  scarcely  eat  myself,  and 
could  not  induce  any  one  else  to 
touch  food. 

"  This  must  be  a  day  of  fasting!" 
sighed  Mrs  Beauchamp ;  and  I  de- 
sisted from  the  attempt. 

"  Mrs  Beauchamp,"  enquired  her 
sister-in-law,  "  would  you  like  to 
hear  a  chapter  in  the  Bible  read  to 
you  ?" 

"  Y — ye — yes !"  she  replied,  ea- 
gerly. "  Let  it  be  the  parable  of  the 
prodigal  son;  and  perhaps  Doctor 
will  read  it  to  us  ?" 

What  an  affecting  selection  I — 
Thinking  it  might  serve  to  occupy 
their  minds  for  a  short  time,  I  com- 
menced reading  it,  but  not  very 
steadily  or  firmly.  The*  relieving 
tears  gushed  forth  freely  from  Mrs 
Beauchamp,  and  every  one  in  the 
room,  as  1  went  on  with  that  most 
touching,  beautiful,  and  appropriate 
parable.  When  I  had  concluded,  and, 
amidst  a  pause  of  silent  expectation, 
another  billet  was  brought. 

"  5  o'clock,  O.  B.  Judge  still  sum- 
ming up  with  great  pains.  Symp- 
toms of  leaning  towards  the  prison- 
er." 

Another  agitating  hour  elapsed — 
how,  I  scarcely  know  ;  and  a  breath- 
less messenger  brought  a  sixth  bil- 
let:— 

"  6  o'clock,  O.  B.  Jury  retired  to 
consider  verdict — been  absent  half 
an  hour.  Rumoured  in  court  that 
two  hold  out  against  the  rest — not 
known  on  which  side." 

After  the  reading  of  this  torturing 
note,  which  Mrs  Beauchamp  did  not 
ask  to  see,  she  lifted  up  her  shaking 
hands  to  Heaven,  and  seemed  lost  in 
an  agony  of  prayer.  After  a  few 
minutes  spent  in  this  way,  she  gasp- 
ed, almost  inaudibly, — "  Oh !  Doctor, 
read  once  more  the  parable  you  have 


1881.] 


Passages  front  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


595 


read,  beginning  at  the  twentieth 
verse."  I  took  the  Bible  in  my  hands, 
and  tremulously  read,-— 

"  And  he  arose,  and  came  to  his 
father.  But  when  he  was  yet  a  great 
way  off,  his  father  saw  him,  and  had 
compassion," — (a  short,  bitter,  hys- 
teric laugh  broke  from  Mrs  Beau- 
champ,) — "  and  ran,  and  fell  on  his 
neck,  and  kissed  him. 

*  #  *  "  And  bring  hither  the 
fatted  calf,  and  kill  it  j  and  let  us 
eat  and  be  merry : 

"  For  this  my  son  was  dead,  and 
is  alive  again  j  he  was  lost,  and  is 
found  :  and  they  began"  » 

The  death-like  silence  in  which 
my  trembling  voice  was  listened  to, 
was  broken  by  the  sound  of  a  slight 
bustle  in  the  street  beneath,  and  the 
noise  of  some  approaching  vehicle. 
We  scarce  breathed.  The  sound  in- 
creased. Miss  Beauchamp  slowly 
dropped  on  her  knees  beside  the 
bed,  and  buried  her  ashy  face  in  the 
clothes.  The  noise  outside  increa- 
sed; voices  were  heard ;  and  at  length 
a  short  faint  "  huzza !"  was  audible. 

"  There  ! — I  told  you  so !  He  is 
free  ! — My  son  is  ACQUITTED  !"  ex- 
claimed Mrs  Beauchamp,  sitting  in 
an  instant  upright  in  bed,  stretching 
her  arms  upon  it,  and  clapping  her 
hands  in  ecstasy.  Her  features  were 
lit  up  with  a  glorious  smile.  She 
pushed  back  her  dishevelled  grey 
hair,  and  sate  straining  her  eye  and 
ear,  and  stretching  forward  her  hands, 
as  if  to  enjoin  silence. 

Then  was  heard  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps rapidly  ascending  the  stairs ; 
the  door  was  knocked  at;  and  be- 
fore I  could  reach  it  for  the  purpose 
of  preventing  any  sudden  surprise, 
in  rushed  the  old  steward,  frantic 
with  joy,  waving  his  hat  over  his 
head. 

"  NOT  GUILTY  ! — NOT  GUILTY  !— 
NOT  GUILTY,  my  lady !"  he  gasped, 
all  in  a  breath,  in  defiance  of  my 
cautioning  movements.  "  He's  co- 
ming !  He's  coming!  He's  coming, 
my  lady  !"  Miss  Beauchamp  sunk  in 
an  instant  on  the  floor,  with  a  faint 
scream,  and  was  carried  out  of  the 
room  in  a  swoon. 

Mrs  Beauchamp  again  clapped  her 
hands.  Her  son  rushed  into  the 
room,  flung  himself  at  her  feet,  and 
threw  his  arms  around  her.  For  se- 
veral moments  he  locked  her  in  his 
embraces,  kissing  her  with  convulsive 


fondness.  "  My  mother  !  My  own 
mother! — Your  son!"  he  gasped; 
but  she  heard  him  not.  She  had  ex- 
pired in  his  arms. 

To  proceed  with  my  narrative,  af- 
ter recounting  such  a  lamentable  ca- 
tastrophe, is  like  conducting  a  spec- 
tator to  the  death-strewn  plain  after 
the  day  of  battle  !  All,  in  the  once- 
happy  family  of  Beauchamp,  was 
thenceforth  sorrow,  sickness,  broken- 
heartedness,and  death.  As  for  the  un- 
happy Beauchamp,  he  was  released 
from  the  horrors  of  a  prison,  only  to 
"  turn  his  pale  face  to  the  wall,"  on 
a  lingering,  languishing,  bed  of  sick- 
ness, which  he  could  not  quit,  even 
to  follow  the  poor  remains  of  his 
mother  to  their  final  resting-place  in 
shire.  He  was  not  only  confi- 
ned to  his  bed,  but  wholly  uncon- 
scious of  the  time  of  the  burial ;  for 
a  fierce  nervous  fever  kept  him  in  a 
state  of  continual  delirium.  Another 
physician  and  myself  were  in  con- 
stant attendance  on  him.  Poor  Miss 
Beauchamp  also  was  ill;  and,  if  pos- 
sible, in  a  worse  plight  than  her  cou- 
sin. The  reader  cannot  be  surpri- 
sed that  such  long  and  intense  suf- 
ferings should  have  shattered  her  vi- 
tal energies — should  have  sown  the 
seeds  of  consumption  in  her  consti- 
tution. Her  pale,  emaciated,  sha- 
dowy figure,  is  now  before  me  !— 
After  continuing  under  my  care  for 
several  weeks,  her  mother  carried 

her  home  into  shire,  in  a  most 

precarious  state,  hoping  the  usual 
beneficial  results  expected  from  a 
return  to  native  air.  Poor  girl !  She 
gave  me  a  little  pearl  ring,  as  a  keep^ 
sake,  the  day  she  went ;  and  intrust- 
ed to  me  a  rich  diamond  ring,  to  give 
to  her  cousin  Henry:  "  It  is  too 
large  now,  for  my  fingers,"  said  she, 
with  a  sigh,  as  she  dropped  it  into 
my  hand,  from  her  wasted  finger! 
"  Tell  him,"  said  she,  "  as  soon  as 
you  consider  it  safe,  that  my  love  is 
his — my  whole  heart !  And  though 
we  may  never  meet  on  this  side  the 
grave,  let  him  wear  it  to  think  of  me, 
and  hope  for  happiness  hereafter  !" 
These  were  among  the  last  words 
that  sweet  young  woman  ever  spoke 
to  me. 

#  #  * 

As  the  reader,  possibly,  may  think 
he  has  been  long  enough  detained 
among  these  sorrowful  scenes,  I  shall 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 


596 

draw  them  now  to  a  close,  and  omit 
much  of  what  I  had  set  down  for 
publication. 

Mr  Beau  champ  did  not  once  rise 
from  his  bed  during  two  months,  the 
greater  part  of  which  time  was  pass- 
ed in  a  state  of  stupor.  At  other 
periods  he  was  delirious,  and  raved 
dreadfully  about  scenes  with  which 
the  manuscript  he  committed  to  me 
in  prison  had  made  me  long  and  pain- 
fully familiar.  He  loaded  himself 
with  the  heaviest  curses,for  the  misery 
he  had  occasioned  to  his  mother  and 
Ellen.  He  had  taken  it  into  his  head 
that  the  latter  was  also  dead,  and 
that  he  had  attended  her  funeral. 
He  was  not  convinced  to  the  con- 
trary, till  I  judged  it  safe  to  allow 
him  to  open  a  letter  she  addressed 
to  him,  under  cover  to  me.  She  told 
him  she  thought  she  was  "  getting 
strong  again ;"  and  that  if  he  would 
still  accept  her  heart  and  hand,  in 
the  event  of  his  recovery,  they  were 
his  unchangeably.  Nothing  contri- 
buted so  much  to  Beauchamp's  re- 
covery as  this  letter.  With  what 
fond  transports  did  he  receive  the 
ring  Ellen  had  intrusted  to  my  keep- 
ing! 

His  old  steward,  Pritchard,  after 
accompanying  his  venerated  lady's 
remains  into  the  country,  returned 
immediately  to  town, and  scarce  ever 
after  left  his  master's  bedside.  His 
officious  affection  rendered  the  office 
of  the  valet  a  comparative  sinecure. 
Many  were  the  piques  and  heart- 
burnings between  these  two  zealous 
and  emulous  servants  of  an  unfor- 
tunate master,  on  account  of  the  one 
usurping  the  other's  duty ! 

One  of  the  earliest  services  that 
old  Pritchard  rendered  his  master,  as 
soon  as  I  warranted  him  in  so  doing, 
was  to  point  out  who  had  been  the 
"  serpent  in  his  path" — the  origin— 
the  deliberate,  diabolical,  designer 
of  his  ruin — in  the  person  of  his 
tutor  !  The  shock  of  this  discovery 
rendered  Beauchamp  speechless  for 
the  remainder  of  the  day.  Strange 


[Oct. 


and  wise  are  the  ways  of  Providence  I 
How  does  the  reader  imagine  the 
disgraceful  disclosures  were  brought 
about  V  Sir  Edward  Streighton,  who 
had  got  into  his  hands  the  title-deeds 
of  one  of  the  estates,  out  of  which 
he  and  his  scoundrel  companions 
had  swindled  Beauchamp,  had  been 
hardy  enough — quern  Deus  vult  per- 
dere,prius  dementat — to  venture  into 
a  court  of  law,  to  prosecute  his 
claim !  In  spite  of  threatened  dis- 
closures, he  pressed  on  to  trial ;  when 
such  a  series  of  flagrant  iniquities 
was  developed,  unexpectedly  to  all 
parties,  as  compelled  Sir  Edward, 
who  was  in  court  incognito,  to  slip 
away,  and  without  even  venturing 
home,  embark  for  the  continent,  and 
from  thence  to  that  common  sewer 
of  England — America.*  His  papers 
were  all  seized  under  a  judge's  or- 
der, by  Mr  Beauchamp's  agents  ;  and 
among  them  was  found  the  letter 
addressed  to  him  by  Eccles,  coolly 
commending  his  unsuspicious  pupil 
to  destruction ! 

Under  Beauchamp's  order,  his 
steward  made  a  copy  of  the  letter, 
and  enclosed  it,  with  the  following 
lines,  to  the  tutor,  who  had  since 
contrived  to  gain  a  vicarage  ! 

"  To  the  Reverend  Peter  Eccles, 
vicar  of  • , 

"  SIR, — A  letter,  of  which  the  fol- 
lowing is  a  copy,  has  been  discover- 
ed, in  your  hand-writing,  among  the 
papers  of  Sir  Edward  Streighton; 
and  the  same  post  which  brings  you 
this,  encloses  your  own  original  let- 
ter to  Sir  Edward,  with  all  necessary 
explanations,  to  the  bishop  of  your 
diocese. 

"  The  monstrous  perfidy  it  disclo- 
ses, will  be  forthwith  made  as  public 
as  the  journals  of  the  day  can  make 
it. 

"  THOMAS  PRITCHARD, 
Agent  to  Mr  Beauchamp." 

What  results  attended  the  applica- 
tion to  the  bishop,  and  whether  or 


*  His  companion  in  villainy,  who  in  this  narrative  is  called  Hillier,  brazoned  out 
the  affair  with  unequalled  effrontery,  and  continued  in  England,  till  within  the  last 
very  few  years;  when,  rank  with  roguery,  he  tumbled  into  the  grave,  and  so  cheated 
justice.  The  hoary  villain  might  be  seen  nightly  at  — —  street,  with  liuge  green 
glasses — now  up  to  his  knees  in  cards — and  then  endeavouring,  with  palsied  hand,  to 
shake  the  dice  with  which  he  had  ruined  so  many ! 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  Late  Physician. 


1831.] 

not  the  concluding  threat  was  carried 
into  effect,  I  have  reasons  for  conceal- 
ing. There  are,  who  do  not  need  in- 
formation on  those  points. 

The  first  time  that  I  saw  Mr  Beau- 
champ  down  stairs,  after  his  long, 
painful,  and  dangerous  illness,  was 
in  the  evening  of  the  July  following. 
He  was  sitting  in  his  easy-chair, 
which  was  drawn  close  to  a  how- 
window,  commanding  an  uninter- 
rupted view  of  the  setting  sun.  It 
was  piteous  to  see  how  loosely  his 
black  clothes  hung  ahout  him.  If 
you  touched  any  of  his  limbs,  they 
felt  like  those  of  a  skeleton  clothed 
with  the  vestments  of  the  living. 
His  long  tfiin  fingers  seemed  attenu- 
ated and  blanched  to  a  more  than 
feminine  delicacy  of  size  and  hue. 
His  face  was  shrunk  and  sallow,  and 
his  forehead  bore  the  searings  of  a 
"  scorching  woe."  His  hair,  natu- 
rally black  as  jet,  was  now  of  a  sad 
iron-grey  colour ;  and  his  eyes  were 
sunk,  but  full  of  vivid,  though  me- 
lancholy expression.  The  air  of 
noble  frankness,  spirit,  and  cheerful- 
ness which  had  heretofore  graced 
his  countenance,  was  fled  for  ever. 
In  short,  to  use  the  quaint  expres- 
sion of  a  sterling  old  English  writer, 
"  care  had  scratched  out  the  comeli- 
ness of  his  visage."  He  appeared  to 
have  lost  all  interest  in  life,  even 
though  Ellen  was  alive,  and  they 
were  engaged  to  be  married  within 
a  few  months !  In  his  right  hand  was 
a  copy  of  "  Bacon's  Essays ;"  and  on 
the  little  finger  of  his  left,  I  observed 
the  rich  ring  given  him  by  his  cousin. 
As  he  sat,  I  thought  him  a  fit  subject 
for  a  painter !  Old  Pritchard,  dress- 
ed also  in  plain  mourning,  sat  at  a 
table,  busily  engaged  with  account- 
books  and  piles  of  papers,  and  seem- 
ed to  be  consulting  his  master  on 
the  affairs  of  his  estate,  when  I  en- 
tered. 

"  I  hope,  Doctor,  you'll  excuse  Mr 
Pritchard  continuing  in  the  room 
with  us.  He's  in  the  midst  of  im- 
portant business,"  he  continued,  see- 
ing the  old  man  preparing  to  leave 
the  room ;  "  he  is  my  friend  now, 
as  well  as  steward ;  and  the  oldest, 
1  may  say,  only,  friend  I  have  left !" 
I  entreated  him  not  to  mention  the 
subject,  and  the  faithful  old  steward 
bowed,  and  resumed  his  seat. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr  Beauchamp,  af- 
ter answering  the  usual  enquiries  re- 
spectinghis  health, "  I  am  not,  after  all, 

VOL,  XXX.  NO,  CLXXXVI. 


597 

absolutely  ruined  in  point  of  fortune. 
Pritchard  has  just  been  telling  me 
that  I  have  more  than  four  hundred 
a-year  left" — — 

"  Sir,  sir,  you  may  as  well  call  it 
a  good  L.500  a-year,"  said  Pritchard, 
eagerly  taking  off  his  spectacles.  "I 
am  but  L.20  a-year  short  of  the  mark, 
and  I'll  manage  that,  by  hook  or  by 
crook,  and  you — see  if  I  don't !" 
Beauchamp  smiled  faintly.  "  It  (_<u 
see,  Doctor,  Pritchard  is  determined 
to  put  the  best  face  upon  matteVs." 

"  Well,  Mr  Beauchamp,"  I  replied, 
"  taking  it  even  at  the  lower  sum 
mentioned,  I  am  sincerely  rejoiced 
to  find  you  so  comfortably  provided 
for."  While  I  was  speaking,  the 
tears  rose  in  his  eyes — trembled  there 
for  a  few  moments — and  then,  spite 
of  all  his  attempts  to  prevent  them, 
overflowed. 

"  What  distresses  you  ?"  I  enqui- 
red, taking  his  slender  finger  in  mine. 
When  he  had  a  little  recovered  him- 
self, he  replied,  with  emotion,"  Am 
I  not  comparatively  a  beggar  ?  Does 
it  suit  to  hear  that  Henry  Beauchamp 
is  a  beggar  !  I  have  nothing  now  but 
misery — hopeless  misery!  Where 
shall  I  go,  what  shall  I  do,  to  find 
peace  ?  Wherever  I  go,  I  shall  carry 
a  broken  heart,  and  a  consciousness 
that  I  deserved  it! 1 — I,  the  mur- 
derer of  two" 

"  Two,  Mr  Beauchamp  ?  What  can 
you  mean?  The  voice  of  justice  has 
solemnly  acquitted  you  of  murder- 
ing the  miserable  Apsley — and  who 
the  other  is" 

"  My  mother !  my  poor,  fond,  doat- 
ing  mother !  I  have  killed  her,  as 
certainly  as  I  slew  the  guilty  wretch 
that  ruined  me !  My  ingratitude 
pierced  her  heart,  as  my  bullet  his 
head!  That  it  is  which  distracts — 
which  maddens  me !  The  rest  I  might 
have  borne — even  the  anguish  I 
have  occasioned  my  sweet,  forgiving 
Ellen,  and  the  profligate  destruction, 
of  the  fortunes  of  my  house !"  I  saw 
he  was  in  one  of  the  frequent  fits  of 
despondency  to  which  he  was  latter- 
ly subject,  and  thought  it  best  not  to 
interrupt  the  strain  of  his  bitter  re- 
trospections. I  therefore  listened  to 
his  self-accusations  in  silence. 

"  Surely  you  have  ground  for  com- 
fort and  consolation  in  the  unalter- 
able, the  increasing  attachment  of 
your  cousin  ?"  said  I,  after  a  melan- 
choly pause. 

"  Ah;  my  God !  it  is  that  which 


Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  Late  Physician. 


598 

drives  the  nail  deeper  !  I  cannot,  can- 
not bear  it!  How  shall  I  DARE  to  wed 
her?  To  bring  her  to  an  impoverish- 
ed house — the  house  of  a  ruined 
gamester — when  she  has  a  right  to 
rule  in  the  halls  of  my  fathers  ?  To 
hold  out  to  her  the  arms  of  a  MUR- 
DERER 1"  He  ceased  abruptly — trem- 
bled, clasped  his  hands  together,  and 
seemed  lost  in  a  painful  reverie. 

"  Qod  has,  after  all,  intermingled 
some  sweets  in  the  cup  of  sorrows 
you  have  drained:  why  cast  them 
scornfully  away,  and  dwell  on  the 
taste  of  the  bitter?" 

"  Because  my  head  is  disordered; 
my  appetites  are  corrupted.     I  can- 
not now  taste  happiness.     I  know  it 
not;  the  relish  is  gone  for  ever!" 
*          #          *          * 

"  In  what  part  of  the  country  do 
you  propose  residing  ?"  I  enquired. 

"  I  can  never  be  received  in  Eng- 
lish society  again — and  I  will  not  re- 
main here  in  a  perpetual  pillory — 
to  be  pointed  at ! — 1  shall  quit  Eng- 
land for  ever" 

"  You  sha'n't,  though  !" — exclaim- 
ed the  steward,  bursting  into  tears, 
and  rising  from  his  chair,  no  longer 
able  to  control  himself — "  You  sha'n't 
;o" — he  continued,  walking  hurried- 

to  and  fro,  snapping  his  fingers. 
"  You  sha'n't — no,  you  sha'n't,  Mas- 
ter Beauchamp — though  I  say  it  that 
shouldn't! — You  shall  trample  on  my 
old  bones,  first." 

"  Come,  come,  kind  old  man ! — 
Give  me  your  hand  !" — exclaimed 
Mr  Beauchamp,  affected  by  this  live- 
ly shew  of  feeling,  on  the  part  of 
his  old  and  triqd  servant. — "  Come, 
I  won't  go,  then — I  won't !" 

"  Ah! — point  at  you— point  at  you, 

did  you  say,  sir  I  I'll  be  if  I 

won't  do  for  any  one  that  points  at 
you,  what  you  did  for  that  rogue 
Aps "  ' 

"  Hush,  Pritchard !"  said  his  mas- 
ter, rising  from  his  chair,  and  look- 
ing shudderingly  at  him. 

The  sun  was  fast  withdrawing,  and 
a  portion  of  its  huge  blood-red  disk 
was  already  dipped  beneath  the  ho- 
rizon. Is  there  a  more  touching  or 
awful  object  in  nature  ? — We  who 
were  gazing  at  it,  felt  that  there  was 
not.  All  before  us  was  calmness 
and  repose.  Beauchamp's  kindling 
eye  assured  me  that  his  soul  sympa- 
thized with  the  scene. 

"  Doctor— Doctor"— he  exclaim* 


[Oct. 


ed  suddenly, — "  What  has  come  to 
me?  Is  there  a  devil  mocking  me? 
Or  is  it  an  angel  whispering  that  I 
shall  yet  be  happy  ?  May  I  listen— 
may  I  listen  to  it?"  —  He  paused. 
His  excitement  increased.  "  O  yes, 
yes  !  I  feel  intimately — I  know  I  am 
reserved  for  happier  days  !  God 
smileth  on  me,  and  my  soul  is  once 
more  warmed  and  enlightened  !" — 
An  air  of  joy  diffused  itself  over  his 
features.  I  never  before  saw  the 
gulf  between-  despair  and  hope 
passed  with  such  lightning  speed  !•— 
Was  it  returning  delirium  only  ? 

"  How  can  he  enjoy  happiness  who 
has  never  tasted  misery  ?"  he  con- 
tinued, uninterrupted  by  me.  "  And 
may  not  he  most  relish  peace,  who 
has  been  longest  tossed  in  trouble  ! 
— Why — why  have  I  been  despond- 
ing ?  —  Sweet,  precious  Ellen !  I 
will  write  to  you !  We  shall  soon 
meet;  we  shall  even  be  happy  to- 
gether!— Pritchard,"  he  exclaimed, 
turning  abruptly  to  the  listening 
steward — "  What  say  you!  —  Will 
you  be  my  major-domo, — eh? — Will 
you  be  with  us  in  the  country,  once 
again  ?" 

"  Aye,  Master  Beauchamp,"— re- 
plied Pritchard,  crying  like  a  child, 
— "  as  long  as  these  old  eyes,  and 
hands,  and  head,  can  serve  you,  they 
are  yours  !  I'll  be  any  thing  you'd 
like  to  make  me!" 

"  There's  a  bargain,  then,  between 
you  and  me ! — You  see,  Doctor,  El- 
len will  not  cast  me  off;  and  old 
Pritchard  will  cling  to  me :  why 
should  I  throw  away  happiness  ?" 

"  Certainly — certainly!  There  is 
much  happiness  before  you" — 

"  The  thought  is  transporting,  that 
I  shall  soon  leave  the  scenes  of  guilt 
and  dissipation  for  ever,  and  breathe 
the  fresh  and  balmy  atmosphere  of 
virtue  once  again !  How  1  long  for 
the  time!  Mother,  will  you  watch 
over  your  prodigal  son  ?"  How  little 
he  thought  of  the  affecting  recollec- 
tions he  had  called  forth  in  my  mind, 
by  mentioning — the  prodigal  son  ! 

I  left  him  about  nine  o'clock,  re- 
commending him  to  retire  to  rest, and 
not  expose  himself  to  the  cool  of  the 
evening.  I  felt  excited,  myself,  by 
the  tone  of  our  conversation,  which, 
I  suspected,  however,  had  on  his 
part,  verged  far  into  occasional 
flightiness.  /  had  not  such  sanguine 
hopes  for  him,  as  he  entertained 


1831.]                  Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  Late  Physician,  599 

for  himself.  I  suspected  that  his  con-  early  hour,  there  was  an  agitated 

stitution,  however  it  might  rally  for  group  before  the  door.  I  rushed  up 

a  time,  from  its  present  prostration —  stairs,  and  soon  learnt  all.  About  a 

had  received  a  shock  before  which  it  quarter  of  an  hour  before,  the  family 

must  erewhile  fall !  were  disturbed  by  hearing  Mr  Beau- 

About  five  o'clock  the  next  morn-  champ's  Newfoundland  dog,  which 

ing,  I  and  all  my  family  were  alarm-  always  slept  at  his  master's  bed- 

ed  by  one  of  the  most  violent  and  room  door,  howling,  whining,  and 

continued  ringings  and  thunderings  scratching  against  it.  The  valet  and 

at  the  door  1  ever  heard.  On  look-  some  one  else  came  to  see  what  was 

ing  out  of  my  bedroom  window,  I  the  matter.  They  found  the  dog 

saw  Mr  Beauchamp's  valet  below,  trembling  violent! y,liis  eyes  fixed  on 

wringing  his  hands,  and  stamping  the  floor;  and  on  looking  down,  they 

about  the  steps  like  one  distracted.  saw  blood  flowing  from  under  the 

Full  of  fearful  apprehension,  I  door.  The  valet  threw  himself  half 

dressed  myself  in  an  instant,  and  frantic  against  the  door,  and  burst  it 

came  down  stairs.  open ;  he  rushed  in,  and  saw  all ! 

"  In  the  name  of  God,  what  is  the  Poor  Beauchamp,  with  a  razor  grasp- 
matter  ?"  I  enquired,  seeing  him  ed  in  his  right  hand,  was  lying  on  the 
pale  as  ashes.  floor  lifeless  ! 

"  Oh,  my  master ! — come — come"  I  never  now  hear  of  a  young  man 

— he  could  get  out  no  more.  We  —especially  of  fortune — frequenting 

both  ran  at  a  top  speed  to  Mr  the  GAMING  TABLE,  but  I  think  with 

Beauchamp's  lodgings.  Even  at  that  a  sigh  of  Henry  Beauchamp. 


A  WORD  WITH  THE  READER,  AT  PARTING. 

These  PASSAGES  are  at  length  brought  to  a  close  5  and  it  may  be 
thought  high  time  they  were.  In  bidding  farewell  to  the  readers  of 
this,  the  most  distinguished  journal  in  the  country,  the  Editor  of  the  fore- 
going series  of  papers  begs  to  assure  those  who  have  read  them,  that  if 
in  any  instance  their  hearts  have  been  interested,  and  touched  by  the 
MORAL  always  aimed  at,  the  pains  and  trouble  with  which  these  sketches 
have  been  prepared  for  publication,  will  have  been  nobly  bestowed. 

Whatever  harsh  comments  may  have  been  made  on  certain  portions, 
by  some  of  the  metropolitan  and  provincial  press,  the  Editor  thinks  he  may 
challenge  any  one  to  point  out  where  a  real  outrage  on  morals  or  deli- 
cacy has  been  perpetrated.*  He  begs,  in  conclusion,  to  express  his  acknow- 
ledgments for  the  handsome  terms  in  which  this  Diary  has  been  from  time 
to  time  characterised  by  some  of  the  leading  journals  and  newspapers.  In 
the  event  of  Mr  Blackwood's  bringing  it  before  the  world  as  an  independent 
publication,  one  or  two  additional  sketches  may  be  introduced :  and  the 
whole  accompanied  by  notes  and  illustrations  appended  to  such  portions 
as  may  appear  to  require  them.  Till  then,  reader,  he  bids  you  an  affec- 
tionate— Adieu ! 

London,  Ibth  Sept.  1831. 


*  The  paper  which  has  been  most  obnoxious  to  such  censures,  is  the  "  Man  about 
Town  ;"  which  was  assailed,  in  particular,  with  extraordinary  virulence  by  one  of 
the  most  noisy  London  monthly  journals.  The  only  reply  I  make  to  the  fellow  who 
penned  the  paragraph,  crowded  with  such  coarse  and  brutal  falsehoods,  is — VAIE, 

FUTKESCAS! 


600 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.         [Oct. 


ON  PARLIAMENTARY  REFORM  AND  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 

No.  X. 

What  is  the  Bill  now  ? 


THE  Reform  Bill  is  shaking  every- 
where but  in  the  House  of  Commons : 
the  Reformers  are  divided ;  the  Con- 
stitutionists  are  steady.  That  which 
no  one  dared  to  have  hoped  some 
months  ago,  is  already,  to  all  appear- 
ance, approaching  its  accomplish- 
ment ;  the  ruinous  consequences, 
and  enormous  peril  of  the  new  con- 
stitution, are  becoming  apparent 
even  to  the  warmest  friends  of  the 
measure. 

That  there  would  be  a  reaction, 
and  that,  too,  a  ruinous  one  to  the 
supporters  of  the  Reform  Bill,  soon- 
er or  later,  was  as  evident,  as  that 
in  the  end  truth  will  prevail  over 
falsehood.  Magna  est  veritas  et 
prcEvalebit,  is  the  law  of  nature,  and 
should  never  be  forgotten,  even  in 
the  worst  extremities,  either  by  the 
philosophical  observer  of  human  af- 
fairs, or  the  believer  in  the  superin- 
tendence of  an  allwise  Providence. 
\Ve  never  for  an  instant  doubted 
that  the  truth  of  the  principles  we 
advocated  would  ultimately  become 
apparent;  what  we  feared  was,  that 
before  truth  had  dispelled  the  clouds 
of  error,  the  irrevocable  step  would 
have  been  taken,  and  the  nation 
launched  into  that  stream  of  revolu- 
tion, from  which,-  even  to  the  most 
anxious,  there  is  no  return. 

The  danger  of  such  an  occurrence 
is  still  great,  but  not  sa  great  as  it 
has  been.  It  arises  not  from  the 
present  state  of  the  public  mind,  but 
the  consequences  of  the  former  :  not 
from  any  peril  now  to  be  apprehend- 
ed from  the  people,  but  from  the 
nature  of  the  hands  to  which,  in  a 
moment  of  delusion,  they  have  com- 
mitted their  destinies. 

But  if  the  danger  is  abated,  and 
the  sun  of  Hope  begins  to  shine 
through  the  clouds  of  revolution,  the 
people  of  England  should  know  to 
what  their  preservation  from  un- 
heard of  perils  has  been  owing.  Not 
to  their  own  good  sense,  for  it  en- 
tirely deserted  them — not  to  the 
efforts  of  the  reformers,  for  they 
would  have  precipitated  them,  in 
spite  of  all  that  ministers  could  do, 


into  the  agonies  of  anarchy — not  to 
the  checks  provided  by  the  constitu- 
tion, for  they  were  all  to  appearance 
destroyed.  It  has  been  entirely 
owing  to  the  firmness,  ability,  and 
skill  of  the  anti-reformers.  It  is  this 
calumniated  body,  who  love  the  peo- 
ple more  than  those  who  would  ele- 
vate themselves  on  their  passions; 
who  fearlessly  threw  themselves 
into  the  breach;  who  faced  danger 
and  relinquished  ambition,  for  the 
discharge  of  patriotic  duty  ;  who 
protected  the  people  from  the  powers 
which  their  own  madness  had  invo- 
ked, and  amidst  the  execrations  of 
the  multitude  supported  the  mea- 
sures which  were  to  bless  them. 
When  it  comes  to  recount  the  me- 
morable story  of  these  times,  history 
will  record  that  this  body  relinquish- 
ed office  without  regret,  when  the 
temper  of  the  legislature  proved  that 
it  could  only  be  retained  by  the  sa- 
crifice of  principle  :  that  they  stea- 
dily resisted  the  measures  which 
their  successors  adopted  in  compli- 
ance with  the  frenzy  of  the  moment, 
while  they  supported  all  those  which 
were  calculated  to  hold  together  the 
fabric  of  society  :  that  they  exposed 
themselves  to  immeasurable  obloquy, 
in  defence  of  the  insane  populace, 
who  were  covering  them  with  abuse; 
and  disdaining  to  "  disturb  the  peace 
of  all  the  world,"  sought  only  "  to 
save  it  when  'twas  wildest." 

From  the  moment  that  the  Reform 
Bill,  with  its  enormous  and  incalcu- 
lable consequences,  was  laid  before 
the  public,  the  thinking  part  of  the 
community  were,  with  the  exception 
of  those  whose  passions  had  been 
excited  by  democratic  ambition,  or 
whose  interests  had  become  wound 
up  iu  its  support,  almost  unanimous 
in  opposing  it.  The  reason  was, 
that  it  departed  altogether  from  the 
principles  and  practice  of  the  con- 
stitution, and  periled  the  national 
salvation  on  the  sea  of  experiment, 
from  which  no  one  who  heretofore 
ventured  had  been  known  to  return. 
Seeing  this,  the  prudent  and  judi- 
cious deemed  it  safest  to  abstain 


1831.]         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.  601 


from  an  essay  in  the  construction  of 
constitutions,  in  which  great  peril 
was  apparent,  and  no  benefit  could 
be  expected ;  while  the  learned  and 
the  thoughtful,  instructed  by  histo- 
ric experience,  recoiled  with  horror 
from  the  commencement  of  mea- 
sures, big  to  their  prophetic  eye  with 
the  atrocities  of  the  Reign  of  Ter- 
ror. 

The  circumstance  which  renders 
the  adoption  of  any  legislative  mea- 
sures, during  a  period  of  violent  po- 
litical excitement,  so  extremely  ha- 
zardous, is,  that  at  that  time  the 
influence  of  thought  and  wisdom  is 
destroyed,  and  the  power  of  pas- 
sion is  omnipotent.  Such  a  state  of 
"things  cannot  last,  or  society  would 
speedily  perish ;  but  the  evil  to  be 
apprehended  is,  that  before  the  re- 
action takes  place,  before  passion 
subsides,  and  reason  has  resumed 
the  helm,  measures  are  taken  which 
are  irretrievable — institutions,  the 
work  of  ages,  overthrown — and  the 
passions  or'  the  people  permanently 
excited,  by  placing  the  opulence  of 
ages  within  their  grasp.  The  reac- 
tion does  indeed  then  come,  but  it 
comes  too  late  to  be  of  any  real  ser- 
vice; and  the  early  friends  of  free- 
dom, blasted  by  the  storm  they  had 
excited,  can  only  share  in  the  mourn- 
ful feeling  of  Madame  Roland  when 
led  out  to  the  scaffold—"  Oh,  Liber- 
ty !  how  many  crimes  are  committed 
in  your  name !" 

It  was  the  fatal  precipitance  of  the 
French  reformers  which  was  the  im- 
mediate cause  of  the  downward 
progress  of  their  first  revolution. 
Within  three  months  after  the  meet- 
ing of  the  States-General,  the  privi- 
leges of  the  nobility  had  been  sur- 
rendered, the  Rights  of  Man  pro- 
claimed, the  union  of  the  orders  in 
one  Chamber  determined ;  tythes 
abolished,  corporation  rights  annihi- 
lated, and  the  King  led  a  prisoner  to 
his  palace  of  the  Tuileries.  Cooler 
heads  than  those  of  the  French  might 
well  have  been  turned  by  such  head- 
long innovations.  Their  first  effect 
was  to  disgust  the  thoughtful  and 
the  rational,  to  bring  impetuous  pas- 
sion and  vulgar  ambition  up  to  the 
surface,  and  by  intrusting  the  gui- 
dance of  the  state  to  the  most  vehe- 
ment among  the  people,  surrender 
their  destinies  to  the  very  hands 
which  were  most  unfit  to  direct  them. 


It  is  not  the  fault  of  the  reformers 
if  a  similar  precipitate  course  has 
not  attended  the  Reform  Bill :  if 
society  in  England,  as  in  France,  has 
not  been  convulsed  by  the  sudden 
adoption  of  unnecessary  changes, 
and  the  fatal  torrent  of  revolution 
irretrievably  let  loose.  They  have 
done  every  thing  they  could  to  pre- 
cipitate the  catastrophe  :  they  advo- 
cated the  dissolution  of  Parliament, 
at  a  moment  of  the  highest  excite- 
ment :  they  incessantly  urge  Govern- 
ment to  press  on  the  Reform  Bill, 
and  to  quash  the  anticipated  opposi- 
tion of  the  Peers,  by  a  great  creation 
of  new  barons.  If  they  had  had 
every  thing  their  own  way,  if  the  de- 
termined and  powerful  band  of  the 
Anti-Reformers  had  not  been  at  their 
posts,  the  new  constitution  would 
have  been  long  ago  established,  and 
the  nation  now  convulsed  by  the  ul- 
terior revolutionary  measures  which 
it  must  produce. 

The  progress  of  this  great  tran- 
quillizing measure,  say  the  reform- 
ers, is  thwarted  by  a  desperate  pha- 
lanx of  interested  boroughmongere : 
bold  as  lions,  crafty  as  foxes,  rapa- 
cious as  vultures !  It  is  indeed  ar- 
rested by  a  desperate  opposition, 
such  an  opposition  as  withstood 
Xerxes  at  Thermopylae,  Asdrubal 
at  the  Metaurus,  Massena  at  Torres 
Vedras,  Napoleon  at  Waterloo.  Livy 
relates  that  Fabius,  during  his  com- 
mand, was  assailed  with  the  most 
vehement  abuse  by  the  plebeian  par- 
ty-at  Rome  :  in  what  light  is  he  re- 
garded by  posterity  ?  "  The  saviour 
of  Rome,  the  guardian  angel  of  the 
republic.  Unus  qui  nobis  cunctando 
restituit  rem."  We  well  recollect 
the  gloomy  prognostications,  the  in- 
cipient sneers  of  the  Whigs,  when 
Wellington  lay  at  Torres  Vedras,  and 
wore  out  the  vehemence  of  French 
invasion  by  the  steadiness  of  British 
resistance. 

Scipio  Africanus,  the  deliverer  of 
Rome,  was  banished  by  his  turbulent 
countrymen  :  Aristides  went  into 
exile  to  avoid  the  fury  of  Athenian 
democracy.  If  the  opponents  of 
reform  are  exposed  to  obloquy,  they 
share  it  with  the  greatest  and  best 
of  the  human  race :  they  need  not 
lament  their  lot,  when  it  was  borne 
by  such  predecessors. 

"  Nor,  methinks,  shall  I  deplore  me, 

Faring  as  my  friends  before  me ; 


602  On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution,         [Oct. 


Nor  a  holier  heaven  desire, 
Than  Timoleon's  arms  acquire, 
Or  Tally's curule  chair,  or  MUton'sgolden 
lyre," 

What  is  the  pretence  for  this  mon- 
strous precipitance  in  the  construc- 
tion of  the  constitution  ?  Is  truth 
so  likely  to  perish  from  the  lapse  of 
time  ?  Do  Euclid's  Elements,  or 
Newton's  Principia,  require  to  be 
hurried,  lest  their  demonstration  be 
lost  ?  la  the  great  cause  of  the  ne- 
cessity of  a  legal  provision  for  the 
poor,  or  the  amelioration  of  our  cri- 
minal code,  or  the  freedom  of  trade, 
likely  to  decline  under  protracted 
discussion  ?  Does  truth  expire,  and 
error  become  omnipotent,  the  longer 
its  discussion  is  continued  ?  Haste 
in  discussion  is  the  invariable  mark 
of  those  who  dread  the  returning 
light.  Caution  and  delay  the  sure 
sign  of  those  who  are  conscious  of 
an  invincible  cause. 

To  all  the  clamour  about  the  delay 
in  reform,  the  answer  is  invincible. 
If  it  is  calculated  to  do  good,  the  more 
it  is  discussed  the  stronger  will  its 
support  become  :  if  it  is  destined  to 
do  harm,  the  longer  its  tendency  is 
sifted  the  better. 

But  the  reformers  exclaim,  that  the 
discussion  of  the  Bill  must  be  cut 
short,  to  prevent  the  stagnation  and 
depression  which  its  dependance 
produces  on  the  trade  and  industry 
of  the  country.  This  is  one  of  the 
most  extraordinary  paradoxes  that 
ever  was  maintained.  Finding  that 
the  prospect  even  of  the  measure  they 
support  has  paralysed  every  branch 
of  industry,  and  threatens  to  produce 
the  most  wide-spread  distress  over 
the  country,  they  maintain  that  th 
only  way  to  remedy  it  is  to  hastes 
the  very  measure,  whose  approachw 
like  that  of  the  simoom,  has  wither-, 
ed  every  thing  on  which  it  blew.  If 
the  prospect  of  it  has  been  so  fatal, 
what  is  its  r  eality  likely  to  prove  ? 

Nothing  can  be  more  certain,  or 
proved  by  more  unexceptionable 
evidence,  than  the  distress  and  un- 
certainty which  the  agitation  of  this 
question  has  produced.  To  those 
engaged  in  business,  or  acquainted 
with  the  feeling  of  the  metropolis, 


no  commentary  is  necessary  on  a 
fact  which  is  in  everybody's  mouth. 
For  those  at  a  distance  from  these 
sources  of  information,  we  subjoin 
the  following  quotation.  "  With  re- 
spect to  trade,"  says  the  Morning 
Advertiser,  a  stanch  reforming  jour- 
nal, "  what  can  be  more  deplorable 
than  its  present  condition !  Is  not 
the  money  market  daily  filled  with 
exchequer  bills?  Is  not  the  bank 
contracting  its  discounts  ?  Is  not 
money,  on  the  most  unexceptionable 
bills,  most  difficult,  or  rather  im- 
possible, to  be  procured  ?  Do  not 
the  monied  men  refuse  even  to 
advance  on  mortgage  almost  any 
sum,  except  a  mere  per  centage  ? 
Nay,  is  it  not  a  fact,  that  many  of  the 
most  respectable  banking  firms  in 
the  city,  have  actually  refused  to 
give  even  one  per  cent  for  large  sums 
of  money,  which  their  customers  find 
themselves  unable  to  dispose  of? 
And  has  not  trade  been  greatly  in- 
jured thereby?  Nay,  is  it  not,  except 
in  mere  necessaries,  at  a  complete 
stand  still,  and  threatens,  in  the  opi- 
nion of  the  most  competent  judges, 
a  fearful  crisis  in  the  course  of  the 
autumn  and  winter  ?"*  The  same 
state  of  matters  is  spoken  of  in  a  still 
more  emphatic  way  in  another  re- 
forming journal  of  much  ability. 
"  Notwithstanding,"  says  Bell's  Week- 
ly Messenger,  "  the  late  session  of 
Parliament,  and  the  crowded  state  of 
the  metropolis,  at  t  his  period  of  the 
year,  we  believe  that  the  ordinary 
course  of  trade  and  business  in  Lon- 
don, never  has  been  so  bad.  The 
great  channels  of  popular  employ- 
ment are  almost  dry :  building  has 
been  at  a  stand  for  a  long  time,  and 
if  we  except  the  improvements, 
which  are  pushed  on  with  public 
money,  there  is  little  or  no  call  for 
labour  and  industry  among  the  ope- 
rative classes.  The  trades  most  con- 
versant with  personal  ornament  and 
decoration,  notwithstanding  the  con- 
stant levees  and  drawing-rooms,  have 
been  completely  stagnant  during  the 
last  three  months.  Jewellers,  silver- 
smiths, mercers,  and  all  classes  com- 
plain ;  but  the  evil  most  observed,  is 
the  hoarding  of  the  precious  metals, 
and  the  contracted  expenditure  of 


Morning  Advertiser,  Aug.  29. 


1831.]       On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


the  nobility  and  gentry."* — These 
effects  are  precisely  what  we  always 
anticipated,  and  have  uniformly  pre- 
dicted, would  flow  from  reform.  In- 
security to  property, general  distrust, 
a  disposition  to  hoard,  an  unwilling- 
ness to  expend,  are  the  well-known 
symptoms  of  an  anticipated  political 
convulsion.  And  it  is  precisely  be- 
cause it  leads  to  these  effects  that 
precipitate  innovation  is  so  peril- 
ous :  because  it  involves  the  nation 
in  general  distress  at  the  very  time 
when  the  fatal  example  has  been  set, 
of  yielding  to  the  passions  of  the 
people ;  and  when  a  weak  govern- 
ment finds  itself  unable  to  withstand 
the  increasing  demands  of  those 
upon  whom  it  depends  for  support, 
but  whose  necessitous  circumstances 
have  now  rendered  them  ripe  for  the 
most  desperate  measures. 

The  reformers,  no  doubt,  assert 
that  all  this  distress  is  not  owing  to 
reform,  but  to  the  prospect  of  its 
being  refused ;  and  that  the  age  of 
gold  is  awaiting  us,  the  moment  that 
the  bill  receives  the  royal  assent.  To 
determine,  then,  whether  it  is  owing 
to  the  prospect  of  its  being  conceded 
or  refused,  we  have  only  to  look  to 
other  countries,  where  the  cause  of 
reform  has  been  at  once  and  com- 
pletely successful.  If  in  them  uni- 
versal prosperity  has  followed  the 
measures,  we  admit  the  existing  dis- 
tress in  this  country  may  fairly  be 
ascribed  to  the  opposition  it  has  ex- 
perienced :  If  general  distress  has 
been  its  invariable  attendant, the  con- 
clusion seems  unavoidable,  that  we 
are  suffering,  not  from  its  refusal, 
but  the  consequences  of  its  anticipa- 
ted adoption. 

Now,  it  will  hardly  be  disputed, 
that  in  Paris  and  Brussels,  the  cause 
of  reform  was  at  once  and  signally 
successful.  Three  days  in  the  for- 
mer country  sufficed  to  overthrow  a 
dynasty,  and  establish  a  throne,  sur- 
rounded by  republican  institutions ; 
and  a  week  in  the  latter,  was  suf- 
ficient to  sever  a  kingdom,  and  es- 
tablish the  revolutionary  party  in  un- 
bridled sovereignty.  Have  the  golden 
fruits  of  reform  there  rewarded  the 
democratic  exertions  of  the  people  ? 
Is  trade  so  very  prosperous,  money 


603 

so  very  abundant,  orders  so  very  nu- 
merous, bankruptcies  so  very  rare, 
among  our  reforming  brethren  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Channel  ?  The  re- 
verse, of  all  this  is  proverbially  and 
avowedly  the  case :  Industry  never 
was  so  stagnant,  commerce  so  de- 
pressed, suffering  so  general.  Great 
as  is  the  distress,  which  the  prospect 
of  reform  has  produced  here,  it  is 
nothing  to  what  its  realization  has 
occasioned  there.  Two-thirds  of  the 
whole  mercantile  houses  in  Paris 
have  become  insolvent  eince  the 
three  glorious  days  of  July,  and  by 
a  remarkable  instance  of  poetical 
justice,  two  hundred  booksellers  have 
failed.\  Reform  and  revolution 
there,  as  every  where  else,  selecting 
as  its  first  victims,  those  who  had 
been  its  earliest  supporters. 

The  case  was  the  same  at  the  com- 
mencement, and  during  the  whole 
progress,  of  the  first  revolution. 
".The  distress,"  says  Mignet,  "  which 
prevailed  over  all  France,  in  the 
autumn  and  winter  of  1 789,  was  never 
before  equalled.  Crowds  came  up 
from  the  provinces  to  Paris,  in  ea- 
ger expectation  of  finding  that  em- 
ployment in  the  metropolis,  which 
the  general  feeling  ot  insecurity 
denied  them  at  home,  and  augment- 
ed by  their  concourse  that  distress 
which  was  already  so  poignant 
among  its  immense  population.  Mul- 
titudes died  of  hunger,  and  such  was 
the  universality  of  the  suffering,  that 
the  revenue  fell  off  a  third  of  its  whole 
amount  within  a  year  after  the  meet- 
ing of  the  States  General."  J  Nor  did 
the  condition  of  the  poor  improve 
during  the  progress  of  the  revolution. 
On  the  contrary,  it  daily  became 
worse  and  worse,  till  at  length  the  po- 
pulace of  Paris  and  the  great  towns, 
from  the  total  failure  of  employment, 
required  to  be  regularly  fed  by  ra- 
tions, like  the  garrison  of  a  fortified 
town.  "Paris,"  says  the  Republican 
Thiers,  "  during  the  winter  of  1794, 
endured  all  the  horrors  of  a  besieged 
city.  Six  hundred  and  ninety  thou- 
sand citizens  daily  received  their 
food  from  the  committee  of  subsist- 
ence, which  amounted  only  to  the 
miserable  pittance  of  a  pound  of 
black  bread  a-day  for  each  soul. 


*  Bell's  "Weekly  Messenger,  Aug.  28.         +  Campbell's  Magazine,  Dec,  1830, 
f  Mignet,  i.  47. 


604  On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


[Oct. 


Even  for  this  small  allowance,  they 
were  compelled  to  wait  at  the  bakers' 
shops  from  eleven  at  night  till  seven 
in  the  morning,  during  the  severity 
of  an  arctic  winter.  Such  were  the 
quarrels  which  ensued  at  the  gates 
of  these,  the  sole  fountain  of  sub- 
sistence, that  the  Convention  were 
compelled  to  enact,  that  a  rope 
should  be  attached  to  the  door  of 
each  bread-shop,  and  each  comer,  as 
he  arrived,  should  take  it  in  his  hand, 
and  remain  there,  without  losing  his 
hold,  till  the  doors  were  opened  in 
the  morning.  From  this  regulation 
has  arisen  the  common  cry,  a  la 
queue,  a  la  queue,  still  to  be  heard 
at  the  doors  of  our  theatres  and 
places  of  public  resort.  It  was  a 
deplorable  spectacle  to  see  two  or 
three  hundred  citizens,  who  had  de- 
served so  well  of  the  republic,  stand- 
ing in  mournful  silence  round  the 
door  of  every  bread  shop  in  Paris, 
during  the  whole  night,  amidst  the 
severity  of  a  Russian  winter,  not 
venturing  to  drop  the  rope  from 
their  hands,  even  when  congealed 
by  the  frost,  lest  they  should  lose 
their  only  chance  of  obtaining  food 
for  the  following  day,  for  their  star- 
ving families.  With  truth  did  the 
petitioners  from  the  working  classes 
of  Paris  say  at  the  bar  of  the  Con- 
vention, on  occasion  of  the  great  re- 
volt in  April  1 795, — '  Such  have  been 
our  sufferings  for  the  last  five  years, 
that  we  are  ready  to  regret  all  the 
sacrifices  we  have  made  for  the  re- 
volution.' Miserable  as  was  the  sup- 
ply, thus  doled  out  to  the  inhabit- 
ants of  Paris,  it  was  obtained  only 
by  inflicting  as  great  suffering  as  it 
relieved :  the  law  of  the  maximum, 
which  compelled  the  farmers  to  sell 
their  produce  at  a  ruinously  low 
price,  prevented  them  from  bringing 
any  grain  voluntarily  to  market; 
and  what  was  obtained  by  the  go- 
vernment for  the  public  necessities, 
was  procured  only  by  forcing  from 
the  miserable  cultivators,  by  the  ter- 
rors of  military  execution,  and  in 
virtue  of  the  law  of  forced  requisi- 
tions, a  portion  of  their  hard-earned 
produce.  Ten  thousand  persons 
were  engaged  in  this  odious  employ- 
ment, by  the  committee  of  provision 
and  subsistence ;  and  their  duty  may 


truly  be  described  as  being  to  wring 
from  the  poor  in  the  country  the  sup- 
port of  the  poor  in  towns."* 

Such  have  been  the  effects  of  suc- 
cessful reform,'m  the  countries  where 
it  succeeded  according  to  the  most 
sanguine  hopes  of  the  foreign  re- 
formers :  where  no  desperate  bo- 
roughmongers  delayed  the  progress 
of  their  innovations;  where  the  higher 
classes  yielded,  without  a  struggle, 
all  their  privileges;  and  the  work 
of  revolution,  expeditiously  conduct- 
ed in  a  single  chamber,  met  with 
none  of  the  delays  to  which  all  the 
distress  is  ascribed  in  this  country. 
How  do  the  reformers  account  for 
this  distress,  coexistent  with  revo- 
lution in  every  other  state,  and  in- 
creasing exactly  in  proportion  as  the 
triumph  of  the  reformers  there  be- 
came the  more  complete  ?  It  is 
evident  that  it  arose  from  the  pro- 
gress of  that  reform  itself — and  that 
the  depression  of  industry,  now  so 
generally  the  subject  of  complaint, 
is,  in  truth,  the  consequence  of  that 
very  measure,  which,  with  marked 
disregard  of  historic  experience,  the 
reformers  are  now  urging  forward 
with  such  breathless  haste,  like  the 
maddened  steed,  which  rushes  to- 
wards the  edge  of  the  precipice, 
where  he  is  to  be  hurled  to  destruc- 
tion. 

Among  other  good  effects  which 
have  resulted  from  the  intrepid  and 
skilful  stand  by  the  anti-reformers, 
it  is  not  the  least,  that  it  has  en- 
abled the  people  to  feel  the  effects 
of  reform  before  it  became  a  law ; 
and  has  thus  cooled  many  heads,  ut- 
terly inaccessible  either  to  reason  or 
eloquence,  by  the  decisive  argument 
of  the  pocket.  It  is,  no  doubt,  a  fine 
thing  for  tradesmen  and  n^anufac- 
turers  to  figure  at  reform  meetings, 
and  political  union  clubs,  and  re- 
ceive the  encomiums  of  the  radical 
press,  as  the  leading  and  most  en- 
lightened political  characters  of  the 
day :  but  it  is  in  the  end  fully  as 
good  a  thing  to  augment  their  cus- 
tomers, discharge  their  oblinfations, 
and  increase  the  balance  of  profit 
on  their  books.  Now,  when  these 
patriotic  manufacturers  and  shop- 
keepers find  their  business  rapidly 
declining,  their  bills  refused  at  the 


*   Thiers,  viii.  322,  et  si-q.  vi.  niul  vii. 


1831.]       On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


bank,  and  the  balance  turning  into 
loss  in  their  accounts,  they  begin  to 
hesitate  as  to  the  practical  expedi- 
ence of  the  course  they  have  been 
pursuing.  The  banker  becomes  a 
more  powerful  logician  than  Bacon, 
a  more  persuasive  orator  than  De- 
mosthenes. Their  conduct  reminds 
us  of  the  celebrated  dialogue  in  the 
play :  —  "  Your  character  ?  No. — 
Your  honour  ?  No. — Your  eternal 
salvation  ?  No. — A  thousand  pounds  ? 
Ah  !  there  you  have  me  !" 

In  all  countries  which  have  under- 
gone the  crisis  of  a  revolution,  these 
effects  have  been  soon  experienced  : 
but  the  inestimable  benefit  which  the 
anti-reformers  have  conferred  upon 
their  country,  is,  that  they  have  let 
them  be  felt  before  it  was  too  late  : 
they  have  forced  the  maniac  to  taste 
the  bitterness  of  the  fatal  draught 
before  he  had  swallowed  the  whole 
contents  of  the  cup.  England,  in 
this  crisis  of  her  history,  has  expe- 
rienced the  full  benefit  of  the  free  in- 
stitutions under  which  she  has  so  long 
flourished :  the  continued  and  pro- 
longed discussion  which  the  forms 
of  its  constitution  allowed,  and  the 
sober  temper  nursed  by  centuries  of 
freedom  permitted,  have  gone  far, 
indeed,  to  neutralize  the  ruinous  ef- 
fects of  the  revolutionary  tempest. 
What  a  contrast  does  the  conduct  of 
her  aristocracy  and  intelligent  classes 
afford  to  that  pursued  in  a  similar 
crisis  in  the  neighbouring  kingdom! 
While  one  half  of  the  nobility  of 
France  basely  fled  at  the  first  ap- 
pearance of  danger,  and  the  other, 
seduced  and  intimidated,  yielded  to 
the  storm,  and  with  sacrilegious 
hands,  joined  in  pulling  down  the 
institutions  of  their  country,  the 
aristocracy  of  England  have  at  least 
boldly  fronted  the  danger;  braved 
alike  the  threats  and  execrations  of 
the  multitude,  and,  amidst  the  al- 
mostuniversal  hostility  of  the  people, 
pursued  the  steps  of  true  patriots. 
If  any  thing  was  necessary  to  com- 
plete our  attachment  to  the  heredi- 
tary institutions  of  the  country,  it 
would  be  the  manner  in  which  they 
have  withstood  the  shock  of  a  storm, 
which  would  have  levelled  any  des- 
potic monarchy  with  the  dust,  and 
nursed  among  our  higher  and  influ- 
ential classes,  a  degree  of  vigour 
and  resolution,  which  form  the  only 
secure  foundation  of  public  welfare. 


605 

The  best  argument  against  reform 
is,  that  the  subsisting  institutions  of 
the  country  have  produced  a  race  of 
men  capable  of  so  long  withstand- 
ing, and  it  is  to  be  hoped,  at  last  de- 
feating, the  Reform  Bill. 

Nor  has  such  conduct  even  already 
been  without  its  reward.  It  is  to 
be  seen  in  the  altered  feeling  of  the 
country ; — in  the  indifference  to  re- 
form now  so  prevalent  among  the 
men  of  business  ; — in  the  decided 
hostility  to  it  now  so  conspicuous 
among  men  of  intelligence.  Walk 
the  streets  of  the  metropolis  ;  in 
every  print-shop  you  will  see  carica- 
tures against  the  Reform  Bill  and 
its  supporters,  a  significant  straw 
which  shows  how  the  wind  sets. 
Read  the  Reforming  papers — with 
what  impatience,  and  almost  frantic 
rage,  do  they  urge  the  progress  of 
the  bill,  and  complain  of  the  tardy 
imbecility  of  Ministers  !  Well  do 
they  know  what  awaits  them  from 
continued  discussion;  vehemently  do 
they  deplore  the  returning  light  of 
the  country.  Seven  contested  elec- 
tions have  taken  place  since  the  ge- 
neral election,  for  seats  in  which  re- 
formers were  then  returned;  and  in 
every  one  of  them  anti-reformers 
have  now  been  seated  by  a  decisive 
majority.  The  recent  elections  of 
Dublin,  Grimsby,  and  Weymouth, 
will  not  be  lost  upon  the  country. 
They  demonstrate  the1  existence  of  a 
reaction  in  the  quarters  where  the 
triumph  of  the  Reform  party  was 
considered  most  complete. 

The  Reform  Bill  will,  in  all  pro- 
bability, pass  the  Lower  House  by  a 
large  majority;  but  it  will  do  so,  not 
because  it  is  the  mirror  of  the  pre- 
sent opinion,  but  because  it  is  the 
echo  of  the  past  delusion  of  the 
country.  The  efforts  of  the  mob  are 
like  the  spring  of  a  wild  beast ;  if 
the  first  blow  fails,  they  rarely  make 
a  second  attempt.  The  great,  but 
inert  mass,  cannot  be  roused  a  se- 
cond time,  at  least  for  a  considerable 
period,  on  the  same  subject.  A  suc- 
cession of  straws  must  be  present- 
ed to  tickle  the  fancy  of  the  huge 
baby ;  a  child  never  wearies  of  amuse- 
ment; but  its  toys  must  be  changed 
every  week. 

If  the  hostility  of  the  people  to 
the  aristocracy  was  founded  on  any 
real  grievance  or  practical  suffering 
ivhich  reform  could  relieve,  we  should 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.  [Oct. 


606 

entertain  a  very  different  opinion  as 
to  the  expedience  of  opposing  it. 
Passion  decays — delusions  are  ephe- 
meral— but  the  stings  of  suffering, 
the  suggestions  of  interest,  the  iu- 
dignation  at  unnecessary  restraint, 
are  permanent.  Government  can 
never  be  too  rapid  in  removing  the 
causes  of  real  suffering;  in  destroy- 
ing the  shackles  which  restrain  the 
industry,  or  interfere  with  the  pros- 
perity, of  the  people.  But  the  case 
is  widely  different  with  a  passion 
like  that  for  reform,  which  has  no 
connexion  with  any  real  interest,  but 
is  a  mere  vehement  popular  desire, 
similar  to  that  which  lures  the  con- 
queror in  his  career  of  destruction, 
or  impels  the  youth  in  the  pursuit  of 
pleasure.  The  longer  and  the  more 
steadily  that  such  a  passion  is  resist- 
ed, the  more  weak  and  manageable 
does  it  become.  It  is  by  giving  it 
the  reins  that  it  grows  ungovern- 
able. 

We  do  not  deny  the  existence  of 
suffering.  On  the  contrary,  we 
know  it,  and  deplore  it,  and  would 
willingly  lend  our  aid  to  any  Minis- 
try which  should  set  themselves  to 
reform  the  real  grievances  of  the 
country.  We  shall  speedily  put  our 
shoulder  to  the  great  wheel  of  esta- 
blishing poor-laws  in  Ireland ;  and 
the  moment  that  any  administration, 
be  they  Whig  or  Tory,  shall  seri- 
ously set  themselves  to  measures  of 
real  utility,  we  shall  give  such  mea- 
sures our  cordial  support.  It  is  mea- 
sures of  no  practical  benefit,  but  vast 
practical  danger,  which  we  depre- 
cate, which  lure  the  people  like  the 
lurid  flame  in  the  morass,  to  present 
peril,  and  ultimate  perdition. 

Any  danger  which  might-formerly 
have  existed  from  the  Peers  reject- 
ing the  Reform  Bill,  re  now  at  an 
end.  The  passions  have  cooled—- 
the voice  of  Reason  has  some  slight 
chance  of  being  heard,  now  that  the 
storms  of  Faction  have,  to  a  certain 
degree,  subsided.  In  truth,  from  the 
altered  form  in  which  the  Bill  will, 
to  all  appearance,  be  sent  up  to  the 
Upper  House,  the  division  of  opi- 
nion concerning  it,  even  among  the 
reformers  themselves,  will  be  so 
great,  as  to  render  its  rejection  com- 
paratively a  matter  of  public  indif- 
ference. 

Such  have  been  the  changes  made 
on  this  unchangeable  and  unalter- 


able Bill,  since  it  was  first  broached 
in  Parliament  on  March  1,  that  it  is 
extremely  difficult  to  form  a  correct 
and  general  view  of  its  ultimate  ten- 
dency in  all  its  branches ;  but,  so  far 
as  any  thing  seems  fixed,  the  fol- 
lowing are  the  new  features  which 
the  Bill  has  assumed  : — 

1.  Householders   renting  houses 
worth  L.  10  a-year  of  rent,are  admitted 
to  vote  in  all  boroughs,  though  they 
pay  their  rentonly  weekly,  and  though 
they  have  not  paid  their  rent,  if  they 
can  show  its  amount  by  the  payment 
of  rents  and  taxes. 

2.  Tenants  at  will  are  allowed  to 
vote  for  the  counties,  provided  the 
farmer  pays  L.50  a-year  of  rent. 

3.  The  larger  counties  are  divided 
into  districts ;  and  each  freeholder 
in  a  district  votes  for  the  members 
for  that  district  only. 

These  enactments  are  evidently 
founded  upon  a  compromise  of  the 
various  factions  of  the  reformers. 
They  are  a  total  departure,  not  only 
from  the  professed  principle  of  the 
Bill,  but  from  any  principle  what- 
ever. They  have  rendered  it  more 
absurd,  more  contradictory,  more 
perilous,  than  ever. 

The  Bill  professed  to  extend  the 
right  of  voting  to  a  fair  proportion 
ot  the  property  and  intelligence  of 
the  country.  How  does  it  carry 
into  effect  that  principle  ?  By  bring- 
ing up  to  the  poll  the  tenants  at  will 
on  L.50  farms  in  counties,  and  the 
weekly  payers  of  L.10  lodgings  in 
towns.  This  is  what  is  called  se- 
curely basing  the  representation 
upon  the  property  and  intelligence 
of  the  country.  Upon  the  property 
of  artizans  who  pay  their  rents  week- 
ly, because  their  landlord  knows 
that  it  can  be  made  good  by  no  long- 
er credit  allowed  to  the  tenant;  and 
the  intelligence  of  the  L.50  tenants 
at  will,  who  follow  their  landlords  to 
the  poll. 

No  constitution-framer,  how  rash 
or  inexperienced  soever,  could  ever 
have  designedly  adopted  such  a  sys- 
tem. Its  tendency  to  throw  politi- 
cal power  into  the  hands  of  the  most 
necessitous  and  indigent,  both  of 
the  rural  and  urbane  population,  is 
too  obvious  to  admit  of  argument. 
It  has  arisen  from  a  compromise  be- 
tween the  different  classes  of  re- 
formers, each  striving  to  secure  to 
itself  the  fruits  of  the  victory  gained 


1 83 1 .]        On  Parliamentary  Reform 

over  the  old  freeholders.  The  land- 
lords said,  "  Give  us  our  tenants  at 
will,  and  we  shall  come  to  the  poll 
backed  by  such  numbers  as  will  se- 
cure us  the  command  of  the  counties;" 
and  the  landed  reformers  almost  una- 
nimously supported  that  view.  Asa 
set-off  to  this  great  victory,  Ministers 
were  obliged  to  augment  the  force 
of  their  allies  in  the  boroughs;  and 
they  did  this  by  extending  the  fran- 
chise to  all  householders  at  a  rent  of 
L.10,  though  they  paid  their  rents 
only  weekly.  The  result  has  been  a 
compound  of  the  elements  of  demo- 
cracy and  corruption  in  the  new 
constituency,  to  a  degree  which  the 
most  gloomy  anti-reformers  could 
never  have  anticipated,  and  which 
has  fairly  outstripped  all  our  prog- 
nostications, which  were  certainly 
none  of  the  most  cheering. 

We  long  ago  said  (No.  HI.  of  this 
series,)  that  unless  we  could  com- 
mence, as  Sir  Walter  Scott  said,  with 
the  most  desirable  and  effectual  of 
all  reforms — the  reform  of  the  hu- 
man breast — the  extension  of  the 
right  of  voting  to  a  more  extended 
body  of  corruptible  electors  would 
necessarily  extend  the  sphere  of 
bribery  and  improper  influence  ;  and 
that  thus  the  new  constitution  would 
be  made  to  vibrate  between  the  in- 
famy of  corruption  and  the  passion 
for  democracy,  yielding  in  periods 
of  tranquillity  to  the  former,  tossed 
in  moments  of  agitation  by  the  lat- 
ter. This  peril  being  founded  in  the 
two  most  general  and  powerful  pas- 
sions of  the  human  heart — the  love 
of  money,  and  the  love  of  power- 
is  universal  and  permanent.  It  ap- 
peared in  the  clearest  manner  in 
the  Roman  republic,  when  the  peo- 
ple, after  democratic  passion  was 
once  awakened  by  the  efforts  of 
Gracchus,  nev.er  ceased  to  vacillate 
between  democratic  vehemence  and 
aristocratic  corruption,  till  they 
yielded  to  the  largesses  of  Caesar, 
and  placed  military  power  in  the 
hands  of  their  favourite  and  prodigal 
leader.  It  must  ever  be  the  case, 
where  aristocratic  or  commercial 
wealth  and  democratic  ambition  are 
left  in  presence  of  each  other.  The 
only  way  in  which  it  can  be  prevent- 
ed, is  by  totally  destroying,  as  in 
France,  the  wealth  of  the  opulent 
classes,  and  leaving  no  power  in  the 


and  the  French  Revolution.  607 

state  either  to  withstand  or  under- 
mine the  sovereign  multitude. 

The  only  way  in  which  this  gla- 
ring, and  to  a  certain  degree  unavoid- 
able evil,  can  be  mitigated,  is  by  vest- 
ing political  power  in  the  hands  of 
those  who  are  farthest  removed  from 
extremes  on  either  side,  and  who,  by 
the  possession  of  some  property, 
are  both  interested  against  the  efforts 
of  the  levellers  on  the  one  side,  and 
above  the  corruption  of  the  opulent, 
or  the  frowns  of  the  powerful,  on 
the  other.  The  stability  of  the  Eng- 
lish constitution  was,  in  a  great  mea- 
sure, owing  to  this,  that  it.  excluded 
persons  without  property,  generally 
speaking,  on  both  sides,  and  intrust- 
ed the  political  franchise  only  to 
those  who  might  be  supposed,  by 
their  circumstances,  to  be  above  ei- 
ther the  seductions  of  the  great,  or 
the  passions  of  the  multitude.  The  . 
standard  fixed  on  for  this  purpose 
was,  in  the  counties,  the  possession 
of  a,  freehold  of  forty  shillings  a-year, 
in  the  time  of  Henry  VI.,  or  about 
L.70  a-year  of  our  money.  In  bo- 
roughs, the  standard  was  very  va- 
rious ;  but,  upon  the  whole,  the 
weight  of  political  influence  was 
thrown  into  the  hands  of  those  who, 
by  the  possession  of  competence, 
were  above  the  seductions  of  opu- 
lence, or  the  necessities  of  want; 
and  hence  the  long  duration  of  the 
constitution. 

Tenants,  both  of  the  landlords  in 
the  country,  and  of  the  artizans  in 
the  towns,  were  carefully  excluded. 
With  the  exception  of  a  few  bo- 
roughs where  potwallopers  had  a 
vote,  they  had  no  share  in  the  repre- 
sentation. 

The  Reform  Bill  professed,  but 
hand  passibus  cequis,  to  follow  the 
same  principles.  It  gave  the  fran- 
chise to  the  tenants  of  L.I 0  houses 
in  town  paying  their  rent  once  every 
six  months ;  and  to  the  holder  of  a 
farm  worth  L.50  a-year  for  seven 
years,  in  the  country.  Much  as  there 
was  to  say  against  such  a  body  of 
freeholders,  it  had  at  least  the  shew 
of  being  founded  on  property.  The 
rural  tenant,  by  the  possession  of  a 
lease  for  seven  years,  had  at  least 
a  sort  of  independence;  and  the 
burgh  voter  must  have  been  a  man 
of  some  sort  of  substance,  if  his  rent 
was  payable  every  six  months,  ^be- 


608 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.          [Oct 


cause,  the  fact  of  his  landlord  giving 
him  credit  for  so  long  a  period,  was 
a  proof  that  he  thought  he  could  at 
least  be  trusted  for  five  pounds.  Most 
persons  will  probably  think  such  a 
degree  of  credit  no  great  security  for 
the  due  exercise  of  political  power  ; 
but,  small  as  it  is,  it  was  immense, 
compared  to  the  needy  and  destitute 
hands  into  which,  in  the  present  state 
of  the  Bill,  it  is  to  be  intrusted. 

Tenants  at  will  are  now  allowed  to 
vote  for  the  counties, and  tenants  who 
may  be  ejected  at  a  week's  notice  for 
the  borough  members.  Were  such 
regulations  brought  forward  by -some 
anti-reformer  in  disguise,  in  order  to 
render  perfectly  ludicrous  the  pre- 
tence of  there  being  either  property, 
independence,  or  intelligence  among 
the  depositaries  of  power?  Were 
they  brought  forward  expressly,  in 
order  to  tear  the  new  constitution  in 
pieces  the  moment  it  was  erected,  by 
permitting  the  refuse  of  the  people  to 
nominate  their  leaders  on  both  sides  ? 
Were  they  brought  forward  to  per- 
petuate and  make  irretrievable  the 
great  division  of  the  nation,  already 
becoming  too  marked,  into  two 
classes,  and  render  the  landlords, 
backed  by  their  tenants,  the  eternal 
enemies  of  the  manufacturers,  back- 
ed by  their  operatives?  We  do  not 
profess  to  know  what  the  design  of 
the  enactments  is ;  possibly  its  au- 
thors could  give  us  as  little  informa- 
tion as  we  possess :  but  as  to  its  ef- 
fects, there  can  be  but  one  opinion 
among  any  dispassionate  enquirers. 

Democracy  nowhere  exists  to  such 
an  extent  as  in  the  great  towns— cor- 
ruption is  nowhere  so  unblushing  as 
in  the  open  or  venal  boroughs — aris- 
tocratic influence  nowhere  so  un- 
bending as  over  tenantry  at  will.  It 
is  to  these  three  classes  of  voters 
accordingly  that  the  Reform  Bill 
hands  over  the  government  of  the 
country,  as  if  it  had  intended  to  ex- 
clude modest  worth,  affluent  indus- 
try, thoughtful  intelligence,  for  ever 
from  its  management ! 

The  Reform  Bill  is  now  defended, 
not  on  the  ground  of  the  good  it  is 
to  do,  but  the  balance  of  evils  which 
it  has  contrived  to  effect.  The  aris- 
tocratic reformers  say,  "  No  doubt, 
the  L.10  tenants,  paying  their  rent 
weekly,  are  but  a  sorry  set  of  free- 
holders ;  but  the  admission  of  te- 
nants at  will,  and  the  division  of  the 


counties,  will  give  us  the  complete 
command  of  the   county  members, 
and  by  this  way  we  shall  get  over 
the   small    boroughs,   ninety-six    of 
which  are  obliged  to  be  reinforced 
by  rural  freeholders,  to  make  up  the 
requisite  complement  of  300  voters; 
we  shall,  upon  the  whole,  acquire  an 
ascendency."   The  Radicals  and  ma- 
nufacturing classes  exclaim,  "  Never 
was  any  thing  so  infamous  as  the 
division  of  the  counties,  and  the  ad- 
mission of  the  tenants  at  will ;  but 
the  weekly  lodgers  will  so  immense- 
ly recruit  our  ranks,  and  the  manu- 
facturing towns  will  so  strongly  ad- 
vocate our  interests,  that  upon  the 
whole,  the  good  in  the  new  consti- 
tution overbalances  the  evil,  and  the 
establishment    of    the    government 
upon  a  democratic  basis  is  certain." 
What  conclusion  must  every  rational 
man  draw  from  this  state  of  matters, 
but  that  the  middling  and  indepen- 
dent ranks,  who  are  neither  swayed 
by  the  passions  of  the  democratic, 
nor  intimidated  by  the  frowns  of  the 
aristocratic  classes,  will  be  so  outnum- 
bered as  to  be  practically  excluded  ; 
that  is,  the  very  class  in  whom  a  pre- 
ponderating and  moderating  influence 
ought  to  be  vested,  will  be  left  with- 
out any  share  in  the  representation  ! 
Nothing  can  be  more  apparent  than 
that  the  tendency  of  the  Bill,  by  ut- 
terly extinguishing  the  influence  of 
the  middling  ranks,  through  the  vast 
increase  of  the  voters  below  them; 
by  allowing  no  weight  to  intelligence, 
talent,  or  knowledge,  from  the  great 
addition  to  mere  numbers,  is  to  bring 
the  democratic  into  open  and  fierce 
collision  with  the  aristocratic  parties. 
The  effect  is  unavoidable,  when  we 
recollect  what  a  multitude  of  indi- 
gent voters,  either  in  the  manufac- 
turing or  landed  interests,  will  be 
reared  up  under  the  new  Bill,  and 
how  small  a  proportion  the  united 
intelligence,  knowledge,  and  thought 
of  the  country  bears  in  point  of  num- 
ber to  the  operative  classes  of  so- 
ciety.    Inverting  the  maxim  of  Ul- 
pian,   "  Testimonia  numeranda  sunt, 
non  ponderanda,"  seems  to  be  the 
principle  of  the  Reform  Bill.     What 
chance,  in  any  future   collision   of 
parties,  will  the  intelligence,  learn- 
ing, or  talent  of  London,  Manches- 
ter, Birmingham,  Liverpool,  Bristol, 
Glasgow,  or  Edinburgh,  have  with 
the  mass  of  democratic  vehemence, 


1831.]         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


or  commercial  corruption,  with  which 
the  elections  in  these  great  sinks  of 
iniquity  will  be  loaded  ?  Between 
the  daily  press  incessantly  stimula- 
ting the  democratic  ambition  of  its 
numerous  readers,  and  commercial 
opulence  pouring  forth  its  streams 
of  gold,  what  prospect  has  the  still 
small  voice  of  reason,  truth,  or  vir- 
tue, of  being  heard?  Evidently  none; 
and  the  hundreds  of  virtuous  and 
reasonable  electors  will  retire  in  dis- 
gust before  the  thousands  of  turbu- 
lent or  corrupted  voters,  whom  the 
Bill,  like  the  sun  of  Egypt,  has  wa- 
kened into  pestiferous  existence. 

Turn  to  the  counties.  Is  the  pros- 
pect of  a  rational  body  of  freehold- 
ers becoming  influential  at  all  more 
favourable  in  that  quarter  ?  It  will 
no  longer  be  the  forty-shilling  free- 
holders, but  the  dependant  tenantry, 
who  will  carry  the  day.  The  great 
noblemen,  the  immense  proprietors, 
with  their  armies  of  dependant  te- 
nantry, will  overwhelm  the  independ- 
ent freeholders  in  all  but  the  great 
counties.  Nothing  but  the  manufac- 
turing towns  and  villages  will  be  able 
to  withstand  them,  even  in  the  larger 
electoral  departments.  Wherever 
manufactures  have  been  generally 
diffused,  there  the  multitude  of  free- 
holders who  issue  from  the  small 
towns  will  carry  the  day  in  favour  of 
the  democratic;  wherever  the  dis- 
trict is  exclusively  rural,  the  tenants 
at  will  will  secure  the  victory  to  the 
aristocratic  parties.  The  real  strength 
and  nerve  of  the  state — the  gentry, 
the  clergy,  the  learned  professions, 
the  respectable  tradesmen,  shop- 
keepers, and  merchants,  will  practi- 
cally be  for  ever  excluded. 

In  the  small  boroughs,  the  effect 
will  be  the  same.  Wherever  manu- 
facturers predominate,  as  Bolton, 
Halifax,  Stockport,  Macclesfield,  the 
democratic  party  will  obtain  an  as- 
cendency ;  wherever  the  district  is 
exclusively  rural,  the  influence  of 
the  rural  great  proprietors  will  be- 
come paramount.  A  new  set  of  no- 
mination boroughs  and  nomination 
districts  will  supply  the  place  of  those 
which  have  been  destroyed ;  and 
after  the  violation  of  chartered  rights, 
and  the  overthrow  of  the  existing 
constitution,  the  very  evil  which  is 
so  much  complained  of  will  re-ap- 
pear in  another  form : 
"  Mutato  nomine  de  te  fabiila  narrator," 


609 

But  this  state  of  matters  cannot 
last  long ;  and  it  is  easy  to  foresee, 
after  the  middling  orders  have  been 
extinguished  by  the  immense  addi- 
tion of  voters  to  the  aristocratic  and 
democratic  parties,  which  of  the  two 
will  be  ultimately  overthrown.  la 
these  days  of  reform  and  revolution, 
it  is  impossible  tliat  the  aristocratic 
classes,  if  the  grand  precedent  of 
yielding  to  popular  clamour  by  the 
passing  of  the  Reform  Bill  has  once 
been  established,  can  long  resist  the 
democratical.  How,  on  the  princi- 
ples which  the  reforming  aristocrats 
themselves  have  established,  will 
they  be  able  to  withstand  such  ulte- 
rior measures  of  reform  as  shall  com- 
pletely deprive  them  of  the  shadow 
of  authority  ?  How,  for  example,  if 
the  new  electoral  departments  shall 
prove  to  be  nomination  districts  in 
favour  of  certain  great  families,  will 
they  be  able  to  resist  the  argument, 
that,  professing  to  cleanse,  they  have 
in  reality  added  to  the  filth  of  the 
Augean  stable,  and  carried  the  evils 
of  nomination  into  those  branches  of 
the  representation  where  heretofore 
it  had  never  existed  ?  How,  if  many 
of  the  small  boroughs,  with  their 
surrounding  rural  districts,  turn  out 
to  be  in  fact  entirely  under  the  con- 
trol of  a  peer  in  the  neighbourhood, 
will  they  contrive  to  evade  the  cla- 
mour which  will  be  raised  by  the 
democratic  faction  recently  so  vehe- 
ment in  their  support  ?  On  what 
principle  of  justice  or  expedience, 
after  having  made  such  prodigious 
havoc  in  the  ancient  institutions  of 
the  country,  can  they  hereafter  set 
their  faces  to  the  upholding  of  rotten 
boroughs  of  their  own  creation  ?— 
Vain  will  then  be  the  argument 
founded  on  usage,  antiquity,  or  esta- 
blished rights ;  the  democratic  vi- 
gour which  overthrew  institutions 
of  six  hundred  years'  standing,  will 
speedily  crush  the  exotics  of  a  few 
years'  growth;  the  ephemeral  British 
constitution,  deprived  of  its  ancient 
roots,  will  fall  as  rapidly  as  the  new- 
born constitutions  of  the  continent. 

One  would  think,  from  the  lan- 
guage and  conduct  of  the  supporters 
of  the  Bill,  that  they  imagine  that 
the  spirit  of  democratic  ambition 
which  they  have  so  powerfully  ex- 
cited will  be  hushed  the  moment  it 
has  accomplished  its  destined  pur- 
pose of  destroying  Tory  influence, 


610 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  Prenck  Revolution.          [Oc 


and  that  the  Reformers  will  quietly 
allow  a  new  set  of  Whig  nomination 
districts  and  Whig  boroughs  to  glide 
into  the  undisturbed  sovereignty  of 
the  country.  They  will  find,  that  the 
torrent  they  have  let  loose  Is  not  so 
easily  arrested  :  like  the  countryman 
in  Horace, 

"  Ilusticus  cxpectat  dum  defluat  amnls : 

at  illc 
Labitttr    et    Jabetur   in  omne    rolubilis 

serum." 

The  dilemma  is  unavoidable.  Ei- 
ther the  Reform  Bill  will  destroy 
the  nomination  boroughs,  and  the 
influence  of  property,  or  it  will  not. 
If  it  does,  on  the  principles  of  the 
Ministry  themselves,  it  leaves  no  bul- 
wark to  protect  us  from  the  flood  of 
democracy,  and  the  whole  institu- 
tions, property,  and  lives  of  the  na- 
tion are  at  the  mercy  of  a  lawless 
ra'oble ;  if  it  does  not,  it  interposes 
b  etwixt  us  and  destruction  only  such 
ft  rampart  as  the  Reform  Bill  pro- 
fesses to  destroy,  and  leaves  the 
seeds  of  interminable  jealousy  and 
discord  between  the  aristocratic  and 
levelling  parties. 

Lord  Milton  has  said,  that  one 
great  advantage  of  the  uniformity  of 
the  representation  is,  that  it  will  bring 
up  a  different  set  of  voters  in  differ- 
ent places  to  the  polls,  by  reason  of 
the  great  distinction  between  the 
class  of  persons  inhabiting  L.10 
houses  in  the  great  and  the  small 
towns,  and  thus  reproduce  that  va- 
riety of  qualification  which  has  been 
found  to  be  so  productive  of  advan- 
tage under  the  old  system.  The  ob- 
servation is  j  ust ;  but  so  far  from 
being  a  consideration  in  favour,  it 
furnishes  one  of  the  strongest  argu- 
ments against  the  Bill.  Every  body 
knows,  that  the  holders  of  L.10 
houses  in  great  towns,  such  as  Lon- 
don, Manchester,  or  Glasgow,  are 
among  the  most  indigent,  profligate, 
and  abandoned  of  the  community ; 
keepers  of  ale-houses,  brothels,  and 
lodging-houses,  constitute  a  decided 
majority  in  every  one  of  them  ;  while 
in  small,  and  especially  rural  bo- 
roughs, they  frequently  are  a  most 
respectable  class.  The  persons  in- 
habiting L.10  houses  in  the  little 
boroughs  are  on  a  level,  in  point 
of  property,  respectability,  and  situ- 
ation, with  the  tenants  of  houses 
rented  at  L.40,  L.50,  or  L.70,  in  the 


. 


metropolis  or  great  manufacturing 
cities.  Mr  Hunt  has  avowed,  that  the 
L.10  system  in  the  great  towns  is 
nearly  equivalent  to  an  admission  of 
all  paying  scot  and  lot.  To  have, 
therefore,  the  only  certain  basis  of  a 
stable  and  beneficent  government— 
a  respectable  set  of  freeholders — the 
qualification  should  have  been  great- 
ly higher  in  large  than  in  small  towns, 
instead  of,  under  the  pretence  of  an 
uniform  system,  bringing  up  the  low- 
est of  the  people  in  one  place,  and  a 
class  greatly  above  them  in  another. 
But  what  does  the  Reform  Bill  do  ? 
It  brings  up  the  lowest  class  of  house- 
holders, even  weekly  lodgers,  ale- 
house and  brothel-keepers  in  the 
great  towns,  where  vice,  profligacy, 
and  corruption  are  so  abundant,  and 
confines  the  franchise  to  a  compara- 
tively small  and  select  class  in  the 
rural  boroughs,  where  the  tempta- 
tions to  vice  are  so  much  fewer, 
and  the  character  of  the  people  is  so 
much  more  pure;  that  is  to  say,  it 
spreads  political  power  profusely 
among  the  most  abandoned,  inflam- 
mable, and  corruptible  of  the  com- 
munity, and  scatters  it  with  cautious 
frugality  among  those  whose  pas- 
sions are  cooler,  morals  more  pure, 
and  circumstances  more  independ- 
ent! Was  such  a  plan  intended  to 
bring  the  representative  system  it- 
self into  contempt,  from  the  fierce 
contest  of  passions  which  it  must 
generate,  and  the  unblushing  effron- 
tery with  which  corruption  will  bring 
its  infamous  thousands  to  the  poll  ? 
or  was  it  intended  to  put  the  desti- 
nies of  the  country  alternately  at  the 
mercy  of  the  passion  for  democratic 
power,  and  the  sway  of  patrician 
corruption  ? 

No  error  is  more  palpable  than  that 
which  asserts  that  large  bodies  cannot 
be  corrupted,  and  that  by  multiply- 
ing the  number  of  electors,  you  pre- 
clude the  possibility  of  undue  influ- 
ence being  exerted  over  them.  If 
this  be  the  case,  how  is  it  that  the  cost 
of  a  contested  election  in  Yorkshire 
is  L.I 00,000  to  each  candidate,  and 
that  so  few  struggles  take  place  in 
the  English  counties,  from  the  ac- 
knowledged inability  even  of  the 
great  families  to  sustain  them  ?  How 
comes  it  that  the  two  most  disgrace- 
ful instances  of  undue  influence  and 
corruption  which  have  occurred  of 
late  years  have  been  among  the  im- 


1831.]          On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.  611 


mense  constituency  of  Dublin  and 
Liverpool  ?  How  did  it  happen  that 
L.10  a-vote  was  the  regular  price  of 
the  Liverpool  patriots,  and  that  when 
government  influence  was  checked 
at  Dublin  by  the  exposure  of  its  for- 
mer achievements,  the  election  ran 
directly  against  that  which  formerly 
had  taken  place?  In  truth,  great 
cities  are  the  natural  asylum  and  se- 
cure resting  places  of  corruption,  as 
of  every  other  vice;  because  it  is 
there  that  example  spreads  the  con- 
tagion of  wickedness,  and  numbers 
conceal  its  individual  infamy. 

As  little  is  there  any  foundation 
for  the  assertion,  that  there  is  no 
evil  in  the  L.10  system  in  towns  ; 
because  a  large  proportion — in  some 
places  a  majority— of  the  houses  are 
rented  above  that  sum.  Is  the  cir- 
cumstance ot  inhabiting  ahouse  above 
or  below  L.10  the  line  of  demarca- 
tion between  the  levelling  and  the 
conservative  parties  ?  In  truth,  it  is 
in  the  people  inhabiting  houses  some- 
what above  L.10  that  the  most  con- 
sistent, united,  and  formidable  efforts 
in  support  of  democratic  power  are 
to  be  expected.  Revolutions  are 
never  formidable  when  they  are  con- 
ducted merely  by  the  poorest  class ; 
the  insurrections  of  Wat  Tyler  in  the 
time  of  Richard  II.,  of  the  Radicals 
in  1820,  and  of  the  Farm-burners  last 
winter,  were  speedily  suppressed. 
It  is  when  they  are  headed  and  sup- 
ported by  a  superior  class  ;  when 
the  passion  for  power  has  spread 
among  the  lower  class  of  the  mid- 
dling orders;  when  the  men  of  intel- 
ligence, struggling  with  the  world,  are 
infected  with  the  contagion  of  demo- 
cracy, that  the  approach  of  a  revo- 
lution may  with  probability  be  pre- 
dicted. The  only  way  of  resisting 
the  danger,  is  to  arm  in  favour  of  the 
existing  order  the  middling  orders 
who  have  made  money  ;  because 
while,  generally  speaking,  those  of 
that  rank  who  have  their  fortunes  to 
make  are  democrats,  those  who  have 
made  it  are  inclined  to  the  conserva- 
tive side.  But  what  does  the  Reform 
Bill  do  ?  It  vests  political  power  not 
in  the  hands  of  the  proprietor,  but 
of  the  would-be  proprietor  ;  not  of 
the  landlords,  but  the  tenant;  and 
thereby  puts  the  country  at  the  mer- 


cy, not  of  the  class  who,  by  having 
realised  property,  will  resist  spolia- 
tion, but  ot  that  which,  by  being 
only  anxious  to  make  it,  will  gene- 
rally concur  in  the  adoption  of  level- 
ling measures.  The  people  to  be 
dreaded  are  not  the  day-labourers,  for 
they  are  below  democratic  ambition, 
and  have  not  the  power  to  exert  it ; 
nor  the  considerable  proprietors,  for 
they  are  to  be  its  victims;  but  the 
intermediate  body— those  who  are 
sufficiently  raised  above  the  mere  ope- 
rative to  awaken  the  passion  for  still 
greater  elevation,  and  yet  sufficiently 
destitute  of  any  considerable  savings 
to  incur  any  hazard  from  violent  de- 
mocratic institutions.  Such  a  class 
is  to  be  found  in  the  tenants  of  houses 
in  the  large  towns  rented  at  from 
L.10  to  L.30  or  L.40,  who  have  ac- 
quired an  income  sufficient  to  pay 
the  rent  of  such  a  dwelling,  and 
not  capital  enough  to  purchase  it ; 
who  live  by  their  wits  or  their  la- 
bour, and  are  almost  uniformly  hos- 
tile to  those  who,  by  the  acquisi- 
tion or  inheritance  of  independence, 
are  enabled  to  dispense  with  the  ex- 
ertion of  either.  It  was  in  this  nu- 
merous, ambitious,  and  restless  class 
that  the  French  Revolution  com- 
menced :  and  it  was  not  till  a  late 
stage  of  its  progress  that  they  were 
swept  away  by  the  insurrection  of 
their  inferiors  : — "  The  insurrection 
of  July  14th,  1789,  the  storming  of 
the  Bastile,  and  the  captivity  of  the 
king,"  says  Mignet,  the  republican 
historian,  "  were  the  revolt  of  the 
middling  class  (classe  moyenne) 
against  the  aristocrats ;  that  of  Au- 
gust 10th,  1792,  which  established 
the  Reign  of  Terror,  the  insurrection 
of  the  working  classes  against  the 
middling."* 

There  never,  therefore,  was  such 
a  mistake  as  to  imagine,  that  there  is 
the  slightest  security  against  the 
adoption  of  the  most  extreme  demo- 
cratic measures,  in  the  circumstance 
that  the  majority  of  the  electors  in 
the  boroughs,  who  return  two-thirds 
of  the  House  of  Commons,  are  the 
tenants  of  houses  rented  at  more  than 
L.10.  In  truth,  in  the  tenants  in 
large  cities  of  houses  rented  between 
L.20  and  L.30,  the  germ  of  all  suc- 
cessful and  formidable  revolutions  is 


*  Mignet,  vol.  i,  ch,  7. 


612  On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French.  Revolution. 


to  be  found.  In  the  operatives,  and 
classes  below  them,  may  be  found 
the  physical  force  which  is  to  achieve, 
but  in  themselves  is  to  be  sought  the 
passions  which  are  to  excite,  and  the 
ability  which  is  to  organize,  a  revolu- 
tion. It  was  not  among  the  poorer 
classes,  but  the  sons  of  the  yeoman- 
ry, who  received  half-a-crown  a-day 
of  pay,  equivalent  to  at  least  seven 
shillings  of  our  money,  that  Crom- 
well recruited  for  the  Iron  Bands, 
which  first  supported,  and  then  over- 
threw, the  Long  Parliament. 

That  an  error  so  glaring,  and  fraught 
with  such  fatal  consequences  as  this, 
should  have  been  made  one  of  the 
principal  arguments  in  support  of 
the  Reform  Bill,  is  the  strongest 
proof  of  the  happy  ignorance  of  the 
principles  of  revolutions,  which  per- 
vades not  only  our  rulers,  but  our 
people.  It  would  be  ridiculed  as 
the  height  of  absurdity,  both  in 
France  and  America,  where  experi- 
ence has  made  all  classes  too  well 
acquainted  with  the  real  fountains  of 
democratic  ambition.  No  one  can 
study  the  Republican  historians  of 
France,  especially  Mignetand  Thiers, 
whose  ability  has  so  clearly  genera- 
lised and  classified  the  events  of 
their  Revolution,  without  being  con- 
vinced of  this  truth,  that  it  is  among 
the  poorer  of  the  middling  ranks  that 
the  seeds  of  revolution  first  begin  to 
germinate,  and  from  them  that  its 
first  explosions  take  place.  That 
they  speedily  fall  as  victims  to  their 
inferiors,  and, "like  reapers,  descend 
to  the  harvest  of  death,"  is,  indeed, 
equally  certain  ;  but  large  bodies  of 
men  never  look  beyond  first  conse- 
quences in  political  actions.  And  it 
is  to  this  class,  that,  with  an  incon- 
ceivable, but  fatal  accuracy,  the  Re- 
form Bill  intrusts  political  power  in 
all  our  boroughs ;  that  is,  in  the  elec- 
tors of  two-thirds  of  the  English 
House  of  Commons.* 

The  magnitude  of  this  evil  will  ap- 
pear still  more  striking,  when  the  pre- 
sent tendency  of  our  population  is  con- 
sidered. From  the  return  of  thenum- 
bers  of  the  people  in  1831,  it  appears 
that  while  the  rural  population  has 


[Oct. 

seldom  considerably  increased,  the 
manufacturing  towns  have,  in  the  last 
10  years,  generally  added  50,  in  some 
places,  even  100  per  cent  to  their 
numbers.  It  is  this  silent  and  un- 
noticed increase  of  the  manufacturing 
freeholders  which  has  been  one  among 
many  of  the  causes  which  have  pro- 
duced the  present  Reform  tempest, 
by  gradually  turning  the  scale  of  the 
county  members,  and  bringing  at  last 
almost  the  whole  of  that  important 
body  into  the  class  of  reformers. 

Now,  with  this  prodigious  and 
rapid  increase  of  our  manufactu- 
ring freeholders,  how  formidable  is 
the  prospect,  that  the  whole  L.10 
householders,  paying  their  rents 
weekly,  are  to  be  permitted  votes  ! 
Two-thirds  of  the  whole  inhabitants 
of  Great  Britain  are  even  now  en- 
gaged in  trade  and  manufactures; 
and,  to  all  appearance,  the  number 
will  soon  be  three-fourths.  That  the 
majority  of  this  great  body  will  al- 
ways be  democratical,  may  safely  be 
predicted  from  the  experience  of 
every  age  and  country ;  and  how  its 
influence  is  to  be  withstood  when  its 
members  are  returned  by  the  most 
inflammable  and  least  opulent  of  its 
number,  is  a  question  which  it  ia 
painful  to  contemplate. 

It  is  impossible  to  suppose  that 
the  proportion  and  number  of  mem- 
bers, fixed  by  the  present  Reform 
Bill,  can  be  permanent.  On  the 
principles  of  the  Bill  itself,  they  must 
be  abandoned.  How,  after  having 
disfranchised  168  seats  on  the  ground 
of  the  population  having  decayed, 
will  they  be  able  to  resist  the  demand 
for  additional  members  on  the  part 
of  the  increasing  manufacturing 
towns  ?  How  will  they  be  able  to 
stave  off  the  claim  for  two  members 
on  the  part  of  so  many  towns  which 
now  are  to  send  only  one  ?  On  what 
principle  can  Dundee,  with  a  popu- 
lation of  40,000,  or  Aberdeen,  with 
a  population  of  52,000,  be  left  with 
only  one  member  each,  or  Perth, 
with  a  population  of  21,000,  with 
none  at  all,  when  so  many  boroughs 
in  schedule  B,  with  a  population 
hardly  exceeding  4000,  return  one 


*  Lord  Althorpe  has  said,  that  the  principle  of  the  Bill  is,  to  make  the  elective 
franchise  extend down  to  the  point  where  property  begins.  He  could  not  have  expressed 
more  clearly  its  tendency  to  vest  overwhelming  power  in  the  class  where  revolution- 
ary energy  is  chidly  to  bo  found. 


183 1 .]         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  tlie  French  Revolution. 


member,  and  so  great  a  number  of 
old  boroughs  return  two  members, 
with  so  few  inhabitants  that  they  can 
only  make  up  300  voters  by  taking 
in  the  surrounding  districts  ?  The 
thing  is  obviously  out  of  the  ques- 
tion j  and  the  same  democratic  exer- 
tions, which  have  enabled  the  present 
Reformers  to  overthrow  the  consti- 
tution, will  be  exerted  against  the 
Whig  aristocrats,  until  they  have 
either  extinguished  the  boroughs 
where  their  influence  has  become 
paramount,  or  so  much  augmented 
the  number  of  members  for  the  ma- 
nufacturing towns,  as  to  render  their 
existence  a  matter  of  no  importance. 
It  is  always  to  be  recollected,  that 
the  experience  of  the  recent  election 
demonstrates,  that,  in  moments  of 
democratic  exultation,  the  existing 
electors  are  so  far  from  resisting  the 
introduction  of  new  members  and  a 
more  extended  suffrage,  that  they 
strongly  support  it ;  a  fact  perfectly 
familiar  to  all  persons  acquainted 
with  the  details  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution; but  which  could  not  a  priori 
have  been  anticipated  from  what  had 
been  observed  in  this  country. 

The  tremendous  danger, therefore, 
of  the  present  Reform  Bill  consists  in 
this,  that  it  teaches  the  democratic 
party  to  know  their  own  strength,  by 
avowedly  being  conceded  to  popu- 
lar clamour :  that  it  rests  the  majo- 
rity of  suffrages  in  the  hands  of  the 
most  inflammable,  most  indigent, 
and  least  rational  part  of  the  commu- 
nity ;  and  at  the  same  time  is  very  far 
indeed  from  giving  that  equal  repre- 
sentation to  the  people  which  might 
preclude  the  possibility  of  farther 
demands.  It  proposes  to  counter- 
balance the  consequences  of  too  low 
an  extension  of  the  suffrage  to  the 
manufacturers,  by  giving  too  low  a 
suffrage  to  the  farmers  :  and  thus  in- 
jures the  constitution  alike  by  the 
enemies  whom  it  admits  into  its  bo- 
som, and  the  allies  whom  it  deems 
necessary  to  resist  them. 

That  the  extension  of  the  elective 
franchise  to  tenants  at  will  is  a  de- 
parture from  the  true  principles  of 
representation,  is  self-evident.  Its 
effect  upon  agriculture  and  popula- 
tion threatens  to  be  not  less  serious. 
Experience  has  proved  what  was 
the  consequence  of  the  forty-shilling 
freeholders  on  the  Irish  estates — The 
degradation  of  agriculture,  the  split- 

VOL.  XXX.  NO.  CLXXXVI. 


613 

ting  of  farms,  the  multiplication  of 
the  poor.  Similar  consequences  must 
be  expected  from  the  great  impulse 
to  small  farms  which  the  necessity 
of  creating  freeholds  will  occasion. 
The  landlords  will  find  that  they 
have  no  alternative :  the  influence 
of  the  democratic  electors  issuing 
from  the  small  towns  will  be  such 
that  it  cannot  be  withstood  in  any 
other  way.  If  they  would  avert  the 
repeal  of  the  corn  laws,  the  confis- 
cation of  the  church  property,  and 
other  consequences  of  democratic 
ascendency,  they  must  multiply  to 
the  utmost  of  their  power  the  num- 
ber of  rural  freeholds. 

Universally  over  England  at  the 
last  election,  it  was  the  freeholders 
in  the  small  towns  who  carried  the 
reform  candidates  against  the  rural 
electors.     Ask   any  gentleman    ac- 
quainted with  the  state  of  parties  in 
Yorkshire,    Northumberland,  Kent, 
or  Devonshire,  why  they  did  not 
contest  these  great  counties  Avith  the 
democratic  party,  and  they  will  an- 
swer, that  they  could  have  counted 
on  a  majority  of  the  rural  freehold- 
ers, that  the  landed  proprietors  were 
almost  all  against  the  Bill ;  but  that 
they  had  no  chance  against  the  nu- 
merous bands  of  reforming  electors 
who  issued  out  of  all  the  little  towns. 
This  state  of  things,  coupled  with 
the  uniform  democratic  tendency  of 
this  latter  body,  rendered  it  abso- 
lutely indispensable,  at  any  hazard, 
to   provide  a  counterpoise   to  this 
overwhelming  preponderance  of  the 
manufacturing  interests ,-    and   this 
was  done  by  letting  in  the  tenants  at 
will.   It  was  the  part  of  true  patriots, 
therefore,  to  support  this  clause :  not 
as  expedient  in  itself,  not  as  found- 
ed on  the  true  principles  of  repre- 
sentation, but  as  providing  the  only 
possible    bulwark  against  the   for- 
midable addition  made  by  the  Re- 
form Bill  to  the  democratic  party, 
and  the  signal  destruction  which  it 
had  effected  in  the  ancient  strong- 
holds of  the  aristocracy. 

This  fact  is  well  worthy  of  the 
attention  of  those  who  imagine  that 
the  sway  of  the  aristocracy  over  the 
freeholders  in  the  small  towns  will 
soon  reduce  them  to  a  state  of  de- 
pendence on  the  aristocrats  in  their 
neighbourhood.  If  this  be  the  case, 
why  did  it  not  happen  at  the  last 
election  ?  How  were  the  landlords 

2R 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.  [Oct 


614 

from  Northumberland  to  Cornwall, 
from  Cumberland  to  Kent,  every- 
where outvoted  by  the  freeholders 
of  the  little  boroughs  ?  What  came 
of  this  boasted  aristocratic  influence 
in  May  last  ?  It  is  no  answer  to  this 
to  say  that  England  was  then  in  a 
state  of  excitement ;  undoubtedly  it 
was — but  is  the  Reform  Bill  to  be 
the  last  of  our  subjects  of  excite- 
ment? Is  it  not  rather  the  com- 
mencement of  an  incessant  system 
of  agitation,  which  will  never  termi- 
nate as  long  as  journals  are  to  profit, 
democrats  to  figure,  or  plunder  to 
be  acquired  by  it. 

How  disastrous,  then,  have  been 
the  consequences  of  precipitate  inno- 
vation !  By  disfranchising  the  ancient 
boroughs,  and  extending  in  so  pro- 
digal a  manner  political  influence 
among  the  city  inhabitants,  it  has 
become  necessary  to  admit  an  im- 
mense body  of  rural  freeholders, 
from  whom  independence  of  action 
cannot  be  expected.  This  again 
occasioned  the  extension  of  the  suf- 
frage to  weekly  tenants,  that  is,  to 
the  most  democratic  class  of  the 
community.  Thus,  by  the  conse- 
quence or  one  fatal  step,  have  the 
principles  of  representative  govern- 
ment been  abandoned  on  both  sides, 
and  both  parties,  by  their  jealousy  of 
each  other,  recruited  their  forces  with 
classes  of  men,  who  threaten  to  be 
as  formidable  to  their  friends  as  their 
enemies,  and  utterly  to  exterminate 
between  them  the  better  class  of  the 
middling  ranks,  that  is,  the  very  body 
In  whom  a  preponderating  influence 
should  have  been  vested. 

The  consequences,  therefore,  of  the 
Bill,  as  it  at  present  stands,  promise 
to  be  these : — 

1 .  By  the  vast  addition  to  the  num- 
ber of  electors  in  the  large  cities  and 
counties,  from  the  introduction  of 
the  weekly  lodgers  in  the  former, 
and  the  tenants  at  will  in  the  latter, 
the  influence  of  the  middling  ranks 
will  be  destroyed. 

2.  The  aristocratic   party,  resting 
on  the  small  boroughs  and  nomina- 
tion districts,  will  be  left  in  direct 
and  fierce  collision  with  the  demo- 
cratic faction,  resting  on  their  great 
cities  and  manufacturing  provinces. 

8.  In  this  contest,  the  example  of 
what  was  previously  achieved  by 
the  force  of  popular  outcry  in  de- 
stroying the  old  constitution,  joined 


to  the  indignation  at  finding  them- 
selves so  much  deceived  by  their 
professed  friends,  will  speedily  de- 
termine the  contest  in  favour  of  the 
democratic  party. 

From  the  moment  that  the  Revo- 
lution broke  out  in  Paris  in  July 
1830,  we  have  never  ceased  to  pre- 
dict that  it  would  produce  the  most 
disastrous  results  :  that  it  would  de- 
luge Europe  with  blood,  unhinge  the 
fabric  of  society,  and  retard  by  a 
very  long  period,  in  every  country, 
the  consolidation  of  real  freedom. 
How  have  our  predictions  been  re- 
alised ! 

In  Paris,  the  centre  of  the  volcano, 
nothing  but  uncertainty,  weakness, 
and  distraction  has  since  prevailed. 
During  the  short  period  of  thirteen 
months,  four  different  administra- 
tions have  been  called  to  the  helm 
of  affairs,  and  been  successively  obli- 
ged to  abandon  it,  from  the  expe- 
rienced weakness  of  Government: 
distrust  and  terror  have  pervaded 
the  higher  ranks,  misery  and  destitu- 
tion the  lower :  the  burdens  of  the 
nation  have  been  enormously  aug- 
mented without  any  addition  to  the 
means  of  its  productive  industry; 
the  crown  domains  have  been  alien- 
ated, two  hundred  millions  of  debt 
incurred;  the  land-tax  greatly  in- 
creased, without  the  slightest  bene- 
fit to  any  class  but  that  of  the  revo- 
lutionary soldiers  j  the  Government 
has  proclaimed  its  inability  to  with- 
stand the  outcry  of  the  populace, 
however  ruinously  directed,  and  the 
Minister,  who  stated  that  reason  and 
experience  alike  recommend  the 
support  of  the  hereditary  peerage, 
has  confessed  that  he  is  under  the  ne- 
cessity of  abandoning  it.  The  Peers, 
as  a  hereditary  body,  are  abolished, 
and  the  throne  is  only  preserved  for 
a  time  by  submission  to  the  multi- 
tude. 

Brussels  was  the  next  theatre  of 
the  revolutionary  action,  and  what 
has  it  there  achieved  ?  The  dismem- 
berment of  a  flourishing  monarchy ; 
the  steeping  of  Flanders  in  unheard- 
of  misery ;  its  utter  prostration  as 
a  political  power.  Leopold  has 
mounted  the  throne  of  Belgium,  and 
he  finds  himself  without  a  sous  in 
his  treasury,  or  a  battalion  in  his 
army ;  his  troops  have  all  dispersed 
after  the  most  disgraceful  defeats 
which  have  occurred  in  the  memory 


1831.]        On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.  615 

of  man ;  and  he  is  upheld  in  his  pre- 
carious situation  only  by  the  bayonets 
of  a  foreign  force.  Flanders  has 
descended  from  its  rank  as  an  inde- 
pendent power  to  become  the  vas- 
sals, and  ere  long  a  province  of 
France :  the  fumes  of  Belgian  pa- 
triotism have  led  to  the  present  dis- 
grace and  ultimate  partition  of  their 
country. 

Poland  was  the  next  country  which 
was  attacked  by  the  revolutionary 
fever ;  and  in  what  condition  is  that 
unhappy  state  precipitated  into  a 
contest  beyond  its  strength,  distract- 
ed by  the  fury  of  revolutionary  ac- 
tion !  Even  the  heroism  of  its  inha- 
bitants, and  the  sacred  cause  of  na- 
tional independence,  have  not  been 
able  to  save  it  from  destruction : 
streaming  with  blood,  decimated  by 
the  sword  and  pestilence,  it  is  sink- 
ing into  ruin,  and  the  last  struggles  of 
its  existence  are  stained  by  popular 
murders  that  recall  the  massacres  in 
the  prisons  in  the  days  of  Danton. 

England  also  has  shared  in  the 
general  contagion,  and  what  have 
been  its  consequences  ?  A  consider- 
able addition  to  the  standing  army, 
the  embodying  of  the  militia,  general 
distrust  and  apprehension;  an  in- 
creasing stagnation  in  every  branch 
of  industry ;  the  excitation  of  politi- 
cal passions  of  unprecedented  vio- 
lence ;  the  attempted  and  all  but 
completed  destruction  of  the  consti- 
tution, under  which  unexampled 
prosperity  and  liberty  had  been  en- 
joyed. The  peace  of  Europe,  lately 
secured  on  so  stable  a  foundation, 
hangs  on  a  thread ;  the  oldest  allies 
of  England  have  been  insulted  with 
impunity  ;  that  which  the  sword  of 
Napoleon  could  not  effect,  the  fumes 
of  Revolution  have  achieved ;  the 
rocks  of  Torres  Vedras  have  wit- 
nessed the  surrender  of  the  Portu- 
guese fleet,  and  the  graves  of  Water- 
loo started  at  the  march  of  the  French 
battalions.  Such  have  been  the  con- 
sequences of  Revolution  up  to  this 


hour :  may'wisdom,  ere  it  is  too  late, 
be  learned  from  experience,  and  the 
firmness  of  the  British  aristocracy 
interpose  between  the  people  and 
their  impending  ruin  I 

The  process  for  forcing  the  Re- 
form Bill  through  the  Upper  House, 
has  already  commenced :    Sixteen 
members  have  been  added  to  the 
House  of  Peers  at  the  Coronation, 
besides  the  Peers  whose  dignity  was 
advanced,  which,  with  five  already 
created,  makes  twenty-one  Peers  cre- 
ated to  vote  for  the  Reform  Bill! 
Twelve  was  the  greatest    number 
ever  before  .made  for  a  single  pur- 
pose, which  was  in  thetimeof  Queen 
Anne.  The  average  number  of  crea- 
tions for  the  last  century  has  been 
five.    This  year  it  has  been  above 
twenty.    It  is  a  singular  fact,  that 
the  most  violent  stretches  of  the 
royal  prerogative  have  always  been 
made  by  the  Whig  party :  That  Mr 
Fox  signalized  his  administration  in 
1783,  by  the  attempt  to  throw  the 
whole  patronage   of  India  into  the 
hands  of  Government,  and  Earl  Grey 
has  marked  his  ascent  to  power  by 
a  creation  of  Peers  unparalleled  since 
the  Revolution.  The  friends  of  free- 
dom, the  advocates  for  discussion, 
the  champions  of  the  people,  have 
exercised  the  power  of  the  Crown 
with  less  restraint  than  their  politi- 
cal opponents  ever  dreamed  of  doing. 
The  design  to  overpower  argument 
by  created  numbers,  is  now  appa- 
rent ;  and  if  the  Reform  Bill  is  to  be 
carried,  it  will  be  not  by  the  power 
of  reason,  but  by  an  unprecedented 
exertion  of  power.    But  let  us  hope 
that  this  extreme  measure  will  be  as 
ineffectual  as  it  is  unexampled ;  that 
a  majority  of  the  hereditary  guardi- 
ans of  Britain  will  revolt  at  the  at- 
tempt ;  and  that  by  rejecting  this 
Bill,  the  Peers  will  prevent  at  once 
the  future  degradation  of  their  own 
dignity,  and  the  destruction  of  the 
constitution  under  which  it  has  been 
acquired, 


616 


Extracts  from  an  Unseasonable  Story. 


[Oct. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  AN  UNSEASONABLE  STORY. 

CHAP.  I. 

ORANGE  PROCESSIONS. 


THERE  was  much  activity  and  ex- 
citement in  the  province  of  Ulster  in 
Ireland,  during  the  summer  of  18 — . 
In  various  places,  and  with  menaces 
which  it  was  thought  unwise  to  disre- 
gard, insubordination  had  begun  to 
manifest  itself — law  failed  of  produ- 
cingits  wonted  effects,and  theOrange- 
men  of  the. North  were  aroused  into 
a  more  than  ordinarily  energetic  ma- 
nifestation of  their  principles  and 
theirresolution.  Whether  the  Orange- 
men or  their  adversaries  were  influ- 
enced by  the  purer  motives,  and 
armed  for  defence,  is  a  question  to 
be  entertained  in  works  of  more  pre- 
tension than  this  little  narrative.  I 
only  speak,  right  on,  that  I  do  know ; 
and,  contented  with  relating  the  fates 
and  fortunes  of  individuals  in  whom 
I  feel  or  have  felt  interest,  willingly 
commit  to  writers  of  deeper  penetra- 
tion, the  office  of  developing  the  feel- 
ings and  analyzing  the  principles  by 
which  factions  and  parties  in  Ireland 
have  been  influenced.  For  me,  it  is 
sufficient  to  repeat,  that,  in  the  sum- 
mer of  18 — ,  outrages  of  an  insurrec- 
tionary character  had  become  fre- 
quent in  the  North  of  Ireland,  and 
that  the  Orangemen  of  Ulster  profes- 
sed, at  least,  to  feel  alarm  at  the  not 
ambiguous  intimations  of  approach- 
ing danger. 

In  consequence,  they  determined 
that  the  "  Battle  of  the  Boyne"  should 
be  commemorated  with  more  than 
the  ordinary  manifestations  of  rejoi- 
cing ;  and  upon  its  anniversary  day, 
a  show  of  strength  was  to  be  made  by 
the  various  Orange  lodges,  which  it 
was  expected  would  have  a  salutary 
effect  upon  the  minds  of  friends,  and 
if  it  could  not  exorcise  the  bad  spirit 
by  which  the  heart  of  the  adversary 
was  possessed,  would  tend  very 
considerably  to  abate  the  fury  with 
which  he  was  disposed  to  manifest 
his  presence.  The  night  preceding 
the  12th  of  July  wore  tediously  away. 
The  martial  and  patriotic,  if  not  me- 
lodious strains  which,  at  various  dis- 
tances passed  in  the  air, — the  fre- 
quent rolling  of  the  drum,  and,  occa- 


sionally, the  startling  report  of  a  mus- 
ket-shot, discharged  in  the  needful 
preparation  of  a  weapon,  or  in  mere 
wantonness  of  excitement,  gave  ti- 
dings, that,  upon  this  moonless  but 
most  balmy  night,  man  did  not  par- 
ticipate in  the  benign  repose  which 
hushed  all  the  inferior  creation  in 
most  solemn  tranquillity. 

Indeed,  there  were  instances  in 
which  the  dawning  of  morn  was  not 
expected  with  the  sobriety  in  which 
\t  should  most  fitly  be  saluted.  The 
sounds  issuing  from  various  houses 
in  which  lights  continued  to  glance 
to  and  fro  through  the  entire  night, 
and  certain  odours  occasionally  waft- 
ed to  the  air  through  an  opened 
door  or  window, bore  testimony  that 
the  summer  beverages  of  the  Orange- 
lodges  were  not  of  the  most  cooling 
properties.  Nor  would  such  testi- 
mony be  false,  if  the  inside  of  his 
neighbours'  houses  resembled  that  of 
Peter  Fairclough's.  The  business 
for  which  an  assembly  had  been 
summoned  at  his  "  public"  was  dis- 
patched and  the  lodge  adjourned, 
but  the  guests  had  not  all  departed. 
Many  of  the  old  and  staid  friends 
to  the  Protestant  cause  had  returned 
to  their  homes,  and  lost  their  antici- 
pations of  troubled  times  in  slumber, 
but  some  of  the  younger  and  more 
stirring  spirits  remained,  captivated, 
perhaps,  as  much  by  the  eloquence 
of  their  host,  as  by  the  skilfully  tem- 
pered bowls  which  his  attendant 
damsels  sedulously  provided. 

Peter  Fairclough  was  a  man  of  well 
earned  renown  tor  strength  and  cou- 
rage, and  of  untainted  and  unques- 
tioned loyalty.  He  had  seen  some- 
what more  than  sixty  summers,  and 
he  was  as  prompt  to  act  as  in  the 
days  of  his  youth.  His  appearance 
would,  in  any  condition,  have  com- 
manded attention  and  almost  respect, 
and  you  would  be  inclined  to  say 
that,  if  ever  a  violent  revolution 
burst  the  conventional  barriers  which 
restrain  society,  Peter  Fairclough 
would  be  found  acting  a  conspicu- 
ous part  in  the  melee.  In  stature,  he 


1831.] 


Orange  Processions. 


617 


just  exceeded  the  middle  height,  and 
was  formed  in  large  but  very  grace- 
ful proportions.  His  head  was  bald 
in  front,  but,  at  the  sides  and  back, 
copiously  furnished  with  curled  and 
slightly  grizzled  locks.  His  car- 
riage was  erect  and  bold — and  when, 
you  saw  the  ellwand  in  his  hand, 
(for  Peter  followed  the  calling  of  an 
itinerant  vender  of  the  rich  damasks, 
the  product  of  his  loom,)  you  would 
have  been  struck  with  the  extreme 
disparity  between  his  appearance  and 
his  occupation.  On  the  night  which 
my  story  remembers,  he  sat  at  the 
head  of  his  table,  acting,  although  in 
his  own  house,  as  no  more  than  its 
most  honoured  guest,  surrounded  by 
a  group  of  youthful  and  earnest 
countenances,  speaking  as  one  whose 
words  were  sure  to  be  received  with 
respect,  and  observing  the  caution  of 
a  man  whose  reputation  for  bravery 
ensured  him  against  misconception. 

"  Ha !  lads,"  said  he,  "  when  ye 
have  seen  as  much  as  I  have,  ye'll 
not  be  coveting  so  throng  the  trou- 
bles ye  set  heart  upon.  Nothing  like 
a  quiet  time.  Many  a  fray  I've  had 
my  part  in.  I  was  a  Killyman  wracker 
when  Papists  fought  side  by  side 
with  us.  I  was  at  the  Diamond  when 
they  came  against  us,  and  after  we 
spared  them  in  the  battle,  thought  to 
win  by  treachery.  Many  a  day  I  saw 
them  scatter  and  run,  and  still  the 
best  that  ever  came  of  our  victories 
was  the  peace  which  followed  them. 
When  you  come  to  my  age,  boys, 
you'll  think  that  Peter  Fairclough 
spoke  the  truth." 

"  But  gudesake,  Peter,  man — how 
are  the  lads  to  come  to  your  age,  and 
these  bloody-minded  rebels  raging 
to  devour  them  ?  I  am  not  so  young 
as  they,  but  I  feel  what's  in  their 
thoughts,  and  so  sure  as  they  grow 
too  fond  of  peace,  so  sure  the  curse 
of  war  will  come  to  destroy  them." 

"  Yes,  Peter.  See  to  what  James 
Gaffiny  says.  'Tis  every  word  of  it 
true.  What  did  black  Haulon  say 
across  the  hedge  to  my  mother  and 
me,  and  we  coming  to  our  new  house 
last  March  ?  '  Ye'fe  on  your  flitting,' 
says  he,  'but  ye'll  have  a  sorer  and 
a  bloodier  flitting  before  long.'  " 

"  And  what,"  said  another  voice, 
'  did  a  man  say  to  my  woman  at  our 


own  door,  and  he  coming  there  tra- 
velling ?*  '  The  ban,'  says  he, '  is  as 
deep  and  wide  as  when  thousands  of 
your  sort  found  their  graves  in  it. 
Too  good  it  is  for  the  likes  of  ye,  and 
glad  your  sowls  sould  be,  if  they 
could  bring  it  with  them  when  they 
are  to  go.'  And  did  not  they  put  up 
a  notice  on  the  church-door  that  all 
they  want  is  one  night  of  revenge  ?" 
"  It  is  all  over  true,"  said  Peter. 
"  God  forbid  ye  should  ever  be  un- 
ready. Whenever  they  come,  God 
forbid  that  there  should  not  be  a  man 
with  a  man's  heart,  and  a  true  aim,  to 
welcome  them  as  they  deserve.  It  is 
not  from  Peter  Fairclough  ye  shall 
ever  hear  the  word  '  surrender.' 
Oh,  lads,  but  they  are  grown  strong 
and  daring  since  I  was  like  your- 
selves. I  mind  f  well  they  got  up 
against  us  when  I  was  a  lad,  just  out 
or  my  time,  and  they  said  they'd  do 
great  things,  and  they  got  together 
at  the  fair  of  Lurgan,  and  made  be- 
lieve they  were  come  to  fight.  Oh, 
how  they  did  run  from  fifty  of  us  lads 
that  went  to  meet  them  !  And  what 
do  you  think  we  had  in  our  hands  ? 
now  you  must  have  sword  and 
bayonet — we  went  into  the  fair  with 
nothing  in  our  hands  but  good  weigh- 
ty whips — and  when  they  saw  us 
coming  on  so  careless,  and  heard  the 
one  shout  we  raised  for  the  good  old 
cause,  off  they  scampered,  and  off  we 
went  after  them,  lashing  and  laugh- 
ing till  their  backs  were  well  scored, 
and  our  arms  were  more  tired  with 
play  than  ever  they  were  with  la- 
bour. But,  troth,  lads,  it's  no  laugh- 
ing matter  the  now.  It  is  not  the 
one  spirit  that's  in  them.  They  allow  J 
that  they  will  not  leave  a  Protestant 
in  the  land,  if  they  can  get  a  victory 
over  us.  But  still,  I  am  all  for  peace. 
'Tis  the  very  best  thing  a  man  can 
battle  for.  And  mind,  now,  lads  all, 
mind  till  what  1  say — let  us  have 
peace  in  our  hearts  the  morrow — let 
us  go  quietly  on  our  way,  and  injure 
or  molest  no  man ;  and  if  we  are  of- 
fended or  injured,  here  is  my  pro- 
mise," and  he  smote  the  table  with 
his  strong  hand,  "  here  is  my  pro- 
mise, that  Peter  Fairclough  will  not 
be  late  or  scared  to  take  his  deep 
revenge.  What  say  ye,  lads  ?  Will 
you  swear  with  me,"  said  he,  rising 


A  Euphemism  for  "begging." 


f  Remember. 


Affirm. 


Extracts  from  an  Unseasonable  Story. 


618 


up,  and  streaking  up  bis  arm ; 
"  peace  with  the  peaceful,  and  if  we 
are  opposed,  or  let  or  harried — war, 
until  we  conquer,  and  put  down  un- 
der our  feet  every  rebel  that  comes 
in  fight  against  us." 

The  Orangemen  were  not  the  only 
watchers  on  this  night  of  prepara- 
tion. At  no  great  distance  from 
Peter  Fairclough's  "  public,"  two 
forms  might  be  discerned,  bent  in 
prayer  before  what  seemed  a  dove- 
cot, and  resembled  still  more  per- 
haps a  watchman's  box,  in  an  angle 
of  a  little  garden,  separated  from  the 
road-side  by  a  hedge-row,  and  a 
stream  faintly  audible.  The  charac- 
ter of  the  edifice  before  which  they 
prayed,  will  be  understood  from  the 
conversation  in  which  they  engaged, 
as,  after  the  performance  of  devo- 
tional exercises,  they  pursued  their 
way.  "  Here,  Michael,  is  the  chapel 
which  our  country's  rulers  have  pro- 
vided for  worshippers  of  true  faith 
and  heart.  The  spawn  of  Protestant- 
ism— every  base  and  mingled  sect— 
those  who  think  Christ  such  an  one 
as  themselves,  and  count  his  cross 
foolishness — the  stern  oppressors  of 
civil  government — Ranters  and  Seek- 
ers, Covenanters  and  Socinians — all 
may  claim  protection  and  find  sup- 
port, and  may  worship  in  their  un- 
couth and  sinful  fashion,  in  builded 
houses ;  and  here  is  the  temple  pro- 
vided for  the  faithful — the  scoff  of 
the  heretics — the  mass-box,  as  they 
blasphemously  call  it.  But  where 
are  worshippers  called  togethermore 
steadfast  and  devout,  than  pray  be- 
fore these  contemned  and  insulted 
tabernacles  ?" 

"  Where,  oh  !  where,"  was  the 
reply,  "  could  pious  hearts  find  out 
a  place  more  suitable  to  purposes 
of  true  devotion  ?  The  power  of 
holiness  was  never  more  effectual 
in  my  spirit  than  while  I  bent  be- 
fore that  humble  dwelling.  With 
the  vast  sky  above  my  head,  and 
the  dim  air  around  me,  and  the 
faint  voice  of  the  stream  for  ever 
breathing  near,  I  felt  as  if  the  house 
of  God,  humble  as  it  seems,  was 
placed  in  honour.  I  thought  of  Jesus 
*  when  there  was  no  room  for  him  in 
the  inns  at  Bethlehem,'  and  I  felt  as 
if  all  that  is  holy  in  the  night  gave 

flory  to  that  poor  home  where  still 
esus  condescends  to  be.    But  is  it 


[Oct. 


not  creditable  to  these  poor  blinded 
creatures,  that  they  suffer  these  ap- 
parently defenceless  houses  of  the 
Lord  to  stand  ?  We  saw  how  free 
from  insult  all  seemed  to  be.  Is  it 
not  to  the  praise  of  a  dark  land  that 
they  should  have  remained  so  ?" 

"  Michael,  dear  Michael,  why  will 
you  be  so  perverse,  ever  seeking 
reason  to  praise  the  enemies  of  your 
God  ?  When  the  Ark  of  the  Cove- 
nant was  among  the  Philistines,  do 
you  suppose  they  had  the  power  to 
harm  it  ?  They  were  not  the  less 
Philistines,  or  the  less  accursed,  be- 
cause they  could  not  profane  what 
was  holy.  Nor  are  these  blinded 
and  hard  of  heart  in  this  land,  the 
less  to  be  condemned,  because  the 
shrines  of  the  Lord  remain  unpollu- 
ted. No,  Michael,  from  this  you 
may  learn  how  God  protects  his 
church.  The  enmity  that  assails  it, 
you  may  judge,  when  you  find  it 
thus  in  the  wilderness." 

Conversing  thus  they  approached 
a  low  cottage,  little  distant  from  that 
'*  public"  where  guests  of  so  differ- 
ent principles  protracted  still  their 
entertainment.  All  around  was  si- 
lent, and  it  would  seem  as  if  all  was 
dark  and  still  within.  Only  a  little 
dog  noticed  them,  at  first  by  a  sharp 
short  bark,  then  by  that  low  mut- 
tering and  restlessness  which  seem 
to  acknowledge  an  acquaintance. 
Entrance  was  not  obtained  at  the 
first  knock,  but  when  the  elder  stran- 
ger had  repeated  his  summons,  and 
spoken  in  a  low  voice  words  which 
Michael  could  but  indistinctly  hear, 
the  door  moved  slowly  on  its  hinges, 
and  the  two  visitants  entered  the 
dark,  and,  for  a  moment  it  appeared, 
solitary  cottage.  A  whisper,  how- 
ever, instantly  answered  a  question 
addressed  to  an  unseen  inmate,  and 
as  soon  as  the  entrance  was  secured, 
the  door  of  an  inner  chamber  open- 
ed, and  displayed  lights  and  a  table, 
around  which  the  figures  of  three 
men  were  seen,  who  seemed  intent 
in  earnest  discussion.  [Here,  in 
the  story,  a  description  of  each  coun- 
sellor's personal  appearance  is  given, 
which  (as  well  as  other  personal 
sketches)  is  omitted  in  the  extract, 
both  from  a  proper  regard  for  brevity ', 
and  an  apprehension  that  it  might  be 
mistaken  for  a  portrait.}  At  the  en- 
trance of  a  man,  who  passed  in  from 


1831.1 


Orange  Processions. 


619 


the  darkness  of  the  outer  room  and 
stood  before  them,  they  suspended 
their  discourse,  and  raised  their 
heads.  In  the  next  moment,  the 
strangers  were  introduced,  and  were 
left  to  share  in  the  conference  which 
their  coming  had  for  a  moment  in- 
terrupted. 

The  younger  of  the  two  was,  for 
the  first  time,  presented  to  a  party 
with  whom  his  guide  seemed  fami- 
liarly acquainted.  "  I  have  con- 
ducted hither  this  young  man,"  said 
he,  "  for  whom  I  have  already  testi- 
fied. He  is  worthy  to  have  his  part 
in  the  good  works  you  are  promo- 
ting." 

"  We  bless  God  and  his  saints," 
replied  he  to  whom  this  introduc- 
tion was  more  especially  addressed, 
"  they  have  raised  up'  many  a  cham- 
pion in  this  afflicted  land.  Our 
young  friend  will  prove,  I  trust,  faith- 
ful and  obedient.  The  martyrs  are 
a  noble  army,  our  enemies  them- 
selves being  judges;  but  the  day  is 
near,  when  their  cause  shall  be  illus- 
trious in  victory,  and  the  blood,  long 
crying  out  for  vengeance,  shall  have 
its  prayers.  Honoured  and  happy 
they  who  shall  see  with  their  eyes 
the  divine  consummation,  and  most 
highly  favoured  the  sacred  bands 
who  are  appointed  to  restore  at  once 
church  and  country !  Solemn  assu- 
rance has  been  given  that  you  are 
worthy  to  share  in  this  great  enter- 

Srise.  With  your  own  lips,  say, 
o  you  ratify  the  engagement  ? 
Have  you  counted  the  cost  ?  Have 
you  tried  your  heart,  and  learned 
what  you  can  bear  ?  It  is  an  easy 
thing  to  peril  the  body  in  a  worthy 
cause.  The  servants  of  God's  church 
must  do  more.  Can  you  renounce 
your  own  judgment,  and  take  for  the 
light  of  your  conscience  the  instruc- 
tions of  those  who  bear  commission 
to  teach  and  govern  ?  Can  you  be 
satisfied,  when  the  church  requires, 
to  be  as  the  hand  in  a  sound  body, 
prepared  to  do  the  bidding  enjoined, 
not  palsying  enterprise  by  requiring 
why  is  it  thus  commanded  ?  Can 
you  be  thus  humble,  docile,  and 
obedient,  not  alone  at  the  hazard  of 
possessions  or  life,  but  to  the  self- 
denial  of  renouncing  your  own 
proud  judgment  ?" 

"  I  have  waited  and  watched  in 
prayer  and  fasting.  I  have  mortified 


my  body  and  explored  rny  heart.  I 
know  my  unworthiness  as  well  as 
my  strong  desire.  I  give  myself  up 
to  the  cause  of  true  religion,  and  I 
implore  the  prayers  of  holy  fathers 
and  pious  brethren,  that  my  obe- 
dience may  be  perfect  and  my  works 
accepted." 

"  Enter,  then,  and  be  admitted  a 
partner  in  the  glorious  cause  of  your 
country  and  religion." 

A  curtain  hanging  before  a  deep 
recess  was  drawn  aside,  and  disclo- 
sed an  altar,  on  each  side  of  which 
tall  wax  candles  stood ;  at  its  base, 
what  seemed  a  coffin,  covered  by  a 
black  velvet  pall,  with  a  cross  in  gold 
embroidered  on  it.  The  candles 
were  lighted,  and  the  speaker  con- 
tinued. "  Enter  here,  and  before 
the  altar  whereon  God  is  visibly  pre- 
sent, kneeling  where  the  relics  of 
your  country's  holiest  are  preserved, 
pledge  yourself  to  be  faithful." 

When  they  had  entered  the  recess 
the  curtain  was  drawn,  and  only  the 
sound  of  indistinct  whispers  reached 
the  ears  of  the  party  who  remained 
outside.  When  after  their  short  re- 
treat they  came  forth,  there  was  a 
deadlier  paleness  on  Michael's  cheek 
than  he  had  before  displayed,  and 
there  was  trouble  in  his  eye.  His 
conductor  had  given  in  a  statement 
of  the  manner  in  which  they  had 
been  for  the  two  preceding  days  oc- 
cupied. This  now  became  the  subject 
of  some  interrogatories,  which  were 
not  concluded  when  one  of  the  tri- 
umvirs hastily  interrupted  the  pro- 
ceedings. "  Hush !  I  hear  footsteps 
— see  that  the  lights  are  well  sha- 
ded." 

Light  and  quick  steps  were  heard 
approaching,  and  soon  a  gentle  tap 
at  the  outer  door,  heard  in  the  deep 
silence  in  which  it  was  waited  for, 
quickened,  for  a  moment,  the  appre- 
hension of  evil.  It  was,  however, 
only  for  a  moment.  The  attendant 
who  had  admitted  the  former  visit- 
ants appeared.  "  Peter  Fairclough's 
maid-servant  is  come,"  said  he  ; 
"  may  I  admit  her?" 

"  Why  does  she  come  now  ?" 

"  She  has  surely  something  useful 
to  say — she  would  not  come  else." 

"  Admit  her ;  but  be  sure  she  has 
no  suspicion  who  are  here." 

The  lights  were  now  carefully 
shaded,  and  the  door  closed.  The 


Extracts  from' an  Unseasonable  Story. 


620 

dialogue  which  followed  the  new 
visitor's  admission,  although  spoken 
in  a  tone  little  louder  than  a  whisper, 
could  be  distinctly  heard. 

"  Mr  James  !  Mr  James  !  there'll 
be  trouble  and  bad  work  the  morrow. 
I  mind  the  lodge's  meeting  at  our 
public  three  years  from  Lammas,  an 
never  I  heerd  such  words  spoke  as 
Peter  spoke  the  night." 

"  But  what  did  Peter  say,  Mary  ? — 
it  must  be  something  very  bad  to 
drive  you  here  in  the  dark  of  the 
night  to  the  house  of  a  lone  man  like 
me." 

"  Oh !  Mr  James,  you  know  very 
well  I'm  not  of  that  sort-r-an'  I'm 
come  to  you  because  there  is  not 
your  like  in  the  country  to  keep  the 
poor  Irish*  from  trouble,  an'  you 
know  well  where  to  send  the  word 
that  they'll  never  be  late  to  hear — 
An'  you  mind  well  when  you  did 
good  before,  an'  desired  me  to  tell 
you  always  when  the  danger  was 
coming — an'  now  it's  coming  in  ear- 
nest." 

"  All  this  time,  Mary,  you  have 
not  told  me,  and  I  was  late  and  long 
in  my  studying  after  the  day's  work, 
and  I'm  in  haste  to  get  sleep — tell 
me — what  did  Peter  say  ?" 

"  He  says — an'  they  all  allow,  that 
they'll  not  do  harm  to  man,  woman, 
or  child." 

"  Nothing  very  terrible  in  that, 
Mary." 

"  But  that's  not  it  all — don't  put 
me  out.  They  say  that  they'll  go  on 
their  road  in  peace,  and  walk  as  they 
and  their  forbears  did  since  they 
first  came  in  it — an'  they  say  they'll 
do  no  wrong  if  nobody  wrongs 
them — only  have  their  walk,  and 
come  home  in  quietness;  but  if 
they're  molested — that's  the  word 
— I  hear  yourself  say  it  once — or  let 
or  troubled,  they  say  there,  is  not  a 
Roman  house  in  the  parish  they'll 
laive  stan'ing  if  fire  can  burn — or  a 
man  alive  that  bullet  or  baynet  can 
kill." 

"  Is  that  what  they  say,  Mary  ?" 

"  It's  ow'r  true,  an'  worse  if  I 
could  mind  it.  They  say  that  Crom- 
well and  William  done  only  half  the 
work,  an'  that  it'll  never  be  finished 
rightly,  tof  they  have  every  one  of 
ye'er  sort  off  from  the  face  of  the  earth, 


[Oct. 


and  only  one  tomb-stone  standing 
with  a  Roman  name  on  it  to  tell  how 
the  Irish  were  conquered.  (Here 
there  was  some  confusion,  the  me- 
mory of  certain  ballads  circulated 
among  the  Roman  Catholics  for  pur- 
poses of  irritation,  becoming  mixed 
up  with  the  denunciations  of  Peter 
and  his  party.)  Oh  !  Mr  James,  for 
the  love  of  God,  and  the  poor  souls 
that's  in  danger,  don't  let  mischief 
come  the  morrow — tell  them  that 
you  know,  to  stay  in  their  houses, 
and  not  to  see  or  obsarve  the  walk. 
It  is  not  for  a  bit  of  an  orange  rag  or 
the  blast  of  any  protestant's  tune,  a 
sowl  is  to  be  destroy'd.  For  the  love 
of  God,  send  out  your  word  and 
save  us  all — an'  don't  let  the  blood 
of  Christians  be  straiming  thro'  the 
fields  as  if  it  was  beasts,  an'  women 
crying  the  cry  that'll  never  be  corn--, 
forted." 

"  Good  Mary — rest — be  quiet- 
have  no  fear — all  will  be  well — but 
go — haste  home,  and  if  you  hear 
more,  let  me  have  tidings  early." 

The  parting  salutations  were  ut- 
tered— the  door  closed — and  the  in- 
ner chamber  again  lighted.  No  re- 
port was  necessary,  when  the  atten- 
dant entered,  as  the  conference  had 
been  distinctly  heard.  Michael 
waited,  in  earnest  expectation,  for  a 
countermand  of  orders,  which  had 
already  been  communicated  to  him. 
He  supposed  that  the  plan  of  pro- 
ceedings would  be  altered  in  accom- 
modation to  the  intelligence  which 
had  been  received.  He  was  disap- 
pointed. The  only  effect  produced  on 
his  superiors  was  that  of  hastening 
their  departure.  A  brief  conversa- 
tion in  an  under  voice  was  held  with 
his  conductor.  It  ended  with  re- 
minding him,  that  he  knew  the  place 
and  the  signal,  and  that  he  would  be 
"  anxiously  expected."  The  atten- 
dant was  then  summoned,  who  with- 
drew the  curtain,  and  opened  a  door 
in  the  side  of  the  altar,  through 
which  Michael  and  his  companion 
entered  after  their  guide,  dismissed 
by  their  superiors — the  descent  of  a 
few  steps  conducted  them  to  a  sleep- 
ing apartment — the  attendant  laid 
down  a  light,  commended  Michael 
to  his  companion's  care,  and  retired. 
Immediately  after,  the  outer  door 


*  Roman  Catholics. 


f  Till. 


1831.] 


Orange  Processions, 


opened  and  closed,   and  footsteps 
were  heard  departing. 

Michael's  prayer  was  not  effica- 
cious to  tranquillize  his  disordered 
mind.  He  arose  from  his  knees,  and 
stood  for  some  time  in  silence.  "  I 
cannot,"  he  said  aloud,  "  satisfy  my- 
self that  this  is  right.  Unhappy,  ig- 
norant men  propose  to  walk  in  pro- 
cession, assuming  the  vain  and  silly 
badges  and  decorations  they  have 
been  taught  to  love — they  declare  it 
their  design  and  desire  to  molest  no 
human  being.  Why  are  we  to  call 
out  a  spirit  of  hostility  against  them, 
and  have  blood  crying  out  for  ven-- 
geance  —  the  blood  of  miserable 
wretches  cut  off  in  blindness  and  in 
mortal  sin  ?  it  is  a  dreadful  thought !" 

"  Too  dreadful  for  you  to  bear, 
Michael — put  it  away — it  is  of  the 
tempter — lie  down  and  sleep — the 
morning  will  give  you  subject  for 
less  dispiriting  reflections.  It  is  not 
for  us  to  question  what  we  are  bound 
to  do — but  this  know,  that  if  the 
man  who  has  set  his  hand  to  the 
plough,  stay'd  and  stooped  to  re- 
move every  crawling  creature  from 
the  coming  peril  of  the  share,  many 
a  fair  field  would  want  its  seed  even 
after  the  time  when  it  should  have 
been  ripe  unto  the  harvest.  Have 
you  good  trust.  Wisdom  and  pure 
devotion  conduct  our  enterprise. 
Do  what  you  are  commanded,  and 
soon  a  more  acceptable  office  may 
be  assigned  you." 

Night  wore  slowly  away.  Before 
the  sun  arose,  Michael  and  his  com- 
panion had  commenced  the  duties 
of  their  mission — In  the  glow  of  a 
splendid  evening,  they  were  seated 
on  a  hill,  which  commanded  the 
prospect  extensively  over  a  cultiva- 
ted and  densely  peopled  country. 
"  This  is  reviving,"  said  Michael. 
"  How  nature  recalls  the  natural  im- 
pulses of  the  heart,  and  wins  it  back 
from  the  troubled  and  scorching 
passions  with  which  the  aifairs  of 
man  are  so  sorely  molested.  I  am 
indeed  little  fitted  for  my  task ;  but 
He  who  calls  will  give  me  power  to 
do  His  will.  Yet,  surely,  it  is  not 
sinful  to  wish  that  the  time  were 
come  when  I  might  resign  myself  to 
the  peaceful  enjoyment  of  nature 
and  devotion,  without  those  struggles 
between  feeling  and  duty  which  now 
distract  me,  and  in  freedom  from 
such  passionate,  and  almost,  would 


621 

venture  to  say,  uncharitable  exer- 
tions as  we  have  to-day  been  ma- 
king." 

"  I  see  it  will  be  some  time  be- 
fore your  manly  gown  sits  easily  on 
you.  But  let  that  pass.  While  you 
speak  as  you  spoke  this  morning,  I 
can  well  forgive  the  evening's  fe- 
minine qualifications.  You  did  your 
duty  well — it  would  not  be  well, 
however,  that  your  qualms  were 
noticed.  How  powerfully  your 
speeches  told  —  what  excitement 
they  created — what  breathless  ex- 
pectation in  the  silence  when  you 
paused — and  the  dreadful  applauses 
in  which  from  time  to  time  the  con- 
clusion of  your  periods  was  drown- 
ed !  Did  you  observe  that  blind  old 

man  near  the  door  at ?     When 

you  spoke  of  the  assurance,  that 
soon  God  would  summon  his  people 
to  the  rearing  up  of  the  church,  and 
desired  all  to  be  prepared  for  deter- 
mining whether  they  would  wear 
their  chains  in  the  slave's  security, 
or  burst  them,  and  stand  up  for 
Christ  and  his  saints — did  you  ob- 
serve that  old  man?  His  manner  was 
worth  noting — he  would  sometimes 
appear  stiffened  and  rigid,  almost 
without  breath  or  pulsation,  as  if 
the  soul  had  condensed  all  its  ener- 
gies, and  life  was  suspended  on  hear- 
ing— then  he  would  wave  his  head 
mournfully  from  side  to  side,  as 
though  the  conviction  of  feebleness 
overpowered  him,  until  at  last  his 
passion  would  become  exasperated, 
and  he  would  shriek  and  throw  up 
his  clenched  hands,  and  roll  his  sight- 
less orbs,  as  if  they  were  struggling 
madly  to  break  out  into  sight.  It 
was  altogether  a  striking  display  of 
energy  and  despair." 

"  Yes !  I  did  observe  him,  and 
many  a  countenance  of  the  same 
kind,  though  not  so  fiercely  charac- 
tered. They  were  horrid  sights  to 
see — the  felon  visible  in  every  angry 
scowl.  I  did  not  excite  valour  or 
devotion.  The  fiend  was  in  every 
passion  I  called  up — treachery,  and 
hate,  and  black  malice — not  the  high 
spirit  one  loves  to  consort  with.  I 
have  had,  until  I  sat  down  here,  and 
even  for  a  time  here,  menacing  and 
sanguinary  countenances  hovering 
around  me.  They  floated  between 
me  and  those  beautiful  slopes,  a 
hateful  throng— until — thank  God — 
the  pure  breeze  and  the  quiet  have 


Extracts  from  cm  Unseasonable  Story. 


622 

soothed  my  irritated  nerves,  and  the 
malignant  associations  are  departed. 
How  deeply  thankful  shall  I  be  if 
night  come  down  without  shedding 
of  blood !  Evening  wears  away — a 
very  few  hours  will  terminate  our 
watching',  and  we  may  have  no  sad 
story  to  recite." 

"  I  cannot  flatter  you  with  such  a 
hope.  Although  no  struggle  has  yet 
taken  place,  and  the  march  of  the 
accursed  has  shunned  our  poor 
temple,  do  not  imagine  that  all  it 
peace,  and  that  some  one  of  the  par* 
ties  into  which  the  general  mob  of 
our  conquerors  has  broken  up,  will 
not  return  to  encounter  what  it  de- 
serves. Only  be  yon  patient  and 
faithful  to  the  last." 

The  patience  of  either  was  not 
long  tried.  The  sound  that  reached 
their  ears,  faint  as  it  was,  was  too  re- 
gular and  too  much  in  accord  with 
the  movement  of  men  in  march,  not 
to  be  the  beat  of  a  drum — and  very 
soon  a  small  shrill  accompaniment 
became  audible,  and  put  an  end  to 
all  uncertainty.  The  air  which  awa- 
kens so  many  proud  recollections, 
and  inflames  so  warlike  a  spirit  in 
the  descendants  of  those  who  fought 
successfully  at  Londonderry  and  the 
Boyne,  and  stirs  up  fountains  of  bit- 
terness in  the  sons  of  the  defeated, 
now  gradually,  if  it  may  be  so  said, 
disclosed  itself,  and  soon  sounded 
near — but  suddenly  and  abruptly  it 
ceased  —  and  for  some  moments 
there  was  silence. 

"  They  must  be  at  hand,  Michael, 
—we  can  see  from  that  little  clump 
of  trees,  where  we  may  remain  unob- 
served." 

They  soon  reached  the  place  of 
observation,  a  projecting  point,  from 
which,  in  two  different  directions, 
the  valley  opened.  They  were  not 
slow  to  discover  how  the  silence  was 
occasioned.  At  no  great  distance  to 
the  left,  they  beheld  an  Orange  flag 
surrounded  by  about  a  score  of  men 
with  muskets  in  their  hands — be- 
fore them  a  narrow  bridge  crossed  a 
stream  which  wound  through  the 
valley.  Over  this  bridge,  and  up  the 
road  which  skirted  a  small  chapel,  it 
would  appear  their  course  lay ;  and 
along  the  sides  of  the  hill,  surround- 
ing the  chapel,  and  extending  al- 
most to  the  bridge,a  multitude  seem- 
ed set  to  oppose  their  passage.  The 
contrast  between  the  two  bodies 


[Oct. 


was  striking ;  on  one  Bide,  the  Orange 
party,  trimly  apparelled,  wearing, 
for  the  most  part,  blue  coats  and 
white  trowsere,  decorated  with  gor- 
geous collars  and  scarfs,  standing, 
few  and  checked,  around  their  ban- 
ner—on the  other,  the  multitude,  in 
coarse  attire,  with  no  visible  badges 
of  distinction  or  recognition,  except 
the  green  boughs  which  some  wore 
in  their  hats,  crowding  under  green 
arches  suspended  at  different  posts 
along  the  hill. 

A  single  man  from  the  Orange  side 
left  his  party,  and  proceeded  to  the, 
till  now, unoccupied  bridge; — he  was 
met  by  an  envoy  from  the  opposite 
side ;  and,  in  the  stillness  of  the 
evening  air,  and  the  hush  of  the  con- 
tending or  rather  menacing  arrays, 
the  voices  of  both  ascended  to  the 
post  where  Michael  and  his  compa- 
nion were  stationed.  One  demanded, 
on  the  part  of  his  companions,  free 
passage  beyond  the  chapel,  and  re- 
quired that  assurance  of  safety  should 
be  given,  by  their  opponents  evacua- 
ting the  pass.  The  other  contended, 
that  the  Orange  party  were  free  to 
proceed,  and  that  his  friends  could 
not  abandon  a  post  which  might  be 
necessary  for  the  protection  o?  their 
chapel. 

While  the  debate  continued,  one 
and  another  straggler  from  each  side 
advanced  towards  the  bridge.  It  was 
evident  that  the  Orangemen  became 
more  cautious — the  movement  they 
made  rendered  this  apparent.  They 
passed  from  the  road  into  a  meadow 
which  lay  at  their  side  of  the  stream, 
and  arranged  themselves  at  some 
little  distance  from  each  other,  so  as 
that  they  could  easily  and  quickly 
reassemble.  While  this  movement 
took  place,  the  parley  on  the  bridge 
continued.  Michael  looked  on  with 
intense  interest — an  interest  which 
soon  became  more  painful. — "  Look ! 
look !"  said  his  companion ;  "  see  that 
blind  old  wretch  led  forward — hov?" 
eagerly  he  seems  to  urge  his  way — 
what  can  be  his  design  ?" 

"  Pray  God  it  be  not  pernicious — 
see — he  halts — he  is  on  the  bridge — 
what  is  he  about — what  is  he  about 
to  do  ?"  said  Michael,  as  he  saw  the 
blind  old  man  disencumbering  him- 
self of  his  loose,  heavy  coat.  "  Great 
God !  'tis  all  over — he  has  seized  the 
Orangeman." 

The  old  man  had  moved  forward 


1831.1 


Orange  Processions. 


623 


cautiously,  still  led  by  the  hand,  until 
he  stood  close  to  the  two  men  on 
whom  Michael's  attention  had  been 
fixed.  Then,  suddenly,  he  flung  away 
his  support,  and  clasped  the  Orange- 
man in  his  arms,  struggling  to  wrest 
the  musket  from  his  hands,  or  to 
force  him  over  the  bridge — all  the 
time  screaming  with  hideous  voci- 
feration, and  calling  on  his  party  to 
show  themselves  men.  In  the  struggle 
the  musket  was  discharged,  and  the 
blind  assailant  fell.  Immediately,  a 
shot  was  fired  from  the  hill,  and  an 
Orangeman,  one  of  the  stragglers 
who  had  followed  their  companion 
to  the  bridge,  was  its  victim.  A  loud 
shout  was  raised  in  triumph,  and  the 
entire  multitude  along  the  descent 
moved  down  precipitously  to  the 
conflict.  The  issue  seemed  no  way 
uncertain.  "  How  steadily  they  await 
death,"  said  Michael,  as  he  saw  that 
the  few  scattered  Orangemen  in  the 
field  kept  their  ground,  and  that  their 
associates  on  the  bridge  continued 
in  advance  of  them. — "  Will  they 
attempt  to  resist  ?"  thought  he ;  and, 


as  if  to  answer,  they  shouted  and 
raised  their  muskets.    There  was  a 
momentary  pause  among  their  ene- 
mies at  this  attitude  of  menace  ;  but 
the  multitudes  behind  pressing  the 
forward  ranks,  again  they  were  rush- 
ing on,  when  some  sheets  of  fire 
flashed  out  from  the  presented  wea- 
pons— the  report  of  muskets  echoed 
along  the  hills — and  a  groan  of  con- 
sternation replied   from  the   party 
lately  hastening  to  the  fight.   All  fled 
from  the  bridge,  from  which  the  two 
Orangemen,  who  had  remained  till 
now,  carried  off  their  fallen  compa- 
nion, and  where  the  body  of  the  blind 
man,  who  bad  so  criminally  cast  life 
away,  was  lying.    In  less  than  a  mi- 
nute, perhaps,  the  hill  party  appeared 
to  have  gathered  courage  for  a  second 
assault.   They  were  met  as  before — 
and  now  the  first  discharge  was  close- 
ly followed  by  a  second — was  re- 
turned scatteringly  from  the  hill,  and 
continued  from  the  slowly  advancing 
Orangemen,  until  the  entire  body  of 
their  adversaries  had  dispersed  and 
fled  precipitately  over  the  hill  tops. 


CHAP.  II. 

REASONS  AND  REPRESENTATION!. 


**  REMEMBER  your  oath — remember 
the  commands  you  solemnly  vowed 
to  obey." 

Michael  paused,  as  his  companion, 
repeating  these  words,  laid  a  strong 
hand  on  his  arm.  He  had  been  hurry- 
ing towards  the  scene  of  recent  con- 
flict, but  obeyed  the  word  and  action 
addressed  to  detain  him. 

"  Perhaps  there  is  life,"  said  he,  in 
a  low  hurried  tone ;  "  may  we  not 
pray  with  the  expiring  ?" 

"  Remember  your  vow,"  was  the 
reply.  "  Was  it  not  said  to  you,  that 
your  first  duty,  this  day,  is  to  speed 
with  untiring  zeal  to  those  who  await 
us  ?  Let  the  dead  bury  their  dead- 
saints  will  absolve  the  dying;  but 
more  than  life  and  death  are  in  our 
hands — we  must  be  doing — we  must 
be  doing!"  as  he  drew  on  Michael, 
whose  eyes  still  were  turned  back, 
while  his  members  were  yielded  to 
his  companion's  guidance. 

They  reached  a  little  green  recess, 
where  a  car  of  a  construction  fre- 
quent in  Ireland,  lay  sheltered  by 
close  trees — a  strong  black  horse 


cropping  the  grass  near.  A  boy  stood 
at  his  side,  who  immediately,  on  the 
appearance  of  Michael  and  his  com- 
panion, prepared  the  vehicle  for  their 
reception ;  and,  in  the  course  of  a 
few  minutes,  they  had  left  behind 
them  the  hills  which  closed  round  the 
place  of  the  late  sanguinary  strug- 
gle, and  were  on  their  rapid  route 

to . 

It  was  late  at  night  when  they  ar- 
rived— the  streets  were  silent — the 
houses  dark,  with  only  the  one  or 
two  solitary  lights  burning  dimly,  it 
may  have  been,  in  sick  chambers, 
which  render  the  darkness  even  more 
impressive.  No  light  directed  to  the 
house  whither  the  travellers  bent 
their  way ;  but  their  signal  was 
promptly  answered,  as,  after  having 
driven  under  shelter  of  a  confined 
arched- way,  they  gave  notice  of  their 
arrival.  A  side  door  was  immediate- 
ly opened,  some  whispers  were  ex- 
changed with  the  unseen  person  who 
had  admitted  them,  and  Michael  was 
left  alone  in  darkness,  while  his  com- 
panion was  conducted  to  an  interior 


624 

part  of  the  house.  He  was  not  long 
left  to  his  meditations.  His  hand  was 
soon  grasped,  and  his  companion's 
voice  whispered  to  him  to  follow. 
He  was  led  along  a  narrow  passage 
—he  heard  two  doors  close  behind 
him,  as  that  which  terminated  the 
passage  opened,  and  admitted  him 
into  a  lighted  chamber,  and  into  the 
presence  of  those  to  whom  he  had 
been  made  known  on  the  memorable 
night  preceding. 

"  Young  man,"  said  he  who  had 
been  his  initiator,  "  you  have  done 
faithfully  and  well.  We  have  heard 
of  your  confessed  scruples  in  the 
discharge  of  a  trying  duty — we  have 
also  learned  that  you  did  not  suffer 
them  to  abate  your  zeal  or  weary 
you  of  a  blessed  vocation.  We  par- 
don, therefore,  what  was  an  infirmity 
natural  to  man ;  and,  satisfied  of  your 
obedience  in  the  past  day's  important 
task,  because  it  was  yielded  without 
a  question,  and  at  the  sacrifice  of  na- 
tural though  forbidden  feelings,  we 
are  willing  to  reward  it  with  such 
explanations  as  shall  hereafter  silence 
any  unworthy  scruples  to  which  the 
sensibilities  remaining  in  an  imper- 
fectly educated  nature  often  give 
rise.  Our  cause  demands  entire  sub- 
mission ;  but  where  proof  of  fidelity 
is  given,  it  should  be  rewarded. — 
Speak  freely  then — speak  as  to  friends 
and  fathers — were  you  not  disturbed 
(in conscience, as  you  thought,)  while 
fulfilling  your  mission  ?" 

Michael,  who  now  perceived  that 
his  companion  was  not  in  the  cham- 
ber, felt  for  the  moment  an  increased 
awe  at  being  alone  with  the  supe- 
rior whom  he  was  to  address.  He, 
however,  soon  gathered  strength  and 
voice  to  acknowledge  how  grievous- 
ly he  bad  been  troubled,  and  how  far 
he  was,  even  yet,  from  being  recon- 
ciled in  feeling  to  the  part  which  a 
solemn  sense  of  duty  constrained 
him  to  undertake.  "  I  have  seen 
human  life  squandered,  and  the  re- 
sult— to  strike  our  people  with  terror 
and  to  confirm  our  enemies ;  and  I 
have  upon  my  mind  the  dreadful  im- 
pression, that,  if  death  and  mortal  sin 
have  given  over  one  of  those  who 
fell  this  day  to  the  fires  that  burn  for 
ever,  my  words  and  labours  may  have 
hurried  that  miserable  soul  to  ruin. 
— It  is  a  fearful  thought." 

"  Would  it  be  more  afflicting,  if  the 
number  for  whom  you  are  solicitous 


Extracts  from  an  Unseasonable  Story. 


[Oct. 


were  greater — if,  instead  of  the  three 
or  five  who  may  have  died  to-day, 
thousands  lay  on  a  field  of  pitched 
battle,  and  your  exertions  had  been 
instrumental  in  arousing  your  coun- 
trymen to  the  fight  ?" 

"  That  would,  indeed,  be  grievous ; 
and  yet — I  do  not  know  how  to  ex- 
plain it — there  is  something  in  the 
thought  of  open  avowed  war,  and 
professed  battle,  which  would,  per- 
haps, more  effectually  stifle  my  feel- 
ings of  dread,  than  the  remembrance 
that  so  few  have  fallen  in  this  un- 
worthy feud." 

"  That  is  to  say,  the  consequences 
of  a  great  battle  might  compensate 
for  blood-shedding,  or  the  circum- 
stances of  pomp  and  excitement  at- 
tending it,  would  lift  you  above  all 
thought  of  the  carnage  in  which  it 
was  debated  V" 

"  I  know  well,  that  such  circum- 
stances ought  not  to  affect  the  faith- 
ful; and  I  will  hope,  that  it  is  be- 
cause of  the  consequences  of  open 
war  I  would  feel  less  poignantly  its 
horrors." 

"  What  if  no  consequences  of  good 
are  so  sure  to  follow  from  open  bat- 
tle as  shall  result  from  this  day's 
deeds,  would  you  feel  your  con- 
science at  rest?  It  is  surely  the 
Christian  course  to  do  the  most  good 
with  the  least  possible  alloy  of  evil. 
If  the  true  faith  can  be  restored  in 
Ireland,  and  right  can  be  made  to 
prevail  over  spoliation,  without  the 
wide  massacre  and  ruin  which  open 
war  visits  on  a  land,  are  we  not 
bound  to  adopt  the  milder  expedi- 
ent? Further,  if  open  war  would 
not  only  deluge  the  land  with  blood, 
but  also  frustrate  for  ever  our  hopes 
of  making  the  righteous  cause  pros- 
per, are  we  not  forbidden  to  adopt 
what  would  be  evil  without  hope  or 
compensation  ?  We  cannot  engage 
in  open  war  without  certainty  of  de- 
feat. Ireland  is  not  disciplined  for 
action.  Europe  is  not  yet  ready  to 
interfere.  What  is  in  our  power, 
with  reasonable  prospect  to  attempt, 
that  we  do.  Out  of  the  unhappy  (as 
you  thought)  events  of  this  day,  we 
shall,  doubt  it  not,  work  good.  We 
shall  make  our  enemies  labour  in 
our  behalf,  and,  through  them,  waste 
away  the  only  strength  by  which 
they  could  withstand  us.  Do  not 
think  our  instruments  less  under 
Heaven's  guidance  because  their  ex- 


1831.] 


Seasons  and  Representations. 


625 


cellence  does  not  at  once-  appear. 
Be  satisfied.  We  shall  disarm  our 
foes ;  and  remember,  that  where  the 
heathen  historian  could  record  no 
more  than  the  incident  of  vermin, 
gnawing  the  bowstrings  of  a  great 
host,  he  whose  eyes  were  opened, 
discerned  a  special  and  supernatural 
interposition  to  overthrow  and  scat- 
ter the  armies  that  defied  God." 

"  But,  for  a  moment,  leaving  out 
all  thought  of  consequences,  is  it  just 
to  excite  to  a  breach  of  law,  and  to 
acts  which  endanger  and  destroy 
life  ?  I  addressed  men  bound  by  so- 
lemn oaths,  which  I  incited  them  to 
violate — are  not  they  and  I  guilty  of 
sin  ?" 

"  No ! — they  had  pledged  them- 
selves by  oaths  to  the  British  go- 
vernment—  that  government  was 
aware,  that  they  were  bound  by  an- 
tecedent obligations  to  their  church, 
and  that  only  so  far  as  the  higher 
duties  permitted  could  they  pay  re- 
spect to  the  inferior.  Oaths  of  alle- 
giance are  a  nullity  when  they  would 
obstruct  the  church  in  its  career  of 
advancement ;  and  while  you  act  on 
this  irrefragable  principle,  your  con- 
science may  be  at  rest." 

"  There  is,  however,  another  prin- 
ciple. Do  we  not  owe  reverence  to 
the  governing  powers  ?  The  blessed 
Peter  says, '  Be  ye  subject  to  every 
human  creature  for  God's  sake,  whe- 
ther it  be  to  the  king,  as  excelling, 
or  to  governors,  as  sent  by  him,'  &c. 
&c. ;  and  St  Paul, '  Let  every  soul  be 
subject  to  the  higher  powers.'  " 

"  At  some  more  convenient  time 
I  will  show  you  the  sentiments  of 
many  Catholic  doctors  on  this  im- 
portant matter;  for  the  present,  I 
merely  remind  you,  how  even  Scrip- 
ture explains  itself.  St  Paul  adds  to 
his  recommendation,  *  Be  subject  of 
necessity,  not  only  for  wrath,  but 
also  for  conscience  sake.'  Now,  no 
man  is  bound  to  obey  for  conscience 
one  who  has  not  a  just  right  to  com- 
mand, a  right  which,  it  is  perfectly 
evident,  an  English  monarch  cannot 
claim." 

"  May  I  humbly  entreat  fuller  in- 
formation in  this  ?" 

"  The  right  of  England  rests  alto- 
gether on  the  grant  made  by  Pope 
Adrian — a  grant  made  on  the  express 
stipulation,  that,  in  the  subjection  of 
our  country,  the  pure  faith  should  be 
promoted.  The  condition  having 


been  violated,  the  grant  is  null. 
Again,  if  the  grant  of  Adrian  were 
good  to  bestow  the  kingdom,  the  de- 
crees of  his  successors  are  effectual 
to  take  it  away.  So,  of  Paul  the 
Third,  in  the  bull '  Ejus  qui,'  and  in 
that  of  Pius, '  Regnans  in  Excelsis,' 
and  in  various  others  too  numerous 
to  recite,  our  land  is  taken  from  he- 
retic England,  and  restored  to  its  own, 
jurisdiction." 

"  But  is  not  conquest  held  to  give 
authority,  and  even  right?  and  has 
it  not  been  maintained  that  centu- 
ries of  unjust  ascendency,  society 
becoming  settled  on  the  recognised 
usurpation,  give  a  right  which  may 
not  be  gainsaid  ?" 

"  This  has  been  held,  but  here  it 
does  not  apply.  Remember,  Ireland 
never  has  acquiesced  in  the  unjust 
title,  neither  while  the  Danes  garri- 
soned our  land,  nor  during  the  more 
prolonged  misery  of  the  Norman  vi- 
sitation. She  has  ever  been  at  war 
with  the  invader — war — not  always 
openly  waged,  but  carried  on  by  such 
means  as  Providence  placed  at  our 
and  our  fathers'  disposal.  If  the 
sword  has  sometimes  been  put  out 
of  sight,  the  war  council  has  never 
been  interrupted.  Hereafter  this 
will  be  acknowledged.  Length  of 
possession,  then,  cannot,  in  this  in- 
stance, create  or  constitute  title,  be- 
cause the  title  has  been  denied,  and 
the  possession,  when  practicable, 
disputed.  We  are  clear — we  are 
clear,  young  man,  before  God  and 
the  world.  We  have  retired  before 
superior  strength,  as  all  wise  men 
must,  and  we  have  availed  ourselves 
of  every  device  and  stratagem  which, 
good  policy  suggests,  and  of  which, 
war  acknowledges  the  propriety.  In. 
one  form  or  another  the  struggle  has 
been  continued.  Whatever,  for  the 
time,  menaced  least  danger,  and  af- 
forded best  hope  of  success,  has  been 
tried ;  but  hatred  of  England,  denial 
of  her  right  to  govern,  and  desire  for 
her  overthrow,  has  been  kept  up  in 
all.  What  Norman  or  Saxon  will 
say  that  the  authority  of  his  nation 
has  not  been  disputed  here  ?  None — 
not  one — no — England  must  know 
that  abhorrence  of  her  rule  has  been 
branded  on  the  hearts  of  our  people. 
May  the  impression  be  as  indelible 
as  their  love  of  justice !" 

Such  is  a  brief  sketch  of  the  dia- 
logue in  which  Michael,  if  not  satis- 


Extracts  from  an  Unseasonable  Story. 


62$ 

fied,  was  silenced.  It  was  continued 
until  the  door  opened,  and  his  com- 
panion, bearing  papers  in  his  hand, 
appeared  and  claimed  an  audience. 
Michael  was  requested  to  withdraw, 
and  as  soon  as  he  had  retired,  the 
report  to  be  furnished,  through  cer- 
tain favoured  journals,  of  the  day's 
disaster,  was  carefully  considered. 
It  was  not  thought  advisable  that 
Michael's  scruples  should  be  again 
aroused  by  this  mode  of  turning 
crime  to  profit.  He  was  not  suffi- 
ciently instructed  to  comprehend  the 
propriety  of  such  devices,  and,  as 
his  assistance  was  not  required,  it 
was  accounted  more  prudent,  not  to 
provoke  his  remonstrances  or  oppo- 
sition. The  reader  will  not,  per- 
haps, think  the  caution  superfluous, 
when  he  has  perused  the  document, 
which  appeared  on  the  following 
day  in  a  provincial,  and  was  imme- 
diately copied  into  more  than  one 
metropolitan  journal. 


"  AWFUL  INTELLIGENCE. 
"  ORANGE  ATROCITY. 

"  With  feelings  harrowed  by  the 
thought  of  the  horrid  outrage  we 
have  the  melancholy  task  of  relating 
— with  the  apprehension  hanging 
over  us  that  a  junta  who  batten  on 
the  miseries  of  this  afflicted  land, 
may  smite  us  with  the  penalties 
which  menace  truth,  we  expose  to 
the  fierce,  but,  alas  I  impotent  indig- 
nation of  our  despised  and  persecuted 
countrymen,  as  foul  and  demonia- 
cal an  outrage  as  ever  disgraced  the 
annals  of  New  Zealand — or  the  more 

abominable  annals  of despotism 

in  Ireland.  We  sicken  while  we 
relate  this  black  story. 

"  On  yesterday,  July  12,  a  multi- 
tude of  Orangemen  amounting  to 
several  hundred,  directed  their  atro- 
cious course  to  the  little  chapel  of 
,  planted  their  accursed  stand- 
ards at  the  gate,  and  walked  round 
the  walls  with  drum  and  fife  and 
ferocious  yells,  as  if  they  hoped  that 


[Oct. 


at  the  sound  of  blasphemy  they 
would  fall.  Finding  that  the  miracle 
of  Jericho  did  not  reward  their  in- 
sults, they  proceeded  to  more  carnal 
assaults,  beating  in  the  doors  and 
windows  with  heavy  sledges,  and 
throwing  open  the  sacred  edifice  to 
spoliation.  Some  of  the  neighbour- 
ing inhabitants  who  had  not  fled — 
indeed  whom  age  and  infirmity  dis- 
abled from  flying,  terrified  more  by 
the  assault  on  religion,  than  for  their 
lives,  ventured  into  the  chapel,  and 
armed  only  with  supplications  and 
tears,  besought  them  to  spare  the 
humble  temple  where  they  prayed 
even  for  their  enemies.  Will  it  be 
believed  ?— Deaf  to  their  entreaties 
—deaf  to  the  voice  of  mercy,  and 
goaded  on  by  him  who  was  a  mur- 
derer from  the  beginning,  the  ruth- 
less contemners  of  all  that  is  loved 
and  respected — with  a  grim  delight 
to  have  found  victims  worthy  of  their 

Valour,     MASSACRED     THE     UNARMED 

AND  UNRESISTING  supplicants  who 
had  dared  to  solicit  their  forbear- 
ance, and  left  fourteen  dead  bodies 
on  the  chapel  floor.  As  they  came 
out,  rejoicing  in  iniquity,  they  perpe- 
trated another  characteristic  outrage. 
A  poor  blind  man,  of  the  persecuted 
creed,  and  of  the  most  blameless  life 
and  habits,  was  seen  crossing  a  bridge. 
One  of  the  miscreants,  unsated  with 
blood,  took  deliberate  aim  at  the 
child  who  led  him,  and  shot  him 
dead,  and  then,  while  the  miserable, 
helpless  old  man  was  groping  about 
and  loudly  lamenting,  he  was  an  ob- 
ject for  the  aim  of  these  ruffians,  who 
laughed  as  they  fired,  and,  in  the  end, 
he  fell  pierced  by  seven  bullets.  We 
postpone  all  comment,  until  horror 
has  so  far  subsided  as  to  leave  our 
faculties  less  convulsed — but  we  ask, 
how  long  will  a  blind  and  bigoted 
Government  leave  arms  in  the  hands 
of  these  relentless  miscreants,  and 
give  good  subjects  to  their  sport  and 
fury  ?  Blood  crieth  out  for  revenge, 
and  we  will  tell  our  rulers — even 
though  incarceration,  or  worse  befall 
us — that  these  massacres  SHALL  NOT 

GO  UNPUNISHED." 


1831.] 


Enquiry,  Justice,  and  Expediency. 
CHAP.  III. 

ENQUIRY,  JUSTICE,  AND  EXPEDIENCY. 


627 


THE  newspaper  paragraph,  with 
which  the  foregoing  chapter  conclu- 
ded, furnished  occasion  for  opening 
'the  eloquent  and  not  reluctant  lips 
of  many,  whose  endeavours  had  been 
eminently  successful  in  exciting 
Btormy  passions  in  Ireland.  It  was 
speedily  followed  by  private  com- 
munications, addressed  to  influential 
persons,  less  highly  coloured  than 
that  intended  for  public  use,  but  con- 
taining not  less  unfair,  although  more 
elaborately  contrived  misrepresenta- 
tions. Thus  the  attention  of  Govern- 
ment was  drawn  to  a  matter  which 
appeared  of  no  ordinary  moment. 
It  happened,  at  the  period  to  which 
this  narrative  refers,  (this  passage  is 
retained,  because  it  affords  no  very 
precise  ground  for  determining  the 
date  of  the  circumstances  related,) 
that  correct  intelligence  respecting 
the  state  of  Ireland  was  not  easily 
obtained.  The  population  was  divi- 
ded into  classes,  which  demanded, 
that  the  sources  from  which  infor- 
mation was  to  reach  government, 
should  be  numerous  and  varied,  and 
precisely  in  proportion  to  the  increa- 
sing necessity  of  enlarged  inter- 
course, the  communications  of  offi- 
cial personages  had  become  limited 
and  exclusive.  The  consequence  was, 
a  partial  knowledge,  worse  than  ig- 
norance. Unaccredited  functiona- 
ries, intrusted  with  the  secrets  of 
that  portion  of  the  people,  whose  ob- 
ject was  destruction  of  every  thing 
English,  purchased  forbearance  or 
favour  from  Government,  by  doling 
out  information  in  scanty  and  detach- 
ed and  perplexing  fragments.  Those 
who  clung  to  British  connexion,  and 
dreaded  the  efforts  making  to  inter- 
rupt it,  were,  in  some  instances,  dis- 
regarded at  the  Castle,  and  in  some 
suspected  by  the  people.  The  few 
who  knew  the  heart  of  the  Ribbon- 
man's  mystery,  managed,  and  dispen- 
sed with  a  most  provoking  parsimo- 
ny, the  intelligence  which  they  suf- 
fered to  twinkle  before  those  in  legal 
authority — the  nobility  and  gentry, 
friends  to  the  Orange,  or  (as  it  was 
daily  becoming  acknowledged)  the 
Protestant  cause,  were  subjected  to 
the  regimen  of  coldness  and  neglect, 


by  which  power  discountenances 
unacceptable  advisers — and  the  or- 
gans through  which  information  was 
sought  of  Protestant  feelings  and  dis- 
positions, were  generally  men  who 
had  shown  themselves  regardless  of 
the  feelings,  and  who  were  conse- 
quently left  ignorant  of  the  disposi- 
tions, respecting  which  Government 
was  to  be  enlightened. 

The  principle  on  which  the  Irish 
administration  acted,  was,  it  was  cur- 
rently reported,  the  converse  of  that 
once-lauded  motto,  "  Parcere  subjec- 
tis,  debellare  superbos."  The  change 
was  recommended  by  a  courtier  of 
that  class,  to  whom  whatsoever  is 
heroic  savours  of  the  fabulous  ages, 
and  who,  by  the  usual  arts  of  ad- 
vancement, administering  to  the  pride 
of  one  placeman,  providing  palatable 
information  for  another,  and  purvey- 
ing to  perhaps  the  less  intellectual 
requirements  of  a  third,  had  made 
himself  important  enough  with  all, 
to  be  the  contriver  of  measures  which 
did  not  bear  his  name  on  them.  The 
condition  of  Ireland,  was,  as  he  de- 
scribed it,  a  condition  in  which  two 
parties  were  to  be  cared  for — one 
incapable  of  maintaining  itself,  as 
was  said,  without  the  aid  of  England 
—the  other  powerful  for  numbers, 
formidable  in  principles,  and  to  be 
conciliated  to  Great  Britain  only  by 
having,  to  some  extent,  its  hatred  of 
the  opposite  faction  gratified.  Here 
was  a  party  ever  ready  to  break 
forth  into,  if  not  a  successful,  at  least 
an  inconvenient  effort  to  throw  off 
the  British  yoke — while,  for  the  very 
existence  of  its  antagonist  faction, 
the  support  of  England  was  neces- 
sary. A  little  of  slight,  or  even  in- 
justice, would  not  alienate  those  who 
ought  to  think  themselves  highly 
favoured,  so  long  as  they  were  allow- 
ed to  live  j  while  such  demonstra- 
tions of  Government  feeling  might 
be  very  instrumental  in  winning  the 
regard  or  moderating  the  hatred  of 
the  preponderating  party.  To  the 
success  of  advice  like  this,  was  attri- 
buted the  otherwise  inexplicable 
contumely  with  which  the  Orange* 
men  of  Ireland  were  treated. 

It  began,  however,  to  be  insinua* 


628 

ted,  that,  in  consequence  of  some 
very  untoward  mistakes,  and  occur- 
rences of  by  no  means  ambiguous 
menace,  apprehensions  were  awa- 
kened in  the  breasts  of  those  to  whom 
the  country  was  intrusted,  that  their 
system  was  not  so  very  near  perfec- 
tion as  it  had  been  considered.  When 
it  was  learned  that,  among  Protest- 
ants of  sound  principle  and  orderly 
habits,  in  the  middle  and  inferior 
classes,  emigration  was  extensive, 
and  that  very  artfully  contrived  toils 
were  spread  to  entangle  the  unre- 
flecting, serious  alarm  arose  lest  the 
discontented  Orangemen  and  their 
disaffected  adversaries  might  form  a 
junction;  and  then  it  was  discovered 
by  statesmen,  who  had  been  clamor- 
ous for  measures  which  should  bring 
the  principles  of  both  into  combina- 
tion, that  such  a  result  might  take 
place  under  circumstances,  and  with 
consequences,  by  no  means  desirable. 
Fear,  it  was  said,  had  invaded  even 
the  seat  of  Government,  and  thus  it 
was  accounted  for,  that  inducements 
were  held  out  to  certain  leaders 
among  the  lately  discountenanced 
party,to  renew  their  intercourse  with 
the  functionaries  at  "  the  Castle." 
Thus  also  it  was  explained  why  the 
measures  adopted,  in  consequence  of 
the  July  affray,  were  less  decisive 
than  might  otherwise  have  been  ex- 
pected. The  yeomanry  were  not  dis- 
armed,— condemnation  was  not  pro- 
nounced on  any  party  at  the  dictates 
of  the  journals, — the  eloquent  invec- 
tives of  popular  leaders  were  not  ad- 
mitted as  conclusive  evidence ;  and 
it  was  resolved,  that  as  a  proper  pre- 
liminary to  what  should  be  done, 
an  enquiry,  in  the  first  instance, 
should  be  held,  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  place  so  fatally  signalized,  by 
the  magistrates  of  the  county,  aided 
by  competent  and  confidential  agents 
of  Government. 

The  little  town  of was,  all  at 

once,  raised  to  historic  consequence 
by  the  preparations  made  for  the  en- 
quiry to  be  held  there.  As  if  there 
was  reason  to  apprehend  an  attempt 
to  capture  the  senatorial  personages 
to  be  assembled,  a  strong  force  of 
military  was  ordered  for  their  pro- 
tection, and  the  unwonted  aspect  of 
artillery  wakening  the  sound  which 
threatens  earthquake,  as  it  was  pa- 
raded through  the  streets — then,  with 
the  consciousness  of  power  in  repose, 
Stationary  in  the  little  rustic  square, 


Extracts  from  an  Unseasonable  Story. 


[Oct. 

grimly  quiet — supplied  village  politi- 
cians with  scope  for  wide  and  bewil- 
dering conjecture,  and  had  assured- 
ly, if  a  town  could  speak,  put  life  into 
stones,  and  galvanized  the  peaceful 
village  it  affrighted,  into  the  utter- 
ance of  expressions  like  those  in 
which  the  tiny  heroine  of  the  song 
renounces  her  identity. 

"  Ho  !  ho !"  says  the  little  woman,  "  this 
is  none  of  I." 

But,  happily,  the  interest  taken  in  the 
expected  enquiry,  superseded  that  of 
the  dragoons  and  the  cannon. 

The  hour  of  meeting  was  come. 
The  court-house  and  the  open  space 
before  it  were  thronged  with  the  po- 
pulation of  the  town  and  the  sur- 
rounding districts.  Many  had  come 
also  from  the  more  remote  parts  of 
the  country,  seizing  on  the  pretext 
for  an  idle  day,  or  indulging  what 
was  not  an  idle  curiosity.  From  time 
to  time,  a  man  in  authority  would 
pass  through  the  crowd, — the  police 
inattendance  raising  their  little  canes, 
or  exerting  strong  arms,  if  the  com- 
mand failed  of  proper  effect.  "  Make 

way  there — make  way  for  Mr , 

make  way  for  a  magistrate," — and  so 
the  magistrate  passed  on  through  the 
crowd,  and  a  thousand  eyes  followed 
as  the  door  of  the  council  chamber 
opened  to  receive  him ;  but  no  mo- 
dern glance,  when  it  closed,  could 
claim,  except  figuratively,  the  praise 
of  "  seeing  through  a  deal  board,"  a 
department  of  sharp-sightedness,  in 
which  all  but  the  very  sharp-witted 
must  be  deficient. 

At  length  the  signal  for  opening 
the  court  was  given.  All  necessary 
preliminaries  were  adjusted,  and  the 
enquiry  commenced.  While  it  pro- 
ceeded, the  truth,  as  already  narra- 
ted, became  more  and  more  clearly 
developed.  Contradictory  swearing 
certainly  there  was,  but  all  doubt  was 
in  process  of  being  removed  from  the 
minds  of  impartial  men,  that  the 
Orange  party  were  not  the  aggres- 
sors— the  countenances  of  their  ad- 
versaries were  visibly  altered — the 
witnesses  they  had  brought  forward 
were  incapable  of  enduring  cross-ex- 
amination, and  the  testimony  against 
them  was  unshaken.  They  were  pro- 
paring  to  enter  a  protest  against  clo- 
sing the  enquiry,  affirming  that  they 
had  witnesses  in  reserve,  and  the 
court  was  about  to  be  cleared,  that 
the  magistrates  might  more  freely 


J88L] 


Enquiry,  Justice,  and  Expediency. 


629 


deliberate  on  the  course  they  should 
adopt,  when  a  whisper  was  address- 
ed to  one  on  the  bench,  by  a  person 
who  had  for  some  time  appeared 
very  earnestly  looking  out  from  the 
window,  more  observant  of  the  street 
than  of  the  court  or  enquiry  :— 

"  We  have,  I  believe,"  said  a  ma- 
gistrate, distinguished  for  liberality 
of  opinion,  "  the  very  man  we  want. 
We  feared,  if  a  warrant  were  issued, 
he  might  escape;  but  he  has  given  up 
himself,  it  would  seem,  and  although 
the  proceeding  is  a  little  informal, 
yet,  for  the  ends  of  justice,  we  trust 
that  we  shall  not  be  refused  the  as- 
sistance of  the  police,  to  arrest  a 
person  now  in  the  crowd  without." 

The  request  was  complied  with — 
the  name  of  the  man  to  be  made  pri- 
soner communicated  to  the  police — 
the  court  for  a  few  moments  partial- 
ly deserted — and  presently,  followed 
by  a  crowd  tumultuously  forcing 
their  way  through  the  narrow  door, 
between  two  guards,  Peter  Fair- 
clough  was  placed  before  the  bench. 

"  Easy — easy.man,"  he  was  saying ; 
"  Do  you  think  I  want  to  quat  you  ?" 
[This  to  the  guards.]  He  then  bow- 
ed with  something  of  familiar  respect 
to  the  Magistrates,  and  said — "  Well, 
gentlemen,  what's  your  pleasure  ?" 

With  all  due  formality  his  exami- 
nation was  commenced  and  conti- 
nued ;  and  without  any  reservation, 
he  detailed  the  various  proceedings 
relative  to  the  unhappy  procession, 
not  concealing  the  resolution  adopt- 
ed at  his  "  public,"  and  not  afraid, 
it  would  seem,  to  confess  his  part  in 
the  fatal  affray.  He  was,  after  some 
time,  taken  in  hand  by  a  very  liberal 
gentleman,  but  lost  no  character  in 
the  conflict  of  wits.  A  few  questions 
and  replies  shall  serve  as  a  sample 
of  this  part  of  his  examination. 

Magistrate — "  You  confess  that 
you  planned  a  procession  by  which 
the  peace  of  the  country  was  likely 
to  be  disturbed  ?" 

"  No — It  was  to  keep  the  peace  we 
had  our  walk." 

"  Did  you  think  that  carrying  flags 
and  arms,  and  parading  with  music 
through  the  countiy,  was  the  way  to 
keep  the  peace  ?" 

"  I  saw  flags,  and  guns,  and  trum- 
pets, in  yon  streets  the  day — I  sup- 
pose it  is  not  to  make  war  you  sent 
for  them?" 

A  suppressed  murmur  interrupted 
the  deep  silence  of  the  court.  The 

VOL.  XVX.   \T0.    TT.YYXVT, 


Magistrate  interpreted  it  as  applause, 
and  he  seemed  impatient.  "  Don't 
let  him  ruffle  you,"  whispered  a 
friend  at  his  side.  He  restrained 
himself,  and,  after  a  brief  pause,  pro- 
ceeded. 

"  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  state, 
for  the  information  of  the  court, 
what  object  you  proposed  to  your- 
self in  holding  the  late  processions?" 

"  To  do  as  our  forbears  did,  and 
to  show  that  we  are  loyal  and  true 
to  the  King  and  to  one  another." 

"  Would  you  not  think  it  a  better 
proof  of  loyalty  to  comply  with  the 
wishes  of  Government,  and  to  obey 
the  Proclamation  ?" 

"  'Tis  very  hard  to  know  what 
Government  wants  us  to  do." 

"  Why  ? — its  wishes  were  very 
plainly  expressed." 

"  There  are  such  alterations  that 
the  like  o'  huz  does  not  know ;  but 
if  we  did  what  we  were  asked  to 
"do  a  day  agone,  we  might  be  tried 
and  transported  for  it  the  morrow's 
morn." 

"But — the  Proclamation — did  you 
not  know  that  it  prohibited  you  from 
meeting  ?" 

"  The  Proclamation  ? — Is  it  the 
great  prent  paper  that  the  wee  chaps 
in  the  streets  wanted  to  pelt  with 
mud,  and  we  would  not  let  them  ?" 

The  Magistrate  deigned  no  reply — 
other  voices,  however,  answered, 
and  Peter  gained  his  object — a  mo- 
ment's time  for  reflection. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  resumed, 
"  that  we  minded  you  ;  but  if  we  did, 
we  thought  it  was  only  in  play-like — 
just  to  have  something  doing,  and  we 
would  not  think  that  we  would  be 
clean  right  in  not  taking  example  by 
the  Government  itself." 

This  Peter  said,  with  some  little 
relaxation  of  muscle,  which  it  was 
possible  to  mistake  for  a  smile ;  and 
his  interrogator,  forgetting  for  a  mo- 
ment his  dignified  indifference,  com- 
manded him  to  explain  what  he 
meant. 

"  Why  ? — we  heerd,"  said  he,  "  by 
times,  that  there  were  meetings  up 
the  country  in  many  a  place — and 
even  in  Dublin  itself;  and  some  say 
that  the  greatest  men  in  the  country 
were  shouting  and  shaking  hands 
with  them  that  the  proclamation  in- 
tended ;  and  it  would  not  be  right  for 
us  to  think  that  they  were  breaking 
the  law.  'Twas  a  through-other 
kind  of  a  business ;  and  we  thoueht 


Extracts  from  an  Unseasonable  Story. 


630 

it  better  to  do  what  was  done  these 
hundred  years, — for  we  heerd  the 
Judge  say,  that  it  was  not*  by  the 
law." 

"  Did  you  not  consider  it  wrong  to 
create  bad  feeling  and  occasion  dan- 
ger in  the  country  ?" 

"  We  thought  that  the  danger 
would  be  worse  if  we  did  not  show 
ourselves  men." 

"  Did  you  not  feel  that  you  might 
be  assaulted  during  your  proces- 
sion ?" 

"  We  thought  if  we  were  afraid  to 
walk,  the  time  would  soon  come 
when  we  would  be  murdered  in  our 
beds." 

"  Can  you  not  depend  on  the  pro- 
tection of  the  Government  ?" 

"  People  say  that,  in  the  parts  of 
Ireland,  where  our  sort  do  not  walk, 
the  protection  of  the  Government  is 
not  worth  much." 

Peter's  examiner  was  again  a  little 
embarrassed,  and  thought  it  better  to 
discontinue  his  unsatisfactory  task. 
He,  however,  esteemed  it  advisable 
not  to  have  his  questions  terminate 
abruptly,  and  thought  it  better  to 
conclude  by  a  few  matter-of-form 
enquiries.  Peter  felt  his  advantage, 
and  kept  it. 

"  How  long  did  the  firing  at  the 
bridge  continue  ?" 

«  Till  they  run." 

«  Till  who  run  ?" 

«  The  rebels." 

"  You  should  not  call  your  fellow- 
subjects  rebels." 

"  Your  father  still  called  them  so. 
I  heerd  tell  that  your  honour's  self 
used  whiles  speak  words  of  the  sort." 

"  Well,  we  should  all  use  better 
language  now." 

«•  I  wish  they  deserved  better." 

The  enquiry  terminated,  and  in 
the  judgment  of  a  majority  on  the 
bench,  the  Orangemen  were  acquit- 
ted. A  report,  conformable  to  such 
an  impression,  was  made  to  the  Go- 
vernment. It  was  at  the  same  time 
urged,  in  private  communications, 
that  many  circumstances  ought  to  be 
taken  into  account,  by  which  the 
odium  of  recent  transactions  would 
be  materially  lessened — that,  in  all 
cases,  men  are  known  to  be  much 
more  tardy  in  their  relinquishment 
of  customs,  than  they  are  slow  to 
acquiesce  in  a  change  of  law — that 


[Oct. 

the  celebration  of  the  Anniversary  of 
the  Boyne  had  acquired  almost  the 
dignity  of  a  religious  observance- 
thai  sound  policy  would  recommend 
extreme  caution  in  the  measures 
which  should  be  adopted  to  ensure 
the  discontinuance  of  such  proces- 
sions as,  having  long  been  favoured 
by  successive  governments,  were 
now  prohibited — that  the  agency  of 
popular  individuals  among  the  gen- 
try should  be  relied  on  rather  than 
the  menace  and  severity  of  law — 
that,  in  short,  the  Orangemen  ought 
to  be  soothed  and  persuaded — that 
with  this  view  no  other  public  meet- 
ings, by  which  the  spirit  of  the  law 
was  offended,  should  be  sanctioned 
— and  that  such  other  just  and  wise 
exertions  should  be  made  by  the 
Executive,  as  would  furnish  an  an- 
swer to  the  objections  often  urged 
by  the  poor  Orangemen,  arising  from 
an  impression  that  they  were  pro- 
scribed and  persecuted  while  within 
the  law,  and  a  violent  and  dangerous 
party  tolerated  in  excesses  by  which 
law  was  outraged.  Various  sugges- 
tions to  this  effect  were  respectfully 
submitted  in  private  and  in  public 
communications ;  but,  at  the  Castle, 
"  a  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of 
their  dream,"  and  new  devices  were 
to  be  tried.  The  evidence  taken  on 
the  enquiry  would  not  allow  of  mea- 
sures which  should  be  of  great  noto- 
riety and  very  extreme ;  but  the 
"  Patriots"  might  be  propitiated  by 
such  inequality  as  should  not  attract 
public  attention — and,  accordingly, 
the  Protestants  in  the  affray  were 
prosecuted  at  the  public  expense; 
and,  though  acquitted,  were  defend- 
ed at  their  own,  while  many  of  their 
assailants  were  suffered  to  remain  at 
large,  and  no  warrants  issued  (at  least 
executed)  for  their  arrest.  This  par- 
tial justice  was  spoken  of  much, — it 
told  with  mournful  effect,  in  the 
next  year's  emigration.  Protestants 
removed  their  families,  and  carried 
with  them  their  disgusts,  to  Canada. 
Roman  Catholics  and  Ribbonmen 
became  their  successors.  Govern- 
ment thus  were  instrumental  in  sup- 
plying discontent  to  the  Colonies,  in 
preparing  disaffection  at  home.  They 
sent  some  refractory,  but  attached, 
subjects  out  of  the  land. 
"  They  have  taken  worse  In  their  stead." 


183 1.] 


Moore's  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald. 


691 


MOORE'S  LORD  EDWARD  FITZGERALD.* 


THIS  is  a  mere  catchpenny.  That 
it  is  a  genuine  work  of  Mr  Moore's, 
we  cannot  affect  to  disbelieve ;  but 
it  does  not  exhibit  a  single  one  of 
his  characteristics.  It  has  neither 
the  warmth  of  the  voluptuary,  the 
pungency  of  the  satirist,  the  fierce- 
ness of  sedition,  nor  the  sting  of  trea- 
son. The  truth  we  suspect  to  be, 
that  Mr  Moore  is  growing  old,  and 
the  peculiar  qualities  for  which  he 
was  remarkable,  were  not  of  that 
kind  that  could  be  mellowed  or  im- 
proved by  age  or  experience.  In 
fact,  it  required  not  only  the  ardour 
of  youth  to  call  them  forth,  but  the 
gayety  and  volatility  of  youth  could 
alone  furnish  an  excuse  for  the  man- 
ner in  which  they  were  exhibited  to 
the  world.  We  confess  ourselves  to 
have  been  so  old  fashioned  as  not  to 
have  been  reconciled  by  any  dis- 
guise, however  fashionable,  to  obsce- 
nity and  lewdness ;  and  youth  is  not 
the  season  in  which  these  propensi- 
ties will  expose  themselves,  unless 
they  predominate  to  a  degree  that 
sets  at  nought  the  restraints  of  rea- 
son and  conscience,  and  altogether 
overpowers  that  sense  of  minute  and 
ingenuous  modesty,  which  ought  ever 
to  belong  to  a  youiig  man.  We  there- 
fore never  felt  the  tull  force  of  that 
species  of  reasoning  by  which  the 
loose  productions  of  Mr  Moore's  pen 
have  been  defended,  and  for  which, 
we  would  wish  to  believe,  he  is  now 
ashamed.  They  might,  we  think, 
much  more  naturally  have  been  ex- 
cused as  the  deliramenta  of  an  ex- 
hausted debauchee,  than  the  off- 
spring of  that  ardour  in  early  life, 
which  is  so  rarely  disconnected  with 
those  virtuous  emotions  by  which  the 
open  profession  and  the  wild  re- 
joicings  of  profligacy  would  have 
been  prevented.  But  this,  at  all 
events,  will  be  admitted,  that  the 
powers  which  he  then  exhibited  were 
not  such  as  can  now  be  defended 
upon  any  other  plea  than  that  of  boy- 
hood and  inexperience.  They  were 
the  productions  of  Little  Tommy 
Moore.  The  very  name  carried  with 


it  something  like  a  deprecation  of  the 
moral  castigation  which  might  be  ap- 
prehended. It  is  true,  they  struck  at 
the  foundation  of  domestic  and  per- 
sonal purity.  They  were  seductive, 
contaminating,  and  licentious.  The 
plainest  precepts  of  religion  were 
laughingly  set  at  nought;  the  sound- 
est deductions  of  reason  were  sport- 
ingly  disregarded.  Butthen  they  were 
the  emanations  of  a  spirit  so  brilliant- 
ly thoughtless,  and  so  seemingly  gay, 
and  withal  as  yet  so  unschooled  by 
the  world,  that,  by  common  consent, 
a  species  of  license  was  procured  for 
them,  in  virtue  of  which  they  not 
only  obtained  a  welcome  admission 
into  those  circles  where  Master  Tom- 
my was  caressed,  but  also  disarmed 
the  severity  of  many,  by  whom,  un- 
der other  circumstances,  he  would 
have  been  sternly  reprehended. 

Youth,  however,  has  passed  away ; 
and  we  have  no  reason  to  be  assured 
that  old  age  has  brought  with  it  either 
wisdom  or  repentance.  On  the  con- 
trary, the  same  mischief  which  his 
early  writings  were  calculated  to  do 
morality,  by  kindling  impure  desires, 
his  later  writings  seem  calculated,  if 
not  intended,  to  work  against  the  in- 
stitutions of  the  country,  by  encou- 
raging insane  political  hallucinations. 
If  this  is  not  as  it  should  be,  we  are 
perfectly  ready  to  acknowledge  that 
it  is  as  might  have  been  expected. 
His  politics  are,  in  fact,  in  all  respects, 
upon  a  level  with  his  morality.  They 
derive  their  origin  from  the  same 
source  ;  and  the  spirit  to  whose  ser- 
vice he  devoted  himself  from  the 
first  dawn  of  boyhood,  no  matter 
how  varied  his  occupations  may  have 
been,  can  have  no  cause  to  accuse 
him  of  having  served  her  with  a  di- 
vided allegiance. 

"  The  Life  and  Death  of  Lord  Ed- 
ward Fitzgerald!"  What  can  have 
been  his  motive  for  undertaking  such 
a  work !  Every  thing  of  importance 
connected  with  that  unhappy  person 
may  be  summed  up  in  one  sentence ; 
namely,  that  he  lived  a  fomentor  of, 
and  died  a  victim  to  treason.  He 


*  Life  and  Death  of  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald. 
Longman  and  Co.     London;   1831. 


By  Thomas  Moore.     2  vols. 


Moore's  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald. 


632 

was  totally  devoid  of  any  talents  that 
could  have  raised  him  from  an  hum- 
ble station,  and  owed  his  misfortunes 
to  the  circumstance  of  his  belonging 
to  a  distinguished  family,  by  whom 
he  was  brought  up  without  a  suffi- 
cient knowledge  of  his  duty  either 
as  a  subject  or  a  Christian. 

Poor  Lord  Edward !  Had  he  been 
"  trained  in  the  way  he  should  go," 
although  he  never  could,  under  any 
circumstances,  have  been  great,  yet 
he  might  sometimes  have  been  use- 
ful, and  he  would  always  have  been 
respectable.  He  had  feeling  enough, 
if  properly  directed,  to  compensate 
for  a  very  scanty  measure  of  under- 
standing. It  has  been  wisely  re- 
marked, by  some  writer  whose  name 
we  cannot  at  present  call  to  mind, 
that  instinct  and  intellect  are  gene- 
rally found  in  the  inverse  ratio  of 
each  other ;  a  beneficent  providence 
thus  extending  a  species  of  guardian- 
ship over  animated  nature,  in  pro- 
portion aa  creatures,  whether  brute 
or  human,  are  unable  to  take  care  of 
themselves.  We  are  therefore  of 
opinion,  that  had  this  unhappy  young 
nobleman  been  left  altogether  to  the 
better  instincts  of  his  nature,  and 
had  his  ingenuous  mind  been  unde- 
bauched  by  the  leprous  liberalism 
which  seems  to  have  polluted  the 
very  fountain  of  his  being,  society 
would  have  recognised  in  him  a  fear- 
less and  gallant  defender  of  those  in- 
stitutions which  contribute  to  its  ad- 
vancement, while  they  guarantee  its 
stability.  He  would  have  loathed 
the  vulgar  ale-house  politics,  by 
which  he  seems  to  have  been  intoxi- 
cated ;  and  if  he  could  not  have  ap- 
preciated, in  their  height  or  in  their 
depth,  the  principles  of  a  sound  poli- 
tical philosophy,  they  would  have 
had  a  sufficient  attraction  for  what- 
ever was  amiable  or  generous  within 
him,  to  prevent  the  disgraceful  and 
ruinous  connexion  which  he  formed 
with  reckless  and  unprincipled  de- 
magogues, whose  characters  were 
well  calculated  to  inspire  that  quick 
disgust  which  would  have  operated 
as  an  antisceptic  to  the  contagion  of 
their  principles. 

But  his  bringing  up  was  not  of  a 
kind  that  favoured  the  develope- 
ment  of  his  better  nature.  Patriot- 
ism in  Ireland  is  a  species  of  nick- 
name which  a  wise  man  would  be 
studious  to  avoid,  lest  his  sanity 


[Oct. 


should  be  called  in  question.  It  has 
been  identified  with  a  brawling  hos- 
tility to  every  thing  English,  and  a 
braggadocio  vehemence  for  every 
thing  peculiarly  Irish.  The  lower 
classes  in  that  country  are,  to  an  ex- 
traordinary degree,  quick  and  sensi- 
tive; and  no  people  in  the  world  are 
more  readily  excited  by  any  thing  that 
appears  to  reflect  upon  their  national 
degradation.  Their  passions  are  easi- 
ly set  on  fire  by  any  representations 
calculated  to  exhibit,  in  an  exaggera- 
ted point  of  view,  the  spirit  of  Eng- 
lish domination;  while  they  are  slow 
to  appreciate,  or  even  to  admit,  the 
benefits  derived  from  a  connexion 
which,  by  identifying  them  with  a 
great  and  powerful  nation,  has  im- 
parted to  them  the  full  benefit  of 
wise  and  equal  laws,  and  secured 
them  at  once  from  the  evils  of  do- 
mestic anarchy  or  foreign  subjuga- 
tion. 

Now  the  real  patriot,  he  who  in 
sincerity  should  seek  his  country's 
good,  would  have  endeavoured  to  im- 
press on  his  countrymen  the  benefits 
to  be  derived  from  the  continuance, 
and  the  dangers  to  be  apprehended 
from  the  abrupt  termination  of  a  con- 
nexion between  two  such  countries 
as  Great  Britain  and  Ireland.  He 
would  have  made  it  his  business  to 
shew,  that  whatever  of  sacrifice  such 
a  connexion  involved  had  been  al- 
ready made,  while  time  and  wisdom 
were  only  wanting  to  bring  to  light 
the  blessings  of  which  it  was  preg- 
nant. He  might  expect,  by  so  doing, 
to  encounter  much  prejudice,  and  to 
be  liable  to  much  misrepresentation. 
But  his  sense  of  duty  would  be  pa- 
ramount to  every  other  considera- 
tion, and  no  desire  of  filthy  popular- 
ity could  allure  him  from  the  straight- 
forward and  steady  pursuit  of  what 
his  reason  and  conscience  would  tell 
him  was  required  by  the  best  inte- 
rests of  his  country. 

Unfortunately,  however,  the  real 
patriots  were  as  scanty  as  the  pseu- 
do-patriots were  abundant.  The 
Irish  have  never  wanted  those  who 
would  inflame  their  passions,  while 
there  has  always  been  a  grievous 
lack  of  those  who  would  enlighten 
or  correct  their  judgments.  And  the 
time  was  peculiarly  unfavourable  for 
the  calm  and  dispassionate  consider- 
ation of  the  great  question  which 
then  engaged  the  attention  of  public 


1831.] 


Moore's  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald. 


men,  and  'which  affected  the  very 
foundations  of  social  order. 

America  had  renounced  its  alle- 
giance, and  commenced  what  was 
considered  to  be  a  career  of  glorious 
independence.  The  example  com- 
municated the  electric  spark  by 
which  the  secret  discontents,  which 
had  been  generated  in  France  by  the 
abuse  of  centuries,  had  burst  with  a 
flame,  and  all  Europe  was  menaced 
with  conflagration.  We  are  not,  at 
present,  disposed  to  enter  into  the 
question  how  far  the  old  governments 
were  chargeable  with  having  pro- 
voked, by  unwise,  unjust  or  oppres- 
sive measures,  the  tremendous  reac- 
tion which  they  were  doomed  to  en- 
counter— but,  assuredly,  it  would 
have  been  the  part  of  real  wisdom  to 
moderate  rather  than  to  exasperate 
the  popular  indignation. 

We  are,  however,  free  to  acknow- 
ledge that,  to  the  ardent,  the  youth- 
ful, and  the  inexperienced,  the  Na- 
tional Assembly  of  France  presented 
a  most  imposing  spectacle,  and  we 
are  not  at  alt  surprised  that  they 
should  have  appeared  to  such  minds 
as  that  of  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald, 
as  the  regenerators  of  mankind.  He 
sighed  to  realize  in  his  own  country 
the  principles  which  were  elsewhere 
so  triumphant,  and  fondly  wished  to 
see  the  day,  when  what  Washington 
had  achieved  for  America,  and  Mi- 
rabeau  for  France;  he  might  be  ac- 
knowledged to  have  accomplished 
for  Ireland. 

Poor,  deluded,  vain  young  man  ! 
While  he  did  not  possess  one  of  the 
requisites  which  would  have  quali- 
fied him  to  be  a  legislator,  he  was 
far  too  good  to  be  numbered  with 
traitors.  It  is  painful  to  see  the  mo- 
ral pestilence,  which  was  then  almost 
everywhere  epidemic,  making  such 
fatal  ravages  amongst  those  who,  if 
they  were  not  endowed  with  shining 
talents,  were  adorned  by  many  do- 
mestic virtues.  Lord  Edward's  heart 
was  one  upon  which  good  impres- 
sions might  have  been  easily  made. 
He  was  gentle,  generous,  affection- 
ate, and  unsuspecting.  If  he  had 
been  reared  by  those  who  understood 
the  difference  between  mock  and 
real  patriotism,  and  who  would  have 
impressed  him  with  how  much  ea- 
sier it  is  to  pull  down  than  to  build 
up  the  political  edifice,  and  how  dif- 
ferent it  is  to  feel  a  hatred  for  arbi- 


trary  powe?',  and  cherish  a  love  for 
enlightened  freedom,  his  filial  affec- 
tion was  such  as  would  have  made 
him  very  susceptible  of  better  no- 
tions than  those  which  he  imbibed, 
and  lie  might  have  been  easily  led 
into  that  "more  excellent  way"  in 
politics,  in  which  his  course  would 
have  been  marked  by  usefulness,  and 
terminated  with  honour. 

But,  unfortunately,  he  was  not  so 
favoured.  For  any  thing  which  his 
biographer  discloses,  no  paina  what- 
ever seem  to  have  been  taken  with 
his  early  religious  education.  If  he 
did  not  look  upon  religion  as  a  farce, 
(and  Tom  Paineappears  to  have  been 
almost  the  God  of  his  idolatry,)  the 
established  church-  could  claim  no 
place  in  his  regards,  or  rather,  in- 
deed, its  ministers  and  its  ordinances 
were  looked  upon  with  loathing  and 
aversion.  We  speak  now  of  that  early 
period  of  his  life,  before  whatever  he 
might  have  possessed  of  domestic 
purity  was  impaired  or  sullied  by  a 
contact  with  the  world.  And  we  are 
unable  to  discover  that  the  slightest 
effort  had  even  then  been  made  to 
impress  upon  him  any  sufficiently 
operative  sense  of  his  moral  respon- 
sibility, or  awaken  him  to  the  eleva- 
ting contemplation  of  the  mysterious 
relation  in  which  he  stood  to  his 
Creator. 

Lord  Edward  conceived  himself 
called  to  be  a  framer  of  constitutions. 
Poor  youth  !  He  was  ignorant  of  the 
very  alphabet  of  political  science! 
Indeed,  considering  that  he  figured 
somewhat  upon  the  theatre  of  public 
life,  and  that  he  became  conspicu- 
ous amongst  his  party,  it  is  difficult 
to  form  an  idea  of  his  extreme  im- 
becility. His  weakness  and  igno- 
rance well  fitted  him  to  be  the  dupe 
and  the  instrument  of  the  more  craf- 
ty villains,  upon  whose  heads  must 
lie  the  blood  and  the  guilt  of  the  late 
rebellion  in  Ireland. 

Lord  Edward  was  born  in  the  year 
1763,  and  was  the  fifth  son  of  the 
Duke  of  Leinster.  In  the  year  1773 
his  father  died ;  and  not  long  after, 
his  mother  became  the  wife  of  Wil- 
liam Ogilvie,  Esq.  a  gentleman  of  an 
ancient  family  in  Scotland.  Soon 
after  their  marriage,  the  duchess  and 
her  husband,  with  the  greater  part 
of  their  family,  removed  to  France. 
"  The  care  of  little  Edward's  educa- 
tion," says  his  biographer,  "  which 


Moore's  Lord  Edioard  Fitzgerald. 


634 

had,  before  their  departure  from  Ire- 
land, been  intrusted  chiefly  to  a  pri- 
vate tutor  of  the  name  of  Lynch, 
was  now  taken  by  Mr  Ogilvie  into 
his  own  hands;  and  as  the  youtli 
was,  from  the  first,  intended  for  the 
military  profession,  to  the  studies 
connected  with  that  pursuit  his  pre- 
ceptor principally  directed  his  atten- 
tion. Luckily,  the  tastes  of  the  young 
learner  coincided -with  the  destiny 
marked  out  for  him ;  and  in  all  that 
related  to  the  science  of  military  con- 
struction— the  laying  out  of  camps, 
fortifications,  &c.  &c. — he  was  an 
early  student  and  proficient." 

His  first  entrance  into  the  military 
profession  was  in  the  year  1779, 
when  he  joined  the  Sussex  militia, 
of  which  his  uncle,  the  Duke  of  Rich- 
mond, was  colonel.  In  the  year  1780, 
he  entered  into  the  line,  the  commis- 
sion of  lieutenant  having  been  pro- 
cured for  him  in  the  96th  regiment 
of  foot.  He  appears  to  have  been 
extremely  desirous  of  some  oppor- 
tunity of  distinguishing  himself  in 
his  profession ;  and  as  the  American 
war  then  afforded  the  only  chance 
for  such  distinction,  he  exchanged 
into  the  19th  regiment,  which  em- 
barked for  America,  and  landed  at 
Charlestown,  at  a  period  when  their 
arrival  was  critically  necessary  for 
the  relief  of  the  English  forces  act- 
ing in  that  quarter. 

We  will  pass  over  this  period  of 
his  lordship's  life,  after  having  given, 
in  the  words  of  his  biographer,  two 
anecdotes  illustrative  of  his  charac- 
ter, the  one  reflecting  credit  upon 
his  skill  as  an  officer,  the  other  do- 
ing honour  to  his  bravery  as  a  man. 

"  The  19th  regiment,  being  posted  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  a  place  called 
Monk's  Corner,  found  itself  menaced, 
one  morning  at  daybreak,  with  an  attack 
from  Colonel  Lee,  one  of  the  ablest  and 
most  enterprising  of  the  American  par- 
tisans. This  officer,  having  made  some 
demonstrations  at  the  head  of  his  cavalry, 
in  front  of  the  19th,  the  colonel  of  that 
regiment  (ignorant,  as  it  appears,  of  the 
nature  of  American  warfare)  ordered  a 
retreat ;  a  movement  wholly  unneces- 
sary, and  rendered  still  more  discredit- 
able by  the  unmilitary  manner  in  which 
it  was  etFected, — all  the  baggage,  sick, 
medicines,  and  paymaster's  chests,  being 
left  in  the  rear  of  the  column  of  march, 
where  they  were  liable  to  be  captured  by 
any  half  dozen  stragglers.  Fortunately, 


[Oct. 


Lord  Edward  was  upon  the  rear-guard, 
covering  the  retreat  of  the  regiment,  and, 
by  the  firm  and  determined  countenance 
of  his  little  party,  and  their  animated  fire, 
kept  the  American  corps  in  check  till  he 
was  able  to  break  up  a  small  wooden 
bridge  over  a  creek,  which  separated  him 
from  his  pursuers,  and  which  could  not 
be  crossed  by  the  enemy  without  making 
a  long  detour.  Having  secured  safety  so 
far,  Lord  Edward  reported  the  state  of 
affairs  to  the  colonel,  and  the  disreput- 
able panic  being  thus  put  an  end  to,  the 
regiment  resumed  its  original  position." 

This  was  an  important  incident  in 
the  life  of  Lord  Edward,  as  it  was 
the  means  of  introducing  him  advan- 
tageously to  Lord  Rawdon,  who  im- 
mediately placed  him  upon  his  staff. 
It  was  while  in  the  situation  of  aide- 
de-camp  to  the  commander-in-chief 
that  the  other  incident  occurred.  We 
give  it  in  the  words  of  Sir  John  Doyle, 
by  whom  it  was  communicated  to 
Mr  Moore. 

"  Among  the  varied  duties  which  de- 
volved upon  me  as  chief  of  the  staff,  a 
most  material  one  was  obtaining  intelli- 
gence. This  was  effected  partly  by  the 
employment  of  intelligent  spies  in  vari- 
ous directions,  and  partly  by  frequent 
reconnaissances ,-  which  last  were  not  de- 
void of  danger,  from  the  superior  know- 
ledge of  the  country  possessed  by  the 
enemy.  Upon  these  occasions  1  con- 
stantly found  Lord  Edward  by  my  side, 
with  the  permission  of  our  noble  chief, 
who  wished  our  young  friend  to  see  every 
thing  connected  with  real  service.  In 
fact,  the  danger  enhanced  the  value  of 
the  enterprise  in  the  eyes  of  this  brave 
young  creature.  In  approaching  the  po- 
sition of  ninety-six,  the  enemy's  light 
troops  in  advance  became  more  numer- 
ous, and  rendered  more  frequent  patrols 
necessary  upon  our  part. 

"  I  was  setting  out  upon  a  patrol,  and 
sent  to  apprise  Lord  Edward ;  but  he 
was  nowhere  to  be  found,  and  I  proceed- 
ed without  him,  when,  at  the  end  of  two 
miles,  upon  emerging  from  the  forest,  I 
found  him  engaged  with  two  of  the  ene- 
my's irregular  horse ;  he  had  wounded 
one  of  his  opponents,  when  his  sword 
broke  in  the  middle,  and  he  must  have 
soon  fallen  in  the  unequal  contest,  had 
not  his  enemies  fled  on  perceiving  the 
head  of  my  column.  I  rated  him  sound- 
ly, as  you  may  imagine,  for  the  undis- 
ciplined act  of  leaving  the  camp  at  so 
critical  a  period,  without  the  general's 
permission.  He  was — or  pretended  to 
be — very  penitent,  and  compounded  for 


1831.] 


Moore's  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald. 


685 


my  reporting  him  to  the  headquarters, 
provided  I  would  let  him  accompany  me, 
in  the  hope  of  some  other  enterprise.  It 
was  impossible  to  refuse  the  fellow,  whose 
frank,  manly,  and  ingenuous  manner, 
would  have  won  over  even  a  greater  ty- 
rant than  myself.  In  the  course  of  the 
day,  we  took  some  prisoners,  which  I 
made  him  convey  to  headquarters,  with 
a  Belerepkon  message,  which  he  fairly  de- 
livered. Lord  Moira  gravely  rebuked 
him ;  but  I  could  never  find  that  he  lost 
much  ground  with  his  chief  for  his  chival- 
rous valour." 

The  American  war  having  termi- 
nated, Lord  Edward,  after  a  short 
time  spent  in  the  West  Indies,  upon 
the  staff  of  General  O'Hara,  return- 
ed to  Ireland,  and  became  a  member 
of  Parliament  for  the  borough  of 
Athy.  For  the  peculiar  duties  of  his 
new  office  he  does  not  appear  to 
have  had  any  very  decided  predilec- 
tions. On  the  contrary,  the  turbu- 
lent theatre  of  Irish  politics,  would 
seem  to  have  been  uncongenial  and 
distasteful  to  him;  and  he  came  to 
what  we  consider  a  salutary  resolu- 
tion, of  employing  his  time  in  im- 
proving himself  in  a  knowledge  of 
his  profession,  by  a  course  of  study 
at  Woolwich. 

From  the  letters  written  to  his 
mother  about  this  time,  it  would  ap- 
pear that  he  fancied  himself  in  love. 
The  object  of  his  affection  was  Lady 
Catherine  Mead,  who  was  afterwards 
married  to  Lord  Powerscourt.  That 
the  first  attachment  of  so  young  a 
man  should  not  have  been  most  en- 
grossing or  constant; — and  that  it 
should,  afterwards,  have  given  place 
to  another,  does  not  seem  very  sur- 
prising, except  as  it  affords  to  his 
ingenious  biographer  an  opportuni- 
ty of  comparing  him  to  Romeo,  and 
of  expatiating  on  the  profundity  of 
Shakspeare's  knowledge  of  human 
nature. 

The  following  extracts  from  his 
correspondence  with  his  mother, 
will,  we  think,  afford  the  reader  a 
fair  idea  of  the  scantiness  of  his  un- 
derstanding, and  the  goodness  of  his 
heart  :— 

"  July  1th,  1786. 

"  You  cannot  conceive  how  odd  the 
life  I  lead  now  appears  to  me.  I  must 
confess,  if  I  had  le  canir  content,  I  should 
like  best  the  idle  indolent  one.  Getting 
up  between  eleven  and  twelve,  breakfast- 
ing in  one's  jacket,  sans  souci,  se  ficlwnt 


du  monde,  and  totally  careless  and  thought- 
less of  every  thing  but  the  people  one 
loves,  is  a  very  pleasant  life,  U  faut  le 
dire.  I  would  give  a  great  deal  for  a 
lounge  at  Frescati  this  morning. 

"  You  cannot  think  how  sorry  I  was 
to  part  with  Ogilvie.  I  begin  to  find  one 
has  very  few  real  friends,  whatever  num- 
ber of  agreeable  acquaintances  one  may 
have.  Pray,  do  not  let  Ogilvie  spoil  you; 
I  am  sure  he  will  try,  crying, '  Nonsense! 
fool!  fool!  all  imagination!  By  Heavens! 
you  will  be  the  ruin  of  that  boy !'  My 
dear  mother,  if  you  mind  him,  and  do  not 
write  me  pleasant  letters,  and  always  say 
something  of  pretty  Kate,  I  will  not 
answer  your  letters,  nor,  indeed,  write  any 
to  you.  I  believe,  if  any  thing  will  make 
me  like  writing  letters,  Woolwich  will—- 
for to  be  here  alone,  is  most  melancholy. 
However,  I  like  it  better  than  London, 
and  am  not  in  such  bad  spirits.  I  have 
not  time  hardly.  In  my  evening  walks, 
however,  I  am  as  bad  as  ever.  I  believe, 
in  my  letter  to  Henry,  I  told  him  how  I 
passed  my  day;  so  shall  not  begin  again. 
You  will  see  by  that  what  my  evening's 
walk  is ;  but,  upon  my  honour,  I  some- 
times think  of  you  in  it." 

We  have  two  objects  in  laj'ing 
these  extracts  before  the  reader.  In 
the  first  place,  they  are  illustrative 
of  character; — in  the  second  place, 
they  in  some  sort  ascertain  the  cali- 
bre of  that  intellect  which  was  so 
speedily  to  be  engaged  in  the  im- 
portant business  of  layingthe  founda- 
tions of  a  mighty  empire.  Mr  Moore 
represents  Lord  Edward  as  one  of 
the  choicest  and  most  enlightened  of 
Ireland's  patriots; — and  sighs  to 
think  that  Lafayette,  who  served  in 
America  with  the  French  army, 
when  Lord  Edward  was  with  the 
British,  should  have  survived  the 
stormy  period  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution, in  which  he  played  so  distin- 
guished a  part,  and  lived  to  witness 
the  spirit  of  Jacobinism  a  second 
time  triumphant,  while  his  less  for- 
tunate compeer  in  the  career  of  se- 
dition and  treason,  "  was  fated  soon 
to  become  the  victim  of  an  unsuc- 
cessful assertion  of  principles," 
which  were,  we  believe,  not  the  less 
sincerely  adopted,  because  they  were 
both  wicked  and  absurd. 

It  has  been  profoundly  observed 
by  Hume,  that,  when  two  passions, 
of  unequal  strength,  manifest  them- 
selves at  the  same  time  in  the  same 
individual,  the  greater  absorbs  the 
less,  which  thus  becomes  an  auxili- 


636  Moore's  Lwd  Edward  Fitzgerald. 

ary,  instead  of  an  antagonist  to  the 
energy  which,  it  might  be  supposed, 
it  would  have  resisted.   So  it  is,  also, 
in  man's  moral  and  intellectual  na- 
ture.   When  erroneous  and  mischie- 
vous  opinions  are   entertained    by 
one  whose  intentions  are  pure,  and 
whose  dispositions  are  amiable,  all 
that  is  good  in  him  frequently  only 
serves  to  give  a  stronger  and  more 
determined  impulse  to  all  that  is  evil. 
When  the    heart   is   not    powerful 
enough  to  guide  the  intellect,  the 
intellect  exercises  an  arbitrary  and 
tyrannical  mastery  over  the   heart. 
The  gentle  domestic  virtues  are  ill 
mated  with  the  wickedness  of  Jaco- 
binical principles.     Had  Lord   Ed- 
ward  never   been   drawn  into   the 
vortex  of  revolutionary  politics,  there 
is  abundant  evidence  that,  as  a  pri- 
vate gentleman,  he  would  have  been 
the  delight  and  the  ornament  of  his 
relatives  and  friends  ; — but,  circum- 
stanced as  he  was,  the  very  qualities 
which  should  have  thus   endeared 
him,  only  rendered  him  more  incor- 
rigibly wrong  in  his  opinions,  and 
more  perniciously  dangerous  in  his 
conduct  and  example. 

His  affection  for  the  lady  to  whom 
he  first  attached  himself  rapidly  de- 
clined. It  is  described  by  Mr  Moore, 
who  may  be  allowed  to  be  a  judge 
in  such  matters,  as  "  a  mere  rehear- 
sal" for  a  second  and  a  deeper  pas- 
sion, which  seems  to  have  taken  a 
stronger  possession  of  his  suscepti- 
ble heart.  Whether  or  not  his  love 
was  returned,  we  arc  not  told ; — but 
it  was  decidedly  discouraged  by  the 
father  of  the  lady  who  was  the  object 
of  it, — which  so  preyed  upon  Lord 
Edward's  mind,  that  "  he  resolved  to 
try  how  far  absence  and  occupation 
could  bring  relief;  and  as  his  present 
regiment,  the  54th,  was  now  at  New 
Brunswick,  in  Nova  Scotia,  he  deter- 
mined on  joining  it.  Fortunately, 
this  resolution  found  a  seconding 
impulse  in  that  love  of  a  military  life, 
which  was  so  leading  a  feature  with 
him ;  and,  about  the  latter  end  of 
May,  without  acquainting  even  bis 
mother  with  his  design,  lest,  in  her 
fond  anxiety,  she  might  interpose  to 
prevent  it,  lie  sailed  for  America." 

As  his  letters  from  America,  during 
this,  his  second  visit,  contain  the  first 
decided  intimations  of  the  views 
Avhich  he  began  to  entertain  respect- 
ing social  institutions,  we  will  ex- 


[Oct. 


tract  from  them  one  or  two  passages, 
which  exhibit,  at  the  same  time,  the 
weakness  of  his  intellect,  and  the 
aptness  with  which  he  imbibed  the 
lessons  of  his  revolutionary  precep- 
tors. In  a  letter  to  his  mother,  from 
St  John's,  New  Brunswick,  he  thus 
writes : — 

"  The  equality  of  every  body,  and  of 
their  manner  of  life,  I  like  very  much. 
There  are  no  gentlemen ;  every  body  is  on 
a  footing,  provided  he  worlis,  and  wants 
nothing ;  every  man  is  exactly  what  he 
can  make  himself,  or  has  made  himself, 
by  industry." 

In  the  following  we  have  a  fuller 
disclosure  to  the  same  effect — a  more 
undisguised  manifestation  of  hie  anti- 
social predilections : — 

"  I  know  Ogilvie  says  I  ought  to  have 
been  a  savage ;  and  if  it  were  not  that 
the  people  I  love,  and  wish  to  live  with, 
are  civilized  people,  and  like  houses,  &c. 
&c.  &c. ,  /  really  would  join  the  savages ; 
and,  leaving  all  our  fictitious,  ridiculous 
wants,  be  what  nature  intended  we  should 
be.     Savages  have  all  the  real  happiness 
of  life,  without  any  of  those  inconveni- 
encies,  or  ridiculous  obstacles  to  it,  which 
custom  has  introduced  among  us.     They 
enjoy  the   love   and   company  of  their 
wives,  relations,  and  friends,  without  any 
interference  of  interests  or  ambitien  to 
separate  them.     To  bring  things  home 
to  one's  self,  if  we  had  been  Indians,  in- 
stead of  its  being  my  duty  to  be  separated 
from  all  of  you,  it  would,  on  the  contrary, 
be  my  duty  to  be  with  you,  to  make  you 
comfortable,  and  to  hunt  and  fish  for  you  : 
Instead  of  Lord  G.'s  being  violent  against 
letting  me  marry  G.,  he  would  be  glad 
to  give  her  to  me,  that  I  might  maintain 
and  feed  her.     There  would  be  then  no 
cases  of  looking  forward  to  the   future 
for  children,— of  thinking  how  you  are  to 
live;  no  separations  in  families,  one  in 
Ireland,  one  in    England  ;  no   devilish 
politics,    no   fashions,   customs,   duties, 
appearances  to  the  world  to   interfere 
with  one's  happiness.     Instead  of  being 
served  and  supported  by  servants,  every 
thing  here  is  done  by  one's  relations — by 
the  people  one  loves;  and  the  mutual 
obligations  you  must  be  under  increase 
your  love  for  each  other.     To  be  sure, 
the  poor  ladies  are  obliged  to  cut  a  little 
wood  and  bring  a  little  water.    Now  the 
dear  Ciss  and  Mimi,  instead  of  being  with 
Mrs  Lynch,  would  be  carrying  wood  and 
fetching  water,  while  Ladies  Lucy  and 
Sophia  were  cooking  or  drying  fish.    As 
for  you,  dear  mother,  you  would  be  smo- 
king your  pipe.     Ogilvie,  and  us  boys, 


1831.] 


Moore's  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald. 


after  having  brought  in  our  game,  would 
be  lying  about  the  fire,  while  our  squaws 
were  helping  the  ladies  to  cook,  or  taking 
care  of  our  papouses ;  all  this  in  a  fine 
wood,  beside  some  beautiful  lake,  which, 
when  you  were  tired  of,  you  would  in  ten 
minutes,  without  any  baggage,  get  into 
your  canoes,  and  off  with  you  elsewhere." 

Such  were  the  deliberate  opinions 
of  the  young  legislator,  now  in  his 
five-and- twentieth  year.  The  reader 
may  judge  from  them  how  fit  he  was 
for  the  great  work  of  regenerating 
his  country !  "  To  be  what  nature 
intended  we  should  be !"  It  really  is 
not  our  bent  to  expose  or  to  sport 
with  the  follies  of  any  man ;  much 
less  to  hold  forth  to  grinning  scorn 
the  idiotic  drivelling  of  a  mind  that 
appears  to  have  been  as  amiable  as 
it  was  deluded.  But,  as  Lord  Ed- 
ward's many  virtues  are  only  made 
use  of  by  his  biographer  to  enhance 
his  authority  upon  political  ques- 
tions, it  is  right  to  inform  the  reader 
upon  what  slender  and  insufficient 
grounds  he  adopted  and  persevered 
in  the  views  and  the  principles  to 
which  he  fell  an  early  victim. 

"  What  nature  intended  us  to  be !" 
As  if  it  was  a  decree  of  Providence 
that  we  should  continue  savages ! 
As  if  every  advance  which  we  made 
in  civilisation  was  an  impious  de- 
fiance of  some  divine  arrangement ! 
"  What  nature  intended  us  to  be  !" 
How  little  did  Lord  Edward  seem 
to  know  that  art  is  man's  nature; 
and,  that  it  is  not  more  natural  that 
four-footed  animals  should  traverse 
the  field,  than  that  he,  "  the  paragon 
of  animals,"  should  live  in  a  state  of 
refined  society !  The  nature  of  a 
thing  is  that  state  in  which  it  exists 
in  the  greatest  perfection;  and,  what- 
ever may  have  been  the  insane  ro- 
mance of  Rousseau,  or  the  specula- 
tive and  sophistical  fallacies  of  Jef- 
ferson, nothing  but  a  degree  of  sim- 
plicity, which  m  a  senator  is  pitiably 
ridiculous,  could  have  betrayed  Lord 
Edward  into  a  practical  preference 
for  the  life  of  wandering  savages, 
the  "  squalid  beings,  vengeful  and 
impure,"  with  whom  he  loved  to  as- 
sociate, and  to  whose  degraded  con- 
dition he  would  have  willingly  con- 
demned the  mother  to  whom  he  was 
so  tenderly  attached,  and  the  sisters 
for  whom  he  cherished  such  unfeign- 
ed fraternal  affection.  We  are  not 
therefore  surprised  when  we  find  the 


63? 

same  misguided  individual  fondly 
contemplating  distant  political  chi- 
meras, which  he  could  only  hope  to 
attain  after  he  had  waded  through 
rivers  of  blood.  That  the  views  thus 
disclosed  were  the  foundation  of  his 
future  politics,  is  thus  fairly  admitted 
by  Mr  Moore. 

"  This  romance,  indeed,  of  savage  hap- 
piness was,  in  him,  but  one  of  the  various 
forms  which  the  passion  now  predomi- 
nant over  all  his  thoughts  assumed.  But 
the  principle  thus  admitted,  retained  its 
footing  in  his  mind  after  the  reveries  through 
which  it  had  found  its  way  thither  had  va- 
nished,— and  though  it  was  some  time  be- 
fore politics, — beyond  the  range,  at  least 
of  mere  party  tactics,— began  to  claim 
his  attention,  all  he  had  meditated  and 
felt  among  the  solitudes  of  Nova  Scotia, 
could  not  fail  to  render  his  mind  a  more 
ready  recipient  of  such  doctrines  as  he 
found  prevalent  on  his  return  to  Europe." 
Yes.  Voltaire,  and  Hume,  and 
Gibbon,  had  done  what  in  them  lay 
to  unsettle  the  foundations  of  moral 
and  religious  obligation;  and  Tom 
Paine  had  laid  the  axe  to  the  root  of 
civil  institutions  by  his  shallow  and 
sophistical,  but  plausible  pamphlet 
upon  the  Rights  of  Man.  Lord  Ed- 
ward, upon  his  return  from  America, 
found  Europe  more  ripe  for  those 
changes  which  would  hava  enabled 
him  to  gratify  his  passion  for  savage 
life,  than  he  left  it.  The  French  Re- 
volution was  a  new  era  in  the  world". 
What  his  feelings,  and  what  his  con- 
duct were  upon  that  occasion,  he 
shall  himself  describe.  Mr  Moore 
thus  writes : — 

"  At  the  latter  end  of  1792,  that  mo- 
mentous crisis,  when  France,  standing 
forth  on  the  ruins  of  her  monarchy,  pro- 
claimed herself  a  republic,  and  hurled 
fierce  defiance  against  the  thrones  of  the 
world,  Lord  Edward,  unwilling  to  lose 
such  a  spectacle  of  moral  and  political 
excitement,  hastened  over  to  Paris,  with- 
out communicating  his  intentions  even  to 
the  Duchess,  who  received  from  him,  a 
short  time  after  his  arrival  in  that  city,  a 
letter,  of  which  the  following  is  an  ex- 
tract. 

"  '  I  arrived  last  Friday.  /  lodge  unth 
my  friend  Paine, — we  breakfast,  dine, 
and  sup  together.  The  more  I  see  of  his 
interior,  the  more  I  like  and  respect  him. 
I  cannot  express  how  kind  he  is  to  me  ; 
there  is  a  simplicity  of  manner,  a  good- 
ness of  heart,  and  a  strength  of  mind  in 
him,  that  I  never  knew  a  man  before 
possess.' " 


638 

Thus  the  wolf  and  the  lamb  lay 
down  together— a  good  commence- 
ment of  the  new  political  millennium 
which  was  about  to  take  place  in 
the  world.  The  result  of  a  connec- 
tion so  ominous,  was  soon  apparent. 
"  From  a  disposition  so  ardent  and 
fearless,"  says  his  biographer,  "  dis- 
cretion was  the  last  virtue  to  be  ex- 
pected; and  his  friends,  therefore, 
whatever  alarm  or  regret  it  might 
cause  them,  would  hardly  have  felt 
much  surprise,  when  the  announce- 
ment that  follows  made  its  appear- 
ance in  the  papers  of  Paris  and 
London : — 

"  Sir  Robert  Smith,  and  Lord  Edward 
Fitzgerald,  renounced  their  titles  ; — and  a 
toast  proposed  by  the  former  was  drunk, 
— '  The  speedy  abolition  of  all  hereditary 
titles  and  feudal  distinctions.'  "  ! !  !  ! 

He  was  now  fairly  launched  upon 
the  tide  of  revolution,  and  only  an- 
xious to  give  his  own  country  the  full 
benefit  both  of  his  principles  and  his 
experience.  One  would  have  ex- 
pected that  a  heart  so  capable  of 
kindly  and  generous  feelings  as  that 
of  Lord  Edward,  would  have  sym- 
pathized with  the  wreck  of  the  old 
nobility  of  France,  and  been  warned 
of  the  pernicious  nature  of  the  doc- 
trines which  he  imbibed,  by  the  mi- 
sery which  they  occasioned  to  thou- 
sands. But  a  genuine  Jacobin  is  a 
creature  without  a  heart ;  and  Lord 
Edward  had  already  so  nearly  rea- 
lized the  ideal  perfection  of  such  a 
character,  that  he  was  reconciled  to 
practices  which  he  would  have  for- 
merly abhorred,  and  brought  him- 
self to  contemplate  human  suffering 
with  the  coolness  of  an  economist 
or  an  executioner. 

It  was  during  his  visit  to  France 
on  this  occasion,  that  he  formed  an 
acquaintance  with  Pamela,  (the 
daughter  of  Madame  Genlis  and  the 
Duke  of  Orleans,)  which  ended  in 
their  marriage. 

"  In  some  natures,"  Mr  Moore  writes, 
"  love  is  a  fruit  that  ripens  quickly ;  and 
that  such  was  its  grade  in  Lord  Ed- 
ward's warm  heart,  the  whole  history  of 
his  life  fully  testifies.  In  the  present 
instance,  where  there  was  so  much  to 
interest  and  attract  on  both  sides,  a  li- 
king felt  by  either  could  not  fail  to  be 
reciprocal.  The  perfect  disinterested- 
ness, too,  of  the  young  soldier,  threw  at 
once  out  of  consideration  a  difficulty  that 
might  have  checked  more  worldly  suit- 


Moore's  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald. 


[Oct. 


ors ;  and,  in  somewhat  less  than  a  month 
after  their  meeting  in  Paris,  Mademoi- 
selle Sims  (the  name  by  which  Madame 
Genlis  had  chosen  to  designate  ber 
daughter)  became  Lady  Edward  Fitz- 
gerald." 

It  was  not  until  his  return  to  Ire- 
land, after  his  marriage,  that  he  was 
finally  committed  with  the  movers 
of  the  late  rebellion,  and  became, 
"  ex  professo"  a  traitor.  He  had 
connected  himself  with  the  daughter 
of  the  infamous  Philip  Egalite,  one 
of  the  basest  wretches  that  ever  dis- 
graced humanity ;  the  only  man,  per- 
haps, that  ever  lived,  in  comparison 
with  whom  Judas  Iscariot  would 
have  appeared  amiable !  And  this 
was  but  the  forerunner  to  his  more 
disastrous  alliance  with  a  faction, 
whose  principles  sanctioned  the 
most  horrible  enormities,  when  they 
were  judged  necessary  for  the  suc- 
cess of  their  cause,  and  whose  ma- 
chinations would  have  accomplished 
the  subversion  of  the  British  mo- 
narchy, had  they  not  been  arrested 
by  an  over-ruling  Providence,  in 
their  guilty  career  of  turbulence  and 
blood ! 

Lord  Edward  was,  perhaps,  as 
useful  an  associate  as  could  be  found 
amongst  this  band  of  traitors.  The 
weakness  of  his  understanding  ren- 
dered him  an  easy  dupe,  the  gallan- 
try of  his  nature,  a  ready  instrument 
in  all  their  projects  of  iniquity,  or 
enterprises  of  danger.  To  him,  in 
conjunction  with  Arthur  O'Connor, 
was  confided  that  negotiation  Avith 
the  French  Directory,  the  object  of 
which  was  to  procure  the  descent  of 
a  foreign  force  upon  Ireland,  by  the 
aid  of  which  the  British  Govern- 
ment might  be  overthrown,  and  an 
independent  republic  established ; 
and  by  means  of  him,  we  may  also 
add,  was  this  design  first  made 
known  to  the  Cabinet  of  St  James's. 
The  facts  to  which  we  allude  are 
thus  narrated  in  the  work  before 
us: — 

"  It  was  now  known  that  General 
Hoche,  the  late  conqueror  and  pacifica- 
tor of  La  Vendee,  was  the  officer  ap- 
pointed to  take  the  command  of  the  ex- 
pedition to  Ireland ;  and  the  great  ad- 
vantage of  holding  personal  communica- 
tion on  the  subject  with  an  individual  on 
whom  the  destinies  of  their  country  so 
much  depended,  was  fully  appreciated  by 
both  friends.  After  a  month's  stay  at 


Moore's  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald. 


1831.] 

Basle,  however,  it  was  signified  to  them, 
that  to  Mr  O'Connor  alone  would  it  be 
permitted  to  meet  Hoche  as  a  negotiator, 
the  French  Government  having  objected 
to  receive  Lord  Edward,  lest  the  idea 
should  get  abroad,  from  his  being  married 
to  Pamela,  that  his  mission  had  some  re- 
ference to  the  Orleans  family."  —  — 
"  Leaving  to  Mr  O'Connor,  therefore, 
the  management  of  their  treaty  with 
Hoche,  whom  the  French  Directory  had 
invested  with  full  powers  for  the  purpose, 
Lord  Edward  returned  to  Hamburgh, 
having,  unluckily,  for  a  travelling  compa- 
nion, during  the  greater  part  of  the  journey, 
a  foreign  lady,  who  had  been  once  the  mis- 
tress of  an  old  friend  and  official  colleague 
of  Mr  Pitt,  and  who  was  still  in  the  habit 
of  corresponding  with  her  former  protector. 
Wholly  ignorant  of  these  circumstances, 
Lord  Edward,  with  the  habitual  frankness 
of  his  nature,  not  only  expressed  freely 
his  opinions  on  all  political  subjects,  but 
afforded  some  clues,  it  is  said,  to  the  secret 
of  his  present  journey,  ivhich  his  fellow-tra- 
veller was,  of  course,  not  sloiv  in  transmit- 
ting to  her  official  friend." 

But  it  was  not  to  the  wisdom  or 
foresight  of  man  that  we  were,  on 
this  occasion,  indebted  for  deliver- 
ance. The  expedition  was  planned 
and  undertaken — and  an  armament, 
consisting  of  seventeen  sail  of  the 
line,  thirteen  frigates,  and  an  equal 
number  of  transports,  making  in  all 
forty-three  sail,  and  having  on  board 
15,000  men,  put  to  sea  from  Brest, 
on  the  15th  of  December,  1796,  with 
the  intention  of  effecting  a  landing 
in  Ireland.  Had  they  succeeded  so 
far,  there  is  no  saying  to  what  extent 
they  might  not  have  proceeded  in 
the  accomplishment  of  their  ulterior 
objects.  It  was  the  opinion  of  Na- 
poleon that  Hoche  would  have  been 
able  to  achieve  all  that  he  pro- 
posed ;  and,  in  the  then  defenceless 
state  of  the  country,  his  landing 
would  have  been  the  signal  of  revolt 
to  myriads,  who  had  not,  up  to  that 
period,  openly  declared  themselves ; 
nor  does  it  sufficiently  appear  to  us 
how  such  an  invasion,  in  combina- 
tion with  domestic  treason,  could 
have  been  resisted.  "  But,"  in  the 
words  of  Mr  Moore, 

"  While,  in  all  that  depended  upon  the 
foresight  and  watchfulness  of  their  ene- 
my, free  course  was  left  to  the  invaders, 
both  by  sea  and  land,  in  every  other 
point  of  view,  such  a  concurrence  of  ad- 
verse accidents,  such  a  combination  of  aU 
that  is  most  thwarting  in  fortune  and  the 


639 


elements,  NO  EXPEDITION  SINCE  THE  AR- 
MADA HAS  EVER  BEEN  DOOMED  TO  EN- 
COUNTER." 

They  were  accordingly  dispersed 
and  shattered  by  a  power  which 
they  could  not  withstand ;  and  the 
remnant  of  this  great  armament 
"  found  themselves  off  Bantry  Bay, 
the  object  of  their  destination,  redu- 
ced from  forty-three  sail  to  sixteen, 
and  with  but  6500  men  on  board !" 

Mr  Moore  calls  this  chance : — the 
reader  will,  we  are  persuaded,  not 
very  heavily  censure  us  for  looking 
upon  it  in  another  light,  and  ascri- 
bing this  great  deliverance  to  that  AL- 
MIGHTY PROVIDENCE  who  rules  over 
human  affairs,  and  can,  when  he 
pleases,  make  even  the  violence  of 
the  waves  counteract  the  madness  of 
the  people. 

But,  although  discouraged,  and 
in  some  measure  repressed,  by  the 
ill  success  which  attended  this  expe- 
dition, the  desire  of  the  United  Irish- 
men for  foreign  assistance  still  re- 
mained in  considerable  force ;  and 
Dr  M'Nevin,  one  of  their  most  saga- 
cious and  determined  leaders,  was 
dispatched  to  Paris  upon  a  second 
embassy,  having  for  its  guilty  object 
to  hasten  the  invasion  of  his  native 
land. 

"  He  found,"  says  Mr  Moore,  "  the 
French  authorities,  notwithstanding  the 
delusive  negotiations  which,  with  the  pro- 
fessed object  of  peace,  they  were  about  to  en- 
ter into  with  England,  fatty  disposed  to 
second  "his  most  hostile  vietcs.  It  wa?, 
however,  by  the  Batavian  republic  that 
the  honour  had  now  been  claimed  of  tak- 
ing the  lead  in  an  expedition  for  the  in- 
vasion of  Ireland ;  and  a  powerful  ar- 
mament had  been  accordingly  collected 
at  the  Texel,  consisting  of  fifteen  sail  of 
the  line,  ten  frigates,  and  twenty-seven 
sail  of  transports,  carrying  a  land  force  to 
the  amount  of  near  14,000  men.  And 
here,  again,  we  see  the  good  genius  of  Eng- 
land interposing  to  avert  from  her  the 
deserved  consequences  of  her  own  Tory 
councils.  Had  this  great  armament  been 
in  readiness  but  a  few  weeks  sooner, 
ivhen  the  mutinies  of  the  English  fleets  had 
left  the  sea  open,  and  even  a  part  of  the 
very  squadron,  now  watching  off  the  Texel, 
had  deserted  to  the  mutineers, — could  the 
invader  have  taken  advantage  of  that 
most  critical  moment,  when  not  only  a 
rebel  army  would  have  received  him  on 
the  shores  of  Ireland,  but  a  mutineer 
fleet  most  probably  joined  him  in  her 
waters,— what  a  change  might  have  been 


Moore's  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald. 


64(5 

wrought  in   the  destiny  of   the  British 
Empire  ! 

"  Fortunately,  however,  for  that  Em- 
pi  ic,  the  chances  determined  otherwise. 
Having  let  pass  the  favourable  moment 
which  the  difficulties  of  England  pre- 
sented, the  Dutch  fleet  was,  from  the  be- 
ginning of  July,  locked  up  in  the  Texel  ; 
till  at  length  the  provisions  laid  in  for  the 
expedition  being  nearly  exhausted,  it  was 
found  necessary  to  disembark  the  troops  ; 
and  the  Dutch  government  having,  by  a 
rashness  of  resolve,  for  which  no  intelli- 
gible motive  has  ever  been  assigned,  or- 
dered their  admiral  to  put  to  sea  and  en- 
gage the  British  fleet,  that  memorable 
action  ensued  off  Camperdovvn,  which 
terminated,  as  is  well  known,  in  one  of 
the  most  splendid  victories  that  ever 
adorned  the  annals  of  Great  Britain." 

Here,  again,  the  little  Epicurean 
makes  a  profession  of  his  creed,  and 
ascribes  to  chance  that  curious  com- 
bination of  events  which  led  to  the 
defeat  of  the  second  attempt  at  in- 
vasion, and  for  which  we  gratefully 
give  thanks  to  Providence.  Never 
was  there  an  occasion  upon  which 
our  hearts  more  truly  responded  to 
the  "  Non  nobis,  Domine,"  with 
which  we  celebrate  our  victories. 
We  are  willing  to  acknowledge  that 
Mr  Moore  must,  in  consistency,  la- 
ment that  frustration  of  the  designs 
of  a  regicide  government  and  a  rebel 
population,  in  which  we  rejoice ;  for, 
had  it  not  been  for  these  two  great 
deliverances,  Jacobinism  might  have 
been  triumphant.  And  yet,  we 
should  have  thought  that — whatever 
may  have  been  the  dreams  of  his 
boyhood,  or  the  projects  of  his  youth, 
— in  his  old  age,  at  least,  he  would 
have  been  visited  by  juster  notions, 
and  learned  to  estimate,  with  a  more 
candid  and  enlightened  judgment, 
the  nature  of  those  venerable  insti- 
tutions which  Lord  Edward  and  his 
mad  associates,  under  the  vain  pre- 
tence of  reforming,  would  have  bu- 
ried in  ruins. 

It  is,  indeed,  with  a  painful  sur- 
prise, that  we  learn  from  him,  that, 
upon  a  review  of  his  past  life,  his 
feelings  now  differ  but  little  from 
what  they  were  when  he  ran,  in  his 
boyh&od,  through  the  streets  of  Dub- 
lin to  get  a  sight  of  the  subject  of  his 
present  memoir,  who,  poor  creature, 
supposed  that  he  was'the  paragon  of 
patriots,  when  he  was  acting  the  part 
of  the  blackest  of  traitors. 


[Oct. 


The  organization  of  the  United 
Irishmen  was  wonderfully  perfect. 
The  free  spirit  of  our  government  ia 
so  favourable  to  that  of  liberty  of 
speech  and  action,  that,  although  it 
was  perfectly  well  known  to  the 
constituted  authorities  that  the  affi- 
liated societies  were,  in  the  most  ef- 
fectual manner,  secretly  working  the 
downfall  of  existing  institutions, 
there  were  no  overt  acts  on  their 
part  which  could  justify  any  rigor- 
ous proceedings  against  them.  Even 
the  Convention  bill,  which  was  cal- 
culated to  prevent  their  public  meet- 
ings ;  and  the  Gunpowder  bill,  by 
which  some  security  was  sought  to 
be  obtained  against  a  sudden  rising 
of  armed  insurgents,  were  denoun- 
ced by  the  opposition  as  unneces- 
sary and  unconstitutional ;  and  al- 
though a  majority  in  parliament  felt 
the  expediency  of  supporting  the 
Minister,  yet,  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  the  measures  which  were 
passed,  served  to  augment  the  pub- 
lic security  as  much  as  they  contri- 
buted to  increase  the  discontent  of 
the  people. 

As  yet  nothing  had  been  done  for 
the  apprehension  of  the  chief  con- 
spirators. While  the  government 
were  denounced  by  the  Whig  oppo- 
sition for  the  severity  of  the  coercive 
system,  which  was  now,  to  a  certain 
extent,  in  force,  the  United  Irishmen 
were  negotiating  with  the  French 
Directory  for  another  invasion  of 
Ireland!  "  The  hope  of  succours  from 
France,"  says  Mr  Moore,  "  though 
so  frequently  frustrated,  was  still 
sanguinely  kept  alive;  and  to  the  ar- 
rival of  an  armament  in  April,  they, 
at  the  beginning  of  this  year  (1798), 
looked  with  confidence  ;  the  strong- 
est assurances  having  been  given  by 
M.  Talleyrand  to  their  agent  at  Paris, 
that  an  expedition  was  in  forward- 
ness, and  would  be  ready  to  sail 
about  that  time." 

Such  Avas  the  crisis,  while  treason 
was  brooding  atjiome,  "  hushed  in 
grim  repose" — and  while  invasion 
was  threatened  from  abroad,  during 
which  the  measures  of  the  govern- 
ment, feeble  as  they  were  for  the 
suppression  of  the  one  and  the  de- 
feat of  the  other,  were  systemati- 
cally thwarted  and  misrepresented 
by  their  Whig  antagonists  iu  Parlia- 
ment. But  other  conduct  could  not 
be  expected  from  them.  Their  own 


1831.] 

popularity  was  ever  dearer  to  them 
than  the  welfare  of  the  state ;  and 
they  cared  not  by  what  sacrifice  of 
the  best  interests  of  the  one  they 
secured  the  other.  Besides,  they 
stood  pledged  to  most  of  the  prin- 
ciples of  the  United  Irishmen ;  and 
they  could  scarcely  cordially  co-ope- 
rate in  the  suppression  of  the  forth- 
coming rebellion,  without  being,  in 
some  measure,  guilty  of  child-mur- 
der. 

Roman  Catholic  emancipation,  the 
abolition  of  tithes,  the  subversion  of 
the  Established  Church,  and  event- 
ually the  destruction  of  Christianity, 
were  the  objects,  either  avowed  or  se- 
cret, which  were  nearest  to  the  hearts 
of  the  Irish  reformers.  The  ultimate 
scope  and  aim  of  all  their  measures 
was  the  separation  of  Ireland  from 
Great  Britain,  and  its  existence  as 
an  independent  republic.  And,  it 
must  be  confessed,  that,  for  this  pur- 
pose, their  plans  were  laid,  and  their 
measures  were  taken  with  a  degree 
of  prudence  and  circumspection  that 
has  seldom  been  equalled.  The  Ro- 
man Catholic  population  were  first 
conciliated  by  the  boon  of  equal 
rights  and  privileges;  and  the  dis- 
senters, by  the  humiliation  and  rob- 
bery of  the  Established  Church.  The 
movers  in  this  bloody  business  were 
well  aware  that,  in  each  stage  of 
their  progress,  the  scruples  of  their 
more  timorous  adherents  would  be 
removed;  and  that  those  who,  in 
the  first  instance,  could  scarcely  con- 
template, without  alarm,  the  pros- 
pect of  a  collision  with  the  govern- 
ment, would  be  brought, -when  suc- 
cess began  to  crown  the  efforts  of 
the  revolutionists,  to  draw  their 
swords  in  civil  war. 

The  Roman  Catholic  priesthood 
were,  as  might  be  expected,  favour- 
able to  measures  which  at  once  gra- 
tified their  hatred  towards  an  ob- 
noxious sect,  and  afforded  them  an- 
other prospect  of  resuming  their  an- 
cient ascendency.  The  professors  of 
popery  were,  in  that  country,  as  in 
every  other,  divided  into  two  par- 
ties,— those  who  were  bigotedly  de- 
voted to  the  Church  of  Rome,  and 
who  greedily  swallowed  all  its  ab- 
surdities, and  those  who,  being  dis- 
gusted by  those  absurdities,  had 
swerved  into  infidelity,  while  they 
still  continued  in  nominal  connexion 
with  a  system  which  they  regarded 


Moore's  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald.  041 

either  with  contempt  or  indignation. 
These  parties  were.nbwever,  very  un- 
equally divided.  The  bigots  were  by 
far  the  more  numerous;  and,  what 
was  of  more  importance,  the  more 
zealous  and  single-minded  in  the  pro- 
secution of  their  object ;  and  to  this 
it  is  that  we  are  indebted  that  Ire- 
land was  not  torn  from  the  British 


crown. 

When  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald 
and  his  associates  had  succeeded  in 
lighting  up  the  flames  of  civil  war, 
they  possessed  no  means  of  control- 
ling or  of  keeping  in  abeyance  the 
hateful  bigotry  which  possessed  and 
actuated  their  popish  adherents. 
The  faction  had  assumed  the  desig- 
nation of  United  Irishmen,  and  their 
success  depended  upon  bringing  the 
Protestants  of  the  North  into  cordial 
co-operation  with  the  Roman  Catho- 
lics of  the  South,  and  inspiring  both 
with  a  detestation  of  existing  insti- 
tutions, which,  in  order  to  be  effec- 
tual, must  be  stronger  than  the  olct 
antipathies  by  which  they  were  them- 
selves divided. 

But  the  revolutionists  could  dis- 
cover no  principle  by  which  repug- 
nancies so  inveterate  could  be  over- 
•come.  Even  the  Jesuitical  policy  p£ 
the  Church  of  Rome  was  unable  to 
subdue  the  fiendlike  malignity  with 
which  the  bigots  of  that  persuasion, 
whenever  success  began  to  dawn 
upon  them,  regarded  their  Protestant 
adherents.  Tnese  soon  began  to  sea 
what  they  should  expect  in  the  event 
of  the  triumph  of  their  cause ;  and 
how,  by  the  deposition  of  King  Log, 
they  were  only  contributing  to  the 
exaltation  of  King  Serpent.  They 
were  made  to  see  that,  whatever 
were  the  abuses  of  the  government 
which  they  resisted,  and  against 
which  they  unfurled  the  standard  of 
rebellion,  they  were  blessings  when 
compared  with  "  the  tender  mer- 
cies" of  the  system  which  must  ne- 
cessarily be  enthroned  upon  its 
ruins.  And,  accordingly,  they  be- 
came alienated  from  the  cause  in 
which  they  had  embarked;  and  a 
selfish  concern  for  themselves  ob- 
liged them  to  adopt  a  course  which 
ended  in  the  salvation  of  the  coun- 
try. 

And  this  is,  perhaps,  the  time  for 
making  an  observation  or  two  upon 
a  position  which  has  been  loudly 
asserted  by  Mr  Moore,  that,  had  Ca- 


Moore's  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald. 


042 

tholic  emancipation  been  earlier 
granted,  the  rebellion  never  would 
have  occurred.  Now,  we  have  been 
led,  even  by  his  own  shewing,  to 
come  to  a  contrary  conclusion.  The 
rebellion  was  Jacobin  in  its  origin, 
and  took  its  rise  amongst  the  Pro- 
testants of  the  North ;  and,  had  Ire- 
land been  at  that  time  protestant- 
ized,— that  is,  had  that  conversion 
of  the  natives  from  popery  taken 
place  which  the  advocates  of  eman- 
cipation always  predicted  as  one  of 
its  necessary  effects,  we  see  no  rea- 
son to  believe  that  the  rebellion 
should  not  have  been  successful.  It 
was  only  defeated  by  the  disunion 
which  prevailed  amongst  the  hete- 
rogeneous materials  of  which  it  was 
composed;  and,  if  the  rancour  of 
papist  against  protestant,  which  was 
on  so  many  occasions  evinced,  had 
not  served  to  open  the  eyes  of  the 
latter,  their  proceedings  against  the 
government  would  have  been  car- 
ried on  with  a  degree  of  union  and 
concord  that  must  have  been  but 
too  successful.  Much,  therefore,  as 
we  deplore  the  existence  of  popery, 
its  predominance  in  Ireland,  at  this 
critical  period,  may  be  considered 
as  having  contributed  more,  proba- 
bly, than  anything  else,  to  the  secu- 
rity of  the  British  empire. 

There  is  another  point  upon  which 
Mr  Moore  has  animadverted  with 
not  a  little  virulence,  and  that  is,  the 
manner  in  which  the  constituted  au- 
thorities forced,  as  he  calls  it,  the 
rebellion.  It  would,  undoubtedly, 
have  been  more  agreeable  to  him 
had  they  slumbered  upon  the  mine 
which  had  been  prepared  to  explode 
beneath  them,  and  suffered  the  in- 
cendiary to  apply  the  match  to  the 
train,  before  any  steps  were  taken 
for  the  safety  of  the  constitution. 
Such,  however,  was  not  the  notion 
which  Lord  Castlereagh  entertained 
of  the  duty  which  he  owed  his  coun- 
try. There  was  another,  also,  who 
knew  the  kind  of  enemy  with  whom 
he  had  to  deal,  and  who,  like  Straf- 
ford,  would  willingly,  if  necessary, 
have  incurred  the  responsibility  of 
saving  the  British  empire  contrary 
to  law,  rather  than  suffer  it  to  be  des- 
troyed according  to  law.  Lord  Clare 
seemed  born  for  that  peculiar  crisis, 
during  which  it  was  the  favoured  lot 
of  Ireland  that  he  formed  a  part  of 
her  administration,  He  was  a  man 


[Qct- 


whose  foresight,  with  an  almost  in- 
stinctive sagacity,  detected  the  plans, 
and  whose  stern  and  uncompromi- 
sing loyalty  could  admit  of  no  truce 
with  traitors.  He  knew  that,  if  the 
conspirators  were  suffered  to  choose 
their  own  time  for  rising,  and  if  Ja- 
cobin France  were  enabled  to  make 
even  a  diversion  in  their  favour,  a 
more  powerful  force  than  Great 
Britain  could  command  might  not 
be  sufficient  to  put  them  down.  He 
therefore  pressed  upon  government 
the  necessity  of  taking  steps  by 
which  its  secret  enemies  might  be 
compelled  to  show  themselves.  He 
acted  like  the  physician  who  draws 
out  kupon  the  surface  the  disease 
which  would  otherwise  have  struck 
into  the  heart.  He  felt,  and  he  made 
his  enemies  to  feel,  that  he  was 
hunting  not  the  fox  but  the  tiger; 
and  the  curses,  both  loud  and  deep, 
with  which  his  name  was  pronoun- 
ced by  all  those  who  felt  interested 
in  the  success  of  the  conspiracy, 
and  the  abiding  hatred  of  his  memo- 
ry, which  even  still  survives  in  many 
of  whom  the  gibbet  was  defrauded 
by  some  technical  informality,  or 
some  quibble  of  law,  leave  no  room 
to  doubt  that  the  experiment  upon 
which  he  adventured  was  not  more 
bold  than  it  was  successful. 

We  do  not  quarrel  with  the  queru- 
lous animadversions  of  Mr  Moore  up- 
on the  measures  by  which  treason  was 
put  down.  It  is  not  more  natural 
that  we,  with  our  principles,  should 
rejoice  in  their  success,  than  that  he 
should  complain  of  their  adoption. 
They  made  sad  havoc  among  his  early 
friends — men,  many  of  them,  as  sin- 
cerely persuaded  of  the  justness  of 
their  cause,  as  those  who  opposed 
them  were  of  its  deep  iniquity.  And 
there  were  few  of  them,  we  verily 
believe,  who,  had  they  survived  that 
dreadful  period,  and  enjoyed  the  pe- 
culiar advantages  which  Mr  Moore 
possessed  for  correcting  early  erro- 
neous impressions,  would  not  have 
grown  wiser  by  experience.  He 
alone  seems  to  have  retained,  in  all 
their  freshness  and  rancour,  those 
sympathies  which  associated  him  in 
his  youthful  days  with  the  enemies 
of  social  order.  And  he  has  preser- 
ved, as  it  were,  bottled  and  herme- 
tically sealed,  until  it  was  produced 
for  use  on  the  present  occasion,  the 
quintessential  spirit  of  that  malig- 


1831.] 


Moore's  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald. 


nancy  which  raged  in  ninety-eight, 
and  against  which  the  government 
was  compelled,  in  self-defence,  to 
take  such  measures  as  filled  the  pri- 
sons with  many,  whose  names  might, 
under  other  circumstances,  have 
adorned  the  annals  of  Ireland. 

He  asks,  with  a  degree  of  simpli- 
city, which  a  genuine  Jacobin  may 
do  well  to  feign  though  he  cannot 
feel,  how  it  was  possible  that  so 
amiable  a  man  as  Lord  Edward  Fitz- 
gerald could  entertain  any  views 
with  which  a  good  government  should 
not  have  complied  ?  Has  he  never 
heard  of  the  fable  of  the  Wolf  and 
the  Little  Red  Riding  Hood  ?  We 
trust  that  the  feeling  with  which  we 
have  spoken  of  poor  Lord  Edward 
has  not  been  a  harsh  one ;  that  we 
have  made  that  allowance  for  the  nar- 
rowness of  his  understanding,  and 
the  imperfectness  of  his  education, 
which  relieved  us  from  the  neces- 
sity of  supposing  in  him  very  pe- 
culiar depravity  of  heart.  He  was 
easily  deceived ;  we,  therefore,  pity 
him  in  his  delusion ;  but  we  cannot, 
for  all  that,  lament,  with  Mr  Moore, 
that  he  was  arrested  by  the  hand  of 
justice  before  he  brought  calamity 
upon  his  country. 

Mr  Moore  eulogizes  rebel  princi- 
ples, because  they  were  adopted  by 
Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald.  We  de- 
precate them,  because,  by  their  ac- 
cursed influence,  so  amiable  an  in- 
dividual was  converted  into  one  of 
the  worst  enemies  of  his  country. 

But  Avhile  we  disapprove  of  the 
opinions  and  the  sentiments,  we  re- 
cognise the  prudence  of  the  grey- 
headed little  bard.  England  is  at 
present  governed  by  a  ministry  of 
which  Lord  EdwardFitzgerald  would 
have  highly  approved  !  His  princi- 
ples have  been  adopted,  with  those 
cautious  reserves,  which,  however 
they  may  disguise,  will  by  no  means 
defeat  their  ultimate  object ;  and  the 
most  cordial  approbation  has  been 
bestowed  upon  the  precise  measures 
which  he  would  have  recommended 
respecting  Ireland. 

The  Roman  Catholic  priesthood 
are  all  but  omnipotent !  The  Esta- 
blished Church  is  all  but  subverted  ! 
The  magistracy  is  rapidly  becoming 
a  society  of  United  Irishmen !  And 
the  Protestant  yeomanry — that  body 
before  whom  treason  quailed  in  nine- 
ty-eight— are  made  to  feel  that  there 


is  a  perilous  conflict  between  their 
interest  and  their  principles ;  and 
that  if  they  act,  as  their  duty  obliges 
them  to  do,  against  those  who  are 
traitors  to  the  state,  they  will  be  pro- 
secuted by  the  government  as  de- 
linquents ! 

It  is  a  serious  thing,  when  loyal 
men  in  Ireland  enter  upon  the  dis- 
charge of  their  most  important  duties 
with  halters  about  their  necks  ! 

In  one  thing  Mr  Moore  is  perfectly 
correct,  namely,  that  the  measures 
which  have  been  adopted  by  the  pre- 
sent Ministry,  and  which  have  been 
approved  of  by  a  majority  of  the 
House  of  Commons,  are  precisely  in 
principle  those  for  which  poor  Lord 
Edwai'd  was  denounced  by  the  coun- 
try as  a  traitor.  So  far  Mr  Moore  is 
quite  right  in  concluding  that  he  has 
been  a  very  ill-used  man.  He  would 
have  done,  by  means  of  the  United 
Irishmen,what  they  are  in  progress  of 
doing,  by  their  reforming  majorities 
in  Parliament.  He  would  have  done, 
in  opposition  to  the  law,  what  they  are 
doing,  with  a  scrupulous  observance 
indeed  of  the  forms,  but  in  open  vio- 
lation of  the  spirit,  of  the  constitution. 
He  would  have  considered  himself 
as  having  reached  the  Mount  Pisgah 
of  his  hopes,  if  he  could  have  caught 
even  a  distant  glimpse  of  what  is  at 
present  so  near  in  prospect,  namely, 
the  subversion  of  the  church,  the 
overthrow  of  the  privileged  orders, 
and  the  downfall  of  the  monarchy. 
All  these  things  must  necessarily 
take  place,  if  the  Reform  Bill  should 
pass  into  a  law.  A  democratic  House 
of  Commons  must  faithfully  repre- 
sent the  views  and  the  feelings  of  a 
plebeian  constituency,  and  can  only 
subsist  by  its  antipathy  to  the  House 
of  Lords.  That  will  be  one  of  the  con- 
ditions of  its  existence.  It  must  ne- 
cessarily echo  the  uproarious  noise 
which  is  at  present  so  loud  against 
the  church,  and  which  will,  by  and 
by,  be  equally  loud  against  heredi- 
tary titles,  which  will  be  represented 
as  a  mockery,  and  hereditary  pro- 
perty, which  will  be  denounced  as 
the  product  of  legislative  absurdity, 
rapacity,  and  injustice.  If  we  were  ma- 
levolent, we  could  smile  with  bitter 
scorn  at  the  ruin  which  will  then  be 
brought  upon  the  liberal  nobles,  who 
contributed,  by  their  conduct  in  pass- 
ing the  Roman  Catholic  Bill,  to  give 
the  first  impulse  to  the  movement 


644 

of  the  Moloch  of  Radicalism,  before 
whom  they  themselves  must,  before 
long,  fall  prostrate,  while  the  shouts 
of  his  votaries  drown  the  cries  of  his 
victims. 

And  their  conduct  is  far  less  de- 
fensible, either  in  reason  or  upon 
principle,  than  that  of  the  advocates 
of  popery  in  poor  Lord  Edward's  day. 
At  that  time,  how  objectionable  so- 
ever the  measure  might  have  been 
in  principle,  it  was  at  least  quite  pos- 
sible to  pass  it,  without  giving  a  tri- 
umph to  all  that  was  dangerous  over 
all  that  was  constitutional  in  the 
country.  The  conservative  party 
need  not  have  been  broken  down. 
The  Roman.  Catholics  would  have 
received  whatever  indulgence  might 
be  conceded  to  them  as  a  boon ;  and 
conditions  might  have  been  imposed, 
and  provisions  might  have  been  made, 
which  would  have  relieved  the  more 
thinking  part  of  the  community  of  any 
apprehensions  which  they  might  have 
entertained  for  the  safety  of  the  con- 
stitution. The  Catholic  Bill  was  pass- 
ed under  very  different  circumstan- 
ces. It  is  not  our  intention  to  revive 
the  bitterness  which  prevailed  against 
the  late  Ministry  for  their  conduct 
in  that  particular,  and  which  indeed 
was  the  cause  why  they  were  de- 
prived of  power.  But  had  they  been 
only  consistent,  and  refused  to  threats 
what  they  denied  to  supplications — 
had  the  audacity  of  trading  dema- 
gogues been  met,  in  the  only  way  in 
which  it  ever  should  be  met,  by  con- 
stitutional resistance,  what  a  host  of 
evils,  present  and  prospective,  would 
have  been  averted  from  the  country ! 

Mr  Moore,  therefore,  may  well  be 
content  with  the  precise  course 
which  things  have  actually  taken. 
One  of  Lord  Edward's  favourite 
measures  was  resisted,  at  a  time 
when  it  would  have  been  compara- 
tively harmless,  and  might  have  im- 
posed some  restraint  upon  the  ac- 
complishment of  his  other  projects, 
only  to  be  granted  at  a  time  the  least 
auspicious,  and  in  a  manner  that  has 
made  it  the  inlet  to  a  greater  tide 
of  innovation  than  ever  before  threat- 
ened to  visit  our  institutions  with 
ruin,  or  to  deluge  the  country  with 
blood. 

It  is  quite  natural,  too,  that  the 
yeomanry  of  Ireland  should  be  de- 
nounced, as  they  may  be  supposed 
still  capable  of  imposing  some  re- 


Moore's  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald. 


[Oct. 


straint  upon  those  who  would  for- 
merly have  been  regarded  with  sus- 
picion by  the  government,  although 
they  ought  now  to  be  only  consider- 
ed as  persons  taking  the  most  com- 
pendious means  of  arriving  at  those 
ultimate  results  which  were,  or 
should  have  been,  contemplated  by 
the  framers  of  our  new  constitution. 
It  is  true,  on  former  occasions  the 
Irish  yeomanry  resisted  and  subdued 
rebellion;  but  that  was  at  a  time 
when  Jacobin  councils  were  regard- 
ed with  abhorrence  by  the  British 
parliament.  It  is  true  that  they  have 
evinced  an  attachment  to  the  church  ; 
but  that  was  before  those  laws  were 
repealed  which  conferred  legislative 
authority  upon  its  bitterest  enemies. 
It  may  be  that  these  events  have  not 
been  unproductive  of  a  change  of 
feeling  and  sentiment  on  their  part, 
which,  however  we  may  deplore, 
Mr  Moore  must  rejoice  in.  It  is, 
we  know,  natural  that  he  should 
suspect  them.  He  has  himself  fur- 
nished an  instance,  which  proves 
that  early  impressions,  upon  the  revo- 
lutionary side,  may  be  marvellously 
indelible;  that  they  may  appear  to 
be  eradicated,  when  they  are  only 
Concealed  ;  and  that  a  favourable 
change  of  circumstances  may  be 
only  necessary  to  make  them  start 
into  life,  and  manifest  themselves  in 
all  their  original  extravagance.  We 
cannot,  however,  flatter  ourselves 
that  there  is  any  serious  cause  for 
such  apprehension.  The  Protestant 
yeomanry  might  have  been  well  con- 
tent to  risk  their  lives  for  British 
connexion,  as  long  as  there  was  a 
prospect  that,  by  their  assistance,  it 
might  be  preserved.  The  case  is 
very  different  when  they  become 
perfectly  convinced  that  nothing 
which  they  can  do,  no  sacrifice  which 
they  can  make,  can  finally  avert  the 
dismemberment  of  the  empire.  They 
may  have  been  well  disposed  to  stand 
by  the  church,  as  long  as  by  so  do- 
ing its  rights  and  privileges  might 
be  maintained.  The  case  is  very 
different  when,  by  the  government 
of  the  country,  it  has  been  virtually 
abandoned.  They  may  have  been 
well  disposed  to  defend  the  order  of 
nobility;  but  it  was  at  a  time  when 
the  nobles  were  not  mere  ciphers  in 
the  state.  They  may  have  evinced 
a  devoted  loyalty  to  their  King;  but 
it  was  at  a  time  when  he  was  not 


-1831.] 


Moore's  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald. 


the  puppet  of  an  unprincipled  admi- 
nistration. No  one  is  better  quali- 
fied than  Mr  Moore  himself  to  shew, 
then,  that  all  this  is  now  changed. 
And  when  he  proves  to  a  demonstra- 
tion (as  assuredly  he  can,  if  the  Re- 
form Bill  should  pass)  that  the 
House  of  Lords  has  become  the  mere 
echo  of  the  House  of  Commons,  as 
that  latter  will  be  of  a  rabble  and  de- 
mocratic constituency ;  and,  that  the 
substantive  prerogatives  of  the  mo- 
narch have  passed  away,  and  the 
crown  has  become  nothing  more  than 
apiece  of  idle  and  costlypageantry — 
a  ridiculously  expensive  stamp  for 
the  purpose  of  registering  democra- 
tic edicts — it  will  not  require  quite 
his  powers  of  persuasion  to  abate 
much  of  the  ardour  with  which  the 
Protestant  yeomanry  of  Ireland  have 
hitherto  defended  what  they  consi- 
dered to  be  the  good  old  cause ;  or 
even  to  convince  them  that  a  con- 
nexion with  England  is  no  longer 
desirable,  when  her  government  not 
only  refuse  support,  but  evince  hos- 
tility to  their  Protestant  institutions. 
They  feel  already,  that  they  have 
been  abandoned  and  betrayed ;  and, 
as  the  human  breast  is  not  infested 
by  a  deadlier  passion  than  that  which 
arises  from  slighted  love,  a  less  skil- 
ful advocate  than  the  writer  of  the 
Melodies,  might  easily  fan  into  a 
flame  of  indignation,  which,  it  may 
hereafter  be  acknowledged,  it  was 
as  impolitic  to  have  provoked,  as  it 
will  be  difficult  to  subdue,  those 
symptoms  of  indignation,  and  those 
scintillations  of  discontent  which 
have  been  produced  by  wounded 
loyalty,  and  ill-requited  allegiance. 

One  suggestion,  however,  we  ven- 
ture to  offer  to  the  little  Tyrteeus  of 
Jacobinism,  if,  indeed,  he  should  se- 
riously resolve  to  string  his  harp  to 
a  measure  that  shall  find  a  response 
in  the  hearts  of  the  yeomanry  of 
Ireland.  They  are  not,  as  yet,  quite 
prepared  to  look  upon  the  Establish- 
ed Church  with  the  abhorrence  and 
detestation  with  which  it  is  natural 
that  he  should  regard  it.  It  will, 
therefore,  for  some  time  to  come,  be 
injudicious  to  manifest  towards  it 
too  strongly  the  feelings  which  it  is 
impossible  that  he  should  not  enter- 
tain. It  is  true,  that  what  he  has 
said  upon  that  subject  is  sufficiently 
tame  and  feeble ;  but  although  the 
execution  is  devoid  of  his  usual  point 

VOL.  XXX,  NO.  CLXXXVI. 


645 

and  vigour,  the  intention  and  the 
spirit  with  which  he  wrote  are  too 
glaringly  truculent  and  fiendish.  And 
if  it  be  his  object  to  win  over  the 
Irish  Protestants,  and  attach  them 
as  plighted  partisans  to  his  cause,  he 
must  beware  of  saying  any  thing 
which  might  too  rudely  clash  with 
the  respect  and  affection  which  they 
have  ever  cherished  towards  their 
venerable  spiritual  mother,  and  whom 
they  are  not,  at  present,  the  less  dis- 
posed to  regard  with  a  peculiar  re- 
verence and  love,  because  she  has 
been,  like  themselves,  basely  betray- 
ed, and  shamefully  deserted. 

Mr  Moore  should  hold  in  view  the 
example  of  Catiline,  who  never  dis- 
closed to  his  less  guilty  associates 
the  whole  extent  of  his  nefarious 
projects,  until  they  were  too  deeply 
committed  in  treason,  not  to  feel  that 
there  was  no  retreat,  and  that  their 
only  chance  of  safety  consisted  in  the 
recklessness  and  desperation  with 
which  they  should  plunge  into  every 
extremity  of  villainy  and  abomina- 
tion. 

We  are  aware  that  the  task  which 
we  would  impose  upon  Mr  Moore  is 
difficult  ;  but  it  is,  we  assure  him,  not 
the  less  necessary.  It  is  hard,  he 
will  say,  to  be  asked,  at  his  present 
age,  to  put  a  semblance  of  restraint 
upon  those  instincts  of  hatred  and 
aversion  towards  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land, in  which,  during  his  whole  pre- 
vious life,  he  has  considered  it  his 
privilege  to  indulge.  The  church, 
he  will  say,  never  has  disguised  its 
abhorrence  of  his  principles.  Its 
uniform  endeavour  has  been  to  di- 
minish the  number  of  his  admirers, 
and  to  repress  and  eradicate  those 
passions  and  propensities,  upon  the 
existence  of  which  depends  all  his 
popularity  and  fame,  and  to  the  pre- 
cocious developement  of  which,  all 
his  genius  and  industry  have  been 
so  successfully  directed.  All  this 
we  acknowledge ; — we  acknowledge 
that  the  Church  of  England  has  been 
far  more  effectual  in  diminishing  the 
admirers  of  the  Irish  Anacreon  than 
any  other  religious  system;  and  is, 
therefore,  so  far,  better  entitled  to 
his  most  unmeasured  and  envenom- 
ed vituperation.  We  acknowledge, 
moreover,  that  if  it  were  more  fana- 
tical, it  might  be  safely  despised — if 
it  were  more  superstitious,  it  might 
be  wisely  neglected; — and  that  many 


Moore's  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald. 


G4G 

a  wanderer  from  the  fold  of  faith, 
who  would  have  remained  alike  in- 
sensible to  the  wild  extravagance  of 
the  enthusiast,  and  the  absurd  de- 
nunciations of  the  Romanist,  has  yet 
been  reclaimed  from  the  errors  of 
his  ways,  by  the  mild  and  gracious 
expostulations  of  a  church  which 
"  teaches  the  truth  in  love," — by 
meek  religion,  "pitifully  fixing  ten- 
der reproaches  insupportable."  — 
We  know  all  this,  and  we  are  well 
aware  how  calculated  such  consider- 
ations are  to  exasperate  Mr  Moore's 
resentment; — but,  nevertheless,  we 
seriously  assure  him,  that  it  will  be 
absolutely  incumbent  upon  him  to 
put  his  anti-religious  propensities 
under  some  degree  of  restraint,  and 
to  practise  what  must  be  to  him  a 
most  painful  species  of  abstinence, 
if  he  would  secure  the  entire  attach- 
ment of  those,  who,  as  yet,  cannot 
sympathize  with  him  in  his  hatred  of 
the  established  church,  and  by  which 
he  may  eventually  be  fully  indemni- 
fied for  the  privations  which  we  re- 
commend, by  being  enabled  "  to  feed 
fat  the  ancient  grudge  he  bears  her." 


[Oct. 


In  the  meantime,  he  has  deserved 
well  of  our  present  rulers. 

If  his  Majesty's  Ministers  remain 
much  longer  in  power,  the  author  of 
the  present  memoir  must  be  reward- 
ed. He  has  done  what  in  him  lies  to 
revive  and  to  recommend  the  prin- 
ciples which  they  have  ever  cherish- 
ed. He  has  exhibited,  perhaps,  the 
only  specimen  existing  of  a  deter- 
mined perseverance  in  those  princi- 
ples, from  youth  to  manhood,  and 
from  manhood  to  old  age.  And,  by 
selecting  an  individual  upon  whose 
virtues  they  were  unhappily  engraft- 
ed, and  in  whose  life  they  produced 
such  bitter  fruits,  for  the  purpose  of 
lauding  their  worth  and  exemplify- 
ing their  usefulness,  he  has  exhibited 
a  degree  of  adventurous  and  revolu- 
tionary hardihood,  which  will  assu- 
redly meet  with  a  corresponding 
feeling  in  the  breasts  of  those  whose 
only  title  to  the  possession  of  power 
consists  in  this,  that  they  have  not, 
as  far  as  in  them  lies,  left  one  stone 
standing  upon  another  in  the  British 
constitution. 


THE  LUNATIC  3  COMPLAINT. 
BY  DELTA. 

AGAIN  I  see  thee — yet  again 
The  features  and  the  form  adored ; 

Art  thou  a  phantom  of  the  brain, 
Or  for  a  while  to  earth  restored? 

Alas  !  we  think  not,  in  the  hour 

When  youthful  hearts  entranced  commingle, 

That  Falsehood  or  that  Folly's  power 
May  prove  enough  to  tear  them  single : 

That  days — and  months — and  years  may  roll, 
After  all  Passion's  links  are  broken, 
When  Time  shall  leave  no  stabler  token 

Of  what  was  once  unto  the  soul 

Its  morning  thought  and  evening  prayer, 

Than  summer  mist  dissolved  in  air. 

Hope  is  the  soul  of  human  life! — 
When  mingling  in  the  toils  of  strife, 
We  always  dream  of  future  rest, 
We  always  dream  we  shall  be  blest  j 
Mid  storms  that  burst  and  clouds  that  roll, 

It  sheds  abroad  a  holy  light, 

Dispersing,  vanquishing  the  night: 
Hope  is  of  human  life  the  soul ! 
It  is  the  conqueror  that  breaks 

The  deep  sleep  of  the  tomb ; 
The  magic  talisman,  which  makes 

Earth's  wintry  desert  bloom. 


1881.]  The  Lunatic's  Complaint.  647 

But  mine  was  dark  despair;  no  ray 
Shot  through  my  night  to  herald  day; 
At  laughter's  hollow  sound,  my  heart 
As  a  wild  mockery  would  start, 
And  Man  seem'd  only  man,  when  Woe 

Had  bow'd  him  to  its  stern  command ; 
Making  long  wont  a  nature  grow, 

As  working  doth  the  dyer's  hand  1 

•r',|V,,       '.     .,,!  -,  t'j.-.J    '• 

Half  on  his  arm  himself  he  raised — 

Intently  on  my  face  he  gazed, 

Then  stretqh'd  a  reconciling  hand : — 

I  saw  him  strive  in  vain  to  speak, 
For  life  was  ebbing  to  a  stand, 

And  all  his  efforts  weak ; 
Flutter' d  his  cheek,  his  eye  grew  dim  ; 
The  quivering  lip  and  writhing  limb 
Bespoke  the  awful  agonies 
That  rend  the  frame  ere  spirit  flies, 
As  if  it  took  a  last  embrace 
Of  its  terrestrial  dwelling-place ; 
At  length,  "  Forgive !"  he  wildly  cried, 
Sank  backward  on  the  turf,  and  died. 

'Twas  done — I  wander'd  through  the  woodi— 

I  threaded  mid  the  ancient  trees, 
When  all  the  midnight  solitudes 

Re-echoed  to  the  tossing  breeze; 
Or  threw  me  down  at  times  beside 
The  stream  that  roll'd  its  turbid  tide 
Down  to  the  shore.     In  western  sky, 
The  crescent  moon  shone  peacefully 
Over  a  slumbering  world;  the  stars, 
Afar  withdrawn  from  mortal  jars, 
Look'd  from  their  calm  Elysium  down 

So  gently,  that  it  seem'd  from  thence, 
Over  Earth's  cares  and  bustle  flown, 

They  could  Heaven's  dews  of  peace  dispense. 

I  could  not  sleep — I  could  not  rest—- 
My thoughts  were  all  at  open  war, 

Fierce  are  the  tempests  that  infest 

The  sky,  but  storms  within  the  breast 
Are  darker,  fiercer,  mightier  far. 

I  roam'd  at  twilight  by  the  waves  ; 

I  lay  at  noontide  in  lone  caves ; 

And  when  night  ruled  the  starry  sky, 
Or  tranquilly  the  white  moon  shone, 

I  watch' d  the  grey  clouds  floating  by, 
And  wander'd  on  the  mountains  lone  : 

I  loved  to  lie  beneath  old  trees, 

Loud  murmuring  to  the  midnight  breeze, 

And  listen  to  the  moaning  sound, 

While  bent  their  dark  boughs  to  the  ground ; 

I  heard,  rebounding  far  away, 
The  thunders  of  the  cataract, 

And  often  wish'd  my  hot  brow  lay 
Beneath  its  showers  of  drizzly  rack  ; 

I  saw  the  shy  hawk  on  its  spray ; 

I  saw  the  leveret  at  its  play  ; 

And  as  the  tangling  boughs  I  stirr'd, 

Startled  from  sleep  the  little  bird, 


C48  Tht  Lunatic's  Complaint. 

That  chirp'd  with  momentary  bill, 
And  sudden  ceased— and  all  was  still. 

How  long  it  mny  have  been  to  me, 

Is  as  a  hidden  mystery  ; 

But  days,  and  months,  and  moons  pass'd  on, 

And  still  I  raved  and  roam'd  alone ; 

I  pull'd  wild  berries,  and  partook 

Delicious  water  from  the  brook ; 

And  stray'd  by  night,  and  muttering  lay 

In  woods,  and  wilds,  and  caves  by  day ; 

Ever  a  watchful  eye  I  kept  ; 

Sleep  from  me  fled — I  never  slept; 

Until  one  morn  I  sought  the  plain, 

The  grass  was  moist  with  recent  rain, 

And  laying  down  my  ferer'd  cheek, 

Ijoy'd  its  cooling  balm  to  seek, 

"Weariness,  woe,  and  agony, 

Combining,  strove  to  bid  mine  eye 

In  poppied  slumbers  close  ; 
And  stretch'd  upon  the  daisied  ground, 
Escaped  from  feeling's  curse,  I  found 

An  hour  of  sweet  repose. 
So  when  I  woke,  the  world  to  me 
Seem'd  like  another  world  to  be ; — 
Blue  shone  the  lake,  the  summer  trees 
Stirr'd  in  the  balmy  western  breeze, 

As  if  to  wanton  Avith  their  shadows; 
Soft  smiled  the  green  acclivities 
Beneath  the  pure  cerulean  skies, 

And  golden  furze  perfumed  the  meadows. 
The  bee  was  booming  through  the  dells 
Mid  foxglove,  heath,  and  heather  bells ; 
The  birds  were  singing  from  each  spray, 
And,  cloud  wards,  journeying  far  away, 
The  lark,  long  lost  to  human  eye, 
Was  heard — a  music  in  the  sky  ! 
With  upward  effort,  through  and  through 
The  viewless  air,  the  liquid  blue, 
Her  flight  was  ta'en ;  as  if  her  eyes 
Were  only  fix'd  on  Paradise ; 
As  if  unto  her  feet  were  given 
To  gain  the  threshold  steps  of  Heaven ! 

.  is*  ,iiO 

'Twas  then  they  found,  and  hemm'd  me  round 

As  if  I  was  a  beast  of  prey; 
Weak  as  a  suckling  on  the  ground, 

Surveying  earth  and  heaven,  I  lay ; 
When  they  placed  manacles  upon 

My  wrists,  and  dragg'd  me  to  their  den  : — 
I  thought — for  mercy  dwelt  with  none — 

That  they  were  demons,  and  not  men  ! 
Yes !  they  pronounced  me  frenzied ;  they 

Declared  my  reason's  light  was  dim, 
Debarr'd  me  from  the  face  of  day, 

And  twined  their  fetters  on  each  limb. 

My  faithful  dog  had  follow'd  me — 

And  when  that  gate  was  closed,  he  came 
And  whined  below  the  lattice  frame : — 
Yes  !  he  had  gratitude,  and  he 
Would  not  depart,  but,  day  by  day, 


1831.]  The  Lunatic's  Complaint.  649 

Though  hunted  from  these  walls  away, 

Return' d  before  my  grate  to  stand, 

And  leapt,  and  strove  to  lick  my  hand. — 

I  heard  the  shot— I  saw  him  fall —      ./of  v?oH 

They  threw  him  o'er  the  garden  wall ; 

Their  hearts  were  callous,  and  would  make. 

A  mock  of  mine,  which  scorn'd  to  break ; — 

Then,  then,  I  felt  my  bitter  lot, 

Yet  held  my  breath,  and  cursed  them  not. 

/«) 

My  youthful  hopes  have  all  been,  crost» 
The  rudder  of  existence  lost :     ijfojaw  jj  r 
And  I  have  sown  in  joyfulness,        -noil  q^i^' 
To  reap  the  harvest  of  distress  ;-rtn  9flO  jj. 
Without  an  aim,  without  a  fear,    n  ge^  3U*T 
To  make  existence  dark  or  dew»[>  uni^i  r  u/ 
I  wander  in  a  magic  ring,         ulou  >  • 

Where  all  is  dull  and  desolate, .  .-i<*rih»>^ 
Where  passing  hours  no  shadow  fling 

On  life's  unvaried  dial-plate  : 
Time  hath  no  joys  to  take  or  bring, ^yi^  \ 

For  I  have  none  to  love  or  hate ; 
And  thought  is  but  a  desert  void,  ;  0£ 

All  unenjoy'd  and  unemploy'd : — 
Yet  lives  the  energetic  mind, 
A  warring  chaos  undefined;  .„!& 

And  mid  the  darkness  of  my  lot,     ,  nj  b'rihri 

Where  nought  before  is  hoped  or  seen, 
Sometimes  I  wish  the  past  forgot,         ,,a  fa%. 

And  life,  as  if  it  ne'er  had  been !— 


''-n 


i 

Were  anguish  smother'  d—  feeling  gone—  • 

Thought  reft—  and  passion  sear'd  to  stone^f/; 

And  memory  with  its  tortures  flown  — 

Like  pleasure  dead,  like  hope  unknown— 

Then  would  my  life  be  negative, 
And  I  from  murmurings  refrain  : 
But  wishes  all  are  wild  and  vain  !         rfjjy, 

With  more  than  life  I  am  alive, 

With  worse  than  death  am  doom'd  to  strive  ; 

Still  Recollection  fondly  clings, 

And  never  sleeps,  and  adds  her  stings 

To  all  the  miseries  of  the  past. 

Oh,  shall  Oblivion  come  at  last  ! 

Like  wildfire  on  the  midnight  blast, 

My  energies  are  all  awake  ; 

1  burn  with  fire  I  cannot  slake  ; 

I  feel  as  if  condemn'd  below 

To  an  eternity  of  woe, 

And  though  with  bitterness  I  cry 
On  Death,  he  mocks  and  passes  by  ! 


650  The  Magic  Mirror.  [Oct 


THE  MAGIC  MIRROR. 
BY  THE  ETTRICK  SHEPHERD. 

ONCE  on  a  time,  as  I  heard  tell, 
But  day  and  date  I  know  not  well, 
Perchance  it  happ'd  in  ages  past, 
Perhaps  the  week  before  the  last; 
But  this  you  still  may  keep  in  view, 
The  tale,  like  all  my  tales,  is  true ; 
Three  doughty  carles,  grown  grey  with  age, 
Wandering  life's  weary  pilgrimage, 
Forgather'd  once  by  tryste  upon 
The  eastern  Eildon's  lovely  cone. 

One  was  a  seer  of  mighty  note, 
Scarce  second  to  great  Michael  Scott, 
A  sage  of  most  capacious  mind, 
Could  read  the  thoughts  of  human  kind, 
By  merely  looking  in  their  faces, 
And  mimicking  their  sly  grimaces, 
And  thus  their  onward  course  could  view, 
And  all  through  life  that  would  ensue. 

But  what  no  man  could  have  divined, 
He  could  hold  converse  with  the  wind, 
In  language  undisguised  and  plain, 
And  the  wind  answered  him  again. 
A  passing  voice  the  word  would  say, 
Then  die  upon  the  breeze  away; 
Again,  again,  in  accents  weak, 
That  passing  voice  the  word  would  speak, 
While  listeners  stood  in  dread  surprise, 
With  bristling  hair  and  staring  eyes. 
In  sooth,  he  was  a  wondrous  being, 
All  changes,  all  events  foreseeing, 
Was  surly,  sullen,  sought  and  dreaded, 
Railed  at,  yet  reverenced,  heard  and  heeded. 
Was  stiled  THE  PROPHET,  but  his  name 
Was  whisper'd  to  be  Albert  Graham, 
And  his  descent  was  said  to  be 
Of  ancient  noble  pedigree. 

Well,  our  three  carles  with  one  consent 
To  the  green  cone  of  Eildon  went, — 
A  hill  for  weirdly  deeds  renown'd, 
With  ancient  camp  of  Roman  crown'd, 
And  noted  for  its  glorious  view 
From  Lammer  Law  to  Cheviot  blue, 
And  from  the  Liddels  mountains  green 
To  cliffs  that  frown  round  dark  Loch  Skene, 
With  vales  between  all  dappled  over 
With  farms,  with  field,  and  greenwood  cover ; 
With  many  a  tower  of  feudal  glory, 
And  many  a  fane  in  ruins  hoary ; 
With  many  a  stream  of  classic  name, 
And  many  a  field  of  warlike  fame; 
With  frowning  fell,  and  forest  river, 
And  Abbotsford,  renown'd  for  ever. 
O,  Eildon,  I  have  often  sped 
To  many  a  mountain's  lofty  head  ; 
But  such  a  scene  as  seen  from  thee 
Mine  eyes  again  shall  never  see. 


183  L]  The  Magic  Mirror.  651 

There,  on  a  green  and  lonely  sward, 
Our  three  old  sages  sat  prepared, 
The  one  to  shew,  the  rest  to  see, 
Some  strange  events  that  were  to  be. 

"  Cover  your  faces  with  a  veil," 
Said  Graham,  with  visage  deadly  pale, 
"  For  spirits  of  the  western  clime 
Will  pass  while  noon  is  in  her  prime, 
And  I  must  ask  them  to  portend 
How  this  disgraceful  work  will  end." 

Old  John  and  Samuel  did  his  bidding, 
Those  elemental  spirits  dreading. 
They  cower'd  them  down,  and  listening  lay, 
What  that  unearthly  voice  would  say. 

Albert,  bareheaded,  stood  alone, 
And,  in  a  mild  entreating  tone, 
Called,  "  Spirit  sweet,  spirit  kind, 
Spirit  of  the  westland  wind, 
Thou  hast  seen  with  sorrow  great 
What  is  passing  in  the  state, 
How  on  ruin's  orink  we  quiver, 
Breeding  strife  that  cease  can  never. 
Tell  me,  spirit,  if  you  may, 
How  will  end  this  brutal  fray  ?" 

VOICE. 

«  O !  Albert  Graham 
Of  magic  fame, 

I  may  not,  cannot  tell  for  shame  ! 
Since  now  the  LION  bows  his  head, 
That  all  the  herd  may  thereon  tread, 
What's  to  be  hoped  but  discord  dire, 
With  burning,  arming,  blood,  and  fire  ?— 
I  may  not  tell  what  is  to  be, 
There  lies  a  mirror,  look  and  see." 

Then  a  sweet  voice  was  heard  to  wail 
Away,  away,  upon  the  gale, 
Singing  a  lay  ot  rueful  tone, 
O'er  glories  that  were  past  and  gone. 

Then  Sam  and  John,  who  panting  lay, 
Ask'd  if  the  spirit  was  away ; 
And  raised  their  heads  out  of  the  den, 
Two  frighten' d  and  bewilder'd  men. 

Says  John,  "  'Tis  awful  thus  to  hear 
The  words  of  spirits  passing  near, 
And  know  that  all  the  earth  is  crowded 
With  beings  in  their  air-veils  shrouded. 
And  then  to  think  that  night  and  day 
They  hear  each  sinful  word  we  say, 
And  see  each  wild  and  wicked  deed, 
Though  vice  in  darkness  veils  her  head; 
Deeds  unacknowledged  and  unshriven, 
Lord,  what  a  world  it  is  we  live  in  !" — 

"  Hold,  friend,"  says  Albert,  "  if  you  please, 
I'll  shew  you  things  more  strange  than  these; 
More  selfish,  false,  and  void  of  shame, 
Than  aught  your  simple  heart  could  frame. 
Here  is  a  magic  mirror,  given 
By  that  sweet  journeyer  of  the  heaven ; 
Come,  let  us  look,  for  well  I  see, 
There  is  ere  long  some  fun  to  be." 


The  Magic  Mirror.  [Oct. 

They  look'd,  and  saw  by  magic  light, 
But  scarce  gave  credit  to  their  sight,        id^ao 
A  scene  of  such  vile  cozenage         <  )mlJ  rfrrnpJ 
As  gave  small  credit  to  the  age  ; 
All  the  low  beasts  of  vulgar  den, 
From  pinfold  puddle  and  boor's  pen, 
Ranged  round  the  royal  LION'S  head, 
And  baying  him  without  remeed. 
He  answer'd  all  with  placid  bow,  -to*1** 
But  dark  suspicion  on  his  brow, 
Brooded  like  storm  in  Polar  way,  '^B«n 
Or  thunder-cloud  on  summer  day ; 
How  could  it  else  ?  When  there  was  swaying, 
The  donkey  with  its  endless  braying? 
The  Monkey  with  its  motions  prim^ 
The  Ban-dog  with  his  visage  grim  ; 
The  Fox,  the  Foulmart,  and  the  Martin, 
And  beasts  whose  species  was  uncertain, 
Queer  grinning,  pluffy,  dumpy  doodles — 
A  set  of  awkward  backward  noodles, 
Renown'd  for  nought  but  empty  bounces, 
A  large  fraternity  of  dunces, 
Weak,  heartless,  greedy,  stupid,  cold, 
Save  Coulterneb,  the  brave  and  bold, 
Who,  with  a  Broom  of  evergreen, 
Swept  the  large  hall  of  justice  clean. 
But  they  mark'd  one  they  knew  full  well, 
Who  (though  his  name  they  would  not  tell) 
Was  weaving  an  entangling  web 
For  the  redoubted  Coulterneb. 

The  old  lords  of  the  forest  reign, 
Who  long  had  barter'd  toil  and  pain 
On  fields  of  death,  on  land  and  wave, 
The  LION'S  lordly  sway  to  save, 
Were  now  obliged  to  stand  aloof, 
Kick'd  by  plebeian  vulgar  hoof. 

The  first  that  ventur'd  to  admonish, 
And  the  low  vulgar  herd  astonish, 
Was  Peeler,  a  most  noble  fellow, 
A  hound  well  train'd,  well  mouth  d,  and  mellow  ; 
He  open'd  on  that  menzie  gulling, 
And  set  their  wits  a  heather-pulling. 
Whene'er  they  heard  his  yowl  o'  nights, 
They  skulkit  underneath  their  rights. 

A  Tiger,  a  most  noble  beast, 
Who  once  was  netted  in  the  East, 
But  made  a  brisk  and  bold  Assaye 
To  open  his  resistless  way 
To  deeds  which  never  were  outdone 
Beneath  the  heaven's  own  blessed  sun; 
He  on  the  herd  look'd  grim  as  death, 
But  more  in  pity  than  in  wrath; 
Yet  there  was  something  in  his  mien, 
A  language  strong,  not  heard,  but  seen. 
A  brave  young  Foxhound  of  the  north, 
Conscious  of  loyalt)'  and  worth, 
Dash'd  in  amid  the  servile  group, 
And  ope'd  with  an  unpractised  whoop ; 
The  leaders  of  the  crew  cry'd  Hark  ! — 
And  sure  it  was  a  harrier's  bark. 
But  the  young  Foxhound  cast  a  look 
Which  the  canalzie  could  not  brook  ; 


1831.]  The  Magic  Mirrof.  653 

It  told,  in  language  firm  and  staid. 

Stronger  than  words  were  ever  said, 

In  terms  that  left  no  room  for  doubt, 

"  Small  deer,  beware  what  you're  about ; 

For  if  I'm  forced  to  come  again, 

With  all  my  motley  Border  train 

Of  bloodhounds,  collies,  ratches,  harriers, 

And  all  my  breeds  of  Dinmont  terriers, 

By  my  forefather's  ghost,  I  vow,  , 

(A  brave  bloodhound  both  stanch  and  true,) 

That  I'll  make  ghosts — this  oath  rely  on, 

Of  all  who  dare  abuse  our  LION. 

I  at  the  LION'S  bugle-horn, 

With  echoes  brave  will  wake  the  morn, 

And  trace  the  sneaking  robber's  trail 

To  his  vile  den  of  dens  the  wale  : 

If  I  yowff  but  *  A  BELLANDINE  !' 

On  one  old  heathery  hill  of  mine, 

'Twill  make  the  herds,  with  tails  on  riggings, 

To  burrow  in  their  ten- pound  biggings. 

Poor  barking  puppies  !  all  is  lost, 

If  such  as  you  must  rule  the  roast." — 

*'  Bow-wow !  Bow-wow !"  with  dreadful  blurrier, 
Cried  an  outrageous  Scottish  Terrier, 
"  Well  yowff'd,  my  lord !  That  note  again, 
We'll  scatter  the  poor  servile  train, 
Like  chaff  before  the  tempest  free, 
That  revels  down  by  Fernilee ; 
I'll  ferret  out  in  sad  surprisal, 
Each  fulmart,  badger,  cat,  and  weazel, 
From  hole,  from  howf,  from  den  and  dingle  ;" 
That  terrier's  name  was  *****  *******. 

"  Yell !"  quoth  abound  of  Highland  breed, 
A  fierce  and  dangerous  chap  indeed. 
"  Take  courage,  all  ye  brave  and  loyal, 
Before  they  snool  our  LION  Royal, 
Scotland  shall  join  in  one  accordance. 
By  all  the  blood  of  all  the  ********, 
We'll  prove  the  ready  executioners 
Of  all  those  cursed  revolutioners." 

Another  fiery  northern  Dragon 
Came  raging  on  them  like  a  Pagan, 
A  Lurcher  of  a  deadly  hue, 
A  hawk  nose,  and  a  noble  flew ; 
A  brow  of  brass  and  tongue  untiring, 
A  head  as  hard  as  Swedish  iron, 
He  bay'd  the  bevy  fierce  and  furious, 
Who  skulk'd,  and  call'd  the  ratch  injurious, 
Vowing  his  pockets  had  been  harpl'd, 
That  Lurcher's  name  was  *****    ***##***#*. 

A  great  bull  Raven  came  in  view, 
Soaring  above  the  sordid  crew ; 
A  Croaker  of  prodigious  sway, 
A  black  sight  to  the  base  array, 
Who  raised  a  yell  of  fright  together, 
And  cower'd  beneath  the  glogsy  feather, 
Crying,  "  He  comes  on  pinions  spread, 
To  pick  the  eyne  from  every  head, 


The  Mayic  Mirror. 

And  with  our  flesh  and  blood  to  cram  him. 
He  comes !  he  comes !  The  devil  d —  him  !" 

The  Raven,  soaring,  eyed  his  prey, 
Then  hover'd  nigh,  to  their  dismay ; 
The  Cuddy  scowFd  with  look  askance, 
The  Otter  hid  his  head  at  once, 
The  Badger  crept  beneath  the  tree, 
The  Tikes  and  Curs  of  low  degree, 
Whene'er  that  Raven  gave  a  croak, 
View'd  it  as  far  beyond  a  joke  : 
They  took  their  tails  between  their  thighs, 
And  hung  their  heads  in  woful  guise, 
For  well  they  knew  that  note  01  strife 
Forespoke  some  mangy  mongrel's  life. 

The  Raven  spied,  squatted  to  earth, 
A  tailor's  messan,  sent  from  *****, 
A  yelping,  gabbling,  glovvring  creature, 
A  dandy  dapper  dwarf  of  nature, 
A  thing  so  vain  and  self-conceited 
Was  never  in  this  world  created  ; 
But  at  the  Croaker's  lordly  note, 
He  felt  his  talons  in  his  throat, 
And  cower' d  him  down  among  the  cloots 
Of  other  office-bearing  brutes. 

Down  came  the  Raven  with  a  swoop, 
And  note  like  Indian's  battle  whoop, 
Down  on  the  Messan  came  he  plump, 
And  seized  the  creature  by  the  rump — 
Toss'd  him,  and  shook  him,  cowed  him,  awed  him, 
And  like  a  very  dishclout  taw'd  him ; 
Then  soared  again  into  the  air, 
Deaved  by  the  yammer  and  the  blare, 
The  babble,  and  the  yaff  incessant, 
Of  that  bit  quibbling-quabbling  Messant. 

The  Raven  took  the  writhing  beast 
And  tore  the  pluck  out  of  his  breast, 
Making  of  that  a  glorious  feast ; 
Then  bore  away  unto  the  north 
Toward  the  Messan's  native  Forth, 
And  pick'd  his  bones  upon  Inch-Peffery — 
That  Messan's  name  was  *****#  ******. 

It  might  be  deem'd  against  the  law 
To  tell  all  our  three  sages  saw, 
And  in  Dunedin  breed  a  squabble ; 
For  Maga's  jokes  are  actionable. 
In  short,  they  saw  the  throne  abused, 
And  rank  confusion  worse  confused ; 
All  peace  and  order  set  to  jar — 
In  every  corner  roariiig  war ; 
The  din  of  rude  plebeian  strife — 
War  to  the  throat  and  to  the  knife ; 
And  all  for — what  the  age  disgraces— 
That  some  few  knaves  might  keep  their  placet, 
To  sponge  and  grub  for  sordid  pelf, 
Nothing  in  view  but  self !  self!  self! 
Old  Albert  wept  the  scene  to  see, 
The  tear-drops  trickled  on  his  knee, 
And,  in  despair  at  coming  evil, 
He  tossed  the  Mirror  to  the  devil. 


1831.] 


Ignoramus  on  the  Fine  Arts.    No.  HI. 


655 


IGNORAMUS  ON  THE  FINE  ARTS. 

No.  III. 
HOGARTH,  BEWICK,  AND  GREEN. 


THERE  are  three  artists, — but  three, 
—with  whose  works  I  can  boast  of 
something  like  intimacy;  and  they 
are,  perhaps,  the  most  thoroughly 
and  exclusively  English  in  the  world. 
These  are,  Hogarth,  Bewick,  and 
Green.  However  unequal  in  fame, 
dissimilar  in  style,  or  diverse  in  their 
subjects — the  trio  have  many  points 
in  common.  All,  in  a  manner,  self- 
educated,  and  self-exalted,  commen- 
ced as  artisans,  and  made  themselves 
excellent  artists.  All  completed  their 
studies,  and  gathered  their  materials 
in  their  native  island,  and  each,  after 
his  kind,  represented  the  Nature 
which  every  one  may  see,  though 
very  few  like  them  have  perceived 
and  conceived.  All,  too,  by  birth  or 
descent,  were  men  of  the  North 
Countrie.  Only  one  of  them,  how- 
ever, has  found  a  biographer  in  Al- 
lan Cunningham,  but  both  the  others 
have  found  a  panegyrist  in  Christo- 
pher North.  At  the  risk  of  repeat- 
ing some  of  Christopher's  observa- 
tions, which  will  always  bear  repeti- 
tion, I,  his  humble  contributor,  will 
venture  a  few  words  on  their  respec- 
tive merits,  leaving  the  "  invention 
of  their  defects,"  to  Dogberries  of 
greater  perspicacity.  Green  was  my 
friend  in  days  of  auld  lang  syne ; 
and  Bewick  my  delight,  when  a  pic- 
ture-book was  as  good  as  a  minced 
pie,  or  a  pantomime.  Pictures  were 
pictures  then,  indeed. 

Green  was  a  man  who  will  not 
soon  be  forgotten  among  the  old  fa- 
miliar faces,  nor  will  his  works  want 
vouchers,  while  autumn  sheds  her 
"blossoming  hues  of  fire  and  gold" 
on  the  ferny  slopes  of  our  fells — and 
the  slate-rocks  shimmer  in  the  morn- 


ing sun,  after  a  night  of  rain — or  start 
from  the  white  dispersing  mists,  like 
enchanted  towers,  at  the  breaking  of 
the  spell  of  darkness.  Of  all  land- 
scape painters  he  was  the  most  li- 
teral, the  most  absolute  copyist,  of 
the  objects  on  his  retina.  What 
he  saw  he  painted  as  exactly  as  it 
could  be  painted — he  had  no  no- 
tion of  supplying  the  necessary  im- 
perfections or  art  by  any  adventiti- 
ous splendour  of  his  own.  His 
memory  was  not  stored  with  tra- 
ditional recipes,  nor  his  imagina- 
tion overlaid  with  pictorial  common- 
places. The  forms,  colours,  com- 
binations which  he  fed  upon,  were 
gathered,  like  manna,  fresh  every 
morning.  He  never  considered  how 
Claude  or  Gainsborough  would  have 
treated  a  subject,  nor  what  a  Cock- 
ney might  think  of  it.  When  he  set 
about  a  picture,  he  thought  no  more 
of  any  other  picture,  than  nature, 
when  scooping  out  "  still  St  Mary's 
Lake,"  thought  about  the  Caspian 
Sea.  He  did  not  manufacture  the  su- 
blime, by  leaving  out  the  details,  nor 
sophisticate  beauty  into  prettiness, 
by  turning  Westmoreland  into  a  Co- 
vent  Garden  Arcadia,  and  shepherd 
lasses  into  mantel-piece  shepherd- 
esses :  neither  did  he  fill  our  civil 
kind-hearted  valleys  with  melo-dra- 
matic  horrors,  and  murky  caverns,  fit 
only  for  banditti  to  skulk  in,  and  for 
Mrs  Radcliffe  to  write  about.  In 
truth,  we  have  hardly  a  cavern  big 
enough  to  conceal  a  cask  of  moun- 
tain dew — and  what  Gray  could  be 
dreaming  of,  when  he  fancied  that 
Borrowdale  Crags  would  close  in  and 
secrete  him,  like  Frederic.  Barbaros- 
sa,*  in  a  stony  immortality,  I  for  one 


*  "  Frederick  Barbarossa,  according  to  German  tradition,  sits  within  the  Kyff hausen, 
leaning  on  a  stone-table,  into  which  his  long  beard  has  grown,  waiting  until  the  day 
arrives  when  he  is  to  hang  up  his  shield  on  a  withered  tree,  which  will  immediately 
put  forth  leaves,  and  then  happier  days  will  begin  their  course.  His  head  nods,  and 
his  eyes  twinkle,  as  if  he  slept  uneasily,  or  were  about  to  awake.  At  times  his  slum- 
ber is  interrupted  ;  but  his  naps  are  generally  about  a  hundred  years  in  duration. 
In  his  waking  moments,  he  is  supposed  to  be  fond  of  music;  and  amongst  the  nume- 
rous tales  to  which  his  magic  state  has  given  rise,  there  is  one  of  a  party  of  musicians, 
who  thought  proper  to  treat  him  with  a  regular  concert  in  his  subterraneous  abode. 
Each  was  rewarded  with  a  green  bough,  a  mode  of  payment  so  offensive  to  their  ex- 
pectations, that  upon  their  return  to  earth,  all  flung  away  his  gift  save  one,  and  he  kept 
his  bough  only  as  a  memorial  of  the  adventure,  without  the  least  suspicion  of  its  value. 


CjG                        Iijnoramus  on  the  Fine  4''^'-     Artf.  ///.  [Oct. 

cannot  tell.      Mr  Green  knew   tbe  constructs  out  of  many  interrupted 

crags  and  waterfalls,  as  well  as  he  impressions,  and  which  it  can  recall 

knew  his  own  children,  and  was  just  at  pleasure ;  not  that  general  likeness, 

as  little  afraid  of  them.     He  taught  which  always  remains,  and  can  al- 

his  pencil,  too,  as  he  taught  his  chil-  ways  be  recognised ;  but  a  direct  cor- 

dren,  to  speak  the  truth,  and  the  poreal  perception  in  the  very  pos- 

whole  truth,  without  regard  of  con-  ture,  circumstance,  and  complexion 

sequences.    His  landscapes  convey,  of  the  instant.     What  his  eye  told, 

not  that  abstraction  which  the  mind  his  hand  repeated  verbatim  et  lite- 


Great,  however,  was  his  surprise,  when,  upon  shewing  it  to  his  wife,  every  leaf  was 
changed  into  a  golden  dollar." — CROFTON  CHOKER'S  FAIRY  LEGKXDS.  London  Maga- 
zine, March,  1822. 

"  Greece  revered  her  yet  living  Achilles  in  the  White  Island,  the  Britons  expected 
the  waking  of  Arthur,  entranced  in  Avelon,  and,  almost  in  our  days,  it  was  thought 
that  Sebastian  of  Portugal  would  one  day  return  to  claim  his  usurped  realms.  Thus, 
also,  the  three  founders  of  the  Helvetic  confederacy  are  thought  to  slumber  in  a  ca- 
vern near  the  lake  of  Lucerne.  The  herdsmen  call  them  the  three  Tells ;  and  say  that 
they  lie  there  in  their  antique  garb  in  a  quiet  sleep;  and  when  Switzerland  is  in  her 
utmost  need,  they  will  awaken  and  regain  the  liberties  of  the  land." — Quarterly  He- 
view,  No.  LXXVII.  Do  not  you  know  the  fine  Roman  hand  ? 

This  legend  of  Barbarossa,  (and  almost  every  nation  has  something  similar,)  has 
been  called  an  imitation  of  that  proverbial  tale  of  the  Seven  Sleepers,  who  retreated  to 
a  cave  near  Ephesus  during  the  persecution  of  Decius,  and,  after  a  nap  of  one  hundred 
and  eighty-seven  years,  were  awakened  in  the  reign  of  Theodosius,  utterly  uncon- 
scious that  they  had  slept  more  than  a  few  hours.  As  usual  in  these  cases,  they  be- 
stowed their  blessing  on  the  unknown  descendants  of  their  sometime  contemporaries, 
and  expired,  as  the  Milesian  canoes,  so  frequently  discovered  entire  in  the  bogs  of  Erin, 
crumble  to  pieces  as  soon  as  they  are  exposed  to  upper  air.  Like  most  of  the  Christian 
miracles,  whether  canonical  or  apocryphal,  this  beautiful  fancy  has  been  smuggled 
into  the  Koran,  and  there  disfigured  with  clumsy  additions.  Mahomet  was  the 
greatest  plagiarist  that  ever  existed ;  and  though  marvellously  clever,  was  a  very 
prosaic  impostor  after  all.  He  had  no  imagination  ;  and  whatever  he  borrowed  from 
the  vast  and  wondrous  stores  of  Oriental  fable,  he  vulgarized.  Like  Mr  Hume,  he 
dealt  very  largely  in  numerical  exaggeration  ;  though  it  is  probable  he  therein  imi- 
tated the  cabalists,  rabbis,  and  Christian  heretics,  (who  ascribed  mystic  powers  and 
meanings  to  numbers,)  rather  than  the  honourable  member  for  Middlesex. 

The  falsehoods  of  fraud,  cupidity,  and  priestcraft,  may  always  be  distinguished 
from  the  fictions  which  imagination  utters  for  her  own  delight,  from  the  superstitions 
which  are  grounded  in  the  truth  of  human  nature,  by  their  dulriess,  s(imeness,  and 
matter-of-fact  monstrosity.  Yet  it  is  not  to  be  concluded,  because  the  marvellous  tra- 
ditions of  far-sundered  races  often  bear'a  striking  resemblance  to  each  other,  that  they 
necessarily  are  derived  from  one  original  inventor.  Every  mythology  has  its  sleepers. 
Endymion  and  Epimenides  are  among  the  oldest  we  know  of.  Who  has  not  read 
of  the  Sleeping  Beauty  in  the  Wood  ?  The  seed  of  these  stories  is  in  every  fancy ;  and 
occasions  will  arrive  to  make  it  shoot  forth  and  blossom.  The  repose  of  a  fair  statue, 
bathed  in  moonshine,  would  readily  suggest  the  loves  of  the  sleeping  Endymion  and 
his  pale  paramour  ;  the  rude  blocks  of  stone  that  people  stalactitic  caves  are  quite 
human  enough  to  give  a  hint  for  the  caverned  slumbers  of  the  Seven,  of  the  Danish 
Ogier,  and  the  German  Barbarossa.  Religious  or  historic  faith  in  the  poetic  nonage 
of  nations,  would  take  to  themselves  the  half  creations  of  imperfect  vision,  and  turn 
the  fantastic  imagery  into  saints,  martyrs,  heroes,  or  deities. 

What  a  figure  would  poor  Gray,  with  his  face  and  his  pig-tail,  have  cut  behind  a 
stone  table  in  the  heart  of  Eaglecrag  !  Not  much  like  the  imperial  red-band,  I  trow  ; 
for  be  never  could  have  had  beard  enough  for  a  Mussulman  to  swear  by — liberal  as 
he  has  been  in  that  particular  to  the  Bard.  By  the  way,  the  British  Pindar  was 
more  indebted  to  Hudibras  in  that  passage  than  to  Milton  or  Raphael  either. 

This  hairy  meteor  did  denounce 

The  fall  of  sceptres  and  of  crowns, 

With  grisly  type  did  represent 

Declining  age  of  government, 

And  tell  with  hieroglyphic  spade 

Its  own  grave  and  the  state's  were  made. — Canto  the  First. 

I  like  to  laugh  at  Gray;  because  I  love  him.  He  was  a  scholar, a  gentleman,  and 
a  Christian.  To  detract  from  his  poetic  fame,  is  black  ingratitude  iu  any  who  have 
read  him  while  their  hearts  were  young. 


Ignoramus  on  the  Fine  Arts. 


1831.] 

ratim,  as  Homer's  Iris  and  Talthy- 
bins  repeat  their  message.  (I  used 
to  love  those  repetitions  when  I  was 
at  school :  it  was  like  sliding  glibly 
down  the  hill  one  has  been  toiling 
and  panting  to  the  top  of.  The  lines 
counted  all  the  same.) 

Hence  it  requires  rather  more  than 
a  "  Fortnight's  Ramble"  among  the 
lakes — a  close  and  observant  ac- 
quaintance with  all  their  variable  as- 
pects— to  know  half  the  merit  of 
Green.  Many  artists  could  give  a 
Dutchman,  or  a  Lincolnshire  man, 
or  haply  a  Hampsteadian,  a  more  sa- 
tisfactory feeling  of  mountain  scene- 
ry— for  many  exhibit  more  cleverly 
what  the  unexperienced  Fancy  would 
anticipate  of  a  mountainous  pros- 
pect; more  strikingly  portray  what 
all  mountains  have  in  common,  just 
as  the  tragedies  of  Sophocles  dis- 
play the  contour  and  generalities  of 
the  passions  more  distinctly  than  the 
mannered  dramas  of  Euripides  and 
Shakspeare :  but  those  who  dwell 
among  the  scenes  which  he  deline- 
ated, will  daily  appreciate  him  higher 
and  higher ; — and  should  they  be  di- 
vided by  seas  and  shores  from  this 
land  of  peaceful  Avaters,  his  pictured 
lines  will  bring  the  haunts  of  memo- 
ry back  upon  the  soul  with  the  vivid- 
ness of  a  calenture.  Artistically 
speaking  (the  word  is  Mr  Green's), 
the  finest  natural  prospects  do  not 
always  make  the  best  pictures.  Who 
upon  earth  could  ever  paint  the  bare 
sea,  or  the  desert,  or  the  infinity  of 
snow?  But  the  smallest  cove  em- 
bosomed in  the  hills,  with  its  single 
patch  of  corn,  its  low  lone  cottage, 
its  solitary  yew  or  sycamore,  its  own 
wee  tarn,  and  "  almost  its  own  sky," 
has  associations  too  vast  to  be  con- 
tained in  an  acre  of  canvass.  Paint 
it,  and  it  will  only  be  little,  cabined, 
cribbed,  confined,  petty :  for  a  pic- 
ture cannot  be  much  more  than  it 
shews :  Avhereas  in  nature,  the  very 
narrowness  of  the  visible  round  in- 
spires a  latent  feeling  of  unseen 
greatness,  which  is  a  necessary  in- 
gredient in  the  sense  of  seclusion. 
Every  painted  landscape,  if  it  pos- 
sess the  unity  essential  to  a  work  of 
art,  must  make  a  whole  of  what  in 
nature  is  felt  and  understood  to  be 
but  a  part,  perhaps  a  part  as  uncon- 
sidered,  if  not  as  prominent,  as  the 
nose  on  the  face. 

In  nature  we  are  glad  to  merge  our 


No.  ITL 


657 


human  individuality  in  the  univer- 
sal, while  in  art  we  demand  that 
every  thing  should  be  humanized, 
and  refer  to  man  as  its  centre  and 
solution.  We  require  a  meaning,  a 
purpose  in  every  line,  and  light,  and 
shade.  I  think  silvan  scenery  paints 
the  best  of  any.  In  glades  and  copses 
the  eye  is  confined  to  a  small  inde- 
finite space,  and  to  a  few  picturesque 
objects,  which  fancy  can  multiply 
and  vary  as  it  chooses.  The  effects 
of  light  and  shadow  are  strongly 
marked,  and  within  the  reach  of  imi- 
tation. The  distance,  seen  through 
vistas  of  trees,  or  peeping  between 
the  branches,  affords  a  most  intelli- 
gible perspective.  A  wood  is  a  sort 
of  natural  diorama.  Trees,  too,  are- 
individuals  ;  and  being  liable  to  the 
operations  of  time,  have  a  poetical 
sympathy  with  human  life,  which  in 
lakes  and  mountains  can  hardly  be 
imagined.  Figures  of  men  or  ani- 
mals, in  a  wide  landscape,  rarely 
compose  well  with  the  massier  parts 
of  the  picture.  If  they  be  conspicu- 
oussiu  the  foreground,  they  change 
the 'character  of  the  composition.  If 
far  withdrawn  from  the  point  of 
sight,  they  become  obscure  and  di- 
minutive. Besides,  there  is  no  man- 
ner of  keeping  in  proportion  between 
any  organized  body  and  the  huge 
masses  of  nature.  The  poet  indeed 
may  make  a  man,  or,  if  he  pleases,  a 
bird,  commensurate  with  Chimbora- 
co,  or  Ontario,  because  he  expresses 
thoughts  and  feelings  which  not  the 
world  of  matter  can  circumscribe ; 
but  the  landscape-painter  cannot  do 
this.  If  he  even  attempt  to  give  his 
figuresaction  or  expression,  he  trans- 
gresses his  province.  But  human 
forms  combine  most  happily  with 
mossy  trunks  and  interwoven  boughs, 
with  tall  flowers  and  twining  creep- 
ers, with  tangled  underwood,  and 
sunny  intervals,  and  grey  stones, 
decked  with  pendent  greenery.  Then 
what  more  native  to  the  Dryad's 
haunts,  than  the  nestling  birdies  that 
have  new  startled  from  her  form,  or 
the  stag  with  antlered  front,  uplift- 
ed from  the  reddening  fern,  and  eye- 
ing securely  the  lovers  met  beneath 
the  trysting-tree  ?  Perhaps,  more- 
over, the  felicitous  intermixture  of 
straight  and  wavy  lines,  of  disclosure 
and  concealment,  of  intricacy  and 
simplicity,  contribute  to  the  pic- 
turesque in  woodland  retirements. 


Ignoramus  on  the  Fine  Arts.    No.  III. 


658 

Scenes  again,  over  which  a  human 
interest  presides,  where  the  eteep  is 
crowned  with  castle  or  convent,  and 
the  long  aqueduct  stretches  across 
the  vale,  and  towers,  domes,  mina- 
rets loom  in  the  distance,  and  the 
foreground  is  strewed  with  broken 
columns  and  marble  fountains  which 
nature  has  taken  to  herself  again,  do 
very  well.  But  where  nature  reigns 
alone,  and  man  only  appears  to  shew 
his  insignificance,  where  every  por- 
tion derives  its  beauty  from  the  co- 
presence  and  coinherence  of  the 
whole,  art  can  do  little  more  than 
hiut  at  what  it  cannot  do,  and  pre- 
sent a  humble  index  or  chapter  of 
contents  to  the  volume,  which  can 
neither  be  translated  nor  transcri- 
bed. Green  has  done  all  for  his  sub- 
jects that  could  be  done,  consistent- 
ly with  faithful  representation — and 
he  was  not  the  man  to  belie  the  mag- 
nificent world  for  the  credit  of  his 
craft.  He  loved  the  truth  too  well. 
No  Scottish  peasant,  in  the  good 
old  covenanting  times,  whose  bible 
was  his  only  book  and  constant  com- 
panion, could  be  better  acquainted 
with  every  chapter  and  verse,  than 
was  Green  with  every  nook  of  his 
beloved  domain.  No  height  or  hol- 
low of  Helvellyn,  no  bay  or  bosky 
cape  in  Winander's  sinuous  length, 
no  shy  recess,  nor  brook,  nor  fairy 
waterfall  in  all  the  hills,  but  there  he 
oft  had  been  no  idle  gazer,  but  inde- 
fatigable with  book  and  pencil,  to 
note  their  coyest  looks  and  briefest 
glances.  He  did  not  ply  his  trade 
m  a  garret  with  a  sky-light,  from 
hints  and  scratches,  as  if  he  were 
afraid  that  nature  would  put  him 
out,  but  face  to  face  with  his  great 
mistress 

In  the  broad  open  eye 
Of  the  solitary  sky, 

in  the  spray  of  the  cataract,  beneath 
the  shelteringcrag.in  theembowered 
cottage  porch,  or  in  the  heart  of  mists 
waiting  with  impatient  resignation 
till  the  vapoury  curtains  should  be 
withdrawn.  He  had  a  hearty  healthy 
love  of  his  employment,  such  as  none 
but  an  honest  man  could  feel  or  un- 
derstand. Amid  many  discourage- 
ments, and  with  no  better  patron 
than  the  mutable  public  of  Lakers 
— he  "  bated  no  jot  of  heart  or 
hope  ;"  his  spirit  never  flagged,  his 
hand  and  eye  were  never  idle.  He 


[Oct. 


lived  in  the  faith  that  a  time  would 
come  when  the  taste  for  the  pictu- 
resque would  be  no  longer  an  occa- 
sional impulse,  or  fashionable  affec- 
tation, but  a  fixed  element  in  the 
English  character ;  when  a  perma- 
nent colony  of  rank  and  intelligence 
would  make  of  Ambleside  another 
Geneva,  and  erect  a  princely  pavi- 
lion on  the  shores  of  Derwent.  Pity 
he  did  not  discover  a  St  Ronan'a 
Well  somewhere  convenient — a  lit- 
tle nauseous  spa-water  might  have 
proved  more  profitably  attractive 
than  all  the  crystal  and  chrysolite 
streams  in  the  world.  The  late  Peter 
Chrosthwaite,  some  time  commander 
in  the  Company's  service.,  and  latter- 
ly the  founder  of  the  Keswick  Mu- 
seum, did  attempt  to  establish  a 
medicinal  spring,  but  his  favourite 
pump  was  not  nasty  enough  to 
take  with  the  water-drinkers.  In 
Mr  Green's  expectations  of  a  West- 
moreland Cheltenham,  few  of  the 
lake  poets  sympathized.  A  kra- 
ken  would  be  less  monstrous  in 
Windermere  than  a  steam  packet, 
and  it  is  probable  that  Lucifer  will 
finish  the  bridge  he  once  commenced 
over  her  breadth,  (his  apron  strings 
broke,and  occasioned  apile  of  stones, 
which  still  remain  to  verify  the  tra- 
dition,) before  a  tunnel  is  bored 
through  Kirkstone,  or  a  rail-road 
violates  King  Dunmait's  bones.  But 
Green,  though  a  lover  of  nature,  was 
no  lover  of  solitude.  Like  many  men, 
whose  occupations  condemn  them  to 
long  silence,  he  seized  eagerly  on  all 
opportunities  of  converse;  and  as  he 
felt  no  difficulty  in  listening  to  what 
interested  others,  he  had  no  scruple 
in  dilating  upon  what  interested  him- 
self, and  sometimes,  it  may  be,  pour- 
ed much  information  on  the  fine  arts 
into  unretentive  or  reluctant  ears. 
But  he  put  the  heart  into  every  thing; 
and  when  the  heart  is  in  the  discourse, 
no  good  man  thinks  it  dull,  though  it 
should  not  chance  to  be  very  lucid. 
I  should  like  dearly  to  hear  my  uncle 
Toby  talk  of  fortification,  though  I 
know  not  the  difference  between 
fascines  and  gazons. 

Though  never  rich,  and  little  be- 
holden to  the  privileged  orders,  Mi- 
Green  was  a  sound  unconfutable 
Tory ;  therefore  a  friend  to  tempe- 
rate mirth  and  conviviality, at  whose 
hearth  and  board  no  honest  face 


1831.] 


Ignoramus  on  the  Fine  Arts,    No.  IIT. 


wanted  a  welcome.  Late  in  the  day, 
when  declining  health  in  some  de- 
gree debarred  him  from  out-of-doors 
study,  he  commenced  author,  with 
few  qualifications,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, except  a  strong  love  and  tho- 
rough comprehension  of  his  subject. 
Ignorant  as  innocent  of  the  mystery 
of  book-making,  he  produced  a  most 
amusing,  useful,  and  original  book, 
the  only  fault  of  which  is,  that  it  is 
in  two  volumes ;  and  this  fault  would 
be  less,  if  the  writing  had  all  been 
his  own,  but  too  much  space  is  taken 
up  with  extracts  from  his  forerun- 
ners, sundry  of  whom  were  block- 
heads, one  at  least  a  fool,  and  not 
one  possessed  the  tithe  of  his  infor- 
mation. He  has  not  left  a  place,  a 
rill,  a  knoll,  or  homestead  unnamed. 
Many  of  his  observations  shew  a 
most  intelligent  and  poetical  feeling 
of  natural  beauty.  He  is  quite  free 
from  forced  rapture  and  exaggera- 
tion. He  never  acts  the  proneur  or 
showman  to  nature.  Perhaps  he  is 
rather  minute,  but  condensation  is 
the  last  thing  a  practised  author 
learns;  and  really,  when  we  think 
of  the  ponderous  quartos  that  come 
out  every  season  about  third-rate 
watering-places,  and  unsavoury  fish- 
ing hamlets,  stuffed  with  the  refuse 
of  apocryphal  pedigrees,  parish  re- 
gisters, and  the  Gentleman's  Maga- 
zine, seasoned  with  provincial  scan- 
dal and  matter-of-fact  antiquarian 
lies,  and  embellished  with  dedicated 
views  of  ugly  staring  houses,  we  can- 
not much  wonder  at  a  plain  man's 
miscalculating  the  topographical  sto- 
mach of  the  public.  But  then  these 
books  are  generally  published  by 
subscription,  a  species  of  mendicity 
which  there  is  no  society  to  sup- 
press, but  which  poor  Green  could 
not  bring  himself  to  practise.  He 
now  sleeps  in  Grasmere  church- 
yard, and  his  beloved  daughter,  the 
companion  of  his  walks,  and  assist- 
ant of  his  labours,  sleeps  by  his  side. 
I  am  afraid  he  did  not  live  to  read 
the  excellent  critique  on  his  Guide, 
written  by  C.  N.  himself. — It  would 
have  done  his  heart  good. 

Ob,  that  the  genius  of  Bewick  were  mine, 
And  the  skill  that  he  learn'd  on  the  banks 
of  the  Tyne. 

And  oh,  I  add,  that  Bewick  had  il- 
lustrated Peter  Bell  and  the  Wag- 
goner—if, indeed,  he  were  not  like 


659 

Hogarth,  whose  Hudibras  and  Don 
Quixote  are  about  as  bad  as  they 
can  be — toopeculiar  a  genius  to  work 
on  the  conceptions  of  others.  Few 
men,  with  such  wealth  of  mind,  and 
skill  of  hand,  have  exerted  their  ta- 
lents in  so  unassuming  a  form  as  the 
Newcastle  woodcutter.  As  far  as  I 
know,  all  his  works  are  contained  in 
a  few  books  of  no  great  mark  or  like- 
lihood— books  which  one  might  tum- 
ble over  for  hours  without  the  least 
inclination  to  read,  or  even  without 
suspecting  that  letter-press  was  a 
constituent  of  human  happiness.  His 
British  Quadrupeds  and  British  Birds 
(for  his  lions,  and  ornithorhynchuses, 
and  coati-mondis,  are  no  mighty 
matters)  are  true  natural  history ; 
they  let  you  at  once  into  the  life  and 
character  of  the  creature,  they  give 
you  the  cream  of  what  its  autobio- 
graphy would  be,  were  it  disposed 
to  publish  one.  The  species  is  con- 
tained in  the  individual.  Should 
Chaucer's  Assemblee  of  Fowles,  or 
Casti's  Court  and  Parliament  of 
Beasts  ever  meet  again,  (for  their 
sittings  have  been  suspended  longer 
than  those  of  con  vocations,)  Berwick's 
are  the  very  burgesses  that  should 
be  chosen  to  represent  their  several 
kinds.  They  are  not  such  fixtures 
of  fur  and  feather  as  a  mere  draughts- 
man could  draw  from  a  stuffed  skin, 
or  miserable  captive  pining  in  the 
squalid  durance  of  a  caravan,  nor 
what  a  comparative  anatomist  could 
compile  from  the  ruins  of  a  dozen 
different  subjects — No,  they  are 
fresh  and  hearty  from  the  woods,  the 
moors,  the  barn-doors,  the  stable,  the 
duck-pond,  or  the  warren— all  alive 
as  they  can  be,  and  looking  like 
themselves.  Old  Bewick  must  have 
sought  them  in  their  native  haunts, 
watched  them  early  and  late,  heard 
their  first  chirp  in  the  cold  morning 
twilight,  and  seen  them  perched  on 
their  dormitory  twigs.  Perhaps  he 
could  have  informed  Dryden  that 
the  little  birds  do  not  "  in  dreams 
their  songs  repeat."  He  must  have 
seen  the  fox  issuing  from  his  hole 
by  moonlight,  and  the  hare  weaving 
quaint  mazes  on  the  dewy  green. 
He  must  have  been  a  spy  upon  the 
wooings  and  cooings,  thebitings  and 
fightings,  the  caterings  and  feastings 
of  the  dwellers  of  the  forest.  He 
was  in  the  confidence  of  all  the  ani- 
mal creation,  and  knew  their  ways 


CGO 


Ty  iwramit  s  on  the  Fine  Artr.    No.  I1L 


[Oct. 


and  humours  to  a  nicety.  He  is  the 
painter  of  dumb  life  and  irrational 
manners.  He  catches  the  very  linea- 
ment in  which  the  specific  expression 
of  tliR  kind  resides — whether  it  be 
the  twitch  of  the  tail,  the  pricking  of 
an  ear,  the  sniff  of  the  nose,  the  twist 
of  the  neck,  the  leer  of  the  eye,  the 
bobbing  of  the  head,  the  loll  of  the 
tongue,  the  swell  of  the  ruff,  the 
droop  of  the  wing,  or  the  pout  of 
the  breast — yet  he  never  caricatures 
—never  takes  off  accidental  disease 
or  deformity.  But  the  vignettes  are 
better  still.  There  he  is  a  poet — the 
silent  poet  of  the  way-sides  and 
hedges.  He  unites  the  accuracy  and 
shrewdness  of  Crabbe,with  the  home- 
ly pathos  of  Bloomfield.  And  then, 
how  modestly  he  slips  his  pretty 
fancies  to  the  bottom  of  a  page,  as  a 
little  maiden  sets  her  sweet-smell- 
ing posies  and  double  daisies,  and 
streaked  gilly-flowers,  in  the  odd 
corners  and  edges  of  the  cabbage- 
garden.  Whatever  he  shews  you, 
you  are  sure  you  have  seen  it  be- 
fore, and  wonder  that  you  never  no- 
ticed it.  Be  it  a  cat  on  a  louping-on 
stane,  with  back  like  a  camel,  and 
tail  like  a  boa  constrictor — an  amo- 
rous puppy — a  meditative  donkey — 
a  ragged  sheep  picking  at  a  besom — 
a  troop  of  Savoyards,  weary  and 
foot-sore,  tugging  poor  bruin  to  the 
next  fair — a  broken-down  soldier, 
trudging, with  stern  patience,  through 
the  slant  rain-storm— a  poor  travel- 
ling woman  looking  wistfully  at  a 
mutilated  mile-stone — a  { blind  old 
beggar,  whose  faithful  dog  stops 
short,  with  warning  whine,  on  the 
broken  plank  that  should  have  cross- 
ed the  swollen  brook — a  child  play- 
ing with  a  horse's  tail,  while  his 
nurse  is  engaged  with  her  sweet- 
heart under  the  hedge,  and  his 
screaming  mother  is  tumbling  over 
the  stile — be  it  but  a  stone  trough 
under  an  inscribed  ledge  of  rock, 
and  an  ordinary  cow  drinking,  there 
is  the  same  quiet  humour,  the  same 
kindly  feeling  for  familiar  things  in 
all.  There  are  indeed  two  objects  he 
occasionally  introduced,  with  good 
effect,  not  quite  so  familiar  to  every- 
day eyes,  at  least  in  the  country. 
These  are  the  Gallows  and  the  De- 
vil. I  know  not  any  artist  who  has 
so  well  embodied  our  popular  no- 
tion of  "  Universal  Pan,"  KEPKOKE- 


PJ1NYXA2ATAN',  (a  fearful  compound 
is  it  not?  and,  like  Dante's 

"  Pape  Satin,  Pape  Satan,  Aleppe," 
the  better  for  being  untranslatable.) 
We  have  all  read  Southey's  excel- 
lent ballad  of  the  Pious  Painter,  th 
Fuseli  of  his  time  : 


"  They  were  angels  compared  to  the  de- 
vils he  drew, 

That  besieged  poor  St  Anthony'^  cell ; 
Such  huge  staring  eyes,  such  a  damnable 

hue, 
You  might  almost  smell  brimstone,  his 

breath  was  so  blue, 
He  painted  the  Devil  so  well." 

But  will  Mr  Southey  tell  us,  that 
the  Catholic  limner  depicted  "  the 
identical  curl  of  his  tail"  like  Be- 
wick ?  It  was  not  an  honest  ghost 
that  told  him  so,  even  if  it  were  Sir 
Thomas  himself.  Yet  Bewick  lived 
and  died  in  no  great  estate,  in  a  smut- 
ty provincial  town.  Perhaps  he  took 
his  idea  of  the  Black  Prince  from 
the  Carbonari  of  Newcastle.  From 
Green  and  Bewick,  all  whose  works 
are  redolent  of  country  air,  let  us 
recede  (in  a  chronological  sense)  to 
Hogarth,  who  would  appear  from 
his  prints  never  to  have  been  further 
from  London  than  the  Sir  Hugh  Mid- 
dleton,  except  at  an  election  time. 
There  are  some  rumours  of  a  trip  to 
Calais,  but  it  was  a  circumstance  he 
did  not  like  to*have  mentioned,  and 
truly  did  him  very  little  credit — so 
we  will  forget  it  for  the  present. 

I  believe  it  was  poor  1  laxlitt  who 
said,  that  the  first  reading  of  Schil- 
ler's Robbers  was  an  epoch  in  his  life. 
I  am  sure  the  first  reading  of  Ho- 
garth was  an  epoch  in  mine  which  I 
hope  never  to  forget.  I  do  not  mean, 
the  reading  of  his  Analysis,  which  I 
once  read  aloud  to  the  late  George 
Dawe,  R.A.,  as  he  was  painting  his 
large  picture  of  the  Eagle  and  Child, 
but  the  perusal  of  the  Marriage  a-la- 
Mode  and  Rake's  Progress.  The 
works  of  other  painters  are  depend- 
ent for  their  effect  on  a  coup-d'<eil. 
You  should  stand  at  a  respectful 
distance  that  you  may  take  in  the 
whole  at  a  single  view ;  it  is  unfair 
to  quote  the  separate  passages ;  but 
this  mode  of  viewing  Hogarth  would 
never  do — you  must  look  at  his  fi- 
gures one  by  one,  and  then  observe 
the  reciprocal  action  of  each  upon 
each,  and  upon  all,  in  order  to  judge 


1831.] 


lynoramus  on  the  Fine  Arts.    Aro.  III. 


properly  of  the  composition  and 
subordination  of  the  piece,  and  this 
process  may  aptly  be  called  reading. 
It  was  on  a  rainy  Saturday  evening, 
in  that  time  of  year  and  kind  of 
weather  that  make  the  closing  of  the 
shutters  one  of  the  pleasantest  events 
in  natural  day,  when  my  worthy  and 

revered  friend,  J H ,  who, 

had  he  not  been  too  happy  to  wish 
for  greatness,  would  himself  have 
been  a  great  painter,  having  kissed 
his  younger  children  off  to  bed — 
settled  the  ladies  at  their  work- 
tables,  and  drawn  the  extra-strong 
mahogany  round  towards  the  fire — 
brought  down  his  heaviest  and 
wealthiest  portfolio,  fraught  with  ori- 
ginal Hogarths.  There  are  none  like 
the  originals.  I  hate  to  see  Hogarth 
finely  engraved — it  is  worse  than  the 
reprints  of  the  old  dramatists  on  hot- 
pressed  slippery  paper.  I  was  then 
a  boy,  a  mere  child — and  some  folks 
would  have  deemed  Hogarth  above 
my  childish  comprehension  —  for 
there  was  not — I  believe  there  is  not, 

a  Family  Hogarth.     But  H- had 

no  misgivings  of  the  sort;  he  kept 
nothing  in  his  house,  which  the  hum- 
blest or  the  youngest  member  of  his 
household  might  not  look  at;  and 
rationally  concluded,  that  what  was 

food  and  pleasant  to  himself,  could 
e  bad  for  nobody.  Perhaps  he 
thought — I  am  sure  he  felt — that  in 
all  worthy  products  of  true  genius, 
there  is  milk  for  babes,  as  well  as 
meat  for  strong  men.  He  instinct- 
ively perceived,  (he  is  no  great  meta- 
physician, and  is  far  too  conscious  of 
the  wholesomeness  of  his  feelings  to 
analyze  them,  as  Mr  Death-in-the- 
Pot  Accum  advised  us  to  do  London 
porter,) butinstinctively  he  perceived 
that  we  never  understand  the  excel- 
lence which  we  have  not  previously 
loved,  and  ever  love  that  best  which 
first  awakened  our  faculties  to  de- 
light. It  is  a  sore  error  to  keep  good 
books  or  good  pictures  from  children, 
because  they  cannot  understand 
them.  No  matter  how  little  they  un- 
derstand ;  let  them  believe,  and  love, 
and  enjoy.  In  another  generation, 
the  poor  little  wretches  will  not  be 
allowed  to  pick  flowers  till  they  have 
learned  botany.  Oh !  that  Hogarth 

could  rise  from  the  grave  to  shew 
the  incredulous — yet  far  too  credu- 
lous world — what  sort  of  animals  the 

Utilitarian    all-in-all   intellectualists 

VOL.  XXX.  NO.  CLXXXVI. 


661 

would  make  of  children !  It  were, 
indeed,  a  subject  worthy  of  his  pen- 
cil. Let  the  Yankee-Gallico-philoso- 
phists  work  their  will  in  the  House  of 
Commons  and  the  Court  of  Chan- 
cery,they  can  hardly  make  them  much 
worse  than  they  have  been.  Let  the 
dead  bury  the  dead.  Let  Satan  com- 
mission Mammon  to  reform  Pande- 
monium ;  but  let  not  the  souls  of 
poor  infants  be  seasoned  for  sacrifi- 
ces to  the  bloody  Moloch  of  Revolu- 
tion. Leave  them  to  their  specta- 
cled dames,  their  sweet  no-meaning 
ditties,  their  fairy-tales,  and  their 
picture-books,  their  hymns,  and  their 
Catechism ;  and,  as  they  grow  up 
like  healthy  plants,  pruned  and  tend- 
ed by  the  careful  husbandman,  yet 
winning  most  vigour  and  beauty 
from  the  light  and  the  dews  of  hea- 
ven, let  the  best  of  books  and  of 
pictures,  of  all  that  exalts  and  en- 
riches the  imagination,  be  fear- 
lessly .  trusted  to  their  pure  capa- 
city and  affectionate  faith.  So  will 
they  love  true  excellence  in  their  ri- 
per years,  if  it  be  but  for  the  recol- 
lections which  link  their  days  in  na- 
tural piety,  even  as  I  love  Hogarth 
for  the  sake  of  that  wet  Saturday 
evening,  when  thoUj  Christopher, 
wert  young  and  lusty  as  an  eagle, 
and  Maga  yet  was  not,  and  of  course 
I  had  no  notion  of  being  a  contribu- 
tor. 

I  wish  it  were  possible  for  me  to 
diffuse  over  this  article  a  tithe  of  the 

unction  which  shone  upon  H 'a 

expositions  on  that  memorable  night. 
A  true  son  of  the  Emerald  Isle,  with- 
out a  taint  of  orange  or  green  in  his 
complexion,  he  combined  the  bril- 
liance of  champagne, and  the  warmth 
of  his  compatriot  poteen,  with  the 
simplicity  of  water.  He  did  not  con- 
fine his  observations  to  the  human 
characters,  but  was  most  eloquent 
on  the  multitudinous  still  life,  the 
expressive  mugs,  chairs  and  tables, 
the  picture-frames  which  Hogarth 
makes  perfect  historical  pictures 
of,  all  the  baggage  and  lumber 
which  he  never  introduces  as  mere 
traps  for  light  or  lazy  beds  of  shade, 
but  always  for  a  meaning,  a  purpose, 
a  sympathy  with  the  living  actors  of 
the  scene.  Nor  was  the  moral  ne- 
glected— J.  H was  both  merry 

and  wise,  but  the  best  of  the  moral 
was  himself.    What  a  contrast,  yet 
what  an  elucidation  was  his  beaming, 
2  u 


662 


Ignoramus  on  the  Fine  Arts.    No.  III. 


[Oct. 


honest  face,  "bright  as  the  moon, that 
shines  upon  a  murder,"  to  the  fear- 
ful images  of  perverted  humanity 
which  Hogarth  has  perpetuated  !— 
What  a  lesson,  worth  a  hundred  ho- 
milies—to lift  one's  eyes  from  the 
rake's  midnight  orgies,  with  those 
fiend-like — call  them  not  women — 
yet  beautiful  in  their  fiendishness,— 
and  behold  that  calm  fire-side— 
those  dutiful  and  delicate  domestic 
labours — that  peace  and  bliss  of  vir- 
tue! 

If  there  be  any  philanthropist  who 
is  disposed  to  censure  my  delight  in 
pictures  that  certainly  do  not  flatter 
human  nature  ;  if  any  should  think 
that  he  who  would  set  Hogarth  high 
above  every  name  in  British  art,  or  ra- 
ther would  separate  him  altogether 
from  our  painters,  to  fix  his  seat 
among  our  greatest  poets,  must  be  an 
Ignoramus  with  a  vengeance — let  him 
call  to  mind  his  own  youthful  days, 
and  if  he  find  no  passage  to  plead 
in  my  excuse,  I  pity  him — that  is 
all.  Not  seldom  have  I  heard  that 
none  could  paint  like  Hogarth,  who 
had  not  a  corrupt  taste  or  a  malignant 
heart.  I  once  knew  a  lady — no  senti- 
mental painter  of  pretty  sensibilities 
—no  simpering  actress  of  alluring 
aversions — but  a  woman  of  lofty  mind 
and  stately  person,  deeply  read  in 
the  world  and  its  ways,  who,  had 
she  not  been  better  engaged  as  the 
mother  of  a  Protestant  family,  might 
have  been  abbess  to  a  convent  of 
veiled  princesses,  combining  a  more 
than  masculine  strength  of  intellect 
with  all  the  tact  and  delicacy  of  her 
own  sex.  This  gifted  female  was 
piously  indignant  at  Mr  Southey  for 
placing  in  his  visionary  Paradise, 

Hogarth,  who  followed  no  master, 
Nor  by  pupil  shall  e'er  be  approached ; 
alone  in  his  greatness. 

Vision  of  Judgment. 

To  be  sure,  she  was  just  as  angry  at 
the  salvation  of  Handel  and  of  Nel- 
son, and  did  not  approve  of  English 
hexameters.  Perhaps  it  is  proper 
for  a  lady  to  dislike  satirical  paint- 
ing. But  Hogarth's  censurers,  (who, 
by  implication,  are  mine  also,)  have 
not  all  been  ladies — nor  yet  gentle- 
men of  such  pure  life  and  quiet 
minds  as  would  fain  be  ignorant 
that  such  things  as  rakes  and  harlots 
exist.  John  Wilkes  of  the  North 
Briton  and  Hell-fire  Club  declares — 
that  "  the  rancour  and  malevolence 


of  his  (Hogarth's)  mind  made  him 
soon  turn  away  from  objects  of 
pleasing  contemplation,  to  dwell  and 
feast  a  bad  heart  on  others  of  a  hate- 
ful cast,  which  he  pursued,  for  he 
found  them  congenial  with  the  most 
unabating  zeal  and  unrelenting  gall." 
Churchill,  one  of  the  bitterest  com- 
posers that  ever  abused  a  strong  cur- 
rent of  native  English,  who  began 
with  satirizing  poor  players  out  of 
their  meagre  meed  of  claps,  and  did 
his  best  to  satirize  England  into  re- 
bellion, was  so  severe  on  the  severity 
of  Hogarth,  that  he  flattered  himself 
his  epistle  (certainly  the  cleverest 
thing  he  ever  did)  had  broken  the 
old  man's  heart,  and  ever  since  he 
has  been  held  guilty  of  the  murder 
on  his  own  confession.  Now  to  me 
it  seems  not  so  strange  a  thing 
that  a  man  should  die  in  his  bed. 
Yet,  if  we  are  to  trust  the  statements 
of  the  benevolent  press,  the  hearts 
broken  by  satirists  must  form  a  seri- 
ous item  in  the  bills  of  mortality. 
Within  the  memory  of  Maga,  the 
deaths  of  John  Keates,  of  the  Empe- 
ror Napoleon,  of  Queen  Caroline, 
and  of  Mr  Canning,  have  been  laid 
to  the  charge  of  critics  and  Tories ; 
to  one  at  least  of  them,  Christopher 
himself  has  been  suspected  of  being 
accessory.  To  out-herod  Herod, 
and  "  drown  the  world  in  tears,"  I 
have  somewhere  read  a  solemn  as- 
sertion, that  Blucher,  some  yeara 
above  four  score  and  ten,  died  bro» 
ken-hearted,  because  the  King  of 
Prussia  had  broken  his  word  !  !  ! 
Meanwhile,  these  literary  coroners 
have  never  hinted  that  incessant  and 
reckless  calumny  had  any  hand  in 
bruising  the  spirit  of  Castlereagh, 
and  hurrying  him  into  a  self-sought 
grave.  Verily,  one  might  imagine 
that  the  Wilkes's  and  Churchills 
of  the  Sabbath-breaking  hebdoma- 
dals  were  "  ever  the  gentlest  of  all 
gentle  things."  There  is  nothing  new 
under  the  sun.  Wilkes  and  Churchill, 
both  of  whom  deserted  their  wives, 
abused  Hogarth,  the  affectionate 
husband  of  a  lovely  woman,  be- 
cause he  had  not  painted  A  Happy 
Marriage ;  and  our  late  revered  so- 
vereign was  libelled  for  arriving  in 
Ireland  about  the  time  that  his  con- 
sort's funeral  furnished  the  pretext 

for  a  London  row  by .  But  I  am 

poaching  on  Mr  North's  manor. — 
Wilkes  and  Churchill,  however,  had 


1831.] 


Ignoramus  on  the  Fine  Arts.    No.  III. 


received  some  provocation  —  Ho- 
garth certainly  struck  the  first  blow, 
and  did  not  display  much  science  in 
the  close.  But  Fuseli,  who  scattered 
sarcasms  as  fast  as  a  musician  scat- 
ters sounds  out  of  an  instrument, 
could  have  no  personal  reason  for 
calling  Hogarth's  productions  the 
"  Chronicle  of  Scandal  and  the  His- 
tory-book of  the  Vulgar."  Barry,  who 
was  at  enmity  with  all  the  living, 
could  scarce  suspect  the  dead  of 
conspiring  against  his  life  or  his  fame. 
Yet  he,  after  damning  Hogarth's  lit- 
tle compositions  with  faint  praise, 
remarks,  "  that  perhaps  it  may  rea- 
sonably be  doubted,  whether  the  be- 
ing much  conversant  with  Hogarth's 
method  of  exposing  meanness,  defor- 
mity, and  vice,  in  many  of  his  pieces, 
is  not  rather  a  dangerous,  or,  at  least, 
a  worthless  pursuit;  which,  if  it  does 
not  find  a  false  relish,  and  a  love  of, 
and  search  after,  satire  and  buffoon- 
ery in  the  spectator,  is  at  least  not 
unlikely  to  give  him  one."  It  is  well 
that  Barry  did  not  add  to  his  objec- 
tions the  old  complaint  about  Ho- 
garth's inelegant  style  and  bad  spel- 
ling. 

1  never  could  bear  to  hear  my 
friends  abused,  especially  when  I 
have  felt  the  injustice  of  the  attack, 
without  being  able  directly  to  con- 
fute it.  Deeply,  therefore,  am  I  in- 
debted to  Charjes  Lamb,  who  finds 
or  fancies  benignity  in  every  work 
of  human  wit,  for  his  triumphant 
demolition  of  Barry's  feeble  sophis- 
try. Barry  was  assuredly  no  weak- 
ling. The  man  whom  Burke  thought 
worthy  of  good  counsel  could  not  be 
one  of  the  million :  But  when  he 
acts  the  amiable,  and  pipes  his  eye, 
he  is  as  disgusting  as  an  overgrown 
hobble-de-hoy,  dressed  in  petticoats 
at  a  school  play-acting.  How  utterly 
unlike  was  Jim  to  Barry  Cornwall, 
the  poet  of  woman,  the  best  of  Cock- 
neys !  No — not  a  Cockney  at  all,  but 
a  gentle  lover  of  flowers,  soft  voices, 
and  delicate  smiles,  and  sorrow  sanc- 
tified by  patience  ;  ever  delightful 
in  his  own  natural  vein,  and  only  not 
successful  when  he  mounts  the  bus- 
kin and  speaks  big.  It  is  not  possi- 
ble to  give  due  effect  to  the  hailstone 
chorus  on  a  simple  guitar;  yet  the 
guitar  is  a  sweet  instrument,  and 
well  becomes  the  lap  of  lady  fair, 
suspended  by  a  light  blue  ribbon, 
(I  hate  all  party  colours,)  from  her 


663 

flexile  neck,  which  involuntarily 
keeps  time  to  the  turns  of  the  tune- 
while  every  note  thrills  like  a  ca- 
sual contact  with  her  transparent 
moonlight  fingers.  Who  could  en- 
dure to  see  the  sweet  creature  take 
a  trumpet  and  sphere  her  bias  cheeks 
like  Fame  ?  Now  Barry  Cornwall, 
without  the  least  derogation  from  his 
manhood,  has  a  feminine  genius- 
even  as  Joanna  Baillie,  without  a 
stain  on  her  womanhood,  has  a  truly 
masculine  genius.  Barry  Cornwall 
(if  he  must  write  under  a  feigned 
name,  he  might  have  invented  a  pret- 
tier—  Brian  Waller,  for  instance) 
should  remember  the  first  Ode  of 
Anacreon.  I  have  not  Mr  Moore's 
translation  at  hand.  I  think  I  caa 
make  a  better  than  Fawkes's  myself. 
Ignoramuses  and  little  men  are  pri- 
vileged to  be  conceited. 

Fain  would  I  stir  the  strings  to  storm, 

And  every  swelling  note  inform 

With  a  sound  of  wrath,  and  a  soul  of 

pride,— 

Fain  would  I  raise  a  tempest,  strong 
As  the  rushing  wind  that  whistles  along— 
When  a  thousand  knights  to  battle  ride, 
And  the  scabbard  rings  by  its  master's 

side; 

Then,  with  stately  strains  and  slow, 
Would  tell  how  every  steed  is  still 
As  if  controlled  by  the  silent  will 
Of  the  knight  that  moveless  waits  the  foe. 

But  no — no — no— 
The  naughty  harp  will  have  its  way, 
And  talks  of  love,  whatever  I  can  say : 
Long  with  the  wayward  chords  I  wrang- 
led, 

And  all  their  pretty  prate  I  strangled  ;-*• 
At  last  I  fairly  crack'd  them  all, 
And  marr'd  their  wilful  madrigal ; 
And  then  I  strung  my  lyre  anew— 
"Twas  all  in  vain,  it  would  not  do. 
The  second  strings  were  just  as  curst, 
And  wildly  amorous  like  the  first. 
Nay,  then,  'twould  surely  vex  a  stoic — 
I  must  have  done  with  themes  heroic ; 
For  whether  I'm  in  love  or  not, 
To  sirig  of  love  must  be  my  lot. 
Oh — foolish  harp — do,  like  friend  Barry—- 
To cure  thy  love,  I  prithee,  marry. 

And  sure  enough  Barry  is  married, 
and  I  think  he  has  given  his  lyre  to 
his  babe  to  play  with,  and  the  darling 
has  broken  the  strings,  he  has  been 
mute  for  such  a  long  while.  Joy  to 
him  and  his — he  won't  dislike  a  joke 
from  an  old  friend. 

By  the  way,  talking  of  Anacreon, 
I  have  a  word  to  say  to  Mr  Moore, 


Ignoramus  on  the  Fine  Arts. 


No.  III. 


lh-  is  a  poet  that  will  live  as  long  as 
there  are  bright  eyes  and  sweet 
voices,  that  is  to  say,  till  all  the  \vorld 
become  puritans  or  radicals.  He  is, 
I  deeply  believe,  capable  of  greater 
things  than  any  he  has  accomplished 
yet:  he  is  capable  of  wedding  the 
finest  moral  feelings  to  the  most 
beautiful  forms  of  fancy.  Whatever 
in  the  human  soul,  and  in  that  wide 
world  which  the  soul  creates  out  of 
the  impressions  of  sense,  is  suscepti- 
ble of  loveliness,  is  within  his  reach, 
but  let  him  beware  of  putting  his 
Pegasus  into  a  false  gallop.  She  is 
a  milk-white  palfrey  with  rainbow 
wings.  She  can  skim  over  the  fields 
without  bruising  the  flowers — dance 
upon  a  tea-table  without  peril  to  the 
porcelain — float  through  the  summer 
air,  and  drink  the  dew  before  it  falls 
—but  let  him  not  try  to  make  a  barbed 
war-horse, or,  as  I  suppose  we  should 
call  it,  a  Destrier  of  her;  it  will  only 
spoil  her  paces.  When  Tom  Tit  (so 
his  countrywomen  affectionately  call 
him),  gets  into  the  sublime,  he  rather 
ludicrously  realizes  the  Pseudo-Fal- 
staiFs  idea  of  "  thunder  to  the  tune 
of  Green  Sleeves."  What  tune  was 
that?  He  can  tell,  I  dare  say.  If 
he  will  let  kings  and  emperors  alone, 
they  will  let  him  alone.  Republican 
indignation  is  not  his  forte.  When 
he  essays  to  be  indignant,  he  appears, 
what  I  am  sure  he  is  not,  spiteful. 
The  present  and  the  coming  times 
are  far  better  for  him,  and  may  be 
hetter  for  Ireland,  than  those  ante- 
historical  periods,  when  "  Malachi 
wore  the  collar  of  gold." 

What  a  vernal  rhapsody !  What  an 
excursion  of  digression !  All  sprung 
from  the  tiny  circumstance  of  Mi- 
Procter's  modesty,  calling  himself 
Barry.  To  return — I  am  always  re- 
turning, like  Halley's  comet,  which, 
on  the  faith  of  prognostication,  is 
to  return  about  two  years  hence 
— Most  ably  has  the  incomparable 
Elia  defended  his  favourite  Ho- 
garth, whose  Election  Feast  and  Mo- 
aern  Midnight  Conversation,  were 
the  Penatibus  et  magnis  Diis  of  his 
attics  in  the  temple.  And  well  were 
you  rewarded  for  your  climb  up  ten 
flights  of  stairs,  by  the  sight  of  them 
and  him.  Thanks  to  his  lucubra- 
tions, poor  Barry's  diatribe  no  longer 
disturbs  my  rest.  Now,  I  think  not 
worse  of  myself  for  thinking  Ho- 
garth my,  and  all  men's  beueftictor, 


I  can  affirm,  without  blushing,  that 
a  sight  of  his  prints  refreshes  my 
soul,  as  a  rustication  in  his  native 
air  recruits  the  vital  powers  of  a  va- 
letudinarian, who  has  got  a  "  day 
rule  from  the  shades"  of  a  city  count- 
ing-house. Often  when  weary  of 
my  own  thoughts  on  a  sleepless  pil- 
low,have  I  summoned  those  pictures 
before  my  inward  eye,  (for  I  have 
them  all  by  heart,)  copied  them, 
line  for  line,  on  the  blank  darkness — 
it  may  be,  to  exclude  worse  painting 
of  my  own  brain — but  never  did  I 
derive  from  them  an  unfriendly  feel- 
ing towards  my  kind,  never  did  they 
shake  my  faith  in  the  true  nobility  . 
of  human  nature,  which  is  ennobled 
not  by  what  it  is,  but  by  what  it 
should  be.  So  far  from  it,  I  affirm 
that  they  bear  irrefragable  testimony 
to  a  principle,  a  moral  law  in  man, 
that  is  above  the  understanding ;  not 
begotten  upon  sense,  nor  constructed 
by  custom,  self-love,  or  animal  sen- 
sibility, but  implanted  by  the  Divi- 
nity as  the  key  and  counterpart  to 
the  law  from  on  high.  "  The  Spirit 
beareth  witness  with  our  spirit." 
But  scripture  out  of  church,  as  Mrs 
Adams  well  observes,  is  profane. 

Hogarth  has,  in  Mr  Cunningham, 
an  able  biographer,  a  zealous  vindi- 
cator, and  a  competent  critic.  The 
history  of  his  life  is  little  more  than 
the  history  of  his  works.  Of  his  per- 
sonal adventures  Allan  has  not  told 
us  much  that  is  new,  because  there 
was  not  much  to  tell.  Some  vulgar 
anecdotes  he  has  omitted,  and  others 
he  has  obelized.  It  is  rather  disap- 
pointing that  we  are  not  better  in- 
formed as  to  the  course  of  our  sa- 
tirist's studies.  We  don't  mean  as 
to  how  he  learned  to  paint — but  how 
he  gathered  his  materials.  Had  he 
chosen  to  be  his  own  "  reminiscen- 
cer,"  had  he  recorded  his  night  wan- 
derings and  daily  watchings — how 
he  dived  into  cellars — clomb  to  gar- 
rets— sat  sober  and  keen-eyed  as  a 
grimalkin  at  midnight  conversations, 
and,  invisible  as  a  familiar  or  agent 
of  the  Vehmic  association,  beheld 
the  deeds  that  shun  the  unbashful 
moon-beams ;  could  we  follow  him 
to  the  dens  and  caverns,  uuthought 
of  by  those  that  walk  above,  where 
daylight  never  entered,  and  the 
reeky  tapers  are  never  extinguish- 
ed ;  trace  him  through  the  labyrinth 
of  London  to  those  thievish  corners, 


1831.1 

those  blind  alleys,  and  murky 
courts,  that  are  farther  from  the 
sphere  of  our  sympathies  than  the 
coral  islands  just  peering  from  the 
flat  sea — and  then  find  him  in  gay 
saloons  and  scented  ball-rooms,  no- 
ting among  the  creatures  of  fashion, 
the  same  weary  chase  of  pleasure, 
the  same  restless  vacant  craving  for 
excitement,  that  was  working  misery 
elsewhere  in  mephitic  gloom,  still  in 
a  world  shut  out  from  nature  and 
self-knowledge,  not  less  in  sin  if  less 
in  felony — we  should  need  no  As- 
modeus  to  reveal  the  secrets  of  the 
brick-and-mortar  wilderness.  We 
confess,  we  would  exchange  the 
Analysis  of  Beauty,  ingenious  as  it  is, 
for  such  an  analysis  of  deformity,  as 
Hogarth's  "  Tours  in  Search  of  the 
Picturesque."  But  he  has  given  us 
the  harvest,  and  we  must  be  content 
without  knowing  exactly  how  he 
collected  the  seed.  He  must  have 
got  into  strange  scrapes  sometimes 
— but  his  pencil  has  only  comme- 
morated one — the  unpleasant  inter- 
ruption of  his  antiquarian  studies  at 
Calais.  He  seems  to  have  thought 
nothing  in  France  worth  a  sketch, 
(for  surely  his  Frenchmen  are  not 
portraits,)  but  an  old  gate  which 
bore  some  vestiges  of  the  arms  of 
England,  Every  one  knows  how  he 
was  arrested  as  a  spy — and  sent 
home  in  none  of  his  happiest  moods. 
There  is  more  of  John  Bull  than  of 
William  Hogarth  in  his  roast  beef  at 
the  gate  of  Paris.  The  beef  indeed 
is  very  natural.  But  it  was  not  very 
generous  to  ridicule  the  French  for 
their  soup-maigre,  and  still  less  just 
to  scoff  at  their  loyalty.  It  is  well 


Ignoramus  on  the  Fine  Arts.    No.  ITT. 


if  English  ridicule  did  not  help  to 
make  the  French  Jacobins.  Hogarth 
never  was  himself  when  he  drew  un- 
der the  influence  of  personal  resent- 
ment. A  satirist  should  always  keep 
his  temper,  like  a  pugilist  or  a  chess- 
player. We  can  make  all  allowances 
for  Billy's  nationality, but  nationality 
is  not  patriotism,  or  it  would  admire 
the  nationality  of  other  nations.  It 
was  excellently  observed  at  a  Noc- 
tes,  that  this  vulgar  trick  of  laughing 
at  foreigners  for  their  poor  living, 
has  mainly  contributed  to  stamp  the 
imputation  of  gluttony  on  the  Eng- 
lish character.  Other  people  eat  as 
much,  but  nowhere  is  respectability 
so  apt  to  be  measured  by  the  num- 
ber of  dishes,  as  in  our  cities,  and 
perhaps  even  more,  in  our  country 
mansion-houses. 

What  a  book  might  be  made  of  a 
life  of  Hogarth  on  the  plan  of  God- 
win's life  of  Chaucer — which  should 
relate,  not  what  he  is  recorded  to 
have  said  and  done,  but  what  he 
must  have  said  and  done  and  seen — 
the  influence  which  the  politics  of 
his  time  must  have  had  on  his  genius 
— and  the  conversations  he  must 
have  held  with  Garrick  and  Field- 
ing, and  Sterne  and  Johnny  Wilkes, 
(for  Johnny  and  he  were  cronies 
once,)  and  other  bright  wits  whom 
his  stupid  biographers  have  not  men- 
tioned that  he  ever  so  much  as  saw 
— an  unpardonable  omission,  like 
that  of  Chaucer's  interviews  with 
Petruchio,  and  Shakspeare's  confa- 
bulations with  Spenser  and  Guy 
Fawkes.  Mr  Cunningham  is  a  man 
of  wonderful  invention,  as  his  many 
tales  and  racy  ballads*  prove,  but 


•  Since  the  days  of  errant  minstrelsy,  no  man  has  better  caught  the  fiery  spirit  of 
the  ancient  ballad,  than  Allan  Cunningham.  These  are  not,  like  Moore's,  for  the 
concert  and  drawing-room,  the  harp  and  piano-forte,  nor  altogether,  like  Burns's,  for 
the  rustic  ingle  and  the  village  merry-night,  but  for  the  wild  heath,  and  the  sea-beaten 
shore.  Surely  his  youth  was  passed  in  communion  with  ocean — he  must  have  been 
a  companion  of  old  seamen,  and  familiar  with  wrecks  and  storms — he  must  have 
known  the  joy,  the  gladsome  peril  of  bounding  over  the  billows  ;  for  except  Dibdin's, 
I  know  not  any  sea-songs  comparable  to  his.  But  Dibdin's  are  the  songs  of  mo- 
dern tars,  excellent  in  their  kind,  but  still  the  songs  of  pressed  or  hired  sailors. 
Allan's  belong  to  the  wild  dwellers  of  the  waters,  to  pirates,  such  as  they  were 
when  piracy  was  held  in  honour — to  the  Robin  Hoods  of  ocean,  to  Scandinavian  sea 
kings;  or  to  men  of  later  days,  whom  grief,  or  civil  strife,  or  secret  crimes,  have 
made  strangers  to  the  dry  land  of  their  country.  Dibdin's  jolly  crew  re-fresh  them- 
selves in  port,  drink  their  grog,  and  pay  for  it  out  of  their  prize-money  ;  their  sweet- 
hearts arid  wives  are  such  as  poor  men's  wives  are,  or  may  be;  and  their  acquaint- 
ance with  the  element  is  in  the  way  of  business ;  but  Allan's  rovers  hide  their 
vessel  in  the  sheltering  creek,  and  revel  in  the  wave- worn  cavern,  frighting  the  sea- 


Ignoramus  on  the  Fine  Arts,    No.  III. 


06G 

through  some  unaccountable  syn- 
cope of  his  faculties,  he  shews  no  in- 
vention at  all  in  his  Lives  of  the 
Painters,  Sculptors,  and  Architects, 
even  where,  as  in  the  case  of  Ho- 
garth, Gabriel,  Gibber,  and  William 
of  Wickham,  he  might  have  done  it 
with  small  risk  of  contradiction.  As 
new  editions  are  rapidly  called  for,  I 
hope  he  will  take  a  well-meant  hint, 
and  exert  himself. 

The  outstanding  facts  of  Hogarth's 
life  are  too  well  known  for  repeti- 
tion, and,  except  as  connected  with 
his  works,  furnish  little  occasion  of 
comment.  Though  body  and  soul  a 
Londoner,  he  had  Westmoreland 
blood  in  his  veins.  His  uncle  was 
a  Troutbeck  poet — the  tragodididas- 
calos  of  the  Fell-side.  Philosopher 
Walker  remembered  the  representa- 
tion of  the  "  Siege  of  Troy,"  much 
after  the  fashion  of  the  ancient  mys- 
teries— yet  not  without  some  ap- 
proaches to  the  choral  and  dithy- 
rambic  elements  of  the  Greek  drama. 
The  narrative  is  worth  transcrip- 
tion: After  speaking  of  auld  Ho- 
garth's Songs,  which  seem  to  have 
been  of  a  satirical  cast,  "  and  were 
said  to  have  a  greater  effect  on  the 
manners  of  the  neighbourhood,  than 
even  the  sermons  of  the  parson,"— 
the  philosopher  continues,  "  But  his 
poetical  talents  were  not  confined  to 
the  incidents  of  his  village ;  I  myself 
have  had  the  honour  to  bear  a  part 
in  one  of  his  plays;  I  say  one,  for 
there  are  several  of  them  extant  in 
MS.  in  the  mountains  of  Westmore- 
land to  this  hour. 

"  This  play  was  called  the  Destruc- 
tion of  Troy ;  it  was  written  in  metre, 
much  in  the  manner  of  Lopez  de 
Vega,  and  the  early  French  Drama. 
The  unities  were  not  too  strictly  ob- 
served, for  the  siege  of  ten  years  was 
all  represented ;  every  hero  was  in 
the  piece,  so  that  the  dramatis  per- 
sonse  consisted  of  every  lad  of  genius 
in  the  whole  parish.  The  wooden 


[Oct. 


horse  ;  Hector  dragged  by  the  heels  ; 
the  fury  of  Diomed;  the  flight  of 
./Eneas,  and  the  burning  of  the  city, 
were  all  represented.  I  remember 
not  what  fairies  had  to  do  in  all  this  ; 
but  as  I  happened  to  be  about  three 
feet  high  at  the  time  of  this  still 
talked  of  exhibition,  I  personated 
one  of  these  tiny  beings.  The  stage 
was  a  fabrication  of  boards  placed 
about  six  feet  high  on  strong  posts  ; 
the  green-room  was  partitioned  off 
with  the  same  material;  its  ceiling 
was  the  azure  canopy  of  heaven,  and 
the  pit,  boxes,  and  galleries,  were 
laid  into  "  one  by  the  great  Author  of 
nature,"  for  they  were  the  green 
slope  of  a  fine  hill.  The  exhibition 
was  begun  with  a  grand  procession 
from  the  village  to  a  great  stone, 
(dropped  by  the  devil  about  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  off,  when  he  tried  in 
vain  to  erect  a  bridge  over  Winder- 
mere  ;  so  the  people,  unlike  the  rest 
of  the  world,  have  remained  a  good 
sort  of  people  ever  since.)  I  say, 
the  procession  was  begun  by  the 
minstrels  (Anglice,  fiddlers)  of  five 
parishes,  and  followed  by  a  yeoman 
on  bull-back.  You  stare — stop,  then, 
till  I  Inform  you  that  this  adept  had 
so  far  civilized  his  bull,  that  he  would 
suffer  the  yeoman  to  mount  his  back, 
and  even  to  lay  the  fiddle  there. 
The  managers  besought  him  to  join 
the  procession ;  but  the  bull,  not  be- 
ing accustomed  to  much  company, 
and  particularly  to  so  much  applause, 
whether  he  was  intoxicated  with 
praise,  thought  himself  affronted  and 
made  game  of,  or  whether  a  favou- 
rite cow  came  across  his  imagina- 
tion, certain  it  is  that  he  broke  out 
of  the  procession,  erected  his  tail, 
and,  like  another  Europa,  carried  off 
the  affrighted  yeoman  and  his  fiddle 
over  hedge  and  ditch,  till  he  arrived 
at  his  own  field.  This  accident  ra- 
ther inflamed  than  depressed  the 
good-humour  of  the  procession ;  and 
the  clown  or  Jack  Pudding  of  the 


birds  from  their  haunts  above ;  their  paramours  are  ladies  of  ocean,  sea  nymphs, 
with  white  garments  and  dark  locks,  dishevelled  to  the  wind,  or  decked  with  jewels 
won  in  climes  afar.  They  sympathize  with  the  tempests,  and  claim  a  brotherhood 
with  the  guiding  stars.  Dibdin's  sailors  are  far  honester  fellows,  but  Allan's  are 
more  imaginative.  They  do  not  harmonize  with  the  present  order  of  things  ;  and  it 
must  be  confessed,  that  there  is  a  little  confusion  of  times,  both  in  the  diction  and 
in  the  circumstances  of  Mr  Cunningham's  narratives,  which  reminds  us  of  the  con- 
verted Scribe,  "  who  brought  out  of  his  treasure  things  old  and  new." 


188 1J 


Ignoramus  on  the  Fine  Arts.    No,  III. 


piece  availed  himself  so  well  of  this 
incident,  that  the  lungs  and  ribs  of 
the  spectators  were  in  manifest  dan- 
ger. This  character  was  the  most 
important  personage  in  the  whole 
play,  for  his  office  was  to  turn  the 
most  serious  parts  of  the  drama  into 
burlesque ;  he  was  a  compound  of 
Harlequin  and  the  Merry-Andrew, 
or  rather  the  arch-fool,  of  the  ancient 
kings."  So  far  the  ingenious  invent- 
or of  the  Eidouranicon.  It  must  be 
added,  that  this  Troutbeck  tragedy 
was  represented,  like  the  CEdipus  et 
Colonos  of  Sophocles,  after  the  au- 
thor's death.  Now  really,  bull  and 
all,  it  is  very  Grecian  and  antique; 
and  I  question  whether  the  perform- 
ances of  Thespis  were  more  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  rules  of  Aristotle. 
Such  were  the  beginnings  of  the  dra- 
ma in  all  countries — in  Troutbeck,  I 
am  afraid  that  such  was  the  end.  If 
the  Bannatyne  Club  ever  step  over 
the  Border,  they  should  institute  a 
search  after  those  MS.  plays  above 
mentioned — though,  it  is  to  be  fear* 
ed,  they  have  shared  the  fate  of 
those  that  perished  by  the  careless- 
ness of  Mr  Warburton's  servant — no, 
in  good  sooth,  by  the  abominable 
carelessness  of  Mr  Warburton  him- 
self. 

While  treating  of  Hogarth's  West- 
moreland connexions,  we  may  as 
well  clear  up  a  point  which  his  bio- 
graphers have  dashed  with  much 
dubiety.  His  orthography,  or  rather 
heterography,  has  been  a  subject  of 
keen  animadversion ;  and  he  has 
been  charged  with  misspelling  his 
own  name,  or  at  least  softening  it 
down  to  please  his  wife.  An  early 
print  inscribed  William  Hogart,  and 
a  couplet  in  Swift's  Legion  Club, 

How  I  want  thee,  humorous  Hogart, 
Thou,  I  hear,  a  pleasant  rogue  art, 

are  brought  to  prove  that  the  final 
H  was  an  unwarrantable  innovation. 
Now,  it  so  happens  that  the  name  is 
common  in  the  north  at  this  day,  and 
is  always  spelt  Hogarth,  but  pro- 
nounced Hogart.  Any  one  passing 
by  the  shop  of  Mr  Hogarth  of  Kes- 
wick,  druggist,  and  sub-distributor 
of  stamps,  may  resolve  his  doubts  on 
this  important  subject.  As  for  Swift's 
rhymes,  I  wonder  how  any  of  the  li- 
ving artists  would  like  to  have  their 


667 

names  submitted  to  such  a  criterion. 
Exempli  gratia  — 


How  I  like  thee,  humorous 
Thou  art  never  in  a  dull  key  — 

Or, 

No  mortal  man  can  shave  enough 
To  look  as  smooth  as  Steffanoff, 
And  softest  maids  are  quite  outfaced  all, 
By  softer  men  composed  of  paste  all, 
By  magic  hand  of  Richard  Westall. 

Richard  Hogarth,  father  to  the 
painter,  was  a  brother  of  auld  Ho- 
garth, the  Troutbeck  dramatist.  He 
seems  to  have  been  one  of  those  men, 
with  whom  scholarship  was  quite  a 
passion  ;  for  he  tried  to  teach  a 
school  in  the  north  —  failed—  went  to 
London  —  by  what  inducement  bio- 
graphy tells  not  —  kept  a  noisy,  un- 
profitable school  for  a  while  —  then,  jn 
the  very  humility  of  love  to  letters, 
was  a  corrector  of  the  press;  and, 
amid  all  his  difficulties,  compiled  a 
supplement  to  Littleton's  Diction- 
ary, which,  it  appears,  no  bookseller 
would  publish.  We  have  just  set 
forth  the  number  of  standard  works 
which  were  denied  to  their  account- 
ed authors,  to  console  the  ghost  of 
William  Hogarth.  Richard  Hogarth, 
the  father,  may  find  consolation  in 
the  similar  misfortune  of  a  king. 
Some  work  or  other  of  King  James's 
was  actually  thought  heavy  by  the 
trade. 

Thus  writes  Thomas  Lydiat,  the 
antagonist  of  Scaliger  in  chronology, 
in  a  letter  addressed  to  Usher,  but 
seemingly  meant  for  his  Majesty's 
own  perusal.  "  I  have  sent  you  the 
king's  book  in  Latin  against  Vorstius- 
Vorstius,  yet  scant  dry  from  the  press, 
which  Mr  Norton,  who  hath  the  mat- 
ter wholly  in  his  own  hands,  swore 
to  me  he  would  not  print,  unless  he 
might  have  money  to  print  it—  a  suf- 
ficient argument  to  make  me  content 
with  my  manuscript  lying  still  un- 
printed,  unless  he  equivocated.  But 
see  how  the  world  is  changed.  Time 
was  when  the  best  book-printers  and 
sellers  would  have  been  glad  to  be 
beholden  to  the  meanest  book- 
makers. Now  Mr  Norton,  not  long 
since  the  meanest  of  many  book- 
printers  and  sellers,  so  talks  and 
speaks  as  if  he  would  make  the  no- 
ble King  James,  I  can  well  say  the 
best  book-maker  of  his  own  or  any 


Ignoramus  on  the  Fine  Arts.    ATo.  7/7. 


668 

other  kingdom  under  the  sun,  be  be- 
holding to  him." 

There  is  something  to  me  far  more 
affecting  in  the  unrepining  privations 
and  unexciting  industry  of  humble 
scholars,  than  in  all  the  celebrated 
sufferings  of  poets  and  artists.   Poor 
Richard  did  not  live  to  see  his  son  a 
great  man,  or  to  see  his  own  prophe- 
cies frustrated ;  for  doubtless  he  au- 
gured ill  of  a  lad  that  did  not  take  to 
his  Latin,  but  wasted  time  and  paper 
in  ornamenting  his  capitals  with  lines 
of  beauty,  and  caricaturing  his  mas- 
ter and  schoolfellows.     William,  by 
his   own  account,  was  outstripped 
in  all  scholastic  exercises  by  "  dun- 
ces with  better  memories,"  and  no- 
thing could  be  done  with  him  but  to 
bind  him  apprentice    to   old   Ellis 
Gamble,   a  respectable    silver-plate 
engraver  in  Cranbourn  Alley.    If  we 
are  to  believe  his  posthumous  me- 
morials, he  had  learned  from  his  fa- 
ther's case  that  learning  is  not  most 
excellent,  and  desired  an  employ- 
ment that  secured  him  honest  bread  ; 
but  little  reliance  is  to  be  placed  on 
the  ex  post  facto  reasons  which  old 
men   assign  to   the  tastes   of  their 
youth.   Certain  it  is,  that  in  his  boy- 
hood, no  encouragement  or  facilities 
were  afforded  to  youthful  prodigies, 
who  thought  themselves  predestined 
artists  ;  and  when,  in  his  riper  years, 
the  Society  of  Arts  proposed  to  puff 
every  spark  of  genius  to  a  blaze,  by 
premiums  and  exhibitions,  he  ridi- 
culed the  design  with   more  good 
sense  than  good  nature.     He  owed 
nothing  to  patronage,  and  little  to 
instruction,  and  perhaps  underrated 
all  in  art  that  can  be  taught  or  learn- 
ed.    For  the  educated  eye,  that  sees 
by  rule,  for  the  unerring  hand,  that 
unites  with  the  freedom  of  volition 
the  exactness  of  fine  clockwork,  lie 
had  little  respect ;  the  merely  imita- 
tive skill  for  which  the  Dutch  mas- 
ters are  so  famous,  appeared  to  him 
as  mean  as  the  trade  of  a  tapestry 
weaver;  and  the  most  faultless  work 
that  an  observance  of  academic  pre- 


[Oct. 


cepts   could   produce,  he  probably 
thought  no  better  than  the  crests  and 
ciphers,  the  chevrons  and  lozenges 
which  he  executed  in  the  service  of 
Ellis  Gamble.   Lines  and  colours  he 
esteemed  but  as  lines  and  colours, 
whether    they   chanced    to    signify 
saints  and  goddesses,  or  only  Gules  | 
and  Azure.   Born  and  bred  in  a  great 
city,  he  had  little  opportunity  of  em- 
buing  his   mind   with  the   grander 
forms  of  nature.    London  never  had 
much  architectural  beauty  to  boast; 
and  whatever  works  of  art  are  there 
possessed,  were  for  the  most  part  re- 
ligiously kept  aloof  from  the  eye  of 
youth  and  poverty.     To  this  day,  it 
may  be  said,  that  the  majority  of  the 
English  population  have  never  seen 
a  fine  picture,  while  the  galleries  and 
churches  of  Italy  are  open  to  all,  and 
the  very  forms  and  faces  of  the  Flo- 
rentine and  Roman  women  are  insen- 
sibly modelled  to  the  grandeur  of  Mi- 
chael Angelo,  the  grace  of  Raphael, 
the  luxury  of  Titian,  and  the  sweet- 
ness of  Corregio. 

An  Englishman  of  the  present  time 
may  see  fine  figures  and  beautiful 
countenances  in  every  street;  but  in 
Hogarth's  pupilage,  and  long  after, 
not  only  was  grace,  ease,  and  natural 
motion  precluded  by  the  absurdity 
of  costume,  but  the  preposterous 
style  of  head-dress,  and  the  abomi- 
nation of  paint  and  patches,  disguised 
the  original  contour  of  the  features, 
and  shewed  the  whole  town  in  a 
mask.  Add  to  this,  that  Hogarth's 
Indentures  must  have  excluded  him 
from  those  circles  where  refinement 
of  manner  gives  a  certain  charm  to 
the  artificial,  and  reconciles  the  eye, 
if  not  the  heart,  to  the  absence  of 
nature,  and  we  shall  not  wonder  that 
his  genius,  inclining  him  strongly  to 
represent  the  world  he  saw,  took  the 
turn  of  graphic  and  dramatic  satire, 
even  had  he  possessed  the  ability  to 
portray  that  fairer  attitude  of  things 
which  Imagination  sees  through  Love, 
and,  by  loving,  makes  real. 


. 


1831.  ]  Homer's  Hymns.    No.  III. 

'•'•* 
HOMER'S  HYMNS. 

ic  r<:  rvi  fin  oi  £iriittemoB  w  e-wJilT 

No.  III.  'fvhv 

V-Joiud  'U»  yiteubni  j>djr  jte«tu)  bus 

;  APOLLO. 

I   i-eooiiH)   7«««H    T'd!-H  •/       ool   .fcjltui'bbjr  atdoq'lo  wiheffloa 
GLORIOUS  APOLLO,  Archer  God,  whom  all 

Th'  Immortals  reverence,  and  as  he  doth  pace 
Majestical  the  threshold  of  Jove's  hall, 

Rise  from  their  seats  at  once  and  give  him  place, 
And  tremble  whensoe'er  he  bends  his  bow,  — 
Him  may  I  ne'er  forget,  for  him  my  numbers  flow. 

D  .  D/.K  StfU-ldl    lO 

But  smiling,  at  the  side  of  Thunderer  Jove, 

His  quiver  would  Latona  close,  and  string 
Loosen,  and  from  his  shoulders  broad  remove 

And  hang  his  bow  up  by  a  golden  ring, 
On  his  paternal  column  ;  and  with  sweet 
And  graceful  gesture  lead  the  Godhead  to  his  seat. 

6  &  - 


His  Sire  then  pouring  from  a  golden  cup 

Nectar,  received  his  son;  and  all  the  rest 
Paid  him  like  homage  where  they  sat  ;  and  up 

Leap'd  thy  glad  heart,  Latona,  mother  blest, 
Blest  in  that  beauteous  pair,  of  godlike  mien, 
Apollo,  glorious  king,  and  Dian,  quiver'd  queen. 

Chaste  Dian  in  Ortygia  did'st  thou  bear, 

Him  in  rough  Delos  by  Inopus'  stream, 
Leaning  'gainst  Cynthus'  hill,  fast  by  the  fair 

Umbrageous  palm  —  Oh,  wondrous  is  my  theme  ! 
Yet  how  shall  I  the  song  triumphant  raise, 
Phoebus,  to  reach  thy  worth,  the  universal  praise  ? 

..-  •    i  *K  >  T  »1*i  '•*   *  |V(   ''    *'*'  '*    *  ^"  ''*  * 

Thee  celebrate  th'  herd-lowing  continent, 

Thee  island,  promontory,  headland,  high 
Hills,  rivers  with  their  courses  sea-ward  bent, 

Inlets  and  bays,  and  shores  that  slanting  lie,— 
All  tell  the  tale  of  joy  to  gladden'd  earth, 
How  on  the  rocky  isle  Latona  gave  thee  birth. 

She  bore  thee,  leaning  'gainst  the  Cynthian  steep, 

In  Delos,  the  sea-cinctured  Delos,  while 
The  shrill  winds  drove  the  waters  of  the  deep 

Full  on  the  shore  about  the  craggy  isle- 
There  didst  thou  spring,  Apollo,  thence  to  reign 
O'er  all  that  Crete  contains,  and  Athens'  large  domain. 

^ffigina,  and  Eubcea  hemm'd  with  beaks, 

JEga>,  Iresi*,  sea-edg'd  Peparethe, 
The  Thracian  Athos,  Pelion's  lofty  peaks, 

Samo-thrace,  Ida,  crown'd  with  woodland  wreath, 
Scyros,  Phocsea,  and  Autocane, 

Imbrus,  and  Lemnos  isle,  steep-frowning  o'er  the  sea, 

Lesbos  and  Macarus,  rich  ^Eolion's  seat, 

Chios,  that  like  a  gem  mid  sea  doth  lie  ; 
Mimas  and  Choricus,  peak'd,  tempest-beat  ; 

Far  shining  Clarus,  cliiTd  Aesagea  high, 
Moist  Samos,  lofty  Micale's  broad  ken, 
Miletus,  Coos,  blest  with  wise  speech-gifted  men, 


670  Homer's  Hymns.    No.  III.  [Oct. 

Pinnacled  Cnidos,  and  the  boisterous  height 

Of  Carpathus,  Naxos  and  Faros'  isle ; 
Stony  Renea — e'en  thus  far  in  flight 

Pregnant  Latona  sped,  to  reconcile 
And  question  every  land  for  her  dear  son, 
To  yield  a  shelter' d  home,  yet  favour  found  she  none. 

All  trembled  and  shrank  back,  dreading  the  blame, 

Nor  dared  receive  the  Godhead  at  his  birth, 
Tho'  richer  every  soil,  until  she  came 

To  Delos,  and  bespake  the  Delian  earth — 
"  Will  Delos  too  refuse,  nor  Delos  dare 
Receive  my  Godhead  son,  nor  heed  a  mother's  prayer  ? 

"  Then,  may  no  gentle  stranger  visit  thee, 
With  thankful  recompense  for  pr  offer' d  rest, 

Be  thine  nor  flocks,  herds,  vineyards,  plant  nor  tree, 
But  ever  be  thou  barren  and  unblest — 

Or  raise  the  temple  to  my  sacred  son — 

So  to  this  isle  with  gifts  shall  eager  myriads  run 

"  With  countless  offerings,  countless  sacrifice, 
Nor  flocks,  nor  herds  shall  fail,  but  from  that  shrine 

Perpetual  savour  smoke,  and  incense  rise 
From  countless  suppliants,  o'er  this  land  of  thine  j 

And  barren  as  thou  art,  by  other  hands 

The  thankful  Gods  bestow  the  treasures  of  all  lands. 

"  So  nourish  thou  thy  king."    Latona  spake; 

Delos  was  glad,  and  gave  this  answer  mild ; 
"  Daughter  of  Coeus,  noblest,  for  thy  sake, 

Would  I  the  birth  of  this  thy  archer  child 
Receive,  for  small  regard  have  I  of  men, 
And  might  perchance  have  praise  and  more  than  honour  then. 

"  But  let  Latona  hear  the  thing  I  dread, 

For  open  be  my  speech ;  if  Fates  decree 
Thy  son  Apollo,  as  'tis  even  said, 

One  reckless,  proud,  and  insolent  to  be, 
That  will  bear  haughty  rule  in  Heaven  and  Earth, 
O'er  Gods  and  men,  perchance  e'en  I  may  rue  his  birth, 

"  And  have  good  cause  to  fear  me,  that,  when  first 

He  sees  the  light  of  day  and  this  poor  soil, 
For  sterile  is  the  isle  on  which  he's  nurs'd, 

He  spurn  it  with  his  foot,  and  back  recoil, 
To  force  me  deeper  in  my  ocean  bed, 
Where  many  roaring  waves  for  aye  shall  lash  my  head. 

"  Then  will  he  seek  some  other  land  of  bliss, 

That  better  suits  him,  and  establish  there 
His  temples  and  rich  groves,  bequeathing  this 

For  ugly  Polyp  and  sea-calves  to  lair, 
And  bore  their  filthy  domiciles  throughout, 
For  lack  of  nobler  man  to  drive  the  monsters  out. 

"  But  if  thou  swear  such  oath  as  the  Gods  use, 

That  he  shall  first,  upon  this  very  place, 
Raise  his  all-beauteous  fane,  and  thence  diffuse 

First  his  oracular  voice  to  the  glad  race 
Of  pilgrim  men,  ere  yet  to  all  mankind, 
(The  many-named  king  no  limits  long  can  bind). 


1831.]  Homer's  Hymns.    No.  III.  671 

"  I  will  receive  the  birth."    Thus  Deloe  spake. 

Great  was  the  oath  Latono  swore,  and  said, 
"  Know  earth,  and  the  broad  heav'n,  and  horrid  lake 

Of  that  infernal  Styx,  awful  and  dread, 
Oath  that  the  blessed  Gods  tremble  and  hear, 
Know, — King  Apollo  builds  his  fane  and  altar  here ; 

"  And  Delos,  above  all,  shall  honour  thee." 
She  ceas'd,  and  when  the  awful  oath  was  made, 

Delos  rejoic'd  in  the  nativity, 
Nine  days  nine  hopeless  nights  in  pangs  delay'd, 

Tho'  all  the  female  choir  of  heaven  were  there, 

All  ministering  love,  that  best  and  kindest  were. 

There  Rhea,  there  Dione,  and  the  grave 
Sure-pacing  Themis,  there  with  many  a  moan 

Came  Amphitrite,  every  Goddess,  save 
Juno  the  white-arm'd  queen ;  she  sat  alone 

Sullenly  in  the  cloud-gatherer's  hall, 

Nor  Ilithya  came,  who  had  not  heard  the  call. 

She  heard  no  summons  where  she  sat  all  still, 

Detain'd  by  wile  of  Juno,  stern  and  proud, 
On  the  high  top  of  the  Olympian  hill, 

Wrapt  in  a  canopy  of  golden  cloud  ; 
For  then  the  white  arm'd  knew,  the  fair-hair'd  Queen 
Would  bear  a  wondrous  son,  of  might  and  godlike  mien. 

Th'  attendant  Goddesses  sent  Iris  forth 

To  summon  Ilithya ;  Iris,  led 
By  promise  of  a  bracelet  of  high  worth, 

Nine  cubits  and  well  work'd  with  golden  thread, 
From  Juno's  eye  to  bend  her  circuit  wide, 
Lest  by  false  speech  she  turn  the  messenger  aside. 

Iris  obey'd,  and  moved  her  air-wing'd  feet, 

Cut  swiftly  through  the  space  between,  and  straight 

Olympus  paced,  the  blest  immortals'  seat, 
Out  from  the  palace  quickly  to  the  gate 

Call'd  Ilithya  forth — her  errand  told — 

Prevail' d — and  both  their  way  did  unto  Delos  hold. 

Down  through  the  air  like  two  soft  doves  they  went, 

And  soon  as  Ilithya  reach'd  the  isle, 
The  labour  came ;  and  glad  Latona  leant, 

Throwing  her  arms  around  the  Palm,  the  while 
She  press' d  her  knees  on  the  soft  grassy  earth, 
And  the  earth  laugh'd  beneath :— The  God  leap'd  forth  to  birth, 

To  life,  to  day.    Th'  Immortals  with  delight 

Shouted,  and  thee  in  the  pure  water  bath'd 
Sacredly,  Phoebus,  and  a  mantle  white, 

Fine,  beautiful,  around  thee  threw,  and  swath'd 
Thy  infant  limbs  within  a  golden  vest. 
Nor  did  Latona  feed  thee  from  a  mother's  breast ; 

But  nectar  and  ambrosia,  heavenly  fare, 
Themis  with  her  immortal  hands  supplied ; 

High  leap'd  Latona's  heart,  when  first  her  fair, 
Her  graceful  son,  the  Archer  God,  she  eyed. 

Fed  on  that  food  divine  from  Themis'  hands, 

Larger  thy  breathing  grew,  and  spurn'd  the  golden  bands. 


67::  HomeSs  Hymns,    flhfifc  ,,A  9lb  j  ^  -     [OcU 

Loosen'd,  at  onco  abroad  the  mantle  flew, 

And  every  bond  that  had  his  form  compress'  d  ; 
Gifted  Apollo  instant  godhead  knew, 

And  thus  the  Olympian  Deities  address'dtM  / 
"  Mine  be  the  lyre,  and  mine  the  bending  bow, 
And  mine  prophetic  speech,  when  mortals  truth  would  know." 

,-^iA  oH 
Thus  speaking,  from  the  ample-surfaced  ground 

Stepp'd  down  the  Archer,  th'  unshorn  God,  elate  ; 
And  all  th'  Olympian  Goddesses  around 

Stood  in  amaze  —  and  with  new  golden  weight 
Delos  grew  burthen'd  ;  at  her  new-born  king 
Gladden'  d,  that  did  from  Jove  and  from  Latona  spring. 

For  Delos  had  he  chosen  first,  and  laid 

His  temples  there,  lov'd  more  than  other  land  j 
And  fair  it  flourish'd,  as  a  sunuy  glade  !*:'»  ai 

On  mountain's  side,  where  thousand  flowers  expand.  — 
God  of  the  silver  bow,  how  oft  didst  thou 
Ascend  the  favour'd  height  of  Cynthus'  rocky  brow  ! 

,«/o?  iste:a  a\  b'jfmf  .won-*)  fc*ifer-*i»*  idT     • 
How  often  visit  other  isles  and  lands, 

That  in  thy  sacred  groves  and  temples  vie, 
Hills,  promontories,  mountain  tops  and  sands, 

Where  rivers  flow,  and  shores  that  slanting  lie  ; 
All  dear,  but  dearer  far  unto  thy  feet, 
Where  with  long  flowing  robes  the  laonians  meet. 

*M  .MR  V-^no-iil  -si;  ?-r«  waK. 
With  their  chaste  wives  and  with  their  children,  there 

Th'  assembled  laonians  oft  would  raise 
Their  hymns  to  thee,  and  to  thy  games  repair, 

Appointed  to  thy  honour  and  thy  praise. 
Theirs  was  the  boxer's  art,  the  dance,  the  song, 
That  well  might  stranger  deem  them  ever  young  and  strong. 


A  stranger  visitant  with  new  delight   .  I  „•£  •*•-, 

Would  view  these  ageless  men,  their  forms,  their  grace, 
Their  bosom-  cinctured  wives,  and  infinite 

Their  wealth  and  ships,  the  swiftest  in  the  race. 
And  there,  the  wonder  they  of  every  age, 
The  Delian  damsels  might  his  every  thought  engage. 

MM  aifjmam  fcrig.«'i/of  vdJ  Ho  I  !'*d*  -,O 
These  on  the  Archer  God  stand  ministering, 

The  Archer  God  they  hymn,  in  strains  that  flow 
Divinely  raised  ;  and  next  Latona  sing, 

And  Dian,  glorying  in  her  silver  bow  ; 
Of  ancient  heroes  next  the  deeds  rehearse, 
And  ancient  dames,  and  soothe  all  mortals  with  their  verse. 

,'t/o  j*"*j.:97r  nod/  tv&  wo'i  .Ifej  I  jlaA,  AO. 
There  is  no  mortal  voice,  but  they  can  reach 

In  imitation  each  articulate  sound, 
And  tone  peculiar;  as  with  his  own  speech  «KI^HQJ 

The  wond'ring  hearer's  senses  to  confound. 
Hail,  with  thy  sister  Queen,  Apollo,  hail  ! 
Hail,  Delian  maids,  and  tell  of  me  this  gracious  tale! 

Whene'er  wayfaring  man  shall  hither  stray, 
And  ask  what  bard  e'er  seeks  this  isle,  the  best 

In  whom  ye  most  delight,  in  answer  say, 
One  a  blind  bard,  an  ever  welcome  guest  ! 

Afar  in  rocky  Chios  doth  he  dwell, 

Whose  songs  in  every  age  shall  please  and  far  excel. 


1831.]  HomeSs  Hymns.     No.  III.  G73 

But  I  the  Archer  God  will  ever  sing,  -    ,  *• 

Latona's  son,  and  hymn  divine  renown  ; 
Hail,  thou  of  Lycia  and  Mseonia  King, 

And  maritime  Miletus,  fairest  town, 
Glorious  Apoilo,  with  thy  silver  bow, 
That  lovest  Delos  best,  round  which  the  waters  flow! 
r?>{  Muow  d.tjiT,  f.lf)<opi  nofl«  .f.-jv^a  oiterfqoiq  bu.£a  bnA 
He  hies,  Latona's  ever  glorious  son, 

To  rocky  Pytho  with  his  hollow  lyre, 
His  odorous  and  immortal  raiment  on, 

Struck  by  the  golden  plectrum,  twangs  the  wire  ; 
Thence  swift  as  thought  in  Jove's  Olympian  Hall, 
Divine  carousal  joins  amid  th'  Immortals  all. 

Instantly  song  and  the  sweet  lyre  delight 

All  Heaven  ;  the  Muses  with  respondent  voice 
Hymn  the  blest  gifts  that  on  Immortals  light, 

And  all  the  cares  they  leave  for  human  choice  ; 
How  man,  poor,  helpless,  draws  his  scanty  breath, 
And  finds  no  balm  for  age,  no  remedy  for  death. 

'wo-iJ  \-iho~  ~*ijdn\  )  !«>  -fl^i'K!  L  aiG/*'t  'idi  bc^oaA 
The  neat-hair'd  Graces,  link'd  in  sister  love, 

The  Hours,  with  Hebe  and  Harmonia  bland, 
And  Aphrodite,  daughter  she  of  Jove 

The  fairest,  holding  each  the  other's  hand, 
Dance,  while  no  meaner  voice  is  heard  between, 
Than  the  great  Dian  breathes,  the  beauteous  quiver'd  Queen. 

Mars  and  the  keen-ey'd  Hermes  with  them  talk 

Sportively,  Phcebus  strikes  fresh  music  out, 
Loftily  footing  round  in  graceful  walk, 

While  rays  of  splendour  gild  him  all  about  ; 
His  shining  feet  and  gloss-wov'n  mantle  bright 
All  glisten  as  he  moves,  and  shed  a  glorious 


And  they,  Latona  with  her  locks  of  gold, 

And  the  great  Jove,  blest  Parents,  sit  and  quaff, 
And  his  high  bearing  mid  the  Gods  behold, 

And  gladdening  with  his  joyous  pastime  laugh. 
All  hail  Apollo  !  how  shall  I  rehearse 
Thy  worth,  above  all  praise,  all  homage,  and  all  verse  £ 
.^S.-v  JtlguodJ  ^9*9  MR  H?tm  «iifl(..t|jh  .uufc»U  srfT 
Or  shall  I  of  thy  loves  and  triumphs  tell, 

As  when  thou  wentest  suitor  to  the  maid 
Azanis,  and  thy  rival  Ischys  fell  ? 

How  Phorbas  and  Eurethes  low  were  laid  ? 
Or  how  Leucippus  and  his  paramour, 
Nor  Dryops  pass  we  by,  marks  of  thy  prowess  bore  ? 
i9<-  '  'nahru;  6&A 

Or  shall  I  tell,  how  first  thou  wentest  out 

On  thy  oracular  search  o'er  many  lands, 
Down  from  Olympus,  passing  in  thy  route 

Magnetae  and  Perrhsebi,  and  the  sands 
Of  Lectos  ;  then  lolcos  didst  thou  reach, 
Csenseus,  and  the  famed  Euboea's  crowded  beach  ? 

^i«  sH 

Awhile  thou  stood'st  upon  Lelantus'  plain, 

It  pleas'd  thee  not  for  grove  or  temple's  site. 
Thence  didst  thou  cross  th'  Euripus,  and  attain, 

Divinely  pacing,  the  green  mountain's  height; 
And  thence  to  Mycalessus  onward  pass, 
And  the  Teumessian  meads,  rich  waving  high  in  grass. 
'  •  '" 


674  Homer's  Hymns.    No.  III.  [Oct. 

Thence  earnest  to  the  wood-embosom' d  spot 
Of  sacred  Thebes,  Thebes  yet  untrod  of  men, 

Ere  Thebes  was  built;  and  paths  and  ways  were  not, 
For  the  corn-waving  soil  bare  forest  then  ; 

Onchestus  next,  to  Neptune  dedicate, 

Where  pants  the  new-broke  steed  beneath  the  chariot  weight. 

The  new-yoked  steeds  champ  on  their  golden  bits, 
And  draw  their  sovereign's  car — The  charioteer 

Descends,  and  walks  beside — the  rein  remits — 
They  toss  the  empty  car  in  proud  career; 

And  when  great  Neptune's  solemn  grove  they  reach, 

The  bright  procession  ends  beside  the  sacred  beach. 

The  loosen'd  steeds  they  comb  with  soothing  hands, 

And  to  th'  appointed  place  the  chariot  raise ; 
(For  thus  the  famed  solemnity  demands) 

Then  pour  to  Neptune  prayer,  and  give  him  praise  ; 
To  be  their  sovereign  still  the  God  entreat, 
And  Parca  stands  before  and  guards  the  chariot-seat. 

Thence,  Archer  God,  still  onward  was  thy  route, 

To  pure  Cephissus  gently  flowing  down, 
That  from  Lilsea  pours  sweet  waters  out; 

That  cross' d,  to  tower'd  Ocalea,  and  rich  town 
Of  Aliartus,  edged  with  herbage  green — 
Delphusa  pleased  thee  next,  and  gentle  was  the  scene. 

Here  did'st  thou  think  upon  that  scene  so  fair, 

Thy  shady  grove  to  place  and  fane  erect, 
And  standing  near,  thus  spakest ;  "  I  will  rear 

My  altars  here,  and  oracles  protect, 
For  all  mankind,  that  upon  me  shall  call, 
Consult  to  learn  the  truth,  while  hecatombs  shall  fall. 

"  All  that  in  rich  Peloponnesus  dwell, 

Europe,  with  all  the  numerous  Isles  that  lie 
Studding  th'  ^Egean  sea,  the  pomp  shall  swell 

Of  many  an  altar-kneeling  embassy : 
Here  may  my  temple  stand,  from  whose  dread  shrine, 
To  suppliants  I  may  pour  my  oracles  divine." 

Apollo  spake,  and  in  continual  line, 

His  large  foundations  laid — Delphusa  saw, 
Not  pleased,  and  said — "  Phoebus,  not  here  thy  shrine, 

And  sacred  oracle  inspiring  awe — 
Here  let  no  holy  hecatombs  be  slain, 
Unmeet  the  place  for  praise,  and  even  prayer  were  vain. 

"  The  never-ceasing  neighing,  and  the  stamp 
Of  horses,  and  of  mules,  that  drink  the  stream, 

And  ever  round  my  sacred  fountains  tramp, 
Would  ill  befit,  and  make  thy  suppliants  dream 

Of  glittering  chariots  and  swift-footed  steeds, 

More  than  of  thy  rich  fane  and  ever-glorious  deeds. 

"  But  may  I  counsel,  wisest  as  thou  art, 

Apollo,  and  all  potent  is  thy  will, 
Seek  Crissafor  thy  temple's  site,  apart 

In  the  deep  fold  of  the  Parnassian  Hill ; 
Where  never  steeds  nor  rattling  wheels  may  sound, 
All  nations  bring  their  gifts,  ana  bless  the  holy  ground. 


1831.]  Homer's  Hymns.    No.  111.  675 

"  Where  empires  shall  to  thee  their  treasures  pour, 

And  thee  their  lopsean  King  proclaim, 
And  thou  rejoice,  Apollo,  evermore  :" 

Thus  spake  Delphusa,  that  Delphusa's  fame 
Might  o'er  that  region  uneclipsed  remain, — 
The  wish  prevail'd— and  forth  the  Godhead  fared  again. 

Then,  Archer  God,  thou  earnest  to  the  town 
Of  th'  insolent  Phlegyans,  impious  race,  that  take 

No  thought  of  mightiest  Jove,  dwelling  deep  down 
In  well- wrought  caves,  fast  by  Cephissus'  lake, 

Thence  thy  feet  upward  hastening,  Crissa  found, 

Under  the  snowy  top  that  high  Parnassus  crown'd. 

'Twas  in  a  dell,  and  towards  the  west — o'erhead 

Hung  jutting  a  huge  rock,  and  under  this, 
Of  frightful  aperture,  a  cavern  dread 

Ran  back  into  the  hollow  black  abyss. 
Here  King  Apollo,  Phrebus,  fix'd  to  make 
His  beauteous  temple  rise,  and  thus  his  purpose  spake. 

"  'Tis  here  my  holiest  temple  I  erect, 

And  my  prophetic  shrines  and  altars  rear ; 
And  here  my  sacred  oracles  protect. 

For  all  mankind,  that  from  my  voice  would  hear 
The  future  truths, — here  hectaombs  shall  fall, 
Here  on  Apollo,  King,  the  mightiest  nations  call. 

"  All  that  in  rich  Peloponnesus  dwell, 

Europe,  with  all  the  numerous  Isles  that  lie 
Studding  th'  ^Egean  sea,  the  pomp  shall  swell 

Of  many  an  altar-seeking  embassy ; 
Here  shall  my  temple  stand,  whose  awful  shrine 
Shall  pour  to  mortal  man  my  oracles  divine." 

His  purpose  thus  declared,  the  Godhead  made 

Foundations  large,  extending  every  way ; 
Trophonius  and  Agamedes  laid 

The  stone-paved  floor ;  sons  of  Erginus  they, 
Loved  of  the  Gods,  and  tribes  of  men  repair' d 
To  raise  the  glorious  fane,  and  the  white  marble  squar'd, 

That  bards  might  celebrate  the  structured  fane. 

Hard  by,  a  fountain's  ever  sparkling  flow — 
And  there  the  serpent,  by  Apollo  slain — 

Slain  by  Apollo's  arm  and  powerful  bow, 
Monstrous,  enormous,  terrible,  and  vast, 
That  long  had  far  and  wide  a  desolate  horror  cast ; 

Had  men  and  their  swift-flying  flocks  o'erthrown. 

It  was  that  horrid  dragoness  accurst, 
To  whom  stern  Juno  of  the  golden  throne 

Had  given  Typhaon  monster  to  be  nurs'd ; 
The  beast  intractable,  of  hate  not  love 
Engender'd,  of  her  born  when  deep  incensed  with  Jove. 

And  this  the  tale — When  Jove  had  from  his  head 
Struck  forth  Minerva,  the  great  goddess,  she, 

Juno,  in  bitterness  of  wrath,  thus  said 
To  the  assembled  deities,  "  To  me 

Listen,  gods  all,  and  goddesses,  and  learn 

From  a  dishonour'd  wife,  how  Jove  that  wife  can  spurn. 


67G  Homer'*  llyinus.    No.  111.  [Oct. 

"  Now,  first,  since  I  have  been  his  chaste  true  wife, 
Has  he,  far  from  my  bed  and  pleasure,  given  > 

To  the  blue-eyed  Minerva  birth  and  life, 
Beautiful  before  all  the  gods  of  Heaven — 

While  Vulcan,  mine  own  son,  ye  all  despise, 

A  maini'd  and  limping  god,  unsightly  to  your  eyes. 

"  For  with  these  hands  I  seized  him  and  down  threw 
To  the  broad  sea — then  Nereus'  daughter  came, 

The  silver-footed  Thetis,  with  her  crew 

Of  sister  nymphs,  and  nursed  him,  bruised  and  lame ; — 

Jove,  crafty  as  audacious  in  thy  will, 

Go  gratify  the  gods,  and  plot  worse  mischief  still. 

"  How  didst  thou  dare  produce  the  blue-eyed  maid, 

Without  participation  of  my  love  ? 
I  will  be  mother  too  without  thy  aid, 

And  still  be  named  of  all  the  wife  of  Jove ; 
Aye,  e'en  by  all  the  gods  who  yet  shall  see 
,     A  wondrous  son  of  mine,  and  unbegot  of  thee. 

"  Nor  with  foul  lust,  like  thee,  will  I  defile 
Our  bed  yet  chaste,  nor  changeable  and  light 

Court  thy  loath1  d  arms,  but  far  will  I  exile, 
Far,  far  remove  me  from  thy  hated  sight." 

Thus  spake  the  large-eyed  queen,  on  vengeance  bent, 

And  left  the  Gods,  alone,  and  mutter' d  as  she  went. 

And  then  she  pray'd,  with  her  precipitous  hand 

Grasping  the  earth — "  Earth,  hear  me,"  thus  she  spake, 

"  Hear  thou,  broad  heaven,  hear  far  beneath  the  laud, 
Ye  Titan  gods,  by  the  Tartarean  lake, 

Regions  wherever  gods  or  mortals  dwell, 

Grant  me  a  son,  in  might  Jove's  offspring  to  excel ! 

"  Let  this  my  son  be  mightiest  from  his  birth, 
As  Jove  was  mightier  than  his  sire."    This  said, 

With  her  broad  hand  she  struck  the  earth ;  the  earth 
Moved  with  her  vineyards  all,  and  fields  outspread. 

She  saw,  and  gladden'd  at  the  sign,  and  knew 

That  all  would  so  be  done, — then  bilently  withdrew. 

And  thence  the  year  entire  she  went  no  more, 

Nor  to  the  bed  of  the  deep-thoughted  Jove, 
Nor  to  her  beateous  throne,  as  heretofore, 

With  him  to  take  sweet  counsel,  and  sweet  love ; 
But  in  her  loveliest  islands,  far  away, 
Amid  her  sacred  things  she  pass'd  full  many  a  day. 

But  now,  when  the  due  nights  and  days  were  past, 
In  the  year's  rolling  course,  the  Goddess  then 

Brought  forth  Typhaon,  hideous  monster  vast, 
Unlike  to  any  born  to  gods  or  men; 

Him  Juno  gave  this  Dragoness  to  nurse — 

She  took  the  monster  home — a  curse  receiving  curse. 

Nor  needs  there  of  Typhaon  further  speech ; 

But  of  the  Dragoness  I  turn  to  tell, 
How  all  she  slew  that  came  within  her  reach  ; 

Till  Pluebus  shot  his  arrow — and  she  fell — 
She  fell,  and  in  hard  pangs  and  struggling  coil, 
Lay  gasping  as  she  roll'd  about  the  bloody  soil. 


1831.]  Homer's  Hymns.    No.  III.  C77 

Her  dismal  shrieks  pierced  all  the  air  around, 
As  through  the  woods  Avith  desperate  reach  she  flung  ; 

Writhing  in  many  a  fold  she  lash'd  the  ground, 
Bounding  as  her  enormous  length  she  swung; 

Then  pour  d  in  floods  of  gore  her  life  away, 

And  Phoabus  proudly  stood,  and  chid  her  as  she  lay. 

"  There  let  thy  carcass  rot  upon  the  earth, 

Nor  further  harm  thou  any  living  thing ; 
But  man  shall  eat  his  fruits  m  peaceful  mirth, 

And  hecatombs  to  me  shall  grateful  bring. 
Nor  shall  Chimjera  dire,  with  blasting  breath, 
Nor  Typhon,  rescue  thee  and  thy  loath'd  bulk  from  death. 

"  Dark  Earth  shall  take  thee  rotting,  and  o'erhead 

Hyperion  scorch  thee,  festering  to  decay." 
Thus  spake  he,  scornful,  o'er  the  monster  dead, 

That  to  the  sacred  Sun  all  weltering  lay. 
E'en  while  he  spake,  the  putrefaction  came — 
Hence  Phoebus  was  renown' d,  and  gained  the  Pythian  name.* 

'Twas  then  Delphusa,  and  the  waters  clear 

Of  that  bright  stream,  to  his  remembrance  came. 

Forth  fared  he  in  his  wrath,  and  standing  near 
The  pleasant  fountain,  spake,  "  It  ill  became 

Delphusa  from  fair  springs  and  scene  so  sweet, 

To  turn  my  feet  aside,  and  practice  vile  deceit. 

"  Henceforth  not  thine  alone  the  fame,  but  mine, 
Of  this  fair  place."     On  the  stream-gushing  rocks 

Then  straight  the  Archer  God,  in  his  might  divine, 
HuiTd  down  a  mountain  mass,  and  with  huge  blocks 

Jamm'd  up  the  springs,  and  built  a  temple  near, 

Deep  in  the  wooded  grove,  where  well  the  waters  clear. 

»" 
There  mortals  pay  their  vows  to  him,  and  name 

The  God  Delphusian,  for  that  he  aside 
Had  turn'd  the  fountain,  to  Delphusa's  shame. — 

Then  long  he  mused  how  best  he  might  provide 
Fit  Priests  to  minister  his  rites  divine, 
And  serve  the  Archer  God  at  Pythos'  rocky  shrine ; 

And  musing,  saw  upon  the  sea's  dark  way 

A  passing  vessel  with  a  numerous  crew, 
Cretans,  and  from  Minoian  Cnossus  they, 

All  men  of  worth,  and  his  attention  drew— 
Of  this  same  race  are  they  that  even  now 
Proclaim  the  Godhead's  law,  and  consecrate  the  vow  ; 

Ministers  of  the  Golden-sworded  King, 
And  catch  his  sacred  words,  that  from  the  shrine 

Fast  by  the  laurel  their  true  accents  fling, 
In  the  deep  hollow  of  the  hill  divine. 

In  the  dark  ship  these  trade-adventuring  men 

To  Pylos'  sandy  shore  their  course  were  steering  then. 

Nor  loiter'd  he,  but  forth  to  reach  the  crew, 

Into  a  dolphin  changed,  floated  away, 
And,  leaping  from  the  sea,  his  bulk  he  threw 

Down  on  the  deck,  and  there  prodigious  lay, 

*  From  nMa,  to  putrefy. 
VOL,  XXX,  NO,  CLXXXVI.  2  X 


678  Homer* 's  Hymns.    No.  III.  [Oct. 

And  straight,  if  any  dared  on  him  to  look, 
He  stirr'a,  and  as  he  mov'd,  the  very  beams  he  shook. 

Silent  they  sat  around,  and  look'd  and  fear'd, 
Nor  did  they  loose  the  yards,  nor  drop  the  sail, 

Within  the  dark-prow'd  ship,  but  on  she  steer'd, 
As  when  the  cords  first  tighten' d  to  the  gale. 

The  gusty  south  behind  the  vessel  blew — 

Malea  first  they  pass'd,  then  by  Laconia  drew, 

Coasting  towards  Tsenarus  sea-girt  town,  and  fair, 

Delightful  region  of  the  blessed  Sun, 
Whose  fleecy  flocks  do  bite  their  pasture  there, 

Nor  further  wish'd  these  mariners  to  run, 
But  thought  to  land,  and  with  their  own  eyes  see 
The  strange  prodigious  thing,  and  learn  what  it  might  be. 

Whether  it  would  upon  the  deck  remain, 
Or  whether  plunge  into  the  fishy  sea—- 
But helm  the  ship  obey'd  not — 'twas  in  vain- 
She  kept  her  even  way,  and  scudding  free, 
The  side  of  rich  Peloponnesus  pass'd, 
Under  the  guiding  God,  that  sent  a  driving  blast. 

Then  by  Arene,  cutting  her  way  before 

Her  easy  keel,  Argyphea,  Thryus,  then 
Th'  Alphean  Strait,  ^Epuy,  and  sandy  shore 

Of  Pylos,  and  the  towns  of  Pylian  men; 
The  Crunians,  Chalcis,  Dyma,  by  the  coast 
Of  Elis  the  divine,  the  Epeians'  power  and  boast. 

Then  first  above  the  clouds  the  high  tops  peer'd 

Of  Ithaca,  as  with  brisk  gale  she  stood 
Towards  Pherae  in — Dulichium  then  appear' d, 

And  Sam6,  and  Zacynthus  clad  with  wood ; 
Then,  all  Peloponnesus  coasted  by, 
Crissa's  dividing  gulf  lay  spread  before  the  eye. 

Then  came  the  great  west  wind,  and  blowing  strong, 
With  clear  sky,  sent  from  Jove,  that  she  might  run 

Over  the  salt  sea,  bounding  light  along; 
Then  backwards  towards  the  east  they  faced  the  sun, 

And  as  Apollo  will'd,  Jove's  son  divine, 

To  pleasant  Crissa  came  clad  with  the  purple  vine. 

They  reach'd  the  port,  and  drove  the  firm  keel  far 

In  the  soft  sands.    Apollo,  th'  Archer  King, 
Shot  from  the  deck,  changed  to  a  meteor  star, 

Such  as  at  mid-day  seen,  doth  fireballs  fling 
Into  the  air,  that  sparkle  as  they  fly, 
And  with  a  sudden  blaze  illumine  all  the  sky. 

Swift  by  the  costly  tripods  to  the  shrine 

He  pass'd,  his  holy  fire  he  kindled  bright, 
And  lifting  high  in  air  his  blazing  sign, 

All  Crissa  glow'd  beneath  the  golden  light. 
The  God-inspired  matrons  shriek'd  around, 
And  the  fair-bosom'd  maids  return'd  the  sacred  sound. 

All  felt  a  holy  fear— again  the  God 
The  vessel  sought ;  and  as  a  thought  he  sped, 

Like  to  a  fair  strong  youth  the  deck  he  trod, 
In  bloom  of  age,  whose  large  locks  waved,  and  spread 


1831.]  Homer's  Hymns.    No.  III.  679 

Profuse,  below  his  ample  shoulders  reach  ;* 

And  thus  he  spake  the  crew,  and  winged  was  his  speech:— 

"  Now,  tell  me,  friends,  both  what  and  whence  ye  are, 
And  whither  sail  ye,  o'er  these  watery  ways ; 

For  traffic  or  for  pastime  is't  ye  fare, 
As  piratesxuse,  that  pass  their  perilous  days, 

Risk  their  own  lives  to  compass  others'  pain  ;— 

Why  sit  ye  mute,  and  hear,  but  answer  not  again  ? 

"  What  is't  ye  fear,  that  thus  ye  dare  not  land  ? 

Why  loose  ye  not  the  yards,  nor  cordage  coil  ? 
Good  traffickers  are  wise,  and  understand 

A  better  practice — pleasure  after  toil ; — 
After  a  weary  voyage,  feast  on  shore, 
And  jocund  make  their  hearts,  and  think  of  care  no  more." 

Thus  his  fair  words  their  breasts  with  courage  fired, 
Then  spake  the  captain  of  the  Cretan  crew  :— 

"  Stranger,  thou  art  some  God,  or  man  inspired, 
Methmks,  to  hear  thee  speak,  thy  form  to  view ! 

The  blessing  of  the  Gods  upon  thee  light, 

And  joy,  good  friend,  be  thine,  so  thou  but  tell  me  right. 

"  What  state,  what  land,  what  people  have  we  here  ? 

For  with  far  other  thoughts  we  put  to  sea, 
For  Pylos,  bound  from  Crete,  nor  did  we  steer 

Hither  a  willing  course ;  and,  were  we  free, 
Would  e'en  return  j  but  other  ways,  and  wide 
From  home,  some  god  it  seems  is  willing  to  provide." 

The  God  replied, — "  Now,  hear  me,  friends,  no  more 
In  woody  Cnossus,  whence  ye  came,  to  dwell ; 

Nor  your  loved  homes,  nor  town  nor  native  shore, 
Nor  wives  to  see,  although  you  love  them  well : 

But  here,  within  my  temple  to  abide, 

And  where  all  honours  pay,  my  chosen  priests  preside. 

"  Know  then,  Apollo,  son  of  Jove,  am  I ! 

I  o'er  the  sea's  large  course  your  vessel  steer'd, 
Nor  evil  purpose  may  you  hence  imply ; 

For  rich  my  temple,  and  by  man  revered. 
Be  this  your  home  beloved  by  man  and  me, 
And  know  the  will  of  Gods,  and  all  that  they  decree. 

"  Be  quick,  let  drop  your  sail  with  ready  hand, 
And  loosen  every  rope !  My  friends,  be  wise, 

And  draw  your  vessel  dry  up  on  the  land, 
And  choose  out  of  her  stores  what  most  ye  prize  ; 

Here  build  an  altar  on  this  sea-wash'd  shore, 

Prepare  the  sacred  fire,  and  the  meat-offering  pour. 

"  Then  pray  ye  by  the  altar,  as  ye  stand, 

And  as  ye  first  beheld  me  from  the  sea 
Leap  on  your  deck,  a  Dolphin — I  command, 

To  the  DELPHINIAN  God  your  prayers  shall  be— - 
The  altar  hence  the  Delphian*  shall  be  named, 

And  in  the  Dolphin's  praise  be  ever  sought  and  famed. 

"  Then  make  your  feasts,  and  your  libations  pour 
To  the  Olympian  Gods  for  ever  blest ; 

*  In  tliis  word,  as  in  Hyperion,  I  have  adopted  the  received  English  quantity. 


680  Homer's  Hymns,    No.  III.  [Oct. 

And  when  your  sweet  refreshing  feast  be  o'er, 

Attend  my  steps,  and  be  your  hymns  address'd : 
And  16  ptcan  in  procession  sing, 
While  to  my  sacred  fane  your  homeward  feet  I  bring." 

He  spake,  and  they  obey'd,  the  sail  let  fall, 
Ami  close  into  its  rest  dropp'd  down  the  mast, 

Loosening  the  ropes ;  and  disembarking  all 
Dry  on  the  sands  their  vessel  drew,  and  placed 

The  props  beneath.— Then  on  the  shore  they  laid 
*jd?  j-j-ni'i^eir  altar  witlv  *t8  fire>  aud  their  meatoffering  made 

"  £ofr  standing  pray'd,  their  new-found  God  adored , 

Beside  the  swift  black  ship  prepared  the  feast, 
-~A  +„  *u~  i,i«o,^^  n^^^  KuiifiU        .,->* 


And  when  desire  of  sweet  repast  had  ceas'd, 
They  rose  to  go-Apollo,  King  and  God, 
Before  them  lid  the  way  and  gloriously  he  trod. 

J '  °  J  O 

_  i.  .^    r       i  _  r  _ 


The  lyre  was  in  his  hand,  and  strains  divine 

_  Rose  with  his  steps:-The  Cretans,  all  amaz'd, 


Ljimism  aj-r080  Wlin  m8  8iePs—  A«e  Cretans,  au  amaz  u, 

"PVfcl  I  f\\\T  ft    tli  t>    l-incl!  i  <  >ii  / 1    irk  Itio    ij«  i  f  •  i'i  1*1    ul  >  r  1 1 1 1  * 
J7U11OW  U.  lilt?    \JTUllIlcelU.    LU   JUS   SaCI  ell   bill  111". 

AndlopjBan^op.eanrais'd; 
..^uch  hymns  they  sang  to  holy  rapture  fired, 
'U  still  the  Cretans  sfng  by  the  sweet  muse  jj^j?  ^ 

The  hill  ascending  with  unwearied  feet, 
They  reach'd  Parnassus'  loveliest  hollow,  where 

His  dwelling-place  and  everlasting  seat 

The  Godtead  show'd  them,  an3  the  precincts  fair 

Round  the  vast  temple.    Then  new  joy  awoke 

Within  their  breasts,  and  thus  the  Cretan  captain  spoke:  — 


j        .  . 

king,  since  thou  hast  led  us  far  away  K  ^^     bui 

From  our  deal' homes,  for  such  has  been  thy  will, 

.lorrfwm.How  here  we  may  sustain  us,  Phoebus  say,    ,          ^a{  ^^ 
*>wJm   -r  F™  yet  m  vines  unfruitful  is  this  hill, 

Nor  are  there  pte  sant  pastures  from  whose  etorg,,    & 
Ourselves  we  may  supply  and  liberal  bounty  p^^-liia^: 

-vista  A    .WC9V9  "Jo  I1'i'»[ff0"r          »j     «r<    vi    jl  L00'1'^005^1119831^  f>n^ 
I  uoqi^Apollo  smiled  and  answer  d— "Foolish  men, 

Impatient,  care-creating ;  toil,  unrest,      ;       ,, 
-Hlaxo  Jd*Abour  and  sorrow  ever  in  your  ken  : 

An  easy  answer  may  these  fears  arrest— 
j  isms      Each  in  his  ready  hand  a  blade  may  bear, 

aii>  «•!•  And  find  fat  flocks  to  kill,  aye,  and  enough  to  spare. 

boa  BITS  yriMMi.;    '   •''      .  .••<;'! j't  tfi  n  b-jv/oivsj 

"  Man  comes  not  here  with  empty  hands  to  grieve 
The  God  he  worships,  and  his  chosen  priests — 
Guard  ye  my  temple,  gather'd  round  receive 
The  suppliants  all — administer  my  feasts  ; 
-;,.,,  And  should  there  hap,  the  lot  of  human  life, 
Or  evil  word  or  deed,  or  insolence  or  strife, 

..   o  L.,  j.   jnhoiini  n*>t:trt-i*-y  jmforf  .e.'bi'[  9 

"  Learn,  other  men  shall  right  the  wrongful  deed, 

Whom  to  all  ages  hence  ye  must  obey." 
The  tale  is  ended.    Phcebus,  thou  the  meed 

Give,  not  unmindful  of  the  present  lay ! 
All  hail,  Latona's  son,  offspring  of  Jove, 
For  other  strains  shall  rise  to  sing  thy  power  and  love. 


1  83  1  .] 


Annuls  and  Antiquities  of  RajasChan  . 

i  .IfeiiM  §lirf89Srl6l  i90V7fc    ; 

-n  <bfi  e-;irr;<l  -a/ox  ad  ««*  ,*qa+H  -{,m  f>o»JuA 

;! 


681 


RAJAST'HAN  is  the  collective  and 
classical  denomination  of  that  por- 
tion of  India,  which  is  the  abode  of 
the  Rajpoot  princes.    What  might 
have  been  its  nominal  extent  prior  to 
the  Mahommedan  conqueror,  Shabu- 
din,  when  it  probably  reached  be- 
yond the  Jumna  and  Ganges,  even 
to  the  base  of  the  Himalaya,  cannot 
now  be  known.     At  present  it  com- 
prehends a  Avide  space  and  a  variety 
of  interesting  races.  Previous  to  the 
erection  of  the  minor  Mahommedau 
monarchies  of  Mandoo  and  Ahme- 
dabad,  the  capitals  of  Malwa  and 
Guzzerat,  on  the  ruins  of  Dhar  and 
Anhulwarra  Puttun,  the  term  Rajast'- 
han  would  have  been  appropriated  to 
the  space  comprehended  in  the  map 
prefixed  to  Colonel  Tod's  work ;  the 
valley  of  the  Indus  on  the  west,  and 
Boondelkhund  on  the  east;  to  the 
north  the  sandy  tracts  south  of  the 
Sutledge,  termed  Jtingul  des,  and  the 
Vindhya    mountains   to  the   south. 
This  space  comprehends  nearly  eight 
degrees  of  latitude,  and  nine  of  longi- 
tude, being  from  22°  to  30°  north 
latitude,  and  69°  to  78°  east  longi- 
tude, embracing  a  superficial  area  of 
350,000  square  miles.     Colonel  Tod 
intends  in  his  great  work,  of  which 
this  is  but  the  first  volume,  to  touch 
upon  the  annals  of  all  the  states  in 
this  extensive  tract,  with  their  past 
and  present  condition ;  but  those  in 
the  centre  will  claim  the  most  pro- 
minent regard,   especially    Mewar, 
which,  copiously  treated  of,  will  af- 
ford a  specimen,  obviating  the  neces- 
sity of  like  details  of  the  rest.     The 
order  in  which  these  states  will  be 
-reviewed  is  as  follows  : — Mewar  or 
Oodipoor  —  Marwar  or  Jodpoor  — 
Bikaner  and  Kishengurh — Kotah  and 
Boondi,  or  Harouti — Amber  or  Jei- 
poor,  with  its  branches,  dependent 
and  independent  —  Jesselmer — and 
finally,  the  Indian  Desert  to  the  val- 
ley of  the  Indus. 

For  so  extensive  a  work,  where 
are  the  materials  ?  In  the  absence  of 
regular  and  legitimate  historical  re- 
cords, there  are  other  native  works 
which  afford  no  despicable  materials 


for  a  history  of  India.    The  first  of 
these  are  the  Poorans  and  genealogi- 
cal legends  of  the  princes,  Avhich, 
obscured  as  they  are  by  mythologi- 
cal details,  allegory,  and  improbable 
circumstances,  contain  many  facts 
that  serve  as  beacons  to  direct  the 
research  of  the  historian.  The  heroic 
poems  of  India  constitute  another 
resource  of  history.    The  poets  are 
the  chief,  though  not  the  sole  histo- 
rians of  Western  India.     Neither  is 
there  any  deficiency  of  them,  though 
they  speak   in    a  peculiar    tongue 
which  requires  to  be  translated  into 
the  sober  language  of  probability. 
To  compensate  for  their  magnilo- 
quence and  obscurity,  their  pen  is 
free;  the  despotism  of  the  Rajpoot 
princes  does  not  extend  to  the  poet's 
lay,  which  flows  unconfined,  except 
by  the  shackles  of  the  serpentine 
stanza;  though,  on  the  other  hand, 
there  is  an  understanding  between 
the  bard  and  prince  of  "  solid  pud- 
ding against  empty  praise,"  whereby 
the  fidelity  of  the  poetic  chronicle  is 
somewhat  impaired.  Still,  such  chro- 
niclers dare  utter  unpalatable  truths, 
while  the  absence  of  all  mystery  or 
reserve  with  regard  to  public  affairs 
in  the  Rajpootprincipalities,  in  which 
every  individual  takes  an  interest, 
from  the  noble  to  the  porter  at  the 
city  gates,  is  of  great  advantage  to 
the  chronicler  of  events.     A  mate- 
rial drawback,  however,  upon  the 
value   of  these  bardic  histories  is, 
that  they  are  confined  almost  exclu- 
sively to  the  martial  exploits  of  their 
heroes.    Writing  for  the  amusement 
of  a  warlike  race,  the  authors  disre- 
gard civil  matters,  and  the  arts  and 
pursuits  of  peaceful  life.   Neverthe- 
less, although  open  to  these  and  other 
objections,  the  works  of  the  native 
bards  afford  many  valuable  data,  in 
facts,  incidents,  religious  opinions, 
and  traits  of  manners,  many  of  which 
being  carelessly  introduced,  are  to 
be  regarded  as  the  least  suspicious 
kind  of  historical  evidence.    In  the 
heroic  history  of  Pirthi-raj,by  Chund, 
there  occur  many  geographical,  as 
well  as  historical,  details,  in  the  de- 


By  Colonel  Tod.  vol.  i.  -tto.     Smith,  Elder  and  Co.  Cornhill,     1829, 


Annals  and  Antiquities  of  Rajasfhan. 


682 

scription  of  his  sovereign's  wars,  of 
which  the  bard  was  an  eyewitness, 
having  been  his  friend,  his  herald, 
and  his  ambassador,  and  finally,  dis- 
charging the  melancholy  office  of  ac- 
cessory to  his  death,  that  he  might 
save  him  from  dishonour!  The  poe- 
tical histories  of  Chund  were  col- 
lected by  the  great  Umra  Sing  of 
Mewar,  a  patron  of  literature,  as  well 
as  a  warrior  and  a  legislator.  An- 
other species  of  historical  record  is 
found  in  the  accounts  given  by  the 
Brahmins,  of  the  endowments  of  the 
temples,  their  dilapidation  and  re- 
pairs, which  furnish  occasions  for 
the  introduction  of  historical  and 
chronological  details.  In  the  legends 
respecting  places  of  pilgrimage  and 
religious  resort,  profane  events  are 
blended  with  superstitious  rites  and 
ordinances,  local  ceremonies,  and 
customs. 

From  the  earliest  period  of  his 
official  connexion  with  Rajasfhan, 
Colonel  Tod  applied  himself  to  col- 
lect and  explore  its  early  historical 
records,  with  a  view  of  throwing 
some  light  upon  a  people  scarcely 
yet  known  in  Europe,  and  whose 
political  connexion  with  England  ap- 
peared to  him  capable  of  undergoing 
a  material  change  with  benefit  to 
both  parties.    To  enable  him  to  col- 
lect the  scattered  relics  of  Rajpoot 
history  into  the  form  and  substance 
of  his  present  work,  he  began  with 
the  sacred  genealogy  from  the  Pu- 
ranas,  examined  iheMahabharat  and 
the  poems  of  Chund,  a  complete 
chronicle  of  his  times  ;  the  volumi- 
nous historical  poems  of  Jesselmer, 
Marwar,and  Mewar ;  the  histories  of 
the  Kheetchies,  and  those  of  the  Kara 
princes  of  Kotah  and  Boondi,  &c. 
by  their  respective  bards.  A  portion 
of  the  materials  compiled  by  Jey 
Sing  of  Amber  or  Jeipoor,  one  of  the 
greatest  patrons  of  science  among 
the  modern  Hindoo  princes,  to  illus- 
trate the  history  of  his  race,  fell  into 
Colonel  Tod's  hands — and  for  a  pe- 
riod of  ten  years  he  was  employed, 
with  the  aid  of  a  learned  Jain,  in 
ransacking  every  work  which  could 
contribute  any  facts  or  incidents  to 
the  history  of  the  Rajpoots,  or  dif- 
fuse any  light  upon  their  manners  or 
character.    Extracts  and  versions  of 
all  such  passages  were  made  by  his 
Jain  assistant,  into  the  more  familiar 
dialects  of  those  tribes,  in  whose  lan- 


[Oct. 


guage  hislong  residence  amongthem 
enabled  him  to  converse  with  faci- 
lity; and  at  much  expense,  and  du- 
ring many  wearisome  hours,  he  en- 
deavoured to  possess  himself  not  on- 
ly of  their  history,  but  of  their  reli- 
gious notions,  their  familiar  opinions,, 
and  their  characteristic  manners,  by 
associating  with  their  chiefs  and 
bardic  chroniclers,  and  by  listening 
to  their  traditionary  tales  and  allego- 
rical poems. 

Thus  furnished  with  knowledge, 
such  as  has  been  acquired  by  few 
Europeans,  the  mind  of  Colonel  Tod 
glows  with  the  most  generous  and 
enthusiastic  admiration  of  the  many 
noble  virtues  of  the  Rajpoot  charac- 
ter. The  struggles  of  a  brave  people 
for  independence,  during  a  series  of 
ages,  sacrificing  whatever  was  dear 
to  them,  for  the  maintenance  of  the 
religion  of  their  forefathers,  and  stur- 
dily defending  to  death,  and  in  spite 
of  every  temptation,  their  rights  and 
national  liberty,  he  well  says,  form  a 
picture  which  it  is  difficult  to  con- 
template without  emotion.  Could 
he  impart  to  the  reader,  he  modestly 
adds,  but  a  small  portion  of  the  en- 
thusiastic delight  with  which  he  has 
listened  to  the  tales  of  times  that 
are  past,  amid  scenes  where  the 
events  occurred,  he  would  not  des- 
pair of  triumphing  over  the  apathy 
which  dooms  to  neglect  almost  every 
effort  to  enlighten  his  native  country 
on  the  subject  of  India.  Seated 
amid  the  ruins  of  ancient  cities,  he  has 
listened  to  the  traditions  respecting 
their  fall,  and  has  heard  the  exploits 
of  their  illustrious  defenders  related 
by  their  descendants  near  the  altars 
erected  to  their  memory. 

It  is  long  since  we  have  read  a 
more  interesting  historical  Avork 
than  the  annals  and  antiquities  of 
Rajast'han — and  we  intend  now  to 
compose  an  article  out  of  it,  almost 
entirely  by  selection  and  abridge- 
ment. It  is  a  mine  of  new  and  de- 
lightful matter — and  may,  along  with 
some  other  works  on  Indian  history 
and  affairs,  give  occasion  to  a  series. 
After  a  masterly  sketch  of  the  geo- 
graphy of  Rajast'han,  Colonel  Tod 
gives,  in  upwards  of  100  pages,  the 
history  of  the  Rajpoot  tribes — and 
then  in  about  another  hundred,  en- 
deavours, and  very  successfully,  to 
shew  that  the  feudal  system  pre- 
vailed among  all  its  kingdoms,  In 


1831.] 


Annals  and  Antiquities  of  Rajas? han. 


upwards  of  200  pages,  he  then  traces 
the  annals  of  Me  war  or  Oodipoor, 
and  devotes  almost  as  many  more  to 
their  religious  establishments,  festi- 
vals, and  customs.  The  volume 
(quarto— pages  806)  concludes  with 
his  personal  narrative.  For  the  pre- 
sent, we  shall  confine  ourselves  to 
the  annals,  which  exhibit  many  noble 
examples  of  heroism  and  virtue. 

The  princes  of  the  states  of  Raj- 
pootana,  styled  lianas,  are  the  elder 
branch  of  the  Sooryavansi,  or  Chil- 
dren of  the  Sun — and  the  Prince  of 
Mewar  is  unanimously  called  by  all 
the  tribes  Sun  of  the  Hindus.    Colo- 
nel Tod  begins  their  annals  with  the 
sack  of  Balabhipoora  (A.  D.  524)  by 
Sythic  invaders,  probably  a  colony 
from  the  Parthian  kingdom,  which 
was  established,  in  the  second  cen- 
tury, in  sovereignty  on  the  Indus. 
There  was  a  fountain  (Sooryacoonda) 
"  sacred  to  the  sun,"  at  Balabhipoora, 
from  which  arose,  at  the  summons 
of  Silladitya,  according  to  the  legend, 
the  seventeen-headed  horse,  Septas- 
wa,  which  draws  the  car  of  Soorya, 
to  bear  him  to  battle.    With  such  an 
auxiliary    no    foe    could    prevail  ; 
but  a  wicked  minister  revealed  to 
the   enemy  the  secret  of  annulling 
this  aid,  by  polluting    the    sacred 
fountain  with  blood.     This  accom- 
plished, in  vain  did  the  Prince  call  in 
Septasvva,  to  save    him    from   the 
strange  and  barbarous  foe;  the  charm 
was  broken,  and  with  it  sunk  the 
dynasty  of  Balabhi.  Of  the  prince's 
family,  the  Queen  Pooshpavati  alone 
escaped  the  sack  of  Balabhi,  as  well 
as  the  funeral  pyre,  upon  which,  on 
the   death   of   Silladitya,  his   other 
wives  were  sacrificed.    Taking  re- 
fuge in  a  cave,  among  the  mountains 
of  Mallia,  she   was  delivered  of  a 
son,  who  was  designated  Goha,  or 
the  Cave-born.  At  the  age  of  eleven 
the  royal  boy  was  totally  unmanage- 
able— for,  to  use  the  words  of  the  le- 
gend, "  How  should  they  hide  the 
rays  of  the  sun  ?"     At  this  period, 
the  land  of  Edur  was  governed  by  a 
chief  of  the  savage  mountain  race  of 
Bhil — and  young  Goha,  frequenting 
the  forests,  became  a  favourite  with 
the  Vena-pootras,  "  or  children  of  the 
forest,"  who  resigned  to  him  Edur, 
with  its  woods  and  mountains.    The 
Bhils  having  determined,  in  sport, 
to  elect  a  king,  the  choice  fell  on 
Goha;  and  one  of  the  young  savages 


683 

cutting  his  finger,  applied  the  blood 
as  the  teeka  of  sovereignty  to  his 
forehead.  What  was  done  in  sport, 
was  confirmed  by  the  old  forest 
chief;  and  Goha's  name  became  the 
patronymic  of  his  descendants  who 
were  styled  Gohilote,  classically  Gra- 
hilote,  in  time  softened  to  Gehlote. 

The  descendants  of  Goha  dwelt 
in  the  mountainous  region  for  eight 
generations,  when  the  Bhils,  tired  of 
a  foreign  rule,  killed  Nagadit,  the 
eighth  prince,  whose  infant  son,  Bap- 
pa,  was  conveyed  to  the  fortress  of 
Bhandere,  in  the  wildest  region  of 
India,  by  the   descendants   of  that 
Camlavati,  who  had  nursed  his  an- 
cestor, Goha;  and  removed  thence, 
for  greater  security,  to  the  wilder- 
ness of  Parassar,  he  there  proved 
himself    undegenerate,    by    pranks 
worthy  of  the  royal  shepherd.   At  a 
certain  season,   swinging    was  the 
amusement  of  the  youth  of   both 
sexes,  in  those   regions;    and    the 
daughter  of  a  chieftain,  and  the  vil- 
lage maidens,  had  gone  to  the  groves 
to  enjoy  that  amusement,  but  were 
unprovided  with  ropes.   Bappa  hap- 
pened to  be  at  hand,  and  was  called 
by  the  Rajpoot  damsels  to  forward 
their  sport.  He  promised  to  procure 
a  rope,  if  they  would  first  have  a 
game  at  marriage.     One  frolic  was 
as  good  as  another ;  and  the  scarf  of 
the  high-born  maiden  was  united  to 
the  garment  of  Bappa,  the  whole  of 
the  village  lasses  joining  hands  with 
his  as  the  connecting  link ;  and  thus 
they  performed  the  mystical  number 
of  revolutions  round  an  aged  tree. 
This  frolic  caused  his  flight,  and  ori- 
ginated his  greatness,    but  at  the 
same  time  burdened  him  with  all 
these  damsels;  and  hence  a  hetero- 
geneous issue,  whose  descendants 
still  ascribe  their  origin  to  this  prank 
of  Bappa  round  the  old  mango-tree 
of  Nagda.      A  suitable  offer  being 
shortly  after  made  for  the  hand  of 
the  chieftain's  daughter,  the  family 
priests  of  the  bridegroom  discovered 
that  she  was  already  married — intel- 
ligence which  threw  the  family  into 
the  greatest  consternation.     Suspi- 
cion naving  fallen  on  Bappa,  he  fled 
— and  from  a  holy  sage  among  the 
mountains,  received  lessons  in  mo- 
rality, and  was  initiated  into  the  mys- 
terious rites  of  Siva.    By  the  sage 
he  was  named  "  Regent  of  Elkinga," 
(whose  celebrated  temple  still  exists 


and  Antiquities  ofRaja&Chaii. 


[Oct. 


in  pomp,)  and  from  his  con&prt,  "  the 
Lion-born  Goddess,"  received  the 
panoply  of  celestial  fabrication, lauce, 
bow,  quiver  and  arrows,  shield  and 
sword,  which  the  goddess  girded  on 
him  with  her  own  hands.  The  sage 
(Ilarita)  then  resolved  to  leave  Bap- 
pa  to  his  fortunes,  and  as  he  ascend- 
r.d  heavenwards  in  his  car,  borne  by 
the  Apsaras,  desired  his  pupil  tp 
reach  up  to  receive  his  biessing-r-on 
which  Bappa' s  stature  was  extended 
to  twenty  cubits.  The  sage  .then  de- 
sired him  to  open  his  mouth,  intend- 
ing to  spit  intp.it,  that  the  saliva 
might  embue  him  with  immortality. 
But  the  projected  blessing  falling  on 
his  foot,  he  obtained  only  invulnera- 
bility from  all  weapons.  Thus  mark- 
ed as  the  favourite  of  heaven,  and  ha- 
ving learned  from  his  mother  that 
he  was  nephew  to  the  Prince  of 
Cheetore,  he  emerged  with  some 
companions  into  the  plains ;  and  met 
with  another  hermit  in  the  forest  of 
Tiger-mount,  who  presented  to  him 
the  double-edged  sword,  which,  with 
the  proper  incantations,  could  sever 
rocks.  With  this  he  opened  the  road 
to  fortune,  leading  to  the  throne  of 
Cheetore,  then  held  by  the  Mori 
Prince  of  the  Pramar  race,  then  pa- 
ramount sovereigns  of  Hindust'han. 
Bappa  became  a  great  favourite  of 
the  Mori  Prince ;  but  having  distin- 
guished himself  in  Avar  against  a  fo- 
reign foe  that  had  attacked  Gheetpre, 
he  won  to  himself  the  regard  of  all 
the  nobles,  and  dethroned  his  bene- 
factor. For  many  years  he  reigned 
"  universal  lord,"  and  became  the 
sire  of  royal  races.  The  legend  re- 
lates, that,  advanced  in  years,  he 
abandoned  his  cliildren  and  his  coun- 
try, carried  his  arms  west  to  Kho- 
rassan,  and  there  established  him- 
self, and  married  new  wives  from 
among  the  "  barbarians,"  by  whom 
he  had  a  numerous  offspring.  He 
had  reached  the  patriarchal  age  of 
one  hundred  when  he  died;  and  an 
old  volume  of  historical  anecdotes 
states,  that  he  became  an  ascetic  at 
the  foot  of  MerUjWherehe  was  buried 
alive,  after  having  overcome  all  the 
kings  of  the  West,  as  in  Ispahan, 
Kandahar,  Cashmere,  Irak,  Iran, 
Tooran,  and  Cafferist'han,  all  of 
whose  daughters  he  married,  and  by 
whom  he  had  one  hundred  and  thir- 
ty sons,  called  the  Noshegra  Pathans 
each  of  whom  founded  a  tribe  bear- 


ing the  name  of  the  mother.  His 
Hindu  cliildren  were  ninety-eight 
in  number,  called  "  Sun-born  Fire- 
worshippers."  Bappa  was  born,  A.D. 
728,  the  period  of  the  foundation  of 
the  Gehlote  dynasty  in  Mewar;  since 
which,  during  a  space  of  eleven  hun- 
dred years,  fifty-nine  princes,lineally 
descended  from  that  potent  sove- 
reign^ have  sat  on  the  throne  of 
Cheetore.  Colonel  Tod  has  ascer- 
tained the  era  by  the  most  labo- 
rious and  learned  researches;  but  he 
says,  that  the  bards  and  chroniclers 
will  never  forgive  the  temerity  which 
thus  curtails  the  antiquity  of  their 
founder,  whose  birth  domestic  an- 
nals idly  refer  to  the  close  of  the  se- 
cond century.  But  Colonel  Tod  has 
placed  it  well  in  the  dawn  of  chi- 
valry, when  the  Carlovingian  dynas- 
ty was  established  in  the  West,  and 
when  Walid,  whose  bands  planted 
the  "  Green  Standard"  on  the  Ebro, 
was  Commander  of  the  Faithful. 

Having  established  Bappa  on  the 
throne  of  Cheetore,  (A.D.  728,)  Co- 
lonel Tod  proceeds  to  glean  from 
the  annals  of  Mewar,  from  the  pe- 
riod of  his  departure  for  Iran  (A.D. 
764)  to  another  halting  point,  the 
reign  of  Samarsi,  (A.D.  1193,)  an 
important  epoch,  not  only  in  the  his- 
tory of  Mewar,  but  to  the  whole  Hin- 
du race,  when  the  "diadem  of  sove- 
reignty was  torn  from  the  brow  of 
the  Hindu,  to  adorn  that  of  the  Ta- 
tar. During  these  four  intervening 
centuries,  constant  conflicts  had  been 
sustained  with  the  Moslem  ;  but  it 
was  not  till  the  overthrow  of  Samar- 
si,  that  the  barbarian  triumphed.  On 
the  last  of  three  days'  desperate  fight- 
ing, that  prince  was  slain,  together 
with  his  son,  and  thirteen  thousand 
of  his  household  troops,  and  most 
renowned  chieftains.  Delhi  too  was 
carried  by  storm — and  the  success 
was  complete  of  the  Tatar  arms. 
Scenes  of  devastation,  plunder,  and 
massacre  commenced,  which  lasted 
through  ages ;  during  which  nearly 
all  that  was  sacred  in  religion,  or 
celebrated  in  art,  was  destroyed  by 
these  ruthless  and  savage  invaders. 
The  noble  Rajpoot,  with  a  spirit  of 
constancy  and  enduring  courage,  sei- 
zed every  opportunity  to  turn  upon 
the  oppressor.  By  his  perseverance 
and  valour,  he  wore  out  entire  dy- 
nasties of  foes,  alternately  yielding 
to  his  fate,  or  restricting  the  circle 


1831.] 


Antutls'  and  Antiquities  6f  Rajasfhah. 


685 


of  conquest.  Every  road  in  Rajast'- 
han  was  moistened  with  torrents  of 
blood  of  the  spoiled  and  the  spoiler. 
But  all  was  of  no  avail;  fresh  sup- 
plies were  for  ever  pouring  in,  and 
dynasty  succeeded  dynasty,  heir  to 
the  same  remorseless  feeling  which 
sanctified  murder,  legalized  spolia- 
tion, and  deified  destruction* "In 
these  desperate  conflicts,  entire  tribes 
were  swept  away,  whose  names  are 
the  only  memento  of  their  former 
existence  and  celebrity.  What  nation 
on  earth,  exclaims  Colonel  Tod,  with 
great  animation,  could  have  main- 
tained the  semblance  of  civilisation, 
the  spirit  or  the  customs  of  their 
forefathers,  during  so  many  centu- 
ries of  overwhelming  depression, 
but  one  of  such  singular  character 
as  the  Rajpoot  ?  Though  ardent  and 
reckless,  he  can,  when  required, 
subside  into  forbearance  and  appa- 
rent apathy,  and  reserve  himselt  for 
the  opportunity  of  revenge.  Ra- 
jast'han  exhibits  the  sole  example  in 
the  history  of  mankind  of  a  people 
withstanding  every  outrage  barbarity 
could  inflict,  or  human  nature  sus- 
tain, from  a  foe  whose  religion  com- 
mands annihilation,  and  bent  to  the 
earth,  yet  rising  buoyant  from  the 
pressure,  and  making  calamity  a 
whetstone  to  courage.  How  did  the 
Britons  at  once  sink  under  the  Ro- 
mans, and  in  vain  strive  to  save  their 
groves,  their  Druids,  or  the  altars  of 
Bal  from  destruction !  To  the  Saxons 
they  alike  succumbed — they  again  to 
the  Danes — and  this  heterogeneous 
breed  to  the  Normans.  Empire  was 
lost  and  gained  by  a  single  battle, 
and  the  laws  and  religion  of  the  con- 
quered merged  in  those  of  the  con- 
querors. Contrast  with  these  the 
Rajpoots.  Not  an  iota  of  their  reli- 
gion or  customs  have  they  lost, 
though  many  a  foot  of  land.  Some 
of  their  states  have  been  expunged 
from  the  mass  of  dominion ;  and  as 
a  punishment  of  national  infidelity, 
the  pride  of  the  Rahtore,  and  the 
glory  of  the  Chalook,  the  overgrown 
Kanouj,  and  the  gorgeous  Anhul- 
warra,  are  forgotten  names  ;  but  Me- 
war  alone,  the  sacred  bulwark  of  re- 
ligion, never  compromised  her  ho- 
nour for  her  safety,  and  still  survives 
her  ancient  limits ;  and  since  the 
brave  Samarsi  gave  up  his  life,  the 
blood  of  her  princes  has  flowed  in 
copious  streams  for  the  maintenance 


of  their  honour,  religion,  and  inde- 
pendence. 

In  1275,  Cheetorc,  the  repository 
of  all  that  was  precious  yet  untouch- 
ed of  the  arts  of  India,  was  stormed, 
sacked,  and  treated  with  remorseless 
barbarity  by  the  Pathan  Emperor, 
AHa-o-din.  Bheemsi  was  the  uncle  of 
Lakumsi,  the  young  prince  of  Mewar, 
and  protector  during  his  minority. 
He  had  espoused  Pudmani,  a  title 
bestowed  only  on  the  superlatively 
fair,  and  transmitted  with  renown  to 
posterity  by  tradition  and  the  song 
of  the  bard.  Her  beauty,  accom- 
plishments, exaltation,  and  disposi- 
tion constitute  the  subject  of  one  of 
the  most  popular  traditions  of  Raj- 
warra.  The  Hindu  bard  recognises 
the  fair,  in  preference  to  fame  and 
love  of  conquest,  as  the  motive  for 
the  attack  of  Alla-o-din,  who  desired 
merely  to  see  Pudmani.  Having  been 
admitted  for  that  purpose  within  the 
city,  and  delighted  his  eyes,  Bheemsi 
accompanied  him  to  the  foot  of 
the  fortress,  where  he  fell  into  an 
ambuscade,  and  was  hurried  away 
to  the  Tatar  camp,  his  liberty  being 
made  dependent  on  the  surrender 
of  his  beautiful  wife.  Of  this  she 
was  informed,  and  expressed  her  ac- 
quiescence. Having  provided  where- 
withal to  secure  her  from  dishonour, 
she  communed  with  two  chiefs  of 
her  own  kith  and  clan  of  CeyloB, 
her  uncle  Gorah,  and  his  nephew 
Badul,  who  devised  a  scheme  for 
the  liberation  of  their  prince,  without 
hazarding  her  life  or  fame. 

Intimation  was  dispatched  to 
Alia,  that  on  the  day  he  withdrew 
from  his  trenches,  the  fair  Pudmani 
would  be  sent,  but  in  a  way  befitting 
her  own  and  his  high  station,  sur- 
rounded by  her  females  and  hand- 
maids; not  only  those  who  would 
accompany  her  to  Delhi,  but  many 
others  who  desired  to  pay  her  this  last 
mark  of  reverence.  Strict  commands 
Avere  to  be  issued  to  prevent  curiosity 
from  violating  the  sanctity  of  female 
decorum  and  privacy.  No  less  than 
700  covered  litters  proceeded  to  the 
royal  camp.  In  each  was  placed  one 
of  the  bravest  defenders  ot  Cheetore, 
borne  by  six  armed  soldiers  disgui- 
sed as  litter  porters.  They  reached 
the  camp.  The  royal  tents  were  en- 
closed with  walls  of  cloth,  the  litters 
deposited,  and  half  an  hour  was 
granted  for  a  parting  interview  be- 


Annals  and  Antiquities  of  Rajas? han. 


[Oct. 


tween  the  Hindu  prince  and  his  bride. 
Alia  Avas  becoming  jealous  of  the 
long  interview,  when,  instead  of  the 
prince  and  Pudmani,the  devoted  band 
issued  from  their  litters.  A  fleet 
horse  was  in  reserve  for  Bheemsi, 
on  which  he  escaped — but  the  band 
were  cut  to  pieces — and  Alia  ad- 
vanced to  the  assault  of  Cheetore. 
With  Gorah  and  Badul  at  their  head, 
the  heroes  of  Cheetore  drove  back 
the  Moslems,  and  for  a  while  saved 
the  city.  But  the  flower  of  her  youth 
perished.  Badul,  a  stripling  of  twelve 
years,  escaped,  though  wounded; 
and  in  the  Khoman  Rasa,  a  dialogue 
ensues  between  him  and  his  uncle's 
wife,  who  desires  him  to  relate  how 
her  lord  conducted  himself  ere  she 
joins  him.  The  boy  replies,  "  He 
was  the  reaper  of  the  harvest  of  bat- 
tle ;  I  followed  his  steps  as  the  hum- 
ble gleaner  of  his  sword.  On  the 
gory  bed  of  honour  he  spread  a  car- 
pet of  the  slain ;  a  barbarian  prince 
his  pillow,  he  laid  him  down,  and 
sleeps  surrounded  by  the  foe." 
Again  she  said,  "  Tell  me,  Badul, 
how  did  my  love  behave  ?" — "  Oh ! 
mother,  how  further  describe  his 
deeds,  when  he  left  no  foe  to  dread 
or  admire  him  ?"  She  smiled  fare- 
well to  the  boy,  and  adding,  "  My 
lord  will  chide  my  delay,"  sprung 
into  the  flame. 

But  Alla-o-din  recruited  his  strength 
— and  Cheetore  was  doomed  to  fall. 
The  great  bard  of  Delhi,  Chund,  has 
found  in  the  disastrous  issue  of  the 
siege  admirable  materials  for  his  song. 
He  represents  the  Rana,  after  an  ar- 
duous day,  stretched  on  his  pallet, 
and,  during  a  night  of  watchful  an- 
xiety, pondering  on  the  means  by 
which  he  might  preserve  from  the 
general  destruction  one  at  least  of 
his  twelve  sons,  when  a  voice  broke 
upon  his  solitude,  exclaiming,  "  I 
am  hungry !"  And  raising  his  eyes, 
he  saw  by  the  dim  glare  or  the  lamp, 
advancing  between  the  granite  co- 
lumns, themajestic  form  of  the  guard- 
ian goddess  of  Cheetore.  "  Not  sa- 
tiated," exclaimed  the  Rana,  "  though 
eight  thousand  of  my  kin  were  late 
an  offering  to  thee  ?" 

"  I  must  have  regal  victims ;  and 
if  twelve  who  wear  the  diadem  bleed 
not  for  Cheetore,  the  land  will  pass 
from  the  line." 

This  said,  she  vanished.  On  the 
morn  the  Rana  convened  a  council 


of  his  chiefs,  to  whom  he  revealed 
the  vision  of  the  night,  which  they 
treated  as  the  dream  of  a  disordered 
fancy.  He  commanded  their  attend- 
ance at  midnight,  when  again  the 
form  appeared,  and  repeated  the 
terms  on  which  alone  she  would  re- 
main amongst  them.  "  Though 
thousands  of  barbarians  strew  the 
earth,  what  are  they  to  me  ?  On 
each  day  enthrone  a  prince.  Let  the 
insignia  of  royalty,  the  parasol,  the 
umbrella,  and  the  tail  of  the  wild  ox, 
proclaim  his  sovereignty  ;  and  for 
three  days  let  his  decrees  be  su- 
preme ;  on  the  fourth  let  him  meet 
the  foe  and  his  fate.  Then  only  may 
I  remain." 

That  the  goddess  should  openly 
manifest  her  wish  to  retain  as  her 
tiara  the  battlements  of  Cheetore,  on 
conditions  so  congenial  to  the  war- 
like and  superstitious  Rajpoot,  was  a 
gage  readily  taken  up,  and  fully  an- 
swering the  end.  A  generous  con- 
tention arose  among  the  brave  bro- 
thers, who  should  be  the  first  victim 
to  avert  the  denunciation.  Ursi 
urged  his  priority  of  birth ;  he  was 
proclaimed,the  umbrella  waved  over 
his  head,  and  on  the  fourth  day  he 
surrendered  his  honours  and  his  life. 
Ajeysi,  the  next  in  birth,  demanded 
to  follow ;  but  he  was  the  favourite 
son  of  his  father,  and  at  his  request 
he  consented  to  let  his  brothers  pre- 
cede him.  Eleven  had  fallen  in  turn, 
and  but  one  victim  remained  to  the 
salvation  of  the  city,  when  the  Rana, 
calling  his  chiefs  around  him,  said, 
"Now  I  devote  myself  for  Cheetore." 
But  another  awful  sacrifice  was  to 
precede  this  act  of  self-devotion,  in 
that  horrible  rite,  the  Johur,  where 
the  females  are  immolated  to  pre- 
serve them  from  pollution  or  cap- 
tivity. The  funeral  pyre  was  light- 
ed within  the  "  great  subterranean 
retreat,"  in  chambers  impervious  to 
the  light  of  day,  and  the  defenders  of 
Cheetore  beheld  in  procession  the 
queens,  their  own  wives  and  daugh- 
ters, to  the  number  of  several  thou- 
sands. The  fair  Pudmani  closed  the 
throng,  which  was  augmented  by 
whatever  of  female  beauty  or  youth 
could  be  tainted  by  Tatar  lust. 
They  were  conveyed  to  the  cavern, 
and  the  opening  closed  upon  them, 
leaving  them  to  find  security  from 
dishonour  in  the  fire.  A  contest  now 
arose  between  the  Rana  and  his  sur- 


1831.] 


Annals  and  Antiquities  ofRaja&fhan. 


viving  son;  but  the  father  prevailed, 
and  Ajeysi,  in  obedience  to  his  com- 
mands, with  a  small  band  passed 
through  the  enemy's  lines,  and  reach- 
ed Kailwarra  in  safety.  The  Rana, 
satisfied  that  his  line  was  not  extinct, 
now  prepared  tofollow  his  dead  sons ; 
and  calling  around  him  his  devoted 
clans,  they  thre  w  open  the  portals,  and 
descended  into  the  plain,  and  with 
reckless  despair  carried  death,  or  met 
it,  in  the  crowded  ranks  of  Alia.  The 
Tatar  conqueror  took  possession  of 
an  inanimate  capital,  strewed  with 
brave  defenders,  the  smoke  yet  issu- 
ing from  the  recesses  where  lay  con- 
sumed the  once  fair  object  of  his 
desire ;  and  since  this  devoted  day 
the  cavern  has  been  sacred ;  no  eye 
has  penetrated  its  gloom,  and  super- 
stition has  placed  as  its  guardian 
a  huge  serpent,  whose  venomous 
breath  extinguishes  the  light  which 
might  guide  intruders  to  the  "  Place 
of  Sacrifice." 

Thus  fell  this  celebrated  capital, 
in  the  round  of  conquest  of  Alla-o- 
din,  one  of  the  most  vigorous  and 
warlike  sovereigns  who  have  occu- 
pied the  throne  of  India.  In  success, 
and  in  one  of  the  means  of  its  attain- 
ment, a  bigoted  hypocrisy,  he  bore 
a  striking  resemblance  to  Aurungzeb; 
and  the  title  of  "  Secunder  Sani," 
or  the  Second  Alexander,  which  he 
assumed  and  impressed  on  his  coins, 
was  no  idle  vaunt.  The  proud 
Anhulwarra,  the  ancient  D'har  and 
Avanti;  Mandore  and  Deogir,  the 
seats  of  the  Solankis,  the  Pramaras, 
the  Puriharas  and  Taks,  the  entire 
Agnicula  race,  were  overturned  for 
ever  by  Alia.  Many  princedoms 
suffered  all  the  horrors  of  assault, 
though  destined  again  to  raise  their 
heads.  Alia  remained  in  Cheetore 
some  days,  admiring  the  grandeur 
of  his  conquest;  having  committed 
every  act  of  barbarity  and  outrage, 
and  wanton  dilapidation,  which  a 
bigoted  zeal  could  suggest,  over- 
throwing the  temples  and  other  mo- 
numents of  art,  he  delivered  the  city 
to  Maldeo,  the  chief  of  Jhalore,  whom 
he  had  conquered  and  enrolled  among 
his  vassals. 

The  survivor  of  Cheetore,  Rana 
Ajeysi,  was  now  in  security  at  Kail- 
warra, at  own  situated  in  the  heart 
of  the  Aravulli  mountains,  the  wes- 
tern boundary  of  Mewar.  The  coun- 
try was  now  occupied  by  the  garri- 


687 

sons  of  Delhi,  and  he  had  besides  to 
contend  with  the  mountain  chiefs. 
In  this  struggle  he  was  nobly  sup- 
ported by  his  nephew  Hamir,  the  son 
of  his  eldest  brother  Ursi,  who  had 
first  devoted  himself  to  death  for 
Cheetore.  This  hero  was  destined 
to  redeem  the  promise  of  the  Genius 
of  Cheetore ;  and  his  birth  and  early 
history  fill  many  a  page  of  its  annals. 
His  father,  Ursi,  being  out  on  a  hunt- 
ing excursion,  in  the  forest  of  Ondwa, 
with  some  young  chiefs  of  the  court, 
in  pursuit  of  the  boar,  entered  a  field 
of  maize,  when  a  female  offered  to 
drive  out  the  game.  Pulling  one  of 
the  stalks  of  maize,  which  grows  to 
the  height  of  ten  or  twelve  feet,  she 
pointed  it,  and  mounting  the  plat- 
form made  to  watch  the  corn,  im- 
paled the  hog,  dragged  him  before 
the  hunters,  and  departed.  Though 
accustomed  to  feats  of  strength  and 
heroism  from  the  nervous  arms  of 
their  countrywomen,  the  act  surpri- 
sed them.  They  descended  to  the 
stream  at  hand,  and  prepared  the  re- 
past, as  is  usual,  on  the  spot.  The 
feast  was  held,  and  comments  were 
passing  on  the  fair  arm  which  had 
transfixed  the  boar,  when  a  ball  of 
clay  from  a  sling  fractured  a  limb  of 
the  prince's  steed.  Looking  in  the 
direction  whence  it  came,  they  ob- 
served the  same  damsel,  from  her 
elevated  stand,  fixed  upon  four  poles 
in  the  middle  of  the  field,  on  which 
a  guard  is  placed  to  drive  away  the 
ravens  and  peacocks.  As  they  were 
proceeding  homewards  after  the 
sports  of  the  day,  they  again  encoun- 
tered the  damsel,  with  a  vessel  of 
milk  on  her  head,  and  leading  in 
either  hand  a  young  buffalo.  It  was 
proposed  in  frolic  to  overturn  her 
milk,  and  one  of  the  companions  of 
the  prince  dashed  rudely  by  her ; 
but  without  being  disconcerted  she 
entangled  one  other  pets  with  the 
horse's  limbs,  and  brought  the  rider 
to  the  ground.  On  enquiry  the  prince 
discovered  that  she  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  poor  Rajpoot  of  the  Chundano 
tribe.  He  returned  the  next  day,  and 
sent  for  her  father,  who  came  and 
took  his  seat  with  perfect  independ- 
ence close  to  the  prince,  to  the  mer- 
riment of  his  companions,  which  was 
checked  by  Ursi  asking  his  daughter 
to  wife.  They  were  yet  more  sur- 
prised by  the  demand  being  refu- 
sed. The  Rajpoot,  on  going  home, 


Annals  hnd  Antiquities  ofRajasfhan. 


'688 

told  the  more  prudent  mother,  who 
scolded  him  heartily,  made  him  re- 
call the  refusal,  and  seek  the  prince. 
They  were  married,  and  Hamir  was 
the  son  of  the  Chundano  Rajpoot- 
nee.  He  remained  little  noticed  at 
the  maternal  ahode  till  the  catastrophe 
of  Cheetore. 

Being  now  grown  to  manhood, 
Hamir  was  summoned  by  the  Rana, 
whose  own  sons  were  degenerate, 
to  assist  him  against  a  formidable 
mountain-chief,  Moonja  Balaitcha. 
He  promised  to  return  successful,  or 
not  at  all ;  and  in  a  few  days  he  was 
seen  enteriag  the  Pass  of  Kailwarra, 
with  Moonja's  head  at  his  saddle- 
bow. Modestly  placing  the  trophy 
at  his  uncle's  feet,  he  exclaimed, — 
"  Recognise  the  head  of  your  foe !" 
Ajeysi  "  kissed  his  beard,"  and  ob- 
serving that  fate  had  stamped  em- 
pire on  his  forehead,  impressed  it 
with  a  teeka  of  blood  from  the  head 
of  the  Balaitcha.  Hamir  succeeded 
in  1301,  and  had  sixty- four  years 
granted  to  him  to  redeem  his  coun- 
try from  the  ruins  of  the  past  cen- 
tury, which  period  had  elapsed  since 
India  ceased  to  own  the  paramount 
sway  of  her  native  princes.  "  The 
son  of  Ursi  unsheathed  the  sword, 
thence  never  stranger  to  his  hand," 
desolating  the  plains,  and  leaving  to 
his  enemies  only  the  fortified  towns, 
which  could  be  safely  inhabited. 
He  commanded  all  who  owned  his 
sovereignty,  either  to  quit  their 
abodes,  and  retire  with  their  families 
to  the  shelter  of  the  hills  on  the  east- 
ern and  western  frontiers,  or  share 
the  fate  of  the  public  enemy.  The 
roads  were  rendered  impassable  by 
his  parties,  who  issued  from  their 
retreats  in  the  Aravulli,  a  destructive 
policy,  which  has  obtained,  from  the 
time  of  Mahmood  of  Gazni,  in  the 
tenth,  to  Mahomed,  the  last  who  me- 
rited the  name  of  Emperor  of  Delhi, 
in  the  eighteenth  century. 

Such  was  the  state  of  Mewar,  its 
places  of  strength  occupied  by  the 
foe,  cultivation  and  peaceful  objects 
neglected,  when  a  proposal  of  mar- 
riage came  from  the  Hindu  governor 
of  Cheetore.  Hamir  accepted  it, 
and  approached  the  fort  with  a  re- 
tinue of  500  horse ;  but,  on  the  por- 
tal of  the  city,  no  torun,  or  nuptial 
emblem,  was  seen  suspended.  He, 
however,  accepted  the  unsatisfactory 
reply  to  his  remark  on  this  indication 


lOct, 


of  treachery,  and  ascended,  for  the 
first  time,  the  rampart  of  Cheetore. 
He  was  received  in  the  ancient  halls 
of  his  ancestors  by  the  governor  and 
his  chiefs  «  with  folded  hands."  The 
bride  was  brought  forth,  and  pre- 
sented by  her  father  without  any  of 
the  usual  solemnities,  the  "  knot  of 
their  garments  tied,  and  their  hands 
united,"  and  thus  they  were  left. 
The  family  priest  recommended  pa- 
tience, and  Hamir  retired  with  his 
bride.  Her  kindness  and  vows  of 
fidelity  overcame  his  sadness,  upon 
learning  that  he  bad  married  a  wi- 
dow. She  had  been  wedded  to  a 
chief  of  the  Bhatti  tribe,  shortly  af- 
terwards slain,  and  when  she  was  so 
young  as  not  even  to  recollect  his 
appearance.  He  ceased  to  lament 
the  insult,  when  she  herself  taught 
him  how  it  might  be  avenged,  and 
that  it  might  even  lead  to  the  reco- 
very of  Cheetore.  It  is  a  privilege 
possessed  by  the  bridegroom  to  have 
one  specific  favour  complied  with, as 
a  part  of  the  dower,  and  Hamir  was 
instructed  by  his  bride  to  ask  for 
Jal,  one  of  the  civil  officers  of  Chee- 
tore, and  of  the  Mehta  tribe.  With 
his  wife,  so  obtained,  and  the  scribe 
whose  talents  remained  for  trial, 
he  returned  in  a  fortnight  to  Kail- 
warra. In  due  time,  the  princess 
was  delivered  of  a  son,  whom  she 
requested  permission  to  accompany 
into  the  city,  that  she  might  lay  him 
on  the  shrine  of  the  Deity.  Instruct- 
ed by  the  cunning  scribe,  she  gained 
over  the  troops.  Hamir,  at  the  head 
of  a  strong  force,  was  at  hand,  and 
the  oath  of  allegiance  was  proclaim- 
ed from  the  palace  of  his  fathers. 
"  The  Standard  of  the  Sun"  once 
more  shone  refulgent  from  the  Avails 
of  Cheetore,  and  was  the  signal  for 
the  return  to  their  ancient  abodes, 
from  hills  and  hiding-places,  to  the 
adherents  of  Hamir.  The  valleys  of 
Komulmer,  and  all  the  western  high- 
lands, poured  forth  their  streams  of 
men,  and  every  chief  of  true  Hindu 
rejoiced  at  the  prospect  of  once 
more  throwing  off  the  barbarian 
yoke.  So  powerful  was  this  feeling, 
and  with  such  skill  and  activity  did 
Hamir  follow  up  this  favour  of  for- 
tune, that  he  marched  to  meet  Mah- 
mood, who  was  advancing  to  reco- 
ver his  lost  possessions.  Mahmood 
was  attacked,  defeated,  and  made 
prisoner  by  Hamir,  nor  was  libera- 


1831.] 


Annals  and  Antiquities  of  Rajas?  han. 


ted  till  lie  had  surrendered  Ajmer, 
Rinthumbore,  Nagore,  and  Sooe  So- 
poor,  besides  paying  fifty  lacks  of 
rupees,  and  one  hundred  elephants. 
Hamir  would  exact  no  promise  of 
cessation  from  further  inroads,  but 
contented  himself  with  assuring  Mah- 
mood,  that  he  should  be  prepared 
to  defend  Cheetore,  not  within,  but 
without  the  walls.  Hamir  was  the 
sole  Hindu  prince  of  power  now  left 
in  India;  all  the  ancient  dynasties 
were  crushed,  and  the  ancestors  of 
the  present  Princes  of  Marwar  and 
Jeipoor,brought  their  levies, paid  ho- 
mage, and  obeyed  the  summons  of 
the  Prince  of  Cheetore,  as  did  the 
chiefs  of  many  other  principalities. 
Extensive  as  was  the  power  of  Me- 
war,  before  the  Tatar  occupation  of 
India,  it  could  scarcely  have  sur- 
passed the  solidity  of  sway  which 
she  enjoyed  during  the  two  centu- 
ries following'  Hamir' s  recovery  of 
the  capital.  From  this  event,  to  the 
next  invasion  from  the  same  quarter, 
led  by  Baber,  a  succession  of  splen- 
did names  adorn  her  anuals;  and 
though  destined  to  be  surrounded  by 
new  Mahomedan  dynasties  in  Mal- 
wa  and  Guzzerat,  as  well  as  Delhi, 
yet  did  she  successfully  oppose  them 
all.  The  distracted  state  of  affairs, 
when  the  races  of  Ghilji,  LodS,  and 
Soor,  alternately  struggled  for  and 
obtained  the  seat  of  dominion,  Del- 
hi, was  favourable  to  Mewar,  whose 
power  was  so  consolidated,  that  she 
not  only  repelled  armies  from  her 
territory,  but  carried  war  abroad, 
and  left  tokens  of  victory  at  Nagore, 
in  Saurashtra,  and  to  the  walls  of 
Delhi.  The  subjects  of  Mewar  must 
have  enjoyed  not  only  along  repose, 
but  high  prosperity,  during  this  pe- 
riod, judging  from  their  magnificent 
public  works,  when  a  triumphal  co- 
lumn must  have  cost  the  income  of 
a  kingdom  to  erect,  and  which  ten 
years'  income  of  the  crown-lands  of 
Mewar  could  not  at  this  time  de- 
fray. The  subject,  too,  had  his  mo- 
numents as  well  as  the  prince,  the 
ruins  of  which  may  yet  be  discover- 
ed in  the  more  inaccessible  or  de- 
serted portions  of  Rajast'han.  Ha- 
mir died  full  of  years,  leaving  a  name 
still  honoured  in  Mewar,  as  one  of 
the  wisest  and  most  gallant  of  her 
princes,  and  bequeathing  a  well-esta- 
blished and  extensive  power  to  his 
son. 


G89 

Pass  we  on  now  to  the  reign  of 
Koombho,  early  in  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, when  Mewar  was  great  in  power 
and  glory.  Cheetore  had  long  reco- 
vered the  sack,  and  new  defenders 
had  sprung  up  in  their  place  of  those 
who  had  "fallen  in  the  saffron  robes," 
a  sacrifice  for  her  preservation.  Mal- 
wa  and  Guzzerat  had  attained  consi- 
derable power  when  Koombho  as- 
cended the  throne  ;  and  the  kings  of 
those  countries  at  the  head  of  power- 
ful armies  invaded  Mewar.  Koombho 
met  them  on  the  plains  of  Malwa, 
bordering  on  his  own  state,  and  at 
the  head  of  one  hundred  thousand 
horse  and  foot,  and  fourteen  hundred 
elephants,  gave  them  an  entire  defeat, 
carrying  captive  to  Cheetore,  Mah- 
mood,  the  Ghilii  sovereign  of  Malwa. 
There  is  in  Cheetore  a  triumphal 
pillar  whose  inscriptions  detail  this 
event,  "  when  shaking  the  earth,  the 
lords  of  Goojur-khund  and  Malwa, 
with  armies  overwhelming  as  the 
ocean,  invaded  Medpat."  Eleven 
years  after  that  event,  Koombho  laid 
the  foundation  of  this  column,  and 
completed  it  in  ten  more ;  "  this  ring- 
let on  the  brow  of  Cheetore,  which 
makes  her  look  down  upon  Meru 
with  derision."  Of  eighty-four  fort- 
resses for  the  defence  of  Mewar, 
thirty-two  were  erected  by  Koom- 
bho. Inferior  only  to  Cheetore,  is 
that  stupendous  work  called  after 
him  Koombhomer, "  the  hill  of  Koom- 
bho," from  its  natural  position,  and 
the  works  he  raised,  impregnable  to 
an  army.  He  also  erected  a  citadel 
on  a  peak  of  Aboo,  within  the  fort- 
ress of  the  ancient  Pramara,  where 
he  often  resided;  and  its  magazine 
and  alarm-tower  still  bear  his  name. 
In  a  rude  temple,  the  bronze  effigies 
of  Koombho  and  his  father  still  re- 
ceive divine  honours.  Besides  these 
monuments  of  his  genius,  two  con- 
secrated to  religion  have  survived. 
One  of  them,  among  the  largest  edi- 
fices existing,  cost  upwards  of  a  mil- 
lion sterling.  It  is  erected  in  Sadri 
pass,  leading  from  the  western  de- 
scent of  the  Highlands  of  Mewar,  and 
dedicated  to  Rishub-deva.  Its  seclu- 
ded position  has  preserved  it  from 
bigoted  fury,  and  its  only  visitants 
now  are  the  wild  beasts  who  take 
shelter  in  the  sanctuary.  Koombho 
had  occupied  the  throne  for  half  a 
century,  (from  1419  to  14G9,)  had 
triumphed  over  all  his  enemies,  forti- 


690 

fied  his  country  with  strongholds,  and 
embellished  it  with  temples,  when 
the  year  that  should  have  been  a  ju- 
bilee was  disgraced  by  the  foulest 
blot  in  the  annals ;  he  was  murdered 
by  his  own  son,  who  soon  becoming 
a  prey  to  remorse,  and  afraid  of  all 
the  native  princes,  humbled  himself 
before  the  king  of  Delhi,  offering  him 
a  daughter  in  marriage.  But  "  Hea- 
ven manifested  its  vengeance  to  pre- 
vent this  additional  iniquity,  and  pre- 
serve the  house  of  Bappa  Rawul  from 
dishonour."  He  had  scarcely  quitted 
the  Divan,  on  taking  leave  of  the 
king,  when  a  flash  of  lightning  struck 
the  "  Hatiaro"  to  the  earth,  whence 
he  never  arose. 

Singram,  better  known  in  the  an- 
nals of  Mewar,  as  Sanga,  succeeded 
in  1509,  and  with  him  Mewar  reach- 
ed the  summit  of  her  prosperity.  To 
use  their  own  metaphor,  "  he  was 
the  kullus  [the  ball  or  urn]  on  the 
pinnacle  of  her  glory."  From  him 
we  witness  this  glory  on  the  wane ; 
and  though  many  rays  of  splendour 
illuminated  her  declining  career, 
they  served  but  to  gild  the  ruin. 
Eighty  thousand  horse,  seven  Rajahs 
of  the  highest  rank,  nine  Raos,  and 
one  hundred  and  four  chieftans  bear- 
ing the  titles  of  Rawul  and  Rawut, 
with  five  hundred  war  elephants, 
followed  him  into  the  field.  Swaying 
directly  or  by  control  the  greater 
part  of  Rajast'han,  and  adored  by 
the  Rajpoots  for  the  virtues  they 
most  esteemed,  Sanga  was  ascending 
to  the  summit  of  power;  and  bad  not 
fresh  hordes  of  Usbecs  and  Tatars, 
from  the  prolific  shores  of  the  Oxus 
and  Jaxartes,  again  poured  down 
on  the  devoted  plains  of  Hindust'han, 
the  crown  of  the  Chacraverta  (uni- 
versal potentate,  of  whom  the  Hindus 
reckon  but  six  in  their  history)  might 
again  have  encircled  the  brow  of  a 
Hindu,  and  the  banner  of  supremacy 
been  transferred  from  Indraprest- 
'ha  to  the  battlements  of  Cheetore. 
But  the  great  Baber  arrived  at  a  cri- 
tical time  to  rally  the  dejected  fol- 
lowers of  the  Koran,  and  to  collect 
them  around  his  own  victorious  stand- 
ard. Sanga  was  overthrown ;  and  we 
see  the  gradual  decline  of  Mewar,  till 
once  more  Cheetore  was  taken  by. 
the  invincible  Akber. 

Akber  was  not  older  when  he 
came  to  the  throne  of  Delhi  ( 1 555) 
than  Oody  Sing  when  he  ascended 


Annals  and  Antiquities  ofRajasfhan. 


[Oct. 


that  of  Mewar ;  they  were  both  un- 
der thirteen  years  of  age — nor  were 
his  hopes  much  brighter,  but  the  one 
was  disciplined  into  accurate  know- 
ledge of  human  nature  by  experience 
of  the  mutability  of  fortune,  and  the 
other  had  been  cooped  up  from  in- 
fancy in  a  valley  of  his  native  hills, 
his  birth  concealed  and  his  education 
restricted.  Akber  was  the  real  foun- 
der of  the  empire  of  the  Moguls, 
and  the  first  successful  conqueror  of 
Rajpoot  independence.  The  absence 
of  all  kingly  virtues  in  the  sovereign 
of  Mewar  filled  to  the  brim  the  bitter 
cup  of  her  destiny.  The  guardian 
goddess  of  the  Seesodias  had  promi- 
sed never  to  abandon  the  rock  of  her 
pride  while  a  descendant  of  Bappa 
Rawul  devoted  himself  to  her  service. 
In  the  first  assault  of  Cheetore  by 
Alia,  twelve  crowned  heads,  as  we 
have  seen,  defended  the  "  crimson 
banner"  to  the  death.  In  the  second, 
when  conquest,  led  by  Bajazet,  came 
from  the  south,  the  chieftain  of  Deo- 
la,  a  noble  scion  of  Mewar,  though 
severed  from  her  stem,  claimed  the 
crown  of  glory  and  martyrdom.  But 
on  this  third  and  grandest  struggle, 
no  regal  victim  appeared  to  appease 
the  Cybele  of  Cheetore,  and  win  her 
to  retain  its  battlements  as  her  coro- 
net. She  fell ;  the  charm  was  broken ; 
the  mysterious  tie  was  severed  for 
ever  which  connected  Cheetore  with 
perpetuity  of  sway  to  the  race  of 
Ghelote.  With  Oody  Sing  fled  the 
"  fair  face"  which  in  the  dead  of 
night  concealed  the  eyes  of  the  he- 
roic Samarsi,  and  told  him  that  "  the 
glory  of  the  Hindu  was  departing." 
With  him  fled  that  opinion  which  for 
ages  esteemed  her  walls  the  sanctu- 
ary of  the  race,  which  encircled  her 
with  a  halo  of  glory,  as  the  palladium 
of  the  religion  and  the  liberties  of  the 
Rajpoots. 

Ferishta  mentions  but  one  enter- 
prise against  Cheetore,  that  of  its 
capture ;  but  the  annals  record  an- 
other, when  Akber  was  compelled  to 
relinquish  the  undertaking.  The 
successful  defence  is  attributed  to 
the  masculine  courage  of  the  Rana's 
concubine-queen,  who  headed  the 
sallies  into  the  heart  of  the  Mogul 
camp,  and  on  one  occasion  to  the 
emperor's  headquarters.  The  im- 
becile Rana  proclaimed  that  he 
owed  his  deliverance  to  her ;  when 
the  chiefs,  indignant  at  this  impute- 


1831.] 


Annals  and  Antiquities  of  Rajas?  han. 


tion  on  their  courage,  conspired,  and 
put  her  to  death.  Internal  discord 
invited  Akber  to  reinvest  Cheetore 
—and  his  headquarters  are  yet 
marked  by  a  pyramidal  column  of 
marble,  to  which  tradition  has  as- 
signed the  title  of  "  Akber's  Lamp." 
The  cowardly  Rana  forsook  the 
city — but  she  was  defended  by 
thousands  of  heroes,  above  all  of 
whom  shone  conspicuous  Jeimul  of 
Bednore  and  Putta  of  Kailwa,  both 
of  the  sixteen  superior  vassals  of 
Mewar.  Akber's  own  pen  has  im- 
mortalized them;  their  names  are 
as  household  words,  inseparable  in 
Mewar;  and  these  will  thus  be 
honoured  while  the  Rajpoot  retains 
a  shred  of  his  inheritance,  or  a  spark 
of  his  ancient  recollections.  When 
it  was  seen  that  there  was  no  ulti- 
mate hope  of  salvation,  the  fatal  Jo- 
liar  was  commanded;  eight  thou- 
sand Rajpoots  ate  the  last  "  beera" 
together,  and  put  on  their  saffron 
robes  ;  the  gates  were  thrown  wide 
open,  and  Akber  entered  the  city. 
Thirty  thousand  of  its  inhabitants 
perished;  all  the  heads  of  clans, 
both  home  and  foreign,  and  seven- 
teen hundred  of  the  immediate  kin 
of  the  prince  sealed  their  duty  to 
their  country  with  their  lives.  Nine 
queens,  five  princesses,  their  daugh- 
ters, with  two  infant  sons,  and  the 
families  of  all  the  chieftains,  not  at 
their  estates,  perished  in  the  flames, 
or  in  the  assault.  Their  divinity  had 
indeed  deserted  them ;  for  it  was  on 
Adittwar,the  Day  of  the  Sun,  he  shed 
for  the  last  time  a  ray  of  glory  on 
Cheetore.  Akber  bereft  her  of  all 
the  symbols  of  regality;  the  great 
kettledrums,  whose  reverberations 
proclaimed  for  miles  round  the  en- 
trance and  exit  of  her  princes ;  the 
candelabras  from  the  shrine  of  the 
"  Great  Mother,"  who  girt  Bappa 
Rawul  with  the  sword  with  which 
he  conquered  Cheetore;  and  in 
mockery  of  her  misery,  her  portals 
to  adorn  his  projected  capital,  Ak- 
berabad.  The  conqueror  erected 
statues  to  the  manes  of  Jeimul  and 
Putta,  at  the  most  conspicuous  en- 
trance of  his  palace  at  Delhi,  and 
they  retained  that  distinction  even 
when  Bernier  was  in  India. 

When  Oody  Sing  abandoned  Chee- 
tore, he  found  refuge  in  the  moun- 
tains of  the  Aravulli — and  built  a 
city  to  which  he  gave  his  own  name, 


691 

Oodipor,  henceforth  the  capital  of 
Mewar.  In  a  few  years  the  craven 
died — and  was  succeeded  by  a  hero 
— by  thefamous  Pertap.  This  prince 
succeeded  to  the  titles  and  renown 
of  an  illustrious  house,  but  without  a 
capital,  without  resources,  his  kind- 
red and  clans  dispirited  by  reverses ; 
yet  possessed  of  the  noble  spirit  of 
his  race,  he  meditated  the  recovery 
of  Cheetore,  the  vindication  of  the 
honour  of  his  house,  and  the  restora- 
tion of  its  power.  While  he  gave 
loose  to  those  lofty  aspirations  wnich 
meditated  liberty  to  Mewar,  the 
wily  Mogul  was  counteracting  his 
views  by  a  scheme  of  policy  which, 
when  disclosed,  filled  his  heart  with 
anguish.  He  arrayed  against  Pertap 
his  kindred,  in  faith,  as  well  as  in 
blood.  The  princes  of  Marwar, 
Amber,  Bikaner,  and  Boondi  took 
part  with  Akber,  and  upheld  despo- 
tism. His  own  brother  Sagarji  de- 
serted him,  and  received  as  the  price 
of  his  treachery  the  ancient  capital 
of  bis  race,  and  the  title  which  that 
possession  conferred.  But,  in  the 
words  of  the  bard,  Pertap  had  sworn 
to  "  make  his  mother's  blood  re- 
splendent ;"  and  single-handed,  for  a 
quarter  of  a  century,  did  he  with- 
stand the  combined  efforts  of  the 
empire;  at  one  time  carrying  de- 
struction into  the  plains,  at  another 
flying  from  rock  to  rock,  feeding  hi« 
family  from  the  fruits  of  his  native 
hills,  and  rearing  the  nursling  hero 
Umra,  amidst  savage  wild  beasts  and 
not  lest  savage  men,  a  fit  heir  to  hig 
prowess  and  revenge. 

Pertap  was  nobly  supported ;  and 
though  wealth  and  fortune  tempted 
the  fidelity  of  his  chiefs,  not  one  was 
found  base  enough  to  desert  him.  The 
sons  of  Jeimul  shed  their  blood  in 
his  cause,  along  with  the  successors 
of  Putta;  the  house  of  Saloombra 
redoubled  the  claims  of  Chonda  to 
fidelity;  and  these  five  lustres  of 
adversity  are  the  brightest  in  the 
checkered  page  of  the  history  of 
Mewar.  The  brilliant  acts  he  achie- 
ved during  that  period  live  in  every 
valley;  and  Colonel  Tod,  who  has 
climbed  the  rocks,  crossed  the 
streams,  and  traversed  the  plains, 
which  were  the  theatre  of  Pertap's 

Slory,  and  conversed  with  the  lineal 
escendants  of  Jeimul  and  Putta  on 
the  deeds  of  their  forefathers,  has 
often  seen  the  tears  start  into  their 


692 


Annals  and  Antiquities  of  Rajasfhan. 


eyes  at  the  tales  they  recited.  To 
commemorate  the  desolation  of  Chee- 
tore,  which  the  bardic  historian  re- 
presents "  as  a  widow  despoiled  of 
the  ornaments  of  her  loveliness,"  Per- 
tap  interdicted  to  himself  and  his 
successors  every  article  of  luxury 
or  pomp,  until  the  insignia  of  her 
glory  should  he  redeemed.  The  gold 
and  silver  dishes  were  laid  aside  for 
pateras  of  leaves,  their  beds  hence- 
forth of  straw,  and  their  beards  left 
untouched.  And  in  order  more  dis- 
tinctly to  mark  their  fallen  fortune, 
and  stimulate  to  its  recovery,  he 
commanded  that  the  martial  nakaras, 
which  always  sounded  in  the  van  of 
battle  or  processions,  should  follow 
in  the  rear.  Being  unable  to  keep 
the  field  in  the  plains  of  Mewar,  he 
followed  the  system  of  his  ancestors, 
and  commanded  his  subjects,  on  pain 
of  death,  to  retire  into  the  moun- 
tains. 

Many  tales  are  related  of  the  un- 
relenting severity  with  which  Pertap 
enforced  obedience  to  this  stern  po- 
licy. Frequently  with  a  few  horse 
he  issued  forth  to  see  that  his  com- 
mands were  obeyed.  The  silence  of 
the  desert  prevailed  in  the  plains ; 
grass  grew  in  place  of  corn ;  the 
highways  were  all  choked  with 
strong  thorns ;  and  beasts  of  prey 
made  their  lairs  in  the  habitations  of 
his  subjects.  In  the  midst  of  this 
desolation,  a  single  goatherd,  trust- 
ing to  elude  observation,  disobeyed 
his  prince's  injunctions,  and  pastured 
his  flock  in  the  luxuriant  meadows 
of  Ontalla,  on  the  banks  of  the  Bunas. 
He  was  killed  and  hung  up  in  ter- 
ror em.  By  such  patriotic  severity, 
Pertap  rendered  the  garden  of  Ra- 
jast'han  of  no  value  to  the  conquer- 
or ;  and  the  commerce  already  esta- 
blished between  the  Mogul  court 
and  Europe,  conveyed  through  Me- 
war, Surat,  and  other  ports,  was  in- 
tercepted and  plundered. 

But  the  odds  were  fearful  against 
the  hero.  For  with  such  examples 
before  them  as  Amber  and  Marvvar, 
and  with  less  power  to  resist  the 
temptation,  the  minor  chiefs  of  Ra- 
jast'han,  with  a  brave  and  nume- 
rous vassalage,  were  transformed  into 
satraps  of  Delhi ;  and  truly  did  the 
Mogul  historian  designate  them  as 
"  at  once  the  props  and  ornaments 
of  the  throne."  When  Hindu  pre- 
judice was  thus  violated  by  every 


prince  in  Rajast'han,  Pertap  re- 
nounced all  alliance  with  those  who 
were  thus  degraded;  and,  in  order 
to  carry  on  the  line,  he  sought  and 
incorporated  with  the  first  class  of 
the  nobles  of  his  own  kin,  the  de- 
scendants of  the  ancient  princes  of 
Delhi,  of  Puttun,  of  Mar  war,  and  of 
Dhar.  To  the  eternal  honour  of  Per- 
tap and  his  issue,  be  it  told,  that,  to 
the  very  close  of  the  monarchy  of 
the  Moguls,  they  not  only  refused 
such  alliance  with  the  throne,  but 
even  with  their  brother  princes  of 
Marwar  and  Amber,  whom  such  al- 
liances had  degraded. 

In  this  condition  of  the  country, 
Prince  Selim,  the  heir  of  Delhi,  at 
the  head  of  a  great  army,  marched 
against  Pertap,  who  trusted  to  his 
native  hills  and  the  valour  of  twen- 
ty-two thousand  Rajpoots.  Tlie  ap- 
proaches to  his  new  capital,  Komul- 
mer,  among  the  Aravulli  mountains, 
are  so  narrow  as  to  be  defiles ;  on 
each  side  lofty  perpendicular  rocks, 
with  scarcely  breadth  for  two  car- 
riages abreast,  across  which  are  those 
ramparts  of  nature,  termed  Col  in 
the  mountain  scenery  of  Europe, 
which  occasionally  open  into  spaces 
sufficiently  capacious  to  encamp  a 
large  force.  Such  was  the  plain  of 
Huldighat,  at  the  base  of  a  neck  of 
mountain  which  shut  up  the  valley 
and  rendered  it  almost  inaccessible. 
Above  and  below  the  Rajpoots  were 
posted ;  and  on  the  clift's  and  pinna- 
cles overlooking  the  field  of  battle, 
the  faithful  aborigines,  the  Bhil,  with 
his  native  weapon  the  bow  and  ar- 
row, and  huge  stones  ready  to  roll 
down  upon  the  invaders.  At  this 
pass  Pertap  was  posted  with  the 
flower  of  Mewar ;  and  during  the 
battle,  he  strove  in  vain  to  encoun- 
ter the  traitor  Rajah  Maun,  hewing 
his  way  close  to  the  person  of  Prince 
Selim.  His  guards  fell  before  Per- 
tap, and,  but  for  the  steel  plates 
which  defended  his  howda,  the  lance 
of  the  Rajpoot  would  have  deprived 
Akber  of  his  heir.  His  steed,  the 
gallant  Chytuc,  is  represented  in  all 
the  historical  drawings  of  this  battle, 
with  one  foot  raised  upon  the  ele- 
phant of  the  Mogul;  but  the  infu- 
riated animal  bore  Selim  out  of  the 
field.  Marked  by  the  "  royal  um- 
brella," which  he  would  not  lay 
aside,  and  which  collected  the  might 
of  the  enemy  against  him,  Pertap 


1831.] 


Annals  and  Antiquities  of  Rajas? /tan. 


was  thrice  rescued  from  the  press  ; 
and  was  at  last  nearly  overwhelmed, 
when  the  Jhala  chief  gave  a  signal 
instance  of  fidelity,  and  extricated 
him  with  the  loss  of  his  own  life. 
He  seized  upon  the  insignia  of  Me  war, 
and  rearing  the  "  golden  sun"  over 
his  head,  made  good  his  way  to  an 
intricate  position,  drawing  after  him 
all  the  brunt  of  battle,  while  his 
prince  was  forced  from  the  field. 
With  all  his  brave  vassals  the  noble 
Jhala  fell ;  and,  in  remembrance  of 
the  deed,  his  descendants  have,  since 
the  day  of  Huldighat,  borne  the  regal 
ensigns  of  Mewar,  and  enjoyed  the 
"  right  hand  of  her  princes." 

But  this  desperate  valour  was  un- 
availing against  such  a  force,  with  a 
numerousfield  artillery,  and  a  drome- 
dary corps  of  mounted  swivels;  and 
of  twenty-two  thousand  Rajpoots, 
only  eight  thousand  quitted  the  field 
alive.  Of  the  nearest  kin  of  the 
prince,  five  hundred  were  slain,  and 
the  exiled  prince  of  Gwalior,  Ilam- 
sah,  his  son  Khaudirao,  with  three 
hundred  and  fifty  of  his  brave  Tuar 
clan,  paid  the  debt  of  gratitude  with 
their  lives;  Manah,the  devoted  Ghala, 
lost  one  hundred  and  fifty  of  his  vas- 
sals ;  and  every  house  of  Mewar 
mourned  its  chief  support.  Pertap, 
unattended,  fled  on  the  gallant  Chy- 
tuc,  who  saved  his  master  by  leaping 
a  mountain  stream,  when  closely 
pursued  by  two  Mogul  chiefs.  But 
Chytuc,  like  his  master,  was  wound- 
ed, and  his  pursuers  gained  fast  upon 
him,  when,  in  the  broad  accents  of 
his  native  tongue,  the  salutation  of 
"  Ho!  Rider  of  the  Blue  Horse," 
made  Pertap  look  back,  and  he  be- 
held his  brother  Sukta,  whose  per- 
sonal enmity  to  the  Rana  had  made 
him  a  traitor  to  Mewar.  Resentment 
was  extinguished,  and  a  feeling  of 
affection,  mingling  with  sad  and  hu- 
miliating recollections,  took  posses- 
sion of  his  bosom.  He  joined  in  the 
pursuit,  but  only  to  slay  the  pur- 
suers; and  now  for  the  first  time  in 
their  lives  the  brothers  embraced  in 
friendship.  Here  Chytuc  fell ;  and 
as  the  Rana  unbuckled  his  capari- 
son to  place  it  upon  Unkarro,  pre- 
sented to  him  by  his  brother,  the 
noble  steed  expired.  An  altar  was 
raised,  and  yet  marks  the  spot  where 
Chytuc  died;  and  the  entire  scene 
may  be  seen  painted  on  the  walls  of 
half  the  houses  of  the  capital. 
VOL.  XXX.  NO,  CLXXXVI. 


693 

This  battle  was  fought  in  July> 
1576;  and  in  the  following  spring, 
the  Mo2;ul  attacked  Pertap  in  his 
capital, Komulmer.  Pertap  withdrew, 
in  consequence  of  treachery,  to 
Chaond,  a  town  in  the  heart  of  the 
mountainous  tract  on  the  south-west 
of  Mewar ;  and  Blian,  the  Sonigurra 
chief,  defended  the  place  to  the  last, 
and  was  slain  in  the  assault  on  that 
occasion ;  also  fell  the  chief  Bard  of 
Mewar,  who  inspired,  by  his  deeds 
as  well  as  his  song,  the  spirit  of  re- 
sistance to  the  "ruthless  king;"  and 
whose  laudatory  couplets  on  the 
deeds  of  his  lord,  are  still  in  every 
mouth.  But  the  spirit  of  poetry  died 
not  with  him ;  for  princes  and  nobles, 
Hindoo  and  Toork,  vied  with  each 
other  in,  exalting  the  patriot  Pertap, 
in  strains  replete  with  those  senti- 
ments which  elevate  the  mind  of  the 
martial  Rajpoot,  who  is  inflamed  into 
action  by  this  national  excitement. 

Beset  now  on  every  side,  dislodged 
from  the  most  secret  retreats,  and 
hunted  from  glen  to  glen,  there  ap- 
peared no  hope  for  Pertap.  Yet 
even  while  his  pursuers  supposed 
him  panting  in  some  obscure  lurk- 
ing-place, he  would  by  mountain  sig- 
nals reassemble  his  bands,  and  assail 
them  unawares,  and  often  unguard- 
ed. By  a  skilful  manomvre,  Khan 
Feridj  who  dreamed  of  nothing  less 
than  making  the  Rajpoot  prince  his 
prisoner,  was  blocked  up  in  a  defile, 
and  his  force  cut  off  to  a  man.  Un- 
accustomed to  such  warfare,  the  mer- 
cenary Moguls  became  disgusted  in 
combating  a  foe  seldom  tangible, 
while  the  monsoons  swelled  the 
mountain  streams,  filling  the  reser- 
voirs with  mineral  poisons,  and  the 
air  with  pestilential  exhalations.  The 
periodical  rains,  accordingly,  always 
brought  some  respite  to  Pertap ;  and 
thus  years  rolled  away,  each  however 
ending  with  a  diminution  of  his  means, 
and  an  increase  of  his  misfortunes. 
His  family  was  the  chief  source  of  his 
anxiety,  and  he  dreaded  their  capti- 
vity by  the  Mogul.  On  one  occa- 
sion they  were  saved  by  the  faithful 
Bhils  of  Cavah,  who  carried  them  in 
wicker  baskets,  and  concealed  them 
in  the  tin  mines  of  Jawura,  where 
they  guarded  and  fed  them.  Bolts 
and  rings  are  still  preserved  in  the 
trees  about  Jawura  and  Chaond,  to 
which  baskets  were  suspended,  the 
only  cradles  of  the  royal  children  of 
2  Y  " 


694 


Annals  and  Antiquities  of  Rajas?  han» 


[Oct. 


Mewar,  in  order  to  preserve  them 
from  the  wolf  and  the  tiger.  Yet 
amid  such  complicated  evils,  the  for- 
titude of  Pertap  remained  unshaken; 
and  a  spy  sent  by  Akber  represented 
the  Rajpoot  and  his  chiefs  seated  at  a 
scanty  meal,  maintaining  all  the  eti- 
quette preserved  in  prosperity,  the 
liana  bestowing  the  doonah  to  the 
most  deserving,  and  which,  though 
only  of  the  wild  fruit  of  the  country, 
was  received  with  all  the  reverence 
of  better  days.  Such  inflexible  mag- 
nanimity touched  the  soul  of  Akber, 
and  extorted  the  homage  of  every 
chief  in  Rajast'han;  nor  could  those 
who  swelled  the  gorgeous  train  of 
the  Emperor  withhold  their  admira- 
tion. Some  stanzas  are  preserved, 
addressed  by  the  Khankhanan,  the 
First  of  the  Satraps  of  Delhi,  to  the 
noble  Rajpoot,  in  his  native  tongue, 
applauding  his  valour,  and  stimula- 
ting his  perseverance.  "  All  is  un- 
stable in  this  world ;  land  and  wealth 
will  disappear,  but  the  virtue  of  a 
great  name  lives  for  ever.  Putto  [a 
colloquial  contraction  for  Pertap] 
abandoned  wealth  and  land;  but 
never  bowed  the  head ;  alone,  of  all 
the  princes  of  Hind,  he  preserved 
the  honour  of  his  race." 

On  one  occasion  Pertap  lost  his 
fortitude, and  was  induced  to  demand 
of  Akber  a  mitigation  of  his  hard-  . 
ships.  His  queen  and  his  son's  wife 
were  preparing  a  few  cakes  from  the 
flower  of  the  meadow  grass,  and  Per- 
tap was  stretched  beside  them,  pon- 
dering on  his  misfortunes,  when  a 
piercing  cry  from  his  daughter  rou- 
sed him  from  reflection — a  wild  cat 
had  darted  on  the  food,  and  the 
agony  of  hunger  made  her  shrieks 
insupportable.  Overjoyed  at  this  in- 
dication of  submission,  the  Emperor 
commanded  publicrejoicings,and  ex- 
ultingly  shewed  Pertap' s  letter  to  Pir- 
thi  Raj,  a  Rajpoot,  compelled  to  follow 
the  Tictorious  car  of  Akber.  Pirthi 
Raj  was  one  of  the  most  gallant  chief- 
tains of  the  age ;  and,  like  the  Trou- 
badour princes  of  the  West,  could 
grace  a  cause  with  the  soul-inspiring 
effusions  of  the  Muse,  as  well  as  aid 
it  with  his  sword.  In  an  assembly  of 
the  bards  of  Rajast'han,  the  palm  of 
merit  was  unanimously  awarded  to 
the  Rah  tore  cavalier.  He  adored  the 
very  name  of  Pertap,  and  the  intelli- 
gence iilled  him  with  grief.  He  ob- 
tained permission  from  the  king  to 


transmit  by  his  courier  a  letter  to 
Pertap,  ostensibly  to  ascertain  the 
fact  of  his  submission,  but  really  with 
the  view  to  prevent  it.  On  this  oc- 
casion he  composed  those  couplets 
still  admired  all  over  Rajast'han. 
"  The  hopes  of  the  Hindu  rest  on  the 
Hindu ;  yet  the  Rana  forsakes  them. 
But  for  Pertap,  all  would  be  placed 
on  the  same  level  by  Akber ;  for  our 
chiefs  have  lost  their  valour,  and 
our  females  their  honour.  Akber  is 
the  broker  in  the  market  of  our  race ; 
all  has  he  purchased  but  the  son  of 
Oodoh;  he  is  beyond  his  price.  What 
true  Rajpoot  would  part  with  ho- 
nour for  nine  days;  yet  how  many 
have  bartered  it  away  ?  Will  Chee- 
tore  come  to  this  market,  when  all 
have  disposed  of  the  chief  article 
of  the  Khetri  ?  Though  Putto  has 
squandered  away  wealth,  yet  this 
treasure  has  he  preserved.  Despair 
has  driven  many  to  this  mart  to  wit- 
ness their  dishonour;  from  such 
infamy,  the  descendant  of  Hamir 
alone  has  been  preserved.  The  world 
asks,  whence  the  concealed  aid  of 
Pertap  ?  None  but  the  soul  of  man- 
liness and  his  sword;  with  it  well 
hath  he  maintained  the  Khetri' s 
pride.  This  broker  in  the  market  of 
men  will  one  day  be  overreached ; 
he  cannot  live  for  ever;  then  will 
our  race  come  to  Pertap,  for  the 
seed  of  the  Rajpoot  to  sow  in  our 
desolate  lands.  To  him  all  look  for 
its  preservation,  that  its  purity  may 
again  become  resplendent." 

This  effusion  of  the  Rahtore  was 
equal  to  ten  thousand  men;  it  nerved 
the  drooping  mind  of  Pertap,  and 
roused  him  to  heroic  action.  But 
unable  to  stem  the  torrent,  he  form- 
ed a  resolution  worthy  of  his  cha- 
racter— to  abandon  Mewar  and  the 
blood-stained  Cheetore,no  longer  the 
stay  of  his  race,  and  to  lead  his  See- 
sodias  to  the  Indus,  plant  the  "  crim- 
son banner"  on  the  insular  capital 
of  the  Sogdi,  and  leave  a  desert  be- 
tween him  and  his  inexorable  foe. 
With  his  family,  and  all  that  was  yet 
noble  in  Mewar,  he  descended  the 
Aravulli,  and  had  reached  the  con- 
fines of  the  desert,  when  an  incident 
occurred  that  made  him  change  his 
measures,  and  still  remain  a  dweller 
in  the  land  of  his  forefathers.  The 
minister  of  Pertap,  whose  ancestors 
had 
at  his 


llOUCl      VI       A    Cl   1<»JJ,      »•  JlwdVy     CU11.  CMIUIS 

for  ages  held  the  office,  piace<l 
ii*  Prince'*  disposal  their  <l(;cu. 


1831.] 


Annals  and  Antiquities  of  Rajas? han. 


mulated  wealth,  which,  with  other 
resources,  is  stated  to  have  been 
equivalent  to  the  maintenance  of 
twenty-five  thousand  men  for  twelve 
years.  The  name  of  Bhama  Sah  is 
preserved  as  the  saviour  of  Me  war. 
Pertap  collected  his  bands  ;  and 
while  his  foes  imagined  that  he  was 
endeavouring  to  effect  a  retreat 
through  the  desert,  he  surprised  Sha- 
baz  in  his  camp  at  Deweir,  whose 
troops  he  cut  in  pieces.  The  fugi- 
tives were  pursued  to  Amait,  the 
garrison  of  which  shared  the  same 
Fate.  Ere  they  could  recover  from 
their  consternation,  Komulmer  was 
assaulted  and  taken;  Abdoola  and 
his  garrison  were  put  to  the  sword ; 
and  thirty-two  fortified  posts  in  like 
manner  carried  by  surprise,  the 
troops  being  all  put  to  death  without 
mercy.  Pertap  made  a  desert  of 
Mewar  ;  he  made  an  offering  to  the 
sword  of  whatever  dwelt  in  its 
plains.  In  one  short  campaign  ( 1530) 
he  had  recovered  all  Mewar,  except 
Cheetore,  Ajmer  and  Mandelgurh; 
and  he  invaded  Amber,  sacking  its 
chief  mart  of  commerce,  Malpoora. 
Oodipoor  also  was  regained. 

Pertap  was  indebted  to  a  combi- 
nation of  causes  for  the  repose  he 
enjoyed  during  the  latter  years  of 
his  life.  This  may  be  ascribed  prin- 
cipally to  the  new  fields  of  ambition 
which  occupied  the  Mogul  arms,  but 
in  no  small  degree  to  the  influence 
which  his  great  character  exerted 
upon  Akber,  together  with  the  gene- 
ral sympathy  of  his  fellow  princes, 
who  swelled  the  train  of  the  con- 
queror, and  who  were  too  powerful 
to  be  regarded  by  him  with  indiffer- 
ence. Throughout  his  whole  work 
Colonel  Tod  is  eloquent,  as  our 
abridgement  has  shewn ;  but  never  so 
much  so  as  when  bringing  before  his 
mind's  eye  his  favourite  hero,  at  the 
close  of  his  glorious  career.  A  mind 
like  Pertap's,  he  finely  says,  could  en- 
joy no  tranquillity,  while,  from  the 
summit  of  the  pass  which  guarded 
Oodipoor,  he  beheld  the  Kangras  of 
Cheetore,  to  which  he  must  ever  be 
a  stranger.  Imagine  the  warrior,  yet 
in  manhood's  prime,  broken  with 
fatigues  and  covered  with  scars,  from 
amidst  the  fragments  of  basaltic  ruin 
(fit  emblem  of  his  own  condition,) 
casting  a  wistful  eye  to  the  rock, 
stained  with  the  blood  of  his  fathers  j 
whilst,  in  the  "  dark  chamber"  of  his 


mind,  the  scenes  of  glory  enacted 
there  appeared  with  unearthly  lustre. 
First,  the  youthful  Bappa,  on  whose 
head  was  the  "  Mor  he  had  won  from 
the  Mori."  The  warlike  Samarsi 
arming  for  the  last  day  of  Rajpoot 
independence,  to  die  with  Pirthi  Raj 
on  the  banks  of  the  Caggar.  Again, 
descending  the  steep  of  Cheetore, 
the  twelve  sons  of  Ursi,  the  "  crim- 
son banner"  floating  around  each; 
while,  from  the  embattled  rock,  the 
guardian  goddess  looked  down  on 
the  carnage  which  secured  a  perpe- 
tuity of  sway.  Again,  in  all  the 
Somp  of  sacrifice,  the  Deola  chiefs, 
eimul  and  Putta ;  and,  like  the  Pal- 
las of  Rajast'han,  the  Chondawut 
dame  leading  her  daughter  into  the 
ranks  of  destruction — examples  for 
their  sons'  and  husbands'  imitation. 
At  length,  clouds  of  darkness  dim- 
med the  walls  of  Cheetore;  from 
her  battlements,  Kangra  Ranee,  the 
turreted  Queen  Cybele  of  Rajast'han 
had  fled;  the  tints  of  dishonour  be- 
gan to  blend  with  the  visions  of  glo- 
ry; and,  lo!  Oody  Sing  appeared 
flying  from  the  rock  to  which  the 
honour  of  his  house  was  united. 
Aghast  at  the  picture  his  fancy  had 
portrayed,  imagine  him  turning  to 
the  contemplation  of  his  own  deso- 
late condition,  indebted  for  a  cessa- 
tion of  persecution  to  the  most  re- 
volting sentiment  that  can  assail  a 
heroic  mind,  compassion ;  compared 
with  which  scorn  is  endurable,  con- 
tempt even  enviable ;  these  he  could 
retaliate;  but  for  the  high-minded, 
the  generous  Rajpoot,  to  be  the  ob- 
ject of  that  sickly  sentiment — pity, 
was  more  oppressive  than  the  arms 
of  his  foe.  A  premature  decay  as- 
sailed the  Pride  of  Rajast'han — a 
mind  diseased  preyed  on  an  exhaust- 
ed frame,  and  prostrated  him  in  the 
very  summer  of  his  days.  A  power- 
ful sympathy  is  excited  by  the  pic- 
ture which  is  drawn  of  this  final 
scene.  The  dying  hero  is  represent- 
ed in  a  lowly  dwelling;  his  chiefs, 
the  faithful  companions  of  many  a 
glorious  day,  awaiting  round  his  pal- 
let the  dissolution  of  the  prince, 
when  agroan  of  mentalanguish  made 
Saloombra  enquire  "  what  afflicted 
his  soul  that  it  would  not  depart  in 
peace  ?"  He  rallied — "  It  lingered," 
he  said,  "  for  some  consolatory 
pledge  that  his  country  should  not 
be  abandoned  to  the  Toork."  He 


Annals  and  Antiquities  of  Rajas  fhan. 


696 

then  recalled  to  their  remembrance 
a  day  on  which  his  son,  Prince 
Umra,  when  sheltered  along  with 
them  among  some  miserable  huts, 
shewed  symptoms  of  an  unheroic 
Bpirit.  "  These  sheds,"  said  he, "  will 
give  way  to  sumptuous  dwellings, 
thus  generating  the  love  of  ease,  and 
luxury  with  its  concomitants  will  en- 
bue,  to  which  the  independence  of 
Mewar,  which  we  have  bled  to  main- 
tain, will  be  sacrificed;  and  you, 
my  chiefs,  will  follow  the  pernicious 
example."  They  pledged  themselves, 
andbecame  guarantees  for  the  prince, 
"  by  the  throne  of  Bappa  Rawul," 
that  they  would  not  permit  mansions 
to  be  raised  till  Mewar  had  recovered 
her  independence.  The  soul  of  Per- 
tap  was  satisfied,  and  with  joy  he 
expired.  It  is  worthy,  says  Colonel 
Tod,  of  those  who  influence  the  des- 
tinies of  states  in  more  favoured 
climes,  to  estimate  the  intensity  of 
feeling  which  could  arm  this  prince 
to  oppose  the  resources  of  a  small 
principality  against  the  then  most 
powerful  empire  of  the  world,  whose 
armies  were  more  numerous  and  far 
more  efficient  than  any  ever  led  by 
the  Persian  against  the  liberties  of 
Greece.  Had  Mewar  possessed  her 
Thucydides  or  her  Xenophon,  nei- 
ther the  wars  of  the  Peloponnesus, 
nor  the  Retreat  of  the  Ten  Thou- 
sand, would  have  yielded  more  di- 
versified incidents  for  the  Historic 
Muse,  than  the  deeds  of  this  brilliant 
reign  amid  the  many  vicissitudes  of 


[Oct. 


Mewar.  Undaunted  heroism,  inflexi- 
ble fortitude,  that  which  keeps  honour 
bright — perseverance,  with  fidelity, 
such  as  no  nation  can  boast,  were 
the  materials  opposed  to  a  soaring 
ambition,  commanding  talents,  un- 
limited means,  and  the  fervour  of 
religious  zeal ;  all,  however,  insuffi- 
cient to  contend  with  one  unconquer- 
able mind.  There  is  not  a  pass  on 
the  Alpine  Aravulli  that  is  not  sanc- 
tified by  some  deed  of  Pertap,  some 
brilliant  victory,  or  oftener  more 
glorious  defeat.  Huldighat  is  the 
Thermopylae  of  Mewar,  the  field  of 
Deweir  her  Marathon.  The  memo- 
ry of  Pertap  is  even  now  idolized 
by  every  Seesodia,  and  will  continue 
to  be  so,  till  renewed  oppression 
shall  extinguish  the  remaining  sparks 
of  patriotic  feeling.  But  he  adds, 
earnestly — may  that  day  never  arrive 
— yet,  if  such  be  her  destiny,  may  it 
at  least  not  be  hastened  by  the  arms 
of  Britons. 

Here  we  must  conclude.  In  an  early 
number  we  shall  resume  these  most 
interesting  annals — and  bring  them 
down  to  the  present  age.  We  shall 
then  lay  before  our  readers  the  poli- 
tical views  of  Colonel  Tod  respecting 
these  gallant  races,  over  whom  is 
now  stretched  the  British  sceptre. 
And  we  shall  finish  our  examination 
of  his  work  (which  we  have  now 
but  begun)  with  many  impressive 
accounts  with  which  he  has  furnish- 
ed us,  of  their  manners  and  their  re- 
ligion. 


1831.J  Marguerite  of  France.  697 

MARGUERITE  OF  FRANCE.* 
BY  MRS  HEMANS. 

Thou  falcon-hearted  dove ! 

COLERIDGE. 

THE  Moslem  spears  were  gleaming 

Round  Damietta's  towers, 
Though  a  Christian  banner  from  her  wall 

Waved  free  its  Lily-flowers. 
Aye,  proudly  did  the  banner  wave,  ^ :, 

As  Queen  of  Earth  and  Air ; 
But  faint  hearts  throbb'd  beneath  its  folds, 

In  anguish  and  despair. 

Deep,  deep  in  Paynim  dungeon, 

Their  kingly  chieftain  lay, 
And  low  on  many  an  Eastern  field 

Their  knighthood's  best  array. 
'Twas  mournful,  when  at  feasts  they  met, 

The  wine-cup  round  to  send, 
For  each  that  touch'd  it  silently, 

Then  miss'd  a  gallant  friend ! 

And  mournful  was  their  vigil 

On  the  beleaguer'd  wall, 
And  dark  their  slumber,  dark  with  dreams 

Of  slow  defeat  and  fall. 
Yet  a  few  hearts  of  Chivalry 

Rose  high  to  breast  the  storm, 
And  one — of  all  the  loftiest  there — 

ThrilFd  in  a  woman's  form. 

A  woman,  meekly  bending 

O'er  the  slumber  of  her  child, 
With  her  soft  sad  eyes  of  weeping  love, 

As  the  Virgin  Mother's  mild. 
Oh !  roughly  cradled  was  thy  Babe, 

'Midst  the  clash  of  spear  and  lance, 
And  a  strange,  wild  bower  was  thine,  young  Queen ! 

Fair  Marguerite  of  France ! 

A  dark  and  vaulted  chamber, 

Like  a  scene  for  wizard-spell, 
Deep  in  the  Saracenic  gloom 

Of  the  warrior  citadel  j 
And  there  midst  arms  the  couch  was  spread, 

And  with  banners  curtain'd  o'er, 
For  the  Daughter  of  the  Minstrel-land, 

The  gay  Proven9al  shore ! 


*  Queen  of  St  Louis.  Whilst  besieged  by  the  Turks  in  DamSetta,  during  the  cap- 
tivity of  the  king,  her  husband,  she  there  gave  birth  to  a  son,  whom  she  named 
Tristan,  in  commemoration  of  her  misfortunes.  Information  being  conveyed  to  her 
that  the  knights  intrusted  with  the  defence  of  the  city  had  resolved  on  capitulation, 
she  had  them  summoned  to  her  apartment,  and,  by  her  heroic  words,  so  wrought 
upon  their  spirits,  that  they  vowed  to  defend  her  and  the  Cross  to  the  last  extremity. 


698  Marguerite  of  France.  [Oct. 

For  the  bright  Queen  of  St  Louis, 

The  star  of  court  and.  hall ! — 
But  the  deep  strength  of  the  gentle  heart, 

Wakes  to  the  tempest's  call ! 
Her  Lord  was  in  the  Paynim's  hold, 

His  soul  with  grief  oppress' d, 
Yet  calmly  lay  the  Desolate, 

With  her  young  babe  on  her  breast ! 

There  were  voices  in  the  city, 

Voices  of  wrath  and  fear — 
"  The  walls  grow  weak,  the  strife  is  vain, 

We  will  not  perish  here  I 
Yield!  yield !  and  let  the  crescent  gleam 

O'er  tower  and  bastion  high ! 
Our  distant  homes  are  beautiful — 

We  stay  not  here  to  die !" 

They  bore  those  fearful  tidings 

To  the  sad  Queen  where  she  lay— 
They  told  a  tale  of  wavering  hearts, 

Of  treason  and  dismay  : 
The  blood  rush'd  thro'  her  pearly  cheek, 

The  sparkle  to  her  eye— 
"  Now  call  me  hither  those  recreant  knights, 

From  the  bands  of  Italy  1"* 

Then  through  the  vaulted  chambers 

Stern  iron  footsteps  rang  j 
And  heavily  the  sounding  floor 

Gave  back  the  sabre's  clang. 
They  stood  around  her— steel-clad  men, 

Moulded  for  storm  and  fight, 
But  they  quail'd  before  the  loftier  soul 

In  that  pale  aspect  bright. 

Yes— as  before  the  Falcon  shrinks 

The  Bird  of  meaner  wing, 
So  shrank  they  from  th'  imperial  glance 

Of  Her— that  fragile  thing ! 
And  her  flute-like  voice  rose  clear  and  high, 

Through  the  din  of  arms  around, 
Sweet,  and  yet  stirring  to  the  soul, 

As  a  silver  clarion's  sound. 

"  The  honour  of  the  Lily 

Is  in  your  hands  to  keep, 
And  the  Banner  of  the  Cross,  for  Him 

Who  died  on  Calvary's  steep : 
And  the  city  which  for  Christian  prayer 

Hath  heard  the  holy  bell— 
And  is  it  these  your  hearts  would  yield 

To  the  godless  Infidel  ? 


The  proposal  to  capitulate  is  attributed  by  the  French  historian  to  the  KnighU 


1831.]  Marguerite  of  France. 

"  Then  bring  me  here  a  breastplate, 

And  a  helm,  before  ye  fly, 
And  I  will  gird  my  woman's  form, 

And  on  the  ramparts  die  ! 
And  the  Boy  whom  I  have  borne  for  woe, 

But  never  for  disgrace, 
Shall  go  within  mine  arms  to  death 

Meet  for  his  royal  race. 

"  Look  on  him  as  he  slumbers 

In  the  shadow  of  the  Lance ! 
Then  go,  and  with  the  Cross  forsake 

The  princely  Babe  of  France^! 
But  tell  your  homes  ye  left  one  heart 

To  perish  undefiled ; 
A  Woman  and  a_Queen,  to  guard 

Her  Honour  and  her  Child !" 

Before  her  words  they  thrill'd,  like  leaves, 

When  winds  are  in  the  wood ; 
And  a  deepening  murmur  told  of  men 

Roused  to  a  loftier  mood. 
And  her  Babe  awoke  to  flashing  swords, 

Unsheath'd  in  many  a  hand, 
As  they  gather'd  round  the  helpless  One, 

Again  a  noble  band ! 

"  We  are  thy  warriors,  Lady ! 

True  to  the  Cross  and  thee ! 
The  spirit  of  thy  kindling  words 

On  every  sword  shall  be ! 
Rest,  with  thy  fair  child  on  thy  breast, 

Rest — we  will  guard  thee  well . 
St  Dennis  for  the  Lily-flower, 

And  the  Christian  citadel !" 


THE  FREED  BIRD. 
BY  MRS  HEMANS. 

Swifter  far  than  summer's  flight, 
Swifter  far  than  youth's  delight, 
Swifter  far  than  happy  night, 

Thou  art  come  and  gone ! 

As  the  earth  when  leaves  are  dead, 
As  the  night  when  sleep  is  sped, 
As  the  heart  when  joy  is  fled, 

I  am  left  here,  alone ! 

SHELLEY. 

RETURN,  return,  my  Bird ! 

I  have  dress'd  thy  cage  with  flowers, 
'Tis  lovely  as  a  violet  bank 

In  the  heart  of  forest  bowers. 

"  I  am  free,  I  am  free,  I  return  no  more ! 
The  weary  time  of  the  cage  is  o'er ! 
Through  the  rolling  clouds  I  can  soar  on  high, 
The  sky  is  around  me,  the  blue  bright  sky  J 


700  T/te  Freed  Bird.  [Oct. 

"  The  hills  lie  beneath  me,  spread  far  and  clear, 
With  their  glowing  heath-flowers  and  bounding  deer 
I  see  the  waves  flash  on  the  sunny  shore — 
I  am  free,  I  am  free — I  return  no  more !" 

Alas,  alas,  my  Bird ! 

Why  seek'st  thou  to  be  free  ? 
Wer't  thou  not  blest  in  thy  little  bower, 

When  thy  song  breathed  nought  but  glee  ? 

"  Did  my  song  of  the  summer  breathe  nought  but  glee  ? 
Did  the  voice  of  the  captive  seem  sweet  to  thee  ? 
— Oh !  had'st  thou  known  its  deep  meaning  well  I 
It  had  tales  of  a  burning  heart  to  tell ! 

"  From  a  dream  of  the  forest  that  music  sprang, 
Through  its  notes  the  peal  of  a  torrent  rang ; 
And  its  dying  fall,  when  it  sooth'd  thee  best, 
Sigh'd  for  wild  flowers  and  a  leafy  nest." 

Was  it  with  thee  thus,  my  Bird  ? 

Yet  thine  eye  flash'd  clear  and  bright ! 
I  have  seen  the  glance  of  sudden  joy 

In  its  quick  and  dewy  light. 

"  It  flash'd  with  the  fire  of  a  tameless  race, 
With  the  soul  of  the  wild  wood,  my  native  place ! 
With  the  spirit  that  panted  through  heaven  to  soar — 
Woo  me  not  back — I  return  no  more  ! 

"  My  home  is  high,  amidst  rocking  trees, 
My  kindred  things  are  the  star  and  breeze, 
And  the  fount  uncheck'd  in  its  lonely  play, 
And  the  odours  that  wander  afar,  away !" 

Farewell,  farewell,  then,  Bird ! 

I  have  call'd  on  spirits  gone, 
And  it  may  be  they  joy'd  like  thee  to  part, 

Like  thee,  that  wert  all  my  own ! 

"  If  they  were  captives,  and  pined  like  me, 
Though  Love  might  guard  them,  they  joy'd  to  be  free! 
They  sprang  from  the  earth  with  a  burst  of  power, 
To  the  strength  of  their  wings,  to  their  triumph's  hour  I 

"  Call  them  not  back  when  the  chain  is  riven, 
When  the  way  of  the  pinion  is  all  through  heaven ! 
Farewell ! — With  my  sqng  through  the  clouds  I  soar, 
I  pierce  the  blue  skies — I  am  Earth's  no  more !" 


Zines  Written  on  Ticeedside.  701 

LINES  WRITTEN  ON  TWEEDSIDE, 

September  the  18th,  1831. 

A  DAY  I've  seen  whose  brightness  pierced  the  cloud 
Of  pain  and  sorrow,  both  for  great  and  small — 

A  night  of  flowing  cups,  and  pibrochs  loud, 
Once  more  within  the  Minstrel's  blazon' d  hall. 

Upon  this  frozen  hearth  pile  crackling  trees ; 

Let  every  silent  clarshach  find  its  strings; 
Unfurl  once  more  the  banner  to  the  breeze ; 

No  warmer  welcome  for  the  blood  of  kings ! 

From  ear  to  car,  from  eye  to  glistening  eye, 
Leap  the  glad  tidings,  and  the  glance  of  glee ; 

Perish  the  hopeless  breast  that  beats  not  high 
At  thought  beneath  His  roof  that  guest  to  see  ! 

What  princely  stranger  comes  ? — What  exiled  lord 
From  the  far  East  to  Scotia's  strand  returns — 

To  stir  with  joy  the  towers  of  Abbotsford, 
And  "  wake  the  Minstrel's  soul  ?" — The  boy  of  Burns. 

O,  Sacred  Genius  !  blessing  on  the  chains, 

Wherein  thy  sympathy  can  minds  entwine ; 
Beyond  the  conscious  glow  of  kindred  veins, 

A  power,  a  spirit,  and  a  charm  are  thine. 

Thine  offspring  share  them.    Thou  hast  trod  the  land — 
It  breathes  of  thee — and  men,  through  rising  tears, 

Behold  the  image  of  thy  manhood  stand, 
More  noble  than  a  galaxy  of  Peers. 

And  He his  father's  bones  had  quaked,  I  ween, 

But  that  with  holier  pride  his  heart-strings  bound, 

Than  if  his  host  had  King  or  Kaiser  been, 
And  star  and  cross  on  every  bosom  round. 

High  strains  were  pour'd  of  many  a  border  spear, 
While  gentle  fingers  swept  a  throbbing  shell  j 

A  manly  voice,  in  manly  notes  and  clear, 
Of  lowly  love's  deep  bliss  responded  well. 

The  children  sang  the  ballads  of  their  sires  :— 

Serene  among  them  sat  the  hoary  Knight ; 
And,  if  dead  Bards  have  ears  for  earthly  lyres, 

The  Peasant's  shade  was  near,  and  drank  delight. 

As  through  the  woods  we  took  our  homeward  way, 
Fair  shone  the  moon  last  night  on  Eildon  Hill ; 

Soft  rippled  Tweed's  broad  wave  beneath  her  ray, 
And  in  sweet  murmurs  gush'd  the  Huntly  rill. 

Heaven  send  the  guardian  genius  of  the  vale 
Health  yet,  and  strength,  and  length  of  honour'd  days, 

To  cheer  the  world  with  many  a  gallant  tale, 
And  hear  his  children's  children  chant  his  lays. 

Through  seas  unruffled  may  the  vessel  glide, 

That  bears  her  Poet  far  from  Melrose'  glen ; 
And  may  his  pulse  be  steadfast  as  our  pride, 

When  happy  breezes  waft  him  back  again. 


Whaf should' the  Peers  do  ? 


WHAT  SHOULD  THE  PEERS  DO  ? 


(Oct. 


"  POPULAR  opinion,"  says  the  ab- 
lest of  the  writers  in  favour  of  Re- 
form,* "  once  allowed  to  take  the  lead, 
soon  runs  riot;  it  appoints  its  own 
rulers — itdictates  to  them — it  deposes 
them  ;  and  nothing  but  great  temper- 
ance, and  mutual  forbearance,  and 
final  union  on  the  part  of  the  early  and 
more  moderate  parties,  can  check 
its  destructive  career.  We  will  not 
follow  this  St  Lawrence  to  its  Nia- 
gara; the  course  is  fatally  sure."f 
Never  were  truer  sentiments  uttered 
by  man ;  never  any  of  which  pass- 
ing events  more  completely  demon- 
strate the  justice.  How  did  they 
find  their  way  into  a  publication  in- 
tended to  hasten  the  victory  of  the 
populace  over  the  last  bulwarks  of 
order  and  intelligence  ?  Because,  in 
a  powerful  mind,  historic  truth  pre- 
vails over  temporary  delusion ;  and 
the  experience  of  ages  furnishes  the 
antidote  to  the  poison  of  faction. 

The  author  we  have  quoted,  asks, 
"  What  will  the  Lords  do  ?"  and  he 
concludes,  that  "  though  a  vast  ma- 
jority of  the  House  of  Lords  have  a 
general,  though  partially  concealed 
hatred  of  the  Reform  Bill,"J  they 
will  pass  it  in  opposition  to  their 
better  judgment,  from  timidity,  the 
love  of  ease,  or  the  dread  of  an  ex- 
cessive addition  to  their  numbers. 
We  will  not  follow  his  example,  or 
hazard  a  prophecy  of  what  the  Lords 
will  do  ;  but  we  will  say  firmly  and 
fearlessly  what  they  ought  to  do. 

Popular  opinion,  as  this  author 
truly  says,  when  once  allowed  to  take 
the  lead,  soon  runs  riot.  It  was  al- 
lowed to  take  the  lead  when  Earl 
Grey  ascended  to  office ;  and  has  it, 
or  has  it  not,  since  run  riot  ?  What 
do  the  manufacturing  cities  propose 
as  the  ends  of  reform  ?  Mr  Cobbett, 
the  member  elect  for  Manchester, 
declares  he  is  to  propose  the  imme- 
diate confiscation  of  the  church  pro- 
perty— the  cessation  of  any  payment 
of  dividends  after  two  years — the 
abolition  of  the  standing  army,  and 
the  raising  of  a  militia,  with  officers 
appointed  by  Parliament,  in  its  stead, 
in  all  the  counties.  The  electors  of 


Bolton  have  declared  that  they  are 
to  require  pledges  from  their  repre- 
sentative, that  he  will  support  an  im- 
mediate repeal  of  the  corn  laws,  an 
equitable  adjustment  of  the  national 
debt ;  in  other  words,  confiscation  of 
one  half  of  every  man's  funded  pro- 
perty— the  abolition  of  all  taxes 
pressing  on  the  middling,  or  lower 
orders  —  the  appropriation  of  the 
church  property  to  the  public  neces- 
sities— the  abolition  of  the  right  of 
primogeniture.  What  must  follow 
from  the  adoption,  or  serious  and 
incessant  discussion,  of  such  projects 
as  this  ? — National  bankruptcy,  indi- 
vidual ruin,  the  failure  of  every  Bank 
in  the  kingdom — the  stoppage  of  in- 
dustry— the  starvation  of  the  poor — 
the  abolition  of  the  peerage — the 
overthrow  of  the  throne. — "  We  will 
not  follow  this  St  Lawrence  to  its 
Niagara;  the  course  is  fatally  sure." 
"Need  the  anti-reformers,"  says 
the  same  author,  "be  reminded  of 
the  result  of  those  court  intrigues, 
and  that  conservative  hatred  which 
at  length  succeeded  in  driving  Neck- 
ar, the  French  Lord  Grey,  from  the 
ministry  ?  Will  they  profit  by  the  ex- 
ample ?  I  trust  they  may."$  So,  it  is 
admitted  by  themselves  that  Neckar 
was  the  French  Earl  Grey !  And 
what  was  said  of  Neckar  by  the 
greatest  man  of  modern  times,  the 
one  on  earth  who  profited  most  by  his 
reforms  ?  "  The  projects  of  Neck- 
ar," said  Napoleon  Bonaparte, "  were 
more  ruinous  to  France  than  those 
of  any  other  man.  It  was  he  that 
brought  about  the  Revolution.  Dan- 
ton,  Marat,  Robespierre  himself,  did 
less  injury  to  the  country  than  the 
Swiss  reformer.  All  the  blood  that 
was  shed,  rests  on  his  head.  Nothing 
is  so  fatal  as  such  popular  projects  ; 
the  learned  are  carried  away  by 
them,  the  populace  transported,  the 
cautious  intimidated,  the  public  hap- 
piness is  in  every  mouth ;  and  mean- 
while trade  is  suspended,  industry 
withers,  the  people  are  without 
bread,  they  revolt,  the  reign  of  blood 
succeeds,  and  that  is  all  that  is  gain- 
ed by  such  theories."  || 


*  What  will  the  Lords  do  ?     Lond,  Ridgway,  1831. 

f  What  will  the  Lords  do  ?  p.  23.  J  Ibid.  P.  10.  §  Ibid.  27.  (|  Bourrienne,  rol.  viii. 


1831.] 


What  should  the  Peers  do  ? 


703 


Neckar  retired  from  the  ministry, 
and  there  the  author  of  this  pamph- 
let leaves  him.  Was  it  that  which 
occasioned  the  Revolution  ?  Quite 
the  reverse.  He  resigned  in  1780, 
and  the  Revolution  did  not  break  out 
for  nine  years  after.  What  then 
brought  it  on  ?  We  will  follow  this 
St  Lawrence  to  its  Niagara.  He 
returned  to  office  in  1789,  instantly 
set  on  foot  his  projects  of  reform, 
and  strained  the  royal  prerogative  to 
overcome  the  opposition  of  the  No- 
blesse. He  doubled,  by  royal  or- 
dinance, the  number  of  the  members 
of  the  Commons,  set  the  populace 
on  fire  by  the  prodigal  gift  of  politi- 
cal power,  convoked  the  States-Ge- 
neral, put  the  King  at  the  head  of  the 
movement,  made  him  for  a  little 
brief  space  the  most  popular  man  in 
France.  And  what  was  the  conse- 
quence ?  The  monarch  beheaded,  the 
nobles  abolished;  their  estates  di- 
vided, themselves  guillotined,  the 
public  debt  abolished,  the  reign  of 
terror  and  the  rule  of  Robespierre. 
"  Will  the  Peers  profit  by  the  exam- 
ple ?"  We  hope  they  may. 

"  Past  events,"  says  the  author, 
"  may  be  regretted,  but  they  cannot  be 
changed ;  and  those  who  mourn  over 
their  effects,  will  not  strongly  evince 
the  purity  of  their  hatred  of  all  excite- 
ment, by  pursuing  measures  tending 
directly  to  increase  it."  Historic  truth 
is  already  beginning  to  assert  its  eter- 
nal ascendancy  over  temporary  error. 
"  Past  events — "  the  prodigal  offer  of 
political  power  to  the  people,  the 
excitements  of  the  dissolution,  are 
even  now  spoken  of  by  its  authors 
as  a  subject  of  "  regret."  And  how 
are  its  effects  proposed  to  be  reme- 
died ?  By  a  continuance  of  the  same 
fatal  system  which  has  brought  us  to 
this  last  and  perilous  pass.  Finding 
that  yielding  has  quadrupled  the 
power  of  the  enemy  of  order — that 
past  error  has  become  the  subject  of 
regret  even  to  its  own  authors,  they 
propose  an  extension  of  the  same 
concession,  a  continuance  of  these 
errors,  as  the  only  means  of  averting 
its  disastrous  effects. 

The  Peers  in  England  yielded  to 
all  the  demands  of  the  Long  Parlia- 
ment and  the  populace;  they  sent 
Strafford  to  the  block — passed  all  the 
revolutionary  bills  sent  up  to  them, 
and  remained  passive  spectators  of 
the  Civil  War.  What  did  they  get  by 


it  ?  The  abolition  of  their  order,  the 
death  of  their  sovereign,  the  ty- 
ranny of  Cromwell. 

The  Peers  in  France  not  only  con- 
curred in,  but  voluntarily  set  them- 
selves at  the  head  of  all  the  Reform 
projects  with  which  Neckar,  the 
"  French  Lord  Grey,"  inflamed  the 
country.  They  surrendered  their 
right  of  sitting  in  a  separate  cham- 
ber; gave  up  their  titles,  dignities, 
and  privileges,  abandoned  the  church 
property  to  the  people;  concurred 
in  a  highly  democratic  constitution ; 
and  what  did  they  obtain  in  return 
for  so  many  concessions  ?  Exile, 
contempt,  confiscation,  and  death. 

Again,  in  1830,  they  set  themselves 
to  head  the  movement.  They  made  no 
stand  in  defence  of  the  crown.  They 
adopted  the  revolutionary  sovereign. 
They  yielded,  without  a  struggle,  to 
the  current.  Where  are  they  now  ? 
Despised,  insulted,  and  beat  down ; 
abolished  as  hereditary  legislators  ; 
reduced  to  the  rank  of  mayors  and 
aldermen. 

The  Peers  in  England,  in  1793, 
boldly  fronted  the  danger.  They  re- 
fused to  yield  to  popular  violence, 
despised  the  threats  of  Revolution, 
put  themselves  at  the  head  of  the 
conservative  party,  and  nailed  the 
colours  of  the  constitution  to  the 
mast.  What  was  the  consequence  ? 
Returning  confidence,  renewed  pros- 
perity, unheard-of  public  welfare, 
unprecedented  glory,  the  conquest 
of  Trafalgar,  the  field  of  Waterloo. 

The  country,  they  may  be  assured, 
will  be  true  to  them,  if  they  will  be 
true  to  themselves.  The  rabble,  the 
radicals,  the  populace,  will  rave  and 
thunder  and  despair;  but  all  who 
have  a  thought  to  bestow,  a  shilling 
to  lose,  will  rally  round  the  constitu- 
tion, the  moment  that  they  see  lead- 
ers on  whom  they  can  rely.  This  is 
what  is  wanted;  it  is  not  bold  and 
determined  soldiers  for  the  army 
of  order,  it  is  firm  and  uncompromi- 
sing chiefs. 

They  have  fallen  in  public  estima- 
tion, but  it  was  the  fatal  weakness 
about  the  Catholics  that  lowered 
them.  Another  repetition  of  the 
same  mistake,  in  opposition  to  their 
known  opinions,  will  for  ever  sink 
them  into  contempt.  One  glorious 
stand  will  make  them  stronger  than 
ever,  and  bury  the  recollection  of 
one  act  of  weakness,  the  source  of 


704 


What  should  the  Peers  do ' 


[Oct, 


all  our  disasters, in  the  remembrance 
of  one  act  of  firmness,  the  beginning 
of  a  new  era  of  glory.  "  Quid  in  re- 
bus civilibus,"  says  Bacon, "  maxime 
prodest,  Audacia;  quid  secundum, 
audacia,  quid  tertium,  audacia.  Fas- 
cinat  et  captives  ducit  omnes  qui 
vel  sunt  animo  timidiores  vel  ju- 
dicio  infirmiores  :  tales  autem  sunt 
hominum  pars  maxima." 

If  the  Peers  desert  their  duty  now : 
if  they  refuse  to  take  that  lead  in 
defence  of  the  country  which  their 
high  descent,  their  noble  birth,  their 
historic  names,  their  vast  posses- 
sions, their  acknowledged  and  unri- 
valled abilities,  entitle  them  to  as- 
sume, they  will  never  recover  their 
fall,  and  they  never  ought.  The  Con- 
servative party  will  break  up  in  de- 
spair. They  will  emigrate,  bury 
themselves  in  retirement,  leave  the 
field  in  which  their  generals  signed 
a  capitulation,  when  victory  was 
within  their  grasp,  and  await  in  si- 
lent despair  till  suffering  and  wretch- 
edness has  calmed  the  fever  of  pas- 
sion among  their  countrymen.  Ne- 
ver need  they. hope  to  rouse  the 
people,  if  they  now  abandon  them. 
Vain  will  be  their  exclamations, 
hopeless  their  appeals,  contemptible 
their  cries,  when  the  tide  of  conquest 
approaches  their  own  doors;  when 
their  honours  are  abolished,  their 
estates  divided,  their  children  exiled. 


The  people  will  exclaim  :  —  You 
abandoned  us  when  we  were  in  dan- 
ger :  Can  you  expect  us  to  support 
you,  who  have  delivered  us  over  to 
the  enemy  ? 

We  venture  on  no  prophecies ;  but 
we  trust  in  a  very  different  result.  We 
trust  in  it  from  the  evident  peril  of  the 
proposed  measure ;  the  consternation 
which,  from  Cornwall  to  Caithness, 
it  has  excited  among  all  who  are  ei- 
ther respectable  by  their  thoughts, 
or  influential  by  their  possessions ; 
from  the  proof  which  the  Cambridge 
election  gave  of  the  sense  of  the  most 
educated,  and  that  which  the  recent 
defeats  of  the  Reformers  has  given 
of  the  returning  sense  of  the  hum- 
blest among  the  people;  from  the 
vast  services  which  in  times  past 
the  aristocracy  have  rendered  to  the 
country,  the  tried  firmness  of  the 
present  leaders  of  the  Conservative 
party  in  the  Upper  House,  and  the 
great  abilities  and  individual  weight 
of  a  large  proportion  of  their  num- 
bers. If  they  are  true  to  themselves, 
we  have  no  fears  of  the  result ;  in 
times  of  danger,  the  boldest  course 
is  in  the  end  the  most  prudent.  We 
trust  that  the  glorious  example  of 
their  predecessors  will  not  be  lost 
on  them,  and  that  in  this  last  crisis 
they  will  be  as  true  to  their  country 
as  they  were  on  the  field  of  RUNNY- 
MEDE. 


Edinburgh  .•  Printed  by  Bullantyne  Sf  Co.}  Paul's  Work,  Canongate, 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CLXXXVII.        NOVEMBER,  1831.  VOL.  XXX. 


CITIZEN  KINGS,           . 705 

DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  THE  MARQUIS  OF  ANGLESEA  AND  THE  GHOST  OF 

HIS  LEG,        ...........  715 

MODERN  FRENCH  HISTORIANS.    No.  II.    COUNT  SEGUR,    .        .        .  731 
THE  COLONIAL  EMPIRE  OF  GREAT  BRITAIN.    LETTER  TO  EARL  GREY 

FROM  JAMES  MACQUEEN,  Esq.        ,.,,...  744 
ON  PARLIAMENTARY  REFORM  AND  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.  No.  XI. 

THE  REJECTION  OF  THE  BILL — THE  SCOTCH  REFORM,          .        .  765 

LYTTIL  PYNJUE,    BY  TIJE  ETTRICJC  SHEPHERD,         ,     -riff        •  782 

THE  OWL.    BY  THE  TRANSLATOR  OF  HOMER'S  HYMNS.       .        .        .  789 

TOM  CRINGLE'S  LOG.     THE  PiooxRooff,      *J     «        •       •         •        »  795 

NOCTES  AMBROSIAN^;.    No.  LIX.               ......  802 


EDINBURGH : 

WILLIAM  BLACKWOOD,  NO.  45,  GEORGE  STREET,  EDINBURGH; 
AND  T.  CADELL,  STRAND,  LONDON. 

To  whom  Communications  (post  paid)  may  le  addressed. 
SOLD  ALSO  BY  ALL  THE  BOOKSELLERS  OF  THE  UNITED  KINGDOK. 

PRINTED  BY  BALLANTYNB  AND  CO.  EDINBURGH. 


In  the  Press,  and  speedily  will  be  published, 
In  Two  Volumes, 

FROM  ?ep  DIARY 

OF 

A  LATE  PHYSICIAN. 


(REPRINTED  FROTH  BLACKWOOD'S  MAGAZINE,) 


wen 
ADDITIONS,  NOTES,  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS, 

BX  THE  EDITOR. 


PRINTED  FOR  WILLIAM  BLACKWOOD,  EDINBURGH  J 
AND  T.  CADELL,  STRAND,  LONDON. 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CLXXXVII.         NOVEMBER,  1831. 


VOL.  XXX. 


CITIZEN  KINGS. 


TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  BLACKWOOo's  MAGAZINE. 


SIR,          London,  October  8th,  1831. 

A  CORONATION  in  times  like  these 
inspires  melancholy,  as  well  as  plea- 
sing, reflections.  It  tells  not  alone 
of  joy,  and  hope,  and  concord,  and 
loyalty;  but,  alas  !  it  speaks  also  of 
disaffection  and  peril.  That  which 
was  so  lately  witnessed  in  this  coun- 
try, shewed,  even  in  its  festivities 
and  acclamations,  that  the  monarchy 
was  in  jeopardy,  and  commanded 
us  to  calculate  how  far  the  chances 
were  against  its  repetition.  The  din- 
ner, illumination,  and  shouts,  were 
intended  to  celebrate,  rather  the 
triumph  of  a  party  over  the  crown, 
than  the  renewal  of  a  people's  alle- 
giance on  its  solemn  bestowal ; — to 
offer  fidelity  and  obedience  to  the 
constitutional  sovereign,  was  less 
their  object,  than  to  honour  and  dic- 
tate to  a  reforming  King.  Those  were 
the  most  enthusiastic  sharers  in  them 
who  are  the  most  steady  enemies  of 
kingly  power,  prerogative,  and  being. 

I  know  of  nothing  that  calls  more 
loucHy  on  the  friends  of  mankind  for 
Berious  consideration,  than  the  alter- 
ed and  fallen  condition  of  royalty. 
For  the  private  benefit  of  kings  I 
speak  not;  on  the  contrary,  hostility 
to  it  in  some  measure  prompts  me ; 
the  things  which  threaten  it  with 
momentary  destruction  in  the  pre- 
sent race*  of  them,  also  promise  to 
sacrifice  all  other  benefit  to  it  in  a 
new  race.  The  warfare  which  pre- 
vails so"  mightily  against  them,  pre- 
vails in  a  greater  degree  against  their 
subjects;  in  them,  government, law, 
and  order  are  smitten,  and  their  loss 
is  general  calamity. 

VOL.  XXX.  NO.  CLXXXVII. 


That  spirit,  which  some  time  since 
sought  nothing  less  than  the  utter 
extinction  of  royalty,  has  been  com- 
pelled, by  multiplied  defeats  and 
hopeless  prospects,  to  change  or  dis- 
guise its  object.  It  cannot  get  rid  of 
kings  in  name  and  person,  therefore 
they  are  only  to  be  destroyed  in  sub- 
stance and  power — they  are  merely 
to  be  cut  down  into  "  Citizen  Kings," 
in  the  way  of  adaptation  to  "  repub- 
lican institutions."  The  novelty  has 
had  boundless  success;  revolution 
without  bloodshed,  deposition  with- 
out dethronement,  are  triumphant  in 
this  country ;  and  we  are  transform- 
ing our  King  into  a  citizen  one  with 
all  possible  expedition. 

Your  "  Citizen  King"  is  not  to  be  a 
ruler,  or  even  the  equal  of  the  citi- 
zens; he  is  to  be  the  executory  slave 
of  the  latter,  destitute  of  discretion, 
and  without  the  power  to  throw  up 
his  servitude  when  commanded  to 
perform  unholy  and  criminal  toil. 
Stripped  of  the  general  rights  of  man, 
bound  from  all  adherence  of  princi- 
ple, and  divested  of  conscience,  he 
is  to  oppress,  rob,  and  destroy,  at 
home  and  abroad — to  overturn  the 
institutions  of  his  country — to  violate 
treaties,  and  trample  on  the  rights  of 
nations — in  a  word,  to  do  any  thing, 
without  regard  to  divine  or  human 
law,  at  the  bidding  of  his  citizen- 
tyrants.  If,  in  opposition  to  the  lat- 
ter, he  follow  wisdom,  observe  jus- 
tice, obey  the  commands  of  his  Ma- 
ker, or  hold  property  and  life  sacred, 
he  must  do  it  through  corruption, 
fraud,  and  falsehood. 

To  keep  his  bondage  wound  up  to 
2z 


706  Citizen  Kings. 

the  highest  point,  he  is  to  be  depri- 
Ted  of  personal  respect,  as  well  as 
power ;  he  is  to  be  carefully  hated 
as  a  king,  and  valued  only  in  propor- 
tion to  his  submission  and  industry 
as  a  slave.  His  royalty  is  to  know  no 
reverence  ;  it  is  to  have  no  root  in  the 
affections ;  it  is  to  be  the  degrading 
badge,  by  which  the  citizens  may  be 
reminded  that  he  owes  them  implicit 
obedience,  and  is  never  to  be  trusted. 
Of  course,  the  state,  and  pomp,  and 
grandeur,  and  ceremony,  and  eleva- 
tion, which  give  superiority  end  in- 
spire awe,  are  to  be  kept  from  him ; 
the  meanest  are  to  treat  him  as  a 
dependent,  and  mingle  admonitions, 
command,  and  reproach,  with  ordina- 
ry civility,  when  he  appears  in  pub- 
lic. In  truth,  he  is  to  be  regarded  as 
something  like  a  brute  in  harness — 
inferior  in  species,  prone  by  nature 
to  commit  all  manner  of  evil,  and 
only  capable  of  being  made  useful 
by  the  reins  and  whip  of  the  citizen- 
drivers.  If  some  of  his  trappings  be 
gaudy,  and  he  display  decorations, 
they  are  not  to  make  him  a  tittle  less 
the  lower  animal— the  beast  of  bur- 
den. 

The  King  cannot  be  kept  in  chains 
if  the  Nobles  be  not  bound  with  fet- 
ters of  iron.  The  Aristocracy,  of  ne- 
cessity, is  to  be  treated  like  him ;  it 
is  to  be  retained  in  name  and  sha- 
dow, but  disarmed,  placed  in  bond- 
age, and  covered  with  hatred,  as  a 
public  enemy;  it  is  only  to  be  ad- 
mitted into  the  management  of  pub- 
lic affairs  as  the  slave  also  of  the 
citizens.  The  clergy  and  magistracy 
are  to  be  dealt  with  in  a  similar  man- 
lier. Thus  the  portions  of  the  popu- 
lation, which  from  interest,  station, 
feeling,  or  function,  might,  if  left  un- 
touched, take  the  side  of  the  king,  to 
give  him  some  discretion  and  inde- 
pendent authority,  are  to  be,  not  only 
put  without  the  pale  of  citizenship, 
but  plunged  into  slavery,  as  instru- 
ments for  rendering  his  the  more 
comprehensive  and  durable. 

I  cannot  be  ignorant  that  the  only 
tangible  and  responsible  government 
is  to  be  found  in  the  King  and  his 
servants — that  in  him  constituted 
authorities  and  laws  are  to  be  kept 
in  this  slavery ;  of  course,  I  must 
know  that  the  matter  affects  my  own 
interests  very  deeply.  Do  as  you 
please  with  Kings  as  men,  but  I  can 
give  you  no  such  license  touching 


[Nov. 

the  Government  under  which  I  live  > 
because,  if  I  place  it,  I  must  also 
place  my  person  and  possessions  at 
your  mercy,  I  care  not  whether  your 
first  magistrate  be  called  King,  Con- 
sul, or  President — whether  your  in- 
stitutions be  monarchical  or  republi- 
can ;  but  I  must  have  a  government 
which,  on  the  one  hand,  will  hold  my 
person,  wealth,  rights,  privileges,  and 
liberties  sacred,  and,  on  the  other, 
will  duly  protect  them.  I  have  al- 
ways looked  with  contempt  on  the 
squabbling  respecting  the  compara- 
tive merits  of  a  monarchy  and  repub- 
lic, because  I  think  it  relates  mainly 
to  empty  names ;  to  have  a  proper 
government,  the  powers  of  the  Exe- 
cutive and  Legislative  must  be  sub- 
stantially the  same  in  both. 

I  cordially  detest  robbery,  restraint, 
and  dictation  ;  therefore,  I  say,  heap 
on  your  "  Citizen  King"  every  limi- 
tation and  disability  which  will  bind 
him  from  taking  from  me  a  penny 
unjustly,  or  imposing  the  least  unne- 
cessary restraint  on  my  words  and 
actions.  I  speak  in  the  way,  not  of 
sanction,  but  of  demand.  I  insist  on 
it  from  affection  for  myself  and  my 
own,  if  from  no  better  motive.  But 
this  affection  compels  me  to  go  far- 
ther : — I  say  also,  endow  him  with  the 
power  to  prevent  othei-s  from  sub- 
jecting me  to  robbery,  restraint,  and 
dictation.  The  power  is  quite  as  es- 
sential as  the  limitation  and  disabi- 
lities ;  his  ability  to  prevent  tyranny 
must  be  as  complete,  as  his  incapa- 
city for  its  exercise. 

You  effectually  bind  your  "  Citi- 
zen King"  from  committing  crime 
and  iniquity  against  the  will  of  the 
citizens,  and  in  this  I  applaud  you. 
But  you  clothe  the  citizens  with 
omnipotence,  which  knows  no  ex- 
ception, not  even  in  the  laws  of  the 
Deity;  and,  of  a  horrible  tyranny 
like  this,  you  make  him  the  instru- 
ment. You  compel  him  to  commit 
crime  and  iniquity  in  every  shape, 
when  the  citizens  will  it ;  and  in  the 
compulsion,  you  empower  him  to  be 
the  worst  of  tyrants  voluntarily,  as 
the  ally,  or  prompter,  of  such  will. 

I  have  a  certainty  that  this  tyranny 
will  be  employed  against  me,  in  the 
avowal  of  those  who  are  to  possess 
it.  \Vho  are  your  citizens?  The 
mass,  or  at  least  the  majority  of  the 
people — you  reply.  You  place  all 
wealthy  persons  in  the  minority,  and 


1831.] 


Citizen  Kings, 


707 


in  effect  exclude  them  from  citizen- 
ship ;  the  citizens,  on  your  own  con- 
fession, consist  essentially  of  labour- 
ers and  small  tradesmen.  In  their 
public  corporate  character  they  may 
not  employ  the  King  to  commit  in- 
dividual assassination  or  burglary; 
they  may  not  send  him  to  take  purses 
on  the  highway,  or  fire  stackyards; 
but  they  will  do  something  more  cri- 
minal and  destructive.  If  I  be  a  land- 
owner, or  fundholder,  the  King,  at 
the  command  of  these  citizens,  is  to 
destroy  my  property,  or  seize  it  for 
their  use ;  if  I  be  a  manufacturer,  he 
is  at  such  command  to  place  me  un- 
der regulations  in  favour  of  my  work- 
men which  will  ruin  me  ;  if  I  be 
rich,  he  is  in  like  manner  to  plunder 
me  of  my  political  rights  and  privi- 
leges. They  proclaim  that  they  will 
issue  the  command;  you  leave  to 
him  no  alternative  to  obedience,  and 
to  me  none  to  submission. 

You  may  say  my  loss  will  be 
caused  by  citizens,  laws,  and  a  Par- 
liament. I  can  find  in  it  no  conso- 
lation. It  is  the  same  whether  my 
property  be  taken  by  highwaymen 
or  citizens — by  the  lawless  demand 
of  a  housebreaker,  or  the  felonious 
law  of  a  people.  It  makes  no  dif- 
ference whether  I  lose  my  rights  and 
privileges  through  the  decree  of  a 
crowned  despot,  or  the  act  of  a  ty- 
rant Parliament. 

But  is  it  certain  that  this  tyranny 
will  be  exercised  by  the  body  of  the 
citizens  ?  No ;  something  very  dif- 
ferent is  certain.  Arbitrary  popular 
power  is  always  really  wielded  by  a 
minority,  as  despicable  in  numbers 
as  formidable  in  guilt.  The  enor- 
mities of  the  French  Revolution  were 
committed,  not  by  the  people,  but 
by  only  a  handful  of  them.  You  can- 
not keep  the  citizens, as  a  whole,  con- 
stantly in  the  field,  or  enable  them 
to  use  themselves  what  you  endow 
them  with :  on  receiving  the  despot- 
ism, they  must,  from  necessity,  trans- 
fer the  general  exercise  of  it  to  a 
petty  faction,  selected  from  the  dregs 
of  society. 

This  faction  must  supply  your  Citi- 
zen King  with  servants  and  advisers; 
it  must  give  him  feelings  and  con- 
duct; it  must  familiarize  him  with 
corruption,  intrigue,  falsehood,  in- 
justice, and  knavery ;  it  must  make 
him  in  heart  a  villain,  despot,  and 
traitor,!  He  will  be  limited  frgin 


good  and  wise  government  alone; 
tor  the  contrary,  he  will  have  bound- 
less license.  Will  his  temptations 
and  interests  be  all  in  favour  of  right 
and  liberty?  If  the  Citizen  King 
and  his  Ministers,  in  obedience  to 
their  policy,  should  strip  immense 
portions  of  the  community  of  pro- 
perty and  subsistence — if,  to  rid 
themselves  of  opposition  to  their  po- 
pular measures,  they  should  divest 
the  Peers  of  political  power,  sup- 
press the  Church,  and  seize  its  pos- 
sessions, incapacitate  rich  men  for 
holding  public  trusts,  and  impose  an 
ex  officio  silence  on  all  hostile  wri- 
ters and  speakers,  they  would  be  en- 
thusiastically supported  in  it  by  the 
citizens.  If,  in  doing  this,  they 
should  trample  on  law,  heap  cor- 
rupt treasure  on  the  King,  overwhelm 
his  illegitimate  children  with  digni- 
ties, and  secure  to  them  the  succes- 
sion, and  turn  the  revenue  to  the 
most  profligate  uses,  the  citizens 
would  warmly  sanction  it. 

Thus,  yom-  Citizen  King  will  really 
only  be  limited  where  limitation  is 
tyranny.  Your  restrictions  will 
merely  free  him  from  the  restraints 
and  disabilities  which  rest  on  the  ab- 
solute monarch.  ;  What  is  the  latter  ? 
A  sovereign  who,  with  his  servants 
and  party,  is  in  effect  largely  under 
the  control  of  the  privileged  and 
wealthy  classes,  although  he  has  no- 
minally the  power  to  do  any  thing. 
But  your  Citizen  King  and  his  /ac- 
tion are  to  be  exempted  from  all 
control. 

Where  is  the  security  that  he  will 
not  use  the  means  you  place  within 
his  reach  for  enslaving  the  citizens  ? 
The  House  of  Peers  is  to  be  practi- 
cally destroyed,  the  aristocracy  and 
clergy  are  to  be  deprived  of  power, 
and  property  is  to  lose  both  control 
and  influence :  All  these  are  to  be 
thrown  out  of  your  system,  for  good 
as  well  as  evil ;  they  are  to  be  as  ef- 
fectually disabled  for  aiding,  as  for 
opposing  the  citizens.  He  will  only 
have  to  gain  the  House  of  Commons 
and  the  army;  with  regard  to  the 
former,  he  could  corrupt  its  source, 
he  would  have  a  large  part  under  his 
control,  and  the  leaders,  as  well  as 
the  body,  would  be  precisely  men  to 
be  easily  purchased.  With  the  army 
he  could  have  no  difficulty. 

If  I  must  choose  between  an  abso- 
lute sovereign  and  your  Citizen  King, 


70& 


Citizen  Kinjs. 


(Nov. 


I  must  prefer  one  tyrant  to  millions 
— arbitrary  power,  restrained  in  a 
large  degree  by  interest  and  the  opi- 
nion of  the  world,  to  a  restless,  sa- 
vage despotism,  free  from  all  re- 
straint, and  perpetually  invited  to 
wallow  in  the  darkest  crimes.  I  must 
seek  shelter  in  the  absolute  monarch, 
from  the  scorpion  sceptre  of  an  ab- 
solute people. 

To  guard  against  such  tyranny,  I 
must  have  a  due  portion  of  power 
bestowed  on  the  wealthy  classes.  I  put 
aside  the  empty,  mischievous  names 
of  aristocracy,  democracy,  and  mixed 
form  of  government ;  it  is  the  same 
to  me  whether  your  political  fabric 
be  a  monarchy  or  republic.  I  must 
give  power  to  the  Peer  on  account 
of  his  estate,  but  not  of  his  title ;  I 
must  give  it  in  a  special  form,  to 
place  him,  as  one  of  the  people,  on  a 
Fair  level  with  the  rest,  and  for  ge- 
neral benefit,  but  not  to  separate  him 
and  his  brethren  from  the  people.  I 
must  mix  all  ranks  and  classes,  not 
to  produce  a  compound  of  three 
great  independent  powers,  but  to 
place  the  people  at  large  in  proper 
equality  and  connexion.  I  live  un- 
der what  is  taken  in  essentials  as  the 
model  of  republics;  therefore  what 
matters  it  if  it  be  called  a  monarchy  ? 
The  nobles  of  my  country  have  only 
the  republican  privilege  of  serving 
the  people ;  and  this,  with  republi- 
can rights,  is  all  I  seek  for  them. 

You  wish  to  deprive  all  wealthy 
men,  and  especially  the  Peers,  of 
power.  Your  vote  by  ballot,  and 
other  things,  are  confessedly,  or  evi- 
dently, intended  to  exclude  them 
from  office,  and  make  them  a  power- 
less minority.  The  House  of  Com- 
mons, you  declare,  chosen  by  the 
rest  of  the  people,  ought  to  be  the 
supreme  dictator  over  the  other 
House  of  Parliament,  as  well  as  the 
Crown.  The  flagrant  injustice  and 
oppression  of  this  must  first  be  no- 
ticed. You  insist  that  the  Peers  shall 
have  no  share  in  electing  the  House 
of  Commons,  and  that  as  legislators, 
they  shall  servilely  obey  it  in  all  im- 
portant matters:  they  are  excluded 
from  sitting  in  it.  In  reality,  there- 
fore, they  are  to  be  wholly  disfran- 
chised— to  be  as  much  restricted 
from  participating  in  the  manage- 
ment of  public  affairs,  saving  minor 
things,  as  the  subjects  of  a  despot- 
ism. Republicanism,  in  its  horror  of 


aristocrats,  still  abhors  and  shuns  the 
iniquity.  Rich  men,  whom  no  title 
brands  and  disqualifies,  are  to  be  al- 
lowed to  occupy  seats  in  the  House 
of  Commons,  but  disabled  for  beco- 
ming the  representatives  of  their 
own  class — they  are  to  be  suffered  to 
vote  for  its  members,  but  incapaci- 
tated for  electing  any.  Here,  again, 
are  virtual  disfranchisement  and 
despotism ;  if  a  republic  sanction 
them,  they  are  not  the  less  criminal. 

Equitable  and  virtuous  equality 
looks  at  essentials,  but  not  names  and 
appearances  ;  it  seeks  uniformity  of 
end,  and  to  produce  this  it  diversi- 
fies its  means ;  it  does  not  arm  one 
combatant,  and  bind  the  hands  of  the 
other  behind  him.  Your  equality 
gives  the  aggressive  part  of  the  peo- 
ple an  irresistible  army,  and  will  not 
allow  the  defensive  one  a  single  sol- 
dier. 

Your  great  object,  as  you  declare, 
is  to  make  the  lower  part  of  the  peo- 
ple despotic  over  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, and  this  House  despotic  over 
both  the  King  and  the  House  of  Peers. 
How  am  I  to  find  in  this  the  mixed 
form  of  government  ?  Where  is  the 
republic  which  makes  so  deep  a 
plunge  into  pure  democracy  ?  If  I 
look  at  that  of  the  United  States,  I 
find  in  substance,  though  not  in  name, 
the  three  estates — a  King  and  Peers, 
as  well  as  Commons.  I  perceive  that 
the  representatives  have  no  such 
power  of  tyranny  and  dictation ;  but 
on  the  contrary,  they,  like  the  Presi- 
dent and  Senate,  have  their  limita- 
tions and  disabilities.  It  is  in  truth 
an  absolute  monarchy  compared 
with  that  you  seek  to  establish  in 
this  country.  I  see  very  weighty  rea- 
sons against  going  farther  into  actual 
republicanism  than  the  most  fierce 
republicans  deem  necessary. 

You  give  the  citizens  despotic 
power  over  the  choice  of  the  House  of 
Commons,  but  not  over  its  conduct ; 
consequently  you  only  enable  them 
to  select,  but  not  to  guide,  a  despot. 
When  chosen,  this  House  must  pos- 
sess over  them,  as  well  as  the  King 
and  Peers,  the  extreme  of  arbitrary 
power  for  seven  years.  Examine  well 
the  despotism  you  are  essaying  to 
establish.  Putting  aside  the  King  and 
Peers,  what  have  you  to  restrain  it 
from  the  very  worst  conduct?  Laws? 
— it  is  wholly  above  them ;  it  can  an- 
nul or  make  any  law  as  easily  as  the 


1831. 1 


Citizen  Kings. 


709 


absolute  tyrant  can  issue  his  decree. 
Public  meetings  ?  It  can  practically 
repress  them,  by  sending  all  men  to 
prison  who  may  speak  against  it,  in- 
dividually or  collectively.  The  press? 
It  can  silence  it  by  imprisonment ; 
moreover,  if  it  have  the  King  as  its 
menial,  it  can  exercise  the  powers  of 
the  Attorney-General.  The  publi- 
city of  its  proceedings  ?  It  can  enve- 
lope them  in  profound  secrecy.  The 
King  and  Peers  form  the  only  ac- 
tual restraints  which  rest  upon  it; 
they  are  the  only  effectual  means 
through  which  the  citizens  can  re- 
strict it  from  wrong,  and  dissolve  it 
for  misconduct. 

In  thus  transforming  the  House  of 
Commons  into  as  comprehensive  a 
tyranny  as  ever  scourged  the  human 
race,  what  guarantees  do  you  offer 
that  it  will  never  deviate  from  inte- 
grity and  wisdom  ?  None.  With  re- 
gard to  making  the  King  its  slave,  it 
will  compel  him  to  take  its  own  lead- 
ers for  ministers,  and  then  they  will 
be  one ;  the  King  will  be  the  House, 
although  the  House  will  be  the  King. 
As  it  will  be  elected  by,  it  will  in  the 
main  consist  of,  one  party ;  and  this 
party  must  possess  office.  The  House 
of  Commons  will  practically  be  also 
the  Ministry ;  and  will  it,  in  the  one 
character,  duly  watch  its  own  con- 
duct iu  the  other  ?  The  King,  indivi- 
dually, will  be  enslaved,  but  his  Mi- 
nisters will  be  rendered  despotic. 
By  making  the  House  a  tyranny,  you 
will  make  the  Cabinet  one ;  you  will 
combine  them  into  an  Executive  free 
from  responsibility  and  restriction. 

It  is  very  evident,  that  if  you  make 
the  House  of  Commons  despotic 
over  the  King,  and  practise  your 
present  doctrines  that  the  Peers 
ought  to  be  placed — by  creations  and 
otherwise — at  their  joint  command, 
you  really  create  a  despotic  Execu- 
tive— you  in  effect  place  institutions, 
laws,  the  public  purse,  right,  and 
liberty,  at  the  mercy  of  Ministers. 
Your  scheme,  therefore,  for  enabling 
the  citizens  to  dictate  to  the  govern- 
ment, will  only  make  them  its  slaves ; 
they  will  only  gain  from  it  the  power 
to  elect  and  change  a  sweeping  ty- 
ranny septennially. 

To  restrain  the  King  from  tyran- 
ny, you  must  also  restrain  his  ser- 
vants ;  to  restrain  them,  you  must 
also  restrain  the  legislature  and  all 
parts  of  the  people.  The  limitations 


and  disabilities  which  rest  on  the 
King,  must  extend  to  all  below  him 
to  be  effectual.  Laws  are  worthless, 
if  a  proper  power  do  not  exist  to 
keep  them  in  being  and  operation. 
You  can  only  restrain  one  part  of 
the  people,  and  thereby  the  govern- 
ment, by  the  privileges  and  weight  of 
another;  the  primary  elements  of 
freedom  must  be  found  in  the  divi- 
sions and  conflicting  interests  of  the 
people,  and  its  practice  in  placing 
these  in  due  equipoise  and  relation. 
I  grant  that  what  is  called  the  Aris- 
tocracy lias  infirmities  and  vices,  and 
cannot  monopolize  power  without 
being  an  odious  tyranny  ;  but  is  the 
case  better  with  what  is  named  the 
Democracy  V  Sacrificing  right  to  ex- 
pediency, is  the  latter  more  infalli- 
ble and  pure,  or  less  likely  to  abuse 
power,  than  the  former  ?  At  the  best, 
I  would  trust  the  one  as  soon  as  the 
other;  but,  independently  of  this,  I 
will  not  have  a  despotism  of  any  de- 
scription. 

I  must  use  the  one  to  restrain  the 
other — I  must  give  to  each  sufficient 
power  to  balance  and  check  the 
other — or  I  can  have  no  security  of 
person  and  property,  privilege  and 
liberty.  A  limited  monarchy  does 
not  mean  that  the  King  shall  be  un- 
der constant  dictation;  it  not  only 
allows,  but  commands  him  to  exer- 
cise the  sovereign  authority  for  every 
thing  but  evil.  It  is  just  as  essential 
for  him  to  obtain  the  assent  of  the 
legislature  to  proper  measures,  as  it 
is  for  him  to  be  refused  it  to  impro- 
per ones ;  independent  of  him,  as 
the  legislature  ought  to  be,  its  inte- 
rests and  prejudices  must  be  so  di- 
vided and  balanced,  that  the  impar- 
tial, upright  part  may  turn  the  scale, 
or  evil  will  be  all  it  will  suffer  him 
to  do.  As  in  the  nature  of  things, 
it  must  consist  chiefly  of  interested, 
prejudiced  men,  it  is  only  by  com- 
posing it  virtually  of  such  portions 
of  Aristocracy  and  Democracy,  rich 
and  poor,  high  arid  low,  as  will  ba- 
lance each  other,  that  you  can  possi- 
bly extract  from  it  wise  and  righte- 
ous decision  on  his  measures. 

Every  one  admits  it  to  be  of  the 
first  consequence  for  the  Legisla- 
ture to  be  independent  of  the  Exe- 
cutive, and  you  are  exceedingly  an- 
xious to  make  it  so ;  it  must  be  prac- 
tically destroyed  as  a  Legislature,  if 
it  be  made  in  any  way  dependent  on 


710 


Citizen  Kings. 


[Nov. 


the  Executive.  If  you  combine  them, 
by  giving  it  the  command,  you  de- 
stroy it  as  effectually  as  you  would 
do  should  you  place  it  under  the 
command  of  the  Ministry.  To  make 
the  Legislature  duly  independent  of 
the  Executive,  you  must  make  the 
Executive  duly  independent  of  the 
Legislature ;  the  independence  of 
the  one  exists  in  that  of  the  other. 
In  any  case,  a  very  large  part  of  Par- 
liament must  be  identified  with,  and 
virtually  a  part  of,  the  Ministry ;  and 
you  can  only  prevent  the  great  ma- 
jority from  being  so,  through  control, 
on  the  one  hand  or  the  other,  by  its 
proper  division. 

It  is  this  division,  and  not  power- 
less statutes,  which  must  enable  the 
King  to  dismiss  an  incapable  and 
wicked  Ministry  or  House  of  Com- 
mons, compel  him  to  do  it  if  he  lack 
the  inclination,  and  prevent  tyranny 
as  much  in  the  Legislature  as  in  him ; 
which  must  constrain  both  to  attend 
to  petitions  and  grievances,  give  real 
being  and  effect  to  the  liberty  of  the 
press  and  the  subject,  and  form  the 
counterpoise  in  the  Legislature  to 
corruption,  intrigue,  servility,  and 
profligacy. 

I,  of  course,  deem  it  as  necessary 
for  the  Aristocracy,  as  for  the  Demo- 
cracy, to  possess  a  proper  restrain- 
ing power  in  the  Legislature ;  there- 
fore I  deem  a  separate,  independent 
House  of  Peers  as  essential  as  such 
a  House  of  Commons.  In  one  as- 
sembly alone,  the  balance  could  not 
be  duly  adjusted  and  kept  in  order. 
I  speak  of  a  restraining  and  prevent- 
ive, but  not  of  a  controlling  and  ag- 
gressive power.  Although  you  in- 
sist that  the  citizens  should  not  only 
dispose  of,  but  constantly  exercise, 
the  sovereignty,  your  schemes  rigid- 
ly withhold  the  exercise  from  them  ; 
even  universal  suffrage  and  vote  by 
ballot  only  permit  them  to  elect  the 
House  of  Commons — they  give  them 
no  effectual  means  for  restraining  and 
dissolving  it  in  case  it  prove  imbe- 
cile, tyrannical,  and  traitorous.  The 
King  may  use  his  pleasure,  he  may 
retain  such  a  House,  and  it  may 
make  him  despotic  j  and  the  citizens 
must  be  destitute  of  legal  means  of 
prevention,  or  they  must  have  an  in- 
dependent House  of  Peers. 

Let  me  now  glance  at  your  asser- 
tions that  the  Aristocracy  is  disqua- 
lified in  respect  of  interest  and  capa- 


city for  exercising  a  due  share  of 
power. 

With  regard  to  pecuniary  interest, 
the  noble  who  has  a  large  estate,  the 
value  of  which  necessarily  fluctuates 
with  the  value  of  the  poor  man's  la- 
bour, must  at  least  have  as  deep  an 
interest  as  the  labourer  in  national 
prosperity. 

The  Aristocracy  established  and 
perpetuated  the  privileges  and  liber- 
ties of  the  nation,  and  this  is  suffi- 
cient to  prove  that  its  interests  can- 
not be  opposed  to  them.  What  is  free- 
dom of  the  press  ?  It  is  liberty  to  op- 
pose government  5  for  liberty  to  sup- 
port it  is  allowed  under  every  des- 
potism. Have  men  who  possess  im- 
mense property  no  need  of  a  press  to 
prevent  it  from  being  seized  by  ty- 
ranny, or  injured  by  misrule  ?  Have 
men  who  are  ambitious  to  fill  the 
highest  offices,  no  need  of  a  press  to 
render  them  successful  ?  Have  men 
who  are  very  rich,  no  personal  liber- 
ty, religion,  right,  and  privilege, 
which  the  press  can  defend  ?  The 
Aristocracy  draws  its  seats  in  the 
House  of  Commons — its  power  in 
the  House  of  Peers — its  independ- 
ence of  the  King — its  influence  in  the 
direction  of  public  affairs — and  its 
weight  with  the  body  of  the  people 
—from  popular  privileges  and  liber- 
ties. In  the  latter  are  based  its  own, 
and  therefore  it  has  as  much  appa- 
rent as  well  as  real  interest  in  sup- 
porting them,  as  any  democrat  what- 
ever. A  simple  monarchy  in  every 
country  is  more  fruitful  of  bondage 
and  injury  to  the  noble  than  to  the 
poor  man. 

Touching  intellect  and  acquire- 
ments, the  debates  in  the  House  of 
Lords  have  long  displayed  far  more 
of  the  higher  attributes  of  eloquence, 
than  those  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. At  this  moment  the  Upper 
House  ranks  immeasurably  above  the 
Lower  one  in  gifted  orators ;  I  speak 
of  number  as  well  as  degree  of  ta- 
lent. The  followers  among  the  Peers 
are  at  least  equal  to  those  among  the 
Commons,  without  excepting  the 
members  elected  by  the  lower  part 
of  the  citizens. 

Thus,  while  I  mustgive  a  due  share 
of  power  to  the  Aristocracy,  as  the 
only  means  of  preserving  myself  and 
the  citizens  from  despotism,  I  think 
it  in  all  respects  quite  as  trustworthy 
as  the  Democracy. 


1831.] 


Citizen  Kings. 


711 


Ministers  maintain  that  even  if  the 
House  of  Commons  be  made  despo- 
tic, the  King  will  find  ample  security 
for  liis  independence  in  the  love  of 
his  people.  They  give  no  proof,  and 
I  am  incredulous.  Why  is  his  Majesty 
now  so  popular  ?  Because  he  is  obey- 
ing the  wish  of  the  people,  and  fight- 
ing, as  they  belie  ve,  their  battle  against 
the  Aristocracy.  It  is  manifest  that 
if  the  present  system  of  pledging 
continue,  they  will  soon  pledge  their 
representatives,  among  other  things, 
to  sponge  off  a  large  part  of  the  pub- 
lic debt,  and  strip  the  Church  of 
much  of  her  property.  The  King 
has  no  power  to  consent  to  this— 
none  whatever ;  yet  if  a  despotic 
House  of  Commons  should  insist  on 
his  consent,  and  attempt  to  force  him 
into  robbery  and  perjury,  it  is  cer- 
tain enough  that  the  people  would 
support  it ;  in  such  case,  where 
would  be  his  independence  ?  Those 
who,  while  they  openly  endeavour  to 
place  him  under  the  dictation  of  the 
people,  assert  that  the  love  of  the 
latter  will  preserve  his  independence, 
are  not  to  be  listened  to. 

The  due  independence  of  the  King 
enters  into  the  essence  of  national 
liberty.  It  is  not  only,  as  I  have  said, 
indispensable  for  establishing  and 
protecting  that  of  the  Legislature, 
but  it  is  equally  so  for  giving  due 
independence  and  freedom  to  the 
citizens.  It  ranks  amidst  the  first 
uses  of  a  King,  to  defend  the  minori- 
ty against  the  majority.  A  govern- 
ment is  necessary,  because  without 
it,  man  will  injure  man,  one  part  of 
the  people  will  wrong  and  oppress 
another ;  and  the  distinguishing  cha- 
racteristic of  a  free  one  is,  it  pre- 
vents not  only  the  King,  but  the 
people,  not  only  the  few,  but  the 
many,  not  only  the  strong  and  rich, 
but  the  weak  and  poor,  from  pos- 
sessing the  power  to  commit  injury, 
wrong,  and  oppression.  A  majority 
has  no  right  to  violate  the  laws  of 
God, and  indestructible  natural  right, 
because  it  is  one  ;  ithasnomore  right 
to  do  so  than  the  individual.  If  nine- 
tenths  of  the  people!  nsist  that  trea- 
ties shall  be  broken,  the  law  of  na- 
tions shall  be  trampled  on,  the  public 
debt  shall  not  be  paid,  or  the  other 
tenth  shall  be  plundered  and  banish- 
ed, it  ought  to  be  as  sternly  resisted 
in  them,  as  in  one-tenth,  or  the  King 
himself.  If  you  place,  as  you  wish, 


the  Legislature  under  the  control  of 
the  majority,  where  must  the  power 
of  resistance  exist,  save  iu  the  King's 
independence  ? 

Even  in  matters  of  expediency,  it 
is  necessary,  for  the  sake  of  the  ci- 
tizens, that  the  majority  should  be 
resisted  when  in  error.  If  it  should 
wish  to  suppress  the  state  of  reli- 
gion, or  convert  the  monarchy  into 
a  republic,  or  destroy  Trial  by  Jury 
and  the  freedom  of  the  Press;  it 
does  not  follow  that  it  ought  to  bo 
suffered  to  do  so.  Its  sovereignty  is, 
in  reason  and  right,  not  a  despotic, 
but  a  limited  one ;  freedom  knows 
as  little  of  an  unlimited  majority,  as 
of  an  unlimited  monarch ;  it  ought 
to  be  as  much  withstood  in  perni- 
cious principles  and  measures  as 
the  individual.  A  King  should  be  in 
the  body  politic  what  reason  is  in 
the  human  body — a  power  to  curb 
and  guide  the  imagination  and  pas- 
sions, to  give  due  direction  to  the 
will.  The  widest  extent  of  liberty, 
in  regard  to  both  enjoyment  and 
preservation,  calls  for  the  greatest 
share  of  wisdom  in  the  management 
of  public  interests.  While,  in  ethics, 
it  is  your  rule  to  make  reason  para- 
mount, as  the  means  of  saving  the 
individual  from  every  ill,  you  do 
exactly  the  contrary  in  political 
science.  Your  fundamental  axioms 
make  the  wealthy  and  learned  part 
of  the  people  an  impotent  minority; 
and  in  this  they  practically  doom 
the  national  reason  to  be  constantly 
outvoted  and  excluded  from  office ; 
then  they  decide  that  the  national 
imagination  and  passions  shall  be 
servilely  obeyed  by  the  King,  with- 
out reference  to  truth  or  falsehood, 
wisdom  or  folly,  profit  or  ruin.  Here 
again,  if  it  were  possible  for  you  to 
place  the  Legislature  under  the  ma- 
jority's dictation,  where  could  the 
power  of  resistance  have  being  save 
in  the  King's  independence  ? 

But  you  cannot  place  the  Legisla- 
ture under  such  control  and  dicta- 
tion ;  its  privileges  render  it,  in  con- 
duct, independent  of  the  people ;  if 
it  attempt  to  plunge  into  destructive 
crime  and  error,  in  defiance  of  the 
majority,  the  latter  can  only  prevent 
it  through  the  independence  of  the 
King. 

I,  of  course,  speak  of  an  independ- 
ence limited  according  to  necessity 
and  use.  The  doctrine,  that  the  King 


Citizen  Kinds. 


ought  to  have  a  sufficiency  of  posi- 
tive power  in  the  Legislature  to  carry 
his  measures,  is  not  sanctioned  by 
me,  although  it  has  been  promulga- 
ted in  high  quarters.  I  draw  the 
line  between  positive  power  and  ne- 
gative, command  and  refusal,  ag- 
gression and  defence.  I  claim  for 
the  King  power  even  in  abundance, 
to  prevent  the  Legislature  from  car- 
rying guilty  and  injurious  measures, 
tut  I  cannot  go  farther,  without  de- 
stroying its  independence.  The 
means  for  enabling  him  to  carry  in  it 
salutary,  nay,  necessary  ones,  must 
be  found  in  its  independent  con- 
struction. It  exists  to  restrain  him 
from  bad  measures,  and  I  cannot 
disable  it  from  doing  this,  to  enable 
him  to  carry  good  ones. 

Your  reasons  for  manufacturing 
Citizen  Kings  exhibit  any  thing  ra- 
ther than  truth  and  solidity.  I  can- 
not thiuk,  with  you,  that  because  the 
doctrines  of  "  divine  right"  and  "  le- 
gitimacy" are  erroneous,  a  King  has 
no  rights  whatever;  claiming  no 
more  for  him  than  for  any  other 
man,  I  cannot  claim  lees.  History 
would  write  liar  on  my  forehead, 
were  I  to  assert,  with  you,  that,  be- 
cause it  is  bigotry  to  maintain  Kings 
cannot  err,  they  are,  in  the  gross, 
idiots  and  tyrants.  I  admit  those  to 
be  sycophants  and  slaves  who  cover 
royalty  with  adulation,  and  teach  ab- 
ject submission  to  its  will;  but  I 
must  likewise  think  that  they  are 
equally  so  who  do  the  same  touch- 
ing the  multitude.  The  man  who 
invests  what  he  calls  the  people 
with  infallibility,  misleads  them,  in- 
flames their  passions,  panders  to 
their  guilt,  and  calls  for  unlimited 
obedience  to  their  desires,  is,  in  my 
judgment,  a  more  depraved  villain — 
a  more  despicable  wretch — than  the 
most  unprincipled  courtier  that  ever 
licked  dust  at  the  foot  of  a  throne. 

If  your  abuse  were  as  true  as  it  is 
false,  I  would  sweep  away  Kings 
root  and  branch,  but  not  commit  the 
monstrous  folly  of  binding  them  from 
abuse  of  power,  by  placing  over  me 
an  Executive  utterly  incapable  of 
managing  public  affairs,  preventing 
civil  commotion,  and  protecting  my 
person  and  possessions.  I  must  have 
an  Executive  strong,  exceedingly 
strong,  even  mighty  for  the  discharge 
of  its  duties;  and  I  cannot  be  so  far 
my  own  enemy,  as  to  make  it,  though 


[Nov. 

it  be  a  kingly  one,  powerless,  that  I 
may  make  it  innoxious. 

For  the  sake  of  myself  and  the  ci- 
tizens, let  me  remonstrate  with  you 
on  your  conduct.  You  know  that 
Kings  have  as  much  infirmity  and 
vice  as  other  men,  but  not  more ; 
history  proves,  that  they  are  fully 
equal  to  the  average  of  their  species  ; 
you  are  sure  that  they  are  just  as  fit 
as  other  men  to  be  placed  at  the 
head  of  the  Executive.  Why,  then, 
do  you  cover  them  with  these  false- 
hoods? Boast  of  truth — I  am  its 
friend ;  let  us  have  it  in  its  naked  se- 
verity; speak  without  caring  whom 
its  blaze  may  scathe  and  destroy ; 
but  let  it  not  be  kept  alone  from  the 
people.  You  wish  to  obtain  free  and 
good  government—  I  am  with  you; 
but  is  it  to  be  obtained  by  deluding 
and  inflaming  those  who  are  to 
fashion  and  live  under  it  ?  Is  it  to 
be  established  ".byifilling  the  people 
with  the  most  groundless  and  mis- 
chievous opinions,  touching  those 
who  are  to  be  its  leading  function- 
aries, or  preserved  by  teaching  the 
subject  to  hate  and  assail  the  ruler  ? 
The  people,  and  not  kings,  are  the 
real  victims  of  your  falsehoods. 

You  wish  to  make  kings  good  and 
wise,  is  it  then  not  necessary  to  place 
their  bonds  and  temptations  on  the 
side  of  goodness  and  wisdom  ?  On 
glancing  at  the  Citizen  King  of 
France,  I  find  that  almost  ever  since 
he  received  his  ill-starred  crown,  he 
has  been  involved  in  a  contest  with 
his  citizens,  which  has  broken  to 
pieces  Ministry  after  Ministry,  whe- 
ther Jacobite  or  Royalist, Republican 
or  Monarch ial, and  at  times  has  placed 
him  on  the  verge  of  dethronement. 
What  has  he  been  contending  for  ? 
To  observe  treaties  and  public  law, 
save  not  only  France  but  Europe 
from  war,  and  defend  the  institutions 
confided  to  his  keeping.  Recently, 
he  has  been  compelled,  against  the 
conviction  of  himself  and  his  ser- 
vants, to  introduce  a  measure  for 
making  a  vital  change  in  the  insti- 
tutions I  have  named.  Whether  he 
can  yet  save  himself,  without  the  aid 
of  the  sword  and  the  establishment 
of  despotism,  is  extremely  doubt- 
ful. Here,  then,  is  a  King  who  can- 
not be  upright  without  resorting  to 
intrigue  and  corruption,  who  cannot 
keep  a  Ministry  in  being  without  sa- 
crificing the  public  weal,  who  is  com« 


1831.] 


Citizen  Kings. 


713 


pelled  to  save  his  sceptre  by  perjury, 
and  who  has  the  choice  before  him 
of  being  a  tyrant  or  an  exile  !  If  you 
place  a  King  and  his  servants,  ac- 
cording to  your  desire  and  endea- 
vours, under  the  dictation  of  the  ma- 
jority, they  can  only  be  honest 
through  knavery,  faithful  through 
breach  of  obligation,  arid  wise  through 
falsehood  and  tyranny. 

"Will  you  serve  domestic  peace 
and  order  by  thus  involving  the  King 
and  the  subject  in  eternal  conflict 
for  the  mastery  ?  Will  you  benefit 
liberty,  and  those  whom  you  call  the 
citizens,  by  placing  a  King  in  cir- 
cumstances which  must  give  him 
the  soul  of  a  knave,  deceiver,  mur- 
derer, and  tyrant;  and  infuse  the 
same  soul  into  every  Minister  who 
may  serve  him  ? 

Are  your  charges  against  the  Aris- 
tocracy true  or  false  V  For  the  sake 
of  the  people,  let  us  here  have  the 
whole  truth  without  disguise  or  re- 
serve. Fiends  never  concocted  any 
thing  more  thoroughly  baseless;  men 
more  disinterested  and  patriotic  than 
the  Peers  and  country  gentlemen  of 
England,  never  served  and  adorned 
any  nation.  I  speak  from  the  history 
of  my  country ;  for  the  blood  they 
have  shed,  and  the  wealth  they  have 
sacrificed,  to  secure  her  liberties,  and 
promote  her  happiness,  are  not  mat- 
ter of  assertion. 

Your  charges  are  false — they  are 
atrocious  calumnies — they  are  not 
the  less  so,  if  they  be  published  in  a 
newspaper  by — (Oh !  shame  to  the 
judge,  and  woe  to  the  people) — the 
Lord  Chancellor  of  England  !  What 
profit  can  they  yield  to  the  citizens  ? 
Is  war  a  thing  so  desirable,  that  be- 
cause we  cannot  conveniently  find  it 
abroad,  we  must  light  it  up  at  home  ? 
Is  the  scattered  and  disjointed  Bri- 
tish empire  of  such  construction, 
that  its  parts,  integral  and  colonial, 
can  only  be  preserved  from  falling 
asunder  by  the  fire  and  sword  of 
civil  commotion  ?  Is  liberty  to  be 
secured  by  inciting  one  part  of  the 
community  to  oppress  and  destroy 
another ;  or  prosperity  to  be  served 
by  making  intestine  animosity  and 
convulsion  the  source  and  guide  of 
all  legislation  ? 

You  justify  yourselves  by  the  plea, 
that  you  wish  to  give  its  due  share 
of  power  to  the  Democracy.  What 
share  ?  You  insist  that  both  the  King 


and  the  Legislature  ought  to  be  pla- 
ced under  its  dictation.  Have,  then, 
the  people  no  infirmities  and  vices  ? 
I  will  adopt  the  Lord  Chancellor's 
distinction,  and  throw  out  the  popu- 
lace as  no  part  of  the  people.  I  do 
it,  however,  for  the  sake  of  argu- 
ment ;  for  I  know  that  even  yet  the 
patriotism,  honesty,  and  virtue  of 
England,  exist  as  extensively  in  the 
labouring,  as  in  the  middle  classes. 
Assuming,  then,  that  the  middle 
classes  alone  constitute  the  people, 
are  they  incapable  of  being  deluded 
and  misled — of  acting  from  interest- 
ed motives — of  wielding  a  despotism 
for  any  other  purpose  than  to  benefit 
right  and  freedom,  prosperity  and 
happiness  ?  I  cannot  but  perceive  a 
wide  difference  between  the  power 
to  elect  a  Legislature,  and  that  to 
dictate  to  one ;  speaking  with  refer- 
ence to  the  latter,  I  ask,  on  what 
principle  of  right  and  justice  you. 
thus  scoop  half  a  million  of  tyrants 
from  the  heart  of  the  population,  and 
make  all  the  rest  their  slaves  ?  If 
the  people  ought  to  dictate,  why  not 
the  whole,  instead  of  this  petty,  sor- 
did, servile  fraction  of  them  ?  You 
can  find  no  precedent  or  justification 
for  vesting  this  dictating  power  in 
either  an  oligarchy  of  shopkeepers, 
or  the  body  of  the  people.  A  limited 
monarchy  knows  it  not — a  republic 
forbids  it — right  and  freedom  can- 
not exist  with  it :  Government, 
whether  monarchical  or  republican, 
has  being  to  prevent  the  whole  peo- 
ple, or  any  part  of  them,  from  exer- 
cising the  sovereignty,  in  order  that 
the  latter  may  be  placed  where  it 
will  be  under  proper  regulation  and 
responsibility. 

The  Democracy  demonstrably  and 
undeniably  has  its  infirmities  and 
vices  as  well  as  the  King  and  Aristo- 
cracy ;  and  is  as  unfit  as  either  to  be 
intrusted  with  absolute  power.  It  can 
only  be  placed  under  due  restraint 
by  both — by  the  one,  as  well  as  the 
other.  By  concealing  this  truth  from 
the  people,  and  inciting  them  to 
throw  their  chains  over  both  as  a 
matter  of  right,  you  are  knowingly 
leading  them  to  their  own  ruin  and 
slavery. 

I  am  a  comprehensive  reformer — 
but  I  am  so  to  preserve,  and  not  to 
destroy,  my  freedom.  If  I  cannot 
get  rid  of  the  nomination  boroughs 
without  practically  suppressing  the 


Citizen  Kings. 


[Nov. 


House  of  Peers,  they  must  remain, 
with  all  their  evils.  I  can  easily  see, 
in  the  present  state  of  the  House  of 
Commons,  that  when  the  system  of 
pledging  and  agency  shall  be  brought 
into  full  operation,  it  will  be  devoid 
in  the  last  degree  of  talent  and  inte- 
grity, and  moreover  must  of  neces- 
sity be  the  abject  slave  of  one  Minis- 
try or  another.  In  such  case,  liberty 
and  wise  government  must  depend 
mainly  on  the  independent  existence 
of  the  Upper  House.  Carry  the  Re- 
form Bill  by  a  creation  of  Peers,  and 
such  a  precedent  in  these  times  will 
be  the  virtual  extinction  of  the  Peers 
as  an  independent  part  of  the  Legis- 
lature. You  cannot  be  ignorant  of 
this^-therefore  you  must  be  aware, 
that  you  are  inciting  the  people  to 
such  reform  through  the  overthrow 
of  the  constitution  and  liberty. 

If  the  nomination  boroughs  be 
evils,  cannot  they  be  removed  with- 
out destroying  the  equipoise  of  the 
three  estates  ?  Does  it  follow  that 
because  individual  lords  have  no 
right  to  their  members,  the  right  be- 
longs to  petty  knots  of  shopkeepers ; 
or  that  because  reform  is  necessary, 
none  but  a  special  scheme  ought  to 
be  adopted  ?  What  prevents  you 
from  carrying,  not  trifling,  but  com- 
prehensive reform — such  as  will  in- 
clude the  suppression  of  these  ob- 
noxious boroughs  ?  The  Peers  do 
not;  a  large  majority  of  them  will 
support  you,  provided  you  strike  out 
of  your  plan  things  which  the  popu- 
lar cry  never  made  essentials,  and 
add  to  it  securities  which  the  body 
of  the  people  will  not  object  to.  You 
are,  therefore,  yourselves  the  real 
enemies  of  reform — the  real  oppo- 
nents of  popular  rights,  who  prevent 
its  triumph. 


Reform  is  necessary— granted ; 
but  is  it  necessary  to  obtain  it  by 
suspending  trade  and  plunging  the 
people  into  starvation — by  filling  the 
empire  with  disaffection  and  convul- 
sion— by  throwing  all  the  affairs  of 
the  empire  into  disorder — by  bring- 
ing the  two  Houses  of  Parliament 
into  conflict,  destroying  the  indepen- 
dence of  both,  and  making  a  profli- 
gate Ministry  despotic — by  produ- 
cing a  state  of  things  which  in  this 
moment  must  give  arbitrary  power 
to  the  Crown,  and  in  the  next  must 
ensure  revolution  ?  You  are  now 
seeking  it  at  this  terrible  price,  when 
you  need  only  common  honesty  to 
gain  it  gratuitously. 

In  making  great  changes  of  law 
and  institution,  the  scruples  of  those 
who  resist  are  entitled  to  as  much 
attention  as  the  wishes  of  those  who 
assail.  Common  right  and  justice, 
as  well  as  constitutional  practice, 
demand  that  compromise  and  sacri- 
fice shall  be  carried  as  far  on  one 
side  as  on  the  other.  If  a  King,  in 
judging  between  two  mighty  divi- 
sions of  his  subjects,  can  only  extend 
concession  to  one,  and  will  rather 
act  the  despot  than  listen  to  those 
who  combat  for  his  throne,  he  knows 
but  little  of  his  duty  and  interest.  If 
a  Ministry,  instead  of  making  the 
surrender  imposed  on  it  by  solemn 
obligations,  carry  its  measures  of 
change  through  the  violation  of  the 
constitution  and  arbitrary  power,  and 
at  the  hazard  of  producing  every  pos- 
sible national  calamity ;  its  members 
ought  not  to  escape  the  punishment 
which  is  never  escaped  by  less  guilty 
traitors. 

I  am,  Sir,  &c.  &c. 

A  BYSTANDER. 


1831.] 


Dialogue  between  t7ie  Marquis  of  Anglesea, 


TO  CHRISTOPHER  NORTH,  ESQ. 

DEAR  SIR,— The  rumour  which  reached  you  was  not  without  foundation 
—the  statement  contained  in  your  letter  is  substantially  true. 

I  find,  by  enquiry,  that  Lord  Anglesea  left  Ireland  on  Saturday  last  to 
attend  his  duty  in  Parliament ;  and  that  the  vision,  or  apparition,  or  what- 
ever it  may  be  called,  was  seen  by  him  on  Sunday  evening. 

In  one  important  point  your  information  is  incorrect.  It  was  not  the 
ghost  of  his  father  which  he  saw,  but  that  of  his  own  leg,  which  claimed 
identity  with  his  former  self,  and  roundly  upbraided  him  for  his  desertion 
of  his  principles. 

You  know  that,  to  Anglesea,  fear  is  a  stranger.  He  therefore  regarded 
his  most  unexpected  visitor  with  a  pleased  surprise,  and  was  about  to  be  as 
familiar  as  of  old,  when  the  dialogue  ensued,  of  which  the  following  is  a 
faithful  report.  It  was  collected  from  his  Excellency's  private  secretary, 
who  was  a  secret  witness  of  the  whole  occurrence,  and  who,  when  ques- 
tioned concerning  it  by  a  friend  of  mine,  shook  his  head  significantly,  and, 
with  his  usual  tone  of  contemplative  earnestness,  replied,  "  there  are  more 
things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  are  dreamed  of  in  our  philosophy." 


AN  AUTHENTIC  REPORT  OF  A  DIALOGUE  WHICH  TOOK  PLACE  BETWEEN  HIS 
EXCELLENCY  THE  MARQUIS  OP  ANGLESEA,  AND  THE  GHOST  OF  BIS 
LEG,  WHICH  WAS  AMPUTATED  UPON  THE  PLAIN? 
OF  WATERLOO. 


ANGLESEA.  Eh,  What!  My  own 
Leg !  Alive,  as  I  live,  and  well  as  ever ! 
We  shall  become  acquainted  again, 
my  old  boy  — — 

LEG.  More  than  your  own  consent 
will  be  necessary  for  that. 

ANG.  What  the  devil !  Speak- 
ing too  !  Can  I  believe  my  ears  ! 
Why,  this  rivals  the  cobbler  and  his 
cock !  But,  quondam  helpmate,  why 
fight  shy  of  your  old  friend  ?  You  had 
not  learned  to  run  away  when  you 
and  I  were  formerly  acquainted. 

LEG.  When  Anglesea  forgets  him- 
self, his  limbs  may  well  refuse  their 
office. 

ANG.  Confound  the  knave, — this 
is  personal.  Whatever  others  may 
have  said  or  done,  I  never  could 
think  that  you  would  have  lifted  up 
your  heel  against  me. 

LEG.  As  little  could  I  have  thought 
that  you,  my  Lord  Marquis,  would 
have  flown  in  the  face  of  your  for- 
mer self,  and  tarnished  a  life  of  ho- 
nour by  a  base  desertion  of  sacred 
principles. 

ANG.  I  am  amazed!  But  come,  lit- 
tle Hobgoblin,  let  us  have  your  opi- 
nion of  affairs  in  general  ?  If  you  are 
what  you  seem  to  be,  your  judgment 
oUght  to  carry  weight.  At  least  I  have 
known  you  when  you  deserved  the 
character  of  a  good  understanding. 


LEG.  I  wish  I  could  honestly  re- 
turn the  compliment.  But  your  Lord- 
ship was  always  reputed  to  be  more 
witty  than  wise.  My  judgment  of 
affairs  in  general  does  not  differ  ma- 
terially from  that  which  you  yourself 
would  have  formed  when  you  left 
me  behind  you  upon  the  plains  of 
Waterloo. 

ANG.  You  recall  proud  and  glo- 
rious recollections ;  but,  I  know  not 
why,  they  do  not  bring  with  them  the 
pleasure  with  which  they  were  once 
regarded. 

LEG.  The  reason  is  because  they 
stand  contrasted  with  your  present 
conduct.  Who  could  recognise  the 
chivalrous  champion  of  the  cause  of 
social  order,  the  indignant  queller  of 
Jacobinism,  in  the  person  of  the  sup- 
porter of  the  radical  Reform  Bill ! 

ANG.  Nay,  my  Leg,  you  are  now 
talking  like  acalf.  Times  are  changed. 
Our  conduct  must  be  governed  by 
circumstances. 

LEG.  If  you  had  any  soul — nay,  if 
your  understanding  were  not  "  levior 
cortice,"  you  could  not  think  so. 
Times  are  changed,  but  principles  are 
eternal.  You  fought  against  revolu- 
tionary France ;  you  now  abet  a  mea- 
sure which  must  revolutionize  Eng- 
land ! 

ANG.    There  I  think  you  will  be 


7ia 


Dialogue  between  the  Marquis  of  Anglesca 


[Nov. 


found  a  false  prophet.  I  support  the 
Reform  Bill,  because  I  consider  it  the 
only  means  of  averting  revolution. 
T  LEG.  Then  you  do  not  consider  it 
a  good  "  per  se,"  but  only  that  it  will 
prevent  a  greater  evil  ? 

ANG.     Just  so. 

LEG.     And  how  will  it  prevent  it? 

ANG.  By  satisfying  the  wishes  of 
the  people. 

LEG.  Are  you  sure  that,  by  pass- 
ing the  present  bill,  they  will  be  sa- 
tisfied ?  Has  the  popular  appetite 
ever  yet  been  appeased  by  just  such 
concessions  as  may  be  extorted  from 
the  fears  of  the  privileged  orders  ? 
Does  it  not  grow  by  what  it  feeds  on  ? 
And  can  infatuation  itself  induce  you 
to  believe  that,  by  increasing  the 
power  of  the  democracy  of  England, 
you  avert  the  danger  of  revolution  ? 
As  well  might  you  feed  the  madman 
with  strong  drink  for  the  purpose  of 
bringing  him  to  reason  ! 

ANG.  Upon  my  life,  you  talk  un- 
commonly well.  You  almost  make 
me  believe  that  I  ought  to  be  under 
the  sod  at  Waterloo,  and  you  in  the 
House  of  Lords.  You  give  tongue  a 
devilish  deal  better  than  I  can. 

LEG.  It  is  my  cause,  my  Lord, 
that  makes  me  eloquent,  and  your 
cause  that  makes  you  dumb.  I  feel 
no  little  pleasure  in  perceiving  that 
there  still  lingers  about  you  a  suffi- 
ciency of  right  feeling  to  render  it 
difficult  for  you  to  defend  it. 

ANG.  Come,  come, — the  Reform 
Bill  is  very  susceptible  of  defence. 
Surely,  we  Peers  could  not,  with 
any  face,  continue  longer  to  exer- 
cise the  prodigious  influence  that 
hitherto  belonged  to  us  in  the  nomi- 
nation of  members  of  the  House  of 
Commons. 

LEG.  Does  your  Lordship  admit 
that  the  nobility  of  England  ought  to 
possess  any  such  influence  ? 

ANG.  Why,  yes, — to  a  reasonable 
and  moderate  degree,  I  think  it  might 
be  allowed — but,  as  it  was,  it  was 
monstrous ! 

LEG.  Will  your  Lordship  please 
to  inform  me  whether,  monstrous  as 
it  was,  it  enabled  the  House  of  Lords 
to  control  the  House  of  Commons  ? 
whether  it  encroached  upon  the  free- 
dom of  their  debates,  or  gave  an  un- 
duly aristocratical  bias  to  their  deli- 
berations ? 

ANG.  Why,  no.  I  cannot  say  it  did. 


But  still  it  was  confoundedly  unpo- 
pular. 

LEG.  Then  your  Lordship  admits 
two  things ;  first,  that  the  influence 
complained  of  is  not  objectionable 
in  a  certain  degree,  and,  secondly, 
that  it  was  not  exercised  in  any  de- 
gree that  was  dangerous  in  the  Bri- 
tish Parliament.  Why,  then,  abet  the 
senseless  outcry  that  was  raised 
against  it  ?  Your  Lordship  well 
knows  that  the  Peerage  of  England 
were  never  so  little  able  to  invade 
the  privileges  of  the  other  branches 
of  the  constitution  as  they  are  at  pre- 
sent, even  if  it  were  as  true  as  it 
is  false  that  they  were  inclined  to  do 
so.  You  must  also  be  aware  that 
there  seldom  has  been  a  period  when 
their  own  peculiar  privileges  stood 
more  in  jeopardy.  Can  any  thing, 
therefore,  be  more  preposterous  than 
to  employ  that  time  in  fortifying  the 
democracy  against  imaginary,  which 
ought  to  be  employed  in  protecting 
your  own  order  against  real  dan- 
gers ? 

ANG.  But  is  there  no  danger  in 
resisting  the  popular  momentum  that 
at  present  presses  upon  it?  Must  we 
not  yield  something,  if  we  would  re- 
tain any  thing  ? 

LEG.  Can  this  be  the  language  of 
the  Anglesea  of  Waterloo  ?  Is  it  true 
that  our  nobles  are  come  to  nine- 
pence  ?  Well  may  the  cause  of  the 
constitution  be  lost,  when  its  cham- 
pion, who  burned  to  break  a  lance 
with  Bonaparte,  quails  before  the 
ragamuffins  of  England  ! 

ANG.  Ragamuffins !  No.  The 
King  is  for  the  Bill.  It  numbers  on 
its  side  a  goodly  array  of  potent  and 
right  noble  supporters. 

LEG.  If  they  be  for  it,  as  you  are 
for  it,  either  because  they  conceive 
it  to  be  the  less  of  two  evils,  or,  be- 
cause they  have  not  the  courage  to 
confront  popular  violence,  or  the 
ability  to  dissipate  popular  delusion, 
the  case  is  not  materially  changed. 
It  will  still  be  the  triumph  of  demo- 
cratic force  over  aristocratic  weak- 
ness. The  time  was,  when  Anglesea 
would  have  spurned  a  compromise! 
as  inglorious  and  humiliating  to  the 
soldier,  as  it  is  disgraceful  to  the 
senator,  and  must  prove  ruinous  to 
the  constitution. 

ANG.  But  how  the  devil  can 
the  thing  be  avoided  now  ?  Tell  me 


.1831.] 


and  the  Ghost  of  his  Leg. 


717 


that.  Granting  that  we  have  fool- 
ishly got  into  a  scrape,  how  are  we 
to  get  out  of  it  ?  In  my  mind,  we 
have  hut  one  course  to  pursue,  even 
to  go  on  as  we  have  commenced, 
Avhatever  may  be  the  dangers  which 
threaten  our  advance.  I  think  you 
will  yourself  allow  that  retreat  would 
be  ruin  ? 

LEG.  Alas !  my  lord,  how  differ- 
ent is  the  feeling  with  which  you 
now  give  the  word  of  command  to 
advance,  from  that  with  which,  on 
former  occasions,  you  commission- 
ed me  to  send  the  rowel  of  your 
spurs  into  the  side  of  your  charger  ? 
I  shall  only  say,  that  if  the  Peerage 
does  not  possess  the  courage  and  the 
virtue  to  oppose  their  wisdom  to  the 
madness  of  the  people,  the  monarchy 
of  England  is  at  an  end.  I,  who  have 
heard  the  roar  of  the  cannon,  and 
seen  the  flash  of  the  sabres  in  a  hun- 
dred fights,  would  rather,  a  thousand 
times,  be  cut  down,  like  the  Roman 
Senate  of  old,  in  the  discharge  of  my 
hereditary  duties,  and  the  defence  of 
my  ancestral  privileges,  than  be  a 
consenting  party  to  a  measure  so 
fraught  with  ruin  and  degradation. 

ANG.  A  truce  with  politics  for  a 
short  time,  old  friend,  and  give  me 
some  account  of  your  reception  in 
the  other  world. 

LEG.  Nothing  could  be  more  gra- 
tifying. You  would  scarcely  regret 
my  loss ;  indeed,  I  myself  scarcely 
regretted  the  calamity  which  sepa- 
rated me  from  you,  when  I  felt  the 
benignant  cordiality  with  which  I 
was  welcomed  by  the  good  old  King, 
your  then  late  royal  master.  He  was 
leaning  upon  your  venerable  father, 
who  seemed  to  be  as  high  as  ever  in 
his  good  graces,  when  I  was  an- 
nounced. There  was  a  gleam  of  ra- 
diant pleasure  upon  the  countenance 
of  the  King,  as  he  turned  to  the  Earl, 
and  said — "  Uxbridge,  how  shall  I 
repay  the  debt  of  gratitude  which  I 
owe  your  family?"  I  could  observe 
a  tear  upon  the  old  man's  cheek,  as 
he  answered,  sobbingly, "  My  boy  has 
only  done  his  duty."  Alas !  could 
I  then  suppose  that  the  time  was  so 
near  at  hand,  when  all  memory  of 
your  sacrifices  for  the  defence,  were 
to  be  obliterated  in  the  contempla- 
tion of  your  efforts  for  the  overthrow, 
of  the  constitution ! 

ANO.  A  truce  with  politics,  I  say. 


What  else  occurred  on  that  occa- 
sion? 

LEG.  The  King  presented  me  to 
William  Pitt,  who  was  walking  with 
Edmund  Burke,  disburdened  of  all 
earthly  cares,  and  enjoying  a  most 
tranquil  serenity.  He  noticed  me 
with  kindness,  enquired  with  inter- 
est concerning  affairs  above,  and  was 
for  a  moment  wrapped  in  thought 
when  I  mentioned  the  downfall  of 
Bonaparte.  He  then  raised  his  eyes 
to  Burke,  and  said,  with  a  most  re- 
verential ardour,  "  What  prophetic 
sagacity!"  At  this  Sheridan  came 
up,  who,  by  the  by,  seemed  to  be  as 
good  a  courtier  below  as  he  was  a 
demagogue  above,  and,  having  made 
up  all  differences  with  his  old  an- 
tagonists, was  filling  the  office  of 
"  right  merry  and  conceited  jester" 
to  the  court  of  George  the  Third,  in 
the  Elysian  Fields.  Pitt  introduced 
me  to  him,  saying,  that  his  Majesty 
was  very  desirous  I  should  be  taken 
good  care  of,  and  that  he  wished  to 
consult  him  as  to  how  I  might  be 
most  advantageously  placed.  "  Angle- 
sea's  Leg,  Anglesea's  Leg?"  said  She- 
ridan, "Why,  that  ought  to  be  mount- 
ing a  breach — and,  if  my  advice  be 
followed,  it  will  be  placed  so  as  that 
the  great  toe  shall  approach  within 
an  aim's  ace  of  Tom  Paine's  seat  of 
honour." — But,  alas  !  how  will  they 
regard  me  now?  I  was  then  ho- 
noured and  caressed.  I  must  now 
encounter,  not  only  the  scurvy  jests 
of  Sheridan,  but  the  tender  and  me- 
lancholy reproachfulness  of  my  so- 
vereign, the  indignant  reprehension 
of  Burke,  and  from  Pitt,  cold  and 
contumelious  alienation ! 

AJVG.  Had  you  any  conversation 
with  my  father  ? 

LEG.  I  had.  The  old  man  exa- 
mined my  wound,  and  earnestly  en- 
quired how  you  bore  the  amputa- 
tion ?  Like  a  soldier,  I  told  him  : — 
like  one  who  thought  not  of  life  or 
limb,  when  the  sacrifice  was  required 
by  his  country.  He  shrunk  for  a 
moment  at  the  thought  of  your  suf- 
ferings ;  but  presently  parental  and 
patriotic  pride  prevailed,  and  he  re- 
joiced at  having  given  birth  to  a  son, 
who  so  nobly  trode  the  path  of  ho- 
nour. I  should  not  like  to  meet  him 
now  ; — indeed,  the  last  time  I  ap- 
proached, the  old  man  turned  away 
from  me ! 


718 


Dialogue  between  the  Marquis  ofAnglesea 


[Nov. 


ANG.  What— resentfully  ? 

LEG.  No.  It  was  more  in  sorrow 
than  in  anger.  He  seemed  like  one 
suffering  poignantly  under  a  sense  of 
deep  and  painful  humiliation. 

ANG.  Does  he  not  know  how  po- 
pular I  am  in  Ireland  ? 

LEG.  Yes.  He  heard  that  you 
were  patronised  by  Daniel  O'Con- 
nell,  and  one  Lord  Cloncurry.  He 
also  heard  that  you  were  so  conduct- 
ing yourself,  as  to  be  deservedly  a 
favourite  with  the  Popish  clergy. 

ANG.  Cloncurry  is  my  friend—- 
and the  priests  are  very  good  fel- 
lows ;  but  that  is  not  what  I  mean. 
Did  not  my  father  hear  that  I  was 
prodigiously  popular  with  the  great 
body  of  the  people  ? 

LEG.  Not  half  so  popular  as  Phi- 
lip Egalite  was  with  the  people  of 
France  but  one  short  year  before 
his  execution.  But  there,  of  course, 
the  comparison  ceases.  He  was  the 
Judas  of  his  order;  you  are  the 
"  decus"  arid  the  "tutamen"  of  yours. 
But,  be  this  as  it  may,  your  popula- 
rity in  Ireland  was  a  subject  from 
which  your  good  father  did  not  seem 
to  derive  much  consolation. 

ANG.  And  yet,  let  me  tell  you,  it 
is  something  to  conciliate,  as  1  have 
done,  a  turbulent  and  disorderly  po- 
pulation. 

LEG.  How  far  you  may  have  suc- 
ceeded in  so  doing,  I  will  not  at  pre- 
sent stop  to  enquire.  But  there  are 
two  modes  of  conciliating  such  a 
body  of  men — one  is,  by  bringing 
them  over  to  your  way  of  thinking ; 
— another,  by  your  passing  over  to 
theirs. 

ANG.  I  do  not  understand  you. 

LEG.  Have  you  ever  heard  the 
story  of  the  soldier,  who,  when  call- 
ed by  his  officer  to  join  the  ranks, 
said  he  was  busy,  and  could  not 
come.  The  officer  asked  him  what  he 
was  about.  He  said  he  had  caught  a 
Tartar.  The  officer  replied,  Bring 
him  with  you.  The  answer  was,  He 
will  not  come.  Then, leave  him  there, 
and  come  yourself,  said  the  officer. 
The  poor  fellow  replied,  "  He  won't 
let  me."  I  greatly  fear,  my  Lord, 
that  your  mode  of  conciliating  the 
mob  does  not  differ  very  widely  from 
this  method  of  catching  the  Tartar. 

ANG.  Nay,  nay — I  can  do  any  thing 
J  please  with  the  people  of  Ireland. 

LEG.  Indeed  ? 

ANG.  Aye,  that  I  can. 


LEG.  Can  you  reconcile  them  to 
the  payment  of  tithes  ? 

ANG.  Umph — No.  You  have  me 
there. 

LEG.  And  yet  they  know,  as  well 
as  your  Lordship,  that  tithes  are  no 
real  grievance.  They  know  per- 
fectly well,  that  whatever  is  not  paid 
to  the  clergyman,  must  be  paid  to 
the  landlord;  —  and  that,  it  tithes 
were  abolished  to-morrow,  the  poor 
would  not  be  gainers  by  a  single  far- 
thing. If,  therefore,  a  prejudice  pre- 
vails against  them,  it  can  only  be  be- 
cause of  the  hostility  with  which  the 
established  church  is  regarded; — and 
any  acquiescence  in  that  prejudice, 
amounts  to  a  betrayal  of  the  inte- 
rests of  that  church.  When,  there- 
fore, you  talk  of  that  sympathy  of 
feeling  which  exists  between  you  and 
the  Popish  rabble  upon  this  subject, 
is  it  that  Anglesea  has  become  a  ra- 
dical, or  that  the  mob  have  become 
enlightened  ? 

ANG.  That  is  a  delicate  subject. 
But,  to  tell  you  a  secret,  I  hardly 
think  it  fair  that  people  who  profess 
one  religion  should  support  the  clergy 
of  those  who  profess  another. 

LEG.  But  the  property  of  the 
church  is  not  paid  out  of  any  funds 
which  can  with  fairness  be  said  to 
belong  of  right  to  any  class  of  people 
but  the  clergy  themselves.  There  is 
no  estate  in  the  kingdom  which  was 
not  burdened  with  tithes,  long  before 
it  came  into  the  possession  of  its 
present  occupant.  Does  he  hold  it 
by  inheritance  ?  He  holds  it  subject 
to  the  conditions  of  the  original 
grant;  and  one  of  these  reserves  the 
right  of  the  clergy  to  their  tithes. 
Has  he  acquired  it  by  purchase  ? 
He  has  accurately  calculated  the  va- 
lue of  the  tithes,  and  taken  good  care 
that  his  purchase-money  should  be 
less,  by  that  amount,  than  what  he 
would  consent  to  pay  if  the  estate 
were  subject  to  no  such  incum- 
brance ;  so  that,  if  tithes  were  abo- 
lished to-morrow,  he  could  pretend 
no  right  to  them.  The  same  obser- 
vations apply  to  the  humblest  of  the 
cottier  tenantry.  They  pay  at  pre- 
sent, in  two  several  sums,  what  they 
should  pay  in  one  sum,  if  the  pro- 
perty of  the  church  were  taken  away. 
And,  when  the  sum  total  of  what  is 
exacted  from  them  is  not  increa- 
ed,  what  difference  can  it  make  to 
them  that  one  of  their  landlords 


1831.] 


and  the  Ghost  of  his  Leg. 


wears  a  blue  coat,  while  the  other 
wears  a  black  one  ? 

ANO.  But,  before  I  answer  you, 
who  the  devil  taught  you  this  lingo  ? 
You  never  learned  any  thing  like 
this  from  me. 

LEG.  My  Lord,  since  I  parted 
from  you,  I  have  kept  good  com- 
pany. 

ANG.  You  have,  have  you  ?  But 
see — I  consider  church  property  the 
property  of  the  state ;  and  that  it  is 
competent  to  government  to  take  it 
into  their,  own  hands,  and  make  such 
a  disposition  of  it,  as  may,  in  their 
view  of  the  matter,  best  conduce  to 
the  religious  well-being  of  the  com- 
munity. 

LEG.  Without  either  admitting  or 
disputing  your  position,  give  me 
leave  to  ask,  to  what  it  is  intended  to 
lead? 

ANG.  Why,  to  this — for  you  know 
Hove  to  speak  my  mind— a  fair  divi- 
sion of  church  property  between  the 
Roman  Catholic  and  the  Protestant 
clergy. 

LUG.  And  it  is  thus  that  your  Lord- 
ship would  consult  the  religious  well- 
being  of  the  community  !  You  would 
pay  one  set  of  men  for  preaching  the 
gospel,  and  another  set  of  men  for 
concealing  the  gospel !  You  would 
pay  one  set  of  professors  for  teach- 
ing truth,  and  another  set  of  profes- 
sors for  teaching  falsehood  !  This  is 
certainly  a  height  of  wisdom  to  which 
your  noble  father  never  attained. 

ANG.  No,  surely,  how  could  he  ? 
He  lived  in  an  age  of  prejudice.  I 
live  in  an  age  of  liberality.  He  may, 
therefore,  be  excused  for  not  know- 
ing that  truth  and  falsehood  are  no- 
thing in  themselves,  but  only  the  va- 
rious appearances  which  views  "or 
opinions  assume  in  the  eyes  of  those 
who  oppose,  or  who  entertain  them. 
It  is  below  the  dignity  of  the  state  to 
busy  itself  with  merely  polemical 
considerations. 

LEG.  Assuredly  he  was  ignorant 
of  that  great  secret.  He  thought  that 
there  was  a  reality  in  religion ;  and 
that  it  was  the  bounden  duty  of  the 
state  to  adopt  and  to  cherish  that 
religion  which  seemed  best  calcu- 
lated to  make  men  like  unto  Christ, 
their  Saviour.  His  principles  did  not 
lead  to  the  persecution  of  ANY  mode 
of  faith ;  but  he  could  consent  to  the 
establishment  of  that  alone  which  was 
strictly  agreeable  to  the  standard  of 


719 

Scripture.  I  need  not  tell  you  with 
what  filial  reverence  he  loved  the 
Church  of  England,  nor  say  how  bit- 
terly he  would  deplore  any  plunder 
of  its  patrimony,  or  distribution  of  its 
possession8,for  the  purpose  of  givinga 
substantive  and  permanent  existence 
to  the  errors  and  the  heresies  to  which 
it  was  opposed.  In  his  judgment,  no 
state  could  be  led  into  conduct  like 
this,  which  was  at  all  solicitous  "  to 
provide  good  gifts  for  its  children." 
By  so  acting,  he  could  not  but  believe 
that  it  would  be  undoing  with  one 
hand  what  it  sought  to  do  with  the 
other ;  and,  that  the  only  practical 
lesson  which  could  in  reality  be 
learned  from  such  a  practice,  was 
this,  that  all  creeds  were  either  equal- 
ly true  or  equally  false ;  equally  in- 
significant, or  equally  important.  In 
a  word,  that  religion  was  only  adopt- 
ed from  a  kind  of  state  necessity,  and 
should  only  be  attended  to  for  poli- 
tical convenience. 

ANG.  Why,  you  reason  like  an 
Oxford  professor.  But,  come,  an- 
swer me  this  plain  question,  Should 
not  the  established  religion  of  any 
country  be  that  which  is  professed 
by  the  majority  of  the  people  ? 

LEG.  The  established  religion 
ought  to  be  no  other  than  that  which 
is  conceived  to  be  the  true  religion. 
I  am  not  able  to  see  any  necessary 
connexion  between  truth  and  num- 
bers. But  that  may  be  because  of  my 
blindness.  1  grant  that  your  Lordship 
has  high  authority  on  your  side. 

ANG.  Yes,  the  excellent  Paley 
maintained  in  effect  that  the  religion 
of  the  state  should  be  determined  by 
the  multiplication  table. 

LEG.  He  did,  my  Lord.  But  you 
would  scarcely  rely  upon  his  autho- 
rityupon  that  subject,ifyouhad  seen 
the  earnestness  with  which,  one  day 
in  company  with  Burke  and  Pitt,  he 
lamented  having  ever  been  beti-ayed 
into  such  an  error.  The  conversa- 
tion was  one  of  the  most  interesting 
I  ever  listened  to. 

ANG.  Pray  give  me  some  idea  of 
it. 

LEG.  The  question  was,  whether 
the  Church  should  be  regarded  as 
merely  auxiliary  to  those  purposes 
to  which  the  state  is  subservient,  the 
political  wellbeing  of  social  man ; 
or  whether  the  state  should  be  so 
fashioned  as  might  best  conduce  to 
the  accomplishment  of  those  pur- 


Dialogue  between  the  Marquis  of  Anglesea 


720 

poses  which  the  church  is  intended 
to  answer,  namely,  the  progressive 
developement  of  our  moral  nature. 
Burke  observed,  that  the  decision  of 
that  question  must  depend  upon  this, 
whether  man  is,  predominantly,  a 
moral  or  a  social  being — that  is,  whe- 
ther he  is  susceptible  of  morality 
for  the  perfection  of  his  social  qua- 
lities, or  endowed  with  social  quali- 
ties for  the  perfection  of  his  morali- 
ty. Now  this,  again,  he  observed, 
must  depend  upon  the  truth  or  false- 
hood of  revealed  religion.  If  reli- 
gion be  true — if  the  Bible  be  a  reve- 
lation from  God — man  is  predomi- 
nantly a  moral  creature.  His  social 
qualities  were  given  him  for  the  im- 
provement of  his  moral ;  and  there- 
fore the  church,  by  which  his  moral 
nature  is  to  be  developed  and  puri- 
fied, and  through  whose  instrument- 
ality alone  he  may  be  enabled  to 
attain  all  the  perfection  of  which  he 
is  susceptible,  should  be  regarded 
as  the  primary  object  in  all  political 
arrangements.  Paley  implicitly  as- 
sented to  all  this;  and  Burke  ac- 
knowledged that  he  himself  had  not 
clear  notions  upon  the  subject,  be- 
fore his  departure  from  the  world. 

AM;.  Then,  it  is  not  here  alone 
that  individuals  may  be  found  who 
are  chargeable  with  political  incon- 
sistency. That  is  the  heaviest  accu- 
sation which  you  bring  against  me, 
and  yet  you  see  that  it  may  be  equal- 
ly alleged  against  your  prince  of 
sages. 

LEG.  Not  equally.  There  is  some 
difference  between  changing  for  the 
better  and  changing  for  the  worse. 
You  were  born  an  aristocrat,  and  pos- 
sessed opportunities,  both  of  educa- 
tion and  intercourse,  which  should 
have  given  you  large  and  lofty  views; 
and  yet  you  have  degenerated  into  a 
plebeian  in  politics.  He  was  born 
a  plebeian  ;  and  yet,  by  the  virtuous 
application  of  his  mental  powers,  and 
the  due  use  of  his  natural  advan- 
tages, he  became  an  enlightened 
statesman. 

ANG.  Good  words,  my  Leg.  Re- 
collect, that  if  I  have  disgraced  my- 
self, you  yourself  must  share  in  my 
disgrace.  But,  come,  you  will  admit 
this  at  least,  that,  whatever  may  be 
my  notions  of  the  church,  I  have 
made  an  honest  and  virtuous  dispo- 
sal of  church  patronage. 

LEG.    If  that  be  so,  it  speaks  very 


[Nov. 


ill  either  for  the  worth  or  the  utility 
of  the  present  Irish  clergy. 

ANG.  What  do  you  mean  ?  Do 
you  mean  to.  deny  me  credit  for 
that  ? 

LEG.  Pray,  who  is  the  present 
Dean  of  Down  ? 

AM;.  He  is  a  son  of  the  Lord 
Chancellor,  the  Honourable  Mr  Plun- 
kett 

LEG.  And  what,  may  I  ask,  are 
his  claims  to  such  preferment  ? 

ANG.  Why,  he  is  a  very  worthy 
young  man.  Have  you  any  thing  to 
say  against  him  ? 

LKG.  I  would  only  respectfully 
ask  whether  there  are  not  very  many 
worthy  old  men  who  might  have  been 
more  suitably  preferred  to  that  dig- 
nity ?  Mr  Plunkett  may  be  a  worthy 
young  man ;  but  is  he  a  man  of  abi- 
lity? is  he  a  man  who  has  distin- 
guished himself  by  any  service  which  •-• 
he  performed  for  the  church  ?  And 
are  there  not  at  least  an  hundred 
others  who  possess  equal  worth,  and 
have  been  more  distinguished  for 
their  services  and  ability  ?  Why, then, 
should  he  have  been  preferred  be- 
fore them  ?  or,  what  claims  can  he 
be  said  to  possess,  above  one  thou- 
sand others,  except  alone  that  he  is 
the  son  of  the  Lord  Chancellor  of 
Ireland  ? 

ANG.     Surely,  neither  Burke,  nor   • 
my  father,  nor  any  one  else,  would 
deny  that  we  must  take  care  of  our 
political  friends  ? 

LEG.  But  not  by  rank  injustice  ; 
or  by  sacrificing  the  best  interests  of 
that  great  moralizing  institute,  for 
the  purpose  of  upholding  which,  in 
its  pristine  perfection  and  dignity,  a 
statesman  should  pass  by  any  political 
friendships. 

ANG.  What  ?  Has  it  not  boon 
the  uniform  practice  of  Pitt  and  Cas- 
tlereagh,  and  all  of  them 

LEG.  Pitt  bitterly  acknowledged 
his  error.  I  remember  it  was  iu  that 
same  conversation  to  which  I  have 
already  alluded.  Church  property, 
lie  remarked,  can  only  be  esteemed 
sacred,  when  the  purposes  for  which 
it  was  intended  are  sacredly  observed. 
These  are — the  promotion  of  piety, 
and  the  encouragement  of  learning. 
Inasmuch  as  a  devotion  to  these 
objects  presupposes  a  separation 
from  secular  afl'airs,  it  is  right  that  a 
provision  should  be  made  tor  the  in- 
dividuals who  thus  devote  them- 


1831.] 


and  ttie  Ghost  of  his  Leg. 


selves;  and,  as  they  must  be  con- 
sidered as  benefactors  to  the  commu- 
nity, that  that  provision  should  be  as 
respectable,  and  as  permanent,  as 
any  by  which  professional  ability  of 
any  other  kind  is  rewarded.  This,  he 
observed,  is  the  only  effectual  mode 
of  securing  a  regular  supply  of  ho- 
nest and  able  labourers  in  that  sacred 
calling.  Occasional  volunteers  there 
might  be,  and  there  would  be,  whose 
zeal  would  attach  them  to  the  service 
of  religion,  without  any  consideration 
of  a  secular  nature  ;  nay,  who  could 
not  be  repressed  by  any  discourage- 
ments, from  devoting  themselves  to 
what  they  conceived  to  be  the  cause 
of  truth  and  holiness.  But  the  age 
of  miracles  has  gone  by  ;  and  a  re- 
gular supply  of  faithful  labourers  in 
the  vineyard  of  the  Lord,  which  is 
his  church,  can  only  be  expected 
when  such  a  provision  is  made,  as 
j  may  give  them  and  their  families 
'  some  reasrmtble  chance  of  not  be- 
ing exposed  to  want  or  dependence. 
This  can  only  be  done,  he  said,  look- 
:  ing  at  Burke,  by  incorporating,  as 
{ you  have  well  described  it,  church 
property  with  the  great  mass  of  pri- 
i  vate  property,  which  thus  has  the 
guarantee  of  the  state  for  its  protec- 
tion ;  while  no  government  should 
presume  to  exercise  over  it  any  con- 
trol, for  use  or  dominion,  which  they 
would  not  be  equally  justified  in  ex- 
ercising over  the  estate  of  any  pri- 
vate gentleman  in  the  kingdom.  So 
far,  he  added,  I  hope  I  have  always 
acted  upon  the  wise  maxims  of  our 
ancestors.  So  far,  the  principle  upon 
which  church  property  rests  has 
been,  by  me  at  least,  untouched. 
But  in  this  I  blame  myself,  that  in 
my  promotions  I  did  not  always  duly 
observe  the  sacred  purposes  for 
which  it  was  appointed.  I  suffered 
myself  in  such  matters  to  be  too 
much  influenced  by  political  con- 
siderations. Church  property,  in  our 
sense  of  the  word,  is  only  defensible 
when  strictly  applied  to  those  pur- 
poses for  which  it  was  intended.  If 
considered  merely  a  government  pa- 
tronage, any  other  species  of  pro- 
perty would  do  just  as  well.  We 
could  not  contend  for  its  sacredness 
or  inalienability,  if  it  was  only  to  be 
employed,  as  I  too  frequently  em- 
ployed it,  for  the  purpose  of  pur- 
chasing Parliamentary  support.  We 
could  not,  with  any  thing  like  con- 
VOL.  XXX,  NO,  CLXXXVII. 


P  721 

sistency,  defend  it  as  though  it  was 
intended  for  one  purpose,  while  we 
employed  it  for  another.  I  therefore 
consider  its  misappropriation  but  as 
the  precursor  of  its  alienation  ;  and  I 
bitterly  repent  of  every  single  in- 
stance in  which,  while  I  was  in  power, 
professional  services  were  overlook- 
ed, and  political  subserviency  was 
rewarded. 

ANG.  Burke  of  course  approved 
of  all  this  ? 

LEG.  He  did;  and  added,  that  in 
sacrificing  church  property  to  merelj' 
political  purposes,  not  only  was  it 
desecrated  from  its"  proper  use,  and 
great  injustice  done  to  meritorious 
individuals,  but  those  very  ends 
which  were  sought  in  the  prostitu- 
tion of  it,  were  seldom  or  never  at- 
tained. For  instance,  said  he,  it  has 
been  very  much  the  practice  of  go- 
vernment to  employ  church  proper- 
ty in  purchasing  a  temporary  support, 
by  which  they  might  be  protected 
against  Jacobinism ;  now  I  am  per- 
suaded, that  the  neglect  of  the  church 
which  was  thus  caused  has  been  the 
most  fruitful  source  of  Jacobinism 
that  could  be  assigned."  For  the  sake 
of  a  doubtful  remedy  against  conta- 
gion when  it  occurs,  we  were  part- 
ing with  an  antiseptic,  by  which  it 
might  have  been  prevented.  All  this 
I  remember,  not  only  because  of  the 
instruction  which  I  derived  from  it 
myself,  but  because  of  the  delight 
with  which  it  was  listened  to  by  your 
venerable  father. 

ANG.  Upon  my  life,  this  is  very 
wonderful !  I  protest  I  do  not  know 
whether  I  am  standing  on  my  head 
or  my  heels !  You  relate  such  things 
as  make  me  almost  regret  that  I  did 
not  accompany  you  to  the  other 
world. 

LEG.  Had  you  done  so,  I  should 
have  been  spared  much  pain  and 
mortification. 

ANG.  It  cannot  be  helped  now 
though.  But  tell  me,  had  you  any 
companion  in  your  late  abode  like 
yourself;  I  mean  any  honoured  limb 
of  a  gallant  soldier  ? 

LEG.  Yes.  I  was  intimately  ac- 
quainted with  Sir  Henry  Hardinge's 
hand.  He  had  arrived  but  two  days 
before  me,  had  been  amazingly  well 
received,  and,  until  of  late,  we  were 
inseparable.  How  did  I  envy  him 
the  feelings  of  honest  pride  with 
which  he  had  occasion  always  to 
3  A 


Dialogue  between  the  Marquis  of  Anglesea. 


722 

regard  the  conduct  of  his  surviving 
master !  We  are,  however,  intimate 
no  longer.  There  had  been  for  some 
time  a  little  estrangement — I  think  it 
may  be  dated  from  your  second  ap- 
pointment to  your  present  station; 
but  when  the  news  arrived  of  your 
adhesion  to  the  framers  of  the  Re- 
form Bill,  Pitt  and  Fox  (for  these 
two  old  antagonists  are  now  united, 
and,  as  far  as  I  could  observe,  one 
in  sentiment  and  action)  came  and 
took  my  friend  away,  observing,  that 
the  King  had  some  commands  for 
him;  and  while  they  scrupulously 
avoided  wounding  my  feelings,  for 
they  saw  that  I  was  sadly  chagrined, 
I  could  too  clearly  perceive  that  they 
apprehended,  from  any  contact  with 
me,  something  like  political  conta- 
mination. 

ANG.  Hardinge  is  a  good  soldier, 
and  an  excellent  fellow;  but  I  do 
not  think  he  is  the  statesman  that  I 
am. 

LEG.  In  that  you  are  agreed  with 
the  best  judges  with  whom  I  am  ac- 
quainted. He  is,  Indeed,  a  statesman 
of  a  very  different  stamp. 

ANG.  Come,  come,  it  is  idle  to 
keep  up  such  a  pother  about  this 
Reform  Bill.  You  know  it  must  pass ; 
and  the  sooner  the  better.  Surely 
it  would  not  be  wise  to  delay  it  like 
Emancipation,  until  what  might  have 
been  a  measure  of  grace  became  a 
matter  of  necessity. 

LEG.  That  is  a  sore  subject  with 
the  great  ones  below.  I  have  often 
heard  them  talk  of  it. 

ANG.  They  do  not  disapprove  of 
Emancipation  surely  ?  Burke  and 
Pitt  were  its  .earliest  advocates. 

LEG.  And  yet,  had  they  been  living 
when  it  was  passed,  they  would  have 
sooner  laid  their  heads  on  the  block 
than  have  been  consenting  parties  to 
it.  They  regard  it  as  the  immediate 
cause  of  the  calamities  which  at  pre- 
sent impend  over  England. 
ANG.  As  how,  pray  ? 
LEG.  By  breaking  up  the  conser- 
vative party.  Granting  that  Eman- 
cipation was  a  good,  (upon  which, 
however,  I  have  not  formed  a  very 
decided  opinion,)  it  was  not  a  good 
that  should  have  been  purchased  at 
the  risk  of  so  tremendous  an  evil. 
Burke  and  Pitt  were  favourable  to 
Emancipation,  when  it  might  possi- 
bly have  strengthened  the  conserva- 
tive party.  To  strengthen  that  party 


LNov. 


was  the  object  of  Pitt's  whole  life  ;  i 
upon  it  he  relied  for  the  faith,  the  ' 
honour,  and  the  glory  of  England. 
Your  modern  Emancipationists  (who 
were,  be  it  observed,  the  bitterest 
enemies  of  such  a  measure  when  it 
might  have  been  wise)  only  con- 
sented to  change  their  policy  when 
concession  was  more  dangerous  than 
exclusion ;  when,  by  departing  from, 
their  principle,  they  lost  their  friends, 
and  by  yielding  to  threats  and  intimi- 
dation, they  encouraged  and  strength- 
ened their  enemies.  But  it  is  a  bitter, 
as  well  as  a  bygone  subject ;  so  that 
we  had  better  talk  of  it  no  more. 

ANG.  One  thing  I  know,  that  I  was 
d d  badly  treated  on  that  occa- 
sion by  the  Duke  of  Wellington. 

LEG.  Which  has  perhaps  had  a 
greater  influence  upon  your  future 
conduct  than  you  are  yourself  aware 
of.  I  have  sometimes  thought,  that 
were  it  not  for  the  Duke's  uncere- 
monious treatment  of  you,  you  never* 
would  have  been  known  as  a  tho- 
rough-going supporter  of  the  present 
administration. 

ANG.  Nay,  nay ;  that  is  too  bad.  t 
support  the  Reform  Bill  from  con- 
viction. As  I  told  you  before,  I 
think  we  have  no  other  alternative 
but  Reform  or  Revolution. 

LEG.  Pray,  my  Lord,  have  yc 
read  any  thing  that  has  been  writt 
upon  the  subject? 

ANG.  I  cannot  say  I  have,  except 
the  debates.  I  have  been  too  much 
occupied.  But  is  there  any  thing 
in  particular  that  you  would  recom- 
mend? 

LEG.  The  press  of  England  never 
so  teemed  with  wise  precautions  and 
admonitions  as  at  the  very  moment 
when  they  are  most  unheeded.  The 
Quarterly  Review  has  most  ably  per- 
formed its  duty ;  but  the  greatest  fa- 
vourite with  the  renowned  in  the 
other  world  is  Blackwood's  Maga- 
zine. For  the  last  eight  or  nine  months, 
it  has  come  out  with  a  series  of  pa- 
pers upon  the  subject,  each  of  which 
is  excellent,  and  all  of  which  together 
evince  the  ruinous  nature  of  the  pre- 
sent measure  to  any  mind  that  is  not 
proof  against  conviction.  I  pray  you, 
my  Lord,  turn  to  them  and  read 
them. 

ANG.  Impossible  !  What  would 
Lady  Morgan  say  if  she  caught  me 
reading  Blackwood's  Magazine!  I 
recollect  it  lay  on  the  table  of  Lord 


1831.] 


and  the  Ghost  of  his  Leg. 


723 


Francis  Leveson  Gower  one  even- 
ing when  he  was  First  Secretary, 
and  Lady  Morgan  gave  it  such  a  look 
as  you  might  suppose  a  crow  would 
give  a  fowlingpiece.  Besides,  I  have 
not  time — what  with  business,  and 
company,  which,  in  my  situation, 
is  a  kind  of  business,  I  can  scarcely 
find  time  for  my  private  affairs. 

LEG.  The  move  the  pity.  For  you 
are  doing  the  public  no  good,  and 
doing  yourself  much  harm. 

ANG.  Have  I  not  calmed  the  agi- 
tation about  the  repeal  of  the  Union  ? 
Have  I  not  prosecuted  O'Connell, 
and  compelled  him  to  submit  to  a 

judgment  against  him  in  a  court  of 
1    5     a 
justice  : 

LEG.  Do  you  seriously  imagine, 
that  when  the  Irish  Reform  Bill  shall 
become  the  law  of  the  land,  Great 
Britain  and  Ireland  can  continue  uni- 
ted? It  is  impossible.  In  the  nature  of 
things  it  cannot  be.  You  may,  there- 
fore, have  quieted  the  present  agi- 
tation about  the  repeal  or  the  Union  ; 
but  you  have  also  done  that  by  which, 
as  far  as  in  you  lies,  the  Union  is  vir- 
tually dissolved.  You  did  prosecute 
O'Connell,  and  you  did  compel  him 
to  plead  guilty  to  an  indictment ;  or 
rather  induced  him,  and  he  himself 
drew  the  distinction,  to  withdraw  his 
plea  of  not  guilty.  But  were  the  ends 
of  justice  answered  ?  Did  you  dare  to 
punish  the  great  delinquent  ?  You 
may  say  what  you  please,  and  you 
may  think  what  you  please ;  but  how 
will  these  questions  be  answered  by 
nine-tenths  of  the  people  of  Ireland  ? 
He  was  not  punished;  he  went  at 
large.  In  his  insolent  audacity,  he 
was  permitted  to  beard  the  govern- 
ment of  the  country,  while  the  sword 
of  justice  was  decimating  the  wretch- 
ed creatures  whom  his  seditious  elo- 
quence stimulated  to  the  perpetra- 
tion of  crime.  Call  you  this  well 
and  wisely  governing  Ireland  ? 

ANG.  Wait  a  little.  We  shall  ma- 
nage better  when  we  have  got  the 
priests  into  pay. 

LEG.  When  you  have,  to  use  the 
Irishman's  phrase,  "  hired  them  to 
be  your  masters  ?"  I  do  not  augur 
much  good  from  that. 

ANG.  Let  me  hear  your  objections. 

LEG.  I  will  let  you  hear  the  objec- 
tions of  wiser  men.  "  Non  meus  hcec 
sermo."  It  is  objected  to,  in  the 
first  place,  upon  principle.  It  is 
argued  that  it  is  not  right  to  give  a 


positive  support  to  the  professors  of 
a  false  religion.  It  is  contended  that 
to  do  so  would  be  to  encourage 
fraud  and  delusion.  This  objection 
would  not,  I  am  aware,  have  much 
weight  with  those  who  have  esta- 
blished Maynooth,  and  who  pay  a 
dissenting  clergy.  We  will,  there- 
fore, suffer  it  to  lie  in  abeyance  for 
the  present,  (although  it  is  one  which 
I  by  no  means  abandon,)  and  consi- 
der the  question  upon  grounds  of 
policy.  You  say  that  you  will  pay 
the  priests,  for  the  purpose  of  secu- 
ring their  attachment  to  the  state. 
Are  you  sure  that,  by  so  doing,  you 
will  secure  their  attachment  ?  They 
will  know  well  to  what  they  are  in- 
debted for  what  they  may  get ;  that 
they  owe  it  not  to  love,  but  to  fear ; 
and  that  what  you  once  consent  to 
bestow  upon  them,  you  cannot,  and 
you  dare  not,  withhold  or  suspend, 
no  matter  what  may  be  their  con- 
duct. Is  a  boon  of  this  kind,  then,  so 
given  and  so  received,  likely  to  detach 
them  from  the  people  ?  Surely  not. 
It  may,  in  some  slight  degree,  relieve 
the  people  from  a  tribute  which  in 
many  places  they  at  present  very  re- 
luctantly pay ;  but  it  will  only,  on 
that  very  account,  give  additional 
power  to  the  spiritual  demagogue, 
whose  interest  it  will  decidedly  be 
to  make  himself  formidable  as  an 
agitator,  for  the  purpose  of  ensuring 
his  continuance  as  a  stipendiary  of 
the  state.  No.  You  may  depend 
upon  it,  as  I  heard  Burke  once  say, 
that  there  is  something  exceedingly 
rotten  in  any  system  of  government 
which  depends  for  its  support  upon 
the  purchased  neutrality  of  invete- 
rate enemies.  And,  least  of  all,  is 
such  a  system  calculated  to  answer 
for  Ireland. 

ANG.  But  what  is  to  be  done? 
These  worthies  have  at  present  got 
the  whip  hand  of  me, 

LEG.  Assert  the  supremacy  of  the 
laws ;  and,  if  your  power  be  not  suf- 
ficient for  that  at  present,  demand 
greater  powers ;  but  beware  of  pla- 
cing any  dependence  upon  the  priests, 
who,  if  they  are  once  resorted  to 
as  auxiliaries  by  the  government, 
will  act  as  other  foreign  mercenaries 
have  often  acted,  and  subdue  for 
themselves  the  country  which  they 
were  employed  to  defend  for  others. 
But  it  is  vain  to  talk.  If  the  Reform 
Bill  pass,  the  country  is  theirs  al- 


Dialogue,  between  the  Marquis  ofAnglesea 


724 

ready.  The  policy  to  be  pursued 
towards  it  will  always  be  dictated 
by  its  representatives;  and  its  re- 
presentatives,in  the  event  alluded  to, 
will  be  their  nominees.  So  that,  un- 
less it  shall  please  Providence  to 
arrest  this  great  calamity,  Popery 
must  become  ascendant  in  that  coun- 
try; in  which  case,  the  time  will  not 
be  far  distant  when  British  connexion 
will  be  given  to  the  winds. 

AXG.  There,  I  think,  you  are  mis- 
taken. If  any  serious  effort  were 
made  for  separation,  England  would 
resist  it  as  one  man,  and  it  must  be 
very  speedily,  and  very  effectually 
crushed. 

LEG.  What  if  England  should  be 
engaged  in  foreign  war  ?  If  she  had 
to  contend  again  for  her  existence 
with  a  second  Bonaparte  ? 

ANG.  Much  error  prevails  upon 
that  subject.  The  fact  is,  that  Eng- 
land is  more  powerful  when  at  war, 
than  when  at  peace.  There  is  an 
energy  which  pervades  the  commu- 
nity, and  which  communicates  itself 
to  the  government,  that  renders  all 
their  efforts  more  prompt,  energetic, 
and  decisive.  I  am  persuaded  that 
if  all  our  troops  were  engaged  in 
foreign  service,  we  should  have  vo- 
lunteers in  sufficientnumbers  to  quell 
any  disturbances  in  Ireland.  When 
you  return  to  the  place  from  whence 
you  came,  ask  Pitt  whether  I  am  not 
right  in  what  I  now  say. 

LEG.  When  Pitt  was  at  the  helm 
of  affairs,  the  rudder  of  the  state  was 
in  his  hand  by  means  of  the  close 
boroughs.  How  will  the  case  be  al- 
tered in  a  reformed  Parliament ! 
You  say  that  England  is  more  power- 
ful when  at  war,  than  when  at  peace. 
Such,  I  acknowledge,  was  the  case : 
but  we  live  in  a  new  era.  Suppose 
such  a  case  as  this — England  in  a 
state  of  war  with  the  continent ;  Ire- 
land in  a  state  of  rebellion  ;  two  or 
three  great  neutral  powers  obtruding 
themselves  as  arbitrators,  as  was  late- 
ly done  in  the  cases  of  Turkey  and 
Holland,  and  insisting,  as  the  basis  of 
their  arbitration,  upon  the  dissolu- 
tion of  the  legislative  Union  between 
Great  Britain  and  Ireland !  I  tell  you 
such  things  have  been,  and  such 
things  may  be  again.  It  is  a  policy 
which  we  ourselves  have  most  un- 
wisely, and,  I  think,  iniquitously 
sanctioned ;  and  "  evenhanded  jus- 
tice" may  yet  "  commend  the  poison- 


[Nov. 


ed  chalice  to  our  own  lips,"  and  com- 
pel us  to  wring  out  the  dregs. 

Axe.  I  will  hope  better  things  for 
old  England. 

LEG.  It  is  of  new  England  that  I 
am  apprehensive; — of  England  as  it 
will  be  after  the  passing  of  the  Re- 
form Bill. 

ANG.  But  surely  you  have  not 
conversed  with  any  one  in  the  other 
world] who  denies  the  necessity  of  all 
reform  ?  At  least  there  is  no  one  here 
who  does  not  acknowledge  that  some 
reform  is  absolutely  necessary.  Some- 
thing, undoubtedly,  must  be  done. 

LEG.  But  what  that  something  is 
to  be,  is  the  question.  I  think  it  is 
as  certain  that  the  democracy  is  too 
strong  at  present,  as  it  is  that  the 
monarchy  and  the  aristocracy  are  too 
weak.  By  a  reform  which  should 
strengthen  these  two  estates  of  the 
realm,  the  constitution  would  be  pre- 
served ;  by  a  reform  which  should 
add  to  the  already  preponderating 
influence  of  the  democracy,  without 
providing  any  counter  weight,  it 
must  be  overthrown;  and  a  feather 
would  at  present  destroy  the  balance 
between  them. 

ANG.  But  the  people  do  not  re- 
quire any  such  reform  as  that. 

LEG.  The  question  is  not  what 
they  require,  but  what  is  required  by 
the  present  state  of  things.  Surely 
Anglesea  will  not  consent  to  legislate 
upon  compulsion  ? 

ANG.  Upon  compulsion !  —  Umph 
—no.  But  the  opinions  of  the  people 
must  be  attended  to.  I  do  not  see 
how  the  Lords  can  refuse  to  pass  a 
bill  that  has  been  sanctioned  by  the 
other  House  of  Parliament. 

LEG.  I  will  content  myself  with  re- 
peating what  Pitt  said  upon  that  sub- 
ject "  Either  the  House  of  Lords  fe 
a  substantive  estate  of  the  realm,  or 
it  is  not.  If  it  be  a  substantive  estate 
of  the  realm,  it  is  entitled  to  have  an 
opinion  of  its  own.  If  it  be  not,  it 
is  a  mockery,  and  should  be  abolish- 
ed." He  added,  "upon  this  particular 
question,  it  is  more  important  that 
the  House  of  Lords  should  exercise 
an  independent  judgment,  than  upon 
many  others,  because  the  House  of 
Commons  have  not  exercised  an  inde- 
pendent judgment,  they  having  him, 
to  an  unprecedented  degree,  shackled 
by  their  constituents.  Their  vote 
must  therefore  be  considered  rather 

the   exponent  of  the   popular  will, 
*  r  i 


1831.J 


itiul  the  Ghost  of  hi*  Le<j. 


than  tlie  digested  result  of  the  na- 
tional judgment;  and  should  be  sift- 
ed with  the  most  anxious  scrutiny  by 
the  Upper  House,  before  it  is  suffer- 
ed to  pass  into  a  law.  Never  was 
there  an  occasion  upon  which  a  duty 
more  awfully  important  devolved 
upon  them.  They  are  called  upon 
to  stand  between  the  people  and  the 
precipice  down  which  in  their  mad- 
ness they  are  ready  to  rush.  In  the 
present  conjuncture,"  he  said,  with 
great  warmth,  "  the  Tarpeian  Rock 
should  be  the  portion  of  any  noble 
betrayer  of  the  constitution." 

ANG.  He  may  talk  as  he  pleases, 
safe  as  he  is,  and  at  a  distance  from 
popular  commotion  j  but  if  be  were 
here  he  would  think  otherwise. 

LEG.  Nay,  my  Lord,  dishonour  not 
the  dead.  You  ought  to  have  known 
your  illustrious  friend  better.  Never 
was  there  a  man  who  could  less  be 
moved  by  the 

"  Civium  ardor  prava  jubentium;" 

were  it  not  so,  he  would  not  have 
been  "  the  pilot  that  weathered  the 
storm." 

ANG.  He  did  very  well  for  his  day ; 
but,  were  he  living  now,  I  think  he 
would  see  the  expediency  of  a  dif- 
ferent policy. 

LEG.  What !  He  who  lived  but  to 
put  down  Jacobinism  then,  should 
see  the  expediency  of  setting  up  Ja- 
cobinism now !  Impossible.  Depend 
upon  it,  my  Lord,  "  he  was  too  fond 
of  the  right,  to  adopt,"  to  that  extent 
at  least,  "  the  expedient." 

ANG.  Then  he  should  go  out  of 
office. 

LEG.  And  he  wouldgo  out  of  office 
an  hundred  times,  rather  than  con- 
sent to  become  the  puppet  of  a  fac- 
tion, who  are  either  senselessly  or 
wickedly  bent  upon  the  destruction 
of  every  thing  ancient  or  venerable 
in  the  constitution  of  the  country. 
No — no.  It  was  not  for  that,  that, 
placing  his  foot  upon  the  hydra  of 
Jacobinism  in  England,  he  hurled  the 
thunderbolt,  which,  although  he  did 
not  live  to  see  it,  struck  down  the 
tyrant  of  the  continent  from  his 
throne,  and  liberated  prostrate  Eu- 
rope. 

ANG.  Aye,  and  incurred  the  na- 
tional debt ;  what  do  you  say  to  that  ? 

LEG.  Are  these  the  words  of  the 
chivalrous  Anglesea?  Glory,  ho- 
nour, deliverance  from  foreign  dan- 


725 

ger,  the  preservation  of  all  that  was 
valuable  to  Englishmen  as  men  and 
as  Christians,  the  accumulation  of  a 
boundless  store  of  military  renown, 
the  creation  of  a  co-rival  force  by 
land  to  our  hitherto  unrivalled  navy, 
so  that  it  has  become  doubtful  whe- 
ther our  soldiers  or  our  sailors  are 
the  more  invincible— Docs  Anglesea 
consider  these  as  no  set-off  against 
the  national  debt !  If  he  do,  how 
must  he  be  changed  from  that  An- 
glesea whom  I  once  knew,  and  with 
whom  I  loved  to  be  identified !  How 
miserably  must  he  have  unlearned, 
under  the  tuition  of  Mr  Joseph 
Hume,  all  that  he  had  previously 
learned  in  the  school  of  patriotism 
and  honour ! 

ANG.  That  is  all  very  fine  talk; 
but  you  cannot  persuade  the  gene- 
rality of  people  that  the  national  debt 
is  not  a  national  evil.  Pitt  and  all  of 
us  danced  very  merrily  while  the 
war  was  going  on.  The  country  now 
must  pay  the  piper. 

LEG.  Granting  that  the  debt  ia  an 
evil,  (and  I  am  by  no  means  prepa- 
red to  say  that  it  is  so  in  the  extent 
that  is  supposed,)  it  was  contracted 
for  the  purpose  of  averting  a  greater 
evil.  Debt,  by  which  national  protec- 
tion has  been  ensured,  no  matter 
how  we  may  be  burdened  by  it,  is 
preferable  to  national  subjugation. 
Take  the  most  honourable  terms  that 
could  possibly  be  granted  to  us  by 
the  conqueror,  (and  conquered  we 
should  have  been  but  for  the  debt,) 
our  condition  must  have  been  a  thou- 
sand times  more  deplorable  than  it 
is  at  present,  even  as  it  appears  in 
the  eyes  of  the  most  radical  reform- 
er. I  will  bring  the  matter  to  a  short 
issue ;  suppose  France,  or  Austria, 
or  Russia,  were  willing  to-morrow 
to  pay  our  debt,  upon  condition  of 
our  surrendering  our  independence, 
could  you  find,  even  amongst  the 
vehement  supporters  of  the  Bill,  a 
single  individual  who  would  listen 
to  such  a  proposal  ? 

ANG.  I  could  not. 

LEG.  A  plain  proof  that  even  they 
are  not  altogether  demented;  and 
that,  although  they  may  declaim 
against  the  debt,  they  would  be  heart- 
ily sorry  not  to  be  burdened  by  it, 
if  its  contraction  was  necessary  for 
the  defence  of  their  liberties. 

ANG.  But  yet,  their  liberties  having 
been  defended,  I  believe  there  are 


Dialogue  between,  the  Marquis  ofAnglesea 


726 

very  many  of  them  who  would  glad- 
ly get  rid  of  the  debt. 

LEG.  And  as  they  cannot  do  so  while 
any  thing  like  good  faith  or  gentle- 
manlike feeling  is  respected  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  you  are  for  fa- 
cilitating their  object,  by  helping 
them  to  a  radical  Parliament  ?  I  know 
that  much  pains  has  been  taken,  by 
wicked  and  designing  demagogues, 
to  mislead  and  to  abuse  the  public 
mind.  They  have  taught  their  dupes, 
(and  these  are,  alas !  too  many,)  to  re- 
gard a  reformed  House  of  Commons 
as  a  kind  of  political  millennium. 
But  you,  my  noble  master,  have  never 
yet  harked  in  with  that  vulgar  and 
senseless  cry;  and  although  you  have 
of  late  laboured  to  become  a  Whig, 
yet  you  can  never,  I  trust,  so  com- 
pletely succeed,  as  to  be  capable  of 
countenancing  so  gross  and  so  mis- 
chievous a  delusion. 

ANG.  Reform  of  jsome  kind  we 
must  have.  That's  pos.  I  will  not 
object — on  the  contrary,  I  shall  be 
very  glad— if  it  may  be  effected  in  a 
manner  less  likely  to  endanger  the 
old  institutions  of  the  country. 

LEG.  The  only  object  of  any  re- 
form should  be,  and  the  professed 
object  of  all  reforms  has  been,  to 
uphold  and  to  strengthen  our  old  in- 
stitutions. This  has  always  been  pre- 
tended, even  when  it  was  very  well 
known  that  the  real  object  of  such 
political  perfectionists  was  to  under- 
mine and  to  destroy  them.  But  the 
present  impending  calamity  must 
pass  away,  before  any  sane  project 
ef  practicable  reform  can  be  even 
thought  of. 

ANG.  I  am  afraid  that  a  position 
like  that  would  only  exasperate  the 
people,  and  cause  them,  perhaps,  to 
force  the  present  measure  in  a  man- 
ner that  they  may  not  otherwise  be 
disposed  to  do;  at  least,  if  they  do 
not  see  any  disposition  to  give  a  rea- 
sonable attention  to  their  demands. 

LEG.  Arguing,  I  suppose,  thus,  that 
because  we  would  not  take  physic, 
we  should  take  poison ! — that  if  we 
did  not  redress,  after  their  own  fa- 
shion, imaginary  j7/s,they  would  take 
care  to  create  real  ones,  which  could 
not  be  remedied  by  human  wisdom ! 
Thus  it  is  that  mobs  reason,  and  thus 
it  is  that  they  act ;  but  be  it  far  from 
my  noble  master  to  be  a  consenting 
party  to  the  foulest  and  the  most 
wicked  deceit  that  ever  was  practi- 


[Nov, 


scd  upon  the  credulity  of  the  peo- 
ple. The  present  Reform  Bill,  while 
it  literally  unsettles  every  thing,  esta- 
blishes nothing.  It  is  powerful 
enough  to  disorganize,  to  subvert,  to 
derange,  to  dislocate  the  framework 
and  the  machinery  of  our  old  consti- 
tutional monarchy;  but  no  one  de* 
ceives  himself  with  the  belief  that 
any  thing  fixed  or  permanent  can  re- 
sult from  it.  It  will  be,  if  it  should 
pass,  but  the  beginning  of  changes. 
Do  you  yourself  imagine  that  things 
can  remain  stationary,  precisely  at 
that  point  where  the  Reform  Bill 
proposes  to  leave  them  ? 

ANG.  It  would  be  very  hard  to  say. 
We  live  in  an  age  when  nothing  is 
stationary.  If  we  could  remain  as  we 
are,  I  confess  that  I  do  not  very  ear- 
nestly desire  to  experience  "  that 
untried  form"  of  political  being  to- 
wards which  we  are  tending.  But 
that  cannot  be  ; —  the  people  have 
spoken  out,  and  something  must  be 
done. 

LEG.  If  the  people  are  right,  it  is 
pleasant  to  agree  with  them ;  if  they 
are  wrong,  it  is  both  wicked  and 
cowardly  to  do  so.  In  the  case  last 
mentioned,  it  would  be  both  base 
and  cruel  not  to  make  an  effort  to 
protect  them  from  the  fatal  conse- 
quences of  their  own  importunities. 
I  am,  however,  agreed  with  you,  that 
something  may  be  done.  This,  how- 
ever, is  not  the  time  to  make  the  ex- 
periment. To  use  an  illustration  ot 
Burke's,  no  sane  individual  would 
attempt  alterations  in  the  structure 
of  his  house  during  a  thunder-storm. 

ANG.  But  what  if  the  thunder- 
storm should  blow  it  down  ? 

LEG.  In  that  case  we  will  be  guilt- 
less of  having  aided  in  its  overthrow. 
But  if  the  Lords  are  firm,  that  cala- 
mity need  not  be  feared.  God  and 
our  own  good  genius  will  still  pro- 
tect the  constitution  of  Old  England. 
The  only  thing  formidable  in  the 
present  state  of  the  public  mind  is, 
that  it  has  been  produced  by  the  go- 
vernment. You,  perhaps,  do  not 
know,  that  the  most  ^seditious  and 
stimulating  of  all  the  paragraphs 
which  have  appeared  in  the  public 
papers,  have  come  direct  from  the 
Treasury;  most  of  the  noise  which 
would  seem  to  be  made  for  the  go- 
vernment, and  urging  them  on  in  the 
prosecution  of  their  revolutionary 
measure,  has  been  produced,  by  a 


1831.J 


and  the  Ghost  of  his  Leg. 


species  of  political  ventriloquism,  by 
themselves.  The  people  are  begin- 
ning to  find  that  out.  They  also  be- 
gin to  sec  that  the  only  motive  which 
prompted  the  present  scheme  was, 
that  they  might  keep  their  places. 
You  may  depend  upon  it,  therefore, 
that  if  the  Lords  are  firm  and  do 
their  dutv,  they  have  nothing  to  ap- 
prehend from  popular  violence ;  al- 
though I  will  not  disgrace  that  au- 
gust assembly  by  supposing  that 
they  could  be  influenced  by  such 
apprehensions. 

ANG.  The  times  are  out  of  joint. 
Look  to  the  state  of  France.  If  they 
reject  the  Bill,  one  does  not  know 
what  may  happen. 

LEG.  But  if  they  pass  the  Bill,  it  is 
very  easy  to  foresee  what  must  hap- 
pen. Their  legislative  functions  will 
henceforth  be  at  an  end.  They  will  no 
longer  be  the  Peers  of  England.  Your 
Lordship  says,  look  to  France ;  and  I 
say,  look  to  France.  What  do  we  see 
there  ?  The  shadow  of  a  monarchy, 
the  substance  of  a  republic;  nay,  I 
should  rather  say,  the  expense  and 
the  pageantry  of  a  monarchy,  with- 
out its  solidity  or  its  dignity ;  and  the 
turbulence  and  capriciousness  of  a 
republic,  without  its  simplicity,  its 
economy,  or  its  freedom.  And  how 
has  this  been  produced  ?  By  the  very 
measures  which  our  worthy  reform- 
ing Ministry  are  now  recommending 
with  respect  to  England !  Oh !  my 
Lord,  if  we  look  to  France,  we  are  to 
look  to  it  as  a  warning,  and  not  as  an 
example. 

ANU.  You  are  certainly  wrong 
there.  The  present  state  of  France 
has  been  produced  by  the  violent 
and  unconstitutional  aggression  of 
the  Ministers  upon  the  rights  of  the 
people. 

LEG.  And  what  produced  that  ag- 
gression? Mind,  I  do  not  justify 
it;  I  say  not  one  word  in  its  vindi- 
cation. But  I  ask,  What  produced 
it?  Your  Lordship  does  not  sup- 
pose that  the  French  Ministers,  of 
mere  wantonness,  incurred  such  a 
tremendous  responsibility  as  that  to 
which  they  must  have  been  conscious 
of  being  liable,  when  they  suspend- 
ed the  constitution  ?  No.  Polignac 
thought  himself  excusable  for  the 
course  which  he  adopted,  by  a  most 
deplorable  state  necessity— a  neces- 
sity which  was  mainly  induced  by 
the  want  of  an  efficient  aristocracy, 


727 

a.id  those  checks  to  democratic  in' 
flaence  which  ive  possess  in  the  nomi- 
nation boroughs.  The  power  of  the 
commonalty  overbore  that  of  the  no- 
bility and  the  crown.  The  French 
Ministers  merely  attempted  (cer- 
tainly in  a  most  unconstitutional 
way)  to  restore  the  balance.  They 
failed ;  and  the  consequences  are  at 
present  sufficiently  visible — a  shat- 
tered monarchy,  a  degraded  nobility, 
and  a  government  the  creature  of 
popular  caprice,  and  the  ready  in- 
strument of  national  ambition  and  in- 
justice. These  are  things  which 
ought  not,  surely,  to  draw  the  wise 
people  of  England  from  "  the  ancient 
ways"  of  their  old  constitutional  po- 
licy, or  induce  them  to  abandon 
those  safeguards  which  are  their  only 
security  against  the  miseries  of  re- 
volution. 

ANG.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

LEG.  The  influence  which  the 
Crown  and  our  Nobility  "possess,  by 
means  of  the  nomination  boroughs, 
which  causes  the  House  of  Com- 
mons to  act  in  sympathy  with,  and 
not  in  opposition  to,  the  other  two 
estates  of  the  realm,  without  in  the 
slightest  degree  impairing  its  effi- 
ciency, or  compromising  its  inde- 
pendence,— an  impulse  which  tem- 
pers with  out  restraining,  which  guides 
without  controlling,  and  which  di- 
rects, without  unduly  encroaching 
upon,  the  rights  and  privileges  of  the 
democracy  of  England. 

AXG.  It  is,  however,  deemed  un- 
popular. 

LEG.  But  not,  on  that  account,  the 
less  just  or  necessary.  Let  their  ac- 
knowledged guides  only  tell  the  peo- 
ple truth,  and  they  will  not  long  con- 
tinue under  delusion.  Indeed,  the  de- 
lusion is  already  very  rapidly  passing 
away ;  and  the  wicked  ones  who  have 
caused  all  this  turmoil,  have  almost 
exhausted  the  ingredients  by  which 
their  caldron  has  been  kept  boiling. 
The  people  have  been  persuaded  by 
the  demagogues  to  believe,  that  the 
influence  which  the  nobility  possess- 
ed in  the  House  of  Commons,  was 
an  influence  which  existed  only  for 
selfish  purposes,  and  which  owed  its 
origin  to  most  unconstitutional  usurp- 
ation. The  public  looked  at  the 
question  in  that  one  point  of  view, 
and  never  at  first  adverted  to  the  im- 
portant uses  to  which  that  influence 
is  subservient,  and  which  I  have  al- 


Dialogue  between  the  Marquis  c>f  An 


728 

ready  described.  They  are,  indeed, 
very  fully  and  clearly  set  fortU  in  a 
paper  of  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
written  either  by  Lord  Brougham  or 
Mr  Jeffrey,  and  to  which  much  at- 
tention has  of  late  been  directed.  If 
I  wished  to  evince,  in  the  clearest 
manner,  the  expediency  and  the  ne- 
cessity of  borough  influence,!  should 
not  go  beyond  the  masterly  exposi- 
tion, and  the  powerful  reasoning, 
which  are  to  be  found  in  that  ad- 
mirable paper.  What  a  pity  that  the 
love  of  office  should  have  induced 
the  writer  of  it  to  eat  his  words ! 
Words  which  will  live,  despite  all  he 
can  say  or  do,  for  the  confutation  of 
his  errors  and  the  exposure  of  his 
apostasy. 

ANG.  I  know  very  well  that 
the  influence  of  our  House,  which 
has  been  so  much  complained  of, 
was  strictly  defensive,  and  could  not 
in  the  nature  of  things  become  ag- 
gressive. The  time  has  passed  by 
when  that  could  possibly  be  the 
case.  But  then  it  was  made  to  ap- 
pear such  an  offence  in  the  eyes  of 
the  people,  that,  for  my  part,  I  am 
willing  to  give  it  up  rather  than 
contend  any  longer  about  it. 

LEG.  There  would,  perhaps,  be  no 
great  criminality  in  so  acting,  if  the 
thing  in  question  merely  concerned 
yourself  or  your  order.  But  the 
people  have,  in  truth,  as  real  an  in- 
terest in  maintaining  your  privileges 
as  in  maintaining  their  own.  They 
have  been  created,  or  conferred,  not 
for  the  sake  of  any  particular  indivi- 
dual, or  any  particular  order;  but  of 
every  individual,  and  every  order. 
The  world  is  surely  now  too  old  to  re- 
quire to  be  told  over  again  the  pithy 
story  of  the  belly  and  the  members. 
But  it  was  not  more  applicable  to  the 
divisions  which  were  created  between 
the  patricians  and  the  plebeians  of 
Rome,  than  to  the  disputes  which 
at  present  are  carried  on  between 
the  democracy  and  the  aristocracy 
of  England.  1  say,  perish  the  privi- 
leges of  any  order  which  are  incom- 
patible with,  or  even  not  conducive 
to  the  welfare  of  the  whole  state !  But 
I  say  also,  let  no  narrow  or  invidi- 
ous feeling  prevent  us  from  preser- 
ving and  perpetuating  the  privileges 
of  every  order,  as  long  as  they  are 
found  essential  to  the  wellbeing  of 
the  empire.  If  you  abandon  the  par- 
ticular privilege  in  question,  shew 


[Nov. 


me  how  the  nobility  are  to  be  pre- 
served from  falling  into  contempt ; 
and.wben  they  have  once  fallen  into 
contempt,  what  is  to  guai'antee  their 
existence  ?  And  if  they  cease  to  ex- 
ist, what  becomes  of  the  King  ?  What 
becomes  of  the  constitution  ?  What 
becomes  of  the  monarchy  of  Eng- 
land ?  Now,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
any  such  fears  to  be  entertained  re- 
specting the  democracy,  supposing 
that  the  present  measure  should  be 
rejected?  Will  it  be  weakened — 
will  it  be  enervated — will  it  be  ren- 
dered insufficient  as  a  counterpoise 
to  the  other  two  estates  of  the 
realm  ?  So  far  from  apprehending 
these  things,  the  advocates  of  the 
Bill  tell  us,  if  it  does  not  pass,  that 
popular  violence  will  rise  to  such  a 
height  as  to  threaten  the  very  foun- 
dations of  social  order.  Their  argu- 
ment, in  fact,  amounts  to  this — the 
crown  and  the  nobility  must  become 
less  powerful,  because  they  have  al- 
ready so  little  power.  The  House  of 
Commons  must  become  possessed 
of  more  power,  because  it  is  already 
so  very  powerful ! 

ANG.  I  know  very  well  that,  ab- 
stractedly considered,  the  changes 
contemplated  are  not  necessary.  But 
what  can  we  do?  We  are  pressed 
on  all  sides.  How  can  we  alone  re- 
sist the  united  influence  of  the  King 
and  the  people  ? 

LEG.  You  may  depend  upon  it, 
that  the  events  in  France  are  produ- 
cing their  proper  effect  upon  the 
mind  of  the  Sovereign — and  that  he 
begins  to  feel  the  precarious  tenure 
by  which  Philip  holds  the  royal 
bauble.  I  have  already  spoken  of 
the  people.  The  wealth,  the  respect- 
ability, the  worth,  the  learning,  and 
the  talent  of  the  country,  are  all  ar- 
rayed against  the  Bill.  This  was  so, 
even  at  the  period  of  the  elections. 
Witness  the  conduct  of  the  three 
Universities.  I  believe  you  have 
yourself  had  an  opportunity  of  sec- 
ing  some  little  proof  of  the  reaction 
which  has  since  taken  place,  at  no 
great  distance  from  the  seat  of  the 
Irish  government. 

ANG.  Come,  come,  no  allusion  to 
the  Dublin  election.  The  corpora- 
tion of  that  city  are  the  greatest  set 
of 

LEG.  My  good  Lord,  it  was  not  my 
purpose  to  excite  your  wrath.  I 
came  here  upon  no  such  idle  errand. 


1831.J 


and  l/te  Ghost  of  his  Leg. 


My  object  was  not  to  reproach,  but 
to  expostulate ;  not  to  provoke,  but 
to  reason  with  you ;  seeing  that, 
from  the  period  of  my  departure 
from  earth,  you  seem  to  have  acted 
like  one  who  was  bereft  of  half  his 
understanding. 

ANG.  I'll  be  bound  to  say,  also, 
you  are  ready  to  add  the  better  half. 
But  tell  me,  did  my  father  hear  any 
thing  of  the  Dublin  election  ? 

LEG.  He  did. 

ANG.  And  what  did  he  say  ?  Come, 
be  candid  with  me. 

LEG.  I  cannot  tell  you.  He  said 
little,  but  he  thought  the  more. 

ANG.  Well,  I  assure  you  most  so- 
lemnly—— 

LEG.  My  Lord,  upon  that  subject 
assure  me  of  nothing,  except  that 
you  repent  of  the  part  that  you  act- 
ed. 

ANG.  What !  will  you  not  listen  to 
my  defence  ? 

LEG.  I  do  not  put  you  upon  your 
defence.  I  do  not  come  here  to  ac- 
cuse you.  In  truth,  my  Lord,  the 
less  that  is  said  upon  that  subject 
the  better.  I  will  not  say  whether 
your  eagerness  to  make  defence  an- 
ticipates accusation,  argues  the  confi- 
dence of  innocence,  or  the  conscious- 
ness of  error  and  humiliation. 

ANG.  Error  and  humiliation!  Why, 
no  government  that  ever  existed 

LEG.  If  I  must  speak,  your  Lord- 
ship must  bear  with  me  while  I  say, 
that  the  late  election  differed  essen- 
tially from  any  that  had  taken  place 
within  the  memory  of  man.  It  was, 
as  the  Ministers  expressed  it,  a  direct 
appeal  to  the  unbiassed  sense  of  the 
people;  and,  as  such,  an  argument 
was  founded  upon  it  in  favour  of 
the  Reform  Bill.  I  ask,  then,  was  it 
fair — was  it  honourable — was  it  just 
towards  either  King  or  people,  to 
construe  forced  and  reluctant  con- 
sent into  voluntary  preference  ?  To 
say,  the  people  must  become  re- 
formers, because  the  bill  must  be 
passed ;  and  aloo,  the  bill  must  be 
passed,  because  the  people  have  be- 
come reformers  ? 

ANG.  Well,  but  it  is  an  undoubt- 
ed fact,  that  a  vast  majority  of  the 
people  did  desire  the  Reform  Bill. 

LEG.  The  less  necessary,  and 
therefore  the  less  excusable,  was  the 
bribery,  the  corruption,  and  the  un- 
due influence  of  which  both  the 
candidates  and  the  government  were 


729 

convicted  at  the  Dublin  election. 
Oh  !  my  Lord,  this  is  not  the  only  in- 
stance in  which  puritans  in  politics 
resemble  the  Pharisees  of  old.  They 
make  clean,  indeed,  the  outside  of 
the  cup  or  platter,  but  within  are  full 
of  all  uncleanness.  :/.<»  eitt  ,-Mnuea 

ANG.  What,  quoting  Scripture 
against  mel  Well,  if  you  take  to 
that  I  am  doae«woa  9iiJ  baa  .iK-r 

LtG.  Yes.  And  I  should  not  have 
communed  so  long  with  you  if  I  did 
not  know,  perhaps  better  than  you 
yourself  know,  that  you  have  a  se- 
cret reverence  for  the  word  of  God. 
I  do  not  think  you  contemplate  the 
overthrow  of  the  Established  Church, 
which  would  seem  to  be  so  near  at 
hand,  with  indifference.  You  would 
save  it  if  you  could. 

ANG.  I  would,  so  help  me  God  ! 
But  what  is  to  be  done  ?  Admitting 
the  danger  of  passing  the  Bill,  can  I 
shut  my  eyes  to  the  danger  of  re- 
sisting it  ?  How  would  you  have  the 
Peers  to  act  ? 

LEG.  Reject  the  present  measure1, 
by  all  means.  'ilqosq 

ANG.  What!  not  modify  it?  Not 
conform  to  it  as  far  as  might  be 


, 

LEG.  Not  in  the  first  instance.  To 
do  so  would  carry  with  it  an  appear- 
ance of  timidity.  They  may,  and 
they  ought,  to  [accompany  their  re- 
jection of  it  by  declaring  their  readi- 
ness to  entertain,  at  the  proper  time, 
any  other  measure  which  may  be 
originated  in  the  Lower  House,  less 
incompatible  with  the  permanency 
and  the  wellbeing  of  existing  insti- 
tutions. The  Lords  should  leave 
to  the  Commons  the  initiative  in 
all  proceedings  which  peculiarly  af- 
fect their  branch  of  the  legislature. 
Not  only  because,  in  point  of  deli- 
cacy, it  would  be  right,  but  because 
a  different  conduct  might,  in  the  pre- 
sent temper  of  men's  minds,  be  very 
seriously  misrepresented.  Therefore, 
next  to  the  maintenance  of  their  own 
rights  and  dignities,  those  of  the  co- 
ordinate estate  ought  to  be  most 
scrupulously  respected. 

ANG.  But  if  they  throw  out  the 
Bill  altogether,  will  there  not  be  a 
prodigious  outcry  ? 

LEG.  Not  greater  —  not  so  great  as 
there  would  be  if  they  passed  it  with 
what  would  appear  to  the  Com- 
mons inadmissible  modifications. 
Depend  upon  it,  the  straight  and  the 


Dialogue  between  the  Marquis  of  Anglesea,  $c. 


730 

simple  course  in  this,  as  in  other 
things,  is  always  the  best  and  safest. 
Let  the  Lords  exercise  their  un- 
doubted privilege  of  rejecting  the 
measure  as  it  at  present  stands,  and 
the  matter  must  rest,  for  a  time  at 
least,  (and  time  is  every  thing  in 
such  matters,)  as  they  leave  it.  Let 
them  send  it  back  to  the  Commons, 
complaining,  like  the  Irishman,  that 
it  has  been  changed  at  nurse,  and  I 
cannot  contemplate  the  discussions 
and  the  bickerings  to  which  such  a 
proceeding  may  give  rise,  without 
uneasy  apprehensions.  Not  that  I, 
in  either  case,  have  any  serious  fears 
for  the  result ;  but  the  first  appears 
to  me  to  be  more  clearly  within  the 
line  both  of  dignity  and  delicacy, 
and  less  likely  to  provoke  an  angry 
collision. 

ANG.  I  do  not  know  what  to  say; 
I  am  very  deeply  pledged  to  the  Mi- 
nisters ;  but  you  have  put  such  a 
point  of  view— — 

LEG.  I  exact  no  promise — I  re- 
quire no  declaration  from  you.  I 
only  say,  consider  what  has  been 
said,  and  do  not  vote  in  any  other 
way  than  may  be  approved  of  by 
your  reason  and  your  conscience. 
It  is  not,  however,  too  much  to  re- 
quire of  you  not  to  leave  the  latter 
any  longer  in  the  joint  custody  of 


[Nov. 


Lord  Plunkett  and  Mr  Anthony 
Blake,  nor  to  suffer  the  former  to  be 
bag-ridden  by  Lady  Morgan.  Fare- 
well. When  I  meet  you  again,  it  will 
be  in  another  place.  I  hope  it  may 
be  under  circumstances  which  may 
render  it  possible  for  us  to  be  re- 
united. But,  so  help  me  honour! 
I  would  rather  become  the  property 
of  the  most  rascally  radical  that  ever 
wanted  a  leg,  than,  having  been  what 
I  was  to  you  in  your  better  days, 
when  you  were  the  pink  of  courtesy 
and  the  flower  of  chivalry,  become 
incorporated  with  you  again,  only 
for  the  purpose  of  being  associated 
with  the  worst  enemies  of  my  King 
and  country.  Remember  what  Ho- 
race says,  it  is  my  motto, 

"  Nee  vera  virtus,  cum  semel  excidit, 
Curat  reponi  deterioribus." 

Once  more,  farewell.  If  you  vote  in 
favour  of  this  accursed  measure,  I 
am  glad  that  I  shall  not  be  present 
to  enable  you  "  pedibus  ire  in  sen- 
tentia"  against  the  best  interests  of 
the  state.  If  you  act  the  better  part, 
and  resolve  to  oppose  it,  I  could 
willingly'come  from  Paradise  for  the 
purpose  of  enabling  you  to  take  your 
noble  stand  in  the  Thermopylae  of 
the  Constitution. 


The  Spirit  here  disappeared,  and  left  the  noble  Lord  strangely  perplex- 
ed by  his  communication.  Whether  what  he  heard  ."produced  any  effect 
upon  his  mind  respecting  the  Reform  Bill,  my  informant  was  unable  to  say; 
but  he  was  certainly  far  less  confident  respecting  either  its  efficacy  or  its 
necessity  than  he  had  been  previously.  What  may  come  of  it,  no  one  can 
conjecture.  He  has,  for  the  last  few  days,  been  unusually  silent  and  self- 
involved  ;  and  was  this  morning  silently  engaged  in  reading  some  of  the 
late  numbers  of  Blackwood's  Magazine.  Should  I  learn  any  thing  further, 
you  may  depend  upon  having  the  earliest  intimation  of  it. 

Your  obedient  servant, 

GLANVJLLE  REDIVIVIS. 
London)  September  30, 1831. 


1831.] 


Modern  French  Historians, 


731 


MODERN  FRENCH  HISTORIANS. 

NO.  n. 

COUNT  SEGUK. 


THE  peculiar  character  and  singu- 
lar talent  of  the  French  people,  is 
nowhere  so  conspicuous  as  in  the 
number  and  merit  of  the  historical 
memoirs  which  have  in  every  age 
proceeded  from  their  exertions. 
Regular  histories,  indeed,  of  great 
merit,  have  been  rare  among  them, 
till  after  the  fall  of  Napoleon :  nor  is 
this  surprising  ;  for  a  despotic  go- 
vernment, whether  monarchical,  re- 
publican, or  imperial,  is  inconsistent 
with  the  deliberate  thought  and  fear- 
less discussion  which  history  re- 
quires. But  since  that  time,  the  abi- 
lity of  their  historical  works  has 
been  most  extraordinary.  The  re- 
publican historians,M5gnetandThiers 
— the  royalists,  Chateaubriand  and 
Lacretelle — the  descriptive,  Thierry 
and  Michaux  —  the  philosophical, 
Guizot  and  Salvandy, — have  each 
opened  a  new  view  in  the  literature 
or  their  country ;  and  if  they  have 
not  equalled  the  great  works  of 
Hume,  Robertson,  and  Gibbon,  they 
have  greatly  exceeded  any  historical 
productions  which  have  since  that 
time  appeared  in  this  country.  We 
propose  in  this  series  to  make  our 
readers  acquainted  with  these  au- 
thors, most  of  which  have  not  yet  ap- 
peared in  the  popular  form  of  an 
English  translation ;  but  which  con- 
stitute a  great  and  splendid  series  of 
pictures  of  the  human  race  in  differ- 
ent ages  of  its  progress,  dazzling  from 
the  brilliancy  of  their  colouring,  and 
graphic  from  the  fidelity  of  their 
drawing. 

Inferior  in  solidity  and  thought, 
but  superior  in  vivacity  and  enter- 
tainment, the  French  Memoirs  during 
the  same  period  exhibit  a  view  of 
manners,  thoughts,  and  adventures, 
unequalled  by  the  writings  of  any 
other  age  or  country.  For  a  very 
long  period  these  popular  produc- 
tions have  constituted  a  most  enter- 
taining fund  of  reading ;  and  the 
great  collection  edited  by  Guizot, 
consisting  of  160  volumes,  is  perhaps 
the  most  curious  picture  of  life  and 
manners  which  exists  in  the  world. 


But  since  the  Revolution,  they  have 
assumed  a  graver  and  sterner  cast. 
No  longer  confined  to  the  details  of 
courts,  the  gossip  of  saloons,  or  the 
incidents  of  gallantry,  they  have  sha- 
red in  the  tragic  and  thrilling  cha- 
racter of  revolutionary  life  :  the 
dreams  of  philosophers,  the  visions 
of  enthusiastic  nobles,  the  hopes  of 
patriots,  are  portrayed  in  the  vivid 
colours  of  actual  life,  and  with  the 
illusion  which  seduced  their  original 
authors.  Presently  succeed  a  more 
melancholy  class.  The  prison,  the 
judgment-seat,  the  scaffold,  pass  be- 
fore our  eyes  :  the  agonizing  sus- 
pense of  the  Reign  ot  Terror — the 
hairbreadth  escapes  of  persecuted 
virtue — the  heroism  of  female  devo- 
tion— exceed  all  that  fiction  has  con- 
ceived of  the  grand  or  the  terrible, 
and  leave  an  impression  on  the 
mind,  of  the  magnitude  both  of  vir- 
tue and  vice,  which  no  other  pro- 
ductions can  produce.  With  the  rise 
of  Napoleon,  and  the  era  of  conquest, 
commences  a  different,  but  a  not  less 
heart-stirring  series  of  adventures: 
the  achievements  of  valour,  the  ener- 
gy of  patriotism,  the  conquest  of  em- 
pires, are  laid  before  us  in  true  and 
vivid  colours.  We  share  in  the  en- 
thusiasm of  the  youthful  soldier ;  we 
follow  the  footsteps  of  the  mature 
leader ;  we  sympathize  with  the  grief 
of  the  veteran  in  renown : — the  din  of 
battles,  the  charge  of  squadrons,  the 
roar  of  artillery,  are  almost  made  pre- 
sent to  our  senses ;  and  the  varied  pic- 
ture of  life  and  adventure,  from  the 
sentinel  to  the  throne,  from  the  Py- 
ramids to  the  Kremlin,  is  brought 
before  our  eyes  with  all  the  fulness 
of  recent  recollection,  and  all  the  vi- 
vacity of  undecaying  impression. 

M.  Segur,  whose  memoirs  form  the 
subject  of  this  article,  stands  midway 
between  these  different  classes  of 
narrative.  Born  of  a  noble  family, 
the  son  of  the  Minister  at  War  to 
Louis  XVI.,  early  initiated  into  the 
frivolities  and  pleasures  of  a  Parisian 
life,  he  conveys  one  of  the  latest  and 
best  images  of  the  high-bred  circles 


732 


of  French  society  ;  of  that  last  re- 
finement of  courtly  manners,  where 
talent  was  associated  with  elegance, 
and  simplicity  of  manner  with  pride 
of  feeling;  where  vice  had  "lost  half 
its  guilt  by  losing  all  its  grossness," 
and  genius  all  its  usefulness  by  the 
sacrifice  of  most  of  its  independence. 
But  though  such  were  his  habits  and 
his  early  sphere,  his  inclinations,  his 
talents,  and  his  friendships,  led  him 
to  a  more  useful  existence.  Gifted 
with  singular  and  varied  ability ;  the 
friend  ot  D'Alembert,  Diderot,  and 
Voltaire,  of  Mirabeau,  Sieyes,  and 
Lafayette,  he  shared  alike  in  the 
philosophical  circles,  the  political 
connexions,  and  the  frivolous  plea- 
sures of  the  French  metropolis.  As 
life  advanced,  and  the  storm  of  poli- 
tical passion  became  more  vehement, 
he  withdrew  from  the  world  of  amuse- 
ment to  that  of  action.  An  ardent 
friend  of  freedom,  he  followed  La- 
fayette to  combat  in  America  for  the 
independence  of  another  hemisphere; 
and  sent,  after  his  return,  as  ambas- 
sador to  Russia,  he  sustained,  even 
in  presence  of  Catherine,  the  ascen- 
dency both  of  freedom  and  of  ability. 
On  his  return  to  France,  during  the 
fervour  of  the  Revolution,he  shared  in 
the  feelings  with  which  its  early  sup- 
porters regarded  its  frightful  ex- 
cesses ;  and  lived  to  nurse,  by  his 
example  and  precept,  that  vivid  ge- 
nius which  was  destined  in  his  son, 
to  bequeath  to  the  world  the  immor- 
tal picture  of  the  campaign  of  Mos- 
cow, -sial  fl  'to  nomoteb 

There  its  no  other  writer  whose 
works  so  clearly  and  vividly  por- 
tray the  state  of  transition,  when  the 
human  mind  passed  from  the  old  to 
the  new  state  of  society ;  from  the 
world  of  aristocracy  to  that  of  abili- 
ty ;  from  the  pacific  slumbers  of  mo- 
narchical institutions  to  the  heart- 
stirring  events  of  revolutionary  ac- 
tion. In  his  pages  we  see  alike  the 
grievances  which  rendered  a  great 
change  necessary  for  the  improve- 
ment of  society,  the  delusion  which 
precipitated  its  course,  the  feelings 
with  which  it  was  regarded  by  the 
most  enlightened  persons  of  the  time, 
and  the  causes  which  stained  its  pro- 
gress with  blood. 

Of  the  corrupted  state  of  society 
in  the  latter  years  of  the  reign,  of 
Louis  XV.,  and  the  rapid  descent 
which  ideas  were  even,  then,  taking 


Modern  French 

towards  a  Revolution,  our  author 

gives  the  following  curious  account  : 

•  '  "••••    •  •.OTirqii  sin  OJ  bsioJaai 

"  The  King  was  resolved  to  have  repose 
at  any  price  ;  the  courtiers  to  have  mo- 
ney at  every  hour.  Great  views,  great 
projects,  noble  thoughts,  would  have 
disquieted  the  aged  monarch  and  his 
young  mistress. 

"  Soon  there  was  neither  dignity  iu  the 
government,  order  in  the  finances,  nor 
firmness  in  the  national  conduct.  France 
lust  its  influence  in  Europe.  England 
peaceably  ruled  the  seas,  and  annexed  to 
its  dominions  the  Eastern  world.  The 
northern  powers  partitioned  Poland  ;  the 
equilibrium  established  by  the  treaty  of 
Westphalia  was  destroyed. 

"  The  it  cling  of  shame  attached  to  that 
royal  lethargy,  to  that  monarchical  degra- 
dation,  at  once  wounded  and  awakened 
the  pride  of  the  French.  From  one  end 
of  the  kingdom  to  the  other,  it  became  a 
point  of  honour  to  join  the  ranks  of  op- 
position ;  it  appeared  a  duty  to  the  en- 
lightened, a  virtue  to  the  generous,  an  use- 
ful weapon  to  the  philosopher?.  To  the 
young  and  the  ardent,  it  was  a  means  of 
distinction  ;  a  fashion,  which  the  impe- 
tuosity of  youth  seized  with  avidity. 

"  The  Parliaments  framed  remonstran- 
ces, the  clergy  sermons,  the  philosophers 
hooks,  the  young  courtiers  epigrams. 
Every  one  perceiving  the  helm  placed  in 
incapable  hands,  made  it  a  point  of  honour 
to  brave  a  government  which  no  longer 
inspired  either  confidence  or  respect  ; 
and  even.  Hie  depositaries  of  power,  n<t  lotiger 
opposing  a  solid  barrier  to  individual  ambi- 
tion, followed  in  the  same  career,  and 
tended,  without  either  concert  or  inten- 
tion, to  the  same  end.  •  s/fj  baa  ,9uni  • 

"  The  old  nobles,  ashamed  of  being 
governed  by  a  plebeian  mistress,  and  mi- 
nisters without  glory,  regretted  the  days 
of  feudal  power  and  the  decline  of  their 
splendour  since  the  days  of  Richelieu. 
The  clergy  looked  back  with  bitter  regret 
to  their  influence  under  Madame  de  Main- 
tenon.  The  great  magisterial  bodies,  and 
theParliament,opposcd  to  arbitrary  power, 
and  to  the  dilapidation  of  the  finances,  a 
resistance  which  rendered  them  highly 
popular  with  the  multitude. 

"  Every  tiling  breathed  the  spirit  of  the 
League  and  the  Fronde  ;  and  as  to  dis- 
positions in  such  a  temper,  nothing  is 
wanting  but  a  rallying  point,  a  cri  de 
guerre;  it  was  soon  furnished  by  the  phi- 
losophers. The  words  liberty,  property, 
equality,  were  pronounced.  These  ma- 
gic sounds  were  re-echoed  from  afar,  and 
soon  repeated  with  enthusiasm  hy  the 
very  persons  who  in  the  end  ascribed  to 
them  all  their  misfortunes. 


1831.] 


No.  II.    Count  Segur. 


738 


"  No  one  then  dreamed  of  a  Revolu- 
tion, though  it  was  advancing  in  opinions 
with  signal  velocity.  Montesquieu  had 
restored  to  the  light  of  day  the  ancient 
rights  of  the  people,  so  long  buried  in 
oblivion.  The  men  of  intelligence  stu- 
died the  English  constitution:  the  young 
were  carried  away  by  the  passion  for  Eng- 
lish horses,  jockeys,  boots,  and  expenses. 
;  "  Prejudices  of  every  kind  found  them- 
selves  at  once  assailed  by  the  fine  and  bril- 
liant talent  of  Voltaire,  the  seducing  elo- 
quence of  Rousseau,  the  vehement  decla- 
mations of  Raynal,  the  encyclopaedia  artil- 
lery of  D'Alembertand  Diderot;  find  while 
this  inundation  of  light  suddenly  changed 
both  the  opinions  and  the  manners,  all 
classes  of  the  ancient  regime,  at  the  mo- 
TOfnt  that  they  were  losing,  without  per- 
ceiving it,  their  roots  in  society,  preserved, 
with  sedulous  care,  their  native  pride, 
their  external  splendour,  their  old  distinc- 
tions, and  all  the  outward  insignia  of 
power.  They  resembled  in  this  respect 
those  brilliant  pictures  formed  with  a 
thousand  colours,  and  traced  with  sand 
on  the  crystal  ornaments  of  our  festive 
days,  where  you  admire  magnificent 
castles,  smiling  landscapes,  and  rich  har- 
vests, which  the  slightest  breath  of  wind 
dissipates  for  ever." — I.  p.  19-21. 

The  state  of  the  court  was  totally 
changed  by  the  accession  of  Louis 
XVI.,  and  his  marriage  with  Marie 
Antoinette ;  but  the  virtues  and  be- 
neficent intentions  of  this  ill-fated 
monarch  made  no  change  on  the 
progress  towards  the  Revolution. 

«'  Concentrating  in  themselves  the 
royal  dignity,  every  public  and  private 
virtue,  and  the  warmest  attachment  of 
the  public,  the  purity  of  their  manners 
formed  a  striking  contrast  with  the  li- 
cense which  an  audacious  courtesan  had 
made  to  reign  in  the  palace ;  the  conta- 
gion of  vice  did  not  venture  to  approach 
that  asylum  of  innocence  and  modesty. 

"  In  their  accession,  every  one  antici- 
pated for  their  country  the  most  pros- 
perous destiny.  Alas !  who  could  have 
anticipated  that  two  beings,  apparently 
formed  by  nature  alike  to  bless  and  be 
blessed,  should  one  day  be  the  victims  of 
the  caprice  of  fortune,  and  sink  beneath 
the  stroke  of  the  most  furious  and  bloody 
anarchy !  Recently  presented  at  the  court, 
treated  with  distinction  by  both  the  royal 
consorts,  I  formed  part  of  the  brilliant 
cortege  with  which  they  were  surround- 
ed. Who  could  have  anticipated,  from 
so  smiling  an  Aurora,  the  gloomy  tem- 
pests which  were  approaching? 


"  The  old  edifice  of  society,  undermined 
in  all  its  foundations,  was  now  tottering 
to  its  fall,  while  as  yet  its  surface  exhi- 
bited no  symptoms  of  decay.  The  change 
of  manners  had  been  unperceived,  be- 
cause it  had  been  gradual;  the  etiquette 
was  the  same  at  the  court.  You  saw  there 
the  same  throne,  the  same  names,  the 
same  distinctions  of  rank,  the  same  forms. 
"  The  city  followed  the  example  of 
the  courf.  Ancient  custom  left  between 
the  noblesse  and  the  burghers  an  immense 
interval,  which  the  most  distinguished  ta- 
lents could  alone  pass  in  appearance  ; 
there  was  more  familiarity  than  equality 
between  them  and  their  superiors. 

"  The  Parliaments,  braving  the  power 
of  the  throne,  though  in  the  midst  of  the 
most  respectful  forms,  were  become  re- 
publican without  knowing  it;  they  struck 
with  their  own  hands  the  hour  of  Revolu- 
tion. Thinking  they  were  only  following 
the  example  of  their  predecessors,  in  re- 
sisting the  concordat  of  Francis  I.,  or  the 
fiscal  despotism  of  Mazarine,  they  were 
in  fact  preparing  the  most  terrible  convul- 
sions. 

"  The  old  chiefs  of  families,  deeming 
themselves  as  immovable  as  the  mo- 
narchy, slept  without  fear  on  the  edge  of 
a  volcano.  Indifferent  to  the  affairs  of 
the  state  as  to  their  private  concerns, 
they  permitted  the  first  to  be  governed 
by  an  intendant  appointed  by  the  crown, 
and  the  last  by  their  own  stewards  j  all 
their  indignation  was  reserved  for  the 
changes  of  fashion,  the  disuse  of  liveries, 
the  rage  for  English  customs. 

"The  clergy,  trusting  to  their  riches  and 
reputation,  were  far  from  believing  their 
existence  seriously  menaced.  Tliey  were 
irritated  at  the  boldness  of  the  philoso- 
phers, and  at  the  defection  of  a  large  part 
of  their  own  members,  who,  from  min- 
gling in  society,  had  become  tinged  by 
the  fashionable  infidelity  of  the  day.  Not 
contented  with  attacking  the  license  of  the 
philosophers,  they  persisted  in  upholding 
puerile  superstitions,  mortally  wounded 
by  the  torch  of  reason,  and  the  light  artil- 
lery of  ridicule. 

"  As  for  ourselves,  young  and  volatile 
nobles,  without  regret  for  the  past,  with- 
out disquietude  for  the  future,  we  march- 
ed gaily  on  a  carpet  strewed  with  flow- 
ers, which  concealed  a  yawning  abyss. 
Thoughtless  ridicule  of  ancient  customs, 
of  feudal  pride  and  court  etiquette,  of 
every  thing  sanctioned  by  usage  or  grown 
venerable  by  age,  filled  our  minds.  The 
gravity  of  ancient  manners  and  principles 
seemed  intolerable  ;  the  light  philosophy 
of  Voltaire  captivated  our  imaginations. 
Without  weighing  the  arguments  which 


784 


Modern  French  Historian* 


he  assailed,  we  followed  his  standards  as 
the  colour  of  freedom  and  resistance. 

"The  new  fashion  of  cabriolets,  of  frock 
coats  and  English  dresses,  charmed  us  by 
allowing  the  restraint  of  former  custom  to 
be  laid  aside.  Consecrating  all  our  time 
to  society,  to  fete?,  pleasures,  and  the 
trifling  duties  of  the  court  and  the  garri- 
son, we  enjoyed  at  once  the  distinction 
which  the  ancient  manners  had  transmit- 
ted, and  the  liberty  which  modern  ideas 
allowed.  The  one  regime  flattered  our 
vanity,  the  other  our  pleasures. 

"  Received  in  our  chateaux  by  our  pea- 
sants, our  guards,  and  our  stewards,  with 
some  vestiges  of  feudal  dignity ;  enjoying 
at  court,  and  in  the  city,  the  distinctions 
of  birth ;  elevated  by  our  names  alone  to 
the  highest  situations  in  the  camp,  and 
at  liberty  at  the  same  time  to  mingle 
without  pride  or  apprehension  in  every 
society,  to  taste  the  charms  of  plebeian 
equality,  we  beheld  the  short  period  of 
our  youth  glide  away  in  a  circle  of  illu- 
sions, which  never,  I  believe,  were  before 
united  in  any  generation.  Liberty,  roy- 
alty, aristocracy,  democracy,  prejudices, 
reason,  novelty,  philosophy,  all  combined 
to  render  our  lives  delightful,  and  never 
was  a  more  terrible  awakening  preceded  by 
a  sweeter  sleep  or  more  seducing  dreams." 
—I.  p.  25-6, 

One  of  the  most  curious  and  in- 
structive parts  of  these  interesting 
memoirs,  is  the  picture  which  they 
afford  of  the  universal  delusion  which 
seized  all  classes,  and  the  writer  of 
them  among  the  rest,  on  the  approach 
of  the  Revolution ;  and  the  large  share 
which  the  higher  orders  themselves 
had  in  destroying  the  fabric  which 
at  last  buried  them  in  its  ruins.  This 
is  a  subject  but  little  understood  as 
yet  in  this  country ;  but  which  af- 
fords subject  for  the  most  profound 
meditation. 

"  Though  it  was  our  own  ranks,"  he 
observes,  "  our  privileges,  the  remains  of 
our  ancient  power,  which  was  undermi- 
ned under  our  feet,  the  assaults  upon  them 
were  far  from  displeasing  us.  We  looked 
upon  them  as  mere  combats  of  words  and 
pens,  which  could  never  seriously  affect 
our  superiority,  and  which  the  possession 
of  them  for  so  many  centuries  made  us 
consider  as  established  on  an  immovable 
basis. 

"The  forms  of  the  edifice  remained 
untouched,  and  we  did  not  perceive  that 
they  were  incessantly  undermining  its 
foundations;  we  laughed  at  the  grave 
alarm  of  the  old  courtiers  and  the  clergy, 
which  thundered  against  the  spirit  of 


innovation.  We  applauded  the  republi- 
can scenes  at  our  theatres,  the  philoso- 
phical discourses  at  our  academies,  the 
bold  writings  of  our  literary  men  ;  and  we 
felt  ourselves  encouraged  in  that  disposi- 
tion by  the  intrepid  stand  of  the  Parlia- 
ments against  the  government,  and  the 
noble  writings  of  such  men  as  Turgot 
and  Malesherbes,  who  wished  only  mo- 
derate and  indispensable  reforms,  but 
whose  cautions  wisdom  we  confounded 
with  the  spirit  of  universal  innovation. 

"  Liberty,  whatever  was  its  language, 
pleased  us  by  the  courage  which  it  dis- 
played ;  equality,  by  the  convenience  with 
which  it  was  attended.  We  felt  a  plea- 
sure at  descending  from  our  elevation, 
convinced  that  we  could  ascend  again 
whenever  we  chose  ;  and,  destitute  of 
foresight,  thought  we  could  snjoy  at  once 
the  advantages  of  a  jMtrician  descent,  and 
the  fattery  of  a  plebeian  philosophy.  From 
these  feelings  was  engendered,  by  degrees, 
the  same  jealousy  between  the  manners 
of  the  new  and  the  old  court,  as  have 
since  divided  the  opinions  of  mankind ; 
and  their  skirmishes  were  the  prelude  of 
those  terrible  combats  which  have  since 
changed  the  face  of  the  world."— I.  39- 
41. 

His  account  of  the  winter  gayeties, 
a  few  years  before  the  Revolution,  is 
so  extraordinary,  that  were  it  not 
supported  by  many  other  testimonies, 
and  corroborated  by  what  we  see 
passing  before  our  own  eyes,  it  would 
seem  incredible. 

"  We  passed  the  winter  of  1779  in 
balls  and  amusements ;  all  the  French 
there  resembled  those  young  Neapolitans 
who  laugh,  sing,  and  sleep,  without  dis- 
quieting themselves  about  the  lava  on  the 
edge  of  a  volcano.  Who  could  foresee 
the  terrible  misfortunes  which  were  about 
to  follow  in  the  midst  of  so  much  peace 
and  prosperity?  Who  could  apprehend 
that  frightful  inundation  of  passions  and 
crimes,  at  a  period  when  every  writing, 
every  word,  every  action,  seemed  to  have 
but  one  end — the  extirpation  of  vice,  the 
propagation  of  virtue,  the  abolition  of 
every  arbitrary  regulation,  the  assuaging 
of  suffering,  the  amelioration  of  com- 
merce and  agriculture,  the  perfection  of 
the  human  race?" 

A  young,  virtuous,  and  beneficent 
monarch,  who  had  no  other  object 
but  the  happiness  of  his  subjects, 
and  who  desired  no  other  sway  but 
that  of  justice,  gave,  by  his  example, 
a  new  stimulus  to  every  generous 
and  philanthropic  idea.  He  had 
chosen  for  his  Ministers  two  men 


1831.]  No.  II. 

whom  the  public  voice  had  long  de- 
signated as  the  most  learned,  the 
most  virtuous,  the  most  disinterest- 
ed. Every  system  of  toleration  and 
of  a  judicious  freedom  were  encou- 
raged by  them.  The  firm  friends  of 
principle,  the  courageous  enemies  of 
abuse,  they  seemed  to  realize  with 
their  monarch,  the  prayers  of  that 
ancient  sage,  who  said,  "  That  hap- 
piness would  never  be  found  upon 
earth,  till  the  moment  when  true 
philosophy  sat  upon  the  throne." 

"  Every  where  the  unjust  persecution 
of  the  Protestants  ceased ;  the  evils  of 
corporations  were  abolished  ;  the  traces  of 
every  servitude  disappeared  ;  humiliating 
privileges  no  longer  dared  to  shew  them- 
selves ;  the  feudal  maxim  was  doomed  to 
destruction,  which  said  that  '  no  noble 
was  bound  to  pay  the  tailie,  nor  to  be 
assessed  for  the  support  of  the  highways.' " 
—I.  93,  94. 

Such  were  the  philanthropic 
dreams,  such  the  benevolent  reforms, 
which  ushered  in  the  horrors  of  the 
Revolution.  A  nearer  approach  to 
the  actors  on  this  great  theatre,  tend- 
ed to  increase  in  M.  Segur  the  illu- 
sion under  which  all  the  world  la- 
boured. 


"  In  the  greater  part  of  those  political 
convulsions  which  have  terminated  in 
overturning  Europe,  1  was  placed,  not 
on  the  stage,  but  in  the  first  row  of  spec- 
tators. The  enthusiasm  excited  by  the 
new  ideas  of  reform,  ameliorations,  li- 
berty, equality,  toleration,  absolutely 
transported  me. 

"  Fortune  frequently  brought  me  still 
nearer  the  principal  personages  on  this 
great  theatre ;  but  far  from  dispelling  the 
illusion,  it  tended  only  to  confirm  it.  It 
was  impossible  to  pass  the  soirees  with 
D'Alembert";  to  visit  the  hotel  of  the 
Duke  de  la  Rochefoucault ;  to  associate  in 
the  circle  of  Turgot;  to  partake  in  the 
public  breakfasts  of  the  Abbe  Raynal ;  to 
enjoy  the  intimate  society  of  M.  deMale- 
sherbes ;  in  fine,  to  approach  the  most 
amiable  Queen  and  the  most  virtuous 
King  who  ever  sat  upon  a  throne,  with- 
out feeling  persuaded  that  we'  were  enter- 
ing upon  an  age  of  gold,  of  which  prece- 
ding times  had  given  no  idea. 

"  Nevertheless,  a  closer  observation  of 
the  real  facts  would  have  been  sufficient 
to  have  opened  the  eyes  of  more  expe- 
rienced observers;  and  a  succession  of 
events  which  succeeded  each  other  with 
rapidity,  and  might  have  taught  us,  on  the 
one  hand,  the  fury  of  the  innovating  pas- 


Count  Segur.  735 

sions  which  were  so  widely  propagated, 
the  frightful  jealousy  which  animated  the 
j)lebdan  order  aguinst  the  noblesse  and  the 
clergy,  the  irritation  which  these  privi- 
leged bodies  manifested  against  their  5n- 
vadere,  and,  on  the  other,  the  weakness 
of  the  pilots  who  were  charged  with  steer- 
ing us  through  so  many  breakers."— I. 
97,  98 

Is  it  the  history  of  the  preliminary 
steps  to  the  French  Revolution,  or 
of  the  temper  and  state  of  England, 
during  the  discussion  of  the  Reform 
Bill,  which  is  here  portrayed  ? 

"  Every  one,"  he  adds,  "  on  the  break- 
ing out  of  the  American  war,  was  occu- 
pied with  political  subjects;  and  when  I 
reflect  to  what  a  degree,  even  under  a 
monarchical  government,  manners  were 
become  republican,  it  was  no  wonder  that 
Rousseau  predicted  the  approach  of  the 
epoch  of  great  revolutions.  In  making 
that  prediction,  that  great  writer  proved 
himself  more  clearsighted  than  the  Em- 
press of  Russia,  or  the  Kings  of  France 
and  Spain,  who  saw  in  the  American  in- 
surrection only  the  approaching  downfall 
of  the  British  power ;  without  perceiving 
that  the  young  eagle  of  liberty,  rising 
from  another  hemisphere,  would  not  be 
long  in  descending  upon  the  shores  of 
Europe."— I.  189. 

The  extent  to  which  the  revolu- 
tionary fervour  spread  from  the  re- 
volt in  America  to  the  French  mo- 
narchy, and  the  singular  blindness 
with  which  they  shut  their  eyes  to 
the  fatal  consequences  of  their  in- 
terference, is  portrayed  in  vivid  co- 
loura. 


"  Such  is  the  strange  infatuation  of 
the  human  mind,  those  who  governed  a 
monarchy  armed  it  for  the  support  of  two 
republics  against  a  king,  and  sustained, 
by  the  most  painful  exertions,  the  cause 
of  a  people  in  a  state  of  insurrection ! 
The  whole  youth  were  excited  by  the 
higher  orders  to  regard  the  American 
patriots  as  the  first  of  the  human  race ; 
and  our  aristocratic  youth,  the  future 
supports  of  the  monarchy,  rushed  to  the 
shores  of  America,  to  imbibe  the  princi- 
ples of  equality — hatred  at  the  privileged 
ranks,  horror  at  despotism,  whether  mi- 
nisterial or  sacerdotal. 

"  Though  still  young,  and  consequent- 
ly carried  away  by  the  spirit  of  my  time, 
this  whirlwind  of  error  did  not  entirely 
blind  my  eyes  to  the  consequences  it 
must  produce.  I  shall  never  forget  the 
astonishment  with  which  I  heard  all  the 
court  in  the  theatre  of  Versailles  applaud 


73  G  Modern  French  Historians. 

with  enthusiasm  Brutus,  the  celebrated 
republican  play  of  Voltaire,  and  especial- 
ly the  two  lines — 


[Nov. 


'  Je  suis  Fils  <lc  Brutus,  et  jc  porte  en  mon  occur, 
La  liberte  gnmia  et  les  rois  en  horreur.1 

"  When  the  higher  classes  in  a  mo- 
narchy are  seized  with  such  fanaticism  a? 
to  applaud  the  most  extravagant  republi- 
can maxims,  a  revolution  cannot  be  far 
distant,  and  should  not  be  unforeseen ;  but 
since  that  time,  the  most  ardent  enemies 
of  liberty,  the  most  zealous  defenders  of 
the  ancient  order  of  things,  jiave  com- 
pletely forgot  what  a  large  share  thei/ 
themselves  hud  in  pushiny  the  people  to  tlutt 
rapid  descent,  where  it  soon  became  impns. 
siult  to  arresttheir  progress.  "— 1. 2i3-  &55. 

Change  the  names  of  the  times  and 
artors;  for  the  American,  substitute 
the  second  French  Revolution;  for 
the  French  nobility,  the  reforming 
English  aristocracy;  and  these  words 
convey  a  picture  of  the  blind  politi- 
cal fanaticism  of  our  times. 

*'  In  truth,"  says  this  able  and  impar- 
tial observer,  "  when  I  recall  that  era  of 
dreams  and  illusions,  I  can  compare  our 
situation  to  nothing  but  that  of  a  person 
placed  on  the  top  of  a  lofty  tower,  the 
turning  of  whose  brain,  by  the  sight  of  so 
immense  a  prospect,  precedes  by  a  few 
instants  the  most  frightful  fall. 

"  What  was  not  really  chimerical  in 
our  situation  at  that  period,  was  the  asto- 
nishing activity  of  agriculture,  of  industry, 
commerce, and  navigation ;  the  rapid  pro- 
gress of  our  literature  and  philosophy; 
our  discoveries  in  physics,  chemistry, 
mechanics;  in  fine,  in  every  thing  which 
can  bring  to  perfection  the  civilisation  of 
a  people  by  multiplying  its  enjoyments. 

"  Adversity  is  severe,  distrustful,  full  of 
chagrins;  prosperity  renders  men  indul- 
gent and  confiding.  In  consequence,  at 
that  period  of  unexampled  prosperity,  a 
free  circulation  was  allowed  to  all  the 
reforming  writings,  to  every  project  of 
innovation,  to  thoughts  the  most  liberal, 
to  systems  the  most  inconsiderate.  Every 
one  thought  he  was  on  the  high  roid  to 
perfection,  without  disquieting  himself 
about  the  means  by  which  it  was  to  be 
attained.  We  were  all  proud  of  being 
Frenchmen,  and,  more  than  all,  French- 
men of  (he  eighteenth  century,  which  we 
regarded  as  the  age  of  gold,  brought  back 
to  the  earth  by  our  new  philosophy. 

"  The  general  illusion  spread  even  to 
royal  heads.  Frederick  the  Great  and 
Catherine  of  Russia  did  not,  it  is  true, 
openly  adopt  the  counsels  of  our  modern 
Platos,  but  they  applauded  and  consulted 
them.  Joseph  II.,  without  asking  their 


advice,  advanced  even  more  rapidly  than 
they  had  recommended.  He  imprudently 
carried  into  practice  what,  with  them, 
was  only  imtter  of  speculation." — II. 
30,  31. 

Old  Count  Segur,  the  father  of 
our  author,  and  minister  at  war, 
though  a  liberal  man,  and  the  friend 
of  freedom,  was  not  so  completely 
carried  away  by  the  innovating1 
frenzy  as  his  son.  He  gives  the  fol- 
lowing account  of  the  method  which 
he  took  to  open  his  eyes  to  the  folly 
of  the  spirit  which  had  seized  the 
public  mind. 

"I  well  recollect,  that  under  the  influ- 
ence of  the  passion  for  reform  and  inno- 
vation which  was  so  much  in  vogue  at 
the  time,  I  spoke  warmly  to  my  father 
on  the  subject  of  the  coolness  of  the  re- 
ception which  they  gave  to  the  numerous 
projects  of  reform  which  were  presented 
to  the  government;  and  indulged,  on 
this  occasion,  in  many  of  the  common- 
place declamations  on  the  difficulty  of 
getting  truth  to  penetrate  the  palaces  of 
kings,  or  the  cabinets  of  their  ministers. 

"  My  father  smiled,  and  instead  of  any 
reply,  sent  me,  on  the  following  day,  with 
an  order  to  inspect  all  the  projects  of  re- 
form which  had  been  laid  before  the  go- 
vernment, in  the  different  branches  of 
tactics  and  administration.  I  was  at  the 
moment  highly  gratified ;  but  their  num- 
bers filled  me  with  astonishment ;  and  1 
was  not  long  of  discovering  that  what  I 
had  looked  forward  to  as  a  pleasure,  was 
an  useful  lesson  and  a  severe  punish- 
ment. No  words  can  convey  an  idea  of 
the  mass  of  visionary  speculations,  com- 
monplace declamations,  perilous  projects 
of  innovation,  ignorant  proposals  for  im- 
provement, which  this  collection  con- 
tained. Never  was  1  happier  than  when 
my  father,  who,  I  found,  was  intimately 
acquainted  with  such  as  really  deserved 
consideration,  relieved  me  of  the  burden 
of  proceeding  farther  with  the  investiga- 
tion. "_II.  35,  36. 

For  his  distinguished  services  in 
America  with  Lafayette,  M.  Segur 
received,  after  his  return  to  Paris, 
the  decoration  of  the  order  of  Cin- 
cinnatus  from  the  republican  go- 
vernment. Of  its  reception  in  Paris, 
he  gives  the  following  characteristic 
account : — 

"  This  decoration  consisted  in  an  engle 
of  gold,  suspended  by  a  blue  ribbon  edged 
with  white  ;  on  the  one  side,  Cincinnati!* 
was  represented  quitting  his  cottage  to 
assume  the  office  of  Dictator :  on  thp 


18:31.] 


Aro.  IT. 


other,  he  was  to  be  seen  laying  aside  his 
buckler  and  sword,  and  resuming  the 
plough. 

"  Such  a  decoration,  so  republican  in 
its  import,  displayed  with  pride  in  the 
capital  of  a  great  monarchy,  afforded 
ample  subject  for  meditation.  It  was 
evident  how  profound  was  the  impression 
produced  by  the  first  sight  of  that  em- 
blem of  freedom ;  but  Lafayette  and  I 
were  too  proud  of  displaying  it  on  our 
breasts,  to  attend  to  any  thing  but  the  ad- 
miring crowds  which  it  drew  around  our 
persons.  In  their  eyes  that  new  decora- 
tion appeared  as  a  new  order  of  chivalry; 
and  confounding  democratic  passion  with 
aristocratic  distinctions,  they  gave  it,  both 
in  the  city  nnd  at  the  court,  the  name  of 
the  order  of  Cincinnatus. 

"  Tliis  expression  gave  rise  to  a  ludi- 
crous mistake  on  the  part  of  an  officer  of 
high  rank  who  had  served  with  distinc- 
tion in  the  American  war,  but  whose  edu- 
cation had  not  been  so  sedulously  at- 
tended to  as  his  manners.  '  You  are 
really,'  said  he  to  me,  '  well  provided 
with  saints,  for  you  have  three,  Saint 
Louis,  S:iint  Lazire,  and  Saint  Cirmatus. 
But  as  lor  the  latter  saint,  may  the  devil 
tnke  me  if  I  can  discover  where  our  good 
friends  in  America  have  contrived  to  dis- 
inter liirn.'  This  officer  had  himself  re- 
ceived the  decoration  for  his  gallant  con- 
duct in  the  transatlantic  contest." — II. 
38. 

The  French  philosophers,  with  all 
their  declamations  about  freedom, 
were  among  the  most  abject  slaves 
of  the  aristocracy,  in  their  private 
lives,  which  ever  existed.  By  their 
incessant  flattery  of  the  young  uo- 
blemen  who  adopted  their  opinions, 
they  both  degraded  their  own  cha- 
racter, and  precipitated  the  Revolu- 
tion which  their  noble  admirers  had 
so  large  a  share  in  producing. 

"  No  one  can  conceive  how,  in  that 
period  of  war  against  every  species  of 
prejudice,  of  passion  for  the  public  good, 
of  ardour  for  a  chimerical  equality,  of  ge- 
neral inclination  to  introduce  into  the  old 
world  a  primitive  state  of  equality,  the 
philosophers  paid  their  court  to  the 
young  nobles,  who  seemed  disposed  to 
become  their  disciples;  and  to  what  an 
extent  they  had  discovered  the  secret  of 
exalting  our  minds  and  our  imaginations, 
by  the  incessant  application  of  their 
dories.  These  men,  consulted,  respect- 
ed, regarded  as  oracles  by  Europe,  had 
the  disposal,  to  a  certain  extent,  of  re- 
nown ;  and  our  presumption  was  incon- 
ceivably increased  by  the  praises  which 
VOL.  XXX.  NO,  CLXXXVII. 


Count  Seguf.  78? 

they  showered  upon  the  liberal  part  of 
the  aristocracy." — II.  46. 

Robespierre  had  a  more  just  idea 
of  the  real  character  of  these  philo- 
sophers. Ou  occasion  of  the  fete  of 
the  Supreme  Being,  in  June  1793,  he 
expressed  himself,  in  regard  to  them, 
in  these  memorable  words  :— 

"  The  sect  of  the  Encyclopaedists,"  said 
he,  "  in  politics,  was  always  behind  the 
rights  of  the  people  ;  in  morals,  they  went 
as  much  too  far  in  the  destruction  of  re- 
ligious ideas.  These  hypocrites  inces- 
santly declaimed  against  despotism,  and 
they  were  pensioned  by  despots.  They 
composed,  by  turns,  tirades  against  the 
court,  and  dedications  to  kings— speeches 
for  the  courtiers,  and  madrigals  for  their 
mistresses.  They  were  fierce  in  their 
writings,  and  rampant  in  antechambers. 
That  sect  propagated,  with  infinite  zeal, 
the  doctrine  of  materialism,  which  pre- 
vailed universally  among  the  great  and 
the  beaux-esprits.  We  owe  to  it  in  part, 
that  species  of  practical  philosophy  since 
so  prevalent,  which,  reducing  egotism  into 
a  system,  regards  human  society  as  a  game 
of  skill ;  success,  as  the  standard  of  what 
is  just  and  unjust ;  probity,  as  an  affair  of 
taste,  or  good  breeding ;  the  world,  as 
the  patrimony  of  the  most  adroit  among 
scoundrels." — Thicrs,  VI.  2-1-9. 

A  more  emphatic  and  striking  fea- 
ture never  was  pronounced  than  that, 
coming  from  such  lips. 

The  state  of  the  court  is  thus  por- 
trayed, after  the  successful  termina- 
tion of  the  American  war : — 

"  We  had  succeeded  ; — the  United 
States  were  independent; — England  had 
experienced  our  strength; — the  disgraces 
of  the  Seven  Years'  War  were  effaced ; 
and  calm  always  for  a  short  period  suc- 
ceeds victory.  But  these  instants  of  re- 
pose were  of  short  duration  ; — they  were 
the  light  sleep  which  precedes  a  terrible 
wakening.  Every  one  abandoned  him- 
self without  reserve  to  enjoyment,  little 
suspecting  that  the  serenity  of  those  days 
could  ever  he  disturbed. 

"  Never  did  I  behold  any  thing  so  bril- 
liant as  the  journeys  to  Fontainbleau  in 
1783  end  1784.  The  queen,  then  in  all 
the  eclat  of  youth  and  beauty,  was  sur- 
rounded by  the  objects  of  her  choice ; 
she  received  from  a  crowd  of  distinguish- 
ed strangers,  as  from  all  the  French,  the 
most  sincere  homage;  she  was  univer- 
sally regarded  as  the  brightest  star  in  the 
fetes  which  embellished  the  court.  A 
stranger  as  yet  to  the  breath  of  calumny — 
the  encoitrager  of  letters,  the  protector  of 
art,  profuse  in  her  beneficence,  giving 
SB 


Modern  Frencli  Historians. 


olfence  to  none — she  knew,  as  yet,  of  a 
crown  only  its  flowers,  and  little  foresaw 
that  she  should  ever  be  crushed  be- 
neath its  weight." — II.  49. 

In  1785,  M.  Segur  was  appointed 
ambassador  at  the  court  of  Cathe- 
rine ;  and  one  of  the  most  interest- 
ing parts  of  his  Memoirs,  is  the  ac- 
count which  he  gives  of  the  conver- 
sations and  conduct  of  that  extra- 
ordinary woman.  On  his  way  to  St 
Petersburg,  he  visited  Frederick  the 
Great ;  and  the  following  account  of 
the  Poles,  by  that  illustrious  man,  is 
well  worthy  of  attention  :— 

"  'Poland,'  said  Frederick, '  is  a  curious 
country — free,  with  an  enslaved  popula* 
tion ;  a  republic,  headed  by  a  king ;  a 
vast  state,  almost  without  inhabitants  ; 
passionately  devoted  to  war,  and  carrying 
it  on  for  centuries  without  a  regular 
army ;  without  fortified  towns ;  with  no 
other  force  than  an  ardent,  but  undisci- 
plined assembly  of  nobles ;  for  ever  di- 
vided into  factions  and  confederacies, 
and  so  enthusiastically  attached  to  a  li- 
berty without  control,  that  the  veto  of  a 
single  Pole  is  deemed  sufficient  to  para- 
lyze the  national  will.  They  are  brave  ; 
their  temper  is  chivalrous;  but  they  are 
fickle  and  inconstant ;  the  women  in 
that  country  alone  display  an  astonish- 
ing firmness  of  character ;  they  have  more 
than  masculine  resolution.'  " — II.  118. 

At  Petersburg,  he  contracted  a 
great  intimacy  with  Prince  Potem- 
kin ;  and  that  singular  man  gave  him 
the  following  faithful  picture  of  the 
Turkish  policy  and  mode  of  fight- 
ing:— 

" '  Your  cabinet,'  said  he,  '  seems  an- 
xious to  sustain  an  empire  in  its  last  ago- 
nies; a  colossus,  which  is  even  now  fall- 
ing into  ruins.  The  Turks,  corrupted, 
effeminate,  can  assassinate  or  plunder, 
but  not  fight ;  for  forty  years  they  have 
continually  committed  the  same  errors 
in  war,  followed  by  the  same  reverses. 
The  past  to  them  is  devoid  of  experience: 
their  superstitious  pride  ascribes  all  our 
victories  to  the  devil,  from  whom  we  re- 
ceive, according  to  them,  our  science, 
our  inventions,  our  tactics ;  and  Allah 
alone,  to  punish  their  faults,  is  the  cause 
of  all  their  disasters. 

" '  At  the  signal  of  war  we  behold  them 
flocking  from  the  extremities  of  Asia, 
marching  alike  without  order  or  disci- 
pline, consuming  in  a  month  the  provi- 
sions and  ammunition  amassed  for  a 
whole  campaign.  Covering  the  earth 
with  five  hundred  thousand  combatants, 
they  advance  like  a  torrent  broke  loose  j 


[Nov. 

we  march  against  them  with  an  army, 
composed  of  forty  or  fifty  thousand  men, 
divided  into  three  or  four  squares,  brist- 
ling with  cannon,  and  with  the  intervals 
betwixt  them  lined  with  cavalry. 

" '  The  Barbarians  make  the  air  resound 
with  their  cries ;  they  pour  down  upon 
us,  arrayed  in  a  sort  of  triangle,  of  which 
the  point  is  composed  of  the  most  brave, 
with  their  courage  elevated  with  opium ; 
the  ranks  behind  are  composed  of  the 
less  valiant ;  and  in  the  rear  of  all  are 
placed  the  most  pusillanimous. 

"  '  We  allow  them  to  approach  within 
musket  shot :  then  a  continued  discharge 
of  grape  and  musketry  throws  the  un- 
disciplined mass  into  confusion  :  and  the 
enthusiasts  alone,  mad  with  opium,  throw 
themselves  on  our  bayonets,  or  perish  at 
the  mouth  of  the  cannon. 

"  '  When  they  have  fallen,  the  remain- 
der take  to  flight  and  disperse;— our  ca- 
valry break  their  ranks,  pursue  them,  oc- 
casion a  frightful  carnage,  and  enter  pell- 
mell  with  the  fugitives  into  the  camp,  of 
which  they  are  speedily  masters,  with  all 
the  rich  booty  which  it  contains.  The 
shattered  remains  of  their  forces  take  re- 
fuge behind  walls,  where  the  plague 
awaits  them,  and  frequently  decimates 
their  ranks  before  our  grenadiers  carry 
their  fortresses  by  assault. 

"  '  The  picture  of  a  single  campaign 
suffices  for  the  whole  Turkish  war :  in  all 
they  display  the  same  pusillanimity,  the 
same  errors,  the  same  ignorance,  and 
perish  by  the  same  manoeuvres.  They 
are  never  really  brave  but  behind  ram- 
parts ;  and  even  then,  what  inconcei- 
vable blunders  they  commit  during  the 
progress  of  a  siege !  They  make  frequent 
sorties,  and,  instead  of  making  any  at- 
tempt to  deceive  us,  their  stupidity 
stands  in  place  of  spies,  and  makes  us 
acquainted  with  all  their  projects. 

"  '  At  one  time  we  are  certain,  that,  ac- 
cording to  custom,  they  will  attack  us  at 
midnight ;  at  another  during  the  day, 
they  take  the  precaution  to  display  on 
the  ramparts  from  which  the  assault  is  to 
be  made,  as  many  horses'  tails  as  there 
are  detachments  to  be  commanded  at  the 
sortie.  Thus  we  know  beforehand  the 
hour  when  they  will  assail  us,  the  num- 
ber of  the  combatants  we  are  to  expect, 
the  road  they  are  to  follow,  and  the  means 
by  which  they  are  to  be  resisted.' 

"  Making  allowance  for  a  little  exng- 
geration  in  the  Prince's  account,  it  must 
be  admitted,  that  it  was  at  bottom  well- 
founded.  He  afterwards  recounted  to 
me  some  anecdotes  of  their  conduct, 
which  went  far  to  support  the  opinion  he 
had  formed  of  their  capacity. 

"  The  engineer,  Lafitte,  ecnt  by  the5 


1831.] 


No.  II.     Count  Segur. 


739 


ministers  of  the  Porte,  to  erect  fortifica- 
tions on  the  shores  of  the  Black  Sea,  on 
those  points  where  a  debarkation  might 
be  accomplished  with  facility,  was  na- 
turally desirous  to  place  the  batteries  on 
the  summit  of  those  eminences  which  had 
a  declivity  down  to  the  sea-shore.  But 
the  Turkish  commander,  desirous  to  eco- 
nomize the  expense  of  the  undertaking, 
insisted  that  they  should  be  placed  on 
a  level  surface,  at  a  distance  from  the  sea, 
from  whence  nothing  was  commanded. 
In  vain  the  French  engineer  pointed  out 
that  the  enemy  would  be  enabled  to  ef- 
fect their  disembarkation  without  moles- 
tation, and  form  in  security  for  the  attack 
of  the  distant  redoubts.  '  Do  as  you  are 
desired,'  said  the  Pacha, '  place  your  can- 
nons in  the  places  I  have  pointed  out. 
Every  thing  depends  on  Allah,  and  if  he 
pleases,  your  artillery  will  kill  as  well  from 
this  point  as  from  any  other.'  "—II. 
268,  9. 

When  Segur  arrived  at  St  Peters- 
burg, he  found  even  the  Autocrat  of 
the  North  infected  with  thjo  mania 
for  philosophic  eulogium,  which  was 
the  harbinger  of  so  many  disasters 
to  Europe. 

"  All  the  sovereigns  of  that  age  beheld 
our  Parliaments  condemn  the  bold  spe- 
culations of  our  philosophers,— and  yet 
they  paid  the  most  flattering  court  to 
those  very  philosophers,  whom  they  re- 
garded as  the  dispensers  of  renown.  Ca- 
therine and  Frederick,  above  all,  were 
insatiable  in  their  desire  for  this  species 
of  flattery ;  and,  like  the  gods  of  Olym- 
pus, loved  to  be  intoxicated  with  incense. 
To  obtain  it,  they  were  themselves  prodi- 
gal of  their  praises  to  Rousseau,  Raynal, 
D'AIembert,  and  Diderot. 

"  We  live  in  the  atmosphere  of  our 
age — we  are  carried  away  by  its  whirl- 
wind— and  those  who,  at  last,  have  been 
the  greatest  sufferers  by  its  march,  were 
then  the  first  to  accelerate  it.  All  the 
noblesse  followed  the  example  of  the 
crowned  heads;  and  it  was  not  till  they 
had,  with  their  own  hands,  consolidated  the 
foundations  of  the  new  structure  of  society, 
that  they  conceived  the  chimerical  project 
of  overturning  it, — forgetting  that  the  hu- 
man mind,  like  time,  incessantly  advan- 
ces, and  never  recedes." — III.  38. 

Of  Smvarrow,  who  afterwards 
played  so  important  a  part  on  the 
theatre  of  Europe,  he  gives  the  fol- 
lowing curious  anecdote : — 

^  "  Suwarrow  had  not  yet  arrived  at  the 
highest  military  honours  at  the  period 
when  I  was  in  Russia.  We*  regarded 
him  only  as  a  brave  soldier— in  officer  of 


great  value  in  the  army — but  exceedingly 
strange  at  court.  The  first  day  he  met 
Alexander  de  Lameth,  who  was  remark- 
able for  any  thing  but  his  pliability  of 
manner,  their  conversation  ran  thus  :— 
'  What  is  your  country  ?'  said  the  Rus- 
sian general.  '  France.'  '  What  pro- 
fession?' '  Soldier.'  'What rank?'  «  Colo- 
nel.' *  What  name  ?'  '  Alexander  de 
Lameth.'  « That's  well.1 

"  The  Frenchman,  a  little  piqued  at 
this  brief  interrogatory  from  a  total  stran- 
ger, replied  in  the  same  strain  : — '  What 
is  your  country  ?'  '  A  Russian,'  replied 
Suwarrow.  '  What  is  your  profession  ?' 
'  A  soldier.'  « What  rank  ?'  <  General.' 
*  What  name  ?'  '  Suwarrow.'  «  That's 
well.'  Upon  this  they  both  burst  out  a 
fit  of  laughing,  and  afterwards  became  the 
best  friends  imaginable."— III.  57. 

The  Steppes  of  the  Ukraine  are 

thus  eloquently  described  : — 

/mi* 

"  On  leaving  Kateririorlaff,  we  enter- 
ed upon,  what  are  called  in  Russia,  the 
Steppes,  vast  and  solitary  downs,  entirely 
destitute  of  trees,  and  interrupted  only  at 
intervals  by  some  small  eminences,  at 
whose  feet  wind  inconsiderable  streams. 
Frequently  you  travel  seven  or  eight 
leagues  without  meeting  a  man,  a  house, 
or  a  bush. 

"  Africa  has  its  deserts  of  sand ;  those 
of  the  east  are  less  arid— they  are  wilder- 
nesses of  verdure.  Immense  flocks  of 
sheep,  great  herds  of  horses,  suffered  to 
run  wild  all  the  year,  alone  animated 
these  immense  solitudes. 

"  At  the  first  glance,  that  immense  and 
verdant  horizon,  where  nothing  arrests 
the  view,  produces  on  the  mind  the  same 
impression  as  the  ocean ;— it  communi- 
cates more  grandeur  to  the  ideas,  more 
energy  to  the  reflections ;  but  as  you  ad- 
vance, its  monotony  becomes  fatiguing, 
and  it  is  soon  positively  painful  to  behold 
continually  nothing  but  the  heaven  above 
your  head,  and  a  girdle  of  verdure  round 
the  horizon. 

"  The  only  variety  in  these  immense 
plains  consists  in  numerous  mounds  or 
hillocks,  which  appear  to  have  been  con- 
structed by  the  hand  of  man;  the  tombs 
of  the  chiefs  among  the  tribes,  who,  from 
time  immemorial,  have  wandered  over 
them.  The  whole  country,  which  in 
Europe  extends  from  the  Bug  to  Azof, 
and  in  Asia,  from  the  chain  of  the  Cau- 
casus to  the  frontiers  of  China,  bears  the 
same  character ;  it  is  an  immense  sea  of 
verdure." — III.  115. 

It  was  at  Kioff,  in  Russia,  that 
M.  Segur  first  received  the  intelli- 
gence of  the  determination  of  thq 
King  of  France  to-  assemble  the 


740 


Modern  FrencJi  Historiaiis. 


[Nov. 


States- General.     To  us  who  know 
the  result,  the  different  opinions  of 
men  on  the   consequences  of  that 
memorable  even*  are   highly  inte 
restiugjd  yah  eisdJ  :  eailiBai! 

"  All  the  strangers  who  arrived  at 
Kioff,  of  whatever  nation,  congratulated 
me  on  this  event :  So  true  it  is,  that 
every  where  at  that  period  liberal  senti- 
ments, noble  thoughts,  the  desire  to  re- 
form abuses,  to  dispel  prejudices,  to 
weaken  despotism,  and  establish  liberty, 
agitated  every  heart,  warmed  every  bo- 
som— individual  interests,  little  antici- 
pating the  hideous  catastrophe  which 
awaited  them,  were  silent — the  public 
good  alone  occupied  every  thought. 

"  Happy  days!  never  destined  to  re- 
turn !  How  many  virtuous  illusions  en- 
vironed us  in  those  days  of  inexperience  ! 
And  why  hus  the  breath  of  passion,  and 
the  fury  of  the  spirit  of  party,  since  that 
time,  withered  every  soul,  empoisoned 
the  most  natural  sentiments,  and  post- 
poned for  long  the  happiness  to  which 
we  seemed  to  be  advancing  by  common 
consent ! 

"  For  myself,  I  then  shared  in  all  the 
brilliant  hopes  of  the  greater  part  of  the 
men  of  my  time,  and  could,  with  diffi- 
culty, comprehend  the  sombre  presenti- 
ments of  my  father,  whom  that  celebrated 
Assembly  of  Notables  filled  with  appre- 
hension. In  his  letters  he  spoke  inces- 
santly of  misfortunes  to  bear,  of  revolu- 
tions now  rendered  inevitable.  '  The 
king,'  said  he,  in  one  of  his  letters,  'ask- 
ed my  opinion  at  his  Council,  of  the  Con- 
vocation of  the  Notables.  /  entreated 
him  to  weigh  well  the  consequences  of 
his  decision ;  for,  in  the  present  temper 
of  men's  minds,  and  in  the  universal  fer- 
mentation which  prevailed,  the  Notables 
might  become  the  Seed  of  the  States-Ge- 
neral,— and  who  could  foretell  its  effects 
if  that  took  place?'  The  event  has  since 
justified  the  prediction  of  the  old  minis- 
ter; but  it  appeared  to  me,  at  the  time, 
dictated  only  by  the  spirit  of  prejudice 
and  routine,  which  resolutely  opposed 
every  innovation,  even  the  most  useful." 

TTT    rto    ryn 
—III.  69,  70.         y  -,^  ..-^  ls»  VjdBKHtf, 

The  intelligence  of  the  storming 
of  the  Bastile,  excited  the  same  trans- 
ports over  Europe  which  have  been 
since  revived,  on  much  less  rational 
grounds,  by  th«  second  Revolution. 
Of  its  effects  at  St  Petersburg,  M. 
Segur  gives  the  following  account. 

"  The  intelligence  spread  with  the 
rapidity  of  lightning,  and  was  variously 
received,  according  to  the  disposition  of 
those  wjio  heard  iu  At  the  Court,  the 


agitation  was  extreme,  and  the  dissatis- 
faction general.  In  the  city,  the  effect 
was  the  reverse;  and  though  assuredly 
the  Bastile  menaced  the  personal  freedom 
of  no  inhabitant  of  St  Petersburg,  I  can- 
not express  the  enthusiasm  which  its  fall 
excited  among  the  shopkeepers,  the  mer 
chants,  the  men  of  business,  and  many 
young  men  of  the  noble  families.  French, 
Russians,  Danes,  Germans,  English, 
Dutch,  embraced  each  other,  and  ex- 
pressed their  joy  in  the  most  tumultuous 
manner  in  the  streets,  as  they  had  been 
individually  delivered  from  a  chain  of 
servitude.  Such  was  the  general  Iran 
sport,  that  I  can  hardly  credit  while  I 
recount  it.". — III.  402. 

On  his  return  to  France,  after  the 
termination  of  his  embassy,  he  tra- 
versed Poland,  then  in  all  the  politi 
cal  ferment  which  soon  broke  out 
in  the  struggle  of  Kosciusko.  The 
account  he  gives  of  the  aspect  of  the 
population,  will  be  read  with  interest 
at  tliis  moment.,  in i-n 

"  On  all  the  roads  were  to  be  seen  a 
crowd  of  gentlemen  on  horseback  and  in 
carriages,  travelling  with  rapidity,  and 
crossing  each  other  in  all  directions.  Iu 
the  middle  of  the  cities  and  of  the  public 
places,  they  formed  into  circles,  and  spoke 
vVith  animation.  Every  tiling  announced 
the  greatest  agitation  ;  and  as  that  effer- 
vescence presented  new  chances  to  spe- 
culation, the  Jews,  the  numerous  and  for- 
midable vampires  of  Poland,  swarmed 
every  where  witli  redoubled  activity.  The 
peasants  alone  preserved  that  gloomy  air, 
that  senseless  expression,  that  immova- 
ble apathy,  the  sad  and  uniform  b:idpe  of 
servitude,  and  which  the  partisans  of  ab- 
solute power  designate  tranquillity  and 
repose. 

"  At  Warsaw,  especially,  the  singular- 
ity of  the  spectacle  struck  one  most  for- 
cibly. Instead  of  the  peaceful  and  cap- 
tivating circles  which  I  had  left,  adorned 
with  so  much  talent,  graced  with  so  much 
beauty,  where  literature,  morals,  and  sen- 
timent alternately  were  treated  witli  the 
vivacity  and  fire  of  the  Polish  character, 
I  saw  nothing  but  political  clubs,  where 
the  questions  of  the  day  were  discussed 
with  painful  warmth. 

"  The  nation,  long  crushed  under  the 
yoke  of  its  oppressors,  seemed  to  have 
recovered  its  dignity,  and  resumed  its  an- 
cient character.  I  beheld  again  the  fierce- 
ness of  the  time  of  the  Jagellons ;  the 
same  turbulence,  the  same  passion  for 
independence,  the  same  contempt  for  the 
dangers  with  which  it  was  attended  ;  the 
chivalrous  spirit,  sole  and  noble  relic  o 
the  feudal  system  which  wns  every  wher 


1831.]  No.  II. 

falling  into  ruins,  and  of  which  the  ves- 
tiges only  were  to  be  found  in  the  courts 
of  Germany  and  the  forests  of  Sarmatia. 
"  I  hardly  could  recognise  the  Poles 
whom  I  had  seen  only  a  few  years  before  ; 
their  occupations,  their  customs,  their 
language,  all  were  changed  ;  these  em- 
passioned  warriors  had  laid  aside  the  mo- 
dern dress,  which  was  associated  with 
their  disgrace,  and  had  resumed  their  fur- 
red cloaks,  their  tall  plumes,  their  milita- 
ry moustaches,  their  glittering  sabres.  All 
the  ladies,  to  inflame  their  courage,  had 
with  their  own  hands  embroidered  the 
scarfs  which  flowed  over  their  shoulders, 
and  studded  with  brilliants  the  rich  girdles 
which  glittered  on  their  waists."—  III. 

427 

- 


On  his  return  to  Paris,  he  found 
the  metropolis  burning  with  all  the 
fury  of  faction  ;  the  nobles,  wakened 
from  their  illusions,  now  saw  the 
fatal  consequences  of  the  spirit  of 
innovation  which  they  had  so  blindly 
worshipped,  and  were  doing  their 
utmost  to  resist  the  current  which 
they  themselves  had  put  in  motion. 
The  following  conversation  with  his 
old  friend  and  fellow  soldier,  Lafa- 
yette, will  shew  how  little  he  was 
aware  of  the  inevitable  course  of  Re- 
volutions, and  how  impotent  had 
been  all  his  efforts  to  arrest  it. 

"  '  I  know  not,'  said  Lnfayette,  '  by 
%vhat  fatality  a  hideous  party,  hitherto 
hid  in  darkness,  has  issued  forth  to  mingle 
with  the  true  people  in  every  great  cri- 
sis, and  to  stain  them  by  their  excesses. 
There  issuied  forth,  I  know  not  whence, 
a  certain  number  of  brigands,  seemingly 
paid  by  unknown  hands,  and  who,  in  spite 
of  all  our  efforts,  have  committed  the 
most  frightful  excesses.  In  vain  we 
chased  them  and  dispersed  them  ;  they 
incessantly  reappeared.  After  the  taking 
of  the  Bastile,  their  fury  led  them  to  in- 
famous murders,  and  Paris  itself  was 
menaced  with  pillage;  the  spontaneous 
organization  of  the  National  Guard  alone 
saved  it  from  destruction. 
i  "  '  We  have  in  vain  made  the  most  vi- 
gorous search  for  these  wretches  ;  the 
source  from  which  the  miscreants  issued 
who  have  inundated  the  capital,  and  all 
the  towns  of  the  kingdom,  is  as  much 
unknown  to  us  as  to  the  government. 
I  can  only  on  that  subject  entertain  sus- 
picions supported  by  no  sort  of  proof. 
In  the  month  of  last  October,  that  band 
of  ruffians,  mingling  with  the  disorderly 
movements  of  the  crowd,  assembled 
every  thing  which  was  most  abandoned 
in  the  capital.  While  I  was  using  my 


Count  Segur.     ,  of     aBrar,, 

utmost  efforts  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville  to 
maintain  order,  I  learned  that  a  nume- 
rous band  of  these  rullians  had  taken  the 
road  to  Versailles :  there  they  broke  into 
the  royal  apartments,  and  were  within  a 
hair-breadth  of  committing  the  most  ter- 
rific murder?.  Such  scenes  have  mingled 
chagrin  with  the  just  hopes  of  our  coun- 
try, and  blighted  the  hopes  of  the  im- 
mense majority  who  longed  for  salutary 
reform,  and  the  establishment  of  the  true 
representative  government.' 

" '  How  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  replied 
I ;  '  your  march  has  been  so  rapid  that  it 
could  produce  no  other  effects.  You 
have  destroyed  the  distinction  of  the 
three  orders,  reduced  to  one  chamber  the 
national  representation,  abolished  the  pri- 
vileges of  the  noblesse,  confiscated  the 
property  of  the  church,  concentrated  in 
the  National  Assembly  all  the  powers  of 
the  state.  How  many  enemies  have  these 
violent  acts  created  !  You  have  swept 
every  thing  away  in  legislation  ;  you  have 
indeed  travelled  far  in  a  short  time. 

"  '  Consider  that  when  you  overturn  an 
edifice,  its  ruins  remain  without  move- 
ment, lifeless  on  the  earth  ;  but  it  is  not 
thus  with  human  institutions;  they  have 
given  to  a  multitude  of  individuals,  to 
entire  classes  of  society,  subsistence,  en- 
joyments, and  distinction ;  rights  conse- 
crated in  their  eyes  by  custom,  and  to 
which  they  cling  with  as  much  tenacity 
as  to  life  itself.  Such  a  destruction,  so 
sudden,  so  audacious,  promises  a  long 
night  of  suffering.* 

"  '  That  may  be  very  true,'  replied  La- 
fayette ;  '  but  you  imagine  that  we  have 
acted  from  design,  when  in  truth  we  have 
only  been  impelled  by  the  force  of  cir- 
cumstances. The  great  judicial  bodies, 
the  clergy  themselves,  almost  all  those 
who  are  now  so  vehement  in  condemning 
us,  have  for  a  long  series  of  years  attack- 
ed the  authority  of  government,  and  con- 
tributed to  the  overthrow  of  existing  in- 
stitutions. The  Parliaments,  after  a  host 
of  remonstrances,  fully  as  vehement  as 
the  speeches  of  our  tribunes,  have  ap- 
pealed to  the  nation  ;  but  hardly  had  it  re- 
sponded to  their  cries  when  they  wished  to 
silence  it.  The  States- General  were  pro- 
mised ;  the  ministers  hoped  to  substitute 
in  its  room  a  Lit  de  Justice — Vain  at- 
tempt ! — the  Court  was  compelled  to  give 
way,  and  the  States- General  were  assem- 
bled. '  ,Tt9  Mi  10' 

"  •  You  see  now  the  causes  of  the  ex- 
plosion under  which  we  are  suffering. 
Judge  then  whether,  in  the  midst  of  such 
an  effervescence,  it  was  in  human  powec 
to  prevent  the  disorders  with  which  we 
are  reproached.  It  is  generally  those  whose 
imprudence  has  lighted  the  conflagration^ 


74&  Modern  French  Historians. 

who,  when  the  flames  approach  them- 
selves,  are  the  first  and  the  loudest  in 
raising  the  cry  of  fire.'  "—III.  452-455. 

"  It  was  evident  that  in  bringing  about 
this  great  Revolution  every  person  in  the 
kingdom  has  contributed  his  share.  Every 
one  has  done  something,  according  to  his 
force  or  stature.  From  the  king  to  the 
humblest  individual  in  the  kingdom,  no 
one  has  been  idle  in  the  work ;  the  one 
wished  only  that  the  changes  should 
ascend  to  the  buckle  of  his  shoe,  another 
to  his  knee,  a  third  to  his  waist,  a  fourth 
to  his  shoulders;  in  fine,  many  have  been 
willing  that  it  should  rise  over  their  head. 

"  What  surprised  me  most  was  the 
sudden  metamorphosis  which  a  large  part 
of  our  philosophers  had  undergone ;  they 
were  never  tired  of  declaiming  against  a 
Revolution  which  their  words  and  actions 
had  first  put  in  motion;  they  liked  it 
only  when  in  theory,  and  when  they  had 
the  monopoly  of  the  distinction  arising 
from  its  doctrines.  The  Abbe  Sabatier 
was  one  day  reproached  with  his  bitter- 
ness at  the  States. General,  which  he  had 
been  the  first  to  demand,  and  which  he 
had  mainly  contributed  to  bring  about. 
'  Yes,'  said  he,  '  but  they  have  changed 
my  States- General  at  nurse.'  " 

"  I  observed  with  attention  the  tem- 
per of  the  other  classes  in  Paris ;  they 
were  animated  with  a  sincere  love  for 
liberty,  but  with  a  still  more  ardent  pas- 
sion for  equality.  Certainly  the  people 
of  France  would  have  been  truly  happy, 
if,  in  the  course  of  their  long  contest  for 
that  liberty,  and  that  equality,  they  had 
maintained  the  first  with  as  much  reso- 
lution as  the  last."— III.  468,  469. 

"  No  one  can  imagine,"  he  continues, 
"  the  varied  aspect  which  Paris  offered 
at  that  time  to  the  impartial  spectator. 
A  single  example  will  give  an  idea  of  it. 
One  morning  I  learned  that  my  father, 
aged  and  broken  down  by  wounds  and 
the  gout,  had  gone  out  on  foot  to  visit 
the  Baron  de  Begenval,  then  a  prisoner  at 
the  chatilet  I  learned  also  that  a  sedi- 
tious rabble  was  uttering  the  most  vehe- 
ment cries  round  his  place  of  confinement. 
Uneasy  at  the  intelligence,  I  ran  to  join 
him,  and  soon  found  an  immense  crowd 
assembled  on  the  quay,  and  in  spite  of 
the  efforts  of  the  National  Guard,  ma- 
king the  air  resound  with  their  execra- 
tions. These  wretches  accused  the 
judges  of  treason,  the  authorities  of  tar- 
diness, and  demanded  with  loud  cries  the 
head  of  their  prisoner. 

"  After  infinite  exertion,  I  succeeded 
in  reaching  the  gate  of  the  prison,  through 
the  midst  of  a  frantic  multitude.  Arri- 
ved at  the  door,  I  entered  by  a  low  wicket, 
and  found  my  father  with  the  prisoner, 


: 

<* 


[Nov 

calmly  engaged  with  a  circle  of  friends  1 
conversation ;  their  serenity  in  the  midst 
of  danger  formed  the  most  striking  con- 
trast to  the  furious  mob  which  surround- 
ed the  building.  After  remaining  there 
for  some  hours,  I  went  out  and  continued 
my  rambles.  On  the  Place  de  Greve  I 
found  a  large  assemblage  of  revolutionists, 
whom  the  National  Guard  had  great  dif- 
ficulty in  dispersing.  Their  object  was 
to  excite  a  tumult,  with  a  view  to  attack- 
ing the  prison  again  on  the  following  day. 

"  Shortly  after,  I  went  to  the  Palais 
Royal,  and  entered  the  garden,  the  centre 
of  business,  of  opulence,  and  of  pleasure, 
the  arena  always  open  to  faction,  the 
rendezvous  of  their  plots,  and  the  theatre 
of  their  combats.  I  found  an  impassion- 
ed mob  crowding  round  a  man  mounted 
on  a  table,  who  was  declaiming  with  the 
utmost  vehemence  against  the  perfidy  of 
the  court,  the  pride  of  the  nobles,  the 
cupidity  of  the  rich,  the  dilatory  conduct 
of  the  legislature ;  at  intervals  he  height- 
ened the  passions  of  his  auditors  by  the 
tnost  violent  gesticulations,  all  of  which 
were  followed  by  loud  acclamations, 

"  Disgusted  with  his  vehemence,  I  set 
out  for  the  Tuileries,  where  I  entered  the 
gardens  at  4  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
The  weather  was  superb ;  the  alleys,  the 
promenades,  were  filled  with  peaceable 
citizens ;  the  most  beautiful  women, 
whose  dresses  were  as  varied  as  a  par- 
terre of  flowers,  were  exhibiting  in  that 
beautiful  spot  their  decorations  and  their 
charms.  Every  thing  wore  the  aspect 
of  a  fete,  and  for  a  moment  I  forgot  the 
tumultuous  scene  I  had  so  lately  wit- 
nessed. 

"  But  my  illusion  was  not  of  long  du- 
ration. Descending  near  the  PontTour- 
nant,  and  perceiving  a  great  crowd  run- 
ning towards  the  Elysian  Fields,  1  follow- 
ed them,  and  soon  reached  the  great 
square.  I  there  beheld  a  multitude  of 
armed  men,  the  remains  of  the  Gardes 
Francoises,  who,  to  carry  into  execution 
a  project  of  revolt,  had  assembled  in  that 
quarter.  Lafayette  soon  appeared  at  the 
head  of  several  regiments  of  National 
Guards.  The  rebels  were  surrounded, 
and  disarmed. 

"  Returning  home  with  slow  and  pen- 
sive steps,  I  began  to  meditate  on  the 
dismal  fate  which  to  all  appearance 
awaited  my  country.  To  divert  my  me- 
lancholy, I  resolved  to  go  to  the  opera  in 
the  evening.  I  did  so,  and  the  brilliancy 
of  the  spectacle  which  there  presented 
itself,  inclined  me  to  believe  that  all  I 
had  witnessed  was  a  dream.  The  bril- 
liant concourse  of  spectators,  the  charms 
of  the  music,  the  elegant  variety  of  the 
dances,  the  lustre  of  the  decorations,  the 


•).  II.     Count  Segur. 


magic  of  the  spectacle,  the  assemblage  in 
the  boxes  of  every  thing  most  distinguish- 
ed in  the  court  and  the  city ;  the  gayety 
which  seemed  reigning  in  every  counte- 
nance j  the  image  of  peace,  security,  and 
union,  which  every  where  presented  it- 
self, rendered  it  impossible  to  believe  that 
Paris  was  at  that  moment  the  centre  of 
those  furious  factions,  whose  ebullitions 
I  had  so  recently  witnessed,  and  which 
so  soon  after  bathed  the  monarchy  in 
blood. "—III.  472. 

We  make  no  apology  for  the  length 
of  these  quotations;  they  are  both 
more  entertaining  and  more  instruc- 
tive than  any  thing  we  could  add  of 
our  own.  They  throw  a  great  and 
hitherto  unknown  light  over  the 
causes  which  precipitated  the  terri- 
ble disaster  ot  the  French  Revolu- 
tion. Not  the  abuses  of  power,  not 
the  despotism  of  the  government, 
not  the  real  grievances  of  the  people, 
produced  that  catastrophe;  for  they 
had  existed  for  centuries  without 
occasioning  any  disturbance,  and 
might  have  been  gradually  removed 
without  producing  any  convulsion. 
It  was  the  passion  for  innovation 
which  produced  this  effect;  the  chi- 
merical notion  of  suddenly  reform- 
'ing  all  the  grievances  of  the  state;  the 
lamentable  error  that  those  who  set 
the  torrent  in  motion  can  at  plea- 
sure arrest  its  progress,  that  produ- 
ced all  the  calamities.  The  nobles, 
the  great  judicial  bodies,  the  clergy, 
the  monarch  himself,  were  the  real 
authors  of  the  Revolution,  by  the 
fervour  with  which  they  embraced 
the  doctrines  of  innovation,  the  sup- 


port they  gave  to  insurrection  in 
other  states,  and  the  intemperance 
of  the  language  which  they  so  long 
addressed  to  the  people.  The  first 
victims  of  the  Revolution,  were  the 
very  persons  whose  imprudent  pas- 
sions had  created  it.  In  Lafayette's 
words, "  those  whose  foolish  conduct 
had  raised  a  conflagration,  were  the 
loudest  and  the  most  vehement  in. 
their  cries  of  Fire." 

Great  changes  in  the  political  state 
of  France  were  unavoidable  from  the 
changes  of  ideas  and  manners ;  but 
it  was  not  necessary  that  they  should 
have  been  produced  by  a  Revolution. 
The  current  was  in  motion, and  could 
not  be  arrested;  but  it  was  the  pre- 
cipitance and  folly  of  the  higher  ranks 
which  urged  it  into  a  cataract. 
Changes  as  great  as  those  produced 
by  the  French  Revolution  are  inces- 
santly going  forward  in  a  progressive 
state  of  society.  The  transition  from 
the  time  of  William  the  Conqueror 
to  that  of  Henry  V.,  and  from  that  of 
Henry  V.  to  that  of  James  I.,  was  as 
great  as  from  the  era  of  1789  to  that 
of  1800.  The  gradual  and  unseen 
changes  of  time  steal  unperceived 
upon  society,  and  are  made  palpable 
only  by  the  benefits  they  produce, 
and  the  altered  state  they  gradually 
induce.  Those  urged  on  by  human 
folly  tear  generations  to  pieces  in 
their  course,  exterminate  whole 
classes  of  the  people  by  their  ef- 
fects, and  leave  deep  and  melan- 
choly furrows,  which  the  healing 
powers  of  nature  require  centuries 
to  obliterate. 


The  Colonial  Empire  of  Great  Britain. 


[Nov. 


- 

THE  COLONIAL  EMPIRE  OF  GREAT  I1IUTAIN. 

Letter  to  Earl  Grey,  First  Lord  of  the  Treasury,  %c.  $c. 

ot  b» 
From  James  Macquecn,  Esq, 


• 


MY  LORD, 

IT  was  my  intention  to  have  laid 
before  your  Lordship,  without  length- 
ened prefatory  remarks,  the  magni- 
tude and  importance  of  the  trade, 
the  commerce,  the  revenue,  the  in- 
dustry, and  the  wealth  of  the  whole 
Colonial  Empire  of  Great  Britain, 
and  to  have  pointed  out  ho\v  the 
greatness  and  wealth  of  this  colonial 
empire  encreased  and  supported  the 
resources,  the  strength,  and  the 
power  of  the  mother  country;  but  the 
appearance  of  a  venomous  Anti-co- 
lonial Manifesto,  tagged  in  the  shape 
and  in  the  place  of  an  advertisement 
to  the  end  of  the  influential  publica- 
tion through  which  I  have  again  the 
honour  to  address  you,  compels  me 
first  to  expose  to  the  scorn  of  your 
Lordship,  and  to  the  scorn  and  in- 
dignation of  the  public,  that  infamous 
and  baneful  system  which  a  set  of 
mischievous  moles  employ  to  under- 
mine our  colonial  empire,  and  of 
which  this  manifesto  forms  a  part. 

The  anti-colonial  advertisement  al- 
luded to,  must  have  cost  its  authors 
a  considerable  expense  for  insertion, 
exclusive  of  the  expense  for  paper  and 
printing  the  large  number  of  copies 
required  to  attach  to  the  Magazine,* 
a  proof  of  the  importance  which  the 
moles  in  question  attach  to  the  cir- 
culation and  the  influence  of  CHRIS- 
TOPHER NORTH,  and  also  of  the  deep 
wounds  which  his  columns  have  in- 
flicted on  the  system  of  calumny, 
mischief,  injustice,  and  robbery. 

In  the  month  of  February  last,  I 
laid  before  your  Lordship,  in  the  par- 
ticular cases  of  Mr  and  Mrs  Moss  of 
the  Bahamas,  and  of  Mr  and  Mrs 
Telfuir  of  the  Mauritius,  specimens 
of  the  hideous  falsehoods  and  misre- 
presentations which  are  advanced 
against  the  colonists  by  their  enemies 
in  this  country;  another,  and,  if  pos- 
sible a  blacker,  specimen  remains  to 
be  noticed  and  exposed.  This  is  to 


'f    u/i      ,b 

be  found  in  their  pretended  history 
their  despicable  tool,  MARY  PRI.NCI:, 
compiled  and  published  by  an  indi- 
vidual named,  to  use,  and  to  retort 
emphatically,  his  own  words,  "  the 
well  known"  Mr  Pringle.  This  great 
personage,  "  well  known"  to  the  Co- 
lonial Office,  has,  in  the  labour  of  the 
craft  by  which  he  lives,  given  to  the 
world  the  history  of  tho  profligate 
slave  mentioned,  for  tin;  purpose  of 
destroying  the  character  of  two  re- 
spectable individuals,  her  owners, 
MR  AND  MRS  WOOD  of  Antigua.  JO- 
SEPH PHILLIPS,  a  man  in  every  re- 
spect fitted  to  support  such  a  cause, 
guarantees  the  authenticity  of  this 
history.  With  the  sayings,  the  doings, 
and  the  designs  of  these  worthies, 
contemptible  as  they  are,  it  is  ne- 
cessary that  your  Lordship  and  this 
country  should  be  made  as  intimate- 
ly and  extensively  acquainted  as  can 
be  effected  by  the  columns  of  Black- 
wood's  Magazine. 

The  limits  of  a  monthly  publica- 
tion restrict  me  to  notice  only  the 
leading  points  of  the  accusations; 
but  if  I  can  extract,  as  I  trust  by  the 
aid  and  strength  of  truth  to  be  able 
to  do,  Pringle's  stiug,  and  Priugle's 
venom,  out  of  Mary's  tale,  all  her 
other  accusations  rnuat  of  necessity 
drop  off  harmless  and  despicable. 

Mary  Prince  was  a  native  of,  and 
a  slave  in,  the  Bahamas.  Fifteen  years 
ago,  she  was,  at  her  own  particular 
request,  as  she  herself  admits,  pur- 
chased by  Mr  Wood,  brought  to  An- 
tigua, and  kept  as  a  domestic  servant 
in  his  family.  In  it  she  was  treated 
with  superior  kindness  and  confi- 
dence. Alleging  that  she  could  not 
be  separated  from  the  family,  she  was 
brought  by  Mr  and  Mrs  Wood  to 
England  about  four  years  ago.  In 
England  she  was  free.  The  prowl- 
ing anti-colonial  fry  in  London  quick- 
ly got  about  her.  Encouraged  by 
then),  she  rendered  the  family  of  Mr 


!    •  A  great  expense  must  also  have  been  incurred  for  inserting  it  in  the  Quarterly 
Review,  and  several  other  periodicals. 


1831.] 


The  Colonial  Empire  of  Great  Britain.^ 


Wood  miserable.  She  refused  to 
work,  despised  and  rejected  the  food 
and  the  accommodation  which  the 
white  servants  of  the  family  received, 
and  with  which  they  were  content. 
Accustomed  to  receive  hot  meat  in 
Antigua,  she  refused  to  take  cold 
meat  in  England.  Mr  Wood  was 
directed  by  his  physicians  to  go  to 
Cheltenham  on  account  of  his  health. 
Mary  refused  to  accompany  Mrs 
Wood  and  himself,  nor  would  she  go 
to  one  of  the  suburbs  of  London  to  re- 
side with  a  lady  of  their  acquaint- 
ance, who  promised  to  take  charge 
of  her  until  their  return.  She  was 
told,  that  if  she  did  not  conduct  her- 
self differently,  she  must  return  to 
Antigua,  or  quit  Mr  Wood's  family. 
Instead  of  behaving  better,  Mary  be- 
haved worse,  and  at  last  she  left  Mr 
Wood's  house,  without  any  commu- 
cation  with  him  or  any  of  his  family, 
and  proceeded  to  fraternize  with  her 
new  friends  and  advisers,  till  we  find 
her  planted  in  Pringle's  family,  and 
at  his  washing-tub.  From  it  she  was 
frequently  called  to  his  closet  to  give 
a  narrative  of  the  severities  inflicted 
upon  her  by  several  owners,  but  more 
especially  by  her  last  owners,  Mr  and 
Mrs  Wood. 

Mary's  washing-tub  tales,  and 
"  the  tub  to  catch  the  whale,"  were 
getting  into  a  book  and  proceeding 
rapidly  through  the  press,  when  the 
REV.  MR  CURTIN,  belonging  to  the 
Church  Missionary  Establishment, 
arrived  in  England.  This  gentleman 
had  resided  forty  years  in  Antigua. 
He  had  been  particularly  referred  to 
in  the  history.  Old  Macauley,  who 
had  known  him  previously,  intro- 
duced him  speedily  and  as  "  a  God- 
send" to  his  friend  Pringle,  who  as 
speedily  put  the  sheets  of  the  his- 
tory into  his  hands,  earnestly  soli- 
citing from  him  a  corroboration  of 
the  statements  which  they  contained. 
Pringle,  however,  was  disappointed. 
Mr  Curtin  was  a  Christian  minister. 
Truth  was  with  him  a  paramount 
object.  He  refuted  the  points  where 
he  himself  was  referred  to,  and  con- 
tradicted the  tale  as  it  bore  against 
Mr  and  Mrs  Wood.  Here  common 
sense  and  common  honesty  would 
have  stopped  the  publication,  but 
Pringle  was  not  made  of  sucli  stuff. 
He  printed  it  off  with  the  greater 
rapidity,  even  while  impudently  as- 
serting that  he  kept  it  back  for  a 


745 

fortnight,  in  order  to  receive  from  a 
lady,  a  friend  of  Mr  Wood's,  a  vin- 
dication of  his  character.  Pringle's 
correspondence,  however,  with  Mr 
Curtin,  proves  that  the  publication 
was  delayed  for  a  few  days  only, 
and  that  merely  in  the  hope  of  re- 
ceiving from  Mr  Curtin  a  corrobo- 
ration of  Mary's  statements.  Let 
the  correspondence  speak  for  itself. 
9,  Solly  Terrace,  Claremont  Square, 
5th  Feb.  1831. 

"  Rev.  Sir, — Having  learned  from  my 
friend,  Mr  Macauley,  that  you  are  now 
in  London,  I  think  it  right  to  submit. to 
your  inspection  the  accompanying  pam- 
phlet, in  which  your  name  is  mentioned  in 
page  17.  If  you  cau  afford  any  iuforauij 
tion  respecting  the  woman's  character  at 
the  time  she  was  baptized  by  you,  or 
throw  light  on  any  other  part  of  fier  state- 
ment, 1  shall  feel  much  obliged,  &c. 

"  [THOMAS  PIUXGLE.  ] 

"  P.S. — The  whole  pamphlet  having 
been  printed  off  except  a  J'utv  yayes,  I 
shall  feel  particularly  obliged  by  au  early 
reply." 

On  Monday  the  7th,  Mr  Pringle 
sent  Mary  to  Mr  Curtin  with  a  note 
which  concludes  thus:  "  If  you  can  in 
any  respect  CORROBORATE  HER  STORY,  I 
shall  feel  much  obliged,  &c."  On  the 
19th  February,  Mr  Pringle  writes  Mr 
Curtin  from  that  great  emporium  of  lies, 
No.  18,  Aldermanbury  Street,  thus  :  "  I 
now  beg  your  acceptance  of  a  copy  of 
Mary  Prince's  history  as  published.  You 
will  find  a  note  containing  the  substance 
of  the  remarks  in  your  letter,  for  which 
I  beg  to  return  due  acknowledgments. 
I  shall  feel  obliged  by  your  returning  the 
copy  formerly  sent  for  your  inspection, 
as  it  was  only  a  proof,  and  of  course  con- 
fidential, being  in  several  respects  imper- 


Not  a  syllable  is  said  in  this  cor- 
respondence about  delaying  the  pub- 
lication, to  give  time  to  receive  tes- 
timony from  any  quarter  in  Mi- 
Wood's  favour.  Pringle  had  no  wish 
to  receive  any  communication  of,  to 
use  his  own  words,  "  this  sort"  The 
unmanly  desire  alone  appears,  to  get 
Mr  Curtin  to  "  corroborate  her 
story,"  but  which  when  he  found 
he  could  not  accomplish,  he  garbled 
Mr  Curtin's  letters,  suppressed  the 
important  parts  which  pointedly 
contradicted  Mary,  and  attempted, 
by  the  basest  quibbling,  to  destroy 
the  testimony  favourable  to  Mi- 
Wood's  character,  contained  in  the 
passages  which  he  inserted ! 


74(3 


The  Colonial  Empire  of  Great  Britain. 


[Nov. 


To  do  the  subject  justice,  I  must 
bring  Mary's  history,  where  it  con- 
nects itself  with  Mr  and  Mrs  Wood, 
shortly  but  faithfully  under  your 
Lordship's  review.  In  reference  to 
purchase  of  her  by  Mr  Wood,  Mary, 
page  14,  after  the  blasphemy  of  her 
teachers,  proceeds : — 

"  It  was  ordained  to  be,  I  suppose.  God 
Jed  me  there  !  My  work  there  was  to  at- 
tend the  chambers  and  nurse  the  child, 
and  to  go  down  to  the  pond  and  wash 
clothes.  I  got  the  rheumatism  and  the 
St  Anthony's  fire  also  in  my  left  leg,  and 
became  quite  a  cripple.  No  one  cared 
much  to  come  near  me,  and  I  was  ill  a 
long  time ;  for  several  months  I  could 
not  lift  the  limb.  I  had  to  lie  in  a  little 
old  outhouse  that  was  swarming  with 
bugs  and  other  vermin,  but  I  had  no  other 
place  to  lie  in.  The  person  who  lived 
in  the  next  yard  (a  Mrs  Green*)  could 
not  bear  to  hear  my  cries  and  groans. 
She  was  kind,  and  used  to  send  an  old 
slave  woman,  who  sometimes  brought 
me  a  little  soup.  When  the  doctor 
found  I  was  so  ill,  he  said  I  must  be 
put  into  a  bath  with  hot  water.  Every 
night  the  old  slave  came  and  put  me 
into  the  bath,  and  did  what  she  could 
for  me.  I  don't  know  what  I  should 
have  done,  or  what  would  have  become 
of  me,  had  it  not  been  for  her.  My  mis- 
tress, it  is  true,  did  send  me  a  little  food, 
but  no  one  from  our  family  came  near  me 
but  the  cook,  who  used  to  shove  my  food 
in  at  the  door,  and  say,  Molly,  MoUy, 
there's  your  dinner.  My  mistress  did  not 
care  to  take  any  trouble  about  me,  and  if 
the  Lord  had  not  put  it  into  the  hearts  of 
the  neighbours  to  be  kind  to  me,  I  must, 
I  really  think,  have  lain  and  died." 

During  Mary's  illness,  Mrs  Wood 
hired  Martha  Welcox  to  nurse  her 
child. 

"  She  was  a  saucy  woman — very 
saucy,  and  she  went  and  complained  of 
me  without  cause  to  my  mistress,  and 
made  her  angry  with  me.  Mrs  Wood 
told  me,  if  I  did  not  mind  what  I 
was  about,  she  would  get  my  master  to 
strip  me,  and  give  me  fifty  lashes.  You 
have  been  used  to  the  whip,  she  said,  and 
you  shall  have  it  here.  This  was  the  first 
time  she  threatened  to  have  me  flogged. 


The  mulatto  woman  was  rejoiced  to  have 
power  to  keep  me  down.  She  was  con- 
stantly making  mischief.  There  was  no 
living  for  the  slaves.  No  peace  after  she 
came.  I  was  also  sent  by  Mrs  Wood  to 
be  put  in  the  cage  one  night,  and  was  next 
morning  flogged  by  the  magistrate's  order, 
at  her  desire,  and  all  this  for  a  quarrel  I 
had  about  a  pig  with  another  slave  wo- 
man. I  was  flogged  on  my  naked  back 
on  this  occasion,  although  I  was  in  no 
fault  at  all.  Every  week  I  had  to  wash 
two  large  bundles  of  clothes ;  but  I  could 
give  no  satisfaction.  My  mistress  was 
always  abusing  and  fretting  after  me.  It 
is  not  possible  to  tell  all  her  ill  language. 
One  day  she  followed  me  foot  after  foot 
scolding  and  rating.  I  bore  in  silence  a 
great  deal  of  ill  words.  At  last  my  heart 
was  quite  full,  and  I  told  her  she  ought 
not  to  use  me  so.  That  while  I  was  ill 
I  might  have  lain  and  died  for  what  she 
cared,  and  no  one  would  then  come  near 
me  to  nurse  me,  because  they  were  afraid 
of  my  mistress.  This  was  a  great  affront. 
She  called  her  husband,  and  told  him 
what  I  had  said.  He  flew  into  a  passion, 
abused,  and  swore  at  me.  The  next  day 
my  master  whipped  me." 

Next  comes  a  story  about  one  Mr 
Burchell  wanting  to  purchase  Mary, 
and  to  advance  the  sum  necessary  for 
that  purpose,  beyond  the  sum,  about 
L.40  currency,  which  she  had  saved. 
The  fact  turns  out  to  be,  that  she 
had  lent  Burchell  the  money,  and 
could  only  get  it  back  by  Mr  Wood's 
assistance. — At  page  17,  Mary  pro- 
ceeds : — 

"  I  was  admitted  a  candidate  for  the 
holy  communion.  I  had  been  baptized  long 
before  this,  in  August,  1817,  by  the  Rev. 
Mr  Curtin,  of  the  English  church,  after  I 
had  been  taught  to  repeat  the  Creed  and 
the  Lord's  Prayer.  I  wished  at  that 
time  to  attend  a  Sunday  school  taught 
by  Mr  Curtin ;  but  he  would  not  receive 
me  without  a  written  note  from  my  mas- 
ter, granting  his  permission.  I  did  not 
ask  my  owner's  permission,  from  the  be- 
lief that  it  would  be  refused,  so  that  I  got 
no  further  instruction  at  that  time  from 
the  English  church." 

About  Christmas,  1826,  Mary,  after 
"  taking  time  to  think  about  it,"  was 


*  Mrs  BRASCOMB,  8th  April,  in  contradiction  to  Mary's  assertion,  that  Mrs  Green 
relieved  her  distress,  writes,  that  her  mother  Mrs  Green's  charity  "was  never,  to  her 
knowledge,  bestowed  on  any  of  Mrs  Wood's  servants,  as  their  appearance  shewed 
they  enjoyed  every  comfort.  This  Mrs  Brascomb  most  conscientiously  asserts,  as, 
from  Mr  Wood's  living  in  the  neighbourhood,  she  daily  saw  them,  and  ever  consi- 
dered Mr  and  Mrs  Wood  as  humane  owners." 


•1831.] 


The  Colonial  Empire  of  Great  Britain. 


747 


married  to  Daniel  James,  a  man  of 
colour,  and  a  carpenter  and  cooper 
to  trade. 

"  When  Mr  Wood  heard  of  my  mar- 
riage he  flew  into  a  great  rage.  Mrs 
Wood  was  more  vexed  about  my  mar- 
riage than  her  husband.  She  could 
not  forgive  me  for  getting  married,  but 
stirred  up  Mr  Wood  to  flog  me  dreadfully 
witk  flie  horsewhip.  I  thought  it  very 
hard  to  be  whipped  at  my  time  of  life  for 
getting  a  husband.  I  told  her  so.  She 
said  she  would  not  have  Nigger  men 
about  the  yards  and  premises,  or  allow  a 
Nigger  man's  clothes  to  be  washed  in  the 
tub  where  hers  were  washed.  I  was 
obliged  to  put  out  my  own  clothes,  though 
I  was  always  at  the  wash-tub.  It  made 
my  husband  sad  to  see  me  so  ill  treated. 
Mrs  Wood  was  always  abusing  me  about 
him.  She  did  not  lick  me  herself,  but 
she  got  her  husband  to  do  it  for  her.  Mr 
Wood  afterwards  allowed  Daniel  to  have 
a  place  to  live  in  our  yard,  which  we  were 
very  thankful  for.  After  this,  I  fell  ill 
again  with  the  rheumatism,  and  was  sick 
a  long  time  ;  but  whether  sick  or  well,  I 
had  my  work  to  do.  I  was  earnest  in 
the  request  to  my  owners  to  let  me  buy 
my  freedom,  but  their  hearts  were  hard, 
too  hard,  to  consent.  Mrs  Wood  was 
very  angry.  She  grew  quite  outrageous. 
She  called  me  a  black  devil,  and  asked 
me  who  had  put  freedom  in  my  head.  To 
be  free  is  very  sweet,  I  said ;  but  she 
took  good  care  to  keep  me  a  slave.  I 
saw  her  change  colour,  and  I  left  the 
room." 

After  this,  Mary  accompanies  her 
master  and  mistress  to  England. 

"  A  day  or  two  after  our  arrival,"  con- 
tinues Mary,  "  my  mistress  sent  me  into 
the  wash-house  to  learn  to  wash  in  the 
English  way.  In  the  West  Indies,  we 
wash  with  cold  water ;  in  England,  with 
hot.  I  told  my  mistress  I  was  afraid  that 
putting  my  hands  first  into  the  hot,  and 
then  into  the  cold,  would  increase  the  pain 
in  my  limbs.  But  Mrs  Wood  would  not 
release  me  from  the  tub,  so  I  was  forced 
to  do  as  I  could.  I  grew  worse,  and 
could  not  stand  to  wash.  I  was  tlren 
forced  to  sit  down  with  the  tub  before 
me,  and  often,  through  pain  and  weakness, 
was  reduced  to  kneel,  or  to  sit  down  on 
the  floor  to  finish  my  task.  When  I  com- 
plained to  my  mistress  of  this,  she  only  got 
into  a  passion,  as  usual,  and  said,  wash- 
ing in  hot  water  would  not  hurt  any  one 
—that  I  was  lazy  and  insolent,  and  want- 
ed to  be  free  of  my  work ;  but  that  she 
would  make  me  do  it,"  &c. 

It  may  here  be  worth  while  to 
shew,  from  the  inconsistencies  and 


contradictions  which  are  to  be  found 
in  this  narrative,  the  total  disregard 
for  truth  which  runs  throughout  the 
work. 

Pringle  states,  that  Mary's  "  reli- 
gious instruction,  notwithstanding 
the  pious  care  of  her  Moravian  in- 
structors in  Antigua,  is  still  but  very 
limited,  and  her  views  of  Christianity 
indistinct"  Yet  with  this  great  de- 
ficiency of  right  mind,  Pringle,  and 
the  "  females  of  his  family,"  would 
have  the  world  to  believe  that  this 
woman  could  not  tell  an  untruth ! 
Mr  and  Mrs  Wood  are  described  by 
Pringle  as  the  fairest  specimen  of 
colonial  character.  What,  then,  be- 
comes of  the  blasphemy  which  he 
has  put  into  Mary's  mouth,  namely, 
"  If  the  Lord  had  not  put  it  into  the 
hearts  of  neighbours  to  be  kind  to 
me  ?"  &c.  This  at  least  shews  that 
the  Lord  was  in  Antigua,  and  amongst 
her  neighbours,  and  that  he  could 
move,  and  did  move,  the  hearts  of  its 
free  inhabitants  to  do  good— a  point 
which  Pringle,  in  his  general  charac- 
ter of  them,  contradicts  and  denies 
point-blank.  Joseph  Phillips  tells  us 
that  Mary  was  "  a  confidential  and 
favourite  servant"  The  Rev.  Mr 
Curtin  says  she  told  him  she  was  so, 
and  that  her  dress  and  appearance 
bespoke  the  fact.  Mary  herself  states, 
that  while  Mr  Wood's  slave,  she  saved 
a  considerable  sum  of  money,  "  be- 
cause," says  she,  "  when  my  master 
and  mistress  went  from  home,  as 
they  sometimes  did,  and  left  me  to 
take  care  of  the  house  and  premises, 

I  HAD  A  GOOD  DEAL  OF  TIME  TO  SPARE 

TO  MYSELF,  and  made  the  most  of  it. 
I  took  in  washing,  and  sold  coffee, 
yams,  and  other  provisions,  to  the 
captains  of  ships.  I  did  not  sit  still 
idling  during  the  absence  of  my 
owners.  Sometimes  I  bought  a  hog 
cheap  on  board  a  ship,  and  sold  it 
for  double  the  money  on  shore,  and 
I  also  earned  a  good  deal  by  selling 
coffee.  By  this  means,  I  by  degrees 
acquired  a  little  cash." 

During  those  periods  at  least, 
Mary's  sickness  seems  to  have  for- 
saken her.  The  sophistry  of  Pringle 
and  Macauley  can  never  make  any 
rational  mind  believe  that  people, 
who  put  so  much  in  the  power  of 
their  slaves,  and  treated  them  so 
confidentially,  would  treat  them  ei- 
ther with  severity  or  cruelty.  It  is 
impossible — it  is  incredible,  that  they 
could  do  so.  It  is  plain  they  treated 


748 


The  Colonial  Empire  of  Great  Britain. 


Mary  kindly ;  and  it  is  clear  that  her 
master  and  mistress  have  been  most 
grievously  imposed  upon,  and  most 
cruelly  deceived  by  this  woman. 
That  she  was  instigated  to  calumni- 
ate them  by  others,  is  unquestion- 
able ;  for  when  reproached  by  an 
Antigonian  for  her  baseness  and  in- 
gratitude in  stating  such  falsehoods 
as  her  narrative  contained,  she  re- 
plied that  she  was  not  allowed  to 
state  any  thing  else,  and  that  those 
who  questioned  her  desired  her  to 
state  only  that  which  was  bad  con- 
cerning her  master  and  mistress  ! 

In  direct  refutation  of  the  false- 
hoods which  Mary  and  Pringle  have 
advanced,  I  adduce  the  following  tes- 
timony :— 

DANIEL  JAMES,  Mary's  husband,  states, 
that  "  Mr  Wood  never  punished  Mary  to 
his  knowledge  ;  that  she  lived  in  a  house 
of  two  rooms  adjoining  his  own;  that 
the  house  was  very  comfortable,  and  no 
vermin  in  it;»  that  Mr  Wood  told 
him  he  had  long  wished  Mary  to  take  a 
husband,  and  that  he  would  protect  and 
treat  him  well  while  he  continued  to 
merit  it;  that  Mrs  Wood  sent  him  his 
dinner  and  wine  from  her  own  table  by 
Molly  whenever  he  was  at  home,  but  par- 
ticularly on  Sunday;  and  that  when  he 
had  heard  what  she  had  said  in  England, 
he  wrote  a  letter  to  Mr  Wood,  regretting 
that  Molly  had  been  so  base  and  so  badly 
advised."  The  original  of  this  letter, 
dated  12th  June,  1829,  is  in  my  hands. 
In  it  James  speaks  of  Mary  as  his  "  late 
wife"  and  adds,  that  "  he  thinks  some 
stratagem  or  other  must  have  induced  her, 
which  s>he  will  ere  long  regret." 

The  Rev.  Mr  CURTIN  says,  in  reply  to 
Mr  Pi  ingle's  letter  of  7th  February,  1831, 
"  It  was  on  the  6th  of  April,  being  Eas- 
ter day,  1817" — (not  on  the  6th  August, 
as  she  has  stated) — "  after  having  been 
previously  a  Catechumen,  duly  instructed 
and  examined  in  the  principles  of  the 
Christian  religion,  that  Mary  was  bap- 
tized. On  her  first  application,  some  time 

rtlHTTiJO^  IU  rfivi-K")  3-U  Hi 

'*   '•   • 


[Nov. 


before  her  baptism,  she  brought  me  a 
note  from  HER  OWNER,  Mi  Wood,  recom- 
mending  her  for  the  purpose  of  religious 
instruction,"  &c.  "  With  regard  to  her 
statement,  that  I  would  not  receive  her 
at  a  Sunday  school  without  a  written 
note  from  her  master,  L  beg  to  say  that  it 
was  usual  with  me-,  when  any  adult  slaves 
(for  she  was  then  25  years  of  age)  came 
on  week  days  to  school,  to  require  per- 
mission from  their  owners  for  them  to 
stop  there  any  time,  but  on  Sunday  the 
chapel  was  open  indiscriminately  to  all." 
— "  I  find  in  my  books,  a  remark  that 
she  had  a  quarrel  with  a  free  man,  of 
dark  complexion,  named  OsUrman,  who, 
she  told  me,  had  disturbed  her,  and  that 

she  had  taken  up  with  Captain  L ,  1 

believe,  a  mariner."  "  1  Vilh  rcijard  to  Sir 
Wood,  owmrofthe  said  Man/,  it  is  but  due 
to  him  to  insert  here,  that  1  have  hnoiun 
him  for  many  years  in  Antvjua,  and  always 
heard  him  spoken  of  us  an  honest,  industri- 
ous man,  and  a  respectable  father  of  a  fa- 
mily. Mr  and  Mrs  Wood  were  bolli,  I 
believe,  from  Bermuda,  where  the  owners 
of  slaves  are  remarkable  for  thdr  humanity 
and  attention  to  their  domestics,"  &c.  "  Mrs 
Wood  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  know- 
ing, and  only  heard  her  spoken  of  by 
those  of  her  acquaintance,  as  a  lady  of 
very  mild  and  amiable  manners."^ 

The  next  evidence  is  MAUTHA  WILCOX, 
the  free  woman  of  colour,  whom  Mary 
accuses  of  having  instigated  her  mistress 
to  punish  her.  Of  this  female,  MrLany- 
ford  Lovel  Hodye,  writes: — "  She  is  our 
present  nurse,  with  whom  we  are  much 
pleased,  and  of  her  integrity  there  can  be 
no  doubt,  in  regard  to  which  there  are 
many  respectable  families  who  can  speak, 
particularly  the  Moravian  clergy,  \\iih 
some  of  whom,  I  believe,  she  has  just 
been  living,"  &c.  Martha's  evidence 
against  Molly's  statements  runs  thus — 
"  Molly  had  the  very  same  food  that  her 
master  and  her  mistress  had.  Mrs  Wood, 
herself,  gave  her  her  food;  and  when  Mrs 
Wood  was  sick,  I  gave  it  to  her.  Mrs 
Wood  gave  her,  the  last  year  I  was  in 
the  family,  three  suits  of  clothes  at  Christ- 

It    fi1    famit    •tgiJT    rural    !;HR 


*  The  vermin  were  all  anti-colonial  vermin  created  by  Pringle — Solly  Terrace 

"  BUGS !" 

f  The  strong  testimony  in  Mr  Wood's  favour,  given  by  Mr  Curtii:,  in  the  passages 
of  the  letter  marked  in  italics,  Mr  Pringle,  with  his  customary  diMiigenuity,  passes 
over  with  a  mutilated  reference,  while  in  a  note  he  asserts,  that  to  "  the  reverend 
J.  Curtin,  among  other  acquaintances  of  Mr  Wood's  in  this  country,  the  entire  proof 
sheets  of  this  pamphlet  hud  been  sent  for  inspection ;"  whereas,  the  correspondence 
between  Mr  Pringle  and  Mr  Curtin,  which  I  have  quoted,  shews  that  only  part  of 
the  sheets  of  the  pamphlet  were  sent,  and  these  sent,  not  because  Mr  Curtiu  was  the 
friend  of  Mr  Wood,  but  because  Mr  Curtin  was  the  friend  of  Mr  Macuuley;  and 
because  Mr  Pringle  expected  to  receive  from  Mr  Curtin,  in  conformity  to  his  earnest 
request,  a  corroboration  of  Mary's  or  Molly's  story  f 


1831.] 


The  Colonial  Empire  of  Great  Britain. 


mas;  and  Mr  Wood  gave  her  81bs.  of 
flour,  81bs.  of  pork,  4  dollars,  and  a  bottle 
of  rum.  She  got  four  or  five  suits  during 
each  year,  independent  of  Christmas 
clothing;  very  good  Irish  linen,  muslin 
to  make  gowns  with,  shoes  for  constant 
wear,  and  stockings.  She  was  treated 
so  well,  not  like  a  servant,  that  she  had 
a  regular  breakfast  and  dinner  out  of  the 
house,  independent  of  her  allowance  of 
9  bits,  6s.  9d.  per  week.  The  house  she 
had  was  a  very  good  house;  as  nice  a 
room  as  any  body  would  wish  to  put  their 
head  in ;  very  comfortable— never  saw 
any  vermin  whatever  in  her  room — never 
remembered  Molly  being  punished  at  all. 
She  never  was  at  peace  with  any  servant 
that  ever  lived  in  the  house.  The 
principal  cause  of  her  ill  temper  was  be- 
cause  she  was  not  allowed  to  go  out  after 
bedtime ;  but  she,  nevertheless,  seve- 
ral times,  when  I  was  there,  contrived 
to  do  so,  procuring  the  key,  by  sending 
up  a  little  boy  to  Mr  Wood's  bedroom, 
and  getting  it  from  the  table.  If  the 
boy  was  asked  what  he  was  going  to  do 
with  the  key,  he  was  desired  to  say  it 
was  one  of  the  goats  that  had  got  loose. 
She  let  in,  by  this  stratagem,  a  Captain 
William,  who,  she  afterwards  told  me, 
slept  there  the  whole  night.  A  woman, 
named  Phibba,  came  to  lodge  a  com- 
plaint to  Mrs  Wood,  that  Molly  had 
taken  away,  not  her  '  pig,''  but  '  her 
husband,'  and  she,  Molly,  in  the  presence 
of  Mrs  Wood,  and  myself,  fought  the 
woman  until  she  tore  her  down  on  the 
steps.  The  woman  then  took  Molly  be- 
fore a  magistrate,  (MrDyctt,)  where  she 
was  punished.  She  was  turned  out  of 
the  Moravian  chapel,  and  afterwards  went 
and  abused  the  Moravian  parson  for  it. 
She  took  in  washing,  and  made  money 
by  it.  She  also  made  money  many,  many 
other  ways  by  her  badness;  I  mean,  by 
allowing  men  to  visit  her,  and  by  selling 
#  *  *  •  * 

to  worthless  men,"  &c. 

ANN  TODD,  another  respectable  female 
of  colour,  who  had  resided  in  Mr  Wood's 
family  for  fifteen  years,  states :— "  In 
1815,  Mr  Wood  purchased  the  woman 
Molly,  and  from  that  time  to  the  year 
when  he  left  this  for  England,  I  do  not 
know  that  this  woman  was  ever  punished 
but  once  by  Mr  Wood,  and  that  was  with 
a  horsewhip,  and  for  quarrelling  with  a 
fellow-servant,  and  being  insolent  to  Mrs 
Wood  on  her  desiring  her  to  be  quiet. 
Any  thing  that  Molly  asked  for  that  would 
contribute  to  her  comfort,  was  given  her 
by  her  master  and  mistress.  Her  cha- 
racter was  very  bad.  For  one  act,  which 
is  too  base  to  be  here  related,  she  was 


749 

taken  before  a  magistrate  and  excluded 
the  Moravian  Chapel." — GRACE  WHITE, 
another  respectable  female,  says, — "  I 
was  obliged  to  quit  Mr  Wood's  service, 
in  consequence  of  Molly's  violence  and 
scandalous  language  towards  me.  She 
threatened  to  kill  me  more  than  once  or 
twice.  Molly  had  abundance  of  clothes 
— could  dress  like  a  lady  ;  indeed,  more 
like  the  mistress  than  the  servant.  On 
some  occasions  she  would  be  seen  in  silks. 
Mrs  Wood  was  very  kind  to  Molly's  hus- 
band, Mr  James." — Mr  BLIZARD,  twelve 
years  a  clerk  in  Mr  Wood's  employ,  speaks 
strongly  of  the  kind  treatment  which 
their  servants,  and  Molly  in  particular, 
received  from  Mr  and  Mrs  Wood.  "  They 
were  treated,"  says  he,  "  with  kindness. 
Never  did  I  hear  them  murmur  at  their 
treatment.  I  really  do  not  think  it  pos- 
sible that  any  negro  rooms  in  the  coun- 
try, nay,  in  the  island,  can  be  more  com- 
fortable than  yours."  Mr  MOORE,  brother- 
in-law  to  Phillips,  and  five  other  clerks 
who  had  been  employed  by  Mr  Wood, 
add  similar  testimony.  Mr  Moore  says, 
— "  You  never,  to  my  knowledge  or  be- 
lief, punished  any  of  your  slaves  in  any 
other  manner  than  by  stopping  the  extra 
quarter  dollar  a-week  allowed  them,  and 
seldom  have  you  done  even  that." 

On  the  7th  April,  1831,  the  Rev.  Mr 
HOLBEIITON  writes  Mr  Wood  thus, — 
"  I  am  concerned  to  hear  that  your  cha- 
racter as  a  kind  master  should  be  called 
in  question  in  England.  From  all  that  I 
have  conversed  with  you  on  the  treatment 
of  slaves,  as  well  as  from  all  I  have  in- 
variably heard  of  you,  I  have  never  form- 
ed of  you  any  other  opinion  than  that  of 
being  benevolent  and  liberal,  and  if  my 
testimony  in  your  behalf  will  be  of  any 
avail,  I  am  sure  you  are  fairly  entitled  to 
it."*  Of  the  same  date,  Mr  GARLAND,  a 
member  of  the  Assembly,  writes,—"  I 
have  had  the  pleasure  of  knowing  you 
for  upwards  of  twenty  years.  In  my 
estimation,  and  that  of  the  community  at 
large,  no  man's  character  can  stand  higher 
for  humanity  to  your  dependents— up- 
rightness of  conduct  as  a  merchant — and, 
in  the  bosom  of  your  family,  a  kind,  affec- 
tionate husband,  and  exemplary  parent*. 
I  deem  this  tribute  necessary,  understand- 
ing that  a  Mr  Phillips,  to  whom  you  act- 
ed kindly  here,  has  attempted  to  corrobo- 
rate the  reports.  However,  the  testimony 
of  such  a  man  has  no  weight  here,  and 
certainly  ought  not  to  have  elsewhere," 
&c. — The  following  medical  gentlemen 
come  still  closer  to  the  point.  Dr  COULI, 
writes  to  myself  thus, — "  The  pamphlet 
that  I  sent  you,  published  by  a  Mr  Prin- 
gle,  and  entitled  the  Life  of  Mary,  Princess 

!  fiote  i'vflol/!'  10  t'yi&IK.  fo  norta-io-lo-noo  e  ,'• 


750- 


The  Colonial  Empire  of  Great  Britain. 


[Nov. 


of  Wales,  a  West  India  slave,  is  nothing 
but  a  combination  of  falsehoods,  particu- 
larly respecting  her  treatment  by  her 
owners,  Mr  and  Mrs  Wood.  Their  family 
was  under  my  medical  care  for  many 
years,  and  I  confidently  assert,  that  the 
account  she  gives  of  neglect  and  inatten- 
tion during  her  illness,  is  a  complete  vio- 
lation of  truth.  So  far  from  there  being 
any  want  of  care,  I  considered  the  atten- 
tions paid  to  her,  particularly  by  Mrs 
Wood,  were  such  as  to  prove  that  she  wa« 
a  particular  favourite,"  &c. — Dr  CHAP- 
MAN, who  had  been  intimate  in  Mr  Wood's 
family  for  four  years,  under  date  5th  April, 
writes  Mr  Wood  thus,—"  I  have  frequent- 
ly attended  Molly  in  my  medical  capacity 
during  illness,  and  never  heard  her  com- 
plain of  unkind  treatment  from  her  mas- 
ter or  mistress.  On  the  contrary,  I  know 
she  received  every  attention  to  her  per- 
sonal comforts,  &c.,  which  the  ever  active 
benevolence  of  both  master  and  mistress 
could  bestow.  She  was  always  fed  from 
Mr  Wood's  own  table.  The  conduct  of 
Mrs  Wood  to  the  slaves  about  her  is  more 
that  of  a  parent  than  a  mistress.  Ever 
attentive  to  their  wants,  her  benevolence 
and  liberal  charity  to  the  poor  of  all  classes 
ought  never  to  be  forgotten  by  the  inhabi- 
tants of  Antigua." 

5th  April,  Dr  MUSGRAVE  gives  similar 
testimony,  and  on  the  same  date  Dr  NI- 
CHOLSON writes, — "  I  occasionally  (1826 
to  1828)  attended  Molly.  She  then 
complained  of  symptoms  which,  if  real, 
could  only  be  ascribed  to  chronic  rheu- 
matism, but  I  had  some  doubts  of  their 
reality.  She  occupied  a  comfortable  and 
well  ventilated  room,  and  was  furnished 
with  a  suitable  diet,  as  prescribed  by  me. 
She  was  always  of  a  very  sullen  disposi- 
tion. I  can  conscientiously  affirm  that 
no  master  can  be  more  humane  than  Mr 
and  Mrs  Wood  in  their  treatment  of  their 
slaves  generally,  but  the  conduct  of  Mrs 
Wood  towards  Molly  partook  more  of 
the  familiarity  and  kindness  of  an  alliance 
by  blood  than  by  bondage." 

5th  April,  Dr  WESTON  thus  writes: 
. — "  During  the  time  I  had  the  medical 
care  of  your  slaves,  every  degree  of  kind- 
ness, care,  and  attention,  was  always 
manifested  by  Mrs  Wood  and  yourself, 
arid  nothing  left  undone  in  any  way 
which  could  contribute  to  their  general 
comfort.  They  were  always  comfortably 
lodged,  clothed,  and  well  fed ;  and  when- 
ever any  of  them  were  sick,  no  indivi- 
duals from  any  quarter  of  the  world  could 
possibly  have  evinced  more  tender  feel- 
ings towards  them  than  Mrs  Wood  and 
yourself.  Indeed,  such  was  Mrs  Wood's 
anxiety  and  solicitude  in  particular  about 


the  woman  Molly,  [whom  you  took  with, 
you  to  England,]  that  whenever  she  was 
ill,  my  visits  to  her  were  if  any  thing 
more  frequent  than  to  most  of  your  other 
slaves  :  being  aware  that  it  afforded  Mrs 
Wood  considerable  satisfaction  and  relief 
to  her  mind,  as  it  appeared  to  me  that 
Molly  was  more  in  the  character  of  a 
confidential  servant,"  &c.  "  Your  gene- 
rous and  kind  conduct  towards  your  slaves 
has  always  been  highly  conspicuous,  and 
therefore  to  say  more  on  the  subject 
would  be  superfluous.  I  feel  a  source  of 
regret  that  you  should  be  plagued  in  any 
way  about  Miss  Molly,  whose  ingratitude 
towards  Mrs  Wood  and  yourself  must 
never  be  forgotten.  She  will  meet  her 
reward  elsewhere." 

To  add  more  in  defence  of  Mr  and 
Mrs  Wood,  and  of  the  colonial  cha- 
racter in  general,  attempted  to  be 
debased  through  their  moral  degra- 
dation, or  to  expose  in  stronger  cha- 
racters than  lias  been  done  the  reck- 
less falsehoods  which  Mr  Pringle  has 
chosen  to  bring  forth,  would  be  an 
insult  to  the  understanding  of  your 
Lordship,  and  the  good  sense  of  the 
public.  Pringle  may  conceive  him- 
self to  rise  beyond  the  reach  of  hu- 
man laws,  but  let  him  rest  assured 
that  there  is  a  tribunal,  superior  to 
human  tribunals,  where  the  inten- 
tions of  the  heart  and  the  works  of 
the  hand,  in  the  guilty  labour  of  bear- 
ing "false  witness  against  your  neigh- 
bour," will  be  impartially  tried,  and 
terribly  punished. 

Pringle,  with  a  sneer,  asks  Mr 
Wood,  why,  if  Mary  was  a  dis- 
solute character,  he  retained  her 
so  long  in  his  family  ?  The  reply 
in  kind,  is,  did  no  family  in  Great 
Britain  ever  retain  a  dissolute  female 
for  years,  before  the  real  character 
of  such  female  was  ascertained  ? 
Mrs  Pringle  has  been  brought  for- 
ward on  this  occasion,  which  would 
shew  that  Pringle  had  some  secret 
misgivings  of  the  figure,  which,  with- 
out this  legal  British  backing,  lie 
might  cut  in  the  eyes  of  the  public, 
when,  after  secret  closetings  and 
labours  with  Mary,  (in  London  maid- 
servants are  not  removed  from  the 
washing-tub  to  the  parlour  without 
an  object,)  he  stood  forward  publicly 
as  her  knight-errant.  The  delicacy 
also  "  of  the  females"  of  Mr  Pringle's 
family,  is  not  to  be  enhanced  by  the 
deterioration  of  the  character  (this 
is  the  object  he  haa  iu  view)  of  the 


1831.] 


The  Colonial  Empire  of  Great  Britain. 


75 1, 


white  females  in  the  West  Indies. 
Pi-ingle's  labours  afford  a  criterion 
to  determine  that  the  delicacy  and 
modesty  "  of  the  females  of  his  fa- 
mily" cannot  be  of  the  most  exalted 
character.  His  continued  labour  by 
night  and  by  day  in  the  study,  in  the 
parlour,  and  in  the  drawing-room, 
is  to  call  for  and  to  nestle  amidst  all 
kinds  of  colonial  immorality  and  un- 
cleanness-every  falsehood  and  every 
lie  that  are  told  or  can  be  invented—- 
every thing  that  is  grovelling,  despi- 
cable, and  low,  in  the  vices  of  semi- 
barbarians — and  on  every  occasion  to 
lay  all  these  before  the  eyes,  and  im- 
press them  upon  the  minds,  of  the 
females  of  his  family  !  This  is  his 
work,  and  truly  such  labours  can 
neither  tend  to  encourage  nor  to  in- 
culcate delicacy,  modesty,  or  moral- 
ity. Truth,  my  Lord,  is  the  founda- 
tion of  delicacy,  modesty,  and  mo- 
rality ;  and  where  it  is  departed  from, 
these  virtues  must  be  departed  from. 
The  ignorance,  moreover,  in  which 
Mr  and  Mrs  Wood  lived  Avith  regard 
to  Mary's  real  character,  no  doubt 
arose  from  the  fact  that  they  did  not, 
like  Pringle  and  his  associates,  em- 
ploy their  time  in  poking  their  noses 
into  every  scene  of  black  filth,  de- 
bauchery, and  uncleanness.* 

Foiled  in  his  object  of  obtaining 
proof  from  the  Rev.  Mr  Curtin  of 


Mr  and  Mrs  Wood's  relentless  cruel- 
ty, and  Mary's  unimpeachable  vera- 
city, Mr  Pringle  has  recourse  to  the 
testimony  of  his  worthy  fellow-la- 
bourer in  this  vineyard  of  iniquity, 
namely,  JOSEPH  PHILLIPS.  This  man 
readily  subscribes,  "  I  can  with  safe- 
ty declare  that  I  see  no  reason  to 
question  the  truth  of  a  single  fact 
stated  by  her,"  &c. 

This  anti-colonial  fungus,  who  did 
not  leave  Antigua  for  building 
churches,  has,  in  the  language  of  Al- 
dermanbury  Street,  (he  has  no  cor- 
rect languagef  of  his  own,)  been  for 
some  time  past  directing  every 
species  of  abuse  and  reproach  against 
me  in  this  country.  Joseph's  igno- 
rance and  impudence  have  as  incau- 
tiously as  gratuitously  jthrown  him- 
self in  my  way ;  and  for  the  sake  of 
truth  and  justice,  he  shall  at  no  dis- 
tant day  meet  his  deserts.  In  his 
capacity  as  second  secretary  to  the 
deluding  society  entitled,  "  The  So- 
ciety for  the  Relief  of  Old  Worn-out 
and  Diseased  Slaves,"  the  Assembly 
of  Antigua,  in  the  name  of  the  colo- 
ny he  had  unjustly  attacked  and 
basely  calumniated,  thus  speak  of 
him  in  the  Report  of  their  Com- 
mittee appointed  to  examine  into 
his  charges  against  the  colony : — 
"  Previously  to  dismissing  his  evi- 
dence, your  committee  cannot  help 


*  In  proof  of  Pringle's  pre-disposition,  I  take  the  following  scene  from  one  of  the 
Pringle  papers,  the  Report  of  the  Protector  of  Slaves  for  Berbice,  published  during 
the  present  year,  by  authority.  One  of  fire  male  negroes  collected  together,  resol- 
ved, in  face  of  a  gang,  to  insult  a  white  man.  He  did  so  by,  to  use  the  protector's 
phrase,  "  breaking  wind"  in  his  face.  The  delinquent  being  screened,  the  overseer 
slightly  punished  the  five.  This  kicked  up  a  tempest  in  the  colony ;  protector,  ma- 
gistrates, crown- lawyer,  and  governor,  were  all  put  in  motion  by  this  "  wind."  Pass- 
ing the  Atlantic,  it  reached  England.  Taylor  and  Co.,  in  the  Colonial  Office,  like 
vultures  in  quest  of  carrion, 

"  Scent  the  battle  in  the  breeze }" 

Pringle's  directors  nose  it,  and  in  the  usual  way  get  the  concern  stirred  in  the  House 
of  Commons.  The  Colonial  Secretary,  under  secretary,  and  the  clerks  in  the  office, 
are  all  blown  into  motion;  the  filth  laid  upon  the  table  of  the  House  of  Commons  ; 
the  press  of  the  House,  and  the  money  of  the  country,  employed  to  print  and  cir- 
culate it,  for  the  benefit  of  our  legislators,  and  of  this  stultified  country !  The  official 
gentlemen  who  can  employ  their  time  to  read,  to  write  about,  and  to  circulate  such 
grovelling  trash,  are,  more  especially  amidst  the  convulsions  which  threaten  to  shake 
Europe  to  its  foundations,  very  unfit  j.ublic  servants  to  watch  the  unprincipled  states- 
men of  Paris,  or  to  match  the  clear-headed  statesmen  of  Vienna,  Petersburg,  and 
Berlin,  and  consequently  to  watch  over  the  interests  of  this  country. 

f  The  following  is  a  specimen  of  Joseph's  orthography,  taken  from  a  letter  ad- 
dressed  by  him  to  SIR  PATRICK  Ross  :— 

"  Haveing,"  "  dureing"  "  opportunely,"  "  inierfweanCe"  "  whiich"  "practiced,'1 
"  iyranical,"  "  liberality,"  «  voluntary,"  "  oblidge,"  "  lay'd,"  &C. 


732 


TLi.  Cdomial  Empire  of  Great  Britai*. 


the  character  of  this 
!  secretary  of  the  Society,  which 
fcij  raxtks  equally  low  with 
dt  toe  former  one,  so  much  so, 


and  cr 

quit  thi»  miserable 


tool  of  and-coionialfaction  and 

a&d  hi»    bosom  crony,   J£r* 

^*;  aft  also,  to  refrain  from 

ag  before  your  Lordship  and 

the  public  iie  exposure  of  the  ca- 

es  aed   falsehoods    advanced 

against  r^e  colonies,  by  that  tr-c*ratt, 

JC/p2wpe*ffota  Jamaica;  the  libels 

advanced  against  the  Mauritius;  and 

the  hideous  misrepresestatioBs,  and 

exaggerations,  and  falsehood*,  ad- 

vanced by  lh«  Anti-slavery  Reporter 

against  the  REVEIEVD  Ma  BBIDGES 

of  Jamaica,  and  various  other  simi- 

lar calumnies  and  falsehoods;  bat 

the/  are  all  remembered,  and  will 

not  be  forgotten. 

Br  tools  like  Mary  Prince,  and  Jb- 
*^»X  Phitefx,  PAIX.LE,  and  the  band 
of  which  Pringle  u  the  tool  and  the 
organ,  mislead  and  irritate  this  coun- 
try, browbeat  the  Government,  and 
trample  upon,  as  they  are  permitted 
to  trample  upon,  our  most  important 
transmarine  posseaakiBS,  the  value 
and  importance  of  which  I  am  bound 
to  shew  to  your  Lordship  and  the 
public. 

Sitting  in  London,  and  supported 
by  the  purses  of  credulous  fools  in 
this  coontry,  Pringle  considers  that 
he  may  ii  :*1  Mr  and  Mr*  Wood  when 
in  Anrigua,  or  any  other  innocent  in- 
dividual in  our  colonies,  in  security 
and  at  pleasve.  lie  knows  they  live 
at  such  a  distance  that  they  cannot 
immedhtely  come  in  contact  with 


him — be  known  that  to  come  to  this 
country  and  to  produce  evidence  to 
rebut  in  a  court  of  law  such  infa- 
mous falsehoods  as  he  advances, 
would,  while  all  his  expenses  are 
defrayed  out  of  the  pockets  of  block- 
beads,  cost  the  injured  parties  an  ex- 
pense that  would  ruin  the  most  in- 
dependent families ;  hence  his  impu- 
nity in  the  work  of  slander  and  mis- 
and  hence  this  country  is  in- 
undated with,  and  disgraced  by,  the 
•4f|ipAtffcj(S)ajpr.  it  of  lile  based  libels 
and  the  bitterest  falsehoods  against 
truth  and  justice  that  were  ever  con- 
cocted, penned,  and  punished.  Mr 
Wood  owes  it  in  ju*tk«  to  himself, 


r,  to  seek  at  the  ha»ds  of  the 
laws  of  his  country  rttinm  far  the 
Opal  immnea  which  himself  and  hn 
A  jsnr  of 


ail  the  prejudices  which 
anfklly  ' 


rerard  to  the 

dastardrf  cttaci:  on  the  character  of 
the  wife  of  his  boson,  there  is  bat 
one  -W«T  to  seek  roBpmsatxm  for 
thn,  and  that  is,  to  cone  and  take 
Pringle  by  tibe  neck,  aad  with  a  good 
rattan  or  Mauritius  or  whip,  lash 
him  tirougii  London,  procbrimin?  as 
he  goes  that  the  chastisement  Is  in- 
flicted for  the  base  calumnies  and 
falsehoods  directed  against  the  cha- 
racter and  the  peace  of  the  wife  that 
he  loves ;  and  I  feel  confident  that  if 
be  does  so,  not  an  arm,  male  or  fe- 
male, would  be  raised  to  atop  or  to 
oppose  him. 

l..e  HBcrto4  vffQti&m  to  refi- 
gious  instruction  OB  the  part  of  the 
colonies,  »  a  string  on  which  the 
anti-colonists  have  lone  haqml  with 
apemicMNts  effect  in  this  eountry. 
The  assertion  is  wholly  untrue,  ft 

IB  mniBw    OnTOBBssl    anHWCCMNIy    BV*   Inr* 


•••mil, 

der  that  nane,  wmeh  the 

oppose,  and  which  they  are  right  to 

OppO8C«      vHa*  WR%9  wMmVMBGw-  tf\  tiS  B^ST 

what  the  REV.  Ma  BLTTH,  a  Chris- 
tian  rnnsjomwy  m  spuit  and  in  name, 
and  who  has  lately  arrived  from  Ja- 
maica, says  in  a  letter  addressed  to 
the  editor  of  «  The  Edimburgk  Ckris- 
tia»  HutrmOar"  and  dated  the  9th  of 
June  met.  It  is  in  refutation  of  some 
atrocious  calumnies  and  falsehood-, 
which,  on  the  subject  of  religious 
instruction  in  the  colonies,  had  pre- 
viously and  lately  appeared  in  that 
publication. 

•  Daring  my  residence  in  the  island, 
I  newer  met  with  any  intuit" — "  bat  was 
•nifonnly  treated  with  civility  and  re- 
spect; oa  mentioning  my  wish  to  the 

£<"•  r»-r  c  * ".     I     ' :     '.     '•'    '•:.-:  '•  i  -I     7""~rT   *-    _• 

to  see  slave*,  even  if  they  did  belong 
to  estates  where  I  did  not  instruct  the 
negroes.  I  hive  not  in  a  single  •MaBee 
detected  any  attempt  whatever  to  pre- 
vent the  negroes  from  aswmMmg  to  the 
worship  of  God,  either  on  the  Stbbath, 
or  the  day  I  visited  estates ;  to  ia  from 
the  mill  being  put  about  to  prevent  the 
slaves  frost  receiving  instruction,  I  hare 
it  Mopped  oaring  the* 


1831.]  The  Colonial  Empire  of  Great  Britain.  15$ 

service,  that  every  individual  might  have     become  so  paganized,  as  to  be  cut- 

ting and  carving  pieces  of  timber 
into  the  figures  or  GODS,  before  whom 
they  bend  down  and  worship  !  ! 
When  General  Grant  laid  the  melan- 
choly state  of  these  people  before 
the  Colonial  Office  some  months  ago, 
he  was  requested  to  be  quiet,  and  to 
say  nothing  about  it!  So  much  for 
Taylor  and  Co.'s  attention  and  anxi- 
ety to  bestow  religious  instruction 
upon  their  black  population  !  ! 

The  West  India  Colonies  are  parti- 
cularly accused  of  profaning  the  Sab- 
bath, by  following  worldly  pursuits. 
I  do  not  justify  or  extenuate  these 
where  they  are  followed,  but  remark, 
that  the  Anti-slavery  Reporter  may 
find  equal  profanation  of  the  Sabbath 
going  on  every  day  under  his  own  eyes 
in  London  and  its  neighbourhood, 
where  shops  are  open,  selling  every 


an  opportunity  of  attending1."  "  It  has 
been  asserted,"  says  Mr  Blyth,  "  that 
it  is  impossible  for  a  minister  of  the  gos- 
pel to  be  faithful  in  the  discharge  of 
his  duties,  in  a  country  where  slavery 
is  upheld  by  law.  This  I  can  deny 
from  experience.  Will  he,  or  any  one  else, 
who  asserts  it  to  be  a  moral  impossibi- 
lity to  instruct  the  black  population  of 
Jamaica  till  slavery  is  completely  ameli- 
orated, if  not  totally  abolished—  will  lie, 
or  any  one  who  has  had  an  opportunity 
of  being  acquainted  with  the  state  of  that 
island  (Jamaica),  deny  that  there  are 
thousands  of  negroes  in  it  whose  reli- 
gious knowledge  and  conduct  are  con- 
sistent with  the  profession  of  Christian- 
ity which  they  make?  —  and  have  not 
slaves  as  well  as  free  people  submitted 
to  the  influence  of  the  gospel  in  every 
age  and  country?  Why  should  Jamaica 
be  an  exception?  When  the  age  of  free- 


HJC   Ckll    CA.UCUI.1UI1  t        TT11CII     LUC    C*gC     Wl      1 1  CG~  •  *»*_-**>    WMVVV    ***  xy    w^y^AJy      v%p«**«««     x>  m  v^»  ^ 

dom,  which  appears  to  be  approaching,     thing  eatable,  drinkable,  and  wear- 


shall  arrive,  it  is  difficult  to  ^conjecture 
whether  equal  advantages  shall  be  afford- 
ed,  at  the  least,  for  the  spiritual  improve- 
ment of  the  negro  race.  Such  are  the 
facilities  given  to  Presbyterian  ministers, 
that  three  times  their  present  number 
would  find  sufficient  and  immediate  em- 
ployment; and  such  ia  the  anxious  wish 
of  the  planters,  and  of  the  respectable 
inhabitants,  to  be  supplied  with  such. 
clergymen,  that  they  are  already  building 
two  churches,  and  talking  of  building 
others,  even  before  they  have  any  certain 
prospect  of  obtaining  ministers  to  fill 
them." 

It  is  not  therefore,  ray  Lord,  reli- 
gious instruction  that  the  colonists 
oppose.  Mr  Blyth  sets  that  point  at 
rest,  at  once  and  for  ever,  and  a  more 
monstrous  stretch  of  arbitrary  power 
cannot  well  be  conceived,  than  to 
find  the  Colonial  Secretary  of  Great 
Britain  stepping  forward  to  com- 
mand almost  the  exclusive  employ- 
ment of  sectarians  (I  use  the  term 
without  any  offensive  meaning)  to 
bestow  religious  instruction  on  the 
slaves.  Even  on  this  momentous 
subject,  like  others  of  minor  import, 
the  master,  it  appears,  is  not  to  be 
allowed  to  judge,  or  to  interfere. 
So  says  the  British  Government  : 
that  government  which  has  left  the 
emancipated  negroes  in  Trinidad, 
formerly  belonging  to  the  West  India 
regiments,  the  creatures  of  its  hand, 
and  the  work  of  its  power,  without 
religious  instruction,  or  instructors 
of  any  description  ;  till  they  are  again 

VOL.  XXX.  CLXXXVII. 


able.  At  a  meeting  of  the  Magis- 
trates of  Queen's  Square,  [see  Lon- 
don Courier,  2d  September,]  a  num- 
ber of  butchers  and  bakers  were 
fined  for  selling  articles  on  Sunday. 
They  defended  themselves  by  stating 
that  the  practice  was  universal,  — 
"  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  pay 
their  rent  and  taxes  without  so  do- 
ing ;"  that  they  "  took  more  money 
on  Sunday  morning  than  on  any  other 
day"  because  "  the  poor  people 
would  not  purchase  the  meat  on  Sa- 
turday nights;  many  of  them  lived 
in  one  room  with  large  families,  and 
had  no  convenience  for  keeping  meat 
without  spoiling  it,  and  therefore 
preferred  buying  their  Sunday  din- 
ners on  the  same  day." 

I  readily  acknowledge  the  great 
power  of  my  native  country;  but 
truth  and  j  ustice  are  still  more  power- 
ful than  she  is;  and  neither  the 
power  of  her  government,  nor  the 
command  of  her  people,  can  alter 
human  nature,  nor  make  the  lowest 
description  of  African  savages,  or 
the  children's  children  of  these  sa- 
vages, indubtrious,  intelligent,  and 
civilized,  in  a  year,  or  in  an  age; 
nor  can  they  accomplish  all  or  any 
one  of  these  desirable  objects  except 
by  the  application,  for  a  long  time, 
of  arbitrary  control  amongst  such  a 
race  of  men.  Yet,  to  improve  the 
savage,  and  to  exalt  him  in  the  mo- 
ral and  political  scale,  the  people  of 
Great  Britain  have  fallen  upon  the 
inconceivably  ignorant,  and,  incon,- 
3  c 


The  Colonial  Umpire  of  Great  Britain. 


[Nov. 


ceivably  mischievous  plan,  to  de- 
nounce in  the  senate,  from  the  pul- 
pit, and  at  the  bar,  the  free  inhabit- 
ants of  the  West  Indies  as  barba- 
rous savages,  wicked  beyond  prece- 
dent, and  debased  beyond  example. 
Thus  striving,  not  only  to  reduce  the 
master  and  his  family  to  absolute 
beggary  and  despair,  but  by  every 
public  act  and  proceeding  to  debase 
him  in  his  own  eyes,  and  to  degrade 
him  in  the  eyes  of  his  barbarous  de- 
pendents, and  of  the  whole  human 
race ! 

Great  Britain  believes,  and  acts 
upon  the  belief,  that  the  African  sa- 
vage whom  she  has  transported  from 
Africa  to  the  islands  in  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico,  has  deteriorated,  and  is  de- 
teriorating, under  the  system  of  pei%- 
sonal  bondage  in  which  he  is  placed. 
A  moment's  enquiry  would  tend  to 
«hew  to  the  most  ignorant  and  most 
prejudiced,  that  the  fact  is  just  the 
reverse.  Great  Britain,  however,  will 
not  believe  the  truth  ;  she  legislates 
in  obstinate  ignorance  thereof,  and, 
consequently,  she  legislates  wrong. 
Such  conduct  is  worse  than  insanity. 
It  can  only  produce  mischief;  it  can 
only  drive  back  the  slave  into  a  state 
of  barbarism,  and  it  must,  if  further 
acted  upon,  produce  the  destruction 
of  our  colonies,  and  the  consequent 
humiliation  of  our  country,  and  dis- 
memberment of  our  empire. 

I  am  one  of  those,  my  Lord,  who, 
from  experience,  know  how  greatly 
those  feelings  of  affection  and  re- 
spect for  our  native  country  are  in- 
creased by  being  removed  to  the  dis- 
tance of  many  thousand  miles  from 
It,  and  to  the  midst  of  new  scenes 
and  things;  but  in  proportion  as  those 
feelings  are  strengthened  by  such 
a  separation,  so  deep  and  so  strong 
will  the  resentment  be  in  the  breast 
of  children,  when  they  find  that  the 
parent  pursues  a  reckless  cold-blood- 
ed course,  which  must,  by  precipi- 
tating destruction,  burst  asunder 
these  ties.  In  no  civilized  commu- 
nity, but  more  especially  in  a  Bri- 
tish community,  can,  or  ought,  men 
for  ever  to  submit  to  be  calumniated, 
reviled,  and  persecuted.  In  com- 
merce, and  in  politics,  it  is  impossi- 
ble that  matters  in  the  Colonies  can 
go  on  longer  without  most  fatal  re- 
sults. The  consequences  to  this 
country  will  be,  throwing  altogether 
aside  the  probable  destruction  of 


human  life,  the  LOSS  OF  ONE  HUN- 
DRED AND  FORTY  MILLIONS  STER- 
LING of  British  capital  and  property, 
vested  in  and  secured  over  these  co- 
lonies. The  shock  which  this  loss 
will  occasion  to  this  country,  this 
country,  great  as  it  is,  could  not  pos- 
sibly sustain.  Its  immediate  effects 
would  cover  towns  and  districts 
with  poverty  and  distress,  and  its 
more  remote  effects  would  shake  to 
their  foundations  her  other  strongest 
colonial  and  internal  commercial  es- 
tablishments. 

The  immediate  interference  of 
government  can  alone  prevent  tJJis 
tremendous  catastrophe.  Govern- 
ment must  tell  this  misled  country, 
that  the  West  India  colonists  have 
been  unjustly  accused;  they  must 
tell  this  country  that  West  India  pro- 
perty, like  every  other  property  in 
the  empire,  must  be  protected  and 
rendered  productive  ;  they  must  tell 
this  country  that  the  West  India  co- 
lonists are  British  subjects  ;  that 
while  they  remain  such,  they  must 
be  treated  as  such,  and  protected  as 
such ;  and  they  must  tell  this  coun- 
try that  the  West  India  colonists  are 
no  longer  to  be  persecuted  as  they 
have  been  by  ignorance,  and  by  zeal 
without  knowledge.  If  Great  Bri- 
tain will  not  act  in  this  way;  if  she 
will  continue  to  believe,  as  I  am  told 
she  believes,  that  all  her  colonies,  but 
more  especially  the  West  India  co- 
lonies, are  a  burden  to  her ;  that  they 
shame  and  disgrace  her  sceptre ;  and 
that  they  are  altogether  worthless ; 
then  Great  Britain  can  speedily  re- 
lieve herself  of  the  load,  the  shame, 
and  the  sin,  by  permitting  these  co- 
lonies to  protect  themselves  in  the 
best  manner  that  they  can,  or  to  dis- 
unite themselves  from  her  sceptre, 
and  to  seek  protection  where  they 
can  find  it.  The  hour  that  compels 
such  valuable  possessions  to  adopt 
such  a  course,  will  prove  one  cloud- 
ed with  the  heaviest  disgrace  that  is 
to  be  found  in  the  annals  of  Great 
Britain.  Let  me  hope,  that  there  is 
still  sufficient  strength  and  judg- 
ment left  in  the  British  government, 
and  common  sense  and  justice  re- 
maining amongst  the  people  of  Great 
Britain,  to  prevent  this  humiliating 
and  destructive  result.  , 

The  picture  here  presented  to  your 
Lordship  of  colonial  affairs,  may  be 
supposed  to  be  highly  coloured. 


.1831.] 


The  Colonial  Empire  of  Great  Britain. 


Others  may  tell  your  Lordship  ft 
different  tale ;  but  my  long  and  inti- 
mate acquaintance  with  these  pos- 
sessions, and  the  perfect  knowledge 
which  1  have  of  all  that  is  at  present 
passing  amongst  them,  enables  me, 
with  perfect  confidence,  to  state  that 
the  danger  is  neither  misrepresented 
.nor  exaggerated.  From  every  quar- 
ter in  them  1  hear  the  same  tale  of 
distress  and  sorrow;  regret  and  an- 
guish ;  indignation  and  despair.  The 
colonies  are,  for  any  useful  purpose, 
nearly  lost  to  Great  Britain ;  and  a 
short  time  will  shew  whether  they 
are  also  to  be  lost  to  themselves,  and 
to  the  rest  of  the  world. 

I  do  not  for  a  moment  mean  to 
impute  to  government,  that  they 
either  sanction  or  pursue  the  sys- 
tem of  malevolent  falsehood  and  mis- 
representation which  the  anti-colo- 
nists have  adopted ;  but  it  is  a  fact,  as 
lamentable  as  it  is  undeniable,  that 
government  legislate  and  act  in  what- 
ever concerns  the  colonies,  as  if  they 
were  fully  persuaded  of  the  truth  of 
every  accusation  which  the  anti- 
colonists  make.  It  is  a  fact,  equally 
undeniable,  that  whenever  any  do- 
cument which  is  sent  from  the  colo- 
nies, partial  and  imperfect  as  many 
of  these  are,  is  demanded  by  the 
anti-colonists,  that  the  same  is  readily 
produced;  while,  almost  every  do- 
cument that  comes  from  the  colo- 
nies— however  perfect  it  may  be, 
which  goes  to  refute  the  calumnies 
and  falsehoods  advanced  by  the  anti- 
colonists,and  to  oppose  the  particular 
theories  which  government  hold  on 
colonial  subjects — when  demanded, 
is  most  difficult  to  be  procured,  or 
frequently  withheld,  and  when  pro- 
duced, is  frequently  produced  in  a 
garbled  and  mutilated  state.  Every 
one  about  the  Colonial  Office  is  ac- 
quainted with  these  facts.  It  would 
be  very  easy  for  me  to  name  docu- 
ments that  have  been  withheld  or 
garbled ;  but  to  enter  into  the  detail 
of  such  matters,  would  greatly  ex- 
ceed my  limits.  It  is,  moreover, 
painful  to  be  compelled  to  observe, 
that  scarcely  in  one  single  instance 
does  any  member  of  government,  at 
any  time  when  the  anti-colonists  pour 
forth  their  falsehoods  and  misrepre- 
sentations in  Parliament,  come  for- 
ward to  contradict  them,  as  in  duty 
they  are  bound  to  do ;  nor  do  the 
government,  when  the  anti-colonial 


periodical  press  is  spreading  its  false 
accusations  and  venom  over  the 
land, ever  attempt  to  arrest  the  march, 
of  the  pernicious  system,  by  stating 
the  truth  through  the  press  (a  mur- 
der, a  hanging-match,  or  cock-fight, 
are  more  important  subjects !)  under 
its  influence  and  control ;  on  the 
contrary,  government  continually 
leans  to  the  anti-colonial  side. 

Under  these  circumstances,  the 
defenceless  colonists  must  think  that 
they  are  despised  by  the  mother 
country,  and  deserted  by  the  govern- 
ment; and  that  while  their  ruin  is 
pursued  by  the  former,  it  is,  to  say 
the  least  of  it,  consented  to  by  the 
latter.  Every  order  and  every  com- 
munication that  is  transmitted  from 
Downing  Street  to  the  colonies,  ma- 
nifestly goes  upon  the  dangerous 
principle,  that  the  slave  is  every 
thing  and  the  master  nothing,  and 
bears  the  stamp  of  anti-colonial  party 
and  anti-colonial  rancour,  and  tends 
to  humiliate  and  to  abase  the  master. 
All  the  measures  adopted  by  govern- 
ment, are  founded  upon  the  erro- 
neous and  injurious  notion,  that  it  is 
impossible  to  be  at  the  same  time  a 
colonist  and  a  humane  man — a  colo- 
nist and  a  just  man — or  a  colonist 
and  a  good  man.  It  is  impossible 
to  conceive  any  state  more  degra- 
ding or  debasing  than  this.  The  ex- 
perience of  all  ages  has  shewn  to 
mankind,  that  the  individuals  who 
are  locally  and  intimately  acquaint- 
ed with  the  society  and  institutions 
of  a  country,  are  the  fittest  persons 
to  legislate  for  that  country ;  and  eve- 
ry day  goes  to  shew  Great  Britain, 
that  she  cannot  safely  legislate  for 
possessions  so  many  thousand  miles 
distant  from  her,  and  with  the  par- 
ticular interests,  the  habits,  the  cha- 
racter, and  the  pursuits  of  the  popu- 
lation of  which  she  is  ignorant  and 
unacquainted. 

The  anti-colonists  demand  and  act 
upon  measures  of  proscription.  Go- 
vernment has  been  compelled  to 
yield  to  their  views.  Every  new 
law  is  consequently  stamped  with  a 
character  which  wounds,  which  hu- 
miliates, and,  in  fine,  which  drives 
the  colonists  to  despair.  Thus,  tho 
order  in  Council,  sent  out  last  year 
for  the  government  of  slaves  in  the- 
crown  colonies,  intolerant  as  it  was, 
has  been  rendered  insupportably  so, 
by  proceedings,  which,  have  lately 


756 

taken  place  in  Demerara  under  it. 
The  protector,  and  the  superior 
courts  in  that  colony,  had  it  in  their 
power,  by  that  order,  to  modify  the 
fine,  for  any  offence  committed,  from 
L.100  to  L5,  and  from  L.500  to 
L.100,accordingtothecircumstances 
of  the  case ;  but  the  influence  of  the 
anti-colonial  party,  for  their  influence 
I  assert  it  is,  has  lately  got  instruc- 
tions sent  out  to  the  protector  and 
the  superior  courts,  commanding 
them  in  every  offence,  whatever  may 
be  the  degree,  to  exact  the  highest 
penalty,  without  any  power  of  modi- 
fication whatever ! 

My  Lord,  the  laws  of  Algiers,  Per- 
sia, and  Turkey,  are  justice  and  mer- 
cy when  compared  to  a  law  like  this. 
Yet,  if  the  colonists  oppose  it,  they  will 
be  set  down  as  contumacious !  Even 
the  power  of  complaining  is,  it  would 
appear,  taken  from  them.  In  an  offi- 
cial dispatch,  addressed  to  SIR  BEN- 
JAMIN D'URBAN,  the  Governor  of  De- 
merara, by  the  late  Under  Secretary, 
MR  HORTON,  and  dated  Cth  June, 
1826,  we  find,  amongst  other  restric- 
tions which  the  governor  was  com- 
manded to  impose  upon  Mr  Alexan- 
der Stevenson,  before  he  obtained 
permission  to  continue  the  publica- 
tion of  the  Guiana  Chronicle,  the 
following — "  Abstinence  from  all 
comments  on  the  slave  question,  ex- 
cept such  as  are  calculated  to  pro- 
mote ike  measures  recommended  by 
his  Majesty's  government,  and  sanc- 
tioned by  Parliament !"  In  other 
words,  he  was  to  support  every  act 
emanating  from  government  which 
had  emancipation  in  view,  without 
any  reference  to  the  property  of  the 
master,  the  comfort  of  the  slaves,  or 
the  actual  safety  of  the  colony !  The 
official  gazettes  of  the  Crown  Colo- 
nies are  all  thus  chained,  and  must, 
whatever  "  ennui"  it  may  bring  upon 
themselves  or  their  readers,  dance  in 
fetters  to  any  tune  which  Alder- 
manbury  Street  may  drive  Downing 
Street  to  play. 

Throughout  our  colonies,  those 
functionaries  of  every  rank  who  obey 
the  satellites  of,  and  the  mandates 
which  are  issued  by,  Pringle  and  Co., 
can  alone  enjoy  peace  or  keep  their 
places.  If  they  act  as  the  real  inte- 
rests of  the  colonies,  and  of  this 
country,  and  as  truth  and  honour  dic- 
tate to  them,  then  their  lives  are  ren- 
4ered  miserable,  and,  they  are  speed- 


The  Colonial  Empire  of  Great  Britain. 


[Nov. 


ily  displaced  to  make  way  for  more 

R liable  hands.  Such  treatment  is,  I 
iarn,  about  to  drive  Lord  BELMORE 
from  Jamaica;  such  influence  tore 
that  honest  man,  COLONEL  YOUNG, 
from  Demerara,  and  planted  him  in 
a  small  island  in  the  Gulf  of  St  Law- 
rence, with  an  income  reduced  one- 
half,  by  way  of  advantageous  pre- 
ferment !  It  would  be  endless  to 
enumerate  instances  of  a  similar 
kind.  The  principles  which  at  pre- 
sent guide  Downing  Street  in  its 
choice  of  colonial  rulers  are,  that  no 
individual  who  has  been  in,  and  has 
told  the  truth  about  the  colonies,  or 
who  haa  in  Great  Britain  publicly 
uttered  one  word  in  their  defence,  is 
fit  to  hold,  or  to  be  permitted  to  hold, 
authority  in  them  ! !  Monstrous,  my 
Lord,  as  such  a  system  is,  still  the 
fact  is,  that  it  is  the  system  pur- 
sued. 

As  an  excuse  for  such  extraordi- 
nary conduct,  we  are  officially  told 
that  the  colonists  ought  to  be  exclu- 
ded from  every  exercise  of  authority, 
because  "  the  universally  acknow- 
ledged principle  of  justice  is,  that  no 
man  should  be  a  judge  in  a  case 
where  he  is  himself  united  by  any  tie 
of  common  interest  with  one  of  the 
parties  concerned."  By  acting  in 
this  manner,  the  government  do  not, 
they  say,  insult  the  feel  ings,  or  depre- 
ciate the  characters  of  the  colonists, 
any  more  than  they  do  the  subordi- 
nate authorities  established  in  this 
country,  where  it  is  not  thought  right 
in  those  parts  of  it  "  in  which  dis- 
putes between  manufacturers  and 
their  workmen  are  of  frequent  occur- 
rence, that  one  of  the  former  class 
should  act  as  a  magistrate  !"  To  the 
people  of  this  country,  the  fact  is 
notorious,  that  magistrates  are  indis- 
criminately appointed  from,  and  act 
indiscriminately  amongst,  the  rnanu- 
facturingand agricultural  population, 
and  those  chosen  are  properly  select- 
ed on  account  of  their  local  know- 
ledge and  experience.  The  principle, 
therefore,  which  the.  government 
applies  to  establish  subordinate 
authority  in  the  colonies,  is  directly 
at  variance  with  the  principle  adopt- 
ed in  this  country;  but  of  the  opera- 
tion of  which,  and  also  of  the  fact, 
the  Downing  Street  rulers  of  the 
colonies,  it  would  appear  from  what 
has  just  been  stated,  are  completely 
ignorant;  nay,  more,  when  injustice^ 


J881.] 


Colonial  Empire  of  Great  Britain. 


757 


under  the  mask  of  law,  runs  riot  in 
a  West  India  colony  against  the 
property  of  absent  white  and  free 
British  subjects,  the  Colonial  Office 
turns  round  upon  the  complaining 
sufferer,  and  tells  him  that  he  suffers 
because  proprietors  do  not  reside  in 
the  colonies  to  aid  in  the  administra- 
tion of  the  laws!  Will  my  Lord  How- 
ick  deny  the  truth  of  that  which  I 
now  state  ? 

The  most  pernicious  principles 
prevail  in  those  departments  of 
government  connected  with  the  co- 
lonies. These  state,  We  know  that 
the  measures  which  we  pursue  will 
ruin  British  North  America  and  North 
American  merchants;  butwhatabout 
that  ? — we  shall  in  their  room  have 
Norway  and  Baltic  merchants  !  We 
know  that  the  measures  which  we 
pursue  will  ruin  the  West  India 
colonies,  and  the  whole  mercantile 
and  shipping  interests  connected 
with  them ;  but  what  about  that  ?  we 
shall  in  their  stead  have  Brazil,  Cuba, 
£e.  trade  and  shipping  interests,  and 
the  nation  will  lose  nothing.  These 
colonial  dictators  cannot  be  brought 
to  comprehend  that  the  loss  of  the 
whole  property  and  capital  of  all 
the  proprietors  and  merchants  allu- 
ded to,  is  not  only  so  much  dead  loss 
to  the  nation,  but  that  by  this  loss,  an 
equal  value  is  placed  in  the  hands  of 
foreign  and  rival  nations,  which  will 
enable  them  to  wrest  more  wealth 
from  us;  and  ultimately  to  shackle, 
to  degrade,  and  to  enslave  us. 

The  blindness  of  Great  Britain 
upon  all  these  subjects  is  quite  un- 
accountable. On  the  part  of  her 
government,  it  is  separated  from 
the  principles  of  reason  and  all  right 
feeling.  The  judgment  of  a  school- 
boy would  lead  that  schoolboy  to 
comprehend,  that  the  more  pains 
Great  Britain  takes  to  degrade  and 
to  ruin  her  extensive  and  valuable 
colonial  possessions,  the  more  pains 
foreign  nations  will  take  to  exalt  and 
to  render  theirs  prosperous ;  in  order 
that  when  those  belonging  to  Great 
Britain  are  destroyed,  these  nations 
may  reap  all  the  ad  vantages,  commer- 
cial and  political,  which  the  British 
colonies  have  so  long  given  to  the 
parent  state.  Hence  the  extension  of 
the  African  slave-trade  to  Cuba  and 
the  Brazils.  Into  the  latter  alone, 
according  to  official  documents  just 
published,  76,000  slaves  were  '  im- 


ported last  year!  The  sinews  of  our 
commercial  and  financial  strength 
are,  in  fact,  and  in  more  ways  than 
one,  drawn  from  us  to  support  that 
trade. 

If,  my  Lord,  the  emancipation  of 
the  slaves  in  the  British  colonies  is 
to  prove,  commercially  and  politi- 
cally, so  great  an  advantage  as  it  is 
asserted  it  will  do,  why  does  not  the 
nation  purchase  the  whole,  take  the 
management  of  the  concern  into  their 
own  hands,  and  thus  enrich  herself? 
Admitting  that  it  would  be  a  meri- 
torious and  right  thing  to  enlighten 
and  to  civilize  the  African  barba- 
rians, planted  by  Great  Britain  in, 
the  western  world,  still,  it  is  asked, 
why  should  the  heavy  burden,  and 
the  trouble  of  effecting  that  object, 
be  imposed  upon  the  West  India 
colonist  without  any  remuneration 
for  his  labour  ?  Why  should  the 
colonist  be  called  upon,  without  re- 
ward, to  enlighten  and  reclaim  sa- 
vages forthe  good  of  the  nation,  while 
the  Macauley's,  "  etJioc  genus  omne" 
are  richly  rewarded  for  merely  try- 
ing to  do  the  same  thing  in  Sierra 
Leone  ?  I  say  merely  trying ;  for 
while,  after  a  vast  expense  to  this 
country,  they  have  effected  nothing, 
the  West  India  colonists,  without 
any  expense  to  the  country,  but  at  a 
great  expense  to  themselves,  have 
effected  a  great  deal. 

The  West  India  colonists  assert, 
that  neither  the  government  nor  this 
country  ever  will  accomplish  the  ob- 
jects which  they  propose  by  the  mea- 
sures and  course  which  they  pursue, 
and  they  assert  this  from  local  know- 
ledge and  experience.  Let  the  go- 
vernment and  the  country  therefore 
take  the  property  in  the  colonies  into 
their  own  hands,  and  then  experi- 
ment upon  it  as  they  please ;  but  till 
they  do  this,  the  colonists  cannot  be 
called  upon  to  be  at  the  risk  and  the 
expense  of  experiments,  which  we 
are  told  are  undertaken  for  the  na- 
tional good.  In  this  country,  where  a 
turnpike-road,  a  rail-road,  or  a  canal, 
or  any  public  edifice  or  thing  is  un- 
dertaken, or  to  be  erected  'for  public 
use,  private  property  cannot  be  ap- 
propriated or  invaded  to  do  so  until 
its  value  is  ascertained  and  paid  by 
the  public,  and  the  consequent  con- 
sent of  the  proprietor  obtained.  The 
same  principle  ought  to  guide  Bri- 
tain in  her  conduct  to  her^colom'es  ; 


fhe  Colonial  Empire  of  Great  "Britain. 


and  until  she  acts  in  this  manner, 
she  has  no  right  to  call  upon  the  co- 
lonists to  become  her  slaves — un- 
der such  circumstances,  slaves  they 
would  in  reality  be — to  attempt  to 
carry  her  crude  and  dangerous 
schemes  into  effect. 

The  extent  to  which  the  minds 
of  their  countrymen  are  poisoned 
against,  and  alienated  from  the  colo- 
nies, is  best  shewn  by  the  opposition, 
coupled  with  revilings,  which  is  al- 
ways made  to  every  just  and  rational 
measure  which  is  proposed  to  relieve 
them  from  their  undeniable  and  over- 
whelming distress.  Thus  the  landed 
interest  determined  that  foreign 
grain  shall  continue  to  be  used  in 
British  distillation,  in  preference  to 
British  colonial  molasses, — nay,  the 
landed  interest,  and  the  distillers 
combined,  hare  determined  that  nei- 
ther the  brewers  nor  distillers  shall 
have  it  In  their  power  to  use  the  lat- 
ter, even  if  they  were  inclined,  and 
felt  it  their  interest  to  do  so ;  in  like 
manner,  and  notwithstanding  all  the 
clamours  which  the  anti-colonists 
and  the  people  of  this  country  raise 
against  the  African  slave-trade,  they 
advocate  and  permit  the  admission 
of  Brazil  sugar  into  Great  Britain  to 
refine  it  for  the  foreign  market,  al- 
though the  Brazilians  not  only  main- 
tain personal  slavery,  but  carry  on 
the  African  slave-trade  to  a  prodi- 
gious extent !  Mr  Poulett  Thomson 
boldly  told  us  (House  of  Commons, 
Sept.  28/A),  that "  a  very  large  amount 
of  British  capital  was  employed  in 
producing  sugar  in  the  Brazils,  and 


that  it  was  for  the  advantage  of  this 
country  that  those  capitalists  should 
be  allowed  to  bring  the  sugar  so  pro- 
duced to  this  country  in  British 
ships!"  In  like  manner,  also,  the 
clamourers  against  the  West  India 
colonies  advocate  the  free  admission 
of  grain  from  Poland  and  Eastern 
Prussia,  which  grain  is  all  produced 
by  the  labour  of  slaves  !  Such  con- 
duct, my  Lord,  is  as  impolitic  and 
unwise  as  it  is  inconsistent. 

The  colonial  possessions  of  Great 
Britain  may  properly  be  divided  into 
two  heads :  first,  such  colonies  as 
are  commanding  military  and  naval 
stations  and  outworks  of  the  national 
citadel — such  as  the  Ionian  islands, 
Malta,  Gibraltar,  &c.,  where  the  ex- 
penditure is  necessarily  beyond  the 
apparent  advantages  which  the  na- 
tion receives ;  secondly,  the  North 
American  colonies,  the  West  India  co- 
lonies, and  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope, 
&c.  These  are  not  only  military  and 
naval  stations  of  the  very  first  im- 
portance to  the  strength  of  the  Bri- 
tish empire,  but  also  commercial  and 
agricultural  points  of  the  greatest 
possible  importance  in  the  scale  of 
commerce  and  finance,  and  from 
which  the  returns  to  the  nation  and 
to  individuals  far  exceed  in  value 
the  expense  which  is  incurred.  I 
shall  place  these  before  your  Lord- 
ship in  the  different  bearings  of  the 
question,  and  with  the  accuracy 
which  the  latest  official  returns  that 
have  come  into  my  bands  enable  me 
to  do. 


COMMERCE  OF  BRITISH  COLONIES  TO  OTHER  PLACES  THAN  GREAT  BRITAIN. 


1.  West  India  Colonies. 


Colony. 

8t  Vincent's, 
Trinidad, 
Tobago, 
St  Christopher, 
Tortola, 
Grenada, 
Barbadoes, 
Bui-bice, 
Demerara, 
Honduras, 
Mauritius, 
Bahamas, 


Year. 
1824s 
1826, 
1826, 
1626, 
1626, 
1626, 
1624, 
1826, 
1826, 
1826, 
1626, 
1826, 


Imports  into* 

L.  195,337 

162,870 

40,607 

49,382 

4,193 

101,487 

412,069 

33,650 

119,232 

108,945 

372,915 

47,906 


Exports  from. 

L.  11 4,089 

125,982 

11,599 

15,942 

2,572 

146,999 

307.495 

74,700 

178,637 

67,294 

345,635 

120,280 


Carry  forrrard, 


L.  1,618,593         L.  1,511,230 


1831 .] 


Colony. 


Jamaica, 

Antigua, 

Nevis, 

Montserrat, 

Dominica, 

St  Lucie, 


The  Colonial  Empire  of  Great  Britain. 

Brought  forward, 


Imports  into. 
L.I  ,618,593 


Exports  frorri 
L.  1,51 1,230 


1,650,000  1,520,000 


'jiUiOT  m 
baa    obim    i^rf 


i.  •?       ..-,  , 

Total,        L.3,298,593        L.3,031,230 


. 
2.  North  American  Colonies, 


Colony. 

Year. 

Bermudas, 

1826, 

New  Brunswick, 

1830, 

Port  St  John's, 

1826, 

Newfoundland, 

1826, 

Nova  Scotia, 

1830, 

Canadas, 

1828, 

P.  Edward's  Island, 

Imports  into.  Exports  from. 

L.  105,1 75    [1824]  L.5,984 

113,972 
94,450 

455,660 


250,500 

22,134 

660,600 

852,600 


,, 


Total,         L.2,226,639        L.1,299,156 
3.  Eastern  Colonies. 


487,700 
141  390 

IffifijTKfH    filRfi*!    flfBTT 

-rii-iP 


Colony.  (  «»t' 

Sierra  Leone, 
Van  Dieman's  Land, 
New  South  Wales) 
Ceylon,  • 

Cape  of  Good  Hope,  • 
Malta, 

Ionian  Islands, 
Gibraltar, 


Year. 

Imports  into. 

Exports  from. 

1828, 

L.  39,9  11 

L.  6,724 

1826, 

26,988 

19,683 

1825, 

50,000 

1,673 

1826, 

262,861 

126,851 

1824, 

98,460 

67,294 

1827,^ 

347,271 

*aV'J 

Total,         L.825,491 


L.222,225 


ABSTRACTS. 
1.   West  India  Colonies. 


1829,  Great  Britain  and  Ireland, 
1826,  Other  Places,  :  , 


Total,  L.  12,571,146 

&*-V$  Ji&*,    • 
orth  American  Colonies. 


1829,  Great  Britain  and  Ireland, 
1826  and  1830,  Other  Places, 


Exports  to. 
L.I, 149,146 
1,299,156 


S.  Eastern  Colonies. 


1829,  Great  Britain  and  Ireland, 
1826,  Other  Places, 


Exports  to. 

L793.005 

222,225 


Total,         L.  1,015,230 





Exports  to.  Imports  from. 

L.9,539,916         L.5,801,786 

3,031,230  3,298,593 


L.  9,  100,379 


Imports  from. 

L.  2, 13 1,993 

2,226,639 


Total,     f     L.2,448,302         L.4,358,632 


Imports  from. 

L.I, 935,821 

825,491 

L.2,761,312 


760 


The  Colonial  Empire  of  Great  Britain 
4.  East  Indies  and  China. 

Exports  to. 


[Nov. 


. 


P.80,88  TT7.E8 

1829,  Great  Britain  and  Ireland, 
1818,  Other  Places, 

902,  tc 


L.  7,859,884 

7,654,963 




ao9«& 

Total,        L.  15,514,847 
GENERA! 


T 

Imports  from. 

L.  6,462, 128 

5,612,808 

L.  12,074,936 


1.  West  India  Colonies, 

2.  North  American  do. 

3.  Eastern  do. 

4.  Bust  Indies  and  China, 

Grand  total, 
British  Whale  Fisheries, 


AI>  ABSTRACT. 
Exports  to. 

L.  12,571,151 

2,448,302 

1,015,230 

15,514,847 

L.  3 1,549,530 
361,086 


British  Tonnaqe  employed  in  this  Trade. 
78'.. 

West  Indian  Colonies,  with  Great  Britain  and  Ireland, 
North  American  do.  do. 

With  Asia,  .  0<kJ  • 

East  Indies,  with  Canton,  &c.  &c.  .  , 

Africa,  with  Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  . 

Gibraltar,  Mediterranean,  and  do.  do. 
North  American  Colonies,  with  British  West  Indies, 
West  India  Colonies  with  Foreign  ports,  .  MI  •• 

North  American  Colonies — colony  with  colony,         '*'  , 
Do.  do.  to  Foreign  ports,  . 

British  Whale  Fisheries,  ,v  . 


Imports  from. 

L.  9, 100,379 

4,358,632 

2,761,312 

12,074,936 

L.28,295,259 
2,179 

i  Y.3  J 

Tono. 
253,187 
419,421 
111,659 

45,000 

46,639 

21,546 

91,000 

100,000  ; 


Total, 

.83;'tv;i'T?/.a 

COLONIES — REVENUE  AND  EXPENDITURE. 

West  India,  or  Slave  Colonies. 


39,540 
1,365,379 


8£0,G8T«I  1. 

ColonjyV.-. 
St  Vincents, 
Trinidad, 
St  Lucia, 
Tobago, 
Jamaica, 


St  Chris 
Anguilla, 
Nevis, 
lortola, 
Grenada, 

Barbadoe*,  1 

Berbioe,  ta\ 

Dominies, 

Demerara  nnd  Essequibo, 
Honduras, 

Bahamas,  *  nTJ 

Mauritius,  1826, 

ad  riB'j  9iif|fas 
Booroione  ifoo 


Year.                    Income. 

Expenditure. 

1824              L.35,131 

L.35,131   Sterling. 

1826                  54,921 

44,589 

1826                   12,978 

13,096 

..TJA.RT^tTf. 

1926*                177,173 

167,348 

1826                  16,778 

16,778 

1825                  12,031 

9,420 

IS?,                  *745 

3,698 
614 

1824',                32,822 

a*»"d*  IS  662  '••'*  9rfT 

1826,                 12,103                 13,103 

1826,                  7,784 
1826,                 10,628 

5,896 
14,625 

1826,                   9,468 

9,825 

l«*Gj                 19,195 

18,328 

1826,               245,852 

»•»  i*'1  228,527 

- 

L.  666,765 

L.  6  10,573 

iiuno! 

IOD    fi     .  ,_       7      .          .  _  ,      . 

2.  North  American  Colonies. 


Colony- 

Bfruiiulas,  .,ia 

\  ]>]•«•  CaiHida,  ,ffq< 

^tb-u 

• 


Income.  Expenditure. 

L.  14,816  J>.!),967 

5?  1,5)44  24,941 

L.  39,760  L.34,f'(»s 


J8S1-.J- 


The  Colonial  Empire  of  Great  Britain. 


-761 


Colony. 


Lower  Canada, 
New  Brunswick, 
Newfoundland, 
Nova  Scotia, 


Year. 

Brought  forward, 
1823, 
1826, 
1826, 
1826, 


Prince  Edward's  I  ..land,  j         1826, 


Income. 
L.  34,908 
93,777 
39,709 
25,772 
49,605 
12,514 


,HA 


Expenditure. 
L.  39,760 
88,063 
60,844 
28,251-    . 
51,209 
12,514 

L.275,789 


Colony. 

Sierra  Leone, 
Gibraltar, 

Van  Dieman's  Land, 
Cape  of  Good  Hope, 
Ceylon, 

Ionian  Islands, 
Malta,     ^wff 
New  South  Wales, 


Slave  Colonies, 

North  American  Colonies, 

Eastern  Colonies, 


3.  Eastern  Colonies. 

•  '"")  jslbfil  je?V7    •? 

Year. 

Income. 

Expenditure^0.  3    ,F. 

1828, 

L.  25,670 

frf-)  fc  X.  25,670 

1826, 

45,786 

45,786 

1826, 

57,348 

57,348 

1824, 

97,167 

126,194  riajlKI 

1826, 

300,822 

333,052 

/•AV  1828, 

\««c%  J45,000 

135,000 

1827, 

106,832 

109,237 

1825, 

295,655 

-''"51v8fl&il  )»»/' 

off  ifimiJAfciiA   ilitoVl- 

L.  1,074,280 

L.883,498/v  ihi' 

;iHW  (BSHDIlI   JHIill 

REVENUE  —  ABSTRACTS. 

i'iiv  .eoritA 

Income. 
L.  666,765 

-ifbsM  ,'iBiIfiidiO 
Expenditure. 
L.  6  J  0,573 

»»                • 

261,  J37 

275,789 

' 

1,074,280 

883,492 

Total, 


L.2,002,182         L.  1769,854 


EAST  INDIES. 

Income.,  -r,,^  Expenditure. 

East  Indies,  1823— 1824,              L.21,663,724  L.18,828,249 

Interest  of  debt,                ttok»O          "?»  }»o  f.  1,735,033 

Expense,  St  Helena,          OOT«>ai            „  112,268 


it 


East  Indies, 
All  the  Colonies, 


Total, 


L.21,663,724 

GENERAL  ABSTRACT. 

Income. 

L.21,663,724 
2,002,182 


L.20,675,550 

a.I  }3 


Grand  total,         L, 23,6 65, 906 


Expenditure. 

L.  20,675,550 

1,769,854 

_ 

L.22,445,404 

.BlOj'fO  1 


The  preceding  tables  have  been 
compiled  from  the  following  autho- 
rities, viz. : — The  Report  of  the  Fo- 
reign Trade  Committee  of  J821  ;  the 
papers  printed  for  the  sole  use  of  the 
finance  Committee  in  1828;  Parlia- 
mentary Papers  of  the  present  year, 
Nos.  388,  252,  and  253 ;  and  from  Co- 
lonial Returns  and  Gazettes  con- 
taining the  official  documents  for  the 
respective  periods  and  years.  To  un- 
derstand the  subject  fully,  it  is  ne- 
cessary to  state,  that  the  value  of  the 
trade  above  given,  is  THE  VALUE  IN 
PRODUCE  ALONE,  and  includes  no  spe- 
rie  or  bills,  except  the  specie  ex- 


ported  and  imported  in  the  trade  be- 
tween India  and  China.  The  given 
amount  also  is  exclusive  of  a\]  freights 
and  charges,  and  which  to  the  coun- 
try will  render  the  total  value  about 

ONE  FOURTH  MORE ! ! 

Is  it  possible,  my  Lord,  that  the 
affairs  of  an  empire  can  be  prospe- 
rous, where  such  enormous  interests 
as  are  concerned  in  a  commerce 
yielding  L.75,000,000  sterling  an- 
nually, are  either  despised  and  sa- 
crificed, or  neglected,  disorganized, 
insulted,  oppressed,  and  placed  in 
jeopardy? 

It  will  be  observed,  that  some  re- 


The  Colonial  Empire  of  Great  Britain. 


[No?. 


turns  for  the  Eastern  Colonies  are 
wanting,  but  these  are  of  less  im- 
portance, as  the  exports  from  these 
places,  from  Gibraltar,  for  example, 
consist  principally  of  goods  imported 
from  Great  Britain.  I  have  had  con- 
siderable difficulty  in  ascertaining 
the  trade  of  the  British  North  Ame- 
rican colonies,  and  have  been  obli- 
ged to  take  it,  for  different  provinces, 
in  different  years,  say  1826,  1828, 
and  1830.  Thus,  Quebec  is  taken  for 
1828,  though  the  trade  of  that  port  is 
increased  from  L.I, 324,550  imports, 
and  L.825,386  exports,  in  1828,  to 
L.1,617,749  imports,  and  L.1,316,000 
exports,  in  1830;  but  in  the  exports 
the  returns  cannot  be  separated.  The 
trade  of  these  colonies  greatly  ex- 
ceeds, for  this  year,  what  I  have  been 
obliged  to  take  it  at,  particularly  with 
the  West  Indies  and  Great  Britain. 
The  imports  from  the  latter,  for  the 
year  ending  1st  July  last,  were,  to 
Quebec,  L.I, 147,845,  and  to  Mon- 
treal, L.549,209.  The  trade  also  to 
the  Eastern  Colonies,  viz.  —  New 
South  Wales,  &c.,  is  greatly  increa- 
sed. According  to  the  previous 
statement,  the  British  tonnage  em- 
ployed in  the  colonial  trade,  amounts 
to  nearly  1,400,000  tons,  while,  by 
Par.  Pap.  No.  252,  dated  21st  Sep- 
tember, 1831,  the  whole  British  ton- 
nage employed  in  the  trade,  to  every 
quarter  of  the  world,  except  our  own 
dominions,  was,  for  1829,  1,074,171 
tons  outwards,  and  1,176,867  tons 
inwards ;  and,  by  Par.  Pap.  No.  253, 
of  the  same  date,  the  imports  into 
Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  from  our 
transmarine  possessions,  for  1829,  a- 
mounted  to  L.19,863,840,  and  exports 
to  these  possessions,  L.I 7,299,961 
sterling,  and  nearly  all  British  pro- 
duce and  manufactures;  while  it 
may  be  remarked  that  the  imports 
from  these  possessions  are  exclusive- 
ly the  productions  of  the  soil  and 
agriculture  of  these  countries.  By 
the  same  paper,  we  find  that  the 
imports  into  Great  Britain,  for  1829, 
from  all  other  parts  of  the  world, 
amounted  to  L.'24,l  39,183,  (almost 
one  half  of  it  carried  in  foreign 
ships!)  L.I 0,600,000  of  which  were 
from  the  United  States,  and  Russia  ; 
and  the  exports  of  British  manufac- 
tures, L.40,683,080,  L.I 8,000,000  of 
which  were  to  Germany,  the  United 
States,  and  Brazils;  but  which  ex- 
ports of  L,40,000,000,  when  they  are 


reduced  to  the  fair  value  from  the 
extravagant  rate  which  the  official 
scale  fixes  upon  cotton  goods  ex> 
ported,  namely,  2s.  and  2s.  2d.  foi  I 
each  yard  which  is  not  worth  above 
4d.,  will  bring  the  actual  value  of 
British  produce  and  manufactures 
exported  to  all  quarters  of  the  world, 
except  to  our  own  dominions,  to  be 
about  L.16,000,000  to  L.17,000,000, 
and  to  the  level  of  the  exports  to  our 
own  transmarine  possessions.  Alji 
these  points  must  be  kept  steadily  in 
view,  in  order  to  appreciate  correct- 
ly the  value  and  importance  of  these 
transmarine  possessions  to  the  trade, 
to  the  wealth,  to  the  finances,  and  to 
the  strength  of  Great  Britain.  By 
encouragement,  also,  and  proper  care 
extended  to  the  cultivation  of  cotton, 
in  the  East  Indies,  this  country  might 
quickly  supply  the  raw  material  for 
her  cotton  manufactures  from  that 
quarter,  and  thus  give  to  the  inhabit* 
ants  of  Hindostan,  our  own  subjects, 
L.6,000,000  sterling  per  annum, 
which  we  at  present  give  to  the  Uni- 
ted States  of  America  for  the  same 
article ;  and,  by  the  same  means,  we 
would  give  employment  to  130,000 
tons  additional  of  British  shipping, 
and  we  would  also  enable  the  popu- 
lation of  India  to  take  British  pro- 
duce and  manufactures  to  the  amount 
of  L.-6,000,000  sterling  per  annum, 
additional  from  us. 

Such,  my  Lord,  is  the"  extent  and 
the  amount  of  the  trade  and  com- 
merce of  the  British  colonial  empire 
— a  trade  'and  commerce  exceeding 
that  of  the  most  powerful  empires. 
It  exceeds*  the  whole  foreign  trade 
of  France,  and  it  also  exceeds  the 
foreign  trade  of  the  whole  Russian 
empire,  which,  in  1818,  amounted  to 
184,910,632  roubles  imports,  and  to 
256,075,059  roubles  exports.  The 
capital  necessarily  engaged  in  carry- 
ing on  this  trade  and  commerce,  it  is 
evident,  must  be  great  indeed.  The 
replacing,  the  tear,  the  wear,  and  the 
outfits  of  the  tonnage  employed,  ta- 
king these  only  at  L.7  per  ton,  will 
occasion  an  expenditure  in  this 
country  of  near  ten  millions  annually, 
in  articles  almost  exclusively  the 
productions  of  British  soil,  British 
capital,  and  British  labour.  The 
wealth  which  this  trade  and  com- 
merce throws  into  the  coffers  of 
the  state,  is  great  and  undeniable; 
the  productions  of  the  West  India 


831.] 


!The  Colonial  Empire  of  Great  Britain. 


lolontes  alone  yield  government  a 
•evenue  of  nearly  seven  millions  a- 
ear.    The  various  branches  of  thia 
xtensive     trade     and    commerce, 
Iso    give    profitable  and   constant 
mployment,  not  to  many  thousands, 
ut  to  many  millions  of  people  in 
Great  Britain  and  in  her  transmarine 
jossessions,  while  the  value  of  the 
vhole,  and  the  profits  upon  the  whole, 
ire   spent    in    our    own    dominions. 
The  value  of  these  transmarine  pos- 
essions  also  is  prodigiously  enhan- 
ed,  when  it  is  remembered  that  al- 
most all  the  articles  of  trade  are  the 
•reductions  of  the  soil  of  the  respect- 
ve  possessions,  and,  moreover,  of  a 
.escription  which  give  employment 
o  the  greatest  number  of  labourers, 
and  to  the  greatest  quantity  of  ton- 
lage ;  the  latter,  of  itself,  a  point  of 
vast  importance  to  a  naval  power 
ike  Great  Britain. 

The  British  North  American  colo- 
nies, so  little  known,  and  so  much 
despised  in  Great  Britain,  are,  never- 
heless,  of  the  greatest  importance  to 
ler  strength  and  prosperity.  Their 
rade  and  population  are  increasing 
n  an  astonishing  manner.  They  give 
unlimited  scope  to  the  employment 
of  British  capital,  and  to  the  produc- 
tive labour  of  the  numerous  emi- 
grants from  Great  Britain  and  Ire- 
land, who  are  daily  seeking  refuge 
on  their  shores.  The  number  of  emi- 
grants this  year  gone  out  to  British 
North  America,  amounts  to  60,000. 
In  the  course  of  next  year,  these  will 
require  imports  from  this  country,  of 
British  articles,  equal  to  L.6  sterling 
each.  The  timber  and  the  lumber 
trade  gives  them,  in  various  ways,  im- 
mediate employment.  The  lofty  pri- 
meval forests  in  North  America  are 
hewn  down,  exported,  and  converted 
into  cash.  The  land  thus  cleared  is, 
by  agricultural  labour,  rendered  pro- 
ductive in  all  kinds  of  grain  and  ve- 
getables, whether  for  the  food  of  man 
or  of  beast.  The  forests  of  Canada, 
by  the  application  of  labour,  are 
turned  into  agricultural  capital,  and 
the  history  of  every  country  shows, 
that  a  prosperous  and  productive 
agriculture  must  precede  manufac- 
tures. There  can  be  no  manufac- 
tures where  the  soil  is  not  cultiva- 
ted, and  where  there  is  not  a  super- 
abundant agricultural  population  to 
turn  their  efforts  to  manufactures. 
Experience  has  also  shewn,  that  an 


agricultural  population  is  always  the 
most  industrious  and  contented,  and 
hence  the  great  advantage  of  having 
such  possessions  as  our  North  Ame- 
rican provinces,  to  which  the  super- 
abundant population  of  Great  Bri* 
tain  and  Ireland  can  emigrate.  The 
fisheries  around  the  shores  of  these 
provinces,  are  really  mines  of  wealth, 
if  attentively  worked.  The  province 
of  New  Brunswick  has  abundance  of 
excellent  coal,  which  the  United 
States  are  without,  at  least  such  as 
is  most  valuable  and  best  adapted 
for  steam  navigation;  and  accord- 
ingly the  trade  in  coals  from  New 
Brunswick  to  the  United  States,  has 
already  become  a  trade  of  import- 
ance, and  hence  the  propriety  and 
policy  of  encouraging  and  protecting 
these  colonies,  instead  of  bestowing 
our  favours  upon  Norway,  and  the 
States  round  the  Baltic,  which  neither 
take  our  manufactures  nor  our  pau- 
per population  from  us.  In  case  of 
need,  the  coal  of  New  Brunswick 
may  furnish  steam  to  shut  up  the 
Gulf  of  St  Lawrence  from  every 
hostile  attack,  and  thus  render  the 
Canadas  invincible  and  invulnerable. 

Besides  the  immense  command 
which,  as  naval  and  military  stations, 
our  various  colonies  afford  us,  they 
are  placed  in  such  a  variety  of  cli- 
mate that  each  yields  those  produc- 
tions which  are  most  wanted  to  sup- 
ply the  wants  and  the  deficiencies  of 
the  other;  and  thus  Great  Britain 
possesses  within  her  own  dominions, 
in  peace  and  in  war,  inexhaustible 
fields  for  commerce  with  which  no 
foreigner  has  a  right  to  interfere,  and 
which  are  or  ought  to  be  placed 
completely  beyond  their  control. 

We  have  only  to  contrast  the  colo- 
nial commerce  alluded  to,  with  the 
whole  commerce  which  Great  Bri- 
tain carries  on  with  every  foreign 
power,  in  order  to  shew  how  much 
the  former  ought,  in  preference  to 
the  latter,  to  engage  our  attention,  to 
command  our  care,  and  to  receive  our 
protection.  But  it  is  a  lamentable 
fact,  that,  for  several  years  past,  Great 
Britain  has  pursued  a  course  direct- 
ly the  reverse.  These  transmarine 
possessions  have  not  only  been  de- 
spised, but  a  theoretical  system  of 
legislation  has  been  applied  to  them 
in  all  things,  and  which  is  not  mere- 
ly retarding  their  improvement,  and 
crippling  their  energies,  but  fast  un- 


The  Colonial  Emplt'e  of  Great  Britati. 


[Nov. 


dermining  the  strength  of  each,  and 
threatening  to  bring  ruin  on  the 
whole.  Error  succeeds  to  error  iu 
the  government  of  the  colonies.  The 
Canadian  timber  trade  is  threatened 
to  be  undermined,  to  benefit  Nor- 
way and  Prussia.  The  sugar  trade 
of  the  West  Indies  is  about  to  be 
thrown  away,  to  benefit  the  Brazils 
and  Cuba.  The  East  Indian  cotton 
trade  has  long  been  despised,  while 
the  United  States  have  risen  on  its 
ruin ;  and  the  wine-growers  at  the 
Cape  of  Good  Hope,  after  having 
vested  their  property  in  vineyards 
under  the  faith  of  Parliament,  are 
about  to  "be  sacrificed  to  the  wine- 
growers of  France,  which  country 
sends  us  every  thing  she  can,  and 
takes  as  little  from  us  as  possible ! 
The  mismanagement  of  our  colonial 
empire  is  always  reprehensible,  some- 
times distressing,  and  at  other  times 
ludicrous.  Thus,  the  mother  coun- 
try sent  to  the  Mauritius,  where  the 
French  language  alone  is  spoken,  as 
chief  judge,  an  individual  who  did  not 
understand  a  word  of  French,  and 
who  was  moreover  perfectly  deaf! 
Early  this  year,  it  was  determined  to 
send  all  the  old  pensioners  that  could 
be  mustered  to  settle  in  Canada. 
Their  pensions  for  three  years  were 
advanced  to  them  to  supply  them 
with  funds,  and  when  arrived  there 
they  were  told  they  would  have  lands 
allotted  to  them  by  the  local  govern- 
ment. The  pensioners  came  from 
all  places  to  London,  where  they  got 
the  cash ;  but  as  no  rendezvous  was 
appointed  for  them,  nor  authority  to 
direct  them,  they  were  quickly  de- 
prived of  their  money  by  sharpers 
and  by  gin ;  and  when  the  days  of 
Bailing  came,  not  a  half  could  be 
mustered  !  The  missing  were  after- 
wards returned  to  their  parishes,  to 
be  supported  as  paupers  for  life !  A 
portion  sailed,  and  reached  Quebec. 
They  applied  to  the  governor  for 
the  lands  which  had  been  promised 
them ;  but,  to  their  surprise  and  mor- 
tification, they  were  informed  that 
the  Colonial  Office  had  never  written 
a  word  upon  the  subject !  They  were 
accordinglyleftiu  want:  some  of  them 

bluov/    vAaisi    • 

fooofi 

•ovficl 


spent  their  money,  and  became  pau- 
pers at  Quebec ;  the  remainder  found 
their  passage  home,  after  expending 
the  funds  they  had  remaining ;  and, 
arrived  in  this  country,  they  are 
thrown  as  paupers  upon  the  parishes 
to  which  they  belonged !  A  more 
disgraceful  and  heartless  job  scarce- 
ly stands  upon  record  in  the  history 
of  Colonial  Office  negligence"  and 
folly.  ^ 

During  the  last  eight  years  in  par- 
ticular, the  Ministers  who  have  com- 
posed the  Cabinet  of  Great  Britain, 
have  been  so  busily  engaged  in  con- 
cocting measures  to  keep  themselves 
in  power  when  they  had  got  posses- 
sion of  it,  or  to  get  hold  of  it  again 
when  they  had  lost  it,  that  they  have 
not  had  time  to  attend  to  any  thing 
else.  The  consequences  of  this  state 
pf  things  have  been,  that  the  welfare, 
the  prosperity,  the  interests,  and  the 
peace,  of  all  our  transmarine  posses- 
sions, have  been  shamefully  neglect- 
ed, and  given  up  to  be  directed  and 
ruled  by  a  band  of  theoretical  boys 
in  the  secondary  ranks  of  the  govern- 
ment offices,  who  are  set  apart  to 
superintend  colonial  interests,  and 
who,  by  patronage  and  hypocrisy, 
like ,  have  got  themselves  ad- 
vanced from  a  three-legged  stool  to 
an  easy-chair,  and  who  imagine  that, 
because  they  have  been  so,  they  may, 
"  while  blowing  the  trumpet  of  Li- 
berty, tell  their  equals  they  are 
slaves."  By  statesmen  such  as  these 
our  colonial  empire  is  now  ruled,  and 
all  the  enormous  property,  capital, 
and  commerce,  dependent  upon  these 
possessions,  are  endangered  and  ren- 
dered unsettled  and  unprofitable. 
Napoleon,  my  Lord,  would  not  have 
acted  thus ;  nor  does  any  nation  in 
the  world  act  in  this  manner  but  Great 
Britain ;  and  if  she  will  continue  to 
persevere  in  such  apernicious  course, 
she  must  expect  to  reap  the  fruits 
of  her  folly,  namely,  severe  national 
loss,  and  deep  national  humiliation 
and  degradation.  I  am,  &c. 

JAMES  M'QUEEX. 

Glasgow,  I0t7i  October,  1831. 


bin?  (teW 
; ' 


J83I.J         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


76S 


ON  PARLIAMENTARY  REFORM  AND  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 


No.  XL 


THE  REJECTION  OF  THE  BILL— THE  SCOTCH  REFORM. 


WHAT  have  the  Peers  done  ?  They 
have  done  their  duty,  and,  we  trust, 
saved  their  country. 

We  had  always  the  greatest  hopes 
of  the  resistance  which  in  the  last 
extremity  the  Peers  of  England 
would  otter  to  the  torrent  of  revolu- 
tion, and  the  firmest  confidence  in 
the  efficacy  of  their  exertions  to 
rescue  the  nation  from  the  dangers 
with  which  it  was  wellnigh  over- 
Whelmed.  But  we  were  not  prepa- 
red for,  we  never  could  have  antici- 
pated, the  glorious  stand  which  they 
have  made  against  the  Reform  Bill. 

To  have  thrown  out  that  Bill  by  a 
majority,  which,  but  for  the  recent 
unprecedented  creation,  would-  have 
been  SIXTY-TWO  ;  to  have  been  proof 
alike  against  the  seductions  of  Mi- 
nisterial influence,  the  smiles  of  Mi- 
nisterial favour,  and  the  vengeance 
of  democratic  ambition ;  to  have  cle- 
Bpised  equally  the  threats  of  a  revo- 
lutionary press,  the  intimidation  of 
ignorant  multitudes,  and  the  fierce, 
though  fleeting,  folly  of  public  opi- 
nion, is  indeed  a  triumph  worthy  of 
the  Barons  of  England.  Their  an- 
cestors who  declared  seven  hundred 
years  ago  at  Mertoun,  Nolumus 
leges  Anglice  mutare,  the  iron  war- 
riors who  extorted  from  John  at  Run- 
neymede  the  great  charter  of  Eng- 
lish freedom,  did  not  confer  so  great 
a  blessing  on  their  country.  The 
first  contended  only  against  the 
usurpation  of  papal  ambition ;  the 
latter  struggled  against  the  tyranny 
of  a  weak  and  pusillanimous  prince : 
but  the  victory  now  gained  has  been 
achieved  over  the  united  forces  of 
ignorance  and  ability;  over  all  that 
democracy  could  offer  that  was  sa- 
vage, and  all  that  talent  could  array 
that  was  formidable.  In  Gothic  ages 
our  steel-clad  barons  struggled  only 
for  infant  freedom,  and  laid  the  foun- 
dations of  a  civilisation  yet  to  be; 
the  Peers  of  our  day  have  been  in- 
trusted with  the  protection  of  aged 
happiness,  and  the  keeping  ot  a 
standard  grown  grey  in  renown. 
Well  and  nobly  have  they  discharged 
the  trust ;  despising  every  unworthy- 


menace,  steadfastly  adhering  through 
every  peril  to  the  discharge  of  duty, 
they  have  achieved  a  triumph  of  im- 
mortal celebrity.  They  have  saved 
us  from  the  worst  of  tyrannies ;  the 
despotism  of  a  multitude  of  tyrants. 
The  future  historian  will  dwell  on 
the  glories  of  Trafalgar,  and  the  en- 
during valour  of  Torres  Vedras  and 
Waterloo ;  but  he  will  rest  with  not 
less  exultation  on  the  moral  firmness 
of  our  hereditary  legislators ;  on  the 
constancy  which  could  remain  un- 
moved amidst  a  nation's  defection, 
and  save  a  people  who  had  consign- 
ed themselves  to  perdition. 

It  is  for  the  poor  themselves,  for 
those  miserable  victims  of  democra- 
tic frenzy,  that  our  first  thankful- 
ness arises.  When  an  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  men  assembled,  at  the 
command  of  the  Birmingham  Union, 
to  menace  their  last  and  best  friends ; 
when  the  standard  of  rebellion  was 
all  but  unfurled,  and  the  Peers  were 
dared  to  discharge  their  duty,  on  the 
edge  of  what  an  abyss  of  wretched- 
ness and  suffering  did  the  deluded 
multitude  stand !  Had  Providence  in 
wrath  granted  the  prayer  of  their  pe- 
tition, how  soon  would  the  countless 
host  have  withered  before  the  blast 
of  destruction ;  how  many  human 
beings,  then  buoyant  with  health  and 
exulting  in  ambition,  been  soon 
swept  away;  how  many  wretched 
families  writhed  under  the  pangs  of 
famine ;  how  many  souls  been  lost  in 
the  crimes  consequent  on  unbear- 
able misfortune !  Long  before  the  de- 
mocratic flood  had  reached  the  pa- 
laces of  the  great,  while  the  rich 
were  still  living  in  affluence  on  the 
accumulations  of  centuries,  the  poor, 
dependent  on  their  daily  labour, 
would  have  been  involved  in  the  ex- 
tremity of  suffering,  and  hundreds 
of  thousands  perished  as  in  the  Cru- 
sades, the  victims  of  political,  as 
great  as  religious  fanaticism.  The 
rich  would  ultimately  have  been  de- 
stroyed ;  the  higher  ranks  would 
have  been  swept  away  in  the  flood 
of  misfortune,  but  they  would  have 
gurviyed  the  wretched  crowd  which 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.          [Nov. 


766 

swelled  the  torrent;  and  the  last 
breath  of  the  deluded  multitude, 
when  sinking  in  the  waves,  would 
have  been  to  curse  the  authors  of  8 
nation's  ruin. 

Our  next  cause  of  thankfulness, 
is  for  the  preservation  of  the  insti- 
tutions of  the  country ;  of  that  consti- 
tution which  has  survived  so  many 
perils,  and  produced  euch  unparal- 
leled blessings;  under  which  our 
fathers  have  prospered,  and  the  old 
time  before  them ;  which  has  been 
transmitted,  like  the  Mantle  of  Elijah, 
from  generation  to  generation,  and 
even  now  saved  the  nation,  it  is  to 
be  hoped,  from  the  abyss  of  wretch- 
edness. It  would  have  been  a  de- 
plorable spectacle  to  have  seen  the 
British  constitution  perish  from  any 
cause;  to  have  beheld  the  fabric 
of  Alfred,  matured  by  the  experi- 
ence, and  adapted  to  the  wants  of 
successive  generations,  fall  even  un- 
der external  violence,  the  sword  of 
Napoleon,  or  the  armies  of  Russia: 
but  how  much  more  terrible,  to  have 
seen  it  perish  under  the  violence  of 
its  own  subjects ;  sink  into  the  grave 
from  the  impious  hands  of  its  own 
children !  It  is  painful  to  see  a  fa* 
mily  in  private  life  behave  with  in- 
graiitude  to  the  authors  of  their 
being;  revolt  against  the  hands  which 
had  lulled  them  in  infancy;  discard 
the  wisdom  which  had  instructed 
their  youth,  and  bring  down  the  grey 
hairs  of  age  with  sorrow  to  the  grave: 
But  what  shall  we  say  to  the  nation 
which,  in  a  transport  of  fury,  could 
pull  down  the  institutions  under 
which  they  had  attained  unparalleled 
happiness  ;  which  had  been  weighed 
in  the  balance,  and  not  found  want- 
ing; which  had  spread  the  sway  of 
an  island  in  the  Atlantic,  as  far  as  the 
arms  of  conquest  could  reach,  or  the 
waters  of  the  ocean  extend ;  which 
had  given  birth  to  Milton  and  New- 
ton, to  Scott  and  Shakspeare;  on 
which  were  reflected  the  glories  of 
Palestine,  the  lustre  of  Cressy,  the 
triumph  of  Blenheim  ;  the  country 
of  Marlborough  and  Wellington,  of 
Blake  and  Nelson  ;  the  nation  which 
had  ever  been  first  in  the  career  of 
usefulness,  and  last  in  the  desertion 
of  duty?  All  these  glories,  this 
long  line  of  greatness,  these  countless 
millions  ot  helpless  beings,  stood  on 
the  v  erge  of  destruction  ;  with  their 
own  hiuub  they  had  pushed  out 


upon  the  sea  of  revolution,  and  the  | 
monsters  of  the  deep  were  raging; 
for  their  prey !  They  have  been  saved 
after  they  had  abandoned  the  helm, 
and  resigned  themselves  to  the  tem- 
pest, by  the  firm  and  intrepid  hands 
which  seized  it. 

Our  last  cause  of  thankfulness  is 
for  the  human  race — for  the  count- 
less myriads  who  looked  to  the  shores 
of  Britain  for  the  laststruggle  between 
order  and  anarchy ;  and  the  triumph 
achieved  for  true  freedom,  by  the 
first  and  greatest  defeat  of  democra- 
tic oppression.  Not  merely  as  na- 
tives of  England,  but  as  citizens  of 
the  world,  we  rejoice  in  the  triumph 
— the  victory  of  experience  over  in- 
novation— of  balanced  power  over 
oppressive  tyranny — of  the  reign  of 
Peace  over  the  era  of  Blood.  It  is 
a  proud  thing  for  England,  that,  in 
this  great  crisis,  she  has  not  been 
wanting  to  her  duty;  that  she  has 
maintained  her  high  place  in  the  van 
of  civilisation,  and  kept  the  lead  alike 
in  the  ranks  of  Freedom,  and  the 
array  of  Wisdom.  Centuries  before 
the  name  of  Liberty  was  known  in 
the  neighbouring  states;  while  the 
nations  around  her  were  sunk  in  bar- 
barism, or  crouching  under  oppres- 
sion, she  erected  the  firm  and  fair 
fabric  of  public  freedom ;  and  now, 
when  they  are  fawning  before  the 
career  of  revolution,  and  placing 
their  necks  beneath  the  many-headed 
monster  of  democratic  power,  she 
boldly  stands  out,  erect  and  alone, 
to  combat  the  tyrant  when  he  is 
strongest,  to  grapple  with  the  Hydra 
in  his  prime. 

If  any  thing  could  add  to  the  gra- 
titude which  we  feel  for  these  great 
achievements,  it  would  be  the  satis- 
faction which  must  arise  from  the 
manner  in  which  the  great  question 
has  been  treated  in  the  House  of 
Lords.  The  days  are  over  when  the 
people  can  be  deluded  by  the  old  ca- 
lumny of  the  Peers  being  behind  the 
age — a  set  of  incurables — a  race  of 
imbeciles,  fit  only  to  be  discarded 
with  disgrace.  This  debate  has  dis- 
played their  character  in  its  true  co- 
lours ;  it  must  silence  the  breath  of 
vituperation,  and  open  the  eyes  even 
of  political  blindness.  The  two  great 
parties  which  divide  the  state  have 
been  brought  into  presence,  each  has 
sent  forth  its  combatants  into  the  field; 
ami  what  a  stupendous  difference  be- 


1831.]         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


ween  them  I  How  immeasurably 
mperior  the  debates  of  the  Lords 
lave  been  to  those  of  the  Commons ! 
How  dignified  the  language — how 
tatesman-like  the  wisdom  —  how 
;reat  the  courage  of  the  former  when 
lompared  with  the  declamation  and 
vehemence  of  a  majority  in  the 
alter  body !  The  Peerage  has  pro- 
duced the  speeches  of  Wellington, 
iarrowby,  Dudley,  Caernarvon, 
Wharncliffe,  Wynford,  Lyndhurst, 
and  Eldon ;  and  what  has  the  demo- 
ratic  party  brought  forward  in  the 
,ower  House  to  counterbalance  it  ? 
3'Connell,  Hobhouse,  Hunt,  and 
Hume.  Which  of  these  great  bo- 
dies will  stand  most  prominent  in 
the  eyes  of  posterity  ?  On  the  con- 
duct of  which  will  the  historian  dwell 
with  enthusiasm  ;  the  words  of 
which  will  flow  down  the  current  of 
Lime,  the  admiration  and  boast  of  un- 
jorn  ages  ?  Much  as  we  respected, 
lighly  as  we  felt  the  importance  of 
the  British  aristocracy,  their  ability 
and  energy  has  exceeded  any  thing 
that  could  have  been  anticipated. 

Nor  is  the  due  meed  of  praise  less 
due  to  the  noble  supporters  of  the 
Bill  in  thatassembly.  In  hearing  their 
speeches,  the  conservative  Peers 
might  well  experience 

"  The  stern  joy  which  warriors  feel 
Iii  foemen  worthy  of  their  steel." 

What  a  contrast  do  the  speeches 
of  Earl  Grey,  Lord  Lansdown,  and 
Lord  Brougham,  afford  to  the  idle 
declamation,  the  ignorant  assertion, 
the  contemptible  abuse,  which  has 
been  so  prodigally  exerted  in  sup- 
port of  the  bill,  and  ever  proves  as 
powerful  to  vulgar,  as  it  is  hateful  to 
superior  minds ! 

But  it  is  from  the  great  ability  of 
these  reforming  orators  in  the  House 
of  Lords,  that  the  strongest  argu- 
ment against  the  bill  is  to  be  drawn. 
Every  thing  that  talent  and  ability, 
eloquence  and  skill,  could  do  in  its 
favour,  was  done ;  and  to  what  did  it 
amount  ?  To  this  only,  that,  accord- 
ing to  Lord  Grey,  the  bill  must  be 
passed,  not  because  it  is  a  good  bill, 
but  because  the  people  demand  re~ 
form.  To  his  whole  speech  the  an- 
swer might  be  made  with  perfect 
success — "  Supposing  it  granted  that 
some  reform  is  indispensable,  still 
you  have  done  nothing  to  shew  that 
yours  is  the  proper  reform,  or  that 


its  adoption  would  not  make  matters 
even  worse  than,  according  to  your 
own  shewing,  they  now  are.  Every 
word  of  your  speech  may  be  admit- 
ted by  the  most  vehement  opponents 
of  the  Reform  bill." 

Not  one  of  the  able  supporters  of 
reform  could  adduce  a  single  argu- 
ment in  favour  of  this  bill,  which  was 
the  only  question  before  the  House. 
Lord  Brougham  virtually  abandoned 
the  Z.10  clause,  by  admitting  that  in 
committee  he  would  not  oppose  its 
alteration  to  a  standard  varying  ac- 
cording to  the  size  of  the  town ;  and 
he  added,  that  it  was  originally  fixed 
at  L.20,  and  altered  to  L.10,  because 
in  one  borough  containing  1700  in- 
habitants, the  requisite  number  of 
voters,  according  to  that  standard, 
could  not  have  been  found.  Where 
would  have  been  the  shouts  of  the 
multitude  if  the  L.20  clause  had  been 
retained  ?  The  people  were  worked 
up  to  a  state  of  frenzy  by  this  exten- 
sion of  the  franchise  to  a  numerous 
class,  which  some  of  the  authors  of 
the  bill  themselves  intended  to  aban- 
don in  the  House  of  Lords;  and  yet 
they  urged  this  measure  as  a  final 
settlement  of  the  question !  Final, 
when  the  bill  would  at  last  have 
excluded  four-fifths  of  the  voters  on, 
whose  shoulders  it  was  brought  to 
the  Upper  House  !  On  such  causes 
do  the  convulsion  of  nations  and  the 
fate  of  the  world  depend. 

Two  facts  were  brought  out  in 
the  debate,  which,  it  is  hoped,  will 
for  ever  set  this  question  of  L.10,  or 
3s.  lOd.  voters  at  rest.  The  one  was, 
that  out  of  378,000  houses  returned 
by  the  Tax-office,  only  52,000  are 
above  L.20,  and  the  other,  that  out  of 
all  the  houses  in  the  empire  returned 
by  the  Tax-office,  the  majority  is 
rated  below  L.12.  It  was  admitted 
also  by  Lord  John  Russell,  in  the 
Lower  House,  that  the  real  number 
of  L.10  houses  was  from  three  to 
fifteen  times  greater  than  the  Tax/- 
office  returns  indicated ;  and  the 
Reform  Bill  allowed  a  house,  proved 
any  how  to  be  rented  at  L.10,  to  con- 
fer a  vote.  Now,  if  a  majority  of 
the  houses,  rated  even  in  the  Taxr 
office  returns,  is  below  L.12  a-year, 
what  sort  of  a  majority  would  it 
have  been  when  the  houses  below 
that  value  are  admitted  to  have  been 
from  three  to  fifteen  times  greater 
than  the  result  shewn  by  these  re» 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  Fjtnch  Revolution.          [Nov. 


768 


turns  ?  From  what  a  perilous  set  of 
electors  have  we  been  delivered  by 
the  defeat  of  the  Bill !  Aud  011  the 
edge  of  what  a  gulf  of  perdition  did 
we  stand,  when  the  firmness  of  the 
Peers  interposed  for  our  salvation ! 

The  merits  of  the  illustrious  men 
who  have  effected  this  great  object 
will  not  be  appreciated,  if  it  is  not 
recollected,  that,  unlike  all  other 
patriots,  they  stood  opposed,  not 
only  to  the  weight  of  administration, 
but  the  fury  of  the  people.  In  ordi- 
nary times,  the  patriot  who  with- 
stands the  influence  of  the  execu- 
tive, who  resists  temptation,  and  de- 
spises honours,  and  incurs  danger 
in  the  discharge  of  duty,  is  support- 
ed by  the  applause  and  admiration 
of  his  fellow-citizens;  millions  re- 
peat his  words,  and  watch  upon  his 
actions;  the  perils  of  the  moment 
are  drowned  in  the  magnitude  of  the 
presence  in  which  they  are  incurred. 
But  the  British  patriots  of  our  day 
stood  in  a  widely  different,  and  far 
more  disheartening  situation.  No  ad- 
miring crowds  attended  their  course 
—no  grateful  multitudes  watched 
their  contest — no  sympathetic  pray- 
ers arose  from  millions  for  their  sal- 
vation. By  a  combination  of  circum- 
stances, unprecedented  in  the  annals 
of  England,  the  weight  of  the  execu- 
tive, and  the  madness  of  the  people, 
took  the  same  direction;  and  the 
patriots  who  with  magnanimous  dis- 
interestedness withstood  the  former, 
were  exposed  to  unmeasured  threats 
and  atrocious  obloquy  from  the  lat- 
ter. But,  like  the  troops  whom  their 
noble  leader  headed  at  Waterloo, 
they  manfully  fronted  on  every  side, 
with  the  same  resolution  repelled 
the  terrors  of  the  populace  with 
which  they  flung  back  the  efforts  of 
the  Administration  ;  and,  undazzled 
either  by  the  lightnings  of  the  throne 
or  the  thunder  of  the  multitude,  bore 
aloft  the  standard  of  England,  con- 
quering and  to  conquer. 

To  one  body  in  the  Peers  the  admi- 
ration of  every  true  patriot  is  in  an 
especial  manner  due.  The  bishops 
have  long  been  held  up  to  public 
obloquy  as  servile  courtiers ; — ever 
at  the  beck  of  the  Crown,  and  inca- 
pable of  exercising  the  independent 


rights  of  British  statesmen.  What 
have  such  calumniators  now  to  say? 
Have  they  yielded  to  the  mandates 
of  the  Crown,  or  been  intimidated  by 
the  fury  of  the  democracy  ?  Tempted 
by  all  the  seductions  of  court  favour, 
threatened  with  all  the  violence  of 
republican  ambition,  denied  promo- 
tion by  the  Ministers,  threatened 
with  confiscation  by  the  populace, 
how  have  they  acted?  Like  true 
patriots,  like  men  of  firmness  and 
integrity,  the  worthy  successors  of 
the  primitive  martyrs,  whom  nei- 
ther menaces  nor  allurements  could 
swerve  from  the  path  of  duty. 

Of  what  incalculable  importance 
is  the  House  of  Lords  in  the  British 
Constitution ;  and  how  well  does  it 
deserve  the  praises,  so  long  bestowed 
upon  it,  by  the  greatest  and  best  of 
mankind  !*  What  other  government, 
in  ancient  or  modern  times,  could 
have  withstood  the  tempest  which  it 
has  now,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  triumph- 
antly weathered  ?  Where  shall  we 
find,  in  the  energy  of  democratic  or 
the  tranquillity  of  despotic  states,  a 
conservative  strength,  a  renewing 
power,  an  inextinguishable  vigour, 
comparable  to  what  it  has  now  dis- 
played ?  Before  the  hurricane  which 
the  Standard  of  England  has  rode 
out,  the  despotism  of  Russia  would 
have  been  prostrated,  and  the  de- 
mocracy of  France  rent  in  shreds. 

The  extraordinary  ability,  the  mo- 
ral courage,  the  magnanimous  disin- 
terestednessd.isplayed  by  the  British 
Peers,  were  the  direct  and  immediate 
consequence  of  the  intermixture  of 
plebeian  ability  with  aristocratic  fei-1- 
ing  in  their  ranks ;  and  the  fortunate 
exertions  to  which  the  youth  of  the 
nobility  are  driven  to  maintain  their 
ground  against  the  incessant  pres- 
sure of  talent  from  the  lower  classes 
of  society.  It  is  in  this  circumstance 
of  inestimable  importance,  that  the 
real  cause  of  the  elastic  vigour  of 
the  British  aristocracy  is  to  be  found. 
Who  were  the  men  who  have  stood 
forth  pre-eminent  in  this  memorable 
contest  ?  The  Duke  of  Wellington, 
trained  to  exertion  in  the  wars  ol 
India  and  the  fields  of  Spain ;  Lord 
Harrowby,  bred  in  laborious  exer- 
tion in  domestic  government ;  Lord 


*  Not  ten  of  the  majority  had  any  borough  influence  either  to  lose  or  gain  by 
the  bill. 


1831.]         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


760 


Eldon,  whose  great  abilities  forced 
him  from  a  humble  station  to  the 
Chancellorship  of  England ;  Lord 
Lyndhurst,  whose  talents  pressed 
through  the  terrible  competition  of 
the  English  bar;  Lord  WharnclifFe, 
long  a  tried  and  experienced  debater 
in  the  Lower  House ;  Lord  Wynford, 
once  the  able  leader  of  the  Southern 
Circuit.  It  is  the  competition  with 
such  men ;  the  incessant  measuring 
of  their  strength  with  the  greatest 
abilities  which  the  Commons  can 
produce ;  the  long  and  stormy  edu- 
cation in  the  Lower  House  of  Par- 
liament, which  developes  the  intel- 
lectual powers  of  the  English  nobility; 
and  compels  even  those,  bred  in  the 
lap  of  wealth  and  luxury,  to  submit 
to  the  severe  labour,  and  strenuous 
exertion,  by  which  alone  greatness 
in  any  walk  of  life  is  to  be  attained. 
We  admire,  as  much  as  any  men,  the 
dignified  energy  of  Lord  Dudley, 
the  manly  vehemence  of  Lord  Win- 
chelsea,  the  ardent  eloquence  of 
Lord  Carnarvon ;  but  we  cannot  for- 
get that,  but  for  the  salutary  inter- 
mixture of  plebeian  ability,  their 
great  powers  might  have  lain  dor- 
mant ;  and  the  talents  which  have 
now  saved  a  nation,  been  wasted  in 
the  frivolity  and  dissipation  of  fa- 
shionable life. 

One  deplorable  effect  of  the  Re- 
form bill  would  have  been,  that  it 
threatened  to  extinguish  this  colli- 
sion of  the  aristocracy  with  the  de- 
mocracy ;  and  by  vesting  the  powers 
of  government  practically  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  consign  the 
Peers  to  that  life  of  frivolous  plea- 
sure and  inglorious  ease,  which  con- 
stitutes at  once  the  disgrace  and 
the  weakness  of  continental  states. 
Young  men,  of  noble  blood  or  inde- 
pendent feelings,  would  have  disdain- 
ed to  seek  admission  into  the  Lower 
House,  when  it  could  be  obtained 
only  by  pandering  to  the  diseased 
appetites  and  insatiable  ambition  of 
a  fierce  and  vain  democracy;  or,  if 
they  had  submitted  to  the  degrada- 
tion, they  would,  as  in  ancient  Rome, 
have  generally  proved  unsuccessful. 
The  nobles  of  England  would  have 
retired  in  indignant  silence  to  their 
palaces  or  their  estates, — the  career 
of  usefulness  would  have  been  closed 


to  their  ambition, — the  attractions  of 
pleasure  have  drawn  them  into  its 
whirlpool.  Even  although  the  House 
of  Peers  had  not  been  formally  abo- 
lished, as  in  the  days  of  Cromwell, 
by  the  fury  of  democratic  ambition, 
its  power  and  its  usefulness  would 
have  been  at  an  end ;  deprived  of  the 
feeders  to  its  ability,  its  weight  in 
the  constitution,  its  power  of  regu- 
lating the  machine  of  government,  its 
moral  courage  and  capacity  for  ex- 
ertion would  have  incessantly  de- 
clined, and  the  practical  extinction 
of  the  third  estate  left  the  Crown 
in  open  and  hopeless  hostility  with 
republican  ambition. 

"  When  it  was  put  to  the  members 
of  the  French  Convention  to  say, 
whether  Louis  was  guilty  or  inno- 
cent, the  Assembly  unanimously  vo- 
ted him  guilty;  and  those  who  wish- 
ed to  save  him,  ventured  only  to  di- 
vide upon  the  subordinate  question, 
whether  there  should  be  an  appeal 
to  the  people.  Upon  a  question," 
say  s  the  republican  Mignet,"  on  wh  ich 
posterity  will  unananimously  decide 
one  way,  the  Assembly  unanimously 
decided  another."*  We  quoted  this 
in  July  last,  but  recent  events  have 
strikingly  demonstrated  its  applica- 
tion to  these  times.  Such  are  the  sla- 
vish shackles  in  which  democratic 
ambition  retains  its  representation. 
Servility  worse  than  that  of  the  se- 
nate of  Tiberius ;  pliancy  more  dis- 
graceful than  that  of  Henry's  parlia- 
ments ;  injustice  more  crying  than 
the  executions  of  Nero,  were  openly 
displayed  by  an  Assembly  in  the  first 
transports  of  revolutionary  zeal,  and 
with  the  words  of  justice  and  liberty 
incessantly  on  their  lips.  The  fierce, 
supporters  of  new-born  equality,  the 
ardent  disclaimers  against  regal  op- 
pression, were  constrained  to  an  act 
of  unanimous  injustice,  as  shameful 
as  ever  stained  the  seraglio  of  a 
Turkish  despot. 

Whence  is  it  that  liberty  is  so  com- 
pletely extinguished  by  the  first  tri- 
umph of  democracy ;  that  the  power 
of  deliberation  is  so  soon  taken  away 
from  the  delegates  of  the  people ; 
that  clubs  and  committees  usurp  j,he 
real  powers  of  government,  mid  the 
nominal  legislature  is  so  easily  per- 
mitted only  to  register  the  edicts  of 


VOL.  XXX,  NO,  CLXXXVII. 


*  Mignet,  i.  372. 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.        [Nov. 


770 

ignorant  demagogues  ?  Because  the 
balance  of  government  is  at  an  end ; 
because  democratic  has  become  as 
imperious  as  regal  power ;  because 
the  manyheaded  monster  is  as  impa- 
tient of  control  upon  his  passions  as 
the  single  tyrant  of  Eastern  infamy. 
Truth  ia  as  little  heard  in  the  halls  of 
democracy  as  in  the  antechambers  of 
princes,  and  the  guillotine  of  the  po- 
pulace soon  becomes  as  effectual  a 
gtifler  as  the  bowstring  of  the  sultan. 

Symptoms  of  this  terrible  ascend- 
ency were  beginning  to  display  them- 
selves during  the  late  revolutionary 
tempest  Not  only  did  the  imperious 
electors  generally  require  pledges 
from  their  representatives  as  to  their 
Totes  on  every  material  question, 
but  they  constituted  committees 
permanently  sitting  to  control  their 
conduct,  and  often  called,  them  to 
immediate  and  humiliating  account, 
if  they  deviated  in  the  slightest  de- 
gree from  their  commands.  The 
effect  of  this  fatal  assumption  of 
power  distinctly  appeared  in  the  de- 
bates of  the  Lower  House.  Not  only 
•were  they  distinguished  by  smaller 
ability,  but  incomparably  less  free- 
dom of  expression  or  independence 
of  thought  than  formerly  character- 
ised that  assembly.  The  reformers 
evidently  spoke  with  the  terrors  of 
popular  indignation  hanging  over 
their  heads,  and  the  knowledge  that 
a  single  unlucky  expression  might 
lose  them  their  seats  in  the  next  Par- 
liament. 

The  consequences  were  such  as  in 
every  age  of  the  world  have  attended, 
and  will  attend,  the  undue  and  de- 
grading exertion  of  authority.  Ge- 
nius deserted  the  reforming  ranks  ; 
she  shrunk  from  the  unholy  alliance 
with  violence  and  constraint;  learn- 
ing disdained  to  lend  its  treasures  to 
the  cause  of  oppression;  thought 
spurned  at  the  control  of  vulgar 
assemblies.  Those  who  felt  the 
powers  to  govern  would  not  submit 
to  be  governed.  Certainly  on  no 
former  occasion  was  the  cause  of 
reform  supported  by  such  large 
members  and  small  ability  in  the 
House  of  Commons.  With  the  ex- 
ception of  Mr  Macauley,  Mr  Sheil, 
Mr  Stanley,  and  Lord  Althorp,  who 
were  all  members  for  nomination 
boroughs  before  the  reform  tempest 
arose,  who  signalized  themselves  in 
its  support  in  the  Lower  House  ? 


The  democrats  were  triumphant  at 
the  elections ;  they  returned  a  great 
majority  in  their  own  interest;  the 
influence  of  property  was  overturn- 
ed; and  what  sort  of  rulers  have  they 
chosen  for  themselves?  Men  strong 
in  voting,  but  weak  in  arguing,  who 
could  advance  nothing  in  support  of 
their  measures,  who  shrunk  into  ob- 
scurity before  the  powerful  array  of 
talent  by  which  they  were  assailed 
from  the  Opposition  benches.  We 
speak  not  of  individuals,  we  allude 
to  the  general  consequences  of  mea- 
sures and  institutions.  The  weak- 
ness of  the  reformers  in  debate  was 
the  subject  of  incessant  obloquy  even 
from  their  own  supporters  in  the 
country ;  they  were  repeatedly  told 
by  the  most  vehement  of  the  reform- 
ing journals,  that  if  they  said  nothing 
night  after  night  to  counterbalance 
the  heart-stirring  speeches  with 
which  they  were  attacked,  the 
thoughtful  part  of  the  nation  would 
conclude  that  nothing  was,  because 
in  truth  nothing  could  be  said.  The 
cause  of  this  silence  is  to  be  found, 
not  in  the  impossibility  of  finding 
arguments  for  reform — for  enough, 
especially  on  the  popular  side,  can  be 
urged,  as  the  House  of  Peers  proved, 
in  its  support,  and  arguments  ad 
captandum  vulgus  suggest  themselves 
readily  enough  to  every  understand- 
ing— but  in  the  pupilage  In  which 
they  were  kept  by  their  constituents, 
and  the  eternal  law  of  nature,  that 
genius  never  will  be  found  in  ranks 
that  are  controlled. 

In  truth,  the  profession  of  a  states- 
man requires  as  long  a  course  of  pre- 
vious study,  as  extensive  experience, 
as  powerful  an  understanding,  as 
either  that  of  a  general,  a  lawyer,  or 
a  philosopher.  What  should  we  say, 
if  the  delegates  of  the  manufacturing 
towns  were  to  prescribe  to  a  general 
what  to  do  in  presence  of  the  enemy; 
if,  like  the  Presbyterian  preachers  of 
old,  the  popular  leaders  of  that  age, 
they  were  to  compel  him  to  abandon 
the  ridge  of  Lammermoor,  and  rush 
to  certain  destruction  in  the  fields  of 
Dunbar  ?  What  sort  of  figure  would 
the  democratic  leaders  exhibit  in 
pleading  a  case  with  the  Sugdens, 
the  Scarlets,  the  Denmans  of  the  day? 
What  progress  would  they  make  in 
science  with  the  Davys,  the  D'Alem- 
berts,  or  the  La  Places  of  the  age  ? 
And  yet,  does  not  the  science  of1  go- 


1831.]         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


vernment,  the  historical  information 
on  which  it  was  founded,  the  minute 
investigation  of  facts  which  it  re- 
quires, absolutely  demand  at  least 
as  long,  as  laborious,  and  as  uninter- 
rupted a  course  of  study,  as  either 
the  vocation  of  the  soldier,  the  plead- 
ings of  the  lawyer,  or  the  researches 
of  the  philosopher  ? 

This  is  the  reason  why  the  nomi- 
nation boroughs  have  always  been 
the  channel  by  which  the  greatest 
ability  in  every  age  has  found  its  way 
into  the  House  of  Commons.  Men 
of  real  talent,  of  studious  habits,  of 
unassuming  worth,  disdain  the  ser- 
vility, the  intemperance,  and  vehe- 
mence requisite  to  gain  the  suffrages 
of  a  popular  body  of  electors :  rare- 
ly do  they  select  a  really  great  man, 
because  rarely  will  a  really  great 
man  submit  to  solicit  their  support. 
When  they  do  so,  it  is  not  so  much 
for  the  qualities  which  adorn  as  those 
which  disfigure  him,  not  for  those 
which  make  him  an  useful  but  a 
turbulent  member  of  the  legisla- 
ture. It  was  not  Mr  Fox,  the  learned 
historian,  the  accomplished  scholar, 
the  wise  and  cautious  legislator^  that 
the  electors  of  Westminster  return- 
ed j  but  Mr  Fox  the  popular  orator, 
the  vehement  declaimer,the  intempe- 
rate supporter  of  democratic  power. 
It  was  not  Mr  Canning,  the  eloquent 
debater,  the  firm  patriot,  the  intrepid 
statesman,  that  the  Liverpool  free- 
men selected  j  but  Mr  Canning  the 
skilful  flatterer,  the  popular  declaim- 
er,  the  lavish  dispenser  of  govern- 
ment patronage.  The  case  has  been 
the  case  in  every  age,  from  the  days 
of  Pericles  and  Cleon,  to  those  of 
Mirabeau  and  Robespierre. 

Experience  has  proved  that  the 
control  of  a  single,  is  much  less  severe 
than  that  of  a  multitude  of  despots ; 
that  freedom  of  thought,  generosity 
of  sentiment,  vigour  of  genius,  is 
incomparably  better  preserved  un- 
der the  nomination  of  a  single  than 
the  control  of  a  host  of  electors.  The 
reason  is  apparent,  and  being  found- 
ed in  the  principles  of  human  nature, 
will  continue  the  same  to  the  end  of 
the  world.  Power  is  never  so  un- 
mercifully exercised  as  by  those  who 
are  least  habituated  to  it.  The  right 
of  control  is  so  dear  to  none  as  to 
those  who  have  escaped  from  the 
control  of  others.  A  Minister  or  a 
general  is  frequently  indifferent  to 


771 

the  exercise  of  power ;  a  town  coun- 
cil, a  presbytery,  a  bench  of  justices, 
invariably  grasp  at  it  \vith  undecay- 
ing  tenacity.  The  patron  of  a  nomi- 
nation borough  will  probably  appoint 
those  only  who  agree  with  him  on  a 
few  leading  points  of  policy,  but  he 
will  attempt  no  farther  control  over 
them,  and  indolence  in  the  general 
case  will  prevent  any  vexatious  or 
degrading  exercise  of  power ;  the  im- 
perious commanders  of  a  popular 
delegate,  never  cease  to  shackle  and 
control  their  representative,  because 
the  principle  of  democratic  ambition 
is  perpetually  alive  in  their  undecay- 
ing  numbers. 

Is  it  then  expedient  that  all  the  re- 
presentatives in  Parliament  should 
be  appointed  by  individuals,  or  small 
classes  of  men,  because  numerous 
bodies  of  electors  are  incapable  of 
duly  exercising  their  powers  ?  Quite 
the  reverse ;  it  is  from  the  combina- 
tion of  the  two  that  the  true  compo- 
sition of  a  Parliament  is  to  be  drawn. 
The  vehement  declaimers,  the  intem- 
perate orators,  the  democratic  lead- 
ers, are  appointed  by  the  popular 
bodies;  while  the  great  statesmen, 
the  able  Ministers,  the  learned  legis- 
lators, flow  from  the  selection  of  the 
superior  and  more  select  classes  of 
society.  The  one  set  forms  the  lead- 
ers qualified  to  govern;  the  other 
the  partisans  fitted  to  watch  the  go- 
vernors :  government,  without  the 
one,  would  decline  into  despotism; 
without  the  other, it  would  give  place 
to  anarchy. 

Lord  Brougham  said,  in  the  debate 
in  the  House  of  Lords,  that  the  great 
advantage  of  a  representative  form 
of  government  consists  in  this,  that 
it  prevented  the  popular  voice  from 
immediately  influencing  the  legisla- 
ture, and  placed  the  destinies  of  the 
nation  in  the  hands  of  those  who, 
from  their  habits,  are  fitted  to  deli- 
berate. The  observation  is  perfectly 
just,  and  has  been  made  in  every  age ; 
but  how  does  it  tally  with  the  imperi- 
ous control  and  system  of  pledges 
now  adopted  by  the  democratic  bo- 
dies ?  Where  is  the  difference  be- 
tween the  actual  vesting  of  the  legis- 
lative power  in  the  whole  electors  at 
once,  and  the  vesting  it  in  delegates, 
who  are  bound  to  obey  instructions, 
or  consult  committees,  on  every  im- 
portant occasion  ?  Great  bodies,  he 
admitted,  cannot  deliberate ;  yet  he 


772  On  Parliamentary  Reform 

strenuously  advocated  a  measure  cal- 
culated to  increase  immensely  the 
influence  of  great  bodies  in  the  legis- 
lature, and  to  augment  the  already 
baneful  control  exercised  by  the  im- 
perious electors  upon  their  repre- 
sentatives. Had  the  measure  proved 
successful  j  had  the  firmness  of  the 
Peers  not  averted  its  ruinous  effects ; 
what  could  have  been  anticipated, 
but  that  in  proportion  as  the  power 
of  the  Lower  House  was  augmented, 
its  usefulness  would  have  been  dimi- 
nished, and  that  the  whole  blessings 
of  a  representative  assembly  would 
have  been  lost  by  the  substitution  of 
a  direct  democracy  in  its  stead  ? 

The  success  of  the  Reform  bill, 
therefore,  would  have  been  the  cer- 
tain prelude  to  the  immediate  degra- 
dation and  ultimate  destruction  of 
the  House  of  Commons.  When  that 
body  becomes  mainly  influenced  by 
demagogues  and  delegates  ;  when 
vehement  declamation  is  the  general 
passport  to  its  ranks;  when  intempe- 
rate abuse,  adapted  to  the  meridian 
of  the  galleries,  takes  the  place  of 
sober  wisdom  suited  to  the  pit  of  the 
nation,  there  is  an  end  not  only  of 
its  usefulness  but  of  its  independ- 
ent existence.  The  respectable,  the 
thoughtful,  the  influential  classes, 
will  desert  the  legislature,  as  they 
have  long  ago  done  in  America,  and 
the  walls  of  St  Stephens  will  be  occu- 
pied, ?is  the  halls  of  Congress,  by  the 
hired  delegates  of  separate  interests, 
or  the  noisy  flatterers  of  democratic 
passion.  The  power  of  reason  will  no 
longer  be  felt,  because  it  will  be  ex- 
tinguished by  that  of  faction;  and  the 
voice  of  eloquence  no  longer  heard, 
because  it  will  strive  in  vain  against 
that  of  selfishness.  It  need  not  be 
told  to  what  that  state  of  government 
is  a  prelude;  the  great  interests  of  a 
nation  cannot  permanently  be  ne- 
glected ;  a  reaction  in  favour  of  a 
strong  government  will  ensue  from 
the  sufl'ering  which  anarchy  has  in- 
duced, and  imperial  power  unani- 
mously be  sought,  as  in  ancient  Rome, 
as  the  only  refuge  from  the  tempests 
of  democratic  ambition. 

On  the  other  hand,  how  striking  a 
contrastto  the  vehement  declamation, 
but  intellectual  weakness,  of  most  of 
the  reforming  orators  in  the  public 
meetings  do  the  debates  on  the  same 
subject  in  the  House  of  Lords  afford  ? 
What  niunlinesa  of  thought,  what 


and  the  French  Revolution.        [Nov. 

vigour  of  expression,  what  truth  of 
observation!  Things  were  there  call- 
ed by  their  right  names ;  no  trimming 
to  meet  the  ideas  of  vigilant  elec- 
tors, was  to  be  seen.  This  points 
out  another  important  effect  of  the 
House  of  Peers  in  moments  such  as 
the  present,  when,  from  violent 
excitement,  the  higher  orders  are, 
generally  speaking,  on  one  side, 
and  the  lower  on  another.  With- 
out such  an  assembly,  without  a  body 
of  legislators,  independent  alike  of 
the  Crown  and  the  people,  the  lan- 
guage of  truth  could  not  be  heard  ; 
freedom  of  national  debate  could  not 
exist.  Here  again  the  wisdom  of 
the  English  constitution  manifests 
itself.  It  is  its  hereditary  and  inde- 
pendent nature,  which  constitutes  the 
great  value  of  the  Upper  House,  as  it 
did  of  the  Roman  Senate.  If  the  House 
of  Lords  had  been  nominated,  as  is 
proposed  in  France,  by  the  Crown; 
if  elected,  as  in  America,  by  the  peo- 
ple; they  would  have  been  affected 
by  the  servility  of  the  court,  or  tin- 
ged by  the  passions  of  the  multitude. 
Or  had  they  been  elected  by  either 
of  these  powers,  or  by  both  com- 
bined, could  the  British  Peers  have 
withstood  the  portentous  union  of 
the  Ministry  with  the  populace,  which 
has  lately  taken  place  'P  If  the  con- 
stitution is  saved,  it  is  entirely  in 
consequence  of  the  votes  of  men 
who  were  exempt  by  their  situation 
from  dependence  on  the  one,  or 
election  by  the  other. 

It  has  been  often  said,  that  if  the 
journals  in  America  combine  against 
any  individual,  how  virtuous,  able, 
or  upright,  or  innocent  soever,  they 
can  succeed  in  driving  him  out  of 
the  Union.  To  what  cause  is  it  ow- 
ing that  we  have  not  05  yet  arrived 
at  that  state  of  submission  to  jour- 
nals, and  slavery  to  the  leaders  of 
reading  folly  ?  Chiefly  to  this,  that 
we  possess  in  the  Upper  House  a 
body  of  men  influential  from  their 
property,  indomitable  from  their  cou- 
rage, leading  from  their  ability.  They 
cannot  be  intimidated  or  borne  down 
by  the  vehemence  of  public  delu- 
sion ;  and  from  their  ranks  the  voice 
of  truth  fearlessly  emanates,  when 
it  is  scarcely  heard  from  any  other 
quarter  in  the  state.  If  the  Ameri- 
cans possessed  such  a  body,  the 
baneful  influence  of  journals  would 
still  there  be  restricted  j  when  Eng- 


183L]        On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


laud  loses  it,  the  freedom  of  discus- 
sion will  expire,  and  the  despotism 
of  the  mob  obtain  a  brief  reign,  till  it 
is  succeeded  by  that  of  the  s\vord. 

"  It  is  a  melancholy  truth,"  says 
Jefferson,  "  that  a  suppression  of  the 
press  could  not  more  completely 
deprive  the  nation  of  its  benefits, 
than  is  done  in  this  country  by  its 
abandoned  prostitution  to  falsehood. 
Nothing  can  now  be  believed  which 
is  seen  in  a  newspaper.  Truth  itself 
becomes  suspicious  from  being  put 
Into  that  polluted  vehicle.  I  deplore 
the  putrid  state  into  which  our  news- 
papers have  fallen,  and  the  malignity, 
vulgarity,  and  mendacious  spirit  of 
those  who  write  for  them.  These 
ordures  are  rapidly  depraving  the 
public  taste,  and  lessening  the  relish 
for  sound  food.  As  vehicles  for 
information,  and  a  curb  on  our  func- 
tionaries, they  have  rendered  them- 
selves useless  by  forfeiting  all  title 
to  belief."*  Such  is  the  state  into 
which,  according  to  the  testimony  of 
the  Republican  president,  the  demo- 
cratic press  of  America  has  fallen. 
What  has  as  yet  given  it  a  more  ele- 
vated character  in  this  country  ?  The 
influence  of  the  hereditary  Peers,  and 
the  voice  of  truth  which  yet  emanates 
from  their  walls. 

The  case  of  Scotland  has  been  al- 
luded to  on  both  sides  in  the  House 
of  Lords,  during  the  Reform  debate, 
in  terms  calculated  to  make  every 
thoughtful  man  hesitate  as  to  the 
change  so  generally  thought  necessa- 
ry in  its  internal  government. 

"  I  must  repeat,"  said  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,  in  the  words  of  Lord 
Liverpool,  "  that  Scotland  is  the  best 
conditioned  country  in  the  world ; 
I  believe  I  may  also  say,  that  it  is 
the  best  governed ;  at  least,  I  am 
sure  it  has  been  one  of  the  most 
prosperous  during  the  last  sixty  or 
seventy  years."-f-  "  All  I  can  say," 
said  Lord  Lansdown,  "  is  that,  as  to 
the  prosperity  of  Scotland,  I  per- 
fectly agree  with  the  noble  Duke. 
There  is  no  person  who  has  had  an 
opportunity  of  witnessing  the  condi- 
tion of  that  country,  who  is  not  aware 
that  Scotland  exhibits  a  most  stri- 
king specimen  of  glorious  civilisa- 
tion. We  all  know  that  it  has  its 
Edinburgh,  the  centre  of  science  and 


773 

civilisation,  that  it  has  its  Glasgow, 
which  has  covered  the  Clyde  with 
its  steamboats,  and  studded  the  At- 
lantic with  its  ships;  but  who  is  the 
man  that  will  tell  me  gravely,  that 
this  is  the  consequence  of  dues  and 
superiorities  ?  The  only  superiority 
which  I  can  discover  in  Scotland  is 
the  superiority  of  unrepresented 
education,  that  superiority  which  it 
is  the  object  of  this  bill  to  introduce 
into  the  legislature."  We  answer 
that  this  prosperous  state,  admitted 
on  both  sides,  is  in  a  great  degree 
owing  to  the  state  of  its  internal  go- 
vernment. This  position  is  at  vari- 
ance with  the  opinions  and  preju- 
dices of  the  age.  Let  the  following 
considerations  be  attended  to  before 
it  is  laid  aside  as  untenable. 

Scotland,  say  the  reformers,  has 
thriven,  not  in  consequence  of  its 
government,  but  in  spite  of  its  go- 
vernment; it  is  English  legislation 
which  has  done  that  for  its  inhabit- 
ants which  they  never  could  have 
obtained  from  their  own  institutions. 
Let  us  see  how  this  mode  of  reason- 
ing would  do  in  ordinary  life. 

A  traveller  enters  the  Torrid  Zone  ; 
he  beholds  the  rich  luxuriance  and 
life-teeming  vegetation  of  tropical 
climates ;  he  gazes  on  the  splendid 
plumage  of  the  birds,  the  novel  form 
of  the  plants,  the  giant  growth  of  the 
trees ;  he  sees  the  natives  reclining 
in  indolent  ease  beneath  the  shade 
of  the  cocoa,  the  alligators  basking 
in  the  slime  of  the  rivers,  the  ele- 
phants breaking  through  the  covert 
of  the  forest;  he  is  thrown  into  rap- 
tures by  the  vivifying  powers  of 
the  Southern  warmth,  but  he  is 
checked  by  the  answer,  "  This  is  not 
in  consequence  of  the  sun,  but  in 
spite  of -the  sun." 

He  is  borne  to  the  regions  of  the 
Frozen  Zone;  he  beholds  the  bleak 
mountains  loaded  with  snow,  and 
the  cold  ocean  floating  with  ice ;  he 
admires  the  multitudes  of  birds  which 
darken  the  air,  and  the  innumerable 
fishes  which  people  the  sea ;  he  sees 
the  natives  crowding  round  a  blaxiug 
fire,  and  the  long  nights  of  winter 
enlivened  by  the  exploits  of  the  spear 
and  the  harpoon ;  he  is  led  into  re- 
flections on  the  bounty  of  Nature, 
which  has  thus  provided  not  only 
mthjq  odi  ai  eioJjno  snrtmo'ten 


*  Jefferson's  Memoirs,  IV.  38. 


t  Debate  on  Reform  Bill. 


772  On  Parliamentary  Reform 

strenuously  advocated  a  measure  cal- 
culated to  increase  immensely  the 
influence  of  great  bodies  in  the  legis- 
lature, and  to  augment  the  already 
baneful  control  exercised  by  the  im- 
perious electors  upon  their  repre- 
sentatives. Had  the  measure  proved 
successful  |  had  the  firmness  of  the 
Peers  not  averted  its  ruinous  eftecte ; 
what  could  have  been  anticipated, 
but  that  in  proportion  as  the  power 
of  the  Lower  House  was  augmented, 
its  usefulness  would  have  been  dimi- 
nished, and  that  the  whole  blessings 
of  a  representative  assembly  would 
have  been  lost  by  the  substitution  of 
a  direct  democracy  in  its  stead  ? 

The  success  of  the  Reform  bill, 
therefore,  would  have  been  the  cer- 
tain prelude  to  the  immediate  degra- 
dation and  ultimate  destruction  of 
the  House  of  Commons.  When  that 
body  becomes  mainly  influenced  by 
demagogues  and  delegates  ;  when 
vehement  declamation  is  the  general 
passport  to  its  ranks;  when  intempe- 
rate abuse,  adapted  to  the  meridian 
of  the  galleries,  takes  the  place  of 
sober  wisdom  suited  to  the  pit  of  the 
nation,  there  is  an  end  not  only  of 
its  useful  ness  but  of  its  independ- 
ent existence.  The  respectable,  the 
thoughtful,  the  influential  classes, 
will  desert  the  legislature,  as  they 
have  long  ago  done  in  America,  and 
the  walls  of  St  Stephens  will  be  occu- 
pied, as  the  halls  of  Congress,  by  the 
hired  delegates  of  separate  interests, 
or  the  noisy  flatterers  of  democratic 
passion.  The  power  of  reason  will  no 
longer  be  felt,  because  it  will  be  ex- 
tinguished by  that  of  faction;  and  the 
voice  of  eloquence  no  longer  heard, 
because  it  will  strive  in  vain  against 
that  of  selfishness.  It  need  not  be 
told  to  what  that  state  of  government 
is  a  prelude;  the  great  interests  of  a 
nation  cannot  permanently  be  ne- 
glected ;  a  reaction  in  favour  of  a 
strong  government  will  ensue  from 
the  buffering  which  anarchy  has  in- 
duced, and  imperial  power  unani- 
mously be  sought,  as  in  ancient  Rome, 
as  the  only  refuge  from  the  tempests 
of  democratic  ambition. 

On  the  other  hand,  how  striking  a 
contrasttothevehementdeclamation, 
but  intellectual  weakness,  of  most  of 
the  reforming  orators  in  the  public 
meetings  do  the  debates  on  the  same 
subjeet  in  the  House  of  Lords  aft'ord  ? 
What  manliness  of  thought,  what 


and  the  French  Revolution.        [Nov. 

vigour  of  expression,  what  truth  of 
observation!  Things  were  there  call- 
ed by  their  right  names ;  no  trimming 
to  meet  the  ideas  of  vigilant  elec- 
tors, was  to  be  seen.  This  points 
out  another  important  effect  of  the 
House  of  Peers  in  moments  such  as 
the  present,  when,  from  violent 
excitement,  the  higher  orders  are, 
generally  speaking,  on  one  side, 
and  the  lower  on  another.  With- 
out such  an  assembly,  without  a  body 
of  legislators,  independent  alike  of 
the  Crown  and  the  people,  the  lan- 
guage of  truth  could  not  be  heard  ; 
freedom  of  national  debate  could  not 
exist.  Here  again  the  wisdom  of 
the  English  constitution  manifests 
itself.  It  is  its  hereditary  and  inde- 
pendent nature,  which  constitutes  the 
great  value  of  the  Upper  House,  as  it 
did  of  the  Roman  Senate.  If  the  House 
of  Lords  had  been  nominated,  as  is 
proposed  in  France,  by  the  Crown; 
if  elected,  as  in  America,  by  the  peo- 
ple; they  would  have  been  affected 
by  the  servility  of  the  court,  or  tin- 
ged by  the  passions  of  the  multitude. 
Or  had  they  been  elected  by  either 
of  these  powers,  or  by  both  com- 
bined, could  the  British  Peers  have 
withstood  the  portentous  union  of 
the  Ministry  with  the  populace,  which 
has  lately  taken  place  ?  If  the  con- 
stitution is  saved,  it  is  entirely  in 
consequence  of  the  votes  of  men 
who  were  exempt  by  their  situation 
from  dependence  on  the  one,  or 
election  by  the  other. 

It  has  been  often  said,  that  if  the 
journals  in  America  combine  against 
any  individual,  how  virtuous,  able, 
or  upright,  or  innocent  soever,  they 
can  succeed  in  driving  him  out  of 
the  Union.  To  what  cause  is  it  ow- 
ing that  we  have  not  as  yet  arrived 
at  that  state  of  submission  to  jour- 
nals, and  slavery  to  the  leaders  of 
reading  folly  ?  Chiefly  to  this,  that 
we  possess  in  the  Upper  House  a 
body  of  men  influential  from  their 
property, indomitable  from  their  cou- 
rage, leading  from  their  ability.  They 
cannot  be  intimidated  or  borne  down 
by  the  vehemence  of  public  delu- 
sion ;  and  from  their  ranks  the  voice 
of  truth  fearlessly  emanates,  when 
it  is  scarcely  heard  from  any  other 
quarter  in  the  state.  If  the  Ameri- 
cans possessed  such  a  body,  the 
baneful  influence  of  journals  would 
still  there  be  restricted  j  when  Eng- 


183L]         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.  773 


laud  loses  it,  the  freedom  of  discus- 
sion Will  expire,  and  the  despotism 
of  the  mob  obtain  a  brief  reign,  till  it 
is  succeeded  by  that  of  the  sword. 

"  It  is  a  melancholy  truth,"  says 
Jefferson,  "  that  a  suppression  of  the 
press  could  not  more  completely 
deprive  the  nation  of  its  benefits, 
than  is  done  in  this  country  by  its 
abandoned  prostitution  to  falsehood. 
Nothing  can  now  be  believed  which 
is  seen  in  a  newspaper.  Truth  itself 
becomes  suspicious  from  being  put 
into  that  polluted  vehicle.  I  deplore 
the  putrid  state  into  which  our  news- 
papers have  fallen,  and  the  malignity, 
vulgarity,  and  mendacious  spirit  of 
those  who  write  for  them.  These 
ordures  are  rapidly  depraving  the 
public  taste,  and  lessening  the  relish 
for  sound  food.  As  vehicles  for 
information,  and  a  curb  on  our  func- 
tionaries, they  have  rendered  them- 
selves useless  by  forfeiting  all  title 
to  belief."*  Such  is  the  state  into 
which,  according  to  the  testimony  of 
the  Republican  president,  the  demo- 
cratic press  of  America  has  fallen. 
What  has  as  yet  given  it  a  more  ele- 
vated character  inthis  country  ?  The 
influence  of  the  hereditary  Peers,  and 
the  voice  of  truth  which  yet  emanates 
from  their  walls. 

The  case  of  Scotland  has  been  al- 
luded to  on  both  sides  in  the  House 
of  Lords,  during  the  Reform  debate, 
in  terms  calculated  to  make  every 
thoughtful  man  hesitate  as  to  the 
change  so  generally  thought  necessa- 
ry in  its  internal  government. 

"  I  must  repeat,"  said  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,  in  the  words  of  Lord 
Liverpool,  "  that  Scotland  is  the  best 
conditioned  country  in  the  world ; 
I  believe  I  may  also  say,  that  it  is 
the  best  governed ;  at  least,  I  am 
sure  it  has  been  one  of  the  most 
prosperous  during  the  last  sixty  or 
seventy  years."f  "  All  I  can  say," 
said  Lord  Lansdown,  "  is  that,  as  to 
the  prospei'ity  of  Scotland,  I  per- 
fectly agree  with  the  noble  Duke. 
There  is  no  person  who  has  had  an 
opportunity  of  witnessing  the  condi- 
tion of  that  country,  who  is  not  aware 
that  Scotland  exhibits  a  most  stri- 
king specimen  of  glorious  civilisa- 
tion. We  all  know  that  it  has  its 
Edinburgh,  the  centre  of  science  and 


civilisation,  that  it  has  its  Glasgow, 
which  has  covered  the  Clyde  with 
its  steamboats,  and  studded  the  At- 
lantic with  its  ships;  but  who  id  the 
man  that  will  tell  me  gravely,  that 
this  is  the  consequence  of  dues  and 
superiorities  ?  The  only  superiority 
which  I  can  discover  in  Scotland  is 
the  superiority  of  unrepresented 
education,  that  superiority  which  it 
is  the  object  of  this  bill  to  introduce 
into  the  legislature."  We  answer 
that  this  prosperous  state,  admitted 
on  both  sides,  is  in  a  great  degree 
owing  to  the  state  of  its  internal  go- 
vernment. This  position  is  at  vari- 
ance with  the  opinions  and  preju- 
dices of  the  age.  Let  the  following 
considerations  be  attended  to  before 
it  is  laid  aside  as  untenable. 

Scotland,  say  the  reformers,  has 
thriven,  not  in  consequence  of  its 
government,  but  in  spite  of  its  go- 
vernment; it  is  English  legislation 
which  has  done  that  for  its  inhabit- 
ants which  they  never  could  have 
obtained  from  their  own  institutions. 
Let  us  see  how  this  mode  of  reason- 
ing would  do  in  ordinary  life. 

A  traveller  enters  the  Torrid  Zone  ; 
he  beholds  the  rich  luxuriance  and 
life-teeming  vegetation  of  tropical 
climates ;  he  gazes  on  the  splendid 
plumage  of  the  birds,  the  novel  form 
of  the  plants,  the  giant  growth  of  the 
trees;  he  sees  the  natives  reclining 
in  indolent  ease  bencjith  the  shade 
of  the  cocoa,  the  alligators  basking 
in  the  slime  of  the  rivers,  the  ele- 
phants breaking  through  the  covert 
of  the  forest;  he  is  thrown  into  rap- 
tures by  the  vivifying  powers  of 
the  Southern  warmth,  but  he  is 
checked  by  the  answer,  "  This  is  not 
in  consequence  of  the  sun,  but  in 
spite  of -the  sun." 

He  is  borne  to  the  regions  of  the 
Frozen  Zone;  he  beholds  the  bleak 
mountains  loaded  with  snow,  and 
the  cold  ocean  floating  with  ice ;  he 
admires  the  multitudes  of  birds  which 
darken  the  air,  and  the  innumerable 
fishes  which  people  the  sea ;  he  sees 
the  natives  crowding  round  a  blazing 
fire,  and  the  long  nights  of  winter 
enlivened  by  the  exploits  of  the  spear 
and  the  harpoon ;  he  is  led  into  re- 
flections on  the  bounty  of  Nature, 
which  has  thus  provided  not  only 


*  Jefferson's  Memoirs,  IV.  38. 


•f  Debate  on  Reform  Bill. 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.         [Nov. 


774 

the  support  of  life,  but  the  means  of 
happiness,  to  its  varied  progeny; 
but  he  is  told,  "  This  is  not  in  con- 
sequence of  cold,  but  in  spite  of 
cold." 

He  traverses  the  once  smiling 
shores  of  Turkey;  he  beholds  the 
undecaying  luxuriance  of  Nature  re- 
suming its  dominion  over  the  scene 
of  riches  and  cultivation ;  he  sees 
the  fallen  pillar  half  overgrown  with 
foliage,  and  the  ruined  temple  rising 
above  the  forest;  he  sees  plains,  once 
waving  with  harvest,  returning  to 
desolation,  and  cities,  once  the  thea- 
tre of  glorious  exploits,  crouching 
beneath  the  sword  of  barbarism ;  but 
he  is  checked  in  his  exclamations 
against  human  injustice  by  the  ob- 
servation, "  This  is  not  in  conse- 
quence of  oppression,  but  in  spite  of 
oppression." 

He  returns  to  the  shores  of  Britain 
—he  there  beholds  an  industrious 
people  covering  with  riches  a  barren 
land— he  sees  its  artisans  clothing 
the  world  with  their  fabrics,  and  its 
sailors  whitening  the  ocean  with 
their  fleets — he  beholds  its  valleys 
waving  with  harvests,  and  its  moun- 
tains clothed  with  flocks — its  cities 
teeming  with  animation,  and  its 
harbours  crowded  with  masts — its 
armies  radiant  with  glory,  and  its 
navy  redundant  with  might :  but 
when  he  ascribes  this  dazzling  spec- 
tacle to  the  liberty  it  has  enjoyed, 
he  is  told,  "  This  is  not  in  conse- 
quence of  freedom,  but  in  spite  of 
freedom." 

Any  person  who  should  reason  in 
this  manner  in  ordinary  life,  would  be 
considered  incapable  of  understand- 
ing what  he  was  discussing :  yet  a 
paradox  fully  as  great,  is  seriously 
put  forward,  as  the  foundation  of  a 
total  destruction  of  the  Scottish  con- 
stitution ! 

Scotland,  say  the  Reformers,  has 
certainly  thriven ;  but  it  has  not 
thriven  because  its  government  was 
good,  but  because  its  government- 
has  not  been  able  to  prevent  the  ex- 
pansion of  the  deep-rooted  seeds  of 
prosperity  which  other  causes  had 
•implanted  in  its  bosom.  Is  it  then 
BO  very  small  a  commendation  to 
political  institutions,  that  they  have 
not  prevented  the  nation  from  pros- 
pering ?  Have  the  Reformers  forgot 
the  maxim  of  Colbert— Laiayez  novs 


faire,  as  the  principle  of  beneficent 
legislation — have  they  forgotten  the 
doctrine  of  Mr  Smith,  that  the  best 
government  is  that  which  does  no- 
thing to  counteract  the  tendency  to 
improvement  which  arises  from  every 
man's  endeavour  to  better  his  own 
condition  ?  Did  the  government  of 
old  France,  or  does  the  government 
of  modern  Spain,  exhibit  no  tendency 
to  counteract  the  advancement  of 
those  countries  ?  In  truth,  it  is  never 
government  which  renders  or  can 
render  a  nation  prosperous ;  it  is 
the  exertions  of  its  own  subjects 
which  does  and  must  do  so :  and 
there  cannot  be  a  better  definition 
of  a  good  government,  than  that  it 
permits  the  efforts  of  individuals 
fully  to  swell  the  tide  of  public  pros- 
perity. To  say  the  government  of 
Scotland  is  bad,  but  the  efforts  of 
the  people  have  nevertheless  made 
the  nation  eminently  prosperous,  is 
to  assert  a  contradiction  in  terms. 

But  they  reply,  Scotland  is  not 
prosperous  from  the  institutions  of 
its  own  country,  but  it  is  prosperous 
from  the  infusion  of  English  free- 
dom, and  the  influence  of  English 
legislation.  If  this  be  the  real  cause 
of  our  happiness,  how  has  it  hap- 
pened that  Ireland,  which  has  enjoy- 
ed for  two  centuries  longer  than 
Scotland  the  blessings  of  that  legis- 
lation, is  still  in  so  miserable  a  state  ? 
How  does  it  happen  that  English 
ascendency,  which  has  fanned  Scot- 
land, according  to  them,  with  the  ze- 
phyrs of  springjhas  desolated  Ireland 
with  the  blast  of  destruction  ?  Or  if 
Scotland  has  contrived  to  make  Eng- 
land deal  towards  it  in  a  different 
way  from  the  conduct  adopted  to 
the  neighbouring  island,  from  what 
source  has  that  difference  sprung? 
Is  it  from  our  superior  natural  ad- 
vantages ?  The  answer  is  plain ;  Scot- 
land contains  20,000,000  acres  of 
mountain,  and  5,000,000  acres  of 
arable  land;  and  Ireland  contains 
5,000,000  acres  of  mountain,  and 
•20,000,000  of  the  richest  land.  Is  it 
from  superior  numbers?  Scotland 
has  hardly  a  quarter  of  the  Irish 
population.  Is  it  from  greater  inde- 
pendence and  advantages  of  situa- 
tion ?  Scotland  is  in  the  same  island 
with  England,  and  was  for  centuries 
exposed  to  the  direct  attack  of  its 
numerous  and  valiant  armies,  while 


1881.]         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


Ireland  had  the  inestimable  advan- 
tage of  an  arm  of  the  sea  lying  be- 
tween. It  is  in  vain  to  elude  the 
truth :  Scotland  has  prospered  in 
connexion  with  British  legislation, 
because  its  own  institutions  are  cal- 
culated to  make  a  nation  happy,  and 
they  have  nursed  a  spirit  which  pre- 
vented it  being  oppressed  by  its 
powerful  neighbour.  Ireland  has 
suffered  under  the  same  connexion, 
because  its  own  institutions  were  cal- 
culated to  make  its  people  miserable, 
and  they  have  not  developed  the 
spirit  calculated  to  temper  English 
ascendency. 

But  farther,  if  it  were  really  true 
that  the  unexampled  prosperity  of 
Scotland  is  to  be  ascribed,  notwith- 
standing its  own  vicious  institutions, 
to  English  influence,  what  must  be 
the  intrinsic  excellence  of  that  Eng- 
lish constitution,  which,  even  strug- 
gling with  such  disadvantages,  has 
produced  such  wonderful  effects  ? 
If  the  sun  of  English  freedom,  even 
when  shining  through  the  cold  mists 
and  drenching  rains  of  Scotch  aris- 
tocracy, has  been  able  to  vivify  and 
invigorate  this  barren  land,  what 
must  be  the  brightness  of  the  lumi- 
nary, what  the  warmth  of  its  rays, 
when  shining  in  its  own  firmament  ? 
The  worse  they  make  the  Scottish 
constitution,  when  they  admit  its 
prosperity,  the  more  admirable  must 
be  the  English,  since  it  could  neu- 
tralize its  effects :  and  the  more  that 
reform  is  required  in  this  country, 
the  less  is  any  change  necessary  in 
the  centre  of  British  freedom. 

But  when  our  reforming  legisla- 
tors, and  even  some  who  might  have 
known  better,  declared  that  Scotland 
had  owed  nothing  to  its  own  insti- 
tutions, and  that  its  prosperity  was 
entirely  to  be  ascribed  to  the  bene- 
ficent legislation  of  the  neighbour- 
ing kingdom,  that  no  spirit  of  free- 
dom ever  animated  its  people,  and 
that  gloomy  fanaticism  alone  brought 
them  into  the  field ;  these  gentle- 
men either  spoke  on  a  subject  of 
which  they  knew  nothing,  or  they 
concealed  a  knowledge  of  facts  des- 
tructive of  their  assertion. 

Have  these  gentlemen  forgotten 
that  the  tide  of  Norman  tyranny,  be- 
neath which  England  writhed  for 
centuries,  rolled  back  from  the  reso- 
luteresistance  of  Scottish  patriotism  : 
that  while  Norman  William  crushed 


775 

English  valour  in  a  single  battle,  Nor- 
man Edward  sought,  in  vain,  to  stifle 
the  unconquerable  spirit  of  Scottish 
independence;  that  the  greatest  army 
England  ever  sent  into  the  field,  was 
destroyed  by  a  Scottish  king,  and 
that  the  spearmen  of  Scotland  routed 
a  host  at  Bannockburn,  before  which 
the  chivalry  of  France  quailed  at 
Cressy  and  Agincourt  ? 

Have  they  forgotten,  that  Avhen 
the  Reformation  had  roused  the  spi- 
rit of  freedom  in  both  countries,  it 
was  Scottish  ardour  that  first  took 
the  field  :  that  years  before  a  sword 
was  drawn  in  England  on  the  patriot 
side,  or  the  royal  standard  waved  at 
Nottingham,  a  Scottish  army  had 
fearlessly  assembled,  routed  the  Eng- 
lish royalists  at  Newcastle,  and  dri- 
ven Charles  to  concession  at  York  : 
that  when  the  armies  of  the  Long 
Parliament  were  sinking  under  the 
efforts  of  the  cavaliers,  it  was  the 
arrival  of  22,000  Scottish  auxiliaries 
which  turned  the  scale,  and  gave  vic- 
tory to  the  arms  of  freedom  at  Mars- 
ton  Moor :  and  that,  but  for  the  fren- 
zy of  the  popular  demagogues  at  Dun- 
bar,  Scotland  would  nave  crushed 
the  despotism  of  the  Long  Parlia- 
ment, and  saved  England  from  the 
rule  of  Cromwell  ? 

Have  they  forgotten,  that  when 
tyranny  resumed  its  ascendency  un- 
der Charles  II.,  and  England  saw  in 
indignant  silence  the  blood  of  Sid- 
ney and  Russell  staining  its  scaffolds, 
the  Scottish  Covenanters  resolutely 
continued  the  contest,  and  exhibited, 
in  a  hopeless  struggle,  the  indomita- 
ble spirit  which  their  forefathers  had 
shewn  at  Stirling  and  Bannockburn : 
and  that  when  the  cup  of  national 
indignation  was  full,  and  James  was 
driven  from  the  throne,  while  the 
English  Parliament  only  ventured  to 
enact  that  the  throne  was  vacant, 
because  the  monarch  had  deserted  it, 
the  Scottish  estates  at  once  declared 
that  it  was  open  to  a  nation's  elec- 
tion because  he  had  forfeited  it  ? 

Have  they  forgotten,  that  when  the 
patriots  of  both  countries  set  them- 
selves to  establish  a  barrier  against 
arbitrary  imprisonment,  the  Scottish 
Parliament  devised  a  remedy  much 
more  effective,  and  much  more 
bold,  than  the  English  habeas  corpus 
act:  that  the  act  of  1701  is  open  to 
none  of  the  objections  of  the  English 
statute  ;  that  it  absolutely  excludes 


776  On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.         [Nov. 

imprisonment  in  every  case  beyond 


140  days  to  those  who  apply  for  its 
protection,  and  gives  a  degree  of 
security  to  the  subject,  which  Eng- 
lish liberty  has  never  yet  attained  ? 

Have  they  forgotten,  that  four  cen- 
turies* ago,  the  Scottish  Parliament 
conferred  absolute  security  on  the 
leaseholder  against  the  landlord  and 
his  successors  of  every  description; 
an  enactment,  says  Mr  Smith,  of 
"^euch  incalculable  importance,  that 
rt  is  sufficient  of  itself  to  account  for 
the  present  flourishing  state  of  Scot- 
tish agriculture,  and  conferred  a 
greater  blessing  on  the  people  than 
the  legislature  perhaps  of  any  other 
country  ever  conferred  on  its  sub- 
jects by  a  single  enactment  ?"f 

Have  they  forgotten,  that  two  cen- 
turies ago,J  the  Scottish  Parliament 
effectea  an  universal  and  equitable 
adjustment  of  ecclesiastical  proper- 
ty, which  has  ever  since  that  time 
prevented,  over  the  whole  country, 
the  vexation  arising  from  the  draw- 
ing of  the  tithe  in  kind :  and  that 
Scotland  obtained  for  itself,  even  in 
the  arbitrary  days  of  Charles  I.,  a 
complete  exemption  from  an  evil, 
which  the  English  and  Irish  patriots 
h^ve  laboured  in  vain  to  obtain  for 
their  people  up  to  this  hour  ? 

Have  they  forgotten,  that,  whereas 
the  unequal  division  of  ecclesiasti- 
cal estates,  and  the  weight  of  the 
hierarchy,  are  an  incessant  and  exist- 
ing eyesore  to  the  English  reformers, 
both  these  evils,  if  evils  they  are,  were 
abolished  250  years  ago  by  the  Scot- 
tish re  formers,  and  the  Presbyterian 
Cfrurch  established  on  a  footing  of  de- 
mocratic equality,  which  French  en- 
thusiasm has  not  surpassed,  and  Eng- 
lish democracy  laboured  in  vain  to 
attain  ? 

Have  they  forgotten,  that  while 
the  beneficial  intentions  of  the  Eng- 
lish Poor  Laws  have  been  defeated 
by  the  multitude  of  enactments 
which  have  grown  out  of  its  provi- 
sions, and  England  in  consequence 
labours  under  an  oppressive  and  in- 
extinguishable load  of  poor's  rates, 
the  relief  of  the  Scottish  poor  was 
settled  '250  years  ago,$  by  its  parlia- 
ment, with  such  wisdom,  that  abuse 
*tty  *Avpr  yet  fastened  upon  its  en- 


actments, nor  real  suffering  been  de- 
nied by  it  relief  ? 

Have  they  forgotten,  that  that  uni- 
versal system  of  parochial  education, 
which  it  is  the  glory  of  the  present 
age  to  have,  in  some  degree,  obtain- 
ed for  the  English  poor,  was  esta- 
blished 130  years  before  by  the  Scot- 
tish Parliament,  in  their  dominions  ;|| 
and  that  the  achievement,  which  it 
is  the  boast,  and  the  deserved  boast, 
of  Lord  Brougham,  to  have  partially 
effected  in  this  age,  was  completely 
effected  at  the  close  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  by  the  Scottish  legis- 
lators? 

Have  they  forgotten,  that  the  hu- 
mane spirit  which  the  benevolence 
of  Sir  Samuel  Romilly,  the  elo- 
quence of  Sir  J.  Mackintosh,  and  the 
wisdom  of  Sir  Robert  Peel,  have  suc- 
cessively endeavoured  to  introduce 
into  the  English  Criminal  Law,  was 
attained  three  centuries  ago  in  the 
Scottish  customary  practice  ;  that 
criminal  reform  has  never  here  been 
thought  of,  because  criminal  severi- 
ty never  existed ;  and  that  while  the 
crimes  punished  by  death  in  Eng- 
land, amount  to  above  three  hun- 
dred, those  capital  in  Scotland  are 
not  fifty,  of  which  above  one-half 
have  been  introduced  by  the  British 
Parliament  since  the  Union  ? 

Have  they  forgotten,  that  while 
the  land-rights  of  England  are  in- 
volved in  such  intricacy,  and  subject 
to  such  uncertainty,  that  there  is 
hardly  a  title  to  an  estate  in  the 
kingdom,  free  from  objection,  and 
the  greatest  powers  of  the  English 
Bar  are  now  engaged  in  its  amend- 
ment, those  of  Scotland,  founded 
on  a  system  of  public  register,  are 
comparatively  unexceptionable,  and 
have  never  given  rise  either  to  dis- 
order or  complaint;  and  that  Lord 
Brougham  on\y  proposes  to  establish 
for  England,  in  future,  that  complete 
system  of  registration,  which  two 
hundred  and  thirty  years  ago  was  in- 
troduced among  its  subjects  by  the 
wisdom  of  the  Scottish  Parliament?! 

Have  they  forgotten,  that  the  sys- 
tem of  the  administration  of  justice 
by  sheriffs  appointed  by  the  Crown, 
in  all  the  counties,  which  Lord 
Brougham  proposes  as  a  remedy  for 


\\Vulth  of  Nations. 
J$y  1G9G,  c.  G. 


By  act  1G6.3. 
By  net  1617. 


1831.J          On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.          777 


the  enormous  and  ruinous  delays  of 
the  English  common  law  courts,  has 
been  in  full  operation  for  above  three 
centuries  in  Scotland ;  that  the  poor 
of  this  country  have  bad,  for  that 
time,  their  cases  decided  in  their 
own  country,  at  less  than  a  tenth  of 
the  cost  of  an  English  litigation ; 
and  that  the  benevolent  dream  of 
Alfred,  that  justice  should  be  brought 
to  every  man's  door,  but  which  Eng- 
lish legislation  has  never  yet  been 
able  to  effect,  was  realized  in  Scot- 
land before  the  downfall  of  the  Ca- 
tholic religion  ? 

Have  they  forgotten,  that  the  hu- 
mane relief  against  imprisonment 
for  civil  debts,  which  has  only  been 
introduced  within  these  fifteen  years 
into  the  English  practice,  was  esta- 
blished in  Scotland  one  hundred 
and  forty  years  ago  ;*  and  that  the 
horrors  of  hopeless  imprisonment, 
so  long  the  disgrace  of  English  legis- 
lation, have  been  for  above  a  century 
unknown  to  the  north  of  the  Tweed  ? 
Have  they  forgotten,  that  the  institu- 
tion of  a  retrospective  period  in  bank- 
ruptcy, suggested  by  dear-bought  ex- 
perience to  English  legislation,  and 
introduced  by  the  reforming  hand  of 
Sir  Samuel  Roinilly,  was  fully  matu- 
red a  century  before,  by  the  pro- 
phetic wisdom  of  the  Scottish  Par- 
liament ?-f- 

Have  they  forgotten,  that  the  ruin- 
ous consequences  of  distraining  the 
effects  of  the  tenant  for  the  debts  of 
the  owner  of  the  soil,  though  he  has 
paid  his  rent  to  his  immediate  supe- 
rior, which  has  so  long  withered  the 
industry  of  the  Irish  tenantry,  and 
prevented  the  growth  of  Irish  agri- 
cultural capital,  and  for  which  the 
British  Parliament  is  now  in  vain 
devising  a  remedy,  were  completely 
prevented  two  hundred  and  eighty 
years  ago  by  an  act  of  the  Scottish 
legislature  ?  $ 

Have  they  forgotten,  that  the  cor- 
ruption of  the  blood,  in  other  words, 
the  punishment  of  the  innocent  chil- 
dren for  the  guilty  parent,  which  is 
still  the  disgrace  of  the  English  trea- 
son law,  was  never  known  to  the 
Scottisli  practice,  and  that  even  in 
the  arbitrary  days  of  Lord  Stair,  the 
grandson  of  a  traitor  might  succeed 
to  his  grandfather's  estate  ?  § 


Have  they  forgotten,  that  the  found- 
ations of  the  Scotch  system  of  bank- 
ing, which  has  compensated  to  its 
inhabitants  for  all  the  barrenness  of 
their  soil,  which  the  experience  of  a 
century  has  so  fully  tried,  which  so 
narrowly  escaped  destruction  from 
English  innovation  a  few  years  ago, 
but  which  English  wisdom  is  now 
beginning  to  imitate,  were  laid  by 
the  common  law  of  Scotland,  and  the 
enactments  of  the  Scottish  Parlia- 
ment, one  hundred  and  forty  years 
ago  ?|| 

All  the  great  foundations  of  pub- 
lic prosperity, therefore — the  protec- 
tion of  the  subject  from  arbitrary 
imprisonment — the  establishment  of 
general  education — the  security  of 
land  rights — relief  from  prolonged 
imprisonment  for  debt  —  security 
to  leaseholders — safety  from  the 
distraining  of  overlords — mildness 
in  criminal  law — an  equitable  sys- 
tem of  poor  laws — the  fair  adjust- 
ments of  tithes — an  equal  distribu- 
tion of  church  property — the  insti- 
tution of  efficient  local  county  courts, 
— the  protection  of  the  son  from  the 
effects  of  his  father's  treason — the 
protection  of  creditors  from  the 
frauds  of  bankrupts — the  establish- 
ment of  a  judicious  system  of  bank- 
ing— were  laid  by  the  Scottish  legis- 
lature prior  to  the  English  Union. 

And  it  is  in  the  presence  of  .a  na- 
tion nourishing  from  the  conse- 
quences of  such  a  long  and  unparal- 
leled series  of  beneficent  legislation 
— it  is  as  representing  a  legislation 
which  has  done  such  things  for  their 
country,  that  the  Lord  Advocate  of 
Scotland  declares, in  his  place  inPai- 
liament,  that "  the  spirit  of  real  free- 
dom never  was  known  in  this  coun- 
try ;  that  Scotland  owes  all  its  pros- 
perity to  British  legislation ;"  and 
that  it  is  his  glory  to  pull  down  its 
whole  institutions,  to  tear  it  in  shreds 
and  patches,  and  not  to  leave  one 
stone  upon  another  in  the  Scottish 
constitution. 

In  truth,  the  prophetic  wisdom 
and  practical  beneficence  of  the 
Scottish  legislation,  is  one  of  the 
most  curious  and  instructive  things 
in  the  history  of  human  improvement, 
and  well  deserving  consideration  in 
a  more  durable  form  than  the  fleet- 


By  act  1696,  c.  8.  f  By  act  1696,  c.  4.  J  By  act  1551. 

§  Hume,  I.  550.  ||  By  act  1696. 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  th  e  French  Revolution.        (Nov 


776 

ing  pages  of  this  miscellany.  We 
admire  the  sagacity  of  Lord  Bacon, 
whose  vast  understanding  anticipa- 
ted by  three  hundred  years  the  pro- 
gress of  public  thought;  but  what 
shall  we  say  to  a  nation  whose  legis- 
lature has  anticipated,  by  the  same 
period,  the  advance  of  its  more 
civilized  and  opulent  neighbour; 
and  not  only  adopted  but  matured 
and  completed  institutions  in  the  se- 
venteenth century,  which  were  ne- 
ver thought  of  till  the  days  of  Sir 
Samuel  Romilly  and  Lord  Brougham 
in  the  centre  of  English  civilisa- 
tion? 

It  is  true,  the  fruits  of  this  bene- 
ficent legislation  did  not  appear  till 
the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century ; 
but  that  was  not  because  we  were  in 
the  least  improved  at  that  time  by 
English  legislation,  but  because  the 
effects  of  English  warfare  then,  for 
the  first  time,  disappeared.  For 
three  hundred  years  after  the  reisn 
of  Edward  I.,  Scotland  was  constant- 
ly the  theatre  of  war,  and  times 
without  number  laid  waste  by  Eng- 
lish, invasion.  During  the  whole  of 
the  seventeenth  century  she  was  torn 
by  intestine  and  religious  contests. 
This  long  course  of  warfare,  endu- 
ring for  four  hundred  years,  entirely 
destroyed  domestic  industry,  and 
turned  the  whole  energies  of  the 
nation  towards  the  military  art;  and 
it  was  not  till  half  a  century  of  peace 
had  followed  the  settlement  of  the 
kingdom  by  the  establishment  of  the 
Presbyterian  religion,  that  the  fer- 
vent spirits  of  the  nation  began  to  take 
a  new  direction,  and  the  arts  of  peace 
to  supersede  the  dangers  of  war. 
Since  that  time  her  progress  has  been 
truly  astonishing ;  but  we  will  look 
in  vain  in  English  legislation  for  the 
causes  of  that  progress.  No  act  of 
public  importance  for  Scotland  ema- 
nated from  the  British  Parliament 
during  the  eighteenth  century,  except 
the  abolition  of  the  heritable  juris- 
dictions in  1 746 ;  and  that  was  not 
suggested  byEnglishwisdom,but  ex- 
torted by  the  Highland  broadsword. 

We  are  not  ungrateful  to  England ; 
we  acknowledge  with  gratitude  the 
readiness  with  which  she  has  ever 
opened  her  treasures  to  Scotland, 
the  vast  encouragement  to  our  in- 
dustry which  her  market  has  always 
afforded,  and  the  improvement  which 
has  accrued  to  us  from  a  closer  in- 


tercourse with  her  rich  and  civilized 
districts.  But  justice  to  our  ances- 
tors compels  us  to  say,  that  it  is  in 
their  enactments — not  English  legis- 
lation— that  the  old  and  deep  foun- 
dations of  Scottish  prosperity  are  to 
be  found. 

It  is  in  vain  to  ascribe  this  long 
progress  of  wise,  free,  and  beneficent 
legislation  to  chance.  Accident  ne- 
ver makes  a  people  happy — chance 
never  makes  government  for  three 
hundred  years  stumble  on  salutary 
laws.  It  is  to  the  composition  of  the 
Scottish  Parliaments  that  it  is  mainly 
to  be  ascribed;  and  it  will  be  fortu- 
nate if  our  descendants  three  hun- 
dred years  hence  have  as  little  rea- 
son to  complain  of  the  innovations 
with  which  we  are  now  threatened, 
as  we  have  cause  to  be  thankful  for 
the  institutions  which  our  ancestors 
have  transmitted  to  us. 

The  great  distinction  between  the 
English  and  the  Scottish  constitu- 
tions always  has  been,  that  the  elec- 
tive franchise  in  this  country  is  vest- 
ed in  a  much  higher  class  than  in 
the  neighbouring  kingdom.  It  was 
originally  the  same,  being  in  both 
countries  the  possession  of  a  free- 
hold worth  40s.  a-year ;  but  in  con- 
sequence of  a  curious  circumstance, 
the  constitutions  of  the  two  coun- 
tries diverged  in  different  directions 
from  the  same  common  point,  and 
have  arrived  at  very  different  results. 

The  English  law  took  the  real 
value,  or  actual  worth  of  the  land  as 
the  test,  while  the  Scotch  took  the 
valuation  in  the  books  of  Exchequer, 
called  the  old  extent,  as  the  rule. 
The  consequence  was,  that  while 
the  English  franchise, in  consequence 
of  the  degradation  in  the  value  of 
money,  constantly  became  lower,  and 
daily  admitted  a  more  democratic 
class  in  society,  the  Scotch,  immo- 
vably fixed  on  the  old  extent,  a  fixed 
valuation,  became,  from  the  same 
cause,  constantly  higher.  At  length 
it  was  found,  that  a  piece  of  land 
worth  40s.  of  old  extent,  was  worth 
nearly  L.400  of  modern  valuation, 
and  this  was  fixed  on  towards  the 
close  of  the  1 7th  century  as  another 
test  of  qualification.  The  practical 
result  is,  that  the  possession  of  land 
worth  L.400  a-year  at  an  average, 
holding  of  the  crown,  is  now  the  re- 
quisite to  confer  a  freehold. 

But  these  freeholds  are  not  all 


1 831.]          On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the.  French  Revolution.  779 


really  connected  with  land.  By  se- 
parating the  superiority,  as  it  is  call- 
ed in  legal  language,  from  the  pro- 
perty ;  in  other  words,  by  conferring 
the  title  to  the  land  on  one  person, 
and  the  possession  and  right  of  en- 
joying it  upon  another,  a  right  of 
voting  has  been  acquired  by  a  class 
of  persons  who  do  not  actually  pos- 
sess the  lands  described  in  their  titles. 
These  are  called  the  parchment  vo- 
ters, concerning  whom  so  vehement 
a  clamour  has  been  raised  of  late 
years  by  ignorant  or  interested  men. 

What  has  been  the  practical  effect 
of  these  parchment  votes  ?  The  en- 
franchising of  a  large  portion  of  the 
middling  ranks  not  adequately  re- 
presented in  Parliament,  by  enabling 
them  to  purchase  freeholds  at  prices 
varying  from  L.300  to  L.800,  or 
L.I, 000.  Thus,  by  means  of  these 
parchment  votes,  which  are  daily  ex- 
posed to  public  sale,  the  middling 
ranks  of  society,  not  possessing  land 
sufficient  to  confer  a  qualification, 
have  become  freeholders.  The  mer- 
chants, manufacturers,  lawyers,  bank- 
ers, rich  shopkeepers,  and  others  of 
that  rank,  have  thus  acquired  the 
elective  franchise ;  and  yet  this  is  the 
part  of  the  system  which  is  the  sub- 
ject of  incessant  abuse  from  those 
who  do-  not  understand,  but  think 
themselves  qualified  to  decry  it. 

The  really  defective  part  of  the 
Scottish  representation  is  to  be  found 
in  the  boroughs,  where,  the  freehold 
being  in  general  confined  to  the  ma- 
gistrates, the  most  opulent  and  in- 
fluential of  the  citizens  are  in  many 
places  excluded.  This  evidently  re- 
quires amendment ;  but  the  remedy 
required  is  to  strengthen,  not  weaken 
the  conservative  party,  by  extending 
the  franchise  to  such  a  class  of  citi- 
zens as,  by  their  habits,  property, 
and  education,  will  rally  round  the 
cause  of  order. 

It  would  be  desirable,  too,  that  all 
persons  possessing  landed  property 
to  a  certain  amount,  by  whatever 
tenure,  should  have  a  vote;  for  a 
share  in  the  election  of  the  legislature 
should  never  depend  on  mere  tech- 
nical form  of  title.  By  whatever 
standard  the  right  of  voting  is  fixed, 
it  should  confer  the  franchise  alike 
on  all  proprietors  to  that  amount,  by 
whatever  tenure  it  is  held.  This  is 
a  Reform  which  no  sensible  man  can 
oppose ;  and  in  our  next  number  we 


shall  develope  at  large  the  principles 
on  which  a  rational  Reform  might 
be  founded. 

In  ancient  times,  prior  toihe  Union, 
when  the  boroughs  of  Scotland  were 
almost  all  indigent  and  inconsider- 
able, they  were  perfectly  well  repre- 
sented by  the  mayors  and  deacons  of 
their  respective  crafts.  Now,  since 
Glasgow,  Leith,  Dundee,  and  Aber- 
deen, have  risen  to  commercial  opu- 
lence, this  is  not  the  case;  and  that 
the  present  borough  electors  are,  in 
a  great  proportion  of  the  boroughs 
of  Scotland,  unfit  for  the  trust  placed 
in  their  hands,  is  proved  by  the  fact, 
that  they  were  carried  away  by  the 
public  delusion  so  far  as,  in  a  great 
majority  of  cases,  to  vote  for  the  candi- 
dates pledged  to  the  Reform  bill,  that 
is,  to  the  total  destruction,  as  the  Lord 
Advocate  boasted,  of  the  constitu- 
tion. It  is  evident  from  this,  that 
the  boroughs  are  in  general  now  pla- 
ced in  the  hands  of  those  whose 
heads  are  turned  by  any  vehement 
public  delusion,  and  therefore  that 
they  cannot  be  relied  on  as  support- 
ers of  the  institutions  of  the  country. 

The  conduct  of  the  electors  in  the 
counties  demonstrates  the  different 
and  far  sounder  base  on  which  the 
constitution  is  there  rested.  In  the 
great  majority  of  cases,  they  have  re- 
turned the  anti-reform  candidates; 
proving  thereby  that  the  electors 
have  discharged  the  first  duty  of 
those  possessing  a  freehold — that  of 
supporting,  in  perilous  times,  the  in- 
stitutions of  their  country. 

With  the  exception  of  the  boroughs, 
it  is  plain  that  Scotland  possesses  a 
body  of  electors  formed  on  far  more 
philosophical  and  rational  principles 
than  those  contained  in  the  Reform 
Bill;  and  that  the  admirable  wisdom 
of  its  legislation,  while  it  possessed 
its  own  parliament,  is  the  conse- 
quence ot  this  circumstance. 

It  was  stated  by  the  Lord  Advocate 
in  Parliament,  that  Scotland  contain- 
ed somewhat  above  two  millions  of 
souls,  and  that  it  is  represented  by 
about  5000  electors.  This  he  con- 
sidered of  itself  sufficient  to  condemn 
the  system,  and  retain  the  country 
in  ignominious  bondage.  Let  us  ex- 
amine this  opinion.  Nobody  will 
dispute  the  democratic  tendency  of 
the  French  electors,  when  they  re- 
turned a  Chamber  so  extremely  de- 
mocratical,  that  the  Ministers  could 


780  On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.        [Nov. 

holds  have  descended  to  a  class  in- 
capable of  judging  on  public  af- 
fairs, ignorant,  swayed  by  passion, 
amenable  to  interest,  open  to  corrup- 
tion ;  the  Scotch  have  been  confined 
to  a  body  of  men  of  higher  rank,  su- 
perior education,  more  property, 
consideration,  and  stake  in  society. 
Thence  the  legislature  of  the  one 
country  has  been  the  arena  in  which 
democratic  passion  and  aristocratic 
corruption  have  been  incessantly  in 
presence  of  each  other;  and  the  con- 
tests between  the  Ultras  on  both 
sides,  who  formed  the  legislature, 
have,  in  consequence,  been  so  vehe- 
ment, that  no  measures  of  real  utility 
or  practical  importance  have  ever 
been  thought  of.  This  has,  in  every 
age,  been  the  grand  characteristic  of 
the  Irish  legislature,  vehement  party 
spirit,  furious  passion,  incessant  con- 
tention, but  not  one  single  measure 
of  practical  or  real  importance  ;  and 
the  consequence  has  been,  that  they 
have  converted  that  beautiful  island 
into  a  scene  of  unparalleled  wretch- 
edness. In  Scotland,  again,  the  Par- 
liament having  been  elected  entirely 
by  the  higher  class  of  citizens,  these 
furious  contests  between  the  aristo- 
cracy and  the  democracy  have  been 


iKiii  luetta  w  wmuu  we  me  ut 

to  serve  an  apprenticeship, 
it  indispensable  to  fix  the  staj 


not  carry  on  the  government  with  it, 
and  were  driven  to  the  famous  ordi- 
nances to  avoid  a  direct  collision 
with  the  Chamber  of  Deputies.  No- 
body will  deny  their  power,  when 
io.  three  days  they  hurled  a  dynasty 
from  the  throne;  yet  France  pos- 
sessed no  larger  number  of  electors 
prior  to  the  accession  of  Louis  Phi- 
lip, than  Scotland,  and  tho  elective 
franchise  was  at  least  as  high.  France, 
containing  32,000,000  of  inhabitants, 
had  80,000  electors;  and  Scotland, 
with  2,000,000,  had  5000.  These  pro- 
portions are  exactly  the  same.  The 
income  of  the  average  of  voters  in 
Scotland  is  probably  from  L.200  to 
L.300  a-year;  and  the  standard  in 
France,  by  the  payment  of  300  francs 
a-year  of  direct  taxes,  was,  prior  to 
the  late  Revolution,  somewhat  higher. 

This  coincidence  is  very  remark- 
able. France,  after  having  made  a 
full  and  fair  experiment  of  revolu- 
tion, after  having  tried  and  experien- 
ced the  full  effect  of  all  the  democra- 
tical  ideas  to  which  we  are  beginning 

deemed 

le  to  fix  the  standard  as 
high  as'the  Scottish  system,  which  is 
so  much  the  object  of  obloquy.  The 
constitution  which  has  conferred 
such  immeasurable,  and  we  may  add, 
unparalleled  ad  vantages  on  Scotland, 
for  so  many  hundred  years,  closely 
resembles,  in  practical  working,  that 
which,  after  a  full  experiment  of  re- 
volutions, was  established  in  the 
neighbouring  kingdom.  The  theo- 
ries of  French  equality — the  expe- 
rience of  Scottish  wisdom,  have  fixed 
legislative  power  in  the  same  class 
in  society. 

The  opposite  system  has  long  been 
established  in  Ireland ;  the  elective 
franchise  has  there,  for  a  very  long 
period,  descended  to  a  far  lower 
class ;  forty- shilling  freeholders  have 
overspread  the  land ;  and  what  sort  of 
legislators  and  legislation  have  they 
produced  in  the  Irish  legislature  ? 
The  Irish  Parliaments  were  avowed- 
ly the  most  corrupt  and  the  most 
absurd  in  Europe.  The  main  cause 
of  the  wretchedness  of  Ireland  has 
been  its  own  leyislature^^osea.  by  the 
forty-shilling  freeholders;  the  main 
cause  of  the  prosperity  of  Scotland, 
its  own  legislature,  chosen  by  the 
higher  class  of  electors. 

Nor  is  it  difficult  to  see  how  this 
has  come  to  pass.  The  Irish  free- 


unknown  ;  the  democratic  fury  of  the 
one  side,  and  the  unblushing  corrup- 
tion of  the  other,  have  equally  been 
spared ;  and  the  legislature,  undis- 
turbed by  these  ruinous  feuds,  has 
pursued  a  steady  course  of  practical 
beneficence,  which  has  covered  a  bar- 
ren land  with  unequalled  prosperitj'. 
Upon  the  character  of  the  people 
of  the  two  countries,  the  effects  of 
the   political   institutions   to   which 
they  have  severally  been  subject,  have 
been    equally   striking.     Vehement 
party  spirit  has  in  every  age  distin- 
guished the    Irish  character ;    divi- 
sions of  Catholics  against  Protest- 
ants, of  tenants  against  landlords,  of 
the  English  settlers  against  the  native 
inhabitants,  has  not  only  for  centu- 
ries exasperated  its  nobility,  but  dis- 
tracted its  people.     External  misfor- 
tunes "have  no  doubt  in  a  great  de- 
gree occasioned  this  unhappy  state ; 
but  no  man  practically  acquainted 
with   the  country  can   entertain   a 
doubt,  that  it  has  been  greatly  in- 
creased by  the  unfortunate  exten- 
sion of  the  elective  franchise  to  the 
lowest  class  of  the  people,  and  the 
consequent  exposure  of  them  to  all 


1831.]         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


the  passions  and  corruptions  conse- 
quent on  the  contentions  of  their 
chiefs,  in  Scotland,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  fortunate  exclusion  of  this 
needy  and  ignorant  class  from  poli- 
tical power,  has  made  them  continue 
strangers  to  the  passions  and  vices 
with  which  it  is  attended ;  and  in- 
stead of  disquieting  themselvesabout 
democratic  ambition,  or  sharing  in 
the  corruption  of  aristocratic  vice, 
they  have  pursued  the  paths  of  use- 
ful industry,  and  known  of  govern- 
ment only  its  practical  blessings. 

The  conclusion  to  be  drawn  from 
this  circumstance,  is  not  that  the  in- 
stitutions of  England  are  necessarily 
hurtful,  but  that  a  long  apprentice- 
ship is  necessary  to  enable  the  lower 
classes  to  bear  them,  and  that  if  sud- 
denly extended  to  other  countries, 
as  they  have  been  to  Ireland,  they 
will  infallibly  produce  convulsion 
and  ruin.  England  was  in  former 
times  as  much  governed  by  the  aris- 
tocracy as  Scotland,  and  the  elective 
franchise  fixed  in  the  time  of  Henry 
VI.  at  10s.  or  L.70  of  our  money, 
limited  the  right  to  a  very  elevated 
class  of  the  rural  proprietors.  The 
progressive  depreciation  in  the  value 
of  money,  gradually  extended  the 
franchise  to  a  humbler  class,  until  at 
last  in  these  times  it  has  descended 
to  the  owner  of  a  cottage.  Political 
power  has  thus  been  extended  to  the 
lower  orders  of  the  English,  so  gra- 
dually, that,  like  the  changes  of  time, 
this  increasing  enfranchisement  has 
been  imperceptible,  and  the  people 
were  gradually  enabled  to  bear  their 
increasing  importance.  But  it  is  with 
no  such  gradual  enfranchisements, 
but  a  sudden  and  prodigious  addi- 
tion to  political  power,  that  we  were 
threatened  by  the  Reform  bill  in 
this  country ;  and  if  we  would  as- 
certain its  effects,  we  have  only  to 
look  at  the  redundant  population, 
exasperated  ideas,  and  vehement 
contentions  of  the  Irish  peasantry. 

We  do  not  prophesy  any  thing  of 


-    _ 


.  j    \Q  a 
*  Speech  on  the  Hereditary  Fwajje. 

. 

>ri1  vd  aasodb  , 


eidi  wod  aos  ol 
-sail  jdfehl  sdT 


781 

the  future  :  we  are  fully  aware  of  the 
perils  which  still  involve  the  consti- 
tution, and  need  not  be  told,  that,  by 
a  violent  stretch  of  the  Royal  prero- 
gative, even  the  firmest  defence  of 
the  constitution  may  be  overthrown. 
But  we  trust  that  better  times  are 
approaching;  that  the  recent  check 
will  stagger  even  the  Ministerial  au- 
thors of  the  Bill ;  and  that,  by  conces- 
sion on  both  sides,  a  measure  may  be 
framed,  exempt  from  the  perils  of 
that  from  which  we  have  just  been 
delivered,  and  yet  satisfactory  to  the 
wealth  and  intelligence  of  the  coun- 
try. To  the  principles  of  such  a 
Reform  we  shall  direct  our  readers' 
attention,  in  our  next  Number. 

"  Wherever  democracy  prevails," 
said  Royer  Collard,  in  his  speech  in 
the  French  Chamber,  "  you  may  bid 
a  long  farewell  to  peace,  tranquillity, 
industry,  wealth,  and  happiness.  De- 
mocracies are  ever  suspicious,  tur- 
bulent, irritable,  prone  to  war,  crea- 
tive of  suffering."*  Such  is  the  lan- 
fuage  of  one  of  the  ablest  of  the  li- 
eral  party  in  France, — of  the  firm 
friend  of  freedom,  but  the  stern  ene- 
my of  democratic  oppression.  Gui- 
zot,  the  profound  and  enlightened 
historian — Thiers,  the  able  republi- 
can annalist  of  the  Revolution,  have 
joined  their  great  talents  with  him  to 
support  the  hereditary  Peerage — the 
last  stay,  as  all  really  enlightened 
men  in  that  country  well  see,  of  or- 
der, freedom,  and  happiness.  At  the 
moment  that  it  is  sinking  amidst  the 
waves  of  democracy,  the  British 
Peers  have  stood  forth  with  unpre- 
cedented dignity;  and  against  the 
ark  of  their  patriotism  the  surge  of 
revolution  has  beat  in  vain.  May 
such  ever  be  the  conduct  of  the  Eng- 
lish Barons ;  may  the  great  example 
of  this  year  be  remembered  to  the 
latest  posterity;  and  as  the  waters 
of  the  deluge  are  beginning  to  recede, 
may  the  green  hills  ere  long  begin  to 
appear,  and  the  dove  bring  the  olive 

branch  to  a  suffering  world  I 

°                  u  Tjf 
— 


T* 


rw  erf*  1o 

199<f 


odj  Id 


lo  ewfo  isifa 
Jr  ar  ion 
«eesq  oj  omo?  «f 


782  Lyttil  Pynkie.  [Nov. 

LYTTIL  PYNKIE. 
BY  THE  ETTRICK  SHEPHERD. 

LYTTIL  PV.VKIE  caime  to  Kilbogye  yett, 

It  wals  on  ane  hallow-day ; 
And  the  ladye  babyis  with  her  tnette, 

To  heirre  quhat  sho  wolde  say. 

For  Pynkie  wals  the  lyttilest  bairne, 

That  evir  dancit  on  the  greinne ; 
And  Pynkie  wals  the  bonnyeet  thyngc 

That  evir  on  yirthe  wals  seihne. 

Hir  faice  wals  caste  in  beautye's  molde, 

And  ower  hir  browe  abone 
Hir  hayre  wals  lyke  the  streemys  of  golde 

That  tinssillis  from  the  raone. 

The  smyle  that  playit  upon  hir  faice 

Wala  comely  to  be  scene, 
And  the  bonnye  blue  that  dyit  the  hevin 

Wals  nevir  lyke  Pynkie's  eeyne. 

Thre  spannis  from  heelle  to  heidde  sho  stode, 

But  all  so  meitte  to  se, 
No  mayden  in  hir  myldest  mode 

Ane  lovelier  forme  colde  bee. 

Quhaevir  lokit  at  hir  ane  spaice, 

Colde  nevir  calle  to  mynde 
That  she  possessit  not  fraime  and  graice 

Of  stateliest  womankynde. 

The  Baronne  caime  forth  to  the  greene, 

And  bee  toke  hir  be  the  hande : 
"  Lyttil  Pynkie,  you  are  welcome  heirre, 

The  flower  of  fayre  Scotlande. 

"  You  are  welcome  to  myne  bowris,  Pynkie, 

And  to  myne  hallis  so  gaye, 
And  you  shalle  be  myne  lainmie  deirre, 

And  I'll  fondle  you  nychte  and  daye." 

u  Och,  no !  Och,  no !  myne  owne  gode  lorde, 

For  that  wolde  bee  ane  synne; 
For  if  you  toye  or  melle  with  me, 

To  hevin  you'll  nevir  wynne." 

"  But  I  will  taike  myne  chaunce,  Pynkie, 

For  lofe  is  sore  to  thole  ; 
Thejoie  of  maydenis  leifu'  charmis 

Can  nevir  stayne  the  soule." 

"  Better  to  thole  than  wynne  the  goale, 

Quhare  pryze  is  uonne  before  ; 
The  man  quha  wynnis  myne  lofe  and  mee, 

Will  nevir  knowe  mayden  more. 

*'  But  I  will  syng  ane  sang  to  you, 
And  daunce  ane  fairy e  quheille, 


Lyttil  Pynkie.  788 

Till  you  and  all  youre  bonny  may  bairnis 
Can  daunce  it  wonder  weille." 

Were  I  to  telle  Lyttil  Pynkie's  sang, 

It  mighte  doo  muckle  ill ; 
For  it  wals  not  fraimit  of  yirthly  wordis, 

Though  it  soundit  sweitte  and  shrill. 

9Jl9injL{j  aA 

But  aye  the  owerworde  of  the  sang 

Which  ladyis  lernit  to  syng, 
Wals,  "  Rounde  and  rounde,  and  sevin  tymis  rounde, 

The  elfynis  fairye  ryng  !"• 

a  A 
The  firste  moove  that  Lyttil  Pynkie  maide, 

Wals  gentil,  softe,  and  sweitte ; 
But  the  secoude  rounde  Lyttil  Pynkie  maide, 

Theye  colde  not  kenne  hir  feitte. 

A&iQS  iO*TK-»vV  5  -"iH 

The  thrydde  rounde  that  Lyttil  Pynkie  inaide, 

Sho  shymmerit  als  lycht  and  gaye 
Als  dauncyng  of  the  wiry  lychtis 

On  warme  and  sonnye  daye. 

rA 

And  aye  sho  sang,  with  twyrle  and  spang, 

Arouude  them  on  the  playne, 
Quhille  hir  feitte  theye  shymmerit  abone  theyre  hedis, 

Then  kyssit  the  swairde  agayne. 

Then  the  Baronne  hee  begoude  to  bobbe, 

No  longer  colde  hee  stande, 
And  his  lyttil  maydenis  in  ane  ryng 

Theye  joynit  him  hande  to  hande. 

ta-r&  7-  T 

And  rounde  and  rounde,  and  faster  rounde, 

The  fairye  ryng  theye  flewe ; 
And  aye  the  langer  that  theye  daunsit, 

The  madder  on  fonne  theye  grewe. 

And  Lyttil  Pynkie  in  the  middis 

Bobbyt  lyke  ane  flee  in  Maye, 
And  everilk  spryng  Lyttil  Pynkie  gaif, 

The  Baronne  he  cryit  "  Hurraye !" 

And  rounde  and  rounde  the  fairye  ryng 

They  lyltit  and  they  sang, 
And  rounde  and  rounde  the  fairye  ryng 

They  caiperit  and  they  flang  ; 

Quhille  the  Baronne  hee  begoude  to  gaspe, 

And  his  eeyne  sette  in  his  heidde ; 
Hee  colde  not  dragg  ane  oder  lymbe, 

So  neirlye  hee  wals  deidde, 
And  downe  he  felle  upon  the  playne, 

Prone  lyke  ane  forme  of  leidde. 

But  aye  quhan  Pynkie  made  ane  spryng 

Betvveinne  him  and  the  daye, 
Hee  maide  a  paulle  with  handis  and  feitte, 

And  gaif  ane  faynte  "  Hurraye  !" 

Hee  streikit  out  his  lymbis  in  dethe, 
Unpytied  and  unbleste ; 


784  Lyttil  Pynhie.  [Nov. 

But  "  Hurraye !"  it  wals  the  ae  laste  sounde 
That  gurglit  in  his  breste. 

The  maydis  theye  daunsit  and  caipei  it  on 

In  madnesse  and  in  blaime ; 
For  lofe  or  stryffe,  or  detlie  or  lyffe, 

To  them  wals  all  the  saime. 

But  rounde  and  rounde  the  ryng  theye  flewe, 

Swyfte  als  sevin  burdis  on  wyng; 
Regairdyng  the  deidde  man  no  more 

Than  any  yirthly  thyng. 

The  menialis  gadderit  rounde  and  sawe 

In  terrour  and  dismaye, 
Them  dauncying  rounde  theyre  deidde  fader, 

And  Pynkie  wals  awaye. 

"  Och-on,  och-on,"  the  Chaiplyng  cryit, 

"  There's  some  enchauntmenteJieirre; 
Haiste,  haiste  awaye,  myne  maydinis  gaye, 

This  shaimefulle  course  forbeirre." 

The  maidinis  lefte  the  fairye  ryng, 

And  ceissit  theyre  lychtsome  fonne, 
But  theye  colde  not  comprehende  one  thyng 

Of  all  that  had  beinne  donne. 

The  Chaiplyng  ranne  into  the  ryng 

To  lifte  his  maisteris  heidde, 
And  callit  on  six  young  bordlye  wychtis, 

To  beirre  awaye  the  deidde ; 

'.  «*v 

Quhan  Lyttil  Pynkie  in  the  myddis 

Stode  lofelye  als  the  sonne  j 
Slio  sang  ane  staife,  and  dauncit  it  rounde, 

And  all  theyre  grieffe  wals  donne. 

The  Chaiplyng  hee  begoude  to  bobbe, 

And  wagg  his  heede  amayne, 
For  the  lyttil  kymmeris  lythlye  lymbis 

Had  veirlye  turnit  his  brayne. 

And  rounde,  and  rounde,  the  deidde  Baronne, 

With  caiper  and  with  squealle, 
The  Chaiplyng  and  his  six  yong  menne 

Wente  lyke  ane  spynnyng  quheille. 

And  ay  they  sang  Lyttil  Pynkie's  sang, 

Als  loudde  als  they  colde  braye ; 
But  saife  the  burden  of  that  sang, 

The  wordis  I  daurna  saye. 

But  ay  quhan  Pynkie  made  ane  ryse, 

With  fitfulle  fairye  flyng; 
"  Agayne,  agayue !"  the  Chaiplyng  cryit, 

"  Weille  profea,  myne  bonnye  thyng ! 

"  Agayne,  agayne !  Agayne,  agayne  !" 

In  maddenyng  screimme  cryit  hee, 
"  Och,  let  mee  se  that  spryng  agayne, 

That  I  of  lofe  maye  del" 


1831.J  Lytiil  Pynkie. 

And  rounde  and  rounde  tlie  deidde  Baronue 

Theye  flapperit  and  they  flewe  ; 
And  rounde  and  rounde  the  deidde  Baroune 
Theye  bumpyt  and  theye  blewe 

Quhill  the  Chaiplyng  hee  begoude  to  gaspe 

And  quhizle  in  the  throtte, 
And  downe  hee  felle  upon  the  greinne 

Lyke  ane  greate  mardel  stotte. 

.  WYW  no  ittmMf  *tot  tit  ffttv? 
He  streikit  out  his  laithlye  lymbis, 

His  eeyne  sette  in  his  heidde, 
But  "  Agayne,  agayne  !"  caime  with  ane  ryfte, 

Quhill  after  hee  wals  deidde. 

•>a*  tswm 
Then  all  the  lando  togedder  ranne  : 

To  prieste  and  holy  fryer, 
And  there  wals  prayeris  in  every  kirke, 

And  hymnis  in  every  quire  ;  •  -  .  •  -.)  •'• 

r> 

For  Lyttil  Pynkie  helde  hir  plaice 

At  lordlye  Kilbogye, 
And  of  everilk  chamber  in  the  housse 

Lyttil  Pynkie  keepit  the  ke. 


«  . 

So  wordis  gone  eiste  and  word  is  gone  weste, 

From  Solwaye  unto  the  Clyde, 
And  wordis  gone  to  the  greate  Mass  John 

That  livit  on  Cloudan  syde.  'qtap  »dT 

•<•'  WIN  «T 
So  he  is  awaye  to  Kilbogye  hallo.  v  aiv  or. 

These  lordlys  maid  is  to  saive, 
And  conjure  that  wylde  thyng  away 

Into  the  Reidd  Sea's  wave.    .,?  ^jvH  UJ-lyU  n*.U»U 

Quhan  he  caime  to  Kilbogye  yette 

He  tirlit  at  the  pynne, 
And  quha  wals  so  readdye  als  Lyttil  Pynkie 

To  ryse  and  let  Mm  iu.  *  &$]• 

"  Bairne,  I  haif  wordis  to  say  to  you 

On  matter  most  sincere  ; 
Quhare  is  the  countreye  you  caime  frome, 

And  quha  wals  it  sente  you  heirre  ?" 

"  I  caime  from  aue  countreye  farre  awaye, 

A  regioune  caulme  and  svveitte, 
For  all  the  steruis  of  the  milky  waye 

Were  farre  benethe  our  feitt. 

.  -  $ 
'  But  I  haif  romit  this  yirthlye  sphere 

Some  vyrgin  soulis  to  wynne, 
Since  maydis  were  born  the  slaives  of  love, 

Of  sorrowe,  and  of  synne.  , 

"  By  nychte^and  daye  and  glomyng.  graye, 

By  grofe  and  greinwode  tret;  • 
Oh  if  you  kennit  quhat  I  haifdohne 

To  keippe  them  fayre  and  free  ! 
VOL.  XXX.  NO.  CLXXXVII.  3  E 


Lyttil  Pynkie.  [Nov. 

"  I  haif  satte  upon  theyre  waifyng  lockis 

Als  daunceyng  on  the  greinne, 
And  watchit  the  blushes  of  the  cheeke 

And  glances  of  the  eeyne. 

"  I  have  whysperit  dremys  into  theyre  eirris, 

Of  all  the  snairis  of  lofe ; 
And  coolit  theyre  yong  and  hopyng  brestis 

With  dewis  distyllit  abofe." 

"  But  O  tbou  wylde  and  wycked  thyng, 

Thynk  of  this  virgyn  bande, 
Thou'st  taiken  theyre  fader  from  theyre  held, 

Theyre  pastor  from  theyre  hand." 

"  That  fader  wals  ane  man  BO  wylde, 

Disgraice  of  human  fraime ; 
Hee  keipit  sevin  lemanis  in  his  lialle, 

And  maide  it  house  of  shaime ; 
And  his  fat  Chaiplyng — worste  of  alle, 

Theyre  dedis  I  maye  not  nuime. 

"  Before  ane  of  those  maydis  had  blomit 

In  lofely  laidyhode, 
Each  wold  haif  loste  hir  quhite  cleethyng, 

But  and  her  sylken  snode. 

"  Then  blaime  me  not  now,  good  Mass  John, 

For  workyng  of  this  skaithe ; 
It  wals  the  mennis  besettyng  synne 

That  tosted  them  to  dethe. 

f/, ' 

"  But  now,  Mass  John,  I  know  you  are 

A  gude  man  and  ane  true ; 
Therefore  I  yield  my  vyrgin  chairge 

With  plesure  up  to  you. 

"  For  O  there  is  moche  for  me  to  doo 

'Mong  maydenis  mylde  and  meike ; 
Men  are  so  wycked  heire  belowe, 

And  wemyng  are  so  weake. 

"  But  I  will  baithe  your  eeyne,  Mass  John, 

With  unguent  of  the  skye ; 
And  you  shall  heirre  with  oder  eirre, 

And  BO  with  oder  eye. 

"  And  you  shall  se  the  richte  and  wrong, 

With  soule  of  dredde  withynne ; 
Quhat  habitantis  you  dwelle  amang, 

Quhat  worlde  you  sojourne  in." 

Sho  touchit  his  eye,  sho  touchit  his  eirre, 

With  unguent  of  the  skye, 
Distillit  from  flowris  of  hevinlye  boweris, 

That  nevir  nevir  die. 

Mass  John  hee  turnit  him  rounde  aboute, 

To  se  quhat  hee  colde  se; 
"  Quhat's  this  !  quhat's  this !"  cryit  goode  Mas*  John, 

"  Quhat  hath  befallen  mee  I 


1831.]  Lyttil  Pinkie,  787 

"  For  outhir  I  am  sounde  asleippe, 

And  in  ane  feirsome  dreime  ; 
Or  else  I'm  deidd,  and  gane  to  hevin, 

Which  raither  wolde  beseime. 

"  For  spyritis  come  and  spyritis  go, 

Of  eviry  shaipe  and  shaide, 
With  ghostis  and  demonis  not  ane  few, 

Sothe  I  am  sore  afrayde  I 

"  Quhare  is— quhare  is  Lyttil  Pynkie  gone  ? 

I  cannot  brooke  this  payne ; — 
Oh!  taik  this  oyntment  off  myne  eeyne, 

And  maike  mee  blynde  agayne. 


"  How  can  I  live,  or  moove,  or  thynk 

With  spiritis  to  congree  j 
I  no  acquaintance  hait  of  them, 

And  they  haif  nonne  of  mee  1" 


But  Lyttil  Pynkie  she  wals  gane 

Awaye  by  daille  and  glenne, 
To  guarde  the  vyrginis  of  the  lande 

From  wylis  of  wycked  menne. 

*s 
And  goode  Mass  John  is  lefte  alone 

'Mang  spyritis  of  everilk  hue  ; 
There  were  spyritis  blacke,  and  spyritis  quhyte, 

And  spyritis  greene  and  blue. 

And  theye  were  moovyng  too  and  fro 

'Mang  thyngis  of  mortal  birthe, 
Als  thicke  als  burdis  upon  the  bough, 

Or  human  thingis  on  yirth. 

1     :a>.  .>;vit  *  biuiararfT 

Eache  vyrgin  had  ane  guardian  fere 

Als  fayre  als  flowir  of  Maye  ; 
And  hee  himself  ane  great  blacke  dougge, 

That  wolde  not  pass  awaye. 

:  n-iUi 

And  some  had  devilis  to  bee  theyre  maitis, 

And  some  had  two  or  thre, 
That  playit  soche  prankis  with  maidis  and  sanctis, 

As  wals  ane  shaime  to  se. 

And  then  the  dougge  —  the  great  blacke  dougge, 

Kept  lokyng  in  his  faice, 
With  many  a  dark  and  meanyng  scowlle, 

And  many  a  sly  grimaice. 

It  wals  ane  lyffe  hee  colde  not  brooke, 

He  wals  so  hard  bestedde  ; 
He  colde  not  preiche,  hee  colde  not  praye—  - 

He  colde  not  sleippe  in  bedde. 

• 

For  evin  within  the  haly  kirke, 

By  that  amaizyng  spelle, 
He  saw  some  scenis  before  his  faice 

Als  I  can  hardlye  telle. 

Soche  als  ane  spyrit  spreddyng  clothe 
Before  ane  tailoris  eeyne; 


Lyttill  Pynhie.  [Nov, 

And  hee  wals  steillyng  in  his  herte, 
Trowing  hee  wals  not  aeene. 

And  some  wolde  shaike  ane  mychtie  purse 

Before  the  courtieris  sychte, 
Quha  solde  his  countrye  for  the  saime 

With  very  greate  delychte. 

And  some  were  throwyng  cairdis  and  dysse 

To  many  a  drowsye  wychte, 
Quha  playit  and  cm-sit,  and  cursit  and  plyait, 

Before  theyre  pastoris  sychte. 

And  some  were  wooyng  maydinis  dyuke 

With  sylkis  and  satynis  fyne, 
And  some  with  vowis  and  wycked  teris, 

Ane  very  deirre  propyne. 

And  some  were  tyckelling  maydinis  oulde 

With  thoughtis  of  manlye  youth  ; 
Yea,  half  the  scenis  the  kirke  withy  nne 

Were  synnfulle  and  uncouthe. 

Mass  John  aft  try  it  to  close  his  eeyne, 

And  shutte  them  from  his  sychte  ; 
For  there  were  prankis  so  very  drolle, 

Theye  maide  him  laugh  outrychte. 

There  wals  no  thoughtis  withynne  the  hertis, 

Though  secret  and  untolde, 
But  theye  were  acted  in  his  sychte 

By  spyrits  manifolde. 

He  wyshed  for  dethe,  and  colde  not  lie 

Suche  strange  enchantment  under, 
Thus  wanderyng  with  a  spyritis  eye 

Amid  a  worlde  of  wonder. 

For  manne  moste  be  ane  mortyl  thyng, 

With  ane  immortyl  mynde, 
Or  passe  the  dore  of  dethe,  and  leive 

Mortalitye  behynde. 

So  goode  Mass  John  longit  ferventlye 

That  lyffe  with  him  were  donne, 
To  mix  with  spyritis  or  with  menne, 

But  only  with  the  onne. 

And  then  the  dougge,  the  greate  blacke  dougge, 

Wals  ever  in  his  plaice ; 
Evin  at  the  altar  there  it  stode, 

And  stairit  him  in  the  faice. 

Mass  John  wente  home  and  layit  him  downe, 

And  soone  wals  with  the  deidde, 
And  the  bonnye  maydis  of  Kilbogye 

Are  lefte  withoute  ane  heidde. 

Quhan  sevin  long  yeris  had  come  and  passit, 

With  blynke  and  showir  awaye, 
Then  Lyttil  Pynkie  sho  caime  backe 

Upon  ane  Hallow-daye, 


1831 J  Lyttil  Pinkie.         .,abw  ^j^ 

But  the  straynis  that  Lyttil  Pynkie  sung        woiP 

At  settying  of  the  sonne, 
Were  nevir  forgptte  by  old  or  young, 

Quhill  lyffe  with  them  wala  done. 

:••'"*«*  ;  i.iiiy 

Quhat  then  wals  sayit,  or  quhat  wals  donne, 

No  mynstrelle  evir  knewe ; 
But  the  bonnye  maydis  of  JCilbogye  h«A 

With  beauty  blomit  anewe. 

•••OJ 
Some  demyt  that  theye  wolde  pass  awaye 

To  oder  lande  than  this ; 
But  they  lyvit  the  lyvis  that  wemyng  lofe, 
Of  sociale  yirthlie  blisse. 

'ilfJU  .'•"•   i'ijA 

But  many  a  taille  in  westlande  daille, 

Quainte  rhyme  and  fairye  laye, 
There  yet  remaynis  of  Pynkie's  straynis, 

Upon  the  Hallow-daye. 


THE  OWL. 
BY  THE  TRANSLATOR  OF  HOMER'S  HYMNS. 


"  T'were  better  you  were  I,  or  e'en  the  Owl, 
Than  on  such  gentle  rhymes  as  these  to  scowl. 


There  needs  a  Muse 
To  find  this  owlish  meaning." 


IN  the  hollow  sat  I,  of  a  wild  ash  tree, 

And  a  moping  owl, 

Like  a  monk  in  his  cowl, 
In  his  ivy  cell  sat  he  — 

And  he  moped  and  mutter'd  in  sulky  drone. 

Sirrah,  begone  —  and  leave  me  alone. 

To-who-whoot  —  To-who-who  — 

To-who-whoot  —  To-who-who, 
The  whole  forest  through, 
Sir  Owl's  on  his  wing  his  errand  to  do, 

To  summon  and  call, 

The  elves  one  and  all, 
The  sports  of  the  night  to  renew  ; 

And  they  peep'd  with  their  heads, 

All  from  their  green  beds, 
As  he  cried  —  To-who-whoop  —  To-who-who. 

To-whoop  —  To-who-whoop, 

Trip,  trip  it,  and  troop  ; 

Trip,  trip  it  Dainty-foot  —  Moon-beam  shoot  — 
To-who-who-who  —  To-who-whoot. 

Scamper  and  frisk, 

For  see  ye  the  disk 

Of  the  Queen  of  Night  in  her  coach  of  pearl, 
As  she  rides  by  the  clouds  that  round  her  curl  ? 
Fays,  spirits,  and  elves, 

That  with  half-closing  eye 

All  the  purple  eve  lie 
On  your  lichen-clad  shelves 

Under  blanket  of  fern  ; 


790  The  Owl.  [Nov, 

Or  in  pearly-bleached  shells, 

Or  under  the  pebbles 
In  brown  glassy  wells ; 

Come  hither,  come  hither, 

And  haste,  ye  know  whither— 
To-whit — to-who-who — to-who-who. 

All  ye  that  lie  waking, 

All  ye  that  want  shaking, 
All  ye  that  lie  fuddled  with  dew — with  dew, 
All  ye  that  lie  fuddled  with  dewj 

Mad-caps  and  crazy-heads, 
Musk-rosy  Muscovites,  reeling  o'-dusk-o* -nights, 

Tipsily,  tipsily,  up  from  your  lazy  beds, 
Up — To-who-whoot— to-who-who ! 

Tenants  of  spar-spangled  palaces, 

Tenants  of  leafy  arch'd  tenements, 
Silken-wall'd  chalices 

(Drooping  like  penitents) 
Of  yellow-eyed  flowers,  that  look  into  bowers, 

And  wood-spiders'  tapestried  halls  for  the  gay ; 

Come  away,  come  away, 
Ye  that  lazily  toss 
Your  heads  on  your  pillows  of  golden  moss— 

To-whit — to-who-who — to-who-whit, 

Come  forth,  here's  your  notice  to  quit,  quit,  quit, 

Come  forth,  here's  your  notice  to  quit. 

Gauzy-veilM  Gossamer, 

Downy-coat  Thistle-seed, 
sy  Velvet-ear' d  Blossomer, 

Shrill-piping  Whistle-reed— 
Winking  Eye  specks  o'  Sprites 
Fine  Ears  and  Exquisites — 
Break  up  your  elve-crowded  concerts,  cantatas, 
Dumble-door's  drowsy  sonatas, 

With  their  buz-buz-whirly-go-ramba, 
And  grasshoppers'  scrapings  on  viol  di  gamba, 
Your  drone  of  the  bagpiper  gnats, 

Their  airs  Tyroleesing,  your  orchestra  wheezing, 
On  dull  hurdy-gurdies  that  frighten  the  bats. 
To-who-whit — to-who-who — to-who-whit, 
Each  of  you  from  his  cell, 
Hall,  court,  or  domicil, 

Come  forth — here's  your  notice  to  quit,  to  quit, 
Come  forth — here's  your  notice  to  quit. 

And  thou,  stretch  thy  voice,  and  thy  neck,  oh ! 
My  lovely  sweet  Echo, 

Quintessence 
Of  all  that  is  airy, 
Sweet  Fairy, 

And  stir  with  thy  presence 
The  sluggards  that  loiter, 

And  fold  themselves  round  in  fresh  leaves,  reconnoitre 
And  brush  with  soft  finger 

The  cushions  of  posies,  and  pink  beds  of  roses, 
And  sweet-scented  crannies,  and  nooks  where  they  linger. 

To-whit — to-who-who — 

The  whole  forest  through 

Sir  Owl,  he  swift  flew, 


1881.  The  Owl.  791 

And  fond  Echo  follows, 
And  fills  up  the  hollows, 
Far,  far,  and  faintly — to-whit-to-who-who. 

Alone  as  I  sat  in  the  wild  ash-tree, 

I  could  know  and  could  hear 
All  speech  that  was  utter'd  j 

The  while  to  your  ear 
Had  you  been  with  me, 
Sir  Owl  would  have  mutter'd, 
Wherever  he  flew, 

But  sulky  and  surly,  to-whit-to-who-who, 
For  the  Queen  of  the  Fays  had  made  me  free 
Of  her  language,  lands,  and  seigniorie. 

From  under  the  leaves, 
From  under  the  spray, 
From  under  the  fern, 
Rose  Elf,  Sprite,  and  Fay, 
Dropt  down  from  the  trees, 
And  shot  up  from  the  grass, 
And,  struck  by  the  moon-beam,  glittered  as  glass ; 

And  they  sparkled  and  spangled 
Most  gorgeously  dight, 

And  the  briars  thick-tangled, 
Were  gemm'd  with  the  light, 

That  burst  from  their  presence, 
And  branched  off  in  rays, 
Like  the  sun  through  the  trees, 
When  he  chooses  to  blaze— 

A  drop  of  which  essence 

Of  brightness  the  glow-worms  receive  from  the  Fay*. 
On  whatever  it  fell, 

It  shone  like  a  star, 
Whence  the  stones  in  the  dell 

So  glitter  with  spar, 
E'en  a  grain  of  dull  sand, 
In  a  Fairy's  hand, 

Like  a  di'mond  would  shine,  dug  fresh  from  the  mine, 
Or  the  rarest  of  jewels  of  Samarcand. 

.i.-  ibrtf- 
Their  bodies  elastic 

Shot  up  into  measure, 
And  beauty  fantastic, 

As  suited  their  pleasure. 
Some  rode  upon  insects, 
Kept  stabled  in  reeds, 
That  the  touch  of  the  Fairy-spur 

Changed  into  steeds. 
The  wings  of  the  Dragon-fly 

Dropt  down  in  trappings 
That  reach' d  the  ground,  braggingly 

Struck  with  their  flappings. 
And  the  fringes  of  gold  that  shot  forth  flame, 
Burnished  the  ground  wherever  they  came. 
The  King  had  his  courtiers, 

Brave  footmen,  and  knights ; 
The  Queen  her  fair  damsels, 

Most  exquisite  Sprites, 
All  with  beauty  unveil'd ; 
And  as  they  consorted, 
Their  Hippogriffs  snorted, 
And  their  coursers  neigU'd  loud,  as  new  life  they  inhaled. 


The  Owl.  [Nov. 

And  say,  who  art  thou, 
Fair  Lady,  that  now 

Thus  darest  serenely 
This  glen  to  approach  ? 
So  gentle,  so  queenly — 
Sure,  mortal  thy  birth  ; 
Or  else  thou  art  Dian, 
New-stept  from  her  coach, 
In  silence  and  beauty 
To  visit  the  earth — 
So  tranquil  while  near  is 
The  wood's  deep  abyss, 
As  the  daughter  of  Ceres, 

Unconscious  of  Dis. 
There  is  youth  on  thy  cheek, 
And  the  life's  blood  is  warm, 
And  a  look  of  pure  innocence 

Nothing  can  harm. 

Thy  silvery  feet  are  on  fairy-ground — 
The  sprites  they  are  closing  thee  round  and  round, 
Yet  thine  eye  is  not  free 
The  pageant  to  see — 
They  circle  thee  in ; 

And  now,  the  light  touch  of  Titania's  wand 
Proves  thee  of  kin  unblemish'd  by  sin— 
Thou  art  free  of  the  Fairy  Land. 

Now  the  Ring  it  is  set,  and  the  Elves  are  met— 

The  King  and  the  Queen  are  there ; 
Obsequious  they  dance,  recede  and  advance, 

Around  that  Lady  fair. 
Joyous  the  sport  in  the  Fairy  Court, 
And  the  Moon  in  mid  Heaven  above 
Doth  her  speed  repress, 
Sole  arbitress 

Of  the  revels  of  Mirth  and  Love. 
And  tier  above  tier 
The  stars  they  peer, 
And  their  silent  praise  confer, 
All  winking  delight, 
An  audience  bright, 
Whilst  over  the  lunar  arch  is  spread, 
To  enclose  that  glorious  theatre. 

O  music,  sweet  music,  quoth  the  Queen, 
O,  'tis  to  our  Elves  like  the  summer's  green— 
O  Lady,  that  gracest  our  Fairy  Ring, 
Great  were  the  boon  to  hear  thee  sing ! 


THE  LADY'S  SONG. 

My  Father  has  castles  and  acres  of  land, 
And  heaps  of  gold  as  the  countless  sand ; 
My  Mother,  fine  maidens  and  serving  men; 
But  richer  am  I  with  my  suitors  ten. 
They  come  at  my  beck,  and  come  at  my  call, 
But  little  care  I,  for  I  laugh  at  them  all. 

Though  I  laugh  at  ton  suitors  that  l>ow  the  knee, 
There  is  one  that  is  all  the  world  to  mo; 


The  Owl  793 

But  far,  far  is  he  on  the  foaming  deep, 
Yet  still  the  same  vigils  of  love  we  keep. 
And  I  came  forth  to  gaze  on  the  moon  to-night, 
Because  upon  him  it  is  shining  bright. 

Oh,  if  at  thy  bidding  they  come  and  go, 
Hasten  the  winds  that  homeward  blow. 
Then  give  him  a  grace  in  my  Father's  eyes, 
A  charm  that  my  Mother  his  worth  may  prize ; 
Or  if  that  may  not  be,  enrich  him  with  gold, 
For  that  is  the  thing  they  love  to  behold. 

The  lady  ceased,  and  Titania  then 

Thrice  waved  her  hand  to  her  chosen  band : 
"  Come  hither,  my  merry-men. 
Go,  Ariel,  search  the  wide  sea  round, 
Till  ye  find  that  tall  ship  homeward  bound ; 

Some  of  you  lie  in  the  sails  on  high, 
Some  upon  deck  below ;  m  t     ,ovllg  ^({T 

Some  before  her  track,  upon  Dolphin  s  back,0}h 
The  way  that  she  should  go. 
And,  Ariel,  thou,  go  watch  at  the  bow, 

And  look  to  the  fleecy  sky, 
And  call  through  the  shrouds  to  the  demon  clouds,    .)/iA 

That  they  bring  no  tempests  nigh." 

Then  thrice  she  waved  her  wand  so  white 

Towards  the  clear  moon-beam, 
And  it  suddenly  seem'd  to  drink  the  light, 

As  it  were  a  silver  stream. 
Thrice  did  she  touch  the  Lady  fair, 

And  thrice  the  charm  repeat — 
"  We  bless  thy  brow  and  thy  raven  hair, 

We  bless  thy  ivory  feet— 
Thine  eye— thine  ear ;  bright  beams  be  shed, 
And  Peace  where'er  thy  feet  shall  tread  ,- 
May  all  be  joy  when  thou  art  by, 

Thyself  all  hearts  endear; 
And  all  be  pleasure  to  thine  eye, 

All  music  to  thine  ear. 

"  Now  bear  her,  ye  sp'rits,  to  her  Father's  hall, 

And  lay  her  soft  on  her  bed  of  down ; 
Bid  her  not  fear  her  Mother's  eye, 

Bid  her  not  fear  her  Father's  frown. 
But  soon  as  she  wakes  with  the  morning  sun, 
Bid  her  in  joy  to  her  parents  run ; 
Their  hearts  at  the  sight  shall  with  gladness  swell, 
For  she  beareth  about  her  a  Fairy  spell — 

And  soon  as  their  lips  her  cheek  hath  kiss'd, 
Whatever  she  task  her  heart  to  ask, 

O  there  is  not  a  power  on  earth  to  resist." 

The  clouds  have  pass'd  over  the  lunar  bow, 

The  moon's  moving  on  to  rout  them, 
Close  hid  in  her  veil,  and  the  stars  grow  pale, 

And  have  wrapt  their  cloaks  about  them. 
As  the  cold  mists  fell  on  hill  and  on  dell, 
Hiding  the  Fays,  the  pageant,  and  spell. 
So  the  curtain  drops  upon  gilded  stage, 
Depriv'd  of  its  starry  patronage. 


704  The  Owl.  [Nor, 

The  Lark  sings  loud  to  the  morning  cloud, 

And  sweetly  his  notes  prolongs — 
'Tis  but  that  he  catches,  and  learns  the  snatches 

And  tunes  of  Fairy  songs ; 
For  he  has  been  listening;  all  the  night 

To  the  notes  of  joy  ana  mirth, 
And  bears  them  aloft  at  the  morning  light, 

As  far  too  good  for  earth. 

To-who-whit — to-who-who — to-who-whit— to-who-who  t 

Sir  Owl  is  return'd  to  his  old  ash-tree, 
And  warily  looking  to  see  what  is  cooking ; 

To-whit — to-who-who,  quoth  he. 
Art  thou  still  here,  Old  Mope,  Old  Mope, 
Hast  thou  been  conning  thy  horoscope  ? 

Little  good  here  dost  thou,  I  fear ; 
Faith,  thou  look'st  but  a  sorry  guest, 
And  I  like  not  a  thief  so  near  my  nest. 

Folk  may  perchance  subscribe  to  this  report 
Of  Justice  Owl,  and  spurn  my  pedlar  wares, 

And  much  it  mattereth  not — I've  had  my  sport— 
They  may  have  theirs. 

Yet  are  my  goods  home-spun,  and  textur'd  well, 

Made,  too,  to  wear,  and  not  trick'd  off  to  sell. 

You  like  them  not,  good  sirs — then  are  you  blind, 

Or  I  not  Dian's  Laureate ;  be  so  kind 

As  look  again — there's  counsel  yet  behind : 

'Twere  better  you  were  I,  or  e'en  the  Owl, 

Than  on  such  gentle  rhymes  as  these  to  scowl. 
Oh !  I  had  rather  be  a  mote, 

An  atom,  sprung  of  solar  birth—- 
Born but  to  bask  and  float 

In  moon-beams — than  poor  worm  of  earth, 

To  creep  and  crawl  for  ever  in  one  clod ; 

Mine  be  the  fountain's  side,  and  banks  by  Fairies  trod ! 

Poor  worms,  yea,  though  ye  fold  yourselves 

In  richest  coil,  ye  must  disrobe  of  all, 
Ere  you  can  be  of  Queen  Titania's  elves, 

And  lift  your  wings  above  your  care-wrought  thrall. 
Yea,  though  in  leaves  of  gold  ye  twist  and  writhe, 

And  wrap  yourselves,  unblest  with  other  need- 
Time,  the  stern  mower,  comes  with  horrid  scythe, 

Cuts  to  the  ground  you  and  your  worthless  weed — 

Ye  might  have  made  you  wings,  and  better  speed. 


1831.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log, 


TOM  CRINGLE'S  LOO.* 


THE  PICCAROON. 


w  FADER  was  a  Corramantee, 

Moder  was  a  Mingo, 
Black  Picaniny  Buccra  wantee 

So  clem  sell  a  me  Peter,  by  jingo. 
Jiggery,  jiggery,  jiggery." 

"  Well  sung,  Massa  Bungo,"  ex- 
claimed Mr  Splinter ;  "  where  do 
you  hail  from,  my  hearty  ?" 

"  Hillo !  Bungo  indeed  !  free  and 
easy  dat  any  how.  Who  you  yousef, 
eh?" 

"  Why,  Peter,"  continued  the  Lieu- 
tenant, "  don't  you  know  me  ?" 

"  Cannot  say  dat  I  do,"  rejoined 
the  negro,  very  gravely,  without  lift- 
ting  his  head,  as  he  sat  mending  his 
jacket  in  one  of  the  embrasures  near 
the  water-gate  of  the  arsenal — "  Have 
not  de  honour  of  your  acquaintance, 
sir." 

He  then  resumed  his  scream,  for 
Bong  it  could  not  be  called : — 

"  Mammy  Sally's  daughter 
Lose  him  shoe  in  an  old  canoe 

Dat  lay  half-  full  of  water, 
And  den  she  knew  not  what  to  do. 
Jiggery,  jig" 

"  Confound  your  jiggery,  jiggery, 
sir !  But  I  know  you  well  enough, 
my  man ;  and  you  can  scarcely  have 
forgotten  Lieutenant  Splinter  of  the 
Torch,  one  would  think  ?" 

However,  it  was  clear  that  the  poor 
fellow  really  had  not  known  us ;  for 
the  name  so  startled  him,  that,  in  his 
hurry  to  unlace  his  legs  from  under 
him,  as  he  sat  tailor  fashion,  he  fairly 
capsized  out  of  his  perch,  and  toppled 
down  on  his  nose — a  feature  fortu- 
nately so  flattened  by  the  hand  of 
nature,  that  I  question  if  it  could 
have  been  rendered  more  obtuse  had 
he  fallen  out  of  the  maintop  on  a 
timber-head,  or  a  marine  officer's. 

"  Eh! — no — yes, him  sure  enough, 
and  who  is  de  Picaniny  hofficer — 
Oh!  I  see,  Massa  Tom  Cringle?  Gara- 
mighty,  gentlemen,  where  have  you 
drop  from  ? — Where  is  de  old  Torch? 
Many  a  time  hab  I  Peter  Mangrove, 
pilot  to  Him  Britanic  Magesty  squa- 
dron, taken  de  old  brig  in  and 
through  amongst  de  keys  at  Port 
Royal  1" 


"  Ay,  and  how  often  did  you  scour 
her  copper  against  the  coral  reefs, 
Peter?" 

His  Majesty's  pilot  gave  a  know- 
ing look,  and  laid  his  hand  on  his 
breast — "  No  more  of  dat  if  you  love 
me,  massa," 

"  Well,  well,  it  don't  signify  now, 
my  boy;  she  will  never  give  you  that 
trouble  again — foundered — all  hands 
lost,  Peter,  but  the  two  you  see  be- 
fore you."  ii  i>bi 

"  Werry  sorry,  Massa  Plinter, 
weny  sorry — What !  de  black  cooks, 
mate  and  all  ? — But  misfortune  can't 
be  help.  Stop  till  I  put  up  my  nee- 
dle, and  I  will  take  a  turn  wid  you." 
Here  he  drew  up  himself  with  a  great 
deal  of  absurd  gravity.  "  Proper  dat 
British  hofficer  in  distress  should 
assist  one  anoder — We  shall  consult 
togeder. — How  can  I  serve  you  ?" 

"  Why,  Peter,  if  you  could  help  us 
to  a  passage  to  Port-Royal,  it  would 
be  serving  usmost  essentially.  When 
we  used  to  be  lying  there,  a  week 
seldom  passed  without  one  of  the 
squadron  arriving  from  this;  but 
here  have  we  been  for  more  than  a 
month,  without  a  single  pennant  be- 
longing to  the  station  having  looked 
in :  our  money  is  running  short,  and 
if  we  are  to  hold  on  in  Carthagena 
for  another  six  weeks,  we  shall  not 
have  a  shot  left  in  the  locker — not  a 
copper  to  tinkle  on  a  tombstone." 

The  negro  looked  steadfastly  at  us, 
then  carefully  around.  There  was 
no  one  near. 

"  You  see,  Massa  Plinter,  I  am  de- 
sirable to  serve  you,  for  one  little 
reason  of  my  own ;  but,  beside  dat, 
it  is  good  for  me  at  present  to  make 
some  friend  wid  de  hofficer  of  de 
squadron,  being  as  how  dat  I  am  ab- 
sent widout  leave." 

"  Oh,  I  perceive,  a  large  R  against 
your  name  in  the  master  attendant's 
books,  eh  ?" 

"  You  have  hit  it,  sir,  werry  close ; 
besides  I  long  mosh  to  return  to  my 
poor  wife,  Nancy  Cator,  dat  I  leave, 
wagabone  dat  I  is,  just  about  to  be 
confine." 


See  «  Tom  Cringle's  Log,"  in  Number  of  June  last. 


f  ui  r<<  Tom  Cringle's  Log,  7l,,'j  ,,|/:T  i  ,,(.]•    [Nov. 


79$ 

I  could  not  resist  putting  in  my 
oar. 

"  I  saw  Nancy  just  before  we  sail- 
ed, Peter, — fine  child  that;  not  quite 
so  black  as  you,  though." 

"  Oh,  Massa, "  said  Snowball,  grin- 
ning and  showing  his  white  teeth, 
"  You  know  I  am  soch  a  terrible 
black  fellow — Butyouarealeettleout 
at  present,  Massa— I  meant,  about  to 
be  confine  in  de  workhouse,  for  steal- 
ing de  admiral's  Muscovy  ducks;" 
and  he  laughed  loud  and  long. — 
c*  However,  if  you  will  promise  that 
you  will  stand  my  friends,  I  will  put 
you  in  de  way  of  getting  a  shove 
across  to  de  east  end  of  Jamaica;  and 
I  will  go  wid  you,  too,  for  company." 

"  Thank  you,"  rejoined  Mr  Splin- 
ter ;  "  but  how  do  you  mean  to  ma- 
nage this  ?  There  is  no  Kingston 
trader  here  at  present,  and  you  don't 
mean  to  make  a  start  of  it  in  an  open 
boat,  do  you  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  I  don't ;  but,  in  de  first 
place — as  you  are  a  gentleman,  will 
you  try  and  get  me  off  when  we  get 
to  Jamaica  ?  Secondly,  will  you  pro- 
mise that  you  will  not  seek  to  know 
more  of  the  vessel  you  may  go  in, 
nor  of  her  crew,  than  they  are  will- 
ing to  tell  you;  provided  you  are 
landed  safe  ?" 

"  Why,  Peter,  I  scarcely  think  you 
would  deceive  us,  for  you  know  I 
saved  your  bacon  in  that  awkward 
affair,  when  through  drunkenness 
you  plumped  the  Torch  ashore,  so" 

"  Forget  dat,  sir,— forget  dat  !— 
never  shall  poor  black  pilot  forget 
how  you  saved  him  from  being  sei- 
zed up  when  de  gratings,  boatswain's- 
mates  and  all,  were  ready  at  de  gang- 
way— never  shall  poor  black  rascal 
forget  dat." 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not  think  you  would 
wittingly  betray  us  into  trouble,  Pe- 
ter ;  and  as  I  guess  you  mean  one  of 
the  forced  traders,  we  will  venture 
in  her,  rather  than  kick  about  here 
any  longer,  and  pay  a  moderate  sum 
for  our  passage." 

"  Den  wait  here  five  minute,"— 
and  so  saying  he  slipt  down  through 
the  embrasure  into  a  canoe  that  lay 
beneath,  and  in  a  trice  we  saw  him 
jump  on  board  of  a  long  low  nonde- 
script kind  of  craft,  that  lay  moored 
within  pistol-shot  of  the  walls. 

She  was  a  large  shallow  vessel, 
coppered  to  the  bends,  of  great 


breadth  of  beam,  with  bright  sides, 
like  an  American,  so  painted  as  to 
give  her  a  clumsy  mercantile  sheer 
externally,  but  there  were  many 
things  that  belied  this  to  a  nautical 
eye :  her  copper,  for  instance,  was 
bright  as  burnished  gold  on  her  very 
sharp  bows,  and  beautiful  run;  and 
we  could  see  from  the  bastion  where 
we  stood,  that  her  decks  were  flush 
and  level.  She  had  no  cannon  mount- 
ed that  were  visible,  but  we  distin- 
fuished  grooves  on  her  well-scrub- 
ed  decks,  as  from  the  recent  tra- 
versing of  carronade  slides,  while  the 
bolts  and  rings  in  her  high  and  solid 
bulwarks  shone  clear  and  bright  in 
the  ardent  noontide.  There  was  a 
tarpawling  stretched  over  a  quantity 
of  rubbish,  old  sails,  old  junk,  and 
hencoops  rather  ostentatiously  piled 
up  forward,  which  we  conjectured 
might  conceal  a  long  gun. 

She  was  a  very  taught-rigged  her- 
maphrodite, or  brig  forward  and 
schooner  aft.  Her  foremast  and  bow- 
sprit were  immensely  strong  and 
heavy,  and  her  mainmast  was  so  long 
and  tapering,  that  the  wonder  was, 
how  the  few  shrouds  and  stays  about 
it  could  support  it :  it  was  the  hand- 
somest stick  we  had  ever  seen.  Her 
upper  spars  were  on  the  same  scale, 
tapering  away  through  topmast,  top- 
gallant-mast, royal  and  skysail-masts, 
until  they  fined  away  into  slender 
wands.  The  sails,  that  were  loose  to 
dry,  were  old,  and  patched,  and  evi- 
dently displayed  to  cloak  the  charac- 
ter of  the  vessel,  by  an  ostentatious 
shew  of  their  unserviceable  condi- 
tion, but  her  rigging  was  beautifully 
fitted,  every  rope  lying  in  the  chafe 
of  another,  being  carefully  served 
with  hide.  There  were  several  large 
bushy-whiskered  fellows  lounging 
about  the  deck,  with  their  hair  ga- 
thered into  dirty  net  bags,  like  the 
fishermen  of  Barcelona;  many  had 
red  silk  sashes  round  their  waists, 
through  which  were  stuck  their  long 
knives,  in  shark-skin  sheaths.  Their 
numbers  were  not  so  great  as  to 
excite  suspicion ;  but  a  certain  daring 
reckless  manner,  would  at  once  have 
distinguished  them,  independently  of 
any  thing  else,  from  the  quiet,  hard- 
worked,  red-shirted  merchant  sea- 
man. 

"  That  chap  is  not  much  to  be 
trusted,"  said  the  lieutenant :  "  his 
bunting  would  make  a  few  jackets 


1831.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


797 


for  Joseph,  I  take  it."  But  we  had 
little  time  to  be  critical  before  our 
friend  Peter  came  paddling  back 
with  another  blackamoor  in  the  stern, 
of  as  ungainly  an  exterior  as  could 
well  be  imagined.  He  was  a  very 
large  man,  whose  weight  every  now 
and  then,  as  they  breasted  the  short 
sea,  cocked  up  the  snout  of  the  canoe 
with  Peter  Mangrove  in  it,  as  if  he 
had  been  a  cork,  leaving  him  to 
flourish  his  paddle  in  the  air  like 
the  weather-wheel  of  a  steam-boat 
in  a  seaway.  The  new  comer  was 
strong  and  broad-shouldered,  with 
long  muscular  arms,  and  a  chest 
like  Hercules;  but  his  legs  and  thighs 
were,  for  his  bulk,  remarkably  puny 
and  mishapen.  A  thick  felt  of  black 
wool  in  close  tufts,  as  if  his  face  had 
been  stuck  full  of  cloves,  covered  his 
chin  and  upper  lip ;  and  his  hair,  if 
hair  it  could  be  called,  was  twisted 
into  a  hundred  short  plaits,  that 
bristled  out,  and  gave  his  head,  when 
he  took  his  hat  off,  the  appearance  of 
a  porcupine.  There  was  a  large 
sabre-cut  across  his  nose,  and  down 
his  cheek,  and  he  wore  two  immense 
gold  ear-rings.  His  dress  consisted 
of  short  cotton  drawers,  that  did  not 
reach  within  two  inches  of  his  knee, 
leaving  his  thin  cucumber  shanks 
(on  which  the  small  bullet-like  calf 
appeared  to  have  been  stuck  before, 
through  mistake,  in  place  of  abaft), 
naked  to  the  shoe;  a  check  shirt,  and 
an  enormously  large  Panama  hat, 
made  of  a  sort  of  cane,  split  small, 
and  worn  shovel-fashion.  Notwith- 
standing, he  made  his  bow  by  no 
means  ungracefully,  and  offered  his 
services  in  choice  Spanish,  but  spoke 
English  as  soon  as  he  heard  who  we 
were. 

"  Pray,  sir,  are  you  the  master  of 
that  vessel  ?"  said  the  lieutenant. 

"  No,  sir,  I  am  the  mate,  and  I 
learn  you  are  desirous  of  a  passage 
to  Jamaica."  This  was  spoken  with 
a  broad  Scotch  accent. 

"  Yes,  we  do,"  said  I,  in  very  great 
astonishment ;  "  but  we  will  not  sail 
with  the  devil ;  and  who  ever  saAV  a 
negro  Scotchman  before,  the  spirit 
of  Nicol  Jar  vie  conjured  into  a  black- 
amoor's skin !" 

The  fellow  laughed.  "  I  am  black, 
as  you  see;  so  were  my  father  and 
mother  before  me."  And  he  looked 
at  me,  as  much  as  to  say,  I  have 
read  the  book  you  quote  from,  "  But 


I  was  born  in  the  good  town  of 
Port-Glasgow,  notwithstanding,  and 
many  a  voyage  I  have  made  as  ca- 
bin-boy and  cook,  in  the  good  ship 
the  Peggy  Bogle,  with  worthy  old 
Jock  Hunter ;  but  that  matters  not.  I 
was  told  you  wanted  to  go  to  Jamai- 
ca; I  daresay  our  captain  will  take 
you  for  a  moderate  passage-money. 
But  here  he  comes  to  speak  for 
himself. — Captain  Vanderbosh,  here 
are  two  shipwrecked  British  officers, 
who  wish  to  be  put  on  shore  on  the 
east  end  of  Jamaica;  will  you  take 
them,  and  what  will  you  charge  for 
their  passage  ?" 

The  man  he  spoke  to  was  nearly 
as  tall  as  himself;  he  was  a  sun-burnt, 
angular,  raw-boned,  iron-visaged  ve- 
teran, with  a  nose  in  shape  and  co- 
lour like  the  bowl  of  his  own  pipe, 
but  not  at  all,  according  to  the  re- 
ceived idea,  like  a  Dutchman.  His 
dress  was  quizzical  enough — white 
trowsers,  a  long-flapped  embroider- 
ed waistcoat,  that  might  have  belong- 
ed to  a  Spanish  grandee,  with  an  old- 
fashioned  French-cut  coat,  showing 
the  frayed  marks  where  the  lace  had 
been  stripped  off,  voluminous  in  the 
skirts,  but  very  tight  in  the  sleeves, 
which  were  so  short  as  to  leave  his 
large  bony  paws,  and  six  inches  of 
his  arm  above  the  wrist,  exposed; 
altogether,  it  fitted  him  like  a  pur- 
ser's shirt  on  a  handspike. 

"  Vy,  for  von  hondred  thaler,  I 
will  land  dem  safe  in  Mancheoneal 
Bay ;  but  how  shall  ve  manage,  Vil- 
liamson  ?  De  cabin  vas  paint  yester- 
day." 

The  Scotch  negro  nodded.  "  Ne- 
ver mind;  I  daresay  the  smell  of 
the  paint  won't  signify  to  the  gentle- 
men." 

The  bargain  was  ratified,  we 
agreed  to  pay  the  stipulated  sum, 
and  that  same  evening,  having  drop- 
ped down  with  the  last  of  the  sea- 
breeze,  we  set  sail  from  Bocca  Chi- 
ca,  and  began  working  up  under  the 
lee  of  the  headland  of  Punto  Canoa. 
When  off  the  Sandomingo  Gate,  we 
burned  a  blue  light,  which  was  im- 
mediately answered  by  another  in 
shore  of  us.  In  the  glare,  we  could 
perceive  two  boats,  full  of  men.  Any 
one  who  has  ever  played  at  snapdra- 
gon, can  imagine  the  unearthly  ap- 
pearance of  objects  when  seen  by  this 
species  of  firework.  In  the  present 
instance,  it  was  held  aloft  oa  a  boat- 


798 

hook,  and  cast  a  strong  spectral  light 
on  the  band  of  lawless  ruffians,  who 
were  so  crowded  together,  that  they 
entirely  filled  the  boats,  no  part  of 
which  could  be  seen.  It  seemed  as  if 
two  clusters  of  fiends,  suddenly  vo- 
mited forth  from  hell,  were  floatingon 
the  surface  of  the  midnight  sea,  in  the 
midst  of  brimstone  flames.  In  a  few 
moments,  our  crew  was  strengthened 
by  about  forty  as  ugly  Christians  as  I 
ever  set  eyes  on.  They  were  of  all 
ages,  countries,  complexions,  and 
tongues,  and  looked  as  if  they  had 
been  kidnapped  by  a  pressgang,  as 
they  had  knocked  off  from  the  Tower 
of  Babel.  From  the  moment  they 
came  on  board,  Captain  Vanderbosh 
was  shorn  of  all  his  glory,  and  sank 
into  the  petty  officer,  while  to  our 
amazement,  the  Scottish  negro  took 
the  command,  evincing  great  cool- 
ness, energy,  and  skill.  He  ordered 
the  ship  to  be  wore,  as  soon  as  we 
had  shipped  the  men,  and  laid  her 
head  off  the  land,  then  set  all  hands 
to  shift  the  old  suit  of  sails,  and  to 
bend  new  ones. 

"Why  didyounot  shiftyour  canvasa 
before  we  started?"  said  I,  to  the 
Dutch  captain,  or  mate,  or  whatever 
he  might  be. 

"  Vy  vont  you  be  content  to  take  a 
quiet  passage  and  hax  no  question  ?" 
was  the  uncivil  rejoinder,  which  I 
felt  inclined  to  resent,  until  I  re- 
membered that  we  were  in  the  hands 
of  the  Philistines,  where  a  quarrel 
would  have  been  worse  than  useless. 
I  was  gulping  down  the  insult  as  well 
as  I  could,  when  the  black  captain 
came  aft,  and,  with  the  air  of  an  equal, 
invited  us  into  the  cabin  to  take  a 
glass  of  grog.  We  had  scarcely  sat 
down  before  we  heard  a  noise  like  the 
swaying  up  of  guns,  or  some  other 
heavy  articles,  from  the  hold. 

I  caught  Mr  Splinter's  eye — he 
nodded,  but  said  nothing.  In  half  an 
hour  afterwards,  when  we  went  on 
deck,  we  saw  by  the  light  of  the 
moon,  twelve  eighteen  pound  car- 
ronades  mounted,  six  of  a  side,  with 
their  accompaniments  of  rammers 
and  sponges,  water  buckets,  boxes 
of  round,  grape,  and  canister,  and 
tubs  of  wadding,  while  the  combings 
of  the  hatchways  were  thickly  stud- 
ded with  round  shot.  The  tarpaw- 
ling  and  lumber  forward  had  disap- 
p'jii  ed,  and  there  lay  long  Tom  rea- 
dy levelled,  grinning  on  his  pivot. 

The  ropes  were  all  coiled  away, 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[Nov. 


and  laid  down  in  regular  man-of- 
war  fashion ;  while  an  ugly  gruff 
beast  of  a  Spanish  mulatto,  appa- 
rently the  officer  of  the  watch,walk- 
ed  the  weather-side  of  the  quarter- 
deck, in  the  true  pendulum  style. 
Look-outs  were  placed  aft,  and  at 
the  gangways  and  bows,  who  every 
now  and  then  passed  the  word  to 
keep  a  bright  look-out,  while  the  rest 
of  the  watch  were  stretched  silent, 
but  evidently  broad  awake,  under 
the  lee  of  the  boat.  We  noticed  that 
each  man  had  his  cutlass  buckled 
round  his  waist — that  the  boarding- 
pikes  had  been  cut  loose  from  the 
main  boom,  round  which  they  had 
been  strapped,  and  that  about  thirty 
muskets  were  ranged  along  a  fixed 
rack,  that  ran  athwart  ships,  near  the 
main  hatchway. 

By  the  time  we  had  reconnoitred 
thus  far,  the  night  became  overcast, 
and  a  thick  bank  of  clouds  piled  up- 
on clouds,  began  to  rise  to  wind- 
ward ;  some  heavy  drops  of  rain  fell, 
and  the  thunder  grumbled  at  a  dis- 
tance. The  black  veil  crept  gradu- 
ally on,  until  it  shrouded  the  whole 
firmament,  and  left  us  in  as  dark 
night  as  ever  poor  devils  were  out 
in.  By  and  by  a  narrow  streak  of 
bright  moonlight  appeared  under  the 
lower  edge  of  the  bank,  defining  the 
dark  outlines  of  the  tumbling  multi- 
tudinous billows  on  the  horizon,  as 
distinctly  as  if  they  had  been  paste- 
board waves  in  a  theatre. 

"  Is  that  a  sail  to  windward,  in  the 
clear,  think  you  ?''  said  Mr  Splinter 
to  me  in  a  whisper.  At  this  moment 
it  lightened  vividly.  "  I  am  sure  it 
is,"  continued  he — "  I  could  see  her 
white  sails  in  the  glance  just  now." 

I  looked  steadily,  and,  at  last, 
caught  the  small  dark  speck  against 
the  bright  background,  rising  and 
falling  on  the  swell  of  the  sea  like  a 
feather. 

As  we  stood  on,  she  was  seen  more 
distinctly,  but,  to  all  appearance,  no- 
body was  aware  of  her  proximity. 
We  were  mistaken  in  this,  however, 
for  the  Captain  suddenly  jumped  on 
a  gun,  and  gave  his  orders  with  a 
fiery  energy  that  startled  us. 

"  Leroux !"  A  small  French  boy 
was  at  his  side  in  a  moment.  "  For- 
ward, and  call  all  hands  to  shorten 
sail ;  but,  doucement,  you  land  crab  I 
— Man  the  fore  clew  garnets. — Hands 
by  the  topgallant  clew  lines — peak 
and  throat  halyards— jib  down-haul 


1831.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


799 


— rise  tacks  and  sheets — let  go- 
clew  up — settle  away  the  main-gaff 
there !" 

In  almost  as  short  a  space  as  I 
have  taken  to  write  it,  every  inch  of 
canvass  was  close  furled  —  every 
light,  except  the  one  in  the  binnacle, 
carefully  extinguished — a  hundred 
and  twenty  men  at  quarters,  and  the 
ship  under  bare  poles.  The  head 
yards  were  then  squared,  and  we 
bore  up  before  the  wind.  The  stra- 
tagem proved  successful;  the  strange 
sail  could  be  seen  through  the  night 
glasses,  cracking  on  close  to  the 
wind,  evidently  under  the  impres- 
sion that  we  had  tacked. 

"  Dere  she  goes,  chasing  de  Go- 
bel,"  said  the  Dutchman.  She  now 
burned  a  blue  light,  by  which  we  saw 
she  was  a  heavy  cutter— without 
doubt  our  old  fellow-cruiser  the 
Spark.  The  Dutchman  had  come  to 
the  same  conclusion.  "  My  eye,  Cap- 
tain, no  use  to  doge  from  her,  it  is 
only  dat  footy  little  King's  cutter  on 
de  Jamaica  station." 

"  It  is  her,  true  enough,"  answer- 
ed Williamson ;  "  and  she  is  from 
Santa  Martha  with  a  freight  of  spe- 
cie, I  know.  I  will  try  a  brush  with 
her,  by" 

Splinter  struck  in  before  he  could 
finish  his  irreverent  exclamation. 
"  If  your  conjecture  be  true,  I  know 
the  craft — a  heavy  vessel  of  her  class, 
and  you  may  depend  on  hard  knocks 
and  small  profit,  if  you  do  take  her } 
while,  if  she  takes  you" 

"  I'll  be  hanged  if  she  does" — 
and  he  grinned  at  the  conceit — then 
setting  his  teeth  hard,  "  or  rather,  I 
will  blow  the  schooner  up  with  my 
own  hand  before  I  strike ;  better 
that  than  have  one's  bones  bleached 
in  chains  on  a  key  at  Port-Royal. 
— But,  you  see  you  cannot  control 
us,  gentlemen;  so  get  down  into  the 
cable  tier,  and  take  Peter  Mangrove 
with  you.  I  would  not  willingly  see 
those  come  to  harm  who  have  trust- 
ed me." 

However,  there  was  no  shot  flying 
as  yet,  we  therefore  staid  on  deck. 
All  sail  was  once  more  made ;  the 
carronades  were  cast  loose  on  both 
sides,  and  double  shotted  ;  the  long 
gun  slewed  round ;  the  tack  of  the 
fore  and  aft  foresail  hauled  up,  and 
we  kept  by  the  wind,  and  stood  after 
the  cutter,  whose  white  canvass  we 


could  still  see  through  the  gloom  like 
a  snow-wreath. 

As  soon  as  she  saw  us  she  tacked 
and  stood  towards  us,  and  came  gal- 
lantly bowling  along,  with  the  water 
roaring  and  flashing  at  her  bows.  As 
the  vessels  neared  each  other,  they 
both  shortened  sail,  and  finding  that 
we  could  not  weather  her,  we  steer- 
ed close  under  her  lee. 

As  we  crossed  on  opposite  tacks 
her  commander  hailed,  "Ho,  the  Brig- 
antine,  ahoy !" 

"  Hillo !"  sung  out  Blackie,  as  he 
backed  his  maintop-sail. 

'  What  schooner  is  that  ?" 

'  The  Spanish  schooner,  Caridad." 

'Whence,  and  whither  bound  ?" 

'  Carthagena,  to  Porto  Rico." 

'  Heave  to,  and  send  your  boat  on 
board." 

"  We  have  none  that  will  swim, 
sir." 

"  Very  well — bring  to,  and  I  will 
send  mine." 

"  Call  away  the  boarders,"  said 
our  captain,  in  a  low  stern  tone,  "  let 
them  crouch  out  of  sight  behind  the 
boat." 

The  cutter  wore,  and  hove  to 
under  our  lee  quarter,  within  pistol 
shot ;  we  heard  the  rattle  of  the  ropes 
running  through  the  davit  blocks, 
and  the  splash  of  the  jolly  boat 
touching  the  water,  then  the  mea- 
sured stroke  of  the  oars,  as  they 
glanced  like  silver  in  the  sparkling 
sea,  and  a  voice  calling  out,  "  Give 
way,  my  lads." 

The  character  of  the  vessel  we 
were  on  board  of  was  now  evident; 
and  the  bitter  reflection  that  we  were 
chained  to  the  stake  on  board  of  a 
pirate,  on  the  eve  of  a  fierce  contest 
with  one  of  our  own  cruisers,  was 
aggravated  by  the  consideration  that 
the  cutter  had  fallen  into  a  snare,  by 
which  a  whole  boat's  crew  would  be 
sacrificed  before  a  shot  was  fired. 

I  watched  my  opportunity  as  she 
pulled  up  alongside,  and  called  out, 
leaning  well  over  the  nettings,  "  Get 
back  to  your  ship ! — treachery  !  get 
back  to  your  ship."  The  little  French 
serpent  was  at  my  side  with  the 
speed  of  thought,  his  long  clear  knife 
glancing  in  one  hand,  while  the  fin- 
gers of  the  other  were  laid  on  his  lips. 
He  could  not  have  said  more  plainly, 
"  Hold  your  tongue,  or  I'll  cut  your 
throat."  The  officer  in  the  boat  had 


800 


Turn  Cringle's  Lay. 


LXov. 


heard  me  imperfectly ;  he  rose  up — 
"  I  won't  go  back,  my  good  man,  un- 
til I  see  what  you  are  made  of;"  and 
as  he  spoke  he  sprung  on  board,  but 
the  instant  he  got  over  the  bulwarks 
he  was  caught  by  two  strong  hands, 
gagged  and  thrown  bodily  down  the 
main  hatchway.  "  Heave,"  cried  a 
Yoice,"andwithawilll"  and  four  cold 
32  Ib.  shot  were  hove  at  once  into 
the  boat  alongside,  and  crashing 
through  her  bottom,  swamped  her  in 
a  moment,  precipitating  the  misera- 
ble crew  into  the  boiling  sea.  Their 
shrieks  still  ring  in  my  ears  as  they 
clung  to  the  oars,  and  some  loose 
planks  of  the  boat.  "  Bring  up  the 
officer,  and  take  out  the  gag,"  said 
Williamson.  Poor  Walcohn,  who  had 
been  an  old  messmate  of  mine,  was 
dragged  to  the  gangway  half  naked, 
his  face  bleeding,  and  heavily  ironed, 
when  the  blackamoor,  clapping  a 
pistol  to  his  head,  bid  him,  as  he  fear- 
ed instant  death,  hail  "  that  the  boat 
had  swamped  under  the  counter,  and 
to  send  another."  The  poor  fellow 
who  appeared  stunned  and  confused, 
did  so,  but  without  seeming  to  know 
what  he  said.  "Good  God,"  said  Mi- 
Splinter,  "  don't  you  mean  to  pick  up 
the  boat's  crew?"  The  blood  curdled 
to  my  heart  as  the  black  savage  an- 
swered in  a  voice  of  thunder,  "  Let 
them  drown  and  be  damned !  fill,  and 
stand  on !" 

But  the  clouds  by  this  time  broke 
away,  and  the  mild  moon  shone  clear 
and  bright  once  more,  upon  this  scene 
of  most  atrocious  villainy.  By  her 
light  the  cutter's  people  could  see 
that  there  was  no  one  struggling  in 
the  water  now,  and  that  the  people 
must  either  have  been  saved,  or  were 
past  all  earthly  aid ;  but  the  infamous 
deception  was  not  entirely  at  an  end. 

The  captain  of  the  cutter  seeing 
we  were  making  sail,  hailed  once 
more. "  Mr  Walcolm,  run  to  leeward, 
and  heave  to."  "Answer  him  instant- 
ly, and  hail  again  for  another  boat," 
said  the  sable  fiend,  and  cocked  his 
pistol.  The  click  went  to  my  heart. 
The  young  midshipman  turned  his 
pale  mild  countenance,  laced  with 
his  blood,  upwards  to  wards  the  moon 
and  stars,  as  one  who  had  looked  his 
last  look  on  earth ;  the  large  tears 
were  flowing  down  his  cheeks,  and 
mingling  with  the  crimson  streaks, 
and  a  flood  of  silver  light  fell  oa  the 


fine  features  of  the  poor  boy,  as  he 
said,  firmly,  "Never."  The  miscreant 
fired,  and  he  fell  dead.  "Up  with 
the  helm,  and  wear  across  her  stern." 
Tiie  order  was  obeyed.  "  Fire  !"  The 
whole  broadside  was  poured  in,  and 
we  could  hear  the  shot  rattle  and  tear 
along  the  cutter's  deck,  and  the 
shrieks  and  groans  of  the  wounded, 
while  the  white  splinters  glanced 
away  in  all  directions. 

We  now  ranged  alongside,  and 
close  action  commenced,  and  never 
do  I  expect  to  see  such  an  infernal 
scene  again.  Up  to  this  moment 
there  had  been  neither  confusion 
nor  noise  on  board  the  pirate — all 
had  been  coolness  and  order;  but 
when  the  yards  locked,  the  crew 
broke  loose  from  all  control — they 
ceased  to  be  men— they  were  de- 
mons, for  they  threw  their  own  dead 
and  wounded,  as  they  were  mown 
down  like  grass  by  the  cutter's 
grape,  indiscriminately  down  the 
hatchways  to  get  clear  of  them. 
They  stript  themselves  almost  na- 
ked ;  and  although  they  fought  with 
the  most  desperate  courage,  yelling 
and  cursing,  each  in  his  own  tongue, 
yet  their  very  numbers,  pent  up  in 
a  small  vessel,  were  against  them. 
Amidst  the  fire,  and  smoke,  and  hell- 
ish uproar,  we  could  see  that  the 
deck  had  become  a  very  shambles ; 
and  unless  they  soon  carried  the  cut- 
ter by  boarding,  it  was  clear  that  the 
coolness  and  discipline  of  my  own 
glorious  service  must  prevail,  even 
against  such  fearful  odds,  the  supe- 
perior  -size  of  the  vessel,  greater 
number  of  guns,  and  heavier  metal. 
The  pirates  seemed  aware  of  this, 
for  they  now  made  a  desperate 
attempt  forward  to  carry  their  an- 
tagonist by  boarding,  led  on  by  the 
black  captain.  Just  at  this  moment, 
the  cutter's  main-boom  fell  across 
the  schooner's  deck,  close  to  where 
we  were  sheltering  ourselves  from 
the  shot  the  best  way  we  could ;  and 
while  the  rush  forward  was  being 
made,  by  a  sudden  impulse  Splinter 
and  I,  followed  by  Peter,  scrambled 
along  it  as  the  cutter's  people  were 
repelling  the  attack  on  her  bow,  and 
all  three  of  us  in  our  haste  jumped 
down  on  the  poor  Irishman  at  the 
wheel. 

"  Murder,  fire,  rape,  and  robbery  ! 
it  is  capsized,  stove  in,  and  destroyed 


1831.] 


Tom  Crinple's  Lor/. 


801 


I  am  !  Captain,  Captain,  we  are  car- 
vied  aft  here— Och,  hubbabuo  for 
Patrick  Donnally !" 

There  was  no  time  to  be  lost ;  if 
any  of  the  crew  came  aft,  we  were 
dead  men,  so  we  tumbled  down 
through  the  cabin  skylight,  the  hatch 
having  been  knocked  off  by  a  shot, 
and  stowed  ourselves  away  in  the 
side  berths.  The  noise  on  deck  soon 
ceased — the  cannon  were  again  plied 
— gradually  the  fire  slackened,  and 
we  could  hear  that  the  pirate  had 
scraped  clear  and  escaped.  Some 
time  after  this,  the  Lieutenant  com- 
manding the  cutter  came  down.  Poor 
Mr  Douglas !  we  both  knew  him  well. 
He  sat  down  and  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands,,  while  the  blood  oozed  down 
between  his  fingers.  He  had  received 
a  cutlass  wound  on  the  head  in  the 
attack.  His  right  arm  was  bound  up 
with  his  neckcloth,  and  he  was  very 
pale.  "  Steward,  bring  me  a  light — 
Ask  the  doctor  how  many  are  killed 
and  wounded ;  and,  do  you  hear,  tell 
him  to  come  to  me  when  he  is  done 
forward,  but  not  a  moment  sooner. 
To  have  been  so  mauled  and  duped 
by  a  cursed  Buccaneer ;  and  my  poor 
boat's  crew" 

Splinter  groaned.  He  started — 
but  at  this  moment  tbe  man  return- 
ed again.  "  Thirteen  killed,  your 
honour,  and  fifteen  wounded,  scarce- 
ly one  of  us  untouched."  The  poor 
fellow's  own  scull  was  bound  round 
with  a  bloody  cloth. 

"  God  help  me !  God  help  me ! 
but  they  have  died  the  death  of  men. 
Who  knows  what  death  the  poor 
fellows  in  the  boat  have  died !" — 
Here  he  was  cut  short  by  a  tremen- 
dous scuffle  on  the  ladder,  down 
which  an  old  quarter-master  was 
trundled  neck  and  crop  into  the  ca- 
bin. "  How  now,  Jones  ?" 

"  Please  your  honour,"  said  the 
man,  as  soon  as  he  had  gathered 
himself  up,  and  had  time  to  turn  his 
quid,  and  smooth  down  his  hair ; 
but  again  the  uproar  was  renewed, 
and  Donnally  was  lugged  in,  scram- 
bling and  struggling,  between  ttt'o 
seamen.  '•'  This  here  Irish  chap, 


your  honour,  has  lost  his  wits,  if  so 
be  he  ever  had  any,  your  honour. 
He  has  gone  mad  through  fright." 

"  Fright  be  d— d!"  roared  Don- 
nally ;  "  no  man  ever  frightened  me  : 
but  as  your  honour  was  skewering 
them  bloody  thieves  forward,  I  was 
boarded  and  carried  aft  by  the  devil, 
your  honour — pooped  by  Belzeebub, 

by ,"  and  he  rapped  his  fist  on 

the  table  until  every  thing  on  it 
danced  again.  "  There  were  three  of 
them,  your  honour — B  black  one"and 
two  blue  ones— a  long  one  and  two 
short  ones— each  with  two  horns  on 
his  head,  for  all  the  world  like  those 
on  Father  M'Cleary's  red  cow — no, 
she  was  humbled — it  is  Father  Clan- 
nachan's  I  mane — no,  not  his  nei- 
ther, for  his  was  the  parish  bull; 
fait,  I  don't  know  what  I  mane,  ex- 
cept that  they  had  horns  on  their 
heads,  and  vomited  fire,  and  had  each 
of  them  a  tail  at  his  stern,  twisting 
and  twining  like  a  conger  eel,  with  a 
blue  light  at  the  end  on't." 

"  And  dat's  a  lie,  if  ever  dere  was 
one,"  exclaimed  Peter  Mangrove, 
jumping  from  the  berth.  "  Look  at 
me,  you  Irish  tief,  and  tell  me  if  I 
have  a  blue  light  or  a  conger  eel  at 
my  stern  ?" 

This  was  too  much  for  poor  Don- 
nally. He  yelled  out,  "  You'll  believe 
your  own  eyes  now,  your  honour, 
when  you  see  one  o'  dem  bodily  before 
you  !  Let  me  go — let  me  go !"  and, 
rushing  up  the  ladder,  he  would 
have  ended  his  earthly  career  in  the 
salt  sea,  had  his  bullet  head  not  en- 
countered the  broadest  part  of  the 
purser,  who  was  in  the  act  of  de- 
scending, with  such  violence,  that 
he  shot  him  out  of  the  companion- 
ladder  several  feet  above  the  deck, 
as  if  he  had  been  discharged  from  a 
culverin;  but  the  recoil  sent  poor 
Donnally,  stunned  and  senseless,  to 
the  bottom  of  the  ladder.  There 
was  no  standing  Jill  this;  we  laughed 
outright,  and  made  ourselves  known 
to  Mr  Douglas':,  \\-ho  received  us  cor- 
dially, and  in  a  week  we  were  land- 
ed r.t  Port-1'ovp.l. 


VOL,  XXX,  NO.  CLXXXVII, 


802 


Noctes  Ambrosianee.    No.  LIX.  [Nov. 


i  er,  on  is  ,* 

svaifod  eaaib  I  In;  /?  q<»<»>i  * 

-C9V9<1  ,  •    1'    )::•     ••' 

$ott* 

..-;.:.'  -:• 

No.  LIX. 


XPH  A'EN  STMnOSin  KTAIKHN  JIEPINISSOMENAHN 
HAEA  KftTIAAONTA  KA0HMENON  OINOHOTAZEIN. 

PHOC.  ap.  Ath. 

' 


ii'sc  .  [  2Vii<  i*  a  distich  by  wise  old  Phocylides, 

An  ancient  who  wrote  crabbed  Greek  in  no  silly  days  ; 
Meaning,  "  "Tis  RIGHT  FOR  GOOD  WINEBIBBING  PEOPLE, 

NOT  TO  LET  THE  JUG  PACE  ROUND  THE  BOARD  LIKE  A  CRIPPLE} 
BUT  GAILY  TO  CHAT  WHILE  DISCUSSING  THEIR  TIPPLE." 

An  excellent  rule  of  the  hearty  old  cock  'tis  — 
And  a  very  Jit  motto  to  put  to  our  Noctes.] 

C.  N.  ap.  Ambr. 

,'^iaitsla  o  motfjs!  £  usv  '.'>'•'  li-ai  "ayld  jh.:^  j>hi  j  .. 

/Seen*,  ?Ae  Snuggery  —  Time,  Five  o*  clock  —  Actors,  North,  Tickler,  and  the 
Shepherd  —  Occupation,  Dinner. 

SHEPHERD. 

WHAT'N  a  bill  o'  fare  !  As  lang's  ma  airm  was  the  slip  o'  paper  endorsed 
wi'  the  vawrious  eatems,  and  I  was  feared  there  micht  be  delusion  in  the 
promise  ;  but  here,  far  ayont  a'  hope,  and  aboon  the  wildest  flichts  o'  fancy, 
the  realization  o'  the  Feast  ! 

NORTH. 

Mine  host  has  absolutely  outdone  to-day  all  his  former  outdoings.  You 
have  indeed,  sir. 

AMBROSE. 

You  make  me  too  happy,  sir. 

SHEPHERD. 

Say  owre  prood,  Picardy. 

AMBROSE. 

Pride  was  not  made  for  man,  Mr  Hogg.  —  Mr  North,  I  trust,  will  forgive 
me,  if  I  have  been  too  bold. 

SHEPHERD. 

Nor  woman  neither.  Never  mind  him  ;  I  forgie  you,  and  that's  aneuch. 
You've  made  a  maist  excellent  observe. 

TICKLER. 
Outambrosed  Ambrose,  by  this  regal  regale  ! 

SHEPHERD. 

I  ken  nae  mair  impressive  situation  for  a  human  being  to  find  himsell 
placed  in,  than  in  juxtaposition  wi'  a  mony-dished  denner  afore  the  covers 
hae  been  removed.  The  sowle  sets  itsell  at  wark  wi'  a'  its  faculties,  to 
form  definite  conceptions  o'  the  infinite  vareeities  o'  veeands  on  the  eve  o' 
being  brought  to  light.  Can  this,  it  asks  itself  in  a  laigh  vice,  can  this  dish, 
in  the  immediate  vicinity,  be,  do  ye  think,  a  roasted  fillet  o'  veal,  eae  broon 
and  buttery  on  the  ootside,  wi'  its  crisp  faulds  o'  fat,  and  sac  white  and 
sappy  wi'  its  firm  breadth  o'  lean,  in  the  in  r1  Frae  its  position,  I  jalouse 
that  ashet  can  conteen  nothing  less  than  a  turkey  —  and  I  cou'd  risk  my  sal- 
vation on't,  that  while  yen's  Westphally  ham  on  the  tae  side,  yon's  twa 
howtowddies  on  the  ither.  Can  you  -- 

TICKLER. 

No  man  should  speak  with  his  mouth  full. 

SHEPHERD. 

Nor  his  head  empty.    But  you're  mistaken  if  you  meant  me,  Mr  Tickler, 


1831.]  Noctes  Ambrosiante.    A'o.  LIX.  803 

for  ma  mouth  was,  at  no  period  of  my  late  discourse,  abune  half  fu',  as  I 
was  carefu'  aye  to  keep  swallowing  as  I  went  alang,  and  I  dinna  believe 
you  cou'd  discern  ony  difference  in  my  utterance.  But,  besides,  I  even- 
down deny  the  propriety,  as  weel's  the  applicability,  o'  the  apophthegm.  To 
enact  that  nae  man  shall  speak  during  denner  wi'  his  mouth  fu',  is  about  as 
reasonable  as  to  pass  a  law  that  nae  man,afore  or  after  denner,  shall  speak  wi' 
his  mouth  empty.  Some  feeble  folk,  I  ken,'hae  a  horror  o'  doin'  twa  things 
at  ance ;  but  I  like  to  do  a  score,  provided  they  be  in  natur  no  only  com- 
patible but  congenial.; 

TICKLER. 
And  who,  pray,  is  to  be  the  judge  of  that  ? 

SHEPHERD. 

Mysell !  Every  man  in  this  warld  maun  judge  for  himsell ;  and  on  nae  ac- 
count whatsomever  suffer  ony  ither  loon  to  judge  for  him,  itherwise  he'll 
gang  to  the  deevil  at  a  haun-canter. 

NORTH. 

Nobody  follows  that  rule  more  inviolably  than  Tickler. 

SHEPHERD. 

In  the  body,  frae  the  tie  o'  his  crawvat  a'  the  way  doon  to  that  o'  his 
slioou — in  the  sowle,  frae  the  lightest  surmise  about  a  passing  cloud  on  a 
showery  day,  to  his  maist  awfu'  thochts  about  a  future  state,  when  his  "  ex- 
travagant and  erring  spirit  hies"  intil  the  verra  bosom  o'  eternity. 

TICKLER. 

James,  a  caulker. 

SHEPHERD. 

Thank  ye,  sir,  wi'  a'  my  wull.  That's  prime.  Pure  speerit.  Unchrist- 
ened.  Sma'  stell.  Gran'  worm.  Peetreek.  Glenlivet.  Ferintosh.  It 
wud  argue  that  a  man's  heart  wasna  in  the  richt  place,  were  he  no,  by  pro- 
nouncin'  some  bit  affectionate  epithet,  to  pay  his  debt  o'  gratitude  to  sic  a 
caulker. 

NORTH. 

James,  resume. 

SHEPHERD. 

Suppose  me,  sir,  surveying  the  scene,  like  Moses  frae  the  tap  o'  Pisgah 
the  Promised  Land.  There  was  a  morning  mist,  and  Moses  stood  awhile 
in  imagination.  But  soon,  sun-smitten,  burst  upon  his  vision  through  the 
translucent  ether  the  region  that  flowed  with  milk  and  honey — while  sigh- 
ed nae  mair  the  children  o'  Israel  for  the  flesh-pats  o'  Egypt.  Just  sae, 
sirs,  at  the  uplifting  o'  the  covers,  flashed  the  noo  on  our  een  the  sudden 
revelation  o'  this  lang-expected  denner.  How  simultawneous  the  muve- 
ment !  As  if  they  had  been  a'  but  ae  man,  a  Briareus ;  like  a  waff  o'  licht- 
nin'  gaed  the  hauns  o'  Picardy,  and  Mon.  Cadet,  and  King  Pepin,  and  Sir 
Dawvid  Gam,  and  Tappitourie,  and  the  Pech,  and  the  Hoi  Polloi ;  and,  lo 
and  behold !  towerin'  tureens  and  forest-like  epergnes,  overshadowing  the 
humbler  warld  o'  ashets  !  Let  nae  man  pretend  after  this  to  tell  me  the  dif- 
ference atween  the  Beautifu'  and  the  Shooblime. 

NORTH. 

To  him  who  should  assert  the  distinction  I  would  simply  say,  "  Look  at 
that  Round !" 

SHEPHERD. 

Aye,  he  wou'd  fin'  some  diffeeculty  in  swallowin'  that,  sir.  The  fack  is, 
that  the  mawgic  o'  that  Buttock  o'  Beef,  considered  as  an  objecko'  intellec- 
tual and  moral  Taste,  lies  in — Harmony.  It  reminds  you  o'  that  fine  line  in 
Byron,  which  beyond  a'  doubt  was  originally  inspired  by  sic  anither  objeck, 
though  afterwards  differently  applied, 

"  The  soul,  the  music  breathing  from  that  face  !" 

TICKLER. 
Profanation ! 

SHEPHERD. 

What !  is  there  ony  profanation  in  the  application  o'  the  principles  and 
practice  o'  poetry  to  the  common  purposes  o  life  ?  Fancy  and  Imagination, 


§04  Nodes  Ambrosiance.    No.  L1X.  [Nov 

sire,  can  add  an  inch  <>'  fat  to  roon  or  sirloin,  while  at  ilic  same  time  thej 
sae  etherealeeze  its  substance,  that  you  can  indulge  to  the  supposabh 
utmost  in  greediness,  without  subjectin'  yoursell,  in  your  ain  conscience,  £< 
the  charge  o'  grossness— -ony  mair  than  did  Adam  or  Eve  when  dining  upoi 
aipples  wi'  the  angel  Raphael  in  the  bowers  o'  Paradise.  And  Heaven  b< 
praised  that  has  bestowed  on  us  three  the  gracious  gift  o'  a  sound,  steady 
but  not  unappeasable  appeteet. 

TICKLER. 

North  and  I  are  Epicures— but  you,  James,  I  fear  are  a   .  •  ;1 

SHXPHERD. 

Glutton.  Be't  sae.  There's  at  least  this  comfort  in  ma  case,  that  I  lool 
like  ma  meat 

TICKLER. 

Which  at  present  appears  to  be  cod's  head  and  shouldortonob  ^tariffi  -\ 

SHEPHERD. 

Whereas,  to  look  at  you,  a  body  wou'd  imagine  you  leev'd  exclusive!} 
on  sheep's  head  and  trotters.  As  for  you,  Mr  North,  I  never  cou'd  faddon 
the  philosophy  o1  your  fondness  for  soops.  For  hotch-potch  and  cocky^ 
leeky  the  wisest  o'  men  may  hae  a  ruling  passion ;  but  to  keep  plowteim' 
platefu'  after  platefu',  amang  broon  soop,  is  surely  no  verra  consistent  wi 
your  character.  It's  little  better  than  moss-water.  Speakin'  o'  cocky 
leeky,  the  man  was  an  atheist  that  first  polluted  it  wi'  prunes,  usijwqqe  j 

NORTH, 
'i  At  least  no  Christian. 

SHEPHERDi'nl     .olbfii  usboov/  jnfj  io1  list 

Prunes  gie't  a  sickenin'  sweetness,  till  it  tastes  like  a  moutMu'  o'  a  cockney 
poem ;  and,  scunnerin',  you  splutter  out  the  fruit,  afraid  that  the  loathsom< 
lolje  is  a  stinkin'  snail. 

TICKLER. 
'-'Hogg/you  have  spoiled  my  dfrmefV  v 

SHEPHERD. 

Then  maun  ye  be  the  slave  o'  the  senses,  sir;  and  your  vcrra  imagination 
at  the  mercy  o'  your  palat — or  rather,  veece  versa,  the  roof  o'  your  moutl 
mtiiin  hauld  the  tenure  o'  its  taste  frae  another  man's  fancy— a  pitiable  con 
dition — for  a  single  word  may  change  luxuries  intil  necessaries,. and  ne 
cessaries  intil  something  no  eatable,  even  during  a  siege. 

NORTH*  >M'J  1JO/    !  iBUOttB  SJBUUJ'IolaU 

'Tis'all  affectation  in  Tickler  this  extreme  fastidiousness  and  delicacy. 

SHEPHERD. 

I  defy  the  utmost  power  o'  language  to  disgust  me  wi'  agude  denner.  M; 
stammach  wou'd  soar  superior— — 

TICKLER,  toil  Jaa(q««  i 
Mine,  too,  would  rise.  .slil  }o  afiri  ^nl 

SHEPHERD. 

O,  sir,  you're  wutty !    But  I  hate  puns.—Tickler,  is  that  mock  ?    ,, 

TICKLER. 

1  believe  it  is  :  but  the  imitation  excels  the  original,  even  as  Byron's  Bep 
po  is  preferable  to  Frere's  Giants. 

SHEPHERD. 

A'  lut  the  green  fat. 

NORTH. 

Deep  must  be  the  foundation,  and  strong  the  superstructure  of  that  friend 
ship,  which  can  sustain  the  shock  of  seeing  its  object  eating  raock-tui  tl< 
soup  from  a  plate  of  imitation  silver 

SHEPHERD.     — HU 

Meaner  than  pewter,  as  is  the  soop  than  sowens.    An  invaluable  apoph 
-      mjoni  Iwox  o  Juo  biow  adj  'aiifai  loi  sm  nob-rsl    ^n»n!f!f»M 

NORTH. 

Not  tiiat  I  belong,  James,  to  the  Silver-fork  School. 

*>m9flI9li'      SHEPHERD.     'CM  «J/ 

The  flunkies— as  ye  weel  ca'd  thorn,  sir— a  contumelious  nickname,  wlihJ 
that  unco  doure  and  somewhat  stupit  radical  in  the  Westminster,  wouk 


tfobtes  Ambrosianaz.    No.  LIX.  8(>j 

try  to  make  hfmsell  believe  he  invented  owre  again,  when  the  impident  pla- 
giary changed  it — as  he  did  t'ither  day— into  "  JLackey." 
53,90119138(100  nifi  mo^  of  JIaaiuo  •  NORTHS  I  UP  Juoiftiw ,;  iiniSj-i'; 

I  merely  mean,  James,  that  at  bed  or  board  1  abhor  aU-deseptiottKib  arfi 

SHEPHERD,      fyfjrfqfl.fi  iu^UJi  3. 

Sac,  sir,  duve  I.  A  plated  spoon  is  a  pitiful  imposition  ;  recommend  ine 
to  horn;  and  then  nane  o'  your  egg-spoons,  or  pap-spoous  for  weans,  but 
ane  about  the  diameter  o'  my  luf,  that  when  you  put  it  weel  ben  into  your 
mouth,  gars  your  cheeks  s \rail,  and  your  een  shut  wi.'  satisfaction. 

TJCKLER. 

^u  I  should  like  to  have  your  picture,  my  dear  James,  takea  ia.that 
gesture. 

NORTH. 
Finely  done  in  miniature,  by  MacLeayW  o*  a-asaqqe  Jaaaaiq  is  rfotrtW 

TICKLER. 

No.    By  some  savage  Rosa. 

SHEPHERD. 

A'  I  mean,  sirs,  is  sincerity  and  plain-dealing.  "  One  man,"  says  the  auld 
proverb,  "  is  born  wi'  a  silver  spoon  in  hi*  mouth,  and  another  wi'  a  wooden 
ladle."  Noo,  what  wou'd  be  the  feelings  o'  the  first,  were  he  to  find  that  for- 
tune had  clapt  intil  his  mooth,  as  Nature  was  gien  him  to  the  warld>  what  to 
a'  appearance  was  a  silver  spoon,  and  by  the  howdie  and  a'  the  kimmerssae 
denominated  accordingly,  but  when  shewn  to  Mr  Morton  the  jeweller,  or 
Messrs  Mackay  and  Cunninghame,  was  pronounced  plated  ?  He  would  sigh 
sair  for  the  wooden  ladle.  Indeed,  gents,  I'm  no  sure  but  it's  better  nor 
even  the  real  siller  metal.  In  the  first  place,  it's  no.  sae  apt  to  be  stawn— in 
the  second,  maist  things  taste  weel  oot  o'  wud — thirdly,  there's  nae  expense  in 
keepin't  clean,  whereas  siller  requires  constant  pipeclay,  leather,  or  flannen 
— fourthly,  I've  seen  them  wi'  a  maist  beautifu'  polish,  acquired  in  coorse  o' 
time  by  the  simple  process  o'  sookin'  the  horn  as  it  gaed  in  and  out  the 
mouth— fifthly,  there's  ten  thousand  times  mair  vareety  in  the  colours— 
sixthly—— e  i  m  IUOT  Ixu 
[JtiO'ft  -iuo'{. 'o  loo'i  eifJ  <B,er>  f  TICKLER.  rri9ta  iili  SR 

Enough  in  praise  of  the  Wooden  Spoon.  Poor  fellow!  I; alwajfft, ffttf 
that  unfortunate  annual. 

9£.')i<j  B  gnnub  SHEPHERD,  litmus  iiJai  KjrsKee&s 

Unfortunate  annual !  You  canna  weel  be  fou  already ;  yet,  certes,  you're 
beginmV  to  haver— and  indeed  I  have  observed,  no  without  pain,  that  a 
single  caulker  somehoo  or  other  superannuates  ye,  Mr  Tickler. 

NORTH. 

James,  you  have  spoken  like  yourself  on  the  subject  of  woodeu  spoons. 
'Twas  a  simple  but  sapient  homily.  "  Seems,  madam  !  nay  it  is."  Be  that 
my  rule  of  life. 

SHEPHERD. 

The  general  rule  admits  but  o'  ae  exception— Vermicelli  ?  What  that  sort 
o'  soop  's  composed  o'  I  never  hae  been  able  to  form  ony  feasible  conjec- 
ture. Aneuch  for  me  to  ken,  on  your  authority,  Mr  North,  that  it's  no 
worms. 

NORTH. 

I  have  no  recollection  of  having  ever  given  you  such  assurance,  Jamee. 

SHEPHERD. 

Your  memory,  my  dear  sir,  you'll  excuse  me  for  mentionin'  't,  is  no  just 
what  it  used  to  be  '"  jijo  wi  §mau»  ':  ifooife  9ifj  ni&reua  OBO  iloirfv/  ,qfria 

»voRTi4ia  uoii&iiitii  'to  $i&k{  «  tao'i'l  quoe 

You  are  exceedingly  im— — •?  sHSTK^aHs 
ifqoqu  ^fjmjlfivai  nA    .gaav/oa  a-. SHEPHERD.      /  HB  ,79Jv/sq  <if>tii  -mue^M  , 

Pertinent.  Pardon  me  for  takin*  the  word  out  o'  your  mouth,  sur— hut 
as  for  your  judgment 

foOrf.'jR  >l;  NORTH.  si  ,'HUo!'»(J 

I  believe  you  are  right,  my  dear  James.  The  memory  is  but  a  poor  power 
after  all — well  enough  for  the  mind  in  youth,  when  its  business  is  to  collect 
a  store  of  ideas— —  In-jibm  ifqujg  jeifwsrooe  briu  9100600x11; 


806  Nodes  Ambrosiana.    No.  LIX.  [Nov. 

SHEPHERD. 

But  altogether  useless  in  auld  age,  sir,  when  the  Intellect— 

NORTH. 

Is  Lord  Paramount — and  all  his  subjects  come  flocking  of  their  own  ac- 
cord to  lay  themselves  in  loyalty  at  his  feet 

SHEPHERD. 

There  he  sits  on  his  throne,  on  his  head  a  croon,  and  in  his  hawn  a  sceptre. 
Cawm  is  his  face  as  the  sea — and  his  brow  like  a  snaw-white  mountain. 
By  divine  right  a  king ! 

NORTH. 

Spare  my  blushes. 

SHEPHERD. 

I  was  no  speakin'  o'  you,  sir — sae  you  needna  blush.  I  was  speakin'  o" 
the  Abstrack  Power  o'  Intellect  personified  in  an  Eemage,  "  whose  stature 
reached  the  sky,"  and  whose  coontenance,  serenely  fu'  o'  thocht,  partook 
o'  the  majestic  stillness  o'  the  region  that  is  glorified  by  the  setting  sun. 

NORTH. 

My  dear  boy,  spare  my  blushes. 

SHEPHERD. 

Hem.  (His  face  can  nae  mair  blush  than  the  belly  o'  a  hen  red-breast.)  What 
philosopher,  like  an  adjutant-general,  may  order  out  on  parawde  the  thochts 
and  feelings,  and,  strick  though  he  be  as  a  disci  plinawrian,  be  obeyed  by  that, 
irregular  and  aften  mutinous  Macedonian  phalanx  ? 

NORTH. 

The  Philosophy  of  the  Human  Mind,  I  am  credibly  informed,  James,  is 
in  its  infancy— 

SHEPHERD. 

Aiblins,  sir,  in  its  second  childhood— witness  Phrenology. 

NORTH. 
You  have  a  very  fine  forehead,  James. 

SHEPHERD. 

Mind,  sir,  that  I  was  no  sayin'  that  Phrenology  was  fause.  On  the  con- 
trar,  I  think  there's  a  great  deal  o'  truth  in  what  they  say  about  the  shape 
and  size  o'  the  head — but— 

TICKLER. 

That  with  the  exception  of  some  half  dozen  or  so,  such  as  Combe  and 
the  Scotts,  the  Edinburgh  Phrenologists  are  the  Flower  of  our  Scottish 
Fools 

NORTH. 
See  their  Journal— passim. 

SHEPHERD. 

That  wou'dnabe  fair,  sir — to  judge  o'  a  periodical  wark,  by  merely  passin* 
the  shop  wundow  where  it  may  be  lyin'  exposed  like  a  dead  ool,  wi'  wings 
extended  on  a  barn-door— 

NORTH. 

Passim  and  en  passant  have  not  the  same  meaning,  James,  though  I 
could  mention  one  ingenious  modern  Athenian  who  appears  to  think  so. 

SHEPHERD. 

Words  that  have  the  same  soun'  ought  to  have  the  same  sense— though, 
I  admit,  that's  no  aye  the  case — for  itherwise  langage  misleads.  For  ex- 
ample, only  yestreen  at  a  party,  a  pert,  prim,  pompous  prater,  wi'  a  peerie- 
weerie  expression  about  the  een,  asked  me  what  I  thocht,  in  this  stormy 
state  o'  the  atmosphere,  would  become  o'  the  Peers  P  I  answered,  simply 
aneuch,  that  if  wrapped  up  in  fresh  straw,  and  laid  in  a  dry  place,  safe 
frae  the  damp,  they  would  keep  till  Christmas.  The  cretur,  after  haen 
said  something,  he  supposed,  insupportably  severe  on  me  for  the  use  o' 
feegurative  language  on  sic  a  terrible  topic,  began  to  what  he  ca'd  "  im- 

fington. 

moved  f 

Kament,  and  me  o'  jargonells. 

filUi' 


1831.]  Nodes  Ambrosiance.    No.  LIX.  807 

NORTH. 

Timothy,  is  not  James  very  pleasant  ? 

TICKLER. 

Very. 

SHEPHERD. 

There's  the  doctrine  o'  the  association  o'  Ideas.  Thomas  Broon,  who 
kent  as  muckle  about  poetry  as  that  poker,  and  wrote  it  about  as  weel  as  that 
shovel,  and  criticeesed  it  about  as  weel  as  thae  tangs,  pretended  to  inform 
mankind  at  large  hoo  ae  idea  took  place  o'  anither,  for  he  was  what  is  ca'd 
a  great  metaphysician.  The  mind,  he  said — for  I  hae  read  his  lecturs — had 
nae  power — frae  which  I  conclude  that,  according  to  him,  it's  aye  passive — 
a  doctrin  I  beg  leave  maist  positeevely  to  contradick,  as  .coutrar  to  the  hail 
tenor  o'  ma  ain  experience.  The  human  mind  is  never,  by  ony  chance,  ae 
single  moment  passive — but  at  a'  times,  day  and  nicht — 

NORTH. 

"  Sleep  hath  her  separate  world,  as  wide  as  dreams  !" 

SHEPHERD. 

Tuts.  What  for  are  you  aye  quottin  that  conceited  cretur  Wudsworth  ? 
Canna  ye  follow  his  example,  and  quott  yoursel  ? 

NORTH. 

I  should  despise  doing  that,  James — I  leave  it  to  my  brethren  of  man- 
kind. 

SHEPHERD. 

Day  and  nicht  is  the  mind  active  ;  and  indeed  sleep  is  but  the  intensest 
state  o'  wakefu'ness. 

TICKLER. 

Especially  when  through  the  whole  house  is  heard  a  snore  that  might 
waken  the  dead. 

SHEPHERD. 

Just  sae.  It's  a  lee  to  say  there  can  be  sic  a  state  as  sleep  without  a 
•snore.  In  a  dwawm  or  fent  man  nor  woman  snores  none — for  that  is  tem- 
porary death.  But  sleep  is  not  death — nor  yet  death's  brither,  though  it 
has  been  ca'd  sae  by  ane  who  shou'd  hae  kent  better — but  it  is  the  activity 
o'  spiritual  life. 

TICKLER. 
Come,  James,  let  us  hear  you  on  dreams. 

SHEPHERD. 

No — till  after  sooper — whan  we  shall  discuss  Dreams  and  Ghosts.  Suf- 
fice it  for  the  present  to  confine  mysell  to  ae  sentence,  and  to  ask  you  baith 
this  question — what  pheelosopher  has  ever  yet  explained  the  behaviour  o' 
ideas,  even  in  their  soberest  condition,  much  less  when  they  are  at  their 
wildest,  and  wi'  a  birr  and  a  bum  break  through  a'  established  laws,  like 
"  burnished  flees  in  pride  o'  May,"  as  Thomson  says,  through  sae  mony 
speeders'  wabs,  carrym'  them  awa'  wi'  them  on  their  tails  up  alaft  into  the 
empyrean  in  amang  the  motes  o'  the  sun  ? 

NORTH. 

None. 

SHEPHERD. 

The  Sowle  has  nae  power ! ! !  Has  na't  ?  ?  ?  Hae  Ideas,  then,  nae  power 
either  ?  And  what  are  Ideas,  sirs  ?  Just  the  Sowle  herself,  and  naething 
but  the  Sowle.  Or,  if  you  wou'd  rather  hae't  sae,  the  Evolutions  and  Re- 
volutions, and  Transpositions,  and  Transfigurations,  and  Transmigrations, 
and  Transmogrifications  o'  the  Sowle,  the  only  primal  and  perpetual  mobile 
in  creation 

NORTH  AND  TICKLER. 

Hear !  Hear !  Hear ! 

SHEPHERD. 

What  gies  ae  idea  the  lead  o'  a'  the  rest  ?  And  what  inspires  a'  the  rest 
to  let  him  tak  the  lead — whether  like  a  great  big  ram  loupin'  through  a  gap 
in  the  hedge,  and  followed  by  scores  o'  silly  sheep — or  like  a  michty  coal- 
black  stallion,  wi'  lang  fleein'  mane  and  tail,  galloping  in  front  o'  a  thoosand 
bonny  meers,  a'  thundrin'  after  the  desert-born — or  like  the  despot  red- 


808  tftetes  Ambrostana.    No,  LIX,  [Nov. 

deer,  carryin'  his  antlers  up  the  mountain  afore  sae  mony  hundred  hand- 
some hinds, 'bellin'  sae  fiercely  that  the  very  far-off  echoes  are  frichtened 
to  answer  him,  and  dee  fently  awa  amang  the  cliffs  o'  Ben-y-Glo? 
9euoii  eui  to  lool)  »rii  in  'nibmUa  'NORTH,  -i-as  inisl 

Tickler ! 

TICKLER. 

North ! 

^'SHEPHERD. 

HOr-like  the  Sovereign  Stork,  that  leads  "  high  overhead  the  airy  cara- 
van"  

TICKLER. 

Or  like  the  great  Glasgow  Gander,  waddling  before  his  bevy  along  the 
Goose-dubs — — 

SHEPHERD. 

Haw !  haw !  haw  !  What  plausible  explanation,  you  may  weel  ask,  cou'd 
«ver  be  gien  o'  sic  an  idea  as  him — were  you  to  be  alloo'd  to  confine  your- 
scll  even  to  his  dowp,  an  enormity  alike  ayont  adequate  comprehension  and 
punishment ! — But  the  discussion's  gettin'  owre  deep,  sir,  for  Mr  Tickler — 
let's  adapt  ourselves  to  the  capacities  o'  our  hearers — for  o'  a'  conversation 
that  is,  if  not  the  sole,  the  sovereign  charm. 

TICKLER. 

An  old  saying,  Hogg — throw  not  pearls  before  swine. 

SHEPHERD. 

1  *  It  aye  strikes  a  cauld  damp  through  me,  Mr  North,  to  hear  a  man,  for 
whom  ano  entertains  ony  sort  o'  regard,  wi'  an  air  o'  pomposity  gien  vent 
to  an  auncient  adage  that  had  served  it's  time  afore  the  Flood,  just  as  if  it 
•were  an  apophthegm  kittled  by  himsell  on  the  verra  spat.  And  the  case  is 
warst  ava,  when  the  perpetravvtor,  as  the  noo,  happens  to  be  in  his  ain  way 
v-ftii'briginal.  Southside,  you  sometimes  speak,  sir,  like  a  Sumph. 

TICKLER. 
'l!SJafey%hat  is  a  Sumpli?c 

SHEPHERD. 

A  Sumph,  Timothy,  is  a  chiel  to  whom  Natur  has  denied  ony  consider- 
able share  o'  understaunin',  without  hae'n  chose  to  mak  him  just  altogether 
an  indisputable  idiot. 

NORTH. 

Hem  I  I've  got  a  nasty  cold. 

SHEPHERD. 

His  puir  pawrents  haena  the  comfort  o' being  able,  without  frequent  mis- 
givings, to  consider  him  a  natural-born  fule,  for  you  see  he  can  be  taucht 
the  letters  o'  the  alphabet,  and  even  to  read  wee  bits  o'  short  words,  no  in 
write  but  in  prent,  sae  that  he  may  in  a  limited  sense  be  even  something  o1 
a  scholar. 

NORTH. 

A  booby  of  promise. 

SHEPHERD. 

Just  sae,  sir — I've  ken't  sumphs  no  that  ill  spellers.  But  then,  you  see, 
sir,  about  some  sax  or  seven  years  auld,  the  mind  of  the  sumphie  is  seen  to  be 
stationary,  and  generally  about  twal  it  begins  slawly  to  retrograwd — sae 
that  at  about  twenty,  and  at  that  age,  if  you  please,  sir,  we  shall  consider 
him,  he  has  vera  little  mair  sense  nor  a  sookin'  babby. 

NORTH. 

Tickler— eyes  right— attend  to  the  Shepherd. 

SHEPHERD. 

Nevertheless,  he  is  in  possession  o'  knowledge  ayont  the  reach  o'  Betty 
Foy's  son  and  heir,  so  rationally  celebrated  by  Mr  Wudsworth  in  his  Ex- 
cursion-—-- , 

NORTH. 

3«ij  i^i^tal  Ballad*1.1"1'90 

•a  i(Tuni  ifiS'ia  RSH i  I'HMii'. 
I  mean  Bauldy  Foy's  excursion  for  the  doctor. 

1  90}    O  '''Jtf'Vo'RTH. 

!  Well? 


1831.]  Nodes  Ambrosiance.    tfo.  LIX.  800 

SHEPHERD. 

Kens  sun  frae  moon,  cock  f'rae  hen,  and  richt  weel  man  frae  woman; 
for  it  is  a  curious  fact,  that  your  sumph  is  as  amatory  as  Solomon  himsell, 
and  ye  generally  find  him  married  and  stand  in'  at  the  door  of  his  house 
like  a  schoolmaster. 

NORTH. 

Like  a  schoolmaster — How  ? 

SHEPHERD. 

The  green  before  his  house  owrflows  wi'  weans,  a'  his  ain  progeny ;  and 
his  wife,  a  comely  body,  wi'  twins  on  her  breast,  is  aiblins,  with  a  pleased 
face,  seen  smiling  over  his  shoulder. 

NORTH. 

O  fortunati  nimium !  sua  si  bona  noriiit 
Sumphiculi ! 

l.OftW  't8ff  SHEPHERD. 

I  doubt,  sir,  if  you  hae  ony  authority  for  the  formation  o'  that  diminu- 
tive. Let's  hae  gude  Latin,  or  nane. 

NORTH. 

Mine  is  always  good — but  in  Maga  often  miserably  marred  by  the  print- 
ing, to  the  horror  of  Priscian's  ghost. 

SHEPHERD. 

Sumphs  are  aye  fattish— wi'  roon'  legs  like  women— generally  wi'  red 
and  white  complexions — though  I've  kent  them  black-a-viced,  and  no  ill- 
lookin',  were  it  no  for  a  want  o'  something  you  canua  at  first  sicht  weel 
tell  what,  till  you  find  by  degrees  that  it's  a  want  o'  every  thing — a  want  o' 
expression,  a  want  o'  air,  a  want  o'  manner,  a  want  o'  smeddum,  a  want  o' 
vigour,  a  want  o'  sense,  a  want  o'  feelin' — in  short,  a  want  o'  sowle — a  de- 
ficit which  nae  painstakin'  in  education  can  ever  supply — and  then,  oholoos  ! 
but  they're  doure,  doure,  doure — obstinater  than  either  pigs  or  cuddies, 
and  waur  to  drive  alang  the  high  road  o'  life.  For,  by  tyin'  a  string  to  the 
hint  leg  o'  a  grumphy,  and  keepin'  jerk  jerkin'  him  back,  you  can  wile  him 
forrits  by  fits  and  starts,  and  the  maist  contumacious  cuddy  you  can  trans- 
plant at  last,  by  pour,  pourin'  upon  his  hurdies  the  oil  o'  hazel ;  but  neither 
by  priggin'  nor  prayin',  by  reason  nor  by  rung,  when  the  fit's  on  him,  frae 
his  position  may  mortal  man  howp  to  move  a  sumph. 

NORTH. 

Too  true.    I  can  answer  for  the  animal. 

SHEPHERD. 

:  i  :Sometimes  he'll  staun  for  hours  in  the  rain,  though  lie  has  gotten  the 
rheumatics,  rather  than  come  into  the  house,  just  because  his  wite  has  sent 
out  ane  o'  the  weans  to  ca'  in  its  father  at  a  sulky  juncture — and  in  the 
tantrums  he'll  pretend  no  to  hear  the  denner-bell,  though  ever  so  hungry ; 
and  if  a  country  squire,  which  he  often  is,  hides  himsell  somewhere  amang 
the  shrubs  in  the  policy. 

NORTH. 

Covering  himself  with  laurel. 

OTsIiOflB  10  i    SHEPHERD. 

Then,  oh  !  but  the  sumph  is  selfish — selfish.  What  a  rage  he  flees  intil  at 
beggars !  His  charity  never  gangs  farther  than  sayin'  he's  sorry  he  happens 
uo  to  hae  a  bawbee  in  his  pocket,  When  aue  o'  his  weans  at  tea-time  asks 
for  a  lump  o'  sugar,  he  either  refuses  it,  or  selects  the  weeist  bit  in  the  bowl 
— but  takes  care  to  steal  a  gey  big  piece  for  himsell,  for  he  is  awfu'  fond  o' 
sweet  things,  and  dooks  his  butter  and  bread  deep  into  the  carvey.  He  is 

often  in  the  press 

o  rfafif  NORTU. v^Qjjeoq  in 

What !  an  authoff  ?-jj-f»--^j  ujsaoi-tBi  os  <ibrf  ba& 

SHEPHERD. 

In  the  dining-room  press,  stealin'  jam,  and  aften  lickin'  wi'  his  tongue 
the  thin  paper  on  the  taps  o'  jeely  cans — and  sometimes  observed  by  the 
lad  or  lass  comin'  in  to  mend  the  fire,  in  a  great  hurry  secretin'  tarts  in  the 
pooches  o'  his  breeks,  or  leavin'  them  in  his  alarm  o'  detection  half-eaten 
on  the  shelve,  and  ready  to  accuse  the  mice  o'  the  rubbery. 

"-   V   -  - 


810  Nodes  Ambrosiatue.    No.  L1X,  [Nov. 

NORTH. 
What  are  his  politics  ? 

SHEPHERD. 

You  surely  needna  ask  that,  sir.  He  belangs  to  the  Cheese-paring  and 
Candle-end  Saveall  School— is  a  follower  o'  Josey  Hume — and' 8  aye  ready 
to  vote  for  retrenchment. 

NORTH. 

His  religion  ? 

SHEPHERD. 

Consists  solely  in  fear  o'  the  tit-evil,  whom  in  childhood  the  sumph  saw 
in  a  woodcut — and  never  since  went  to  bed  without  sayin'  his  prayers,  to 
escape  a  charge  o'  hornin'. 

NORTH. 

Is  all  this,  James,  a  description  of  an  individual,  or  of  a  genus  '? 

SHEPHERD. 

A  genus,  I  jalouse,  is  but  a  generic  name  for  a  number  o'  individuals  ha- 
ving in  common  certain  characteristics ;  so  that,  describe  the  genus  and  you 
hae  before  you  the  individual — describe  the  individual  and  behold  the  ge- 
nus. True  that  there's  nae  genus  consisting  but  o'  ae  individual — but  the 
reason  o'  that  is  that  there  never  was  an  individual  stannin'  in  nature  ex- 
clusively by  himsell — if  there  was,  then  he  would  undoubtedly  be  likewise 
his  ain  genus.  And,  pray,  why  not  ? 

TICKLER. 

What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  botheration  about  sumphs  ? 

SHEPHERD. 

Botheration  about  sumphs  I  In  answer  to  some  stuff  of  Southside's,  I 
said,  he  spoke  like  a  sumph.  Mr  Tickler  then  asked  me  to  describe  a  sumph 
— and  this  sketch  is  at  his  service.  'Tis  the  merest  outline;  but  I  have 
pented  him  to  the  life  in  a  novelle.  Soon  as  the  Reform  Bill  is  feenally 
settled,  Mr  Blackwood  is  to  publish,  ia  three  volumes,  "  The  Sumph  ;  by 
the  Shepherd."  He'll  hae  a  prodigious  rin. 

NORTH. 

Cut  out  Clifford. 

SHEPHERD. 

Na,  Bullmer's  a  clever  chiel— -and,  in  ma  opinion,  describes  fashionable 
life  the  best  o'  a'  the  Lunnuners. 

NORTH. 
Except  the  author  of  Granby. 

SHEPHERD. 

I  hae  never  read  the  Marquis  o'  Granby.    Sen*  him  oot  to  the  Forest. 

TICKLER. 
In  your  opinion  1 

SHEPHERD. 

Aye — in  ma  opinion.  What's  to  prevent  him  that  wons  in  huts  frae 
judgin'  o'  the  life  in  ha's,  ony  mair  than  him  that  wons  in  ha's  frae  judgin' 
o'  the  life  in  huts  ?  Na — I'm  no  verra  sure  gif  the  lord's  no  the  best  critic 
on  the  lucubrations  o'  the  lout,  and  the  lout  on  the  lord's.  For  whatever's 
truly  good,  and  emanates  brichtly  frae  the  shrine  o'  natur,  will  strike  wi'  a 
sudden  charm  on  the  heart  o'  him  that  is  made  acquainted  wi't  frae  a  dis- 
tance, as  if  it  were  a  revelation  o'  the  same  law  pervadin'  a'  spheres  o' 
being  alike,  though  vainly  thocht  to  be  separate  pairts  o'  ae  great  and 
vawrious  system.  Canna  a  King,  if  worthy  to  wear  a  croon,  contemplate 
wi'  delicht  Burns's  Cotter's  Saturday  Nicht,  and  canna  a  peasant  admire  the 
pictur  o'  piety  in  a  palace  ? 

TICKLER. 

James — good. 

SHEPHERD. 

Think  ye  that  Ramsay's  Gentle  Shepherd  had  to  learn  muckle  either  in 
the  way  o'  mind  or  manners,  when  discovered  to  be  by  birth  a  baronet  ? 

NORTH. 
I  verily  believe  not  much. 

SHEPHERD. 

Strip  a  kintra  lad  or  lass  o'  their  claes— - 


1831.]  Nodes  Ambrosiana,    No,  LIX.  811 

TICKLER 
No,  no,  James. 

SHEPHERD. 

But  I  say  aye,  aye.  Strip  a  kintra  lass,  o'  laigh  degree,  perfectly  skuddy, 
and  set  her  aside  a  toon  belle  o'  noble  bluid,  equally  naked,  on  a  pedestal, 
like  twa  sister  statues  by  Chauntrey  or  Macdonald,  wi'  their  arms  leanin' 
wi'  affectionate  elegance  on  ilk  ither' s  snawy  showther,  or  twined  rouu' 
their  lily  necks,  and  wha  micht  be  able  to  tell  the  ewe-milker  frae  the  duch- 
ess? 

TICKLER. 

Not  I— without  my  specs. 

SHEPHERD. 

Or  watch  first  the  ane  and  then  the  ither  doin'  some  duty  to  a  pawrent, 
suppose  leadin'  a  blin'  father  out  intil  the  sun,  and  sittiii'  aside  him,  aiblins 
at  his  feet,  wi'  ae  ivory  arm  hangin'  owre  his  knees,  and  the  ither  haun' 
haudin'  a  book — best  o'  a',  if  the  Bible — while  her  tearfu'  een  can  yet  weel 
discern  the  words  o'  comfort  that  her  smiliu'  lips  do  musically  receet — and 
will  ony  Christian  man  ^tell  me,  that  they  are  na  baith  angels,  and  how- 
ever far  apart  they  may  leeve  on  earth,  willna  dwall  thegether  in  heaven  ? 

NORTH. 

I  confess  it  does  surprise  me,  to  hear  you,  James,  express  yourself  so 
beautifully  over  haggis. 

SHEPHERD. 

What  for  ?  What's  a  wee  haggis  but  a  big  raggoo  ?  An*  a  big  raggoo,  but 
a  wee  haggis  ?  But,  will  you  believe  me,  Mr  Tickler,  I  was  sae  ta'en  up 
wi'  the  natural  sentiment,  that  I  kent  na  what  was  on  my  plate. 

TICKLER. 

And  probably  have  no  recollection  of  having,  within  the  last  ten  mi- 
nutes, eat  a  howtowdie. 

SHEPHERD. 

What  the  deevil  are  you  twa  aboot  ?  Circumnavigating  the  table  in  arm- 
chairs !  What !  Am  I  on  wheels  too  ? 

[The  Shepherd  follows  North  and  Tickler  round  the  genial  board. 

NORTH. 

How  do  you  like  this  fancy,  my  dear  James  ? 

SHEPHERD. 

Just  excessively,  sir.  It  gies  us  a  perfeck  command  o'  the  entire  table, 
east  and  wast,  north  and  south ;  and,  at  present,  I  calculate  that  I  am  cut- 
tin'  the  equawtor. 

NORTH. 

It  relieves  Mr  Ambrose  and  his  young  gentlemen  from  unnecessary  at- 
tendance— and,  besides,  the  exercise  is  most  salutary  to  persons  of  our 
age,  who  are  apt  to  get  fat  and  indolent. 

SHEPHERD. 

Fozey.  So  ye  contrive  to  rin  upon  horrals,  halting  before  a  darling 
dish,  and  then  away  on  a  voyage  of  new  discovery.  This  explains  the 
itherwise  unaccoontable  size  o'  this  immense  circle  o'  a  table.  Safe  us  ! 
It  would  sit  forty  !  And  yet,  by  this  ingenious  contrivance,  it  is  just  about 
sufficient  size  for  us  Three.  Hae  ye  taen  oot  a  pawtent  ? 

NORTH. 

No.    I  hate  monopolies. 

SHEPHERD. 

What !  You,  the  famous  foe  o'  Free-tredd ! 

NORTH. 

With  our  national  debt 

SHEPHERD. 

Dinna  tempt  me,  sir,  to  lose  a'  patience  under  a  treatise  on  taxes— 

NORTH. 

Well — I  won't.    But  you  admire  these  curricles  ? 

SHEPHERD. 

Movable  at  the  touch  o'  the  wee  finger.    Whase  invention  ? 


812  Noctes  Ambnsianee.    No.  LlX. 

%'smntVkO  *taririi;iunvrtef  ) 
My  own. 

SHEPHERD. 

You  Dsedalus  ! 

«oa  ^j\\  >  •j}bhTH!.v^  f'  «'•  %R»&a»Si)  Yavra  i;> 

'•'•Yl^^itieiWe;  James,  I  believe  Is  perfect—  but  1  have  not  been  yet  able 
to  get  the  construction  of  the  vehicle  exactly  to  my  mind.  Jiiv/  ,a79nno1'-jH 

SHEPHERD. 

I  dinna  ken  what  mair  you  cou'd  houp  for,  unless  it  were  to  move  at  a 
thocht.  Farewell,  sirs,  I'm  aff  across  the  line  to  yon  pie  —  nae  sma'  bulk  even 

at  tliis  distance.     Can  it  be  pigeons? 

[Shepherd  wheels  away  south-cuat. 
NORTH. 
Take  your  trumpet. 

SHEPHERD. 

That  beats  a'.  For  ilka  man  a  silver  speakin'  trumpet  !  Let's  try  mine 
[Shepherd  puts  his  trumpet  to  his  mouth.]  Ship,  ahoy!  Ship,  ahoy! 

NORTH.     (  Trumpet-tongued.)  .rlJ  ifiail  ,rfJioT/I  tM 
The  Endeavour  —  bound  for—  ••ao.ioTM 

SHBPHBR0. 

Whreht  —  whisht—  sir  —  I  beseech  you  whisht.  Nae  drums  can  staun 
siccan  a  trumpet,  blawn  by  siccan  lungs.  [Laying  down  his  trumpet.]  This 
is,  indeed,  the  Pie  o'  Pies.  I  houp  Mr  Tickler  '11  no  think  o'  wheel  in* 
roun'  to  this  quarter  o'  the  globe,  ruriaii 

TICKLER.     (  On  the  trumpet.) 

What  sort  of  picking  have  you  got  at  the  Antipodes,  James  ! 

SHEPHERD. 

Roar  a  little  louder  —  for  I  am  dull  o'  hearin'.  Is  he  speakin  o'  the  Bench 
o'  Bishops  ? 

TICKLER.     (  As  before,  but  louder.) 
Whfct^pW'f' 

SHEPHERD. 

Aye  —  aye. 

TICKLER.     (Larghetto.) 
What  pie  ? 

SHEPHERD. 

Aye  —  aye.    What'n  a  gran'  echo  up  in  yon  corner  ! 

[Tickler  wheels  away  in  search  of  the  north-  ivest  passage—  'and  on 
his  approach,  the  Shepherd  loeigJts  anchor  with  the  pie,  and 
'{bmfaeps  beating  up  to  windward—close  hauled  —  at  tlis  rate  of 
eight  knots,  chased  by  Southside,  who  is  seen  dropping  fast  to 


leeward. 


NORTH. 


He'll  not  weather  the  point  of  Firkin. 
won  ,<syviiV^sV'';gHEPHERi)     (Putting  about  under  North's  stem.) 


cushats,  and  we'll  divide  atween  us  the  croon  o'  paste  in  the  middle,  about 
as  big's  the  ane  the  King — God  bless  him — wore  at  the  coronation.     ,,4)j^ 
[TICKLER  ichecls  his  chair  into  the  nook,  on  the  right  of  the  chimney- 

piecwwra  ii'I — Jifiia  sBijfi't  e  efiv/i? — ii«  ,J-IBJH  yaufil  £  aowT' 
Southside,  hae  you  deserted  the  diet  ?  O,  man !  you're  surely  no 
sulky  ?  Come  back— come  back,  I  beseech  you — and  let  us  shake  hauns. 
It  '11  never  do  for  us  true  Tories  to  quarrel  atnang  oursells  at  this  creesis. 
What'n  a  triumph  to  the  Whigs,  when  they  hear  o'  this  schism  ?  Let's  a' 
hae  a  finger  in  the  pie,  and  as  the  Lord  Chancellor  said,  and  I  presume  did, 
in  the  House  o'  Lords — "  on  my  bended  knees,  I  implore  you  to  pass  this 
bill!"  ,..,»„* 

[  Tlie  Shepherd  kneels  before  Tickler,  and  presents  to  him  a  plateful  of 
the  Pie. 


1831.]  Nodes  Ambrosiante.    No.LIX.  813 

TICKLER  (returning  to  the  administration.') 
James,  you  have  conquered,  and  we  are  reconciled.  ,nwo  ^M 

NORTH. 

Trumpets !     (  Three  trumpet  cheers.)  !  aul*th&(I  woY 

GURNEV  (Rushing  in  alarm  from  the  ear  of  Dionysius.) 
Gentlemen,  the  house  is  surrounded  by  a  mob  of  at  least  fifty  thousand 
Reformers,  who  with  dreadful  hurrahs  are  shouting  for  blooq..-, 

SHEPHERD. 

Fifty  thousan' !  Wha  counted  the  radical  rascals  ? ..,,  jr>iiw 
H9V9  illud  'isrua  ;»fifl— siq  rio^  oJ  oaiiBSKWfeioB  'hs  ea'I  .rjrlajls  WSTB''!    - 

I  conjecture  their  numbers  from  their  noise.    For  Heaveu  V  sake,,  Mr 

North,  do  not  attempt  to  address  the  mob 

NORTH. 
Trumpets !  (  Three  trumpet  cheers.) 

GURNEY  (Retiring  mttch  abashed  into  his  Ear.) 
Miraculous!    Itoqaoni  'iiirfj 

l^oita  .niif/"  AMBROSE  (Entering  with  much  emotion.) .i  >jw 
Mr  North,  I  fear  the  house  is  surrounded  by  the  enemies  of  the  constitu- 
tion, demanding  the  person  of  the  Protector— "-tuiuoc 

SHEPHERD. 

tu'/prumpets!    (  Three  trumpet  cheers.   Exit  AMBROSE,  in  astonishment.) 

NORTH. 
Judging  from  appearances,  I  presume  dinner  5s  oveivi'i 

SHEPHERD^. 

A'm  staw'd. 

NORTH. 

There  is  hardly  any  subject  which  we  have  not  touched,  and  not  one 
have  we  touched  which  we  did  not  adorn.  ;nl— -fobuoi  sfMil  R  tfiofl 

SHEPHERD. 

By  soobjects  do  you  mean  dishes  ?  Certes,  we  have  discussed  a  hautle 
o'  them — some  pairtly,  and  ithers  totally  ;  but  there's  food  on  the  brodd  yet 

sufficient  for  a  score  o'  ordinar  men 

TICKLER. 

And  we  shall  have  it  served  up,  James,  to  supper. 

SHEPHERD. 

Soun'  doctrine.    What's  faith  without  warks  ? 

NORTH.          .        _.  *,  ;;  no  >'       ,9VB — 9^A 

Now,  gentlemen,  a  fair  start.    Draw  up  on  my  right,  James — elbow  to 
elbow.     Tickler,  your  place  is  on  the  extreme  gauche.     You  both  know  the 
course.     The  hearth-rug  of  the  Snuggery's  the  goal.     All  ready  ?  Away  ! 
f  The  start  is  the  most  beautiful  thiny  ever  seen— and  all  'Three  at  once 
make  play. 

Scene  second,  the  Snuggery — Enter  North  on  his  Flying  Chair,  at  the  rate 
of  the  Derby,  beating,  by  several  lengths,  Tickler  and  the  Shepherd,  now 
neck  and  neck.  ;>aq  ioi  rrn  {['I 

NORTH.    (Pulling  up  as  soon  as  he  Jias  passed  the  Judges'  stand.\i& — 
Our  nags  are  pretty  much  on  a  par,  I  believe,  in  point  of  condition,  but 

much  depends,  in  a  short  race,  on  a  good  start,  and  there  the  old  man 

shewed  his  jockeyship. 

SHEPHERD. 

'Twas  a  fause  start,  sir — 'twas  a  fause  start — I'll  swear  it  was  a  fause 
start,  sir,  till  ma  deein'  day — for  I  had  na  gotten  mysell  settled  in  the  sad- 
dle, till  ye  was  aff  like  a  shot,  and  afore  I  cou'd  get  intil  a  gallop,  you  was 
half  way  across  the  flat  o'  the  saloon. 

NORTH.  Lt    OJ  ffqOMjhj  £    i: 

James,  there  could  be  no  mistake.  The  signal  to  start  was  given  by 
Saturn  himself;  and 

SHEPHERD. 

And  then  Tickler,  afore  me  and' him  got  to  the  fauldin'-doors,  after  some 

'    '  •   v  0 


814  Nocte*  Ambrosianiz.    JVb.  LIX.  [Nov. 

desperate  crossin*  and  jostlin',  I  alloo,  on  baith  sides,  ran  me  clean  aff  the 
coorse,  and  I  had  to  make  a  complete  circle  in  the  bow-window  or  I  cou'd 
get  the  head  o'  my  horse  pinted  again  In  a  right  direction  for  winnin'  the 
race.  Ca'  ye  that  fair  ?  I  shall  refer  the  hail  business  to  the  decision  o'  the 

NORTH. 

What  have  you  to  say,  Tickler,  in  answer  to  this  very  serious  charge  ? 

TICKLER. 

Out  of  his  own  mouth,  sir,  I  convict  him  of  conduct  that  must  have  the 
effect  of  debarring  the  Shepherd  from  ever  again  competing  for  these 
stakes. 


SHEPHERD. 


For  what  steaks  ?  Do  you  mean  to  manteen,  you  brazen-faced  ne'er-do- 
weel,  that  I  am  never  to  be  alloo'd  again  to  rin  Mr  North  frae  the  saloon  to 
the  snuggery  for  ony  steaks  we  chuse,  or  chops  either  F  Things  '11  hae 
come  to  a  pretty  pass,  when  it  sail  be  necessar  to  ask  your  leave  to  start — 
you  blacklegs. 

TICKLER. 

He's  confessed  the  crossing  and  jostling. 

SHEPHERD. 

You  lee.  Wha'  began't  ?  We  started  sidey  by  sidey,  you  see,  sir,  frae 
the  rug  afore  the  fire,  where  we  was  a'  Three  drawn  up,  and  just  as  you 
was  gaun  out  o'  sight  atween  the  pillars,  Tickler  and  me  ran  foul  o'  ane 
anither  at  the  nor'- east  end  o'  the  circular.  There  was  nae  fawte  on  either 
side  there,  and  am  no  blamin'  him,  except  for  ackwardness,  which  was  aiblins 
mutual.  As  sune's  we  had  gotten  disentangled,  we  entered  by  look  o' 
ee,  if  no  word  o'  mouth,  inttl  a  social  compact  to  rin  roun'  opposite  sides 
o'  the  table — which  we  did — and  in  proof  that  neither  o'  us  had  gain'd  an 
inch  on  the  ither,  no  sooner  had  we  rounded  the  south-west  cape,  than  to- 
gether came  we  wi'  sic  a  clash,  that  I  thocht  we  had  been  baith  killed  on 
the  spat.  There  was  nae  fawte  on  either  side  there,  ony  mair  than  there 
had  been  at  the  nor'-east ;  but  then  began  his  violation  o'  a'  honour ;  for 
bavin'  succeeded  in  shovin'  mysell  aff,  I  was  makin'  for  the  fauldin'-doors— 
due  west — ettlin'  for  the  inside,  to  get  a  short  turn — when  whuppin'  and 
spurrin'  like  mad,  what  does  he  do,  but  charge  me  right  on  the  flank,  and 
drive  me,  as  I  said  afore,  several  yards  off  the  course,  towards  the  bow- 
window,  where  I  was  necessitated  to  fetch  a  circumbendibus,  that  wou'd  hae 
lost  me  the  race  had  I  ridden  Eclipse.  Ca'  ye  that  fair  ?  But  it  was  agreed 
that  we  were  to  be  guided  by  the  law  of  Newmarket,  sae  I'll  refer  the  hail 
affair  to  the  Jockey  Club. 

TICKLER. 

Hear  me  for  a  moment,  sir.  True,  we  got  entangled  at  the  nor'-west— « 
most  true  at  the  sou' -west  came  we  together  with  a  clash.  But  what  means 
the  Shepherd  by  shoving  off?  Why,  sir,  he  caught  hold  of  my  right  arm  as  in 
a  vice,  so  that  I  could  make  no  use  of  that  member,  while,  at  the  same 
time,  he  locked  me  into  his  own  rear,  and  then  away  he  went  like  a  two- 
year-old,  having,  as  he  vainly  dreamt,  the  race  in  hand  by  that  manoeuvre, 
so  disgraceful  to  the  character  of  the  carpet. 

NORTH. 

If  you  please— turf. 

TICKLER. 

Under  such  circumstances,  was  I  to  consider  myself  bound  bylaws  which 
he  himself  had  broken  and  reduced  to  a  dead  letter  ?  No.  My  subsequent 
conduct  he  has  accurately  described — off  the  course — for  we  have  a  bit  of 
speed  in  us — I  drove  him ;  but  as  for  the  circumbendibus  in  the  bow- win- 
dow, we  must  believe  that  on  his  own  word. 

SHEPHERD. 

And  daur  you,  sir,  or  ony  man  breath  in',  to  doubt  ma  word— 

NORTH. 

Be  calm,  gentlemen.  The  dispute  need  not  be  referred  to  the  Club ;  for, 
consider  you  were  nowhere* 


1881.]  Nocte*  Ambrosicmee.    No.  LIX.  815 

SHEPHEBD. 

Eh? 

NORTH. 

You  were  both  distanced. 


Baith  distanced !  Hoo  ?  Where's  the  post  ? 


SHEPHERD. 

j's  the  posi 

NORTH. 

The  door-post  of  the  Snuggery. 

SHEPHERD. 

Baith  our  noses  were  through  afore  you  had  reached  the  rug.  Til  tak 
ma  Bible-oath  on't.  Werena  they,  Tickler  ? 

TICKLER. 
Both.  w  ^y, 

NORTH. 

Not  a  soul  of  you  entered  this  room  for  several  seconds  after  I  had  dis- 
mounted  

SHEPHERD. 

After  ye  had  dismounted  ?  Haw !  haw !  haw !  Tickler !  North  confesses 
he  had  dismounted  afore  he  was  weighed — and  has  thereby  lost  the  race. 
Hurrah  !  hurrah !  hurrah !  Noo,  oors  was  a  dead  heat — BO  let  us  divide 

the  stakes 

TICKLER. 

With  all  my  heart ;  but  we  ran  for  the  Gold  Cup. 

SHEPHERD. 

Eh !  sae  we  did,  man ;  and  yonner  it's  on  the  sideboard — a  bonny  bit  o' 
bullion.  Let's  keep  it  year  about;  and,  to  prevent  ony  hargle-barglin' 
about  it,  let  the  first  turn  be  mine ;  oh !  but  it'll  do  wee  Jamie's  heart  gude 
to  glower  on't  stannin'  aside  the  siller  punch-bowl  I  got  frae  my  friend  Mr 

What's  the  matter  wi*  ye,  Mr  North  ?  What  for  sae  doon  i'  the  mouth  ? 

Why  fret  sae  at  a  trifle  ? 

NORTH. 

No  honour  can  accrue  from  a  conquest  achieved  by  a  quirk. 

SHEPHERD. 

Nor  dishonour  frae  defeat  j — then  "  prithee  why  so  pale,  wan  lover  ? 
prithee  why  so  pale  ?" 

TICKLER. 

I  can  hardly  credit  my  senses  when  I  hear  an  old  sportsman  call  that  a 
quirk,  which  is  in  fact  one  of  the  foundation-stones  of  the  law  of  Racing. 

SHEPHERD. 

I  maun  gang  back  for  ma  shoon. 

NORTH. 
Your  shoon  ? 

SHEPHERD. 

Aye,  ma  shoon — I  flung  them  baith  in  Mr  Tickler's  face— for  which  I 
noo  ask  his  pardon — when  he  ran  me  aff  the  coorse  •  * 

TICKLER. 

No  offence,  my  dear  James,  for  I  returned  the  compliment  with  both 
snuff-boxes 

NORTH. 

Oh !  ho !  So  you  who  urge  against  me  the  objection  of  having  dismount- 
ed before  going  to  scale,  both  confess  that  you  flung  away  weight  during 
the  race ! 

SHEPHERD. 

Eh  ?  Mr  Tickler,  answer  him— 

TICKLER. 

Do,  James. 

SHEPHERD. 

(Scratching  his  head  with  one  hand,  and  stroking  his  chin  with  the  other.) 
We've  a'  three  won,  and  we've  a'  three  lost.    That's  the  short  and  the 
lang  o't — sae  the  Cup  maun  staun  owre  till  anither  trial. 

NORTH. 
Let  it  be  decided  now.    From  Snuggery  to  Saloon. 


816  ffoctes.AmbrOsiwuB.    No.HX.  [Nov. 

SHEPHERD. 

What  ?  after  frae  Saloon  to  Snuggery  ?  That  wou'd  be.  reversiu'  the  or- 
der: a' nature.  Besides,  we  maun  a' thm>  bo  inico  dry— sne  let's  turn  to 
till  the  table  —  and  see  what's  to  bo  had  iu  the  way  o'  drink.  What'n 
frutes  !  ,K,t  n1  <a  j^ff 

NOBTH. 

These  are  ribstons,  James— a  pleasant  apple — 

SHEPHERD. 

Aud  what's  thir  ? 

**f'J    *!    V»^>,     V.      ;:»    S;  NORTH. 

Golden  pippins. 

SHEPHERD. 

Sic  jargonels  !  shaped  like  peeries — and  yon  alums  (can  they  be.  ripe  ?) 
like  taps.  Aud  what  ca'  ye  tliae,  like  great  big  fir-cones  wp  outlandish 
lookin'  palm-tree  leaves  arch  in'  frae  them  wi'  an  elegance  o'  their  ain,  rouch 
though  they  seem  in  the  rhinn,  and  aiblins  prickly  ?  What  ca'  ye  them  ? 

SL;  NORTH. 

Pine-apples. 

SHEPHERD. 

I've  aften  heard  tell  o'  them—but  never  clapp'd  een  on  them  afore— and 
these  are  pines!  Oh!  but  the  scent  is  sweet,  sweet — and  wild  as  sweet — 
and  as  wild  restorative.  I'se  tak  some  jargonels  afterwards — but  I'll  join 
you  noo,  sir,  in  a  pair  p'  pines. 

liii,:    .-  -INbrth  gives  the  Shepherd  a  pine-apple, 

Hoo  are  they  eaten  ? 

TICKLER. 

With  pepper,  mustard,  and  vinegar,  like  oysters,  James. 

SHEPHERD. 

I'm  thinkin  you  maun  be  leein'. 

TICKLER. 

Some  people  prefer  catsup. 

SHEPHERD. 

Haud  your  blethers.  Catchup's  gran'  kitchen  for  a'  kinds  o'  flesh,  fish,  and 
fule,  but  for  frutes  the  rule  is  "sugar  or  naething," — and  if  this  pine  keep 
the  taste  o'  promise  to  the  palat,  made  by  the  scent  he  sends  through  the 
nose,  nae  extrawneous  sweetness  will  he  need,  self-sufficient  in  his  ain  Happi- 
ness, rich  as  the  colour  o'  pinks,  in  which  it  is  sae  savourily  enshrined. 

I  never  pree'd  ony  taste  half  sae  delicious  as  that  in  a'  ma  born  days  !  Rib- 
stanes,  pippins,  jargonels,  peaches,  nectrins,  currans  and  strawberries,  grapes 
and  gro/ets,  a'  in  ane  !  The  concentrated  essence  o'  a'  ither  frutes,  harmo- 
neezed  by  a  peculiar  tone  o'  its  ain— till  it  mejts  in  the  mouth  like  material 
music  ! 

NORTH. 
(Pouring  out  for  the  Shepherd  a  glass  of  sparkling  champagne.) 

Quick,  James — quick — ere  the  ethereal  particles  escape  to  heaven. 

SHEPHERD. 

You're  no  passin'  aff  soddy  upon  me  !  Soddy's  ma  abhorrence — it's  sae 
like  thin  soap-suds. 

?f«J    ;  Mill/      NORTH. 

Fair  play's  a  jewel,  my  dear  Shepherd. 

"  From  the  vine-cover' d  hills  and  gay  regions  of  France" 

SHEPHERD. 

"  See  the  day-star  o'  liberty  rise." 

That  beats  ony  gooseberry — and  drinks  prime  wi'  pine.  Anither  glass. 
And  anither.  Noo  put  aside  the  Langshanks — and  after  a'  this  daflin'  h-i's 
net  in  for  serious  driwkin',  thinkin',  lookin',  and  speakin1— like  three  philo- 
sophers as  we  are-— and  still  let  our  theme  be — Human  Life. 

NORTH. 

James,  I  am  sick  of  life.    With  me  "  the  wine  of  life  is  on  the  lees." 

'.,?    *>ft,*,    '},  •-.-..    ir<//,<^;;r)v    |     .  , 


1831.1  Nodes  Ambrosiana;.    No.  LIX.  817 

SHEPHERD. 

Then  drink  the  dregs,  and  be  thankfu*.  As  lang's  there's  anithcr  drap, 
however  drumly,  in  the  bottom  of  the  bottle,  dinna  despair.  But  what  for 
are  you  sick  o'  life  ?  You're  no  a  verra  auld  man  yet — and  although  ye 
was,  why  mayna  an  auld  man  be  gaen  happy  ?  That's  a'  ye  can  expeck 
noo — but  wha's  happy — think  ye — perfeckly  happy — on  this  side  o'  the 
grave  ?  No  ane.  I  left  yestreen  wee  Jamie — God  bless  him — greetin'  as 
his  heart  wou'd  break  for  the  death  o'  a  bit  wee  doggie  that  he  used  to  keep 
playin'  wi'  on  the  knowe  mony'an  hour  when  he  ought  to  hae  been  at  his 
byeuck — and  when  he  lifted  up  his  bonny  blue  een  a'  fu'  o'  tears  to  the 
skies,  after  he  had  seen  me  bury  the  puir  tyke  in  the  garden,  1'se  warrant 
he  thocht  there  was  a  sair  change  for  the  waur  in  the  afternoon  licht — for 
never  did  callant  lo'e  colley  as  he  lo'ed  Luath — and  to  be  sure  he  on  his 
side  was  no  ungratefu' — for  Luath  keepit  lickin'  his  haun'  till  the  verra  last 
gasp,  though  he  dee'd  of  that  cruel  distemper.  Fill  your  glass,  sir. 

NORTH. 

I  have  been  subject  to  fits  of  blackest  melancholy  since  I  was  a  child, 
James.  *  mH 

SHEPHERD. 

An'  think  ye,  sir,  that  naebody  has  been  subject  to  fits  of  blackest  me- 
lancholy since  they  were  a  bairn,  but  yoursell  ?  Wi'  some  it's  constitutional, 
and  that's  a  hopeless  case  ;  for  it  rins,  or  rather  stagnates  in  the  bluid,  and 
meesery  has  been  bequeathed  from  father  to  son,  doon  mony  dismal  gene- 
rations— nor  has  ceased  till  some  childless  suicide,  by  a  maist  ruefu* 
catastrophe,  has  closed  the  cleemax,  by  the  unblessed  extinction  o'  the 
race.  But  you,  my  dear  sir,  are  come  o'  a  chearfu'  kind,  and  mirth  laugh- 
ed in  the  ha's  o'  a*  your  ancestors.  Chear  up,  sir — chear  up — till  your 
glass  wi'  Madeiry — an'  nae  mair  folly  about  fits — for  you're  gettin'  fatter 
and  fatter  every  year,  and  what  you  ca'  despair  's  but  the  dumps. 

NORTH. 

O,  si  praeteritos  referat  mihi  Jupiter  annos  ! 

SHEPHERD. 

Ay — passion  gies  vent  to  mony  an  impious  prayer !  The  mair  I  meditnt 
on  ony  season  o'  my  life,  the  mair  fearfu'  grows  the  thocht  o'  leevin't  owr 
again,  and  my  sowle  recoils  alike  frae  the  bliss,  and  frae  the  meesery,  as 
if  baith  alike  had  been  sae  intense  that  it  were  impossible  they  cou'd  be  re- 
endured  ! 

NORTH. 

James,  I  regard  you  with  much  affection. 

SHEPHERD. 

I  ken  you  do,  sir — and  I  repay't  three-fauld ;  but  I  canna  thole  to  hear  you 
talkin'  nonsense.  What  for  are  ye  no  drinkin'  your  Madeiry. 

NORTH. 

How  pregnant  with  pathos  to  an  aged  man  are  those  two  short  lines  of 
Wordsworth — about  poor  Ruth  ! 

"  Ere  she  had  wept,  ere  she  had  mourn' d, 

A  young  and  happy  child."  '!a  'UMH&.. 

SHEPHERD. 

They  are  beautifu'  where  they  staun',  and  true ;  but  fawse  in  the  abstrack, 
for  the  youngest  and  happiest  child  has  often  wept  and  mourned,  even 
when  its  mither  has  been  try  in'  to  rock  it  asleep  in  its  craddle.  Think  o' 
the  teethin,  sir,  and  a'  the  cholic-pains  incident  to  babbyhood ! 

NORTH. 

"  You  speak  to  me  who  never  had  a  child." 

SHEPHERD. 

I'm  no  sae  sure  o'  that,  sir.  Few  men  hae  leev'd  till  threescore  and  ten 
without  being  fathers;  but  that's  no  the  pint;  the  pint  is  the  pleasures  and 
pains  o'  childhood,  and  hoo  nicely  are  they  balanced  to  us  poor  sons  of  a 
day !  I  ken  naething  o'  your  childhood,  sir,  nor  o'  Mr  Tickler's,  except  that 
in  very  early  life  you  maun  hae  been  twa  stirrin'  gentlemen——* 

TICKLER. 

I  have  heard  my  mother  say  that  I  was  a  remarkably  mild  child  till 
about 

VOL.  XXX.   NO.  CLXXXVII.  3  O 


818  Nuctcs  Ambrosiana.    No.  LIX.  [Nov. 

SHEPHERD. 

Six — wlien  it  cost  your  father  an  income  for  taws  to  skelp  out  o'  you  tin; 
innate  ferocity  that  began  to  break  upon  you  like  a  rash  alang  wi'  the 

measles 

TICKLER. 

It  is  somewhat  singular,  James,  that  I  never  have  had  measles — nor  small- 
pox— nor  hooping-cough — nor  scarlet-fever — nor 

SHEPHERD. 

There's  a  braw  time  comin',  for  these  are  complents  nane  escape ;  and  I 
shouldna  be  surprised  to  see  you  at  next  Nodes  wi'  them  a'  1'owre— • a' 
spotted  and  blotched,  as  red  as  an  Indian,  or  a  tile-roof,  and  crawin'  like  a 
cock,  In  a  fearsome  manner— to  which  add  the  Asiatic  cholera,  and  then, 
ma  man,  I  wou'dna  be  in  your  shoon,  for  the  free  gift  o'  the  best  o'  the 
Duke's  store-farms,  wi'  a'  the  plenishin' — for  the  fifth  comiu'  on  the  other 
fowre,  lang  as  you  are,  wpu'd  cut  you  aff  like  a  cucumber. 

NORTH. 

Ah,  happy  hills!  ah,  pleasing  shade  ! 

Ah,  fields  beloved  in  vain ! 

Where  once  my  careless  childhood  stray' d, 

A  stranger  yet  to  pain ! 

SHEPHERD. 

That's  Gray — and  Gray  was  the  best  poet  that  ever  belanged  to  a  college— 
but— — 

NORTH. 
All  great  (except  one)  and  most  good  poets  have  belonged  to  colleges. 

SHEPHERD. 

Humph.    But  a  line  comes  soon  after  that  ia  the  key  to  that  stanza — 

"  My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  soothe  !" 

Gray  wajs  na  an  auldman— farfrae  it — when  he  wrott  that  beautifu'  Odd — • 
but  he  was'  fu'  o'  sensibility  and  genius — and  after  a  lapse  o'  years,  when 
he  beheld  again  the  bits  o'  bright  and  bauld  leevin'  images  glancin'  athwart 
the  green — a'  the  Eton  College  callants  in  full  cry — his  heart  amaist  dee'd 
within  him  at  the  sicht  and  the  souu' — for  his  pulse,  as  he  pat  his  finger  to 
his  wrist,  beat  fent  and  intermittent,  in  comparison,  and  nae  wunner  that 
he  shou'd  fa'  intil  a  dooble  delusion  about  their  happiness  and  his  ain  mee- 
sery.  And  sae  the  poem's  colour'd  throughout  wi'  a  pensive  spirit  o'  re- 
gret, in  some  places  wi'  the  gloom  o'  melancholy,  and  in  ane  or  tvva  amaist 
black  wi'  despair.  It's  a  fine  picture  o'  passion,  sir,  and  true  to  nature  in 
every  touch.  Yet  frae  beginniu'  to  end,  in  the  eye  o'  reason  and  faith, 
and  religion,  it's  a'  ae  lee.  Fawse,  surely,  a'  thae  forebodings  o'  a  fatal 
futurity!  For  love,  joy,  and  bliss  are  not  banished  frae  this  lifej  and  in 
writin'  that  verra  poem,  manna  the  state  o'  Gray's  Bowie  hae  been  itself 
divine  ? 

NOUTH. 

Tickler  ? 

TICKLER. 

Good. 

SHEPHERD. 

What  are  mony  o'  the  pleasures  o'  memory,  sirs,  but  the  pains  o'  the  past 
spiritualeezed  ? 

NORTH. 
Tickler? 

TICKLER. 

True. 

SHEPHERD/ 

A'  human  feelin's  seem  somehow  or  ither  to  partake  o'  the  same  character, 
when  the  objects  that  awake  them  have  withdrawn  far,  far,  avva'  intil  the 
dim  distance,  or  disappear'd  for  ever  in  the  dust. 

TICKLER. 

North  ?- 

NORTH* 
The  Philosophy  of  Nature. 

.   ,  . 


1831.]  Nodes  Ambrosiana.    No.  LIX.  819 

SHEPHERD. 

And  that  Tarn  Cammel  maun  hae  felt,  when  he  wrote  that  glorious  line, 
"  And  teach  impassion' d  souls  the  joy  of  grief!" 

NORTH. 

The  joy  of  grief !  That  is  a  joy  known  but  to  the  happy,  James.  The 
soul  that  can  dream  of  past  sorrows  till  they  touch  it  with  a  pensive  delight 
can  be  suffering  under  no  severe  trouble' 

SHEPHERD. 

Perhaps  no,  sir.  But  may  that  no  aften  happen  too,  when  the.  heart  is 
amaist  dead  to  a'  pleasure  in  the  present,  and  loves  but  to  converse  wi' 
phantoms  ?  I've  seen  pale  still  faces  o'  widow-women — ane  sic  is  afore  me 
the  noo,  whase  husband  was  killed  in  the  wars  lang  lang  ago  in  a  forgotten 
battle — she  leeves  on  a  sma'  pension  in  a  laigh  and  lonely  house—that  be- 
speak constant  communion  wi'  the  dead,  and  yet  nae  want  either  o'  a  meek 
and  mournfu'  sympathy  wi'  the  leevin',  provided  only  ye  shaw  them,  by  the 
considerate  gentleness  o'  your  manner,  when  you  chance  to  ca'  on  them 
on  a  week-day,  or  meet  them  at  the  kirk  on  Sabbath,  that  you  ken  some- 
thing o'  their  history,  and  hae  a  Christian  feelin'  for  their  uncomplainin* 
affliction.  Surely,  sir,  at  times,  whan  some  tender  gleam  o'  memory  glides 
like  moonlight  across  their  path,  and  reveals  in  the  hush  some  ineffable 
eemage  o'  what  was  lovely  and  beloved  o'  yore,  when  they  were,  as  they 
thocht,  perfectly  happy,  although  the  heart  kens  weel  that  'tis  but  an 
eemage,  and  nae  mair — yet  still  it  maun  be  blest,  and  let  the  tears  drap  as 
they  will  on  the  faded  cheek,  I  shou'd  say  the  puir  desolate  cretur  did  in 
that  strange  fit  o'  passion  suffer  the  joy  o'  grief. 

NORTH. 

You  will  forgive  me,  James,  when  I  confess,  that  though  I  enjoyed  just 
now  the  sound  of  your  voice,  which  seemed  to  me  more  than  usually  plea- 
sant, with  a  trembling  tone  of  the  pathetic,  I  did  not  catch  the  sense  of 
your  speech. 

SHEPHERD. 

I  was  no  makin'  a  speech,  sir — only  utteriri*  a  sort  o'  sentiment  that  has 
already  evaporated  clean  out  o'  mind,  or  passed  awa'  like  an  uncertain 
shadow. 

NORTH. 

Misery  is  selfish,  James — and  I  have  lost  almost  all  sympathy  with  my 
fellow-creatures,  alike  in  their  joys  and  their  sorrows. 

SHEPHERD. 

Come,  come,  sir — chear  up,  chear  up.    It's  naething  but  the  blue  devils. 

NORTH. 

All  dead — one  after  another — the  friends  in  whom  lay  the  light  and  might 
of  my  life — and  memory's  self  is  faithless  now  to  the  "  old  familiar  faces." 
Eyes — brows — lips — smiles — voices — all — all  forgotten  I  Pitiable,  indeed, 
is  old  age,  when  love  itself  grows  feeble  in  the  heart,  and  yet  the  dotard  is 
still  conscious  that  he  is  day  by  day  letting  some  sacred  remembrance  slip 
for  ever  from  him  that  he  once  cherished  devoutly  in  his  heart's  core,  and 
feels  that  mental  decay  alone  is  fast  delivering  them  all  up  to  oblivion  I 

SHEPHERD. 

Sittin'  wi'  rheumy  een,  mumblin'  wi'  his  mouth  on  his  breist,  and  no 
kennin'  frae  ither  weans  his  grand-children  who  have  come  to  visit  him  wi* 
their  mother,  his  ain  bricht  and  beautifu'  doughter,  wha  seems  to  him  a 
stranger  passin'  alang  the  street. 

NORTH. 

What  said  you,  James  ? 

SHEPHERD. 

Naething,  sir,  naething.   I  was  na  speakin'  o*  you — but  os  anithei'  man, 

NORTH. 

They  who  knew  me — and  loved  me — and  honoured  me — and  admired 
me — for  why  fear  to  use  that  word, now  to  me  charmless? — all  dust!  What 
are  a  thousand  kind  acquaintances,  James,  to  him  who  lias  buried  all  the  few 
friends  of  his  soul — all  the  few — ouc — two — threer^but •powerful  as  a  whole 
army  to  guard  the  holiest  recesses  of  life  ! 


620  tfdcfa  Ambrosiana.    Aro.  LlX.  [Nov. 

f>9^filq  JfiBfftni  omns        •  SHEPHERD. 

An'  am  I  accoonted  but  a  kind  acquaintance  and  nae  mair !  I  wha  — — • 
as  $081*8  ,iB9<f  a'nuf*!  iM  'ONORTH. 

What  have  I  said  to  hurt  you,  my  dear  James  ? 

SHEPHERD. 

Never  mind,  sir — never  mind.    I'll  try  to  forget  it — but 

NORTH. 

Stir  the  fire,  James — and  give  a  slight  touch  to  that  lamp. 

SHEPHERD. 

There's  a  bleeze,  sir,  at  ae  blast.  An'  there's  the  Orrery,  bricht  as  the 
nicht  in  Homer's  Iliad,  about  which  you  wrott  sic  eloquent  havers.  An' 
there's  your  bumper-glass.  Noo,  sir,  be  candid  and  tell  me,  gif  you  dinna 
think  that  you've  been  a  verra  great  fule  ? 

NORTH. 

I  believe  I  have,  my  dear  James.  But,  by  all  that  is  ludicrous  here  be- 
low, look  at  Tickler ! 

SHEPHERD. 

0  for  Cruckshank!  You  see  what  he's  dreaming  about  in  his  sleep,  sir, 
lyin'  on  the  ae  side,  wi'  that  big  black  sofa  pillow  in  his  arms  !    He's  evi- 
dently on  his  marriag6  jaunt  to  the  Lakes,  and  passin'  the  hinny-inoon 
amang  the  mountains.     She's  indeed  a  feat-some  dear,  the  bride.    She  lias 
gotten  nae  feturs— and,  as  for  feegar,  she's  the  same  thickness  a'  the  way 
doon,  as  if  she  was  stuffed.  But  there's  nae  accountin'  for  taste  ;  andmony 
a  queer  cretur  gets  a  husband.  Sleep  on — sleep  on — ye  bony  pair  !  for  uoo 
you're  leadin'  your  lives  in  Elysium. 

NORTH. 

1  hope,  James,  that  neither  you  nor  I  have  such  open  countenances  in 
our  sleep,  as  our  friend  before  us. 

SHEPHERD. 

I  canna  charge  ma  memory  wi'  sic  a  mouth.  What's  the  maitter  ?  What's 
the  maitter  ?  Lo !  Mrs  Tickler  has  either  fa'en  or  loupen  oot  o'  the  bed, 
an's  tumbliu'  alang  the  floor  I  What'n  an  expose!  In  decency,  sir,  really 
we  twa  shou'd  retire. 

NORTH. 

The  blushing  bride  has  absolutely  hidden  herself  under  the  table. 

SHEPHERD. 

Oh  !  but  this  is  gran'  sport.  Let's  blacken  his  ee-brees,  and  gie  him  mis- 
stashes. 

[The  Shepherd,  with  burnt  cork,  dexterously  makes  Tickler  a  Hussar. 
There — you're  noo  ane  o'  the  Third  at  Jock's  Lodge.  Gie  Mrs  Tickler, 
sir,  a  touch  wi'  the  crutch,  under  the  table,  and  send  her  owre  this  way,  that 
I  may  restore  her  to  the  bridegroom's  longing  arms.  It's  a  shame  to  see  her 
sleepin'  at  the  stock — the  wife  shou'd  aye  He  neist  the  wa'.  Sae  I'll  tak  the 
leeberty  to  place  her  atween  her  husband's  back  and  that  o'  the  settee. 
When  he  waukens  he'll  hae  mony  apologies  to  mak  for  his  bad  manners. 
But  the  twa'll  sune  mak  it  up,  and  naethin  in  this  life's  half  so  sweet  as 
the  reconciliation  o'  lovers'  quarrels. 

NORTH. 

By  the  by,  James,  who  won  the  salmon  medal  this  season  on  the  Tweed  ? 

SHEPHERD. 

Wha,  think  ye,  could  it  be,  you  coof,  but  maseP  ?  I  beat  them  a'  by  twa 
stane  wecht.  Oh,  Mr  North,  but  it  wou'd  hae  done  your  heart  gude  to  hae 
daunner'd  alang  the  banks  wi'  me  on  the  25th,  and  seen  the  slauchter.  At 
the  third  thrawthe  snoot  o'  a  famous  fish  sookit  in  ma  nee — and  for  some 
seconds  keepit  steadfast  in  a  sort  o'  eddy  that  gaed  sullenly  swirlin'  at  the 
tail  o'  yon  pool — I  needna  name't — for  the  river  had  risen  just  to  the  pro- 
per pint,  ami  was  black  as  ink,  accept  when  noo  and  then  the  sun  struirelcd 
out  f'rae  atween  the  clud-chinks,  ana  then  the  water  was  purple  as  hf  ather- 
moss,  in  the  season  o'  blae-berries.  But  that  verra  instant  the  flee  began  to 
bite  him  on  the  tongue,  for  by  a  jerk  o'  the  wrist  I  had  slichtly  gi'en  him  the 
butt — and  sunbeam  never  swifter  shot  f'rae  Heaven,  than  shot  that  saumon- 
bcam  Ooou  iatil  auU  oot  o'  the  pool  below,  and  alang  the  sauch-shallows  or 


3831.]  Nodes  Ambrosiana.    No.LIX. 

you  come  to  Juniper  Bank.  Clap — clap— clap — at  the  same  instant  played 
a  couple  o'  cushats  frae  an  aik  aboou  my  head,  at  the  purr  o'  the  pirn, 
that  let  oot,  in  a  twinkling,  a  hunner  yards  o'  Mr  Phin's  best,  strang  aneuch 
to  haud  a  bill  or  a  rhinoceros.  .ia  <uo^  JiuJ  oi  biae.i  evcd  JadV/ 

NORTH. 
Incomparable  tackle !  j  H'i    Jmira  isvsu — lia  tbiuim  isvaH 

SHEPHERD. 

Far,  far  awa'  doon  the  flood,  see  till  him,  sir — see  till  him-r-loupw-loup — 
loupin'  intil  the  air,  describin'  in  the  spray  the  rinnin'  rainbows !  Scarcely 
cou'd  I  believe,  at  sic  a  distance,  that  he  was  the  same  fish.  He  seemed  a 
sauinon  divertin'  himsell,  without  ony  connexion  in.  this-  warld  wi'  the 
Shepherd.  But  we  were  linked  thegither,  sir,  by  the  iuveesible  gut  o'  des- 
tiny— and  I  chasteesed  him  in  his  pastime  wi'  the  rod  o'  affliction.  Windin* 
up — windin'  up,  faster  then  ever  ye  grunded  coffee — I  keepit  closin'  in  up- 
on him,  till  the  whalebone  was  amaist  perpendicular  outowre  him,  as  he 
stapped  to  take  breath  in  a  deep  plum.  You  see  the  savage  had  gotten 
sulky,  and  you  micht  as  weel  hae  rugged  at  a  rock.  Hoo  I  leuch  I  Easin' 
the  line  ever  so  little,  till  it  just  muved  slichtly  like  gossamer  in  a  breath  o' 
wun' — I  half  persuaded  him  that  he  had  gotten  aff;  but  na,  na,  ma  man,  ye 
ken  little  about  the  Kirby-bends,  gin  ye  think  the  peacock's  harl  and  the 
tinsy  hae  slipped  frae  your  jaws !  Snuvin'  up  the  stream  he  goes,  hither 
and  thither,  but  still  keepin'  weel  in  the  middle— and  noo  strecht  and 
steddy  as  a  bridegroom  ridin'  to  the  kirk.  ,,jj  J^lluJa  s«vf  9jf*  '•• 

NORTH.  (KlRdtud  B  «J9%  'J1I^*J"IJ  V>'»IH»  « 

An  original  image.  IH  1{{  83ViI  iuo^  'uiLaal  S^'DO^ 

SHEPHERD. 

Say  rather  application!  Maist  majestic,  sir,  you'll  alloo,  is  that  flichto'  a 
fish,  when  the  line  cuts  the  surface  without  commotion,  and  you  micht  ima- 
gine that  he  was  sailin'  unseen  below  in  the  style  o'  an  eagle  about  to  fauld 
his  wings  on  the  cliff. 

NORTH.       tafibi' 

Tak  tent,  James.    Be  wary,  or  he  will  escape.    .  fJJij  ^BB[8  '«Hdaiitf  a'iw 

SHEPHERD.  ,  fc'.uorfa  fiv/t  QW 

Never  fear,  sir.  He'll  no  pit  me  aff  my  guard  by  keepin'  the  croon  o' 
the  causey  in  that  gate.  I  ken  what  he's  ettlin'  at — and  it's  naething  man- 
ner less  nor  yon  island.  Thinks  he  to  himsell,  wi'  his  tail,  "  gin  I  get  abreist 
o'  the  broom,  I'll  roun'  the  rocks,  doon  the  rapids,  and  break  the  Shep- 
herd." And  nae  sooner  thocht  than  done — but  bauld  in  my  cork-jacket— — • 

NORTH. 

That's  a  new  appurtenance  to  your  person,  James;  I  thought  you  had 
always  angled  in  bladders. 

SHEPHERD.  19t{  gtoJgy  I  -jfim  I 

Sae  I  used — but  last  season  they  fell  doon  to  my  heels,  and  had  nearly 
droon'd  me— sae  I  trust  noo  to  my  body-guard. 

NORTH. 
I  prefer  the  air  life-preserver. 

sHEPHEMVut-.jp  Vmol  'o  noiJailbaoo-it  oiU 
If  it  bursts  you  re  gone.    Bauld  in  my  cork  jacket  I  took  till  the  soomin', 

haudin'  the  rod  abune  my  head 

NORTH. 
Like  Caesar  his  Commentaries. 

SHEPHERD. 

And  gettin'  footin'  on  the  bit  island — there's  no  a  shrub  on't,  you  ken, 
aboon  the  waistband  o'  my  breeks — I  was  just  in  time  to  let  him  easy  o\vre 
the  Fa',  and  Heaven  safe  us  !  he  turned  up,  as  he  played  wallop,  a  side  like 
a  house  !  He  fand  noo  that  he  was  in  the  hauns  o'  his  niaister,  and  began 
to  lose  heart ;  for  naethin'  cows  the  better  part  o'  man,  brute,  fule,  or  fish, 
like  a  sense  of  inferiority.  Sometimes  in  a  large  pairty  it  suddenly  strikes 
me  dumb 

NORTH.  «J  •lo\.91»^HOl  9lf J  00  tDfrf  Stid 

But  never  in  the  Snuggery,  James — never  in  the  Sanctum—  ,n& — j*od 

obd  looq  sdJ  'o  Joo  bjjg  Jjjui  coot)  ffl«od 


822  Noctea  Ambrosiana.    No.  LIX.  [Nov. 

SHEPHERD. 

Na — na — na— never  i'  the  Snuggery,  never  i'  the  Sanctum,  my  dear  auld 
man !  For  there  we're  a'  brithers,  and  keep  bletherin'  withouten  ony 
sense  o'  propriety — I  ax  pardon — o'  inferiority — bein'  a'  on  a  level,  and 
that  lichtsome,  like  the  parallel  roads  in  Glenroy,  when  the  sunshine  pours 
upon  them  frae  the  tap  o'  Benevis. 

NORTH. 

But  we  forget  the  fish. 

SHEPHERD. 

No  me.  I'll  remember  him  on  my  deathbed.  In  body  the  same,  he  was 
entirely  anither  fish  in  sowle.  He  had  set  his  life  on  the  hazard  o'  a  die, 
and  it  had  turned  up  blanks.  I  began  first  to  pity — and  then  to  despise 
him — for  frae  a  fish  o'  his  appearance,  I  expeckit  that  nae  act  o'  his  life 
wou'd  hae  sae  graced  him  as  the  closin'  ane — and  I  was  pairtly  wae  and 
pairtly  wrathfu'  to  see  him  dee  soft!  Yet,  to  do  him  justice,  it's  no  impos- 
sible but  that  he  may  hae  druv  his  snoot  again  a  stane,  and  got  dazed — and 
we  a*  ken  by  experience  that  there's  naething  mair  likely  to  cawm  courage 
than  a  brainin'  knock  on  the  head.  His  organ  o'  locality  had  gotten  a  clour, 
for  he  lost  a'  judgment  atween  wat  and  dry,  and  came  floatin',  belly  upmost, 
in  amang  the  bit  snail-bucky-shells  on  the  san'  aroond  my  feet,  and  lay  there 
as  still  as  if  he  had  been  gutted  on  the  kitchen  dresser— an  enormous  fish. 

NORTH. 

A  sumph, 

SHEPHERD. 

No  sic  a  sumph  as  he  looked  like — and  that  you'll  think  when  you  hear 
tell  o'  the  lave  o'  the  adventur.  Bein'  rather  out  o'  wun,  1  sits  doon  on  a 
stane,  and  was  wipin*  ma  broos,  wi'  ma  een  fixed  upon  the  prey,  when  si' 
on  a  sudden,  as  if  he  had  been  galvaneezed,  he  stotted  up  intil  the  lift,  and 
wi'  ae  squash  played  plunge  into  the  pool,  and  awa'  doon  the  eddies  like  a 
porpus.  I  thocht  I  sou'd  hae  gane  mad,  Heaven  forgie  me — and  I  fear  I 
swore  like  a  trooper.  Loupin'  wi*  a  spang  frae  the  stane,  I  missed  ma  feet, 
and  gaed  head  owre  heels  intil  the  water — while  amang  the  rushin'  o'  the 
element  I  heard  roars  o'  lauchter  as  if  frae  the  kelpie  himsell,  but  what 
afterwards  turned  out  to  be  guffaws  frae  your  frien's  Boyd  and  Juniper 
Bank,  wha  had  been  wutnessin*  the  drama  frae  commencement  to  catas- 
trophe. 

NORTH. 

Ha !  ha !  ha !  James !  it  must  have  been  excessively  droll. 

SHEPHERD. 

Risin'  to  the  surface  with  a  guller,  I  shook  ma  nieve  at  the  ne'er-do-weels, 
and  then  doon  the  river  after  the  sumph  o'  a  saumon,  like  a  verra  otter.  Fol- 
lowin'  noo  the  sight  and  noo  the  scent,  I  was  na  lang  in  comin'  up  wi'  him 
—for  he  was  as  deed  as  Dawvid — and  lyin'  on  his  back,  I  protest,  just  like 
a  man  restin'  himseP  at  the  soomin'.  I  had  forgotten  the  gaff — so  I  fasten'd 
ma  teeth  intil  the  shouther  o'  him — and  like  a  Newfoundlan'  savin'  a  chiel 
frae  droonin',  I  bare  him  to  the  shore,  while,  to  do  Boyd  and  Juniper  jus- 
tice, the  lift  rang  wi'  acclamations. 

NORTH. 

What  may  have  been  his  calibre  ? 

SHEPHERD, 

On  puttin'  him  intil  the  scales  at  nicht  he  just  turned  three  stane  trone. 

TICKLER. 

(Stretching  himself  out  to  an  incredible  extent.} 
Alas !  'twas  but  a  dream ! 

SHEPHERD. 

Was  ye  dreamin',  sir,  o'  bein'  hanged  ? 

TICKLER. 

(Recovering  his  first  position.') 
Eh! 

NORTH. 

"  So  started  up  in  his  own  shape  The  Fiend."  We  have  been  talking,  Ti- 
mothy, of  Shakspeare's  Seven  Ages. 


I8;jl.j  Nodes  Ambrosiance.    No.  LIX.  &$S 

TICKLER. 
Shakspeare's  Seven  Ages ! 

SHEPHERD. 

No  Seven  Ages — but  rather  seven  characters.  Ye  dinna  mean  to  man- 
teen,  that  every  man,  afore  he  dees,  maun  be  a  sodger  and  a  justice  o'  the 
peace  ? 

TICKLER. 

Shepherd  versus  Shakspeare — Yarrow  versus  Avon. 

SHEPHERD. 

I  see  no  reason  why  me,  or  ony.ither  man  o'  genius,  michtna  write  just 
as  weel's  Shakspeare.  Arena  we  a'  mortal  ?  Mony  glorious  glints  he  has, 
andsurpassin'  sun-bursts — but  oh  !  sirs,  his  plays  are  desperate  fu'  o'  trash 
• — like  some  o'  ma  earlier  poems 

TICKLER. 

The  Queen's  Wake  is  a  faultless  production. 

SHEPHERD. 

It's  nae  sic  thing.  But  it's  nearly  about  as  perfeck  as  ony  work  o*  human 
genius ;  whereas  Shakspeare's  best  plays,  sic  as  Hamlet,  Lear,  and  Othel- 
lo, are  but  strang  daubs — — 

TICKLER. 

James 

SHEPHERD. 

Arena  they  no,  Mr  North  ? 

NORTH. 
Rather  so,  my  dear  Shepherd.    But  what  of  his  Seven  Ages  ? 

SHEPHERD. 

Nothing — accept  that  they're  very  poor.    What's  the  first  ? 

NORTH. 

"  At  first  the  infant, 
Muling  and  puking  in  its  nurse's  arms  !" 

SHEPHERD. 

An'  that's  a'  that  Shakspeare  had  to  say  abput  map  an  infant !  I  prefer 
•the  pictur  o'  young  Hector,  frichten'd  at  his  father's  crest — though,  I  dinna 
doot  that  Asteeanax  was  gi'en  to  mewlin'  and  pukin'  in  his  nurse's  arms, 
too,  like  ither  weans  afore  they're  speaned,  for  milk  cerjainjy  curdles  and 
gets  sour  on  their  stammachs 

NORTH. 

Why,  James,  in  the  Ninth  Book  of  the  Iliad,  old  Phoenix,  who  was  private 
tutor  to  Achilles  when  a  younker,  reminds  that  hero  how  he  used  to  dis- 
gorge the  wine  on  his  vest. 

SHEPHERD. 

Wha's  vest  ?    Phoenix's,  or  that  o'  the  callant  Achilles  himsell  ? 

NORTH. 
Phoenix's. 

SHEPHERD. 

I  hae  naething  to  say  about  that — for  the  propriety  or  impropriety  o'  the 
allusion  '11  depend  altogether  on  the  place  and  time  it  is  introduced,  al- 
though I  must  just  say,  that  there's  nae  settin'  boun's  to  the  natural  drivel 
o'  dotage  in  a  fond  auld  man.  But  Shakspeare,  frae  a'  the  attributes,  and 
character,  and  conduct  o'  infants,'  had  to  choose  them  he  thocht  best  suited 
for  a  general  picture  o'  that  age,  and  the  nasty  coof  chose  mewlin'  and 

pukin' 

TICKLER. 

I  remember  once  seeing  a  natural  actor  in  a  barn,  who  personated  the 
melancholy  Jaques  to  admiration,  suiting  the  action  to  the  words,  and  at 
"  puking" 

SHEPHERD,          . 

Throwin'  up  on  the  stage!     It's  a  lee-like  story. 

TICKLER. 

He  merely  made  a  face  and  a  gulp,  as  if  disordered  in  his  stomach.      . 

SHEPHERD. 

That  was  a'  richtj— sae  did  John  Kemble. 


824  Nodes  Amlrosianee.    2Co.  LIX.  [NTov, 

NORTH. 

What  would  Mr  James  Ballantyne  say  were  he  to  hear  that  assertion  V 

SHEPHERD. 

I  dinna  care  what  he  wou'd  say,  though  I  grant  he's  a  capital  theatrical 
critic,  and  writes  a  hantle  better  on  a  play-bill  than  on  the  Bill  o'  Reform. 

NORTH. 

Unsay  these  words  this  instant,  James,  for  there  was  a  tacit  agreement 
that  we  were  to  have  no  politics. 

SHEPHERD. 

"  What's  writ  is  writ,"  quoth  Byron.  "  What's  said  is  said,"  quoth 
Hogg.  I'll  eat  in  my  words  for  nae  man — but  back  again  to  John  Kemble 
actin'  the  babby.  He  pronounced  the  word  "  mewlin',"  wi'  a  sort  o'  a  mew 
like  that  o'  a  wean  or  a  kitlin,  shuein'  his  arms  up  and  down  as  if  nursin'; 
and  if  that  was  richt,  then  I  manteen  that  it  was  incumbent  on  him,  in 
common  consistency,  to  have  gien  us  the  "  pukin"  too,  or,  at  a'  events,  the 
sort  o'  face  and  gulp  the  play-actor  made  in  the  barn — for  what  reason  in 
the  nature  of  things,  or  the  art  o'  actin',  cou'd  there  possibly  be  for  stop- 
pin'  short  at  the  *'  mewin'  ?" 

NORTH. 

But,  my  dear  James,  the  question  is  not  about  John  KenVble,  but  William 
Shakspeare. 

SHEPHERD. 

Weel  then,  the  verra  first  squeak  or  skirl  o'  a  new  born  wean  in  the 
house,  that,  though  little  louder  nor  that  o'  a  rotten,  fills  the  entire  tene- 
ment frae  grun'-work  to  riggin',  was  far  better  for  the  purposes  o'  poetry 
than  the  mewlin'  and  pukin' — for  besides  being  ony  thing  but  disgustfu', 
though  sometimes,  I  alloo,  as  alarmin'  as  unexpected,  it  is  the  sound  the 
young  Roscius  utters  on  his  first  appearance  on  any  stage ;  and  on  that 
latter  account,  if  on  no  ither,  shou'd  hae  been  selected  by  Shakspeare. 

NORTH. 

Ingenious,  James. 

SHEPHERD. 

Or  the  moment  when  it  is  first  pitten,  trig  as  a  bit  burclie,  intil  its  fa- 
ther's arms. 

TICKLER. 
A  man  child — the  imp. 

SHEPHERD. 

Though  noo  sax  feet  fowre,  you  were  then,  yoursell,  Tickler,  but  a  span 
lang — little  raair  nor  the  length  o'  your  present  nose. 

TICKLER. 

'Twas  a  snub. 

SHEPHERD. 

As  weel  tell  me  that  a  pawrot,  when  it  chips  the  shell,  has  a  strecht  neb. 

TICKLER 

Or  that  a  hog  does  not  shew  the  cloven  foot  till  he  has  learnt  to  grunt. 

SHEPHERD. 

Neither  he  does — for  he  grunts  the  instant  he's  farrow' d — like  ony  Chris- 
tian— sae  you're  out  again,  there,  and  that  envenomed  shaft  o'  satire  fa's 
to  the  grun'. 

NORTH. 

No  bad  blood,  gents ! 

SHEPHERD. 

Weel  then — or,  when  yet  unchristened,  it  lies  awake  in  the  creddle — 
and  as  its  wee  dim  een  meet  yours,  as  you're  lookin'  doon  to  kiss't,  there 
comes  strangely  over  its  bit  fair  face  a  something  joyfu',  that  love  construes 
intil  a  smile. 

TICKLER. 

"  Beautiful  exceedingly."     Hem. 

SHEPHERD. 

Or,  for  the  first  time  o'  its  life  in  lang  claes,  held  up  in  the  hush  o'  the 
kirk,  to  be  bapteezed — while 


1831.]  Nodes  AmbrosiancB.    No,  LJX. 

TICKtER. 

The  moment  the  water  touches  its  face,  it  falls  into  a  fit  of  fear  and 
rage  - 

SHEPHERDS  b'uow  Q&  Jsifw  9iB*>  4/1015  I 

Sune  stilled,  ye  callous  carle,  in  the  bosom  o'  ane  or  the  bonny  lassies 
sittin'  on  a  furm  in  the  trance,  a'  dressed  in  white,  wha  wi'  mony  a  silent 
hushaby,  lulls  the  lamb,  noo  ane  o'  the  flock,  into  hialy  sleep.'  *9  (it  v£«n"I 

TicKLER-aoiiiioq  on  avsd  oJ  <m7?  tw  JsdJ 
Your  hand,  my  dear  James. 

SHEPHERD.     •(>    '\ilTff    fit    d(1W   BfJKd'/J 

There.  Tak  a  gude  grupp,  sir,  for  in  spite  o'  that  sneering,  you've  a  real 
gude  heart.  jyoououoiq  a] 

NORTH.  A  BIO  ns;w  R  'o  Jfiifo  9>Jil 

This  is  the  second  or  third  time,  my  dear  James,  that  we  have  been  cheat- 
ed by  some  chance  or  other  out  of  your  Seven  Ages.  But  hark  !  the  time- 
piece strikes  nine  —  and  we  must  away  to  the  Library.  Two  hours  for  din- 
ner in  the  Saloon  —  two  for  wine  and  walnuts  in  the  Snuggery  —  then  two  for 
tea-tea,  and  coffee-tea  in  the  Library  —  and  finally,  two  in  the  blue-parlour 
for  supper.  Such  was  the  arrangement  for  the  evening.  So  lend  me  your 
Hupport,  my  dear  boys  —  we  shall  leave  our  curricles  behind  us  —  and  start 
pedestrians.  I  am  the  lad  to  shew  a  toe.  (Exeunt.} 

Scene  Third  —  The  Library.   Tea,  coffee,  chocolate,  §-c.    Enter  the  Trio  on 
foot  —  North  in  medio  tutissimus.     Shepherd  President  of  the  Pots, 

.tnl  Jnsm 

SHEPHERD. 

Wha  drinks  tea,  wha  drinks  coffee,  and  wba  drinks  chocklat?  ••'•«  <(SU< 

TICKLER. 

I  care  na  with  which  I  commence  —  so  that  I  end  with  a  cup  of  congou 
and  therein  a  caulker. 

NORTH. 

I  feel  the  influence  of  the  Genius  Loci,  and  long  for  some'  literary  con 
versation.  How  quickly,  James,  is  the  character  of  a  book  known  to  - 

SHEPHERD. 

Veterans  like  us  in  the  fields  o'  literature.  It's  just  the  same  to  the  expe- 
rienced wi'  the  character  o'  a  man  or  a  woman.  In  five  minutes  the  likes 
o'  you  and  me  see  through  their  faces  intil  their  hearts.  Twa  three  words, 
if  they  shou'd  be  but  about  the.  weather,  the  sound  o'  the  vice  itseP,  a  cer- 
tain look  about  the  een,  their  way  o'  walkin',  the  mainner  they  draw  in  a 
chair,  ony  the  meerest  trifle  in  short,  maks  us  acquented  wi'  the  inner  man, 
in  ilka  sex  alike,  as  weel  as  if  we  had  kent  them  for  a  thousan'  years.  An' 
is't  no  preceesely  ane  and  the  same  thing  wi'  byeuks  ?  Open  a  poem  at  ony 
pairt,  and  let  the  ee  rin  doun  the  line  o'  prent  atween  the  margins,  and  you 
hae  na  glanced  alang  a  page  till  ye  ken  whether  or  no  the  owtner  be  a  free 
and  accepted  mason  amang  the  Muses.  No  that  you  may  hae  seen  ony  verra 
uncommon  eemage,  or  extraordinar  thocht,  for  the  lad  in  that  particular 
passage  may  hae  been  haudin'  the  even  tenor  o'  his  way  alang  an  easy  level  ; 
but  still  you  fin'  as  if  you*  feet  werena  on  the  beaten  road,  but  on  the  bonny 
greensward,  wi'  here  and  there  a  pretty  unpresuming  wild-flower,  primrose, 
daisy,  or  violet,  and  that  you're  gettin'  in  amang  the  mazes  o'  the  pleesant 
sheep-paths  on  the  braes. 

NORTH. 

Or  the  sumph  is  seen  in  a  single  sentence——     idw  , 


And  the  amiable  man  o'  mediocrity  is  apparent  at  the  full  pint  o'  the  first 
paragraph. 

TICKLER. 
A  compendious  canon  in  criticism. 

SHEPHERD. 

And  ane  that  I  never  kent  err.  No  but  that  ye  may  hate  a  man  or  woman 
at  first  sicht,  and  afterwards  come  to  regard  him  wi'  muckle  amity,  and 
gang  mad  for  her  in  verra  infatuation—  but  then  in  a'  sic  cases  they  hae  been 


826  Noctcs  Ambroaiancc.    No.  LIX.  [Nov. 

Inconsistent  and  contradictory  characters;  fierce  fallows  ae  day,  sulky  chiels 
anither — on  a  third,  to  your  astonishment,  free  and  familiar — on  a  fourth 
flattcrin' — freenly  on  a  fifth — comical  and  wutty  beyond  a'  endurance  on  a 
sixth — on  the  seventh,  for  that's  the  Sabbath,  serious  and  solemn,  as  is  fittin' 
a'  mortal  beings  to  be  on  the  haly  day  o'  rest — and  on  Monday  nicht,  they 
break  and  burst  out  on  ye  diamonds  o'  the  first  water,  some  roucli,  and 
some  polished,  as  ye  get  glorious  thegither  in  the  feast  o'  reason  and  the 
flow  o'  sowle,  owre  a  barrel  o'  eisters  and  a  gallon  o'  Qlenlivet, 

NORTH. 
Heads  of  chapters  for  the  Natural  Histpry  of  Friendship. 

SHEPHERD. 

Sic  too  is  sometimes  the  origin  and  growth  o'  Love.  The  first  time  ye 
saw  her,  cockettin'  perhaps  wi'  some  insignificant  puppy,  and  either  seemin' 
no  to  ken  that  you're  in  the  room,  or  giein*  you  occasionally  a  supercilious 
glance  frae  the  curled  tail  o'  her  ee,  as  if  she  thocht  you  had  mistaken  the 
parlour  for  the  servants'-ha',  ye  pairtly  pity,  pairtly  despise,  and  rather 
hate,  and  think  her  mair  nor  ordinary  ugly;  neist  time  ye  foregather,  she's 
sittin'  on  a  bunker  by  her  lane,  and  drappin'  doon  aside  her,  you  attempt  to 
talk,  but  she  luks  strecht-forrit,  as  if  expectin'  the  door  to  open,  and 
seems  stane  deaf,  at  least  on  ae  side  o'  the  head,  only  she's  no  sulky,  and 
about  her  mouth  ye  see  a  sort  o'  a  struggle  to  haud  in  a  smile,  that  makes 
her  look,  though— somewhat  prim,  certainly — rather  bonnie  j  on  the  thifd 
meetin',  at  a  freen's  house,  you  sit  aside  her  at  denner,  and  try  to  fin'  out 
the  things  she  likes  best,  nor  mind  a  rebuff  or  twa,  till  ye  get  first  a  sole  on 
her  plate,  and  syne  a  veal  cutlet,  and  after  that  the  breist  o'  a  chicken,  and 
feenally,  an  apple-tart  wi'  coostard;  and  sae  muckle  the  better,  if  afore  that 
a  jeely  and  a  bit  blumange,  takin'  tent  to  ask  her  to  drink  wine  wi'  you,  and 
even  facetiously  pretendin'  to  gte  her  a  caulker,  wi'  an  expression  that 
shows  you're  thinkin'  o'  far  ither  dew  atween  the  openin'  o'  her  lips,  that 
noo,  for  the  first  time,  can  be  fairly  said  to  lauch  alahg  vvi*  the  licht  that 
seems  safter  and  safter  in  her  heaven-blue  een ;  the  mornin'  after,  of  coorse 
you  gie  her  a  ca',  and  you  fin'  her  at  the  work-table,  in  a  gauze  gown, 
and  braided  hair,  wi'  her  wee  foot  on  a  stool,  peepin*  out  like  a  moose — 
tak  her  on  the  whole,  as  she  sits,  as  lovely-lookin'  a  lassie  as  a  Shepherd 
may  see  on  a  summer's-day — and  what's  your  delicht,  when  layin'  aside 
her  work,  a  purple  silk  purse  interwoven  wi'  gold,  she  rises  a'  at  ance  like 
some  bricht  bird  frae  the  grun',  and  comes  floatin'  towards  ye  with  an  out- 
stretched arm,  terminating  in  a  haun'  o'  which  the  back  and  the  fingers  are 
white  as  the  driven  snaw !  And  as  for  the  pawm— if  a  sweet  shock  o'  elec- 
tricity gangs  na  to  your  heart  as  you  touch  it,  then  either  are  your  nerves 
non-conductors,  or  you're  a  chiel  chisel' d  out  o'  the  whinstane  rock.  Your 
fifth  meetin',  we  shall  say,  is  a'  by  chance,  though  in  a  lane  a  mile  ayont 
the  sooburbs, that  was  ance  the  avenue  to  aha'  noo  dilapidated,  and  that  is 
shaded  in  its  solitariness  wi'  a  hummin'  arch  o'  umbravvgeous  auld  lime- 
trees.  Hoo  sweet  the  unexpected  recognition  !  For  there  was  nae  tryst — 
for,  believe  me,  there  was  nae  tryst — I  was  takin'  a  poetical  dauner  awa' 
frae  the  smoky  city's  stir,  and  she,  like  an  angel  o'  charity,  was  returnin' 
frae  a  poor  widow's  hovel,  where  she  had  been  drappin',  as  if  frae  heaven, 
her  weekly  alms.  The  sixth  time  you  see  her — for  you  hae  keepit  count  o' 
every  ane,  and  they're  a'  written  on  your  heart — is  on  the  Saturday  nieht  in 
the  house  o'  her  ain  parents,  nane  at  hame  but  themsells — a  family  party — 
and  the  front-door  locked  again'  a*  intruders,  that  may  ring  the  bell  as  they 
like;  for  entrance  is  there 'nane,  except  through  the  key-hole  to  the  domes- 
tic fairies.  What'n  a  wife,  thinks  your  heart,  would  be  sic  a  dochter ! 
What'n  a  mother  to  the  weans!  The  sweet  thocht,  but  half-supprest,  ac- 
companies her,  as  she  moves  about  through  the  room,  in  footsteps  Fine- 
ear  himsell  could  hardly  hear;  an'd  showerin'  aroun'  her  the  cheerfu'  beauty 
o'  her  innocence, 

"  Sic  as  virtue  ever  wears 

When  gay  good-nature  dresses  her  in  smiles!" 

Hark  !  at  a  look  frae  her  father  the  virgin  sings !    An  auld  Scottish  sang — 


1831 .]  Nodes  Ambrosiana.     No.  LIX.  827 

and  then  a  hymn — but  whilk  is  the  maist  haly  it  wou'd  be  hard  to  tell,  for  if 
the  hymn  be  fu'  o'  a  humble  and  a  contrite  heart,  pae  is  the  sang  o'  a  heart 
overflowing  wi'  ruth  and  pity,  and  in  its  ain  happiness  tenderly  alive  to  a' 
human  grief!  The  seventh  meetin's  at  the  kirk  on  the  Sabbath — and  we  sit 
thegether  in  the  same  pew,  havin'  walked  a'  by  our  lanes  across  the  silent 
braes  ;  and  never  never  in  this  warld  can  love  be  love,  until  the  twa  mortal 
creatures,  wha'  may  hae  pledged  their  troth  in  voiceless  promises,  hae  assu- 
rance gi'en  them,  as  they  join  in  prayer  within  the  House  o'  God,  that  it  is 
hallowed  by  Religion. 

NORTH. 
My  dear  James  !  happy  for  ever  be  your  hearth. 

SHEPHERD. 

Bless  you,  sir.  But  let's  be  crouse  as  weel's  canty.   That's  rich  chocklat. 

NORTH. 

"  And  thus  I  won  my  Genevieve, 
My  bright  and  beauteous  bride  !" 

TICKLER. 
And  call  you  that,  James,  literary  conversation! 

SHEPHERD. 

Hoots— I'm  no  sure,  gentlemen,  if  an  age  is  the  better  o'  bein'  especially 
charactereesed  by  an  inclination  for  literatur. 

NORTH. 

Nor  am  I.  Among  the  pleasures  and  pursuits  of  our  ordinary  life,  there 
are  none  which  take  stronger  hold  on  minds  of  intelligence  and  sensibility  than 
those  of  literature ;  nor  is  it  possible  to  look  without  pleasure  and  approba- 
tion upon  the  application  of  a  young  ingenuous  mind  to  such  avocations. 
Yet  a  suspicion  will  often  steal  in  among  such  reflections,  that  there  is  some 
secret  peril  lurking  in  this  path  of  flowers,  which  may  make  it  necessary 
for  the  mind  in  the  midst  of  its  delights  to  be  jealous  of  its  safety. 

.     .     ,  SHEPHERD. 

You're  nae  gaun  to  thraw  cauld  water,  sir,  on  Poetry  ? 

NORTH. 

Hear  me  out,  my  dear  James.  Literature  brings  back  to  the  mind,  in  a 
kind  of  softened  reflection,  those  emotions  which  belong  in  nature  to  the 


intelligence  and  sensibility  are  awakened,  and  with  delight  and  admiration, 
with  a  shadowy  representation  to  ourselves  of  that  which  has  been  abso- 
lutely acted,  we  consider  the  imaginary  world. 

SHEPHERD. 

Nae  harm  sure  in  that,  sir. 

NORTH. 

Love,  and  hope,  and  fear,  and  sorrow,  shadowy  resemblances  of  great 
passions,  pass  through  our  hearts ;  and  in  the  secret  haunts  of  imagination 
we  indulge  in  contemplating  for  our  mere  pleasure  that  which  has  con- 
sumed the  strength  and  the  whole  being  of  our  kind.  We  sever  ourselves 
for  a  moment  from  the  world  to  become  sympathizing  and  applauding 
spectators  of  that  very  drama  in  which  our  own  part  awaits  us.  We  turn 
the  dread  reality  of  existence  into  a  show  for  indolent  delight. 

SHEPHERD. 

That's  beautifu'  language,  sir. 

NOHTH. 

Indeed  we  can  scarcely  describe,  James,  the  pleasures  which  our  imagi- 
nation seeks  in  works  of  literature,  without  indicating  the  twofold  and  vari- 
ous tendency  of  its  pleasures.  As  the  image  of  our  condition  warms  our  heart 
towards  our  kind,  as  it  enlarges  our  conception  of  our  own  or  their  nature,  it 
tends,  by  raising  our  minds,  to  fit  us  more  nobly  for  the  discharge  of  its  duties. 
But  as  it  gives  us  without  reality  the  emotions  we  need, —  as  it  indulges 
the  sensibility  which  it  is  flattering  to  ourselves  to  feel, — as  it  separates 
for  our  gratification  the  grandeur  of  heroic  strength  from  its  endurance, — 
and  gives  us  the  consciousness  of  all  that  is  good  in  our  own  nature,  with- 


828.  Noctcs  Ambrosiance.    No.  LIX.  [Nov. 

out  the  pain  or  peril  which  puts  its  strength  to  the  proof, — it  tends  to 
soothe  and  beguile  us  with  illusory  complacence  in  our  own  virtue, — to 
sever  our  spirits  from  that  hard  and  fearful  strife,  in  which  alone  we  ought 
to  think  that  we  can  rightly  know  ourselves — and  therewithal  it  tends  in 
the  effect  to  sever  us  from  our  kind,  to  whom  it  seems,  nevertheless,  to 
unite  us  in  our  dreams  and  visions. 

.i«  sdt  3oiji9ff<    SHEPHERD. 

Listenin'  to  you,  sir,  is  like  lookin'  into  a  well :  at  first  ye  think  it  clear, 
but  no  verra  deep ;  but  ye  let  drop  in  a  peeble,  and  what  a  length  o'  time 
ere  the  air-bells  come  up  to  the  surface  frae  the  profoond ! 

NORTH.      9iffrJ 

To  the  young  mind,  therefore,  James,  the  indulgence  in  the  pleasures 
which  imagination  finds  in  the  silent  companionship  of  books,  may  be  re- 
garded as  often  very  dangerous.  It  is  unconsciously  training  itself  to  a  separa- 
tion from  men  during  the  very  years  which  should  train  it  to  the  perform- 
ance of  the  work  iu  which  it  must  mingle  with  them.  It  is  learning  to 
withdraw  itself  from  men,  to  retire  into  itself,  to  love  and  prefer  itself,  to 
be  its  own  delight  and  its  own  world.  And  yet  a  course  meanwhile  await* 
it,  in  which  the  greater  part  of  time,  strength,  thought,  desire,  must  bo, 
given  up  to  avocations  which  demand  it  from  itself  to  others ;  in  which  it 
must  forego  its  own  delight,  or  rather  must  find  its  delight  in  service  which 
abstracts  it  from  itself  wholly,  and  chains  it  to  this  weary  world. 

SHEPHERD. 

True  as  holy  writ. 

NORTH. 

Life  allows  only  lowly  virtue.  Its  discipline  requires  of  us  the  humblest 
pleasures  and  the  humblest  service ;  and  only  from  these  by  degrees  does 
it  permit  us  to  ascend  to  great  emotions  and  high  duties.  It  is  a  perpetual 
denial  to  ambition,  and  requital  of  humility. 

SHEPHERD. 

'  For  mony  a  lang  year  did  I  feel  that,  sir.  An'  I'll  continue  to  feel't  to 
the  hour  I  close  my  een  on  sun,  moon,  and  stars. 

NORTH. 

But  imagination  is  ambitious,  and  not  humble.  It  leaps  at  once  to  the 
highest,  and  forms  us  to  overlook  the  humble  possibilities,  and  to  scorn  the 
lowly  service  of  earth.  Not  measuring  ourselves  with  reality,  we  grow 
giants  in  imagination ;  but  the  dreamed  giant  has  vanished  with  the  first 
sun-ray  that  strikes  on  our  eyes  and  awakes  us. 

SHEPHERD. 

Yet  wha  will  say  that  the  pleasures  o'  imagination  are  to  be  withheld  frae 
youth  ? 

*J«J<it    u   T         N°RTH.         .  .    .  .      . 

They  cannot  be  withheld,  James,  for  the  spirit  is  full  of  imagination,  and 

has  power  within  itself  for  its  own  delusion.    But  bad  education  may 

,  withhold  from  imagination  the  nobler  objects  of  its  delight,  and  leave  it 

fettered  to  life,  a  spirit  of  power,  struggling  and  consuming  itself  in  vain 

efforts. 

SHEPHERD. 

What,  then,  in  plain  words,  is  the  bona-feedy  truth  o'  the  soobjeck  ? 

NORTH. 

I  conceive  that  it  is  the  habitual  indulgence  that  is  injurious,  and  not  the 
knowledge  by  imagination  of  its  greatest  objects ;  and  I  should  conceive 
that  if  we  are  to  do  any  thing  with  reference  to  imagination,  it  should  be,  as 
the  years  of  youth  rise  upon  the  mind,  to  connect  its  pleasure  with  the 
severest  action  of  intellect,  by  never  offering  to  the  mind  in  books  the  un- 
restrained wild  delight  of  imagination ;  but  indulging  to  it  the  consciousness 
of  that  faculty  only  in  the  midst  of  true  and  philosophical  knowledge. 

SHEPHERD. 

In  science,  art,  history,  men,  and  nature.    Eh  ? 

NORTH. 

The  pleasures  of  literature  are  thought  to  make  the  mind  effeminate, 
which  they  do,  inasmuch  as  the  cultivation  of  letters  is  at  variance  with 


1831.]  Nodes  Ambrosfance.    No.  LIX.  829 

the  service  of  life.  The  service  of  life  strengthens  the  mind,  by  calling 
upon  it  always  to  labour  for  a  present  or  definite  purpose, — to  submit  its 
desires,  its  pleasures,  rigidly  to  an  object.  It'  does  not  deny  pleasure — it 
yields  it ;  but  only  in  subordination  or  subservience  to  a  purpose.  It  re- 
quires and  teaches  it  to  frame  its  whole  action  by  its  will,  and  to  become 
master  of  itself.  And  whether  the  purposes  of  life  are  good  and  honour- 
able, or  debasing,  it  has  this  effect  of  strengthening  the  mind  for  action. 
It  is  the  part  of  imagination  to  raise  the  mind,  and  to  nourish  its  sensibility ; 
but  it  must  not  be  allowed  to  unnerve  and  disorder  its  force  of  action. 

SHEPHERD. 

You're  beginnin'  to  tawk  like  the  Pedlar  in  the  Excursion. 

NORTH. 

I  do  not  know  that  you  could  pay  me  a  higher  compliment,  James. 

SHEPHERD. 

Darkenin'  counsel  wi'  the  multiplication  o'  vain  words.  A'  the  great  mo- 
ral philosophical  writers  that  I  hae  read,  baith  in  prose  and  in  verse,  are  in 
expression  simple,  and  say,  in  fact,  far  mair  than  they  seem  to  do;  whereas 
Wordsworth  amaist  aye,  and  no  unfrequently  yoursell,  are  ower  gorgeous  in 
your  apparel,  and  say,  in  fact,  less  than  you  seem  to  do,  though  it's  but  sel- 
dom you  dinna  baith  utter,  even  amang  your  vapidest  verbosity,  a  gey  ban- 
tie  o'  invaluable  truth. 

TICKLER. 


NORTH. 

The  same— generally— as  that  of  the  Westminster  Reviewer. 

TICKLER. 

Aye !  And  pray  what  is  that  ? 

Is'ORTH. 

That  it  is  the  best  variorum  edition  since  the  revival  of  letters. 

TICKLER. 
Croker  is  certainly  one  of  the  cleverest  and  acutest  of  living  men. 

SHEPHERD. 

No  unlike  yourself,  sir,  I  jalouse. 

NORTH. 

He  is— and  much  more.  He  is  a  man  of  great  abilities,  and  an  admirable 
scholar.  But  he  is  much  more  than  that— he  is  a  political  writer  of  the 
highest  order,  as  many  of  his  essays  in  the  Quarterly  Review  prove — 
which  are  full  of  the  Philosophy  of  History. 

TICKLER. 

Pray,  what  have  you  got  to  say  of  the  charges  brought  against  him,  in  the 
last  number  of  the  Blue  and  Yellow,  of  pitiable  imbecility  and  scandalous 
ignorance  ? 

NORTH. 

James,  have  the  goodness  to  hand  me  over  the  seven  volumes  lying  yon- 
der on  the  small  table. 

SHEPHERD. 

Yon  in  the  east  nyeuck  ?  There.  And  here's  the  Blue  and  Yellow  sittin' 
on  the  tap  o'  them  like  an  Incubus. 

NORTH. 

Having  paid  some  little  attention  to  the  literary  history  of  the  period  to 
which  they  refer,  perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  amuse  you  for  half  an  hour  by 
an  exposure  of  some  of  the  betises  of  this  prick-ma-dainty  Reviewer. 

SHEPHERD. 

Prick-ma-denty — that's  ane  o'  ma  words.  I've  been  alloo'd  the  length  o' 
my  tether  the  nicht  on  ither  topics— and  shall  be  glad  noo  to  listen  to  you 
and  Mr  Tickler. 

NORTH.  l'B  <a9 

Of  course  I  cannot  now  go  over  the  whole  of  the  Reviewer's  ten  pages  of 
conceited  and  calumnious  cavilling,  but  must  restrict  myself  to  specimens. 

SHEPHEIID. 
Aye—on  wi'  the  epeca.    OU  {  Tickler !  does  na  he  look  awfu'  gleg  ? 


880  -Nodes  Ambrosianes.    No.  LIX.  [Nov. 

NORTH. 

The  Reviewer  says : — "  In  one  place  we  are  told  that  Allan  Ramsay  the 
painter  was  born  in  1709,  and  died  in  1784 ;  in  another,  that  he  died  in  1784, 
in  the  71st  year  of  his  age.  If  the  latter  statement  be  correct,  he  must  have 
been  born  in  or  about  1713." 

SHEPHERD. 

Hoo's  that,  sir  ?  That  maun  be  a  blunner  o'  Crocker's. 

NORTH. 

No,  James ;  it  is  but  a  dishonest  trick  of  his  Reviewer.  The  age  is  stated 
differently  in  the  two  notes ;  but  one  note  is  Mr  Croker's,  and  one  is  Mr 
Boswell's.  Mr  Boswell  states  colloquially  that  "  Allan  Ramsay  died  in 
1784,  in  his  7lstyear;"  Mr  Croker  states,  with  more  precision,  that  "  lie 
was  born  in  1709 ;  and  died  in  1784,"  and  Mr  Croker  is  right — see,  if  you 
choose,  Biographical  Dictionary,  voce  Ramsay — and  thus,  because  Mr  Cro- 
ker corrects  an  error,  the  Reviewer  accuses  him  of  makiug  one. 

SHEPHERD. 

Puppy  I 

NORTH. 

Tickler,  lend  me  your  ears.  The  Reviewer  says,  "  Mr  Croker  says,  that 
at  the  commencement  of  the  INTIMACY  between  Dr  Johnson  and  Mrs  Thrale, 
IN  1765,  the  lady  was  25  years  old." 

SHEPHERD. 

Wha  the  deevil  cares  hoo  auld  she  was  ? 

TICKLE  It 

Well,  North,  what  then  ? 

NORTH. 

Why,  Mr  Croker  says  no  such  thing.  He  says,  "  Mrs  Thrale  was  25 
years  of  age  when  the  acquaintance  commenced,"  but  he  does  not  say  when 
it  commenced,  nor  when  it  became  intimacy.  It  is  Mr  Boswell  who  states, 
that  in  1765  Mr  Johnson  was  introduced  into  the  family  of  Mrs  Thrale;  but 
in  the  very  next  page,  we  find  Mrs  Thrale  herself  stating  that  the  acquaint- 
ance began  in  1764,  and  the  more  strict  intimacy  might  be  dated  from  1766. 
So  that  the  discrepancy  of  two  or  three  years  which,  by  a  double  falsifica- 
tion of  Mr  Croker's  words,  the  Reviewer  attributes  to  him,  belongs  really 
to  Mr  Boswell  and  Mrs  Thrale  themselves  I 

TICKLER. 

Proceed.    I  was  prepared  for  misrepresentation. 

NORTH. 

The  Reviewer  adds — "In  another  place  he  says  that  Mrs  Thrale's  35th  year 
coincided  with  Johnson's  70th.  Johnson  was  born  in  1 709  ;  if,  therefore, 
Mrs  Thrale's  35th  coincided  with  Johnson's  70th,  she  could  have  been  but 
21  years  old  in  1765."  Now,  I  find,  James 

SHEPHERD. 

Address  yoursell  to  Tickler. 

NORTH. 

I  find,  Tickler,  that  Mr  Croker  states,  that  from  a  passage  in  one  of  John- 
son's letters,  "  he  suspects"  and  "  it  may  be  surmised,"  that  Mrs  Thrale's 
35th  and  Johnson's  70th  years  coincided.  The  Reviewer  says,  that  "  the 
reasons  given  by  Mr  Croker  for  this  notion  are  utterly  frivolous."  I  shall 
look  to  that  instantly;  but  is  it  not  an  absolute  misrepresentation  to  call  an 
opinion,  advanced  in  the  cautious  terms  of  surmise  and  suspicion,  as  a  state- 
ment of  a  fact? 

TICKLER. 

Gross. 

NORTH. 

The  creature  continues — "  But  this  is  not  all :  Mr  Croker  in  anotlior 
place  assigns  the  year  1777  as  the  date  of  the  complimentary  lines  which 
Johnson  made  on  Mrs  Thrale's  35th  birthday.  If  this  date  be  correct,  Mrs 
Thrale  must  have  been  born  in  1742,  and  could  have  been  only  23  when 
her  acquaintance  with  Johnson  commenced." 

SHEPHERD. 

What  the  deevil  can  be  the  meanin'  o'  a'  this  bairnly  botheration  about 
the  gae  of  Mrs  Thrawl,  that  is,  Peeosy  ? 


is.jl.]  Noctcs  AmbrosiancB.    No.LlX.  831 

TICKLER. 

Literary  history,  James. 

NORTH. 

Exposure  of  a  small  malignant,  James.  I  observe,  my  dear  Timothy,  that 
Mr  Croker  does  no  such  thing.  He  inserted,  I  presume,  the  lines  under  the 
year  1777,  because  he  must  needs  place  them  somewhere;  and,  in  the 
doubt  of  two  or  three  years,  which,  as  I  have  already  shewn,  may  exist  be- 
tween Mr  Boswell's  account  and  Mrs  Thrale's  own,  he  placed  them  under 
1777;  but,  so  far  from  positively  assigning  them  to  that  particular  year,  he 
cautiously  premises,  "  It  was  about  this  time  that  these  verses  were  writ- 
tea  ;"  and  he  distinctly  states,  in  two  other  notes,  that  he  doubts  whether 
that  was  the  precise  date.  Here  again,  therefore,  his  Reviewer  is  dishonest. 

SHEPHERD. 

The  man  that'll  tell  ae  lee  will  tell  twuuty. 

N  ORTII. 

The  critic  adds,  "  Two  of  Mr  Croker's  three  statements  must  be  false.*' 
But  I  add,  Mr  Croker  has  made  but  one  statement,  and  that  is  not  impugned ; 
the  two  discrepancies  belong  to  Mr  Bosvvell  and  Mrs  Thrale,  and  the  false- 
hood to  the  Reviewer. 

SHEPHERD. 

Sherp  words. 

NORTH. 

The  critic  then  claps  his  wings  and  crows.  "  We  will  not  decide  be- 
tween them ;  we  will  only  say,  that  the  reasons  he  gives  for  thinking  that 
Mrs  Thrale  was  exactly  35  years  old  when  Johnson  was  70,  appear  to  us 
utterly  frivolous." 

TICKLER. 

What  are  they  ? 

NORTH. 

Mr  Croker's  reason  is  this :  Mrs  Thrale  had  offended  Johnson,  by  sup- 
posing  him  to  be  72  when  he  was  only  70.  Of  this  Johnson  complains,  at 
first,  somewhat  seriously,  but  he  then  gaily  adds,  "  If  you  try  to  plague  me 
(on  the  subject  of  age),  I  shall  tell  you  that  life  begins  to  decline  at  35." 
Mr  Croker's  note  upon  this  passage,  which  the  Reviewer  has  misrepre- 
sented as  an  assertion  is,  "  It  may  be  surmised,  that  Mrs  Thrale,  at  her  last 
birthday,  was  35."  Surmise  appeal's  to  me  too  dubious  an  expression. 
The  meaning  seems  indisputable. 

TICKLER. 
Why,  if  Mr  Croker  has  not  hit  the  point  of  Johnson's  retort,  what  is  it  ? 

NORTH. 
The  deponent  sayeth  not. 

TICKLER. 
Any  more  of  the  same  sort  of  peevish  impotence  ? 

NORTH. 

Lots.  Thus — "  Mr  Croker  informs  his  readers,  that  Lord  Mansfield  sur- 
vived Johnson  full  ten  years.  Lord  Mansfield  survived  Dr  Johnson  just 
eight  years  and  a  quarter." 

SHEPHERD. 

What  a  wonnerfu'  clever  fallow,  to  be  able  to  mak  siccan  a  correction  o' 
a  date  1  Does  ony  thing  depend  on't  ? 

NORTH. 

Nothing.  But  the  Reviewer  is  right.  Doctor  Johnson  died  in  1784,  and 
Lord  Mansfield  in  1793.  But  the  occasion  on  which  Mr  Croker  used  the 
inaccurate  colloquial  phrase  of  full  ten  years,  makes  the  inaccuracy  of  no 
consequence  at  all.  He  is  noticing  an  anecdote  of  a  gentleman's  having  stated 
that  he  called  on  Dr  Johnson  soon  after  Lord  Mansfield's  death,  and  that 
Johnson  said,  "  Ah,  sir,  there  was  little  learning,  and  less  virtue."  This  cruel 
anecdote  Mr  Croker's  natural  indignation  refutes  from  his  general  recollec- 
tion, and,  without  waiting  to  consult  the  printed  obituaries,  he  exclaims, 
"  It  cannot  be  true,  for  Lord  Mansfield  survived  Johnson  full  ten  years .'" 
whereas  he  ought  to  have  said,  "  It  cannot  be  true,  because  Lord  Mansfield 
survived  Johnson  '  eight  years  and  three  months ;'  "  or,  what  would  have 
been  still  more  accurate,"  eight  years,  three  months,  and  seven  days  !" 


832  Xoctes  Ambrosiance.    No.  LIX.  [Nov. 

SHEPHERD. 

What  a  bairn ! 

TICKLER. 

A  sumph,  James. 

SHEPHERD. 

A  sumph,  indeed,  Timothy. 

NORTH. 

And  something  worse.  Listen.  "  Mr  Croker  tells  us  that  the  great  Mar- 
quis of  Montrose  was  beheaded  at  Edinburgh  in  1650.  There  is  not  a  for- 
ward boy  at  any  school  in  England,  who  does  not  know  that  the  Marquis 
was  hanged.  The  account  of  the  execution  is  one  of  the  finest  passages 
in  Lord  Clarendon's  history.  We  can  scarcely  suppose  that  Mr  Croker 
has  never  read  the  passage,  and  yet  we  can  scarcely  suppose  that  any  one 
who  has  ever  perused  so  noble  and  pathetic  a  story,  cau  have  utterly 
forgotten  all  ita  most  striking  circumstances." 

SHEPHERD. 

I  never  read  Clarendon ;  but  for  a'  that,  I  ken  weel  the  details  o'  the  dis- 
mal story ;  they're  weel  gien  by  my  frien'  Robert  Chambers. 

NORTH. 

Beg  your  pardon,  James,  for  a  moment.  I  really  almost  suspect  that  the 
Reviewer  has  not  read  the  passage  to  which  he  refers,  or  he  could  hardly 
have  accused  Mr  Croker  of  shewing — by  having  said  that  Montrose  was 
beheaded,  when  the  Reviewer  thinks  he  should  have  said  hanged — that  he 
had  forgotten  the  most  "  striking  passage"  of  Clarendon's  noble  "  account 
of  the  execution."  It  is  not  on  the  execution  itself  that  Lord  Clarendon 
dwells  with  the  most  pathos  and  eft'ect,  but  on  the  previous  indignities  at 
and  after  his  trial,  which  Montrose  so  magnanimously  endured.  Claren- 
don, with  scrupulous  delicacy,  avoids  all  mention  of  the  peculiar  mode  of 
death,  and  is  wholly  silent  as  to  any  of  the  horrible  circumstances  that 
attended  it,  leaving  the  reader's  imagination  to  supply,  from  the  terms  of  the 
sentence,  the  odious  details;  but  the  Reviewer,  if  he  had  really  known  or 
felt  the  true  pathos  of  the  story,  would  have  remembered  that  the  sentence 
was,  that  the  Marquis  should  be  hanged  and  beheaded,  and  that  his  head 
should  "  be  stuck  on  the  Tolbooth  of  Edinburgh ;"  and  it  was  this  very 
circumstance  of  the  be/leading,  which  excited  in  Montrose  that  burst  of 
eloquence  which  is  the  most  striking  beauty  of  the  whole  of  the  "  noble  and 
pathetic  story."  "  I  am  prouder,"  said  he  to  his  persecutors,  "  to  have 
my  head  set  upon  the  place  it  is  appointed  to  be,  than  I  should  be  to  have 
my  picture  hung  in  the  King's  bedchamber !"  And  this  was  the  incident 
which  the  Reviewer  imagines  that  MivCroker  may  have  forgotten,  because 
he  does  not  tell  us  drily  that  Montrose  was  hanged. 

SHEPHERD. 

Sma'  sma'  spite !  Mr  Croker  would  scorn  to  craw  ower  sic  an  impi- 
dent  bantam. 

NORTH. 
You  know  well  the  story  of  Byng,  Tickler  ? 

TICKLER. 

I  do. 

NORTH. 

So  does  Mr  Croker ;  but  the  Reviewer  thinks  not,  as  you  shall  now  hear. 
"  Nothing,"  says  Mr  Croker,  "  can  be  more  unfounded  than  the  assertion 
that  Byng  fell  a  martyr  to  political  party.  By  a  strange  coincidence  of 
circumstances,  it  happened  that  there  was  a  total  change  of  administration 
between  his  condemnation  and  death,  so  that  one  party  presided  at  his 
trial,  and  another  at  his  execution.  There  can  be  no  stronger  proof  that  he 
was  not  a  political  martyr."  On  this  passage,  the  Reviewer  says, — "  Now, 
what  will  our  readers  think  of  this  writer,  when  we  assure  them  that  this 
statement,  so  confidently  made  respecting  events  so  notorious,  is  abso- 
lutely untrue  ?  One  and  the  same  administration  was  in  office  when  the 
court-martial  on  Byng  commenced  its  sittings,  through  the  whole  trial,  at 
the  condemnation,  and  at  the  execution.  In  the  month  of  November,  17 
the  Duke  of  Newcastle  and  Lord  Ilardwicke  resigned;  the  Duke  of  Devon- 


]831.]  Nodes  Anibro&iana.     No.LlX.  83-3- 

shire  became  First  Lord  of  the  Treasury,  and  Mr  Pitt  Secretary  of  State. 
This  administration  lasted  till  the  month  of  April,  1757.  Byng' 8  court-mar- 
tial began  to  sit  on  the  28th  of  December,  1756.  He  was  shot  on  the  14th 
March,  1757.  There  is  something  at  once  diverting  and  provoking  in  the 
cool  and  authoritative  manner  in  which  Mr  Croker  makes  these  random 
assertions." 

TICKLER. 
Enlighten  my  weak  mind, sir,. on  these  conflicting  statements. 

SHEPHERD. 

Confoun'  a'  question8  o'  dates  I 

NORTH. 

Now,  what  do  you  think,  sir,  when  I  assure  you,  that  this  contradiction 
to  Mr  Croker,"  so  confidently  made  with  respect  to  events  so  notorious,"  is 
absolutely  untrue!  But  so  it  is.  The  Reviewer  catches  at  Avhat  may  be  a 
verbal  inaccuracy,  (I  doubt  whether  it  be  one,  but  at  worst  it  is  no  more,) 
and  is  himself  guilty  of  the  most  direct  and  substantial  falsehood.  Of  all 
the  audacities  of  which  this  Reviewer  hasbeen  guilty,  this  is  the  greatest,  not 
merely  because  it  is  the  most  important  as  an  historical  question,  but  be- 
cause it  is  an  instance  of — to  use  his  own  expression — "the  most  scandalous 
inaccuracy" 

SHEPHERD. 

Ma  head's  confused.    What's  the  question  y 

NORTH. 

The  question  between  Mr  Croker  and  the  Reviewer  is  this — whether 
one  Ministry  did  not  prosecute  Byng,  and  a  succeeding  Ministry  execute  him. 
Mr  Croker  says  aye — the  Reviewer  says  no.  I  declare  that  the  ayes  have  it. 

TICKLER. 
As  how  ? 

NORTH. 

Byng's  action  was  in  May,  1 756,  at  which  time  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  was 
Minister,  and  Mr  Pitt  and  Lord  Temple  in  violent  opposition ;  and  when 
the  account  of  the  action  arrived  in  England,  "  the  Ministers,"  (I  quote 
from  Campbell's  Lives  of  the  Admirals — here  it  is) — "  the  Ministers  deter- 
mined to  turn,  if  possible,  the  popular  clamour  and  indignation  from  them- 
selves, upon  the  Admiral."  And  again,  "  the  hired  writers  in  the  pay  of  the 
Ministry,  were  set  to  work  to  censure  his  conduct  in  the  most  violent  and 
inflammatory  manner;"  and  it  is  then  called  "  a  nefarious  business."  And 
again,  "  The  popular  clamour  and  indignation  were  so  extremely  violent, 
that  Ministers  were  under  the  necessity  of  making  known  their  intention  to 
try  Byng,  in  a  singular,  unprecedented,  and  not  very  decorous  or  fair  man- 
ner. Orders  were  sent  to  all  the  out-ports  to  put  him,  on  his  arrival,  into 
close  arrest.  The  facts  seem  to  have  been,  that  Ministers  had  roused  the 
public  to  such  a  state  of  irritation,  that  it  would  be  directed  against  them- 
selves, unless  they  proceeded  against  Byng  in  the  most  rigorous  manner" 

SHEPHERD. 

I  like  to  hear  the  readin'  o'  dockiments. 

NORTH. 

On  the  26th  July,  Byng  arrived  at  Portsmouth,  and  was  committed  to 
close  custody,  and  removed  thence  "  to  Greenwich,  where  he  was  to  remain 
till  his  trial,  and  where  he  was  guarded,  as  if  he  had  been  guilty  of  the 
most  heinous  crimes.  The  part  of  the  hospital  in  which  he  was  confined 
was  most  scrupulously  and  carefully  fortified  ;  and  what  marked  most  de- 
cidedly the  feeling  of  the  Ministers,  they  took  care  that  all  these  precau- 
tions should  be  made  known." 

TICKLER. 

In  short,  if  we  are  to  believe  the  writers  of  the  day,  and  above  all,  Byng's 
own  friends  and  advocates,  the  Ministers  had  already  condemned  him,  and 
had  predestined  him  to  execution  to  save  themselves. 

NORTH. 

Just  so.  "  The  Ministers,"  says  Charnock,  (Naval  Bion.  vol.iv.  p.  159,) 
"  treated  him  like  a  criminal  already  condemned."  The  resolution  to  try 
Byng  was,  as  I  have  shewn  you,  taken  at  least  as  early  as  July ;  but  the 

VOL.  XXX.  NO.  CLXXXVJI.  3  H 


834  Noctes  Ambrosiana.    No.  LIX.  [Nov. 

absence  of  witnesses,  and  other  formalities,  delayed  the  actual  assembling 
the  court-martial  for  some  months,  during  which  the  controversy  between 
the  partisans  of  Byng,  and  those  of  the  Ministry,  was  maintained  with  the 
greatest  rancour  and  animosity.  In  these  circumstances,  and  while  Byng  was 
on  the  brink  of  his  trial,  about  the  20th  November  1756,  his  inveterate 
enemies,  the  Ministers,  resigned,  and  a  total  change  of  administration  took 
place.  The  new  administration,  however,  resolved  to  execute  the  instruc- 
tions of  the  former — the  proceedings  instituted  against  Byng  by  the  Duke 
of  Newcastle's  administration,  was  followed  up  by  Mr  Pitt's ;  and  the  im- 
prisonment of  Byng,  which  was  ordered  by  Lord  Anson,  was  terminated  by 
his  execution,  the  warrant  for  which  was  signed  by  Lord  Semple,  six  months 
after ! 

TICKLER. 

Poz? 

NORTH. 

Aye,  poz.  Now,  if  Mr  Croker  had  been  writing  history,  or  even  a  review, 
he  probably  might  not  have  said  that  "  the  change  of  Ministers  took  place 
between  the  condemnation  and  death,"  if  by  condemnation  the  actual  sen- 
tence of  the  court  were  to  be  understood.  Certainly  the  actual  trial  hap- 
pened to  be  held  a  few  days  after  the  accession  of  the  new  Ministry,  but 
the  prosecution,  and  the  alleged  persecution,  the  official  condemnation  of 
Byng,  and  the  indictment,  ir  I  may  borrow  the  common  law  expression, 
and  the  collection  of  the  evidence  in  support  of  it,  and  every  step  prepara- 
tory to  the  actual  swearing  of  the  court,  were  all  perpetrated  under  the 
auspices  of  the  old  Ministry.  The  new  Ministry  had  no  real  share  nor  re- 
sponsibility in  the  transaction,  till  after  the  sentence  was  pronounced,  and 
then  (without,  as  it  would  seem,  any  hesitation  on  their  part,  though  delays 
from  other  causes  arose,)  they  executed  the  sentence. 

TICKLER. 

Thank  you,  sir.  After  that,  nobody  can  have  any  doubt  in  deciding  whicl 
speaks  the  historic  truth — he,  to  be  sure,  who  says  that  one  set  of  Ministers 
conducted  the  prosecution,  and  the  other  ordered  the  execution. 

NORTH. 

Is  the  editor  of  the  Life  of  Johnson,  or  the  Edinburgh  Reviewer,  "  scan 
dalously  inaccurate  ?" 

TICKLER. 

The  prig. 

NORTH. 

The  truth  seems  to  be,  that  the  Reviewer  knows  nothing  more  of  the 
history  of  the  transaction,  than  its  dates — the  skeleton  of  history  ; — and  be- 
cause he  saw  in  some  chronological  work  that  Mr  Pitt  became  Minister 
some  days  before  the  court-martial  upon  Byng  was  opened,  he  imaginec 
that  Mr  Pitt's  Ministry  were  the  responsible  prosecutors  in  that  court-mar- 
tial. Mr  Croker  on  this  occasion,  as  on  many  others,  has  looked  to  the 
spirit  of  the  proceeding,  as  well  as  the  letter — to  the  design  as  well  as  the 
date — and  has  contributed  to  trace  historic  truth  by  the  motives  and  causes 
of  events,  rather  than  by  the  day  of  the  month  on  which  the  event  happens 
to  explode. 

TICKLER. 

The  justification  and  refutation  are  complete, 

SHEPHERD. 

At  him  again,  sir. 

NORTH. 

Don't  be  impatient,  James.  The  critic  says  chucklingly,  "  but  we  must 
proceed.  These  volumes  contain  mistakes  more  gross,  if  possible,  than  any 
that  we  have  yet  mentioned.  Boswell  has  recorded  some  observations 
made  by  Johnson  on  the  changes  which  took  place  in  Gibbon's  religious 
opinions.  '  It  is  said,'  cried  the  Doctor,  laughing,  '  that  he  has  been  a 
Mahometan.'  '  This  sarcasm,'  says  the  editor,  '  probably  alludes  to  the 
tenderness  with  which  Gibbon's  malevolence  to  Christianity  induced  him 
to  treat  Mahometanism  in  his  history.'  Now  the  sarcasm  was  uttered  ill 
1776;  and  that  part  of  the  history  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman 


1831.]  Noctes  Amlrosiance.    No.  LIX.  835 

Empire  which  relates  to  Mahometanism,  was  not  published  till  1788,  twelve 
years  after  the  date  of  this  conversation,  and  nearly  four  years  after  tha 
death  of  Johnson." 

TICKLER. 

What,  does  the  Reviewer  doubt  that  Mr  Croker  is  right,  and  that  Gibbon, 
was  the  person  intended  ? 

NORTH. 

Certainly  not.  He  adopts,  without  acknowledgment,  Mr  Croker's  inter- 
pretation, but  then  turns  round  and  says,  "  You  have  given  a  bad  reason 
for  a  just  conclusion."  Then  why  does  the  Reviewer  not  give  a  better,  and 
state  why  he  adopts  Mr  Croker's  opinion,  if  he  is  not  satisfied  with  Mr 
Croker's  reason  P  The  fact  is,  the  poor  creature  is  at  his  skeleton  work 
again.  He  found  that  the  origin  of  Mahometan  ism,  which  sprung  up  about 
the  year  600,  could  not  be  chronologically  included  in  the  first  volume  of 
Gibbon,  which  ends  about  the  year  300.  And  he  kindly  informs  Mr  Croker, 
that  Gibbon's  account  of  Mahometanism  was  not  published  till  after  John- 
son's death  ;  but  he  chooses  to  forget,  that  in  every  page  of  \i\sjirst  volume, 
as  of  his  last,  Gibbon  takes  or  makes  opportunities  of  sneering  at,  and  de- 
preciating Christianity ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  he  shows  every  where 
remarkable  "  tenderness"  for  Paganism  and  Mahometanism. 

TICKLER. 

These  insinuations  and  innuendos  are  to  be  found  all  through  the  work, 
and  are  indeed  the  great  peculiarity  of  his  style. 

NORTH. 

It  is  evident,  too,  from  the  concluding  part  of  Mr  Croker's  note,  which 
the  Reviewer  has  suppressed,  that  this  was  his  meaning;  for  Mr  Croker  adds, 
"  something  of  this  sort  must  have  been  in  Johnson's  mind  on  this  occa- 
sion." 

TICKLER. 

He  says  so— does  he  ? 

NORTH. 

Yes.  If  Mr  Croker  had  meant  to  allude  to  the  professed  history  of  Ma- 
hometanism, published  in  Gibbon's  latter  volumes — he  could  nothave  spoken 
dubiously  about  it,  as  "something  of  this  sort,"  for  there  the  bias  is  clear  and 
certain.  It  is  therefore  evident  that  Mr  Croker  meant  to  allude  to  Gib- 
bon's numerous  insinuations  against  Christianity  in  the  first  volumes,  and 
if  Johnson  did  not  mean  "  something  of  this  sort,"  I  wish  the  Reviewer  would 
tell  us  what  he  meant. 

TICKLER. 

Convicted. 

SHEPHERD. 

It's  sometimes  no  unpleasant  to  listen  to  discussion  ane  but  verra  imper- 
feckly  understaun's — especially  owre  sic  tipple.  Somebody's  gettin'  his 
licks. 

NORTH. 

James — read  aloud,  in  your  best  manner,  that  passage. 

SHEPHERD. 

Tak  awa'  your  thoomb.  (Reads.)  "  '  It  was  in  the  year  1761,'  says  Mr 
Croker,  '  that  Goldsmith  published  his  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  This  leads  the 
editor  to  observe  a  more  serious  inaccuracy  of  Mrs  Piozzi  than  Mr  Boswell 
notices,  when  he  says  Johnson  left  her  table  to  go  and  sell  the  Vicar  of 
Wakefield  for  Goldsmith.  Now  Dr  Johnson  was  not  acquainted  with  the 
Thrales  till  1765,  four  years  after  the  book  had  been  published.'  Mr  Croker, 
in  reprehending  the  fancied  inaccuracy  of  Mrs  Thrale,  has  himself  shewn  a 
degree  of  inaccuracy,  or,  to  speak  more  properly,  a  degree  of  ignorance, 
hardly  credible.  The  Traveller  was  not  published  till  1765  ;  and  it  is  a  fact 
as  notorious  as  any  in  literary  history,  that  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  though 
written  before  the  Traveller,  was  published  after  it.  It  is  a  fact  which  Mr 
Croker  may  find  in  any  common  life  of  Goldsmith ;  in  that  written  by  Mr 
Chalmers,  for  example.  It  is  a  fact  which,  as  Boswell  tells  us,  was  distinctly 
stated  by  Johnson,  in  a  conversation  with  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  It  is  there- 
fore quite  possible  and  probable,  that  the  celebrated  scene  of  the  landlady, 


636  Nodes  Ambrosiancc.    J\'o.  L1X.  [Nov. 

the  sheriff's-officer,  and  the  bottle  of  Madeira,  may  have  taken  place  in  1765. 
Now  Mrs  Thrale  expressly  says  that  it  was  near  the  beginning  of  her  ac- 
quaintance with  Johnson,  in  1 765,  or,  at  all  events,  not  later  than  1766,  that 
he  left  her  table  to  succour  his  friend.  Her  accuracy  is  therefore  complete- 
ly vindicated." 

t  n'r  ,ri    NORTH. 
Thank  ye,  James. 

•  JKij    'iStlEPHERD. 

You  canna  do  less — for  sic  a  peck  o'  trashy  havers  never,  I  sincerely  hope, 
na  devootly  believe,  never  left  ma  lips  afore.  I  think  it  mention'd  a  bottle 
o' Madeira.  Here's  ane.  Sir,  your  health. 

NORTH. 

Here  again  the  Reviewer,  in  attempting  to  correct  a  verbal  inaccuracy, 
displays  "  the  error  or  the  ignorance"  of  which  he  unjustly  accuses  Mr  Croker. 
It  would,  indeed,  have  been  more  accurate  if  Mr  Croker  had  said  that  Gold- 
smith had,  in  1761,  "  sold  the  work  to  the  publisher  "  for  it  was  not  actually 
published  to  the  world  till  after  the  Traveller  ;  but  this  fact  has  nothing  to 
do  with  the  point  in  question,  which  is  the  time  when  Goldsmith  sold  the 
work,  and  whether  Johnson  could  have  left  Thrale's  table  to  sell  it  for  him. 
In  other  words,  whether  the  sale  took  place  prior  to  1765.  Mr  Croker  says 
aye — the  Reviewer  says  no — and  the  Reviewer  is  decidedly  in  the  wrong, 
and  Mr  Croker  is  clearly  right,  according  to  the  very  authority  to  which  the 
Reviewer  refers  us.  Chalmers  tells  us,  indeed,  that  the  novel  was  published 
after  the  poem — but  he  also  tells  us,  to  the  utter  discomfiture  of  the  Re- 
viewer, that  "  the  novel  was  sold,  and  the  money  paid  for  it,  some  time  before  !" 
So  that  the  sale  took  place,  even  according  to  the  Reviewer's  own  admis- 
bion,  before  1 765. 

TICKLER. 

Q.  EVD. 

NORTH. 

But  this  is  not  all.  The  Reviewer  states  that  the  Traveller  was  published  in 
J765,  but  even  in  this  fact  he  is  wrong.  The  Traveller  was  published  in  1764, 
and  if  he  will  open  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  for  1764,  he  will  find  extracts 
in  it  from  that  poem.  This  fact  corroborates  Mr  Croker's  inference. 
Mrs  Piozzi  had  said  that  Johnson  was  called  away  from  her  table,  either 
in  1765  or  1766,  to  sell  the  novel.  Mr  Croker  says  this  must  be  inaccurate, 
because  the  book  was  sold  long  before  that  date.  Now  it  is  proved  that  it 
was  sold  before  the  publication  of  the  Traveller,  and  it  is  also  proved  that 
the  Traveller  was  published  in  1764  ;  and  finally,  the  Reviewer's  assertion, 
that  "  it  is  quite  possible  and  probable  that  the  sale  took  place  in  1765,"  is 
thus  shown  to  be  "  a  monstrous  blunder" 

SHEPHERD. 

O,  sir  !  but  you're  a  terrible  tyke,  when  you  lay  your  mouth  on  a  messin 
to  gie  him  a  bit  worryin'  for  your  ain  amusement ! 

NORTH. 

Read  on,  James. 

SHEPHERD. 

Ae  paragraph,  and  nae  mair.  If  you  ask  me  again,  I'll  rebel.  "  The 
very  page  which  contains  this  monstrous  blunder,  contains  another  blun- 
der, if  possible,  more  monstrous  still.  Sir  Joseph  Mawbey,  a  foolish  mem- 
ber of  Parliament,  at  whose  speeches  and  whose  pig-styes  the  wits  of 
Brookes's  were,  fifty  years  ago,  in  the  habit  of  laughing  most  unmercifully, 
stated,  on  the  authority  of  Garrick,  that  Johnson,  while  sitting  in  a  coffee- 
house at  Oxford,  about  the  time  of  his  doctor's  degree,  used  some  con- 
temptuous expressions  respecting  Home's  play  and  Macpherson's  Ossian. 
'Many  men,'  lie  said,  '  many  women,  and  many  children, might  have  writ- 
ten Douglas.'  Mr  Croker  conceives  lluit  he  has  detected  an  inaccuracy, 
and  glories  over  poor  Sir  Joseph,  in  a  most  characteristic  manner.  '  I  have 
quoted  this  anecdote  solely  with  the  view  of  showing  to  how  little  credit 
hearsay  anecdotes  are  in  general  entitled.  Here  is  a  story  published  by  Sir 
Joseph  Mawbey,  a  member  of  the  House  of  Commons,  and  a  person  every 
way  worthy  of  credit,  who  eays  he  had  it  liom  Garrick.  Now  nuuk  .-—John-. 


1831.]  Nuclei  AmbrosiancB.     No.  LIX.  837 

son's  visit  to  Oxford,  about  the  time  of  his  doctor's  degree,  was  in  1754,  the 
first  time  he  had  been  there  since  he  left  the  university.  But  Douglas  was 
not  acted  till  1756,  and  Ossian  not  published  till  1760.  All,  therefore,  that 
is  new  in  Sir  Joseph  Mawbey's  story  is  false.'  Assuredly  we  need  not  go 
far  to  find  ample  proof  that  a  member  of  the  House  of  Commons  may  com- 
mit a  very  gross  error.  Now  mark,  say  we,  in  the  language  of  Mr  Croker. 
The  fact  is,  that  Johnson  took  his  Master's  degree  in  1 754,  and  his  Doctor's 
degree  in  1775.  In  the  spring  of  1776,  he  paid  a  visit  to  Oxford,  and  at 
this  visit  a  conversation  respecting  the  works  of  Home  and  Macpherson 
might  have  taken  place,  and,  in  all  probability,  did  take  place.  The  only 
real  objection  to  the  story  Mr  Croker  has  missed.  Boswell  states,  appa- 
rently on  the  best  authority,  that  as  early  at  least  as  the  year  1763,  John- 
son, in  conversation  with  Blair,  used  the  same  expressions  respecting  Os- 
sian, which  Sir  Joseph  represents  him  as  having  used  respecting  Douglas. 
Sir  Joseph,  or  Garrick,  confounded,  we  suspect,  the  two  stories,  But  their 
error  is'venial,  compared  with  that  of  Mr  Croker." 

NORTH. 

Now,  this  is  a  tissue  of  misrepresentation.  The  words  "  about  the  time  of 
7iis  doctor' s  degree,"  which  the  Reviewer  attributes  to  Mr  Croker,  are  Sir  Jo- 
seph Mawbey's  own,  and  distinguished  by  Mr  Croker  with  marks  of  quota- 
tions (omitted  by  the  Reviewer)  to  call  the  readeu's  attention  to  the  mistake, 
which  Mr  Croker  supposes  Sir  Joseph  to  have  made  as  to  the  date  of  the 
anecdote.  But,  says  the  Reviewer,  "  Mr  Croker  lias  missed  the  only  real  ob- 
jection to  the  story,  namely-,that  Johnson  had  used,  as  earlyas  1 763, respecting 
Ossian,  the  same  expressions  which  Sir  Joseph  represents  him  as  having  used 
respecting  Douglas."  This  is  really  too  bad.  The  Reviewer  says,  Mr  Cro- 
ker has  missed,  because  he  himself  has  chosen  to  suppress  !  Mr  Croker's  note 
distinctly  states  the  very  fact  which  he  is  accused  of  missing  !  "  Every  one 
knows,"  says  Mr  Croker, "  that  Dr  Johnson  said  of  Ossian  that '  many  men, 
many  women,  and  many  children,  might  have  written  it ;"  and  Mr  Croker 
concludes  by  inferring  exactly  what  the  Reviewer  does,  that  Sir  Joseph 
Mawbey  was  inaccurate  in  thus  applying  to  Douglas  what  had  been  really 
said  of  Ossian  !  But  the  Reviewer,  in  addition  to  suppressing  Mr  Croker's 
statement,  blunders  his  own  facts;  for  he  tells  us,  that  Johnson's  visit  to  Ox- 
ford, about  the  time  of  his  doctor's  degree,  was  "in  the  spring  of  1776."  I  beg 
to  inform  him  it  was  in  the  latter  end  of  May  1 775.  (Let  him  see  Boswell, 
viii.  p.  254.)  The  matter  is  of  no  moment  at  all,  but  shows,  that  the  Re- 
viewer falls  into  the  same  inaccuracies,  for  which  he  arraigns  Mr  Croker, 
and  which  he  politely  calls  in  this  very  instance  "  scandalous" 

SHEPHERD. 

I'll  be  hang'd  gin  I  read  out  anither  word.  There's  the  Blue  and  Yellow. 
Read  it  yourself — Sir,  your  health  again  I  wus. 

NORTH,     (reads.) 

"  Boswell  has  preserved  a  poor  epigram  by  Johnson,  inscribed  '  ad  Lau- 
ram  parituram.'  Mr  Croker  censures  the  poet  for  applying  the  word  puella 
to  a  lady  in  Laura's  situation,  and  for  talking  of  the  beauty  of  Lucina.  '  Lu- 
cina,'  he  says, '  was  never  famed  for  her  beauty.'  If  Sir  Robert  Peel  had 
seen  this  note,  he  possibly  would  again  have  refuted  Mr  Croker's  criticisms 
by  an  appeal  to  Horace.  In  the  secular  ode,  Lucina  is  used  as  one  of  the 
names  of  Diana,  and  the  beauty  of  Diana  is  extolled  by  all  the  most  ortho- 
dox doctors  of  ancient  mythology,  from  Homer,  in  his  Odyssey,  to  Clau- 
dian,  in  his  Rape  of  Proserpine.  In  another  ode,  Horace  describes  Diana 
as  the  goddess  who  assists  the  '  laborantes  utero  puellas?  " 

SHEPHERD. 

It's  the  same  in  the  Forest. 

NORTH. 

Euge  !  by  this  rule,  the  Reviewer  would  prove  that  HECATE  was  famed 
for  her  beauty,  for  "  Hecate  is  one  of  the  names  of  Diana  ;  and  the  beauty 
of  Diana,"  and,  consequently,  of  Hecate,— "  is  extolled  by  all  the  most  ortho- 
dox doctors  of  heathen  mythology." 

SHEPHERD. 

Hecate  a  beauty  !  I  aye  thocht  she  had  been  a  furious  fricht — black-a- 
viced,  pockey-ort,  wi'  a  great  stool  o'  a  beard. 


838  Nodes  Ambrosiana.    No.  LIX.  [Nov 

NORTH. 

Mr  Croker  does  not,  as  the  Reviewer  says  he  does,  censure  the  poet  for  the 
application  of  the  word  puella  to  a  lady  in  Laura's  situation;  but  he  says, 
that  the  designation  in  the  first  line,  which  was  proposed  as  a  thesis  of  the 
lady  as  pulcherrima  puella,  would  lead  us  to  expect  any  thing  rather  than 
the  turn  which  the  latter  lines  of  the  epigram  take,  of  representing  her  as 
about  to  lie  in.  It  needs  not  the  authority  either  of  Horace  or  the  Shep- 
herd to  prove  that  "  puellce"  will  sometimes  be  found  "  laborantes  utero." 
But  it  will  take  more  than  the  authority  of  the  Reviewer  to  persuade  me, 
that  Mr  Croker  was  wrong  in  saying  that  it  seems  a  very  strange  mode  of 
complimenting  an  English  beauty. 

SHEPHERD. 

And  has  the  cretur  failed  in  pintin'  out  ony  inaccuracies  ava  in  Mr 
Crocker  ? 

NORTH. 

I  have  shewn,  my  boy,  that  he  has  charged  Mr  Croker,  in  some  in- 
stances,  ignorantly,  and  in  others  falsely,  of  ignorance  and  falsehood ;  and 
such  being  the  Reviewer's  own  sins  in  the  course  of  half  a  sheet  of  the 
Blue  and  Yellow,  manifestly  got  up  with  much  assiduity,  for  he  quotes,  I 
perceive,  from  all  the  five  volumes,  is  it  not  contemptible  to  hear  his  chuckle 
over  Mr  Croker,  who,  in  the  course  of  between  two  and  three  thousand 
additions  to  Boswell,  has  been  shewn  to  have  fallen,  perhaps,  into  some 
half  dozen  errors  or  inaccuracies,  one  of  them  evidently  a  misprint — one 
an  expression  apparently  incorrect,  because  elliptical — and  the  others  « 

SHEPHERD. 

Mere  trifles  if  like  the  alledged  lave  o'  them  ye  hae  quoted. 

NORTH. 

Mr  Croker  has  been  convicted  of  the  "  gross  and  scandalous"  inaccu- 
racy of  having  assigned  wrong  dates  to  the  deaths  of  Derrick,  Sir  Herbert 
Croft,  and  the  amiable  Sir  William  Forbes,  biographer  of  Beattie. 

SHEPHERD. 

What'n  enormities  !  He  maun  drie  pennance  by  a  pilgrimage  to  Loch 
Derg.  What  other  crimes  has  Mr  Croker  committed  ? 

NORTH. 

He  has,  moreover,  attributed  to  Henry  Bate  Dudley,  the  Fighting  Parson, 
the  Editorship  of  the  old  Morning  Herald,  instead  of  the  old  Morning  Post. 

SHEPHERD. 

What  a  sinner  I 

NORTH. 

And  he  has  erroneously  said,  that  Burgoyne's  surrender  at  Saratoga  took 
place  in  March  1778,  instead  of  October  1777.  He  is  mistaken,  too,  in  say- 
ing that  Lord  Townshend  was  not  Secretary  of  State  till  1720. 

SHEPHERD. 

In  short,  the  seven  deadly  sins ! 

NORTH. 

The  perpetration  of  which  has  so  incensed  the  immaculate  and  infallible 
Reviewer,  that  he  has  not  scrupled  to  assert  that  the  whole  of  Mr  Croker's 
part  of  the  work  is  ill  compiled,  ill  arranged,  ill  expressed,  and  ill  printed. 

SHEPHERD. 

Fee !  faw  I  fum !  I  smell  the  bluid  o'  a  pairty  man. 

NORTH. 
Fetid  in  faction. 

TICKLER. 

Can  this  be  the  same  Pseudo-Sampson  who  supposes  he  slew  Southey 
and  Sadler — and  that  he  has  now  smitten  Croker  under  the  fifth  rib  ? 

NORTH. 

The  same ;  and  I  lament  to  see  a  young  man  of  his  endowments  a  prey 
to  such  pitiful  impulses  of  malice,  which,  impotent  as  are  the  fumblings 
they  excite,  cannot  fail  to  weaken  the  intellect  they  degrade  down  to  such 
paltry  work,  and  will  make  one  who  is  now  not  unjustly  the  object  of  par- 
tial admiration,  ere  long  that  of  general  contempt. 


1831.]  Nodes  Ambrosiance,    No.  LIX,  8391 

SHEPHERD. 

Thank  heaven,  sir,  that  I'm  out  o'  the  stoure  o'  pairty  in  the  Forest !  In 
cities,  towns,  and  villages,  frae  Lunnon  down  to  Pettycur,  it  keeps  drivin' 
in  your  face,  till  in  angry  blin'ness  you  stoitter  again'  your  fellovv-creturs 
borin'  alang  in  the  opposite  direction,  or  rin  yoursel'  wi'  a  dunsh  again' 
the  wa'.  But  a's  sweet  and  serene  oot  by  yonner,  sir-,  and  natur  follows  her 
ain  way  in  obedience  to  the  everlastin'  laws  that  bring  ae  season  in  beauty 
oot  o'  the  bosom  o'  the  ither,  the  shady  simmer  broonin'  awa  by  impercep- 
tible gradations  o'%  colour  intil  the  gorgeous  autumn — the  autumn  fadin' 
awa'  in  fire  intil  the  seelent  snaws  o'  winter — and  the  winter  in  gude  time 
layin'  aside  her  white  mantle,  and  in  green  symar  changin'  afore  the  gratefu' 
gaze  intil  the  warld-worshipped  spring. 

NORTH. 

No  Reform  needed  there,  James. 

SHEPHERD. 

Weel  said,  sir — nae  Reform — accept  in  oor  ain  hearts — and  there  it'll  be 
needed  ai-i  lang's  St  Mary's  rows  the  silver  waters  o'  the  Yarrow,  wi'  a'  their 
eemaged  clouds,  hills,  and  trees,  to  join  her  Sister  Ettrick,  ere  the  twa  melt 
their  name  and  natur  in  the  sea-seeking  Tweed. 

TICKLER. 

In  spite  of  all  that  has  been  said,  Mr  North,  James,  is  the  only  critic  of  the 
age,  that  in  his  judgments  on  literature  is  unbiassed  by  his  political  predi- 
lections. 

SHEPHERD. 

I  canna  gang  just  that  length  alang  wi'  ye,  Mr  Tickler  j  for  noo  and  then 
the  tae  o'  the  Tory  wull  peep  oot  frae  aneath  the  robes  o'  Rhadamanthus. 
In  soomin'  up  the  evidence  again'  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  (and  every  author's 
a  pannel),  his  eloquence  I've  sometimes  thochthas  had  rather  a  little  leanin' 
towards  the  culprit  that  had  the  gude  fortun  no  to  be  a  Whig,  although 
there  cou'd  be  nae  doot  o'  his  guilt.  An'  sure  I  am,  that  in  cases  I  cou'd  men- 
tion, he  has  induced  the  Jury  to  acquit  the  criminal,  wi'  a  verdict  o'  "  no 
proven,"  when  every  body  in  the  court,  includin'  those  in  the  box  and  on 
the  bench,  kent  that  there  was  a  thief  afore  them,  as  certainly  as  if  they 
had  grupped  the  plagiary  wi'  his  haun'  in  the  man's  breeks. 

TICKLER. 

Every  judge  should  lean  to  the  side  of  mercy. 

SHEPHERD. 

That's  true.  But  then  again,  sir,  on  the  ither  haun*,  whan  the  accused  has 
happen'd  to  be  a  Whig,  and  the  evidence,  though  strong  again'  him,  admittin* 
o'  some  doot,  I've  thocht  that  I've  sometimes  seen  a  deevil  darkenin'  in  his 
een,  and  heard  a  deevil  thunderin'  frae  his  lips,  death  to  the  sinner  wha  ith- 
erwise  micht  hae  been  allow'd  to  get  aff  wi'  banishment  to  Botany  Bay  for 
the  term  o'  his  natural  life.  This  is  scarcely  justice. 

TICKLER. 

Yet,  granting  all  that  to  be  true,  what  does  it  prove  but  that  our  venerable 
friend  is  human  ? 

SHEPHERD. 

Say  rather  inhuman. 

NORTH. 

Let  me  be  impeached.    But  pray  particularize. 

SHEPHERD. 

No — I  won't — for  I've  nae  wish  to  be  personal.  Suffeece  it  to  say,  that  twa 
three  leeterary  Tories  are  trottin'  up  and  doon  baith  toon  and  kintra  the 
noo  unca  croose,  Avha,  if  the  High  Court  o'  Justiciary  had  dune  their  duty, 
o'  which  you  are  the  Lord  Justice  Clerk,  wou'd  hae  been  knappin  stanes 
across  the  water,  and  that  a  wheen  Whigs  are,  awin'  to  you,  established  in 
sma'  shops  in  Hobart's  Toon,  wha  micht  hae  been  tryin'  to  pick  up  a  no  very 
dishonest  livelihood  in  their  ain  kintra  o'  Cockayne,  say  by  sellin'  saloop. 

NORTH. 

This  much  I  must  say  in  my  own  vindication,  James,  that  I  have  never 
known  an  instance  of  one  such  delinquent,  on  his  return  from  transporta- 
tion, after  expiry  of  his  term,  conducting  himself  in  such  a  way  as  to  leave 
any  doubt  on  my  mind  that  he  should  originally  have  been  hanged. 


840  Noctes  Ambrosiance,    No.  LIX.  [Nov. 

SHEPHERD. 

Safe  us !  What  do  you  mean  by  being  hanged  originally  ?  You  haena 
invented,  I  howp,  a  mair  savage  style  o'  strangulation ?  You're  no  for  layin' 
aside  the  "rape,  and  for  garrin'  the  executioner  do  his  duty  wi'  the  finger 
andthoomP..^,, 

'0,9«IOJ  hiniii    'Vlr  Ot  H-H<>'.:   !.  NORTH. 

I  have  now  my  eye  on  some  delinquents,  who,  if  tried  before  me - 

SHEPHERD. 

Wull  be  convicket 

NORTH. 

And  if  convicted,  put  to  death  in  the  way  you  mention 

SHEPHERD. 

But  for  that  purpose  ye  maun  bring  in  a  new  Bill. 

NORTH. 

My  Lord  Melbourne  has  promised  to  do  so  immediately  after -the  proro- 
gation— provided  it  appears,  that  during  the  dark  nights  spring-guns  have 
worked  well 

SHEPHERD. 

And  that  Swing  has  been  gruppit  in  a  man-trap. 

NORTH. 
Look,  James,  at  the  Lord  Chancellor 

SHEPHERD. 

I  do.  An'  in  that  mane  o'  his,  he  looks  like  a  lion-ape — at  ance  ludicrous 
and  fearsome — a  strange  mixture  o'  the  meanest  and  the  michtiest  o'  a' 

beasts.    Hairy  Broom 

TICKLER. 

The  Besom  of  Destruction 

SHEPHERD. 

Soopin'  the  Court  o'  Chancery  like  a  strang  wun  the  chaff  frae  a  barn- 
floor.  See  that  he  does  na'  scatter  in  the  air  the  wheat  that  o'  richt  belangg 
to  the  suitors.  Auld  Eldon  used  to  lay't  up  carefully  in  heaps,  that  it 
micht  be  carried  awa'  afterwards  by  the  richt  owners,  aften  difficult  to  be 

determined 

TICKLER. 

In  the  decision  of  a  judge,  James,  what  the  world  demands  now — is  des- 
patch. 

SHEPHERD. 

The  idea  o'  the  balance,  tremblin'  to  a  hair,  is  noo  obsolete !  Yet  it  was 
an  idea,  sir,  o'  the  finest  grandeur,  and  I've  gazed  on't  personified  in  a  pic- 
tur,  till  I  hae  sworn  a  seelent  oath  in  a'  cases  o'  diffeeculty  to  ca'  on  my 
conscience  wi'  the  same  nicest  adjustment  to  look  alang  the  beam  ere  she 
decided  that  it  had  settled  intil  the  unwaverin'  and  everlastin'  richt. 

NORTH. 

Brougham  is  a  great  orator,  as  orators  go,  James,  sober  or 

SHEPHERD. 

What? 

NORTH. 

And  some  of  his  speeches  in  the  House  of  Commons,  in  favour  of  the 
mitigation  of  our  penal  code,  were  noble  in  eloquence  and  in  argument. 
He  boldly  denounced  the  doctrine  of  the  justice  of  capital  punishments  in 
cases  of  forgery,  the  doctrine  of  its  expediency  even  in  a  country  that  had 
grown  great  and  glorious  by  commerce. 

SHEPHERD. 

I  hae  nae  doots  on  baith. 

TICKLER. 

And  I  have  none  either.  Fauntleroy  performed  an  appropriate  part  in  the 
character  of  Swing.  Yet,  so  cheap  is  pity,  that  the  most  vulgar  pauper  can 
afford  to  pipe  his  eye  for  the  fate  of  the  unfeeling  forger,  who  has  wasted 
on  unsatiable  prostitutes  the  pittances  of  widows  and  orphans,  forgetting 
their  faces  and  their  hands  held  up  to  Heaven  in  resignation  by  their  cold 
healths,  in  the  mournful  sight,  forsooth,  of  the  white  cheeks  and  closed  eyes 
of  a  cowardly  and  hypocritical  convict  quivering,  not  in  remorse  for  his 


183  l.J  Noctcs  Ambrosiance.    No.  LIX.  841 

crime,  but  in  terror  of  its  punishment,  on  the  scaffold  that  has  shook  to  the 
tread  of  many  a  wretch,  unpitied,  because  poor — and  unpetitioned  for,  be- 
cause no— Banker. 

NORTH. 

Let  us,  at  another  time,  argue  this  great  question.  But  hark  !  the  thun- 
derous voice  of  the  great  Commoner  subdued  down  to  the  timid  tone  of 
the  Lord  Chancellor,  who,  on  the  very  same  petition  being  presented  by 
the  Duke  of  Sussex,  which,  in  former  times,  called  for  Henry  Brougham's 
indignant  denunciations  of  cruelty  and  injustice,  lately  opened  his  mouth 
and  emitted  nothing  but  wind,  like  a  barn-door  fowl  agape  in  the  pip  ! 

SHEPHERD. 

What  lang,  thin  folios  are  thae  you're  lookin'  at,  Mr  Tickler  ?  Do  they 
couteen  picturs  ? 

.TICKLER. 

The  Beauties  of  the  Court  of  King  Charles  the  Second,  a  series  of  por- 
traits illustrating  the  Memoirs  of  De  Grammont,  Pepys,  Evelyn,  Clarendon, 
and  other  contemporary  writers ;  with  Memoirs,  Critical  and  Biographical, 
by  Mrs  Jameson,  authoress  of  Memoirs  of  the  Loves  of  the  Poets,  and  the 
Diary  of  an  Ennuyee. 

NORTH. 

One  of  the  most  eloquent  of  our  female  writers — full  of  feeling  and 
fancy — a  true  enthusiast  with  a  glowing  soul. 

SHEPHERD. 

Mrs  Jameson's  prose  aye  reminds  me  o'  Miss  Landon's  poetry — and 
though  baith  hae  their  fawtes,  I  wou'd  charactereese  baith  alike  by  the  same 
epithet — rich.  I  hate  a  simple  style,  for  that's  only  anither  word  for  puir. 
What  I  mean  is,  that  when  you  can  say  nae  better  o'  a  style  than  that  it's 
simple,  you  maun  be  at  a  great  loss  for  eulogium.  There's  naething  sim- 
pler nor  water,  and,  at  times,  a  body  drinks't  greedily  frae  the  rim  o'  his 
hat  made  intil  a  scoop  ;  but  for  a'  that,  in  the  lang  rin,  I  prefer  porter. 

TICKLER. 

Much. 

NORTH. 

In  calling  water  the  best  of  elements,  Pindar  was  considering  it  as  the 
groundwork  of  Glenlivet. 

SHEPHERD. 

Nae  doubt,  Glenlivet's  pure  speerit,  and  in  ae  sense  simple ;  but  then 
it's  an  essence — an  ethereal  essence  o'  the  extract  o'  mawte — and  water's 
but  the  medium  in  which  it's  conveyed.  But  o'  a'  the  liquids,  no  ane's  simple 
except  water.  Even  milk  and  water's  a  wee  composite,  and  has  its  admi- 
rers— though  no  here.  But  let  me  look  at  the  Beauties. 

TICKLER. 

Avast  hauling. 

SHEPHERD. 

That's  richt — every  man  his  ain  nummer.  And  wha's  fa' en  to  my  share, 
but  her  wham  Mrs  Jameson  weel  ca's  "  the  pretty,  witty,  merry,  open- 
hearted  Nelly" — that  jewel  o'  a  cretur,  Nell  Gwynn!  Gie  me  a  kiss,  ma 
lassie  !  Better  for  thee  had'st  thou  been  born  in  the  Forest ! 

NORTH. 

La  Belle  Hamilton !  La  Belle  Stewart !  Superb  Sultana  with  volup- 
tuous bust !  Divine  Diana,  dreaming  of  delight  and  Endymion  ! 

SHEPHERD. 

What's  that  you're  sayin,  sir  ?  Her  bosom's  no  worth  lookin'  at,  I'm 
sure,  in  comparison  wi'  wee  Nelly's,  that  reminds  ane  o'  the  Sang  o'  Solo- 
mon. I  wunner  hoo  Sir  Peter  cou'd  controol  himsell,  sae  as  to  be  able  to 
draw't.  Surely  King  Charlie  keepit  watch  on  the  penter  a'  the  time  he 
was  shapin'  and  colourin'  time  buddin',  budded,  full-blawn  blossoms  o'  the 
bower  o'  Paradise ! 

TICKLER. 

James! 

SHEPHERD. 

The  penter,  in  ae  sense,  has  the  advantage  ower  the  poet,  when  deajin' 


842  Nodes  Ambrosiance.    JVo.  LIX.  [Nov. 

wi'  female  charms ;  in  anither,  the  poet  ower  the  penter.  He  has  the  mate- 
rial objeck  afore  his  material  ee,  and  the  brush  maun  obey  the  breast  in  a' 
its  swellin's,  and  that's  the  definition  o'  a  portrait  But  we,  sir,  set  an  im- 
material shadow  afore  our  spiritual  een,  an'  in  words  which  are  but  air- 
in  verse,  which  is  o'  a'  air  the  finest,  we  breathe  intil  being  the  beauty  we 
idealeeze,  and  the  vision  o'  Bonny  Kilmeny  gangs  up  the  glen,  floatin'  awa' 
in  poetry ! 

NORTH. 

La  Belle  Hamilton !-— She  who  was  "  grande  et  gracieuse  dans  le  moindre 
de  ses  mouvements  !"  "  Le  petit  nez  delicat" 

SHEPHERD. 

Snivelin'  French !  La  bonny  Gwynn !  quelle  fut  sae  fu'  de  feu  d' amour 
sur  les  yeux 

TICKLER. 

What  is  that  ? 

SHEPHERD. 

French. 

NORTH. 

Among  her  luxuriant  tresses,  a  few  pearls  negligently  thrown— 

"  Tresses  that  wear 
Jewels,  but  to  declare 
How  much  themselves  more  precious  are. 
Each  ruby  there, 
Or  pearl,  that  dares  appear, 
Be  its  own  blush— be  its  own  tear." 

SHEPHERD. 

Nae  pearlins  amang  ma  Nelly's  hair,  curlin'  and  clusterin'  roun'  her 
lauchin'  cheeks,  and  ae  ringlet  lettin'  itseP  doon  alang  her  neck,  amaist  till 
her  bonny  breist,  wi'  sic  a  natural  swirl,  ane  thinks  it  micht  be  removed 
by  the  haun' — sae — or  blawu  awa' — sae — by  a  breath.  Wha's  she  you're 
glowerin  at,  Mr  Tickler  ? 

TICKLER. 

Castlemaine — Cleveland.    Voluptuous  vixen !    Insatiate  harpy ! 

SHEPHERD. 

An'  by  what  depraved  instinct,  sir,  select  ye  and  fasten  upon  her  ?  It 
speaks  vollums. 

TICKLER. 

Coarse,  cruel,  insolent,  and  savage — yet,  by  some  witchlike  art,  the  fair 
fury  cou'd  wind  round  her  finger  all  the  heartstrings  of  the  laughter-loving 
King. 

SHEPHERD. 

Yet,  believe  me,  sir,  that  strange  as  micht  hae  been  his  passion  for  sic  a 
limmer,  he  wou'd  hae  been  glad,  on  awakenin'  some  mornin',  to  find  her 
lyin'  aside  him  stiff-and-stark-stane-dead.  Infatuation  is  fed  by  warm 
leevin  flesh  and  bluid,  and  ae  cauld  touch  o'  the  unbreathin'  clay  breaks 
the  pernicious  spell;  but  true  love  outlives  the  breath  that  sichs  itsell 
awa  frae  the  breist  even  o'  a  faithfu'  leman,  and  weeps  in  distraction  owre 
the  frail  and  her  frailties  when  they  hae  drapped  into  the  dust. 

NORTH. 

Let  us  close  the  fair  folios,  for  the  present,  my  boys.  I  do  not  deny  that 
many  worthy  people  may  have  serious  objections  to  the  whole  work.  But 
not  I.  'Tis  a  splendid  publication,  and  will,  ere  long,  be  gracing  the  tables  of 
at  housand  drawing-rooms.  The  most  eminent  engravers  have  been  employ- 
ed, and  they  have  done  their  best;  nor  do  I  know  another  lady  who  could 
have  executed  her  task,  it  must  be  allowed  a  ticklish  one,  with  greater  deli- 
cacy than  Mrs  Jameson.  "  She  has  nought  extenuated,  nor  set  down  aught 
in  malice,"  when  speaking  of  the  frail  or  vicious ;  and  her  own  clear  spirit 
kindles  over  the  record  of  their  lives,  who  in  the  polluted  air  of  that  court, 
spite  of  all  trials  and  temptations,  preserved  without  flaw  or  stain  the  jewel 
of  their  souls,  their  virtue. 

SHEPHERD. 

That's  richt.  Mony  a  moral  may  be  drawn  by  leddies  in  high  life  yet 
frae  sic  a  wark.  "  Dinna  let  puir  Nelly  starve !  I J" 


1831.]  Nodes  Ambrosiance.    No.  LIX.  843 

NORTH. 

When  from  the  picture  of  Castlemaine,  in  her  triumphant  beauty,  we 
turn,  says  Mrs  Jameson,  to  her  last  years  and  her  death,  there  lies  in  that 
transition — a  deeper  moral  than  in  twenty  sermons.  Let  woman  lay  it  to 
her  heart! 

SHEPHERD. 

Amen. 

NORTH. 

Come,  my  dear  James — before  going  to  supper — give  us  a  song. 

SHEPHERD. 

I'm  no  in  vice,  sir.  But  I'll  receet  you  some  verses  I  made  ae  gloomy 
afternoon  last  week— ca'd  "  The  Monitors." 

NORTH. 

Better  than  any  song,  I  venture  to  predict,  from  the  very  title. 
SHEPHERD  (recites.') 

THE  MONITORS. 

The  lift  looks  cauldrife  i'  the  west> 

The  wan  leaf  wavers  frae  the  tree, 
The  wind  touts  on  the  mountain's  breast 

A  dirge  o'  waesome  note  to  me. 

It  tells  me  that  the  days  o'  glee, 
When  summer's  thrilling  sweets  entwined, 

An'  love  was  blinkin'  in  the  ee, 
Are  a'  gane  by  an'  far  behind ; 

That  winter  wi'  his  joyless  air, 

An'  grizzely  hue,  is  hasting  nigh, 
An'  that  auld  age,  an'  carkin  care, 

In  my  last  stage  afore  me  lie. 

Yon  chill  and  cheerless  winter  sky, 
Troth  but  'tis  eereisome  to  see, 

For  ah !  it  points  me  to  descry 
The  downfa's  o'  futuritye. 

I  daurna  look  unto  the  east, 

For  there  my  morning  shone  sae  sweet; 
An'  when  I  turn  me  to  the  west, 

The  gloaming's  like  to  gar  me  greet ; 

The  deadly  hues  o'  snaw  and  sleet 
Tell  of  a  dreary  onward  path ; 

Yon  new  moon  on  her  cradle  sheet, 
Looks  like  the  Hainault  scythe  of  death. 

Kind  Monitors !  ye  tell  a  tale 

That  oft  has  been  my  daily  thought ; 
Yet,  when  it  came,  could  nought  avail, 

For  sad  experience,  dearly  bought, 

Tells  me  it  was  not  what  I  ought, 
But  what  was  in  my  power  to  do, 

That  me  behoved.   An'  I  hae  fought 
Against  a  world  wi'  courage  true. 

Yes — I  hae  fought  an'  won  the  day, 

Come  weal,  come  woe,  I  carena  by, 
I'am  a  king !    My  regal  sway 

Stretches  o'er  Scotia's  mountains  high, 

And  o'er  the  fairy  vales  that  lie 
Beneath  the  glimpses  o'  the  moon, 

Or  round  the  ledges  of  the  sky, 
In  twilight's  everlasting  noon, 


844;  Noctes  Amir osiana;.     No.  LIX.  [Nov. 

Who  would  not  choose  the  high  renown, 

'Mang  Scotia's  swains  the  chief  to  be, 
Than  be  a  king,  an'  wear  a  crown, 

'Mid  perils,  pain,  an'  treacherye  ? 

Hurra !  The  day's  my  own — I'm  free 
Of  statement  guile,  an'  flattery's  train  ; 

I'll  blaw  my  reed  of  game  an'  glee, 
The  Shepherd  is  himself  again ! 

i»  i&YlX*  £  '!'•*-  »I*dd  ^ffci 

"  But,  Bard— ye  dinna  mind  your  life 

Is  waning  down  to  winter  snell — 
That  round  your  hearth  young  sprouts  are  rife, 

An'  mae  to  care  for  than  yoursell." 

Yes,  that  I  do — that  hearth  could  tell 
How  aft  the  tear-drap  blinds  my  ee  ; 

What  can  I  do,  by  spur  or  spell, 
An'  by  my  faith  it  done  shall  be. 

And  think — through  poortith's  eiry  breach, 

Should  Want  approach  wi'  threatening  brand, 
I'll  leave  them  canty  sangs  will  reach 

From  John  o'  Groats  to  Solway  strand. 

Then  what  are  houses,  goud,  or  land, 
To  sic  an  heirship  left  in  fee  ? 

An'  I  think  mair  o'  auld  Scotland, 
Than  to  be  fear'd  for  mine  or  me. 

True,  she  has  been  a  stepdame  dour, 

Grudging  the  hard-earn'd  sma'  propine, 
On  a'  my  efforts  looking  sour, 

An'  seem'd  in  secret  to  repine. 

Blest  be  Buccleuch  an'  a'  his  line, 
For  ever  blessed  may  they  be ; 

A  little  hame  I  can  ca'  mine 
He  rear'd  amid  the  wild  for  me. 

Goodwife — without  a'  sturt  or  strife, 

Bring  ben  the  siller  bowl  wi'  care ; 
Ye  are  the  best  an'  bonniest  wife, 

That  ever  fell  to  poet's  share  ; 

An'  I'll  send  o'er  for  Frank — a  pair 
O'  right  good-heartit  chiels  are  we — 

We'll  drink  your  health — an'  what  is  mair, 
We'll  drink  our  Laird's  wi'  three  times  three. 

To  the  young  Shepherd,  too,  we'll  take 

A  rousing  glass  wi'  right  good-will ; 
An'  the  young  ladies  o'  the  Lake, 

We'll  drink  in  ane — an  awfu'  swill ! 

Then  a'  the  tints  o'  this  warld's  ill 
Will  vanish  like  the  morning  dew, 

An'  we'll  be  blithe  an'  blither  still — 
Kind  winter  Monitors,  adieu  ! 

This  warld  has  mony  ups  an'  downs, 

Atween  the  cradle  an'  the  grave , 
O'  blithsome  haun's  an'  broken  crowns, 

An'  douks  in  chill  misfortune's  wave  ; 

All  these  determined  to  outbrave, 
O'er  fancy's  wilds  I'll  wing  anew, 

As  lang  as  I  can  lilt  a  stave, — 
Kind  winter  Monitors,  adieu ! 


1831.]  Nodes  Ambrosiana.     No.  LIX.  843 

NORTH. 

Yes — it  makes  a  man  proud  of  his  country,  my  dear  James,  to  hear  from 
living  lips  such  noble  strains  as  these — as  full  of  piety  as  of  poetry— and 
flowing  fresh  from  the  holiest  fount  of  inspiration — gratitude  to  the  Giver 
of  all  Mercies. 

TICKLER. 

That's  the  kind  of  composition  I  like,  my  dear  Shepherd,  rich  and  racy, 
bold,  vigorous,  and  free,  at  once  high  and  humble — such  a  strain  as,  under 
other  circumstances,  might  have  been  sung  by  some  high-souled  covenanter 
on  the  mountain-side. 

"  Warm  from  the  heart,  and  faithful  to  its  fires !" 

NORTH. 
James,  do  you  love  me  ? 

SHEPHERD. 

That  I  do,  mine  honoured  Christopher — for  your  ain  sake — for  the  sake 
o'  Geordy  Buchanan — and  for  the  sake  o'  auld  Scotland. 

NORTH. 
And  do  you  forgive  me  all  my 

SHEPHERD. 

What  ?  Gie  me  the  lend  o'  the  crutch  till  Christmas,  and  if  I  dinna  floor 
a'  the  fules  that  ever  said  a  single  syllable  again  your  public  character — 
as  for  your  preevat,  there  detraction's  self's  a  dumbie — may  I  be  droon'd 
neist  time  I  tak  Yarrow  Ford ! 

NORTH. 

I  should  feel,  my  dearest  Jamie,  defenceless,  and  what  is  perhaps  worse, 
offenceless,  without— 

SHEPHERD. 

What  ?  And  me  brandishin't  roun'  about  my  head  like  a  flail,  till  it  be- 
cam'  invisible  to  the  naked  ee,  and  its  existence  was  kent  but  by  the  crood 
o'  Cockneys  sprawlin'  afore  my  path. 

NORTH. 

It  shall  be  yours,  James,  during  the  Recess. 

SHEPHERD. 

An'  for  fear  o'  its  breakin'  in  my  hauns,  I  shall  hae't  whupt  wi'  twine— — • 

NORTH. 

'Tis  a  bit  of  tough  timber — and  when  it  snaps,  you  may  be  expecting  to 
hear  that  the  Caledonia  has  sprung  her  mainmast,  and  flung  all  her  guns 
overboard. 

SHEPHERD. 

I  fear,  sir,  we're  likely  to  hae  troubled  times. 

NORTH. 
My  mind  is  naturally  hopeful 

SHEPHERD. 

I  dinna  think  it,  sir.  Your  frame  o'  body's  sanguine  aneuch,  and  you've 
still  a  red  spat  on  ilka  cheek,  like  an  unwithered  rose  ;  but  you're  sowle's 
far  owre  sage  to  be  sanguine — You're  o'  a  melancholy  temperament,  my  dear 
freen',  like  maist  ither  men  o'  genius — and  there's  aye  a  still  sad  look,  bricht 
though  their  flashes  may  be,  in  the  een  o'  an  auld  prophet.  You're  a  seer, 
Mr  North,  and  the  second  sicht  seldom  shows  ony  ither  vision  than  o'  bluid 
or  tears. 

NORTH. 

The  spirit  of  the  land  will  have  settled  down  into  tranquillity  by  about 
Candlemas — and  then  we  shall  see  carried  a  salutary  and  satisfactory 
Measure  of  Reform,  the  principle,  if  not  the  details  of  which,  I  shall  lay 
before  you,  James,  at  our  next  Noctes. 

TICKLER. 

Think  of  a  Prime  Minister  of  England  brow-beaten  and  bearded  in  his 
own  house  by  a  deputation  of  pawnbrokers  headed  by  a  tailor ! 

NORTH. 

And  think  of  a  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  exulting  in  the  honour  con- 
ferred upon  him  in  a  vote  of  thanks  by  a  ragged  rabble  of  radicals,  collected 


84C  Nodes  Ambrosiance.    No.  LIX.  [Nov. 

to  swear  by  all  the  filth  on  their  fingers,  that,  unless  government  did  as  they 
desired,  they  would  pay  no  more  taxes ! 

SHEPHERD. 

And  anither  wee  bit  cretur  o'  a  lordie,  that  can  hardly  speak  abune  his 
breath,  telliu'  the  same  seditious  scrow  o'  scoonrels,  that  their  cause  and 
his  wou'd  sune  triumph  owro  "  the  whusper  o'  a  faction."  That's  ae  way  o' 
strengthenin'  the  Peerage. 

NORTH. 

All  will  be  right  again,  James,  I  repeat  it,  about  Candlemas.  What  pure 
delight  and  strong,  James,  in  the  study  of  Literature,  Poetry,  and  Philoso- 
phy I  And  with  what  a  sense  of  hollowness  at  the  heart  of  other  things  do 
we  turn  from  such  meditations  to  the  stir  and  noise  of  the  passing  politics 
of  the  day! 

SHEPHERD. 

It's  like  fa'in  frae  heaven  to  earth — frae  a  throne  in  the  blue  sky,  amang 
the  braided  clouds,  doon  upon  a  heap  o'  glaur — frae  the  empyrean  on  a 
midden. 

NORTH. 

And  why  ?  Because  selfish  interests,  often  most  mistaken,  prevail  over 
the  principles  of  eternal  truth,  which  are  shoved  aside,  or  despised,  or  for- 
gotten, or  perverted,  or  desecrated,  while  people,  possessed  by  the  paltriest 
passions,  proclaim  themselves  patriots,  and  liberty  loathes  to  hear  her 
name  shouted  by  the  basest  of  slaves. 

SHEPHERD. 

Dinna  froon  sae  fiercely,  sir.    I  canna  thole  that  face. 

NORTH. 
Now  it  is  Parga — Parga — Parga  1    Now  the  Poles — the  Poles — the  Poles  t 

SHEPHERD. 

Noo  daft  about  the  glorious  Three  Days — and  noo  routin'  like  a  field  o' 
disturbed  stirks  for  Reform. 

NORTH. 

Speak  to  them  about  their  hobby  of  the  year  before,  and  they  have  no  re- 
collection of  ever  having  bestridden  his  back. 

SHEPHERD. 

They're  superficial  shallow  brawlers,  sir,  just  like'thae  commonplace 
burns  without  ony  character,  that  hae  nae  banks  and  nae  scenery,  and,  as  it 
wou'd  seem,  nae  soorce,  but  that  every  wat  day  contrive  to  get  up  a  despe- 
rate brattle  amang  the  loose  stanes,  carryin'  awa'  perhaps  some  wee  wooden 
brig,  and  neist  mornin'  sae  entirely  dried  up  that  you  mistak  the  disconso- 
late channel  for  an  unco  coorse  road,  and  pity  the  puir  cattle. 

NORTH. 

But  Poetry,  which  is  the  light  of  Passion  and  Imagination  j  and  Philosophy, 
which  is  the  resolution  of  the  prismatic  colours—— 

SHEPHERD. 

Stap  that  eemage  lest  you  spoil't — are  holy  and  eternal— and  only  in 
holiness  and  in  truth  can  they  be  worshipped. 

TICKLER. 
Hark! 

SHEPHERD. 

The  Timepiece  !  The  Timepiece  1  I  heard  it  gie  warnin',  but  said  nae- 
thing.  Noo  it  has  dune  chappin'.  Let's  aff  to  the  Blue  Parlour — sooper— 
sooper—  hurraw — hurra  w — huraw  J 

(They  vanish.) 


Edinburgh :  Printed  by  Ballantyne  &f  Co.,  Paul's  Work,  Canonyaie. 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CLXXXV1IL        DECEMBER,  1831. 


VOL.  XXX. 


Contents. 

SOTHEBY'S  HOMER.     CRITIQUE  IV.     ACHILLES.     PART  I.  .        .        847 

ON  PARLIAMENTARY  REFORM  AND  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.  No.  XII. 

PUBLIC  OPINION — POPULAR  VIOLENCE, 890 

FOREIGN  POLICY  OF  THE  WHIGS.     No.  II.     PORTUGAL,      .        .         .        912 
NARRATIVE  OF  AN  IMPRISONMENT  IN  FRANCE  DURING  THE  REIGN  OF 

TERROR, .        .        920 

FRAGMENTS  FROM  THE  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  BULL, 

Chap.  I.     How  Arthur  managed  John's  Matters,  and  how  he  gave 

up  his  Place,  .         .         .         .         .  •   *    .         .         .         .         954 

Chap.   II.     How  Gaffer  Gray  tried  to   bring  Madam   Reform  into 
John's  House,  and  how  she  was  knocked  down  Stairs  as  she  was 
getting  into  the  Second  Story,  ......          958 

A  NEW  SONG,  TO  BE  SUNG  BY  ALL  THE  TRUE  KNAVES  OF  POLITICAL 

UNIONS, 962 

THE  FOUR  EVENINGS.     BY  DELTA,      .        .        .       <v     v.        •        •        964 
CURLIANA, .        .         965 


EDINBURGH  : 

WILLIAM  BLACKWOOD,  NO.  45,  GEORGE  STREET,   EDINBURGH; 
AND  T.  CADELL,  STRAND,  LONDON. 

To  whom  Communications  (post  paid)  may  be  addressed. 
SOLD   ALSO  BY  ALL  THE  BOOKSELLERS  OF  THE  UNITED  KINGDOM. 

PRINTED  BY  BALLANTYNE  AND  CO.  EDINBURGH. 


.amXAO/  If  H.  Off  UH/K13 


ra 


-  •««.  **c 

-•ttSCii;. 
s^a>:;     1* 

• 

• 


•Jift-'. 

.  . 


. 

. 

,   ,. 
M»«M 

^.  «rnjffl 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CLXXXVIII.          DECEMBER,  1831.  VOL.  XXXI. 


SOTHEBY'S  HOMER.    CRITIQUE  iv. 


ACHILLES.      PART  I. 


IT  is  to  little  purpose,  we  think,  to 
attempt  to  enter  into  critical  disqui- 
sitions on  what  does  or  does  not  fall 
under  the  description  of  beauty  or  of 
sublimity.  Nor  is  it,  in  our  opinion, 
of  much  avail,  to  go  far  into  meta- 
physical enumeration  of  the  different 
elements  of  which  they  may  be  con- 
stituted. 

Wo  should  say,  generally,  that  all 
the  powers  of  our  nature  to  which 
delight  is  annexed,  are  capable  of 
a  beauty  of  their  own.  Nor  does 
more  appear  to  be  required  to  pro- 
duce this  perception,  than  the  inti- 
mate blending  of  delight  with  the  ob- 
ject presented ;  a  blending  so  deep, 
that  the  object,  when  incapable  of 
sense,  shall  appear  to  the  mind  in- 
vested with  that  power  of  emotion 
which  the  mind  indeed  brings  forth 
from  itself.  In  connexion  with  the  fact 
of  this  dependence  of  beauty  on  the 
capacity  of  delight  in  the  soul,  and  on 
the  power  of  the  object  to  raise  up 
such  a  sudden  suffusion  of  that  feeling 
as  shall  spread  over  itself,  it  may  be 
observed,  that  our  feeling  to  beauty 
is  very  variable;  and  that  a  state  of 
greatly  excited  and  joyous  sensibility 
is  capable  of  shedding  the  appear- 
ance of  beauty  over  objects  and 
scenes,  like  the  sudden  lighting  up 
of  sunshine,  which  do  not  at  other 
times  so  recommend  themselves  to 
the  imagination. 

As  delight  is  the  source  of  beauty, 
so  pain  and  fear,  and  power,  which 
subdues  pain  and  fear,  are  the  sources 
of  sublimity.  There  may  be  said,  as 
possibly  we  may  have  somewhere 

VOL.  XXXI.  NO.  CLXXXVIII. 


else  hinted,  to  be  two  classes  of  sub- 
lime objects ;  those  which  shake  the 
soul  and  make  it  tremble  in  its 
strength,  and  those  on  the  contem- 
plation of  which  it  feels  itself  elated 
and  full  of  power.  Or  rather,  it  may 
be  said,  that  both  these  kinds  of  emo- 
tion belong  to  sublimity;  for  both 
may  perhaps  be  felt  towards  the 
same  object  in  varying  tempers  of 
the  mind. 

In  Burke's  Essay  on  the  Sublime 
and  Beautiful,  we  believe  the  first 
attempt  was  made  to  establish  terror 
as  the  source  of  sublimity ;  and  as- 
suredly it  is  one  of  its  great  ele- 
ments. The  error  of  the  theory 
seems  to  have  consisted  in  descri- 
bing this  as  its  sole  constituent. 
Thunder,  and  the  roar  of  ocean,  and 
the  roar  of  human  battle,  is  sublime, 
because  fear  and  power  are  there 
mingled  into  one.  Mountains  that  lift 
up  their  eternal  heads  into  the  sky, 
that  hang  their  loose  rocks  aloft,  and 
pour  the  rage  of  cataracts  down  their 
riven  cliffs,  mingle  power  and  fear 
together  to  the  human  soul  that  be- 
holds them  in  its  awe.  Hence  it  is, 
that  the  imagination  of  men,  fearful- 
ly awakened  in  its  superstitions,  has 
gathered  signs  and  voices  which  to 
our  apprehension  are  now  sublime ; 
because  the  fears  of  those  who  were 
terror-stricken,  and  the  unknown 
powers  which  were  the  objects  of 
their  dread,  are  present  to  our  mind 
together.  How  has  Milton  united 
power,  and  fear,  and  physical  pangs, 
in  vast  and  dread  sublimity,  when  he 
has  shewn  those  mighty  fallen  angels 
3i 


848  Sotheby's  Homer. 

in  their  yet  unvanquished  and  seem- 
ingly indestructible  strength,  ar- 
raying themselves  to  new  war,  in  the 
midst  of  their  dolorous  regions  of 
pain,  in  the  dark  and  fiery  dwelling- 
place  of  their  eternal  punishment ! 
Over  the  whole  earth,  then,  sublimi- 
ty is  spread,  wherever  fear  and  power 
meet  together.  The  shadow  of  death 
is  sublime,  when  it  has  fallen  on  a 
whole  generation,  and  buried  them 
in  the  sleep  of  sin.  The  power  of 
decay  is  sublime,  when 

"  Oblivion  swallows  cities  up, 

And  mighty  states  characterless  are  grated 

To  dusty  nothing." 

Every  spirit  of  Power  is  sublime 
in  itself;  every  spirit  of  Fear  is  sub- 
lime, when  it  has  ceased  to  gripe 
and  crush  the  heart, — when  it  can 
be  surveyed  in  Imagination.    Pain, 
which  sickens  the  soul,  and  humbles 
it  in  the  dust  of  mortality,  can  yet 
mix  with  sublimity  when  it  is  only 
half  triumphant,  and  the  spirit  in  its 
might  yet  wrestles  with  the  pangs 
under  which  it  is  about  to  expire. 
"  I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie ; 
He  leans  upon  his  hand— his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 
And  his    droop'd  head   sinks  gradually 

low— • 
And  through   his    side  the   last   drops, 

ebbing  slow 

From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder  shower ;  and 

now 

Th'  arena  swims  around  him — he  is  gone, 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  that  hail'd 

the  wretch  who  won. 


[Dec. 


— — —  Shall  he  expire, 
And  unavenged  ?  Arise !  ye  Goths,  and 
glut  your  ire." 

Pain,  endurance,  and  in  death  a  pro- 
phetic dream  of  retaliation  and  re- 
venge! Such  sublimity  did  Byron 
feel  in  that  Dying  Gladiator,  that,  in 
the  troubled  light  of  his  far-seeing 
imagination  suddenly  inspired,  he 
connected  with  his  fall  that  of  the 
mightiest  of  empires,  and  from  the 
arena's  bloody  dust  arose  a  vision 
of  siege,  storm,  and  sack — of  Rome 
herself,  set  on  fire  by  the  yet  unborn 
brethren  of  that  one  barbarian,  "  but- 
chered to  make  a  Roman  holyday," 
fierce-flocking  from  their  forests  to 
raze  with  the  ground  all  the  impe- 
rial palaces  ofthe  city  of  the  Cae- 
sars. 


Many  other  elements,  no  doubt, 
besides  those  we  have  mentioned, 
may  enter  into  sublimity.  What  we 
have  wished  to  indicate,  is  the  re- 
gion of  the  soul,  where  it  is  to  be 
found.  It  dwells  in  the  region  of 
its  power — whether  that  power  be 
made  present  to  its  consciousness 
in  calmness ;  or  in  the  uprisings  of 
its  might ;  or  in  agitations  that  reach 
into  its  depths.  In  some  of  its  forms 
it  is  totally  disunited  from  Beauty, 
which  lives  only  in  the  capacity  of 
Delight.  In  others  it  is  intimately 
and  indivisibly  blended  with  it.  Who 
will  say  in  the  great  poems  of  Milton 
or  of  Homer,  where  the  quality  be- 
gins or  where  it  ceases  ?  Who  will 
say  among  the  spirits  of  men,  which 
are  to  be  numbered  with  the  Beauti- 
ful, and  which  with  the  Sublime  ? 

We  commonly  seek  for  examples 
in  the  physical  world.  These  offer 
themselves  readily  because  they  have 
hold  upon  our  senses.  But  the  pas- 
sion of  sublimity  is  as  much  moved, 
and  certainly  may  be  more  strongly 
excited,  by  the  delineation  of  spi- 
ritual power.  Prometheus !  a  mighty 
persecuted  spirit,  subject  to  over- 
ruling power,  and  punished  without 
a  crime — for  is  it  crime  to  "  steal 
the  fire  of  heaven  ?"  Lifting  up  his 
undaunted  brow  and  voice  to  call 
on  the  earth  and  the  winds  and  the 
seas  to  witness  his  unjust  sufferings, 
maintaining  in  the  prospect  of  his 
interminable  punishment — for  so  he 
thought  it,  though  Hercules  set  him 
free — all  the  calmness  of  his  pro- 
phetic intelligence,  and  all  the  un- 
disturbed fortitude  of  his  indomi- 
table heart — let  the  vulture  gnaw  his 
liver,  as  it  seemed  good  to  it  and  to 
Jupiter — and  filling  with  the  gran- 
deur of  his  own  being  the  solitary 
magnificence  of  nature!  Satan — is 
not  he  sublime  ?  What  sayeth  he  to 
his  mates  ?  "  Fallen  cherubs  !  to  be 
weak  is  miserable — doing  or  suffer- 
ing!" "  Better  to  reign  in  Hell  than 
serve  in  Heaven !"  And  is  not  Achil- 
les sublime — sovereign  even  over  the 
King  of  Men,  and  slave  but  to  his  own 
passions,  and  in  the  wild  world  of 
the  will,  whence  rise  up  from  bright 
or  black  fountains  all  the  bliss  and 
all  the  bale  that  enrapture  or  agonize 
life. 

That  man  is  not  ignorant  of  Homer 
who  has  read,  even  in  translation, 
the  First  Book  ofthe  Iliad,  He  knows 


1831.]  Sotheby's  Homer.  849 

the  grandeur    of   the  character  of    "  Fair  Juno  smiled,  and  smiling  sweetly, 


Achilles.  Just  as,  if  weatherwise, 
we  may  prophesy  the  nature  of  the 
whole  day,  from  the  lowering  light 
of  a  tempestuous  morning.  It  will 
be  a  day  of  storm,  settling  into'a  mild 
and  magnificent  sunset.  What  a  gal- 
lery of  pictures !  Chryses,  priest  of 
Apollo,  with  the  sacred  symbols  of 
his  office,  suppliant  with  richest  ran- 
soms for  his  captive  daughter  before 
the  King  of  Men,  in  the  midst  of  his 
assembled  court.  Apollo  coming  like 
night  from  heaven  to  earth,  with  the 
clam*  of  his  quiver,  the  angry  god- 
head, the  plague.  Achilles  rising  in 
the  council,  to  call  on  priest  or  pro- 
phet, or  dream-expounder,  to  declare 
what  crime  had  incensed  the  Hea- 
venly archer, "  what  broken  vow,  what 
hecatomb  unpaid."  Calchas,  the  seer, 
afraid  to  awaken  the  wrath  of  kings, 
and  asking  the  protection  of  Pelides, 
ere  he  reveal  the  truth  hateful  to 
Agamemnon.  That  immortal  quar- 
rel, full  of  fire  and  of  thunder,  from 
outburst  to  close,  and  sublimed  by 
a  celestial  Apparition  shedding  a 
troubled  calm  over  human  passions. 
The  mighty  Myrmidon,  gracious  in 
his  ire,  receiving  the  heralds  in  his 
tent,  come  for  his  Briseis — 

"  Hail,  heralds,  hail !    draw  nigh,  your 

fears  remove ; 
Hail,  heralds  !    messengers  of  men  and 

Jove !" 

Her  departure — 
"  Onward  they  went,  while,  lingering  as 

she  past, 
On  her  loved  lord  her  look  Briseis  cast." 

The  son  of  Thetis  supplicating  his 
mother  to  hear  him,  "  by  the  drear 
margin  of  the  sea-beat  shore."  The 
goddess,  ascending  sudden  like  a 
mist,  and  hanging  over  him  with 
these  words, "  why  grieves  my  son?" 
Between  mother  and  son,  mournful 
all,  "  that  celestial  colloquy  divine." 
Achilles  again — 

"  There,  nigh  this  naval  host,  in  sullen  ire, 
Achilles  fed  his  soul-consuming  fire, 
Nor  join'd  the   council's  honour'd  seat, 

nor  deign'd 
To    mingle   where   the   warriors   glory 

gain'd, 

But  idly  pining  from  the  field  afar, 
Long'd  but  for  battle,  and  the  shout  of 

war. " 

The  NOD  that  heaven-quaked 
Olympus.  And  now  there  is  mirth 
in  Heaven;— 


graced 

The  nectar-cup  her  snowy  arms  embraced. 

And  still  as  Vulcan's  hand  the  goblet 
crown'd, 

And  past  from  right  to  left  the  nectar 
round, 

Loud  laugh'd  the  guests,  while  the  offi- 
cious god, 

Administ'ring  the  wine,  unseemly  trod. 

From  morn  till  night,  through  that  con- 
tinued feast, 

The  harping  of  Apollo  never  ceased  : 

Nor  ceased  the  voice  that  closed  with  song 
the  day, 

The  Muses  warbling  their  alternate  lay." 

And,  last  picture  of  all— Repose  in 

Heaven— 

"  But  when  the  sun  had  set,  each  blissful 

guest 
From  the  late  banquet  sought  his  couch 

of  rest; 

Each  to  his  radiant  palace  went  apart, 
Divinely  wrought  by  Vulcan's  matchless 

art- 
Jove  past,  where  sleep  had  oft  his  eye- 
lids closed, 

AND  ON  HER  GOIDEN  THRONE,  KI6H  JoVK, 
HIS  QUEEN  REPOSID." 

All  these  are  pictures  in  the  First 
Book — and  there  are  many  more 
beautifully  given  by  Sotheby ,  whose 
words  we  have  now  been  quoting; 
and  then,  as  for  bursts  of  passion,  and 
illustrations  of  feeling,  and  fine  traits, 
and  bold  aspects  of  character,  where, 
within  the  same  compass,  may  we 
find  them,  were  we  to  search  all  the 
records  of  inspired  song  ? 

Achilles  is  now  out  of  sight — but 
not  out  of  mind.  Out  of  his  wrath 
arises  the  Iliad ;  and  whether  he  be 
present  or  absent  in  the  flesh,  there 
he  is  in  the  spirit,  from  beginning  to 
end — from  the  first  great  line  that 
announces  the  subject  of  the  Poem, 

Mcv/v  ofjiSs,  Qsa,  nnXw'a 

to  the  simple  last, 

"fig  o"y  ctfityiiirtv  ra^at 

To  avenge  his  wrongs,  Jove,  at  the 
intercession  of  Minerva,  had  sworn 
by  THE  NOD  to  send  destruction, 
among  the  Greeks — and  destruction 
comes.  Already  has  Agamemnon 
rued  the  wrong  he  did  Achilles. 
"  But  Jove  afflicts  me.  From  Saturnian 

Jove 

My  doom  is  altercation  to  no  end  ; 
Thence  came,  between  Achilles  and  my- 
self, 

That  fiery  clash  of  words,  a  girl  the  cause, 
Myself  aggressor !" 


850  Sotheby's  Homer. 

He  looks  along  his  vast  array — but 
blackness  is  on  one  part  of  the  line — 
where  Achilles  lies  encamped. 

"  The  warriors  of  Pelasgian  Argos  next, 
Of  Alus,  and  of  Alope,  and  who  held 
Trechina,  Phthia,  and  for  woman  fair 
Distinguish'd,  Hellas,  known  by  various 

names, 

Hellenes,  Myrmidons,  Achaeans  ;  them 
In  fifty  ships  embarked,  Achilles  ruled. 
But  these  perforce,  renounced  the  dreaded 

field, 
Since  he  who  should  have  ranged  them  to 

the  fight, 

Achilles,  in  his  fleet  resentful  lay 
For    fair     Briseis'    sake;    her    loss   he 

mourn'd, 

Whom  after  many  toils,  and  after  sack 
Of  Thebes  and  of  Lyrnessus,  where  he 

smote 

Epistrophns  and  Mynes,  valiant  sons 
Of  King  Evenus,  he  had  made  his  own. 
He,  therefore,  sullen  in  his  tent  abode, 
DEAD  FOR  HER  SAKE,  THOUGH  SOON  TO  RISE 

AGAIN  !" 
I'iSdii  2imu  at   ioajjBi  uoqj  taoIuOiVs  !j>ii 

The  war  rages — and  mighty  heroes 
are  before  our  eyes — Agamemnon, 
Menelaus,  either  Ajax,  and  god-con- 
quering Diomed.  But  still  in  all 
their  lustre,  they  are  all  oversha- 
dowed by  Achilles.  The  thought  of 
his  image  dims  them  all — so  said 
Juno — wafted  by  her  steeds  like 
doves  on  balanced  wings  in  among 
the  host  of  Greece,  where,  in  the 
form  and  with  the  voice  of  Stentor, 
clear  as  the  brazen  trumpet,  and  loud 
as  fifty  others,  she  sent  her  cry. 

?'  O  splendid  warriors !  formed  to  please  the 
'fade  «ye, 

And  shame  your  country  !  while  Achilles 

fought, 
That  godlike  chief,  no  Trojan   stepped 

beyond 
The  Dardan  gates,  through  terror  of  his 

arm ; 
But  now  they  brave  you  even  at  the  fleet!" 

Does  Hector  seek  the  city  by  sa- 
crifice to  propitiate  the  gods — and 
to  take  farewell  of  Andromache? 
Even  there  and  then — across  our 
imagination  conies  the  "  dire  Achil- 
les." The  image  haunts  that  royal 
lady  in  her  waking  and  her  sleeping 
dreams.  He  it  was  who  slew  her 
lath  or,  and  "  burned  him  with  all 
Ins  arms." 

But  Hector  challenges  all  the 
Greek  chieftains  to  single  combnt. 
He  dared  not  to  have  done  so — had 

he  not  known  that  his   challenge 
•iftravjaujl"  ..         ° 


[Dec. 


could  not  be  accepted  by  Achilles, 
What  says  Pylian  Nestor  ? 
"  Oh  !  day  of  dire  calamity  to  Greece  ! 
Peleus,  that  noble  counsellor  and  chief 
Of  the  brave  Myrmidons,  was  wont  to 

bear  birfs  sjfiltw; 

•With  rapture  my  recital,  while  I  traced 
The  blood  of  all  our  heroes  to  its  source. 
But  learning,  as  he  must,  that  one  and  all 
They  shrank  from  Hector,  how  will  he 

lament, 

How  supplicate,  with  lifted  hands  to  Jove, 
A  swift  dismission  to  the  shades  below." 

He  thought  of  Achilles  sitting  sul- 
len at  the  ships — but  he  does  not 
"  name  his  name."  Neither  does 
any  one — though  all  thought  of  it — 

when  to  draw  lots. 
•tnm  I*  bar,  ,sia  rfJbr  teaa  *tuo  IIB  mutt 
"  Nor  fewer,  when  he  ceased, 
Than  nine  arose — aud,  foremost  of  them 

all, 

King  Agamemnon  ;  after  him,  the  brave 
Tydides;  Oilcan  Ajax,  next,  . 
And  Telamonian,  terrible  in  fight ; 
Then  King  Idomeneus,  and  grim  as  Mars 
His  friend  Meriones  ;   Ereemon's  son, 
Eurypylus ;   Andr«emon's,  the  renowned 
Thoas ;  and  Ithaca's  Ulysses  last. 

These  nine  arose" 

Mi  OftJ  fl> 

But  what  are  they  all  Nine  to  One — 
to  Achilles — who  never  drew  lots, 
but  rushed  to  battle  with  the  Pelean 
spear,  hewn  on  the  hills  by  Chiron 
to  be  death  to  heroes. 

Juno  having  spoken  of  Achilles, 
what  says  Jupiter  ?  -tjnoTf- 

"  To  whom  the  storm-clad  sovereign  of 

the  skies  : 
Look  forth  !  and  if  thou  wilt,  at  early 

dawn, 

See  there  exerted  still  the  power  of  Jove, 
And  more  than  ever  thinu'd  the  ranks 

of  Greece. 

For  pause  of  Hector's  fury  shall  be  none, 
Till  first  he  have  provoked  Achilles  forth, 
And  for  Patrorlus  slain  tho  crowded 

hosts 

In  narrow  space  that  at  the  ships  con- 
tend. 
Such  is  the  voice  of  Fate!" 

Tims  it  is,  that  through  all  those 
books  of  the  Iliad,  (which  we  have 
nowbeenskimminglikeanospraythe 
sea,)  from  which  Achilles  "  sits  at 
his  ships  retired,"  glorious  old  Ho- 
mer has,  by  a  few  grand  intimations, 
kept  him  constantly  before  us — a 
dreadful  Imago. — Aud  lo  !  in  the 
Ninth— behold  him— again— in  his 
Tent,  singing  to  his  harp  the  dopds 
of  heroes.  Phceuix,  Ulysses,  Ajax 
J«Ja  ail  •"<  •;<•<•*  ««Ii  • 


1831.] 

.BSUUUjA  VO   D9JCf905B   9u   Jo /I   -,..,„„ 

implore  him,  at  the  prayer  of  Aga- 
memnon, to  save  the  army.  Hear 
Ulysses,  how  he  aggrandizes  him 
wliom  he  beseeches  : 

"  O  godlike  chief!   tremendous  sure  our 

themes  nnjqjrr  t. 

Of  contemplation,  while  in  doubt  we  Kit, 

If  life  or  death,  with  loss  of  all  our  ships, 

Attend    us — unless    THOU  put   on    thy 

might !" 


with  rage 
Infuriate,  and,  by  Jove  assisted,  heeds 
jSor  god  nor  man,  but  maniac-like,  im- 
plores 

Incessantly  the  morn  at  once  to  rise, 
That  he  may  hew  away  our  vessel  heads, 
13urn  all  our  fleet  with  fire,  and  at  their 

sides 

Slay  the  Achaians  panting  in  the  smoke. 
Dread  overwhelms  my  spirit,  lest  the 

gods 
His  threats  accomplish,   and   it  be  our 

doom 

To  perish  here,  from  Argos  far  remote. 
Up  !  therefore,  ifthou  canst  at  last  relent, 
O  rise,  and  save  A  chain's  weary  sons." 

The  heroic  beauty  of  the  interview 
in  the  Tent  we  expatiated  on  with  de- 
light in  our  last  Critique;  but  again 
the  scene  rises  before  us  in  its  cha- 
racteristic grandeur.  Atrides  sends, 
says  Ulysses,  princely  gifts — seven 
tripods  unsullied  by  fire — ten  talents 
of  gold — twenty  caldrons  bright — 
twelve  strong-limbed  steeds,  victo- 
rious in  the  race — seven  rich-born 
captives,  expert  in  domestic  arts,  &c., 
Lesbians  all,  (by  Agamemnon  re- 
ceived when  "  Tiiot  didst  conquer 
Lesbos,")  in  perfect  loveliness  of 
form  and  face,  surpassing  womankind 
— and  Briseis  self  pure — so  swears 
the  king  before  all  the  gods — pure 
of  his  embrace. 

"  All  these  he  gives  thee  now  !  and  if  at 
length 

The  blessed  gods  shall  grant  us  to  destroy 

Priam's  great  city,  them  shalt  heap  thy 
ships 

With  gold  and  brass,  entering  and  choo- 
sing first, 

When  we  shall  share  the  spoil,  and  shalt 
beside 

Take  twenty  from  among  the  maids  of 
Troy,  ' 

Except  fair  Helen,  loveliest  of  their  sex. 

And  if  once  more  we  reach  the  milky 
land 

Of  pleasant  Argos,  then  shalt  thou  be- 
come 

His  son-in-law,  and  shalt  enjoy  like  state 


Sotheby**  Homer.  851 

iilu— Y>8'IW  3&trr  fdd  jUtoLs  solo'>i  ah 
With  him,  whom  he  in  nil  abundance 


iniftUii 
His  only  son  Orestes." 

And  with  his  daughter — her  whom 
thou  shalt  approve — Chrysomethis, 
Laodice.or  Iphianassa — such  a  dower 
will  the  king  bestow  as  "never  father 
on  his  child  before," — seven  strong, 
Avell-peopled  cities— 

"  Cardamyle  and  Enope,  and  rich 
In  herbage  Hira ;  Pherae,  stately  built ; 
And,  for  her  depth  of  pasturage rcnown'd, 
Antheia ;  proud  Opeia's  lofty  towers, 
And  Pedasus,  impurpled  dark  with  vines. 
All  these  are  maritime,  and  on  the  shores 
They  stand  of  Pylos,  by  a  race  possessed 
Most  rich  in  flocks  and  herds,  who,  tri- 
bute large 
And   gifts   presenting  to   thy  sceptered 

hand, 

Shall  hold  thee  high  in  honour  as  a  god. 
These  will  he  give  thee,  if  thy  wrath  sub- 
side ; 
But  shouldst  thou  rather  in  thine  heart 

the  more    t>a£~" 

Both  Agamemnon  and  his  gifts  detest, 
Yet  O  compassionate  the  afflicted  host 
Prepared  to  adore  thee.  Thou  shalt  win 

renown 
Among  the  Grecians,  that  shall  never  die." 

Dr  Jortin,  in  one  of  his  Six  Dis- 
sertations, (half  a  dozen  too  many,) 
thus  paints  the  portrait  of  Achilles — 
"  a  boisterous,  rapacious,  mercenary, 
cruel,  unrelenting  brute  ;  and  the  rea- 
der pities  none  of  his  calamities,  and 
is  pleased  with  none  of  his  successes." 
Who  "  the  reader"  may  have  been, 
and  where  he  now  may  be,  we  shall 
nottoo  curiously  enquire;  buta  word 
to  the  Doctor.  Could  you,  Doctor, 
(the  Doctor  has  been  long  dead  too, 
but  that  is  no  fault  of  ours,) — Could 
you,  Doctor,  have  withstood,  sulky 
as  you  may  have  been  when  at  your 
sulkiest,  the  temptation  to  be  sweet, 
and  to  coo  even  upon  the  bill,  con- 
tained in  an  offer  of  seven  silver  tri- 
pods, ten  talents  of  gold,  twenty 
bright  caldrons,  twelve  strong-limbed 
steads,  seven  well-born  maidser- 
vants of  all  work,  beautiful  and  hand- 
some— your  housekeeper,  who  had 
been  forced  or  favoured  from  your 
service,  returned  as  pure  as  before 
she  left  it — a  wife  with  a  tremendous 
tocher  in  lands,  houses,  and  patron- 
age— and  to  crown  all,  the  metropo- 
litan archbishopric,  now  worthily 
held  by  that  enlightened  and  intrepid 
spiritual  Peer,  whom  we  knew  many 


852  Sotheby's  Homer. 

years  ago  as  simple  and  wise  Dr 
Howley  ? 

How  the  evangelical  Jortin  would 
have  acted,  there  can  be  no  rational 
doubt  ;  but  Pelides,  who  was  not 
evangelical,  unseduced  as  uuterrified, 
adheredto  his  principles  in  the  worst 
of  times,  like  a  true  Tory,  and  turned, 
not  a  deaf,  but  a  determined  ear,  to 
the  Bill  of  Reform,  which  was  thrown 
out  at  the  first  readings-strangled 
by  that  glorious  Unit.  The  persua- 
sive eloquence  of  Ulysses  was  soft 
as  snow ;  but  his  words  that  fell  like 
flakes,  all  melted  away  in  the  fiery 
furnace  of  the  wrath  of  Achilles.  In 
the  first  sentence  of  his  speech,  what 
a  lesson  to  the  Peers ! 

"  Laertes'  noble  son  !  for  wiles  renown'd, 
I  must  with  plainness  speak  my  fixed  re- 
solve 

Unalterable ;  lest  I  hear  from  each 
The  same  long  murmur'd  melancholy  tale. 
For  as  the  gates  of  Hades  I  detest 
The  man  whose  heart  and  language  dis- 
agree. 
So  shall  not  mine.     My  most  approved 

resolve 

Is  this  ;  that  neither  Agamemnon,  me, 
Nor  all  the  Greeks  shall  move  ;  for  cease- 
less toil 
Wins  here  no  thanks;  one  recompense 

awaits 

The  sedentary  and  the  most  alert ; 
The  brave  and  base  in  equal  honour  stand, 
And  drones  and  heroes  fall  unwept  alike !" 

The  hero  then  with  a  noble  mo- 
desty alludes  to  the  sack  of  twenty- 
four  cities  by  himself  overthrown; 
yet  such  the  man,  wronged,  disho- 
noured, and  insulted  by  the  King! 
He  thinks  of  Briseis,  and  in  the  bit- 
terness of  his  soul  seems  to  discard 
her  from  his  love.  "  My  bride,  my 
soul's  delight,  is  in  his  hands,  and  let 
him  couch  with  her."  He  disdains  to 
receive  her  back,  even  if  unpolluted. 
",Letthe  tyrant  have  his  will  of  her — 
but  let  him  not,  hard  and  canine  in  as- 
pect though  he  be,  dare  to  look  me  in 
the  face — let  him  not — craxed  as  he 
is,  and,  by  the  stroke  of  Jove,  infa- 
tuate. What  brought  him  to  Troy  ? 
The  fair  Helen?  Of  all  mankind 
can  none  be  found  who  love  their 
wives  but  the  Atridae  ?  Ulysses, 
there  is  no  good  man  who  loves  not, 
guards  not,  provides  not  for  his  own 
wife — and  captive  though  she  were 
in  battle,  a  slave,  in  my  heart  of 
hearts  I  loved  my  own  beautiful 


[Dec. 

Briseis.  He  offers  me— forsooth — 
his  daughter !  Agamemnon's  daugh- 
ter! No — her  will  I  never  wed 
— could  she  vie  in  charms  with 

golden  Venus  or  with  blue-eyed  Pal- 
is. Let  him  wed  her  to  one  more 
her  equal — to  some  Prince  superior 
to  Achilles.  Yet  returning  to  my 
own  country,  if  so  it  be  that  the 
gods  preserve  my  life,  Peleus  shall 
mate  me  with  a  bride,  offering  me 
my  choice  of  the  loveliest  daughters 
of  the  chiefs  that  guard  the  cities  of 
Phthia  and  of  Hellas." 

Such  are  some  of  his  sentiments— 
and  they  are  such  as  would  have  done 
credit  even  to  a  Jortin.  Unrelenting 
he  indeed  is — but  here  neither  "bois- 
terous, rapacious,  mercenary,  cruel, 
nor  a  brute ;"  but  every  inch  a  man, 
and  every  yard  a  king.  Much 
they  erred  who  thought  that  Achil- 
les was  fond  of  war.  "  It  hath 
ever  been  my  dearest  purpose, 
wedded  to  a  wife  of  suitable  rank,  to 
enjoy  in  peace,  in  my  native  king- 
dom, such  wealth  as  may  be  be- 
queathed to  me  by  my  sire,  the  an- 
cient Peleus."  He  speaks  like  a 
Bishop.  Not  a  Spiritual  on  the  bench 
could  better  expound  the  feelings  of 
natural  religion.  Hear  him ! 

"  Me,  as  my  silver-footed  mother  speaks, 
Thetis,  a  twofold  consummation  waits. 
If  still  with  battle  I  encompass  Troy, 
I  win  immortal  glory,  but  all  hope 
Renounce  of  my  return.     If  I  return. 
To  my  beloved  country,  I  renounce 
The  illustrious  meed  of  glory,  but  obtain 
Secure  and  long  immunity  from  death. 
And  truly  I  would  recommend  to  all 
To  voyage  homeward,  since  you  shall  not 

see 

The  downfall  e'er  of  Ilium's  lofty  towers, 
For  that  the  Thunderer  with  uplifted  arms, 
Protects  her,  and  her  courage  hath  re- 
vived." 

Ulysses,  Ajax,  Phrenix,  all  silent 
sit — astonished  at  his  tone — for  it 
was  vehement — and  they  are  dumb. 
The  old  man  beloved  recovers  his 
power  of  speech,  and  by  all  tender- 
est  memories  conjures  his  son  to  re- 
lent, for  as  a  son  he  loved  Achilles. 
But  he  conjures  him  too  by  the  awful 
as  well  as  the  tender — by  piety  as 
well  as  by  pity — not  by  men  alone, 
but  by  the  immortal  gods.  This 
conjuration  and  this  mighty  magic, 
continuing  to  use  Cowper's  noble 
version,  we  print  across  the  page. 


1631.] 


Sotheby's  Homer. 


853 


"  Achilles !  bid  thy  mighty  spirit  down, 
Thou  shouldst  not  be  thus  merciless ;  the  gods 
Although  more  honourable,  and  in  power 
And  virtue  thy  superiors,  are  themselves 
Yet  placable ;  and  if  a  mortal  man 
Offend  them  by  transgression  of  their  laws, 
Libation,  incense,  sacrifice,  and  prayer, 
In  meekness  offered,  turn   their   wrath  away. 
Prayers  are  Jove's  daughters,  wrinkled,  lame,  slant»eyed 
Which,  though  far  distant,  yet  with  constant  pace 
Follow  offence.      Offence,  robust  of  limb, 
And  treading  firm  the  ground,  outstrips  them  all, 
And  over  all  the  earth  before  them  runs, 
Hurtful  to  man.     They,  following,  heal  the  hurt ; 
Received  respectfully  when  they  approach, 
They  yield  us  aid,  and  listen  when  we  pray. 
But  if  we  slight,  and  with  obdurate  heart 
Resist  them,  to  Saturnian  Jove  they  cry 
Against  us,  supplicating  that  Offence 
May  cleave  to  us  for  vengeance  of  the  wrong. 
Thou,  therefore,  O  Achilles !  honour  yield 
To  Jove's  own  daughters,  vanquished  as  the  brave 
Have  often  been,  by  honour  done  to  Thee !" 
Dr  Jortin  himself  could  not  have     orators  —  so    were 


tertfli, 

CJ.3  <•. 
aW.-jn  'eaHagJ  >; 


preached  such  a  soul-wringing  ser- 
mon. Not  a  topic  that  is  not  touched 
on ;  not  a  tale  that  is  not  told ;  not 
an  illustration  that  is  not  used,  to  per- 
suade the  soul  of  Achilles  from  its 
resolve ;  nor  wanted  these,  you  may 
be  assured,  the  eloquence  of  voice, 
eye,  and  hand,  nor  yet  the  holy  ora- 
tory of  grey  hairs.  But  the  time  had 
not  come  for  Achilles  to  relent — Pa- 
troclus  was  alive  by  his  side — alive 
to  listen  to  his  hymns  when  to  his 
harp  he  sung  the  deeds  of  heroes. 
The  day  was  near  when  there  would 
be  no  need  to  rouse  the  lion  from  his 
den,  when  Antilochus  had  to  utter  but 
a  few  words  that  sent  him  to  battle  in 
that  celestial  armour.  "  Patroclus  is 
dead — they  are  now  fighting  around 
his  naked  body — his  arms  are  Hec- 
tor's !"  Butnow Menetiadesis  bloom- 
ing in  beauty  at  the  board — and 
Achilles  thus  answers  Phoenix. 
"  Phoenix !  my  aged  father !  dear  to  Jove  ! 
Me  no  such  honours  interest ;  I  expect 
My  honours  from  the  sovereign  will  alone 
Of  Jove,  which  shall  detain  me  at  the 

ships 
While  I  have  power  to  move,  or  breath  to 

draw." 

How  gracious  to  the  old  man !  Yet 
somewhat  sternly,  he  tells  him  to 
speak  no  more  of  Agamemnon,  if 
he  loves  his  friend — and  then  re- 
kindling into  kindness,  asks  his  aged 
preceptor  to  rest  all  night  in  the 
tent. 

What  a  coarse,  mercenary  brute  ! 
Demosthenes  and  Cicero  were  great 


Chatham  and 
Burke — so  was  Canning — and  so  is 
Lord  Brougham.  But  what  were 
they  all  as  orators — to  poor  blind 
old  Homer !  Demosthenes's  famous 
invocation  to  the  shades  of  "  those 
who  had  fought  at  Marathon;"  or 
Cicero's  "  Quousque,"  &c.  are  spi- 
rited ejacu  lationsand  interrogations; 
Chatham's  vituperation  of  Sir  Robert 
Walpole  is  rather  bitter,  though  it 
smells  of  the  schoolmaster,  that  is, 
Dr  Johnson ;  Burke  spoke  daggers, 
especially  when  he  used  none ;  Can- 
ning's words  were  rich  when  he  "call- 
ed a  new  world  into  existence  to  ba- 
lance the  old ;"  and  Brougham's  cele- 
brated Peroration,  seventeen  times 
written  over,  was  powerful  when  de- 
livered in  praise  of  her  whose  chastity 
was  pure  as  the  unsunned  snow — the 
icicle  that  hangs  on  Dian's  temple — 
but  oh  !  Lords  and  Commons !  what 
poor  performances  all,  and  how  re- 
dolent of  lamp-oil,  compared  with 
the  free  full  now  of  the  oratory  of 
Ulysses,  with  the  river,  majestic 
reach  after  reach,  falling  over  pre- 
cipices till  all  the  green  woods  are 
wet  with  the  spray  of  the  cataracts, 
of  the  oratory  of  Achilles !  What 
old  man  or  woman,  either  in  House 
of  Lords  or  Commons,  as  now  con- 
stituted, or  even  when  remoulded 
and  reformed,  will  ever  be  able  to 
keep  prosing  away  for  hours  with- 
out wearying  her  auditors,  like 
that  famous  old  fellow  Phosnix,  who 

"  Feeds  on  thoughts  that  voluntary  move 
Harmonious  numbers," 


854  Sot/iffy'*,  Homer. 

and  soothes  the  unsl  umbering  listen- 
er into  a  wakefulness  more  delight- 
ful than  any  sleep ! 

We  have  heard  Phoenix  abused  for 
profiiness,  and  irreverently  called  an 
old  dotard.  True  that  he  was  so. 
We  well  remarked  in  our  last  Cri- 
tique that  all  old  men— that  is  to  say, 
all  men  above  forty — are  more  or  lees 
dotards.  But,  for  all  that,  the  Greeks 
never  despised  old  age.  They  knew 
human  nature  and  human  life  too 
well  —better  than  we  modern  Atheni- 
ans.Wehaveheardtbatyounkershave 
even  laughed  at  Christopher  North; 
but  Achilles  never  laughed  at  Phoe- 
nix, even  though  that  gentlemanly 
old  Myrmidon  was  his  private  tutor. 
And  now  in  the  Tent  he  listens  to 
him,  not  only  without  yawning,  (an 
asinine  vice,)  but  with  manifest  sym- 
pathy and  delight,  most  grateful  to 
mine  ancient,  and  to  his  own  immor- 
tal praise.  The  speech  of  Phu-nix 
is  not  much  short  of  200  lines,  and 
much  of  it  is  characterised  by  the 
narrative  propensity  of  "  garrulous 
old  age."  Yet  the  son  of  Thetis  kept 
his  large  bright-blue  unwinking  eyes 
affectionately  upon  him  all  the  while ; 
sometimes,  we  may  suppose,  bend- 
ing his  head  towards  the  Sire,  and 
accompanying  the  recital  of  the  love 
—and  war — adventures  of  the  old 
man's  youth  with  a  heroic  smile.  And 
did  not  the  aged  warrior  discourse  of 
theBoar  of  Caledon,and  of  Melcager, 
who,  at  the  intercession  of  his  own 
Cleopatra,  rose  up  from  his  ruinous 
wrath,  and,  alas  !  too  late  for  his  own 
happy  fame,  saved  the  ^Etolians  ? 
"  That  hero,  of  old,  was  possessed  by 
a  demon — even  as  Thou  art,  O  mine 
Achilles  !  But  wiser  Thou  !  dismiss 
thy  demon  to  Hades,  and,  timeously 
for  thy  own  fame,  save !  O  save  thy 
country !" 

Such  address,  though  long,  was 
listened  to,  then,  not  impatiently  by 
the  fiery  Achilles — by  the  wise  Ulys- 
ses—by the  blunt  Ajax— by  the  mild 
Heralds — by  the  gentle  Patroclus — 
and  by  the  charioteer-chamberlain, 
the  Lord  Automedon.  And  yot  you 
— oh!  shame  to  degeneracy  of  mo- 
dern manners  from  those  "  of  the 
great  goodness  of  the  knights  of  old" 
— you  complain  of  prosiness — call  for 
your  nightcap — an  absurdity  un- 
known to  the  heroic  ages — and  make 
an  exposure  of  a  featureless  face  yet 
more  unmeaning  in  a  dreamless  but 
not  unsnoring  sleep ! 


[Dec. 

The  truth  is,  that  no  great— and 
but  little  good  eloquence,  is  to  be 
any  where  found  out  of  poetry.  Pas- 
sion must  be  at  once  subdued  and 
supported  by  verse,  ere  it  can  pos- 
sess divine  power  in  words.  Elo- 
quence, music,  and  poetry,  are  not 
three — but  one.  Prose  never  seems 
imbued  with  life  till  upon  the 
verge  of  blank  verse.  Be  it  grant- 
ed that,  even  in  the  high  affairs 
of  this  life,  blank  verse  is,  and  will 
.be,  unpermitted  speech.  What 
then  ?  The  high  affairs  of  this  life, 
and  all  engaged  in,  or  affected  by 
them,  are  therefore  worthy  of  our 
pity — almost  of  our  contempt.  Foi- 
ls it  not  pitiable — is  it  not  even 
nearly  contemptible — to  see  and  hear 
the  mightiest  matters  spoken  of  in 
the  meanest  speech?  In  religious 
worship  men  use  poetry — and  we 
shall  all  speak  it  in  heaven,  ad  libi- 
tum, rhyme  or  blank  verse.  The 
soul,  in  its  highest  states,  always  so 
speaks — witness  Homer  and  Milton 
— Achilles  and  Satan.  Shew  us  either 
Passion,  or  Imagination,  or  Reason 
in  prose  (we  exclude  the  abstract 
sciences — especially  the  pure  mathe- 
matics) as  glorious  as  in  poetry,  and 
we  cry  peccavi;  but  till  then,  we 
laugh  at  all  eloquence,  as  it  is  called, 
out  of  "  numerous  verse,"  and  ap- 
peal to  one  who  never  spoke  abso- 
lute prose  in  his  life,  the  God  of  Elo- 
quence, Music,  and  Poetry,  the  un- 
shorn Apollo. 

But  we  are  forgetting  Achilles  in 
his  Tent.  How  kind,  how  courteous, 
how  affable,  how  princely,  how  he- 
roic !  A  Heathen  that  might  almost 
be  a  model  for  a  Christian!  True, 
that  he  lias  not  yet  forgiven  Aga- 
memnon— nor  have  you  the  old  lady 
who  offended  you  so  grievously  by 
omitting  to  invite  your  wife  and 
daughters  to  her  last  week's  route. 
And  you,  along  with  Dr  Jortin,  ac- 
cuse Achilles  of  being  an  "  unrelent- 
ing brute,"  though  you  know,  or 
ought  to  know,  that  he  forgave  Aga- 
memnon at  last,  from  the  very  bot- 
tom of  his  distracted  heart,  and  for- 
got, too,  all  his  injuries  and  all  his 
insults,  and  lamented  that  even  for 
Briseis'  sake,  he  had  dashed  on  the 
ground  his  gold-studded  sceptre, 
and  consigned  the  tyrant  and  all  his 
slaves  to  perdition. 

The  Tent-scene  closes  in  a  style 
suitable  to  its  opening  and  its  conti- 
nuance—heroic. The  deputation, 


1831.] 


Sotheby's  Homer. 


,. 


disappointed  perhaps,  but  unoffend-    a  professor  of  the  healing  art.     Nes- 

„,!  *~i,~  »u«:_  ^:^:««j  ^ ...„„        tor  entertains  him  in  his  tent  with  an 

account  of  the  incidents  of  the  day, 
and  a  long  recital  of  some  former 
wars  which  he  remembered,  (for 
his  memory  is  prodigious,  and  only 
equaUed  by  his  power  of  speech,) 
tending  to  put  Patroclus  upon  per- 
suading Achilles  to  aid  his  country- 
men, or  at  least  to  permit  him  to  do 
it  clad  iu  Achilles's  armour.  After 
many  alternations  of  defeat  and  vic- 
tory, the  Trojans  bear  dowa  all  be- 
fore them,  and  are  about  to  set  fire 
to  the  fleet.  At  this  crisis,  Patroclus 
comes  flying  to  Achilles,  and  point- 
ing  to  the  ships,  where  the  flames  are 
already  beginning  to  arise,  and  bold 
in  friendship,  passionately  beseeches 
him,  with  many  upbraidings,  to  avert 
the  ruin.  All  arguments  seem  to  be 
thrown  away  on  the  Inflexible  and 
Unrelenting— and  pouring  the  tum- 
bling torrent  of  his  wrath  upon  Aga- 
memnon, he  enjoys  the  deadly  dis- 
comfiture, and  seems  determined,  to 
deliver  them  all  up — king  and  peo- 
ple— to  death. 

But  suddenly,  iu  the  mid  teinpeat 
of  his  fury,  he  sees  a  burst  of  fire  at 
the  fleet,  and  that  it  is  kindled  by  die 
hand  of  Hector.  The  hour  is  come 
when  he  may  keep  the  promise  made 
to  his  pride,  and  yet  yield  to  the 
prayers  of  Patroclus.  "Don,  then, 
my  glorious  arms ;  and  since  the 
Greeks  are  driven  to  the  ships,  lead 
forth  my  invincible  Myrmidons.  The 
Trojans  no  more  beholding  my 
dazzling  helmet,  bolder  grown,  all 
Ilium  comes  abroad.  But  had  it 
not  been  for  Agamemnon,  soon  had 
they  fled  iu  panic,  who  now  besiege 
us,  and  their  corpses  choked  the 
streams.  No  longer,  rescuing  the 
Greeks  from  death,  rages  the  spear 
in  the  hand  of  Diomed ;  I  hear  not, 
issuing  forth  from  his  accursed  throat, 
the  voice  of  Agamemnon ;  but  '  all 
around  a  shattered  peal  of  savage 
Hector's  cries,' — encouraging  and 
insulting  ;— Then  go— go,  my  Patro- 
clus !  Drive  back  the  Trojans,  and 
save  the  fleet  from  fire.  But— mark 
well  my  words— for  so  shall  thou 
glorify  me  in  the  eyes  of  all  the 
Danai;  stay  thy  slaughtering  legions 
ere  they  reach  the  walls  of  Troy, 


ed,  take  their  dignified  departure 
Achilles  praising  Ajax  for  his  since- 
rity, and  calling  him  "  my  noble 
Friend,"  though  the  son  of  Telamon 
has  just  told  his  host  that  he  is  more 
relentless  than  all  other  men,  none 
of  whom  refuse  to  accept  due  com- 
pensation for  a  son  or  brother  slain, 
or  to  suffer  the  murderer  to  live  se- 
cure at  home,  on  his  pacifying  their 
revenge  by  the  payment  of  the  price 
of  blood.  The  deputation  gone — 
Patroclus  bids  the  attendant  youths 
and  women  prepare  a  couch  for 
Phcenix  with  fleeces,  rich  arras,  and 
flax  of  subtlest  woof — and  there  lies 
the  hoary  guest  in  expectation  of  the 
sacred  dawn. 

"  Meantime  Acliillcs  in  the  interior  tent 
With  Diomeda,  Phorbus'  daughter  fair, 
Conveyed  from   Lesbos  by  himself,  re- 
posed. 

Patroclus  rested  opposite,  with  whom 
Slept  charming  Iphis ;  her,  when  he  had 

won 

The  lofty  towers  of  Scyros,  the  Divine 
Achilles    took,    and    on    his    friend    be- 
stow'd." 

So  true  is  it,  as  Ovid  says,  that, 

"  Ingenuas  didicisse  fidclitcr  artes 
Emollit  mores,  nee  shut  esse  feros. " 
Achilles,  we  have  seen,  had  learned 
faithfully  the  Fine  Arts — Music  and 
Poetry — and  thence,  though  at  fitting 
time  and  season  his  mind  was  fierce 
— never  at  fitting  time  and  season 
were  his  manners  other  than  most 
mild  ;  and  now,  were  they  "  beauti- 
ful exceedingly,"  even  as  the  light  of 
the  moon,  not  yet  down,  but  hanging 
as  if  half-way  between  heaven  and 
sea,  shining  peacefully  on  both  ar- 
mies, and  all  those  Tents ;  a  world  of 
Pyramids,  as  still  as  cones  of  snow, 
or,  should  we  rather  say,  green  as 
shielings  where  the  woodsmen  sleep. 
The  Greeks,  then,  must  try  to  take 
Troy  without  Achilles  —  and  Aga- 
memnon grows  before  us  up  into  the 
full  stature  of  a  true  warrior-king. 
Ulysses,  Diomed,  and  Ajax,  all  tower 
to  a  more  heroic  height — and  glori- 
ous against  them  comes  no^amKo; 
'E*<r&<£.  Machaon,  the  king's  physi- 
cian and  surgeon,  the  Larrey  of  the 
Greek  army,  is  himself  wounded, 
and  carried  from  the  fight  in  Nestor's 
chariot.  Achilles,  viewing  the  battle 
from  the  poop  of  his  ship,  sends 
Patroclus  'to  enquire  who  has  been 
smitten,  suspecting  that  it  is  Macha- 
on— the  highest  honour  ever  paid  to 


"  Lest  some  Immortal  Power  on  herbc- 

li  alt- 
Descend,  for  much  the  archer  of  the 

skies 
Loves  Ilium!" 


856 

"  Oh  !  by  all  the  powers  of  Heaven  1 
would  that  of  all  the  Greeks,  and  of 
all  the  Trojans,  not  one  might  escape 
alive  !  That  we  —  I  and  thou,  Patro- 
clus  —  might  alone  raze  Troy's  sacred 
bulwarks  to  the  dust." 

So  ceased  he  —  frowning  —  and  up 
gets  that  impudent  Frenchman  Mons. 
de  la  Motte,  to  prate  his  imperti- 
nence about  the  absurdity  of  such  a 
wish.  Upon  the  supposition  that  Ju- 
piter had  granted  it,  (Jupiter  had  too 
much  good  sense,)  if  all  the  Trojans 
and  Greeks  were  destroyed,  and  only 
Achilles  and  Patroclus  left  to  con- 
quer Troy,  he  asks  what  would  be 
the  victory  without  any  enemies, 
and  the  triumph  without  any  spec- 
tators ?  Pope  reprehends  the  puppy 
well  —  answering  that  Homer  intends 
to  paint  a  man  in  a  passion  ;  that  the 
wishes  and  schemes  of  such  an  one 
are  seldom  conformable  to  reason  ; 
and  that  the  manners  are  preserved 
the  better,  the  less  they  are  repre- 
sented to  be  so.  We  beg  to  add, 
that  a  victory  without  any  enemies 
must  be  as  gratifying  as  glorious  to 
the  heroes  who  have,  with  their  own 
hands,  slain  their  thousands  and  their 
tens  of  thousands  —  which  feeling 
justifies  Achilles,  in  as  far  as  he  al- 
luded to  the  Trojans  ;  and  that  he 
hated  and  abhorred  all  that  fought 
under  Agamemnon,  because  he  hated 
and  abhorred  him  as  the  gates  of 
hell  —  which  feeling  accounts  for  the 
wish,  in  as  far  as  it  regards  the 
Greeks.  While,  as  to  a  triumph 
without  spectators,  though  it  might 
not  rejoice  the  soul  of  a  vain  frog- 
eater,  it  must  have  been  ginger- 


's  Hum,:,-. 


[Uec 


bread  nuts  aud  Glenlivet  to  a  hero 
hungry  and  thirsty  for  revenge,  and 
devouring  and  quaffing  it,  along  with 
his  dearest  friend,  all  by  themselves, 
with  not  an  eye  to  look  at  them,  up 
to  the  knees  and  elbows  in  blood, 
and  dimly  visible  to  each  other  in 
smoke  and  dust. 

Pope  refers  us  well  to  that  curse 
in  Shakspeare,  "  where  that  admira- 
ble master  of  nature  makes  North- 
umberland, in  the  rage  of  his  pas- 
sion, wish  for  an  universal  destruc- 
tion"— "  beyond  the  reaches  of  the 
soul"  of  Moshy  Motte. 

u  Now  let  not  Nature's  hand 
Keep  the  wild  flood  confined  !  Let  order 

die, 

And  let  the  world  no  longer  be  a  stage 
To  feed  contention  in  a  lingering  act ; 
But  let  one  spirit  of  the  first-born  Cain 
Reign  in  all  bosoms,  that  each  heart  being 

set 
On  bloody  courses,  the  rude  scene  may 

end, 
And  darkness  be  the  burier  of  the  dead  !" 

Even  while  he  speaks,  another  burst 
of  fire !  He  smites  his  thigh,  and  cries, 
"Patroclus — noble  charioteer — arise ! 
arm,  arm — this  moment,  arm  ! — I 
will  call,  myself,  the  band."  Patro- 
clus is  in  the  arms  and  armour  of 
Achilles,  and,  quick  as  the  word  of 
command,  has  Automation  yoked  to 
his  car  Xanthus  and  Balius,  pro- 
geny of  Podarge  the  harpy,  the  im- 
mortal chargers  that  despise  not  to 
snort  by  the  side  of  mortal  Pedasus, 
once  the  pride  of  Aetion,  ere  Achilles 
slew  that  king,  nor  inferior  in  flight 
to  the  glorious  get  of  the  wind.  But, 
lo  !  the  Myrmidons  ! 


NORTH. 

— —  but  they  (the  leaders  of  the  Myrmidons) 

Like  raw- flesh-devouring  wolves,  in  whose  breasts  is  immeasurable  strength, 
And  who,  having  slain  a  large  horned  stag  on  the  mountains, 
Tear  and  swallow  it ;  the  jaws  of  all  are  empurpled  with  blood  : 
And  then  in  herds  they  troop— from  a  dark-watered  fountain 
To  lap  up,  with  attenuated  tongues,  the  dark-water 
From  the  surface — belching  up  the  clotted  blood ;  but  the  courage 
In  their  breasts  is  untrembling,  and  distended  are  their  stomachs  : 
Like  (such)  did  the  leaders  and  chiefs  of  the  Myrmidons 
Around  the  brave  servant  (friend)  of  the  swift-footed  grandson  of  ^Eacus 
Ruth  vigorously  on  :  and  amid  them  stood  the  warlike  Achilles, 
Urging  on  the  charioteers  (horse)  and  the  shielded  heroes. 

CHAPMAN. 

And  now  before  his  tents 
•m—v-t,  •    Himself  had  seen  his  Myrmidons,  in  all  habiliments 

Of  dreadful  war.     And  when  you  see,  upon  a  mountain  bred, 
A  den  of  wolves,  about  whose  heart  unmeasured  strengths  are  fed, 
New  come  from  currie  of  a  stag ;  their  jaws  all  blood-besmeared  ; 
And  when  from  some  black  water-fount  they  altogether  herd  ; 
There  having  plentifully  lapt  with  thin  and  thrust-out  tongues, 


1831.]  Sotlteby's  Homer.  857 

The  top  and  clearest  of  the  spring,  go  belching  from  thuir  lungs 

The  clottei-'d  gore,  look  dreadfully,  and  entertain  no  dread ; 

Their  bellies  gaunt  all  taken  up,  with  being  so  rawly  fed ; 

Then  say  that  such  in  strength  and  look  were  great  Achilles'  men, 

Now  order'd  for  the  dreadful  fight,  and  so  with  all  these  then 

Their  princes  and  their  chiefs  did  shew  about  their  General's  Frieiid. 

porn. 

Achilles  speeds  from  tent  to  tent,  and  warms 
His  hardy  Myrmidons  to  blood  and  arms. 
All  breathing  death,  around  the  chief  they  stand, 
A  grim,  terrific,  formidable  band: 
Grim  as  voracious  wolves,  that  seek  the  springs, 
When  scalding  thirst  their  burning  bowels  wrings. 
When  some  tall  stag,  fresh-slaughter'd  in  the  wood, 
Has  drench'd  their  wide  insatiate  throats  with  blood, 
To  the  black  fount  they  rush,  a  hideous  throng, 
With  paunch  distended,  and  with  lolling  tongue, 
Fire  fills  their  eye,  their  black  jaws  belch  the  gore, 

And  gorged  with  slaughter,  still  they  thirst  for  more. 

Like  furies  rushed  the  Myrmidouian  crew, 

Such  their  dread  strength,  and  such  their  deathful  view. 

High  in  the  midst  the  great  Achilles  stands, 

Directs  their  order,  and  the  war  commands. 

COWPEE. 
As  wolves  that  gorge 

Their  prey  yet  panting,  terrible  in  force, 

When  on  the  mountains  wild  they  have  devour'd 

An  antler1  d  slag  new-slain,  with  bloody  jaws 

Troop  all  at  once  to  some  clear  fountain ;  there 

To  lap  with  slender  tongues  the  brimming  wave; 

No  fear  have  they,  but  at  their  ease  eject 

From  full  maws  flatulent  the  clotted  gore. 

Such  seem'd  the  Myrmidon  heroic  chiefs 

Assembling  fast  around  the  valiant  friend 

Of  swift  Eacides.      Amid  them  stood 

Warlike  Achilles,  the  well-shielded  ranks 

Encouraging,  and  charioteers  to  war. 

SOTHEBY. 

Meanwhile  Achilles,  breathing  slaughter,  went 

Hailing  the  Myrmidons,  from  tent  to  tent. 

As  ravenous  wolves  that  gorge  their  antler'd  prey, 

Drain  his  hot  gore,  and  rend  his  limbs  away ; 

Then  rushing  down  in  troops,  their  jaws  all  blood, 

Lap  with  their  tongues  the  surface  of  the  flood  ; 

And  from  their  paunch,  that  labours  with  its  load, 

Belch  the  black  gore  and  undigested  food ; 

Thus  the  fierce  leaders  of  each  gathering  band 

Rush'd  round  Fatroclus,  at  their  chiefs  command  ; 

In  midst  Pelides  tower'd,  their  fury  fired, 
And  his  own  spirit  in  each  heart  inspired. 

Chapman  is  here  almost  as  wolfish  It  was  not  in  Pope  to  be  sufficient- 

as  Homer.    "  A  den  of  wolves"  is  ly  savage  for  such  a  simile.     He 

savage.    But  savage  as  it  is,  not  so  spoils  the  simplicity  of  Homer  at  the 

savage  as  is  "  raw-flesh-devouring  very  first,  even  before  coming  to  the 

wolves."     "  Currie  of  a  stag"  is  ex-  wolves.     Homer  says  not  a  syllable 

cellent — and  reminds  us  of  our  es-  about  the  Myrmidons,  except  that 

teemed  correspondent,  the  "  old  In-  Achilles  went  about  ordering  them 

dian."    It  is  needless  to  praise  the  to  arm — he  lets  loose  upon  us  in  a 

other  epithets,  all  in  the  strongest  moment  the  wolves  themselves — 

style  of  Homer,  Buffon,   and  Pid-  and  seeing  them,  we  see  the  Myr- 

cock.    So  ferociously  ought  always  midons.    Whereas  Pope  begins  with 

to  be  translated  the  ferocities  of  the  a  highly-coloured  description  of  the 

Iliad.  Myrmidons—"  all  breathing  death," 


"  a  grim,  terrific,  formidable  band." 
This  is  insufferable— *but  he  will 
always  be  doing— and  seldom  lets 
Homer  take  his  own  way.  "The 
principal  design,"  he  says,  truly,  in 
a  note,  "  is  to  represent  the  stern 
looks  and  fierce  appearance  of  the 
Myrmidons,  a  gaunt  and  ghastly  train 
of  raw-boned,  bloody-minded  fel- 
lows." Just  so.  Why,  then,  begin 
by  telling  us  so,  as  Pope  does ;  and 
not,  as  Homer  does,  by  likening 
them,  at  once,  to  wolves  ?  "  Grim 
as  voracious  wolves,"  however,  is 
good ;  but  then,  Pope  had  no  busi- 
ness to  introduce  here  the  "  springs," 
and  their  "  scalding  thirst,"  and 
"  burning  bowels."  These  come  in 
again,  afterwards,  in  his  version— 
at  the  proper  time  and  place — and 
nothing  so  bad  as  needless  repeti- 
tion. Who  does  not  feel  how  tame 
the  slaughtering  of  the  stag  becomes, 
by  the  change  of  the  wolves  into 
fed  for  feeding  ?  Homer  says  "  ha- 
ving slain,  they  tear  and  swallow 
it."  Pope  says  that  "  fresh-slaugh- 
tered, it  has  drenched,"  &c.  All 
the  difference  in  the  world.  "  Has 
drenched  their  wide  insatiate  throats 
with  blood,"  is  a  good  line — but  it 
does  not  give  the  picture — of  "  the 
j  aws  of  al  1  are  empurpl  ed  wi  th  bl  ood;" 
"and  withlolling  tongue,"  is  poor  and 
inadequate  for  "  lap  up  with  their  at- 
tenuated tongues" — "  fire  fills  their 
eye,"  is  not  in  Homer — and  "  gorged 
with  slaughter,  still  they  thirst  for 
more,"  is  the  reverse  of  what  Homer 
means — for  he  manifestly  signifies 
that  they  were  satisfied  with  their 
•"  currie  of  a  stag,"  their  bellies  being 
distended  to  their  hearts'  content — 
or  as  old  Hobbes  translates  the  line 
— as  well  as  if  he  had  done  it  at  the 
close  of  a  Noctes — "  With  bellies  full, 
and  hearts  encouraged."  Neverthe- 
less, Pope's  translation  is  neither  to 
be  coughed  nor  sneezed  at — and  were 
we  not  in  the  comparative  mood, 
might  even  be  pronounced  excellent. 
Cowper  is  capital,  and  stands  com- 
parison with  Chapman.  "  That  gorge 
the  prey  yet  pantr\o;,"  is  better  even 
than  our  prose.  "  Mountains  wild," 
is  a  fine  touch ;  "  with  bloody  jaws 
troop  all  at  ouce,"  cannot  be  surpass- 
ed ;  "  slender  tongues"  is  just  the 
word ;  and  "  eject  from  full  maws 
flatulent  the  clotted  gore,"  as  the 
Shepherd  would  say,  is  "  fearsome." 
The  Myrmidons ! 


>'t  liotTt  bfffi  ig'j'VKi 
After  such  vigorous  versions  as 
those  of  Chapman  and  Cowper,  we 
should  have  laid  two  to  one — at  least 
-—against  Sotheby.  But,  he  has,  we 
think,  beaten  them  both— by  a  head. 
No — 'tis  a  dead  heat.  If  in  any  par- 
ticular point  his  version  be  inferior 
to  theirs — and  in  one  it  is  so — ("ant- 
ler'dprey"  for  "  large  antler'd  stag") 
that  fault  is  fully  compensated  by 
the  greater  ease  of  his  diction  and 
versification,  which,  without  any  ef- 
fort, move  powerfully  along — from 
first  to  last — while  the  passage,  in  his 
hands,  ends  finely,  as  it  began,  with 
Achilles.  fwjon  JJBTJJ 

There  is  not  another  such  savage 
simile  as  this  in  all  Homer.  Whether 
is  he  or  Thomson  wildest  on  wolves  ? 
Ask  Wombwell. 

"  By  wintry  famine  roused,  from  all  the 

tract 
Of  horrid  mountains,  where  the  shining 

Alps, 

And  snowy  Appenine,  and  Pyrenees, 
Branch  out  stupendous  into  distant  land. , 
Cruel  as  death  and  hungry  as  the  grave  ; 
Burning  for  blood,  bony,  and  gaunt,  arid 

grim, 

Assembling  wolves  in  raging  troops  de- 
scend ; 

And,  pouring  o'er  the  country,  bear  along 
•  Keen  as  the  north  -wind  sweeps  the  glossy 

snow. 
All  is  their  prize.     They  fasten  on  the 

steed, 
Press  him  to  earth,  and  pierce  his  mighty 

heart. 

Nor  can  the  ball  his  awful  front  defend, 
Or  shake  the  murderous  savages  away. 
Rapacious  at  the  mother's  throat  they 

%> 

And  tear  the  screaming  infant  from  her 
breast,"  &c. 

Both  bards  are  great.  But  Thom- 
son expatiates  more  in  his  descrip- 
tion— as  was  right — for  he  was  at 
liberty  to  revel  with  the  "  raging 
troops,"  where'er  they  roamed,  from 
repast  to  repast,  insatiate  with  brutal 
or  with  human  food.  Homer  seized 
on  them  as  a  simile;  but  his  imagi- 
nation wttc  unwilling  to  let  go  its 
grasp — and  holds  fast  the  growling 
gluttons,  as  if  he  had  momentarily 
forgotten  what  they  imaged.  But  he 
had  not  forgotten  it.  The  Myrmi- 
dons underwent  transformation  into 
wolves,  and  the  wolves  into  Myrmi- 
dons. No  man  of  sense  strives  to 
see  in  a  simile  entire  identity — as  in 
a  portrait.  There  are  the  wolves  at 


1831.] 

their  fiercest  and  their  fellest — and 
there  too  at  theirs  the  Myrmidons. 
The  wolves,  raw-flesh-gobblers  all, 
are  seen  tearing  and  swallowing  a 
large  antler'd  stag  on  the  mountains 
— then  with  jaws  all  empurpled  in 
blood,  trooping  in  herds  to  the  foun- 
tain— then  lapping  up  the  water  with 
their  thin  tongues — then  belching 
clotted  blood  ;  and  then,  their  bellies 
being  full  to  distention,  untrembling 
courage  is  at  their  hearts.  But  you 
surely  do  not  expect  such  behaviour 
in  the  Myrmidons.  Homer  was  feast- 
ing his  poetic  eyes  on  the  feasting 
wolves  of  the  mountain  forest — on 
an  image  of  rural  active  life.  And 
what  a  delightful  glimpse  of  the  coun- 
try !  At  the  touch  of  his  necromantic 
wand,  the  monsters  are  all  at  once 
changed  into  Myrmidons — who  are 
monsters  too — but  not  quite  so  hairy 
— nor  with  such  long  tails — nor  are 
their  jaws  so  bloody — asyet — though 
havinghad  their  rations — their  bellies 
are  distended — and  untrembling  cou- 
rage is  at  their  hearts.  Don't  ye  hear 
them  howling?  "An  Achilles!  An 
Achilles !"  for  that  is  their  slogan, 
and  it  sounds  terrible  even  in  the 
ears  of  Hector. 

Pray,  who  were  those  Myrmido- 
nian  chiefs,  whom  Homer  thus  liken- 
ed to  wolves?  Better  born  and  bet- 
ter bred  than  most  of  our  readers, 
though  we  are  eschewed  by  the  ra- 
dicals. Achilles  was,  of  course,  the 
colonel  of  his  own  regiment — and 


Sotheby's  Homer.  859 

under  him  were  five  captains — Me- 
nestheus,  son  of  Polydora,  daughter 
of  Peleus,  by  the  ever-flowing  Sper- 
chius,  that  rampant  river-god — Eu- 
dorus,  whom  Polymela,  graceful  in 
the  dance,  daughter  of  Phylus,  bore 
by  stealth  (he  was  called  the  Bastard) 
to  the  Argicide  who  had  wooed  the 
nymph  "  while  worshipping  the 
golden-shafted  Queen  Diana,  in  full 
choir,  with  song  and  dance ;"  ascend- 
ing with  her  to  an  upper-room—all- 
bounteous  Mercury  clandestine  there 
"  embraced  her  who  a  noble  son  pro- 
duced"— Pisander,  offspring  of  Mai- 
malus,  who  far  excelled  in  spear- 
fight  every  Myrmidon  save  Patroclus 
— "  the  hoary  Phoanix,  of  equestrian 
fame,  the  fourth  bandied  to  battle," 
(a  grey  old  growler,)  and  who  the 
fifth  but  Laerceus'  offspring,  bold  Al- 
cimedon,  whom  you  may  remember 
in  the  Tent  waiting  on  Achilles,  when 
the  Royal  Commission  entered,  along 
with  Lord  Automedon,the  celebrated 
charioteer.  These  were  the  wolves. 
Such  liberties  docs  poetry  take  with 
the  human  face  and  form  divine- 
changing  bipeds  into  quadupeds  "  for 
the  nonce,"  as  our  fat  friend  would 
say— and  sometimes  not  even  leaving 
the  brave  and  beautiful  the:  "  like- 
ness o'  a  dowg.'4  9tfo  fkf'r. 

Let  our  living  poets  look  here — 
and  the  best  of  them  all  dare  to  say 
that  he  could  equal — much  more  ex- 
cel— this.  We  quote  from  the  in- 
comparable CowpeW  ni  Jon  er 


/a  tie. 

ll    l£L 


9lf   1 
'.*    9rfj 

•fjlW9i 


!»9PS 

'.»dT 


"  So  them  he  roused,  and  they,  their  leader's  voice 
Hearing  elate,  to  closest  order  drew. 
As  when  an  architect  some  palace  wall 
With  shapely  stones  erects,  cementing  close 
A  barrier  against  all  the  winds  of  Heav'n, 
So  Avedged  the  helmets  and  boss'd  bucklers  stood  : 
Shield,  helmet,  man,  press'd  helmet,  man,  and  shield 
And  ev'ry  bright-arm'd  warrior's  bushy  crest 
Its  fellow  swept,  so  dense  was  their  array. 
In  front  of  all,  two  chiefs  their  station  took, 
Patroclus  and  Antomedon  :  one  mind 
In  both  provail'd,  to  combat  in  the  van 
Of  all  the  Myrmidons.      Achilles,  then, 
Retiring  to  his  tent,  displaced  the  lid 
That  dosed  a  curious  chest  by  Thetis  placed 
On  board  his  bark,  and  fill'd  with  tunics,  clnal.s, 
And  fleecy  arras ;  it  contain'd  beside 
A  cup  embellish'*!  with  laborious  art, 
From  which  no  prince  libation  ever  pour'd, 
Himself  except,  and  he  to  Jove  alone. 
That  cup  producing  from  the  chest,  he  first 
With  sulphur  fumed  it,  rinsed  it  next  with  lymph 
Pellucid  of  the  running  stream,  and,  last, 

T  .smoaiBst  *•  si  ,xfia  bfjuow  frrsdqarfg 
«JIB  wioq  a  *  anobiiat^M 


\9iora 
eaaam 
w  *{9tk  Sfirfj* 
ii  1o  9rmr,:>  " 
,i  bflbasJeit 

Afi  1C 

E'tiqo'? 
L'i-fl  aoahfiq- 


860  Sotheby's  Homer.  [Dec. 

(His  hands  clean  laved)  he  charged  it  high  with  wine. 
And  now,  advancing  to  his  middle  court. 
He  pour'd  libation,  and  with  eyes  to  Heav'n 
Uplifted  pray'il,  of  Jove  not  unobserved : 
"  Pelasgian,  Dodonjenn  Jore  supreme, 
Dwelling  remote,  who  on  Dodona's  heights 
Snow-clad  reign'st  sov'reign,  compass'd  by  thy  seers 


j.  piHimy  see  my  lurioer  pi  ay  i  jieniu  m  u, 
Myself  exalted,  and  the  Greeks  abased. 
Now  also  this  request  vouchsafe  me,  Jove ! 
Here,  in  my  fleet,  I  shall  myself  abide, 
But  lo!  with  all  these  Myrmidons  I  send 
My  friend  to  battle.     Thunder-rolling  Jove, 
Send  glory  with  him,  make  his  courage  firm  ' 
That  even  Hector  may  himself  be  taught, 
If  my  companion  have  a  valiant  heart 
When  he  goes  forth  alone,  or  only  then 
The  noble  frenzy  feel  that  Mars  inspires, 
When  I  rush  also  to  the  glorious  field. 
But  soon  as  from  the  ships  he  shall  have  driv'n 
The  battle,  grant  him  with  his  arms  complete, 
None  lost,  himself  unhurt,  and  all  my  band 
Of  dauntless  warriors  with  him,  safe  return  t 

"  Such  pray'r  Achilles  offer'd,  and  his  suit 
Jove  hearing,  part  confirm'd,  and  part  refuged  ; 
To  chase  the  dreadful  battle  from  the  fleet 
He  gave  him,  but  vouchsafed  him  no  return. 
Pray'r  and  libation  thus  perform'd  to  Jove 
The  Sire  of  all,  Achilles  to  his  tent 
Return'd,  replaced  the  goblet  in  his  chest, 
And  anxious  still  that  conflict  to  behold 
Between  the  hosts,  stood  forth  before  his  tent. 

"  Then  rush'd  the  bands,  by  brave  Patroclus  led, 
Full  on  the  Trojan  host.     As  wasps  forsake 
Their  home  by  the  way-side,  provok'd  by  boys 
Disturbing  inconsid'rate  their  abode, 
Not  without  nuisance  sore  to  all  who  pass, 
For  if,  thenceforth,  some  trav'ller  unaware 
Annoy  them,  issuing  one  and  all  they  swarm 
Around  him  fearless  in  their  broods'  defence, 
With  courage  fierce  as  theirs  forth  rush'd  a  flood 
Of  Myrmidons  all  shouting  to  the  skies, 
Whom  with  loud  voice  Patroclus  thus  harangued  : 

"  O  Myrmidons,  attendants  in  the  field 
On  Peleus'  son,  now  be  ye  men,  my  friends! 
Call  now  to  mind  the  fury  of  your  might ; 
That  even  from  the  courage  of  his  train 
The  chief  most  excellent  in  all  the  camp 
May  glory  reap,  and  that  the  king  of  men 
Himself  may  learn  his  fault,  when  he  denied 
All  honour  to  the  prime  of  all  his  host. 

"  So  saying  he  fired  their  hearts,  and  on  the  van 
Of  Troy  at  once  they  fell ;  loud  shouted  all 
The  joyful  Grecians,  and  the  navy  rang. 
Soon  as  the  Trojans  then  that  sight  beheld, 
The  brave  Patroclus  and  his  charioteer 
Arm'd  dazzling  bright,  fear  seized  on  ev'ry  mind, 
And  ev'ry  phalanx  quak'd,  believing  sure, 

^M— •»•.—.  That,  wrath  renounced,  and  terms  of  friendship  chos'n, 
Achilles'  self  was  there ;  then  ev'ry  eye 
Look'd  round  for  refuge  from  impending  fat*-." 


~  it, 


1831.]  Sotheby's  Homer.  801 

But  the  bright  Cheat  is  discovered  : 

"  Achilles'  plume  is  stain'd  with  dust  and  gore, 
That  plume  which  never  stoop'd  to  earth  before  ; 
Long  used  untouch'd  in  fighting  fields  to  shine, 
And  shade  the  temples  of  the  man  divine, 
Jove  dooms  it  now  on  Hector's  helm  to  nod, 
Not  long  —  for  fate  pursues  him,  and  the  god." 

And  from  the  tumult  of  the  dis-  I  tremble  lest  the  gods  my  fears  ful- 

astrous    battle,  Antilochus  flies  to  fill  of  the  evil  foretold  by  my  mother 

Achilles,  who,  seeing  his  approach,  —that  during  my  lifetime  by  Trojan 

instantly  divines  the  dreadful  truth,  hands  is  doomed  to  fall  the  bravest 

and,  ere  the  messenger  has  opened  of  the  Myrmidons,  and  view  the  sun 

his  lips,  exclaims,  "  Ah  !  woe  is  me  !  no  more  !"    Antilochus  says— 

HOMER. 

""fi  ftai,  rttiXsaj  vlt  J«f<pg«vaj,  fi  fi.&\K 
Tlivtricti  a 
K«?Va/  Tl 


NORTH. 

Woe  is  me  !  Oh  son  of  the  war-  loving  Peleus  —  verily,  most  mournful 
Tidings  shalt  thou  hear,  (tidings)  which  ought  not  to  have  been. 
Patroclus  lies  (dead),  for  his  naked  corse  they  fight: 
Hector  with  the  waving-plnmed-helmet  has  his  arms, 

CHAPMAN. 

My  lord,  that  must  be  heard, 

Which  would  to  heaven  I  might  not  tell  !   Menreties'  son  lies  dead, 

And  for  his  naked  corse  (his  arms  already  forfeited 

And  worn  by  Hector)  the  debate  is  now  most  vehement. 

POPE. 

Sad  tidings,  son  of  Peleus  !  thou  must  hear  ; 
And  wretched  I,  th'  unwilling  messenger  ! 
Dead  is  Patroclus  !   For  his  corse  they  fight  ; 
His  naked  corse  ;  his  arms  are  Hector's  right. 
COWPER. 

0  brave  Achilles  !  charged  with  heaviest  news 
Of  one  who  well  deserved  a  gentler  fate, 

1  seek  thee.      Meneetiades  is  dead. 
Between  the  warring  hosts  his  body  Hes 

In  fierce  dispute,  and  Hector  hath  his  arms. 

SOTHEBY. 

O  son  of  Peleus  !  thou  must  hear  the  word, 
Such  as  I  would  had  been  by  thee  unheard. 
Patroclus  dies;  war  flames  his  body  o'er, 
While  Hector  glories  in  the  arms  he  wore. 

We  have  quoted  these  few  Greek  most  sorrowfully  uttering  sorrow.  Far 

lines  and  the  translations,  that  you  from  bad  are  the  others,  and  nothing 

might  judge  of  the  comparative  skill  is  omitted  ;  but  they  sound  quaint,  at 

of  the  Four  (or  Five),  in  rendering  least  to  our  ears  now,  and  should  have 

into  English  what  has  been  pointed  ended  with  the  word  —  Hector.  Pope 

out  by  Quinctilian,  and  many  other  is  very  very  good.   Perhaps  "  right" 

critics,  as  an  instance  of  the  perfec-  is  hardly  the  word  there  —  "  has"  or 

tion  of  energetic  brevity.*  Chapman  "  wears"  is  better  ;  but  rhyme  is  ne- 

has  somewhat  altered  the  order  of  cessity  with  law,  so  we  are  satisfied. 

the  words,  and  has  erred  thereby,  as  There  is  much  tenderness  in  Cow- 

that  of  Homer  is  perfect.    But  the  per  ;  but  "  brave"  is  here  a  poor 

two  first  lines  are  all  they  ought  to  epithet;  "  of  one  who  well  deserved 

be  —  reverential,  but  mortally  plain  —  a  gentler  fate,"  is  pathetic,  but  not 


*  See  Mr  H.  N.  Coleridge's  excellent  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  the  Greek  Gas- 
sical  Po«ts.     Why  has  not  this  successful  volume  been  followed  by  another? 


862  Sotheby's  Homer.  [Dec 

Homeric,  nor  do  we  think  it  is  the  we  altogether  like  the  first.  "  Pa 
meaning  of  the  original  ;  and  "  na-  troclus  dies,"  is  bad  ;  he  is  dead  — 
ked"  is  left  out,  which  it  should  not  dead  —  dead.  "  War  flames  his  bod} 
have  been  ;  but  "  Menfetiades  is  over,"  is  "  too  bad  ;"  and  the  fourtl 
dead,"  and  "  Hector  wears  his  arms,"  line,  though  well  enough  as  a  lin< 
are  just  the  very  thing;  and  there-  taken  per  se,  is  not  like  the  simph 
fore  we  love  the  version.  Sotheby,  line  and  rueful,  that  leaves  the  lip* 
we  are  sorry  to  say  it,  fails.  The  of  Antilochus. 
second  line  is  feeble  and  flat—  nor  do  But  let  us  look  on  Achilles. 

NORTH. 

Thus  he  said:  but  him  (Achilles)  a  dark  cloud  of  grief  enveloped. 
And  with  both  his  hands  lifting  up  dust  and  ashes, 
lie  poured  them  on  his  head,  and  his  comely  countenance  defiled  ; 
On  his  celestial  tunic  the  black  ashes  every  where  alighted. 
Large  himself,  and  much-  room  -occupying,  in  the  dust  extended 
He  lay  ;  and  with  his  own  hands  he  plucked  out  and  marred  his  locks. 
But  the  maid-servants  whom  Achilles  by  plunder  had  obtained,  and  Patroclus, 
Heart-saddened,  lifted  up  their  voices  and  wept,  and  from  the  door* 
Out-they-  rushed  around  the  warlike  Achilles  ;  and  with  their  hands  they  all 
Smote  their  breasts  ;  relaxed  were  the  limbs  of  each  : 
On  the  other  side  mourned  Antilochus,  pouring  out  tears,  — 
Grasping  the  hands  of  Achilles;   his  noble  heart  groaned  : 
For  he  (Antilochus)  feared  lest  he  (Achilles)  should  cut  his  (Achilles')  throat  with 

the  sword.* 

Horribly  he  howled  ;  (him)  heard  his  venerable  mother 
Sitting  in  the  depths  of  the  sea,  beside  her  aged  father, 
And  immediately  wept  aloud. 

CHAPMAN.  • 

This  said,  Grief  darken'.!  all  his  powers.     With  both  his  hands  he  rent 

The  Mark  mould  from  the  forced  earth,  and  pour'd  it  on  his  head  ; 

Smear'd  all  his  lovely  face,  his  weeds  (divinely  fashioned) 

All  filde  and  mangled;  and  himselfe  he  threw  upon  the  shore, 

Lay  as  laid  out  for  funerall,  then  tumbled  round,  ami  tore 

His  gracious  curls.      His  ecstacie  he  did  so  fnrre  extend, 

That  all  the  ladies  wonne  by  him,  and  his  now  slnnghter'd  friend, 

(Afflicted  strangely  for  his  flight)  came  shrieking  from  the  tents, 

And  fell  about  him;  beate  their  breasts,  their  tender  lineaments 

Dissolved  with  sorrow.      And  with  them  wept  Nestor's  warlike  sonne, 

Fell  by  him,  holding  his  fair  hands,  in  feare  he  would  have  done 

His  person  violence;  his  heart  extremely  (straightened)  burn'd, 

Beate,  swell'd,  and  sigh'd,  a*  it  would  burst;  so  terribly  he  mnurn'd, 

That  Thetis,  sitting  in  the  deepes  of  her  old  father's  seas, 

Heard  and  lamented.      To  her  plaints  the  bright  Nere'idrs 

Flockt  all. 


A  sudden  horror  shot  through  all  the  chief, 

And  wrapp'd  his  senses  in  the  cloud  of  grief; 

Cast  on  the  ground,  with  furious  hands  he  spread 

The  scorching  ashes  o'er  his  graceful  head  ; 

His  purple  garments,  and  his  golden  hairs, 

Those  he  deforms  with  ilust,  and  these  he  tears  ; 

On  the  hard  soil  his  groaning  breast  he  threw, 

And  roll'd  and  grovell'd,  as  to  th*  earth  he  grew. 

The  virgin  captives  with  disorder'd  charms, 

(  Won  by  his  own,  or  by  Patroclus'  arms,) 

liush'd  from  tin;  tents  with  cries;  and,  gathering  round, 

Beat  their  white  breasts,  and  fainted  on  the  ground  ; 

While  Xostor's  son  sustains  a  manlier  part, 

Ami  mourns  the  warrior  with  a  warrior's  heart  ; 


,  n   a.vo2uperapfi:ti'.»  'Kxru{   <r/>*  nar^axX^v— says  the 

scholiast,  forgetting  apparently  that  Patroclus  had  been  Burked  already,  and  that  it 
was  now  of  little  consequence  whether  the  jugular  should  be  Knoxed  or  not, 


1831.]  KotIitbij\K  Homer. 

Hangs  on  his  arms,  amidst  his  frantic  woe.         o&  TOO 

And  oft  prevents  the  meditated  bloMUi  ;  ?*i.Ti£ho  tdt  1o  MitoMfiB 

Par  in  the  deep  abysses  of  the  maiu,     . 

With  hoary  Kerens,  IUM!  the  uat'ry  train,         "    jytf     ;  aotxf   9Y*tt 

The  mother  goddess  from  her  crystal  throne  ii  **  IMK  *lJ»BJlb 

Heard  his  loud  cries,  and  anvwer'd  groan  far  groan 

The  circling  Nereids  with  their  mistress  weep,          ;  y^* 

And  all  the  sea-green  sisters  of  the  deep. 


U&(fU&    cowrER. 

' 


UU  . 

Then  clouds  of  sorrow  fell  on  Peleus' 


son, 


And,  grasping  with  both  hands  the  ashes,  down 
He  pour'd  them  on  his  head,  his  graceful  brows 
Dishonouring,  and  thick  the  sooty  shower 
Descending,  settled  on  his  fragrant  vest. 
Then,  stretch'd  in  ashes,  at  the  vast  extent 
Of  his  whole  length  he  lay,  disordering  wild 
With  his  own  hands,  and  rending  off  his  hair. 
The  maidens,  captured  by  himself  in  war 
And  by  Patroclus,  shrieking  from  the  tent 
Ran  forth,  and  hernm'd  the  glorious  chief  around. 
All  smote  their  bosoms,  and  all,  fainting,  fell. 
On  the  other  side,  Antilochus,  dissolved 
In  tears,  held  fast  Achilles'  hands,  and  groan'd 
Continually  from  his  heart,  through  fear 
Lest  Peleus'  son  should  perish  self-destroy'd. 
With  dreadful  cries  he  rent  the  air,  whose  voice 
Within  the  gulfs  of  ocean,  where  she  sat 
Beside  her  ancient  sire,  his  mother  heard, 
*  And,  hearing,  shriek'd  ;  around  her,  at  the  voice, 

Assembled  all  the  Nereids  of  the  deep. 

SOTHEBV. 

Grief  at  the  word,  and  horror's  gloomiest  cloud, 

Cast  o'er  Pelides  their  o'ershadowing  shroud. 

He  grasp'd  the  ashes  scatter'd  on  the  strand, 

And  on  his  forehead  shower'd  with  either  hand, 

Grim'd  his  fair  face,  and  o'er  his  raiment  flung 

The  soil  that  on  its  splendour  darkly  hung, 

His  large  limbs,  prone  in  dust,  at  large  outspread, 

And  pluck'd  the  hair  from  his  dishonour'd  head  ; 

While  all  the  maidens  whom  his  arm  had  won, 

Or  gain'd  in  battle  with  Menetius'  son, 

Left  the  still  shelter  of  their  peaceful  tent, 

And  round  Pelides  mingled  their  lament, 

Raised  their  clasp'd  hands,  and  beat  their  breasts  of  snow, 

And  swooning,  sunk  on  earth,  o'ercome  with  woe  ; 

"While  o'er  him  Nestor's  son  in  horror  stood, 

And  grasp'd  his  arm,  half  raised  to  shed  his  blood. 

Deep  groan'd  the  desperate  man,  'twas  death  to  hear 

Groans  that  in  ocean  pierced  the  sea-nymph's  ear, 

His  mother's  ear,  where,  deep  beneath  the  tide, 

Dwelt  the  sea-goddess  by  her  father's  side.  — 

She  heard,  she  shriek'd,  while  gathering  swift  around, 

Came  every  Nereid  from  her  cave  profound. 

There    is   agony,  grief,  despair,  and*5  hear  how  horribly  he  howls! 

raffe,  (alike  against  Hector,  heaven,  And  this   is    the—  divine   Achilles  ! 

and  himself!)  and,  perhaps—  who  What  would  an  American  Indian  say 

knows  —  a  shuddering,   too,   of   re-  to  such  alight  ? 

venge  !  A  cloud  envelopes  Achilles—  u  The  stoic  of  ths  wood    the  man  wi{h. 
he  covers  himself  with  dust  and  ashes  ou(.  &  tear!» 

—down  he  falls  all  his  huge  length 

extended,  in   convulsions  ;  for   see  Nothing.     Nor  do  we—  except  that, 

how  he  tears  his  hair  out  in  handfulls  though    children    of    nature    both, 

—the  maniac  looks  like  a  suicide—  Achilles  is  not  Outalissi—  and  that 

VOL,  XXX,  NO.  CLXXXVIII,  3  K 


864  Sotheby's  Homer. 

the  moon  is  still  the  moon,  though 
sometimes  seen  sailing  clear  and 
bright  through  a  storm,  and  some- 
times with  a  lowering  light  of  blood. 

Chapman  feels  the  passion  of  the 
picture  throughout,  intus  et  in  cute, 
and  his  copy  may  well  content  all 
amateurs  who  cannot  see  the  original. 
Yet  it  is  somewhat  overcharged ;  and, 
worst  of  all,  it  presents  not  to  our 
sight  the  size  of  Achilles — "  large 
himself,  and  much-room-occupying," 
as  you  behold  him  in  our  Greek-imi- 
tating English.  This  is  an  omission 
almost  as  fatal  as  would  be  that  of 
"  lay  floating  many  a  rood,"  from 
Milton's  picture  of  Satan.  "  Lay  as 
laid  out  for  funeral,"  is  a  strong  line, 
and  presents  a  deadly  image.  But 
it  is  not  Homer.  Homer  shews  us 
Achilles,  it  is  true,  lying  extended ; 
but  not  still — or,  if  still,  only  for  a 
moment — and  ere  such  a  thought 
could  cross  us  as  that  he  was  "  laid 
out  for  funeral,"  "  with  his  own 
hands  he  plucked  out  and  marred  his 
locks."  These  are  two  great  crimes 
—  of  commission  and  omission  — 
ay,  capital  crimes,  for  which  we  now 
order  Chapman  for  execution.  No— 
we  respite  him  till  next  Wednesday 
—during  pleasure — the  royal  cle- 
mency is  extended  to  him— a  free 
pardon — he  walks  out  of  prison,  on 
his  bold  broad  brows  the  unwithered 
laurel !  Yet  why,  old  Chapman,  did 
you  change,  "  lest  he  should  cut  his 
throat  with  his  sword,"  for,  "  in  fear 
he  would  have  done  his  person  vio- 
lence ?"  And  why,  seeing  that  Homer 
had  already  shewn  us  Achilles  in 
agony,  should  you  have  added,  that 
"  his  heart,  extremely  straitened, 
burned,  beat,  swelled,  and  sighed  as 
it  would  burst  ?"  That  is  not  only 
carrying  coals  to  Newcastle — but 
worse — telling  us  that  there  are  fiery 
furnaces  in  the  Carron  iron-works. 
It  is  not  even  for  thee — to  try  to  out- 
Homer  Homer. 

Pope,  of  course,  commences  oper- 
ations with  a  paraphrase — but  let  it 
pass  unpunished  as  unpraised.  "  Cast 
on  the  ground,"  in  line  third,  applies 
either  to  Achilles,  or  to  the  ashes.  ' 
If  to  Achilles,  it  is  false,  for  he  was 
not  yet  cast  on  the  ground — he  stoop- 
ed, (Homer  does  not  say  so — but  we 
see  him,)  "  with  both  his  hands  lift- 
ing up  dust  and  ashes."  If  it  apply 
to  the  ashes,  then  it  is  foolish  as  well 
as  false— for  the  ashes  were  lying 


[Dec. 


there  of  themselves,  nobody  being 
suffered  to  cast  ashes  near  the  tent 
of  Achilles.  Neither  were  the  ashes 
"  scorching,"  take  our  word  for  it ; 
Homer  would  not  have  let  the  hero 
set  his  hair  on  fire.  "  Those  he 
deforms  with  dust,  and  these  he 
tears,"  is  an  antithetical  way  of 
writing,  to  which  it  is  well  known 
Homer  had  a  mortal  aversion.  "  On 
the  hard  soil  his  groaning  breast 
he  threw,"  is  entirely  bad.  It  is, 
we  believe,  a  repetition  ;  neither 
Homer  nor  Achilles  were  think- 
ing of  the  hardness  of  the  soil ;  and 
"  breast"  is  a  poor  pars  pro  toto  in- 
deed, as  all  men  will  allow,  for 
"  large  himself,  and  much-room- 
occupying,  in  the  dust  extended  he 
lay."  "  He  rolled  and  grovelled"  is 
perhaps  mean,  and  certainly  gratui- 
tous, and  "as  to  the  earth  he  grew" 
makes  it  likewise  ludicrous;  for  nei- 
ther man  nor  tree  can  hope  to  grow 
to  the  earth  by  rolling  and  grovel- 
ling— for  proof  of  which  arboricul- 
tural  remark,  see  Sir  Henry  Steu- 
art,  passim.  "  The  virgin  captives 
with  disorder'd  charms,"  is  a  line 
liable  to  two  radical  objections. 
They  had  ceased  to  be  virgins — and 
their  charms  had  not  begun  to  be 
disorder'd.  That  their  breasts  were 
"  white,"  is  not  to  be  doubted,  and 
therefore  Homer  does  not  say  so — 
leaving  the  enunciation  of  that  dis- 
covery to  Pope. 

"  While  Nestor's  son  sustained  a  manlier 
part, 

And  mourned  the  warrior  with  a  war- 
rior's heart," 

is  a  pretty  compliment  to  Anti- 
lochus,  but  it  is  paid  him  by  Pope, 
and  not  by  Homer,  who  merely  says 
he  "  poured  out  tears,"  "  that  his 
noble  heart  groaned,"  and  "  that  he 
grasped  the  hands  of  Achilles." 
"  Prevents  the  meditated  blow"  is 
not  good,  because  not  perfectly 
clear — but  it  may  pass  perhaps  after 
Chapman's  "  have  done  his  person 
violence."  Homer  does  not  say  that 
Achilles  oft  attempted  to  kill  him- 
self; nay,  he  does  not  say  that  he 
did  so  even  once;  but  simply  that 
Antilochus  feared  he  might,  seeing 
that  agony.  "  Heard  his  loud  cries" 
is  not  absolutely  bad  in  itself— but 
it  is  a  poor  expression  in  place  of 
"  horribly  howled."  Thetis  did  not, 
as  Pope  says,  "answer  groan  for 


1831.] 


groan."  The  duet  would  have  been 
sung  out  of  all  tune;  "  she  imme- 
diately wept  aloud."  Thetis  had  a 
"crystal  throne;"  but  Homer  does 
not  mention  it  on  this  occasion — 
having  probably  forgotten  it.  Still, 
'tis  a  good  passage,  though  a  bad 
translation. 

No  such  criticisms  fall  to  be  made 
on  Cowper's  version.  From  all  such 
faults  it  is  free — nor  has  it  any  other 
that  we  can  discern — it  being  as  usual 
Homeric.  "  Lest  Peleus'  son  should 
perish  self-destroyed,"  gives  the 
sense  without  the  shocking  sound — 
and  perhaps  it  is  better  to  our  ears, 
so  often  horrified  by  coroners'  in- 
quests. Let  us  say,  then,  that  the 
translation  is  perfect. 

Sotheby  cannot  be  allowed  to  es- 
cape scot-free,  but  must  with  Pope 
share  punishment. 

"  Grief  at  the  word,  and  horror's  gloomiest 

cloud, 
Cast   o'er    Pelides   their    o'ershadowing 

shroud," 

are  not  two  good  lines.  "  At  the 
word,"  is  a  frequent  offence  of  his — 
And  why  "  grief  and  horror,"  when 
Homer  has  but  one  ?  How  far  bet- 
ter Cowper's, "  The  clouds  of  sorrow 
fell  on  Peleus'  son  1"  They  envelope 
him  in  a  moment.  No  sooner  done 
than  said — no  sooner  said  than  done. 
But  rhyme  has  nothing  durius  in  it- 
self than  that  it  makes  people  drawl. 
"  The  soil  that  on  its  splendour  dark- 
ly hung"  is  picturesque,  but  some- 
what too  elaborate.  Perhaps  we  say 
so  from  a  sense  of  the  excellence  of  all 
this  part  of  the  version,  which  is  in- 
deed nearly  perfect.  "  Whom  his  arm 
had  won,  or  gained  in  battle,"  seems 
to  express  a  distinction  without  a 
difference,  and  is  cumbrous.  "  Left 
the  still  shelter  of  their  peaceful 
tent,"  is  a  beautiful  line,  and  intro- 
duced purposely  we  presume — but 
needlessly  we  think — for  sake  of con- 


Sothebtfs  Homer.  865 

trast.  There  is  nothing  like  it  in  the 
original.  Neither  is  "  raised  their 
clasped  hands"  there,  though  good ; 
and  as  we  blamed  Pope  for  telling  us 
their  breasts  were  "  white,"  so  must 
we  Sotheby  for  saying,  they  were 
"  of  snow."  "  O'er  him  Nestor's  son 
in  horror  stood,"  is  not  quite  right — 
for  Achilles  was  lying  on  the  ground, 
and  if  the  posture  of  Antilochus  was 
to  be  mentioned  at  all,  (Homer  does 
not  mention  it,)  it  should  have  been 
"  stooped."  Nor  is  that  a  hypercri- 
ticism ;  for  in  a  picture  addressed  to 
the  eye — the  mind's  eye — every  word 
should  be  apt  and  unexchangeable. 
"  Half-raised  to  shed  his  blood,"  is 
not  in  Homer — but  it  is  vivid — so  let 
it  stand.  "  Deep  groan'd  the  despe- 
rate man,  'twas  death  to  hear  groans," 
&c.,  is  not  sufficiently  strong  for  the 
original,  but  it  is  stronger,  with  its  ad- 
juncts, than  Pope's.  "  Sea-nymph," 
and  "  sea-goddess,"  is  an  unpleasant 
repetition.  "  She  heard — she  shriek- 
ed," is  short,  and  strong,  and  good ; 
and  the  passage  closes  with  a  fine 
hurrying  picture.  On  the  whole, 
Sotheby  is  here  superior  far  to  Pope 
— but  he  is  inferior,  think  we,  to 
Cowper. 

Bewailing  for  a  while  to  the  Ne- 
reids the  woes  of  her  "  noble  son 
magnanimous,"  the  chief  of  heroes, 
whom  she  had  seen  shoot  under 
her  maternal  care  like  a  prosperous 
plant,  "  Thetis  leaves  her  cave,  with 
all  her  weeping  nymphs  attendant, 
where'er  they  pass  the  parting  bil- 
lows opening  wide  a  way,"  and,  arri- 
ved at  Troy,  climbs  the  beach,  where, 
by  his  numerous  barks  encompassed, 
groaning  lay  Achilles.  "  Why  weeps 
my  son  ?"  and  thus — (be  gracious 
to  the  prose  of  Christopher !) — after 
much  mutual  suffering  —  during 
which  Thetis,  with  streaming  eyes, 
hath  said  to  him,  "  Swift  comes  thy 
destiny,  as  thou  hast  said ;  for  after 
Hector's  death  thine  next  ensues"— 


NORTH. 

Her  the  swift-footed  Achilles,  greatly  indignant,  addressed : 
Let  me  die  forthwith,  since  it  was  not  to  be — that  I,  my  friend 
While  being  slain,  should  assist ;  he  indeed  far  far  from  his  father-land 
Hath  been  cut  off;  me  had  he  need  of  to  be  a  harm-averter. 
But  now,  since  never  shall  I  return  to  my  beloved  father.land, 
Nor  have  I  been  a  safeguard  to  Patroclus,  nor  to  friends 
Besides — who  in  numbers  have  been  subdued  by  the  valiant  Hector — 
Here  sit  I  by  the  ships — a  useless  lump  of  sod,  on  the  earth ; 
Such  as  none  other  of  the  brass-clad  Greeks 
In  war  am  I ;  others  there  are  better  in  council. 


I  ,b* 
asa 


}&C  Svtheby's  Homer.  [Dec 

Oh,  perish  discord  from  among  gods,  and  from  among  men, 

And  anger,  which  hath  impelled  even  the  very  wise  to  act  madly; 

And  which  sweeter  far  than  honey  dropping  down 

Goes-on-gathering  in  the  breasts  of  men  like  smoke; 

Thus  angry  now  hath  the  king  of  men,  Agamemnon,  made  me. 

But  pa=s  we  over  these  things  as  done  before,  vexed  though  \ve  be, 

Our  wrath  in  our- breast  keeping  down  by  necessity. 

But  now  I  go, — of  that  beloved  person  that  I  may  find  out  the  destroyer 

— Hector ; — death  will  I  then  receive  whenever  indeed 

Jupiter  shall  will  to  accomplish  it,  and  the  other  immortal  gods ; 

For  not  even  did  the  might  of  Hercules  aveid  death, 

Dearest  though  he  was  to  Jupiter,  the  Saturnian  king, 

But  him  subdued  Fate  and  Juno's  stern  resentment. 

I,  too,  if  a  like  fate  is  ordained  for  me, 

Shall  lie — when  I  shall  have  died ;  but  now  bright  renown  let  me  gain, 

And  some  one  of  the  deep-bosomed  Trojan  and  Dardan  dames, 

With  both  her  hands  from  her  tender  cheeks 

The  tears  wiping  away,  will  I  compel  to  groan  often ; 

Let  them  feel  that  long  have  I  been  absent  from  the  fight. 

Though  loving  me,  hinder  me  not  from  the  fight;  persuade  me  thou  canst  not. 

What  says  Thetis  now  ?  "  Well  Fire."  And  having  so  said,  she 
hast  thou  said,  my  son !  No  blame  soared  to  Olympus, 
it  is  to  save  our  suffering  friends  Then  Iris,  sent  by  Juno,  flung  her- 
from  threatened  death.  But  thy  self  from  heaven  to  earth,  and  bade 
magnificent  and  dazzling  arms  are  him  sally,  all  unarmed  as  he  was, 
now  in  Trojan  hands — the  hands  of  to  the  rescue  of  the  body  whose 
Hector — exulting,  but  doomed  to  head  the  Trojans  were  threatening 
exult  not  long  in  such  habiliments,  to  cut  off,  that  they  might  impale  it 
His  death  is  nigh.  But  with  yon  hosts  on  one  of  the  towers  of  Troy.  "  1s- 
contending  mix  not  thou— till  here  suing  to  the  margin  of  the  fosse, 
again  thou  seest  thy  mother — for  shew  thyself  only — and,  panic-seized, 
with  the  rising  sun  I  will  return,  the  whole  Trojan  army  will  fly  the 
and  bring  thee  all-glorious  arms,  field !" 
forged  by  Vulcan's  self,  the  Kin?  of 

T I8rtx&  esvtl  -iwlf  ,1  °  sissTg  1o  ,«MOI  svtewT 

NORTH. 

The  swift-footed  Iris  having  thus  spoken,  departed  :  -:it  nsrfJ  baA 

But  Achilles  beloved  of  Jove  up-started:  Minerva  .  b«A 

Around  his  mighty  shoulders  threw  her  fringed  aegis, 

And  the  most  august  of  goddesses  crowned  his  head  with  a  cloud  ><•  oT 

Of  gold,  and  from  it  she  kindled  a  flame  all-refulgent:  iiw  raodW 

As  when  smoke  arising  from  a  city  into  the  air  ascends 
At  a  distance  from  an  island,  around  which  enemies  are  fighting, 
And  who,  during  the  whole  of  the  day,  are  engaged  in  the  tug  of  grim  war, 
(Making  sallies)  from  their  own  city  :  but  along  with  going  down  of  the  sun 
Beacon  lights  flare  frequent,  and  aloft  the  gleam 
Up-rises,  that  their  neighbours  may  observe  it, 
If  so  be  that  they  may  come  in  ships  to  ward  off  the  war : 
In  like  manner  from  Achilles'  head  the  beaming  light  reached  the  firmament. 
For  having  advanced  to  the  fosse  beyond  the  vvull  he  stood:  nor  with  the  Greeks 
Mingled  he :  for  the  prudent  counsel  of  his  mother  he  regarded. 
There  standing  he  shouted :  and  apart  Pallas  Minerva 
Shouted  :  and  among  the  Trojans  immense  confusion  caused. 
Shrill  and  clear  as  is  the  sound,  when  the  trumpet  clangs 
On  account  of  the  life-destroying  enemy  encompassing  a  city  : 
So  shrill  and  clear  at  that  time  was  the  voice  of  the  grandson  of  JEacus. 
And  they,  when  they  heard  the  brazen  shout  of  yEacides, 
Were  all  stirred  up  in  courage  :  but  the  beautiful-maned  horses 
Wheeled  round  the  chariots, — for  they  divined  the  (coining)  calamity  in  their  hearts. 
Astounded  were  the  charioteers,  when  they  saw  the  unwearied  flame 
Over  the  head  of  the  magnanimous  son  of  Peleus  horribly 
Gleaming, — which  the  blue-eyed  Minerva  had  kindled. 
Thrice  on  the  trench  loudly  shouted  the  godlike  Achilles  -, 


1831.]  Sotheby's  HofilW.  867 

And  thrice  were  confounded  the  Trojans  and  the  iilustrwrtisilftw;1^  'lemq  ,(IO 

There  then  perished  twelve  most  warlike  men 

Amid  their  own  chariots  and  spears  :  but  the  Greeks 

Having  eagerly  dragged  Patroclus  beyond  the  reach  of  weapons, 

Deposited  him  on  a  couch  :  and  his  loved  companions  surrounded  him 

Lamenting  :  then  the  swift-footed  Achilles  followed, 

Shedding  scalding  tears,  when  he  looked  upon  his  trusty  friend 

Lying  on  the  bier— mangled  by  the  sharp  brass  : 

(Him)  whom  he  bad  sent  with  horses  and  chariots 

To  war— and  never  again  welcomed  back  returning. 

CHAPMAN. 

She  woo'd,  and  he  was  won, 

And  straite  Minerva  honour'd  him  ;  who  Jove's  shield  clapt  upon 
His  migutie  shoulders  ;  and  his  head,  girt  with  a  cloud  of  gold, 
That  cast  beams  round  about  his  brows.     And  as  when  arms  enfold 
A  citie  in  an  ile ;  from  thence,  a  fume  at  first  appears, 
(Being  in  the  day,)  but  when  the  even  her  cloudie  forehead  rears, 
Thicke  show  the  fires,  and  up  they  cast  their  splendor,  that  men  nie, 
Seing  their  distresse,  perhaps  may  set  ships  out  to  their  supply  : 
So  (to  shew  such  aid)  from  his  head,  a  light  rose,  scaling  heaven. 
And  forth  the  wall  he  stept  and  stood ;  nor  brake  the  precept  given 
By  his  great  mother  (mixt  in  fight)  but  sent  abroad  his  voice, 
Which  Pallas  farre  off  ecchoed ;  who  did  betwixt  them  hoise 
Shrill  tumult  to  a  toplesse  height.     And  as  a  voice  is  heard 
With  emulous  affection,  when  any  towne  is  spher'd 
With  seige  of  such  a  foe,  as  kills  men's  minds  ;  and  for  the  town 
Makes  sound  his  trumpet :  so  the  voice,  from  Thetis'  issue  throwne, 
Won  emulously  th*  eares  of  all.     His  brazen  voice  once  heard^hixy 
The  minds  of  all  were  startl'd  so,  they  yielded  j  and  so  fear'd 
The  faire-maned  horses,  that  they  flew  backe,  and  their  chariots  turn'dj^hgi] 
Presaging  in  their  augurous  hearts,  the  labours  that  they  mourn'd 
A  little  after ;  and  their  guides,  a  repercussive  dread   .  r|j   j 
Tooke  from  the  horrid  radiance  of  his  refulgent  head, 
Which  Pallas  set  on  fire  with  grace.     Thrice  great  Achilles  spake,,,,]^ 
And  thrice  (in  heate  of  all  the  charge)  the  Trojans  started  backe. 
Twelve  men,  of  greatest  strength  in  Troy,  left  with  their  lives  exhul'd 
Their  chariots  and  their  darts  to  death,  with  his  three  summons  cal'd  ; 
And  then  the  Grecians  sprttefully  draw  from  the  darts  the  corse,  .  t-fliwa  sriT 
And  hearst  it,  bearing  it  to  fleete, — his  friends,  with  all  remorse,  ..MlljjfoA  luff 
Marching  about  it.     His  great  friend,  dissolving  then  in  tears^rin  * 
To  see  his  truly-loved  return'd,  so  horst  upon  a  herse, 
Whom  with  such  horse  and  chariot  he  set  out  safe  and  whole  fr-d  hru 
Now  wounded  with  unpittying  steele,  now  sent  without  a  souie, 
Never  again  to  be  restor'd,  never  received  but  so; 
He  follow'd,  mourning  bitterly. 

POPE. 

She  spoke  and  pass'd  in  air.     The  hero  rose, 
Her  aegis  Pallas  o'er  his  shoulders  throws ; 
Around  his  brows  a  golden  cloud  she  spread, 
A  stream  of  glory  flamed  above  his  head. 
As  when  from  some  beieaguer'd  town  arise  I>9D«svbfi  §; 

The  smokes,  high-carling  to  the  shaded  skies, 
(Seen  from  some  island  o'er  the  main  afar, 
When  men  distress'd  hang  out  the  sign  of  war.)  ^rtoicu  fans 
Soon  as  the  sun  in  ocean  hides  his  rays,       oa  sriJ  ai  KE  -issly  baa  JihriPa 
Thick  on  the  hills  the  flaming  beacons  blaze  ;       ,  il  sdi  to  Jnuoaotf  nO 
With  long-projected  beams  the  seas  are  bright,  -  JB  isafo  bn/s  flhda  o3 
And  heaven's  high  arch  reflects  the  ruddy  light;  n-jdw  ^srii  biiA 

So  from  Achilles'  head  the  splendours  rise,  ,i  qu  baTvi?,  lie 

Reflecting  blaze  on  blaze  against  the  skies.  •  ftnuoi 

Forth  march'd  the  chief,  and,  distant  from  the  crowd,    ,1SlW  hs 
High  on  the  rampart  raised  his  voice  aloud.  .)tij  fa  bE9rI  srfj 

With  her  own  shout  Minerva  swells  the  sound, 
Troy  starts  astonish'd,  and  the  shores  rebound,     dyu& 


868  Sotheby's  Homer. 

As  the  loud  trumpet's  brazen  mouth  from  far, 

With  shrilling  clangour  sounds  th'  alarm  of  war, 

Struck  from  the  walls,  the  echoes  float  on  high, 

And  the  round  bulwarks  and  thick  towers  reply ; 

So  high  his  brazen  voice  the  hero  rear'd, 

Hosts  drop  their  arms,  and  trembled  as  they  heard  : 

And  back  the  chariots  roll,  and  coursers  bound, 

And  steeds  and  men  lie  mingled  on  the  ground. 

Aghast  they  see  the  living  lightnings  play, 

And  turn  their  eyeballs  from  the  flashing  ray. 

Thrice  from  the  trench  his  dreadful  voice  he  raised, 

And  thrice  they  fled,  confounded  and  amazed. 

Twelve  in  the  tumult  wedged,  untimely  rush'd 

On  their  own  spears,  by  their  own  chariots  crnsh'd  ; 

While,  shielded  from  their  darts,  the  Greeks  obtain 

The  long-contended  carcass  of  the  slain. 

A  lofty  bier  the  breathless  warrior  bears, 

Around  his  sad  companions  melt  in  tears ; 

But  chief  Achilles,  bending  down  his  head, 

Pours  unavailing  sorrows  o'er  the  dead, 

Whom  late  triumphant  with  his  steeds  and  car, 

He  sent  refulgent  to  the  field  of  war ; 

(Unhappy  change  !)  now  senseless,  pale,  he  found, 

Stretch'd  forth,  and  gash'd  with  many  a  gaping  wound. 

COWTER. 

-    So  saying,  the  rapid  Iris  disappear'd. 
Then  rose  at  once  Achilles  dear  to  Jove, 
Athwart  whose  shoulders  broad  Minerva  cast 
Her  aegis  fringed  terrific,  and  his  brows 
Encircled  with  a  golden  cloud,  that  shot 
Fires  insupportable  to  sight  abroad. 
As  when  some  island,  situate  afar 
On  the  wide  waves,  invested  all  the  day 
By  cruel  foes  from  their  own  city  pour'd, 
Upsends  a  smoke  to  Heaven,  and  torches  shews 
On  all  her  turrets  at  the  close  of  eve, 
Which  flash  against  the  clouds,  kindled  in  hope 
Of  aid  from  neighbour  maritime  allies, 
So  from  Achilles'  head  light  flash'd  to  Heav'n. 
Without  the  rampart  and  beside  the  fosse 
He  stood,  but  mix'd  not  with  Achaia's  host, 
Obedient  to  his  mother's  wise  command. 
He  stood  and  shouted  ;  Pallas  also  rais'd 
A  dreadful  shout,  and  tumult  infinite 
Excited  throughout  all  the  host  of  Troy. 
As  when  fierce  foes  approach  the  city  walls, 
Shrill  sounds  the  trumpet  to  alarm  the  town, 
Such  in  that  moment,  and  so  shrill  was  heard 
Thy  voice,  /Eacides!   and  tumult-toss'd 
Was  every  bosom  at  the  brazen  tone. 
With  swift  recoil  the  long-maned  coursers  thrust 
The  chariots  back,  all  boding  woe  at  hand  ; 
And  ev'ry  charioteer  astonish'd  saw 
Fires,  that  fail'd  not,  illumining  the  brows 
Of  Peleus'  son,  by  Pallas  kindled  there. 
Thrice  o'er  the  trench  Achilles  sent  his  voice 
Sonorous,  and  confusion  at  the  sound 
Thrice  seiz'd  the  Trojans,  and  their  fam'd  allies. 
Twelve,  in  that  moment,  of  their  nobles  died 
By  their  own  spears  and  chariots,  and  with  joy 
The  Grecians  from  beneath  a  hill  of  darts 
Dragging  Patroclus,  placed  him  on  his  bier. 
Around  him  throng'd  his  fellow-warriors  bold, 
All  weeping;  after  whom  Achilles  went 


188L]  Sotheby's  Homer.  869 

Fast-weeping  also  at  the  doleful  sight 
Of  his  true  friend  on  his  funereal  bed 
Extended,  gash'd  with  many  a  mortal  wound, 
Whom  he  had  sent  into  the  fight  with  steeds 
And  chariot,  but  received  him  thence  no  more. 

SOTHEBY. 

Then,  as  she  waved  her  wing,  and  past  above, 
Up  rose  Pelides,  the  beloved  of  Jove. 
Swift  on  his  breadth  of  shoulders  Pallas  spread 
The  aegis  fringed  with  death's  o'ershadowing  dread, 
Enwreathed  a  cloud  of  gold  his  brow  around, 
And  with  wide  dazzling  flames  its  circle  bound  ; 
As  when  the  smoke's  dark  columns  heaven  ascend 
From  some  far  isle  where  hosts  with  hosts  contend, 
And  through  the  city  gates,  in  mailed  array, 
The  natives  pour,  and  war  the  livelong  day ; 
But  where,  at  sunset,  through  each  nightly  hour, 
The  watch-fires  blaze,  and  crest  with  flame  the  tower, 
And  to  the  neighbour  isles  the  sign  repeat, 
The  beacon  beckoning  to  some  friendly  fleet : 
Thus  from  Pelides'  brow  a  stream  of  light 
Flow'd  forth,  and  far  illumed  th'  ethereal  height. 
The  hero  pass'd  the  wall,  and,  seen  from  far, 
Tower'd  o'er  the  fosse,  but  mix'd  not  with  the  war. 
Forewarn'd  of  Thetis,  there  Achilles  staid — 
There  shouted — and  a  sound  that  Troy  dismay 'd 
Burst  as  Minerva's  shout  his  outcry  swell'd, 
And  with  unearthly  fear  the  host  repell'd ; 
Clear  as  the  trumpet's  voice,  whose  signal  sound 
Forewarns,  ere  gathering  hosts  the  town  surround, 
Thus  clear  Pelides'  voice  ;  from  man  to  man, 
Swift  through  the  ranks  appalling  horror  ran, 
Started  each  war- steed,  and  with  wild  affright, 
Foreboding  slaughter,  wheel'd  the  car  for  flight, 
Cower'd  every  guide,  who  o'er  that  crest  illum'd, 
Saw  blazing  forth,  in  brightness  unconsumed, 
The  flames  by  Pallas  fed.     As  thus  his  brow 
Flash'd  o'er  the  tumult  in  the  fosse  below, 
Thrice  burst  his  shout,  and  thrice,  as  doom'd  to  fall 
On  Troy,  and  Troy's  allies,  fear  fell  on  all. 
Then  twelve,  the  noblest  Trojans,  bit  the  plain, 
By  their  own  darts  and  cars  confusedly  slain  ; 
And  joyfully  the  Greeks  withdrew  the  dead, 
And  laid  Patroclus  on  a  peaceful  bed. 
His  warriors  round  him  pour'd  their  loud  lament, 
But  mute  with  woe  behind  Achilles  went, 
While  o'er  his  ghastly  death- wounds  gush'd  bis  tear, 
Gush'd  o'er  his  brother,  bleeding  on  the  bier, 
Whom,  sent  by  him,  his  car,  his  coursers  bore, 
Beaming  with  valour,  but  brought  back  no  more. 

Chapman  shews  throughout  his  worthy  of  any  simile  from  earth  or 

translation  of  this  sublime  passage,  sky.  What  is  it?  The  beleaguered  city 

that  the  very  Achilles  stood  before  sends  up  by  daylight  its  signal  smoke 

his  imagination,  who  had  arisen  be-  — and  then  at  night  its  beacon-fire, 

fore  that  of  Homer.    He  makes,  in-  So — sayeth  Chapman,  well,  "  from 

deed,  Minerva  throw  over  the  hero's  his   head  a  light  rose  scaling  hea- 

shoulders,  not  her  own  JEgis,  but  the  ven."    Thus  arrayed  in  saving  terror, 

shield  of  Jove — a  mistake,  if  it  be  one,  "  forth  the  wall  he  slept  and  stood ;" 

of  no  moment,  for  he  was  beloved  by  nor  has  Homer's  self  better  shewn 

the  King  of  Heaven.    We  believe  it  the  sudden  sally  of  the  Apparition, 

is  no  mistake,  for  Jove  gave  Minerva  "  He  sent  abroad  his  voice,  which 

her  ^Egis.  His  head  is  then  girt  with  Pallas  far  off  echoed"  is  great — and 

a  cloud  of  gold— and  there  he  stands,  "  who  did  betwixt  them  hoiee  shrill 


870,      . 

tumult  to  a  topless  height,"  though 
not  in  Homer,  is  yet  Homeric,  and 
sends  the  shout  into  the  skies,  trum- 
pet-tongued.  But  in  the  Greek  the 
clang  is  more  dreadful ;  and  the  effect 
on  the  frightened  horses  more  instan- 
taneously flashed  upon  us ;  though 
Chapman  says  finely,  "  presaging  in 
their  augurous  hearts ;  rt  and  their 
guides  a  rejjercussive  dread  took 
from  the  horrid  radiance  of  his  reful- 
gent head,"  is  magnificent.  Towards 
the  close,  Chapman  becomes  cum- 
brous— and  moves  heavily  under  the 
weight  of  the  images  that  seem  to 
bear  down  the  description.  In  Homer, 
the  close  is  as  majestic  as  it  is  mourn- 
ful— as  simple  as  it  is  sublime. 

Pope  felt  the  grandeur  of  the  ori- 
ginal, like  a  true  poet ;  but  ambitious 
to  excel  it — magnis  tamen  excidit 
ausis — his  performance  is  noble.  "  A 
stream  of  glory  flamed  above  his 
head,"  is  one  of  those  vague  verses 
whose  sonorous  reign  is  over;  and 
how  poor  in  comparison  with  "  from 
it  she  kindled  a  flame  all  refulgent !" 
The  smokes  and  beacons  are  on  the 
wholegood,buttooelaborate.  Homer 
says,  "  Beacon-lights  glare  frequent, 
and  aloft  the  gleam  arises" — sudden 
and  bright;  whereas  Pope  pursues 
the  picturesque,  forgets  the  poet  in  th  e 
painter,  and  gives  us  "  with  long-pro- 
jected beams  the  seas  are  bright"  and 
"  heaven's  high  arch  reflects  the  rud- 
dy light," — two  fine  lines  undoubted- 
ly, but  the  first  implied  to  the  imagi- 
nation in  the  original,  for  the  city  is  on 
an  island.  "  Reflecting  blaze  on  blaze 
against  the  skies," — is  "  doing  into 
poetry;"  "  in  like  manner  from  Achil- 
les' head  the  beaming  light  reached 
the  firmament."  We  cannot  think 
that  "  Troy  starts  astonished,  and  the 
shores  rebound,"  is  equally  good  for 
the  occasion,  as  "  among  the  Trojans 
immense  confusion  caused."  But 
doctors  differ.  "  And  the  round  bul- 
warks and  thick  towers  reply,"  is  a 
line  that  Darwin  must  have  admired, 
and  eke  Mr  Price  on  the  Picturesque. 
But  Homer  was  not  thinking  of  the 
roundness  of  bulwarks,  or  the  thick- 
ness of  towers — simply  of  a  life- 
destroying-enemy-encompassed  city 
startled  by  a  forewarning  trumpet. 
\\Jiat  follows  is  spirited,  but  too 
much  in  the  same  style.  The  conclu- 
ding lines  about  Patroclus  and  Achil- 
les," though  not  sufficiently  infused 
with  the  scriptural  simplicity  of  Ho- 


tiol/ivbi/'s  Homer. 


[Dec. 


mer,  ave  however  solemn  and  stately, 
and  of  powerful  pathos.  With  such 
exceptions  and  allowances,  Pope's 
may  be  pronounced  a  very  fine  tran- 
slation. 

Cowper  catches  the  soul  of  the 
simile  just  like  Chapman.  Nothing 
can  be  better  than,  "  So  from  Achil- 
les' head  light  flashed  to  heaven !" 
"  He  stood  and  shouted,"  is  equally 
good — and  "  tumult  infinite  excited," 
are  three  words  more  powerful  than 
Pope's  pompous  line,  "  Troy  starts 
astonished,  and  the  shores  rebound." 
But  criticise  the  passage  for  yourself, 
which,  in  our  opinion,  is  excellent ; 
but  wants,  we  hardly  know  how,; 
something  of  the  spirit,  and  more  of 
the  sublimity  of  Homer.  Read  by 
itself,  it  is  good ;  but  along  with  the 
original,  somewhat  tame.  We  desi- 
derate the  ivia  •xn^ivTu.  of  the  rush- 
ing original,  nuo  > 

Sotheby  soars,  here,  above  all  his 
competitors.  He  has  all  the  raciness 
and  vigour  of  Chapman,  without  his 
roughnesses  and  his  inversions — all 
the  splendour  of  Pope,  without  his 
"false  glitter"— the  simplicity  without 
the  tameness,  if  tameness  it  be,  of 
Cowper;  and  an  ease  and  elegance  all 
his  own,  we  might  almost  say  the 
majesty  and  magnificence  of  Homer. 
This  is  high  praise;  but  the  most 
critical  examination  will  not  prove  it 
extravagant.  As  literal  as  prose  or 
blank  verse,  no  translation  in  rhyme 
can  ever  be  ;  but  here  Homer  is  ren- 
dered into  rhyme  with  the  consum- 
mate skill  of  inspiration.  All,  down 
to  the  body  of  Patroclus.  There 
Sotheby's  wing  flags — he  falters  in 
his  flight,  and  falls.  There  is  no  stu- 
died contrast  in  Homer,  as  in  Sothe- 
by, between  the  grief  of  Achilles 
and  the  other  warriors.  He  does 
not  say  that  they  poured  their  loud 
lament,  but  that  Achilles  was  mute 
with  woe.  They  surrounded  him 
"  lamenting"  —  he  "  shedding  scald- 
ing tears."  We  believe  he  was 
mute — but  on  that  so  is  Homer. 
"  Gushed  his  tear,"  is  feeble;  "bleed- 
ing on  the  bier,"  a  poor  repetition  of 
"  ghastly  death-wounds  ;"  "  whom, 
sent  by  him,"  &c.,  very  awkward ; 
"  beaming  with  valour,"  an  interpo- 
lation far  from  felicitous ;  and  "  but 
brought  back  no  more,"  how  un- 
affecting,  applied  to  the  car  and 
coursers,  as  it  here  is  by  Sotheby, 
in  comparison  with  "  never  again 


1881.1 


welcomed  back  returning,"  applied 
to  Achilles,  as  it  is  there  by  Homer! 

AH  night  long  the  Grecians  weep 
o'er  Patroclus,  while,  standing  in  the 
midst,  Pelides  leads  the  lamentation, 
on  the  bosom  of  his  breathless  friend 
imposing  his  homicidal  hands — in- 
censed as  a  grim  lion,  from  whose 
lair  among  thick  trees  the  hunter  has 
carried  off  his  whelps,  and  who,  too 
late  returning,  growls  over  his  loss, 
and  then  scours  wood  and  glen,  up 
and  down  on  the  footsteps  of  the 
robber,  that  he  may  rend  him  limb 
from  limb,  and  drink  his  blood.  In 
such  mood  Achilles  addresses  his 
Myrmidons — would  we  had  room  for 
his  speech  of  tears  and  fire!  All  night 
long  they  stand  around  him  deplo- 
ring his  dead  friend,  whose  body, 
bathed  in  water  from  "  the  singing 
brass,"  and  anointed  with  limpid  oil, 
and  all  its  ruddy  wounds  filled  with 
unguents  mellowed  by  nine  years' 
keep,  lies  covered  with  a  light  linen 
texture  from  head  to  feet.  At  morn- 
ing thus  is  he  found  by  Thetis,  "  bear- 
er of  the  gift  of  God,"  the  Celestial 
Armour.  "  My  son  !  however  reluc- 
tant,  leave  Patroclus'  corse — for  there 
it  lies  by  doom  of  Heaven ;  and  re- 
ceive thou  these  beauteous  arms, 
'  such  as  no  mortal  shoulders  ever 
wore  !' " 

The  SHIELD — the  SHIELD  !  Vul- 
can's masterpiece — whereof  there 
was  loud  bruit  in  Heaven. 

So  has  there  been  on  earth.  Thus 
my  Lord  Kames,  a  miscellaneous 
man,  whom  we  much  admire,  hath 
said,  "  the  decorations  of  a  dancing- 
room  ought  all  of  them  to  be  gay. 
No  picture  is  proper  for  a  church 
but  what  has  religion  for  its  subject. 
Every  ornament  upon  a  shield  should 
relate  to  war ;  and  Virgil,  with  great 
judgment,  confines  the  carving  upon 
the  shield  of  ^Eueas  to  the  military 
history  of  the  Romans.  That  beauty 
is  overlooked  by  Homer;  for  the 
bulk  of  the  sculpture  on  the  shield 
of  Achilles  is  of  the  arts  of  peace  in 
general,  and  of  joy,  and  festivity  in 
particular ;  the  author  of  Telema- 
chus  betrays  the  same  inattention  in 
describing  the  shield  of  that  young 
hero." 

"  Betrays  the  same  inattention!" 
This,  we  presume,  is  one  of  the  occa- 
sions on  which  the  good  Homer  was 
nodding ;  and  there  was  nobody  by 
to  give  him  a  rap  over  the  knuckles. 


Sotheby's  Homer.  Qfl 

Yet  let  Lord  Kames  consider  that 
this  is  no  ordinary  shield.  "  None  but 
itself  can  be  its  parallel,"  for  'tis  the 
sole  shield  made  by  Vulcan,  at  the 
order  of  Thetis,  for  Achilles.  The 
sea-goddess  gave  him  no  pattern  to 
work  by — 'twas  "  all  made  out  of  the 
forger's  brain,"  and 


"  Full  twenty   bellows  working   all   at 

once, 
Breathed  on  the  furnace,  blowing  easy  and 

free  jfcsob  siiji 

The  managed  winds."          uj  bus 


The  artist  allowed  himself  all  lati- 
tude ;  and  having  formed  "  a  triple 
border  beauteous,  dazzling  bright," 
with  what  filled  he  the  interior  of 
the  "  broad  circumference  ?"  Why, 
with  the  Earth,  the  Heaven,  the  Sea, 
the  Moon  full-orbed,  and  he  that 
wearieth  not,  the  unresting  Sun. 
Why  not  the  Stars?  They  too  are 
there— 

"  All  the  stars,  which  round  about 
As  with  a  radiant  frontlet  bind  the  skies  — 
The   Pleiads,   and  the   Hyads,  and  the 

might 
Of  huge  Orion,  hungry  for  the  mom," 

;iu;W59a      .*,''£* 

and  with  him,  "  Ursa  called,  known 
also  by  his  popular  name,  the  Wain," 
the  sole  star  that  slakes  not  his 
beams  in  the  briny  baths  of  Ocean. 

'Tis  thus  the  good  Homer  nods. 

But  his  lordship  says,  "  that  every 
ornament  on  a  shield  should  relate 
to  war."  And  was  there  never  war 
in  the  skies  ?  But  here  we  have  war, 
too,  on  the  earth.  Here  men,  as  Mil- 
ton says  of  devils, 

"  Smote  on  this  sounding  skidd  the  din  of 

war, 
Hurling  deOance  towards  the  vault  of  hea- 

ven." 

For  lo,  "  such  as  men  build,  two 
splendid  cities  !"  In  one,  rites  ma- 
trimonial solemnized  with  pomp  of 
sumptuous  banquets.  But  not  long 
that  peace  endures  ;  for  strife  arises 
—  and  citizens  contend  for  a  mulct, 
the  price  of  blood,  and  the  people, 
as  passion  sways  them,  clamour  loud, 
and  heralds  quell  the  tumult,  and  on 
polished  stones  the  Elders  in  a  ring, 
each  with  a  sceptre  in  his  hand,  pro- 
nounce sentence  —  and  then  there  ia 
^silence.  The  other  (city)  is  invest- 
ed by  two  glittering  hosts  —  and  they 
debate  whether  to  divide  the  spoil, 
or  bum  and  raze  the  city.  "  Here," 
says  Pope,  "  in  the  space  of  thirty 


Sotheby's  Homer. 


[Dec. 


lines,  a  siege,  a  sally,  an  ambush,  the 
surprise  of  a  convoy,  and  a  battle, 
with  scarce  a  circumstance  proper 
to  any  of  these  omitted" — and  what 
would  his  lordship  be  at,  in  longing 
for  more  blood  ? 

Surely  mortal  men  are  not  always 
slaughtering  over  the  whole  world. 
Sometimes  they  sleep,  work,  eat, 
drink,  dance,  sing,  and  propagate 
their  species.  On  the  Shield,  there- 
fore, behold  a  fallow  field,  rich,  spa- 
cious, and  well-tilled — ploughers  not 
a  few — and  oft  as  in  their  course  they 
come  to  the  bourne  of  the  many-acred 
breadth  of  blackish  but  golden  glebe, 
so  oft  meets  them  a  man  "  who  in 
their  hands  a  goblet  placed,  charged 
with  delicious  wine." 

But  the  green  spring  is  over  and 
gone,  and  so  is  the  yellow  summer, 
and  lo !  the  likeness  of  a  field  crowd- 
ed with  corn,  and  the  sharp-toothed 
sickles  gleam  among  the  jolly  reap- 
ers I  Boys  binding  the  bundles,  and 
among  them  the  master,  staff  in  hand, 
stands  "  enjoying  mute  the  order  of 
the  field."  Apart  beneath  the  shade 
of  an  oak  his  train  prepare  the  ban- 
quet— as  if  Ambrose'  self  were  there 
— "  a  well-thriven  ox  new  slain,  while 
for  the  hinds  tli'  attendant  maidens 
mix  of  whitest  flour  large  supper." 

See — now— a  vineyard  all  of 
gold.  Purple  did  Vulcan  make  the 
clusters,  and  the  vines  supported 
stood  "  by  poles  of  silver  set  in  even 
rows."  There,  in  frails  of  wicker, 
blithe  youths  and  maidens  bear  the 
luscious  fruit ;  and  in  the  midst,  on 
his  shrill  harp,  a  boy  harmonious 
plays,  and  ever  as  he  smites  the 
chords,  he  sings  to  it  with  a  slender 
voice.  Behind 

"  Nodding  their  heads  together  go 
The  merry  minstrelsy," 

and  how  ancient  the  gallopade  ! 

The  pastoral  age  I  Four  golden 
herdsmen,  by  nine  swift  dogs  attend- 
ed, drive  the  kine  afield,  forth  to 
pasture  by  a  river  side,  "  rapid,  so- 
norous, fringed  with  circling  reeds." 
From  the  brake  outleaps  a  lion,  the 
herdsmen  fly,  and  as  he  tears  the 
hide  of  a  huge  bull,  and  laps  his 
•bloody  entrails,  the  dogs  stand  bark- 
ing aloof, "  for  no  tooth  for  lion's  flesh 
have  they." 

But  see — with  Sotheby  (in  whose 
hands  the  Shield  is  as  Dsedaleau  as 
in  Homer's,)  a  scene  of  perfect 


peace.    For,  as  he  beautifully  says, 
in  lines  that  shall  be  immortal, — 
"  Now  the  god's  changeful  artifice  dis- 

play'd 

Fair  flocks  at  pasture  in  a  lovely  glade ; 
And  folds  and  sbelt'ring  stalls  peep'd  up 

between, 
And    shepherds'    huts    diversified     the 

scene." 

"  Last  scene  of  all,  to  close  this 
strange  eventful  history,"  a  Choir, 
"  Such  as  famed  Daedalus  on  Gnossus* 

shore, 
For    bright-hair'd    Ariadne,  form'd    of 

yore." 

The  fair  girls,  all  in  white  rai- 
ment, in  light-flowing  robes  of  the 
linen  fine,  and  the  youths,  in  glossy 
tunics;  flower-wreathed  the  para- 
nymnhs,  and  their  heroic  partners 
dancing  armed  with 

"  Swords  that  all  gold 
From  belts  of  silver  swung." 
Well  done  Vulcan,  by  Jupiter ! 
"  Last,  with  the  might  of  ocean's  bound- 
less flood, 

He  filled  the  border  of  the  wondrous 
Shield." 

The  shade  of  Kames,  then,  must 
at  this  moment  be  blushing  black 
and  blue  in  Elysium.  And  now  that 
we  are  about  it,  we  may  as  well  give 
his  lordship  another  lecture.  He  is 
a  stiff  stickler  for  congruity.  We 
have  seen  his  objections  to  the  inap- 
propriate imagery  of  the  Shield,  of 
which  all  the  ornaments  should  have 
been  those  of  war.  Having  humbled 
Homer,  he  mounts  his  hobby  and 
charges  Milton.  "  In  reading  the 
description  of  the  dismal  waste, 
Book  I.  of  Paradise  Lost,  we  are 
sensible  of  a  confused  feeling  arising 
from  dissimilar  emotions  forced  into 
union,  to  wit,  the  beauty  of  the  de- 
scription, and  the  horror  of  the  ob- 
ject described-* 

'  Seest  thou  yon  dreary  plain,  forlorn  and 

wild, 

The  seat  of  desolation,  void  of  light, 
Save  what  the  glimmering  of  these  livid 

flames 
Casts  pale  and  dreadful  ?' 

With  respect  to  this  and  many  simi- 
lar passages  in  Paradise  Lost,  we  are 
sensible,  that  the  emotions  being  ob- 
scured by  each  other,  make  neither 
of  them  that  figure  they  would  make 
separately."  Euge  !  What  does  the 
Paper-Lord  mean,  by  saying  that 


1831.]  Sotheby's  Homer.  878 

here  dissimilar  emotions  arc  forced  we  call  the  cant  of  criticism.    His 

into  union  ?   No  such  thing.    The  lordship  has  been  mouthing  away 

excellence  of  the  description  con-  in  a  Scotch  metaphysical  mist.  Such 

sists  in  its  accuracy  and  vividness ;  in  those  days,  and  it  is  but  little  bet- 

and  therefore  cannot  be  discordant,  ter  now,  was  the  state  in  Scotland 

surely,  with  the  horrors  that  it  per-  (yet  Kames  and  Beattie  were  con- 

fectly  paints  to  the  imagination.    If,  temporaries,  just  like  Maga  and  the 

indeed,  the  description  had  mingled  Blue  and  Yellow)  of  the  Philosophy 

images  of  beauty  with  images  ofhor-  of  the  Belles  Lettres. 
ror,ihen,  according  to  Kames's  theory        Lo  !  Thetis  the  Sea-goddess !  Well 

of  the  matter,  it  might  have  been  might  she  say — for  suitable  to  such 

faulty,  and  the  incongruity  might  a  shield  were  the  offensive  arms  she 

have  displeased  or  shocked;  but  as  brought  along  with  it  from  heaven 

it  stands,  no  such  objection  can  be  — "  My  son !  receive,  receive  thou 

urged  against  it,  and  the  description  these  beauteous  arms,  such  as  no 

is  censured,  because  it  is  good.  This  mortal  shoulders  ever  wore." 

NORTH. 

Thus  having  spoken,  the  goddess  laid  down  the  arms 
Before  Achilles ;  and  they,  Dsedalean,  all  rung. 
But  trembling  seized  the  Myrmidons  all,  nor  durst  any  one 
On  them  look — but  were  terrified ;  Achilles, 
When  he  beheld  them,  greater  anger  entered — and  his  eyes 
From  under  his  eyelids,  like  a  flame,  horribly  out-gleamed. 
Delighted,  however,  was  he,  holding  in  his  hands  the  splendid  gifts  of  the  god. 
But  when  he  had  feasted  his  soul  by  gazing  on  the  arms  Dsedalean, 
Forthwith  his  mother,  with  these  winged  words,  be  addressed. 
"  Mother  mine,  these  arms  indeed  hath  a  god  bestowed,  such  as  it  is  beseeming 
That  the  works  of  immortals  should  be ;  and  which  no  mortal  man  could  have  ac- 
complished ; 
Instantly  then  will  I  arm  myself." 

CHAPMAN. 

Thus,  setting  down,  the  precious  metal  of  the  arms  was  such, 

That  all  the  room  rung  with  the  weight  of  every  slenderest  touch. 

Cold  tremblings  took  the  Myrmidons ;  none  durst  sustain,  all  fear'd 

T'oppose  their  eyes ;  Achilles  yet,  as  soon  as  they  appear'd, 

Stern  anger  enter'd.     From  his  eyes,  as  if  the  dog-star  rose, 

A  radiance  terrifying  men,  did  all  the  state  enclose. 

At  length,  he  took  into  his  hands  the  rich  gift  of  the  god  ; 

And,  much  pleased  to  behold  the  art  that  in  the  shield  was  show'd, 

He  brake  forth  into  this  applause,  &c. 

POPE. 

Then  drops  the  radiant  burden  on  the  ground, 

Clang  the  strong  arms,  and  ring  the  shores  around. 

Back  shrink  the  Myrmidons  with  dread  surprise, 

And  from  the  broad  effulgence  turn  their  eyes. 

Unmoved,  the  hero  kindles  at  the  show, 

And  feels  with  rage  divine  his  bosom  glow  ; 

From  his  fierce  eyeballs  living  flames  expire, 

And  flash  incessant  like  a  stream  of  fire ; 

He  turns  the  radiant  gift,  and  feeds  his  mind 

On  all  the  immortal  artist  had  design'd. 
COWPER. 

So  saying,  she  placed  the  armour  on  the  ground 

Before  him,  and  the  whole  bright  treasure  rang. 

Awe-struck,  the  Myrmidons  all  turn'd  away 

Their  dazzled  eyes,  and,  trembling,  fled  the  place. 

Not  so  Pelides.     He  no  sooner  saw 

The  gift  divine,  than  in  his  heart  he  felt 

Redoubled  wrath ;  a  splendour,  as  of  fire, 

Flash'd  from  his  eyes.     Delighted,  in  his  hand 

He  held  the  glorious  bounty  of  the  god, 

And  wondering  at  those  shapes  of  art  divine,  &c. 


874 
,STB9qa 
—  abnt 


ao 


aahihvT  b 

SOTHEBY. 


o3T 

bfTfii; 


;B  79iU  "— - o'iftil  9iU  ernifc 
_,ake,  and  laid  the  arms  5SJ fert  before, 

And    '""<'    °"-T   1—  ^"-f    „»   fKo   K,.Q,or,    ^ur 


loud  and  long  burst  up  the  brazen  roar. 
Fear  fell  on  all;  none,  none,  though  bold  in  fight, 
Dared  on  the  gift  celestial  fix  his  sight. 
But  when  Achilles  saw  them,  flaming  ire 
Flashed  from  his  eyelids  like  a  stream  of  fire. 
Firmly  he  grasp'd  them,  and,  with  grim  delight, 
Felt,  as  he  grasp'd,  unconquerable  might. 

The  se-     cliffs.    Neither  was  the  noise  like 


-egA 
Jbool 

Chapman  is  grand,  sir. 
coud  line,  though  not  perhaps  ex- 
actly what  you  will  see  by  and  by, 
we  think,  the  hidden  meaning,  is  most 
expressive  of  the  subtile  sound  sleep- 
ing and  waking  in  the  exquisite  finish 
or  the  arms,  and  the  effect  produced 
by  what  then  happened  on  the  Myr- 
midons and  on  Achilles,  put  with 
prodigious  power — and  how  finely  ! 
rope's  paraphrase  is  magnificent — 
always  saving  and  excepting  "  living 
flames,"  especially  when  said  sillily 
to  be  like  "  streams  of  fire."  Cow- 
per's  version  is  close  and  compact, 
and  bright  as  the  celestial  armour. 
Sotheby's  is  splendid  as  it  should 
be— and  the  last  two  lines  all  that 
could  be  desired  ;  but  confound 
"  naming  ire,"  like  a  "  stream  of 
fire." 

What  was  the  nature  of  the  noise, 
think  ye,  heard  by  Homer,  when  "  ™ 

3'  avsCjo^s  Sa/JaXa   tfetvrx'     Pope  SayS, 

"  clang  and  ring ;"  Cowper,  the 
"  whole  bright  treasure  rang;"  Sothe- 
by,  "  and  loud  and  long  burst  up 
the  brazen  roar."  Pope  and  Cow- 
per do  not  commit  themselves  by 
conjecture  of  the  imagination  as  to 
the  nature  of  the  noise,  beyond  the 
revelation  of  the  text.  Sotheby 
does ;  and,  much  as  we  admire  him, 
as  often  a  matchless  translator,  we 
here  charge  him  with  gross  exag- 
geration. There  was  no  roar  at  all 
— much  less  a  long  and  loud  one — 
and  on  that  we  lay  our  ears.  The 
noise  was  not  like  that  of  thunder — 
though  thunder  sometimes  clangs 
and  clatters  alarmingly,  as  if  some- 
thing celestial,  or  rather  infernal, 
were  shivered,  while  itdid  shiver — re- 
percussively  broken  back  by  gnarled 
oak,  tower  "  cased  in  the  unfeeling 
armour  of  old  t im e,"  or-by*  the  tinkl ing 
iron  of  a  precipice.  The  noise  was 
not  like  that  of  a  cataract,  though 
8ometimesa"grand  water-privilege," 
as  the  Americans  say,  through  the 
rumbling  hollowness  of  the  howl  in- 
termingles a  metallic  music  that 
seems  to  come  clangorous  from  the 


that  of  a  bull  in  a  china-shop,  which 
the  calmest  auditor  pronounces  de- 
cisive of  the  downfall  of  the  whole 
Celestial  Empire.  Nor  was  the  noise 
like  that  of  the  overturning  of  a 
huge  waggon-full  of  cast-iron  bars  on 
the  crown  of  a  Scotch  causeway  of 
granite-pits,  such  as  endangered  the 
limbs  and  lives  of  the  natives  of 
great  cities  before  the  age  of  Mac- 
adam— a  resistless  species  of  irony 
that  drove  the  deafest  dumb.  But 
it  was  more  like  that  than  the 
long  and  loud  bursting  up  brazen 
roar  of  Sotheby.  Suppose,  then, 
the  sudden  clash,  clatter,  and  clang, 
of  ever  so  many  cymbals  savagely 
shattered  and  shivered,  as  if  smitten 
all  at  once  together  in  the  air  by  the 
cross  currents  of  a  brace  of  whirl- 
winds. The  crash  would  be  mighty, 
magnificent,miraculous,and  it  would 
be  musical;  for  they  were  all  at- 
tempered and  attuned;  and  all  the 
time  the  noise  continued  to  endure, 
and  that  mightnotbe  inconsiderable, 
the  earth  would  dirl,  and  the  air 
would  quake,  but  harmony,  not  dis- 
cord, would  be  prevailing  over  us, 
even  while  we  clapt  our  hands  to 
our  ears  in  fear  and  astonishment,  ab- 
sconded, swooned,  or  died.  No  other 
noise  can  we  imagine  so  near  in  its  es- 
sential nature  to  that  of  the  armour  of 
Achilles,  as  Thetis  from  her  immortal 
hands  let  it  fall  at  the  feet  of  the  Hero 
of  Heroes.  No  wonder  that  the  Myr- 
midons all  took  up  ahowlingand  fled, 
like  wolves  on  a  wild  night  that  in 
herds  howl  to  the  moon  bursting  out 
of  the  clouds,  and  in  hideous  hubbub 
away  to  the  woods.  No  wonder  that 
the  soul  of  Achilles  was  glad  within 
him,  even  as  the  soul  of  the  shepherd 
eyeing  Homers  own  favourite  noc- 
turnal sky,  when  first  a  few  beauti- 
ful stars  appear  round  the  shining 
moon,  and  then,  as  the  clouds  dis- 
part from  below,  is  seen  in  ascen- 
sion over  the  infinite  altitude,  all  the 
bright  magnificence  of  heaven. 
"  These  are  no  work  of  man !"  ex- 


1831.] 


Sotheby's  Homer- 


$7$ 


claims  the  hero  —  "  they  are  the  work 
of  Vulcan,  and  worthy  heaven.  Now 
will  I  brace  them  on  —  but  sore  I  fear 
lest  worm-engendering  flies,  piercing 
through  his  wounds,  disgrace  the 
body  of  my  Patroclus."  —  "  Peace  — 
peace,  my  son  ;  fresh  —  fresher  than 
ever  here  might  it  lie  for  a  year  !  — 
But  call  all  the  heroes  to  council  — 
renounce  thy  rage  against  the  king 
—  and  then,  girding  thee  in  the  glory 
of  thy  might,  away  —  away  to  battle  !" 
Then  with  shouts  Pelides  past  along 
the  strand,  the  roused  chiefs  all  flock- 
ing  around  him  —  and  all  those,  too, 
who  used  to  tarry  mid  the  fleet,  and 
all  who  used  to  sit  immovable  at  the 
helm  —  and  all  who  ministered  and 
doled  the  food—  all  once  more  to  be- 

hold—  Achilles.    Then  came  Ulysses 

a  9'U(T*n!  Hf)lh:j  7J;t«T 


&— 


and  Tydides,  propt  on  their  spears, 
and  half-  forgotten  their  wounds  — 
and  last  to  the  council  came  the  son 
of  Atreus  himself  —  the  King.  The 
reconciliation  is  complete  —  King  and 
Prince  lay  the  blame  of  the  quarrel 
on  Jove  —  and  the  cry  of  Achilles  is 
for  instant  battle.  Ulysses  and  Aga- 
memnonboth  counsel  rest  and  food, 
that  so  with  all  the  strength  of  soul 
and  body  they  may  charge  the  Tro- 
jans.  Atrides,  too,  is  eager  to  swear 
by  all  the  heavenly  powers  that  Bri- 
seis  is  intact  —  and  to  lay  all  the 
promised  treasures  at  the  feet  of  his 
friend.  The  bearing  of  all  is  kingly 
—  but  Achilles  is  Achilles  still,  his 
own  will  is  his  sole  law,  and  he  is 
subject  but  to  his  passion. 

-  -n   -si  y^, 

faoxs  bus    dhMi 


Him  the  swift-footed  Achilles  answering,  addressed, 

Son  of  Atreus,  most  illustrious,  King  of  men,  Agamemnon, 

Hereafter,  indeed,  ought  you  rather  to  busy  yourself  about  such  tilings 

When  some  pause  of  war  shall  take  place, 

And  martial  ardour  is  not  so  great  in  my  breast  : 

But  now  cut-in-pieces  lie  those,  whom  subdued 

Hath  Hector  the  son  of  Priam,  —  since  to  him  hath  Jupiter  given  renownV 

Do  you,  however,  urge  on  (the  soldiers)  to  take  refreshments  :  I,  for  my  part,  would 

verily, 

Even  now,  exhort  to  the  fight  the  sons  of  the  Greeks 
Fasting,  unfed  :  but  along  with  the  sun's  going  down 
To  prepare  a  great  supper,  when  we  shall  have  revenged  the  affront. 
Until  then,  may  never  down  my  throat  pass 
Or  drink,  or  food,  —  while  my  friend  lies  dead, 
Who,  in  my  tent,  by  sharp  brass  mangled 

Lies  (with  his  feet)  turned  to  the  vestibule:*  and  around  him  his  companions 
Lament:  in  no  respect,  then,  are  these  things  (food  and  drink)  a  care  to  my  mind, 
But  slaughter,  and  blood,  and  the  agonizing  groans  of  heroes. 

.     r 

The  oath  is  sworn  —  and  the  gifts    feminei  ululatus,   the   chiefs  again 
delivered  —  and  Briseis,  restored  to     would  press  on  him  the  proffered 

food  —  but  Achilles  cries,  "  vex  me  no 
more  —  misery  drinks  my  blood  —  and 
nor  food  nor  drink  shall  be  mine 
till  the  close  of  day  bring  the  end  of 


the  tent  of  her  lawful  lord,  lovely  as 
the  light  and  the  golden  Venus, 
clasps  Patroclus  in  her  arms,"and  in 
an  immortal  lay  of  lamentation,  ce- 
lebrates  the  gentle  virtues  of  the 
fallen  hero.  At  the  close  of  all  the 


battle." 


XORTII. 

Thus  having  said,  one  here,  one  there,  the  chiefs  he  dispersed} 
But  there  remained  the  two  sons  of  Atreus,  and  the  illustrious  Ulysses, 
Nestor,  and  Idomeneus,  and  the  aged  charioteer  Phoenix, 
Trying-to-comfort  him  (while)  sorrowing  exceedingly  :  nor  in  his  mind 
Would  he  be  comforted,  until  he  had  rushed  into  the  mouth  of  bloody  war; 
Calling  to  mind  (Patroclus),  closely-pressing  (groans)  he  heaved,  and  spoke, 
"  Aye-unhappy  one,  thou  most  beloved  of  friends,  even  thou  for  me 
Wert,  of  thyself,  wont  to  prepare  a  sweet  banquet  in  the  tent 
Speedily  and  carefully,  when  the  Greeks  were  hastening  on 
To  curry  much-  weeping-  causing  war  among  the  horse-subduing  Trojans  : 
.    _ 


*  The  way  in.  which  the  dead  were  laid  out, 


876  Sotheby's  Homer.  [Dec. 

But  now  mangled  thou  liest ;  and  my  heart 

Fasting  from  drink  and  food— (though  these  are  within)— 

(  On  account  of)  my  longing  for  thee, — for  no  greater  evil  could  1  endure, 

No — not  even  were  I  to  hear  of  my  father's  having  been  cut  off, 

Who  perchance  now  drops  a  tender  tear 

For  the  bereavement  of  such  a  son :  while  I,  among  an  alien  people, 

For  the  sake  of  Helen  the  abhorred,  am  fighting  against  the  Trojans. 

(No— nor)  of  his — who  in  Scyros  is  being  reared — my  son  beloved — 

If  indeed  he  still  lives— the  god-looking  Neoptolemus. 

Erst  indeed  was  my  soul  in  my  breast  wont  to  hope, 

That  I  only  should  die  far  from  the  horse-rearing  Argos, 

Here  at  Troy,  but  that  thou  shouldst  return  to  Phthia, 

That  my  son,  in  a  swift-sailing  dark  ship, 

From  Scyros  thou  mightst  conduct — and  shew  him  every  thing — 

My  possessions,  and  my  female  slaves,  and  my  lofty-roofed  spacious  mansion. 

For  Peleiis,  methinks,  is  by  this  time  indeed 

Dead,  or  scarcely  still  alive  is  sorrowing 

In  hateful  old  age,  and  of  me  expecting  always 

Doleful  tidings,  that  he  shall  hear  of  me  as  dead." 

Thus  spoke  he  weeping :  the  chiefs,  too,  groaned— 

As  each  called  to  mind  what  he  had  left  at  home. 

Meantime  Jove,  moved  by  compas-  else  is  to  be  found  out  of  Homer, 

sion  for  Achilles,  commands  Minerva  except  it  be  in  Milton ;  for  all  the 

to  go  and  instil  ethereal  substance  world  has  lifted  up  above  all  other 

into  his  heart.     And  then  conies  Poems  Paradise  Lost  and  the  Iliad, 
such  a  burst  of  Poetry  as  nowhere 

NORTH. 

Thus  having  spoken,  he  stirred  up  Minerva  already  anxious  (to  obey  his  commands :) 

But  she,  like  a  harpy,  with  wide-extended  wings,  shrill- voiced, 

From  heaven  darted  down  through  the  air;  but  the  Greeks 

Were  then  arming  throughout  the  camp  ;  in  Achilles' 

Breast  nectar  and  pleasing  ambrosia 

She  dropped,  that  painful  hunger  might  not  pervade  his  limbs. 

She  to  the  crowded  mansion  of  her  almighty  father 

Departed  :  while  they  from  the  swift-sailing  ships  were  issuing. 

As  when  dense  snow-showers  out- fly  from  Jove, 

Cold  from  the  impulse  of  the  frosty-air-producing  Boreas; 

So  dense  then  were  the  bright  gleaming  helmets 

Borne  from  the  ships, — and  embossed  shields, 

And  strong  cuirasses,  and  ashen  spears : 

The  lustre  heavenward  ascended,  and  the  earth  all  around  laughed 

With  the  lightning  of  brass :  and  a  hollow  sound  started  up  from  under  the  trampling 

Of  heroes  :  in  the  midst  was  armed  the  godlike  Achilles, 

Grinding  his  teeth,  and  whose  eyes 

Rolled  glowing  like  a  flash  of  fire,  into  whose  heart 

Entered  intolerable  pain  :  raving  against  the  Trojans, 

He  donned  the  gifts  divine  which  the  artist  Vulcan  had  made  for  him. 

First  around  his  thighs  he  placed  the  cuishes 

Beautifully  formed,  and  fixed  with  silver  clasps. 

Next  the  cuirass  on  his  chest  he  placed. 

Then  around  his  shoulders  he  threw  (the  baldric  of)  his  sword  studded  with  silver 

knobs 

And  brass :  and  then  his  shield,  large  and  broad, 
He  took,  whose  refulgence  spread  far  and  wide  like  that  of  the  moon. 
As  when  from  the  sea,  there  shines  to  mariners  a  beam 
Of  flaming  fire,  which  blazes  aloft  from  the  mountains, 
In  a  shepherd's  solitude  :  them  reluctant,  the  tempests 
Bear  away  far  from  their  friends  over  the  fishy  sea  : 
In  like  manner  the  gleam  mounted  heavenward  from  Achilles'  shield 
Beautiful,  Daedalean.     His  mighty  helmet  uplifting 
On  his  head  he  placed  ;  like  a  star,  shone 

The  horse-hair-crested  helmet :  there  waved  around  him  the  hair 
Of  gold,  with  which  in  great  abundance  Vulcan  had  surrounded  the  crest. 


1881.]  Sotheby's  Homer. 

The  godlike  Achilles  essayed  himself  in  his  armour, 
Whether  it  might  fit  him,  and  if  his  fair  limbs  should  move  easily  -. 
To  him  it  was  like  wings,  and  buoyed  up  the  Shepherd  of  the  people. 
From  the  sheath  his  paternal  spear  he  drew, 
Ponderous,  huge,  strong :  which  none  other  of  the  Greeks  was  able 
To  brandish,  and  which  Achilles  alone  knew  how  to  rear, 
— That  ashen  spear  of  Peleus  which  Chiron  had  hewed  for  his  father 
From  the  summit  of  Pelion, — to  be  death  to  heroes  ! 

CHAPMAN. 

This  spurre  he  added  to  the  free, 

And  like  a  harpye  (with  a  voice  that  shriekes  so  dreadfully, 
And  feathers  that  like  needles  prickt)  she  stoopt  through  all  the  starres 
Amongst  the  Grecians ;  all  whose  tents  were  now  fill'd  for  the  warres. 
Her  seres  strooke  through  Achilles'  tent ;  and  closely  she  instill'd 
Heaven's  most-to-be-desired  feast,  to  his  great  breast;  and  fiil'd 
His  sinewes  with  that  sweete  supply,  for  feare  vnsauorie  fast 
Should  creepe  into  his  knees.     Her  selfe  the  skies  againe  enchac't. 

The  host  set  forth,  and  pour'd  his  steele  waues  farre  out  of  the  fleete ; 
And  as  from  aire  the  frostie  northwind  blows  a  colde  thicke  sleete 
That  dazzles  eyes,  flakes  after  flakes  incessantly  descending  ; 
So  thicke  helmes,  curets,  ashen  darts,  and  round  shields  neuer  ending, 
Flow'd  from  the  nauie's  hollow  wombe ;  their  splendors  gaue  Heauen's  eye 
His  beames  againe  ;  Earth  laught  to  see  her  face  so  like  the  skie ; 
Armes  shined  so  hote,  arid  she  such  clouds  made  with  the  dust  she  cast- 
She  thunder'd — feet  of  men  and  horse  importuned  her  so  fast. 
In  midst  of  all,  diuine  Achilles  his  faire  person  arm'd; 
His  teeth  gnasht  as  he  stood — his  eyes  so  full  of  fire,  they  warm'd  ; 
Vnsuffer'd  griefe  and  anger  at  the  Troians  so  combined ; 
His  greaues  first  vsde,  his  goodly  curets  on  his  bosom e  shined; 
His  sword,  his  shield,  that  cast  a  brightnesse  from  it  like  the  moone. 
And  as  from  sea  sailers  discerne  a  harmfull  fire,  let  runne 
By  herdsmen's  faults,  till  all  their  stall  flies  vp  in  wrastling  flame, 
Which  being  on  hils,  is  seene  farre  off;  but  being  alone,  none  came 
To  giue  it  quench,  at  shore  no  neighbors,  and  at  sea  their  friends 
Driuen  off  with  tempests  :  such  a  fire  from  his  bright  shield  extends 
His  ominous  radiance,  and  in  heauen  imprest  his  feruent  blaze. 


18 


His  crested  helmet,  graue  and  high,  had'next  triumphant  place 
On  his  curl'd  head ;  and  like  a  starre,  it  cast  a  spurrie  ray, 
About  which  a  bright  thicken'd  bush  of  golden  haire  did  play, 


A- 


Which  Vulcan  forged  him  for  his  plume.     Thus  compleate  arm'd,  he  tride 
How  fit  they  were,  and  if  his  motion  could  with  ease  abide 
Their  braue  instruction  ;  and  so  farre  they  were  from  hindering  it, 
That  to  it  they  were  nimble  wings,  and  made  so  light  his  spirit, 
That  from  the  earth  the  princely  captaine  they  took  vp  to  aire. 
Then  from  his  armoury  he  drew  his  lance,  his  father's  speare, 
Huge,  weightie,  firme,  that  not  a  Greeke  but  he  himselfe  alone 
Knew  how  to  shake.     It  grew  vpon  the  mountaine  Pelion, 
From  whose  height  Chiron  hew'd  it  for  his  sire ;  and  fatall  'twas 
To  great- soul'd  men.  —  —  _  __ 

POPE. 

He  spoke ;  and  sudden  at  the  word  of  Jove, 
Shot  the  descending  goddess  from  above. 
So  swift  through  ether  the  shrill  harpy  springs, 
The  wide  air  floating  to  her  ample  wings. 
To  great  Achilles  she  her  flight  addrest, 
And  pour'd  divine  ambrosia  in  his  breast, 
With  nectar  sweet,  (refection  of  the  gods !) 
Then,  swift  ascending,  sought  the  bright  abodes. 

Now  issued  from  the  ships  the  warrior  train, 
And  like  a  deluge  pour'd  upon  the  plain. 
As  when  the  piercing  blasts  of  Boreas  blow, 
And  scatter  o'er  the  fields  the  driving  snow ; 
From  dusky  clouds  the  fleecy  winter  flies, 
Whose  dazzling  lustre  whitens  all  the  skies : 


878  Sotheby's  Homer.  [Dec. 

So  helms  succeeding  helms,  so  shields  from  shields 

Catch  the  quick  beams,  and  brighten  all  the  fields; 

Broad  glittering  breastplates,  spears  with  pointed  rays, 

Mix  in  one  stream,  reflecting  blaze  on  blaze  •. 

Thick  beats  the  "center  as  the  coursers  bound, 

With  splendour  flame  the  skies,  and  laugh  the  fields  around. 
Full  in  the  midst,  high-tow'ring  o'er  the  rest, 

His  limbs  in  arms  divine  Achilles  drest ; 

Arms  which  the  Father  of  the  Fire  bestow'd, 

Forged  on  the  eternal  anvils  of  the  god. 

Grief  and  revenge  his  furious  heart  inspire, 

His  glowing  eyeballs  roll  with  living  fire ; 

He  grinds  his  teeth,  and  furious  with  delay 

O'erlooks  the  embattled  host,  and  hopes  the  bloody  day. 
The  silver  cuishes  first  his  thighs  enfold  : 

Then  o'er  his  breast  was  braced  the  hollow  gold  : 

The  brazen  sword  a  various  baldrick  ty'd, 

That,  starr'd  with  gems,  hung  glitt'ring  at  his  side ; 

And  like  the  moon,  the  broad  refulgent  shield 

Blazed  with  long  rays,  and  gleam'd  athwart  the  field. 

So  to  night-wand'ring  sailors,  pale  with  fears, 
Wide  o'er  the  wat'ry  waste  a  light  appears, 
Which  on  the  far- seen  mountain  blazing  high, 

Streams  from  some  lonely  watch-tower  to  the  sky : 

With  mournful  eyes  they  gaze,  and  gaze  again ; 
Loud  howls  the  storm,  and  drives  them  o'er  the  main. 
Next  his  high  head  the  helmet  graced ;  behind 
The  sweepy  crest  hung  floating  in  the  wind : 
Like  the  red  star,  that  from  his  flaming  hair 

Shakes  down  diseases,  pestilence  and  war  : 

So  stream'd  the  golden  honours  from  his  head, 

Trembled  the  sparkling  plumes,  and  the  loose  glories  shed. 

The  chief  beholds  himself  with  wond'ring  eyes  ; 
His  arms  he  poises,  and  his  motions  tries  ; 
Buoy'd  by  some  inward  force,  he  seems  to  swim, 
And  feels  a  pinion  lifting  ev'ry  limb. 

And  now  he  shakes  his  great  paternal  spear, 
Pond'rous  and  huge !  which  not  a  Greek  could  rear. 
From  Pelion's  cloudy  top  an  ash  entire 
Old  Chiron  fell'd,  and  shap'd  it  for  his  sire  ; 
A  spear  which  stern  Achilles  only  wields, 
The  death  of  heroes,  and  the  dread  of  fields. 
COWPER. 

—  He  urged  Minerva  prompt  before. 

In  form  a  shrill- voiced  harpy  of  broad  wing 

Through  ether  down  she  darted,  while  the  Greeks 

In  all  their  camp  for  instant  battle  arm'd. 

Ambrosial  sweets  and  nectar  she  instill'd 

Into  his  breast,  lest  he  should  suffer  loss 

Of  strength  through  abstinence,  then  soar'd  again 

To  her  great  Sire's  unperishing  abode. 

And  now  the  Grecians  from  their  gallant  fleet 

All  pour'd  themselves  abroad.     As  when  the  snow, 

Descending  thick  from  Jove,  is  driv'n  by  gusts 

Of  the  clear-blowing  North,  so  smil'd  the  field 

With  dazzling  casques,  boss'd  bucklers,  hauberks  strong, 

And  polish'd  weapons  issuing  from  the  fleet. 

Up  went  the  flash  to  Heav'n  ;  wide  all  around 

The  champaign  laugh'd  with  beamy  brass  illum'd, 

And  tramplings  of  the  warriors  on  all  sides 

Resounded,  amidst  whom  Achilles  arm'd. 

He  gnash'd  his  teeth,  fire  glimmer'd  in  his  eyes. 

Anguish  intolerable  wrung  his  heart, 

And  fury  against  Troy,  while  he  put  on 

His  glorious  arms,  the  labour  of  a  God. 


1881.]  Sotheby's  Homer.  879 

First,  to  his  legs  his  polish'd  greaves  he  clasp'd, 
Studded  with  silver,  then,  his  corslet  bright 
Brac'd  .to  his  bosom,  his  huge  sword  of  brass 
Athwart  his  shoulder  slung,  and  his  broad  shield 
Uplifted  last,  laminous  as  the  moon- 
Such  as  to  mariners  a  fire  appears, 
Kindled  by  shepherds  on  the  distant  top 
Of  some  lone  hill ;  they,  driv'n  by  stormy  winds, 
Reluctant  roam  far  off  the  fishy  deep —  • 

Such  from  Achilles'  burning  shield  divine 
A  lustre  struck  the  skies ;  his  pond'rous  helm 
He  lifted  to  his  brows  ;  starlike  it  shone, 
And  shook  its  curling  crest  of  bushy  gold, 
Consummate  work  of  Vulcan's  glorious  art. 
So  clad,  the  godlike  hero  trial  made 
If  his  arms  fitted  him,  and  gave  free  scope 
To  his  proportion 'd  limbs  ;  they  buoyant  proy'd     ..<,  eni'jf 
As  wings,  and  high  upbore  his  airy  tread. 
Forth  from  its  case  he  drew  his  father's  spear, 
Heavy,  and  huge,  and  long.     That  spear,  of  all 
Achaia's  sons,  none  else  had  power  to  wield ; 
Achilles  only  could  the  Pelian  beam 
Brandish,  by  Chiron  for  his  father  hewn. 
From  Pelion's  top  for  slaughter  of  the  brave. 

8OTHEBY. 

Each  word  Jove  spake  inflamed  Minerva's  mind, 
By  previous  zeal  to  Grecia's  aid  inclined— 
Like  a  shrill  harpy,  stretch'd  on  wing  for  flight, 
The  goddess  darted  through  th'  ethereal  light, 
Greece  stood  in  arms,  when  Jove's  celestial  maid 
With  willing  zeal  her  sire's  command  obey'd, 
And,  lest  their  chief  should  fail  beneath  the  strife, 
Pour'd  in  his  breast  the  nectar,  stored  with  life ; 
Then  to  Jove's  starry  realm  return'd  again, 
While  from  the  fleet  Greece  gather'd  on  the  plain. 
As  flakes  on  flakes,  thick  falling,  nature  veil, 
When  the  clear  north-wind  arms  with  ice  the  gale, 
Thus  dense,  the  dazzling  helms,  the  hauberks  blazed, 
Boss'd  shields,  and  lances  to  the  sun  upraised  : 
The  flash  beam'd  up  to  heaven's  illumined  height, 
And  all  the  earth  resplendent  laugh'd  in  light, 
And  the  wide  plain  with  march  of  myriads  reel'd, 
While  grim  Pelides  arm'd  him  for  the  field — 
His  teeth  loud  gnash'd,  and  through  intense  desire 
Stream'd  from  his  eyes,  like  flame,  the  living  fire,— 
Grief  gnaw'd  his  soul,  that  mad  for  vengeance  glow'd, 
While  on  his  limbs  he  clasp'd  the  armour  of  the  god.— 
First  round  his  legs  the  greaves  Achilles  braced, 
With  radiant  clasps  of  silver  ore  enchased  : 
Then  on  his  breadth  of  breast  the  hauberk  hung, 

Then  his  huge  sword  athwart  his  shoulders  swung : 

Last,  seized  the  bulk  and  burden  of  his  shield, 

That  lik»  the  full-orb'd  moon  illumed  afar  the  field- 
As  when  along  the  ocean  streams  a  light, 

Fed  by  lone  shepherds  011  the  mountain  height, 

Beheld  of  those,  who  cleave,  where  tempests  sweep, 

Far  from  their  friends,  unwillingly  the  deep : 

Thus  from  that  beauteous  shield's  celestial  frame, 

Shot  up  to  heaven's  high  vault  its  dazzling  flame. 

Then,  raising  up  its  weight,  AchUles  placed 

On  his  brave  brow  the  casque  by  Vulcan  graced. 

The  bushy  helmet  like  a  beauteous  star 

Shone,  and  a  light  around  it  stream'd  afar, 

That  from  the  fulness  of  the  golden  hair 

Waved,  floating  o'er  the  crc*t,  aucl  fired  the  ajr, 
VOL.  XXX,  NO.  CLXXXVIII.  3  L 


Sotheby's  Homer. 

Then  Peleua'  glorying  son  his  arms  essay'd, 
If  fit,  and  free  for  battle-action  made : 
And  as  he  tried  them,  moving  in  his  might, 
They  lifted  up  his  limbs,  like  wings  on  night. 
Then  from  the  case,  wherein  its  terror  lay, 
The  chief  brought  forth  his  father's  lance  to-day, 
Vast,  weighty,  strong,  which,  never  warrior,  none 
Could  vibrate,  save  the  Achillean  arm  alone  ; 
The  Felian  lance,  the  ash  that  Chiron  gave, 
From  Pelion's  summit  hewn  to  slay  the  brave. 


[Dec. 


Let  us  try  the  Four  great  Transla- 
tors by  their  respective  success  in 
grappling  with,  perhaps,  the  most 
glorious  passage  in  all  poetry.  What 
sees  Homer  ?  The  Grecians  issuing 
from  the  ships.  How  ?  "  As  when 
dense  snow-showers  outfly  from 
Jove."  Such  their  number,  and  such 
the  motion  of  their  number — dense, 
driving,  and  multitudinous.  Such 
were  they,  and  such  were  the  snow- 
showers.  But  they  were  more  than 
dense,  driving,  and  multitudinous, 
which  the  snow-showers  were  not, 
for  they  were  gleaming  helmets,  and 
embossed  shields,  and  strong  cui- 
rasses, and  ashen  spears.  Something 
very  different  from  snow-showers 
even  when  "  they  outfly  from  Jove, 
cold  from  the  impulse  of  the  frosty- 
air-producing  Boreas."  The  snow- 
showers,  then,  have  done  their  duty, 
and  are  gone ;  but  "  the  lustre  hea- 
venward ascended,  and  the  earth  all 
around  laughed  with  the  lightning  of 
brass."  That  is  an  image,  not  of  the 
snow,  but  of  the  sun ;  no,  not  of  the 
sun,  but  of  the  sunlike  earth  laugh- 
ing in  brazen  light,  somewhat  like 
the  appearance  Milton  afterwards 
saw  it  assume,  when  "  the  field  all 
iron  cast  a  gleamy  brown."  Hither- 
to we  have  the  dense,  the  driving, 
the  multitudinous,  the  heaven-as- 
cending-lustrous, and  the  earth- 
laughing-brazen-lightning.  What 
more  would  ye  have  ?  Thunder. 
Hark !  there  it  is  !  "a  hollow  sound 
started  up  from  under  the  trampling 
of  heroes."  Of  heroes?  Aye,  and 
in  the  midst  of  them — Achilles ! 
grinding  his  teeth,  with  eyes  that 
rolled  glowing  like  a  flash  of  fire — 
raving  against  the  Trojans — "  arming 
for  battle."  He  dons  the  gifts  di- 
vine, which  the  artist  Vulcan  had 
made  for  him,  and  Thetis  had 
brought,  flinging  thorn  down  before 
his  feet,  while  the  clash  scared  the 
heroes. 

Well,  stop  here  — draw  your  breath 
—and  criticise  Chapman.    He  gives 


the  snow-storm — for  it  was  nothing 
less — as  a  snow-storm  should  be 
given,  and  eke  its  counterpart. 

"  And  as  from  air  the  frosty  north-wind 
blows  a  cold  thick  sleet, 

That  dazzles  eyes,  flakes  after  flakes  in- 
cessantly descending, 

So  thick  helms,  curets,  ashen  darts,  and 

round  shields  never-ending, 
Flovv'd  from  the  navy's  hollow  womb." 

Admirable!  Then  comes  the  light- 
ning and  then  the  thunder,  and  then, 
"  in  midst  of  all,  divine  Achilles." 
Now,  we  call  this  Homeric. 

Look  on  Achilles  "  arming  for 
battle" — armed.  His  act  is  now  to 
lift  up  his  shield.  Like  what?  "Its 
refulgence  spread  far  and  wide  like 
the  moon."  Like  what  else  ?  "  A  fire 
blazing  aloft  from  the  mountains  in 
a  shepnerd's  solitude  to  mariners  far 
at  sea."  Even  so,  if  you  believe 
Homer,  "  the  gleam  mounted  hea- 
venward from  Achilles'  shield,  beau- 
tiful, Djedalean  1"  The  shield  is  like 
the  moon,  and  it  is  also  like  a  moun- 
tain-fire. Like  what  his  helmet  ? 
"  His  mighty  helmet  uplifting  on  his 
head  he  placed — like  a  star.  Like  a 
star  shone  the  horse-hair-crested 
helmet;  for  there  waved  around  him 
the  hair  with  which,  in  great  profu- 
sion, Vulcan  had  surmounted  the 
crest." 

How  then  shines  moon,  mountain- 
fire,  and  star  in  an  English  sky  ?  Chap- 
man says,  "  His  shield,  that  cast  a 
brightness  from  it  like  the  moon." 
Good.  "  Such  a  fire  from  his  bright 
shield  extends  its  ominous  radiance." 
Better.  "  His  crested  helmet,  grave 
and  high,  had  next  triumphant  place 
on  his  curled  head ;  and  like  a  star, 
it  cast  a  spurry  ray,  about  which  a 
bright  thicken'd  bush  of  golden  hair 
did  play,  which  Vulcan  forged  him 
for  his  plume."  Best.  But  good, 
better,  and  best,  are  yet  all  inferior 
to  Homer. 

Thus  armed  for  battle,  how  acts 
Achilles!'  Rushes  he  in  among 


1831.] 

the  routed  ranks? — "  The 
Achilles  essayed  himself  in  his  ar- 
mour, whether  it  might  fit  him,  aud 
if  his  fair  limbs  should  move  easily ; 
to  him  it  was  like  wings,  and  they 
buoyed  up  the  shepherd  of  the 
people." 

How  does  Chapman  here  manage 
the  grace  and  the  grandeur  ?  Indif- 
ferently well,  my  lord ;  but  the  last 
line  is  noble. — "  That  from  the  earth 
the  princely  captain  they  took  up  to 
air." 

But  Achilles  unsheathed  his  pater- 
nal spear — and  Chapman  saw  him  do 
so — even  as  Homer,  and  "  fatal  'twas 
to  great-soul'd  men" — "  death  to 
heroes." 

Thou  and  we,  gentle  reader,  and 
Chapman,  are  all  full  of  the  spirit 
of  Homer.  Pray,  was  Pope  ?  Not 
he,  indeed ; — the  second  line  of  the 
first  simile  shews  he  was  shallow 
-"  And  like  a  deluge  poured  upon 


Sotheby's  Homer.  881 

godlike  eyes,  Pope  beholds  Achilles,  and  he 
becomes  himself  again — though  not 
Homer — in  describing  the  hero.  All 
goes  on  well,  till  the  moon  rises,  and 
then  he  again  loses  his  eyesight 
The  moon  does  not "  blaze  with  long 
rays."  Homer  says,  "  the  refulgence 
of  the  shield  spread  far  and  wide, 
like  that  of  the  moon."  So  it  did. 
The  lines  that  follow  about  the  lone- 
ly watch-tower  are  beautiful ;  but 
nobody,  in  reading  them  by  them- 
selves, could  think  they  were  from 
the  Iliad.  It  fares  still  worse  with 
the  star.  It  makes  one  sick  to  look 
at  it.  'Tis  a  patchwork  star — and 
we  see  in  it  a  bit  of  a  comet.  "  The 
chief  beholds  himself  with  wondering 
eyes,"  is  little  short  of  ludicrous — 
and  "  feels  a  pinion  lifting  every 
limb,"  excessively  pretty.  Yet,  false 
and  feeble  as  is  the  whole  passage, 
and  laden  with  all  kinds  of  vices, 
splendid  and  mean,  we  must  lay  our 


the  plain."  A  deluge !  with  a  snow-     account  with  being  abused  for  abu- 


storm  at  the  instant  driving  in  his 
eyes.  This  is  murder  in  cold  blood, 
and  deserves  death.  "  And  scatter 
o'er  the  fields  the  driving  snow." 
No — no — no.  That  gives  the  idea 
of  snow-drifts.  In  Homer,  the  he- 
roes are  flakes — as  we  have  seen — 
dense,  driving,  multitudinous,  as 
they  outfly  from  Jove.  "  From  dusky 
clouds  the  fleecy  winter  flies." 
Fleecy  winter !  How  like  a  sheep. 
"  Whose  dazzling  lustre  whitens  all 
the  skies."  Nothing  to  the  purpose. 
But  cease  criticism ;  nor  squander 
it  in  vain  on  such  misery.  All  ap- 
pearance of  the  original  is  lost;  and 
in  its  place  nothing  but  contradic- 
tion and  inconsistency,  inconceivable 
by  the  imagination,  and  impossible 
in  nature.  Then,  what  wretched 
writing  ? — "  Poured  upon  the  plain," 
— "scatter  o'er  the  fields," — "whitens 
all  the  skies," — "  brighten  all  the 
fields,"—"  flame  the  skies,"— and 
"  laugh  the  fields,"  all  huddled  and 
hubbubbed  together  into  one  chaotic 
sentence. 

And  how  could  a  great  poet,  like 
Pope,"write  so  poorly  thus  ?  Because 
he  lived  in  a  town — in  a  village — in 
a  grotto — in  a  brown  study — and 
never  was  in  a  snow-storm  in  his  life 
— except  perhaps  in  a  close  carriage. 
But  Homer  had  been  in  the  heart  of 
a  thousand,  on  the  sea-shore  and  on 
the  mountain  tops.  So  have  we. 

Having,  got  ethe  enow  out  of  his 


sing  it,  and  with  being  asked, "  could 
you,  Christopher,  write  a  better  ?"-^- 
a  question  which,  as  Dr  Johnson  sug- 
gested, might  be  triumphantly  put  to 
the  greatest  of  kings  on  the  subject 
of  shoes,  by  the  most  contemptible 
of  cobblers. 

It  is  seldom  we  have  to  find  fault 
with  Cowper — but  he  should  not 
have  said,  "  So  smiled  the  fields." 
It  destroys  the  picture.  "  The  cham- 
paign laughed  with  beaming  brass 
illumed,"  is  Homeric  and  Miltonic. 
But  it  would  seem  as  if  the  fields  first 
smiled  and  then  laughed — a  conceit 
alien  from  the  manner  of  Melesi- 
genes.  "  Up  went  the  flash  to  hea- 
ven," is  glorious ;  but,  "  and  tramp- 
lings  of  the  warriors  on  all  sides 
resounded,"  is  surely  rather  weak 
beside  our  "  and  a  hollow  sound 
started  up  from  under  the  tramp- 
ling of  heroes."  "  Luminous  as  the 
moon,"  is  fine — so  is  the  "  distant 
top  of  some  lone  hill" — so  is  "  shook 
its  curling  crest  of  bushy  gold" — and 
so,  especially  so,  is  "  they  buoyant 
proved  as  wings,  and  high  upbore 
his  airy  tread."  It  almost  transcends 
Homer. 

Sotheby  is  almost  on  the  same 
level  with  Cowper.  He  commits  the 
same  error  (as  we  think)  in  direct- 
ing our  eyes  to  the  "  blaze  of  the 
hauberks,"  and  "  of  the  lances  to  the 
sun  upraised,"  when  he  should  have 
had  his  own  (like  Homer's)  fixed — 


882 

if  not  exclusively — (that  was  impos- 
sible) chiefly  on  the  density  and 
driving  of  the  snow-shower.  Be  that 
as  it  may,  asssuredly  "  as  flakes  on 
flakes,  thick-falling,  nature  veil,"  is 
as  tame  as  tame  can  be,  whereas  the 
line  ought  to  have  been  as  wild  as 
wild  might  be ;  as  it  is  in  Homer. 
"  Nature"  is  here  used  in  a  sense 
unknown  to  the  Ionian.  "  All  the 
earth  respl  endent  laughed  with  1  ight," 
is  admirable.  "  And  the  wide  plain 
with  march  of  myriads  reePd,"  is  too 
good  to  be  objected  to,  though  not 
quite  true  to  the  original,  as  you  may 
see  by  glancing  again  over  our  prose. 
"  Streamed  from  his  eyes  like  flame 
the  living  fire"  is  not  to  our  taste. 
Fire  is  like  flame,  unquestionably; 
so  very  like,  that  we  should  not 
think  of  saying  so — unless  put  to  it 
for  a  similitude.  "  While  on  his 
limbs  he  clasped  the  armour  of  the 
god,"  is  sonorous, simple, and  stately, 
and  well  prepares  us  for  the  details 
of  the  Arming — all  of  which  are  given 
with  great  power  and  truth.  No- 
thing can  excel  the  grace  and  gran- 
-deur  that  Sotheby  has  given  to  the 
star-crested  helmet.  He  is  also  very 
successful  in  Achilles  essaying  him- 
self in  his  new  arms.  "  They  lifted 
up  his  limbs  like  wings  on  flight," — 
how  superior  in  its  simplicity  that 
line  to  Pope's — "  And  feels  a  pinion 
lifting  every  limb." 
"  Then  from  the  case,  wherein  its  terror 

lay, 
The  chief  brought  forth  his  father's  lance 

to-day" 

we  cannot  away  with,  as  say  the 
Cocknies.  We  prefer  our  own, "  from 
the  sheath  his  paternal  lance  he 
drew."  "  Brought  forth"  sounds 
slow  and  sluggish  ;  and  "  to-day" 
seems  to  be  used  for  "  that  instant" 
— which  is  new  to  us  in  the  northern 
part  of  the  island.  But  the  whole 
sentence  is  unsatisfactory  in  its 
clumsiness,  running  thus:  "  Then 
Achilles  brought  forth  his  father's 
lance  to-day,  from  the  case  wherein 
lay  its  terror,"  so  Sotheby.  "  From 
the  sheath  his  paternal  spear  he 

drew,"  SO  North.  Ex  VKPO.  tru.-i'yya;  «•<*- 
Tjauav  urVKfar'  t<y%es,  SO  Homer.  "The 

ash  that  Chiron  gave."  To  whom  ? 
Peleus.  It  would  seem  here  to  Achil- 
les. These,  and  other  flaws,  or  ra- 
ther specks  that  might  be  mentioned, 
are  slight— and,  if  wiped  off,  Sothe- 


[Dec. 

by's  version  would,  we  verily  believe, 
be  the  best  of  the  four. 

But  Achilles  has  not  yet  mounted 
to  the  meridian — not  yet  complete  is 
the  climax.  Automedon  and  Alci- 
mus  have  prepared  the  car  and  the 
coursers — and  armed  complete  Achil- 
les ascends,  "  as  the  orient  sun  all 
dazzling." 

There  he  stands — and  to  whom 
does  he  speak  ?  To  Xanthus  and  Ba- 
lius,  of  Padarge's  strain, about  to  bear 
him  like  a  whirlwind  "  against  the 
bosom  of  the  Prince  of  Troy." 
"  Abandon  not  me — your  master 
now — in  battle,  as  you  abandoned 
Patroclus."  Low  hanging  his  head, 
and  sweeping  with  his  mane  the 
ground,  Xanthus,  paragon  of  steeds, 
made  vocal  by  Juno,  replies — "  This 
day  we  shall  bear  thee,  stormy  chief, 
safe  from  the  battle !  But  thy  death- 
day  is  near,  not  by  fault  of  ours,  but 
by  Jove  and  fate.  Not  through  our 
slowness  or  sloth  did  the  Trojans 
strip  Patroclus  of  his  arms  ;  but  He, 
of  heavenly  powers  the  most  illus- 
trious, offspring  of  the  bright-haired 
Latona,  slew  him  in  the  van,  and 
gave  the  glory  to  Hector.  Swiftest 
though  he  be  of  all  the  Winds,  we 
Zephyrus  could  equal  in  speed  of 
flight — but  doomed  art  thou  to  fall, 
Achilles !  by  mortal  and  by  immor- 
tal hands."  ' 

"  Then  ceased  for  ever,  by  the  Furies  tied 
His  fateful  voice — the  intrepid  Chief  re- 
plied, 

With  unabated  rage — '  So  let  it  be ! 
Portents  and  prodigies  are  lost  on  me. 
I  know  my  fate ;  to  die — to  see  no  more 
My  much-loved  parents  and  my  native 

shore — 
Enough ;  when  heaven"ordains  I  sink  in 

night — 
Now  perish  Troy!'  He  said,  and  rush'd 

to  fight." 

These  lines,  you  know,  are  Pope's, 
which  we  almost  agree  Avith  Beattie 
in  thinking  "  equal,  if  not  superior, 
to  the  original."  They  are  wonder- 
fully full  of  force  and  fire. 

That  Xanthus,  a  horse,  should  have 
not  only  spoken  so  well,  but  at  all, 
has  set  all  the  wide-mouthed  critics 
agape,  who,  on  recovering  their  own 
powers  of  articulate  utterance,  have 
argued  that  it  is  very  unnatural.  In 
answer  to  them,  Spondanus  and 
Dacier,  says  Pope,  "  fail  not  to  bring 
up  Balaam's  ass,"  which  is  hardly  a 


Sotheby's  Homer. 


J831.] 

case  in  point  Livy  makes  mention 
of  two  oxen  that  spoke  on  different 
occasions,  and  recites  the  speech  of 
one,  which  was  "  Homa,  cave  tibi ;" 
and  Pliny  tells  us,  that  these  animals 
were  particularly  gifted  that  way — 
"  Estfrequensin  prodigiis  priscorum, 
bovem  locutum."  In  modern  times 
we  ourselves  know  a  slot  that  has 
spoken,  and  Leibnitz  heard  a  dog 
soliloquize,  somewhat  after  the  style 
of  Coleridge  or  Madame  de  Stael,  we 
think  at  Amsterdam.  Bronte  could 
do  everything  but  speak— and  there- 
fore we  acquit  Homer  of  any  unphi- 
losophical  credulity  in  believing  that 
Xanthus  was  a  powerful  extempora- 
neous orator,  and,  like  a  Fox,  shone 
in  a  reply. 

Farther,  is  there  any  thing  absurd, 
think  ye,  in  Achilles  upbraiding  his 
horses  for  having  left  the  body  of 
Patroclus?  We  may  be  assured, 
says  Cowper,  that  it  was  customary 
for  the  Greeks  occasionally  to  ha- 
rangue their  horses,  for  Homer  was 
a  poet  too  attentive  to  nature  to  in- 
troduce speeches  that  would  have 
appeared  strange  to  his  countrymen. 
Hector  addresses  his  horses  in  the 
eighth  book— and  Antilochus,  in  the 
chariot  race,  whose  horses  were  not 
only  of  terrestrial  origin,  but  the 
slowest  in  the  camp  of  Greece.  That 
Achilles,  then,  should  have  spoken 
to  his  steeds,  is  not  surprising,  see- 
ing that  they  were  of  celestial  seed. 

Farther,  there  is  no  saying  what  a 
man  will  say  or  do,  when  in  a  state 
of  extraordinary  excitement— in  a 
tremendous  passion.     He  will  even, 
in    certain     circumstances,    "  sing 
psalms  to  a  dead  horse."     Achilles 
then  stands  acquitted  of  all  folly— and 
his  address  was  right.     That  being 
the  case,  on  what  principle  of  feel- 
ing, passion,  discipline,  or  manners, 
were  his  horses  to  preserve  silence, 
on  such  an  appeal  ?    Silence  would 
have   shewn   sulkiness-and    sulki- 
ness  a  cross  in  the  breed—  a  taint  in 
the  blood— but  they  were  twin-cast 
by  Podarge,  the  famous  Harpy  mare, 
their  Sire  the  Wind.  Xanthus,  there- 
fore, "  rose  to  reply,"  without  wait- 
ino-  to  "  catch  the  speaker's  eye ;"  he 
be°came  "  the  gentleman  on  his  legs ;" 
— without  "  asking  permission"  "he 
explained ;"— "  our  gallant  friend— if 
he  will  allow  to  us  to  call  him  so, 
has  unjustly  accused  us  of  forsaking 
Patroclus  j— and  that  the  defence  of 


883 

Xanthus  was  most  triumphant,  the 
whole  Greek  army  testified  by  a 
"  Hear  !  hear !  hear  !"  that  startled 
Neptune,  Juno,  and  Jupiter  on  their 
Thrones. 

Xanthus— and  Balius  too — was  not 
only  one  of  the  most  eloquent,  but 
most  amiable  of  horses.  What  were 
their  feelings  on  the  death  of  Patro- 
clus ? 

"  Meantime  the  horses  of  Eacides,  • 
Fromlfight  withdrawn,  when  once  they  un- 
derstood 

Their  charioteer  outstretch'd  in  dust  be- 
neath 
The  arm  of  homicidal  Hector,  wept." 

"It  adds  a  great  beauty,"  says  Eusta- 
thius,  "  to   the  poem,  when  inani- 
mate things  act  like  animate.     Thus 
the  heaveas  tremble  at  Jupiter's  nod, 
the  sea  parts  itself  to  receive  Nep- 
tune, the  groves  of  Ida  shake  be- 
neath Juno's  feet.     As  also  to  find 
animate  or  brute  creatures  addressed 
as  if  rational.    Here  they  weep  for 
Patroclus,  and  stand  fixed  and  im- 
moveablewith  grief— then  is  the  hero 
universally  mourn'd,  and  every  thing 
concurs  to  lament  his  loss."     As  to 
the  particular  fiction  of  weeping  (no 
fiction  at  all)  Gilbert  Wakefield  right- 
ly says,  that  it  is  countenanced  both 
by  scholiasts  and  historians.   Aristo- 
tle and  Pliny  write  that  these  ani- 
mals often  deplore  their  masters  lost 
in  battle,  and  even  shed  tears  for 
them — and  Elian  relates  the  same  of 
elephants,  who,  like  the  Swiss,  over- 
come with  the  maladie  dupays, ,  weep 
in  far-off  captivity  to  think  of  their 
native  forests.  Suetonius,  in  the  Life 
of  Csesar,  tells  us  that  several  horses 
which,  at  the  passage  of  the  Rubi- 
con, had  been  consecrated  to  Mars, 
and  turned  loose  on  the  banks,  were 
observed  for  some  days  after  to  ab- 
stain  from  feeding,    and  to   weep 
abundantly.     Virgil  knew  all  this— 
and  could  not,  therefore,  forbear  co- 
pying this  beautiful  circumstance  in 
these  fine  lines  on  the  Horse  of  Pal- 
las : 
"  Post  Bellator  equus,  positis  insignibus 

JEthon 
It  lacrymans,  guttisque  humectat  grandi- 

bus  ora. 

And  Southey  knew  all  this  well — 
when  he  praised  those  pathetic  lines 
in  the  old  ballad— at  which  cold  cri- 
tics could  not  choose  but  laugh- 
speaking  of  a  wretched  worn-out 


884  Sotheby*$  Homer. 

drudge-mare  dying  by  the  ditch  side 
— "  tears  were  in  her  eyes — she  look- 
ed me  in  the  face" — And  Scott  knew 
all  this  well— when  he  speaks  of 
horses  shrieking  as  well  as  weeping 
—and  Bloomiield  knew  all  this  well, 
else  he  could  not  have  written  his 
full  and  particular  account  of  the 
miseries  of  the  Post-chaise  hack — 
and  the  author  of  the  "High-mettled 
racer"  knew  all  this  well — though  he 
does  not  mention  it — else  he  could 
not  have  written  that  elegiac  song 
— and  Mr  Martin,  the  Member  for 
Galway,  knew  all  this  well,  else  he 
had  not  lugged  up  so  many  mis- 
creants to  Bow  Street,  for  unmerci- 
fully abusing  their  cattle — and  we 
know  all  this  well,  and  much  more, 
else  had  we  not  now  into  this  epi- 
sode run  off  the  course  of  our  Cri- 
tique. Let  all  merciful  men,  then, 
be  merciful  to  their  beasts — horses 
and  dogs — "  and  the  rest ;"  but  let 
all  men  remember,  that  muscle  and 
motion,  speed  and  strength,  bone 
and  bottom,  are  the  characteristic 
peculiarities  of  the  "  noblest  of  ani- 
mals," and  that  the  horse  is  in  his 
glory  when  in  the  fulness  of  his 
might  he  is  running  for  the  gold 
cup  at  Derby,  or  the  brown  brush 
at  Melton  Moubray,  or  crying  among 
his  enemies,  Ha  !  Ha !  in  a  charge  on 
the  cuirassiers  at  Waterloo. 

But  look  at  the  horses  of  Achilles 
in  Homer,  when  Patroclus  dies.  What 
a  picture ! 

"Them  oft  with  hasty  lash  Diores'  son, 
Antomedon,  assailed  ;  with  gentle  speech 
Address'd  them  oft ;  oft  threatened  them 

aloud ; 
But  neither  homeward,  to  the  ships  that 

lined 
The  sounding  shore,  nor  to  the  Grecian 

host 

Would  they  return,  but  motionless  alike 
Stand  both,   as  stands  the  column  of  a 

tomb, 
Some  Chief's  or  Matron's ;  bowing  down 

their  heads, 
They  ceased  not  to  deplore,  with  many  a 

tear, 
Whom  they  had  lost,  and  each  Ms  glossy 

mane, 
Dishevelled  now,  polluted  in  the  dust." 

And  would  ye  have  such  horses — 
not  to  speak,  when  upbraided  by 
Achilles  for  having  forsaken  that 
Patroclus,  for  whom  they  had  thus 
wept  and  mourned  ? 

What  would  all  such  people  be 


[Dec. 

at  ?  Is  not  the  whole  Iliad,  in  con- 
ception and  execution,  full  of  sped- 
osa  miracula  ?  In  reading  it,  we  can 
believe  any  thing,  for  we  feel  that 
all  those  fictions  are  truths.  All 
those  bold  and  bright  beliefs  burst 
in  upon  us — not  through  chinks — 
but  the  wide-flung  open  windows  of 
our  souls — and  we  know  that  this 
world  of  ours  and  this  life,  now  so 
tame  and  terrorless,  so  chilled  by 
civilization,  was  once  glorious  in 
what  we  vainly  call  barbarism — and 
that  it  is  yet "  mightier  than  it  seems," 
in  the  eyes  and  ears  of  all  who  have 
had  their  spiritual  senses  purged, 
and  vivified,  and  invigorated,  by  the 
divine  power  of  Song. 

But  we  fear  that  we  ave  getting 
not  a  little  extravagant — so  let  us 
calm  our  enthusiasm  by  a  passage 
on  this  passage,  from  that  beautiful 
Essay  on  Poetry  and  Music  by  Beat- 
tie,  the  best  critic  (the  present  com- 
pany excepted)  that  has  yet  been 
produced  by  Scotland. 

"  The  incident  is  marvellous,  no 
doubt,  and  has  been  generally  con- 
demned even  by  the  admirers  of 
Homer ;  yet  to  me,  who  am  no  be- 
liever in  the  infallibility  of  the  great 
poet,  [We  are.  C.  N.]  seems  not  only 
allowable,  but  useful  and  important. 
That  this  miracle  has  probability 
enough  to  warrant  its  admission  in- 
to Homer's  poetry,  is  fully  proved 
by— —  [in  Beattie  it  is  "  Madame 
Dacier ;"  but "  oh  no !  we  never  men- 
tion her."]  But  neither nor  any 

other  of  the  commentators,  (so  far  as 
I  know,)  has  taken  notice  of  the  pro- 
priety of  introducing  it  in  this  place, 
nor  of  its  utility  in  raising  our  idea 
of  the  hero.  Patroclus  was  now 
slain;  and  Achilles,  forgetting  the 
injury  he  had  received  from  Aga- 
memnon, and  frantic  with  revenge 
and  sorrow,  was  rushing  to  the  bat- 
tle, to  satiate  his  fury  xipon  Hector 
and  the  Trojans.  This  was  the  cri- 
tical moment  on  which  his  future 
destiny  depended.  It  was  still  in  his 
power  to  retire,  and  to  go  home  in 
peace  to  his  beloved  father  and  native 
land,  with  the  certain  prospect  of  a 
long  and  happy,  though  inglorious 
life ;  if  he  went  forward  to  the  battle, 
he  might  avenge  his  friend's  death 
upon  the  enemy,  but  his  own  must 
inevitably  happen  soon  after.  This 
was  the  decree  of  fate  concerning 
him,  as  he  well  knew ;  but  it  would 


831.] 

not  be  wonderful  if  such  an  impetu- 
ous spirit  should  forget  all  this,  du- 
ring the  present  paroxysm  of  Ms 
grief  and  rage.  His  horse,  therefore, 
miraculously  gifted  by  Juno  for  that 
purpose,  after  expressing  in  dumb 
shew  the  deepest  concern  for  his 
lord,  opens  his  mouth,  and  in  hu- 
man speech  announces  his  approach- 
ing fate.  The  fear  of  death,  and  the 
fear  of  prodigies,  are  different  things ; 
and  a  brave  man,  though  proof  against 
the  one,  may  yet  be  overcome  by  the 
other.  '  1  have  known  a  soldier/ 
says  Addison,  '  that  has  entered  a 
trench,  affrighted  at  his  own  shadow, 
and  look  pale  upon  a  little  scratching 
at  his  door,  who  the  day  before  had 
marched  up  against  a  battery  of  can- 
non.' But  Achilles,  of  whom  we  al- 
ready knew  that  he  feared  nothing 
human,  now  shews,  what  we  had  not 
as  yet  been  informed  of,  and  what 
must  therefore  heighten  our  idea 
of  his  fortitude,  that  he  is  not  so  ter- 
rified or  moved,  by  the  view  of  cer- 
tain destruction,  or  even  by  the  most 
alarming  prodigies." 

Now  that  we  call  criticism;  nor 
does  it  derogate  from  Beattie's  me- 
rit that  he  shares  it  with  Pope,  whose 
version,  so  justly  praised  by  the 
Minstrel,  suggested  the  fine  and  pro- 
found remark.  In  the  original,  we 
hear  a  prodigy ;  but  Homer  does  not 
call  it  one ;  it  is  Pope  who,  feeling 
the  power  of  the  inspiration,  flings 
forth  exultingly  that  fearless  defiance 
from  the  mouth  of  Achilles,  "portents 
and  prodigies  are  lost  on  me" — and 
here  Homer  has  found  an  empassion- 
ed  translator  and  a  congenial  critic. 

Finally,  that  greatest  of  philoso- 
phical writers,  Aristotle,  in  his  Poetic, 
says  that  it  is  from  Homer  principal- 
ly that  other  poets  have  learned  the 
art  tf  feigning  well.  The  poet  should 
prefer  impossibilities  which  appear 
probable,  to  such  things  as,  though 
possible,  appear  improbable.  He  pro- 
foundly observes,  "  that  supposing  a 
thing  to  be,  it  would  certainly  be  fol- 
lowed by  such  effects — if  we  see 
those  effects,  we  are  disposed  to  in- 
fer the  existence  of  that  cause."  And 
thus  in  poetry  and  all  fiction,  "  this," 
says  Twining,  "  is  the  logic  of  that 
temporary  imposition  on  which  de- 
pends our  pleasure.  Every  thing 
follows  so  naturally,  and  even,  as 
it  seems,  so  necessarily,  that  the 
probability  and  truth  of  nature,  in 


Sotheby's  Homer.  885 

the  consequences,  steals,  in  a  manner, 
from  our  view,  even  in  the  impossi- 
bility of  the  cause,  and  flings  an  air 
of  truth  over  the  whole.  With  re- 
spect to  fact,  indeed,  it  is  all  equally 
4-^os  ;  for  if  the  cause  exist  not,  nei- 
ther can  the  effects.  But  the  conse- 
quent lies  are  so  told,  as  to  impose 
on  us,  for  a  moment,  the  belief  of  the 
antecedent,  or  fundamental  lie'' — in 
this  case  the  speech  of  a  horse  made 
vocal.  Twining  goes  on  to  say,  that 
of  this  art,  almost  all  the  speciosa 
miracula  of  Homer  are  instances 
— and  even  the  wilder  and  more 
absurd  miracles  of  Ariosto,  whose 
poem  is  indeed  a  striking  example 
of  the  most  improbable,  and  in  them- 
selves revolting  lies,  to  which,  how- 
ever, every  poetical  reader  willing- 
ly throws  open  his  imagination,  prin* 
cipally  from  the  easy  charm  of  his 
language  and  versification,  and  the 
remarkable  distinctness  of  his  paint- 
ing, but  partly,  too,  from  the  truth 
of  nature,  which  he  has  contrived 
to  fling  into  the  detail  of  his  descrip- 
tion. And  he  ends  with  pointing  to 
the  Caliban  of  Shakspeare. 

Last  of  all,  so  enveloped  in  omin- 
ous glory  is  Achilles  in  that  divine 
armour,  on  his  chariot  yoked  to  hea- 
ven-sprung steeds,  "  like  the  orient 
sun  all  dazzling ;"  and  such  the  su« 
perhuman  power  of  passion  by  which, 
heaven-inspired,  he  is  possessed,  that 
he  is  already  before  our  imagination 
a  prodigious  being — and  nothing  he 
can  say  or  do,  and  nothing  he  can 
cause  be  said  or  done — "  all  might 
being  given  him  in  that  dreadful 
hour" — can  surprise  or  astonish  our 
belief,  or  even  seem  at  the  moment 
to  be  against  the  laws  of  nature,  that 
bend  and  break  before  his  will,  and 
bring,  like  his  ministering  servants, 
fuel  to  the  fire,  that  at  once  con- 
sumes and  sublimes  the  transcend- 
ant  hero. 

But  on  reluctantly  leaving  this 
subject,  let  us  once  for  all,  dismiss- 
ing all  enthusiasm,  either  poetical  or 
religious,  be  allowed  to  remark,  that 
miraculous  as  it  may  be  for  a  Hel- 
lenic horse,  when  about  to  gallop  to 
the  field  of  battle  under  the  walls 
of  Troy,  to  speak  in  answer  to  Achil- 
les, it  is  not  more  so  than  for  an  Eng- 
lish Mare,  within  the  walls  of  the 
Caledonian  chapel,  to  address  in  the 
following  lingo,  without  having  been 
spoken  to,  the  Rev.  Mr  Irving-^."  O 


Sotheby's  Homer. 


[Dec. 


metention,  a  honos  kolo,  O  do  nomas 
kahelion,  O  mana  terdeos  kalion  !— 
Coartoma  ruramur  pooah  chambela 
mentara  tsaw  !" 

And  now  that  Achilles  has  taken 
the  field,  not  idle  must  be  the  gods. 
And  Jupiter  commissions  Themis  to 
call  the  heavenly  powers  to  council. 
"  Why  are  we  summoned  ?"  asks 
Neptune ;  and  Jove  replies — 
"  Myself  shall,  on  Olympus'  top  reclined, 
Well  pleased,  survey  them ;  but  let  all 

beside, 

Descending  to  the  field,  then  join  and  aid 
As  each  shall  choose,  the  Trojans  or  the 

Greeks ; 

For  should  Achilles,  though  alone,  assail 
The  unassisted  Trojans,  he  would  drive 
At  once  to  flight  their  whole  collected 

power. 

His  looks  appall'd  them  ever,  and  I  fear, 
Lest,  frantic  for  his  loss,  he  even  pass 
The   bounds  of  Fate,  and  desolate  the 

town." 

Juno,  Pallas,  the  sovereign  lord  of 
Ocean,  Hermes,  and  Vulcan, "  rolling 
on  all  sides  his  eyes,  but  on  limping 
feet  and  legs  unequal,"  seek  the  fleet; 
Mars,  and  Phoebus  never-shorn,  and 
Diana  shaft-armed,  and  Xanthus,  (so 
called  in  heaven,on  earth  Scamander,) 
Latona,  and  the  Queen  of  Smiles,  re- 
pair to  the  Trojans,  and  all  because 
of  Achilles.  The  knees  of  all  the 
Trojans  shook  as  they  beheld  him  in 
the  Held  again,  till  Pallas  from  the 
trench  beyond  the  wall,  and  ]\fcirs 
from  the  lofty  tower  of  Ilium,  shout- 
ed to  each  other,  and  then  both  ar- 
mies burned  for  battle.  Meanwhile 
Jove  thundered — Neptune  shook  the 
earth  and  the  high  mountains — and 
upstarted  from  his  throne  appalled 
the  King  of  Erebus,  and  all  because 
of — Achilles. 

He  has  no  eyes  but  for  Hector. 
But  Phoebus  Apollo  incites  ./Eneas 
to  engage  him — the  son  he  of  Venus, 
daughter  of  Jove, — Achilles,  but  of 
the  daughter  of  the  deep.  But  Apol- 
lo forgot  that  Achilles  had  been  the 
son  of  Jove  himself,  had  not  the 
Thunderer  paused  in  pursuit  of 
Thetis,  at  the  prophetic  warning  that 
the  son  of  Thetis  would  be  greater 
than  his  sire.  /Eneas  fight  Achilles  ! 
Whew ! 
"  Thee  have  I  chaced  already  with  my 

spear ; 
Canst  thou  forget  that,  finding  thee  of 

late 

Alone  on  Ida,  with  such  hasty  flight 
I  drove  thee  down,  that,  all  thy  cattle  left, 


Thou  never  dared'st  once  look  me  in  the 

face 
Till  thou  hadst  reached  Lyrnessus,  with 

whose  spoils 

Enrich'd  by  Jove  and  Pallas,  I  return'd, 
And  led  their  women  captive?  Thee,  in- 
deed, the  gods 

Preserved,  but  will  not,  as  thou  dream'st, 
Now  also.     BACK  INTO  THY  HOST — 
HENCE,  I  COMMAND  THEE,  nor  oppose  in 

fight 
Achilles." 

/Eneas  makes  a  long  speech  and  a 
shortish  battle;  and  then  Neptune, 
lifting  him  high  from  the  ground, 
"  heaved  him  far  remote."  "  Fight 
on,  my  friends,"  cried  Achilles, 
"  With  hands,  with  feet,  with  spirit,  and 

with  might, 

All  that  I  can  I  will ;  right  through  I  go, 
And  not  a  Trojan  who  shall  chance  within 
Spear's  reach  of  me,  shall,  as  I  judge,  re- 
joice." 

Lo !  Hector  fronts  the  Destroyer ! 
But  Phoebus  is  at  hand  to  admonish 
him,  and  he  retires  into  the  thick  of 
the  fight.  Defrauded  of  him,  Achilles 
slays  and  insults  Iphition — and  down 
with  Demoleon.  Miserably  through 
Poly  dorus  he  splits  his  spear,  and  Hec- 
tor again  leaps  out  from  the  mSle'e. 
Apollo  snatches  him  away,  wrapped 
round  with  thickest  gloom,  and, 
"  Thrice  swift  Achilles  sprang  to  the  as- 
sault, 
Impetuous,  thrice  the  pallid  cloud  he 

smote, 

And  at  his  fourth  assault,  godlike  in  act, 
And  terrible  in  utterance,  thus  exclaimed, 
'  Dog,  thou  art  safe,  and  hast  escaped 

again  !' " 

So  saying,  he  pierced  the  neck  of 
Dryops — turned  on  huge  Demuchus, 
and  piercing  him  with  his  spear, 
slew  him  with  his  sword.  Laogonus 
and  Dardanus  then  dismounting, 
the  one  he  killed  with  his  spear, 
"  the  other  with  his  falchion  at  a 
blow."  Then  through  ear  to  ear  he 
thrusts  the  pointed  brass  through  the 
occiput  of  Mulius,  and  drives  his 
huge-hafted  blade  through  the  fore- 
head of  Echechlus,  son  of  Agenor. 
But  not  till  he  had  slaughtered  Alas- 
tor,  smiting  the  stripling  through  the 
side.  Away,  at  one  blow,  went  the 
head  and  casque  of  Deucalion.  Rhig- 
mus  he  put  to  death,  pierced  through 
the  loins,  with  the  beam  fixed  in  his 
bowels ;  and  right  through  the  spine 
he  struck  Areithoiis  the  flying  chario- 
teer, and  then  thus  seemed  the  battle- 
field :— 


1881.]  Sotheby's  HovMr. 

COWPER. 

As  a  devouring  fire  within  the  glens 

Of  some  dry  mountain  ravages  the  trees, 

While,  blown  around,  the  names  roll  to  all  sides, 

So,  on  all  sides,  tremendous  as  a  God, 

Achilles  drove  the  death-devoted  host 

Of  Ilium,  and  the  champaign  ran  with  blood. 

As  when  the  peasant  his  yok'd  steers  employs 

To  tread  his  barley,  the  broad-fronted  pair 

With  wond'rous  hoofs  soon  triturate  the  grain, 

So  bearing  terrible  Achilles  on, 

His  coursers  stamp'd  together,  as  they  pass'd 

The  bodies  and  the  bucklers  of  the  slain  ; 

Blood  spatter'd  all  his  axle,  and  with  blood 

From  the  horse-hoofs  and  from  the  fellied  wheels 

His  chariot  redden'd,  while  himself,  athirst 

For  glory,  his  unconquerable  hands 

Defil'd  with  mingled  carnage,  sweat,  and  dust. 

And  now,  having  separated  the  Tro-  miracle !     Talk  not  to  me  of  ran- 

jans,  he  drives  one  part  of  them  to  some."     Then  slaying  him,  he  spins 

the  city,  and  the  other  into  the  Sea-  him  into  the  flood  for  food  to  fishes, 

mander,  all  whose  sounding  course  who  shall  find  "  Lycaon's  pampered 

is  glutted  with  the  mangled  throng  flesh,  delicious  fare  !"     Asteropseus 

of  horses  and  warriors.   Leaning  his  grazes  his  hand  with  a  spear,  but 

spear  against  a  tamarisk  tree,  sword-  dies. 

in-hand  he  plunges  into  the  river,  «  Lie  tnere  ,  The  mightiest  who  from  ri- 

now  redder  and  redder,  hewing  them  vers  spring, 

to  pieces,  while  the  terrified  Trojans  Quell  not  with  ease  the  mightier  sons  of 

secrete  themselves,  like  the  small-  Jove. 

er  fishes,  in  the  creeks  and  secret  Thou  thy  descent  from  Axius  made  thy 

hollows  of  a  haven,  flying  the  pur-  boast, 

suit  of  some  huge   dolphin.     Wea-  But  Jove  himself  I  boast  the  source  of 

ried  at  length  with  slaughter,  he  se-  mine." 

lects  twelve  death-doomed  youths,  Then  sent  he  to  the  shades  the  souls 

in  vengeance  "  for  his  loved  Patro-  of  Thersilochus,  and  Mydon,   and 

clus  slain,"  and  driving  them  forth  Thrasius,  and  Astypylus,  and  Ophe- 

from  the  river  stupified  like  fawns,  lestes,  and  ^Enius,  and  Mnesus— nor 

and  manacling  their  hands  fast  be-  had  these  sufficed,  but  in  semblance 

hind  them  with  their    own  lance-  of  a  man  stood  before  him  the  in- 

strings,  gives  them  in  charge  to  his  censed  river,  Xanthus  himself,  the 

Myrmidons  to  keep  for  the  sacrifice.  Scamander,  and  they  too  after  angry 

Suddenly  he  sees  Lycaon,  one  of  the  parle,  engage  in  combat. 

sons  of  Priam,  whom  he  had  surpri-  Would  we  could  quote  the  com- 

sed  in  the  fields  by  night,  and  sent  in  bat !    Achilles  prevails,  and  Scaman- 

a  ship  to  Lesbos.    "  Ha,  ye  gods  !  a  der  calls  upon  Sitnois. 

"  Thy  channel  fill  with  streams 
From  all  tliy  fountains ;  call  thy  torrents  down  ; 
Lift  high  the  waters  ;  mingle  the  hard  stones 
With  uproar  wild;  that  the  enormous  force 
Of  this  man,  now  triumphant,  and  who  aims 
To  match  the  gods  in  might,  may  be  subdued. 
But  vain  shall  be  his  strength !  his  beauty  nought 
Shall  profit  him,  or  his  resplendent  arms; 
But  I  will  bury  him  in  slime  and  ooze, 
And  I  will  overwhelm  himself  with  soil, 
Smds  heaping  o'er  him,  and  around  him  sands 
Infinite,  that  no  Greek  shall  find  his  bones 
For  ever,  in  my  bottom  deep-immersed. 
There  shall  his  tomb  be  piled,  nor  other  earth, 
At  his  last  rites,  his  friends  shall  need  for  him." 


888  Sotheby's  Homer.  [Dec. 

But,  at  Juno's  voice,  comes  Vul- 
can, burning  up  the  dead,  willows, 
taraerisks,  elms,  lotus,  rushes,  reeds, 
and  "  all  plants  and  herbs  that  cloth- 
ed profuse  the  margin  of  the  flood," 
and  Xanthus'  self  is  in  dread  of  ex- 
tinction. "  I  yield  to  thy  consuming 
fires — cease — cease — I  reck  not  if 
Achilles  drive  her  citizens  this  mo- 
ment forth  from  Troy."  "  So  spake 
he  scorched,  and  all  his  waters  ooil- 
ed."  And  now  all  the  gods  and  god- 
desses engage  in  conflict, 

"  While  the  boundless  earth 
Quaked  under  them,  and  all  around  the 

Heavens 

Sang  them  together  with  a  trumpet's  voice; 
Jove  listening  on  the  Olympian  mountain 

sat, 
Well  pleas'd,  and  laughing  in  his  heart 

for  joy." 

Another  time,  perhaps,  we  may 
poetize  and  philosophize  after  our 
own  fashion  upon  this  wonderful 
Twenty-first  Book  of  the  Iliad — the 
Combat  of  the  Celestials.  But  again, 

"  Like  a  glory  from  afar, 

Like  a  reappearing  star, 

First  to  head  the  flock  of  war," 
Achilles  !  Say  with  Homer — as  when 
the  columned   smoke  reaches  the 
wide  sky,  ascending  from  some  city 

NORTH. 

Meanwhile  the  ether  Trojans  through-terror-fleeing  came  iu  a  body 
Eagerly  to  the  city ;  but  the  city  was-being-filled  with  those  who  had  rushed  to- 
wards (it.) 

Nor  truly  durst  they  (while)  beyond  the  city  and  tbe  wall 
Remain  there  for  one  another,  and  to  ascertain  who  might  have  escaped 
And  who  had  died  in  tbe  fight :   but  eagerly  crowded  they 
Tnto  the  city,  (eacb)  whomsoever  bis  feet  and  his  knees  bad  saved. 

CHAPMAN. 

In  mean  time,  the  other  frighted  powers 
Came  to  the  city,  comforted,  when  Troy  and  all  her  towers 
Strootted  with  fillers ;  none  would  stand,  to  see  who  staid  without, 
Who  scaped  and  who  came  short ;  the  ports  cleft  to  receive  the  rout, 
That  poured  itself  in.     Every  man  was  for  himself;  most  fleet 
Most  fortunate ;  who  ever  'scap't— his  head  might  thank  his  feet. 

POPE. 

While  all  the  flying  troops  their  speed  employ, 

And  pour  on  heaps  into  the  walls  of  Troy  ; 

No  stop,  no  stay ;  no  thought  to  ask  or  tell 

Who  'scaped  by  flight,  or  who  by  battle  fell. 

'Twas  tumult  all,  and  violence  of  flight ; 

And  sudden  joy  confused,  and  mixed  aifrigbt. 

Pale  Troy  against  Achilles  shut  her  gate, 

And  nations  breathed,  delivered  from  their  fate. 

COWPER. 

The  Trojan  host 

Meantime,  impatient  to  regain  the  town, 
Tumultuous  fled,  and  entering,  closed  the  gates. 
None  halted  to  descry,  without  the  walls 
Who  yet  survived,  or  had  in  battle  fall'n; 


god-fired  in  vengeance,  "  toil  to  all, 
to  many  misery."  Priam  beholds 
from  a  sacred  tower  the  giant  dri- 
ving the  army,  and  mournful  cries, 

"  Hold  wide  the  portals  till  the  flying 

host 

lie-enter — for  Achilles  is  at  hand, 
And  hunts  the  people  home.     Now — wo 

to  Troy ! 

But  soon  as  safe  within  the  city-walls 
They  breathe  again,  shut  fast  the  ponder- 
ous gates 
At  once,  lest  that  destroyer  too  rush  in." 

Shooting  back  the  bars,  then  wide 
open  flung  they  the  city-gates,  and 
the  opening  was  salvation — while 
Apollo  sallied  to  strike  back  ruin. 
Right  towards  the  city  and  the  lofty 
wall  flew  the  whole  host,  "  parched 
with  drought,  and  whitened  all  with 
dust,"  while  Achilles,  spear  in  hand, 
"  on  their  shoulders  rode,"  for  rabid 
was  his  heart,  and  he  raged  in  the 
lust  of  glory.  Then,  but  for  Agenor, 
by  Apollo  roused  to  face  that  fury, 
and  by  Apollo  saved  from  death,  had 
fallen  haughty  Ilium.  But  Phoebus, 
from  the  chase  of  Ilium's  host,  by 
art  has  seduced  Achilles  away  in  far 
pursuit  of  the  semblance  of  Ante- 
nor's  son. 


1881.]  Sothebifs  Homer, 

But  all,  whom  flight  had  saved,  with  eager  haste 
Pour'd  through  the  pass,  and  crowded  into  Troy. 
SOTHEBY. 

Meantime  the  rest, 

Crowd  urging  crowd,  through  Troy's  throng'd  portals  prest ; 
None  paused  to  ask  who  'scaped,  or  swelled  the  slain, 
But  all,  whoe'er  had  strength,  in  fearful  joy 
Rushed  like  a  flood,  once  more  to  breathe  in  Troy." 


Homer  means  merely  to  give  the 
liveliest  picture  of  rout,  confusion, 
and  fear ;  and  of  fear — the  blind  and 
utter  selfishness.  All  alike  regardless 
of  each  other,  and,  for  the  time,  cow- 
ards all,  into  the  town  they  rush 
helter-skelter,  pell-mell.  He  had  no 
thought  of  making  the  picture  a  grand 
one ;  and  though  the  words  are  strong 
as  strong  can  be,  and  go  hurrying 
and  staggering  along,  there  is  no 
magniloquence.  Chapman  saw  and 
felt  this  ;  and  in  his  heart  arose  such 
scorn  and  contempt  for  the  fugitives, 
that  he  gave  expression  to  the  bit- 
terness, and  closes  purposely  with 
a  line  almost  ludicrous.  We  cannot 
find  much  fault  with  him  for  doing 
so ;  though  we  suspect  he  supposed 
— mistakenly — that  something  of  the 
same  sort  was  intended  by  Homer  in 

"  Hvriva    TXV   'yi  vfo^is   KK]  yovv/x  eduireiv. 

He  seems  to  have  thought  these 
words  almost  equivalent  with  "  as 
fast  as  their  legs  could  carry  them." 
And  if  Homer  had  said  so,  we  really 
should  not  have  objected  to  it.  "  The 
ports  cleft  to  receive  the  rout  that 
poured  itself  in,"  is  a  picturesque 
and  powerful  paraphrase,  and  it  is 
Homeric. 

The  first  four  lines  of  Pope  are 
admirable.  The  next  two  are  in 
themselves  good,  but  they  are  unne- 
cessary, and  had  been  better  away 
— all  but  the  "  sudden  joy  confused," 
which  is,  though  free,  yet  not  an 
untrue  version  of  "  <*«•<*•«««$."  The 
last  two  lines  are  exceedingly  sono- 
rous, and  mighty  magnificent,  no 
doubt,  but  they  are  needless  super- 
numeraries, and,  especially  the  con- 
cluding one,  unlike  Homer's  usual 
style,  and  most  alien  from  the  spirit 
of  this  particular  passage,  and  that 
nobody  can  deny. 


Neither  is  Cowper'e  version  — 
though  vigorous — all  right.  "  Impa- 
tient is  a  poor  tame  word  for  "  'A<T- 
vaffiti ;"  and  "  entering  closed  the 
gates,"  poorer  and  tamer  still  for 
"  s-o'x/j  8*  fytirxnre  aXsvrW — which  is  in- 
deed "  the  perfection  of  energetic 
brevity."  "  With  eager  haste"  has 
the  same  fault — tamenessj  but  all 
the  rest  is  good — though  the  whole 
description,  thus  weakened,  wants 
tumult  and  terror.  It  is  not  forceful. 

Sotheby,  perhaps,  is  the  most  suc- 
cessful. But  what  word  in  his  version 
is  equal  to  "  ^nfn^evai  ?"  "  Pause" 
is  not,  to  our  ears,  good  for  "  ptvKi ;" 
and  "  who  swelled  the  slain,"  to  our 
ears — they  may  be  fastidious — is  bad 
for  "  who  had  fallen  in  battle."  The 
last  two  lines  are  good ;  yet "  fearful 
joy"  we  doubt  being  Homeric ;  and 
ktrt^wra  "  are  poured  in,"  is  better 
than  "  rushed  like  a  flood,"  for  it  im- 
plies the  flood,  and  saves  a  simile, 
which  Homer  in  the  hurry  had  no 
leisure  for ;  he  writes  as  if  he  himself 
had  narrowly  escaped  being  tram- 
pled to  death,  or  jammed  up  flat 
against  post  or  pillar. 

But  Achilles  has  one  more  fight 
before  him,  ere  he  be  at  "  the  top  of 
the  tree,"  and  wear  the  baldrick  of 
the  Champion : 

"  In  somnis  ecce  !  ante  oculos  moestissi- 

mus  Hector 
Visus  adesse  mihi !" 

But  on  that  combat — and  on  the 
character  of  Achilles — when  he  shall 
stand  before  us  a  full-length  portrait 
— as  yet  he  is  but  kit-cat — we  shall 
ere  long  enter  into  colloquy  with  thee 
— heroic  reader ; — till  then  farewell 
to  Homer,  and  his  four  illustrious 
friends — Chapman,  Pope,  Cowper, 
and  Sotheby. 


890 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.        [Dec. 


ON  PARLIAMENTARY  REFORM  AND  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 

No.  XII. 

PUBLIC  OPINION— POPULAR  VIOLENCE. 


"  THEY  are  little  acquainted,"  says 
Marshal  St  Cyr,  "  with  the  progress 
of  ambition,  who  are  surprised  that 
Napoleon  undertook  the  war  in  Rus- 
sia. It  is  the  nature  of  ambition,  as 
of  all  other  popular  passions,  to  be 
insatiable.  Every  gratification  it  re- 
ceives, only  renders  it  the  more  ve- 
hement, until  at  length  it  outsteps 
the  bounds  of  physical  nature,  and 
quenches  itself  in  the  flame  it  has 
raised.  Napoleon  knew  well  that 
his  empire  was  founded  on  the  pres- 
tige ot  popular  opinion; — that  to 
maintain  that  opinion,  it  was  neces- 
sary that  he  should  always  advance; 
that  the  moment  his  victories  ceased 
his  throne  began  to  totter.  The  pub- 
lic, habituated  to  victory  by  his  suc- 
cesses, were  no  longer  to  be  dazzled 
by  ordinary  achievements;  he  felt 
that  his  latter  triumphs  must  eclipse 
those  of  his  earlier  years, — that  if  he 
only  equalled  them,  he  would  be 
thought  to  have  retrograded, — that 
victories  might  suffice  for  the  Gene- 
ral of  the  Republic,  or  the  First  Con- 
sul, but  conquest  must  attend  the 
steps  of  the  Emperor  of  the  West. 
To  overthrow  Prussia,  or  conquer 
Italy,  might  suffice  for  his  earlier 
years;  but  nothing  could  revive  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  people  in  later 
times,  but  the  destruction  of  the 
Colossus  of  the  North.  From  the 
moment  that  he  launched  into  the 
career  of  conquest,  he  had  perilled 
his  fortune  on  a  single  throw — uni- 
versal dominion,  or  a  private  sta- 
tion." » 

The  observation  does  not  merely 
apply  to  the  desire  for  military  glory, 
but  to  every  other  passion  which 
takes  possession  of  the  human  breast. 
The  more  it  is  gratified,  the  stronger 
it  becomes ; — when  the  means  of  as- 
suaging it  decline,  more  extravagant 
measures  of  excitation  must  be  re- 
sorted to.  It  is  thus  that  the  youth 
who  has  embarked  on  the  stream  of 
pleasure,  is  impelled  onwards  by  an 


insatiable  desire,  at  once  the  punish- 
ment of  the  past,  and  the  tempter  of 
the  future,  till  he  is  lost  in  the  sea  of 
perdition ;  it  is  from  the  same  cause 
that  the  beauty,  who  has  given  ear 
to  the  voice  of  flattery,  becomes  in- 
satiable for  homage,  and  grows  con- 
temptible in  age,  from  the  attempt 
to  continue  the  conquests  of  youth  ; 
— that  the  statesman,  who  has  expe- 
rienced the  intoxication  of  popular 
applause,  is  urged  forward  in  a  head- 
long course,  and  feels  the  pulse  of 
existence  beat  slower,  when  the  ac- 
clamations of  the  people  begin  to 
subside.  In  all  these  cases,  the  prin- 
ciple is  the  same;  and  destruction 
is  produced  by  the  same  feeling ;  it 
is  the  law  of  nature,  that  passion  is 
insatiable — the  more  it  receives,  the 
more  it  desires — and  its  due  punish- 
ment is  brought  about  even  in  this 
world  by  the  ruinous  excesses  to 
which  it  precipitates  those  who  yield 
to  its  suggestions.  • 

Of  all  the  instances,  however,  in 
which  the  operation  of  this  principle 
is  to  be  perceived,  there  is  none  so 
remarkable  as  the  rapid  growth  of 
democratic  ambition.  With  truth  it 
may  be  said  of  that  passion,  that  that 
which  a  little  while  ago  was  a  speck 
hardly  visible  in  the  horizon,  soon 
becomes  a  tempest,  that  covers  the 
universe  with  darkness.  It  grows 
with  the  progress  of  events ;  it  ga- 
thers strength  from  the  acclama- 
tions consequent  on  every  success  ; 
it  strengthens  with  the  result  of 
every  acquisition.  Every  one  must 
have  felt  how  intoxicating  are  the 
cheers  of  a  mob,  how  difficult  it  is  to 
resist  the  enthusiasm  of  the  people, 
even  in  the  worst  of  causes.  What 
then  must  be  the  delirium  produced 
by  the  cheers  of  a  large  part  of  a 
whole  nation,  and  the  incense  of 
adulation  offered  by  several  millions 
of  mankind ! 

It  is  this  which  renders  the  launch- 
ing of  a  nation  into  the  stream  ot 


"  St  Cyr's  Memoirs,  III.  2, 


1881.]        On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


revolutionary  ambition  so  dreadful- 
ly perilous,  and  has  made  the  calm 
and  the  thoughtful,  in  every  age,  re- 
gard with  such  horror  any  attempt 
to  open  the  floodgates  of  democra- 
cy. The  time  will  come,  when  the 
authors  of  any  such  measures  will 
be  regarded,  however  benevolent  or 
well-meaning  their  intentions  may 
have  been,  in  the  same  light  as  those 
who  shall  cut  the  dykes  of  Holland, 
to  water  the  meadows  on  its  shore ; 
or  remove  the  barriers  of  the  Nile, 
to  fertilize  the  fields  of  Egypt.  When 
the  experience  of  the  English  shall 
have  been  added  to  that  of  the 
French  Revolution — when  Europe 
has  been  torn  by  this  double  convul- 
sion, and  despotism  has  settled  down 
with  leaden  wings  on  the  anarchy- 
torn  fabric  of  freedom,  the  principle 
we  now  illustrate  will  have  passed 
into  proverbs,  and  ages  of  suffering 
taught  wisdom  to  the  most  impas- 
sioned of  mankind. 

This  it  is  which  occasions  the 
downward  progress  of  all  revolu- 
tionary movements,  and  renders  the 
people,  after  a  few  years,  so  ready 
to  discard  their  former  leaders,  and 
follow  with  enthusiasm  the  most  ex- 
travagant agitators.  The  reason  why 
they  do  so  is  obvious,  and  must  con- 
tinue to  operate  to  the  end  of  the 
world.  It  is  the  same  which  impel- 
led Napoleon  upon  the  snows  of 
Russia.  The  early  leaders  of  a  re* 
volution  are  chosen  while  the  pas- 
sions are  as  yet  in  their  infancy — 
when  reason,  moderation,  and  truth 
have  still  maintained  some  ascend- 
ency— when  the  old  statesmen  and 
tried  rulers  are  still  in  the  posses- 
sion of  power.  But  in  the  progress 
of  the  hurricane,  stronger  passions 
are  developed — more  undisguised 
flattery  of  the  people  becomes  ne- 
cessary— more  extravagant  measures 
of  innovation  are  demanded — the 
early  leaders  of  the  revolution  are 
discarded,  fall  into  contempt,  or  per- 
ish on  the  scaffold,  because  they  re- 
fuse to  keep  pace  with  the  progress 
of  the  tempest — because  they  recoil 
at  the  frightful  demand  for  human 
blood — because  they  strive  to  exert 
the  now  enfeebled  arm  of  the  law  in 
repressing  the  excesses  of  the  popu- 
lace. Then,  when  it  is  too  late,  they 
begin  to  see  the  consequences  of 
their  actions — then  they  lament  the 
winged  words,  never  to  be  recalled, 


891 

which  lighted  up  a  nation's  flame- 
then  they  feel  the  weakness  which 
their  own  blows  have  brought  upon 
the  executive  authority  of  the  realm. 
They  are  led  to  the  scaffold — they 
dignify  a  destructive  life  by  a  noble 
death,  and  leave  behind  them  a  long 
catalogue  of  woes,  which  at  length 
cure  the  people  of  their  frenzy,  and 
render  the  progress,  which  has  now 
been  figured,  familiar  to  the  meanest 
of  mankind. 

It  is  from  this  cause  that  the  first 
victims  of  revolutionary  fury  are 
always  its  earliest  leaders,  and  that 
those  whose  insane  projects  of  inno- 
vation, in  the  outset,  dissolved  the 
fabric  of  society,  are  the  first  to  per- 
ish in  its  ruins.  The  reason  is,  that 
being  intrusted  with  the  reins  of  go- 
vernment, they  are  the  first  to  come 
in  collision  with  democratic  fury, 
and  are  soon  called  on  to  chastise, 
with  the  axe  of  the  law,  the  excesses 
produced  by  the  passions  they  have 
roused  among  the  people.  If  they 
shrink  from  the  task,  the  bonds  of 
government  are  at  once  dissolved, 
and  anarchy,  with  all  its  horrors, 
reigns  triumphant.  If  they  discharge 
their  duty,  their  imperious  masters 
speedily  turn  upon  themselves,  and 
from  the  idols,  they  become  the  vic- 
tims of  the  populace.  From  the  sub- 
lime to  the  ridiculous,  said  Napo- 
leon, is  but  a  step ;  with  equal  truth 
it  may  be  said,  that  the  distance  is 
as  short — with  a  revolutionary  admi- 
nistration— from  the  height  of  popu- 
larity to  the  depths  of  execration. 

It  is  impossible  for  a  government 
which  is  permitted  to  go  on  with  the 
career  of  innovation  to  avoid  this  ca- 
tastrophe— their  only  chance  of  sal- 
vation lies  in  the  efforts  of  those  who 
oppose  their  progress,  and  bring 
them  to  anchor,  before  it  is  too  late. 
The  vessel  may  run  for  a  time  pros- 
perously and  triumphantly  before 
the  wind,  Youth  at  the  prow,  Ambi- 
tion at  the  helm ;  but  that  they  will 
arrive  at  last  on  a  lee  shore,  is  as  cer- 
tain in  the  moral  as  the  physical 
world.  When  that  terrific  prospect 
opens,  then  is  the  moment  of  peril 
— when  they  attempt  to  anchor,  they 
are  either  swamped  by  the  tempest, 
or  driven  headlong  upon  the  break- 
ers— they  are  running  before  a  hur- 
ricane which  their  own  hands  have  let 
loose.  In  the  first  attempt  to  stop, 
they  are  overwhelmed  by  its  fury. 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.        [Dec. 


892 

Since  the  preceding  paragraph  was 
written,  a  signal  proof  has  occurred 
of  the  truth  of  these  principles  in 
this  country.  The  public  journals 
which  slavishly  fawned  on  Ministers 
as  long  as  they  fawned  the  gales  of 
Revolution,  are  already  preparing  to 
turn  upon  them  with  fierce  hostility, 
the  moment  that  they  seek  to  mode- 
rate the  transports  they  have  raised. 
"  Should  Lord  Grey  resign,"  says  the 
leading  Ministerial  journal, "  re  infec- 
ta,  let  him  not  natter  himself  that  he 
will  be  allowed  to  sink  into  obscuri- 
ty ;  that  is  not  the  fate  of  great  cri- 
minals t  his  name  will  be  handed 
down  with  execration  through  all 
ages ;  never  since  the  fall  of  Adam 
has  there  been  such  a  fall  as  his  will 
be!"* 

The  truth  of  these  principles  has 
been  illustrated  in  every  revolution- 
ary government  which  ever  existed 
— but  in  none  so  clearly  as  in  France. 
Who  were  the  early  leaders  and 
tried  friends  of  the  Revolution  ?  Mi- 
rabeau,  whose  voice  of  thunder  so 
long  shook  the  Constitutional  As- 
sembly, and  precipitated  the  fatal 
rapidity  of  its  career  of  innovation  ; 
Bailly,  the  first  president  of  the  As- 
sembly, the  author  of  the  Tennis 
Court  oath,  the  venerated  Mayor  of 
Paris;  Lafayette,  the  adored  com- 
mander of  the  National  Guard,  the 
tried  champion  of  the  people,  whose 
white  plume  was  the  signal  for  uni- 
versal transports  in  the  streets  of 
Paris ;  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  whose 
largesses  so  long  corrupted  the  po- 
pulace, who  headed  the  nobles  that 
deserted  their  order  to  join  the  Tiers 
Etat  who  voted  for  the  death  of 
Louis ;  Vergniaud,  from  whose  elo- 
quent lips  the  language  of  democra- 
cy so  often  fell,  who  joined  in  the 
revolt  of  the  18th  August,  and  so 
long  sustained  the  cause  of  freedom 
in  the  Legislative  Assembly ;  Bris- 
sot,  whose  vehement  declamations 
provoked  the  European  war  ;  Ro- 
land, whose  incorruptible  virtue 
tried,  when  too  late,  to  moderate 
the  Revolution;  Carnot,  whose  re- 
publican austerity  was  proof  alike 
against  the  terrors  of  democratic 
fury,  and  the  seduction  of  imperial 
ambition.  And  what  was  the  fate  of 
these  men  at  the  hands  of  the  people, 
who  had  so  long  fanned  their  tri- 


umphs? Mirabeau,  discovering,  when 
too  late,  the  fatal  tendency  of  the 
stream  on  which  he  was  embarked, 
began  to  lean  towards  the  cause  of 
government,  and  was  interrupted  by 
death  in  his  efforts  to  stem  the  revo- 
lution. His  ashes  were  torn  from 
their  sepulchre  by  the  populace,  and 
thrown  with  ignominy  into  the  filth- 
iest sewer;  Bailly,  deeming  it  ne- 
cessary, as  Mayor  of  Paris,  to  sub- 
due the  mobs  in  its  streets,  hoisted 
the  red  flag  of  martial  law,  and  or- 
dered the  National  Guard  to  fire  on 
the  people.  For  this  he  was  pur- 
sued with  undying  virulence,  and 
subjected  to  a  death  of  extraordi- 
nary cruelty  in  the  Champ  de  Mars ; 
Lafayette,  proscribed  and  execrated 
by  the  populace  for  obeying  Bailly's 
order,  and  directing  the  troops  to 
fire,  was  forced  to  fly  for  his  life  to 
the  enemies  of  his  country,  and  owed 
his  salvation  to  being  immured  for 
years  in  an  Austrian  dungeon ;  the 
Duke  of  Orleans,  accused  of  leaning 
at  last  to  a  constitutional  monarchy, 
was  beheaded  ;  Vergniaud  and  Bris- 
sot,  arrested  by  the  pikemen  of  the 
Fauxbourg  St  Antoine,  for  striving 
to  suppress  the  great  revolt  of  31st 
May,  1793,  were  guillotined ;  Roland, 
as  the  reward  or  his  upright  conduct 
as  Minister  of  the  Interior,  was  per- 
secuted with  such  violence,  that  he 
committed  suicide,  writing  with  his 
last  breath, — "lam  weary  of  a  world 
sullied  by  so  many  crimes ;"  Carnot, 
tracked  out  by  the  revolutionary 
bloodhounds  on  the  18th  Fructidor, 
owed  his  salvation  to  the  heroic  de- 
votion of  female  attachment ;  Louis, 
the  reforming  monarch,  who  had 
yielded  every  thing  to  his  people, 
was  the  first  victim  of  their  violence ; 
and  the  whole  democratic  and  reform- 
ing Ministry  of  the  Gironde,  who 
overturned  the  throne  on  the  10th 
August,  1792,  were  led  out  together 
to  execution,  two-and-thirty  in  num- 
ber, within  fourteen  months  after- 
wards. With  truth  did  Vergniaud 
declare,  that  the  Revolution,  like  Sa- 
turn, devoured  all  its  offspring. 

Nothing  in  the  world,  therefore, 
can  be  so  insane,  as  to  consider  pub- 
lic opinion,  during  a  revolutionary 
movement, as  the  slightest  indication 
either  of  what  is  reasonable  or  ex- 
pedient, or  to  justify  violent  mea- 


*•  Times,  Nov.  12.  1831. 


183L]        On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.  89a 


sures,  on  the  ground  that  the  people 
demand  it,  and  that  it  is  unsafe  to 
refuse  them.  As  well  might  a  sailor 
vindicate  himself  for  spreading  every 
yard  of  canvass  by  the  violence  of 
the  tempest.  Because  the  wind 
blows  steadily  and  strongly  in  one 
direction,  is  that  any  ground  for 
crowding  every  sail,  and  putting  out 
the  sweeps  to  receive  its  blasts  ?  Is 
It  not  rather  a  reason  for  drawing  in 
the  sails,  lowering  the  masts,  and  al- 
lowing the  vessel  only  that  motion 
which  the  winds  and  the  current  un- 
avoidably produce  ? 

A  year  ago  there  was  a  consider- 
able wish  for  Parliamentary  Reform, 
springing  out  of  the  distresses  con- 
sequent on  a  change  of  currency, 
and  fanned  by  the  French  Revolu- 
tion, and  the  intemperate  speeches 
of  the  Whigs  at  the  general  election. 
An  extraordinary  coalition  of  Whigs, 
Radicals,  and  Tories,  threw  out  the 
Duke  of  Wellington,  and  brought  in 
a  reforming  Ministry,  who  soon  set 
the  nation  on  fire  by  the  prodigal  of- 
fer of  power  to  the  most    inflam- 
mable of  the  people.    Where  are  we 
now,  and  what  opinions  are  now  se- 
riously urged  both  by  the  reforming 
orators  and  the  revolutionary  press  V 
On  the  brink  of  a  public  convulsion, 
with  the  reforming  journals  inces- 
santly clamouring  for  the  remodel- 
ling— in  other  words,  the  destruction 
—of  the  House  of  Peers ;  with  a  go- 
vernment   who   profess    that   they 
must  run  before  the  gales  of  public 
opinion,  and  that  even  now  they  can- 
not halt  in  their  course;  with  the 
confiscation  of  the  Church  incessant- 
ly recommended ;  an  equitable  ad- 
justment of  the  national  debt — in 
other  words,  national  bankruptcy — 
with  all  its  far-spread  devastation, 
deliberately  and  anxiously   urged; 
with  conflagration,  plunder,  and  ruin 
spreading  over  the  land ;  a  National 
Guard  called  for  to  check  the  pro- 
gress of  incendiarism,  and  a  general 
arming  of  the  Reform  Clubs   seri- 
ously entertained,  to  ensure  the  tri- 
umph of  democratic  ambition  !  Such 
have  been  the  results  of  the  system 
of  conciliation  and  concessions.  How 
far  have  we  advanced  in  the  march 
of  revolution  in  so  short  a  time — how 
terribly  has  the  authority  of  govern- 
ment been  loosened — what  a  flood 
of  angry  passions  has  been  let  loose 
within  one  year  !    The  distance  be- 
twp<*n  onr  present  state  and  unli- 


mited anarchy,  is  not  so  great  as  be- 
tween what  we  were  a  year  ago  and 
what  we  now  are. 

In  considering  the  ultimate  conse- 
quences of  this  system  of  conceding 
every  thing  to  the  demands  of  the  po- 
pulace, it  must  be  always  borne  in 
mind,  that  the  time  will  come,  in  the 
progress   of  revolution,  when  they 
must  be  refused.     As  they  invari- 
ably go  on  augmenting  with  the  suc- 
cessive acquisitions  they  receive,  it 
is  easy  to  see  that  the  time  must 
come  when  the  fabric  of  society  can- 
not be  held  together,  if  any  farther 
concessions  are  made.    If  it  is  dif- 
ficult now  to  resist  the  demand  for 
Reform,  what  will  it  be  after  that 
great  victory  is  gained  to  withstand 
the  demand  for  the  abolition  of  the 
Peers,  the  confiscation  of  Church 
property,  the  sweeping  oft'  of  the  na- 
tional debt,  the  division  of  estates  ? 
Every  successive  acquisition  aug- 
ments the  strength  ot  the  popular, 
and  weakens  the  courage  of  the  con- 
servative party.  It  would  have  been 
much  easier  to  have  crushed  the  de- 
mand for  Reform  a  year  ago  than  it 
is  now ;  it  is  much  easier  to  resist 
the  abolition  or  degradation  of  the 
Peers  now,  than  it  will  be  a  year 
hence.    The  people,  during  the  lat- 
ter stages  of  revolutionary  excite- 
ment, become  as  savage  as  beasts 
of  prey,  as  lawless  as  soldiers  in  a 
stormed  fortress,  as  infuriate  as  the 
rabble  in  a  plundered  city.    Things 
are  utterly  distorted — the  most  exe- 
crable of  mankind  become  the  ob- 
jects of  Admiration — the  most  noble, 
of  universal  hatred.   No  man  was  so 
much  detested  in  France,  in  1793,  as 
Louis,  the  reforming  monarch,  who 
laid   down  his  life  for  his  people, 
while  busts  were  erected  in  every 
village  to  Marat,  the  monster  who 
demanded  300,000  heads ;  and  Robe- 
spierre, in  the  opinion  of  nine-tenths 
of  his    countrymen,  was  the   most 
exalted  and  incorruptible   of  man- 
kind.   As  this  is  the  natural  and 
inevitable   progress  of  public  opi- 
nion during  revolutionary    excite- 
ment, it  is  of  the  last  importance  to 
throw  oft"  its  fetters  before  it  becomes 
irresistible ;  since  *the  serpent  must 
be  grappled  with  in  the  end,  let  the 
combat  begin  before  he  has  swallow- 
ed another   serpent  and  become  a 
dragon. 

As  history  and  experience  are  en- 
tirely thrown  away  upon   nttr  Re- 


894  On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.       [Dec. 

JttW:»»«  It  ft     L  ,  ,       ., 

formers,  we  have  long  ago  abandon- 
ed all  hope  that  they  would  be  awa- 
kened to  a  sense  of  the  peril  of  their 
proceedings,  by  any  thing  which  oc- 
curred elsewhere,  though  it  was  only 


a  few  years  ago,  and  within  a  day's 
sail  of  the  British  shores — maxims 
which  have  been  familiar  to  every 
man  of  sense  from  his  childhood — 
truths  repeated  from  the  sages  of  an- 
cient wisdom,  by  every  boy  at  school 
—  principles  impressed  by  dear- 
bought  experience  upon  the  whole 
of  the  last  generation,  are  now  open- 
ly abandoned,  not  only  by  the  multi- 
tude, but  the  rulers  of  the  state.  But 
the  danger  has  at  length  appeared  in 
its  real  colours — the  conflagration, 
long  smothered,  has  burst  forth  with 
appalling  fury,  and  all  men  must  now 
see  that  the  truths  we  have  so  long 
inculcated  from  other  states,  are 
about  to  be  written  in  characters  of 
blood  among  ourselves. 

Bristol,  a  city  of  first-rate  com- 
mercial importance,  has  been  the 
theatre  of  rapine,  conflagration,  and 
bloodshed,  unparalleled  in  the  me- 
mory of  man — property  to  an  incal- 
culable amount  has  been  destroyed 
— the  populace,  for  days  together, 
have  been  unbridled  in  their  excesses 
— all  the  principal  public  buildings 
have  become  the  prey  of  conflagra- 
tion— hundreds  of  persons  have  been 
sabred  by  the  military,  or  burnt  in 
the  flames.  The  city  bears  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  fortified  town  after 
being  ravaged  by  a  bombardment, 
and  devastated  by  assault.  Upon 
whom  are  all  these  deplorable  evils 
chargeable?  Upon  the  Reformers, 
and  the  Reformers  alone. 

In  making  this  heavy  charge,  we 
would  be  the  last  to  insinuate  that 
either  the  administration,  or  the  lead- 
ing reforming  characters  in  the  coun- 
try, have  haa  the  remotest  hand  in 
exciting  or  abetting  these  excesses. 
Differing  from  them  as  we  do  in  po- 
litical conduct,  as  far  as  the  poles 
are  asunder,  we  are  yet  convinced 
that  they  are  men  of  honour  and 
gentlemen ;  and  that  they  would  be 
the  last  to  encourage,  and  the  first  to 
repress,  these  frightful  disorders. 
We  will  go  fartlfer,  and  admit  that 
the  respectable  Reformers  in  Politi- 
cal Unions  or  elsewhere,  are  guiltless 
of  any  intentional  design  to  encour- 
age them  ;  although  every  one  must 
see  that  vast  bodies  of  that  descrip- 
tion, embracing  such  multitudes  of 


the  lower  orders  in  great  cities,  must 
everywhere  contain  thousands  who 
consider  Reform  only  as  another 
word  for  rapine,  and  are  ready,  like 
the  members  of  the  Jacobin  club,  to 
indulge  in  every  species  of  revolu- 
tionary violence ;  and  it  is  said  that 
several  of  them  were  found  among 
the  rioters  at  Bristol.  But  admitting 
all  this ;  admitting  that  Ministers  sent 
down  horse,  foot,  and  cannon,  with 
the  utmost  celerity,  to  stop  the  fires  of 
the  burning  city;  supposing  it  were 
true  that  the  Political  Union  at  length 
lent  their  aid  to  quench  the  flame 
their  principles  had  raised,  still,  we 
say,  with  not  the  less  confidence, 
and  we  are  confident  history  will 
bear  out  the  assertion,  that  all  these 
evils  are  chargeable  upon  the  Re- 
formers, and  that  they  will  have  to 
answer  to  God  for  all  the  suffering 
that  has  occurred. 

The  evil  they  have  done  was  not 
in  encouraging  these  excesses,  or 
conniving  at  them,  or  hesitating  to 
check  them ;  but  in  promulgating 
principles,  and  forcing  on  measures, 
which  necessarily  led  to  them. 

The  strength  of  government,  the 
protection  01*  property,  the  authority 
of  the  law,  do  not  consist  merely  in 
the  physical  force  at  the  command 
of  the  executive,  but  in  the  habits 
of  obedience,  order,  and  submission, 
to  which  the  people  have  been  train- 
ed. It  is  not  five  hundred  represent- 
atives of  the  people  in  St  Stephen's, 
nor  four  hundred  peers  in  Westmin- 
ster Hall,  nor  a  single  individual 
with  a  sceptre  in  his  hand  on  the 
throne,  which  constitutes  the  strength 
of  government,  and  the  protection  of 
the  lives  and  properties  of  the  peo- 
ple ;  it  is  the  moral  awe  in  which 
the  lower  classes  have  been  educa- 
ted, the  veneration  with  which  they 
have  been  accustomed  to  regard  the 
institutions  of  their  country;  the  ha- 
bit of  yielding  obedience  to  the  law, 
in  consequence  of  the  sense  of  the 
justice  with  which  it  is  administered. 
But  when  these  institutions  are  at- 
tacked with  relentless  severity; 
when  they  are  told  in  every  news- 
paper and  by  every  orator  on  the 
Ministerial  side,  that  they  have  been 
subjected  to  the  most  grinding  op- 
pression ;  that  all  their  taxes,  all 
their  sufferings,  all  their  distresses, 
flow  from  the  boroughmongers ; 
that  universal  justice,  equality,  and 
happiness  will  follow  their  over- 


1831.]         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution. 


throw ;  that  the  King  and  his  Minis- 
ters and  the  People  are  engaged  in 
a  desperate  struggle  with  a  domi- 
neering faction,  who  have  so  long 
wrung  their  hard-earned  savings  out 
of  the  poor;  when  they  are  told  that 
199  Peers  alone  oppose  themselves 
to  the  regeneration  and  happiness  of 
the  empire  5  when  they  are  urged  in 
the  leading  Ministerial  journals  to 
receive  the  Anti-reform  candidates 
on  the  hustings    with  showers  of 
stones,  to  plaster  them  with  mud, 
duck    them     in    horseponds,    and 
"  strike  at  their  faces ;"  when  they 
are  stimulated  in  the  most  vehement 
language  to  do  these  things,  and  told 
that  the  success  of  the  great  cause 
of  King  and  People  depends  on  their 
general    adoption;    when  elections, 
carried  by  such  atrocious  methods, 
are  made  the  subject  of  universal 
exultation,  and  the  burnings  of  cas- 
tles of  Anti-reform  Peers,  are  refer- 
red to  with  triumph  by  the  Reform- 
ers at  public  meetings  as  at  last  cal- 
culated to  overawe  and  subdue  their 
antagonists ;  when  these  things  are 
considered,  and  the  universal  license, 
intemperance,  falsehood,  and  decla- 
mation  of  the  reforming  press,   is 
taken  into   consideration,    the  sur- 
prising thing  will  appear  to  be,  not 
that  there  is  so  much,  but  that  there 
has  been  so  little,  conflagration  and 
anarchy  in  the  country.   We  always 
had  much   confidence  in  the  good 
sense  and  pacific  dispositions  of  the 
better  part  of  the  English  people ; 
but  we  never  could  have  anticipated 
that  they  would  so  long  have  with- 
stood the  incessant  efforts  of  an  in- 
cendiary press,  and  the  attempted, 
and,  but  for  the  firmness  of  the  Peers, 
completed,  destruction  of  the  Consti- 
tution. 

The  leading  Reformers  will  say 
that  they  do  not  approve  of  these 
things ;  that  they  injure  them  more 
than  their  enemies ;  that  the  cause  of 
Reform  has  nothing  to  fear  but  from 
the  violence  of  its  "friends ;  and  that 
they  must  not  be  confounded  with 
the  impious  crew  who  range  them- 
selves under  their  banners.  This 
may  all  be  perfectly  true,  but  it  does 
not  in  the  least  meet  our  argument, 
which  is,  that  they  are  answerable 
for  displaying  a  banner  round  which 
all  the  worthless  of  mankind  ever  have 
and  ever  will  rally.  This  is  the  part 
of  their  conduct  for  which  no  apolo- 

VOL.  XXX,  NO.  CLXXXVIII. 


895 

gy  has  or  can  be  offered.  We  are  not 
now  to  learn,  for  the  first  time,  that 
the  standard  of  innovation  is  the  one 
which  ever  has  and  ever  will  collect 
all  the  most  abandoned  of  mankind ; 
that  bankrupts  flock  to  it  to  restore 
their  fortunes ;  the  ambitious  to  rise 
to  the  head  of  affairs ;  the  wicked  to 
engage  in  plunder?  the  desperate  to 
fish  in  a  sea  of  troubles.    We  recol- 
lect the  words  of  Sal  lust  which  every 
schoolboy  knows  by  heart,  "  Nam 
semper  in  ciyitate  quibus  opes  nul- 
lae  sunt,  bonis  invident,  malos  extol- 
lunt;  vetera  odere,  nova  exoptant ; 
odio   suarum   rerum  mutari  omnia 
student;  turba  atque  seditionibus  sine 
cura  aluntur,  quoniam  egestas  facile 
habetur  sine  damno.     Sed  urbana 
plebes  ea  vero  prseceps  ierat  multis 
de   causis.      Primum   omnium   qui 
ubique  probro  atque  petulantia  max- 
im e  praestabant;  item  alii  perdede- 
cora  patrimoniis  amissis;  postremo 
omnes  quos  flagitium   aut  facinus 
domo  expulerat,  hi  Romam  sicut  in 
sentinam  confluxerant."   And  under 
what  standard  did  Catiline  assemble 
this  band  of  ruffians  ?     He  has  told 
us  in  his  own  words  :   "  Nos  non 
imperium    neque    divitias  petimus 
quarum  rerum    causa  bella  atque 
certamina  omnia  inter  mortales  sunt ; 
sed  libertatem  quam   nemo  bonus 
nisi  cum  anima  amittit."    It  was  un- 
der  the   standard  of  freedom  that 
this  great  conspirator  assembled  all 
the  desperate  and  worthless  of  the 
Roman    people ;    every    schoolboy 
knows  that  under  this  alluring  ban- 
ner the  worthless  and  profligate  of 
great  cities  can  always  be  brought 
together,  and  that  by  giving  them  the 
least  prospect  of  victory,  they  may 
at  any  time  be  launched  out  into  the 
most  atrocious  crimes.   And  yet  the 
Reformers,  who  have    taken   such 
pains  for  a  twelvemonth  past  to  stir 
up  the  passions  of  the  people,  and  to 
array  all  the  most  restless  and  daring 
of  the  community  under  the  banners 
of  innovation,  now  express  astonish- 
ment at  the  conflagrations  they  have 
raised,  and  beg  it  to  be  understood 
that  they  have  nothing  in  common 
with  such  wretches  ! 

There  is  nothing  can  be  imagined 
more  perilous  than  the  assertion  so 
earnestly  and  emphatically  pressed 
both  upon  the  legislature  and  the 
people,  by  all  the  Reformers  from 
Lord  Grey  downwards,  that  Reform 
3  M 


898 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.         [Dec. 


must  be  granted,  not  because  it  is 
expedient,  but  because  the  people  de- 
mand it.  To  what  does  such  a  doc- 
trine, promulgated  through  every 
alehouse  in  the  kingdom,  necessarily 
lead  V  At  present  they  demand  Re- 
form, and  as  they  wish  it,  like  a  spoilt 
child,  they  must  get  it.  Next  year 
they  will  demand  with  equal  vehe- 
mence the  confiscation  of  the  Church 
property,  and  the  abolition  of  the 
Bishops,  and  for  the  same  reason 
they  must  get  it.  The  year  after, 
they  will  raise  an  hideous  outcry  for 
the  abolition  of  the  national  debt; 
and  that  dreadful  stroke,  fraught  as 
it  will  be  with  the  starvation  of  many 
millions  of  men,  must  also  be  con- 
ceded. Then  will  come  the  division 
of  the  estates  of  the  nobility,  and  the 
abolition  of  the  Throne,  as  the  only 
means  of  tranquillizing  the  minds, 
and  providing  for  the  subsistence,  of 
the  starving  multitude,  and  this  will 
follow  as  a  matter  of  course.  How 
are  any  of  these  demands  to  be  elu- 
ded, if  the  great  precedent  of  yield- 
ing to  popular  clamour  is  once  set  ? 
Will  they  be  less  ambitious,  less  do- 
mineering, less  democratical,  after 
they  have,  by  their  outcry,  got  a  new 
constitution,  founded  on  a  highly  po- 
pular basis  ?  Will  the  8s.  lOd.  tenants 
in  all  the  great  towns  enable  Go- 
vernment better  to  withstand  the  in- 
creasing demands  of  the  Republican 
party  ?  Will  the  destruction  of  the 
boroughs  who  now  return  four-fifths 
of  the  conservative  party,  tend  to  re- 
store the  balance  between  those  who 
support,  and  those  who  assail,  the 
remaining  institutions  of  the  coun- 
try ?  The  fatal  doctrine  which  Mi- 
nisters and  all  their  followers,  with- 
out one  single  exception,  have  inces- 
santly promulgated,that  the  demands 
of  the  people  cannot  be  resisted,  is 
the  most  dangerous  principle  which 
can  possibly  be  propagated,  and, 
though  not  intended  with  that  view, 
is  of  itself  amply  sufficient  to  account 
for  all  the  violence  which  has  been 
perpetrated  under  the  banners  of  Re- 
form. 

When  the  people  see  the  Reform- 
ing administration  boasting  with  such 
exultation  that  they  have  destroyed 
the  influence  of  the  Aristocracy,  can 
they  be  surprised  if  they  imagine 
that  some  part  of  the  lustre  will 
be  reflected  upon  them,  if  they  de- 
stroy their  castles  ?  When  the  Lord 


Advocate  of  Scotland,  the  public 
guardian  of  the  realm,  declares  in 
Parliament  that  "he  is  about  utterly 
to  destroy  the  institutions  of  his 
country — that  he  will  tear  them  in 
shreds  and  patches,  and  not  leave 
one  stone  upon  another  in  the  Scot- 
tish constitution,"  can  we  be  sur- 
prised if  the  ruffian  followers  of  Re- 
form think  they  will  be  acting  the 
parts  of  true  patriots,  if  they  do  not 
leave  one  stone  upon  another  in 
their  antagonists'  edifices  ?  His  part 
is  to  wield  moral,  their's  physical 
strength  :  it  is  by  a  combination  of 
the  two  that  the  common  cause  is  to 
be  supported,  and  the  final  victory 
achieved.  When  the  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer,  and  the  noble  mover 
of  the  Reform  bill,  correspond  with 
and  express  their  thanks  to  Political 
Unions,  at  which  resolutions  not  to 
pay  taxes  to  the  borough  mongers 
have  been  passed,  and  all  but  treason 
committed,  can  they  be  surprised  if 
their  followers  think  that  they  will 
promote  the  same  object  if  they  burn 
the  custom-house,  where  these  taxes 
were  collected  ?  In  a  word,  is  it  not 
universally  known,  that,  when  a  se- 
rious blow  has  been  struck  at  the 
existing  institutions  of  a  country,  the 
transition  is  but  too  easy  to  deeds  of 
violence  and  scenes  of  blood,  and 
that  those  are  answerable  for  all  Mich 
atrocities,  who  fire  the  train  which 
experience  has  shewn  invariably 
leads  to  such  explosions? 

The  Constituent  Assembly  were 
guilty  only  of  headlong  innovations : 
they  had  a  humane  aversion  to  the 
shedding  of  blood,  and  during  their 
long  and  stormy  career  sent  no  per- 
son but  the  Marquis  de  Favras  to 
the  scaffold.  They  organized  na- 
tional guards,  established  Jacobin 
clubs,  and  took  all  the  steps  now  re- 
commended as  necessary  for  the 
preservation  of  the  public  peace. 
And  what  was  the  state  of  France 
after  their  furious  course  of  innova- 
tion began?  Conflagrations  from 
Calais  to  the  Pyrenees  :  every  cha- 
teau in  the  kingdom  in  flames : 
plunder  and  devastation  on  the  pro- 
perty of  the  rich  in  every  corner  of 
the  realm.  Is  it  any  vindication  for 
the  Constituent  Assembly  that  they 
did  not  themselves  encourage,  but 
strove  to  repress  these  excesses  '< 
Has  not  the  voice  of  history  pro- 
nounced that  they  were  answerable 


1331.J         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.  897 


for  all  the  devastation  that  occurred, 
because  they  unhinged  the  fabric  of 
society,  and  set  the  populace  on  fire 
by  the  violent  changes  which  they 
introduced,  and  the  prodigal  gift  of 
political  power  which  they  bestow- 
ed? And  is  the  verdict  of  future 
ages  likely  to  be  more  favourable  to 
British  innovators,  because  they  pur- 
sued the  same  frantic  course,  after 
the  experience  of  France  had  de- 
monstrated the  tremendous  conse- 
quences of  such  precipitate  changes, 
and  while  its  soil  was  yet  reeking 
with  the  blood  which  it  had  caused 
to  be  shed  '? 

We  cannot  do  better  than  quote 
the  words  of  an  able  and  illustrious 
man  on  this  subject,  —  of  one  who  in 
youth  gave  promise  of  great  things, 
but  who  has  written  in  his  earlier 
the  condemnation  of  his  later  years  ; 
of  whom  it  may  be  said  in  the  words 
of  Goldsmith  — 

-  -  "  Whose  genius  was  such, 
We  scarcely   can   praise   it  or  blame  it 

too  much, 
Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrow'd  his 

mind, 
And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for 

mankind." 


"  If  the  whole  wisdom  of  philoso- 
phers," says  an  author,  generally  un- 
derstood to  be  Mr  Brougham,  "  con- 
sists in  following  implicitly  the  dic- 
tates of  the  multitude,  who  are  not 
philosophers,  we  really  do  not  per- 
ceive what  benefit  their  country  is  to 
derive  from  their  co-operation." 

"  We  have  examined  in  a  former  article 
the  extent  of  the  participation  which  can 
be  fairly  imputed  to  the  philosophers,  in 
the  crimes  and  miseries  of  the  Revolution, 
and  endeavoured  to  ascertain  in  how  far 
they  maybe  said  to  have  made  themselves 
responsible  for  its  consequences,  or  to 
have  deserved  censure  for  their  exer- 
tions; and,  acquitting  the  greater  part  of 
any  mischievous  intention,  we  found  rea- 
son, upon  that  occasion,  to  conclude,  that 
there  was  nothing  in  the  conduct  of  the 
majority  which  should  expose  them  to 
blame,  or  deprive  them  of  the  credit  which 
they  would  have  certainly  enjoyed,  but 
for  consequences  which  they  could  not 
foresee.  For  those  who,  with  intentions 
equally  blameless,  attempted  to  carry  into 
execution  the  projects  which  had  been 
suggested  by  the  others,  and  actually  en- 
gaged in  measures  which  could  not  fail 
to  terminate  in  important  changes,  it  will 
not  be  ea*>/,  we  urc  afraid,  to  make  so 


satisfactory  an  apology.  What  is  written 
may  be  corrected  :  but  what  is  done  can- 
not be  recalled :  a  rash  and  injudicious 
publication  naturally  calls  forth  an  host 
of  answers ;  and  where  the  subject  of  dis- 
cussion is  such  as  excites  a  very  power- 
ful interest,  the  cause  of  truth  is  not  al- 
ways least  effectually  served  by  her  op- 
ponents. But  the  errors  of  cabinets  and 
of  legislatures  have  other  consequences 
and  other  confutations.  They  are  an- 
swered by  insurrections,  and  confuted  by 
conspiracies.  A  paradox  which  might 
have  been  maintained  by  an  author,  with- 
out any  other  loss  than  that  of  a  little 
leisure,  and  ink  and  paper,  can  only  be 
supported  by  a  Minister  at  the  expense 
of  the  lives  and  the  liberties  of  a  nation. 
It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  the  precipita- 
tion of  a  legislator  can  never  admit  of  the 
same  excuse  with  that  of  a  speculative 
enquirer;  that  the  same  confidence  in  his 
opinions,  which  justifies  the  former  in 
maintaining  them  to  the  world,  will  never 
justify  the  other  in  suspending  the  hap- 
piness of  bis  country  on  the  issue  of  their 
truth;  and  that  he,  in  particular,  subjects 
himself  to  a  tremendous  responsibility,  who 
voluntarily  takes  upon  himself  the  new-mo- 
delling of  an  ancient  constitution. 

"  In  the  first  place,  the  spirit  of  exas- 
peration, defiance,  ar.d  intimidation,  with 
which  from  the  beginning  they  carried  on 
their  opposition  to  the  schemes  of  the 
court,  the  clergy,  and  the  nobility,  appears 
to  us  to  have  been  as  impolitic  with  a 
view  to  their  ultimate  success,  as  it  was 
suspicious  perhaps  as  to  their  immediate 
motives.  The  parade  which  they  made  of 
their  popularity ;  the  support  which  they 
submitted  to  receive  from  the  menaces  and 
acclamations  of  the  mob,  the  joy  which  they 
testified  at  the,  desertion  of  the  royal  armies; 
and  the  anomalous  military  force  of  which 
they  patronised  the  formation  in  the  city  of 
Paris,  were  so  many  preparations  for 
actual  hostility,  and  led  almost  inevitably 
to  that  appeal  to  force,  by  which  all  pros- 
pect of  establishing  an  equitable  govern, 
ment  was  finally  cut  off.  Sanguine  as  the 
patriotsofthatassembly  undoubtedly  were, 
they  might  still  have  been  able  to  remem- 
ber the  most  obvious  and  important  lesson 
in  the  volume  of  history,  that  the  nation 
which  has  recourse  to  arms  for  the  settle- 
ment of  its  internal  affairs,  necessarily 
falls  under  the  iron  yoke  of  a  military  go- 
vernment in  the  end,  and  that  nothing 
but  the  most  evident  necessity  can  jus- 
tify the  lovers  of  freedom  in  forcing  it 
from  the  hands  of  their  governors.  In 
France,  there  certainly  was  no  such  ne- 
cessity. The  whole  weight  and  strength 
of  the  nation  was  bent  upon  political  im- 
provement and  reform.  There  was  no 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution*        [Dec 


possibility  of  their  being  ultimately  re- 
sisted ;  and  the  only  danger  that  was  to 
be  apprehended  was,  that  their  progress 
would  be  too  rapid.  After  the  States- 
General  were  granted,  indeed,  it  appears 
to  us  that  the  victory  of  the  friends  to 
liberty  was  ascertained.  They  could  not 
have  gone  too  slow  afterwards :  they  could 
not  have  been  satisfied  with  too  little. 
The  great  object  was  to  exclude  the  agen- 
cy of  force,  and  to  leave  no  pretext  for  un 
appeal  to  violence*  Nothing  could  have 
stood  against  the  force  of  reason,  which 
ought  to  have  given  way ;  and  from  a 
monarch  of  the  character  of  Louis  XVI., 
there  was  no  reason  to  apprehend  any  at- 
tempt to  regain,  by  violence,  what  he  bad 
yielded  from  principles  of  philanthropy 
and  conviction.  The  Third  Estate  would 
have  grown  into  power,  instead  of  usurp- 
ing it ;  and  would  have  gradually  com- 
pressed the  other  orders  into  their  proper 
dimensions,  instead  of  displacing  them  by 
a  violence  that  could  never  be  forgiven. 

"Of  this  fair  chance  of  amelioration, 
the  nation  was  disappointed,  chiefly,  we 
are  inclined  to  think,  by  the  needless  as- 
perity and  injudicious  menaces  of  the  po- 
pular party.  They  relied  openly  upon 
the  strength  of  their  adherents  among 
the  populace.  If  they  did  not  actually 
'encourage  them  to  threats  and  to  acts  of 
violence,  they  availed  themselves  at  least  of 
those  which  were  committed,  to  intimidate 
and  depress  their  opponents  j  for  it  is  in- 
disputably certain,  that  the  unconditional 
compliance  of  the  court  with  all  the  de- 
mands of  the  Constituent  Assembly,  was 
the  result  either  of  actual  force,  or  the 
dread  of  its  immediate  application.  This 
was  the  inauspicious  commencement  of  the 
sins  and  tha  sufferings  of  the  Revolution. 
Their  progress  and  termination  were  na- 
tural and  necessary.  The  multitude,  once 
allowed  to  overawe  the  old  government 
with  threats,  soon  subjected  the  new  go- 
vernment to  the  same  degradation,  and, 
once  permitted  to  act  in  arms,  came 
speedily  to  dictate  to  those  who  were  as- 
sembled to  deliberate.  As  soon  as  an 
appeal  was  made  to  force,  the  decision 
came  to  be  with  those  by  whom  force 
could  at  all  times  be  commanded.  Reason 
and  philosophy  were  discarded  ;  and  mere 
terror  and  brute  violence,  in  the  various 
forms  of  proscriptions,  insurrections, 
massacres,  and  military  executions,  har- 
assed and  distracted  the  misguided  nation, 
till,  by  a  natural  consummation,  they  fell 
under  the  despotic  sceptre  of  a  military 
usurper.  These  consequences,  we  con- 
ceive, were  obvious,  and  might  have  been 
easily  foreseen.  Nearly  half  a  century 
.bad  elapsed  since  they  were  pointed  out 
in  those  memorable  words  of  the  most 


profound  and  philosophical  of  historians: 
'  By  recent,  as  well  as  by  ancient  example, 
it  was  become  evident,  that  illegal  vio- 
lence, with  whatever  pretences  it  may  be 
covered,  and  whatever  object  it  may  pur- 
sue, must  inevitably  end  at  last  in  the 
arbitrary  and  despotic  government  of  a 
single  person.' 

"  The  second  inexcusable  blunder,  of 
which  the  Constituent  Assembly  was 
guilty,  was  one  equally  obvious,  and  has 
been  more  frequently  noticed.  It  was 
the  extreme  restlessness  and  precipita- 
tion with  which  they  proceeded  to  ac- 
complish, in  a  few  weeks,  tiie  legislative 
labours  of  a  century.  Their  constitu- 
tion was  struck  out  at  a  heat,  and  their 
measures  of  reform  proposed  and  adopt- 
ed like  toasts  at  an  election  dinner. 
Within  less  than  six  months  from  the 
period  of  their  first  convocation,  they 
declared  the  illegality  of  all  the  subsist- 
ing taxes;  they  abolished  the  old  consti- 
tution of  the  States-General ;  they  set- 
tled the  limits  of  the  Royal  prerogative, 
their  own  inviolability,  and  the  responsi- 
bility of  Ministers.  Before  they  put  any 
one  of  their  projects  to  the  test  of  ex- 
periment, they  had  adopted  such  an  enor- 
mous multitude,  as  entirely  to  innovate 
the  condition  of  the  country,  and  to  ex- 
pose even  those  which  were  salutary  to 
misapprehension  and  miscarriage.  From 
a  scheme  of  reformation  so  impetuous,  and 
an  impatience  so  puerile,  nothing  per- 
manent or  judicious  could  be  reasonably 
expected.  In  legislating  for  their  coun- 
try, they  seem  to  have  forgotten  that 
they  were  operating  on  a  living  and  sen- 
tient substance,  and  not  on  an  inert  and 
passive  mass,  wbich  they  might  model 
and  compound  according  to  their  plea- 
sure or  their  fancy.  Human  society, 
however,  is  not  like  a  piece  of  mechan- 
ism which  may  be  safely  taken  to  pieces, 
and  put  together  by  the  hands  of  an  or- 
dinary artist.  It  is  the  work  of  Nature, 
and  not  of  man  ;  and  has  received,  from 
the  hands  of  its  Author,  an  organization 
that  cannot  be  destroyed  without  danger 
to  its  existence,  and  certain  properties 
and  powers  that  cannot  be  altered  or 
suspended  by  those  who  may  have  been 
intrusted  with  its  management.  By 
studying  these  properties,  and  directing 
those  powers,  it  may  be  modified  and 
altered  to  a  very  considerable  extent. 
But  they  must  be  allowed  to  develope 
themselves  by  their  internal  energy,  and 
to  familiarize  themselves  with  their  new 
channel  of  exertion.  A  child  cannot  be 
stretched  out  by  engines  to  the  stature 
of  a  man,  nor  a  man  compelled,  in  a 
morning,  to  excel  in  all  the  exercises  of 
an  athlete.  Those  into  whose  hands  the 


1881.]         On  Parliamentary  Reform 

destinies  of  a  great  nation  are  commit- 
ted, should  bestow  on  its  reformation  at 
least  as  much  patient  observance  and  as 
much  tender  precaution  as  are  displayed 
by  a  skilful  gardener  in  his  treatment  of 
a  sickly  plant.  He  props  up  those 
branches  that  are  weak  or  overloaded,  and 
gradually  prunes  and  reduces  those  that 
are  too  luxuriant :  he  cuts  away  what  is 
absolutely  rotten  and  distempered  :  he 
stirs  the  earth  about  the  root,  and  sprin- 
kles it  with  water,  and  waits  for  the 
coming  spring :  he  trains  the  young 
branches  to  the  right  hand  or  to  the  left; 
and  leads  it,  by  a  gradual  and  spontaneous 
progress,  to  expand  or  exalt  itself,  season 
after  season,  in  the  direction  which  he 
had  previously  determined  :  and  thus,  in 
the  course  of  a  few  summers,  he  brings 
it,  without  injury  or  compulsion,  into 
that  form  and  proportion  which  could 
not  with  safety  have  been  imposed  upon 
it  in  a  shorter  time.  The  reformers  of 
France  applied  no  such  gentle  solicita- 
tions, and  could  not  wait  for  the  effects  of 
any  such  preparatory  measures,  or  volun- 
tary developement.  They  forcibly  broke 
over  its  lofty  boughs,  and  endeavoured  to 
straighten  its  crooked  joints  by  violence  : 
they  tortured  it  into  symmetry  in  vain, 
and  shed  its  life-blood  on  the  earth,  in 
the  middle  of  its  scattered  branches. 

"  The  third  great  danger,  against  which 
we  think  it  was  the  duty  of  the  intel- 
ligent and  virtuous  part  of  the  deputies 
to  have  provided,  was  that  which  arose 
from  the  sudden  transference  of  power 
to  the  hands  of  men  who  had  previously 
no  natural  or  individual  influence  in  the 
community.  This  was  an  evil,  indeed, 
which  arose  necessarily,  in  some  degree, 
from  the  defects  of  the  old  government, 
and  from  the  novelty  of  the  situation  in 
which  the  country  was  placed  by  the 
convocation  of  the  States- General ;  but 
it  was  materially  aggravated  by  the  pre- 
sumption and  improvidence  of  those  en- 
thusiastic legislators,  and  tended  power- 
fully to  produce  those  disasters  by  which 
they  were  ultimately  overwhelmed. 

"  No  representative  legislature,  it  ap- 
pears to  us,  can  ever  be  respectable  or 
secure,  unless  it  contain  within  itself  a 
great  proportion  of  those  who  form  the 
natural  aristocracy  of  the  country,  and 
are  able,  as  individual?,  to  influence  the 
conduct  and  opinions  of  the  greater  part 
of  its  inhabitants.  Unless  the  power  and 
weight  and  authority  of  the  assembly,  in 
short,  be  really  made  up  of  the  power 
and  weight  and  authority  of  the  indivi- 
duals who  compose  it,  the  factitious 
dignity  they  may  derive  from  their  si- 
tuation can  never  be  of  long  endurance : 


and  the  French  Revolution. 


890 


and  the  dangerous  power  with  which 
they  may  be  invested,  will  become  the 
subject  of  scrambling  and  contention 
among  the  factions  of  the  metropolis, 
and  be  employed  for  any  purpose  but 
the  general  good  of  the  community. 

"  If  this  be  at  all  a  just  representa- 
tion of  the  conditions  upon  which  the 
respectability  and  security  of  a  represent- 
ative legislature  must  always  depend,  it 
will  not  be  difficult  to  explain  how  the 
experiment  miscarried  so  completely,  in 
the  case  of  the  French  Constituent  As- 
sembly.  That  assembly,  which  the  en- 
thusiasm of  the  public,  and  the  miscon- 
duct of  the  privileged  orders,  soon  en- 
abled to  engross  the  whole  power  of  the 
country,  consisted  almost  entirely  of  per- 
sons without  name  or  individual  influ- 
ence, who  owed  the  whole  of  their  con- 
sequence to  the  situation  to  which  they 
had  been  elflvated,  and  were  not  able, 
as  individuals,  to  have  influenced  the 
opinions  of  one  fiftieth  part  of  their 
countrymen.  There  was  in  France,  in- 
deed, at  this  time,  no  legitimate,  whole- 
some, or  real  aristocracy.  The  noblesse, 
who  were  persecuted  for  bearing  that 
name,  were  quite  disconnected  from  the 
people.  Their  habits  of  perpetual  resi- 
dence in  the  capital,  and  their  total  in- 
dependence of  the  good  opinion  of  their 
vassals,  had  deprived  them  of  any  influ- 
ence over  the  minds  of  the  lower  orders; 
and  the  organization  of  society  had  not 
yet  enabled  the  rich  manufacturers  or 
proprietors  to  assume  such  an  influence. 
The  persons  sent  as  deputies  to  the  States- 
General,  therefore,  were  those  chiefly 
who,  by  intrigue  and  boldness,  and  by 
professions  of  uncommon  zeal  for  what 
were  then  the  great  objects  of  popular 
pursuit,  had  been  enabled  to  carry  the 
votes  of  the  electors.  A  notion  of  talent, 
and  an  opinion  that  they  would  be  loud 
and  vehement  in  supporting  those  requests 
upon  which  the  people  had  already  come 
to  a  decision,  were  their  passports  into 
that  assembly.  They  were  sent  there  to 
express  the  particular  spirit  of  the  people, 
and  not  to  give  a  general  pledge  of  their 
acquiescence  in  what  might  there  be  en- 
acted. They  were  not  the  hereditary 
patrons  of  the  people,  but  their  hired  ad- 
vocates for  a  particular  pleading.  They 
had  no  general  trust  or  authority  over 
them,  but  were  chosen  as  their  special 
messengers,  out  of  a  multitude  wlrose  in- 
fluence and  pretensions  were  equally 
powerful.  '.iqasb  arfj  isbnu 

"  Mere  popularity  was  at  first  the  in- 
strument by  which  this  unsteady  legis- 
lature was  governed ;   but  when  it  be- 
came apparent,  that  whoever  could  ob- 
rti  edJlo  ftbwt?  jlda7ooi9in  esodj  nl 


Wg^jaj     wt 

000  On  Parliamentary  Reform 

tain  the  direction  or  command  of  it, 
must  possess  the  whole  authority  of  the 
state,  parties  became  less  scrupulous 
about  the  means  they  employed  for  that 
purpose,  and  soon  found  out  that  violence 
and  terror  were  infinitely  more  effectual 
and  expeditious  than  persuasion  and  elo- 
quence. The  people  at  large,  who  had 
no  attachment  to  any  families  or  indivi- 
duals among  their  delegates,  und  who 
contented  themselves  with  idolizing  the 
assembly  in  genera),  so  long  as  it  passed 
decrees  to  their  liking,  were  passive  and 
indifferent  spectators  of  the  transference 
of  power  which  was  effected  by  the  pikes 
of  the  Parisian  multitude,  and  looked 
with  equal  affection  upon  every  succes- 
sive junto  which  assumed  the  manage- 
ment of  its  deliberations.  Having  no 
natural  representatives,  they  felt  them- 
selves equally  connected  with  all  who 
exercised  the  legislative  function  :  and, 
being  destitute  of  a  real  aristocracy,  were 
Without  the  means  of  giving  effectual 
support  even  to  those  who  might  appear 
to  deserve  it.  Encouraged  by  this  situa- 
tion of  affairs,  the  most  daring,  unprin- 
cipled, and  profligate,  proceeded  to  seize 
upon  the  defenceless  legislature,  and, 
driving  all  their  antagonists  before  them 
by  violence  or  intimidation,  entered  with- 
out opposition  upon  the  supreme  functions 
of  government.  The  arms,  however,  by 
which  they  had  been  victorious,  were 
capable  of  being  turned  against  them- 
selves ;  and  those  who  were  envious  of 
their  success,  or  ambitious  of  their  dis- 
tinction, easily  found  means  to  excite  dis- 
content among  the  multitude,  now  inured 
to  insurrection,  and  to  employ  them  in 
pulling  down  those  very  individuals  whom 
they  had  so  recently  exalted.  The  dis- 
posal of  the  legislature  thus  became  a 
prize  to  be  fought  for  in  the  clubs  and 
conspiracies  and  insurrections  of  a  cor- 
rupted metropolis ;  and  the  institution  of 
a  national  representative  had  no  other 
effect,  than  that  of  laying  the  government 
open  to  lawless  force  and  flagitious  auda- 
city. 

"  It  is  in  this  manner,  it  appears  to  us, 
that  from  the  want  of  a  natural  and  elli- 
cient  aristocracy  to  exercise  the  functions 
of  representative  legislators,  the  National 
Assembly  of  France  was  betrayed  into 
extravagance,  and  fell  a  prey  to  faction  ; 
that  the  institution  itself  became  a  source 
of  public  misery  and  disorder,  and  con- 
verted a  civilized  monarchy,  first  into  a 
sanguinary  democracy,  and  then  into  a 
military  despotism,"* 


and  ilif.  Frtfich  Rtvottttid*.         [Dec, 

Such  was  the  cool  and  dispassion- 
ate judgment  which  this  great  man, 
along  with  his  friend  the  present 
Lord  Advocate,  formed  of  the  con- 
sequence of  the  precipitate  innova- 
tions of  the  Constituent  Assembly, 
ere  yet  he  had  attained  the  giddy 
heights  of  power,  or  was  intoxicated 
by  the  passions  which  he  has  so  well 
described  in  others.  What  will  pos- 
terity say  to  his  subsequent  conduct? 
It  will  apply  to  him  his  own  judg- 
ment on  Mirabeau  and  Sieyes,  and 
add,  that  he  shut  his  eyes  to  the  con- 
sequences of  their  conduct,  and  for- 
got all  the  wise  opinions,  which,  at  a 
distance  from  the  scene,  he  had  in 
early  life  expressed  upon  their  pro- 
ceedings. 

The  Reformers,  as  usual  in  all 
civil  convulsions,  endeavour  to  throw 
upon  their  opponents  the  odium  ari- 
sing from  the  frightful  excesses  at 
Bristol,  and  ascribe  it  all  to  the  ob- 
stinacy of  Sir  Charles  Wetherell  in 
insisting  that  there  had  been  a  re- 
action, and  going  there  when  he 
should  instead  have  resigned  his  seat 
as  Recorder  of  the  town.  Is  it  then 
come  to  this,  that  the  public  peace 
cannot  be  preserved  unless  every 
functionary  of  Anti-reform  principles 
resigns  his  situation  ?  Have  the  Re- 
formers brought  this  realm,  so  lately 
the  picture  of  order,  tranquillity,  and 
happiness,  to  such  a  pass  in  so  short 
a  time,  that  the  assizes  must  be  aban- 
doned, and  the  criminals  remain  un- 
tried, for  fear  of  irritating  the  people  ? 
that  the  King's  Judge  mustrelinquish 
his  sacred  functions,  for  fear  of  of- 
fending the  aiders  and  abettors  of 
the  criminals  he  has  come  to  punish  ? 
Can  the  public  peace  no  longer  be 
maintained  unless  the  leaders  of  Po- 
litical Unions  are  installed  in  all  situ- 
ations of  trust,  and  bayonets  put  into 
the  hands  of  all  their  followers  to 
repress  the  excesses  which  they  have 
provoked  ?  Much  as  we  dreaded 
the  consequences  of  Reform,  clearly 
as  we  anticipated  the  anarchy  into 
which  it  would  plunge  the  country, 
this  avowal  on  the  part  of  the  Re- 
formers exceeds  any  thing  which  we 
could  have  conceived. 

Of  all  men  in  the  world,  Sir  Charles 
Wetherell  is  the  last  to  whom  the 
epithet  of  a  political  judge  can  with 


*  Edin.  Revievr,  vi. 


'831.]          On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.  901 


any  justice  be  applied.   All  his  oppo- 
nents who  have  a  particle  of  candour 
in  their  composition,  admit  that  he 
is  as  honest,    upright,  and  disinte- 
rested a  man  as  breathes  on  the  face 
of  the  earth.    It  is  not  every  man 
who  will  relinquish  the  situation  of 
Attorney-General  on  account  of  po- 
litical scruples.    It  is  not  every  man 
who  would  venture  to  hold  the  as- 
siaes  in  a  town,  in  the  midst  of  an  in- 
furiated rabble,  by  whom  he  was 
aware  his  life  would  be  attempted. 
Is  that  man  to  be  called  a  political 
judge,  whohas  relinquished  the  high- 
est legal  situation  to  preserve  his  in- 
tegrity, and  braved  death  itself  to 
discharge  his  duty  ?    He  has  expe- 
rienced the  usual  fate  of  public  cha- 
racters in  a  revolution :  the  greatest 
and  best  of  men  are  vilified  and  de- 
tested, while  demagogues  of  no  prin- 
ciple engross  the  applauses  of  the 
multitude. 

!j  What  did  the  Political  Union  Club 
do  at  Bristol  ?  They  proposed  to  the 
magistrates,  when  the  Recorder  was 
coining,  that  he  should  be  invited  to 
resign,  and  when  they  most  properly 
refused  to  comply,  they  published  a 
placard  to  the  people,  in  which  they 
called  upon  the  Magistrates  them- 
selves to  resign,  and  intrust  the  keep- 
ing of  the  public  peace  to  their  hands. 
Was  there  ever  any  thing  in  the 
world  like  this  ?  A  King's  Judge  is 
first  invited  to  resign  :  then,  because 
the  magistrates  decline  to  carry  that 
arbitrary  mandate  into  effect,  they 
are  themselves  told  they  must  resign, 
as  the  price  of  the  Political  Union 
doing  any  thing  to  maintain  the  pub- 
lic peace  ?  The  Jacobin  Clubs  in 
France  for  long  did  nothing  so  mon- 
strous ;  and  yet  these  are  the  men 
whom  it  is  gravely  proposed  to  arm 
for  the  maintenance  of  the  public 
tranquillity. 

The  system  of  conciliation  and 
concession  was  carried  in  Bristol  to 
its  utmost  length.  For  two  complete 
days  the  mob  were  in  the  almost  un- 
controlled possession  of  the  town; 
the  soldiers  were  never  authorized  to 
fire ;  the  dragoons  were  actually  sent 
away;  nothing  was  done  to  intimi- 
date or  irritate  the  multitude.  What 
was  the  consequence  ?  Did  this 
boasted  system  of  throwing  oil  on 
the  waves  of  rebellion  stifle  the  con- 
flagration ?  Did  the  fires  cease,  be- 
cause nothing  waa  done  which  could 


exasperate  the  people?     The  city 
burnt  with  relentless  fury :  the  Re- 
forming   Monarch's    Custom-house 
was    destroyed;    property    to    the 
amount  of  L.500,000  was  consumed ; 
two  sides  of  a  great  square  perished 
in  the  names.  Devastation  and  ruin, 
unprecedented  in  the  modern  history 
of  England,  were  the  first  fruits  of 
the  great  healing  measure  of  Reform. 
During  all  these  horrible  scenes, 
let  it  be  recollected,  the   Political 
Union  Club  of  Bristol  was  in  exist- 
ence, and  did  nothing.  If  their  sway 
over  the  multitude  is  so  great,  why 
did  they  not  appear  before  the  third 
day  ?    Where  were  they  when  the 
Mansion-house  was  in  flames,  when 
the  Jail  was  forced,  when  the  Ship- 
ping was  threatened,  when  the  Bi- 
shop's Palace  was  sacked?  Is  this 
their  powerful  agency  over  the  mul- 
titude ?  Is  this  the  stand  which  they 
are  to  make  against  the  principles  of 
anarchy  ?  And  these  are  the  men  who 
are  to  be  armed  for  our  preservation ! 
Like  the  Jacobins  of  France,  they  are 
powerful  only  to  destroy;  the  mo- 
ment that  they  seek  to  coerce  the 
passions  they  have  raised,  they  will 
perish  beneath  their  fury. 

After  the  riots  were  suppressed,  in- 
deed, they  offered  their  services  to 
aid  the  military.  The  Colonel  of  the 
Fourteenth  most  properly  answered, 
"  Station  the  Political  Union  in  the 
ruined  houses ;  there  they  will  be 
out  of  the  way  of  misclu'ef." 

The  Reformers  say,  that  the  insur- 
rection at  Bristol  must  at  length  open 
the  eyes  of  the  Tories  to  the  nuga- 
tory amount  of  the  reaction  in  public 
opinion  on  which  they  have  recently 
plumed  themselves.  We  close  with 
the  proposition  :  it  is  indeed  a  proof 
that  there  is  no  reaction  among  the 
class  in  that  city  who  engaged  in 
these  atrocities :  the  people  who 
hooted  and  reviled  the  King's  Judge 
when  he  came  to  deliver  the  jail :  the 
Reformers  who  fired  the  city,  and 
were  led  by  an  unerring  instinct  to 
destroy  the  tread-mill,  and  throw  the 
gallows  into  the  river,  are  as  great 
Reformers  as  ever.  They  will  holla 
for  Reform  as  long  as  murder  can  be 
committed, — property  plundered,— 
buildings  consumed :  They  will  never 
cease  to  regard  it  as  the  signal  for 
rapine,  license,  and  anarchy  —  the 
ruin  of  the  good,  the  exaltation  of 
the  bad.  From  the  days  of  Catiline's 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revohttion.        [Dec. 


conspiracy  to  those  .of  the  Bristol 
insurrection,  such  men  have  never 
ceased  to  be  the  most  violent  Re- 
formers. 

We  will  go  farther :  we  will  admit 
that  there  has  been  no  reaction,  but 
probably  the  re  verse  among  the  same 
class  over  the  whole  country.  We 
have  not  the  smallest  doubt  that  the 
Reformers  at  Dundee,  who  burnt 
the  jail,  and  under  the  same  uner- 
ring instinct  as  at  Bristol,  destroyed 
the  police  books,  to  extinguish  all 
record  of  previous  convictions  for 
theft;  that  the  Reformers  at  Glasgow, 
who  paraded  under  the  tricolor  flag, 
the  ensigns  of  Marat  and  Robes- 
pierre ;  the  Reformers  at  Edinburgh, 
who  destroyed  the  windows  of  500 
of  the  most  respectable  citizens  ; 
the  Reformers  at  Nottingham,  who 
burnt  the  castle  of  the  Duke  of  New- 
castle j  the  Reformers  at  Derby,  who 
destroyed  the  manufactories  where 
their  brethren  received  bread ;  the 
Reformers  in  London,  who  wounded 
the  Marquis  of  Londonderry,  and 
basely  attacked  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington, the  saviour  of  his  country, 
are  as  vehement  in  their  desire  for 
political  innovation  as  ever.  A  mea- 
sure which  they  consider  as  syno- 
nynious  with  the  commencement 
of  plunder  and  anarchy ;  as  the  sig- 
nal for  an  universal  liberation  of 
debtor  from  creditor,  and  the  dis- 
pensing to  the  idle  of  the  earnings  of 
the  industrious,  will  never  want 
numerous,  noisy,  and  declamato- 
ry supporters.  An  hundred  thou- 
sand in  London ;  ten  or  twenty  thou- 
sand in  every  great  city  in  the  em-» 
pire,  will  at  all  times  be  found  of 
this  description,  ready  to  raise  the 
most  vehement  outcry  for  Reform, 
or  any  other  cry,  if  they  have  the 
slightest  prospect  by  so  doing  of 
gaining  any  of  their  desirable  ob- 
jects. 

But  it  won't  do  for  the  Reform- 
ers to  say,  as  they  are  now  attempt- 
ing, We  accept  the  conflagration 
of  Bristol  as  a  proof  that  no  reac- 
tion has  taken  place  in  public  opi- 
nion ;  but  we  reject  it  in  so  far  as  it 
proves  that  violence,  flames,  and 
blood  follow  in  the  steps  of  Reform  ; 
the  mob  were  our  friends  as  long  as 
they  hooted  at  Sir  Charles  Wethe- 
rell,  but  we  had  nothing  to  do  with 
them  when  they  began  to  lire  the 
buildings.  He  that  sows  must  reap 


the  crop ;  he  that  embarks  on  the 
stream  of  innovation  must  follow  it 
to  its  Niagara.  It  signifies  nothing 
whether  or  not  they  were  the  same 
class  who  hooted  the  King's  Judge, 
and  tried  to  burn  down  the  city; 
suffice  it  to  say,  that  the  intemper- 
ance of  the  one  roused  the  other ; 
and  that,  as  the  excitation  of  popular 
passions  is  invariably  found  to  have 
their  eft'ects,  they  must  answer  for 
the  subsequent  excesses  who  ex- 
cited the  first  moral  conflagration. 

Blame  is  thrown  upon  the  Bristol 
magistrates  for  not  having  acted 
with  more  vigour  in  the  outset  of 
the  disorders;  and  it  is  said  that  a 
few  hundred  resolute  men  might 
have  crushed  the  insurrection  in  its 
infancy.  We  have  no  doubt  that  this 
is  the  case.  It  is  the  nature  of  all 
popular  disorders  to  acquire  vigour 
from  impunity,  to  feed  upon  conces- 
sion, and  become  irresistible  when 
no  resistance  is  timeously  offered. 
But  are  the  Reformers  ignorant  that 
this  is  the  case  in  all  popular  tumults, 
whether  local  or  national  ?  Do  they 
not  know  that  the  resolution  to  with- 
stand the  torrent  of  popular  violence 
is  one  of  the  rarest  gifts  of  nature, 
and  that  the  man  who  can  preserve 
his  head  unturned  amidst  the  shouts 
of  the  rabble,  and  the  conflagration 
of  a  city,  is  as  rare  as  the  soldier 
who  could  witness  unshaken  the 
horrors  of  the  Moscow  retreat  ?  Do 
they  not  know,  that  in  Lord  George 
Gordon's  time  three  hundred  deter- 
mined men  could  have  arrested  the 
conflagration  of  London,  but  that 
such  were  not  found  in  its  mighty 
population  ?  and  that  Lord  Mansfield 
declared  on  the  bench,  that  even  the 
householders  of  the  menaced  streets 
might  have  stopped  the  work  of  de- 
struction, if  they  had  been  aware 
that  they  were  entitled  to  act  with- 
out magisterial  authority  ?  Do  they 
not  know,  that  five  hundred  horse, 
to  follow  up  the  success  of  the  Swiss 
Guards,  would  have  saved  the  throne 
of  France  on  the  10th  August,  and 
prevented  the  unutterable  anguish 
of  the  Reign  of  Terror?  Are  they 
ignorant  of  the  boast  of  Marat,  that 
with  three  hundred  assassins  at  a 
louis  a-day,  he  would  govern  Fiance, 
and  cause  300,000  heads  to  fall  ?— 
a  boast  which  Robespierre  lived  to 
carry  into  fearful  execution.  In 
short,  are  they  ignorant  that  the  pa- 


1831.]  On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.          903 


ralysis  even  of  the  strongest  heads, 
and  the  shaking  even  of  the  stoutest 
hearts,  is  universal  and  invariable  in 
civil  disorders  of  a  certain  degree  of 
violence ;  and  are  they  setting  fire  to 
the  nation,  with  the  prospect  of  de- 
mocratic ascendency,  in  the  silly  be- 
lief that  they  are  to  find  in  every 
magistrate  the  firmness  of  Marshal 
Ney,  the  bravest  of  the  brave,  and  in 
every  array  of  householders  the  ser- 
ried ranks  of  the  Old  Guard  on  the 
bridge  of  Kowno  ? 

But  further,  when  the  organs  of 
Ministry  endeavour  to  lay  upon  the 
magistrates  of  Bristol  the  blame  of 
the  deplorable  excesses  which  have 
sprung  from  the  flame  that  has 
been  lighted  up  in  the  country,  are 
they  aware  of  the  consequences  of 
the  system  of  submitting  to  popular 
clamour,  which  they  have  so  loudly 
maintained  to  be  necessary,  and  the 
example  of  yielding  to  popular  inti- 
midation, which  has  been  set  by  the 
first  magistrates  in  the  realm  ?  When 
Cabinet  Ministers  correspond  Avith 
Political  Union  Clubs,  and  declare 
that  the  "  whisper  of  a  faction  can- 
not prevail  against  the  voice  of  the 
people  of  England ;"  when  the  Prime 
Minister  urges  again  and  again  that 
Reform  must  be  conceded,  not  be- 
cause it  is  in  itself  beneficial,  but  be- 
cause the  people  demand  it — can 
they  be  surprised  if  inferior  func- 
tionaries shrink  from  the  blast  of  a 
tempest,  of  which  they  profess  them- 
selves unable  to  withstand  the  ap- 
proach ?  With  the  system  of  yield- 
ing to  every  demand  of  the  populace, 
incessantly  inculcated  and  acted  up- 
on by  Ministers,  is  it  surprising  if 
private  individuals  in  authority  are 
unnerved,  and  shrink  from  incurring 
a  responsibility  which  the  most  ex- 
alted persons  in  the  realm  decline  to 
undertake?  When  a  general  pro- 
claims the  necessity  of  a  retreat,  and 
admits  his  inability  to  meet  the  ene- 
my in  any  encounter,however  trifling, 
can  he  expect  that  his  officers  and 
soldiers  are  to  maintain  their  courage 
unshaken,  and  exercise  a  moral  re- 
solution, of  which  he  declares  him- 
self incapable  ?  Let  Ministers  set 
the  example  of  firmness — let  them 
face  the  moral  tempest  which  in- 
flames the  minds  of  men,  and  then 
they  may  indeed  call  upon  the  Mayors 
of  cities  to  combat  the  physical 
conflagrations  which  consume  their 


dwellings;  but  let  them  not  e  r 
courage  in  inferior,  when  surrender 
is  proclaimed  in  exalted  stations,  or 
require  magistrates  to  nail  their  co- 
lours to  the  mast,  Avhen  they  them- 
selves are  preparing  to  lower  the 
standard  of  the  Constitution. 

Government  are  not  aware  of  the 
extent  to  which  they  paralyze  the 
civil  authorities  of  the  country,  by 
the  license  which  they  give  to  vio- 
lent clamour  on  occasion  of  every 
vigorous  exertion  of  magisterial  au- 
thority. In  all  such  cases  the  out- 
cry raised  by  the  Ministerial  journals 
is  such,  that  it  exposes  the  energetic 
magistrate  not  only  to  unmeasured 
obloquy,  but  to  actual  danger.  The 
clamour  raised  about  the  Newton- 
barry  massacre,  as  it  was  called,  the 
Merthyr  Tydvil  tumults,  and  the 
Deacles'  affair,  has  been  such,  that  it 
is  not  surprising  if  most  men  want 
the  nerve  to  encounter  it.  Every 
officer  of  the  law  now  feels  that,  in 
discharging  his  duty,  by  ordering 
military  execution  against  rebels,  he 
runs  far  less  risk  from  his  adversa- 
ries in  the  combat,  than  from  the  ve- 
hement democratic  press,  which  will 
assail  him  upon  its  termination.  As 
these  mobs  are  all  arrayed  in  sup- 
port of  the  cause  of  Ministers,  albeit 
sometimes  without  their  concur- 
rence, it  is  hardly  possible  to  avoid 
the  conviction,  that  the  conduct  of 
the  magistrate  will  be  more  hardly 
dealt  with,  and  his  measures  more 
severely  judged,  than  if,  as  in  ordi- 
nary times,  he  was  combating  in 
front  with  his  rear  secure  from  the 
throne,  unless  in  case  of  illegal  con- 
duct. Without  imputing  to  Minis- 
ters any  injustice  to  an  individual, 
or  any  wish  to  weaken  the  authority 
of  the  law,  it  is  evident  that  the  un- 
natural alliance  they  have  formed 
Avith  the  mob,  and  the  extraordinary 
position  they  have  assumed  in  con- 
junction with  them,  have  necessarily 
weakened  the  arm  of  all  inferior 
functionaries,  and  reduced  them  to 
the  condition  of  soldiers  combating 
against  their  general. 

There  is  nothing  can  be  done  by 
the  friends  of  order,  that  is  not  said 
by  the  Reformers  to  be  the  cause  of 
the  excesses  which  their  own  in- 
flammatory doctrines  have  produced. 
Do  they  disperse  a  menacing  mob 
by  a  prompt  and  vigorous  applica- 
tion of  military  force ; — that  is  the 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.        [Dec. 


904 

massacre  of  Peterloo— the  murder 
of  a  helpless  multitude  of  innocent 
beings,  who,  if  they  had  been  let 
alone,  would  have  been  guilty  of  no 
sort  of  disorder  ?  Do  they  make  pre- 
parations for  defence,  and  resolve, 
like  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  and  the 
Marquis  of  Exeter,  to  oppose  force 
to  force,  and  repel  the  assaults 
of  Reformers  with  grape  shot; — 
that  is  only  irritating  the  people- 
putting  mischief  in  their  heads,  when 
none  would  naturally  enter  it ;  and 
the  aristocrats  who  made  such  in- 
sulting preparations,  are  answerable 
for  all  the  bloodshed  which  they 
provoke.  Do  they  adopt  the  Minis- 
terial plan  of  concession — trust  to 
the  wisdom,  reason,  and  intelligence 
of  the  people,  and  act  upon  the  prin- 
ciple, that  those  who  are  about  to  be 
intrusted  with  the  destinies  of  a 
mighty  empire,  are  at  least  fit  to 
take  care  of  the  dwellings  of  their 
own  city ; — this  is  the  excess  of  pu* 
sillanimity ;  and  the  magistrates  who 
are  so  negligent  of  the  public  weal, 
are  answerable  for  all  the  disas- 
ters which  ensue.  This  is  exactly 
what  the  Jacobins  did  in  France ;  all 
the  horrors  of  the  Revolution,  they 
maintained,  were  owing,  not  to  the 
Revolutionists,  but  the  secret  agents 
of  England,  and  the  crowned  heads, 
who  precipitated  the  people  into  ex- 
cesses, in  order  to  throw  discredit 
on  their  cause.  It  is  painful  to  see 
how  exactly,  in  all  its  stages,  the 
progress  of  English  Reform  has  been 
parallel  to  that  of  French  anarchy. 

The  disorders  which  disgrace  Eng- 
land, say  the  Reformers,  are  not  owing 
to  Reform,  but  the  factious  opposi- 
tion which  it  has  experienced ;  and 
if  the  Peers  would  yield  to  the  wishes 
of  the  nation,  unanimity  and  concord 
would  universally  prevail,  and  the 
people,  with  grateful  hearts,  set  about 
the  exercise  of  their  sovereign  legis- 
lative functions.  How  then  do  they 
account  for  the  unparalleled  horrors 
of  the  French  Revolution  ?  The  Mo- 
narch there  took  the  lead  in  Reform  ; 
the  Nobles  were  outvoted  or  fled ;  the 
States-General  speedily  became  om- 
nipotent ;  the  Church  joined  the  ban- 
ner of  Innovation ;  Jacobin  clubs 
were  universal  ;  National  Guards 
sprung  up,  as  if  by  magic,  in  every 


parish  of  the  realm.  Then  the  much- 
wished-for,  highly-praised,  and  loud- 
ly-demanded objects  of  the  English 
Reformers,  were  all  there  obtained 
at  once.  No  sturdy  band  of  Anti- 
reformers  checked  the  stream  in  the 
Lower  House :  No  courageous  Peers 
stemmed  the  torrent  in  the  Upper. 
No  patriotic  Bishops  perilled  life  and 
property  to  save  their  country.  All, 
high  and  low,  rich  and  poor,  patri- 
cian and  plebeian,  joined  heart  and 
hand  in  the  schemes  of  Reform. 
From  the  monarch  on  the  throne  to 
the  captive  in  the  dungeon,  an  una- 
nimity never  before  witnessed  in  any 
country  existed  on  this  great  ques- 
tion. How  then  do  they  account  for 
the  atrocities  of  the  French  Reform- 
ers ?  With  what  shew  of  reason  can 
it  be  maintained  that  the  present 
perils  of  England  are  owing  to  the 
resistance  to  Reform,  when  perils  an 
hundred  times  greater  in  France  at- 
tended its  concession  ? 

"  Napoleon,"  says  Lavalette, "  was 
the  first  man  in  France  who  ventured 
to  dismiss  the  fishwomen  of  Paris 
from  his  doors.  He  must  be  acquaint- 
ed with  the  history  of  our  Revolution 
to  appreciate  the  moral  courage  requi- 
red for  such  an  undertaking.'1  Such 
is  the  state  of  degradation  to  which 
those  who  rule  by  means  of  a  Rev  o- 
lution  subject  themselves  to  the 
lowest  and  most  abandoned  of  man- 
kind. The  English  Government  is 
fast  approaching  the  state  of  thral- 
dom from  which  the  vigour  of  Napo- 
leon emancipated  the  French.  Lord 
Grey  declared  in  Parliament,*  "  that 
lie  was  anxious  for  a  long  proroga- 
tion ;"  two  days  afterwards,  a  depu- 
tation of  the  London  Radicals,  head- 
ed by  Mr  Place,  the  tailor,  waits  on 
his  Lordship,  without  any  previous 
notice,  at  eleven  at  night.  On  return- 
ing home  from  dinner  he  found  his 
lobby  full  of  men  he  had  never  seen 
before  ;  and  two  days  after,  the  King 
is  brought  in  person  to  announce  the 
shortest  prorogation  on  the  Records 
of  Parliament  for  the  last  century ! 
We  are  fast  approaching  the  rule 
of  the  fishwomen.  No  man  alive  will 
feel  such  degradation  more  than  the 
aristocratic  members  of  the  foresaid 
Cabinet,  and  none  ever  were  less 
disposed  intentionally  to  pursue  mea- 


Courier,  Oof.  17. 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  (he  French  Revolution. 


sures  calculated  to  produce  it;  but 
such  is  their  utter  ignorance  of  the 
principles  of  Revolutions,  and  their 
blind  disregard  even  of  common  ex- 
perience and  schoolboy-knowledge, 
that  they  have  already  brought  them- 
selves to  a  state  of  thraldom,  which, 
as  noblemen  and  gentlemen,  they 
must  deeply  feel;  but  which,  alas! 
is  but  the  foretaste  of  that  bitter  hu- 
miliation which  their  reckless  course 
is  preparing  for  themselves  and  their 
country. 

We  have  often  had  occasion  to  im- 
press upon  our  readers  the  eternal " 
and  immutable  truth,  that  in  all  Re- 
volutions the  Movement  Party,  when 
their  measures  have  produced  their 
natural  and  inevitable  effects  of  pub- 
lic disaster  and  suffering,  instead  of 
opening  their  eyes  to  their  error,  and 
retracing  their  steps,  urge  the  adop- 
tion of  still  more  vehement  measures, 
and  precipitate  the  nation  headlong 
into  the  mostextravagantinnovations. 
Like  the  drunkard,  who  feels  the  las- 
situde   and  depression    consequent 
upon  grievous  debauches,  instead  of 
striving  to  regain  the  habits  of  so- 
briety, they  plunge  still  deeper  into 
the  career  of  dissipation :  Like  the 
gamester,  who  has  lost  his  fortune  at 
games  of  hazard,  they  at  length  stake 
their  freedom  and  life  on  the  throw. 
This  is  so  peculiarly  and  invariably 
the  attendant  of  revolutionary  pas- 
sions, that  it  may  be  considered  as  a 
distinctive  character,  and  never-fail- 
ing sign  of  the  disease.  To  those  who 
are  acquainted  with  the  history  of 
the  French  Revolution,  innumerable 
illustrations  of  its  operations  will  sug- 
gest themselves.     So  invariably  did 
it  appear  during  all  its  changes,  that 
when  the  severities  of  the  Revolu- 
tionary Government,  the  Law  of  the 
Maximum   and  forced  requisitions, 
had,  by  destroying  agricultural  in- 
dustry, produced  the  dreadful  famine 
of  spring  1795,   the  people   under 
the    pangs    of    hunger,     exclaimed 
incessantly,  "  Du  pain  et  le  Consti- 
tion  de   1793,"    and  had  well  nigh 
overturned    the   Thermidorian  Go- 
vernment, and  brought  back  the  reign 
of  Terror ;  clamouring  thus  in  their 
madness  for  a  restoration  of  the  very 
tyrannical  regime  under  which  they 
were  so  severely  suffering.  It  is  this 
which  renders  the  career  of  innova- 
tion so  dreadfully  perilous,and  makes 
one  false  step  into  the  stream  of  Re- 


905 

volution  irretrievable ;  because  it  im* 
mediately  produces  suffering  and 
disaster,  and  this,  in  its  turn,  is  made 
the  ground  for  demanding  still  greater 
changes,  and  more  extravagant  Re- 
volutionary measures. 

A  striking  example  of  the  same 
principle  now  appears  in  the  lan- 
guage and  proposals  of  the  Reform- 
ing party  at  this  crisis.  Seeing  that 
the  prodigal  offer  of  political  power 
to  the  lowest  of  the  rabble  has  in- 
flamed the  democratic  principle  to 
the  highest  degree,  and  is  beginning 
to  produce  its  natural  harvest  of 
rapine,  conflagration,  and  ruin,  they 
propose,  not  to  retrace  their  steps, 
and  get  out  of  the  fatal  career  into 
which  they  have  plunged,  but  to 
adopt  still  more  revolutionary  mea- 
sures, and  launch  the  nation  irre- 
trievably into  the  stream  of  perdi- 
tion. A  national,  or,  as  it  is  hypo- 
critically called,  a  "  Conservative 
Guard,"  is  now  loudly  called  for; 
the  arming  of  the  Revolutionary 
Clubs  suggested  as  the  only  remedy 
for  Revolutionary  violence. 

When  the  Reformers  talk  of  arm- 
ing the  Political  Union  Clubs,  they 
falsify  history  when  they  compare 
such  armed  associations  to  the  Na- 
tional Guard  of  France.     It  is  not 
to   the   National   Guard   that   such 
armed  bodies  will  be  parallel,  but 
to  the  Jacobin  Clubs :  to  those  in- 
fernal bodies  which  were  establish- 
ed in   every  town  and   village   of 
France,   which   filled   every  house 
with  mourning,  and  every  jail  with 
captives ;  which  established  the  Guil- 
lotine, the  Mitrillades,  and  the  Noy- 
ades;  which  were  the  instruments 
of  an  avenging  Heaven  to  punish 
the  sins  of  a  guilty  world.     The  Po- 
litical  Union   of    London  may   be 
composed  of  the  same  class  of  pike- 
men    and   cannoneers,   who  never 
issued  from  the  Fauxbourg  St  An- 
toine   but  to   perpetrate  deeds   of 
blood  ;  who  came  forth  in  thousands 
to  overturn  the  throne  on  the  10th 
August,  and  lined  the  streets  when 
Louis  was  led  to  the  guillotine  on 
the    21st    January ;    who  revolted 
against  the  Reforming  Girondist  Mi- 
nistry, and  led  them  captive  to  the 
Conciergerie  and  the  scaffold  on  the 
3 list  May;  who  assembled  at  the 
sound  of  the  tocsin  to  defend  Robes- 
pierre and  the  Reign  of  Terror,  in 
the  Place  de  Greve,  on  the  9th  Ther- 


• 

906 


Ow  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.  [Dec. 

:  who  carried  murder  into  the     measures.  "  The  poor,"  says  Madame 

De  La  Roclijaquelf  in,  "  in  Nantes 
were  exceedingly  kind  to  us,  and  did 
their  utmost  to  save  the  victims  of 
the  Revolution  ;  all  the  rich  mer- 
chants also  were  humane,  for  though 
they  had  at  first  supported  the  Revo- 
lution, yet  they  were  soon  shocked 
with  its  crimes,  and  in  consequence 
were  persecuted  with  as  much  se- 
verity as  the  Royalists.  The  fero- 
cious class  who  lent  their  aid  to  the 
massacres  and  the  Noyades,  wus  com- 
posed of  the  little  shopkeepers  and 
more  opulent  of  the  artisans,  many  of 
w7iom  were  from  other  towns  besides 
Nantes"*  It  is  a  curious  fact  in  the 
history  of  political  recklessness,  that 
the  Reform  Bill  in  England  proposed 
to  vest  an  overwhelming  superiority 
in  the  very  class,  which  so  recently 
say  that  the  Jfoii-  •  before  had  been  found  to  be  actua- 


bosom  of  the  National  Assembly, 
and  aimed  daggers  at  the  breast  of 
the  President  on  the  1st  of  Prairiul. 
The  Political  Union  of  Manchester 
may  be  parallel  to  the  infernal  Ju- 
cobin  Club  which  aided  the  Mitril- 
lades  of  Collot  d'Herbois  at  Lyons, 
which  decimated  the  population  of 
their  own  city,  and  sent  forth  shouts 
of  radical  joy  when  the  mangled  li  m  us 
of  two  hundred  chained  wretches 
were  thown  into  the  air  at  once  by 
discharges  of  grape-shot;  the  Poli- 
tical Union  of  Birmingham  to  the 
sanguinary  club  at  Nantes,  which  car- 
ried into  execution  the  unparalleled 
cruelties  of  Carrier  which  every 
night  drowned  an  hundred  victims 
in  the  Loire,  and  invented  the  exe- 
crable republican  marriages  and  bap- 
tisms. We  do  not  say  that  the  Poli- 


tical Unions  of  any  of  these  towns 
would  now  commit  any  of  these 
atrocities — we  are  sure  they  would 
not — but  neither  would  the  Jacobin 
Clubs  of  Paris,  Lyons,  and  Nantes 
have  done  so  when  they  were  first  in- 
stituted in  1789.  What  we  say  is, 
that  human  passions  and  atrocity  is 
the  same  in  all  ages  when  called  forth 
by  the  same  circumstances,  and  that 
our  revolutionary  clubs  are  blindly 
rushing  into  the  same  career  which 
precipitated  their  brethren  in  France, 
just  as  well-meaning  at  first  as  them- 
selves, into  those  unheard  of  atro- 
cities. 

It  is  no  security  against  such  hor- 
rible dangers  to  say  that  the  Political 
Union  Clubs  will  be  composed  of  the 
better  class — and  that  such  a  body  is 
interested  in  the  preservation  of  or- 
der. We  have  no  sort  of  security 
that  men  of  no  property  will  be  ex- 
cluded from  such  associations;  on 
the  contrary,  we  know  that  at  pre- 
sent they  form  an  immense  majority 
in  them  all ;  and  we  are  quite  sure 
that  if  they  are  armed,  they  will  in- 
stantly be  crowded  with  the  reckless 
and  the  desperate  of  every  descrip- 
tion, eager  to  share  in  the  spoils  of 
the  devoted  nation.  But  if  they  were, 
they  know  little  of  the  history  of  re- 
volutionary violence  who  are  not 
aware,  that  it  is  the  smaller  class  of 
shopkeepers  and  householders  who 
are  the  leaders  in  all  such  sanguinary 

1LJ3  HH    ItflJ 


ted  by  such  detestable  passions  in 
France. 

Farther,  when  a  National  Guard  is 
talked  of  as  the  only  security  against 
the  passions  which  the  Reformers 
have  roused  among  the  people — it 
does  not  seem  to  be  remembered, 
that  the  National  Guard  of  France 
existed  through  all  the  horrors  of  the 
Revolution,  and  not  only  did  nothing 
to  arrest,  but  contributed,  in  a  very 
powerful  degree,  to  produce  them. 
It  is  forgotten,  that  they  were  formed 
all  over  France  in  July  1789,  and  that 
they  witnessed,  without  resistance, 
the  devastation  and  conflagration  of 
all  the  chateaus  in  the  kingdom  in 
the  autumn  of  that  very  year ;  that 
they  were  in  great  force  at  Versailles 
when  the  Royal  Palace  was  broken 
into  on  the  5th  of  October  1 780,  and 
the  Royal  Family  all  but  murdered 
in  their  beds ;  that  they  witnessed  in 
silence  the  irruption  of  a  savage  mul- 
titude into  the  Tuileries  on  the  20th 
of  June  1 792,  and  the  overthrow  of 
the  Throne  on  the  10th  of  August; 
that  they  did  not  attempt  to  stop  the 
insurrection  of  the  Fauxbourgs  on 
the  31st  of  May  1793,  and  saw  their 
own  darling  Reforming  Administra- 
tion arrested  in  the  bosom  of  the 
Convention,  and  led  to  execution  by 
the  Jacobin  Clubs  of  the  Fauxbourgs 
on  the  2d  of  June;  that  they  crouch- 
ed beneath  the  Reign  of  Terror,  and 
lined  the  streets  for  sixteen  months. 


ni 


• 
•"La  Jlochjaquelein,  391. 


183,1,]        On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.  907 

when  the  victims  of  the  Revolution     extreme :  organization  for  the  pur- 
poses of  defence  is  talked  of  with 


were  daily  led  out  together  in  appall- 
ing numbers  to  the  scaffold.— It  is 
forgotten,  that,  under  our  own  eyes, 
the  National  Guard  of  Paris,  50,000 
strong,  has  been  unable  to  arrest  the 
numerous  disorders  which  have  dis- 
graced France  since  its  last  Revolu- 
tion—that  they  themselves  tore  down 
the  cross  from  every  steeple  in  Paris 
in  January  last;  that  so  little  was  the 
confidence  of  Lafayette  in  their  fide- 
lity, that,  amidst  an  encampment  of 
20,000  National  Guards,  he  did  not 
venture  in  December  to  move  the 
state  prisoners,  but  stole  them  off  at 
night  in  Montali vet's  carriage;  that 
they  refused  to  turn  out  in  the  riots 
on  the  fall  of  Warsaw  in  September, 
and  by  their  lukewarmness  have  pro- 
duced such  a  disordered  state  in 
France,  that  the  Government  has  re- 
cently been  obliged  to  devote  a  mil- 
lion sterling  to  the  relief  of  the  la- 
bouring classes  suffering  under  the 
severest  privations. 

It  is  impossible  it  can  be  otherwise 
— civil  guards  may  do  very  well  as 
an  auxiliary  to  a  powerful  and  faith- 
ful regular  force,  but  they  are  inca- 
pable, in  serious  public  convulsions, 
of  taking  the  decided  part  which  is 
necessary  to  check  the  progress  of 
disorder.  They  are  themselves  part 
of  the  population ;  they  share  in  then- 
passions,  participate  in  their  divi- 
sions, are  paralysed  by  their  appre- 
hensions. Arming  such  men  is  gi- 
ving the  signal  at  once  for  civil  Avar. 

If  force  is  requisite  to  coerce  the 
frenzy  of  the  multitude,  weakened 
and  strengthened  by  the  prospect  of 
power,  the  only  species  of  authority 
which  can  be  relied  on  is  that  of  re- 

§ular  soldiers.  They  are,  as  it  were, 
etached  from  the  State ;  separated 
in  a  great  degree  from  its  passions 
and  divisions;  habituated  to  coolness 
in  presence  of  danger,  and  trained  to 
habits  of  implicit  obedience  to  com- 
mand. Their  operations  are  con- 
ducted with  more  humanity  as  well 
as  decision  than  those  of  volunteer 
"bodies,  and  do  not  leave  after  them 
those  heart-burnings  and  bitter  re- 
collections which  attend  the  inflic- 
tion of  military  execution  by  one 
body  of  citizens  on  another. 

This  is  a  point  upon  which  no 
delay  can  be  admitted.  The  terror 
of  the  holders  of  property  through- 
put the  country  has  at  length  become 


anxiety  over  the  whole  realm.  If  Mi 
nisters  would  avoid  the  spontaneous 
arming  of  the  Political  Union  Clubs, 
they  must  shew  the  holders  of  pro- 
perty that  it  is  unnecessary,  because 
a  sufficient  legal  force  has  been  pro- 
vided for  their  protection.     What  is 
to  be  done  in  this  emergency  ?  The 
answer  is  clear  :  call  out  the  militia, 
and  increase  the  standing  army. — 
Here  is  a  constitutional  force  guided 
by  Government,  drilled,  organized, 
and   equipped,    ready    instantly  to 
stand  forth  in  defence  of  public  or- 
der.    Let  them  at  the  same  time  de- 
nounce the  arming  of  any  Political 
Unions,  or  any  other  force  whatever, 
not  arrayed  under  the  Lords-lieute- 
nant of  counties  or  the  Magistrates 
of  boroughs,  as  illegal,  and,if  attempt- 
ed to   constrain  or   intimidate  any 
branch  of  the  legislature,treasonable ; 
and  let  these  denunciations  be  forth- 
with carried  into  effect.    By  such  a 
course  alone  can  the  horrors  of  civil 
war  be  averted.     If  they  have  not 
firmness  to  take  such  a  step,  let  them 
give  place  to  those  who  have.    But 
it  is  obvious  the  thing  is  perfectly  in 
their  power.    They  have,  by  a  most 
praiseworthy  act  of  vigour,  put  down 
the  proposed  seditious  meeting  at 
White  Conduit  Fields;  and  by  so 
doing,  given  the  first  check  to  that 
ruinous  system  of  concession,  excite- 
ment, and  weakness,  which  they  have 
so  long  pursued,    and  which    has 
brought  the  country  to  its  present 
distracted  and  miserable  state.     No 
tumults  or  bloodshed  has  attended 
that   solitary  act   of  vigour;   while 
conflagration,  massacre,  and  ruin  fol- 
lowed the  Bristol  system  of  conces- 
sion.    It  is  easy  to   see,  therefore, 
from   what  course  of  conduct  the 
danger  to  public  tranquillity  is  really 
to  be  apprehended. 

But  if  a  volunteer  force  is  to  be 
raised,  in  God's  name  let  it  be  of 
such  a  class  as  affords  a  guarantee 
that  its  power  will  not  be  misapplied 
— that  it  will  really  be  a  conservative 
force,  and  not  a  band  of  ruffians  dis- 
ciplined and  armed  by  royal  autho- 
rity; let  them  be  yeomanry  cavalry 
who  furnish  their  own  horses  and 
accoutrements,  and  infantry  regi- 
ments who  purchase  their  own  uni- 
forms. The  Reformers  tell  us  the 
middling  class  is  unanimous  in  fa- 


" 


908  On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.         [T>o( 


vour  of  Reform,  and  that  the  "  whis- 
per of  a  faction"  cannot  prevail 
against  the  voice  of  the  people;  of 
course,  a  force  so  constituted  must 
rather  aid  than  injure  the  great 
cause;  while  the  property  which 
they  must  enjoy  to  meet  such  an  ex- 
pense,, is  the  best  guarantee  against 
their  engaging  in  deeds  of  spoliation. 
If  the  Reformers  reject  this,  and  in- 
sist for  the  organization  of  Politi 
cal  Union  Clubs  as  soldiers,  it  is 
evident  that,  under  the  mask  of  pre- 
serving, they  are  seeking  to  destroy 
order,  and  preparing,  under  tbe 
royal  name,  the  means  of  subverting 
the  royal  authority. 

Taxes  no  doubtmustbe  raised,  and 
public  expenditure  increased,  by  an 
augmentation  of  the  regular  force; 
but  did  any  man  ever  imagine  that 
the  people  could  have  the  luxury  of 
a  re  volution  without  paying,  and  pay- 
ing most  dearly  for  it?  Does  not 
every  body  know  that  the  taxes  of 
France  have  been  raised  a  half  since 
the  glorious  days  of  July  ?  That 
from  forty  millions  sterling  they 
have  been  raised  to  sixty  ?  That  the 
sale  of  L.8,000,000  worth  of  crown 
lands,  has  not  enabled  the  govern- 
ment of  Louis  Philip  to  avoid  a  loan 
of  L.  18,000,000  in  a  time  of  peace? 
That  the  expenses  of  France,  which 
were  L.25,000,000  a-year  under 
Louis  the  Sixteenth,  were  raised  to 
L.200,000,000  yearly  under  the  revo- 
lutionary government;  and  that  the 
enormous  sum  of  L.24,000,000  ster- 
ling a-year,  was  lavished  by  the  Con- 
vention upon  500,000  civil  employes, 
members  of  the  Jacobin  clubs,  who 
carried  on  the  Reign  of  Terror,  and 
filled  the  jails  of  France  with  in- 
nocent victims  ?  If  we  will  have  the 
excitement  of  Reform  meetings,  pub- 
lic speeches,  Reform  dinners  and  as- 
sociations, with  their  natural  conse- 
quences of  rapine,  conflagration,  and 
murder,  let  us  at  least  be  prepared 
for  the  grinding  augmentation  of 
taxes,  and  ultimate  national  bank- 
ruptcy, which  here,  as  in  France, 
•they  must  produce. 

But  let  the  friends  of  the  Constitu- 
tion be  of  good  cheer ;  distracted  as 
the  state  oi  the  country  is,  it  yet  con- 
tains the  elements  and  the  means  of 
safety ;  a  reaction  of  the  most  deci- 
sive kind  has  taken  place  in  the 
minds  of  all  thinking,  respectable 
meu — of  all  who  haye  property  to 


lose,  relations  to  lose,  or  prospects 
to  blight.  The  Reformers,  to  dis- 
prove the  assertion,  are  obliged  to 
refer  to  the  conflagration  of  Bristol, 
the  burning  of  Nottingham,  the  at- 
tempted assassinations  of  London. 
We  readily  admit  they  prove  no  re- 
action among  the  class  of  incendi- 
aries and  assassins.  To  what  do  the 
Anti-reformers  refer  for  a  proof  of  a 
contrary  assertion  ?  The  elections  of 
all  the  Universities,  even  the  Whig 
University  of  Cambridge,  embracing 
all  the  most  highly  educated  and 
thinking  men  of  all  professions  in  the 
kingdom — the  recorded  opinions  of 
three-fourths  of  the  young  men  of  Ox- 
ford and  Cambridge,  the  flower  of  the 
youth  of  England,  ever  the  foremost 
in  all  times  past  in  all  projects  of  real 
freedom;  the  elections  of  Grimsby, 
Weymouth,  Dublin,  Pembroke,  For- 
farshire, Dorsetshire,  Liverpool,  in  all 
of  which  the  Ministerial  candidates 
were  successful  at  the  general,  and 
the  Opposition  members  have  been 
returned  at  the  subsequent  elections. 
In  Cambridgeshire  even,  1250  Anti- 
reform  votes  were  polled  among  the 
40s.  freeholders  in  four  days. 

For  an  equally  decisive  proof  of 
another  kind,  we  refer  with  confi- 
dence and  pride  to  the  Anti-reform 
publications  of  the  present  day.  The 
Quarterly  stands  as  pre-eminent  at 
the  head  of  all  quarterly,  as  our  own 
Miscellany  does  at  the  summit  of  all 
monthly  publications.  Our  circula- 
tion, which  has  advanced  nearly  1000 
since  the  Reform  Question  began,  is 
now  doublet  nat  of  all  the  reforming 
Magazines  put  together.  It  won't  do 
to  say  that  this  is  owing  to  the  abi- 
lity of  its  articles ;  we  cannot  accept 
such  a  compliment  at  the  expense  of 
our  readers'  consistency.  No  per- 
son likes  to  read  articles  on  the  op- 
posite side  to  that  which  he  has 
espoused.  Lord  Althorp  spoke  with 
sincerity  the  voice  of  his  party, 
when  he  said  he  never  looked  at 
an  Anti-reform  publication.  The 
greater  the  ability  of  the  argument 
against  Reform,  the  more  it  is  avoid- 
ed by  the  Reformers ;  there  is  no- 
thing so  utterly  odious  to  them  as 
our  Miscellany.  Our  circulation  is 
so  prodigious,  because  we  speak  the 
thoughts  of  the  great  bulk  of  tho 
rational  and  thoughtful  men  in  the 
country,  and  merely  furnish  them 
with  facto  and  historical  illustrations 


1831.]         On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.  909 


in  confirmation  of  those  doctrines 
which  their  own  good  sense  has  al- 
ready suggested. 

For  a  third  proof  we  refer,  with 
still  greater  satisfaction,  to  the  im- 
mense array  of  talent  which  has 
sprung  up  in  defence  of  the  Consti- 
tution. The  speeches  of  the  majo- 
rity in  the  Lords,  and  the  minority 
in  the  Commons,  are  indeed  a  proud 
monument  of  the  talent  which  her 
free  institutions  have  nursed  up 
among  the  highest  classes  of  the  Bri- 
tish people.  The  vast^ability  of  the 
Anti-reform  publications,  which  are 
daily  issuing  from  the  press  in  de- 
tached pamphlets  or  periodical  pub- 
lications, demonstrates  the  numerous 
and  intelligent  class  from  which  it  is 
drawn.  Such  talent  is  the  fruit  of 
an  extended  cultivation  j  there  is  not 
one  man  in  fifty  born  with  real 
ability  ;  where  it  appears  prominent 
on  one  side,  it  is  certain  that  the 
great  bulk  of  the  national  talent  has 
taken  that  direction. 

To  render  this  reaction  and  talent 
available  to  the  great  cause  of  saving 
the  country,  let  the  Anti-reformers 
remain  as  they  now  are,  perfectly 
united  among  each  other — let  them 
do  their  utmost  individually  and  col- 
lectively to  counteract  the  poison 
which  the  Reformers  have  so  gene- 
rally spread  through  the  nation ; 
and  let  them  be  ready  the  moment 
that  the  signal  is  given — by  the  pro- 
found wisdom  ana  consummate  abi- 
lity which  presides  over  the  glorious 
struggle  for  the  Constitution,  as  over 
the  long  and  arduous  contest  in 
Spain — to  unite  in  any  means  of 
evincing  their  united  opinion!  n  firm 
but  respectful  language  to  the  legis- 
lature. 

If  we  were  to  judge,  indeed,  of  the 
feelings  of  the  majority  of  the  people 
from  the  language  of  the  reforming 
journals,  the  intemperate  and  sedi- 
tious harangues  at  public  meetings, 
or  the  boastful  speeches  of  the  ad- 
herents of  Reform  in  the  legislature, 
there  would  appear  little  hope  of  sa- 
ving the  country  j  but  nothing  can  be 
clearer  than  that  that  is  a  most  falla- 
cious test  to  assume.  The  noisy,  the 
vain,  and  the  declamatory — the  im- 
petuous, the  thoughtless,  and  the  in- 
digent— the  ignorant,  the  reckless, 
and  the  desperate,  are  indeed,  in  all 
great  towns,  leagued  together  in  sup- 
port of  Reform.  They  constitute  a 


loud  and  clamorous,  but  by  no  means 
a  numerous  portion  of  the  commu- 
nity, taken  as  a  whole.  They  out- 
number the  rational,  sober,  and  in- 
dustrious, in  great  towns ;  but  in  the 
country  they  are  few  in  compari- 
son. Five  hundred  thousand  men, 
out  of  twenty-five  millions,  are  am- 
ply sufficient  to  account  for  all  the 
clamour  which  has  been  raised.  A 
greater  number  than  this  may  have 
attended  the  whole  Reform  meetings; 
but  two-thirds  of  the  persons  pre- 
sent, all  in  the  open  air,  were  wo- 
men and  children,  and  of  the  men,  a 
great  proportion  went  from  curiosity 
to  hear  the  speeches,  without  any  de- 
cided wish  one  way  or  the  other. 

It  is  astonishing  to  what  an  extent 
delusion  and  misrepresentation  pre- 
vail on  this  subject.  Lord  Brougham 
said  in  the  House  of  Peers,  that  all 
the  men  in  Edinburgh  capable  of 
bearing  arms  were  in  favour  of  Re- 
form ;  whereas  it  may  confidently 
be  asserted,  that  two-thirds  of  the 
educated  intelligence,  and  nine- 
tenths  of  the  wealth,  are  on  the  other 
side.  The  Political  Union  there  was 
trumpeted  forth  in  the  English  papers 
as  assembling  20,000  men,  whereas  it 
does  not  consist  of  300,  and  does  not 
embrace  more  than  two  or  three  gen- 
tlemen, and  not  one,  now  that  the 
historian  of  Cromwell  has  left  it, 
distinguished  for  his  talent  or  abili- 
ties. The  meeting  in  the  Palace- 
Yard  at  York,  was  held  forth  as  an 
unequivocal  demonstration  of  the 
sense  of  that  great  county ;  whereas 
we  know,  from  personal  observation, 
that  there  were  not  1500  persons  pre- 
sent, almost  all  of  the  lowest  rank, 
and  ihsitjive  shillings  a-piece  was  the 
gratuity  given  to  most  of  the  work- 
men to  induce  them  to  attend.  Much 
was  said  of  the  great  meeting  of 
130,000  persons  near  Birmingham, 
whereas  there  were  not  above  40,000, 
of  whom  the  majority  were  women 
and  children  ;  and  two-thirds  of  the 
men  went  there  from  mere  curiosi- 
ty, and  neither  knew  nor  understood 
what  was  going  on.  It  is  the  same 
with  all  the  other  meetings — they 
were  merely  got  up  to  prop  up  Mi- 
nisters after  their  defeat  in  the 
House  of  Peers :  the  excitement  has 
been  industriously  maintained  by 
their  emissaries ;  but  the  great  bulk 
of  the  people  who  attended  them, 
went  from  mere  curiosity,  and  would 


On  Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  French  Revolution.         [Dec. 


910 

go  to  any  other  meetings  which  flat- 
tered their  passions,  or  promised 
them  the  prospect  of  spoliation  and 
democratic  power. 

It  is  from  the  same  cause  that  the 
strength  of  the  conservative  party  is 
grievously  underrated,  from  the  si- 
lent and  secluded  habits  to  which 
the  great  hulk  of  that  class  have  been 
habituated.  People  ask  why,  if  the 
Tories  are  BO  strong,  they  do  not  call 
public  meetings  and  address  Parlia- 
ment ?  The  reason  is,  that  it  is  en- 
tirely foreign  to  their  habits,  and 
nothing  will  overcome  their  habits 
but  the  most  imminent  danger.— 
The  noisy,  the  vain,  and  the  aspi- 
ring— all  who  have  the  itch  of  pub- 
lic speaking,  have  already  taken 
the  popular  side,  for  this  plain  rea- 
son, that  it  is  more  agreeable  to  be 
applauded  than  hissed  by  the  popu- 
lace; and  the  quiet,  industrious,  un- 
obtrusive class,  who  constitute  the 
great  body  of  the  constitutional  par- 
ty, have  neither  the  disposition  nor 
the  qualities  to  take  a  lead  in  such 
tumultuous  proceedings.  They  form 
the  strength,  the  support,  and  the 
nerve  of  the  state ;  they  feed  its 
people,  maintain  its  government,  and 
in  the  end  rule  its  determinations ; 
but  they  are  noways  qualified  to 
compete  in  producing  a  public  im- 
pression at  a  particular  moment, 
with  a  fifth  part  of  their  number 
composed  of  the  needy,  clamorous, 
and  vain-glorious  set  who  constitute 
the  great  body  of  the  reforming 
party. 

One  great  good  has  already  re- 
sulted from  the  noble  stand  made 
by  the  Peers  against  the  flood  of  de- 
mocracy ;  that  it  has  made  the  mask 
dropTrom  the  faces  of  the  Radical 
faction,  and  put  an  end  to  that 
boasted  union  of  Reformers  in  sup- 
port of  the  Bill,  of  which  so  much 
use  has  been  made  in  forcing  it  up- 
on the  legislature.  We  always  said 
that  this  union  was  mere  hypocrisy 
— that  the  great  body  of  the  Re- 
formers regarded  the  Bill  only  as 
the  stepping-stone  to  something  else 
— that  the  moment  it  was  passed, 
they  would  break  out  into  fierce  dis- 
sension with  each  other — and  that 
the  movement  party  would  prevail 
against  the  moderate  Reformers,  by 
the  same  artifices,  and  the  same  ve- 
hement outcry,  as  they  had  already 
used  with  such  effect  against  the 


Tories.  The  event  has  justified  our 
prediction.  The  firm  and  a'ble  re- 
sistance in  the  Commons,  and  the 
intrepid  stand  in  the  Lords,  have 
unmasked  the  real  motives  uqd  de- 
signs of  the  movement  men.  Their 
ultimate  objects  stand  confessed — 
they  make  no  attempt  to  conceal 
that  they  take  the  Bill  as  part  pay- 
ment only — as  seven  shillings  in  the 
pound — because  it  will  so  strengthen 
their  sinews  of  war  as  to  render  full 
payment,  in  a  few  years,  a  matter  of 
certainty.  The  Political  Union,  and 
Conduit  Fields  Meeting,  openly  de- 
mand universal  suffrage,  annunl 
Parliaments,  vote  by  ballot,  and  the 
abolition  of  all  distinctions  of  birth ; 
and  the  same  doctrines  are  held  by 
the  Unions  at  Birmingham,  Manehes- 
ter,  Leeds,  Halifax,  Sheffield,  Pres- 
ton, Bolton,  and  elsewhere.  It  is  ut- 
terly ludicrous,  therefore,  to  pretend 
that  the  passing  of  the  Reform  Bill 
will  prove  any  settlement  of  the 
question,  or  any  mitigation  of  the 
severe  distress  consequent  on  Re- 
form. So  far  from  tranquillizing,  it 
will  only  agitate  with  greater  vio- 
lence the  public  mind,  by  the  in- 
creased influence  on  elections  which 
it  will  vest  in  the  populace,  and  the 
dearer  interests  of  society  which  will 
then  become  the  object  of  attack. 

Mr  Cobbett  has  announced,  in 
thirteen  propositions,  what  are  the 
ulterior  objects  which  the  Radical 
Reformers  are  resolved  to  achieve 
as  soon  as  Reform  is  carried.  They 
are  so  singularly  characteristic  of 
the  ultimate  tendency  and  objects  of 
the  movement  party,  that  we  make 
the  following  abstract  of  their  con- 
tents : — 

1.  To -put  an  end  to  all  pensions, 
sinecures,  allowances,  half-pay,  and 
all  other  emoluments  now  paid  out 
of  the  taxes,  except  for  such  public 
services,  as,  on  a  very  scrupulous 
examination,  may  be  found  to  merit 
them. 

2.  To  discharge  the  standing  army. 

3.  To   make  the  counties   equip 
and  maintain  a  militia  on  the  Ame- 
rican plan. 

4.  To  abolish  tithes,  and  leave 
the  clergy  only  the  churches,  the 
churchyards,  and  the  ancient  glebes. 

5.  To   apply  all  tho  rest   of  the 
church  property,  of  every  sort,  and 
all  the  crown  lands,  to  the  payment 
of  the  national  debt. 


18BI.]          On  Parliamentary  Refor. 

6.  To  cease,  at  the  end  of  two 
years  after  June  1832,  to  pay  any  in- 
terest on  the  national  debt. 

7.  To  divide  the  church  property 
among  the  fundholders,  and  give 
them  nothing  more. 

8.  To  make  an  equitable  adjust- 
ment of  all  money  contracts  between 
man  and  man. 

9.  To  abolish  all  internal  taxes, 
except  on  land,  whether  direct  or 
indirect. 

10.  To  lay  on  as  much  Custom- 
House  duties  as  are  consistent  with 
the  interests  of  commerce,  and  no 
more. 

11.  To  provide  for  a  powerful 
navy. 

12.  To  make  a  generous  allowance 
to  the  King  and  royal  family. 

13.  To  value  all  the  property  in 
the  kingdom,  and  collect  the  taxes 
at  an  allowance  not  exceeding  L.400 
a-year  in  any  one  county.* 

Now,  these  being  the  avowed 
principles  of  the  Radical  Reformers, 
was  ever  delusion  so  deplorable,  as 
that  the  "  bill,"  or  an  "  equally  effi- 
cient bill,"  is  to  be  a  "  final  settle- 
ment of  the  question ;"  or  that  the 
agitation  and  disquietude  under 
which  the  nation  now  so  grievously 
labours,is  to  be  any  thingbut  immense- 
ly increased,\vhen  in  a  Reformed  Par- 
liament these  propositions  are  to  be 
brought  forward  ?  Is  the  public  anx- 
iety, and  the  distress  consequent  on 
decreasing  employment,  likely  to  di- 
minish, when  these  propositions,  af- 
fecting the  existence  of  every  man  of 
property  in  the  kingdom,  are  press- 
ed upon  the  Reformed  Legislature 
by  their  imperious  radical  constitu- 
ents, backed  by  a  radical  Press,  and 
radical  Political  Unions  in  every 
city  in  the  empire  ?  The  general  li- 
beration of  debtor  from  creditor,  and 
destruction  of  the  funds,  which  are 
there  seriously  brought  forward,  are 
particularly  worthy  of  notice  by  all 
the  Reformers  now  possessing  pro- 


q>  "fit 

orm  and  the  French  Revolution. 


911 

perty,  who  are  exerting  their  influ- 
ence for  the  promotion  of  Lord 
Grey's  Bill. 

From  the  sickening  scene  of  con- 
cession, intimidation,  and  submis- 
sion, which  our  Reformers  evinced 
to  the  mandates  of  the  rabble,  we  turn 
with  pleasure  and  pride  to  the  man- 
ly and  energetic  conduct  of  Lord 
Wharncliffe  with  the  Yorkshire  yeo- 
manry. A  paragraph  made  the  round 
of  the  reforming  papers,  stating  that 
the  privates  of  his  regiment  had  re- 
quired him  to  resign  the  command, 
as  his  opinions  were  so  adverse  to 
theirs  on  the  great  question.  A 
Whig  commander,  on  the  system  of 
concession,  would  immediately  have 
done  so,  and  palsied  by  such  an  act 
that  great  force  through  the  coun- 
try; but  Lord  \Yharncliffe  was  not 
such  a  man.  He  assembled  his  regi- 
ment— explained  to  the  refractory 
members,  who  were  thirty-two  in 
number  only,  and  had  been  led  by 
a  druggist — that  they  had  rendered 
themselves  amenable,  by  such  an  act, 
to  military  punishment,  but  that  he 
preferred  dismissing  them  from  the 
regiment,  which  was  immediately 
done  amidst  the  applause  of  the 
corps,  and  their  place  supplied  by 
an  equal  number  of  active  young 
men,  of  the  true  patriotic  race.  Such 
is  the  true  way  to  meet  such  con- 
duct. Let  none  who  mingle  the  spi- 
rit of  faction  with  military  duty  or 
civil  guardianship,  ever  wear  the 
British  uniform — let  them  be  strip- 
ped of  the  colours  of  British  glory, 
and  banished  from  the  standards  of 
Azincour  and  Waterloo — and  let 
none  assemble  round  those  venerated 
ensigns,  but  such  as  know  how  to 
separate  civil  division  from  patriotic 
duty,  and  recollect  the  words  of  the 
greatest  and  best  of  modern  Repub- 
licans, Carnot,  "  the  armed  force  is 
essentially  obedient— it  acts,  but 
never  deliberates." 


*  CobUtt,  NOT.  12,  1831. 


VOL,  XXX,  NO,  CLXXXVIII. 


3N 


Foreign  Policy  of  the  Whigs.    No.  I/.    Portugal. 


[Dec, 


FOREIGN  POLICY  OF  THE  WHIGS. 

No.  II. 

PORTUGAL. 


THE  frequent  reference  to  the  wis- 
dom of  our  ancestors  is  a  constant 
object  of  ridicule  to  the  Whigs;  but 
let  them  be  of  good  cheer,  the  dis- 
ease is  in  a  rapid  course  of  cure : 
our  posterity  will  never  speak  of 
our  wisdom. 

We  endeavoured  to  point  out,  in 
a  former  Number,*  the  extraordinary 
and  inconceivable  infatuation  which 
has  come  over  our  rulers  in  regard 
to  the  Belgian  question,  and  the  dis- 
astrous consequences  which  must 
ensue  in  future,  as  has  occurred  iu 
time  past,  from  the  demolition  of  the 
fortresses  which  have  been  erected 
on  the  Flemish  frontier  to  curb  the 
ambitious  designs  of  France.  We 
showed  from  the  experience  of  all 
former  wars,  that  it  is  in  Flanders 
that  the  battle  of  European  inde- 
pendence must  be  fought ;  that  the 
moment  it  is  overrun,  the  armies  of 
that  restless  power  are  in  posses- 
sion of  a  salient  angle,  from  which 
they  threaten  alike  Vienna  and  Ber- 
lin, and  that,  paradoxical  as  it  may  ap- 
pear, experience  demonstrates  it  to 
be  true,  that  it  requires  less  exertion 
for  its  armies  to  march  from  the 
Rhine  to  the  Niemen  than  from  Cam- 
bray  to  the  Rhine.  The  reason  is, 
that  the  fortresses  on  the  Rhine 
give  them  such  a  powerful  base  for 
offensive  operations,  and  that  when 
they  pass  that  stream  they  find  them- 
selves among  a  number  of  small  and 
powerless  states  which  can  offer  no 
effectual  obstacle  to  their  ambition, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  yield  to  the  in- 
vader, and  enable  them  to  organize 
one-half  of  Germany  against  the 
other. 

Since  that  time  nothing  has  oc- 
curred to  weaken,  but  every  thing  to 
strengthen  our  observations.  By  a 
vigorous  resistance  to  the  unjustifi- 
able partition  with  which  he  was 
menaced,  indeed,  the  King  of  Hol- 
land seems  to  have  got  somewhat 
better  terms  from  the  allied  powers 
than  those  which  were  formerly  de- 
manded from  him.  Maestricht,  the 
old  frontier  town  of  Holland,  is  no 


longer  to  be  severed  from  his  domi- 
nions, and  he  is  to  retain  the  fortress 
and  part  of  the  territory  of  Luxem- 
bourg. This  was  obtained,  not  in 
consequence  of  English  interference, 
but  in  spite  of  it ; — the  British  fleet 
sailed  to  Antwerp  to  assail  its  oldest 
ally  at  the  same  time  that  the  French 
soldiers  crossed  in  triumph  the  field 
of  Waterloo,  rejoicing  at  the  changes 
which  human  folly  can  work  in  na- 
tional affairs,  and  hardly  believing 
their  own  eyes  when  they  saw  Brk 
tish  hands  preparing  to  surrender 
the  dear-bought  trophies  of  an  hun- 
dred victories.  But  the  patriotism 
and  valour  of  the  Dutch  had  righted 
their  cause,  so  far  as  it  could  be  done 
against  such  fearful  odds;  before 
they  arrived,  their  own  courage  had 
saved  them  from  part  of  the  parti- 
tion with  which  they  were  menaced; 
the  cowardice  and  weakness  of  the 
Belgians  stood  proclaimed  to  all 
Europe ;  the  revolutionary  rabble 
had  dispersed  before  the  tried  de- 
fenders of  order  and  justice,  and,  by 
the  firmness  of  her  people,  Holland 
saved  England  from  the  ineffable 
disgrace  of  actually  staining  her 
standards  with  the  blood  of  her  old- 
est and  most  faithful  ally. 

What  is  to  be  the  ultimate  fate  of 
the  contest  between  Holland  and 
Belgium,  does  not  yet  appear.  But 
in  the  mean  time  the  English  fleet 
has  sailed  to  the  coast  of  Walcheren. 
Flushing  is  put  in  a  state  of  defence  ; 
the  buoya  are  lifted  from  the  mouth 
of  the  Scheldt,  and  preparations  are 
made  for  resisting  the  menaced  at- 
tack of  the  British  squadron.  The 
French  armies  are  still  on  the  watch ; 
at  the  first  cannon  shot  they  will  cross 
the  frontier,  and  co-operate  with  us 
in  forcing  the  Dutch  to  accept  the 
protocols — in  other  words,  to  sub- 
mit to  the  partition  of  their  domi- 
nions. 

The  evil  done  is  irreparable.  By 
departing  from  the  obvious  course 
of  allowing  the  Belgians  and  Dutch 
to  fight  it  out  between  themselves, 
with'a  clear  stage  and  no  favour ;  by 


; 


*  No.  CXXXV.,  September,  1831. 


1831.] 


Foreign  Polity  of  the  Whiffs.    No.  II.    Portugal. 


establishing  a  revolutionary  power  in 
Flanders,  we  have  in  effect,  if  not  in 
form,  brought  the  French  standards 
to  the  Rhine.  The  revolutionary- 
throne  of  Belgium  must  depend  on 
the  great  central  revolutionary  power 
of  France ;  the  legitimate  monarchy 
of  Holland  must  depend  on  the  regu- 
lar monarchies  of  Prussia  and  Rus- 
sia. Leopold  is  nothing  better  than 
the  lieutenant  of  Louis  Philippe ;  he 
applies,  and  ever  will  apply,  to  him, 
for  aid — as  certainly  as  the  Confe- 
deration of  the  Rhine  did  to  the 
French  Emperor. 

But  in  addition  to  this,  what  have 
the  Whigs  done  ?  They  have  made  an 
arrangement  with  France,  by  which 
the  Belgian  army,  20,000  strong,  is 
to  be  governed  by  French  officers 
— Was  any  thing  ever  like  this  ?  Not 
content  with  establishing  a  revolu- 
tionary throne  in  Belgium ;  not  con- 
tent with  demolishing  the  frontier 
fortresses,  and  leaving  the  plains  of 
Flanders  as  defenceless  as  after  the 
sweep  of  Joseph  in  1788,  they  are 
actually  going  to  have  the  Flemish 
army  directed  by  French  officers — 
that  is,  as  much  a  French  army  as 
the  Hindoo  army  is  now,  or  the  Por- 
tuguese army  was  formerly,  a  British 
force. — What  is  the  pretence  for  such 
a  measure?  The  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton, than  whom  there  is  no  man  alive 
better  qualified  to  speak  on  the  sub- 
ject, has  declared  that  the  Belgian 
army  does  not  require  foreign  offi- 
cers ;  but,  if  it  did,  why  not  have  it 
filled  with  British,  Prussian,  or  Aus- 
trian officers  ?  Why  put  the  whole 
force  of  this  revolutionary  state  at 
the  disposal  of  French  officers?  Why 
put  the  men  who  recoiled  at  Water- 
loo before  the  British  standards,  in 
possession  of  the  country  from  which 
they  were  then  with  such  infinite 
difficulty  expelled  ?  Why  surrender 
in  one  day,  not  only  the  fortresses, 
but  the  country,  andthe  army,  which 
Marlborough  toiled  so  long  to  save 
from  French  ambition,  and~Welling- 
ton  in  so  glorious  a  manner  rescued 
from  their  grasp  ?  There  can  be  no 
reason  but  one  :  France  is  a  revolu- 
tionary power,  and  our  reforming 
rulers  deem  every  thing  advisable 
which  smooths  the  way  tor  their  re- 
volutionary allies. 

Holland  is  incapable  of  resisting 
France  without  the  barriers  of  Flan- 
ders. Thia  has  long  been  felt ;  arid 


918 

accordingly,  though  they  had  the  line 
of  Breda,  Bergen -op-Zoom,  Maes- 
tricht,  and  Bois-le-Duc,  to  which  they 
are  now  driven,  in  the  time  of  Louis 
XIV.,  yet  they  were  reduced  to  ex- 
tremities by  that  ambitious  monarch, 
and  the  Succession  War  first  gave 
them  security  by  establishing  the  bar- 
rier fortresses  at  the  treaty  of  Utrecht. 
— Lord  Brougham  admits  that  the  in- 
terests of  Britain  are  identified  with 
those  of  Holland ;  and  yet  he  sanc- 
tions an  arrangement  which  renders 
Leopold  a  prefect  of  France,  brings 
their  standards  down  to  the  Waal, 
deprives  them  of  ell  the  barrier 
towns,  and  reduees  them  to  a  weaker 
state  than  they  were  in  before  the 
victories  of  Marlborough.  Does  he 
imagine  that  the  United  Provinces 
are  more  capable  of  resisting  France 
than  they  then  were?  That  the  winter 
march  of  Pichegru  to  Amsterdam 
in  1794  has  increased  their  means  of 
defence  ?  Or  that  the  peril  to  Dutch 
independence  is  less  because  twenty 
years  have  habituated  the  French  to 
the  sweets  of  Dutch  dominion,  and  a 
new  Revolution  has  revived  the  un- 
extinguishable  passion  of  its  warlike 
people  for  the  barrier  of  the  Rhine  P 

The  independence  of  Holland, 
therefore,  that  great  and  deserved 
object  of  British  ambition,  for  which 
the  revolutionary  war  was  underta- 
ken, and  which,  after  so  terrible  a 
struggle,  was  accomplished,  is  now 
endangered.  The  French  standards 
are  again  about  to  wave,  as  in  1792, 
on  the  Scheldt ;  the  object  for  which 
the  war  was  undertaken  has  been 
abandoned  by  a  reforming  adminis- 
tration. Long  and  bitterly  will  Eng- 
land feel  the  consequences  of  this 
immense  error ;  present  humiliation 
and  disgrace  attend  it ;  future  war, 
increased  taxation,  additional  blood- 
shed, must  be  incurred  to  retrieve  it. 

But  while  the  advantages  and  se- 
curity of  former  victories  have  thus 
been  abandoned  by  our  present  rulers 
on  the  side  of  Belgium,  an  equally 
extraordinary  dereliction  of  all  for- 
mer policy  has  occurred  on  the  side 
of  Portugal.  Not  content  with  aban- 
doning Holland,  we  have  also  sacrifi- 
ced and  alienated  Portugal ;  the  cry 
of  indignation  against  England,  which 
fills  every  city  in  the  United  Pror 
vinces,  has  been  re-echoed  from  the 
banks  of  the  Tagus. 

Lightly  as  in  a  moment  of  political 


Foreign  Policy  of  the  Whigs.    No.  IT.    Portugal.  [Dec. 


frenzy,  and  under  the  influence  of 
the  passion  for  innovation,  we  may 
speak  of  the  wisdom  of  our  ancestors, 
their  measures  were  founded  on  con- 
siderations which  will  survive  the 
tempest  of  the  present  times.  As 
France  is  the  power  which  had  been 
found  by  experience  to  be  most  for- 
midable to  the  liberties  of  Europe, 
and  in  an  especial  manner  perilous 
to  the  independence  of  England,  our 
policy  for  two  hundred  years  has 
been  founded  upon  the  principle, 
that  Holland  on  the  one  side,  and 
Portugal  on  the  other,  should  be  sup- 
ported against  it.  By  a  close  alliance 
•with  these  two  powers,  we  extended 
our  arms,  as  it  were,  around  our 
powerful  neighbour :  she  could  not 
go  far  in  any  direction  without  en- 
countering either  the  one  or  the 
other.  So  strongly  was  the  necessity 
of  this  felt,  that  so  far  back  as  1663, 
in  the  treaty  concluded  with  Portu- 
gal, it  was  stipulated  "  that  England 
should  resent  any  insult  or  aggres- 
sion offered  to  Portugal  in  the  same 
way,  and  with  the  same  power,  as  if 
its  own  dominions  were  invaded.' 

The  result  lias  proved  the  wisdom 
of  their  stipulations.  In  the  two 
greatest  wars  which  have  distracted 
Europe  for  the  last  two  centuries, 
the  Netherlands  and  the  Peninsula 
have  been  the  theatre  where  the 
armies  of  France  and  England  have 
encountered  each  other.  France 
has  never  been  effectually  checked 
but  when  assailed  in  Spain  and 
Flanders.  Five-and-twenty  years' 
peace  followed  the  treaty  of  Utrecht, 
and  sixteen  have  already  followed 
the  peace  of  Paris.  All  other  trea- 
ties for  the  last  150  years,  can  only 
be  considered  as  truces  in  compari- 
son. Such  is  the  importance  of  the 
Peninsula,  that  a  considerable  suc- 
cess there,  is  almost  sufficient  to 
neutralize  the  greatest  advantages 
in  the  central  parts  of  Europe ;  the 
victory  of  Almanza  had  wellnigh 
neutralized  the  triumphs  of  Oude- 
narde,  Ramillies,  and  Malplaquet, 
and  the  cannon  of  Salamanca  start- 
led Napoleon  even  on  the  eve  of  the 
carnage  of  Borodino,  and  \vhen  al- 
most within  sight  of  the  Kremlin. 

"  The  sea,"  8ays  General  Jomini, 
**  which  is  the  worst  possible  base 
to  every  other  Power,  is  the  best  to 
England.  That  which  is  but  a  ste- 
rile and  inhospitable  desert  to  a  mi- 


litary Power,  conveys  to  the  mo- 
naced  point  the  fleets  and  the  forces 
of  Albion."  It  is  on  this  principle, 
that  the  strict  alliance  and  close 
connexion  with  Portugal  was  form- 
ed. Its  extensive  sea-coast,  moun- 
tainous ridges,  and  numerous  har- 
bours, afforded  the  utmost  facilities 
for  pouring  into  its  bosom  the  re- 
sources and  armies  of  England,  while 
its  own  force  was  not  BO  consider- 
able as  to  render  its  people  jealous 
of  the  protection,  or  averse  to  the 
Generals,  of  England.  The  result 
proved  the  wisdom  of  the  choice 
made  of  Portugal  as  the  fulcrum  on 
which  the  militarypower  of  England, 
when  engaged  in  continental  war, 
should  be  rested.  It  is  there  alone 
that  an  unconquerable  stand  was 
made  against  the  forces  of  Napo- 
leon. That  which  neither  the  firm- 
ness of  Austria,  nor  the  valour  of 
Prussia,  nor  the  power  of  Russia 
could  accomplish,  has  been  achieved 
by  this  little  State,  backed  by  the 
might  and  the  energy  of  England. 
Austria  has  to  lament  the  defeats 
of  Ulm  and  Wagram ;  Prussia  the 
overthrow  of  Jena;  Russia  the  ca- 
tastrophes of  Austerlitx  and  Fried- 
land  ;  but  the  career  of  Portugal,  in 
the  same  terrible  strife,  was  one  of 
uninterrupted  success ;  before  the 
rocks  of  Torres  Vedras,  the  waves  of 
Gallic  aggression  first  permanently 
receded;  and  from  the  strongholds 
of  the  Tagus,  the  British  standards 
advanced  to  a  career  of  glory  greater 
than  ever  graced  the  days  "of  her 
Henrys  and  her  Edwards. 

It  is  a  point  on  which  military 
men  are  at  variance.]  whether  for- 
tresses are  of  more  value  on  the 
frontier  or  in  the  centre  of  a  me- 
naced State.  Perhaps  the  question 
may  be  solved  by  a  distinction: — 
where  the  State  assailed  is  one  of 
first-rate  importance,  as  France  or 
Austria,  fortified  towns  on  its  fron- 
tier are  of  incalculable  importance, 
because,  if  the  invading  army  stops 
to  invest  them,  it  gives  time  for 
great  armaments  in  the  interior ;  if 
it  pushes  on  and  neglects  them,  it 
necessarily  becomes  so  weakened 
by  the  detachments  made  for  the 
purpose  of  maintaining  their  block- 
ade, that  it  is  incapable  of  achieving 
any  considerable  success.  Two  me- 
morable, examples  of  this  occurred 
in  French  Flaaders  in  1793,  when 


183  l.J 


Foreign  Policy  of  the  Whigs.    No.  II.    Portugal 


the  invading  array,  120,000  strong, 
was  so  long  delayed  by  besieging  the 
frontier  fortresses  of  Valenciennes, 
Conde,  Maubeuge,andLandrecy,  that 
time  was  given  lor  the  Convention  to 
organize  and  equip  the  great  arma- 
ments in  the  interior,  which  finally 
repelled  the  invasion ;  and  in  Lom- 
bard y,  in  179G,  when  the  single  for- 
tress of  Mantua  arrested  the  career  of 
Napoleon  for  six  mouths,  and  gave 
time  for  Austria  to  assemble  no  less 
than  four  successive  and  powerful  ar- 
mies for  its  relief.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  extraordinary  advantage  attend- 
ing the  great  central  fortifications  of 
Wellington  at  Torres  Vedras,  and 
the  corresponding  successes  gained 
by  Skrzynecki,  from  the  possession 
of  Warsaw,  Zamosc,  and  Modlin, 
during  the  late  Polish  war,  and  by 
Napoleon,  from  the  fortresses  of 
Dresden,  Tovgau,and  Wittemberg,on 
the  Elbe  in  1818,  demonstrate,  that 
where  the  state  assailed  is  more  in- 
considerable when  compared  to  the 
attacking  force,  fortifications  are  of 
more  avail  when  placed  in  the  centre 
of  the  threatened  State,  and  when  its 
armies,  retiring  upon  their  central 
strongholds,  find  both  a  point  d'ap- 
put  in  case  of  disaster,  and  an  inte- 
rior line  of  communication,  which 
compensates  inferiority  of  forces,and 
affords  an  opportunity  for  accumu- 
lating masses  on  detached  bodies  of 
the  enemy. 

But  His  Majesty's  Whig  Ministers 
have  solved  the  question  in  a  totally 
different  manner.  They  have  relin- 
quished both  the  frontier  and  the  cen- 
tral fortresses  which  bridled  France ; 
both  those  which  checked  its  irrup- 
tion into  the  centre  of  Europe,  and 
those  which  afforded  a  secure  and 
central  position  on  which  the  armies 
of  England  could  combat  when  mat- 
ters became  more  serious.  We  have 
lost  both  the  frontier  barrier  of  Marl- 
borough  in  Flanders,  and  the  interior 
barrier  of  Wellington  in  Portugal  ; 
with  one  hand  we  have  abandoned 
the  safeguard  of  Northern,  with  the 
other  the  citadel  of  Southern  Europe. 

Deviating  for  the  first  time  from 
the  policy  of  two  hundred  years,  we 
have  not  only  loaded  Portugal  with 
injuries  and  indignities  ourselves, 
but  we  have  permitted  her  to  be  the 
victim  of  revolutionary  violence  and 
rapine  on  the  part  of  France.  The 
Portuguese  wines,  long  the  favoured 


915 

object  of  British  protection,  have 
beenabandoned;  the  duties  of  French, 
and  Oporto  wines  have  been  equal- 
ized, and  oui'  ancient  and  irrecon- 
cilable enemy  placed  on  the  footing 
of  the  most  favoured  nation  I 

The  consequence  of  this  must  in 
time  be  the  destruction,  or.  serious 
injury  of  the  immense  capital  inveatr 
ed  in  the  raising  of  Port  wine  on  the 
banks  of  the  Douro.  The  cultiva- 
tion of  wine  there  has  been  nursed 
up  by  a  century's  protection,  and 
brought  to  its  present  flourishing 
state  by  the  fostering  influence  of  the 
British  market.  Buthow  isthatexces- 
sive  and  exotic  state  of  cultivation  to 
continue,  when  the  duties  on  Pqritu- 
guese  and  French  wines  are  equal- 
ized, and  the  merchants  of  Bordeaux 
can,  from  a  shorter  distance,  send 
Avines  adapted  to  the  English  taste 
from  the  mouth  of  the  Garonne-?—- 
Two  shillings  a  gallon  has  been  toJien 
off  French,  and  as  much  laidon  Portu- 
guese wines  ;  the  Portuguese  grower, 
therefore,  in  competition  with  the 
French,  finds  himself  saddled  with  a 
difference  of  duty  amounting  to  four 
shillings  a  gallon.  It  requires  no  ar- 
gument to  shew,  that  such  a  differ- 
ence of  taxation  deprives  the  Portu- 
guese of  all  their  former  advantages, 
and  must  in  the  end  extinguish  the 
extraordinary  growth  of  vines  in  the 
province  of  Entre  Douro  Minho. 

What  are  the  advantages  which 
Ministers  propose  to  themselves  from 
this  abandonment  of  their  ancient 
ally  ?  Is  it  that  the  English  commerce 
with  France  is  so  much  more  con- 
siderable than  that  of  Portugal,  that 
it  is  worth  while  to  lose  the  one  in 
order  to  gain  the  other  ?  The  re- 
verse is  the  fact — the  British  exports 
to  France  are  only  L.  700,000  a-year, 
while  those  to  Portugal  amount  to 
L.2,000,000.  Is  it  that  France  has 
done  so  much  more  for  British  com- 
merce than  Portugal  ?  The  reverse  is 
the  fact — France  has,  by  the  most  rigid 
system  of  prohibitions,  excluded  all 
British  manufactures  from  its  shores; 
while  Portugal  has,  by  a  series  of  the 
most  favourable  treaties,  given  them 
the  greatest  possible  encourage- 
ment. Is  it  because  a  more  extend- 
ed commerce  with  France  may  in 
future  be  anticipated  from  the  friefnd- 
ly  intercourse  between  the  two 
countries,  and  a  spirit  of  rising  libe- 
rality has  manifested  itself  on  the 


916  Foreign  Policy  of  the  Whigs.    No.  H.    Portugal  [Dec. 

part  of  its_manufacturers  and  mer-    that  populous  kingdom.    This  jea- 
lousy, being  founded  on  similarity  of 


chants?  The  reverse  is  the  fact. 
France,  so  nearly  in  its  northern 
parts  in  the  same  latitude  with  Eng- 
land, has  the  same  coal,  the  same 
steam-engines,  the  same  manufac- 
tures, whereas  Portugal,  exposed  to 
the  influence  of  a  vertical  sun,  with- 
out coal  or  manufacturing  capital,  is 
unable  to  compete  with  any  of  the 
productions  of  British  industry.  The 
consequence  is,  that  the  utmost  pos- 
sible jealousy  has  always,  and  espe- 
cially of  late  years,  existed  on  the 
part  of  the  French  against  the  British 
manufactures;  and  that  all  our  mea- 
sures for  their  encouragement  have 
been  met  by  increased  duties,  and 
more  rigid  prohibitions  of  the  pro- 
duce of  our  industry.  Is  it  because 
France  has  been  so  much  more 
friendly,  of  late  years,  to  Britain  than 
Portugal  ?  The  reverse  is  the  fact. 
France  has,  for  three  centuries,  done 
every  thing  she  possibly  could  to  de- 
stroy our  industry  and  our  indepen- 
dence, while  Portugal  has  done  every 
thing  in  her  power  to  support  the 
one  and  the  other. 

The  reason  of  this  difference  in 
the  conduct  of  the  two  states,  is 
founded  in  the  difference  of  the 
physical  situation  of  the  two  coun- 
tries, and  of  their  climate  and  pro- 
duce. Portugal,  the  country  of  the 
vine  and  the  olive,  without  coal, 
wood,  or  fabrics  of  any  sort,  desti- 
tute of  canals  or  carriage-roads,  in- 
tersected by  immense  mountain 
ridges,  is  as  incapable  of  competing 
with  the  fabrics  or  manufactures  of 
England,  as  England  is  of  emulating 
their  oil,  fruit,  and  wines.  The  case 
might  have  been  the  same  with 
France,  if  it  had  been  possessed 
merely  by  its  southern  provinces; 
but  the  northern  lying  nearly  in  the 
same  latitude  as  England,  with  their 
Coal  mines,  cotton  and  iron  manu- 
factories, are  in  exactly  the  same  line 
of  industry  as  the  British  counties, 
and  their  jealousy  in  consequence  of 
our  manufactures  is  excessive.  The 
manufacturers  of  Rouen  and  Lyons 
being  a  much  more  opulent  and 
united  body  than  the  peasant  vine- 
growers  of  the  south,  have  got  the 
entire  control  of  government,  and 
hence  the  extraordinary  rigour  with 
which  they  exclude  our  manufac- 
tures, and  the  inconsiderable  amount 
of  the  trade  which  we  carry  on  with 


industry,  and  the  rivalry  of  the  same 
kind  of  manufactures,  will  continue 
to  the  end  of  time.  By  encoura- 
ging the  wines  of  France,  therefore, 
we  are  favouring  the  industry  of  a 
country  which  has  not  only  always 
been  our  enemy,  but  never  will  make 
any  return  in  facilitating  the  con- 
sumption of  our  manufactures !  By 
encouraging  the  wines  of  Portugal, 
we  are  fostering  the  industry  of  a 
country  which  has  always  been  our 
friend  ;  and,  from  the  absence  of  all 
manufacturing  jealousy,  may  be  re- 
lied upon  as  nkely  to  continue  per- 
manently to  take  off  the  greatest 
possible  amount  of  our  manufactures. 

But  this  is  not  all.  Not  content  with 
inflicting  this  severe  blow  upon  the 
industry  of  an  allied  state,  which 
takes  off  L.2,000,000  a  year  of  our  pro- 
duce, and  is  so  likely  to  continue  to 
do  so,  we  have  insulted  and  in- 
jured Portugal  in  the  tenderest  point, 
and  allowed'  our  new  ally,  revolu- 
tionary France,  to  destroy  her  na- 
tional independence,  and  extinguish 
all  recollection  of  the  protection  and 
the  guardianship  of  England. 

Don  Miguel,  as  every  body  knows, 
is  de  facto,  if  not  de  jure,  King  of 
Portugal.  He  is  not  a  legitimate  mo- 
narch ;  he  stands  upon  ^the  people's 
choice.  We  do  not  pretend  to  vindi- 
cate either  his  character  or  his  sys- 
tem of  government.  They  are  both 
said  to  be  bad,  though,  from  the 
falsehood  on  this  subject  which  evi- 
dently pervades  the  English  press, 
and  the  firm  support  which  the  Por- 
tuguese have  given  him  when  under 
the  ban  of  all  Europe,  there  is  every 
reason  to  believe  that  the  accounts 
we  receive  are  grossly  exaggerated ; 
but  of  that  we  have  no  authentic  ac- 
counts. ^Suffice  it  to  say,  the  Portu- 
guese have  chosen  him  for  their  so- 
vereign, and,  after  the  experience  of 
both,  prefer  an  absolute  monarchy 
to  the  democratic  constitution  with 
which  they  were  visited  from  this 
country.  Now,  our  government  is 
avowedly  founded  on  the  system 
of  non-intervention;  and  when  the 
French  and  Belgians  made  choice  of 
a  revolutionary  monarch,  we  were 
not  slow  in  snapping  asunder  all 
treaties  with  the  expelled  dynasty, 
and  recognising  the  new  monarch 
whom  they  placed  on  the  throne. 


1 83 1 .]  Foreign  Policy  of  the 

Don  Miguel  has  now  held  for 
four  years  the  Portuguese  scep- 
tre ;  his  throne  is  more  firmly  esta- 
blished than  that  of  either  Louis 
Philippe  or  Leopold.  He  has  recei- 
ved neither  countenance  nor  aid 
from  any  foreign  power ;  and  if  he 
had  not  been  agreeable  to  the  great 
bulk  of  the  Portuguese,  he  must,  long 
ere  this,  have  ceased  to  reign.  On 
what  ground,  then,  is  the  recognition 
of  Don  Miguel  so  long  delayed  ? 
Why  is  he  driven  into  a  course  of  ir- 
regular and  desperate  conduct,  from 
the  refusal  of  the  European  powers 
to  admit  his  title  ?  If  they  acted  on 
the  .principle  of  never  recognising 
any  one  but  the  legitimate  monarch, 
we  could  understand  the  consistency 
of  their  conduct;  but  after  having 
made  such  haste  to  recognise  the  re- 
volutionary monarchs,  it  is  utterly 
impossible  to  discover  any  ground 
on  which  we  can  withhold  the  same 
homage  to  the  absolute  one,  or  re- 
fuse the  same  liberty  of  election  to 
the  Portuguese  which  we  have  given 
to  the  Frencli  and  Belgian  people. 

But  this  is  not  all — France  has 
committed  an  act  of  the  most  law- 
less and  violent  kind  to  the  Portu- 
guese government;  and  we  have  not 
only  done  nothing  to  check,  but 
every  thing  to  encourage  it. 

Two  Frenchmen  were  arrested,  it 
is  said,  for  political  offences  in  Por- 
tugal, and  sentenced  to  pay  a  heavy 
fine  by  the  courts  there.  What  they 
had  done  we  know  not.  The  Portu- 
guese say  they  were  endeavouring 
to  effect  a  revolution  in  that  country 
— the  French  deny  the  fact,  and  as- 
sert that  they  were  unjustly  con- 
demned. However  that  may  be,  the 
French  fleet  sailed  to  the  Tagus,  for- 
ced the  passage  of  the  forts,  and 
took  possession  of  the  fleet  without 
any  declaration  of  war.  They  re- 
quired the  reversal  of  the  sentence 
against  their  condemned  country- 
men, the  payment  of  a  large  sum  in 
name  of  damages  to  them,  and  a  pub- 
lic apology;  and  having  gained  all 
these  objects,  they  carried  off  the 
Portuguese  fleet  along  with  them  to 
France,  while  their  ambassador  still 
remained  on  a  pacific  footing  at  the 
Court  of  Lisbon!  Now,  this  was 
plainly  an  act  of  rapine  and  piracy. 
Without  entering  into  the  justice  or 
injustice  of  the  proceedings  against 
the  accused  in  the  Portuguese  courts, 


Whigs.    No.  II.    Portugal         917 

supposing  that  they  were  as  un- 
justifiable as  possible,  is  that  any 
ground  for  seizing  the  whole  navy 
of  Portugal,  after  the  sentence  com- 
plained of  had  been  reversed,  ample 
satisfaction  made  to  the  injured  par- 
ty, and  a  public  apology  placarded 
on  the  streets  of  Lisbon  by  the  Por- 
tuguese government '? 

Against  this  flagrant  kind  of  revo- 
lutionary violence,  England  has  nei- 
ther protested  nor  remonstrated  : — 
we  have  witnessed  in  silence  the  spo- 
liation of  the  Portuguese  fleet,  as  the 
partition  of  the  Dutch  territory,  and 
France  can  boast  of  greater  naval 
trophies  obtained  from  the  allies  of 
England  in  peace,  than  she  ever  ob- 
tained during  the  twenty  years  of 
the  revolutionary  war.  Injuries  are 
often  complained  of  by  the  subjects 
of  one  country  against  the  govern- 
ment of  another ;  satisfaction  is  often 
demanded  and  obtained,  and  damages 
awarded  to  the  aggrieved  party.  But 
was  it  ever  heard  of  before,  that  after 
such  satisfaction  had  been  obtained, 
the  whole  fleet  of  the  power  from 
whom  it  was  demanded  should  be 
seized  hold  of,  and  carried  off  as  in 
open  war  ?  If  this  is  a  specimen  of 
revolutionary  justice,  and  of  the  new 
eras  of  liberty  arid  equality,  certainly 
Astraea  in  leaving  the  world  has  not 
left  her  last  footsteps  among  them. 

In  this  iniquitous  and  violent  pro- 
ceeding towards  our  old  and  faithful 
ally,  let  it  always  be  recollected,  the 
English  government  has  tamely  ac- 
quiesced. Well  might  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  declare  in  the  House  of 
Lords,  that  nothing  in  life  had  ever 
given  him  so  much  pain,  and  that  his 
cheeks  were  filled  with  blushes,when 
he  thought  of  the  conduct  of  our  go- 
vernment towards  its  ancient  ally. 
Would  the  government  of  Louis 
Philippe,  we  ask,  have  ventured  upon 
such  a  step,  if  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton had  been  at  the  head  of  our  ad- 
ministration ?  Would  they  have  ven- 
tured on  it,  if  they  had  not  been  aware 
that  no  violence  of  theirs  towards  the 
Portuguese  government  was  likely 
to  be  resented  by  our  reforming  go- 
vernment ?  In  what  light  are  we 
likely  to  be  viewed  by  posterity, 
when,  after  having  made  such  heroic 
efforts  to  save  the  Portuguese  from 
the  yoke  of  France,  for  eight  years 
during  the  reign  of  Napoleon,  we 
suffer  them  to  become  the  victims  of 


Foreign  JPolicypf the  Whigs.    No.  II.    Portugal. 


918 

such  revolutionary  violence,  the  mo- 
ment that  a  new  administration  is 
called  to  the  helm  of  affaii?§^o(oo  9itM 

How  can  we  expect  that  our  allies 
are  to  stand  by  us  in  periods  of  peril, 
when. we  desert  them  in  so  extraor- 
dinary a  manner  the  moment  that  a 
new  administration  succeeds  to  our 
guidance  ?  Have  we  arrived  at  that 
state  of  vacillation  and  instability,  so 
well  known  as  the  symptom  of  weak 
and  democratic  societies,  that  there 
is  nothing  stable  or  fixed  either  in 
foreign  or  domestic  policy,  but  go- 
vernment is  tossed  about  by  every 
wind  of  doctrine,  and  at  the  mercy 
of  every  agitation  raised  from  the 
lowest  classes  of  the  people  ?  Have 
the  reformers  brought  this  country, 
whose  firmness  and  stability  in  time 
past  had  rivalled  that  of  the  Roman 
Senate,  to  such  a  state  of  weakness 
in  so  short  a  time,  that  the  British 
alliance  forms  no  security  against 
external  violence,  and  every  state 
that  wishes  to  avoid  plunder  and  de- 
vastation, must  range  itself  under  the 
banners  of  our  enemies  ?  What  the 
motive  for  such  conduct  may  have 
been, it  is  difficult  to  divine;  but  the 
fact  is  certain,  that  we  have  done  so, 
and  every  Englishman  must  bear 
the  humiliation  which  it  has  brought 
upon  his  country. 

"  The  meanest  Englishman,"  said 
Mr  Canning,  "  shall  not  walk  the 
streets  of  Paris  without  being  con- 
sidered as  the  compatriot  of  Welling- 
ton; as  a  member  of  that  community 
wlu'ch  has  humbled  France  and  res- 
cued Europe."  The  noblest  Eng- 
lishman shall  not  now  walk  the  streets 
of  any  European  capital,  without  be- 
ing considered  as  the  compatriot  of 
Grey;  the  member  of  that  commu- 
nity which  has  partitioned  Holland 
and  deserted  Portugal.  With  truth 
it  may  now  be  said,  that  the  indigni- 
ties and  contempt  which  now  await 
a  traveller  among  all  bur  former  al- 
lies, are  equalled  only  by  the  respect 
which  he  formerly  experienced.  Ask 
any  traveller  who  has  lately  return- 
ed from  Vienna,  Berlin,  the  Hague, 
or  Lisbon,  in  what  light  he  is  now 
regarded ;  whether  he  has  expe- 
rienced the  same  kindriess  or  respect 
which  so  lately  attended  the  English 
character  ?  He  will  answer  that  they 
consider  the  English  as  absolutely 
insane,  and  that  the  ancient  respect 
for  our  people  is  not  quite  extin- 


[Dec. 


guishedjonly  because  they  look  upon 
our  delirium  as  transient,  and  trust 
to  the  restoration  of  the  ancient  spi- 
rit of  the  nation. 

It  is  impossible  it  can  be  other- 
wise. To  see  a  people  suddenly  re- 
linquish all  their  former  allies,  and 
connect  themselves  with  their  ancient 
enemies — abandon  at  one  blow  the 
objects  of  two  hundred  years'  con- 
test, and  forget  in  one  year  the  gra- 
titude and  the  obligations  of  centu- 
ries— is  so  extraordinary,  that  to  those 
at  a  distance  from  the  innovating 
passions  with  which  we  have  been 
assailed,  it  must  appear  like  the  pro- 
ceedings of  men  who  had  lost  their 
reason.  Such  a  proceeding  might 
be  intelligible,  if  experience  had 
proved  that  this  former  policy  had 
been  ruinous;  that  these  ancient 
allies  had  proved  unfaithful ;  that 
these  hereditary  obligations  had  been 
a  source  of  humiliation.  But  what 
is  to  be  said  when  the  reverse  of  all 
this  is  the  fact  ?  when  this  policy  had 
been  attended  with  unprecedented 
triumphs,  these  allies  having  stood  by 
us  in  the  extremity  of  disaster,  and 
these  obligations  having  brought  with 
them  a  weight  of  national  gratitude  ? 
when  the  Dutch  remind  England 
that  it  was  not  till  Pichegru  had  con- 
quered Amsterdam  that  they  with- 
drew unwillingly  from  their  alliance ; 
and  the  Portuguese  recount  that  they 
remained  faithful  to  their  engage- 
ments, when  the  spoiler  was  ravaging 
their  land ;  when  the  army  of  Eng- 
land had  fled  from  Corunna ;  when 
Oporto  was  in  the  hands  of  Soult; 
when  a  devouring  flame  ravaged 
their  central  provinces,  and  the  leo- 
pards of  England  were  driven  to 
their  last  defences  on  the  rocks  of 
Mafra  ? 

The  French  accuse  their  govern- 
ment of  yielding  too  much  to  British 
ascendency;  and  it  may  be  judged 
from  the  preceding  statements  whe- 
ther we  are  not  too  obsequious  to 
their  revolutionary  rulers.  The  truth 
is,  that  both  charges  are  well-found- 
ed. The  governments  of  both  coun- 
tries appear  to  play  into  each  other's 
hands,  to  an  extent  inconsistent  with 
the  honour  or  the  welfare  of  either. 
When  the  revolutionary  dynasty  of 
France  deem  an  advance  into  Bel- 
gium, or  an  assault  on  Portugal,  re- 
quisite to  give  an  impulse  to  their 
declining  popularity,  the  reforming 


183J.1  Foreign  Policy  of  the  Whigs.    No.  It    Portugal.  91£ 

Ministers  of  England  offer  no  oppo-  doubtful  whether  the  British  colours 

sition  to  the  spoliation  of  their  allies,  will  wave  on  one  of  the  Antilles. 

If  the  reforming  Ministers  here  deem  The  colonial  legislatures  have  openly 

their  situation  critical,  by  a  formi-  raised  the  standard  of  independence 

dable  opposition  to  the   projected  — they  are  only  considering  beneath 

change  in  the  constitution,  the  French  what  foreign  power  they  are  to  range 

troops  are  directed  to  withdraw  from  themselves.    The  outset  of  Reform 


Belgium — to  encamp  on  the  frontier 
— and  preserve  their  advanced  guard, 
consisting  of  the  Belgian  army,  led 
by  French  officers  alone,  in  the  fort- 
resses of  Flanders.  We  ascribe  no 
bad  motives  to  our  rulers ;  we  have 
no  doubt  that  they  think  they  are 
performing  the  part  of  true  patriots : 
we  mention  only  the  facts  which 
have  occurred,  and  posterity  will 
judge  of  these  facts  with  inflexible 
justice — nor  excuse  weakness  of  con- 
duct, because  it  is  founded  on  good- 
ness of  intention. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the 
conduct  we  have  explained  on  the 
part  of  our  present  rulers  towards 
Flanders  and  Portugal,  would  have 
been  sufficient  to  have  overturned 
any  former  administration — and  that 
at  any  other  time,  the  press  of  Eng- 
land would  have  rung  from  shore  to 
shore  with  indignant  declamation  at 
the  inconsistency  and  imbecility  of 
our  present  foreign  policy.  How, 


in  England  will  be  marked,  as  the 
commencement  of  the  Revolution  in 
France,  by  the  total  loss  of  all  their 
colonies. 

Nor  is  this  surprising.  A  govern- 
ment which  attempted  to  extinguish 
our  own  industry  at  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope,  in  order  to  encourage  the 
wines  of  France—  and  strove  to  de- 
stroy the  timber  trade  of  Canada,  in 
order  to  encourage  the  industry  of 
the  Baltic  —  which  has  harassed  the 
West  Indian  Islands  with  a  set  of 
slave  regulations  perfectly  unsuitable 
to  the  people  for  whom  they  were  in- 
tended, and  calculated  to  light  up 
the  flames  of  a  servile  war  in  those 
flourishing  possessions  —  can  never 
hold  together  the  splendid,  but  flimsy 
and  unwieldy  colonial  empire  of  Bri- 
tain. It  will  perish  if  the  present 
system  continues  for  any  time  ;  and 
posterity  will  say  that  it  was  lost  by 
nothing  but  the  rash  and  innovating 
passions  of  our  own  people. 


then,  has  it  happened,  that  this  im-  Nothing  could  account  for  the  in- 
portant  matter  is  comparatively  for-  difference  with  which  this  is  regard- 
gotten,  and  that  we  hear  so  little  of  ed  by  this  country,  but  this  tempest 
Q  /»n<n-ao  nF  /./vnrhi/**  whi/Oi  fntiiro  of  Reform,  which  has  sprung  up  so 


a  course  of  conduct  which  future 
ages  will  class  with  the  fatal  aberra- 
tion from  British  policy  by  Charles 
II.  ?  The  reason  is,  that  we  are  over- 
whelmed with  domestic  disasters, — 
that  revolution  and  anarchy  are  sta- 
ring us  in  the  face  at  home, — and  that 
seeing  the  dagger  at  our  own  throats, 
we  have  neither  leisure  nor  inclina- 
tion to  attend  to  the  circumstances 
or  disasters  of  our  allies. 

A  catastrophe  of  a  still  more  fatal 
kind  is  rapidly  approaching  in  the 
West  Indian  islands.  These  great 
colonies,  involving  L.  130,000,000  of 
British  capital,  taking  off  L.I  5,000,000 
a-year  of  British  manufactures,  are 
silently  slipping  from  our  grasp.  The 
empire  of  the  Atlantic  Ocean  will 


suddenly,  and  with  such  fatal  effect 
amongst  us.  It  is  one  of  the  peculiar 
and  deplorable  consequences  of  such 
a  catastrophe,  that  it  withdraws  the 
attention  of  the  people  from  the 
greatest  external  and  internal  faults 
in  government,  and  by  silencing  the 
popular  press  upon  every  thing  but 
the  one  favourite  object  of  domestic 
contest,  permits  the  growth  of  fatal 
and  irretrievable  errors  in  public 
administration.  Periods  of  vehement 
democratic  ambition  are  never  those 
of  beneficent  legislation  or  practical 
improvement  ;  and  those  are  the 
Avorst  friends  of  the  poor,  who,  by 
exciting  them  to  strive  for  the  ima- 
ginary benefit  of  popular  power, 
make  them  lose  the  solid  benefit  of 


speedily  pass  to  another  people.    In 

less  than  six  months,  it  is  more  than     tranquil  employment. 

"XIO.l  Srfi      J39q89T  . 

1.1  H9ff/.r     rfair§a3 

oJm 


08  ibid- 


up    Joaqasi  iaafoofi  aril  Jarf*  f)CB,30 
bao    -nfrxa  eiijip  ion  ei  slqoaq  -uio 


920 


Narrative  of  an  Imprisonment  in  France,  $c. 


[Dec. 


NARRATIVE  OF  AN  IMPRISONMENT  IN  FRANCE  DURING  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR. 

[FoR  the  truth  and  accuracy  of  the  following  narrative  of  a  long  and  pain- 
ful captivity,  the  author  pledges  himself.  His  object  in  giving  it  publicity, 
is  neither  to  attempt  an  exposition  of  facts  which  may  place  the  French 
Revolution  of  1793  in  a  light  different  from  that  in  which  it  has  generally 
been  viewed,  nor  to  avail  himself  of  frequent  occasions  for  political  dis- 
cussion. His  pretensions  rise  no  higher,  than  to  furnish  an  hour's  enter- 
tainment to  those  who  may  be  inclined  to  peruse  a  tale  in  print,  which 
has  not  been  thought  destitute  of  interest  by  those  of  his  friends,  who,  in 
the  social  hour,  have  listened  to  its  rehearsal.  Should  it  be  conducive,  in 
addition  to  this,  to  cherish  and  increase  in  the  minds  of  his  countrymen  the 
love  of  home,  and  the  institutions  of  Britain,  and  lead  them  to  deprecate 
such  violent  political  measures  as  produced  the  miseries  of  revolutionary 
France, — a  fearful  glimpse  of  which  the  author  saw,  he  will  deem  himself 
happy  beyond  his  expectations,  in  having  contributed  towards  an  object  of 
still  higher  value  and  greater  importance  than  mere  entertainment. 

S.  W*****,  Sen.] 


CHAP.  I. 


AT  that  period  of  life  when  hope 
beats  high,  and  the  mind  is  most 
susceptible  of  the  charms  of  novelty, 
I  eagerly  listened  to  a  proposal,  made 
to  me  by  my  father,  to  try  my  for- 
tune on  the  inconstant  ocean.  With 
the  variety  of  foreign  scenery,  and 
the  picturesque  vicissitudes  occa- 
sioned by  storms  and  calms  upon  a 
new  element — the  dreary  winter  and 
the  summer's  sun — my  imagination 
had  been  made  familiar,  by  the  re- 
cital from  time  to  time  of  the  adven- 
tures of  my  father,  whose  life,  from 
the  earliest  period,  had  been  devoted 
to  the  sea.  I  was  now  to  explore 
that  world  of  wonders  for  myself. 
Favourably  for  my  entrance  upon 
nautical  life,  the  "  Morning  Herald" 
was  the  property  of  my  father ;  and, 
as  was  then  not  unusual,  he  took  the 
command  of  his  own  ship.  Fitted 
out  as  one  of  his  ship's  company,  I 
felt  all  the  pride  and  consequence 
natural  to  a  British  seaman,  though 
I  had  yet  to  acquire  the  skill  and 
practice  which  give  efficacy  to  his 
daring. 

On  the  2d  of  May  1794,  we  took 
our  departure  from  the  Nore,  bound 
for  Barbadoes,  and  were  borne  for- 
ward with  a  propitious  gale  down 
the  British  Channel.  When  we  were 
off  Spithead,  we  fell  in  with  the  grand 
fleet  of  England,  under  the  command 
of  Lord  Howe.  This  was  the  most 
imposing  and  splendid  spectacle  I 
had  ever  beheld.  The  ocean  was 
covered  over  with  ships  of  war,  of 


the  largest  dimensions.  Each  of  them, 
as  we  approached,  towered  frown- 
ingly  before  us  like  a  castle;  dis- 
playing along  the  lines  of  their  re- 
spective decks  a  terrible  array  of 
the  heaviest  cannon — all  majestically 
wafted  along  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 
as  they  spread  aloft  their  ample  can- 
vass to  catch  the  rising  gale ;  whilst 
the  contrast  of  our  own  comparative- 
ly diminutive  bark  with  the  colossal 
grandeur  which  surrounded  us,  gave 
me  to  feel  my  own  insignificance,  and 
produced  a  kind  of  envy  towards  the 
men  who  strode  those  lofty  decks, 
from  which  we  were  looked  down 
upon  as  in  a  cockboat,  as  though 
greatness  or  littleness  were  conferred 
upon  men  by  the  size  of  their  ships ! — 
I  could  not  but  exult  in  the  conscious 
pride  of  being  a  Briton ;  and  that 
the  magnificent  fleet  which  I  then 
beheld  booming  over  the  ocean,  as 
over  a  domain  peculiarly  its  own, 
—claiming  the  homage  of  the  world 
— was  OURS  : — little  thinking  how 
soon  the  dreadful  conflict  of  the  first 
of  June,  was  to  proclaim  to  all  na- 
tions the  invincible  bravery  and  glo- 
rious victory  of  the  British  navy 
over  the  grand  fleet  of  the  French 
republic. 

Within  a  few  days  after  this  gor- 
geous sight,  one  of  a  very  different 
character  gradually  developed  itself 
from  the  midst  of  one  of  the  densest 
fogs  that  ever  shrouded  the  sea— 
sad  prognostic  of  our  future  woes.— 
It  was  on  a  Sunday  morning;  our 


1881.] 


Narrative  of  an  Imprisonment  in  France,  frc. 


921 


ship  was  standing  towards  the  north- 
ward and  westward  of  the  islands  of 
Scilly,  distant  about  fifteen  leagues. 
Whilst  my  father  and  officers  were 
below  at  breakfast,  the  fog  in  which 
we  were  enveloped  began  to  clear 
up.  The  man  at  the  helm  suddenly 
called  out — "  a  sail  on  the  weather- 
bow,  sir — a  large  ship — seems  a  man- 
of-war."  —"  Oh,  no  doubt  she's  an 


ed  up,  and  our  attempt  to  elude  pur- 
suit was  useless.  One  of  the  frigates 
again  bore  down  upon  us,  and,  open- 
ing her  main-deck  ports,  fired  one  of 
her  large  guns  at  us.  The  shot 
Avhistled  close  by  our  stern.  Resist- 
ance was  absurd — escape  impossi- 
ble; and  we  accordingly  hove  to.  A 
long-boat,  lowered  from  the  frigate, 
and  filled  with  men,  immediately 
made  towards  us,  and  soon  suffi- 


English  frigate,"  replied  my  father, 

without  rising  from  a  chart  he  was  ciently  neared  us,  to  discover,  by  the 

examining — "  she's  cruising  in  the  undisciplined  movements,  and  un- 

chops  of  the  Channel."  Presently  the  British  aspect  of  the  men, — but,above 

helmsman's  voice  was  again  heard —  all,  by  the  tricoloured  cockade  in  the 

"  another  sail — on  the  lee-bow,  sir —  hats  of  the  officers, — that  we  were 

a  frigate ;"  and  in  a  few  moments  he  prisoners  of  war,  and  to  the  French ! 

rnllful  nut,  no-ain — "  another  sail— on  The  enemv  Stirling-  on  board  like 


called  out  again — "  another  sail — on 
the  lee-quarter,  sir!" — "Aye,  aye! 
Three  frigates  ?  'tis  high  time  to  look 
about  us,  I  think,"  said  my  father  j 
and, snatching  up  his  spy-glass, he  was 
on  deck  in  an  instant,  followed  by  all 
at  breakfast.     There  we  were,  sure 
enough,  within  the  toils  of  a  squa- 
dron of  men-of-war  1   All  the  three 
ships  we  had  descried,  instantly  ran 
up  English  colours — and  we  answer- 
ed them  with  ours.     The  frigate  to 
windward  then  bore  down  upon  us, 
and  fired  a  shot  to  bring  us  to !  Some- 
what alarmed— notwithstanding  the 
show  of  the  British  flag — we   still 
kept  on  our  course.    I  shall  never 
forget  the   excitement  and  terrible 
suspense  which  I — a  lad  come  to  sea 
for  the  first  time — endured  on  this 
occasion.    A  second  and  a  third  gun 
were   fired  at  us,  soon  after   each 
other.     "  Don't  you  think,  sir,  we 
had  better  heave  to,"  enquired  the 
chief  mate — "  they'll  make  us  pay  for 
every  shot  /"*    "  I'm  afraid  you  are 
right,"  replied  my  father,  much  agi- 
tated.   "  I  don't  like  the  appearance 
of  these  ships.    I  can't  think  they're 
English,  for  all  they've  hoisted  our 
colours.  Neither  their  hulls,  rigging, 
nor  the  ti'im  of  their  sails  are  Bri- 
tish !     It's    all   over   with    us,   I'm 
afraid  !"     In  the  midst  of  this  start- 
ling colloquy,  Providence  seemed  to 
favour  our  escape ;  for  the  fog  thick- 
ened around  us,  and  under  its  friend- 
ly obscurity  we  altered  our  course, 
standing  right  in  an  opposite  direc- 
tion j  and  we  should  most  certainly 
have  escaped,  but  that  unfortunately, 
as  if  by  magic,  the  fog  at  once  clear- 


The  enemy  sprung  on  board  like 
a  tiger  fastening  upon  its  unresisting 
prey.  Our  deck  was  instantly  cover- 
ed with  confusion.  The  ferocious 
visages  of  those  who  boarded  us — 
the  vociferations  of  a  language  which 
I  then  understood  not,  and  the  wild- 
ness  with  which  the  men  flew  about 
the  decks,  or  hurried  into  the  cabin 
and  steerage,  gloating  with  savage 
satisfaction  upon  all  they  saw,  as 
their  own — made  "me  feel  as  though 
hell  had  at  once  discharged  its  fiends 
upon  our  peaceful  decks.  The  French 
commander  had  just  English  enough 
to  say  to  my  father,  "  Capitain,  you 
prisonair  of  war ! — You  tell  your 
men  take  down  dat  colour  ! — Make 
haste,  make  haste  !"  "  No,"  replied 
my  father,  sullenly,  "  you've  taken, 
but  not  conquered  me ;  and  you  may 
put  my  head  at  the  muzzle  of  one  of 
your  own  guns,  before  I'll  lower  our 
British  flag  at  the  command  of  a 
Frenchman  !  Take  it  down  yourself, 
or  let  it  fly  at  the  mast-head  for 
ever !"  About  ten  minutes  were  al- 
lowed to  our  officers  and  ship's  com- 
pany to  take  what  necessaries  we 
could  carry  with  us  on  board  the 
frigate — the  French  officers  standing 
over  us  the  while,  and  impatiently 
goading  us  to  greater  speed, — "  Take 
all  you  can  wit  you !  Make  haste, 
make  haste  .'—take  all  you  can  ! — 
make  haste,  make  haste !"  A  small 
matrass,  with  two  or  three  sheets  and 
blankets,  and  a  little  trunk  with  a 
few  changes  of  linen,  together  with 
whatever  we  could  hastily  snatch 
from  among  our  mostvaluable  things, 
were  all  we  could  secure  on  taking 


*  A  custom  at  sea,  when  a  merchantman  is  captured;  but  holds  out  obstinately. 


Narrative  of  an  Imprisonment  in  France 


922 

our  final  leave  of  the  Morning  He- 
rald. She  was  immediately  manned 
by  Frenchmen,  and  we  were  taken 
on  board  the  frigate,  which  proved 
to  be  L'Insurgent,  of  forty-four  guns. 
Then,  and  not  till  then,  were  the 
English  colours  hauled  down  on 
board  the  French  squadron. 

Never  shall  I  forget  my  sensations 
when  we  came  alongside  the  frigate. 
The  decks  were  crowded  with  the 
most  filthy  unsightly  crew  which  my 
eyes  had  ever  beheld — party-colour- 
ed in  their  dress,  and  wearing  red 
Woollen  nightcaps,  which,  though  sur- 
mounted with  the  national  cockade, 
conveyed  the  idea  of  their  being  in- 
valids on  board  an  hospital-ship.  To 
this  motley  crew  I  had  to  ascend, 
amidst  the  confused  shouts  of  a  lan- 
guage whieh  seemed  as  barbarous  to 
my  ears,  as  their  appearance  was 
hateful  to  my  eyes;  whilst  savage 
glee  was  legible  in  every  countenance 
as  they  gazed  upon  their  unfortunate 
victims.  My  heart  sunk  within  me  ! 
As  soon  as  I  reached  the  deck,  I  sat 
down  in  sullen  silence,  whilst  my 
busied  imagination  brought  under 
my  review  the  pleasures  of  the  home 
which  I  had  so  readily  quitted,  in 
contrast  with  the  forlorn  and  wretch- 
ed condition  in  which  I  was  then 
placed,  and  the  gloom  which  over- 
hung my  future  prospects.  What  was 
to  become  of  me  ?  Our  sails  were 
soon  filled,  and  the  frigate  continued 
her  cruise.  For  the  last  time,  I  look- 
ed upon  the  Morning  Herald  as  she 
was  shaping  her  course  for  France, 
under  the  command  of  her  new  crew, 
and  was  fast  receding  from  our  sight. 
Tims  I  witnessed  almost  all  the  pro- 
perty of  our  family  borne  away  to 
augment  the  resources  of  a  detested 
enemy — my  father's  ship  being  but 
inadequately  insured.  In  justice, 
however,  to  the  captain  of  L'Insur- 
gent, it  ought  to  be  related,  that 
whatever  effects  we  brought  from 
our  ship  were  preserved  inviolable  ; 
and  every  thing  which  could  reason- 
ably be  expected  to  render  our  con- 
dition comfortable,  as  long  as  we 
were  under  his  command,  was  rea- 
dily supplied.  My  father  regularly 
messed  with  the  captain  and  superior 
officers,  whilst  1  and  the  rest  of  the 
men  were  distributed  amongst  the 
crew,  and  fared  in  all  respects  as 
well  as  they. 

During  a  cruise  of  about  a  week, 


[Dec. 


we  fell  in  with  and  took  several  ves- 
sels belonging  to  different  nations. 
A  circumstance  connected  with  one 
of  these  captures  may  not  be  unin- 
teresting to  notice.  Early  one  morn- 
ing a  ship  of  considerable  size  was 
descried,  standing  towards  the  Bri- 
tish Channel.  "We  immediately  gave 
chase,  and  in  the  course  of  the  day 
came  up  with  her.  She  proved  to 
be  the  Europa  of  London,  a  beautiful 
ship,  homeward  bound,  and  laden 
with  a  rich  cargo  of  West  India  pro- 
duce. We  were  at  this  time  within 
sight  of  the  Land's  End  of  England. 
As  soon  as  the  men  of  the  Europa 
were  brought  on  board  L'Insurgent, 
the  attention  of  the  whole  crew  was 
attracted  towards  one  young  man 
above  all  the  rest.  His  countenance 
was  deeply  interesting,  his  person 
tall  and  elegant,  and  his  manners 
graceful ;  but  all  his  movements  in- 
dicated unusual  perturbation  and 
distress.  After  pacing  the  deck  with 
hurried  steps,  and  frequently  pau- 
sing— in  an  instant  becoming  motion- 
less as  a  statue,  with  his  face  direct- 
ed towards  the  shore — his  agony  at 
length  broke  through  all  restraints. 
To  sobs  and  groans  succeeded  the 
most  piteous  cries  and  tears.  Con- 
solation was  tendered  to  him  by  some 
of  his  friends,  who  seemed  to  know 
the  secret  of  his  sorrow ;  but  no  ear 
had  he  for  their  counsel  or  condo- 
lence— no  control  over  his  passions. 
He  was  conducted  to  the  capstan,  on 
which  he  reclined  his  head,  having 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and 
in  a  perfect  roar  of  agonizing  cries 
and  tears,  gave  vent  to  the  sorrows 
with  which  his  heart  was  surcharged. 
Upon  enquiry  it  was  found,  that  on 
leaving  England  about  two  years  be- 
fore, he  had  made  all  the  arrange- 
ments necessary  for  marry  ing  a  young 
lady  of  beauty  and  fortune  immedi- 
ately on  his  return.  He  had  been 
most  fortunate  in  his  mercantile  trans- 
actions, and  was  returning  with  the 
produce  of  his  industry  to  marry  her, 
and  was  now  within  only  a  few  hours' 
sail  of  embracing  the  beloved  object 
of  his  affections  !  Alas!  this  melan- 
choly occurrence  stripped  him  at 
once  of  all  his  worldly  treasure,  and 
for  ever  blighted  all  his  future  hopes ; 
for  only  a  tew  short  months  numuer- 
ed  him  amongst  the  hapless  victims 
who  fell  amidst  the  frightful  ravages 
of  disease  amongst  the  prisoners  of 


Duruig  tlw  Reign  of  Terror. 


war  at  Quimper— a  scene  of  woe 
which  yet  remains  to  be  described. 

Whilst  ou  boa/d  L' Insurgent,  we 
had  a  fair  opportunity  of  seeing  the 
operation  of  the  favourite  principles 
of   French    republicanism    on  the 
temper  and  behaviour  of  the  com- 
mon people.    Liberty  and  equality 
were  words  of  perpetual  recurrence 
among  them  ;  and  the  practical  ap- 
plication of  these  famous  terms  was 
a  constant  illustration  of  the  sense 
they  affixed  to  them — to  the  no  small 
mortification  and  annoyance  of  their 
superior  officers.     The  very  cooks 
and  swab-wringers  would  stand  and 
dispute  the  orders,  and  question  the 
authority,  of  the  boatswain ;  nor  could 
he  prevail  on  them  to  obey  his  or- 
ders, till  he  bluntly  consented  that 
chance  and  the  suffrage  of  the  people 
conferred  the  superiority  which  he 
exercised  over  them !    and,  conse- 
quently, that  they  had  a  greater  right 
—if  they  thought  fit  to  assert  it — to 
command  the  boatswain,  than  the 
boatswain  to  command  them  !   If  he 
still  dared  to  dictate  in  the  tone  of 
superiority,  they  would  scornfully 
turn  their  back  upon  him,  and  bid 
him  wring  the  swabs  himself,  for  li- 
berty and  equality  were  now  the  al- 
lowed right  of  every  Frenchman  !  If 
the  sails  were  to  be  trimmed  during 
the  time  of  their  meals,  unless  it  ap- 
peared reasonable  to  the  majority, 
the  boatswain  might  pipe  his  call  till 
he  was  breathless,  and  was  obliged 
to  endure  their   chiding; — "  What 
made  him  in  such  a  hurry  ?  let  him 
wait  till  they  had  finished  their  meal." 
Even  on  the  quarter-deck,  nothing 
was  more  common  than  to  see  groups 
of  foremast-men  sitting  in  circles,  for 
hours   together,  at   their   favourite 
game  of  cards,  whilst  their  superior 
officers,  and  even  the  captain  him- 
self, were  obliged  to  thread  the  nee- 
dle amongst  them  in  walking  the 
deck;  and  if  they  expressed  dissa- 
tisfaction at  the  inconvenience  they 
suffered,  they  might  expect  to  hear 
a  growl  of  indignation, — •"  Was  it  the 
intention   of  their   commanders  to 
abridge  them   of  their  liberty  and 
equality  P" 

On  one  occasion,  however,  we  had 
a  specimen  of  perfect  unanimity  and 
universal  co-operation.  Ou  the  sixth 
morning  after  our  capture,  a  sail  was 
seen  in  our  wake,  about  half  courses 
high.  She  had  every  appearance  of 


923 

an  English  frigate,  cruising  in  the 
chops  of  the  Channel.   After  a  short 
time  she  was  observed  to  alter  -her 
course,  and  make  sail  after  us.     We 
were  then  under  double-reefed  top- 
sails.   A  scene  of  the  utmost  con- 
sternation   and    confusion    ensued. 
The  boatswain's  pipe  now  thrilled 
through    every   ear    with    startling 
shrillness,  and  was  instantly  answer- 
ed:— "  Shake  the  reefs  out  of  the 
topsails,  and  sway  them  up  to  the 
mast-heads ! — Set  your  topmast  and 
lower  studding-sails  ! — The  breeze 
slackens — run  up  your  royals  and 
topgallant-studding-sails !"     But  oh, 
the  merriment  of  their  British  pri- 
soners at  the  tardy,  confused,  and 
lubberly  way  in  which  these  orders 
were  executed !     An  equal  number 
of  our  sailors  would  have  accom- 
plished the  same  work  in  one- third 
of  the  time  at  least !     And.  then  the 
amusing  remarks  which  they  made 
upon  the  slovenly  trim  of  the  sails : 
— "  I  say,  Jack,  d'ye  see  that  topmast 
studding-sail  there  ? — my  eyes !  why, 
it  sits  like  a  purser's,  shirt  dangling 
on  a  handspike !"     Such  gibes  as 
these,  with  the  loud  laughter  which 
generally  followed,  were  sufficiently 
annoying  to  Mounseer.   Nor  was  the 
quarter-deck  a  scene  of  lees  interest 
than  the  main-deck  and  forecastle. 
Though  every  countenance  was  light- 
ed up  with  an  animation  and  eager- 
ness which    almost    approached  a 
transformation  of  their  original  fea- 
tures, yet,  from  the  opposite  sensa- 
tions which  were  felt,  it  was  surpri- 
sing to  observe  the  difference  be- 
tween those  who  were  anxious  to  be 
overtaken,  and  those  who  were  eager 
to  effect  their  escape.  Every  minute 
the  captain  was  intensely  watching 
with  his  spy-glass  whether  the  Eng- 
lish   frigate — for    such  their   fears 
had  certainly  defined  her  to  be— was 
gaining  upon  us.  Alternate  gladness 
and  dejection  exchanged  sides  be- 
tween the  prisoners  of  war  and  the 
French  crew  as  the  affirmative  or 
negative  was  announced.    After  a 
chase  of  two  hours,  at  the  rate  of 
about  twelve  knots,  the  hull  of  our 
pursuer  became  visible.    All  prison- 
ers were  immediately  ordered  off  the 
decks ;  and  the  command  was  given 
to  clear    away  for  action.      What 
words  can  suffice  to  describe  the  in- 
tense agony  of  suspense  felt  by  the 
prisoners  confined,  j«  the  darkness  of 


Narrative  of  an  Imprisonment  in  France 


924 

the  'tween  decks,  whilst  we  heard 
the  hurry  and  confusion  over  our 
heads,  as  they  were  clearing  away 
their  guns  and  preparing  for  battle, 
and  the  clamorous  shouts  and  exe- 
crations of  the  French  sailors,  as  they 
despaired  of  escape  and  deemed  a 
battle  inevitable.  In  this  fever  of 
excitement  we  were  kept  for  about 
two  hours, unable  to  obtain  the  slight- 
est information  of  the  progress  of 
the  chase,  and  expecting  every  mo- 
ment to  hear  a  broadside,  every 
Frenchman  being  charged,  under  the 
severest  penalty,  not  to  answer  any 
enquiry  from  the  prisoners  respect- 
ing the  situation  and  position  of  the 
ships.  Towards  the  evening,  how- 
ever, the  breeze  slackened,  and  we 
had  the  mortification  to  hear  that  the 
English  frigate  had  given  over  the 
ohase  and  altered  her  course.  We 
were  again  permitted  to  walk  the 
deck,  and  eyed,  with  many  a  wistful 
look,  the  prospect  of  our  deliverance 
receding  from  our  sight. 

On  the  ninth  day  after  our  cap- 
ture we  were  taken  into  Brest.  Me- 
lancholy were  my  reflections  as  we 
sailed  past  the  fortifications,  on  either 
hand,  on  our  entrance  into  one  of 
the  noblest  harbours  in  Europe ;  con- 
trasted with  which  dejection,  the 
gaiety  and  hilarity  of  the  French 
crew  tended  but  to  make  my  condi- 
tion appear  more  disconsolate  and 
wretched.  Seen  from  the  shore,  our 
frigate  must  have  appeared  a  beau- 
tiful object;  gliding  majestically 
along  with  a  fair  wind,  the  chief  part 
of  our  sails  set,  all  our  colours  fly- 
ing, and,  as  we  passed  some  of  the 
principal  forts,  the  shrouds  and  yard- 
arms  manned  as  closely  as  possible, 
returning  the  salutations  from  the 
shore  with  joyous  greetings,  and 
singing  with  the  utmost  enthusiasm 
their  national  song : 

"  Aux  enfans  de  la  patrie, 

Le  jour  de  gloire  est  arrives,"  &c. 

We  soon  came  within  sight  of  the 
French  grand  fleet,  under  the  com- 
mand or  Admiral  Villaret  Joyeuse, 
lying  at  anchor  over  the  magnificent 
expanse  of  water  which  forms  the 
harbour  of  Brest.  Nothing  could 
exceed  in  grandeur  the  sight  which 
presented  itself  to  us,  as  we  passed 
along  successively  from  one  line-of- 
battle-ship  to  another,  till  we  had 
seen  the  whole  extent  and  magnitude 


[Dec. 


of  the  largest  navy  which  the  French 
could  ever  boast.  In  the  afternoon 
we  came  to  an  anchor,  and  spent  the 
night  on  board,  mournfully  antici- 
pating the  undefined  hardships  which 
awaited  us  in  a  French  prison,  and 
of  which  to-morrow  was  to  afford  us 
a  specimen.  After  breakfast  the  fol- 
lowing morning,  the  boatswain's  call 
gave  the  shrill  announcement  that 
all  the  prisoners  of  war  were  to  be 
immediately  mustered  upon  deck, 
each  man  bringing  along  with  him 
his  luggage,  in  readiness  for  debark- 
ation. Affecting  was  the  sight,  as 
the  officers  and  men  of  the  ships 
which  had  been  taken  during  the 
cruise  were  marshalled  into  their 
respective  groups.  Just  before  we 
descended  into  the  boats  prepared 
to  take  us  on  shore,  a  formal  offer 
was  made,  in  the  name  of  the  Repub- 
lic, to  any  of  the  officers  or  men  who 
chose  to  exchange  the  prospect  of  a 
prison  for  the  service  of  the  French 
navy,  with  the  promise  of  equal 
wages  and  equal  fare  with  their  own 
men.  As  soon  as  the  proposal  was 
understood  by  the  English  prisoners, 
a  burst  of  indignation  and  a  fearless 
volley  of  execrations  were  poured 
forth  upon  those  who  made  the  of- 
fer; and  it  was  with  extreme  diffi- 
culty that  some  of  the  men  could  be 
restrained  from  a  furious  assault  in 
return.  One  traitorous  wretch  alone 
listened  to  the  proposal,  and  he  was 
a  Dutchman ;  but  it  was  at  the  ha- 
zard of  his  life.  Had  he  not  been 
instantly  rescued  by  a  body  of  arm- 
ed men,  he  would  doubtless  have 
been  torn  in  pieces,  to  such  a  pitch 
of  exasperation  and  rage  were  all  the 
rest  of  the  prisoners  roused.  This 
subject,  as  we  left  the  side  of  the 
frigate  and  were  on  our  way  towards 
the  shore,  furnished  the  topic  on 
which  each  took  occasion  to  express 
his  wrath,  whilst  ever  and  anon 
they  vociferated  their  execrations  on 
the  dastardly  coward  and  traitor 
they  had  left  behind,  as  long  as  they 
thought  their  voice  could  be  heard. 
Scarcely  was  the  tumult  occasioned 
by  this  occurrence  subsided,  when 
we  drew  near  to  the  shore. 

We  were  now  sufficiently  discern- 
ible by  the  inhabitants  of  Brest,  who 
crowded  towards  the  place  of  de- 
barkation to  witness  the  spectacle 
of  our  landing.  At  scarcely  any 
period  of  my  captivity  do  I  recollect 


1831.] 


During  the  Reign  of  Terror. 


being  sensible  of  more  poignant  dis- 
tress than  at  this  moment.  The  quay 
on  which  we  were  to  land  was  most 
formidable  in  appearance  with  mili- 
tary array,  and  overhung  with  mul- 
titudes of  curious  spectators,  making 
whatever  remarks  they  thought  pro- 
per, as  public  attention  was  directed 
now  to  this  prisoner,  and  then  to 
another ;  whilst  little  else  than  ban* 
ter  and  ridicule,  or  malignant  and 
ferocious  dispositions,  were  indica- 
ted by  the  countenances,  gestures, 
and  clamour  of  those,  into  whose 
power  the  fortune  of  war  had  thrown 
us.  Two  lines  of  soldiers,  with  fixed 
bayonets,  were  drawn  up  to  receive 
us  as  we  landed,*  and  under  their 
escort  we  were  conducted  over  seve- 
ral drawbridges  and  military  fortifica- 
tions of  great  ingenuity  and  strength ; 
till  at  length  we  were  introduced 
into  the  town.  The  place  selected 
for  our  first  halt  was  in  the  midst 
of  a  large  square,  in  the  open  air. 
Hither,  after  a  while,  our  luggage  was 
brought,  and  piled  up  in  the  midst, 
surrounded  with  a  strong  guard  of 
soldiers  to  keep  off  the  multitude, 
who,  by  this  time,  were  come  from 
all  parts  to  gratify  their  curiosity. 
In  this  condition  we  were  kept  till 
late  in  the  afternoon,  without  any 
refreshment  from  the  time  we  left 
L'Insurgent, — except  a  piece  of 
bread,  perchance,  were  now  and  then 
thrown  amongst  us  by  some  looker- 
on,  who  had  a  heart  to  compassion- 
ate our  wretched  plight.  Whilst  we 
were  thus  exposed,  a  gazing-stock 
to  the  inhabitants,  a  circumstance 
occurred  which  promised  no  small 
alleviation  of  the  distress  in  which 
my  father  and  I  were  involved.  A 
gentleman  of  respectable  appearance 
and  polite  manners  obtained  leave  of 
the  commanding-officer  to  associate 
himself  with  the  prisoners.  After  a 
while  he  shook  hands  with  my  father, 
and,  to  my  utter  amazement,  imme- 
diately embraced  him  with  all  the 
ardour  of  the  dearest  friendship,  ex- 
claiming, in  a  tone  of  the  utmost  sor- 
row and  distress,  "  O  my  dear  bro- 
der,  my  dear  broder !  Vat  bring  you 
here  ?  It  makes  me  ver  great  trou- 
ble for  you,  my  dear  broder !  Vat 
you  sail  vant  in  the  prizon  vare  you 
go,  me  feel  de  pleseur  great  to  carry 
you !  Tell  me  all  tings  you  vant  for 
all  times ;  and  all  vat  dis  contrie  pro- 
duce will  be  at  your  tres  service  J" 


925 

It  was  a  long  while  before  he  loosed 
his  embrace ;  and  when  he  left  us,  it 
was  with  the  assurance,  that  as  soon 
as  we  should  be  settled  at  the  prison 
destined  for  our  reception,  at  a  short 
distance  in  the  country,  he  would  be 
our  frequent  visitor,  and  render  our 
captivity  as  tolerable  as  it  was  in  his 
power.  No  sooner  had  he  taken  his 
leave,  than  my  father  and  I  were 
congratulated  on  all  sides,  by  our 
less  fortunate  companions  in  tribu- 
lation, at  this  unexpected  salutation, 
and  the  large  hopes  with  which  it 
had  inspired  us.  It  was  a  consider- 
able time  before  my  father  had  lei- 
sure to  explain  to  me  an  occurrence 
which  seemed  so  utterly  unaccount- 
able. Was  this  stranger  a  near  rela- 
tion of  whom  my  father  had  never 
before  informed  me  ?  or  of  whom  he 
himself  had  never  heard  before  ?  or 
did  they  recognise  in  each  other  early 
companionship  in  distant  parts  of  the 
globe  ?  No,  the  whole  mystery  of  this 
affair  lay  in  the  discovery  which  each 
had  made  to  the  other,  of  the  word  and 
the  sign  of  a  FREE  MASON  !  Convinced 
by  this  overpowering  evidence  of  the 
great  utility  and  importance  of  the 
institution  of  free  masonry,  I  from 
that  moment  resolved,  that  as  soon 
as  I  should  be  within  reach  of  a 
lodge,  I  would  offer  myself  as  a  can- 
didate. Judge,  however,  what  were 
our  disappointment  and  mortifica- 
tion, at  never  afterwards  hearing  a 
word  of  our  invaluable  friend,  our 
"  beloved  brother ."' 

Towards  the  evening,  orders  were 
given,  to  commence  the  march  to  our 
new  habitation ;  but,  to  our  vexation 
and  distress,  no  carriages  were  in 
readiness  to  take  our  luggage  with 
us.  We  remonstrated,  we  entreated, 
that  it  might  accompany  us ;  but  all 
in  vain.  We  were  assured,  on  the 
honour  of  the  French  Republic,  that 
it  should  be  sent  after  us  in  the 
course  of  the  evening.  Resistance 
was  useless.  At  the  word  of  com- 
mand, under  a  strong  escort  of  sol- 
diers, we  were  constrained  to  leave 
our  luggage  in  the  middle  of  the 
square,  exposed  to  chance,  or  the 
designs  of  villainy.  At  the  beat  of 
the  drum  we  set  forward  through 
the  streets,  amidst  the  hootings  and 
imprecations  of  the  rabble;  as  though 
we  had  been  felons  of  the  most  atro- 
cious kind,  and  no  longer  entitled 
to  the  claims  of  humanity,  After  a 


Narrative  of  an  Imprisonment  in  France 


926 

march  of  three  or  four  miles,  we 
reached  the  prison  of  Pontenezin, 
situated  not  far  from  the  sea-coast. 
It  was  a  double  row  of  building,  of 
a  ground  floor,  surrounded  by  a 
wall ;  intended  only  as  a  temporary 
abode,  till  a  convenient  opportunity 
should  occur  of  removing  us  farther 
into  the  interior  of  the  country.  On 
our  arrival,  we  were  not  a  little  com- 
forted to  find  three  or  four  hundred 
prisoners,  chiefly  English,  already 
inmates  of  our  new  habitation.  The 
recognition  of  each  other  as  British 
subjects,  even  in  these  deplorable 
circumstances,  inspired  us  with  a 
transport  of  joy,  little  less  than  as 
though  we  had  met  each  other  on 
our  native  shore.  Three  cheers 
from  within,  before  we  entered  the 
gates,  were  answered  by  three  cheers 
on  the  outside,  to  the  no  small  an- 
noyance of  the  French  soldiers ;  who 
learned  from  this  specimen,  that  no 
injuries  which  tyrants  can  inflict, 
have  power  to  enslave  or  control  a 
British  spirit. 

What  a  refreshment  to  our  sight 
were  the  countenances  of  a  crowd  of 
our  own  countrymen;  what  music 
to  our  ears  was  even  our  own  lan- 
guage,when  unexpectedly  heard  from 
hundreds  of  British  voices,  where 
our  imagination  had  anticipated  only 
a  dreary  gloom  and  silence !  The 
moment  we  had  entered,  and  the 
gates  of  our  prison  were  closed  upon 
us,  we  for  a  time  forgot  the  miseries 
of  captivity  in  the  cordial  congratu- 
lations which  ensued,  as  one  and  ano- 
ther recognised  a  relative  or  a  friend 
among  their  new  associates ;  or  as 
information  was  mutually  given  or 
received,  in  answer  to  endless  en- 
quiries respecting  the  land  of  our 
birth,  or  the  dear  connexions  from 
whom  cruel  war  had  severed  us, 
perhaps  for  ever !  In  addition  to  the 
allowance  of  provisions,  which  were 
served  out  to  us  that  night,  whatever 
rations  of  wine — which  was  at  that 
time  allowed  daily  to  the  prisoners — 
had  been  stored  up  by  any  of  them 
for  rare  and  special  occasions,  were 
brought  out  and  set  before  their 
countrymen.  Through  the  whole  of 
that  night  nothing  but  hilarity  and 
joy  were  witnessed.  The  relation  of 
each  others  adventures,  among  the 
numerous  groups  of  friends  and  par- 
ties, into  which  the  company  had 
distributed  themselves,  together  with 


[Dec. 


the  occasional  "  jocund  song  and 
merry  dance," — for  even  music  was 
not  wanting  to  the  festive  scene — 
must  have  conveyed  the  idea  to  any 
looker-on,  not  versed  in  our  story, 
that  we  were  celebrating  a  triumph, 
and  dividing  the  spoil,  rather  than 
men  partners  in  misfortune  ! 

To  this  effervescence  of  nationali- 
ty, however,  succeeded  the  painful 
alternation  of  anxiety  and  distress  on 
account  of  our  luggage.  Instead  of 
the  punctuality  to  which  Gallic  faith 
had  pledged  itself,  that  our  goods 
should  follow  us  the  same  evening, 
we  were  kept  in  the  most  painful 
suspense  and  destitution  for  upwards 
of  a  tceek,  without  having  so  much  as 
a  change  of  linen,  or  any  thing  to  lie 
upon  by  night  but  the  bare  boards  of 
the  prison  floor !  On  the  ninth  day, 
however,  after  our  arrival,  when  we 
were  just  parting  with  the  last  frag- 
ment of  hope,  the  arrival  of  our  lug- 
gage was  announced.  The  matrass 
and  bedding,  to  our  no  small  joy, 
were  safe ;  and  these,  as  long  as  we 
were  able  to  retain  them,  we  found 
to  be  of  the  most  essential  service. 
But  what  was  our  vexation  to  find, 
that  our  little  trunk  had  been  broken 
open,  and  every  valuable  article  sto- 
len out  of  it !  Scarcely  a  change  of 
linen  was  left,  and  even  that  only  of 
the  very  worst  kind,  which,  in  our 
haste,  had  been  thrown  in  with  the 
rest  on  leaving  the  Morning  Herald. 
Complaint  was  made  to  the  com- 
manding-officer, and  also  to  the  com- 
missary of  war,  and  promise  was 
made  that  diligent  enquiry  should  be 
instituted;  all,  however,  was  in  vain 
— not  a  single  article  of  which  we 
had  been  so  cruelly  bereft  was  ever 
restored.  Fortunately  my  father  had 
secured  about  his  person  ten  guineas 
in  gold,  and  a  little  silver ;  this  was 
all  we  had  to  rely  upon  for  the  pur- 
chase of  some  of  the  necessary  arti- 
cles of  clothing,  occasional  food,  and 
medicine,  for  many  months ;  for,  in 
consequence  of  the  infamous  spirit 
of  espionage  and  jealousy  with  which 
the  rulers  of  France  were  at  this 
time  inspired,  not  one  of  the  many 
letters  we  wrote  home  for  supplies 
ever  reached  its  destination;  nor, 
during  the  whole  period  of  our  cap- 
tivity, were  we  able  to  obtain  a  re- 
mittance from  England.  Such,  in- 
deed, was  then  the  despotism  of  the 
French  rulers,  and  the  vassalage  of 


1831.] 


During  the  Reign  of  Tt 


the  people,  that  events  of  the  greatest 
notoriety  to  all  Europe  beside — nay, 
even  those  which  were  most  inti- 
mately connected  with  their  own 
Republic — were  either  kept  totally 
concealed  from  the  great  body  of  the 
people,  or  the  grossest  falsehoods 
were  palmed  upon  their  credulity ; 
just  as  those  who  were  in  power 
thought  fit  to  dictate  to  the  press, 
which  was  kept  with  the  utmost  vi- 
gilance under  the  exclusive  control 
and  authority  of  the  tyrants  ;  a  stri- 
king and  ludicrous  illustration  of 
which  I  shall  now  lay  before  the 
reader. 

About  a  fortnight  after  our  arrival 
at  Pontenezin,  our  attention  was 
strongly  attracted  by  the  eager  con- 
versation and  gestures  of  some  work- 
men, who  were  employed  in  repair- 
ing the  roof  of  the  prison,  from  which 
they  had  a  view  of  the  sea-coast,  and 
whither  they  were  frequently  point- 
ing. We  soon  learned  that  they  were 
gazing  with  exultation  on  the  splen- 
id  spectacle  of  their  grand  fleet 
sailing  out  of  the  harbour  of  Brest; 
and  boasting  of  the  terror  and  con- 
sternation which  it  would  soon. occa- 
sion to  Britain,  and  the  glory  with 
which  they  would  ere  long  return 
victorious  over  the  English  fleet. 
Only  a  few  days  elapsed  before  ti- 
dings reached  Brest,  and  from  thence 
were  propagated  to  Pontenezin,  that, 
after  a  dreadful  battle  with  the  Chan- 
nel fleet  under  Lord  Howe,  the 
French  fleet  had  been  VICTORIOUS, 
and  had  either  captured  or  destroyed 
the  greater  part  of  the  enemy  !  Se- 
veral of  the  French  men-of-war  soon 
arrived  in  a  most  shattered  condition, 
and  it  was  announced,  that  on  the 
following  day  the  rest  might  be  ex- 
pected to  make  their  appearance,  to- 
f  ether  with  the  prizes  they  had  ta- 
en  !  The  French  soldiers,  and  the 
labourers  employed  about  the  prison, 
were  frantic  with  joy,  and  with  inso- 
lent language  and  gesture  gloried  in 
the  superior  prowess  of  their  navy 
over  that  of  Great  Britain.  At  all 
this  our  men  were  either  ylum  with 
savage  indignation — or,  without  a 
particle  of  evidence  to  support  their 
assertion,  swore  it  was  "  all  hum- 
bug!" and  that  they  were  certain  the 
contrary  was  the  truth.  To-morrow 
and  the  next  day  came,  no  additional 
ships  hove  in  sight.  Enquiry  among 
the  Frenchmen  began  to  be  impatient 

VOL.  XXX.  NO.  CLXXXVIII. 


'error.  927 

—what  had  become  of  the  ships 
which  were  wanting?  to  which  a 
ready  reply  was  furbished,  by  those 
whose  business  it  was  to  keep  them 
in  ignorance— a  reply  abundantly  sa- 
tisfactory to  French  vanity  and  cre- 
dulity, that  the  delay  of  the  expected 
ships  was  in  consequence  of  their 
having  so  many  of  the  British  men- 
of-war  in  tow ! 

Not  many  days  intervened,  how- 
ever, before  we  were  made  acquaint- 
ed with  the  correct  history  of  the 
affair.  A  considerable  number  of 
additional  prisoners  were  brought  to 
Pontenezin;  some  of  whom  had  been 
actually  present  in  one  of  the  smaller 
men-of-war  during  the  engagement, 
and  witnessed  the  whole  progress  of. 
the  battle.  From  these  we  learned, 
in  detail,  that  whilst  Admiral  Earl 
Howe  was  cruising  off  the  coast  of 
Bretagne,  he  was  informed  that  the 
French  Admiral,  Villaret  Joyeuse, 
had  sailed  from  the  harbour  of  Brest. 
He  immediately  made  sail  in  quest 
of  the  enemy,  and  fell  in  with  him  to 
the  westward  of  Ushant,  when  Rear- 
Admiral  Paisley  briskly  attacked  the 
rear  of  the  French  fleet.  On  the 
following  day,  Lord  Howe,  having  by 
his  superior  nautical  skill  obtained 
the  weathergage,  commenced  a  spi- 
rited engagement.  Three  days  after- 
wards, the  French  were  brought  to 
close  action ;  the  enemy's  force  con- 
sisting of  twenty-six  ships  of  the  line, 
that  of  the  British  twenty-five.  The 
Admiral,  Lord  Howe,  who  was  on 
board  the  Queeii  Charlotte,  with  the 
utmost  skill  and  gallantry  broke  the 
enemy's  line ;  whilst  Captain  Berke- 
ly,  in  the  Marlborough,  after  sus- 
taining a  dangerous  conflict  with  two 
ships,  disabled  one  and  repelled  the 
other.  Captain  Hervey,  in  the  Bruns- 
wick, engaged  several  ships  with  the 
utmost  intrepidity,  and  had  a  tre- 
mendous struggle  with  the  Vengeur, 
whose  crew  were  glad  to  cry  aloud 
for  quarter;  but  their  ship  was  al- 
ready sinking,  and  Captain  Hervey 
was  able  to  afford  them  but  little  as- 
sistance ;  many,  however,  of  the 
French  were  saved  by  the  humanity 
of  their  adversaries,  but  about  three 
hundred  perished  in  the  ocean.  The 
names  and  forces  of  the  French  ships 
captured  by  Lord  Howe  were,  La 
Juste,  of  eighty  guns;  the  Sans  Pa- 
reille,  of  eighty  guns ;  L'Amerique, 
of  seventy-four  guns;  L'Achille,  of 
3  o 


928  Narrative  of  o/t  Imprisonment  in  France 

seventy-four  guns ;  the  Northumber- 
land, of  seventy-four  guns ;  L'luipe- 
of  seventy-four  guns;  the 


[Dec, 


tueux,  of  seventy-tour  guns; 
Vengeur,  of  seventy-four  guns,  in 
which  six  hundred  and  ninety  men 
were  killed,  and  five  hundred  and 
eighty  wounded. 

rfo  sooner  were  these  tidings  de- 
tailed, than  the  enthusiasm  and  joy  of 
the  prisoners  exceeded  all  bounds. 
To  attempt  giving  an  adequate  idea 
is  hopeless ;  it  will  be  better  con- 
ceived than  described.  On  this  great 
occasion,  every  drop  of  wine  which 
had  been  stored,  or  could  be  pur- 
chased, was  laid  under  contribution 
against  the  evening;  when  it  was  re- 
solved to  celebrate,  in  the  most  joy- 
ous manner  possible,  the  tidings  of 
the  day,  and  to  welcome  the  mes- 
sengers who  were  the  bearers  of 
them.  Never,  during  my  life,  have 
I  witnessed  any  such  scene  of  fran- 
tic joy,  as  that  night  presented.- 
"  God  save  the  King"—"  Rule  Bri- 
tannia"— and  everyloyal  song  known 
to  British  seamen,  were  sung  and 
encored,  as  long  as  the  performers 
and  the  chorus  could  vociferate.  Pro- 
cessions were  led  around  the  pri- 
son, which,  being  without  partitions, 
was  well  adapted  for  the  purpose. 
Speeches  were  delivered  in  praise  of 
the  British  navy,  and  the  army;  of 
our  King  and  our  country;  of  the 
heroes  who  fought,  and  the  heroes 
who  fell ;  followed  with  deafening 
shouts  of  "God  save  the  King,"  and 
"  Huzzas"  innumerable,  till  far  be- 
yond the  hour  of  midnight.  At 
length,  whether  through  an  appre- 
hension that  we  should  tear  down 
the  prison,  or  through  mortification 
at  our  triumph  of  solid  glory,  in  con- 
trast with  their  empty  boast,  a  large 
body  of  republican  troops  burst  into 
the  prison  with  their  muskets  level- 
ed at  us,  and  swore,  that  if  we  did 
not  instantly  cease  our  uproar,  they 
would  fire  upon  us.  Thus  ended 
our  celebration  of  the  glorious  first 
of  June  ! 

One  hundred  and  fifty  prisoners 
of  war,  three  weeks  after  this  event, 
were  ordered  to  be  in  readiness  to 
march  to  Quimper,  in  which  number 
I  and  my  father  were  included.  We 
set  forward  in  the  morning  under  a 
strong  guard  of  soldiers.  The  day 
proved  to  be  most  unfavourable,  witli 
wind  and  rain ; — a  melancholy  pre- 
sage of  the  scenes  we  were  doomed 


to  witness  in  the  prison  to  which  we 
were  going.  Long  before  we  halted 
for  the  night,  we  were  thoroughly 
wet  with  rain,  nor  had  we  any  change 
of  clothes  but  what  were  nearly  as 
wet  as  those  we  had  on.  In  this 
condition  we  arrived  at  the  village 
where  we  were  to  sleep,  and  where 
a  stable  had  been  provided  for  our 
reception ;  this,  however,  was  so 
small  as  not  to  allow  room  sufficient 
for  each  man  to  lie  upon  his  back. 
Some,  therefore,  were  obliged  to  lie 
under  a  shed,  and  others  to  walk  the 
yard,  till  they  were  relieved  by  the 
kindness  of  those  who  had  rested 
a  while  in  the  stable,  or  who  had 
been  constrained  to  make  their  escape 
from  a  state  next  to  suffocation,  oc- 
casioned by  so  many  men  pressed 
close  together,  and  the  steam  pro- 
duced by  the  drying  of  their  clothes 
upon  their  backs.  When  daylight 
appeared,  the  escape  of  the  steam 
from  the  door  and  the  windows, 
made  the  building  appear  like  a  place 
on  fire.  Yet,  strange  to  relate,  the 
refreshment  I  received  from  the 
sleep  which  weariness  and  exhaus- 
tion had  occasioned,  seemed  as  great 
as  though  I  had  reposed  upon  a  bed 
of  down,  rather  than  on  the  stones 
of  a  stable  floor,  covered  with  a  thin 
layer  of  straw;  nor  do  I  recollect 
that  either  I,  or  any  of  my  fellow- 
prisoners,  sustained  the  least  injury 
from  cold. 

We  had  not  proceeded  far  on  the 
second  day's  march  before  we  were 
amused  with  the  appearance  of  fes- 
tivity and  glee,  first  at  one  village, 
and  then  at  another,  as  we  passed 
along.  The  cap  of  liberty,  placed  on 
the  top  of  a  lofty  pole,  with  the  tri- 
coloured  flag  floating  in  the  air, 
caught  our  view  at  the  turn  of 
every  street ;  whilst  here  and  there 

Sroups  of  French  peasantry  were 
ancing  around  one  of  those  emblems 
of  republicanism,  just  as  our  own 
rustics  are  wont  to  disport  themselves 
around  the  May-pole.  At  first  we 
were  at  a  loss  to  account  for  this 
scene  of  gaiety,  and  ready  to  con- 
clude, that  either  they  were  celebra- 
ting an  anniversary  of  some  event  of 
the  Revolution,  or  that  a  country  fair 
had  summoned  friends  and  relations 
together  to  enjoy  each  other's  socie- 
ty, or,  possibly — which  was  actually 
the  case  on  some  subsequent  occa- 
sions—that a  sentiment  of  respect 


1831.] 


During  the  Reign  of  Terror. 


towards  Britons,  as  belonging  to  the 
land  of  liberty,  took  this  opportuni- 
ty of  expressing  itself  as  a  remain- 
der of  Royalism  or  Constitutionalism, 
still  latent  in  the  minds  of  this  por- 
tion of  the  population.  This  per- 
suasion seemed  to  be  confirmed  by 
groups  of  young  men  and  women 
hailing  our  approach  with  demon- 
strations of  joy,  and  preceding  us  wa- 
ving their  handkerchiefs  and  dancing, 
as  though  they  congratulated  a  mar- 
riage party  returning  from  church. 
What  was  our  merriment,  when, 
halting  in  one  of  these  villages,  we 
learned  that  information  had  pre- 
ceded us,  that  some  of  the  prisoners 
of  war  who  had  been  captured  by 
the  French  Grand  Fleet  in  the  late 
engagement  were  to  pass  through 
their  respective  villages  on  this  day  j 
and  that  the  inhabitants  were  thus 
expressing  their  joy  on  the  occasion! 
So  thoroughly,  indeed,  had  their 
credulity  been  wrought  upon,  that, 
as  the  population  crowded  around 
us  to  gratify  their  curiosity,  we 
heard  the  eager  enquiry  frequently 
put  by  some  of  these  dupes  of  re- 
publican demagogues, — "  Which  is 
Lord  Howe  ?  Which  is  Lord  Howe  ?" 
Their  confusion  may  easily  be  con- 
ceived when  they  were  told  by  some 
of  our  men  the  particulars  of  the 
battle ;  that  Lord  Howe  was  either 
in  England,  enjoying  the  honours  he 
had  acquired  by  the  victory  gained 
over  their  invincible  fleet;  or  that  he 
was  in  quest  of  the  few  ships  which 
had  made  their  escape  at  the  con- 
clusion of  the  battle ! 

A  scene,  however,  of  a  far  differ- 
ent kind  presented  itself  in  the  af- 
ternoon of  the  same  day.  A  proces- 
sion of  a  mixed  appearance  was 
seen  at  a  considerable  distance  on 
the  road  approaching  towards  us ; 
whether  festive,  or  mournful,  we 
could  not  for  some  time  descry. 
Several  carriages  of  some  kind  or 
other  were  meeting  us,  gay  with  fe- 
male decorations.  As  it  drew  nearer, 
however,  we  perceived,  intermix- 
ed, the  gleaming  of  bayonets  and 
halberds,  and  other  military  array. 
Either  an  army  was  on  its  march, 
or  prisoners  were  in  custody.  The 
latter  proved  to  be  the  case.  Just 
as  we  came  up  to  them,  the  proces- 
sion halted,  as  we  also  did  our- 
selves; the  soldiers  who  guarded 
us,  no  less  than  those  we  met,  being 


929 

desirous  of  knowing  the  particular 
character  and  object  of  their  respect- 
ive companies.  A  piteous  sight  was 
before  us.  Five  common  country 
waggons,  without  any  covering, 
drawn  by  as  many  teams  of  horses, 
were  filled  with  females.  Some  of 
them  were,  in  appearance,  the  most 
beautiful  women  I  ever  saw ;  and 
all  of  them  were  dressed  with  ele- 
gance and  taste.  By  their  speech 
and  manners  they  were  obviously 
persons  of  rank  and  consideration 
in  the  country,  as  long  as  rank  and 
character  claimed  any  regard  in 
France.  We  were  permitted  to  ap- 
proach near  to  them ;  and,  when 
they  knew  that  we  were  English 
prisoners  on  our  way  to  Quimper 
prison,  they  solicited  conversation 
with  us.  Fortunately  some  of  our 
officers  could  speak  the  French  lan- 
guage, and  several  of  the  men,  being 
natives  of  the  islands  of  Guernsey 
and  Jersey,  were  able  to  converse 
in  it  freely.  By  this  means  we  as- 
certained that  these  miserable  ladies 
were  either  the  wives  or  near  rela- 
tions of  those  who,  during  the  fright- 
ful slaughter  of  persons  accused  or 
suspected  of  favouring  the  Royal 
party,  had  been  either  murdered  by 
the  hands  of  hired  assassins,  drown- 
ed in  the  river,  or  beheaded  by  the 
guillotine.  Mournful,  indeed,  were 
the  tales  they  told,  in  hurried  and 
affrighted  accents,  and  heart-break- 
ing to  those  who  heard  them.  "  I 
care  not — I  care  not,"  said  one  of 
the  loveliest  among  them,  wringing 
her  white  hands,  and  shaking  her 
black  hair  over  her  pallid  features. 
"  God,  in  mercy,  is  going  to  put  an 
end  to  my  tortures !  I  go  to  the  guil- 
lotine !" — and  her  hands  were  in  an 
instant  clasped  round  her  neck — 
"  and  I  go  with  joy ! — I  shall  soon 
be  with  him  I  would  have  died  with 
— my  husband  !  his  only  crime  was 
that  he  loved  our  poor  King ;  and 
mine — that  I  love  my  husband  !— O 
hasten,  hasten,  savage  wretches  that 
mock  my  misery ! — Hurry  us  on  to 
our  fate! — Drive  us  like  lambs  to 
the  slaughter !  oh,  make  haste,  make 
haste !" 

There  were  little  else  than  moan- 
ings  and  shriekings  amongst  them 
all  j — but  two  or  three  sat  against 
the  waggon-sides,  without  a  tear,  a 
sob,  or  a  complaint,  looking  at  us 
as  if  they  yet  saw  us  not,  but  were 


Narrative  of  an  Imprisonment  in  France  [Dec. 


Wno» 

stupified  and  stunned  with  their 
sorrows.  Others  told  us  that  they 
were  accused  of  crimes  against  'the 
republic  by  individuals  whose  names 
th«y  had  never  so  much  as  heard ; 
that  they  had  never  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  confronting  their  accusers, 
or  making  any  defence;  and  that, 
without  a  moment's  warning,  they 
were  seized  whilst  sitting  in  their 
houses,  by  ruffians  who  hurried  them 
away  to  the  carts  in  which  they 
were  now  placed.  "  We  are  now," 
said  they,  "  on  our  way  to  Brest, 
under  the  pretext  of  taking  our  trial ; 
but  alas,  alas !  we  know  that  to  be 
accused  and  to  be  condemned  are 
all  one !  The  guillotine  is  speedily  to 
end  our  mournful  story  ! — Would  to 
God  we  could  assume  your  appear- 
ance and  dress;  that  we  could  pro- 
ceed with  you  to  endure  whatever 
hardships  you  may  be  doomed  to  un- 
dergo! Would  to  God  we  could  enter- 


tain  the  most  distant  hope  of  ever 
reaching  the  blessed  country  which 
gave  you  birth  ! — a  country  where 
these  scenes  of  horror  are  unknown ; 
where  just  laws  protect  the  innocent, 
and  punish  only  the  guilty ;  or,  if  this 
were  impossible,  gladly  would  we  die 
in  your  society  amidst  all  the  sorrows 
of  your  captivity,  rather  than  perish 
in  the  fangs  of  the  monsters  who 
have  seized  upon  us  as  their  prey !" 
In  the  midst  of  these. heart-rending 
accents,  with  cries,  and  tears,  and 
wringing  of  hands,  the  mournful  pro- 
cession moved  forwards;  followed 
by  a  rude  and  insulting  soldiery, 
guarding  these  innocent  victims  with 
hxed  bayonets,  and  drowning  their 
sobs  and  groans  in  the  .sound  of  the 
boisterous  drum;  whilst  we  proceed- 
ed towards  Quimper,  the  direful 
source  to  ourselves  of  woes  unnum- 
bered. 


fuui 


CHAP.  II. 


AT  Quimper  we  arrived  on  the 
evening  of  our  second  day's  march 
from  Pontenezin.  The  building  fit- 
ted up  for  the  reception  of  prisoners 
of  war,  had  been  a  convent  previous 
to  the  Revolution ;  but  the  same  spi- 
rit of  innovation  which  had  subverted 
the  throne,  and  abolished  the  aristo- 
cracy of  France,  proceeded  to  anni- 
hilate, if  possible,  whatever  had  been 
rendered  sacred  by  religion.  The 
pious  nuns,  who  were  its  previous 
inhabitants,  had  been  driven  from 
their  peaceful  dwelling,  to  seek  shel- 
ter, if  shelter  could  be  found,  amidst 
the  tumultuary  and  sanguinary  con- 
flicts of  a  distracted  country ;  whilst 
their  former  abode  was  occupied  by 
captives  from  all  the  nations  with 
which  France  was  waging  war.  The 
convent  was  composed  of  two  long 
buildings,  situated  on  opposite  sides 
of  a  large  irregular  court.  Each 
building  was  four  stories  high,  and 
each  story  was  divided  longitudi- 
nally by  a  passage  which  extended 
the  whole  length  of  the  building,  with 
a  great  number  of  small  rooms  parti- 
tioned off  on  either  side.  In  addition 
to  the  court  between  the  two  princi- 
pal buildings,  was  a  large  retired 
space,  laid  out  as  a  garden  and  orch- 
ard, in  which  the  nuns  were  accus- 


tomed  to  take  the  air.    The  whole 
was  surrounded  by  a  high  wall. 

On  our  arrival  at  this  place,  we 
found  nearly  three  thousand  prison- 
ers already  in  possession,  distributed 
through  the  little  rooms,  either  as 
choice  directed,  on  the  ground  of 
rank,  friendship,  or  nationality ;  or  as 
necessity  compelled  those  who  came 
last,  to  take  the  only  situations  which 
remained  unoccupied.  Fortunately, 
my  father  and  I  were  admitted  into 
a  room  on  the  second  floor,  where 
there  was  a  vacancy  for  two  inmates, 
among  five  gentlemen,  one  of  whom 
was  a  physician,  and  the  others  ei- 
ther captains  of  merchant  ships,  or 
officers  in  the  navy.  The  rooms, 
which  were  all  nearly  equal  in  size, 
were  barely  sufficient  to  admit  of 
seven  persons  lying  with  their  pal- 
let beds  close  to  each  other,  when 
unrolled  on  the  floor.  On  our  en- 
trance, we  entertained  the  hope  of 
being  able  to  beguile  the  wearisome- 
ness  of  our  captivity  with  tolerable 
endurance;  especially  as,  through 
the  humanity  of  our  first  commis- 
sary, the  prison  allowance  was  suf- 
ficient to  ensure  the  continuance  of 
health,  and  moderate  comfort.  Ra- 
tions of  bread,  meat,  butter,  and 
wine,  were  regularly  served  out  to 


18{JL]  During  the  Reign  of  Terror. 

each  mess  daily.  Schemes  of  busi- 
ness and  plans  of  study  were  drawn 
up,  and  prosecuted  with  laudable  in- 
dustry. Our  numerous  and  diver- 
sified community  assumed  the  ap- 
pearance of  commerce  and  learning. 
Here  resided  the  mathematician  and 
teacher  of  navigation,  whose  room 
was  crowded  with  the  votaries  of 
science ;  there,  the  poet  and  musi- 
cian ;  and  not  far  off  was  the  abode 
of  the  humble  mechanic,  who  found 
his  interest  in  being  able  to  ply  se- 
veral trades,  as  the  necessities  of  his 
fellow-prisoners  required  his  inge- 
nuity to  mend  a  jacket  or  repair  a 
shoe.  According  as  the  different  na- 
tions had  associated  themselves  in 
the  various  divisions  of  the  prison, 
we  had  the  Italian  row,  the  German 
row,  the  Dutch  row,  &c.,  where  the 
British  acquired  their  respective  lan- 
guages, whilst  they  taught  their  own 
in  return.  These  diversified  pursuits, 
as  interest  prompted,  or  pleasure 
attracted,  happily  employed  those 
hours  which  otherwise  would  have 
been  spent  in  lamenting  our  lot,  and 
brooding  over  our  misfortunes.  We 
had  even  our  courts  of  justice,  for 
the  trying  of  delinquencies ;  and 
whatever  other  institutions  our  mixed 
constitution  required,  for  the  main- 
tenance of  good  order,  and  the  pro- 
motion of  the  general  welfare. 

In  the  midst  of  this  scene  of  bu- 
siness and  amusement,  we  might 
have  passed  our  time  with  compara- 
tive comfort,  and  even  advantage; 
but  we  were  destined  to  undergo  af- 
flictions and  distresses  which  ren- 
dered most  of  these  employments 
unavailing.  Either  according  to  the 
regulations  of  the  Convention  in  the 
succession  of  offices,  or  with  hostile 
intention  towards  the  prisoners,  the 
commissary  under  whose  kind  su- 
perintendence we  were  first  placed, 
was  removed  from  his  situation,  and 
another  of  a  very  different  disposi- 
tion was  sent  to  occupy  his  place. 
Stern  and  ferocious  in  his  counte- 
nance and  manner,  he  was  no  sooner 
seen  among  us  than  times  of  suffer- 
ing and  calamity  were  predicted  to 
be  at  hand.  Only  a  few  days  after 
he  assumed  his  office,  he  gave  or- 
ders that  our  allowance  of  wine 
should  be  withheld,  as  being  too 
great  a  luxury  to  be  granted  to  ene- 
mies of  the  French  Republic.  Soon 
afterwards  our  ration  of  flesh  meat 


931 


was  reduced  to  only  half  the  former 
quantity,  and  the  butter  was  entirely 
withheld.  Remonstrance  was  vain. 
We  had  not  the  means  of  making 
our  complaint  known  beyond  the 
walls  of  our  prison,  though  we  had 
reason  to  suspect  that  the  reduction 
of  our  allowances  was  not  by  order 
of  the  National  Convention,  but  only 
at  the  instigation  of  the  commissary's 
eagerness  to  enrich  himself  by  our 
distress.  To  this  cruel  abridgement 
of  our  daily  food,  was  added  the  un- 
reasonable, the  unnecessary  resolu- 
tion, of  constraining  every  prisoner, 
without  exception,  whatever  might 
be  the  state  of  the  weather,  to  pass 
muster  twice  in  the  week,  when  we 
were  turned  into  the  orchard,  and 
frequently  kept  there  three  or  four 
hours  together.  Not  a  few  invalids, 
unable  to  stand  upon  their  feet  so 
long,  being  obliged  to  sit  or  lie  upon 
the  damp  ground,  fell  speedy  vic- 
tims to  disease ! 

On  one  of  these  occasions  an  in- 
stance of  ferocious  barbarity  occur- 
red. The  fruit  of  the  orchard  had 
been  sold  to  a  gardener  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, under  condition  that  he 
was  to  be  at  the  risk  of  whatever  de- 
predation might  be  committed  by 
the  prisoners  when  they  were  mus- 
tered ;  at  which  time  he  was  allowed 
to  be  present,  for  the  purpose  of 
guarding  the  fruit  which  was  on  the 
trees.  The  temptation  to  pilfer  was 
too  powerful  to  be  resisted  by  some 
of  the  prisoners,  and  their  dexterity 
often  too  great  to  be  detected  by  the 
gardener's  vigilance.  At  the  time  al- 
luded to,  I  was  sitting  on  the  ground, 
in  company  with  a  young  man,  who 
was  in  a  state  of  ill  health ;  unfortu- 
nately, in  the  neighbourhood  of  some 
lads  who  were  by  stealth  knocking 
down  apples,  and  making  off  with 
their  prize.  Without  a  moment's 
warning,  the  gardener,  who  was 
watching  his  fruit  from  behind  a  se- 
cret stand,  fired  with  his  musket.  I 
saw  the  flash  in  front  from  the  midst 
of  a  bush.  In  an  instant,  my  friend 
fell  on  his  back.  Not  suspecting  he 
was  shot,  but  supposing  rather  that 
the  report  of  the  musket  had  been 
too  powerful  for  his  state  of  nervous 
debility,  and  had  occasioned  only  a 
swoon,  I  sprang  forward  to  lift  him 
up,  when,  to  my  consternation  and 
horror,  I  saw  the  blood  gushing  from 
his  breast.  He  uttered  not  a  word  j 


Narrative  of  an  Imprisonment  in  France 


932 

017  friend  was  shot ;  he  lav  a  breath- 
less corpse  at  my  feet!  The  coward- 
ly wretch  who  had  accomplished  his 
murderous  purpose,  escaped  through 
a  private  door  by  which  he  had  ac- 
cess to  the  orchard,  without  coming 
through  the  prison,  and  thus  eluded 
the  rage  of  the  prisoners.  To  allay 
the  commotion  with  which  justice 
was  invoked  against  this  flagrant 
outrage,  the  Commissary  promised 
that  enquiry  should  be  instituted  and 
justice  done.  On  the  following  day, 
a  committee  of  gentlemen  was  ap- 
pointed to  examine  the  case.  Their 
enquiry  was  limited  to  the  fact,  whe- 
ther or  not  the  deceased  had  been 
guilty  of  taking  any  of  the  fruit.  No 
opinion  was  ever  expressed  whether 
the  crime  alleged  was  worthy  of 
death !  No  fruit  had  been  found  on 
his  person.  A  surgeon  was  directed 
to  open  the  body  and  examine  the 
stomach :  No  fruit  was  there.  Yet, in- 
nocent as  he  had  been  proved  to  be,  no 
farther  steps  were  taken  to  bring  the 
murderer  to  answer  for  his  conduct ! 
This  atrocious  deed  was  but  the 
precursor  of  more  melancholy  scenes 
of  wide-spreading  devastation.  We 
were  led,  from  one  or  two  dark  in- 
dications, to  suspect  that  deliberate 
malice,  and  not  mere  connivance  at 
murder  wantonly  committed,  was 
determined  against  the  whole  of  the 
prisoners.  About  this  time  the 
frightful  intelligence  was  communi- 
cated to  us,  by  some  of  the  inhabit- 
ants of  the  toxvn  who  visited  the  pri- 
son, that  the  Committee  of  Public 
Safety  had  actually  caused  a  de- 
cree to  pass  the  Convention,  for  the 
extermination  of  all  prisoners  of  war  ! 
And  that  in  future  no  quarter  was  to 
be  shewn  to  any  of  the  allied  forces 
who  might  be  taken  in  arms  against 
the  French  Republic.  In  this  con- 
dition of  dreadful  suspense  we  were 
kept  for  a  considerable  time,  like 
criminals  under  sentence  of  death, 
awaiting  the  day  when  we  were  to 
be  brought  forth  for  execution.  Our 
terrors  were  raised  to  the  highest 
possible  degree,  not  only  by  the  dis- 
mal reports  which  reached  us  of  the 
massacres  which  were  daily  perpe- 
trated by  Frenchmen  of  opposite 
factions  upon  each  other  at  Paris, 
Nantes,  Lyons,  and  other  parts  of 
the  country,  but  also  by  the  follow- 
ing occurrence  : — One  morning,  to 
our  great  consternation,  a  detach- 


[Dec. 


ment  of  soldiers  under  arms  entered 
the  prison-yard,  which  was  generally 
crowded  with  prisoners,  and  forcibly 
seized  on  fifty  of  the  first  persons  on 
whom  they  could  lay  their  hands,  the 
rest  making  their  escape  in  the  ut- 
most alarm,  as  sheep  are  seen  to  fly 
in  confusion  when  savage  mastiffs 
have  seized  upon  and  are  worrying 
some  of  the  flock.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments all  the  windows  of  the  prison, 
which  looked  into  the  yard,  were 
filled  with  spectators  gazing  upon 
the  scene  below  with  mute  astonish- 
ment, while  they  saw  fifty  of  their 
comrades  surrounded  by  the  soldiers 
who  had  seized  them.  On  a  sudden, 
the  large  folding-doors  of  our  prison, 
which  we  had  never  before  seen 
opened,  were  thrown  wide,  and  pre- 
sented two  lines  of  infantry,  with 
fixed  bayonets,  drawn  up  on  either 
side  of  the  gateway.  Without  any 
information  whither  they  were  going 
— without  permission  to  take  any 
thing  with  them,  or  even  to  bid  fare- 
well to  their  friends  or  relatives, 
they  were  marched  within  the  lines 
prepared  to  receive  them.  The  doors 
of  the  prison  were  again  closed,  and 
the  sound  of  the  drum  announced  to 
us  that  they  had  commenced  their 
march,  but  for  what  purpose,  we 
were  left  to  conjecture. 

The  terror  which  pervaded  the 
prison  in  consequence  of  this  oc- 
currence, cannot  easily  be  concei- 
ved, much  less  described.  Each  look- 
ed upon  the  other  as  being  indeed 
"  a  sheep  appointed  for  the  slaugh- 
ter," whilst  imagination  was  left  to 
body  forth  the  manner  in  which  we 
were  to  be  put  to  death;  whether 
by  the  stroke  of  the  guillotine,  or  by 
the  less  tardy  method — which  we 
heard  was  then  in  use  among  them- 
selves— of  filling  vessels  with  their 
prisoners,  and  sinking  them  in  some 
of  their  rivers  at  high-water,  so  that 
they  might  be  left  dry  at  the  ebb  tide ; 
or  by  the  military  method,  which 
had  been  adopted  on  some  occasions, 
of  drawing  up  their  victims  in  a 
square,  and  firing  upon  them  with 
grape-shot.  While  such  terrific  scenes 
were  continually  flitting  before  our 
imagination,  another  and  another 
seizure  were  made,  of  fifty  prisoners 
each  time,  after  the  interval  of  three 
days,  and  they  were  marched  off  in 
the  same  manner  as  the  first.  Nor 
was  it  till  about  a  fortnight  after  the 


1881.] 

first  draft,  that  we  were  assured  our 
poor  comrades  had  not  been  put  to 
death,  but  only  marched  into  the  in- 
terior of  the  country  to  make  room 
for  others  who  were  expected  from 
Brest.  With  such  diabolical  inge- 
nuity did  the  spirit  of  the  times  de- 
light to  afflict  and  terrify  the  minds 
of  unfortunate  and  helpless  prison- 
ers !  Nor  could  it  but  appear  to 
us,  that  whatever  might  be  the  un- 
known reason  why  the  decree  of  the 
Convention  was  not  carried  into  exe- 
cution, it  was  through  no  lack  of  in- 
clination on  the  part  of  those  who 
could  treat  their  victims  with  such 
barbarous  cruelty  as  to  sport  thus 
with  their  feelings.  The  reason, 
ho  we  ver,  why  we  escaped  all  the  mur- 
derous intentions  of  the  Committee  of 
Public  Safety,  we  afterwards  learned, 
was,  that  both  the  French  soldiers  in 
the  army,  and  the  sailors  in  the  navy, 
refused  to  fight  till  a  decree  so  fero- 
cious and  sanguinary  was  abolished. 
The  immediate  prospect  of  a  vio- 
lent death  was  thus  removed.  Our 
joy  on  the  occasion  was  not,  how- 
ever, destined  to  be  of  long  duration. 
There  were  other  methods,  more  cir- 
cuitous and  tardy,  indeed,  but  not 
less  decisive  in  their  results, by  which 
the  prison  might  be  thinned  of  its  in- 
habitants, and  the  expense  and  bur- 
den of  finding  provisions  for  so  large 
a  population  thrown  off  the  French 
Republic.  That  recourse  was  to  be 
had  to  these,  we  were  not  without 
too  much  reason  to  apprehend.  By 
the  influx  of  additional  prisoners,  the 
vacancies  made  by  the  late  drafts 
were  now  filled  up,  so  that  we  once 
more  numbered  3000  persons.  Every 
place  capable  of  containing  men  was 
filled  with  inmates.  On  one  occa- 
sion, as  some  gentlemen,  who  had  ac- 
companied the  commissary  to  view 
the  prison,  were  noticing  what  a  vast 
number  of  persons  were  contained 
within  so  small  a  space,  they  pro- 
posed the  question  to  him,  What  he 
intended  to  do,  if  any  more  prisoners 
were  sent  to  Quimper  ?  To  which 
the  unfeeling  and  cruel  man  replied, 
with  malignant  wit,  "  Do  with  them  ? 
Why,  after  a  little  while,  I  intend  to 
stow  them  in  bulk!"* — a  determina- 
tion which  soon  after  was  fearfully 
carried  into  effect ! 


During  the  Reign  of  Terror. 


933 

Already  had  our  provisions  been 
considerably  reduced  in  quantity  as 
well  as  quality.  They  were  still,  how- 
ever, to  undergo  another  diminution. 
The  scanty  portion  of  flesh  meat, 
which  to  this  time  had  been  allowed, 
was  now  entirely  withheld,  and  a 
small  addition  made  to  the  usual  al- 
lowance of  bread,  to  supply  its  place, 
the  ration  of  which  to  each  man  was 
now  a  pound  and  a  half  per  day. 
This,  and  a  pint  of  soup,  made  of  po- 
tatoes and  cabbages  boiled  in  water, 
served  out  twice  a-day,  constituted 
the  whole  of  our  food.  Still,  how- 
ever, some  of  the  prisoners  were  in 
possession  of  a  little  money,  which, 
being  in  specie,  was  held  in  great  es- 
timation by  the  French,  whose  only 
circulating  medium  was  their  worth- 
less assignats.  In  exchange,  there- 
fore, for  British  money,  we  could  ob- 
tain almost  an  incredible  quantity  of 
French  paper.  I  have  known  from 
twelve  to  fifteen  hundred  livres  given 
in  exchange  for  an  English  guinea. 
By  this  means  we  were  able  to  pur- 
chase from  the  inhabitants,  through 
the  aid  of  the  soldiers  who  guarded 
the  prison,  a  supply  of  a  few  neces- 
sary articles  to  eke  out  the  scanty 
allowance  of  the  prison.  But  this 
only  resource,  fast  dwindling  away, 
and  which  we  had  no  method  of  re- 
plenishing, was  not  always  exempt 
from  spoliation,  by  the  rapacity  of 
those  into  whose  hands  we  were  obli- 
ged to  intrust  our  money  for  the  pur- 
chase of  articles  in  the  town, — who 
not  unfrequently  left  the  hapless  pri- 
soner to  grieve  over  the  loss  of  all 
he  had  intrusted  to  a  soldier  for 
the  purchase  of  necessaries !  Nor 
were  we  the  victims  of  rapacity 
alone  -, — sometimes  sheer  brutality 
sported  itself  with  aggravating  our 
distress.  An  instance  of  this  kind 
may  be  furnished  in  the  conduct  of 
our  hard-hearted  commissary.  It  was 
customary  for  the  prisoners  to  pur- 
chase meat  to  make  soup,  or  meal  to 
make  a  kind  of  gruel.  These,  indeed, 
were  the  luxuries  of  those  who  were 
in  health,  the  only  consolation  of  such 
as  were  sick.  The  manner  in  which 
these  provisions  were  dressed,  was 
by  placing  an  earthen  pot,  called  by 
the  prisoners  a  confuree,  upon  two  or 
three  bricks  or  stones  in  the  prison- 


#  «.  e.  to  bury  them  by  wholesale. 


Narrative  of  an  Imprisonment  in  France 


934 

yard,  and  making  it  boil  by  keeping 
a  small  fire  under  it,  fed  with  sticks, 
which  we  purchased  for  the  purpose 
in  small  fagots.     On  a  certain  day, 
whilst  many  of  the  prisoners  were 
thus  busily  engaged  in  tending  their 
conjurees,  and  were  just  about  to  en- 
joy the  food  they  had  prepared,  thp 
commissary  made   his  appearance, 
and  sternly  ordered  all  the  prisoners 
to  be  immediately  turned  into  the 
orchard  to  be  mustered.    Every  one 
engaged  in  his  culinary  employment 
was  forthwith  obliged  to  cease  tend- 
ing his  little  fire,  and  leave  the  con- 
jurees, with  all  they  contained,  to 
their  chance.  In  the  orchard  we  were 
detained  for  three  hours,  hungry  and 
faint,  but  still  hoping  to  enjoy  our 
soup  and  gruel,  although  cold.  When, 
however,  we  were  admitted  into  the 
prison-yard,  piteous  was  the  scene 
which  presented  itself  to  us.  During 
our  absence,  the  unfeeling  commis- 
sary had  given  command  that  all  our 
conjurees  should  be  broken  to  pieces, 
and  their  contents  shed  upon  the 
ground ;  pretending  that  the  smoke 
of  our  little  fires  would  soil  the  walls 
of  our  prison ! 

Hitherto  we  had  been  able  to  bear 
tip  against  our  troubles  with  tolerable 
fortitude.  Our  allowance  of  bread 
was  indeed  scanty,  and  its  quality 
coarse,  yet  we  had  not  perceived  it 
to  be  pernicious.  It  was  not  long, 
however,  before  we  had  to  enume- 
rate this  circumstance  among  our  ca- 
lamities*^, 

The  close  of  the  year  1794  was  in- 
deed a  time  of  great  scarcity,  owing 
both  to  the  badness  of  the  preceding 
season,  and  the  desolating  conscrip- 
tions which  had  been  levied,  as  well 
upon,  the  cultivators  of  the  soil,  as  on 
other  classes  of  the  community,  in 
order  to  swell  the  ranks  of  the  army, 
to  the  comparative  neglect  of  agri- 
culture. The  prisoners  of  war  were 
sure  not  to  be  the  last  on  whom 
the  consequences  of  these  disasters 
would  fall.  Towards  the  close  of  the 
autumn,  we  began  to  perceive  a  de- 
terioration in  the  quality  of  our  bread, 
and  to  feel  the  effects  of  it  in  our 
health.  Every  week  its  quality  be- 
came perceptibly  worse,  till  from  the 
coarsest  and  worst  kind  of  wheaten 
flour,  it  at  length  was  made  of  such 
a  vile  admixture  of  barley,  rye,  and 
other  wretched  materials,  that  the 
loaves  had  scarcely  the  appearance 
»90  oH  .agniliawb  wiou^fioa  ad J 


LDec. 


of  bread.    An  encrustation,  full  of 
husks  of  various  grain,  was  hardly 
possessed  of  sufficient  consistency  to 
hold  together  its  loathsome  contents. 
On  removing  the  crust,  nothing  ge- 
nerally presented  itself  but  a  black- 
ish paste,  so  revolting  to  look  upon, 
that  nothing  short  of  actual  starvation 
could  bring  a  human  being  to  eat  it. 
A  pound  and  a  half  per  day  of  this 
wretched  substitute  for  bread,  toge- 
ther with  water  to  drink,  was  all  the 
provision  allowed  at  this  time  for  our 
support !  The  result  upon  the  health 
and  life  of  the  prisoners  may  easily 
be  imagined.     That  large  proportion 
of  our  inmates,  who  through  poverty 
were  restricted  to  the  prison  allow- 
ance, speedily  began  to  droop  under 
the  withering  influence  of  disease. 
Those  whose  constitution  was  less 
robust  than  the  rest  fell  early  victims, 
and  thus  escaped  the  increasing  hor- 
rors which  those  were  doomed  to 
witness,  whose  bodily  vigour  was 
more  tenacious  of  life. 

A  small  building  behind  one  of  the 
wings  of  the  prison,  which  seemed 
formerly  to  have  been  appropriated 
for  a  cow-house,  was  now  set  apart 
for  a  temporary  reception   of  the 
dead  till  they  were   removed  for 
burial.    Never  shall  I  forget  the  ap- 
palling sensation  I  felt,  and  which 
pervaded  the  prison,  when  this  ante- 
chamber of  death  first  received  its 
guests.    A  chill  of  horror  came  over 
eveiy  spectator,  as  he  beheld  the 
bodies  of  his  comrades  laid  out  in 
this  gloomy  receptacle,  wrapped  up 
in  sheets  or  blankets, — the  only  sub- 
stitute for  a  coffin  which  could  be 
procured  for  any  one, — whilst  a  sad 
presentiment  seemed  to  seize  upon 
him,  that  he  was  looking  upon  the 
circumstances  in  which,  after  a  few 
weeks,  or  even  days,  he  was  himself 
perhaps  destined  to  lie.     The  dead- 
cart  now  began  to  pay  its  regular 
visits,   every   second   day,    to    this 
transient  abode  of  the  corpses,  for 
the  purpose  of  removing  them  for 
burial. 

After  some  time  an  adjoining 
building  was  converted  into  an  hos- 
pital, into  which  some  of  the  worst 
cases  were  removed  from  the  gene- 
ral prison.  Here,  indeed,  the  pro- 
visions were  considerably  better,  but 
the  patients  were  seldom  admitted 
till  the  spark  of  life  had  sunk  too 
low  to  be  capable  of  resuscitation, 
boibuxfii 


18SI.] 


During  the  Reign  of  Tenor. 


Soon,  however,  the  hospital  was  too     by  the  length  and  darkness  of  the 

;  4.    A,  „     ,.,,,.,,;,.,,.     n      +!  f-l»  /»     *-*£*     +1*  /»     *-vn  -rti/>lif        /iin*i  n/v      T»rV»ir»  r»      1X70      TPPVA     HOT 


strait  to  receive  a  tithe  of  the  pa- 
tients who  were  daily  falling  a  prey 
to  the  ravages  of  disease,  rendered 
now  more  desolating  than  ever,  by 
infection-,  in  the  crowded  rooms  in 
which  we  were  obliged  to  lie.  Not 
only  did  the  mortality  rapidly  in- 
crease, but  the  disease  itself  assu- 
med a  more  terrific  character.  In- 
stead of  the  languor  and  exhaustion 
which  before  quietly  extinguished 
life,  a  raging  fever  now  aggravated 
and  exasperated  our  former  mala- 
dies. Under  the  paroxysms  of  the 
fever,  it  was  difficult  to  prevent  the 
patients  from  destroying  themselves. 
Instances  of  this  kind,  not  a  few, 
actually  occurred.  Some  during  the 
night  threw  themselves  out  of  the 
windows,  and  were  found  in  the 
morning  lying  on  the  pavement,  the 
most  hideous  spectacles  which  dis- 
ease and  death  can  possibly  present ; 
whilst  others  were  found  at  the  bot- 
tom of  a  deep  well  which  was  in  the 
prison-yard  !  As  the  winter  advan- 
ced, the  mournfulness  of  our  condi- 
tion was  proportionably  increased 

oifo  'io 
•rol 


night,  during  which  we  were  not 
allowed  the  use  of  a  candle  in  any 
of  our  rooms;  the  only  light  per- 
mitted being  a  small  lamp  at  the  head 
of  each  of  the  stairs.  All  the  offices 
of  kindness,  therefore,  needed  by 
the  sick  and  the  dying,  were  to  be 
performed  in  the  dark.  Often  did 
the  dreariness  of  the  night  draw  a 
veil  over  the  last  agonies  of  our  com- 
rades, which  only  the  morning  light 
removed,  presenting  us,  at  the  same 
time,  with  their  ghastly  corpses.  If 
occasion  required  any  one  to  go  into 
the  yard,  he  was  likely,  as  he  groped 
his  way,  to  stumble  over  the  dead 
body  of  some  one  who  had  crawled 
out  of  his  room  for  air,  and  died  in 
the  passage;  or  of  one  which  had 
been  placed  there  for  convenience 
till  the  morning.  The  groans  and 
shrieks  with  which  the  gloomy  walls 
of  our  prison  reverberated  through 
the  livelong  night,  still  echo  in  my 
ears !  Tins  might,  indeed,  have 
been  the  very  prototype  from  which 
our  Great  Poet  has  so  powerfully 
described  his  lazar-house : 


Diro  was  the  tossing,  deep  the  groans.     Despair 

Tended  the  sick,  busied  from  couch  to  couch  ; 

And  over  them  triumphant  Death  his  dart 

Shook,  hut  delay'd  to  strike,  though  oft  invoked 

With  vows,  as  their  chief  good,  and  final  hope. 

Sight  so  deform,  what  heart  of  rock  could  long 

Dry-eyed  hehold  !" 

Thrice  during  these  awful  ravages     who,  far  from  their  native  shores, 

were  indiscriminately  mingled  in 
one  common  grave.  Just  as  the  part- 
ing rays  of  day  were  fading  into 
night,  I  looked  at  him,  and  in  my 
delirium  said,  in  a  tone — he  has  told 
me — the  most  piteous,  "  Farewell, 
father,  I  am  just  going, — it  is  nearly 
nine  o'clock, — I  must  be  at  school  in 
time."  The  saying  affected  him  to 
tears ;  nor  could  those  who  were 
present  but  deeply  sympathize  in 
his  sorrows.  During  the  night  I 
sunk  again  into  a  deadly  stupor. 
The  darkness  of  the  room,  unrelie- 
ved by  the  least  gleam  of  light,  left 
my  afflicted  parent,  as  he  anxiously 
watched  over  me,  no  other  means  of 
ascertaining  whether  I  yet  continued 
to  live,  or  whether  the  spark  of  vita- 
lity was  extinct,  than  by  the  hearing 
or  the  touch.  It  was  now  past  mid- 
night :  no  other  sounds  broke  the 
stillness  of  our  room,  but  the  moans 
of  distress  which  reached  us  from 
the  contiguous  dwellings.  He  ceased 


of  sickness  and  death,  were  my  father 
and  I  seized  with  the  prison  fever ; 
but,  providentially,  our  illness  was 
alternate,  one  of  .us  being  generally 
so  far  recovered,  as  to  be  able  to  at- 
tend upon  the  other;  each  attack, 
however,  leaving  us  more  feeble  than 
the  preceding.  My  last  relapse  was 
as  near  proving  fatal  as  possible. 
Reduced  nearly  to  the  utmost  ex- 
haustion, my  father  had  been  for  the 
two  preceding  days  and  nights 
watching  over  me,  expecting  me  to 
breathe  my  last.  On  the  third  even- 
ing, however,  I  rallied  a  little,  and 
recovered  my  speech ;  but  what  I 
spoke  was  only  under  the  influence 
of  delirium.  The  words  which  I 
uttered  on  the  occasion,  as  I  was 
afterwards  informed  by  my  father, 
were  calculated  only  to  augment  his 
distress,  as  he  took  them  to  be  omi- 
nous of  his  being  just  about  to  lose 
his  only  child,  and  consign  him  to 
the  mournful  fate  of  the  hundreds 


Narrative  of  an  Imprisonment  in  France 


[Dec. 


to  perceive  any  symptoms  of  re- 
maining life;  and  could  no  longer 
suppress  the  anguish  of  his  heart. 
"  O  my  son,  my  poor  son!  My 
only  child  is  dead !"  he  exclaimed. 
The  affectionate  sympathy  of  our 
companions  was  instantly  awakened, 
and  every  argument  which  kind 
condolence  could  suggest,  was  ten- 
dered to  soothe  his  sorrows,  and 
assuage  his  grief.  Doctor  Fuhr, — for 
that  was  the  name  of  the  physician 
who  was  an  inmate  of  our  room, — 
kindly  repaired  to  the  bed  on  which 
I  lay,  and  after  long  and  careful  ex- 
amination, pronounced  that  symp- 
toms of  life  still  remained.  It  was 
the  crisis  of  the  disease — the  mo- 
ment of  resuscitation — the  com- 
mencement of  a  more  vigorous  con- 
stitution than  I  had  ever  before  en- 
joyed. So  strangely  does  nature 
sometimes  produce  results  the  most 
opposite  to  its  seeming  tendencies ! 
Of  the  extent  and  malignity  of  the 
disease  which  raged  in  the  prison, 
some  idea  may  be  formed  from  the 
following  facts;  that  of  the  great 
multitude  of  persons  confined  within 
its  walls,  scarcely  twenty  escaped 
without  being  two  or  three  times  ill 
of  it ;  and  these  individuals  were 
looked  upon  by  all  the  rest  as  pro- 
digies. At  the  period  when  it  was 
most  fatal,  it  was  customary  for  the 
dead-cart  every  morning  to  carry  out 
of  the  prison  gates  from  twenty  to 
twenty-five  corpses  for  interment.  Of 
the  3000  prisoners  who  were  num- 
bered at  the  commencement  of  the 
mortality,  1700  fell  victims  during 
the  lapse  of  only  three  months. 
•  When  the  disease  began  to  subside, 
such  was  the  eagerness  for  food,  and 
the  scantiness  of  our  allowance,  that 
many  of  the  most  destitute  allayed 
their  hunger  by  seizing  upon  dogs 
which  accidentally  strayed  into  the 
prison,  killing  them  and  dressing 
them  for  food  !  All  the  methods 
which  ingenuity  could  devise,  or  our 
exhausted  resources  furnish,  were 
put  in  requisition  to  obtain  relief. 
Among  the  rest  some  courted  the 
muse.  Ballads — of  a  sorry  sort  it  is 
true — were  composed  and  sung,  and 
copies  written  out  and  sold  to  those 
who  had  either  money  or  provisions 
to  spare,and  were  willing  to  exchange 
them  for  song.  Out  of  the  fugitive 
pieces  produced  on  this  occasion,  I 
preserved  one,  which,  as  it  records 


needless  to  make  apology, 
er,  doubtless,  will  prefer 


the  scene  just  described  by  an  eye- 
witness at  the  time,  may  not  be  un- 
interesting to  peruse.  For  the  home- 
liness of  the  phrase  and  diction  it  is 
The  read- 
the  strains 

fresh  as  they  came  from  the  pen  of  mi- 
sery, to  verses  polished  in  after  times, 
with  greater  care,  by  other  hands. 
They  are  given,  therefore,  without 
the  alteration  of  a  single  word,  just  as 
they  were  written  and  sung,  amidst 
the  gloomy  scenes  which  they  record. 

THE  COMPIAINT  OF  THE  PRISONERS  OF  WAR, 

DURING  THE  GREAT  MORTALITY, 

IN   QUIMPER    I'lUSON. 

Ah  !   Britain's  guardian  Genius, 
Why  leave  thy  sons  so  brave, 

To  drop  unpitied,  unlamented, 
To  the  silent  grave  ? 

To  pine  amid  disease  and  want, 

Upon  proud  Gallia's  shore, 
Till  Death's  long  night  did  them  surround? 

They  sleep  to  wake  no  more. 

Ah  !  see  the  sons  of  Neptune  bold, 

For  valour  long  renown  "d, 
Lie  helpless  as  the  new-born  babe 

Upon  the  cold  hard  ground ; 

Who,  though  they've  faced  the  battle's  rage 

Unhurt,  and  tempest  wild, 
Are  doom'd,  alas  !  at  last  to  be 

By  cruel  usage  foil'd. 

Ah  !  many  a  father's  tender  heart, 

And  many  a  mother's  too, 
And  many  a  widow'd  helpless  wife, 

Will  Quimper  Prison  rue. 

For  many  a  youth  of  promis'd  bloom, 

And  many  a  husband  dear, 
Far,  far  from  England's  friendly  shore 

Were  stretch'd  upon  the  bier. 

Three  thousand  men  were  in  its  walls, 
Once  healthy,  stout,  and  well, 

But  ere  three  months  were  past  and  gone, 
Full  seventeen  hundred  fell ; 

Whilst  with  dejected  downcast  eyes, 
Weak,  languid,  starved,  and  pale, 

The  sad  survivors  scarce  had  strength 
To  tell  the  mournful  tale. 

While  smiling  plenty  crowns  the  board 

Of  those  wbo  rest  at  home, 
Here  hai'dships  wait  the  wand'ring  youths, 

That  for  their  profit  roam. 

While  life's  warm  blood  bedews  my  veins, 
And  grief  affords  a  tear, 


1831.] 


During  the  Reign  of  Terror. 


Still  shall  I  mourn  the  hapless  hour 
That  led  my  footsteps  here. 

Should  some  gay  youth,  who  ne'er  has  felt 

The  piercing  dart  of  pain, 
Despise  these  simple  artless  lines, 

And  laugh  the  mournful  strain  ; 

Ask  him,  what  Muse  could  sing  of  joy, 

Amid  such  scenes  of  woe  ? 
Though  hard  his  heart,  were  he  but  here, 

The  ready  tear  would  flow. 

Goaded  by  distress,  and  nearly 
famished,  it  can  scarcely  excite  sur- 
prise, that  recourse  should  be  had, 
by  some  of  the  prisoners,  to  unwar- 
rantable actions.  One  of  these,  in 
the  order  of  events,  comes  next  to 
be  described. 

Whatever  defence  the  commissary 
who  at  this  time  had  charge  of  us 
might  have  made,  in  reply  to  the 
barbarity  imputed  to  his  conduct,  it 
was  natural  for  those  who  had  already 
witnessed  several  instances  of  his 
cruelty,  to  regard  him  as  the  princi- 
pal occasion  of  all  the  miseries  they 
were  suffering ;  nor  was  it  unlikely 
that  revenge  would  be  contempla- 
ted. Reckless  of  all  consequences, 
certain  of  the  prisoners  came  to  the 
rash  determination  of  assassinating 
him.  With  this  intention,  some  of 
them  procured  a  large  stone,  which 
they  took  to  the  highest  story  of  the 
prison,  and  kept  a  perpetual  watch 
for  his  passing  by,  when  he  should 
pay  his  next  visit.  The  fearful  mo- 
ment arrived.  The  stone  was  launch- 
ed from  the  window  just  as  the  com- 
missary came  under  it; — fortunately 
for  all  the  prisoners,  it  fell  harmless 
at  his  feet;  as  there  can  be  little 
doubt,  that  had  the  fatal  strata- 
gem succeeded,  summary  vengeance 
would  have  been  taken  on  its  perpe- 
trators. Full  of  fury,  the  commis- 
sary hastily  fled  from  the  prison, 
called  an  assembly  of  the  magistrates, 
and  related  the  narrow  escape  he 
had  just  had  from  instant  death,  ask- 
ing their  counsel  how  he  should  pro- 
ceed against  the  prisoners.  Some 
advised  indiscriminate  retaliation, 
others  to  have  recourse  to  decima- 
tion. After  long  deliberation,  how- 
ever, they  came  to  the  conclusion, 
that  the  man,  or  men,  who  actually 
launched  the  stone  from  the  build- 
ing, should  be  delivered  up  to  the 
municipal  authorities,  and  undergo 
the  penalty  due  to  their  crime  j  that 


937 

if  this  were  not  immediately  done, 
all  the  prisoners  should  forthwith  be 
put  to  death.  Enquiry  was  instantly 
made.  Five  men  were  found  to  have 
engaged  in  the  conspiracy,  but  only 
one  of  them  actually  launched  the 
stone.  This  individual — an  English- 
man— was  delivered  up  to  a  guard  of 
soldiers,  and  he  was  conducted  out 
of  the  prison,  expecting  nothing  but 
instant  death  by  the  guillotine.  To 
our  great  astonishment,  however,  on 
the  following  day  a  message  was  sent 
into  the  prison,  stating,  that  under  all 
the  circumstances  of  the  case,  the 
council  had  come  to  the  resolution 
of  referring  the  culprit  to  the  judg- 
ment of  the  prisoners  themselves ; 
and  that  when  they  had  determined 
what  punishment  to  inflict  upon  him, 
the  council  would  send  a  deputation 
from  the  town  to  see  ft  carried  into 
execution.  The  offender  was  accord- 
ingly delivered  into  our  custody,  and 
the  whole  case  was  minutely  investi- 
gated by  a  tribunal  of  our  own.  After 
finding  the  prisoner  guilty,  the  sen- 
tence of  the  court  was  pronounced 
upon  him, — That  he  should  receive 
300  lashes  upon  his  naked  back,  in  the 
presence  of  all  the  prisoners,  and  of 
the  committee  appointed  to  witness 
the  punishment. 

The  time  appointed  for  carrying 
the  sentence  into  execution  arrived. 
All  the  prisoners  were  summoned  to 
attend  in  the  yard.  The  commissary 
himself,  attended  by  the  principal 
magistrates  of  the  town,  repaired  to 
the  spot.  Two  stakes  had  been  dri- 
ven into  the  ground  in  the  centre  of 
the  yard;  to  these  the  culprit  was 
bound  by  his  arms  and  legs,  and  the 
flogging  commenced.  Atter  a  few 
lashes  the  blood  began  to  flow.  Be- 
fore he  had  received  fifty  lashes,  the 
whole  of  his  back  appeared  to  be 
raw  and  streaming  with  blood.  Af- 
fected with  the  cries  and  groans  of 
the  sufferer,  and  the  mangled  appear- 
ance of  his  body,  the  French  gentle- 
men who  were  present  declared 
themselves  satisfied,  and  besought 
that  the  remainder  of  the  sentence 
might  be  remitted;  even  the  com- 
missary himself  relented ;  and  at  the 
united  entreaty  of  the  deputation,who 
were  satisfied  with  the  punishment 
already  inflicted,  he  was  taken  down 
from  the  stakes,  and  conveyed  into  the 
prison.  Whether  or  not  it  was  from 
the  accumulation  of  distresses,  which 


939 


Narrative  of  an  Imprisonment  in  France 


[Dec. 


we  were  known  by  the  inhabitants  of 
Quimper  to  have  endured,  or  from 
the  naturally  humane  and  benevolent 
temper  of  the  French  nation,  which 
was  now  gaining  the  ascendency  over 
the  demon  of  cruelty  and  massacre 
which  Jacobinism  had  let  loose 
among  them,  we  knew  not ;  we  could 
not,  however,  but  mark  a  decided 
improvement  in  their  treatment  of 
us  from  this  time.  The  quality  of 
our  bread  was  greatly  improved  ;  a 
ration  of  salt-fish,  or  beef,  was  added 
to  our  daily  allowance  of  food;  and 
the  health  of  the  surviving  prisoners 
began  to  improve.  The  former  com- 
missary, however,  was  never  more 
seen  amongst  us,  and  another  was 
appointed  as  his  successor.  Our 
wonted  employments  began  to  be 
resumed,  and  the  cheering  thought, 
that  we  might  yet  survive  to  tell  our 
tale  on.  British  ground,  gave  excite- 
ment to  hope,  and  vigour  to  indus- 
try* i/  II* 

To  our  accustomed  avocations, 
indeed,  were  now  added  others, 
which  arose  out  of  our  former  dis- 
tresses. A  great  number  of  persons 
whom  the  late  mortality  had  remo- 
ved from  us,  had  left  a  stock  of  ef- 
fects, which  were  either  bequeathed 
by  will  to  relatives  and  acquaintan- 
ces, or  had  come  into  the  possession 
of  those  whom  chance  had  made 
their  associates.  To  prevent  injus- 
tice and  settle  disputes,  a  court  of 
equity  was  instituted,  chosen  from 
among  those  who  were  thought  to  be 
best  skilled  in  the  jurisprudence  of 
our  own  country,  and  who  had  most 
distinguished  themselves  by  wisdom 
and  integrity.  In  this  court  all  dis- 
puted claims  to  the  property  of  the 
deceased  were  adjusted,  either  by 
the  proof  of  a  will  and  testament,  or 
by  the  examination  of  evidence  of 
the  deceased's  intention.  When  no 
special  claims  were  preferred,  nor 
documents  produced,  the  effects  of 
the  deceased  were  either  distributed 
equally  among  the  surviving  inmates 
of  the  mess,  or  given  to  those  who 
were  thought  to  be  most  indigent 
and  distressed.  With  such  care  and 
exactness  was  every  case  examined, 
and  so  great  was  the  reputation  of 
the  judges  for  uprightness,  that  their 
decision  was  generally  final  and  sa- 
tisfactory. 

By  this  means  a  large  assortment 
of  clothing,  books,  articles  of  taste, 


or  instruments  of  science,  were  cither 
offered  for  sale  at  regular  marts,  or 
sold  by  public  auction.  Sometimes, 
when  an  article  was  thought  to  be 
too  valuable  to  be  hazarded  by  the 
latter  method  of  sale,  recourse  was 
had  to  the  raffle.  A  circumstance 
somewhat  curious,  connected  with 
the  last  mode  of  proceeding,  may  be 
amusing  to  notice.  A  very  valuable 
German  flute,  the  property  of  a  lieu- 
tenant in  the  navy,  lately  deceased, 
was  disposed  of  in  this  manner.  The 
terms  proposed  were,  that  twelve 
persons  should  subscribe  ten  livres 
each  ;  the  highest  throw  of  the  dice 
was  to  be  entitled  to  the  flute.  These 
conditions  had  been  announced 
through  the  prison  for  two  or  three 
preceding  days.  Such,  however,  was 
the  scarcity  of  money,  or  the  want 
of  musical  taste,  that  at  the  time  ap- 
pointed for  the  raffle,  only  eleven 
persons  had  come  forward  with  their 
subscriptions.  An  Irish  gentleman, 
one  of  the  inmates  of  our  room,  ha- 
ving heard  of  the  affair,  with  a  warmth 
and  energy  characteristic  of  his  coun- 
try, intreated  my  father  to  advance 
me  the  sum  necessary  to  try  my 
luck.  To  this  he  hesitated  a  long 
while,  urging  as  a  reason,  that  even 
this  small  sum  was  of  great  conse- 
quence to  us,  who  had  no  means 
whatever  of  obtaining  money  from 
home.  "  Fait,"  said  my  Irish  advo- 
cate, "  and  why  do  you  stand  in  the 
lad's  way  ?  I'm  perfectly  sure — sure 
to  a  demonstration — that  if  you  will 
only  tell  out  your  livres,  he'll  bring 
the  flute  down  with  him  under  his 
arm — aye,  and  so  he  will." — "  What 
will  become  of  us,"  said  my  father, 
"  if  our  little  stock  of  money  fail  !" 
— "  Sure,  and  why  do  you  doubt 
my  word?"  continued  my  energe- 
tic advocate,  "  I  tell  you,  by  my 
faith,  I'm  so  sure  he  will  bring  the 
flute  down  with  him,  that  if  you  won't 
let  the  lad  go,  I'll  put  down  the  mo- 
ney for  him  myself !"  The  enthusi- 
asm which  his  whole  manner  bespoke 
on  the  occasion,  carried  the  point. 
I  took  the  subscription  in  my  hand. 
The  proprietor  of  the  flute,  despair- 
ing to  obtain  the  twelfth  subscriber, 
had  consented  that  the  raflie  should 
go  on  with  eleven;  and  when  I  reach- 
ed the  room  it  was  actually  in  pro- 
gress ;  only  three  persons  had  yet  to 
throw.  I  paid  down  my  money,  and 
took  the  last  chance.  Strangely 


1831 .]  During  the  Reign  of  Terror. 

enough,  my  throw  was  actually  the 
highest,  and  I  bore  away  the  flute  in 
triumph!  On  entering  my  room,  all 
my  companions  hailed  my  good  for- 
tune. My  father  could  scarcely  be- 
lieve his  eyes  ;  whilst  my  Hibernian 
friend,  with  sententious  utterance, 
and  a  solemnity  of  countenance 
which  seemed  to  scout  all  unbelief 
in  his  pretensions  to  infallible  vati- 
cination, said,  as  he  directed  his  fin- 
ger towards  me,  "  There,  don't  you 
see  him  with  the  flute  under  his 
arm !  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  was  sure 
he  would  bring  it  down  with  him ! 
Only  look  at  him,  and  never  doubt 
my  word  again !" 

With  business,  or  amusement,  we 
could  tolerably  relieve  the  weari- 
someness  of  our  monotonous  life  du- 
ring the  day.  This  was  not,  how- 
ever, so  easy  a  task  through  the 
darkness  of  the  night.  Almost  the 

only  expedient  left  for  this  purpose 
was  friendly  conversation,  or  singing 

some  strains  of  valour,  patriotism, 

or  the  scenes  of  home.     Yet  one 

small  amusement  arose  out  of  even 

an  annoyance.  The  prison  was  much 

infested  with  mice.   These  at  length 

became  so  familiar,  that  no  sooner 

did  the  shadows  of  the  evening  fall 

upon  us,  than  they  used  to  sally  forth 

in  quest  of  crumbs  scattered  on  the 

floor,  or  whatever  provisions  negli- 
gence had  left  unprotected.    To  the 

former  they  were  lawfully  entitled, 

but  their  right  to  the  latter  we  de- 
nied.   Traps  of  various  kinds  were 

made,  and  ambushes  set,  to  surprise 

our  nocturnal  depredators.     None, 

however,  seemed  so  fully  to  answer 

the  purpose  as  a  simple  contrivance 

which  I  had  the  merit  of  inventing. 

The  position  of  the  bed  on  which  my 

father  and  I  lay  was  such,  that  my 

head,  when  recumbent,  was  in  a  di- 
rect line  with  the  window's  side, 

about  the  middle  of  which  was  a 

small  projection  of  wainscoting  about 

an  inch  and  a  half  broad.    This  hap- 
pened to  be  a  favourite  mouse-walk, 

at  the  corner  of  which  the  little  bri- 
gands used  to  make  their  descent 

upon  us.     This  was  the  very  point 

on  which  the  stratagem  was  to  be 

practised.  For  this  purpose,  the  end 

of  a  small  string  was  fastened  on  one 

side  of  the  projection,  whilst  on  the 

margin  of  the  opposite  side  was  made 

a  perforation,    through   which    the 

other  end  of  the  string  was  passed 


so  as  to  reach  down  to  my  pillow, 
leaving  a  small  noose  at  the  top,  un- 
der which  it  was  necessary  for  the 
enemy  to  pass.  Here  for  hours  to- 
gether I  was  accustomed  to  lie  on 
the  look-out,  with  the  string  round 
my  finger,  keeping  the  point  where 
the  enemy  was  expected  in  a  direct 
line  between  my  eye  and  a  pane  of 
the  window,  watching  the  first  mo- 
ment of  his  appearance,  just  as  an 
astronomer  watches  the  instant  when 
a  satellite  emerges  from  the  disk  of 
Jupiter.  Not  a  moment  was  to  be 
lost ;  the  instant  his  little  snout  ap- 
peared over  the  precipice, — for  the 
more  advantageous  observing  of 
which,  a  moonlight  night  was  espe- 
cially favourable, — it  was  time  for 
action ;  the  deadly  twitch  was  to  be 
made.  Scarcely  one  endeavoured 
to  pass  the  fatal  position,  so  long  as 
I  could  keep  awake  at  my  post, 
without  forfeiting  his  life.  Some- 
times fifteen  or  twenty  fell  victims 
in  the  course  of  one  night !  To  such 
schemes  as  these — such  "  nurjce  lu- 
gubres"  as  one  expresses  it — we  had 
recourse  to  make  time  pass  less  hea- 
vily off  our  hands. 

We  had  now  been  confined  about 
eight  months  within  the  walls  of 
Quimper  prison.  Greater  facilities 
than  formerly  were,  indeed,  afforded 
for  procuring  some  of  the  comforts 
of  life,  by  those  who  had  the  good 
fortune  to  possess  more  money  than 
ourselves ;  but  our  resources,  alas ! 
were  almost  entirely  exhausted.  Our 
clothing  was  worn  out,  nor  had  we 
scarcely  any  other  subsistence  than 
what  the  allowance  of  the  prison  af- 
forded. Nothing  remained  but  to 
part  with  nearly  all  the  valuable 
things  which  were  left.  First  our 
watches  were  disposed  of,  and  next 
the  German  flute  which  had  so  lately 
come  into  my  possession.  The  latter 
having  been  acquired  in  the  manner 
already  related,  was  not  to  be  parted 
with  without  the  utmost  reluctance  ; 
but  what  bounds  can  be  prescribed 
to  hunger  and  destitution !  It  was 
knocked  down  to  the  highest  bidder, 
with  my  father's  promise,  that  as 
surely  as  we  ever  reached  our  native 
land  alive,  he  would  replace  it  with 
one  equally  valuable.  Upon  the  pro- 
ceeds of  these  sales  we  lived  for  a 
considerable  time.  We  still  retained 
our  bed — the  only  consolation  left, 
and  the  very  last  with  which  we 


Narrative  of  an  Imprisonment  in  France 


940 

could  consent  to  part.  To  this  dire 
necessity,  however,  we  were  fast 
approaching,  when,  to  our  unspeak- 
able joy,  a  number  of  fresh  prisoners 
arrived  from  Brest.  They  had  been 
captured  in  a  Portuguese  ship  home- 
ward bound  from  the  Brazils,  richly 
laden,  and  containing,  among  other 
articles,  a  large  quantity  of  gold  and 
silver  coin,  the  great  mass  of  which 
they  threw  overboard  just  before 
they  were  captured ;  but  had  secre- 
ted upon  themselves,  and  amongst 
their  clothes,  as  much  as  their  inge- 
nuity could  devise.  Happily  for  the 
surviving  prisoners,  they  succeeded 
in  bringing  their  treasures  undetect- 
ed into  the  prison.  Fortunate  were 
they  who  could  produce  documents 
on  which  the  money-holders  were 
willing  to  lend  their  cash  on  interest. 
Now  was  the  time  for  negotiation — 
bonds,  securities,  promissory-notes, 
the  claims  of  friendship, and  the  debts 
of  obligation — all  were  brought  into 
requisition.  New  life  began  to  cir- 
culate through  every  memoer  of  our 
community;  joy  sparkled  in  every 
eye ;  congratulation  resounded  in  all 
parts  of  our  prison.  Never,  perhaps, 
did  the  precious  metals  appear  more 
precious ;  never,  certainly,  did  they 
answer  a  more  valuable  purpose, 
than  in  our  circumstances,  and  on 
this  occasion.  For  though  compara- 
tively few  could,  in  the  first  instance, 
give  sufficient  security  to  satisfy  the 
original  holders,  yet,  in  proportion  as 
money  got  into  the  hands  of  other 
individuals,  it  became  still  more 
within  reach  of  those  who  were  less 
known,  and  less  able  to  give  a  satis- 
factory pledge;  whilst  that  which 
could  not  be  obtained  as  a  loan,  was, 
in  many  instances,  conceded  by  ge- 
nerosity. Thus  it  came  to  pass,  that 
few,  if  any,  of  our  fellow-prisoners 
were  unvisited  by  this  unexpected 
and  most  opportune  influx  of  wealth. 
Amongst  the  rest,  my  father,  on  pro- 
ducing the  register  of  the  Morning 
Herald,  the  policy  of  insurance,  and 
other  valuable  papers,  which  fortu- 


[Dec. 


nately  he  had  secured  at  the  time  of 
our  capture,  was  able  to  procure  a 
considerable  sum  of  money  at  the 
first  hand;  and  in  his  turn  lend  to 
those  of  his  ship's  company  who 
still  survived. 

The  severity  of  our  suffering  was 
now  past.  Every  week  brought 
fresh  evidence  that  the  French  peo- 
ple were  returning  to  a  compassion- 
ate and  humane  temper.  Our  pre- 
sent commissary  frequently  visited 
us,  rather  as  a  friend  and  counsellor, 
than  as  his  predecessor  was  wont  to 
do ;  from  whose  approach  we  used 
to  flee  as  from  the  presence  of  a  ty- 
rant. Liberty  was  allowed  daily  to 
a  certain  number  of  prisoners,  escort- 
ed by  a  soldier,  to  visit  the  town  for 
the  purpose  of  purchasing  articles  of 
fooa  or  clothing  for  themselves,  or  of 
executing  commissions  for  those  who 
continued  in  the  prison.  A  privilege 
still  greater  was  soon  after  announ- 
ced. All  officers  and  gentlemen  who 
would  give  security  for  their  correct 
conduct,  were  permitted  to  hire 
lodgings  in  the  town,  upon  the  con- 
ditions of  regularly  passing  a  daily 
muster — of  not  wandering  beyond 
the  precincts  of  the  town — and  of 
being  in  our  lodgings  at  a  given  hour 
in  the  evening.  Of  this  privilege,  the 
late  supply  of  money  enabled  my 
father  and  me,  with  many  others,  to 
avail  ourselves.  We  accordingly  hired 
a  lodging  in  a  respectable  house,  and 
were  treated  with  all  possible  atten- 
tion and  kindness  by  the  family  with 
whom  we  resided.  With  a  view  to 
secure  us  from  interruption  whilst 
we  conducted  ourselves  with  pro- 
priety.and  kept  within  the  prescribed 
boundaries,  each  individual  was  fur- 
nished with  a  printed  document,  in 
which  were  inserted  the  name,  age, 
and  description  of  the  bearer.  The 
following  is  a  copy  of  this  curious 
instrument,  which  the  writer  of  this 
narrative  has  carefully  preserved  as 
a  record  of  his  appearance  in  the 
eyes  of  his  French  keepers  at  that 
time. 


QUIMPER. 

DEPOT 

Du 
Port  De  Brest. 


PRISONNIERS  DE  GUERRE  MARITIME. 


Libcrte,  Egalite,  Humanite. 


PREVOST,  Employe  civil  dc  la  Marine,  charge"  du 
detail  de  la  Police  des  prisonniers  dc  Guerre. 

En  vertu  de  1'Arrute  des  Representans  du  Feuple  GUEZNO  et  GUEBMIUR,  du  liuit 
Ventuse,  il  est  permis  H     *****     age  de     *     *     *     taille  de  quatrepieds, 


1831.]  During  the  Reign  qf  Terror.  941 

cbeveux  et  sourcils  chatein,  yeux  Ileus,  nez  retrousse,  bouche  petite,  menton  rond, 

front  bombeu,  visage  ovalle de  loger  chez  la  Veuve  Robbes,  rue 

Neuve,  numcro  481.  II  sc  rendra  tous  les  jours  a  l'aj>pel  qui  se  fera  a  10  beures  du 
matin  et  a  4  heures  apres-midi.  II  lui  est  defandu  de  sortir  de  1'enccinte  de  la  ville 
et  dc  courrir  les  rues  apros  la  retraite,  sous  peine  d'etre  reintegre  dans  les  prisons  et 
de  ne  pouvoir  etre  cautionne  de  nouveau. 

QUIMPER,  ce  12  Ventose,  an  3C.  de  la  Republique  Frangaise,  une  et  indivisible. 
Vu  au  Directoire  de  PHEVOST. 

District  de  Quimper. 

BARAZKV. 


Permitted  to  be  at  large,  under  the 
conditions  specified  in  the  preceding 
document,  we  had  a  fair  opportunity 
of  witnessing  the  peculiarities  of  the 
people  amongst  whom  we  resided, 
and   learning  their  dispositions  to- 
wards the  prisoners,  who-had  passed 
through  so  much  affliction  during  the 
preceding  months.     The  unnatural 
ferocity  formerly  manifested  towards 
us,  was  now  greatly  mitigated ;  scarce- 
ly, indeed,  did  any  of  the  inhabitants 
indicate  displacency.     In  many  in- 
stances we  were  treated  with  great 
respect,  and  introduced  into  excel- 
lent society.     Often  on  such  occa- 
sions, whilst  rehearsing  our  misfor- 
tunes, and  the  cruel  fate  which  had 
severed  us  from  our  native  country 
and  dearest  relatives,  and  the  still 
harder  fate  of  those  who  had  yet  to 
learn,  that  the  dearest  objects  of  their 
affections  were   mouldering  in  the 
dust, — have  we  seen  the  sympathetic 
tear  steal  down  the  cheek  of  female 
beauty,  and  heard  the  language  of 
such  kind  condolence,  as  beguiled 
the  hours  of  our  sad  captivity,  and, 
for  a  time,  made  us  feel  as  though 
we  were  sharing  the  sympathies  and 
friendships  of  home.     It  was  easy  at 
such  times  to  perceive,  that  whatever 
chivalrous  feelings  Britain  and  France 
mayentertain,  as  rivals  in  political  wis- 
dom, and  military  glory,  the  subjects 
of  each  kingdom  feel  a  kindlier  glow 
of  aftection,  and  a  higher  esteem  for 
each  other's  virtues,  than  for  those 
of  any  other  country  upon  earth. 

One  striking  peculiarity  in  the  inha- 
bitants soon  attracted  our  notice.  A 
race  of  persons,  totally  dissimilar  to 
the  French  in  language,  dress,  and 
manners,  were  seen  to  mix  up  with 
the  population  on  public  occasions. 
To  the  astonishment  of  some  of  our 
companions,  who  were  natives  of 
Wales,  and  could  speak  the  Welsh 
language,  they  were  able  to  make 
themselves  perfectly  understood  by 
these  inhabitants  of  the  mountainous 


parts  of  Brittany :  the  language  of 
the  one  being  little  more  than  a 
dialectic  variation  of  the  other. 
These,  on  market  days,  were  accus- 
tomed to  descend  from  their  moun- 
tains in  great  numbers,  bringing  the 
produce  of  the  country  in  waggons 
drawn  by  teams  of  oxen ;  themselves 
the  most  grotesque  figures  imagina- 
ble,—wearing  short  blue  jackets; 
canvass  breeches  hanging  looselyover 
their  loins,  and  bulging  out  at  the 
knees,  after  the  manner  of  the  Hol- 
landers; shod  with  large  wooden 
shoes ;  and  surmounted  with  a  hat, 
whose  crown  fitted  close  to  the  head, 
whilst  the  rim  was  extensive  as  a 
small  umbrella.  So  entire  had  they 
preserved  their  original  character, 
that  the  greater  part  of  them  were 
unable  to  vend  their  articles  but  by 
means  of  an  interpreter.  From  this 
it  seems  one  may  fairly  conclude, 
either  that  Great  Britain  was  origi- 
nally peopled  from  Brittany ;  or  that 
the  ancient  Britons,  when  expelled 
by  the  Saxons,  took  refuge  there  and 
peopled  the  country,  and  have  ever 
since  retained  their  language  and 
pristine  manners,  with  a  pertinacity 
similar  to  many  of  the  inhabitants  of 
the  mountainous  parts  of  Wales  in 
our  own  country. 

For  the  purpose  of  assuring  the 
freedom  of  religious  opinions  and 
worship ;  or,  as  it  might  with  greater 
truth  be  stated,  in  order  utterly  to 
supersede  the  influence  of  the  Chris- 
tian religion  in  France,  the  National 
Convention  had  decreed,  that  whilst 
the  Republic  would  not  allow  the 
exercise  of  religion  to  be  disturbed, 
yet  neither  would  it  afford  any  pe- 
cuniary support  for  its  exercise,  nor 
furnish  any  places  for  its  celebra- 
tion :  that  it  recognised  no  ministers 
of  worship,  nor  would  contribute 
any  thing  towards  their  lodging  and 
maintenance :  that  in  place  of  the 
Christian  Sabbath,  every  tenth  day 
should  be  observed  as  a  day  of  ex- 


Narrative  of  an  Imprisonment  in  France 


942 

euiption  from  usual  labour,  for  th'e 
put-pose  of  indulging  in  such  festi- 
vity and  amusements,  as  suited  every 
one's  inclination.  To  the  credit  of 
the  better  feelings  of  these  mountain- 
eers, certain  days  for  the  celebration 
of  religion  were  still  observed  by 
them — generally  on  the  market  days. 
At  these  times  the  large  church  in 
the  town  was  open  for  their  recep- 
tion, and  for  the  admission  of  any 
other  pereons  who  chose  to  unite  with 
them.  The  former  part  of  the  day 
was  generally  thus  employed,  and 
with  such  seeming  devotion  as  could 
not  but  powerfully  impress  the  oc- 
casional spectator.  Often  was  the 
church  so  crowded  during  the  pub- 
lic ceremony,  that  hundreds,  unable 
to  gain  admittance  within  the  doors, 
were  seen,  even  in  the  most  unfa- 
vourable weather,  kneeling  on  the 
wet  ground,  with  their  faces  directed 
towards  the  church  door.  Unfor- 
tunately for  the  consistency  of  some 
of  theserustic  worshippers, they  were 
but  too  frequently  seen  in  the  after 
part  of  the  day  in  a  state  of  the  most 
degrading  intoxication.  Yet  it  must 
not  be  hastily  concluded,  that  this 
appearance  of  devotion  was  not  in 
many  instances  consistently  support- 
ed. Not  a  few  with  whom  we  after- 
wards became  familiar,  -maintained 
all  the  consistency  of  a  rational  and 
evangelical  piety. 

Amongst  others  of  whom  honour- 
able mention  might  be  made,  the 
venerable  widow  with  whom  we  re- 
sided, was  exemplary  for  every  thing 
which  adorns  piety,  and  recommends 
morality.  She  was  sixty  years  of 
age,  and  had  been  a  widow  about 
ten  years.  Her  husband  had  been 
an  officer  of  rank  in  the  army  during 
the  better  days  of  Louis  XVI. — a 
loyal  and  devoted  adherent  to  the 
House  of  Bourbon,  and  a  conscien- 
tious and  consistent  member  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  communion.  In  the 
vigour  of  his  days,  and  the  near  pro- 
spect of  higher  promotion,  symptoms 
of  pulmonary  disease  began  to  de- 
velope  themselves.  In  less  than 
twelve  months  he  Avas  consigned  to 
the  tomb.  During  tho  closing  scene 
of  his  life,  he  frequently  endeavour- 
ed to  soothe  the  sorrows  of  his 
amiable  wife,  by  representing  to  her 
the  greater  distress  she  might  be 
called  to  endure,  if  Heaven,  in  an- 
swer to  her  prayer's,  were  to  grant 


[Dec. 


him  longer  life ;   that  he  foresaw  a 
fearful  struggle  about  to  arise  out  of 
the  political  intrigues,  the  principles 
of  democratical  insubordination,  and 
the  contempt  for  religion  which  were 
even  then  in  active,  though  secret 
operation.  "  How  could  I  endure,"  he 
would  say  to  her,  **  to  see  the  fabric 
of  law  and  order — the  product  of  the 
highest  intellect,  and  the  growth  of 
ages,  assailed  by  the  philosophers 
and  theorists  of  the   day,  without 
opposing  them  to  the  last  extremity !" 
In  making  such  representations  as 
these,  in  free  communication  around 
our  frugal  board,  often  have  we  seen 
our  venerable  hostess  suddenly  stop 
short  in  her    narrative,   as   having 
committed   herself,  by   making   so 
unreserved  a  statement  before  com- 
parative strangers ;  or  as  though  she 
suspected   some   revolutionary  spy 
of  the  Reign  of  Terror  were  in  hear- 
ing, to  accuse  her  of  too  near  affinity 
to  royalism  to  be  permitted  to  live. 
I  loved  to  sit  listening  to  her  fervent 
expressions  of  piety,  and  resignation 
to  her  bitter  fortunes,  many  ot  which 
are  now  stored  in  my  memory.   Ten 
years  she  had  been  a  widow;  and 
during  the  whole  of  that  time  had 
devoted  herself  to  relieving  the  poor 
and  distressed,  as  far  as  her  scanty 
savings  would  permit.     She  had  in- 
deed heavy  trials  to  bear.   She  seem- 
ed to  stand  alone  in  her  sorrows. 
The  society  of  enlightened  and  ac- 
complished  associates,  with  whom 
she  had  spent  her  more  prosperous 
days,  had   either   fallen   victims  to 
popular  fury,  or  been  driven  to  seek 
an  asylum  in  distant  lands,  or  con- 
cealment in  their  own.     Instead  of 
the  devout  orisons  and  vespers,  and 
the  solemn  service  of  the  church, 
had  been  substituted,  by  the  national 
decree,  a  new  ritual  of  heathenism, 
a  priesthood  appointed  to  teach  de- 
ism, and  hymns  and  ceremonies  in- 
stituted for  its   celebration.     Laws 
had  been  passed  to  enforce  the  De- 
cades as  holydays  in  their  new  calen- 
dar, and  for  the  desecration  of  the 
Christian  Sabbath  by  working  at  their 
ordinary  trades.     But  the  venerable 
widow    sought  refuge    from   these 
scenes  of  revolting  impiety  in  secret 
devotion.     Morning  and  evening  she 
was  accustomed  to  retire  into  her 
closet,  and  more  than  once,  in  the 
middle  of  the  day,  have  I  unawares 
intruded  upon   devotions  which   I 


1831.] 


During  the  Reign  <>f  Terror^ 


found  she  was  in  the  habit  of  offer- 
ing up  in  a  favourite  alcove  in  the 
garden.  Though  by  nation  and  from 
principle  a  Protestant,  and  educated 
amidst  all  the  superior  advantages 
of  a  reformed  religion,  I  must  can- 
didly acknowledge  I  have  been  led 
to  entertain  a  higher  reverence  and 
estimation  of  Christianity,  by  having 
•witnessed  its  benign  influence  upon 
the  heart  aud  conduct  of  this  Catho- 
lic lady. 

Previously  to  our  leaving  this  town, 
I  made  a  visit  to  the  mournful  spot, 
where  lay  interred  so  many  hundreds 
of  our  former  companions.  The  place 
was  about  a  mile  out  of  the  town  ;  an 
extensive  common  without  enclosure. 
There  were  six  large  graves,  each  of 
them  capable  of  containing  three  hun- 
dred corpses.  The  bodies  were  dispo- 
sed in  three  tiers,  with  a  layer  of  earth 
between  each  tier.  Unreflecting  in- 
deed must  have  been  the  mind,  and 
unfeeling  the  heart,  which  could  view 
the  scene  that  lay  before  me  with- 
out painful  emotion.  Scarcely  five 
months  had  elapsed  since  the  seven- 
teen hundred  corpses  which  now  lay 
at  my  feet,  were  my  associates  in 
affliction ;  many  of  them  endeared 
by  the  most  affectionate  recollec- 
tions, and  the  performance  of  offices 
of  mutual  kindness  !  How  many 
distressing  fears,  and  anxious  cares 
which  hovered  around  the  soul  of 
the  dying  husband  and  father,  in  be- 
half of  his  destined  widow  and  or- 
phan, werehere  rendered  unavailing ; 
whilst  the  sad  tidings  had  yet  to  reach 
the  ears  of  the  beloved  wife,  and  en- 
quiring child,  and  cruelly  wrest  from 
the  patient  sufferers  the  last  fragment 
of  hope!  Here,  in  one  undistinguished 
mass  of  corruption,  unshrouded  and 
uncoffined, lay  persons  of  various  ages 
and  nations,  ranks  and  conditions ; 
the  sad,  the  melancholy  victims  of 
war,  of  pestilence,  aud  of  famine ! 

We  had  now  spent  nearly  ten 
months  in  Quimper,  the  last  two  of 
which  afforded  some  compensation 
for  the  distress  we  had  endured  for 
the  time  preceding.  Of  political 
events  we  had  been  studiously  kept 
ignorant ;  but  in  this  respect  we  had 
little  more  to  complain  of  than  the 
inhabitants  themselves.  By  the  re- 
laxation of  former  severity  towards 
the  subjects  of  the  British  nation,  we 
were,  however,  led  to  conclude, 
either  that  the  domination  of  Jacob- 

VOL,  XXX.  NO,  CLXXXV1II. 


943 

iuism  had  been  superseded  by  a  more 
enlightened  and  liberal  constitution  ; 
or  that  an  exchange  of  prisoners  was 
in  contemplation  between  the  con- 
tending powers.  Of  this  we  more 
readily  persuaded  ourselves,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  liberation  of  an  Eng- 
lish person  of  rank,  Lady  Fitzroy, 
who  had  been  detained  a  prisoner  of 
war  for  several  months,  but  allowed 
to  occupy  a  large  dwelling* house  in 
the  neighbourhood,  guarded  per- 
petually by  a  sentinel  before  the 
door.  Previous  to  her  departure 
she  caused  it  to  be  secretly  made 
known  to  the  prisoners,  that  she 
would  be  the  bearer  of  as  many  let- 
ters as  she  could  conceal.  Through 
this  lady's  kindness  the  very  first 
letter  which  reached  our  family  since 
our  captivity,  was  conveyed.  Nor 
should  I  omit  to  state  here,  that  this 
was  not  the  only  favour  which  her 
ladyship's  kindness  and  liberality 
conferred  on  her  suffering  fellow- 
subjects.  During  our  deep  affliction 
she  frequently  ministered  to  our  ne- 
cessities, by  sending  food,  medicine, 
and  clothing,  to  some  of  the  most 
destitute.  She  left  the  town  followed 
by  the  grateful  affections  and  fervent 
prayers  of  her  countrymen  ;  hoping, 
at  the  same  time,  that  her  liberation 
was  only  the  precursor  of  our  own. 
Under  this  persuasion,  we  began,  too 
improvidently,  alas  !  to  relax  a  little 
the  rigid  economy  that  was  necessary 
to  husband  the  limited  resources 
which,  we  had  reason  to  fear,  were 
all  we  should  be  able  to  obtain  for 
our  support,  during  the  indefinite 
time  we  might  yet  be  detained  from 
our  native  country.  Events  soon 
gave  a  preponderance  of  our  fears 
against  our  hopes.  Whilst  we  were 
fondly  cherishing  the  expectation  of 
tidings  of  a  general  exchange  of 
prisoners,  a  messenger  arrived  from 
the  National  Convention, with  orders 
to  remove  the  prisoners  of  war  from 
their  present  contiguity  to  the  sea, 
to  remote  stations  in  the  interior  of 
France.  Thus  like  a  vessel  which, 
having  with  extreme  peril  long 
weathered  the  furious  tempest,  is 
just  about  to  enter  the  desired  haven, 
but  is  beaten  back  by  adverse  storms 
to  encounter  new  dangers,  so  were 
baffled  all  our  hopes  of  deliverance 
from  captivity  and  return  home,  and 
our  imagination  left  to  brood  over 
scenes  of  future  distress ! 
3r 


944 


Narrative  of  an  Imprisonment  in  France 


[Dec. 


CHAP.  III. 


The  day  of  our  departure  from 
Quimper  arrived,  but  the  place  of 
our  destination  was  as  yet  unknown 
to  us.  One  hundred  and  fifty  pri- 
soners composed  our  party,  which 
was  placed  under  nearly  an  equal 
number  of  military  for  our  escort. 
Much  more  attention  was  paid  to  our 
accommodation  and  comfort  during 
the  journey  than  we  had  expected. 
Carts  drawn  by  oxen,  and  attended 
by  Bretons,  were  provided  for  our 
luggage;  and  few,  if  any,  of  our  com- 
rades left  the  town  without  some 
token  of  the  friendship  and  good-will 
of  the  inhabitants.  Our  kind  hostess 
was  not  the  last  in  these  offices  of 
benevolence.  Whatever  her  inge- 
nuity could  devise  as  likely  to  relieve 
an  exigence,  or  minister  to  our  com- 
fort, was  liberally  bestowed.  Our 
parting  resembled  rather  the  separa- 
tion of  dearest  friends,  than  of  poli- 
tical enemies ! 

The  direction  of  our  route  was  to- 
wards the  south-east,  along  the  sea- 
coast,  through  Quimperte,  Henne- 
bon,  and  Vannes.  In  the  last  of  these 
places  we  began  to  perceive  the  pre- 
valence of  anti-revolutionary  princi- 
ples: we  were  approaching  the  scene 
of  conflict  between  the  inhabitants 
of  La  Vendee,  and  the  Republican 
troops.  This  at  once  accounted  for 
the  large  proportion  of  military  which 
attended  our  march,  and  the  favour- 
able reception  we  met  with  from  the 
inhabitants  of  the  towns  and  villages 
through  which  we  passed.  On  our 
arrival  at  Vannes,  when  it  was  known 
hat  we  were  English  prisoners  of 
war,  we  were  hailed  with  enthusias- 
tic joy.  The  place  of  our  temporary 
lodging — which  had  formerly  been  a 
convent,  was  made  ready  for  our  ac- 
commodation, with  as  much  care  as 
time  would  permit.  Scarcely  had  we 
entered  this  building  before  several 
gentlemen  from  the  town,  having  ob- 
tained permission  from  the  command- 
ing officer,  made  us  a  visit.  Their 
object  was  kindness :  they  diligently 
enquired  into  our  circumstances,  and 
extended  whatever  assistance  was 
necessary.  In  the  article  of  food, 
instead  of  the  disregard  to  our  com- 
fort which  had  been  manifested  in 
the  former  part  of  our  march,  the 
inhabitants  had  taken  care  to  prepare 


it  in  the  best  manner  they  were  able ; 
and,  in  addition  to  the  regular  allow- 
ance, sent  a  supply  of  excellent  soup, 
and  half  a  pint  of  wine  per  man. 
These  kind  attentions  were  continued 
during  the  two  days  of  our  abode  at 
this  town. 

Nor  was  attention  to  our  food  the 
only  proof  of  their  kindness.  Each 
man  was  directed  to  make  up  his 
linen  into  a  separate  parcel,  (affix- 
ing his  name  to  it,)  for  the  purpose 
of  being  washed ;  which,  on  the 
morning  we  left  the  town,  every  one 
received,  neatly  got  up,  and  such 
repairs  made  as  the  time  allowed. 
One  instance  of  benevolence  is  de- 
serving of  special  record.  A  com- 
passionate individual  in  the  place 
obtained  permission  for  any  of  the 
prisoners  who  were  sick,  or  whose 
feet  were  injured  through  the  length 
of  the  preceding  marches,  to  be  con- 
ducted to  a  house  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, for  the  purpose  of  receiving 
advice  and  medicine,  and  that  their 
feet  might  be  dressed.  Several  of 
our  men  availed  themselves  of  this 
humane  proposal.  When  some  of 
them  returned,  they  were  almost  in 
ecstasies  at  what  they  had  witness- 
ed. "  We  have  been  associated  with 
angels,"  said  they.  "  Ladies  of  dis- 
tinction have  personally  attended  to 
our  cases,  prescribed  for  our  mala- 
dies, and  with  their  own  hands  have 
dressed  our  wounds."  Struck  with 
this  description,  though  by  no  means 
the  most  necessitous,  I  was  eager  to 
obtain  a  sight  of  so  interesting  a 
scene,  and  pleaded  with  the  guard, 
as  an  argument  for  my  introduction, 
the  sad  state  of  my.  feet,  as  needing 
relief.  My  plea  was  admitted,  and  I 
was  conducted  to  the  abode  of  these 
angels  of  charity.  The  house  where 
they  lived,  was  one  of  the  neatest  in 
the  town;  and,  on  enquiry,  I  learned, 
that  the  principal  lady  who  resided 
there,  had,  previous  to  the  Revolu- 
tion, been  an  inmate  of  a  convent; 
but  that  upon  the  abolition  of  the 
pi-iesthood,  and  of  religious  institu- 
tions, she  was  driven  from  her  re- 
tirement. Subsequently  she  had  ob- 
tained permission  to  reside  in  her  pre- 
sent dwelling,  and  was  now  spend- 
ing her  life  and  an  ample  fortune 
in  acts  of  Christian  piety  and  bene- 


1831.] 


During  the  Reign  of  Terror. 


volence.  She  had  also  provided  for 
the  sustenance  of  several  other  la- 
dies who  had  formerly  been  sister 
nuns  with  her,  and  who  now  dwelt 
under  the  same  roof,  and  were  as- 
sistants in  works  of  charity.  In- 
troduced into  a  room  which  was 
simply  elegant,  I  witnessed  a  sight 
which  I  shall  ever  recollect  with  the 
most  grateful  feelings.  Seated  upon 
chairs  around  the  room  were  from 
twelve  to  fourteen  invalided  fellow- 
prisoners,  whilst  several  ladies  were 
busily  employed  in  mixing  and  ad- 
ministering medicines  suitable  to  the 
various  states  of  the  patients,  under 
the  direction  of  their  superior.  Those 
cases,  however,  which  claimed  the 
greatest  attention,  I  perceived  she 
took  under  her  own  immediate  care. 
In  my  eyes  she  appeared  almost 
more  than  human,  whilst,  with  her 
own  delicate  hands,  I  saw  her  dress- 
ing the  wounds  of  one  of  the  prison- 
ers ;  and  having  finished  her  office 
of  beneficence — as  was  her  custom 
in  every  case — she  knelt  down,  and, 
with  clasped  hands,  and  her  eyes  de- 
voutly elevated  towards  Heaven,  of- 
fered up  a  prayer  to  the  Almighty 
for  his  blessing  on  her  ministration. 
This  incident  is  one  of  the  loveliest 
spots  in  my  wilderness  of  suffering, 
and  of  the  fondest  and  most  frequent 
recollection. 

The  day  following  we  recommen- 
ced our  march,  which,  however,  was 
not  begun  till  late  in  the  afternoon. 
This  was  matter  of  curious,  and 
somewhat  anxious  speculation  to  us; 
and  especially  as  our  military  guard 
was  much  strengthened.  It  was  not 
long  before  we  learned,  that  it  was 
intended  to  prosecute  our  journey 
through  the  night;  that  under  cover 
of  its  darkness,  our  march  might  be 
concealed  from  thebands  of  insurgent 
Bretons  which  at  that  time  infested 
the  country.  These  insurgents  were 
denominated  "  Chouans"  chiefly, as 
is  supposed,  from  the  circumstance 
of  their  movements  being  generally 
made,  like  those  of  owls — from  which 
word  the  term  may  be  derived — in 
the  night;  and  being  now  under  the 
direction  of  the  brave  and  celebrated 
La  Charette,  were  the  dread  of  the 
Republican  troops.  No  sooner  Avas 
this  known  to  us,  than  we  entertain- 
ed the  hope,  that  ere  the  morning's 
dawn,  we  might  witness  an  engage- 
ment between  the  military  who  had 


943 

us  in  charge,  and  those  of  our  brave 
friends;  and  exchange  our  forlorn, 
captivity  for  the  ranks  of  those  who 
were  in  arms  against  our  enemies. 
We  were  not,  at  the  same  time,with- 
out  apprehensions,  from  several  ex- 
pressions which  passed  between  the 
soldiers,  and  the  savage  manner  in 
which  we  were  treated  by  them,  that 
in  case  of  an  assault,  we  should  first 
fall  victims,  th  at  so  might  be  prevented 
our  escape  in  aid  of  their  opponents. 
Our  road  lay  through  several  dense 
and  overhanging  woods,  which,  add- 
ed to  the  darkness  of  the  night,  and 
the  momentary  expectation  of  an  as- 
sault, rendered  our  situation  ex- 
tremely critical  and  dangerous.  The 
baggage  waggons  were  drawn  up  in 
a  line,  and  the  drivers  charged  not  to 
allow  them  ever  to  separate  more 
than  six  feet  from  each  other  as  they 
advanced.  The  prisoners  were  ran- 
ged on  each  side  of  the  waggons,  and 
the  soldiers  close  on  the  outside  of 
us.  The  commanding  officer  had 

fiven  orders  that  not  a  word  was  to 
e  spoken  as  we  passed  along  the 
woods,  from  which  the  principal 
danger  was  expected;  and  that  every 
soldier  was  to  carry  his  musket  half- 
cocked,  ready  for  an  immediate  dis- 
charge. In  this  mute  and  almost 
breathless  suspense,  we  slowly 
wound  along  the  road,  every  anxi- 
ous eye  directed  towards  one  side 
or  the  other  of  the  dark  thickets 
through  which  we  were  passing; 
watching  with  trepidation  and  sus- 
pense for  the  flashes  from  the  fire- 
arms of  the  concealed  enemy.  On- 
wards we  moved  through  the  murky 
night,  scarcely  knowing  whether  we 
had  most  to  hope  or  to  fear  from  the 
expected  assault,  till  the  dawning  of 
the  morning  gradually  dispelled  the 
darkness  in  which  we  had  been  en- 
veloped, inspired  confidence  into 
every  mind,  and  gave  liberty  to  our 
tongues. 

Exhausted  with  the  fatigue  and 
anxiety  of  the  preceding  night,  about 
five  o'clock  in  the  morning  we  reach- 
ed  a  small  village,  where  we  halted 
till  the  following  day.  Here  we 
learned  that  the  precaution  employ- 
ed during  our  nocturnal  march,  had 
not  been  without  reason ;  for,  on 
the  day  preceding,  a  strong  party  of 
Chouans  had  fallen  in  with  a  de- 
tachment of  Republican  troops,  and 
after  a  severe  conflict,  in  which  a 


946  Narrative  of  an  Imprisonment  in  France 

.  ,'.(&  .'V!fiO')-P>'3i    Offt-CttOll  M'kVOJn 

considerable  number  fell  ou  both 


sides,  the  former  obtained  a  decisive 
victory,  and  took  upwards  of  fifty 
prisoners,  whom  the  inhabitants  of 
the  village  saw  as  they  passed  along, 
under  aguardofroyalist  soldiers,  pro- 
ceeding in  the  direction  of  La  Vendee. 
It  was  not  our  good  fortune,  how- 
ever, to  meet  with  any  of  these  bands 
of  patriots  in  our  progress ;  but  we 
advanced  by  short  stages,  till  we  ar- 
rived at  the  large  and  populous  city 
of  Ilennes,  formerly  the  capital  of 
the  province  of  Brittany.  Here  we 
were  to  rest  for  a  week.  The  place 
appropriated  for  our  reception  was 
the  ancient  cathedral ;  a  spacious 
and  beautiful  building,  but  now  de- 
secrated to  whatever  purposes  the 
exigencies  of  the  Republic  required. 
The  guests  whohad  occupied  it  imme- 
diately previous  to  ourselves, were  a 
troop  of  Republican  cavalry.  The 
stalls  fitted  up  for  their  horses  were 
still  standing,  as  were  also  some  of 
the  accommodations  for  the  soldiers. 
Nothing  I  met  with  in  France  made 
so  vivid  and  powerful  an  impression 
on  my  mind  of  the  desolating  effects 
of  a  democratical  revolution,  as  the 
sight  which  this  venerable  edifice 
presented,  especially  associated  as  it 
was  with  the  tragical  scenes  which 
had  but  lately  been  witnessed  within 
its  sacred  walls.  On  the  breaking 
out  of  the  Revolution,  as  we  were  in- 
formed— the  inhabitants  beingknovvn 
to  be  generally  royalists — whilst  the 
congregation  were  engaged  in  the 
public  services  of  religion,  the  Re- 
publican troops  entered  the  church, 
and  put  to  the  sword  indiscriminate- 
ly all  they  met  with  !  The  marks  of 
recent  outrage  were  yet  visible  in 
every  part  of  the  cathedral.  The  al- 
tar and  its  furniture  had  been  torn 
down,  and  lay  in  scattered  ruins 
about  the  place.  All  the  ancient  mo- 
numents which  had  adorned  the 
body  of  the  church,  had  been  over- 
thrown and  broken  to  pieces;  the 
decorations  of  the  quire,  and  its 
beautiful  organ,  reduced  to  an  entire 
wreck.  The  pulpit  and  galleries  had 
been  hewn  in  pieces,  and  the  very 
tombs  violated,  either  to  furnish  ma- 
terials for  building,  or  implements 
for  war.  Amidst  this  scene  of  devas- 
tation, \ve  had  to  take  up  our  tem- 
porary abode;  selecting  for  our  beds, 
as  inclination  prompted,  the  precincts 
of  the  altar,  the  horses'  maugers,  or 


[Dec. 

the  long  flat  tombstones  which  co- 
vered tue  dead.  To  a  mind  that  is 
superstitious,  and  at  leisure  for  coii- 
templatioiijSuch  circumstances  could 
scarcely  fail  to  fill  the  imagination 
with  hideous  spectres,  and  unearthly 
sounds,  during  the  darkness  and 
dreariness  of  the  midnight  hour. 
Whether  from  such. associations  of 
ideas  as  these,  or  a  becoming  sense 
of  the  decorum  which  ought  to  be 
cherished  in  an  edifice  erected  for 
the  worship  of  Almighty  God,  and 
which  for  so  many  ages  had  been 
employed  for  that  only  purpose, 
scarcely  any  conversation  was  ever 
heard,  or  only  such  as  corresponded 
to  the  solemnity  of  the  place,  after 
night  had  thrown  her  friendly  gloom 
around  us. 

After  having  spent  a  week  in  this 
place,  we  were  informed  that  our 
final  destination  was  Vendome,  whi- 
ther we  were  now  to  recommence 
our  march,  taking  our  route  through 
Laval  and  Le  Mans.  It  was  interest- 
ing to  observe  in  most  of  the  towns 
through  which  we  passed,  with  what 
care  the  population  were  trained  to 
the  use  of  arms.    Not  only  were  the 
inhabitants  generally  subject  to  mili- 
tary  discipline,  but  even  the  very 
boys,  from  ten  to  fifteen  years  of 
age,  underwent  a  systematic  exer- 
cise in  all  the  tactics  practised  in  war- 
fare, under  experienced  soldiers  ap- 
pointed for  their  instruction.   Thus, 
for  instance,  as  we  entered  Laval, 
we  saw  one  party  of  boys  eagerly 
engaged  in  constructions  of  circum- 
vallation,  and  another  equally  busied 
in  those  of  contravallation.    Here  an 
assault,  furiously  made,  was,  on  the 
other  side,  as  gallantly  and  dexte- 
rously repelled;  and  there  little  regi- 
ments were  drawn  up,  going  through 
all  the  evolutions  of  a  regular  army, 
whilst  others  were  learning  the  ar- 
tillery   exercise    with    small   field- 
pieces  cast  for  the  express  purpose. 
Thus  was  France  preparing  herself 
to  be  a  scourge  to  the  surrounding 
nations,  under  generals  whom  the 
Revolution  had  created  ;  and,  at  the 
same  time,  by  premature  conscrip- 
tions, to  drain  herself  of  population 
by  the  exterminating  campaigns  in 
which  she  was  about  to  engage  her 
sons. 

Leaving  Laval,  we  proceeded  to 
Le  Mans,  one  of  those  places  which 
distinguished  itself  by  the  good-will 


1831.] 


During  the  Reiy)l  of  Terror. 


and  hospitality  of  its  inhabitants  to- 
wards the  British  prisoners  of  war. 
Informed  of  our  being  about  to  pass 
through  that  town,  they  set  them- 
selves to  welcome  our  arrival  with 
every  demonstration  of  friendship  in 
their  power.  This  disposition  rose  out 
of  the  eager  hopes  which  were  enter- 
tained, that  the  royal  party  in  Brittany, 
reinforced  by  the  French  emigrants 
from  England,  would  acquire  an  as- 
cendency over  the  Republic,  andonce 
more  set  the  Bourbons  on  the  throne. 
The  ill-fated  expedition  to  Quiberon 
Bay,  which,  at  the  importunity  of 
many  of  the  inhabitants  of  Brittany 
to  the  English  Court,  was  conceded 
to  their  wishes,  had  not  yet  arrived, 
but  was  daily  expected ;  we  were, 
therefore,  hailed  as  precursors  of  a 
glorious  event,  which  would  termi- 
nate their  subjection  to  the  hated 
demagogues  of  France,  and  re-esta- 
blish the  legitimate  administration 
of  law  and  order,  and  the  exercise  of 
religion.  As  we  approached  the 
town,  we  were  met  by  parties  of  its 
inhabitants  testifying  their  joy  at  our 
arrival,  and  their  desire  of  rendering 
our  stay  amongst  them  as  happy  as 
possible.  On  entering  one  ot  their 
beautiful  streets,  we  were  delighted 
to  see  ranks  of  ladies  on  either  side, 
with  servants  in  attendance,  holding 
baskets  of  all  kinds  of  provisions, 
and  vessels  full  of  wine.  At  the  re- 
quest of  the  ladies,  our  commanding 
officer  gave  us  leave  to  halt,  whilst 
we  partook  of  their  bountiful  repast. 
When  we  had  eaten  and  drunk  suf- 
ficiently, they  pressed  us  to  take  the 
remaining  provisions  in  our  hands, 
and  accompanying  us  to  the  place  of 
our  lodgment,  expressed  their  sym- 
pathy in  our  condition,  and  good 
wishes  on  our  behalf.  Similar  atten- 
tions to  those  paid  to  us  at  Vannes, 
were  repeated  here;  and  we  were 
ready  to  hope  our  stay  in  such  good 
quarters  would  be  protracted.  In 
this,  however,  we  were  disappoint- 
ed ;  orders  were  issued  for  us  to  be 
in  readiness  for  marching  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning.  As  attentive  at  our 
departure  as  at  our  arrival,  our  kind 
friends,  though  at  an  early  hour, 
were  present  to  bid  us  farewell ;  and 
as  each  prisoner  came  out  of  the 
gate,  he  was  presented  with  half  a 
pint  of  wine,  and  as  much  food  as  he 
could  conveniently  carry. 
We  were  by  this  time  so  far  re- 


947 

moved  from  the  sea-coast,  and  from 
the  risk  of  being  intercepted  by  the 
Chouans,  that  our  military  escort 
was  greatly  diminished,  and  the  vigi- 
lance formerly  exercised  over  us  re- 
laxed. At  some  of  the  stages  we 
were  permitted  to  perambulate  the 
villages  unattended  by  any  soldier, 
and  the  places  where  we  lodged  were 
sometimes  so  negligently  guarded, 
that  it  was  possible  to  be  out  the 
whole  night  without  detection.  On 
one  of  these  occasions  a  project  for 
attempting  their  escape  and  making 
their  way  homeward,  was  formed  by 
three  of  our  friends ;  the  scheme  was 
submitted  to  my  father  and  me,  who 
were  invited  to  join  their  party ;  our 
consent  was  obtained,  and  forthwith 
we  united  in  counsel  how  to  proceed. 
Of  our  three  companions,  one  was  a 
captain  of  a  merchant  vessel,  another 
a  lieutenant  in  the  navy,  and  the  third 
a  boatswain.  The  first  question  to 
be  decided  was,  what  route  to  pur- 
sue. If  we  directed  our  way  to  the 
quarter  where  the  royalists  were  in 
arms,  we  should  probably  be  detected 
by  the  spies  which  were  ever  on  the 
alert  in  their  neighbourhood,  watch- 
ing their  movements;  and  were  we 
even  to  succeed  in  joining  them,  we 
might  be  only  exchanging  a  captivity 
which  was  now  becoming  more  to- 
lerable, for  a  state  of  dubious  war- 
fare and  but  a  remote  prospect  of 
deliverance,  with  the  certainty  of 
having  no  quarter  shewn  if  found  in 
the  ranks  of  the  royalist  party.  Ota- 
distance  from  the  Austrian  territories, 
and  also  from  the  Netherlands,  was 
too  great  to  hold  out  the  expectation 
of  reaching  them.  The  only  feasible 
plan  seemed  to  be,  that  of  making  out- 
nearest  way  to  the  sea-coast  on  the 
English  Channel,  and  seizing  on  some 
fishing-boat,  Or  small  craft  that  might 
be  found  along  the  beach,  in  order  to 
transport  ourselves  to  the  opposite 
shore.  For  this  purpose  we  care- 
fully examined  a  map  of  France,  not 
to  trace  the  public  roads,  these  it 
was  our  anxious  wish  to  shun,  but  to 
see  if  there  were  any  considerable 
rivers  to  cross  in  the  direct  line  of 
our  intended  march.  Happily  we 
discovered  none  but  what  might  easi- 
ly be  avoided.  More  effectually  to 
escape  detection,  we  resolved  to  pro- 
secute our  journey  only  under  cover 
of  the  night,  and  to  shape  our  course 
according  to  the  stars.  These  prelimi- 

0  V 


Narrative  of  an  Imprisonment  in  France 


048 

naries  adjusted,  our  next  care  was  to 
provide  the  means  of  subsistence 
during  the  march.  As  large  a  stock 
of  hard  biscuits  as  we  could  con- 
veniently cany  was  purchased,  and 
two  bottles  of  brandy ;  one  of  which 
was  confided  to  my  care,  the  other 
to  that  of  the  boatswain.  Thus  pre- 
pared, we  availed  ourselves  of  an  op- 
portunity which  presented  itself  on 
the  following  night.  Instead  of  re- 
pairing to  the  place  provided  for  the 
lodging  of  the  prisoners,  we  tarried 
in  one  of  the  houses  of  the  village,  till 
the  guard  was  set  for  the  night ;  and 
then,  pretending  to  leave  our  host  for 
the  prison,  we  concealed  ourselves 
under  a  hedge  till  the  night  was  suf- 
ficiently advanced  for  the  prosecu- 
tion of  our  journey.  We  then  sallied 
forth,  and  took  a  northerly  direction, 
making  the  polar  star  the  guide  of 
our  way.  Nothing  could  have  been 
more  fortunate  than  the  manner  in 
which  our  path  opened  before  us; 
scarcely  a  single  hedge  or  rivulet, 
village  or  farm-house,  interrupted  our 
progress.  Towards  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  however,  an  untoward- 
ly  circumstance,  and  which  we  scarce- 
ly knew  how  to  deal  with,  occurred. 
One  of  our  little  band,  and  he  whose 
courage  and  strength  seemed  greater 
than  those  of  the  rest,  began  to  fall 
into  the  rear,  and  complain  that  he 
was  unable  to  keep  up  with  the  march. 
"We  slackened  our  pace,  but  this  in- 
dulgence only  prepared  the  way  for 
a  fresh  demand  upon  our  compassion, 
unless  we  determined  to  leave  him 
behind.  To  these  symptoms  of  weari- 
ness and  lassitude  succeeded  others, 
which  he  could  not  easily  describe, 
together  with  giddiness  in  his  head. 
What  was  to  be  done  ?  the  morning 
was  beginning  to  break ;  no  place  of 
concealment  from  the  broad  eye  of  day 
had  yet  been  found ;  and  our  strange 
appearance  in  the  open  fields  would 
soon  be  observed  by  the  natives.  The 
secret  of  our  misfortune  soon  dis- 
covered itself;  proceeding  to  admi- 
nister a  cordial  to  our  invalid,  it  oc- 
curred to  us  that  one  of  the  t\vo 
bottles  of  brandy  had  been  confided 
to  the  care  of  our  noble-minded  boat- 
swain. The  temptation  had  been  too 
powerful  for  his  resistance ;  during 
the  darkness  of  the  night  he  had  al- 
lowed the  subtle  enemy  to  board 
Mm,  and  he  was  now  lowering  his 
topsails,  and  striking  his  colours. 


[Dec. 


Nearly  half  the  bottle  of  brandy  had 
disappeared ;  upbraidings  and  re- 
proaches were  useless  ;  nothing  now 
remained  but  to  look  out  for  the 
nearest  shelter,  and  escape  to  it  as 
speedily  as  possible.  Fortunately,  at 
no  great  distance  we  descried  a 
wood ;  thither,  without  delay,  we  en- 
deavoured to  conduct  our  imprudent 
and  unfortunate  companion,  some- 
times dragging,  and  at  others  push- 
ing and  goading  him  forward,  till  at 
length  we  reached  a  place  of  con- 
cealment; where  having  deposited 
our  troublesome,  and  by  this  time 
senseless  associate,  in  a  dense  recess 
of  the  wood,  he  lay  till  the  after  part 
of  the  day  made  him  sensible  ot  his 
misconduct,  the  loss  of  time  he  had 
occasioned  us,  and  the  jeopardy  in 
which  we  had  all  been  placed. 

Concealed  in  this  thicket  we  be- 
took ourselves  to  sleep,  leaving  one 
to  keep  watch  and  give  the  alarm  in 
case  of  danger.  We  rested  in  secu- 
rity, and  though  a  heavy  dew  had 
fallen  during  the  night,  we  felt  no 
inconvenience  and  received  no  in- 
jury from  lying  on  the  wet  ground. 
Having  refreshed  ourselves  during 
the  day,  and  made  all  the  observa- 
tions we  could  in  reference  to  our 
future  progress,  no  sooner  had  the 
light  of  the  sun  sufficiently  retired  to 
screen  us  from  observation  than  we 
forsook  our  retreat,  applying  more 
caution  against  the  infirmity  of  our 
boatswain,  who  was  now,  however, 
thoroughly  ashamed,  and  needed  no 
further  reproof.  The  progress  we 
made  during  the  second  night  was 
still  more  satisfactory  than  that  of 
the  first,  and  our  hope  of  ultimate 
success  was  proportionally  strength- 
ened. The  only  subject  which  be- 
gan to  give  us  anxiety  was  the  rapid 
decrease  of  our  stock  of  bread.  Ex- 
hausted with  our  long  night's  march, 
and  especially  with  the  exertion  ne- 
cessary to  surmount  the  obstacles  in 
our  way  in  the  dark;  about  the  dawn- 
ing of  the  morning  we  found  another 
wood,  equally  eligible  for  our  pur- 
pose with  the  one  we  left  on  the  pre- 
ceding night.  After  we  had  eaten 
our  allowance  of  bread,  and  taken  a 
glass  of  brandy,  we  lay  down  to 
sleep,  and  had  no  other  alarm  than 
the  barking  of  a  dog  which  seemed 
to  be  approaching  us,  fearing  it  might 
lead  to  our  detection.  Our  fears, 
however,  on  this  head  were  needless 


1831.] 


During  the  Reign,  of  Terror. 


not  so  on  the  subject  of  our  provi- 
sions ;  for  our  next  meal  left  us  only 
what  was  necessary  for  our  support 
during  the  ensuing  night's  march, 
and  the  wants  of  the  next  day.  We 
had  devised  measures  for  this  emer- 
gency, and  now  was  the  time  to  put 
our  scheme  into  practice.  I,  who 
was  host  able  to  speak  the  French 
language,  was  fixed  upon,  as  well  on 
that  account,  as  because  of  iny  youth, 
to  issue  forth  in  the  day  time  for  the 
purpose  of  purchasing  food.  Leaving 
my  companions  In  the  wood,  I  ac- 
cordingly made  my  way  boldly  to 
one  of  the  farm-houses  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. Only  the  mistress  was 
at  home,  who  assured  me,  that  such 
for  a  considerable  time  had  been  the 
scarcity  of  bread  in  the  country,  that 
for  the  preceding  fortnight  neither 
she  nor  her  family  had  tasted  it ; 
they  had  lived  only  upon  vegetables 
and  milk.  She,  however,  set  before 
me  as  much  milk  as  I  chose  to 
drink.  Returning  by  a  circuitous 
path  to  my  companions,  I  reported 
the  melancholy  tidings.  Still  it  was 
the  general  opinion,  that  a  reluctance 
to  part  with  provisions  for  the  worth- 
less assignats  which  were  then  in 
circulation,  was  the  occasion  of  my 
failure.  Another  expedient  was  to 
be  tried.  Knowing  how  highly  the 
inhabitants  valued  gold  and  silver, 
we  concluded  that  the  sight  of  it 
would  instantaneously  and  infallibly 
procure  for  us  whatever  they  pos- 
sessed. This  was  our  last,  our  only 
resource ;  if  this  failed  we  saw  no 
possibility  of  proceeding. 

In  order  to  give  a  fair  trial  to  this 
scheme,  we  took  the  following  me- 
thod. Making  ourselves  as  trim  as 
circumstances  would  allow,  we  pro- 
ceeded in  a  body  to  another  farm- 
house, preferred  the  same  request, 
and  received  a  similar  answer.  To 
render  our  appearance  less  suspi- 
cious, we  told  the  family  we  were 
sailors  from  America — which  coun- 
try was  not  at  Avar  with  France — 
that  we  had  travelled  into  the  inte- 
rior of  the  country  on  business,  and 
were  now  returning  to  Honfleur, 
where  our  ships  lay ;  and  entreated 
them  to  supply  us  with  bread.  Ha- 
ving made  this  statement  we  pre- 
sented the  precious  metals.  They 
looked  with  astonishment,  first  upon 
the  gold  and  silver,  then  upon  us  and 
each  other j  and  at  length  told  us, 


040 

that  if  it  were  in  their  power  to  serve 
us,  they  certainly  would,  but  it  was 
utterly  impossible  ;  they  had  no 
bread  in  the  house,  and  subsisted 
themselves  only  upon  milk  and  gar- 
den roots.  Of  the  former,  they  set  as 
much  before  us  as  we  chose  to  take 
without  any  payment.  Dispirited 
and  perplexed,  we  retired  to  the 
wood  to  consult  what  was  to  be  done. 

After  deliberating  a  while,  we 
came  reluctantly  to  the  conclusion 
to  abandon  our  undertaking,  and  re- 
trace our  steps  as  fast  as  possible, 
with  a  view  to  overtake  our  fellow 
prisoners  on  their  way  to  Vendome. 
But  how  to  effect  this  without  being 
subject  to  the  severest  punishment 
as  deserters,  was  a  subject  of  anxious 
consideration.  The  following  was 
our  project :  forthwith  to  repair  to 
the  nearest  municipal  town,  and  re- 
late before  its  magistrates  a  story 
which  we  had  concerted ;  that  we 
were  English  prisoners  of  war,  who 
a  few  days  ago  were  on  the  march 
with  the  rest  of  our  countrymen  to- 
wards Vendome :  that  exceedingly 
wearied  with  the  journey,  we  sat 
down  under  a  hedge  in  one  of  the 
fields  and  fell  asleep,  during  which 
time  our  company  went  forward; 
and  that  endeavouring  to  follow 
them  when  we  awoke,  we  lost  our 
way,  and  had  hitherto  been  unable 
to  find  them.  We  entreated  them, 
therefore,  to  furnish  us  with  food 
and  lodging,  and  convey  us  to  our 
comrades.  The  plan  succeeded  to 
admiration  :  we  boldly  entered  one 
of  the  strongly  fortified  towns,  and 
were  introduced  to  the  magistrates, 
before  whom  we  made  the  above 
statement.  A  comfortable  place  was 
prepared  for  our  night's  lodging, 
plenty  of  provisions  set  before  us, 
and  we  began  to  eat,  drink,  and  be 
merry.  So  possible  is  it  for  the 
mind,  not  merely  to  accommodate 
itself  to  hardships  in  the  prosecution 
of  a  favourite  enterprise,  but,  when 
failure  is  inevitable,  to  resign  itself 
to  its  fate  with  cheerfulness.  The 
next  morning,  accompanied  by  a 
small  guard,  we  were  forwarded 
from  stage  to  stage,  till  after  three 
days'  march  we  overtook  our  party ; 
and  to  our  astonishment  found,  that 
during  our  absence  we  had  not  been 
missed,  nor  any  enquiry  made  con- 
cerning us. 

Soon  after  rejoining  our  comrades 


Narrative  of  an  Imprisonment  in.  France 


we  arrived  at  Vendome,  where  it  was 
intended  we  should  remain  till  the 
termination  of  the  war.  Here  also 
we  were  allowed  to  be  on  parole  of 
honour,  and  hire  lodgings  in  the 
town.  The  inhabitants  soon  became 
familiar,  and  treated  us  with  friend- 
ship. The  boundaries  of  our  liberty 
extended  to  any  distance  into  the 
country  from  which  we  could  return 
at  night,  nor  was  our  absence  for 
even  a  day  or  two  watched  with 
great  strictness.  As  rigid  economy 
was  necessary  to  eke  out  our  little 
resources,  having  still  no  means  of 
replenishing  them  from  home,  we 
endeavoured  to  turn  our  liberty  to 
advantage.  In  the  course  of  our 
wandering  we  chanced  to  find  a  small 
farm-house,  about  four  miles  from 
Vendome,  whose  inmates  showed  us 
particular  kindness,  assuring  us  that, 
if  we  deemed  it  worth  our  while,  we 
might  every  morning  have  a  pleati- 
ful  breakfast  of  bread  and  milk,  at  a 
price  so  inconsiderable,  as  plainly 
shewed  they  only  consulted  how  to 
bestow  a  charity  without  wounding 
our  feelings.  Thither  we  thankfully 
repaired,  almost  every  morning,  for 
our  principal  meal,  and  often  spent 
the  remaining  part  of  the  day  in  ang- 
ling for  trout  and  other  fish,  with 
which  the  small  rivers  in  that  neigh- 
bourhood abound.  By  this  means, 
in  addition  to  the  prison  allowance, 
we  were  able  to  support  ourselves  at 
little  expense,  and  endeavoured  to 
reconcile  ourselves  as  much  as  pos- 
sible to  the  condition  of  our  mitigated 
captivity. 

Fortunately  for  me,  the  system  of 
education  which  now  prevailed  in 
France  threw  open  the  very  best 
schools  for  science  and  arts  to  all 
who  were  desirous  of  improvement. 
This  afforded  me  opportunity  of  em- 
ploying that  leisure,  which  otherwise 
might  have  been  spent  in  indolence 
or  trifling  pursuits,  in  the  cultivation 
of  my  mind,  especially  in  the  know- 
ledge of  the  French  language.  I  be- 
came a  regular  student  under  one  of 
the  best  teachers  in  the  place,  who, 
without  any  remuneration,  seemed 
to  take  especial  pleasure  in  affording 
me  all  the  assistance  in  his  power. 
The  friendship  and  liberality  of  Mon- 
sieur Bouzie — for  that  was  tlie  name 
of  this  gentleman — towards  an  Eng- 
lish prisoner  of  war,  well  deserves 
record  amongst  those  unostentatious 


acts  of  benevolence,  which,  whilst 
they  most  efficiently  serve  a  fellow- 
creature  in  affliction,  greatly  enhance 
the  character  of  their  bestower.  How 
far,  also,  he  was  above  those  prejudi- 
ces which  sometimes  lead  the  inhabit- 
ants of  one  kingdom  to'contemn  those 
of  another,  and,  in  times  of  national 
hostility,  to  treat  them  with  severity, 
the  following  circumstance  may  il- 
lustrate. 

Engaged  in  juvenile  sports  with 
some  of  my  fellow-scholars,  two  or 
three  of  us  were  tempted  to  commit 
a  trespass  upon  our  tutor's  private 
garden,  by  taking  some  of  the  fruit 
which  hung  luxuriant  on  some  of  the 
trees, — under  mutual  pledges  that 
none  of  the  party  would  inform  of 
the  rest.  The  affair  passed  off  with 
perfect  secrecy  and  satisfaction  at 
the  time ;  but,  unfortunately,  not  long 
after,  some  misunderstanding  occur- 
red between  me  and  one  of  ray  former 
associates  in  dishonesty,  when,  to  be 
revenged  of  me  for  our  late  pique, 
he  went  and  secretly  informed  Mon- 
sieur of  my  misconduct.  It  was  speed- 
ily whispered  amongst  the  scholars 
that  I  had  acted  dishonourably ;  nor 
was  I  tardy  in  seeking  out  the  in- 
former, and  soon  found  that  my  quar- 
relsome and  unfaithful  companion 
had  betrayed  me.  Through  his  in- 
trigues, I  perceived  also  that  the  dis- 
pleasure of  most  of  the  scholars  was 
directed  against  me,  and  it  was  ge- 
nerally expected  that  I  should  be  ex- 
pelled the  school  in  disgrace.  Indig- 
nant at  the  perfidy  of  my  opponent, 
I  sent  him  a  note,  informing  him  that 
he  might  depend  upon  it,  the  moment 
the  school  was  dismissed,  I  would  de- 
mand satisfaction  for  his  mean  and 
cowardly  conduct.  Information  was 
speedily  circulated  that  war  was  pro- 
claimed between  English  and  French, 
and  that  hostilities  would  commence 
immediately  on  the  dismissal  of  the 
school.  Accordingly,  no  sooner  had 
we  entered  the  area  than  I  made  up 
to  my  treacherous  foe,  and  having 
stated  in  the  heaving  of  his  compa- 
nions, who  were  eagerly  awaiting  the 
result,  the,  grounds  of  the  quarrel,  I 
sprang  upon  him,  and  planting  my 
first  blow  full  in  his  face,  the  blood 
began  to  flow  copiously  from  his  nose. 
Before  he  had  time  to  rally,  and  pre- 
pare his  defence,  my  next  blow  laid 
him  prostrate  on  the  ground.  Con- 
fusion and  shouts  filled  the  area,  the 


1831.] 


During  the  Reign  o 


9  il 


Frenchmen  having  never  before  wit- 
nessed this  kind  of  fighting.     Some 
were  for  a  united  attack  upon  me, 
whilst  others,  from  a  sense  of  ho- 
nour, held  them  back,  declaring  it 
was  disgraceful  that  so  many  French- 
men should  be  necessary  to  combat 
one  Englishman.  My  antagonist  was 
again  set  upon  his  feet,  and,  endea- 
vouring to  redeem  the  honour  of  his 
country,  he  became  the  assailant,  but 
without  the  least  degree  of  science, 
striking  sometimes  at  me  with  open 
hands,  or  only  striking  the  air,  whilst 
his  face  was   held   downwards,   to 
avoid,   if  possible,  the   anticipated 
blow.  Again  I  struck  him  in  the  face, 
and,  closing  upon  him,  planted  my 
blows  so  effectually,  that  he  immedi- 
ately cried  out  for  quarter.  Hitherto 
the  battle  had  been  between  two  of 
equal  size  ;  but,  unwilling  to  have  it 
reported  that    an   Englishman   had 
come  off  victorious,  one  of  the  stout- 
est and  most  powerful  young  men  in 
the   school   came   forward   as  their 
champion,  and  demanded  whether  I 
was  willing  to  fight  with  him.     To 
which  I  replied,  that  my  design  was 
not  wantonly  to  enter  into  a  contest 
with  any  one,  but  to  punish  perfidy, 
which  is  equally  odious  whether  in 
French  or  English :  If,  however,  he 
thought  the   mere  circumstance  of 
bulk  gave  him  a  right  to  insult  a  cap- 
tive Englishman,  he  should  speedily 
share  the  same  fate  as  my  former  an- 
tagonist.    Here  the  conflict  ended  ; 
the  whole  progress  of  which,  as  I  af- 
terwards learned,  was  witnessed  with 
the  utmost  satisfaction  by  Monsieur 
Bouzie,  from  one  of  the  windows  of 
his  house.     When  I  returned  home, 
my  father  perceived  that  I  was  much 
agitated,  and  enquiring  into  the  cause 
of  it,  I  told  him  the  whole  story ;  at 
which  he  was  alarmed,  and  severely 
upbraided  my  indiscretion  for  com- 
mitting such  an  outrage  in  an  enemy's 
country,  on  parole  of  honour,  and 
under  the  instruction  of  so  kind  a  tu- 
tor ;  concluding  that  we  had  no\v  no- 
thing else  to  expectbut  to  be  abridged 
of  our  privileges,  and  restricted  with- 
in the  walls  of  the  prison.  All  his  ap- 
prehensions, however,  were  ground- 
less.    The  next  morning  I  was  taken 
into  my  tutor's  study,  and  request- 
ed to  relate  to  him  the  whole  affair. 
This    I    did   with    all    faithfulness. 
When  I  had  finished,  he  told  me  he 
had  indeed  been  made  acquainted 


with  the  circumstances,  but  wonder- 
ed I  did  not  inform  him  that  my  ac- 
cuser was  as  guilty  as  myself.  To 
which  I  replied,  that  I  was  fully  sen- 
sible we  both  deserved  punishment 
at  his  hands,  and  I  would  readily 
bear  my  share  of  it  ;  but  that  I  thought 
the  punishment  of  his  perfidy  belong- 
ed exclusively  to  myself.  To  this 
statement  he  gave  his  cordial  appro- 
bation, applauding  my  principles,  and 
the  manner  in  which  Iliad  conducted 
the  affair.  From  that  time  I  was 
honoured  with  still  greater  attention 
from  him,  and  was  treated  with 
greater  respect  than  ever  by  my  fel- 
low-students, as  long  as  I  continued 
in  the  town. 

Removed  far  into  the  interior  of 

France,  with  the  express  design  of 

providing  for  a  long  continuance  of 

our  captivity,  we  began  to  reconcile 

ourselves  as  much  as  possible  to  our 

condition,  expecting  that  nothing  but 

the  return  of  peace  would  restore  us 

to  our  native  country.     After  the 

lapse  of  about  three  months,  —  let 

not  the  sceptic  deride  a  premonition 

from  heaven  to  cheer  a   drooping 

spirit  :  old  Homer  claims  our  reve- 

rence for  a  dream,  K«I  ynV  <r  ov«j  £» 

A«'y  IffTiv  —  my  father   suddenly  awa- 

king from  his  sleep  in  the  middle  of 

the  night,  said  to  me,  "  Depend  upon 

it,  in  ten  days'  time  one  of  these  two 

things  will  befall  me;  either  I  shall 

die,  or  a  messenger  will  bring  orders 

for  our  marching  homewards."  Star- 

tled at  this  annunciation,  I  requested 

him  to  tell  me  why  he  spoke  so  con- 

fidently ?  To  which  he  replied,  "  I 

have  just  had  one  of  the  most  vivid 

dreams  I  ever  remember.  Methodght 

I  was  at  our  estate  at  -  ,  sitting  in 

the  parlour,  opposite  to  a  Avindow 

which  looked  towards  an  open  cham- 

paign, when  I  saw  a  man  on  horse- 

back in  the  distance,  making  all  the 

speed  he  could  towards  the.  house. 

As  he  approached,  I  perceived  that 

lie  rode  a  white  horse,  and  was  ac- 

coutred as  a  dragoon.     I  had  an  in- 

tuitive  knowledge   that  his  errand 

was  to  me  ;  but  whether  it  was  one 

of  terror  or  not,  I  could  not  conjec- 

ture ;  still  I  was  impressed  with  tear 

as  he  vapidly  approached.     I  hasten- 

ed to  throw  myself  on  the  floor,  di- 

rectly under    the   window,    that  I 

might  escape  his  observation.    Up, 

however,  he  galloped  to  the  very 

window;    ana   as  though   nothing 


Narrative  of  an  Imprisonment  in  France 


952 

could  hide  me  from  his  sight,  he 
addressed  me  in  the  following  words, 
*  Get  yourself  in  readiness,  for  in 
ten  days  you  shall  go  hence.'  "  So 
powerfully  did  this  dream  impress 
his  mind,  that  he  could  not  refrain 
from  relating  it  to  his  friends  in  the 
morning,  with  the  same  interpreta- 
tion which  he  had  given  to  me.* 
Concerned  lest  he  should  make 
himself  appear  superstitious,  I  en- 
deavoured to  dissuade  him  from  ma- 
king his  dream  so  generally  known, 
as  it  might  bring  the  laugh  upon 
him.  Still,  however,  he  persisted 
confidently  to  affirm  his  belief  to  al- 
most every  one  with  whom  he  was 
familiar.  Strange  to  relate,  on  the 
very  day  which  he  had  predicted, 
orders  were  brought  by  express, 
that  we  were  immediately  to  be 
marched  from  Vendome  to  the  sea- 
port town  of  La  Rochelle,  for  the 
purpose  of  being  conveyed  by  car- 
tel to  England. 

Agreeably  to  these  tidings  we  joy- 
fully commenced  our  march  home- 
wards, and  after  a  few  days'  jour- 
ney, through  one  of  the  loveliest 
countries  I  ever  saw,  mantled  over 
with  vineyards  loaded  with  the 
choicest  grapes,  we  arrived  at  La  Ro- 
chelle. Never-to-be-forgotten  were 
the  sensations  felt,  and  the  joy  ex- 
pressed by  our  company,  when,  upon 
reaching  the  summit  of  a  hill,  we 
first  caught  sight  of  the  sea.  All  our 
past  sufferings  seemed  to  be  amply 
recompensed  by  the  joyous  sensa- 
tions which  it  brought.  Our  native 
element  lay  full  before  us;\a  few 
days  or  hours  would  place  us  upon 
its  bosom;  whilst  all  the  endearments 
of  home  rushed  into  our  minds.  The 
joy  of  the  ten  thousand  Greeks  un- 
der the  command  of  Xenophon,  in 
their  celebrated  retreat,  when  they 
first  obtained  sight  of  the  same  ob- 
ject, was  indeed  expressed  by  a 
greater  number  of  voices,  but  could 
scarcely  exceed  in  ecstasy  and  en- 
thusiasm our  own.  "  The  sea !  the 
sea!"  was  vociferated  by  the  happy 
individual  who  first  discovered  it. 
•'  The  sea !  the  sea !"  was  reverbe- 
rated through  our  host  as  every  one 
rushing  forward  caught  sight  of  it. 
Mutual  congratulations,  embraces, 


[Dec. 


and  even  tears  of  joy,  gave  expres- 
sion to  our  feelings. 

In  consequence  of  contrary  winds 
we  were  detained  in  the  town  of  Ro- 
chelle about  a  week  before  we  em- 
barked ;  during  which  time  we  were 
hospitably  entertained  by  the  inha- 
bitants, who  seemed  to  participate  in 
our  joy,  and  on  leaving  them  they 
followed  us  with  their  good  wishes 
that  we  might  regain  our  native  land 
in  safety.  Two  snips  were  provided 
for  our  reception,  and  as  soon  as  the 
wind  proved  favourable,  we  went  on 
board  and  got  under  way.  The  ships 
were  under  the  command  of  French 
officers  and  seamen;  but,  as  is  cus- 
tomary on  such  occasions,  we  took 
the  command  upon  ourselves,  deter- 
mining what  port  to  steer  for  accord- 
ing to  circumstances.  A  consulta- 
tion was  held  soon  after  our  em- 
barkation, to  make  such  arrange- 
ments as  were  necessary.  Two  sub- 
jects principally  entered  into  our 
deliberations:  first,  in  what  place 
should  we  be  most  likely  to  escape 
the  observation  of  British  men-of- 
war  ;  and  next,  what  part  of  the  king- 
dom would  best  accommodate  the 
majority  of  our  company.  The  place 
determined  upon  was  Mounts  Bay, 
in  Cornwall.  This  determination 
was  most  providential  for  us,  con- 
trasted with  the  disaster  which  befell 
our  companions,  who  had  kept  com- 
pany with  us  during  the  chief  part 
of  the  voyage;  but  unfortunately 
fixed  upon  Falmouth  as  the  place 
where  they  would  land  :  for,  as  we 
afterwards  learned,  whilst  they  were 
making  their  way  for  the  harbour 
during  the  night,  they  were  overtaken 
by  an  English  cruiser,  and  the  greater 
part  of  the  men  were  impressed  into 
his  Majesty's  service  I  Thus  were 
our  companions  in  tribulation,  who 
so  lately  with  us  exulted  in  the  pros- 
pect of  home,  and  of  once  more  em- 
bracing their  relatives  and  friends, 
transferred  only  to  another  prison, 
and,  perhaps,  to  still  longer  captivity. 
Deeply  to  be  deplored  is  the  pre- 
tended necessity  of  the  impress  ser- 
vice at  all,  and  derogatory  from  the 
character  of  the  British  nation, — a 
nation  whose  proud  boast  of  being 
the  home  of  liberty,  has  little  reason 


*  My  father,  I  may  inform  the  reader,  is  yet  alive,  and  in  England ;  and  still 
retains  a  vivid  recollection  of  his  dream  ou  this  occasion. 


1831.] 


During  the  Reign  of  Terror* 


053 


to  support  its  claim,  and  still  less  to 
make  such  an  outcry  against  Negro 
slavery,  whilst  such  disgraceful  co- 
ercion and  brutal  violence,  as  the 
press-gang  exhibits,  are  sanctioned 
and  supported  by  the  Government. 
Whatever  arguments  may  be  invent- 
ed to  prop  up  this  infamous  system, 
surely,  the  mitigation  of  some  of  its 
most  barbarous  inflictions  is  not  ut- 
terly unworthy  of  attention.  Is  not 
the  calamity  of  having  lost  eight  or 
ten  of  the  best  years  of  a  man's  life, 
amidst  the  sufferings  of  a  French 
prison,  quite  sufficient  to  form  an 
argument  of  exemption  from  instant 
incarceration  on  board  a  man-of-war, 
but  that  the  moment  he  sets  his  foot 
upon  his  native  shores, — nay,  even 
before  he  has  fairly  reached  the 
coast,  he  should  be  kidnapped  by  fe- 
rocious hands,  and  transported  per- 
haps to  the  extremity  of  the  globe  ? 
that  having  previously  endured  the 
rage  of  battle  in  his  country's  cause, 
and  won  the  trophies  by  which  she 
is  adorned,  and  in  which  she  glories, 
he  should  be  constrained  to  approach 
his  own  land  by  stealth  and  at  the 
hazard  of  his  life,  like  a  felon  who 
has  escaped  from  transportation  ? 

Happily  for  ourselves,  we  escaped 
the  disaster  which  befell  our  com- 
panions. About  midnight  we  came 
to  an  anchor  in  Mounts  Bay,  and 
eagerly  watched  the  returning  day 
to  present  to  our  longing  sight  the 
land  of  our  birth.  As  soon  as  it  was 
light  we  lowered  our  boats  into  the 


sea,  and  made  towards  the  shore. 
Language  cannot  describe  the  elation 
of  my  spirit  as  we  neared  the  strand. 
The  aspect  of  the  land,  the  houses, 
every  thing  which  met  my  eyes, 
were  invested  with  a  character  pe- 
culiarly British, — a  sacredness  which 
can  scarcely  be  appreciated  but  by 
those  who,  like  ourselves,  had  wit- 
nessed the  melancholy  effects  pro- 
duced by  the  French  Revolution  on 
social  order  and  happiness,  the  civil 
and  religious  institutions  of  the  coun- 
try, and  almost  every  thing  which 
improves  and  dignifies  human  na- 
ture. When  the  boat  was  sufficient- 
ly near  the  beach,  I  sprung  on  shore, 
scarcely  thinking  myself  yet  suffi- 
ciently secure  from  being  reclaimed 
by  the  Republican  guards.  With  a 
heart  grateful  to  God  for  preserva- 
tion amidst  so  many  dangers,  and 
exulting  in  the  liberty  which  I  had 
at  length  recovered,  I  could  not  for- 
bear falling  prostrate  and  kissing 
the  hallowed  ground,  and  offering 
up  an  earnest  prayer,  That  Britain, 
instructed  by  the  mournful  spectacle 
of  revolutionary  France,  might  never 
hearken  to  the  visionary  schemes  of 
self-interested  men,  who  would  per- 
suade her  to  relinquish  the  substan- 
tial blessings  she  enjoys  under  her 
wise  and  equitable  laws,  and  noble 
institutions,  for  an  ideal  liberty 
and  equality,  which  France,  after  a 
bloody  and  exterminating  conflict  of 
many  years,  was  farther  from  attain- 
ing than  at  the  commencement. 


954 
»uld 


Fragments  from  the  History  of  John  Bull. 


>as 


'w  b<>  sH  (ulvr     *>nh!, 

,*  -        fRAGMENTS  FROM  THE  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  BULL. 

eirf    lo   JIH,  „ 


Hid 

J  1o  ino  baqmjJLJon  be 
«id  to  Jasd  ydJ  stain  bim 


[Dec. 

IWV/    vodt 

•I.  MB 

>if  fc'nrtoT.  'otni  jrr/l.e.1 
•j  fit  ,Rin; 
79dJ  niodv/    .ifjjo*?   03  -gn'rAll 

up  his  pldce.'.- 

1  *  M\.\ 

Arthur  told  him  plain-dealing  was 
Now  John's  affairs,  what  with  his  best,  and  that  he  would  have  no  more 
long  lawsuits,  pensions  to  poor  re-  to  say  to  him.  Just  RO  he  would 
lations,  loans  that  were  never  repaid, 
and  so  on,  had  been  getting  rather 
into  a  crazy  condition ;  so  he 


set 

fairly  about  posting  his  books  and 
diminishing  his  expenditure.  "These 
stewards  of  mine,"  quoth  he,  "  with 
a  pox  on  them,  always  tell  me 
they  are  making  improvements 
every  year ;  that  my  rents  are  in- 
creasing, and  that  they  are  laying 
by  a  trifle  to  pay  off  my  mortgages, 
but  confound  me  if  lean  see  day- 
light through  their  balance-sheets. 
I'll  have  a  plain  sensible  man  whom 
I  can  understand,  and  who  under- 
stands me,  and,  please  Heaven,  I'll 
be  at  the  bottom  of  these  same  ac- 
counts by  and  by."  So  he  sent  for 
Arthur  O'Bradley,  the  same  who  had 
Formerly  served  him  well  in  the  long 
lawsuit  about  Lewis  Baboon's  es- 
tates on  the  other  side  of  the  River, 
and  who  was  an  old  pupil  of  Hocus,* 
who  conducted  John's  first  suit 
against  Lord  Strutt  ;f  some  said  he 
bad  got  more  verdicts  in  his  time  than 
his  master  had,  but  be  that  as  it  may, 
he  was  a  much  honester  fellow  than 
Hocus.  He  was  a  bold  free-spoken 
man,  who  liked  short  speeches  and 


deal  with  the  rest.  "  Hollo  I  Nick," 
he  would  say,  "  have  you  posted 
that  ledger" — and  if  it  was  not  done, 
down  came  the  ruler  over  Nick's 
head.  "  Has  that  lazy  rascal  not 
brushed  my  boots?  I'll  teach  him  to 
lie  abed  till  six  in  the  morning ;"  an'd 
thereon  he  would  march  up  to  his 
room,  and  slap  a  basin  of  cold  water 
on  him  before  he  could  say  Jack  Ro- 
binson. So  matters  went  on  for  a 
time,  the  servants  grumbling  a  little, 
but  John  himself  being  wonderfully 
pleased  with  his  new  steward,  and 
all  the  tenantry  on  the  estate  praising 
and  magnifying  him  for  the  wonder- 
ful reductions  he  had  made  in  the 
management  of  John's  household. 

But,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it, 
about  this  time,  Peter,  the  old  up- 
setting priest,  who  had  been  turned 
out  of  the  house  for  making  bonfires 
in  the  yard  and  intriguing  with 
Strutt's  lawyer,  Dominic,  and  who 
had  settled  in  a  small  farm  of  John's 
on  the  other  side  of  the  pond,  began 
to  get  very  noisy  and  troublesome 
in  John's  neighbourhood.  John  had 
little  cause  to  like  the  fellow;  but, 
ns  long  as  he  remained  quiet,  he 


1AJC1.11,     W1IU      ItlX^U      D11UI  b      r>|M.*    V    III    ^    C1LAIL  >O       J  '  '  1 1  ^        CLO  JL      V£U1OU,       II 

short  bills,  kept  the  servants  in  or-     winked  at  his  remaining  on  the  es- 


der,  and  kicked  them  handsomely 
when  they  did  not  do  their  work. 
He  had  scarcely  sat  down  in  John's 
office  when  he  turned  adrift  one  of 
the  under  book-keepers  named  Hus- 
ky, who,  being  rather  a  good  hand  at 
figures,  had  given  himself  great  airs 
under  the  two  last  stewards  Cun- 
ning and  Good  Rich,  and  had  come 
to  consider  himself  a  marvellous 
clever  fellow.  Husky  would  fain 
have  got  back  into  the  office  again, 
after  he  found  his  vapouring  would 
not  do,  and  wrote  a  long  whining 
letter  on  the.  subject,  saying  that 
when  he  said  no,  he  meant  yes ;  but 


tate,  and  picking  up  an  honest  pen- 
ny as  he  best  could  along  with  the 
other  tenants ; — only  he  had  sworn 
he  should  never  come  into  his  house. 
"  Nay,  but,"  says  Peter  to  himself, 
"into  his  house  1  will  come;  and 
then — let  every  body  take  care  of 
himself,  as  the  ass  said  when  he 
danced  among  the  chickens. — I  say 
nothing — but  let  Martin  and  Dick 
look  to  their  sconces."  So  getting 
together  a  number  of  miserable 
ragamuffins,  headed  by  a  fellow 
named  Dan,  they  turned  out  one 
moonshiny  night  with  shillelahs  in 
their  hands,  and  broke  all  the  win- 


Duke  of  Maryborough. 

fa 


f  Spain. 

'    v 


Fragments  from  the  History  of  John  Bull. 


dows  in  the  neighbourhood,  roaring 
out  they  would  cut  the  throats  of 
all  John's  tenantry,  if  Peter  was  not 
taken  into  John's  house  forthwith. 
John's  tenants,  in  general,  had  no 
liking  to  Peter,  whom  they  knew 
very  well  to  be  a  pestilent  fellow, 
but  they  liked  broken  heads  still 
worse ;  and  Peter  and  his  crew  kept 
up  such  an  infernal  racket  about 
their  ears,  robbing  John's  letter-bag 
on  its  way  from  the  village  post-of- 
fice, and  now  and  then  letting  fly 
at  them  with  a  blunderbuss  from 
behind  a  hedge  (though  it  was  only 
charged  with  an  old  newspaper  or 
so,)  that,  in  the  end,  some  of  them 
began  to  think  the  matter  serious. 
Arthur  had,  at  one  time,  hated  Peter 
as  he  did  the  devil,  and,  in  fact,  had 
had  two  or  three  bouts  at  fistycuffs 
with  him ; — but  so  it  was  at  last, 
that  Peter,  who  was  a  cunning  fox, 
got  about  him,  and  what  with  brag- 
ging and  bullying,  and  flattering  Ar- 
thur as  a  great  peacemaker,  and 
praising  up  his  assistant  Bobby,  a 
clever  Oxford  lad,  who  sat  in  the 
office  below,  he  contrived  to  get 
himself  comfortably  established  in 
his  old  quarters,  very  much  against 
John's  wishes,  who  did  not  feel  easy 
in  his  conscience  about  the  oath  he 
had  sworn  to  keep  Peter  out. 

This  was  a  sore  blow  to  many  of 
Arthur's  fellow-servants,  who  knew 
Peter's  tricks  of  old,  and  swore 
roundly  they  would  not  be  surprised 
if  he  brought  the  house  about  their 
ears  some  day.  So  they  who  did  not 
like  Peter,  and  they  who  thought 
they  got  more  kicks  than  halfpence 
from  Arthur,  laid  their  heads  toge- 
ther, and  only  waited  for  an  oppor- 
tunity to  go  and  lodge  a  complaint 
with  John,  and  get  Arthur  turned 
out.  This  was  not  long  of  coming. 
Ye  must  know  that  Charles  Baboon, 
who  succeeded  to  Lewis  Manor,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  river,  a  positive 
pragmatical  old  fellow  as  ever  lived 
by  bread,  got  into  a  quarrel  with  his 
servants,  because  he  insisted  on 
keeping  the  keys  of  the  press  in  his 
own  hands,  and  said  he  would  bring 
whom  he  liked  into  any  room  iu  his 
house.  Finding  that  this  only  made 
them  worse,  he  tried  to  clear  the 
hall  with  a  cudgel,  but  the  rascals, 


953 

who  had  come  prepared  with  blud- 
geons behind  their  backs,  twisted 
the  stick ,  out  of  his  hands,  and 
would  have  broken  it  over  his  head, 
if  he  had  not  jumped  out  of  the  win- 
dow, and  made  the  best  of  his  way 
to  the  feny,  where  he  was  taken  up 
by  some  of  John's  people,  and  put 
to  bed  half  dead  with  fright.  And 
then  a  set  of  them  sallying  out  of  the 
house,  ran  as  fast  as  their  legs  could 
carry  them  down  to  Nick  Frog  the 
grocer's  house,  who  lived  within  a 
stonecast  of  Baboon's  j  and  joining 
with  some  of  Nick's  servants,  they 
broke  into  his  shop  before  he  knew 
what  was  in  the  wind,  cast  his  oranges 
in  his  teeth,  and  thereby  broke  -his 
best  pipe  and  tobacco  stopper  all  to 
pieces,  so  that  the  poor  man  was 
fain  to  walk  off,  holding  up  the  waist- 
band of  his  breeches  as  he  best  could, 
to  an  old  house  that  he  had  on  the 
other  side  of  the  canal.  The  servants 
who  remained  in  Charles  Baboon's 
house  allowed  his  cousin  Philip  (who, 
hearing  that  Charlie  had  walked  off, 
stept  up  to  look  after  the  plate  and 
furniture)  to  take  a  bed  at  the  house 
for  a  week  or  two  ;  but  they  shewed 
him  to  a  nasty  stinking  bedroom,  just 
above  the  pig-sty;  kept  the  keys  of 
the  pantry  in  their  own  hands,*  and 
hardly  allowed  the  poor  gentleman 
a  decent  meal.  His  life,  in  fact, 
while  he  was  in  the  house,  was  a 
burden  to  him.  One  night  they 
would  knock  him  up,  just  as  he  had 
fallen  into  a  doze,  to  quiet  some 
drunken  squabble  in  the  court ;  the 
next  day  all  the  dirty  rascals  in 
the  neighbourhood  would  collect  In 
crowds,  and  sing  lewd  songs  or 
make  water  under  his  parlour  win- 
dow;* and  again,  if  any  royster- 
ing  squire  in  the  neighbourhood  got 
into  a  dispute  with  his  tenantry,  half 
a  dozen  tatterdemalions  would  break 
into  Philip's  dressing-room  as  he  was 
shaving,  swearing  that  he  must  put 
a  horse  pistol  in  his  pocket,  and  ride 
post  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the 
estate,  to  take  part  with  the  tenants 
in  the  fray,  whether  he  knew  any 
thing  of  the  matter  or  not.  All  this, 
as  ye  may  suppose,  Philip  hated  as 
the  devil  hates  holy  water ;  and  if  he 
had  not  thought  that,  by  remaining  a 
little  longer,  he  might  contrive  to 


*  The  tumultuous  assemblages  in  the  Palais  Royal,  and  Place  Vendome. 


Fragments  from  the  History  of  John  Bull. 


956 

pocket  the  silver  spoons,  and  walk 
off  quietly,  he  would  never  have 
submitted  to  it ;  but,  after  all,  he 
could  not  help  rapping  out  an  oath 
now  and  then,  especially  one  day 
that  he  sent  each  of  the  rascals  a  pot 
of  ale,  with  his  compliments,  and 
half  a  dozen  of  them  came  in  a  pet, 
and  threw  the  liquor  in  his  face.* 
But  then,  if  he  ventured  to  grumble, 
"Oho  !"  they  would  say,  "  here's  re- 
bellion— here's  ingratitude !  Things 
are  come  to  a  pretty  pass,  indeed,  if 
this  puppy  is  to  have  a  will  of  hia 
own.  Why !  who  the  devil  are  you, 
and  what  right  have  you  to  shew 
your  nose  here,  except  we  choose  to 
let  you  ?  Isn't  the  ale  ours,  every 
drop  of  it,  and  thetankard  too,forthat 
matter,  eh  ?"  Whereupon  Philip 
would  swear  he  meant  no  harm,  and 
that  he  was  their  humble  servant  till 
death,  and  so  forth. 

Now,  there  were  plenty  of  raga- 
muffins on  John  Bull's  estates,  who, 
hearing  of  these  strange  doings  in 
Baboon's  house,  thought  this  would 
be  an  excellent  opportunity  to  get 
up  something  of  the  same  kind  in 
John's;  for,  said  they,  while  other 
folks  are  fighting,  we  may  be  filch- 
ing. They  had  in  fact  tried  a  prank 
or  the  same  kind  before,  about  the 
time  when  poor  old  Louis  Baboon 
fell  down  from  the  scaffolding  and 
got  his  scull  fractured,  and  his  te- 
nants broke  open  his  scrutoire ;  but 
John's  steward  at  that  time,  who  was 
a  fellow  of  some  pluck,  turned  out 
in  a  twinkling  at  the  head  of  the  con- 
stables, and  the  fray  was  got  under 
in  no  time.  Finding,  however,  that 
Arthur  and  his  comrades  had  got  to 
high  words  about  this  cursed  affair 
of  Peter,  they  thought  now  was  their 
time,  while  all  the  servants  in  the 
house  were  at  sixes  and  sevens,  and 
so  began  burning  John's  hay-ricks, 
robbing  his  hen-roosts  by  the  light  of 
the  fire,  breaking  his  threshing  ma- 
chines, stealing  his  linen  from  the 
hedge,  and  playing  off  the  same  game 
under  his  nose  which  had  been  tried 
by  Dan  and  his  beggarly  crew  on  the 
other  side  of  the  pond. 

But  at  last,  after  matters  had  gone 
on  in  this  way  for  some  time,  and 
some  of  the  ringleaders,  whom  John's 


[Dec. 


gamekeeper  had  got  hold  of,  had 
been  tried  at  the  Winchester  Sessions 
and  set  in  the  stocks,  one  of  the 
pack,  called  Swing,  who  was  a  know- 
ing fellow,  said  to  his  comrades, — 
"  It  won't  do,  my  masters,  to  go  on 
blazing  away  at  this  rate — John  will 
get  roused,  though  he  is  a  dull  fellow, 
and  we  shall  have  all  our  heads 
broken  some  fine  morning,  so  we 
must  go  more  cautiously  to  work. 
What  think  ye  of  getting  up  the  old 
story  about  the  Squire's  taking  back 
Madam  Reform  ?  It's  a  cursed  shame 
of  him — isn't  it — to  keep  her  at  such 
a  distance— his  own  blood  relation 
too !  they  say.  Suppose  we  insist 
upon  his  taking  her  home  immediate- 
ly, and  doing  tor  her — then  there  will 
be  a  rumpus — the  whole  house  will 
be  in  an  uproar,  and  while  they  are 
all  at  loggerheads,  we'll  find  our  way 
in  by  the  back  door.  Besides,  I've 
smoked  a  pipe  or  two  lately  with 
Radical  Dick,  the  old  lady's  nephew 
— (on  the  wrong  side  of  the  blanket) 
— and  between  you  and  me,  if  we 
can  once  get  her  fairly  in,  we'll  soon 
send  those  lazy  fellows  with  their 
gold-lace  shoulder-knots  to  the  right 
about,  and  see  what  stuff  John's 
cellar  and  larder  are  made  of." 

Now  this  old  lady  whom  the 
rascals  spoke  of  was  a  very  distant 
relation  of  John's,  and  having  some 
knowledge  of  simples  and  'pothecary 
stuffs,  she  had  at  one  time,  when 
John  was  rather  a  wild  fellow,  been 
of  some  service  to  him,  in  helping 
him  to  bring  his  constitution  into 
proper  order — and  so  John  used  to 
nickname  her  Madam  Reform.  But 
being  a  most  uneasy  fidgety  old 
lady,  she  never  knew  where  to  stop ; 
she  was  eternally  dosing  him  with 
drugs  when  they  were  perfectly  un- 
necessary ;  now  recommending  a 
purge  in  order  to  clear  off  the  rotten 
humours  which  she  said  were  preying 
on  his  vitals  ;  now  plying  him  with 
potions,  pills,  cataplasms,  clysters, 
plasters,blisters,  draughts,  cathartics, 
tonics,  diluents,  alteratives,  sedatives, 
— all  the  trash,  in  short,  which  was 
palmed  off  upon  her  by  the  quacks 
in  the  neighbourhood,  who,  know- 
ing her  hobby,  never  failed  to  gratify 
her  by  some  new  nostrum  or  other, 


*  The  distribution  of  the  "July"  medals  in  name  of  the  King,  which  were  indigo 
nantly  rejected. 


1831.] 


Fragments  from  the  History  of  John  Bull. 


957 


"  Look  ye,  madam,"  said  John,  losing 
temper  at  last,  "  it's  very  odd  that  if 
I  am  in  such  a  desperate  way  as  you 
say,  I  can't  for  the  life  o'  me  find  it 
out.  I  don't  see  any  thing  the  mat- 
ter with  my  constitution  for  my  part; 
I  eat  well,  drink  well,  and  sleep  well ; 
so  you  may  carry  your  drugs  to  the 
foreign  market.  Perhaps  Esquire 
South,  or  Esquire  North,  or  Lord 
Strutt,  or  Don  Pedro,  or  Signer  Ma- 
caroni, may  thank  you  for  them,  and 
so  good  morrow  to  ye."  So  they 
parted,  and  have  had  little  or  no 
communication  since.  In  fact,  after 
John  threw  her  off,  the  poor  woman 

Sot  into  bad  hands — took  to  gin  and 
)w  company —  hob-a-nobbed  with 
Dan  the  scullion,  and  Harry  the  shoe- 
black, and  Hum  the  Scotch  quack- 
doctor,  and  Cabbage  the  tailor,  and 
the  rest  of  that  set  who  used  to  meet 
and  drink  together  at  the  Westmin- 
ster tap ;  and  although  her  friends 
tried  to  face  the  matter  out,  it  was 
shrewdly  whispered — and,  in  fact,  a 
constable  made  oath  to  the  truth  of 
it  before  a  Justice — that  that  hang- 
dog villain,  Swing,  had  been  seen 
stealing  out  of  her  back  door  in  his 
shirt  after  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing. All  these  things  had  brought  the 
old  woman  into  discredit,  so  that 
although  at  first  some  of  her  old  ac- 
quaintances would  vapour  a  little 
about  the  necessity  of  bringing  her 
back,  and  the  great  use  she  was  like- 
ly to  be  of  in  John's  housekeeping, 
few  people  latterly  had  troubled  their 
heads  about  her,  and  John  used  to 
put  his  tongue  in  his  cheek  and  laugh 
when  any  one  tried  to  frighten  him 
into  taking  back  the  plaguy  old  wo- 
man into  his  family. 

It  was  always  observed,  however, 
— and  this  was  a  bad  sign — that  when 
any  thing  went  wrong  in  John's  mat- 
ters, a  set  of  idle,  discontented,  bra- 
zen-faced fellows,  most  of  whom  had 
been  in  the  Gazette  over  and  over 
again,  would  meet  at  the  Three 
Stripes  public-house,  and  get  up  a 
cry  for  Madam  Reform  over  their  li- 
quor. "  Ah !"  they  would  say, "  if  the 
good  old  lady  had  been  here,  things 
would  not  have  come  to  this  pass — 
we  should  all  have  been  thriving 
tradesmen,  and.  well  to  do  in  the 
world;  there  would  have  been  no 
waste  in  the  kitchen,  but  all  the 
broken  victuals  given  to  the  poor; 
no  quarrels  with  our  neighbours  $  no 


bringing  in  idle  fellows  to  drink,  by 
the  backstairs;  but  all  fair  and  above 
board,  d'ye  see  :"  though  all  the 
world  knew  that  the  old  woman's 
hangers-on  were  a  set  of  the  most 
swaggering,  quarrelsome,  intriguing, 
self-seeking  knaves  extant.  So, 
when  Swing  and  the  rest  of  them 
began  burning  the  hay-ricks,  and 
nobody  could  sleep  o'  nights  for 
fear  of  having  his  windows  broken, 
there  was  agreat  cry  got  up, as  usual, 
for  the  old  lady.  All  the  idle  fellows 
on  the  estate,  who  had  no  work  to 
attend  to  but  their  neighbours',  turn- 
ed out  on  the  village  green,  and  stuck 
a  red  night-cap  on  a  pole,  and  away 
they  marched  towards  John's  house, 
whooping  and  hallooing,  and  crying 
out  that  nothing  would  go  right  till 
they  had  got  the  old  woman  back;  and 
that  then  they  would  all  have  shirts 
to  their  back,  and  blue  ruin  to  their 
bellies.  At  first  the  servants  only 
laughed  at  them,  and  shut  the  door 
in  their  faces;  and  Arthur  said  to 
Twist  the  errand-boy,  "  Horace,  my 
man,  step  up  quietly  to  my  bedroom, 
will  ye — and  empty  me  the  cham- 
ber-pot upon  them,  handsomely, 
over  the  window;"  which  Horace  did 
with  an  air  as  if  it  had  been  an 
Etruscan  vase,  instead  of  an  ordi- 
nary potter's  vessel.  But,  after  all-, 
they  only  laughed  at  Horace  and  his 
utensil ;  and,  at  last,  the  cry  got  so 
loud,  that  some  people  in  the  house 
began  to  get  frightened,  and  to  say, 
that  though  the  old  lady  was  a  use- 
less harridan,  and  no  better  than 
she  should  be,  it  would  be  better  to 
let  her  in  at  once,  than  have  their 
heads  broken.  But  Arthur  was  not 
the  man  to  be  frightened  by  a  few 
hard  raps.  So,  sticking  his  head  out 
of  the  window,  "  My  lads,"  said  he, 
"  you  had  better  sheer  off  as  fast  as 
ye  can.  I  have  spoken  to  John  about 
this  same  old  woman — and,  body  o' 
me,  she  shall  never  come  here  in  my 
time,  that's  flat." — "  And  so  say  I, 
too,"  quoth  Bobby,  putting  his  head 
out  of  the  next  window;  and  then 
they  both  drew  in  their  heads  again. 
"  What's  that  you  say,  sir  ?"  says 
Peter,  crossing  himself — "  by  the 
holy  poker,  she  has  as  good  a  right 
to  be  here  as  I  have — you  know  you 
blinked  an  oath  to  serve  me — and  I 
say  she  shall  come  in."  Arthur  was 
thunderstruck  to  hear  that  ungrate- 
ful villainPeter  take  part  agamsthim; 


958  fragments  from  the 

and  still  more,  to  see  the  varlet  Dan, 
who  had  been  taken  in,  ashe  thought, 
merely  to  scrape  the  potatoes,  and 
do  the  dirty  work  of  the  house,  come 
up  to  him,  flourishing  his  shillelah, 
and  swearing  he  would  bring  her  in 
in  spite  of  his  teeth.  But  what  was 
the  oddest  fancy  of  all,  was,  that 
Arthur's  fellow-servants,  who  had 
been  so  enraged  at  him  for  bringing 
in  Peter,  now  joined  with  Peter  in 
shoving  and  hustling  Arthur  to  the 
door,  saying  they  would  rather  ruin 
themselves,  and  all  that  belonged  to 
them,  than  have  such  a  hectoring, 
papistical,  cheeseparing  fellow  as 
Arthur  to  be  steward  any  longer. 
And  now  it  came  out  that  there  had 
been  a  league  between  Peter  and  the 
old  lady ;  and  that  Peter  had  sworn 
on  the  breviary,  that  if  he  got  in  him- 
self, he  would  do  his  best  to  bring 
her  in  too ;  but  with  a  mental  reser- 
vation— if  he  could  make  any  thing 
by  it. 


ttistory  of  John  Suit.  [  1 8:3 1 . 

So  Arthur  and  Bobby  went  straight 
to  John  Bull,  who  generally  sat  up 
stairs,  and  who  had  been  rather 
alarmed  at  the  noise,  and  told  him 
they  saw  plainly  there  were  a  set 
in  the  house  at  present  who  disliked 
them,  and  would  rather  bring  back 
the  old  woman,  though  they  hated  her 
consumedly,  than  lose  the  opportu- 
nity of  venting  their  spite.  "  But," 
said  Arthur,  "  as  I  should  not  wish 
to  have  it  said  that  she  turned  us 
out,  why  it  will  be  more  civil  to  say 
we  parted  because  we  had  some 
little  differences  about  our  accounts." 
— "  Well,"  said  John,  "  if  it  must  be 
so,  there's  no  help  for  it.  Needs  must, 
you  know ;  but,  between  ourselves," 
laying  his  linger  on  his  nose,  "  you 
understand  me?" — "  Perfectly,"  said 
Arthur,  cocking  his  eye ;  so  they 
shook  hands,  and  John  gave  them 
both  a  very  good  certificate  of  cha- 
racter at  parting. 


CflAP.    II. 


How  Gaffer   Gray  tried  to  bring  Madam.  Reform  into  John's  house,  and 
how  she  was  knocked  down  stairs  as  she  was  getting  into  the  second  story. 

house  upside  down,  I  promise  you." 
"  Look  ye,  John,"  said  Gray,  "  if 
you'll  let  me  turn  out  a  pack  of  those 
fellows  that  have  been  keeping  me 
out  of  employment  these  twenty 
years  past,  and  fill  their  places  with 
some  honest  friends  of  my  own — all 
excellent  fellows,  though  I  say  it — 
I'm  your  man.  We  must  let  the  old 
woman  in,  but  will  keep  her  to  the 
small  closet  in  the  sunk  story;  and 
— hark  ye — I'll  have  a  strait  waist- 
coat ready  in  the  next  room  in  case 
she  gets  wilful."  So  down  goes 
Gaffer  to  the  servants'  hall,  and 
calling  his  fellows  about  him, — "  My 
lads,"  said  he,  "  I  believe  we  are  all 
agreed,  [this  was  a  lie  by  the  by,] 
that  there  will  be  no  peace  in  the 
house  till  Madam  Reform  comes 
back; — she  is  an  excellent  Woman, 
as  ye  know — a  very  excellent  wo- 
man— but  damnably  outrageous  at 
times,  especially  when  she  gets 
drunk,  so  we  must  keep  her  snug 
in  her  own  room  ; — ana,  hark  ye, 
if  ye  see  any  low  hulking-looking 
fellows  coining  about  the  house  to 
speak  to  her,  let  loose  the  house-dog, 
l)ragoii,  at  them  without  ceremony. 


JOHN  did  not  at  first  know  very 
well  where  to  turn  himself  for  a 
steward  when  Arthur  left  him,  but 
at  last  he  bethought  him  of  one  Gaf- 
fer Gray,  a  north-country  man,  who 
used  to  be  a  hanger-on  about  the 
house,  though  he  had  no  employ- 
ment there.  Gray  had  been  a  brisk, 
active  fellow  when  young,  though  he 
was  past  his  best  now ; — used  to  be 
much  about  Madam  Reform's  house 
in  his  younger  days,  but  latterly  he 
had  been  getting  rather  shy  of  her 
acquaintance;  and,  though  he  said 
he  thought  John  should  take  her 
back  some  time  or  other,  he  always 
said  there  was  a  good  time  coming, 
and  he  would  sneer  at  those  who 
spoke  of  bringing  her  home  imme- 
diately. But,  as  lie  was  known  to 
have  been  an  old  gallant  of  the  lady's, 
John  thought  he  would  be  just  the 
man  to  quiet  all  this  infernal  row 
which  had  been  raised  about  her. 
"  Well,  Gafl'er,"  says  John,  "  you  see 
how  the  land  lies.  Are  you  willing 
to  take  the  books,  and  see  whether 
we  can  get  this  plaguy  business 
about  the  old  lady  settled?  If  she 
come  in,  she  shan't  turn  rny 


1831.J 


Fragments  from  the  History  of  John  Bull. 


It  will  take  a  month  or  two  to  get 
her  room  put  to  rights ;  so,  in  the 
meantime,  let's  see  what's  to  be  done 
with  the  books." 

So  up  he  went  to  Arthur's  room, 
in  which  he  found  every  thing  in  very 
good  order.  "  Let  me  see  the  house- 
book,"  said  he  to  Allsoap,  whom  he 
had  brought  with  him  as  under  book- 
keeper, "  these  are  woundy  sums  to 
pay  out ;  John  must  have  been 
confoundedly  cheated.  Don't  you 
think  we  shall  manage  to  save  the 
honest  man  a  good  many  pounds  at 
the  end  of  the  year  ?"• — "  Mayhap  we 
will,  and  mayhap  not,"  said  Allsoap. 
But  after  they  had  worked  away  for 
a  day  or  two,  they  could  not  for  the 
soul  of  them  lay  their  hand  on  any 
thing  which  they  thought  could  be 
retrenched,  except  that  Allsoap  found 
out  some  drippings,  which  the  scul- 
lion used  to  pocket  as  a  perquisite. 
"  Aha  !"  said  he,  "  here  is  the  very 
thing.  See  how  John's  simplicity  is 
abused — the  rascal  scullion  shall  not 
remain  in  the  house  another  day." 
Thereupon  Gray  went  down  to  John, 
and  making  him  a  speech,  (you  must 
know  Gray  was  always  a  good  hand 
at  a  speech,) — "John,"  said  he,  "mat- 
ters, we  find,  are  not  just  so  very 
bad  as  we  thought,  but  we  shall  be 
able  to  save  you  no  less  than  five 
pounds  at  the  end  of  the  quarter— 
and  now  let's  see  if  we  can't  raise 
your  rents  a  little."  Then  Gray  went 
back  to  his  office,  and  he  and  Allsoap, 
and  Buckram,  and  Drum,  and  Johny 
laid  their  heads  together  for  a  week: 
Drum  had  been  a  master-collier,  and 
Buckram  an  attorney ;  Johny  had  ne- 
ver been  anything  at  all.  Now  John 
Bull,  ye  must  know,  had  a  sort  of  sa- 
vings' bank,  where  the  industrious 
part  of  his  servants  laid  up  their 
earnings  from  time  to  time ;  so  says 
Allsoap, "  Make  the  fellows  pay  two- 
pence every  time  they  draw  out  their 
money." — "  An  excellent  scheme, 
by  the  Lord  !"  said  Gray  and  Buck- 
ram, and  Bill  Jones.  Drum  said  no- 
thing, but  stirred  the  fire.  But  when 
they  came  down  stairs  and  told  the 
servants  what  was  to  be  done,  there 
was  such  a  hooting,  and  hissing,  and 
whistling,  and  shuffling  with  the  feet, 
that  they  were  glad  to  make  their 
way  out  of  the  hall  as  fast  as  possi- 
ble. Then  they  proposed  to  change 
John's  wine-merchant,  though  Don 
Pedro  had  John's  promise  in  black 
VOL.  XXX.  NO.  CLXXXVIII. 


959 

and  white,  that  he  would  not  deal 
with  any  other  but  himself;  but  the 
servants,  who  disliked  French  slops 
objected  to  this  too.  Then  one  day 
they  would  shorten  the  allowance 
of  tobacco ;  the  next  they  would 
increase  the  allowance  of  candles ; 
Drum  told  the  servants  they  might 
burn  as  much  coals  as  they  liked, 
"  but,"  says  Allsoap,  "  not  a  stick  of 
timber  for  your  lives." — "Give  them 
plenty  of  soap,"  said  Pullet,  "  the 
knaves  have  need  of  it." — "  Shall  we 
touch  the  sugar  and  rum  ?"  said 
Buckram,  "  I  once  talked  about  it 
when  I  was  out  of  place." — "  We'll 
see  about  it,  by  and  by,"  said  All- 
soap." — "  Harkye,  my  lads,"  said 
Buckram,  "  I  have  it — let's  set  to 
work  and  dust  the  papers  in  the  lum- 
ber-room. They're  not  much  in 
any  body's  way,  to  be  sure,  but  it's 
something  to  talk  about." — "  The 
very  thing,"  said  all  of  them.  So 
down  they  sallied  with  mops  and 
brooms  to  the  lumber-room,  where 
to  be  sure  there  was  a  great  heap  of 
papers  on  the  floor,  and  began  scrub- 
bing, and  plastering,  and  whitewash- 
ing, and  dusting,  and  kicking  the  pa- 
pers about,  and  burning  some  very 
useful  title-deeds  of  John's  in  their 
hurry.  After  all,  they  found  they 
could  not  get  rid  of  them  all,  so 
Buckram  huddled  the  rest  of  them 
behind  a  woolsack  that  stood  in  the 
corner,  and  squatting  himself  down 
upon  it,  and  spreading  out  his  coat- 
tails  to  keep  the  papers  out  of  sight, 
they  called  in  the  servants,  and  Buck- 
ram said  to  them  with  a  great  air, 
"  Look  at  me,  I'm  the  man  to  clear 
away  that  cursed  pile  of  mouldy  pa- 
pers that  stood  in  every  body's  way, 
as  ye  know.  No  more  of  your  old 
bags,  and  such  like  lumber,  shall  be 
laid  down  here  again,  by  the  Lord 
Harry  !"  Then  two  or  three  of  them 
cried  out  huzza  for  Buckram,  but  the 
greater  part  of  them,  who  had  not  oc- 
casion to  be  in  that  room  once  a-year, 
cared  little  about  it. 

So  at  last,  with  all  these  pestering 
changes,  no  man  in  the  house  knew 
where  his  work  lay,  or  what  he  was 
to  do;  and  most  of  the  servants  saw 
clearly  that  Gaffer  was  no  conjurer. 
Accordingly,  some  of  the  bolder  of 
them  took  heart  and  told  him  so  to  his 
face  ;  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  Buck- 
ram, who  was  a  bold  fellow  as  far  as 
the  tongue  was  concerned,  and  gave 


Fragments  from  the  History  of  John  Butt. 


[Dec. 


them  a  Rowland  for  their  Oliver, 
poor  Gaffer  Gray  would  have  had 
enough  ado  to  kee"p  his  place,  for 
John  himself  began  to  wonder  what 
confounded  noise  it  was  he  always 
heard  below  in  the  servants'  hall ;  and 
Gray  would  say,  "  John,  I'll  trouble 
you  for  ten  pounds  more,"  just  as 
often  as  Arthur  did. 

Thereupon  Buckram  gets  Gray 
and  the  rest  of  them  into  Gray's  of- 
fice one  day,  on  pretence  of  taking  a 
tankard  together,  and,  says  he,  "  My 
masters,  we  are  all  in  the  way  of 
getting  turned  out ;  for  the  servants 
are  calling  us  ninnies;  and  as  to  some 
of  us,"  twitching  his  nose,  for  he 
could  make  it  vibrate  in  a  way  that 
iras  fearful  to  behold,  "  as  to  some 
of  us — I  name  no  names — they  are 
right.  So  nothing  is  left  for  us  but 
to  bring  back  that  pestilent  old  wo- 
man in  earnest;  and  it  won't  do 
now  to  keep  her  in  the  sunk  story — 
we  must  get  her  up  stairs,  and  get 
all  her  friends  to  help  us,  or  there  is 
an  end  to  our  stewardship.  You  see, 
sirs,  it  comes  to  this, — if  she  don't 
come  in  bodily,  we  must  walk  out." 
"  I  could  see  her  hanged  for  my  part," 
said  Gray, — "  or  buried  in  a  coal-pit," 
snid  Drum. — "  But  if  it  must  be,  it 
must,"  said  Allsoap. — "  I  wash  my 
hands  of  it,"  said  Pullet.  So  they 
went  down  stairs  again,  to  propose 
the  matter  to  the  servants. 

Now  you  must  know  that  John's 
household  was  rather  oddly  arranged. 
His  upper  servants,  who  dined  in  a 
room  by  themselves,  had  been  enga- 
ged by  John's  ancestors,  and  could 
not  be  turned  out  when  John  liked, 
and  these  worthies  did  not  like  the 
new  steward  at  all.  The  other  ser- 
vants  ate  their  commons  in  a  room 
below,  and  could  be  sent  about  their 
business  in  the  lump  if  John  thought 
proper.  Some  of  these  liked  Gaf- 
fer Gray,  and  some  not.  So  Gray 
Bent  down  Allsoap  to  them,  who  told 
them  the  old  woman  was  now  posi- 
tively coming  home  the  next  day, 
and  that  they  must  make  all  ready 
for  her  reception,  and  that  she  was 
to  have  the  range  of  the  house,  and 
that  they  must  make  much  of  her, 
and  chain  up  Dragon  immediately, 
lest  he  should  fasten  upon  any  of 
those  that  came  along  with  her. 
Whereupon,  rather  more  than  half 
the  fellows  threw  up  their  caps, 
thinking  there  would  be  nothing  now 


but  junketing  and  merry-making, 
and  roared  and  bellowed  lustily  for 
Madam  Reform.  But  a  number  of  the 
others  stared  at  one  another,  and  at 
last,  one  knowing  old  fellow,  called 
Leatherall,  who  had  been  bred  to  the 
law,  and  was  a  match  for  Buckram 
himself,stept  up  to  Allsoap.and  asked 
him  if  he  did  not  recollect  something 
about  the  sunk  story  and  the  strait- 
waistcoat,  and  setting  the  house-dog 
upon  every  ragamuffin  that  showed 
his  face  along  with  Madam  Reform  ? 
But  Allsoap  had  forgotten  every 
thing  about  it,  and  so  had  Jonny  and 
the  rest.  "  But,"  said  Allsoap,  "  this 
you  may  depend  upon ;  we  know 
very  well  that  the  old  lady's  nephew, 
Radical  Dick,  and  a  set  of  other 
blackguards,  would  fain  come  in  along 
with  her,  but  we  are  the  men  to  keep 
them  out — bless  your  souls !  We 
shall  have  a  constable  at  the  door, 
and  not  a  man  shall  pass  without  a 
shirt  on  his  back  and  a  shilling  in  his 
pocket;  and  when  we  have  let  in 
enough,  why  then  Buckram  and  Gray 
and  Bill  Jones  and  myself,  will  dap 
our  backs  against  the  door,  and  we 
can  let  Dragon  loose  if  need  be — and 
so  keep  them  out." — "  You  to  be 
sure!"  said  Leatherall;"  why,  I'll  lay 
my  life  you've  a  letter  in  your  pocket 
at  this  moment  from  that  rascal  Ra- 
dical Dick,  dated  Brummagem — Eh  ! 
Are  not  these  your  pothooks  and 
Johny's  ?"  So  he  pulled  out  of  his 
pocket  two  ill-written  scrawls,  signed 
Allsoap  and  Johny,  and  there  to  be 
sure  it  was  in  black  and  white,  All- 
soap  telling  Dick  he  was  proud  of  the 
honour  of  his  acquaintance,  and 
Johny  telling  him  a  long  rigmarole 
story  about  himself — and  how  the  op. 
position  against  his  aunt  was  nothing 
but  the  whisper  of  a  faction,  though 
God  knows  it  was  loud  enough,  and 
poor  Johny,  for  that  matter,  never 
spoke  above  his  breath  himself.  So 
with  all  these  taunts,  they  so  bother- 
ed Allsoap's  brains,  which  were  none 
of  the  best,  that  he  gave  the  matter 
up  in  despair;  for  at  last,  when  he 
asked  Leatherall,  who  had  something 
to  say  about  the  house-money,  for  a 
crown  piece  to  pay  the  baker's  ac- 
count, he  told  him  plainly  he  should 
not  have  a  rap,  and  BO  Allsoap  went 
back  to  Gaffer  Gray,  looking  sheep- 
ish, and  told  him  what  had  happened. 
Gaffer  Gray  saw  that  nothing 
would  do  now  but  to  send  the  under 


1831.] 


Fragments  from  the  History  of  John  Bull. 


Ml 


servants  about  their  business  at  once, 
"  for,"  said  he,  "  it  is  easy  for  us  to 
take  back  those  that  will  do  their 
work  quietly  j  and  we'll  take  good 
care  that  the  others  shall  be  well 
looked  after.  We  have  only  to  tell 
them,  that  John  has  made  up  his 
mind  to  have  the  old  woman  back, 
and  that  they  will  lose  his  favour  if 
they  don't  lend  a  hand  to  h elp  her  in.' ' 
So  the  servants  were  sent  adrift  one 
fine  morning.  John  did  not  like  the 
business  at  all,  and  would  fain  have 
let  matters  go  on  as  they  were,  but 
Gaffer  Gray  told  him  either  he  or 
they  should  leave  the  house,  and  that 
John  must  put  on  his  morning-gown 
and  come  down  stairs  himself  to  give 
them  their  dismissal.  So  as  John 
could  not  well  take  back  Arthur  as  yet, 
he  got  out  of  bed  at  last,  grumbling, 
and  with  a  whimpering  voice  bade 
them  all  good-bye,  shaking  hands 
with  one  or  two  of  them,  when  he 
thought  Gray  did  not  see  him. 

When  the  new  servants  came  home, 
Gaffer  Gray  met  them  in  the  hall. 
"And  now,  my  lads,"  said  he, "  there 
is  nothing  I  like  so  much  as  freedom 
of  opinion.  It  is  the  glorious  dis- 
tinction of  a  Briton.  I  throw  myself 
on  the  sense  of  the  whole  tenantry 
of  the  estate."  "  Well  hit,  Gaffer," 
said  Buckram.  "  Only,  my  lads," 
continued  Gaffer, "  you  must  say  as  I 
say,  and  vote  as  I  vote,or,by.the  Lord, 
your  places  in  John's  house  are  not 
worth  a  brass  farthing.  That  excel- 
lent old  woman,  Madam  Reform,  is 
on  her  way  hither.  You  know  my 
opinion  about  her  has  always  been 
the  same !" — Here  methought  Buck- 
ram tipped  the  wink  to  Alisoap— 
"  We  must  give  her  a  warm  recep- 
tion."— "  As  warm  as  ye  will,"  quoth 
Leatherall,  who,  in  spite  of  all  that 
Gray  could  do,  had  contrived  to  get 
back  into  the  house.  "  So  now,  my 
lads,  go  down  one  of  ye  and  put  a 
puff  about  her  in  the  newspapers, 
here's  five  shillings  to  the  editor,  and 
tell  the  landlord  of  the  Hog  in  Ar- 
mour he  may  trust  him  for  half  a 
gallon  of  gin ;  and,  harkye,  get  a  dark- 
lantern  some  of  ye,  and  go  out  and 
meet  the  old  woman,  for  the  roads 
hereabout  are  as  heavy  as  quag- 
mires, and  as  dark  as  Erebus ;  and 
I'll  be  choked  if  I  see  my  way  clearly 
myself.  Bring  her  into  the  house  as 
fast  as  ye  can,  and  then  let  me  know. 
You  will  find  me  in  the  Privy." 


Away  went  the  crew,  and  they 
soon  met  the  old  lady,  who  was 
coming  ambling  along  the  East  Ret- 
ford  Road.  There  was  something 
very  preposterous  about  her  look,  for 
she  grinned,  and  chattered,  and  fid- 

§eted  constantly ;  no  two  parts  of  her 
ress  corresponded ;  there  were  hi- 
deous rents  and  darnings  about  her 
cap,  and  patches  of  different  colours 
about  her  mantua,  so  that  even  some 
of  the  more  respectable  people  about 
her  looked  ashamed  of  her,  and  tried 
to  cover  her  as  well  as  they  could. 
But  behind  there  came  a  pack  of  the 
most  unsavoury,  ragged,  cut-throat 
looking  villains,  that  ever  drew 
breath,  all  howling,  and  shouting,  and 
clattering  their  sticks,  as  if  they  were 
mad.  John's  servants  did  not  like 
the  look  of  them  at  all,  for  some  of 
them  shook  their  fists  in  their  faces, 
and  others  swore  bloodily  at  them  be- 
cause they  had  decent  coats  on  their 
backs ;  but  as  better  could  not  be, 
they  took  the  crazy  old  woman  in 
their  arms  and  marched  up  with  her 
to  the  house  door,  thinking  they 
would  get  her  in  without  difficulty. 

But  therein  they  had  reckoned 
without  their  host;  for  Leatherall 
and  Croaker  and  their  friends  got  be- 
fore the  door,  and  a  desperate  scuffle 
ensued.  Crowns  were  cracked  on 
all  sides.  Allsoap  was  so  mauled 
that  he  took  to  bed  afterwards ;  and 
the  old  lady  got  several  infernal  raps 
on  the  head  before  she  was  lodged 
in  safety  in  the  lower  story, — which 
her  own  friends  said,  entirely  knock- 
ed out  any  little  sense  she  had  be- 
fore. 

But  now  the  difficulty  was  to  get 
her  up  stairs,  for  the  upper  servants, 
who  had  never  liked  her  from  the 
first,  were  determined  she  should  not 
show  her  nose  among  them  if  they 
could  help  it.  And  although  Gaffer 
Gray  and  Buckram  tried  hard  to  gull 
them  over,  it  would  not  do.  In  the 
meantime,  Allsoap  and  Johny  had  got 
the  old  woman  on  their  shoulders, 
and  so  marched  up  with  her  to  the 
upper  story,  crying  out  that  they 
must  let  her  in  immediately,  and  that 
the  upper  servants  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  matter  whether  she  was  let 
in  or  not,  because  their  wages  would 
be  paid  them  just  the  same.  But 
they  were  not  to  be  gulled  by  their 
fair  speeches,  and  so  they  told  them 
from  behind  the  door,  which  they 


3J     ^a       v  K 
962  Fragments  from  the  History  of  John  Bull  [Dec. 

held  ajar,  they  must  cany  their  hogs  to  break  into  the  house  and  rob  the 

to  another  market.    They  would  not  savings  bank,  and  plunder  the  but- 

have  minded  it  so  much,  they  said,  tery-hatch  and  the  cellar.    The  ser- 

if the  old  woman  had  come  decently  vants  below  tried  hard  to  keep  the 

dressed,  and  without  such  a  pack  of  noise  of  the  scuffle  from  the  upper 

yelping  hounds  behind  her,  —  but  as  servants'  hearing;  but  putting  their 

for  this  patched  and  painted  Jezebel,  heads    out    of   the    window,    they 

with  her  dirty  tribe,  they  would  see  saw  Radical  Dick  cheering  on  his 

her  at  the  devil.  Martin,  the  chaplain,  ragamuffins  to  the  attack.    And  so 

who  knew  her  pranks  of  old,  said  perceiving  how  the  land  lay,  they 

she  was  an  atheistical  old  beldame,  clapped  to  their  own  door  with  a 

and  never  should  come  in  while  he  slap  in  Allsoap's  face,  and  down  fell 

was  in  the  house.     Then  Buckram,  Allsoap,  Bill  Jones,  and  the  old  wo- 

who  was  behind  the  door,  began  a  man,  all  three  rolling  down  stairs 

long  story  about  the  necessity  of  ta-  more  than  40  steps;  and  when  the 

kinginthe  poor  creature,  justto  keep  old  woman  was  taken  up,  she  was 

herfrom  falling  into  worse  hands;  and  found  senseless.     They  carried  her 

as  he  had  a  good  tongue  in  his  head,  into  the  under  servants'  room,  and 

there  is  no  saying  what  might  have  administered  more  than  200  drops  of 

happened,  if  at  that  time  there  had  Ebrington's  cordial,  but  all  would  not 

not  been  a  most  horrible  noise  heard  do.    She  lived  just  long  enough  to  be 

from  the  floor  below  ;    and  what  delivered  of  a  daughter,  a  weakly 

think  ye  was  this,  but  Radical  Dick  child,  and  to  confess  that  Gaffer  Gray 

and  his  crew,  who,  having  got  drunk  was  the  father.    They  can-led  her 

at  the  Three  Stripes  adjoining,  had  away  quietly,  and  buried  her  some- 

set  fire  to  the  church,  burnt  the  sur-  where  about  Old  Sarum.     Of  the 

plices  and  hassocks,  and  were  trying,  daughter  ye  shall  hear  more  anon. 
in  spite  of  all  the  servants  could  do, 

_  *^*"}®  Ti  _    #  stnooia?/  ,89Jmi«Jb9H  «Y       ' 

______^_______ 

:  <r  ,8Avfonoo^  gjj  djifigni  sA 

A  NEW  SONG,  TO  BE  SUNG  BY  ALL  THE  TRUE  KNAVES  OF  POLITICAL  UNIONS. 

YE  rascals  and  robbers  wherever  ye  be, 
Come  forth  from  your  holes,  and  see  what  ye  shall  see  : 
The  jails  are  all  burning,  the  ruffians  are  free. 
Hurrah  !  and  for  ever,  Whig-Ministers  sing, 
That  have  just  made  a  new  Coalition  with  Swing. 
.OT  ,  _  n/w  nortflaoU  &-  - 


Ye  outcasts  and  felons  and  radical  crew, 
That  care  not  one  fig  for  Old  England  or  New, 
That  love  Revolutions,  and  plunder  pursue, 
Come  forth  from  your  holes  —  'tis  a  glorious  thing  — 
The  Ministers'  Whig-Coalition  with  Swing. 

'       a/rnifH 

Come  out  from  your  holes  without  fear  of  the  law, 
For  'tis  now  a  dead  letter,  and  not  worth  a  straw  ! 
The  devil  laughs  loud,  and  cries  give  us  your  paw 
To  the  Minister  Whigs,  as  triumphant  they  sing, 
Hurrah  !  to  our  new  Coalition  with  Swing. 

No  longer  in  secret  and  darkness  conspire, 
Come  forth  from  your  holes,  there  are  churches  to  fire, 
And  throw  in  the  Parson,  and  Magistrate  Squire. 
Ye  may  do  what  ye  like  in  the  name  of  the  King, 
Since  the  Ministers'  Whig-Coalition  with  Swing. 

All  ye  that  love  blasphemy  better  than  prayers, 
Never  rest  till  you've  tumbled  the  Bishops  down  stairs, 
And  with  insult  bring  down  to  the  grave  their  grey  hairs. 
Then  nothing  shall  check  us  from  having  our  fling, 
lu  this  Ministers'  Whig-Coalition  with  Swing. 


Then  pile  up  your  fagots,  and  set  up  your  cheers, 

And  toss  in  the  Bible  long  dinn'd  in  your  ears,  ft  <t*l 


And  burn  the  old  Bishops,  and  all  the  old  Peers, 

Except  those  that  are  led  in  the  Ministers'  string,  >9bnioi  avad 

And  hurrah  1  to  the  Whig-Coalition  with  Swing. 

"7  ,  I'lRq  6  u:>t'6  juorfitw  bna  ^haaeoib 

And  if  they  want  new,  there  are  blockheads,  and  mimes,  ij  ^nfqfs^ 
And  profligates  noted,  to  wink  at  all  crimetyifiq  LJ  ifoiaq  e/dj  iol 
And  be  white-wash'  d  enough  for  a  show  by  the  Time%hib  isrf  dJiw 
With  his  pen  full  of  lies  out  of  Beelzebub's  wing^K  Jiyyhsrfjjjsisdt 
Oh  !  the  Ministers'  Whig-Coalition  with  Swing. 

v    T>    •  *     e  T    i     j          *    v  i.      f  3ti  kty  fesfoetedte  «*  8sw  aifa 
Ye  Papists  of  Ireland  new-furbish  your  zeal,   .<•,.,  bl^oda  isvsa  bus 
Your  crosses  and  curses,  and  pikes  of  good  steel, 
There  are  ready-made  pardons  all  under  the  seal. 

virfT     n          fm  11  11  111  i\/»i          ••-»•     i  *-t"-llV*U      O«r»    UI1  // 

(Should  ye  shed  too  much  blood)  of  the  Fisherman  s  rmgy,fOj8  ^nor 
For  your  own  Captain  Rock  is  first  cousin  to  Swing. 

me  ,o  For  don't  ye  see  plain  when  O'Connell  was  down, 

The  Whigs  pick'd  him  up,  in  contempt  of  the  Crown  ; 
And  the  Master  of  Anarchy  wears  a  silk  gown  ? 
Hurrah  I  for  the  honours  that  ruffians  may  wring 

•^fjfisv   From  the  Whigs,  in  their  new  Coalition  with  Swing. 

yjj.,.  °  ooft  odj  mwA 

All  ye  that  hate  taxes,  come  pay  them  no  more,  <**<" 

That  think  old  English  honesty,  England's  old  aowi-*^  "       aid  boa 

Ye  know  what  the  Union  of  Brummagem  swore, 

And  they  are  the  friends  to  whom  Ministers  cling, 

To  maintain  the  new  Whig-  Coalition  with  Swing. 

rjwfa  fla  to  siiqi  m 

Ye  Bedlamites,  welcome  with  clanking  of  chains, 
The  world  all  gone  mad—  a  Whig  Ministry 


As  insane  as  yourselves,  and  without  any  brains  ; 

Restraint  is  all  over,  for  Liberty  sing,        zya  an  or  (aKoe  wan  A 

And  the  Ministers'  new  Coalition  with  Swing. 


' 

Ye  bloody  Republicans,  stout  Regicides, 

That  would  play  the  same  game  as  your  Prynnes  and  your  Prides 

At  political  nine-pins,  and  worship  the  Ides,  — 

Go  sharpen  your  weapons,  and  high  your  arms  fling, 

And  hurrah  !  to  the  Whigs'  Coalition  with  Swing. 

For  they  set  up  Hew  Kings  but  to  knock  down  the  old, 
From  their  stations  in  mockery  again  to  be  bowled, 
And  contracts  they  break  ere  the  wax  be  yet  cold. 
Then  roar  in  your  frenzy,  and  let  the  world  ring, 
Hurrah  !  for  the  new  Coalition  with  Swing. 

All  ye  that  love  rapine  and  murder  and  rape, 

Though  you're  caught  in  the  fact,  you'll  get  out  of  the  scrape  ; 

Though  the  Judges  condemn,  you  are  sure  to  escape, 

For  a  pardon  from  crimes  is  the  boon  that  we  wring  ij  oT 

From  the  sycophant  Whigs'  Coalition  with  Swingi  ajmuH  " 

Though  they  send  down  Commissioners,  'tis  but  for  show, 
You  may  mark  the  King's  Judges,  and  strike  the  first  blow, 
There  are  plenty  of  weapons  and  missiles  to  throw. 
Tear  them  down  from  the  bench  with  a  tiger-like  spring, 
And  hurrah  !  for  the  Whigs'  Coalition  with  Swing. 

Ye  that  hate  all  the  gentry,  come,  see  their  blood  shed  ; 
All  ye  that  would  knock  the  King's  crown  off  his  head, 
And  set  up  a  rascally  mob  in  his  stead, 
All  dance  round  the  fires,  and  joyfully  sing, 

Hurrah  !  to  the  Whig-  Coalition  with  Swing. 

'<r         °  >iaT»  <nSrf«iaii*i  diai  al 


The  Four  Evenings. 


[Dec. 


THE  FOUR  EVENINGS,      BY  DELTA. 
MARCH. 

EARTH  seems  to  glow  with  renovated  life — 

The  ether  with  a  softness  is  embued, 

Which  melts  the  hardened  spirit  to  that  mood, 

In  which,  to  feel  ourselves  apart  from  strife, 

Is  ecstasy  : — with  the  green  blading  grass, 

The  singing  birds,  and  the  translucent  sky, 

On  which  me  clouds  in  western  glory  lie, 

We  own  a  bond  of  union,  which,  alas  ! 

Though  latter  years  have  weakened,  comes  at  times 

To  claim  dominion  o'er  us,  as  in  youth ; 

And,  as  the  downcast  spirit  it  sublimes, 

We  turn  from  noisy  revelries  uncouth, 

And  from  the  world's  vain  follies  and  its  crimes, 

To  ponder  on  the  past,  and  sigh  for  Truth ! 

•f*ju"iiiM'*  *  *•*  >  •>  i  •  *        O^iit  n* ' ' 

JUNK. 

There  breathes  a  balmy  freshness  in  the  air 

Of  this  June  evening;  on  the  lake  are  given 

The  hues  of  Earth,  which  seems  the  shade  of  Heaven ; 

And  to  the  zenith  all  the  skies  are  bare. 

Save  the  lark  singing,  so  serenely  still 

Reposes  the  green  landscape  far  and  near, 

That,  'mid  its  blossomed  water-flags,  you  hear 

The  tiniest  tinkling  of  the  tiny  rill. 

The  life-diffusing  sun,  as  'twere  God's  eye, 

Shuts  in  the  West — yet  leaves  us  not  despair— 

For  lo!  a  symbol  of  his  blithe  return 


qoJ 


10 


gutvnb 

-UOJJ.B7* 

1o  d3j 
HO  ,b->!; 
•saol  «»d 
•IWt  ju< 


With  glory  to  empurple  Morning's  air, 

The  Evening  Star,  within  the  southern  sky, 

O'er  you  far  mountains  bids  his  watch-tower  burn. 

-Ufi  i>l'  '-.-..   •»•!  ,-  .• 

SEPTEMBER. 

How  bright  and  beautiful  the  sun  goes  down 
O'er  the  autumnal  forests !  The  wide  sky, 
Cloudless,  is  flush'd  with  that  purpureal  dye 
Which  gave  the  Tyrian  loom  such  old  renown. 
The  radiance,  falling  on  the  distant  town, 
Bathes  all  in  mellowing  light;  and,  soften'd,  come 
Through  the  lull'd  air,  the  song  of  birds,  the  hum 
Of  bees,  and  twitter  of  the  martins  brown ; 
All  things  call  back  the  bosom  to  the  beat 
Of  childhood,  and  to  youth's  enchanted  maze ; 
And  hark  the  rail,  amid  the  golden  wheat, 
With  its  craik — craik !     Oh,  sad  it  is,  yet  sweet, 
To  look  through  Memory's  mirror  on  the  days 
Which  shone  like  gold,  yet  melted  down  like  haze  I 

NOVEMBER. 

For  ever  shuts  the  great  eye  of  the  World  ? 

So  seems  it — for  a  grim  and  pallid  hue 

Pervades  the  cheerless  universe,  a  blue 

And  death-like  tint;  ascend  the  vapours  curl'd 

From  the  low  freezing  mere  :  the  sea-mew  shrieks 

Down  to  the  shore ;  and,  'mid  the  forests  bare, 

The  lonely  raven,  through  the  dusky  air, 

Her  bleak  un warming  habitation  seeks. 

Blow  on,  ye  winds  !  and  lower,  ye  shades  of  Night, 

Around  my  path.     As  whirl  the  eddying  leaves 

Redly  beside  me,  and  the  flaky  snow 

Melts  in  the  turbid  stream,  with  stern  delight 

The  thwarted  spirit  hears  the  wild  winds  blow, 

And  feels  a  pensive  pleasure,  while  it  grieves  I 


no  if 

»riT 
iJJ  JB 


biupil 


o-i*   a 
89O1UO  , 


deh-a  ila 


1831.] 


Cttrliana. 


* 


THE  seasons  of  the  year  are,  in 
this  northern  latitude  of  ours,  all 
that  the  heart  could  desire;  and  go 
where  you  will,  we  defy  you  to 
shew  us  such  another  climate.  Our 
earth,  our  air,  our  water,  and  our  fire, 
are  of  the  best  kind  possible  in  na- 
ture ;  with  us  perfect  are  all  the  ele- 
ments. In  proof  of  this,  only  look 
to  our  character  and  to  our  constitu- 
tion. A  few  flaws  there  are  in  both ; 
so  are  there  in  every  chrysolite, 
when  you  look  at  it  through  a  mi- 
croscope. But  to  common  optics, 
however  clearsighted,  they  are 
gems;  and  the  setting  is  of  gold. 
They  have  borne,  without  stain, 
with  now  and  then,  here  and  there, 
but  some  uncertain  dimness,  wind 
and  weather;  and  they  will  endure, 
in  their  bold  and  bright  antiquity, 
long  after  much  modern  paste  has 
shrunk  into  dust  and  ashes.  Their 
splendour  is  essential ;  whereas  that 
of  many  novel  productions  is  super- 
ficial, and  evanescent  as  those  fee- 
ble lights  that  are  seen  struggling 
through  storms,  and  soon  swallow- 
ed up  in  the  darkness  which  they 
have  fitfully  illuminated.  The  dif- 
ference is  as  that  between  dreaming 
and  waking;  the  flickering  of  fic- 
tion and  the  steadfastness  of  truth. 
The  one  is  felt  to  be  transient  even 
at  its  very  brightest;  the  other  in  its 
calm  lustre  lasting  as  the  laws  of 
life. 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  say  any 
thing  farther  at  present  of  our  cha- 
racter or  of  our  constitution, and  not 
much  of  our  climate.  Only  consider 
it,  for  a  few  paragraphs,  in  relation 
to  our  pastimes.  The  Spring !  Why, 
we  could  indite  a  volume  more 
easily  than  an  article  on  that  game- 
some season.  But  let  us  ask  you, 
simply,  where,  in  all  the  wide  world, 
is  there  such  angling  ?  We  know, 
at  the  lowest  computation,  one  mil- 
lion burns  with  the  prettiestof  names, 
and  as  many  more,  at  least,  strictly 
anonymous,  the  beauty  of  whose 
silvan  or  pastoral  banks  and  braes 
might  make  a  sumph  a  poet.  To 
say  nothing  of  their  twinkling  shoals 
of  silvery  minnows,  heavens  !  among 
the  gravel  what  a  trouty  congrega- 


tion, from  the  length  of  your  little 
finger  to  that  of  your  arm, — span  or 
yard-long, — and  of  a  hundred  co- 
lours, when  the  feed  is  on,  making 
the  water  glow  as  if  tinged  by  rain- 
bows !  Of  rivers  what  a  wale,  broad 
Scotland  thorough,  and  with  what 
placid  or  prerupt  majesty,  gather- 
ing, as  they  go,  glory  from  the  green 
glens,  do  they  flow  or  roll,  on  their 
black  or  bright  career,  from  source 
to  sea!  On  the  surface  all  is  light 
or  shade,  foam,  froth  and  bubbles ; 
below,  instinctive  all  with  finny  life; 
and  let  the  breezy  sunshine  but 
bring  out  the  winged  ephemerals, 
and  lo  !  the  sudden  spring  or  the 
sullen  plunge  that  tella  how  thickly 
the  hidden  caves  are  peopled.  As 
for  lochs — from  every  mountain  top 
how  they  seem  from  afar  to  assemble, 
as  it  were,  beneath  your  feet  I—- 
These are  the  inlanders — with  bare 
blank  braes,  yet  "  beautiful  exceed- 
ingly," or  surrounded  by  knolls, 
broomy  or  birchen,  where  chants  the 
lintie,  or  the  roe  reposes  in  the  glade 
—or  with  the  "  grace  of  forest-woods 
decayed,  and  pastoral  melancholy,"—, 
or  solemn  in  the  silvan  shades,  where 
never  yet  hath  axe  startled  the  an« 
cient  yet  ever-blooming  Dryads— or 
sublime,  always  to  awe,  and  some- 
times to  terror,  with  superincumbent 
rock-masses  belonging  to  the  unsea- 
led mountains,  on  whose  cloudy 
crests,  in  cliff-guarded  coves,  lies  the 
whiteness  of  last  year's  unmelted 
snow,  often  hidden  by  the  driving 
mists,  a  little  lower  than  the  station- 
ary clouds  that,  beyond  the  reach  of 
the  rack,  are  settling,  or  settled,  on 
the  utmost  summit !  There  the  lone- 
some angler  not  only  looks  but  feels 
like  a  ghost.  His  body,  his  basket, 
and  his  rod,  are  all  spiritualized  ;  and 
in  the  solitude  he  regards  the  enor- 
mous prey,  that  comes  slowly  sailing 
from  the  unfathomed  depths  to  the 
untrodden  greensward  shore,  with 
easy  dip  descending  into  the  liquid 
shadows,  as  something  preternatural, 
and  born  and  bred  iu  beauty  amid  a 
mysterious  world.  Or,  with  a  far-off 
noise  like  the  hollow  thunder,  comes 
at  full  gallop  the  tide  of  the  great 
sea,  a  broken  cloud  of  gulls  all  u-tish- 


*  Memorabilia  Curliana  Mabenensia.     Dumfries:  John^Sinclair;  Henry  Consta- 
ble, Edinburgh;   Atkinson  and  Co.,  Glasgow  ;  John  Dick,  Ayr.     1830, 


966 


Curliana. 


[Dec. 


ing  among  the  breakers,  and  strong 
and  steady  the  vanguard  of  the  sal- 
mon army  invading  the  glen,  and  re- 
solute to  stem  the  meeting  mountain- 
torrent,  and  to  storm  the  waterfall. 

So  much  for  Spring — for  take  our 
word  for  it,  that  sometimes  salmon, 
even  in  that  season,  scale  the  tide- 
washed  rocks ;  but  sunny  and  shady 
Summer  comes,  and  what  then  may 
be  our  pastime  ?  In  the  Highlands — 
angling.  For  what  genial  warmth 
animates  all  nature  in  the  time  im- 
mediately round  about  the  longest 
day .'  Winter  lingering  chills  the  lap 
of  May,  and  Winter,  stealthily  creep- 
ing on,  clothes  with  craureuch  the 
russet  cloak  of  Autumn.  But  June 
and  July  in  those  lofty  regions  are 
the  sole  summer  months,  and  how 
bright  then  the  flowerage,  the  honey- 
dews  how  balmy !  The  lochs  are 
then  all  alive,  and  their  play  is  our 
pastime  ;  you  may  fill  your  pannier 
then  and  there,  by  a  hook  baited 
with  a  flower-fly  ;  deadly  is  the 
lure  of  a  leaf.  Bear  witness,  ye 
lonely  lochs  among  the  vassals  of 
Ben  Lomond  and  of  Ben  Nevis !  And 
if  ye  be  .  silent,  then  speak  thou 
whose  "  rushes  to  the  breeze  sing 
forth  their  ancient  melodies,"  be- 
neath the  eagle-haunted  deer-beloved 
cliffs,  that  seem  sometimes  to  spurn, 
and  sometimes  to  woo,  the  silvan 
altitudes  of  Glenure  I  But  Midsum- 
mer is  the  season  for  flappers,  and 
of  all  this  world's  quackery,  what 
is  so  soul-subduing  as  the  quackery 
of  a  startled  storm  of  wild-ducks  on 
the  shallow  bosom  of  a  reed-encir- 
cled mere,  up  among  the  mists  of 
the  mountains,  while  the  morning 
echoes  all  jump  from  their  slumbers 
on  the  unseen  rocks,  and  the  din 
deadens  the  sound  of  the  volleying 
musketry,  known  to  be  deadly  but 
by  the  shower  of  feathers,  and  the 
sprawl,  spatter,  squatter,  and  squash 
on  the  water,  agitated  as  by  a  whirl- 
wind ! 

No  paltry  prelude  this  to  the 
Twelfth  of  August,  when  out  of  the 
deep  black  bosom  of  the  heather, 
upsprings,  whizzing  and  whirring,  as 
if  his  wings  were  of  iron,  at  head  of 
his  own  begotten  clan,  the  old  gor- 
cock,  as  bright  and  bold  as  his  birth- 
place, and  then  plumb  down  in  instant 
death,  with  a  thud  like  an  earthquake, 
or  straight  as  an  arrow  away  up  into 
ether  to  die  in.  the  sunshine,  and  on 


his  descent  to  the  lower  world,  scent- 
ed out  by  Fine-nose,  among  the  wild- 
briers  canopying  some  cairn  of  the 
desert.  Or  seek  ye  to  stalk  the  deer  ? 
Then  must  your  eye  ken  to  distin- 
guish the  antlers  from  the  rhindless 
arms  of  the  "  dodder' d  oak,"  from 
the  tree-like  branches  of  the  tall  lady- 
fern,  which,  when  not  a  breath  of 
air  is  astir,  do  oft  show  a  visionary 
semblance  of  the  great-horned  ani- 
mal at  gaze,  and  when  the  breeze  of 
a  sudden  is  sweeping  by,  look  like 
forehead  of  the  monarch  of  the  wild, 
rejoicing  ere  he  run  his  race  before 
the  wind. 

But  what  is  this  we  see  before  us  ? 
Winter — we  declare — and  in  full 
fig,  with  his  powdered  wig  !  On  the 
mid-day  of  November,  absolutely 
snow — a  full,  fair,  and  free  fall  of 
indisputable  snow. 

Not  the  slightest  idea  bad  we,  the 
day  before,  that  a  single  flake  had 
yet  been  formed  in  the  atmosphere, 
Avhich,  on  closing  of  our  shutters, 
looked  through  the  clear-obscure, 
indicative  of  a  still  night  and  a  bright 
morning.  But  we  had  not  seen  the 
moon.  She,  we  are  told  by  an  eye- 
witness, early  in  the  evening,  stared 
from  the  south-east,  "  through  the 
misty  horizontal  air,"  with  a  tace  of 
portentous  magnitude,  and  brazen 
hue,  symptomatic,  so  weather-wise 
seers  do  say,  of  the  approach  of  the 
snow-king.  On  such  occasions  it 
requires  all  one's  astronomical 
science  to  distinguish  between  sun 
and  moon ;  for  then  sister  resembles 
brother  in  that  wan  splendour,  and 
you  wonder  for  a  moment,  as  the 
large  beamless  orb  (how  unlike  to 
Dian's  silver  bow !)  is  in  ascension, 
what  can  have  brought  the  lord  of 
day,  at  this  untimeous  hour,  from  his 
sea-couch  behind  the  mountains  of 
the  west.  Yet  during  the  night-calm 
we  suspected  snow — for  the  hush  of 
the  heavens  had  that  downy  feel  to 
our  half-sleeping  fancy,  that  belongs 
to  the  eider-pillow  in  which  dis- 
appears our  aged,  honoured,  and  un- 
nightcapped  head.  Looking  out  by 
peep  of  day — rather  a  ghostlike  ap- 
pearance in  our  long  night-shirt 
which  trails  a  regal  train  from  afar 
— we  beheld  the  fair  feathers  dimly 
descending  through  the  glimmer, 
while  momently  the  world  kept 
whitening  and  whitening,  till  we  kne  w 
not  our  home-returning  white  cat  on 


183 1.] 


Curtiana. 


907 


what  was  yesterday  the  back-^reew, 
but  by  the  sable  tail  that  singularly 
shoots  from  the  rump  of  that  phe- 
nomenon. We  were  delighted.  luto 
the  cold  plunge-bath  we  played  plop 
like  a  salmon — and  came  out  as  red 
as  a  cut  of  that  incomparable  fish. 
One  ply  of  leather — one  of  flannel 
— and  one  of  the  linen  fine ;  and  then 
the  suit  of  pepper  and  salt  over  all ; 
and  you  behold  us  welcoming,  hail- 
ing, and  blessing  the  return  of  day. 
Frost,  too,  felt  at  the  finger  and  toe- 
tips — and  in  unequivocal  true  blue  at 
the  point,  Pensive  Public,  of  thy  Gre- 
cian or  Roman  nose.  Furs,  at  once,  are 
all  the  rage  ;  the  month  of  muffs  has 
come;  and  round  the  neck  of  Eve, 
and  every  one  of  all  her  daughters, 
is  seen  harmlessly  coiling  a  boa-con- 
strictor. On  their  lovely  cheeks,  the 
Christmas  roses  are  already  in  full 
blow,  and  the  heart  of  Christopher 
North  sings  aloud  for  joy.  Furred, 
muffed,  and  boa'd,  Mrs  Gentle  ad- 
ventures abroad  in  the  blast;  and, 
shouldering  his  crutch,  the  rough, 
ready,  and  ruddy  old  man  shews  how 
widows  are  won,  whispers  in  that  de- 
licate ear  of  the  publication  of  bans, 
and  points  his  gouty  toe  towards  the 
hymeneal  altar.  In  the  bracing  air, 
his  frame  is  strung  like  Paganini's 
fiddle,  and  he  is  felt  to  be  irresistible 
in  the  piggicato.  "  Lord  of  his  pre- 
sence, and  no  land  beside,"  what 
cares  he  even  for  a  knight  of  the 
Guel phic  order  ?  Onhis  breast  shines 
a  star — may  it  never  prove  across — 
beyond  bestowal  by  king  or  ksesar — 
nor  is  Maga's  self  jealous  or  envious 
of  these  wedded  loves.  And  who 
knows  but  that  ere  another  Novem- 
ber snow  sheets  the  Shotts,  a  curious 
little  Kit,  with  the  word  North  dis- 
tinctly traceable  in  blue  letters  on 
the  whites  of  his  eyes,  may  not  be 
playing  antics  on  his  mother's  knee, 
and  with  the  true  Tory  face  in  minia- 
ture, smiling  upon  the  guardian  of 
the  merry  fellow's  own  and  his  coun- 
try's constitution  ? 

But  "  somewhat  too  much  of  this" 
— there  are  other  sports  for  winter, 
and  among  them  all,  multifarious 
and  multitudinous  though  they  be, 
what  single  one  can  compare  with — 
Curling  ? 

That  sport  stirs  the  heart  of  auld 
Scotland  till  you  hear  it  beating  in 
her  broad  bosom.  Shepherds,  herds- 
men, woodsmen,  ploughmen,  pea- 


sants all,  lords,  baronets,  squires, 
clergymen,  professors,  students,  me* 
chanics,  artificers,  labourers  with 
spade,  shuttle,  or  hammer,  are  flock- 
ing over  the  fields  and  moors,  where- 
ever  pit,  pond,  dam,  tarn,  or  loch, 
gleam  blue  in  their  brilliant  solidity 
to  the  sun  that  seems  to  strengthen 
the  frost.  You  see,  and  rejoice  to 
see,  the  difference  between  the  po- 
pulace and  the  people.  For  these 
are  the  people  of  Scotland,  a  stal- 
wart set  gathering  to  peaceful  sport ; 
and  should  you  think  for  a  moment 
of  war  and  battle,  you  wonder  not 
that  the  mother  of  such  sons,  "Albion, 
the  Island  Albion,  or  Great  Britain," 
should  be  the  freest  of  the  free.,  ', 

It  has  pleased  gracious  nature  to 
besprinkle  Scotland  with  gems  of  the 
first  water.  Not  Lochmaben  alone 
should  be  called  "  Margery  o'  the 
mony  Lochs."  Let  that  name  be 
given  to  our  country,  and  eke  to 
Maga,  our  country's  pride.  What 
an  innumerable  multitude  of  isles 
within  our  isle !  Intersected  espe- 
cially is  our  beautiful  North,  by 
all  shapes  of  streams,  and  full,  to 
overflowing,  with  all  shapes  of  in- 
land seas,  whose  waters  are  pure  and 
bright,  as  young  poet's  dreams.  'Tis 
the  Land  of  Curlers — and  hark  how 
the  great  stones  go  growling  along  a 
thousand  rinks — while  ever  and  anon 
the  joyous  shout  of  triumph  loosens 
the  snow-wreath  on  the  cliff,  and 
echo  announces  from  afar  the  fall  of 
the  avalanche ! 

We  are  happy  to  see  that  this  truly 
Scottish  winter-game  has  at  last  found 
a  worthy  chronicler.  Memorabilia 
Curliana  Mabenensia,  though  not  the 
best  Latin  imaginable,  is  the  title  of  a 
mostamusingand  instructive  volume. 
The  author  is,  what  all  authors  should 
be,  an  enthusiast;  he  writes  con 
amore,  and  likewise  con  spirito  ;  and 
it  puts  our  spirits  in  tune  to  read  his 
always  animated  and  often  eloquent 
descriptions  of  the  "  roaring  play" 
— a  favourite  pastime,  we  know,  of 
the  ardent  Burns,  and  of  the  pensive 
Grahame,  who  have  celebrated  its 
delights,  each  in  his  own  way,  the 
one  in  a  few  bold  flashes,  and  the 
other  in  the  calmer  light  of  song. 
It  is  indeed  a  most  poetical  pastime 
— and,  therefore,  dear  to  us  natives 
of  Scotland,  who,  whatever  the 
Cockneys  may  say  of  Sawney,  in 
their  usual  small  lying  style,  are 


Curliana. 


[Dec. 


assuredly,  of  all  earth's  known  in- 
habitants, out  of  all  sight  and  away 
the  most  poetical  people. 
Old  Pennycuick  sayeth, 

"  To  curl  on  the  ice  doth  greatly  please, 
Being  a  manly  Scottish  exercise;" 

and  our  author  adds  truly,  that  it 
is  decidedly  a  national  one.     He 
abridges,  from  "  An  Account  of  the 
Game  of  Curling,"  by  a  Member  of 
the  Duddingston  Society,  published 
in  1811,  some  historical  notices  of 
the  game,  which  seem  to  shew,  that 
though  now  so  national  with  us  as 
almost  to  be  confined  to  Scotland,  it 
had  probably  a  continental  origin. 
All  the  evidence  which  etymology 
can  give — the  technical  language  of 
the  art  being  all  Dutch  or  German — 
directly  points  outthe  Low  Countries 
as  the  place  where  it  originated; 
and  he  agrees  with  those  who  as- 
cribe its  introduction  among  us  to 
those  Flemish  emigrants  who  settled 
In  Scotland  about  the  end  of  the  15th, 
and  beginning  of  the  16th  century. 
He  finds  no  mention  made  of  it  prior 
to  the  beginning  of  the  1 7th  century. 
Camden,  in  his  Britannia,  (in  1607,) 
speaking  of  the  Isle  of  Copinsha, 
says,    incidentally,   that  there   are 
*  found  upon  it  plenty  of  excellent 
stones  for  the  game  of  curling,  which 
shews  that  the  game  was  both  pretty 
general  and  in  considerable  repute 
at  the  time."    Be  that  as  it  may,  it  is 
certain  that  within  the  memory  of 
living  men,  the  game  has  become 
far  more  artful  and  scientific  than  it 
was  among  our  ancestors.     The  spe- 
cimens that  still  remain  of  the  un- 
handled,  unpolished  blocks   which 
were  used  by  the  curlers,  compara- 
tively of  modern  times,  furnishing  a 
strange  and  striking  contrast  to  the 
beautifully  balanced  and  cunningly 
equipped  stones  that  are  now  seen 
circling  the  tee.     It  seems  probable 
that,  at  first,   Curling  was   nothing 
else  than  the  game  of  quoits  prac- 
tised  on  the  ice.     The  old  stones 
•which  yet  remain,  both  from  size 
and  shape,  favour  that  conjecture ; 
having  only  a  niche  for  the  finger 
and  thumb,  as  if  they  had  been  in- 
tended to  be  thrown.  Till  lately,  from 
one  end  of  Scotland  to  the  other, 
Curling  was  commonly  called  Kuting. 
Now,  it  more  resembles  billiards  ; 
and  oui'  ingenious  author  remarks 
"  that  it  may  be  said  to  be  an  extension 


and  complication  of  thejew  royal  de 
billard,  bearing,  however,  to  billiards 
pretty  much  the  same  proportion 
that  chess  bears  to  chequers."    We 
suspect  he  is  not  a  billiard-player  ; 
for  if  he  had  been,  he  would  have 
known  that  the  number  of  possible 
strokes  in  that  game  are  infinitely 
greater  than  in  curling,  and  conse- 
quently that  in  that  game,  to  attain 
anything  like  consummate  skill,  is  far 
more  difficult,  and  requires  the  per- 
petual practice  of  a  whole  life.   Nei- 
ther is  he  correct  in  saying  that  bil- 
liards "  is  an  amusement  of  the  pent 
city,  played  within  the  confined  pre- 
cincts of  four  walls,  the  arena,  the 
few  yards  of  the  gambling-table,  the 
actors  but  too  frequently  those  whose 
disreputable  shrift  it  is  to  herd  to- 
gether to  barter  for  diabolical  gains 
— night-clouded  as  their  purposes, 
the  season — a  gas  lamp  the  luminary 
—jealousy,  animosity,  and  chicanery, 
the  presiding  genii   of   the  spot." 
Such  indeed  is,  in  general,  but  too 
true  a  picture  of  a  public  billiard- 
room  in  a  town,  and  from  such  low 
and  perilous  haunts  let  all  our  inge- 
nuous youth  keep  aloof.     But  a  bil- 
liard-room in  a  gentleman's  house  in 
the  country  is  always  the  scene  of  an 
elegant  recreation,  and  in  a  wet  or 
muggy  day,  is  a  pleasant  relief  from 
the  library,   or  even  the  drawing- 
room.     Did  our  worthy  friend  never 
see  ladies  at  play  ?  In  their  hands 
the  light  mace  is  a  more  deadly  wea- 
pon than  that  heaviest  one  that  dealt 
destruction  around  in  the  mailed  fist 
of  the  Pounder.     But  this  is  a  trifle ; 
and  he  says  well,  "  Curling,  the  child 
of  day,  of  honour,  and  sociality,  is 
waged  upon   the   glassy  bosom   of 
some  romantic  lake;  the  snow-capt 
mountains  and  tesselated  woods  are 
the  sheltering  screen  ;  the  season  is 
the  Saturnalia  of  Scottish  life ;  the 
combatants    «  the    bold   peasantry, 
our  country's  pride.'  "    What  higher 
commendation,  he  elsewhere   asks, 
can  possibly  be  given  of  any  amuse- 
ment than  that  summed  up  in  the 
following  lines  ? 

"  It  clears  the  brain — stirs  up  the  native 

heat, 
And  gives— a  gallant  appetite  for  meat." 

"  It  rouses" — he  adds  in  illustra- 
tion of  that  poetical  text— "the  so- 
cial warmth  which  the  howling 
storms  of  winter  have  torpified ;  kicks 


1831.] 


Curliana. 


out  of  the  penthouse  of  the  mind 
the  chimeras  engendered  by  the 
leisure  perusal  of  the  Dumfries 
Courier ;  and  lastly,  begets  in  the 
gastronomical  region  one  of  those 
important  vacuums, ycleped by  Wild- 
rake  a  bottomless  stomach  —  into 
which  are  cast  those  gaseous  vapours 
that  cloud  and  distemper  the  brain, 
and  which,  when  buried  under  a 
trebly  replenished  plate  of  beef  and 
greens,  with  a  quantum  suff.  of 
whisky  toddy,  would  require  even  a 
more  startling  apparition  than  the 
ghost  of  the  Catholic  Question,  a 
personification  of  the  National  Debt, 
or  any  other  political  bugbear  of  the 
day,  to  arise  from  the  abyss  whereinto 
they  have  fallen,  and  extricate  them 
from  that  load  under  which  they 
are  quietly  inurned."  Written  like 
a  true  curler — nor  less  so  what  we 
now  quote  with  still  greater  pleasure. 
"  We  well  remember,  however,  the 
many  schoolboy  holydays  obtained 
to  witness  parish  bonspiels.  These 
were  white-days,  even  in  those  youth- 
ful years,  when  all  was  gaiety  of 
heart,  which  stand  out  still  in  alto- 
relievo  from  the  tabula  rasa  of  all 
that  surround  them.  When  buttoned 
up  to  the  chin,  with  skates  in  our 
mittened  hand,  we  proudly  shoulder- 
ed our  father's  besom,  and  accom- 
panied him  to  the  scene  of  action, 
eager  to  witness  the  exploits  of  the 
day,  and  with  a  breast  palpitating 
with  anxiety  for  the  result.  O  !  these 
were,  and  still  are,  joyous  times! 
when  the  winter's  sun,  'shining  slant 
on  tower  and  tree,'  rises  clear  and 
bright  over  the  sheeted  lochs — when 
the  winds,  as  yet  congealed,  lie  sleep- 
ing and  sparkling  in  hoary  crystalli- 
zation upon  every  bough — when  the 
bracing  air  purifies  the  blood,  and 
gives  elasticity  and  buoyancy  to  the 
spirits,  as  morning,  big  with  the  fate 
of  channel-stanes  and  fame,  calls  to 
the  sport  *  all  the  merry  handlers 
of  the  quoit.1  Then,  whilst  through 
the  livelong  day 

*  kindles  the  friendly  strife," 

merriment  and  glee  flash  around. 
The  village  wit  pours  out  unrestrain- 
ed his  banter  and  his  joke.  The 
skaters,  flickering  in  fantastic  groups, 
add  variety  and  gaiety  to  the  scene. 
Young  and  old  of  the  slipshod  look- 
ers-on anxiously  participate  in  the 
• 


success  or  defeat  of  their  respective 

friends.    Then,  too,  whilst 
«— — '  aged  men, 

Smit  with  the  eagerness  of  youth,   are 
there, 

While  love  of  conquest  lights  their  beam- 
less  eyes — 

New  nerves  their  arms,  and  makes  them 
young  once  more'—— 

the  joyous  schoolboy,  in  mimic 
sport,  and  nicknamed  after  the 
champions  of  the  olden  time,  wages 
tiny  warfare  with  pigmy  stones. 
Whilst  last,  not  least,  the  peerless 
maidens,  '  busked  braw,'  coming 
to  draw  water,  coyly  submit  to  those 
delightful  abductions  which  their 
swains  impose — and,  seated  upon 
their  water-cans,  are  hurled  over 
the  ice,  amidst  the  shouts  and  emu- 
lation of  their  numerous  attendants, 
and, 

'  Hill  and  valley,  dale  and  down, 
King  wi'  the  social  band.' 

These  are  scenes  which  might  well 
occasion  the  appropriate  motto  of 
the  Duddingston  Curling  Society — 
and  which,  happily,  is  not  appli- 
cable to  the  gracefulness  and  gaiety 
of  that  spot  alone,— 

Sic  Scott,  alii  non  ceque felices" 
Though  a  national  game,  Curling 
has  never  been  universal  in  Scot- 
land. It  is  estimated,  says  our  au- 
thor, that  even  now  about  a  million 
of  the  inhabitants  never  heard  of  it. 
We  cannot  believe  that,  our  good 
sir.  People  born  and  bred  in  great 
towns  hear  of  nothing  out  of  them  ; 
but  almost  all  the  rural  population 
of  Scotland,  and  that  of  villages  and 
clachans,  have  surely  heard  of  this 
game,  and  know,  at  least,  that  it  is 
practised  on  the  ice,  and  that  it  is 
not  skating.  True  it  is,  however, 
that  in  some  places  where  it  once 
flourished,  the  game  has  gone  into 
decay  or  desuetude;  while  it  is  a 
cheering  fact,  again,  that  in  many 
others  it  prospers  beyond  all  prece- 
dent— and  perhaps  nowhere  more 
than  round  about  Edinburgh.  Some 
hundred  years  or  so  ago,  the  very 
Magistrates  themselves  are  said  to 
have  gone  to  the  Curling,  and  re- 
turned, in  a  body,  with  a  band  be- 
fore them  playing  tunes  suitable  to 
the  occasion ;  and  though  now  our 
civic  rulers  never  venture  as  a  cor- 
poration on  such  slippery  ground, 
as  od  oJlMj?- 


Ottttma  [Dec. 

yet,  under  the  auspices  of  the  Dud-    possible ;  to  guard  that  of  his  part- 


ditigston Society,  a  new  spirit  has 
been  infused  into  the  game.  The 
institution  of  that  society  was  an 
era  in  the  history  of  Curling — and 
from  it,  as  from  a  centre,  have 
radiated  beams  wide  over  the  land. 
The  south  and  the  west  of  Scotland 
have  long  been  distinguished  also  for 
dexterity  in  the  art ;  and  numerous 
local  or  parochial  Curling  Societies 
exist  in  full  operation,  all  indicating 
that  the  game  is  fast  rising  to  a  de- 
gree of  popularity  and  vigour,  hi- 
therto unexampled  in  the  history  of 
the  world.  In  the  north  of  England, 
we  are  told,  though  we  never  saw 
it,  that  Curling  has  made  consider- 
able progress  ;  the  only  approach 
to  the  game  made  there,  as  far  as 
our  knowledge  goes,  being  what  is 
called  "  channelling,"  a  rude  and 
artless  amusement,  with  chance 
stones  from  the  brook,  and  not  to  be 
viewed  by  a  Scotchman  without  feel- 
ings of. pity,  akin  to  contempt.  But 
the  truth  is,  that  England  is  at  least 
a  century  behind  Scotland  in  all  the 
arts  and  sciences,  notwithstanding 
the  impulse  communicated  to  her 
by  the  union  of  the  kingdoms.  Some 
spirited  Scotchmen,  among  the  few 
resident  in  London,  some  years  ago, 
got  up  aspiel  on  the  New  River,  which 
was  beheld  with  much  admiration 
by  the  natives  of  the  Wen.  But  the 
ice  threatening  to  give  way,  the 
game  terminated  somewhat  abrupt- 
ly ;  nor  have  we  ever  heard  of  its 
having  been  renewed.  In  Ireland, 
Curling  "  languishes,  grows  dim,  and 
dies ;"  though  'tis  a  pastime  admir- 
ably suited  to  the  Irish  character.  A 
rare  sight  would  be  a  concluding 
bonspiel  with  shillelahs  on  the  ice — 
and  the  curling-stones  themselves 
would  make  no  unformidable  mis- 
siles. With  better  success,  we  are 
told,  has  the  game  been  carried  over 
the  Atlantic,  and  established  in  the 
frozen  regions  of  North  America, 

"  But  what  the  deuce,"  quoth  an 
English  reader,  "  is  Curling?"  We 
cannot  tell  you  better  than  in  the 
words  of  Pennant : — "  It  is  an  amuse- 
ment of  the  winter,  and  played  upon 
the  ice,  by  sliding  from  one  mark  to 
another,  great  stones  of  40  or  70 
pounds  weight,  of  a  hemispherical 
form,  with  a  wooden  or  iron  handle 
at  top ;  the  object  of  the  player  being 
to  lay  his  atone  as  near  the  mark  as 


ner,  which  has  been  well  laid  before  ; 
or  to  strike  oft'  that  of  his  antago- 
nist." That  is  Curling;  and  in  these 
few  words  you  have  a  general  de- 
scription of  a  game  in  which,  while  it 
requires  a  calculating  head,  and  a 
nice  eye  and  a  steady  arm,  may  be 
aroused  almost  all  the  passions  of 
the  heart,  and  all  else  in  this  world 
given  to  oblivion. 

Now  for  a  few  words  from  our 
scientific  author  upon  the  points  of 
the  game.  The  length  of  the  rink— 
or  course  of  the  stones — should  be 
about  42  yards — and  the  mark  at 
each  end  is  called  the  Tee.. 

"  Wicking — or  In-ringiny,  the  pret- 
tiest and  most  scientific  point  in  the 
game  by  far — and  which,  we  under- 
stand, though  we  can  scarce  credit  it, 
is  not  in  universal  practice — is  to  take 
the  shot,'and.leave  yourself  behind  the 
rampart  of  your  adversary's  barri- 
cade, when  to  all  appearance  their 
winner  was  impregnable  :  viz.  by 
taking  an  inner  angle  off  a  side-shot, 
in  such  a  manner  as  to  change  and 
direct  the  course  of  your  stone  upon 
the  one  to  be  projected — or  else  to 
effect  the  same,  when  the  case  per- 
mits, by  drawing  off  the  said  snot. 
This  high  degree  of  science  in  the 
game  is  by  no  means  hazardous ;  but 
one  in  which  such  proficiency  may 
soon  be  obtained  as  to  render  its 
adoption  the  general  rate  of  play. 
We  have  often  seen  a  wily  skip  first 
cause  an  apparently  useless  side-shot 
to  be  laid,  and  then  by  a  dexterous 
in-wick  eject  the  winner,  and  sit  like 
— Will  Wastle,  invincible  in  his  cas- 
tle. 

"  Out-wicking,  is  to  strike  the  outer 
angle  of  a  stone,  so  as  thereby  to  put 
it  into  the  spot.  Though  a  much 
more  difficult  operation,  it  can  some- 
times be  practised  with  effect  when 
in-wicking  cannot.  This  is  an  ele- 
gant movement,  and  worthy  the  at- 
tention of  amateurs. 

"  Chipping  a  guard,  is  simply,  by 
displacing  a  guard,  to  open  up  the 
winner. 

"  Cannoninf/,  when  the  game  has 
become  complex,  and  the  shot  diffi- 
cult to  be  taken  in  any  other  way,  is 
the  combined  operation  of  making  a 
guard  butt  off  the  winner,  and  follow 
in  with  your  own  stone,  thus  turning 
an  instrument  of  defence  into  one  of 
offence,  viz.,  by  striking  it  in  such  a 


1631.] 


CurliaiM. 


position  as  that  the  guard  shall  take 
the  winner  at  a  slight  angle,  and  so 
cause  both  to  spue  out,  whilst  the 
stone  projecting  these  movements 
shall  follow  up,  and  remain  the  shot. 
This,  which  is  nearly,  in  billiard 
terms,  walking  a  cannon,  requires  less 
dexterity  than  strength,  and  is  very 
often  effective  play ;  for  only  strike 
strong  enough,  and  fifty  times  to  one 
the  guard  driven  will  not  hit  so  dead 
upon  the  winner  as  merely  to  take 
its  place — the  smallest  possible  vari- 
ation from  the  direct  causing  it  to 
diverge.  '  Come  away,  my  boy! 
don't  spare  the  powder !'  is  always 
a  jocose  direction,  exciting  interest 
on  both  sides  j  and  often,  from  the 
opposite  end  of  the  rink,  have  we 
seen  the  sole  of  our  president's  stone 
over  his  head,  when  he  had  to  lift  up 
double  guards,  or  take  a  shot  (a  fa- 
vourite one  with  him)  of  this  de- 
scription, and  been  delighted  at  the 
consternation  of  the  adversary,  as 
*  With  full  force,  careering  furious  on, 
Rattling,  it  struck  aside  both  friend  and 

foe, 

Maintain'd  its  course,  and  took  the  vic- 
tor's place  !* 

"  Butting,  or  chap  and  guard,  is  to 
put  up  a  stone,  and  lie  guard  upon  it. 

"  Rebutting,  is  towards  the  end  of 
the  game,  when  the  ice  is  blocked 
ip,  and  the  aspect  of  the  game  hope- 
ess  or  desperate,  to.  run  the  gaunt- 
et  through  the  same.  The  effect 
produced  by  a  stone  driven  furiously 
among  double  and  treble  guards,  is 
often  truly  surprising.  A  thunder- 
bolt of  this  kind,  as  in  '  change  seats, 
the  king's  coming,'  will  often  alter 
the  tout  ensemble  of  the  game. 

'"  Shew  me  the  winner!"  cried  Glenbuck, 

"  An'  a'  behind  stan'  by!" 
Then  rattled  up  the  roaring  crag.-riora 

While  a'  did  crash  and  fly/sd  8 

"  Chipping  a  winner,  is  to  avoid  the 
guard,  and  take  what  you  can  see  of 
a  winner. 

"  Porting,  is  to  come  up,  inter  Syl- 
lam  et  Charybdim,  i.  e.  to  draw  a  shot 
through  a  strait  formed  by  the  stones 
upon  the  rink. 

"  To  chuckle,  a  term  used  upon  the 
Ayrshire  ice,  is  to  make  a  succession 
of  in-wicks  up  a  port  to  a  certain  ob- 
ject. 

"  Besides  these,  there  are  many  mi- 
nor acts  in  the  roll  of  doing — such  as 
breaking  an  egg  upon  this  stone,  get- 


ting under  the  grannie's  wing  of  an- 
other, resting  at  the  cheek  of  a  third, 
coming  to  the  back  of  a  fourth,  fill- 
ing a  port,  &c.  &c.j  besides  the  long 
list  of  what  is  not  to  be  done,  viz., 
such  as  guarding,  in  place  of  striking 
a  stone — taking  your  own,  instead  of 
your  opponent's  winner,  &c., — in  a 
word,  making  good  bad,  or  bad 
worse." 

Pray,  who  is  a  Skip?  A  skip  is 
"  king  o'  a'  the  core" — ia  other 
words,  captain,  or  director  of  his 
side  of  the  game — rink  ruler — there 
being,  of  course,  at  each  rink,  two 
skips.  Much  depends  on  the  skip — 
for  while  he  takes  his  own  turn  at 
the  tee,  it  is  hia  duty  to  instruct  and 
advise,  and,  above  all  things  else,  to 
know  the  capabilities  and  powers  of 
his  subjects.  He  ought  to  be  inti- 
mately conversant,  if  possible,  with 
the  peculiar  play  of  each  man  of  his 
party — and  to  have  studied,  with  a 
learned  spirit,  their  intellectual  and 
moral  character.  A  skip  must  not 
only  be  a  skilful  curler,  but  a  sound 
philosopher — else  he  deserves  not 
the  name.  We  have  known  skips 
who  were  elders  of  the  kirk- — nay, 
ministers — and  we  should  have  had 
no  hesitation  in  backing  either  of 
them,  singly,  against  Satan  himself — 
and  the  tottle  of  the  whole  against 
him  and  all  his  legions — off  or  on 
the  ice.  Characteristic  of  a  good, 
bad,  or  indifferent  curler,  is  at  once 
seen  by  an  accomplished  skip — at- 
titude. From  the  position  in  which 
his  player  stands,  when  about  to 
deliver  his  stone,  he  can  tell  whether 
he  will  play  true  for  the  required 
point,  and  will  provide  accordingly 
— nor  will  he  ever  require,  or  suffer, 
a  difficult  shot  at  the  hand  of  an 
uncertain,  much  less  a  poor  player. 
Better  far  in  all  such  cases — and 
they  must  be  of  frequent  occurrence 
—to  spend  the  stone.  The  skip,  too, 
must  understand,  that  he  may  be  able 
to  make  due  allowances  for  them,  all 
biasses  on  the  ice — and  give  right 
direction  by  his  besom  placed  tra- 
verse— thereby  often  seeming  to  work 
a  miracle.  As  all  players — or  rather 
stones — says  our  author — do  not  take 
the  same  bias — the  skip  must  detect 
in  each,  if  not  the  cause,  the  kind  of 
deviation.  What  an  amount  of  know- 
ledge that  implies !  knowledge,  too, 
of  that  delicate  and  exquisite  kind 
possible  but  to  a  person  gifted  with 


972 

good  natural  endowments,  cultivated 
by  the  continual  education  of  a  self- 
taught  mind,  at  all  times  conversant 
"  with  man,  with  nature,  and  with 
human  life." 

It  is  the  business  of  the  skips  to 
marshal  the  rink,  and  that  must  be 
done  on  the  principle  of  placing  each 
player  in  the  station  where  he  will  be 
most  efficient.  The  two  first  should 
be  old  and  accurate  leads— the  three 
last  athletic  and  experienced  players 
— weak  or  uncertain  ones  in  the  mid- 
dle. When  young  or  unskilful  hands 
commence  the  game,  then  ensues 
confusion  worse  confounded — stones 
far  outshooting,  or  sideward  leaving 
the  tee — "  that  find  no  end  in  devious 
mazes  lost."  Though  things  may  not 
be  so  bad  as  this,  still  a  "  runaway 
character"  is  given  to  the  play,  and 
the  true  curler  girns  to  see  the 
"  loose  and  pointless  play." 

With  regard  to  the  kind,  or  style 
of  game,  we  entirely  agree  with  out- 
friend,  in  giving  the  preference  to  a 
drawing,  over  a  striking  play.  It  af- 
fords much  more  display  of  science, 
and  of  course  an  intenser  interest. 

"  It  ought  ever  to  be  kept  in  view 
— for  this  is  the  distinguishing  fea- 
ture of  Curling — that  man  is  leagued 
with,  and  opposed  to  man,  not  for 
the  purpose  of  muscular  exertion, 
but  for  that  of  skill  and  address.  Un- 
less, then,  when  in  peculiar  exigencies 
the  latter  requires 

'  The  might  which  slumbers  in  the  yeo- 
man's arm,' 

• 

we  think  that  it  ought  to  be  a  skip's 
rule  of  game  never  to  strike  away 
an  opponent's  stone  until  the  game 
becomes  complicated,  and  he  has  at 
least  two  or  more  stones,  and  one  of 
these  guarded  within  keu  of  the  tee. 
When  the  order  of  the  day  is,— 
'  strike — strike  P  bare  rink-heads  are 
the  consequence,  and  no  opportunity 
presents  for  wicking,  cannoning, 
drawing,  porting,  and  guarding, 
which  bring  out  the  science  of  the 
combatants,  and  constitute  that  beau- 
ty and  fascination  in  the  spiel,  which 
alike  invigorates  the  body  and  braces 
the  mind." 

Nor  let  it  ever  be  forgotten  that 
sweeping  is  one  half  of  the  battle.  To 
a  keen  eye  the  skip  must  join  a 
clear  tongue — as  promptly  he  cries 
— "  Sweep,  sweep."  "  Up  besoms  !" 
But  let  the  skip  be  in  skill  the  skip  of 


Curliana.  [Dec. 

skips,he  is  worse  than  worthless  if  he 
have  not  temper.  Let  him  shew  iras- 
cibility or  peevishness,  and  his  party 
is  dished ;  their  spirits  are  damped 
— nervousness  creeps  over  all,  and 
the  strong  arm  is  palsied,  or  inspired 
with  fatal  strength — "  brings  death 
into  the  world  and  all  our  woe,  with 
loss  of  Bonspiel."  "  Patience  is  no- 
where a  greater  virtue  than  on  the 
ice."  The  Shepherd  will  pronounce 
thata " grand apopgthegm."  MBecan- 
nie" — "  be  cautious  ever,"  is  a  wise 
saw — and  by  many  a  rink  has  been 
chosen  for  the  slogan.  For  a  stone 
that  overshoots  the  tee  is  a  lost 
stone ;  while  one  merely  over  the 
hogg— (the  line  on  the  hither  side 
of  which  a  stone  is  dead)— is  "in 
the  way  of  promotion,"  and  either  as 
a  guard  will  be  useful,  or,  what  with 
butts  from  friend  or  foe,  will  find  a 
station  near  or  within  the  ring. 

And  what  of  Cramps  ?  Hear  autho- 
rity. "  Curling,  where  it  is  consider- 
ed to  be  practised  upon  improved 
principles,  has  laid  aside  the  use  of 
cramps,  and  the  players  stand  upon 
a  movable  piece  of  board,  or  iron, 
laid  by  the  tee.  This  mode  may 
answer  the  purpose  as  far  as  the  de- 
livery of  the  etone  is  concerned  very 
well — and  indeed  upon  ponds  or 
small  fields  of  ice,  where  changes 
of  rinks  cannot  be  admissible;— it 
must  ever  be  kept  in  view,  however, 
that  sweeping  forms,  as  before  said, 
a  most  important  item  in  the  curler's 
task.  Nor  can  we  see  how  this  can 
properly  be  performed,  unless  the 
player  stands  sicker  upon  the  ice. 
The  alert  sweeper  has  little  in  com- 
mon with  the  mincing  steps  of  the 
slipshod  looker-on.  The  uncramp- 
eted  broomster,  and  the  pilgrim  with 
the  (unboiled)  peas,  may  go  hand  in 
hand.  Commend  us  to  the  good  old 
plan.  He  who  cannot  play  a  scien- 
tific game  in  cramps,  will  never  play 
one  out  of  them." 

What  are  Bonspiels  ?  Bonspiels, 
or  bonspels,  in  contradistinction  to 
spiels,  which  may  be  defined  to  im- 
ply a  game  or  match  between  mem- 
bers of  the  same  society,  or  of  a  limit- 
ed party  of  adversaries,  are  matches 
between  rival  parishes  or  districts. 
In  former  or  feudal  times — our  ex- 
cellent friend  well  says — wlu-u  the 
nobility  were  principally  resident 
upon  their  estates,  it  was  customary 
for  one  baron  aud  hit  tenantry  to 


1881.]  Ourliana. 

challenge  another  ;  these  contests 
were  waged,  year  after  year,  witli  all 
the  keenness  of  hereditary  feuds. 
In  latter  times,  however,  it  is  ge- 
nerally one  society  or  parish  against 
another.  These  encounters  are  of 
course  invested  with  all  the  interest 
which  anxiety  to  support  the  renown 
of  the  respective  parties  can  create; 
though  attended,  at  the  same  time, 
with  all  the  harmony  and  good  hu- 
mour for  which  curlers  are  proverbi- 
ally celebrated.  These  meetings  form 
the  grand  field-days  of  an  ice-cam- 
paign. Numerous  private  matches, 
lor  trifling  stakes,  form  almost  the 
daily  routine  of  the  curling  season ; 
and  are  carried  on  in  a  spirit  of  ri- 
valry which  gives  zest  and  variety, 
during  its  continuance,  to  what  may 
be  called  a  society's  domestic  or 
everyday  sport. 

The  author  of  Curliana  is  a  Dum- 
fries-shire man.which  is  a  great  curl- 
ing county,  and  he  writes  of  his  na- 
tive region  with  an  eloquent  enthu- 
siasm. Throughout  Dumfries-shire, 
he  tells  us  that  various  Curling  So- 
cieties exist,  some  with,  and  others 
without,  a  constitution.  There,  in 
general,  bonspiels  are  played  with 
forty  players  a-side — and  the  parish 
of  Lochmaben,  which  abounds  in 
lakes,  and  is  very  populous,  enrols 
about  130  names  in  her  Curling  list, 
all  of  whom  are  eligible  to  play  in 
parish  matches.  By  the  resolutions 
of  the  society,  however,  to  meet  the 
general  custom  of  the  district,  it  is 
judiciously  provided  that  forty  of  the 
best  players  shall  be  chosen  annually 
in  November,  to  play  in  all  bonspiels 
— a  number  amply  sufficient  to  up- 
hold the  honour  of  the  parish  on  the 
ice.  These  forty  players  are  divided 
into  five  rinks,  headed  by  five  Skips, 
who  are  ex  qfficio  President  and 
Vice-Presidents  of  the  society,  and 
who,  together  with  the  Secretary  and 
Vice-Skips,  form  the  annual  com- 
mittee of  management. 

"  We  regret  the  want  of  a  minute- 
book  prior  to  the  year  1823>  merely  on 
this  account,  that  no  written  memora- 
bilia exist  of  the  '  days  and  deeds'  of 
those  champions  of  the  broom  whose 
fame  has  filled  the  ears  of  the  neigh- 
bouring parishes,  and  which  is  still  fresh 
in  the  proud  recollection  of  our  own.  A 
regret,  however,  which  this  reflection 
goes  far  to  extinguish — that  it  is  invidi- 
ous to  blazon  forth  the  defeats  of  others, 


973 


and  at  best  but  shallow  to  be  the  trum- 
peters of  our  own  renown.  We  would 
distinguish,  however,  between  barefaced 
gasconade,  and  that  inoffensive  assurance 
which  but  appropriates  its  due.  The 
motto  is  an  admirable  one,  and  as  inci- 
ting to  '  bold  endeavours  and,  adventures 
high,'  should  ever  be  acted  upon,  Pal- 
mam  qui  meruit  ferat.  We  designate 
by  another  name  than  false  delicacy  the 
spirit  of  those  who  can  win  some  glori- 
ous and  well  foughten  spiel,  and  yet 
blush  to  find  it  fame. 

"  Though  the  mantle  of  oblivion  shrouds, 
then,  many  of  these  exploits,  enough  of 
modern  victories  remain  to  be  told  to 
arouse  the  jealousy  of  our  curling  con- 
freres. Among  the  heroes,  too,  of  the 
days  of  old,  there  are  not  a  few  of  whom 
we  have  to  say,  Nomina  slant  umbra.  Of 
those  who  are  still  familiar  in  our  mouths, 
we  have  space  only  to  enumerate  one  or 
two.  The  first  of  these  in  time,  if  not 
in  fame,  is— 

•'  Deacon  Jardine,  who  flourished  from 
the  beginning  of  the  18th  century  down- 
wards.  He  was  a  very  celebrated  player, 
and  is  the  Oldest  preses  of  the  Lochmaben 
rinks  whose  name  has  survived  the  lapse 
of  an  hundred  and  thirty  years. 

"  Walter  Dryden,  his  successor, flourish- 
ed about  the  middle  of  the  century. 
Great  things  are  spoken  of  his  skill  and 
prowess;  and  of  the  numerous  bonspiels 
he  fought  and  won.  He  was  succeeded 
in  his  ofiice  by  bis  great  rival  and  co- 
temporary— • 

"  Bailie  James  Carruthers — the  re- 
doubted Bonaparte,  so  dubbed  from  the 
distinguished  success  with  which  he  long 
beaded  our  ice.  He  died  full  of  years 
and  honour  about  the  close  of  the  last 
century — and  was  succeeded  by  his  pupil 
in  the  glacial  art,  the  reigning  President, 
under  whose  conduct  the  society  has 
reached  its  present  high  and  palmy  state ; 
and  of  whom,  when  he  shall  have  thrown 
his  last  stone,  it  may  be  truly  said,  take 
him  for  all  and  all,  we  ne'er  shall  see  his 
like  again. 

"  In  addition  to  these  magnates,  a  long 
list  might  be  given  of  the  eminent  ice- 
players  who  under  their  banner  fought 
alongst  with  them,  side  by  side,  sharing 
the  honour  and  the  pride  of  victory.  Of 
these,  however,  it  is  sufficient  to  men. 
tion  Dr  Clapperton,  of  antiquarian  me- 
mory — his  son  Alexander — Mr  Edgar  of 
Elshieshields— Provost  Henderson  of 
Cleugh-heads — Dickson,  called  the  "  Tu- 
tor," of  whose  superior  skill  many  anec- 
dotes are  still  afloat — the  late  Mr  John- 
stone  of  Thorny  what— .Convener  Fergus- 
son— Provost  Dickson— Captain  Hog- 
t  j  quia  & o4  liiafl  ffl  QC  <J  utti  am  101  ?ua 


974 


gan — Mr  Lindesay  —  Bailie 
Robert  Burgess — John  Fead  of  Duncow, 
and  our  late  regretted  schoolmaster,  Mr 
Glover,  &c. ;  'referring  such  of  our  pa- 
rish readers  us  may  feel  interested  to 
the  numerous  list  appended  to  the  mi- 
nute-book of  the  Society;  and  which 
will  be  found  to  contain  the  names  of  all 
of  any  note  who  have  appeared  upon  our 
ice  during  the  present,  and  the  greater 
part  of  the  last,  century. 

"  These  were  leading  Curlers  of  their 
day — nor  do  the  present  time,  trebled 
as  to  number,  boast  of  fewer  in  skill.  In 
the  existing  roll  of  the  Society,  are  many 
names  not  thrown  into  shade  by  even 
the  most  renowned  of  any  former  age ; 
of  these  the  President,  and  Messrs  Ir- 
ving, Johnstone,  Watt,  and  Brotch,  skip- 
pers— and  their  vices,  Messrs  James 
Burgess,  Thomas  Johnstone,  jun.,  Wil- 
liam Graham,  James  Jardine,  and  John 
Henderson,  may  be  considered  as  the 
chief." 

It  would  be  au  endless  task  to  at- 
tempt to  record  the  triumphs  of  the 
Lochmaben  Curlers  in  great  parish 
matches.  They  have  conquered 
Tinwald,  Torthorvvald,  Dumfries, 
Mousewald,  Cummertrees,  Annan, 
Dryfesdale,  Hatton,  Wamphray,  Ap- 
plegarth,  and  Johnstone.  In  the 
midst  of  a  contest  with  the  Kirkmi- 
chaelites,  the  ice  gave  way,  and  six 
persons  having  been  drowned,  the 
"  roaring  play"  was  hushed  and  still- 
ed, stones  and  besoms  suffered  all 
to  remain  where  they  were,  without 
a  thought.  The  names  of  the  heroes, 
whose  skill  and  prowess  were  main- 
ly instrumental  to  such  conquests, 
have  been  preserved  in  the  pages  of 
Curliana.  "  During  the  course  of  the 
French  War,  the  following  eight  Cur- 
lers, Sir  James  Broun,  Bailie  Wil- 
liam Smith,  Bailie  Francis  Bell, 
Messrs  D.  Irving  of  Righeads,  Ro- 
bert Bell  of  Elshieshields,  James 
Johnstone  of  Belzies,  Alexander 
Harkness  of  Gotterby,  and  David 
Tavish  of  Todhillmuir,  sustained  the 
renown  of  the  Lochmaben  ice ;  and 
after  numerous  victories  over  the 
Curlers  of  the  adjoining  parishes,  ob- 
tained, like  Bonaparte's  famous  le- 
yion,  the  name  of  the  Invincible 
'Board." 

Among  the  Curlers  of  the  south  of 
Scotland,  then,  let  it  be  said  that  the 
INVINCIBLES  of  "  Margery  o'  the 
Mony  Lochs,"  have  for  time  imme- 
morial been  distinguished— and  let 


Curliana.  [Dec. 

Bell— Mr     it  likewise  be  said,  that  the  success 


sors  of  the  Invincibles  are  a  set  of 
tall  fellows.  But  how  came  they 
on  in  their  contests  with  the  cele- 
brated Closeburnians  't  You  shall 
hear. 

'•  The  Curlers  of  Closeburn  having  ac- 
quired, by  their  prowess  upon  the  trans- 
parent boards,  as  much  celebrity  amongst 
the  parishes  of  the  Nith,  as  their  rivals  of 
Lochmaben  amongst  those  upon  the  An- 
nan, resolved,  during  the  ice  campaign  of 
winter  18 1 9-20,  to  try  which  of  the  parties 
should  bear  the  palm  :  accordingly  a  chal- 
lenge was  dispatched  by  them,  bearing 
that  they  would  take  up  a  position  upon 
the  Lochmaben  ice,  with  forty  players, 
upon  a  certain  morning,  and  then  and 
there,  either  lose  or  win  honour  with  the 
men  of  Old  Margery.  This  challenge 
was  not  more  gallantly  given  than  it  was 
cordially  accepted.  From  the  moment, 
as  may  be  supposed,  that  the  tocsin  was 
sounded,  Lochmaben  through  all  her  curl- 
ing population  was  quite  on  the  qul  vive. 
Rinks  were  assorted — preparations  made, 
and  all  arranged  for  the  redoubted  con- 
test. At  length  the  morning,  big  with  the 
fate  of  channel-stones  and  fame,  breaking 
upon  the  horizon,  witnessed  the  pouring 
in  of  the  adjacent  population — eager  to 
see  the  exploits  of  the  day — and  the 
lengthened  file  of  the  Closeburnian  cham- 
pions bearing  down  upon  the  scene  of 
action, 

'  AVi'  channel. stanes  baith  glib  an'  strong, 

Their  army  diet  advance ; 
Their  crampets  o'  the  trusty  steel, 

Like  bucklers  broad  did  glance. 
'  A  band  wi'  besoms  high  uprear'd, 

Weel  made  o'  broom  the  best, 
Before  them  like  a  moving  wood 

Unto  the  combat  prest ; 
1  The  gallant  Ramesters  briskly  moved, 

To  meet  the  dariug  foe' 

"  The  renown  of  the  respective  combat- 
ants— the  distance  travelled  by  the  chal- 
lengers— the  numerous  bodyassembled — 
all  investing  the  encounter  with  an  inte- 
rest, rather  approaching  to  that  which 
attends  the  inroad  of  some  hostile  ag- 
gression, than  the  engagement  of  eighty 
peaceable  and  friendly  curlers,  whose 
stake  was  the  honour  of  their  respective 
parishes — the  forfeit,  beef  and  greens. 

"  About  eleven  o'clock  the  parties 
marshalled  their  way  to  the  Kirk  Lochs, 
where  the  Presidents  having  agreed  to 
take  up  each  other,  and  the  other  Skips 
having  arranged  among  themselves,  the 
boards  were  selected,  the  tees  cut,  and 
the  '  roaring  sport  begun.'  At  first, 
notwithstanding  the  cautious  tact,  and 
cool  possession  of  the  Closeburnians, 
success  seemed  to  promise  a  hollow  tri- 
umph to  the  Lochmaben  party.  ' 


1831.] 


Curliana, 


976 


senior  rink  gained  an  easy  victory  over 
the  adverse  president's.  The  second 
stood  at  oue  time  20  shots  to  4:  when 
security  bred  carelessness,  and  it  ulti- 
mately won,  though  with  but  small  cre- 
dit, comparatively,  to  itself.  The  third 
and  fourth  eventually  lost.  The  fate  cf 
the  bonspiel  now  turned  upon  the  suc- 
cess of  our  junior  rink:  all  then  crowd- 
ed around  to  witness  the  termination; 
and  the  anxiety  of  both  parties  and  of 
the  spectators,  wound  up  to  the  highest 
pitch,  accumulated  as  the  game  ap- 
proached, and  became  more  and  more 
intense  till  it  reached  its  ultimatum  upon 
both  combatants  attaining  to  twenty. 
The  'decisive  spell'  remained  ! — 

•  How  stands  the  game !— 'tis  like  to  like- 
Now  !  for  the  winning  shot,  man  !' 

The  stone  was  thrown  amidst  the  'eager 
breathless  grins'  of  the  players— the 
sweepers  '  plied  it  in'— Lochmaben  had 
it ! — and  of  course,  if 

'  Triumphant  besoms  flew  (not)  in  air,' 
and  if  the  '  moment's  silence    still    as 
death,'  which  had  pervaded  the  anxious 
throng,  gave  place  to  no  <  sudden  burst 
of  the  victor's  shout,'  or  to 

*  Hurrahs  loud  and  long,  man  !' 
it  was  only  because  an  honourable  eti- 
quette forbids  all  such  vociferous  rejoi- 
cings over  a  prostrate  foe.  Thus  termi, 
nated,  however,  the  first  great  match 
with  Closeburn.  Both  parties  then 
shaking  hands,  left  the  ice  together  in 
the.  height  of  good  fellowship  and  ad- 
journed  to  the  Crown  Inn,  where  smo- 
king cheer  awaited  them  after  the  labours 
and  amusement  of  the  day :  and  where, 
amid  new-formed  friendships,  the  even- 
ing  was  spent  with  as  much  harmony, 
sociality,  and  glee,  as  perhaps  ever 
crowned  a  curling  board." 

Nothing  can  be  more  lively  and 

food-humoured  than  all  the  above; 
ut  on  what  follows,  we  must  con- 
struct a  scold.  "  It  was  this  same 
Bonspiel,  however,  which  a  Reve- 
rend Professor, connected  with  Close- 
burn,  laid  hold  upon  to  serve  up  to 
the  public  in  a  caricaturing  article 
in  Blackwood,  for  February  1820, 
under  the  title,  «  Horse  Scoticte,  No, 
I.;'  in  which,  with  a  total  disregard 
of  facts,  persons,  places,  and  circum- 
stances, and  without  a  particle  of 
truth,  or  manly  sincerity  to  redeem 
—to  quote  his  own  words — '  the 
small  wit  floating  in  an  under  cur- 
rent,' which  runs  throughout  it — to* 
give  way  to  a  paltry  feeling  of  male- 
volent jealousy,  he 
VOL.  XXX.  NO.  CLXXXVZII, 


*  Unlaced  his  reputation, 
And  spent  his  rich  opinion.' 


Few  people  in  possession  of  their 
senses  abuse  Blnckwood's  Maga- 
zine novv-a-days.  This  sudden  sally 
of  the  historiographer  of  the  Trans- 
parent Board — manifestly  an  amiable 
man— atartled  us  not  a  little;  and 
Christopher,  "  like  Grey  Goshawk 
stared  wild."  Black,  indeed,  thought 
we,  must  be  the  crime  perpetrated 
in  our  February  Number  for  1820, 
unforgetable,  unforgiveable,  inef- 
faceable, and  inexpiable,  and  most 
unprofessorial,  which,  after  "  the 
long  lapse  of  twelve  revolving 
years,"  thus  deepens  with  fouler 
and  fouler  stains  before  the  moral' 
and  religious  imagination  of  the 
Chronicler  of  Curliana.  We  had  for 
nearly  the  tenth  part  of  a  century 
been  indulging  the  delightful  dream, 
that  all  the  early  sins  of  Maga  had 
passed  into  oblivion,  and  that  her  re- 
putation was  pure  as  that  of  a  Vestal 
virgin.  With  a  queerish  and  qualmy- 
ish  feeling  we  turned  her  up  for  Fe- 
bruary, 1820,  expecting  to  be  hor- 
rified with  the  blackness  of  the 
concern,  when,  to  our  delighted  asto- 
nishment, Horse  Scoticse,  No.  I., 
smiled  upon  us,  of  all  white  things  in 
this  world,  the  most"  innocent  and 
ingenuous — 

"  In  wit  a  man,  simplicity  a  child." 

So  far  from  time,  place,  persons,  cir- 
cumstances, &c.,  being  all  misrepre- 
sented, not  the  most  remote  allusion 
is  made  to  one  single  human  being 
in  all  this  blessed  world !  That  the 
reverend  Professor  who  wrote  that, 
admirable  article,  may  have  curled, 
as  a  Closeburnian,  against  the  Invin- 
cibles  of  Lochmaben,  among  the  do- 
minions of  "  Margery  o'  the  Mony 
Lochs,"  is  very  probable,  for  he  ex-? 
eels  in  maay  a  harmless  and  manly 
pastime.  But  Hone  Scotictc,  No.  I., 
is  a  fictitious  description  altogether — 
and  the  bonspiel  there  described  is  as 
completely  a  creation  of  Dr  Gillfs- 
pie's  brain,  as  Burning  the  Tweed  is 
of  Sir  Walter's,  in  ono  of  his  novels. 
These  men  of  Mony-Loched  Mar- 
gery sometimes  imagine  all  the 
Avorld  are  thinking,  and  speaking, 
and  writing  about  them,  when  she 
is  looking  after,  and  wholly  engross-? 
ed  with  her  own  affairs.  Never  till 
this  hour  have  they  been  even  so 
much  as  once  alluded  to  in  the  faint- 
3B 


Curliana. 


[Dec- 


est  degree  in  this   Magazine.    The     in  the  bottoms,  and  did  not  run  upon  half 


author  of  Curliana  certainly  owes 
an  apology  to  the  author  of  Hone 
Scoticse ;  and  unless  he  make  it  in  a 
month  or  two,  and  expunge  his  folly 
in.  his  next  edition,  we  must  reluct- 
antly inflict  the  knout. 

It  was  not  till  the  winter  of  1822-3, 
that  a  suitable  opportunity  present- 
ed itself  for  the  Clcseburuians  to  re- 
gain their  honours,  and  bear  "  their 
trophied  besoms  back  again."  The 
defeated  party,  of  course,  sent  the 
challenge;  and  of  the  contest  and  its 
result,  we  have  here  a  narrative,  in 
a  letter  written  by  one  of  the  Loch- 
mabeuites — a  Curler,  on  whose  as- 
sertion the  Curling  world  may  rely 
as  firmly  as  on  his  stones :- — 

"  About  ten  in  the  morning,  besom 
shouldered,  I  went  into  the  burgh,  which 
was  all  astir.  The  Closeburn  party  being 
already  arrived,  and  our  own  men,  with 
the  turn-out  of  the  parish  and  neighbour- 
hood in  waiting,  we  proceeded  forthwith 
to  the  Halleaths  Loch,  where,  prelimi- 
naries adjusted,  issue  was  joined.  The 
ice,  unfortunately,  was  far  from  being 
strong;  but  as  the  morning  was  clear, 
and  rather  frosty,  appearances  were  so  far 
favourable  for  the  amusement  in  which 
we  all  took  so  lively  an  interest.  I 
played  in  our  senior  rink,  which  again 
opposed  the  leading  one  of  Closeburn — 
President  v.  President.  At  first  we  were 
most  successful,  numbering  eleven  shots 
before  our  opponents  reckoned  one  ;  and 
we  were  cheered  by  similar  intelligence 
from  our  other  boards — the  spectators, 
who  moved  from  rink  to  rink,  informing  us 
that  Lochmaben  was  carrying  all  before 
her ;  and  that  on  three  of  the  other  boards, 
they  stood  eight  and  ten  love.  Our  par- 
ty, as  you  may  well  suppose,  were  quite 
elate.  On  the  other  hand,  never  did  I 
witness  more  anxiety  than  what  our  op- 
ponents evinced.  As  the  game  advanced, 
they  seemed  to  lose  all  heart.  Let  no 
man,  however,  despair  upon  ice — well  is 
it  called  a  '  slippery  sport.'  Our  game 
now  stood  nineteen  to  seven — a  fearful 
odds — when  the  day,  which  previous  to 
this  had  inclined  to  be  soft,  now  changed 
completely,  and  became  a  thaw.  To  add 
to  our  misluck,  from  the  pressure  of  the 
on-lookers,  (some  hundreds,)  who  the 
more  crowded  around  us,  expecting  that 

we  should  finish  by  an  end  or  two the 

water  rushed  up  at  both  tees,  and  cover- 
ed in  a  short  time  almost  the  entire  rink. 
The  tide  now  turned— -the  Closeburn 
Curlers  having  greatly  the  advantage  of 
us,  as  their  stones  were  much  uauywer 


the  surface  of  ours.  The  board  soon  be- 
came unplayable,  and  forced  us — maugre 
opposition — to  remove.  The  new  tees, 
however,  were  scarcely  cut,  when  a  rent 
ran  from  end  to  end,  and  before  a  dozen 
stones  were  thrown,  we  again  stood  and 
played  in  water  nearly  ankle  deep.  Our 
party  once  more  proposed  to  change  the 
board,  but  to  this  the  Closeburnians 
would  by  no  means  consent,  alleging, 
as  we  were  the  winning  party,  we  had 
no  right  to  change.  Seeing,  therefore, 
that  they  wished  to  take  advantage  of 
playing  amongst  water,  we  determined 
to  try  it  out,  and  see  whether,  unequally 
yoked  as  we  were,  we  could  not  beat  < 
them.  Accordingly,  we  played  till  the 
water  became  so  deep,  that  few  could  get 
over  the  hog,  so  that  at  last  it  came  to 
be,  that  he  who  threw  farthest  won  the 
shot.  Indeed,  for  several  of  the  last 
ends,  only  four  or  five  stones,  out  of  the 
sixteen,  got  over  the  score.  Under  these 
circumstances,  twice  did  the  stone  of  a 
Lochmaben  Curler  pass  every  other,  and 
we  came  off  victorious — if  I  may  so  pros- 
titute a  term  which  can  only  apply  to  a 
scientific  spiel. 

"  In  the  mean  time,  with  reversed  suc- 
cess, it  fared  equally  ill  with  all  our  other 
rinks.  Our  second,  in  whose  favour  the 
game  at  one  time  stood  thirteen  to  one, 
was  the  first  to  lose.  Shortly  after,  two 
others  finished,  one  in  favour  of  either 
side.  Both  combatants  being  thus  equal, 
every  one  ran  to  witness  the  termination 
of  the  remaining  rink.  The  parties  were 
well  matched,  arid  their  game  by  this 
time  stood  nineteen  to  nineteen.  Two 
shots  were  still  to  be  gained.  It  is  im- 
possible for  me  to  describe  the  anxiety 
now  felt  by  all.  Every  one  pressed  for- 
ward to  see — and  scarcely  was  a  stone 
delivered,  till  its  owner  lost  sight  of  it  by 
the  crowd  of  heads  stretched  out  to  wit- 
ness what  effect  it  produced.  At  this 
critical  juncture,  as 

'  Oft  it  will  chance  as  the  doubtful  war  burns, 
That  victory  will  rest  ou  oiie  high-fated  blow,' 

when  the  Closeburn  party  were  lying  the 
game  shot,  Lochmaben  being  second  and 
third,  it  happened,  just  as  our  vice-skip- 
per was  in  the  act  to  throw  his  stone, 

'  All  eyes  bent  on  him  who  decides  the  great 
stake — ' 

i — the  rink  swept,  and  all  expectation — 
that  a  Closeburn  Curler  called  out  to  him 
inan  impertinent  tone, 'Fit  your  tee,Sir!' 
—The  Lochmaben  player,  a  s>tout  young 
fellow,  and  passionate  withal,  could  not 
brook  the  insult  thus  wantonly,  and  so 
publicly  given,  and  a  quarrel  ensued.  The 
consequence  \uis  \\lmt  the  Clostburniun 


1831.] 


Curliana. 


977 


intended :  the  player  was  unhinged,  and 
missed  the  shot.  But  for  this  circum- 
stance, there  is  scarcely  a  doubt  that  he 
would  have  taken  it — for  it  was  quite 
open,  and  he  was  one  of  the  very  best 
players  on  the  Lochmaben  ice.  Every 
one  felt  indignant  at — and  even  his  own 
party  scouted — the  sinister  trick ;  for  as 
our  player  was  actually  at  the  instant 
fitting  his  tee,  the  motive  was  obvious 
with  which  it  was  done. 

"  We  then  left  the  ice  in  a  body,  and 
nearly  a  hundred  sat  down  to  dinner  in 
Smith's  inn.  Upon  the  cloth  being  re- 
moved, appropriate  speeches  and  toasts 
were  made  and  given ;  and  our  worthy 
President  introduced  in  a  song  a  verse 
or  two  complimentary  to  the  Closeburn- 
ians,  which  was  received  with  enthusi- 
astic applause.  Old  Robert  Burgess  also, 
with  the  true  feeling  of  a  Curler,  sung 
more  than  once,  that  capital  ice-song, 
'  The  music  o'  the  year  is  hushed,'  with 
equal  effect.  The  bands  of  friendship  got 
tighter  the  more  they  were  wet :  and  we 
were  all  in  the  height  of  sociality  before 
we  arose.  The  best  of  friends  however 
must  part.  As  many  of  the  party  had 
their  horses  at  the  Crown,  we  convoyed 
them  so  far  :  but  here  there  was  no  part- 
ing, without  their  duich-an-dorris,  before 
they  went  Accordingly  here  we  all  re- 
joined— when  there  was  again  nothing 
but  shaking  of  hands — professions  of  kind- 
ness, cordiality,  and  glee  ;  the  Closeburn- 
ians  saying  that  they  had  never  met  with 
heartier  or  better  fellows, — (and  we 
thinking  of  them  the  same.) — and  that  we 
looked  more  like  conquerors,  than  having 
suffered  a  defeat.  Alter  many  kind  invi- 
tations, and  assurances  of  the  satisfaction 
it  would  afford  them  to  see  us  upon  their 
own  ice,  we  at  length  separated, '  resolved 
to  meet  some  ither  day.' 

"  A  friend  and  myself  had  just  left  the 
inn,  when  a  message  overtook  us,  that 
our  company  was  requested  in  a  private 
apartment.  Here  we  found  two  Close- 
burn  players — opponents  to  our  rink — 
who  wished  to  express  to  us,  over  a  bowl 
of  brandy,  how  highly  pleased  they  had 
been  with  the  sports  and  entertainment 
of  the  day.  After  expatiating  at  length 
upon  this  topic — '  Skill  depart  frae  my 
right  hand,'  exclaimed  one,  '  if,  when  your 
challenge  arrives,  I  do  not  send  down  a 
special  messenger  to  invite  you  both  to 
my  house.  Me  and  mine  have  possessed 
the  farm  I  occupy  for  the  last  hundred 
years, — and  there's  naebody  I  shall  be  so 
proud  to  see  as  yoursells.'  Upon  this  we 
parted  with  mutual  feelings  of  regard. 

"  As  I  know  you  to  be  curious  in 
stones,  I  may  mention,  that  upon  this  oc- 
casion the  Closeburnians  brought  down 


several  great  ones  with  them,  and  amongst 
others  an  enormous  crag,  which  ran  upon 
four  feet.  It  was  too  unwieldy,  if  I  re- 
member right,  to  play  with — but  it  was 
placed  upon  the  ice,  both,  I  suppose,  as 
their  presidium  et  duke  dccus. 

"  The  above  is  a  transcript  of  what 
came  under  my  own  observation,  and  you 
may  rely  upon  the  accuracy  of  the  facts 
and  statements  that  it  contains.  I  re- 
main, always,  my  dear  Sir, 

Yours  very  sincerely, 

i  H>mt 
' 

So  much  for  the  second  spiel.  Our 
author  says  that  no  notice  had  been 
taken  by  the  Lochmaben  party— 
though  they  had  felt  it  acutely — of 
the  unhandsome  manner  in  which 
they  had  been  treated  by  the  fictitious 
account  of  the  first  bonspiel  publish- 
ed in  Blackwood.  Blockheads  were 
they  for  their  pains.  Even  had  they 
been  quizzed  in  Maga,  there  was 
no  need  for  the  men  of  Margery  to 
feel  it  acutely;  but  to  feel  acutely 
a  fictitious  general  description  of  the 
game  of  Curling,  is  a  stretch  of  sensi- 
bility with  which  no  sempstress  could 
sympathize.  The  acuteness  of  their 
sufferings,  however,  having  been 
blunted  by  years,  perhaps  they  might 
have  regained  some  tolerable  com- 
posure after  this  their  undisputed 
defeat  by  the  Curlers  of  Closeburn, 
had  not  "  a  gasconading  poem  from 
the  same  pen  appeared  in  the  Dum- 
fries paper  of  the  week  following, 
entitled,  "  Hurrah  for  Closeburn." 
This  atrocious  song  was  "  adapted  to 
the  double  purpose  of  throwing,  with 
one  hand,  dirt  and  disgrace  upon 
Lochmaben,  to  the  uttermost;  with 
the  other,  holding  up  Closeburn  to 
the  skies."  This  atrocious  song  we 
have  never  seen  to  our  knowledge ; 
and  we  trust  its  wickedness  is  not  so 
fiendlike  as  it  seems  to  our  fierce 
Lochmabenite.  There  certainly  is 
something  devilish  "  in  throwing  with 
the  one  hand  dirt  and  disgrace  on 
Lochmaben,  to  the  uttermost;"  yet 
is  that  devilishness  almost  redeemed 
by  the  seraphic  sentiment,  "  of  hold- 
ing up  Closeburn  to  the  skies."  On 
the  appearance  of  this  song, "  it  was 
turned  into  parody,  [by  the  author  of 
Curliana  ?]  and  a  copy  forwarded  to 
the  Lochmaben  president  to  be  pub- 
lished en  retorle."  But  he  and  his 
party  had  the  "  forbearance," — we 
should  say  the  magnanimity — to  keep 
it  from  the  press.  But  in  the  spring 


978 


Curliana. 


[Dec. 


of  1824,  upon  the  production  of  ano- 
ther song  by  the  same  individual, 
(the  author  of  Horse  Scoticae,  No.  I. 
Black  wood's  Magazine,  Feb.  1820,) 
in  which  "  an  allusion  was  again 
made  most  gratuitously  and  offen- 
,  Bively  unjust  to  those  whose  silence 
and  forbearance,  not  their  blasting 
and  blawing,  as  vulgarly  imputed, 
was  their  crime,  that  then,  and  with- 
out the  knowledge,  sanction,  or  con- 
sent of  the  Lochmaben  Curlers,  it  saw 
,  4he  light."  What  then  ?  Why,  "  its 
publication  was  immediately  follow- 
ed by  a  rejoinder,  in  the  same  piti- 
fully spiteful  and  scurrilous  strain," 
— and  what  then  ?  Why,  to  that  re- 
joinder there  is  a  sudden  reply.  "  But 
the  Editor  of  the  Dumfries  Journal, 
in  which  the  former  bad  appeared — 
himself  a  Closeburn  man — refused  to 
insert  it;  though  he  struck  off  about 
200  blundered  copies,  which  were 
circulated  amongst,  and  made  the 
round  of  all  concerned  at  the  time." 
Of  these  plusquam  civilia  bella,  we 
never  till  this  moment  heard;  and 
should  like  to  see  each  strophe  and 
antistrdphe  as  they  were  said  or  sung 
at  beef  and  greens.  We  have  not  a 
doubt,  that  as  pieces  of  personal  and 
libellous  matter,  they  are  as  amusiug 
as  harmless ;  such  little  personalities 
seem  to  us  to  proceed  mutually  from 
amiable  people  alone ;  and  it  has 
often  occurred  to  "  us  much  reflect- 
ing on  these  things,"  that  it  is  strange 
how  the  satirical  song- writer,  for.  ex- 
ample, who  is  conscious  during  com- 
position of  a  divine  philanthropy, 
which  includes,  of  course,  the  indi- 
vidual absurdly  said  to  be  the  victim 
of  an  assassin,  that  is,  of  a  person 
with  pleasing  features  and  a  sharp- 
nibbed  pen,  jotting  down,  in  prose  or 
verse,  notices  of  certain  mental  or 
physical  phenomena,  presented  in 
the  conduct  or  converse  of  a  brother 
Christian — "  To  us  much  reflecting 
on  these  things,"  we  say  it  has  often 
occurred  as  very  strange  how  the 
satirical  song-writer,  with  such  con- 
sciousnesses as  these,  can  ever  for 
a  moment  doubt  tliat  the  lively 
creature  libelling  him  iu  return,  is 
inspired  with  the  most  affection- 
ate feelings  towards  him,  and  ready 
to  do  kirn  any  service  that  may  be 
pointed  out  as  lying  within  the  li- 
beller's power.  VVliat  is  a  libel,  but 
"  a  wee  bit  byuckie  ?"  In  our  ten- 


derness, we  go  on  and  on,  till  we 
apply  the  term  sometimes  to  a  sin- 
gle stanza.  And  such  is  the  horror 
which  some  silly  people  have  of  the 
vague  idea  of  something  or  other 
existing  in  certain  sounds,  which  is 
said  to  be  "  libellous,"  that  they 
have  recourse  to  Courts  of  Justice, 
to  ascertain  how  it  may  be;  and  in 
the  event  of  its  being  decided  by 
Trial  by  Jury  that  it  is  even  so,  they 
seek  solatium  in  what  is  still  more 
absurdly  called  damages. 

Thus  rested  matters  between  the 
Lochmabenites  and  the  Closeburn- 
ians;  nor  did  an  opportunity  again 
present  itself,  till  the  winter  1825 
and  6,  for  the  decisive  bonspiel. 

"  At  last  a  challenge  was  accepted  by 
the  Closeburnians  for  the  end  of  January. 
The  Lochmaben  party  reached  Brown- 
hill  the  night  previous,  and  met  with  so 
joyous  a  reception  from  their  old  friends, 
as  by  no  means  improved  their  nerves 
for  the  important  business  of  the  day 
following.  That,  however,  as  it  turned 
out,  did  not  signify—for  it  was  again  to 
prove  a  trial  of  strength.  As  bad  luck 
would  have  it,  a  drizzling  morning  rose 
upon  a  soft  and  blustry  nighr,  and  the 
rival  parties  assembled  upon  the  ice  with 
clouded  faces,  under  a  clouded  sky. 
Much,  however,  to  the  honour  of  the 
Closeburn  Curlers,  they  proposed,  through 
their  president,  as  the  state  of  the  ice 
and  weather  did  not  permit  of  playing  a 
fair  scientific  spiel,  that,  us  dinner  was 
ordered  and  the  parties  met,  they  should 
amuse  themselves  till  that  timewith  a 
friendly  mixed  game.  Tliis  proposul  Sir 
James  and  the  seniors  of  his  party  re- 
solved to  accept — but  the  younger  men 
scouted  the  idea;  and,  considering  the 
immense  concourse  of  people  who  from 
far  and  near  had  crowded  to  witness  the 
fray,  declared  one  and  all  that  '  they 
would  not  have  it  said  for  shame*  that 
they  had  come  so  far  arid  had  not  played. 
Accordingly,  after  much  hesitation,  and 
upon  a  mutual  understanding1  that  the 
parties  should  again  meet,  and  under 
more  favourable  circumstances  decide 
the  palm,  the  spiel  commenced — and  it 
soon  fared  with  Lochmaben  as  foreseen. 
From  the  pressure  of  the  crowd,  and  the 
spongy  state  of  the  ice,  the  water  soon 
became  so  deep  as  to  require  to  sweep 
the  rink  the  whole  length  before  each 
stone  was  delivered  ;  and  even  when  that 
was  done,  it  oftentr  than  once  happened 
that  out  ol  the  sixteen  stones,  two  only 
would  get  over  the  hog-score !  It  was 


1831.] 

under  these  circumstances  that  again,  by 
one  rink,  Closeburn  gained,— and  Loch- 
niaben  lost, — no  honour. 

"  The  combatants  then  returned  to  the 
Inn  to  dinner — where  as  usual  the  greatest 
harmony,  good  feeling,  and  hilarity  pre- 
vailed. At  a  late  hour,  the  Lochmaben 
party  wended  their  way  towards  the 
Lochs;  and  as  an  instance  of  the  kindly 
impression  they  left  behind  them,  we 
may  mention,  that  one  of  their  number, 
upon  returning  to  the  room  in  search  of 
his  hat,  found  the  Closebumians,  one  and 
all,  mounted  upon  the  table,  on  one  foot, 
cups  in  hand,  drinking,  with  all  the  ho- 
nours, '  health,  happiness,  and  prosperity 
to  the  men  of  old  Margery.' 

"  In  the  former  bonspiel,  one  of  the 
Closeburn  skippers  lost  the  honour  which 
he  had  acquired  during  five-and-twenty 
consecutive  paiish  spiels.  But  in  this, 
if,  under  the  circumstances  mentioned,  it 
may  be  so  construed,  a  greater  trophy 
was  achieved.  It  was  reserved  fur  the 
old  President  of  their  society  to  crop  the 
laurels  which  Sir  James  for  thirty  un- 
vunquisbed  years,  at  the  head  of  the 
Lochmaben  invincibles,  had  won  and 
worn.  The  veteran  Closebumian  had 
twice  quailed  before  him — and  had  been 
heard  to  say,  that  if  in  the  ensuing  con- 
test  he  could  beat  the  Baronet,  he  would 
die  in  peace.  Requiescat !  his  wish  was 
amply  gratified.  Sir  James's  players  were 
mostly  striplings,  who  could  have  done 
their  work  well  had  the  ice  been  hard — 
but  as  it  was,  few  ends  were  played,  till 
they  were  hors-de-cornbat !" 

Up  starts,  again,  as  if  from  the  in- 
fernal regions,  the  reverend  Profes- 
sor, who,  ever  since  the  1820,  and 
long,  long  before,  had  so  haunted  the 
men  of  Margery's  imaginations,  that 
he  must  have  been  seen  in  every 
bush  in  the  moors.  "  Following  up 
the  former  provocations,  in  an  early 
number  of  the  Dumfries  Journal 
another  set  of  verses  from  the  old 
quarter  blazoned  forth  the  defeat  of 
Lochmaben,  commencing  in  the 
hackneyed  strain, 

'  Hurrah  !  for  Closeburn,  fling  the  note 

afar  !'  " 

Now,  we  cannot  help  humbly 
thinking,  that  it  is  customary  on  all 
such  occasions  to  expect  that  the 
poet-laureate  of  the  victorious  party 
should  celebrate  their  conquest  by  a 
triumphal  lay.  It  is  not  moderate 
or  manly  to  call  such  song  of  triumph 
-justified  by  the  practice  of  all  the 

\f\c,+  l.ofii,*    ii'if  i/»iw **   f/-k11r*TiMnnr  nn 


most  heroic  nations — "  following  up 
former  provocations."    But  this  lay 


Curliana.  079 

of  the  laureate  was  forthwith' «'  duly 
turned  intoludicrism  by  a  burlesque 
song,  published  in  the  same  paper." 
The  paper  war,  which  had  slumber- 
ed some  seasons,  again  raged  in  all 
its  fury — and,  as  no  man  likes  to 
see  the  slightest  production  of  his 
brain  "  turned  into  ludicrism" — we 
ourselves  dislike  it  excessively — the 
reverend  Professor  (here  imperti- 
nently called  a  poetaster)  again  shew- 
ed fight,  and  seems  to  have  given  his 
adversary  a  facer  and  a  stomacher, 
right  and  left.  Some  half  dozen 
years  having  elapsed  since  that  coun- 
ter-hitting, the  author  of  Curliana 
should  have  calmly  recorded  the 
conflict.  Instead  of  doing  so,  he 
treats  his  antagonist  most  contuma- 
ciously, saying,  that  "  in  his  dia- 
tribes (a  learned  word  for  songs) 
there  was  such  a  breach  of  all  cour- 
tesy and  gentlemanly  feeling  as  com- 
pletely to  overreach  its  purpose,  and 
to  hold  up  its  rancorous  author  to 
the  scorn  and  disgust  of  the  public  at 
large"  &c.  All  this,  we  take  it  upon 
ourselves  to  say,  is  absolute  raving; 
Professor  Gillespie,  the  writer  of 
those  jeux  cTe&prit — and  they  were 
manifestly,  from  the  specimens  quo- 
ted, nothing  else,  to  say  nothing  of 
his  admirable  talents — being  one  of 
the  warmest  and  kindest-hearted  men. 
that  ever  lived,  with  a  heart  as  full 
of  benignity  as  an  egg's  full  of  meat, 
and  not  a  drop  of  rancour  in  his 
whole  composition. 

Our  author  then  goes  on  to  mo- 
ralize thusj — 

"  A  jeu  (Tesprit,  however  harmless, 
and  even  when  expressly  written  pour 
faire  rire,  if  at  the  expense  of  truth, 
and  made  public  at  the  expense  of  others, 
degenerates  into  something  at  best  ex- 
ceedingly despicable.  But  if  designedly 
and  repeatedly  persevered  in  through 
years,  for  the  vindictive  purpose  of  hold- 
ing up  through  the  press  a  respectable 
body  of  unoffending  men  to  the  derision 
of  their  countrymen,  it  acquires  a  deeper 
shade  of  niddering  still.  The  party  whose 
names  have  been  so  unhandsomely 
drugged  into  light,  can  set,  however,  at 
nought  the  knavery  done  them.  The 
anonymous  concocter,  and  shameless 
publisher  of  utter  fictions,  can  be  but 
slightly  affected  by  the  imputation  of 
motives  which  would  press  heavy  in- 
deed upon  an  honourable  mind.  We 
leave  him  therefore  to  enjoy  upon  the 
pillory,  where  public  opinion  has  long 
stationed  him,— but  in  the  '  attitude  (pta. 


3 


emphasis  it!)  of  proud  and  unflinching 
defiance,'  as  he  is  himself  pleased  to  style 
It — what  few  will  envy  him,  the  harvest 
of  his  toil.  If,  however,  in  putting  down 
one  whose  purpose  seems  (though  hap- 
pily not  effected)  to  have  been  to  set  two 
rival  parishes  by  tlie  ears,  we  have  unin- 
tentionally offended  the  Curlers  of  Close- 
burn,  to  them  our  kindly  feelings  dictate 
the  amplest  apology." 

All  this  raving — or  rather  drivel — 
must  be  excluded  from  the  next 
edition  of  this  otherwise  amiable  and 
amusing  volume  —  on  pain  of  the 
knout.  It  makes  the  writer — at  other 
times  always  lively  and  acute — seem 
absolutely — a  sumph.  But  oil  Avas 
poured  into  the  wounded  bosoms  of 
the  men  of  Margery,  at  the  election 
tlinner  which  took  place  at  Lochma- 
ben  on  the  3d  of  the  following  July, 
"  by  that  leal  and  noble  Closeburnian, 
Sir  Thomas  Kirkpatrick."  "  Shortly 
after  the  leading  toasts  of  the  day 
had  been  disposed  of,  the  Sheriff 
stood  up,  and  in  an  eloquent  speech, 
replete  with  urbanity  and  kindly 
feeling,  made  his  way  to  the  heart 
of  every  Lochmaben  individual  pre- 
sent. He  commenced  by  speaking 
of  ancient  times,  and  the  periods  of 
the  Bruce — and  then,  by  an  easy 
transition  from  fields  of  ire  to  those 
of  ice,  he  spake  of  our  own  happier 
feuds — the  peaceful  emulations  of 
modern  men.  Alluding  then  to  our 
recent  spiels,  and  paying  a  well- 
turned  tribute  to  our  Curling  skill, 
he  proceeded  to  add,  that,  himself  a 
Curler,  and  the  son  of  a  Curler,  who 
had  often  headed  the  rinks  of  Close- 
burn,itcouldnot  but  be  expected  that 
he  should  wish  success  to  his  own  ; 
— should  victory,  however,  notwith- 
standing, incline  to  the  other  side, 
he  was  well  assured,  even  then,  that 
they  would  lose  no  honour  by  re- 
signing the  palm  to  such  redoubted 
compeers.  He  then  proposed,  with 
all  the  honours — '  The  Curlers  of 
Lochmaben.' " 

Thus  matters  remained  till  the 
ice-campaign  of  1829-30.  The  parish 
heroes  met  to  try  another  contest — 
but  Juno  and  Jupiter  were  inauspi- 
cious— and  such  was  the  state  of  the 
day  and  ice,  that  it  was  found  im- 
practicable to  play  the  bonspiel. 
The  parties,  however,  modified  their 
chagrin,  by  dining  together — har- 
mony and  good  feeling  reigned — and 
they  parted  in  hopes  of  meeting 


Curliana. 


[Dec. 


again  another  season  on  the  "  trans- 
parent board." 

"Upon  a  mutual  understanding, 
that  neither  party  should  give  nor 
accept  of  a  challenge  to  play  a  pa- 
rish match  till  the  palm  should  be 
finally  decided  between  the  rival 
combatants — Lochmaben  has  had  no 
opportunity  for  about  ten  years  of 
meeting  her  old  friends,  the  Curlers 
of  the  neighbouring  parishes,  upon 
the  transparent  board.  Considering, 
however,  that  by  taking  up  the  last 
position  upon  the  Closcburn  ice,  that 
they  were  exonerated  from  an  en- 
gagement which  they  did  not  antici- 
pate should  rival  in  duration  the 
Trojan  war,  and  which  they  had 
often  had  occasion  to  regret,  they 
met,  and  after  four  well  contested 
games,  conquered  Tiiiwald,  Dum- 
fries, Johnstone,  and  Dryfesdale. 
The  ice  was  excellent — the  weather 
remarkably  good — and  fine  scienti- 
fic spiels  were  played  throughout. 
The  games  were  21  shots  each,  and 
the  aggregate  number  of  surplus 
shots  gained  in  all,  amounted  to  109 
— a  very  distinct  proof  of  the  profi- 
ciency of  the  losers  in  the  art. 

"  Thus  ended  the  celebrated  ice 
campaign  of  winter  1829-30,  which 
commenced  with  us  upon  the  19th 
of  November,  and,  with  few  inter- 
missions, terminated  upon  the  22d 
February,  our  last  stones  sounding 
finale  about  half-past  six  o'clock 

P.  M." 

One  of  the  most  amusing  and  in- 
structive chapters  is  that  entitled 
"  Mechanical."  The  author  is  excel- 
lent on  Curling  stones.  "  Every 
Curling  Society,"  he  says,  "  has  its 
noted  Curling  stones — relics  of  the 
olden  time,  and  of  the  introduction 
of  the  game,  which  "  are  looked  upon 
with  a  sort  of  filial  veneration"  &c. 
"  Of  these,  several,"  he  adds,  "  re- 
main upon  the  Lochmaben  ice  as 
'  Palladiums?  "  The  most  remark- 
able is  the  "  Famous  Hen."  She  still 
exists,  in  all  the  pristine  elegance 
and  simplicity  of  form,  as  discovered 
by  old  Thorny  what  and  the  late  Pro- 
vost Henderson,  in  a  cleugh  upon 
the  estate  of  the  former,  and  con- 
veyed down  to  the  Burgh  in  a  plaid. 
She  was  used  for  many  years  in  all 
parish  spiels — till  the  parishioners 
became  ashamed  of  her— for  when 
once  near  the  tee,  there  was  no  mo- 
ving her — wherever  she  settled,  there 


1831.] 


Curliana. 


981 


she  clock* d ;  and  the  severest  blow 
merely  destroyed  her   equilibrium, 


one, '  Am  I  to  play  to-day,  Sir,  or  not  ?* 

'  Certainly,  Clapperton,' — was  the  reply 


turning  up  her  bottom  to  the  light.      —  'you  shall  play  if  I  play.'   Upon  which, 
The  Hen,  however,  is  still  on  the     making  a  salam 


ice. 

"  We  cannot  resist  inserting  the  fol- 
lowing   anecdotes   connected    with    the 
Hen,  or  omit  gracing  our  pages  with  a 
name  so  honourable  to  a  place  which  was 
his  father's   birth-spot,   and  so  long  his 
own  home  ;  the  more  especially  as  tliey 
are  characteristic  of  the  man.     Captain 
H.    Clapperton,  the  late  lamented  Afri- 
can traveller,  resided  at  Lochmaben  the 
greater   part  of   those  three  years — the 
peacefulest,  certainly — perhaps  the  hap- 
piest, of  his  life — which  elapsed  between 
his  being  paid  off  in  1817,  and  his  going 
out  upon  that  expedition.   There,  dwell- 
ing amid  scenes  which  had  once  formed 
the  ample  possessions  of  his  maternal  an- 
cestors,* and  amid  the  high  recollections 
which  have  there  a  '  local  habitation  and 
a  name,'    he  gave  himself  up  to  those 
sports  arid  pastimes  which  form  the  oc- 
cupations of  rural  life.     Amongst  others, 
he  joined  in  our  Curling  campaigns,  but, 
as  might  be  expected  from  his  inexpe- 
rience, was  a  very  indifferent  player    in- 
deed.    The   President,  however,    never 
particular  as  to  the  individual  skill  of  his 
players,  upon  the  receipt  of  the  first  chal- 
lenge from  Closeburn,  chose  him  into  his 
rink.     This — amongst  a   body   of  men, 
who  perhaps  of  all  others  act  up  most 
tenaciously  to  the  no-respecting-of-per- 
son  principle  of  detur  digniori — and  that, 
too,  upon  the  eve  of  a  contest  requiring 
a  concentration  of  the  experience  and 
science  of  the  society,  gave    rise  to  no 
little  dissatisfaction.     Accordingly,  upon 
the  morning  of  the  bonspiel,  the  Presi- 
dent, upon  joining  his  party  in  the  burgh, 
was  surprised  to  see  Clapperton  stand- 
ing aloof,  having  a  raised  look,  his  hands 
stuck  in  his  sailor's  jacket  pockets,  and 
whistling  loud.     He  had  not  time,  how- 
ever, to  get  at  him  to  enquire  the  cause, 
till   one  of  the   skips    coming  up,    ex- 
plained the  mystery,  by  saying,  that  under- 
standing that  Clapperton,  and  another  na- 
val gentleman  equally  inexpert,  had  been 
chosen  into  his  rink,  the  Curlers  were  de- 
termined not  to  play  the  bonspiel  unless 
they  were  both  put  out.    The  President, 
upon  the  ground  that  a  soft  answer  turns 
away  wrath,  said  something  conciliatory 
— and  turned  upon  his  heel.    Upon  this 
Clapperton,  in  an  attitude  of  proud  con- 
tempt, and  pulled  up  to  his  height,  advan- 
ced, with  the  air  and  gait  of  the  quarter- 
deck, to  a  respectful  distance,  when,  thro«r- 
ing  up  his  hand  a  la  mode  navale,  he  de- 
manded, in  a  key  different  from  his  usual 


aking  a  salam  with  his  hand,  as  if  he  had 
received  the  commands  of  his  admiral,  he 
strided  back  to  where  his  stone — (the 
Hen,  which  had  belonged  to  his  grandfa- 
ther, of  antiquarian  memory) — and  besom 
lay,  and  seizing  upon  the  former  with  an 
air  of  triumph,  he  whirled  her  repeatedly 
round  his  head,  with  as  much  ease  appa- 
rently as  if  she  had  been  nearer  seven  than 
to  seventy  pounds.  He  then  placed  her 
upon  his  shoulder,  and  marched  off  to  the 
Loch,  where  taking  up  a  position,  he 
walked  sentry  upwards  of  an  hour  before 
being  joined  by  the  rest.  The  rink  in 
which  he  played  was  most  successful, 
beating  the  opposing  President's  21  to  7. 
It  may  appear  singular  how  so  trivial  a 
circumstance  should  so  highly  have  ex- 
cited him  :  a  Curler,  however,  can  easily 
comprehend  it.  He  played  with  his  co- 
lossal granite  some  capital  shots,  and,  no 
doubt,  was  not  a  little  complacent  that  the 
Skip,  who,  as  the  tongue  of  the  trump, 
had  wished  to  eject  him,  was,  with  what 
comparatively  was  considered  to  be  a 
crack  rink,  thoroughly  drubbed. 

"  Upon  another  occasion,  whilst  play- 
ing in  a  bonspiel  with  Tinwald,  being 
challenged  by  his  Skip  just  whilst  in  the 
act  of  throwing  the  Hen,  he  actually  held 
her  in  the  air  at  arm's  length,  in  the  same 
position,  until  the  orders  countermanded 
were  again  repeated.  His  family  were 
all  athletic  players,  in  particular  his  uncle 
Sandy,  who  for  many  years  played  an  im- 
mense cairn,  upon  the  principle  that  no 
other  Curler  upon  the  Lochmaben  ice 
could  throw  it  up  but  himself.  These  two 
incidents,  however  trivial,  discovered  the 
germs  of  that  intrepidity  which  he  after- 
wards developed  so  prominently  in  the 
field  of  adventure ;  and  which,  far  from 
the  '  land  of  his  home  and  heart,'  pur- 
chased for  him  an  early  tomb — and  a 
deathless  name. 

"  Speuking  of  feats  of  strength,  I  am 
tempted  to  make  a  slight  digression.  We 
are  informed  that  there  have  been  instan- 
ces of  throwing  a  Curling  stone  one  Eng- 
lish mile  upon  ice.  It  was  no  uncom- 
mon thing  in  days  of  yore,  and  there  are 
many  still  alive  who  have  done  it,  to  throw 
across  the  Kirk  Loch  from  the  Orchard 
to  the  Skelbyland — a  feat  not  much  short 
of  the  above.  Upon  the  occasion,  we 
believe,  of  a  match  with  Tinwald,  Laurie 
Young,  the  strongest  player  amongst 
them,  challenged  the  Lochmaben  party 
to  a  trial  of  arm.  Their  pre-iderit  stepped 
out,  and  taking  his  stone,  threw  it  with 
such  strength  across  the  breadth  of  the 


•  The  Hendersons  of  Lochmaben  Castle. 


982 


Curliana. 


[Dec. 


Mill  Locli,  that  it  slotted  off  the  brink 
upon  the  other  side,  and  tumbled  over 
upon  the  grass.  '  Now,'  said  Jie  to  Lau- 
rie, '  go  and  throw  it  back  again,  and  we'll 
then  confess  that  you  are  too  many  for 
us.' 

"The  «  Tutor,'  another  remarkable 
stone,  is  perhaps  one  of  the  oldest  upon 
our  ice.  It  is  so  called  after  its  owner 
— Dickson  ;  but  how  he  got  his  etymon 
does  not  appear.  Many  wonderful  anec- 
dotes relating  to  it  are  still  afloat,  which 
we  reluctantly  pass  by.  We  merely  enu- 
merate Skelbyiand,  the  Craig,  Wallace, 
Steel-cap,  the  Scoon,  Bonaparte,  Hughie, 
Red-cap,  the  Skipper,  as  all  noted  and 
associated  with  the  names  and  feats  of 
other  days.  Many  a  good  whinstane  lies 
in  the  bottom  of  the  surrounding  Lochs. 

"  Old  Bonaparte,  who  flourishsd  cir. 
1750  and  downwards,  was  the  first  who 
had  a  regular  formed  polished  curling- 
stone  upon  our  ice.  Probably  a  San- 
quhar  one  ;  arid  a  gift  from  Mr  M'Murdo, 
the  Duke's  Chamberlain.  He  used  to 
be  frequently  at  Di  umlanrig  Castle  play- 
ing matches ;  arid  it  is  still  recollected, 
upon  one  special  occasion,  that  a  chaise, 
a  rara  avis  in  those  days,  was  sent  down 
for  him,  to  go  and  play  a  banter  for  a 
large  amount,  against  the  champion  upon 
'  ice  of  the  adjoining  district.  His  wily 
opponent,  however,  upon  seeing  him 
throw  his  stone  for  an  end  or  two,  gave 
in.  Previous  to  this  period,  to  say  truth, 
the  stones  upon  the  Lochmaben  ice  were 
of  a  wretched  description  enough.  Most 
of  them  being  sea-stones,  of  all  shapes, 
sizes,  and  weights.  Some  were  three- 
cornered,  like  those  equilateral  cocked 
hats  which  our  divines  wore  in  a  cen- 
tury that  is  past — others  like  ducks- 
others  flat  as  a  frying-pan.  Their  han- 
dles, which  superseded  holes  tor  the  fin- 
gers and  thumb,  were  equally  clumsy 
and  inelegant;  being  mal-constructed  re- 
semblances of  that  hook-necked  biped, 
the  goose." 

Ice-ana  is  a  curious  chapter — "  a 
kind  of  lumber-room  for  such  odds 
and  ends  about  Curling  as  we  could 
not  conveniently  weave  into  our  ge- 
neral narrative — and  which  we  yet 
thought  it  a  pity  to  omit."  For  ex- 
ample, what  means  that  well-known 
phnise  on  the  Lochmaben  ice,  "  We 
soutered them?"  There  were  towards 
the  close  of  the  last  century,  a  rink 
of  seven  players,  all  shoemakers.  So 
expert  iu  the  Curling  art  were  those 
knights  of  the  lapstone,  that  for  a 
number  of  years,  they  not  only  fought 
and  conquered  all  who  opposed  them, 
but  frequently  without  allowing  their 


opponents  to  reckon  even  a  solitary 
shot.  We  "  soutered  them  "  thus  be- 
came a  favourite  phrase.  So  proud 
waxed  these  indomitable  souters, 
that  they  not  only  "  bragged  all  Scot- 
land, but  even  set  the  world  at  de- 
fiance upon  ice."  No  curlers  coming 
from  the  continent  to  contend  with 
them,  at  last  "  our  president,  then 
a  youth,  chose  six  curlers  of  the  pa- 
rish— and  beat  them !  To  give  us 
some  faint  notion  of  the  collective 
prowess  of  these  doughty  carles,  we 
are  informed  that  it  was  Deacon  Jar- 
dine's  forte  to  birse  a  needle,  i.  e.  he 
would  nick  a  bore  so  scientifically, 
that  he  would  undertake,  having  first 
attached,  with  a  piece  of  shoemaker's 
wax,  two  needles  to  the  side  of  two 
curling-stones  just  the  width  of  the 
one  he  played  with  apart — and  upon 
two  stones  in  front  similarly  apart, 
and  on  the  line  of  direction,  having 
affixed  two  birses,  he  played  his  stone 
so  accurately,  that  in  passing  through 
the  port,  it  should  impel  the  birses 
forward  through  the  eyes  of  the 
needles.  This  feat,  though  unique 
in  its  kind,  has  been  often  rivalled, 
we  are  told,  by  living  members  of 
*  our  society.' " 

Some  Mousewaldite  skips  having 
once  on  a  time  foregathered  with  a 
Lochmaben  Curler  in  Dumfries,  gave 
a  challenge — but  they  were  nothing 
in  the  hands  of  the  Invincibles.  In- 
deed they  would  have  been  soutered 
outright,  but  for  one  of  the  Lochma- 
ben party,  who  was  bribed  by  the 
promise  of  a  goose  for  dinner,  and  a 
black  lamb  for  his  daughter,  to  let 
them  get  a  shot  or  two.  One  of  the 
victorious  party  encountered,  at  the 
commencement  of  the  spiel,  a  huge 
red  crag,  which  he  struck  with  such 
force,  that  he  sent  it  twenty  yards' 
distance  from  the  tee,  and  made  it 
tumble  over  the  dam-dyke.  A  sin- 
gular shot  once  occurred  on  the  Ayr- 
shire ice.  Two  parties  were  playing 
a  short  distance  from  each  other — 
with  a  quantity  of  snow  between 
them  scraped  off  the  ice.  The  player 
having  to  take  the  winner,  and  being 
requested  to  play  with  all  his  strength, 
missed  his  aim,  but  his  stone  went 
over  the  barrier,  and  struck  off  the 
adverse  winner  upon  the  neighbour- 
ing tee.  That  was  as  funny  as  it  was 
fatal  and  fortuitous. 

True  that  Curling  is  confessedly 
somewhat  of  a  boisterous  game — "  a 


Curliana. 


983 


roarin'  play,"  as  Burns  has  it — "  but 
there  the  manners  rule  the  revelry," 
and  all  Curlers  on  the  transparent 
board  are  gentlemen.  ludeed,  the  na- 
tion of  gentlemen  owe  much  to  the 
influence  of  this  generous  pastime. 
There  is  an  excellent  letter  in  the 
Appendix,  from  a  clergyman,  (Mr 
Somerville  ?)  in  which  he  declares, 
that  he  never  heard  an  oath,  or  an  in- 
decent expression  made  use  of  upon 
the  ice.  All  ranks,  he  says,  are 
there  mixed  together — the  lower 
seem  anxious  to  prove  themselves 
not  unworthy  of  the  society  of  their 
superiors ;  and  the  latter  are  aware 
that  they  would  have  just  cause  to  be 
ashamed,  were  they  to  yield  to  the 
former  in  those  points  which  are  es- 
sential in  constituting  a  true  gentle- 
man. Not  only  upon  the  grand  oc- 
casion of  parish  spiels,  but  even  on 
less  important  rencontres,  there  ap- 
pears always  to  be  infused  into  the 
minds  of  the  participators  a  kind  of 
honourable  and  gentlemanlike  feel- 
ing, which,  in  many  of  them,  may 
not  be  remarkable  upon  other  occa- 
sions— and  he  says  he  has  frequently 
had  occasion  to  observe,  that  that 
feeling  gradually  insinuated  itself 
into  the  manners,  so  as  to  become  a 
distinguishing  feature  in  the  charac- 
ter even  of  men  in  the  lowest  sta- 
tions of  life.  "  Had  this  not  been 
the  case,  and  had  I  found  that  I  could 
not  have  indulged  myself  in  this  ex- 
hilarating sport,  without  compromi- 
sing the  clerical  character,  great 
though  the  sacrifice  would  have 
been,  I  certainly  would,  without  he- 
sitation, have  suppressed  my  ardour 
as  a  Curler;  but,  so  far  from  expe- 
riencing any  pernicious  results  from 
such  indulgences,  I  find  it  attended 
with  the  very  best  consequences; 
nor  can  any  thing  be  better  calcula- 
ted, when  the  days  are  shortest  and 
coldest,  to  refresh  and  invigorate 
both  the  body  and  mind." 

Nothing  can  be  more  amusing  to 
a  philosophic  bystander,  who  may  be 
no  great  deacon  in  the  art,  but  ad- 
mires the  practice  of  it,  than  to 
watch  the  faces  and  figures  of  the 
competitors.  What  infinite  varieties 
of  grotesque  and  picturesque  gesti- 
culation and  attitude  !  And  what  an 
imaginative  and  poetical  language  ! 
As,  for  example — 

1.  Fit  fair  and  rink  straight — Draw  a 
shot — Come  creeping  down — A  canny 


forehan* — Straight  ice  and  slow — Just 
wittyr  high — A  tee  shot — A  patlid. 

2.  O !  for  a  guard— -Owre   the  colly, 
and  ye're  a  great  shot— Fill  the  Port- 
Block  the  ice — Guard  the  winner. 

3.  Sweep,  sweep— Gi'e  him  heels— 
Bring  him  down — Polish  clean — Kittle 
weel. 

4.  Side   for   side — Clieek   by  jowl — 
Within  the  brough — A  gude  sidelin  shot 
— A  stane  on  ilka  side  of  the  cockee. 

5.  A  rest  on  this  stane — Just  break 
an  egg — Lie  in  the  bosom  of  the  winner 
— Tee  length — Keep  the  crown  o*  the 
rink. 

6.  An  angled  guard. 

7.  A  little  of  the  natural  twist — Mind 
the  bias — Borrow  a  yard. 

8.  Hdud  the  win*  uff  him,  he's  gleg. 

9.  T-ik'  him  through. 

10.  Don't  let  him  see  that  again. 

11.  Break  the  guards — Redd  the  fee, 

12.  A  smart  ride — A  thundering  ride 
— Tak'  your  will  o'  that  ane— Pit  smed- 
dum  in't — Come    snooving  down    white 
ice — just  follow  that. 

13.  Don't  flee  the  guards. 

14.  Watch  that  ane. 

15.  A  glorious  stug. 

16.  Come  chuckling  up  the  port. 

17.  A  canny  shot  through  a  narrow 
port. 

18.  An  ell  gane  on  the  winner — Raise 
this  stane  a  yard. 

19.  A  gude  invvick — An  inwick  aflf  the 
snaw. 

20.  Come  under  your  grannie's  wing. 

21.  O  man,  ye  hae  played  it  wise— 
Tak"  yoursel'  by  the  han'— I'll  gie  a  snuff 
for  that. 

It  would  be  the  height  of  rashness 
in  any  man  to  say  that  he  ever  saw 
a  dinner,  who  has  never  dined  as 
Curler  among  Curlers.  True  that 
ilka  chiel  has  had  a  caulker  for  his 
"  morning,"  and  brose  or  bannocks, 
not  without  beef  or  ham,  "  material 
breakfast;"  so  that  he  leaves  home 
with  a  stomach  aiblins  slightly  dis- 
tended, but  "  that  not  much  ;" — his 
face  ruddy  but  not  flushed  ; — and  in 
his  pleasant  pupils  the  joyful  light 
of  hope,  or  say  with  Shakspeare— 

"Joy  candles  in  his  eyes." 
Miles  off  over  moors  and  mountains 
may  lie,  yet  unswept  by  any  besom 
but  of  Boreas,  the  "  transparent 
board."  No  cheese  and  bread,  (in 
Scotland  we  always  invariably  give 
both  cheese  and  butter  precedence 
over  bread— laying  them  on  thick 
in  strong  strata,  each  deeper  than  the 
bread-base) — no  cheese  and  bread, 


Curliana. 


[Dec. 


we  say,  in  the  pouch  of  your  true 
Curler — no,  nor  yet  pocket-pistol. 
His  inside  has  a  lining  that  will  last 
till  the  sun  sinks — and  his  stomach, 
in  sympathy  with  his  heart,  would 
scorn  even  a  mouthful  chance-of- 
fered at  the  tee.  He  hungers  and 
thirsts  but  for  glory;  for  the  charac- 
ter of  his  pai  ish  is  at  stake,  and  each 
roaring  rink  is  alive  with  man's  most 
eager  passions.  But  all  the  while 
his  appetite  is  progressing,  though 
unconscious  the  Curler  of  its  growth ; 
and  at  the  close  of  spiel  or  bonspiel, 
as  soon  as  the  many  mingling  emo- 
tions born  of  victory  and  of  defeat 
have  subsided  into  an  almost  stern 
but  surely  no  sullen  calm,  the  curl- 
ing crew,  jolly  boys  all,  discover  that 
they  are  ravenous.  You  probably 
have  lunched — and  live  to  lament 
it  when  your  dull  dead  eye  falls 
beamless  on  undesired  dinner.  But 
lo  !  and  hark  !  stag-strong  across 
the  wide  moors,  crunching  beneath 
their  feet  in  the  glitterance  of  the 
frost-woven  snows,  in  many  a  brother 
band,  bound  the  cheery  Curlers  to 
the  celebrated  change-house  at  the 
Auld  Brig-end,  in  summer  seen  not 
till  you  are  on  the  green  before  the 
door,  the  umbrage  such  of  that 
elm-tree  grove,  from  time  immemo- 
rial a  race  of  giants — but  now  visi- 
ble its  low  straw  roof,  with  all  its 
icicles,  to  the  close-congregating 
Curlers,  with  loud  shouts  hailing  it 
from  the  last  mountain  top.  Yon's 
the  gawcygude  wife  at  the  door,  look- 
ing out,  for  the  last  time,  for  her 
guests,  through  the  gloaming — and 
next  instant  at  the  kitchen  fire,  assist- 
ing "  to  tak  aff  the  pat,"  and  to  dish 
on  the  dresser  the  beef  and  greens. 
For  she  leaves  the  care  o'  the  how- 
towdies  to  the  lirnmers, —  and  the 
tongues,  on  this  occasion,  she  in- 
trusts to  the  gudeman — some  twenty 
years  older  than  his  wife,  uniformly 
the  case  in  a'  srna'  inns,  illustrious  for 
vittals — 

"  For  sage  experience  bids  us  thus  de- 
clare." 

'Tis  little  short  of  miraculous  to  see 
how  close  a  company  of  Curlers  will 
pack.  The  room  cannot  be  more 
than  some  twenty  feet  by  twelve — 
yet  it  unaccountably  contains  almost 
all  the  rink.  Some  young  chiels,  in- 
deed, are  in  the  trance  teasing  the 
hizzies  on  their  way  through  with  the 


trenchers — and  some  auld  men  are 
in  the  spence — and  a  few  callants  are 
making  themselves  useful  in  the  kit- 
chen,  while  a  score  or  so  perhaps  have 
gone  straight  homeward  from  the  ice 
for  private  reasons — such,  possibly, 
as  scolding  wives,  (most  of  them  bar- 
ren,) into  which  no  writer  of  an  ar- 
ticle in  a  magazine,  as  it  appears  to 
us,  is  at  liberty  to  institute  a  public 
enquiry. 

But  look  at  that  dinner ! 

The  table  is  all  alive  with  hot  ani- 
mal food.  A  steam  of  rich  distilled 
perfumes  reaches  the  roof,  at  the 
lowest  measurement  seven  feet  high. 
A  savoury  vapour !  The  feast  takes 
all  its  name  and  most  of  its  nature 
from — beef  and  greens.  The  one 
corned,  the  other  crisp — the  two 
combined,  the  glory  of  Martinmas. 
The  beef  consists  almost  entirely  of 
lean  fat — rather  than  of  fat  lean — and 
the  same  may  be  said  of  that  bacon. 
See !  how  the  beef  cuts  long-ways 
with  the  bone — if  it  be  not  indeed  a 
sort  of  sappy  gristle.  Along  the  edges 
of  each  plate,  as  it  falls  over  from  the 
knife  edge  among  the  gravy-greens, 
your  mouth  waters  at  the  fringe  of 
fat,  and  you  look  for  "  the  mustard." 
Of  such  beef  and  greens,  there  are 
four  trenchers,  each  like  a  tea-tray  ; 
and  yet  you  hope  that  there  is  a  corps- 
du-reserve  in  the  kitchen.  Saw  you 
ever  any  where  else,  except  before  a 
barn-door,  where  flail  or  fanners 
were  at  work,  such  a  muster  of  how- 
towdies  ?  And  how  rich  the  rarer 
roasted  among  the  frequent  boiled  ! 
As  we  are  Christians — that  is  an  in- 
credible goose — yet  still  that  turkey 
is  not  put  out  of  countenance — and 
"  as  what  seems  his  head  the  likeness 
of  a  kingly  crown  has  on,"  he  must 
be  no  less  than  the  bubbly.  Black 
and  brown  grouse  are  not  eatable — 
till  they  \\&\ e packed  ;  and  these  have 
been  shot  on  the  snow  out  of  a  cottage 
window,  by  a  man  in  his  shirt  taking 
vizzy  with  the  "  lang  gun"  by  starry 
moonlight.  Yea — pies.  Some  fruit — 
and  some  flesh — that  veal — and  this 
aipples.  Cod's-head  and  shoulders, 
twenty  miles  from  the  sea,  is  at  all 
times  a  luxury — and  often  has  that 
monster  lain  like  a  ship  at  anchor, 
off  the  Dogger-bank — supposed  by 
some  to  have  been  a  small  whale. 
Potatoes  always  look  well  in  the 
crumbling  candour  of  that  heaped- 
up  mealiness,  like  a  raised  pyramid. 


1831.]  Curliana. 

» 

As  for  mashed  turnips,  for  our 
life,  when  each  is  excellent  of  its 
kind,  we  might  not  decide  whether 
the  palm  should  be  awarded  to 
the  white  or  the  yellow;  but  per- 
haps on  your  plate,  with  the  but- 
ter-mixed bloodiness  of  steak,  cut- 
let, or  mere  slice  of  rump,  to  a  nice- 
ty underdone,  both  are  best — a  most 
sympathetic  mixture,  in  which  the 
peculiar  taste  of  each  is  intensely 
elicited,  while  a  new  flavour,  or 
absolute  tertium  quid,  is  impressed 
upon  the  palate,  which,  for  the 
nonce,  is  not  only  invigorated,  but 
refined. 

The  devouring  we  submit  to  the 
imagination.  The  edible  has  disap- 
peared like  snow  after  a  night's  thaw. 
Not  cleaner  of  all  obstruction  is  the 
besom-swept  transparent  board  itself, 
now  lying  bare  in  the  moonlight,along 
the  lucid  rink  from  tee  to  tee,  beau- 
tifully reflecting  the  frosty  stars, 
than  the  board — erewhile  so  genial — 
round  which  are  laughing,  yea  guf- 
fawing, that  glorious  congregation  of 
incomparable  Curlers.  The  senti- 
ment of  the  first  resolution  of  the 
Old  Duddingston  Curling  Society 
breathes  over  all — "  Resolved  that 
to  be  virtuous  is  to  reverence  our 
God,  Religion,  Laws,  and  the  King; 
and  that  we  hereby  do  declare  our  re- 
verence for,  and  attachment  to  the 
same."  Bumper-toast  follows  bum- 
per-toast in  animated  succession,  and 
here  is  the  list: — 


1.  The  King  and  the  Curlers  of  Scot- 
land. 

2.  The  Tee — what  we  all  aim  at. 

3.  The  Courts  of  Just-ice. 

4v  All  societies  in  Scotland  formed  for 
the  encouragement  of  the  noble  game  of 
Curling. 

5.  The  societies  in  England,  Canada, 
and  elsewhere. 

6.  Our  old  friend,  John  Frost. 


7.  May  we  never  come  short,  or  prove 
a  Jiag,  when  required  to  guard  a  friend. 

b.  May  Curlers  ever  be  true-soled; 
lovers  of  just-ice;  and  unbiassed  in  prin- 
ciple. 

9.  May  we  never  be  biassed  by  un- just- 
ice  ;  nor  repel  an  enemy,  by  inwicking  a 
friend. 

10.  Curlers'  wives  and  sweetheart?. 

1 1.  A  bumper  to  the  "  Land  o'  Cakes, 
and  her  ain  game  o'  Curling." 

12.  "  Channel-stones,  crampets,  and 
besoms  so  green." 

13.  Right  a- board  play.         <H&  IB  baft 
14-.  "  May  Curlers  ever  meet  merry 

i'  the  morn,  and  at  night  part  friends." 

15.  May  Curlers  on  life's  slippery  rink 

Frae  cruel  rubs  be  free. 

16.  Frosty  weather,  fair  play,  and  fes- 
tivity. 

17.  Canny  skips  and  eident  pkyers. 

18.  Happy  meetings  after  Curling. 

19.  Gleg  ice  and  keen  Curlers. 

20.  May  we  ne'er  lie  a  hog  when  we 
should  be  at  the  tee. 

21.  A  steady  ee  and  a  sure  ban*. 

22.  A  ban'-han  player  no  wise  behin' 
the  ban'. 

23.  The  ice  tee  before  the  Chinese. 

24.  The  tee  without  water. 

25.  The  pillars  of  the  bonspiel, — rival- 
ry and  good  fellowship. 

26.  May   the    blossoms  of  friendship 
never  be  nipt  by  the  frost  of  contention. 

27.  May  every  sport  prove  as  innocent 
as  that  which  we  enjoy  on  the  ice. 

28.  To  every  ice-player  well  equipped. 

29.  When  treacherous  biases  lend  us 
astray,  may  we  ever  meet  some  friendly 
in-ring  to  guide  us  to  the  tee. 

• 

Are  they  not  a  set  of  noble  fel- 
lows ?  They  are;  and  one  of  the 
best  of  them  all  (in  spite  of  his  little 
peccadilloes  against  our  friend,  who 
will  only  laugh  at  them)  is  the  in- 
genious and  honourable  author  of 
Curliana,  to  whose  volume  we  have 
been  mainly  indebted  for  this  article. 


ld  asoanstpre.  .srge* -MS 


- 


fit  am 


[.-res; 
i  a  i>7oj- 


• 

it 

Ui^.'I  neff  )  Kualilwi  aioir 

HJ  «)J   .-(IllMCwMlir)  1(1  ^•W»l)«3t- 

wtH  i?  —  61   ,'!u«i. 


,':»'-rO 


yi-i  !>,!<  i«>m  irij_ 

INDEX  TO  VOLUME  XXX. 


.  •;.  uv 

ADAMS,  the  Mutineer  of  the  Bounty,  40. 

An  awfu'leein'-like  Story,  by  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd,  44-8. 

Anglesea,  Marquis,  Dialogue  betwixt 
him  and  the  Ghost  of  his  Leg,  715. 

Annals  and  Antiquities  of  Itajast'han, 
by  Colonel  Tod,  Review  of,  681. 

Audubou's  Ornithological  Biography, 
Revieiv  of,  1,  247. 

Beechey's  Voyage  to  the  Pacific  and 
Behring's  Strait,  34. 

Belgium,  491. 

Bewick,  artist,  655. 

Bull,  John,  Fragments  from  his  History. 
See  Fragments. 

Chapman,  his  translation  of  Homer.  See 
Sotfteby. 

Citizen  Kings,  Letter  on,  by  a  Bystander, 
705. 

Colonial  Empire  of  Great  Britain,  Letter 
concerning,  from  James  Macqueen, 
Esq.  to  Earl  Grey,  744. 

Conversation  on  the  Reform  Bill,  296. 

Cowper,  his  translation  of  Homer,  see 
Sotht-by. 

Curliana,  965. 

Debates,  the  late,  on  Reform,  391.  See 
Reform. 

Education  of  the  People,  306. 

Fitzgerald,  Lord  Edward,  Review  of  his 
Life,  by  Moore,  631. 

Foreign  Policy  of  the  Whig  Administra- 
tion. .  No.  I.,  Belgium,  491 — Impo- 
licy of  dismantling  the  fortresses,  ib. 
— No.  II.,  Portugal,  912 — Wine  trade 
with  Portugal  abandoned,  915 — Don 
Miguel  not  recognised,  916 — Insults 
of  France  to  Portugal  permitted,  917. 

Fragments  from  the  History  of  John 
Bull — Chap.  I.  How  Arthur  mana- 
ged John's  matters,  and  how  he  gave  up 
his  place,  954 Chap.  II.  How  Gaf- 
fer Gray  tried  to  bring  Madam  Reform 
into  ,l(j|m's  house,  and  how  she  was 
knocked  down  stairs  as  she  was  getting 
into  the  second  story,  958. 

French  Modern  Historians,  No.  I.,  Sal- 
Tandy,  230. 


X*8  -•»£  ",v)hlriti«3      . 
-ii  ><»  vysivnff  /wsjv-H  niwiV 

.S0«i    inio'lsfl  no  «noi 


Friendly  advice  to  the  Lords,  Review  of, 
330 — Question  of  the  Lord  Chancel- 
lor's authorship  thereof,  331. 

Greek  Drama,  No.  I.,  Agamemnon  of 
./Escbylus  ;  Review  thereof,  and  of 
Symmons's  translation,  350. 

Green,  artist,  655. 

Gregson,  his  alleged  inadvertence,  393. 

Historians,  modern  French,  No.  I.,  Sal- 
vandy,  230— No  II.,  Segur,  731. 

Hogarth,  artist,  655. 

Ignoramus  on  the  Fine  Arts,  No.  III. 
Hogarth,  Bewick,  and  Green,  655. 

Ireland  and  the  Reform  Bill,  52.  Im- 
prudence of  the  Irish  character,  ib. — 
Greater  strictness,  not  greater  relaxa- 
tion of  government,  requisite  in  Ire- 
land, 53 — Objections  to  the  Irish  Bill, 
55. 

Kerry,  O'Connell  an  unfit  representative 
thereof,  54. 

Lyttil  Pinkie,  by  the  Ettrick  Shepherd, 
782. 

Macqueen,  James,  Esq.,  his  Letter  on 
termination  of  Niger,  130. 

Madelaine,  La  Petite,  205. 

Ministerial  plan  of  Reform,  by  Lieut.- 
Col.  Matthew  Stewart,  Reviewed,  506. 

Moore,  Thomas,  Review  of  his  Life  of 
Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald,  631. 

Mother  and  Son,  see  Passages  from  the 
Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 

Narrative  of  an  imprisonment  in  France 
during  the  Reign  of  Terror,  920. 

Niger,  the  River — Termination  in  the 
Sea,  180. 

Noctes  Ambrosianse,  No.  LVII.  400 — 
Sir  Francis  Burdett,  402— Lord  Al- 
thorp,  403— Hunt,  404— Hume,  405 
— O'Connell,  406— Lord  John  Russell, 
— 407 — Stanley,  408 — Lord  Advocate 
Jeffrey,  409— Macaulay,  410 — Croker, 

412 — Bankes,    ib Song,    "  In    the 

Summer  when  Flowers,"  &c.  414— 
"  Would  you  know  what  a  Whig  is  ?" 
415.  No.  LV1II.  Discussion  on  Mo- 
dern Novelists,  531 — House  of  Com- 
mons, 539 — Talleyrand,  542 — Lord 


1831.] 


Index. 


987 


Grey,  545 — Lord  Mansfield,  Lord 
Brougham,  546 — Song,  "Who  dares 
to  say?"  552 — Prospect  of  Revolution, 
556 — Sir  Henry  Hardinge,  561 — Song, 
"  Whate'er  thy  Creed  may  be,"  561 — 
Song,  "  Pray  for  the  Soul,"  562.  No. 
LIX.  Description  of  a  Sutnph,  808 — 
Origin  and  Growth  of  Love,  826 — 
Pleasures  of  Imagination,  and  tenden- 
cies of  the  habit  of  indulging  them, 
828— Croker,829— .His  Review  in  the 
Edinburgh  Review  refuted,  830 — 
"The  Monitors,"  "The  Lift  looks 
Cauldrife,"  &c.  843. 

North  American  Review,  Review  of  its 
Opinions  on  Reform,  506. 

Observations  on  a  Pamphlet,  &c.  Review 
of,  330. 

O'Connell,  his  Letter  on  the  Reform  Bill, 
54. 

Opinions  of  an  American  Republican,  and 
of  a  British  Whig  on  the  Bill,  506. 

Orange  Processions,  616. 

Owl,  by  the  Translator  of  Homer's 
Hymns,  789. 

Parnell,  Sir  Henry,  Letter  on  his  Finan- 
cial Reform,  457. 

Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  late  Physi- 
cian, Chap.  XI.  The  Ruined  Mer- 
chant, 60 — Chap.  XII.  Mother  and 
Son,  and  a  Word  with  the  Reader  at 
Parting,  566. 

Peerage,  British,  not  separated  by  Privi- 
leges from  the  other  classes,  but  con- 
nected therewith  by  their  younger 
branches,  83 — The  recent  elevations 
from  desert  alone,  84 — Professions 
raised  by  Nobility  entering  them,  85 — 
Hereditary  Titles  a  cause  of  stability 
to  Governments,  ib. — Vacillation  of 
Democracies,  89. 

Poetry — The  Plaint  of  Absence,  by  Delta, 
58 — Family  Poetry,  No.  II.  My  Let- 
ters, 126 — Homer's  Hymns,  No.  I. 
Pan,  128 — Homer's  Hymns,  No.  II. 
The  Ballad  of  Bacchus,  227— The 
Eglantine,  by  Delta,  24.5 — The  Wish- 
ing Tree,  423 — Dreams  of  Heaven,  by 
Mrs  Hemans,  529 — The  Lunatic's 
Complaint,  by  Delta,  646 — The  Magic 
Mirror,  by  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  650 
— Homer's  Hymns,  No.  III.  Apollo, 
669. — Marguerite  of  France,  by  Mrs 
Hemans,  697— The  Freed  Bird,  by 
Mrs  Hemans,  699 — Lines  written  on 
T\veedside,  701 — "  Ye  Rascals  and 
Robbers,"  &c.  962— The  Four  Even- 
ings, by  Delta,  964. 

Poetry,  An  Hour's  Talk  about,  475. 

Pope,  his  Translation  of  Homer,  see 
Sotheby. 

Pringle,  exposure  of  his  misrepresenta- 
tions, &c.  in  the  case  of  Mr  and  Mrs 
Wood,  of  Antigua,  &c.  745. 

Pumpkin.  Sir  Frizzle,  passages  in  his  Life, 
192, 


Rajast'han,  Annals  and  Antiquities  there- 
of, by  Colonel  Tod,  Reviewed,  681. 

Rational  Fear,  or  Friendly  Advice  to  the 
Lords,  348. 

Reform,  Parliamentary  and  the  French 
Revolution,  No.  V^IL,  281— Consti- 
tution threatened,  by  Executive  be- 
coming more  reckless  than  Legislature, 
18 — tendency  of  concessions  to  popular 
clamour,  19 — progress  to  Revolution 
more  rapid  than  that  of  the  great  French 
Revolution,  ib. — want  of  union  the 
cause  of  the  present  crisis,  21 — duty  of 
the  House  of  Peers,  22 — their  supe- 
riority to  the  Lower  House  in  talent 
and  property,  23 — great  decline  of  their 
influence  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
25 — in  making  a  resolute  stand,  the 
Peers  only  exercise  their  influence  once 
—namely,  in  the  Upper  House,  27 — 
consequences  of  yielding  to  the  demands 
of  the  People,  illustrated  by  examples 
from  the  French  history,  30 — flourish- 
ing state  of  the  Empire,  when  Reform 
was  proposed,  282 — evils  of  unifoi-mity 
in  Representation,  286 — lower  class  of 
Electors  always  coincide  with  innova- 
ting party,  290 — the  Press,  and  exten- 
sion of  Manufactures,  the  causes  of 
innovating  democratical  influence,  294 
—  debates  on  Reform,  Sir  James 
Mackintosh,  394 — Mr  Bruce,  ib — 
Mr  Cutlar  Fergusson,  ib. — Lord  Por- 

chester,  395 — Mr  Gaily  Knight,  ib 

Mr  R.  A.  Dundas,  ib.  —  Sir  John 
Malcolm,  396 — Sir  Edward  Dering, 
ib. — Mr  Macaulay,  ib — Sir  George 
Murray,  397— Sir  Charles  Wetherell 
and  Sir  Robert  Peel,  398 Parlia- 
mentary Reform  and  the  French  Re- 
volution, No.  IX.,  consequences  of  Re- 
form, 432 — great  increase  of  general 
prosperity  of  late  years,  433 — first  con- 
sequence, repeal  of  the  Corn  Laws,  436 
—the  Funds,  430— the  Church,  440 
— Poor  Rates,  443  —  confiscation  of 
great  properties,  ib. — imposition  of  a 
maximum  on  the  price  of  Grain,  and 
forced  requisitions,  444 — dismember- 
ment of  the  Colonies,  446. — No.  X., 
What  is  the  Bill  now  ?  600— advan- 
tages of  delay  in  discussing  it,  601  — 
present  distress  the  effect  of  the  Bill, 
and  not  of  the  prospect  of  its  being 
refused,  603 — effects  of  Reform  have 
been  anticipated  before  too  late  to  pre- 
vent it,  605 — new  features  which  the 
Bill  has  assumed,  606 — influence  of 
the  middling  orders  to  be  extinguished, 
608 — contest  to  be  betwixt  the  Demo- 
cratic and  Aristocratic  parties, — the 
latter  soon  to  give  way,  609 — difference 
in  the  characters  of  £10  householders 
in  different  towns  no  advantage,  but 
the  reverse,  610 — Revolutions  most 
formidable  when  supported  by  the 


Index. 


IDec. 


lower  class  of  the  middling  orders,  Gil 
—no  security  against  Revolution  that 

.the  majority  of  Electors  pay  more  than 
.£10  rent,  ib. — effects  of  the  extension 
of  the  Franchise  upon  agriculture  and 
population,  613. — No.  XI.,  the  rejec- 
tion of  the  Bill — Scottish  Reform,  765 
—character  of  debates  in  the  House  of 
Peers,  767 — influence  of  Democratic 
pledges  on  the  ability  and  independence 
of  the  IIousi;  uf  Commons,  770- — po- 
pular elections  do  not  settle  on  the  per- 
sons fittest  for  government,  ib. — pros- 
perous state  of  Scotland,  773 — supe- 
riority of  its  institutions  to  those  of 
England,  774.— No.  XII.,  public 
opinion — popular  violence,  890 — the 
leaders  in  Democratic  movements  soon 
become  unpopular,  891 — begin  to  be 
so  already  in  this  country,  892 — exam- 
ples from  the  French  history,  ib — 
Reformers  responsible  for  the  effects  of 
popular  violence,  895 — demands  of  the 
people  progressive,  896  —  policy  of 
yielding  to  these  demands,  and  on  the 
innovations  of  the  Constituent  Assem- 
bly—a quotation  from  one  of  Mr 
Brougham's  early  writings, 897 — con- 
duct of  the  Political  Union  Club  of 
Bristol,  on  the  late  Riots,  901 — No 
reaction  among  the  mob  admitted,  902 
Firmness  against  popular  commotion 
rare,  903 — National  Guards,  their  use- 
lessness  in  serious  convulsions,  907 — 
Reaction  proved  by  results  of  election, 
909 — Ultimate  views  of  Radical  Re- 
formers now  apparent,  910 — A  list  of 
their  projects,  ib.  -.  . 

Etrform,  a  Conversation  on  the  Bill,  2f/G 
— Opinions  of  an  American  Republi- 
can and  of  a  British  Whig  on  the  Bill, 
506 — Bill  already  essenth-.lly  altered, 
507. 


Rennii-,  Professor,  6. 

Revolution,  on  the  approaching,  in  Great 
Britain,  in  a  Letter  to  a  Friend,  313. 

Ruined  Merchant,  60. 

Salvandy,  modern  French  Historian, 
review  o£,  230. 

Scotland,  its  Prosperous  State  at  the  in- 
troduction of  the  Reform  Bill,  773. 

Segur,  Count,  modern  French  Historian, 
Review  of,  731 — Progress  towards  the 
French  Revolution  described  by  him, 
732 — Concurrence  of  the  higher  orders 
in  destroying  the  French  Constitution, 
734 — Parallel  betwixt  this  country 
and  France  in  their  revolutionary 
tendencies,  736. 

Shepherd,  Ettrick,  an  awfu'  leein'-like 
Story  by  him,  448 — Lyttil  Pynkie  by 
him,  782. 

Song,  a  new,  to  he  sung  by  all  the  True 
Knaves  of  Political  Unions,  "  Ye  Ras- 
cals, '•'  &c.  962. 

Sotheby,  his  Homer,  critique  III.,  93— 
Critique  IV.,  Achilles,  847. 

Stewart,  Lieut.-Col.  Matthew,  his  Mi- 
nisterial plan  of  Reform  Reviewed, 
506,  51 3-— his  sentiments  on  popular 
Education,  518. 

Symmons,  review  of  his  translation  of 
the  Agamemnon  of  JEschylus,  350. 

Tod,  Colonel,  his  Annals  and  Antiqui- 
ties of  Rajast'han,  reviewed,  681. 

Tom  Cringle's  Log,  the  Piccaroon,  795. 

Unimore,  a  Dream  of  the  Highlands,  by 
Professor  "Wilson,  137. 

Unseasonable  Story,  extracts  from,  chap. 
I.,  616. 

What  should  the  Peers  do  ?  702. 

Wilson,  James,  his  American  Ornitho- 
logy, 247. 

Wil  on,  Professor,  his  Poem  of  Unimore, 
].'J7. 

Wood,  Mr  aud  Mrs,  of  Antigua,  744. 


MAUJIW  • 


Edinburgh;  Printed  by  Halkntyne  $  Co.,  Pants  Work, 


AP       Blackwood's  magazine 

* 

B6 

v.30 


PLEASE  DO  NOT  REMOVE 
CARDS  OR  SLIPS  FROM  THIS  POCKET 

UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO  LIBRARY