Blackwood's magazine

Presented to the

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO
LIBRARY

by the

ONTARIO LEGISLATIVE
LIBRARY

1980

THE CARSWELL COMPANY LIMIT

BLACKWOOD'S

MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXI.

JANUARY— JUNE,

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD, EDINBURGH;

AND

T. CADELL, STRAND, LONDON.

Ar

Y31

BLACKWOOD'S

rx

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CLXXXIX. JANUARY, 1832. VOL. XXXI.

REMOTE CAUSES OF THE REFORM PASSION. No. I. ... 1

INTERCEPTED LETTERS FROM A ROMAN CATHOLIC CLERGYMAN RESIDING

IN IRELAND, TO A FRIEND IN ROME, . .... 19

THE BRACELETS. A SKETCH FROM THE GERMAN, . . 39

THE TRAVELLER IN SPITE OF HIMSELF, .... 53

STATE OF PUBLIC FEELING IN SCOTLAND, 65

PROTESTANT AFFAIRS IN IRELAND, . '. 77

THE PREMIER AND HIS WIFE. A STORY OF THE GREAT WORLD, . 91

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

REVOLUTIONARY CONCESSION — THE NEW BILL, . . . .103
REPLY TO LORD BROUGHAM'S SPEECH, .... 117

EDINBURGH :

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD, NO. 45, GEORGE STREET, EDINBURGH J
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. CXC. FEBRUARY, 1832. VOL. XXXI.

PART I.

(Content*.

SOTHEBY'S HOMER. CRITIQUE V. ACHILES. PART II. » • ,145
A LETTER TO THE LORD CHANCELLOR ON THE PRESENT STATE OF THE

ESTABLISHED CHURCH, 181

TOM CRINGLE'S LOG, . . . '"' 195

THE HORSE. BY THE RE?. F. W. MALTBY, 200

GEOGRAPHY OF AFRICA— QUARTERLY REVIEW. LETTER FROM JAMES

M'QUEEN, ESQ. . 201

THE SWAN AND THE SKYLARK. BY MRS HEMANS, . , . .216

LET us DEPART. BY THE SAME, %, .218

THE FLOWER OF THE DESERT. BY THE SAME, . . . . .219

THE PAINTER'S LAST WORK, A SCENE. BY THE SAME, , . . 220
FRENCH MEMOIRS. No. II. REVELATIONS D'UNE FEMME DE QUALITE, 222
THE MOONLIGHT CHURCHYARD. BY DELTA, , . . . . 237

THE AGA OF THE JANIZARIES, . ....... 239

NOCTES AMBROSIAN-E. No. LX. • * • 255

EDINBURGH :

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD, NO. 45? GEORGE STREET, EDINBURGH J
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.

ALSO, JUST PUBLISHED,

No. CXCI.

OF

BLACKWQOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE,

FOR FEBRUARY, 1832. PART II.

CONTENTS :

New Project of 'Education in Ireland. — The Executioner. Chap I.-—
Homer's Hymns. No. IV. The Humours of Hermes. — The Dance of
Death. From the German. — The Philosophy of London. — The House of
Orange. — Irish Scenery; and Other Things Irish. — A Creation of Peers. —
Letter frpm professor Dunbar and Mr E. H. Barker. — The West India
Question. Introduction — L' Envoy.

BLACKWOOD'S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CXCI. FEBRUARY, 1832. VOL. XXX.

PART II.

NEW PROJECT OF EDUCATION IN IRELAND, 289

THE EXECUTIONER. CHAP. I. ... . . . . . 306

HOMER'S HYMNS. No. IV. THE HUMOURS OF HERMES, . . . 319

THE DANCE OF DEATH. FROM THE GERMAN, 328

THE PHILOSOPHY OF LONDON, 353

THE HOUSE OF ORANGE, 362

IRISH SCENERY; AND OTHER THINGS IRISH, 379

A CREATION OF PEERS, ......... 386

LETTER FROM PROFESSOR DUNFAR AND MR E. H. BARKER, . . 405

THE WEST INDIA QUESTION. INTRODUCTION, .... 412

L'Exvov, . 423

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 KINGDOM.

PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND CO. EDINBURGH.

ALSO JUST PUBLISHED,

No. CXC.

OF

BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE,

FOR FEBRUARY 1 832. PART I.

CONTENTS :

Sotheby's Homer. Critique V. Achilles. Part II.— A Letter to the
Lord Chancellor on the Present State of the Established Church. — Tom
Cringle's Log. — The Horse. By the Rev. F. W. Maltby. — Geography of
Africa— Quarterly Review. Letter from James M'Queen, Esq. — The Swan
and the Skylark. By Mrs Hemans.— Let us Depart. By the Same.—
The Flower .of the Desert. By the Same.— The Painter's Last Work, a
Scene. By the Same. — French Memoirs. No. II. Revelations d'une
Femme de Quality.— The Moonlight Churchyard. By Delta.— The Aga
of the Janizaries. — Noctes Ambrosianse. No. LX.

BLACKWOOD'S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CXCII. MARCH, 1832. VOL. XXXI.

PRESENT BALANCE OF PARTIES IN THE STATE, 425

THE BELGIAN QUESTION — ABANDONMENT OF THE BARRIER — THE RUSSIAN

DUTCH LOAN — GUARANTEE OF THE THRONE OF THE BARRICADES, 448

WHAT CAUSED THE BRISTOL RIOTS ? 465

THE EXECUTIONER, (CONCLUDED) 483

THE SNOWING-UP OP STRATH LUGAS, 496

GAFFER MAURICE. BY THE TRANSLATOR OF HOMER'S HYMNS, . 504

NAUTICAL ADVENTURES, . 506

LORD CASTLEREAGH AND MR CANNING. LETTER TO THE EDITOR FROM

THE RIGHT HON. THOMAS PEREGRINE COURTENAY, M.P., &c. 520

THE PAPAL GOVERNMENT, ........ 535

FAMILY POETRY. No. III. THE PLAY, . . . . . .550

CHATEAUBRIAND. No. I. ITINERAIRE, ...... 553

THE MINISTRY AND THEIR SUPPORTERS, 566

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.

VOL. XXXI.

NO.CXCIII. APRIL, 1

569
THE PROSPECTS OF BRITAIN, • 592

*

TA«s o, COKSCMPT.OK-TH, RBKOKM DBHCB, .

ApOET'SDvmGHvMN. BVM

TBE WET WooWo. A NABBATIvE 0,

-

TBEAHTOFGOVBBNMENTMADEBASY _ . . 665

THE WHIGS, . .673

Mlss FANNY KEMBLE'S TBAGEDV, . ' . _ 69Q

AMBROSIAN*. No.LXI. .

JA Iff

too w

:•> ,V,

BLACKWOOD'S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CXCIV. MAY, 1832. VOL. XXXI.

TENNYSON'S POEMS, 721

HOMER'S HYMNS. No. V. CERES, 742

DUMONT'S RECOLLECTIONS OF MIRABEAU, 753

TORY MISRULE, . . * .772

THE SONG OF THE GIFTED. BY MRS HEMANS, * 781
IMPRESSIONS OF EDINBRO'. BY P. ROONEY, ESQ. To THADEUS M<VANE,

ESQ. GLO'STER STREET, DUBLIN,

Letter!., .783

Letter II., ... 786

THE CASTLE OF THE ISLE OF RUGEN, 790

THE GREAT WEST INDIA MEETING, ....... 807

THE JEWESS OF THE CAVE. A POEM. IN FOUR PARTS, . . . 820

DOMESTIC MANNERS OF THE AMERICANS, 829

THE REFORM DEBATE IN THE LORDS, 848

EDINBURGH:

WILUAM BLACKWOOD, NO. 45, GEORGE STREET, EDINBURGH J
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. CXCV. JUNE, 1832. VOL. XXXI.

CHRISTOPHER AT THE LAKES. FLIGHT FIRST, « . • 857

ISMENE AND L.EANDER. IN THREE BALLADS, « • • 881

TOM CRINGLE'S LOG. SCENES IN JAMAICA, • • 864

M'GREGOR'S BRITISH AMERICA, . • * • • 907

CALASPO, THE REPUBLICAN, .«•«•• 928

THE HOUR OF FORTUNE. IN THREE NICKS, • • 944

LETTER FROM THE RIGHT HON. THOMAS PEREGRINE COURTENAY, 951

LINES WRITTEN AT KELBURNE CASTLE, AYRSHIRE. BY DELTA, • 953

WHAT is AN ENGLISH SONNET? BY S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ. 956

LIVING POETS AND POETESSES, , . • • • 957

SALVANDY ON THE LATE FRENCH REVOLUTION, . » • 965

THE MAID OF ELVAR, ...... 981

EDINBURGH :

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

To -whom Communications (post paid) may be addressed*
SOLD AT.SO BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS OF THE UNITED KINGDOM.

PRINTED BY BALLA^TYNE AND CO. EDINBURGH.

BLACKWOOD'S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No, CLXXXIX. JANUARY, 1832.

VOL. XXXlX

REMOTE CAUSES OF THE REFORM PASSION.

By the Author of" Parliamentary Reform and the French Revolution."

No. I.

GREAT changes in human affairs,
or great alterations in human charac-
ter, never take place from trivial
causes. The most important events,
indeed, are often apparently owing
to inconsiderable springs; but the
train has been laid in all such cases
by a long course of previous events.
A fit of passion in Mrs Masham ar-
rested the course of Marlborough's
victories, and preserved the totter-
ing kingdom of France ; a charge
of a few squadrons of horse under
Kellerman at Marengo fixed Napo-
leon on the consular throne, and
another, under Sir Hussey Vivian,
against the flank of the Old Guard
at Waterloo, chained him to the rock
at St Helena. Superficial observers
lament the subjection of human af-
fairs to the caprice of fortune, or the
casualties of chance; but a more en-
larged philosophy teaches us to re-
cognise in these apparently trivial
, events the operation of general laws,
and the last link in a chain of causes,
which have all conspired to produce
the general result. Mrs Masham's
passion was the ultimate cause of
Marlborough's overthrow; but that
great event had been prepared by
the accumulating jealousy of the na«
tion during the whole tide of his vic-
tories, and her indignation was but

VOL. XXXII. NO. CLXXXIX,

the drop which made the cup over-
flow : Kellerman's charge, indeed,
fixed Napoleon on the throne ; but it
was the glories of the Italian cam-
paigns, the triumphs of the Pyramids,
which induced the nation to hail his
usurpation with joy : the charge of
the 10th hussars broke the last co-
lumns of the imperial army ; but the
foundation of the triumph of Wel-
lington had been laid by the long
course of the Peninsular victories,
and the bloody catastrophe of the
Moscow campaign.

It is the same with the Reform
mania which now ravages the na-
tion, and promises to inflict upon its
inhabitants such a long series of dis-
asters. The change of Ministers, the
rashness and ambition of the Grey
administration, was the exciting
cause; but unless they had found
the train laid by a long course of
preceding events, even their reckless
hands could not have ventured to
fire it. Such prodigious innovations
as they threatened — such demoli-
tion of ancient institutions as they
proposed, would at once have hurled
any preceding government from the
helm, and consigned them to the
dust amidst the applauses of the peo-
ple. The voice of the nation would
have been raised in execrations, loud,

A

licnwte Causes of the liefonn Passion.

[Jan.

long, and irresistible; and the ap-
plause of the Jacobin mob drowned
in the indignation of all the virtuous
part of mankind.

Even if it were true, as the con-
servative party maintain, that the
whole distractions and anarchy of
the country are owing to the prodi-
digious and unnecessary addition
which the government proposed to
make to the political power of the
lower class of householders, still that
would only remove the difficulty a
step farther back. For the question
remains, how has it happened that
twelve men were to be found in
Great Britain of sufficient rank, ta-
lents, and character, to construct a
cabinet, who would engage in a
scheme of innovation so impetuous,
and in the destruction of institutions
sanctified by so long a train of recol-
lections ? That some of the Ministers
are most able men, is evident from
their speeches : that many of them
are amiable and good men, we can
testify from personal intercourse :
that most of them are possessed of
great fortune is universally known :
that they are all gentlemen is cer-
tain : that some or them are of old
and dignified families, is evident
from the classic names of Russell
and Spencer which they bear. How,
then, has it happened that a cabinet
composed of such men should have
launched out in so astonishing a
manner upon the sea of innovation :
that they should have engaged in
measures which history will class,
in point of rashness, with the visions
of Mirabeau, and, in point of peril,
with the conspiracy of Catiline : that
they should have been blinded alike
to the lessons of history, the dictates
of wisdom, and the results of expe-
rience : that they should have for-
gotten equally all that the sages of
ancient wisdom had bequeathed, and
all that the tears of modern suffering
had taught: that they should have
implicitly followed the footsteps of
the French innovators, and periled
their lives and their estates, in a
course which had brought their mi-
serable forerunners to an untimely
end?

This will appear still more extra-
ordinary, if the principles and wri-
tings of these men themselves, who
have urged on these disastrous mea-
sures, in early life, is taken into con-

sideration. Such is the weight of
the argument against them, that it
will admit of almost any concession,
and derives confirmation from the
most vehement writings in favour of
freedom prior to the fall of the Duke
of Wellington's administration. No
more emphatic condemnation of the
Reform Bill is to be found than in
the sayings of Mr Fox in 1797, or
the speech of Earl Grey in 1817 : no
more profound exposition of the
principles of the conservative party
than in the History of Sir James
Mackintosh, or the Whig writings of
Mr Hallam. We have never yet
heard the Lord Chancellor refute
the masterly sketches of Henry
Brougham on this subject : we have
looked in vain to the Lord Advocate
for an answer to the arguments so
long and powerfully urged by Fran-
cis Jeffrey : we have listened in vain,
in the speeches of the noble mover
of the bill, for a reply to the obser-
vations of Lord John Russell on the
constitution. So rapid, so fatally
rapid, has been the progress of revo-
lutionary ideas, since this firebrand
was thrown into the bosom of the
nation, that the conservative party
require now to refer to no other au-
thority but the arguments and prin-
ciples of the authors of the bill a few
years back, and they, in their turn,
are driven to the doctrines of the
Jacobin and revolutionary party,
whom their abilities, till they came
into office, were successfully exerted
in refuting.

This moral phenomenon will ap-
pear still more extraordinary when
the character of the people among
whom this tempest has arisen is
taken into consideration. — " It is a
remarkable fact," says Turgot, " that
while England is the country in the
world where the freedom of the
press has existed for the longest
time, and where discussion on public
affairs has gone on for centuries in
the most fearless manner, it is at the
same time the country in which the
people have the greatest reverence
for antiquity, and are most obsti-
nately attached to old institutions. I
could alter fashions, laws, or ideas,
ten times in a despotic monarchy,
for once that they could be moved in
the popular realm of England." —
The observation is perfectly just, and
has been exemplified by the history

1832.]

Remote Causes of the Reform Passion.

of England since the foundation of
the monarchy. The rudiments of our
present constitution, the institutions
which still prevail, like Gothic castles
amidst the ephemeral structures of
modern times, are coeval with the
union of the Heptarchy. The insti-
tutions of Aldermen, Hundreds, and
Tithings ; of County Courts, and re-
gular Circuits for the administration
of Justice ; of Parliaments, Juries,
and the Supreme Tribunals of West-
minster Hall, date from the reign of
Alfred. During all the severity of
Norman rule, it was to the custom'
ary laws of Saxon freedom that the
people of England looked back with
fond and unavailing regret; and when
the cup of national indignation was
full, and the Barons rose in open re-
volt at Runnymede, it was not any
imaginary system for which they con-
tended, but the old laws of Edward
the Confessor that they re-establish-
ed and confirmed by additional safe-
guards; tempering thus, even amidst
the triumph of barbarous power, the
excitement of feudal ambition, by
the hereditary regard to old institu-
tions. During the long and anxious
struggle which prevailed between
Saxon freedom and Norman severity,
under the Plantagenet Kings, it was
not any innovation for which they
contended, but the ancient liberties
of the people which they sought to
re-establish, and instead of enacting
new statutes, they two-and-thirty
times ratified and re-enacted the Great
Charter. When Papal ambition strove
to obtain the mastery over British
independence, the Barons of England
at Mertoun refused to submit to the
aggression ; and their reply, Nolumus
leges Anglia mutari, has been the
watchword and glory of their de-
scendants for seven hundred years. —
When the great earthquake of the
sixteenth century convulsed the
neighbouring states, the English
tempered the fury even of religious
"discord, by the sacred reverence for
antiquity; the Reformation, which
levelled to the dust the ecclesiastical
institutions of so many other nations,
bent, but did not subvert the British
hierarchy ; the Church of England
differed less in its precepts and its
establishment from the Catholic

faith, than any other of the reformed
churches, and its cathedrals still rise
in grey magnificence through the
realm, to overshadow the temples of
modern sectarians, and testify the
undecaying devotion of its rural in-
habitants.— When Stuart oppression,
combined with fanatical zeal to light
the flames of civil warfare, and the
sword of Cromwell stifled the fury
of the great rebellion, the kingly
power and the authority of the lords
were alone subverted ; the courts of
law still continued to administer
justice on the old precedents; the
protectorate parliaments recognised
all the statutes of the fallen dynasty ;
and, with the exception of a change
in the family on the throne, the great
body of the people perceived but
little change in the system of govern-
ment.*— When the tyranny of the
Stuarts could no longer be borne, and
the whole people revolted against the
arbitrary measures of James II., it
was not any new or experimental
constitution which they formed, but
the old and ancient rights of the
people which they re-established;
" the people have inherited this free-
dom," was the emphatic language of
the Bill of Rights; and a dynasty
was expelled from the throne, with-
out the slightest change in the laws,
institutions, or security of the insur-
gent people. — During the century
and a half which has since elapsed,
the attachment of the people to the
constitution has increased with all
the glories of which it was the
parent ; it withstood the rude shock
of American independence, and the
contagious poison of French demo-
cracy ; and brought the country tri-
umphantly through a struggle in
which their minds were assailed by
deadlier weapons than the sword of
Napoleon, or the navies of Europe^
How, then, has it happened that so
large a portion of the people should
so suddenly and unexpectedly have
changed their principles— that the
affections, the habits, and the recol-
lections of a thousand years, should
at once have been abandoned ; and
that a revolution, which neither the
tyranny of the Normans, nor the
frenzy of the Covenant, nor the pro-
scriptions of the Roses, could pro-

* Lingard, xi, 7, 8.

Remote Causes of the Reform Passion.

[Jan.

duce, should have been all but ac-
complished during a period of pro-
found peace, unexampled prosperity,
and unprecedented glory ?

The immense majority of the Re-
formers, indeed, are as unfit to judge
of the questions on which they have
decided, as they are to solve a ques-
tion in Physical Astronomy, or follow
the fluxionary calculus of La Grange.
But still there are other men whose
judgment is of a different stamp,
who have been carried away by the
innovating passion. While every
man of sense and experience must
perceive in ten minutes' conversa-
tion, that nine-tenths of the Reform-
ers are destitute of all the informa-
tion which is necessary to enable
them to form an opinion on the sub-
ject, he must also have perceived
that there are others, for whose aber-
rations no such apology can be found j
who are possessed ot ability, genius,
and judgment, in their separate walks
of life, and exhibit on this one ques-
tion a rashness and precipitancy,
which stand forth in painful contrast
with the maturity and soundness of
their general opinions. It is the de-
lusion of such men which forms the
real prodigy, and on which history
will pause in anxious enquiry into
its cause.

A similar and much more universal
delusion prevailed in France during
the early years of the Revolution.
All there, whether high or low, rich
or poor, patrician or plebeian,
were earnest in favour of some
changes in the political system ; and
it was not till after the States-Ge-
neral were assembled, that a majority
of the noblesse, perceiving the ten-
dency of the current they had set in
motion, strove to retard it. But in
France a host of real grievances ex-
isted, which, if they did not require a
revolution for their remedy, at least
demanded far-spread changes: the
political system was so rotten ; the
energies of the people so cramped
by feudal restraints, that it was im-
possible to set them free without
such fundamental changes as neces-
sarily unhinged the frame of society,
and unlocked the perilous torrent
of democratic ambition. But in
Great Britain, when the fever of in-
novation began, the reverse of all
this was the case. The liberties of
the people had not only never been

so great, but they were in a state of
rapid and certain progression ; the
freedom of the press was unbounded ;
the democratic party was daily ac-
quiring additional strength in the
House of Commons ; the close
boroughs were at every election
yielding to the extended influence^
liberal principles ; and commercial
wealth, doubled since the peace, had
overspread the land with unheard of
prosperity. The restrictions on the
freedom of thought by the Test and
Corporation Acts had been abandon-
ed; Catholic Emancipation had been
unwillingly conceded to the loud de-
mands of the popular party ; a new
system of trade, founded on the re-
commendations of the Whigs, had
been adopted ; the severities of the
criminal code were rapidly disap-
pearing ; the burden of taxation had
been diminished by L.20,000,000 a-
year since the general peace ; and
the legislature, occupied in plans of
practical beneficence, more truly de-
served the confidence of the people
than it had ever done in any former
period of English history. Every
man of reflection saw, that so far
from Reform being necessary to en-
able the people to withstand the in-
creasing influence of the Crown
and the aristocracy, some additional
safeguard for them was loudly called
for, to counterbalance the immense
increase of democratic power.

For the existence of the Reform
passion among any men of sense and
information, in such circumstances,
it is impossible to discover any satis-
factory account on the ordinary prin-
ciples of human thought. It won't
do to say it is a mere mania, which
is rapidly subsiding as the eyes of
the country become opened to what
was proposed to them. It is, no
doubt, subsiding among the igno-
rant millions, who raised the cry for
the bill at the late election; and
among a vast majority of the men of
property, who previously had no de-
cided opinion on the subject,but now
perceive the terrible consequences
to which it is rapidly leading. But
among the thorough-paced Reform-
ers, whether with or without pro-
perty, there neither has been, nor
ever will be, any reaction whatever.
Their minds seem differently con-
structed from those of the conserva-
tive party ; arguments which appear

1832.]

Remote Causes of the Reform Passion.

to the latter utterly unanswerable,
are as much lost on the former as on
the winds of heaven. Reason, ex-
perience, history, philosophy, the
events of the day, the wisdom of
ages, their own previous opinions,
their own recorded arguments, pro-
duce no more impression on them
than a feather on adamant. Such
men are utterly irreclaimable ;
they will live and die Reformers,
though the Jacobin dagger were at
their throat, the revolutionary halter
about their necks, or the torch of
anarchy in their dwellings. It is
evident that the rivers of human
thought have been turned by their
source ; the poison has mingled with
the fountains of knowledge, and in-
stead of its waters flowing in a deep
and healthful stream, covering the
frontiers of civilisation from the in-
vasion of error, they have formed
only a noxious and pestilential cur-
rent, carrying death and desolation
into all the people through whom
they flow.

It cannot be an useless or unin-
teresting subject of discussion, to
endeavour to trace the causes of this
extraordinary phenomenon, and per-
haps even amidst the darkest features
which it exhibits, we may discover
traces of the incipient operation of
the healing powers of nature, and
signs of the wisdom which governs,
amidst the madness of the passions
which desolate, the world.

" Other religions," says the ablest
and most philosophical of living his-
torians,* " proposed to establish the
welfare of society by positive regu-
lations, and laid down a code for
the government of mankind in all the
varied walks of life; but society soon
outgrew its fetters, and the code of
an antiquated theocracy was thrown
aside, or burst asunder by the ex-
pansion of the human mind. Chris-

tianity alone aimed at a different
object. Prescribing no rule for the
formation of society ; dictating no-
thing to the forms of government,
it has concentrated all its energies
to coerce the human heart: it is
against its depravity that all its pre-
cepts are directed; to restrain its
passions that all its fetters are mould-
ed. The consequence has been, that
its progress has been as steady and
progressive as that of other religions
has been transient and ephemeral.
Mahometanism is already falling
into decay, and its gigantic frame
crumbling with the corrupted mass
whose energies it has confined ; but
Christianity, walking free and un-
fettered in the silver robe of inno-
cence, adapts itself equally to all
ages, and sways the heart of man
alike in every period of civilisation.
Other religions have sought, by re-
gulating the frame of society, to
direct the human mind : but Chris-
tianity, aiming only at reforming the
internal spirit of the individual, has
wrought, and will for ever work, the
greatest and most salutary changes
on society."

It is the counterpart of the truth
contained in these eloquent words
that we are now destined to witness.
As the fetters which Christianity
imposed upon the selfish and malig-
nant passions of the human heart
is the real cause of the freedom,
intelligence, and superiority of mo-
dern Europe ; so it is in the aban-
donment of its precepts, the disre-
gard of its injunctions, the contempt
for its restraints, that the remote
cause of the present distracted state
of society is to be found. The tem-
pest of passion has been let loose
upon a guilty world, because the
unseen spirit which swayed their
violence, and steadied the fabric of
society, by purifying the hearts of

* Guizot — We have long intended to make our readers acquainted with the pro-
found and philosophical writings of this great man, which, as usual with all works of
sterling ability, in these days of journal disquisition and party vehemence, are almost
totally unknown to the British public. They exhibit the first instance of the resur-
rection of the human mind in republican France, against the torrent of infidelity, and
the doctrines of fatalism ; and unfold the blessed influence of Christianity on modern
society, with an eloquence which must overwhelm the declamations of the sceptic, and
a research which will satisfy the doubts of the antiquary. The first breathing-time
from the pressure from domestic danger which is allowed us, we shall devote to his
writings : promising to our thoughtful readers that there are few more exhilarating
or instructive subjects of meditation.

Remote. Causes of the Reform Passion.

[Jan.

its members, has yielded for a time
to the influence of wickedness.

" To me," says Cicero, much re-
volving the causes of the continued
progress and unexampled prosperity
of the Roman people, " nothing ap-
pears adequate to account for it but
the reverence and respect which they
have ever manifested for religion.
In numbers the Spaniards excel us,
in constancy the Germans, in mili-
tary ardour the Gauls, in the re-
sources of war the Eastern monar-
chies; but in devotion to the al-
mighty gods, the Roman people ex-
ceed any nation that ever existed."

As this subjugation of selfish pas-
sion to the public good was the cause
of the long-continued progress and
glorious triumphs of the Roman
people, so the abandonment of this
ieeling, the excitation of popular or
selfish passion, the substitution of
individual ambition for patriotic
feeling, was the remote cause of its
decay. The passions first appeared
in the strife of Gracchus : they con-
tinued through the proscriptions of
Sylla and Marius: they armed the
democracy of Rome under Csesar,
against the aristocracy under Pom-
pey: they delivered over the empire
of the world to military despotism at
Pharsalia; and assuming then a more
ignoble and sensual direction, pro-
duced the corruption of Nero, the
severity of Tiberius, the infamy of
Eliogabalus. Then came the age
when — " corrumpere et corrumpi
seculum vocatur :" * when the youth
of Rome plunged unbridled into the
stream of pleasure, and the matrons,
disdaining the constancy even of
guilty passion, applauded only the
roving variety of promiscuous inter-
course, f It was not with impunity
that this universal liberation from
the laws of religion and virtue took
place ; the fall of the empire signa-
lized its punishment; and ages of
darkness overspread the world, un-
til, under the influence of a holier
religion, men were trained to severer
employments, and called to the exer-
cise of more animating duties.

In this disastrous progress the first
step is always to be found in the
vehement excitation of democratic
ambition. It is not liberty, but the
removal of restraint^ which is its

object. Under the cloak of liberal-
ity, and the specious names of equa-
lity and reformation, it aims at a
general emancipation from the yoke
of duty, the necessities of industry,
the restraints of religion. In all
ages, accordingly, the most vehe-
ment democratic passions have been
excited, not in the virtuous, but the
vicious periods ; not in the youth of
patriotism, but the maturity of guilt ;
not in the age of Fabricius, but in
that of Marius ; and they have led,
not to the establishment of liberty,
but the riveting of the chains of des-
potism. The transition is but too
easy from the vehemence of demo-
cratic ambition to the infamy of sel-
fish indulgence; because the object
of both is the same, the gratification
of the passions of the individual, not
the performance of his duties or his
virtues.

The real love of freedom is as
distinct from the passion for demo-
cratic power, as the virtuous attach-
ment of marriage, which " peoples
heaven," is from the intemperate
excesses of lust, which finds inmates
for hell. The one may always be
distinguished by eternal and never-
failing symptoms from the other.
The first is slow of growth, and cau-
tious of running into excess; it pre-
vails among the brave, the steady,
and the independent. It aims at
nothing but practical improvement ;
suggests nothing but the removal of
experienced grievance; and shuns
the very approach of violent and un-
called for changes. It was by such
slow growth, and continued amend-
ments, that the British constitution
gradually arose; and its durability
and beneficence has been just in
proportion to the caution by which
innovation was introduced, and the
tenacity with which ancient custom
was retained. It was by similar
means, and the prevalence of the
same spirit, that Rome emerged from
the surrounding states, and carried
the eagles of the republic to the
remotest corners of the habitable
globe.

" Hanc olirn veteres vitam coluere Sabini,
Hanc Remus et frater : Sic fortis Etruria

crevit ;
Scilicet et rerum facta est pulcherrima

Roma."

Tacitup.

Suetonius,

Remote Causes of the Reform Passion.

The passion for democracy is dis-
tinguished by totally different fea-
tures; as opposite to the former as
those of heaven from hell. It seeks
to remedy no practical grievance,
suggests no projects of real benefi-
cence, disdains all adherence to an-
cient institutions, plunges headlong
into the most violent innovations,
stirs up at once the most extrava-
gant passions. It is shunned by the
cautious, the prudent, and the virtu-
ous, and vehemently adopted by the
reckless, the ambitious, and the pro-
fligate. Freedom, order, and religion,
are the watchword of the former :
licentiousness, change, and infidel-
ity, the war-cry of the latter. The
one prepares itself for the discharge
of public, by the rigid performance
of private duty; the other anticipates
the overthrow of national authority,
by the abandonment of individual
restraint. The first strives to mode-
rate the feelings, and is roused to
resistance only by the presence of
danger; the last incessantly stimu-
lates the passions, and ultimately
dissolves the bonds of society. The
one seizes the first opportunity, when
the object for which it contended is
gained, to relapse into the privacy
of domestic life ; the other is stimu-
lated by every acquisition to fresh
demands, and derives additional
strength from every concession.
The first produce the soldiers of
Leonidas, the peasants of Morgar-
ten, the barons of Runnymede ; the
last, the satellites of Cleon, the de-
mons of Marius, the executioners of
Robespierre. Centuries of content-
ed rule and blessed existence suc-
ceed the former : years of anarchy,
followed by ages of servitude, are
the punishment of the latter.

Providence has provided for the
extinction of this guilty principle in
a community, as of unruly passions
in the individual, by the excesses to
which it inevitably leads its votaries.
In contemplating the extraordinary
fatuity with which, in all periods of
'revolutionary excitement, the popu-
lar party are roused to additional
demands by every acquisition which
they make, and invariably require
greater additions to the power of
the people from the prevalence of
the very suffering which has resulted
from their first successes, we might

be led to conclude with Locke, that
there are occasions where a nation
may become insane, or with Lowth,
that, in certain extremities of guilt,
God blinds the world, in order that
it may incur the punishment of its
sins, if we did not perceive that
such is the invariable symptom of
the career of passion, whether in
the individual or society, and that no
special interposition of Providence
is requisite, because the punishment
of the guilty people is inevitably
provided for in the consequences of
their own intemperance. It is no
doubt an extraordinary thing to see
a people whose industry is failing,
whose wealth is declining, whose
poor are starving from the shock
which democratic violence has given
to their institutions and springs of
industry, clamouring for an exten-
sion of their powers, and blindly
striving to augment the causes of
their present suffering ; but it is not
more extraordinary than to see the
gamester, whose property is disap-
pearing, doubling his stakes at every
throw ; the drunkard, whose consti-
tution is wasting from former in-
temperance, augmenting his daily
draught; or the sensualist, whose
strength is exhausted by former ex-
cesses, striving to reanimate his
frame by unnatural excitation. All
these effects in the individual, and
in society, are produced by the same
cause. It is the law of nature, that
passion stimulates its votaries with
every gratification to additional ex-
cesses, and that its punishment, even
in this world, is certainly and rapidly
brought about, by the consequences
of what it has most ardently desi-
red.

So rapid is the progress of demo-
cratic ambition, when it is once fair-
ly awakened in a nation, that it bears
no proportion to the length of its
existence, or the slow growth of its
political frame. Liberty was in a
few years extinguished in Rome by
the passions awakened by Gracchus ;
the subsequent age of suffering,
through the civil wars of Sylla and
Marius, of Caesar and Pompey, of Oc-
tavius and Antony, was a vacillation of
masters, not an era of freedom ; the
frenzy of the covenant in a few years
brought the English people to the
rule of Cromwell ; five years did not

Remote Causes of the Reform Passion.

[Jan.

elapse from the meeting of the States-
General till the guillotine of Robes-
pierre. As the spirit of democratic
ambition is the most deadly and fa-
tal poison which can be infused into
the veins of a nation, so it is the one
which soonest works itself out of the
national frame ; society cannot exist
under its baneful influence; to its
fury may be applied the words in-
tended for the epitaph of Robes-
pierre :

" Passant, ne pleure pas son sort ;

Car si'il vivait tu serais mort."

The principle of democracy, there-
fore, is not to be regarded so much
as an original and independent evil,
as a symptom of a frame disorganized,
corrupted, and diseased, from other
causes. It is but the application to
political affairs of the unbridled li-
cense of passion, the abandonment
of duty, the disregard of religion in
private life. The arrival of such an
era in a free state, is signalized by
the vehemence of popular strife, the
turbulence of demagogues, the dis-
solution of the bonds of government.
It is marked in a despotic commu-
nity by the dissolution of public
manners, the selfishness of individual
character, the infamy of sensual
pleasure. These two extremes, like
all other extremes, are nearly allied
to each other, and occasionally meet.
They both spring from the disregard
of duty, the abandonment of God,
the indulgence of passion ; both are
equally guarded against by the pre-
cepts of the gospel; its sway can
never be rejected without falling un-
der the dominion of either the one
or the other. It is hard to say which
is farthest removed from the sobriety
of freedom, the dignity of duty, the
sublimity of devotion. " Charles II.,"
says Chateaubriand, " plunged re-
publican England into the arms of
women;" and a similar transition
from one passion to another may be
observed in all ages of vehement de-
mocratic excitation.

To those who coolly consider the
condition of this country during the
last thirty years, it cannot fail to oc-
cur that these principles of corrup-
tion and disorder have been making
rapid progress amongst us, and that
whether or not reform and anarchy,
or freedom and happiness, are to
prevail in future, just depends on
the question, Whether the princi-

ples of virtue and religion, or of vice
and infidelity, are predominant in the
nation? If the former still retain
their wonted sway over the hearts
of a majority of our people ; if the
ancient firmness of the British cha-
racter, the piety and virtue of the
British peasantry, still survives in
the better part of the nation, the
present convulsion will sink into a
calm, and the banner of England re-
appear free and resplendent amid
the sunshine of heaven. But if the
contrary is the case— if infidelity has
insinuated its poison into the influ-
ential part of the community — if the
indulgence of passion has superseded
the discharge of duty, and the desire
of power supplanted the control of
reason, let us not hope, or pray, or
wish for salvation. We have been
weighed in the balance and found
wanting ; our empire is delivered
to another people ; and as the merit-
ed punishment for such flagrant in-
gratitude and violation of duty, we
are delivered over to the laceration
of our own passions.

" Quos Deus vult perdere," said
the Romans, " prior dementat." The
principle of this maxim, which every
age has found to be true, is to be
found in the fatal sway of passion
and intemperate feeling which pre-
vails among those who are approach-
ing destruction. It is not that the
Almighty blinds those whom he has
doomed to destruction, but that he
has doomed to destruction those who
are blinded by their passions. When
once a people have thrown aside the
restraint of virtue and religion, they
find themselves precipitated into a
career, either of private indulgence
or public contention, which leads
inevitably to individual and general
ruin.

It is on the same principle that
the truth is to be explained, which
every man's experience must have
shewn to be of universal application,
that those who are the most vehe-
ment supporters of democratic power
in youth when in inferior, generally
become the greatest tyrants when in
maturer years they are exalted to
superior stations. The reason is,
that resistance to restraint is the ru-
ling principle in both periods of life.
When among the people, that prin-
ciple operates by urging resistance
to their superiors ; when among the

Remote Causes of the Reform Passion.

1832.]

rulers, by disregarding the control,
and forgetting the interests of their
inferiors.

It is another consequence of the
same principle, that the men who
are most loud in their support of
democratical principles, who are
most strenuous in contending for the
overthrow of their superiors, are
those who are least able to subdue
their own passions, and least indul-
gent and beneficent in private life.
Every body has heard the observa-
tion, that the democratic leaders are
generally the severest landlords, the
most tyrannical rulers, the least cha-
ritable and humane of the commu-
nity ; and surprise is often expressed
that they should so soon forget the
poor, for whom they have made such
loud professions. There is, however,
in reality, nothing surprising about
it : on the contrary, both effects are
the result of the same cause, and
flow from the indulgence of the same
selfish passions. The principle which
actuates them, is not love of the
poor, or the desire of liberty, but
individual ambition, and a desire to
escape from control. They desire
to rule others, because they are not
able to rule themselves ; they strive
for emancipation from the rules of
virtue, or the precepts of religion,
because they feel that they impose
a disagreeable restraint upon their
passions and their vices.

It is from the same cause that
every age of civil dissension is des-
tined to witness the unholy alliance
between the passion for democracy
and the principles of infidelity. The
horrors of the first French Revolu-
tion were ushered in by the scepti-
cism of Voltaire and the dreams of
Rousseau, which, flowing through
the souls of the people, sapped the
foundations alike of private virtue
and public institutions. The second
Revolution sprung from the irreli-
gion,which, like a leprosy, still over-
spreads the fair realms of France, and
has rendered unavailing all the vir-
tue which has been excited, and all
the tears which have been shed.

Astonishment is often expressed,
that the French have not been able,
after all they have suffered, to pro-
cure a stable constitution, or the
blessings of rational freedom for
themselves; but the surprise must
cease, when it is considered that

two-thirds of the educated youth of
France are irreligious, and one-half
of all the children in Paris bastards.
From such polluted fountains the
streams of genuine freedom can
never flow; from them can issue
only the fierce contests of democra-
cy, or the unbridled license of cor-
ruption. It is in very different prin-
ciples, in the dominion of far nobler
feelings, that the foundation of liber-
ty must be laid ; in the subjugation
of passion by the influence of reli-
gion, and the ascendant of reason by
the performance of duty. In the
outset of her struggle for freedom,
France declared war against reli-
gion ; and she will never obtain it
till she has been brought by suffer-
ing, to admit the spirit, and obey the
injunctions, of the rejected faith.

Let us not wonder, therefore; that
the vehemence of faction has fixed
with such envenomed fury upon the
British prelates, or, that the perform-
ance of the noblest act which adorns
the annals of the Church of England,
has given rise to the most atrocious
calumny which has disgraced the
history of the nation. Why did the
democratic party fix with such ran-
cour upon the twenty-five least of-
fensive of the two hundred peers
who rejected the Reform Bill ? Why
was the storm of popular indignation
turned entirely upon the spiritual,
to the exclusion of the temporal ba-
rons ? Because the bishops were the
guardians of the faith, which was the
real enemy of the unbridled passions
of the democratic party, and they
flew with unerring instinct to its de-
struction. The demon perceived the
angel which had chained, in the
ranks which opposed him, and Satan
knew the spear of Michael. Nomi-
nally vented on the individuals who
opposed their ambition, the fury
of democracy was really directed
against the faith which condemned
their vices — against that unseen spi-
rit which sways the human heart,
and prepares the happiness of soci-
ety by subjugating the passions of
its members.

While the passion "of democracy
has, in every age, been found leagued
with infidelity, the spirit of freedom
has as uniformly been found in close
union with genuine devotion. It was
in the profound religious feelings of
the Roman people, that Cicero tra-

Remote Causes of the Reform Passion.

10

ced the cause of the majestic career
of Roman victories — in the disregard
of the gods under the emperors, that
Tacitus foresaw the certain presage
of their decline. The Spartan youth
who died with Leonidas— the Theban
who bled with Epaminondas, were
animated by the same dignified spi-
rit. The crucifixes of Switzerland,
and the mountain chapels of Tyrol,
still attest the devotion which burns
undecayed among the descendants
of Tell and the soldiers of Hofer.
It was during the fervour of devo-
tion, that the liberty of the United
Provinces arose — the burghers of
Haerlem cheerfully sacrificed their
lives for their salvation ; and from
its support, that an inconsiderable
province of Brabant rose victorious
over the power of Spain and the In-
dies. The soldiers of Bruce knelt
before they engaged in the fight
of Bannockburn ; and it was in the
stern valour of the Puritans that a
counterpoise was found for the des-
potism of Charles, and the decay-
ing safeguards of feudal liberty. The
fabric cemented by such hands, is of
long endurance ; it speedily acquires
consistency, and shelters for centu-
ries an united, virtuous, and happy
people. That which is reared by the
spirit of infidelity and the vehemence
of passion, tears society in pieces
during its terror, and leaves behind
the wreck of nature, and a long ca-
talogue of woes.

It is for the same reason, that con-
stitutions struck out at a heat, are
never durable, and that those only
survive the decay of time, -which,
like the oak, have slowly grown with
the progress of ages. The spirit of
innovation, the passion for demo-
cracy, has created the former; the
spirit of freedom, the resistance to
experienced suffering, has moulded
the latter. The former have follow-
ed the lurid flame of popular ambi-
tion, and perished in the strife of de-
mocratic passion; the latter have
been guided by the steady light of
experience and reason, and survived
through ages, by adapting themselves
to their wants. The former have
been allied to violence, intemper*
ance, and infidelity, and have run
the destined course of guilty passion.
The latter have been founded on
moderation, wisdom, and religion,

[Jan.

and shared in the undecaying youth
of the human race.

The same principle explains the
uniform tendency of great manu-
facturing towns, in all ages of the
world, to democratical and turbulent
principles. In these great hotbeds
of corruption, where human beings
are congregated together in vast
numbers — where vice spreads from
the contagion of multitudes, and
passion feeds upon profligacy of ha-
bit— where virtue is abashed by the
effrontery of guilt, and vice is encou-
raged by the facility of concealment
— where ardent spirits Jnflame the
mind, while they weaken the; body,
and licentious pleasure brutalizes
the intellect, while it unchains the
passions — democratical ambition has
ever been predominant. These great
receptacles of guilt have, in all ages,
been turbulent and unruly, because
they were formed of persons whose
passions were ungovernable; but
they have never led to permanent
freedom, because they were never
based on virtue and religion. The
history of the democracies of Athens
and Florence, of Ghent and Genoa,
exhibits splendid passages and he-
roic actions; but no uniform progress
or permanent freedom. The mob in
these communities often succeeded
in overthrowing their superiors, but
never in subduing themselves ; their
annals exhibit the vehemence of
party strife, and the bloody catastro-
phes of popular insurrections, but
never the uniform protection of all
classes of the citizens, or the steady
progress of universal freedom. Their
rise was hailed by no grateful nations,
their progress marked by no expe-
rienced blessings. Unlike the bene-
ficent sun of Roman greatness, which
shone only to improve, their blaze,
like the dazzling glare of the meteor,
" Rolled, blazed, destroyed, and was no
more."

It is the confounding of these op-
posite principles which makes the
advances of democracy so perilous,
and accounts for the large number
of wise and good men who, in all
ages, have joined themselves to its
ranks, and swelled the array of those
who wrere destined to ruin their
country. Democracy borrows the
language of virtue — it speaks of jus-
tice, and equality, and freedom— it

183-2.]

Remote Causes of the Reform Passion.

11

invokes heart-stirring names, and
awakens ennobling recollections. In-
numerable able and good men, like
the virtuous part of the Reformers
in these times, are misled by the ho-
mage which vice has thus paid to vir-
tue—they join the ranks of the wick-
ed— they find themselves unable to
moderate their excesses, and at last
become the victims of the fatal al-
liance they have formed.

" I see well, O Athenians," said
St Paul, " that you spend your lives
in seeing and hearing something
new." The desire for innovation —
the contempt for whatever is ancient,
or established, or venerable— the in-
cessant craving for novelty and exci-
tation, are the earliest symptoms of
that corruption of public thought
which leads first to the strife of civil
dissension, and then to the dissolution
of private manners. For fifteen years
past, this fatal passion has been in-
cessantly spreading among us. This
must have forced itself on the obser-
vation of the most inconsiderate. In
every department of life, this great
change may be observed; but in none
so much so as in the objects of study,
and the subjects of public interest.
The old works, which contain the
condensed wisdom and luminous
research of ages, are neglected, and
new productions incessantly brought
forward to satisfy the craving of a
vitiated taste. The poetry of Milton
and Thomson, of Pope and Dryden,
is almost unknown to the rising ge-
neration ; and in its stead, the splen-
did extravagance of Byron, or the
bewitching license of Moore, is insi-
nuated into every breast. The great
historians of former times, Hume,
Robertson, and Gibbon, lie neglect-
ed on the shelves of the booksellers,
while the ephemeral trash of modern
novels, "or the cursory sketches of
galloping travellers, occupy the lei-
sure of a voracious public. No one
now goes back to the cautious wis-
dom of Adam Smith, or the learned
sagacity of Hume ; but in their stead
fhe crude theories of Ricardo, and
the rash paradoxes of M'Culloch,
have become the watchword of the
whole liberal party in the state. The
sorrows of Clementina are forgotten
—and the genius of Richardson has
yielded to the changing phantasma-
goria of dissipated life, or the exclu-
sive circles of aristocratic pride, No

great works intended to be durable,
or destined to be immortal, are now
composed ; but every thing is adapt-
ed to the fleeting taste of a caprici-
ous generation. Even Sir Walter
Scott himself, the rival of Shak-
speare, whose gigantic mind soars
above all surrounding talent,has con-
tributed, by his prolific ability, to
deprave the public taste. New no-
vels, of heart-stirring interest, are
now looked for as regularly as rolls
for the breakfast table : and while
his numerous imitators have failed
in rivalling his transcendent genius,
they have too faithfully kept up the
appetite for novelty, which his unri-
valled powers created in the public
mind.

The extraordinary prevalence of
magazines and reviews, and the im-
measurable increase of the daily
press, in this age of fleeting literary
talent, is another proof of the rest-
less and unsettled disposition which
forms so striking a feature in the
temper of the times. In many of
these periodical works there is great
talent to be found ; but it is chiefly
directed to the gratification of the
imagination, or the excitation of the
passions, and seldom to the cultiva-
tion of the understanding, or the im-
provement of the heart. The moral
essays of Addison — the dignified mo-
rality of Johnson — the elegant dis-
quisitions of Mackenzie, would now
find few readers. Stronger passions
must be developed, more vehement
language adopted, greater extrava-
gance pursued, if the attention of a
fickle and inconstant public is to be
arrested.

But most of all is the intempe*
ranee, vehemence, and sophistry of
the daily press, a proof of the levity
and diseased state of the popular
mind. In perusing the abominable
mass of misrepresentation, falsehood,
exaggeration, wickedness, and de-
mon talent, which fills the pages of
too many of the reforming and po-
pular journals, it is impossible to
wonder at the delusion which per-
vades so large a portion of the na-
tion, or to avoid the melancholy con-
viction, that we are fast approaching
a great national catastrophe, from
the total extirpation of all religious,
rational, or moral feeling in a great
part of the people. On this subject
we cannot do better than quote the

12

recent words of a well-known writer,
who will not be suspected of lean-
ing unduly to the conservative side,
and whom we quote as an unwilling
witness, not an authority. " The peo-
ple in power," says Cobbett, " at one
and the same time ascribe the violent
acts of the people to want of edu-
cation, and to the reading of cheap
publications. The fable of the town
in danger of being taken by an ene-
my, tells us that, upon a consulta-
tion amongst the tradesmen upon the
best means of defending the town,
the tanner said, ' If you have a mind
to have the town well secured, take
my word for it there is nothing like
leather ;' and we now hear the pub-
lishers of the London daily papers,
whenever they hear of a riot or a
fire, whenever they hear of a work-
house-keeper or an overseer's head
being broken, or a tread-mill being
demolished, burst out in indignant
rage that the poor creatures that
commit the violences cannot get a
London broadsheet to read. Jud-
ging from my own feelings, I should
say that it is happy for the grinders
and the starvers that the working
people do not get these sheets to
read ; for the effect which the read-
ing of them has upon me invariably
is to fill me with revenge and with
rage ; and to such a degree, that, if
I could be induced to set fire, the
reading of these at once stupid and
atrocious, publications would urge
me on to the act ; and operating on
me as the music of Timotheus did
upon Alexander, I really am ready,
sometimes, upon flinging down their
mass of paragraphs, to seize a flam-
beau, and rush out to burn up the
whole of this infernal Wen, this col-
lection of filth, moral as well as phy-
sical, this poisoner of the mind, and
destroyer of the bodies of the whole
kingdom ; but, above all things, this
collection and amalgamation of li-
terary conceit, corruption, and stu-

Memote Causes of the Reform Passion,

[Jan.

ever looking at the true causes
of the evil ; brutal enough to believe
that the people would have their
minds changed, and be made as quiet
as they were formerly, by being ge-
nerally what these stupid men call
educated j being brutal enough to

believe this, at the same time that
they are making reports which shew
that, where one working man could
read and write formerly, twenty can
now; being so stupid as this, but
finding that the education, as they
call it, does not tend to produce that
submission which they teach, they
have recourse to the last remedy
known to the minds of such men ;
namely, to punishment in all its
shapes, forms, and degrees of seve-
rity." *

Such is the opinion which this de-
clared republican, and author of so
many useful tracts for the poor, en-
tertains of the daily press, the exten-
sion of which is held forth by the re-
formers as the only remedy for the
violence and brutality of the people.
That this press has done an infinite
deal of mischief, must be obvious to
the meanest capacity. But it is fully
as much an effect as a cause ; it ori-
ginates in a depraved and diseased
state of the public mind, as much as
it produces or increases it. Half a
century ago, the false assertions, in-
temperate abuse, infidel sneers, and
vehement passions, of a large part of
the London press, would have dis-
gusted the whole influential part of
the nation, and its authors would
speedily have sunk into obscurity
and contempt. Now it is to be found
in drawing-rooms as well as pot-
houses, and is greedily perused by
fair and high-bred eyes, as well as
the victims of intemperance or the
sirens of pleasure.

The consequence of this unsettled
state and change of temper in the
public mind, have strongly appeared
in the legislation of late years. The
commerce, the currency of the coun-
try, have felt the innovating tempest ;
deep and desolating furrows have
been left in the wealth, industry, and
happiness of the people. From this
has flowed the sudden changes in
our commercial policy, which, what-
ever may be thought of the abstract
wisdom of their adoption, are now
universally admitted to have been
top precipitately embraced : from
this has flowed the fatal suppression
of the paper circulation, which has
done more to augment the public
distress than any similar measure

* Cobbett, Nov. 26, 1831.

1882.]

Remote Causes c>fthe Reform Passion.

which ever was adopted by a legis-
lature. From this has proceeded the
violent adoption and authoritative
imposition of Catholic emancipation
— a measure which, however just
when abstractly considered, is now
admitted to have done violence to the
feelings of a majority of the nation ;
the benefits of which, though loudly
promised, have never yet been ex-
perienced; which has distracted a
peaceful, without tranquillizing an
agitated community ; which has
thrown the torch of civil discord into
England, without taking it out of Ire-
land.

Scotland has in a peculiar manner
suffered from the whirlwind of inno-
vation. It narrowly, and by unpre-
cedented exertions, escaped the de-
struction of its system of banking;
from which had flowed the broad
stream of Scottish prosperity, and the
ruin of which would have brought
with it that of one-half of all the in-
dustrious poor in the country. They
have been visited with changes in
the administration of justice, greater
than ever before, in so short a time,
were inflicted on any people; and
which experience has now demon-
strated, like all other violent and
sweeping changes, to have remedied
few experienced evils, and intro-
duced many unknown grievances.
They have been compelled to adopt
a system of jury trial in civil causes,
totally unsuitable to the character,
habits, and institutions of the nation,
and which, besides inflicting severe
injustice on individual fortunes, has
totally dammed up and exterminated
all that extensive class of legal ques-
tions in which parole evidence is
required.

But all these evils, great as they
are, and seriously as they have af-
fected the institutions and prospe-
rity of the country, are trifling in
comparison to that which has arisen
from the delusion and error on po-
litical subjects, has been carried
among that party who now, to our
misfortune, are at the helm of affairs,
and whose rashness has done so
much, in so short a time, to aug-
ment the rapid progress of national
dissolution.

" I hope to see the time," says

18

Lord Brougham, " when every poor
man in the country will be able to
read Bacon." — " It would be much
more to the purpose," says Cobbett,
" if he could give every poor man in
the country the means of eating ba-
con." Practical sagacity never gave
a better reproof to theoretical and
perilous delusion. To suppose that
one-tenth of mankind, in any rank,
are capable of either understanding
or benefiting by Bacon, is absurd ;
but to suppose that one-hundredth
part of those in the lower ranks,
chained by necessity to daily labour,
can derive any benefit from the
Novum Organum, is the height of
infatuation. Let us hear republican
Cobbett on the subject: " The Lord
Chancellor has an intention, it is
said, of proposing the establishment
of parish libraries, for the purpose
of educating the working people.
Only think of apartments for read-
ing and lecturing in every parish.
These men know no more or Eng-
land than they do of the moon, and
the lands in the moon. ' Labourers'
Institutes, with apartments for read-
ing and lectures !' It is madness, and
not a hair short of it. To propose
that sheep, and oxen, and horses,
should be taught to fly, as birds do,
would not be a bit more a sign of
madness. It is the employers that
want to be educated : the landlords,
parsons, and large farmers, require
to be taught, that it is their true in-
terest, in the end, to cause the work-
ing people to live well, and to pos-
sess the means of being well dress-
ed." * It may be added, that though
the poor will derive no benefit what-
ever, but probably nothing but mis-
chief, from Labourers' Institutes and
reading-rooms, there is one booh
from whose perusal they can derive
nothing but good, and which is as
well, as Lord Brougham's visions are
ill, adapted to every capacity; but
that is the last book, as was well
observed by Professor Wilson, of
which we hear any thing from the
reformers.

When such extraordinary delu-
sions as these, that the time will
come when every poor man can read
Bacon, are seriously entertained, and
gravely stated by men of acknow-

Cobbett, Nov. 26, 183L

Remote Causes of the Reform Passion.

14

ledged ability, and in exalted situa-
tions, it is not surprising that the
nation should be torn in pieces by
insane projects of innovation. In
fact, if the prevailing errors in the
democratical party are traced to
their source, they will be found to
originate chiefly in the prevalence
of that very idea as to the intellec-
tual powers of the lower orders, and
the prodigious change which is to
be wrought in them by the preva-
lence of general education. If it be
once conceded, that all the labour-
ers are capable, or can be rendered
capable, of reading and comprehend-
ing Bacon, nothing can be more evi-
dent, than that it is not only perfectly
safe, but absolutely necessary, to
invest them with a full shave of po-
litical powers. But if the reverse
be proved to be the fact, equally by
history and experience — if the great
mass of the lower orders are inca-
pable, from their avocations, of en-
joying the leisure requisite for se-
rious study, and, from their habits,
of comprehending or taking an inte-
rest in subjects of science — if know-
ledge is to them an acquaintance
with the "broad sheets" of error,
not the narrow page of truth and
salvation— -if, while nature has been
prodigal to all of passion, she has
been sparing to most of intellect
— if the only subject on which no
pains have been taken by the liberal
party to instruct the people, is the
only one in which all mankind feel
an interest, and the only book which
they have taken no steps to disse-
minate, is that which alone contains
what is really necessary for their
temporal and eternal happiness—
then it follows, that a more fatal and
perilous doctrine than this never was
propagated, or one more calculated
to dissolve society into anarchy, and
render the very name of education
odious in the world. It follows, that to
intrust political power to such hands,
is to commit the fabric of society to
the elements of disorder — to with-
draw the people from useful indus-
try, by precipitating them into hurt-
ful ambition— and to flatter their pas-
sions at the expense of their virtue
and their happiness.

But this is not the only subject
on which the erroneous opinions of
the liberal party are such as to ex-
cite the astonishment of all the ra*

[Jan.

tional and well-infowned part of
mankind. A celebrated leader of
their school, in an evil hour, broached
the incredible paradox, that the ab-
sence of her landed proprietors did
no mischief to Ireland; and imme-
diately a thousand Whig voices, in
every part of the empire, re-echoed
the astounding fallacy. The Whig
papers incessantly urged the salutary
effects which would result from
lowering the duty on spirits, and in
an evil hour, the Duke of Welling-
ton yielded to their suggestions. In
opposition to the convincing proofs
of the fatal consequences of this
me&sure, which the increasing de-
pravity, appalling vices, and savage
cruelty of the lower orders, in every
part of the empire, afford ; ia oppo-
sition to the records of all criminal
courts, which begin and end with
spirits, — they still maintain that that
measure was beneficial. They stout-
ly argued for twenty years, in the
face of the general prosperity of
England, with Poor Laws, and the
unequalled misery of Ireland, with-
out them, that no legal provision
should be made for the indigent;
and now they have as rapidly chan-
ged their position, because their
leader in political science has dis-
covered his error. Their conduct
reminds us of what is narrated in
history of the conversion of the An-
glo-Saxon kingdoms. " The Prin-
cess Edelgitha was converted to
Christianity, and by her influence ef-
fected the conversion of her Lord,
and all the people were baptized
with him. Soon after, they relapsed
into their errors, and all the nation
immediately resumed the practices
of idolatry."

In considering the causes, in a
philosophical point of view, of this
extraordinary infatuation on political
subjects of the liberal party in this
country, their long exclusion from
office is probably the most promi-
nent. Having been for more than
half a century, with the short excep-
tion of Mr Fox's administration in
1783, and Lord Grey's in 1807, in
the ranks of opposition, they have
been hardened into a compact ob-
durate mass, who support each other
with extraordinary tenacity, and, like
the exiles from France, draw no
light from the opinions of others, or
passing events, " Us n'ont rien ap-

1832.]

Remote Causes of the Reform Passion.

pris, ils n'ont rien oublies," is equal-
ly true of the one and the other.

It is the nature of long exclusion
from office, or misfortune of any
sort, to make men adhere with invin-
cible obstinacy to preconceived opi-
nions, shut their eyes to the les-
sons of wisdom and experience, and
derive no light from the course of
passing events. It is the eftect of
the same causes to make them cling
closely together; support each other
in their follies, equally as their vir-
tues, and adopt with blind idolatry
whatever is put forth by the spiri-
tual leaders of the party. On this
principle, the impotence of persecu-
tion to extinguish religious heresy is
founded ; and hence it is that error
is nowhere adhered to with such
tenacity, as by those who have suf-
fered in any degree for their opi-
nions, and regard themselves as
martyrs to the cause of truth. This
principle is of universal application,
and has been in operation from the
beginning of the world; and it is
in this reaction of thought against
power, that the foundation is laid for
the ultimate developement of truth,
and the coercion of physical force
by the sway of moral resolution.

But though such are the ultimate ef-
fects of this salutary principle in hu-
man affairs, its immediate consequen-
ces are often in the highest degree
prejudicial, and productive of the
most dreadful convulsions to society.
The emigrant noblesse, by shutting
their eyes to the lessons of experience
and the course of events, imposed a
government upon France which was
unsuitable to the temper of the times,
precipitated the reigning family from
the throne, and produced the career
of mob-government, popular sway,
and universal suffering. The Whigs
of England, equally blinded by their
sectarian spirit and long exclusion
from government, have introduced
measures which promise to be hard-
ly less injurious in their conse-
quences, and certainly are as much at
variance with wisdom and experi-
ence.

Every person must have observed,
in every part of the empire, how
justly these observations are appli-
cable to the Whig party for the last
forty years. As a body, they are
respectable for their abilities, and
many of them highly estimable for

15

their talents and their virtues. But
there is throughout them, generally,
a deplorable want of originality of
thought, and a most extraordinary
principle of subordination to the
doctrines of their leaders. When
you arc acquainted with one or two
of the influential men of the party,
you can predicate with perfect cer-
tainty their opinions on every sub-
ject of philosophy, history, politics,
or taste. None seem to think for
themselves but a few leading cha-
racters ; and whatever they say is
immediately adopted with implicit
obedience and reverential awe by
all their inferiors. They have con-
trived to turn the current of human
thought into confined and artificial
channels. They take in nothing but
Whig newspapers ; read nothing but
Whig reviews; study nothing but
Whig publications; live with none
but Whig society. There is to be
found in them, generally, a most ex-
traordinary uniformity and slavish-
ness of opinion, accompanied by a
degree of prejudice and tenacity to
error, which would appear altoge-
ther incredible in men of such ac-
quirements as many of them are, did
we not know by experience, that it
is the uniform attendant of opposi-
tion to power in all ages and parts
of the world.

By constantly raising the war-cry
of freedom, and adopting the doc-
trines which were agreeable to the
humbler classes of the people, in
whom their principal political sup-
port is to be found, this party have
gradually acquired a very great in-
fluence over the middling and lower
orders. During the war, from the
excitation of national enthusiasm,
and the influence of government in
the disposal of its enormous expen-
diture, this influence was not sen-
sibly perceived ; but since the peace,
it has been constantly and steadily
on the increase, and has at length
produced the social tempest by which
we are now assailed. The conser-
vative party were not aware of their
danger — reposing in fancied security
on the laurels of Nelson and Wel-
lington ; strong in the consciousness
of the real justice and wisdom of
their principles; regarding with sa-
tisfaction the growing magnitude,
increasing opulence, and augmenting
splendour of the empire under their

Remote Causes of the Reform Passion.

16

lenient and moderate sway — they did
not perceive how extensively the
delusion of error, the poison of in-
fidelity, the seeds of anarchy, had
spread among the people. They
were not aware that a great part
of the British youth, in all ranks,
had adopted liberal principles ; that
the press, directing the fountains of
human thought, had almost all espou-
sed the liberal side ; and that in the
midst of the glories and splendour
arising from the triumph of conser-
vative principles, the opposite party,
just because these glories and that
splendour had crowned the efforts
of their opponents, had gradually
disseminated the delusions which
were calculated to overthrow them.
By incessant exertions at public
meetings, in periodical journals,
newspapers, and political publica-
tions, by propagating the doctrines
most agreeable to the immense class
of readers whom general education
was wakening into political activity,
and by sedulously striving to instil
their principles into the minds of
youth, ever accessible to error
when disguised under the splendid
colouring of freedom and liberality,
they have succeeded in poisoning
the sources of knowledge, and pro-
ducing a state of mind in the public
which cannot, it is to be feared, be
eradicated without an experience of
the suffering which such errors are
calculated to produce, and of which
we are beginning to feel the com-
mencement. They have mingled not
life, but death in the honied cup, and
the nation is writhing under the
poison which it has received.

" Cosi al 'egro fauciul' porgiarao aspersi,
Di soavelicor gli orsi del vaso
Succlii amari, ingannato intanto ei bene
Et dal' inganno suo morte reccvc."

It is from the same cause that the
alarming fact is to be accounted for,
that a large proportion of the mid-
dling orders of that important class,
who, in 1793, were almost unanimous
against the principles of revolution,
are now become vehement support-
ers of the Reform Bill. The reason
is, that, at the former period, they
were not infected with the torrent
of error, delusion, and sophistry, with
which, for the forty succeeding years,
the Whigs have incessantly filled the
public mind. The plain good sense

[Jan.

of Englishmen was not then under-
mined by the " fanaticism of French
infidelity," as Carnot finely called it;
nor was the firmness of English pa-
triotism overborne by the extrava-
gance of an ambitious Opposition.
They had not then learnedtoveil irre-
ligion under the cloak of liberality —
licentiousness under that of liberty —
or paradox under that of philosophy.
It is the incessant efforts of the Whig
party, since they were excluded from
office, to pervert the public mind,
coupled with the attractive garb of
liberality and freedom which they
wore, which has gone so far to shake
the pillars of national security, and
prepared the way for public convul-
sion, by the unhinging of private
opinion. The Tories have much to
answer for, in not having sooner
made exertions to stem this devast-
ating torrent ; but the truth is, they
were not aware of their danger, and
reposed in fancied security on the
edge of an abyss, which was silently
preparing to engulf them. They did
not recollect, that there is no barrier
so great — no power so overwhelm-
ing— that is not, in the end, over-
come by the incessant application of
an inconsiderable force — that towers
which withstood the shock of war,
yield to the mouldering hand of ve-
getation— and that mountain barriers,
impassible to human strength, are
worn through by the ceaseless flow
of water.

We do not accuse the leaders of
Whig thought of intentional error,
or a wish to injure the cause of hu-
manity. We are convinced they act-
ed on principles the very reverse;
and we have no doubt, as human na-
ture is everywhere the same, that,
in similar circumstances, we should
be as much warped by error, and
mystified by prejudice, as they have
been. What we assert is, that cir-
cumstances have produced an utter
perversion of mind, and blindness to
truth, in almost the whole of their
body : that, following the principle
of opposition, even in speculative
thought, they have studied, not with
the design of discovering truth, but
of discovering arguments against
their opponents, and adopted error,
not because it was supported by reat
son, or justified by experience, but
because their antagonists had stum-
bled upon truth. This principle af-

Remote Causes of the Reform Passion.

1832.]

fords a key to their grand errors on
all subjects. The Tories supported
the war, therefore the Whigs oppo-
sed it; the Tories based their autho-
rity on the influence of religion,
therefore the Whigs covertly, but
incessantly, turned it into ridicule ;
the Tories encouraged the colonies of
the empire, therefore the Whigs
strove, the moment they got into
power, to depress them ; the Tories
supported the allies of England, and
endeavoured to weaken their ene-
mies, therefore the Whigs endea-
voured to injure their allies and be-
nefit their enemies; the Tories sup-
ported the British against the foreign
cultivator, therefore the Whigs are
preparing to sacrifice him to his
rival ; the Tories had augmented the
duties on spirits, to check the con-
sumption of that ruinous article,
therefore the Whigs earnestly advo-
cated their reduction, and deluged
the country with crime in conse-
quence ; the Tories had maintained
inviolate the national faith, therefore
the first measure of the Whigs was
to violate it ; the Tories laboured
assiduously to uphold the consti-
tution, therefore the Whigs signal-
ized their first accession to power
by an attempt to overthrow it. Such
conduct would appear incredible, on
the ordinary principles of human
conduct, but it is easily accounted
for, when we recollect that the Pro-
testants stood up at prayer, because
the Catholics had knelt, and destroy-
ed the cathedrals, because they had
erected them.

The sudden and perilous exten-
sion of education to the lower orders
of the people, at the very time that
these perilous and innovating prin-
ciples were incessantly inculcated
by the popular party, and the vast
increase of our manufacturing towns,
at the same period, have both con-
tributed to augment the same fatal
propensity. The one augmented the
channels by which the poison of in-
fidelity and the delusions of error
reached the lower orders, while the
latter increased immensely the in-
flammable and corrupted mass into
which they were to be poured. There
are twenty of the poor who can now
read, for one who could do so for-

17

merly ; and all of the manufacturing
towns of Britain have added fifty,
many one hundred per cent, to
their numbers, during the last ten
years. These changes co-existing in
the lower classes of society, with the
warp towards error which the Whig
party had acquired during the revo-
lutionary contest, have combined to
produce the present extraordinary
and anomalous state of public
thought. When the vast and de-
mocratical bodies in the manufactu-
ring towns were wakened into poli-
tical life, and had their passions
turned by the power of reading into
the arena of domestic strife, the
newspapers soon discovered that
their principal circulation was to be
looked for in these great emporiums
of the passions ; and that nothing
was so acceptable to them as inces-
sant abuse of their superiors. " Eges-
tas cupida novarum rerum,"* speed-
ily asserted its fatal ascendency
in the commonwealth; every thing
which was sacred or venerable, sanc-
tified by usage, or recommended by
experience, speedily became the ob-
ject of attack to the shafts of ridi-
cule and the artillery of sophistry ;
and political ambition, anxious to
triumph by such instruments, soon
discovered that no method could be
relied on for success, but extrava-
gance in the same inflammatory prin-
ciples, and increase in the same po-
pular flattery. Hence the fatal ra-
pidity with which revolutionary prin-
ciples have spread of late years ; the
utter perversion of thought in a large
portion of the people on all political
subjects; the abhorrence to every
thing established ; the passion for in-
novation, and the universal growth
of irreligious principle, and moral
depwvity, in the population of all the
great cities of the empire.

As long as these principles were
confined only to speculative men,
the teachers of youth, or the popu-
lar leaders, they did no immediate
mischief, and were instrumental only
in preparing the downfall of establish-
ed institutions, by sapping the foun-
dations in general opinion on which
they rested; but when they began
to be carried into effect by legisla-
tion, they have invariably produced,

* Tacitus.

VOL. XXXI. NO. CLXXXI.

18

Remote Causes of the Reform Passion.

[Jan.

or threatened, the most disastrous
effects. Each successive accession
of the Whig party to power, accord-
ingly, for the last half century, has
been marked by the immediate com-
mencement of some perilous mea-
sure, and the nation has on every
such occasion narrowly escaped ship-
wreck from their enormous inno-
vations. Mr Fox, in 1783, instantly
prepared his India Bill, which, if it
had not been defeated by the firm-
ness of the House of Peers, would,
by vesting the whole patronage of
India in the hands of the Crown,
have long ago subverted the ba-
lance of the constitution, and de-
stroyed the liberties of the people
by the influence of Eastern corrup-
tion. No sooner were they installed
in power, in 1807, than they set about
forcing Catholic emancipation at
once on the sovereign and the peo-
ple—a measure which has wellnigh
overthrown the equipoise of the con-
stitution, even at a subsequent pe-
riod, and which, if persisted in at
that time, would unquestionably have
led to a civil convulsion. No sooner
had they got possession of the reins
in 1830, than they set on foot mea-
sures of finance which threatened
ruin to the great commercial and co-
lonial interests of the empire ; and,
when defeated in that, united all their
strength to subvert the ancient con-
stitution of the empire.

But it is in the very magnitude of
these changes, and the vital interests
which they every where affect, that the
best security against their ultimate
success is to be found. All the great
interests of the empire — our agricul-
ture, our colonies, our shipping, our
commerce, are threatened by these
perilous innovations. Nothing but the
way in which, for a quarter of a cen-
tury, they have deluged the country
with sophistical principles, could
have enabled the authors of these
changes to remain a week at the
head of affairs : they are borne for-
ward merely on the stream of error
and passion which they originally

formed, and have now urged into a
torrent. But the practical effect of
these ruinous innovations must, in
the end, open men's [eyes to the de-
lusion on which they are founded,
and convince those whose under-
standings have become so warped as
to be inaccessible to every other spe-
cies of persuasion. Already every
branch of industry— every man who
lives by his labour in the country, is
suffering from their innovations. If
fatal measures can be retarded a
little longer, the tide must set in the
other direction.

Still greater hope is to be derived
from the reaction of genius and
wisdom, against violence and igno-
rance, which is now so powerfully
taking place, and promises soon to
purify the streams of thought of all
the dross and poison with which
they have so long been polluted. It
is this under current perpetually
flowing, which corrects the errors of
prevailing institutions, and ultimate-
ly comes to influence the measures
of government, by swaying the opi-
nions of those who direct it. Al-
ready the talents of the conservative
party have been splendidly drawn
forth; already have the youth of
England flocked to the side of truth
at both universities, and the cause
of order triumphed in every field
where it has been brought to com-
bat the principle of misrule. In the
solitude of thought, the drops of
genius are beginning to fall from
their crystal cells, and the fountains
of eloquence to pour forth those
mighty streams which, unlocked in
a moment of peril and alarm, are
destined to vivify and improve man-
kind through every succeeding age.
It is in such contemplation of the
healing powers of Nature, that men,
in arduous times, are best fitted to
discharge their social duties; and
the sufferings are not to be regretted
which awaken men to noble feel-
ings, and amidst the passions which
distract, point to the wisdom whicli
finally governs the world.

1832.] Intercepted Letters from a Roman Catholic Clergyman.

19

INTERCEPTED LETTERS FROM A ROMAN CATHOLIC CLERGYMAN RESIDING IN
IRELAND, TO A FRIEND IN ROME.

How we came into possession of
the following important documents
we do not feel ourselves called upon
to say, further than that, in giving
them to the world, we are guilty of
no breach of private confidence.

They contain disclosures respect-
ing the views of the Roman Catholic
party in Ireland, which will not come
by surprise upon the readers of this
journal, as they are in accordance
witli all our previous anticipations.
We required them not for the con-
firmation of our opinions. But there
are many to whom they must be of
use. Facts are stubborn things, —
and often bring home conviction to
minds that would have been inacces-
sible to argument.

The reader will smile at the serious
earnestness with which this popish
writer argues in favour of the notion,
that, because events have strangely
combined for the temporary exalta-
tion of his cause, that cause is there-
fore under the guidance of a special
providence. Tlie induction is far too
limited to warrant the conclusion that
he draws; — but it is important as
evincing the deep sincerity as well
as the enthusiasm of his persuasions.
The time will come when we shall
be able, by tracing events a little
farther, to reverse the inference, and
to show how all things, even the most
apparently adverse, work together
for good, and how true religion shall
have been benefited by the tempo-
rary exaltation of its enemies. Mean-
while, it is well to be instructed by
these enemies in their own designs,
and to be distinctly forewarned by
them upon what it is they calculate
for the accomplishment of their gi-
gantic projects.

When the writer speaks of his own
party, we may give the most implicit
credit to his statements. Not so,
when he speaks of the Established
Church. Although there is much

truth in what he says respecting her
present condition, yet, generally
speaking, her deficiencies are exag-
gerated, and the errors that are com-
mitted in the disposal of her patron-
age, are noticed with too much cen-
soriousness and too little discrimina-
tion. Nevertheless, we have not
thought it right to withhold such ani-
madversions from the public. A man's
enemy is often his best looking-glass.
It is better to see our faults through
a medium by which they are extra-
vagantly magnified, than not to see
them at all. We may then be enabled
to realize the poet's wish,

" Oh, wad kind Heaven the giftie gie us>
To see ourselves as others see us,
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,

An foolish notion,"

and the very malice that exults in our
anticipated destruction may prove
like the noise of the rattlesnake, the
warning that apprizes us of our dan-
ger.

It was, of course, with no such
view the following letters were writ-
ten;— but it is with no other they
are now submitted to the reader.
They furnish food for much reflec-
tion. They prove the exceedingly
unsound foundation of our present
policy. They evince the watchful
wiliness of our adversaries, and our
own supineness and infatuation.
They show how much more has been
granted " upon compulsion," than
should have been conferred by pru-
dence or by wisdom. In a word,
our folly is now so apparent, and our
danger so imminent, that if we fail
to profit by this last and most stri-
king exhortation to take heed, fur-
nished as it were by the sparkling of
the assassin's dagger which has drop-
ped unawares from its sheath, mi-
racles would fail to rouse us, — " we
would not be convinced even though
one rose from the dead!"

LETTER I.

MY DEAR FRIEND,
You are naturally desirous to know
how matters go on in Ireland : I mean,
of course, the only matters which
should or ought to interest you —
those which concern our hitherto af-

flicted religion— the true Church of
God in the Wilderness. Truly, my
friend, deep is the joy with which I
inform you that nothing can at pre-
sent be more prosperous. Upon the
Continent, you tell me, all is gloom

Intercepted Letters from a Roman Catholic Clergyman, [Jan,

20

and danger — and every thing seems
to threaten unsettlement and change.
Here, also, changes appear at hand,
but changes which will be for the
better ; changes which I cannot but
regard as the speedy forerunners of
the re -establishment of our Holy
Church in this country. It is, there-
fore, some consolation to know, that,
if you should be driven from home
by the approaching continental trou-
bles, there is every reason to believe
that Ireland will be speedily in a con-
dition to merit even a higher distinc-
tion than that of the " Island of
Saints," by affording a hospitable
asylum to the persecuted orthodoxy
of Catholic Europe.

I know you will be anxious to learn
the grounds upon which I thus con-
fidently predict " a consummation so
devoutly to be wished." They are
many and various — some of them
strong — some of them slender — some
arising from design — some for which
we are indebted to accident — some
proceeding from the folly, I would
say the infatuation, of our enemies ;
some from the unwary ignorance of
our friends; but, all conspiring to
the same end, with an unity of pur-
pose so curiously perfect, that I
should deem it impiety not to ascribe
the whole to the guidance of a gra-
ciously superintending Providence.
Yes, my friend, the God of our fa-
thers still watches over the affairs of
our Church, and will visit his afflict-
ed children here with a speedy and
effectual deliverance. We have suf-
fered long under the tyranny of the
enemies of all righteousness. Our
sacred soil has long been polluted by
the unhallowed footsteps of the Sax-
on and the stranger. The time is not
far distant when we shall cast off the
yoke, and exhibit to convulsed and
agitated Europe the glorious specta-
cle of a country combining the bless-
ing of true belief with the posses-
sion of national and legislative inde-
pendence. But you are, I know, im-
patient for my reasons for all these
confident predictions. You shall have
them — listen — " in ordine cuncta
docebo."

You are aware of the circumstan-
ces which led, in 1829, to the passing
of the Catholic bill. It was carried
by those who had always been our
consistent and determined enemies.
I confess that, at that period, I was

alarmed by the violence of our agi-
tators in this country. It was so ex-
treme, and, as it appeared to me, so
injudicious, that 1 feared it would
have disgusted our friends, and fur-
nished Government with an excuse
for coercive measures thaf might
have interminably protracted the
hour of civil freedom. But I was
soon to be agreeably deceived, and
made to feel, by joyful experience,
that, when God is for us, not even
our own folly can counteract his wise
decrees. The Duke of Wellington,
who acceded to office with a secret
determination to carry our question,
made that very violence an excuse
for appearing to be frightened into
concessions, for which he would not
suffer us to be indebted to his sense
of justice. You know the very little
interest which I took in what was
called " the great question of Eman-
cipation." You also know my rea-
sons for my coldness upon that sub-
ject. I feared it might lead to a de-
fection from our holy faith ; and civil
liberty would have been dearly pur-
chased, if the necessary consequence
was an abandonment of true re-
ligion. If, therefore, a Protestant
Parliament had openly and gene-
rously thrown wide its gates to the
outcast Irish Catholics, and, in the
true spirit of enlightened liberality,
invited them to enter, I feared that
the proverbial warm-heartedness of
my countrymen might have thrown
them off their guard, and, in the ar-
dour of their unsuspecting gratitude,
exposed them to heretical contami-
nation. But, see how the course of
events was actually ordered, and
adore the wisdom of a superintend-
ing Providence ! That which was de-
nied to justice and to policy, was
yielded to fear ! That which was re-
fused, when concession would have
been gracious by being unconstrain-
ed, was granted when the proposed
measure of liberality was thankless
because extorted ! Then, those civil
immunities, which, I was apprehen-
sive, would have dissolved our party,
were conferred upon them under cir-
cumstances by which our party was
still kept together. They were made
to feel that the privileges which they
acquired were the reward of political
violence. They learned the secret
of their own strength — the import-
ance of their own union ; and they

1 832.] Intercepted Letters from a Roman Catholic Clergyman.

are, accordingly, now that they are
invested with all the privileges of the
state, as compact and as resolute for
the accomplishment of those ulterior
objects to which you and I so ar-
dently look forward, as ever they
were, in the day of their disabilities,
for the attainment of Emancipation.
But, you will ask me, was the iron
Duke, as he is called, really frighten-
ed by the Catholic Association ? No
more than I was. There was not a
man in England who knew better the
stuff of which they were made. There
was not a man in Europe who would
have been less likely to quail, if there
was any real danger. But the Duke,
some how or other, began to consi-
der that the measure of Emancipation
was a wise one. Of religion, I be-
lieve no one accuses him of caring
very much. And the arguments of
Burke, and Fox, and Grattan, who
advocated the measure when it really
might have produced what they
would have considered salutary ef-
fects, began to impinge upon the re-
tina of the Duke's mental vision, at
a time when circumstances had alto-
gether altered the state of the ques-
tion, and when the most sanguine of
its enlightened advocates would have
acknowledged that the benefits to be
expected from it were doubtful. The
Duke's character as a warrior was
complete. His exploits placed him
at the head of the chivalry of Europe.
He was ambitious of the character of
a statesman ; and supposed that he
could not exhibit either his power or
his wisdom in this new character
more decidedly, than by carrying a
measure which baffled the ability of
the greatest senators that ever were
at the head of an English administra-
tion. He wished to eclipse Pitt and
Fox and Canning, as completely as
he had conquered Bonaparte. To
this I attribute his conduct. He was
not frightened by the Catholic Asso-
ciation into the surrender of their
civil privileges — but he would not
suffer their violence to divert him
from the settled purpose of confer-
ring their civil privileges upon them.
It was a grand thing to say he was
afraid of civil war. It had its effect
upon fools and dotards, and furnish-
ed him with a pretext for doing that
very thing, which, had there been the
least ground for his apprehension, he
would have cut off his right hand

21

sooner than have recommended.—
But, does not all this only shew that
events have been overruled by Pro-
vidence ? Results have been produ-
ced by the folly of our agitators, and
the infatuation of our enemies, which
no wisdom or foresight on our part
could have rendered probable. May
the same Almighty Power still con-
tinue to preside over our affairs, and
may we, with humble gratitude, learn
to estimate the value of his divine
protection !

I have now, I trust, shewn how the
measure which it was apprehended
would have ruined us as a sect, and
weakened us as a party, was granted
in a manner and under circumstan-
ces which increased and consolida-
ted our political and religious im-
portance. If it found us strong, it
has made us stronger. But that is
not all, or even half. Whilst it pro-
moted union and confidence among
us, it has caused divisions, and car-
ried dismay, among our adversaries.
This I shall now proceed to explain
to you.

The Duke of Wellington and Mr
Peel were, you know, regarded as
the heads of the Tory party. They
were distinguished, during their
whole political lives, by hostility to
our claims. They both went out of
office when Mr Canning became
premier, because they would not
act under a prime minister who was
a powerful and determined advocate
of Emancipation, although Mr Can-
ning had pledged himself not to
make that measure a cabinet ques-
tion, and would have left his col-
leagues free and unshackled to op-
pose or support it as they pleased.
Well, they contrived to cripple and
embarrass him during the short-
lived period of his power, and, in
the end, broke his heart. That bril-
liant declaimer may be said, literally,
to have fallen a victim to their hos-
tility and his own ambition. He was
succeeded by a weakling who was
as amiable as a man as he proved
imbecile as a Minister: a friend,
also, to our claims ; but from that
very circumstance altogether in-
capable of accomplishing any thing
for us. Had either Canning or Lord
Goderich remained in power to this
hour, we should have been still in
bondage. But it pleased HIM who
ruleth on high so to order things

Intercepted Letters from a Human Catholic Clergyman.

[Jaii

here below, that what we never
could have obtained from our friends,
we obtained from our enemies.
There is an old proverb which says
that " no enemy can match a friend."
This Our adversaries were doomed
to prove ; while for us was reserved
the happier experience of its con-
verse, namely, that no friend can
match an enemy. The Duke of
Wellington came into power with
the loud acclaim of the Protestant

rty, who regarded him as a leader
whom their intolerance should
be rendered as triumphant in the
cabinet as the arms of England were
in the field. But how little did they
know what awaited them ! And,
truly, I may also add, how little did
he know what awaited him ! In a
word, he deceived their hopes, — he
abused their confidence. Their own
chosen champion defeated the in-
tolerante; — and the same act which
wrecked his party, and ruined him-
self, struck the chains off the hands
of the liberated millions of Catholic
Ireland! Yes, our emancipation
would have been but half accom-
plished if it had been brought about
by the Whigs. The Tory, or con-
servative party, as they are called,
would still have existed in their un-
broken strength, and have been able
to oppose the most serious obstacles
to those ulterior views, with refer-
ence to which alone faithful be-
lievers have ever looked with any
degree of earnestness to the re-
moval of civil disabilities. But when
the same act which consummated
our political hopes, annihilated, or
almost annihilated, the faction which
could alone effectually contend
against us in our pious endeavours
for the re-establishment of our an-
cient ascendency; when our exalta-
tion was not more sudden or com-
plete, than their humiliation was un-
expected and disastrous, how is it
possible to refuse our assent to the
conviction, that the same power
which led the Israelites through the
Wilderness, and caused them to
pass dry-shod through the Red Sea,
while overwhelming destruction
awaited their oppressors, was visi-
ble in the great deliverance which
was now vouchsafed to his perse-
cuted Church, and in the prodigious
discomfiture which was visited upon
her heretical enemies [

The Duke betrayed his party ; and
nothing less should be expected by
him than that his party should have
deserted him. And yet, I think, if he
apprehended that, to the extent that
it has actually taken place, even his
iron nerves would have shrunk from
the consequences. He hoped, per-
haps, that, after a season, the resent-
ment of his old followers would have
passed away ; that they would have
had reason to acknowledge the ridi-
culous nature of the apprehensions
which they entertained of popish
influence ; or, if any such apprehen-
sion appeared likely to be realized,
that they would have been rallied
under his standard by a sense of com-
mon danger. But he reckoned with-
out his host. The Tories, to do them
justice, were deeply sincere in their
abhorrence of popery, (as the poor
deluded creatures are wont to call
true religion,) and were stung by
the Duke's treachery to a degree of
madness which rendered them reck-
less of every consideration but that
of revenge. To hurl him from power
seemed now the summit of their am-
bition, without any regard to ulterior
consequences. The vindictive crea-
tures resembled the insects of whom
the poet has said, " ponunt in vul-
nere vitas." They succeeded in then-
object. The Duke was compelled to
resign : and the consequence was, the
promotion of an exclusively Whig
administration. Lord Grey, who
assumed the reins of power, felt
himself without that customary sup-
port without which, as the constitu-
tion at present stands, the affairs of
government cannot be carried on;
and, although a most haughty aris-
tocrat, and pledged by a declaration
that he would " stand by his order,"
has been compelled, no doubt most
unwillingly, to court popular sup-
port by proposing a measure of legis-
lative reform, the most sweeping and
radical that ever was entertained by a
British Parliament. Oh ! my friend,
how delightful is it to see the differ-
ent parties in the heretical State all
pursuing courses so directly favour-
able to the very cause to which any
of them would least desire to be sub-
servient! Their hostility to our
Holy Church has not been neutral-
ized merely by their insane divi-
sions : — it has been rendered fatal to
themselves. Should the meditated

1832.] Intercepted Letter s from a Roman Catholic Clergyman.

reform take effect, how can the mo-
narchy stand? — and with the mo-
narchy must go the Church of Eng-
land.— And who, in truth, are the re-
formers ? None other than the in-
tolerants, whose hatred of the Duke
for what they called his base deser-
tion of them in bringing in the Ca-
tholic bill, caused them to help the
Whigs to the possession of power ;
which sooner than relinquish, these
children of sordid emolument and
sedition are prepared to plunge the
country into civil war.

The interest which this great ques-
tion excites at the present moment
is not to be described. The King
has been induced to declare himself
in favour of reform; and this has
made even the loyalty of England
take part with those who, under
other circumstances, would be de-
nounced as public enemies. The
name of royalty has on this occasion
been made use of for the purpose of
undermining the throne; as the name
of religion has been used on other
occasions for the purpose of over-
turning the altar !

These providential arrangements,
(for such they assuredly are) will
become the more manifest when it
is considered, that not only if Can-
ning had remained in power, eman-
cipation would not have been grant-
ed, but, had he not died, reform could
not have taken place. His removal
from office was not more necessary
for the one purpose, than his removal
from existence was for the other.
And for both, God bless them, we
are indebted to the precious Tories !
Had Canning lived, the very Whigs
who are now endeavouring to retain
office by means of reform, (surely
they have been visited with " a strong
delusion" by which they have been
made " to believe a lie," ) WOULD HAVE

COME WITH POWER PLEDGED AGAINST

IT ! His death, therefore, was ab-
solutely essential to the acceleration
of more coming events which are to
herald the re-establishment of true
religion. The Whigs have now at-
tained office, but it is morally certain
that they cannot retain it one hour

after the floodgates of democracy
have been opened upon the consti-
tution. Whoever may succeed them
will be the creatures of the mob, and
must conform in all things to the su-
preme will and pleasure of what is
in mockery termed the majesty of
the people. In a word, Old England,
the mother and the protectrix of
heresies, will have come to an end,
— and new England, reformed Eng-
land, will commence a career of re-
volution and anarchy, which, if any
human penalties could atone for in-
expiable offences, would serve as a
propitiation for the guilt of her damn-
able apostasy, and her cruel perse-
cution of the Church of God, with
which the Inquisition itself might be
satisfied.

These, my friend, are a few of
" the signs of the times" in this coun-
try. Upon the continent I am com-
pelled to believe that things wear a
different aspect. But, be comforted.
You may rest assured that if we are
enabled, by the divine assistance, to
accomplish the objects upon which
our hearts are set, the Catholic
Church will receive a reinforcement,
by the aid of which she will be ena-
bled to defy all her adversaries. She
may be persecuted ; but she is not
forsaken; — she may be cast down,
but she is not destroyed. She may
be deserted by hollow friends ; she
maybe beleaguered by insulting ene-
mies ; the Evil One may storm and
rage, and hell enlarge itself beyond
measure against her ; but faith must
be dead within us if we abandon the
belief that she is still under His pro-
vidential care who can convert stumb-
ling-blocks into stepping-stones, and
cause the very hostility which is di-
rected against his holy religion to
contribute more directly and more
effectually to its establishment, than
any plans of merely human contri-
vance. From what has been already
said, I think the truth is tolerably
evident; — it will be more so when
you are more particularly instructed
in the internal condition of Ireland.
For the present, farewell.

T.K.

LETTER II.

MY DEAR FRIEND,
You are now instructed respect-
ing those external arrangements, RS I

may call them, relating to the^Church
in this country, by which serious ob-
stacles to its extension and establish-

24 . Intercepted Letters from a Roman Catholic Clergyman.

[Jan.

ment have been removed. You have
seen that it was redeemed from a
state of bondage ; and that in such a
manner, that Avhat has been already
done for it only opens a vista to what
may yet be expected. Catholic
emancipation, instead of a final set-
tlement, was but the foundation for
new claims, and the earnest of new
concessions, which shall, please God,
only terminate in the triumphant
establishment of our religion in all
the plenitude of its ancient glory.
The events that I have already sketch-
ed may shew you that my expecta-
tions are not altogether visionary;
still less will they be so considered
when we come to view the internal
arrangements, which will, I trust, be
perceived to be the exact counter-
parts of what have been described,
and that the former do not more com-
pletely afford facilities for the attain-
ment of that ecclesiastical aggran-
dizement which is in prospect, than
the latter enable our Church to pro-
fit by them.

In the first place, hold it in mind,
that the government of this Protes-
tant empire bears almost the whole
expense of the maintenance and edu-
cation of our candidates for holy or-
ders. Just imagine how a proposition
of that kind, on the part of heretics,
would be received at Rome, and you
will have some idea of the stuff that
our " liberality"" is made of ! But do
not, I pray you, abuse a term, which,
in this instance at least, is of such
immense importance to the interests
of true religion. The college of May-
nooth, where our young men are
educated, is a purely eleemosynary
institution. It is supported by an
annual parliamentary grant ; and was
established at a time when Bonaparte
was master of the continent, and
when it was apprehended such of
our people as went abroad for educa-
tion might return infected by French
principles. It was also hoped, that
by being educated at home, a feeling
of gratitude and loyalty would be
produced, which would more than
compensate for the expense which
was thus saddled upon the country.

When you remember the creed of
England, and the laws which were at
that time in force, you may judge of
the consistency of the government in
thus giving a positive establishment
(for our religion was, from that mo-

ment, subordinately established) to
a Church which was believed to
maintain errors that were damnable
and idolatrous. They thus deliber-
ately sacrificed what they affected to
believe to be the spiritual interests of
the people, to considerations of state
policy. If they were right in their
opinion, we were wrong in ours ; and
if we were wrong, however we may
have been tolerated, we should not
have been encouraged in our errors j
much less, furnished with the only
means of disseminating them amongst
the people ! But thus it was that the
Lord blinded the understandings of
his enemies ! And I can promise you
that there was in this case no depart-
ure from the usual result of such
unhallowed policy, — for in them it
was unhallowed. I never yet knew
an instance where religion was sacri-
ficed to the exigencies of state, and
where the exigencies of state were
really answered by such a sacrifice.
I need not tell you that the principles
inculcated at Maynooth are not more
favourable to the British govern-
ment than those which are taught on
the continent. I need not tell you
that the attachment of our clergy to
their own religion is not less strong,
or that their hatred of an heretical
and intrusive establishment is not less
inveterate, because they are subsist-
ed upon an eleemosynary fund, ex-
torted from mistaken liberality, and
furnished in the foolish hope of ma-
king" their civil conflict with their
spiritual allegiance. No, my friend,
your brethren in Ireland have not so
learned to put off Christ. Nor have
we, for one moment, by any act or
declaration for which we are respon-
sible, suffered the government of the
country to be deceived upon this sub-
ject. We have uniformly professed,
and uniformly acted upon the pro-
fession, that our civil is subordinate
to our spiritual allegiance. Such is
their stolidity, that they have saved
us the trouble of any mental reser-
vation. And if that were the case in
the day of our humiliation, what may
not be expected, when, to use the
language of the fanatic regicide,
" The Lord has delivered them into
our hajids ?"

The period, too, at^which this es-
tablishment was founded is worthy
of being held in mind. The penal
disabilities had been relaxed to a

1832.] Intercepted Letters from a Roman Catholic Clergyman.

degree that permitted our people to
enjoy all the substantial blessings of
the constitution. The fields of trade
and commerce were thrown open to
them, as were also the liberal pro-
fessions, the army, the navy, the
practice of medicine and the bar.
At this particular period, a spurious
liberality and a profane hardihood
of enquiry led many, who had, pre-
viously, been dutifully submissive
to the commands of the church, to
doubt of her divine authority, and
even to have recourse to Holy Scrip-
ture for the purpose of ascertaining
how far her pretensions were sanc-
tioned by the word of God. Pro-
fane and absurd temerity! As if
that which would not have been
received unless she bore witness to
it, was to be erected into a standard
by which she herself was to be
judged ! As if, while it was acknow-
ledged that upon her testimony
alone the Scriptures were received,
it could with any shew of reason be
pretended, that, upon their testi-
mony alone, she should be rejected !
But so it was. Our people began
to exhibit symptoms of heretical
pravity, such as, in more favoured
countries, would have caused them
to be handed over to the secular
power. It was no uncommon thing
to see Catholics of the better class
frequent attendants upon Protest-
ant places of worship. Not a few
of that description made a formal
renunciation of what they blasphe-
mously called " the errors of the
Church of Rome;" — and, had the
penal laws been at that time com-
pletely repealed, I should have trem-
bled for the consequences ! But,
thank God, they remained in force
just sufficient to make it a point of
honour with numbers not to desert
what was still reputed to be a per-
secuted sect, who in no one respect
paid the slightest regard to any of
its sacred ordinances. Truly, my
friend, if the disabilities and perse-
cations, when at their height, were
wellnigh crushing us, the slender
remnants of them which then sub-
sisted were our only preservatives
against annihilation. They were the
plank, as it were, which saved us
from being overwhelmed in the
ocean of liberalism by which we
were surrounded. Well— but I must
not digress from the point in hand.

25

From what has been said you may
well imagine the better classes fur-
nished but few candidates for holy
orders. Indeed, my friend, with
grief I speak it, a Roman Catholic
gentleman, at the period to which I
allude, would as soon have thought
of bringing up his son to be a con-
jurer as to be a priest! Formerly
the ranks of our ministry were well
supplied from the gentle blood of
Catholic Ireland ! and there was no
family in the country, not even the
highest, who would not have felt
proud of having given a son to the
service of the sanctuary. At that
time no one could be educated for
our ministry who was not in cir-
cumstances which permitted him to
visit the continent as a gentleman,
and to receive a liberal education.
But, such was the decay either of
zeal, or of orthodoxy, or of inclina-
tion to be set apart for the service
of God, at the time to which I have
particularly directed your attention,
that, if Providence had not inter-
fered in an extraordinary way on
our behalf, the services of religion
must have been altogether neglect-
ed ; there could not, humanly speak-
ing, have been found a body of cler-
gy by whom its holy rites might be
duly and efficiently administered in
the land. Was it not, then, espe-
cially important, that in proportion
as the supply of regularly educated
ecclesiastics was withheld on one
side, it should be furnished on ano-
ther;— that, in proportion as our
own gentry deserted us, Protestant
liberality should have afforded us the
means and the opportunity of ma-
king our lower orders supply their
place ; — of preventing, in fact, a
dearth of Catholic ministers, with-
out whose aid the Catholic religion
would have become extinct in Ire-
land? Indeed, my friend, it was.
Herein I recognise a peculiar provi-
dence. Had things been suffered to
take their natural course, our gentry
and traders would have been ab-
sorbed by the acquisition of wealth
and the pursuit of honour; and
the bulk of the people would have
been ill disposed to tax themselves
for the cost of an establishment such
as that at Maynooth. It was then
most important, that at this critical
period we should have been enabled,
by the bounty of an heretical Parlia-

Intercepted Letters from a Roman Catholic Clergyman.

96

ment, to do what we cither could
not or would not have done for our-
selves. When our Church was being
deserted by her own unnatural child-
ren, her continuity and permanency
were effectually provided for by those
whom she has ever considered out-
casts and aliens ! The same liberal-
ism which caused the defection of
our friends, enabled us to obtain as-
sistance from our enemies I In a
word, — we were visited by a drought,
under the influence of which we
must have perished, had not our con-
siderate Protestant Government pre-
sented us with a royal patent filter-
ing machine, which enabled us to
obtain, even from the sewers and the
puddles, water enough to supply our
necessities ! But is their heresy less
a heresy, because it has thus, unwit-
tingly, contributed to the preserva-
tion of the Church of God ? Assured-
ly not. If we profit by the errors,
we know the motives of our enemies ;
— and we will, when the opportunity
presents itself, requite them, as in
duty bound, not according to their
acts, but according to their inten-
tions. Should the Israelites have
been very grateful to Balaam for the
benediction which he pronounced
upon them ? — Did they not know that
he came forth to curse, and that he
was under an overruling influence,
"when, lo! he blessed them alto-
gether ?"

Thus were we saved not only from
our enemies, but by our enemies !
Our Church was preserved to con-
tend against Irish heresy ; — how ?
By the heresy of Ireland. This is,
indeed, the Lord's doing, and it should
be marvellous in our eyes ! But you
may, perhaps, imagine, that the sup-
ply of clergy, which was thus obtain-
ed, however sufficient in point of
numbers, was inferior in point of
education and condition to those who
used formerly to officiate in our mi-
nistry. You are right. They are in-
ferior in these respects ;— but, I am
prepared to shew you, that that very
circumstance peculiarly qualifies
them for the services which they
have at present to perform. In fact,
no gentleman could act or feel, as they
are required to feel and to act. A
sympathy with the 1 o wer orders, from
whom they spring, almost approach-
ing to an antipathy to the upper
classes, is an indispensable requisite

[Jan.

in the character of a Catholic priest
in Ireland. A most important part
of the business of our clergy is, to
keep alive in the minds of the people
a keen sense of insults which are no
longer endured, and of injuries which
are no longer inflicted. We must fill
them with a resentful jealousy and
distrust, as the only means of guard-
ing them against heretical contami-
nation. The Irish are naturally affec-
tionate and warm-hearted ; and their
very virtues would dispose them to
entertain favourable impressions of
those who so plausibly profess to be
solicitous both for their temporal and
eternal welfare, and who come, as
the Apostle prophetically describes
them, seeking, " with all manner of
deceiveableness," " to pervert the
right ways of the Lord." To encoun-
ter antagonists such as these, the old
gentlemanly priests were no more
fitted, than spaniel dogs are fitted to
contend against wolves or tigers.
They were a kindly, easy, good-natu-
red, peace-loving race, who did very
well for the time in which they lived,
when the great object was to lull sus-
picion, and to live, as -far as in them
lay, peaceably with all men. The
Church was then in the attitude of
a supplicant, and nothing better be-
came it " than modest stillness and
humility ;" — and when these qualities
were accompanied by manners which
were touchingly simple, and an edu-
cation and condition which claimed,
if not reverence, at least respect,
every thing practicable in the then
state of things was accomplished. A
political or even a polemical priest
would be regarded as a nuisance, or
denounced as a traitor. But a differ-
ent class of men is now required.
The Church is no longer a supplicant.
She has been enabled to take a lofty
attitude, and stands erect in the em-
pire. She has, besides, a political
as well as a religious part to support ;
and her future prospects depend as
much upon the skill and the ability
with which she acts in the one charac-
ter, as upon the integrity with which
she perseveres in the other. We
were, therefore, furnished with a
mild and inoffensive priesthood, as
long as it suited our policy to ap-
pear unobtrusive and meek; — we
are furnished with a bold and intre-

§id priesthood, now that it is expe-
ient that we should appear formi-

18&2.] Intercepted Letters from a Roman Catholic Clergyman.

dable. Our priesthood consisted of
gentlemen, when the Protestant
clergy and gentry were to be con-
ciliated j — now that intimidation is
the order of the day, they are form-
ed of rougher materials. They
were thankful, retiring, most sub-
missive to the governing authorities,
as long as these authorities seemed
resolutely bent upon the support of
an intrusive Church, and acted to-
wards us upon a principle which re-
cognised the broad destruction be-
tween establishment and toleration ;
— they are craving, forward, turbu-
lent, and ambitious, and lose no
opportunity of exhibiting their con-
tempt for the powers that be, now
that that destruction has been aban-
doned, and that we are treated as
though we were already established,
and that the Church of England is
treated as though she were already
deposed. Do you not see in these
things a providential adjustment of
a priesthood to circumstances, such
as surpasses merely human wisdom ?
To me it would seem as absurd to
say that the liver or the heart were
placed by accident in the human
body, as that accident governed that
combination of events to which we
owe the establishment of Maynooth
in Ireland !

How unfitted the old priests would
be for the peculiar circumstances of
this country at present, may appear
from the examples of the few of
them who still survive, and are em-
ployed as parish ministers; They
are almost all, invariably, on good
terms with the Protestant clergymen,
and not unfrequent visitants in the
houses of their Protestant neighbours!
Verily, their talk is, peace, peace,
when there should be no peace.
Peace, in order to prevent, I suppose,
the unconditional submission of our
heretical enemies ! What a state we
should be in if we were abandoned
to their aid or their counsels ! No.
A different sort of men are now re-
quired, and a different sort of men
we have. And we know how to
manage these gentry too ; wherever
we discover any of them weakly

27

charitable, or foolishly conciliatory,
we have only either to threaten or
to send a curate from Carlow or
Maynooth, to act as viceroy over
him.

You are, perhaps, startled at the
wildness of our proceedings. Re-
collect that we have already a ma-
jority of Irish members, who, as they
value their seats, must be our obe-
dient servants in the Imperial Par-
liament. Believe me that we know
what we are about, and the ground
upon which we stand. Let the Mi-
nister who dares to speak of us in
any other language than that of re-
spect, beware how he provokes our
indignation. As a proof (for I know
your caution and timidity, and that
you will not be easy without one)
that we have not gone too far, I need
only mention that the Bishop of Kil-
dare and Loughlin, Dr Doyle, lately
published a pamphlet in which the
tithe system is denounced, and in
which he expresses a hope that the
hatred of the people towards it " will
be as eternal as their love of justice."
The consequence of this was mani-
fest in resistance even to blood, to
the demands of the heretical clergy.
But was this blood visited upon him ?
Did he incur any blame for the mas-
sacres which occurred, when the pea-
santry, in pursuance of his advice,
opposed themselves, with violence,
to the execution of the law ? No
such thing. The whole odium was
cast upon those who sought to en-
force the execution of the law : no-
thing seemed farther from the go-
vernment than the intention of im-
puting any blame to Dr Doyle ; and
the Secretary for Ireland, in his place
in Parliament, took occasion to pro-
nounce a public panegyric upon his
genius and his virtues ! This will,
I hope, satisfy you that we have not
as yet gone too far. When you are
farther informed respecting our ac-
tual condition, you will be abun-
dantly satisfied that discretion pre-
sides over our affairs, and that we
only adopt a vigorous policy when
the wisest measures are the boldest
and most decisive. Adieu. T. K.

LETTER III.

MY DEAR FRIEND,
FROM what I have already written,
you must have seen reason to believe

that circumstances have hitherto mi-
raculously favoured the progress of
our divine religion in this country ;

Intercepted Letters from a Roman Catholic Clergyman. [Jan.

•28

and that we are almost equally in-
debted to the infatuation of the Go-
vernment, the favour of our friends,
and the hatred of our enemies. To
what do we owe the establishment
of Maynooth ? To the hope that, by
giving us a domestic education, dan-
gerous prejudices would be remo-
ved ; and that we might not, during
the prevalence of Jacobin principles,
have any intercourse with the conti-
nental universities. Such was the
profundity of British statesmen ! —
They gave us a domestic education
just then when we could not afford
to get a foreign one ; and thus re-
cruited the deserted ranks of our
ministers by a supply of able eccle-
siastics, just when they were most
wanted, and precisely of the kind
that were at that most critical period
indispensable for the vineyard of the
Lord ! As to the wise precaution
against Jacobin principles, it is a no-
torious matter of fact, that they have
never been so prevalent as since the
establishment of Maynooth ; and that
the only portion of our clergy who
are perfectly free from them, are the
clergy who have been educated
abroad, and who have had an oppor-
tunity of seeing their fruits! It might,
one should have thought, have occur-
red to our rulers here, that Jacobin-
ism is only plausible upon paper —
that it is in its principles it is attrac-
tive ; in its wild and delusive theory
of the rights of man ; but that the in-
stant it becomes operative and prac-
tical, its most infatuated votaries can
be no longer blinded. The horrors
to which it leads are so appall ing, that
many of its thorough-going disciples
have been driven, by a kind of recoil,
from the precipice to which it con-
ducted them, and become, for the
remainder of their lives, the stanch-
est friends, of social order. Now
this was the case with many of our
old priests, who, I assure you, were
the best friends the Government had
during the late rebellion. There are
some of them still living, who, to this
day, receive pensions for the services
which, on that occasion, they were
considered to have performed for the
country ! But, in the teeth of these
facts, what do the Government ?
Why, they establish a seminary where
Jacobinism (just of that character,
and to that degree which may answer
our purposes; may be learned in

theory, and in a country where there
is yet no sufficient opportunity for
seeing it in practice! And this, in
order that it should not be learned
where the living tragedy of its actual
horrors would have caused men to
renounce it as the eldest born of
Hell ! Was there ever such infatua-
tion ! But such is the fact ! Jacobin-
ism has been adopted and matricula-
ted amongst ourselves, under circum-
stances which do not suffer it to re-
volt the feelings of our young men,
and which render it impossible for a
supine and impious community of
heretics to discover, under its spe-
cious generalities, and its glozing
plausibilities, the mine that is pre-
pared for their destruction ! This is
a bold perspective picture. You will
say, perhaps, it is too bold. But be
not alarmed. Be faithful and fear
not. The principles which they them-
selves have sown will ripen to the ruin
of our adversaries — the horrors to
which they will give rise, will operate
for the preservation of faithful be-
lievers. " They have sown the wind,
and they will reap the whirlwind."
Their Church and State have long
cherished within them the seeds of
decay, and must fall ,- a reaction will
then take place in our favour ; and
the very miseries of the country will
lead to the consolidation and secu-
rity of our once more triumphant
Church, which, as was said by the
poet of the city from which she takes
her name,

" Per damna, per csedes, ut 3psa
Ducit opes animumque ferro."

To what have we been indebted
for Emancipation '? To a foolish ex-
pectation on the part of our adversa-
ries that our civil would lead to what
was called our religious liberty ! —
that by becoming free citizens, we
should cease to be faithful Christians!
Has this expectation been answered ?
Verily no, nor ever will be. Our
Church will, for the future, be pre-
served as effectually from the crafts
as it has hitherto been from the as-
saults of the Devil. Our guarantee
secures us not less against fraud than
against violence. And our designing
enemies may yet find, to their cost,
" that in the snare that they had laid
for others, were they themselves ta-
ken." Our system, my reverend bro-
ther, works well. Witness the recent

Intercepted Letters from a Roman Catholic Clergyman.

1832.]

conversion of that most erudite young
nobleman, Lord Mount-Stewart — as
also, of that richly beneficed English
clergyman, a near relation of one of
the present Cabinet Ministers. But
we are not desirous to blazon these
things abroad. It is enough that they
occur now and then, to excite the
wonder of the public, and fill the
imagination of the vulgar. We are
not as yet in a condition to profit by
them as we may profit by them here-
after. The lever has not as yet been
securely fixed, by which we may be
enabled to move the world. Depend
upon it, however, that the Crescent
must yield to the Cross. The king-
dom of Satan is coming to an end ;
and the time is not far distant when
" the knowledge of the Lord shall
cover the earth as the waters cover
the sea."

And not the least important of the
circumstances that at present favour
us, is this, that the Protestants them-
selves are so divided that we are al-
ways, and under any circumstances,
able to calculate upon a powerful
party as our steadfast friends ; even
over and above the number who con-
sider themselves specially retained
by us in the Imperial Parliament.
The liberals, who ridiculed, as an
antiquated folly, unworthy of serious
refutation, the notion that we should
ever again lift up our heads as a
prosperous sect, or evince the least
degree of intolerance, feel them-
selves bound, in common consis-
tency, to defend us from any charges
of that kind, as often as they are
made ; and, when facts of a startling
nature are alleged against us, au-
thenticated by evidence that cannot
be gainsaid, they are sure of carrying
the audience along with them by
saying, that " for one such instance
in which our influence is abused,
there are ten in which it is used for
the good of the country."

But, methinks I hear you say,
« Why should your influence be
abused in any instance ? Why excite
suspicions which may not be easily
allayed, or provoke resentment which
may not be speedily relinquished ?
Is it not better to go on cautiously
and quietly until" My friend,

I understand you ; but you do not
yet understand us. We have a very
complicated game to play in this
country. We must bribe the people

29

by indulgence in a little violence,—-
and the more zealous of the priest-
hood by conniving at a little seditious
vehemence, as well as impose upon
the Government by that plausible
exterior of dutiful acquiescence in
their wishes, which has hitherto ser-
ved our purposes so well, and con-
verted them into our slaves, while
they supposed that we were their
servants. Besides, how should we
exhibit our power if there was not
occasionally an outbreak of sedition
which gave us an opportunity of
magnifying our office, by appearing
as the pacificators of Ireland ? Rest
assured, therefore, that no indiscre-
tion, with which we have as yet been
chargeable, has been without its use.
You will find, upon enquiry, in every
instance, that it has either increased
our power, by giving confidence to
our followers, or diminished our dif-
ficulties, by scattering amongst our
enemies dismay or delusion.

Maynooth, as I told you, is the
seed-bed of our ministry. Without
it we could not have got on. It was
established at a period when there
was not zeal enough, either religious
or political, to raise the contributions
by which it might be supported.
There was then no Catholic rent.
Indeed if it were not for the kind of
influence exercised by the descrip-
tion of clergy which it has sent into
the country, the Catholic rent never
could have been collected. It was,
therefore, most important as an or-
gan for furnishing Ireland with a po-
litical priesthood — a priesthood se-
parated from the gentry by a wide
line of demarcation, and identified
with the bulk of the people. In feel-
ings, in principles, in manners, in
habits, in sympathies, in antipathies,
in the precise character and extent
of their erudition, in their acquisi-
tions, in their deficiencies, they are,
to a nicety, the very description of
persons, without whose aid nothing
important could, at present, be done
for the regeneration of our apostoli-
cal Church, and the re-establishment
of our holy religion. But that is not
all. Maynooth contributes largely to
the supply of the North American
priesthood. The Yankees are not a
religious people. With all their li-
berality, they never would have done
for the faithful amongst us, what our
Protestant Government has done for

Intercepted Letters from a Roman Catholic Clergyman. [Jan,

30

the faithful amongst them. Indeed,
Catholics in America seem at present
infected with the same latitudina-
rianism which prevailed in this coun-
try about the period of the French
revolujtion. It is difficult to raise
amongst them a sufficient sum of
money to keep our chapels in repair,
or enable our clergy to subsist in
comfort. The thing could scarcely
be done at all if it were not for the
annual supply of our emigrants. As
long as that was large, it more than
compensated for the numbers whom
we lost by perversion. I begin, how-
ever, now to have some fears for the
state of transatlantic Catholicity ; or,
indee'd, I should rather say, for the
fate of the unhappy country which
may, through its folly or for its sins,
be deprived of its blessed influence.
The character of the Irish emigra-
tions has of late years considerably
altered. The Protestants are now
going in shoals from us, while the Ca-
tholics are clinging to their native
soil. Now this is good for us; — it
confirms all that I have been hither-
to telling you respecting our pros-
pects at home ; — but I need not add,
it is bad for America. That coun-
try will not, as usual, be supplied
with true believers, whose new zeal
served to counteract the encroach-
ments of heresy, and to keep up the
temperature of true religion. I
would, therefore, beg leave to re-
commend it most especially to your
care. And while you rejoice, as you
must rejoice, at what is doing here,
leave nothing, I beseech you, un-
done by which the evil to be appre-
hended there may be averted.

In thus calling your attention to
the state of religion in America, I am
not, be assured, intermeddling in a
matter that does not very intimately
concern ourselves. You know that
if we have given that country many
priests, we have got from it some
bishops ; — and you can easily under-
stand how important it is that we
should have amongst us a few dig-
nitaries who have received a repub-
lican education. We are then ena-
bled to keep up a connexion with
America, which, if I am not greatly
deceived in my prognosis of coming
events, will not appear the least cu-
rious or beautiful of the divine ar-
rangements. We have contributed
to keep alive in America a hatred of

England. America has contributed
to enkindle amongst us a love of
freedom. We have supplied them
with the means of keeping up true
religion; they will yet supply us
with the means of accomplishing na-
tional independence. I fancy that
I see you lift up your eyes with as-
tonishment. N'importe. All will yet

be plain. <bt%fav ?£ xai i/Wio; tyvu.

While I write, the Reform Bill
has been rejected by the House of
Lords. So much the better. We
are not as yet in a condition fully to
avail ourselves of all its advantages.
As matters stand at present, we have
quite as much power in the House
of Commons as is necessary for the
purposes in hand. We make the
Government feel our importance ;—
and will cause them to solicit our
acceptance of a stipend, which will
almost entirely relieve us from de-
pendence upon the voluntary obla-
tions of the people. Not until we
have got from them every thing
which they can possibly give, will
that change be expedient for us
which the late project of reform
meditated, and by which, if it should
be adopted, the constitution must be
essentially changed. England is at
this moment agitated by a turbulent
democracy, which has encroached
upon the province both of the nobi-
lity and the crown. What will be
the case when Boreas shall have, in
good earnest, snatched his trident
from the hand of Neptune ? Will Bri-
tannia any longer " rule the waves ?"
She will scarcely be visible amongst
the breakers!

Meanwhile, under cover of the
confusion that prevails, we pursue
our systematic designs without mo-
lestation. The Government are about
to intrust to us what amounts to the
exclusive patronage and control of
a system of national education. They
have already enabled us to educate
our clergy; and it will go hard with
us if we do not now raise up for
them suitable congregations. But
the plan is not as yet fully matured;
and it would be idle to speak of its
effects until we have it in actual ope-
ration.

It is, of course, absurd to suppose
that a body of clergy who possess the
means of influencing the return of a
majority of Irish members, should
not command great consideration in

1832.] Intercepted Letters from a

the Imperial Parliament. We look,
therefore, ultimately, to establish-
ment as the religion of the state in
this country ;— but we are not anxious
to precipitate a measure which might
in some degree deprive us of the con-
fidence of the people. Until they
have obtained every thing which they
can reasonably look for, we will not
put forward our claims. They will
then be put forward for us in a man-
ner which cannot be resisted.

Ministers, I have reason to think,
feel the obligations which they owe
us. At their instance we forbore, on
the late elections, to make our people
demand from the candidate a pledge
to support the repeal of the Union.
Such a pledge the Ministers would
have found in the highest degree in-
convenient ; and, I believe, there is
no reasonable length to which they
are not ready to go, in order to evince
their sense of our forbearance. You
will yourself see, that it would be
imprudent, in the present state of
our affairs, to make any stipulations
which might appear to be of a selfish
character. This we scrupulously
avoid. But we have no objection to
suffer them to shew their gratitude,
by measures for the discountenance
and depression of our adversaries.

Roman Catholic Clergyman. 31

And herein we found in them a rea-
diness even to go beyond what we
should have required. I will, in a
future letter, enter more at large into
the actual condition of the Protestant
Clergy : — but the Church, as a
Churchy may be considered as abso-
lutely repudiated by the state. Her
condition is pitiable in the extreme.
We are quiet lookers on ; while she
is condemned, sentenced, and about
to be executed by her own children !
But can the thinking people of
England, you will say, be blind to
what must be the necessary conse-
quences of OUR ASCENDENCY in Ire-
land ? The people of England, my
dear friend, are this moment occu-
pied by concerns of more pressing im-
portance. Illuminated by the blazing
edifices of their nobility, they are,
with all philosophic earnestness, dis-
cussing the merits of the Reform
Bill ! A new light has, indeed,
broken in upon this wise and reflect-
ing people ; — and, if we fall to profit
by it, we shall deserve to wear, for
the rest of our lives, the jangling or-
nament that at present adorns the

brows of our , and which he

took in exchange for his diadem at
the late coronation. Adieu. T. K.

LETTER IV.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

You are, I trust, by this time, suf-
ficiently convinced of the prosperity
of the Catholic cause in Ireland ; and
feel satisfied that the intrusive Church
must be built upon a, foundation of
adamant if she can withstand the
combined attack which we are pre-
paring for her. But, in truth, she is
as feeble as we are formidable; —
and the circumstances to which we
owe our strength are not more re-
markable than those in which she
must recognise her weakness. Both
are equally indicative of that over-
ruling Providence which has assign-
ed its date to error, and ordained
that truth, and truth alone, shall be
eternal. Proceed we now to this
branch of our lofty argument.

The first seed of decay which I
notice in the system of the Church
of England is, that no sufficient pro-
vision has been made for the pro-
fessional education of its ecclesias-
tics, The heretic Cranmer intended

that the spoil of the monasteries
should be appropriated, in part, to
the endowment of diocesan colleges,
which should be peculiarly dedicated
to the cultivation of church learning,
and which might also serve to en-
courage those professional habitudes
of thought and feeling without which
there can be no real incorporation of
the clergy, such as should cause them
to feel as different members of the
same body. The necessity for this
Cranmer foresaw; — but it was be-
yond his power to accomplish a pro-
ject which might, had it taken effect,
have given a permanency to error
that might have rendered heresy in-
veterate. Fraud and violence were,
accordingly, suffered to prevail ; and
religion, or what was called religion,
was starved, that the rapacity or the
King and his nobles might be pam-
pered. The consequence of this is,
that there is no standard of theology
amongst the clergy of the Church of
England. Able divines, no doubt,

Intercepted Letters from a Roman Catholic Clergyman. [Jan.

32

are to be occasionally found amongst
them; but the theology of the clergy
as a body is just that which each in-
dividual picks up for himself; and
is determined more by taste, or feel-
ing, or fancy, or accident, than by the
steady prosecution of an univer-
sally recognised and well-digested
system. Hence, various opinions,
under the same denomination; almost
heresies, within the same

cnurch, — and all, with seemingly
equal plausibility, claiming the au-
thority of her canons and articles on
behalf of their incompatible preten-
sions ! " If Satan, therefore, be di-
vided against Satan, how shall his
kingdom stand /"

The next point worthy of attention
is, that no provision whatever has
been made for the religious educa-
tion of the gentry in the universities.
I do not, of course, mean to say that
they are not required to attend
church. But I do say, and I would
be judged by any twelve candid
Englishmen whose opinions derive
weight from experience, that the re-
ligious formalities of the Protestant
colleges in the country are far from
being effective for training the rising
generation " in the way they should
go," or impressing upon them any
peculiar veneration for the Church
by law established. Indeed I am
prepared to shew, if necessary, that
some of the strongest prejudices with
which the Church of England has to
contend, have been imbibed in those
very seats of learning, one of the
most important objects of which
should be to furnish her with able
defenders. The youth are not duly
instructed in her peculiar doctrines.
Her peculiar character is not held
before them. They are not suffi-
ciently informed of those grounds of
preference by reason of which she
claims a superiority over other sects.
She is held forth to their veneration
merely because she is the handmaid
of the state, instead of its being im-
pressed upon them that she is the
handmaid of the state because she
is pre-eminently worthy of their ve-
neration. Studies of a character al-
together different engross the chief
part of their attention ; that is, when
they do attend to any serious studies
at all : — and when dogs and horses,
cards and dice, are not their sole or
principal occupation, Now, what

attachment can a laity thus brought
up have to their national Church?
None \vhatever. They look upon it
merely as one among the many sects
of Protestantism to which England,
the fruitful mother of heresies, has
given birth ; arid would consider it
unworthy the liberality of their age
and country to make any marked
distinction between them.

I need not tell you that such is
not the case with us, either as re-
gards our clergy or laity. The first
are scarcely instructed in any thing
beyond their profession, in order that
all their time and thoughts may be
devoted to " the one thing needful."
And we make it a point, as far as we
have the power of so doing, that our
laity shall be just so far interested in
matters pertaining to our Church, as
may cause them to feel that " nostra
res agitur," whenever its privileges
become matter of discussion, or its
doctrines topics of argument.

Our clergy, as I have mentioned,
are chiefly drawn from the lower
orders. Rut they are the best of the
lower orders. Has any poor man a
child, who is distinguished beyond
his other children, for sobriety, piety,
love of learning, £c. — he is set apart
for the ministry. It is not difficult
for him in this country to obtain the
requisite instruction in classical learn-
ing which may qualify him for ad-
mission into the institutions at May-
nooth or Carlo w, and which may be
obtained upon due application to the
bishop or some of the principal clergy,
who thus exercise a species of pa-
tronage which gives them no small
consideration in the eyes of the peo-
ple.

Into these seminaries they enter
with the single view of becoming
priests ; and they pursue the studies
requisite for that purpose with a
concentrated earnestness of atten-
tion, which cannot be even conceived
by those who contrive to make their
qualification for the ministry inci-
dental merely to the pursuit of some
other more engrossing object. How
many of the clergy of the Church of
England, at present, are individuals
who betook themselves to the sacred
profession, after they had failed in,
or were tired of, some secular call-
ing, and with no greater preparation
for holy orders, than they had con-
trived, by a thrifty economy, to

1882.] Intercepted Letters from a Roman Catholic Clergyman.

make during their progress through
the University — and thus find, gene-
rally speaking, that they are not be-
hind their contemporaries in either
the skill or the knowledge that is
required for exercising their new
craft with profit or with eclat. But
with us these things are not so. Our
clergy are those who, from early
childhood, have been marked out for
the sacred office; and who, from
their youth up, have received a train-
ing such as peculiarly qualifies them
for entering upon it with advantage.
They are men whose attention has
been confined to one pursuit, not
dissipated over several; and whose
acquisitions all have a direct or an
indirect bearing upon the great cause
to which they are devoted. What-
ever be the capacity of any one of
our clergy, we contrive to make him
predominantly professional, by so
confining his attention to professional
topics, that the sum total of his know-
ledge upon other subjects may bear
but a small proportion to his pole-
mical acquirements. The very re-
verse of this takes place amongst our
adversaries; — and their wisest and
most learned men are, generally
speaking, wise and learned much
more as pertains to the things of this
world than of the next, and pride
themselves much more upon their
classical, historical, or scientific at-
tainments, than upon their proficien-
cy in the knowledge of divine things,
in comparison with which every other
species of human learning is mere
" hay and stubble."

But the most important point of
distinction between the orthodox and
the heretical clergy in this country,
is, that we put the Church where they
put the gospel. We make the gospel
but an instrument for the exaltation
of the Church ; they make the Church
but an instrument for the publication
of the gospel. You may easily con-
ceive the immense advantage of our
position in this respect. In the first
place, all our clergy must, necessa-
rily, be good churchmen ; they must
recognise the supreme authority of
one living and divinely appointed
commentator upon holy writ, and
yield to his commands the most im-
plicit obedience ; — while our adver-
saries are divided according to their
several whims or fancies ; and their
real regard for the Church to which

VOL. XXXI, NO. CLXXXI.

38

they belong, does not extend beyond
their positive assurance that its ex-
istence is indispensable for the inte-
rests of true religion. And that this
assurance is rarely afforded, you may
easily collect from what has been
already said respecting the deficien-
cies of their professional education.
In fact, upon this, as upon every
other important subject, they are
divided. Their High Churchmen of
the present day merely approve of
the Church as a political institute ; —
their Low Churchmen disapprove of
it as a religious incumbrance.

Who is right or who is wrong, in
thus subordinating the gospel to. the
Church, cannot, my dear friend, be a
question between you and me ; but
as little, I deem it, can it be a ques-
tion who has the advantage in the
position which we respectively occu-
py— our people, who must acknow-
ledge the authority of the Church of
Rome, preparatory to their being
Christians ; or our adversaries, who
conceive that they may be Christians,
while yet they are very indifferent
about the Church of England. No
pains, as I before told you, are here
taken to shew — even if it could be
shewn — that the Church, as by law
established, is essential to the inte-
rests of true religion, or even very
considerably conducive thereto ; and,
therefore, it never will be defended
with the zeal with which we defend
our system. We feel that all is lost
if our Church is overturned. The
decided overthrow of Catholicity in
Christendom, (if I may presume for
a moment to contemplate such an
impossibility,) would not lead to Pro-
testantism, but to infidelity. The
Church—the Church by Christ esta-
blished— is that which is always up-
permost in the thoughts of true be-
lievers. They find it as difficult to
separate its interests from those of
" the faith once delivered to the
saints," as heretics to identify them
together. And, if the alternative
were proposed to them to-morrow,
to choose the one and reject the
other, I am as well persuaded their
cry would be " perish the gospel, and
live the Church," as that the cry of
the heretics, under similar circum-
stances, would be, " perish the
Church, and live the gospel."

Well, my friend, we will not part
with the gospel while we preserve
c

Intercepted Letters from a Roman Catholic Clergyman. [Jan.

34

the Church. Received as we receive
it, with due submission to ecclesias-
tical authority; and interpreted, as
we interpret it, in due conformity to
the dictates of the apostolic see, it is
by no means opposed to, but, on the
contrary, altogether consistent with
the doctrines of our holy religion ;
while our adversaries, having de-
parted from the Church, maybe said,
also, to have departed from the gos-
pel, for they reject the only guidance
under which it could be truly under-
stood. In sacrificing the Church, be-
cause of their attachment to the gos-
pel, they are altogether unconscious
that they are sacrificing the gospel
from their hatred to the Church.

And long may they continue in
that delusive state of self-confidence,
which causes division amongst them-
selves as well as separation from the
centre of Catholic unity. Thus may
they best be eventually brought from
the errors of their ways, and led to
recognise, from the contemplation of
the harmony which prevails amongst
true believers, the only source of
certainty and security in matters of
faith and doctrine, by the meek and
reverent submission to which men
may have peace upon earth, and at-
tain, after their mortal pilgrimage,
the blessedness of heaven.

Our position here, therefore, is
abundantly consolatory at present.
It is surely a cause of grateful thanks-
giving, that our adversaries should ex-
perience embarrassment and weak-
ness from what might be supposed
to give them strength, while we ex-
perience strength and confidence
from what might be supposed to em-
barrass and impede us.

Of liberality upon the continent
you have some reason to complain.
And I fully agree with you, that the
present state of our Church would
be less deplorable, if the defection
from the faith that has taken place
carried men the whole way into infi-
delity, without suffering them to
touch, on the road, at any of those
resting-places where they become
enamoured of the follies of some
fantastical sect, and persuade them-
selves that, by becoming attached to
it, they may still be Christians. Those
who have been, in this way, inveigled
from us, we rarely if ever reclaim,

while stark-staring infidels are very
frequently re-converted — to be sure,
in most instances upon the death-
bed, but then, one such conversion
is better than a dozen sermons. Be-
sides, infidels, in this country at least,
have been of amazing use to us.
Without them, I do not think the
Parliament would have ever passed
the Catholic Bill ; and, I assure you,
their hatred of the heretical church
exceeds that of true believers. They
are known here by the name of li-
beral Protestants ; and you may be
sure that we do not refuse to bid
them " God speed," when they vo-
lunteer to act as pioneers for the de-
struction of Protestant institutions.

There is, therefore, a wide differ-
ence between the meaning of the
word " liberality" amongst us and
amongst you; or rather, the differ-
ent circumstances in which we are
placed give it a different application.
With you, it is anti-popish ; with us,
it is favourable to popery. With you,
it is the mask under which infidels
carry on their designs against true
religion ; with us, it is the mask un-
der which the faithful, who are for
this one purpose in league with infi-
dels, carry on their designs against
the Established Church. ' With you,
it starves religion ; with us, it feeds
it. With you, it has deprived the
Church of its own property ; with us,
it has taxed an heretical community
for the purpose of educating our
clergy, and is about to appropriate
part of the revenues belonging to the
heretical establishment for the pur-
pose of conferring upon them a re-
putable independence. Therefore,
say I, long live " LIBERALITY," in
the sense in which it is understood
in Ireland.

And be assured, my friend, that
the same guardian and providential
care which has been extended over
us will be extended over you. You
will find yet, notwithstanding your
present difficulties, that all things
will work together for good. It
should, surely, be a great consola-
tion to you to be made acquainted
with the sure and certain grounds
upon which we calculate upon our
speedy re-establishment in this coun-
try.

T.K.

1832.] Intercepted Letters from a Roman Catholic Clergyman*

LETTER V.

MY DEAR FRIEND,
I said in my last, that there was
something in the discipline of the
Church of England adverse to its
stability. You shall judge. The pa-
tronage of the bishoprics and of the
higher dignities is vested in the go-
vernment, who also have the disposal
of a vast number of the inferior pre-
ferments. The remainder are shared
between the bishops and the lay im-
propriators. Now, we may lay it
down as a certain truth, that the con-
dition of the Church will be deter-
mined by the manner in which the
patronage is employed. If it be con-
scientiously used, the Church must
prosper ; — if it be sacrilegiously
abused, the Church must decay.

What, then, are the motives which
influence the government in the
choice of bishops ? For, as are the
bishops, so will be the Church. Are
they appointed for political or for spi-
ritual considerations ? A man would
here be laughed at who seriously
asked such a question : — so notori-
ous is it, that family connexion and
parliamentary influence are the only
passports to that lofty station ! The
consequence of this is, that in the
Church of England real merit is over-
looked, or scantily and inadequately
rewarded ; while individuals, by no
means eminent either for learning, or
piety, or talent, or eloquence are
promoted, not only beyond their de-
serts, but despite their deficiencies,
and without the slightest regard to
those peculiar qualifications which
can alone ensure a wise discretion
in the management of ecclesiastical
affairs. Now, the advantage which
we derive from this is twofold. It
excites a just clamour against the he-
retical Church from without, and it
weakens its defences within. The
same arts which fill its high places
with incapables, augment the hatred
.and strengthen the hands of its ene-
mies.

The bishops, you may be sure, fol-
low the example that has been set
them, and do unto others as the go-
vernment has done unto them. Their
best benefices are seldom conferred
upon any one beyond the circle of
their kinsfolk or acquaintance. Thus,
from the top to the bottom, a system
of prartiality and persecution pre-

vails, such as, in the days of Luther,
furnished the most plausible of the
accusations which were levelled
against our holy Church, and which,
more than any thing else, contributed
to the event miscalled the Reforma-
tion.

At present, when a man who is
eminent either for learning, piety,
zeal, or eloquence, begins to be pro-
fessionally distinguished, the sons
and relatives of the bishop, in whose
diocese he is, immediately begin ta
take the alarm. They consider him
as a kind of interloper, who is dis-
posed to interfere with their legiti-
mate claims, and nothing is left un-
done, which petty artifice and ma-
levolence can accomplish, to injure
him in the opinion of his diocesan,
who, indeed, too frequently is dis-
posed to view him in the same light;
so that, as Shakspeare says, " his vir-
tues are his enemies," and he soon
begins to learn from experience, that
" that which is comely" may " enve-
nom him that bears it." He sees that
the sycophant and the parasite thrive,

a scanty pittance, scarcely sufficient
to ward off actual famine from his
wife and children !

It has, I know, been'said, and it is
thought by many sensible persons,
that the lay impropriations are a great
means of giving stability, and ensu-
ring permanency, to this accursed
system. I never have thought so;
and least of all can I think so now.
Of all the English Church prefer-
ments, the lay impropriations are the
most notoriously and scandalously
abused. The government sometimes,
even the bishops sometimes, have re-
gard to merit in their choice of rec-
tors. They become ashamed of being
influenced in every instance by sor-
did and unworthy motives, and they
endeavour to gull the public, and at
the same time throw a sop to their
conscience, by sometimes promoting
an honest man ; but lay impropria-
tors never. I say, therefore, that the
part of the system that is most objec-
tionable can never permanently up-
hold therest. No CHURCH CAN EVER BE

PROTECTED AGAINST ITS OWN ABUSES ;

and amongst the rottenest abuses of the
Church of England, Hook upon lay
impropriation. I have no doubt the

Intercepted Letters from a Roman Catholic Clergyman.

[Jan.

individuals to whom they belong
would like well to continue possess-
ed of them, and must be blind in-
deed, if they do not see that their in-
terest in this respect is linked inse-
parably with that of the Established
Church. But if that Established
Church be felt to be a public nui-
sance, not merely by us, but by Pro-
testants also, from the manner in
which its patronage is administered,
to the neglect of those ends for which
it was appointed, and to the scandal
of true religion, the lay impropria-
tors will find themselves in a miser-
able minority, if their temporal inte-
rests should inspire them with the
hardihood to stickle for the continu-
ance of such a system, in opposition
to the judgment and the feelings of
the community at large. Depend up-
on it, it cannot last ; and the lay im-
propriators, so far from being a pro-
tection to it, are a dead weight, which
must accelerate its downfall, and en-
sure its destruction.

Nor is this all — as soon as the
Church tumbles, the lay impropria-
tions must cease. We are acquainted
with every acre of Church property
which has thus undergone sacrilegi-
ous alienation ; and, think you, that
we shall be slow to put in our claims
when the day of retribution comes ?
No, truly. If what was appropriated
to religious purposes maybe resumed,
— much more, what was misappro-
priated to secular purposes. If church-
men, who perform spiritual duties
in consideration of the possessions
which they enjoy, may yet be de-
prived of those possessions ; — much
more those who perform no such
spiritual duties. The lay impro-
priators reason right in saying, " our
property is part and parcel of the
property of the Church ; let us, there-
fore, unite to defend it." But we,
also, reason rightly when we say,
" you cannot defend the property
of the Church; and, therefore, a
fortiori, not your own possessions."
They are an engrafted shoot, which
all the care that can be taken of
them will not enable to survive the
extinction of the parent stock. So
may we pronounce, with at least
equal certainty, of those vested inte-
rests which have been acquired out
of the patrimony of the Church, and
the security of which cannot be great-
er than that of the property of which

they once constituted part and par-
cel, and which, if an heretical govern-
ment had a right to alienate it for the
support of heresy, the faithful may
surely reclaim for the maintenance of
true religion.

Now, compare all this with the
practice which obtains among us in
similar cases, and recognise our su-
periority. In our Church merit ob-
tains its due reward. An able and
efficient minister never is neglected.
The curate, after a certain routine of
service, if his conduct be approved
of, is certain of becoming a parisli
priest ; — and the parochial clergy,
according to their merits, may enter-
tain an equal expectation of being
elevated to the mitre. But this is not
all. We not only provide for our
clergy according to their merits, but
dispose of them according to their
fitness. We endeavour, as far as in
us lies, not only to give good things
to good men, but to put proper men
in proper places. This, as you may
well suppose, gives us a prodigious
advantage. It is a consideration which
never enters into the mind of a Pro-
testant patron, who only thinks of
the living as a good thing for the fa-
voured individual who is appointed
to it. Now our only consideration
is, whether the individual appointed
is good enough for the living. When-
ever a vacancy occurs, and before
any promotion takes place in conse-
quence of it, we consider all the cir-
cumstances of the case — the extent
of the parish, its population, the dif-
ferent denominations of heresy that
are to be found in it, what particular
species at that time happens to be
epidemic; how the people are di-
vided into parties ; the characters
and abilities of the Protestant cler-
gymen ; the names and the disposi-
tions of the principal Protestant
gentry ; it is unnecessary to tell you
that we enquire very particularly into
all those things, because you know
that wo are under obligation to make
a regular return of them to the Holy
See; and you may easily imagine
the advantage which we possess,
from the knowledge which we thus
acquire, in choosing the individual
upon whose conduct in his sacred
charge so many important conse-
quences may depend, and who may
so considerably either promote by
his discretion, or injure by his i

1832.] Intercepted Letters fro ma Roman Catholic Clergyman.

pacity, the cause to which we are all
so earnestly devoted.

You may be sure, therefore, that
our flocks are not " scattered like
sheep not having a shepherd." They
are well attended and carefully pre-
served. Is there a doughty contro-
versialist, some scatterer of pestilent
heresies, in the neighbourhood ? We
are not slow to depute the cause of
the Church to some champion who
has been trained in polemical war-
fare, and with whom, if he should
presume to break a lance, he is sure
to come off" worsted in the conflict.
Is the charge of the Protestant con-
gregation committed to some incom-
petent person, who from ignorance
cannot, or from heedlessness will
not, be a guide or a pattern to his
flock ? We take good care that our
own people shall experience a stri-
king contrast in that particular, and
learn to appreciate the watchfulness
and the ability of learned and labo-
rious pastors.

Indeed I may say, that if our ad-
versaries were disposed to imitate
us in these particulars, they could
not do so ; such are the deficiencies
in their professional education. If
the government were as earnest as
they are indifferent respecting the
choice of good bishops ; and the bi-
shops as earnest as they are indiffe-
rent respecting the selection of good
rectors, they could not find them — at
least not without remodelling the
whole system of their universities.

What a militia or a yeomanry is,
as compared with the regular ser-
vice, they are as compared with us.
There is amongst them no " esprit
du corps." Whatever zeal or ability,
or professional devotedness they
evince, arises out of the personal
character of individuals, and not out
of the training which they undergo.
They are not content to act like our
clergy, in due subordination to the
interests of the system to which they
belong. They are heady, violent,
intractable, and wayward; and so
absurdly violent in their attacks up-
on us, that I have often thought we
were more indebted to the folly
which thus exposes them to con-
tempt, than to the controversial abi-
lity by which they are confounded.

But you will say, " these are all
deficiencies so obvious that they
must surely attract notice, and pro-

37

duce a remedy." They do, my
friend, attract notice, and they have
caused the suggestion of a remedy-
but — a remedy worse than the dis*
ease !

The proposal which seems most
popular at present is, a seizure of
Church property, and the creation of
a fund for increasing the stipends of
the curates and inferior clergy; while
those of the bishops, and of the
clergy who hold the larger benefices,
are diminished. Now this would
only complete the ruin that threat-
ens them from the evils already in
existence. The only part of their
system which works unexception-
ably well, is that which is in the
hands of the present race of curates
and inferior clergy ; who appear, in-
deed, to do them but justice, to have
entered into the Church with single
views, and who certainly do not owe
their present appointments to secu-
lar considerations. As long as they
subsist upon their present footing,
there will always be a certain de-
gree of activity and earnestness
which keeps the system just alive,
and compensates, in some measure,
for the indolence and carelessness
by which their more richly endowed
brethren are distinguished. But
let their stipends be increased so as
to average even two hundred a-year,
and from that moment their appoint-
ments will become worthy of the no-
tice of many who at present despise
them ; and, whenever vacancies oc-
cur, they will be filled up from the
same motives which influence the
appointment of their bishops; and
by just the same description of
men, which causes the higher pre-
ferments to be felt at present as an
incubus upon religion. Was I not
right, therefore, in saying, that their
remedy will be worse than the dis-
ease ? In fact, it is no other than the
most miserable quackery. Instead
of applying themselves to the remo-
val of a complaint that is constituent^
they are content with attacking one
of the symptoms ! — and that in such
a manner, that, instead of relieving,
they must only aggravate the gene-
ral malady b*odMo ,$J0ra!

Remedies no doubt have been
suggested \vhich would indeed have
a tendency to prop this tottering
Church, and enable it to endure a
little longer, But there is not the

Intercepted Letters from a Roman Catholic Clergyman. [Jan.

38

slightest chance of their being adopt-
ed. One of these consists in the ap-
pointment of ecclesiastical commis-
sioners, for the purpose of recom-
mending persons fit for the episco-
pal office to the King. If the com-
missioners were efficient, they might
in this way prevent notoriously bad
appointments ; — and if they were so
far successful as to ensure good
ones, there is no saying how long the
reign of heresy might not be perpe-
tuated. But fear not ; such a mea-
sure implies far too great an en-
croachment upon the patronage of
the government ever to take place.
The Church in this country has al-
ways been used for the convenience
of the state, which, indeed, could not
subsist without the wages of her
prostitution. A measure, therefore,
which would have any tendency to
make her an honest woman, will
never, for one moment, be seriously
entertained. Promotions will go on
for the future as they have gone on
hitherto ; until abuses accumulate to
such a degree that the heretics them-
selves will feel them to be unendu-
rable abominations.

You may suppose that the remedy
above described may have a chance
of being adopted, because there is an
instance of its having been resorted
to by William the Third, upon his
accession to the sovereignty of these
realms. He said that, as a foreigner,
he was unacquainted with the merits
of the several individuals who were
candidates for clerical preferment,
and that ^he required assistance in
making his selections from amongst
them. But this only proves his sim-
plicity. In excuse for him, however,
It must be said that he was at that
time a stranger in the country, and
unacquainted with the only proper
use to be made of English bishop-
rics. He did not until afterwards
learn their value as a means of secu-
ring parliamentary influence; and,
to do him justice, as soon as he was
so far instructed, the labours of the
commissioners were dispensed with.
There is no fear that William the
Fourth will fall into such an error.
He has been educated in a different
school. He, during his whole life,
has had before his eyes the edifying
examples of English statesmen.
Whatever, therefore, may be done,
will not, be satisfied, interfere in the

slightest degree with the cherished
abuses of the good old system. It is
not rooted in affection. It is not ba-
sed in knowledge. It is not main-
tained by a body of well trained and
honestly chosen ecclesiastics. It is
not regarded by the government with
either reverence or love. It is not
even at unity with itself; — while it
is surrounded by active, powerful,
and implacable enemies. Does it,
therefore, require the gift of pro-
phecy to say that it must fall ; and
that nothing but the memory of the
miseries which it has occasioned will
survive it ?

The only thing that gives me the
least reason to doubt that matters
will in all respects proceed accord-
ing to our wishes is, the conduct of
our friend, the Lord Brougham and
Vaux, since he became Lord High
Chancellor of England. Confound
the knave, he seems resolved upon
making a conscientious use of his
own preferments. He has been pro-
moting some of the ablest and the
most dangerous of his own and our
common enemies! What infatuation!
It would not be half so bad if he
were not the keeper of the King's
conscience. He should have avoid-
ed such folly, not to call it by a
harsher name, if it were only for the
sake of the example. But he will
find out his mistake by and by.

Well, there is one consolation at
all events, that, act how he may, he
cannot do much mischief while he is
connected with the present adminis-
tration. THEY ARE RESOLVED UPON

MEASURES WHICH MUST ENSURE THE
DESTRUCTION OF THE CHURCH .' — and

so fully convinced are we of the
efficacy of their present plans for the
effectual accomplishment of all our
purposes, that we are minded for the
present to suspend our active hosti-
lity to the established clergy, and
suffer them to repose in peace for
the brief term allotted to their ex-
istence. They are under sentence of
death. And if my advice be attended
to, we will not disturb the last mo-
ments of an expiring heretical esta-
blishment, by any unseemly triumph
or unnecessary molestation. But we
have difficult spirits here to manage,
and I know not how far I may oe
successful. Time presses, and I must
say adieu.

T,K.

The Bracelets,

THE BRACELETS.*
A SKETCH FROM THE GERMAN.

IT was late on the evening of a
gloomy and bitter day in December,
about the middle of the seventeenth
century, that Carl Koecker, a stu-
dent of Goettingen University, ha-
ving sipped his last cup of coffee,
was sitting thoughtfully in his room,
with his feet crossed and resting on
the fender of his little fire-place.
His eyes were fixed on the fire, which
crackled and blazed briskly, throw-
ing a cheerful lustre over his snug-
study. All the tools of scholar-craft
lay about him. On a table by his
side lay open various volumes of
classic and metaphysic lore, which
shewed evident marks of service,
being much thumbed and fingered ;
sundry note-books, filled with me-
moranda of the day*s studies, and a
case of mathematical instruments.
Two sides of the chamber were lined
with well-filled book- shelves; on
one side was the window, and the
corresponding one was occupied by
a large dusky picture of Martin Lu-
ther. All was silent as the most
studious German could desire ; for
the stillness was, so to speak, but
enhanced by the whispered tickings
of an old-fashioned family watch,
suspended over the mantel-piece.
As for Carl himself, he was of
" goodly look and stature." His
shirt-neck lay open, with the spot-
less collar turned down on each side ;
his right hand lay in his bosom, and
his left, leaning on the table, support-
ed his " learning-laden" head. His
brow was furrowed with thoughtful
anxiety, which, together with his sal-
low features and long black musta-
ches, gave him r the appearance of a
much older man than he really was.
As for his thoughts, it were difficult
to say whether, at the moment when
he is presented to the reader, they
were occupied by the mysterious
pneumatological speculations of Doc-

tor Von Dunder Profondant, which
Carl had been attempting to com-
prehend in the morning's lecture;
whether his fancy was revelling in
recollections of the romantic splen-
dours of last night's opera, or whe-
ther they were fixed, with painful
interest, on the facts of a seizure
made that day in Goettingen by the
terrible myrmidons of the Inquisi-
tion, on the double charge of heresy
and sorcery. The frightful tribunal
alluded to was then in the plenitude
of its power, and its mysterious and
ferocious doings were exciting near-
ly as much indignation as they had
long occasioned consternation. Carl
was of a very speculative, abstract
turn, and having been early initiated
into the gloomy depths of transcend-
entalism, had begun latterly to turn his
thoughts to wards the occult sciences.
About the period when this nar-
rative commences, it was generally
understood that a professor of the
Art Diabolic had visited the princi-
pal places of Germany, and was
supposed to have made several con-
verts among the learned, as well as
to have founded secret schools for
teaching the principles of his science.
The lynx-eyed Inquisition soon
searched him out, and the unfortu-
nate professor of magic suddenly
disappeared, without ever again
being heard of. The present object
of those holy censors of mankind,
the principals of the Inquisition, was
to discover the schools he had found-
ed, and the disciples attending
them. Several of the leading stu-
dents at Goettingen had fallen under
suspicion, and Carl Koecker, it was
said, among the number. He was
cunning enough, however, to avoid
any possible pretext for offence, by
saying little — and even that little in
disparagement of the objectionable
doctrines.

* The subtle schemes resorted to by the Inquisition for the detection and seizure
of its victims, are too well known for an intelligent reader to charge any portions of
the ensuing narrative with improbability or exaggeration. In a word — all that the
wit and power of devils can devise and execute, may wellnjgh be believed of the
members of that execrable institution.

40

The Bracelets.

[Jan.

Carl had just set down his coffee-
pot on the hob, after an abortive ef-
fort to extract another cup from it,
and was stirring together the glow-
ing embers of his fire, when he was
startled by a loud^knocking at his door.
It is not asserted that the sound cau-
sed him to change colour, but that
he heard it with a little trepidation,
is undeniable. Who, on earth, could
be wanting him ?

Rap, rap, rap ! — Rap, rap, rap !

Carl gently laid down the poker,
but did not move from his seat. He
listened — his heart beat quick and
hard. It seemed evident that the
obstreperous applicant for admission
was resolved on effecting his pur-
pose one way or another ; for, in a
few seconds, the door was shaken,
and with some violence. Carl, almost
fancying he had been dreaming,
started from his seat, and cast an
alarmed eye towards the scene of
such unseemly interruptions. Aye —
the door was really, visibly shaken,
and that, too, very impetuously.
Who could it be — and what the mat-
ter ? Was it one of his creditors ?
He did not owe five pounds in the
world. A fellow-student ? The hour
was too late, and Carl, besides, of
such a reserved, unsocial turn, as to
have scarce one acquaintance at Col-
lege on visiting terms. A thief?—
He would surely effect his entrance
more quietly. Were some of his re-
latives come to Goettingen ? was
any member of his family ill ? was it
merely drunk Jans, the janitor? —
Who — WHO could it be ? thought the
startled student.

Rap, rap, rap, rap I—Rap, rap,

Carl almost overthrew the chair
he was standing by, snatched up his
little lamp, and stole to the door.

« Who the d— 1 is without, there ?"
he enquired, angrily, but not very
firmly, with one hand hesitatingly
extended towards the door-handle,
and the other holding his lamp ; the
flame of which, by the way, he fan-
cied flickered oddly.

" WHO is without there ?" he asked
again, for his first question had re-
ceived no answer.

Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap !— Rap, rap,
rap— 'Vi& uo,^ i

" In the devil's name, who are
you"—

" Who am I ?" replied a husky, and

somewhat hollow voice, from with-
out. " Who am I, i' faith ?— Let me
in ! Let me in I — Mercy — you could
not be more uncivil, or perchance
affrighted, if I were Jans Cutpurse,
or the Spirit of the Hartz mountains.
Let me in, Carl Koecker, I say — Let
me in!"

" Let you in ? Der teufel !"

" Come, come — open the door !"

"Who are you? Who the d 1

are you, I say ?" continued Carl,
pressing his right hand and knee
against the door.

" Let me in at once, Carl Koecker
—let me in, I say — or it may fare
fearfully with you !"

" Mein Gott !" exclaimed the con-
founded student, looking askance at
his lamp, as though he expected to
find a confidential adviser in it. The
knocker, however, recommenced
operations, with such astounding ra-
pidity and violence, that Carl, in a
momentary fit of fear and confusion,
unguardedly opened the door. A
tide of objurgatory expressions gush-
ed up to his tongue, when some one
suddenly slipped through the door
past Carl, made his way to the fire-
place, and sat down in the arm-chair
which had been recently occupied
by the student. This was done with
the easy matter-of-fact air of the most
intimate acquaintance. Carl Koecker
still held the handle of the door,
staring open-eyed and open-mouth-
ed at the stranger, with unutterable
amazement.

" Good Carl, prithee, now, shut
the door — for 'tis bitter cold," ex-
claimed the unbidden guest, in a
familiar tone, dragging his seat close
to the fire, and rubbing together his
shrivelled fingers, to quicken the
circulation.

" Come, Carl ! shut the door, and
sit down here," continued the
stranger, entreatingly. Carl, com-
pletely bewildered, obeyed, and sat
down in a chair opposite the
stranger. The latter seemed not
unlike a Jew-pedlar. He was small
in stature, but of sinewy make. He
wore a short coarse drab -coloured
coat, or tunic, with double rows of
huge horn buttons. His vest was of
the same materials and cut ,• and, as
was usual in those days with itine-
rant venders of valuable articles, he
had a broad leathern girdle about his
waist, with a pouch on the inside.

1832.] The Bracelets.

His short, shrunk, curved legs were
enveloped in worsted over-alls,
soiled and spattered with muddy
walking. Reraovingabroad-brimmed
hat, he disclosed a fine bald head,
fringed round the base with a few
straggling grey hairs. His face was
wrinkled, and of a parchment hue ;
and his sparkling black eyes peered
on the student with an expression
of keen and searching inquisitive-
ness. Carl, in his excitement, al-
most fancied the stranger's eyes to
glare on him witli something like
a swinish voracity. He shuddered ;
and was but little more reconciled
to the strange figure before him,
when a furtive glance had assured
him that at least the feet were not
cloven !

When he allowed himself to dwell
for a few moments on the strange
circumstances in which he was
placed— alone — near midnight, with
nobody knew whom — a thief, a mur-
derer, a wizard, — a disguised sa-
tellite of the infernal Inquisition —
a devil, for aught he knew; — when,
in a word, he "gazed at the strange
intruder, sitting quietly and silently
by the fire, with the air rather of
host than guest, and reflected how
far he was out of hearing or assis-
tance, if aught of violence human or
supernatural should be offered — it
was no trifling effort that enabled
him to preserve a tolerable shew of
calmness.

" Heigh-ho !" grunted the old man,
in a musing tone, with his eyes fixed
on the fire, and his skinny fingers
clasped over each knee.

" H e m !" muttered Carl,

his eyes, as it were, glued to those
of his guest.

" Well, Carl," said the stranger,
suddenly, as if starting from a
reverie ; " it grows very late, and I
must begone ere long, having far to
travel, and on pressing errands. So
shall we discourse a little touching
philosophy, or proceed at once to
business ?"

" Proceed to business ?"

" Yes, I say, proceed to business.
Is there any thing so very odd in
that ?" enquired the old man, slowly,
with a surprised air.

Business ! — Business /'

ex-

claimed Carl, muttering to himself j
and he added, in a louder tone, ad-

dressing himself to his visitor —

" Why, what the dev "

" Pho, pho, Carl !— We have no-
thing whatever to do with the devil
— at least J have not," replied the
old man, with an odd leer. — " But,
with your good leave, Carl, we will
settle our business first, and then
proceed to discourse on a point of
Doctor Von Bunder's lecture of
this morning." — So this extraordi-
nary personage had been present at
Doctor Von Dunder's that morning
— and, further, knew that Carl had !

" Carl," continued the stranger,
abruptly — " are you still anxious for
the bracelets ?"

The question suddenly blanched
Carl's face, and his eyes seemed
starting from their sockets, as he
muttered, or rather gasped, in
faltering accents — " Devil ! devil !
devil ! What want you with me ?
Why are you come hither ?" He
shook in his seat ; for a certain cir-
cumstance occasioned a suspicion
of the stranger's being an emissary
of the Inquisition to flash across
the mind of the affrighted student.

" Who sent you hither ?" he en-
quired in faltering accents.

" Why, in heaven's name, are you
so disturbed, Carl ? I am really nei-
ther the devil nor one of his minions
— having neither wit nor power
enough for either," said the stranger,
mildly. jaoo oi

" Then are you worse — you are
from the INQUISITION — and are sent
to ensnare my soul to hell, and my
body to tortures horrible !" rejoined
Carl, a cold sweat suddenly bedew-
ing his whole frame.

*« Why, if it were so, I must surely
be bolder than wise, to venture on
such odds as are here. I am old and
somewhat shaken of strength ; you
young and lion-like. Which would
have tlje better, think you, in a strug-
gle?" continued the stranger, meekly.

" Why," replied Carl, still shiver-
ing with the fearful suspicion — " you
speak fairly and reasonably ; and let
me then as fairly tell you, that who-
ever you be, if you be but mortal,
and wrong me, or attempt me mis-
chief,! will put you to death as calm-
ly and surely as I shew you this" —
and he drew a small poniard from
his vest, clasped it fiercely in his
hand, and extended the keen thirsty-

42

The Bracelets.

[Jan.

looking blade to the stranger, who
merely crossed his hands on his
breast, and looked upwards with an
innocent air.

" Did I not say I was in your
power, Carl? And is it probable I
shall seek an offence with you? —
Would I, an old feeble man"

" What brought you hither ? What
made you cause the uproar at my
door just now?" enquired Carl, with
some shew of self-possession.

" Oh, faith — that is easily answered.
Business — business ! I have much to
do with you, and but small time to
do it in. Truly your fears are all
false ! I am, I repeat it, but a man,
even as you are — with the difference
of an odd year or two — ugh ! ugh !
ugh !" continued the stranger with a
feeble asthmatic laugh. " But, to be
short. If your heart is still set upon
the bracelets — I may, perhaps, put
you in the way of obtaining them."

Carl strove to look calm — but the
thing was impossible. His colour
faded, his heart seemed fluttering
about his throat as though it would
choke him, and his eyes emitted co-
ruscations of fire.

" Old man ! whoever, whatever
you are — I supplicate you to tell me
how you know any thing about the
matter you speak of! How came you
to know that I had any care about
the — the — the bracelets ?" — He could
scarce get out the word — " for I have
not breathed a syllable about them to
any one human !"

" How did I know it? Pho ! it
might be a long, perchance a dull
tale, were I to explain how I came
by my knowledge in this matter.
Enough that I know your soul gapes
to get the bracelets. In a word, I
came not here to tell you how I know
what I do, but simply to put you in
the way of obtaining your wishes."

A cold stream of suspicion flowed
over Carl's mind while the stranger

rke — and when Carl reverted to
many subtle devices known to be
adopted by the Inquisition for en-
trapping their prey. Still Carl's an-
xious curiosity prevailed over his
fears. The old man, after fumbling
a while about the inner part of his
girdle, took out what seemed to Carl
a large snuff or tobacco-box. Open-
ing it, he slowly removed two or three
layers of fine wool ; and then there
glistened before the enchanted eyes

of the student one of the most re-
splendent bracelets that had ever is-
sued from the hands of cunning jew-
eller. He was lost, for a second or
two, in speechless ecstasy.

" Oh, rare ! oh, exquisite — exqui-
site bracelet !" — he gasped at length,
so absorbed with the splendid bauble
that he did not notice the almost
wolfish glare with which the old
man's eye was fixed on his. — " And
may this be MINE ? Did you not say
you could put it into my power ?"

" Aye, Carl, it may be yours !" re-
plied the stranger, in a low, earnest
tone, still fixedly eyeing his compa-
nion's countenance.

" Aye, aye ! it may ? Name, then,
the price ! Name your price, old
man ! " exclaimed Carl, eagerly.
Checking himself, however, he add-
ed suddenly, in a desponding tone,
" But why do I ask its price ? Fool
that I am, my whole fortune — aye,
the fortunes of all our family, would
not purchase one only of these jew-
els!"

The more Carl looked at the gor-
geous toy, the more was he fascina-
ted. It was studded with gems of
such amazing brilliance, as to pre-
sent the appearance of a circle of de-
licate violet and orange-hued flame,
as the stranger placed it in different
points of view. Carl could not re-
move his eyes from the bracelet.

" Take it into your own hands— it
will bear a close scrutiny," said the
old man, proffering the box, with its
costly contents, to the student, who
received it with an eager but trem-
bling hand. As he examined the
gems, he discovered one of superior
splendour and magnitude; and whilst
his eyes were riveted upon it — was
it merely his nervous agitation — or,
gracious God ! did it really assume
the appearance of a human eye, of
awful expression ?

Carl's eyes grew dim, the blood
retreated to his heart, and his hands
shook violently as he pushed back
the box and its mysterious contents
to the stranger. Neither spoke for
some seconds. The old man gazed
at Carl with astonishment

" What— what shall I call you ?"
murmured Carl, "as soon as he had
recovered the power of speech.
" What means that— that— that damn-
ed eye that looks at me from the
bracelet? Do your superiors, then,

1832.]

use even sorcery to inveigle their vic-
tims ?" His teeth chattered. " Away
with your damned magic ! Out on
you ! Away — or I shall call for help
from without !" And Carl drew half
out his poniard.

" Tut, man," rejoined the stran-
ger, calmly, after listening with pa-
tience to Carl's objurgations. " Now,
to hear you rave in this wise ! You
—a man — a scholar ! The days of
sorcery, methinks, are gone for ever ;
and as for the INQUISITION that you
din into my ears, I myself fear, but
more hate, that cruel and accursed
institution." This was said slowly
and deeply — the speaker's eyes
searchingly fixed on those of him he
addressed. The student, however,
answered not, and the old man re-
sumed.

" 'Tis but your own heated fancy
that has likened one of these jewels
to an EYE — he, he, he !" said he, with
a poor attempt at laughter. " What
is it that has frightened you but a
large diamond ? A human eye, i' faith
— he, he, he ! — But, to away with
these womanish fancies, I would
know, at once, Carl, whether you
wish to call yourself the owner of
this bracelet ?"

Carl paused.

" Will you give me no answer,
Carl?"

" Aye — Heaven knows I would
fain be its master — for 'tis an en-
chanting, a dazzling — yet a fear-

" Pshaw !" exclaimed the old man,
impatiently.

" Well, then," continued Carl,
doubtingly, " since temper fails you,
I will to the point. Suppose, then, I
were, in a manner, disposed — I mean
— hem ! — What I would say, is — in
short, if it were to come to pass that
I were earnestly desirous (which I
am not) of having this bracelet — not
for myself, mark me, but for an-
other "

"To the point, man! To the
point!" interrupted the stranger,
with anxious asperity.

" Well, I say, if I were disposed to
purchase the bracelet, what would
be your terms ? What must I do ?
What give ?"

" Oh, my terms are most easy and
simple. You may perchance laugh
at hearing them. Find but the fellow

The Bracelets. 43

to this bracelet— and both shall be

yours.

Carl suddenly became cold and
pale. The stranger's peculiar words
and manner had roused painful sus-
picions in the breast of the student —
transiently however — that certain do-
ings of his must be intimately known
in certain awful quarters j and the
stranger's plan was but a subtle trap
for making him develope them. This
feeling, however, gradually yielded
to one of sheer astonishment, as the
stranger repeated his terms, in a
significant tone, and with great ear-
nestness of manner.

" I — /, Carl Koecker — find you the
fellow to this bracelet !" exclaimed
the student. " Surely you must be
mad, or mocking me."

" Whether I be mad or not, con-
cerns you little, so as I can make
good my promise. You have my
terms."

" Will you give me till to-morrow
night to consider whether I will ac-
cept them ?"

" No," replied the stranger, im-
peratively.

"Hem !" exclaimed Carl, sudden-
ly— but with a puzzled air — wishing
to put the stranger off his guard —
" so you have but one bracelet. How
came you by it? — You know, old
man, that if I buy it, I must be satis-
fied that I can keep it."

" Keep your questions to yourself.
Enough for you that I have it," re-
plied the stranger, sternly.

" Another question, nevertheless,
I must put. Where is the other
bracelet ?"

" It must be sought for," replied
the old man, gloomily, placing his
broad-brimmed hat on his head, as if
to overshadow his eyes — " and it is
worthy the search, though a prince
were the seeker. He who shall have
this, has a clue infallible to the dis-
covery of the other."

" Then why not search for it your-
self?" enquired Carl, quickly. A
flush overspread the stranger's face,
and he seemed, for a moment, some-
what confused.

" You are sent hither by the In-
quisition," said Carl, with a cold
shudder — at the same time plunging
his right hand into his bosom, in
search of his poniard — half resolved
to take summary vengeance tra the

44

The Bracelets.

[Jan.

daring and cruel spy. He controlled
himself, however, and repeated his
question in a calmer tone.

* Why do not you seek for the
fellow-bracelet, old man ?"

" I may not, Carl. That must be
sufficient for you. You need not
enter on the search — you need not
take this bracelet; but if you will
venture, and should succeed, 'twill
be the greatest day's work you ever
did. It will bring you riches and
honour ; and, above all, you shall see
both these beautiful trinkets glisten-
ing on the white arm of her — "

" Hold ! I madden ! Speak not !"
gasped Carl, springing with sudden
emotion from his chair — pressing his
hands against his forehead, and ga-
zing fixedly on the bracelet, which
the stranger still held in his hands.

" "Tis an overwhelming thought
truly ! It is !— but— but— -/ find the
fellow to this bracelet '?" he continu-
ed, with a bewildered air, " where,
in Heaven's name, am I to search for

it?"

" Where you can, and where you
dare," replied the stranger, empha-
tically. Carl was struck with the
tone and manner.

" And how long shall I have to try
my fortune ?— Tut!— 'tis an idle— a
mad question truly, a foolish scheme ;
but, supposing — in a word, how long
will you give me ?"

" Two days from this time ; and
on the third, I will come and see you

again-" uom bos,

" Alone ?" enquired Carl, with a

searching glance. r bsinili

" Yes— alone,' ' replied the stranger,

" And can you give me no clue,
whatever ?— None ?"# sla jud altif

" No, assuredly. Else the merit
of your search would fail. You will
not be long in finding one, if you do
but set about the search heartily.—-
Ah, Carl, Carl," he added, suddenly,
with as much gaiety as his extraor-
dinary features could assume, " you
have a white hand, and a small wrist!"
Carl glanced at them complacently.
" I wonder, now, whether it were
small enough for this bracelet? — Try
it on, man— try it on ! — Your wrist, I
think, is but a trifle larger than hers
- " The last word brought the blood
into Carl's face, even to his temples

"•>**S*SSJff-:

—and a tempest to his soul. Scarce
knowing what he did, he took the
glittering bracelet, and with a little
difficulty, clasped it about his wrist.

" Ah, ha !— How wondrous well it
suits you ! In truth, it might have
been made for you ! Your wrist might
have been a lady's !" said the old man,
laughing ; and, rising from his seat,
he scrutinized the bracelet narrowly,
and adjusted it more nicely. " And
now, CarlKoecker — see you part not
with it, in your search ! Farewell,
Carl !" The stranger stepped towards
the door.

" Stay — stay, old man!" exclaimed
the student with surprise. " Whither
are you going? Ha — ha,Der Teufel !"
he continued, almost leaping from
the floor with sudden fright — Why,
thou fiend ! I cannot remove the
bracelet ! It clings to my wrist like
adamant ! — It will cut my hand off!
Ah — ah — it is cutting to the bone,"
he groaned. He strove violently to
wrench it off. "Take it off! Take it
off — I cannot move it ! Help, help !
— dear, good old man, for mercy's
sake - " But his visitor was open-
ing the chamber-door, anxious to be
gone. Carl followed him, using fran-
tic efforts to dislodge the bracelet
from his wrist, which suffered a
frightful sense of compression.

" Good sir! Kind old man— who-
ever you are, wherever you come
from — whatever your errand, for
God's love, help me to remove this
bracelet .!— Oh—" he groaned, "will
you not take it off?"

"Off?— .never!" shouted the old
man, with an unearthly laugh, and an
eye of horrible derision. The student
dropped his hands, fell back aghast
a pace or two, and stared at the
stranger, with eyes that seemed burst-
ing from their sockets. The perspi-
ration started from every pore.

" Never— oh, never— did you say?"
gasped Carl, renewing his desperate
efforts to remove the bracelet. He
grew desperate. " Villain ! fiend !
You have played a hell-trick against
me

! Will you yet say

" Aye — never, till you find its fel-
low," replied the old man, shaking
his shrivelled finger at the student.

" Accursed wretch! Deceiving
devil ! Then will we struggle for it.
Ho, have at you," aloud shrieked
.

1832.] The Bracelets.

Carl, springing forward to grapple
with his tormentor ; who, however,
at that moment slipped through the
open door, shutting it in- Carl's face j
and as the old man went rapidly
down stairs, Carl heard him exclaim-
ing in tones of wild and echoing
laughter — fainter and fainter as the
distance increased — " Never, Carl ;
never, never !"

Carl staggered stupified to a seat,
and sat for some moments the image
of despair. He would have rushed
out after the old man, but that a
deadly faintness seized him. He
could not bring his scattered senses
to bear for an instant on any one
point of the preceding interview.
He felt like a man suddenly roused
at midnight from a frightful dream.
Had he been asleep and dreaming ?
Alas, no ! There was fearful evi-
dence, palpable and visible, of waking
reality. His eye happened to alight
on the bracelet glistening with now
abhorred splendour on his wrist.
With frantic effort he once more
strove to disengage it, but in vain.
He could not move it ; it seemed to
have grown into him ! He rose from
his chair, and paced his room in an
ecstasy of alternate fear and fury.
What had come to him ? Was he un-
der the spell of witchcraft ? WTas he
the sport of diabolical agency ? Or,
worse than either — the sealed vic-
tim of the Inquisition ? Had they
sent their emissary to probe him,
and leave this cunningly-framed
bracelet as an irremovable evi-
dence of their man — even as sheep
are marked for the slaughter? As
this latter suspicion flashed across
his mind with increasing probability,
he sunk in his chair, overwhelmed
with anguish and horror ; and from
his chair to the floor. What was to
become of him ? What could he do ?
Whither was he to fly ? How ascei--
tain the criminatory extent of the
information on which they acted ?
He knew not ! He closed his eyes,
for every thing about him seemed
turning round, and assuming gro-
tesque images and positions. After
lying for some minutes on the floor,
he suddenly sprung to his feet, con-
vinced that the extraordinary occur-
rences of the evening could have no
other foundation than fancy — that
he must have been suffering from
the nightmare. He stepped into his

45

sleeping-room, and plunged his head
and face into a bowl of cold spring
water. The shock for a few mo-
ments revived and recollected his
wandering faculties ; but in Wiping
his face,the accursed bracelet scratch-
ed his cheek — the delusions of hope
vanished in an instant, and flinging
aside his towel, he rushed from the
room in despair. The silence and
solitude of his apartment were hor-
rible. Whither should he go, that
the Inquisition hounds could not fol-
low, find, and seize him ? He began
to imagine that they had pressed the
arts of sorcery into their assistance.
He felt, in a word, that his fears
were maddening him. He could
bear his rooms no longer : so put-
ting his cap on his head, and throw-
ing a cloak over his shoulders, he
went out, hoping to see, or at least
hear tidings of, his dreadful visitor.
The night, far advanced, was cold
and gloomy — the winds blew chilly,
and the snows were fluttering fast.
He spoke to one or two of the
drowsy shivering watch, and asked
whether they had seen any one an-
swering to the description of his
visitor. One of them told him with
a yawn, that only a quarter of an
hour before, he had seen an old man
pass by, that stooped, and wore, he
thought, a broad hat and drab coat ;
that he walked at a great rate down
the main street, followed by two men
in dark dresses I Carl fell into the
arms of the watchman, deprived of
sense and motion. The last clause
of the man's intelligence had con-
firmed his worst fears — THE INQUI-
SITION WERE AFTER HIM !

After a while, the attentions of the
humane night-guardian, backed by a
little hot ale which he carried in a
leathern bottle, sufficed to revive
Carl, who was able, soon after, to
proceed, after giving the watchman
some small coin. What was Carl
now to do ? To return to his rooms
was impossible. He hurried on
through the street, why, or whither,
he knew not. He felt a sort of drow-
siness or stupor creeping over him.
Suddenly h« nearly OYerthrew what
proved to be a female figure muffled
hi a long dark dress. His hair stood
on end — format the first moment, he
mistook her figure for that of one of
the " men in dark dresses," spoken of
by the watchman— >of the familiars of

46

The Bracelets,

[Jan.

the Inquisition. While recoiling
shudderingly from her, he fancied
he heard himself addressed — " Fol-
low !" said the low hurried voice of
a woman — " Follow me, and be si-
lent. You have been expected this
half hour. 'Tis foolish— 'tis cruel
thus to delay!"

" I — I expected ? — gasped the stag-
gering student — " Why, do you know
me?"

" Know you ?— why, Carl Koecker,
of course," replied the female; add-
ing in a low imploring tone — " Oh,
follow— for Heaven's sake, follow
instantly, or all will be lost !"

" Lost! — why, am not /, rather,
lost ? — In God's name, whither
would you lead me? Are yowinleague
with that old — " Carl was in-
terrupted by his companion whisper-
ing hurriedly — " Hush ! the good
folks of Goettingen will hear you !"

She had scarce uttered the last
words, before Carl thought he heard
the faint echo of many voices at
some distance, from behind — and
which seemed, as they grew nearer,
to be loud and tumultuous. He
suddenly turned towards the quar-
ter from which the sounds of distant
uproar came, when he beheld seve-
ral torches gleaming dimly far off,
and held by persons hurrying to and
fro in all directions. The sounds
approached, and became more dis-
tinct. They were those of alarm.

" What in God's name is stirring
now ?" enquired Carl of the fe-
male he was accompanying. " Can
you tell me wherefore is all that
uproar?" The spectral stare almost
froze Carl's blood, as she answered
in a low quick tone—" Ah — do not
YOU know, Carl Koecker ? — A deed

of blood and horror " She was

interrupted by the startling clangour
of the alarm-bell, pealing with pro-
digious rapidity and violence. Carl
shuddered— and well he might. What
is capable of inspiring more thrilling
terror than the gloomy toll of a
church-bell, heard with sudden loud-
ness at midnight ?

The whole town of Goettingen
was roused. Carl listened—his hair
stood on end — his knees tottered — •
his brain reeled — for the cries were
those of murder and revenge : and
amid all the tumult of the voices,
and the sullen tolling of the bell,
Carl distinctly heard— his own name !

Half stunned with the thought, he
listened— he strained his ear to take
in every sound that sent it. " Carl
Koecker" was the name uttered by
a hundred tongues; and Carl Koeck-
er was sought after as a murderer.
He would have shouted in answer —
he would have discovered himself,
conscious of his innocence — but he
felt a suffocating pressure about his
throat, and his heart seemed fit to
burst through his side. Strange
lights flashed before his eyes, and
his tottering knees seemed about to
refuse him any longer their support,
when his unknown companion sud-
denly grasped his hand between her
cold fingers, whispering — " Carl,
Carl, you must hasten! Fly! fly!
You will fall into their hands ! They
are yelling for you! They are as
tigers drunk with blood!"

" I care not ! I am innocent ! I
have done no crime! Why, then,
should I fly ? No, I will stay, with
God's help, till they come up," mur-
mured the fainting student. Mean-
while the clamour of voices grew
nearer and louder. Innumerable
torches flitted to and fro, casting a
discoloured glare over the dusky
atmosphere.

" Haste, Carl !— Haste, murderer,
haste ! haste !" muttered the woman
by his side—" Justice flieth quickly
after her victims !"

" Wretch ! what are you saying ?"
stammered Carl, beginning to sus-
pect himself the victim of diabolical
villainy. He tried to grasp his com-
panion by the arm — but his hand
was powerless. A sudden recollec-
tion of the stranger who had given
him the bracelet, and of the mys-
terious circumstances attending the
transaction, flashed with fearful vi-
vidness before his mind.

" Woman, woman !" he faltered,
" Who is murdered ? Is it — is it "

" Fly, fool ! Fly, fly, fly !— The
familiars are near at hand ! The
blighting brand of the Inquisition
will discover "

" The what— what!" groaned Carl,
his eyes darkening for an instant, and
his voice choked.

" Only thou fly, fly !" — continued
the woman, hurrying him forward.
The crowd of torch-bearers seemed
now at but a very little distance ;
and Carl, overwhelmed and be-
wildered,—his consciousness of in-

1832.]

The Bracelets.

47

nocence drowned in the apprehen-
sion of pressing danger — needed but
little urging to step into a vehicle
standing at the corner of a street
they had just entered. He scarce
knew what he was doing. Imme-
diately on his sitting down, the door
was closed, and away shot the
vehicle, rolling as rapidly as four
fleet horses could carry it.

Carl found himself alone in the
coach — if such it was — for his con-
ductor had suddenly and most un-
expectedly disappeared. The utter
extremity of fright, amazement, and
perplexity, is too feeble a term to
convey any thing like an adequate
idea of the state of Carl Koecker's
feelings, when thus, after such an
astounding series of events, hurried
away no one knew how, why, or
whither.

Visions of inquisitorial horrors
flitted 'before his perturbed mind's
eye. To what scenes of ghastly —
of hopeless misery was he now, per-
chance, conveying? He sunk back
on the seat, and swooned. How
long he continued insensible, he
knew not. When he recovered, he
found himself rattling onward at a
prodigious rate, and amid profound
darkness: he stretched his hand
out of the window of the vehicle, and
the snow fell fast and thick upon it.
He listened, but heard no sound, ex-
cept the rapid and regular tramp of
horses' hoofs, and the rustling of the
branches, against which the roof of
the vehicle brushed in passing. He
could not hear the voices of either
driver or attendants. In a sudden fit
of frenzy, he threw down one of
the windows, pushed out his head,
and roared for rescue — but his cries
were unattended to. He then strove
to force open the door, that he might
leap out, though at the hazard ofms
life ; but his utmost efforts were use-
less ! He tried if the window-spaces
were large enough to admit of escape
— but they were too small to admit
of -a child's exit! What was to be-
come of him ? After again and again
trying to force open the doors, he
wearied himself, and fell at full length
on the seat, sullenly resigned to his
fate, under the conviction that he was
either in the toils of the Inquisition,
or the hands of thieves and murder-
ers. But what could the latter want
with a poor student ? For the former

suspicion, his quaking heart could
readily assign grounds !

He lay in a state of stupor, till the
sudden stoppage of the vehicle almost
jerked him from his seat, and suffi-
ciently roused him to perceive that the
carriage was standing before the gates
of a magnificent building. Where
he was, or how long his journey had
lasted, he knew not; and unutter-
able, therefore, was his astonishment
to behold the altered aspect of na-
ture. The time appeared about two
or three o'clock in the morning. The
gloom and inclemency of the former
part of the night had entirely disap-
peared. The scenery, at which he
glanced hastily, seemed of a totally
different class from that which he
had been accustomed to behold. The
glorious gilding of the full moon lay
on every object— alike on the snowy
shroud glistening over endless plains
and hills — as on the quarried clouds
lying piled irregularly, one above
the other, in snowy strata along the
sky. Their edges seemed all melt-
ing into golden light.

The building before which the
carriage had drawn up, seemed a
vast grey mass of irregular structure,
the prevailing character of which was
Gothic. Whether, however, it were
a castle, a palace, a prison, a nunnery,
or a monastery, Carl's hurried glance
could not distinguish. He had scarce
time to scan its outline, before the
carriage-door was opened, by remo-
ving a large bar from across the out-
side, Carl noticed — and a string of
attendants, habited somewhat in mi-
litary costume, stood ready to con-
duct the solitary visitor to the inte-
rior of the building. After a mo-
ment's pause of stupified irresolu-
tion— uncertain whether or not to
make a desperate attempt at escape
—he alighted, and followed the chief
of the attendants towards the interior
of the building. Every step he took
within the splendid, though antique
structure, convinced him that he had
entered a regal residence. He paced
along seemingly endless galleries and
corridors, with the passive, or rather
submissive air of a man led along
guarded prison-passages to execu-
tion. He was at length ushered into
a large tapestried apartment, in the
centre of which was spread a supper-
table, sinking beneath a costly service
of gold and silver. Scarce knowing

48

The Bracelets.

[Jan.

whether or not — in the vulgar phrase
— his head or heels were uppermost,
Carl sat himself down mechanically
at the table ; and the obsequious at-
tendants instantly removed the co-
vers of several dishes. When Carl
saw the expensive dainties spread
before him, and the magnificent
plate which contained them, and
marked the solemn and anxious de-
ference paid him by the servants, he
felt convinced that through some in-
explicable blunder, he had been mis-
taken for an expected visitor of dis-
tinction. The tumultuous and terri-
fying scenes which had ushered in
his journey, were for a while obscu-
red from his recollection. Carl
found it impossible to partake of
the exquisite fare before him. He
contrived, however, to quaff an am-
ple cup of rich wine, which soon
revived his torpid faculties. He
turned towards the silent servants,
stationed at due distances from him,
and enquired, in a stern tone, what
they were going to do with him;
" whether they knew who he was ?"
A respectful obeisance was the only
answer. " Carl Koecker — a student
of Goettingen University." A se-
cond and lower bow. A third time
he repeated his question, but the
only answer he could obtain, was a
brief intimation, couched in the most
deferential terms, that " Her High-
ness" was waiting his appearance in
the audience-room. Carl clasped his
hands over his forehead, lost in won-
der and despair.

" Who — who, in God's name, is
' Her Highness ?' " he enquired.

" She has been long expecting
your arrival with anxiety," replied
one of the servants, apparently in no-
wise surprised at the disorder of
their youthful guest.

" Waiting — and for my arrival ? —
Impossible ! — You are all wrong,
fellows ! I am not he whom you
suppose me ! I am mistaken for some
one else — and he, must be nothing
particular, seeing I, through being
mistaken for him, was kidnapped
away ! Harkee, sirrahs — do you un-
derstand ?" The servants looked at
one another in silence, and without
a smile. " Do you know who I am ?"
continued Carl in a louder key — but
in vain ; he received no answer. The
servants seemed to have been tu-
tored,

"Alas!" resumed Carl, in a low
tone, " I ask you who I am, when I
verily know not, myself ! — Aha !
Who am I ? Where ?— Why here ?—
Answer ! Tell me ! Speak there !"
continued Carl, resolutely, relying
on the wine he had taken, and
which he felt supplying him with
confidence.

" Once more, I say— Who am I ?"
repeated Carl.

" That, we suppose, your High-
ness best knows — but our duty is to
wait and conduct you into her High-
ness's presence," was the only an-
swer he received, delivered in the
same stedfast respectfulness of tone
and manner.

" Where will all this mummery
end?" thought Carl, pouring out,
mechanically, another cup of wine.
The thought suddenly struck him,
and the more he entertained it, the
more probable it appeared — that,
after all, the whole of his evening's
adventures might be the contrivance
of one of those celebrated and system-
atic hoaxers, of whom, in Italy, the
illustrious Lorenzo was chief. Every
occurrence of the evening seemed
easily explicable on this hypothesis
— but one; the general uproar in the
streets of Goettingen at the period
of his leaving. That savoured too
strongly of serious reality to be part
of a hoax ! — While he was turning
about these thoughts in his mind,
one of the servants opened a door,
and stood by it, as if hinting that
Carl should rise from table and fol-
low. Resolved patiently to await
the issue, he rose, and walked to-
wards the door. He was conducted
up an ample staircase, leading to a
lofty hall, supported by marble pil-
lars. After traversing it in silence,
his conductors opened a pair of large
folding-doors, and ushered Carl
through them — gently closed the
high doors upon him, and retired.
Carl now found himself in an apart-
ment equally magnificent with the
one he had left. Still, however,
there was not — as in the other — arti-
ficial light; but the room was, so to
speak, flooded with a radiant tide of
moonlight. Every thing about him,
to Carl's disturbed apprehension,
wore the air of mystery and ro-
mance. The silence of the sepulchre
was there, and it oppressed him. He
dared hardly draw his breath, fearful

18-32.1

The Bracelets.

49

of its being audible. He was reluc-
tant to move from the spot where he
had first stood, lest he should dissi-
pate the nameless charm of the
chamber, or encounter some unwel-
come and startling spectacle. Which-
ever way he looked, there was a dim
and dreary splendour which trans-
cended the creatures of poetry. Al-
most the whole extent of the further
extremity of the chamber consisted
of a large Gothic- fashioned window,
with a door in the centre of it, open-
ing upon a narrow slip of shrubbery
or terrace. The prospect through
this window was glorious. The moon
was still

" Riding at her highest noon,"

like a bright bark over a sea of
sapphire, scattering her splendour
over streams glittering like veins of
silver amid a noble extent of cham-
paign country; and rendering visi-
ble, in the distance, hoary structures
of prodigious extent, relieved against
a back- ground of profound forest
shade. A little to the right lay a lake
of liquid silver ! But the most marvel-
lous circumstance of the whole, was
the disappearance of the snow he had
so lately seen. Was it possible —
thought Carl, pressing his hands to his
forehead — that he had slept through
an interval of twenty-four hours since
he saw the snow ? Had he taken
drugged draughts at supper, and but
now awoke, unconscious of the inter-
val that had elapsed ? This extraor-
dinary absence of snow was, as al-
ready said, the first thing observed by
Carl, hurried as was his glance ; but
erelong a very different object, within
the chamber, arrested his attention,
absorbing every faculty in mute as-
tonishment and admiration. At the
upper extremity of the chamber the
resplendent moonbeam fell on the
figure of a lady, white as snow, recli-
ning on a couch, with her head sup-
ported by her arm. Never before
had Carl beheld, even in dreams, a
vision of such dazzling beauty. So
perfectly symmetrical her features,
so delicately moulded her figure, so
gracefully negligent her attitude, and
so motionless withal, that Carl, as
he glided slowly towards her, his
eyes and hands elevated with raptu-
rous astonishment, began to suspect
he was mocked by some surpassing

VOL, XXXI. NO, (JLXXXIX,

specimen of the statuary's art. As
he drew nearer, he perceived that
the lady was asleep — at least her
head drooped a little, and her eyes
were closed. He stood within a few
paces of her. He had never before
seen features so perfectly beautiful.
Her brow wore the pure hue of ala-
baster ; her eyebrows were most
delicately pencilled and shaded off;
her nose, of soft Grecian outline,
was exquisitely chiselled; and her
small closed lips seemed like a burst-
ing rose-bud. The lilied fingers of
the little hand supporting her head,
peeped out in rich contrast from
among her black tresses ; while her
right hand lay concealed beneath
the folds of a long rich veil. What
Avith gazing on the lovely recum-
bent, and the generous potency of
the wine he had been drinking, Carl
felt himself, as it were, under a new
influence. Fear and doubt had pass-
ed away. He fell softly on his knees
before the beautiful incognita. Her
features moved not.

Now, thought Carl, was she ina-
nimate— a cunning piece of wax-
work, and were the contrivers of the
hoax, if such it were, watching him
from secret parts of the room, to
enjoy his doings ?

He thought, fcowever, after stead-
fastly eyeing her, that he perceived
a slow heaving of the bosom, as
though she strove to conceal the
breath she drew. Intoxicated with
his feelings, Carl could continue
silent no longer.

" Oh, lady, if mortal you be— oh,
lady, I die at your feet !" stammered
Carl, with a fluttering heart.

" Carl, where have you been ?
You cannot — no, you cannot love
me, or you would not have delayed so
long!" replied the lady, in a gentle
tone, and with a glance " fuller of
speech unto the heart than aught
utterable by man." What dazzling
eyes were fixed upon the sinking
student!

" I would to Heaven," he stam-
mered, " I might believe you — loved
me; but — but — lady"

" But what ?— Ah, Carl ! Do you
doubt me ?" enquired the lady, gazing
at him with an eye of anxious ten-
derness. Carl's tongue refused him
utterance for some moments, and
he trembled from head to foot,

50

The Bracelets.

[Jan.

" How, fair one, can you say you
love one you know not ? Me you
know not "

" Not know you /—Oh, Carl, Carl !"
and she looked at him with a re-
proachful smile. The student stared
at her in silence.

" Lady, I am bewildered ! I know
not where I am, nor how I came hi-
ther ! Yet, blessed be Heaven, that
I have thus seen you. 1 could die
with your image in my eye ! It would
pass me to heaven ! Oh, forgive
me, lady, knowing that I rave ! Your
beauty maddens me ! I sink — I die
beneath it! I know not, nor can
control, what my tongue utters!
The only thing I know is, that I am

unworthy of you " gasped Carl,

dropping his head upon his bosom.

" Then, Carl, is my love for you
the greater, seeing it can overlook
all un worthiness ! But, dear Carl,
why speak I thus ? You are not un-
worthy— no, no ! You are of great
wit— graceful, noble — in a word,
j »

" Speak, lady! speak, speak! De-
lay not ! I faint — I die !" murmur-
ed the impassioned student.

" Well, I love you, Carl ! I have
long loved you, since first my eye

fell on you. Pardon the scheme "

Here the lady became inarticulate
with agitation. A long pause of mu-
tual trepidation and embarrassment
ensued. Each cast but furtive glances
at the other ; the conscious colour
went and came alternately, in the
cheeks of either.

Carl, still bending on his knee,
gently strove to disentangle the hand
which lay concealed beneath the
folds of her veil. He succeeded, fee-
ble as was the force he used ; but
the hand was still enveloped in the
folds of a long white glove.

" May I not kiss these fair fingers
but through a glove ?" enquired
Carl, fondly, and with returning self-
possession.

" Why, you are truly of a sudden
grown chivalrous as an old knight,"
replied the lady, in a tone of subdued
gaiety ; " but since such is your am-
bitious fancy, why should I refuse
you so small a favour, who can re-
fuse you nothing? So, here is my
right hand, Sir Knight. What wouldst
thou ?"

She disengaged the hand on which
her head had been leaning, and gave

it to Carl, who smothered the taper
fingers with kisses. Infatuated with
sudden unaccountable passion, Carl,
in a sort of frenzy, started from his
knee, threw his arm around the
sylph-like figure of the lady, and im-
printed a long, clinging, half-return-
ed kiss upon her soft lips !

He had neither time nor inclina-
tion to reflect on what he was doing—
on the unaccountable freedom of his
behaviour to a lady evidently of the
highest consideration, with whom he
had had— and that in the most unsa-
tisfactory and mysterious manner-
only a few minutes' acquaintance.
In vain did he strive to calm and
settle his unsteady faculties, or sober
himself into a consciousness of his
real situation — of how he came thi-
ther— and how had come to pass the
astounding events of the evening.
He forgot all his harrowing suspi-
cions of inquisitorial diablerie; he
thought no more of the possibility
that his frantic feats were the sub-
jects of suppressed laughter to invi-
sible powers ! Every thing merged
into his intense consciousness of pre-
sent pleasure. He yielded to the
irresistible impulse of his feelings,
blind and indifferent to'consequences.

" 'Tisall owing to the wine I drunk
in the supper-room !" thought Carl;
but, alas, how little did he know of
the important events with which he
had got extraordinarily implicated ,•
of the principle and subtle influence
which was at work preparing for
him scenes of future change and suf-
fering !

A few minutes' time beheld Carl
pacing slowly up and down the spa-
cious chamber, supporting his beau-
tiful and mysterious companion,
\vatching with ecstasy her graceful
motions, and pouring into her ear
the impassioned accents of love;
not, however, without an occasional
flightinessof manner, which he could
neither check nor disguise. When
he listened to the dulcet melody of
her voice, which fell on his ear like
the breathings of an yEolian harp ;
when he observed her dove-like eyes
fixed fondly upon him; and felt the
faint throbbings of her heart against
the hand that supported her, he al-
most lost all consciousness of tread-
ing among the lower realities of life.

Whilst Carl was thus delightful-
ly occupied, his companion sudden-

1832.]

The Bracelets.

51

ly turned aside her head, and to
Carl's amazement and alarm, burst
into a flood of tears. Burying her
face in the folds of her veil, she be-
gan to weep bitterly. " For mercy's
sake, dear lady, tell me what ails
you !" enquired the startled student.
He repeated his question; but in
vain. His reiterated questions called
forth no other answer than sobs and
tears.

" Lady ! dear, beloved lady — why
are you bent on breaking my heart ?
Have I then so soon grown unwor-
thy in your eyes ?" again enquired
Carl, a little relaxing the arm that
supported her, as though grieved
and mortified at her reserve.

" Oh Carl, Carl ! Indeed you are
most worthy of my love, of all my
confidence ; but you cannot help me !
No, no — I am undone ! Lost, lost,
lost for ever !" replied the lady, in
heart-breaking accents.

Carl begged, entreated, implored,
to be made acquainted with the cause
of her agitation, but in vain. His
thoughts (alas, what is man ?) began
to travel rapidly from " beauty in
tears," to " beauty in sullens;" and
commiseration was freezing fast into
something like anger, or rather con-
tempt.

" Lady, if you think me thus un-
worthy to share your grief — to be
apprized of its source — that so I may
acquit myself, I — I — I cannot stay to
see you in sufferings I may not alle-
viate ! I must — yes, I must leave you,
lady — if it even break my heart!"
said Carl, with as much firmness as
he could muster. She turned to-
wards him an eye that instantly
melted away all his displeasure — a
soft blue eye glistening through the
dews of sorrow — and swooned in his
arms.

Was ever mortal so situated as
Carl, at that agitating moment ? In-
expressibly shocked, he bore his
lovely, but insensible burden to the
- window; and thinking fresh air might
revive her, he carried her through
the door,which opened on the narrow
terrace as before mentioned. While
supporting her in his arms, and
against his shaking knees, and part-
ing her luxuriant hair from her damp
forehead, he unconsciously dropped
a tear upon her pallid features. She
revived. She smiled with sad sweet-
ness on her agitated supporter, with

slowly returning consciousness, and
passed her soft fingers gently over
his forehead. As soon as her strength
returned, Carl led her gently a few
paces to and fro on the terrace, think-
ing the exercise might fully restore
her. The terrace overlooked, at a
height of about sixty feet, an exten-
sive and beautifully disposed gar-
den ; and both Carl and his mysteri-
ous companion paused a few mo-
ments to view a fountain underneath,
which threw out its clear waters in
the moonlight, like sparkling showers
of crystal. How tranquil and beauti-
ful was all before them! While
Carl's eye was passing rapidly over
the various objects before him, he
perceived his companion suddenly
start. Concern and agitation were
again visible in her features. She
seemed on the point of bursting a
second time into tears, when Carl,
once more, with affectionate earnest-
ness, besought her to keep him no
longer in torturing suspense, but ac-
quaint him with the source of her
sorrows.

" Lady, once more I implore you
to tell me whence all this agony ?"
She eyed him steadfastly and mourn-
fully, and replied, " A loss, dear
Carl— a fearful— an irreparable loss."

" In the name of mercy, lady,
what loss can merit such dreadful
names ?" enquired the student,
shocked at the solemnity of her
manner, and the ashy hue her coun-
tenance had assumed. She trembled,
and continued silent. Carl's eyes
were more eloquent than his lips.
Seeing them fixed on her with in-
tense curiosity and excitement, she
proceeded :

" It is a loss, Carl, the effects of
which scarce befits mortal lips to
tell. It were little to say, that un-
less it be recovered, a crowned head
must be brought low !" She shud-
dered from head to foot. Carl's
blood began to trickle coldly through
his veins, and he stood gazing at his
companion with terrified anxiety.

" Carl !" continued the lady, in a
scarcely audible murmur, " I have
been told to-day — how shall I breathe
it ! — by one from the grave, that YOU
were destined to restore to me what
I have lost— that you were Heaven's
chosen instrument — that you alone,
of other men, had rightly studied the
laws of spiritual being— could com-

The Bracelets.

[Jan.

mand the services of EVIL SPIRITS,"
she continued, fixing a startling
glance on Carl, who quailed under it.

" Lady, pardon me for saying it is
false, if it has been so slanderously
reported to you of me ; aye, false as
the lips of Satan! I know nought
of spirits — nought of hereafter, but
through the blessed Bible," replied
Carl, in hurried accents, a cold per-
spiration suddenly bedewing him
from head to foot. His feelings began
to revolt — to recoil from his compa-
nion— whom he could not help sud-
denly likening to the beautiful ser-
pent that beguiled Eve ; but she twi-
ned her arms closely around him,
and almost groaned in heart-moving
accents, " Oh Carl, Carl! that I
might but tell you what I have heard
of you, or rather what I KNOW of
you!"

There had been something very
terrible in her demeanour, latterly.
She seemed speaking as if of set
purpose, and her eye was ever alive,
probing Carl's soul to see the effect
of what she uttered. At least so
Carl thought. All his apprehensions
about the hideous Inquisition revi-
ved, and with tenfold force. Was
this subtle and beautiful being one
of THEIR creatures ? A fiend, cun-
ningly tutored to extract his soul's
secret, and then betray him into the
fiery grasp of torture and death ?

It was long before he could speak
to her. At length he exclaimed, " For
mercy's sake, lady, tell me what
frightful meaning lurks beneath what
you say ? What is your loss ? What
do you know, or have heard, of ME '?
Tell me, though I should expire with
terror!"

" Can you, then, bear a secret to
the grave, unspoken ?" she enquired,
gazing at him with an expression of
melancholy and mysterious awe.

" Did Thurialma appear again P"

The student turned ghastly pale,
and almost dropped her from his
arms.

" I know not what your words
mean," stammered Carl, almost
swooning. His companion's eye was
fixed on him with wellnigh petrify-
ing effect.

" Carl," said she, in a low tone,
" I am about to tell you the source
of my sorrows — that is, my loss.
There is none near, to overhear us ?"
she enquired, faintly, without remo-
ving her eyes from Carl's.

" None! none!" murmured the
student, a mist clouding his eyes;
for, at the moment of his compa-
nion's uttering the words last men-
tioned, he had distinctly seen a hu-
man face peering over the edge of
the terrace.

He shook like an aspen-leaf, shi-
vering under the midnight wind.

" What have you lost ?" he enqui-
red.

" The fellow to THIS," replied the
lady, drawing off the glove from her
left hand, and disclosing a bracelet
the very counterpart of that in Carl's
possession. His brain reeled; — he
felt choked.

" What— what of him— that— hath
its fellow ?" He faltered, sinking on
one knee, unable to sustain the bur-
den of his companion.

" He is either a sorcerer, a prince,
or a murderer !" replied the lady, in
a hollow broken tone.

Carl slowly bared his shaking arm,
and disclosed the bracelet gleaming
on his wrist. He felt that in another
moment he must sink senseless to
the earth ; but the lady, after glaring
at thebracelet,with a half-suppressed
shriek, and an expanding eye of
glassy horror, suddenly sprung from
him, and fell headlong over the ter-
race, at the very edge of which they
had been standing.

" Ha — accursed, damned traitor !"
yelled a voice close behind him, fol-
lowed by a peal of hideous laughter.
He turned staggeringly towards the
quarter from which the sounds came,
and beheld the old man who had
given him the bracelet, and now
stood close at his elbow, glaring at
him with the eye of a demon, his
hands stretched out, his fingers cur-
ved like the cruel claws of a tiger,
and his feet planted in the earth as
if with convulsive effort.

" Thrice accursed wretch !" re-
peated the old man, in a voice of
thunder ; ^ what have you done ?
Did not her highness tell you who
vou were ?"

" Tell me!— what?"

The old man suddenly clasped
Carl by the wrist covered with the
bracelet; his features dilated with
fiendish fury ; his eyes, full of hor-
rible lustre, glanced from Carl to the
precipice, and from the precipice to

" Tell me !— what ?" again gasped
the student, half dead with fright,

1832.] The Bracelets.

striving in vain to recede from the
edge of the terrace. The hand with
which the old man clasped Carl's
wrist, quivered with fierce emotion.

" Tell me" once more mur-
mured Carl—" What did she say ?"

" BAA !" roared his tormentor, at
the same time letting go Carl's wrist,
and, slipping over the edge of the
terrace, he was out of sight in an
instant — leaving Carl Koecker BROAD
AWAKE, and in darkness, for he had
broken his lamp, and overthrown
both chair and table. His fire had

53

gone out to the last cinder, and a
ray or two of misty twilight, strug-
gling through the crevices of the
window shutters, served to shew
him how long he had been DREAM-
ING.

He groped his way to bed, shi-
vering with cold, and execrating the
opera he had recently witnessed,
whose ill-assorted recollections, with
other passing fancies, had been
moulded into so singular and dis-
tressing a dream.

Q. Q. Q.

THE TRAVELLER IN SPITE OF HIMSELF.

IN a neat and comfortable cottage
in the picturesque village of Bastock,
lived a middle-aged gentleman of the
name of Samuel Holt. The clean
white paling in front of the beautiful
little flower-garden before his door
shewed he was a man of taste, while
the [coach-house and stables at the
side shewed that he might also be
considered a man of fortune. He was
in truth in very comfortable circum-
stances. He had a considerable quan-
tity of land — let to a respectable teu-
ant, for he himself knew nothing
about farming — and the rest of his
property consisted in about fifteen
thousand pounds, which was lent on
mortgage to a very wealthy baronet.
Mr Holt might have altogether some-
where about a thousand a-year. He
spent it in the true style of old Eng-
lish hospitality. His house was never
empty ; friends, when they came,
were so kindly treated, that they
found it extremely inconvenient to
go away;— and what with coursings
in the morning, comfortable dinners,
pleasant companions, and extraordi-
nary port-wine, Mr Samuel Holt was
the happiest fellow in the world. His
outward man was in exact correspon-
dence to his internal tranquillity. He
was stout, but not unwieldy ; there
was not a wrinkle on his brow ; a
fine open expression animated his
countenance, and there was such a
glorious ruddy hue of health upon
his cheek, that his friends talked of
him by no other name than Rosy Sam.

" Well, my boys," said Rosy Sam,
one fine September evening after din-
ner, " we'll drink our noble selves —
I don't think I ever shot better in my
life."

" Your second bird was beautifully
managed," said Jack Thomson ; " I
never saw any gun carry so far ex-
cept once in Turkey, when the Reis
Effendi shot a sea-mew at a hundred
and fifty yards."

" With a long bow I suppose," said
Rosy Sam, who disbelieved every
story, the scene of which was not
laid in England.

l< No, with a long brass gun which
went upon wheels."

« Well, well," replied Sam, « it may
be all very true ; but, thank God, I
never saw, and never expect to see,
any of them foreign parte."

" You may live to see half the
world yet ; and if I were inclined
to be a prophet, I should say you
will be a very great traveller before
you die."

" I'd sooner be tried for mur-
der."

" You may be both."

This last was said so solemnly that
Rosy Sam almost changed colour.
He passed it off with a laugh, and the
conversation went on upon other sub-
jects connected with Thomson's tra-
vels. All the evening, however, the
prophetic announcement seemed to
stick in poor Sam's throat, and when
the party was about to separate for
the night, holding the bed-candle in
his hand, and assuming a degree of
gravity which can only be produced
by an extra bottle, he said, " I'll tell
you what it is, Jack, here in this cot-
tage have I lived, man and boy, for
two-and-forty years. I never was out
of the county in my life, and the
farthest from home I ever was, was
three-and-thirty miles. If you mean
to say that I am to be a traveller in

The Traveller in spite qf Himself .

[Jan.

my old age, the Lord have mercy on
me, for a helpless dog should I be
among the foreignarians — fellows that
can't speak a word of English to save
their souls, poor devils — but poh !
poll! man, you can't be serious."

" I am serious as a bishop, I assure
you. You will travel for several
years."

" Poh ! nonsense 1 I'll be d— d if
I do — so, good-night." The party
laughed at Sam's alarm ; and retired
to bed.

All that night Sam's dreams were
of ships and coaches. He thought he
was wrecked and half drowned, then
that he was upset and had his legs
broken by the hind wheel. He woke
in a tremendous fright, for he fancied
he was on the top of one of the pyra-
mids, and could not get down again.
He thought he had been on the pin-
nacle for several days, that he was
nearly dying of thirst and hunger, —
and, on starting up, he found it was
time to rise; so he hurried down
stairs with the utmost expedition, as
he was nearly famished for his break-
fast. He was met at the breakfast
parlour door by his old servant,
Trusty Tommy, who gave him a let-
ter, and said, ". This here letter is just
Come from Mr Clutchit the attorney.
His man says as how there must be
an answer immediately, so I was just
a comin' up to call ye."

" You would have found me knock-
ing about the pyramids," said Rosy
Sam, as he proceeded to open the
letter.

"Fie for shame !" muttered old
Trusty, " to make use of such an ex-
pression. Ah 1 as good Mr Drawline
says"

" Devil take you and Mr Drawline
— Saddle the Curate this instant, and
tell the gentlemen, when they come
down, that I am forced to set off on
business, but that I shall certainly be
back to dinner."

In the utmost haste, and with no
very pleasant expression, he mana-
ged to swallow three or four eggs,
nearly a loaf of bread, and half a do-
zen cups of tea. His horse was soon
at the door; he set off at a hand
gallop, and left old Trusty Tommy
with his mouth open, wondering
what in the world it could be that
induced his master to such unusual
expedition. The motive was indeed
a serious one. Mr Clutchit had dis-
covered that there was a prior morfr.

gage over the estate upon which poor
Sam's fifteen thousand was advan-
ced, and their great object now was
to get the mortgage transferred to
some unincumbered security. The
seven miles which intervened be-
tween the lawyer and his client were
soon passed over. Hot and breath-
less our poor friend, who was now
more rosy than ever, rushed into the
business-room of Mr Clutchit. That
gentleman, however, was nowhere
to be found. On his table Sam saw
a note directed to himself — he open-
ed it, and found the following words :
" Deai* sir, — By the strangest good
luck I have this moment heard that
Sir Harry is at present in London.
I lose not a moment, as the coach is
just starting, to obtain an interview
with him there, and should strongly
recommend your following by the
eleven o'clock coach. Indeed your

Presence is indispensably necessary,
shall only have the start of you by
two hours.— Your obedient servant,
J. C."

Sam threw himself into a chair in
an agony of grief and wonder.

" That infernal fellow Jack Thom-
son," he moaned out, " is certainly
more than human. They say they
learn wonderful things abroad. He
has learned the second sight. Little
did I think two days ago, that I should
ever have to hurry so far away from
home. London must be seventy
miles off at least — oh lord ! oh lord !
quite out of my own dear county —
what is to become of me 1"

While indulging in this moralizing
fit the coach drove up to the door —
Sam mounted, almost unconscious
of what he did, and was whirled off
before he had time to recover from
his reverie. On arriving in London,
night was rapidly closing in. The
house where the coach stopt was a
very neat comfortable sort of hostel-
ry in the city, and our honest friend,
before proceeding to any other busi-
ness, solaced himself with the best
dinner the bill of fare would allow.
After refreshing himself with a soli-
tary pint of port, he set out in search
of Mr Clutchit. But where to find
that gentleman was the difficulty; he
had left no address in his note to his
client, and the people of the inn could
not tell where the nine o'clock coach
went to in London. They recom-
mended him, however, to apply at
various inns^the Dragon, the Swan,

1832.J

The Traveller in spite of Himself.

the Bull-and-Mouth, and a variety of
other great coach caravanseries, the
very names of which were utterly
unknown to the unsophisticated Sara.
Away, however, he went, in total ig-
norance of his way, and much too
independent and magnanimous to ask
it. First one street was traversed,
then another, and at last poor Sam
was entirely lost. His great object
now was to retrace his steps; but
one turning was so like another, that
he could not distinguish those by
which he had come, and in the midst
of his perplexity, he recollected that
he had forgotten to take notice of
the name of the inn at which he had
dined, and of course could not ask
any one he met to tell him his way to
it. Tired out by his day's exertions,
and very much dispirited, he resol-
ved to go into the first house of enter-
tainment he came to, and resume his
search early in the morning. He
accordingly went into the next inn
that presented itself. He took par-
ticular pains this time to impress its
name upon his memory. The cab-
bage leaf was the sign of this tavern,
and it was situated at the top of one
of those narrow little streets in the
neighbourhood of the Tower. Ho-
nest Sam, it will be seen, had tra-
velled in the wrong direction ; but
now he was too much harassed and
wearied to recover his mistake. On
going into the bar, he was told by
the bustling little landlady that he
might have a bed; but they were
really so full, that he must submit
to share his room with another gen-
tleman. Sam comforted himself with
the reflection, that necessity has no
law, and consented to the arrange-
ment. After a Welsh rabbit, and a
glass or two of brandy and water,
he was shewn to his apartment. His
fellow-lodger came into the room
nearly at the same time, and Sam
was somewhat pleased to see he
was of a very decent exterior. They
entered into conversation, and his
-new acquaintance promised, from
his knowledge of the town, to be of
considerable use in furthering Sam's
enquiries after Mr Clutchit. He,
however, told him, that he had some
business to transact very early in the
morning, and took the precaution on
these occasions, especially in the
winter, of shaving at night. He ac-
cordingly proceeded to shave him-

self; but poor Sam was so fatigued,
that he fell asleep before he had
finished the operation. On awaking
next morning, he looked to his com-
panion's bed, but it was empty. He
had told him, however, that he should
rise very early, so he was not sur-
prised at his absence. On getting
up, and searching for his inexpress-
ibles, they were nowhere to be
found. In their place, he discover-
ed those of his late companion ; and
after many strange surmises, and
coming at last to the conclusion that
he was robbed, he quietly slipt them
on, and proceeded down stairs. His
watch he had luckily put under his
pillow, and there had not been above
two pounds in his pockets ; he found
a few shillings in an old purse, a
penknife, two keys, and a set of very
tine teeth, carefully fitted up, and
apparently never used, in the pocket
of the habiliments which were left.
These circumstances staggered him
as to the predatory habits of his
companion; and he resolved to say
nothing on the subject, as he had
still some hopes of the stranger's
making his appearance as he had
promised, and clearing up the mys-
tery. He waited some time after
breakfast with this expectation ; and
at last telling the landlady he should
be back at a certain hour, he went
out in hopes of falling in with his
companion on the street. He walk-
ed down towards the river, and
gazed with astonishment on the in-
numerable shipping. Wondering
more and more at the strangeness
and immensity of the scene, he
thought of returning to where he
had slept. Just as he was leaving
the river, he saw several men go in-
to one of the barges, and begin drag-
ging the shallow part of the water.
" What are those men after?" said
Sam to a person who stood watch-
ing them. " They be draggin' for
the body of a gentleman as was mur-
dered last night, and the folks thinks
that he was mayhap thrown into the
river." — " Dreadful !" said Sam, turn-
ing pale at the horrid supposition.
" I hope they won't find it; it would
be the death of me." And shudder-
ing lest they should pull up a man-
gled body in his sight, he rushed
from the spot. On reaching the inn,
he entered it, and was going into the
bar, when two stout men rushed up

56 The Traveller in spite of Himself. [Jan.

on him, the landlady crying " That's witness," said one of the gentlemen,

and immediately appeared the bust-

the man," and threw him down with
all their force. One held him by
the throat, while the other handcuff-
ed him in a moment. They then
hustled him out of the house, forced
him into a hackney-coach, and drove
off at an amazing pace.

Sam was so much astonished at
the rapidity of the whole transaction,
that he could scarcely summon
breath to ask his conductors what
they meant. At last he said, " What
the devil can be the meaning of all
this ? Is this the Avay to treat a coun-
try gentleman ?" " How bloody
well he sports the Johnnie," said one
of the men to the other, without at-
tending to Sam's questions. " He'll
queer the beaks if the tide stands
his friend, and rolls off the stiffun."
" No, there ben't no chance of that,"
responded the other, " for they've
set to so soon with the drags. I'll bet
a gallon of gin to a pint o' purl, he
dies in his shoes, with his ears stuff'd
with cotton." " Do you mean me,
you scoundrel?" cried Sam, who
did not quite understand them, but
perceived that they spoke of him
rather disrespectfully. " Come,
come, master, none of your hard
words ; we aint such scoundrels as
to Burke our bedfellow howsom-
ever." At this moment, at the cor-
ner of a street, Sam saw Mr Clutchit
hurrying as if on very urgent busi-
ness. He pushed his head out of
the window and hollo'd — " Clutchit,
Clutchit ! Here's a pretty go !" and
held out his manacled hands. But
his companions pulled him forcibly
back, and he did not know whether
his attorney had perceived him or
not. Soon after this the coach stopt
at a dingy-looking house with iron
gratings before the windows. " We
gets out here, my covey," said one
of the men, " but I daresay we shall
join company again on our way to

IIM'M 1CH1-V4AIAVA J V* *>»»v> -v- •WTM.J^^

f. " Is that the man who slept
our house last night ?"— " It is,
r worship ; and little did I think

ling little landlady of the Cabbage
Leaf,
in your
your worship

such a bloody-minded villain"

"Hush! answer only to the ques-
tions that are put to you — about what
o'clock was it when he came to your
house?" — "About ten o'clock, the
rascal" Here Sam, whose as-
tonishment now gave place to rage
and indignation, started up, and said
to the magistrates, " Harkee, gentle-
men, I'll be d d if I don't make

you pay for this. How dare you"

" Officers, look close to the

prisoner," said one of their worships.
" I recommend you, prisoner, to say
nothing till the examination is con-
cluded." And Sam sat down again,
wondering where all this would
end. " You say the prisoner came to
your house about ten o'clock — had
you any conversation with him ?"
" No, your worship ; he only had
his supper, and two glasses of brandy
and water." — " He then went to
bed?" — " Yes; I shewed him up
to number nine." — " Was it a single-
bedded room ?" — " No, there were
two beds in it." — " Describe its situa-
tion."-—" It is just at the top of the
first stair, which fronts the side door
into the lane." — " Could that door
be opened without wakening the
house?" — "Yes; we never keep it
closed with more than a latch, 'cause
of the watermen getting quietly
down to the river." — " Was the
other bed in the same room occu-
pied ?"— " Yes ; a gentleman slept in
;<- » — « YOU saw no more of the

it." — " You saw no more
prisoner that night. Well, in the
morning, when did you see him ?"
" He came down to breakfast, but
seemed very low and uneasy." —
" Did he say any thing to you about

join company again on our way to his companion?"— "Yes; he sighed,

Newgate."-— "You insulting scoun- and said he was sure he would

drel," said Sam, " I hope never to

see your ugly face again." " No, nor

Jack Ketch's neither— but mizzle,

mizzle, I say — his worship's been

waiting this hour." They then pro-
ceeded into a dark room which was

crowded with people. They all

made way for Sam and his two con-

ductors, till they stood directly in
front of three gentlemen in comfort-
able arm-chairs. " Call the first

never come back." — " When did he
leave the house ?"— " He went down
towards the river in about half an
hour." — " Very well — you may stand
down. Call the next witness."

The chambermaid made her ap-
pearance. <l On going into the
prisoner's room this morning, what
did you see ?" — " Nothing particu-
lar at first. But in a little I thought
the beds and carpet more tumbled

The Traveller in spite of Himself.

1832.]

than usual. I looked into the other
gentleman's bed, and there I saw the
sheets and pillow marked with
blood." — (Here the witness turned
very faint.) — "Well, did you give
the alarm ?" — " Yes ; I ran down and
told Missus — but the prisoner had
gone out." — " What did you do ?" —
" We told all the lodgers, and asked
if they had heard any noise. One
of them, John Chambers, heard
heavy steps on the stair."— " Well,
we shall examine John Chambers
himself."

John Chambers, on being exami-
ned, said that about three or four
in the morning, he heard heavy steps
coming down the stair, as if of a
man carrying a great weight; the
side-door into the lane was opened,
and the person went out. He
watched for some time, and heard a
stealthy pace going up stairs again ;
after which he fell asleep, as his
suspicions were quieted by the per-
son's return.

A witness next appeared, who depo-
sed, that, having an appointment with
Abraham Reeve, the person suppo-
sed to be murdered, he proceeded
to the Cabbage Leaf, and found it
all in an uproar at the suspected
murder. Abraham Reeve was by
profession a dentist; and had that
morning fixed to furnish the witness
with a handsome set of ivories.

" Please your worship," said one
of the officers who had conducted
the unfortunate Samuel to the office,
" on searching the prisoner, we
found this here in his breeches poc-
ket;" and saying this, he held up a
complete set of false teeth.

The magistrates upon this shook
their heads, and a thrill went through
the Court, as if the murder were
transacted before their eyes. The
purse also was recognised by the
landlady ; and even the evidence of
the person whom Sam had address-
ed by the side of the river, when
they were dragging for the corpse,
told very much against him. That
witness stated, that the prisoner
turned very pale when he saw what
they were about; and after seeming
excessively agitated for along while,
had said, as if unconsciously, " It
will be death to me if they find him."
The evidence, by various concur-
ring circumstances, was very strong
against our unfortunate friend. The
magistrate cautioned him against

57

saying" any thing to criminate him-
self; and asked him if he wished to
make any observation before being
remanded on suspicion. Thus adju-
red, Rosy Sam, who was, alas ! now
no longer rosy, essayed to speak.

" Upon my honour, this is a most
curious business. All that I know
about the matter is, that the man
who slept in my room must have got
up very early in the morning, and
stolen my breeches. I am a man of
fortune — my name is Samuel Holt,
Esq. of Bastock Lodge — and as to
stealing"

But his harangue was here inter-
rupted by a new witness, who ex-
claimed," Please your worships, this
swindler of a fellow cheated me last
night out of an excellent dinner and
a pint of old port." And poor Sam,
on looking round at his new assail-
ant, recognised the landlord of the
inn where the coach had stopt. Cast-
ing his eyes up to Heaven, in sheer
despair, he sat down in his seat, and
muttered, " It is my firm belief I
shall be hanged, because a cursed
fellow of a dentist took a fancy to
my breeches. But it all comes of
travelling. May the devil take Jack
Thomson !" But at this moment a
prospect of safety dawned upon him,
for Mr Clutchit entered the office.
" I say, Clutchit !" cried the prisoner
in an ecstasy," Just tell these people,
will you, that I never murdered a
dentist — confound his breeches — but
that I am Sam Holt of Bastock—
Rosy Sam."

Mr Clutchit, thus addressed, bore
witness to the respectability of his
client, and begged to be made ac-
quainted with the circumstances of
the case. On hearing the name of
the missing individual, he exclaimed,
" O, he's safe enough— this very
morning he was arrested at West-
minster for debt, and is snugly lod-
ged in the Fleet. A stout good-com-
plexioned man, a dentist, about two-
and-forty years of age, and much
such a figure as Mr Holt."—" Just
such a figure," cried Sam ; " our
clothes fit each other, as if the tailor
had measured us both."

Mr Clutchit' s evidence altered
the appearance of the question, and
a messenger was dispatched to the
Fleet to ascertain whether the den-
tist was really there. In a short time
he returned to the Court with the
following letter :—

68

" SIR — I am sorry for the scrape
my disappearance has got you into.
On shaving myself last night, I cut
my chin very severely, and had no-
thing at hand to stop the bleeding.
On getting up very early to proceed
to Westminster, I took my trunk
down stairs and put it into a boat,
but recollecting I had left my dress-
ing case, I returned for it as gently
as I could, for fear of disturbing the
house. It was so dark at the time,
that I find, in mistake, I had put on
some clothes which did not belong
to me. On landing at Westminster,
I was unfortunately arrested at the
suit of a scoundrel of the name of
Clutchit, and sent off to this place.
I herewith return you the things con-
tained in your pockets ; and would
return the habiliments themselves,
but just at present have no change
of wardrobe. Yours respectfully.
ABRAHAM REEVE."

Sam was now complimented and
apologized to,on all hands; and though
Mr Clutchit spoke in no very kindly
terms of the unhappy Abraham, ow-
ing, perhaps, to the manner in which
he was spoken of in the note, Sam, who
was now in the highest spirits, said, as
they went out of the office together,
— " He's not a bad fellow that same
dentist — he has saved my neck from
the gallows, and I'll be hanged if I
don't pay his debt. But I say, Clut-
chit, only think what would have be-
come of me if he had been drowned
on his way to Westminster !" " Ah,
my dear sir, you know nothing about
the law. But come, we must talk
on business. I have not yet seen
Sir Harry, but have a note from him
— that he expects us both to dine
with him on board his yacht to-day,
which is lying at Blackwall. You
had better go and arrange matters
with him in a friendly way, while I
draw out the deeds, and make all
right."—" Just as you please," said
Sam, " but in the meantime, my tog-
gery is not just what I could wish,

and my purse" " Say no more,

say no more. One can get every
thing in London." And in the course
of an hour, Sam found himself well
dressed, with two or three shirts and
other articles in a carpet-bag, and
fifty sovereigns in his pocket, for
which he gave the lawyer his note,
Rejoicing in his recovered liberty,
and anticipating a comfortable din-

The Traveller in spite of Himself.

[Jan.

ner and quiet bottle once more, he
presented himself on board the Tar-
tar at 4 o'clock. Sir Harry was de-
lighted to see him, introduced him
to some friends who were on board,
and in the happiest mood possible
the whole party sat down to dinner.
But Sam's hilarity was doomed to be
of short duration. Before he had
time to swallow the first mouthful,
he perceived that the vessel was in
motion. Sir Harry assured him they
were only going a trip to the Downs
to see the fleet, and would be back
the next day; and Mr Holt, who
never took long to accept a friendly
invitation, professed his happiness
at the prospect of the voyage. But
a dinner on board a little yacht of
fifty tons, and in his nice parlour at
Bastock Lodge, were very different
things. A slight swell of the river
made her motion very uneasy, and a
lurch which emptied a plateful of
scalding pea-soup into Sam's lap, and
diverted the point of his fork from its
original destination — a kidney pota-
toe — to the more sensitive kidneys
of his leeward neighbour, made him
half repent his nautical expedition.
When they had left the comparative
smoothness of the river, and entered
upon the open sea, which was hea-
ving under a pretty tolerable breeze,
Sam's feelings were of a very dif-
ferent nature from those of pleasure.
After various ineffectual attempts to
enjoy himself below, he felt that the
fresh air was absolutely necessary to
his comfort, and rushed upon deck.
Here he was quite bewildered. The
night was not entirely dark, but a
dim lurid gloom spread itself all
round the heavens, and even so un-
practised an eye as poor Sam's saw
that there was a storm in the sky. In
the meantime, the wind blew fresher
every minute, and the Tartar skim-
med on the top of the waves one
moment, and the other, sunk so in-
stantaneously into the hollow of the
sea, that Sam laid himself down upon
the deck, partly to repress his sick-
ness, and partly, perhaps, to conceal
his fears. Meanwhile, mirth and
revelry were going on below, and
even the sailors appeared to Sam to
be much less attentive to the vessel
than the exigency of affairs demand-
ed. From time to time our friend
lifted up his head, to satisfy himself
whether the sea was becoming more

1832.]

The Traveller in spite of Himself .

rough, and laid himself down again
with an increase of his alarm. At
last he caught an indistinct view of
some large dark object, heaving and
tumbling in the waters j he kept his
eye as steadily fixed on it as his sick-
ness would allow, until he saw that
it was a ship of large size: " I say,
coachman!" he said to the man at
the wheel, " mind your reins j there's
a London waggon coming down hill,
fifteen mile an hour !" The man,
whose ideas were as thoroughly nau-
tical as Sam's were terrene, paid no
attention to his warning ; but still
Sam's eyes were fixed on the ap-
proaching object, and he cried out,
in the extremity of alarm, — " Drive
on, drive on, or pull to the side of

the road ; or, by , we shall all be

spilt !" His exclamations produced
no effect, and the ship drew rapidly
near. He saw her as her huge beam
rose upon the crest of a wave, and
sank yawning down again, till her
null was entirely hid ; but each time
she rose, he perceived that she had
greatly shortened the space between
them. Sam cried out to the steers-
man, " You infernal villain, why
don't you get out of the way ? Do
you not understand what's said to
you, you tarry, quid-chewing abomi-
nation ! See, see, she's on us ! — she's
on us !" He heard the dash of her
bows through the foam, and while
the bellying of her sails above
sounded like thunder, a hoarse voice
was heard through the storm, cry-
ing, " Luff— luff ;" and the helms-
man, now thoroughly awakened to
his danger, turned the wheel, but it
was too late. A scream, wild and
appalling, burst from the crew, who
were on deck, and the next instant a
crash took place; the little vessel
shook as if every plank were burst-
ing, and Sam found himself battling
with the waves. He soon lost all
consciousness of his situation, and
how long had elapsed, he did not
know ; but when he came to his re-
collection, he found himself in a
warm bed, while a gentleman in na-
val uniform was holding his pulse,
and several other persons anxiously
looking on. " It's of no use, I tell
you," said Sam, with a rueful expres-
sion of countenance. " It's of no
use — I'm a changed man. Yester-
day I was nearly hanged, now I'm
entirely drowned ; and what's to hap-

pen next, Lord only knows. The
last time I slept in Bastock, I had
never been forty miles from home,
but now I suppose I'm at the other
end of the world." — " Keep yourself
quiet, sir, you are in good quarters,"
said the gentleman who held his
pulse. "You are on board his Ma-
jesty's ship Bloodsucker, 84, bound
for the Mediterranean. Take this
composing draught, and keep yourself
quiet for a few days, and I have no
doubt of your soon recovering your
strength." And accordingly, in a very
few days, Sam was able to go upon
deck. By the ease and jollity of his
social disposition, he soon made him-
self a favourite with the mess. On
his first emerging from his cabin, he
gazed with breathless astonishment
at the prospect which presented it-
self— magnificent hills at an ama-
zing distance, and a vast extent of
level country, rejoicing in the sun-
shine. " Pray, sir," said Sam, to a
tall romantic-looking gentleman in
black, who was admiring the same
scene, " what county may we be op-
posite now ? Is it any part of Hamp-
shire, sir?" — " Hampshire!" repeat-
ed the gentleman, thus addressed,-—
" These are the mountains of Spain.
These hills were trod by Hannibal, and
the Scipios, by the Duke of Welling-
ton, and Don Quixote. This is the
land of the Inquisition and liquorice.
Yonder is Cape Trafalgar ; there, in
the arms of victory and Sir Thomas
Hardy, fell heroic one-eyed Nelson !
That is Cape Spartel. Hail Afric's
scorching shore, hot-bed of niggers !
See! we open the Pillars of Hercu-
les ! These mighty portals past,
every step we'll be on classic ground
or water."

Long before this rhapsody was
concluded, our friend had betaken
himself to another part of the ship,
and did not appreciate the eloquence
and enthusiasm of the classical chap-
lain of the Bloodsucker. It is not to
be supposed that Sam was a willing
encounterer, all this time, of the pe-
rils of the deep. Frequent and an-
xious were his enquiries as to the
possibility of his return. \ He was as-
sured that at Gibraltar there was no
doubt of his getting a homeward ves-
sel, but till then, he had better accom-
modate himself to circumstances. Ac-
cordingly, with right good-will, he
set himself to enjoy as many comforts

GO

as his position would afford. The
purser, being luckily a stout indivi-
dual,'furnished him with a wardrobe;
and the wine being good, the mess
pleasant, and the sea calm, Sam's
only drawback from his felicity was
his absence from Bastock Lodge. On
casting anchor off St Rosier, they as-
certained from the pratique boat that
the yellow fever was so virulent on
shore, that the deaths averaged nine
a day ; so, without the delay of a mo-
ment, all sail was hoisted again, and
with a favourable breeze the Blood-
sucker pursued her way to Malta.

Here, at last, Sam was lucky enough
to get information of the sailing of a
Sicilian'sparonara bound for Catania,
from which he was assured he could
not fail to catch the regular passage-
boat home. With many adieus and
cordial invitations to the officers to
beat up his quarters at Bastock
Lodge, Sam betook himself to the
St Agata, with every prospect of a
favourable voyage. The passengers
consisted principally of invalided
officers and soldiers, and Sam had
the deck to himself. As night was
coming on, a vessel about the same
size as the St Agata hove in sight,
and, in passing, made a signal of
distress, and begged some water,
as their casks, they said, had all
leaked out. " Oh, give the poor de-
vils some water," said Sam, as soon
as he understood what they wanted.
" Thirst is a horrible thing— especi-
ally of a morning after dining out."
The strange vessel sent its barge ;
but no sooner had the crew got on
board, than at the whistle of the vil-
lain who had mounted first, eight
armed men started from the bottom
of the boat, and, after a slight strug-
gle, in which they shot two sailors,
and threw the captain overboard,
they gained possession of the St
Agata, and secured all the passen-
gers below. After being kept in
confinement a long time, and spa-
ringly fed on bread and water, they
were landed one moonlight night,
and marched into a dark cave among
the rocks on the sea-shore. Sam's
meditations were by no means of a
pleasing cast. " Don't you think it
a very hard case, sir," he said to the
officer who was chained to his wrist,
and whose strength, after a severe
fever in Malta, was scarcely able to
support him under the treatment of

The Traveller in spite of Himself.

[Jan.

his captors — " Don't you think it a
hard case on a middle-aged man like
me, that I should be moved about all
over the world against my will, lea-
ving the nicest cottage in England,
and a lot of good fellows — to be first
suspected of murdering somebody
else, and then most likely to be mur-
dered myself?"—" Thelast," replied
the invalid, " we shall all undoubted-
ly be, as we are in the hands of the
Greeks."—" Of the Philistines, you
mean," said Sam — " but it's all the
same." While carrying on this me-
lancholy conversation, they were
suddenly startled by a great deal of
firing, mixed with screams, and the
other outcries which attend an on-
slaught. " Mercy on us all !" said
Sam, " what the devil is to come
next ?" — " They are most probably
murdering some other prisoners,"
replied his companion ; " it will be
our turn soon." — "Then, I'll take
my oath, they shan't kill me like a
sheep. I'll have a tussle for it, and
if I get a right-hander on some of
the scoundrel's breadbaskets, I'll
make them know what it is to bully
a free-born Englishman." In a short
time, advancing steps were heard,
and our bold Briton, supporting his
companion to the mouth of the cave,
stood in as Crib-like an attitude as
his unencumbered hand could as-
sume ; and resolved to knock down
the first man that entered. They had
not been long in this situation, when
they perceived that their place of
confinement was left unguarded, and
they were still more surprised, on
proceeding a little way in front, to
perceive the dead bodies of several
of their captors, already partly stript,
while further down upon the beach
they saw a large body of Turks for-
cing many of the unarmed natives on
board of some vessels close on shore.
While congratulating themselves on
this prospect of escape, and while
they continued gazing on the scene
before them, they were suddenly
surrounded by a fresh body of Turks,
and, without a word spoken on either
side, they were conducted down the
passes of the rocks, and conveyed on
board. " Worse and worse," sighed
Sam, whom this last disaster reduced
to complete despair—" It is my firm
belief 1 am not Sam Holt of Bastock,
but have changed places with the wan-
dering Jew.— Jack Thomson's pro-

1832.]

The Traveller in spite of Himself.

phecy is fulfilled, every bit of it!"—
But poor Sam's lamentations were
of no avail. On the third day, they
were taken out of the vessel, and
conveyed to shore. The unfortunate
invalid with whom Sam had been
chained so long, appeared so ill after
landing, that he was released from
the fetters ; and what became of him
Sam never discovered. Our friend,
whose dress was of the most hetero-
geneous nature, consisting of what-
ever articles he could pick up — for,
in all his misfortunes, his wardrobe
was the first to suffer — was ranged
along a wall, in a magnificent build-
ing, along with about forty others of
all ages and countries. Many peo-
ple, in strange dresses, with towels,
as Sam expressed it, round their
heads, passed and repassed them,
looking narrowly at each. At last,
an old white-whiskered man, point-
ing with his finger to the still portly
figure of our friend, entered into a
conversation with the person who
had conducted them to the place,
and in a few minutes Sam was taken
out from the rest, and the old gentle-
man beckoning him to follow, walked
majestically out of the building. Poor
Sam, who now felt himself to be a
very different being from what he
used to be, presiding over his well
filled table at Bastock Lodge, fol-
lowed in the most submissive man-
ner imaginable. His conductor pau-
sed at the door of a very stately
edifice, and said a few words, which
Sam did not understand, to a group
of lounging domestics. Immediately
three or four of them rushed forward,
and seized violently hold of Sam, and
carried him into the hall. There
they let him stand for a few minutes,
till the old gentleman who had pre-
ceded them, and who had gone into
an inner apartment, returned and
spoke to them in the same language
as before. Again they hurried Sam
forward, and at last when they came
to a pause, the astonished Squire of
Bastock had time to look round him.
Seated on a low, richly covered ot-
toman, was an old white-headed man,
with a long pipe in his mouth ; near
him were several others, but evi-
dently his inferiors—while, a little
way from the raised floor on which
they were sitting, was a multitude of
soldiers, in such a uniform, and with
such arms, as had never entered into

61

Sam's imagination to conceive. While
he was taking this survey, the old
gentleman his conductor, bending to
the very ground before the magnifico
with the pipe, apparently directed
his attention to Rosy Sam. Without
casting his sublime eyes on so insig-
nificant an object, the great man or-
dered the dragoman to discover who
the stranger was. A young man now
stept forward and addressed our
friend in French.

" No, no — no parley vous," said
Sam, who knew just enough of the
sound to guess what language it was.

He next spoke to him in English,
and said he was ready to report
Sam's answers to the dignitary on
the sofa.

" I say,'* said Sam, who had now
recovered a little of his confidence
from hearing his mother tongue once
more, " who's the old covey in the
dressing-gown? He seems a prime
judge of tobacco."

The person alluded to scowled and
said something to the interpreter,
who turned to Sam and said, — " His
Highness, the Reis Effendi, says you
are a dog, and if you speak till you're
spoken to, he will tear your tongue
out, and cut off both your ears."

"He's cursedly polite— but did you
say he was the Rice Offendy? — ask
him if he hasn't a brass gun upon
wheels that kills sea-mews at a hun-
dred-and fifty yards."

The interpreter, probably not un-
derstanding Sam's language, or will-
ing to screen him from his Excellen-
cy's anger, said a few words, and
promised obedience on the part of
Sam.

The conversation went on. " The
Reis Effendi wishes to know if you
have any particular wish to be strang-
led?"

" Tell the Rice, that with his per-
mission I would much rather not, but
am just as much obliged to him for
his kind offer."

" His Highness wishes to know if
you have any objections to be beau-
tifully dressed, well treated, made
rich, and have eight wives supported
for you at the Sultan's expense."

" Tell him," said Sam, quite de-
lighted, " that he is a jolly old cock ;
that I accept his offer with all my
heart; but as to the wives, I can't
think of more than one, or two at
the very moBt."

62

" Will you turn Mussulman to ob-
tain all these advantages ?"

" Musselman? Aye, to be sure,
I'm a devil of a fellow at all sorts of
fish."

" Will you wear the turban, and
swear by the prophet?"

"Turban? Yes— -Lord bless you,
what does it signify what a man
wears ? and as to swearing, 'gad I'll
outswear you all for a hundred."

On the dragoman relating the re-
sult of the conversation, his high-
ness deigned to cast eyes on the new
believer, and at a nod several men
stept forward and threw little jars
of rose water over his face and per-
son ; and immediately he was hur-
ried into another apartment, stript
by five or six zealous attendants,
forced into a warm bath which was
richly perfumed, and after being
rubbed and anointed, he was clothed
in the splendid flowing robes, and
ornam ented with the glittering jewel s
of a Turkish Basha. When he came
into the anteroom, through which
he had already passed, he recognised
the old gentleman who had brought
him to the palace, and beckoned
him to come near.

" I say, old boy, what can be the
meaning of all this ? Are ye all mad,
or only drunk ?" The old man, bow-
ed, and almost prostrated himself,
but answered nothing. " O, I see
how it is," continued Sam. " Where-
abouts is the dragsman? He's no
great hand at English, poor devil,
but he is better than none."

The dragoman appeared, and bend'
ing obsequiously, said, " What is it
your lordship's pleasure to do with
your slave ?"

" Pooh, lordship ! nonsense, man. I
say, Draggy, he's a comical old shaver,
that Rice Offendy; and fought ra-
ther shy of answering us about the
gun ; for my own part, I think it's a
lie of Jack Thomson's."

" Your lordship is too complaisant
to your slave."

" Perhaps I should be if I had him ;
but we have no slaves, I have a ser-
vant, a d — d old canting scoundrel,
called Trusty Tommy ; but pshaw !
you know nothing about these things.
Now, can you tell me what they
want me to do, for surely all this
scrubbing and dressing can't be for
nothing ?"

" Your highness' s escort is now,
I believe, at the door. You are about

The Traveller in spite of Himself.

[Jan.

to proceed as ambassador from the
Sultan of the World to the Pacha of
Albania. Your highness is decorated
with three tails."

" The devil a tail have they left
me at all — not so much as a jacket —
I feel for all the world as if I were
in petticoats. Well, you say I go as
ambassador to some gentleman in
Albania. Is it a long journey ?"

" Yes, it will be some time before
your highnesses return."

" For I was thinking," continued
Sam, " it would be as well, before I

go to — to how many wives did

you say I was to have kept for me
by the sultan ?"

" There were eight destined to
rejoice in your highness's smiles."

" The devil there were ! But
where do they hang out ? They are,
perhaps, ugly old frights."

" Beautiful as angels in Paradise.
But the sultan's orders are impera-
tive. Your highness must not delay
a single moment, but leave every
thing till you return."

" Well, well, what must be, must."
And Sam mounted a magnificent
Arab, which was standing at the
door, and set off with a large retinue
of splendidly dressed warriors, while
another interpreter rode close by his
side. As he left the gate of the city,
an officer stopt the cavalcade, and,
with all due formalities, delivered a
packet into the ambassador's hand.
The interpreter told him to lay the
packet on his head, for it was the
firman of the sultan. In a short time
the cortege passed on, and Sam had
ample time to moralize on the muta-
bility of fortune. Long before the
journey was over, he was intimate
with every man of the escort ,• and
when, at length, on entering the Al-
banian territory, all, except four, left
him, they took leave of him with so
much appearance of regret, as evi-
dently shewed how much they liked
their commander.

One day in riding down the side
of a gentle valley, they came, at a
winding of the rude track they were
pursuing, upon a large body of horse-
men— and as they were immediately
surrounded, they had no alternative
but to mention who they were, and
submit. On the interpreter inform-
ing them that his master bore a com-
munication to the Pacha from the
Sultan, they drew back with the
utmost respect, and fell into the line

1832.]

of march, as part of his military
guard. They informed the party
that the Pacha was encamped a few
miles farther down the valley, with
an army of forty thousand men, and
that he had expected the Sultan's
ambassador for some time. Encou-
raged by this assurance, Sam put his
Arabian on his mettle, and soon was
in the heart of the encampment. The
Pacha's tent was easily known from
its superior splendour, and in a few
minutes Sam was conducted in great
splendour to his highness's quarters.
Fierce-looking soldiers scowledupon
him as he passed, and Sam was not
altogether at ease, when he observed
the ominous sneers they exchanged
with each other.

At last he stopt short, and said to
one of the soldiers, whose expres-
sion he did not like, " You popin-
jay in fine clothes, do you make
these faces at me ?"

Another soldier who was standing
by, started forward and said, " Good
God! an Englishman, and in that
dress ! — it is not even yet too late
to save you ; if you go on, you will
be murdered to a certainty— the
Pacha has put twelve ambassadors
to death already."

" The devil he has ! and I'm sent
here to make up the baker's dozen !
Well, countryman, what's to J)e
done? If you get me out of this
scrape, and ever come to Bas-
tock"

" Stay, — the only plan, when the
Pacha asks you for the firman, is to
say you've lost it; — here, give it to
me." And Sam had scarcely time
to follow the soldier's advice, when
he found himself in presence of the
rebel chief.

He was standing at the farther end
of the tent, in the middle of a group
of officers. On seeing his highness
the ambassador, he advanced half
way to meet him, and bowed with
all the reverence of an Eastern pro-
stration.

" I worship the shadow of the
sovereign of the universe. Your
highness does too much honour to
your slave."

" Your servant, old gentleman,
your servant," said Sam, who guessed
from the Pacha's manner, that he
was paying him a compliment, " a
pleasant gentlemanly sort of man,
and no murderer I'll be bound— tell
him I'm glad to see him, and hope

The Traveller in spite of Himself.

63

he's well— ask him how his wife is,
and the children."

The interpreter, at Sam's request,
made a courteous speech.

" The messenger of the Sultan is
master here. We are sorry we can
offer him no better accommodation."

" The accommodation's good
enough — but riding in these hot
mornings with a tablecloth on one's
head is thirsty work, Master Drags-
man. Ask him if he could give one
a glass of brandy and water — cold
without."

But the Pacha anticipated his de-
sire. He seated him on the highest
ottoman in the tent, and treated him
with a deference and respect which
were quite astonishing to Sam, but
which seemed to yield the greatest
amusement to the officers of the staff.
" The bearer of the Firman is power-
ful as Azrael. Say, where is the im-
perial order for your slave's unfor-
tunate head ? The officers of the bow-
string are near."

" An order for his head ! Tell him,
I know nothing about his head, nor
his bow-strings either. I brought
a letter from an old smoking fellow
at Constantinople, but I've unfortu-
nately lost it by the way."

« What! lost it ?" said the Pacha,
who did not seem by any means re-
joiced at the prospect of retaining
his head. " Your highness is pleased
to jest with your servant. You un-
doubtedly came from the monarch
of the earth to put the cord round
your slave's neck ?"

" I be cursed if I came for any such
purpose."

" Ah, then," said the Pacha, " it
grieves me we can only give you the
second-rate robe of honour. — We are
deprived of our sport, (he said to his
attendants,) for this time at least your
chief's head is in safety— Put the
caftan of favour round the drago-
man's shoulders."

Tw o splendidly dressed men, with
arms bared up to the elbow, and
bearing a silk cord, now advanced
towards the interpreter. He clung
for safety to his Excellency the Am-
bassador, screaming, " Save me, save
me; they are going to strangle your
slave."

" Strangle! — Nonsense, man —
Didn't the old gentleman treat us in
the most polite way possible ; and
isn'the laughing,and all the otherpeo-
ple too, as if it were a capital joke ?"

64

But in spite of Sam's consolatory
observations, the interpreter conti-
nued his entreaties.

The men had now got up to him,
and laid the green silk cord upon his
shoulder. They then brought the
two ends round to his breast; and
another person, who seemed of higher
rank, stept forward, bearing a short
staff in his hand. Round this staff
he twisted the ends of the cord till
it was closely drawn to the drago-
man's throat, and then he waited
with the most imperturbable cool-
ness for some signal from the chief.
That personage, however, seemed to
enjoy the scene too much to bring
it to a speedy conclusion, and con-
tinued to pour out his ironical com-
pliments both to the dragoman and
Sam. " The caftan of honour is gi-
ven to the servant of the messenger
of the Sultan ; he does not seem to
prize the distinction sufficiently." —
" Oh, save your slave !" exclaimed
the dragoman. " He is a dog, and
would lick the dust ; but save him,
your highness !"

" Come, Mister Pacha," said Sam,
as coaxingly as he could, " you have
had your fun with the poor devil,
though I can't see the joke of it my-
self. You see he's half-dead with
fright. Let him go, there's a good fel-
low."

" There are twelve of your bre-
thren, the scoundrelly Greeks of the
Faynal, gone before you, all wear-
ing the same marks of my favour.
See that the caftan fits him close-
he will catch cold, else." As he said
these words, the Pacha nodded to the
person who held the staff; and in an
instant, by a dexterous turn of the
wrist, the cord was drawn tight, and
the howlings, and terrified exclama-
tions of the dragoman, were cut
short by death. The staff was un-
twisted e'er Sam recovered from his
amazement, and the corpse of his
companion, still writhing, fell down
upon his feet. He started up in hor-
ror at the murder, and forgetting the
danger which surrounded him, he ex-
daimed, — " You blood-thirsty Turk,
by G — d ! if there's law or justice to
be had for love or money, you shall
swing for this. You're a pretty son
of a , to pretend to be so po-
lite, and then to kill a poor devil of a
fellow who never did you a morsel
of harm. Keep your cursed sofa to

The Traveller in spite of Himself.

[Jan.

yourself, for I would not stay with
such a Burking old scoundrel, no, not
to be Mayor of London." And Sam,
foaming with indignation, stalked
away ; 'but he had not gone far when
the same two men who had brought
the cord stopt him, and led him
back to the ottoman he had left.
This time, instead of a bow-string,
they carried a long thong of thick
leather, and the Pacha, still continu-
ing his respectful behaviour, said, —
" Your excellency is too condescend-
ing to your slave. Ho ! chamberlain
— put the Shoes of Glory on his
highness's feet." With the rapidity
of lightning, Sam was thrown back
upon the sofa ; his shoes forcibly
taken from his feet, and while the
whole tent was convulsed with laugh-
ter, one of the men swinging the
bastinado round his head, inflicted
such a blow on his unprotected soles,
that Sam screamed aloud with ming-
led rage and pain.

"Let me go this moment, ye bloody-
minded rascals—d e if I don't

hawl you up for this. — I'll bring an
action"

But here the second blow enraged
him beyond all endurance, and while
struggling with enormous strength,
and, roaring at the top of his lungs,
he felt a hand laid on his shoulder,
and, on looking up, saw Jack Thom-
son in his dressing-gown, and all the
rest of us standing round his bed.

" Why, Rosy Sam, what the deuce
is the matter with you this morning,
disturbing the whole house ?"

" Matter," said Sam, sitting bolt
upright, " where's that infernal Turk ?
I'll teach him to strike an English-
man on the feet. What, Jack Thom-
son ! Jem ! Bill !— All here— at Bas-
tock — Lord bless ye, I've had such
a dream — all coming of your con-
founded stories, Jack — I thought I
was tried, drowned, taken, sold, beat,
bastinadoed, married to eight wives
— and the devil knows all what. But
here we are, my boys, let's have our
breakfast; then we'll have a day's
coursing in the upland fields, and
after dinner, I'll tell you all my ad-
ventures— how I was sent as an am-
bassador by the Sultan." " And they
could not have found a fellow," said
Jack, " who was a considerable pun-
ster, who could have made himself
more at home with the Sublime Port
than yourself."

1832.]

State of Public Feeling in Scotland.

65

STATE OF PUBLIC FEELING IN SCOTLAND.

DESTINED as our pages are to cany
the conservative principles, and at-
tachment to the constitution, to the
remotest quarters where the English
language is spoken in the world, it is
with great reluctance that we mingle
with such momentous disquisitions,
any thing of a local or provincial na-
ture ; and our readers must lon<* have
perceived, that our pages are, in ge-
neral, as free from the details of
Scotch transactions as if they were
written at Nova Zembla. But while
this is the general rule, there must
be some exceptions : occasions on
which the conservative principles
themselves call upon us to give pub-
licity, and confer merited celebrity,
on patriotic services ; and when to
pass over in silence courageous ef-
forts and splendid talent, would be
alike unworthy of the cause we ad-
vocate, and the country which has
given us birth.

We have uniformly maintained,
that the effect of the Reform mea-
sures in the contemplation of Go-
vernment, would be to augment in
Rome places the aristocratic, in others
the democratic influence in the
country, to the entire extinction, be-
tween them, of the middling and re-
spectable bodies who at present lie
between these extremes, and mode-
rate the fierceness with which, upon
their destruction, they will assail
each other. We have also maintain-
ed, that this tendency is now clearly
perceived by all those different class-
es, and that the chief supporters of
the Reform Bill in Scotland are the
Whig aristocrats, with their profes-
sional dependants, in the country,
and the democratical party, with their
numerous filiations, in the towns :
the former being influenced by the
hope, through their numerous tenant-
ry, of governing the county — the
latter, through the ten-pound tenants,
of carrying the borough elections.

The demonstrations of public opi-
nion which have recently been made,
or are now in progress, in Scotland,
completely demonstrate the justice
of these observations. While the
respectable, influential, and intelli-
gent middling ranks, of every pro-
fession and class, are combining to

VOL. XXXI. NO. CLXXXIX.

express their alarm and detestation
of the Bill, some of the great feudal
Whig proprietors are coalescing with
the manufacturing rabble to testify
their support of its principles. In
Lanarkshire, the Duke of Hamilton
has attended a meeting of the Glas-
gow radicals to support reform ; and
the Premier Peer of Scotland was
not ashamed to propose resolutions,
which were seconded by operative
weavers. At Perth, a meeting has
been held, convened by the Breadal-
bane and Athol families, along with
the weavers and sail-makers of Perth
and Dundee, to petition in favour of
a measure which promises to give
the command of the Highland coun-
ties to these overgrown proprietors
with their armies of catherans, and
the control of the lowland cities to
the burgh radicals, with their squalid
and democratic followers. At this
meeting the ancient title of Glenor-
chy was no longer heard, and the
Earl of Ormelie signalized his eleva-
tion by the reforming administration,
by uniting with their radical follow-
ers in the Lanes of Perth. In Rox-
burghshire, the Earl of Minto has
coalesced with the Hawick weavers,
and got up a petition, signed by such
names that many of them were not
thought fit to be published even in
the radical newspapers.

It is remarkable, that in all these
cases, the Whig aristocracy have not
united with their natural friends
and supporters, the tenantry of their
Estates, but with the weavers of the
manufacturing towns in the vicinity.
It is the weavers of Hamilton and
Airdrie, Perth and Dundee, Hawick
and Galashiels, who have coalesced
with the noble families of Hamilton,
Breadalbane, and Minto. It is need-
less to say, that at all these meetings
the gentry of the country, with the
exception of a few intimate friends
or dependants of these great families,
were absent, and the aristocratic
brought into close and immediate
conjunction with the democratic
classes. The country understands
this ominous conjunction ; it portends
the extinction of the inferior nobility,
the gentry, the merchants, manu-
facturers, lawyers, higher tradesmen,

6G

State of Public Feeling in Scotland,

[Jan.

and farmers, — the destruction of the
middling and useful orders of socie-
ty, to leave the field clear to aristo-
cratic pride and republican ambition.

Very different have been the ma-
nifestations of public feeling on the
part of the gentry, landholders, and
respectable classes in Scotland. At
Glasgow, an anti-reform address has
recently been signed by above 1000
of the most respectable merchants,
bankers, traders, and shopkeepers of
that great emporium of commerce
and industry, the second city in the
empire in point of population, wealth,
and importance. So strongly is the
intelligence and wealth of that part
of Scotland impressed with the peril
of the present measures of innova-
tion, that, not content with this great
demonstration of opinion, we hope
very soon there will be a public meet-
ing of the Conservative party there,
for the purpose of addressing both
Houses of Parliament. — In Berwick-
shire, one of the greatest agricultural
counties of Scotland, a requisition
for a public county meeting has been
published, signed by 125 persons,
embracing almost all the landed
proprietors, and above eighty of the
principal farmers of that opulent
and intelligent district, — men supe-
rior to their brethren in any other
part of the island in agricultural skill,
and inferior to none in intelligence
and patriotism, — who pay an amount
of rent which would outweigh the
income of an army of radicals, and
have received an education equal to
that of any body of gentlemen in
Great Britain. — At a recent visit of
Lord Aberdeen to his extensive Aber-
deenshire estates, he was voluntarily-
waited upon by an immense body of
his tenantry, to express their attach-
ment to his person and family, and
their admiration of his political con-
duct ; and it would be hard to find
an equal body of farmers in any part
of the island, of the same natural
sagacity and deliberate judgment.

The Conservative party in Perth-
shire have come forward in a very
different way from the Highland
chieftains and lowland city demo-
crats of the county. A petition is in
progress, embracing four-fifths of
the noblemen, gentlemen, clergy,
and farmers of the county, in favour
of the constitution. These landed
proprietors have not pome forward

to unite with the rabble of towns ;
they have stood forth with their
farmers, neighbours, clergy, and
friends — with all who are united
with them in interest, or attached in
affection, to support the system un-
der which they have lived, and pros-
pered, and hope to die together.

It is not surprising that the tenant-
ry of Scotland, wherever they are
sufficiently educated to understand
the nature and practical tendency
of the changes which are proposed,
should be filled with alarm at their
consequences, and deprecate the fa-
tal gift of political dissension with
which they are threatened by the Re-
form Bill. They have sense enough
to perceive the consequences of
breeding political warfare between
a landlord and his farmers; they
compare their own condition with
that of the English and Irish te-
nantry— they dread to convert the
independent and prosperous Scotch
cultivator into the fierce serf of the
latter, or the obsequious tenant of
the former country. They know
that they must either vote with their
landlords, or against them — that, if
they do the former, they are convert-
ed into a menial herd, deprived of
the power of political deliberation ;
if the latter, they are introducing
dissension and strife into a peaceful
community, and may ultimately co-
ver the Scottish valleys with the fires
and the murders of Ireland.

Of a similar description is the re-
cent stand made by the Conserva-
tive party at Edinburgh. While the
Reforming Journals,with their usual
exaggeration and falsehood, are re-
echoing the story of unanimity in the
whole country in favour of the Bill —
and even the Lord Chancellor ha-
zarded, on the woolsack, the assertion,
if the report of his speech be correct,
that every man in Edinburgh capa-
ble of bearing arms, had signed the
Reform petition — it was obvious to
all practically acquainted with the
state of public opinion in the country,
not only that there was a very great
division on the subject, but that the
decided majority of property, intelli-
gence, and virtue, had ranged itself
on the other side. The knowledge
that this was the case, as much at
Edinburgh as elsewhere, and a sense
of the duty incumbent on the Scot-
tish metropolis to take the lead in

1832.]

State of Public Feeling in Scotland.

67

such a manifestation of public opi-
nion, in opposition to the clamour
and delusion of the day, induced a
number of individuals of the highest
respectability, to project the plan of
a public meeting, to give vent to
these sentiments ; and the result has
been a display of the combined force
of energy of talent, respectability,
and property, such as never was be-
fore witnessed in this northern part
of the island.

In making this observation, we do
not mean to assert that, in point of
numbers, the persons who attended
this meeting were any thing at all
approaching to that of the signatures
at the Reform Petition. In a ques-
tion where the multitude has been
systematically arrayed against the
property of the country, where brute
force is brought to bear against in-
tellectual power, and liberty of
thought in the peaceful, is threaten-
ed with extinction by the advocates
of licentiousness in the unruly, it
is not to be expected that this ever
can be the case. As much is it to be
looked for, that the officers of an
army are to equal in numbers the
privates whom they command, or the
gifted spirits, who finally rule the
tempests of thought, the thoughtless
crowd who follow their suggestions.
But there is no man acquainted with
Scotland, who must not admit, that
a great majority of the talent, of the
property, and of the respectability of
the city and its vicinity was assem-
bled on this occasion ; and that a de-
gree of enthusiasm and unanimity
was exhibited, such as never before
was witnessed in this ancient metro-
polis.

It embraced many of the principal
landed proprietors of the neighbour-
hood, almost all the great bankers,
merchants, and traders of the city,
a decided majority of the bar and
legal profession in all its branches,
and almost every individual known
as occupying a respectable station in
s'ociety in Edinburgh, whose fortunes
are not wound up with or dependant
on the present administration. A
priori, it would have been deemed
impossible to assemble such a meet-
ing on account of any cause, or by
any exertions whatsoever. The suc-
cess of such an attempt demonstrates
the intensity of the feeling against
the ruinous measures pf administra-

tion, which has grown up irt this
country, and the vehemence with
which public thought rushed into the
right channel, when the barriers
which have so long restrained it by
violence and intimidation from the
lower orders, were removed.

The means by which this noble
and heart- stirring display of public
feeling was effected, are particularly
worthy of notice, with a view to
their general adoption. Edinburgh
contains its full proportion of disso-
lute and abandoned characters, who
enlist themselves under the banner
of Reform, in order to gratify their
malignant or licentious passions; it
contains also its full proportion of
popular violence ; and of great but
distorted, or misled ability among
the higher and upright class of Re-
formers. The excesses and violence
of the mob in this city at the last elec-
tion, at one time seemed to threaten
such a conflagration as has illuminated
the progress of Bristol Reform. But
all these indigent and reckless thou-
sands were restrained, popular dis-
content was overawed, and the pub-
lic tranquillity was effectually pre-
served, by the publication of the
names of the requisitioiiists to the
address. That list contained such an
assemblage of wealth, respectability,
and talent, that faction was over-
awed,violence was intimidated, envy
and vituperation were silenced. The
ignorant thousands who petitioned
for Reform, beheld in that list their
landlords, their employers, their
teachers, their benefactors; those
whose wealth gave them bread,
whose benevolence had saved them
from starvation, whose genius had,
till recent delusion, guided their
thoughts. The result of this display
of moral was the subjugation of phy-
sical strength; and hence the tri-
umphant and tranquil termination of
the appeal.

It is by similar means that conser-
vative meetings, and, what is still
more, conservative public meetings,
may be carried through in every part
of the country. If a few individuals
only come forward, they will cer-
tainly be exposed to obloquy — pro-
bably, in these days of popular li-
cence and unrestrained violence, to
danger. But if a great body of weal-
thy and influential persons stand
forth at once, their wealth, cliarao

68

State of Public Feeling in Scotland.

[Jan.

ter, and connexions, overawe and
subdue the turbulent. The reform-
ers feel that, in striking them, they
are striking their benefactors and
their friends, — closing the channels
which furnish them with subsistence,
and paralyzing the hands which as-
suage their sufferings. The elan of
victory, the consciousness of strength,
passes over to the other side; and
education, talent, and virtue, reas-
sume their wonted ascendency over
violent and ignorant numbers.

It is of incalculable importance
at this crisis, that similar meetings
should take place generally through
the country. We cannot expect to
see elsewhere, indeed, the splendid
and dazzling eloquence with which
Professor Wilson captivated the im-
mense audience whom he addressed.
But we may expect to see every-
where the same ardent and patriotic
spirit which assembled them toge-
ther ; and there is to be found enough
of patriotic and right feeling in every
British city, to undertake the labour
which was so admirably discharged
by the committee who made arrange-
ments for the meeting. In every town
and county in the empire, there is the
same preponderance of property, ta-
lent, respectability, and virtue, over
mere numbers and brute violence,
which has been so triumphantly
evinced at Edinburgh. All that is
wanted, is, the vigour to undertake,
and the courage to execute, a simi-
' lar manifestation of existing thought.

The Conservative Party in both
Houses of Parliament are incessant-
ly twitted with their being a mere
fraction in the nation, — a minority,
whose opinion is not worth attending
to in weighing the overwhelming
mass of public opinion on the other
side. It is by such manifestation of
conservative principles that this as-
sertion is to be disproved ,• — the
eternal and pusillanimous argument
wrested from the reformers, that
changes must be made, not because
they are advisable, but because the
people demand them ; — the minority
in the Commons encouraged to con-
tinue their admirable and courageous
defence of the constitution, and the
majority of the Lords to stand forth,
as heretofore, foremost in the ranks
of order and freedom.

How is it to be expected that these
patriotic and noble statesmen are to

continue their glorious resistance to
the torrent of popular tyranny, if
they are left alone to sustain the con-
flict ? Are they to expose themselves
to unmeasured obloquy, and their
persons and property to danger,
merely to support a people who will
do nothing for themselves, who leave
to them to fight, unaided, a battle in
which the middling orders are main-
ly interested ? Are they to fight for
a nation who not only will not fight
for itself, but is apparently disposed
to embrace the odious chains of po-
pular servitude ? And how are the
legislature to know, or how can they
refer to, the overwhelming mass of
property, intelligence, and character
which is arrayed against the revolu-
tionary measures, unless the indivi-
duals who compose that moral majo-
rity come forward to record their
sentiments ?

But we will not longer withhold
from our readers the brilliant and
poetical imagery, joined to the pro-
found wisdom and statesman-like
views which distinguished Professor
Wilson's speech.

' ' Loyalty, I may say, lias been, from the
olden, time, in Scotland, a national virtue.
It was so when we had an independent king-
dom, and our own kings — it is so still ; and
if, in the midst of those immense improve-
ments wrought in the whole structure of our
social and political life, since the Union, by
the constant operation of countless causes at
work in the progress and advancement of
civilisation, our loyalty be not now so ima-
ginative as of old, not so ardent, perhaps, nor
so impassioned, yet, under the guidance and
control of reason, it has become a loftier
principle in the breasts of free men — (tre-
mendous cheers.) The doctrine of the di-
vine right of kings has been long dead, ne-
ver to be revived ; but it may be replaced,
perhaps, by a creed with respect to their
human right, which may deaden the quick-
ening and animating spirit that belongs to
every high principle of human feeling and
thought ; and thus may loyalty lose the name
of a virtue, and become merely the cold con-
viction in the understanding, that as the
monarchical form of government is good,
therefore we ought to respect the monarch.
Much of this spurious sort of loyalty is abroad
nowadays, inculcated by the chilling doc-
trines of the utilitarian philosophy, which
shows no favour to what it calls prejudices
and bigotries, but which are, nevertheless,
often found in alliance with, and in support
of, the noblest emotions of humanity—
(cheers.) >Ye beg to express $ loyalty of a

1832.]

State of Public Feeling in Scotland.

Very different kind — of the deep, strong-
stamp — consecrated by all the remembrances
of the greatness, and the glory, and the hap-
piness enjoyed by this land under the House
of Hanover, (loud cheers,) and by none more
than by the remembrance of the character
of him who was indeed the father of his peo-
ple, under whose long reign loyalty waxed
great, and grew into a kindly and reverential
affection — of him who was emphatically call-
ed the ' Good old King,' King George the

Third (Loud and reiterated cheering.) —

The loyal loved him for the simplicity and
purity of his domestic life, for that native in-
trepidity that was with him when his sacred
person was threatened by the assassin's aim,
and when, in the midst of timid and vacilla-
ting counsels, he saved the metropolis of his
empire, when blazing with a thousand fires.
They loved him for the confidence he reposed,
in dark and perilous times, in the national
character of the people over whom he ruled
with a mild and paternal sway — (great cheer-
ing. ) — The great Conservative Party shewed
their loyalty and their patriotism then, in
rallying round his throne, when " fear of
change was perplexing monarchs," — when,
in a prodigious revolution — call it rather
moral earthquake, whose tremors are yet
sensibly felt over the world, and its waves,
though no more dashing so furiously, are
yet seen in a sullen swell, portentous of
evil, along many a shore — the throne of
France was overturned, xvhich now, after so
many usurpations, abdications, depositions,
and restorations, is filled by one who the
* likeness of a kingly crown has on,' and is
supported by the feeble prop of a non-heredi-
tary peerage. (Great cheering.) Our
loyalty was with him in the dark and fatal
eclipse — it went with his white and ho-
noured head to the tomb; and that tomb is
guarded by the hallowed recollection of his
kingly virtues. (Immense cheering.) Nor
was our loyalty withheld from the son that
succeeded such a sire. We did justice to
his many noble qualities and his many fine
accomplishments ; we recognised in him the
same high English heart that exulted in the
glory and greatness of Britain ; we supported
his government during the long and fearful
contests in which, during his regency, this
country was engaged, and which, after many
immortal actions, which shed an equal lustre
over our arms on land with that which on
sea had been consummated, but not termina-
ted, at Trafalgar, gave peace to Europe by the
overthrow of Napoleon at Waterloo. (Tre-
mendous applause.) And is that feeling
colder in our bosoms towards our gracious
monarch now on the throne ? No. (Thun-
ders of applause. ) We hailed his ascension
with a new and peculiar pride ; for he had
left the marble floors of his sire's palace at
Windsor for the deck of a British man-of-

war ; the gallant Prince of the Blood be-
came a companion of the gallant young mid-
shipmen,

' Whose march is on the mountain wave,
Whose home is on the deep.' (Great cheering.)

He was brought up among1 the stormy
music, dearest to liberty, the roar of ocean,
that dashes against the cliffs of Albion and
Albyn, on which are wafted far and wide
the wealth and the might of this rich and
victorious land. (Shouts loud and long.)
With enthusiastic loyalty we islanders hailed
our sailor king ; and thus it is that we now
give vent to the fervour of our attachment ;
and from all foes, foreign or domestic, we
swear to guard with our love or with our
lives, his anointed head. (Fervent cheer-
ing. ) These sentiments, I perceive, find aa
echo in every breast. But the virtues of no
mortal man could of themselves excite such,
loyalty as we feel for William the Fourth,
were it not that he is the guardian of that
Constitution to which the country owes all
its greatness, (cheers,) and because we trust
that, notwithstanding the measures which
we condemn, and which are his Ministers',
that Constitution will remain unimpaired
and conspicuous among all the nations."

In the following able and con-
densed observations, is contained a
summary of the invincible arguments
against the necessity of changes in
the constitution.

" Men did not fear, once, to speak, with-
out a running accompaniment of ' abuses,
defects, and anomalies,' of our glorious Con-
stitution. They did not scruple to exult in,
it, to thank Heaven they had been born un-
der it, to teach their children to understand
it, that they might become the worthy citi-
zens of such a state. (Cheering.) Nor
did our orators and philosophers withhold
themselves from celebrating its praises,
which were resounded in all tongues and
from all lands. The wisest men of the
most civilized countries came to study it
among the people who lived under its bene-
ficent sway, and to observe how had been
growing up, age after age, a national cha-
racter, which was feared and honoured, as
the character ought to be of every great
nation, all over the earth. (Applause.)
While despots trembled lest the influence of
our free institutions, that had grown up un-
der its shelter, might shake their own power,
built on the sandy or hollow ground of usur-
pation and injustice, and strove in vain to
pass a non-intercourse act to exclude the
spirit of our liberty ; other rulers borrowed
from it all they dared to adopt, and the
wisest of their counsellors drew from it their
maxims of political wisdom, to guide their
state policy, in as far as that was possible
under their form of government. Certain

70 State of Public Feeling in Scotland. [Jan.

it is, that none dared to vilify it but tyrants stacles and obstructions, as is imaginable out

or slaves. (Loud cheers.) Nay, our li-
berty, ill-understood, and rashly and sud-
denly introduced into the system of other
states, not ready to receive the generous in-
fusion, even contributed to inflame nations
to madness, and to produce those fearful
excesses in a neighbouring kingdom which
were saved to Freedom in her own chosen
seat. Yet here, too, Freedom had its dan-
gers ; but they who had been too heedless
in their hopes for man in France, remorse-
fully lamented the injustice they had then
done to their own free government, and
lived to love it the better because of that
injustice, and that it had stood firm against
the shock of so many storms. Then there
was a return to the reverence of ancient in-
stitutions, and of all those deep and high
thoughts with which they were regarded by
a people who had continued to flourish un-
der them, while other nations had been
disturbed, and other thrones overturned.
(Universal applause. ) But now, within the
space of one little year, we are told that the
British Constitution is rotten at the core,
preyed on by a disease of the heart, and
palsied in its body and all its limbs. We
must abjure our faith in the causes of our
country's greatness. The Constitution must
be remoulded — reformed — reconstructed ;
but we do not fear to call it subversion and
demolition. (Loud shouts.) If, indeed,
its nature be so sorely changed, by what
magic happens it that, under a rotten con-
stitution, the people are so sound-hearted ?
that, under oppression, they lift up their
heads? that, beneath the domination of a
greedy and grinding oligarchy, we see every
day, and all around us, the poor man be-
coming rich, and on lands acquired by his
own patient industry and enterprise, build-
ing up for himself a mansion like a palace,
while, not forgetful of his humble origin,
but exulting in it, and true to the fond re-
membrances of his youth, he includes with-
in its foundation the sacred site of his fa-
ther's humble domicile ? (Tremendous
shouts.) Strange, that under a constitu-
tion so outworn and corrupted, these should
be the sights of the common day ! It is a
noble thing when our praises of the grandeur
of any object of our love can best be pro-
nounced in commonplaces — when it re-
quires no far-fetched eulogium — when we
have but to give utterance to self-evident
truths. In what other country is the per-
sonal liberty of the subject held so inviolate ?
• — the laws administered with such equal
regard to all ranks ? — the balance of justice
held with so firm and untrembling — with
such pure hands ? To genius, to talent, to
industry, and to worth, is not the path to
fame, eminence; wealth, as free from all ob-

of Utopia ? Can that be other, in the main
essentials — in the living spirit — than a glo-
rious constitution, whatever exaggerated
pictures may be painted of its defects by in-
furiated zealots, under which all the noblest
powers of human nature are brought thus
into perfect play, and with scarcely any
other impediments in their way than what
they love to conquer in the enthusiasm of
their highest energies? (Thunders of ap-
plause. ) If, indeed, there be in it something
to repair, must there not be almost all that
we ought religiously to preserve ? And with
what a gentle and reverential hand must AVC
touch the old, but undilapidated edifice !
(Cheers.) Our attachment to the Constl.
tution, then, is founded on the same basis
with our loyalty to our King. It is not an
attachment to what is old, merely because it
is old — though antiquity with all thought-
ful minds has a claim to reverence j nor to
what is established, merely because it is so
—though I do not fear to declare my trust
in the virtue that has had long endurance ;
but ours is that rational love which men feel
for institutions under which they and their
fathers have prospered — if not so as to satis-
fy discontented and ungrateful visionaries,
yet in a greater degree, and with more uni-
form progression, than can be shewn to be
the case with any other nation on the face
of the earth. Shall we put all these im-
mense, substantial, and proved blessings -tp^
risk on the hazard of a prodigious and por-
tentous political experiment, which perplexes
the wisest, and astounds the boldest, and fills
the heait of the whole nation with agitation
or alarm ?"

The utter absurdity of the argu-
ment, so commonly urged by ignorant
men, and by many who might have
known better, that the Reform Bill
does not remodel the constitution,
but only restores it to its pristine
purity, is thus happily exposed : —

" Suppose that it is demanded of us to
shew the principle of the constitution as it
has been exhibited in our history. Shall we
go, then, to the reign of Henry VI ? It
would seem that none but the freeholders
had then votes in the counties, the potwal-
lopers in some burghs, and corporations in
others. Who is the forty shilling freeholder as
constituted then ? The owner of land at least
of fifty, say rather sixty or seventy pounds
a-year : in other words, the substantial
yeomanry. The potwallopers are the work-
ing classes ; and the corporations the more
opulent class of burghers, who are either at-
tached to the conservative side, or influenced
by neighbouring great proprietors. These
three great classes seem, from the earliest

1832.]

times, to have represented in the House of
Commons the small proprietors, the working
classes, and the aristocracy, either of land or
money. Thus the fusion of all the orders in
the State in the House was coeval with the
monarchy, (cheering,) and the influence of
the aristocracy and of the crown was more
felt during the time of the Plantagenets and
Tudors, than in our days. This is proved by
a hun'dred proofs ; but, above all, by the
steady increase of the liberties of the coun-
try, during all the last century ; and, as for
this, never were the liberties of the people so
considerable as when the Duke of Wellington
resigned. ( Loud cheers. ) All arbitrary or
restrictive statutes had fallen into desuetude ;
taxes to the amount of many millions a-year
had been taken off since the conclusion of the
war ; the number of the burghs that were
daily opening was prodigious, and never had
been so great as at the elections of 1830 ;
then how mighty the power of the press,
which has been called, and not unjustly, great
though its abuses may be, the palladium of
the people's liberties ! God forbid that ever
that press should be enslaved ! yet who will
deny that, alike in its liberty and its licen-
tiousness, its working has long been in fur-
therance and extension of the rights, real
or imaginary, of those orders whom, at the
same time, it has of late been so violently
and falsely averred, that it is the tendency
of the British Constitution to degrade and
oppress? (Cheers.) Firm, indeed, must
have been the mysterious balance of that
Constitution, assailed on the side of demo-
cracy by so many causes, and yet to stand
fast. (Loud and lasting cheering.) This
being, in few words, the state of affairs over
the whole country a year ago, what does
the Reform Bill propose to do ? To annihi-
late the representation of the potwallopers,
and so to rob of their elective franchise all
the working classes ; to annihilate the
direct representation of commercial and
landed wealth, by destroying the nomina-
tion burghs ; to vest the return of all the
burgh members, that is 300 out of 450
members for England, in the tenants of
L. 10, or 3s. lOd. houses in large towns
and cities, shopkeepers, and lodging-house
keepers, alehouse keepers, and keepers of
houses of a worse description. The land is
no longer represented but in the counties,
that is, in one third of the House, — and
many strange absurdities there are even in
that representation ; the wealth of com-
merce is no longer represented, unless it
obtain entrance through the gateway of
corruption; the working classes are alto-
gether cut out of the share of representation
which they now possess : and can this be a
final settlement ? Impossible : with landed
wealth thrown into a minority, the influence

State of Public Feeling in Scotland.

71

of commercial Wealth destroyed, and the
many millions of the working classes without
a voice that can be legitimately raised, but
which, especially in times like these, is not
likely to be silent. Is it not evident that,
in the contests that must ensue between such
conflicting interests, the New Constitution
will be overthrown ? For is it supposable
that a Constitution of a few years' or months'
duration shall withstand a tempest before
which the fabric of many centuries shall
have been levelled with the dust ?"

Of the Conservative Party in the
two Houses of Parliament who have
made so noble a stand against the
principles of revolution, he speaks
in the following eloquent strain : —

" Let us, first of all, speak of the House
of Commons. Here there is a majority —
and a large one — for the Bill. Granted,
and I say freely, that I attribute honourable
and patriotic motives to that majority.
(Hear, hear.) But is the whole House of
Commons for the measure ' Are they un-
animous ? No ; there is a strong, an en-
lightened, an eloquent minority : for when
we consider at what troubled, turbulent, and
tempestuous times the elections took place,
and of all the power of Government, backed,
by a powerful press, availing itself of a sud-
den and feverish excitement, who will hesi-
tate to call it a glorious minority ? — (tre-
mendous applause,) — a minority which,
night after night, brought the greatest talents
of every kind in defence of the Constitution,
which drove the Reformers from all their
positions, often in sullen silence that vainly
imitated scorn, and which their enemies, so
far from despising, fear from the bottom of
their hearts ? (Loud shouts of applause. )
I speak next of an illustrious body of men,
who, ' if our annals have been writ aright,'
have exhibited among them every species of
heroic virtue. I speak of a body compre-
hending within themselves the bravest, the
most intrepid, of the sons of men — men who
have scattered, like dust before the wind,
the enemies of our country by land — dis-
persed, like the mist before the rising sun,
our enemies by sea, and carried Britannia's
thunder, to save or avenge, to the uttermost
ends of the earth. (Tremendous cheers.) I
speak of a body of men, among whom are
many whose great talents and acquirements
have raised them up from comparatively a
humble sphere, to the highest and proudest
eminence to which noblest ambition could
aspire. To that eminence they were enabled
to ascend but by toils severer far than that
which bathes in sweat the brows of the till-
ers of the soil — by means of that midnight
toil of mind, beneath which many an intel-
lect of highest endowments has sunk, and

72 State of Public Feeling in Scotland.

its possessor died without his fame. In that

[Jan.

order, we see generals, admirals, lawyers,
orators, statesmen of the highest rank of
intellect, — many of them sprung from the
people, and placed there by the gratitude of
their country, acting through a Constitu-
tional King, to defend its liberties. Such
are many of the Peers, living now con-
spicuous objects in sight of a nation, that,
in their elevation, feels its own, and under-
stands that virtue is indeed the true nobility.
But we forget not the spirit of the ancient
noblesse of England — of that noblesse whose
praises have been somewhat suspiciously
sounded of late by the self-dubbed friends of
the people. As pure and spotless blood as
ever flowed through the veins of the Howards,
the Russells, and the Stanleys, warms the
hearts of those too, who, because they love
their country with equal ardour and devo-
tion, oppose those measures in Avhich they
see danger and destruction to so many of our
best and dearest institutions. (Loud, long,
and reiterated cheers.) I speak, then, of
the entire order — I make no invidious distinc-
tions— I speak of an order who, had they
passed the Bill, contrary to their consciences,
would have thereby miserably belied the
character attributed to them all over the
world ; for, in what region is not held ho-
nourable and glorious, the origin, constitution,
and character of our Peerage? Had they
who ' are sprung of earth's first blood, have
titles manifold,' sacrificed that in which
alone can lie their strength in a free state,—
their duty, their honour, and their con-
science,— soon had they in their turn been
themselves sacrificed — consumed in the fire
of a nation's righteous indignation."

Of the opinion of those highly
educated classes, who are best qua-
lified to form an opinion on the me-
rits of the intricate question in le-
gislation which our rulers have sub-
mitted to the suffrages of the lowest
class in society, the eloquent Pro-
fessor gives the following just ac-
count : —

" There is another portion of society of
whom I beg to say a few words, in relation
to this alleged majority in favour of the last
measure of Reform — the universities, the
English and the Scotch church. (Hear.)
What I say of these institutions shall be
said guardedly, and, if in any thing erro-
neous, it will be subjected to scrutiny and
correction. How stand they affected to-
wards the Bill ? There is no other country,
perhaps, in the world, where education is
so widely spread as in Scotland : we have
in that every reason to be proud of our-
selves— which indeed we are at all times
sufficiently disposed to be— ( laughter and

cheers) — but is there a man present here
who would venture to treat with scorn the
intellect of the English universities ? They
are not the mere receptacles of Whigs and
Tories, nor is party spirit the ruling spirit
there, but one nobler far, derived from many
high sources, and from none higher than
the study of that classical lore imbued
throughout with the life of liberty. There
are found men of all political creeds :
thither flock the illustrious and ingenuous
youth of England, and there are they in-
spired by meditations on the works of Milton,
and Newton, and Locke, and those great
spirits who understood so well, some of
them the whole mechanism of the heavens,
and others the whole mechanism of the
mind, in what lies the true strength of
empires, and from what flow their corrup-
tion and decay. Nowhere else in the world
is there such an enlightened constituency ;
and we know that an immense majority of
it is against those measures, with its learning
and its wisdom. (Loud cheers.) It is the
same in the University of Dublin. It may
be coming, perhaps, rather too near home,
for me to speak of our own universities;
but humbler though they be in their endow-
ments, within them the spirit of loyalty
and patriotism burns as bright as any where
in the world ; and within them opposition
to the rash experiment is strong, forming, I
do not fear to say, a great majority. The
men of colleges are spoken of, I know, as
retired and secluded monks, little acquainted
with this living world. But I for one
never wore a cowl ; I mingle with the best
of my fellow-citizens, and I claim to myself
and my brethren an understanding of all the
various duties and concerns of active life,
equal to that of any of our opponents who
may have travelled earth and seas in pursuit
of knowledge of mankind. And is it to be
at once disposed of, and thrust aside out of
sight as unworthy of consideration by those
who may have finished their own education
without putting themselves to the trouble of
studying at any university at all, that the
great seats of science, so far from being un-
animous in favour of the aforesaid reform,
present overwhelming majorities against it ?"

The speech concludes with a mag-
nificent burst of eloquence on the
character of that great and noble
party in the state, who are proud to
number its author among its mem-
bers.

" Let the conduct of the Conservative
Party be strictly examined, public and pri-
vate, and they are seen to be the best
friends of the people. Have they not been
ever anxious for the adoption by Govern-
ment, of all plans that promised to be of be-

1832.]

nefit to the poor ? In times of severe pres-
sure, have they not cheerfully made, for the
distressed, the noblest sacrifices ? Who dares
to say, that they give to the needy with a
niggard hand, or that their hearts are cold,
their hands shut to the charities of life ?
Not among them are to be found the cruel,
hard-fisted landlords. Do not they give
as much as any of the Reformers ever dream
of giving, in the way of reduction of rents?
And are they not the friends of their ten-
ants, who know how to appreciate their
justice and their generosity ? Is there any
thing noble in the character of a British
gentleman, to which they may not fairly
lay claim ? Arc they not in their ancestral
halls, while engaged in the peaceful enjoy-
ment of rural occupations, ever ready to lay
down comforts and ease, and fly to serve
their country, dyeing the sands or the seas
with their blood ? (Prodigious cheers. ) I,
therefore, boldly claim for the Conservative
Party a sincere, zealous, and active aifection
for the people. But let no man seek impera-
tively to impose on us his conviction as to
the best means of promoting their happi-
ness. Their felicity, immediate and re-
mote, is an exemption from such interests,
as are by too many ignorantly represented
to be their chief concern. It is a real mo-
ral aberration, in people of the ordinary
callings in trades or professions, to take a
passionate part in political affairs, and de-
serving of sharpest rebuke the shallow doc-
trine, that would make that the prime, al-
most the sole business, of the middling
classes. Must I allow my understanding
to be stormed by such arguments, as, that
the chief business of the poor man is to at-
tend to politics, or his best happiness to be
found in elections ? I know far better, that
he has far other, higher, and holier duties
imposed on him by nature ; and if his heart
is right, and his head is clear, while he is
not indifferent to such subjects, there are a
hundred others far more important : he
may be reading one book, which tells him
in what happiness consists, but to which I
have seen but few allusions made by the
Reformers of modern times. (Hear, hear,
and cheering.) In reading those weather-
stained pages, on which, perhaps, the sun
of heaven had looked bright, while they had
been unfolded of old on the hill side, by his
forefathers of the Covenant, when environed
with peril and death, — (great cheers) — he
is taught at once religion towards his Maker,
and not to forget the love and duty he owes
to mankind, — to prefer deeper interests, be-
cause everlasting, to those transient turbu-
lencies which now agitate the surface of so-
ciety, but which, I hope, will soon subside
into a calm, and leave the whole country as

State of Public Feeling in Scotland.

peaceful as before. (Cheers. ) I feel ascertain,
as of my own existence, of the enlightened
loyalty of the Conservative Party, of their en-
lightened attachment to the constitution ; and
that they respect and glory in all ranks ; that
they would not injure a hair of any poor
man's head. (Cheers.) We are not people
to speak in holes and corners. Such conduct
is abhorrent to our very nature, and to our
lives, which are led in the open sunshine ;
we come boldly forth, in the hearing of all
the nation j and if these our sentiments are
mean and contemptible, let them be torn
into shreds, and trampled under foot. But
our sentiments are, to fear God and honour
the King, and bear good will and affection to
all our brethren of mankind. "

These are not merely the strains
of inspired genius : they are not
merely " thoughts that breathe and
words that burn ;" they are the sober
conclusions of wisdom and experi-
ence, clothed in language fitted to
make them an object of admiration
to all mankind. We have room on-
ly for one more extract: that of a
passage where the Moral Philoso-
pher speaks in generous and deser-
ved terms of the dignified Prelates,
who have incurred odium, as in all
bad times, just in proportion to the
magnitude of the service they have
rendered to their country.

" We love and admire the simple and
beautiful establishment of our own church.
We do not wish it changed or touched. We
hope never to see the day, when that edifice
will be shaken, the foundations of which
were cemented by the blood of the martyrs.
(Great cheers. ) But I know well, that your
most sacred sympathies are ready to be awa-
kened with the worthies of another establish-
ment, founded on different principles, though
noble and true to nature. I hope you will
not look with an evil eye, but with eyes of
admiration and reverence, on the church
establishment of England, which is a richer
country, and therefore, possessing richer en-
dowments. That establishment has produ-
ced as many good and great men, — as many
men of genius, learning, wisdom, and piety,
as any religious establishment ever did ; and
their names are among the most splendid that
adorn the records of human intellect. — •
(Cheers.) — And, I maintain, there never
was a time, when there were so many men
in it, who have raised themselves by their
scholarship from the humblest ranks, to the
highest honours of their holy profession. I
have the honour of knowing many of them
myself personally, and have seen them pur-
suing their noble career of academical in-

74

struc-tion, and have so become familiar with
their minds, that I challenge the production
elsewhere of an equal number of wise and
good men from the sacred profession, either
in learning or knowledge, to those pastors,
whom it is now the base fashion of the Re-
formers to abuse, — those bishops, who have
done their duty, and will have their re-
ward."

Our limits will not allow us to
do more than make from the other
able speeches, one extract from Mr
M'Neil's powerful philippic against
those dangerous clubs which threat-
en to introduce into this country
the mob government, and relentless
democratic sway, which desolated
France during the reign of the Jaco-
bins.

" And here one is naturally led to ask, if
these societies are unconstitutional and ille-
gal, why have they been tolerated so long ?
That question ought to be answered by
those who hold the reins of government.
Did his Majesty's Government, liberal and
magnanimous, despise such invaders of the
Constitution, and disdain to trample on
them ? These societies may have been in-
significant in their origin, but they were
not on that account to be despised, still less
fostered till they have grown to a formid-
able strength. It requires but little expe-
rience to teach, that slight beginnings lead
to mighty consequences ; and no system,
pliysical or political, can long withstand the
persevering, if unresisted, efforts of an in-
defatigable, though originally feeble, enemy.
(Cheers.) The majestic oak, whose state-
ly trunk and far-spread boughs have with-
stood the storms of centuries, — the monarch
of the wood, — falls a sacrifice to the perse-
vering efforts of a puny shrub. — (Cheering. )
The greatest work of art — the proudest
monument of human ingenuity — that which
unites hemispheres that oceans separate,
and converts the obstacles of nature into
the most effective means of communication
i — that which carries the commercial enter-
prise and fame of Britain, and the thunder
of her power, to every corner of the habit-
able globe — the Wooden Walls of England

fall a prey to the gnawing perseverance of
an insect, whose form and lineaments can
scarce be traced without microscopic aid. — ,
(Loud bursts of applause, which continued
for some time.) — I cannot believe that his
Majesty's Government were actuated by
such supine folly as to despise and overlook
known invaders of the Constitution. They
did not treat them as foes whom they des-
pised, but as friends whom they fatally
cherished. That has been the error. I do
not suppose that they intended to encourage

State of Public Fei'lhig in Scotland

[Jan,

that which they knew or thought to be un-
constitutional and illegal ; but they com-
mitted the error of recognising and encou-
raging these institutions — and a fatal error
it has been. We have seen more than one
Minister of the Crown in friendly corres-
pondence with these unconstitutional asso-
ciates. We have seen an illegal resolution
as to non-payment of taxes coupled with a
complimentary address to the Paymaster of
the Forces, who acknowledged ' with heart-
felt gratitude' the ' honour' done him !
We have seen the avowed organ of the coun-
cil of one of those unconstitutional — I may
now call them illegal — societies, taking the
head of the Government to task ; and we
have seen the first Minister of the Crown — >
yes, the truth must be spoken — we have
seen the Premier of England, condescend to
enter into a vindication of his conduct at
the bar of a tribunal which he now de-
nounces as unconstitutional and illegal !
(Cheering.) What is it that makes these
societies unconstitutional and illegal now,
that did not make them equally so then?
Not the proclamation, for it cannot make
law — it can only proclaim what the law
already is. In denouncing these societies
as unconstitutional and illegal, the procla-
mation must have reference to the existing
statutes against political societies, while, at
the same time, it imports an admission that
of late these statutes have not been duly
acted upon by those whose duty it is to en-
force the law, or to see that it is enforced.
These statutes are of much older standing
than the friendly correspondence to which I
have alluded, and they contain some im-
portant provisions, which seem to have been
overlooked by those who ought to have been
better read in political and constitutional
law. These statutes, while they impose
severe pains on the members and office-
bearers of certain political societies, also de-
clare that those who, directly or indirectly,
hold correspondence or intercourse with such
societies or their office-bearers, shall be
deemed guilty of an unlawful combination
and confederacy, — a provision which seems
to have been overlooked in the interchange
of medals and of compliments, of addresses
and of thanks, of remonstrances and expla-
nations, between the office-bearers of the
Birmingham Political Union, and the mem-
bets of his Majesty's Cabinet. "

Sir George Clerk concluded an
able and statesmanlike speech, by
the following extract from a paper
of Mr Brougham's in the Edinburgh
Review, which, like all the other
early and philosophic writings of
that celebrated man, were calculated
to convey the severest censure up-

1832.] State of Public Feeling in Scotland,

on the measures of his maturer
years.

" That the whole substantive poAver of
the Government was now manifestly vested
in the House of Commons, we proceeded to
shew, that the balance of the Constitution
was preserved, and could only be preserved,
by being transferred into that House, when
a certain proportion of the influence of the
Crown, and of the great families of the land,
was advantageously, though somewhat irre-
gularly, mingled with the proper representa-
tion of the people. The expediency, and,
indeed, the necessity, of this arrangement,
we should humbly conceive, must be mani-
fest to all who will but consider the distrac-
tions and dreadful convulsions that would
ensue if the three branches of the Legisla-
ture were really to be kept apart in their
practical operations, and to check and con-
trol each other, not by an infusion of their
elementary principles into all the measures
of each, but, by working separately, to
thwart or undo what had been undertaken
by the other, without any means of concert
and co-operation. (Cheers.) In the first
place, it is perfectly obvious, that if the
House of Commons, with its absolute power
over the supplies, and its connexion with
the physical force of the nation, were to be
composed entirely of the representatives of
the yeomanry of the counties and the trades-
men of the burghs, and were to be actuated
solely by the feelings and interests which
are peculiar to that class of men, it would
infallibly convert the Government into a
mere democracy, and speedily sweep away
the encumbrance of Lords and Commons,
who could not exist at all if they had not
an influence in this assembly."

The reports of the speeches at
this memorable meeting are now
published in a cheap and compen-
dious form, to which we earnestly
invite the attention of our readers
in all parts of the empire : and large-
ly as we have already trespassed on
their indulgence, we cannot conclude
without making one quotation from
the condensed and admirable Pre-
face to the publication, by a gentle-
man, we believe, of the Scottish bar,
equally distinguished for his legal
talents and his literary acquirements.

" To the many who, holding the same
opinions with themselves, have also the firm-
ness to avow them, the Conservative Party

in Edinburgh need say nothing more •

To the more timid, who, though they
perceive the dangers of the proposed change,
shrink from the public expression of their
opinions, they would suggest, that to sup-

press their convictions at the'present moment,
is unconsciously to range themselves on tho
side of revolution, by falsely encouraging the
idea of that unanimity in favour of the Re-
form Bill, which, even more than the sup-
posed advantages of the change itself, is made
the ground on which the necessity of the
change is rested. Of the honest reformer,
who accepts the Ministerial Bill in good
faith, as a final measure which is to pacify
the country, they would ask, Whether the
events of the last six months have made no
alteration on his belief as to the probability
of that result from the passing of the late
Bill ? "Whether the wild and insane schemes
advocated during that period, — ballot — uni-
versal suffrage' — refusal to pay taxes — the
creation of new Peers, to force a democratic
measure through the House of Lords — the
abolition of the right of Bishops to sit in that
House — the extinction of the House of Lords
itself — an equitable adjustment of the public
debt, or, in other words, an unprincipled
robbery, and violation of the national creditor
— the establishment of a revolutionary force,
under the title of a national guard, — whe-
ther these, and the other monstrous schemes
never agitated till the commencement of this
ominous discussion, have done nothing to
satisfy him, that, while the new Bill would
increase a hundredfold the power of the in-
novators, it would in no way remove their
hostility to the Constitution, or enlist them
on the side of law and order ? If reform
were ever so valuable, may it not be bought
too dear, by the sacrifice of all which gives
security for property, for liberty, for life ?
Reform may be the goal to which his wishes
sincerely tend, but is it not time for the ho-
nest and conscientious reformer to pause, and
ask himself if he can be in the right road to
that object, when he sees that plunderers and
assassins are his travelling companions, and
that the path along which he is moving, or
rather driven, is slippery with blood, and
lighted by conflagration ? Even to the un-
fortunate and misguided beings, to whom
reform or revolution appears desirable, as
holding out the hope of bettering their con-
dition, they would put the question, — Have
they ever yet heard of a Revolution by which
the poor were not the greatest and the most
immediate sufferers ? Have they never re-
flected, that a man may gain little by the
removal of a tax on some necessary of life,
if, by the stagnation of trade, and the ruin
of commercial enterprise, the very wages out
of which the tax is to be paid are taken from
him ? Among them, too, we trust there are
many that have something to lose in charac-
ter, if not in fortune : self-respect, the esteem
and the assistance of their superiors, the
consciousness of having discharged their duty
as men, as citizens, as Christians, — these are

7ft

State of Public Feeling in Scotland.

[Jan.

not feelings to be lightly thrown away for the
precarious chance of some addition to their
worldly possessions. To one and all, the
Conservative Party of Edinburgh would say,
"Weigh well the present condition of the
country ; compare it with the surrounding
nations of Europe ; look to the long roll of
its past glories ; its present attitude of dig-
nity and power ; its arts, its arms, its science
and literature ; its numerous institutions of
charity ; the purity of its religious establish-
ments ; the thousand channels by which the
riches of the higher ranks are unfailingly
distributed among the industrious classes of
the lower ; its administration of justice ; its
commercial enterprise ; its security for pro-
perty and personal liberty ; its lofty instances
of heroism and patriotism ; its bright and
numberless examples of private and domestic
virtue, — and then say, whether the humblest,
as well as the highest, has no interest in the
preservation of a Constitution under which
such results have sprung up ? no cause to
deprecate the sudden introduction of a plan
of innovation, which, in the opinion of so
many of the wise, and virtuous, and opulent
of the country, threatens those institutions,
and that national character and glory, with
irremediable ruin?"

Those who are unacquainted with
this part of the island, can form no
idea of the class who compose, or
the weight which belongs to the gen-
tlemen "who have signed the Edin-
burgh petition. The Reformers ask
what weight is to be attached to the
signature of sixteen hundred per-
sons in and around the metropolis
of Scotland ? They might as well
ask what is the weight due to the
opinion of 658 gentlemen in the cha-
pel of St Stephen's ? They form the
nucleus and kernel of Scottish pros-
perity : they are composed of men
who have come up from all quarters,
and risen to eminence and wealth by
exertion and talent in every part of
the country ; they are, literally speak-
ing, the representatives of Scotland,
since she lost by the Union her local
and separate legislature. They are
neither composed of the feudal Aris-
tocracy, nor the urban Democracy of
the country : they are the middling

orders who have risen to affluence
and prosperity by their exertions in
every walk of life, and whose weight
keeps the extremes, who have now
combined to overwhelm them, from
that fierce and ruinous hostility, into
which, upon their destruction, they
will inevitably break out against each
other ; and in which every one must
see, the Aristocratic party is destined
to be destroyed.

We are not so sanguine as to ima-
gine that the Conservative Meeting
at Edinburgh, standing alone, can
have geat weight. We know that
this city is but a speck in the British
dominions, and that, however great
its influence may ultimately be, as
one of the great fountains of thought
and genius, it is too inconsiderable,
during the strife of party, to be of
any great moment. We know, too,
that the words of Sir Walter Scott
and Professor Wilson will have as
little influence with the great body
of modern reformers, as the record-
ed opinions of David Hume or Adam
Smith, of Cicero or Bacon, have had
upon their conduct. But still it is
something to the Conservative Party
throughout the empire, that genius,
destined for immortality, should
have done so much in their cause,
and that they can number among
their warmest supporters, names
which will be resplendent in the rolls
of fame, when the great mass of re-
formers shall be buried in the waves
of forgotten time.

But still they have at least set an
example, which, if generally follow-
ed, would ensure the triumph of the
Constitution. The other cities in
the empire have only to do what
Edinburgh has done, and the Revo-
lutionary Bill is overthrown for ever.
Come what may, the friends of the
Constitution here have the consci-
ous satisfaction of having done their
duty ; of having maintained that post
assigned to them with unconquer-
able firmness.

1832.]

Protestant Affairs in Ireland.

77

PROTESTANT AFFAIRS IN IRELAND.

IT has been proved in the prece-
ding article that the heart of Scotland,
in spite of all the arts of agitation em-
ployed by reformers and revolution-
ists, is still sound at the core, and so
far from beating in accordance with
the Grand Measure of Ministers, is
true to the spirit of our time-hallow-
ed and time-cemented Constitution,
which is felt and known by the en-
lightened patriotism of the country
to have been less the work of man's
hands than the growth of nature, and,
as such, worthy not of our admiration
alone, but of our gratitude and reve-
rence. In the midst of so many ve-
hement but unstable passions, set
agog by shallow, insincere, deceived,
or desperate politicians, it is consola-
tory to know that the intelligence of
the land remains, if not undisturbed,
yet on the whole " true to the truth ;"
and that of the best educated of all
the orders of the people, a vast ma-
jority is at this hour adverse to the
Bill that has again been dug out of
the dust. The clamour of the popu-
lace will no doubt be renewed, and
countenance given to their cause by
many who, seeking vainly to secure
the triumph of their party, have
pledged themselves to support " the
measure," in reckless defiance of all
their recorded reasonings against it
during the last thirty years. But
while they have wheeled suddenly
round upon their heels, or described
a more gallant circle, their former
arguments stand fast, frowning those
who have any shame left, and many
have, into confusion of face as of
tongues ; and extorting from their
own mouths, the lie direct to their
present outcries for what they now
falsely call reform, and then truly
called revolution. Elderly noblemen
and gentlemen may be as pleasant
and profound as it is possible for
thorn to be in their fancy and their
reflection, on " the puerile vanity of
consistency;" but the mind of the
nation is made of" sterner stuff"" than
to tolerate, much less to be taken in
by, such worthless aphorisms — and
knows how to distinguish between
wits and wittols. It has, too often,
its idols, which it sets up and wor-
ships, worthless enough, and soon by

itself to be dashed in pieces; but,
good-sort-of-a man as my Lord Al-
thorp is, the mind of the nation has
not prostrated itself before his ima-
gined wisdom, nor as yet beholds in
him, any more than in my Lord John
Russell, or my Lord Durham, either
an idol or an oracle. On the contrary,
it knows that the intellect of all the
three would not, if multiplied by nine ,
give a result equal to one wise man ;
and smiles with pitiful contempt on
such legislators legislating for it — on
men distinguished for no one talent
above the common level, in nothing
egregious from the common l\evdf pro-
viding institutions , for -sooth, congenial
with the spirit of the age ! What that
spirit is, must be understood by far
other intellects than theirs, and told
by far other tongues, and be mini-
stered to in such " deep consult,"
as can be held only among states-
men. In no one department of hu-
man knowledge would their opinion
go for half-a-crown ; at that mode-
rate price it may be had, but has
been " with sputtering noise reject-
ed." Yet they who cannot pen a
pamphlet, or prate a speech of maud-
lin mediocrity, with priggish pre-
sumption have put themselves for-
wards to decide the destinies of
earth's mightiest empire ! True that
Lord Grey was once a man of talents,
and may be so still ; but he is get-
ting garrulous and old, and how
peevishly does he endeavour to re-
deem the pledge of his youth, for-
gotten duringhis prime, and forfeited
but some twelve months ago, through
love of " his order," in his vacilla-
ting age ! Among the pigmies, there
is indeed one man, who, among such
small infantry, may well be called a
giant. But though Lord Brougham
had not his own Bill in his pocket —
it never having been reduced to wri-
ting— not even, he says, so much as
the heads, yet he had it in his brain,
and its provisions were heard to flow
from his eloquent lips— and alas !
for the moral and intellectual great-
ness of his character, how different
from them all, the blunders of that
abortion, in behalf of which he lately
bawled for " four glasses," and at
the finale of his hollow-hearted pero-

78

ration, like a strong man inflamed,
if not refreshed with wine, beseech-
ed the Peers to pass it, " even on my
bended knees 1"

In Scotland, we can afford to laugh
at much of the drivelling of our Mi-
nisters, however disgusting and de-
plorable ; for the people are in peace,
and will remain so, in spite of them,
and all the demagogues that have
enlisted themselves in their service,
some unasked yet not unwelcome,
many undesired, because dangerous,
traitors all. But in Ireland, how dif-
ferent the condition of the Conser-
vative, that is, the Protestant Party,
of the State ! Surrounded by bigot-
ed and ferocious enemies, and not
deserted merely, but insulted and
trampled on by a Ministry who seem
to be resolved to subject the intelli-
gence, the integrity, the property,
and the patriotism of Protestant Ire-
land to the tender mercies of Popish
domination !

At such a crisis, we have read,
with deepest interest, in the Dub-
lin Evening Mail, an account of a
meeting which was held on Decem-
ber 7th in Dublin, and which ap-
pears to us one of the most import-
ant assemblages of rank, wealth, in-
tellect, and independence, which ever
took place in Ireland. It was at-
tended by noblemen and gentlemen
of the highest respectability, whom
a sense of common danger compel-
led to assemble from all parts of the
island, for the purpose of laying
their grievances before the King,
and bearing an united testimony
against the cruel mispolicy of his
Majesty's advisers. We cannot suf-
ficiently express the high sense of
admiration which we feel for the
calm and resolute, the solemn and
elevated declaration of principle, and
expression of feeling, which were
elicited from the various speakers
who moved and seconded the reso-
lutions. We were not before fully
prepared to believe how odious and
detestable to the Irish Protestants
are the measures of the present vice-
roy. They were, at the very outset
of his administration, deliberately
insulted by the dismissal of Mr Gre-
gory. Their feelings were then out-
raged by the promotion of Lord
Plunkett to the office of Lord Chan-
cellor, which places him over the
magistracy of the country— an out-

Protestant Affairs in Ireland.

[Jan,

rage this the most gratuitous, as
there never was perhaps a public
man, of the same degree of ability
and notoriety, who was so little ac-
ceptable to any party — who was so
detested by the Protestants, and dis-
trusted by the Papists. He was not,
as a chancellor, acceptable to the
bar — as a politician, popular in the
country — or as a statesman, service-
able to the administration. His
own immediate friends and con-
nexions have reason to set a high
value upon him ; as Lord Grey him-
self does not seem to have more
scrupulously acted upon the maxim,
that charity begins at home. But
positively, when Lord Anglesea sad-
dled the country with the expense
of providing for a retiring Chancel-
lor, in the person of the late Sir A.
Hart, he was not merely chargeable
with a prodigal waste of the public
money, but with the removal of an
equity lawyer of inoffensive man-
ners, and acknowledged reputation,
to make way for one in whose legal
knowledge the suitors in Chancery
had far less confidence, and whose
temper was considered as unruly as
his principles were dangerous to the
Protestants of Ireland. We do not
know that any administration, whe-
ther Whig or Tory, could at the pre-
sent moment do a more popular act
than the dismissal of Lord Plunkett
from his offensively conspicuous
place in the Irish administration.
Then came the appointment of the
education commissioners. This was
the severest cut of all. Education
commissioners ! They are commis-
sioners for the suppression of edu-
cation, which we will prove in our
next number. Suffice it here to say,
that the whole affair meets the indig-
nant reprobation of the noblemen
and gentlemen assembled on this
important occasion ; and if their re-
presentations fail to make a suitable
impression upon his Majesty's Go-
vernment, it will be demonstrable
that the Irish Protestants are to be
sacrificed. In well-grounded fear of
such a catastrophe, what is to pre-
vent their uniting with O'Connell for
a repeal of the Union ? They may
fairly hope to be able, from their
moral weight, to make better terms
for themselves and their families, in
the event of separation from Eng-
land, than will now be conceded to

1832.]

Protestant Affairs in Ireland.

them by adhering to their British
friends, who seem willing to sacri-
fice them to their Popish enemies.
Only let a perseverance in the pre-
sent policy be continued a little long-
er, and the Union must be repealed,
not merely from a compliance with
the clamour of O' Council's party, but
from a deliberate persuasion, on the
part of the Protestants, that by such
a measure their condition would be
improved. What have they to ap-
prehend from it ? Their discounte-
nance as a party by the British Go-
vernment ? They are already dis-
countenanced. The abandonment of
the Protestant interest ? It is already
abandoned. The overthrow of their
Church ? It is, already, all but over-
thrown. The security of their pro-
perty ? Already it is marked out for
spoliation. All these evils either have
come upon them, or are in progress,
and must speedily be realized, unless
a decided change of measures shall
take place ; and what difference can
it make to them whether their ruin
be accomplished by the wickedness
of an unprincipled cabinet, or the
grasping rapacity of an Irish Parlia-
ment ? Nay, may they not hope to
obtain an interest in the latter, which
would give them a better chance of
safety than they can hope for, at pre-
sent, from those who so grossly ne-
glect their interests, and undervalue
their numbers and importance ?—
These are considerations which we
shall not just now pursue any far-
ther. We are not without a hope
that this Great Meeting will produce
a good effect upon our rulers. IF

IT SHOULD, THE EMPIRE WILL BE SA-
VED. If it should not, the ranks of
the agitators may be reinforced by
an accession of strength which must
render them irresistible; and Eng-
land will find, when it is too late,
that in sacrificing Protestantism, she
has sacrificed Ireland.

The able editor of the Dublin Even-
ing Mail most justly says, that, as a
deliberative assembly, that to which
we have referred surpassed in rank
and respectability, in knowledge and
in talents, any other ever called to-
gether in Ireland. There was a solem-
nity attendant on the proceedings,
and a depth of thought manifested in
the discussion, commensurate with
the importance of the subject. It ap-
peared evident, on the whole, that

79

the machinations of Irish traitors,
abetted as they are by the revolu-
tionary schemes of the Ministry, are
driving at, first, a repeal of the
Union, secondly, the separation of
the two countries, thirdly, the erec-
tion of an independent nation in Ire-
land ; and that these three things in-
volve the ruin of the British empire,
and as it regards Ireland, the pro-
perty, the religion, and the lives of
the Irish Protestants. To avert such
evils has been the object of the care-
ful, deep, and patriotic deliberation
of the preservatives ; nor could bet-
ter means be devised than the adop-
tion of those principles which have
always guided the Orangemen of
Ireland, and converted that loyal
and constitutional body into a sacred
guard, which bulwarked the throne,
and fenced property with impass-
able trenches, and afforded a secure
asylum to the civil rights, the religi-
ous liberties, and the natural affec-
tions of this great, good, and much
calumniated body. Calumniated by
whom ? By the enemies of order,
and liberty, and truth — by the friends
of confusion, slavery, and fanaticism
—by the imbecilles,\vho believe they
can soothe ferocious passions by sub-
mission, and cajole sedition and trea-
son out of their long-pursued prey
by fear-born flattery, and by studi-
ous insults and exquisite injuries of-
fered, in face of day, to all that is
most high and honourable in the
character and conduct of the best
citizens !

After two preliminary meetings,
it was finally agreed on, that a junc-
tion between all classes and denomi-
nations of Irish Protestants should
take place; that a committee should
be appointed to prepare resolutions
in accordance with the sentiments
expressed by the meeting ; and that
such committee should come pre-
pared with them on the following
day. On the third day, Lord Roden
in the chair, a series of resolutions
were passed, and, grounded on them,
an address, to be presented to his
Majesty by the Earls of Roden and
Longford, Lord Viscount Lorton,
and Lord Farnham.

Lord Roden moved the first reso-
lution, " that now, as upon all occa-
sions, our inclination arid duty equal-
ly lead us to express our devoted
loyalty to his Majesty the King, and

so

also to assure his Majesty of our unal-
terable attachment to the principles
which placed his Majesty's illustri-
ous family upon the throne — princi-
ples which form the groundwork of
our civil and religious liberties."
His lordship, in moving this resolu-
tion, declared, that there never was
a period in which the Protestant in-
stitutions of Ireland were placed in
such imminent peril, since the days
immediately preceding those of Wil-
liam the Third. " This cause is our
cause — it is the cause of freedom —
the cause of truth — and the cause of
God. Acting under such guidance,
and maintaining the pure principles
of Protestantism, which have been
such a blessing to the world, we may
go forwards fearlessly, and despite
of our enemies and the danger by
which we are surrounded. We are
not met here for party-purposes —
we have higher objects in view. We
are met here as men who love their
country — who value its constitution
— and who are determined, if neces-
sary, to sacrifice all in its defence.
The occasion on which we have as-
sembled, is one of the most import-
ant in the annals of our history j no
one can tell the ramifications to
which this meeting may give rise
through the country, and the spirit
it may revive in the breasts of loyal
men."

On Lord Roden resuming his seat,
amidst loud cheers, Lord Longford
rose to propose the second resolu-
tion— " That we should be wanting
in our duty to his Majesty, and in-
sensible of the obligations which we
owe to our Protestant fellow-subjects
in Ireland, if we failed to lay at the
foot of the throne a statement of the
universal feeling of alarm and dis-
content which prevails, and of the
causes which have led to the present
perilous crisis of Protestant affairs in
Ireland." Lord Longford, after some
introductory observations, spoke
thus :—

" It is my clear conviction that the
present circumstances of the times jus-
tified us in calling you together, and
though the aspect of affairs is most
gloomy at present, they will become

more gloomy unless we hold together

(hear and cheers.) Different as some
of our opinions are as to the propriety
of establishing an association, there was
one point upon which we were and are

Protestant Affairs in Ireland.

[Jan.

all agreed, namely, the necessity that
exists of a universal combination of Pro-
testants taking place, in order that we
may counteract the schemes of our ene-
mies— (hear, hear.) There is no art left
untried to mislead those who are weak
enough to be misled — there is no false-
hood or calumny too gross for the agi-
tators to assert who exhibit at their new
association. Their association appears
to be established for the purpose of ca-
lumniating the aristocracy of the coun-
try, of outraging the law, of traducing
the clergy, and trampling upon the Pro-
testant establishments which we look
upon as a blessing — (hear, hear.) Under
this impression we felt it to be our duty
to call, this meeting together. The state
of the Protestants is such, that at the
present moment we cannot permit apathy
to pervade our body — apathy in itself
does not actually amount to a crime, but
a number of negative cases put together
will amount to positive criminality —
(hear, hear.) Our country from the time
of William the Third has advanced re-
gularly in prosperity, and only because
its institutions were founded on Pro-
testant principles. Latterly these prin-
ciples have gradually been relaxing, and
the result is manifest to the. most in-
attentive observer — (cheers.) Having
said so much of the principle generally,
I shall now merely remark, that I fear
his Majesty has been misled. One of
the maxims of our constitution is, that
the King can do no wrong. His Ma-
jesty may be too easily influenced ; but
however we may detest the measures
which have been adopted, the blame must
attach to the Ministers who advised them
— (hear, hear, hear.) It is our duty to
lay before his Majesty a detail of the
grievances of which we complain, and I
trust and believe that he will afford us
redress."

The third resolution was moved
by that best of patriots, Lord Farn-
ham — " That the general^ sentiment
of anxiety and alarm which prevails
among the Protestants of Ireland, is,
in our opinion, fully justified by the
spirit which appears to influence the
councils, and dictate the measures,
of his Majesty's advisers." The pithy
speech of this bold lover of his coun-
try we give entire.

" My lord and gentlemen, before I
submit to you the resolution which has
been confided to me to propose for your
adoption, I must offer my cordial thanks
to the noblemen and gentlemen who
signed the requisition, convening this

1832.]

Protestant Affairs in Ireland,

meeting — (hear, hear.) The thanks of
the Protestants of Ireland are justly due,
and I am confident will be awarded, to
those noblemen and gentlemen who call-
ed us together at this most momentous
crisis — (hear, hear.) We are met here
to discuss the calamitous situation to
which the Protestants of Ireland are re-
duced by the infatuated policy of his Ma-
jesty's present Ministers — (hear, hear.)
I am confident that the Protestants of
Ireland will respond to the call this day
made on them, and that they will now,
as they have ever done, shew their at-
tachment to those principles which pla-
ced his Majesty's family on the throne
of these realms, and to the civil and re-
ligious institutions of the country — (hear,
hear, hear) — which are at this moment
endangered by the conduct of the Go-
vernment—(hear, hear, hear.) From the
period of the Revolution of 1688 to the
time of the legislative Union, it had been
considered that the interests of England
and those of the Protestants of Ireland
were identified and indissolubly united —
that this unity of interest was essential
to the maintenance of the connexion be-
tween the two countries — and that upon
all occasions they would naturally sup-
port each other. Upon this ground the
Irish Protestants placed the most im-
plicit confidence on the British Govern-
ment. I lament to say that the latter
period of our history displays a sad re-
verse— this friendly policy seems now to
be abandoned, and the Irish Protestant
is looked upon with jealousy and distrust.
Nothing, however, can be mathemati-
cally more capable of demonstration than
this, that if Protestantism be put down
in Ireland, the separation of the two
countries must follow — (hear, hear, hear)
.—and it requires no great political saga-
city to foresee, that the downfall of the
British empire must be the direct con-
sequence— (hear, hear, hear. ) I there-
fore think that the result of this meet-
ing will not merely tend to the bene-
fit of the Protestants of Ireland, but
to the welfare of the empire at large
— (hear, hear.) Now let us for a mo-
ment consider what were the induce-
ments held out to the Protestants of Ire-
land at the time of the Union, and which
succeeded in gaining for that measure
the support of many most powerful in-
terests which were attached to the Pro-
testant cause. It was held forth to them
by the Government of the day, that, as
matters stood before the Union, the Pro-
testants were but a small minority in
Ireland, and that therefore a strong ar-
gument could be supported, that their
religion, as being that of tho minority,
VOL. XXXI. NO. CLXXXrX.

81

should not in justice continue to be the
established religion of the country, but
that when the two separate kingdoms
were united, and their population amal-
gamated, the great preponderance of
numbers would be in favour of the Pro-
testants, which consequently ought to
be, and would ever continue to be, the
established religion of the United King-
dom ; that this was the case, I can re-
fer with confidence to my noble friend
opposite, who recollects the events at
that period — (hear, hear, from Lord Long-
ford.) Accordingly the faith of the Go-
vernment was pledged upon this point,
and by the 5th article of the Union it re-
ceived legislative sanction. It was en-
acted, that the separate churches of Eng-
land and Ireland should merge in the
united church of Great Britain and Ire-
land—" That the continuance and pre-
servation of the united church should be
deemed and taken as an essential and fun-
damental part of the Union. " We now see
that it is the intention of his Majesty's
Ministers to introduce measures in di-
rect violation of this national compact, so
essential to the integrity of the British em-
pire, and to deal with the church in Ireland
in a different manner from that which
they intend to pursue towards the church
in England. Is this good faith? Is it
honourable, after we have confidingly
given up our own legislature? Every
measure adopted by the present Mini-
stry, every appointment made by the
Irish Government, indicates their deter-
mination to trample on the Protestants
of Ireland. If, however, we are united
amongst ourselves, we need not fear.
With the blessing of God, we shall de-
feat the machinations of our enemies.
From this day's meeting, at which I see
influential noblemen and gentlemen from
every part of Ireland, and from the cor-
dial unanimity and patriotic spirit which
prevails, I foresee the most happy re-
sults. With the majority which the Mi-
nisters can now command in the House
of Commons, I entertain but little doubt
that they will carry any measure they
propose, through that House ; but, thank
God, there is a conservative power else-
where, which has already shewn itself
able and willing to control the democra-
tic spirit of the Commons — (cheers) —
and which, I trust, will extend its protec-
tion to our cause, if a Ministry shall be
found daring enough to introduce mea-
sures subversive of those principles which
the King at his coronation has sworn to
maintain." (Loud cheers.)

This resolution was seconded by Sir
Henry Brooke, Bart., ^vho declared

Protestant Affairs in Ireland,

82

it to be his opinion, from looking at
the recent appointments to the Edu-
cation Board, and, at the same time,
the continuation of the grant to May-
nooth College, that the consequence
of the measures of the Ministry would
be to establish Popery in Ireland —
and subject all things to a Jesuitical
party under the control of the Popish
hierarchy. The Ministry are led, he
said, by a party of men who never
will give up their views till they are
firmly and strongly resisted by the
Protestant population of Ireland.
Henceforward, then, let all disunion
be banished from among Protestants,
so that they may present to their
enemies an unconquerable phalanx,
united as one man for the preserva-
tion of all most dear. Sir Henry
Brooke knows too well the true na-
ture of that institution to speak cold-
ly of Orangemen. But for their ex-
ertions, at a former period, he says,
" we should not now be sitting in
this room, consulting how the evils
with which we are at present threat-
ened may be averted. I may be per-
mitted to speak of them, inasmuch
as, in the year 1 798, 1 was one of the
very first men who was sworn in an
Orangeman. It was the Orangemen
who put down the rebellion of that
period, and to that loyal body you
must look, at this almost equally
eventful crisis, again for support."

The fourth resolution, which was
moved by Colonel Perceval, and se-
conded by the Rev. Holt Waring, is
a comprehensive one — " That while it
is impossible within the limits of a
Resolution to enumerate all the
grounds of this general belief, yet,
among many which might be added,
we specify the following, as in them-
selves sufficient to establish the jus-
tice of the connexion. First, the con-
duct of the Government in permit-
ting the formation and continuance
of unconstitutional and mischievous
associations, whose efforts are evi-
dently directed to crush the powers
of the Government; the gross par-
tiality exhibited in the administra-
tion of the powers of the Govern-
ment in many cases, but particular-
ly as instanced in the policy which
Induced the dismissal from the yeo-
inanry corps of individuals, who, in
their capacity as private citizens,
engaged in the long-established ce-
lebration of events to which the peo-
ple of these countries owe their li-

[Jan.

berties, and the King his throne,
while processions of a really objec-
tionable and dangerous description
are permitted in the streets of the
metropolis, and the head and insti-
gator of these processions honoured
and promoted ; the treatment by the
Government of the Protestant clergy
during the late and present invasion
of their property, and the encourage-
ment afforded to that systematic op-
position, as evinced in the remission
of the sentence of those legally con-
victed of that conspiracy; the con-
duct of the Government in withdraw-
ing from societies established for the
promotion of scriptural education
the customary Parliamentary grants,
while pecuniary support continues
to be given to the Roman Catholic
College of Maynooth, not only by
abandoning the system of education
which hitherto so admirably accom*
plished the purposes for which it
was designed, but by transferring
its superintendence into the hands
of those who do not possess the con-
fidence of the people of Ireland." In
commenting — which he does most
ably — on the different clauses of this
resolution, Colonel Perceval speaks
of that association which meets two
or three times a-week in the city of
Dublin, within a short distance of
the nominal government, whose
powers it assumes, and from which
it derives its strength. For have they
not heaped honours upon the man
who originated it, the man, whose
declared object now is a repeal of
the Union, and who, after having
disavowed in his place in Parlia-
ment an ulterior object, now as pub-
licly declares, that he has ulterior
objects? "This man is upheld by
the weak and vacillating Government
with which we are cursed." (Loud
shouts.) Colonel Perceval says he is
almost afraid to trust himself with a
comment on the appointments which
have recently taken place — the coun-
ty (Sligo) which he represents ha»
virig been treated with peculiar in-
sult. But let this excellent man
speak for himself.

" But I cannot help bearing my testi-
mony of the thraldom in which the Go-
vernment is held by certain members of
Parliament, who appear to act under the
control of the great agitator, who com-
pelled the Government to admit that the
party were too strong for them— (hear,
hear, hear N These gentlemen were not

1832.]

Protestant Affairs in Ireland.

satisfied with the finding of a grand jury,
or the verdict of a petite jury; no, my
lord, nothing would satisfy them but the
degradation of loyal and independent gen-
tlemen, if it was in the power of such
persons to degrade — (cheers.) We see
in the Newtonbarry case how Govern-
ment ferreted out a case, in order, if
possible, to attach a stigma upon loyal
men — (hear, hear, hear.) But, let me
ask, are the Government always anxious
to detect and punish murders? Have
they never permitted an undoubted cri-
minal to escape, if that criminal were of
the favoured religion ? Why, my lord, we
all recollect the apathy which Govern-
ment exhibited when a man was murder-
ed by a priest — in Roscommon, I think,
it was — (hear, hear.) There was no ex-
pression of disappointment at his escape,
though the murder was said to have been
perpetrated in the presence of sixteen
persons. (Hear, hear.) There were no
proclamations issued offering a reward
for his apprehension — (hear, hear) — And
why was this? Because the murderer was
a Popish priest — (hear, hear, hear.)—
With respect to the processions which
were permitted to take place, they oc-
curred so recently, and under our own ob-
servation, that it is unnecessary for me
to direct attention to them. The reso-
lution proceeds thus: — 'The treatment
by the Government of the Protestant
clergy, during the late and present inva-
sion of their property, and the encou-
ragement afforded to that systematic op-
position, as evinced in the remission 01
the sentence of those legally convicted of
that conspiracy.' And have not, m
lord, the clergy a right to complain ? Go-
vernment have extended what they call
mercy, but what I call injustice — (hear,
hear, hear) — to two persons, convicted
of the crime of conspiring to prevent the
legal collection of tithes. The Govern-
ment, my lord, have evinced favouritism
for every thing anti- Protestant. The re-
solution goes on to say, — ' The conduct
of the Government in withdrawing from
societies established for the promotion of
scriptural education the customary Par-
liamentary grants, while pecuniary sup-
port continues to be given to the Roman
Catholic College of Maynootb, not only
by abandoning the system of education
which hitherto so admirably accomplished
the purposes for which it was designed,
but by transferring its superintendence
into the hands of those who do not pos-
sess the confidence of the Protestants of
Ireland.' Now, my lords and gentlemen,
with respect to the Kildare-place Society,
it appears, if we are to believe Mr O'Con-
nell, that a fortnight before Mr Stanley

m

left Ireland, he was decided in his inten-
tion of supporting that grant. He, how-
ever, as you all know, soon after his arri-
val in England, changed his mind. I
asked Mr O'Connellhow it was that such
an alteration had taken place in the views
of the Right Honourable Secretary? and
he informed me that he, and a few of his
party, intimidated him — (loud cries of
hear, hear.) That was Mr O* Council's
answer to myself — (hear, hear, hear.) I
will now refer to a few facts which -came
under my special observation, and which
will further shew the vacillation of the
Government. (Hear, hear.) I refer par-
ticularly to the Arms' Bill. (Cheers.)
I had the honour to be one of a body of
members of the House of Commons who
waited upon the Chief Secretary, to as-
sure him of our support in that measure,
and we were led to suppose that Mr Stan-
ley would persevere in it. Mr Stanley is
a Cabinet Minister, and he, of course,
spoke the sentiments of the rest of the
Cabinet, and had in fact introduced a
measure matured in the Cabinet. The
very next day, however, after having had
an interview with Mr O'Connell, he suc-
cumbed to the dictation of the demagogue,
— (cheers) — and withdrew the measure.
What he said was, that he gave up the
measure in obedience to the wishes of an
influential party in that House, to whose
opinions he acknowledged he was dispo-
sed to pay every respect; nay, farther,
that they enjoyed his confidence. (Cries
of, Oh ! oh !) My lord, after this state-
ment, lam sure no person can object to
the resolutions being too strong. (Hear,
hear.) There can, I think, exist but lit-
tle doubt in any man's mind, that the
party who are at present called to the
councils of the King, are determined to
overturn all the Protestant institutions of
the country — and, above all, to sacrifice
the Protestant Church." (Hear, hear,
hear. )

A better speech than that of the
Rev. Holt Waring never was deli-
vered, because every syllable in it is
true, and on a subject on which every
syllable uttered by the Papists is false.
With respect to the grievances which
the Irish Protestants suffer, they are
of so atrocious a nature, so mani-
fest, and had been so eloquently de-
tailed, that there is no need — he
says — for their enumeration. He
therefore turns to another topic, on
which so many gross, and base, and
pernicious lies have for so long a
period been in course of telling, by
the unblushing,because brazenfaced,
friends of a system of religious and

Protestant Affairs in Ireland,.

84

political tyranny, under which no-
thing can flourish but slavery and
superstition.

" It would be well, my lord, however,
to enquire who and what the Protestants
of Ireland are, and having ascertained
that, to determine whether or not they
are entitled to the sympathy of their fel-
low countrymen in Great Britain, and to
the protection of Government — (hear,
hear.) The Protestants of Ireland, my
lord, were originally an advanced guard,
or rather a forlorn hope, of the army of
civilisation thrown out by England to
humanize this kingdom — (hear, hear.)
They came over, my lord, to this coun-
try, and found that ignorance and bar-
barism prevailed to such a degree, that
they found it extremely difficult to obtain
a footing. In fact the inhabitants of the
worst of the South Sea Islands were in a
state of civilisation compared with the
native Irish. The Protestants came
here under the promises of English sup-
port, and for some time the Government
of England did give all the assistance
they required — under the fostering aus-
pices of England, they established order
and true religion where they found out-
rage and superstition in full possession.
They brought with them the religion of
the Gospel— through their energies, and
by their care, manufactures, liberal arts,
and agriculture flourished — in fact, every
thing beneficial followed in their train :
but notwithstanding all their efforts to
impart intelligence and humanize the
country, they have been opposed through-
out, from the very hour of their land-
ing up to the present period, by the ob-
stinate and misguided race they sought
to benefit. Still, though impeded, they
continued to advance so long as they
were encouraged by the Government of
England, but since liberality has become
fashionable, they have been neglected —
shamefully neglected, and cast off by that
Government, which was bound to afford
them protection and support— (hear,hear,
hear,) — and a lamentable relapse has
begun. The religion of the natives was
allowed to encroach upon them by de-
grees, the safeguards were one by one
relaxed, till at length every law which
was originally enacted for the preserva-
tion of the Protestants was repealed.
So far from this line of conduct being met
with a corresponding feeling on the part
of these natives, so far from exciting their
gratitude, not a single boon was ever
granted to them that was not met with
increased hostility on their parts — (hear,
hear, hear,) Every thing was done by

[Jan.

the Protestants to promote good feeling
—nothing was left untried to conciliate
the professors of the Romish religion,
but all our attempts proved fruitless—
(hear, hear.) When any step at con-
ciliation was made on our part, they in-
variably receded, and the result of each
attempt was, that they demanded of us
to go one step farther — (cheers.) Such
is the description of the Irish Protestants,
and such is the situation which so loudly
calls on them for complaint and remon-
strance— (cheers.) They are entitled to
support, and it cannot in justice be with-
held— (cheers.) Protection was pled-
ged to them by the act of Union, and
Ministers are bound to carry that act
into force — (hear, hear.) At the time
that act was passed, the Protestants of
Ireland were too important a body to be
set at defiance. They had not at that
time descended the hill to parley in the
plain — (cheers) — at that period they were
not trampled upon as they have been since
— (hear, hear, hear.) At the Union
they were not described as a paltry fac-
tion— (hear, hear.) Their voice, and
that of their aristocracy, at that period
was not described as the whisper of a fac-
tion— (loud cries of hear.) No, my Lord,
their voice was considered then as the
shout of men plumed with victory over a
deep-laid and murderous rebellion, who
had upheld the throne and altar of Great
Britain, and whose opinions ought to be
consulted — they were described at that
period, as they may at the present, as
possessing 19-20ths of the intelligence,
wealth, and respectability of the kingdom,
and a still larger proportion of its ho-
nesty and liberality — (hear, hear.) I feel
we may be justified in supposing it to be
the policy of the present Government to
depress every thing Protestant in Ireland,
aye, and perhaps in England too ; but it
manifestly is, with respect to this country,
at least ultimately to extinguish the Pro-
testants of Ireland — (cheers.) Thehon.
member who preceded me, did not wish
to give utterance to his feelings with
respect to the appointment of a Lord-
Lieutenant to the county which he so
faithfully and zealously represents. I
honour his feelings, and participate in his
honest indignation. Is it not notorious
that an alteration took place in the nomi-
nation to that appointment, through the
intimidation, or I may say dictation, of
Mr O'Connell ? But, my lord, I cannot
stop here — I cannot look towards your
lordship, or to the much-respected noble-
man who sits near you, without remem-
bering with unmixed regret the line of
conduct which has been pursued towards

J832.]

Protestant Affairs in Ireland.

you. I mean, in the first place, to refer
to the Lord-Lieutenancy of Louth, if I
can do so without trespassing on your
lordship's feelings. After the declara-
tion that rank and county influence were
in all possible cases to guide the choice,
they have passed by your lordship, whose
rank and general estimation established
the claims, and whose character for in-
tegrity, talent, and moral worth, would
have added efficiency and responsibility to
the appointment — (cheers.) Your lord-
ship they have passed over, and, as if they
would make the injury more galling, they
have also disregarded Lord Oriel, the
worthy successor and representative of
the wise, steady, and patriotic John Fos-
ter— (hear, hear) — to thrust a Governor,
who, however he may be privately re-
spectable, has no other qualification that
we are acquainted with for being Lord-
Lieutenant of Louth, than professing that
religion which our rulers seem determined
to wade every injustice, no matter how
foul or deep, to advance — (cheers. ) Nor
do the Protestants look with less dis-
approbation or contempt at the indignity
in a similar way offered to the noble lord
near the chair, (Lord Farnham,) to whom
the Protestants and every well-wisher to
his country look up as the steady, the
patriotic, the wise and efficient friend of
all our best interests. He, too, must be
deprived of the power, which he is so
competent and so worthy to be intrusted
with, and why? — the reason is amusing-
it seems, forsooth, his lordship is warm
and zealous in the support of Protestant
institutions, an ardent lover of justice,
and an opposer of corruption ; and so
they say he is a party man, and therefore
unworthy of trust. This is doubtless a
sufficient reason, if true ; but before we
allow it, let us see what is a party
man ? Of course Lord Cloncurry is not
a party man — (cries of hear, hear, hear.)
He has himself, however, in that ebulli-
tion of stupidity and egotism which he
lately inflicted on the public, pleaded
guilty of being an United Irishman —
(cheers) — and boasts of his sufferings in
behalf of a body who filled the land with
rebellion and murder, and triumphantly
exults in the speedy accomplishment of
the objects of that patriotic body, by
means less dangerous than those which
were so near decorating his lordship with
a halter — (cheers.) Of course this lord,
I will not say nobleman, is no party man,
or he never would have been advanced in
dignity, and his vast talents and respecta-
bility would have been lost as an adviser
of his Majesty, and an influential meddler
in Irish affairs — (hear.) Can it. then be

85

wondered at if the Protestants of Ireland
should feel dejected and discontented with
the present administration of affairs ?— .
(hear, hear, hear.) But now, my lord, to
descend to what may appear of less im-
portance, though when combined with the
others becomes no slight matter — I allude
to the manner in which the Government
persecute all persons, even to the lowest
situations, who exhibit any symptom of
Protestant feeling — (hear, hear.) Now,
my lord, with respect to the processions
of the Orangemen, about which such an
outcry has been raised, I will not now
argue whether they be right or wrong,
wise or imprudent — but this I will say,
that they were taught us by the Govern-
ment of the country — (hear, hear, hear.)
I myself well remember, and many I see
around me cannot have forgotten, the time
when the Lord-Lieutenant, accompanied
by all the influential persons in the state,
proceeded on every 5th November, in
grand procession to College-green, and
paraded round the statue of King William;
the horses of the Lord Chancellor, the
Speaker, and the nobility and gentry who
accompanied them, were tricked out in
Orange ribbons, the statue decorated, and
the whole forming such a noble display of
high Protestant feeling, as would satisfy
the most zealous Orangeman in the king-
dom— (cheers.) These scenes, my lord,
were the delight of my childhood, and I
have not forgotten them in my old age —
(cheers.) What, let me ask, is the case
now ? Why, my lord, a respectable young
man, who resides at Lurgan, and who
held the office of distributor of stamps
there, at a salary of perhaps some twenty
pounds a-year, was not I say considered
worthy of being trusted with the distribu-
tion of twopenny stamps because he was
an Orangeman, and wore an orange rib-
bon on the 12th of July, and he was ac-
cordingly dismissed. The Orangemen of
Ireland, my lord, have already suppressed
one rebellion, and they may, ere long, be
called upon to trample down another —
(cheers.) They have always been found
ready to support the law, and is it thus
they should be rewarded ? is this the gra-
titude they are to expect if they should
again be required to stand forward in their
country's cause? — (hear, hear.) It is,
however, for that cause they originally
united, and for upholding which they still
continue combined — (cheers.) The ob-
jects of the Government must be appa-
rent to every person, their conduct is
liable to but one construction— they first
court the Orangemen and take part in
their processions— they arm them — they
find them brave, devoted, stanch, victo-

86

rious ; at first they acknowledge this with
thanks — they soon proceed to neglect,
then to discountenance, and at length
they persecute, and they will, if they can,
finally destroy them — (hear, hear, hear.)
I think then, my lord, that the Resolu-
tion is borne out, that the Protestants
have cause, abundant cause, for complaint.
Indeed, the Resolution, I think, only goes
part of the way; it details but a small
portion indeed of the grievances of which
we complain. Now, it is important that
these grievances should be laid at the foot
of the throne. It is not possible, my
lord, that a son of George the Third can
be insensible to our wrongs ; it is impos-
sible that the feelings of the Protestants
of Ireland, who all but adored the father,
can be outraged by the son — (hear, hear.)
Did his Majesty but know the causes of
our discontent, he, I am satisfied, would
right us. In his paternal care, in his ge-
nerous solicitude for us, our last best
hope is reposed. One part of the legis-
lature has been corrupted, and the other
is assailed — (hear, hear) — and the prero-
gative of the Crown is, I fear, about to
be exercised to corrupt that portion which
hitherto supported us. Let us therefore
appeal to the King. His illustrious fa-
mily were placed on the throne expressly
to support Protestant principles, and I
cannot bring myself to believe that an
appeal to the Monarch, admired as he is
for generous feelings and love of justice,
will be made in vain. The Orangemen
of Ireland participate in this feeling. I
am one of the earliest members of their
institution, and one of its most steadfast,
though perhaps ineffective supporters ;
and I fearlessly assert that that body has
shewn a degree of forbearance under ac-
cumulated injuries, unparalleled in the
annals of history— (hear, hear.) They
Were in a great degree deserted by those
to whom they looked up for countenance
or advice. They had, it is true, a few,
and but a few, high and illustrious sup-
porters, and their salutary influence shew-
ed what good might have been achieved
by a different treatment — (hear.) One
Of these illustrious Princes, alas ! alas !
now no more, had he lived to the present
moment, would have sympathized with
our feelings, and powerfully aided his be-
loved and illustrious relative in our sup-
port. The Orangemen were goaded on
one hand, and either despised or neglect-
ed on the other — (hear, hear.) They
have been waylaid and murdered by their
implacable enemies — (hear, hear.) They
Could not attend their ordinary occupa-
tions in either fairs or markets without
being insulted, maltreated, and abused—

Protestant Affairs in Ireland.

[Jan.

(hear, hear) — and though their lives were
constantly endangered, and not unfre-
quently made a sacrifice, they did not re-
taliate according to the power they pos-
sessed—(hear, hear.) They did defend
themselves, it is true, when they were
attacked — (hear, hear)— and God forbid
they should not— (cheers)— but all at-
tempts to fix the first aggression on them
has failed — (cheers.) It has been the
habit heretofore to disclaim all alliance
with the Orangemen, and to sneer at what
was called their ultra loyalty, arid to take
for truth the charge of persecution, how-
ever gross, against them. These accusa-
tions, however, are all unfounded. They
are absolutely a defensive — a conservative
association— (cheers.) They seek not to
disturb any man in the exercise of his
religion. The constitution was assailed
—the properties and lives of Protestants
were endangered, and to support the one
and protect the other, the institution was
originally formed, and still continues to
hold the same principles. The laws were
trampled upon — the constitution which
our fathers gained for us at the glorious
Revolution of 1688 was rebelliously as-
sailed and endangered, and to maintain
it they arose as one man, heart and hand ;
and in the same great cause they now
stand firm and resolved. I find, my lord,
I am led beyond the bounds to which I
ought to confine myself; I therefore en-
treat the indulgence of this meeting for
my intrusion on their patience, and beg
to have the honour to second the resolu-
tion proposed by the honourable gentle-
man who preceded me." — (Great cheer-
ing')

The other resolutions, moved and
seconded by Lord Dunlo, Colonel
Blacker, Lord Valentia, Edward J.
Cooper, Esq., M.P. for Sligo, George
A. Hamilton, Esq., Lord Viscount
Mandeville, and D. Crommelin, Esq.
are equally strong, and were accom-
panied by able and eloquent com-
ments— " That while our local grie-
vances, and the deep and permanent
injuries with which we are threat-
ened, have led us to dwell upon our
own wrongs, we fully sympathize
with those steady and resolute men
in Great Britain, who are struggling
to preserve the Constitution of Eng-
land, so often and so justly called
the admiration of surrounding na-
tions ; that we are satisfied that such
a measure of Reform as that pro-
posed during the last Session of
Parliament, instead of introducing
into the House of Commons men of

1832.]

Protestant Affairs in Ireland.

more intelligence, more ability, more
virtue, and more independence, in
place of those who at present com-
pose that assembly, would substitute
ignorant and unprincipled dema-
gogues and adventurers, men who
would impose on the bad passions
of incompetent electors, and would
direct their efforts to the overthrow
of the most valuable institutions of
this country. That the Irish Pro-
testants are no paltry faction, as they
have been represented, but a gallant
people, possessing a moral and phy-
sical energy, which no power can
crush — comprising the vast propor-
tion of the property, education, and
industry of Ireland — the descendants
of the brave men who won privileges
and rights which their posterity must
not forfeit by indolence and neglect."
" We trust that that loyal and reso-
lute body of men who belong to the
Orange institution of Ireland, who
so often and so successfully have
come forward in defence of the laws
and Constitution of their country
in times of peril, will not now be
unmindful of the noble principles
on which they have associated, and
that they, and all the other classes
of our Protestant brethren, will co-
operate with us in making the most
urgent and decisive statement of our
wrongs to our most gracious sove-
reign." " That while we call upon
all Irish Protestants for their instant
and entire co-operation, we would,
in the strongest language, impress
upon them the most implicit obe-
dience to the law, and of avoiding
every occasion leading even remotely
to a disturbance of the public peace ;
to the Protestant Clergy of all deno-
minations we need say nothing, but
assure them of our anxiety to pre-
serve them in that condition in which
they have been so effective in the
inculcation of scriptural truth, and
of the knowledge and practice of all
Christian virtues."

These are all resolutions of the
right stamp, and worthy of the Pro-
testant Patriots of Ireland. Lord
Valentia joins the previous speakers
in their indignant reprobation of the
insulting and injurious conduct of
the Ministry towards the Preserva-
tives. " They have now," he says,
lc been upwards of twelve months in
office, and not a single appointment
has taken place, from that of my

87

Lord Plunkett down to Mr Corcoran,
that has not been hostile to the Pro-
testant feeling of Ireland. (Hear.)
There is no act of theirs, from that
of permitting MrO'Connell to escape
from the hands of justice, down to
the persecutions of the magistrates
and the yeomanry of Newtonbarry,
that is not characterised by the same
anti-Protestant spirit. (Hear — hear
— hear.) In every instance which we
have witnessed of the exercise of
power and authority, but one spirit
appears to have pervaded their ac-
tions—but one motive appears to
have influenced them, namely, the
discovery of the most insulting
means by which the feelings of the
Protestants might be wounded, their
dearest rights invaded, and, finally,
their religion exterminated. (Cheers.)
In the recent appointments to the
lords-lieutenant of counties, have
they not put aside men of station, of
rank and character ; and in the ap-
pointments they have made, have
they not actually added insult to in-
jury ?" As to the Reform Bill, he
believes that, if it be carried, the
repeal of the Union must ensue, and,
as a necessary consequence of that
measure, the downfall of the Pro-
testant aristocracy; and that if the
Irish Reform Bill pass, (what is it
now to be ?) it will give to the
Roman Catholics such an increase
of power in Parliament, as not only
to injure the Protestant interest, but
to obstruct any administration from
carrying on the affairs of the state.
In that event affairs would be of a
more desperate character than in
England ; for in Ireland they would
have not merely to contend against
the democratic encroachment of the
mob, but against a mob who are
blinded by priests, and led astray
by mischievous and designing dema-
gogues, far worse than any yet heard
roaring or growling in England,
though there the many-headed mon-
ster has been bellowing with all hi£
mouths.

Mr Cooper and Mr Hamilton, in
the few words they use, let us under-
stand that the same game is played
in Ireland as in Britain— getting up
paltry Reform meetings, at which
half-a-dozen gentlemen, at the most,
shewed their faces, red with disap-
pointed shame— and then trumpeting
in newspapers the odious omnega*-

88

therum as no less than a county-
meeting, expressive by its voice (oh !
what a stink was there, my country-
men !) of the moral sentiments of
Ireland ! Thus, in Sligo such a
wretched assemblage was lately got
up, the gentlemen present being
nearly numerable on the fingers ;
and at Kilmainham, a meeting, pur-
porting to be a county meeting, was
graced by the presence of about 30
out of 1200 registered freeholders —
and yet the address will be present-
ed to the King as emanating from
the Freeholders of the County of
Dublin I

Lord Mandeville's speech is little
inferior in straight-forward truthful-
ness to that of Mr Waring. The fol-
lowing passage is excellent, and well-
timed : —

" Such, gentlemen, are the terms of
the Resolution ; but why does it appeal
to the physical force of the Protestants
of Ireland? Not for the purpose of
threatening or intimidating the Gorern-
ment; but in declaring that ingredient
in their political importance, it does a
service to a weak Government, by shew-
ing them that if they act with less injus-
tice and more impartiality towards them,
that, in their hour of peri], they may cal-
culate not only upon a tried and loyal
body, but also upon the support of those
who will enable them, by physical means,
if they should become necessary, to act
independently of a faction which now
forces them not only to abandon mea-
sures which they had intended to pursue,
but to originate others which I would
fain imagine are not the spontaneous
productions of their own inclinations.
The resolution states, that the Irish
Protestants are no paltry faction — (hear,
hear.) The proportion of the numbers of
Roman Catholics, as stated by Mr Les-
lie Foster, is about two and a half to one,
and this agrees with other calculations I
have heard, in making the Protestant po-
pulation about two millions and a half-—
(cheers.) It is right that this fact should
be stated, in order that our brethren in
England and Scotland may know that our
number is so large, and thereby ensure
us, when our voice is heard, their sym-
pathy and support. It is most advisable
to do away the error that exists in Eng-
land with respect to our numbers. The
general impression there is, I believe, (at
least it was mine until I came to this
country,) that the number of Protestants
was so small, that their opinions, and pri-
vileges, and rights, could not be put in

Protestant Affairs in Ireland.

[Jan.

competition with, but must be sacrificed
to, the feelings of the great mass of the pre-
ponderating Roman Catholic population.
Can it be possible for a moment to con-
ceive that their feelings and interests will
not be considered, when it is known that
their numbers exceed the entire population
of Scotland ? — (hear, hear. ) Moreover, in
calculating the physical force of Ireland,
something besides mere numbers ought
to be taken into account — (hear, hear.)
We must bear in mind the moral energy
capable of applying and directing that
force — (cheers.) I simply declare the
feelings of others when I say there is not
a Protestant in Ireland who does not
consider that he is the descendant of
a conqueror — (cheers)— that there is
not a Protestant in Ireland who is not
imbued with that recollection of the
past, which assures him of a confident
anticipation of the future. That he more-
over is determined to maintain that cha-
racter which is his inheritance, whenever
the King, the Constitution, and the laws
shall call upon him to do so — (cheers.) It
is also necessary that the people of Eng-
land should know that the necessity of
the combination is not for the purpose
of resisting the legal authorities, but is
considered necessary in order to prevent
the massacre of our people. For I feel
conscious, that if the Protestants were
left unprotected by these means of self-
preservation — if the Protestants were left
unarmed and uncoinbined, I fear, I say,
that the scenes of an Irish St Bartholo-
mew would be again enacted — (loud cries
of hear.) With respect to the property
of the Protestants, I have no hesitation
in saying, that not only are nineteen-
twentieths of the wealth and respectabi-
lity on our side, but we have actually
that which, among a free people, will
create wealth, viz. a greater proportion of
morality, and sobriety, and activity. I
must say for myself, that I have not dis-
covered a want of sobriety or honesty on
the part of the peasantry any where, ex-
cept where they had not Protestant prin-
ciples to actuate them."

His Lordship then speaks, in terms
equally just and animated, of the
Orange institution, as being compo-
sed of a loyal body of men, not con-
tenting themselves with clamorously
proclaiming the general popularity
of the individual who sits upon the
Throne, but who have always, by their
deeds, declared their devotion to king-
ly rule, to his Majesty's family, and
the constitution of the country. He
acknowledges that he brought with

Protestant Affairs in Ireland,

1832.J

him to Ireland prejudices against
the Orange institution— that he had
heard them described as " a despica-
ble race !" But " I found them loyal,
peaceable, well-disposed — arrayed in
a society (comprehending 1800 lod-

fes and 150,000 men) acknowledged
y the law, and countenanced by the
royal family — ramified through Ire-
land—and are these the men to be de-
spised, and insulted, and degraded ?"
No. He hopes that " the effect of
this meeting will be to combine with
them, in one powerful phalanx, the
whole moral and physical energies
of the Protestants of Ireland."

In seconding the resolution moved
by Lord Mandeville, D. Crommelin,
Esq., confirms the important state-
ments made by Mr Holt Waring and
others respecting the relative amount
of the Protestant and Catholic popu-
lation. On that subject the ignorance
too common among us in Britain
emboldens all agitators, great and
small, to utter the most atrocious
doctrines, based on the most flagrant
falsehoods.

" Reference has been made, in the
course of our proceedings, to the nume-
rical strength of the Protestants. Our
strength, I apprehend, has been rather
underrated than the contrary. We come
more near, it will be found, to three mil-
lions than to two and a half millions, as
has been stated. Now, with all Mr
O'Connell's boasting, he is not able to
shew that there are more than five mil-
lions of Roman Catholics in this coun-
try— and surely the disparity of numbers
is not so great as to warrant the Govern-
ment in heaping all its favours upon the
Roman Catholics, and in depressing, by
every means within their power, the loyal
Protestants of the country — (hear, hear.)
And, my lord, let me ask, is property to
have no weight in a civilized state ? If
we look to the property of this country,
we will find that nine-tenths of it are in
the hands of the Protestants — (hear.)
My lord, it is not merely because the
property is in the hands of the Protest-
ants that we now set up a claim for pro-
tection. At the time of the Union a
pledge was given that property should be
represented in Parliament in proportion
to its amount, and without reference to
the numerical strength of the party pos-
sessing it. The pledge given at that pe-
riod was, that the Protestant boroughs
were to remain as they were, and were
not to be opened to the Roman Catholics

— (hear, hear.) It should be impressed
on Parliament, that if they pass the mea-
sure of Reform, they will be guilty of
the grossest breach of faith towards the
Protestants of Ireland. Our brethren
ought to be assured that they may rely
with confidence that there is a force in
this country ready to support them in
their hour of peril, and all that we seek for
in return is their sympathy for the wrongs
which we endure — they ought to be assu-
red that we are ready to stand by them to
the last, provided they will not allow these
changes to take place, which, if accom-
plished, must destroy the Protestants of
this kingdom. It is an undoubted fact, that
if Reform be carried, from sixty to seventy
Roman Catholic members will be return-
ed for this country ; and if this number
do but stick together — as they most as-
suredly will, what Ministry, may I ask,
could withstand such a combination ?"

A vote of thanks having been mo-
ved to the noblemen and gentlemen
who called the meeting, Lord Roden
left the chair, and in reply to Lord
Longford, who intimated to him the
resolution, passed by acclamation,
concluded the business of a day —
which will be felt widely over all
Ireland — in a speech worthy of the
occasion. One extract from it we
must give : —

" Gentlemen, I lament that the late-
ness of the hour prevents me from going
at any length into the subjects which
have been referred to ; but there is one
topic contained in the Resolution moved
by my friend Lord Mandeville, upon
which I must say a word — I mean the
strong necessity, the imperative duty,
which devolves upon the Protestant ma-
gistracy, not to yield to the feelings of
disgust which are so naturally excited by
the indignities and insults which have
been offered to them. I trust these ma-
gistrates, who have ever been foremost in
the discharge of their duties, will not act
precipitately, but will remember, as has
been stated, that there are two millions
and a half of Protestants at least in this
kingdom, who must look to them for jus-
tice— (hear, hear, and cheering.) I think
it a most important matter that our nu-
merical force, which has been so faith-
fully and so boldly put forward here to-
day, should be clearly stated, as I think
the times are at hand, when to the sinews
and strength of these Protestants, under
God, we must look for the preservation
of our properties, and the maintenance of
our faith. I have no doubt of the issue,
if we are but united j but it is because the

Protestant Affairs in Ireland.

DO

times may be near when great privations
may arise, and nothing but that strength
which is given from God can enable,
when you and I may be called upon to
imitate the noble conduct of our ances-
try, and ascend the scaffold rather than
renounce our faith. Gentlemen, it is on
that account that I view with peculiar
regret the appointments which have been
made of commissioners, to regulate the
education of the people of this country—
a commission which does not hesitate to
avow that the Bible is not to be the
foundation of their system — that Bible,
which alone can enable us to meet the
trials which surround us, and to die in
the land in which our forefathers have
bled— (loud cheers)— which has ever
been the birthright of Protestants, and
the charter of a Christian's privilege. Is
it possible that the Protestants of Ire-
land will consent to consign their child-
ren to a system of education, in which
the Book of God is denied them? and
garbled extracts of Scripture are substi-
tuted for the whole, to meet, forsooth,
the prejudices of the Romish priests, or
the doubts of the infidels of the day? I
trust not ! for how can God bless such a
system ? How can such unchristian
trickery ever be submitted to by them ?"
— (loud cheers.)

That the affairs of Ireland have
long been in a most distracted and
dangerous condition, is known to all
men; but it is not known to all
men that by far the most of the mi-
sery has been produced by the dis-
countenance and discouragement by
Government — not the present only
— of the great Protestant Conserva-
tive Body, by whom alone that coun-
try can be saved from ruin. Know-
ledge there, as every where else in
the world now, must be the stability
of the state. But what true know-
ledge ever flourished under the shade
of superstition ? We mean no insult
to our Roman Catholic brethren.

[Jan.

We know, and admire, and love, the
virtues of the many thousand en-
lightened persons belonging, in Ire-
land, to that faith. But not for their
sakes can we be withheld from de-
claring what all the reformed world
knows, that in Protestantism alone
resides the power to spread light over
that thick darkness of ignorance in
which so much of Ireland has so
long been benighted. It is illiberal,
forsooth, to prefer one religion to
another— it is baseness and bigot-
ry to believe that the soul is made
free by breaking up the moral and in-
tellectual bondage which the wisest
men have shewn the soul suffers
in Papistry, and against which the
noblest faculties of a noble race
struggle in vain. Were the Church
of England in Ireland to be shaken
— we shall not say overthrown— into
what profounder barbarism would
the nation fall ! It is cheering, cer-
tainly, to hear Mr Stanley declaring
the determination of Government to
defend and secure the rights of that
noble establishment. May the means
about to be adopted for that end be
wise, and their adoption uninfluen-
ced by clamour and intimidation. —
Let that wicked faction be silenced
who calumniate that establishment
—and while they brutally abuse its
learned, enlightened, conscientious,
and active ministers, keep eternally
trumpeting the praises of other pas-
tors, among whom there are many
good men, but who, generally speak-
ing, are far down indeed in the in-
tellectual scale, and all unfit for spi-
ritual instructors. But on this mighty
subject we shall speak in a series of
articles from the pen of one who un-
derstands it well in all its bearings,
and who will utter not a word which
his conscience does not tell him is
the truth !

1882.]

The Premier and his Wife.

THE PREMIER AND HIS WIFE.

A STORY OF THE GREAT WORLD.

CHARLES MONTFORT'S history, from
fifteen to five-and-twenty, might
be comprised in three words, Eton,
St James's, the Guards. The first
had sent him forth a tolerable scho-
lar and an intolerable coxcomb;
the second had made him a King's
page, and taught him the glory of a
pair of epaulets, and the wisdom
of seeing much, and saying as little
about it as possible ; and the third
had initiated him into the worst
mess and the best company in London,
into the art of walking St James's
Street six hours a-day, and balan-
cing the loss by the productive em-
ployment of as many of the night at
the Clubs, concluding with a mission
to the Peninsula, which returned
him with a new step in the Gazette, a
French ball through his arm, and a
determination to die a generalis-
simo.

But what are the determinations
of men, even of guardsmen? His
first intelligence, on rejoining his
fellowpromenadersonthe Campagna
felice of St James's Street, was, that
fate had decided against his laurels.
The venerable Earl, his uncle, was
on that bed, from which the stanch-
est devotion to the bottle, and the
minister for the time being, could
not save him. A fit of apoplexy had
wound up the arrears of the physi-
cians. Expeditious as art might be,
nature outran her ; and before the
most rapid and royal practitioner in
town could prescribe a second spe-
cific for the Earl, the world had lost
one of its " best of men," and stea-
diest bans vivants — the Treasury one
of its most vigorous voters, the opera
one of its most persevering patrons,
and Charles Montf or this only chance
of rivalling Napoleon or Wellington.
Charles's father was still alive,
and a brother stood between himself
and the title. But an earldom in pro-
spect, or possibility, made him a
more important object than he had
been twenty-four hours before. It
was decided, in a grand council of
the family, that the son of so ancient
a house was fit for better things than
the thrust of a French bayonet. A
hint from the Treasury, which was

solicitous of keeping up an interest
in the family, pointed out diplomacy
as the most natural career for the
cadet of the noble house ; and
Charles, with such sighs as a King's
page nurtured into the guardsman
can heave for any thing under the
moon, wore his epaulets for the
last time, when at Court he kissed
the King's hand, on his appointment
to the Secretaryship of the Tuscan
mission.

Nelson said, in his sailor-like way,
" That he never met an Italian who
was not a fiddler or a scoundrel."
— But to the honourable Charles
Montfort, Tuscany was a bed of
roses. Whatever the Court may
have become during the last ten
years, it was then the consummate
scene of la belle folie. The men
were all preux of the first distinc-
tion, high-bred, happy, and heroic —
the women, the perfection of grace,
constancy, and quadrilling. All was
accomplishment. Dukes led their
own orchestras, Marchionesses pre-
sided at the piano, Sovereign Princes
made chansons, and premier Ba-
rons played the trombone. The
whole atmosphere was music. The
influence spread from the ear to the
heart, and the lingua Toscana re-
quired no bocca Montana to transfuse
into the very " honey dew" of the
tender passion.

It is true, that there was not much
severity of labour going on in this
land of Cythera. The envoys were
not often compelled to forego the
toilet for the desk, nor the beaux
secretaires to give up their lessons
on the guitar for the drudgery of
copying dispatches. A " protocol"
would have scared the gentle state
from its propriety; and the arrival
of the Morning Post, once a week
from London, with the account of
routs in which they had not shared,
and the anticipation of dinners and
dej tunes which they were never to
enjoy, was the only pain which Di-
plomacy suffered to raise a ripple
on the tranquil surface of its soul.

The Tuscan ladies are proverbial-
ly the most frightful among the fe-
males of Italy, a country to which

92

The Premier and his Wife.

[Jan.

nothing but patriotic blindness, or
poetic rapture, ever attributed the
perfection of womanhood. But all
the world goes to Tuscany — of all
the Italian principalities, the one
which offers least to the lover of the
arts, past or present, but which has
the softest name. Romance is the
charm of the sex ; and all the fairest
of the fair, of every land, tend to
Florence, like shooting stars darting
from every quarter of the heavens
to the zenith. And fairest of the
fair was the Lady Matilda Mowbray.
The description of female beauty is
like the description of pictures and
churches, out of taste ; and, like the
architect of old, who desired to rest
his claims, not on his words, but on
his performances, Lady Matilda's
charms are best told by what they
effected. In the first hour after her
display at court, the honourable
Charles Montfort quarrelled, pro
tempore, with the Countess Carissi-
ma Caricoletta. In a week, he con-
fined himself to a single opera box,
and that the Lady Matilda's — and in a
month, he had constituted himself
her declared attendant, abandoned
the Casino and five guinea points,
drawn upon himself the open envy
of the cavalieri, and earned the irre-
concilable hostility of as many duch-
esses and countesses as would have
made a female legion of honour.

The Lady Matilda had not much
in her favour — she was only young",
animated, and beautiful. Her rivals
were pre-eminent in rouge and ro-
mance. The cavalieri wondered
round all the circles, ice in hand,
how a man of the secretary's tact
could contrast the brown skins, fire
darting eyes, and solid shapes of the
enchantresses of Florence, with the
niaiseries of the English physiogno-
my, with dove-like eyes, cheeks of
rose, and the proportions of a sylph.
But the secretary had been but six
months in Tuscany, and that must
account for it. His education was
incomplete; he was still but a di-
plomatic barbare ; and he would
still require six months to mature
his taste, make him see the beauties
of a half negro skin, and worship a
female cento of rappee, macaroni,
and airs from the last opera.

But the Lady Matilda had her ad-
mirers even among the cavalieri.
She possessed one charm, to which

the foreign heart has been sensitive
in every age from Clovis, and in every
corner of the continent, from the
White Sea to the Black. She was the
mistress of five thousand pounds ster-
ling a-year ; a sum which, when con-
verted into any shape cognizable by
the foreign eye, rixdollar, franc, or
milrea, seemed infinite. She had at
once a Polish prince at her feet, a
German sovereign, with a territory
of a dozen square miles, and an army
of half a regiment, honouring her
each night with his supplication for
her hand, in the first valse — and an
Ex-French count, who had been dis-
tinguished in the runaway from
Moscow, the runaway from Leipsic,
and the runaway from Waterloo,
until he had become so expert in fu-
gitation, that he had run away from
his creditors and his king alike, in
Paris, and was free to exhibit his
showy figure, and a dozen stars, at
every ridotto, ball, and billiard-table
in Christendom. The Lady Matilda
was not born a coquette ; but

" Who can hold a fire within his hand,
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?"

In this blaze of cordons, and per-
petual glow of homage, what female
heart, not absolutely stone, could re-
sist a little nitrification? Besides,
the dolce far niente, which an Eng-
lishman devotes to the infernal gods
every hour he remains under his
own foggy sky, molested by the
sight of the myriads round him, all
busily making their way through
life, is the very principle of exist-
ence under the bluest of heavens,
and in an atmosphere which burns
out the activity of man at the sum-
mer heat of 150 of Reaumur. Those
who must shut their casements at
ten in the morning, or be roasted
alive, find the necessity of con-
suming the next six hours in sleep,
and the next in paying or receiving
the attentions due to the sex in every
quarter of the globe. The Chevalier
melts down the twelve desperate
hours of his day in regulating his
mustaches, counting his fortunes
at Faro, or preparing those exqui-
site civilities of the moment, those
impromptus faits a loisir, which es-
tablish a lord among wits, and a wit
among lords ; the brilliant fanfaron
of a brilliant circle ; and among wo-
men, the happy title of the " most

1832.] The Premier and his Wife.

dangerous of men." With the fairer
portion of the earth, the natural re-
source is a French novel, or a poodle,
inveterate scandal, or a cabinet coun-
cil with Madame Vaurien, the most
celebrated marchande that ever add-
ed loveliness to the lovely on the
sunny side of the Apennines.

In this world of rapture and yawn-
ing, this central paradise of passion
indescribable, and tediousness be-
yond a name, the Lady Matilda was
gradually assimilating to the clime.
She had already discovered that
English reserve was a remnant of
the original Pict, which could not
be abolished too soon by an aspirant
after the graces. The Polish prince
was found to be essential to her
toilet ; the German potentate was
the best carrier of an opera-glass
within the limits of civilisation, and
the ex-aide-de-camp of the ex-em-
peror was the soul of quadrilles,
polonoises, and pas a la Turque. The
fair Matilda was on the point of be-
coming a figurante of the most ardent
quality — when Montfort stept in
between her and this height of fo-
reign fame. He was handsome, man-
ly, and sincere. The heart of the
lady recovered its right tone, like
an instrument struck by the mas-
ter's hand. The foreign plating was
found light beside the solid material
of his honourable heart and matu-
red understanding. The mustached
adorers grew tiresome. Foreign
love-making is an art, and when the
secret is found out, the whole affair
is too easily copied to be worth ca-
ring for. But Montfort had not been
long enough in the school to have
acquired the style. He was in love,
seriously, gravely, with his whole
sober soul. Let the world, whether
of St James's or St Petersburg!], say
what it will, this is the true victor
after all. " L'homme qui rit," says
Voltaire, " n'est pas dangereux." The
adage is true in more than politics.
And when Montfort " pulled his hat
upon his brows," forgot, like Hamlet,
his custom of exercise, and saw this
gentle heaven and earth but a pesti-
lent congregation of vapours, when
he was seen at Court only to be pro-
nounced dull, and sat in the opera-
box of the brilliant Condessadi Cuor'-
ardente, like one of the carved Cu-
pids on the back of her gilded chair,
the English heart of the fair Ma-
tilda pronounced him instinctively

93

the most animated of all compa-
nions, the most intellectual of all
envoys, and the most promising of
all lords and masters to be. Obso-
lete as the phrase is, and suspicious
as it makes the history, they were
both prodigiously in love.

But the denouement lingered ; for
of all passions the true one has the
least power of the tongue. That
member which acquires such sud-
den faculties in general after a month
of matrimony, is as generally para-
lysed a month before. Montfort,
by nature eloquent, and by habit con-
versant in the happiest turns of
levee language, found his art of
speech unable to express what his
footman could have told in three
words. The Lady Matilda, the mis-
tress of three languages, could not
find one to say for her what lay
before her glance in the first page
of every novel on her dressing-table.
But there is a time for all things,
and the time for the recovery of
their organs was at hand.

Montfort and his fair one had met
at a bal masque — danced together,
supped together, put on, and taken
off their masks together. Still the
mysterious word which each pined
to utter, was unpronounced, when
the lady chaperon came to declare
that it was the hour of retiring. The
command was like the law of the
Medes and Persians, and Montfort
saw with a sigh the withdrawing
vision of that beauty which carried
away all his aspirations. As he was
leaning, in the true lover-like wist-
fulness, on the rose-wreathed ba-
lustrades of the concert-room, his
ear was caught by a whisper from
one of the attendants. The fellow
was hurrying one of the fiddlers to
get rid of his task, to change his
silk draperies for a surtout, his in-
strument for a case of pistols, and
be on the watch at the corner of the
Casa Doralice. The name startled
Montfort. The Lady Matilda ten-
anted the two -and -twenty marble
salons of the Casa. He sprang from
his position to seize his informant ;
but as the crowd were gathering at
that moment round a Signora with
an irresistible voice, and a panache
presented to her by the Autocrat of
all the Russias he might as well
have charged a division of cuiras-
siers. The valet escaped, and Mont-
fort's sole resource was to fly on the

94

The Premier and his Wife.

[Jan.

wings of the wind to the Casa Do-
ralice.

But when did " the course of
true love run smooth ?" The night
without was the most formidable
contrast to the night within. Tem-
pest in all its shapes was doing its
wild will, from the Zenith to the
Nadir. Thunder, lightning, and rain
had met, as if by general consent, to
celebrate their orgies over the capi-
tal of Tuscany. Cavalry, cabriolets,
and chasseurs, all had disappeared,
and the lover, raging with impa-
tience, fear, and passion, felt how
empty a thing it is to be but an am-
bassador, or even that more po-
tential thing, the secretary to an am-
bassador.

However, the lady's danger pro-
hibited delay, and throwing his cloak
round him, he rushed into the de-
serted streets, through ways that
might have repulsed Hannibal or
Napoleon at the head of their braves,
and under a deluge from skies and
roofs, which left little to be filled
up by the imagination on this side
of Niagara.

The streets of Florence at the
best of times share but little of the
illumination of the nineteenth cen-
tury. The little Virgins in the niches
had all put out their lamps — the last
ray of sanctity or safety had expired
on the first blast, through a circuit
of five miles of streets, that even in
daylight make one of the most dif-
ficult tours of Europe. An Eng-
lishman in a foreign city, is proverb-
ially of all animals the most easily
perplexed. He loses his way by
nature. Montfort was no more gift-
ed with the " organ of direction*'
than the rest of his countrymen, and
at the first turning from the palace,
and while the flash of its hundred
windows Avas still gleaming in his
eyes, he was as much astray as if
he had bivouacked in an American
prairie.

But Cupid never deserts his true
votaries. The storm which had
drenched him, and the darkness
which had forced him to feel his
way from portico to portico, brought
him full upon an overturned coach.
A group of muffled figures were
round it, and the twinkle of a lan-
tern in one of their hands, showed
him the fair Matilda fainting on the
shoulder of a tall ruffian, with a

mask on his face, and a huge In-
«pruck cut-and-thrust flourishing in
his hand.

This was an adventure in the esta-
blished style. A more considerate
lover would have paused to ascer-
tain whether the design was upon
the lady's person or her purse;
whether she was not carried off with
her own consent, and whether an
intruder might not get the Inspruck
cut-and-thrust through his praecor-
dia. But Montfort was in love a
VAnglaise, which accounts for all
kinds of frenzies. He rushed upon
the group, — they gathered round the
leading cavalier, — some of the strag-
gling police came up, — a regular
melee ensued. Pistol-shots were
fired, sabre-cuts were exchanged;
and after a skirmish of a few mo-
ments, in which the Italians thought
that they were assailed by the ma-
jesty of the fiends in person, the
paroxysm finished by Montfort's
finding the bandits fled, the street
empty, the chaperon clinging to
his knees, the fair Matilda breathless
in his arms, and the whole drenched
from top to toe in sheets of immi-
tigable rain.

The morning rose in poetic glory.
Homer's Aurora never scattered her
roses more profusely than on the
skirts of the retiring storm. The
story of Montfort's heroism, and the
lady's escape, had run through every
boudoir before its fair tenants had
drawn out the first papillot. A
rescue is, by all the laws or romance,
an irresistible claim. In the course
of that memorable day, Montfort
found his lost faculty of speech, the
Lady Matilda had acknowledged his
right to the hand which he had so
gallantly preserved, and at her soiree,
the whole circle of the Tuscan comme
il faut presented themselves with
renewed homage; the German Prince
and M. le Comte alone sending their
excuses, as " suffering under sudden
and severe colds." Their indisposi-
tion was severe, for the Court Chro-
nicle rapidly let out the secret. The
Count's cold had taken the form of
a pistol-shot in his knee, which dis-
qualified him for Mazurkas for life,
and the German Landgrave had, by
the same unaccountable accident,
received a sword-cut across his cheek,
which laid it open, and swept away
one half of his mustaches for the rest

.1832.]

The Premier and his Wife,

of his days. The nature of the night's
adventure was now disclosed, but
the agents were gone. The German
had made up his mind to cany off
the heiress. The Count had nothing
to do with his time, but a great deal
to do with his last half rouleau of
Napoleons. The German offered to
make it a whole one. The Count's
heroism was at his service to the
last extremity. The affair was com-
monplace, and before a week it was
numbered with the things that were.

The close of that week brought a
dispatch from England. A long, dry
letter from a female cousin informed
him, " by the Earl's desire," that he
was now Lord Castleton, the last
hope of the family; his elder brother
having died of the combined effects
of a steeple chase and a county elec-
tion; fatigue and the due quantity
of popular oratory finished the work
of Oxford port, arid the champagne
of the Clarendon. The stamina of
the young lord were not sufficient-
ly iron for this discipline, and the
British empire suddenly lost a legis-
lator. The new lord was now sum-
moned peremptorily to England.

Montfort was distracted at the
news. Of his brother he had seen
but little, and known less. But the
decencies of sorrow once done, how
was he to leave his beltesoro behind ?
The lady herself settled the question
at once. She would marry him, —
when and where he pleased. " In
Florence then," exclaimed the lover,
"happiness cannot come too soon."—
" In England," sighed the lady, « for
I am determined in all things, in
mind and in marriage, to be English."
The sentiment raised her higher than
ever in the Englishman's heart; " In
England be it then." The carriages
were ordered, the passports sealed,
the farewells made, the couriers on
horseback, and in twelve hours, the
chaperon, the lady, the lover, and
a whole caravan of whiskered valets
and chaperoned femmes de chambre,
were whirling on the noble road to
Genoa, the Cornice, Nice, — and that
city where all the roads of the world
meet, the city of cities, — London.

The marriage was happy, under all
its circumstances. The weather was
summer, the season was the elite of
a London winter, the ceremony was
performed by an archbishop, the
equipages were built by the royal
roach maker, the Morning Post ev-

ceeded its usual eloquence in the
panegyric on the bride, the dresses,
the breakfast, and the liveries; a
royal duke handed the lady to her
carriage, and the happy pair drove
off amid the loudest acclamations of
the most numerous crowd that had
attended, within memory, at the
Jermyn Street side of St James's.

A month of rapture passed; a
second month, singular as the tale
may be, and the young lord was on
the point of commencing his third
lune de miel, inconceivable as the
idea is, when he received a double
dispatch from the Earl and the Mini*
stry, to come up to town. Rinaldo
in the bower of Armida was never
more startled by the recollection that
he had still something to do in the
world. The Earl's letter announced
to him that he had been elected for
one of the family boroughs ; and the
Minister's expressed, in the blandest
terms of office, how signally his pre-
sence on the first night of the Ses-
sion would be considered as a favour.
Castleton flung the letters from him,
and vowed retirement for life. But
his Matilda forbade the resolution
like a heroine, and offered to accom-
pany him instantly into the very
focus of ambitious politics, Downing
Street, if such should be the neces-
sities of a lord and a legislator.
Resistance to reason and smiles to-
gether was useless, and the bowers
and fields were left behind with
many a regret, but with Roman firm-
ness; a long adieu was bade to streams
and groves, and before the time so
anxiously appointed by the Minister,
the travelling-carriage-and-fouri of
the married lovers was delving its
way through the solid atmosphere
of London.

Castleton's qualities were known
to the leaders of office, and seldom
as the emergencies of Tuscan diplo-
macy called on energies of a higher
kind than the transmission of the
Diario, or the folding of a letter,
yet a man of talent will even fold
his letter in a way different from a
dunce. His communications on his
arrival, relative to Italian affairs, had
given a striking impression of his
intelligence, and the result was a
note from the Premier, requesting
him to propose the Address.

This request it was next to impos-
sible to decline. He showed the
note to the partner of all

96

The Premier cmd his Wife.

[Jan.

and she confirmed him in his ac-
quiescence. He spoke the Address,
was complimented by both sides of
the House on its manliness and elo-
quence. The leader of Opposition
" regretted that such abilities should
have embarked in a cause so fatal
to all the principles of the Constitu-
tion." The Premier silently shook
him by the hand. The subordinates
of the Ministry crowded round him
with their congratulations, and as he
passed through the lobby, his ear
fed on a buzz which passed into his
heart of hearts. From that day forth,
Castleton was a politician.

Time flies, and neither men nor
Ministries can escape its rules, as
it passes by. The Session turbu-
lent, the debates anxious, the Oppo-
sition stronger than ever. Castle-
ton spoke often, and well. But
while he was buckling on his armour
for the national cause, retorting logic
by logic, and earning hear hims in-
numerable from the Treasury bench,
where wastheLady Matilda? — sitting
alone, blinding her bright eyes with
the last dreary novel, and longing to
see the first grey light through the
windows, which announced the hour
of the division.

Castleton came duly home, but it
was after a night of feverish excite-
ment, with a pallid cheek and falter-
ing tongue, to hurry, after a few
words of kindness, to his chamber,
and there linger out the day unsee-
ing and unseen but by his wife, or
perhaps his physician.

The lady remonstrated in vain. —
His constant reply was, that he owed
a duty to his country which it would
be unmanly not to fulfil. The Ses-
sion would be over in a week, and
then for the country, Matilda, and
happiness again.

The week passed, but the Session
had only grown more perplexed. The
debates were now perpetual, and
Castleton's assistance was felt to be
of so much value, that even his day
was broken in upon by frequent
summonses to Downing Street. On
his return one morning after a de-
bate of peculiar agitation, he found
Matilda with her head resting on the
table, beside which she had passed
the night. She was asleep, and as
he stepped softly towards her— the
morning light fell on her features
with a gleam so pallid, that he thought
she was actually dead or dying. He

raised her in terror, and saw then
for the first time the full effect that
this watching and anxiety had pro-
duced on her young beauty.

" We must go to the country at
once, Matilda," said he, pressing her
pale cheek to his bosom j " this life
does not suit either of us. Before
to-morrow morning, we must be
many a mile from this spot of perpe-
tual fever." Matilda was all delight
at the thought.

At dinner, a note marked " most
private and confidential," was hand-
ed to him. It was from the Minister,
requestinghis " immediate presence."
He found the great man in a state of
serious agitation. " Lord Castleton,"
said he, " I have no reserves with
you ; a man of your honour is made
to be trusted. That pitiful fellow,"
and he named one of the most bust-
ling members of his cabinet, " is en-
deavouring to outwit us. I have cer-
tain knowledge that he is at this mo-
ment making terms with the enemy,
and that if we suffer him to remain
among us another night, wherever
the disgrace may lie, the fall will be
ours." Castleton " fully agreed with
the view which his lordship had ta-
ken— he had long seen that a game
was going on, and he had only want-
ed the Minister's permission to ex-
pose it."

The Premier half embraced him.
" You have now my full permission,"
was the answer j " and that you may
execute this act no less of justice
than of public good with the more
weight, my colleagues have come
to a determination to request your
acceptance of his office."

Castleton recoiled. The recollec-
tion of his promise flashed across
him; he declined the appointment,
" high as it was, and gratifying to all
his feelings."

But the Minister had too strong an
interest in the question, to be repul-
sed by what he considered as mere
political coquetry. The discussion
lasted for a considerable time, during
which Castleton was beaten from
point to point, until, nothing loath,
he yielded, and walked home that
night to communicate to Matilda that
she was the wife of a Secretary of
State.

The appointment justified the Mi-
nister's sagacity. Castleton, assisted
by the impression of his new official
rank, produced a powerful effect in

The Premier and his Wife.

the House. The intriguer was the
first to feel the change ; and the in-
dignant lashing which he received on
the first attempt to defend and re-
criminate, put him out of the pale at
once. Real talent is inevitably de-
veloped by the occasion, and the
Secretary, in a short time, equally
surprised his friends and enemies by
his skill, activity, and force in de-
bate. The tide now rapidly turned,
and he had the honour of steering
the lucky vessel of the Ministry into
harbour. Opposition relaxed, and
the Session closed with a triumphant
majority for Ministers.

But what had become of the Se-
cretary's lady meanwhile ? A change
had been wrought upon her still
more signal than upon her ambitious
lord. Her public rank had now pla-
ced her in the front of fashion. As
the wife of one of the most prominent
members of the Cabinet, she too had
her " public duties to perform," her
levees, patronages,her receptions. The
court, the opera, and the petit souper,
the most select of the select, an ad-
mission to which constituted of itself
a title to the first society, and was
the object of as much canvassing,
and the source of as much jealousy,
as the most distinguished honours of
the state ; and a perpetual round of
amusements half official, and politics
half pleasure, occupied every hour
of the fair Matilda; still the watcher
of the dawn, but no longer the pale,
the pensive, or the solitary; but the
high-rouged, the high-toned, and the
highly-surrounded leader of those by
whom every thing else is led, the
beaux and beauties of the land.

The current of public affairs ran
on prosperously, and Castleton was
now openly named as the inevitable
successor to the premiership on the
first vacancy. He sat at the full ban-
quet of power. He was ambitious,
and every object that could awake or
reward the ambition of man was
within his grasp. But there were
times when he felt that the spirit
longs for simpler, yet not less sub-
stantial luxuries; and in the very
proudest hours of office, with am-
bassadors crowding round him, and
the fate of kingdoms all but depend-
ing on his will, he has found him-
self thinking of the fields and streams,
the quiet meals, and the pleasant

VOL. XXXI. NO. CLXXXJX.

97

evenings, which he had forfeited for
this fiery whirl of heart and brain.

The image of his wife, too, as he
had seen her in their retirement,
young, lovely, and fond, rose up to
add at once beauty and melancholy
to the picture. But where was she
at that moment? — in the centre of the
most heartless, nay, the most hazard-
ous, life. The latter idea was reject-
ed at once. Yet, if the thought was
accidental, it reverted with new
power. Some rumours at the Clubs,
too, recurred painfully to his mind.
He was inflexibly secure that the
heart of the woman whom he had so
thoroughly known, and so sincerely
loved, could not suffer even a thought
injurious to his feelings. Yet the
thought would recur. To drive all
suspicion from his mind, he plunged
into business with more avidity than
ever.

One night as he was returning
from a debate, protracted to an unu-
sually late hour, a shower drove him
into one of the Clubs in Pail-Mall,
where he had been an absentee until
his face was forgotten. Throwing
himself into a corner beside the fire,
he took up a newspaper, and was ro-
ving over the Ukraine, and following
the fates of a Tartar incursion, when
he heard his lady's name pronounced,
and in something of a peculiar tone.
The voice proceeded from a party
lingering over their concluding bot-
tle at the further end of the room.

The observation, be it what it
might,found an answerer in one of the
guests, who exclaimed theatrically,

" Be thou as pure as snow, as chaste as

ice,
Thou canst not escape calumny !"

" Calumny, none whatever !" was
the reply. " But let the thing be
true as it may, what else can you ex-
pect from the nature of the case ?
Here is a pretty woman, a very pret-
ty woman, with as much money as
she can spend, with rank, and every
thing that rank can give, to make a
pretty woman play the deuce."

" While my lord plays ' the Care-
less Husband,'" interrupted another.

The point was considered worth a
laugh, and the laugh was fully given.

" Yet not so much ' the Careless
Husband/ " said another, as '" the
Fool of Quality.' Here is now what is

08

called a man of talents, and I fairly
allow him the possession. He is, in
fact, a fellow of great public powers;
and yet, while he is haranguing away
by the hour, convincing, explaining,
and certainly giving Opposition as
much to do as they can manage, he
leaves his house open to every lord-
ling, guardsman, or foreign puppy,
that takes the trouble to pay his de-
voirs."

" But can he help it ?" observed
some one.

" Not without making himself ri-
diculous. Jealousy of any kind is
out of fashion, but jealousy in a Se-
cretary of State would set the world
a-laughing. No, the man must submit
to his fate. If he must be pinned
to the desk all day, and to Parlia-
ment all night — if he must have
separate meals, separate equipages,
separate friends, and separate beds
—the consequence is as plain as the
sun at mid-noon, which either of the
parties so seldom has an opportunity
of seeing."

" Come, you are too hard upon the
world," said a would-be moralist.
" The lady has exhibited no decided
penchant, and, in that case, the more
adorers the safer."

" Yes, as in a multitude of coun-
sellors there is safety," said another,
laughing — " A proverb which has as
little of the practical in it, as any in
the whole round of human wisdom.
Why, I could name half-a-dozen,
horse, foot, and dragoons, who carry
on a regular fire of sentimentality
with her ladyship, are as essential to
her as her waiting-maid, who swear
that they could carry her off to Scot-
land or Kamschatka, in a twist of
their mustaches."

Castleton sprung on his feet;
and was about to rush upon the
throat of the speaker. But a mo-
ment's recollection checked him. He
stood in an agony, that need not have
been envied by the criminal on the
gibbet. His head grew dizzy, his
eyes grew dim. He hastily swallow-
ed a glass of water that stood beside
him, or he must have fainted. When
he had recovered, the party, disturb-
ed by his movement, had separated,
and gone down stairs.

He reached home. It was a night
of gala. Lady Castleton had given
a masquerade, to which the whole
beau monde had pressed in a levee
en masse. All London had been ra-

The Premier and his Wife.

[Jan.

ving of it for the last month. The
choice of costumes, the hopes of get-
ting tickets, the terror of not getting
them, the showy anticipations of a
fancy ball, given by the most showy
leader of the exclusive world, had
kept the pillows of the fair and noble
restless ; or, as Johnson says, on a
scarcely more anxious occasion, the
amnesty at the Restoration, " awoke
the nutter of innumerable bosoms."
The night came ; the ball was given ;
and the master of the mansion en-
tered his house with no more know-
ledge of the proceedings under its
roof than if he had dropped from the
moon.

No man at least could have been
less in the temper to enjoy the festi-
vity. The glare and glitter, the mul-
titude, every thing round him over-
powered his eye and feelings alike,
and, after an attempt to exchange
civilities with a few of the persons
who had been fortunate enough to
establish a position on the landing-
place, he retired to his chamber and
threw himself on the sofa — which he
had not pressed for a fortnight of
oratory and diplomacy — to get rid of
the world and its revellers, and fall
asleep, for once, without caring for
" the Division."

But to sleep was impossible. The
conversation at the club-room came
with fresh keenness upon his mind.
A domino, one of the dozen changes,
which the spirit of his fair wife was
to undergo during the night, had, by
some accident made its way into his
apartment ; he flung it over him, and
hurried down, and figured among the
bacchanals and bashaws, shepherd-
esses of the Alps, and suitors wrapped
up to the chin in their silks and furs
of Doria and Dandolo. For the mo-
ment Castleton determined to enjoy
the scene. But he found himself
unconsciously looking for the lady
of the fete, and at length asked a su-
perb Spanish cavalier, lounging in
stately idleness over his sherbet,
whether Lady Castleton had yet
made her appearance among the mas-
quers. " I presume, not till supper,"
was the Don's easy answer, " her
ladyship is too * supreme bon ton1 to
appear in the melee, that she sets
dancing and yawning here. Besides,
after all, it depends on the reigning
chevalier whether she appears at all."

Castleton gave an involuntary start.
The Don, pleased with having some-

1832.3

The Premier and his Wife.

thing to say, and some one to listen
to it, disburdened his soul. " Her
ladyship is a beauty and a belle ; but
where are the advantages of either,
unless they are enjoyed ? She loves
admiration, as every fine woman does.
It is paid to her as every fine woman
receives it, by right divine ; and if,
within a month or a minute, she shall
take a trip to the continent, under
the protection of her Polish Count,
or retire to the soft solitudes of the
lakes, under the guidance of her
Colonel of the Blues, the whole
matter will be, as you know, selon
les regies.1'

Castleton's inmost feelings were
wrung by this unconscious torment-
or. That the man to whom so many
knees bowed, that the Noble, that
the leader of the leading interests of
the State, should thus degenerate
into the subject of a sneer among the
triflers of society, was a sting to his
proud heart. But that the sneer
should be fastened on him in that
relation, where every man feels most
sensitively, and where he had once
fixed all his hopes of personal hap-
piness, was an agony. Still he paused.
To find out his wife instantly, to de-
clare his indignation at the career
which she was running, to expel with
the most marked ignominy, on the
spot, the whole train of parasites or
lovers, or under whatever title they
brought his wife's fair fame into the
public mouth, was his first impulse.
But then his knowledge of human
nature told him how little insight he
should gain, into the real state of the
case, by this public explosion ; how
irretrievable he would make the
offence; nay, how possible it was
that the whole was the mere thought-
less complaisance of a gay and love-
ly woman, with the supposed neces-
sities of her position at the head of
fashionable life. His purpose soft-
ened, her beauty rose before him,
the homefelt enjoyment of those
hours, when party had not checked
the current of domestic life, to pour
the whole force of his head and
heart among the rocks and precipices
of public life, recurred with a self-
accusing sensation to his memory.

The air of the splendid saloon,
vast as it was, suddenly felt hot, in-
tolerably hot, to this sufferer under
the fever of the mind. The glare of
the innumerable lights vexed and

smote his eye ; lie threw himself into
one of those recesses, that, covered
with shrubs and flowers, make the lit-
tle temporary retreats of the guests
for coolness and air.

A picture of Lady Castleton, hung
in the alcove, caught his glance. It
had been painted in her Tuscan ex-
cursion ; and the costume, the loveli-
ness, and the look of innocent ani-
mation, instantly brought back the
whole scene. " Why," he almost
audibly exclaimed, " are we not now
as we were then ? Or why am I
now the husband of a gaudy, glitter-
ing thing, with a heart for none, or
for all; turning my house into a
caravansary, and giving my name to
be scoffed at by every coxcomb who
will condescend to waste an hour up-
on her extravagant entertainments ?
And yet, is it not the nature of woman
to be fond and faithful, until she is
cast off from her natural protection ? ,
Have I done the duty which I owed
to her weakness ? Have I not given
up to office the time and the thoughts,
that in common gratitude, if not in
common justice, I ought to have
given to a being who trusted herself,
her fortune, and her hopes of happy
and honourable life to me, in pre-
ference to all mankind ?" The medi-
tation was broken off by the sound of
voices on the other side of the little
screen of shrubs; the voices rose
gradually from a whisper, and Castle-
ton heard their words before he
could distinguish the tones of the
speakers. The topic was the very
one which had just occupied him-
self. One of the party was evidently
urging the other to some hazardous
step, by arguments drawn from the
remissness of a husband. The reply
was half serious, half gay, but the
badinage of the lady seemed only to
encourage the gentleman to presume
further, until he ended with a direct
proposition to fly from the roof of a
husband who palpably neglected her,
or probably was anxious only to urge
her, by this open insult, to break
their mutual chain. The proposal
was received in silence, which seem-
ed the silence of consent; but it was
soon evident that it was the silence
of indignation. The lady reproached
the tempter with the folly which had
made him construe the common
acquiescences of fashionable life
into crime? and declaring that she

The Premier and his Wife.

100

would instantly denounce the of-
fender to her husband, attempted to
withdraw.

" Your husband !" was the answer,
" and where will you look for him ?
If truth must be told, is it not no-
torious, that you are as much separ-
ated from each other, as if you were
already divorced; that he pursues
one mistress, Ambition, or perhaps
twenty other mistresses more name-
less, and leaves you to solitude and
neglect ? How often in the last montli
have you seen the face of the hus-
band to whom you profess yourself
BO much attached ? Bound you may
be, but attached, pardon me, is to-
tally impossible."

No reply followed ; the indigna-
tion had given way to tears. " Come,"
said the tempter, " let those tears
be the last that you shall ever
shed under this roof. All is ready
to convey you from the house of a
cold-blooded and careless tyrant,
who, before all the world, treats you
with a contempt not to be endured
by youth, birth, and beauty, and con-
vey you where you will be received
with honour, and treated with the
homage due to loveliness and Lady
Castleton."

" Villain ! let loose my hands !"
were the only words that Castleton
could hear, before he had burst
through the screen, and stood before
the astonished pair. The gentleman
was the identical French Ex-Count,
who two years before, in the streets
of Florence, had received Castleton's
pistol shot, and who, with the double
object of gratifying his revenge, and
of carrying off the handsome settle-
ment of the handsome heiress, had
availed himself of the first moment
of his recovery, to ask passports for
England, and present himself at her
ladyship's levee. The Count was a
dancer no more, for the pistol ball
had spoiled his talent in that direc-
tion, but he made charades, sung
canzonettes, played the guitar, and
was a Frenchman! qualifications
which are found irresistible with the
sex, and which naturally authorized
him to think himself indispensable
to the brilliant lady of the Minister,
and as they have done to a host of
brilliant ladies, who having spent
six months beyond the Channel, are
thenceforth entitled to feel the ex-
quisite superiority of the foreign
graces. But in the present instance

[Jan.

the Count had calculated too rapidly;
and the lady, who had indulged him
with her smiles, was perfectly sur-
prised at the accomplished stranger's
expecting more than smiles. She had
flung him from her, with a sincerity,
that perfectly surprised the French-
man in turn. He was a ruffian, and
would probably have dragged her
reluctant ladyship to the chaise and
pair, which he had waiting for the
result of his argument, but Castle-
ton's sudden presence put an end to
this portion of the plan; and the
Count had scarcely begun to make a
speech, "accounting for appearances
in the most satisfactory manner,"
when the indignant husband's grasp
was on his throat. The struggle was
brief, but it was effective. Castleton
was strong, but if he had possessed but
the nerves of an infant, his towering
indignation would have given him
vigour. To drag the offender through
the saloon would have been tedious,
and have attracted attention. The
alternative was the window, and
through the window was flung the
Count. It was, fortunately for his
limbs, not high, and it opened into
the garden. He alighted in great
astonishment, and, in a whirlwind of
sacres, made solitary use of that
post-chaise which was to have carried
along with him the matchless " mis-
tress of his soul," and restorer of
his fallen finances, and took the
Dover road, inventing epigrams on
the country, fierce enough to make
England wish herself at the bottom
of the sea.

Castleton turned to his lady. He,
too, had his share of astonishment ;
he had expected a contrite speech,
clasped hands, and a flood of tears.
He saw none of the three. But the
lady laughed ; as far as bienseance
will suffer so rude a thing as laugh-
ter to derange the etiquette of a high-
born physiognomy. She extended
to him one of the fairest possible
hands. " You seem to be horribly
angry with the Count, my dear
lord," said she, " but he is excusable
from the manners of his country. I
hope you have broke none of my
poor admirer's limbs. He must live
by his talents, and if you disfigure
him, he will be excluded from giving
lessons on the guitar to any woman
of fashion."

Her husband listened in undis-
sembled wrath. . " Madam," he at

1832.]

The Premier and his Wife.

101

length exclaimed, " am I to believe
my senses ? Can this tone be seri-
ous? It would better become you
to fall on your knees, and thank
Heaven for having saved you from
the miseries of a life, the most con-
temptible, the most wretched, and
the most hateful that can fall to the
lot of a human being." He turned to
leave her — he gave a last glance. She
still smiled. " I beg but one thing,
my dear lord," said she, once more
holding out the lovely hand ; " if those
can be your real sentiments, that you
will keep them as private as pos-
sible. They are totally tramontane
in this part of the world, however
they may exist in Westminster. At-
tentions from all men are considered
a natural tribute on their part, to wo-
men of a certain rank ; and to refuse
them, would be an absolute breach
of decorum on ours. At least, these
are the lessons which I understand
to be essential to the leaders of so-
ciety ; and as your lordship has been
too much occupied by higher pur-
suits, to care what I learned, or who
were my teachers, I have only avail-
ed myself of such instructions as
make the law of fashion."

" And this is your ladyship's de-
termination," said Castleton, sternly.

" Certainly, until your lordship
shall condescend to teach me bet-
ter," said the lady, sportively. Her
husband, without look or word more,
quitted the apartment. The lady re-
joined her guests, was more ani-
mated, more brilliant, and more ad-
mired than ever — was the soul of
every thing gay and graceful, till the
morning sun, breaking in through
curtains and casements, began to
make those discoveries in exhausted
complexions and dilapidated ringlets,
which drive beauty to her couch,
saw the last fairy foot glide over the
last semblance of the chalked lilies
and roses on her floors, heard the
last clang of the last steeds over the
pave of her court-yard, and then re-
tired to herjehamber, to take a mi-
niature of her husband from its case,
and weep over it, and sleep with it
hid in her bosom.

The season flourished still, and
Lady Castleton was now more in-
contestably than ever, the sovereign
of the season. Her fetes were de-
corated by more counts, ambassa-
dors, and lords of principalities, from
Siberia to the Seine, than any within

memory. In the midst of this glory,
she herself was the guiding star, the
most glittering where all was bright ;
but the rouge covered a cheek which
was growing paler and paler, and
the jewels covered a bosom filled
with pangs, that the envied possess-
or of all this opulence felt preying on
her existence.

Castleton had turned to his old
career with still more activity and
success. His mind, once at rest upon
the subject of Lady Castleton's fame,
and feeling that he might confide in
her honour, if he had lost her heart,
he determined to forget domestic
cares in the whirl of public life. Dis-
tinctions now flowed in upon him ir-
repressibly, as they do upon the fa-
vourites of Fortune. A new step in
the peerage only ushered in his Ma-
jesty's most gracious commands,
" that he should lay the basis of a
new administration." In another
week he was Premier. He had now
attained the height for which he had
panted ; but he had now attained all
that once brightened the future, and
he feelingly "discovered the truth,
that hope is essential even to the vi-
gour of ambition. In the loftiness of
his public rank, he experienced the
common sensation of all men who
have nothingmore to gain, and whose
anxieties now turn on what they
have to lose. In the full blaze of
prosperity, he felt chillness of heart
growing upon him. To his own
wonder, the generous, the daring,
the ardent aspirant, was gradually
withering into the suspicious, the
anxious, and the stern possessor of
power. The discovery pained him
still more than it surprised him. He
had now been for some months ha-
bitually estranged from home; and
the newspapers, in their notices of
routs and concerts, alone gave him
the intimation that his establishment
was splendid as ever, his mansion
still the temple of the great and the
fair, and his lady the presiding priest-
ess of the temple. An involuntary
sigh broke from him, as the memory
of gentler days came across his mind.
He would have thrown off the chains
of office, of which he now felt no-
thing but the weight ; the gilding had
long lost all its temptation to his eye.
But " national emergencies, the will
of a sovereign, the necessity of keep-
ing Administration together," the
cloud of reasons that gather over thq

102

The Premier and his Wife.

[Jan.

understanding when we are yet ir-
resolute in the right, bewildered
even the strong mind of the Minister.

He was roused from one of those
meditations, by his valet's announ-
cing that he would be too late for
the " drawing-room." It was the last
of the season, and he must attend.
With a heavy and an irritated heart,
he obeyed the tyranny of etiquette,
and drove to St James's. Nothing
could be more gracious than his re-
ception ; but while he was in the very
sunshine of royal conversation, a
face passed him that obliterated even
the presence of royalty. It was pale
and thin, through all the artifices of
dress. No magnificence could dis-
guise the fact, that some secret grief
was feeding on the roses there. The
face was still beautiful and beaming,
but the lustre of the eye was dim. It
was Lady Castleton. Both bowed,
and a hurried word was exchanged,
they passed out of the circle toge-
ther, and returned to their home to-
gether. The phenomenon excited
more astonishment than a treaty be-
tween the Knights of Malta and the
Algerines. It was the universal to-
pic of the evening. The next day,
the fact transpired that Lord and
Lady Castleton had sent their apolo-
gies to the noble mansions at which
they were respectively to have dined,
and were surmised to have even dined
tete-a-tete. Expectation was now
fully afloat, and the news followed
that a succession of equipages had
started from his lordship's mansion
at an early hour on the day after the
drawing-room. But one wonder more
was to be completed, and the wonder
came — the announcement to the
Peers and Commons that a new Mi-
nistry was about to be formed, " the
Lord Castleton having, from ill
health, resigned." The reason was,
like the friar's beard in Rabelais,
partly the work of nature, and partly
of convenience. The Premier's frame
had been sinking under the anxieties
of his mind, and if he had delayed
his retirement from office a year
longer, it must have closed with a
retirement into his grave.

Castleton and his lovely lady were
forgotten in an eternity of three
months ; and as his lordship was no
Meltonian, nor her ladyship the pre-
sident of a mission for teaching the
peasantry to preach in the unknown
tongue,they thus threw away the natu-
ral means of keeping their names alive.

They remained in their exile for
the intermediate period of five years,
under the unimaginable penalties
of a noble mansion, a lovely land-
scape round them, a grateful tenant-
try, and a life full of the diversified
occupations of intelligent minds, de-
termined to do what good they can
in their day. At the end of the five
years they returned to London, on
their way to a summer tour among
the glories of the Swiss Alps. Time
had made formidable inroads among
their circle. The beauties had be-
come blues, and the blues had be-
come card-players, critics, and gor-
gons. Nine-tenths of the lady's ac-
quaintances had become terrible be-
yc/ud all power of the toilet.

His lordship's friends had felt the
common fate, in the shape of loss of
office, or loss of money; claret had
extinguished some— gout had made
an example of others — and a new
Parliament had so unfortunately ex-
empted others from the duty of tend-
ing the public interests, that they
had summarily crossed the British
Channel, to study ways and means
of their own.

Castleton was in the prime of life
and health, and was rustic enough
to think the dulness of the country
more wholesome, and even more inte-
resting, than any number of nights
spent between the House and the
Clubs. His lady was now the mo-
ther of four children, wild and lovely
as the wild flowers of their native
meadows. She had recovered her
beauty ; no fictitious colour was now
required to give the rose or lily to
one of the finest countenances of wo-
man. She had the health of the mind.
Her spirit was not now wasted in
flashing at midnight over a crowd of
sumptuous and weary revellers ;—
hers was the lamp that threw its sa-
cred light over the sacredness of
home. She honoured her husband
for his talents, his acquirements, and
his fame, but she loved him for his
heart. He had made a high sacrifice
for her ; and she was proud of him
and the sacrifice. Neither count nor
prince was now found essential to
her existence. Her husband's praise
was worth the incense of a kneeling
circle of sovereigns. Castleton was
an English husband to her ; she was
an English wife to him, and the name
includes all the names of love, ho-
nour, and happiness.

1832.] On Parliamentary Reform and t7ie French Revolution*

103

ON PARLIAMENTARY REFORM AND THE FRENCH REVOLUTION,

No. XIII.

Revolutionary Concession — The New Bill,

IT was this day twelve months
that this course of papers on Parlia-
mentary Reform and the French Re-
volution began. At that period all
the journals, and a great proportion
of the people of this country, were
unanimous in favour of the French
convulsion; and a large majority, in
point of numbers at least, were in-
clined to expect public tranquillity,
general satisfaction, increased pros-
perity, and renovated vigour, from
the infusion of popular power into
the ancient veins of the British Con-
stitution.

Foreseeing the disastrous conse-
quences which must inevitably en-
sue from the prevalence of such ab-
surd and unfounded illusions, we
applied ourselves vigorously to stem
the torrent; never expecting, in-
deed, that any single efforts could at
once effect any considerable change
in public opinion ; but confident that
Truth would gradually assert its as-
cendant over Falsehood, and that in
the end the truth of the principles
we advocated would become obvious
to the most prejudiced of mankind.
With this view, we endeavoured, in
a series of papers, to illustrate the
fundamental principles which go-
vern such questions, which may be
summed up in the following propo-
sitions : —

I. That the late French Revolu-
tion, like every other sudden change
in government brought about by po-
pular force, was a calamity of the
deepest kind, which threatened a
grievous series of misfortunes to
that unhappy country, and promised
to retard for a very long period, in
every European state, the progress
of real freedom. That it was not,
like our Revolution in 1688, a na-
tional movement, headed by the
higher classes, and in effecting which
the different bodies of the state re-
tained their respective places, and
were kept in subordination to the

requisite authority; but a violent
convulsion, in which the lowest
classes at once subverted the high-
est, and the mob of Paris re-assu-
med its fatal revolutionary ascend-
ant over the rest of France. That
from such a catastrophe, nothing but
weakness in government, vacillation
in council, and anarchy in the na-
tion, could be anticipated ; and that
the first and greatest sufferers from
such a state of things would be the
very lower orders, by whose infatua-
ted ambition it had been occasioned.*

2. That in solving the difficult
question, of how to deal with a na-
tion in a state of reforming or revo-
lutionary excitement, the only me-
thod is to afford the utmost redress
to every real and experienced grie-
vance, but to resist steadily all the
advances of democratic ambition;
that inattention to complaints found-
ed upon real suffering is as fatal an
error, as concession to revolutionary
fervour ; and both tended equally to
plunge the nation into the horrors of
anarchy ; the first, by causing them
to brood over unredressed wrongs
— the last, by awakening in their
minds the insatiable passion for de-
mocratic power, f

3. That in considering the ques-
tion of Parliamentary Reform, it was
above all things necessary to await
a period of coolness and modera-
tion ; that such a temper of mind
could not be expected, while the
transports consequent on the French
Revolution continued; and therefore
the subject should not be broached
till those transports had subsided,
and the real consequences of the
change in the neighbouring kingdom
had developed themselves ; and con-
sequently, that any Ministry would
have the fate of the country to an-
swer for, who, at such an excited
moment, should throw into it the ad-
ditional firebrand of democratic am-

No. 176, Jan. 1830*

f No, 177, Feb. 1830.

Ibid.

104

On Parliamentary Reform and the French Revolution. [Jan.

4. That the passion for democratic
power, like every other passion which
agitates the human breast, is insa-
tiable, and becomes more violent,
the more it is indulged, and there-
fore that it is chimerical to expect
that any concessions made to that de-
sire can have any other effect, than
rendering the discontent and fury
among the classes excluded from
the legislation more violent; that,
therefore, if change on a consider-
able scale is once begun, it is impos-
sible it can be stopped short of uni-
versal suffrage, by any other method
than the sanguinary and unanswer-
able force of military despotism.
That the power of the people, so far
from diminishing of late years in the
legislature, has been steadily and pro-
gressively increasing, and is already,
without any reform, more than a
match for the influence of the Crown
and the Aristocracy put together;
and therefore that it is utterly im-
possible that any great change in the
constitution can have a beneficial
effect, because, if it makes any con-
siderable addition to the power of
the people, it must at once subvert
the constitution; if it does not, it will
increase the existing discontent, by
awakening desires and expectations
which were not destined to be real-
ized.*

5. That at all events, whatever
change is introduced, should be gra-
dual and progressive in its operation,
experience having proved in every
age that constitutions suddenly form-
ed are ephemeral in their duration,
and those alone are destined to en-
dure for ages, which, like those of
Rome and Britain, have slowly arisen
with the wants of successive gene-
rations.f

6. That of all the methods of pre-
serving the public peace during re-
volutionary fervour, the most chi-
merical and fatal is the institution
of clubs and national guards. That
from the former, all the horrors and
atrocities of the first French Revolu-
tion directly emanated ; and from the
latter, the fiercest and most sanguin-
ary of their civil conflicts : that the
National Guard invariably failed at
the critical moment, and witnessed,
without a struggle, devastation, blood-

shed, and horrors, unparalleled since
the beginning of the world ; and that
this was always to be expected from
a domestic force so constituted du-
ring the unhappy periods of civil
dissension; because it shared in the
passions of the different classes of
citizens of which it was composed,
and was itself as much divided as
the inhabitants whom it was intend-
ed to protect.:}:

All these principles were laid down,
and illustrated by historical refer-
ences, before, the dissolution of the
late Parliament ; before the first de-
bate on the Reform Bill; while as
yet England was free from revolu-
tionary convulsion, and her cities had
not been lighted by popular confla-
gration. Were we actuated by the
malice of demons, we should feel a
malignant satisfaction at the extra-
ordinary proof which subsequent
events have given to the very letter
of the truth of all these principles.
We do not pretend to the gift of pro-
phecy, but only to the results of pa-
tient historical research. It is in the
book of history that we looked for
" the shadows which coming events
cast before," and in the lessons of
historic experience, that we have
sought to portray the mirror of fu-
ture fate. The reformers have adopt-
ed the opposite course; they have
rejected the " old Almanack" with
all its contents, and put to tea with-
out either rudder or compass, in the
midst of a tempestuous gale ; and the
nation is astonished that they are
drifting upon the breakers !

It is hard to say whether the pro-
gress of events in France or Eng-
land has most strongly demonstrated
the enormous peril of the course
upon which the Reformers have pe-
rilled the national existence. The
pressure of domestic danger, the ra-
pid succession of subjects of interest
in our own island, have withdrawn
our attention from the tragedy which
is approaching its catastrophe on the
Continent ; but the recurrence of a
new year naturally suggests some
reflection upon the march of events
in that which is passed. They have
become the province of history ; the
conclusions to be drawn from them
now belong to a loftier class than

"No. 178, March 1830.

f Ibid,

}No. 179, April 1830.

1832.]

On Parliamentary Reform and the French Revolution. 105

the contentions of party; they con-
stitute the basis of thought and in-
struction to the end of the world.

We have all along stated that we
give no opinion upon the question
whether the ordinances of July were
justifiable or not. A new dynasty,
dating from their overthrow, is on
the throne ; revolutionary passion,
springing from their repeal, has over-
spread the land, and the period has
not yet arrived, when historic truth
can return its eternal verdict. It
must be evident to the most impas-
sioned observer, that the crown at
that period, and for months before,
had been engaged in a desperate
struggle with the democratic party,
and that the famous ordinances were
but one step in a contest which was
already become so violent as to pre-
clude any hope of an accommoda-
tion but by force of arms. Whether
the measures of the King were, as the
royalists affirm, an indispensable,
though unsuccessful, effort to stem
the torrent of democracy, or, as the
democrats maintain, a flagrant and
unjustifiable invasion of the consti-
tution, is a question upon which there
is no man in Britain who possesses
the information which qualifies him
to give an opinion. But one thing
is perfectly clear, that the imbecility
of the royalist administration, in either
view, in engaging in such a contest
with such feeble means provided for
resisting the public effervescence as
they had assembled when it broke
out, was such as to preclude all hope
that they could for any length of time
have steered the vessel of the state
through the storm with which it was
surrounded.

But let it be conceded, that the
ordinances were the most violent
stretch of tyranny that ever was
witnessed, and the Revolution the
most legitimate exercise of the " sa-
cred right of insurrection" that ever
took place, the conclusion only be-
comes the stronger in favour of our
argument. For the consequences of
the French Revolution upon the
people of that country, are now ra-
pidly developing themselves ; and if
such have been the effects, even of a
justifiable burst of democracy on the
southern, what may be anticipated
from an unjustifiable indulgence of
it on the northern side of the chan-
nel?

The Revolution broke out at Paris
on 27th July, 1830, and it may be
doubted whether, in so short a time,
so great a change ever was effected
as it has worked upon the prospe-
rity of any people from that time to
the present moment. There is no
country which has made, in modern
times, such extraordinary progress
in wealth, industry, and public pros-
perity, as France did during the fif-
teen years that the expelled dynasty
was on the throne. They enjoyed
the advantages of order, tranquillity,
and general protection ; the press,
during the whole period, in all works
of information or value, was unfet-
tered, and latterly had reached a de-
gree of licentiousness unparalleled
till of late years in this country;
books had enormously increased—-
general information was diffused to
an extent altogether unknown in
former times — their agriculture, so-
lidly established upon the basis of
an extensive division of landed pro-
perty, kept pace with the wants of
an increasing population, and their
manufactures thriving under the sha-
dow of a pacific government, had
sprung up in a few years to a state
of unheard-of and perilous greatness.
The traveller, as he traversed the
provinces of that great country, was
struck with astonishment at the re-
sources, both natural and artificial,
which it enjoyed. He admired the
animated activity of its cities, and the
boundless fertility of its plains; the
increasing splendour of its edifices,
and the Eastern luxury of its theatres;
the vine-clad slopes of its hills, and
the waving riches of its harvests;
and he was tempted to ask whether
this was really the country which
had been watered by the tears, and
stained by the blood of the Revolu-
tion, and to bless the healing powers
of nature which had so soon oblite-
rated the traces of human wicked-
ness. He little thought that all this
glow of prosperity was but the vege-
tation which springs up upon the
smouldering lava of a volcano, and
that a new torrent of fire was so soon
to overwhelm it with destruction.

What is the present state of France,
after they have had a year and a half
to inhale the blessings of democratic
sway, and luxuriate under the foster-
ing influence of revolutionary spirit?
Are their cities more animated, their

10G On Parliamentary Reform

plains more cultivated, their higher
ranks more opulent, their poorer
more prosperous, than during the
hated government of the Bourbons ?
The reverse of all this is avowedly
the case : from the very height of
prosperity, France has fallen into the
depths of misery : her nobles are ba-
nished, her shopkeepers bankrupt,
her manufacturers starving; squalid
want and hopeless suffering have
succeeded to contented labour and
requited employment; her cultiva-
tors are dejected, her commerce de-
clining, her artisans in rebellion; the
enormous military force she has
raised is fully employed in repress-
ing the insurrections which the agony
of famine has produced. One-half
of the shops in Paris are closed ; the
authors of the glorious revolt are
bankrupt, fled, or lingering in hospi-
tals ; the peasantry of La Vendee
and Brittany are in a state of smo-
thered but incessant insurrection ;
the vine-growers and mariners of the
Garonne are starving; the commerce
of Havre and Marseilles is ruined ;
the workmen of Lyons, after a des-
perate revolt, have been crushed only
by Marshal Soult, the rival of Wel-
lington, with 30,000 men ; and those
of Rouen are merely maintained in
the lowest state of existence by the
charity and beneficence of their em-
ployers. The five stories of the lofty
houses in the streets of Lyons, which
used at nights to be resplendent with
the lighted windows of busy work-
men, are dark and deserted; unheard
is the anvil of the smith or the shut-
tle of the weaver; and the only lights
which illuminate its sad and gloomy
piles, are the flames of the bivouacs,
and the burning torches of the can-
noniers who sleep under their guns.
Such are the fatal effects of popular
government; such the misery which
it brings upon the poorer classes,
whom the ambition of demagogues
has instigated to revolt. When Pro-
vidence sees fit to punish the sins
of a guilty world, it needs not send
down the fire of heaven, nor raise the
fierce tempest of Scythian war; it is
only necessary to rouse the passions
of democracy, and the generations of
men drop like the leaves of autumn
before the blasts of winter.

The instability and vacillation of
government in France, since the glo-
rious revolt of July, is singularly

and the French Revolution, [Jan,

characteristic of the inevitable con-
sequences and fatal effects of demo-
cratic ascendency. Guizot and the
doctrinaires — the philosophers and
declaimers in favour of freedom—
were first brought in on the shoul-
ders of the populace, as Mr Croker
finely expressed it, by an ascent yet
slippery with blood. Unable to stem
the torrent of revolution, they soon
gave way to make room for men of
sterner mould and more unflinching
democracy. Lafitte, by whose pro-
digal expenditure the workmen of
the Faubourg St Antoine had been
arrayed in arms, and the old govern-
ment overthrown, was next placed
at the head of affairs ; but he was as
little equal to the task, and was soon
dismissed from the helm, bankrupt
in fortune and ruined in reputation.
Five successive administrations have
been formed and displaced in less
than fifteen months; and the reign
of Cassimir Perrier is only upheld
by the usual termination of democra-
tic strife— cannon and the bayonet.
The rule of the sword has begun in
France ; Marshal Soult has stood
forth the viceroy over the King in
fierce and fearful prominence; the
cries of suffering thousands have
been answered by volleys of mus-
ketry, and the agony of approaching
famine drowned in the terrors of mi-
litary execution.

The whole institutions of France
which savour at all of monarchical
tendency, are fast melting down in
the revolutionary crucible. The he-
reditary peerage has been abolished,
by an immense majority, in the House
of Commons; the Established Reli-
gion destroyed ; the law against the
assumption of titles of honour by any
one among the people, and against
the breach of observance of Sunday,
repealed. Any cobbler may now,
with impunity, assume the title of
Duke or Peer, and expose his aristo-
cratic wares for sale, with impunity,
at any time on Sunday. This regu-
lation, coupled with the abolition of
the hereditary peerage, promises soon
to extinguish the last remains of re-
ligion or aristocracy in France. As
usual with all sovereigns who place
themselves at the head of a revolu-
tionary movement, Louis Philip has
been obliged to adopt measures ulti-
mately destined to subvert the mo-
narchy. By a royal ordinance, thirty

1832.] On, Parliamentary "Reform

new Peers have been created for the
purpose of overwhelming the last
defenders of the throne. Strange
that the Ministers of the Crown in
both countries should, at the same
time, urge the adoption of measures
so fatal to the authority it is their first
duty to uphold : and a memorable
proof of the impossibility of resisting
the revolutionary torrent, when once
the supreme authority of the state
places itself at its head.

How have the finances of France
stood this successful tempest of de-
mocratic power ? Have they thriven
in consequence of the more extend-
ed influence of the people at elec-
tions, or the victory of the mob of
Paris over the regular government?
The reverse is the fact; taxes upon
most articles have been doubled un-
der the popular regime,' the expen-
diture, which was forty millions ster-
ling under Charles X., has been
screwed up to sixty millions under
his citizen successor. And as the
revenue, notwithstanding the great
increase of taxes, has fallen off from
the general distress, new and extra-
ordinary expedients to meet the pub-
lic exigencies have been adopted.
A loan of L.I 3,000,000 sterling has
been contracted in a period of ge-
neral peace, and crown lands to the
extent of L.8,000,000 sold. " With
truth it may be asserted," says Cha-
teaubriand, " that the revolutionary
baptism has cost France more than
any royal inauguration since the days
of Clovis."

These simultaneous effects of a de-
creasing revenue, an increasing ex-
penditure, and a general spread of
suffering among the poor, are the in-
variable attendant of democratic as-
cendency, and are in fact a step in
the chain of causes and effects, by
which nature expels the deadly poi-
son of democratic ambition from the
political body. It was exactly the
same in the first French Revolution,
where the decrease of the revenue,
and the misery of the people, was such
for seven years after the convulsions
began, that government were forced,
as the only means of assuaging the
public distress, to issue a forced
paper circulation, and enforce arbi-
trary requisitions over the whole
kingdom ; measures which speedily
produced a national bankruptcy,

and the French Revolution. 107

stripped every proprietor of his pos-
sessions,and induced a greater change
in the state of property than ever oc-
curred in any state in so short atime
since the beginning of the world.

The steps of the progress succeed
each other in natural and inevitable
progression. The convulsion into
which society is thrown by the ele-
vation of demagogues, and the vio-
lence of the populace, paralyzes
every branch of industry, and con-
tracts every expenditure of capital.
The rich, fearful of the future, dimi-
nish their expenditure, and seek to
conceal, or withdraw their wealth.
The capitalists decline to embark
their capital. The affluent cease to
pursue their pleasures. Distrust sue*
ceeds to hope, inactivity to indus-
try. The poor, dependent for sus-
tenance upon their daily bread, are
the first to suffer from this stagna-
tion, and the augmented suffering
which they endure, is felt with in-
creased poignancy, from the bitter
contrast which it affords to the bril-
liant prospects in which they had in-
dulged, and the splendid chimeras
by which they had been seduced.
These deplorable effects following
rapidly on an excited and highly-
wrought state of public feeling, ne-
cessarily lead to agitation ; they give
rise to revolt and insurrection, and
they, in their turn, furnish both a
reason and an excuse for a great in-
crease of military force. Thus the
expenses of government are increa-
sed, at the very time that the revenue
is declining, from the contracted ex-
penditure of the rich, arid the dimi-
nished consumption of the poor;
and this, in its turn, necessarily leads
to measures of robbery or spoliation,
the confiscation of property, the
breach of faith with the public cre-
ditor, or the establishment of a for-
ced paper circulation. These mea-
sures, by paralyzing every branch
of industry, complete the revolution-
ary progress, and bring men back
through the protracted agony of na-
tional suffering, to the tranquillity of
despotism, and the unresisted em-
pire of the sword.

So uniformly has this progress
been observed in all ages to attend
the excitation of democratic ambi-
tion, and so clearly do we perceive
its symptoms among ourselves, that

103 On Parliamentary Reform

the following diagnosis will furnish a
picture of the disease, in all proba-
bility, to the end of the world : —

First symptoms — extravagant ex-
pectations of the benefit to be deri-
ved from reform ; an universal pas-
sion for change in every department
of life ; a loosening of the bonds of
religion, and general hatred at its mi-
nisters; general enthusiasm among
the middling and lower orders ; dis-
trust and apprehension among the
higher; vehement applause of the
leaders of the people ; unmeasured
abuse of their political opponents.

Secondary symptoms — general di-
minution of expenditure, and alarm
among the rich ; increased suffering
and bitter discontent among the poor;
universal stagnation of industry, and
want of employment ; partial insur-
rections of the populace ; evident
weakness of Government ; an in-
creased popularity of more extrava-
gant demagogues, and an abandon-
ment of the early leaders of the move-
ment ; an augmentation of the stand-
ing army, and a diminution of the re-
venue of the state.

Third symptoms — excessive dis-
tress for money on the part of Go-
vernment ; increased expenses, and
grievous diminution of income ; uni-
versal suffering and anguish among
the poor ; a general clamour for more
vehement revolutionary measures,
and leaders of more bold and deter-
mined character; extreme unpopu-
larity of the early leaders of the de-
mocracy ; their exile, or death.

Last symptoms — The rise of vio-
lent and arbitrary men, and the adop-
tion of extreme revolutionary mea-
sures; proscriptions and massacres
of the rich ; confiscation of proper-
ty, and general bankruptcy ; hopeless
agony, and depression among the
poor ; an universal wish to submit to
any government which promises to
put a period to the public calamities ;
and the easy seizure of the throne by
a fortunate and audacious military
leader.

The reforming journals of this
country tell us, that the insurrection
at Lyons is unconnected with any
political feeling, and they seem to
think that that completely prevents
its being used as an argument against
them by the conservative party. This
only shews how little they know of
the progress and ultimate tendency

and the French Revolution. [Jan.

of those very revolutionary move-
ments which they have had so large
a share in exciting. They could not
have mentioned any circumstance
which more completely demonstrates
the enormous peril of the course in-
to which they have precipitated this
country. It is the early movements
of the people which are alone produ-
ced by political feeling ; the subse-
quent, and far more serious insur-
rections, arise from public suffering ;
from the stagnation of employment
and cessation of industry, which has
arisen from the shock given to the
frame of society. Bread ! is then
the cry. The tears of weeping fa-
milies urge the citizens to arms; — •
they are rendered reckless of life
from the continued suffering with
which it has been attended. In one
particular only does the revolution-
ary passion remain for ever the same,
and by one mark may it invariably
be characterised; — the people, du-
ring every stage of its progress, uni-
formly expect deliverance from still
more vehement measures than have
been hitherto adopted; and while
ground to the dust by the consequen-
ces of the democratic convulsion
which they have already occasioned,
raise their last breath to insist for a
greater extension of popular power.
" Bread, and the constitution of
1793," was the cry of the populace of
Paris, when reduced to starvation by
the tyranny of Robespierre ; and the
leaders of the revolt at Lyons de-
clare, that they can see no prospect
of relief to the people, till every
workman has got a vote.

Ireland exhibits an equally stri-
king proof of the ruinous effects of
concession to democratic ambition ;
and if our reformerswere notliterally
infatuated, they would learn wisdom
from the consequences of the great
precedent which the recent history
of that country affords. During the
dependence of the Catholic question,
we were told that this great act of
justice would for ever gain the
hearts of the Irish people — that the
garrison of 30,000 men in the neigh-
bouring island, would no longer
be necessary — that tranquillity and
gratitude would universally prevail
— and that if this great concession
was not in itself a boon to the poor,
it was at least an indispensable pre-
liminary to all measures for the set-

On Parliamentary Reform and the French Revolution. 109

1832.]

tlement of the country, or their per-
manent relief. O'Connell declared,
that he contended for a measure
which should put a final end to agi-
tation, and reduce him from an arch
demagogue to the humble rank of a
NisiPrius lawyer. Earl Grey descri-
bed the effects of such concession
in the beautiful words of the Roman
poet —

" Defluit saxis agitatus humor,
Concedunt venti, fugiuntque mibes,
Et minax quod sic voluere ponto
Unda recumbit."

Nearly two years have now elap-
sed since this great healing measure
was passed by an uncommon effort
of political vigour, and against the
declared opinion of a majority of the
people of England. And what is the
consequence ? Is O'Connell redu-
ced from the rank of an agitator, to
the humble condition of a Nisi Prius
lawyer ? Have the waves of rebel-
lion receded, or the storms of fac-
tion fled from the tranquil shores of
the Emerald Isle ? Is the garrison
of Ireland reduced, its police force
disbanded, or its peasantry content-
ed, since the pacifying measure so
loudly demanded, was conceded to
the urgent representations of the li-
beral party ? The reverse of all this
is notoriously and avowedly the case.
Faction never was so powerful, agita-
tion never so vehement, misery
never so general, O'Connell never so
triumphant.

A new subject of clamour and
abuse has been started — the repeal
of the Union — among a bigoted and
passionate population ; and the na-
tion, immediately after this great
conciliatory measure, is in a more
distracted and threatening state than
ever it has been since the battle of
the Boyne. The authority of the
law is openly contemned — a com-
bination against tythes has destroy-
ed the property of a large portion
of the most beneficent of the higher
Tanks : legal process is at an end in
many counties ; the few resident
proprietors are driven by conflagra-
tion and murder to abandon their
estates ; and in the midst of this
scene of demoniac frenzy, the peo-
ple are dying by thousands of fa-
mine, and Britain is overwhelmed
"by the ceaseless legions of Irish

mendicants who are poured out up-
on its shores.

These facts are utterly inexplica-
ble, on the Whig principles of con-
ciliation and concession; and ac-
cordingly Earl Grey recently decla-
red in Parliament, that he was total-
ly at a loss to explain the failure of
Catholic emancipation, to effect any
thing towards the tranquillizing of
Ireland. We have no doubt of it;
the intellect of Bacon or Newton
would be equally unable to solve the
difficulty on his principles. The
Reformers will be equally unable to
explain the increased agitation and
distraction of Britain, which will
immediately follow the passing of
the Reform Bill, if that calamitous
event ever be realized. But on the
principles we have explained, that
democratic ambition is an unsatiable
passion, which, like every other pas-
sion, feeds upon indulgence, gains
strength by victory, and is to be met
only by firm and resolute resistance,
it is not only perfectly susceptible of
explanation, but no other result could
possibly have been expected.

In truth, the question of Catholic
emancipation involved the two prin-
ciples of concession to democratic
ambition, and the redress of a real
grievance, but in such different pro-
portions, that the ruinous effect of
yielding to the one, has entirely over-
whelmed the beneficial consequences
of granting the other. In so far as
the Catholics demanded, that no dif-
ference should be made on account
of religious creeds, they asked what
every "man's conscience must have
told him was an equitable system of
government, and demanded the re-
moval of a restraint which would
have affected from fifty to one hun-
dred of the community. But in so
far as they demanded this not as the
removal of a real grievance, but as a
victory over the Protestant party,
and a gratification to their furious
and unreasonable passions, they de-
manded a thing, the acquisition of
which was only calculated to inflame
these passions with tenfold fury, and
augment the very evils under which
the nation was already so severely
labouring. Accordingly, the result
has corresponded to the different
degrees in which the good and the
bad principles of government were

On Parliamentary Reform and the French Revolution.

110

mingled in this important measure.
The removal of the disabilities has
conciliated a few hundred reason-
able men, who might possibly have
been some time or other in life af-
fected by the existing restraints ; and
it has inflamed with tenfold fury, se-
veral millions, who had nothing to
lose or gain by the question, but saw
only that by clamour, violence, and
intimidation, they could prevail over
the Government.

It is the mixture of these opposite
principles, in every measure of con-
cession to popular outcry, which can
alone explain the apparently incon-
gruous results which history exhi-
bits on this subject, and furnishes
the key both to the great number of
wise and good men who were sedu-
ced into concession of the Catholic
claims, and the total failure of that
measure to remove any of the dis-
content or divisions in Ireland. The
author is not ashamed to confess
that he was among those who sup-
ported Catholic emancipation, in the
belief that it was in itself just, and
would have the effect of removing
the distractions of that unhappy
country. Subsequent events have
explained the true nature of the illu-
sion under which so many persons
laboured on this subject. The libe-
ral party in England were deceived
by the names of justice, equality,
and Christian toleration, which the
agitators put forth; they were not
aware of the malignant and insati-
able passions which lurked beneath
the surface. They gave admission,
as they thought, to the fair spirit of
religious freedom, and no sooner
had they thrown open the gates, than
the mask fell from the visage of the
entrant, and the foul and fiendish
features of democratic ambition ap-
peared.

Thoughtful and sensible men might
have been divided on this subject,
because reason and equity had much
to say on the other side ; because a
real grievance, how inconsiderable
soever in itself, was complained of;
because the experiment had not yet
been tried in these islands, of the
tremendous consequences of yield-
ing to democratic passion. But what
shall we say to those who pursue the
same system, after experience has
so completely demonstrated its fail-
ure $ when France on the one side,

and Ireland on the other, are teem*
ing with misery from its effects ? who
apply it to a subject where the union
between the redress of wrongs, and
concession to popular fury, no longer
exist ; to the destruction of a con-
stitution which has conferred, and is
conferring, greater practical blessings
than any which ever existed ; not to
the redress of any experienced evil,
but the reformation of the constitu-
tion upon new and hitherto unheard
of principles ; not to the doing of
justice, but the inflaming of pas-
sion?

Look at Belgium ; does it exhibit
appearances different from either
France or Ireland ? Does the victory
of the democratic party, the success-
ful termination of an unnecessary
Revolution, afford any encourage-
ment for the adoption of a similar
course in this country ? Misery un-
precedented since the persecution
of the Duke of Alva, has overspread
the fair face of Flanders since the
glorious expulsion of the Orange dy-
nasty ; the kingdom is dismembered,
its power destroyed ; and the revo-
lutionary monarch, in his first year's
finances, is obliged to admit, that
while the annual expenditure is
41,000,000 of gilders, the revenue
is, from the general suffering, re-
duced to 29,000,000. Truly, if our
Reformers are not influenced by
these examples surrounding them
on every side, on the south, east, and
west, they would not be converted
though one rose from the dead.

The existence of suffering in all
classes now in this country, is so evi-
dent and universal, that it cannot be
concealed by the Reformers. It is
admitted prominently in the King's
speech, and is felt by every man
who lives by his industry in the three
kingdoms. Bread! Bread! is the
cry of the Manchester weavers ; the
radicals of Paisley are only main-
tained by the munificent subscrip-
tions of the anti-reform proprietors
in their vicinity. But, say the Re-
formers, this is not owing to Re-
form, but its refusal ; trade was in
a prosperous state during the first
six months of the discussion of the
question, and it has only declined
since the bill was thrown out by the
Peers ; and if the Bill had then been,
passed, general tranquillity and hap-
piness would now have prevailed,

1832.] On Parliamentary Reform and the French Revolution.

How, then, do they explain the grind-
ing misery of France, the agitation
and famine of Ireland, or the deplo-
rable condition of the once flourish-
ing Low Countries? No one can
dispute that democracy has been tri-
umphant in all these states; that a
citizen king, surrounded by republi-
can institutions, is on the throne of
the first; that an overpowering de-
magogue shares with the English
viceroy the government of the se-
cond; and that a revolutionary mo-
narch, supported by a democratic
faction, has been elected to the last.
How do the Reformers, who so una-
nimously refer the existing distress
in Great Britain to the resistance to
Reform, explain the far greater mi-
sery and suffering which, in the three
adjoining states, has followed its con-
cession ? How can the steadiness of
the aristocracy in England be charged
with consequences which, at the same
moment, in France, Ireland, and Bel-
gium, have attended their submission
or overthrow ?

The Reformers still put forth the
miserable delusion that Reform is to
calm the passions, and satisfy the de-
mocratic ambition of the country,
and they adhere to this expectation
in the face of the tenfold agitation
which, in spite of all their predic-
tions, concession to the Catholics
has produced in Ireland. As well
might they expect that victory is to
extinguish the passion for conquest,
spirits assuage the thirst of the drunk-
ard, or the career of military triumph
be cut short by the flight of the van-
quished.

The more violent of this class have
fairly avowed their motives, and if
the English fall into the snare, they
at least cannot complain that they
have been misled or not duly warned
both by their friends and their ene-
mies. O'Connell, who, not three
months ago, disclaimed in the House
of Commons all ulterior objects, has
now laid aside the mask : he has
openly avowed his determination to
agitate till he obtains a repeal of the
Union, and declared " that he is a
reformer with ulterior views, and that
he will never be satisfied till he sees
a parliament in College Green." The
majority of the Irish reformers in the

111

House of Commons, seventy strong,
are actuated by the same desire : they
will use Reform as a stepping-stone,
as they have done with Catholic
Emancipation, till they effect the dis-
memberment of the empire. The
English radicals openly declare, with
Cobbett at their head, " that they
have ulterior views; that no one but
a fool can suppose that they want re-
form for any other reason than the
liberation from burdens which it will
produce ; and that unless it is to lead
to the confiscation of church proper-
ty, and the abolition of the funds,
they had much rather remain under
the oldboroughmongers." Even the
Courier, a leading ministerial jour-
nal, in the very same leading article
in which they declare, " from an au-
thority on which they have been ac-
customed to rely," that the King is
to create Peers in order to carry the
question, expressly maintain that
" this reform may do for two or three
yearSy but that they have said a hun-
dred times, and they say again, that
nothing can satisfy the country butthe
concession of the franchise to every
man in the country who pays direct
taxes, be they ever so small."* In
other words, the movement must
continue till every man in the king-
dom who pays a penny of taxes is to
have a vote !

Now what must be the effect upon
public credit, private expenditure, or
manufacturing and commercial spe-
culation, we do not say of the legis-
lative adoption, but the serious and
continued agitation for the attain-
ment of objects such as these ? Will
not the distrust and terror of the rich
increase, when after the great victory
of Reform achieved by the clamour
of the popular party, they see these
fatal strokes levelled at the industry
and wealth of the country ? Must not
the same stagnation pervade every
branch of industry, the same appre-
hensions check the advance of the
capitalist, the same fears paralyze
the efforts of the merchant, which are
now beginning to weigh down the
exertions of the people ? Is it to be
supposed that landed property is to
be encouraged to increase its expen-
diture, when an incessant outcry is
raised to confiscate the whole pos-

Courier, Monday, December 10, 188!<

112 On Parliamentary Reform and the French Revolution. [Jan.

sessions of the church, or capital to
renew its outlay, when the funded
property is incessantly menaced ?
The very first effect of such propo-
sals, supported as they then will be
by the whole revolutionary press,
and by at least eighty or a hundred
radical members in the House of
Commons, must be to shake to its
foundation the whole funded proper-
ty of the kingdom; the banks must
all contract their discounts; credit
will immediately cease ; every man's
creditors will be on his back at once;
delay of payment will be out of the
question, and the dreadful catas-
trophe of December 1825 renewed
with far more desperate circum-
stances, and from causes then beyond
the reach of control.

Such is the strength of the argu-
ments against Reform that it will ad-
mit of almost any concession — and
is equally conclusive whatever view
of its consequences be adopted. — If
the hopes of the Radicals be realized,
and the prophecies of Cobbett and
the Examiner prove true, that they
are to get an accession of from eighty
to a hundred members in the new
'House, of course, the subsequent
revolutionary measures may very
shortly be expected; for what chance
will the Conservative Party, already
so hard put to maintain the institu-
tions of the country, have of conti-
nuing the combat when their own
ranks are weakened by a hundred
members, and their adversaries in-
creased by as great a number ? If, on
the other hand, the new arguments of
the Times and the other Ministerial
Journals be well founded, and the
measure proves, in its first effects,
" highly aristocratic ;" if, through the
small boroughs and the divisions of
the counties, the great Whig nobility
acquire a preponderance over the
Radical Party, the consequences will
be hardly less disastrous. Increased
discontent, unceasing agitation, the
perpetuity of the miseries the coun-
try has endured since the Reform
question began, may then be confi-
dently anticipated, until the newbul-
warks of the Constitution are over-
thrown, and the flood of democracy
finally overwhelm the land. Can it
be supposed, that after the people

have been excited to such a degree
as they have been by the efforts of
administration, and the fatal union of
the Crown and the populace, they
will sit down quietly under a new
set of aristocratic proprietors ? That
nomination counties will be allowed
quietly to succeed nomination bo-
roughs ; and wealth in the small
towns to assume the place of wealth
in those which have been extinguish-
ed ? The thing is evidently out of the
question ; the new Constitution, de-
prived as it will be of the veneration
and sanctity flowing from the weight
of time, and all the endearing recol-
lections arising from centuries of
happiness, will be speedily swept
away by the revolutionary tempest,
and Britain put to sea without a rud-
der on that dark ocean of experiment
from which no one has yet been
known to return.

" It appears," says Sir Walter
Scott, " to be a general rule, that
what is to last long, should be slow-
ly matured and gradually improved,
while every sudden effort, however
gigantic, to bring about the sudden
execution of a plan calculated to en-
dure for ages, is doomed to exhibit
symptoms of premature decay from
its very commencement. Thus, in a
beautiful Oriental Tale, a Dervise ex-
plains to the Sultan how he had rear-
ed the magnificent trees among
which they walked, by nursing their
shoots from the seed ; and the Prince's
pride is damped, when he reflects
that those plantations so simply rear-
ed, were gathering new vigour from
each returning sun, while his own
exhausted cedars, which had been
transplanted by one effort, were
drooping their majestic heads in the
valley of Orez." * — Such also will be
the fate of the new British Consti-
tution. It will never be able to era-
dicate the original vice of having
been struck out at a heat : forged
during a period of violent excite-
ment, and concluded at once, with-
out receiving either the alternative
of experience or the mellowing of
time. Unlike its hardy predecessor
which was sown amidst the strug-
gles of Saxon independence, harden-
ed by the severity of Norman rule,
watered by the blood of the Pro*

* Robert of Paris, vol. i. p. 5.

1832.] On Parliamentary Reform and the French Revolution.

testant martyrs, and strengthened by
the resistance to Stuart oppression,
it will sicken and languish from the
first moment of its existence, and
before its authors are gathered to
their fathers, be numbered among
the things that have been.

The new Bill differs in few essen-
tial particulars from its monstrous
predecessor; in a few details it is
better ; in its leading principles and
practical tendency, if possible, worse.

The number of boroughs retained
in schedule A, in other words, which
are to be wholly disfranchised, is
still fifty-six. So that 112 members
are lost by this clause alone to the
Conservative Party.

The boroughs in schedule B, which
are to lose one member each, are
reduced from forty-one to thirty-one
— in other words, ten members are
there saved to the Constitution ; but,
on the other hand, an equal number
of additional members are given to
ten manufacturing towns, that is, to
the radical interest.

The ten poun,d franchise is placed
on a different footing : the payment
of rent 'is no longer required; and
in its stead the houses are to be va-
lued once a year, under the control
of Barristers in each county, appoint-
ed by the Lord Chancellor, and evi-
dence of the value by the rating in
King's books for taxes, and in the
parish-books for rates, is to be taken
— and residence for twelve months
in a ten pound house, or houses, is
required.

The old freeholders in boroughs,
instead of being preserved as under
the old Bill for their lives only, are
to be permanently engrafted on the
Constitution.

Very little examination is requi-
site to shew, that these provisions
render the new Bill even more de-
mocratical in its tendency than the
former.

Formerly, evidence of the pay-
ment of rent or taxes was required;
now the latter is sufficient, and no
payment of rent whatever is neces-
sary. What is the necessary ten-
dency of this change ? clearly to let
in ultimately a still lower and more
dangerous set of constituents than
the former bill admitted, by remo-
ving that slender check on pauper-
ism which the necessity of paying
rent occasioned.

VOL. XXXI. HO. CLXXXIX.

The houses claiming to be enroll-
ed are all to be valued at first, and
the valuation in the tax and parish
books is to be given in evidence,
fortified by the oath of the claimant
if required. Now every body knows
that when once a house is valued at
a certain sum in any set of books
regulating the paying of taxes, it is
an easy matter to allow the valua-
tion to remain; but a very difficult
matter to get it lowered. If the
owner or tenant makes no objec-
tions, the taxgatherer and overseer
for the poor will allow the valuation
to remain undiminished to the end
of time. The result is, therefore,
that how much soever the value of
a house may be deteriorated, though
it falls to be worth only L.2 or L.3
a- year only, still if the tenant is
willing to have it rated at the old
valuation in the public and parish
books, and to pay burdens accord-
ingly, it must confer a freehold.
Thus the only test of the property,
or respectability of these little house-
holders, will be their ability to pay
rates and taxes on a house valued at
L.10 a-year, which, on an average,
will not come to 30s. annually. And
this is the constituency in whose
hands it is proposed to place the
nomination of 340 out of the 500
English members !

Houses, like every thing else, grow
old ; they decay rapidly, especially
when built, as in England, of brick,
and soon fall down to a lower class
of inhabitants than at first possessed
them. Under the new Bill, this pro-
gressive deterioration of the proper-
ty, will be the means of admitting
daily a more degraded and democra-
tical constituency; and if nothing
else brings the new constitution to
an untimely end, the decay of the
houses, on which it is based, will ne-
cessarily lead to its destruction. The
owners or tenants of these frail and
ruinous tenements will never think
of proposing that their valuation
should be lowered, when it brings
so valuable a thing as the elective
franchise ; and the burden of paying
ten or fifteen shillings additional a-
year of taxes and rates, will be more
than compensated by the periodical
return of the good things with which
a general election will be attended.
The mere circumstance that the
nouses arc to be valued once a-year,
H

114 On Parliamentary Reform and the French Revolution*

[Jan.

is no security whatever against this
progressive deterioration of the class
of borough constituents, for on what
data can the surveyors proceed, but
the rating in the King's or parish
books, and the declaration and oath
of the householder what he considers
the subject worth? and these will
never be awanting when the question
is, whether a valuable elective fran-
chise is to be preserved.

Farther, while such is the perilous
tendency of the new franchise in the
great, and especially the manufactu-
ring towns, what a broad gateway
does it open to corruption in the
smaller boroughs more immediately
under aristocratic influence! The
franchise is, literally speaking, vest-
ed now in the walls of houses ; the
Parliament is neither a representa-
tive of the wealth of the community,
nor of its intelligence, nor its rank,
nor its population, but of its build-
ings. Whoever can command the
greatest number of houses, will carry
the day at every election. A great
proprietor wishes to get the com-
mand of a borough in his vicinity, he
has nothing to do, but to purchase
up all the L.10 houses as they come
into the market, or build a great
number within its limits, which can
be done for L.I 50 a-piece, and put
into them paupers, menials, or de-
pendants of his own, who pay no rent,
or a merely elusory one, and he must
command the return. No matter
how destitute, how indigent the
householder may be ; though he can-
not muster up a farthing of rent, if
he lives in a house rated at L.10,
and paying 25s. or 30s. a-year of
taxes, he must have a vote. The
command of a borough containing
300 votes, may then be obtained to
perpetuity, by expending L.30,000 on
houses within it, besides the return
which the rents of these houses will
afford. And yet a system which
throws open the gates in so shame-
less a way to the influence of cor-
ruption, is gravely put forth as a
final settlement of the question, and
an entire extinguisher upon the whole
system of boroughmongering !

The multiplication of L.I 0 houses,
like the multiplication of the L.10
freeholds in Ireland for electioneer-
ing purposes, will be a most serious
evil under the new Bill. Sir Edward
Sugden truly said, that it should be

entitled, " A Bill for the multiplica-
tion of L.10 houses." It is evident,
that the proprietors in the neighbour-
hood of small boroughs will either
themselves build, or promote the
building, of such a number of houses,
as may incline the balance in their
own favour. Every body knows
what a multitude of miserable ten-
ants such a system of multiplying
the poor has produced in Ireland.
Those evils are not confined to the
soil of that island ; they will extend
to England, if similar causes call
them into operation. All these evils
spring from that fatal innovation
upon the constitution which the Re-
formers so obstinately insist upon in-
troducing,— that of admitting, not the
freeholder, who, in general, must be
in some degree independent,because
he is a proprietor, but the tenant,
who cannot, in the general case, be
so, because he is destitute of pro-
perty.

The result, therefore, must be,
what we have all along predicted,
that the existing abuses will be great-
ly increased under the new Bill, and
the country doomed to oscillate be-
tween the infamy of corruption and
the perils of democracy; inclining,
in periods of tranquillity, to the for-
mer— driven, in times of agitation,
by the latter. This will be the result
in the most favourable case, suppo-
sing the new institutions to prove
stable, and not to yield speedily to
the shock of revolution, — a supposi-
tion which all the experience of for-
mer times forbids us to entertain.

The litigation, electioneering in-
trigues, and political agitation, which
must follow the annual making up of
the lists of the freeholders, is another
evil of the first magnitude under the
new system. It is quite evident that
it will keep the people in a continual
state of hot water ; the arts used to
get their habitations raised up to the
desired standard — the devices to pre-
vent their being lowered below it —
the perjury, chicanery, and falsehood
annually adopted to accomplish these
objects, must at once demoralize the
people by habituating them to crime,
and withdraw their attention from
honest industry by keeping them con-
tinually immersed in a sea of politics.
All the world knows how strongly
these evils are felt on the eve of a ge-
neral election : it was reserved for &

1832.] On Parliamentary Reform and the French Revolution*

Reforming Administration, profes-
sing to abolish all existing evils, to ren-
der them annual instead of occasional,
and a permanent tumour instead of a
transient blemish in the constitution.

The powers vested in the survey-
ors of houses, and the barristers, ap-
pointed by the Lord Chancellor, who
are to review their judgments, is a
new and unheard-of peril in the con-
stitution. The returns of Parliament
— the formation of a majority in the
Lower House — will depend upon
these officers. They are not to be
appointed by a fixed Judge, such as
the Chief Justice, — but a political
officer, who stands or falls with Ad-
ministration. It is easy to foresee
what abuses may, in bad times, be
committed under such a system ; it
is not difficult to prognosticate the
discontent which, in periods of ex-
citement, even the honest discharge
of duty by these officers certainly
will excite. And this is the system
which is to correct all existing abu-
ses, and effect a permanent settle-
ment of the constitution !

The freemen under the existing
system, are to be preserved to per-
petuity in the new Bill. Those free-
men constitute the existing demo"
cracy under the old constitution;
and in many towns, as Liverpool,
Norwich, &c., the franchise descends
so low as almost to amount to uni-
versal suffrage. We have uniform-
ly maintained, that the existence of
those representatives of the working
classes under the old constitution,
was a very great advantage, because
it gave them a voice in the legisla-
ture, and counterbalanced the nomi-
nation boroughs which constituted
the representation of landed and
commercial wealth. But what is
now proposed ? To keep up these
operative electors over the whole
•country, at the very time that a new
and wide inlet for the democracy is
provided in the L.10 tenants, and
when the representation of com-
mercial, colonial, and landed opu-
lence in the close boroughs is cut
off. That is to say, we are to have
on our back at once the old democracy
and the new democracy, both that
which is now pressing with such
force on the constitution, and that
which promises to overturn it in fu-
ture times ; and that too at the very
time when the fortresses of the Con-

servative Party in the nomination bo-
roughs are to be entirely destroyed !
And this is gravely held forth as the
arrangement of the conflicting pow-
ers on a satisfactory basis, and which
promises to restore that balance
which, from the force of democra-
tic ambition at this time, is in such
danger of being subverted !

The superior weight given to ma-
nufacturing or democratic over agri-
cultural or conservative industry,
apparent in every part of the Bill, is
in an especial manner conspicuous
in the rise which is introduced in the
qualification for county votes, com-
pared with 'the fall in that for bo-
roughs. After the termination of the
existing lives, the qualification for a
county vote is to be raised to a free-
hold of L.10 yearly value; so that in
the space of twenty years the county
members will be returned exclusive-
ly by that class of proprietors. The
borough members are to be returned
not merely by the owners, but the
tenants of L.10 houses, a class of
men, not at an average possessing a
tenth part of the property of their
brother freeholders in the county.
"Why is this extraordinary distinction
made between the classes who are to
return the members for counties and
boroughs? Is it because the yeo-
manry of the country are so much
more democratical than the house-
holders of Manchester, Birmingham,
the Tower Hamlets, or Greenwich,
that it was necessary to go to a
much higher class before the powers
of representation could be securely-
vested ? Is it because morality is so
much more pure, life so much more
innocent, passion so much more sub-
dued, reason so much more power-
ful, among r_the ale-house keepers
of St Giles, in the owners of brothels
in Dublin or Glasgow, than among
the statesmen of Cumberland, the
freeholders of Yorkshire, or the pea-
santry of Scotland ? Had the rule
been just the reverse ; had a ten-
pound proprietor been required in
town, and a ten-pound tenant ad-
mitted in the country, the principle
of the distinction would have been
intelligible, because it would have
been founded on the eternal distinc-
tion between the honesty of conduct
and sobriety of thought in rural,
compared with the profligacy of ha-
bit and vehemence of passion iu

116

On Parliamentary Reform and the French Revolution. [Jart.

urban life. But to admit the poorer
class amid the corruption, vice, and
intoxication of cities, and confine the
franchise to a far higher class amidst
the simplicity and moderation of
country life, is so utter a departure
from the principles not merely of
legislation, but of common sense and
universal experience, that it is alto-
gether inexplicable upon any of the
known principles of human conduct.
And it is to be recollected, that while
only 157 members are given to the
coolness and sobriety of rural in-
dustry, no less than 340 are awarded
to the passions and the corruption
of city population.

For these reasons, the principle
and practical tendency of the new-
Bill is even more dangerous than
that from which we have just been
delivered. The Whigs should have
abandoned office, rather than have
consented, for the purpose of gaining
the Radicals, to bring in so ruinous
a project; the Conservative Party
had better remain for ever in oppo-
sition, than sully their hands by any
connexion with it. We rejoice there-
fore at the noble stand which the
friends of the constitution have again
made in the House of Commons, and
that the eloquence of Sir R. Peel
and Mr Croker has exceeded even
all their previous efforts, and recall-
ed the brightest days of British glory.

Nor have the Scotch less reason to
be proud of the able and patriotic
stand made by their leading nobility
on this trying occasion. The Duke

of Buccleuch, who, throughout the
whole contest, has acted the part of
a true Patriot, has gone to London
on purpose to lay the Address of the
great Edinburgh Meeting before his
Majesty, and it was received in a way
worthy of the quarter from which it
proceeded, and the hands by which
it was delivered. If the other Con-
servative Nobility of the country have
not been so conspicuous in their ser-
vices, their firmness is as great, and
their devotion to the public cause as
unbounded. It is by such means that
the Peers of Great Britain can best
discharge the duty which at this crisis
they owe to their country, which they
have recently delivered from so great
a peril.

Let them do their utmost to soft-
en the dangerous features of the
new measure, and diminish the mis-
chief which it must occasion to the
country; but let the whole respon-
sibility of the future constitution rest
upon its own authors. They have
delivered into their hands a prosper-
ous, tranquil, and powerful nation,
with its empire surrounding the
globe, its fleets whitening the ocean,
its glory resplendent over the earth ;
let them beware of extinguishing so
fair a fame, by mingling with the
ambition, the recklessness, or the
desperation which is destined, to all
human appearance, to destroy so no-
ble a fabric, and sink for ever in the
waves the might and the honour of
the British empire.

,1832.]

Reply to Lord Brougham's Speech.

J17

REPLY TO LORD BROUGHAM'S SPEECH.*

How spirit-stirring the commence-
ment of a campaign ! Our imagina-
tion travels along a shadowy suc-
cession of yet unfoughten combats of
various fortune — now in victory,
now in defeat, and now in drawn
battle — but ever fearless of the final
issue, and confident that, after some
total overthrow, the war will ter-
minate in the triumph of Truth,
Freedom, and Justice. Such will be
the end of the great struggle now
renewed between the firm force of
the Conservatives, and the feeble fury
of the Revolutionists. On the re-
storation of peace, the eyes of the
patriots will be gladdened to behold
the blessing for which they con-
quered— unscathed by storm, flood,
or fire, from turret to foundation
stone, in all its ancient strength and
state, that august and glorious edifice
— the British Constitution.

We have called the reformers by
a name which used to excite their ire
. — revolutionists. Some few months
ago they grew red in the face at that
appropriate polysyllable ; his Majes-
ty's Ministers rose indignantly,as one
man, " to repudiate the charge," " to
reprobate the idea ;" but a pallor now
is on their crestfallen countenances,
and you hear extorted confession in
many a wrathful mutter. Why so
loath still are some of the would-be
leading men among them to "avow
the truth? They cannot be such
simpletons as to dream now of de-
luding us into a belief that they de-
sire to restore and preserve our
liberties; and can they indeed be
such fools as to fancy that they may
play with safety upon the knaves
who have enlisted themselves in
thousands and tens of thousands
under their tri-color — the rascally
rag which never yet was hoisted—-
arid never shall be over —

" Tne flag that braved, a thousand years,
The battle arid the breeze."

The thousands and tens of thou-

sands of knaves have taught them,
and will continue to teach them, an-
other lesson ; and slow and stupid
as they have shewn themselves to be
"atthe uptake," that other lesson will
in time be instilled into their slug-
gish souls through incessantink-drop-
ping, by men far honester and abler
than themselves, the EDUCATED RA-
DICALS OF ENGLAND, who, instead of
denying that they are for revolution,
glory in the charge, and in procla-
mations and manifestoes somewhat
more vigorous than that ludicrous
and late lament issued in his Ma-
jesty's name against Political Unions,
have long kept dinning into the
deafest and largest ears, that they
will never rest till they have gained
their ULTERIOR OBJECTS — the over-
throw of all ancient and all heredi-
tary institutions.

That my Lord John Russell and
" the rest" are sick of their estates
and titles, we cannot believe, not
even on the authority of their own
conduct. They are not sick, then,
but they are silly ; and seek to shelter
their large estates and noble titles
and insignificant selves, behind a
Bill which the most formidable foes
of their order are all grimly laughing
to behold them bringing up like a
battering-ram to demolish their own
powers and privileges in the state.
Aye — the Bill — though far from be-
ing perfect in all its parts, in the
eyes of the educated radicals, will,
nevertheless, work well — it will butt
forcefully against the ramparts of
aristocracy — and out from among
the dusty rubbish the radicals see,
in imagination, running like so many
rats, the Lord Johnnys and the Lord
Dickies, and in imagination they
hear — and can " scarce retain their
urine for affection," — the creatures
squeak.

That the rats chiefly composing
his Majesty's Ministry should be
rnole-blind, did certainly at first
somewhat astonish the public. As

* Reply to a Pamphlet, entitled Speech of the Right Honourable Lord Brougham,
Lord High Chancellor of England, delivered in the House of Lords, on Friday,
October 7, 1831. London : J. Hatchard and Son, 187, Piccadilly ; and Roake and
Varty, Strand.

118

long as they kept working under
ground, it was supposed that all
might be right enough ; but the mo-
ment they issued into the open air
and light of heaven, it was painful
to see the small bleariness of their
opaque optics. " They cannot be so
blind as they look," was the humane
hint of many Christian people ; but
that inconsiderate suggestion gave
place to a wiser judgment, " Why,
the creatures are stone-blind," as
they were seen treading on each
other's tails, in hurry to run their
snouts into the traps set for them
by those rough rat-catchers — the
radicals, — traps easily seen through
by the merest glimmer of eyesight — •
and absolutely unbaited with so
much as a bit of cheese !

This may be thought by fastidious
persons an undignified style of treat-
ing such noblemen and gentlemen
as are no longer his Majesty's Op-
position, but his Majesty's Ministers.
" Is not Lord Grey the English
Neckar ?" " And was not Neckar the
French Lord Grey ?" We have writ-
ten of that parallel ere now; but while
Christopher North is silent, hear
Napoleon Bonaparte. He is speaking
to Neckar's grandson, the young De
Stael. We quote from the Reply.

" ' Your grandfather was afoot, an ideo-
logist, an old maniac. At sixty years of
age, to think of forming plans to over-
throw my constitution ! States would be
well governed, truly, under such theorists,
who judge of men from books, and the
world from the map . . . Your grandfather's
work is that of an obstinate old man,
who died abusing all governments ... He
calls me the indispensable man, but judg-
ing from his arguments, the best thing
that could be done would be to cut my
throat! Yes: I was indeed indispensable
to repair the follies of your grandfather,
and the mischief which he did to France.
It was he who overturned the monarchy,
and led Louis XVI. to the scaffold.' The
young man here interposes, and says —
* Sire, you seem to forget that my grand-
father's property was confiscated, because
he defended the King.' — < Defended the
King! A fine defence truly ! You might
as well say, that if I give a man poison,
and present him with an antidote when
he is in the agonies of death, that I wish
to save him. That is the way your grand-

Reply to Lord Brougham's Speech*

[Jan.

father defended Louis XVI. As to the
confiscation you speak of, what does that
prove ? Nothing. Why, the property of
Robespierre was confiscated; and let me
tell you that Robespierre himself, Marat,
and Danton, have done less mischief to
France than M. Neckar. It was he who
brought about the revolution. You,
Monsieur de Stael, did not see this : but I
did. I witnessed all that passed in those
days of terror and public calamity. But
as long as I live, these days shall never
return. Your speculators trace their fine
schemes upon paper : fools read and be-
lieve them : all are babbling about gene-
ral happiness, and presently the people have
not bread to eat ; then comes a revolution.
Such is^usually the fruit of all these fine
theories. Your grandfather was the cause
of the saturnalia which desolated France.'*

" These are the words of Napoleon
Bonaparte; and lest it should seem to
any one that they were not applied to
the general principles of revolutionary
agents, but dictated by some personal
feeling towards their more moderate par-
tisans, read one more passage. The Ja-
cobins of Paris had been treating with
him. On hearing the price which they
set upon their services, he said, ' This is
too much ; I shall have a chance of de-
liverance in battle, but I shall have none
with these furious blockheads. There
can be nothing in common between the
demagogic principles of 1793 and the
monarchy; between clubs of madmen
and a regular ministry; between a com-
mittee of public safety and an Emperor ;
between revolutionary tribunals and esta-
blished laws. If fall I must, I will not
bequeath France to the revolutionists,
from whom I have delivered her.'f

" Now, the leader of the ' demagogic
principles in 1793,' was Mr CHARLES
GREY ; and the monarchy which, accord-
ing to Napoleon, M. Neckar destroyed,
was that of France. The Neckar of 1 831
has failed, and the monarchy of England
is yet preserved ; and with it Lord Grey,
and the Duke of Bedford, and the Duke
of Devonshire ; but let' us hear no more
of the argument, that there is no danger
of a democratic revolution, because these
noblemen do not desire it."

A certain respect, it has hitherto
been very generally allowed, is due
to the very prejudices and bigotries
of an ignorant people, from its rulers;
and the more especially if that un-
happy ignorance has been owing
partly to its rulers, though mainly

Bourrienne's Memoirs of Napoleon, vol. iii. p. 126. f Ibid. p. 298.

Reply to Lord Brougliam's Speech.

1832,]

to the constitution under which it
has been the people's wretched lot
to flourish. Was any such respect,
however slight, shewn to the people
of Great Britain, by the Paymaster
to his Majesty's forces, when he first
stood up in the House of Commons,
with his Bill in his small lily-white
hand ? The people, it is said, wished
for some Reform — how much is not
specified ; but judging from the symp-
toms, which were complete compo-
sure, arid an almost Pythagorean si-
lence, not a muscle of their mouth
moving, the appetite or passion of the
people for political food in the shape
of a Bill, was such as might have been
appeased with a small portion of vic-
tual, of wet and dry. Had they been
ravenous for Schedule A, they would
have roared like any nightingale, but
they were mute as tit-mice ere spring
shews her violets. Neither had the
Paymaster been previously profuse
or prodigal either in promise or per-
formance on the Feast of Reform.
Forjnany years he had been one of
the prettiest and best behaved young
gentlemen of "all the bit-by-bit Re-
formers, and thereby the noble nig-
gard escaped the sarcasms of Can-
ning, who had otherwise " torn off
his flesh." Nay, high-up in yonder
nook,

Each in its narrow cell for ever laid,
The First editions of his Quartos sleep ;

Nor ever shall profane hand of ours
again give to day the diatribes against
Reform, and the panegyrics on Old
Sarum which their stiff boards and
pompous pages preserve in the repose
of oblivion. But having eaten in
his words (and how sweet is a mor-
sel devoured in a corner well did
Solomon and Jack Horner know),
swallowed, inwardly digested, and
outwardly expelled them, " one and
all, great and small," with much la-
bour and pains, he not unnaturally,
but irrationally, presumed that the
people were as hungry as himself,
whe had just emptied his stomach
in the style aforesaid ; and bidding
them open their mouths like barn-
doors, into the yawning aperture he
flung his Bill. So grotesque in itself
was this procedure of his under-
standing, and so unexpected, that the
House of Commons became a con-
vulsive series of guffaws.
" Unextinguislied laughter shook the skies."

119

But it is grievous to know that a
guffaw is in nature transitory as a
groan, into which indeed it is apt to
grow ; and that a groan of disgust-
such is the strange constitution of
our souls — is often converted into a
shout of admiration, while in bad
time and early, it settles down into
an aimless infatuation of

" The people imagining a vain thing,"

till a whole kingdom becomes a Bed-
lam.

Offer a dog a pound of butter,
a quartern loaf, or a shoulder of
mutton, and though tolerably sharp-
set, he will turn away with a growl,
thinking that you mean to insult
him; but cajole him, by rubbing his
back with the hair, and calling the
buffer by his name, and by other
charms potent over the canine, and
the animal begins to believe that he
is dying of hunger. Disregarding the
bread and butter, he plays the part
of a wolf on the sheep ; and offer but
to tou'eh the shank now, and he will
tear you to pieces. It is in vain to
tell him that he has devoured his
due, and that he will get the rest at
another time ; the bare suspicion on
his part, of such a base suggestion on
yours, will stiffen the upright bristles
all over the surly savage, till he seems
a live-dog of horrent iron, and you
walk off full of " thick-coming fan-
cies" about canine madness. Next
morning, the master shepherd (for
we suppose you to be one of the
Pastorals) informs you that an out-
landish animal, by some supposed a
dog, has swum ashore from some
Norwegian wreck during the night,
and slaughtered some scores of the
silly people, all the braes being stain-
ed with woolly blood-clouts, and
lamb, gimmer, wether, and " ewie
wi' the cruickit horn" lying among
the broom, and below the birch
trees, with holes in their throats and
their kidneys, while the Red Rover
is seen lying out of musket-shot,
on a knoll, licking his paws, and
then crouching away into the woods,
till hunger shall re-drive him to ra-
pine.

The above is figurative or allego-
rical— but we can speak pretty plain-
ly when we choose ; and, therefore,
begging pardon of the populace for
likening them for a moment to such.

Reply to Lord Brougham's Speech.

120

an animal, we ask, what was the
conduct, with regard to them, of his
Majesty's Ministers, and of all their
adherents? Base and unprincipled be-
yond all precedent, " and, if old judg-
ments hold their sacred course," to be
punished, ere long, by irretrievable
disgrace, and exclusion from govern-
ment of that nation, whose character
they have done all in the power of
their wicked weakness to deterior-
ate or destroy. By their Bill, it ap-
peared, at first, as if there were no
end either of disfranchisement or
enfranchisement — nobody could tell
whether voters were to be hundreds
of thousands, or millions ; but the
mightier the multitude, the more
magnanimous the members who " be-
stowed the boon ;" the fiercer the
fever of Reform, when once fairly
introduced into the crowded closes
and alleys of town and city corrup-
tion ! There was a stir among all the
styes, as if of universal suffrage. In
that state of excitement of the peo-
ple, and of the populace, and of the
rabble, Parliament was dissolved—-
that representatives might be chosen
of the integrity, intelligence, and
wisdom of the land ! Then we were
impiously and dishonestly told, vox
populiy vox Dei. Then was the time
for that mightiest of all steam en-
gines—the Press — to go to work ;
and to work it went with a thousand
devil power. All angry and evil pas-
sions .were roused, let loose, and
kept alive, all over the land— and
they had all but one object — down
with the boroughmongers. Gentle-
men dislike being hissed, hooted,
reviled, cursed, threatened, mudded,
maimed, murdered ; and the billmen
had their cue given them to read
such practical lessons as these, in
state affairs, to all anti-reformers, at
and around every hustings, " in the
season of the year." They had time-
ly advice " to strike at their faces;"
to prefer stones to dead cats, as mis-
siles, in electioneering warfare ; and
the Tory gentlemen of England were
warned in all the Ministerial news-
papers, that, if they valued their lives,
they had better offer no factious op-
position to a measure beloved by
the King, and annotated on by him
to the extent of seventeen pages
crown octavo. Rather than encoun-
ter such brutal baseness, some of the
conservatives declined the honour

{Jan.

of a contest, and others retired from
it — not in fear for themselves, but in
shame for their countrymen ; while
many weak, and a few worthless
persons got into the House of Com-
mons, who were fitter for a house of
correction. But putting all such low
elections as these out of sight, it will
not be denied now, by any man in his
senses, that the populace were pretty
generally out of theirs, and that too
many of the people were in the same
predicament, frequently preserving,
in their folly or madness, the most
silly, absurd, and scorned individual
that would but cry out " the bill, the
whole bill, and nothing but the bill,"
for their delegate in Parliament, to
men who had been their benefactors,
and whose families had, many a
time and oft, when famine had
visited this perhaps over-peopled
land, saved theirs from starvation.
And thus was a new Parliament as-
sembled, in which, had the press
been as powerful as it was wicked,
the freedom of debate would have
equalled that liberty of election, and
the minority been dumb. But the
minority neither despised nor feared
the press — and did their duty nobly,
assailed in vain by a perpetual tem-
pest of scorn and insult instigating
the weak, the unwary, and the
wicked, to outrages against the pro-
perties and persons of all who op-
posed the Bill. The majority smiled,
and vapoured, and spouted, and
voted — and all the while the land
rang with yells of vain applause, and
as vain intimidation. But the talent
and the integrity, the eloquence and
the wisdom, were on one side of the
House — the delegates on the other;
and in committee the Ministerial
majority had no resource in their
difficulties but £he shameful one of
silence, when outargued at every
point, and convicted either of dis-
honesty or stupidity almost incredi-
ble, on almost every clause of their
own revolutionary bill. Never were
seen or heard of before such dogged
'or dumb constitution-mongers. But
without the walls they were still
supported by the yell, the voice of
their deity, the mob — and Minister
sung nightly out to Minister — " all's
well !"

But " what will the Peers do ?"
was then the cry* And what a cry !
Loathsomely expressive of all the in-

1832.]

Reply to Lord Brougham's Speech.

science, all the ferocity, and all the
vulgarity of the Tail of the revolu-
tionists, and eke of their Head. Down
with the Peers — the House of Peers
— and all the houses of the Peers —
unless they pass the Bill — in that
event let them live for ever. But
then arose the cry — " let the King
swamp the House of Peers," and
they called him the Modern Alfred.
There ought to be no Peers— al-
ready are they too numerous by far
— therefore let us have a hundred
more at the least — that they may
restore to us our constitution. The
ancient noblesse are all for reform — >
the novi homines alone against it —
therefore more upstarts ! True, that
nature produces but one Alfred in
many centuries— and he is but the
exception to the general rule, that
all kings who can are tyrants. But
let posterity take care of itself— and
the next king of England — if there is
to be another — add his hundred
serving-men — for what purpose he
may — be it even to bring back the
boroughmongers, and that anoma-
lous monster which they worship,
and they alone, the British Constitu-
tion.

Was there any effort made to put
down this Jacobin cry by the anti-
revolutionary reforming Ministry ?
No. They joined in it. They did
so in both Houses of Parliament. The
Prime Minister warned the Spiri-
tual Peers to "put their houses in
order" — the crack ministerial orator
in the Lower House pointed to the
expatriated noblesse of France, whom
the great Revolution drove over the
wide world — and there was "great
cheering." Sneers, taunts, scoffs, in-
sults, have been so incessantly flung
forth on all things, creeds, offices,
and persons, hitherto regarded with
respect or reverence, and the Re-
formers have become so habituated
to the use of their slang vocabula-
ries that they are unconscious of
being foul-mouthed, and turn up
.their eyes to heaven when accused of
truculence, like simpletons innocent
of all guile and all guilt, and anxious
only for the preservation of social
order. Yet these are the Billmen —
these are the people whose voice it
is the duty of Government to obey —
who now demand their rights, and
therefore their rights must be given
them — to oppose whose will must be

121

— treason ; for are they not the sove-
reign people ?

The Peers did oppose their will—
and what then ? Why, the mob were
daunted by the aspect of virtue. Nay,
the most worthless among them felt
that the Peers had done their duty —
and the better part of the populace
applauded the patriots — but in si-
lence— for they feared as yet to of-
fend their leaders whom that vote
maddened. Then the press raved
on the Political Unions, and the Po-
litical Unions talked of arms, and a
national guard was to start up out
of the ground, not from serpents, but
from sheeps' teeth, with fustian jack-
ets and corduroy breeches, we know
not whether to support or supplant
the British army, no longer com mand-
ed by Wellington, and trustworthy
no more in the day of danger. What
might be the meaning of such mis-
cellaneous armament? All the na-
tion were for Reform — to a man.
Some scores of boroughmongers
alone were against the Bill. Mr Place,
the tailor, as he calls himself, at the
head of that deputation of pawn-bro-
kers, that lately waited on the puz-
zled Premier, he knew not, nor at
such untimeous hour could be ex-
pected to know, whether to take his
measure, to receive his pledge, or to
solicit a supper, might surely have
had courage to face that small corps
of corruptionists, and put them to
rout at the point of the needle. Why,
then, go the expense of a national
guard whose office must needs be a
sinecure ? But the knaves knew they
lied, when they said that all the na-
tion to a man was for Reform. They
knew that a majority of the indus-
trious, the wealthy, the prosper-
ous, the good, and the happy, were
against such Reform, and they dared
to hope, in their drunken insolence,
that they might frighten the con-
servatives into the Bill by a na-
tional guard consisting of innumer-
able awkward squads, sufficiently
absurd on paper, but in flesh-and-
blood marching order to overthrow
the British army, ludicrous beyond
the ineffable military spectacles that
sometimes convulse the fancy in
dreams, when the forlorn hope, com-
posed entirely of tailors, is seen ad-
vancing to the storm of a gingerbread
stall, from which an old woman
arrayed in red is driven with im-

122

Reply to Lord Brougham's SpeecJi.

[Jan.

mense laugliter, till first the van-
guard, and then the main body of the
deliverers, establish themselves at
the point of the spurtle, and to the
sound of the penny-trumpets in the
Luckenbooths.

In these Political Unions there has
indeed been a strange mixture of the
formidable and the laughable, repre-
sentative of the character of our un-
accountable times. For example,
there is our own Edinburgh Political
Union, which its members opine to
be a great state-engine at work for
Reform. There are people south of
the Tweed, who look to wards it loom-
ing through a Scotch mist, not without
alarm. To us it seems at once the
most innocent and the most ludicrous
association — not of ideas — for good-
humoured scorn to point his slow un-
meaning finger at, without any inten-
tion of offending its mock-majesty—
that ever administered to the mirth
of Modern Athens. It numbers — or
rather did number, among its wor-
thies, two or three authors whom we
much esteem — a leash of bibliopoles
to whom we wish all prosperity in
the trade — a gentleman or two be-
sides of easy fortune and manners
— a few worthy masters, a dozen
respectable journeymen, and some
scores of idle or industrious appren-
tices in the various handicrafts,
whom to employ therein would be
to all parties profitable and pleasant,
whether it were in slating a house,
cobbling a shoe, patching, or even
making a pair of breeches. In their
personal capacities, or individual
selves, it will be seen that we value
the members of the Edinburgh Po-
litical Union according to their dif-
ferent degrees of merit, and that we
should drop the pensive tear on hear-
ing that any one of them had fallen
a victim to the cholera. But in their
aggregate and composite character
of a Political Union, we can regard
them, living or dead, but with one
sentiment — that of the ineffably ab-
surd, which would, we are persua-
ded, pursue us into the cave of Tro-
phonius, converting it into the bou-
doir of Euphrosyne. At the gravity
with which they guard the peace of
our distracted metropolis, the most
saturnine might smile. On the eve
of every impending great national ca-
lamity, we find them at their post.
Thus, on that fearful afternoon that

brought our city the dismal intelli-
gence of the rejection of the Bill by
the House of Lords, when the street
in front of our post-office was alive
with all kinds and colours of hats,
and when it was thought there would
be a general brush, the Political
Union, in visible and unappalled, from
the mysterious secrecy of their con-
clave, issued paper-lanterns, implo-
ring peace among the people, and
givingpromiseof a brighter day to the
sons of freedom biting their nails in
disappointment and despair. We re-
member that afternoon as well as we
do this ; and never before to our eyes
had the Queen of the North, with
more tranquil stateliness, "flung her
white arms to the sea." The western
sun so smote the city, that all the
windows seemed on fire. There was
something heroic in all their vast
bright stories; flats were flats no
more ; light was in every land ; and
without waiting for the fiery fiat of
the Lord Provost, the hotbed of ge-
nius was self-kindled into a general
illumination. We grew, on the spot,
into Captain of the Six Feet Club.
Great was then our perplexity, on be-
holding men standing like trees, like
poles, calling on us by inscription, in
largest letters, to be quiet — on no ac-
count to give vent to our feelings by
any act of violence ; for that " a braw
time was coming," when there would
be an end to all corruption. In the
calm joy of our hearts, we would not,
at that moment, have hurt a hair on
the head of a fly — we would not have
murdered a midge. Why, then, and
whence those solemn warnings, thus
ostentatiously obtruded on our eye,
at an altitude even we could not
overlook. Why thus, O ye Political
Unionists! conjure up phantoms of
fury to disturb such profound re-
pose ? Some shaking of empty heads,
and some thrusting of hands into al-
most as empty pockets there might"
be with small knots of peripatetic
politicians, who, at the crossings of
streets, paused to read the friend-
ly advice to their peers. But, of a
row there was no reason to indulge
either in fear or hope — and but one
opinion prevailed among a peaceful
people, between the hours of two
and ten, that, of all possible idiots,
the Edinburgh Political Unionists,
in their body corporate, were at the
head. As darkness descended, the

1832.]

Reply to Lord BrougJianf s Speec7i.

paper lanterns became transparent,
and the large letters of light conti-
nued to tranquillize the town till
sleep brought silence, broken but by
that gradually deepening and widen-
ing snore, that, in a great city, to
night-wandering Fine-ear, doth sure-
ly sound, beneath the mute moon
and stars, if aught be_so on this earth
of ours, sublime.

Suppose an insurrection of the
Newhaven fish-wives. To quell it,
the Edinburgh Political Union are
ordered off towards Trinity, to ar-
rest the progress of the Phalanx of the
Variegated Petticoats, and, if need
be, to deliver battle on the high-road,
where that long line of wall defends
from the dust those beautiful nur-
sery gardens. Why, the Union would
sustain a total overthrow. Not that
the battle would be bloody — the kill-
ed and wounded would bear but a
small proportion to the missing — the
prisoners would exceed in numbers
the whole victorious army — and the
presidents, or field-marshals, would
present a specimen of a curious pre-
dicament, carried captive in creels
past the chain-pier crowded with
spectators, to be kept in durance on
oysters, till the establishment of a car-
tel, by which they might be restored
to their patriotic parents, on condi-
tion of their taking, through the sea-
son, an additional supply, at an extra-
vagant price, of cod's-head and shoul-
ders.

They are a droll set. Having been
told, in common with their fellow
townsmen, that " all who were dis-
posed to concur" with the opinions
expressed in a requisition, for a
Public Meeting of. the Conservatives,
would find admittance at the great
gate of our Assembly Rooms, they
pretended to interpret the words,
" determined not to concur," and
accordingly shewed their faces — a
few— black but not comely— t^te a
tete — yet without any appearance
of spittle — with the avowed resolu-
tion of intruding into the presence of
gentlemen, who, conceiving such con-
duct to be worse than unreasonable,
had made adequate provision for
kicking them commodiously down a
wide flight of stairs. Did they wish for
an argumentative disputation? Hea-
ven pity them should they ever have
that wish gratified — and it is not
impossible—their fate will be like
that of a creel of crockery lifted up

123

in the arms of a strong man, and
let fall with a clash on the floor into
ten thousand flinders. But that
persons — in ordinary life respectable
— should have so far forgotten the
feelings and the principles by which
gentlemen are guided in all their
conduct— can be satisfactorily ac-
counted for only by a knowledge of
the nature of their disease — the de-
lirium tremens of radicalism, in which
the unhappy patient sees real objects
in ghastly distortion, and imagines
himself haunted by a thousand devils,
who are not only men but Tories—
affable archangels all, who pity the
wild distemper that, to common eyes,
gives to folly the semblance of sin,
whereas they know that the poor
creatures are not wicked, but merely
mad. The only cure is a placard—
if that fail — accipe calcem. In that
case, how could they deny reaction ?

No doubt many of the Political
Unions sprinkled over the country
are as harmless as the Edinburgh
one ; and as we should be sorry to
see any attempt made to put down
what never was up, we trust they
do not fall under his Majesty's
late proclamation. In such unions
there is much illegible, but nothing
illegal,* little sedate, but less sedi-
tious ; the members are tiresome, but
not traitorous; and though able to
smoke a cigar, unwilling to blow
up the state. They are political
pustules on the surface of society,
that will come to a point of them-
selves, and after the escape of the
purulent matter, no need for a pin,
not the minutest scar will be seen on
the clean-skinned public. Whereas,
were you to rub the pimple, it would
fret, and there might be poison in
the pus.

What really is the character and
composition of the Birmingham
Union, we now know somewhat bet-
ter than Lord Grey. It has been de-
clared illegal, and what not, on the
highest authority, and so has an as-
semblage of 150,000 people, (a large
sum) of which the Lord Chancellor
of England said, " with all respect
for the multitude which were assem-
bled— he trusted the individuals allu-
ded to would reconsider the subject."
What individuals — and what subject ?
The individuals who declared to that
multitude, whom the Lord Chancel-
lor regards " with all respect" " that
they ought no longev to pay the

124

Reply to Lord Brougham's Speech.

[Jan.

king's taxes." " It was physically
impossible," quoth the Lord Chan-
cellor, " that in an assembly of 150,000
persons, 1000 could know what they
did." We should think not so many
— and on that ground is founded his
Lordship's respect. But the Premier's
respect includes the enemies of taxa-
tion. He corresponded— if we mis-
take not — with the official organs of
that very society — " on terms of
courtesy and compliment, with the
violators of law, and the dissolvers
of the elements of government."
He granted their request — he alleg-
ed " inadvertence,'' in extenuation of
his conduct towards the L.10 voters,
which thegovernmerit at Birmingham
hadrated — "an inadvertence," which
Mr Gregson,a man of unimpeachable
honour and great talents, in his own
exculpation, forced an equivocating
Ministry in the House unequivocally
to deny; — and that his friends might
not be behind him in folly, the sig-
natures of ALTHORP and JOHN RUS-
SELL were seen appended to docu-
cuments of degradation, from which,
not even amidst the " roar of a fac-
tion," can these persons recover their
former place in the estimation of
their country. " It may, perhaps, be
said, that the correspondence be-
tween the Prime Minister and the
Birmingham Political Union, took
place before the unlawful resolution
not to pay taxes was passed. If so,
it is the difference between an acces-
sary before, and an accessary after
the fact''' Look at the four — the
Premier — the Lord Chancellor — the
Chancellor of the Exchequer — and
the Paymaster to his Majesty's forces.
A., G., and R., corresponding with,
explaining to, complimenting, flatter-
ing, consulting, *' on the weightiest
matters of state and legislation," with
the ostensible agent of an association,
of which B. declares that its resolu-
tions are a violation of law, and that
the elements of government would be
dissolved unless its practices were
put down. And they have been put
down by proclamation — by a pro-
clamation, says the author of the
Reply, " which informs us that it is
wrong to transgress the laws, right
to obey them, and the duty of ma-
gistrates to enforce obedience." He
might have added, with equal truth,
that it is not the duty of a Minister
of the King of England to inflame

the minds of the people, by calling
the solemn decision of the legisla-
ture " the whisper of a faction." To
men — to noblemen — who could stoop
so low — and thus trail • their fore-
heads in the dirt, at the feet of sedi-
tious demagogues — England is to
trust for the Reform of her Constitu-
tion!

No wonder that with such a Mi-
nistry to imitate, the Press became
mob-worshipper. Not even during
the dreadful season immediately pre-
ceding the French Revolution, was
there a more hideous howl set up in
Paris than we have heard within the
year in London. Doctrines subver-
sive of all our institutions, social and
sacred, have been promulgated in
execrations. They have been daily
dinned into the ears of the people
over all the land. But the people
would not rebel — they had a dismal
apprehension of some great evil that
might befal them, even during the
exasperation of spirit which those
accursed arts had kindled; in the tur-
bulence of passion they felt that the
creed taught them was wrong, that
the conduct they were exhorted to
was wicked; and it is encouraging to
think that the lower orders — aye even
the lowest, have withstood the perni-
cious advice of their leaders, and that,
in obedience to it, towns have been
fired by those wretches only — so let
us believe — who without it would
for kindred crimes have been punish-
ed by deportation or death. The
people of England have been delu-
ded and betrayed, and instigated in-
to a state of mind and a line of con-
duct dangerous indeed, and if long
persisted in, destructive of all go-
vernment— but that they have not
risen up to subvert the state, a rising
that would to themselves have soon
had a terrible catastrophe, proves
how great, after all, must be their
attachment to it, shaken as that at-
tachment has been by so many infa-
mous appliances, once, and that not
long ago, firm, because deeply rooted
amid the roots in their hearts, proud
amidst many sufferings and many
sacrifices, of their country's great-
ness, under which was still sheltered
much enjoyment of life's best bless-
ings, wliile they beheld from their
shores on which no invader dared to
set foot, for the Conqueror of Europe
feared to face the sons of liberty,

1832.]

Reply to Lord Brougham's Speech.

people after people subjugated, we
may say, and enslaved, thrones tole-
rated to native kings, or filled, at his
beck, with aliens, till Britain over-
threw the Man of Blood, and blasted
his brotherhood of usurpers.

What atrocious wickedness to
practise such arts on such a people !
They have borne, with heroic forti-
tude, many evils which the fluctua-
tions incident to our vast commer-
cial system periodically bring upon
their condition; fluctuations which
we verily believe it is beyond the
power of human wisdom to prevent
or avert, though we have as little
doubt that some of the most fatal
were directly produced by the folly of
our rulers, in their ignorant zeal for
what they irrationally called the
Principles of Free Trade. Our im-
mense debt, too, must be a weight
felt by every poor man ; but it was
incurred in the cause of liberty, and
through the progress of glorious
wars, of which any one victorious
battle was " worth a whole archi-
pelago of sugar islands." So said
Wyndham ; for he was a patriot who
knew that the power and* opulence
of every people lie in the greatness
of their character, and sometimes
that can be shewn and sealed only
in blood, and accredited by difficult
and dangerous achievements. The
rich blood of brave men was pour-
ed out not only ungrudgingly, but
exultingly, for their country's ho-
nour— treasures transcending in their
worth all the gold in all the mines.
The people complained not of that ex-
pense; nor would they complain now,
but for reforming Ministers and mobs
who assail with curses the Consti-
tution for which those heroes fought,
and under which their forefathers
flourished, and who have had the
desperate audacity to attribute to its
abuses calamities, which in the course
of nature, and by nature's laws, arose
out of a policy which they and their
friends abetted or pursued, and that,
too, with the bold avowal of their
belief, that much misery must ensue
from such measures, but that it
would be merged at last in the gene-
ral prosperity of the nation.

With the causes of the frequent
distress of the people patent before
them — and at the same time with
the wellbeing of the people, (for
they were on the whole contented at

125

the time this insane scheme of Reform
was broached and spread out before
their eyes,) these Ministers of ours,
who, to hear them and their adherents
speak, a simpleton might suppose
were the sole sincere and disinter-
ested friends of the people, were so
thoroughly unprincipled as to bring
forth a Bill composed of firebrands,
and to throw it among the people,
audaciously declaring, that to set the
whole country on fire was the only
way to save it from ruin, and keep
it in peace. The people, unable to
believe that all this was done merely
to keep Whigs in office, became in
crowds converts to the Ministerial
creed that they were the most wretch-
ed of slaves — trampled upon by the
cloven feet of a cruel oligarchy, and
the victims of an oppression that had
gradually grown over them out of
that hideous heap and hubbub of
heinous anomalies — the British Con-
stitution.

'Twere long to tell the story of all
the base, brutal, and wicked arts em-
ployed to delude the people into
this insane persuasion — 'twere long
to tell the story of all the native
tendencies to delusion implanted in
the constitution of men's souls, and
how, at particular periods of its his-
tory, a nation seems sometimes for
a while suddenly to go stark-staring-
mad. Suffice it now to say, that wax-
ing more daring day by day, we shall
not say from impunity, for the law
is now a dead letter, but from en-
couragement given them in every
possible way, directly and indirectly,
openly and covertly, by Ministers,
the tribe of traitors who work a large
portion of the press incessantly call-
ed aloud on the peaceful people of
this happy laud to tear their robbed
rights from the hands of tyrants.
Unawed by the majesty of the laws
— now in abeyance — they scattered
their not ambiguous words among
the soldiers, whom they first tried to
cajole out of their allegiance to their
King, country, and their own un-
equalled fame — and then, when they
found all the heroes true as the steel
of their bayonets, to frighten the in-
vincibles by that notable project of a

feneral arming, which, at the first
ush of the scarlet like dawn upon
the mountains, would have melted
away like snow. 'Twas a coward
scheme, and could have been con*

126 Reply to Lord Brougham* s Speech.

ceived but in the hearts of cowards.
For the dunces could not disguise
their treason, while they cried cra-
ven; but while they imagined that
their motives were cunningly secret-
ed in their own base breasts, and
that the people believed that all their
mighty armament was to support the
poor trembling military, who had not
known what fighting was since the day
of Waterloo, against those buggaboos
the borough-mongers, the jacobin
hatred spunked out in every beg-
garly paragraph, through the gross
guilt of the grammar traitors use;
and it is confessed now by millions,
who were slow to credit such flagi-
tious folly, that their object was civil
war. And yet, to such a height,
and length, and breadth, had the in-
solence of those traitors — tailors and
such like — grown up as if it were a
stately cabbage, that if the friends
of social order, when speaking of
such iniquitous attempts to destroy
it, predicted, on any occasion as their
probable results, conflicts between
the populace and the military, in
which the infatuated rabble would
be scattered, and " quenched the
flame of bold rebellion, even in the
rebel's blood," why then hot, heavy,
and hissing as tailor's goose, the
rank-breath'd radical belched out
upon you the insufferable stench of
his sour stomach, the organ in which
he digests his politics as well as his
potatoes, and assailed you even in
written ribaldry with accusations of
desiring to see the people perish
under the hoofs of dragoons. Thus
a muddy madman, or rather a fetid
fraction, in the Westminster Review,
charged Christopher North with
high-treason against the people, for
having said at a Noctes that the rab-
ble, driven on by traitors, would ne-
ver rest till they had raised a dust at
Manchester, or elsewhere, that would
be laid in blood. They have done
so— at Nottingham, at Derby, and
Bristol. The dust was laid — re-
luctantly— in blood. And more hi-
deous still, scores of the drunken
wretches were burned alive in the
houses they in their frenzy had
set on fire, while soberer ruffians,
like tigers leaping out of a flaming
forest, escaped through the lurid
windows into the streets, where they
piled up plunder, and then, as at a
regular sale of furniture, acted the

[.tati*

auctioneer. It is melancholy to see
such a man as the accomplished Edi-
tor of the Westminster, so besotted
by the dregs of the drugs of Radical-
ism, as to admit into its boards the
blackguardisms of that consummate
blockhead — the Ass of the Age, who
braj^s himslf in a mortar. The cuddy
is a coxcomb too, and must needs have
a wreath of dockens round his ears,
as if he were a victor crowned at the
Olympic Games. But in the midst
of his capers, independently alto-

f ether of his ears, at every step on
is hind legs hejbetrays the donkey.
No animal more difficult of conceal-
ment than your ass, and your son of
an ass. He ought never to go in cha-
racter to a masquerade. There he
goes — obvious to all eyes — the Knight
of the Thistle. One domino after
another thwacks him across head or
tail — there is little difference be-
tween the two in shape or sound-
yet in the inscrutable obstinacy of his
being, he will not budge from the
cudgel, but opposes bone to blud-
geon with a determination of pur-
pose that, in a higher cause, would
make the helot a hero.

We allude to Long-Ears now,
merely to illustrate, by this Vicar of
Bray, the character of the stupid and
insolent radicals who have been
bawling the lower orders into rebel-
lion. And what think you of Dr
Bowring himself — advertising as a
puff preliminary to a new number of
his Review, that the people have al-
ready expressed their opinion on,
Reform, and that now is the time
for every man of them to take his
part in revolution ? And what think
ye of a Ministry, who take such a
man into their employment, and send
him over to Paris to learn how to
conduct accounts ! The Imbeciles !

As a relief from our eloquence,
do peruse the following passage from
the Reply.

" I accuse no man of wicked intentions
who has been acting in this ill-fated work.
But there is a wise rule, and it seems as
true in morals and politics, as in the
practice of municipal law, that men must,
for the purposes of correction, be taken
to have intended those things which are
the natural consequences of their own
actions. * Who would have thought it ?'
is the exclamation of every heedless and
mischievous man, who is mischievous be-
cause he is heedless, and runs into ruiiu

1832.]

Reply to Lord Brougham's Speech.

127

ous practices, because he never contem-
plated the consequences of his own acts.
But the law will not allow mischievous
idiots to" be abroad, any more than it
will suffer sane men to disown the ill ef-
fects of their own voluntary doings. The
intention must be presumed, where the
act is palpable.

" What did these men think was likely
to be the consequence of telling unletter-
ed multitudes, that the Government under
which they lived was one of corruption, ty-
ranny, oppression, and misrule ? Did they
suppose that magistrates would be allow-
ed to discharge their duty, and execute
the laws, when the King's Government
had been proclaiming to the people, that
the fountain of all law was foul and pol-
luted ? Are the makers of the laws to be
branded with ignominious epithets by
men in power, and the laws to be held
in veneration by the simple? Is a Par-
liament to be vilified, and its acts obey-
ed? But unless the Ministers of the King
can answer these questions by assent, they
are no less the enemies of the law than of
the constitution of their country. Those
who, in their places in Parliament, de-
nounce bishops for defending the cause
committed to their care, and for doing their
duty before their country and their God—
those are they, and not the'ragged wretches
impassioned by a momentary frenzy, who
truly hurl the firebrand at the palaces of
men whom they have publicly stigmatized
as meet objects of the vengeance of an
injured country. Who are the allies of
this British Neckar ? Who are they who
are called forth with triumphant air to
prove that there is no repentance in the
work of revolution ? They are the same
men of whom, in 1793, one who is now
on the same side the question with Cob-
bet, and Carlile, arid Earl Grey, thus
spoke, — < All the enemies of the British
constitution will cling to him, in spite of
his efforts to shake them off, until their
hatred of the present establishment shall
have been completely satiated in the ruin
of the state, in the misery and perhaps in
the blood, of all ranks and orders of the
people —

" Non missura cutem nisi plena cruoris him-
do."*

Men who tell bishops that they should
not vote, and ministers of religion that
they should not perform their sacred of-
fices, and magistrates that they should
not dispense the laws, lest those, forsooth,
be offended, to whom judgment, and re-

ligion, and law, are a peculiar stumbling-
block, and who will gladly join the King's
Ministers in removing these rocks of their
offence.

" Oh, how I should pity these Minis-
ters, if the time for pity were yet come !
But pity must give way to justice. Pity
sleeps while justice tarries. Justice, whe-
ther she resides in mortal laws or abideth
in Almighty councils, whether the arm
of man be her depository, or the arm of
God her surer refuge, will assuredly break
from the cloud beneath which she now
slumbers, and once more lighten on the
hearts of men, who, for no cause shown,
and no reason assigned, have excited the
discontent of numbers of their country-
men, against the essential institutions of
the government/)f their country, inflaming
the passions of the workers of mischief,
and deluding the simple to their own de-
struction ; who in one little year have,
by their evil councils, so torn, harassed,
and distracted their poor country, that
better men do not care to undertake the
reparation of those wrongs, of which
others have been the headlong authors ;
men who, from the beginning even to the
end of this unhallowed work, and by the
mouth of this great man whose speech I
have here considered, have given no one
single reason, so help me, God ! why
such a work should have been underta-
ken, either by the proof that the present
formation of Parliament was inefficient
•#>r its great purposes, the protection of
liberty, and the protection of property, or
the proof, or even the intimation, that
these purposes would be better answered
by its reconstruction on a new plan; but
who, adopting change for the love of
change, or the love of something worse,
suppose — for by their actions they ap-
pear to suppose it — that long enough has
England been free from the miseries of
revolution, and flourished for nigh two
centuries of tranquillity and repose; long
enough has she been contented at home,
and feared abroad ; contented, as far as is
consistent with that freedom which is her
best birthright ; feared, wherever liberty
has required protection, or the arm of
the oppressor has been felt. Long enough
has the balance of power between the
three estates of the realm, controlling,
not conflicting powers, that unrevealed
secret of antiquity, which sages saw in
vision, and sighed, and toiled, and prayed
for, but never could accomplish ; long
enough has the just equipoise of King,

* Lord Mornington's Speech on Mr Grey's motion, 1703,—
Sister, vol. xxxy, P, 449,

Reply to Lord Brougham's Speech. [Jan,

Lords, and Commons, been so curiously
fixed, and wonderfully maintained, ' that
some have been vain enough to imagine
that the balance had been adjusted by
more than mortal hand.' They may be
clever men, and cunning are the fables
which they have devised. They may be
wise in their generation ; but the viola-
ted laws, and the threatened constitution
of England, and the blood of those alrea-
dy slain, will rise up in judgment against
this generation, and will condemn it ;
and condemn it for the same reason, be-
cause it repented not. God grant that
they may repent ! God grant that their
errors may be forgotten ! But until there
be signs of repentance, and the hopes
of amendment be well founded, it is the
duty of every faithful subject of the mo-
narchy of England, to oppose the ruin-
ous designs of her misguided Ministers —
to oppose might by right, violence by
law, tyranny by freedom of speech, falla-
cy by argument, and falsehood by the
truth."

That is finely said, and we rejoice
in such a coadjutor. Where may we
look for such writing on the side of
the Revolutionists ? There was a
time when they wrote and spoke
well on Reform — when Brougham,
(and Horner,) and Jeffrey, and Mac-
intosh tore to pieces all the provi-
sions in the late Bill, and trampled
them under foot with as proper, and*
personal, and patriotic indignation,
as did the first and greatest of the
three trample under foot the letter
that offered him the Attorney-Gene-
ralship, at a time when he knew he
had within a stride, softly swelling
for his seat of honour, the Woolsack.
But now their lips drivel, and their
pens dribble — and they rave and
write like Radicals, without gravity,
and without grace — and unkindled
by the igneus vigor that gave them
inspiration in their better days. Com-
pare with the miserable pamphlets
they have lately put forth, the power-
ful articles that for nearly thirty
years were appearing in the Edin-
burgh Review, the Essays on Re-
form in the Quarterly, and in the
North American Reviews, Colonel
Stewart's philosophical Disquisitions
on the Principles of Government —
Sir John Walsh's admirable Essays
on " the Measure," the Examination
of the Friendly Advice to the Lords,
this Reply to Lord Brougham's
speech, and the twelve masterly

articles on Reform and the French
Revolution in this Magazine,— and
what a contemptuous opinion would
you have of men esteemed wise in
their generation, did you not correct
that erroneous opinion of their ta-
lents, by a true opinion of their
principles, and remember that even
genius itself falls fluttering to the
ground, when trying in vain to soar
in an atmosphere of falsehood. How
else could a man so prodigally en-
dowed by nature as Lord Brougham,
and with all his vast endowments
ennobled by highest education, have
spoken upwards of four hours on the
greatest question that ever was de-
bated in an assembly of free men, and
his speech prove a sprawling failure,
withafewpassages ofmagnificentbut
over ambitious diction, — the main ar-
guments feeble and jejune almost
beyond belief, illogical and contra-
dictory, sophisms all without even
the merit of ingenuity, and " false
glitter" in lieu of that glory that was
wont so often of yore to illumine his
winged words!

Instead of rushing at once into the
heart of the great subject, as on other
occasions we have heard him do
with the conscious power of a giant,
he kept shilly-shallying in a strain of
puerile sarcasm on particular ex-
pressions in the orations of other
Lords, for a long hour at least; and
for half-an-hour more, crept round
and about the outworks, as if afraid
to make his attack upon the first
entrenchment. At last he closes with
the question — and says " that the
L.10 rental isnot a low qualification."
It is at least ten pounds lower than
the qualification which he himself
had fixed upon as the lowest in his
own plan of reform. And even now,
though shy to condemn it, he hints
dislike, arid talks of securing for the
Lords who hate it, a fair hearing in
committee. How kind and consi-
derate ! What says his antagonist ?

" Not low ? but compared with what ?
What is the test of lowness ? To say it is
not low, and to fix no standard by which
high arid low may be determined, is mere
vague and idle assertion. But what fol-
lows next ? Why, that on this very point,
the L. 10 franchise, this most important
of all the mighty innovations of this Bill,
the Lord Chancellor of England had not
made up his mind, and had no opinion at
all to give, ( It was, a proper subject;

Reply 'to Lord Brougham's Speech.

for discussion in committee.' That very
Bill which the late House of Commons
was dissolved because they dared to med-
dle with, was now to go into committee
in the House of Lords, with the noble
and learned Lord on the woolsack ex-
pressly withholding any opinion, either of
approval or of disapprobation, on the most
monstrous and sweeping measure of in-
novation comprised within its four cor-
ners. And then why defend it ? Why
maintain the necessity of that which is
especially reserved for the determination
of the committee? O, but some mode-
rate man will say, why not go into com-
mittee? Why not go into committee?
—Why, because there is not one single
reason given in this Speech, or in any
other speech, why an uniform right of
voting should be established in all the
boroughs of England ; or why there
should be any rental qualification at all, —
because thinking men know that the very
inequality of the right of voting is one of
the inimitable excellencies of our system ;
and because they agree with the immortal
Burke, * That the very inequality of re-
presentation which is so foolishly com-
plained of, is perhaps the very thing
which prevents us from thinking or act-
ing as members for districts. Cornwall
elects as many members as all Scotland,
but is Cornwall better taken care of than
Scotland ?"

Lord Brougham then proceeds,
after stating that it was " necessary to
draw a line somewhere," but omit-
ting to state how towns, with 10,000
inhabitants, would rest contented
without any representatives, while
towns of 4,000 enjoyed two, to tell
the old, stale, false story of the Nabob
of Arcot putting twenty members
into the House of Commons. Our
Examiner quashes this nonsense, by
telling us that on looking into the
records of Indian delinquency, he
saw that it was asserted before a
committee, that in order to make
the House a party to the nabob in
his designs upon Tanjore, a scheme
had been formed of bribing a ma-
jority of the representatives of the
nation with L. 700,000 ,• a magnificent
scheme truly, and worthy of the grand
soul of a nabob j but unfortunately
it was not crowned with success;
and it seems, he adds cuttingly, a
novel sort of homage to pay to vir-
tue, to call it to an account for un-
committed trespasses, and to make
resisted temptation, not the badge of
innocence, but the measure of dis-
grace.

VOL. XXXI. NO, CLXXXIX.

129

Freemen are stated to be some-
times poor men, and therefore those
who stand up for property are ridi-
culed by Lord Brougham for uphold-
ing the rights of freemen. He asks,
" was the fact of a person being a
freeman a test of property ?" Cer-
tainly not. But hear again the Ex-
aminer of the four hour speech.

" That is the new doctrine which the
Reformers have introduced and import-
ed from France ; it is not necessary that
every voter should be a man of property
in order to have property represented in
the House of Commons. The beauty of
the old system has been, that high and
low, rich and poor, have all been repre-
sented in that House, and the result of
the whole has been, that none, not even
the poorest, being excluded as a class, yet
nevertheless property has maintained its
influence, and been adequately protected.
But we are told, ' that many freemen
are in the receipt of parochial relief.'
Well ! are no L. 10 renters under the
same circumstances ? If the Lord Chan-
cellor has not forgotten his sessions law,
he will remember that a settlement by
renting a L.10 tenement is a fruitful
source of parish litigation, and that these
questions do not arise until the parties
are removed, and that they are not re-
moved till they have become chargeable."

Lord Brougham says, " that the
Crown was not from time to time in
the exercise of its just privileges for
the masters of rotten boroughs, and
that the people were not in the en-
joyment of their interests and rights
for the masters of rotten boroughs."
The power of a master of a rotten
borough is a great mystery ; it is at
once an impediment to prerogative,
and an encroachment on the rights
of the people. The prerogative is
now the holiest thing in nature be-
fore the eyes of a king-serving, time-
serving Whig. To reduce it, we re-
member when destruction to those
boroughs was the cry. But now, to
restore the privileges of the Crown,
close boroughs must be destroyed.
When the same prescription, quoth
the Examiner, is to cure all sorts of
opposite diseases, I always set down
the doctor for a quack.

But we are now at length arrived
at the great question j the sum, and
substance, and very essence of the
whole argument, namely, whether
there ought to be a more direct re-

g-esentation of the people in the
ouse of Commons. Ana how does
i

130

the Lord Chancellor solve this pro-
blem ? Hear him — and hear his Ex-
aminer.

" By an ambiguous and equivocal use
of the word representation ; by a mere
quibble, and play upon the word. I
grieve to say it, I beg pardon for saying
it, but it is true. ' O, it was exclaimed,
this is representation ! and why not ?
Ought it not to be representation ? Were
they not upon the question of representa-
tion ? Were they not, he asked, dealing
with the question of a representative form
of government, and the right constitution
of the House of Commons? And what
was the answer? Why, this is rank re-
presentation ; why, this is allowing to the
people the choice of their own represent-
atives. It is neither more nor less than
a new unheard-of, unimagined, and most
abominable, intolerable, and inconceivably
inconsistent, and detestably pernicious
novelty, that the people should have a
voice in the choice of members of Par-
liament.' The first objection is, that it
is direct representation, and that is an-
swered by saying, not proving, that it
ought to be representation ; and so it
should ; but the question is, what sort of
representation ? And that question is not
argued. Then, again, it is true, the
question is as to ' the right constitution
of the House of Commons,' but there is
no proof that that constitution ought to
be more popular, or, in other words, that
it would be more right if it were so.
Then, again, that the people should have
a voice in the choice of members is no
novelty at all. They have it now ; that
they should have a greater voice is the
novelty, and pernicious it is, for no rea-
son is given why it should be otherwise.
The whole argument is this ; it should
be representation, because it is about re-
presentation that we are talking ; in other
words, it should be because it should, or
because I say it should, or because it is ;
and either reason is equally absurd. And
is this, I ask, and I entreat my fellow-
countrymen to consider of it, is this the
sort of reasoning with which this great
argument is to be treated, and this stu-
pendous question settled and decided ? Is
this the result of the deliberations of a
man who, an hour before, had said that
every hour of his life might have been
profitably devoted to the consideration of
that vast matter, which he here dismisses
with the petulance of a child, or the
flippancy of a silly woman, building up
his sophism on the equivocal use of the
term representation? And yet this is the
only argument offered to prove that Aris-
totle, and Cicero, and Tacitus, and Hume,

Reply to Lord Brougham's Speech.

[Jan.

and Burke, and Canning, were all wrong
when they doubted or disbelieved that a
representative assembly, elected indepen-
dently by the people, could exist in a
mixed government, or would tolerate the
control of two other legislative bodies."

And now, assuming that he has
given proof of the necessity of po-
pular changes, Lord Brougham pro-
ceeds to the other great task of
proving that the Bill is a restoration
of things lost. How ? Thus. " It
has been asked, at what time in the
history of England could it be shewn
that any such rights of voting as this
Bill established were known in Eng-
land? Edward VI. created twenty
boroughs, and restored as many ;
good Queen Elizabeth created forty-
eight, and revived twelve ; and down
to the time of the Restoration, 200
boroughs were revived, created, or
added." Alas ! alas ! what shallow
sophism have we here from so great
an intellect! The enfranchisement
of towns is to be an argument for
disfranchisement, creation the pre-
cedent for extinction. But suppose
it be said that the creation of bo-
roughs by Queen Elizabeth is an
authority for a farther enfranchise-
ment— is it any authority for the Bill
—for the L.10 franchise ? The ques-
tion here is as to the right of voting.
Is it meant to be insinuated that the
L.10 renters have ever since elected
their representatives in those bo-
roughs ? If so, that is a mistake ;
were it so, the clause which gives
the privilege would be useless; as
it is not so, the statement proves
nothing. But Prynne, says Lord
Brougham, states that fifty-four new
boroughs were created in his time,
and a report of a committee of the
House of Commons declared, " that
as there was no ancient custom or
prescription as to who should be
electors or not, recourse must be
had to what was common right,
which for this purpose was held to be
that not only the freemen in boroughs
should have a voice in the elec-
tions, but also all inhabitant house-
holders resident within the borough."
" What becomes then," exclaims his
Lordship triumphantly, " of the doc-
trine that this Bill is an innovation ?"
His Examiner tells him what be-
comes of the doctrine — that it stands
as fast as a rock. The case referred
to, is that of Cirencester — in Glan-

1832.]

Reply to Lord Brougham '« Speech.

ville's Reports — and the word free-
holders should be substituted for
freemen, and the word certain for
ancient— for so is it written in Glan-
ville. And then how does this case
stand ? That in the absence of custom
to the contrary ', the inhabitant house-
holders (not the L.10 renters, mark
ye) are to be the electors— thereby
admitting, that where there is a cer-
tain custom, that custom must be
observed. Not one syllable is there
about the L.10 franchise. " Should
the Crown be ever advised," con-
tinues Lord Brougham, " to send
writs to Manchester or Birmingham,
the right of voting would, by the
common law, be in the resident
householders." No doubt — quoth
his Examiner — it would ; there
would be no custom, and according
to the doctrine of the Committee re-
ferred to from Glanville, the house-
holders would vote. But what say
his Majesty's Ministers? That they
shall not vote. Mr Hunt, a consistent
radical, in this at least, is for the
householders. But Ministers, with
the Lord Chancellor at their head,
set up the right — argue upon it as a
right — then take it away, and glory in
that injustice, which upon Radical
principles they have proved to be
worthy of 110 milder name. And
this is all the argument in the speech
to prove that the measure is not one
of innovation, but merely of restora-
tion.

Lord Dudley had objected to the
L.10 qualification, as giving the fran-
chise to men who would be occupied
in earning their bread, and could not
have time to instruct themselves or
attend to state affairs. Lord Brougham
waxes wroth with this self-evident
truth, and accuses Lord Dudley of
" deriding the knowledge of the ma-
nufacturers of Birmingham in legis-
lation," " in his pride of knowledge
of hexameter and entameter verse."

That is an exceedingly silly

from some sumph

sarcasm.

He quotes a letter

at Derby, stating that at a meeting
in that town, " the best speech was
made by a common mechanic." Very
probably. There are many clever
and glib-tongued common mechanics
— and the better sort of Whigs are
such miserable speakers, that in the
wretchedness of their circumambient
oratory, the common mechanic may
have seemed a Cicero or Demosthe-

131

nes. But, generally speaking, nobody
will deny that common mechanics
who open their mouths and speak on
politics are utterers of base coin, just
like their Whig masters. And it is
satisfactory to know that the most
intelligent and best-informed of that
very class do, in their " ravelled
sleeves of care," laugh at their " ble-
thering brethren" of the hustings,
and consider them crazed, dissipated,
or desperate.

Finally, quoth the Examiner — the
" best speech" is a particularly equi-
vocal term. There are persons in
this country to whose taste the most
seditious speech would be incompa-
rably " the best." For example, the
150,000 living creatures, whose vote
of thanks was so delightful to the
high soul of an Althorp, and a Rus-
seT, and a Grey. Among the cor-
respondents of those noblemen are
men, we know, who would call no
speech good, much less " best" —
that tolerated taxes, and did not
preach up non-payment thereof to a
loyal people — to the tune of God
save the King.

In spite, then, of Lord Dudley's
knowledge of hexameters and pen-
tameters, which we doubt not is per-
fect, for a more accomplished scho-
lar there is not in England, his opi-
nion seems well grounded, that the
mechanics of Birmingham — though
assuming to be so — are neither philo-
sophers nor statesmen. You may
abuse at present any body, or any
body of men, you please — except
ten-pound shop or householders.
Speak of them slightingly as judges
or men and manners in all political
affairs, and you are, if not sacrificed
on the spot, at least snubbed by some
sour Whig and sore, for calumnia-
ting the " middle classes." The mid-
dle classes !

They are a thin-skinned nation of
shopkeepers. Laugh at them, not
sardonically, but sweet as a sloe in
the hedge — and merely in their elec-
tive or legislative capacity — and lo,
faces ct saxa volant at the head of
the smiling Tory, who has the base-
ness to curl his lip at a gentleman
of the middle class, who pays L.10
per annum for the house in which
his high mightiness is lodged, and
at least as much more for board !
Many thousands of them are most
worthy people— but we cannot bring

132

to Lord Brougham's

[Jan

ourselves to believe that they ought
to return two-thirds of the House of
Commons. Lord Brougham, not-
withstanding the doubts he lets
escape him, is severe on us for some-
thing or other, we scarcely know
what, regarding this class who claim
immunity from criticism. " For
the Opposition," says he, " object to
disfranchising boroughs, by which
you say the trade and manufactures
of great towns are now represent-
ed ; and yet, though that is your rea-
son for retaining them, you object
to giving those towns representa-
tives ! 1" Stop a bit— not so fast, my
lord. The question is — de tribus ca-
pellis— which may be translated some-
what freely, " inhabitants, living in
L.10 town houses." It is far from
being as clear as the sun at noonday
— to borrow an original and novel
simile from the Stot— that those L.10
men would be the very best judges
of what the interests of these towns
require ; and it may so happen that
their interests may have been better
managed by members, who do not
represent the renters of tenements
at three shillings and tenpence a-
week. They would soon vulgarize
the House of Commons into a nest of
radicals — worse than wasps — blow-
flies,' that with all their beautiful buz-
zing about the ears of the borough-
mongers, would swell into blue-bot-
tles, feeding foul, and fattening on
corruption.

It has been asked — and well — how
can the Crown exercise its right of
appointing its own Ministers, with-
out close boroughs ? They might not
be elected, though the ablest and
fittest persons in the whole country,
in consequence of having fallen in-
to unpopularity. What says Lord
Brougham ? He admits the objec-
tion, but says, " that some addition
might be proposed in committee, if
it did not affect the principle of free
election ; but if it could not be al-
tered, then take one mischief in order
to guard against a greater one."
That now-a-days is wisdom.

" Now what is all this ? The Bill,
admitted to be destructive of tfie undoubt-
ed privileges of the Crown, and that not
by its portended consequences, but by its
inevitable immediate operation; no re-
medy even suggested for this destruction
of the first and most important preroga-
tive of the monarchy j a promise to con-

aider of the thing in committee ; that pro-
mise fettered by the condition that no
addition made for the purpose should
affect the principle of free election ; that
principle, if it means any thing, meaning
this, that the Crown should not exercise
any influence over the elections, and
should consequently be debarred from
keeping in its service those men who,
though the fittest and ablest in the coun-
try, have been discarded by that very
freedom of election. ' If it did not alter
the principle of free election ?' Why, it
is the professed principle of free election
which creates all the difficulty, and which
is here plainly admitted to be incompati-
ble with the existence of the monarchy,
or, at least, with the exercise of those
rights for which alone monarchy is of
any value. ' Take one mischief in order
to guard against a greater one ?' What do
these words mean ? what is the greater
one? what is the greater constitutional
mischief (and it is of constitutional mis-
chiefs that we are speaking) than that the
King of England should not be able to
appoint his own Ministers ? Can the ad-
mission be sincere, when such an evil ad-
mitted is called comparatively a lesser
one ? Is there no lurking arid secret hope
remaining, that there will still be the
power of sending Ministers into the House
of Commons without undergoing the or-
deal of free election ? That there will still
be close boroughs, but that they will have
changed hands, and be in the possession
of another party ? This is no new suspi-
cion. In 1793, an opponent of Mr Grey
said, * By a change in the Government,
the hon. gentleman could not intend
merely a change in the administration ;
he was undoubtedly incapable of proposing
to the nation to alter the whole of the re-
presentation in Parliament, for a purpose
so unworthy as that of transferring power
from the hands of any party to those of an-
other.' What, in common honesty, is the
meaning of all this ? Is there some mis-
take? Will the King's Ministers stand
by the admission that the Bill is to de-
stroy the King's prerogatives ? or when
they talk of free election, do they mean

that CLOSE BOROUGHS ARE TO BE DESTROYED
IN THE HANDS OF THEIR POLITICAL OPPON-
ENTS AND CREATED IN THEIR OWN ? Those

are the questions. And men who are
attached to the monarchy of England and
plain dealing, expect an answer."

But what would you think ? The
Lord Chancellor of England abso-
lutely declares, that " at the deliver-
ing of the sword of justice to the
noble Earl at the head of his Ma-
jesty's Government, his Majesty vow-

1SJ2.J

Reply to Lord Brougham's Speech.

eel that he would restore things gone
to decay, and maintain those restored
— implying that he would extend the
right of voting for counties to copy-
holders, for boroughs to LAO house-
holders.'" As rationally might the
Chancellor have said that his Ma-
jesty had sworn to establish Universal
Suffrage ! The absurdity of such in-
terpretation of the Coronation oath,
is equalled only by that involved in
a subsequent assertion — made with
considerable gravity — that a reform,
that is, a popular — or rather as we
say a democratic Parliament, will
never suffer the nation to go to war !
On this astounding foolishness of his
Lordship's, his Examiner makes some
excellent observations and quota-
tions ; but the author of the articles
on Reform and the French Revolu-
tion, in this Magazine, settled that
question to the head and heart's con-
tent of all men — so let them believe
in the pacific character of a demo-
cratic government, who, in their old
age, have abjured the astronomical
heresies of the Newtonian system,
and believe that our earth is the im-
movable centre of the universe, and
its moon made of the greenest of
cheese.

But Lord Brougham's opinion of
democracy is hard to come at. We
have heard him sneering at Lord
Dudley for sneering at the statesmen
of Birmingham — we have heard him
reproving that nobleman, with much
dignity, for deriding those by whom
" moderation, respectful demeanour,
and affectionate attachment to their
Lordships' house, had been evinced
in every one of their petitions." The
selfsame men enter into a resolu-
tion, which their eulogist not only
calls unlawful, but says, that " if
unhappily the effect should proceed
farther into the country, if they were
not put down, the elements of go-
vernment would be dissolved." Are
there then — asks his Examiner — two
Birminghams, the one peaceful, mo-
derate, attached to the constitution,
the other unlawful, seditious, and
condemned ? And, gentle shepherd,
tell me why — should have come out
a Proclamation specially levelled " at
those peaceful and affectionate Bir-
minghamites — the rebellious child-
ren of a reforming Cabinet ?"

Lord Brougham has said, " to me,
who am a worshipper of the democra-

133

cyy this was a tempting occasion —
for here was Juggernaut, before whom
150,000 persons (read 20,000, meo
periculo, — C. N.) were ready to
prostrate themselves." On this fine
burst of eloquence, (as it was called
in some newspapers,) the author of
the Reply beautifully remarks, that it
is a strange confession from a Peer
of the realm, the occupier of the
Woolsack, and Speaker of the House
of Lords, that he should worship the
democracy at all, especially since it
is asked in a former part of the
speech, " Where was the man who
had yielded less to the demands of
the populace, than the individual
now before their Lordships? And
even much credit is there taken for
having exposed their insanity, delu-
sion, and folly." " But whatever" —
continues the acute and eloquent
Examiner — " whatever be the demon
of his idolatry, or whether he be the
idol of the people, the service con-
fers but little honour, or little bene-
fit, where blessings are mingled with
maledictions, and the objects of adora-
tion, and the faith of the worshippers,
are equally fickle and insincere."

But we come now to that part of
the Speech — and it is the poorest of
it all — intended to prove that it would
be justifiable for the Ministers of the
King to recommend his Majesty to
create a sufficient number of Peers
to secure to themselves a majority
for the Reform Bill in the Upper
House of Parliament. Here his an-
tagonist meets him in great power,
and demolishes the incautious and
presumptuous giant, who has come
to the combat without armour and
without arms. The author of the
Reply bids us remember that this is
no argument to shew that the mea-
sure itself is wise ; it is to shew that,
whether wise or unwise, it maybe
forced on the legislature. It is an
enunciation of means for attaining an
object, not a justification of the ob-
ject to be attained. We shall now
lay before the public the gist of this
admirable writer's argument against
the base and wicked doctrine, ad-
verse to all principles of constitution-
al law, but no doubt now again to be
preached by the brazen impudence
of the revolutionary press.

Mr Pitt made twenty Peers in one
batch, for a particular purpose—
therefore., so ought Lord Grey— his

184

Lordship having been, we presume,
all his life an admirer of that states-
man, and at its close being desirous
to become his follower. Lord Grey
has made twenty-five Peers already
— coronation peers; but he has in-
dignantly denied the imputation that
they were made with a view to carry
this measure. He has indignantly de-
nied that which the Lord Chancellor
defends, on Mr Pitt's authority — that
same Lord Chancellor who once de-
clared at an election dinner, or some
such occasion, that he had written
his own epitaph — " Here lies the ene-
my of William Pitt." An affecting
specimen of the Christian spirit of
brotherly kindness. These new
Peers, Lord Grey says, are all men
who will do honour to the Peerage ;
and it was by mere chance that they
supported the Reform Bill.

The answer to all this is short-
Mr Pitt never made a single Peer
for the purpose of carrying any par-
ticular measure. Precedent is some-
thing even in high treason— but
here, for a precedent, his Majesty's
Ministers must avert their faces from
the frowning aspect and knit brow
of the son of Chatham.

But what is the law ?— The King of
England has no right, by law, to ex-
ercise his prerogative for the pur-
pose of annihilating the decision of
Parliament— and therefore Tie will not
so exercise it.

But they who argue for the right,
say, it is admitted that it is within
the King's prerogative to create Peers
—and that being so, it must be with-
in his prerogative to create them
when, and to what amount, he pleases.
It may be wrong— it may be an in-
discreet exercise of the power ; but
the power existing in the preroga-
tive, it cannot be unlawful to use it,
in the absence of any positive law
for its restriction.

Answer.— These shallow persons
arrive at their conclusion from the
equivocal use of the words law and
prerogative. They forget that law,
in this case, means something other
than what is written— and that pre-
rogative can only be fairly, and
therefore of right, exercised in com-
pliance with that unwritten rule :
They forget that there is no preroga-
tive to do wrong ; and that it is un-
lawful to attempt it. Why, even in
the reign of Charles the First, Sir

Reply to Lord Brougham* s Speech.

[Jan.

Henry Finch, writing in support of
prerogative, thus qualifies his argu-
ment, " For, in them all it must be
remembered, that the King's prero-
gative stretcheth not to the doing of
any wrong."

Is then the act which has been at-
tempted to be justified— wrong ? Do
not juggle the answer by any consi-
deration of the merits or demerits of
the Bill of Reform. But ask any
reasonable lover of liberty, whether
he can think it other than abuse, for
a Constitutional King, who has been
advised by his Ministers to consult
his Parliament on the merits of a
new law proposed to them, to take
upon himself, by his sign-manual, to
annul the decision of the Upper
House of Parliament, because, in the
exercise of that right, it differed
from the opinion of his Ministers ?

" No sober man can doubt about the
answer which he should give to this
question. But it has been laid down by
a learned Judge, in a treatise on this branch
of constitutional law, that there are three
auxiliary rights of the subject, which
serve principally as outworks or barriers
to protect and maintain inviolate the three
great primary rights of personal security,
personal liberty, and private property.
These are, first, the constitution, powers,
and privileges of Parliament ; secondly,
the limitation of the King's prerogative;
thirdly, the courts of justice for the re-
dress of injuries. Now, if there be one
definition of a wrong clearer than another,
it is this, that it is that which would de-
prive us of a right. It would therefore
be an injury for either of these constitu-
tional rights to be exercised for the de-
struction of another : It would cease to
be a right when so exercised, and the
work done would be a constitutional
wrony. This would be equally the case,
whether the legislative power of Parlia-
ment, the limited prerogative, or the ad-
ministration of the laws, happened to be
the subject of aggression : because all are
equally constitutional rights."

But to what a degree, asks this
truly constitutional writer, is this
wrong exercised, when the law
thus sought to be violently exerted,
is itself a reconstruction of the go-
verning power, and a fundamental
change in the constitution of one
House of Parliament ? When the
Sovereign, in a limited monarchy,
should appoint a House of Peers for
the special purpose of remodelling

1832.]

Ueply to Lord Brougham's Speech.

the House of Commons, and thus at
one blow destroying the legislature,
to whose opinion it was the duty, of
his Ministers to submit, should call
another into existence to obey the
mandates of executive authority. It
would be unmixed despotism.

But the question is set at rest for
ever — in the minds of all conscien-
tious men — by the following perfect
refutation of a doctrine which only
slaves would whisper in the ear of a
tyrant; and therefore, whatever may
be the " whisper of that faction,"
which from the lips of his Ministers
may breathe around the throne, never
can it find entrance into the soul of
our King.

"'These are sound principles of con-
stitutional law. They have been once
infringed ; certainly only once, since the
Revolution ; nor is there any thing in
the precedent worthy of imitation. After
all the long and eminent services of the
Duke of Marlborough, he was dismissed
by the intrigues of his political opponents.
The Tories had resolved upon effecting
the disgraceful measure of the Peace of
Utrecht, for some of the transactions con-
nected with which treaty the Earl of Ox-
ford and Lord Bolingbroke were after-
wards impeached, and of which a noble
and learned person is reported to have
said, that it was a measure 'which the ex-
ecration of after ages had left inadequately
censured.' But though a majority of the
Commons were well inclined to relin-
quish the honour and interest of their
country, and acquiesce in the measures
of government, the House of Peers de-
spised the favour of a court which was
only to be purchased at so grievous an
expense. Here then the step was taken.
The minister of Queen Anne, the Earl of
Oxford, immediately created twelve peers.
In that day there were found twelve Eng-
lish gentlemen base enough to lend their
voices to a minister, to annihilate the
independence of Parliament, and to take
up the polluted ermine of nobility, as the
livery of their own degradation. The
slory is thus told by the cotemporary his-
torian. ' But they, finding the majority
of the House of Lords could not be
brought to favour their designs, resolved
to make an experiment that none of our
princes had ventured on in former times ;
a resolution was taken up very suddenly,
of making twelve peers all at once; three
of these were called up by writ, being
eldest sons of Peers, and nine more were
created by patent. Sir Miles Wharton, to
whom it was offered, refused it: he

135

thought it looked like the serving a turn,
and that whereas peers were wont to be
made for services they had done, he would
be made for services to be done by him ;
so he excused himself, and the favourite's
husband, Mr Masham, was put in his
room.'

"But the matter did not rest here.
These twelve peers were created in 171 1.
In 1719, Lord Sunderland introduced his
celebrated Peerage Bill. It is thus that
* worse corruptions are engendered for
the concealment and security of the old.'
The object of this Bill was to maintain
the power of the minister by an imme-
diate creation of thirty-one peerst and the
future limitation of the prerogative ; and
the arguments principally relied on by its
supporters, were drawn from the abuse of
the prerogative by Queen Anne. This Bill
was rejected in the Commons after it had
passed the Lords; and it was defeated
by the eloquence, and much more by the
firmness and resolution, of Sir Robert
Walpole. His conduct is a fine example
of what may be done by a single man, who
has courage equal to his abilities. On
this occasion, Sir Robert Walpole alone
preserved the constitution. At a meet-
ing of the Whigs at Devonshire House,
he found the whole body of those who
ought to hare been his zealous support-
ers, 'lukewarm, irresolute, or despond-
ing; several peers secretly favouring a
bill which would increase their import-
ance ; others declaring, as Whigs, that it
would be a manifest inconsistency to ob-
ject to a measure tending to prevent the
repetition of an abuse of prerogative, against
which they had repeatedly inveighed.
Those who were sincerely averse to it,
were unwilling to exert themselves in
hopeless resistance, and it was the pre-
vailing opinion that the bill should be
permitted to pass without opposition.'
At this meeting Walpole stood alone, and
having used arguments and remonstran-
ces in vain, at last declared, that if de-
serted by his party, he himself would
singly stand forth, and oppose the bill.
' This declaration gave rise to much al-
tercation, and many persuasions were
made to deter him from adopting a mea-
sure which appeared chimerical and ab-
surd ; but when they found that he per-
sisted, the whole party gradually came
over to his opinion, and agreed that an
opposition should be made in the House
of Commons.' The consequence of this
conduct was, that the Peerage Bill was
defeated in the Commons. That very
bill which passed the House of Lords
with but one opponent, and which the
opposition party, but for Sir Robert Wal-
pole, would have allowed to pass in de-

136

spair, was triumphantly rejected by a ma-
jority of 269 against 177.

f ' There are three speeches in that de-
bate especially worthy of attention. They
are those of Sir Robert Walpole, Sir Rich-
ard Steele, and Mr Hampden. Sir Robert
says, ' the view of the ministry in framing
this bill, is plainly nothing but to secure
their power in the House of Lords. The
principal argument on which the neces-
sity of it is founded, is drawn from the
mischief occasioned by the creation of
twelve peers during the reign of Queen
Anne, for the purpose of carrying an in-
famous peace through the House of Lords.
That was only a temporary measure,
whereas the mischief to be created by
this bill will be perpetual. It creates
thirty-one Peer shy authority of Parliament ;
so extraordinary a step cannot be sup-
posed to be taken without some sinister
design in future.'

" Sir Richard Steele says, « If the
thirty odd, who are to be ennobled by this
bill, are to be made up by present mem-
bers of the House of Commons, such
members are to climb to honour through in-
famy. . . . The prerogative can do no
hurt when ministers do their duty. . . .
As for any sudden and surprising way of
creation, that lies before the legislature
for censure ; and the great diminution
which all creations bring upon the King's
authority, is a sufficient defence against
the abusive employment of that authority
this way.' And he ended his excellent
speech with these words : — * Since there
is so full a House at this debate, I doubt
not but it will infallibly end according to
justice, for I can never think the liberty
of England in danger at such a meeting;
but for my part, I am against committing
this bill, because I think it would be
committing of sin.'

" And now for a supporter of the bill.
Let us see, without approving of his
views, what were Mr Hampden's argu-
ments on behalf of his friend Lord Sun-
derland. He said, ( If we now come to
the House of Lords itself, this bill will
confine the number of peers in it to what
it is at present. Suppose, therefore, that
the present and all succeeding kings
should take a resolution not to add to
the number of peers. ... No one, I
presume, would tax "such a resolution
either with weakness or evil design, be-
cause it is evident that by this means,
one way at least of forcing through the
House of Lords what is agreeable to a
court, though never so bad in itself, or
of hindering what is disagreeable though
never so good, is entirely cut off. It is
our interest, and the interest of the pub-
lic, that the consultations of that House

Reply to Lord Brougham's Speech.

[Jan.

should be free, which they would not be
said to be, at a time when the crown pour-
ed in a member of lords to carry a question
in danger. . . . The House of Lords, I say,
what will it become in time ? Who would
not envy our posterity the sight of double
or treble the present number of peers ?
Or who would not applaud the figure our
constitution must make at such a time,
if it can be then called oar constitution,
when it is impossible to suppose that
men of worth and virtue will be prevail-
ed upon to help to fill that House, and
when yet it must be supposed that others
will do it, to answer the particular occa-
sions of a court, or their own necessities
or ends at the same time ?'

" Now to these opinions of the great
Whigs of the early part of the last cen-
tury, opinions which derive a prodigious
weight from the fact of the personal op-
position in which those who entertained
them were engaged, I will add one more
opinion, and that of a man of very dif-
ferent political views and bias, and one
who was. bred in far other notions of the
freedom and the constitution of his coun-
try. I will now give the opinion of a
high prerogative lawyer of the court of
James II. ; of a chief justice, of whom
it is said by Burnet, ' that he unhappily
got into a set of very high notions about
the King's prerogative,' and who, in com-
pliance with those notions, led eleven
judges out of twelve to sanction, by their
decision, the dispensing power of the
crown, a prerogative of setting aside the
enactments of Parliament, and establish-
ed the true basis and necessity of the Re-
volution. In a written and published
defence of his own judgment, in the case
of Sir Edward Hales, Sir Edward Her-
bert thus argues :

" « Objection 3. But if the King have
a power to dispense with one (law,) he
may dispense with twenty, with an hun-
dred, and so the statute may become of
little force.'

" Answer. — From the abuse of a thing
to draw an argument against the thing
itself, is no consequence at all. It is, as
is resolved in the cases, a high trust re-
posed in the King : and if the King will
violate his trust, there is never a one of
his prerogatives but may be abused to the
ruin of his people. To instance in one or
two. 1. Every body will grant that the
King can pardon murder and robbery;
yet if he should pardon every murder and
every robbery that is committed, it were
better to live with the cannibals in Ame-
rica, than in our native country.

" 2. There is no doubt but that the
King may create any man a peer of Eng-
land, and thereby give him a vote in Par-

1832.]

Reply to Lord BrougJtanSs SpeecJi.

liament : yet ii the King should abuse his
power so far as to create ten thousand
peers, or confer this honour upon every
body who asks it, NO DOUBT IT WERE A

TOTAL DESTRUCTION OF THE LEGISLATIVE
POWER OF THIS NATION.

" God forbid that our prudence should
ever be exercised in devising the extra-
ordinary remedies alluded to by Sir W.
Blackstone, for evils which written laws
do not provide against, because they do
not contemplate revolution. But still,
if it is to be done, and if the constitution,
to which the allegiance of Englishmen is
pledged, is to be violently outraged, the
crime had better be committed by the
delegates, not by the King's Ministers.
They are, I suppose, ready for the task ;
they have bound themselves to the Bill ;
they have sworn an oath to the deluded
populace : some of them, it is true, have
already violated that oath ; but perhaps
a majority will not forswear themselves.
Let them vote the abolition of the peer-
age. It was what in effect they pledged
themselves to on their respective hust-
ings, if they understood their pledge. If
they spoke by rote, let them come for-
ward, and repent their ignorance, and re-
nounce their parrot promises ; let them
confess their folly and avoid their crime."

We know not yet what course the
revolutionary press, and the revo-
lutionary party in the House of Com-
mons, intend to pursue with respect
to the Peers. Are they determined
again to disgrace themselves by
brutal abuse of their betters, in
language that has long been banished
from the less beastly societies of the
lowest vulgar ? Perhaps not. At an
unaccountable county meeting in
Essex, we think, where reforming
members of Parliament gave each
other the lie, in a style that is esteem-
ed ungenteel in the least fastidious
quarters of the parish of St Giles, it
was revolting to look at in types
words which we must believe were
once on the lips of English gentle-
men— we do not mean Daniel Whittle
Harvey — words of vituperation and
insult to the spiritual Peers — such
as are no longer fashionable among
the upper ranks of the swell-mob.
Then, a few days ago, a huge buffoon
on the Inch of Perth, we observed,
indulged himself, to the disgust even
of the Dreg-drabs, in the same sort of
Zanyism, of which the expression
gets more and more loathsome, as it
gathers slaver from the lips of each
additional driveller, in its descent at

J37

last to those of some blackguard
bauldy, who, half-idiot and half-
knave, walks about without shoes or
stockings, and partly because he is
fatuous, and partly because he is
lazy, vacant of all work, turns up a
leering face to heaven, and half pre-
tends to be, and half is, the village
Idiot — a rural or suburban Thersites,
whom it is folly not to cause labour,
and his broad back and shoulders
in cases of offences, that are a mani-
fest deviation from the innocence
of instinct into corrupted self-will,
weakness not to belabour with rod
or thong, inflicting thereon divers
many and severe stripes.

We have lately noticed certain
symptoms of the mean cunning of
the Reformers, in pamphlets, and
paragraphs, and letters from Candi-
dus and Moderator, on the probable
conduct of the Peers, when the new
Bill is presented to them — they will
pass it. Why ? Because they have
shewn, by rejecting the last Bill, that
they would not be frightened ; and
'twas on the whole, say the hypo-
crites, bravely done, to reject it, in
the face of threatenings intended to
intimidate. But having proved that
they are not cowards — they will now,
of course, yield to the desires of the
people, and pass any Bill they de-
mand. What thorough and utter
baseness is there in this pretended
liberality of sentiment towards the
order on whom these libelling le-
vellers have already flung all the
filth they could gather from thejakes
and sewers of their imagination!
Yet perhaps they are not hypocriti-
cal, but sincere. They cannot give
credit to the nursery-tales they have
heard about a phantom called Con-
science. Knowing themselves no
other impulses of action but the low-
est, they do not dream of the exist-
ence of a sense of duty to country and
to God. Adherence to principle even
unto the death, from honour, and love,
and reverence, and religion, sounds
to them like some strange and silly
fable — a ribbon, a button, or a gar-
ter is but itself and nothing more,
like the yellow primrose to the eyes
of Peter Bell ; and nothing do they
know or feel of the ennobled worth
of our Peerage, which glories with
justified pride in all its badges, and
would perish in preservation of that
liberty which of yore it won, a^d

138

now is prepared to guard, if need be,
at the point of the sword ready, on
unendurable indignity, to leap from
the scabbard, yet unwilling to be
stained with the blood of the base,
although spouting from the veins of
traitors and rebels, all sweltering with
venom.

But the same ruffian attacks — not
confined to words — will be made
again on the Peers — the same that
Lord Al thorp probably meant to al-
lude to, when t'other day he spoke so
gingerly about the freedom of dis-
cussion in a free country on a great
national question like that of Reform.
Some violence was not to be won-
dered at. But other violence ought
to be put down and punished — -for
it is shameful to the Government.
Some of its members have encoura-
ged such outrages, and may erelong
themselves become victims to their
own mob. Here is a powerful ex-
tract to that purpose.

" Is it upon these pretences that their
Lordships are next told, that ' if they
rejected this Bill through the fear of be-
ing thought afraid, the people of England
would hate them ?' But what if they re-
jected the Bill, not through fear of being
thought afraid, but through the wise and
statesmanlike fear of its dreadful and re-
volutionary consequences ? It is not in
the nature of the people of England to
hate those men, who, acting upon their
principles, and maintaining their own ho-
nour, do that which in their consciences
they believe to be for the interests of
their common country. It is a strange
argument for the Chancellor of England
to predict the hatred of the people of
England as likely to fall on the heads of
such men. It is not the argument of
peace ; nor will I so far be a libeller of
the people of England as to admit that
the prediction is one of truth. But if
the hatred of the people of England is
to be predicted, it is not difficult to fore-
see upon what class of men it will fall.
It will fall on those who, knowing their
duty, have not dared to perform it ; on
men who have timidly shrunk from an
avowal of their opinions and the main-
tenance of their principles, and who,
thinking to avoid present obloquy, or pur-
chase ignominious rest, will find peace
poorly promoted by timorous practice?,
and hatred little alleviated by being min-
gled with contempt. It will fall on ma-
gistrates who have allowed the laws to
slumber, which it was their duty to awa-
ken, and to administer with energy as

Reply to Lord Brougham's Speech.

[Jan.

well as with humanity, for the protection
of the lives and properties of their fel-
low-citizens. It will fall on legislators
who have temporized with their con-
sciences, and withheld their votes, and
thought, if haply they could think it, that
the question of a nation's government
was one on which the makers of its laws
might shun the responsibility of decision.
It will fall on all those who, in whatever
station of life, have given their support
and countenance, whether of passive ac-
quiescence or of energetic aid, to schemes
of fraud, hypocrisy, delusion, and vio-
lence—on members of Parliament — mem-
bers of a high deliberative council, bound
by every consideration of duty, of con-
science, and of honour ; of duty to their
country, their own characters, and their
God, to reflect on all the difficulties, and
perpend all the objections, and anxiously
and carefully to deliberate, to the utmost
of their power, on any measure upon
which, as lawgivers, they might be called
upon to decide, and who, nevertheless,
on this, the most important measure
which ever was submitted to the vigilant
eye of any legislature, without any consi-
deration of their solemn duty, or, if con-
sidering it, utterly disregarding it and set-
ting it aside, pledged themselves, in the
face of noisy multitudes, not to examine,
and sift, and scrutinize, not to weigh
nicely, and balance accurately, and sepa-
rating the bad from the good, if haply
good were to be found, to eschew the
one, and give effect to the other, but to
vote blindly and resolutely for the whole,
and no alteration of the most^'unrighteous
measure which was ever invented by the
spirit of party for the beguiling of a free
people.

" I did not use the word haired ; but
if it be to be used, these are they on whom
it will fall. It will fall also on the Minis-
ters of the King ; men, whose first duty
being to support the laws, and protect
the property, and maintain the rights of
the liege subjects of the King their mas-
ter, have proposed a measure to the Par-
liament, which strikes directly at the root
of all la\v, violates the sacred rights of
property, and breaks down and tramples
upon long-used privileges, not only with-
out any adequate recompense, either of
public or of private advantage, but with
open scorn and contumely to those who
are thus at once robbed and insulted, and
the most imminent peril to the peace
and security of the common weal. Men
who talk of property, and yet disregard
titles confirmed by a use of centuries, and
sanctioned by the solemn decisions of the
ablest judges of the law — who plead for
the right of all who pay taxes to an equal

Reply to Lord Brougham' 's Speech.

1832.]

representation, and then, leaving three-
fourths of the inhabitants unrepresented,
expressly exclude all from any share in
the elections, who are not distinguished
by the possession of an arbitrary and a
novel qualification — who, professing a
tenderness for popular rights, deny to the
poor voters any future voice in return-
ing members to Parliament — and who,
justifying that exclusion on the ground of
their having abused the trust, leave those
who have abused it, in the possession of
it, and deprive those who never have abu-
sed it all — men who, in their attempt to
do all these things, as absurd as they are
dangerous, have signally failed to make
out any case, and to lay any grounds for
their great measure of innovation, either
by impugning the present constitution of
Parliament, as compared with that which
has existed at any other time, either in
this or any other country, or by pointing
to any promised definite good as the pro-
bable result of this speculative change-
but who, on the contrary, all the time
that they are plotting its re-construction,
call the House of Commons that now is,
' the most noble assembly of freemen in
the civilized world ;'* and with great truth,
but marvellous and heedless inconsisten-
cy, speak of ' the character it had obtain-
ed of being the pride of the country, the
admiration of sages, and an object of vain
imitation to all other nations. 'f It is
thus that they scatter their flowers and
their fillets, and gild the horns of the vic-
tim which they are leading to the sacri-
fice. But let us hear no more of men
being hated for doing their duty."

The Reformers are now-a-days all
the most loyal of the loyal — many of
them, before our sovereign lord the
King, slavering slaves. 'Tis not
easy, under any circumstances, to act
well a new character — when cross-
grained to nature, impossible. The
awkwardness of the original cub of
a Cockney disgusts through the
clumsy assumption of the Christian
gentleman. Whigs and Radicals cut
a queer figure as Loyalists. How
heinous their hatred of King George
the Third, whose indomitable cou-
rage saved the throne ! What scorn
assailed his manners, his morals, his
domestic habits, his fireside life ! Yet
were they all manly, simple, and pure
— in the noblest sense regal — and in
spite of all libellers and lampooners
" on the other side of the House," af-
fection and reverence waited on the

139

Father of his people. Who vilified
with insatiable malignity the charac-
ter of George the Fourth ? The Re-
formers. Who shockingly insulted
the dying Duke of York — the Sol-
dier's Friend? The Reformers. Who,
worse than the worst extortioners,
have unnaturally lied against the
Duke of Cumberland, because he is
a Tory Prince ? The Reformers.
Who insinuated strange things of the
late Lord High Admiral of England,
whom now they call the Modern Al-
fred— basely comparing a kind and
good King, whose coronation robes
are but a few months old, with him
whose name has been gathering glory
for a thousand years ? The Reform-
ers. From the French Revolution —
down to this hour — who have in their
hearts and souls loved Monarchy and
the King ? The Tories. Their loyalty
encircled both with a wall of fire.
Read the following noble passage —
and in the steadfast enthusiasm in-
spired by such eloquence, the hearts
of patriots will be confident in the
cause of their Country and Consti-
tution !

" It must be clear to any mind, capable
of reflecting on the political events of mo-
dern history, that in the great contest be-
tween democracy and constituted autho-
rity, France has ever been the leader of
European discord, and French principles
the tactics by which the moral phalanx
has been marshalled and arrayed. In the
days of the old French Revolution, there
arose two men in Europe of sufficient ta-
lent and hardy virtue to battle with the
demon of confusion in its youthful ener-
gies, and to save the people, in spite of
their insanity. Those two men were the
citizens of one country, and the only one
in the modern world which, for a long
series of happy years, had enjoyed the
blessings of free government. This very
freedom had led to some differences of
opinion between these great men, the
memory of which, now merged in a sense
of the common danger, seemed to prove
the disinterestedness of their present ef-
forts, and to sanctify their simultaneous
exertions for the salvation of their com-
mon country. That country was Eng-
land— those men were Mr Pitt and Mr
Burke. They were none of those mi-
serable shuffling trading politicians, who,
seeking to patch up a system for their
own sordid and temporary advantage, are
content to compromise the eternal prin-

* Speech of Sir James Graham, in the late Parliament

t Lord Grey's speech on moving the second reading of the Reform Bill, Oct. 3, 1831*

140

ciples of all society and all government,
for a brief and unhonoured season of an
insecure and tottering power. They saw
that the cause of peace, and order, and
property, and religion, and law, was the
cause of England ; but that it was a cause
which could only be defended by a union
of the old governments of Europe. They
saw that the spirit which had levelled
temple and tower, would never rest while
an altar remained undesecrated, or a le-
gitimate throne existed for a temptation
to its cupidity. They saw that to this
spirit, law was an insult, and property
crime. They therefore laid the great foun-
dations of a work, which had for its object
the preservation of the peace of Europe, by
the suppression of democratic violence,
and the maintenance of the happiness of the
nations, by a firm opposition to all tyran-
nies, whether of mobs or of despots. It
was, indeed, a holy work, but it was un-
dertaken in no romantic mood, nor pro-
secuted on any abstract principles of
vague and theoretic policy. It was not
commenced, till, in the words of the fa-
ther of his people, ' the Assembly, then
exercising the powers of government in
France, had, without previous notice, di-
rected acts of hostility to be committed
against the persons and property of his
Majesty's subjects, in breach of the law
of nations, and of the most positive sti-
pulations of treaty, and had since, on the
most groundless pretences, declared war
against his Majesty and the United Pro-
vinces.' It was then that England drew
the sword which she sheathed on the
evening of Waterloo. The chief spirits
had, indeed, passed away. Burke and
Pitt were laid low ; hut they did not leave
their places destitute, nor their principles
unassorted : and Perceval, and Castle-
reagh, and Liverpool, and Canning, rising
up and following, alas ! in too rapid a
succession, and working by the lines
traced by those master-builders, filled up
the prophetic sketch of the great edifice of
England's glory. There are yet other
names, which should be added to the list
of those who have realized the visions of
Burke, and the hopes of England's chosen
minister. But they still live : and I
have a foolish antipathy against writing
the praises of an existing generation.
Englishmen know in whom they have
trusted, and in whom their confidence has
not been misplaced. They know to whose
arm they are indebted for their national
existence : and they will still look with
hope, as well as with gratitude, to that
brave man,

Reply to Lord Brougham's Speech. [Jau

" And now, let it not be thought, that
at the time when England was arming in
defence of her own people and the rights
of good government, she had no internal
enemies to contend with, or that there
were no Zoilitish critics of her own happy
constitution, who vied with the Jacobins
of Paris in vilifying her institutions, and
bringing false accusations against her
parliaments. No; the work of preserving
the Government and liberties of England
was done in defiance of domestic as well
as of foreign foes. Then, too, were there
Parliamentary Reformers ; and Mr Grey
was their youthful leader ; then, too, were
corresponding societies; and Mr Grey
was their faithful correspondent; then,
too, were there clubs, and unions, and as-
sociations of Friends of the People, and the
prime minister of England did not cor-
respond Avith them ; but Mr Grey was
the boon companion of the sots and drunk-
ards of unmixed liberty, which is unmiti-
gated madness, and the foreman of the
Helotism of their democratic revelries,
and their humble organ in the Commons'
House of Parliament.

"But that House of Commons had not
so learned their duty as to quail before
mobs (and newspapers ; nor so read the
book of the English constitution, as to
suppose that a French model was the
properest die for the re-casting of the insti-
tutions of Great Britain. The Russells,
and the Greys, and the Lennoxes, still
hallooed on the rabble of Manchester, and
Derby, and Palace Yard; but BuTke
wrote, and Pitt frowned them out of
countenance, and preserved their proper-
ties and their titles in spite of their prin-
ciples and their friends. It is good to
recur once more to the testimony of a
King, than whom, it is no disparagement
to his successors to say, that none ever
better understood the true interests of his
country, nor pursued them with a steadier
faith. He was addressing his Parliament
previously to its prorogation in June,
1793, and immediately after Mr Grey's
motion for referring the Reform petitions
to a committee of the House of Commons
had been rejected by a majority of 241.
And he thus addressed them :

" ' My Lords and Gentlemen,

" ' The firmness, wisdom, and public
spirit by which your conduct has been
eminently distinguished on the many im-
portant occasions which have arisen du-
ring the present session, demand my pe-
culiar acknowledgments.

" ' Your firm determination to support the
'• ~i*i~ ni* ~ j ~. J.TJ-.J" •• .-.

' Cui Laurus seternos houores
Dalmatico peperit triumpho.'

established constitution, and the zealous
and general concurrence in that senti-
ment, which my subjects have so strongly
and seasonably manifested, could not fail

1832.J

Reply to Lord Brougham** Speech.

to check every attempt to disturb the in-
ternal repose of these kingdoms.'

" And if the sainted spirit of that good
old King now looks down from his seat
of everlasting repose, upon the land which
he loved with a father's fondness, and go-
verned with a father's care, albeit the
throne on which he now sits, is one of
peace, as his course below was one of
righteousness, yet may pity haply find a
place mid the pure essences of spiritual
enjoyments, and Avhile he contemplates
•with an angel's ken, the wrongs of his
earthly kingdom, he may compassionate,
though he cannot grieve. In vain will
he look for the ' firmness,' ' wisdom,' and
' public spirit,' which had once been the
objects of- his commendation ; but in their
places he will perceive imbecility, rash-
ness, and deadness of heart. In vain will
he look to the servants of his son, the
King, for a ' determination to support
the established constitution,' which he
and his servants faithfully supported, and
which he and his son, and both his ser-
vants, had sworn a solemn oath to hea-
ven, that they would defend to the utter-
most of their power. He will see those
who govern, labouring at nothing but to
degrade in the eyes of the people the
government to which they have sworn
allegiance, and preaching up reverence
and submission, where they have fostered
insubordination and contempt. Will he
look for any general concurrence on the
part of his old subjects, in * a determina-
tion on the part of their rulers' to check
every attempt to disturb the internal re-
pose of his ' old kingdoms ?' No ; for he
will know that where a government is
rebellious, the people will not be peace-
able. And when he sees conflagration,
and robbery, and rape, and sacrilege, he
will look to him with an eye of judgment,
who, from the official seat of parliament,
denounced the chief ministers of the pure
faith of England's church to popular fury,
because in maintaining the interests of
their country and of religion, they suffer-
ed their conduct to be guided by their
conscience. But yet after all these things
he will not despair, nor imagine that the
glory of his son, the King, is near its
setting. There may be something of
parental reproof; but it will end as it
begun, in pious benediction.

' Heaven pardon thee, yet let me wonder,—-
At thy affections, which do hold a wing
Quite from the flight of all thy ancestors.

An habitation giddy and unsure
Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart.
Oh, thou fond many ! with what loud applause,
Didst thou beat heaven with blessing Bolingbroke,
Before he was what thou wouldst have him be.'

He will look to the peers of parliament,
and there he will find no shame. He
will compare the peerage of England with

Ul

the peerage of France ; and he will re-
member that a British monarch has not
the power to annihilate the House of
Lords, in imitation of the mongrel go-
vernment of Paris. He will know that
this was the very cause for which his
servant Pitt contended in the beginning,
and for which millions of his faithful
subjects have laid down their brave lives,
that the free constitution of England may
not be contaminated by French princi-
ples,— principles which to-day are an-
archy, to-morrow despotism ; that the
ark of the British constitution is embark-
ed on a troubled sea, but that under the
guidance of a wiser pilot, she has weather-
ed a rougher storm ; and that her sacred
freight, the palladium of civil liberty, will
never be swamped or shipwrecked, till
those whose office is to steer her safely,
turn her adrift upon the rocks and the
quicksands, and disable her tackling and
her rigging, and cast away her rudder
from them : till a minister of England,
in imitation of a citizen king, nominates
a parliament to betray his country."

On the Peers the country relies
with perfect confidence ; and the re-
volutionary press, knowing that they
are firm, have no hopes now but in
their idol. But our trust in the King
is more respectful than that of his
sycophants, and therefore we fear
not for the Constitution. After the
display it has made for a year, or
thereabouts, of its truculent and un-
principled spirit, the very populace
must be suspicious of their press. It
instigated that populace to crimes
which have been, and will be, se-
verely punished; and should any of
the miscreants be hanged that set
fire to Bristol, and other places, they
will, we hope, make the only repara-
tion to society in their power, by
confessing the truth on the scaffold.
Their sense of right and wrong may
not be so perverted, even by the
crimes that have encircled their
necks with the fatal cord, as the
many reprobate wretches, who, for
weeks, kept telling the people of
England in print, that all those enor-
mities perpetrated in the Bright City,
ought to be charged against that
Judge who had the madness, or
wickedness, duly to hold an Assize, in
spite of the expressed anger against
him in the breasts of the ragamuffin
ruffians, who were unaccountably
suffered to take the jail-delivery into
their own hands. Sir Charles We-
therell had insulted the L.10 house-

142

holders, and therefore it was wicked-
ness or madness in him to go Recorder
to Bristol ! The silly charge is false.
He argued against the principle of the
Bill, with great eloquence and learn-
ing, occasionally enlivening his main
argument with the humanest merri-
ment, which those matchless mas-
ters of the facete,the radical reporters
and paragraph-men, called buffoon-
ery — too coarse for their delicate and
fastidious taste, accustomed as it is^to
the utmost polish of repartee, and the
most exquisite refinement of satire.
But Sir Charles Wetherell insulted
nobody — no class of bodies ; and the
accusation is altogether a lie. Things
have come to a pretty pass, when a
few harmless jokes are said to be
sufficient to justify criminals in mur-
dering judges ; yet what else in ef-
fect was said by almost all the mi-
nisterial papers, while Ministers
themselves were mute ? Thieves,
robbers, incendiaries, ravishers, and
murderers, resolved to dismember
Sir Charles, because they could not
endure the thought that the L.10
householders of Bristol should oc-
casionally have been the object of
his witticisms in Parliament! This
is Cinna the poet—" tear him to
pieces for his bad verses." This is
Charley Wetherell— the wit— tear
him to pieces for his bad jokes ; and
this mob-law seemed reasonable to
the Press ! Why, the Lord Chancel-
lor scatters round the woolsack his
flowers of wit in great profusion —
some of them rather prickly, like net-
tles or thistles ; but the Press com-
plains not of his being sometimes
more witty than wise — more hu-
morous than decorous j nor have
we seen cursed and bann'd as ma-
lignant, the union in him of the two
characters of politician and judge.
But the sensitive shopkeepers of
Bristol must on no account be sneez-
ed or sneered at by her Recorder. He
must speak of them at all times and
places with the profoundest respect,
or lay his account, on his first visit, to
be torn to pieces by their friends, the
thieves and thimble-men, during an
illumination got up to celebrate his
murder. Before such base sentiments
could be uttered by the many hun-
dreds of thousands who blamed Sir
Charles for merely doing his duty, in
spite of the friends and relatives of
the wretched culprits whom he was

Reply to Lord Brougham's Speech.

[Jan.

about to try, a revolution, one is al-
most tempted to say, must have taken
place in the English mind. And we
allude to such disgusting debase-
ment now, because it was of a piece
with the conduct of the same peo-
ple towards the Peers, who were
said richly to deserve any maltreat-
ment they might meet with from the
mob, in their persons or their pro-
perty, whether the rabble might
attempt to strike from his horse
with stones one of our most distin-
guished cavalry officers, who had
often charged the French in Spain,
or to fling one of their noble bene-
factors over a bridge, or to set hall
or castle on fire — so that it were but
insult and injury to an Opposition
Peer.

And what, then, is the danger of
again rejecting the Bill — the danger
to the Peers ? None but such as they
have already despised — encounter-
ed— overcome — and even that much
mitigated; for whatever maybe the
case with respect to the opinions
(opinions!) of the populace on the
Bill, there assuredly has been reac-
tion of manly feeling, where it was
not utterly extinct ', courage, the cha-
racteristic quality of Englishmen,
restored and revived, has shamed
cruelty and cowardice out of coun-
tenance; and men are seen putting
off the brute, even among the rabble
of the radicals. The excitements of
the press are getting stale and vapid ;
even the most senseless are beco-
ming sick of the repetition of the
same sounds, " full of noise and fury,
signifying nothing ;" the better in-
formed, who are generally the bet-
ter disposed, have been becoming
more and more indignant at the cut-
ting and shuffling of the cards in the
hands of the revolutionists, who are
afraid to play the game of their own
choosing ; and to a large and powerful
body of Reformers, THE EDUCATED
RADICALS, the Ministry are now ob-
jects of scorn and contempt. The
populace are not now for the Bill,
the whole Bill, and nothing but the
Bill ; and as for the people, the great
majority of the people are against it,
as has been proved elsewhere in this
number of our work.

The fear may be great— and it is
so among the plucldess — but the
danger is small — and what if it Avere
formidable, what would that matter

1832.]

Reply to Lord Brougliam's Speech.

143

to the resolute spirits of British
Patriots ?

Of what is their danger ? Say of
sedition, treason, insurrection, re-
bellion, and civil war. True men
have no fears of such evils as these
—false, have no hope. Who will rise
to subvert the state ? Would one
nobleman — one gentleman — one
merchant — one manufacturer — one
farmer — one mechanic, who was not
in his soul already a slave ? No, all
the honest and honourable Reform-
ers, of all denominations and de-
grees, would join the Conservatives
— then — and against theRadicals; the
civil war would be difficult of pro-
clamation— in most places it would
not be possible for the people to hear
that hostilities had commenced —
and we are apprehensive that it
would waver away into smoke with-
in the week.

There is no danger of such cala-
mities as these — although, for plain
purposes, the Press has said, and will
persist in saying so. And, pray, what
other danger can ever induce men
of common honesty, and common
firmness, to sacrifice principle to po-
pular clamour ? Never, on any emer-
gency, however fearful, will a just
mind sacrifice principle; but we be-
lieve there may be such a thing as
expediency, and that a politician
may occasionally guide his conduct
by its rules. We believe that an up-
right politician may compromise and
temporize ; but, mind ye, never in
essentials — never in principles ; they
who think otherwise, cannot be ho-
nest men; the sooner they join the
Revolutionists the better, — and we
have heard, about an hour ago, of an
enormous Rat who may depend on
being scarified once a month, du-
ring the natural term of his life.

Magnify the danger in imagina-
tion to the utmost, before the eye of
reason it dwindles into a point. But
be it great or small — who caused
it ? The Ministers. If they fear it-
let them go out — and the Tories will
shew the Whigs how to pacify the
people — if the people prefer being
so pacified — by Reform, and not by
Revolution. In all things are they
mistaken, who, at this crisis, would
make what they choose to call cer-
tain sacrifices to the people; they
are mistaken as to the cause, origin,
nature, amount, and cure of the
danger. What unlucky confusion of

all ideas of rights and privileges of
the governing and the governed, is
implied in the words " sacrifice,"
" demand," " yielding," « giving
up," and other words of similar sig-
nification, as if some struggle were
constantly going on between tyrants
and slaves !

Give the people what they are
now demanding, or the time will
come when they will demand far
more, and when you will be obliged
to give them up all ! All what ?
Their rights ? Show us one right
that they are not in full possession
of, and they shall have it to-morrow.
But do not chatter and jabber to us
about our " withholding rights" till
you have shewn their existence — do
not think of restoring a Constitution
which you have never studied — do
not, we beseech you, for we are
your friend, expose yourself to pre-
sent derision and future danger, by
prating about rights at all — for, be-
lieve us when we tell you, that your
native country is entitled to your
silence, and has empowered us to
enforce it.

A great contest is now being car-
ried on, we have been told, between
two spirits of the age. The one is
a mature, the other an immature
spirit, and to which will be given
the triumph ? To the calm and con-
fident, or to the tumultuous and the
rash ? To Thought or Passion ? To
Wisdom or Folly ? We shall be told
by a thousand noisy tongues that we
are characterising the combatants
unfairly; and we shall be ordered
to look at THE MOVEMENT. There is
much that is very mighty and very
mysterious — we have no doubt — in
that word — much that is very appal-
ling ; yet to our ears it sounds un-
couth and barbarous from the mouths
of British statesmen.

In what are the young men of this
country superior to the middle-aged,
elderly, and old ? In knowledge ? In
talents ? In genius ? In honour ? In
virtue ? In religion ? Not in any one
of these ; and pray, then, whence
and whither, against what and whom,
under what auspices, and with what
prospects of success, marches the
Movement? We have just been read-
ing an eloquent enough speech in
Parliament of Mr Macaulay's, which
it was cruel in Mr Croker to tear to
rags, wherein it seems to be said that
his Majesty's Minister§,and all equal-

Reply to Lord Brougham 's Speech.

144

]y intellectual Reformers, in and out
the House, are not leading, but are
driven by the people. They are all
tearing along at full gallop, like a
herd of wild asses — to the tune of
The Devil take the Hindmost — as he
is sure to do the foremost — and that
is the March of Intellect — the ad-
vance of the spirit of the age — the
Movement. What is the use of the
wise men of Gotham heading such a
charge ? If they stumble, they will
be trodden to death ; if they do not,
with the whole concern they go sheer
over the precipice.

We cannot but suspect that all this
mouthing about the Movement is
mere nonsense. It is an attempt to
put into philosophical-looking lingo,
the vulgar radicalism of the news-
papers. But such jargon will not
pass the Bill through the House of
Lords. Before it goes there, it will
be roughly handled in the Commons
— for we rejoice to see the unabated
hostility of the patriots. February
hath always her Double Number, and
as it will be one-half literary, and one-
half political, we hope to appear in
great power and splendour — when,
Heaven pity the poor Bill, and the
miserable Ministers! The larger
their majority, the less do they look
themselves ; and, with the exception
of Stanley and Macauley during the
debate, they shine most as mutes.

We conclude with the following
simple statement, from the Reply,
of the duty of the Reformers in Par-
liament. Have they discharged it ? —

" It was necessary, first, to state
the practical wrongs and grievances
endured by the people of England ;
secondly, to prove that those wrongs
and grievances owed their origin to
the present constitution of the House
of Commons ; and, thirdly, to esta-
blish, by calm and dispassionate rea-
sonings, that the principle of the pro-
jected measure was likely to pro-
vide a remedy for the ills, and a re-
dress for the grievances of the peo-
ple. There is not so much as a state-
ment of either proposition; of course,
neither of them is attempted to be
proved. There is exaggeration in-
place of narrative, intimidation in-
stead of reasoning, and sarcasm for
argument. It is all one wide wilder-
ness of difficulties, and danger, and

[Jan.

darkness, with just so much of illu-
sive brightness as serves, by fits and
flashes, to point to some unknown
and inaccessible abode, tempting the
unwary, and terrifying the faint-
hearted, and dazzling the uncertain
and benighted vision of the victims
of a fruitless curiosity, with the false
coruscations of its meteoric light.

" There is no statement of any ob-
ject to be attained, or of the means
by which its attainment may be
prosecuted. No enunciation of any
promised boon, either of expediency,
or benevolence, or of policy, by
which a great statesman in a free
and noble nation might hope to raise
the imperishable monument of his
own glory, to be inscribed by the
gratitude of posterity with the story
of the consolidated liberties of his
country. The free constitution of
England is indeed condemned ; but
it is condemned without evidence,
and without an accusation ; and the
House of Peers, acting upon the
pure principles of their high judicial
functions, as well as in their legisla-
tive capacity, have reversed that un-
lawful sentence, which, without a
forgetfulness of their honour, and
an infringement of their attributes
of justice, it was utterly impossible
to confirm.

" True, the sentence still lives ; it is
reversed, but it is not forgotten. It
lives, as a warning to future Parlia-
ments against the crime of hasty and
fruitless legislation. It lives, the re-
cord of the rashness of some who
have hurried their country to the
brink of the abyss of revolution ; and
the memorial of the faithfulness of
others, who have opposed to the pro-
gress of the moral pestilence the
sanitary barriers of constitutional
law. It lives, to mark the force of rea-
son and the power of truth ; to point
to the triumph which these have
achieved in the fair field of free dis-
cussion, and to the trophies of a
peaceful victory, instead of the spoils
of a desolated land. And above all,
it lives, the freshest testimony to
England's happy constitution, which,
like the wisdom with which it has
been builded up, or the courage with
which it will yet be defended, derives
a brighter lustre from its difficulties,
and new glories in the hour of trial."

FrinWJty Sattantynt w$ Gwwngt faul's Work, Edi

BLACKWOOD'S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CXC.

FEBRUARY, 1832.
PART I.

VOL. XXXI.

SOTHEBY'S HOMER. CRITIQUE v.

ACHILLES. PART II.

ONE man has put to rout a whole
army, and filled a city with fugitives
— and is not that Bombast? No; it
is sublimity — for that one man is
Achilles— that city is Troy ; and the
poet of the Fear and Flight is Homer.
Not in all poetry is there such an-
other continuous blaze of inspiration
as that which wraps the Iliad from
the hour when Achilles is told of the
death of Patroclus to that when he
falls asleep, — " revenge and all fero-
cious thoughts," dead within him, in
the bosom of Briseis. We have been
in the very heart of that blaze — we
are in it still — and we shall abide in
it, till, with the ransomed corpse of
his beloved son, we behold Priam
returning in his car to Troy from the
Tent of the Destroyer.

The city-gates are shut — and with-
in, reclining against the battlements,
the Trojans, who had " been driven
like hunted fawns into the town,"

are slaking their fiery thirst with
drink; while you may behold the
Grecians, " beneath one roof of well-
compacted shields," advancing to-
wards the walls. But you forget all
within and all without the walls —
your eyes overlook them as things
of no worth — for, lo! standing ex-
posed before the Scsean gate — Hec-
tor ! and in the immediate neigh-
bourhood of — Achilles !

And *why tarry the feet of the son
of Thetis V Why kills he not, at that
moment, the murderer of his Meno3-
tiades ? Because he is parleying with
Apollo. " Achilles ! mortal thyself,
why pursuest thou me immortal ?"
" Of all the Supernals ! to me most
adverse, Archer of the skies ! Thou
hast defrauded me of great re-
nown— and would that on thee — sun-
god as thou art — I might have my
revenge !"

NORTH.

Thus saying, (Achilles,) with haughty thoughts, went towards the city,
Rushing like a prize-winning horse along with the chariot,
Which (the horse) outstretched runs swiftly over the plain :
So nimbly did Achilles move his feet and his knees.
Him the aged Priam with his eyes first perceived,
Rushing over the plain, — all resplendent, like the star

Which comes forth between the rising of the daystar and Arcturus, i, e. (at th,e de-
parture of summer :) but most brilliant do its beams
Shine amid the multitudinous stars at the milking-time * of night,

* a,p,Q*.ya,, milking-time, morning and evening.
VOL. XXXJ. NO. CXC. K

146 Sotheby's Homer. Critique V. [Feb.

And which by name they call the Dog of Orion :

Most brilliant it is, but of evil omen,

And much fiery- fever brings to miserable mortals.

CHAPMAN.

Thus with elated spirits,

Steed-like, that at Olympus' games wears garlands for his merits,
And rattles home his chariot, extending all his pride,
Achilles so parts with the God. When aged Priam spied
The great Greek come, sphered round with beams, and showing as if the star,
Surnamed Orion's Hound, that springs in autumn, and sends far
His radiance through a world of stars, of all whose beams his own
Cast greatest splendour, the midnight, that renders them most shown,
Then being their foil, and in their points cure-passing fevers then
Come shaking down into the joints of miserable men :
As this were fallen to earth, and shot along the field his rays,
Now towards Priam, when he saw in great Eacides,
Out-flew his tender voice in shrieks, &c.

POPE.

Then to the city, terrible and strong,

With high and haughty steps he tower'd along.

So the proud courser, victor of the prize,

To the near goal with double ardour flies.

Him, as he blazing shot across the field,

The careful eyes of Priam first beheld.

Not half so dreadful rises to the sight,

Through the thick gloom of some tempestuous night,

Orion's Dog, (the year when Autumn weighs,)

And o'er the feebler stars exerts his rays ;

Terrific glory ! for his burning breath

Taints the red air with fevers, plagues, and death.

So glow'd his fiery mail.

COWPER.

So saying, incensed he turii'd towards the town

His rapid course, like some victorious steed,

That whirls, at stretch, a chariot to the goal.

So flew Achilles lightly o'er the field.

Him first the ancient King of Troy perceived,

Scouring the plain, resplendent as the star

Autumnal, of all stars at dead of night

Conspicuous most, and named Orion's Dog.

Brightest it shines, but ominous, and dire

Disease portends to miserable man ;

So beam'd Achilles' armour as he flew.

SOTHEBY.

Then rush'd to Troy, in fury of his speed :
Thus rushes with his car a conquering steed,
Who, at full stretch, as conscious of his prize,
To the near goal along the level flies :
Thus flew Pelides— him the king perceived,
Him flashing on, first saw, and sorely grieved—-
Saw him resplendent, like Orion's star,
Whose beams at autumn, radiant from afar,
Mid heaven's innumerous host, at dead of night,
Pales all their lustre with surpassing light :
Terrific sign ! whose unremitted blaze
Pours in the fever'd blood its fiery rays :
Thus as th' Avenger rush'd, a dazzjing light
Flash'd from Pelides' arms on Priam's sight.

All good. But no time this for nourishment, and implores her hero

criticism. See ! hark ! loud wail- to cope not with that dreadful adver-

ing on the battlements the hoary sary!

king. What heart-and-soul-rending « So they with prayers importuned and
beseechings and supplications on his with tears

Hector to shun death ! Hecuba, too, Their son, but him sway'd not : unmoved
bares before her son, in sight of all he stood,

the people, the bosom that gave him Expecting vast Achilles, now at hand."

1832.] Sotheby's Homer. Critique V. ] 47

For Achilles had seen him, as soon near the goal, had shot to the slaugh-

as Apollo disappeared, the Trojan's ter. Achilles was like the star Orion,

guardian-god — and on the instant, How looked Hector ?
like car-whirling steed victorious

NORTH.

Nor prevailed they over the spirit of Hector,
But he awaited the vast (^x^m) Achilles approaching nearer,
As when a mountainous* (£. e. savage) serpent at its haunt a man awaits,
Fed on baneful poisons, and dread fury enters it,
And hideously it looks, coiling itself around its haunt;
In like manner, Hector, having confidence unquenchable, withdrew not,
But, placing his bright shield against a projecting turret,
His own mighty spirit he addressed.

CHAPMAN.

And now drew deadly near

Mighty Achilles ; yet he still kept deadly station there.
Look how a dragon, when she sees a traveller bent upon
Her breeding den, her bosom fed with fell contagion,
Gathers her forces, sits him firm, and at his nearest pace
Wraps all her cavern in her folds, and thrusts a horrid face
Out at his entry ; Hector so, with unextinguish'd spirit,
Stood great Achilles, stirr'd no foot, but at the prominent turret
Bent to his bright shield, and resolved to bear fall'n heaven upon it,

POPE.

Resolved he stands, and with a fiery glance
Expects the hero's terrible advance.
So, roll'd up in his den, the swelling snake
Beholds the traveller approach the brake ;
When, fed with noxious herbs, his turgid veins
Have gather'd half the poison of the plains ;
He burns, he stiffens with collected ire,
And his red eyeballs glow with living fire.
Beneath a turret on his shield reclined
He stood, and question'd thus his mighty mind.

COWPER.

— Unmoved he stood,

Expecting vast Achilles now at hand.
As some huge serpent in a cave, that feeds
On baneful drugs, and swells with deadliest ire,
A traveller approaching, coils himself
Around his den, and hideous looks abroad,
So Hector, fill'd with confidence untamed,
Fled not, but placing his bright shield against
A buttress, with his noble heart conferr'd.

SOTHEBY.

Confiding in his strength, their dauntless son
Surveyed the mighty man, and staid his coming on.
As in his cavern, nigh the wanderer's way,
Gorged with rank herbs, a dragon waits his prey,
And rolling in his wrath the den around,
Eyes when to strike, and watches where to wound;
Thus, fill'd with unextinguishable fire,
Brave Hector stood, disdaining to retire ;
Against a buttress his bright shield reclined,
And inly communed with his noble mind.

All good. But no time for criticism, that his hour is come. Well may
For we — too-— as if he were our bro- Priam and Hecuba tear their grey
ther— tremble for Hector ! We feel locks ! But where is Andromache ?

Sotheby's Homer. Critique V.

148

Buried in her palace — that the thick
walls may deaden the horror breathed
from the field where her husband
lights. Too sacred a thing was such
sorrow as hers to Homer's soul, to
suffer the Bard of Nature to smite it
with such affliction as the sight of
him alive, and about to die, under the
hands of that inexorable homicide.
He mentions her not; but all the
people thought of her then — and how
many million eyes have since wept
for her, unnamed at that catastrophe !
We remember the parting between
lier and her hero — her hopes and her
fears — her tears and her smiles — as
their Astyauax hung back alarmed
from the waving crest of his father.
At this moment her once prophetic
soul has lost its gifted vision — and
she is dreaming of his return!

But how fares it now with the no-
ble Hector ? Not unheard had been
the outcries of his parents — for Hec-
tor to them was jrious, as he was to
the gods. For their sakes he desired
to live— and think ye, that at that
moment, though he names not her
name, that the image of his Andro-
mache came not across him with As-
tyanax on her " fragrant bosom ?" But
Polydamas would reproach him — if
now he shunned the combat — Poly-
damas, who bade him lead the Tro-
jans back that last calamitous night
" In which Achilles rose to arms again!"
Man and matron — base and brave
alike — Avill dishonour Hector as the
cause of all that slaughter — if he slay
not or be slain by Achilles. Shall
he then seek to parley with the king
of the Myrmidons, and offer to re-
store Helen to the sons of Atreus,
and all the treasures Paris brought
with her in his fleet to Troy ? Perish
all such thoughts—let them meet at

[Feb.

once in mortal combat, and leave the
victory in the hands of Jove! So com-
muned Hector with his own heart;
nor can we imagine words more
affecting than are Homer's in this
place — in the divine skill of Genius,
instructed by the nobility of nature.
He shews us a hero struggling against
fear — and at last overcome — taking
to flight — and yet still a hero. Should
any one deny it — he may depend up-
on it that he is himself a coward —
and what is worse — a blockhead.

Not so thought Homer — not so
thought the immortal gods. They
saw Hector flying before Achilles —
as flies a dove before a hawk — a
fawn before a hound, " as trembling
she skulks among the shrubs" — and
yet they despised him not — but they
pitied the hero. The sire of gods
exclaimed —

" Ah ! I behold a warrior dear to me
Around the walls of Ilium driven, and

grieve
For Hector ! who the thighs of fatted

bulls

On yonder heights of Ida many-valed
Burn'd oft to me, and in the heights of

Troy.

But him Achilles, glorious chief, around
The city walls of Piiam now pursues.
Think then, ye gods, delay not to decide ;
Shall we preserve, or leave him now to

fall,
Brave as he is, by Peleus' mighty son ?"

So said Jupiter — and therefore it sig-
nifies nothing what says Jew Peter.
But we are hurried away by our
scorn of hypocrisy; — look at Achil-
les ere Hector flies, and then at the
Flight and the Pursuit, all of which
you must be contented with in
our prose — for we have not room
always to quote all the great trans-
lators.

These (thoughts) he revolved while tarrying : but near to him came Achilles,

Equal to the helm-shaking warrior Mars,

Over his right shoulder brandishing the Pelian spear

Terrible : and around him shone the brass like to the flash

Of blazing fire, or of the rising sun.

Hector, therefore, when he saw (him), trembling seized, nor dared he

There remain, but left the gates, and flying went.

The son of Peleus, to his swift feet trusting, rushed after,

Like as a falcon on the mountains, the swiftest of birds,

Darts easily on a trembling dove :

But it flies aslant ; and he near-at-hand shrill screaming,

Rushes frequently, and his appetite impels him to take her :

Thus eagerly indeed did he (Achilles) flee on him directly: trembling, fled Hector

Under the walls of the Trojans, and plied his agile limbs.

1832.] Sotheby's Homer. Critique V.

But they paut the prospect-mount and the wind-exposed fig-tree,

Out-from-beneath the wall along the chariot road rushed on :

To the beautiful-flowing fountains they came, where springs

Two (in number) up-rise from the gyrating Scamander.

The one with tepid waters flows, and around a smoke

Arises from it, as from flaming fire.

But the other in summer even out-rushes, like to hail

Or cold snow, or crystallized water (Kgv<rruX*.u,)

There near-by them are broad washing tanks,

Beautiful, of-stone, where their gorgeous robes,

The Trojan dames, and their daughters fair, were-wont-to-wash

Erst in time of peace, ere the sons of the Greeks had come.

149

The moment Homer's imagination
re-creates Achilles, he re-appears ter-
rible, and more terrible, his figure and
his aspect sublimed by more tran-
scendent imagery, borrowed from
the great phenomena of earth and
heaven. Stars, comets, moon, and
sun — and no objects less glorious
— are made to aggrandize the hero of
the Iliad ; and yet the same images
are always, in something mighty,
when applied to him, new; as, in-
deed, to the eye of a poet, they are
always new, even in themselves —
no two sunrises, or sunsets, being
identical to the vision of a "Maker."
The Apparition that puts Hector to
flight, is the most insupportable of
all | and, though seen from afar, felt,
on its close approach, sudden as su-
pernatural. More deadly is he, thus
opposed, Mars to mortal, than when
the whole army fled before him ; —
there is intenser concentration of
terror in his armour, " like lightning,
or like flame, or like the sun ascend-
ing." Had Hector not fled, Homer
had nodded when broad awake. The
Prince of Troy would not have fled
from Ajax, the son of Telamon, nor
from Diomed, who, when Achilles
lay in his wrath among his ships, was
thought equal to Achilles, nor from
Agamemnon, king of men. But there
was one, in presence of whose spear
no hero might abide — before whom
the river gods themselves quailed,
" and hid themselves among their
reedy banks ;" and at close of that
combat, in which he shone brightest
even in the midst of the celestials, it
was inevitable in nature, that even the
defender of his country should be ap-
palled. For he was not goddess-born;
bright indeed were the arms he wore
— once worn by Achilles — but what
were they to the Vulcanian panoply,
at whose sound, as Thetis let them
fall at her son's feet, fear " bowed
the astonished souls" of the Myr-

midons ? It would have been most
unnatural for man of woman born
not to fly. Then, how absorbed
is all that might have been in
any way degrading in the emotion
inspired by the Destroyer ! Most
mournful but magnificent picture !
King and queen shrieking in their
old age, about to be utterly desolate,
from the doomed city walls that
quake to the dreadful voice of that
Invincible ! All the power within
silent ; and the gods themselves
looking down, and descending to
decide the final issue of the ten years'
strife — for Troy was to fall with
Hector, and Ilion to be shorn of her
towery diadem. As for Achilles,
he saw not — heard not Priam and
Hecuba — he cared not in his passion
even for the gods. His eyes were
all on Hector.

" The son of Peleus, as he ran, his brows
Shaking, forbade the Grecians to dismiss
A dart at Hector, lest a meaner hand
Should pierce him, and USURP THE FORE-
MOST PRAISE."

So blent into one in his fiery spi-
rit were Revenge and the Love of
Glory.

Apollo still strove to save his be-
loved prince ; but now, balancing
his golden scales, Jove placed in
each a lot— one Achilles, and one
consigning Hector to the shades.

" Seized by the central hold, lie poised the

beam ;

Down went the fatal day of Hector, down
To Hades, and Apollo left his side."

The blue-eyed Pallas exultingly
cried to Achilles that he should re-
turn, " crowned with great glory, to
the fleet of Greece," for that not
even could the King of radiant shafts
himself now save the life of Hector,
not even were Apollo to roll himself
in supplication at the feet of the

laO Sotheby's Homer. Critique V. [Feb.

Thunderer. By her deceived, Hector seem to our ears to speak well— thus
turns and faces Achilles. The heroes —in our Greek-resembling English—

Thee no more, son of Peleus, shall I fly as before •

Thrice around Priam's mighty city have I fled, nor ever durst I

Await thy onset ; — but now doth my spirit impel me

To withstand thee — slay I, or be slain.

But come now, call we the gods (to testify), for they the best

Witnesses and guardians of covenants shall he.

Not savagely will I dishonour thee, if to me Jupiter

Vouchsafe a steady-fought-victory (xa^ovi'nv), and I shall take away thy life :

But when I shall have despoil'd thee of thy illustrious arms, Achilles,

Thy corse to the Greeks ,will I restore : do thou so likewise."

Him eyeing sternly, the swift-footed Achilles address'd —

" Hector, thou never-to-be-forgotten one, speak not to me of covenants;.

As between lions and men there are no faithful covenants,— -

Nor have wolves and lambs a same-thinking disposition,

But perpetually are plotting evil to each other ;

In like manner it cannot be that I and thou can have friendship, nor between us

Can covenants exist, until one of us prostrate

Shall satisfy with his blood Mars, the indefatigable warrior.

Call to mind (thy) every-kind of valour : much now it behove* thee

To be a combatant, and a doughty warrior.

There is no escape for thee more ; thee forthwith Pallas Minerva

By my spear subdues : now at once shalt thou expiate all

The agonies of my companions — whom with the spear in thy fury thou did'st slay."

The combat — though we know it set fire to the fleet. It has been said
must be fatal to Hector— is not felt that Homer was partial to Hector,
to be altogether hopeless on his part, So are all men. But believe us when
because of the uplifting of pur spirits we say, that his favourite was Achilles,
by the return of his heroism to its He in all things was the greater spirit,
former high pitch, and because of the From whom would he have fled?
love and admiration with which we Not from Mars and Bellona. One
regard his character, that has sustain- qualm of fear would have destroyed
ed no loss from his god-driven flight that transcendent ideal of uncon-
thrice round the towers of the city querable will. But he was invulner-
which his valour was unavailing to able. Would that in our boyhood we
save. There is now glory accumu- had never been confounded by that
lated on glory around each illustrious lie! He was of all the heroes who
crest. Hector's has not been " shorn fought before Troy the sole Doom'd
of its beams " by any disgrace. His Man, yet never knew he fear within
flight is more than forgiven; and we the perpetual shadows of death. But
admire him more now than when he again behold Achilles !

NORTH.

Achilles too rush'd forward, and his soul he fill'd with anger
Savage, and his breast his shield o'er-spread,
Beautiful, Djedalean : with his shining helm he nodded
Four-coned, waved were the beautiful hairs
Of-gold, which in profusion Vulcan around the crest had placed.
Such as when among the stars at the milking-time of night comes forth the star
Hesperus,* which is placed in the firmament the brightest star;
In like manner beam'd (the light) from the well-pointed spear which Achilles
Brandish'd in his right-hand, planning evil to the noble Hector,
Looking-into his beautiful body, where it might yield (to the spear-point) most easily.

CHAPMAN.

So fell in Hector ; and at him Achilles ; his mind's fare

Was fierce and mighty; his shield cast a sun-like radiance ;

Helm nodded ; and his four plumes shook ; and when he raised his lance,

Up Hesperus rose 'mongst th' evening stars ! His bright and sparkling eyes

Look't through the body of his foe, &c.

POPE.

Nor less Achilles his fierce soul prepares ;
Before his breast the flaming shield he bears,

* Yid, Milton—" Hesperus, that led the starry host," &c.

1832.] Sotheby's Homer. Critique V. 151

Refulgent orb ! Above his fourfold cone
The gilded horse-hair sparkled in the sun,
Nodding at every step : (Vulcanian frame I)
And as he moved his figure seem'd on flame.
As radiant Hesper shines with keener light,
Far-beaming o'er the silver host of night,
When all the starry train enblaze the sphere :
So shone the point of great Achilles' spear.
In his right hand he waves the weapon round,
Eyes the whole man, and meditates the wound.

COWPER.

Achilles opposite, with fellest ire,
Full-fraught came on ; his shield, with various art
Divine portray'd, o'erspread his ample chest,
And on his radiant crest terrific waved,
By Vulcan spun, his crest of bushy gold.
Bright as, among the stars, the star of all
Most splendid, Hesperus, at midnight moves,
So in the right hand of Achilles beam'd
His brandish'd spear, while, meditating woe
To Hector, he explored his noble form,
Seeking where he was vulnerable most.

SOTHEBY.

Thus Hector rush'd, and as he onward flew,
The Son of Peleus gloried at the view :
Before his breast, with outstretch'd arm upraised,
The shield that brightly in its horror blazed :
And, while his heart boil'd with o'erflowing ire,
Rush'd like the fierceness of consuming fire.
On as th' avenger in his terror trod,
His casque, four-coned, the wonder of the God,
In restless motion round about him roll'd
The fulness of its hairs that blazed with gold.
As Hesper's star, the brightest of the bright,
Outshines heaven's radiant host at dead of night :
Thus, vibrated aloft, the Pelian lance
Shot from its sharpen'd point the lightning glance,
While stern Achilles keenly eyed the foe,
And paused upon the meditated blow.

All the versions are very noble— is driven through his throat— but it

Chapman's the most so — then per- takes not from Hector — now lying in

haps Sotheby's, which is more liberal the dust — the power of utterance,

than usual, but splendid; — but take You must be contented with the

your choice of the four, heroic read- colloquy in prose — perhaps it may

er of Homer. Such combat soon be felt more touching so than in

comes to a close. The " ashen beam" " numerous verse."

NORTH.

In the dust, therefore, he fell, and over him gloried the illustrious Achilles,—
" Once wert thou wont to think, Hector, when despoiling-the-slain Patroclus,
That thou should'st be safe, and nought stood'st in awe of me when absent.
Fool ! I, his avenger, mightier far (than thou) apart,
At the hollow ships was left behind —

And have unnerved thy limbs : thee, indeed, the dogs and birds of prey
Shall tear unseemly, him shall the Greeks bury-vvith-due-funeral rites."
Him, the waving-plume-helm'd Hector exhausted, addressed: —
" By thy life, by thy knees, and by thy parents — thee I supplicate;
Let not the dogs of the Greeks at the hollow ships tear-and-devour me
Brass in abundance, and gold, do thou receive
As gifts, which my father and my venerable mother will give thee ;
But send home my body, — that of a funeral pyre, me,
When dead, the Trojans and Trojan matrons may make a partaker."
Him, eyeing sternly, the swift-footed Achilles, addressed ! —
' Dog, me supplicate-not-embracing-my-knees, by my knees, nor by my parents*
Would that my rage and fury would by any means permit me

152 Sotheby's Homer. Critique V. [Feb.

To chop and devour thy raw flesh, for what thou hast done to me.

No — not even if ten or twenty-fold-equally-great ransoms

Were they to bring hither and place (in the balance), and promise others besides :

No, were he even to counterpoise thy body with gold,

Priam, the son of Dardanus ; — not even thus should thy venerable mother,

Having placed thee on thy bier, lament him whom she bore;

But dogs, and birds of prey, shall thoroughly devour thee."

Him, the waving-plume-helm'd Hector dying, addressed : —

" Knowing thee well, I foresaw, indeed, that never should I

Persuade thee ; assuredly within thee is a spirit of steel.

Beware now, lest towards thee I become the subject- of-anger to the gods

On that day, when Paris and Phoebus Apollo, thee,

Brave though thou be, shall destroy in the Scaean gate."

Him, while thus speaking, the completion of death veil'd ;

And his spirit flying from his limbs to Ades descended, —

Its fate bewailing in having left the robustness and vigour of youth.

Him also, when dead, the illustrious Achilles address'd : —

" Die ! fate will I then receive whenever

Jove may wish to bring it about, and the other immortal gods."

He said, and from the corpse he drew the brazen spear,

And placed it apart; and from his (Hector's) shoulders forced away his armour,

Blood-stained; around him hastened the other sons of the Greeks,

Who gazed-with-wonder on the size and the grand form

Of Hector : nor did any approach without-inflicting-a-wound (on the corpse) ;

And each, as he looked to his neighbour, thus spoke :—

" Ha ! ha ! assuredly much more gentle in being handled

Is Hector, than when he fired the fleet with glowing flames."

Thus, indeed, spoke each ; and, standing near, inflicted wounds.

This is tragical — for it is sur- the inexorable inflamed Achilles ?
charged with pity and terror. We Pope, whose notes are almost all
weep for the dying Hero, whose last
words betray the anguish of nature,
for his own miserable fate even be-
yond the sable flood, — for the wretch-
edness of his father and mother, in
vain longing for his corpse, which is
out of the reach of ransom. There is
no savage spirit of revenge in the
prophecy that expires on his lips ; —
it is almost a passionless prediction
of death to one who feared not death
— an enunciation of the will of hea-
ven about to be executed by a god.
It adds to the greatness of Achilles ;
for he was not to fall by the unaid-

ed arrow of such a person as Paris,
but to receive the winged fate from
Pho3bus Apollo ; and what moral su-
blimity in the answer of " the dread-
less angel !"

" Die Thon the first ! when Jove anil

Heaven ordain-—
I follow thee, he said, and stripp'd the

slain."

And what must we say of the be-
haviour of the common soldiers ?
Eustathius tells us that Homer intro-
duces them wounding the dead body
of Hector, in order to mitigate the
cruelties which Achilles exercises
upon it ; for if every common soldier
takes a pride in giving him a wound,
what insults may we not expect from

good, confesses himself unable to
vindicate Homer in giving us such
an idea of his countrymen ; for what
they say over Hector's body is a
mean insult, and the stabs they give
it are cowardly and barbarous. We
cannot deny the truth of Pope's re-
mark. But vulgar souls — and there
were many such, doubtless, who
fought at Troy as well as at Waterloo
— are subject to strange fits of vul-
gar passion; and their own mean
nature will at times suddenly ooze
out, repressed, for the most part, by
the glorious deeds, looks, and words
of the Heroes. They misunderstood
the character and conductof Achilles.
They beheld him triumphing, exult-
ing, insulting, over Hector. But they
knew not, neither could they con-
ceive, the trouble of his soul — to them
the flashings of his eyes were a mys-
tery— they comprehended not, even
in his agonies, his own sublime sub-
mission to the decrees of heaven. See-
ing how, " with visage all inflamed,"
Achilles " incensed stood," they
caught the contagion of his ire—but
the fever falling into baser blood, it
boiled up in unworthy outrage ; they
grew sarcastic, and they stabbed ;
and lo ! Hector lies beneath their
brutalities,
" SmearM with goiv, and ghastly pale !"

1832.] Sotheby's Homer. Critique V. 153

From the height of glory, he has never graced the head of fallen hero,
fallen into the depth of degradation ; Achilles alone could kill — the mean-
and the contrast of the two condi- est Myrmidons might insult Hector
tions is to the utmost degree affect- when dead, who had all shunned his
ing— the breast, on which Andro- path when he was hewing it to set
mache was wont to lay her head, the ships on fire. Hector is con-
mangled by ignoble hands— the quered; but the sacred cause for
Prince of the people, a naked corpse which he died survives ; the glory of
insulted by slaves ! Had Shakspeare his character is immortal. " Tell me
some thought of this sort in his not," he once said, " tell me not of
mind, when he makes Falstaff stab auguries ! Let your birds fly to the
the dead body of " Hotspur, cold- east or the west— I care not in this
spur ;" and shows us the glorious cause : we obey the will of Jupiter,
corpse of a hero hanging across the who rules over all, and
shameful shoulders or a buffoon ? „•? * . , , , a

. ,. . Eij otuvo; a,titr<r6; au,vvt<rt>at <x*{>i varans*

But what matter all these indigni-
ties that idly seek to dishonour the The onc bf,st omen 1S our country s
corpse ? It is but a lump of clay.

The soul of the Defender is beyond Therefore, in spite of defeat and

and above insult, alike from the base death, Hector is victorious still in

and the brave. The ensuing speech our imagination ; his waving crest

of Achilles re-invests the corpse with may be dragged in the dust, but the

grandeur. " Let us return to the patriot spirit sees it high in air, not

hollow ships, and carry Hector along only unextinguished, but uneclipsed,

with us! Great glory have we won ; even by the god-wrought golden

we have slain the illustrious Hector ! helm of Achilles,

to whom the Trojans, throughout But let us look at the Speech of

the city, as to a God, were wont to the Destroyer in the five translators,
ofter prayers." Nobler eulogium

NORTH.

Him when the powerful-footed, illustrious Achilles, had despoil'd,

Standing among the Greeks, (these) winged words he utter'd : —

" Friends, chiefs of the Greeks, and counsellors,

Since this man, the gods have permitted (us) to subdue,

(Him') who hath done more evil than all the rest beside,

Let us on — and essay the city with arms,

That we may. know the intention of the Trojans, what it may be,

Whether they are to abandon the Acropolis, since he has fallen ;

Or whether they dare remain, when Hector is no more.

But why does my mind revolve these things ?

(He} lies at the ships a corpse' unwept, unburied ; —

(My) Patroclus ! him will I not forget, while I

Shall be among the living, and my knees move.

And though (the living) forget the dead in Ades,

I, for my part, will remember my friend, even though there.

Come now, ye youths of the Greeks, chanting pecans

Let us return to the hollow ships, and carry him (Hector) along with us.

Great glory have we won ; we have slain the illustrious Hector,

TO whom the Trojans throughout the city, as to a god, were-wont-to-offer prayers."

POPE.

High o'er the slain the great Achilles stands,
Begirt with heroes, and surrounding bands,
And thus aloud, while all the host attends:
" Princes and leaders ! countrymen and friends !
Since now at length the powerful will of Heaven
The dire destroyer to our arms has given,
Is not Troy fallen already ? Haste, ye powers !
See, if already their deserted towers
Are left unmann'd ; or if they yet retain
The souls of heroes, their great Hector slain ?
But what is Troy, or glory what to me ?
Or why reflects rny mind on aught but tKee,

1,54 Sotfoby's Homer. Critique V. [Feb.

Divine Patroclus ! Death has seal'd his eyes ;
Unwept, unhonour'd, uninterr'd he lies !
Can his dear image from my soul depart,
Long as the vital spirit moves my heart ?
If, in the melancholy shades helow,
The flames of friends and lovers cease to glow,
Yet mine shall sacred last ; mine undecay'd,
Borne on through death, and animate my shade.
Meanwhile, ye sons of Greece, in triumph bring
The corpse of Hector, and your paeans sing.
Be this the song, slow- moving toward the shore,
< Hector is dead ! and Ilion is no more !'"

COWPER.

And now, the body stripp'd, their noble chief,

The swift Achilles, standing in the midst,

The Grecians in wing'd accents thus address'd ;

" Friends, chiefs, and senators of Argos' host !

Since, by the will of Heav'n, this man is slain,

Who harm'd us more than all our foes beside,

Essay we next the city ; so to learn

The Trojan purpose, if, this hero slain,

They will forsake the citadel, or still

Defend it, although Hector be no more.

But wherefore speak I thus ? still undeplored,

Unburied in my fleet Patroclus lies ;

Him never, while, alive myself, I move

And mix with living men, will I forget.

In Ades, haply, they forget the dead,

Yet will not I Patroclus, even there.

Now chanting pseans, ye Achaian youths !

Return we to the fleet with this our prize ;

We have achieved great glory, we have slain

Illustrious Hector, him whom Ilium praised

In all her gates, and as a god revered."
SOTHEBY.

" Princes, and leaders, since, by favouring heav'n,

To us o'er such a foe this victory giv'n,

This mighty man, whose force, surpassing all,

Long injured Greece, and guarded Ilion's wall,

Come, with our battle gird in arms their towers,

So learn the purpose of their hostile powers, —

If they abandon Troy, its guardian slain,

Or, the great Hector perish'd, dare remain ?

But why thus commune ? still Patroclus lies

Unwept, ungraced with solemn obsequies.

Ne'er, while I breathe, he sleeps by me forgot,

Ne'er, while remembrance mine, remember'd not.

E'en in the dark oblivion of the grave,

My soul with thine, sweet friend, shall commune have.

Now, youths ! your paeans raise, now swell the song,

Lead to the navy, lead the corse along.

Great is our glory ; Hector breathes no more,

Whom Ilion hail'd, and wont as god adore."

Chapman fails, and therefore we We say he fails ; because, in such
do not quote him. He is harsh, in- noble passages, he in general nobly
verted, and elaborate overmuch; nor succeeds. Pope is magnificent,
has his version the majestic march Cowper is somewhat tame in a few
of the original. But, " dead, unde- lines ; and perhaps his version is
plored, unsepulchred, he lies at fleet throughout wanting in passion ; but
unthought on," is passionate — and the close is simple and stately — so it
reminds one of " unhousel'd, disap- seems to us — as in Homer. The last
pointed, unanneal'd ;" and there is a three lines sound to our ears like

a song of triumph in the Old Tes-
tament. They are heroic as if in

1832.] Sotheby's Homer. Critique V. 155

the Book of Kings. Sotheby, in heartstrings of the exulting victor,

the first part of his version, is not and " checks his thunder in mid-

so felicitous as usual ; but the lines volley," when, about to storm the

about Patroclus are more tender city, he is struck, as it were, with

than in any of the other translations, palsy by the cold air from the corpse

though we do not think " the dark of Patroclus.

oblivion of the grave" Homeric, and But rage rises again out of grief,

the conclusion breathes of the true Sorely mangled had been the body of

Achillean spirit. There is not in all Patroclus — Achilles sees it in all its

the Iliad one finer touch — one bolder ghastliness — and shall it fare better

stroke of nature — than the sudden with the body of Hector ? No— let

revulsion of feeling that tears the there be horrid retribution.

NORTH.

He said, and purposed unseemly deeds against the illustrious Hector ;

Of both feet he pierced the tendons behind

From heel to ankle, and inserted thongs of ox's hide,

And bound them behind the chariot ; but allowed the head to be dragg'd.

Having ascended the chariot, and the renown'd arms up-lifted,

He lash'd (the horses) onward ; and they not unwilling flew ;

From (the corpse) thus dragged rose dust ; on both sides, his hair

Of-a-dark-hue was scattered, and his head in the dust completely

Lay, so graceful once ; then, indeed, had Jupiter to foes

Given him to be dishonour'd, in his own native land.

CHAPMAN.

This said ; a work not worthy him, he set to ; of both feet
He bored the nerves through, from the heel to th' ankle ; and then knit
Both to the chariot, with a thong of whitleather ; his head
Trailing the centre. Up he got to chariot, where he laid
The arms repurchas't, and scourged on his horse that freely flew,
A whirlwind made of startled dust drave with them as they drew ;
With which were all his black-brown curls, knotted in heaps, and filed.
And there lay Troy's late Gracious, by Jupiter exiled
To all disgrace, in his own land, and by his parents' care, &c.

POPE.

Then his fell soul a thought of vengeance bred,

Unworthy of himself and of the dead.

The nervous ankles bored, his feet he bound

With thongs inserted through the double wound ;

There fixed up high behind the rolling wain,

His graceful head was trail'd along the plain.

Proud on the car th' insulting victor stood,

And bore aloft his arms distilling blood.

He smites the steeds ; the rapid chariot flies ;

The sudden clouds of circling dust arise.

Now lost is all that formidable air ;

The face divine and long-descending hair

Purple the ground, and streak the sable sand ;

Deform'd, dishonour'd in his native land !

Given to the rage of an insulting throng,

And in his parents' sight now dragg'd along !
COWPER.

He said ; then purposing dishonour vile

To noble Hector, both his feet he bored

From heel to ankle, and inserting thongs,

Them tied behind his chariot, but his head

Left unsustain'd to trail along the ground.

Ascending next, the armour at his side

He placed, then lash'd the steeds ; they willing flew.

Thick rose the dust, as with his sable locks

He swept the ground ; his head, so graceful once,

Plough'd deep the dust ; to such dishonour Jove

That day consign 'd him on his native plain.

SOTHEBY.

Then with unmanly gash, dishonouring gored
The feet of Hector, and their tendons bored j

Sotheby's Homer. Critique K

With leathern thongs behind his chariot bound,
And left the head to trail along the ground ;
Sprung in his seat, the arms in order placed,
And lash'd the willing steeds that swiftly raced :
From the dragg'd corse the dust in clouds upflew,
The dark clay grim'd his locks of sable hue ;
Arid that once beauteous head, half hid in earth,
Tore, as it trail'd, that soil which gave him birth.
So Jove, who oft had o'er him stretch'd his hand,
Dishonour'd Hector in his native land.

Ay — this was indeed "purposing
unseemly deeds against the illustri-
ous Hector," and horridly carrying
them into execution. But one single
moment before, and Achilles was
commanding his Myrmidons to lift
along the body of Hector to the hol-
low ships, himself leading the song
of triumph. " Great glory have we
won — we have slain the illustri-
ous Hector— to whom the Trojans,
throughout the city, as to a god were
wont to offer prayers !" Now whelm-
ed in dust, the corpse is dragged at
his chariot wheels — while the mo-
ther-queen, standing on the battle-
ments, fills the air with shrieks, and
casting far aside her lucid veil, flings
her hairs by handfuls from the roots,
and his father weeps aloud, and all
around, long, long lamentations are
heard through the streets of Troy,
" Not fewer, or less piercing, than if flames
Had wrapt all Ilium to her topmost
towers !"

And Andromache, who, in her cham-
ber at the palace- top, was framing a
splendid texture, on either side with
flowers of various hues all dazzling
bright, and had given command to
her maidens to encompass an ample
vase with fire, that a bath might be
prepared for Hector on his return
from battle, hears the voice of the
queen-mother ! so piercing-shrill it
was, in her agony the shuttle falls
from her fingers, and she knows of
a truth that her Hector is dead. She
crests the tower — and then indeed
she sees him in front of Ilium, whirl-
ed in such shameful guise, away to-
wards the Grecian fleet. But what
cared Achilles for all that mortal mi-
sery ? He knew it not. Deaf in his
own distraction, he heard not theirs ;
his passion was concentrated on two
dead bodies — Patroclusand Hector;
love and hate, ruth and rage, pity
and ferocity, each with its scalding
tears; unforgiving was he, without
mercy and without remorse ; and as
the axle of his chariot glowed, and

unimpeded were the wheels by the
accursed corse, so burned his spirit
in the terrible turmoil of its insatiate
revenge.

Let us take*relief from all this mi-
sery in a small bit of what is called
Philosophical Criticism. Aristotle, the
best of critics — and Eustathius, not
one of the worst — have made each a
remark on this combat, which seem to
us scarcely worthy such philosophers.
Aristotle says, according to Pope,
" the wonderful ought to have place
in Tragedy, but still more in Epic
Poetry, wliicli proceeds in this point
evento theunreasonable;foras inEpic
Poems one sees not the persons acting,
so whatever passes the bounds of rea-
son is proper to produce the admira-
ble and the marvellous. For example,
what Homer says of Hector pursued
by Achilles, would appear ridiculous
on the stage ; for the spectators could
not forbear laughing to see on one
side the Greeks standing without any
motion, and, on the other, Achilles
pursuing Hector, and making signs
to the troops not to dart at him. But
all this does not appear when we read
the poem ; for what is wonderful is
always agreeable, and as a proof of
it, we find that they who relate any
thing usually add something to the
truth, that it may the better please
those who hear it." This is misera-
ble murder of Aristotle — especially
the barbarity in italics— and we quote
it as an example of the style of treat-
ment it has been his fate to receive
alike from friends and foes.. Take
Twining's version— which is sense.
" The surprising is necessary in Tra-
gedy ; but the Epic Poem goes far-
ther^ and admits even the improbable
and incredible^ from which the highest
degree of the surprising results, be-
cause there the action is not seen"
What follows it is needless to quote,
as Pope's translation gives, general-
ly, the sense of the original, with con-
siderable confusion. But the ques-
tion is, would the Flight and Pur-

Sotheby's Homer. Critique V.

1832.]

suit appear ridiculous on the stage ?
Twining thinks " the idea of stop-
ping a whole army by a nod or shake
of the head," (a circumstance, he
says, distinctly mentioned by Homer,
but sunk in Mr Pope's version,)" was
perhaps the absurdity here princi-
pally meant ; and that, if this whole
Homeric scene were represented on
our stage, in the best manner pos-
sible, there can be no doubt that the
effect would justify Aristotle's ob-
servation. It would certainly set the
audience in a roar." Pye again, who
is in general empty, and on Twi-
ning extremely crusty, says sensibly
enough here, that he " cannot possi-
bly conceive that the idea of stop-
ping an army by the nod of a head,
could be the absurdity meant by
Aristotle, or that there could have
been any thing more absurd in an
army stopping at a nod of the head
in the theatre, than by the single
word halt in Hyde Park." Pope
seems to have entirely missed the
meaning of Aristotle, whatever that
may have been — who, he says," was
so far from looking on this passage
as ridiculous or blamable, that he
esteemed it admiraBle and marvel-
lous." True, he did so esteem it, oc-
curring as it does in the Epopee ; but
had it happened in Tragedy, then, he
says, it would have been ridiculous ;
and the question is, why ? The an-
swer seems to be, " it would have
been ridiculous to see on the stage
the army standing still ;" and so it
Avould, thinks Twining — so it would
not, thinks Pye— and so it would not,
thinks North. Pye gives the rationale.
" The defect mentioned by Aristotle
lies deeper ; for he, in the next chap-
ter, mentions this identical circum-
stance as a general error against pro-
bability, excusable only as it renders
the scene more interesting. To us,
who are used to the point of honour
in military affairs, this improbability
does not appear. But the ancients
made war on a different plan.
*" * *****

The ancients looked on this action
of Achilles as censurable on the
ground of rashness — which appears
from a remark on it in Plutarch's
Life of Pompey, where, speaking of
a rash action of Pompey, in assisting
the Cretan pirates merely to deprive
Metellus of a triumph, he compares
this action— which he calls rather

157

the exploit of a mad boy, intoxicated
with the love of fame, than of a
brave man." Pye adds, " in deference
to the opinion of Plutarch, it does
not appear that Achilles was actua-
ted by the love of fame, but the wish
to monopolize the revenge of his
friend's death." And we, in defer-
ence to the opinion of Pye, say that
Pye is mistaken, for we have seen
that Achilles is inspired by both
passions, which Homer makes him
tell us in the clearest and boldest
words. Therefore, Aristotle, Plu-
tarch, Pope, Twining, and Pye, are
all wrong — Homer and North, as
usual, all right ; for, though it is true
that it was not exactly a pitched
single combat, in which case any as-
sistance from the army would have
been wicked, and not ridiculous, yet
it was very like one indeed, and,
therefore, again begging Aristotle's
pardon, we really cannot yet see how
the non-interference of the army
would have been ridiculous on the
stage, any more than on the field.

Eustathius, who, if we mistake not,
Avas a bit of a bishop, says that this
is not a single combat of Achilles
against Hector, but a rencontre in
a battle ; and so Achilles might and
ought to take all advantage to rid
himself, the readiest and surest way,
of an enemy whose death would
procure an entire victory to his par-
ty. Wherefore does he leave the vic-
tory to chance ? Why expose him-
self to the hazard of losing it? Why
does he prefer his private glory to
the public weal, and the safety of all
the Greeks, which lie puts to the
venture by delaying to conquer, and
endangering his own person ? We
grant it is a fault, but it must be
owned to be the fault of a hero.

All the above is given us by Pope,
through Dacier, from Eustathius.
And is it not pretty considerable
stuff ? Achilles ought to have killed
Hector by hook or crook — by the
spears and swords of the soldiers !
(Loud cries of oh ! oh ! oh !) The
Greeks, it has been observed, were
no favourites with the feudal writers
on the Trojan war, and to depreciate
the character of Achilles, they have
made him in that way murder Hec-
tor. See Shakspeare's Troilus and
Cressida, where Achilles is at once
a sumph and a savage. As to his
leaving the victory to chance, and

Sotheby's Homer. Critique V.

158

exposing himself to the hazard of
losing it, the answer is, that the
Greek army would have laughed in
your face, had you hinted such a
suggestion, and taken you for Ther-
sites.

Stop — we all at once see the mean-
ing of Aristotle. He alludes neither
to the shaking of the brows of Achil-
les, (which was almost equal to the
nod of Jupiter,) nor to his rashness
in exposing himself to be killed by
Hector in single combat, (a stupid
charge, worthy of that Breotian, Plu-
tarch,) but to the circumstance of the
whole army standing stock-still du-
ring the flight thrice round the walls,
instead of intercepting the fugitive,
(which 50,000 men could surely
have done, without putting them-
selves into a sweat,) and thereby
enabling Achilles to get to in-Jiyht-
ing. Now, in the Epopee, this absur-
dity— and it is one — escapes notice,
because the scene is not submitted
to our sight. And Homer is eulo-
gized by Aristotle for his genius in
so narrating it, that there is produ-
ced by it on our minds a sense of the
wonderful. Had the scene been ex-
hibited before our eyes, on the stage,
it would, for the reason assigned,
have been ridiculous \ — and thus
after all Aristotle is right, and so is

[Feb.

North, while Plutarch, and Eusta-
thius, and Twining, and Pye, are
wrong, though each in his degree no
contemptible philosophic critic.

But let us return to the agonies
of Achilles. He has reached the
ships, with Hector at his chariot
wheels, all the power of passion
within his mighty heart more savage-
ly inflamed by the motion of that
horrid race. Let there be due pomp
in the celebration of the ritual of
revenge ; and let Thetis' self, who
brought him the armour in which
he conquered, come again from the
sea to inspire all their hearts with
the rage of grief. The Myrmidons
shall fiercely partake of the funeral
banquet — and the body of Hector
shall be given to the dogs, that they
may tear to pieces and devour it.
Agamemnon may send the chiefs to
bring Achilles to the royal tent, and
he will go ; but not to sit down with
the king of men, not to cleanse from
his homicidal hands the clotted gore
— not to purify his person — if such
blood be pollution — " in the large
three-footed caldron," but to demand
that the old trees may be hewn on
the mountain for the funeral pyre
of his Patroclus. It is a dreadful
picture.

Thus were they groaning throughout the city ; but the Greeks,

When they had come to the ships and the Hellespont,

Went-dismissed each to his own ship ;

But Achilles permitted not the Myrmidons to go dispersed ;

But among his war-loving companions (thus) spoke : —

" Ye swift-riding Myrmidons, my beloved companions,

Let us not yet from the chariots unyoke the solid-hoof d horses,

But with the horses themselves, and the chariots nearer approaching,

Let us weep for Patroclus ; for this is an honorary-tribute to the dead.

But when we-have-had-our-full of sorrowing lamentation,

Having unyoked our steeds, we shall sup here altogether.

Thus he spoke ; together-brought, they Hfted-up-their-lamentation, and Achilles took

the lead.

* Thrice around the corpse drove they their beautiful- maned horses,
The Myrmidons, and among them did Thetis stir up the longing-love of lamentation ;
Moisten'd were the sands, moisten'd was the armour of heroes,
With tears, such a panic-causing hero did they desiderate.

Among them did the son of Peleus take the lead in the closely-thronging wailings,
Placing his homicidal hands on the breast of his friend.
" Rejoice with me, Patroclus, even in the mansions of Ades ;
For every thing shall I now fulfil, which I formerly promised,
That having dragged Hector hither, I would give him to dogs to be torn raw ;
That at the pyre I would decollate! twelve

* This passage is borrowed by Virgil, Lib. xi. 186. JEa. Imitated by Chaucer in the Knight's TaJe.

Ne how the Greeks with an huge rout,

Thrice did riden all the 6re about,

Upon the left hand, with a loud shouting,

And thrice on the right, with their speares clattering,
t Comes nearer the etymological meaning of a-x"9$ti£oroftfifftiv, than «' behead."

1832.] Sotheby's Homer. Critique V. 159

Illustrious sons of the Trojans, being enraged for thy having been slain."

Thus he said, and against the illustrious Hector unseemly deeds he purposed,

Beside the bier of the son of Menoetius having stretch'd him prone

In the dust; and each put-off-his-arms and accoutrements,

Brazen (and) bright; and unloosed the shrill- neighing horses.

Down sat they by the ship of the swift- footed grandson of ^Eacus

In great numbers (lit. ten thousand); but he laid out for them a desire-gratifying fu-

neral-feast.

Many a slow* moving ox was extended on the iron (spits)
Slaughtered, many a sheep and bleating she-goat,
Many a bright-tusked boar, blooming with fat,
Were extended to be roasted over the flame of Vulcan.
Meanwhile, on all sides around the corpse flowed the blood, as-if-from-vessel.?. out-

poured, (xorvxvgurov. )

But the Prince, the swift- footed son of Peleus,

To the illustrious Agamemnon, were the chiefs of the Greeks conducting,
With urgency, artfully-persuading him, enraged at heart on account of his friend.
When they then had in their course come to the tent of Agamemnon,
Forthwith the shrill-sounding heralds he commanded
To surround with fire a large three-footed caldron,f might they persuade
The son of Peleus to wash away the clotted gore.
But he stubbornly refused, and moreover swore an oath,
" No — not, by Jupiter ! who of gods is the loftiest and best,

Until I shall have placed on the pyre Patroclus, and thrown up a sepulchral mound,
And shorn off my locks ; since never again a second time thus
Shall grief pervade my heart, whilst I shall be among the living.
But yet let us now obey (celebrate) the hateful repast.
At-to-morrow's-dawn, king of men, Agamemnon, urgently-command
Wood to be collected and piled up, as is beseeming
For a corpse having (these honours} to go down to the gloomy darkness ;
That the unwearied fire may burn it up

Quickly away from my eyes, and the soldiers turn themselves to their labours."
Thus said he ; and they to him earnestly listened and obeyed him,
And each and all having eagerly-girded-themselves-to-prepare supper,
Feasted, nor lacked their hearts an equal repast.

And what shall still for a while the the soul is the slave of the body, and

storm in the destroyer's soul ? No ever-wearied nature yields to the

power on earth or in heaven. It access of sleep. Like a calm that

keeps feeding on the black atmo- enchains the fluctuating sea, sleep

sphere — the grim clouds come sail- seizes on Achilles, and his huge

ing along incessantly in tempestuous frame is stretched motionless along

procession — broken but by flashes the shore. Then is he visited by a

of lightning; never was there seen dream,
such a dreadful mental sky. But

NORTH.

But Pelides, on the shore of the much-resounding ocean,

Lay heavily-groaning amid a multitude of Myrmidons,

In a purified \ place, where the billows were dashing § on the shore,

When sleep, unbinding the cares of the mind, seized him,

( Sleep) sweetly poured around (him) — (for wearied much were his beautiful limbs

By rushing after Hector at wind-exposed Troy.)

»" It is difficult to determine whether the epithet awci should here be translated " white," or
" swift," or " slow," (in the sense in which Homer often uses «/XtVo£j? fi6t$ — trailing-footed, an
epithet very descriptive of the way in which they drag after them their hind-legs)— or " idle"— quasi

aio>yos.

t To prepare a bath;

It is argued by some that white animals were never sacrificed to the dead ; but perhaps the living
had no objection to the colour of the animal— provided the flesh were good — and Homer is here de-
scribing the wigftuwvov — or funeral repast given to the living. Another critic is determined to have
the oxen white, even at the expense of their skins. " After they are flayed," says he, " they are white
from their fatness"— /x,t<ra, TO tx^atgnvKi Z.£v%ot KK\ ^10, f

\ K.u$ctg £> may here mean a place not usually frequented.

§ KXu^Eintav, some interpret, ' ' were sounding 5 " others, " washing." Perhaps Homer means
that the dashing of the waves washed away the blood, and consequently purified the place.

160 Sotheby's Homer. Critique V. [Feb.

(Then) the spectre of the hapless Patroclus approach'd,

In all respects resembling him in stature, in beautiful eyes,

And voice, and similar garments clothed its body ;

O'er his head it stood, and in these words addressed him: —

" Sleepest thou, and forgetful of me art thou, Achilles ?

Of me when living, not neglectful; but now, when dead,

Bury me with all speed, that I may pass the gates of Ades.

The spectres, the shadows of the slain, keep me afar,

Nor allow me to mingle with them beyond the river ;

To-no-purpose wander I about the wide-gated mansion of Orcus.

Give me thine hand, with- tears- I-imp lore thee, for never again hereafter

Shall I return from Ades, after you shall-have-given~me»my-portion of the pyre.

Never again apart from our beloved companions, shall we alive,

Sitting, hold counsel together ; but me, hath Destiny,

The hideous, and ordain'd to me at my birth, yawning wide, devour'd.

And even of thee thyself, oh godlike Achilles, the fate is

To perish under the walls of the nobly-born Trojans.

This other (request) will I communicate and enjoin, if perchance you will grant it ;

Place not my bones apart from thine, Achilles,

But together ; that as we were brought up together at your house—

(Since me then young Mencetius from Opbeis

To your (house) had conducted, on account of a mournful manslaughter,

On that day, when I slew the son of Amphidamas,

Unwittingly, unwillingly, being angry about dice :

Me, did the equestrian Peleus, having then received me into his house,

Nurture zealously, and name your attendant : )

So also let the same urn enclose our bones,—

That golden vase, which thy venerable mother gave thee."

Him, the swift-footed Achilles answering, addressed,

" Why, beloved one, hast thou come hither,

And on me enjoin'd all these things? To thee, will I

Faithfully perform them all, and grant as thou ordere'st.

But stand nearer me, that having embraced for a little while

One another, we may-take-our-full of sorrowing grief."

Thus having said, he stretched himself out with his hands,

But grasp'd not ; for the spectre, down under the earth, like smoke,

Pass'd shrill-wailing ; amazed, Achilles started up,

Made-a-clattering-noise with his hands struck together, and spoke these sorrowful

words,

" Ha ! ye gods, verily there are in the mansions of Orcus
The spirit and the semblance, but nothing substantial* is there there at all ;
For of my hapless Patroclus, all-the-night has
The spirit, moaning and wailing, hover'd o'er me,
And has given me orders about every thing ; wonderfullyf like was it to himself."

Most beautiful example of the awakes with a spirit tranquillized for
power of the deepest passion of sor- the funeral. So passed the night —
row which men know, the sorrow and " rosy-palmed Aurora found
for the dead, to awaken creative them all mourning afresh the pitiable
imagination! Nothing will satisfy dead." Then up rose Meriones,
it here but the ghost of Patroclus. friend of the virtuous chief Idome-
From the lips of the phantom falls neus, and led the mules and mule-
but the expression of those ideas and driver to the groves of Ida fountain-
feelings which the heart of the living fed; and down fell the towering
hero has indeed brought forth in the oaks with crash sonorous; and ere
visions of its own grief. And how long they were cast on the beach in
profound the hush breathed over all order, where Achilles had designed
that distracting passion from the a tomb of ample size for Patroclus
tender interview of sleep ! Achilles and for himself— for in death he de-

&£*»«&*», may also be translated godlike.
<ppsvsf — oXgov TO rvpct, says the scholiast.

1832.] Sotheby's Homer. Critique V. 161

sired that they should not be divided, charioteers; first moVed the cha-

Round the pile of fuel sat down all riots, and then came the foot, dense

the warlike throng ; till Achilles as a cloud. In the midst, between

issued orders that his warriors should his companions in arms, was borne

gird on their armour, and yoke their the body of Patroclus. But behold

steeds to their chariots. On a sud- the funeral-rites in Sotheby's exqui-

den all in bright arms stood array- site translation,
edj mounted the combatants and

Behind, Achilles held the hero's head,
And groan'd amid the pomp that graced the dead—-
The mourners, where he bade, deposed the bier,
And urged their toil the enormous pile to rear.
Then Peleus' son, alone, from all apart,
• Mused on the solemn vow that swell'd his heart,
And severing from his head the golden hair,
That, to Sperchius vow'd, flow'd full and fair,
Deep-groaning on the world of waters gazed,
And thus his voice of lamentation raised;

" Peleus to thee, Sperchius, vow'd in vain
This offering, if his son return'd again,
This consecrated hair, when hail'd my home,
And with this gift his votive hecatomb,
And fifty rams that at thy fount should bleed,
And in thy sacred wood the altar feed —
Thus Peleus pray'd : but thou hast scorn'd his pray'r;
Not thine, Sperchius, this devoted hair.
Ne'er shall the son of Peleus greet his sire,
And this shorn lock falls on Patroclus' pyre."

He spake : and bowing down, the corse embraced,
And in Patroclus' hands the offering placed.
All grieved : and thus the daylight had declined,
Had not Achilles then reveal'd his mind:

" Atrides! thee all willingly obey; —
Grief has its season ; now send these away :
Dismiss them from the pyre, the feast prepare,
Rites yet unpaid be my appropriate care.
I, and my host, the last sad charge sustain,
Yet let with us the leaders here remain."

Atrides heard, and utter'd his command,
And to their ships dispersed each separate band.
The assistants there remained : the pile prepared,
And paced on every side the structure squared,
An hundred feet : then, on his funeral bed,
On that high summit, weeping, placed the dead.
There many a sheep and bullock slew and flay'd,
And, heap'd before the pyre, each carcass laid :
From all alike the fat Achilles drew,
Spread o'er the corse, and wholly hid from view :
Then piled their limbs, and hung, with many a tear,
Jars of rich oil and honey round the bier.
Then Peleus' son cast quickly on the pyre,
Four steeds, proud-crested, foaming in their ire ;
And from nine household dogs, liis hand bad fed,
Cast two, that on the pile, fresh-slaughter'd, bled :
Then twelve brave youths of Troy, in sternest mood,
Slew with revengeful blade that drain'd their blood.
Last, on the structure hurl'd the force of flame,
And deeply groaning, named Patroclus' name :

" Patroclus ! hail ! Oh hear, though dead, ray voice !
All that I vow'd is perfected. — Rejoice !
Twelve high-born sons of Troy, in youthful bloom,
The fire at once shall with thy corse consume,
But ne'er shall fire on Hector feed, the hound
Shall, fattening on his carcass, search each wound."
VOL, XXXI, NO, CXC. L

162 Sotheby's tiomer. Critique V.

He, threat'ning spoke : but by high heaven o'erpower'd,
Ko ravenous hound the Hectorean corse devour'd,
By Jove's fair child, by Venus, driven away,
"Who watch'd the corse, and guarded night and day ;
"With roseate oil ambrosial bathed him o'er,
That smooth'd, when dragg'd, each lacerated pore.
And a dense cloud from heaven Apollo drew,
And where the corse reposed deep darkness threw,
That not the fierceness of the solar ray,
The tendons bare, and dry the flesh away.

What is wanting to the magnificence stantly consume the dead. Iris heard
of such a funeral ? Nothing is want- his supplication — and the Rainbow
ing — our imaginations are satisfied, — " she that wears the thousand-
and we feel it to be sublime. But coloured hair" — flung herself from
the imagination of Homer was not heaven into the hall of the heavy-
satisfied ; greater grandeur still was blowing West, where all the Winds
due to the funeral rites performed sat feasting; and the moment she
to his friend by Achilles ; and the alighted on the threshold, they all
elements must be called to give the starting rose at once, and each in-
finishing glory to the work. No fire vited Iris to his side. " Borne over
kindled on the pile. It remained, ocean's stream again, I go to Ethi-
without a spark, sullen in its mighty opia, where with ' the rest' I wish
mass. It seemed unwilling to be to share in hecatombs offered to the
consumed. Therefore, Peleus' son gods. But Achilles sues for the aid
withdrew a short distance in prayer, of Boreas and Zephyrus, vowing to
and, vowing to each large sacrifice, you large sacrifice, if ye will fan the
invoked Boreas and Zephyrus, pour- pile on which now lies his Patroclus,
ing out libation from a golden cup, by all Achaia wept." Even in our
and thus imploring their coming, prose, the description bears perusal
that the flames, kindling, might in. well; in Sotheby it is superb.

NORTH.

Thus having spoken, she (Iris) departed ; but they (the winds) rushed
With magnificent sound, — driving the clouds before them !
Instantly to the sea they came to blow : up-rose the billows
By the shrill-sounding blast. To rich-glebed Troy they came,
Upon the pyre they fell, and the magnificently-burning flame crackled aloud.
All-night verily indeed did they, at one and the same time, up-lift the blaze around

the pyre,—

Blowing shrilly: and all-the-night did the swift Achilles,
From a golden goblet, having a double-handled cup,
Draw the wine, pour it on the ground, and moisten the earth,
Invoking the spirit of the hapless Patroclus.
As a father bewails (when) burning the bones of his son
Betrothed, who, by his death, hath rendered wretched his miserable parents,
In like manner bewail'd Achilles when burning the bones of his friend,
Gliding along by the burning-pyre — groaning choking/y }*
But when the morning-star arose — the harbinger of light upon the earth,
After which the saffron-robed Aurora is diffused over the sea,
Then did the pyre-blaze languish, and the flame ceased.
Back went the winds again to return homeward,

Athwart the Thracian deep: but it groan'd, boiling with its swelling (waves.)
But Pelides, turning away to the other side, apart from the pyre-blaze,
Lay down, worn-out : and upon him sweet sleep came.
But Atrides and his followers in numbers were assembled,
Of whom passing to and fro the noise and disturbance awoke (Achilles ;)
Upright therefore he sat, and these words addressed to them :
"Atrides, and ye others, ye nobles of all the Greeks,
First extinguish down with dark wine the pyre-blaze
Wholly, as far as the fury of the fire hath seized it ; and next
The bones of Patroclus Mencetiades let us gather together,

closely pressed—from a$nf, to sattctp

1832.] Sotheby's Homer. Critique V. JG3

Distinguishing them carefully; for easily recognised they are,

Since they lay in the midst of the pyre, but the others apart,

On the outermost Verge, were burn'd, horses and men promiscuously :

Those in a golden urn, and in twice- folded fat*

Let us deposit, — till I myself be concealed in Ades.

I wish not now to elaborate a very large tomb,

But of moderate and befitting dimensions — thus : thereafter, ye Greeks,

Both broad and high you may make, you who after me

Shall be left behind in the many-bench'd ships."

Thus spoke he: and they obey'd the swift footed son of Peleus.

First then did they extinguish down with dark wine the pyre-blaze,

As far as the flame had come, down-fell the deep ashes :

The white bones of their gentle companion, with tears,

They collected into a golden vase, and twice-folded fat:

In the tent having placed it, they veil'd it with delicately- woven fine linen :

The circumference of the mound they form'd, and laid the foundation

Around the funeral pile :f and raised the heap'd up earth.

Having raised the mound, they return'd. But Achilles

Detain'd the people there, and made-to-sit-down a wide encircling assembly.

From the ships prizes he brought, caldrons and tripods,

Horses and mules, and the vigorous heads of oxen,

And women with-lovely- waists, and grey iron.

SOTHEBY.

Swift at the word, the winds with mighty roar
Flew, and far drove the gather'd clouds before,
Swept o'er the sea, while far and wide the deep
"With all its billows swell'd beneath their sweep :
Then Ilion reach'd, there rushing on the pyre,
Heard at their blast loud roar the blaze of fire.
The pyre, in every part, throughout the night,
Spread, as they shrilly blew, large flakes of light :
And, all that night, Pelides, the divine,
Held with pure hand a bowl of votive wine,
And fill'd it from a beaker framed of gold,
Then pour'd the offering on the hallow'd mould,
And ever as he pour'd it from the bowl,
With solemn voice invoked Patroclus' soul.
As when a father, lone, with grief half- wild,
Consumes the bones of his beloved child,
A youth just plighted, whose untimely death
Dooms to unsolaced woe his closing breath :
Thus as Achilles burnt Patroclus' bones,
Slow pacing nigh the pile, groans burst on groans.
Thus past the night ; but when with dawning ray
Rose the fair morn-star, harbinger of day,
And saffron-robed Aurora onward came,
Sank on the wasted pile the dying flame —
Home rush'd the winds, and with returning blast
Swell'd up the Thracian billows, as they past :
Then worn Pelides from the pile withdrew,
And sleep her soothing mantle e'er him threw.
But when the host, a still increasing throng,
Tumultuous, to Achilles flock'd along,
Their din aroused him from refreshing rest :
He rose, and thus assembled Greece addrest 5

" Atrides ! and ye chiefs, my voice attend !
First, to Patroclus' pile your footsteps bend,
And there extinguish, far as spread the fire,
With copious wine the yet half-smouldering pyre.
Next, let us gather up each hallow'd bone
Of Mencetiades, distinctly known :

" Notabile inventum ad excludendum aerem et cum eo putorem." Heyne,
| " Si rccte asserjuor, tumulus in ipso rogi loco exstruitur," ut sup. H. 336. Heyne.

164

Sotheby's Homer. Critique V.

[Feb.

In the mid pyre he lay ; but, round his bed,;

Far off the steeds and men confus'dly spread.

In a gold vase, with double cauls enclosed,

Place we his bones, till mine are there deposed.

I will not now a mighty mound upraise ;

Yours be that hallow'd charge in after days ;

Ye, the survivors of our hapless doom :

There the large mound extend, and pile a loftier tomb."

He spake : the host Pelides' word obey'd,
Pour'd the dark wine, and all the flame allay'd,
Far as the tire had spread its strength around,
And the heap'd ashes sank, and strew'd the ground ;— •
Then tearful gathering up, the bones reposed
In the gold vase, with double cauls enclosed :
Bore to the tent, and hiding it from view,
O'er all a veil of finest linen drew.
Then, circling round the place, mark'd out the mound,
And there the broad foundation firmly bound,
Earth heap'd on earth, to raise the structure, laid,
And back return'd, that last sad duty paid.
Achilles then the multitude detairi'd ;
And all spectators of the sports remain'd. —
Forth from his ships, along the crowded shore,
His train the great rewards of contest bore :
Caldrons and tripods, and the proud-neck'd steed,
Mules, and lai'ge bodies of the bovine breed,
And lovely girls, that richest vesture wore,
And the bright splendour of his iron ore.

from human bosoms to gladden the
immortal spirit with earthly revenge.
Wailings and shrieks were raised
around the pile, to thrill for the last
time unhearing ears; and the fare-
well of the living to the dead was
duly spoken, as if he were but then
departing from the coasts of life.

" Salve seternum, mihi, maxume Palla !
^Eternumque vale !"

In this way has imagination at all
times blended itself with the passion
of sorrow. The strong feeling in
which the mind begins to work is the
wound of its own loss. But immedi-
ately its wider feelings are opened
up, and from all its stores of thought,
from all its sources of passion, images
and desires begin to crowd in, which
belong not to that particular afflic-
tion,but to the universal constitution
of our nature, and to its common
lot. Such has been the origin of the
funeral honours and consecrations of
the dead. The soul in its sorrow
was not satisfied to mourn. But
awakened by its own anguish to the
vivid realization of all those concep-
tions which the living spirit has ga-
thered upon the name of death, it
went down into the regions 'to which
the ghost was gone,and found it shi ver-
ing on the shores of the unnavigable
river, till its funeral rites were paid.
It found the departed soul yet trou-
bled with the passions it had left on
earth, and still communicating, by
its mysterious sensibility, with the
affections and the acts of the living.
Hence stately obsequies were made,
to solace with the last tribute of love
that shadowy being ; warriors circled
thrice with inverted arms the figure
of the warrior slain ; wine was shed
on the flame j and blood was poured

Delightful is it thus to recall to
memory a parallel passage from
Virgil the divine — the Funeral of
Pallas. The same passionate spirit
breathes over that beautiful picture
— coloured by a gentler and more
pensive genius. From Homer's
" Golden Urn" Virgil "drew light;"
and poets there have been, who, at
the farthing rushlight of some poet-
aster, have kindled their own huge
pine-torch, that far and wide has il-
luminated the horizon. What is the
use of making comparisons between
Homer and Virgil ? Of each it may
be said, in the mystic language of
Wordsworth—

" Thou — tliou art not a child of Time,
But offspring of the Eternal Prime/'

Virgil, according to " the whisper
of a faction," is an imitator. So is
every great poet. Shakspeare was
a thief, and Homer was a robber.

1832.] Sotheby's Homer. Critique V. 165

Sympathy is one of the strengths of by old Evander, that his princely
a poet's soul ; and sympathy, at its boy might learn the last lessons of
height and depth, works into imita- chivalry from the great Trojan,
tiou. Imitation, therefore, is proof, When Pallas fell, ./Eneas mourned
power, test, trial, growth and result, with a twofold passion of grief. Nor
cause and effect, of original genius, had he the fiery spirit of Achilles.
" The same ! but oh ! how different !" Therefore there is the most touching
What a fund of philosophy in these tenderness, but no startling intensity,
few words! vEneas is not Achilles— in his sorrows. The anguish — and
Pallas is not Patroclus. But each the agony — these are reserved for
illustrious pair were Knights-Corn- Evander; and our bosoms are rend-
manders of the Order of the Stainless ed by his lamentations as sorely as
Shield — and theirs were immortal by those of Priam. Nothing can be
friendships. Achilles and Patroclus more affecting — more pathetic — than
were nearly of an age. But ^Eneas the following Virgilian strain sound-
was like the elder brother of Pallas, ed through the hre-touched lips of
who had been committed to his care Dryden.

Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way,
Where, now in death, lamented Pallas lay :
Accetes watch'd the corpse ; whose youth deserved
The father's trust, and now the son he served
With equal faith, but less auspicious care :
The attendants of the slain his sorrow share.
A troop of Trojans mix'd with these appear,
And mourning matrons with dishevell'd hair.
Soon as the prince appears, they raise a cry ;
All beat their breasts, and echoes rend the sky.
They rear his drooping forehead from the ground ;
But when JEneas view'd the grisly wound
Which Pallas in his manly bosom bore,
And the fair flesh distain'd with purple gore:
First, melting into tears, the pious man
Deplored so sad a sight, then thus began.
• * * * *

" Thus having mourn'd, he gave the word around,
To raise the breathless body from the ground j
And chose a thousand horse, the flower of all
His warlike troops, to wait the funeral:
To bear him back, and share Evander's grief
(A well-becoming, but a weak relief).
Of oaken twigs they twist an easy bier ;
Then on their shoulders the sad burthen rear.
The body on this rural hearse is borne,
Strew'd leaves and funeral greens the bier adorn.
All pale he lies, and looks a lovely flower,
New cropt by virgin hands, to dress the bower :
Unfaded yet, but yet unfed below,
No more to mother earth or the green stem shall owe.
Then two fair vests, of wondrous work and cost,
Of purple woven, and with gold embost,
For ornament the Trojan hero brought,
Which with her hands Sidonian Dido wrought.
One vest array'd the corpse, and one they spread
O'er his closed eyes, and wrapp'd around his head :
That when the yellow hair in flame should fall,
The catching fire might burn the golden caul.
Besides the spoils of foes in battle slain,
When he descended on the Latian plain :
Arms, trappings, horses, by the hearse he led
In long array (the achievements of the dead.)
Then, pinion'd with their hands behind, appear
The unhappy captives, marching in the rear :
Appointed offerings in the victor's name,
To sprinkle with their blood the funeral flame.

166 Sotheby's Homer. Critique V. [Feb,

Inferior trophies l>y the chiefs are borne ;

Gauntlets and helms, their loaded hands adorn j

And fair inscriptions fixt, and titles read,

Of Latian leaders conquer'd by the dead.

Accetes on his pupil's corpse attends,

"With feeble steps ; supported by his friends :

Pausing at every pace, in sorrow drown'd,

Betwixt their arms he sinks upon the ground.

Where grovelling, while he lies in deep despair,

He beats his breast, and rends his hoary hair.

The champion's chariot next is seen to roll,

Bcsmear'd with hostile blood, and honourably foul.

To close the pomp, JEthon, the steed of state,

Is led, the funerals of his lord to wait.

Stripp'd of his trappings, with a sullen pace

He walks, and the big tears run rolling down, his face i

The lance of Pallas, and the crimson crest,

Are borne behind j the victor seized the rest.

The inarch begins : the trumpets hoarsely sound,

The pikes and lances trail along the ground.

Thus, while the Trojan and Arcadian horse

To Pallantean towers direct their course,

In long procession rank'd j the pious chief

Stopp'd in the rear, and gave a vent to grief.

" The public care," he said, " which war attends,

Diverts our present woes, at least suspends ;

Peace with the manes of great Pallas dwell ;

Hail, holy relics, and a last farewell!"

^Eneas did not act well towards and death in his war. He fears to
Dido. We do not mean in leaving look again on the face of the good
her, for his departure was inevitable, old king, whom he has made sonless.
it being doomed ; and had he staid „ And what a friend hast tt Ascanius,
at Carthage, what had become or the jost j>»

j&Sneid? but in allowing her to in- „,, . . * , , . ,. f , . .
dulge in « loving not wislly, but too ™at is the last line of his heroic
well;" especially in that cave. Elec- ele£J ovei' thf 9°.rpse; and after-
tricity is always perilous ; and hence w.ards> °? the decisive day, what are
knight and lady fair have seldom hls words to Turnus ?
escaped scatheless from such seclu- Pallasj te hoc volnere Pallas

sion during a thunder-storm. We for- Imraolat !"
give them both. But ^Eneas redeems Yes! ^Eneas was a hero,
his character from the charge of Say not that Virgil is often pa-
selfishness, by his whole conduct thetic, but never sublime. For be-
towards Pallas and Evander. He lieve thou with us that the pathetic
had a good heart. He remorsefully re- is the sublime, as it comes pouring
proaches himself for having suffered purely forth from the ether of a
the young hero to encounter danger poet's soul. Thus—-
The morn had now dispell'd the shades of night ;

Restoring toils, when she restor'd the light ;

The Trojan king, and Tuscan chief, command

To raise the piles along the winding strand :

Their friends convey the dead to funeral fires ;

Black smould'ring smoke from the green wood expires •

The light of Heaven is chok'd, and the new day retires.

Then thrice around the kindled piles they go

(For ancient custom had ordain'd it so).

Thrice horse and foot about the fires are led,

And thrice with loud laments they hail the dead.

Tears trickling down their breasts bedew the ground •

And drums and trumpets mix their mournful sound.

Amid the blaze, their pious brethren throw

The spoils, in battle taken from the foe ;

Helms, bits embost, and swords of shining steel,

One casts a target, one a chariot-wheel ;

1832.]

Sotheby's Homer. Critique V.

107

Some to their fellows their own arms restore :
The falchions which in luckless fight they bore :
Their bucklers pierced, their darts bestow'd in vain,
And shiver'd lances gather'd from the plain ;
Whole herds of offer'd bulls about the fire,
And bristled boars, and woolly sheep, expire.
Around the piles a careful troop attends,
To watch the wasting flames, and weep their burning friends.
Lingering along the shore, till dewy night
New decks the face of Heaven with starry light.

The ancients — Hebrews, Greeks, He prophesied falsely of the dura-
tion of the Roman greatness ; but he

Romans — had all noble ideas and
feelings in their friendships. David
and Jonathan — Achilles and Patro-
clus — Pylades and Orestes — Damon
and Pythias — Nisus and Euryalus
— and many others — real or phan-
toms— of the sages or the heroes.
What is such friendship, when flow-
ering on the battle-field, but peace-
in-war ! Profoundest repose of all
the heart's best affections in the midst
of its most tempestuous passions !
A loun hour in midst of a day of
storms !

Virgil pours his entire heart into
the episode of Nisus and Euryalus —
Homer all his into that loftier bro-
therhood. Both alike, under such in-
spiration, must have felt confident
of immortality. The consciousness
in the soul of genius of its own im-
perishable greatness, meets our per-
fect sympathy, when that genius ex-
ercises itself in the finest and most
famous arts. We are easily able, for
example, to imagine that the sculp-
tor or the painter, while he looks
with delight himself on the beautiful
forms that are rising into life under
his hand, feels rejoicingly that other
men, formed by nature with souls
like his own, will look with the same
emotion on the same forms, and
thank him to whose genius they owe
their delight. We can conceive, with-
out difficulty, the consciousness
which Virgil felt of the delight which
his verse would inspire,when, having
celebrated, in that perhaps the most
beautiful passage in all his poetry,
the perilous and fatal adventure of
those two youthful warriors, and
closed their eyes in death, he adds,
rejoicingly,

" Fortunati ambo ! si quid mea carmina

possint,
Nulla dies unquam meraori vos eximet

aevo,
Dum domus ^Eneae Capitoli immobile

saxum
Accolet, imperiumque Pater Romanus

habebit!"

committed no error in prophesying
his own fame ; and the delight which
he felt himself in the tender and
beautiful picture he had drawn, is
felt, as he believed it would be, by
numberless spirits. He was not de-
ceived, then, in the assurance he felt
of an undying sympathy among men
with his own emotions ; in his cer-
tainty that he should touch their
hearts with a pensive pleasure, and
win from them, along with love for
his fallen heroes, some fond and
grateful affection to him who had
Bung so well the story of their for-
tunes.

And think ye not that Homer, too,
exulted in the consciousness that he
had won himself an immortal fame,
when he was conceiving for Achilles
the tender desire that his body should
lie in the same tomb with that of his
Patroclus ? " The time may come,"
said the hero, " when Greece may
decree us a vaster monument."
There spake Homer's own heart, in
the fulness of the pride of inspira-
tion. Millions yet unborn would vi-
sit that mound, because of the glori-
fying song that illuminated its ver-
dure with immortal light. Achilles
was either to return home, and live
and die obscurely happy, or to " fall
in the blaze of his fame" before
Troy. And the bard, in his pre-
science, knew that congenial spirits,
in the after-time, would think it hap-
piness enough for Achilles, that he
had been sung by Homer. Not else
had Alexander the Great sought the
tomb of the hero whom he admired
and resembled — though Homer's
Achilles never saw the light of our
day, but was in the air- world of ima-
gination an ideal phantom, glorified
by genius into the life that never
dies.

From this unintended digression
we now hasten back to the close of
the funeral rites of Patroclus.

Those magnificent rites are follow-

108 Sotheby's Homer. Critique V. [Feb.

ed duly by the funeral games — and les is king to-day ; and he has recei-

who should preside over them — but ved his sceptre from the hand of sor-

Achilles ? Agamemnon himself is row. How heroic his bearing from

there— and all the chiefs. But Achil- first to last !

Atrides, and ye other valiant Greeks !

These prizes, in the circus placed, attend

The charioteers. Held we the present games

In honour of some other Greecian dead,

I would myself bear hence the foremost prize ;

For well ye know my steeds, that they surpass

All else, and are immortal ; Neptune's gift

To my own father, and his gift to me.

But neither I this contest share myself,

Nor shall my steeds ; for they would miss the force

And guidance of a charioteer so kind

As they have lost, who many a time hath cleansed

Their manes with water of the crystal brook,

And made them sleek, himself, with limpid oil.

Him, therefore, mourning, motionless they stand,

With hair dishevell'd, streaming to the ground.

But ye, whoever of the host profess

Superior skill, and glory in your steeds

And well-built chariots, for the strife prepare !

So spake Pelides, and arose the
charioteers for speed renowned — Eu-
melus, accomplished in equestrian
arts — Diomede, the son of Tydeus—
he yoked the coursers won by him-
self in battle from jiEneas, what time
Apollo saved their master — the son
of Atreus with the golden locks, Me-
nelaus, who joined to his chariot the
mare of Agamemnon, swift JEthe,
and his own Podargus — and Antilo-
chus, son of Nestor, his bright-maned
steeds prepared, of Pylian breed. At
the sight, grief for the dead fades be-
fore the glory of the living — yet with
what noble pathos does Achilles here
remember his friend !

Tydides is victor; and the prizes
are delivered in order ; — the last of
all to Nestor, by Achilles him-
self, the Flower of Chivalry and
Courtesy, in honour and reverence
of Old Age. " Take thou, my Fa-
ther ! and for ever keep this in store,
that thou mayst never forget the
funeral of my friend ! accept it as a
free gift: for, fallen as thou art into
the wane of life, thou must wield
the csestus, wrestle, at the spear
contend, or in the foot-race, hence-
forth no more !' ' — " My son ! I accept
thy gift with joy; — glad is my heart
that thou art evermore mindful of
one who loves thee, and that now
thou yieldest me such honour as is
due to my years, in sight of all the
Greeks. So may thegods immor-
talize thy name !" Such the princely
bearing of Achilles on the first con-

test; and look on him now at the
proposal of the last. In the circus he
places a ponderous spear and cal-
dron yet unfired, and around em-
bossed with flowers — and uprise at
once the spearmen, Agamemnon and
Meriones, when Achilles thus ad-
dresses the king of men — nor is
Sotheby's English inferior to Ho-
mer's Greek :

" Achilles spake — ' King ! thy surpassing

art

All know, far far o'er all to hurl the dart,
And — if thy will, Atrides ! — such is mine —
The lance be that brave chief's — the cal-
dron thine.'
He spake : and Atreus' son, with joyful

mind,

The lance to brave Meriones resign'd :
And bade Talthybius to his tent convey
The beauteous caldron, to record the day."

Old Homer was indeed a perfect
gentleman. In the noblest of all
warlike arts, that of the spear, he
makes Agamemnon's self rise to
contend, in honour of Patroclus —
the brother of him he had so out-
rageously wronged — but whom he
has now gloriously righted in the
presence of all Greece. The mutual
forgiveness is now complete — com-
plete the reconciliation. Both he-
roes stand now in each other's esti-
mation as they did before that fatal
quarrel. Achilles, indeed, needed
no vindication ; but Agamemnon
did; and in that incident, closing
the games with such dignity, we

1802.]

Sotheby's Homer. Critique V.

169

The games are over — the army is
broken up— and to repast and sleep
have gone all the people. Night and
silence once more invest the camp ;
and again begins the passion of
Achilles. His thoughts are like the
rage Leonum vincula recusantum.

feel that he was indeed the King of
Men, — such a king as even Socrates
himself — in that divine dialogue of
Plato which Cicero asked who could
read without tears — hoped,
" When he had shuffled off this mortal

coil,"
to converse with in Elysium.

The assembly broke up, and to the swift-sailing ships the people all
Dispersed went : for mindful were they of repast,
And of sweet sleep to have their full : but Achilles
Wept, calling to mind his beloved friend ; nor him did sleep,
The all-subduing, seize, but now here, now there he toss'd,
Desiderating the manhood and the vigorous might of Patroclus;
What toilsome labours he had terminated along with him, what distresses he had

endured,

While passing through the battles of heroes, and dangerous waves :
Remembering all this — he let fall abundant tears.
One while reclining on his sides, — at another
Supine, and now on his face, then, standing up aright,

He saunter'd about sorrowing, along the shore of the sea : him not the morn,
When dawning on the sea and on the shore, missed :
But he, when he had yoked the swiftest horses to the chariot,
Bound Hector, to be dragg'd behind his chariot :

Thrice having dragg'd him around the mound of the dead Menoetiades,
Again he paused in his tent, him (Hector) he left
Extended prone in the dust : but Apollo from his
Body warded off all unseemliness,* (putrefaction,) pitying the man
Even though dead : all around he veil'd him with his JEgis
Of gold, that when dragging him along he might not lacerate him.

ty, whom nature graciously framed to
live in the bonds of brotherhood. Had
Helen and Paris never sinned, how
heroic might have been the friend-
ship of Achilles and Hector ! The
heir-apparent of the throne of Troy
might have visited the son of Peleus
in his father's court of Phthia, and
bards immortalized the mutual affec-
tion of the heroes. For prodigally
endowed were they both by the gods
with the noblest gifts of nature, and
to Achilles Hector might have been
Patroclus. Such is the mystery of
this life ; but in the Elysian Fields
they may repose together in immor-
tal love on the meads of Asphodel.

While thus Achilles in his wrath
disgraced his noble foe, looking down
from heaven the Immortals pitied
him ; all but Juno and Pallas — re-
membering how Paris in his rural
liome had disdained them, and pre-
fered to theirs the charms of Venus—
and the sovereign power of Ocean,
the earth-encircling Earth-shaker.
Apollo pleads with Jove for the re-
storation of the body of his beloved
Hector to Priam ; and Iris summons
Thetis to heaven from her lamenta-

The Fury will not leave his heart.
She still glares in his bloodshot eyes
— and through that ghastly light, dis-
colouring and disfiguring, Achilles
still sees the character and the corpse
of Hector. Would thathis rage suffer-
ed him to chop the slayer of Patro-
clus into pieces, and devour him raw !
That savage desire is dead, but it
gave way but to another — satiated —
if his hate be not insatiable — by thus
dragging the body at his chariot
round the mound of Menoetiades. He
sees notinthat body the son of Priam,
the Prince of the people, the defend-
er of his country, the worshipper of
the gods, but a wretch accursed — a
hound abhorred — trampled on, stab-
bed, mutilated, but not yet enough
insulted, and punished, and excom-
municated from humanity ; as is its
ghost from all other ghosts in the
world of shadows. 'Tis thus that in
his insanity he has looked on Hector
— living or dead — thus that he has
thought on him — ever since Patro-
clus' death. And thus it is that rage,
and hate, and revenge, kindled in war,
or haply in peace, separate the souls
of us mortal beings in bitterest enmi-

" nc corpus fcedaretm* nee ulceribus et livoribus, nee putresceret," says Heyne.

170 Sotheby's Homer. Critique V. [Feb,

tions for her noble son, ordained to it is the will of heaven he should

die far distant from his home at now relent, and receive the ran*

Troy. She is commissioned by the som.
Thunderer to tell the Implacable that

COWPER.

So spake the God, nor Thetis not complied :
Descending swift from the Olympian heights
She reach'd Achilles' tent. Him there she found
Groaning disconsolate, while others ran
To and fro, occupied around a sheep
New-slaughter' d large, and of exuberant fleece.
She, sitting close beside him, softly strok'd
His cheek, and thus, affectionate, began :

" How long, my son ! sorrowing and mourning here,
Wilt thou consume thy soul, nor give one thought
Either to food or love? Yet love is good,
And woman griefs best cure ; for length of days
Is not thy doom, hut, even now, thy death
And ruthless destiny are on the wing.
Mark me — I come ambassadress from Jove.
The Gods, he saith, resent it, but himself
More deeply than the rest, that thou retain'st
Amid thy fleet, through fury of revenge,
Uriransom'd Hector. Be advised, accept
Hansom, and to his friends resign the dead."

To whom Achilles, swiftest of the swift :
" Come then the ransomer, and take him hence;
So be it, if such be the desire of Jove."

And now Iris, " who to her feet ties
whirlwinds," is despatched to Troy,
to enjoin Priam to repair unto
Achaia's fleet with such gifts as may
assuage Achilles. The old king sets
out on his journey, and, under the

Achilles singly heaved it.— There the god
Gave Priam entrance to the chiefs abode.

And will the wretched old man in-
deed venture into such a presence ?
Yes — and without fear. For he has

f~rT yet a kindly spirit — though, for his

guidance ot Hermes, who meets him j__ «„„?„„>„ „„!,,> ™Iii:Jr« „,;»», i,;Q

in shape of a " princely boy, now
clothing first his ruddy cheek with
clown, which is youth's loveliest
season," reaches in his car, with the
glorious ransom-price of Hector, the
tent of the Destroyer. See it in
Sotheby, who has a fine eye for the
picturesque : —

Tlien to the tent of great Achilles came,
Whose wider amplitude, and loftier frame,
To grace their king his Myrmidons had

made,

With trunks of pine on pine in order laid,
And, from the marshes, for the shelt'ring

roof,
Mow'd many a reed, and firmly rear'd

aloof,

And compassing the court's wide spread-
ing bound,
Girt it with fence of thickest stakes

around.
One bar, a pine, immense in size and

weight,
From free intrusion fenced the guarded

gate;
Three Greeks alone, with all their

strength amain,
Could draw it back, or forward force

again ;

dear Hector's sake, willing with his
hoary locks to sweep the dust. Her-
mes had told Priam from Jove not
to dread Achilles.
The Argicide shall guide, shall onward

lead,

Till to Achilles' presence thou proceed :
There boldly enter, nor Pelides dread,
That hero will not wound, but guard thy

head.

For Peleus' son, not senseless, rash, un-
just,

But prompt to raise the suppliant from
the dust.

So Hermes spoke to Priam in his
own palace ; and now that they have
reached the tent of the Terrible,
before reascending the Olympian
heights, he comforts him with the
same assurance, bidding him enter,
and seize fast the knees of Achilles,
and adjure the hero to compassion-
ate him, by his aged sire, by his beau-
teous mother, and his darling son.

We shall venture to give in our li-
teral prose, from beginning to end,
the whole of this immortal scene.
It is manifestly impossible for us to
quote the poetical versions of the

1832,] Sotheby's Homer. Critique V. 171

Four. Suffice it to say, that Sotlieby, power, sustains his high character,
in this severest trial of skill and and is inferior to none of his rivals.

NORTH.

. Right on to the tent march'd the old man

In which Achilles was sitting, beloved of Jove : in it himself

He found : but his companions were seated apart : these two alone,

The hero Automedon, and Alcimus — a shoot of Mars,

Minister'd, standing near: for he had newly ceased from food,

Having eaten and drank : and the table still stood near :

The huge Priam having enter'd, escaped the notice of these, and standing near,

With his hands Achilles' knees he grasp'd, and kiss'd (those) hands

Terrible, homicidal, which had slain so many of his sons.

As when an overwhelming calamity hath taken hold of a man, who, in his own,

country,

Having slain a human being, hath come among another people,
To a rich man's (house), amazement seizes those looking upon him !
In like manner stood Achilles aghast, when beholding the godlike Priam :
Aghast, too, stood the others, — gazing on each other.
But him Priam, supplicating, address'd :
" Think on thy father, oh, Achilles, like to the gods !
Who is of the same years as I, on the mournful threshold of old age :
Him, peradventure, some neighbouring (rivals) dwelling around him,
Are oppressing, nor is there one to avert evil and destruction ;
Yet he, indeed, hearing that thou art alive,
Rejoices in his soul, and every day hopes
To see his beloved son return'd from Troy :
But I (am) thoroughly ill-fated, for I begat most valiant sons
In wide Troy — of them not one can I say to have been left.
Fifty they were to me, when the sons of the Greeks arrived :
Nineteen were from one womb,

But all the rest (my) concubines brought forth to me in the palaces.
Of many of these did impetuous Mars unnerve the knees ;
But him who was my alone one, and defended my city and them,
Him hast thou lately slain, while defending his native land,
— Hector : on his account now come I to the ships of the Greeks,
To redeem him of thee, and bring an unbounded ransom.
But, oh ! Achilles, reverence the gods, and pity me,
Calling to mind your own father ! truly still more pitiable am I,
For I have endured what never did any other earth-inhabiting mortal,
- — To draw to my mouth the hand of the man that-slew-my-children."

Thus spoke he : and in him he stirr'd up the longing of grief for his father,
And, having taken him by the hand, he gently push'd away the old man.
Both call'd to remembrance (the past) ; the one, Hector the mauslayer
Lamented incessantly, prostrate at the feet of Achilles:
But Achilles bewail'd his own father, and, by turns,
Patroclus : and their groans rose up throughout the house.
But after Achilles had had his full of bewailing,

And the longing for it had departed from his mind and from his body,
Forthwith from his seat started he, and by the hand upraised the old man,
Taking pity on his hoary head, and hoary beard ;
And, addressing him, spoke (these) wing'd words : —
" Ah, wretched one ! many evils hast thou endured in thy mind.
How did'st thou dare to come alone to the ships of the Greeks,
Into the presence of a man who thy many and brave
Sons slew ? Surely thou hast a heart of steel !

But come, sit down beside me on the seat ; and our sorrows altogether
Let us allow to lie down in our minds — grieved though we be ;
For there is no profit in freezing lamentation.
Thus, then, have the gods spun the destiny of miserable mortals
To live mourning; but they themselves are without cares.
In the threshold of Jove lie two casks

Of gifts which he gives, the one of evils, but the other of blessings ;
(He) on whom Jupiter, who delights in thuuder, having mingled (them), shall
bestow (both),

172 Sotheby's Homer. Critique V. [Feb.

At one time is in evil, at another in good :

(But) to whom he shall give of the bad, him hath he made subject to reproach j

Him ravenous misery persecutes on the gracious earth,

And he goes about, neither honour'd by gods nor mortals.

So, indeed, on Peleus did the gods bestow splendid gifts

From his birth : for he was distinguished among all men

For plenty and wealth, and ruled over the Myrmidons ;

And to him, though a mortal, they gave a goddess to wife :

Yet even on him hath God inflicted an evil, in that no

Offspring of sons has been born in his house, to rule after him,

But an only son hath he begot, destined-to-perish-untimely ; nor him indeed

Do I cherish in his old age, since very far from my native land

Do I sit before Troy, saddening thee and thy children.

Thee, too, old man, have we heard, as once abounding in as much riches

As Lesbos southward, the seat of Macar, contains within itself,

And Phrygia eastward, and the far-extended Hellespont —

All these, old man, they say, didst thou surpass in riches and in sons.

But from the time when the celestials have inflicted on thee this calamity,

Battles and man-slayings have continually beset thy city.

Endure, nor unceasingly mourn in thine heart,

For nothing will it profit thee to be sad for thy son,

For thou shalt not raise him up again, before some new evil shalt thou suffer."

Him then answer'd the old man, the god-like Priam !

" Do not at all make-me-to-sit-down on a seat, Jove-nourish'd one, in so long as

Hector

Lies uncared-for (unburied) in the tents, but quick as possible
Ilansomed-restore-him, that with (these) eyes I may behold him ; and do thou receive

the ransom

Magnificent, which we bring to thee : and mayst thou enjoy it, and return
To thy father-land, since thou hast first permitted me,
Myself, both to live and to look upon the light of the sun."
Him the swift-footed Achilles, sternly-eyeing, addressed : —
" Provoke me no more, old man ; I myself purpose,
Ransomed-to-restore Hector : from Jove to me came as a messenger
The mother who bore me, the daughter of the sea-dwelling old man :
But, Priam, I know thee in my mind, nor deceivest thou me,
In that some god hath conducted thee to the swift ships of the Greeks ;
For no mortal might dare to enter, riot even though very youth-vigorous,
The camp ; since neither could-he-escape-the-notice-of the guards, nor the bars
Of our gates easily unbolt.

Therefore, no more rouse thou my soul in (its) sorrows,
Lest thee, old man, even thee I endure not in the camp,
Suppliant though thou be, and offend against the behests of Jove."
Thus spoke he : the old man feared, and obeyed the command.
But the son of Peleus from the house like a lion sprang forth ;
Not alone : along with him two attendants follow'd,
The hero Autontiedon, and Alcimus, whom chiefly indeed
Of his companions Achilles honour'd, since Patroclus was now dead —
They then from the yoke unloosed the horses and mules,
And introduced the summoning herald * of the old man,
And placed him on a seat : from the beautifully-polish'd car
They took the unbounded ransom of Hector's head.
But two robes they left, and a fine-woven tunic,

That covering the corpse, he (Priam) might give it to be carried home.
Calling to him his maid-servants, he ordered them to wash, and to anoint all around
(The corpse) — taking it apart, so that Priam might not behold his son,
Lest he should not in his sorrowing heart restrain his anger
When looking on his son, and rouse up the heart (wrath) of Achilles
To slay him, and violate the behests of Jove.
It, when the hand-maidens had washed, and anointed with oil,
Around it they cast the beautiful mantle and the tunic,

rov fioaiv
Schol.

1832.] Sotheby's Homer. Critique V. 173

And Achilles himself having lifted up, placed it in the couch,

And along with him his attendants raised it up into the beautifully-polish'd car.
Then groan'd he, calling-by-name on his beloved friend,

" Be not angry with me, Patroclus, if perchance thou mayst hear,

Even in Ades, that ransom'd-I-have-restored the illustrious Hector

To his father ; since no unbeseeming ransom hath he given,

Of which I verily on thee will bestow as much as is befitting."
He said, and to his tent return'd the illustrious Achilles,

And sat down on his splendidly- Daedalian reclining-chair, from which he had uprisen,

From the opposite wall, and to Priam these words address'd :

" Ransom-restored hath been thy son to thee, old man, as thou did'st wish ;

In the couch he lies, and, along with the day-spring,

Thou thyself shalt behold and carry him away : but now let us be mindful of supper.

For even the beautiful-hair'd Niobe was mindful of food,

Although even her twelve children were cut off in the house,

Six daughters truly, and six blooming sons ;

Them Apollo slew from (by means of) his silver how,

Being enraged at Niobe ; the former, Diana that-delights-in-arrows (slew),

Because she (Niobe) had compared herself with the beautiful-cheek'd Latona,

For she said that she had brought forth two, while she herself had produced many.

But they (Apollo and Diana) though two destroy'd them all,

For-nine-days lay they in their slaughter (blood), nor was there one

To bury them ; for Jove had made the people stone.

Them, however, on the tenth day did the gods of heaven bury :

Yet even she was mindful of food, when weary of weeping.

And now somewhere among the rocks, among the sheep-frequented (solitary) moun-
tains,

In Sipylus, where they say is the cradle of the goddess —

Nymphs, who move-vigorously (dance) around (on the banks) of the Achelous,

There, although of stone, does she digest* her sorrows, from (inflicted by) the gods.

But come, illustrious old man, let us concern ourselves

About food, and afterwards mayst thou weep for thy beloved son,

When you have carried him to Troy ; much -wept- for shall he be by thee."
He said, and starting up, a sheep, white-fleeced, the swift Achilles

Slew, (which) his companions flay'd, and prepared skilfully and gracefully,

And into-small-portions-cut it attentively, and spits pass'd through it,

And roasted it circumspectly, and drew all off (the spits).

But Automedon having taken bread, portion'd it out on the table

In beautiful baskets, and Achilles portion'd out the flesh.

They stretch'd forth their hands to the good cheerj- (now) ready and served up.

After they had removed the desire of food and drink,

Then indeed did the Dardanian Priam gaze-with-admiration on Achilles,

How large, and what kind he was, (his stature and beauty ;) for he seem'd in presence
like the gods:

And Achilles gazed with admiration on the Dardanian Priam,

Contemplating his benevolent countenance, and listening to his words !

But when they were satisfied with beholding one another,

The god-like aged Priam first address'd him :

" Send-me-to-repose, Jove-nourish'd-one, that now

Lull'd in sweet sleep we may be recruited ;

For never have my eyes under my eyelids closed,

From the time when, under thy hands, my son lost his life,

But ever I groan, and ten thousand woes digest,

In the enclosures of my court, rolling myself in the dust :

But now have I fed upon food, and the dark wine

Have I sent (poured) down my throat : for never before had I fed."

He said : but Achilles gave orders to his companions and bondswomen

To prepare a bed beneath the portico, and beautiful bedclothes

Of purple to onlay, and thereupon coverlets to place,

Arid sott fleeces to put on, to be drawn over from above.

They went forth from the house, having in their hands each a torch,

fcffffu — Shakspeare's "chewing1 the end of sweet ami bitter memory."
lit. profitable things.

174 Sotheby's Homer. Critique V. [Feb.

And immediately they made up two couches-with-sedulous haste,

When the swift-footed Achilles, false- fear- infusing* into him, thus addressed him j

" Sleep thou without, beloved old man, lest any one of the Greeks

As a consulter should come here, for such continually

Are sitting by me deliberating in council, as the manner is:

Of these, if any one should see thee through the swift dark night,

Forthwith will he tell it to Agamemnon, the shepherd of the people,

And peradventure a procrastination of the ransoming of the corse may take place.

But come now, tell me this, and truly tell me,

How many-days art-thou anxious-for to bury the illustrious Hector,

Since so long will I myself be at rest, and restrain the people."

Him the venerable god-like Priam then addressed :—

" If me thou wish to celebrate funeral rites to the illustrious Hector,

By so doing, a grateful- favour wilt thou confer on me, Achilles.

Thou knowest that we are shut up in the city, and from afar must wood

Be brought from the city, and much panic-struck are the Trojans.

For nine days him shall we bewail in the house,

But on the tenth day would we bury him, and let the people have the funeral banquet :

On the eleventh day would we erect a mound upon him,

And on the twelfth will we renew the war, if it must needs be so."—

Him then addressed the swift-footed, god-like Achilles :

" It shall be so, venerable Priam, since thus thou wishest it :

The war, for as long as thou orderest, will I restrain."

Thus having spoken, the old man's right hand at the wrist

He grasped, that he might not in any respect be alarmed in mind,

And in the vestibule of the abode there, there went to sleep

The herald and Priam, having prudent counsels in their breast j

But Achilles slept in a corner of the well-compacted tent,

And beside him lay the beautiful-cheeked Briseis.

This was, perhaps, the boldest at- ficent breaks and many majestic flows
tempt ever undertaken and achieved it pursues its way ; and ends tran-
in one single scene by any poet. We quilly in the wide wide sea, under
do not except even the wonderful the hush of night, "when all the stars
works of Shakspeare, who "exhaust- of heaven are on its breast."
ed worlds, and then imagined new," We beheld a stormy morning — and
or of Milton, who not only brought a day of storms — nor knew how to
together angels and us conversing hope for termination of the tempest,
in Paradise, but ventured even on But we find ourselves " at dewy to-
more transcendent strains. The heart fall of the night" in the midst of pro-
of Homer could not rest till he had foundest peace. All passion has ra-
recoriciled the Destroyer and the Be- ved itself away j no sound is heard in
reaved. Such was the nobility of his the Tentbutthe murmurs of the mid-
nature, and such the congenial gran- night sea; and Achilles and Priam,
deur of his genius, that he felt a like princes at peace, are asleep be-
high and holy duty imposed on him neath the reed-roof of the pine-pil-
by the Muse, of which he was the lared edifice, while their tutelary
Voice, to conquer and overcome all gods inspire into their souls undis-
mortal horror, repulsion, and repug- turbing dreams. Out in the open
nance in the hearts of his heroes, air, before the porch, and beneath
and to vindicate in them the laws the pity of the stars, laid thereon by
that bind together the brotherhood the heroic hands that slew the hero,
of the human race. His triumph and decently composed his limbs at
is perfect in that reconciliation, last, and covered with fair vesture,
Throughout the whole interview the lies on the car of Priam the ran-
flow of feeling is strong " as a moun- somed body of Hector. From all dis-
tain river" that issues in power from figurement and decay Apollo had
its very source; with many magni- saved it with his golden shield; nor

* 'EviKt(><ro{*.iuv — wounding by sarcastic raillery — must here mean, falsum tirnorem incutere
cupiens— ro xtgroftBiv cu r^u.^ornrot, l%ov vfigurrtxnv, Jj ovtibitrri'xw, 'aXX' tiffhyvffiv q>6[->ou

J,sl,JSj not a contumelious or sarcastic roughness, but an exhibition of pretended fear, says

Eustathius on this passage. Heyne, however, translates it, " Subridendo et quasileniterjocando,'\

1832.] Sotheby's Homer. Critique V.

will Hecuba and Andromache need to
regard with horror in their grief the

face of the Defender.

That great line has been develo-
ped— out of it has grown the Iliad.
" Like some tall palm the stately fabric

rose. "

Yethavetherebeencritics,and those,
too, of some " mark and likelihood,"
who have been unable to construe
M»wv — to understand the meaning of
WRATH. They forget, too, that it was
the Wrath of Achilles. They have
complained of Homer, that he has
inspired his hero with two Wraths —
one — of which Agamemnon was the
object — of the other, Hector. O the
blind breasts of mortals ! There was
but one Wrath— but it was " wide
and general as the casing air," — in
its atmosphere Achilles breathed — it
was the plague — and Apollo sent it
• — it broke not out in boils and blains
and blotches on the face of Achilles
— for nothing could change the beau-
tiful but into the terrible — but it
bathed his eyes in fire, and disco-
loured to them all the green earth
with blood. Wrath is a demon — and
its name is Legion — for there are
many ; and the devils are like gods.
The passion of Achilles — who was
the Incarnation of the Will — hewed
down, on all the high places, woods
for fuel to burn on its own altar, a
perpetual oblation and sacrifice, fla-
ming day and night, to Revenge.
Achilles hadanoble understanding —
no Greek among them all had lar-
ger Discourse of Reason. But he ap-
pealed to another power in his being,
on his mighty wrong; and a response
came to him, more sacred even than
of conscience, "Relentnot till Greece
is trodden in the dust by Troy."

MHNIN auli,

It is a miserable mistake to think
that Achilles was at any time, ex-
cept just at the very first burst on
sustaining that injurious insult,
wrathful with Agamemnon. The King
of Men was the cause — but the effect
flashed over his whole life. Never
before had his heart conceived the
possibility of insult to him the god-
dess-born. He had " taken the start
of tliis majestic world," and allegiance
in all eyes looked acknowledgment
of the divine right of him whom na-

1?J

ture had made and crowned a mo-
narch of her own. In his superior
presence the wisdom of Ulysses was
mute — the strength of Ajax lost all
its praise — dim was the fire of Dio-
med — and the grey head of Nestor
shone with joy when he did it reve-
rence. Thersites' self dared no scur-
rile jest within hearing of the son of
Thetis. At the uplifting of his peace-
ful hand, the Myrmidons were meek
as lambs — another wave — and away
went the herd of wolves to lap the
blood of battle. And then, had he not
sacked a score of cities, slain their
kings, and led captive the daughters
of kings, gladly to live in the delights
of love — lemans all of the man who
had extinguished their kindred, but
who still cherished closest to his
great heart his affianced bride,
Briseis ? She was— not torn — for
Agamemnon dared not violence to
the Invincible — but taken from his
Tent by the heralds — holy men even
as the priests were holy — and Achil-
les in his wrath respected the ser-
vants of the laws, because the laws,
he knew, are from Jove. His great
soul enjoyed a religious pride (re-
member he was a pagan) in obedi-
ence — on that trial — to the Sire of
the Gods.

MHNIN atiSty ©sa,

The W>ath, you know, was just.
And what is Revenge, but what one
of the wisest of men has called it, a
wild kind of Justice ? Achilles sat
not at the ships " nursing his Wrath
to keep it warm." " No fear lest
dinner cool." It was a repast of one
dish, hot as if it had been baked in
Erebus. It steamed up in his nostrils
a bitter-sweet savour, while they
dilated with the lust of that infernal
food. To greatness of character is
essential inflexibility of purpose;
and he sat there, out of the bat-
tling in which, till then, had been
his delight, a martyr to his own fury.
His Wrath embraced now all the
Greek army — all Greece — and espe-
cially himself — wroth was he ex-
ceedingly with Achilles. " Man
pleased not him, nor woman either"
—except Patroclus — and now and
then, in dreadful dalliance of disap-
pointed passion for another,

" Diomeda, Phoebus' daughter fair;"
yet he had delight still in Music and
Poetry. Nor did the Harper smite

116

the strings like a madman. They
yielded solemn sounds and high, for
the chords were struck to odes
chanted by the hero's voice, to the
praise of the heroes. That voice was
like a bell chiming among groves. It
was of miraculous reach — but his
contr'alto that soared skywards, was
no falsetto— and his basso was like
the sound of the hollow sea when
the flowing tide is musical on the
yellow sands in the night-silence.
Beautiful 'twas felt to be by Ulysses,
and Ajax, and Phoenix, when, on
their hopeless mission, they paused
at the door of the state-room of his
Tent, to listen to Achilles, as if he
had been Apollo. His very courtesy
awed them ; and they left him un-
moved in his majesty, with even
higher ideas of his heroic character,
because that he was inexorable to all
their prayers — while

" The war wide-wasted, and the people
fell."

From within — if at all — must be
moved the soul of Achilles. The
more terrible the passion, the more
entire its joy. And never is joy so
deep, " as when drumly and dark it
rolls on its way" — the main flood
swollen by a thousand tributary
streams, each, as it joins, lost in one
general grim discoloration. And the
soul of Achilles was moved — at last
— from within — by his love for Pa-
troclus. The first relenting of his
Wrath — the first" change that came
o'er the spirit of his dream," vindi-
cated his character at once from all
that might have seemed questionable
in his passion. The hero felt that
Hector was too near the ships — in
the remonstrance of the man dear-
est to his heart; and while other
voices might as well have spoken to
the winds, that of his brother began
to move the hero. Like two trees
had they grown up together in front
of the palace of Peleus — they were
as the pillars of his state. " Go then
to battle — my Patroclus — and in the
armour of thy Achilles !" He went
— and died ; and was his death, think
ye, an anodyne to lull asleep the
Wrath of him who sent his brother
to destruction ? But it became — say
the philosophers — another Wrath j
it continued the same Wrath, say we ;
but, like lightning glancing from tree
to tree, or if lightning act not so,

Sotheby's Homer. Critique V. [Feb.

like an arrow which does, it glanced
from Agamemnon, and stopped not
till it smote Hector.

£, ©£«, n«A«m^w 'A%tXno;.

But that Wrath, as yet, kindles not
against the killer of Patroclus. It
turns and fastens on his own heart.
Dismally streaked is it now with the
bloodshot agonies of grief. He rages
against all that breathes — stirs — lives
—dies. He is angry with gods and
men — with Agamemnon, king of men
— with himself — most of all withHec-
tor — though he names him not — and
with the doom of death, since it has
fallen on Patroclus. What fierce em-
bracement of the corpse ! What fury
in the aim meditated against that
vein-swollen throat of his, choking in
convulsive agonies heaved from his
bursting heart ! The Invincible about
to be a suicide! But his hand is
withheld — not by the warrior who
kneels beside him — but by the same
Familiar who had been with him ever
since the insult — by Revenge. Then
it is that the insult is forgotten —
and Agamemnon too — and that one
phantom establishes itself before his
eyes— never more to leave them, till
it be laid in blood — the image of
Hector stripping Patroclus, and
daring now to wear the armour
Achilles wore. That now is the
wrong — that now is the insult — let
the living Briseis warm with love
and delight the couch of Agamemnon
— and none disturb their embraces ;
the dead body of Patroclus is now
all his thought, and all his desire —
and he will pursue his murderer till
he has " torn the bloody reckoning
-from his heart."

MHNIN aids, Qisi, TInZ.maSiu 'A%tXrj<3s.

But who was it that rescued the
body of Patroclus? NotMeriones and
the Ajaces, from Hector's self, and
restored his dead brother to Achilles?
Achilles, unarmed — naked — but for
the burning light with which Miner-
va haloed his head — beyond the fosse
stood and shouted. That portentous
apparition is the most sublime sight
in poetry, and in nature ; if, as we
have said, sublimity be the union, as
of cause and effect, of power and
terror. Such is the union of the
two, in thunder, lightning, and the
sea, and the roar of battle when
hosts commingle ; and such then was
their union in the figure, face, and

1832.]

voice of one then invested by heaven
with supernatural attributes, to as-
tound and scatter a whole warlike
host.

His goddess-mother alone knew
how to lay the agonies of his wrath-
ful woe. It was by elevating his whole
spirit to a still loftier pitch of hero-
ism by those heavenly Arms and
Armour, to forge which roared all
the furnaces in the celestial smithy.
She knew the sight of that Shield,
engraven with the glories of earth
and heaven, would pacify her hero.
From the dread music of the bright
trembling and quivering beaten sil-
ver and gold, as Thetis dropt it,
arms and armour, at the feet of her
son, all the Myrmidons fled howling;
but in that music Achilles heard the
death-doom of Hector. He armed —
he mounted— and, like the sun-god —
unappalled byportents and prodigies
— when his war-steeds spake — he
drove to battle — in a whirlwind of
wrath — as when the orb of day looks
angry in heaven, and seems to move
through the storm.

MHNIN cinli, Qs

's Homer. Critique T1

177

Patroclus is with him all over the
battle-field. For his sake he slaugh-
ters. Each foe that falls is a victim
to his shade. So much dearer the
sacrifice, if of the same blood — like
Polydore and Lycaon — as Hector.
Yet he scorns not even to take cap-
tives. Twelve Trojan princes he
binds like slaves, reserved for the
funeral pile of Patroclus, for a mo-
ment prefigured in a dream. Nor is
the grandeur of Achilles abated by
the sight of " the gods descending
mixed in fight." The mortal sustains
compare with the immortals. His
fury has brought them all from hea-
ven. And now he rages alone before
the walls of Troy — and as Hector
stands at the Scaean gate, we hear
again Homer's voice, saying, in a low
mournful tone, — " If Hector perish,
then Ilium falls;" and perish he will,
we well know, for his lot, in the eter-
nal balance, kicks the beam held in
the hand of Jove. The wrath of
Achilles enkindles the burning light
of his celestial armour. Kindled
from within and from without, he is
a figure of fire, or he is the lightning,
the flame, the sun, the moon, the star
Orion, or like him " that leads the
starry host, and shines brightest,"
VOL, X^XI. NO, CXC.

Hesperus, — all that is most beau-
tiful, most dreadful, most deathful in
the skies.

He pursues — grasps — kills Hector,
as a bird of prey a bird of peace.
Yet Hector, too, was an eagle. Is
the Wrath then assuaged at last? No
doubt Achilles for a moment ima-
gined that it was assuaged; and,
therefore, he cried aloud, " great
glory have we achieved; we have
slain the illustrious Hector." But
he knew not the full power of his
own passions of grief and revenge.
What is glory now to him the lover
of glory y What though Pergamus
totter with all its towers ? Patro-
clus is dead; and at that thought all
is forgotten but the carcass of the
dog that killed him ; which shall
have no burial but in the bowels of
dogs and of the fowls of the air. Not
sufficient to satiate his Wrath the
wounds the soldiers gave. Achilles
perhaps saw them not while they
were stabbing; nor heeded the crows
picking at ttie fallen quarry. But he
was himself the lion to drag away
into his lair the infatuated hunter
that dared to turn upon him on the
edge of the forest.

Then a sudden thought smote him
— and away he drove in his chariot,
amid clouds of dust, the hero's ha-
ted head, with its long black-brown
curls, dashing, and leaping, and
bounding, the whole naked body
bloodily begrimed, and distorted all
its once fair proportions ; and thus
doth the noble Hector now approach
the fleet he so lately fired, while the
city shrieks to see the flight, and
there is the silence of consternation
among them who have their dwell-
ing in heaven.

MHNIN «s^£, Gil, Tlnt.naSiu 'A^;X^f.

It — the Wrath — heaves so broad
and high the funeral pyre of Patro-
clus. Sullen as the soul of Achilles,
that pyre smoulders, but will not
burst into devouring flames. But the
hero calls upon the Winds — they
obey the spell of his passion — and
the sudden conflagration is in a roar.
A mingled immolation of hounds,
horses, and princes, sacrificed in
horrid mixture of brute and human
life, expiring in the same pangs in
the same expiatory fire ! But the
bones of the beloved, they are apart
~and, gathered out of the reach of
M

Sotheby's Homer. Critique V.

[Feb.

contamination, remain in their own
hallowed mould for the consecration
of Achilles' tears. And now, let the
heroes contend in the games, and
every heart be joyful — while he
decides the victory, and bestows
the prize— in honour of the shade
that once animated that dearest dust.
The pomp fades away; and then
comes the final transport of passion
— its last agony — truculent as its
first— just as in external nature we
see the tumult of the elements col-
lecting all its violence for the explo-
sion in which it dies. Achilles having
tost, till midnight, on his sleepless
couch, rushes off to the lonely sea-
beach, and raves there, " till the
ruddy morning rises o'er the waves."
Into his savage spirit no pity is
breathed by " the innocent brightness
of the new-born day." Its rising
glory but aggravates his gloom ; the
general joy embitters his own pecu-
liar loss ; and his wrath flames up to
a fiercer height, now that its object
is again exposed before his eyes in
the blaze of light. There stands the
monument or Patroclus — suddenly
heaved aloft by the Grecian army ;
and there lies his murderer. Thrice
round it he drives the corpse — and
then the Avenger, having exhausted
his heart, sinks down into sleep.
Patroclus had already visited him in
a dream — all the prayers of the
phantom had been religiously fulfill-
ed ; and we can believe that the sleep
of Achilles was passionless as that
of death.

But he awakes from that oblivion
—and again we hear

" the voice of loud lament,
And echoing groans that shake the lofty
tent."

His companions in arms are prepa-
ring the unheeded repast; Achilles is
" feeding on his own heart." That
such unrelenting wrath should longer
abide in such heroic bosom, is now
displeasing to the Gods. Nature
has had its dreadful indulgence, and
must be restored to sanity ; nor will
heaven suffer a dead son to lie longer
out of the reach of his parent's tears.
Throughout all the Iliad, the Immor-
tals have been coming and going be-
fore our eyes ; and now they appear,
like " blessed angels pitying human
cares." The silver-footed mother,
Jove-sent, beseeches her son to vent

no more his vengeance on senseless
earth. Achilles becomes, in one mo-
ment, merciful ; a divine calm is in-
stantly inspired into his being, and
not merely without reluctance, but
in a movement of his whole soul, as
if it met the benign command with
the joy of deliverance from evil, he
utters but these few words,

" Be the ransom given—
And we submit — since such the will of
heaven."

Simple — and sublime ! and now we
feel more than ever the grandeur of
the opening line of the Iliad.

MHNIN aU/^z, ®ta., IlwXfliaSsaf 'A%i>.vef.

We are prepared now for the In-
terview between Achilles and Priam.
He, who abhorred as the gates of
hell the man who said one thing and
did another, has pledged his word to
his immortal Parent that he will ac-
cept the ransom — and we know that
he will do so in a manner worthy of
himself; that all the beauty of his
character will again break forth as
bright as the day. The being whom,
for some time past, we have been
shuddering at with fear, we shall ere
long regard with love — and then be
conscious of the perfect admiration
due to the noblest of heroes.

Yet Homer, reverent of humanity,
is afraid, even in the mightiness of
his power, that he may offer violence
to nature. And therefore, with what
holy skill does her High Priest pre-
pare the way to his ministrations at
her altar ! Achilles is gentle as a
child : but Priam rages in the impo-
tence of grief. The wretched old
man plays the tyrant in his palace,
more imperious in his misery than
he ever had been in his joy; more
self-willed, now that they are all dead,
and wrested from his sway, than
when surrounded by his princely
sons, and his tributary princedoms.
How unlike his wrath to that of Achil-
les I But the heavens look down with
pity on his grey and almost discrown-
ed head, and under their guidance he
takes his way, with good omens, to
the Tent of the Destroyer. It is
the Will of Jove that all those ago-
nies of the old and young — the weak
and the mighty — should cease ; that
for a while there should be a truce
to sorrow — and that the peace of
heaven, with healing; under its wings,
should descend on earth.

1832i]

Sotheby's Homer. Critique V.

179

" Right on to the Tent marched the
old man." Achilles was not now sing-
ing to the harp old heroic songs ; for
the ear was cold that used to listen
to his music and his poetry. Patro-
clus was dead — and therefore mute
was Achilles. Automedon and Alci-
mus still ministered near ; and in
midst of all that silence, like a night-
vision, entered the figure of Priam.
Achilles' self stood aghast at sight of
the Apparition. For a moment he re-
cognised not the kingly supplicant
embracing his knees, as some homi-
cide driven from his native land ; but
soon knew he that it was even very
Priam himself, "kissing those hands,
terrible, homicidal, which had slain
so many of his sons." Those lips had
already done their work, even before
one word had found its way through
them from that broken heart. Still-
but not stern — stood Achilles, like a
statue. He feared to stir hand, foot,
or figure, lest he should disturb or
dismay the old King, whom his wrath
had thus prostrated into the posture
of a slave. Yet— think not that he
felt any remorse — for he was the
prince of " souls made of fire, and
children of the sun, with whom re-
venge is virtue."

" Think on thy father, O Achilles !
like to the gods !" Words that like ar-
rows pierced his heart ! For the De-
stroyer knew that never more was he
to see the face of Peleus. He thought
of far-off Phthia, and Pity " her soul-
subduing voice applied" to his mourn-
ful and melancholy spirit. The plead-
ing of Priam was indeed most pathe-
tic— but we cannot believe that more
than a low indistinct murmur from
his lips was heard by Achilles. There
was a confusion before his eyes —
and in his spirit — of Priam and of
Peleus — one image— one phantom
mysteriously combined of two fa-
thers left utterly desolate. But the
last words of the kneeler he did
hear — " I have endured to draw to
my mouth the hand of the man
that slew my children." And then,
Achilles took Priam by the hand, as
tenderly almost as if it had been the
hand of his own father, and " gently
pushed away the old man," that he
might not abide another moment in
that attitude of abasement ; but even,
in worst affliction, might rise up to
the bearing proper to a king, " ta-
king pity on his hoary head and hoary

beard I" How consolatory that ad-
dress to the royal supplicant ! and
how dignified ! Admiration of the
fearlessness of the old man mingled
with pity of his sufferings ; and what
a princely expression of profoundest
sympathy, — " Come, sit down beside
me on this seat !" Priam is again
about to be enthroned. The mo-
mentary abjectness of misery gives
way to a kingly comfort ; and the
shades of Patroclus and of Hector
would have rejoiced in Hades to be-
hold such a spectacle. The great
soul of Achilles'speaks in the heroic
homily with which he soothes the
sorrows of the King. A high mo-
ralist he becomes, in the midst of
their common misfortunes — common
not to them alone — but to all the
human race. " Thus, then, have the
gods spun the destiny of miserable
mortals !" He reconciles his illus-
trious guest, as well as himself, to all
that has befallen, and to all that is
about to befall them, by religion ; and
he ennobles their reconcilement by
the sublimity of the fiction in which
the " truth severe" is expressed, and
shadowed forth the moral providence
of Heaven.

But, elevated as is the mood in
which Achilles converses with the
father of Hector, they both feel as
men ; and the peculiar character and
passion of each breaks out suddenly
in the midst of that divine dialogue.
Priam, though calmed by the pour-
ing out of his own sorrow, and by the
sympathy of the " Lord of Fears," is
all at once seized on by a longing to
see and to receive, and to embrace
the dead body of his son. " Do not at
all make-me-to-sit-down on a seat,
Jove-nourished one ! in so long as
Hector lies uncared-for-in the tent ;
but quick as possible ransomed-re-
store-him, that with these eyes I may
behold him ; and do thou receive the
ransom magnificent, which we bring
to theej and mayst thou enjoy it,
and return to thy father-land !"
" Him, the swift -footed Achilles,
sternly eyeing, addressed — ' Provoke
me no more, old man! I myself pur-
pose ransom ed-to-restore Hector !' "

And yet this finest touch and trait
of nature has been found fault with
by the critics! " I believe every
reader," says Wakefield, " must be
surprised, as I confess I was, to see
Achilles/y out into so sudden apassion,

J80

Sotheby's Homer. Critique f .

[Feb.

without any apparent reason for it."
He then explains the proper mean-
ing of the passage. " Priam, percei-
ving that his address had mollified
the heart of Achilles, takes this op-
portunity to persuade him to give
over the war, and return home,
especially since his anger was suffi-
ciently satisfied by the fate of Hec-
tor. Immediately Achilles took fire
at this proposal, and answers : ' Is
it not enough that I have restored
thy son ? Ask no more, lest I retract
that resolution!' In this view we
see a natural reason for the sud-
den passion of Achilles." This is
very bad. It represents Priam as
cunning and crafty even in his dis-
traction; and why should he have
desired a cessation of the war ? All
his sons were dead — Hector and all
— and yet so fond was he of life — so
tenacious of his throne — that he took
this favourable opportunity of elicit-
ing a promise from Achilles to spare
Troy !

Achilles did not " fly into a sudden
passion." But as Cowper, on the
whole, well says, he was " mortified
to see his generosity, after so much
kindness shewn to Priam, still dis-
trusted, and that the impatience of
the old king threatened to deprive
him of all opportunity of doing grace-
fully what lie could not be expected
to do willingly" He was about to
do it willingly ; for Thetis had told
him, that such was the will of Jove.
But a sudden flash of memory came
across him — and he said, " No more
arouse thou my soul in its sorrows."
Achilles, all his life long — at least all
through the Iliad — took his own way
in all things ; and he could not bear
to be baffled in his own mode of
mercy, even by the unhappy father
of the prince whose body he was
about — ransomed — to restore.

MHNIN eU/Ss, Gsa, UvX*itfi<c<) 'A%i*.r,os.

But an end to all criticism — alike
of others and our own — on the im-
mortal interview. That was the last
cloud that passed across the coun-
tenance of Achilles. " The son of
Peleus from the house (tent) like a
lion sprung forth." Yes— like a lion

— though it was to order in the
herald — " to take from the beauti-
fully-polished car the unbounded
ransom of Hector's head" — to enjoin
the women to wash the corpse apart
from Priam, that the passionate old
man might not, by giving sudden
vent to his agony, provoke him
(Achilles, who knew well his own
WRATH) " to slay the king, and vio-
late the behests of Jove" — and to
lift it with his own hands up upon
the bier on the car that was to convey
it to Troy. In the tenderest offices
of humanity to the living and to the
dead, aware of the danger of his own
fiery spirit! In self-knowledge, if
not in self-control — a philosopher
— and a hero.

MHNlN aU/^s, ©s<i, TLn^'ia^iu 'A^/Xnfaj.

That Wrath has now blazed its last,
yet " even in its ashes live its wont-
ed fires ;" and he asks forgiveness of
Patroclus, that even no w,andthus,has
been quenched his Revenge. " But
large, O beloved Shade! hath been the
ransom — nor shalt thou not receive
thereof thy due even in Hades."
Now all in the Tent shall be perfect
peace. Priam must partake of the
repast. Famished is the Woe-begone,
but he must eat and drink— even as
Niobe did in the midst of all her dead
children. " Then indeed did the
Dardanian chief gaze-with- admira-
tion on Achilles, how large, and what
kind he was, (his stature and beauty ;)
for he seemed in presence like the
gods : And Achilles gazed with ad-
miration on the Dardanian Priam,
contemplating his benevolent coun-
tenance, and listening to his words !"
They retire to sleep— Priam on a
couch graciously provided for him
by the " great lord" in a place safe
from all intrusion of the Greeks, that
he may take his departure — without
an eye to see him — early in the morn-
ing, with the body of his son, to Troy
— Achilles in the bosom of Briseis —
wherein not often will the hero lay
his head ; for we remember the dy-
ing words of Hector,

" Phoebus and Paris shall avenge my fate,
And stretch thee here, before the Sceeua
gate."

1832.]

A Letter to the Lord Chancellory

181

A LETTER TO THE LORD CHANCELLOR ON THE PRESENT STATE OF THE
ESTABLISHED CHURCH.

MY LORD,

You will think it strange that one
who differs so decidedly with you
upon so many important points, (as
will very speedily appear,) should
yet choose to address himself to you,
rather than to any other individual,
touching the present and prospect-
ive condition of the Established
Churches of England and Ireland.
My reasons for thus selecting you
are these. In the first place, you have
taken an interest in the affairs of the
Church, which separates you altoge-
ther from the other members of your
party, and constrains, from me at
least, the acknowledgment that, how-
ever mistaken your views may have
been, you have been actuated by a
sincere desire for the promotion of
its best interests. In the second
place, the truly enlightened view
which you took of the subject of
national education, argues a radical
soundness in your notions of the
uses of a Church Establishment. In
the third place, the warm panegyric
which you pronounced upon the
great body of the clergy, with whom
you had been brought, more or less,
into contact, in the prosecution of
your education enquiries, proves the
candour with which you can repu-
diate injurious impressions, and that
you harbour no malignant aversion
to their order. In the fourth place,
the noble defence which, in the last
Session, you made for the property
of the Church, renders it impossible
to confound you with the spoliators
by whom it is not more wickedly
than ignorantly assailed. And, in the
fifth place, in the disposal of Church
patronage, since your elevation to
the high office which you at present
hold, you have evinced a discrimi-
nation and a disinterestedness, which
entitle you to respect and admira-
tion. These, my Lord, are the rea-
sons why I address you : — and while
I shall take no pains to conceal the
wide differences which existbetween
us upon many points, I trust that no
expression will escape me which
can, by the remotest implication,
give offence, or which may be fairly
deemed inconsistent with the spirit

of earnest, but courteous and dispas-
sionate enquiry.

It is difficult, perhaps impossible,
to speak of plans which have not
yet been fully disclosed, without de-
servedly incurring the censure of
rashness. I will riot, therefore, at-
tempt to discuss the probable mea-
sures of Ministers respecting Church
property ; or to hold them respon-
sible for any of the various projects
of which they have borne either the
praise or the blame. On the con-
trary, I will take it for granted that
they are sincerely disposed to re-
spect the rights of the Church, and
to make no other use of clerical pro-
perty than such as may appear to
them advisable for the furtherance
of religious objects. I will take for
granted that their end and aim is the
wellbeing of the Church Establish-
ment— and that if they touch its pos-
sessions, it is for the purpose of bet-
tering itself. This is, I natter my-
self, allowing the utmost which they
can fairly require. It is not, I be-
lieve, denied by any one, that they
seriously meditate a new distribution
of Church property ; — a distribution
which would, in some measure, cor-
rect the inequalities which at present
exist. To that, therefore, I shall,
in the first place, confine myself; —
and I am much deceived if I do not
make it appear that the evils under
which the Church at present labours,
(if evils there be,) are not such as
can be remedied by such an arrange-
ment.

And here, my Lord, I may surely
take for granted, that to touch Church
property, even in the cautious man-
ner in which they propose to touch
it, can only be justified by a case of
pressing necessity. Your Lordship
knows that such a proceeding must, in
some degree, unsettle the foundation
upon which it at present rests, and so
far endanger its existence. Whatever
may be the prospect of improve-
ment which it holds forth, there can.
be no doubt that the experiment has
a tendency to impair its stability —
and should not, therefore, be made
without a reasonable degree of assu-
rance that the risk will be more than

182

A Letter to the Lord Chancellor

[Feb.

counterbalanced by the advantages.
In the first place, it must be shewn
that the evil which Ministers pro-
pose to remedy is so great, as to jus-
tify a measure which perils the very
existence of the possessions of the
Church ; — and, in the next place, that
there are good grounds for suppo-
sing that that evil will be remedied
by the course which may be pursued,
and by which these possessions must
be endangered. Unless both these
points are satisfactorily established,
no honest and reasonable man can
approve of the project of his Majes-
ty's Ministers. It will labour under
the fatal objection of unsettling
every thing without any sufficient
object. On that very account there
are numbers whom it may gratify :
— the restless, who are desirous of
change ; the turbulent, who are fond
of disturbance; the covetous, who
are greedy of gain; the malignant,
who hate our venerable Church, be-
cause of those very qualities which,
on the part of the wise and good,
have obtained for it respect and ad-
miration ; the infidels, who consider
its overthrow synonymous with the
suppression of Christianity in these
countries ; the republicans, who de-
sire its extinction as the speedy pre-
cursor of the subversion of the mo-
narchy; the dissenters, who dislike
it because it has retained so many
ancient rites ; the Roman Catholics,
who abhor it because it has got rid
of so many exploded absurdities :—
all these put together form a large
class, by whom any measures ha-
ving a tendency to injure our Church
Establishment must be hailed with
delight. But you, my Lord, I fondly
believe, are not to be numbered
amongst them ; and it would not be
doing you common justice to sup-
pose, that any measure of Church
reform which you patronise is not,
bonajide, intended for the benefit of
the Church — and that your intentions
will then only be carried into effect
when your measures are found to
have been compatible with the secu-
rity, as well as available for the effi-
ciency, of our ecclesiastical institu-
tions. I proceed at once, therefore,
to state why, as it appears to me, by
the present plan, their security must
be impaired, while their efficiency
is not promoted.
The public in general must feel

respect for those who commiserate
the condition of many amongst the
working clergy, whose remuneration
would appear to be ill suited to the
services which they perform, and
little equal to the appearance which
they must endeavour to maintain.
At first view, nothing appears more
equitable than a proposal to equal-
ize Church preferments, and an ar-
rangement by which both the labour
and the emoluments of the clergy
might be more fairly and evenly dis-
tributed. Nor is it, my Lord, against
the equity of the proposition that I
will, in the first instance, direct my
argument; — for I am willing to
grant, that if itbe found conducive to
the more efficient discharge of their
spiritual functions, on the part either
of the higher or the lower clergy, it
ought to be very seriously entertain-
ed. But is it certain that such a
change in their condition must be
beneficial to true religion ? I know
it might increase the comforts of
many amongst them who are at pre-
sent far from abounding in the good
things of this life; — and that by
merely subtracting a little from the
superfluities of many who may be
thought to have more than is quite
indispensable for their wellbeing in
the life to come. Still the question
recurs, how far will all this serve to
forward the great end for which the
Church has been appointed? And
attend, my Lord, I pray, to the issue
upon which I am willing to rest the
whole controversy, ff it can be
shewn, that what is conceived to be no
more than an equitable adjustment is
materially conducive to the further-
ance of that great object for which
the clergy have been consecrated, and
set apart as a peculiar people, I ob-
ject not to it. Let it, in God's name,
be effected. But, if such can not be
shewn; — if the proposition be made
merely from a feeling of compassion
for the clergy, and without any dis-
tinct foresight of the effect which it
must have upon the condition of the
Church, is it too much to expect of
those who administer it, to pause be-
fore they sacrifice the end to the
means — to hesitate before they ap-
ply a remedy to the poverty of indi-
viduals, which may operate injuri-
ously upon the efficiency of their
order, and thus, instead of impro*
ving the condition of the clergy, for

1832.]

on the Present State of the Established Church.

183

the good of the Church, impair the
condition of the Church for the good
of the clergy ?

Your Lordship, on more than one
occasion, has not only admitted, but
eulogized, the worth and the respect-
ability of the great body of the
clergy. Inquire, I beseech you, who
amongst them may be considered
most worthy ? You will find that the
curates of the establishment, the men
who have entered into the Church
from no greater pecuniary induce-
ment than that which is offered in
L.75 a-year, are the individuals who
do most to support the credit of their
order. They are most assiduous as
parish ministers, most energetic as
the patrons and advocates of schools,
most zealous and persevering in the
forwarding of every good work by
which the principles of the Christian
religion might be diffused, and the
practice of Christian morality pro-
moted. A little further enquiry will
satisfy your Lordship, that the pro-
fessional devotedness thus evinced,
is not a kind of thing that could be
purchased. It arises from a love of
sacred truth and a spirit of Christian
self-renouncement, such as could
alone be evinced by those whose
hearts are not set upon the things of
this world. The curates of the
Church of England are, generally
speaking, a body of men who have
turned their backs upon far better
worldly prospects than any upon
which even the most sanguine of
them could calculate as the reward
of their professional exertions. But,
" sua prsemia laudi." These exer-
tions are their own reward. The
hij?h-souled and humble-minded men
who thus devote themselves, carry
about with them a heart-consoling
consciousness, that however note-
less and unrewarded their career
may be amongst men, there is ONE
who looketh with approbation upon
them ; — and they care not how little
of this world's advantage they pos-
sess, provided they are secure of the
favour of their Father who is in Hea-
ven.

Now, upon this class of men,
what would be the effect of a consi-
derable increase in the amount of
their stipends, say, the raising them
from L.75, to two or three hundred
a-year?— I confidently affirm, that
the effect of it would be to banish

them almost entirely from the ser-
vice of the Church. If every curacy
was worth even two hundred a-year,
the candidates for it would be at
least ten times as numerous as they
are at present, and the chances of
obtaining one would be not merely
proportionally diminished on the
part of the- sincere and single-mind-
ed, but diminished in proportion to
the interests which might be brought
to bear against their humble preten-
sions, and in favour of those whose
only motives for desiring " one of
the priest's offices" would be,
" that they might eat a morsel of
bread."

A clergyman has a curacy to dis-
pose of which is worth two hun-
dred a-year. For this he receives,
perhaps, fifty applications. Some of
them are poor relatives, whom he is
anxious to serve ; — some from indi-
viduals whom he wishes to oblige;
some from those to whom he is un-
der obligations. Supposing that
clergyman sincerely disposed to
make an honest choice, will he not,
under such circumstances, find it
extremely difficult to obviate alto-
gether a bias by which his consci-
ence may be perverted ; — and will
not this difficulty be increased by
whatever increases the value of the
curacy, and, in consequence, multi-
plies the applications? I say, my
Lord, that an honest man has to con-
tend against fearful odds, whose in-
tegrity is thus exposed to the as-
saults of interest or cupidity, in
persevering and importunate solicit-
ation. One or two perhaps may be
found, who would be proof against
such attacks, and who would prefer
the candidate whose claims were
based upon purely spiritual consi-
derations. But, taking human na-
ture as it is, such could not often be
the case ; — and few but those whose
claims were backed by powerful
friends, could expect to obtain em-
ployment in the very lowest offices
of the ministry, when the stipends
annexed to those offices amounted
to something approaching a provi-
sion for life. At present they do not
amount to any thing like that They
are not, accordingly, the objects of
very eager competition. Good men,
therefore, are not jostled out of
the way by the crowd of those who,
provided they can obtain the emolu-

184

A Letter to the Lord Chancellor

[Feb.

merits, concern themselves but little
about-the duties. The offices are, ac-
cordingly, frequently very well fill-
ed ; — filled by men who are a credit
to their profession ; and whose zeal
and devotedness compensate, in a
great measure, for the laxity and the
secularity of many of their breth-
ren. And when we owe our present
supply of such spiritual labourers to
those circumstances which render it
not worth the while of mere clerical
adventurers to enter into the mini-
stry, let us not be seduced, by any
plausible project for improving the
condition of the working clergy,
into the adoption of a measure by
which these circumstances must be
so materially changed, and a state of
things produced, which will render
it but too probable, that our curacies
will be filled by a very different set
of men ; — by men who, instead of
contributing to support, will lie like
an incubus upon true religion.

" Strange," some philanthropist
will say, " to make the worth and
the usefulness of the present race of
curates a reason against augmenting
their scanty and all too insufficient
incomes ! Because they are zealous
and indefatigable in their sacred call-
ing, they must be condemned to
pine in penury, ' while luxury in
palaces lies straining its low thought
to form unreal wants !' " But such
is not the drift of the argument. The
proposition to increase the stipends
of the inferior clergy is objected to,
not because these excellent men are
not, from their merits, entitled to
larger incomes; but because a
higher scale of remuneration would
attract the cupidity of needy and
gain-loving adventurers, and, in all
probability, keep those worthy men
out of the Church. The proposition,
if considered only with reference to
the individuals who are immediately
to profit by it, is a very fair one; but,
viewed as it would affect the per-
manent interests of the body to
which they belong, it must be re-

girded as most injurious. It is the
hurch which should be first consi-
dered in all arrangements which
concern the condition of the clergy.
Whatever has a tendency to pro-
duce a perpetual supply of worth,
zeal, piety, learning, and all evange-
lical virtues, and to facilitate their
admission to the service of the sanc-

tuary, is that which will, eventually,
contribute most to the wellbeing of
the Church. Whatever has a ten-
dency to obstruct the free ingress of
men distinguished for faith and holi-
ness, must, eventually, prove injuri-
ous to it. And unless it can be
shewn, that the proposed measure
has no such tendency — that increased
emoluments will not attract increased
competition — and that the retiring
and humble-minded Christian, who
desires to become a minister of
Christ, with the single view of for-
warding the spread of the gospel,
will not find any greater difficulty
than he does at present in obtaining
a post of spiritual usefulness ; unless
these paradoxes be maintained, I
know not how any friend to religion
can suffer his compassion for the
poverty of individuals to blind him
to the necessary consequences of a
measure, which must so seriously
militate against the effective pro-
mulgation of vital and genuine Chris-
tianity.

There lies around the spot where
I at present write, a tract of about
twenty miles, with which I am per-
fectly acquainted. Within that dis-
trict there are about thirty curates,
who are truly " worthy the vocation
to which they are called;" who are
instant, " in season and out of sea-
son," in the discharge of their sacred
duties; and who are beloved and
respected, by all denominations of
their parishioners, for the untiring
zeal and the self-renouncing devo-
tedness by which they manifest their
Christian sincerity. I can truly say,
that if these men were suddenly
withdrawn from that district, it
would almost be paganized. And
with perfect truth it may be added,
that, if their curacies were worth
two hundred a-year, they never
would have obtained them. They
all owe their humble preferments to
the circumstance, that these were
not worth the acceptance of those
whose interest with the patron, had
they been valuable things, would
have been more prevailing. Shall I
be told, — no matter for that, the
Church would still be supplied with

food and faithful servants ? But I
appen also to know who the indi-
viduals are who, in all probability,
would fill these curacies, had the
emoluments connected with them

1832.]

on the Present State of the Established Church.

been worth their notice. Truly, they
are individuals who would not have
been over assiduous in their sacred
calling; by whom the business of an
evangelist would be very imperfectly
done; shepherds they would prove,
who would endeavour to make up,
by a scrupulous attendance upon
their nock at shearing-time, for the
neglect with which they would per-
mit them to stray into unwholesome
pastures. Can I then pronounce of
a measure, which would cause such
a change as this in the condition of
the Church, that it is a good one ?
Truly no. The present race of worthy
men might receive some little tempo-
ral benefit, but it would be at the ex-
pense of the spiritual wellbeing of
unborn thousands. They might be
better enabled to keep the wolf from
their own door, but it would be by
means which must almost ensure his
admission amongst the flock ; — and
what such men would at any time
lay down their lives to defend, they
will cheerfully bear with poverty ra-
ther than endanger.

Still, it will be asked, are not these
excellent men deserving of a better
provision than they have at present ?
Undoubtedly they are ; and such
they would have, if those who pos-
sess the disposal of Church prefer-
ments only did them common jus-
tice. It is there the evil lies. The
patrons of livings regard them as pri-
vate property, and consider that they
are at perfect liberty to dispose of
them in a manner the most condu-
cive to their personal advantage. If the
patron be a layman, he never thinks
of giving a parish to any one but
some near relative. Even in the in-
stance of the Bishops, the case is not
very materially different. They, ge-
nerally speaking, have hitherto dis-
posed of their benefices, more with
a view to the family claims of those
upon whom they have been confer-
red, than from a discriminating esti-
mate of their professional preten-
sions. And yet, the very men who
are systematically guilty of the fla-
grant abuse of a sacred trust, would,
perhaps, be amongst the foremost to
commiserate the condition of poor
curates, and to come forward with
proposals for confiscating Church re-
venues, in order to create a fund for
the relief of that very poverty which

185

has been solely caused by their own
injustice ! Kind and amiable philan-
thropists ! They would remedy, by
alienating the property, the misery
which they have caused, by abusing
the patronage of the Church ! But
such benevolent projectors had need
to be just, before they aspire to the
merit of being generous. At least I
think they are bound to shew how
much of the poverty of the curates
might be relieved by simply promo-
ting them according to their deserts,
before they encourage an invasion of
vested rights, which may be but the
commencement of more extensive
spoliation. Let us see how much of
this poverty will remain, after a due
regard has been paid to the honest
claims of the inferior clergy. I un-
dertake to say, my Lord, on the
part of all the curates in the United
Churches of England and Ireland,
that if patronage were honestly dis-
pensed, they would be perfectly sa-
tisfied. No complaint of poverty
would be heard, if Bishops and lay
patrons did their duty. If the good
and faithful servant, he whose minis-
try has been marked by extraordi-
nary success, is considered deser-
ving of the reward which ought al-
ways to attend great exertions in a
good cause,everythingpracticable for
the support and the encouragement
of the clergy will be accomplished.
Few deserving men will remain un-
provided. But what dispirits the
labourer in Christ's vineyard is this,
that no matter how eminent may
be his merits, unless he is able to
command some interest with his
diocesan, distinct altogether from
the consideration of his professional
services, he may remain until dooms-
day without his reward. He must
sow, that others may reap. He must
labour, that others, who have not
put their hands to the plough, may
enter into his labours. Now, my
Lord, if the evils under which the
curates of our establishment suffer
so grievously, have their root in
this gross abuse of the patronage of
the Church, were it not wiser to at-
tempt the removal of the evil by re-
medying the abuse out of which it
arises, than, by an indiscriminating
augmentation of the incomes of the
inferior clergy, run the risk of in-
creasing the negligence and the in-*

186

A Letter to the Lord Chancellor

-[Feb.

efficiency, in a much greater propor-
tion than we should diminish the
poverty of its members ?

For the abuses of patronage, my
Lord, there is, in our Church, but
one remedy, viz. more care in the
selection of those by whom it is dis-
pensed. With the Government rests
the responsibility of appointing Bi-
shops ; and, according as they use or
abuse their important trust, the
Church must flourish or decay. How
lias it been hitherto exercised ? Have
the advisers of the Crown, in all
cases, been solicitous to recommend
individuals for that high office from
a consideration of their character
and qualifications ? Have worth, vir-
tue, learning, and ability been duly
honoured? Has the choice been usu-
ally made solely with a view to the
importance of the office, and the fit-
ness of the individual to discharge its
sacred duties ?Iknow how your Lord-
ship will unhesitatingly answer these
questions. You are well aware that
parliamentary influence has always
had more weight than the only spe-
cies of influence which should, on
such occasions, be all prevailing;
and that an individual is much more
likely to be selected for the office of
Bishop, because of his Ministerial
connexions, than because of that in-
tegrity and intelligence, that separa-
tion from the world, and that know-
ledge of men, which is so beautiful-
ly expressed by our Lord, as a com-
bination of the simplicity of the dove
and the wisdom of the serpent,which
can alone enable the overseers of
God's heritage rightly to divide the
word of truth, and so to preside over
its appointed ministers, as to pro-
mote their efficiency, appreciate their
worth, and " give them their meat in
due season." This is a representa-
tion which your Lordship will ac-
knowledge to be as true, as I main-
tain it to be deplorable. And while
the case continues to be so, nothing
effectual can be done for the better
government of the Church. As long
as its high places are filled by those
whose promotion has been the result
of Ministerial favouritism, or parlia-
mentary intrigue, so long will its af-
fairs be administered with a view to
temporal rather than spiritual inter-
ests. And, while this is the case, we
cannot, humanly speaking, expect
that Bishops will be governed in the

disposal of livings, by any other
principles than those to which they
have been themselves indebted for
promotion, and that dependents and
relatives will not be preferred, while
laborious and meritorious individuals
are neglected.

A change, therefore, must take
place in these things ; that is, if it
be the object of the Government that
the Church shall stand. It is almost
demonstrable that it cannot much
longer survive the abuses of a spe-
cies of misgovernment which almost
ensures, and even necessitates, a pro-
stitution of its patronage. Can the
Bishops be fairly expected to be
more conscientious than those by
whom they have been chosen? If
they should make improper appoint-
ments, can we be surprised, seeing
how they have been themselves ap-
pointed ? Do they neglect merit ?
They never would have had an op-
portunity of so doing, had not merit
been neglected. Are they inordi-
nately susceptible of those influences
which lead them to employ their

Eower in providing for their own
imilies, rather than to use it in fur-
therance of the spiritual objects for
the sake of which it was conferred ?
They never would have had an op-
portunity of thus scandalizing their
profession, if such, precisely, was
not the case when they were them-
selves promoted. A change, there-
fore, must take place in the princi-
ples which seem hitherto to have re-
gulated ecclesiastical preferments ;
and this change will imply a total
alteration in the mode in which they
have been effected.

We have no Minister for Ecclesi-
astical Affairs. The business of the
Church is lumped with the other busi-
ness of the Home Department; and
there is too much reason to believe
that it is carried on with reference to
merely secular ends, and that that
portion of the wealth of the Church
which is at the disposal of the
Crown, is only considered as so
much oil for greasing the wheels of
government, in order that the ma-
chine of state may roll on more
smoothly. I now speak without re-
ference to the merits or the deme-
rits of any administration. Widely
as the several parties who have go-
verned the country for the last cen-
tury may have differed from each

1832.]

on the Present State of the Established Church.

other upon many subjects, there is
too much reason to believe that, in
this one respect, they have exhibited
a melancholy uniformity ; all agree-
ing to regard the Church as a source
of patronage, which might fairly be
employed either for the gratification
of private partiality, or the purchase
of so much parliamentary support
as might be necessary to secure the
success of their measures. The
Church has thus been uniformly sacri-
ficed to objects of comparatively but
little importance. The power which
Ministers possess over it, has been
employed in perverting it from its
proper purpose. The same indivi-
dual who was charged with its con-
cerns, was also charged with the
temporal concerns of a mighty em-
pire ; and, as he could not serve two
masters, one must of necessity have
been neglected. You, my Lord, do
not require to be told, that when the
interests of religion are thus brought
into collision with projects of human
policy, that the latter must always
prevail against the former. But those
who have been devoted to the con-
templation of religious truth, with
an ardour and intensity somewhat
proportioned to that which has dis-
tinguished your Lordship in the pur-
suit of knowledge, as a scholar, and
as a statesman, can alone estimate
the prodigious injury which has been
done to the Church, by being thus
abandoned to the negligence or the in-
discretion of intemperate or incom-
petent advisers.

But if the mischief which arose
from thus imposing upon the same
individual, and that individual a lay-
man, the care both of lay and eccle-
siastical concerns, has hitherto been
great, the danger of continuing to
do so at present is still greater. Pre-
viously to the repeal of the Roman
Catholic disabilities, there was some
security that the Secretary for the
Home Department being a Protest-
ant, Church patronage would not be
employed with a direct view to the
injury of the Church. We are now
without any such security. The
Home Secretary, or even the Prime
Minister, may to-morrow be a Ro-
man Catholic ; and is it fitting that
such an individual should possess the
power which such stations would at

§ resent give him of working the
ownfall of our ecclesiastical insti-

187

tutions ? I hope I do not idly flat-
ter myself in anticipating how your
Lordship, all emancipator as you
were, would answer such a question.
And if I do not, there is additional
reason for believing that you will
not be very averse to a measure
which, by separating lay from eccle-
siastical considerations, would so far
cause a natural division of labour
amongst the Ministers of the Crown,
and protect the concerns of the
Church against such profane inter-
mixture with secular transactions,
which has, under the most favour-
able circumstances, been proved to
be so injurious.

The first measure, therefore, for
the improvement of the Church,
should be the appointment of a Mi-
nister for Ecclesiastical Affairs, to-
gether with a Board of Commission-
ers, by whom the concerns of reli-
gion, as far as they come under the
cognizance of the State, should be
steadily and vigilantly superintend-
ed. By such a measure two objects
would be gained — the Secretary for
the Home Department would be dis-
embarrassed of a very onerous re-
sponsibility, and relieved from ex-
posure to a great temptation; and
the Church would receive, from the
new Commissioners, a more undis-
tracted attention. It would be con-
sidered more with reference to how
its condition might be improved, than
how it might be made subservient to
the promotion of temporal objects.
Indeed, my Lord, it is thus alone that
the national religion can experience
the protection and the encouragement
to which it is entitled. It is thus alone
that a reasonable hope can be enter-
tained, that the same judgment and
discrimination which are so obser-
vable in appointments to legal and
military offices of importance, should
also be manifested in the promotions
which take place in the Church, and
that individuals should be selected for
its high stations, from an honest esti-
mate of their intrinsic worth, rather
than apartial and corrupting consider-
ation of their accidental advantages.

The principal objection to this
proposal would be, that it implies a
great sacrifice of patronage on the
part of Government, and does not,
after all, afford a certainty of much
better appointments than are at pre-
sent made. It does, unquestionably,

188

A Letter to the Lord Chancellor

[Feb.

imply a sacrifice of patronage on the
part of Government; but, I humbly
contend, if it does not afford a cer-
tainty, it furnishes a reasonable pro-
bability, that more care will be taken
in the selection of individuals to fill
high and responsible stations in the
Church. This, after all, is the great
object that should be aimed at. The
patronage of the Church is vested in
Government for the benefit of the
Church ; and the only solicitude of
those who have the disposal of it,
ought to be, how it may be most
righteously administered. The plan
which I have the honour to submit,
would diminish the temptations to
its abuse, and that to a degree that
must almost necessitate its appropri-
ation to strictly legitimate objects.

The temptations to its abuse would
be diminished in two ways — by
heightening the responsibility of the
patrons, and by increasing their num-
ber. Their responsibility would be
heightened, because they would be
regarded by the public as individuals
set apart for guarding the purity,
and promoting -the wellbeing of the
Church ; and whose first duty it
would be to see that, in the promo-
tions which took place, religion re-
ceived no detriment. And, in pro-
portion as their numbers were in-
creased, while the interest which
they took, collectively and individu-
ally, in the public weal, remained
the same, the private motives which
any one of them could have for a de-
parture from the principles by which
he should be guided, could seldom
be so great as to tempt him to abuse
his powers. If there were ten un-
paid Commissioners, (members of
the Church of England, and chosen
for their known devotion to it,) ap-
pointed to assist by their counsel in
the selection of individuals to fill the
office of Bishops, supposing them to
be actuated by the lowest motives,
namely, the desire of appointing
some relative or friend, these could
only operate with one-tenth of the
force which would belong to them, if
the nomination rested, as at present,
with a single individual, who is, be-
6ides,embarrassed by the multifarious
duties of another office, and whose no-
tions of official usefulness might lead
him to sacrifice the Church to the
State, in his ecclesiastical arrange-
ments.

The Secretary for the Homo De-
partment considers that he has friends
to gratify, and supporters to main-
tain, and parliamentary antagonists
to buy off, or to conciliate. These are
his most important duties. When a
bishopric is to be disposed of, they
are considerations of which, as things
stand at present, he cannot lose sight.
Those who have supported his mea-
sures " in the House," would consi-
der themselves very ill used, if their
applications at the Home Office were
unattended to, and a preference gi-
ven to others, whose only claims were
their work as clergymen, or their
merit as theologians. But, if cleri-
cal appointments were placed in the
hands of commissioners such as I
have supposed, whose sole business
would be to see that they were pro-
perly made, the very men who would
be unscrupulous and importunate,
while they regarded such patronage
as a mere appendage to the office of
a Secretary of State, and conferred
for the purpose of augmenting his
influence, would hesitate to press
the claims of those whose interests
they were desirous to promote, upon a
body of men whose duty it would be
mostjealously to criticise their pro-
fessional pretensions.

Your Lordship is aware, that for
the proposal which I make, there is
something very like precedent. When
William the Third came to the
throne of these realms, he felt that,
as a stranger, he was not qualified to
make a proper use of his power of
appointing to bishoprics, without
the aid of a committee composed of
discreet individuals, well affected to-
wards the Church of England, by
whom his choice might be guided.
Such a committee was accordingly
appointed ; and, with the exception
of their natural prejudices against
those who were suspected of Jaco-
bitism, they were wise and discri-
minating in their selections. Burnet,
Hoadly, and Tillotson, are names
which reflect no discredit on those
by whom the distinguished indivi-
duals who bore them were recom-
mended for the mitre.

Now, if such a course was deem-
ed necessary when the Church was
fortified against both Dissenters and
Papists, it cannot be supposed less
expedient at a time when the House
of Commons has been thrown open

1832.]

on the Present State of the Established Church.

to those who make no secret of their
hostility to the established religion,
and who may, at any moment, take
their seats amongst his Majesty's
constitutional advisers ! Surely, my
Lord, more unlikely things have come
to pass in our day, than that Mr O'-
Connell should be a Cabinet Minis-
ter, or that the Duke of Norfolk, or
the Earl of Shrewsbury, should take
a leading part in the formation of a
new administration !

But I do not urge the appointment
of Ecclesiastical Commissioners, and
a Secretary of State for ecclesiasti-
cal affairs, so much for the purpose
of guardingagainst the dangers which
threaten the Church from without,
great and imminent as these are, as
of preventing the abuses which prey
upon it within, and to which, if they
be not obviated, it must speedily
fall a victim. An end must be put
to these abuses, or they will put an
end to the Church. And if we could
only ensure the appointment of good
Bishops, the Church would be out of
danger. Your Lordship could scarce-
ly conceive how much would be
done, by any measure affording a
reasonable prospect of such a re-
sult, towards remedying every evil
under which the establishment la-
bours.

When Parliament once practical-
ly recognised the principle, that the
patronage at the disposal of Govern-
ment should be exclusively appro-
priated for the service of religion,
they might, with consistency, declare
that the patronage at the disposal of
every Bishop was a sacred trust for
the benefit of the Church, and that
in the distribution of it favouritism
and partiality should be excluded.
It should be authoritatively declared,
that the right of the patron in such
cases is not so much a right of selec-
tion, as a right of adjudication. He
cannot be so truly said to possess the
privilege of choosing who shall, as of
pronouncing who ought, to possess
the benefice at his disposal. And as
-soon as he decides, " inforo conscien-
tice,'' that a particular individual pos-
sesses the ability and the qualifica-
tions which render him more likely
than any other to be useful, if put in
possession of a particular prefer-
ment, he should feel himself under
as strong an obligation to promote
that individual in preference to any

189

other, as a juror to decide according
to evidence, or a judge to adjudicate
according to law.

It will be said that such ought to
b e the case at present ; that Bishops
should feel themselves under a sa-
cred obligation to consider nothing
but the interests of religion in their
appointments ; and that if their own
consciences do not influence them to
do what is right, it would be vain to
expect that they should be so influ-
enced by any snch measures as are
proposed. The sacred obligations of
Bishops I do not deny; they have,
however, been hitherto comparative-
ly inoperative, because men have
been chosen for that high office who
do not feel them. The proposal which
I have made would, it is to be hoped,
greatly increase our chances of good
Bishops ; and the regulations which
I have suggested are not, it may be
presumed, ill calculated to keep alive
in the mind of a good man a sense of
his most awful responsibility. These
are the two great points at which
Government should aim, if they are
desirous of conferring real benefit
upon the Church ; and it is most im-
portant to hold in mind, that all the
care and all the skill which can be
employed in the selection of worthy
and meritorious individuals, will not
enable Government to dispense with
any one of the forms or the ceremo-
nies by which such individuals may
have impressed upon them, or re-
newed within them, a spirit-stirring
conviction of their solemn obliga-
tions.

If a judge, instead of presiding in
a court of law, surrounded by the
circumstances of official dignity, un-
der the necessity of listening to the
pleadings of the parties between
whom he arbitrates, and of pro-
nouncing his judgment in the pre-
sence of the public, felt himself at
liberty, in his own private apartment,
and with no greater formality than
that which is customary in the trans-
action of private business, to come to
a decision respecting the merits or
demerits of particular individuals,
by which decision they might be af-
fected either for good or for evil for
the rest of their lives, is it probable
that no private or sinister influence
would ever pervert his mind, and
that he would in all cases be guided
in his awards by even-handed jus-

190

A Letter to the Lord Chancellor

[Feb.

tice ? This is a subject concerning
which your Lordship is much better
able to judge than I am : but indeed
it does not require a very extended
experience in such matters to be
able to say, that, by such a course,
much would be done to make the
judge forget that he was a public
functionary, and to give an undue
ascendency to influences which could
not be too carefully excluded. Now,
the supposed case of the judge is
the actual case of the bishop. He
decides respecting the merits of the
individuals who may be considered
as having claims for preferment,
without any consciousness of stand-
ing in the presence of a public who
exercise a kind of censorship over
his determinations. He is, on the
contrary, surrounded by those whose
interest it is to blind him to any dis-
criminating appreciation of real me-
rit, and to practise, by every artifice,
upon his weakness, his partiality, or
his affection. He is taken out of the
atmosphere in which his sense of
public duty could not die, and
brought into the atmosphere in
which more than due encourage-
ment is given to the selfishness and
the corruption of his nature. The
latter requires no assistance. Like
a rank weed, it flourishes without
culture. The former requires all the
assistance which can be given to it.
And when the very contrary of what
would be right and expedient thus
takes place; when the corrupting in-
fluence of private affection is unne-
cessarily cherished, and the purify-
ing influence of a sense of public
duty unnaturally repressed or ex-
tinguished, is it surprising that cle-
rical appointments are made, in many
instances, less with a view to the
good of the Church, than to the be-
nefit of the individuals who are pro-
moted ?

I ask any candid man, who has
ever fairly turned his mind to the
subject, whether the first considera-
tion of the generality of those who
are invested with patronage in the
Church is not, how they may most
effectually employ it in the service
of their relatives and friends ? If
they are laymen, it is often sold to
the highest bidder. In the case of
Government or the Bishops, it is too
frequently made subservient to par-
liamentary interest, or to family con-

venience. The very most that can
be expected in such cases is, that a
negative should be put upon gross
disqualification. If the son or the
brother of a Bishop was guilty of any
offence which would render his pro-
motion in the Church a great scan-
dal, he might perhaps be passed by;
so far a deference might be shewn
to public opinion. But the generali-
ty of patrons, both lay and clerical,
would consider it most unreasonable
to be expected to give their best
preferments to any individuals, how-
ever qualified, before they provided
for their own near connexions. And,
indeed, the public have become so
reconciled to this scandalous mis-
appropriation of ecclesiastical pro-
perty, that, when a Bishop does oc-
casionally depart from the ordinRiy
practice, and prefer some worthy
man, from truly Christian motives,
praise and admiration is sure to at-
tend him for it, as though he did
some extraordinary thing, while, if
the matter were truly considered, he
would be found to have been simply
faithful to his trust, and to have on-
ly performed his bounden duty.
" Dear me," one says to another,
with a countenance expressive of de-
light and wonder, " such a Bishop
has given such a living to such a
person, from no other motives than
the respect and estimation in which
he held him, for his zeal and ability
as a parish minister!" In this case
it may be truly said, " except io pro-
bat regulam" The praise of the in-
dividual is the censure of the body
to which he belongs. For it would
be impossible that, in particular
cases, such conduct could be en-
titled to praise, if the general con-
duct of the Bishops in the disposal
of their patronage were not deser-
ving of censure.

And let it not be supposed, my
Lord, that I am disposed to be very
severe upon the heads of our Church.
Undoubtedly I cannot award to them
the praise of great disinterestedness.
But, truly, such is not to be expect-
ed; nor can I, when I consider the
manner in which they have been
chosen, blame them for being influ-
enced by lower motives than such
as would be sanctioned by the high-
est sense of duty. It is the Govern-
ment by whom, or rather the system
according to which, they have been

1832.]

on the Present State of the Established Church.

191

appointed, that must bear the blame
of any neglect of worth, or promo-
tion of inefficiency, with which they
are chargeable. If the Prime Mini-
ster should say to some individual,
only known to him through his par-
liamentary connexions, " Sir, will
you accept of a bishopric ?" it is
scarcely to be expected" that that in-
dividual, how conscious soever he
may be of his own deficiencies,
should say, " nolo episcopari" And
surely if he should prove incompe-
tent to the righteous discharge of
his important duties, the Minister by
whom these duties have been so im-
properly imposed upon him, is guil-
tier than he. This would at once be
evident if the charge confided to him
related to the cure of bodies, and not
to the cure of souls. If a person, at
once negligent and incompetent, were
appointed to the care of an hospital,
— appointed without any reference
to his professional qualifications,
and solely because of his parliament-
ary interest, what an outcry would
be raised, and how would the Go-
vernment be denounced which could
thus trifle with the lives of his Ma-
jesty's subjects ? This is a matter
in which the public would feel a
lively interest, and the promptest
measures would be taken to pre-
vent the recurrence of so intolerable
an evil. But, such is the different
estimate which the generality of peo-
ple make of things temporal and
things eternal, that a system which
would be denounced as an abomi-
nation if it merely related to their
bodies, is regarded with indifference,
if not complacency, because the mis-
chief which it is calculated to work
is purely of a spiritual kind, and does
not materially or ostensibly interfere
with their wellbeing in this present
world.

And even, my Lord, when Go-
vernment intend to do right, such is
the pernicious influence of the sys-
tem according to which they have
hitherto worked, they are seldom
able to do so. They have of late
years made some appointments,
clearly with the most disinterested
views. Men, eminent for their scho-
larship, have been raised from pro-
fessorships in our Universities to the
mitre. But, while I am bound to ad-
mit that the Church is thus indebted
to the Government for some good

Bishops, I must add that little regard
seems to have been paid to any pe-
culiar fitness for the sacred office in
such appointments; arid accordingly
some of those in whose elevation
the Government have felt an honest
pride, are positively to be reckoned
amongst the worst Bishops upon the
bench. Their election, though dis-
interested, was not judicious. They
were chosen rather because of their
general eminence and ability, than
because of the distinct recognition in
them of the virtues and the talents
which would ensure that the duties
of their high office should be well
and wisely administered. In fact,
the office was conferred upon them
as a reward, instead of their being
chosen to the office from a convic-
tion that they would fitliest execute
its important functions. It was re-
garded as a kind of "finis laborum"
And, however gratified the public
may have been at thus seeing merit
reap a very rich reward, when such
individuals are fairly chargeable with
disposing of their preferments more
with reference to their family inte-
rests than to the good of the Church,
the scandal thence arising is greater
than it would be if they themselves
had not been so disinterestedly pro-
moted.

And with respect to the value of
the encouragement thus given to
merit, to what does it amount ? Does
it tend to encourage professional
merit, — that species of merit which
most stands in need of encourage-
ment ? I dare say that when Govern-
ment feel at liberty to make an
honest appointment in the Church,
professional merit on the part of any
individual will be no bar to his ad-
vancement. But this is almost the
utmost that can be said. For a
good commentator upon some an-
cient classic, or an able writer of a
history of Greece, or an ingenious
essayist upon political economy, or
an eminent astronomer, or an eru-
dite antiquarian, is just as likely to
be the object of their choice on such
occasions, as the individual whose
personal and strictly professional
merits should more decidedly entitle
him to notice. Their object is gained
if they obtain the eclat of a disin-
terested appointment. And that,
they are led to imagine, is some-
times accomplished most effectually,

192

A Letter to the Lord Chancellor

[Feb.

by the promotion of some one who
possesses no parliamentary interest,
and who has attained a considerable
share of scientific or literary dis-
tinction.

What, then, can be said for a sys-
tem, the natural tendency of which
is to put in the highest places in the
Church, individuals whose chief, or
perhaps only recommendation is,
that they are the friends or the con-
nexions of some powerful family;
and under the influence of which,
even when the Government are
anxious to compensate, by one
praiseworthy appointment, for the
many instances in which professional
merit was altogether neglected, they
are betrayed, either from ignorance
or carelessness, into mistakes, which
are scarcely less to be deplored than
their acts of more deliberate injus-
tice, in which the claims of truly
deserving persons are designedly
passed by, and the best interests of
the Church formally sacrificed to
theirnotions of political expediency ?
Indeed, my Lord, it must be changed.
Nor can I conceive how a change
may more fittingly begin than by the
division of labour which I have sug-
gested; by means of which, a sepa-
ration would take place between
offices which should never have
been united, and no Minister of the
Crown would be exposed to the
temptation of bartering stations in
the Church, which impose upon
them an awful spiritual responsibili-
ty, for that species of support in Par-
liament, by which the other business
committed to his charge may be
transacted with least inconvenience.
Much has been said, and much
may be said, of the necessity im-
posed upon practical statesmen to
conciliate those great interests, by
whose influence the business of the
nation must be carried on ; and that
their wishes must be consulted in
the more important clerical arrange-
ments. I, my Lord, never was, and
never will be, a believer in any such
necessity. A Minister of the Crown
is addressed by a great parliament-
ary lord or commoner, who says to
him — " appoint my son or my bro-
ther to such a bishopric — — or"
the Minister knows the alterna-
tive. If he is a timid man, or a
time-serving man, or one who cares
nothing for the Church, or who is

its secret enemy, he will strike to
this great lord or commoner: the
bishopric will be disposed of for
the purpose of securing his support,
and his compliance will be remem-
bered on those occasions when it is
important that he should be able to
command a majority in the House
of Commons. But if he be an ho-
nest man, he may say to the borough
proprietor, " No, sir ; no support
which you can give me shall induce
me to sacrifice the interests of re-
ligion. While I hold the reins of
power, the Church shall never be
desecrated by an unfit appointment."
The Minister who had the courage
and the virtue to use this language,
would, I am persuaded, gain more
than he could lose by it. He might
forego the purchased support of a
few great lords, but he would be
more than compensated for it by the
accession of strength which he would
receive from the people. He would
find that honesty was the best policy ;
and the conviction of his rectitude
to which such conduct would give
rise, would cause even those very
individuals to respect his integrity,
who, if he were a different man,
would have traded upon his corrup-
tion. For we must not suppose, my
Lord, that all those who profit by
the present system, therefore ap-
prove of it. No such thing. Many
of them disapprove of it; they dis-
approve, decidedly, of makijig the
high places in the Church the pur-
chase of parliamentary services :
but they say, " as this is the system,
and as these good things are going,
we may as well take advantage of it
as long as it lasts, and have our share
of them;" Only let a conscientious
Minister arise, who is determined
that such an abomination shall
no longer receive his countenance,
and he will find the very class of
persons who were most ready to
avail themselves of them, as long as
they were available for their use and
benefit, not the least ready to second
him in his most praiseworthy and
high-minded determination.

The proposal which I respectfully
submit to your Lordship, as far as it
has been yet developed, involves no
scheme of spoliation ; it implies no
departure from any one of the prin-
ciples of our ecclesiastical polity. I
believe that polity to be essentially

832.]

on the Present State of the Established Church,

good and sound, and that it is only
necessary to act up to the conception
of those by whom it was framed, in
order to accomplish everything prac-
ticable for the benefit of religion.

If the thinking and worthy part of
the public feel an objection that large
revenues should be appropriated for
the use of Bishops, it is chiefly be-
cause of the improper appointments
that have been hitherto made. Let
Bishops be but what they ought to
be, and it will be acknowledged that
large revenues could not be in better
hands. Even as matters stand, I am
persuaded that they are better em-
ployed than they would be, if they
were confiscated, and handed over
to lay proprietors. Take any bishop-
ric either in England or Ireland,
and let a fair comparison be institu-
ted between the manner in which its
revenues have been employed for the
last hundred years, and those of any
other lay property of the same
amount, — let it be enquired which
has cherished most worth, which
has relieved most poverty, which
has given to industry the most be-
neficial stimulus, — and if the very
worst managed bishopric during
that period be not proved to have
been more advantageous to the
country, even without any reference
to its spiritual uses, than the very
best managed private property, I
have not read aright the lessons of
history and experience. This I say,
with a full1 knowledge of the value
of the statement which has been so
ostentatiously put forward by the
enemies of our establishment, that
Church lands have been always
imperfectly cultivated. That such
has been the case, is owing, chiefly,
to the state of insecurity in which
Church property is placed, in con-
sequence of the clamours excited by
those who are the enemies of the
Church. But even taking in their
widest latitude the statements which
hav-e been made to this effect, all
the drawback which this implies,
will not reduce the sum-total of the
good which has been done by the
clerical possessors of ecclesiastical
revenues, to the level of that to which
any similar number of lay proprie-
tors may lay claim as their contri-
bution to the public advantage.

But the objection to church pro-
perty takes another form. The Bi-
VOL. XXXI, NO, cxc,

193

shops are gravely told, that so much
wealth is not good for their souls.
Now, if this objection were made by
individuals who practically evinced,
in their own persons, any real appre-
hension of the danger of riches, how-
ever we might dissent from their
opinion, we could not but respect
their sincerity. To them we should
be contented to say, that if the indi-
viduals who were appointed to fill the
office of Bishops, were not above the
temptations which riches imply, they
would be unfit for their stations ; and
that, if they did stand above such
temptations, riches could not be in
better hands. If they were useful for
no other purpose, they would be emi-
nently useful for this, viz. shewing
ho w to use without abusing the gifts of
Providence. But your Lordship very
well knows, that the objectors are,
generally speaking, a class who are
by no means over solicitous about
exemplifying the Christian virtues ;
and no one of whom has ever yet
taken a fancy to prove the reality of
his fears by a life of voluntary po-
verty. On the contrary, they make
as much money as they can ; and
seem to have no fears but lest they
should lose it. Now, if they reason-
ed thus, and said, " Riches are dan-
gerous even for a Bishop, how much
more dangerous must they be for a
sinner like me ?" they would be only
consistent ; their words would square
with their conduct. As matters stand
at present, their conduct says one
thing, their words say another. And,
as practical men, the only conclusion
to which we can possibly come is
this, that as they find riches very
compatible with their spiritual well-
being, it is to be presumed, that they
maybe compatible with the spiritual
wellbeing of Bishops also.

In truth, my Lord, no one of the
evils connected with our establish-
ment, and which it should be the ob-
ject of Government to remedy, is re-
ferable either to its wealth or its
poverty. For their correction, there-
fore, it is wholly unnecessary to dis-
turb the present arrangements of the
Church. The effect of any interfe-
rence with them must be to unsettle
the foundation on which they at pre-
sent rest, and to afford an opening,
and give an impulse, to the rapacity
by which they would be invaded. I
am myself no stickler for the maip-

194

A Letter to the Lord Chancellor

[Feb.

tenance of the prelates' incomes pre-
cisely at their present amount ; and
I can, perhaps, recognise a certain
advantage as likely to accrue from a
more perfect equalisation of their
preferments. But I cannot say, that
this advantage would not be too
dearly purchased by the admission
of a principle which must make all
Church property precarious. And it
is not a slight improvement in the
theory of our establishment, which
should reconcile any of its sincere
well- wishers to a project which would
render its possession insecure.

Let our establishment be rendered
as efficient as it is possible to be,
and we will hear no more, at least
in the shape of objection, of the
wealth of one class of its clergy, and
the poverty of another. When a man
has been thirty or forty years before
the public in his professional capa-
city, his character must be pretty
well known ; and if any taint of ava-
rice belong to him, he should be
deemed unfit for the office of Bishop.
If, on the contrary, he should have,
for such a period, exhibited those
virtues which mark him as a follow-
er of his Divine Master ; if his affec-
tions have been so long " set on
things above, not on things of the
earth," it is but reasonable to pre-
sume that the same simplicity and
singleness of heart will attend him
in a higher station. To such a man,
therefore, more ample funds will
only be more ample means of doing
good ; and although he may not keep
so many dogs or horses as this lord,
or that squire, yet will his expendi-
ture not be less creditable to him-
self, or less beneficial to his fellow-
creatures.

If such and such only were ap-
pointed Bishops, we would hear but
few complaints of the poverty of the
inferior clergy; for they would all
be promoted according to their worth
and services. I am against any re-
gulation which should prescribe that
a certain standing entitled a clergy-
man to promotion. By such a rule
no distinction would be made be-
tween the drones and the bees. It
might, indeed, be very well to pro-
vide, that a clergyman should be
some years in the ministry before he
was entitled to become a rector. Un-
der the eye of a vigilant and discrimi-
nating Bishop, however, all would go
on well even without any such provi-

sion ; but it would be necessary, for
many reasons, to keep him in perpe-
tual remembrance of his sacred ob-
ligation. Every appointment which
he made should take place in public.
It should be done in the sight of God,
and of his congregation". Nothing
should be wanting which could im-
press both upon himself and the be-
holders that he was about to perform
a solemn religious act, upon which
might depend the spiritual wellbeing
of thousands. Can it be supposed, that,
in such a case, he would be as acces-
sible to carnal, corrupting, or pre-
sumptuous solicitations, as many of
the Bishops are at present ? Assured-
ly he would not. He would be pla-
ced under circumstances in which
" all that was carnal would die in
him, and all things belonging to the
spirit would live and grow in him."
Every project of family aggrandise-
ment would be repressed, when he
called upon the congregation to join
with him in prayer, " that the Lord
of the harvest might send forth la-
bourers into the harvest." He could
not think, in such a moment, of ma-
king merchandise of the souls of
men : and rare, indeed, would be the
appointment which would cause
scandal to religion.

Thus, by providing good men for
the higher offices, we would cause
that good men in the lower offices
should never be, for any length of
time, unprovided. This, surely, will
be admitted to be a better mode of
remedying an evil which every one
must acknowledge and deplore, than
a regulation which, by raising the
stipends of curates, would have a
tendency to banish useful labourers
from the Church, and this, by an in-
terference with vested rights which
must bring all ecclesiastical property
into danger. The State, my Lord,
cannot at present too jealously guard
against every project which bears
even asemblance of spoliation. These
projects may begin with the Church,
out, depend upon it, they cannot end
there. If possessions, the mostancient,
the most sacred, and the most im-
prescriptible, are invaded, upon what
principle can any other species of
property be deemed secure ? If the
clergy, from usufructuary proprie-
tors, are degraded to the class of
mere stipendiaries ; and if their pro-
perty is to be commuted for salaries
to be determined by a " quantum

1832.]

on the Present State of the Established Church.

meruit" consideration of the services
they perform, these services being
estimated by those who despise their
office and character, we may easily
conceive the species of estimation in
which the ministers of religion will
be held. And when we consider,
that, by such a course, the populace
will have got but a taste of plunder,
what is to prevent the appetite which
shall be thus excited from gratifying
itself at the expense of the posses-
sion of the hereditary proprietors,
whose titles cannot be considered
better than those which they have
themselves contributed to destroy,

193

and who, when they thus, in their
turn, become the victims of popular
caprice, can scarcely be said to suffer
any thing more than the awards of
evenhanded justice ?

But I have already detained your
Lordship too long, and will conclude
for the present by assuring you, that
if I did not feel much respect for
your talents, and was not led to be-
lieve, by many of your acts and ex-
pressions, that you are a sincere
well-wisher of our venerable Church,
I never would have so far trespass-
ed upon your attention.

SCRUTATOR.

TOM CRINGLE'S LOG.*

THE only other midshipman on
board the cutter beside young Wal-
colm, whose miserable death we had
witnessed, was a slight delicate little
fellow, about fourteen years old, of
the name of Duncan; he was the
smallestboy of his age I ever saw,and
had been badly hurt in repelling the
attack of the pirate. His wound was
a lacerated puncture in the left shoul-
der from a boarding-pike, but it ap-
peared to be healing kindly, and for
some days we thought he was doing
well. However, about five o'clock
in the afternoon, before we made Ja-
maica, the surgeon accosted Mr Dou-
glas as we were walking the deck
together. " I fear little Duncan is
going to slip through my fingers after
all, sir."—" No I— I thought he had
been better."—" So he was till about
noon, when a twitching of the mus-
cles came on, which I fear betokens
lock jaw ; he wavers, too, now and
then, abad sign of itself where there is
a fretting wound." — We went below,
where, notwithstanding the wind-sail
that was let down close to where his
hammock was slung, the heat of the
small vessel was suffocating. The
larg£ coarse tallow candle in the pur-
ser's lantern, that hung beside his
shoulder,around which the loathsome
cockroaches fluttered like moths in
a summer evening, filled the be-
tween decks with a rancid oily smell,
and with smoke as from a torch,
while it ran down and melted like
fat before a fire. It cast a dull
sickly gleam on the pale face of the

brown-haired, girlish-looking tad, as
he lay in his narrow hammock. When
we entered, an old quarter-master
was rubbing his legs, which were
jerking about like the limbs of a gal-
vinized frog, while two of the boys
held his arms, also violently convul-
sed. The poor little fellow was cry-
ing and sobbing most piteously, but
made a strong effort to compose
himself and "be a man" when he
saw us. — " This is so good of you,
Mr Cringle ! you will take charge of
my letter to my sister, I know you
will? — I say, Anson," to the quar-
ter-master, " do lift me up a little
till I try and finish it— It will be a
sore heart to poor Sarah ; she has no
mother now, nor father, and aunt js
not over kind," — and again he wept
bitterly. " Confound this jumping
hand, it won't keep steady, all 1 can
do. — I say, Doctor, I sha'n't die
this time, shall I?" — "I hope not, my
fine little fellow."-—" I don't think I
shall; I shall live to be a man yet, in
spite of that bloody Bucaneer's pike,
I know I shall." God help me, the
death rattle was already in his throat,
and the flame was flickering in the
socket ; even as he spoke, the muscles
of his neck stiffened to such a degree
that I thought he was choked, but the
violence of the convulsion quickly
subsided. " I am done for, Doctor !"
he could no longer open his mouth,
but spoke through his clenched teeth
— " I feel it now !— God Almighty
receive my soul, and protect my poor
sister !" The arch-enemy was indeed

* See Number for November last*

196

advancing to the final struggle, for he
now gave a sudden and sharp cry,
and stretched out his legs and arms,
which instantly became as rigid as
marble, and in his agony lie turned
his face to the side I stood on, but he
was no longer sensible. " Sister,"
lie said with difficulty—" Don't let
them throw me overboard ; there are
sharks here."—" Land on the lee-
bo^" — sung out the man at the mast-
head. The common life sound would
not have moved any of us in the rou-
tine of duty, but bursting in, under
such circumstances, it made us all
start, as if it had been something un-
usual ; the dying midshipman heard
it, and said calmly— " Land,— I will
never see it. — But how blue all
your lips look. — It is cold, pier-
cing cold, and dark, dark." Some-
thing seemed to rise in his throat,
his features sharpened still more,
and he tried to gasp, but his clenched
teeth prevented him — he was gone.

I went on deck with a heavy
heart, and, on looking in the direc-
tion indicated, I beheld the towering
Blue Mountain peak rising high
above the horizon, even at the dis-
tance of fifty miles, with its outline
clear and distinct against the splen-
did western sky, now gloriously il-
lumined by the light of the set sun.
We stood on under easy sail for the
night, and next morning when the
day broke, we were off the east end
of the magnificent Island of Jamaica.
The stupendous peak now appeared
to rise close aboard of us, with alarge
solitary star sparkling on his forehead,
and reared his forest-crowned sum-
mit high into the cold blue sky, im-
pending over us in frowning magni-
ficence, while the long dark range
of the Blue Mountains, with their
outlines hard and clear in the grey
light, sloped away on each side of
him as if they had been the Giant's
shoulders. Great masses of white
mist hung on their sides about half
way down, but all the valleys and
coast as yet slept in the darkness.
We could see that the land-wind was
blowing strong in shore, from the
darker colour of the water, and the
speed with which the coasters, only
distinguishable by their white sails,
slid along; while astern of us, out at
sea, yet within a cable's length, for
we had only shot beyond its influ-
ence, the prevailing trade-wind blew
9 smart breeze, coming up strong to

Tom Cringle's Log,

[Feb.

a defined line, beyond which and be-
tween it, and the influence of the
land-wind, there was a belt of dull
lead-coloured sea, about half a mile
broad, with a long heavy ground-
swell rolling, but smooth as glass,
and without even a ripple on the sur-
face, in the midst of which we lay
dead becalmed.

The heavy clew was shaken in
large drops out of the wet flapping
sails, against which the reef points
pattered like hail as the vessel roll-
ed. The decks were wet and slip-
pery, and our jackets saturated with
moisture ; but we enjoyed the luxury
of cold to a degree that made the sea
water when dashed about the decks,
as they were being holystoned, ap-
pear absolutely warm. Presently all
nature awoke in its freshness so sud-
denly, that it looked like a change of
scene in a theatre. The sun, as yet
set to us, rose to the huge peak, and
glanced like lightning on his sum-
mit,making it gleam like an amethyst.
The clouds on his shaggy ribs rolled
upwards, and enveloped his head ai>d
shoulders, and were replaced by tli«
thin blue mists which ascended from
the valleys, forming a fleecy canopy,
beneath which appeared hill and dale,
woods and cultivated lands, where
all had been undistinguishable a mi-
nute before, and gushing streams
burst from the mountain sides like
gouts of froth, marking their course
in the level grounds by the vapours
they sent up. Then Breere mill-tow-
ers burst into light, and cattle mills,
with their cone-shaped roofs, and
overseers' houses, and water mills,
with the white spray falling from the
wheels, and sugar-works, with long
pennants of white smoke, streaming
from the boiling-house chimneys in
the morning wind. Immediately af-
ter, gangs of negroes were seen at
work; loaded waggons, with enor-
mous teams of fourteen to twenty
oxen dragging them, rolled along the
roads ; long strings of mules loaded
with canes were threading the fields ;
dragging vessels were seen to shove
out from every cove ; the morning
song of the black fishermen was
heard, while their tiny canoes, like
black specks, started up suddenly
on all sides of us, as if they had
floated from the bottom of the sea ;
and the smiling scene burst at once,
and as if by magic, on us, in all its
coolness and beauty, under the cheer-

1832.1

T*m Cringle's Log.

Id7

iug influence of the rapidly rising
sun. We fired a gun, and made the
signal for a pilot j upon which a
canoe, with three negroes in it, sho-
ved off from a small schooner lying
to about a mile to leeward. They
were soon alongside, when one of
the three jumped on board. This
was the pilot, a slave, as I knew, and,
in my innocence, I expected to see
something very squalid and miser-
able, but there was nothing of the
kind ; for I never in my life saw a
more .spruce salt water dandy, in a
small way. He was well dressed,
according to a seaman's notion —
clean white trowsers, check shirt,
with white lapels, neatly fastened
at the throat with a black ribbon,
smart straw hat ; and altogether he
carried an appearance of comfort — I
was going to write independence —
about him, that I was by no means
prepared for. He moved about with
a swaggering roll, grinning and laugh-
ing with the seamen. "Isay,Blackie,"
said Mr Douglas. — " John Lodge,
massa, if you please, massa; Blackie
is not politeful, sir," whereupon he
shewed his white teeth again. " Well,
well, John Lodge, you are running
us in too close surely ;" and the re-
mark seemed seasonable enough to
a stranger, for the rocks on the bold
shore were now within half pistol-
shot, — " Mind your eye," shouted
old Anson. " You will have us
ashore, you black rascal !" — " You,
sir, what water have you here ?"
sung out Mr Splinter. " Salt water,
massa," rapped out Lodge, fairly,
dumfounded by such a volley of
questions — " You hab six fadpm

food here, massa ;" but suspecting
e had gone too far — " I take de
Tonnant, big ship as him is, close to
dat reef, sir, you might have jump
ashore, so you need not frighten for
your leetle dish of a hooker ; be-
side, massa, my character is at take,
you know" — then another grin and
bow. There was no use in being-
angry with the poor fellow, so he
was allowed to have his own way
until we anchored in the evening at
Port-Royal. The morning after we
arrived, I went ashore with a boat's
crew to perform the magnanimous
operation of cutting brooms ; we
pulled ashore for Green Bay, under
the guns of the Twelve Apostles—
a heavy battery of twelve cannon,
where there is a tombstone with an

inscription, setting forth that the
party over whom it was erected, had
been actually swallowed up in the
great earthquake that destroyed the
opposite town, but subsequently dis-
gorged again ; being, perchance, an
unseemly morsel.

We approached the beach — " Oars"
— the men laid them in. " What sort
of nuts be them/ Peter Combings ?"
said the coxswain to a new hand who
had been lately impressed, and was
now standing at the bow ready to
fend off.

Peter broke off one of the branches
from the bush nearest him. — " Smite
my timbers, do the trees here bear
shellfish ?" The tide in the Gulf of
Mexico does not ebb and flow above
two feet, except at the springs, and
the ends of the drooping branches
of the mangrove trees, that here co-
ver the shore, are clustered, within
the wash of the water, with a small
well-flavoured oyster. The first thing
the seamen did when they got ashore,
was to fasten an oakum tail to the
rump of one of the most lubberly of
the cutter's crew; they then gave
him ten yards law, when they start-
ed in chase, shouting amongst the
bushes, and switching each other
like the veriest schoolboys. I had
walked some distance along the
beach, pelting the amphibious little
creatures, half crab, half lobster,
called soldiers, which kept shoulder-
ing their large claws, and running out
and in their little burrows, as the
small ripple twinkled on the sand in
the rising sun, when two men-of-
wars' boats, each with three officers
in the stern, suddenly pulled round
a little promontory that intercepted
my view ahead. Being somewhat
out of the line of my -duty, so far
from my boat, I squatted amongst
the brushwood, thinking they would
pass by ; but, as the devil would have
it, they pulled directly for the place
where I was ensconced, beached
their boats, and jumped on shore.
" Here's a mess," thought I.

I soon made out that one of the
officers was Captain Pinkem of the
Flash, and that the parties saluted
each other with that stern courtesy,
which augured no good. " So, so,
my masters, not enough of fighting
on the coast of America, but you
must have a little private defacing
of God's image amongst yourselves ?"
Pinkem 'spoke first. " Mr Clinch,"

198

(I now knew he addressed the first
lieutenant of the flag-ship,) " Mr
Clinch, it is not too late to prevent
unpleasant consequences ; I ask you
again, at the eleventh hour, will you
make an apology ?:' He seemed
hurried and fidgety in his manner ;
which rather surprised me, as I knew
he was a seasoned hand in these
matters, and it contrasted unfavour-
ably with the calm bearing of his
antagonist, who by this time had
thrown his hat on the ground, and
stood with one foot on the hand-
kerchief that marked his position,
the distance, twelve paces, having
already been measured . By the bye
his position was deucedly near in a
line with the grey stone behind
which I lay hid; nevertheless, the
risk I ran did not prevent me no-
ticing that he was very pale, and had
much the air of a brave man come
to die in a bad cause. He looked
upwards for a second or two, and
then answered, slowly and distinct-
ly, " Captain Pinkem, I now repeat
what I said before ; this rencontre
is none of my seeking. You accuse
me of having spoken slightingly of
you seven years ago, when I was a
mere boy. You have the evidence
of a gallant officer that I did so,
therefore, I may not gainsay it ; but
of uttering the words imputed to me,
I declare, upon my honour, I have
no recollection." He paused. " That
wont do, my fine fellow," said Pink-
em. " You are unreasonable," re-
joined Clinch, in the same measured
tone, " to expect farther amende for
uttering words which I have no con-
viction of having spoken; yet, to
any other officer in the service I
would not hesitate to make a more
direct apology, but you know your
credit as a pistol-shot renders this
impossible."

" Sorry for it, Mr Clinch, sorry
for it." Here the pistols were hand-
ed to the principals by their respec-
tive seconds. In their attitudes, the
proficient and the novice were stri-
kingly contrasted; (by this time I
had crept round so as to have a view
of both parties, or rather, if the truth
must be told, to be out of the line of
fire.) Pinkem stood with his side ac-
curately turned towards his antago-
nist, so as to present the smallest
possible surface ; his head was, as it
struck me, painfully slewed round,
with bis eye looking steadily at

Tom Cringle's Log.

[Feb.

Clinch, over his right shoulder,
whilst his arm was brought down
close to his thigh, with the cock of
the pistol turned outwards, so that
his weapon must have covered his
opponent by the simple raising of
his arm below the elbow. Clinch,
on the other hand, stood fronting
him, with the whole breadth of his
chest ; holding his weapon awk-
wardly across his body, with both
hands. Pinkem appeared unwilling
to take him at such advantage, for,
although violent and headstrong, and
but too frequently the slave of his
passions, he had some noble traits in
his character.

" Turn your feather edge to me,
Mr Clinch ; take a fair chance, man."
The lieutenant bowed, and I thought
would have spoken, but he was
checked by the fear of being thought
to fear ; however, he took the advice,
and in an instant the word was

given — " Are you both ready?"
Yes." "Then fire!" Clinch fired
without deliberation. I saw him,
for my eyes were fixed on him, ex-
pecting to see him fall. He stood
firm, however, which was more than
I did, as at the instant, a piece of the
bullion of an epaulet, at first taken
for a pellet o£ baser metal, struck me
sharply on the nose, and shook my
equanimity confoundedly ; at length
I turned to look at Pinkem, and there
he stood with his arm raised, pistol
levelled, but he had not fired. He
stood thus whilst I might have count-
ed ten, like a finger-post, then drop-
pinghis hand, his weapon went off, but
without aim, the bullet striking the
sand near his feet, and down he came
headlong to the ground. He fell
with his face turned towards me,
and I never shall forget the horrible
expression of it. His healthy com-
plexion had given place to a deadly
blue, the eyes were wide open and
straining in their sockets, the upper
lip was drawn up, showing his teeth
in a most frightful grin, the blood
gushed from his mouth as if impel-
led by the strokes of a force pump,
while his hands griped and dug into
the sand.

Before the sun set, he was a dead
man.

" A neat morning's work, gentle-
men," thought I. The two surgeons
came up, and opened his dress, felt
his pulse, and shook their heads;
the boats' crews grouped around

1832.J

Tom Cringle's Log.

them — he was lifted into his gig, the
word was given to shove off, and I
returned to my broom-cutters.

When we got on board, the gun-
ner who had the watch was taking
his fisherman's walk on the starboard
side of the quarter-deck, and kept
looking steadily at the land, as if to
avoid seeing poor little Duncan's
coffin, that lay on a grating near the
gangway. The crew, who were em-
ployed in twenty different ways, re-
E airing damages, were bustling about,
mghing, joking, and singing, with
small regard to the melancholy ob-
ject before their eyes, when Mr
Douglas put his head up the ladder
— " Now, Transom, if you please."
The old fellow's countenance fell
as if his heart was wrung by the
order he had to give. " Aloft there I
lie out, you Perkins, and reeve a
whip on the starboard yard-arm to

lower Mr " The rest stuck in his

throat, and, as if ashamed of his
soft-heartedness, he threw as much
gruffness as he could into his voice
as he sung out — " Beat to quarters
there I—knock off, men I" The roll
of the drum stayed the confusion and
noise of the people at work in an
instant, who immediately ranged
themselves, in their clean frocks and
trowsers, on each side of the quarter-
deck. At a given signal, the white
deal coffin, wrapped in ito befitting
pall, the meteor flag of England,
swung high above the hammock net-
tings between us and the clear blue
sky, to the long clear note of the boat-
swain's whistle, which soon ending in
a short chirrup, told that it now rested
on the thwarts of the boat alongside.
We pulled ashore, and it was a sight
perchance to move a woman, to see
the poor little fellow's hat and bit of
a dirk lying on his coffin, whilst the
body was carried by four ship boys,
the eldest scarcely fourteen. I no-
ticed the tears stand in Anson's eyes
as the coffin was lowered into the
grave,— the boy had been wounded
close to him, — and when we heard
the hollow rattle of the earth on the
coffin, — an unusual sound to a sailor
— he shuddered. — " Yes, Master
Cringle," he said, in a whisper, " he
was as kind-hearted, and as brave a
lad as ever trod on shoe leather,—
none of the larkings of the men in
the clear moonlight nights ever
reached the cabin through him, — nor
was he the boy to rouse the watch

199

from under the lee of the boats in
bad weather, to curry with the lieu-
tenant, while he knew the look-outs
were as bright as beagles, — and where
was the man in our watch that wanted
'bacco while Mr Duncan had a shiner
left ?" The poor fellow drew the
back of his horny hand across his
eyes, and grumbled out as he turned
away, " And here am I, Bill Anson,
such a swab as to be ashamed of
being sorry for him."

We were now turned over into the
receiving ship the old Shark, and for-
tunately there were captains enough
in port to try us for the loss of the
Torch, so we got over our court-
martial speedily, and the very day I
got back my dirk, the packet brought
me out a lieutenant's commission.
Being now my own master for a sea-
son, I determined to visit some rela-
tions I had in the island, to whom I
had never yet been introduced ; so
I shook hands with old Splinter,
packed my kit, and went to the
wharf to charter a wherry to carry
me up to Kingston. The moment
my object was perceived by the
black boat-men, I was surrounded by
a mob of them, pulling and hauling
each other, and shouting forth the
various qualifications of their boats,
with such vehemence, that I was
nearly deafened. " Massa, no see
Pam be Civil, sail like a witch, tack
like a dolphin ?" — " Don't believe
him, Massa, Ballahoo is de boat dat
can beat him." — " Dam lie dat, as I
am a gentleman !" roared a ragged
black vagabond. — " Come in de Mon-
key, Massa, no flying fis can beat
she." — " Don't boder de gentleman,"
yelled a fourth. — " Massa. love de
Stamp-and-go — no, no, Massa," as he
saw me make a step in the direction
of his boat. " Oh yes, get out of de
way, you black rascals," — the fellow
was as black as a sloe himself—
" make room for man-of-war buccra;
him leetle just now, but will be
admiral one day." So saying, the
fellow who had thus appropriated
me, without more ado, levelled his
head like a battering ram, and began
to batter in breech all who stood in
his way. He first ran a tilt against
Pam be Civil, and shot him like a
rocket into the sea; the Monkey
faired no better ; the Balahoo had to
swim for it, and having thus opened
a way by main force, I at length got
safely moored in the stern sheets;

•200 Tom Crinyle'a Log. [Feb.

but just as we were shoving off, Mr thunderstruck. " Massa Parson Cal-

Callaloo, the clergyman of Port- laloo, you mad surely, you mad !"

Royal, a tall yellow personage, begged — "Children, I am not mad,

for a passage, and was accordingly but obedient — you said we must

taken on board. As it was high all get out" " To be sure,

water, my boatmen chose the five Massa, and you no see we all did
foot channel, as the boat channel near get out?" "And did you not see
to Gallows Point is called, by which that I got out too ?" rejoined the par-
a long stretch would be saved, and son, still in the water. " Oh, lud,
we were cracking on cheerily, my Massa ! we no mean you — we meant
mind full of my recent promotion, poor niger, not white man parson."— •
when, scur, scur, scur, we stuck fast " You said all, children, and there-
on the bank. Our black boatmen, upon I leaped," pronouncing the last
being little encumbered with clothes, word in two syllables — " be more
jumped overboard in a covey like so correct in your grammar next time."
many wild-ducks, shouting, as they The worthy but eccentric old chap
dropped into the water, "We must then scrambled on board again,
all get out — we must all get out," amidst the suppressed laughter of
whereupon Mr Callaloo, a sort of the boatmen, and kept his seat, wet
Dominie Sampson in his way, prompt* clothes and all, until we reached
ly leaped overboard up to his waist Kingston,
in the water. The negroes were 17th Dec. 1831.

THE HORSE.
BY THE REV. F. W. MALTBY.

HAST thou given the horse strength ?

Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder ?

The glory of his nostril is terrible.

He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength :

He swalloweth the ground with fierceness and rage.

Book of Job.

Proud creature ! thou dost boast the favour' d station
Thy beauty wins thee o'er each meaner race ;
The glory, strength, and freshness of creation
Still live around thee : what withholden grace
Could nature's wondrous treasury afford,
Were thy primeval majesty restored 1
And much I marvel, when the world was young,
From what fierce element thy beauty sprung.
Had storms engender'd thee — aye, wert thou not
Born of the billows, by the blast begot !

I ask not with what spirit thou dost brook
Thy cancell'd birth-right, liberty ! But look
Into the wrathful splendour of thine eye,
Now roaming wild, now fix'd attentively,
As if some far off object thou would'st scan,
Ten thousand leagues beyond the range of man.
No ! fierce impatience, scorn of all control,
Stirs thy hot heart, and fires thy savage soul :—
Seen in the breathed nostril's sanguine stains,
And the swolPn channels of thy branching veins ;
Nature's proud tracery, heralding high birth,
Patent of thy nobility and worth !
Yes ! thou art far too beautiful, and brave
For man's dominion ; the dull name of slave
Suits not with thy free temper and just state;
Aye, spurn th' insensate earth, for thou dost hate
All dull and lifeless natures, and wouldst mate
Thy spirit with the lightnings and the wind ;
But that the last thou scornest, as 'twould find
Its wild wings idle in their stormy might
To oppose thy passage, or pursue thy flight.

1832.]

Geography of Africa—- Quarterly Review.

201

GEOGRAPHY OF AFRICA — QUARTERLY RKV1EYT.

LETTER FROM JAMES MCQUEEN, ESQ.

SIR,

IN your Number for July last I
drew the attention of the public
shortly to the course and termination
of the great river Niger, as pointed out
by me upwards of eleven years ago,
and the accuracy of which the recent
successful journey of Lander has so
amply confirmed. The last number
of the Quarterly Review compels
me to turn again to this important
subject.

Describing, whether accurately or
not, I know not, nor is it my business
to enquire, a delineation of the course
and termination of this river by a Ger-
man named Reichard, the writer in
the Review, at page 79, says, " Mr
M'Queen, almost as ingenious as M.
Reichard, but a humble copyist, with
equal poverty of facts, claims the
merit of the discovery ; which how-
ever is due, and solely due, to Rich-
ard Lander, on whom the society"
{Royal Geographical) " has very pro-
perly bestowed his Majesty's royal
premium of fifty guineas."

There is a tone of insolence and
contempt, and a disclosure of cer-
tain modes of transacting business,
displayed in this passage, which
render it deserving of remark. To
this silly misrepresentation it is re-
plied, first, Reichard, according to
the critic, has been right in his view
of the important subject, but which
that critic never was ; secondly, that
in my labours in this subject I was
his " humble copyist," is most point-
edly and flatly denied and contra-
dicted. When the map was con-
structed, which was laid before his
Majesty's Government in June 1820,
and published with the volume on
the Geography of Central Africa, by
Mr Blackwood, in March 1821, I
had not then, nor for several years
afterwards, heard of the name of
Reichard or his theory ; nor then, nor
till this moment, have I either seen
or heard one syllable that that indi-
vidual has said, written, or publish-
ed, on the subject. The statement,
therefore, is a gratuitous assumption
and assertion on the part of the wri-
ter in the Review, and he is welcome
to the merit, whatever merit a dis-

passionate public may consider to be
due, for the statement, and also for
the manner in which it has been
brought forward. Thirdly, The as-
sertion, " with an equal poverty of
facts," will be speedily put to the
proof, by laying before your readers
a portion of the "facts" so many
years ago submitted to a discerning
public.

Previous, however, to entering
upon this part of the subject, the fol-
lowing remarks appear necessary.

Think not, Mr Editor, for a moment,
that your humble servant grudges
Mr Lander his reward, and the ho-
nour which has been bestowed upon
him. He is entitled to all ; nor were
such things ever thought of or sought
by me. That meritorious individual
will forgive me when in my defence
it becomes necessary to turn the Re-
viewer's arguments against himself.
Mr Lander may rest assured that this
is done not to lessen his merits, but
to curb the arrogance of one who un-
necessarily and unjustly attempts to
depreciate the labours of others in
this important question, and who,
considering the erroneous theories
which he has so long and so pertina-
ciously attempted to spread and to
maintain, ought to have been the
very last to pursue the course which
he pursues.

Mr Lander has sailed down a Ri-
ver from Yaoori to the sea, (near the
ocean in a minor branch,) but that
that River which he did sail down is
the Niger of Ptolemy, the Joliba of
Park, and the River of Timbuctoo, so
long sought and so much famed, he
knows no more than I do, except
from the reports of other authorities
and other travellers, and particularly
from the important fact that Park,
who embarked on the upper Joliba,
passed Yaoori, and was lost in A RI-
VER at Boussa. All these latter facts
were well known previously to the
journeys made by Denham, Clapper-
ton, and Lander. Now upon this tact,
that Park sailed down the Niger, the
Joliba, or whatever name the critic
pleases to give it, to Boussa, where
he perished, I established the irre-
sistible truth, that the Niger actually

Geography of Africa— Quarterly Review.

202

entered the sea in the Bights of Be-
nin and Biafra; because, by other
authorities, I learned that the river
which passed Yaoori and Boussa was
navigable and navigated from these
places to the Atlantic Ocean. The
above is all the advantage which
Lander has over me, and It is will-
ingly yielded unto him, while, from
more than one authority, 1 had, long-
before Lander's journey was under-
taken, pointed out that the river on
which he embarked at Yaoori and
Boussa was the river which passes
Kabra, the port of Timbuctoo, and
that on which Park embarked at
Sansanding.

There is more than one passage in
the article contained in the Review
alluded to, which deserves remark ;
but previous to going into these, it
may be proper to adduce the " po-
verty of facts" with which I shewed
that the Niger, or River of Timbuc-
too, terminated in the Atlantic Ocean,
in the Bights of Benin and Biafra.

First, there is the map drawn and
submitted to his Majesty's Govern-
ment in June 1820, delineating the
course of the Rivers in Northern
Central Africa, and more especially,
and as a primary object, the course
and termination of the Joliba or Ni-
ger. This cannot be denied. The
writer, at least that gentleman whom
I believe to be the writer in the
Quarterly Review, saw this map at
the time mentioned. As published
on a reduced scale in 1821, it can be
referred to, in order to shew how lit-
tle difference there is in the great
features, from those which have been
subsequently ascertained by Euro-
pean ocular demonstration. The on-
ly data I had to determine the course
of the rivers, more especially the
Niger, as laid down in this map, were
the bearings and days' journeys as
confusedly given by Moor and Arab
travellers and authorities. Still, with
these deficient materials, Boussa is
laid down on the map in question in
about 1 1 deg. 40 rain. N. Lat. and 8
deg. 20 min. East Long., with the ob-
servation in the volume subsequent-
ly published, that the portion assign-
ed to it was believed to be about a
degree and a half too much, both
to the eastward and northward.

[Feb.

In 1826* these errors were, from
subsequent research and information,
corrected to a certain extent; and ac-
cording to Clapperton's observations,
Boussa is situated in 10 deg. 14 min.
N. Lat. and 6 deg. 11 min. East
Long., thus not differing above half
a degree from the position as laid
down by me (taking the reservation
above alluded to into account) in the
map constructed June 1820.

So far as concerns the map. Next
comes the volume on the geography
of Northern Central Africa, publish-
ed in A821, and already alluded to.
The object of this volume was to
bring forward the authorities and the
facts on which the map was con-
structed, and to shew the course of
the Niger, and its tributary streams,
to the ocean; but, as has been already
stated, the course and termination of
the Niger were the grand points to
make out — all the rest were of mi-
nor importance. In the course of the
rivers in Eastern Sudan, there are,
particularly in the middle and more
northern of them, several errors, but
which were corrected in 1826. These
errors arose from the exceedingly con-
fused accounts given by Moor and
Arab travellers, and which were ren-
dered still more unintelligible by the
imperfect manner in which they were
understood, and the despotic manner
in which they were applied by the
European authorities to which they
were given, and by which they were
adduced and referred to. The great
cause of error, however, was in that
source of information by which the
intelligent and accurate Burckhardt
was deceived, in stating the course
of the Shary to be from N.E. to S.W.
to the Bahr Lake, or River of Bor-
nou, instead of the course being, as
it is, towards its mouth, from S.W.
to N.E. His authority was taken as
the point to fix the course of the
streams which traverse this part of
Africa; but had the true course of
the Shary been known, it would
have at once enabled me to clear up
the geographical features of this por-
tion of Africa, so far as concern the
rivers thereof, and to have reconciled,
readily and accurately, what other-
wise appeared to be irreconcilable
and unintelligible in the narratives

See this Magazine for June, 1826.

1832.] Geography of Africa

obtained from Moor and Arab tra-
vellers.

With these remarks, I proceed to
the "facts" adduced in the volume,
concerning the more prominent and
most important point of the whole ;
namely, the course and termination
of the mighty River Niger ; and to
show these, I must adduce the theo-
ries and errors brought forward by
various writers, and by none more
pertinaciously than by the writer in
the Quarterly Review. These are
thus shortly 'stated in the volume
referred to, p. 3 : —

" The theories at present most in
vogue are,./&*tf,that it flows eastward,
reaching beyond the parallel of 18
deg. N. Lat, and then, in about 20
deg. E. Long, that it flows south-east,"
(See Quarter. Rev., May, 1820,) the
parent stream of the Bahr~el-Abiad,
or Nile of Egypt. Secondly, That it
terminates in a large lake in the in-
terior, which also receives the Gir,
or Nile of Sudan, coming from the
eastward. Thirdly, That the waters
of both rivers are lost in, and ab-
sorbed by, swampsand sandy deserts ,
in a country called Wangara. And,
fourthly, that the Niger, from its mid-
dle course, flows south, and joins the
great River Congo or Zaire. Every
one of these theories is grossly erro-
neous, contrary to every authority
on which reliance can be placed, and
in opposition to every feature of geo-
graphy exhibited any where else on
this globe." " That the Niger flows
to form the Bahr-el-Abiad, is contra-
ry to all probability — contrary to the
good authority of Ptolemy — contrary
to the authority of the best Arabian
geographers— and contrary to excel-
lent modern authority. Yet it is most
surprising that an opinion so impro-
bable in itself, and so directly oppo-
sed to all the authorities mentioned,
should, even to this day, continue
to be believed and maintained."

Strabo and Pliny had a vague idea
that the streams descending from the
south side of Mount Atlas, after run-
ning under the desert, emerged, and
formed the Great River of Central
Africa, which continued its course
to the Egyptian Nile ; and they seem
to have imbibed this idea from the
remarkable fact, that upon digging
some feet below the surface, and in
the very middle of the GreatDesert,
abundance of fresh water is found,

— Quarterly JZevieiv.

203

and which the Arabs term " the sea
under ground." Be this as it may,
however, it is plain that their inform-
ation told them that there was a river
to the south of the Great African De-
sert, then certainly, but imperfectly
known, running to the eastward.
Ptolemy makes the matter clearer,
and, in the general course of the
great rivers, very nearly indeed what
modern investigation has found it to
be. " He wrote in Egypt in the se-
cond century of the Christian era.
Then Africa was better known.
The interior of the northern division
he describes, apparently from good
authority, and with considerable ac-
curacy, only he seems altogether to
leave out the Great Desert. Mount
Mandrus, the middle of which was
22 deg. N. Lat. and 23 deg. E. Long,
from Ferro, and Rhisadirus moun-
tain, more to the south, he places as
the barrier that divides the waters
which flow westward into the At-
lantic Ocean, by theRivers Stachirus,
£c. (the Senegal, Gambia, &c.) from
those which flow eastward in the
Niger. Turning eastward from Mount
Rhisadirus, we find Mount Caphas
in about 10 deg. N. Lat, which di-
vides the waters that flow south into
the Great Gulf, or Gulf of Guinea,
from those which flow north to join
the Niger. In Caphas we readily re-
cognise the Kong range. Eastward,
in the same parallel, there is a blank
or opening, and then comes Mount
Thala, situated in 10 deg. N. Lat.
and 38 deg. E. Long, from Ferro,
on the very place where Denham
found the Mandara hills, and high
* Moon Mountains,' stretching south-
ward from them." " Turning north,
in 10 deg. N.Lat. and 50 deg. E.Long.
from Ferro, we have the chain of
hills called the Garamantican Ram-
part, which divides the waters which
flow west in the Gir, from those
which flow east to the Nile, and from
those deserts which stretch eastward
to the Nile. Turning westward in the
parallel of 21 deg. N. Lat. and ex-
tending along by the sources of the
River Cinips, from 40 deg. to 41
deg. E. Long., we have Mount Gir-
gires; and from 8 deg. to 10 deg.
farther west, in the same paral-
lel of latitude, are the Usurgala
mountains. Next, in N. Lat. 32 deg.
and E. Long. 20 deg. 30 min., we
have Mount Sagapola placed (if the

Geography oj' Africa— Quarterly Review.

204

latitude is correctly given) most er-
roneously in the map accompanying
the work, (Ptolemy's,) in 20 deg. N.
Lat, and 15 deg. E. Long, on the
south side in place of the north side
of the desert. The formidable bar-
riers here enumerated, according to
the delineation of Ptolemy, encircle,
or enclose, those extensive valleys,
if I may use the expression, through
which the Niger, the Gir, and their
tributary streams take their courses,
leaving only the opening; between
Mount Thala and Mount Caphas, for
the collected flood to escape to the
southward. How much these gene-
ral outlines agree with modern ac-
counts, our future investigations, and
the map accompanying this work,
will shew."— P. 7, &c.

Pages 10 to 14 go on to shew Pto-
lemy's account of the rivers Gir and
Niger — the former running from
east to west, and enumerating the
chief cities situated on its banks, for
the space of 12 degrees of longitude ;
and the latter running from west to
cast, enumerating also the most cele-
brated cities situated on its banks,
from 19 deg. to 31 deg. east longi-
tude from Ferro, shewing a declina-
tion of the river to the south of no
fewer than 5 deg. on the latter meri-
dian. Ptolemy places his Nigrites
Palus in 18 deg. N. latitude, and 15
deg. E. longitude from Ferro, which
is very near the true position of Lake
Dibbie ; he places his Nigira* Metro-
polis in 17 deg. 45 min. N. latitude,
and 25 deg. 30 miu. E. longitude,
(about 3 deg. east longitude from
Greenwich,) almost on the very spot
where all modern accounts place
Timbuctoo; and he brings a great
branch of the Niger to the Nigrites Pa-
lus from the north-west, which is ac-
tually found to be the fact, as stated
in the Report of the Committee of
Privy Council of 1789, the travels of
Sidi Hamed, who marched along its
banks several days, and also from
the travels of Batouta and others.
D'Anville, in an early map, -lays
down a river in the same space, but
makes it run from the Lake to the
Senegal. Ptolemy also brings a
branch to the Niger from the east-
ward, " above the Lybian Lake," that
is, to the south of the Lybian Lake,
which lake he places in 16 deg. 30
min. N. latitude, and 35 deg. E.' lon-
gitude from Ferro, the branch no

[Feb.

doubt descending by or from Mount
Thala, which I have denominated
Dar Kulla, and Lander has found
under the name of Tshaddi.

These are all very remarkable,
and, generally speaking, accurate
features of African Geography, as
delineated by Ptolemy ; and after
considering them and several others
attentively, the arbitrary and despo-
tic manner in which the writer in
the Quarterly Review insists that
Ptolemy knew nothing whatever of
the rivers which flow in Central
Africa to the south of the Great De-
sert, and that his authority should be
wholly set aside, cannot fail to excite
astonishment and reprobation. The
accuracy of modern geography we
are not to expect in Ptolemy's ac-
counts, but certainly his general de-
lineation of the rivers of Northern
Central Africa is worthy of attention,
and cannot be mistaken, and, at any
rate, is more accurate and worthy of
attention, than any thing that has ever
previously been advanced about them
by the present writer in the Quarterly
Review.

So much for " facts" from Roman
authority. Let us next come to Arab
authority. Belad-el- Soudan, or the
country of the blacks, says Ebn
Haukal, " is'more extensive than that
of any other nation of blacks," whe-
ther Habeshis (Abyssinians) or Zin-
gians (Ethiopians.) " It is situated
on the coasts of the ocean to the
south" Edrisi distinctly informs us
that a river, corresponding to the Gir
of Ptolemy, ran from east to west.
In part 4th of climate 1st, that is,
in the part of Ethiopia, S. and S. W.
of Nubia, says Edrisi, " is seen the
separating of the two Niles. The
one flows from south to north into
Egypt, and the other part of the Nile
flows from the east to the utmost
bounds of the west, and upon this
branch of the Nile lie all, or at least
the most celebrated kingdoms of the
Negroes. The Blacks mostly inhabit
the banks of the Nile, or the streams
that flow into it. It waters the country
from east to west." Scheabeddin,
who flourished about the year 1400,
brings the Egyptian Nile and the
Nile of the Blacks from one source.
" From this lake," says he, "comei
the Nile,-the greatest and most beau-
tiful river of all the earth. Many
rivers derived from this sreat river

1832.] Geography of Africa

water Nubia, and the country of
Djenawa," or Guinea, in its largest
sense. Here the western course
of the eastern river is decidedly
pointed out and maintained. It is the
Gir of Ptolemy, who lays down his
Lake Nuba in 15 deg. N. lat., and 50
deg. E. long.,from Ferro, or, taking his
error (nearly 1 2 deg.) in longitude in-
to account, about 23 deg. E. long, from
Greenwich, answering pretty nearly
to the modern position of Lake Fittre.
Ibn-al-Vardi states pointedly, that
Meczara " is in the territory of the
Sudans or blacks. The principal city
is named Oulili. It is situated on the
shore of THE SEA. There are salt-pits,
and a great trade in salt." Edrisi
says, that " in the island of Ulil,"
(the city of Ulil stands not far from
the continent,} " are those famous
salt-pits, the only ones we know in
all the countries of the Negroes,
whence they are every where sup-
plied with salt. Men coming to this
island load their vessels with salt,
and direct their course to the mouth
of the Nile, which is at the distance
of one day's sail. Along the Nile
they afterwards pass by Salla, Toc-
rus, Berissa," &c. In this descrip-
tion, are not the Delta of Benin, and
the mouths of the Niger, recognised,
at which places there is at this day a
great manufacture of salt carried on,
in order to supply the natives of the
interior, by means of the navigation
of the Niger ? Leo speaks decidedly
of a country, Guinee or Genawa,
extending " along the Niger, border-
ing upon the ocean sea, in the same
place where the Niger falleth into
that sea. This region, during July,
August, and September, is yearly
environed with the overflowing of
the Niger," &c. Horneman and Park
were pointedly informed that the
Niger ran southward of Nyffe, till it
joined the Bahar Kulla. Windhus
was informed at Morocco, in 1721,
that " the Niger, or Blacks' River,
iiad a passage into the SOUTHERN
SEA." Barnes was told that the Ni-
ger discharged itself into a large lake,
on the borders of which there were
white inhabitants, who dressed in the
style of the Barbary Moors, but do
not speak Arabic. In this we recog-
nise the coast of Guinea and Benin,
and the Europeans which then fre-
quented that quarter. El Hadgi

— Quarterly Review.

205

Shabeeny states very pointedly, that
he always understood " the Niger
run into the sea, the salt sea, or
Great Ocean, on the coasts of Gena-
wa or Guinea." (Jackson's Sha-
beeny.} M. Beaufoy was informed
by an intelligent Moor, that below
Ghinea (that is, Genawa) is the sea,
into which the river of Timbuctoo
disembogues itself, and that boats
went with the stream to Ghinea." Mi-
Grey Jackson, who had received
much information concerning the
interior of Africa, states that it is
" the general African opinion, that
the Neel-cl-Abeed ( Niger) discharges
itself into the salt sea." The natives on
the coasts of Benin and Biafra, says
Robertson and others, " assert that
all the rivers in the Delta come from
one great river, which descends from
the north." " The Niger," said Park,
in the last dispatch that he wrote
which has reached Britain, and on
the eve of his embarking at Sansan-
ding, " can terminate nowhere else
but in the sea."

I pass over with merely alluding
to the many facts disclosed by Ba-
touta, Leo, and by several of the Ara-
bian geographers, about the course
and existence of various rivers in
Africa, which, when the true course
of the Niger was learned and kept in
view, were all useful to shew the
grand result. For the same reason,
namely, brevity, I merely allude to
the "fact" mentioned by Leo, and
so long sneered at, about the cold
being so great about Zegzeg and
Cano, that the inhabitants were obli-
ged to kindle fires under their beds
at night in order to keep themselves
warm. Our unfortunate countryman,
Dr Oudney, lost his life by being ex-
posed to this cold, and found in De-
cember, and in the lat. of 13 deg. N.,
the water in their water-skins frozen
to A SOLID MASS, and this amidst those
elevated lands, through which the
Quarterly Review in 1820 had carried
the Niger in its eastern course to the
Egyptian Nile ! ! I also pointed out,
that old Dutch maps, and the maps
of D'Anville,laid down rivers coming
from the north from Agadez, &c.
and joining the Niger through the
Balir lake, or river of Goober ; and
moreover, that the maps of De Lisle
and Vagondy, made for the King of
France, laid down a river joining the

Geography of Africa— Quarterly Review.

206

Niger from the north-west, at or im-
mediately below Boussa, which we
now find the Menai and other rivers
certainly do. I also pointed out, that
in some very fine maps drawn for
the use of the French navy during
the government of Bonaparte, the
Rio de Formosa was laid down as
coming from about N.N.E. ; and that
in some Portuguese maps, near three
centuries old, attached to the copy
of Ptolemy's Geography, in the libra-
ry of Glasgow College, the river of
Formosa is laid down as descending
nearly from north to south, and tra-
ced upwards to 10 deg. 30 min. N.
lat. This direction of the bed of the
Rio de Formosa accorded with my
own opinion formed from other au-
thorities.

I might fill pages with " facts" col-
lected and published in my work on
Africa in 1821, from various autho-
rities, shewing the progress of the
Niger, under various names, in its
course through Northern Central
Africa, but I content myself with
only entering more minutely into
one authority regarding the middle
course of this celebrated stream, and
that is the narrative of Sidi Hamed,
an intelligent Moor belonging to the
empire of Morocco. This individual,
in company with a large caravan, tra-
velled, from Timbuctoo to Wassanah,
fifty-seven days along the northern
bank of the river, either close to its
bank, or else every day, once or
oftener in sight of the stream. His
journeys I estimated at ten geogra-
phical miles made good daily in the
general bearings on which his route
lay, and at six miles each day during
the space of six days, when the cara-
van crossed a rugged ridge of moun-
tains against which the river ran. —
Taking the above scale as correct,
Sidi Hamed travelled from Timbuc-
too, along the north bank]of the river,
first easterly (six days,) sixty miles;
secondly, more to 'the S. E. (fifteen
days,) one hundred and fifty miles,
through a hilly and woody country,
the river bent by a very high moun-
tain flowing in a majestic stream in
that direction. At this distance from
Timbuctoo two very large towns ap-
peared on its southern bank. For
thirty miles farther the river pursued
a winding course S. E. About this
point, the travellers from Dagwumba

[Feb.

and Ashantee cross the river in their
route to Houssa. Bowditch (p. 206)
places the ferry at twenty-four days'
journey below Timbuctoo. At this
part of its course the river approach-
ed a very high ridge of mountains
covered with trees, and so close that
no path remained between the stream
and the mountain. " It ran against
the steep side of the mountain" said
Sidi Hamed. In passing through this
ridge, the Niger makes a turn to the
S. W. Sidi Hamed took six days to
cross this ridge, travelling at the rate,
I suppose, of six miles per day, or
thirty-six miles. After crossing the
ridge, the caravan came to the river
again at a place where it was nar-
row and full of rocks, " which dashed
the water most dreadfully" BeloAV
Kaffo, Amadou Fatouma, Park's
guide, states that they came to a
place where the river was divided
into three channels and full of
rocks, but that through one chan-
nel, smoother than the others, their
canoe passed safely.

From the ridge mentioned, the
stream continued to flow in a S.E.
direction for 120 miles, receiving, in
this part of its course, many small
streams from the eastward. " The
stream looked deep," but " was not
very wide." At this point they found
a great ferry, no doubt the celebrated
ferry of Yaoori, so much frequented
by all travellers from the countries
situated on the S.W. to the countries
situated on the N.E. of the Niger.
Continuing its course from this ferry,
the Niger flows south-eastward 150
miles, to Wassanah, a city twice as
large as Timbuctoo, and the capital
of a great kingdom. " Here the river
turns nearly south, and is so broad,
that it is scarcely possible to discern
a man on the opposite bank. From
300 to 400 canoes, each capable of
containing from ten to twenty per-
sons, plied constantly on the river."
The land was well cultivated, and
produced abundance of rice. The
sovereign and principal people wore
shirts and trowsers of European
manufacture, and the king's guards
were armed with muskets. Here the
river was called " Zadi." From this
point the son of the king of Wassa-
nah pressed Sidi Hamed to accom-
pany him, (but which the latter de-
clined,) with a fleet of 60 canoes and

1832.]

Geography of Africa — Quarterly Revietv.

500 slaves, down the river, first south
and then west, " to the great water,"
where they would, he said, find "pale
people, who come thither in great
boats, and brought muskets, pow-
der, tobacco, blue cloth, and knives,
which they exchanged for slaves,
ivory," &c., and which pale people
had in their great boats, " guns as
big as men's bodies, and with which
they could kill all the people in a
hundred negro boats." Many people
had been down " at the great water,"
with slaves, &c. The voyage to it
would occupy " three moons."

Here the exact course and termina-
tion of the stream is marked out by
Sidi Hamed. The description of the
European traders, and the trade car-
ried on in the mouths of the stream
at Lagos, and in the Delta of Benin,
is so accurate, that no one can mis-
take it, nor is it possible that a native
of the S.W. part of Morocco, border-
ing on the Great Desert, could in-
vent details like these, though they
were passed by, by the Quarterly
Review, and other very high and
great wiseacres, as fictions, unde-
serving a moment's notice. Yet how
accurate in general points and bear-
ings do we find them ! Sidi Hamed
says that, at Wassanah, the river was
called " Zadi." This is a generic
name for water, or great water, in
Southern Africa, as we may find
from Tuckey's narrative. About the
point where, according to Sidi Ham-
ed, Wassanah must be, we find from
Lander that the river Tshaddi enters
the Niger, and which name is the
same as Zadi, and merely a corrup-
tion of it.

I stated, p. 142, " Mandingo mer-
chants informed de la Brue, at Ga-
lam, that some leagues from Tim-
buctoo the river was navigated by
masted vessels, Dr Laidley, who re-
sided at Pisania, was informed that
vessels of 100 tons burden frequent-
ed Houssa. A priest who had visited
Timbuctoo informed Mr Park that
the canoes on the Niger were large,
and not made of a single treey but of
various planks united, and navigated
by white people. Major Houghton
was informed by a Shereef whom he
met at Medina, and who had been at
Timbuctoo, that they had decked ves-
sels with masts, with which they carry
on trade from Timbuctoo eastward
to the centre of Africa, The crews

207

of these vessels had been stated
sometimes to exceed 150 men."
These things De Caille, Robertson,
and others, since the above was col-
lected, have seen and confirmed j
and, lastly, Lander has found these
statements, so long accounted fables,
to be facts. The white people men-
tioned may have been Arabs, but it
is remarkable that the natives of
Goober are nearly white, and Ro-
bertson tells us that the natives of
Tebo, to the north of Benin, are
whiter than Arabs. These, no doubt,
were the white people which navi-
gated the vessels above alluded to,
and it is a remarkable fact, that
Ptolemy places in this part of Africa
a nation called Leucce Ethiopeans
(white Ethiopians.)

Regarding the mountains, it was
stated, (Africa, p. 124,) " The moun-
tains are at no great distance from
Benin. Stretching eastward from
the Kong range, they form a kind of
amphitheatre to the northward. En-
circling Benin, they descend south-
easterly till they are merged in the
high land which stretches north from
Cameroons. This is particularly
mentioned by Joannes JMaev" &c.
The Reviewer informs us that Lan-
der has found these statements to be
correct.

So much for the " poverty of facts"
in my labours on this subject, to 1 820.
From that period to 1826, when I pub-
lished the article with the corrected
map in your Magazine, I collected
others stronger, and, if possible, more
convincing and satisfactory ; but,
first, let me advert to a few important
facts which I have omitted, regarding
the course and magnitude of the Ni-
ger. Park told us its size at Bam-
makoo is one mile broad, and that it
was navigable from Kaniaba, a con-
siderable way above it. From the
magnitude of the stream at Bamma-
kpo, I pointed out the fact, that its
sources must not only be much more
remote to the south-west than had
previously been supposed, but that it
must receive very large supplies
from the eastward in the early part
of its course. These supplies were
pointed out in the probable western
course of the Coomba or Zamma.
The discoveries oiMollien and Laing
have shewn, that my conjecture re-
garding the source of the Niger be-
ing more to the south-west was cor-

Geography of Africa-* Quarterly Review.

208

rect, and the still later discoveries of
De Caille. confirm the fact of its re-
ceiving large supplies from the S.E.
in its early course, while the magni-
tude of the stream at Couroussa,
nearly due east from Teemboo, 900
French feet broad, and 10 deep, in
the dry season, goes to establish, as
correct, the conjecture that it receives
from the east the Coomba, or some
other great river.

Amongst other " facts" adduced, I
noticed the pointed facts stated by
Robertson, (see notes on Africa,
1820,) that the natives on the coasts
of Lagos and Benin all assured him
that the rivers were derived from
one great river to the northward,
which made all the rivers in these
countries. Subsequently to 1821,1
had communications with different
individuals who had traded on the
parts of the coast of Africa mention-
ed, and in the mouths of the rivers
in the Delta of Benin, particularly
one gentleman belonging to Glas-
gow, and one very intelligent gentle-
man and excellent navigator, belong-
ing to Liverpool, who had traded
with the places and on the rivers
mentioned, (not in the slave-trade,)
during a period of twenty years.
The latter informed me that all the
rivers in the Delta communicated
with each other — that on these rivers
he had yearly traded with natives,
who, in canoes capable of contain-
ing 200 persons, and covered at one
end, as the cabin for their wives and
families, had descended the parent
stream from countries two and three
moons distant, and far above Boussa.
The other, who had been up the Rio
de Formosa in a large schooner, told
me a similar tale, and described the
magnitude, width, and depth of that
noble stream, and the numerous
branches diverging from it, with
great accuracy, and with such pre-
cision as could leave no doubt on
any mind capable of reflection, that
these streams were the mouths of
the mighty Niger. They completely
confirmed the account given by Bos-
man ; as noticed in my book, p. 129,
when speaking of the Rio de Formosa,
he says, " upwards" from its mouth,
" it is sometimes broader (than four
miles,) and sometimes narrower. It
sprouts into innumerable branches,
some of which may very well de-
ferve the name of rivers, About

[Feb.

five miles from its mouth, it throws
off two branches within two miles
of each other. Agatton, a place of
great trade, was situated 60 miles
up the river. So far, and yet farther,
ships may conveniently come sailing
by hundreds of branches of the river,
besides creeks, some of which are
very wide. Its branches extend in-
to all the circumjacent countries.
The country all about is divided in-
to islands by the multiplicity of its
branches." The Portuguese also
affirmed that it was easy, with a
canoe, to get from the Rio de Formo-
sa into the circumjacent rivers, viz.
the Rio Lagos, Rio Volta, Elrei, New
Calabar, Bonny, and other rivers.

The lamented Major Laing told
me, that a native of Kano, under his
command, and a sergeant in the
Royal African Corps, named Fra-
zer, told him that he was, with 12.3
others, seized, when trading near
Yaoorie. " After they were taken,
they were put into a canoe rowed
by six men, and in two weeks they
reached Ecco, where they were sold.
After being put into the canoe, they
were one week on a small fresh-wa-
ter river, about 200 yards wide ; then
they got into a large river of fresh
water, (took calabashes to drink it,)
about two and a half miles broad —
they were one week on it before they
got to Ecco" Another man, a na-
tive of Houssa, told Major Laing that
he went prisoner from Nyffe to Ecco,
distant thirty days' journey, and that
at Ecco, the river is called Quorra.
Scarcely any thing can be more ac-
curate than this account of the course
and navigation of the Niger from
Yaoorie to Ecco, in which we at once,
and readily, discover the town na-
med Egga, on the banks of the river,
above the junction of the Tschaddi
with the Niger, as mentioned and
named by Lander. Clapperton, in
his first journey, gives various ac-
counts which he had received from
travellers, that the Niger flowed south
from Nyffe to the Salt Sea— (see Ma-
gazine, June, 1826, p. 697)— and Du-
puis' accounts, derived from most
intelligent Moslem travellers, were
such, as that scarcely even prejudice
itself could doubt or dispute them.
" Whence," said Dupuis, to his in-
formants, " are the great rivers talk-
ed of in the Gharb, (Ismaelia,) and
which the Arabs say run to Wanga-

1S32.J

Geography of Africa — Quarterly Review.

ra ?" The reply was — " The rivers
of Wangara are numerous." — "They
are such as we have already descri-
bed as running into the Great Salt
Sea at Benin, and from whence you
came, Cape Coast." The navigation
bet ween Benin (and all those streams
which intersect the Warree coast)
and the Koara and Gulby rivers, is
not, as my informants say, to be
doubted ; and it is possible to per-
form the voyage from Benin to Tim-
buctoo and Sego, WITHOUT SETTING
FOOT ON SHORE, although it is not
usual to navigate against the streams
of these great rivers, the Koara? the
Shady, the Joliba, &c., particularly
during the rainy season, when the
rivers are full; for, although they
know of no RAPIDS or CATARACTS be-
low Wauwa, yet the natural velo-
city of the streams is so great as
to impede the canoes in a northern
progress, although impelled forward
by the strength of fifty men, or more.
Two of my informants declared that
" they had performed the voyage from
NORTH to SOUTH, under the protec-
tion of the Sultan of Yaoorie, as far
as the gates of Benin." — " The great
river of Benin," said they, " runs to
the south through Wauwa, Raima,
Ageassey and Benin." "All the rivers,"
said the Moslems, " are great seas,
but the Koara is the greatest in the
universe." The Moslem travellers
also stated to both Dupuis and Bow-
ditch, at Coomassie, the capital of
Ashantee, that Wangara meant all
that portion of Africa from the Great
Desert south to Benin, and extend-
ing from Ganem, 'on the west, to
Benin, on the east— that this portion
of Africa was Wangara, and that they
neither knew nor heard of any other
place or country called Wangara, in
Northern Africa.

These are a few of the " facts"
brought forward regarding the course
and the termination of the "Niger. I
might multiply them, but consider
it unnecessary. I shall next, for
a moment, turn to the opinions addu-
ced in the same publication ; and, in
proof of the same objects, at page
137, it is distinctly pointed out that
the Congo could not be, as the Quar-
terly Review had once maintained
that it was, the Niger, because the
Congo only began to rise into flood
at 200 miles from its mouth, on the

VOL. xxxi, NO, cxc.

209

7th of September, whereas the, Niger
is, in the highest flood in the Delta
of Benin, in August, only about 500
miles to the north of the parallel
where Tuckey first perceived the
Congo began to swell. For the same
reason, I pointed out that the Nile of
Egypt and the Niger could not be,
as the Reviewer had maintained, the
same river, because the flood in the
Nile, in Egypt, was nearly over, at
the period when the Niger is in the
highest flood, from Nyffe down-
wards ; and for a similar reason it was
stated, that the rivers which enter-
ed the sea in the Delta of Benin,
being in high flood in August, must
descend from countries consider-
ably to the northward, where the
rains were greatest in July and Au-
gust; whereas the rains in the Del-
ta begin in May, and are greatest in
June and July.

In short, and on these subjects,
I stated under the head, " GENERAL
OBSERVATIONS," page 2 : — " The Ni-
ger, and his tributary streams, pur-
sue their course through central
Africa. From the west and from the
east they converge to one point.
After uniting in one channel, the
mighty current divides itself into
several streams, which enter the At-
lantic Ocean by navigable estuaries
in the Bights of Benin and Biafra.
Allowing we had no positive infor-
mation of the course and magnitude
of the Niger lower down than Bam-
makoo, Sego, and Lake Dibbie, still
the fact of there being a river con-
tinuing its course eastward from the
latter place, is sufficient to induce
us to look for its exit on the sea-
coast. We are quite certain it does
not enter the sea to the north; and
we may say we are equally sure that
it does not finish its course in any
sea to the east. To the south, there-
fore, we must turn our enquiries.
In no part of Western or Southern
Africa are there stronger grounds to
look for this estuary, than in the
coast below Benin. There the soil
is all alluvial. Through a great
distance into the interior, stones
larger than a man's fist are unknown.
The country is flat and inundated
during- the swell of the rivers from
tlie tropical rains. The land is
daily gaining on the sea, from the
quantity of alluvial matter brought
O

210 Geography of Africa

down from the interior. The whole
country and coast, for a great extent,
is intersected with arms and outlets
of rivers communicating with each
other inland. The bottom of the sea,
along a great extent of coast, is all
soft mud. From the Rio Lagos to
the Rio Elrei Rivers, no fewer than
twenty streams enter the ocean,
several of them of surprising magni-
tude, and navigable for ships. Large
floating islands are borne down by
their waves, and carried into the
ocean." " In the Bights of Benin
and Biafra, therefore, is the great
outlet of the Niger, bearing along in
his majestic stream all the waters of
central Africa, from 10 deg. west
long, to 28 deg. east long., and from
the tropic of Cancer to the shores of
Benin," &c.

The great geographical ignorance
which the writer in the Quarterly Re-
vie w has shewn regarding the interior
of Northern Africa, renders it very
unbecoming on his part to attempt,
by his ipse dixit alone, to beat down
all the authorities of antiquity upon
that subject. Herodotus is dismissed
in a moment as no authority. The ac-
count given by that celebrated his-
torian is, that five young men of the
tribe of the Nassamones, a people
who resided south-east of the great
Syrtes, south of Gyrene, and about
the latitude of 29 deg. north, set out
" to explore the deserts of Africa,
and to endeavour at extending their
discoveries beyond all preceding ad-
venturers. The remoter parts of Ly-
bia beyond the sea-coast, and the
people who inhabit its borders, are
infested by various beasts of prey ;
the country yet more distant is a

PARCHED AND IMMEASURABLE DE-
SERT.* The young men left their
companions well provided with water
and with food, and first proceeded
through the region which was inha-

— Quarterly Review*

[Feb.

bited. They next came to that which
was infested by wild beasts, leaving
which, they directed their course
westward (pros zephuron anemon
— towards the southwest wind)
through the desert. After a journey
of many days over a barren and
sandy soil, they at length discerned
some trees growing in a plain. These
they approached, and seeing fruit
upon them, they gathered it. Whilst
they were thus employed, some men
of dwarfish stature came where they
were, seized their persons, and car-
ried them away. They were mu-
tually ignorant of each other's lan-
guage, but the Nassamoriians were
conducted over many marshy grounds
to a city, in which all the inhabitants
were of the same diminutive appear-
ance, and of a black colour. This city
was washed by a great river, which
flowed from (rein de apo hesperes
auton) west to east (to the rising
sun), and abounded in crocodiles."
The Nassamonians afterwards re-
turned to their own country, and
told the dangers they had under-
gone, and the wonders they had seen.
This is the simple statement given
by Herodotus, and if the account had
come to him through fifty different
hands, instead of three hands, it does
not lessen the general accuracy of
the account, that these men had cross-
ed the Great Zahara, and reached the
banks of the Niger. They certainly
first travelled south through the in-
habited country, and next through
that inhabited by wild beasts, from
whence, probably to the south of
Mourzouk, they bent their course
westward, not " directly west," as the
Reviewer states, through the desert,
which if they had not crossed in a
southwesterly direction, they never
could have reached either a cultiva-
ted country, or any river great or
small. If their course was directed

* In another part, Herodotus, (Melpomene, sec. 185,) after describing Mount
Atlas, and its immediate vicinity to the southward, says, " beyond this sandy desert,
southward to the interior parts of Lybia, there is a vast and Jtomd space without water,
wood, or beasts, and totally destitute of moisture !" Yet the Reviewer has had the har-
dihood to assert, that " of the Great Deserter Zahara, in point of fact, Herodotus
knew nothing, and, therefore, says nothing!" It is necessary to remark, that with
Herodotus, Lybia and Africa are synonymous terms, and he frequently uses the for-
mer for the latter. It is clear, then, that he particularly mentions the Great Desert,
which he describes as " a vast and horrid space," " immeasurable," and " totally des-
titute of moisture — without water, wood, or beasts!" Moreover, at the time to
which Herodotus alludes, there were no Ethiopians, cr Btecks, to the North of the
Great African Desert.

1832.]

Geography of Africa'— Quarterly Review.

211

south-westerly from the southward
of Mourzouk, they would come to
the cultivated land to the north of
Timbuctoo, or, perhaps, still further
to the vyest, and from whence they
were captured and carried to the city
on the river mentioned. Herodotus
clearly points out his knowledge of
the Zahara, when he mentions " a
parched and immeasurable desert"
and which " immeasurable desert"
was certainly the space which the
adventurous travellers intended to
explore, from their taking plenty of
water and food with them; while
any one has but to take up a map of
Africa to see, that no man travelling
due west from the country of the
Nassamones, situated a little to the
north of 30 cleg, of north latitude, as
the Reviewer says the travellers al-
luded to went, could have "a parch-
ed and immeasurable desert" to cross,
or come to a " city washed by a great
river, which flowed from west to east,
and abounded in crocodiles." No
river that flows on the south side of
Mount Atlas can deserve the appel-
lation of *' great;" because their
courses are very short, and their
courses are, moreover, from north-
west to southeast until they are lost
in the desert. It is impossible that
the Ghir or Adjidi streams, mention-
ed by the Reviewer, can be the river
mentioned by Herodotus; for who
ever heard of crocodiles being in
either of them, or in any stream that
flowed on the south side of Mount
Atlas, or in any stream that has not a
communication with the ocean? while
every one acquainted with African
geography knows that crocodiles or
alligators are numerous in the Niger.
Also, that while there are marshy
lands to the north of that river, there
are none on the banks of the Ghir
and the Adjidi.

Still more unfounded is the Review-
er's assertion and assumption, that the
Ghir and the Adjidi of Mount Atlas,
are the Gir and the Niger of Ptole-
my.* However little acquainted Ptole-
my might be with the extent of the
Great Desert, still his knowledge of
the countries and rivers to the south of
it seems to have been obtained from
good authority. The Gir he dis-
tinctly points out as rising in 9 deg.
north latitude, and to the westward
of the great western branch of the
Nile, and flowing northwest, and af-

terwards westward. In this portion
of Africa, we not only find, from mo-
dern information, a river rising and
running in the place and in the di-
rection mentioned by Ptolemy, but
we have the very name given upon
the best authority. The river alluded
to, is the Misselad of Brown, and Om
Teymam of Burckhardt; and which,
as the latter gentleman informs us,
is also called by the natives of the
country Dyyr, and which long-lost
name is to this day pronounced Gir
in Egypt, the country wherein Ptole-
my wrote. In attempting to expose
the ignorance of the ancients, there-
fore, the Reviewer only exposes his
own. Moreover, there is a remark-
able fact which shews Ptolemy's
knowledge of the interior of northern
Africa, where he mentions the people
called Leucce Ethiopeans, or White
Ethiopians, and in these parts we at
this day find the country of Goober,
£c., the natives of which are almost
white !

But quitting these subjects, the
writer in the Quarterly Review-
knows very well that the map of
Northern Africa, constructed by me,
and the researches made to shew the
course and the termination of the Ni-
ger in the Atlantic, was not made, nor
undertaken for the purpose of seeking
applause, or medals, or rewards from
Government, or from any other quar-
ter, but made to establish clearly an
important geographical fact, in order,
by that fact, to induce the Govern-
ment to form and to support an esta-
blishment on Fernando Po; from
thence to open up a trade with the
adjacent coasts, and up the rivers
into the interior of Africa, by which
means the country would have been
civilized, and the slave trade termi-
nated, and also a, great and benefi-
cial trade opened up to and acquired
by my country. I carried the offer
of a commercial company to Govern-
ment to undertake this. The Pre-
sident of the Royal Society, Lord
Gdderich, will, I dare say, remember
the fact of the application having
been officially made to the Board of
Trade, in June and July 1820, when
he was the President of that Board.
This application was also made,
and the map exhibited, to Earl Ba-
thurst,the Secretary for the Colonies,
to Mr Canning, President of the
Board of Control, and to Lord Mel"

Geography of Africa — Quarterly Review.

212

ville, First Lord of the Admiralty,
and also to Mr Barrow.

The large map alluded to was ac-
companied by a memorial of con-
siderable length, detailing the par-
ticulars of the extensive trade which
might be opened up and carried on
by means of the Niger, and a settle-
ment upon Fernando Po, and which,
though more particularly intended
for the Board of Trade, was shewn
to other departments of Government.
A short abstract of the whole, in a
printed shape, was given to the heads
of the different Government Offices.
I subjoin the principal paragraphs
of the letter.

" To HIS MAJESTY'S MINISTERS.

" The interior of Northern Africa, if co-
lonized, affords a noble and most extensive
field for agriculture and commerce. The
Niger and its tributary streams traverse the
central parts of this division of Africa, and
afterwards enter the ocean by several navi-
gable estuaries in the Bights of Benin and
Biafra. Two of these are each eleven miles
broad. The extent of country traversed by
these rivers is 38 deg. longitude from east to
west, and through the greatest part of this
space, 1 7 deg. latitude from north to south.
It is probable that these streams are naviga-
ble for large vessels for a considerable part
of their course, and it is certain that they
can be navigated by vessels'of small tonnage,
to their remote sources. The course of the
Niger is about 2600 British miles in length.
The countries along these mighty rivers are
all populous, fertile, in many places well cul-
tivated, and in every part capable of being so.
The precious metals abound. The part of
Africa mentioned, contains perhaps fifty
millions of people, many of whom are well
acquainted with trade.

" The value of the trade at present carried
on with this interior part of Africa, amounts
to fully three millions annually, in imports
and exports. Two-thirds of this consists in
the trade carried on across the Great Desert
with Nubia, Egypt, the Barbary States, and
Morocco : and the remainder with Europe-
ans who frequent the Bights of Biafra and
Benin. By commanding the Niger, the
whole would immediately fall into our hands,
and be rendered permanently and exclusively
our own. An insular station at the mouth
of the Niger, and another in the interior,
either where the last branch unites, or where
the river begins to throw off branches, as
may be found most convenient or most
healthy, would enable us, at 'a trifling ex-
pense, to command and control the whole.
By the Niger alone an, outlet or an inlet

[Feb.

can be obtained. On the north and on the
east, frightful deserts form impregnable bul-
warks. On the west, southwest, south-
east, and the south, (the banks of the Niger
excepted,) prodigious mountains present in-
superable barriers. Once settled in the in-
terior, no power from without could serious-
ly alarm or disturb us. The barrier placed
on the Niger we could shut and open at our
pleasure.

" By such an establishment in the heart
of Africa, we would cut up the Slave Trade
by the roots ; for it is from the interior that
the external trade receives its chief supplies.
By doing this, we would destroy or check
the cultivation of the colonies of Foreign
Powers, thereby enhancing the value of our
own, at present threatened with ruin by the
continuation of this abominable trade. In
a short time we should be able to supply,
from Africa, our West India colonies with
dry provisions, better suited for the health
of the Negroes in those colonies than the
supplies from the United States, which cost
us annually half a million. We would be
able to open up a trade beneficial to the
Cape of Good Hope, by taking the wines
and spare grain in exchange for tropical
productions. We could supply our manu-
factures with cotton of the finest quality ;
thereby rendering Great Britain independ-
ent of rival, powers, and keep amongst our
own subjects those immense sums which we
annually give unto other nations, thereby in-
creasing their prosperity, depressing the
value of our own colonies, and encouraging
those rivals to continue the Slave Trade, by
which they are such gainers. By such an
establishment, we Avill also gain the trade on
all the southern shores of the Mediterranean,
and a vast outlet for all our cotton manufac-
tures ; for every article, in short, that our
skill and industry produce, and which na-
tions advancing from a state of barbarism to
a state of civilisation can want.

" The Island of Fernando Po, only forty
miles from the mouth of New Calabar river,
is the insular station which nature has
pointed out for the purpose mentioned. In
our hands it would be an impi'egnable bul-
wark. Other nations are anxiously turning
their attention to form establishments in
Africa. They must soon learn the course of
the Niger, and the advantages which the
command of it will give ; and, if we hesitate,
the glory and advantages will be wrested
from our hands.

" The authorities and plans are detailed
more at length, in a map and memorials
which accompany this," &c.
« Glasgow, 13l/i June, 1820."

Among others, as I have mention-
ed, this memorial was sent to Mr

1832.]

GeograpJiy of Africa — Quarterly Review.

213

Barrow, and from that gentleman I
received the following note : —

" Mr Barrow presents his compliments
to Mr M'Queen, and returns his Memorial,
with many thanks for the perusal of it.

** There cannot be two opinions with re-
gard to the policy of extending our inter-
course with the nations of Africa, both on
the eastern and western coasts, and of using
all our endeavours to free the unhappy na-
tives from the thraldom of the inhuman
Moors and Arabs ; but, at the same time,
he cannot but be aware of the difficulties
which will occur in the outset, at home, and
also on the part of our dear ally, the Portu-
guese ; for he is satisfied, that before we at-
tempt to rush into unknown countries, and
encounter probable disasters, it would be
most wise to fix ourselves on some insular
situation where we should be invulnerable.
On the eastern side, Quiloa would be the
eligible spot ; and on the western, the Island
of Fernando Po, which commands the em-
bouchures of all those great waters which
Mr M'Queen supposes to open a communi-
cation with the interior and central parts of
Africa.

" Admiralty, ISth July, 1820."

Perfect accuracy was never pre-
tended to in the delineation of the
course of the Niger, and other rivers
in Northern Central Africa. On the
contrary, it is stated in the volume
published in 1821, Preface, p. 7,
thus — " Perfect accuracy on these
subjects is at present unattainable,
nor is it here pretended to." I had
no mode of determining the positions
of these,but by the bearings and day's
journey mentioned and given by tra-
vellers; and these again often con-
fused by Europeans in the narratives
given from one to another. These
days' journeys I estimated at ten geo-
graphical miles, made good in the
general bearing for all the countries
south of the I^iger, and at 13 miles
made good in the cultivated coun-
tries to the north of that river ; but
my opinion was, that these distances
were too great ; and if they had been,
as they ought to have been, shortened
a little, the positions of Boussa, Ya-
oorie, and other conspicuous places,
fixed upon as points to regulate the
whole, would have been found very
nearly where Lander's and Clapper-
ton's researches have found them ;
yet with such difficult materials to
guide me, a look at the respective
maps will shew how immaterial,

compared to the general question
and the result, the difference and
the error really is. According to
Lander, the Tschaddi enters the Niger
from the east, in about eight and a
half deg. N. latitude. I have laid
down the junction of a great riveri
which I call Balir Kulla, which de-
scends from the hills,near the sources
of the Bahr el Abiad, by Mount
Thala, almost as near as may be in
the very same parallel; and the se-
paration of the Niger into branches,
I supposed took place in about seven
deg. N. lat., which Lander, it ap-
pears, has actually found to be the
case.

The " poverty of facts," therefore",
is thrown back in the teeth of the
Reviewer, and with what force and
success, a discerning public is left to
judge. Sir Rufane Donkin's theory,
which the Reviewer so loudly and
so justly condemned, was put for-
ward too late, because its absurdity
was made manifest by the modern
discoveries of Denham and Clapper-
ton ; but had it been put forth before
their discoveries, it would really
have been sanity, compared to the
theory so long maintained in the
Quarterly Review, that the Niger
ran to the Bahr el Abiad, the parent
stream of the Nile of Egypt.

The system which has been pur-
sued by this country, during the last
thirty or forty years, in every thing
that was connected with a knowledge
of Africa, its people, or its geogra-
phical features, has been alike con-
temptible and reprehensible, and
such as is a disgrace to it. A con-
temptible and interested faction laid
claim to the government of that quar-
ter of the world, dictated to the Bri-
tish Government what it should and
what it should not do, shut up all
communication concerning Africa,
except such as its lying vehicles
pleased to give, and led the people
of this country to believe that the
barbarism, brutality, superstition,
and degradation of four thousand
years' standing, had wholly vanished
from Africa, under their superintend-
ence. That delusion is past, and an
astonished and indignant country
finds, that after mis-spending about
FIFTEEN MILLIONS of money, Africa
is left more wretched than ever.
So much for the would-be instruct-
ors of Africa. Another party, re-

Geography of Africa— Quarterly Review.

214

siding with the Government, and with
the ear of the Government, took
African geography under its su-
preme direction, and the conse-
quence was, that her vast moun-
tains, and cultivated plains, were
turned into morasses, lakes, or sandy
deserts, at pleasure ; and her mighty
rivers, compared to which European
streams are rivulets, were made to
stand still, to sink in sands, or disap-
pear in fictitious lakes, to run dwind-
ling through sandy deserts, or to leap
over mighty mountains, — to run every
way but the way they really ran, ac-
cording as these geographical dicta-
tors thought proper ; while every in-
formation which made for a more ra-
tional system, if contrary to their
views, was garbled, mutilated, or
wholly suppressed, though obtained
at the expense of the public money
of the country, and the lives of se-
veral of her gallant sons. Yet the
nation submitted to such quackery
and imbecility, until it had become
the laughing-stock of Europe.

In the year 1820, and immediately
after the information which I have
alluded to was laid before his Majes-
ty's Government, MR DUPUIS, who
had been British Consul at Coomas-
sie, the capital of Ashantee, arrived in
London, with the information which
he had obtained in the capital men-
tioned, from intelligent Moor and
Arab travellers, that the Niger enter-
ed the sea in the Delta of Benin. This
information I received, when in Lon-
don, from a gentleman who obtained
it from Dupuis, who considered the
matter of such importance as to leave
his post without permission having
previously been obtained, in order to
communicate it. Yet this important
information was withheld in his
book, or given in such a way as to
leave the point as uncertain and con-
fused as before. Clapperton, in his
first journey to Saccatoo, I know,
obtained the most positive informa-
tion, that the Niger ran south from
Boussa into the Atlantic, below Be-
nin. He stated this most positively
when he arrived in London ; yet, I
may say, not one syllable of a deci-
ded character appeared in the pon-
derous volume subsequently publish-
ed. This information reached the
ears of a gentleman, a particular
friend of Major Laing' s, who had
shortly before left England to under-

[Feb.

take the journey in which he lost his
life. Clapperton was requested to
give a short sketch of the important
information which he had received,
that it might be transmitted to Ma-
jor Laing, in order to direct his steps
at once to the right point. This Clap-
perton refused. The gentleman in
question went directly to the Colo-
nial Office, laid the matter before the
Under Secretary of State, and urged
upon him the propriety of Major
Laing being put in possession of the
information obtained on this import-
ant subject. The Under Secretary
saw the matter in a proper light.
He instantly sent orders to detain
the Mediterranean packet, then about
to sail, commanded ClaDperton short-
ly to give the information required,
got it, put it into the gentleman's
hands already mentioned, who for-
warded it to Malta, and it reached
Major Laing the day before he set
out from Tripoli for the interior of
Africa !

Before undertaking his second
journey, Clapperton, I positively
know, constructed a map in London,
representing the course and termina-
tion of the Niger, exactly as laid
down by me in 1820; and a gentle-
man in the Navy told me, that he was
shewn this map by Clapperton at
Sierra Leone, at which place he
touched in his voyage out to the Bight
of Benin.

In his second journey, Clapperton
obtained, at Katungah, and other
places, still more accurate informa-
tion, that the Niger flowed from
Nyffe, through Benin, into the Atlan-
tic Ocean. He wrote his friends in
this country, in the most pointed
manner, to this effect. Yet the im-
portant and decisive information was
again either suppressed in his book,
or such parts of it given as left the
question still in doubt; and that the
information which he had received
was withheld, we have only to con-
sult the volume containing the ac-
count of his and Lander's journey,
and the two volumes published by
Lander himself. It is painful to dwell
upon such proceedings as these,
which were adopted only that the
Niger of Ptolemy and the Joliba of
Park should be joined to the Nile of
Egypt, in the face of all probability,
and in the face of various authorities
worthy of credit to the contrary. .

1832.] Geography of Africa

The errors which have been com-
mitted in, and the blunders which
have crept into, the narratives of
Clapperton's and Lander's earliest
travels, are, by the article in the last
Review, rendered as conspicuous as
they are remarkable. In the narra-
tive of Clapperton's second journey,
we are informed that Boussa is si-
tuated on an island ; that the Quorra
there runs in three streams,— the
Menai, a narrow sluggish stream,
and two others with very rocky
channels and rapid currents. The
narrative states this in the most
pointed manner as being what Clap-
perton saw and wrote. Lander now
tells us that the Menai is a distinct
river; that the Quorra at Boussa runs
in one channel, which is only about
a stonethrow across, though imme-
diately above that city, — not situated
on an island, but on the northern
bank of the river, — it runs in two chan-
nels, one of which only is one mile
broad. Which of the narratives, both
being given by eye-witnesses, are we
to believe ? The narrative of Lan-
der's discovery given in the Review
states, that the river Coodonia joins
the Quorra from the " north-west,"
whereas it should be, and must be,
from the north-east! Lander, in his
first journey, says, that Fundah
was situated on the Quorra, 12 or 13
days' journey " due west from Dun-
roora;" whereas on the present map
it is laid down on the Tshaddi, about
forty miles, four days' journey,
S. S. W. from Dunroora. In the ac-
count read by Mr Barrow to the
Royal Geographical Society on the
13th June last, as published in the
journals of the day, it is stated —
" shortly after reaching Fundah, the
last point laid down on Clapperton's
map, they found the river make a
bold sweep to the east," &c. ; where-
as the Quarterly Review states that
Fundah is far distant eastward from
the point on the Quorra where Fun-
dah is placed on Clapperton's map,
and on the river Tshaddi, three
days' journey above the junction of
that river with the Quorra. The
space allowed also for the distances
made good on general bearings in
the journey down the river is cer-
tainly too great, and by which
error the river is carried too far
to the eastward, and consequent-
ly all the more remarkable sta-

— Quarterly Review. 215

tions, such as Kirree, the lake be-
low it, Ebboe, and the separation of
some important branches taken to
regulate and to fix the positions of
other places, are laid down too distant
from the sea. Thus Ebboe, three
days' journey from the mouth of the
river, is laid down about 110 miles
from the sea, which is at least 50
miles too much. The Bonny and
New Calabar rivers are also laid
down a great deal too far to the
westward ; and the river Nun, down
which Lander descended, is repre-
sented as entering the sea at Cape
Formosa, whereas it is the first con-
siderable river to the east of it.
These obvious errors disfigure the
map delineating the delta of the
river, and place the points where the
principal branches diverge in unna-
tural positions with the well-known
great estuaries of the river.

In Clapperton's second journey,
we are told that Yaoori was three
days' journey by land above Boussa,
or about thirty miles. In the narra-
tive under review, we are told that
Lander performed the journey by
water in three days, against the
stream. Consequently, the actual
distance cannot exceed thirty-five
miles; yet Yaoori is laid down one
degree, or seventy miles, due north
from Boussa. Yaoori, we are more-
over told, is five days' journey from
Saccatoo, which five days' journey
cannot exceed sixty miles. Yet we
find Saccatoo about 140 miles more
to the north, and in 13 deg. 4 min.
N. lat. At Saccatoo also, Clapperton
was told that Yaoori was situated
five days' journey to the S.W. The
position, therefore, of one of these
places is certainly wrong, or the dis-
tance betwixt them must be much
greater.

It is very confidently stated by
African travellers, that the Niger, or
Quorra, communicates with the
Shary and the Lake of Bornou. Al-
though no great faith is put in such
narratives, yet such a thing is not
improbable ; and, if so, the Tshaddi
may be the channel of communica-
tion, and the Shary a branch di-
verging from that great river. Should
this be the case, the interior of Afri-
ca will, by means of the Niger, be
laid open to a still greater extent
than is at present supposed. The
point of separation will probably be

216 Geography of Africa.

in about 8 cleg. 30 min. N. lat., and
16 deg. 40 min. E. long. The Shary
has been traced to Loggun in 11
deg. 7 min. N. lat. ; and there, pro-
bably, its bed is about 1 500 feet above
the level of the sea. From the sup-
posed point of separation, if such se-
paration actually exists, of the Shary
from the Tshaddi, the distance to the
junction of the latter river with the
Niger is, in a direct course, about
630 British miles, a distance suffi-
cient to take away any very extraor-
dinary rapidity from the current of
the Tshaddi.

" None," says the Reviewer, p. 79,
" ever heard of such a place as Bous-
sa," before the account given by the
Mandingo Priest, sent to enquire
about the fate of Mr Park. Why,
Jloossa, or Boussa, was well known
to every one who had made enqui-
ries about African geography, for
many years before Park's journey;
and in the excellent maps of D'An-
•ville, De Lisle, &c., the Reviewer,
if he chooses to examine them, will
find both Yaoory and Boussa laid
down, and with considerable accu-
racy.

It is really pitiable to observe the
attempt which the writer in the
Quarterly Review makes to have the

:— Quarterly Review.

[Feb.

name Niger expunged from the map
of Africa, as an unmeaning name
given to a river which never existed.
This will not do. The Joliba of
Park is, beyond all contradiction, the
" Great River" of Herodotus, the
Niger of Ptolemy, the great river of
Central Africa mentioned by Ba-
touta, seen by Leo, sought for, and
delineated in part, by D'Anville and
De Lisle, and also the Quorra, or
Koara, of modern Arabs, and of
Clapperton and of Lander. The
Nile theory is as absurd as to dispute
this fact; and really, if the Royal
Geographical Society will have wri-
ters to record their geographical la-
bours, it would be wise in them not
to trust the promulgation of these to
hands that display such partiality, and
such intolerable arrogance. It is not
by conduct like this that the society
will encourage geographical research,
or collect useful geographical infor-
mation; nor is it by giving publicity to
articles so erroneous, yet written in
such a contemptuous, domineering
style, that the Quarterly Review is
to maintain or to spread its name
and its fame for a superiority over
its brother periodicals. I am, &c.
JAMES M'QUEEN.
Glasgow, December 21th, 1831.

THE SWAN AND THE SKYLARK.

BY MRS HEMANS.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit !

Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,

Pourest thy full heart,
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

SHELLEY.

MIDST the long reeds that o'er a Grecian stream

Unto the faint wind sigh'd melodiously,

And where the sculpture of a broken shrine

Sent out, through shadowy grass and thick wild flowers,

Dim alabaster gleams — a lonely swan

Warbled his death-chant, and a poet stood

Listening to that strange music, as it shook

The lilies on the wave ; and made the pines,

And all the laurels of the haunted shore,

Thrill to its passion. Oh ! the tones were sweet,

Ev'n painfully — as with the sweetness wrung

From parting love ; and to the poet's thought

This was their language.

" Summer, I depart !

O light and laughing Summer, fare thee well !
No song the less through thy rich woods shall swell,

For one, one broken heart !

1832.] The Swan and the Skylark. 217

" And fare ye well, young flowers
Ye will not mourn ! Ye will shed odours still,
And wave in glory, colouring every rill

Known to iny youth's fresh hours.

" And ye, bright founts, that lie
Far in the whispering forest, lone and deep,
My wing no more shall stir your lovely sleep-
Sweet water, I must die !

" Will ye not send one tone

Of sorrow through the shades ? one murmur low ?
Shall not the green leaves from your voices know,

That I, your child, am gone ?

" No ! ever glad and free !
Ye have no sounds a tale of death to tell ;
Waves, joyous waves, flow on, and fare ye well !

Ye will not mourn for me.

" But thou, sweet boon, too late
Pour'd on my parting breath, vain gift of song !
Why comest thou thus, o'ermastering, rich, and strong,

In the dark hour of fate ?

" Only to wake the sighs
Of echo-voices from their sparry cell ;
Only to say — O sunshine and blue skies !

O life and love, farewell !"

Thus flow'd the death-chant on; while mournfully
Soft winds and waves made answer, and the tones
Buried in rocks along the Grecian stream,
Rocks and dim caverns of old prophecy,
Woke to respond : and all the air was till'd
With that one sighing sound — " Farewell, farewell !"
Fill'd with that sound ? high in the calm blue heavens
Ev'n then a skylark sung ; soft summer clouds
Were floating round him, all transpierced with light,
And midst that pearly radiance his dark wings
Quiver'd with song ; such free triumphant song,
As if tears were not — as if breaking hearts
Had not a place below — as if the tomb
Were of another world ; and thus that strain
Spoke to the poet's heart exultingly.

" The Summer is come ; she hath said, ' Rejoice !'
The wild woods thrill to her merry voice ;
Her sweet breath is wandering around on high ;
Sing, sing, through the echoing sky !

" There is joy in the mountains; the bright waves leap,
Like the bounding stag when he breaks from sleep ;
Mirthfully, wildly, they flash along ;

Let the heavens ring with song !

" There is joy in the forest; the bird of night
Hath made the leaves tremble with deep delight ;
But mine is the glory to sunshine given ;

Sing, sing, through the laughing heaven !

" Mine are the wings of the soaring morn,
Mine the free gales with the day-spring born!
Only young rapture can mount so high ;

Sing, sing, through the echoing^sky !"

218 The Swan and the Skylark. [Feb.

So thoso t\vo voices met : so Joy and Death
Mingled their accents; and, amidst the rush
Of many thoughts, the listening poet cried,
" Oh ! thou art mighty, thou art wonderful,
Mysterious Nature! not in thy free range
Of woods and wilds alone, thou blendest thus
The dirge-note and the song of festival I"

LET US DEPART !
BY MRS HEMANS.

Louder and louder, gathering round, there wander'd
Over the oracular woods and divine sea,
Prophesyings which grew articulate. — SHELLEY.

NIGHT hung on Salem's towers,

And a brooding hush profound
Lay where the Roman Eagle shone,

High o'er the tents around —

The tents that rose by thousands,
In the moonlight glimmering pale ;

Like white waves of a frozen sea,
Filling an Alpine vale.

And the temple's massy shadow

Fell broad, and dark, and still ;
In peace, as if the Holy One

Yet watch'd his chosen hill.

But a fearful sound was heard

In that old fane's deepest heart,
As if mighty wings rush'd by,

And a dread voice raised the cry,
"Let us depart!"

Within the fated city

Ev'n then fierce discord raved,
Though through night's heaven the comet-sword

Its vengeful token waved.

There were shouts of kindred warfare
Through the dark streets ringing high,

Though every sign was full which told
Of the bloody vintage nigh :

Though the wild red spear and arrows

Of many a meteor host,
Went flashing o'er the holy stars,

In the sky now seen, now lost.

And that fearful sound was heard

In the temple's deepest heart,
As if mighty wings rush'd by,

And a voice cried mournfully,
" Let us depart !"

But within the fated city

There was revelry that night ;
The wine-cup and the timbrel note,

And the blaze of banquet light.

The footsteps of the dancer
Went bounding through the hall,

J832.] Let us Depart I oj 9

And the music of the dulcimer
Summon'd to festival.

While the clash of brother-weapons

Made lightning in the air,
And the dying at the palace-gates

Lay down in their despair.

And that fearful sound was heard

At the temple's thrilling heart;
As if mighty wings rush'd by,

And a dread voice raised the cry—
" Let us depart /"

THE FLOWER OF THE DESERT.
BY MRS HEMANS.

" Who does not recollect the exultation of Vaillant over a flower in the torrid wastes of Africa ?— The
affecting mention of the influence of a flower upon his min , by Mungo Park, in a time of suffering
and despondency, in the heart of the same savage country, is familiar to every one." — HOWITT'S Booh
of the Seasons.

WHY art thou thus in thy beauty cast,

O lonely, loneliest flower!
Where the sound of song hath never pass'd,

From human hearth or bower ?

I pity thee, for thy heart of love,
For thy glowing heart, that fain

Would breathe out joy with each wind to rove-
In vain, lost thing ! in vain !

I pity thee for thy wasted bloom,

For thy glory's fleeting hour,
For the desert place, thy living tomb —

O lonely, loneliest flower !

I said, — but a low voice made reply :

" Lament not for the flower!
Though its blossom all unmark'd must die,

They have had a glorious dower

" Though it bloom afar from the minstrel's way,

And the paths where lovers tread,
Yet strength and hope, like an inborn day,

By its odours have been shed.

" Yes ! dews more sweet than ever fell

O'er island of the blest,
Were shaken forth, from its perfumed bell,

On a suffering human breast.

" A wanderer came, as a stricken deer,

O'er the waste of burning sand,
He bore the wound of an Arab spear,

He fled from a ruthless band.

** And dreams of home, in a troubled tide,

Swept o'er his darkening eye,
As he lay down by the fountain side,

In his mute despair to die.

" But his glance was caught by the desert's flower,
The precious boon of heaven !

220 The Flower of the Desert. [Feb.

And sudden hope, like a vernal shower,
To his fainting heart was given.

" For the bright flower spoke of One above ;

Of the Presence, felt to brood,
With a spirit of pervading love,

O'er the wildest solitude.

" Oh ! the seed was thrown these wastes among,

In a blest and gracious hour !
For the lorn one rose, in heart made strong,

By the lonely, loneliest flower !"

THE PAINTER'S LAST WORK. — A SCENE.*

«

BY MRS REMANS.

Clasp me a little longer on the brink

Of life, while I can feel thy dear caress ;

And when this heart hath ceased to beat, oh ! think.

And let it mitigate thy woe's excess,

That thou hast been to me all tenderness,

And friend to more than human friendship just.

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

SCENE— A Room in an Italian Cottage. The Lattice opening upon a Land-
scape at sunset.

FRANCESCO — TERESA.
TERESA.

THE fever's hue hath left thy cheek, beloved !
Thine eyes, that make the day-spring in my heart,
Are clear and still once more. Wilt thou look forth ?
Now, while the sunset with low-streaming light —
The light thou lov'st — hath made the chestnut-stems
All burning bronze, the lake one sea of gold !
Wilt thou be raised upon thy couch, to meet
The rich air fill'd with wandering scents and sounds ?
Or shall I lay thy dear, dear head once more
On this true bosom, lulling thee to rest
With vesper hymns ?

FRANCESCO.

No, gentlest love ! not now :
My soul is wakeful — lingering to look forth,
Not on the sun, but thee ! Doth the light sleep
So gently on the lake ? and are the stems
Of our own chestnuts by that alchymy
So richly changed ? — and is the orange-scent
Floating around ? — But I have said farewell,
Farewell to earth, Teresa ! not to thee,
Nor yet to our deep love, nor yet awhile
Unto the spirit of mine art, which flows
Back on my soul in mastery ! — one last work !
And I will shrine my wealth of glowing thoughts,
Clinging affection and undying hope,
All that is in me for eternity,
All, all, in that memorial.

TERESA.

Oh ! what dream

Is this, mine own Francesco ? Waste thou not
Thy scarce-returning strength ; keep thy rich thoughts
For happier days ! they will not melt away
Like passing music from the lute ; — dear friend !
Dearest of friends ! thou canst win back at will
The glorious visions.

* Suggested by the closing scene in the life of the painter Blake ; as beautifully
related bv Allan Cunnineham.

1832.] The Painter's Last Work.— A. Scene. 221

FRANCESCO.

Yes ! the unseen land
Of glorious visions hath sent forth a voice
To call me hence. Oh ! be thou not deceived I
Bind to thy heart no earthly hope, Teresa !
I must, must leave thee I Yet be strong, my love,
As thou hast still been gentle !

TERESA.

Oh, Francesco !

What will this dim world be to me, Francesco,
When wanting thy bright soul, the life of all —
My only sunshine ! — How can I bear on ?
How can we part ? We that have loved so well,
With clasping spirits link'd so long by grief—
By tears — by prayer ?

FRANCESCO.

Ev'n therefore we can part,
With an immortal trust, that such high love
Is not of things to perish.

Let me leave

One record still, to prove it strong as death,
Ev'n in Death's hour of triumph. Once again,
Stand with thy meek hands folded on thy breast,
And eyes half veil'd, in thine own soul absorb'd,
As in thy watchings, ere I sink to sleep ;
And I will give the bending flower-like grace
Of that soft form, and the still sweetness throned
On that pale brow, and in that quivering smile
Of voiceless love, a life that shall outlast
Their delicate earthly being. There — thy head
Bow'd down with beauty, and with tenderness,
And lowly thought — even thus — my own Teresa !
Oh ! the quick glancing radiance, and bright bloom
That once around thee hung, have melted now
Into more solemn light — but holier far,
And dearer, and yet lovelier in mine eyes,
Than all that summer flush ! For by my couch,
In patient and serene devotedness,
Thou hast made those rich hues and sunny smiles,
Thine offering unto me. Oh ! I may give
Those pensive lips, that clear Madonna brow,
And the sweet earnestness of that dark eye,
Unto the canvass — I may catch the flow
Of all those drooping locks, and glorify
With a soft halo what is imaged thus —
But how much rests unbreathed ! My faithful one !
What thou hast been to me ! This bitter world,
This cold unanswering world, that hath no voice
To greet the heavenly spirit — that drives back
All Birds of Eden, which would sojourn here
A little while — how have I turn'd away
From its keen soulless air, and in thy heart,
Found ever the sweet fountain of response,
To quench my thirst for home !

The dear work grows

Beneath my hand — the last ! Each faintest line
With treasured memories fraught. Oh ! weep thou not
Too long, too bitterly, when I depart !
Surely a bright home waits us both — for I,
In all my dreams, have turn'd me not from God ;
And Thou — oh ! best and purest! stand thou there-
There, in thy hallow' d beauty, shadowing forth
The loveliness of love !

222

French Memoirs. No. If.

[Feb.

FRENCH MEMOIRS.

No. II.

Revelations d'une Femme de Qualites

MEMOIRS are a style of composition
in which the French are altogether
unrivalled. They have neither the
gravity and dulness of history, nor
the lightness and frivolity of novels;
but combine the two in a way pecu-
liar to themselves, and which the
people of no other country in Europe
have been able to imitate. Whether
it is that their natural vivacity gives
them greater advantages in this light
species of writing than any other na-
tion, or that the art of conversation
has arrived with them at greater
perfection than in other states, or
that their vanity makes every person
imagine that what he has seen and
heard must be interesting to the rest
of the world ; the effect is certain,
that their memoirs exhibit a picture
of life, manners, and historical inci-
dents, to which there is nothing com-
parable in the annals of literature.

Since the Revolution, this species
of writing has acquired an extraor-
dinary degree of interest, from the
illustrious and immortal characters
who are brought on the stage.—
We live with Napoleon and Talley-
rand, with Carnot and Beauharnais ;
the thoughts, the modes of expres-
sion, the habits of life, of these great
men, are brought familiarly before
us; we know them as if we had lived
in their society from infancy, and
can detect a conversation which does
not bear the character of originality,
with as much certainty, as if it were
the words of our most intimate ac-
quaintances. How different is the
rase with the illustrious men of our
own country ; how little do we know
of the private character of those to
whom we owe the most; and how
j ejune and uninteresting must be the
work of the historian of England,
compared with that which exhibits,
iii the neighbouring state, not only
the great events which illustrate his-
tory, but the lighter incidents which
characterise manners, and distinguish
character !

Plutarch's Lives, and Boswell's
Johnson, are the only works in other
languages which are of the same de-
scription with the French memoirs ;
and accordingly there are no such
popular compositions in Roman or
English literature. Philosophers
may decry them as gossiping tales,
unfit for a place in an historical li-
brary ; historians may lament their
broken and unconnected stories ;
but they are read, and will be for
ever read, by millions, to whom the
graver narratives of events are un-
known. We wish not only to know
the public actions of illustrious men,
but to be familiar with their private
habits ; to hear how they lived, and
diverted themselves, and conversed
with their intimate friends ; and we
derive from faithful and able me-
moirs of their private lives, some-
what of the same gratification which
all must have experienced in the so-
ciety of illustrious or celebrated men.

Of this class of memoirs we have
seldom met with a more interesting
work than that which forms the sub-
ject of this article. The authoress
is already well known to the Parisi-
an, though, we believe, but little to
the British public, from the memoirs
of the Empire and the Consulate,
the reigns of Louis XVIII. and
Charles X., which she has already
published ; but none of these works,
though they are all extremely amu-
sing, are so interesting as these Me-
moirs, which relate to the intrigues
of the Courtprior to the three glorious
days, the causes which led to that
event, the state of society in Paris
subsequent to the accession of Louis
Philip, and the Court of that Citizen
King.

The * Femme de Qualite/ as she
styles herself, is a lady of rank, who
was attached to the Court both of
Louis and Charles ; but she belongs
to that liberal class of which Cha-
teaubriand was the head, and who
reprobate the fatal ordinances even

Paris, Delaunny, 1831,

1832.]

more than the Republicans, who
found in themthe means of overturn-
ing the throne. Though she is attach-
ed, therefore, both by interest and in-
clination, to the Royalist party; yet
she is any thing but a friend to Polig-
nac and the Ultras, and seems fully as
intimate with Constant, Royer Col-
lard, Lafayette, and the leaders of the
movement, as with the Court circle
in which she habitually moved.
From such a person more imparti-
ality may be expected than from
most other writers, on either side of
the channel, in these days of vehe-
ment party division.

Louis XVIII., according to this
writer, distinctly foresaw the conse-
quences which the imprudent coun-
sels of Charles X. would bring upon
the nation; and it gives a high idea
of the capacity of that monarch, that
he was able, for so many years, to
steer that middle course, which
avoided the breakers with which his
path on every side was beset. He is
said to have thus expressed himself
upon the events likely to ensue from
his brother's accession to the throne :

"'I know my family by heart;
there is not a member of it whose
inmost thoughts are not familiar to
my mind. As to my brother, the care
of his salvation is his sole object;
and if he survives me, you will see
all sorts of absurdities flow from
that pious fantasy; his counsellors
will acquire a dominion over his
mind. I would not even engage that
they will not engage in some attacks
on the Charter.'

" Notwithstanding that vigorous
sally, I continued, with warmth, the
defence of Monsieur.

" * Madame,' resumed the King,
' I know the history of England.
The unfortunate Louis XVI. has
shewn too close a resemblance to
Charles I. Napoleon has, with con-
summate ability, played the part
of Cromwell. I flatter myself I
have acted better than Charles II.,
fo'r my Charter is a great work ; but
I must lower my flag before Mon-
sieur, who will surpass us all in traits
of likeness to the infatuated James II.
Another Prince of Orange is also at
hand near the throne, as if expressly
for the purpose that the copy of that
groat historical picture should, in
••very particular, resemble the origi-
nal.5

French Memoirs. No. II.

"' I hope, however, that, as a last
touch, your Majesty will not add the
fatal catastrophe which precipitated
from the throne the last of the Stu-
arts.'

" * Nothing, you may rely upon it,
will be awanting. My brother will
ruin every thing. Is he not already
endeavouring to counteract all my
designs — to undermine, in every part,
the edifice which I have constructed
with so much pain? He mistakes his
obstinacy for vigour — he is sur-
rounded by counsellors without abi-
lity, and who believe that God will
sustain, with his omnipotence, all
their imprudent actions. Such in-
fatuation, Madame, will go far to
overturn empires. Yet the throne
of France is well worth the trouble
of preserving. The Royalists,' add-
ed he, with warmth, ' live in plots
and conspiracies; treason is the appa-
nage of weakness. You see they are
acting under my reign as they did
under Napoleon ; and if my brother
one day mounts the throne, I doubt
not that they will continue the low
and miserable intrigues which are
now going forward.'

" ' Against whom will their efforts
be directed ?' said I.

" * Against my memory — against
the Charter,' rejoined the King —
* that is, against themselves, for
these fools do not perceive how pre-
carious their situation is ; and that
if the fundamental compact is viola-
ted, it will overwhelm them in its
ruins.' "—I. 1*2.

It is easy, no doubt, to prophesy
ex post facto, and certainly these
words were not published till after
July, 1830; but sufficient evidence
exists in other quarters, that the late
King entertained these opinions as
to the future conduct of his brother;
and, in the Memoirs of Louis XVIII.,
by the same author, published be-
fore the catastrophe of July, similar
opinions will be found.

An interesting account of the open-
ing of the last-Parliament of Charles,
is given in the following passage: —

" The day of the opening of the
Session at length arrived — a memo-
rable epoch, of which the memory
will long be perpetuated in France.
The Court flattered themselves that
resistance would diminish as the de-
cisive moment approached— that the
holders of property, the discontented

224

French Memoirs. No. IT.

[Feb.

Royalists, would rally round the Ad-
ministration, when they saw the
Throne seriously menaced. They did
not recollect that when the passions
are once excited, there is no longer
either wisdom, or good faith, or even
common intelligence, among men.
Every one prepared himself to com-
bat, with ardour, in the strife in
which he was engaged, and no one
contemplated the terrible consequen-
ces which were to follow a mortal
contest.

" The Chamber was crowded to
suffocation; few of the movement
party were there, but a large pro-
portion of those attached to the
Court. The King was as it were
surrounded by a royalist atmos-
phere ; if he judged of the rest of
France by what he there witnessed,
he might be pardoned for giving way
to the illusions of royalty.

" Nevertheless, bitterness and divi-
sions had mingled even with the
assembly which surrounded the
throne ; the acclamations were far
from being so unanimous or enthu-
siastic as usual. The King, according
to his wonted usage, shewed himself
full of dignity and nobility ; he bow-
ed to the right and left with the most
gracious air, with the true smile
of the Count d'Artois. He little
thought that that was the last day
on which he should give vent to his
royal anxiety. A trifling but curi-
ous incident interrupted the satis-
faction which I experienced at the
august spectacle. At the moment
when the King was ascending the
first step of the throne, his foot got
entangled in the folds of the vel-
vet drapery with which it was co-
vered— he slipt his foot, and the
crown fell from his head. The Duke
of Orleans lifted it from the ground
and restored it to Charles, but not
before it had passed from the head
of the Monarch into the hands of the
Prince. " All the spectators felt the
incident, for nothing is so supersti-
tious as royalty — a confused murmur
arose on the benches ; and such was
the importance attached to the inci-
dent, that next day the journals be-
longing to our party denied or dis-
guised the circumstance."— I. 53.

Of the fatal divisions of the Royal-
ists, which gave an easy victory to
the movement party, and which bears
so close a resemblance to the union

of the Ultra Tories, Whigs, arid Ra-
dicals, against the Duke of Welling-
ton's administration, our author gives
the following interesting account : —

" The choice of the five candidates
for the presidency was the signal for
the commencement of the strife be-
tween the Chamber and the Minis-
try. M. Poliguac's candidates were,
M. Chantelauze, Lasour, De Berbis,
and Pardessus. Little hope was pla-
ced on the two latter ; the whole ex-
pectations of the party were centred
on the former. The opposition named
M. Royer Collard, Casimir Perier,
Sebastiani, Dupont de 1'Eure, and
Girpd de 1'Ain ; but they could not
secure the nomination without the
support of the party of Agier, thirty
strong, who were royalists.

" The choice of a president, and
the destinies of France, therefore,
rested entirely on the decision of
thirty men. Every effort was made
to bring them back to their former
party and natural connexions ; but
whether it was that they were in-
spired with resentment at the bit-
ter raillery which our journals had
lavished on them, or that they were
blinded by their animosity against M.
dePolignac, they persisted in their de-
sertion. One of them said to me with
candour, * They insult us in prospe-
rity; they invoke us in the moment
of peril ; we have all the danger, and
remain without reward for our ser-
vices; they must therefore make up
their minds to have us for adver-
saries.'

" These words contain the whole se-
cret of France since the Restoration.
The different oppositions had but
one object, to obtain possession of
power; the majorities were only an-
xious to preserve it; and in the midst
of these selfish passions the interests
of France were sacrificed to the avi-
dity of those who should have com-
bined for its defence.

" The nomination of the candidates
for the presidency occasioned warm
discussions. Royer Collard and Ca-
simir Perier were the first elected ;
we had only 116 votes. This defeat
should have opened the eyes of M.
Polignac ; but it had no such effect.
In the evening the party of Agier
and the gauche named the three
others, M. Lalot, Agier, and Sebas-
tiani.

" This result exasperated the cour-

1832.]

tiers to the last degree ;— they broke
out into reproaches against the ' de-
serters of the rights,' as they called
them, and latterly drove them to ex-
tremities by breaking all terms with
them. — * We are treated worse than
the regicides,' said these gentlemen ;
'we are overwhelmed with injuries,
and held forth as accomplices in all
the crimes of the Revolution j and
yet our whole crime consists in ha-
ving withheld our aid in the defence
of the crown, from a favourite whom
we deem unfit to govern the king-
dom. Let the King dismiss him, and
we are ready to die for him.' — ' Sir,'
said I to one of the party who held
that language in my presence, ' he
who passes from one party to ano-
ther to gratify a private pique, is not
only guilty of a moral wrong, but of
a glaring fault ; to him we may ap-
ply the well-known expression of M.
Talleyrand, — Desertion^in opinion is
worse than a crime, it is a fault.' "
I. G3— 65.

The ascendant of the opposition in
the Chambers, therefore, which was
the immediate cause of the revolu-
tion of the barricades, by rendering
the Crown desperate, and driving it
to extreme measures, to preserve its
falling influence, was occasioned by
thirty royalists, who held the balance,
joining ther evolutionary party. Where
are these vacillating royalists now ?
What have they gained by joining
the ranks of the populace to subvert
an obnoxious Minister ? A memo-
rable example of the extreme peril
of the conservative party ever divi-
ding among themselves when in pre-
sence of an able and audacious po-
pular opposition ; and a signal proof
how much the inhabitants of this
country have to congratulate them-
selves that the Duke of Wellington,
when deserted by one half ot the
Tories, resigned, instead of driving
the Crown into extreme measures ;
and that after the fatal division con-
sequent on Catholic Emancipation,
the friends of the constitution arc at
length firmly united against any far-
ther encroachment of their insatiable
opponents.

We have the following curious
account of a conversation between
the author and the King, shortly be-
fore the Revolution broke out. j

" Perceiving that the King was be-
yond the ordinary circle of 'his ideas

VOL. XXXI. NO. CX( .

French Memoirs. No. II.

on this occasion, I seized the favour-
able moment. — ' Sire,' said I, * there
exists in the lower classes of the
people an absolute indifference for
forms of government: superstition
rather than genuine piety, and an ex-
treme laxity of manners. They are
susceptible of any impressions which
are given them; and I know that
numbers are labouring underhand to
irritate them, and induce them to
revolt against the royal authority.'

" ' Do you then really believe that
the people of Paris will suffer them-
selves to be seduced into revolt, if
the agitators try to drive them to it ?'
" ' I fear it, Sire.'
" ' You give me poor consolation,
Madame : a revolt ! the days of July
and October 1789 will be renewed;
they will begin again the hideous
yells and fury of the Revolution :
that is impossible, Madame ! your
fears make you exaggerate the evils.'
" ' Sire, the enemies of royalty put
in motion every species of spring;
they speak to the passions by means
of the liberal journals, which preach
up insurrection as the most sacred
of duties. These journals are read
by all the world, from the most mi-
serable to the most opulent; and I
much fear, if a struggle commences.'
" ' Things,' interrupted the King,
* will not come to that extremity.
Polignac will put all in order. It is
not that I wish to go too fast, but I
am driven on on every side : the
people, the people : that liberty of
the press has done an incalculable
mischief!'

" * Sire, it tears us with beautiful
teeth. It is an enraged dog, which
spares no one in its fury.'

" * You would have willingly seen
it muzzled ?'

" * Strangled, Sire !'— In truth I my-
self had suffered so much from the
press, that I lost no opportunity of
requiting to it the mischief it had oc-
casioned.1

" The King afterwards asked me
my opinion of the liberal leaders
who had been suggested to him for
an administration, in particular La-
fitte, Sebastian?, and Casimir Pe-
vier.

" ' Lafitte,' said I, ' has good inten-
tions, but he is too honest to be a
good politician. Sebastian! believes
himself an eagle, but he is nothing
but a liberal peacock ; and as such,
p

226

French Memoirs. No. II.

[Feb.

a bird of bad odour. He will do any
thing for you if you will flatter him,
and admire his plumage. Casimir
Perier has talents, perhaps genius ;
but he is harsh and irascible ; he de-
sires to command as a master when
he should obey as a subject; he
would rather ruin his party than
yield a point."—I. 105.

About the same time the author
saw Benjamin Constant, who was
then labouring under the illness
which ultimately brought him to his
grave. The coming events appeared
very differently to him from what
they did to the inmates of the Tui-
leries.

" < What will all this lead to ?' said
I, shortly after entering the chamber,
where, though on the bed of death,
was contained the soul which would
have sufficed for ten existences.

" * To the beginning of the end,
Madame, and now this is no plea-
santry. The King has intrusted his
sheet-anchor to M. de Polignac, and
he has transformed the metal into
fragile glass.'

" * You are a bird of bad omen.'
" * I prophesy nothing, Madame ;
but the future rises up before me
with as much clearness as the past ,•
and it is only necessary to know cer-
tain men to foresee with certainty
all their actions. He who governs us
just now has thrown himself head-
long into the feudality of the nine-
teenth century. The consequencesof
his folly will fall on himself, and those
who employ him, but there is no
danger that it will become contagi-
ous/

" ' You make me tremble ; what
fate then do you anticipate for the
legitimate monarchy ?'

" * It will give place to a republic
with monarchical institutions, or a
monarchy with republican institu-
tions.'

' And the courtiers ?'
" * They must become bourgeois.'
" ' Truly,' said I, < I thought you
had the opinions of better society.
Recollect Madame de Stael, and have
some regard at least for the lesson
of history. What would you make,
for example, of absolute equality ?'
" ( I know well,' he replied, ' that
it is a vain theory, but you must sub-
mit to it. In vain will you establish
that equality in your laws; it will
never strike root among your man-

ners: Education has its castes as well
as nobility, and I must own that^ I
like to carry on my opposition in
good company.'

" This last avowal disarmed me.
In truth I have known more than
one liberal of rank, to whom every
intimate relation with plebeian sup-
porters was insupportabl e. The Mar-
quis de C., for example, never could
enter into the house of a bourgeois
without saying, with a shrug of his
shoulders, Now I must encanaille
myself.

" ' Can we not,' said I, ' retard the
catastrophe ?'

"' No, Madame, that is impossible.
Your party has no sincere desire for
an alliance with us, and we have lit-
tle wish for an accommodation with
you. We are both placed on a car on
the summit of a rapid descent; when
once the impulse is given, you must
follow it, for the slightest effort to ar-
rest the motion would prove fatal.' "
—I. 110.

The changes in France since the
first Revolution have produced a sig-
nal alteration in manners, and in a
great measure extinguished that re-
fined gallantry for which the French
were formerly so distinguished. Our
fair authoress gives the following ac-
count of this sudden metamorphosis,
the necessary effect of the opening
of the career of politics to the youth
of the nation ; and making every al-
lowance for the feelings with which
a lady on the wrong side of forty
views the attentions paid to the fair
sex in her later years, there can be
no doubt that there is much truth in
her complaints, in which, indeed, she
is joined by those still in the zenith
of their youth and attractions.

" I trust the expression of my just
complaints will not form a subject
of ridicule, and that I will^not be
accused of exaggeration when I tell
the simple truth : the wound is too
fresh to make it an easy matter to
assuage its pains. In fact, what part
in society is now left to my sex ?
where is the beautiful woman who
will not be abandoned with plea-
sure for a political discussion, to
read a newspaper, or ascertain the
state of the funds ? Alas ! the days
are no more when life was deemed
too short to evince the constancy of
a lover. Love itself seems extin-
guished in every heart, at least no

1832.]

one now dies of it ; and if it occa-
sionally leads to frightful excesses
of jealousy or resentment, it is in the
lower classes that these embers of
the fire are preserved : the people
alone love with enthusiasm. I re-
gard France as lost and dishonoured :
soon it will have no glory left but the
recollection of the exploits of July.

" Every thing now is selfish and
calculating, down to the fine arts,
which are made the subject of spe-
culation, The ablest painters have
abandoned historical for portrait
painting : the poets have quitted the
flights of the epic and tragic muse
for the Vaudeville, because it is a
source of profit. Political opinions,
even, have lost their independence :
they are considered only as a means
of making a fortune : they are mo-
dified or altered according to the
temper of the moment, and God
knows to what degradation this sel-
fish spirit will lead us. I fear soon
to see the fine arts made an object
of traffic in the public streets.

" At the hazard of being accused
of the peevishness of age, I declare
myself in very bad humour with the
era in which I live, and the late Re-
volution has done nothing towards
improving my views. We were pro-
mised mountains and prodigies, and
I was so far carried away by the il-
lusion, as at one period to credit it ;
but now every one asks where they
are to be found ? Every thing was
to hav e been regenerated and amelio-
rated ; and yet the passions of men
are playing the same part as former-
ly : ambition, the thirst of titles and
honours, these are the objects of de-
sire, these the springs of action. Is
power less flattered than formerly ?
Is the national honour more respect-
ed? Every thing languishes and
droops : the men are no longer sus-
ceptible of love, beauty has lost its
zone; there is an air of age alike
upon the infant which begins its ex-
istence, and the institutions which
have sprung up from nonentity. All
this flows from egotism, which, even
more than tyranny or fanaticism,
withers every thing which it touches.

" Civilisation, doubtless, is a high-
sounding expression ; but excess in
every improvement leads to ruin,—
How can we expect virtue when men
have ceased to blush at vice ? Where

French Memoirs. No. II. 227

shall we find generosity when there
is nothing but interest and calcula-
tion ? We boast of our reason and
prudence, and I am far from denying
their merits : but it is enthusiasm

alone which produces great results.
I know not if it enters into the com-
position of the Royalists who are
faithful at so much the hour, or the
gentlemen of the movement who de-
mand a republic, because it promises
to give them every thing they want.
Interest ! every where interest ! no-
thing but that is to be seen in our
days. Our sovereigns even set the
example, by the avidity with which
they set themselves to fix the civil
list ; and indeed they are not to be
blamed for that, for it is the duty of
a prudent father of a family to hus-
band the resources which may be
available to his children in case of
need."— I. 157.

In these observations, there is much
room for philosophical reflection, and
they go far to confirm an observation
made in a former number of this
Miscellany,* viz. that from the cor-
rupted and irreligious state of France
at this period, real freedom cannot
be expected to arise in it, and that
after half a century of democratic
contention, they will settle down
quietly into the torpor and the sel-
fishness of despotism. In truth, the
selfish feeling which is the secret
spring both of democratic ambition
and public corruption, is utterly in-
consistent with the self-denial, the
devotion, and the magnanimity which
is the only foundation of patriotic
feeling or public spirit. The transi-
tion is but too easy from the love of
power to the love of pleasure, be-
cause both spring from selfish prin-
ciples in the individual; it is ex-
tremely difficult from either to the
love of freedom, because that implies
an abandonment of both for the pub-
lic good.

The following interesting account
is given of the conversation of Charles
X. with Marshal Marmont, when he
revealed to him the design of pro-
mulgating the famous ordinances.
They may be considered as the ma-
nifesto of the Court on the reasons
of state-necessity which the Royalists
plead for the justification of those
measures. The account is extracted
from the Marshal's diary.

* No, CLXXXIX. Jan, 1832.

228

French Memoirs. No. II.

[Feb.

" * Marshal,' said the King, ' I have
sent for you to make you acquainted
with my intentions relative to the
measures which I propose to adopt.
It is not to a Minister of state, mem-
ber of the cabinet, that I address
myself. It is not advice which I
require; I speak to the major-gene-
ral of the service, with the view that,
having learned my intentions,he may
employ the requisite means for car-
rying them into effect. I am about
to take a new step in my govern-
ment, after having ascertained that
I could not continue the former
course without endangering the re-
pose of my family, the safety of my
people, the preservation of our holy
religion. A seditious Chamber, whom
the violence of its acts obliged me to
dissolve, has been returned of new,
composed of the very same members
whose treasonable designs threaten-
ed immediately to destroy the peace
of the nation. I was reduced to the
necessity, either of abdicating my
crown, or engaging in a strife for its
preservation ; I have chosen the lat-
ter alternative. Ordinances wisely
framed, and based on the charter,
from which the encroachments of
the popular party have caused us too
far to recede, are the bridle which I
propose to put upon the growing
evil. The liberty of the press is to
exist no longer : the censorship is
re-established : the Chamber is of
new dissolved : the law of elections
is changed. A different method of
election will be pursued : the num-
ber of deputies is reduced to 258 :
in a word, the 5th July 1830 is to
become a monarchical 3d Septem-
ber. These measures have not been
adopted without due reflection; but
I have taken my determination, and
will support it at the hazard of my
life, and I reckon on your aid, Mar-
shal.'

" The length of this speech, which
was pronounced with dignity, and
an air of the most profound convic-
tion, gave the Marshal time to con-
quer his agitation. He was ready to
sink into the abyss which he saw
opening before him, but he could
not recede ; his duty compelled him
to advance ; and he pronounced, not
without visible emotion, the oath
which was required of him." — 1. 234.
The authoress was at St Cloud on
Wednesday, 28th July, when the

Tuileries was carried by the popu-
lace. The following account of the
mariner in which the fatal intelli-
gence was communicated to the
Court, is too graphic to have been
drawn from any thing but nature.

" It was seven o'clock in the even-
ing when I entered the court of the
chateau of St Cloud. M. de Damas
handed me out of the carriage, and
led me to the King, to whom I ren-
dered a faithful account of what I
had witnessed in the capital. His
Majesty listened attentively to my
narrative; and, after having asked
me several questions on the state of
Paris, allowed me to withdraw. The

Duke of followed me, and

said he was much embarrassed be-
tween his fidelity to the King on the
one hand, and, on the other, the urgent
affairs which required his presence
elsewhere. I said nothing, but saw
clearly that the courtiers were al-
ready meditating flight.

" I entered the apartment of the
Duchess de Berri, who was sitting to
a miniature painter of rising ability.
A numerous party was assembled,
who were striving to amuse her, and
avert the painful thoughts which all
too keenly experienced. Many tele-
scopes, directed to Paris, were in the
hands of those at the windows, and
made us acquainted with whatever
was visible at that distance in the
metropolis. After having been ex-
tremely animated, the conversation
was becoming rather languid, when,
all of a sudden, M. Menard taking his
eye from the telescope, exclaimed,
in an agitated tone —

" ' I believe, may God forgive me,
that the tricolour flag is floating on
the Tuileries !'

" A cry of horror arose on all
sides. It was too true ; the revolu-
tion was accomplished. Nothing
could more clearly resemble a coup
de theatre. Every one ran out of the
room ; the Duchess de Berri burst
into tears, and I was dissolved at her
feet. The artist alone remained with
us ; and such was his republican
spirit, that he ventured at that mo-
ment to paint a tricolour flag in the
miniature. He then slipt out of
the room, and we never saw him
more.

" Shortly the Ministers arrived at
the full gallop, who had fled from
their several stations to the King.

French Memoirs. No. II.

•2*29

M. dc Poliguac seemed deeply de-
jected; the countenance of M. dc
Peyronnet announced the firmness
of his mind ; that of M. de Montbel,
exultation. The other Ministers
seemed resigned to their fate." — I.
278.

The Duchess de Berri was in de-
spair at the fatal revolution which
these events had made. The follow-
ing account of her first conversation,
before the transports of grief had
subsided, is taken from the diary of
the Marshal :—

" Alas ! if I was at liberty, I would
fly to present the Duke de Bourdeaux
to the citizens of Paris. I would
put him in their hands, saying —
' There is your pledge : Educate him
as you please. I bestow him on
you, and ask you nothing in return
but your love. But I can do no-
thing : I have conjured the King on
my knees to recall the ordinances ;
but he will not. I have equally
failed with the Dauphin. There are
persons here who seem bent on our
destruction : their pernicious coun-
sels have indeed carried us far in a
short time.'

" The Marshal was overwhelmed
at the generous idea of the Duchess,
but he felt it his duty, nevertheless,
to apprize her, that the Court had
refused all accommodation with the
liberal party.

" * That is the way that they hasten
our destruction, while pretending to
arrest it. Ah ! If the Dauphiness were
here, how enraged she would be at

! Marshal, kings frequently

find in their friends their greatest
enemies. Good intentions can never
excuse want of ability. But, do you
think there is no hope of regaining
the people ? My son is innocent —
Surely they will not punish him for
the faults of others ?'

" ' Means of accommodation still
exist; but they are of such a kind as not
to be practicable without the consent
of the King. Suffice it to say, that
absolute power can no longer reign
in France ; that the influence of the
clergy has ceased.'

" ' As for me, Marshal,' replied
the Duchess, * I will consent to any
thing, provided they will preserve
the crown to my son ; but I much
dread the Duke of Orleans and the
young Napoleon. Let the Parisians
know the advantage of being guided

by legitimacy. Answer for my fide-
lity. Tell them that it will be with
the sincerest pleasure that I will put
on his head the constitutional crown.
I might once have had other ideas ;
but since France demands a liberal
government, I resign myself to their
wishes.' "—I. 287.

Whatever opinion may be formed
on Charles's capacity to govern, or
the wisdom of the measures which
he latterly adopted, there can be but
one as to the heroism and resigna-
tion with which he bore the sad re-
verses of fortune which were reser-
ved for his latter years. All authori-
ties concur in this. That of our au-
thoress is one of the most striking.

" ' I am surprised,' said the King,
' that I have not seen the Duke of
Orleans at Court for some days. I
am told he is travelling. I know
not whether to believe it ; at all
events, Madame, believe me that I
am touched with what you have done
for me, though success has not crown-
ed your exertions.'

" These words, pronounced with a
tone of sincerity, melted me even to
tears. My eyes filled — the King per-
ceived it, and taking my hand,

" t Madame,' said he, * we must
strive to bear, with courage and re-
signation, the calamities which it has
pleased God to send us ; but, what-
ever happens, believe me I will never
forget the devotion of my true
friends; and that will be the more
easy, because their number is so
small.' "—I. 297.

Mar m out conversed with the King
on the necessity of abdicating. The
following account of his sentiments
will demonstrate the noble, though
perhaps mistaken sentiments, with
which he was animated : —

" Charles X. told the Marshal
that he was resolved to abdicate —
that his conscience even imposed it
on him as a duty — that he had al-
ways governed according to what
he esteemed the interest of his peo-
ple, and of religion — that not having
been appreciated in his endeavours
for the one, and being unable to sus-
tain the other, if he remained upon
the throne, he renounced, without
regret, a power which, if retained,
would render him responsible to
Heaven for all the evils with which
France might be afflicted— that his
duty to God was superior even to his

230

French Memoirs. No. II.

[Feb.

duty towards his people — and that
he hoped to find, in his trust in Him,
sufficient strength to bear, without
murmuring, all the dispensations
with which he might be afflicted.
But that which disquiets me most,'
said the King, ' is the education of
my grandson. I will never consent
that he should be surrendered to the
Liberals ; the crown of martyrdom
is preferable.'

"The Marshal ventured to mention
Chateaubriand, as a fit man to be in-
trusted with the education of the
young prince.

" ' Do not mention him, Marshal.
Joas was intrusted to Joad, and not
to Mathan. Chateaubriand would
be the most fatal of preceptors, for
it is he who has perverted so large
a portion of the Royalist youth, by
lending a chivalrous air to Liberal-
ism. Should the hand of God one
day cease to press upon me, it will
be because, whatever faults I may
have committed, I have remained
faithful to him; and it is indispen-
sable that the heir of the throne of St
Louis should receive a religious edu-
cation. Chateaubriand is a sophist
in religion, and no true believer.'

" In truth, every one who had ac-
cess to him must have observed, that
in the last misfortunes which over-
whelmed him, Charles X. found in
his religious feelings an inexhaust-
ible source of consolation. When he
was made aware of the necessity of
abdicating, he made up his mind to
it without pain. The mental activity
of Napoleon was the real vulture
which he carried with him to St He-
lena; Charles X. surrendered him-
self to God. His religious resigna-
tion supplied the place of philo-
sophy."—I. 300.

Without pretending to vindicate all
the acts of Charles's administration,
and admitting that there was much
imprudence in many steps of his go-
vernment, it is impossible to contem-
plate without admiration his conduct
in adversity. Firm, without being os-
tentatious ; resigned, without being
querulous, he bore the fall from the
height of temporal grandeur with
an equanimity which surpasses the
greatest efforts of worldly heroism.
Louis was first led to the scaffold ;
and his captivity and death exhibit a
specimen of Christian resignation
and forgiveness to which there is

nothing in the annals of uninspired
virtue which can be compared. Na-
poleon was next precipitated from
the throne — the conqueror of the
world strove in vain to subdue his
own passions ; and the memoirs of
St Helena exhibit the greatest hu-
man intellect gnawing in vain at
the adamantine chain of adversity.
Charles X. was subjected to the same
ordeal ; and that which the soul of
Napoleon could not endure, was
borne with ease by a slender intel-
lect, and a mind frittered away by
the frivolities of a court. Such is
the superiority of religion to the ut-
most efforts of unassisted reason;
such the advantage it gives even or-
dinary minds over the most gigantic
efforts of mere human magnanimity.
Charles X. in these observations
was unjust to Chateaubriand. That
illustrious man, second only to Scott
in European literature, was the vic-
tim of the same wretched court in-
trigues which proved fatal to the
reigning family. Their eyes were
not opened to his great qualities
during the prosperous days of the
restoration ; they were taught to
believe he was an apostate to the
cause of royalty, an infidel in reli-

§ion, because he was superior to
le conclave of Jesuits who ruled
the cabinet. But adversity — that
magic talisman which transports
every heart into the palace of truth
— has developed his real character.
While the whole court of Charles
X., with a very few honourable ex-
ceptions, have deserted the fallen
dynasty in their misfortunes, and
basely knelt to their successors in
royalty, Chateaubriand has nobly
stood their friend. He has relin-
quished his country, his home, his
fortune, to preserve his consistency.
He has spurned at all the offers of
the citizen-king; and employed in
exile his great talents in defending
the family which had dismissed, the
dynasty which had reviled him, —
in pleading the cause of innocence,
and supporting the child of misfor-
tune. With truth it may be said,
that calamity is never lost either
upon individuals or nations ; it
forms the only test of real virtue ;
it consigns to oblivion the hollow-
hearted sycophant, and brings forth
the great and the generous in unde-
caying lustre, — the inheritance of

1832.]

French Memoirs. No. II.

231

their country, the birthright of the
human race.

What a contrast to the magnani-
mous conduct of the illustrious Vis-
count Chateaubriand does the base-
ness of the courtiers at St Cloud
exhibit!

" As to the courtiers who were at
St Cloud, their number diminished
every moment. Even so early as
Thursday, 29th July, the officers in
the interior of the palace were be-
ginning to absent themselves. The
Duchess de Berri lost all her attend-
ants; those of the Dauphiness, ma-
king her absence a pretext, also dis-
appeared ; the aides-de-camp, the
gentlemen of the chamber, the
chamberlains, and the lords in wait-
ing; the squires, maitres d'hotcl,
grooms of the chambers, butlers,
cooks, footmen, coachmen, and
grooms, all disappeared during the
30th and 31st. So few gave proof
of their fidelity that they can easily
be numbered.

" Very different was the conduct
of the military men of all grades ;
of the officers of the guard, and,
above all, of the body guards, on
whose fidelity the courtiers had been
wont to cast reflections. It was at
the moment when their hopes of
fortune disappeared, without a hope
of return, that their devotion to the
royal cause appeared in its brightest
colours.

" On the 30th, in the evening, the
saloons of St Cloud were deserted.
The King, surveying the empty
apartments, said, with a smile, — * I
will engage that there will be a large
enough crowd to-morrow at the le-
vee of the Duke of Orleans.' " — I.
302, 303.

The authoress has preserved a list
of the few courtiers who remained
faithful amidst the general defection.
We shall transcribe it, to shew how
few of those who tasted the bread of
royalty were really worthy of the
trust, and for the honour of the fa-
milies who can now add this glorious
bar to their scutcheons.

" The Duke de Luxembourg, M.
Decroy, the Count de Trosoff, Count
Lasalle, the Marquis de Courbon
Blenac, the Marquis de Maijoufort,
Baron Grissot, Marquis Chosguil
Beaupreau, Count Auguste de La-
rochjaquelein— a name ever first in
the path of honour, Baron Crossaid,

Marquis Fontenille, Weyler de Na-
vas, the Duke Arnaud de Polignac,
Count O'Hegerty, the Duke de
Guiche and deLevis, Count Menaud,
Count Brissac, the Baron Damas, the
Marquis Brabancois, the Count de
Maupas, M. O'Hegerty the son, Ma-
dames St Maure and De Bouille,
the Duke de Maille, the Duchess de
Gontaut — whose conduct was truly
admirable in those disastrous times,
and the Baroness de Charette — na-
tural sister of Henry IV., according
to the fine expression of M. de Cha-
teaubriand."—I. 316.

During the melancholy journey
from St Cloud to the sea-coast, the
King and royal family never lost that
serenity of mind, which, amidst such
calamities, they derived from higher
sources of consolation than mere
moral courage.

" The Duke d'Angouleme had a
cheerful air during the whole jour-
ney, which filled us with astonish-
ment. He even made light of the
fall of his family, and repeatedly said
that his change of life gave him no
sort of pain. The Dauphiness and the
Duchess de Berri were far from sha-
ring his equanimity. The latter in
particular, unaccustomed to suffer-
ing, neverceased to lamentthe crown
which the Revolution had torn from
the innocent brow of her son. Dress-
ed like a man, performing part of the
journey on foot, shuddering at the
aspect of the tri- colour decorations
of the peasantry, she could not re-
strain her tears, which fell in abund-
ance. The Duchess d'Angouleme
herself, though bred in the school of
adversity, did not bear this last stroke
with the energy which might have
been expected from a mind of such
resolution. She also wept on many
occasions, and experienced not less
horror than her sister-in-law, at the
sight of the flag which recalled all the
grievous recollections of her youth.
But that weakness by degrees disap-
peared. She regained in great part
her wonted firmness, and at length
exhibited nothing in her demeanour
but the constancy and resignation of
the grand-daughter of Maria Theresa.
" Charles X. never lost for one
moment that calm dignity, that sere-
nity of manner, which renders mis-
fortune so worthy of admiration. He
fully perceived the hopeless nature
of his fall; but he bore the blow like

•232

French Memoirs. No. II.

[Feb.

a man whose conscience has nothing
to reproach him ; not a word, not a
gesture, escaped him, which did not
augment the admiration of those who
surrounded him. He consoled the
Princesses, and evinced a tender
anxiety for his grand-children. All
the peasantry who met him on the
road, struck with that grandeur of
soul, testified a respectful veneration
which had no intermixture of politi-
cal interest.

" The little Duke dc Rourdeaux and
the Princess, without being able ful-
ly to comprehend the revolution
which had taken place in their affairs,
were well aware that something ex-
traordinary had occurred. The un-
usual number of troops with which
they were surrounded, the interrup-
tion of their studies, the tears of
their mother and aunt, all struck
astonishment into their infant imagi-
nations. They told the Duke deBour-
deaux soon after, that he was King,
and seeing around him nothing but
soldiers, he asked if he had no sub-
jects but military men?" — I. 339.

It is pleasing to find that at length
the eyes of the royal family began to
be opened to the real character of M.
Chateaubriand.

" On the 6th August the party pro-
ceeded to Aigle. The newspapers
there announced that the acts of go-
vernment were issued in the name
of the Lieutenant-General of the
kingdom.

" ' And why not in that of Henry
V. ?' said the Duchess de Berri, ' is it
possible that my uncle will not recog-
nise the title of my son ?'

" ' We must be prepared for the
worst,' said the King ; c in these dis-
astrous times we can no longer dis-
tinguish a friend from an enemy. —
Chateaubriand will probably be re-
joiced at the fall of poor Polignac, for
I know well that he did not like
him.'

"TheDuchess de Berri warmly un-
dertook the defence of Chateau-
briand, saying, ' that he was a faith-
ful royalist, and that, far from being
rejoiced at the disasters of the mo-
narchy, she was persuaded he would
be profoundly afflicted at them.'

"' Nevertheless,' said the King, 'he
has to reproach himself with the op-
position which has spread such fatal
divisions among the Royalists, and, in
consequence, overwhelmed us with

so many calamities. But the desire
to make finely turned periods'

" ' Sire,' said the Duke of Ragusa,
who was present, ' Chateaubriand
has a noble soul ; you have not a more
devoted subject than he; he has
given striking proofs of it, and, I
doubt not, will give others still more
sublime.'

" « His faults,' said the Duchess
d'Angouleme, ' belong rather to the
head than the heart ; and I am con-
vinced that we might count on him
in life or death.'

" The Dauphiness was right. The
conduct of that noble peer, who, to
remain faithful to the cause of the
Bourbons, has renounced all the pro-
spects of ambition which were
opened to him under the Citizen-
King, has refuted in a triumphant
manner all the calumnies which
were uttered against him. It is not
eight days since he lias assured me
that he has resolved to emigrate, and
pass the remainder of his life in
Switzerland."— I. 343.

The day of the mournful separa-
tion of the King from his country,
his attendants, and his guards, at
length arrived ; it is recited in these
simple, but touching terms : —

" The time of the heart-rending
separation was at length arrived;
that when Charles at length touched
the end of his career, and was about
to leave his native soil, and all the
grandeur of the throne, to hide his
exiled head in a foreign land, desti-
ned, doubtless, to be his tomb. It was
also the day when that guard, so no-
ble, so devoted, was about to burst
the last bonds which bound it to
the sovereign for whom all its mem-
bers would willingly have laid down
their lives. It was arranged that that
mournful ceremony should take place
at Valognes.

" When the moment arrived, the
order was given that each company,
represented by its officers and six
privates, should bring its standard,
in the order of their respective se-
niority. The King, the Dauphin, the
Dauphiness, Madame, the Duke de
Bourdeaux, and Mademoiselle, en-
tered at eleven o'clock into the room
where the guards were successively
introduced. The scene which ensued
will never be effaced from the recol-
lection of those who witnessed it; a
heart-rending scene, when fallen ma-

1832.

French Memoirs. No. II.

233

jesty received its last homage ; when
regrets, sobs, and mute protestations
were interchanged, and tears more
eloquent than words ! The royal fa-
mily received in these touching adieus
the true consolation of the heart, the
sole which can assuage its profound
wounds.

" The King-, with a voice at once
moved and mil of dignity, thanked
his guards for their conduct, told
them how much he regretted being
unable to recompense their fidelity
but by his affection, that he would
never forget their devotion, and that
he hoped they would never forget
him and his family. He terminated
the discourse with these remarkable
words : —

" ' I receive, gentlemen, from your
hands these spotless standards ; and
I trust the Duke de Bourdeaux will
restore them to you as unsullied.'

" At these words the enthusiasm
rose to the highest pitch. Tears flow-
ed on all sides, but no oatli was
pronounced, as malignity has since
invented. The King would never
have exacted an oath from those who
loved their country which would
have endangered its repose."— I.
359.

It is the fashion for our modern
liberals to revile the Bourbons ; but
the conduct here described can well
afford to stand the shafts of ridicule.
It has become the province of history ;
it will continue to dignify the fall of
this illustrious family, to elevate and
move the human heart, forages after
the obscure herd who calumniate
them are lost in the waves of forgot-
ten time.

The author gives the following in-
teresting account of her conversation
with a leader of the liberal party on
her first return to Paris.

" ' I have taken up arms,' said he,
' against M. Polignac. I regret that
the King should have suffered from
the contre coup. But this was no
children's sport; we were called onto
combat despotism, the ancient re-
gime which we were threatened with
being restored. I belong to the new
order of things, by my age; and I was
obliged to defend it. Those who have
committed follies must bear their con-
sequences ; they do not even deserve
to be regretted.'

:<< But, sir,' replied I, ' you are ra-
ther in a hurry to chant the hymn

of victory. The King has still for
him, the provinces, the strong places,
the troops, the army of Algiers, and
he will certainly be supported by all
the armies of Europe.'

" The gentleman began to laugh.
* Did any one ever see,' he replied, ' sol-
diers combat for chiefs who would
not venture to put themselves at their
head ? Besides, ours have acquired
the unfortunate habit, during the last
forty years, of abandoning the mas-
ter who no longer pays them, to range
themselves under the one who holds
the treasury. Men must live. Open
the book of history ; you will see
that the army passed from Louis XVI.
to the Constituent Assembly ; from
the legal to the usurping power, from
the Committee of Public Safety, in-
vested with authority, to the Thermi-
clorian re-action. On the 1 8th Fructi-
dor, it abandoned the Council invest-
ed with the legal right, in favour of the
usurping Directory ; and still later,
on the 18th Brumaire, it answered
the call of a hero, without any legiti-
mate title. Did it defend that new
master in 1814? Did it defend the
King in 1815 ? No, but it ranged it-
self under the command of the for-
tunate ad venturer, whohad overturn-
ed the monarchy. In these last days,
what has been the conduct of the
army ? Believe me, the army remains
faithful only during battle, or in com-
bating a foreign enemy ; but woe to
the chief who counts upon itssupport
in oppressing the nation ! it will al-
ways escape from his colours.'

" I had nothing to answer to that
chronological resume, which repre-
sented all our military revolutions
with scrupulous exactness. I had re-
course to the fidelity of the provin-
ces, but there too the argument fail-
ed me ; for I must admit that my op-
ponent had always the better, at
least in appearance, in all our argu-
ments.

" * You believe, then, that the Re-
volution is completed ?'

" ' Yes, Madame.'

" ' And who will profit by it?'

" ' Oh ! you need not be afraid that
some one will reap its fruits; the ap-
petite for profiting by others' achieve-
ments, is not likely to fail in this age
of ours. We shall have the counter-
part of the courtiers of the Restora-
tion ; the wheel will turn, but it
will bring up the same face. This

234

French Memoirs. No. II.

[Feb.

last Revolution has come ten years
too soon, or too late.' " — II. 9.

To all appearance this prediction
is destined to be speedily verified.
The Revolution has in no ways bene-
fited any class of the people, but
essentially injured all. The public
burdens have been enormously aug-
mented; trade and industry pro-
portionally depressed; and the rapa-
city of the Citizen King, and his army
of courtiers, exceeds all that is
charged against his unfortunate pre-
decessor.

The first visit of M. de Chateau-
briand to the authoress is given at
length, and as every thing which
concerns that illustrious man is the
province of history, and interests the
human race, we shall transcribe the
conversation which ensued between
them.

"I was buried in the most pro-
found reflections, when Chateau-
briand was announced. That illus-
trious name made me thrill with
emotion ; I rose with sp»ed, and ran
to meet my illustrious friend with
my eyes bathed with tears.

" ' By what fatality,' said he, ' was
I neither at Court nor with the
people during the three days? I
had just arrived from Dieppe when
I heard of the ordinances.'

" f Ah ! my friend, what a change
since we met ! — '

" ' What a fall, madam ! what a
mixture of good and evil, of virtues
and vices ! — The race of our Kings
is a third time tossed by the tem-
pests, and wrecked on a foreign
shore, without our being able to op-
pose any thing but tears and regrets
to the calamity.— Do you know what
most grieves me ? — When I arrived
at the Gates of Paris, I ran to the of-
fice of the Journal des Debats,
where I remained a few minutes ; in
leaving it, I was seized by some
young men, who raised me in their
arms, and forced all who passed to
join in the cry, " Vive M. De Cha-
teaubriand !" J

" ' And why does that distress you ?'

" ' Vive M. De Chateaubriand on
the tomb of the monarchy !'

" * But near that tomb is still an
infant, in whose favour the ancient
inheritance of Henry IV. may still
open.'

" ' My voice, at least, shall not be
wanting in his distress.'

" With what energy did he then
unfold to me the sentiments of a
Royalist and a citizen ! He ran over
the different parties, who were in
presence of each other, and with his
eagle's eyes pierced into the depths
of futurity.

" < The Duke of Reichstadt,' said
lie, * has no chances in his favour :
He has nothing for him but the in-
trigues of the police and the garri-
sons.— The ancient Napoleonists will
not avail him, for their attachment to
the son of the hero, who has loaded
them with obligations, is kept in su-
bordination to their interest, and
their interest will lead them, like all
the rich, to the Palais Royal. As to
the Republicans, they have not a
chance in their favour ; the Duke of
Orleans will carry the day. Reason
and prudence will induce the majo-
rity of the nation to range itself un-
der his banners. — He will have on
his side the shopkeepers, the selfish,
and all the characters of the Revolu-
tion, the empire, and the restoration,
who wish for repose and freedom."

" * And glory also.'

" * That remains to be seen.'

" ' And what do you propose to do
in this new regime ?'

" * If they do not require of me
services incompatible with my prin-
ciples, I will not desert my post in
the Chamber of Peers; if they do,
I will leave France for ever.'

" ' No, my noble friend, you will
not leave your country; it cannot
afford to detach you from its glory.'

" * I cannot,' he replied, * separate
my cause from that of the Royal Fa-
mily ; and since they had doubts of
my devotion, I seek in misfortune
the opportunity of giving fresh proofs

" * I fear,' he added, ' that the steps
of the new Ministry will be feeble
and timid ; nor indeed can it be
otherwise. It will fear all the world^
and will be desirous to displease no
one. Subsequently it will not fail to
disown its origin, like an enriched
servant, who, instead of taking a
pride in his skill in amassing a for-
tune, seeks to pass for a member of
his ancient family, and for that pur-
pose adopts its forms and ceremo-
nies.— No one, however, is deceived
by all this but the parvenu himself,
but that is sufficient to mislead
them.' " II. 34.

1832.1

French Memoirs. No. II.

235

Some months after the Revolu-
tion, and shortly before his death, the
authoress received a visit from Ben-
jamin Constant. The observations
of such a man on the passing events
are well worth recording.

" ' Great events,' said I, ' have oc-
curred since we last met.'

" < Yes,' replied the sage, ' but I
fear those who are reaping the fruit
know not how to profit by them. Al-
ready they are striving to envelope
royalty in the same robes, to make it
repose on the same couch as its pre-
decessor, in order, without doubt,
that the change should not be per-
ceived. The dynasty has only chan-
ged its chief. To hear our rulers,
you would imagine that the Revolu-
tion is nothing but a chimera, and
that the new King derives his sole
title from his quasi legitimacy.'

" ' I confess that that word is to
me utterly unintelligible.'

" « You had better ask M. Guizot,
Dupin, and their associates, what it
means. I have no wish to dispute
with them the honour of the inven-
tion.— Fatality has attached itself to
the great work: it was begun by
giants, it has been continued by pig-
mies, and now they are striving to
degrade it, in order to lower it to
their own level. They will end by
sinking it, like the Byzantine Em-
pire, in an ocean of words j but let
us not deceive ourselves. These
words will swallow us up.'

" ' It well becomes you to rail at
eloquence, who use it with so much
force.'

" * Eloquence, Madame, does not
consist in fine sophisms, in delusions
coloured with art ; and yet we hear
nothing but that at the Tribune. The
King is deceived, the nation is de-
ceived, all the world is deceived,
and all that for the benefit of foreign
powers.— We are made to live on il-
lusions.— We have already advanced
no farther than the 29th July, when
-we should have raised that mighty
shout, that cry to arms, which would
have resounded to the uttermost
ends of the earth. Our rulers, on
the contrary, are striving only to re-
assure foreign powers, to inspire
submission to external despots. —
We are sleeping on the edge of an
abyss, and fortune in vain calls us to
range ourselves under that immortal

aegis, that tricolour flag, which only
waves over the Tuileries, to contrast
our present humiliation with the
glories of the Republic and the Em-
pire.' "

Such are the seducing colours un-
der which the passion of Republican
propagandism veils its projects of
ambition, rapine, and universal do-
minion!

The Revolution of July effected
as great a change in the leaders of
fashion, and the manners of the day,
as in the men who held the reins of
government. Our authoress gives
the following entertaining account of
her visit to a box of a leader of the
liberal party at the opera : —

" M. De. L. passed into the ante-
chamber, and I rejoined him in half
an hour, equipped for the opera, in
that dress du juste milieu, which was
then beginning to be in fashion. — We
set out, arrived at the theatre ; and
after passing through several boxes,
I found myself in that of M. Guizot,
the Minister of the Interior, directly
opposite that gentleman, and the
high and mighty dame, his wife, sur-
rounded by a crowd of the new cour-
tiers, of whom I thus appeared to
swell the train.

" Indignant at the trick which had
thus been played on me, I looked at
my friend who had thus conducted
me into the middle of that liberal
mob, but he had concealed him-
self behind M. Raoul Rochette, and
others, whom I little expected to meet
in such company. The lady of the
place rose to receive me; her form
was arrayed to advantage in a mus-
lin robe edged with blonde, intended
no doubt to exhibit the union of sim-
plicity and riches. The contrast was
truly curious.— She was decked out
like a chapel, flowers, plumes, rib-
bons ; nothing was awanting ; I was
dazzled at the sight.

" M. Guizot was dressed in a hand-
some black coat, a white waistcoat,
tight pantaloons of light blue ; shoes
finely blacked, with soles half an inch
thick ; a round hat, adorned with an
enormous tricolour cockade ; gloves
almost new : in fine, he exhibited the
true costume of a petit-maitre, only
you would have some difficulty to
assign the period of civilisation to
which it belonged.
« I was formally conducted to a

236

French Memoirs. No II,

[Feb.

chair near that of the Minister's lady.
They complimented me, with that
protecting air which so well becomes
power, and I answered with all the
humility which suited my humble
situation.

" While seated there, I had leisure
to admire the cro wd of young deyans,
with their dressed mustaches and
affected airs, who arranged them-
selves, in close column, round the
ladies whose husbands were in credit
with the government, as if to debar
all approach to a humbler class of
supplicants. There was something
truly amusing in the manners of these
fine gentlemen; their college airs,
their bourgeois manners, their aping
the ease of the Court. They spoke
aloud, used abundance of gesticula-
tion, and were perfectly irresistible.
The ladies fanned themselves, with
a charming air of simplicity ; there
was an ease, an abandon in their de-
meanour, which made me feel all
the rusticity of my previous habits.
I felt like a young village girl sud-
denly transported from her cottage
into a numerous circle, where every
thing she sees and hears is a novel-
ty ; with this difference, that, instead
of being transported from the cottage
to the palace, I had fallen from the
palace to the cottage. Never in my
life had I witnessed such a scene;
but, I own, that after half an hour, I
began to think I had had enough of
it.

" ' Is the curtain never to fall,' said
I to the gentleman who accompanied
me, who at length ventured to ap-
proach my side.

" ' No, madam ; for the master of the
fete has just ordered refreshments.'

" ' Heaven have mercy onus!' ex-
claimed I. * I already begin to per-
ceive the scent of cider and beer. —
Where on earth have you brought
me ?' said I to my companion, as soon
as we had left the box.

" 'Where I promised,' said he—' to
the representation of a Comedie Bour-
geoise, with this difference, that I did
not tell you that it was to take place
at the Minister of the Interior's.' "

Now, this raillery appears to us
richly deserved. We admire M. Gui-
zot as much as any one, and will soon
make our readers acquainted with
his great works ; but when a profes-
sor, leaving his proper sphere, be-

comes a Minister of the Interior, and
assumes, for a little brief space, the
airs of a courtier, he becomes the
fit object of ridicule. The ludicrous
character of the scene which is here
so well described, is a just satire on
the folly and presumption of that le-
velling spiritof the present day which
would remove every thing from its
proper sphere, make learning de-
spicable without being useful, and
industry tumultuous without being
beneficial.

Talleyrand is also introduced on
the scene. The following conversa-
tion will exhibit the views of this ve-
teran politician on the recent chan-
ges.

" c I know not, madam ; but I be-
lieve that war would not suit France
at this moment. The sight of the
tricolour flag could not be agreeable
to the foreign powers, as recalling
the victory of a people over their
king. But what most disquiets me
is to see our old men ape the ideas
of the young, and our youth assume
the decrepitude of age. The latter
are employed in the government-
to-morrow they will be sent back to
their schools.'

" ' What ! do you not recollect
they are now our rulers ?'

" ' You know, madam, that wise
men sometimes bend to the caprices
of children, to let their vehemence
evaporate; but, I must own, every
thing which has recently occurred
in France makes me think that all,
young and old, have profited nothing
by the lessons of the past. It was in
vain to expect that that unanimity, of
which the Revolution boasted so
loudly, could continue. On all sides,
complaints will soon arise from those
who now dissemble their regrets and
their hopes. The spirit of complaint
is more persevering than that of joy.
The first law passed after a Revolu-
tion should be that of an ostracism.'

" ' You have not even,' said I, ' the
relief of emigration '

" « So much the worse. In 1830,
as at the era of the consulate, I was
desirous that the Government should
give an issue to all the humours of the
social body by encouraging emigra-
tion. How many Frenchmen"™ ould
embrace with alacrity the project of
carrying their disappointments to a
foreign shore ! How many are there,

1832.] French Memoirs. No. II. 237

among whom, were it but for a mo- of recent times. Wearenotsufficient-

ment, a new climate is become an ab- ly behind the curtain to know, whe-

solute want ! Those who, remaining ther the conversations are all to be

alone, have lost in battle all that em- fully relied on, though, from their

bellished their existence, and those to being given as the words of living

whom it has become a burden! What characters, the variety of ideas and

a relief would it afford to that crowd the force of expression which they

of political maladies ; to those in- contain, there seems no reason to

flexible characters, whom no reverse believe they are apocryphal. At all

can bend; those ardent imaginations events, they convey a clear, forcible,

whom no reasonings can aft'ect; those and condensed view of the ideas of

fascinated spirits whom noevents will the leading political characters and

convince ; those who ever find them- great parties in the state, during those

selves crowded in their native coun- eventful times ; and as such, seem

try ; the crowd of speculators, and Avell deserving of attention. We have

of those who desire to affix their given them at length, both because

names to new establishments ; the our readers have elsewhere enough

many for whom France is still too of our own ideas, and because we

agitated ,* the still greater numbers despair at conveying otherwise than

for whom it is too calm !' " in the humble guise of a translation,

We know not what our readers the clear and luminous ideas of the

may think of these passages ; but illustrious characters whom the ma-

they appear to us to be among the gic lantern of this lively writer brings

most entertaining and instructive successively before our eyes,
pages we have read in the literature

THE MOONLIGHT CHURCHYARD.
BY DELTA.

THERE is no cloud to mar the depth of blue,

Through which the silent, silver moon careers,
Save in the west some streaks of hazy hue,

Through which pale Vesper, twinkling, re-appears ;

The sacred harmony which rules the spheres
Descends on lower regions, and the mind,

Stripp'd of the vain solicitudes and fears,
Which seem the heritage of humankind,
Commingles with the scene, and leaves its cares behind.

To gaze upon the studded arch above,
And on thy placid beauty, mystic moon,

Shedding abroad the mysteries of love,
And rendering night more exquisite than noon,
Expands the sinking spirit ; while, as soon

As from terrestrial frailties we retire,
And to thy hallowed mood our hearts attune,

To those benignant feelings we aspire,
\Vhich make the spirit glow with purified desire.

'Tis sweet, thus resting on this grassy mound,
To look upon the vales that stretch below,

On the old woods, that throw their shadows round,
And on the silver streams of ceaseless flow,
Murmuring and making music as they go ;

And on the hamlets, where a little star,
Beaming within the lattice, makes to glow

The homeward traveller's heart, as, from afar,
He hails a shelter from the world's contentious jar.

The shatter' d wrecks of generations past,
Slumbering around me are the village dead :

O'er them no sculptured stones their shadows cast,
To keep the moonshine from their verdant bed,

238 The Moonlight Churchyard. [Feb.

Here oft my steps hath Contemplation led ;
And here, alone, in solemn reverie,

Under this hoary elm, with lichens red,
I have thought how years and generations flee,
And of the things which were, and never more shall be !

Nor is the day far distant, nor the hour

Deep in the bosom of Futurity,
When all that revel now in pride and power,

Commingling dust with dust as low shall lie ;

Yes ! all that live and move beneath the sky
An equal doom awaits; our sires have pass'd —

Alike the mightiest and the meanest die ;
And, slowly come the doom, or come it fast,
The inexorable grave awaits us all at last.

But man was made for bustle and for strife;

Though sometimes, like the sun on summer days,
The bosom is unruffled, yet his life

Consists in agitation, and his ways

Are through the battling storm -blasts ; to erase
Some fancied wrong, to gain some promised joy,

To gather earthly good, or merit praise,
Are — and will be — the objects that employ
His thoughts, and lead him on to dazzle or destroy.

Yet lost to all that dignifies our kind,

Cold were the heart, and bigoted indeed,
Which, by its selfish principles made blind,

Could destine all that differ' d from its creed

To utterless perdition : who can feed
A doctrine so debasing in the breast ?

We who are dust and ashes, who have need
Of mercy, not of judgment ; and, at best,
Are vanity to him, with whom our fate must rest.

Since thus so feeble, happy 'tis for us,

That the All-Seeing is our judge alone !
We walk in darkness — but not always thus ;

The veil shall be withdrawn, and man be shown

Mysterious laws of nature now unknown :
Yes ! what is shrouded from our feeble sight,

Or now seems but a chaos overgrown
With marvels, hidden in the womb of night,
Shall burst upon our view, clear, beautiful, and bright.

Oh ! who that gazes on the lights of life,

Man in his might, and woman in her bloom,
Would think, that, after some brief years of strife,

Both must be tenants of the silent tomb !

Nought can revoke the irrevocable doom, —
Childhood's despair, man's prayer, or woman's tear ;

The soul must journey through the vale of gloom ;
And, e'er it enters on a new career,
Burn in the light of hope, or shrink with conscious fear.

Then in resigned submission let us bow

Before the Providence that cares for all :
'Tis thine, oh God, to take or to bestow,

To raise the meek, or bid the mighty fall ;

Shall low-born doubts, shall earthly fears enthrall
The deathless soul which emanates from thee ?

Forbid the degradation ! No — it shall
Burst from earth's bonds, like daystar from the sea,
When from the rising sun the shades of darkness flee !

1832.1

The Aga of the Janizaries,

239

THE AGA OF THE JANIZARIES,

ITALY has probably produced more
of that distinctive quality called ge-
nius, than any other nation of Eu-
rope. What she was in the days of
antiquity we scarcely know, farther
than she was mistress of the world.
Greece seems then to have borne
away the prize of genius. But, be-
fore the question can be decided, we
must remember that ancient Greece
was exactly in the circumstances
which are most favourable to the ex-
pansion of the intellect, while an-
cient Rome, from the time when she
was relieved from the pressure of
perpetual war, was exactly in the
circumstances most unfavourable to
that expansion ; — that Greece was a
group of republics, which even,
when under the dominion of Rome,
were less enslaved than tranquilli-
zed, while Italy was a solid despo-
tism, shaken only by civil wars,
which at once riveted the fetters of
the despotism, impoverished the no-
bles, and corrupted the people.

But on the revival of Europe from
the ruin and the sleep of the dark
ages, Italy was placed under the
original circumstances of Greece :
the land was a group of republics ;
all was sudden opulence, wild liber-
ty, and fiery enthusiasm. She became
first the merchant, then the warrior,
of Europe ; then the poet, then the
painter, of the world. From that
period she was the universal school
of the arts, those higher arts which
regulate and raise the character
of mankind, government, political
knowledge, law, theology, poetry,
not less than those graceful arts
which soothe or decorate human
life ; her music, sculpture, painting,
the drama, the dance, were unrival-
ed. In all periods, when a science
had grown old, and the world began
. to look upon it as exhausted, Italy
threw a new stream of life into it,
and it began its career again for new
triumphs. An Italian revived geo-
graphy by the discovery of a new
hemisphere, and revived astronomy
by giving us the telescope, and throw-
ing open the gates of the starry
world. An Italian awoke us to a
new knowledge of the mechanism of
nature by the air-pump, the barome-

ter, and the pendulum. An Italian
made architecture a new attribute
of man, by hanging the dome of St
Peter's in the air. An Italian made
the wonders of ancient painting cre-
dible by surpassing them, and giving
to mankind an art which now can
never die. While Italy continued a
warring nation, all the great leaders
of the European armies were either
Italians or the pupils of Italy. The
Sforza, Castruccia, Parma, Monte-
cuculi, were the very lights of mar-
tial science ; and who was the sub-
verter of Europe and its kings in our
own day ? who was the inventor of
a new art of war, and the terrible
realizer of his own fearful but bril-
liant theory ? An Italian !

This universal supremacy in things
of the intellect is genius. All was
original; for genius is originality.
All was powerful, practical, and
made to impress its character upon
the living generation, and the gene-
rations to come. For the highest
genius is the most practical : genius
is no trifler ; it may be fastidious; it
may love to dream a world of its
own ; it may look with scorn on the
feeble and tardy progress by which
humbler powers attain the height
which it reaches with a wave of its
wing; but when it once comes to
its task, and treads the ground, its
pressure is felt by the vigour of its
tread. It moves direct to its pur-
pose,— its purpose is worthy of its
rjowers ; simplicity, strength, and
force, are its essence, and it leaves
the evidence of its noble interposi-
tion, perhaps in the overthrow of
kingdoms, perhaps in their renova-
tion, but, in all its acts, leaves the
proof of faculties given with the ob-
ject of changing the direction, or re-
novating the strength, of the general
human mind.

To come to the immediate pur-
pose of the narrative. In the war
of the Russians and Imperialists on
the Ottoman Porte, which ended with
the peace of Oczakow, Dec. 1791,
it was remarked that the fortune
which had so signally accompanied
the Imperialist armies in the earlier
parts of the campaign, as signally
deserted them towards its close ; and

240

that Turkey, which had been saved
by little short of miracle from the
first incursion of the Austrian army,
concluded by not merely repelling
those arms, but placing herself in a
higher rank than she had held before.
The Osmanlis of course attributed
this singular change to the protec-
tion of their prophet ; but those who
were unable to lift their eyes to the
paradise where he sits on sofas of
eternal green velvet, drinking pearl
and ruby sherbet, and surrounded
by Adalisques surpassing all the
Circassians extant, found a sufficient
reason in the good fortune which
had raised Hassan Caramata from
the rank of a camel-driver in the
camp, to the high and responsible
situation of Aga of the Janizaries.

There was but little known of
Hassan in his former career, as a
matter of course, for Turkey has not
yet had among the invaders of its
quiet any amateurs in biography,
collectors of " secret memoirs," or
compilers of autographs. It was
taken for granted that he was the son
of somebody, and that was enough ;
but it was seen that he was a capital
soldier, and that was more satisfac-
tory to the general interest than if
he had his veins incarnadined by the
blood of all the Osmans. He had,
besides, got a character, which ef-
fectually precluded all applications
for his history from his own lips.
He was not merely one of the best
handlers of the scimitar in the do-
minions of the faith, but one of the
most unhesitating in its use. He
was known to have cut from the
skull to the chin, at a single sweep,
one of his own captains, who had
ventured to growl at an order in the
field ; and his habits were of a keen
and vindictive vengeance, which
above all other things turns the edge
of curiosity.

It is perfectly well known that
there was no man in the dominions
of the Sultan, whom that Sultan so
thoroughly feared; yet when Hassan
was but a captain of the Delhis of
the bodyguard, he had established
so decided a character for bringing
things to a speedy issue with the
scimitar or the carbine, that he re-
ceived plumes, diamonds, and em-
broidered bridles and saddles with-
out number, under the pretext of his
adroitness in riding or javelin-throw-

The Aga of the Janizaries.

[Feb.

ing, but, as was well known, for his
being able to strike off the neck of a
bull at a blow, for his being the most
unfailing shot in the service, and
from, what was more to the purpose,
the universal knowledge that an an-
gry dance from the Sultan himself,
would have been merely the preli-
minary to a trial of speed between
them, whether thelSultan's Icoglans
should first have Hassan's head in a
sack, or Hassan should have sent an
ounce ball through the heart of his
angry master. The question was
easily settled, for the Sultan must act
by proxy, which, however sure, is
slow, while Hassan would act in per-
son, which is at once sure and swift.
The consequence was, that this
fiercest of men and most uncourtly
of courtiers was suffered to take his
way, treating Sultan and slave with
nearly equal want of ceremony, and
still, to the universal astonishment,
advancing in military rank. It was
notorious, too, that he openly scoffed
at all the accredited modes of rising
in the body-guard of any nation un-
der the sun. He neither made a
party among the clerks of the Divan,
by promising them double allowan-
ces when he should be Vizier, nor
bribed the Sultanas, nor told fables
of his superior officers, nor made a
lower sal am to the Vizier, the Mufti, or
the Capudan Pasha, than to his own
Korseruldeer. On the contrary, but
a short time before the fight of
Tchesme, he had a furious alterca-
tion with the Capudan, in the pre-
sence of the Sultan himself. He tore
the beard and struck off the turban
of that fortunate slave and miserable
admiral, pronounced that, as he had
been a slipper-maker in his youth ,
he was fit for nothing but to make
slippers to the end of his days, struck
him with the sheath of his scimitar
in the face, and declared that as
surely as he took the command of
the Turkish fleet, so surely would he
either leave it on a sandbank, or in
flames, or in the enemy's hands; —
three predictions which were all
verified in one fact. For all the world
now knows that the Capudan actual-
ly first stranded his fleet, saw it strike
to the Russian flag, and then saw it
burn to cinders on the shores of the
memorable bay of Tchesme. The
whole assemblage of Pashas round
the head of the Moslemans were in-

1832.]

The Aga of the Janizaries.

dignant at this breach of decorum,
but silence is the virtue of courts,
even in Turkey. They waited for the
Sultan's indignation to speak. But it
said nothing. And Hassan Caramata
quietly stalked through the midst of
a hundred and fifty diamond-hilted
daggers, and ten thousand carved
and filagreed muskets, all thirsting
for his blood. Yet neither dagger nor
trigger moved. All eyes were fixed
on the Sultan, and his were fixed on
the towering height and undaunted
stride of the Delhi as he moved from
the hall. In half an hour after, every
Pasha in Constantinople saw, to their
utter astonishment," Hassan Cara-
mata, the accursed, the ferocious,
galloping along the valley of the
Limes, in command of the Sultan's
escort, shooting off the necks of
bottles as usual with his infallible
balls, and throwing the javelin with
a force that made competition des-
perate, and drew loud applause even
from the gravity of the Commander
of the Faithful himself. This was de-
cisive. The Capudan Pasha put to
sea, content with the loss of his
beard and turban, provided it were
not followed by the loss of the head
to which they belonged. The Pashas
went back to their governments, to
consult the soothsayers on the new
kind of magic by which the mightiest
of the mighty allowed the meanest
of the mean to tear beards and tur-
bans in their presence. But the Vi-
zier instantly sent for the Delhi,
complimented him orientally upon
the grace of his manners, and the
respect for the best of masters, which
distinguished him among the child-
ren of the Prophet, in vested him with
a scimitar belt of honour, gave him
his favourite charger, and gave into
his hand the commission of chief of
the body-guard.

Joseph and Catherine had com-
bined to rob the Sultan of whatever
they could. Joseph longed for Bel-
grade, Catherine for Bender; and
with a hundred and fifty thousand
gallant savages between them, there
was a fair prospect of their getting
any thing that was to be paid for by
blood. Hassan saw the Vizier and
the army pass in review before the
Sultan. "The Delhi smiles," said the
sovereign, " does he not think the Ja-
nizaries invincible?" "Yes," was the
answer. " They are invincible against
VOL. xxxi. NO. cxc.

241

every thing but cannon, bayonets,
and men. The black beards (the Aus-
trians) will trample them, the yellow
beards (the Russians) will trample
them. The Vizier will leave every
thing behind but his brains, and the
troops every thing but their hearts."
The Sultan, with a familiarity ex-
tended to no other of his officers,
enquired how it was possible to con-
vey either, after leaving the man be-
hind. " Simply," said Hassan, "be-
cause no man can lose that which
he never possessed." The answer
would have cost the Vizier himself
fifty heads if he had them ; but Has-
san seemed guarded by a spell. The
result of his" last retort was an in-
stant commission of Aga of the Ja-
nizaries.

The prophecy turned out true.
The Vizier was beaten on all occa-
sions ; the Janizaries were beaten un-
til the sound of an Austrian trumpet
sent them flying to all points of the
compass. The Russians were raising
their batteries against Bender ; Co-
bourg and his chasseurs were carry-
ing off Pashas daily from the sub-
urbs of Belgrade ; the war was like a
war of sportsmen against the wood-
pigeons of Walachia. When sudden-
ly the whole scene changed. Patroles
cut off, convoys taken, detached corps
of cavalry disappearing as if they had
sunk into the earth, excited the ut-
most astonishment in the combined
camp. The soldiers began to think the
ghouls and vampires had made a sor-
tie upon them, and that they were
fighting with things of the air or the
grave. Cobourg proposed to retreat
from this perilous ground, but was
attacked on that night, and, after a
loss of some thousand infantry, dri-
ven on the road to Transylvania. The
Russian general wrote for reinforce-
ments from the frontier garrisons.
They marched, but were never heard
of. From the time of the famous bat-
tle of Forhani, in which the allies cut
up the Turkish line, they never gain-
ed an advantage. All was famine,
flight, loss, and wonder. The secret
came out at last. The Vizier still
commanded, but his age was vene-
rable, and he had given up all duties
but those of smoking his calaun,
and perfuming his beard. His asth-
ma disqualified him from the open
air, and he consequently regula-
ted the affairs of war and peace,
Q

The Ago, of the Janizaries.

242

asleep and awake, on his sofa, and
with as much dexterity at one time
as at another. But Caramata was in
the field. The Delhi had brought
some corps of his favourite troops
with him, and, what was better, he
had brought the Delhi spirit with his
troops. Before a month was past,
every Spahi was as eager for a trial
of his scimitar on the Austrian hel-
mets as if he had ate nothing but
opium from the beginning of the
campaign. The Janizaries brightened
their kettles anew, and the sight of
the horsetail was soon a terror to the
platoons of the yellow beards. Has-
san was still the same gloomy, soli-
tary, and incomprehensible being;
more sarcastic than ever, and more
ferocious in quarters, in camp, and
in the field. He had but one punish-
ment for all offences — the edge of the
scimitar. " We come to the field to
slaughter men, not to save cowards,"
was his expression, when he ordered
a troop of his Delhis to ride in upon
a regiment of Janizaries that had suf-
fered itself to be surprised. " You
reproach us Turks with cruelty,"
said he one day to an Austrian ge-
neral, who came to propose a cessa-
tion of arms, " but the only differ-
ence between us is, that you are hy-
pocrites, and we are not. You call
yourselves soldiers, and you murder
all that you can ; we call ourselves
murderers, and we act up to the pro-

f* • 11

fession.

Hassan at least acted up to his
word ; for on the very night which
saw the Austrian return to his Prince
with a fierce message of defiance, the
whole of the imperial foragers were
cut off, and the regiments of hussars
which guarded them sent to the right
about with such expedition, that they
left three-fourths of their number
under the hoofs of the Spahis'
horses.

Winter began to blow, freeze, and
sleet from the tops of the Carpathians;
and'the allies, fully satisfied with
having been beaten for three months
without intermission, and already
harassed almost to death, rejoiced in
the sight of the first sheets of snow
on the hills, as an omen of winter
quarters. But the Aga of the Jani-
zaries told his troops that now was
the time to smite both black beard

[Feb.

and yellow — that cowards required
warm weather to put blood into their
veins, but that brave men could fight
in all weathers. He grew more ad-
venturous than ever, dashed with his
Spahis at every thing that appeared
within a horizon of a hundred miles,
broke into the detached camps of the
allied forces, took cannon, ammuni-
tion,and waggons; and,beforeamonth
was out, sent a pile of standards to
Constantinople large enough to hang
the ceiling of the Santa Sophia, and
beards and mustaches enough to
stuff all the footstools of the Seraglio.
Joseph and Catherine were astonish-
ed. Alarm followed, and then wis-
dom. They sent a proposal for an
armistice to the Vizier. The Vizier
for once laid aside his pipe, and pre-
pared to forward the envoy to the
Sultan. Caramata came in during
the conference, ordered the envoy
to be seized, gave him into the hands
of his Delhis, and turned him out of
the camp, with a solemn declaration,
that the next envoy should have his
choice of the bastinado, or the mouth
of the largest howitzer in the Turkish
lines. The Vizier said, « Allah il Al«
lah," resumed his pipe, and said no
more. The envoy was escorted to
the enemy's camp, and on that night
Cobourg found his tents on fire about
his ears, and was forced to make his
way as well as he could towards the
Barmat. Within three nights after,
the redoubtable Suwarrow was for-
ced to fight his way through ten
thousand gallant horse, who stripped
him of every gun and fragment of
baggage. Bender and Belgrade were
now both effectually cleared. The
Sultan sent his Aga the Cheleuk* of
honour ; the Vizier was ordered to
Constantinople, there to cure his
asthma by the fresh air of the Bos-
phorus, and Hassan Caramata was
appointed in his room, first counsel-
lor to the king of kings, commander
of the armies of the faithful, and
vanquisher of all the unbelievers and
Kafirs under the sun.

The campaign began again : Leo-
pold had succeeded Joseph, and he
resolved to distinguish himself at
three hundred miles' distance by the
cheap heroism of a cabinet warrior.
He sent an autograph letter to Co-
bourg, commanding him to signalize

Diamond plume*

J832.J

The Ago, of the Janizaries.

the new reign by a victory. Cobourg
took the field with a hundred batta-
lions and sixty squadrons. He moved
to the field famous for its name, half
Greek half Slavonic; but more fa-
mous still, for its demolishing the
virgin laurels of the Emperor. At
Tyrkagukuli he pitched his huge
camp, gave a banquet in honour of
the new hero of the House of Haps-
burg, and, after it, rode out to fix up-
on the spot in which he was to anni-
hilate the Infidels.

In half an hour he came flying back
into his lines, with Hassan and fifteen
thousand of the finest cavalry in the
world thundering after him. Never
had Prince of the Holy Roman Em-
pire a narrower escape of being
sent to his illustrious forefathers.
The sixty squadrons were booted
and mounted just in time to be char-
ged, rode over, and broke into frag-
ments. The aide-de-camp who car-
ried the news of the battle to Vienna,
announced that the Prince had gain-
ed an unequalled victory, but " that
he required reinforcements to follow
up the blow." Hassan sent no aide-
de-camp to Constantinople, but he
sent a waggon containing as many
Crosses and Eagles, St Andrew's and
St Peter's, as would have paved the
audience-hall of the Seraglio, or made
buckles and bracelets for the whole
haram, Nubians, Kislar Aga and all.
The Austrians were thunderstruck,
but they sung Te Deum. The Turks
followed the flying Prince, and strip-
ped him of his standards, guns, and
foragers, as they had done the Rus-
sians before. The Allies proposed
an armistice, in pity, as they decla-
red, for the waste of Moslem blood.
The Turks galloped on, and, without
any similar compliments to the spirit
of philosophy, cut up the hundred
battalions as they had cut up the
sixty squadrons. The days of Ru-
perti seemed to be come again, and
Leopold the victorious began to think
of clearing out the fosse, and rebuild-
ing the ramparts of Vienna.

But the city of the Danube was
no longer to be besieged by a Turk,
nor saved by a Pole. Hassan Cara-
mata disappeared. His scimitar,
worth a province in jewels; his state
turban, embroidered by the supreme
fingers of the Sultana Valide herself;
his horse furniture, the present of
the Sultan, and too brilliant for the

243

eye to look upon, except under its
web of Shiraz silk twist — all re-
mained in his tent, and were all that
remained of the famous Hassan Ca-
ramata Vizier. A crowd of reports
attempted to account for his sudden
disappearance. By some he was
thought to have fallen in a skirmish,
into the midst of which he was seen
plungingjwith his usual desperate in-
trepidity^ few days before. But this,
the Delhis, to a man, swore by their
beards, was an utter impossibility ;
for what swordsman in the Austrian
cavalry could stand for a moment
before the fiery blade of Hassan?
Others thought that he had been
sent for privately by the Sultan, as
usual, to converse on matters of state,
and have his head cut off. Butthiswas
disputed too— for fond as Sultans may
naturally be of cutting off heads, Has-
san's was one that kept the Sultan's
on the shoulders of the Father of the
Faithful. The Rumeliotes, however,
began to discover, according to the
custom of their country, that there
was witchcraft in the business, from
beginning to end. They remember-
ed Hassan's countenance — the wi-
thered lip, never smiling except
with some sarcasm that cut to the
soul — the solemn, foreboding, me-
lancholy brow — the look of magnifi*
cent beauty, but tarnished by bitter
memory, or fearful sufferings. For
all those, what manufacturer could
be found but the old enemy of man ?
Zatanai himself had shaped the face
of Hassan ; and why not shape his
fortunes too ? This accounted for
his coming, none knew whence—-
his gaining the Sultan's favour, none
knew how — and his going, it puz-
zled all the philosophers in the army
to say where.

The witchcraft solution settled all
difficulties. Hassan was a ghoul; a
son of darkness, let loose from his
bed, five thousand miles deep, to
spend a few uneasy years on the
upper surface of the world; or a
magician, bargaining for a short pe-
riod of power and honours, and
suddenly carried off, to complete hia
bargain. The Delhis, however, pled-
ged themselves to cut off the musta-
ches, and the head along with them,
of any son of clay who dared to
think, much more to assert, that
their friend, favourite, and captain,
was not a true man, a first-rate Del-

The Aga of the Janizaries.

244

hi, and worth all the Viziers that
ever kissed the dust off the slippers
of the Padishah, since the days of
Abubeker.

The news reached the allies. It
was worth all their feux-de-joie.
Every soldier in Vienna was instant-
ly sent to fill up the ranks of the vic-
torious general, who was always
beaten. Good news came still. Yus-
suf Pacha was re-appointed Vizier ;
and in a fortnight reached the camp,
with his pillows, his pipe, and his
asthma. In another fortnight he had
made up his mind to fight ; and he
moved to find out Cobourg and the
Russians. The Moslemin shook their
heads, wished old Yussuf at his pil-
lau in Constantinople again, shout-
ed " Allah il allah," and marched to
the memorable plain of Rymnik,
making up their minds to drink the
sweet sherbet of immortality. Old
Yussuf was as brave as a lion, with
the brains of an ass. He carried one
hundred and fifteen thousand true
believers into the teeth of the Aus-
trian and Russian batteries— fought
like a hero and a blockhead — and
before sunset lost fifty thousand of
his troops, his two camps, the battle,
and the little understanding that se-
venty years had left him, and all the
fruits of all the triumphs of Hassan
Caramata. Evil dayi now fell upon
the Father of the Faithful. The Del-
his rode back to the capital, and
vowed vengeance on the murderer
of their great leader. The Sultan de-
clared himself innocent, but offered
them any head of his ministers in
exchange. They demanded his own.
He admitted, like all Sultans, their
right to the demand, but offered them,
in the mean time, the head of the Vi-
zier. Yussuf was sent for, acquainted
with the necessities of the state, and,
in half an hour after, his head was
thrown over the seraglio wall. The
war was at an end. The Russians
and Austrians had forced a peace.
The Sultan gave all they asked ; and
Turkey was stripped of all that she
had conquered during half a centu-
ry. Still no tidings had been heard
of Hassan.

Towards the close of the year
1830, immediately after the new les-
son which the Turks received from
the yellow beards, and the new evi-
dence that Viziers from the cobblers'

[Feb.

stalls, and admirals from the stables,
were not the natural props of a falling
empire, a party of Italian draughts-
men, who had been sent out by the
Genoese Jews, the established spe-
culators in all articles of vertu, to
make drawings, make bargains, and,
according to custom, steal what they
could among the fine ruins lately
discovered by the English consul at
Salonichi, were, by some absurdity
of their own, enveloped in a column
of the Ottomans, on their way home
from Shumla. The unlucky artists
were of course stripped to their
trowsers, and ordered to march.
The natural consequence would
have been, that after a day or two of
starving, hurrying through rugged
roads without shoes, and sleeping
under the canopy of the skies, they
would have either made their last
bed in the marshes of Thessaly, or
left their bones for the foxes and
ravens of Pindus ; but this is still no
unclassic land, though trampled by
the hoof of the swinish Ottoman, or
harried by the lance of the moun-
taineer Albanian. The unfortunate
Italians were under the wing of the
Muses, and, like the Athenians in
Syracuse, found the advantage of
having received a civilized education.
On the second evening of their
capture, as the column halted in a
miserable village at the foot of the
mountains, the lucky accident of
finding some date brandy in the cor-
ner of their hut for the night, put
the captain of the escort into such a
state of drunken good-humour, that
he ordered his captives to share it,
by dancing the Romaika along with
him. Half dead as they were, they
complied. He then ordered a song,
to set him asleep. The Italians were
in no forte for melody ; but the cap-
tain's commands were peremptory,
and the song was sung. While it
was going on, an old merchant, at-
tracted by the sound, came to the
door of the hut, and speaking Ita-
lian, of a better quality than the
lingua franca of the half savages
round him, offered his services. He
finally found them some food, by
his influence with thepeasantry ; and,
by a still more useful influence, some
piastres duly administered, obtained
the Turk's leave for them to remain
under his prescriptions for a few
days, until their feet were healed, and

183:2.]

their fatigues sufficiently got rid of
to follow him. The Marabout took
them up the mountain, provided, if
not a cottage for them, at least a
cavern, and for a month also fur-
nished them with the'means of sub-
sistence until they could communi-
cate with their friends.

As the season advanced, and the
Italians began to make preparations
for returning home — for the compact
with the captain was probably not
expected by either party to have
been very conscientiously kept, and
the captain himself was as probably,
by that time, either shot or sabred —
the Marabout's uneasiness grew ob-
vious. He at length acknowledged
himself an Italian, and even a Ge-
noese, but omitted to account for his
Mahometan habit, his life, and his
profession. He was not urged upon
the subject. The time of their de-
parture came. The old man's cares
were unremitting to the last; and
with provisions, some piastres, and a
shower of benedictions, he sent them
forward to the sunny land of mimes,
monks, and guitars.

Before the week was over, they
found the Marabout among them
again. But, a merchant no longer,
he was now an Italian pilgrim, such
as one sees every Easter by the
hundred, before the hundred shrines
of the little dingy Madonnas in Rome.
He told them that, after their depar-
ture, he had found solitude doubly
irksome ; that old recollections had
come again upon him ; and, in short,
that as he was born an Italian, an
Italian he would die. They brought
him with them to Genoa, installed
him, by his own desire, in a convent
there; the easy superior of which for-
got to ask questions touching the pre-
vious faith of a brother who went
through his ' aves and misericordes1
with such perfection. There he re-
mained for some months, going
through the duties with a rigour and
punctuality that prodigiously edified
the brotherhood. He was the admira-
tion of the women too, for his sta-
ture and countenance had scarcely
felt the effect of years, further than in
a slight bend in the one, and paleness
and thinness in the other. But his
eye was the eagle's still, and his step
had the loftiness and stride of the
mountaineer. As he passed through
the streets with his bare head, ve-
nerable by a few silver locks at the

, The A<jd of i/ic Janizaries.

245

side, and his fine bold physiognomy,
he inevitably caught the eye of stran-
gers, and, under those circumstances,
I myself remember to have remark-
ed him, among the mob of mean or
fierce faces that crowd every corner
of the city of the Dorias. It hap-
pened also that my cicerone was one
of the captured draughtsmen, and
from him I heard the particulars of
Fra Paulo, or Giovanni's life, I forget
which — particulars which my Italian
friend would probably not have in-
trusted to a less heretical ear.

So far, my story has nothing un-
common in it, and the misfortune is,
that the sequel is only too much in
the common form to be worth the
modern taste for romance. The old
man, some time after my departure,
Avas found dead in his bed, without
any mystery of assassination being
called in to account for it; nor was
there much wonder in the case, when
we learned that he was eighty-three,
a disease that defies medicine, and
has no want of the spadaccino to set-
tle its account with the world. There
is nothing more out of the routine,
in the fact that the old merchant left
a confession behind him ; for every
monk confesses to some one or other,
and the old merchant had matters on
his mind which he could not have,
without utter expulsion and ruin,
suffered to drop into the most pru-
dent ear within the walls of Genoa,
or, perhaps, the shores of Italy. He
thus at once saved his religious ho-
nour, and disburdened his con-
science, by committing his memory
to paper, and making my cicerone
friend the residuary legatee of his
sins. But even the record of such
matters is a delicate possession in
bella Italia, and my friend expressed
his gratitude in all the hyperbole of
native eloquence, on my desiring
him to collect all the membra disjecta
of the old man's pen, transfer them
to me under the Ambassador's cover,
arid keep his soul in peace for the
rest of his life, relative to the MSS.
of his mountain fellow-traveller,—
Moslem, Marabout, klept, and monk
as he was.

The papers were blotted and mu-
tilated in all kinds of ways, but a
species of abrupt narrative struggles
through them. I give them, such as
they were : —

246

" Whether, like all my country-
men, who are constantly enamoured
of some Donna or other, I could
have spent life in wandering from
ball to ball, and between the sere-
nade, the supper, and the gaming-
table, been satisfied to make my way
to the end of the day, and of all days,
is more than I ever had it in my
power to tell. I fell in love — fell
in love but once, and, with the ex-
tinction of that heavenly flame, be-
came a fiend.

" There is no use now in telling
the name of my family. It was no-
ble, and of the highest order of no-
bility. But is it not enough for the
belief that it was proud, profligate,
and splendid; that its head was a
magnificent idler, and its younger
branches were showy, subtle, pas-
sionate, and with nothing to do on
the face of the earth ; that it was Ita-
lian ? If I went farther, and said that
the head of that family was half
maniac in good and evil, a madly
prodigal benefactor, a madly trust-
ing friend, a madly adoring lover, and
an avenger mad to the wildest depths
of vengeance, need I write under
the picture that he was a Genoese ?

" I was that magnificent idler. I
was that splendid fool, that son of
fortune, who cast away all the gifts
of earth and heaven — who trampled
out in blood loves and feelings that
might have made the happiness of
angels, who ran a frantic career of
destruction through all that had twi-
ned itself round my heart of hearts —
then denied, defied, and cast from
me the only hope which can console
man for the loss of this world, and
then sat down in solitude, helpless
remorse, and despair — unutterable !
* * * * *

" It was during my residence at
Vienna, that I first saw the woman
who was afterwards to kindle all the
fury and all the agonies of my na-
ture. It is useless now to repeat
Septimia's title. She was a woman
of the highest rank, the daughter of
one of our sovereign princes, and
though of a Spanish mother, most
beautiful. At the Austrian Court, she
was the topic of universal admiration,
and when all admired, who shall won-
der if I, her countryman, young,
ardent in all that spoke to the pas-
sions, proud of the honours paid to
Italian beauty, proud too, perhaps,

The Ago. of the Janizaries.

[Feb.

of my own person, whirling through
a perpetual round of brilliant sights
and festivities, with all the aromatic
poison of heightened pleasure filling
my senses and my soul, threw my-
self at the feet of this most singular
and admirable of women !

* » * # %

" We were married. Until the
hour when I led her from the altar,
I had never dreamed that I was not
the first object in her heart. But as
she turned away from that altar, the
single look which she gave to the
image of the Saint above, undeceived
me at once, and for ever. It was
not reproach, nor sorrow, nor reli-
gion, but it was a compound of them
all. That look never left my mind.
It has haunted me in my dreams, it
has followed me in solitude. I have
seen it starting up before me in the
midst of balls and banquets, and in-
vesting the meaningless faces there
with sudden sorrow and majesty. It
has risen before me in the camp, in
the cell ; in the calm, in the storm : I
see it before me, pale, sorrowful, and
lovely as ever, at this hour — the look
of a heart broken, but holily submis-
sive; bowed to the earth, but con-
tented with its grave. Septimia!
Septimia !

* # * * #

" I left Vienna. I had grown weary
of it, of myself, of the world. Plea-
sure satiates, but mine was not sa-
tiety ; it was a fierce undefined feel-
ing; a heavy consciousness that I
had been wronged in heart — that I
had thrown away my capabilities of
loving without the only return that
can reconcile man to the cares that
beset even the smoothest path of ex-
istence. Even the external shew of
happiness that made every lip teem
with envy, flattery, or congratula-
tion, but increased my hidden an-
guish. I have heard the compliments
of princes, and they were only like
taunts to my bitter consciousness. I
have sat in the midst of crowds that
filled my palace, to congratulate me
on birth-days, wedding-days, the va-
rious accessions of my rank, and the
marks of honour conferred on me
by kings, and sat, like Satan in para-
dise, hating the splendour and beau-
ty by which I was surrounded and
tortured ! finding, in the brilliancy
of courts and court honours, nothing
but fuel for the flame that was eat-

1832.]

ing its way through my soul. I was
alive to but one sensation — the cer-
tainty that I was not loved by the
only being whose love I could have
now valued. I saw it in the hol-
lowness of the cheek, in the fee-
bleness of the form ; I saw it even
more keenly in the forced smile with
which my presence, my tenderness,
those attractions with which, half in
hope and half in despair, I from time
to time made an attempt to restore
my wife to me. But her heart was
frozen, or gone ; and pride, pain, and
thwarted affection returned on me
like a legion of the spirits of evil.
*****

" One day, in a hunting party in
Hungary, I was caught in one of
those sudden storms that come from
the Carpathians, and cover the coun-
try with winter in a moment. I took
shelter in a farm-house in the forest.
The fireside was already filled with
the wood-cutters, who had made
their way in from the tempest. As I
had none of the gewgaws of my rank
about me, I passed for no more than
what I was, a man, and was welco-
med merely as a hunter. They were
drinking, and the wine, sour as it
was, brought out their confidences.
One of them, who discovered that I
belonged to the court, probably from
some absurd effeminacy that had
grown upon me, made enquiries
about the mode of conveying a let-
ter with which he was entrusted,
and of which he conceived that I
might be a more adroit conveyer
than himself. The address was to
my wife. I bit my lip till the blood
burst out, but I contrived to check
the rage that was ready to have torn
the carrier and the letter into a thou-
sand pieces. I instantly mounted my
horse. The fellow discovered by my
muttered curses that he had put his
commission into perilous hands, but
it was too late : he followed me, and
even struck me with his wood-knife ;
but I had got that which I would not
have resigned to all the powers of
earth. I felt neither wound nor tem-
pest; I rushed along till I fainted
from loss of blood, and when I open-
ed my eyes once more, found myself
in my chamber, with half the arch-
duke's physicians beside my bed;
languid, and almost lifeless, but with
the letter still grasped in my hand.
" I had been discovered in the fo-

The Affa of the Janizaries.

247

rest by some of my hunters, and
brought home as dead. I had lain for
a fortnight in my chamber, wander-
ing from one delirium to another, but
in all I still grasped the fatal letter
—no force could take it from me.
Such are the poisons which man pre-
pares for himself — I would not have
parted with that letter of ruin, to be
made monarch of Golconda.

" I read the letter. What was it to
the breach of confidence ? The se-
cret was mine, and of all secrets the
most essential and overwhelming.
Its pages gave the fullest satisfaction
that could be desired by a mind long-
ing to have grounds for self-torment.
They were a long-detailed, but gentle
accusation of broken vows, sustained
by references to times and places,
and charges of duplicity and cruelty
on the part of friends and parents,
which told me that my wife (for the
woman was mentioned, it was she in.
every line) had long been loved, and
had loved in turn. That she had been
the reluctant sacrifice to the preju-
dices of her rank ; and that my offer
had been grasped at by her family,
alike for its own advantages, and its
rescue of the daughter of so proud
a line from an alliance beneath her.

" I saw Septimia on that evening.
She had come on the first announce-
ment of my returning mind, and,
kneeling by my bedside, offered
thanksgiving to Heaven for my re-
covery. I could have stabbed her
on the spot. But she wept at my
averted face, and besought me, in
such language of soft submission, to
think kindly of her and her interest
in me, that I felt the tears streaming
down my cheeks. In that moment
I could have turned to her, confess-
ed all that burdened my mind, and
solicited to have at least all that was
left to her of her early heart. But
I was born to be a victim ! Pride
forbade the humiliation. I sent her
from my bedside ; and tossing there
till midnight, then started up, fever-
ed and feeble as I was, to tread the
corridors with shuddering feet, and
break open with frantic jealousy the
cabinet in which I conceived the re-
mainder of this correspondence to be
concealed.

" With a sensation of self-re-
proach that need not be envied by
a wretch on the wheel, I broke open
the cabinet, found a packet of letters,

248

carried them to my own chamber,
and there fed on them day by day.
They gave me a feast of agonies. I
found there the history of the whole
developement of young passion ; the
stories of the country walks, the
youthful employments, the presents
of flowers ; the first parting of the
lover for the army; the thanks for
his promotion obtained by the be-
loved one's influence ; the little gay
anecdotes of the campaign, and
mixed with them sentences repeated
from the answers, which told me
bitterly what these answers were;
fond, glowing, confiding, the out-
pouring of a fine spirit, all awake
with the finest of all passions. Yet
what was this eloquence to me ?
what the brilliancy of the unconscious
wit, or the loftiness of the half-in-
spired feeling ? They were all for
another; and the woman whom I
had selected from the world to be
the depositary of my thoughts, had
not a thought for me : the being in
whose loveliness I would have taken
a pride, was to me but a weeping
vestal, the guardian of a solitary altar,
where the flame never shone to me.
The wife of my bosom, the sharer in
my fate, the partner of my rank and
fortune, was at that hour the scorn er
of them all, wandering in heart far
away after the trials and chances of
another, shedding tears for another's
sorrow, rejoicing in another's suc-
cesses ; and if she thought of me
still, perhaps only measuring the
years between me and the grave, and
feeling the bonds of marriage only
with the hope that the time might
come when she should again be free.
*****

" Iliad returned to my own country.
But who can fly from himself? At
five-and-twenty, I had the look of
fifty. In. the midst of all that the
world covets, I was a worn-down and
meagre misanthrope. If it had de-
pended on me, the earth would be a
wilderness, or mankind a horde of
Tartars, only ravaging each other,
and turning the earth into a grave.
My friends — and I had then a host of
them — came round me with advice,
entreaties, wonder at my fierce con-
tempt of society, hopes of change,
and all the other helpless contrivan-
ces of man to administer to the sick-
ness of the mind; but their efforts
were as useless #s probably their

The Aga of the Janizaries.

LFe'b,

zeal was hollow. In this withering of
the head and heart I must have per-
sisted, but for a new excitement.
War broke out between the Empire
and Prussia. The prize between the
combatants was a paltry province,
which the money wasted in the con-
test would have paved with ingots,
and which seemed doomed to per-
petual sterility. We contrived, how-
ever, to make it bear a crop of hu-
man skulls. As the holder of a fief
of the empire, a regiment was offer-
ed to me, and, at the head of my ca-
valiers, I rushed into the war. Glo-
rious invention for accumulating the
miseries, exercising the follies, and
displayingthe blindness of man ! Two
hundred thousand of us were sent
out to butcher each other. Imperial-
ists and Prussians pounced on each
other with the appetite of vultures,
and, having gorged ourselves with
human blood, rested only until a
fresh feast of blood was ready. Every
horror that fiction ever raised, was
transacted as the common, every-
day business of life. To-day victors,
to-morrow fugitives; wading through
Austrian carcasses at Prague; bathing
in Prussian gore at Kollin; fighting
through fire and water, through fa-
mine, nakedness, pestilence; we were
still as ready as ever to tear each
other into fragments, as if we were
flinging away life for any one thing
that ever made life desirable. Be-
tween the hospital and the field, the
first campaign strewed the rocks and
morasses of Silesia with a hundred
thousand skeletons of what once
were men and fools.

" But to me this was a delight. I
was a wild beast, not a man — I long-
ed to wreak myself on all that bore
the human shape — I felt myself ter-
ribly divorced from human interests
— and, with the consciousness of an
exile from happiness which could
finish only in the grave, I sought the
grave. I was every where foremost.
My regiment imbibed, as all soldiers
will, the headlong habits of their
colonel. We dashed at every thing,
until the enemy began to think that
resistance was useless ; and the sight
of my hussars in the field, decided
the fate of many an encounter.

I was, of course, honoured for all
this. Stars and crosses \vere hung
upon a breast which cared no more
for them than if they were so many

The Ay a of the Janizai ici>.

18.32.]

cobwebs. Still I tore my way through
the enemy's squadrons, and led on
my fierce sabreurs from danger to
danger, until I was pronounced in-
contestably the most gallant hussar
officer in the service — a Nadasti, a
Scanderbeg — the pride and the ex-
ample of the Austrian army. It was
remarkable, that in all these hazards
I had escaped without the slightest
wound. Superstition said that I bore
a charmed life, and had brought a
spell with me from Italy. I had in-
deed brought that spell ; for what
preservative for the soldier is equal
to despair ? I, who never heard the
fire of a Prussian battery without a
secret wish that it should lay me
low — I, who never saw the sabres of
the Prussian cavalry without a prayer
that I might be impaled on their
points before evening. — I alone was
untouched, while my charger tram-
pled the bones of thousands and tens
of thousands of my fellow-men.

" I was, however, to feel at last the
caprices of fortune. As I command-
ed the rear-guard of Loudohn's corps
in its retreat through the last defiles
of Silesia, a charge made by some
of the Zieten hussars upon our bag-
gage, set my squadrons in motion.
We fell upon the marauders, and
quickly recovered our baggage ; but
the darkness of the twilight, the in-
tricacy of the ravine, and more than
either, the habitual daring of my
men, plunged us into the centre of
the whole advanced Prussian cavalry.
We fought desperately, and at last
extricated ourselves, but in the final
charge I received a blow which
struck off my helmet, and complete-
ly blinded me for the time. I fell
off my horse, and must have been
trampled to death, but for the gal-
lantry of one of my officers, a Hun-
garian, who had lately been received
into the corps. This brave fellow,
after first driving his sabre from point
to hilt through my assailant, dragged
me from among the horses' feet, and
carrying me on his shoulders, re-
stored their unlucky colonel to his
regiment, who were already in the
utmost despair.

" I was conveyed to Vienna—was
covered with honours, and racked
with pain. But I was not to die.
The gallant Hungarian was my nurse,
and, after having preserved my life
from the enemy, he preserved it from

240

the doctors. But my illness was
long, and during it Septimia arrived
from Italy, with wife-like duty, to
watch over her dying husband. I
was moved by this display of tender-
ness, and on my feverish pillow,
from which I thought I was never to
rise, inwardly acquitted her of the
crime of giving me the semblance of
a heart. I took myself to task for
the rash precipitancy with which I
had wooed her, for the proud and
lavish proposals which had influ-
enced the vanity of her relations, for
the fierce and violent determination
to make myself happy, when it might
be at the expense of making her
miserable. Hour after hour of lonely
thought, when all my senses seemed
wrapped in sleep, have I gone
through the whole tormenting his-
tpry of my passions, my follies, and
my sufferings ; and hour after hour,
have I resolved to cast my regrets to
the winds, to confide, to hope, to see
happiness, even against conviction ;
to be blind and be comforted.

" One night, when the paroxysm
of my fever seemed to render it pos-
sible that I should not see another
morning, Septimia determined to
watch beside my bed. I was already
half dreaming, and seeing squadrons
of cavalry slain and being slain, when
I was roused by the pressure of a
hand on my forehead. It was Sep-
timia' s. Overcome with weariness for
several nights before, she had fallen
asleep, and was tossing her arms in
the agitation of a dream. She uttered
words too, words that sank into my
heart like molten ore. She evidently
thought herself transported once
more to those early scenes, whose
very memory to me was torture.
She was straying with her lover ; she
was parting from him. She was
rushing to his arms after long ab-
sence. She was abjuring him. She
was pledging herself never to love
another. She was pleading with her
parents. She was lamenting the
bitter misfortune of the beauty which
had exposed her to my disastrous
love. She was drawing the contrast
between my almost kingly opulence
and her lover's obscure means, and
rejoicing in the power of thus con-
vincing him that she could abandon
the world for his sake.

" Imagine, if human imagination is
made for such things, the feelings,

250 The Ago, of the Janizaries. [Feb.

the miseries, the immeasurable that I could now leave her, the right
shame, of the miserable listener.
From that moment I flung away all
hope, from that moment I determin-
ed that the shortest way to happiness
was revenge, and that the shortest
way to revenge was the best. I de-
voted her to destruction ; I devoted
myself; I devoted mankind. My
heart was chill no more, the ice
round it was fire. I was now neither
husband nor man. I was a tiger;
and if I did not spring upon my vic-
tim, and crush her at the instant, it
was that, like the tiger, I might make
my spring the more secure ; that 1
might strike her like a destiny ; that
I might hunt her down with long
wretchedness ; and then, when I had
exhausted the last powers of inflic-
tion, triumph, and destroy her at a
blow. * * * * *

" These are horrors — but I was a
lover, and a madman. I was an
Italian, and that includes the whole
circle of the passions and vices.

" She rose, shook off her dream, and
left the chamber, to prepare herself
for renewed watching, by the fresh-
ness of the air that flowed in from
the balcony. With the stealthy step
of the tiger I followed her. She was
standing in the moonlight, and never
human being looked more like one
of those forms of loveliness that we
image descending from the spiritual
world. She looked ethereal, and
the melancholy smile with which she
glanced at the peaceful worlds above,
— the clasped hands — and the sounds,
between sigh and prayer, which rose
from her lips, were like the sorrows
of a being fallen from those bright
orbs, or longing to pass away and be
at rest, where the troubles of our
stormy existence are felt no more.

" I gazed ; and the sense of beauty
dissolved my soul. My hand was
on my poniard. But how could I
lift it against a being that seemed all
but already sainted ? She prayed
too ; she wept ; I saw the tears glis-
tening on her eyelashes, I heard the
very beating of her heart. Vengeance
was impossible. I resolved to wait
for farther proof, to task my own
heart, to punish myself, who was the
true criminal, and with calmness,
oh! with what desperate calmness,
withdraw from her presence, and
leave this incomparable creature all

of forgetting her rash and unhappy
lord for ever.

" While these thoughts were revol-
ving in my heart, while I was thinking
of throwing myself at the feet of my
wife, confessing my suspicions, my
fears, my remorse, and stooping that
proud heart to the just humiliation
of soliciting her forgiveness, I was
startled by the shadow of a figure
entering the balcony. My wife ut-
tered a faint shriek, but she did not
fly. The stranger did not approach
her. It was clear to my eye, render-
ed keen as the lynx's by jealousy,
that they knew each other, and knew
each other well. I glided along in
the darkness. I heard their whis-
pers— their words were broken, and
intermitted with many a sigh. I
stood and listened to all. With my
heart alternately panting as if it
would burst, and then sinking into 4
what I thought the coldness of death ;
with my breath held, with every fa-
culty of my being all ear, I gathered
the broken sounds. I heard the
W0rds — leave, anguish, parting, ruin.
These were enough. I made a his-
tory of them sufficient for madness.
The sigh and the tear—the clasped
hands and the fainting form, filled
up all that was lost. I drew my
poniard, and waited but for an op-
portunity to strike the secure blow
which would extinguish the traitor
and the traitress together.

" As if to increase the terrors of a
moment big with fate to all, the
night, which had till now been of
more than summer serenity, was
changed, and a blast of wild wind,
followed by sheets of rain, burst on
the palace. Septimia shrunk in fear ;
the stranger rushed forward to sus-
tain her. Now was my time — with
one hand I was at his throat. I saw
his glance of astonishment ; I heard
my wife's scream of terror ; I heard
but one sound more— his groan — as,
with my poniard in his heart, he roll-
ed in dying convulsions at my feet.
In another moment, all was silence.
Of the three who had just been
fevered and glowing with the most
vivid emotions of our nature, there
were now left but three statues.

" A blaze of lightning that wrapped
us all, as if the King of Evil had
come on his fiery chariot to exult

1832.]

The Ago. of the Janizaries.

over his finished work, shewed me,
for the first time, the features of the
stranger. What was my wonder — he
was mynpreserver, my gallant com-
rade, the Hungarian I But he had
died for his crime, and in that thought
I was comforted. Fool, and slave
that I was ! I exalted myself into a
minister of that Divine Justice, which,
existing before all law, strikes "the
criminal in his most triumphant hour,
embitters the blow by the sudden-
ness of divorce from all that he loves,
and proudly vindicates Heaven, with-
out the tardy formalities of man.

" From this waking trance I was
roused by a voice at my side. It was
Septimia's. She pronounced me a
murderer, and stained with inno-
cent blood. She was, like myself,
an ardent, powerful, sensitive being,
whose nature had been suppressed
by long sorrow; but it now burst
forth. She pronounced me hateful
to her sight, a slave of jealous fury,
and merciless thirster after blood.
Taking the dead hand of the unfor-
tunate Hungarian, she kissed it, and
pledged herself before Heaven and
the dead, never to associate with me,
never to hold counsel, never to pro-
nounce my name more. I stood and
listened to all. Then came the tale.
The Hungarian was her first love,
and, to my sorrow, her only love.
They had been bound to each other
by the most solemn vows, until my
ill-omened passion at once overthrew
his hopes. She would have fled with
him, and gladly exchanged opulence
and rank for his humble fortunes ;
but his high and generous spirit re-
volted against this sacrifice. Insulted
by her family, and fearful of bring-
ing to poverty her whom he could
endow only with his heart, he left
her presence altogether, and disap-
peared. Her next tidings of him were
that he was dead, in the service of
Russia, and his scarf and sword
were sent to her as a dying remem-
brance. He had fallen in an engage-
ment with the Turks in Bessarabia.
She had now nothing to hope for on
earth ; and, in listlessness and cold-
ness, she gave way to the will of her
relatives, and suffered herself to be
wedded to me. All this was told
with the quickness of the lightning
that flashed round us, and with al-
most the withering power. The Hun-

251

garian had constructed this tale of
death to set Septimia at liberty ; and
then, in human weakness, had longed
to be near her once a^ain, before he
died. He had returned to Austria, en-
tered the service unknown, and lin-
gered only until he could see, with his
own eyes, that she was happy with her
husband. For years she had not
seen him till that night, even then by
chance ; and the words that passed
between them were only those of
final farewell.

" I wanted nothing of all this to
know that I was miserable ; but Sep-
timia was too like myself, to part with
the cup of misery while it could hold
a single drop more. Her reproaches
were terrible; — her taunts went to
my soul. I felt the native devil with-
in me. I commanded her to be si-
lent, to spare me, to spare herself. It
was all in vain. She was, like my-
self, an Italian, and restraint was at
an end. She had thrown off all the
feebleness and timidity of the sex.
She heaped reproaches on me that
fell like coals of fire upon my head,
shocked with wonder, almost with
awe, on the magnificent indignation
and haughty despair of a creature
who, but the hour before, was all
submission, all tears and tenderness,
all calm, cold duty. She now tower-
ed in the strength of thwarted love ;
her very nature seemed to have re-
ceived a sudden exaltation ; her
voice was rich, solemn, and power-
ful ; her eye sat on me like a con-
science, and penetrated me with an
intense and agonizing keenness. I
felt myself unequivocally bowed
down before this majesty of wrath.
Writhing through every fibre, and
tossed by a frenzy of passion that
tortured me as if I had been flung on
the waves of the place of unutterable
punishment, I might have borne this.
But there are limits to the most pa-
tient endurance of man. But to hear
her avow her love for the dead, at
my feet — to see her press his passive
hand to her forehead, to her lips, to
her heart — to see her fling herself be-
side the body, and wildly supplicate
that with it she might be laid in the
grave ! This I could not have borne ;
yet this I was doomed to hear and
see, and shudder over. I felt that
to this there must be one conclu-
sion, and that a bloody one ; I felt

The A<ja of the Janizaries.

[Feb

my veins like ice ; I felt the steel
quiver in my fingers; I implored her
not to rouse me to do what must
be ruin to us both. She defied me.
I adjured her to leave me till I had
mastered the rage which was now
ready to master me. She but caught
the dead hand, and kissed it with
wilder fondness. * One kiss more,'
I exclaimed, * and you die.' The
kiss was given, and with a laugh
of consummate scorn. I knew not
what became of me ; I was blind —
mentally and bodily blind. I rushed
forward to tear the hand from her
lips. I heard a shriek j a convulsive
grasp dragged me down — we fell to-
gether. I heard and felt no more.
" The cold air of the dawn awoke
me. I had lain on the marble floor
frpm midnight. I was stiff and cold,
and felt as if I had gone through
some dreadful dream. But I was
soon taught the reality. Septimia
was lying dead beside the Hunga-
rian. My poniard was fixed in her
bosom. Whether I had stabbed her
in my rage, or whether she had fall-
en the victim to my unlucky hand
in the struggle, all was over. There
lay the unhappy pair, both guiltless,
yet with the heaviest punishment of
guilt; both young, lovely, noble; both
formed for happy years, and for the
richest brightener of the happiest
years, mutual love. Yet there they
lay, silent, cold, motionless, heart-
less ; their whole current of life
and joy stopped in an instant by a
murderer's hand. There is some-
times a strange delight in knowing
that the worst that can come has
come. I felt that strange delight,
the hideous joy of a fallen angel fix-
ed in eternal chains. I felt the
fierce consciousness of utter and ir-
reparable ruin. I rejoiced in the
agony of belief, that the whole power
of earth could not free me from a
single fetter of my ruin ; that I had
fathomed the lowest depth of undo-
ing ; that all the racks and wheels of
tyranny could not add another pang
to my mighty misery, my parching
and burning up of soul, my perfec-
tion of woe. I gazed on the beauti-
ful beings whom I had extinguished ;
I even felt a frantic pity for them ; I
composed the scattered locks on
their noble foreheads ; I whispered a
wild prayer for the safety of their
souls ; I even bathed them with my

tears; but they were not tears of
repentance ; they were the mere
surcharge of a heart infuriated and
infatuated, until it had exhausted
itself, and sunk into weakness.

" How long I continued this melan-
choly task I know not, but I was
roused by the approach of my at-
tendants, who were alarmed by not
finding me in my chamber. I was
then fully awake to myself, and with
the dagger still dyed with my wife's
blood, attempted to put an end to all
my pangs at once. I gave the blow ;
but^my arm was feeble with sick-
ness, and before I could repeat it, I
was seized and conveyed to my bed.
The catastrophe of this night of hor-
rors, of course, soon reached the ears
of justice, and I should have been
not unwilling to abide its severity ;
but my noble house forbade this
humiliation, and I was hurried away
in a state of stupor from Vienna,
many a league.

" My subsequent career is less
known, yet more memorable. The
dagger had cut away from me all the
honours, enjoyments, and hopes of
life ; what could now stimulate my
ambition ? Who could now be worth
my hate, and who could now awake
my love ? I abandoned Europe, and
went to wander among all nations
where I could be farthest from the
sight of an Italian face, the sound of
an Italian tongue, the slightest me-
mory of times and scenes which yet
were imperishably fixed in my soul.
But if they were there, they were
things in the grave, and their revival
was like the fearful summoning of
the dead. I traversed Tartary, I
plunged into the Siberian winter, I
even penetrated the jealous bound-
aries of the Chinese Empire. A-
mong them all I carried my remorse,
but it may have been owing to this
pilgrimage that I retained my senses
or my life. Labour is the great pal-
liative of human sorrow. Hunger
has no time for tears; danger suf-
fers no faculty to sink into lazy use-
lessness. I learned among those bar-
barians something more, — the use of
those extraordinary powers which
nature gives us in the human frame. I
learned to endure fatigue which
would meltdown the hardiest Euro-
pean. I tamed the wild horse of the
desert ; I swam the cataract ; I sca-
led the mountain. The fiery sun

1832.]

Tlie Aga of the Janizaries.

of the south darkened my skin, but it
could not wither up my nerves.
Winter with its snows and tempests
was my pastime. I had soon become
distinguished among my half savage
comrades for dexterity in the use of
arms. This was in some degree the
result of my Italian birth. Nature
had given me the singular flexibility
of form found south of the Alps ;
no man among the desert riders
was my superior at the lance, the
scimitar, and the bridle. Distinc-
tions, the distinctions of barbarism,
were forced upon me, and I became
the captain of a troop. I might have
been perhaps a Khan in time, and
shaken the Russian diadem as a new
Zingis, at the head of a new uprising
of the wilderness. But I felt higher
exultation in the commands of our
Khan to join the Moslem army in
the commencement of one of its
most disastrous campaigns. There
again distinctions thickened over
me. Some feats against the Russian
cavalry drew down unbounded praise
from the Turkish Agas, and I was
fixed in the select troops of the Sul-
tan. I now had an object in view at
last. War had become familiar to
me. I had cut down the bridge be-
tween me and mankind; and even
among Turks there is no better way
to honours. I was reckless, daring,
and remorseless. I had learned to
look upon mankind as a race of pre-
destined slaves or tyrants, and whe-
ther slaves or tyrants, the natural
food for the sword. I spared neither
sword nor tongue. I massacred in
the field, and I insulted in the coun-
cil. Of course, I domineered in both.
I found folly in the Divan, folly in
the field, and defect, dismay, and
ruin every where. I gave them in
place of those pledges of ill luck,
plain sense, hard fighting, the basti-
nado, and the flat of the scimitar.

" In a single campaign, I restored
the Sultan's arms, humbled the Rus-
sians, and, what was more, taught
the Divan to speak like honest men.
But who shall account for the changes
of human things ? In the last skir-
mish, when we were pressing the
enemy's army to destruction, and
cutting them up hourly like weeds,
a packet was delivered to me by one
of the Spahis, which he had found
in the captured baggage. In it was
a volume which had belonged to

253

some luckless Italian in the retreat-
ing army. It was my own history ;
mine, compiled by some romancer,
but told word for word ; with frag-
ments of my wife's letters, and every
incident and feature of the whole
transaction given in the utmost de-
tail. Romance had done nothing in it.
For what exaggeration could it have
found in romance ? But its perusal
that night changed the whole course
of my fortunes. It brought back
youth, passion, misfortune, misery,
in full tide upon me again. The
cold and unnatural fierceness of the
Janizary chieftain was thawed away
at once. The hatred of man, or that
more than hatred, the contempt of
human nature, which looked upon
its joys and sorrows, its struggles
and successes, as the sport of flies,
made only to be brushed away, or
the malignity of reptiles, fit only to
be trampled into death; all was gone.
I saw before me, in my solitary tent,
that night, the countenances of every
friend of my early years— I heard
the voices once familiar to my heart
— I breathed the beloved and balmy
air of my native fields — I exulted in
the unrivalled splendours of my na-
tive sunshine, my native shores, my
native hills. First and last in every
landscape, in every proud saloon, in
every spot of peace and beauty, I
saw the two figures that had decided
on my fate, and shut the door of
happiness upon me. But time had
extinguished the intensity of my
passions, and with it of my pains. I
felt that I longed only to forgive and
be forgiven, and lie down and die.

" While I was feasting on my lonely
banquet of sorrow, the thunders of
the Ottoman drums were heard. The
contrast was fatal to my soldiership.
I felt an instant and irresistible re-
luctance to the trade of blood. I
thought with wonder and with loath-
ing on the savage delight which had
hurried me so long through the fu-
ries of war. I had shed gore in tor-
rents—and that, too, was Christian
gore. On my knees I pledged my-
self to the Heaven which had so long
endured me, never to aid the fero-
city of king or people again. I loosed
the scimitar from my waist, took
the poniard from my sash, the tur-
ban from my brow, and, .throwing
over me the cloak of one of the
Greek followers of the camp, took

254

my solitary way, and left camp,
glory, wealth, the Vizierote, and the
world behind.

"I never repented this step. I never
turned back my tread. I fixed my-
self among the Thessalian cottagers,
and there led a life of labour and
contentment. When the war render-
ed life there precarious, I returned
to the hills, for life had become va-
luable to rne, from the time when I
found that it could be made useful
to my fellow-men. I had been, like
the great King of Babylon, driven
out from my kind, a proud madman,
degenerating into the savage. I had,
like him, fed on the dross and weeds
of human life. I had spurned, and
raged, and raved ; and, in the deep-
est moral humiliation, in the wildest
insanity of the heart, had deemed
myself lord of all around me. But
the terrible dream had passed, with
all its phantoms ; the convulsed and
fearful distress of the soul had sub-

The Aga of the Janizaries.

[Feb.

sided. * The hair, wet with the dew
of heaven, and the nails like eagles'
claws,' had passed from my nature.
I was a man again ; and, in the joy
of my recovered faculties, I resolved
to live in future only for the sake of

g'ving help to man, and homage to
im in whose hand man is only the
dust of the balance.
* ******

" I am now, I believe, dying ; andj
die with the hope that the evils of my
career may be forgotten, the good
remembered, and the frailties for-
given. The Italian prince, the Mon-
gol captain, the famous Hassan Ca-
ramata, the obscure Marabout, all
have finished their career, and all
are now stretched upon the straw-
bed of an humble brother of the
bare-footed Carmelites. I have, like
Solomon, tried the sorrows, the wis-
dom, and the glories of life — like So-
lomon, found them all VANITY OF
VANITIES.

1831.] Noctes Ambrosiance. No.LX, 255

No. LX.

XPH A'EN DTMIIOSin KTAIKHN HEPINISSOMENAIIN
HAEA KXTTIAAONTA KA0HMENON OINOHOTAZEIN.

2.'
PHOC. ap. Ath.

[ This is 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 j
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 Noctes.}

C. N. ap. Ambr.

SCENE, the Snuggery — NORTH at his Desert— Time, Seven o'clock —
AMBROSE the lord in waiting.

NORTH.
WRETCHED raisins — paltry prunes — infamous filberts !

AMBROSE.

Sir ! sir ! sir ! sir ! sir !

NORTH.
Walnuts ! 1 1

AMBROSE.

Yes— sir.

NORTH {Cracking one between forefinger and thumb.)
Another devil's snuff-box!

AMBROSE.

Most misfortunate. Depend on it, gracious sir, that I shall institute the
most rigid enquiry into this affair.

NORTH {staring wildly.)
What affair ?

AMBROSE.

How, sir, (pardon, I beseech you, for my presumption,) that pluffy im-
postor found his way into a picked peck of walnuts, purchased but yester-
day, for the enjoyment of my best -

NORTH (with sputtering noise rejected.)

Curse all apples ! what call you the infernals ?

AMBROSE.

The basket on your right, sir, is Ribstone— on your left, sir, Golden
Pippin—in front, sir, New York— the row beyond are chiefly Clydesdales
—and in the distance you perceive, sir, the products of France.

NORTH.

France! Citizen-king! Louis-Philippe! Baroness de la Feucheres!
Last of the Condes! Suicide! Strangulation! Murder I Murder!
Murder !

Enter in consternation MON CADET, SIR DAVID, KING PEPIN, TAPPITOURY,
the PECH, and « the rest."

THE PECH.

TT ?,£d?y81 loshy-days! loshy-daysi Is Mr North and master fechtin' ?
Hech I it they're no in grupps I

AMBROSE (shaking his black brows.)
Avaunt, vermin J— (they evaporate.)

256 Nodes Atnbrosiana.—No* LX* [Feb,

NORTH.
How considerate in the creatures I

AMBROSE.

Don't try to cough it up, my dear sir, don't try to cough it up.

NORTH (gulping gaspingly.}
Can't swallow it.

AMBROSE.

Heavens, sir I Cough it up, my dear sir, cougli it up ! It's only one of

the seeds. May I dare, my lord, to give you a slight on the shoulder ?

Yet the very idea is impious —

NORTH.

Asthma— Ambrose—Asthma !

AMBROSE.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no — Sir ! No, no, no, no, no, no, no —my dearest
Mr North—not asthma— not asthma— 'tis but a seed— a damned seed.

NORTH.

Hush. Perhaps the hooping-cough. My childhood was not like that of
other— ( Severe fit.)

AMBROSE.

I'm sure, sir, it was not. I knoAv you had none of the diseases incident
to common — Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! cough it up, sir ! do cough it up !

NORTH.
Ach ! ach ! ach ! That shoe pinches.

AMBROSE.

This must indeed be the kinkcough. O, sir ! do not grow so black in
the face, if you can help it, my dear sir ; for I fear to look on it — but I do
trust you are not angry, sir —

NORTH (crowing like a cock.)

I feel somewhat relieved now, Ambrose.

AMBROSE.

How happy would I be could I believe that were a voluntary imitation ;
but, alas ! I fear it was the wild work of the cruel complaint- — -
NORTH (crowing again.)

Did ye hear that, Ambrose ? If — I am — to be — cut off— you — will

at — least — al — low— that I die — game. ( With a languid smile.)

AMBROSE.

Be cheery, sir — be cheery. After the kinkcough, you will have to go
through the measles, and the scarlet fever, and the

NORTH.

0 mother ! mother ! why was your little Kit never inoculated ?

AMBROSE.

Not too late yet, sir, for vacillation. Many public characters

NORTH.
At my time of life, Am— brose ! 'twould be fatal. (Severest Jit.)

AMBROSE.

Let me venture to volunteer holding your honour'd head on my breast.
There, sir — there, my dear sir — Oh f say that you're easier now, sir !
Don't speak, sir !

NORTH.

" Murder most foul, as at the best it is,
But this most foul and most unnatural."

AMBROSE.

1 would fain hope, honoured sir, that you are not waxing delirious.

NORTH.
Not much. She devil !

AMBROSE.

Ha ! now you begin to look like yourself again, sir. Thank heaven, the
worst is over.

NORTH.

Thank you, Mr Ambrose. My lungs, that even now did crow like
chanticleer, are comfortably clacking like a hen at brood. But my head

1832.] Nodes Ambrosiana. No. LX. 25?

has left a white stain on your black velvet vest, mine host. Let me wipe
it off.

[North dusts away the hair-powder from Ambrose's black velvet vest
— the same which Picardy first sported on being presented to
George the IV. in Holyrood, by Southside.

AMBROSE (bowing with blushes.)
Prouder of that badge, sir, than were it a star.

NORTH.
I suspect, my good Ambrose, that I have got the jaundice.

AMBROSE (smiling.)

The jaundice, sir ? No — no — no. That disease dare not attack a man
of genius. Nature, sir, will not suffer such eyes to look distemperedly on
her works.

NORTH.

Finest of flattery, conveyed in the noblest of sentiments !

AMBROSE.

In the jaundice, sir, a man sees all things yellow. The patient would
think those pale pink panels ochre — nay, the snows of his mistress's bosom
would seem to him a bunch of dandelions

NORTH.

I have got the jaundice. All the fruits on the table are of one hue — that
of the forsaken— nuts, apples, pears, oranges, all of the same green and yel-
low melancholy — and you yourself, Ambrose, a glower of gambouge I

AMBROSE.

In all humility, sir, I trust not. No hint of the kind has dropped from
any of the household

NORTH.

Because I alone have got the jaundice. (Putting a few shillings from his
purse.} Look there I If I did not know them to be shillings, I should swear
they were guineas.

AMBROSE.

But are you sick, sir ?

NORTH.

Very very sick — sick of you— sick of the world — sick of life — sick of my-
self! For what are we — one and all — but so much animated brick-dust ?

AMBROSE.

"Eureka! Eureka!" I have discovered the cause of your disease!—
(Laughing joyfully.}

NORTH.

I fear, sir, you are becoming somewhat too familiar

AMBROSE.

If I am, then banish me from Snuggery and Saloon in sacula sceculorum*

Forgive me, sir ; but if my gracious master will but doff these specs

NORTH (loosening the pressure of the elastic silver.)

Creation has recovered its character— the whole world of nature and of
art.

AMBROSE.

These spectacles, sir, belong to a queer creature of an optician, at pre-
sent one of our lodgers, who has a craze for staining glass of all colours—
but how they got here is a mystery

NORTH.

How potent imagination ! I was as sick as a dog. But are you sure, Am-
brose, that my face is not like one of these oranges — in colour I mean ? — for
in shape, I believe firmly, that it is much longer.

AMBROSE.

Why, the rose on your cheek, sir, is brightening like the daybreak.

NORTH.
Ambrose, you are a poet.

AMBROSE (like one of those down-looking B-tsts.)

Why, sir, I do sometimes indulge in a little

. NORTH.

Flirtation with the Muses, when Missus is at rca -ket, eh ?

VOL. XXXI. NO. CXC. R

238 Nodes Ambrosiana. No. LX> [Feb.

AMBROSE.

Just so, sir.

NORTH.

Publish no new Poem, Ambrose, till after the burial of the Reform Bill.

AMBROSE.

Just so, sir. You may depend upon it, sir. Politics and Poetry cannot
live in the same atmosphere. The one thrives on the foul smoke of cities,
the other breathes empyrean air remote from the hum of mail, in rural —
or mountain — solitude.

,alB?nJ5d sriJ oJn! B9»- NORTH. -^ isncfij arfj ,iia ^bimte?
Whew I

AMBROSE (enthusiastically.')
For poetical inspiration, sir, nothing like a jaunt in a gig to Peebles.

With a sleety wind in your face, on the First of June, as you jog through
that loveliest pastoral scenery encircling that " cynosure of neighbouring
eyes," the Wellington Arms. jgoqaMA

AMBROSE. Cgnwm-Thjfi8 i

A friend of mine is taking in arable land there from the moss—

W£j fO b NORTH. JcT 9JW9 }IJI U

That is rational ! He must be a sensible man. To attempt improving a
poor soil, seems to me the last stretch of patriotism — of the love of the
natale solum.

AMBROSE. -»H19t9I»0'

I much fear yon won't pay, sir.

NORTH.

Oh, yes ! Wages, profit, and rent.

AMBROSE.

Are you serious, sir.

NORTH.

Marked you never, Ambrose, the potatoe crop on those lazy beds ? None
of your big bushy green shaws, plum-clustering yellow : but they " are
lean, and lank, and brown, as is the ribbed sea-sand." Woe-begone, they
look as if some misbegotten abortion, the untimely produce of a conjunc-
tion between an old docken and a middle-aged nettle. 7 jiniift bnA

AMBROSE.

A bad cross.

NORTH.

Very. — Pull them up, and lo! a parcel of poteightytoes, like marrow-fats,
or the waxen cells of the humble bee, that " bigs its byke" in the mossy
greensward, or among the roots of a thorn, on which the magpie stills her
chatter within her round prickly nest, even by the road-side unafraid of
the heedless traveller.

AMBROSE.

Boil them, and, sir, how scabby /

NORTH. biByd si<

Then the barley-patch, pining in green sickness on the bosom of the cold,
wet, black moss -

--!«q £ fW^KWS bUIIWlttBflto-s^fiib wo;;'

Fuzionless and plashy— in which the unherded stirk sinks up to the
knees, for the scanty braird, yellowing long before it is shot, imprudently
forsaking the more nutritious heather. Pardon me, sir.

.f[o*-irmdD*9 J is brtto^TitiJ ^fojBtmJfe ated I

There goes a snipeuxs ^afoasisJm lo aoasadB sni ni -turf* t™

AMBROSE.

Living by suction, it contrives to keep soul and body together, sir ,- but
'tis a mere bunch of feathers, sir, for the very slugs are slender in such
poor mud ; and shallow water, crisp with ice nine months of the year, is fatal
to the race of worms.

Does nothing ripen ?

1.832.] Nodes Ambrosiana. No. LX. 259

AMBROSE.

Nothing, sir — not even powheads. Few grow into froggies — and of these
last, scarce six in a summer become full-sized spangers ; yet spangers they
must not be called— for they again are so weak, sir, that they cannot hop,
and but crawl like toads.

NORTH.

Never saw I such stirks. It is wonderful to see such atomies walk. I
presume they are bred merely for the skins.

AMBROSE.

I understand, sir, the tanner gets the bones into the bargain.

NORTH.

They are kept in countenance by the sheep. Never saw I such a spec-
tacle of human misery as that old ram. His body is partially clothed with
an extraordinary commodity, neither wool nor hair; but bare, bare, poor
fellow, are his hips; and what years of hunger and starvation are wreathed
round his indurated horns I

AMBROSE.

All unfit, sir, for snuff-mulls.

NORTH.

Such a seraglio ! Ilk ewie but a pound o' tawty woo' — here and there
one with a four-legged something staggering at her side, which may be con-
jectured to be her lamb !

AMBROSE.

Did you ever notice, sir, (pardon me for being so bold,) the bees in that
region ?

NORTH.
The foggies ?

AMBROSE.

Yes, sir. Or th6 t ed-dowps ?

NORTH.

Less than bummers. The foggies are of a dirty yellow, instead of a bright
brown ; red-dowp is a misnomer, for the black wretches terminate suddenly
in a spot of mud — and what a feeble bizz !

AMBROSE.

And think you, sir, they have stings ?

NORTH.

Something of the sort — but they have not power to use them — and the
impotents are angrier in their wretchedness than wasps. But in the midst
of all this misery, the Wellington Arms is by no means an uncomfortable
howf in a sleet-squash. Seldom have I tasted better cheese. They import
their own meal — on her girdle the guclewife heats into crumpiness a fair
farl— and she is famous for her hams. 'Tis a house of call for Carriers, you
know, Mr Ambrose ; and unpromising as is that bare exterior that knows no
other shelter from the storm than sometimes a row of waggons to wind-
ward with every inch of canvass set, yet within burns a cheerful fire, and
there may be heard the gurgle in which the heart of the weary wayfarer
rejoices, the music of the big-bellied bottle vomiting from its short throat
the liquid lapse of the clear Barley-bree, whose smack reminds you of Glen-
livet, " alike, but, oh ! how different" — and awakes a passing sigh for the far-
off Highlands, whose mountain-tops rise before you in a visionary dream.
You know the Wellington Arms, Ambrose ?> »bi

AMBROSiyii tflHHj; .

Yes, sir. I bate alternately there, and at Leadburn-toll. I have gene-
rally found, sir, that in the absence of interesting external objects the Fancy
is more fertile—

I ftflf! fuOB M NORTH. • 'nttfOT 1f

Do you understand, Ambrose, the distinction between Fancy and Ima-
gination, as drawn by Coleridge in his Biographia Literaria, and Words-
worth in one of his philosophical prefaces, in which he labours to tell us
what poetry is, ia despair, I presume, of being able to effect that purpose
by his verses ?

260 Nodes Ambrosiance. Aro. LX. [Feb.

AMBROSE.

1 read no philosophical criticism, sir, but in the Magazine. As far as I
have been able to master the occasional hints thrown out in that immortal
work, it seems to me, sir, that Fancy is the faculty by which the human mind
collects round any object of thought a certain conglomeration of corres-
ponding and congenial images, united rather by some accidental and ca-
pricious associations, which consequently are, in comparison, feeble and
evanescent, inasmuch as they are obedient, as well in their going as in their
coming, to moods moving along the surface of the mind, than by those
everlasting links of feeling or of passion, sir, which, though oftentimes in-
visible, are nevertheless always felt, when the capacity of emotion is
brought into power, and the creative function of the soul is at work to re-
produce, and in the reproduction beautifies the essential and primordial
elements of emotion, one of these being, beyond all doubt, intellectual per-
ception, and another intellectual conception, thus gradually growing into
new and original forms, which, when intensified into life by the true Pro-
methean fire, are universally confessed to be, even while the mystery of their
generation remains a secret to the minds of those affected by them to very
transport. Forms of the Imagination.

NORTH.

Ambrose, we must have you appointed Professor of Poetry in the Uni-
versity of Dumfries.

AMBROSE (drawing himself up proudly?)

Pardon me, sir, my glory in all future ages will be, that beneath my roof
were celebrated the famous NOCTES AMBROSIAN/E — more poetry in them,
my venerated sir, and more of the philosophy of poetry, than in the Dia-
logues of Plato, the mgi Tiomrtw of Aristotle, Blair's Lectures, La Harpe's
Course of Literature, and all the lucubrations of both the Schlegels, with
those of Gothe and Tiecke to boot. A thousand thanks, sir, for your offer
— but no, I must not — cannot — will not go — Professor of Poetry — to Dum-
fries. Appoint the Editor of the Dumfries Courier.

NORTH.

He is to be Professor of Natural History.

AMBROSE.

I fear, sir, that I have been allowing my tongue unwarrantable license ;
but your condescending affability—-

NORTH.

No man is a hero, Ambrose, to his valet-de-chambre.

AMBROSE.

But a philosopher is a philosopher, venerated sir, at all times — yea even
to the humblest of his admirers — to him who now glories in the name of

" mme h°St ' >*[** *>M 9d il.;^** vleraildiia dhoweb-ioW

- I think like a sage, bS I feel as a man."

Sit down, my good Ambrose, sit down ; and let me pour forth my confes-
sions into your honest heart.

AMBROSE.
I obey. (Mr Ambrose sits down in Southside's curule chair.)

NORTH.

The best bred man in Europe since the time of Lord Stair. Take an
orange. Yes— suck it— and scorn silver blade. Sour ?

AMBROSE.

Honey-suffar-sweet. sir.

amjRgv gTjjten <9faiii9iijp iBirtriiqa ifoua 71

(Lying back with shut eyes on
I am the most miserable of men.

AMBROSE.

Oh ! say not so, sir. You who make all the world happy by delight and
instruction. . ^^ Qn ^^ ^ ^nfl ^

Remember, Ambrose, that this confidence is sacred-tl.at not a word of
what I am now about 10 reveal must ever murmur from your lips—

But then, MrGurney, sir?

1832.] Nicies Amlrosiance. No. LX. 261

or glimpse from your eyes — or pass in shadow along that capacious fore-
head. You must be mum as the grave.

AMBROSE.

Fear not Gurney. He is hocussed. List I Don't you hear him snore ?

AMBROSE.

For some time past, sir, have 1 heard that sound, but I thought it was the
water beginning to fun again into the water-pipe from the roof after the
thaw.

Ilifiqii'} OlU a°"^rfivA 27JG7/[iJ BBdlddjld /£ II

No-'tis fancy. I have drugged his drink-have Mven him a potent pos-
set. After life's fitful fever he sleeps well — he will extend not his short
hand to tell our secret. He awakes not till midnight.

AMBROSE.

A strange awe comes over me, sir. Remember, sir, that I have a wife
and children, and that any thing very dreadful —

NORTH.

Ambrose ! If you have any tears to shed, prepare to weep them now—
BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE is THE CURSE OF MY EXISTENCE.

AMBROSE

Alas, and alack-a-day!

fits ilfjS9U£>J j/jrfj .9d iiivy ^•QfiN1ORT!** .

" I am acquainted with sad misery,

As the tanned galley-slave is with his oar !**

AMBROSE.

Then is the sun miserable, while man and nature bless his orb, as he sheds
the seasons all over the variegated earth, from his rolling car in heaven.

NORTH*

Seek not, my Ambrose, to veil from my soul, in such dazzling imagery,
the sense of its own doom ! 'Tis the great and gracious law of nature, that
old age should have rest. Like some mighty mountain seemingly made of
enow, deeper far its hush than of any cloud-range that ever breathed the
spirit of its stillness far and wide over the cerulean sky, and beautified by-
sunset that seems to look with love on its stainless sleep, to my imagina-
tion, world- wearied, and now sore averse to all Passion's strife, rises up the
fair idea of Repose !

AMBROSE (apparently much relieved.)
I too, sir, sometimes delight in indulging myself in a dream of retiring

from public into private life — of purchasing a small

NORTH.

As Wordsworth sublimely says — " To be laid asleep in body, and be-
come a living soul !" Quietism, fathomless as the sea, and as the sea trans-
parent, when it is one with heaven, and ships from clouds you know not,
so motionless hang they, single or in fleets, with shade and sunshine alter-
nately revisiting their idle sails !

^ W"ura * ' AMBROSE. , .=

I have seen such a sight between Leith pier-head and Inchkeith, a hun-
dred times, sir; but then I could not havesaiW that, sir, had I lived a thou-
sand years. Were I struck blind, I should see again, listening to your
words. They would be to me, sir, like sun-beams.

NORTH.

Nay, the soul seeks not— she demands release from the bonds of this
world's day-darg life ; and, like waves agitated no more, she expects all
her thoughts to be at least settled down into a tideless calm, even like that
sweet line of watery light that strews with stars the summer shores of the
Mediterranean sea.

262 Nodes Ambrosiana. No. LX, [Feb.

AMBROSE.

I could go to sleep, and dream of the ocean.

NORTH.

" O blest retirement ! Friend of life's decline !"

AMBROSE.

What more beautiful place about all the suburbs, sir, than Buchanan
Lodge.

NORTH.

Oh! the wisdom of old age, serene as simplicity of childhood! the
light wandering in the west ere yet it fade in darkness ! — as gentle and as
gorgeous, too, as in the east the day-spring about to run his race in heaven !

AMBROSE.

Pardon me, sir, for not speaking when you stop ; but I hope you will al-
low me to listen

NORTH.

Instead of all this, there is that INFERNAL MAGAZINE, THE CURSE OF MY
EXISTENCE, idiotically called monthly, but, in truth, an annual, a perennial,
a perpetual, an everlasting, an eternal CURSE !

AMBROSE.

You make me shudder, sir — indeed, sir, you make me shudder. O, sir,
say not another such sentence; or if you must, I beseech you to say it
quickly, for this state of fearful excitation is worse than being in a shower-
bath with the string in one's hand.

NORTH.

With a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull altogether — I began in sad-
ness, but I proceed in rage. Maga holds her head too high, Mr Ambrose ;
and, would you believe it, has more than once had the audacity to cut
Christopher.

AMBROSE.

Oh ! no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no !

NORTH.

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes ! I, her own dearly beloved Editor— so,
in her wheedling fits of hypocritical fondness, she delights to call me —

her Kit — her Kit-cat — her Norry Norry have been — grasp firm hold of

the elbows of your seat, Ambrose — A REJECTED CONTRIBUTOR 1 ! !

AMBROSE.

I am sick at heart. (Sinks into a comatose state, between a swoon and a
dwawm.)

NORTH.

The slut solicited me for an opening article to Part Second of this very
month, and there she had it — in two sheets — The Hindu Drama ; as power-
ful an opening article as ever did honour to the Cock of the North j when,
whew! she shoves me and my article aside, for sake of an Irishman, who,
with all his blarney, cannot love her as I have loved her — and {here the old
man absolutely shed tears) as I will continue to love her, in spite of all her
ungrateful cruelty, to the last hour of my life. (He sobs.)
AMBROSE (in a state of somnolency.)

Whruhu — whruhu — whruhu — whruhu !

NORTH.

I see — I hear that I have your sympathy, Ambrose. May then this right
hand, laden as it is with chalk-stones formed by toils in her service — the
Ingrate ; — yes, may this right hand wither like a shrivelled leaf — these lack-
lustre eyes, bedimmed for her sake by many a wakeful midnight, the little
-vision lose that still is left within their faded orbs — if e'er again — (oh!
hear me now, ye spirits that delight in just revenge!) if e'er again I waste

ink in her cause — if e'er

AMBROSE (with astonishing energy.)

Whruhu — whruhu — whruhu — whruhu — whruhu !

NORTH.

Was that a trumpet ? Such air-born warnings are not to be rashly de-
spised by the soul of man, when, troubled by passion, it trembles on the

1832,] Nodes AmbrosiancB. No. LX. 263

verge of some— perhaps fatal— vow,— and may be about to sell itself to
perdition — to the ENEMY ! It may have been the voice of my GENIUS.

AMBROSE.

Whuhru — whuhru — whuhru — whuhru !

NORTH.

Well — it matters not, if a man's soul be saved — by what instrument—-
whether by a snore or a clap of thunder.

AMBROSE (waking, and turning a sleep-drenched pair of poppetfd

^
Whawawharawbraw— brr— ach !

NORTH.

A bit of Miss Kissirving's unknown tongue. I said waste ink in Maga's
service. Now, I shelter myself under the double sense of that word. I
may write— Madam— an occasional article for your miscellany, — but, mind
what I now say — the first rejected article shall be the last — and I will go
over in a body to the Edinburgh Review.

AMBROSE (starting up.)

Beg pardon for not answering the bell sooner, sir ; but I have this instant
returned with Leezy Lightfoot, who is preparing such a board of oysters,
sir, as has not been witnessed in Modern Athens since the erection of the
pillars of the Parthenon, .-.aym*/,

NORTH.
" Sleep hath her separate world as wide as dreams."

AMBROSE (apparently disabused of his dwawming dream.)
I fear that I have sinned beyond hope of forgiveness.

NORTH.
I never dreamt an oyster. Seems it, in sleep, more spiritual in the shell ?

AMBROSE.
Prodigious Pandores all ! Meet for the mouths of giants.

1OI NORTH.

Most melancholy must it be to the entranced spirit as it relapses into
waking, to see the magnificent spiritual oyster of a dream dwindling down
into the mean material conch, half opening its lips on the way up from
Prestonpans !

AMBROSE.

My dream was twofold, sir. But I shudder to tell its other vision. Me-
thought I heard you vow never more to waste ink— —

NORTH.

• Hush. What an inconsistent and contradictory creature is man ! To
have my addresses to Maga rejected once in a twelvemonth, sends wrath
boiling, like a lava-flood, through my whole frame, from head to heel — and
yet — thinking of the contributions she levies — exacts from me — almost in
the same breath have I called her the curse of my existence !

AMBROSE.

She is your lawful wedded wife, sir, and you must stick to her, tooth
and nail — I quote your own words, sir — to the last.

NORTH.

O these printers' devils ! Like urchins on an ice-slide, keeping the pie
warm, from cock-crow till owl-hoot do they continue in unintermitting suc-
cession to pour from the far-off office down upon Moray Place or Buchanan
Lodge, one imp almost on the very shoulders of another — without a minute
devil- free— crying " Copy ! Copy !" in every variety of intonation possible
in gruff or shrill; and should I chance to drop asleep over an article,
worn down by protracted sufferings to mere skin and bone, as you see,
till the wick of my candle— one to the pound — hangs drooping down by
the side of the melting mutton — the two sunk stories are swarming with
them — all a-hum ! Many, doubtless, die during the year; but from such
immense numbers they are never missed, any more than the midges you
massacre on a sultry summer eve of being eaten alive. Then the face and
figure of one devil are so alike another's— though people who have time to
pay particular attention to their personal appearance — which I have not—
say they are different as sheep— that tipsy Thammuz is to me all one with

264 Nodes Ambrosiance. No. LX. [Feb.

Bowzy Beelzebub; so that, bewildered by that infinite series of small
satans,

" At the close of the day when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's voice in the grove;"

I am haunted by the mysterious thought of " one-in many," and the still
more mysterious thought of "many-in-one," each individual devil having
the might of a million, and the million having the intensity of each indivi-
dual devil,— a state of mind, I assure you, Mr Ambrose, which it is not easy
for a rational man like you to imagine, difficult to describe, and impossible
to envy.

AMBROSE.

Reverend sir- v mU e^{,MJ 1{^«w bjj& - i8 fbTBfu;

NORTH (eyeing the door with a raised expression.)
Look — look — look — there they come — through the key-hole !

AMBROSE (m superstitious fear.}
In spite of the key ! Nay— you are frighting me— sir. ( Trying to smile.)

NORTH.
One day in the seven — even they — and I too — are at peace !

AMBROSE. 0tJ iey9a H9brqhjj3 xfodoo

And one night in every month

NORTH. t M00W UOT /H8 ,"

The Noctes AmbrosianaB ! " and thus the year spins round.

AMBROSE.

Self tormenting genius loves often to darken its lot by the shadow of a
thunder-cloud of its own wilful gathering ; but then how it exults in the il-
lumination of the lightning !

NORTH. .-oqlmsdj

Why, you electrify me, Ambrose !

AMBROSE.

Any power of expression I have, sir— and of course any power of feeling
or of thought — I owe to THE MAGAZINE. Till Maga mounted the Throne,
Ambrose may be said to have vegetated ; — since that era — he has nourished
— green all the year round — and brightest of all in winter — like the laurel.

N OUT II.

Ambrose ! I envy the equable current— the calm flow — of your existence.
Then 'tis much for happiness to be an universal favourite.

AMBROSE.

On that principle, sir, as on every other, I venture again to say, that you
must be the happiest of men.

NORTH. B jjjrf 9i& a'iWOW f>

The world — the poor ignorant deluded world — thinks me happy .' Hap-
py, forsooth, because T live " in the blaze of my fame !" Pitch-black all
the while to me is meridian day as the noon of night. And hideously
haunted by phantoms ! ^ I6j.lolamr aft 7<J Md^iiiia

AMBROSE.

Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! That I should live to hear this, my be-
loved benefactor !

? 980'Ki*T°RT»- <9«IOH baTI 9VBlf JJOY—

Hideously haunted — because lovely beyond all endurance are the pale,
silent, beckoning phantoms ! Trackless do they come and go in soul-sub-
duing succession, each with its face of sunshine soon overcast with clouds,
and then dissolving in strange showers of tears ! They are the friends of rny
boyhood — of my youth— of my manhood — and sheeted and shrouded all,
as if rising from far-off and long-forgotten graves ! Gliding away, they dis-
appear; and leave behind them but the troubled memory of the names
they once bore among the living — names overgrown by white moss on the
sunken grave-stones—haply in churchyards that are now burial-places no
more— the very kirk evanished, whose small bell tinkled the joyous school-

1&32.] Nodes Ambrosiana. No. LX. •„!«•>

boy to worship on sunny Sabbaths sleeping stilly over the green gowauy
braes !

AMBROSE (much affectcd.~)

We have all of us lost friends, sir ; and, if the truth were known, sweet-
hearts too— !(1 BBsnTuM8#oTio -rt

NORTH.

Ambrose! To me the living seem the dead — the dead the living! The sole
realities are ghosts. What, in my eyes, can any human being appear, whose
birth has been within these last forty years ? Nothing— less — worse than
nothing ! What can they know of Christopher North, now a puny, peevish,
bent, decrepit, old grey-headed man? Once — bear witness ye bold, ye
bright, and ye beauteous dead — once strong, joyful, straight, as the sea-
bathed eagle, shooting sky ward through the rainbow-fragment that gave the
calm of beauty to the bosom of the storm !

AMBROSE.

We have all heard, sir, and we all believe, that you were once the hand-
somest young man in Britain -

NORTH.

Seeing is believing — but believing is not seeing; and the eyes that beheld
me in my prime, they are all extinguished in death. Their orbs dust!
FUIMUS TROES ! In these two words is comprehended a power of pathos
that makes existence a burden heavier than I can bear. Best — as said the
melancholy Euripides — never to have been born !

AMBROSE.

Surely, sir, you would not have had a world without any inhabitants ; or,
if the world had had its other inhabitants, and yet been obliged to whirl
round the sun, without hope of ever having YOU ; why then, indeed, sir, I
agree with you, that better it had never been created ; but as it is, I confess,
for my own part, I look cheerfully upon the universe.

NORTH.

Over them I poured the whole power of passion resident in my soul. I
hoped — I feared — I loved — I hated — I blessed — I cursed — I -

AMBROSE.

No—no — no—sir. You never cursed any mould of clay, however mean,
that was shapen by the hand of God.

NORTH.

Mean ! Mighty — Ambrose — and magnificent. There were giants in those
days — and then the daughters of earth were like denizens of heaven. With
them

« I strove with weapons made of clay,
And conquer'd in the world's own way;"

with them my soul blended in bliss ineffable — while Hate, in its grandeur,
was dear to my spirit as in its gentleness was Love. But now-a-days, the
things called women, are but as dolls flung scornfully by adolescents into
a corner, discovering them to be but smeared wood ; and as for those other
movables, men, they seem to me all Cockneys, so far below contempt, as
to be safe from that crutch which owes it to itself to smite no perishable
body uninhabited by an immortal spirit.

AMBROSE. , ,ft j f ' *

Sumphs say, sir, you are not sufficiently severe this season.

NORTH.

Wait.— You have read Homer, Mr Ambrose ? The Iliad ?

The Critiques on Sotheby in the Magazine, sir, which I feel assured are
superior to the original.10" snirienui

NORTH.

To me there is nothing in all the Iliad so affecting as the character of
Nestor]} <7fiv//? ;mibiliO

t beldiio-rt }is

Till I was set right by your matchless critiques, sir, I had always imagined
that Nestor was a heathen god, whereas now I find that he was, what is far
better, a wise old man like yourself, sir, whom the chiefs of his country
consulted on all state affairs.

266 Nodes Ambrosiana, No. XX

NORTH.

What made you think him a god ?

AMBROSE.

Because my grandfather, who was a schoolmaster in Yorkshire, called
our parrot, Nestor — our parrot, sir, that you may now hear— -

NORTH.

I have lost a link surely, Ambrose, in the chain of your reasoning; for
why should that have convinced you that Nestor was a heathen god ?

AMBROSE.

My grandfather, sir, was a learned man, and had a mastiff, sir, whom he
called Jupiter.

NORTH.

Oh. But what is the wretch screeching ? " List ! O list! if ever thou
didst thy grandfather love!" I ask you again, sir, what is the wretch
screeching ?

AMBROSE (in great confusion and alarm.)
'Pon honour — sir — 'pon conscience — as I hope to be •

NORTH.

O Ambrose! Ambrose! The enemy is within the gates! But if the
Apostle Poll preaches such politics, he must be plucked, nor one feather
left to cover his nakedness. The wretch has grown a radical within sound
of the Snuggery. With his thick, dry, Indian rubber-like scoop of a tongue,
the green goose gutteralizes, " Reform ! Reform ! Reform !" " The Bill ! The
whole Bill, and nothing but the Bill !" I am sorry to find that there is a
reaction in favour of the measure. How is this, sir ? Mr Ambrose, how is
this?

AMBROSE.

Availing themselves, sir, of my occasional absence from home, as a mem-
ber of various committees on affairs of police, some members of the
Political Union have insinuated themselves through the folding-doors, and
sometimes succeeded in establishing themselves unsuspected in the Parrot-
parlour. Of course, the first thing they did was to set all their wits at
work to corrupt the principles of the creature in the cage, who, I grieve
to say it, has committed to memory a number of expressions, which, accord-
ing to the doctrine of constructive treason, might, were he brought to
trial at the instance of the Right Honourable Francis Jeffrey, Lord Advo-
cate for Scotland, and convicted, subject him to capital punishment.

NORTH.

Not the first poor parrot that has suffered, while his teachers have
escaped. Ludicrous were it, but that 'twould be most lamentable, to see
the Apostle Poll, as you facetiously call him, executed for high-treason.
Only think of the hangman holding up his dissevered developement over
the edge of the scaffold, and crying, " This is the head of a traitor."
AMBROSE (smiling shuddering ly.)

At once funny and fearsome, sir.

NORTH.

But you must contrive to exclude the Political Unionists. The pros-
perity depends on the respectability of the House.

AMBROSE.

One of my waiters, sir, was so infatuated as, unknown of course to me,
to become a member of the Union — bribed by the offer of an office-bearer-
ship.

What ? Sir David ? ' ^ M toatudtf-a tife tmkd ad T

AMBROSE.

Oh! no, no, no, no, sir!

NORTH.

King Pepin ?

AMBROSE.

Oh ! no, no, no, no, no, sir !

NORTH.

Tappitoury?

1832,] tfoctes Ambrosiana. JV0. XX

AMBROSE.

Oh ! no, no, no, no, no, no, sir ; oh, no, no I

NORTH,

The Pech ?

AMBROSE.

Oh ! oh ! oh ! sir ! no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, sir ; Oh ! no, no, no !

NORTH.

Who the devil then ? Mon Cadet?

AMBROSE.

Heaven forbid ! You might as soon suspect me, your devoted servant,
sir, till death, of being President. 'Twas an idle fellow you never saw — a
sort of boots

NORTH.

Just so. But I was directing your attention, Ambrose, to the character
of Nestor in the Iliad. To me his long speech to Achilles, on receiving
from that most courteous of all heroes a prize due to his former exploits
in war and in the Games, is more pathetic than the last interview between
Hector and Andromache.

AMBROSE.

May I be permitted to say, sir, since you have deigned, not only to let
me be seated, but even to converse with you, sir— a privilege which I hum-
bly hope I have not abused ; and which, were I ever to abuse, might my head
shake, and my limbs dwine away in a general palsy — may I venture on the
strength of that gracious smile to say, " That in the whole range of inspi-
ration," to borrow a beautiful phrase from the Magazine, as far as I have
travelled within it, there is not another passage so pathetic as that inter-
view; that is to say, sir, as you have brought it out into more mournful
light, in your immortal critique on Southey — —

NORTH.

Sotheby.

AMBROSE.

Pardon the lapsus lingua, sir. As a proof how true to nature that picture
is, as drawn by yourself, sir, and Homer, not forgetting Mr Sotheby, whom
I do not remember ever having seen here

NORTH.

You will see him here, Brosey, before we all die.

AMBROSE.

I shall be proud indeed, sir. As a proof, sir, I may mention, that it came
across me, affecting me even to tears, last time I parted with Missus in front
of the Black Bull, when about to set off for Yorkshire, on the top of the
mail-coach. There was Missus, with our youngest bairn in her arms— •

NORTH,

Astyanax.

AMBROSE.

The child's name, sir, is Daniel.

NORTH.

The Strength of the City.

AMBROSE.

I had a fur-cap on my head, sir —

NORTH.

I know it. Fox-skin, with the brush brought over ; like a helmet with a
waving crest. Ambrose in the character of Kagt/^«/aA.<?f'Ex<r*/£.

AMBROSE.

The bairn, sir, frightened at the fur, gave such a squall—

NORTH.

" He spoke, and stretched his arms, and onward prest
To clasp the child, and fold him to his breast;
The while the child, on whose o'er-dazzled sight
The cap's bright splendour flash'd too fierce a light,
And the thick fox-hair, as it wavy play'd,
From the high bonnet cast its sweeping shade ;

268 Nodes Ambrosiana:. No. LX. {Feb.

Scared at his father's sight, bent back distress'd,
And, shrieking, sank upon his mother's breast.
The child's vain fear their bitter woe beguiled,
And o'er the boy each parent sweetly smiled :
Then Ambrose slow the brushy cap unbraced,
And gently on the ground its terror placed ;
Then kiss'd, and dandling with his infant play'd,
And to the gods and Jove devoutly pray'd —
* Jove ! and ye gods ! vouchsafe that Ambrose* boy,
Another Ambrose, all surpass in Troy (Edinburgh),
Like me in strength preeminently tower,
And guard the nation with his father's power !
Heard be a voice, whene'er the landlord bends,
Behold the landlord who his sire transcends;
And grant, that home returning, charged with oil,
His mother's smile repay the hero's toil.' "

AMBROSE
What a memory, sir!

NORTH

"Mutato nomine, dete
Fabula narraturr

AMRROSF bSTOdUHIfl

AMBROSE. ^

" One touch of nature makes the nVic w v*«* «.*«.
NORTH

.^ a! I)(ifi /viiponfoft

AMBROSE.

'Tis a line I often see in the Magazine, sir, and
ditional delight. I thought it had been your own.

NORTH.

The truth is, that my style is so like Shakspeare's, that 'tis often impos-
sible to know whether some of the fine lines in Maga belong to the Swan of
Avon or the Blackbird of Buchanan Lodge.

AMBROSE.

I fear, sir, that I am sitting too long here— but such is the witchcraft-
pardon me if there be any abuse of that word — of your conversation, my
honoured master, that several times, when I have attempted within the
last quarter of an hour to rise, it has been as if my coat-tails were fastened
to the wood of the chair with nails, and my breeches glued-^r-^' ^

NORTH.

Don't crowd too many images together, Ambrose. 'Tis the crying sin
alike of my own written and oral discourse. The same splendida vitia are
often apparent in your style; yet prodigality is better than poverty, and
the most lavish profusion preferable to a niggardly prudence.

AMBROSE (making violent but fruitless efforts to rise.')
If I do go, I must carry the chair along with me, sir.

NORTH.

You must on no account do that, Ambrose, for I expect Mr Tickler this
evening, and he will rage if he miss his free-and-easy. You have done me
much good, my dear Mr Ambrose ; and that mild pleasant face of yours,

" The soul, the music/breathing from that face,'*
charms away the blue devils into their native limbo.

AMBROSE.

Should Mr Tickler see me sitting in his chair, he will certainly put me
to death.

NORTH1.

Shallow critics, Ambrose, have seen in Nestor but the personification of
garrulous old age — old age wise indeed from experience— back-thoughtbeing
fore-thought— but still interesting, chiefly because his garrulity is true to na-
ture, yielding unconsciously to the prosiness of dotage. True* that he avails
himself, of course, of his privileges of uninterrupted and endless discourse.
But what colours it all with an air of melancholy ? That not one is alive

1832.] Nodes Amlrosiancs. No. LX. 239

who witnessed his Doings in the days of old ! With him now all is but
Sayings ; and though surrounding heroes, in their youth or their prime, hear
his words, how languidly must they listen! The images of his triumphs pass
before his own eyes alone — and visit not theirs, occupied with all their orbs
by the glorious pageant. The aged hero, no doubt, desires that the living
should be persuaded by his tales of triumph, that he too was great in his
day, greater than any of themselves — only less than Achilles. But the im-
pulse that bears him along on that stream of silver speech, is the imagined
sympathy of the men of might whom his emotion re-embodies and re-ani-
mates from the dust. He forgets the world on which he stands a hoary orator,
soothing many asleep. Across the chasm in which lie buried two generations,
lie is borne on the wings of Desire and Regret, and believes himself in his
golden prime, victorious in battle against chiefs whose sons fell afterwards
before the gates of Thebes, Speaking of them, he feels as if speaking in
their hearing; as if the life, and the world, in whose brightness his youth
rejoiced, had undergone no change, were not rolled away from all memo-
ries but his into oblivion. But the sadness of the decay — of the change — of
the revolution — comes ever and anon across the old man's soul, and brings
upon the dream of the Past, in which he was All, the melancholy reality of the
Present, in which he is Nothing. For to be eloquent arid wise— and re-
verenced for eloquence and wisdom, is nothing to him,whose glory was in war,
and who had been numbered among the Heroes. His speech, therefore, is
often addressed, not directly indeed, but in an indescribable earnestness that
can only be accounted for by its holding communion with the spirit of the
times gone by, to the heroes coeval with his prime ; sometimes it seems
to be almost a soliloquy, and in soliloquies how strangely are we separated
by passionate imagination into two selves ; and thens again, it is so shaped
as to gain credence from the living, whose sympathies, faint and dull as they
must needs be, are yearned for, because they are human, and because their
expression, though but in the silence of the listening-eye — and the eye does
listen along with the ear — reminds him of the flashes and of the shouts that
hailed his victories of old, when Nestor was as young and as invincible as
now is the Son of Thetis.

AMBROSE.

Very fine — very fine, sir. I remember, sir, once being in a mist on the
moor, a kind of glimmering golden mist, sir, that kept opening and shutting,
shewing me now bright breadths of rocky heather, now the blue glimpses of
sky ; and more frequently what at first I knew not to be the tops of moun-
tains — for at first they scarcely seemed to be stationary, but became, as I
gazed, fixed as fate. Sir, you will pardon me, sir.

NORTH.

My conversation likened by Ambrose to a Scotch mist. My tablets !

r -rrr • 1 • -\r tt i

.soasbinq ^IbiB^in t Writes in hls Note-Book.

Hit Crt « AMBROSE.

It is impossible, sir, for me to express my delight in seeing you restored
to your wonted cheerfulness, my honoured patron. These clouds will—

Sometimes they blot the sun from the day, till life is like death, and then
comes despair. Sometimes they but deform the sky, and then I see sights
of pain or sorrow. Often do they melt over the atmosphere, till it is all
an obscure dim haze to my old eyes, Ambrose, and Christopher then is
II Penseroso — you might take him for the author of Burton's Anatomy of Me-
"lancholy— nor are such moods undelightful— for then it is that he is most
musical, and chirps, at least, like a sparrow, plaintive in the night-eves, if
he singeth not like a very nightingale. But on those bold bright breezy days,
when the sun burns like a globe of fire, yet consumes not the asbestos
clouds that go sailing unharmed across the furnace— then it is, O ! St Am-
brose, that, stretched beneath " the umbrageous multitude of boughs," and
eyeing through the "loop-holes of retreat/' the far- withdrawing vale bedropt
with cottages, single although not solitary, and round the knoll that bears
the parish church hanging, roof over roof, in one. harmonious, cluster — then
it is, that through these shrivelled veins of ours, the glad pulsations again

270 Noctes Ambrosiance. JVo. LX. [Feb.

begin to play, that, fifty years ago, were familiar to all our frame, and so in-
spired it with conscious energy, that matter was felt one with spirit, and
the delightful union to be indeed life — then, as if born again — Ambrose-
ay, even like a serpent shedding the scurf, and glorying in the burnished
beauty of a new skin, that startles the meek-eyed flowerets that pass their
days in shady places, far within the woods — ay ! then it is — " the aged
Harper's soul awakes," and gives vent on the spot to a Leading Article,

" Wherewith all Europe rings from side to side 1"
[Loud clanking noise heard coming along the corridor.]

AMBROSE {starting up.}

Mr Tickler! Mr Tickler! These are Southside's cuddy-heels — beg par-
don, sir — the iron crescents of his Wellingtons. I must be off. First Ti-
mothy, you know, is proud as Lucifer. What am I saying — what am I
saying? — God bless you, my dear friend, my — my — forgive me — but your
honour's condescension this night shall never be erased from my me-
mory— Spiritus dum hos regit artus.

NORTH.
Poo— poo— bad prosody, Picardy. Vanish.

[Exit Picardy, with a napkin in his hand, crestfallen into his custo-
mary manner as f{ Mine Host" and re-enters, bowing.

TICKLER.

Suaviter in modo,furtiter in re.
That's the motto of St Ambrose's, isn't it, my boy ?

AMBROSE.

Yes, Mr Tickler— just so, sir— of our branch— Southside (Susurrans.)

TICKLER.

Ah ! thou courtier, Have you provided relays of waiters for the
oysters ?

AMBROSE*

All harnessed, sir*

TICKLER.

Listen to me, Ambrose, with all the faculties of your soul. Imprimis^
Let there be relays for — stews.

AMBROSE.

How many, sir ?

TICKLER.
Six. In rebus secundis — Scallops.

AMBROSE.

Six relays ?

TICKLER.

Six relays, and let Missus— my love to her—" be nothing if not critical"
in her collection of shells.

AMBROSE.

How would you wish, sir, to have the raws ?

TICKLER.

You must establish the raws all at once on the Board of boards. I for-
get its dimensions.

Ninefeetbynine.sir.

TICKLER.

Eighty-one. Leave a moderate fringe of unoyster'd timber, which strew
with rizzars, interspersed at intervals, yet not " like angel-visits, few and
far between," chiefly indeed for effect, for 'tis rarely indeed that either
North (ha! North! how are you, my old cock?) or I eat much fin after

8 e " s ' ;« 9iod Qd bay

NORTH.

Rarely indeed. How are you, Timothy?

TICKLER.

Rarely, indeed. Just come from hearing the Bohemian Chatterers,

NORTH.
They have been accused of being Whitechapel Jews*

1832.] Nodes Ambrosiance. No. ZX. 271

TICKLER.

I did not, to my knowledge, deliver their mothers, nor have I even seen
the certificates of their baptism in Bohemia. Perhaps they are natives of
that Bohemia celebrated by Shakspeare — and come from one of its sea-
ports. Jews or Gentiles, Christians or Heathens, they are extraordinary
singers, Kit — and all the four have admirable voices. They chirp and
chant in perfect unison — bird or bard-like — and he who says they do not
keep both tune and time must be no Harmonist. Some of their native airs
are beautiful— and they sing them like natives

NORTH.

Not oysters.

TICKLER.

Don't be silly. There is no humour in mere nonsense.

NORTH.

I'm told the Basso Relievo roars like a Bull of Bashan.

TICKLER.

Don't be silly. I tell you again there is no humour in mere nonsense.
The Basso Relievo, as you idiotically call him, does not roar like a Bull of
Bashan. Next to my own he has the profoundest bass heard in public since
Bartleman.

NORTH.

How low can he reach ?

TICKLER.

O. I go to Z. You will be amazed, North, with what I am now going to
tell you, my old buck. By a douceur I induced the Bohemians to let me
join them in a Quintette — the Finale.

NORTH.

Coram Pop ?

TICKLER.

Pro bono Pub. Of course I put on the national dress.

NORTH.

The kilt?

- -

TICKLER.

Don't be silly, you old dolt. The Bohemian garb— green— like sharp-
shooter's uniform — belted round the waist — and broad-brimmed hat with
plume of feathers. I gave my face a touch of varnish—

NORTH.

Which Ambrose uses for his top-boots— -«

TICKLER.

No — for his mahogany tables. It brought out the brown most outlandish-
ly, and I frowned like Pharaoh. I pulled a pair of whiskers, and ditto of
mustaches out of an old chair in the vestibule, whose bottom was rather
ragged; and thus equipped I advanced to the rail, and bowing gracefully,
with my hand on my heart, 1 addressed the audience in choice Bohemian,
to the effect that I was the fifth brother of the most musical family in the
universe, that I sang with " most miraculous organ," and had that morning
arrived from Madeira, at which I had touched on my voyage from the me-
tropolitan port of Bohemia, on account of a galloping consumption, by the
air of that climate reduced to a walk, or rather a stand-still, originally, I be-
lieved, brought on by endeavouring to go below zero. This address, you
may easily believe, was received with the most uproarious applause, and I
took my place at the right of

The Bull of Bashan.

u* 91£

My brother was evidently jealous— indeed he bore me an old grudge-
so at least the people seemed to think, who were inclined at one point of
our contest to hiss him, but by putting my fmsrer to my nose, I prevented
that ungentlemanlike and unladylike mode of disapprobation.

NORTH.

By that most gentlemanly and ladylike mode of prevention— Hookey
Walker I

272 Nodes Ambrcs'iana, No. LX* [Feb.

TICKLER.

Well, my dear North— he drops down along the gamut, just as you may
have seen in a gymnasium a strong-armed scholar descending a ladder by
his hands, till he comes to K, where he thought he had me fast as in a vice.
p00 — whoo ! I came down waveringly, careeringly, and flourishingly, just
as you have seen a lark from sky to furrow, without expanding my breast,
or starting a single vein in my throat that towered white as snow from my
fthirt-collar, well flung back over my gawcy shoulders, from A to K; and
dwelling upon the note with that proud reliance on my powers which gives
assurance to the most timid of auditors that they are listening to a mighty
master, without growing in the slightest degree black in the face, but sim-
ply shewing such slight flush, or tinge on my cheek, as the rose reveals
within its inner leaf, while the zephyr turns it up to the light with the loss of
its dew-drops, I challenged my brother with the tail of my eye, to L. M. N.
O. successively, and successfully; but there, my dear North, there he stuck
fast in O, as a " pig in a gate," at his last grunt. I then began, like a wise man,
to mind my P's and Q's ; and one peal, or rather succession of peals, after
another, had they been understood, would have told the crowd of people
on the street, in front of the Assembly-Rooms, listening in wonder, as they
thought, to the mysterious Voice of the Building, that the best of all Bo-
hemians was on my way down from A to Z, which no sooner had my voice
reached, that is to say, as soon as I thought it no longer safe for the audience
to be kept at zero, than up went my voice in retrograde exultation — the
expression is hardly accurate — till it reached the point A, where we — my
brother and I— had started; at which point, what could satisfy the inspira-
tion of my soul but to challenge the Contr'alto, to terrify the Treble,
North, and to leave the even Tenor on his way, panting far behind like a
broken-winded bogtrotter ? Suffice it to say, that I did so — I ran up in that
direction even higher, proportionally, than I had run down in the other ;
and if, in my first triumph, the power of my voice was like that of a Lion
laying his jaws to the dust, to disturb the desert quaking through Sahara to
the roar-growl that silences the hum of the caravan, even as it first catches
sight of the wells beneath the palmy-shade; so, in my second, 'twas in its
silver chiming, clear as that of the Bell-Bird at morning or evening gloam-
ing, listened to with delight by Waterton the Wanderer, in the wilds of
Demerara, while miles distant from the Magician singing his roundelay
from the top of living tower heaved over some cathedral-wood.

NORTH.

I give in — and shall speak truth during the rest of the evening.

TICKLER.

If so, I am off. I did not come here to hear you speak truth during the
rest of the evening. You do not speak truth well, North ; at the same time,
I do not deny that you may possess very considerable natural powers of
veracity — of truth-telling ; but then, you have not cultivated them, having
been too much occupied with the ordinary affairs of life. Truthiness is a
habit, like every other virtue. There I hold by the Peripatetics. How un-
reasonable then — how presumptuous in you, to announce an intention of
speaking truth during the rest of an evening scarcely yet begun — for 'tis
but ten o'clock — you who have retired from practice, I may say, for nearly
half a century ? For shame, North— for shame !

^ NORTH (chuckling — as is his wont, when hard pressed with geggcry.}

Southside, by study of which of tho Fine Arts, thinkest thou* \he ama-
teur is most speedily reduced to an idiot ?

TICKLER.

Not easy to decide. I am tempted to say— Music.

NORTH.

So am I. Your true musician is a jewel — your pretender paste. But
among amateurs— and of these alone I now speak — how few true musi-
cians— how many pretenders !

TICKLER.

Pretender*, but not impostors. Pretence is easy— imposition difficult —
in music H requires at least— an eaf

18:J^.J ffoctca Ambrosutnrt. No. LX. 213

TICKLER.

By the by, North, do you know the causo of what is called the \vaut of
a musical ear?

NORTH.

No.

TICKLER.

Then I'll tell you. Every man has two cars — ~

NORTH.

Indeed !

TICKLER.

And if it should so happen — which it not unfreqiioutly docs — that the
one ear is liner — or coarser let me rather say-— than the other — the two to-
gether make sad work of it — and on their tympanums there can be no con-
cord.

NORTH.

Aye ? But supposing the wretch in question has a musical ear, so far as
to be in that respect on the ordinary level of humanity, and becomes an
amateur. By the time he plays upon the fiddle with half the taste and
quarter the execution of the common run of blind cat-gut-scrapers at pen-
ny-weddings, he presumes to find fault with Finlay Dun ! He leads a con-
certo, perpetrated by a gang of murderous amateurs in a private parlour
— and thenceforth expresses a poor opinion of Paganini !

TICKLER.

Catalan! squalled— Pasta yelled— Sontag shrieked— and Wood squeals.
He lays down the law — • —

NORTH.

The Fa La.

TICKLER.

And while a vast audience, entranced in delight, are still as death, he
purses up his small disgusting round hole of a mouth, wrinkles his hair-
less eyebrows,'perks his captious ears contemptuously towards the orchestra,
and at the close of the strain divine, from lip or string, cheeps " Poor !
poor! poor!" though St Cecilia herself seemed to sing, and to harp
Apollo.

NORTH.

Equally loathsome is your amateur in painting and in sculpture. No-
thing makes even the most distant approach to his beau ideal. He is dis-
contented with even Wilkie's portrait of our late noble King. Yet 'tis equal
to the best of Vandyke's—

TICKLER.

Though nothing similar — either in conception or execution. No more
glorious Highland chieftain ever trod the heather. Gazing on him, you
feel the lines of Campbell,

" Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trod,
To his hills that encircle the sea."

The harmony of the colouring is perfect— so is the drawing— and the atti-
tude is regal. There he stands,

" All plaided and plumed in his tartan array;"

" every inch a king." The amateur lisps " 'Tis too effeminate"— -having no
idea of a hand but a bunch of brawn, or of a foot but a brogueful of
muscle. Graceful, elegant, magnificent !

NORTH.

Chantrey's statue is distinguished by dignity and grandeur. With what
natural and habitual grace the King holds his left arm across his breast,
supporting the • folds of drapery— and on the right how lightly leans the
sceptre ! The advanced right leg and thigh is majestic and commanding,
and the whole figure that of a monarch standing proudly before the gaze
of his loyal subjects in the metropolis of his happy dominions. The head
crowns that bold broad bust with an air of empiry — and from shoulder to
heel, the robes have that wavy flow well becoming the princely wearer,
VOL. xxxi, NO. cxc. s

274 Nodes Ambrosiana. No. LX. [Feb.

easy in his state, and unencumbered by its pomp, a« if 'twere the garb of
his daily life,

TICKLER.

Chantrey in a bumper. (Looks all over the Circular in amazement.} Where's
the wine ?

NORTH.
I am a member of the Temperance Society.

TICKLER.

So am I — but not of the Abstinence. A man, surely, may drink a few
glasses, without running the risk of swallowing a couple of bottles ?

NORTH.

Not without running the risk. At least you will allow, Timothy, that
there is less danger of swallowing a couple of bottles, if you have no bot-
tles to swallow.

TICKLER (ringing the bell 'violently.)
Enter AMBROSE.

NORTH.
The Raws ! (Exit AMBROSE.)

TICKLER.

Ambrose — Ambrose — hollo, — you deaf devil — a riddle of claret !

NORTH.

You may as well shout upon the wind, in a calm night. You may have
a pot of porter, or two — but neither wine nor spirits shall wet your wizan
this night, Tickler. Remember, I am — by agreement — Lord Paramount
of this Noctes — there — read the RECORD.

TICKLER.

I wonder what this wicked world will come to at last ! The Noctes Am-
brosianse converted into a Monthly Meeting of the Temperance—the Ab-
stinence Society !

(Enter PICARDY, MON. CADET, KING PEPIN, SIR DAVID GAM,
TAPPYTOUREY, the PECH, and the NOVICE, bearing on their
heads the Board of boards.)

NORTH.
Behold the Procession introductory to the Feast of Shells !

TICKLER.

They stagger not, neither do they faint in their courses.

AMBROSE.

Halt ! make ready ! Lower I Deposit !

( The Household deposit the Board of boards on the Circular. It
creaks.)

NORTH.
" Flowers of all hues, and without thorn the rose I"

TICKLER.

Have you numbered the city ?

AMBROSE.

A gross and a half, sir ; Mr North bid me leave a broad border, sir.
[Exit PICARDY, swinging his tail like a lion rampant.]

TICKLER.

O you sucking turkey ! Yes— sweet are the shells. How sappy, Kit, the
sea-juice !

NORTH.
Mm — Mm — Mm — Mm— Mm !

TICKLER.

Intense power of palate.

NORTH.
Verra.

TICKLER.

Two dozen in two minutes. One—every five seconds— or thereabouts.
Twelve minutes — at that rate — to the gross !

NORTH.

Don't— Mm— Mm— Mind— Mm— Me— Tickler— eat— Mm— Mm— -Mm
—Mm— away— Tim,

1832.] Nodes Ambrosiana. No. LX. 275

TICKLER.

Mm— Mm — Mm — (he lays down his watch on the Board of boards.)

NORTH.

The porter. Hark you, my dear Tickler — (drains the junior silver tank-
ard.)—Did you hear my ears crack ? Now I'll sing you an appropriate
song—

STANZAS TO MUSIC.

Where are thy fountains, music, where the deep mysterious tide
That rolls through all creation's bounds its restless waters wide ?
Though art may wake its dulcet strains, and bid the soul rejoice,
They're but the feeble mimicry of Nature's mightier voice.

There is a spell of harmony, that reigns o'er earth and sky,
And tunes to one accordant strain the universe on high j
With songs the glittering host of Heaven awake the dawning light,
And pour their choral melody on the listening ear of night.

Oh ! Nature hath a thousand songs— a thousand varied lays,

That send to Heaven's eternal throne the harmonious strain of praise ;

The murmuring streams — the whispering woods — have each their own

bright song,
And the mighty ocean proudly rolls in melody along.

There's music on the breath of eve, when, fading in the west,
The summer sun adorns the skies with bright and gorgeous vest —
The rustling boughs — the dying breeze — the soft and whispering rill,
And the voice of plaintive nightingales that echoes from the hill !

There's music in the glorious morn, when, waking from repose,
All Nature starts to light and life, and earth all brightly glows ;
Oh ! sweetly on the gentle breeze those cheerful murmurs flow —
The lark's sweet matin song above— the waterfall below !

Nor less when all is dark, and clouds the angry skies deform —
There is a tone of music in the wildness of the storm,
The thunder's diapason voice, the wind's tumultuous song,
And ocean waves, that, with deep bass, the choral strain prolong !

But yet, oh ! sweeter far than these — kind feeling's power can call

A music from the heart of man more lovely yet than all ;

Though Nature sings her thousand songs, on earth and Heaven above,

There's nought like that sweet voice within— the harmonious strain of Love !

Yes, minstrel, wake the impassion' d lyre, invoke the heavenly Nine,
The heart can tune its passions yet to sweeter lays than thine.
Thy notes are but the semblance faint — that speak, with mimic art,
Affection, friendship, love, and all the concord of the heart !

TICKLER,
" A childish treble !"

NORTH.

I am not one of the Bohemian chatterers. Yet at a simple lilt

TICKLER.

You do trill like the lintie on the thorn. Allow me, sir, to repay the

pleasure you have now imparted, with — the Last Oyster. Open your gab.

(NORTH opens his gab, and TICKLER plops in the last of all his race.)

NORTH,
These civilities touch !

TICKLER.

'Twas but a— beard. Such is the selfishness of the most generous, that
the Last Oyster is little more than a name.

276 Arcrfrs Amlrosiana. No. LX.

NORTH.

Tip us a stave, Tim.

TICKLER.

I will. You know Beranger's Roger Mon temps ?

NORTH.

I do well.

TICKLER.

Mutatis mutandis.

ROGER GOODFELLOW.

A SONG.
To be sung to all sorry ratcats.

[Feb.

Small sirs, so melancholy

In patriotic woe, —
To cure your carking folly

Comes Roger Goodfellow ;
To live as best it list him,

To scorn who do not so— -
Ha, ha, this is the system

Of Roger Goodfellow.

To know the wind and weather

Will make the salmon spring ;
To know the spot of heather

That hides the strongest wing ;
To tell the moon's compliance

With hail, rain, wind, and snow-
Ha, ha, this is (lie science

Of Roger Goodfellow.

At field the earliest whistling;

At kirk the doucest seen ;
On holidays a- wrestling

The stoutest on the green :
Thus on in frank enjoyment

And grateful glee to go —
Ha, ha, 'tis the employment

Of Roger Goodfellow.

For wine, to think nought of it,

With jolly good ale when lined ;
Nor Ma'am my lady covet,

So housewife Joan be kind ;
While of each old state-housewife, he

Doth nothing ask to know—-
Ha, ha, 'tis the philosophy

Of Roger Goodfellow. "

Round Roger's cabin dangle,

From curious carved pins,
All wonders of the angle,

All mysteries of gins ;
While in his cupboard niche, is

A pewter pot or so —
Ha, ha, these are the riches

Of Roger Goodfellow.

To say, <l O mighty Maker,

I bless thee, that thou here
Hast made me thus partaker

Of love and lusty cheer :
As older still, oh, gayer,

And jollier may I grow" —
Ha, 'tis a worthy prayer

Of Roger Goodfellow,

Ho, ho, ye wheezing whiners ;

Ye kill-joys of the land !
State-malady-diviners ;

Yarn-spinners out of sand !
On common sense who'd trample.

And lay religion low ;
For God's sake take example

13y Roger Goodfellow.

NORTH.

Thank you, sir, you have outdone the Frenchman. Heavens ! Tickler,
what a burst of literature there will be after the burial of the Reform Bill !
All the genius of the land has been bottled up for a year and more — and
must be in a state of strong fermentation. Soon as the pressure has been
removed by the purification of the atmosphere, the corks will fly up into
the clouds, and the pent-up spirit effervesce in brilliant aspiration.

TICKLHK.

Not poetry. " The wine of life is on the lees," in that department. We
must wait for the vintage.

NORTH.

All the great schools seem effete. In the mystery of nature, the number

1832.] Nodes Atubrosiance. No.LX. -2'] 7

of births by each mind is limited— and we must wait for fresh producers
Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge — all the Sacred Band — have done
their best — their all — but on the horizon I see not the far-off coming light
of the foreheads of a new generation of poets. TJi.it dawn will rise over
our graves—perhaps not till the forlorn "hicjncet" on our tombstones is in
2;reen obliteration. The era lias been glorious — that includes Cowper and
Wordsworth, Burns and Byron, From what region of man's spirit shall
break a new day-spring of Song? The poetry of that long era is instinct
with passion— and, above all, with the love of nature. I know not from what
fresh fountains the waters may now flow — nor can 1 imagine what hand
may unlock them, and lead them on their mazy wanderings over the still
beautified flowers and herbage of the drcdal earth — the world of sense and of
soul. The future is all darkness.

TICKLER.

Mighty fine. But how should you ? In that case you were the very poet
whose advent has not yet been predicted — and which may not be — haply —
for a hundred years. Are there no younkers?

NORTH.

A few — but equivocal. - 1 have good hopes of Alfred Tennyson. But the
cockneys are doing what they may to spoil him — and if he suffers them to
put their bird-lime on his feet, he will stick all the days of his life on hedge-
rows, or leap fluttering about the bushes. I should be sorry for it — for
though his wings are far from being full-fledged, they promise now well in
the pinions — and I should not be surprised to see him yet a sky-soarer. His
" Golden Days of good Ilaroun Alraschid" are extremely beautiful. There is
feeling— and fancy — in his Oriana. He has a fine ear for melody and har-
mony too — and rare and rich glimpses of imagination. He has — genius,

TTCKLER.

Affectations.

NORTH.

Too many. But I admire Alfred — and hope — nay trust — that one day he
will prove himself a poet. If he do not — then am I no prophet.

TICKLER.
I love L. E. L.

NORTH.

So do I — and being old gentlemen, we may blamelessly make the public
our confidante. There is a passionate purity in all her feelings that endears
to me both her human and her poetical character. She is a true enthusiast.
Her affections overflow the imagery her fancy lavishes on all the subjects of
her song, and colour it all with a rich and tender light which makes even
confusion beautiful, gives a glowing charm even to indistinct conception, and
when the thoughts themselves are full-formed and substantial, which they
often are, brings them prominently out upon the eye of the soul in flashes
that startle us into sudden admiration. The originality of her genius, me-
thinks, is conspicuous in the choice of its subjects — they are unborrowed —
and in her least successful poems — as wholes — there is no dearth of poetry.
Her execution has not the consummate elegance and grace of Felicia
Hemans — but she is very young, and becoming every year she lives more
mistress of her art— and has chiefly to learn now how to use her treasures,
which, profuse as she has been, are in abundant store ; and, in good truth,
the fair and happy being has a fertile imagination, — the soil of her soul, if
allowed to lie fallow for one sunny summer, would, I predict, yield a still
richer and more glorious harvest. I love Miss Landon — for in her genius
does the work of duty — the union of the two is " beautiful exceeding-
ly"— and virtue is its own reward; far beyond the highest meed of praise
ever bestowed by critic — though round her fair forehead is already wreath-
ed the immortal laurel.

TICKLER.

Her novel is brilliant.

NORTH.

Throughout.

" This morning gives us promise of a glorious day,"

278 Nodes Ambrosiana. No. LX. [Feb.

You admire good Latin verses, Tickler ! Here are some—by that accom-
plished scholar, the Rev. G. J. A. Drake, who is willing they should ap-
pear in our pages, in which are sometimes set a few rare classical gems.
'Tis thus he does honour to the Remans. Let me recite the lovely original

THE FREE'D BIRD.
BY MRS HEMANS.

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 !

" 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 ?
— O I hadst thou known its deep meaning well,
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 the 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 may 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 !

1832.] Nodes Ambrosiance. No. LX. 279

" Call them not back when the chain is riven,
When the way of the pinion ia all through heaven !
Farewell ! — With my song through the clouds I soar,
I pierce the blue skies — I am Earth's no more !"

CARMEN LATJNE REDDITUM.

Jam redi, dilecta Avis, ad puellam
Flore quae multo decoravit aulam
Dulce frondosae ut violis olentem
Abdita silvae.

Libera ego ! non unquam ad te captiva redibo !

Fessaque prseteriit carceris hora mini.
Nubila per liquidi sublimis deferor ala —

jEthere cingor ovans — aethere caeruleo !

Despiciam longe subsparsa cacumina, gaudet

Cervus ubi croceis luxuriare jugis :
Despiciam aprica quam candet fluctus arena :

Libera sum ! reditus immemor astra peto !

Hei mihi ! dilecta Avis, ah ! vagari
Quis tibi suasit ? fuerat cubile
Nonne pergratum, melos ut dedisti
Nil nisi Itetum ?

LjBtum ego visa tibi perfundere tempore carmen
^Estivo ? aut captae vox tibi laeta fuit ?

Si tantum audieras, etiam graviora referri,
Quantus inest cordi carminibusque dolor!

Ingemu6re modis absentis somnia silvae ;

Et melos irrueret more mentis aquae;
Te quoque cum mulcens, leni expiraverat aura,

Fronde torum cecini floriferumque nemus.

Me fefellisti, mea Avis ? nitore
Usque perclaros oculos repente
Gaudii, rore ut liquido, micare
Lumine vidi !

Indomitae micu6re superbo lumine gentis—
Silvae aniina indomitee, silvce ubi nata fui !

Per spatia ampla poll cupidissima solvere pennas — •
Carpere, non unquam restituenda, viam !

Est domus arboreae nutanti in vertice frondis,
Sunt germana animse sidus et aura meae ;

Fonsque procul sola qui ludere gaudet arena—
Undique qui circa dulce vagatur odor.

Jam vale, dilecta Avis ! evocavi
Forsitan laetos comites abire,
Te velut, sperans retinere amoris
Vincula cordi.

Languida si mecum membra et captiva trahebant
Quamvis Amor custos — desit Amoris opus.

Lsetitia exiliunt vinclis, terrasque relinquunt,
Viribus alatis, lo triumphe ! canunt.

280 Nodes Ambrosianve. A'o. L X. [Feb

Nee revoca sublata— novam uec tinge catcnain

Per spatium cteli carpit ut ala viam.
Jamque vale — ascendoper nubila carmine gaudens,

/Etheris hie subeo cierula — Terra, vale !

TICKLER.
Worthy of Tibullus, or — Vincent Bonnie.

NORTH.
Great things remain to be said and sung, Timothy, of the sea.

TICKLER.

Before the Reading Public be sea-sick.

NORTH.

A mighty Marine Poem is a desideratum in the literature of the world.

TICKLER.
Do you mean a long poem by a marine '? and if so, foot or horse-marine ?

NORTH.

Don't be silly, Tickler. There is no humour in mere nonsense.

TICKLER.

Plagiary !

NORTH.

Falconer's Shipwreck is a most ingenious performance— arid affecting,
not only in itself, there being in it not a few passages of the simplest human
pathetic, but for the sake of the seaman who composed it on many a mid-
night watch, and perished in the Apollo frigate when she went down with
all her crew " far far at sea." Yet 'tis little read, I suspect; and has in-
spired no kindred but superior strain, through more than half a century

TICKLER.

Seamen have seldom time to write long poems, Kit; and then their edu-
cation is what it ought to be, practical, not poetical

NORTH.

Their whole life is poetry, Timothy

TICKLER.

Interspersed with some severe prose, Kit, as you would know, my man,
had you ever been at the mast-head on a look-out for a lee-shore in a

squally day when the master had lost his reckoning — and .

NORTH.

Hold your tongue. You are murdering the King's English. If our Wil-
liam were to overhear you, or Basil Hall, or Marryatt, or Glascock, you
would get " a dozen," you land-lubber, for your lingo, which is about as
like the true sea-tongue, Timothy, as the paw of a tortoise-shell cat that of
a white bear.

TICKLER.

The technical language of no art should ever be admitted into poetry.

NORTH.

Sumph ! How else could a poet shew a ship sailing on whitey brown
paper, as on the blue-green sea ?

TICKLER.

By flashing her into life and motion by the creative energy of general
terms.

NORTH.

fcl WAX A ij »

Good my dear Tickler. Much may be so done— witness Campbell's
glorious Mariners of England. And indeed a ship is in the imagination of
the merest squab a thing so majestical, that she is like the devil himself,—
only speak of her and she appears.

TICKLER.

Good, my dear Kit. I owe you one.

NORTH.

civat i il •

But what then? Cannot she bear being spoken of, aye, in the loftiest
nights of song in the language sailors love, the language dear to Britannia
as she sits enthroned on the cliffs of Albion, and who, long as tides obey
the moon, shall rule the waves ? J

TICKLER.

Hear !— hear I—hear !

1832.] Nodes Ambrosiante. No. LX. 281

NORTH.

Dryden has been jeered by surly Sam for the use of some technical nau-
tical terms in one of his poems — and justly ; for never was there such
abuse— such laughable ignorance, as therein exhibited by that illustrious
Cockney. Mr Place, the tailor, might as well call a marlin-spike a needle.
Now, sheer ignorance, on wliatever subject, by sea or land, but especially
by sea, assuming uncalled-for the office of rarest knowledge, is disgusting
even in a great poet like " glorious John." Besides, even had he employed
such terms aright, they had been absurd, bolting out suddenly in a single
stanza, and never more seen or heard of, in a poem stinking of shore instead
of smelling of sea. But let a poet who knows and feels the grandeur of
the character and occupation and appearance of the ocean-roarners, speak
of them in calm or storm, in battle or on tho blocks, in language ennobled
and consecrated to every patriot's soul by the naval triumphs of England;
let him speak of a man-of-war in a style that shews he knows a frigate
from a three-decker, a cutter from a schooner, a brig from a ship, and the
captain's gig from a quaker's whiskey, and Neptune shall be to him Apollo,
the Nereids the Muses, and every line shall be a line of light— all a-dazzle
with- appropriate words, surcharged with the imagery of the great deep.

TICKLER.

Hear ! hoar ! hear !

NORTH.

No " technical terms of art in poetry." O simiph of mmiphs ! why sayest
thou so V What ! not of the art that lays its hand on the ocean's mane, and em-
boldens man to scorn the monster in his foamy wrath, as if he were a lamb
.lying asleep on the sunny brae ! But I speak of the science of the sea ; and
its language is in itself magnificent, many of its words are like winds and
waves — imitative harmony of sound and motion, and light and gloom—

TICKLER.

Stop — stop — stop — harmony of light and gloom !

NORTH.

Yes— you blockhead. But

TICKLER.

What do you mean, sir, by — BUT ?

NORTH.

Would you weigh anchor in a poem, with a ;ship before your eyes, as if
you were putting the mail-coach in motion from the inn at Torsonce? Is
starboard a mean word ? or larboard ? or beating to windward ? or drifting
to leeward ? or eating ye out of the wind ?

TICKLER.
The wild ass is said, finely, to devour the wind—

NORTH.

Well, gulp away. Or the wind's eye ? — or — but

TICKLER.

What the devil, sir, do you, can you mean, by eternally using the word
BUT ? Do you mean to be personal?

NORTH.

My dear Timothy — lend me your ears — here are some verses that give
all such shallow and senseless critics the squabash.

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

Come, see the Dolphin's Anchor forg'd; 'tis at a white heat now :

IJie bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the forge's brow,

The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound;

And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round,

All clad m leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare ;

borne rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.

The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below;
And red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every throe :
,J1*?^ r?.ars' rends a11 outright— O, Vulcan, what a glow !
lis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright; the high sun shines not so !

282 Nodes Ambrosiana. No. LX. [Feb.

The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show;

The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row

Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe;

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster, slow

Sinks on the anvil — all about, the faces fiery grow —

" Hurrah I" they shout, " leap out— leap out;" bang, bang, the sledges go :

Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low;

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow;

The leathern mail rebounds the hail ; the rattling cinders strow

The ground around ; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow ;

And thick and loud, the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant " ho !"

Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out and lay on load !

Let's forge a goodly Anchor; a Bower, thick and broad :

For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode ;

And I see the good Ship riding, all in a perilous road,

The low reef roaring on her lee ; the roll of ocean pour'd

From stem to stern, sea after sea ; the mainmast by the board ;

The bulwarks down; the rudder gone ; the boats stove at the chains ;

But courage still, brave mariners — the Bower yet remains,

And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky high,

Then moves his head, as though he said, " Fear nothing — here am I J"

Swing in your strokes in order ; let foot and hand keep time,

Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime ;

But while ye swing your sledges, sing ; and let the burthen be,

The Anchor is the Anvil King, and royal craftsmen we !

Strike in, strike in — the sparks begin to dull their rustling red ;

Our hammers ring with sharper (fin, our work will soon be sped :

Our Anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array,

For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay ;

Our Anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here,

For the Yeo-heave-o', and the Heave-away, and the sighing seaman's cheer ;

"When, weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from love and home ;

And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam.

In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last ;

A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast. —

O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me,

What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea !

O deep Sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou ?

The hoary monster's palaces ! methinks what joy 'twere now

To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the whales,

And feel the churn'd sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails !

Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea unicorn,

And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn ;

To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn ;

And for the ghastly-grinning shark to laugh his jaws to scorn ;

To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles

He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallow'd miles ;

Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls;

Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far astonished shoals

Of his back-browsing ocean-calves ; or, haply in a cove,

Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love,

To find the long-hair'd mermaidens ; or, hard by icy lands,

To wrestle with the Sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands.

O broad-armed Fisher of the Deep, whose sports can equal thine ?
The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line ;
And night by night, 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day,
Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play-
But shamer of our little sports ! forgive the name I gave—
A fisher's joy is to destroy— thine office is to save.

1832.] Nodes Ambrosiana. No. LX. 283

O lodger in the sea-kings' halls, couldst thou but understand
Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping band,
Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend,
With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their ancient friend—
Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee,
Thine iron side would swell with pride ; thou'dst leap within the sea !

Give honour to their memories who left the pleasant strand,
To shed their blood so freely for the love of Father-land—
Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard grave,
So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave—
Oh, though our Anchor may not be all I have fondly sung,
Honour him for their memory, whose bones he goes among !

TICKLER.

That will do. Three cheers— my old boy— for the Wooden Walls !
( Hurra ! hurra ! hurra /)

NORTH.

Had I kept to the navy, Tim, 'tis needless to say who had won Tra-
falgar,

TICKLER.

Kept to the navy ! So you were once a Middy ?

NORTH.
I served before the mast — a volunteer.

TICKLER.

Pressed at Portsmouth, while sowing your wild oats. Poor Poll !— But
is the " Forging of the Anchor " your own— Kit ?

NORTH.

I wish it were. But the world will yet hear of the writer. Belfast gave him
birth — I believe — and he bears the same name with a true poet of our own
Scotland — Fergusson. Maga will be proud of introducing him to the world.
There are not such a noble race of men in the wide world as our sailors
and soldiers — and I rejoice to see that they have their own organ now to
record and to emblazon the deeds of the brave — to defend their rights and
privileges— and vindicate, against all shabby civilians, the character of their
order — The United Service Journal.

TICKLER.

A spirit-stirring work, full of useful instruction in these troubled times-
North.

NORTH.

Contributed — edited — read by men — and gentlemen — and I will add—-
Christians. For, war there must be in this world, for some centuries to
come ; and therefore let us fight with as much humanity as is consistent
with the end in view, the overthrow or destruction of all our enemies.

TICKLER.

What is the meaning of all this savage slang in the radical newspapers
against some article or other in the last number of that admirable Journal ?

NORTH.

Some say there's a secret under it; it seems to my simple and unsuspect-
ing mind, the pure spite of baffled sedition and rebellion. Some excellent
•soldier, whose countenance would get as red as his coat at the thought of
shame befalling a brother in arms, when called upon to preserve property
or life from the wicked madness of an infuriated rabble, has therein explain-
ed the plan that the military ought to pursue with mobs whose immediate
object is fire, robbery, rape, and murder, and their ultimate object the same
as that of the demagogues who drive them to such desperate crimes — the
destruction, namely, of all social order, and the overthrow of the state.

TICKLER.

Proper— and patriotic.

NORTH.

Most considerate and humane. But then— death to the hopes of traitors.
Hence gnashing of teeth among the cowards of the press-gang, and vomit-

•jr I Nodes Ambro&iuncc. No. LX. I Feb.

ings of fetid bile upon the brave, who would fain save, by forewarning,
the " swinish multitude."

TICJtLEB,

Burke got abused for that epithet

NORTH.

As he did for many others as eternally truthful; and therefore I say
" swinish." Let the ruffian stand forth from the rabble, who dares to in-
sult us for that word "swinish," step into the ring, and strip, and in one
round, Old North will give him his quietus, t appeal to Two Hundred
Numbers, nearly, of this Magazine, in proof of our love for the people.
Their virtues we have eulogized — as have all our Contributors; their suf-
ferings we— the Tories—have sympathized with— and done our best —
(what pauper patriot, bankrupt alike in fortune and in honour, dare deny
it?)_ by pen and purse to relieve; are we, therefore, to abstain from the
use of the most appropriate word in the English language, when we
see, with our very bodily eyes, a whole legion of devils entering into a
raging rabble, and transforming them, with a sudden change beyond the
power of all the sorcerers of sedition, into a herd of swine, that, instead of
rushing into the sea and grunting out bells and bubbles till their carcasses
float filthily together like one multifarious carcass in a drowned death,
have gathered themselves, under that demoniac possession, from the lanes
and alleys, where they had their styes, of a great city, into the streets and
squares, ami obedient to their now brutal nature, making use of the human
faculties still left them, to set the city on fire, scampering up and down the
lines of burning houses, while the cry of the Radicals is sent up with the
sparks that kindle the night-sky, " Reform ! reform I tyrants ! Behold and
tremble at the MAJESTY OF THE PEOPLE !"

TICKLER.

Good — strong — true.

NORTH.

Would 1 hang the rioters ? Not if I could help it. But if such incen-
diaries be pardoned— there is no law any longer in this land.

TICKLER.
Unless their lives be spared, that punishment may fall on the — Instigators.

NORTH.

Who are they ? The MINISTRY AND THE PRESS. Not every member,
perhaps, of the revolutionary Ministry — not every member, certainly, of the
revolutionary Press ; but those who preached to the populace such ser-
mons that the sole practical conclusion ignorant congregations could draw
from them was — " Let us break their bonds and cut their cords asunder —
let us terrify our tyrants — and fire set us free."

TICKLER.

The Morning Herald itself, a reforming paper, but conducted in an ho-
nourable and a humane spirit, has admitted almost all that you have now
said — has proclaimed it; and the charge is proved against the guilty in
high and in low places, unless indeed words be but empty air, and sinless
therefore, the mere syllabling^ of sedition.

TICKLER.

Poor Brcrcton !

NORTH.

Peace to his ashes. He saw not the " coming events," even when they
" flung," not only their " shadows before," but their own grimness black
on his very face ; and if he had not his secret instructions from the Go-
vernment, which I do not believe, he had his open instructions from the
press it patronizes, and obeying them, but with no congenial spirit, he de-
livered himself up to shame, sorrow, and death.

TICKLER.

The unfortunate man believed that it was his duty to behave as he did to
the mob. The belief shewed weakness of understanding, and caused con-
duct, in which the honour of the soldier was sacrificed to a vain desire arid
hope of conciliating the base and brutal mob, by treating them as friends
find brothers embarked in the same cause. " T, too, am a Reformer !" Alas !

Nvulcs AttibrosidHce. No. LX. t>y,j

alas! And so saving, as a smith indignantly testified, he shook hands with
the " lowest of the low"— and that, too, after he had declared his fears
that they would murder the dragoons ! For his own life, Colonel Brereton

had no fears. Doubtless, he was personally brave. But

WORTH.

And yet there are public writers who have proposed paying marks of
honour to his memory, as a soldier on service — that the conduct, which his
sensibility to shame drove him to expiate so lamentably, might be held up
to the admiration and imitation of the British army !

TICKLER.

Incredible baseness! — if any baseness Avere incredible in the sulky, sullen,
and savage soul of a revolutionist.

NORTH.

Yet had Colonel Brereton acted with ordinary energy, my Lord Al-
thorp might — would have spoken with disgusl and indignation — little
accustomed though he bo to " speak eloquently" — of the " Bristol mas-
sacre."

TiCKLUR.

Ay ! Ministers, who are not only the courteous correspondents, but the
humble, obliged, and grateful servants of Political Unions, by themselves
denounced as illegal, and which passed seditious resolutions in their very
teeth, are the likeliest men in the world to have desired to break a mili-
tary officer for dispersing by the edge of the sword one of their own mobs.
You remember the 7th Epod, of Horace ?

HOKATIAN VERSION [EPODON VII.]
ON MEETING THE BIRMINGHAM MOB, DEC. 1831.

Whither away, ye dirty devils ?
Why have ye drawn your fire-shovels,
Shoulder'd your pokers, and left your hovels ?
Not enough yet of your Bristol revels ?

Not, I'll warrant, like lusty fellows,
Going to save us from Whiggery's malice;
Handsomely handcuffing, down from the palace,
Old Touch-me-not, to a goodly gallows.

No ; but fulfilling the infidel's cravings-
Lending yourselves to your own enslavings —
Where are the Whigs, so rank in their ravings ;
Asses so mad in their misbehavings ?

Snooks, I say, is it cold or hunger ?
What ails Snivel and Snake, I wonder-
All run mad after rape and plunder,
Bit by a Revolution- Monger ?

Scabs of the Legion-leper ! are ye ?
Why do I ask, when your faces carry
Lechery, treachery, gluttony— Marry,
God send you a merciful adversary !

So stands England's penal charter ;

Even so, in every quarter,

Shall a red atonement smart her

For the sacred blood of a Royal Martyr !

NORTH.

Ay ! that's right— let's be cheery— I challenge you to a contest of alter-
nate song. I gfve the subject.

286 Nodes Ambrosiana. No. LX. [Feb.

A NEW SONG, TO BE SUNG BY ALL LOYAL AND TRUE SUBJECTS.
NORTH.

Ye good honest Englishmen, loyal and true,

That, born in Old England, look not for a New,

And your fathers' old principles love to pursue,

Join, join in our chorus, while yet we may sing,

Spite of treason and blasphemy — " God save the King !"

TICKLER.

Priests, Prelates, and Churchmen, who honour the creed
For which martyrs have bled, for which martyrs may bleed,
When Atheists and Papists your flocks shall mislead;
Join, join in our chorus, and loyally sing,
From fiendish conspiracy — " God save the King !"

NORTH.

Ye that mean to stand firm by a Protestant throne,
Nor would see Church or King be deprived of their own ;
Nor for bread to the poor would but give them a stone ;
Join, join in our chorus, and resolute sing,
With the true voice of loyalty — " God save the King !"

TICKLER.

Ye that know well the plots of fool, knave, and profane,

That the very first act of the Devil's own reign

Would episcopize Cobbett, and canonize Paine ;

Join, join in our chorus defiance to fling

At their blasphemous rage, and cry — " God save the King !" .

. NORTH.

Ye that know when Whig Radical Orators shine,
And bewilder the mobs whom they urge to combine,
What mischievous devils get into the swine ;
Join, join in our chorus, and give them a ring,
To keep them from delving— so, " God save the King !"

TICKLER.

Ye that honour the laws that our forefathers made,

And would not see the laurels they twined for us fade,

Nor would yield up your wealth to the cant of " free trade ;"

Join, join in our chorus, and let the world ring

With our commerce and glory — and " God save the King !"

NORTH.

All ye that are foes to mean quibbles and quirks,
And twopenny statesmen, well known by their works,
That have used the poor Greeks ten times worse than the Turks;
Join, join in our chorus, and manfully sing,
With good English honesty—" God save the King!"

TICKLER.

Defend us from hypocrites, save us from quacks,

From saintly Macauleys, and some other Macs,

And from white sugar said to be made by free blacks ;

Join, join in our chorus, and still let us cling

To our ships and OUF colonies— " God save the King!"

NORTH.

From, of all the vile humbugs that ever was known,
That vilest and direst, Sierra Leone,
That makes savages howl, and poor Englishmen groan,-

1 832.] Noctes Ambrosiana. No. LX. 287

Join, join in our chorus, the downfall to sing

Of malice and slander— and " God save the King !"

TICKLER.

Ye nobles, stand forth, and defend us, ye great,
From political sophists, their jargon and prate,
Defend Church and King, and keep both in their state ;
Join, join in our chorus, a blessing to bring
On the land of our fathers — and " God save the King !"

NORTH.

Defend us once more from the Regicide Bill,
And the Bedlamite Whigs, that have caused so much ill,
And would bind our bold King to their absolute will ;
Join, join in our chorus, and still let us cling
To the laws of Old England — and " God save the King !"

TICKLER.

From Lord Chancellors save us, who flop on their knees,

And pretend to give up, while they bargain for fees,

And sneer about Bishops, and envy their sees ;

Join, join in our chorus, and loyally sing,

From scheming hypocrisy — " God save the King !"

NORTH.

That give friendly advice to the Lords they should shun,
That keep the King's conscience, and let him have none,
And strip him of all his tried friends one by one ;
Join, join in our chorus, and faithfully sing,
From evil advisers all — " God save the King !"

TICKLER.

From a new House of Peers, that shall put the old down,
And recruit from the Tinkers of Brummagem town,
And set a mobility over the Crown ;
Join, join in the chorus, and let the rogues swing,
And thus be exalted— so " God save the King !"

NORTH.

From national robbers, call'd " National Guards,"
That for pike and for gun quit their thimbles and yards,
To hunt down the gentry, proscribed in placards ;
Join, join in our chorus, and roar as we sing,
From Frenchified villainy — " God save the King !"

TICKLER.

From a Citizen King, and a new La Fayette,
With his sword in the scales to weigh down a just debt,
And beggar the world for the whims of Burdett ;
Join, join in our chorus— all ready to spring
To the rescue from tyranny — " God save the King!"

NORTH.

From a dastardly Ministry, cringing and mean
To their sovereign mob, and reserving their spleen
To insult and to bully — a woman — a Queen !
Join, join in our chorus — true homage we bring
To the wife of our Monarch— and " God save the King !"

TICKLER.

Emancipate Ireland once more from the thirst
Of rapine and murder, with which she is cursed,
From Prime-Minister Shiel, and O'Connell the First;

Noctts Ambrok'iatHe. No. LX. [Feb.

Join, join in our chorus, and spurn all who Avring

From the beggar his pittance — here's " God save the King !'"

NORTH.

From defiance of law, and from Catholic rent,

On open sedition by demagogues spent,

And from Parliaments held without England's consent;

Join, join in our chorus — a downfall we sing

To all turbulent scoundrels — so " God save the King !"

TICKLER.

Brave William, stand forth from your radical rout,
And trust your old Peers, that still stand you about ;
And, oh ! above all, kick your Ministers out !
And hark to our chorus — for that's the true thing,
Hurrah for our country — and " God save the King !"

NORTH.

And if they cling fast, wrest them off like a winch,
Though they bully and storm with their mobs, never flinch,
Be the King of Old England, ay, every inch ;
And fear not, your people will thankfully sing
With true hearts and harmony—" God save the King !"

(Left sitting.}

Printed by fialfanfynt} and Company, PnuVst

BLACKWOOD'S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CXCI.

FEBRUARY, 1832.
PART II.

VOL. XXXI.

NEW PROJECT OF EDUCATION IN IRELAND.

THERE never was a period when
the empire of Great Britain was be-
set by so many dangers ; and they
are all fearfully aggravated by the
consideration that the attention of
the public, which should be concen-
trated upon each singly, is so scat-
tered amongst, or distracted by all
collectively and simultaneously, that
but little hope can be entertained of
the application of the only remedies
by which impending calamities might
be averted. Our foreign policy im-
plies a deliberate abandonment of
the principles which have heretofore
guaranteed the honour and main-
tained the interests of England, and
a formal surrender of the advantages
which were gained after twenty years
of war, and by an unparalleled expen-
diture of treasure and effusion of
blood. At kome, our venerable con-
stitution is about to be cut up piece-
meal, and put into Medea's kettle by
our radical regenerators, — only be-
cause it has been regulated by a prin-
ciple of accommodation which has
enabled it to keep pace with the im-
provement of the age, and ensured,
notwithstanding the prodigious in-
crease of democratic power, that wis-
dom rather than folly should predomi-
nate in the national councils. Ireland,
which was to have been tranquillized
by the Emancipation Bill, is in a state
of fearful turbulence and excitement;
and our Ministers are so harassed
VOL, xxxi. NO, cxci.

by their projects for the retention
of office, that they find it more ex-
pedient to soothe and propitiate the
demagogues, than to grapple with
the refractory spirit which they have
evoked, and which will be satisfied
with nothing less than the dismem-
berment of the empire. The Roman
Catholics, under the guidance of
their prelates, have exhibited a de-
termination to resist the payment of
tithes, even to the shedding of blood.
This is met by Government with an
ostentatious exhibition of peculiar
favour to the Roman Catholic Bi-
shop, whose writings have more than
any thing else produced this resist-
ance ; and with a declaration which
amounts simply to this, that the pro-
perty of the clergy must be invaded !
An opposition is raised against scrip-
tural education, on the part of those
who have always preferred darkness
to light, upon the ground of attempts
at proselytism which were never
made, and of which, upon enquiry,
the parties implicated in the charge
are acquitted ; and this is made the
excuse for bringing forward a pro-
ject of education, which, if carried
into effect, must supersede the func-
tions of an Established Church, and
render national education subser-
vient to the purposes of a Popish
priesthood ! It is to this particular
project that we would at present
invite the earnest attention of our

New Project of Education in Ireland.

290

readers ; and concerning which we
feel the more solicitous, because, in
our present awful embarrassments, it
is not likely to attract a due share
of notice, and may pass through
Parliament almost " sub silentio,"
before its import has been duly pon-
dered, or its consequences have been
fully understood.

To us the project itself is not so
ominous, as the extraordinary con-
juncture of circumstances under
which it is proposed. If it were to
be judged of by its own demerits, it
could not stand for a single moment.
But it is viewed, unfortunately, in
comparison with another system,
which has been equally disapproved
of by the most bigoted of the super-
stitious, and by the wisest of the
wise; and what Mr Stanley's new
scheme wants in real worth, it makes
up in contrasted and adventitious
plausibility. With but little hope
of averting the great calamity which
impends, we shall bestow a few pages
upon the progress of events, which
appear almost inevitably to neces-
sitate the re-establishment of Popery
in Ireland.

In a country, the wealth, the ac-
tivity, and the intelligence of which
is Protestant, whilst the great mass
of the population is Roman Catho-
lic, that has taken place which might
naturally be expected — the Protest-
ant part of the community have, for
a considerable time past, extended
their benevolent anxiety to their
more benighted neighbours, and at
great expense, and with consider-
able labour, have carried into effect
various plans by which the condi-
tion, both moral and religious, of
their Roman Catholic countrymen
might be improved. Whether these
plans were the best that could be
contrived, we will not at present
stop to enquire; but it does not re-
quire more than the minimum of
candour to admit, that they origina-
ted in motives the purest and the
most single-minded.

Neither can it be doubted that, to
a considerable degree, they were
successful. The Irish are proverb-
ially lovers of learning; and, left
to themselves, would never have
suspected the supporters of those
schools, in which their children were
gratuitously educated, of having es-
tablished them with any sinister ob-

[Feb.

ject. But the state of the country,
agitated at that time by the Roman
Catholic Association, predisposed a
large body to regard the new insti-
tutions with not a little of angry
jealousy ; and certain untoward pe-
culiarities in the institutions them-
selves, as well as in the conduct of
some of their most active friends,
rendered it easy for a wily priesthood
(who, whatever may be their spi-
ritual darkness, have never yet been
accused of a want of this world's
wisdom) to misrepresent them, as
though, under the pretence of en-
lightening, they were in reality in-
tended for the purpose of perverting
the people.

Upon these it is not our purpose
at present to enlarge ; but we can-
not help observing, that the regula-
tion which made the Bible a school-
book, and at the same time inter-
dicted any authoritative exposition
of its contents, was open to grave
objections. We do not require to
be told that the individuals compo-
sing the Kildare Place Institution
were actuated by the best motives.
We are assured they were. Neither
is it necessary to inform us that they
studiously avoided every thing which
could give offence to the Roman Ca-
tholics, and have not furnished any
ground for the charge which has
been so industriously bruited abroad,
that their schools were mere traps
for converts. The charge has been
investigated by prejudiced adver-
saries, and proved to be unfounded.
The regulation to which we allude
was objectionable upon a very dif-
ferent ground, viz. that it made no
sufficient provision for the religious
education of the children, — and up-
on that ground it was objected to,
even from the very commencement;,
by the most enlightened friends ot
scriptural religion.

The Bible is the best of all books.
It is a revelation of the will of God
to man as a moral creature, and a
history of the dealings of God with
man as a sinful creature, the use or
the abuse of which must be attended
by blessings the most ineffable, or
consequences the most awful. Now,
nothing but patient study, aided by
divine grace, can enable those who
read that blessed book so to read
it as that they may well and truly
" mark, learn, and inwardly digest

1832.]

New Project of Education in Ireland.

it," and be worthy of ranking with
those scribes whom our blessed Lord
describes as being instructed in the
kingdom of God, and whom he likens
" to the householder, who brings
forth from his treasures things new
and things old." Will any one say
that this is likely to be the case with
children, for whose edification a
chapter of the Bible, chosen at the
discretion of the master, is read in
the public school-room ? No, we will
be told ; but there is still much by
which they might be profited. Grant-
ed. But for that much, extracts from
the Bible would be sufficient. If the
object of the Society be merely
moral instruction, that object would
be best attained by the compilation
of a volume upon which all parties
might agree. If their object be re-
ligious instruction, unless they are
absurd enough to contend for some-
thing like abstract Christianity, that
is, a system of religion without any
corresponding system of doctrine, it
would be idle to expect that those
who conscientiously differ respect-
ing matters of doctrine, could be
brought to act with unity in a pro-
ject which would involve either an
opposition to, or a compromise of,
their principles.

In therefore offering our most
strenuous opposition to the new pro-
ject, we would riot by any means
have it understood that the one
which it is intended to supersede
has had our unqualified approbation.
No such thing. We are almost as much
opposed to what involves an abuse,
as to what stipulates an exclusion, of
the Holy Scriptures ; and we should
be but little satisfied with any sys-
tem of national instruction which did
riot provide, for all those for whose
education the state might be fairly
considered responsible, substantive
instruction in the Word of God.

This was not done by the Kildare
Place Society, and Mr Stanley was
therefore right in condemning it for
making no sufficient provision for
the religious education of the child-
ren; but we scarcely believed our
ears, when he almost immediately
began to praise it as most liberal — as
having by its extreme liberality gone
beyond the spirit of the age, to a de-
gree that provoked the indignation
of the Orangemen, and the bigots of
the Protestant communion ! T

291

should be most inefficient for any
good purpose, which is, in the modern
acceptation of the word, deemed
most liberal, would not have sur-
prised us ; but that Mr Stanley should
have, in any instance, recognised
such a truth — that he should, in his
place in Parliament, condemn a sys-
tem as inefficient, and, in the same
breath, eulogize it as most liberal,
argues a more than ordinary degree
either of simple candour or sarcastic
severity in that right honourable
gentleman, which must have come
equally by surprise upon both his
friends and his enemies.

The truth we believe to be, that
neither Orangemen nor Protestants,
nor bigots of any denomination of
Protestants, ever objected to the Kil-
dare Place Society. Nor were any
objections ever started against it on
the part of Protestants, but those
of which Mr Stanley himself now
fully admits the validity. He may
not agree with them in the remedy
which they would propose ; but he
has gone quite as far as they could
wish him to go in recognising its de-
fects; and farther, much farther, than
he should have gone in his endea-
vours to supply them. Whether the
new system which he patronises has
in reality supplied them, or whether
it is or is not liable to other and more
serious imputations, we shall here-
after enquire. It is sufficient to say,
at present, that an accusation by
which Mr Stanley is himself identi-
fied with Orangemen and bigots,
must either involve the former in
disgrace, or protect the latter from
condemnation. It must, to that right
honourable gentleman, be sufficient-
ly humiliating to acknowledge that,
in condemning the Kildare Street
institution, he was only copying the
example of bigots whom he despised;
and it may, to them, be consolatory
to learn, that their opinions upon
that subject are at present counte-
nanced by one who is so much re-
spected. This may, perhaps, encou-
rage them to object, with what will
no doubt be considered equal " bi-
gotry" to the system which appears,
for the present, to be fashionable,
and which, like Minerva from the
head of Jupiter, has suddenly started,
all perfect, from the ardent brain of
the youthful Secretary for Ireland.
But of these things it may be truly

Project of Education in Ireland.

said, " by their fruits," and by their completely superseded.

fruits alone, " shall ye know them."

And Mr Stanley may live to see the

day when time shall have given proof

of the value of his present policy,

and when the folly of " bigots" may

again, by a lucky accident, be found

coincident with the judgment of the

more enlightened.

In order duly to estimate the plan
at present proposed, it will be neces-
sary to revert briefly to that of the
commissioners of 1825, and to the
difficulties which rendered it un-
availing. The commissioners found
the education of the country, such
as it was, in the hands of the Pro-
testants, and conducted upon prin-
ciples not, as they conceived, suffi-
ciently conciliatory towards indivi-
duals of the Romish persuasion.
Their object was, therefore, to pro-
pitiate the prejudices of that class
of persons, by such an accommoda-
tion to their reelings and principles
as might win their assent to a sys-
tem, under which children of all de-
nominations might assemble for the
purpose of receiving a united literary
and religious education. In order to
accomplish this itvvas proposed, that
the new system was to be under the
superintendence of a board of com-
missioners, who were to exercise a
control over the public funds to be
allocated for its support, and possess
the power of appointing and remo-
ving the masters and mistresses of
the respective schools. It was also
provided that each school in which
Protestant and Roman Catholic
children assembled together for edu-
cation, should be provided with a
Protestant and Roman Catholic
teacher, who were to be authorized
to give literary instruction indiffer-
ently to all the children, but religious
instruction only to those of their re-
spective communions. The commis-
sioners, however, deemed it indis-
pensable to the completion of their
system, that a book of common re-
ligious instruction should be pro-
vided, upon which both Roman Ca-
tholics and Protestants might agree j
and it was the difficulty which they
experienced in the adoption of such
a book which caused their design to
be abandoned.

The reader will perceive that, in
what was already contemplated, the
functions of the national Church were

[Feb.

The esta-
blished clergy ,*the natural guardians
of national education, possessing a
common -law right to superintend
any system having for its object to
train up the rising generation in the
way they should go, and especially
enjoined, by two positive enact-
ments— the one the 28th of Henry
VIII., the other the 7th of William
III. — to undertake and perform that
important duty, and rendered liable
to severe penalties if they should
neglect it, are set aside, and their
places are supplied by a body of
commissioners, over whom they can
have no control, and from whom, as
far as they find it possible to co-ope-
rate with them, they must be con-
tent to receive instructions. This
could not fail to be very highly grati-
fying to the Roman Catholic bishops,
who saw very clearly the advantage
that was gained. In fact, liberality to-
wards a sect which had been previ-
ously regarded with a jealous cau-
tion, was now carried to such an ex-
treme, as to amount to intolerance
towards the Establishment. At first
the Roman Catholic clergy seemed
satisfied with this detrusion of the
Church of Ireland from her proper
station, and expressed their readi-
ness to acquiesce in the views of
the commissioners respecting that
book of common religious instruc-
tion which they deemed indispen-
sable to the completion of their
scheme; Dr Murray, the titular
archbishop of Dublin, declaring that
" no objection would be made to an
harmony of the Gospels being used
in the general education which the
children should receive in common,
nor to a volume containing extracts
from the Psalms, Proverbs, and Book
ofEcclesiasticus,nortoavolume con-
taining the history of the Creation — •
of the Deluge — of the Patriarchs —
of Joseph — and of the deliverance
of the Israelites, extracted from the
Old Testament ; and that he was
persuaded no difficulties in arran-
ging the details of such works would
arise on the part of the Roman Ca-
tholic clergy."

Difficulties, however, did arise,
whether on the part of the Roman
Catholic clergy or not, the reader
shall judge.

The commissioners of education
having, as they conceived, the sane-

1832.]

New Project of Education in Ireland.

tion of the Roman Catholic prelates
for the introduction of a book of re-
ligious instruction, which should em-
body as large a portion of scriptural
truth as might be collected into one
volume, without containing any
thing wounding to the feelings, or
offensive to the prejudices, of any
denomination of believers, proceed-
ed to authorize certain individuals,
in whose ability and discretion they
reposed confidence, to make such a
compilation. While this work was in
progress, the Roman Catholic pre-
lates assembled at the house of Dr
Murray, and came to four resolu-
tions, which may be considered as
investing themselves with a power
of supervision and control over the
commissioners, similar to that which
the commissioners had already as-
serted over the Church of Ireland.

The Romish prelates required, as
the condition of their adhesion to
the new system, the unconditional
submission of the commissioners to
the following resolutions : —

That in each school, where the
majority of the children were Ro-
man Catholics, the master should be
a Roman Catholic ; — where the mi-
nority were Roman Catholics, that
there should be a permanent Roman
Catholic assistant; that in all cases
the masters or assistants so appoint-
ed should have the express approval
of the Roman Catholic bishop of the
diocess in which they are employed;
and that they should be removed
upon his representation.

That no Roman Catholic master
or mistress should be employed in
the commissioners' schools, who
were educated under Protestants;
and that no book or tract should be
introduced for common instruction
in literature, which might be ob-
jected to, on religious grounds, by
the Roman Catholic bishop. ;

The commissioners having pro-
vided, that the funds at that time be-
longing to the several charitable in-
stitutions for education, should gra-
dually merge in the common fund
to be at their disposal in the prose-
cution of this national object, this
did not at all meet the views of the
Roman Catholic bishops, who re-
solved, " That a transfer of the pro-
perty in several schools, which now
exist, or may hereafter exist, in Ire-
land, may be utterly impracticable,

293

from the nature of the tenure by
which they are or shall hereafter be
held ; and from the number of per-
sons having a legal interest in them,
as well as from a variety of other
causes, and that, in our opinion, any
regulation which should require such
transfer to be made, as a necessary
condition for receiving Parliament-
ary support, would operate to the
exclusion of many useful schools
from all participation in the public
bounty." And they conclude by
stating, " That, appointed as we have
been by Divine Providence, to watch
over and preserve the deposit of Ca-
tholic faith in Ireland, and respon-
sible as we are to God for the souls of
our flocks, we will, IN OUR RESPEC-
TIVE DlOCESSES, WITHHOLD OUR CON-
CURRENCE AND SUPPORT FROM ANY
SYSTEM OF EDUCATION, WHICH WILL
NOT FULLY ACCORD WITH THE PRIN-
CIPLES EXPRESSED IN THE FOREGOING
RESOLUTIONS."

Now, will any one say, that by
the resolutions just recited, the Ro-
man Catholic prelates did not erect
themselves into a court of high com-
mission, above the commissioners
themselves? They were willing to
continue in company with Mr Frank-
land Lewis and his associates as far,
and no farther, than these gentlemen
were willing to go with them : — and,
however they may condescend to
avail themselves of the Parliament-
ary grant, which may be made for
the purpose of carrying the views
of the commissioners into effect,
they are clearsighted and sagacious
enough to foresee the insuperable
difficulties which render it impos-
sible that any funds, which are
peculiarly at their own disposal,
could be appropriated to the same
object.

The reader must therefore be
prepared to learn, that concert or
co-operation between two such
bodies was no longer practicable.
Unless the commissioners conceded
every thing, while the Roman Ca-
tholic bishops conceded nothing, —
that is, unless the commissioners
consented to act under the dictation
of the Roman Catholic bishops, and
became their obedient slaves, in esta-
blishing a system which, after de-
truding the national Church from its
proper station, was to secure the as-
cendency of Popery in Ireland, all

New Project of Education in Ireland.

294

their enquiries, and all their labour,
must be unavailing. Their panting
liberality toiled in vain after the ar-
rogant strides of Romish pretension.
The more they yielded, the more the
other required. And, assuredly, it
required a strong delusion to blind
them, as they appear to have been
blinded, to those ultimate views
which their Roman Catholic nego-
tiators took such little pains to con-
ceal from even the least discerning
observers.

This appeared very decidedly in
the reception, or rather, indeed, the
rejection, which they gave to that
.common book of religious instruc-
tion, which was drawn up under the
superintendence of the Archbishop
of Dublin, at the instance of the com-
missioners, who were led by Dr
Murray to believe, that if it contain-
ed nothing offensive to their feel-
ings, or at variance with their doc-
trines, it would not be objected to by
the Roman Catholic clergy. It was
undertaken with the understanding,
and compiled with a most scrupu-
lous avoidance of every thing by
Which their prejudices could be re-
volted. Nothing could exceed either
the discretion or the good faith with
which it was executed. Had it been
otherwise, the Roman Catholic bi-
shops would, assuredly, have been
loud and vehement in their recla-
mations, and not have confined their
objections to a point which had no-
thing whatever to do with the real
question at issue, and could only
serve to intimate the arrogance of
their own pretensions.

The commissioners, we may sup-
pose, were startled at the extraordi-
nary attitude which these prelates
took in the resolutions which have
l>een already recited. To admit the
claims thus put forward, would be
nothing short of formally abdicating
their functions ; and, if they acted in
defiance of them, they felt that the
success of their favourite plan would
~be endangered. They were there-
fore reduced to great difficulty; —
and could devise no better mode of
extricating themselves from their
embarrassment, than by attempting
to appear masters, when they were
in reality servants, and trying how
far the mildness and moderation
which they had already experienced
'from the Established Clergy, might

[Feb.

be still farther worked upon, so as to
induce an acquiescence in the pro-
priety of adopting a religious school-
book, which had been submitted
to the commissioners by the Roman
Catholic bishops, to the prejudice of
that which had been prepared by
themselves. The objection to the
Scriptural Selections which had been
laid before the commissioners by the
Archbishop of Dublin was, " that they
were taken from the Protestant ver-
sion;"— an objection which had no
reference to the subject-matter of the
compilation, to which alone they
should have confined their observa-
tions. Had any such objection been
made, it would immediately have
been obviated. But none such was
or could be urged; and nothing
proves the keen and unremitting vi-
gilance with which they prosecuted
their own peculiar projects, more
than the sinister adroitness with
which they almost succeeded in
drawing the commissioners into an
acknowledgment of their pretensions
as a church, even at the very mo-
ment when they were manifesting
the most utter disregard for the edu-
cation of the people.

Their work was taken into consi-
deration, and transmitted to his Grace
the Primate, together with a letter
from Mr Frankland Lewis, stating
the difficulty which the Roman Ca-
tholic bishops felt in admitting as a
religious school-book the compila-
tion of the Archbishop of Dublin,
and desiring to know whether any in-
superable objection existed on his
part, or on that of the Established
Clergy, to the adoption of that which
was now proposed. In reply to this
letter, the Primate wrote a full ex-
planation of his views upon the sub-
ject. It is, in our apprehension, one
of the most interesting and beauti-
ful public documents that ever was
composed. We shall therefore
make from it copious extracts, and
that with a twofold object; the one,
to hold forth to just admiration the
noble individual, who, at this criti-
cal period, stood almost alone against
the united craft and subtlety of the
Church of Rome, and the popular-
izing views and plausible repre-
sentations of latitudinarian commis-
sioners ; and the other, for the pur-
pose of exhibiting the justest and
clearest view of the real nature of the

1832.]

New Project of Education in Ireland.

difficulty which was started by the
Romish bishops, and its probable
object.

Having acknowledged the receipt
of the letter, his Grace observes —

" Before I enter upon the subject
to which you have now called my
attention, allow me to place before
you some particulars of our former
correspondence. In your letter of
the 13th of January, you were so
good as to assure me, that 'the com-
missioners were fully aware that the
books recommended in their report
could not be properly arranged, ex-
cept with the approbation, and under
the superintendence, of the authori-
ties in the Established Church.' My
answer was written, in the expecta-
tion that the commissioners would
continue to act under this impres-
sion. I stated the opinion, which,
after mature deliberation, I was in-
duced to form of their general design
in the plan they had proposed ; while
I acknowledged my alarm at some
particular measures, I declared my-
self consoled by the persuasion that
they had adopted the principle of the
statutes of Henry the Eighth and
William the Third, which commit na-
tional education to the Established
clergy ; and without passing beyond
the question upon which it appeared
to be their intention to consult me, I
endeavoured throughout to express
myself in language which, had I fall-
en into a misconception of their
views, might elicit an explanation.
From the frankness of my statement,
and the silence with which it conti-
nued to be received for more than
half a year, I became every day more
and more assured that my hopes
had been well founded.

" Your recent communication,
however,has considerably weakened
this assurance. I will state the im-
pression it has made upon me, with
the same freedom which I used in
my former letter, and with an anxi-
ous desire to be undeceived, if I
have fallen into error.

"The commissioners have rejected
the volume of Scripture Lessons
which had been prepared, according
to their own desire, f with the appro-
bation, and under the superintend-
ence,' of the Archbishop of Dublin
and myself, and by a committee ap-
pointed at a very full meeting of the
bishops. This step is not accounted

295

for in your letter by any objections
to particular words or passages ; and,
indeed, it could not be so accounted
for, because, had the difficulties been
of that nature, it could not escape
your discernment, that the obvious
course would be to point them out,
with a view to their removal or mo-
dification. The book was condemn-
ed by Dr Murray, as you mention,
upon this general ground, that,
* being taken exclusively, and verba-
tim, from the Protestant version, it
is open to the objections already
stated to the commissioners by the
Catholic archbishops.' You have
not informed me what the objections
are, but it appears that your board
acquiesces in them as conclusive. In
the place of the compilation thus re-
jected, you propose a book to me,
which you say the commissioners
have reason to think would be less
likely to meet with objection on the
part of the Roman Catholic clergy.
This work is sent printed ; and I
learn from Mr Pauncefoote, that it was
some delay in obtaining it from the
press, which occasioned the deten-
tion of your letter in Dublin. From
all these circumstances, I am obliged
to conclude, that the relation in which
the commissioners expressed them-
selves desirous of standing with the
Established Church, has been seriously
altered. Instead of that superintend-
ing co-operation in the arrangement
of a system of national instruction,
which your former letter taught me
to expect, we are now reduced to a
simple negative upon the proceed-
ings of your board. Possibly, in-
deed, even this privilege is more
than I am strictly warranted in infer-
ring from your last communication.
" The immediate purpose of your
letter is to learn, ' whether there be
any serious or irremediable objec-
tion to your printed volume ?' /
cannot refrain from avowing my deep
concern, that this question has not been
pressed upon the Itoman Catholic hier-
archy, with respect to the compila-
tion prepared under the directions of
the Archbishop of Dublin and myself.
Had the commissioners delayed their
rejection of it until they discovered
the particular objections to which it
was liable — weighed their import-
ance, and, if serious, ascertained our
inability or unwillingness to pro-
vide a remedy, they would have

New Project of Education in Ireland*

296

done no more than was consistent
with their o\vn declarations, and the
reasonable claims of the Established
Church. At present, the only objec-
tion that appears against it is, that it
is a Protestant version. You inform
me, that the * commissioners are
strongly impressed with the convic-
tion, that, in considering the execu-
tion of a work of this nature, no
opinions of theirs, on a theological
ground, could carry with them any
weight whatever.' I am quite per-
suaded of the correctness of this con-
viction; yet I trust that the com-
missioners will find no difficulty in
comprehending the few observations
of that nature which it will be my
duty to lay before them. There are
no more than two verses in our com-
pilation which suggest a sense differ-
ent from that in the Douay, (St Mat.
xxvi.28, and StLuke, xi. 16;) and of
these, the former only can be ima-
gined to have a controversial mean-
ing. Now, although the substituted
volume does not contain this verse,
it contains the parallel one of St
Luke, and gives the disputed words,
according to the authorized version,
thus :-r-

" Rejected words of St Matthew — •
* This is my blood of the New Tes-
tament, which is shed for many.'

"Adopted clause in StLuke—* This
cup is the New Testament in my
blood, which is shed for you.'

" The question which arises between
the Churches is, whether is shed, or
shall be shed, is the true interpretation.
It must be obvious to your board,
from this statement, that the ground
of opposition to our volume is, that
it is a version made by Protestants,
and implying the existence of a Pro-
testant Church, and a Protestant Go-
vernment.

" I am now to inform the commis-
sioners what objections can be made,
on the part of the Established Church,
to the volume which they have sub-
stituted. To me, it appears that the
point at issue between the two volumes,
is no less than THAT GREAT QUESTION

BETWEEN THE CHURCHES OF ROME

AND ENGLAND, * WHAT is THE RULE
OF FAITH ?' The Church of Rome
gives AUTHORITY, the Church of
England gives evidence, as the basis
of Christianity. The latter appears
as a faithful witness of the sacred
records, and of the interpretation

[Feb.

which has been put upon them by
the first believers ; the former, as an
infallible teacher, drawing her doc-
trines and institutions from herself, or
from a secret store of tradition, which
is independent of the Written Word,
and the key of which has been com-
mitted to her custody by the Great
Founder of our religion. In our sys-
tem, the Church is nothing without
the Scripture; in that of Rome, its
powers and doctrines might have
been as they are, had the New Testa-
ment never been written. This irre-
concilable difference between the
two Churches, appears upon the first
inspection of the volume now before
me. The work which we prepared
is provided with references to the
sacred writers, so that every reader
may satisfy himself of the fidelity
of the quotation ; and, if he be com-
petent to make such enquiries, of
the correctness of the original read-
ing, and accuracy of the version.
There are no references in the print-
ed work. The Church delivers her
* Christian lessons,' as they are sty-
led, but without any intimation that
they are derived from a higher au-
thority. ' There is nothing wherein a
child or a peasant could conjecture that
there was such a worh as the New Tes-
tament in existence. This omission,
you will perceive, is of vital import-
ance. Should Government, or the
Legislature, determine on insisting
upon the circulation of the work, it
will be our duty to submit ; but we
could not express our consent, or give
our active support to the measure,
WITHOUT WITHDRAWING OUR PROTEST
AGAINST THE ASSUMPTIONS OF THE
CHURCH OF ROME.

" This is all that I feel it necessary
to say upon the theological aspect of
your question ; there is another view
of it, which the commissioners are
better prepared to appreciate. I
have already expressed an opinion
in my former letter, and I do not
think it too much to repeat it now,
that the state, particularly a state like
ours, in which so much depends upon
public feeling, has an immediate in-
terest in the moral and social prin-
ciples of all its members; that this
interest gives it a right, or rather im-
poses upon it an obligation, of provi-
ding a system of national instruction;
and that the trust of superintend-
ing this system, is most consistent-

1832.]

New Project of Education in Ireland.

•297

ly reposed in an Established clergy.
Circumstances would guide me in
determining the degree in which the
clergy should be ostensively engaged
in this superintendence ; but no cir-
cumstances could induce me to sa-
crifice the rights of the Church, or
the future prospects of the nation,
by an entire surrender of it. I should
therefore feel it my duty to object
to any plan of national education in
which the co-operation of the clergy
in preparing books, visiting schools,
and overseeing teachers, was point-
edly excluded. I have seen many
reasons to believe that the lloman Ca-
tholic hierarchy have similar views of
the rights of their order, and that they
claim to themselves, as the true
Church, what I consider due to the
Established Church, FROM ITS UNION
WITH THE STATE. One of these rea-
soiis I take the liberty of laying be-
fore you, as it is derived from a do-
cument connected with the subject
of your letter, and the general func-
tions of your board."

His Grace here transcribes " the
resolution's" of the Roman Catholic
bishops, which have been already re-
cited, and proceeds to observe : —

" Various misgivings are awaken-
ed in my mind by these resolutions ;
the sum of them is, that the source
of the present difficulty lies out of
the power of the commissioners.
Give me leave to suggest a very easy
mode of submitting the justness of
this opinion to experiment. One of
the objects of the commissioners,
and, I presume, the chief one, in re-
commending a system of general in-
struction, was, that the kindly sym-
pathies of our nature, being aided
by habits of youthful companionship,
as well as the benign precepts of the
Gospel, might mature, as life advan-
ced, into the charities of Christian
neighbourhood. It is obvious, how-
ever, that the success of this endea-
vour will entirely depend on the care
with which sinister influences are
excluded from the minds of the child-
ren during the seasons set apart for
their separate instruction in the te-
nets of their respective religions.

" The Roman Catholic catechism,
which will, of course, be used on
these occasions for the children of
that communion, contains the follow-
ing questions and answers.

' Q. Is there but one true Church?
A. Although there be many sects,

there is but one true religion, and
one true Church.

" ' Q. Why is there but one true
Church ? A. As there is but one true
God, there can be but one true
Church.

" ' Q. How do you call the true
Church? A. The Roman Catholic
Church.

" ' Q. Are all obliged to be of that
true Church ? A. Yes.

" ' Q. Why are all obliged to be of
that true Church? A. Because no
one can be saved out of it.

" ' Q. How many ways are there
of sinning against faith ? A. Chiefly
three.

" * Q. What are these three ways ?
A. First, by not seeking to know
what God has taught ; secondly, by
not believing what he has taught,' &c.

" ' Q. Who are they who do not
believe what God has taught ? A. The
heretics and infidels.'

" The commissioners will surely
agree with me in thinking that it
would be desirable to have these
passages expunged; that as long as
they shall continue to be privately
inculcated upon the Roman Catholic
children by their religious instruct-
ors, any other lesson they may re-
ceive will teach them dissimulation^
rather than cordial good feeling. The
same wise and benevolent motives
which make the commissioners de-
sirous to discover a religious book
which might be common to all par-
ties, must inspire the anxiety, that
what is peculiar to religion, should
be conveyed to the youthful mind
without poisoning or drying up the
fountain of those sentiments which,
next to the love of God, it is the
great business of the Gospel to feed
and purify, — * peace on earth, good-
will towards men.' Let them then
endeavour to remove these questions
and answers. Should they succeed,
the appointment of their board will
indeed be an auspicious era in the
history of this country. But if they
fail, or if it be their feeling that they
should not try — that these matters
are beyond their sphere — that they re-
late so exclusively to religion, as not
to be approached without invading
the rights of conscience, I can no
longer elude the desponding convic-
tion that their wishes will be disap-
pointed, and their labours ineffec-
tual."
We offer no apology for this length-

New Project of Education in Ireland.

•298

ened quotation from the composi-
tion of one who on this occasion pro-
ved the bulwark, as on every occa-
sion he has been the ornament, of the
Church of Ireland. The reader, we
are sure, will admire, with us, the
sagacity with which the views of the
Romish bishops are detected, and
the admirable temper with which they
are exposed. Whether the eyes of
the commissioners were opened by
this letter, or whether they felt that
now to accede to the wishes of the
Roman Catholic ecclesiastics would
be to appear to the public as their
willing slaves, it is not for us to say ;
but they did see the propriety of not
insisting upon the adoption of the
" Christian Lessons" as a school-
book; and as it would be fruitless
to look for any departure from the
principle upon which it was compo-
sed in its compilers, or any acquies-
cence in the views, in this respect,
of the Established clergy, their pro-
jected system of national education
was abandoned.

In this state matters have remain-
ed until the present period, — the in-
stitutions which it was the object of
the late commissioners to supersede,
still continuing to furnish the coun-
try with the means of moral and li-
terary improvement. The Primate's
letter shewed so clearly that the ob-
jections of the Popish bishops could
not be admitted, or their proposal
acceded to, without compromising
the legal and constitutional rights of
the Established Church, and bringing
its authority into contempt, that it
would be vain to expect a submission
to the first, or a compliance with the
second, on the part of the Establish-
ed clergy ; and although it formed
no part of the object of the commis-
sioners to repress the insolent spirit
of Popish domination which was so
offensively exhibited, yet they felt
that the time had not yet come when
it could be encouraged to manifest
itself in all its extravagance. The
Catholic Association was, indeed,
agitating the country, and causing
much annoyance to a Government
which, however able, was unwilling
to put it down. But the Catholic
Bill had not at that time passed, and
the Popish prelates were not pos-
jsessed of that substantial power in
the British senate, which has since
proved so truly formidable. To that,
no doubt, they then looked forward;

[Feb.

and, while the commissioners felt
unfeigned regret at the frustration
of their favourite scheme, they re-
joiced as at the birth of hopes of
which they are now, it would ap-
pear, about to experience the reali-
zation.

Had the commissioners of 1825
proceeded to act upon the view
which they entertained, notwith-
standing the opposition of the Ro-
man Catholic bishops, we believe
that the latter would have had cause
to rue their temerity. The people
of Ireland would have seen clearly,
that, upon all points concerning
which they had a right to expect to
be attended to, they received a most
respectful attention ; that, while pro-
vision was made for the education
of the lower orders, nothing seemed
less to be meditated than any inva-
sion of the rights of conscience ; that
the religious school-book which was
adopted, did not contain a single pas-
sage which could possibly offend the
feelings, or militate against the prin-
ciples, of any member of the Church
of Rome ; and this, notwithstanding
the hostile spirit that breathed in
their catechisms against all Protest-
ant dissenters. They would have
perceived, moreover, that if the most
zealous or captious of their priests
could point out any thing which, by
the remotest implication, could be
construed as insulting or dangerous,
there was every disposition on the
part of the commissioners, and of
the Established clergy, to give the
promptest attention to their suggest-
ions. They could not but recognise
in all this, an evidence of the most
hearty desire to go to the utmost
verge of liberality, in affording those
facilities for education which the
people required; and it would be
curious to see how far they would
have gone in foregoing the advan-
tages of such a system, if in practi-
cal operation, because of a merely
speculative objection, implying no-
thing less than an insolent assertion
of the peculiar claims of the Church
of Rome, and a no less insolent de-
nial of the national rights and privi-
leges of the Church of England.

We are persuaded that the people
of Ireland, in proportion as they
really desired education, would not
have sympathized with their bishops
on this occasion. And if they did,
it would only prove that no sincere

1832.]

Xew Project of Education in Ireland.

disposition existed on their part to
profit by any system that could be
devised. In such a case, the horse
might be brought to the water, but
he could not be made to drink. As
long as a speculative and almost
evanescent distinction in theology,
outweighed their practical concern
for the improvement of their child-
ren, the labour of any set of educa-
tion commissioners must be in vain.
And it is because we have abundant
evidence to prove, that the people
did really desire to have their child-
ren well educated, that we believe,
that if the commissioners had had
the wisdom or the firmness to perse-
vere in their original plan, they would
have had the satisfaction to find that
the denunciations of the Popish
bishops would have been, generally
speaking, disregarded.

The objection of the Popish bi-
shops was, that the work from which
the " Scripture Selections" were ta-
ken, was a Protestant translation of
the Holy Scriptures. They did not
object to the correctness of the trans-
lation, nor to the words or spirit of
the extracts. But the mere fact of
its being a Protestant translation,
was sufficient in their eyes to render
it unfit to be admitted into the pro-
posed national schools. Now, when
it is considered, that, by acquiescing
in it, they need not, necessarily, have
felt themselves called upon to pro-
nounce any decision respecting its
authenticity, while the clergy of the
established religion, by acquiescing
in the objection which denied its
authenticity, would be abandoning
all claim to consideration as a Na-
tional Church, it may readily be un-
derstood how far their conduct was
consistent with that spirit of fairness
and cordial good-will with which
they professed to co-operate in the
great work of promoting a system of
national education. The people, we
are persuaded, would have felt all
-this. They would have felt that
there was nothing in the proposed
system, by which they would be call-
ed upon to abjure or to compromise
any of the principles of their reli-
gion ; that, against any interference
from the teachers of a different creed,
they would be sufficiently guarded;
that the book from which the Scrip-
ture Selections were taken, was one,
the correctness of which was admit-
ted as a translation, and that their

299

children might read it with profit,
without being called upon to pro-
nounce any opinion respecting the
authority upon which it was made ;
they would have felt, moreover, that
to expect Protestants to sink their
respect for that authority, merely for
the purpose of gratifying the theolo-
gical aversion of the Roman Catho-
lic clergy, would be both indelicate
and unreasonable ; that it would be
to expect a degree of compromise
on the part of others, which was not
expected from themselves, and to
appear captious, if not bigoted, in
proportion to the kindliness and li-
berality which was exhibited towards
them. All this the people would
have felt, — and it would have pro-
duced its natural effect, that of cau-
sing them to avail themselves fully
of the advantages which would have
been within their reach, without be-
ing over scrupulous respecting the
scandal which was apprehended by
their theological guides from the use
of a school-book, which admitted,
by implication, the existence of the
Church of England.

But it is abundantly evident, that,
throughout the whole of the negoti-
ations upon this subject, the Roman
Catholic clergy have been consider-
ed rather as the leaders of a party
than the teachers of a sect, and that
a deference has been shewn to them
much less proportioned to their civil
claims than to their political import-
ance. They were considered to pos-
sess the power either of exciting or
allaying the passions of a turbulent
and uneducated people ; and it was
accordingly thought that any boon,
by which they could be propitiated,
would be well and wisely bestowed,
if it purchased the tranquillity of
the country. There were, at that
time, a large party, who had a parti-
cular theory respecting the necessary
effect of concessions to the Catholic
body, which considered it impossi-
ble for them to see the conduct of
their clergy in its true light, — and
this body accordingly commanded a
degree of consideration, and possess-
ed a species of power, which ena-
bled them to appear as high con-
tracting parties in the presence of
commissioners appointed by the
Crown, and caused them to regard
the projected system of education
important only as it furnished occa-
sion for a compact between them

300

and the British Government, to which
they would only accede, upon condi-
tion of obtaining for the creed which
they professed important religious
and political advantages.

If they were then powerful as agi-
tators, they are now powerful as po-
liticians. If they were then power-
ful in exciting discontent without,
they are now powerful from the in-
fluence which they undeniably exer-
cise within, the walls of Parliament.
Truly may it now be said, " Illiacos
intra muros peccatur et extra." The
concession of the Catholic claims,
which it was said would extinguish,
has only increased, the spirit of dis-
content; and the whole power of the
Popish Church militant seems now to
be embodied in battle array, for the
purpose of breaking the connexion
between Church and State, and obli-
terating every vestige by which it
might be discerned that we once had
a Protestant constitution.

Ireland is the ground upon which
this battle will be fought; but its
consequences will not be confined
to that country. The principle which
it is sought to establish there, will
eventually be applied to the empire
at large. Mr O'Connell, who is un-
important except as the organ of the
Popish clergy, at present contents
himself with contending for the per-
fect equality of every mode of faith,
and the unreasonableness of making
the members of one religion contri-
bute to the maintenance of the pas-
tors of another. It will be time
enough, when he has succeeded in
this object, to disclose those ulterior
views in which the Romish clergy
are more especially interested ; and
of his future success, he must regard
it as a flattering earnest, that, during
the present session, his power has
been acknowledged, and his suggest-
ions have been attended to, by the
Secretary for Ireland.

Nothing more clearly proves the
weight or this individual in the pre-
sent House of Commons, than the
new project of education which has,
at length, been disclosed. It differs
from former projects, inasmuch as it
is not liable to the reproach of satis-
fying nobody; for it would, indeed,be
surprising if the Popish clergy were
not marvellously well pleased. The
Government have deliberately turn-
ed their backs upon the Church, and
invited its most wily and inveterate

New Project of Education in Ireland.

[Feb.

adversaries to join with them in
Burking the Bible ! The project, of
course, cannot work. No Protestant
minister will be found so basely re-
creant from his principles, or so
slavishly submissive to the dictates
of unprincipled authority, as to join
with Roman Catholics in soliciting
aid for a system of education from
which the Bible is pointedly to be
excluded. And Parliament will not,
cannot, shall not grant a sum of mo-
ney, to be appropriated to the pecu-
liar purposes of the professors of a
creed which was, until lately, brand-
ed by the Legislature as damnable
and idolatrous, and which no consist-
ent Protestant can acknowledge to
be agreeable to the Word of God.

But the commission has issued,
and the commissioners are appoint-
ed. And such commissioners ! Alas !
how forcibly have they reminded us
of the words which fell from the
lips of the late lamented Mr North,
upon the night of the debate on the
withdrawal of the Kildare Place grant ;
and a very few days before his death,
he said, that " he no longer looked
forward with the hopefulness which
once attended his anticipations re-
specting the religious or the political
wellbeing of Ireland ; but, neverthe-
less, he earnestly conjured Mr Stan-
ley to appoint none upon his intend-
ed commission, but men who had
evinced, by the devotedness of their
lives, that they felt more than a pass-
ing interest in the moral and reli-
gious wellbeing of their fellow-crea-
tures. Be assured," said the learned
gentleman, "that if you act otherwise,
your commission will fall to the
ground." But nothing like consist-
ency in evil. The advice was dis-
regarded. As our governors have
begun, so they have ended. The
gentlemen who have been chosen to
execute the important trust of pro-
viding for the education of a Christ-
ian people, are carefully selected
from different denominations of be-
lievers, in such a Avay as to check-
mate each other at every step of their
progress, and render their efforts to
compile a work which should con-
tain the rudiments of Christian know-
ledge, as fruitless as the labour which
was bestowed upon Penelope's web ;
so that if the reader can calculate in
what time Sancho Panza could con-
trive to eat a hearty dinner, with
Poctor Don Pedro Periwig Snatch-

1832.]

New Project of Education in Ireland.

away by his side, he may be enabled
to form some idea of the time that
it would take, under the present
commissioners, to communicate to
the Irish the elements of religious
education.

The commission consists of equal
proportions of Socinianism, Popery,
and the religion of the Church of
England. Now, upon what one
question respecting revealed reli-
gion is it possible that its members
can agree V Will the Socinian consent
that the children should be taught
any thing relating to the divinity of
Christ? Will the Church of England-
man consent to ground their reli-
gious knowledge upon the doctrine
of his mere humanity ? And will the
Papist tolerate any allusion to the er-
rors of the Church of Rome ? These
are things which cannot be expected.
The courtesies of society forbid that
thegentlemencomposingthe commis-
sion should obtrude upon each other
their peculiarities as believers. And
while they thus hesitate to advance
the pretensions of their respective
creeds, what is to become of the
poor children ? Are they to remain
suspended, like Mahomet's coffin,
between the opposing attractions of
error and orthodoxy ? or, is their
moral nature to depend, for its pre-
servation, upon the neutral salt en-
gendered by the acids and the alka-
lies of conflicting opinions, — the on-
ly species of salt which is known
never " to preserve its savour," and
which is, in fact, " good for nothing,
but to be cast out and trodden under
the feet of men ?"

The commissioners, in fact, seem
to have been chosen in the same
spirit, and with the same view, which
actuated Pharaoh in the choice of
his midvvives, by whom the children
of the Israelites were to be put to
death. They proved better than
their employer, who, as the first sug-
gester of the Burking system, has
-obtained so infamous an immortality.
Our rulers have improved upon the
hint. He would only have applied
it to the bodies ; they have applied
it to the souls of men. And our hope
is that, in this case also, the instru-
ments will prove better than those
by whom they have been appointed,
and, either feeling it impious, or
finding it impracticable, to keep the
children, for whose spiritual welfare
they are called upon to pro vide, from
the well of life, abandon, the fruitless

301

labour " of hewing out for them bro-
ken cisterns that hold no water."

We will be told, perhaps, that the
public school-room is to be exclu-
sively appropriated to literary in-
struction ; and that the children may
be instructed in their respective
creeds by their pastors or parents, at
periods and in places set apart for
that purpose. All this may be very
true ; but what, then, becomes of the
acknowledged necessity for making
religion the basis of their united pub-
lic instruction ? To this the former
commission, out of which the pre-
sent has arisen, was distinctly pled-
ged. It was, in fact, as has been al-
ready shewn, the difficulty which
they found in agreeing upon a
school-book which might be satisfac-
tory to all parties, that rendered their
labours unavailing. If, therefore, the
united public instruction of the child-
ren be carried on without any re-
ference to the inculcation of Christ-
ian principles, not only is what ought
to be deemed the first object of na-
tional education overlooked, but the
fundamental principle oftlie late com-
missioners has been practically aban-
doned.

" To this complexion things have
come at last." Our liberal Govern-
ment has proceeded to that extreme
of liberality, which renders it neces-
sary that Christianity should be in a
manner proscribed ! And our little
children, when associated publicly for
purposes of instruction, are forbid-
den to name the name of Christ, lest
they should offend the ears of those
who would rob him of his glory !

Now, what can all this mean ? Or,
has it any meaning ? Does it portend
any good to the Established Church ?
Nay, does it not directly tend to its
subversion ?

We are solemnly admonished, by
the events that are passing before us,
that nothing less is meditated by the
present Administration. The syste-
matic deference with which every
suggestion of Mr O' Council is re-
ceived, and the great influence which
he is now acknowledged to possess
in the House of Commons, render it
impossible for us to come to any
other conclusion. He is the mere
creature of the priests — they have
breathed into him the breath of his
political life. They will continue to
gratify his enormous vanity, and to
amuse him with the rattle of popular
applause, just so long, and no longer

New Project of Education in Ireland.

[Feb.

than he subserves their interests. All
his efforts will therefore be directed
to their substantial aggrandizement;
and nothing will be left undone by
him, by which it may be effectually
promoted. The degree in which he
has already succeeded must have sa-
tisfied his most sanguine expecta-
tions.

Nor can we come to any other
conclusion, when, to the favour
which is shewn the Roman Catho-
lic, we couple the discountenance
which is experienced by the Esta-
blished clergy — established, alas! no
longer but in name. It is announced
to them that the grant which has hi-
therto been made for the support of
an institution peculiarly under their
patronage, is about to be withdrawn.
This institution, entitled, " The Asso-
ciation for discountenancing. vice, and
promoting the knowledge and prac-
tice of the Christian religion," has
now been in operation for nearly
forty years, and its labours, which
were silent and unostentatious, have
been most wisely and beneficially di-
rected. It was distinguished from
all other societies by this peculiarity,
that it was under the exclusive di-
rection of the Established clergy, that
its masters were all appointed by
them, and that the religion of the
state was publicly taught the child-
ren of the Established Church, who
were educated in its schools. It is
interesting and instructive to note
one other peculiarity, namely, that
its schools, notwithstanding their
apparently obnoxious regulation,
were frequented by almost equal
numbers of Protestants and Roman
Catholics, and that no charge was
ever brought againstit, from its foun-
dation to the present hour, of any at-
tempt at proselytism on the part of its
conductors. In every instance where
compromise was resorted to for the
purpose of conciliating the Roman
Catholics, the charge of proselytism
has been loud and frequent. In this
instance, where no compromise was
made ; where the Established clergy
insisted upon their rights, and per-
formed their bounden duty honestly
and publicly, by instructing the child-
ren of their own communion in the
catechism of the Established Church,
the Roman Catholic children conti-
nued, and do to this hour continue, to
attend the schools in equal numbers
with the Protestants, and without the

slightest suspicion that by so doing,
they run any risk of being pervert-
ed from their faith. The schools are
of a better description than those
which they should otherwise fre-
quent j the literary instruction which
they receive at them is more valua-
ble ; — and the positive advantages
thus derived have been found abund-
antly sufficient to overcome a preju-
dice arising from a suspicion which,
however plausible, long experience
has proved to be groundless. But
this society is now to be discarded ;
a Protestant Government (as it is
called) outstripping even the preju-
dices of the Roman Catholics, and re-
fusing any longer to continue to sup-
port it, because it is strictly in con-
nexion with the Church of England!

We were in the House when the
Kildare Street grant was debated,
and were- not a little gratified to hear
Mr Frankland Lewis bear the am-
plest testimony to the utility of " the
association," and to the respectable
character of its schools. He indeed
only echoed the commendation be-
stowed upon it in the report of the
education commissioners; all of them,
more or less, imbued with prejudices
against the Established Church. He
turned round, and appealed to Mr
O'Connell, who was sitting behind
him, for confirmation of the fact, that
in the very tempest and whirlwind
of agitation, no charge of proselytism
was ever brought forward against it.
And he then besought Mr Stanley to
continue the grant (it was, he said, a
small one) by which it was upheld.
But in vain. Its doom was sealed.
To support it any longer would af-
ford some countenance to the explo-
ded notion of a connexion between
Church and State, and as it is not at
present expedient openly to avow the
only connexion of that nature which is
hereafter to subsist, his Majesty's Go-
vernment are at least determined not
to recognise what are now consider-
ed as hostile pretensions.

Another of the signs of the times
by which we collect the intentions
of Government towards the present
Established Church, is the intima-
tion which has been given respect-
ing Church property. Lord Althorp
has announced it to be the intention
of Government to take the estates of
the bishops into their own hands,
and, after paying them a certain sum,
which may be deemed sufficient, ap-

1882.]

New Project of Education in Ireland.

propriating the remainder to other
purposes, which are not as yet dis-
closed. We may take another oppor-
tunity of expressing ourselves more
at large concerning this monstrous
usurpation. At present, we shall only
gay, that it is generally understood a
fund is to be formed by this means
for the support of the Roman Catholic
clergy, who will thus have re-appro-
priated to their use, and for their
benefit, a large proportion of those
very revenues which were forfeited,
because they professed a creed in
hostility to the religion of the State,
and which was frequently proved to
be the secret fomenter, and, when it
dared, the open encourager, of per-
fidy, treachery, and treason !

The last and the most painful of
the symptoms which intimate the
speedy downfall of the Church Es-
tablishment in Ireland, is the manner
in which the clergy are left without
redress against a systematic opposi-
tion to the payment of tithes, the
most formidable that has ever been
set on foot by wicked and designing
incendiaries. If they apply for pay-
ment, they are refused. If they pro-
ceed to enforce their legal claims by
legal means, they are resisted. If
they employ force against force,
and death ensues (as in the case of
Newtown-Barry), they are called
cruel murderers, and the country
rings from one end to the other with
wild and ferocious denunciations
against them, and the priests take
up the war-cry, which, with the most
dutiful and unscrupulous vehemence,
is echoed by their retainers in Par-
liament, and enquiry is ordered,
and investigations take place, which,
however they may terminate, must
be favourable to the cause of politi-
cal and polemical agitation. The
loyal men who vindicated the laws
are tried for their lives ; and if a jury
should be found (which, thank God,
has been as yet the case) fearless
- and honest 'enough to acquit them,
their narrow escape from the halter
affords but little encouragement a-
gain to expose themselves to similar
danger.

The consequence of all this, its na-
tural, and, we believe, intended con-
sequence, is now apparent. A large
body of the Irish clergy have already
petitioned Parliament to take the
tithes into their own hands, and pro-

SOS

vide some fund from which the clergy
may receive a stipend from the State,
in lieu of their present property. The
thing will accordingly, we have no
doubt, be done, if the present Mini-
sters should continue in power. —
They will be graciously pleased to
accept the surrender of the posses-
sions of the Church of Ireland. How
long they will continue to pay the
stipulated stipend, we will not un-
dertake to say; that must depend
upon their being able to satisfy the
Roman Catholics that it is sufficiently
moderate and humble, and has been
regulated by the same principle that
has now been adopted respecting
the national schools, namely, the pro-
portion between their flocks and
those of the Roman Catholic clergy.
From the very moment they become
stipendiaries of the State, the head of
the Church will be in the mouth of
the lion ; and when her salaries are
regulated by the standard above al-
luded to, they can cause, even to the
most zealous of sects, but little jea-
lousy, and may, at any time, be easily
extinguished. There will be no more
difficulty in getting rid of them than
is found in smothering a hive of
bees.

The precise advantages or disad-
vantages which the Church of Ire-
land may enjoy or suffer, when dis-
connected from the State, it is not
our purpose at present to enumerate.
We have not space to enlarge in a
suitable manner upon effects which
may be, not remotely, connected with
the separation of Great Britain and
Ireland. But as the State will soon,
in all probability, have an opportu-
nity of entering into a new ecclesi-
astical alliance, and taking, for better
for worse, a partner by whom its in-
terests must be seriously affected,
whether for good or for evil, upon
the principle which should regulate
its choice, we will venture to offer a
few brief observations.

And here we will not occupy the
time of the reader in discussing the
merits of Paley's theory, that the re-
ligion of the State should be that of
the majority of the people, because,
we apprehend, it is now pretty well
exploded — indeed, it is more than
exploded ; it has become a favourite
with those only who are averse to
any connexion whatever between
Church and State.

304

New Project of Education in Ireland.

[Feb.

According to his theory, the ab-
stract merit of the religion is a mat-
ter of no account whatever. Whe-
ther it be true, or whether it be false,
if it be the religion of the majority,
it must be adopted. This is suffi-
ciently monstrous. But even this is
not all. The connexion thus formed
cannot be permanent, unless the ma-
jority continue permanently of the re-
ligion that has been so elected. If
this should not be the case, another
election must take place ; and thus
the system, if system it might be
called, would be built upon shifting
sands. \Ve will therefore take it for
granted, that it is unnecessary at pre-
sent to say a word more respecting
the theory of Archdeacon Paley.

The sounder theory undoubtedly
is, that truth or falsehood, as they are
predicable of any particular creed,
have something to do with the settle-
ment of such a question. That no
State should adopt a religion which
it believes to be at variance with the
revelation of Almighty God ; that no
views of State expediency should
tempt it to oppose itself to the plain
dictates of Holy Scripture.

The religion of the State, there-
fore, should be that which, upon the
authority of the State, is believed to
be true. But that which is true, must
also be reasonable ; and that which
is reasonable, must be able to stand
the test of fair enquiry. The State
religion, therefore, should never be
supported by putting a complete ex-
tinguisher upon that discussion of its
claims, and examination of its me-
rits, by which alone its fitness to oc-
cupy the position which it assumes
could be sufficiently attested. It
should, indeed, be protected against
insolent or malevolent attacks. Its
character should be shielded by the
same defence which is thrown around
individuals occupying public sta-
tions, whose conduct is liable to be
discussed with candour, but whose
characters may not be defamed with
impunity. But farther protection
ought to be unnecessary, and, if re-
quired, would argue the unsound-
ness of its pretensions.

Such being some of the character-
istics of a Church, such as would be
deserving of establishment in an en-
lightened country, it may be truly af-
firmed of it, that it would be respect-
ed in proportion, as it was under-

stood, and valued in proportion as it
was well and wisely administered.
But, as the end of its establishment
should be the moral and religious im-
provement of the people, the making
men better than it found them, it is
not, in the first instance, to be too
confidently expected that its pecu-
liar excellence should be clearly per-
ceived, or its peculiar claim duly ap-
preciated, by a gross numerical ma-
jority of the people. It should be
sufficient if the wisdom of the com-
munity, as distinguished from its
passion, its prejudice, or its folly, re-
cognised its superior fitness for the
important purpose which it was in-
tended to answer, namely, that of
preserving and transmitting the pre-
cious deposit of Christian truth, in
a form that may ensure its perpe-
tuity from generation to generation,
and connected with a system of litur-
gical piety , which may be best cal-
culated for rendering it available and
efficacious for the spiritual wants and
necessities of all sorts and conditions
of men.

Dissent, no doubt, must exist; and
it would be easy to shew that ad-
vantages may arise from its existence.
But the peculiar advantage of esta-
blishing such a form of worship as
we have described, in preference to
any other, is this, that if duly admi-
nister edy (unless that be the case, its
establishment can be but of little
use,) it must naturally and neces-
sarily " increase," while every other
rival creed, whichis more the creature
of passion and prejudice, must as na-
turally and as necessarily, in propor-
tion as reason is cultivated, and reli-
gious truth understood, " decrease."
While all other sects which rise up
in opposition to it, will be like the
meteors, which for a season blaze
brightly, but gradually melt away ; it
will be "Tike the shining light that
shineth more and more unto the per-
fect day." " Opinionum commenta
delet dies, natura judicia confirmat."

To establish any sect which did
not possess the claims or the charac-
teristics which we have described,
would be to establish that which
must, sooner or later, be abandoned
or subverted; it would be to esta-
blish that which would not bear en-
quiry, and must be disrelished in
proportion as it was understood.
And, if it did continue to subsist after

1832.]

New Project of Education in Ireland.

J305

the prejudices which led to its esta-
blishment were dissipated, it would
subsist only to perpetuate the errors
of its founders, and resemble in some
measure those gauntly, rifted, ten-
antless edifices, which have been
built upon some whimsically ungain-
ly site, or incorrigibly bad founda-
tion, and are known in various parts
of the country as the "follies" of
different gentlemen.

The Church which we have en-
deavoured to describe will be tole-
rant ; because that which is best cal-
culated to administer to men's moral
wants, must of necessity make a
due allowance for their infirmities.
It will, indeed, do what in it lies to
correct, to amend, to remove those
infirmities; but its instruments will
be persuasion, not coercion ; the ex-
hibition of truth, rather than the re-
pression of error. Its claims to autho-
rity will be enforced, not by penal-
ties, but by precept and example.
It can afford to repose upon its own
intrinsic excellence; and, "by a pa-
tient perseverance in well-doing,"
must eventually " put to shame the
ignorance of foolish men."

The general character of its ge-
nuine worshippers will be spirituali-
ty without extravagance. They will
avoid superstition, while they retain
a due respect for ancient observan-
ces,— and fanaticism, while they en-
deavour to attain religious eleva-
tion. They will feel themselves in
possession of a form of Christian
faith, by which every part of their
nature is addressed and engaged;
which, while it profitably exercises
the imagination, and conciliates the
taste, satisfies the judgment, and en-
gages the affections. They will feel
that by cherishing it, and fully avail-
ing themselves of those spiritual pri-
vileges which they enjoy under it,
they will be best fulfilling the high
and holy purposes for which they
came into the world. Truly may it
be said, " happy are the people who
are in such a case — happy arc the
people who" thus " have the Lord for
their God." While all other seekers
after religious truth are " tossed
about by every whiff and wind of
doctrine;" or are under the influ-
ence of unscriptural guides, who
" darken counsel by words without
knowledge," they, and they alone,
may be truly said to have found " a

VOL. XXXI. NO. CXCI.

peaceable habitation, and a quiet
resting-place."

We have deemed it not unimport-
ant to offer these few observations
at the present moment, when, as
far as Ireland is concerned, the state
of Great Britain appears likely to
have an opportunity afforded of ma-
king choice of a new spiritual hand-
maid. WTe shall only say, if it can
find such a one as we have described,
it will be fortunate; we need not add,

that IF IT HAVE SUCH A ONE ALREADY,
IT SHOULD NOT BE LIGHTLY INDUCED
TO CAST HER AWAY.

We speak with a solemnity which
the occasion fully justifies; and un-
der an impression which has been
produced by events, and by disclo-
sures, which are far too serious to be
suffered to

" O'ercome us like a summer cloud,
Without our special wonder."

The Ministers have declared their
intention of laying their hands upon
Church property. The Irish Secre-
tary has intimated his approval of
the policy of bringing the Romish
clergy into connexion with the State.
A system of national education is
to be adopted, which detrudes the
Established Church from her pro-
per station. It has not been thought
too much to conciliate its adver-
saries, by neglecting its interests,
and abridging its privileges. Its
revenues are withheld; its clergy
are persecuted; they are this mo-
ment, to all intents and purposes, in
a state of proscription and outlawry
in many parts of the south and west
of Ireland. How long must this
continue ? We say, deliberately, that
either the laws must be enforced and
vindicated, or the Irish Church must
be abandoned. When things come
to the worst, the proverb says they
must mend. And the Irish clergy
have at least this melancholy conso-
lation, that it is scarcely possible to
imagine a more deplorable state of
neglect or abandonment under the
immediate and recognised ascend-
ency of Popery, than that to which
they have been condemned by the
timid, unprincipled, and temporizing
policy of nominal adherents to their
holy religion, who would fain appear
with their lips to serve the Lord,
while in their hearts they are far
from him.

U

306

The Executioner. Chap I.

[Feb.

THE EXECUTIONER.

CHAPTER I.

YES, I — I am an executioner — a
common hangman! — These fingers,
that look, as I hold them before mine
eyes, as a part and parcel of humani-
ty, have fitted the noose and strained
the cord to drive forth the soul from
its human mansion, and to kill the
life that was within it ! Oh, horror of
horrors, I have stood on the public
scaffold, amid the execrations of
thousands, more hated than the cri-
minal that was to die by me — more
odious than the offender that tottered
thither in expiation, with life half fled
already — and I have heard a host of
human voices join in summoning
Heaven's malediction on me and my
disgusting office. Well, well I de-
served it; and as I listened to the
piercing cry, my conscience whisper-
ed in still more penetrating accents,
" Thou guilty Ambrose, did they but
know all thy meed of wickedness,
they would be silent— silent in mere
despair of inventing curses deep
enough to answer to the depth of thy
offence."

What is it that prompts me to tell
the history of my transgressions ?
Why sit I in my solitude, thinking
and thinking till thought is madness,
and trembling as I gaze on the white
and unsoiled paper that is destined
shortly to be so foully blotted with
the annals of my crime and my mi-
sery ? Alas, I know not why ! I have
no power to tell the impulse that
compels me — I can only pronounce
that the impulse has existence, and
that it seems to me as if the sheet on
which I write served me instead of
a companion, and I could conjure
from its fancied society a sort of
sympathy in the entireness of my
wretchedness.

As some men are born to greatness,
so are some to misery. My evil ge-
nius, high heaven and the truth can
witness, clutched me in my cradle,
and never have I been free from the
grasp that urged me onwards and
onwards, as though the great sea of
destruction was being lashed into
tenfold speed and might for the sole
purpose of overwhelming me.

Yes, if earliest memory may justify
the phrase, from my very cradle was

I foredoomed to sin and sorrow. The
first recollection that I have of those
worldly incidents that marked my
daily course, takes me back to a
gloomy, marshy, half -sterile spot,
deep seated in the fens of Lincoln-
shire. May I say that I lived there ?
Was it life to see the same dull round
of nothings encompassing me day
after day — to have none to speak to,
or to hear speak, save an old and wi-
thered crone, who to my young com-
prehension appeared to be fastened
down, as it were, to the huge chim-
ney-corner, and who seemed to exist
(paradox-like) more by sleeping,
than by the employment of any other
function of the animal frame '? The
only variation of this monotonous
circle of my days was the monthly
arrival of my father, who used to
come across the quaggy moor in a
sort of farmer's cart, and on whose
periodical visits we entirely depend-
ed for our provisions for the ensuing
month. The parent at all times ex-
ercises mighty influence over the
mind of his offspring ; but were I to
attempt to describe that which my
father possessed over me, it would
seem as if I were penning some ro-
mantic tale to make old women bless
their stars and crouch nearer to the
blazing Christmas log, rather than
simply narrating; the prime source of
all those curseful events that have
made me the wretch I am. Nor need
I here describe his power; for each
page that I have to write will more
and more develope the entireness of
his baneful influence over my mind,
and shew how he employed it to my
irretrievable undoing.

Monthly he came; — and as I grew
from boyhood into the full youth-
tide of my blood and vigour, it seem-
ed to me as if I only condescended
to live for the recurrence of these
visits. The question in my mind
was, not what day of the week, or
what date of the month it was ; but
how many days had elapsed since
my father's last visit — how many
were to elapse before I should see
him again. And then, after these
periodical heart-aching reckonings,
he would come-— come but to go

1832.]

again, after a short tantalizing one-
day stay. Once— once I ventured to
press him to take me with him : my
eagerness made me eloquent. I
bowed to my very knees in suppli-
cation for the indulgence. But in
vain — in vain ; and it was then, per-
haps, that I first fully ascertained the
power that he had over my heart —
ay, over my soul — my very soul of
souls. Angry at my continued en-
treaties, he lost his temper, raged
till his teeth gnashed in the fierce-
ness of his ire, and bade me again
ask to accompany him at the peril of
his curse. To me, at that time, his
passion was little less than so many
dagger-thrusts in my bosom, and I
shrank in exquisite anguish from the
contest, tremblingly convinced that
never again might I dare to urge the
cherished desire of my imagination.
When I remembered the height of
his indignation, it almost seemed as
if there must have been something
heinous, in an unheard-of degree, in
my request : my father, to my mind,
was the wisest, the best, and the
most judicious of mankind ; how
could it be otherwise, when he was
the only one with whom I had ever
held communication, save the crone
who appeared to have slept away
her brains, if she ever had any? and
that wisdom, that goodness, that ju-
diciousness, I had offended! Where,
then, was the wonder that I myself
cried shame upon the offence ?

In this state of things I attained
about my twenty-third year, as near-
ly as I can guess ; and then, at last,
a change arrived. Great heaven,
what a change f Fool that I was, not
to content myself with being at least
as well off as the beast of the field,
or the steed that is stalled and cared
for, as far as nature and his appetite
make demands upon him. But ig-
norant, restless, and morbid in my
sensations, I must needs have change.
It came ; and I changed too — into a
wretch — an outcast— a thing hated,
despised, and hooted at !

It began with an ill omen! I
might have foreseen that some deed
of horrid circumstance was at hand.

The old woman was seated, as
usual, in the chimney-corner. She
had been sitting there from six in
the morning till nine at night, with-
out uttering a syllable— without tas-
ting food, as far as I knew, though

The Executioner. Chap. I.

307

during some hours in the day she
had been left to herself, while I was
wandering my solitary round through
the plashy fens. At length, our hour
of nightly rest arrived, and I sum-
moned her from her stationary pos-
ture. But she answered not— she
moved not : I approached, and gen-
tly shook her : I took hold of her
withered, wrinkled hand — it was
cold and clammy: — I raised her
head — it was expressionless — her
eye was inanimate. She was dead !

It took some minutes for me to
persuade myself that death had in-
deed been at work. I had thought
of death — dreamed of death — pic-
tured death ; but now, for the first
time, he presented himself to my
outward observation, and I shrank
with morbid instinct from the task of
contemplation. Always a creature
of passion — always a creature of way-
wardness and prejudice — without
education, without instruction, with-
out guidance, I had no philosophy
to lead me but my own ignorance —
no rule of conduct save the ignesfa-
tui of my own imagination. I doubt
whether at any time, or with any
training, I could have taken my first
lesson in mortality without an invo-
luntary shuddering ; but circumstan-
ced as I then was, I almost instinct-
ively tottered into a far-off corner
of the room, and there, for a while,
as I held my hands before my eyes,
to shut out all visible presence of
the corpse, I seemed as if I was gra-
dually assuming its motionless ri-
gour, and sharing in its cessation of
existence.

It was a fearful night; and so the
days and nights that followed. From
the time of the old woman's decease,
to the period of my father's next
visit, was a fortnight. Flight from
this scene of death was one of the
first thoughts that presented itself to
my mind — but whither ? I had no
one clew to guide me in my search
for my parent ; and to me, every
thing beyond the cottage in the fens
and its neighbourhood was a blank.
As I debated this within myself, I
tried to resolve to stay — I determi-
ned to confine myself to anotherroom
of the narrow dwelling — I called
upon my energy to assist me in for-
getting how nearly I was hand in
hand with death. But the task was
too much for me — my whole mental

.308

The Executioner. Chap. I.

[Feb.

faculty succumbed under the attempt
— and my brain felt as if it was under
the utter dominion of the Prince of
terrors; each hour added fresh vi-
sions of dismay to those which already
appalled me ; and when, after the
lapse of three or four days, the odour
of the decaying corpse spread itself
through every portion of the cottage,
the thoughts that seized upon my
excited imagination became unbear-
able, and, without plan or project, I
almost unwittingly rushed from the
abode of my childhood, to face the
perils of all that lay before me, un-
knowing and unknown.

My first steps were those of real
flight, prompted by a desire of free-
ing myself from a sort of incubus
that seemed to be urging me on to
madness, as long as I remained with-
in its influence. This feeling lent
speed to my pace for nearly half the
day, and then, when I began to con-
sider the rate at which I had walked
— or rather, when I was able to be-
gin to consider any of the circum-
stances that attended my change, I
gradually obtained the power of per-
ceiving that I was by degrees relea-
sing myself from the painful impulse
that had hitherto been pressing me
forward. But in proportion as I es-
caped from these sensations, others
of a scarcely less dreary complexion
took possession of my mind. Where
Was I v— What was I about ?— Whither
was I going? — And how was I to
find my father, of whom I did not
even so much as know his name ? —
With these and similar thoughts dis-
turbing my imagination, I found the
night fast gathering around me, while
I was still vainly extending my gaze
in every direction for the abode of
man, or any practicable refuge for
the destitute wanderer. Vainly, in-
deed, did I run my aching eyes along
the farthest margin of the horizon.
Nothing but a low marshy land, with
here and there a stunted water-loving
tree, was to be seen; and when I
turned my glance upwards, the
clouds that met my sight appeared
as sullen and as gloomy as the pros-
pect which a moment before the
earth had presented. But even this
was comfortable in the comparison
to that which followed ; for presently
a chilly soaking rain commenced
falling ; the day completely closed ;
and I scarcely took a step without

finding myself plunged knee-deep in
^some marish reservoir, or unexpect-
ed quagmire. Surrounded with evils,
the best that I could do was to choose
the least ; and, feeling that it was
hopeless to pursue my path when
all was utter doubt and darkness, I
resolved to take shelter in one of the
stunted trees which I found scattered
over the fens, and there to remain
till the morning should begin to
dawn. My project succeeded as far
as mere rest was concerned, and
with cramps and rheums for my bed-
fellows, I found that I might hope to
pass through the tedious flight. But
though I thus escaped any farther
trials of the treacherous footing that
awaited me beneath, the thin and
scanty foliage of my tree of refuge
afforded no shelter from the pitiless
storm, in which the wind and the
rain seemed to be playing an alter-
nate game, the one undertaking to
dry me as fast as the other drenched
me to the skin.

This, then, was my first introduc-
tion to the world. This was the
" Go on, and prosper,", that attended
me on my first venturing forth from
the dwelling that had hitherto shel-
tered me. As I sat stilted, as it were,
in my dark arbour of slippery branch-
es, amid which I felt as if couched in
a morass, I could not help recalling
to my mind the ominous words with
which my father had, two years be-
fore, prophesied that I should most
surely repent any endeavour to make
the world and myself more intimate-
ly acquainted. Already did I repent !
yea, even though the act of my quit-
ting the cottage in this instance had
been scarcely more than what I con-
sidered to be a sort of self-preserva-
tion.

At length morning came. It still
rained — a heavy, penetrating, chill-
ing torrent. The wind still roared,
as though the northern blast was
hallooing to its brother of the east
to come and make dreary holyday
for the nonce j a hunger, fierce
and gnawing, had taken possession
of me, as if that too was in cruel
collusion with the elements to crush
me. But still, in spite of rain, wind,
and hunger, there was light — and
with light came hope — with hope, a
sort of artificial buoyancy and vigour,
which enabled me to descend from
my scrambling melancholy coucbj

1832.]

and once again to stretch forward in
search of some track of human ex-
istence.

Whither, or in what direction I
wandered, I never was able to satisfy
myself, though I have since, more
than once, pored over the map of
Lincolnshire, with a desire of tracing
my first journey from the solitary
cottage in the fens, to the habitation
of man, and of civilized society. All
that I know is, that after nearly ex-
hausting the whole of this second
day in fruitless rambling, I at length,
even at the moment when I thought
I. must finally give up the effort, and
sink in obedience to declining nature,
had my heart gladdened with the
sound of the barking of a dog, and
by following this aural track, I was
fortunate enough to reach the small
village of Fairclough a little before
nightfall.

How my bosom glowed as I attain-
ed this spot of human sojourn ! I
was like the arctic traveller, who,
after wild beasts for his companions,
and snow for his pillow, at last ar-
rives at one of those godsend hunt-
ing huts, that to his longing eyes
start up in the wilderness, more bril-
liant than the most gorgeous palace
of the East to the perverted gaze of
a luxurious emir. Now, thought I,
is the hour at length arrived for me
to be introduced to my kindred men
— now is the world of humanity be-
fore— now will every one that I meet
be a brother or a sister; — and my
heart, too long pent-up, and compel-
led to be a self-devourer, will find
an opportunity for that expansion
for which it has so long been yearn-
ing.

As I thus communed with myself,
I approached a cottage. The door
stood invitingly open. " Hail, hap-
py omen of the heart that reigns
within," cried I; and, with an honest
reverence for my own picture of hu-
man nature, I entered. The only
•persons that I perceived inside were
a woman and a child, sickly and pu-
ling, whom the former was endea-
vouring to coax from its shrill cry-
ing, by the offer of a slice of bread
and butter.

It was not till I had fairly crossed
the threshold, and found that I was
noticed by the female, that. I remem-
bered that my errand was a begging

The Executioner. Chap. 1. 30g

one ; and the sudden recurrence of
the thought threw some little em-
barrassment into my manner. How-
ever, I had no time for consideration ;
for the woman, without waiting for
my address, briefly demanded —
" What's your want ?"

" For the sake of pity," replied I,
somewhat chilled by her words, and
still more by the callous manner in
which she used them — " for the sake
of pity, afford me some food — this is
the second day that these lips have
gone without a morsel."

"Food, quotha!" reiterated the wo-
man— " hark ye, youngster, did you
never hear of rent and taxes, and
poor-rates to boot? It is not over
much food that we get for ourselves
— none that we have to give away.
You had better try the overseer."

"The overseer!" returned I, some-
what puzzled as to whom he might
be — " alas, I have no strength left to
carry me farther ! A crust of bread
and half an hour's rest is all I ask."
And, as I uttered these words, I sank
exhausted into a chair that stood
near.

" Poor fellow !" cried the occupant
of the cottage, probably moved by
the too apparent condition to which
I was reduced : — " Well, God knows,
bread is dear enough, and money is
scarce enough, and supper is seldom
enough ; but if a crust will satisfy
you, it shall not be wanting. But,
harkye, you can't stay here to eat
it; my husband will be here anon,
and »

Scarcely had she uttered the
words — hardly was the proffered
crust within my grasp, when he, of
whom she spoke, made his appear-
ance, with evident symptoms about
him that he had not visited the vil-
lage alehouse in vain.

" How now, Suky," cried he, as
he observed my presence — " what
does this chap do here ?"

" Poor wretch," replied his wife,
" it seems as if it were nearly over
with him, what with fatigue and what
with hunger, so he asked leave to
sit down a bit, and rest his poor
bones."

" And why the devil did you let
him ?" surlily demanded the man :
— " I'll have no bone-resting here.
Am I the lord of the manor, or
squire of the village, that I can af-

810

The Executioner. Chap I.

[Feb.

ford to take in every pauper that
finds his way here ? — and who gave
him that bread?"

The wife seemed to shrink from
the question, while I mustered re-
solution to reply — " She — who will
be blessed for it, as long as heaven
blesses charity."

" Heyday," cried the fellow, " why
the chap is a Methodist parson in
disguise, after all !— Harkye, Mr Par-
son-pauper, please to turn out. —
Once a-week is quite enough for
that sort of thing."

" Do not force me abroad again
to-night!— I have not strength to
move."

" Hoitytoity," exclaimed the drun-
kard, " you have strength to eat, and
pretty briskly too.— And who, do
you suppose, is to find your lazy
carcass a lodging for the night? —
Turn out, I say."

" For pity's sake — "

" Pity be d— d I Turn out, I say,"
— and as he spoke he seized me by
the collar, and whirling me round
by mere brute force, I found myself
in an instant outside the cottage;
while, as a token that all hope of re-
entry was vain, he slammed the
door violently in my face.

This was my first introduction to
the benevolence of mankind: — this
was the earliest welcome that await-
ed the wanderer from the fens. —
I groaned, and tottered onwards.

But if this was my first introduc-
tion, I soon found that it was by no
means a solitary specimen of what
was to be presented for my accept-
ance. Another, and another, and
another cottage was tried, — and still
the same result. I was spurned by
the most cruel — I was unheeded by
the most humane — I was neglected
by all ; and one other much-begrud-
ged crust of bread was all that my
importunities were able to obtain.
With this I retired to a miserable
outhouse attached to a farm at the
extremity of the village, and having
devoured it, I endeavoured to make
myself a bed in the scattered straw
that lay strewed about the ground.
My hunger, though not altogether
appeased, had ceased to press with
such torturing pain on my very vi-
tals ; and the exhaustion of my frame
speedily lulled me to sleep.

Sound and refreshing were my

slumbers ; and it was not till I was
roused by the owner of the building
that I awoke from them.

" Halloo, my fine spark !" cried
he ; " who gave you permission to
take possession of my outhouse ?
Please to get up, and away ; and you
may think yourself well off that you
escape so easily."

This was a bad omen for begging a
breakfast ; and I was about to depart,
without a syllable in reply, when it
suddenly crossed my mind that I
might at least solicit work. Heaven
knows that it was never my desire to
live on the bread of idleness, and with
how much willingness I was ready
to undertake the most menial or the
most laborious employment to en-
title myself to my daily food !

"' Well," cried the farmer, per-
ceiving that I lingered, " will you
not take my advice, and disappear
before I shew that I am in earnest ?"

" I was hoping, sir," replied I,
" that you would not take it amiss if
I solicited you to give me some
work. Indeed, indeed you will find
me very willing ; and I think I could
be useful."

" Useful, youngster ! In what ? —
Can you plough ? Can you thrash ?
Can you reap ?"

A mournful negative was my re-
ply. " But I am ready to learn."

" And who is to pay for your
teaching ? Besides, a pretty hope it
would be that you will ever be good
for any thing, when we find a tall
strapping fellow like you, who has
been too idle as yet to learn to
plough or to reap. No, no, thankye,
we have plenty of paupers here al-
ready, and I have no fancy to add to
the number, by giving you a settle-
ment in the parish. So, good day, my
friend ; and when you again offer to
work, see if you cannot give your-
self a better character."

Again baffled in hope, and check-
ed in spirit, I moved away, seeing
but too clearly that the village of
Fairclough was no resting-place for
me.

" Oh, father, father !" cried I, with
bitterness in my accent, as I paced
slowly forward — " where am I to seek
you ? How am I to find you ?"

It was a dreary day in March
that again witnessed me — a wanderer
•— creeping along on my unpurposed

1832.]

journey, and tracking my weary way
from spot to spot, as chance or des-
tiny might direct. The early pro-
duce of the fields afforded me a
scanty, miserable breakfast ; and as
I looked upwards, and saw the lin-
net and the finch flitting with a gay
carol over my head, a sort of envy
of their condition seized me, and,
instead of glorying in my station, as
one of the master works of nature, I
mourned at the shackled unhappi-
ness of my lot. What now had be-
come of my fancy-decked picture of
the all-receiving brotherhood of man-
kind ? Whither had flown the friend-
ship, the kindness, the heart-in-hand
welcome that I had so fondly dreamt
waited my arrival in the abodes of
the world '? Fictions ! Empty, de-
ceitful fictions, that had betrayed me
to myself, and that, for a short mo-
ment, had taken the place of the
withering, frightful truth, that for the
h ouseless, penniless wanderer there
was no sympathy, no hospitable ten-
dering to his necessities.!

Thus, for many days, strayed I
through the humid atmosphere of a
Lincolnshire March, now and then
reaping one miserable meal, or one
measured draught of milk from a
whole village, but more often feed-
ing on the vegetable productions of
the hedges and the fields, and trust-
ing to the chances of the road for a
nightly shelter.

Meanwhile, I felt that my heart
was gradually changing within me.
I had brought it into the world of
men, with its offering of love and
kindness, but none would accept it
— none would reciprocate to it; it
was the heart of a beggar, and so-
ciety cried, Out upon it I I began to
ask myself gloomy and frightful
questions — questions that no heart
ought to be forced to ask itself. As
I laboured along in solitude, misery,
and neglect, I demanded of myself a
thousand times, " Why am I to have
love for man, when mankind has
none for me ?"

At length accident conducted my
steps to the little town of Okeham,
the capital of Rutlandshire. There
the hedges, and the other cold cheer
of nature failed me, and I was com-
pelled to beg for my very existence.
It is impossible to describe the dis-
gust with which I contemplated this
necessity. The rebuffs with which,

The Executioner. Chap. I. 311

one after another, I had met, had
sickened upon my soul, and I felt
that the mere act of petitioning cha-
rity was like offering my cheek to be
smote, or my person to be insulted.
It was nothing short of utter starva-
tion that was able to drive me to it.

But it seemed as if my evil genius
was accumulating the venom of dis-
grace for me. It was my ill fortune
to select, as my first house of trial,
the abode of one of the constables of
the town; and the words of implo-
ring charity were not cold from my
mouth, ere this high official burst
forth in a strain that astonished even
me, accustomed as I was to rebuke
and reproach, for daring to announce
that hunger had on me the same effect
as on the rest of mankind. Accord-
ing to this man's creed, I was a vil-
lain, a vagabond, and a rapscallion,
and I ought to go on my knees to
thank him for not instantly dragging
me before a magistrate, to be dealt
with as the heinousness of my pre-
sumption demanded. Alas! he might
have spared his wrath, for I was too
well accustomed to rejection not to
take the first hint, and shrink from
an encounter where all power was on
one side, and all irresistance on the
other.

" Come with me, my poor fellow,'*
exclaimed a gentle voice that was
hardly audible amid the constabulary
storm that I had raised. " Come
with me, and I will afford you such
poor assistance as my wretched
means will allow. I am your twin-
brother in misery, and my ear too
well knows the cry of distress."

I looked reund to see what angel
it was that thus pronounced the first
real words of kindness that had
reached me since my secession from,
the cottage in the fens. He who had
spoken was a thin, sickly-looking
youth, about eighteen or nineteen
years of age ; and when his face was
scanned, though only for a moment,
the beholder would feel that there
was no need for his confession of
misery. Sorrow, and wellriigh de-
spair, were seated there; and his
thin uncoloured cheek declared the
waste that grief had inflicted on his
heart.

" Come with you, indeed !" cried
the man of office, tauntingly. " Why,
that will be rogue to rogue with a
vengeance ; and I suppose we shall

The Executioner. Chap. L

[Feb.

have a pretty account by to-mor-
row, of some burglary to be looked
after."

When I took my first glance at my
new friend, it seemed to me as if
nothing but art could have lent co-
lour to his sallow countenance ; but
nature was more strong in him than
I had imagined, and as he listened to
the words that were uttered by this
overbearing Dogberry, the quick
blood bubbled to his cheek, and he
glowed with the full fire of indigna-
tion, as he replied — " I would that
he law permitted me to commit a
burglary on thy wicked heart, that I
might break it open, and shew man-
kind how foul a composition maybe
cased in human substance. But no
matter, — I speak to iron ! Come,
good fellow," added he, turning to
me, " we will avoid this iniquitous
libel on the species, and seek another
spot for farther conversation."

" Now that's just what you won't,"
roared his brutal opponent : — " I ra-
ther suspect what you have said
amounts to a threat of assault ; and I
shall ask Justice Goffle about it ; but
at all events I know that this ragged
barebones, who seems to be all at
once your bosom friend, has brought
himself within the vagrant act; so
you may go and seek your conver-
sation by yourself, or along with
your father, who is snug in the lock-
up, for you know what ; for as to this
youngster he stirs not till Mr Goffle
has had a word or two with him ; and
then perhaps a month at the tread-
mill may put him into better con-
dition for the high honour of your
friendship."

He suited the action to the word,
for before he had finished his speech
I felt myself within hisnervous gripe.

The youth saw that opposition was
vain. For my own part I felt no in-
clination to struggle or contend : the
one drop of liquid tempering, with
which his words of sympathy had
softened my heart, WAS again dried
up and consumed by the new cruelty
that attended on my destitution ; and
I felt a sort of bitter satisfaction that
•my last week's resolve of hatred
against mankind had escaped the
peril of being shaken by the bene-
volent offer of this exception to his
species.

Under the watchful custody of the
constable, I was speedily conveyed

to the presence of Mr Justice Goffle :
my offence was too evident to admit
of a moment's doubt ; he who had
captured me, was at once my pro-
secutor, my convicting witness, and
my custos to lead me, according to
the sentence of the law, and of Mi-
Justice Goffle, to a fortnight's im-
prisonment and hard labour in the
jail of the town. In another half
hour, I was safely lodged within its
gloomy walls.

The first lesson which 1 there
learned was, that the criminal and
the offender of the laws were better
fed than the harmless, wretched
wanderer, whose only sin was that
of being hungry in obedience to na-
ture's ordinances. I could hardly
believe my senses when I had prof-
fered to me, and without asking for
it either, a substantial meal— such a
one as had not gladdened my sight
since I quitted the cottage in the
fens : and, as I silently devoured it,
I tried to account for the pheno-
menon, but in vain ; it was too much
for my philosophy. It did not, how-
ever, tend to ease the cankering,
hatred against mankind that was fast
eating into the very core of my eveiy
sensation.

My next lesson was one still more
mischievous. It was that which I
received from my fellow-prisoners,
and which was made up of vain-
glory for the enormity of their crimes
that were passed, and of wily subtle
resolves for the execution of those
that were to come. A week before
I had held all mankind to be excel-
lent and lovely. I now deemed the
whole race wicked and pernicious.

The third morning after my ini-
tiation into Okeham jail, I perceived
an unusual bustle taking place : the
turnkeys crossed the yard in which
we were confined with more than
their usual importance ; and the
head jailer rattled his keys with ex-
traordinary emphasis. What to me
would have been a long unravelled
mystery, if left to my own lucubra-
tions, was speedily explained by
some of my companions. It was
the day for the commencement of
the assize — the judges were hourly
expected — fresh prisoners were be-
ing brought in from the various
locks-up, and every thing was in
preparation for their reception. Pre-
sently a buzz went round among

1832.] The Executioner.

those that were already confined,
anticipatory of a fresh arrival of col-
leagues in misfortune ; and a minute
afterwards the yard-gate was unlock-
ed.

" Pass in Edward Foster, commit-
ted for horse-stealing," shouted one
of the turnkeys, outside.

" Edward Foster passed in,"
echoed his brother turnkey, who
stood at the yard gate ; and the new
prisoner, on his appearance among
us, was received with a cheer by the
gaping crowd of malefactors, as Lu-
cifer might be by his kith and kin of
fallen angels on his arrival at Pande-
monium. After the lapse of another
minute, Foster was conveyed to a
solitary cell, in token of his being
confined on a capital charge.

"Pass in Stephen Lockwood, king's
evidence, and committed for want of
sureties," again shouted the same
voice, from without.

" Stephen Lockwood passed in,"
repeated he at the ^ate.

The crowd of prisoners gathered
round the entry as nearly as they
dared approach; and, on receiving
this other new comer among them,
saluted him with a threatening groan,
that ran round the old walls of the
jail, for the purpose of shewing their
contempt of "the snivelling 'peach."
He who was thus welcomed to
his dungeon, made his way as speedi-
ly as he could through the mob of
jail-birds, and approached the spot
where I was standing, probably so
induced, from its being the least
crowded part of the yard.

Eternal Heaven ! what were my
horror and astonishment, on percei-
ving that it was my father that thus
drew near !

Our mutual recognition was in-
stantaneous; but before I could speak,
he muttered hastily, — " Not a word
of our relationship before these
wretches."

It was some time before the in-
dignant criminals that surrounded
my father, afforded us an opportuni-
ty of conversation. When at length
we had an opportunity of exchan-
ging a few words without being
overheard, my parent demanded of
me the circumstances that had made
me the inmate of a prison. When they
were recounted; — " It is well," cried
he, " fate has brought us together in
its own mysterious way. It is well !

Chap. 1. 313

— it is well ! — But we may yet be re-
venged on the world."

My eyes gleamed with delight at
the sound of the word " revenge ;"
and I echoed it from the very bot-
tom of my soul. It was easy for my
father to understand the spirit in
which I uttered it; for it had been
with no cold-blooded suppression of
manner that I had narrated to him my
adventures since I had quitted the
cottage in the fens.

" But you, my father," cried I,
" why are you here ?"

" Hush," whispered he, " this is no
place to relate the tale of my wrongs
and of my wretchedness. Your sen-
tence of imprisonment will be over
in twelve days; and till then we
must restrain ourselves. I have a
dreadful story for your ears."

" But how soon shall you be
free ?"

" In four or five days, beyond all
doubt : — the trial for which I am de-
tained is expected to come on to-
morrow, after which I shall be at
liberty. On the day of the expira-
tion of your imprisonment, 1 will
wait for you outside the jail. Mean-
Avhile, feed your heart with thoughts
of vengeance — the dearest, sweetest,
only worldly solace that remains for
men so undone as Stephen Lock-
wood and his progeny."

Dreadful was the anxiety with
which I counted the hours till that
of my release arrived. My father's
calculation as to his own term of
imprisonment proved to be correct ;
and for the last eight days of my
confinement I was left alone to brood
over my heart's wild conjectures-
born of the dark and mysterious
hints that he had poured into my
ear.

At length the day of my restora-
tion to liberty arrived, and, true to
his word, I found my parent waiting
for me in eager expectation outside
the prison.

" Follow me," cried he hastily, as
soon as he perceived that I was by
his side : — " follow me to the fields
beyond the town ; for I have those
things to relate that other than you
must never hear."

I obeyed in silence, for my whole
soul was so completely wrapt in ex-
pectation of that which he had to
communicate, that I sickened at the
thought of dwelling on any less mo-

The Executioner. Chap. I.

[Feb.

mentous subject. He, as we strode
along, was equally reserved ; but I
could perceive that the thoughts that
were raging within him were of suf-
ficient potency to disturb the out-
ward man, and to give a wildness of
action to his demeanour that I had
never before observed, save on that
one occasion when I had pressed
him beyond endurance to make me
his companion, by releasing me from
my sojourn at the cottage in the
fens.

At length we arrived at a seclu-
ded spot some distance from the
town we had just quitted, and where
a long, blank, nearly-untrodden moor
gave promise that we might escape
interruption.

" It is here, Ambrose," cried my
father, suddenly pausing in his pro-
gress, " it is here that we will take
our stand; hateful man cannot ap-
proach us without being seen — the
roaring wind cannot blab our secre-
cies, for none are nigh to catch the
whisper it conveys — trees and dark-
ling coverts there are none to hide
our foe, or permit his stealthy foot-
step to creep unwarily upon us : —
here, then, here we may talk truths,
and cry aloud for vengeance with-
out fear or hinderance."

I was all ear, but murmured not a
sound. Like the tyro in the schools,
I waited to be led to my conclusions ;
and with the sentiments that I en-
tertained towards my father, his
words seemed to be those of one in-
spired.

He himself paused as though it
required some great effort to enable
him to commence his tale. At length
he continued—" The time is now
come, Ambrose, when I have to place
before you the circumstances that
induced me to fix your residence in
the lonely spot you have so lately
quitted, in the hopes of sheltering
you from the unkind treatment of
that world that has used your father
so bitterly. The time is come, and
with it our revenge. Listen, my
son, that you may learn the grudge
you owe to man — that you may be
taught how to resent the wrong that
was inflicted on you long before you
dreamt that mischief had station on
the earth, or had played you false in
your very earliest existence."

" Your every word, my father,
reaches the very centre of my heart.

I am in your hands : — mould me to
your bidding."

" You will require no moulding,
Ambrose. My tale will be sufficient
to direct your course. Listen: — I
was born of humble parents in the
village of Ravenstoke ; and though I
had the misfortune to lose both my
father and my mother almost before
I knew the value of such beings, the
evils that attend a child of poverty
were averted by the kindly notice of
the principal family of the place. The
good man at its head, and who never
made fall a tear till death took him
from the world, early noticed me,
and was pleased to think that he saw
in me sufficient capacity and promise
to befit me to be the companion of
Edward, his only child, whose years
were pretty nearly the same as my
own. Thus in happiness and content
passed away my youth ; but it only
seemed as if the demon that had
marked me for his prey, was resting
for the purpose of accumulating his
whole force in order to crush me. In
a neighbouring village, to which my
walks had been frequently directed,
there lived a maiden whose gentle-
ness of disposition and beauty of per-
son had won for her the affection of
all who were blessed enough to be
acquainted with her. In my eyes she
was even more than my young fancy,
ever too busy in picturing forth hap-
piness and loveliness, had at any time
conjured to the vision of my senses.
Need I say that I loved — loved to
distraction, and how more than mor-
tally happy I deemed myself when I
received from the fair lips of Ellen a
half- whispered approval of my love ?
Oh, my Ambrose, I cannot recall
those early days of fondness and af-
fection, and prevent the hot tears
coursing down my cheeks, there to
stream as witnesses of my devotion,
till the bitter recollection of the man-
ner in which that devotion was abu-
sed dries up the liquid testimony at
the very source, and leaves me even
now, after the lapse of twenty years,
the victim of a distorted faith — too
fresh, too real, and too scathing, ever
to be extinguished till this body is
returned to moulder with the dust."

As Lockwood thus spoke, his eyes
gave proof of the fulness of his feel-
ings ; and some minutes elapsed be-
fore he was able to proceed.

" I must be brief, Ambrose, with

1832.] The Executioner. Chap. I.

the rest of my story, for I feel that falsity came not single.

my heart will scarcely allow me
words to conclude it. When Ellen
had confessed her affection for me,
there was nought to prevent our
union, and a few weeks, therefore,
saw me, as I deemed myself, the hap-
piest of men ; and our dearest hope
appeared to be that we might live and
die with one another. The hour of
separation — fatal, fatal separation—
however, arrived ; and to oblige Ed-
ward, who, on the death of his father,
had succeeded to the family pro-

Ferty, which was somewhat involved,
consented to go to the East Indies
for him, relative to an estate there
on which he had a considerable claim.
This journey, and the delay which
I met with abroad, occupied two
years; and it was with a heavy
heart that I quitted Ellen, who, on
the eve of being brought to bed, was
in no condition to share with me the
fatigues of a long sea voyage. Well
might my heart be heavy with pre-
sentiment ! Could it have anticipated
all that was to happen, it would have
turned to lead, and refused to obey
its nature-appointed functions. At
length the day of my return ap-
proached: each hour that the ship
neared England I stood on the deck,
counting the lazy minutes, and
stretching my eyes landward, in the
hope of catching the first glimpse of
the white cliffs of my native land ;
and so, when I reached the shore, I
reckoned each moment an age till
the happy one should arrive that was
to restore me to the arms of my wife.
There was no such moment in store
for me ; for just as I was quitting
the metropolis for Ravenstoke, I met
an old village acquaintance, who fell-
ed my every hope with the intelli-
gence that my Ellen— mine—she
whom I had deemed to be the truest,
the faithfullest of her sex — was li-
ving with another as his avowed mis-
tress— acknowledged, brazen, bare-
faced before the whole world, and in
defiance of the thousand vows in the
face of God and man by which she
had pledged herself mine, and mine
alone. You may well start with asto-
nishment, my son, and gaze wildly,
as if in doubt of the truth of this atro-
city. So started I— so doubted I—
till evidence beyond evidence bore
bitterest conviction to my soul. But
the whole is not yet told. — Ellen's

315

He who had

seduced her from her liege affections
shewed with equal perjury before
high Heaven. It was Edward ! Yes,
Edward — my friend, my companion ;
— he for whom I had quitted my
gentle wife and peaceful home —
Edward, the monster, the traitor, the
fiend begot of sin essential, had ta-
ken advantage of the opportunity,
which he himself had solicited, of
my friendship, and stolen from me,
by double deceit and treason, the
prize that I cared for more than life
or any thing on earth."

" Gracious powers I" exclaimed I,
overwhelmed by the dreadful inci-
dents that had been narrated — " and
am I the son of this wretched mo-
ther ? Was I thus early doomed to
misery ?"

" It is too true," replied my fa-
ther ; " you are the child of whom I
left Ellen pregnant when I departed
on the ruinous errand besought by
her seducer. When the fact of your
mother's crime was made conviction
to my senses, a thousand different
modes of action poured in upon my
brain; and, the creature more of
impulse than of reason, I hurried to
Ravenstoke to confront the adulte-
rous pair. It was evening when I
arrived — even such an evening as
this — gloomy, dark, and cheerless,
— yet in high accordance with the
thoughts that urged me forward. As
I hurried across the park that led to
the mansion-house, a pony-chaise
overtook me. I turned on its ap-
proach, and for a moment my senses
forsook me at the sight of Ellen,
who, with you for her only compa-
nion, was driving quickly homeward
to avoid the threatening storm. My
voice arrested her farther progress,
as I groaned rather than uttered —
< Ellen !'— ' Wife !' At the sum-
mons she descended from the chaise,
after wrapping you in her cloak as
you lay along the seat, asleep and
unconscious. What words I ad-
dressed to her I can hardly tell : —
they were those which flowed at the
dictation of a brain almost mad at
the injury it had sustained; while
her answer was none save tears and
sobs of heaviness. At length she
broke from the grasp with which, in
my anguish, I had seized her — and
then— then— Oh God, I cannot speak
the words that should tell the rest !"

816

" For pity's sake, my father,'' mur-
mured I, sunk in the fearful interest
of his story, — " for pity's sake, the
end in a word — the end — the end !"

" Yes, yes !— the end, the end !"
he echoed fiercely : — " it is one she
earned, and it is wanting to make
whole the frightful tale. Ambrose,
— Ambrose, — she burst from my

frasp, and rushed into a copse hard
y. I pursued her, but in vain ; for
the momentary pause I had made in
wonder at her meaning, had remo-
ved her from my si^ht,and I follow-
ed at random, guessing the direction
she had taken as nearly as I might:
after thus speeding for a few mi-
nutes, I reached the side of an or-
namental lake that adorned the park,
and there again caught glimpse of
her by the dim light of a clouded
moon, as she reached the opposite
bank. Ambrose, — Ambrose, — can-
not you imagine the rest ?"

" Oh, father, was it so indeed ?—
And none to save her ?"

" Was not I there, boy ?— Thrice I
dived into the bosom of the waters,
after hurying to the bank from which
she had precipitated herself into de-
struction— thrice did I dive to the
very depth of the pool — but in vain,
— I could not find her — the circuit of
the lake that I had had to make had
afforded too much time to her fatal
intention; and the attempt to find
her body was fruitless. Mad with a
thousand contending emotions, I re-
turned to the chaise, and heard your
little voice crying for your mother.
It was then that I remembered my
child, which the crime of its parent
had made me forget. I took you in
my arms ; and as I gazed upon your
innocence, my heart softened ; and I
resolved to put revenge aside for a
while till I had secured you from
peril. It was this that made me place
you under the care of the old crone
at the cottage in the fens."

" But why was I kept there so long ?"

" That remains yet to be told; and
I shall have finished ray narrative.
As soon as you were safely provided
for, the desire of vengeance again
assumed its empire in my bosom ;
and I returned to Ravenstoke, hard-
ly knowing what my purpose was,
but whispering to myself, * Revenge !
Revenge !' each moment of my jour-
ney. But even revenge had then for
the season forsworn me. Op my

The Executioner. Chap. I.

[Feb.

arrival at the village, the man who
had so deeply injured me had the
audacity to have me taken into cus-
tody on the charge — hear it, Ambrose,
and help me to curse the villain — on
the charge of having destroyed El-
len. I destroy Ellen ! — Alas, alas, it
was she who had destroyed me, if
the banishment of peace, and of hap-
piness, and of joy, for ever and for
ever from my bosom, can be called
by so poor a name as destruction.
Of course, I need not tell you that
when the matter came to trial I was
instantly acquitted ; but the event
had given me timely warning of the
extent to which the seducer of Ellen
was able to carry his devilish con-
trivance to ruin the man he had al-
ready so deeply wounded ; and I re-
solved to keep you— my only hope— -
in obscure concealment till the time
should have arrived when I might call
on you to join me in revenging my
dishonour and Ellen's unhappy fate."

" And has that time arrived ?"

" It has, Ambrose ! — And though
we stalk on this dreary moor, the
very outcasts of mankind, great and
mighty is the revenge that is at hand
for us."

"Let us grasp it then," cried I,
fully wrought to the purpose, — " Let
us grasp it then, and urge it to the
quick." •

" Well said, well said, my son ! —
Oh, what years of labour has it not
cost me to bring events to their pre-
sent aspect! But the labour is well
repaid. For the sake of revenge,
I have consorted with villains of
every description — I have sacrificed
all and every thing to them, on the
one sole bargain, that they should
ruin my hateful foe ; and well have
they kept their word I The mon-
ster, a year or two after the death of
Ellen, dared to marry. I was glad
to the very heart when I heard of it ;
for I felt that the more ties he form-
ed, the more ways there would be to
pierce him to the heart. But his wife
died too soon — before I had time to
sacrifice her on the tomb of Ellen ;
and his son, the only offspring of the
marriage, has as yet eluded my vigi-
lance. But the father, Ambrose, the
father ! He is fast within my clutch !
My emissaries taught him the art of
throwing dice, and throwing away
his estates — they inoculated him with
the gambler's dreadful disease ; and,

1 832.] The Executioner.

for the last twelve months, he has
been a ruined man in his fortunes.
Desperate have been the efforts that
he has made to redeem himself; but
I was at hand, though never seen ;
and my master-mind, fraught to the
very brim with his destruction, would
not allow them to succeed. At length
his despair was fed to its proper
pitch, and I resolved to give the final
blow, for which I had waited twen-
ty long years with that exemplary
patience which revenge only could
bestow. I had it proposed to him, by
his most familiar blackleg, and on
whom his only hopes of success rest-
ed, that they should proceed to New-
market on a scheme, which, it was
pretended, could not fail of realizing
thousands. The only difficulty was,
how they should get there, being at
that time atDoncaster on a specula-
tion that, through my interference,
had utterly failed, and left my enemy
altogether penniless ; in which condi-
tion, the faithful blackleg also pre-
tended to be. When his mind was
sufficiently wrought upon by the pic-
ture of absolute and irremediable ruin
that would happen, in the event of
their not being able to reach Newmar-
ket the very next evening, my agent, ac-
cording to my instructions, proposed
the only alternative — that of helping
themselves to a horse a-piece out of
the first field that afforded the op-
portunity, and by that means reach-
ing the desirable spot that was to
prove to them another el Dorado.
For a long while my enemy waver-
ed, and I almost trembled for my
scheme ; but at length the longed-for
thousands that flitted in fancy be-
fore his eyes, gilded the danger of
the means of passage, and he con-
sented. It was then, Ambrose, that
I felt that revenge at length was
mine, and I almost danced and sang
in the ecstasy of my delight. Pur-
suant to my directions, my agent in-
formed him who was so nearly
caught within my meshes, that he
had a companion to take with him,
who would be absolutely necessary
for the prosecution of the Newmar-
ket scheme ; and when the night for
departing arrived, I was introduced
as this third person. I had little fear
of Edward's remembering me after
a lapse of twenty years, each of
which had added care, sorrow, and
affliction to the lineaments of my
countenance j but to guard against

Chap. I. 317

the possibility of danger, I muffled
myself in a large cloak, and spoke
the little that I uttered in a disgui-
sed voice. Every thing succeeded
according to my wishes. After walk-
ing a couple of miles out of Doncas-
ter, we came to a field where the cat-
tle we needed were grazing; and each
seizing his prize, and obtaining, with
silence and caution, from the far-
mer's outhouse, the necessary har-
ness, we soon found ourselves at
full speed on the highway towards
Newmarket. Edward was dread-
fully agitated as he rode along ; and
once or twice I feared that he would
fall from his seat — but worse evil
awaited him. I will not, however, oc-
cupy our time by detailing all the mi-
nutiae of my scheme. Suffice it to say,
that after giving the hint to my faithful
agent to make his disappearance, I
contrived that Edward and myself,
on reaching the village of Stretton,
should be apprehended on suspicion;
and that that suspicion should be
made conviction by my volunteering
as king's evidence. The rest you
almost know. You yourself witness-
ed Edward Foster's committal to
jail for horse-stealing, and my deten-
tion as the chief witness against
him : — and most probably have
heard, that on my evidence he was
nine days ago convicted, and ordered
for execution."

" Conviction! — Execution!" ex-
claimed I. " Then our revenge is
indeed complete !"

" Not quite," muttered my father;
" there is one other step to make it
as perfect as my sweeping desire
could wish."

" Mean you a step beyond the
grave ? I know of none other — and
only know that is impossible."

" No, Ambrose, not beyond the
grave, but the step to the grave ! —
A sk your heart ! Does it feel hatred
and disgust towards the man that has
made wretched one parent, and scan-
dalous the other? — that has con-
demned yourself to wander fortune-
less and honourless over the cheer-
less face of the earth?— Ay, ay, boy;
your gleaming eye and flushing cheek
tell me the reply that your heart has
already put forth. And I ask you,
would it not be revenge's most glo-
rious consummation, to repay your
dreadful debt to Foster, by yourself
dealing unto him that death which
the law has awarded for his crime ?"

The Executioner. Chap. I.

318

" Father, father, what words are
these ?"

" Milk-livered boy ! Why blanches
your cheek, when I hold within your
clutch the very satiety of vengeance?
Why clench you not the precious
boon ? Or are you a man but *in
seeming, and a puling infant in re-
solve?"

" Speak on, father — speak on, — it
seems to me as if each word you ut-
ter burns deeper and deeper into
my brain — searing, as it goes, those
doubtful agitations of my soul, that
would raise a trembling opposition
to your bidding. But they shall not !
No, no! Down, down! Your wrongs
shall answer the cry of humanity —
my mother's fatal end the appeals of
tenderness !"

" Now," cried Lock wood, " I know
you for my son. But we have talked
too much — action should be doing.
The death of our foe is appointed for
the third day from this ; and I have
learned, beyond doubt, that owing
to there not having been an execu-
tion in Okeham for many years, the
Sheriff finds great difficulty in pro-
curing the proper functionary. It
was this that stirred me to the hope
that you would volunteer to the of-
fice ; and I thank you that my hope
has not been deceived. You must
away to the Sheriff instantly, and get
appointed; that attained, I trust to
be able so to instruct you, that fail-
ure in the performance will be im-
possible."

I obeyed — ay, I obeyed ! I was
successful ! The honesty of human
nature was scouted from my heart
by the towering voice of the worst
passion that ever cursed the breast
of man.

The morning of execution arrived,
and found me ready for my office. As
the time had gradually grown nearer
and nearer, my father had perceived,
with dread, that misgivings, in spite
of myself, shook my whole frame ;
and, in order to be more sure, he
had kept me at carouse the whole of
the previous night, in the miserable
back street lodging that afforded us
shelter.

The morning arrived ; and, drunk
with passion, vengeance, and bran-
dy, it found me ready for my office.
The solemn tolling of the prison
bell announced the liour of death to
be at hand, as I awaited the coming

[Feb.

of the prisoner in the outer cell.
How I looked — how I acted — I know
not; but, as well as I remember, it
seems to me now as if I was awaken-
ed from a torpor of stupefaction on
hearing the clanking of the chains
that announced the approach of Fos-
ter ; the sound reached my ear, more
heart-chilling than the heavy tolling
knell, that answered as if in echo ;
but I had not forgotten my lesson ;
I beat my hand against my brow,
and whispered " vengeance" to the
spirit that was so ill at ease within.
It was at that moment, that, for the
first time, I beheld Edward Foster ;
he was not such as my soul had de-
picted. I pined for him to look hate-
ful, ferocious, and bloody; but his
aspect was placid, gentle, and sub-
dued. I could have stormed in agony
at the disappointment.

My first duty was to loosen his
arms from the manacles that held
them, and supply their place with a
cord. As I fumbled at the task, I
could feel myself trembling to the
very fingers' ends ; and it seemed as
if I could not summon strength to
remove the irons. My agitation must
have attracted Foster's notice; for
he looked at me, and gently sighed.

Gracious God, a sigh ! I could as
little have believed in Foster sigh-
ing as in a tigress dandling a kid.
mis it possible that he was human
after all ? How frightfully was I mis-
taken ! I had imagined that I had
come to officiate at the sacrifice of
something more infernal than a de-
mon!

At length, with the assistance of a
turnkey, every thing was prepared,
and we mounted the* scaffold of
death. Short shrift was there ; but
it seemed to me as if the scene was
endless ; and when I looked around
on the assembled multitude, I ima-
gined that it was to gaze on me, and
not on Foster, that they had congre-
gated.

All was prepared. With some con-
fused recollections of my father's
instructions, I had adjusted the im-
plement of death ; and the priest had
arrived at his last prayer, when the
dying man murmured, " I would
bidfarewellto my executioner." The
clergyman whispered to me to put
my hand within those of Foster.

I did do it ! By Heaven,! did do
it I But it seemed as though I were

1832.]

The Executioner. Chap. I.

heaving a more than mountain load,
and cracking my very heart-strings
at the task, as I directed my hand
towards his. He gently grasped it,
and spoke almost in a whisper.

" Young man," said he, " I know
not how this bitter duty fell to your
lot — yours is no countenance for the
office; and yet it comes upon my
vision as a reproach. God bless you,
sir ! This is my world-farewelling
word ; and I use it to say — I forgive
you, as I hope to be forgiven."

My hand, no longer held, dropped
from his ; and the priest resumed his
praying. I could not pray ! Each holy
word that was uttered, seemed not
for Foster, but for me — stabbing, not
soothing.

At length the dread signal was

given; and mechanically — it must
ave been, for the action of my mind
seemed dead within me — mechani-
cally I withdrew the bolt, and Fos-
ter was dead — swinging to the play
of the winds — the living soul rudely
dismissed, the body a lifeless mass
of obliterated sensations.

A deep hoarse groan ran round
the multitude — that groan was for
me. It gave token of an eternal line
of separation drawn between me and
the boundaries of humanity.

Oh, that the groan had been all ! —
But there was one solitary laugh,
too — dreadful and searching. It was
my father that laughed, and it struck

319

more horror to my soul than the
groan of a myriad.

Oh, that the groan and the laugh
had been all! As I crept away
through the prison area, where each
one shrank from me with disgust, I
passed close to a youth deep bathed
in tears, and some one whispered to
another, " It is poor Foster's son !"
What devil tempted me to look in his
face ? I know not the impulse ; but
I know I looked — and he looked ! —
Oh, consummation of wretchedness,
it was Foster's son — and it was he
also who had offered to share with me
his slender pittance on my first arri-
val at Okeham ! As he gazed on me,
a deep heavy sob seemed as though
his heart was breaking.

I rushed from the spot like one
mad. In all my misery, in all my
wickedness, I had fondly clung to
the recollection of that youth and
his goodness, as the shipwrecked
mariner to the creed-born cherub
that he pictures forth as the guard-
ian of his destiny. But this blow
seemed to have destroyed my only
Heaven. I had not even this one
poor pleasurable thought left me to
feed upon. His sob thrilled in my
ear, as though it would never end;
and the womanly sound was more
overwhelming and more excrucia-
ting than the despising groan of the
mob, or the atrocious laugh of Lock-
wood.

[ To be concluded in next Number. \

HOMER'S HYMNS.
No. IV.

THE HUMOURS OF HERMES.

PART I.

SING me of Hermes, son of Jove,
And fruit of gentle Maia's love ;
Guardian of Cyllene's Hill,

And flock-engendering Arcady —
To the gods, and their high will,
- Hermes, herald-deity —
Wing-shod apparitor, most meet
Purveyor — Him the nymph discreet,

Fair Maia, bore 'mid shadowy rocks,
Secreted in a cave from sight
Of prying god or mortal wight ;
There, in the soothing hour of night,
When sweet sleep Juno's jealous eye
Had kindly closed, did the Godhead lie

With the Nymph of the wavy locks j
But when the tenth month 'gan fulfil,
In the heavenly course, his mighty will,

Then Hermes sprang to birth.
And many the wonders, strange and wild,
That mark'd him a rare and fitful child,

Subtle in wit and mirth ;
A gazer of stars, a driver of beeves,
Pilferer, trickster, thief of thieves,
Keeper of doors, and watch o' nights,
Giver of dreams to drowsy wights,

Surest of shufflers he—-
The very compound of art and trick,
And the gods soon learn'd from his rhetoric

What he was like to be :
For, on the fourth day of the moon,
Born in the morning, in sooth 'twas soon,
He played on the lyre when it was noon ;
In the evening of the self-same day,
The cows of Apollo he stole away.

320

Homer's Hymns. No IV.

[Feb.

It was not for him, with sleepy eye,

In his cradle a lumpish thing to lie,

For he sprang away in his merry mood,

To pilfer the kine of the king divine —

At his cavern's mouth he stood ;

For when he had bounded across the floor,

He saw a poor tortoise the cave before,

Eating small herbs at the threshold door.

(It was Hermes who first the tortoise made

To chant and quaver and serenade,

And taught him the nice musician's trade, )

Then the darling boy

Was ready for joy
To j ump out of his skin,
When he saw the creature's crawling pace,

As it was creeping in ;
Then stooping him down with hand on knee,
With curious eye he peer'd into his face,
And laughing out loud, quoth he,

" Now good greeting,

Thou pretty sweet thing,
Lucky the hour that thee doth bring,

Sweet joy, my toy,

To my welcoming ;

Oh ! thou shalt be mine own plaything,
And boon companion at merry cheer,
At dance and feast, my mountaineer,
With thy painted shell so speckled and clear.
Thou art too precious by half to roam,
'Twere better by far to be safe at home,
So I'll take thee to mine, my own delight,
And I'll make thee of use, and honour thee

right ;
Not leave thee to linger in luckless plight.

And though I know well

Thou hast power and spell
To guard me from magic, while yet in life,
Yet its ways are rough, and its troubles are

rife;
And I'll make all smooth with my little

knife —
And bethink thee how thou wilt sing when

dead."

With both his hands, as this he said,
Hermes took up the toy, and went
Within delighted, and so sped
With a shining steel-scoop instrument,
That quick as the twinkling of an eye,
Or a thought, when thoughts do quickest fly,
He did not leave one single shred

Of life, but scoop'd it cleanly out ;

This Hermes did from tail to snout.

Then cutting reeds he fixed them in,

At proper distances, along

The back, and stretch'd a leather thoiig

Over the holes, fastening a pin

Upon each side, and at each end

He made a bridge, from bend to bend,

Straining seven strings of tendons fine,

That did symphoniously combine.

This done, he aptly held his new-wrought

toy,

And with his plectrum smartly struck
The strings alternate, that off shook
Up from beneath his hands sounds of wild joy
Wondrously bright. — Then gain'd he skill to

reach

A prelude in true notes, to each
Carelessly humming, not with speech
Articulate, at first, and story,
Till warm'd he reach'd his infant glory,
And broke <6rth improvisatore.
He sang of the passion of Jove

For the nymph of the sandall'd feet,
Fair Maia — their meetings of love

That were both stolen and sweet.
He sang of his birth, as became

The son of his father and mother ;
Without them adopted his name :

Of the servants one after the other
He sang, of the pots and pans

In the nymph's magnificent hall ;
Of the nipperkins, cups, and cans,

The skillets, and kettles, and all.
Blithely of these Childe Hermes sang,

And more was in his mind ;
The hall it rang with the merry twang,

But to more he was not inclined.
For he was bent on thievery ;

Therefore his lyre, his well-scoop'd thing,
Within his sacred crib hid he j

And after due depositing,
Longing to know what meat might be,

He bounded out of his scented cave,
Over the hills and far away,

Schooling his wits, like a perfect knave,
To a deep-laid scheme of cheatery :

So noted thieves, at close of day,
Ponder, and plan, and expedite
Villainous plots for the dead of night.

PART II.

Phoebus was sunk to his ocean bed,

And bathed his steeds and glowing wheels,

When o'er the Pierian mountains, spread

In shadow, Childe Hermes plied his heels ;

Where the soft pastures, ambient

In herbage, the fat herds divine

Of the immortal Gods frequent ;

But Hermes cut off fifty kine j

Argicide Hermes fifty drove,

Nor let them forward-wise to rove

Over the sandy line of shore,

But with their hinder feet afore,

The fore behind, be managed, them -3

And never forgot his stratagem

Of walking backwards ; and first discreet

He took the sandals off his feet,

And threw them across the watery sand ;

And gathering with most cunning hand

Twigs from the tamarisk, and such trees

As grew around, with leaf and rind

A bandage for his soles he twined,

As one that might rough ways unravel,

Shunning the way-worn path of travel.

Thus from Pieria went the God,
Not unperceived—- for while the sod

1832.]

Homer' 's Hymns. JWo. IV.

321

An old man in his vineyard turn'd,
The traveller Hermes he discern'd,
As toward the level ground he pass'd

Of rich Onchestus' pasturage.
Then Maia'swily son address'd

First with these words the man of age :
" Old fellow there, with thy broad shoulders

bent,

Delving and digging, have a care, good friend,
Thou dost not, ere thy fruit-time, sore lament ;
Old men are given to blabbing without end ;
Be blind, be deaf, and, above all, be dumb,
Or thou wilt find thy talking troublesome."
Nor more said he, but urged with speed

His herd, that jostled horn with horn,
O'er hill and echoing dale, and mead

Dappled with fresh flowers newly born.
Now night that served him in good stead,

Was yielding to the dawning morn,
And the pale Pallantean moon divine
Had just walk'd forth abroad to shine,

New-glistening from her own boudoir.
Farther the Godhead drove his kine

To lofty stalls and reservoir,
From which th' Alphaeus' streams were flow-
ing?

With verdure round them ever growing.
There fed he them deep-lowing on sweet fare

Of lotus and cyperus steep'd in dew ;
And gathering, fuel conn'd invention rare

To fashion fire, and rack'd his wits anew.
( Hermes first taught how sparks would catch,
And thus invented tinder-box and match. )

Where thick the bay-trees grew,
A dry branch took, and stripp'd the bark,
Rubb'd piece 'gainst piece, till spark by spark

Was kindled, and the flame upflew.
Then on the ground into a pit
A fagot threw, and lighted it,
And ere the fire was yet quite fit
For roasting, out he dragg'd two cows
Bellowing, and on the earth hard by
Upon their backs he threw them wondrous-

And while their gusty nostrils blew
Steams of thick vapour, to the ground
Stooping him clown, he roll'd them round,
Adroitly struck them in the spine, and slew.

Then commenced busy work, with spits,
And skewers of wood for nicer bits,
That dropp'd and fizz'd into the fire —
The lordly sirloins roasted he entire.
Then chopp'd he meat most small, and laid
An entrail open, into that
Forcing the morsels, and he made
Black puddings with the blood and fat.
The hides he stretch'd on a sharp stone.
So now a-days we cut up beeves full grown,
Selecting after much discrimination ;
But happy-hearted Hermes dragg'd away
To a smooth place the whole fat preparation,
To the twelve Gods apportioning the prey
In twelve good parts, with judgment nice ;
The savour his immortal sense
Provoked to thoughts of sacrifice,
That he would institute from thence.
But though that savour rich and sweet
Might well delude a god to eat,
His real godship to denote,
No morsel reach'd his sacred throat :
But fat and flesh, he laid up all
Within the precincts of the stall ;
And that no trophy might be spied
That he had been a Bovicide,
The horn'd heads and hocks entire,
With all their hair, and flesh, and bone,
He burnt to ashes, having thrown.
Heaps of dried wood upon the fire.
This done, the bandages he drew
Off from his feet, and smartly threw
To the Alphaeus's deep pool.
And when the cinders now were cool,
He pounded them to dust, and spent
The night in the accomplishment.
Thus Hermes labour'd amid the kine,
In the mellow light of the sweet moon-
shine.

PART III.

BUT at the peep of dawn he sought
Cyllene's mountain tops, nor aught
Met he, though long the way, no not a soul,
Nor god nor man ; nor heard he bark of dog ;
But ducking down, he slipp'd through the

keyhole,

Like a light blast of autumn, or thin fog.
Straight through his cavernous temple then

he stepp'd

On tiptoe trippingly, so light
Afoot, as if not quite
He touch'd the ground, and crept
Softly into his cradle opposite,
As if he were some new-born babe that slept ;
And wrapp'd his swaddling clothes about him

well,

His right hand round his knees, and slid
VOJj. XXXI. NO. CXCI.

His fingers, playing with the coverlid,
Most sly : and his left hand close kept
Beside him his loved toy, his tortoise-shell.

But therewithal escaped not he,
The God, his goddess mother's eye —
" You little impudent," quoth she,
" So young and yet so sly !
Whence comest thou ? Latona's son
Will teach thee how o' nights to run,
For soon will he be here to spy
What knave such tricks hath done —
And throw a cord about thy waist,
And swing thee round until you spin,
And pass the threshold in more haste
Than ever you came in.
Canst thou cajole him with lying lip,
And from l\is griping fingers slip ?

322

Out on thee, mischievous ! — or rather,
Would thou hadsfc never been born ! thy fa-
ther

Begat thee a great plague to gods and men."
" Is it so?" quoth crafty Hermes ; "then,
Good mother mine, now what's the use
Of all this nonsense and abuse ;
As if I were some baby thing,
That fear'd a mother's bothering ;
Nor had one grain of sense to tell
The difference 'twixt ill and well ?— «
I lack not wits, and, mother, rest
Assured I'll use them for the best ;
And will most thoroughly provide
For both of us ; nor here abide
In dismal cave to fast and pine,
Alone of all the race divine
Ungifted and unfed — not I—-
Though you advise — Divinity
Is a fine thing, to share in all
The wealth, feasts, offerings that befall

Homer's Hymns, No. IV.

[Feb.

The gods in heaven ; not here to mope,

And starve in this shade- furnish'd cave j

And further, mother, be my scope

Such sacred honours as Jove gave

Apollo. Should my sire refuse

My asking, I can still contrive, and use

My privilege as Prince of Thieves,

And take my own without their godships'

leaves.

Now to the matter of the beeves,
And this search-warrant of Apollo's —
Why let him come — and mark what follows :
I'll go to Pytho, break into
His fine big temple, through and through
I'll ransack it ; and pilfer thence
The boast of its magnificence ;
Pots, tripods, cauldron, ewer, brass and gold,
And all his stuffs, most costly to behold.
E'en let him come, and coming rue it—-
Nor care I, mother, who may view it ;
Yourself may come and see me do it."

PART IV.

THUS Hermes and his goddess mother*
Remonstrated with one another ;
And now Aurora from the bed
Of the deep ocean rising, spread
O'er works of men her rosy light,
When to Onchestus came Apollo,
And reach'd the greenwood's sacred hol-
low,

The grove of Neptune roaring in his might—-
And there beheld that old man downward

bent,
By the way-side, upon his vineyard-fence

intent.

And thus Apollo the old man bespake :
" Old fellow there, that mak'st thy shoulders

ache,
About thy vineyard gath'ring hedge-row

thorns,

In this Onchestus, peering 'mong the boughs,
Say dost thou happen to have seen my cows ?
You easily may know them by their horns
Bent backward — from Pieria, far away,
I'm come to seek my cattle gone astray,
Or stolen — all cows — but the black bull ;

secure,

For he was in a meadow separate-
Four savage dogs attended them, and sure
As any herdsmen ; , yet, last evening late,
They left their soft meads and their grassy

range ;

Left too the dogs and bull behind, to me"
A circumstance that seems no little strange.
Now, old man, tell me, hast thou chanced to

see

Any suspicious fellow hereabouts ?"— .
" Friend," then, quoth he, " one sees so many-
things,

That all one sees one very seldom says ;
For certain many men have many routes,
And various purpose for their journeyings j
And fariug-men pass this, as other ways ;

And some with evil thoughts perhaps, some

good,

But which have which is rarely understood.
I have been digging here, from morning light,
This vineyard trench, until the setting sun—
And now, I recollect, there cross'd my sight
A little boy — in truth, he seem'd to shun
Much note, an infant, and he tended kine ;
But whose I know not, but they were not

mine ;

And curiously he drove them backward-wise ;

And held a staff, and look'd, with crafty eyes,

This way and that, as one who fear'd surprise. "

Thus spake th' old man : with quicker

speed

Did Pho3bus on his way proceed ;
Ere long, above his pathway hover'd
A bird of omen, and flew by ;
From which, and skill in augury,
The thief-born Hermes he discover 'd
To be the pilferer of his kine.
Then straight for speculation apt,
Round him a purple cloud he wrapp'd,
And hasten'd forward, thus accoutred,
To " Sandy Pylos, the divine,"
As by the omen he was tutor'd :
And spying tracts upon the sand,
Though somewhat puzzled, thus he cried r —
" What, ho ! — then here are signs at hand,
Though strange ; nor can it be denied,
That these are prints of hoof of kine,
But towards the pastures turn'd, beshrew

it,

These lead not from their home, but to it.
If marks of cattle, are they mine ?
But what new trampings see I there,
No prints of woman, man, or child,
Nor lion, tawny wolf, nor bear,
Nor of the shaggy Centaur wild ?
There, there — what a prodigious tramp
Was that, and there a broader stamp ! !

1832.]

Homer's Hymns. JVo. /F.

323

Whatever monster It might be

That made these marks, good care took he

To make them large and busily."

Then Phoebus hasten'd farther still,
To deep-embower'd Cyllene's hill,
And reach'd the cave of Maia, where
Th' ambrosial Nymph to mighty Jove
Bore the sly infant of their love,
Far in amid deep-shaded rocks :
O'er all the hill the scented air
Breathed sweetness round, and many flocks
Bit close the tender herbage there.

Down to the cavernous chamber stepp'd
Apollo, the far-darting god ;
The threshold in his wrath he trode.
Him Hermes saw, duck'd down, and crept
Under his cradle-clothes, hands, feet, and all,
Huddled up close together, like a ball,
Or- smouldering fagot underneath its heap
Of ashes ; thus lay Hermes in his nest,
As 'twere a new-wash'd baby mass of sleep,
Yet therewithal his tortoise-shell he press'd,
Tenderly under his infant arms caress'd.

But now Latona's son knew well
That in this stony mansion dwelt
Maia and Hermes ; every cell,
Corner, and hole, he search'd, and felt,
Look'd well about him, opening three
Large cupboards with a polish'd key-
Three cupboards with ambrosia stored,
And nectar for their daily board,
And gold and silver too, no little hoard ;
Then Maia's millinery, white
And purple robes, all exquisite,
And fit for sacred houses, turn'd he over
And ransack'd, the thief Hermes to discover,
And found him cradled as he lay-
Then thus — " You little urchin, say,
Where are my cows you stole away ?
This instant speak, or you and I
Must have a quarrel presently ;
I'll hurl thee, too, young mischievous,
Down to the dismal Tartarus,
And its inextricable night j
Nor shall thy mother — no, nor thy father,
E'er help thee back again to light ;
Left there to perish, or say rather
To live, and rule forlorn, the head
And leader of the puny dead."

Hermes, with cunning speech, replied —
" Hard words are these, Latona's son,
That a poor babe have vilified.
What makes thee hither angry run
To seek thy cows ? — I've seen them not ;
If thieves there be, I am not in their plot.
Nor would my conscience, should you offer
Handsome rewards for information,
Allow me to accept the offer.
And, so far for my abnegation,
Nor thief am I, nor thief's conniver.
Am I like a stout cattle-driver ?
I, such a puny thing as I,
That have not aught to do but lie
Nestled ii|3 warm, to suck and sleep
On my own mother's breast, and creep

Under my cradle- clothes, be kiss'd,

And wash'd in nice warm water every

night !
I steal your cows ! — how could the thought

exist ?

Th' Olympian gods would laugh outright,
Should you in such a charge persist,
That a young thing as I should out
A-cattle-driving ! — I, so stout ! —
Born yesterday !— And my poor feet-
Look at them — they are soft enough ;
For roads, so very hard and rough,
You must confess them most unmeet.

" Now, would you like an oath, I'll swear
A great one. By my father's head —
A monstrous oath — I know not where
Your cows are, nor have e'er heard said;
Nor cows, nor thieves, have met my eye ;
In no wise will I bear the blame.
And what are cows ? I know not, I,
What things they are, except by name.
Pray, tell me, sir, what things are cows ?"
This Hermes said, wrinkled his brows,
And cast his winking eyes about ;
And one long wheugh, half- whistled out,
That meant to say, was ever heard
An accusation so absurd ?

Phoebus, in pleasant humour, laugh'd ;
Quoth he, " Thou quintessence of craft,
Henceforth I prophesy of thee
The prince of housebreakers to be ;
How many that bear purse and scrip,
Shall walk with thee, and shortly miss it ;
And houses rue thy noiseless trip,
And domiciliary visit,
And find their masters penniless !
What herdsmen rue thy knavishness,
And diminution of their stocks,
When thou, with thoughts of future savour,
Shalt take the choice of herds and flocks
Unto thy more especial favour !
Out of thy cradle — up, boy, leap,
Or thou shalt sleep thy latest sleep,
Thou lover of dark nights ; but go
Up to the gods ; thy wit achieves
The glorious boon they shall bestow, —
The title of the King of Thieves."

This said, Apollo seized the urchin,
Who, finding himself roughly handled,
Not like a petted baby dandled,
But grasp'd and lifted up aloft,
With fingers, too, not over soft,
His wit's invention keenly searching,
In quick return for his caressing,
Bethought him of an infant's blessing.

Upon the ground Apollo threw
Young Hermes, and apart withdrew ;
Sat down before him, first to scoff,
Though much in hurry to be off.
" By this good omen, then," quoth he,
" We now shall go on swimmingly,
Especially with such a guide ;
So, up— begone." - But -Hermes plied

324

Jlomer's Hymns. No. IV.

[Feb.

His busy steps, and to botli ears
Lifting his hands, abput him wrapp'd
His cradle- clothes, and answer'd apt, —
" What would you do with me, or where
Take me, of all the gods that are,
O you most savage, to torment
And tease one 'bout your horrid cattle so ?
'Would the whole race of them were shent I
What things cows are I do not know ;
I'm sure I stole them not, nor saw
The thief who did — In court of law,
The court above, our cause be tried,
And Justice Jove himself decide."

Thus long, with various expression,
Discuss'd Childe Hermes and Apollo ;
One mostly bent to force confession,
(Not likely, as it seem'd, to follow,)
The other, Hermes, on denying,
Deceit, cajoling, cunning, lying;
He, finding his prevarication
Was met with equal ready wit
And better ratiocination,
And knowing he must needs submit,
Trudged off to make the best of it,
Over the sands his way to wind,
And Phoebus follow'd close behind.

PART V.

Tttus fared they, nor did either stop,

Until they reach'd the Olympian top

Fragrant, both sons of Jove, for there

The fated scales of justice were.

But Rumour had before them sped,

And had the immortals gathered

Round Jove's eternal judgment-seat ;

When both arrived ; and at his feet

Apollo and sly Hermes stood.

The Thunderer spake — " Some merry mood

Hath urged thee, gentle Phoebus mine,

Hither to drive thy captive imp !

Whence hast this urchin libertine,

With herald look and eye of pimp ?

— No doubt some mighty grave affair,

On which their godships must proceed,

Hath brought you hither.". — " Father,
- spare,"

Quoth Phoebus, " nor the gods mislead

With this reproof of piracy.

No kidnapper of infants I.

And though you scarcely would believe

A thing so young as this would thieve,

I speak in simple verity.

You know Cyllene's mountain well j
'Tis there this pilferer I caught :
This rogue, this crafty miracle,
With cunning skill and knavery fraught.

With reverence to your honours due,

There's not a god in this divan,

Or mortal rogue on earth, e'er knew

To use his tongue and calling too,

As this small simple urchin can.

' Twas evening when he stole my kine

From their green pastures ; near the brine

On the resounding shore he drove

The cattle in strange wise : great Jove,

You would have wonder'd had you seen

The hoof-marks and the monstrous prints

between,

Not from, but towards the pastures leading,
Whence they were stolen ; in fact, receding;
As was discernible upon the sands.
But how he walk'd (nor feet nor hands,
'Tis plain, convey'd him) who can say ?
In unknown guise he scratched his way,
As if his feet had been young oaks,
Tops downwards -f the prodigious strokes^

That brush'd the sands on the moist shore,
Were plain enough ; but that pass'd o'er,
All trace was lost, nor would have been re-

cover'd,

But that a man by the way side,
As the thief pass'd towards Pylos, spied
Him and his booty, and to me discover'd.
Now when at leisure he had slain,
And cook'd his meat, and fire put out,
And thrown the ashes all about,
Not to be seen, he crept again
Into his cradle, stealthily
Like night, within Nymph Maia's cave,
Nor might an eagle's searching eye
Have seen the slyly cradled knave ;
And there he lay, and rubb'd his eyes,
And stretch'd, and feign'd him just awake,
Poor baby — ruminating lies
The while, and what false pleadings he might

make,

As thus — ' Why question me, good now,
Either about your cows or cow ?
I've neither seen, nor heard about 'em,
And though you give me worlds to tell,
In truth I've not one syllable
To say, and fear you'll go without 'em.' "
Thus Phoebus, having made his charge,
Sat down, and on the other side
Stood Hermes, and replied at large ;
But none save sovereign Jove he eyed,
As he were judge, and govern'd all beside :
" Good father, what I'm going to say
Shall all be truth; I scorn a lie,
I'm truth itself: — At break of day
Comes Phoebus, with a tale that I
Had stolen away his beastly cows ;
Nor brought he witnesses, not one,
To prove the thing ; but knit his brows,
And bullied me so loud, enough to stun
And shock one with vile oaths, swearing to

fling

.Me into some vile place called Tartarus.
He's in his prime, good Jove, and vigorous,
And lithe of limb — but I, poor thing,
Was born but yesterday ; this too
He knows, and so makes this to do

With a weak infant Am I like

A cow-stealer; one stout to strike^

1832.]

Robust to drive ? Good father Jove,—
Father, dear name, — I never drove,
Heaven bless me, homeward cow or kine,
Nor have I cross'd my threshold ever,
Till now ; I reverence the great sun divine,
And all their godships whatsoever —
Love you — would e'en respect this bully ;
I'm innocent, you know it fully.

Homer's Hymns. No. IV.

325

Yet for form's sake, and nothing loath,
I swear, and mighty is the oath —
By this immortal vestibule —
And now I think on't, time will come,
Though now he domineer and rule,
I'll strike this proud accuser dumb—-
Nor yet for means be far to seek ;
Meanwhile, great Jove, protect the weak!"

PART VI.

HERMES, Cyllenian Argicide,

Thus spake with winks and nods asid e,

Nor did he let his garment flow,

But held it o'er his arm projected,

As one that a reply expected ;

And Jove laugh' d loud to see him so

Expert in wit and self-collected ;

And, both his sons accosting, bid them

In instant amity proceed

After the kine, Hermes to lead

The way, and shew where he had hid them.

Jove nodded, and as most expedient

In such cases, Hermes march'd obedient.

The two illustrious brothers sped
Towards Pylos, and the pasturage
By the Alphseus* sandy bed,
And reach'd the stalls and courtelage,
Where all night long the beeves were fed :
There Hermes enter' d, and drove out
The noble kine, near fifty head :
Meanwhile Apollo search' d about,
And saw the skins where they were spread
Upon the rock, with admiration
Accosting thus his new relation :
" How comes it now, young crafty Hermes,
That one a babe, an infant merely,
Whose sinew yet so little firm is,
Should slaughter two great cows ? Full dearly
I think to pay for thy upgrowing,
If now thou art so strong and knowing. "
This saying, the tenacious bine
Took Phoebus from a neighbouring vine,
And tied young Hermes' hands, and bound

him,—

Not long, for at his feet it fell,
And left him free as first it found him.
Loose flew the band, though twisted well,
Nor e'en could Phoebus' self divine
The cause, and own'd the miracle.

Then Hermes a few steps retreated,
And with fix'd countenance, moved his eye
Quickly about him, to descry
Close shelter — but he soon was seated,
And straight bethought him of a charm,
That might preserve his limbs from harm ;
(Vocal the charm and instrumental:)
For this in his left hand he laid
His new-strung tortoise-shell, and play'd,
Variously striking on each string,
That from beneath his hands did fling
Such new-created melody,
Accompanied by vocal measure,
That Phoebus laugh'd for very pleasure
Under the thrilling poesy.

Now, reassured at this success,
On the left hand of Phoebus sitting,
New strains of lyric sprightliness
Chose Hermes ; and with tone befit-
ting,

Threw out his voice in trill and treble,
In sweetness link'd interminable.

He sang the everlasting story
Of the immortal gods in glory,
The shining heavens, and the dark earth,
How all things were, and had their birth,
How each god had allotted station,
And 'propriate administration ;
But most he praised, with higher glee,
The heavenly Queen, Mnemosyne j
To whom he Maia's son assign' d,
Her chief adopted favourite ;
Then all the gods, and each one's might,
In strain and order exquisite.
The lyre upon his arm he rested,

Whose music took in easy capture
The soul of Phoebus, that attested
An unextinguishable rapture,
Who thus a compromise suggested :
" You little kill-cow, apt and clever,
Boon reveller of merry feasts,
Henceforth our quarrel rests for ever,
You've fairly won the fifty beasts
With thy most marvellous doings : come,
Cunning contriver, tell to me
Wert born with this fine minstrelsy,
Or was it the good gift of some
Ingenious god, or mortal man?
If either god or mortal can
Pour such delight into the ear,
As thy new voice so sweet to hear —
Thyself alone, young thief, art able
To sound such melody ; — what skill !
What dext'rous touch ! of every ill
On earth, howe'er inextricable,
The only cure and antidote,
That doth three choicest things promote,
Love, mirth, and sleep, together blended.
In blessed ' concord of sweet sounds.'
Full oft in their Olympian rounds
Have I the Muses nine attended,
In chorus, dance, and pleasant haunts,
And heard their pipes, and flutes, and chants,
In all variety of measure ;
Yet ne'er so sensitive of pleasure,
As listening the coin'd fancies flung
•From thy new instrument and tongue,
That would enchant the gay and young.

32(5

Homer's Hymns. No, IV.

[Feb.

I'm lost in wonder how 'tis so,

That one should be so young and wise,

And so adroitly lyricize.

And bid thy gentle mother know.

What good I mean thee, Hermes mine,

(And all is truth that I divine ;)

Nay, by this cornel wand, I'll place thee

Blest 'mid the glorious gods, and grace thee

With precious gifts, and learn Apollo

Ne'er proffers friendship false and hollow."

Then Hermes answer'd him as cunning :
" Phoebus, you speak me fair, I wis,
And knowing too, though somewhat run-
ning

Too much into periphrasis,
Whereof I know the meaning well,
For you are welcome to this shell,
Nor do I envy you the art ; —
Will teach it you this very day
In all simplicity of heart.
You've but to wish, I say not nay.
But, Phoebus, your capacious mind
Knows all things, both to come and pre-
sent.

Jove loves you ; hath to you assign'd
Honours nor small nor evanescent,
Amid th' immortal brotherhood I
Great are you, certes, and most good ;
Nor have you more than is your due ;
And Jove your sire hath favour'd you
Farther, 'tis said, by divination,
The conferr'd gift of prophecy :
Your opulence in full know I,
Nor needs there strict enumeration.
That you can learn whate'er you will
I doubt not, and for this poor skill
In music, and this simple lyre,
'Tis but to wish them and acquire.
Sing, then, and play, and condescend
To learn of me — take all delight,
But recollect your words, requite,
Give me that glory you commend.
Now take it in your hands, and sing,
Make much of it, the gentle thing,
As 'twere a pleasant soft-toned friend,
And gay companion, brisk and clever,
To charm societies, whenever
You visit feast, and hall, and ring,
Or any jovial revelling,
And would all day and night prolong
The merry pastime of sweet sottg.
Whoe'er this unconstrained shell,

As some fair mistress, shall entreat,

And question skilfully and well,

And kindly, — to his bidding meet

Ever will it discourse most sweet

And excellent music, easy gliding

Into the soul, as it were part

And being of each hearer's heart ;

But to rough hand, or peevish chiding,

Harsh grating discord and displeasure,

Or folly's mealy maudlin measure.

Here take it, son of Jove, Apollo,

And skill to use it soon will follow.

But let us to the pastures drive,

O'er hill and plain, the bulls and kine,

Together mix'd, that so will thrive

And multiply, good Phoebus mine,

As you may have small cause to waken

Your wrath 'gainst me (though too much

bent,

Excuse me, on emolument)
About the two poor cows I've taken."

Thus Hermes, and held out his gift ;
Apollo took it, well contented,
And a smart whip in turn presented
To Hermes, with the pleasant drift,
Of urging him to instant thrift
Of tending the herds ; Hermes consented,
Proud to be made his overseer.
In his left hand Latona's son
Then took the lyre, and one by one
He stirr'd the strings, till somewhat freer
He struck and sang — when from his hand
Uprose the music soft and bland.
The kine were to the pastures sent,
And the two sons of Jove retraced
To the Olympian tops snow-graced
Their steps, delighting as they went
Ever in minstrel merriment.
Joy took possession of wise Jove,
Commanding friendship to each other,
As brother should be link'd with brother ;
Nor farther hint did it behove,
For Hermes towards Latona's son
Felt pure affection, love entire,
Both now'and when he gave the lyre,
As he so willingly had done.
Light caroll'd Phoebus, well contented,
In bended arm his lyre caressing.
And Hermes, greater skill professing,
Another instrument invented,
The shrill pipe, sharper on the ear,
Contrived for distance, loud and clear.

PART VII.

QUOTH Phoebus, " Though I'm loath to shew
Good Hermes needless apprehension,
I fain would guard my lyre and bow
From farther pilfering and pretension ;
And you are now in Jove's good graces,
Elected Plenipotentiary
Of all the Gods, and shifting places
May be your office ordinary ;

Therefore, to put on better basis
Our amity, I would be wary,
And beg your honour to affix
To this our truce, in confirmation,
A great oath — By the awful Styx !—
And nod, the Gods' asseveration,
That, without fraud, in all things duly
You mean to act inncerely — truly."

1832.]

Homer's Hymns. No. IV.

327

The son of Mala bow'd assent ;
Whate'er the Archer own'd, he nought

would covet,

Or seek in act or manner fraudulent ;
For thievery, he was much above it j
Nor would he his rich temple e'er approach,
Much less upon his property encroach.

Apollo, too, the glorious son
Of fair Latona, gave the nod,
That or in heaven or earth, not one,
Or son of Jove, or man, or god,
Would he hold half so dear as Hermes ;
And added, " Since our truth so firm is,
I mean in friendship to present you
A rod endued with charm to bless,
With riches and all happiness,
The master by whose hand 'tis holden ;
(Where'er their godships shall have sent

you,

Ensuring safety and success ;)
Beauteous the rod three-leaved and golden»
And whatsoe'er, by word or will,
Jove would command, it will express
And teach the duty to fulfil.
But for this art of divination,
That, my good son of Jove, forbear,
Nor further ask me to declare—.
Unlawful the communication
To thee or any other god ;
It is the secret of Jove's mind, and I
Gave my most solemn oath and nod,
When first it pleased him to bestow
On me the gift, no deity
Beside myself should ever know
The counsels that in his deep bosom lie.
Ask then no further, brother gifted
With rod of gold — no tongue discloses
What Jove commands should ne'er be sift-
ed;

The future leave as he disposes ;
While I alone in my vocation
Must traverse earth, in duty strict
Towards man of every tribe and nation,
This to delight and that afflict.
And mortals, whosoe'er consult
Th' appointed birds of augury,
Their notes and flight, these learn of me
And in my voice of truth exult \
But whatsoe'er of men below
More than the gods shall seek to know,
And question all false chattering birds,
Shall trust in idle sounds and words,
In error's paths go wide astray,
And throw their precious offerings all
away,

For these at least I take, nor aught return.
But, son of Maia and of Jove,
Apparitor of gods above,
There somewhat yet remains for thee to learn
Far deep in their Parnassian bower,
Secluded virgin sisters three
Their dwelling hold ; on swift wing free,
As busy bees from flower to flower
Pass ever the glad sisterhood,
Gathering sweet honey — such their food,
Whose heads are white, as if with meal
O'ersprinkled — These alone reveal
And teach their art of prophecy,
And singular the gift that I
Coveted from my early day,
When wont among the herds to stray ;
Nor was my sire, great Jove, eoncern'd,
With what I did, or what I learn'd.
On this invigorating fare
Feeding, enthusiast, they declare,
With liberal speech, their art and truth •
But, that denied, with little ruth,
Entice their scholars far away
To many a false and wildering way.
To these will I present you, well
To question them, and learn the spell,
And sacred mystery to foretell :
Perchance, then mortals may frequent
The shrine pf Hermes eloquent.
Such is n» promise, this my gift,
Fair son of Maia — now to thrift
And diligence, good herdsman's rules j
Tend you the herds, laborious mules,
Horses, and cloven-footed kine,
Grim gaping lions, white-tooth'd swine,
The howling wolves, and horrid leopards,
Dogs, sheep, and whatsoe'er the earth
In den or pasture brings to birth ;
Hermes shall be the prince of shepherds-
Hermes, the only true instructor,
To Pluto's realms the sole conductor,
Thus giving, though unapt to give,
The gift of death to all that live."
Thus King Apollo loved the son
Of Maia with all love j and grace,
And favour most especial, and good place
Amid th' immortal throng from Jove he won.
With gods and men hence Hermes tarries,
The last of whom he seldom pleases ;
But oft'ner o' dark nights he harries,
And by his thefts vexatious teases.
Yet, hail fair son of Maia, hail !
Or rather, since I needs must tell
Of other gods another tale,
Till in new rhymes I mention thee, farewell !

The Dance of Death,

[Feb.

THE DANCE OF DEATH.

FROM THE GERMAN.

A CHEERFUL evening party were
assembled, some years ago, in Copen-
hagen, to celebrate the birth-day of
a common friend. They were young
and gay, but their mirth, which other-
wise might have overpast the bounds
of moderation, was chastened and
restrained by the accidental presence
of a guest, whose passive rather than
active participation in the scene,
whose silent and grave deportment,
and whose sparing, and almost whis-
pered replies, when addressed, form-
ed a strange contrast with the festi-
vity and liveliness of the rest of the
company.

Those who were acquainted with
him, nevertheless, maintained, that
among his intimate friends, the stran-
ger was an interesting companion,
possessed of a great fund of anecdote
and observation, and a pAer of in-
vesting, when he chose, ivh an air
of originality and novelty, We every-
day occurrences and experiences of
life. This vein, however, he rarely
indulged, and, in mixed society, could
with difficulty be prevailed on to
open his lips. When he did, how-
ever, he was listened to with atten-
tion and reverence; and often the
noisy mirth of the party became gra-
dually hushed as he poured out, in
his calm solemn tone, his rich stores
of anecdote and narrative.

It seemed as if, on this occasion,
the presence of some friends whom
he had not seen for some time past,
had gradually disposed him to be
more communicative as the evening
advanced, and dissipated that reserve
which the loud gaiety of the party
about him had at first inspired. The
sparkling glass had circulated freely
and frequently ; song after song had,
according to the custom of the coun-
try, enlivened the night, when some
young wight, probably over head and
ears in love, and anxious to let the
world know it, commenced an air of
Baggesen's, in which each guest, in
his turn, sings a stanza, and drinks to
the health of his mistress by her
baptismal name, the company re-
peating the pledge in chorus.

Ere the silent guest was aware, his
turn had come. The host was filling
his empty glass, and pressing him
to begin. He roused himself, as if
waking from a drearn, and turning
suddenly round, said gravely, " Let
the dead rest in peace." " By all
means," said the host, " Sit iis levis
terra. And so we'll drink to their
memory ; but come — you know the
custom — a name we must have."

" Well, then," said the stranger,
quickly, " I will give you one that
will find an echo in every breast —
AMANDA." "Amanda!" repeated the
party, as they emptied their glasses.
" Amanda!" said the younger bro-
ther of the landlord, who, being a
great favourite with the stranger,
ventured to take greater liberties
with him than any other person. " I

have a strong notion, friend L ,

that you are palming off some ima-
ginary divinity upon us, and that you
really never knew what it was to be
in love after all. Who ever heard of
such a name, except in a sonnet ! I'll
lay my life too, that no Amanda ever
equalled the flesh-and-blood charms
of our own Elizas, Annas, and Mar-
garets. Come, come — sweep away
these airy fancies from your brain ;
—you have still time enough left, —
and I yet hope to dance at your mar-
riage."

These words, apparently so harm-
less, seemed to produce a strange
impression upon the stranger. He
made a sudden movement, as if to
interrupt the young man. " Dance !"
he exclaimed, while his cheek grew
pale, and a deep air of melancholy
settled on his brow as he proceeded.
" The charms of which ye speak
are, indeed, nothing to me ; and yet
I do bear within my breast an image,
which neither your realities nor your
imaginations arelikely soon to equal."
He looked around him, for a mo-
ment, with a glance in which pride
seemed to mingle with compassion;
then the look of triumph passed away,
and his countenance resumed its
usual mild and tranquil expression.

" Convince us then of the fact,"

1832.]

The Dance of Death.

- 529

said the persevering young man, —
" draw out that black riband from
your breast which has so often awa-
kened my curiosity, and let us see
the fair one who is attached to it."

L glanced his eye with an en-
quiring gaze upon the company, and
perceiving curiosity and attention
depicted in every countenance, he
said, " Be it so !" He pulled out a
plain gold case from his bosom, which
he loosened from the riband, and
opened it with a slight pressure.

A miniature of a female present-
ed itself to view, in which, though
the delicate features were not re-
.gularly beautiful, every one who be-
held them felt at once that there lay
some deep and irresistible attraction.
A halo of grace and dignity seemed
to surround the figure. The fresh-
ness and truth of colour in the cheek,
the speaking lustre of the eye, the
sweet and natural smile that played
upon the lip, the clustering chestnut
hair which fell in long ringlets around
a countenance mild as angels wear,
the simplicity of the white robe in
which the figure was arrayed, — all
seemed to shew that the picture must
be a portrait; and yet there was
about it a certain strange visionary
and almost supernatural expression,
.which made the spectator doubt if
such an image could represent real-
ity. The miniature was handed
round the table. Every one gazed
on it with delight.

" And her name is, or was, Aman-
da?" resumed the young man who
had first addressed the stranger ; " so
far well — her Christian name at least
is no secret."

" No," replied L ; " and yet I

could perchance call her by seven
others, each as appropriately hers as
the last, for she bore them—"

" All !" said the young man, in-
terrupting him with a smile.

" Yes, all !" repeated L , gazing

steadily on the picture, which had
now come back into his hand — " all !
— and yet my intended bride, whom
this portrait represents, bore but
one !"

" This, then," said the landlord, " is
the portrait of your intended bride.
I begin now to remember something
faintly of the story."

" It is— and it is not," said L ,

sighing. "lean answer only," said he,
as he perceived the growing astonish-

ment of the company, " in words
which must appear enigmas to you
all, thoH^nTzBrafthey are none to me.
— But let us change the subject.
Dark sayings, without explanation,
disturb good fellowship, arid we have
not met to-night to entertain each
other with melancholy stories."

" For my part," said the landlord,
" I should desire nothing better. I

am sure, my dear L , you will

not now refuse to give us some ex-
planation as to some events in your
life, of which I have a dim recollec-
tion of having heard. I remember
faintly, that a report of your intend-
ed marriage was suddenly succeed-
ed by the intelligence of your having
set out on a journey to the south to
visit a sick friend. When you did
at last return, you mixed no longer
with general society; and even in the
smaller circle of your friends, you
have been silent on many subjects, on
which they have refrained from ques-
tions, only lest the sympathy which
would hav&prompted their enquiries
should bdpistaken for mere curio-
sity."

" My silence," said L , with

another enquiring glance at the com-
pany, " has arisen, not from want of
confidence, but from the dislike I
felt at the idea of attracting observa-
tion, as one who has been the sport
of events so extraordinary, that he
who has experienced them is sure to
be looked upon by his fellow men
either as a miraculous being, a vision-
ary, or — a liar. None of the three hy-
potheses are agreeable to me, nor do
I pretend to be altogether indifferent
to the good opinion of the world
Avhile I live in it. The event to which
you allude has, in fact, nothing in it
of a supernatural character; viewed
in its prosaic aspect, it is one unfor-
tunately not very uncommon, and I
therefore make no further demand
on your forbearance but this, that
I shall not be made the subject of
impertinent curiosity; with the ex-
ception of my name, you are wel-
come to communicate it to any one
whose understanding and power of
judgment are not absolutely limited
to what falls within the scope of his
five senses ; for though these events,
incredible as they may appear to
some, are perfectly capable of a na-
tural explanation, the tone which I
feel I must adopt in their narration

330

must be not only a melancholy one,
but tedious, perhaps, and repulsive,
to those whose hearts acknowledge
no sympathy with any higher world
than that of sense. All, therefore,
who expect a lively entertainment,
had better go at once. I have given
them warning."

None rose, however; and L >,

closing the miniature, and placing it
before him, proceeded as follows :

" During that gay period of youth
when we are so apt to prefer the
illusive promises of fancy to the
realities of life, it was my fortune to
form an acquaintance, which, not-
withstanding the naturally dreamy
tendency of my mind, soon concen-
trated all its attention on the dreary
scenes which are actually presented
in this our confined existence. —
Some time before the period of which
I speak, during the English attack on
Copenhagen in 1801, the students
had formed a military corps of their
own; but its spirit and discipline had
been rapidly on the decline during the
years of peace which followed, till
the patriotic enthusiasm of its found-
ers was again roused by the arrival
of that remarkable year which wit-
nessed the approach of the British ar-
my to the shores of Denmark. The
students, old and young, flocked back
with redoubled zeal to their neglect-
ed colours ; the rapid succession of
events which followed, — the blockade
of the capital, animating every breast
with zeal, — the sympathetic influ-
ence of enthusiasm, had cemented the
ties of acquaintance and friendship
among young men formerly but little
acquainted with each other, and uni-
ted them after the fatigues of the day
in little joyous clubs and societies,
where animating war-songs and pa-
triotic sentiments soonbanished those
gloomy feelings which the existing
state of matters would occasionally
inspire.

" On these occasions, I had fre-
quently met with a young man, to
whom at first I was conscious of
entertaining a feeling of dislike,
though I felt unable to ascribe it to
any other cause than the difference
of our habits and personal appear-
ance. He was not tall, but slen-
derly made, and with features of
great delicacy. His clear and pier-
cing eye often wandered over the

The Dance of Death.

[Feb.

scene about him with a restless, but
penetrating glance. There was some-
thing noisy and extravagant in his
mirth, which revolted me, because it
appeared not to come from the heart;
the loud laughter with which he ge-
nerally accompanied his somewhat
far-fetched witticisms, seemed to be
less the offspring of gaiety, than of a
mind that mocked itself. Selfish
even in his convivial moments, it
seemed to be his study to maintain
his superiority over his companions
even in his mirth ; and the reckless-
ness with which he occasionally as-
sailed his friends, produced a pain-
ful impression on myself, and on all.

" At other times his deep and over-
powering melancholy kept every
friend at a distance. The study
which he professed to pursue was
medicine, but his friends said, with
little success ; for while engaged
most earnestly in his studies, a strange
fit of anxiety and restlessness would
come over him; he would throw his
books aside, desert his classes, and
either wander about in a state of list-
less idleness, though without plun-
ging into any dissipation, (for the
care he took of his health seemed
almost ludicrous,) or devote himself
with assiduity to drawing and paint-
ing, for which he had a decided turn.
He had considerable skill in minia-
ture-painting on ivory, and his efforts
in this department were always at
the service of his friends. When he
devoted his pencil to other subjects,
his drawings had invariably some-
thing of a gloomy character. Snakes
were seen lurking under his flow-
ers; funeral processions issuing from
some lovely vine-covered habitation ;
corpses floating on the waves of a
sunny sea ; his fancy revelled in the
strangest, the most varied funereal
devices; while, in all his sketches,
there was something which left upon
the mind a feeling of a disagreeable
kind.

" You who are acquainted with me
as I then was, will see at once, that
there could be but few points of con-
tact between myself and Emanuel,
for such was his Christian name.
Meantime the bombardment had
commenced ; the destructive bombs
scattered ruin in all directions, no
place of security was to be found.
The day was even more terrible than
the night, for there was something

1832,] The Dance of Death.

peculiarly appalling in the hissing of
the balls, and the bursting of the Con-
greve rockets, which deafened us on
every side, while they were invisible
to the eye.

" A small division of the corps to
which I belonged, had one day re-
ceived orders to occupy a bastion. I
had been a little too late, but was has-
tening after my comrades, and had al-
ready come in sight of them, when a
bomb falling in the midst of four or
five of them who were standing to-
gether, burst at that instant, killingal-
most all of them, and scattering their
mangled limbs into the air. The
others, who were not far off, fled, as
might be expected, and were still
engaged in attending to their own
safety, when I, perceiving that the
danger was over, and eager to afford
such assistance as was in my power,
hurried up to the scene of the catas-
trophe.

" A young man was standing among
the mangled corpses, pale and mo-
tionless, but apparently unhurt. It
was Emanuel. « Who is killed?'
was my first question. He looked
up, turned his clear piercing eyes
upon me, and was silent. Suddenly
he smote his hands together; the
tears rushed into his eyes, and with
a voice interrupted by loud sobs,
he pronounced the name of an ami-
able youth, the promising heir of a
respectable civil officer, and, strange
enough, our common friend. I re-
peated the name with a shuddering
tone. ' Alas ! alas !' said he, ' it is
even so, and I am unhurt ; not two
minutes before he had accidentally
changed places with me. He is taken,
and 1 am left ; O would I were in his
place now! Do not mistake me,'
continued he, as I gazed on him with
astonishment, * this is no burst of
friendship ; I love existence far more
dearly than I did him; but better
this death, than a slow, a terrible
one!'

" « What gloomy ideas are these !'
said I ; * let us go and'—

" * Enjoy ourselves ! — is it not so ?'
interrupted he ; ' to laugh, and to for-
get!'

" < No, friend,' replied I ; « I have
little inclination at present for en-
joyment— but to fulfil our duty.'

" In the meantime our comrades
had returned to the spot, folio wed by
those on whom devolved the mourn-

831

ful task of removing the wounded
and the dead. We marched as if
nothing had happened, to perform
the task appointed -for us, that of
placing our supplies of powder under
cover in a distant magazine. Chance
had made Emanuel my companion.
We worked hard and spoke but little.
I felt, however, that the dislike I
had at first so decidedly felt to the
young man, was fast giving place to
a warm sympathy for his sufferings.
I had obtained a partial glance
into a dark but wounded spirit,
and had seen enough to incline
me to ascribe the startling circum-
stances of his character, to a mind
anxiously labouring to deceive itself
as to its true situation. I know not
whether the visible sympathy which
I manifested, contrasted with my
former coldness, had affected him also
with a similar emotion; but so it
was, that when the night summoned
us to rest, we parted like old and
trusty friends, with a warm pressure
of the hand.

" I had occasion next day to be the
bearer of various orders, and, among
others, one addressed to Emanuel.
I entered unperceived — (he had not
heard my gentle tap at the door) —
into a comfortable apartment, but in
a state of even more than student-
like confusion ; — a circumstance the
more striking, that at that time both
old and young generally kept their
whole effects as carefully packed as
possible, that they might the more
easily be transported, in the event
of their habitations being set on fire
by the bombardment.

«' He was seated at a large table,
covered with books and painting ma-
terials ; his head rested on both his
hands, and he was gazing attentively
on a small miniature painting. It is
the same which lies near me, and
which has so deeply attracted your
attention, only it was then unframed,
the ivory being merely pasted upon
the paper. I had time to look at it,
for he did not observe me till I laid
my hand upon his shoulder ; the gay
and animated grace which seemed
shed over the figure, struck me per-
haps the more, from the contrast it
presented to the living, but drooping
and desponding young man, who had
but yesterday lost a friend, and whose
deep desolation of heart had so plain-
ly revealed itself on that occasion.

332

The Dance

" He started up as lie felt the pi
re of my hand, and almost ii

)ress-

ure or my nana, ana almost invo-
luntarily drew the paper over the
miniature. ' How now '?' said I ; ' is
it with so sad an aspect that you re-
gard this lovely portrait, whose
charming features are sufficient to
inspire any one with cheerfulness ;
particularly since this successful ef-
fort seems to be the work of your
own hands ? My poor friend ! have I
guessed the cause of your melan-
choly— Is it love — unfortunate, hope-
less love ?'

"'Most unfortunate,' said he, in-
terrupting me, ' for but,' con-
tinued he, * you have already had a
glance of it, so look at it as you will :
I do in truth consider it as one of
my most successful attempts, and the
more so, that no one sat for it. It
was the mind that guided the pencil.'
So saying, he again uncovered the
miniature.

" With increasing astonishment and
delight did I gaze upon those lovely
features ; I was fascinated ; I could
not turn my eyes from them; the
longer they rested on the picture,
the deeper I felt its magic sink into
my heart. I could not divest myself
of the idea, that this portrait must
represent the object of my friend's
attachment. And the very idea of
seeing, knowing, loving so angelic a
being as it presented itself to my
mind, seemed more than a counter-
poise for all the difficulties, all the
miseries of life.

" ' I have heard it said,' said I at
last, * that all married people, and
all lovers, have a certain resemblance
to each other; I cannot say that I
have in general found it so, but for
once it strikes me the saying is
right. I think,' said I, comparing
him with the portrait, ' I think I can
here and there recognise some traits
of your features*'

" ' Very possibly,' he replied, * very
likely — for the picture is that of my
sister.'

" I knew not why at the moment,
but I felt that this explanation filled
my bosom with indescribable joy.
' Your sister ?' replied I, hastily —
'happy brother who can boast of
such a sister ! What is her name ?'

" He was silent ; I raised my eyes
from the picture to fix them upon
him. He was pale, and seemed not
to have heard my question. I repeat-

of Death. [Feb.

ed it. He looked at me with a fixed
stare, and answered as hesitatingly
as I myself did even now. * Her
name is 1 cannot tell !'

" ' You cannot tell ?' said I, with
astonishment.

" ' O persecute me not,' cried he,
springing up with impatience, —
'ask me not — you have touched a
wound that still festers in my heart.'

" I laid down the picture in con-
fusion ; a strange suspicion, which
struck me dumb, sprang up at that
moment in my mind. I began to fear
that by some strange mental aberra-
tion, his love for this angelic sister
might be more than fraternal; and
resolved at once never more to touch
upon a subject so dangerous.

" I left him ; but chance threw us
together again in the course of the
evening ; for a fire, occasioned by the
bursting of a bomb, took place in his
lodging. On the first intelligence of
this disaster, I hurried along with
some friends who were not known to
him, to his house. He was standing
quietly in his room, giving himself
no concern about his effects, and ap-
parently doubtful whether he would
take the trouble of saving himself or
riot. I succeeded in drawing him
away almost by force ; but the great-
er part of his small possessions was
consumed. From that moment he
seemed to attach himself exclusively
to me; — every day during our mili-
tary companionship his society in
turn became dearer to me, so that at
last the very defects in his character
which had at first sight appeared to
me so repulsive, now that I had be-
gun to look upon his conduct from
a different point of view, presented
themselves in an interesting light, as
the efforts of a mind struggling
against despair ; and the melancholy
Emanuel (not perhaps without some
reference to his lovely sister) be-
came to me an object of the warmest
sympathy and friendship.

" My suspicions, which still conti-
nued, prevented me from putting any
questions to himself as to his family,
willingly as I would have done so;
and all which I was able to gather
from other sources was, that his
father was clergyman of a country
town, in one of the small islands
belonging to Denmark, in the Baltic ;
that he was a widower, and, besides
this son, had four daughters in life.

1S32.J

" Meantime the siege held on its
brief but terrific course. I trembled
for my friend, whose desperate plans,
the offspring of an over-excited mind,
were condemned, even by the most
foolhardy of our companions; though,
had all the defenders been inspired
with the same contempt of death, the
result of the siege might probably
have been different. The actual re-
sult is sufficiently known; with the
opening of our gates to the British
troops, who entered not as enemies
but as friends, our warlike functions
ceased. Impatient, irritated at the
daily necessity of meeting on a foot-
ing of courtesy with those whom we
hated from the very bottom of our
hearts, I seized the first opportunity
to leave the capital, and knowing that
every where in the neighbourhood I
should meet with English troops, or
encounter general irritation and an-
noyance, I determined to take a wider
circuit, and to visit Germany.

" I need hardly say that Emanuel's
society had by this time become in-
dispensable to me ; his wit, which I
had at one time thought far-fetched
and wanton, now afforded me de-
light. I laboured in silence to miti-
gate the inequality of his humours,
though every day unfolded to me
some new and strange peculiarity in
his character. Among these was his
aversion to every sort of dancing;
he assured me that neither he nor his
sisters had ever learned, or would
learn, to dance. Nay, on one occa-
sion, during a visit to a common
friend in the country, where we hap-
pened to meet a party of young peo-
ple who were anxious for that amuse-
ment, and who, knowing that he was
the only person present who played
the violin, had requested him to act
the part of musician on the occasion,
he at first resisted vehemently, and
only yielded at last to my repeated
entreaties. He played one or two
dances with visible reluctance; but
just as he was about to commence a
third, and a young and beautiful girl,
in some measure resembling the sub-
ject of the picture, whom he had long
been following with his eyes with
visible interest, advanced into the
circle, he cast his violin away with
violence, and by no entreaties could
he be prevailed upon to resume it.
The dancing must have ceased en-
tirely, but for the fortunate arrival of

The Dance of Death.

333

a guest who was able and willing to
replace the reluctant performer. The
dance now proceeded gaily and with-
out interruption; but insensible even
to the solicitations of beauty, Ema-
nuel stood in a corner of the room,
and eyed the gay whirl of the dance
with an aspect of the deepest gloom.

" My sympathies being once awa-
kened in his favour, I only pitied him
the more for these singularities, and
urged him, with the view of diverting
his mind, to resume with energy and
perseverance his neglected studies.
He promised to do so, but medicine
seemed only to increase the discom-
fort and despondency of his mind.
Often would he throw his books
away, exclaiming, 'Oh! admirable
training for the future ! In eternity
what need have I to know how men
are to be made away with by rule
and method ? — There men die not — •
or if they do, not by pill or potion.
Why waste in such enquiries the hours
which might be much better devo-
ted to the education of the soul ?'

" ' Is such then your employment
when you throw your books away ?'
I asked after one of these tirades.

" * Alas !' said he, with deep ear-
nestness, ' that which occupies my
mind is enough in the eyes of God
to excuse a being of flesh and blood.'
I understood him not; but thinking
that a foreign tour might produce a
salutary effect upon his mental ma-
lady, I pressed him to accompany
me in my intended journey. He re-
ceived the invitation with visible
pleasure, yet he hesitated long, as if
some conflict were going on within,
before he accepted it; at last he
yielded to my entreaties.

" He commenced his journey with
a feeling of uneasiness, which, how-
ever, was shortly removed by a for-
tunate occurrence. He had informed
his father of our project, but had
received no answer, and had begun
to apprehend that their long silence
must be occasioned by some unfor-
tunate event, chiefly, as he admitted,
from the feeling that he had long
been accustomed to hear of nothing
but misfortune from home. We sail-
ed by a small vessel for Lubeck.
The violence of the wind, rather than
apprehension from the English ves-
sels, had induced the captain to take
the course between the islands. But
autumn was already advanced; the

The Dame of Death.

334

gloom of evening was fast closing
upon the sea ; he was but imperfect-
ly acquainted with the soundings,
and so he resolved, after sailing a
league or two, to come to anchor,
and resume his course on the follow-
ing day.

"Emanuel now found himself, I may
say, almost in sight of his paternal
home. It was long, as he told me
with emotion, since he had visited
it, and unfortunate as might be the
nature of his connexion with it, it
was evident that the recollections of
the past, and the apprehension of
some present evil, had tilled his mind
with an indescribable longing to land,
and once more to visit the home of
his youth. He promised to be on
board again by sunrise. My heart
beat as I listened to this resolution,
for I foresaw that he could not in
courtesy avoid inviting me to ac-
company him ; though it was not less
evident, from the constraint with
which the invitation was shortly af-
terwards given, that he would have
been happier had I remained. For
deeper reasons, however, than that
on which I rested my acceptance of
his offer — which was, that in the
event of any thing unpleasant having
happened, my assistance might be
of use to him — I determined to ac-
company him, and having made the
necessary arrangements with the cap-
tain, we landed.

" We had still a full league to go ;
some time elapsed before we could
procure any conveyance, and when
we commenced our route, the night
had set in dark and misty. The man
who drove the vehicle mistook the
path, and led us astray, so that it was
bedtime ere we reached the town.
In the restlessness of his anxiety,
my friend would not wait to alight
at his father's house ; we entered the
inn, and there learned, that the old
clergyman was at that moment suf-
fering severely from the return of a
painful complaint, to which he was
occasionally subject.

" Emanuel knew that any agitation
of mind at the present moment might
l>e attended with the most danger-
ous consequences to his father; so
taking our little bundles in our hand,
we set out on foot toward the par-
sonage, which stood near the church,
and into which, after knocking gen-

[Feb.

tly for a long time at the door, an old
servant gave us admittance.

" She confirmed the intelligence we
had received at the inn, with the con-
soling addition, that there was no im-
mediate danger ; that the invalid was
asleep, and that she would call up
the daughter who was watching be-
side him ; while my friend, learning
that his eldest sister had gone to rest,
that she might relieve the other in
the morning, gave her express in-
junctions not to disturb her, nor the
two children, as he called them, by
the news of our arrival. We entered,
in the meantime, a large and some-
what gloomy parlour, dimly illumi-
nated by the single light which was
carried by the servant.

" It was with a strange emotion that
I looked around upon the dreary
dwelling, which contained the being
who had been so long the object of
my daily and nightly dreams, and
whom I now hoped at last to see face
to face ; a happiness the more agi-
tating and intense, that it was so un-
expected and so unlikely. My glance
wandered rapidly over the lonesome
chamber ; its furniture was of that
modest kind which I had seen a hun-
dred times before in the dwellings
of respectable citizens ; but my eyes
involuntarily dwelt on several little
work-tables, which stood in the win-
dows or against the walls, without
knowing to which in particular I
ought to direct my attention and my
homage. Emanuel had thrown him-
self on an old-fashioned sofa, in vi-
sible and painful expectation.

"At last the door opened gently. A
young lady in a simple house dress,
bearing in her hand a light, which
threw its clear ray on her counte-
nance, entered the room, with a timid
but friendly air. The joyful beating
of my heart seemed to announce to
me that this was the charming origi-
nal of the miniature ; I drew in my
breath that I might not disturb her,
as, without observing me in the re-
cess of the window, she flew towards
her brother, with the faltering.excla-
mation, ' Emanuel, dearest Emanu-
el !' He started up, stared on her
with a fixed look, and extended his
arms to receive her, but without ut-
tering a word.

" * You would scarcely know me
again/ said she, ' I have grown so

4832.]

The Dance of Death.

tall since we parted ; but I am still
your own Jacoba.'

" ' Jacoba !' he repeated, in a sor-
rowful tone ; * yes I yes ! even such
I had pictured you. — Come to my
heart !' Then drawing her to him—
* How is my father ?' said he ; * how
are Regina, Lucia, and the little
one?'

" ' All as usual,' answered the
young lady, ' only that my father
has suffered more severely from his
pains this time than before. We
could not venture to leave him ex-
cept when asleep : I watch beside
him always till about daybreak, and
then I waken Regina. Ah ! she is no
longer so strong and healthy as I am,
• — and poor Lucia is still but a
child !'

" ' Enough,' said my friend, as if
struggling with an oppression at the
heart, — and introduced me to his
sister. She saluted me with an air
of shyness and embarrassment, the
natural result of her solitary educa-
tion, and then hurried out to prepare
some refreshments, and to give di-
rections for our repose.

" * Now,' said I, with a triumphant
dance at my friend, when we were
left alone, — ' now I know the name of
the charming picture, or rather of
the still more lovely original. It is
Jacoba.'

" * Jacoba !' he repeated with a deep
sigh — * well, well, be it as you will ;
— but, for heaven's sake, no more
of this, — earnestly I ask it of you—
not a word of the picture. That is
my secret.'

" The sister entered again occa-
sionally, but only for a moment at
a time. Her shyness seemed to pre-
vent her from taking any part in our
conversation ; and every instant she
hurried out to see that her father was
still asleep. We agreed that the old
man, to whom any mental agitation
might be dangerous in his present
irritable state, should know nothing
of his son's presence, and that Jacoba
should merely waken her elder sister
an hour earlier than usual, that be-
fore commencing her duties by her
father's bed-side, she might have
time to bestow a parting embrace
upon her brother.

" Jacoba went out and did not re-
turn. Shortly afterwards the servant
came in, and whispered that the old
man was awake. 1 grieved at this;

S35

I would gladly have gazed a little
longer on those features, and com-
pared them with the portrait which
lay concealed as usual in the breast
of my friend. Yet this was needless.
The resemblance had already struck
me ; and though there seemed to me
more fire, more lustre in her eye,
some allowance was of course to be
made for the failure of the painter,
who drew but from memory.

" My friend accompanied me to my
room, and then betook himself to the
little apartment which bore his name,
and which, it seemed, had always
been kept in readiness for him. I felt
my heart filled with a sensation of in-
eft'able contentment and delight. I
had seen the being whom my fancy
had invested with a thousand perfec-
tions, and whose retiring shyness
seemed only to add new charms to
her beauty. Despite of the veil of
mystery which seemed to rest over
the situation of the family, I felt an
internal conviction how short a space
of time would be sufficient to fan
those feelings of admiration into a
glowing passion ; particularly now
that my suspicions as to the nature
of Emanuel's attachment had disap-
peared. True, he had received her
with emotion, and embraced her; but
his embrace was passionless, nay, al-
most cold and strange. There was
no appearance of delight in his look,
but on the contrary, I could not but
feel, an air of horror. Absorbed in
the contemplation of this dark enig-
ma, I drew near to the window.

"The mist had dispersed ; the moon
had risen calm and cloudless. The
window of my room looked directly
out upon the churchyard, which lay
bright beneath me in the moonshine,
while the broad walls of the church
and its pointed tower threw out a
long dark shadow that seemed to
lose itself in the distance. Between
the window at which I stood and
the (not far distant) church, was a
large burial-place, surrounded by a
low iron railing; my eyes accident-
ally rested upon it, and I drew back
with involuntary terror on percei-
ving some object move near it, half
hid in the shadow projected from a
monument beyond. Mastering my
first sensation, however, I thought,
upon a second glance, that I recog-
nised the figure of Emanuel in that
of the being thus leaning against the

336

monument, and dwelling as it were
among the tombs. I opened my
door; I perceived that the little pas-
sage which separated our rooms had
a door at the further end, which
stood half open, and led into the
churchyard. I could no longer
doubt; and knowing how destruc-
tively these gloomy meditations, to
which my friend was but too prone,
must operate upon his already exci-
ted fancy, I stept out, and hastily ad-
vanced towards him.

" ' My friend,' said I, ' it is late
and cold. Remember that with day-
break we must be gone. Come in
with me, and go to rest.'

" ' What would you with me ?' he
replied. ' It is long since I have
seen my home. Let me remain a
while with mine own.'

" ' That,' said I, ' you will do better
within,' pointing to thehouse. 'Enjoy
the society of the living— let the dead
rest.'

" ' The living!' repeated he, in a
tone of bitterness. ' Here is my
home, the home of my fathers — here
moulder the ashes of my mother,
soon to be mingled with those of one
and all of us. Not without a deep
meaning has my father placed this
last resting-place so near to our man-
sion, but to remind us that it is but
a step from our home to the grave ;
and with the affection of a father he
wishes that he may be able, even
when we are gone, to have all his
children in his view. An irresistible
feeling impelled me hither; a long-
ing, as it were, to prepare another
grave. To-morrow you will see ! — '

" ' Dear friend,' I replied, ' away
with evil dreams ! It was not for this
that I brought you to your home :
you are creating anxiety and vexa-
tion, not only to yourself and to me,
but to all whom your presence ought
to cheer.'

" ' You are right. It must have
been a dream,' said he briefly, and
with an effort at calmness.' Come, we
will to bed.' We re-entered the
house.

" I slept not, however; partly be-
cause my thoughts were busied with
my friend, whose conduct appeared
to me more and more extraordinary,
and partly, perhaps, from the very fear
of over-sleeping my self. A half slum-
ber only at times sunk upon my
eyes; with the first dawn of morning

The Dance of Death.

[Feb.

I sprang up ; I saw by the weather-
cock that the wind was fair, and I
knew that if we detained the vessel
under such circumstances, we should
be made to pay dearly enough for
our passage. I stept into my friend's
room, who was fast asleep, but rou-
sed himself the moment I awakened
him. Soon after, we heard the ser-
vant bustling about with the break-
fast things in the parlour, and walked
in. Her master, she told us, had
passed a very restless night. Mam-
selle Jacoba had never stirred a
moment from his side. But she had
gently wakened her sisters, had told
Regina of her brother's visit and his
arrangements, and they would be
with us immediately.

" She had scarcely in fact finished
her information, when the three
young ladies entered with a joyful,
but noiseless step, lest the unwonted
sound of conversation at that early
hour might reach the ears of their fa-
ther. The first look shewed me that
my yesterday's conjecture must be
right; the picture could represent no
one but Jacoba. Regina, the eldest,
was much about the same height,
but almost as different from her
blooming sister, as the pallid and
fading autumn from the vigorous
maturity of summer ; the same fa-
mily features appeared in both faces,
but in the pale if not sallow com-
plexion, hollow eyes, and wasted
form of Regina, scarcely could you
have recognised the sister of Jacoba.
Lucia, though pretty well grown,
was at that period of life when she
was not likely to attract much atten-
tion ; and of both, indeed, I had but a
hasty glance. The third sister, a
child of twelve years old, pale, deli-
cate, and little of her age, seemed
still overcome with sleep, while joy,
regret, and surprise seemed mingled
in the sweet expression of her child-
ish face. All three were immediately
hushed into silence at the sight of a
stranger.

" ' Sweet blossom of my heart,'
cried my friend, who had extended
his hands to the two elder sisters al-
most without looking at them, but
gazed with the deepest affection
upon the youngest, embraced her
with the greatest tenderness, and
occupied himself exclusively with
her, leaving me to entertain the
others as 1 best could. Meantime

1832.]

The Dance of Death.

I, could not but perceive that, while
he was caressing the youngest, and
rapidly swallowing his coffee, he
frequently stole a glance at the two
elder, with an expression of grief-
nay, almost of aversion, which must
have deeply wounded their feelings,
had not the brevity of our interview,
and the numerous enquiries relative
to his father with which it was filled
up, prevented the singularity of his
demeanour from being observed by
them. Though the eyes of all of
them, especially of the elder, still
dwelt upon him with the fondest
emotion, I was obliged to press our
immediate departure ; and, after
Kmanuel had once more shaken
hands with the two elder sisters,
and kissed the younger, we hasten-
ed away, followed by the gaze of the
three sisters, who lingered at the
door.

" We spoke but little of the scene
which had passed. I had enough to
do hurrying the coachman, lest we
should arrive too late for our pass-
age. My friend sat silent, wrapped
in his own thoughts ; and when at
last we had got safely again on board,
and once more spread our sails to
the wind, he manifested so decided
a disinclination to allude to the sub-
ject, that I found it necessary to ad-
journ to a future opportunity any
conversation as to the fair Jacoba,
of whom I had unfortunately ob-
tained only a fleeting glance by day-
light, as she greeted us at our depart-
ure from the window of her father's
apartment; but that glance was
enough to render her the unceasing
object of my meditations.

** We soon arrived in Lubeck. The
distant sight of its stately towers
restored to my friend some portion
of his cheerfulness ; he drew near
with emotion to that city, in which,
as I then learnt, his mother was
either born, or had spent some years
of her youth. This cheerfulness of
temper, united with a more than or-
dinary mildness, gave me the best
hopes as to the salutary effects of
our prolonged tour. I was far enough
from foreseeing by what chance our
projected ramble was to be cut short
in a single day.

" We resolved to employ the first
hours of our short stay in seeing the
curiosities of the town. We soon,
however, turned from the traces of

VOL. XXXI, NO, CXCI.

337

civil decay into the magic province
of art ; and with this view we enter-
ed the church of St Mary.

" The love for German art was then
but imperfectly developed ; men
seemed to have no suspicion of the
existence of those treasures, which,
covered with dirt and dust, and, at
best, the object of passing curiosity,
were here left to moulder in the
vaulted aisles of this vast edifice.
The remarkable clock, with the effi-
gies of the seven electors, who, not-
withstanding this deficiency of num-
ber, were pertinaciously set down as
the twelve apostles, then constituted
the chief glory of the building. I
accompanied my friend into the open
church, waiting for the striking of
the hour which sets the figures in
motion, and casting at the same time
a hurried glance on the numerous
objects which on every side present-
ed themselves to the eye. Several
young people, who perceived that
we were strangers, exerted them-
selves as our ciceroni. One of
them opened a small grated door at
one side of the chapel, and invited
us to enter. We walked into the
chapel ; and here, in better preser-
vation than the other pictures, the
walls were covered with multiplied
representations of Death, who, in
dancing attitudes, was leading off as
his prey persons of every age, sex,
and costume. ' That,' said the
young man, ' is the celebrated Dance
of Death.'

" * How !' said my friend, hastily-
interrupting him, while his eyes fix-
ed with a look of horror on one
compartment of the picture, in which
Death, tall and slender, was repre-
sented winding his bony arm round
a young maiden, who, in a rosy-co-
loured dress, and with the bridal
garland in her hair, was vainly strug-
gling to emancipate herself from his
embrace. Emanuel spoke not an-
other word ;— he stood with his fin-
ger pointing in the position in which
it seemed to have been arrested, till
at last, pale and trembling, he clasp-
ed hold of my arm, which I had ex-
tended to him, and breathed a deep
sigh, as if some oppressive weight
had been suddenly removed from his
bosom.

" * What is the matter ?' said I, an-
xiously.

" ' I feel,' replied he, ' as if I had
Y

338

The Dance

awakened from a deep sleep, in
which a dream had long held my
reason prisoner ; an evil, fateful
dream, which fascinated, while it
filled me with terror, but which
seems, at this moment, to be about
to receive a natural, though humili-
ating solution. Stay — one other look
at the picture, and then away !'

" I looked at the picture again, as
well as he, without being able to per-
ceive in it any thing beyond what I
have already stated. ' My God !'
said I, as he drew me hastily out of
the church, ' what can all this mean ?
Let me know the truth.'

" ' At another time, perhaps,* he in-
terrupted me, hastily — * at present,
I have something else to say to you.
I can travel with you no farther; I
must return home, and that on the
instant. By a visionary weakness, or
superstitious abandonment of mind,
we have, perchance, brought upon
ourselves irreparable misery, and
reared up prodigies where every
thing lay within the ordinary course
of nature. I must return, to avert,
if possible, still more fearful evils. —
Enough — enough is done already.*

" * What mean you,* said I, * by a
dream ? do I not, then, possess your
confidence?'

" * You do indeed,' he continued ;
' but this is not the time for the dis-
closure. The man who thinks he
has seen a spectre of the night, takes
care not to speak of it, till day with
its cheerful light breaks in upon
him again ; when the patient lies in
the crisis of his disorder, the careful
physician prohibits all conversation.
Besides, I cannot, if I would ; I have
promised silence. At present, then,
I must hence. I will return when I
can. Continue your journey alone.'

" My efforts to obtain from him
some farther explanation, or to re-
tard his departure, were equally in
vain. Unwillingly I saw him depart ;
his presence and his friendship had
fanned within my bosom a gentle
hope, the existence of which was first
rendered clear to me by our separa-
tion. I was, in truth, as deeply in
love as any one could be at a single
glance ; but this fleeting glance had
been so brief, so incomplete, that I
scarcely felt as if I could discrimi-
nate whether I was most fascinated
by the portrait or the original. ' My
friend/ said I, as we separated, * I

of Death. [Feb.

cannot bear to part with you, with-
out some visible token of our hours
of friendship. Leave me the picture
of your sister. It will be to me a gra-
tifying memorial of that talent which
you do not sufficiently prize, and
perhaps the prophetic herald of a
happy future.'

" « What mean you ?' said he, turn-
ing suddenly round to me with a se-
rious and anxious air, though the
moment before he had been gaily
urging his preparations for depart-
ure. * I will not deny,' said I, * that
your sister Jacoba has so enchanted
me, that I cannot part with her por-
trait.'

" ' Her portrait !' repeated he.—
' Well, so let it be. Take the pic-
ture— keep it — fall in love with it —
but not with my sister. Believe me,
it is not that I would not give her to
you, for I love the picture as I do
her — nay, perhaps more. There, —
with that picture you remove a load
from my heart.' He pressed it into
my hand, and disappeared.

" Let me pass hastily over the two
following years. They have no con-
nexion with my friend, or with his
concerns. He returned not at the
time we had contemplated ; the let-
ter which I received in his stead,
seemed to breathe a spirit of return-
ing melancholy ; — of his family, he
said nothing. His letters became
shorter and less frequent, and at last
entirely ceased. The picture, how-
ever, continued as dear to me as
ever ; often did I gaze upon it, though
I tried to consider it only as a lovely
painting. The parting words of my
friend had awakened in my bosom a
feeling of distrust; and, often as I
looked at it, the idea occurred to
me that I was involved in some omi-
nous and mysterious tissue of events,
which, in spite of all my efforts,
maintained an unceasing ascendency
over my senses and my soul.

" My journey was interrupted by
the increasing debility and declining
health of my uncle, who possessed
an estate in Jutland ; he had na-
med me his heir, and wished to see
me once more before his death. Ac-
cordingly, I hurried back.

" I found my uncle better than I
had expected, but in great uneasi-
ness relative to part of his fortune,
then in the hands of a firm in Cop^n-

1832.]

The Dame of Death.

339

hagen, which had lately encountered
some serious losses, and of whose
doubtful credit he had within the
last few weeks received more than
one warning epistle from his friends.
The presence of a person of decision
on the spot was evidently required,
and I undertook the task, to which
my uncle agreed, on condition, that
as soon as the business was over, I
should hasten back to him, that he
might enjoy as much of my com-
pany as he could, ere we were sepa-
rated by that death which he foresaw
could not be distant.

" I travelled as fast as possible, and
found myself, on my arrival in Co-
penhagen, so pressed on all sides by
the numerous concerns I had to at-
tend to, that I had not a moment to
spare for myself or my friends. I
had not visited one of them ; and, in
order not to shake the credit of the
house by any open proceedings,
which would inevitably have led to
suspicion, had shewn myself as lit-
tle as possible to my acquaintances ;
when, on the second post day after
my arrival, I received a letter from my
uncle, announcing that he had had a
relapse, and pressing my immediate
return. I had already put matters so
far in train, that a friend, in whom I
had confidence, might wind up the
business ; and as I pondered the mat-
ter in my mind, it occurred to me
that it could not be placed in better
hands, from his connexions in the
capital, than in those of my friend
Emanuel.

" As yet I had only had time to en-
quire hastily after him ; nor had I
received any intelligence of him;
for he had left the house from which
his last letter had been addressed to
me, a long time before, and no one
was acquainted with his present
abode. By accident, I recollected
an agent with whom he used occa-
sionally to be connected in business.
I applied to him.

" * Your friend,' he answered, ' is
in the town ; where he lives, I know
not ', but that you will easily learn
from his family.'

" ' His family !' said I, with asto-
nishment.

' Yes,' continued he,* the father,
with his two eldest daughters, is at
present in Frederick's Hospital; he
has undergone a dangerous opera-
tion, but is now recovering.'

" I felt my heart beat quicker. Ja-
coba, whose image I had been la-
bouring so long to erase from my

hood. I should see her once more ;
she was not forgotten, as I had some-
times supposed; she lived there as
indelibly impressed as the traits of
the dear picture, whose graceful but
silent charms I had never yet met
with mortal maid to equal.

" I had little time to spare, so I hur-
ried towards the hospital, and enter-
ed the wing devoted to patients who
paid for their reception. I sent in
my name to the pastor; it was well
known to him, and I was kindly re-
ceived. The old man, for such he
was, though I knew him at once, from
his resemblance to his son, was still
confined to bed; a tea-table stood
before it ; and beside it sat — I could
not doubt for a moment — Jacoba,
more lovely and blooming than ever ;
Regina, still more sickly and fading
than before. Our greeting was a si-
lent one ; but I saw at once that I
was recognised by both.

" The talkative old man, when he
had given me the information I re-
quired, and assured me that in half
an hour I would find his son at his
house, continued to support the con-
versation almost alone. I should
probably have listened with a more
attentive ear to his really entertain-
ing discourse, had not my thoughts
been so much divided between his
daughters, the picture, and my own
recollections. I confess, at the same
time, it was on the fairest of these
daughters that my glance rested the
longest. She seemed obviously, as I
had formerly thought, the original of
the miniature. Yet, meth ought, I
could now perceive many little dif-
ferences which had formerly esca-
ped my observation ; nay, even dif-
ferences between her features as
they appeared to me now and be-
fore. I had some difficulty in resist-
ing the old man's invitation to re-
main with him till the arrival of his
son, whom he expected at his usual
hour ; but my hours were numbered.
After promising, at the old man's re-
quest, that I would pay him a second
visit at home, along with his son — for
he had heard afterwards of our short
nocturnal visit — and addressing to
the charming girl some expressions
of interest and affection, which flow-

340

ed involuntarily from my heart, and
tinged her cheek with blushes, I
hastened to the residence of my
friend, whom I was fortunate enough
to find at home.

" His lively joy at seeing me soon
dispelled the depression, which,
like a dark veil, overshadowed his
features, and dissipated at the same
time all my reproaches. I found no
difficulty in opening to him the na-
ture of the commission with which
I had to intrust him, and which he
at once undertook ; he displayed all
his former wild gaiety as he congra-
tulated me on the fortunate influ-
ence of my journey; but he relap-
sed at once into his habitual serious-
ness the moment he learned I had
seen his father, and renewed my ac-
quaintance with his sisters, especi-
ally, as I added, with the charming
Jacoba.

" c The charming Jacoba,' he re-
peated, with a bitter sarcastic smile.

* What — still charming, beside her
fairer sister, whose beauties almost
eclipse those of your portrait !'

" ( How so ?' said I, confused — ' I
cannot have mistaken the name. I
heard the name of Jacoba pronoun-
ced— no other found an echo in my
heart! Have I not, as before, seen
Regina and Jacoba ?'

" * Regina, my friend,' replied he,

* has long been at rest. To-day you
have seen Jacoba and Lucia.'

" ' What !' said I, with increasing
confusion, * can that pale and slen-
der creature whom I then saw, have
since come to resemble poor Regina
so closely ?'

" ' Again,' continued he, ' you
mistake. It is Lucia with whom you
are captivated. Poor Jacoba is fast
sinking into her grave.'

" This last reply utterly confound-
ed me. ' How '?' said I— ' I would
think you were in jest, were this a
time for jesting. Is the portrait then
that of Lucia ?— Incredible !'

" ' Have I not already said to you,'
said he, with a sorrowful tone,
' love the picture — be enamoured
of it as you will — but have nothing
to do with the living ?'

" ' I came to you,' I resumed, still
more bewildered, ' with love in my
heart '

" * For Lucia — ' he interrupted me
hastily — * Beware ! She is betrothed
already,'

The Dance of Death.

[Feb.

" ' Betrothed ! To whom ?' cried
I, with impetuosity.

" ' To Death !' repeated he, slowly.
' You yourself was present at the
betrothal. Remember the Dance of
Death at Lubeck. Fool that I was, to
think that I could tear her from him !'

" * Explain this enigma to me, I
beseech you !' cried I, while my
cheek grew pale, and an indescri-
bable feeling of terror shot through
my heart.

" < Can I ?' said he—' and if I
could — this is not the time. No
more of my family ! You cannot
'doubt that I would give her to you
willingly — and perhaps — it ma/ be
possible' — continued he, musingly —
' Keep the picture — love it still —
but ask me no questions. You have
seen enough to perceive I am no vi-
sionary !'

" He ceased — and, notwithstand-
ing all my questions, continued ob-
stinately silent. I knew him of old,
and was aware that any farther im-
portunity on my part would only
serve to annoy and embitter him;
and, besides, I must confess I felt
myself oppressed with an undefina-
ble, but irresistible sensation of ter-
ror. As soon as I returned home, I
laid the picture, which I had been
accustomed to wear, in the most se-
cret recess of my writing-desk, and
determined never to look upon it
again.

" Before leaving my friend, I had
enquired how his studies were pro-
ceeding. He ^urst into a loud and
sneering laugh. * All studies,' said
he, * and particularly medicine,
have become loathsome to me. I
will learn nothing, since I cannot
learn that which I vainly long for !
What have I to do with knowledge,
who have lost all relish for life it-
self? To me the earth is but a yawn-
ing grave — its inhabitants but living
carcasses. Even in the midst of
gaiety, I am in death !'

" I saw at once that the sinking
energies of my friend could only be
restored by active employment ; and,
in truth, nothing but the activity
which I myself was called on to exert,
prevented me from giving way to
the influence of that feeling of terror
which seemed to oppress me when
in his presence, or when I thought
of his family. I felt that travel was
necessary, and I set out; my thoughts,

1832.J

The Dame, of Death.

341

however, often reverted back to him,
and I pondered long how I might
withdraw him from a situation which
seemed to be preying more and more
upon his mind. I saw plainly that
some singular, and to me inconcei-
vable destiny, exercised a melancho-
ly power over this family, to which
ignorance, timidity, or superstition,
had lent a degree of strength, which
it never could have possessed over
persons of a more sober and decided
mind ; and as soon as I had reached
the place of my destination, I wrote
to him, fully laid before him all my
ideas, and begged of him to answer
me with the same candour and open-
ness. For nearly a year I recei-
ved no answer. When it arrived,
I saw immediately from its con-
tents that some internal change had
taken place in his mind, though what
its nature might be, I could but im-
perfectly gather. The letter was a
calm and business-like answer to
mine ; it exhibited no traces either
of depression of spirit, or of that fac-
titious gaiety by which he had la-
boured to cloak his despair. He
confessed that it was his belief that
a full disclosure to me might tend to
ease his mind; but he added, that
when that disclosure should be made,
I would see at once why it had not
been made sooner. Such matters,
however, he continued, could not be
discussed in writing. He spoke of
the picture, (to which I had not al-
luded,) and added —

" ' Is it still dear to you ? I know
well that our connexion and my con-
fusion of mind may have inspired
you with a feeling of terror connect-
ed with it ; but, believe me, you may
love it without fear. Yes, love it. I
have built a fabric of hope upon the
idea, which still deserts me not.
Know, then, — you have never yet seen
the real original of the miniature. It
represents neither Jacoba nor Lucia,
however much it may resemble them.
Yes, I begin to hope that I myself
have never till now become acquaint-
ed with the original, or rather, per-
haps, that a still fairer copy of this
mysterious and enigmatical picture
is even now unfolding itself beneath
my eye. A new riddle, you will
say — and I admit it, but this riddle I
can solve ; only it must be verbally.'

" This letter made a singular im-
pression ou me, His words seemed

to have dissipated for ever that feel-
ing of terror with which, for some
time back, the picture had inspired
me. I took it out anew from its
case, and, as it beamed before me
again in the innocent glow of youth,
I wondered how these lovely and
loving features could ever have worn
in my eyes an aspect of evil, or that
a distant resemblance to those two
girls — for that there was a resem-
blance I could not deny — should
have made me insensible to its far
higher expression, its fulness of
health and heavenly grace, in which
those two living beings, notwith-
standing their beauty, were so visi-
bly inferior.

" From this moment I gazed on it
frequently, and with delight. My cor-
respondence with Emanuel became
more regular j still, however, he eva-
ded my invitation to visit me, by say-
ing the time was not yet come ; and
all I could learn of his studies or
employments was, that he had devo-
ted himself entirely to painting, and
principally t(\ landscape-painting.

" I myself "began to perceive that
country pursuits did not exactly
suit my taste, and that I was in a
great measure wasting my time in a
residence which was situated in a
neighbourhood neither remarkable
for its natural beauties, nor interest-
ing from the society it afforded, and
cut off, as it were, from literary and
political news. Shortly afterwards
the death of my aunt followed, and
I made up my mind to leave the
estate.

" I hastened without delay towards
Copenhagen. The portrait seemed
to beckon me thither. Two years
now had nearly elapsed since I had
seen my friend ; and during the jour-
ney, my longing to see him again,
my eagerness for the solution of this
dark enigma, daily increased. I
found my expectation, however, dis-
appointed ,• when I reached his lod-
ging I found him not ; only a letter
of the following import was deliver-
ed to me.

" * Just as I was awaiting your ar-
rival with impatience, and, I must
add, with anxiety and uneasiness, I
received a message from home. My
old and worthy father has been sud-
denly seized with an apoplectic
stroke. He is still alive ; but I have
seen too many of such attacks to in-

342

The Dance qf Death.

[Feb.

dulge much hope of his recovery at
his advanced period of life. As soon
as all is over I shall hasten back.
Wait for me patiently ; or if I remain
too long absent, and you are not
afraid of the house of death — then —
do as you will.'

" These lines contained, as you
perceive, an indirect invitation. My
Friend had been already, as I learned,
eight days absent, nor had any intel-
ligence been received from him du-
ring that time. In the latest news-
papers which I called for, I found no
announcement of death ; I calcula-
ted, therefore, that the invalid was
still alive, and I felt convinced that
my sympathy and friendly offices
might be useful to my friend in the
hour of sorrow. An internal voice
seemed to whisper to me, that his
heart would, in such a state of mind,
be more readily and confidentially
opened to me. I required only to
get my comfortable and well-covered
travelling carriage ready, which bade
defiance to the cold blasts of autumn,
which had already sefMn, — and in
four-and-twenty hours I knew I
should be at his side.

" No sooner was the resolution
formed than it was executed. Next
morning, though somewhat later than
I had wished, I was travelling south-
ward from the capital. A sharp
north-east wind whistled around the
carriage, which lulled a little to-
wards evening, as I reached, in the
twilight, a solitary posting station,
where we changed horses; but it was
succeeded by a thick mass of clouds,
which, gradually overspreading the
heavens with their dark veil, threat-
ened every instant to descend in tor-
rents of rain.

" An uncovered but respectable-
looking country vehicle, which ap-
peared to have arrived before me, had
just been drawn into the shed ; and
in the travellers' room, where I sat
down till the horses should be ready,
I found a young female, closely
wrapped in a hood and mantle, walk-
ing up and down, evidently in great
agitation.

" I had thrown myself, somewhat
ill-humouredly at having probably to
wait here for some time, upon a seat
near the window, paying little atten-
tion to what was passing in the apart-
ment, till I was suddenly roused by
an active dispute, at first carried on

in a low voice, but gradually beco-
ming louder.

" * I must proceed,' said a clear,
sweet, silvery-toned voice. ' If I can
bear the wind and rain, so may your
horses and yourself. You know not
the anxiety which urges me on.'

" The peasant, with whom the
trembling and mantled female spoke,
seemed immovable. ' We are Christ-
ians,' replied he, doggedly, * and
should spare our beasts and our-
selves. We shall have nothing but
rain and storm all night. Here we
have rest and shelter — without, who
knows what may happen in such a
tempest — and your friends, miss,
have given me the strictest charge to
take care of you. These tender limbs
of yours are not fitted to bear what
I might look upon as a trifle : your
health might suffer for ever. — Upon
my conscience, I cannot do it.'

"' Nay, nay,' replied the young
lady, ' I am strong and healthy. It
is not the tempest without, but the
anguish I feel within, that may prove
fatal to me.'

" The faint and touching notes of
her voice awakened my deepest sym-
pathy. I stept forward, put a ques-
tion to her, and learned that the young
lady was most anxious to reach her
birthplace to-night, and had with that
view availed herself of a conveyance
returning from the capital : — filial
duty, she said, was the motive of her
journey ; and ithappened mostfortu-
nately that her place of destination
and mine were the same. I instantly
offered her a seat in my carriage. Al-
most without looking at me, or per-
ceiving my youth, which, at another
time, would probably have occasion-
ed some difficulty, she instantly ac-
cepted my offer with such visible
joy, that I perceived at once that her
mind was occupied by a nobler and
more engrossing feeling than any
cold calculation of propriety. The
horses arrived rather sooner than I
expected, and ere it was wholly dark
we were seated in the carriage.

" The increased rapidity and com-
fort of the mode of travelling, the
certainty that before midnight she
would reach the goal of her wishes,
had disposed her to be communica-
tive; and ere we had proceeded a
league, I learned, to my great asto-
nishment, that my travelling compa-
nion was the youngest sister of my

1833.]

The Dance of Death.

343

friend, who had for years been
brought up in the capita], whom I
had seen for an instant when a child,
and whom, under that appellation,
my friend had locked so tenderly in
his parting embrace. She told me
that the sudden illness of her father
had shocked and agitated her ex-
tremely; that her brother had writ-
ten to her that he was still in life,
but that there were no hopes of his
recovery ; and finding an unexpect-
ed opportunity by means of the vehi-
cle which was returning to her na-
tive place, she had felt unable to
withstand the temptation, or rather
the irresistible longing which impel-
led her, without her brother's know-
ledge, and contrary, as she feared, to
her relations' wishes, to see her be-
loved father before he died.

" I told her my name, which she
recognised at once as that of a friend
whom her brother had often men-
tioned to her, and thus a confiden-
tial footing was established between
us, which I took care not to impair
by impertinent enquiries. I could not
even, while she was under my pro-
tection, obtain a single glance of her
face. Calmer consideration proba-
bly suggested to her, how easily our
travelling together might afford room
for scandal ; so when we crossed the
ferry towards the little island, she
did not leave the carriage j and when
we reached the town at a pretty late
hour, she laid hold of my hand, as I
was directing the postilion to go on,
and said hastily, * Let me alight here.
This street, near the bridge, leads
across the churchyard to our house.
I fear to see or to speak to any
one.

" * I will accompany you,' said I.
,-' I will surprise my friend.' I made
the postilion stop, directed him to
the iiin, and we alighted. The maid-
en leant upon my aim; I felt that
she trembled violently, and had need
- of support.

" We walked across the church-
yard towards the parsonage. Through
the darkness of the blustering and
rainy autumnal night, several win-
dows, dimly lighted, and shaded by
curtains, were visible. The gate,
leading to the other side of the house,
was merely laid to. The court was
empty ; every one seemed busy with-
in. The windows on this side were
all dark. I saw by the inequality of

my companion's step how much her
anxiety was increasing.

" We hurried across the court, and
entered the little narrow passage of
the house, which was also unlighted.
We stood for a moment drawing our
breath, and listening. From the far-
thest chamber on the left we heard
a rustling noise, and the sound of
whispering voices. A broad streak
of light, which streamed from the
half-opened door into the passage,
was darkened occasionally by the
shadows of persons moving within.
f It is my sister's room,' whispered
my conductress, and darted towards
it. 1 followed her hastily. But what
a sight awaited us !

" The corpse of a young maiden
had just been lifted out of bed, and
placed on a bier adjoining. A white
covering concealed the body even
to the chin. Several elderly females
were employed in tying up the long
dark tresses of the deceased ; while
others were standing by inactive, or
occupied in removing the phials and
medicines from the table.

" My companion had thrown back
her veil at entering, and stood as if
rooted to the spot. Even the unex-
pected shock she had encountered,
could not banish from her cheek the
glow with which anxiety and exer-
cise had tinged it ; nay, the fire of
her eye seemed to have acquired a
deeper and more piercing lustre. So
stood she, the blooming representa-
tive of the very fulness of life, be-
side the pallid victim of inexorable
Death. The startling contrast agita-
ted me the more, that in those well-
known features I traced, in renova-
ted beauty, those of the enchanting
portrait; scarcely master of my
senses, I almost believed that I saw
again the same maiden who, two
hours before, had fascinated me in
the Frederick's Hospital, when, all
at once, half turning to trie, she ex-
claimed, * O, my poor sister Lucia !'

" ' Lucia !' — the name fell upon me
like a stroke of lightning. So, then,
she whom I had last seen in the glow
of life and beauty, lay before me cold
in death ! What assurance could I
have, that the fair vision which still
flitted before me, blooming with
health, and life, and grace, was not
the mere mask under winch some
spectre had shrouded itself, or round
which the King of Terrors had al-

344

The Dance

ready wound his invisible but unre-
1 axing arm! The figures in the
Dance of Death involuntarily ilash-
ed upon my mind. My very exist-
ence seemed to dissolve in a cold
shudder. I saw, scarcely conscious
of what was going on, and as if in a
dream, the Jiving beauty draw near
to the corpse ; momentarily I ex-
pected to see the dead maiden throw
her arms around her, and to see her
fade away into a spectre in that ghast-
ly embrace, when my friend, who had
apparently been summoned by the
women, pale, and almost distracted,
rushed in, and tore her from the
corpse, exclaiming, * Hence, thought-
less creature ! Wilt thou murder us
both ? Away from this pestiferous
neighbourhood ! If you will look up-
on the dead, come to the couch of
our honoured father, whose gentle
features seem to invoke a blessing
upon us, even in death.'

" She followed him unresistingly,
weeping in silence. An old ser-
vant led the way, with a light in her
hand; another; in whom I thought
I recognised the features of our old
attendant, beckoned me, with tears
in her eyes, into the well-remember-
ed parlour, where every thing re-
mained unaltered, with the excep-
tion of the little work-tables, all of
which had been removed but one.
She placed before me some cold
meat and wine, begged I would ex-
cuse them if things were not in or-
der, and left the room, which my
friend at the same moment entered.

" He embraced me with an agita-
tion, a melting tenderness, he had
seldom before manifested. * You
come/ said he, * unexpected, but nat
unwelcome. I have been thinking
of you for some days past, and was
wishing for your presence even while
you were on your way.'

" * Then,' said I, still with a feeling
of disorder in my mind, ' the right
time is come ? Speak on, then ; tell
me all !'

" ' The time,' replied he, « is come,
but scarcely yet the moment. I see
by your paleness, your shuddering,
that the dark fate which sits upon
our house has agitated you too deep-
ly at present to admit of a calm and
unprejudiced consideration of the
subject. Summon your mind, eat,
drink, return to your inn. I will
not ask you to tarry longer in the

of Death. [Feb.

house of death ; although — I hope —
Death has now knocked at our door
for the last time for a long period to
coine. Go and compose yourself.
That God should visit the sins of the
fathers on the children, seems a
harsh, a Jewish sentence ; — that na-
ture transmits to posterity the con-
sequences of the weaknesses or guilt
of the parent, sounds milder, and
looks more true : — but, alas ! the
consequences are the same. No more
of this.'

" I drank but a single glass of wine,
which, in truth, I needed, and be-
took myself to my inn. I took the
picture, which I still wore, from my
neck, but I did not open it. I was
over wearied, and, in spite of the
over excitement of my mind, I soon
dropt asleep.

" The smiling beams of the morn-
ing sun, as I awoke, poured new life
and composure into my soul. I
thought of our confidential conver-
sation in the carriage, in which, un-
known to herself, my fair companion
had displayed the beauty of her mind,
and I could not forbear smiling at
the feelings of terror and distrust
which my heated fancy had infused
into my mind in regard to her and
to the picture. It lay before me on
the table, innocent as herself, with
its bright loving eyes turned upon
me, and seemed to whisper, ' I am
neither Jacoba nor Lucia.' I took
out my friend's letter, which con-
veyed the same assurance ; calm un-
derstanding seemed to resume its
ascendency in my heart ; and yet, at
times, the impression of the prece-
ding evening recurred for a moment
to my mind.

" I hurried, not without painful
impatience, as soon as I was dressed ,
towards the desolate mansion of my
friend. He had been waiting me for
some time, advanced to meet me
with a cheerful look, when I found
his sister composed, but in deep
mourning, and with an expression of
profound grief, seated at the break-
fast-table.

" She extended her hand to me
with a melancholy, but kindly smile ;
and yet I drew back with an op-
pressive sensation at my heart, for
the picture stood before me more
perfect in resemblance than it had
appeared to my excited fancy the
evening before ; but here there was

1832.]

T7ie Dance of Death.

more than the picture. I saw, too,
at the first fflauce, a nobler bearing1, a
higher expression, than in the fea-
tures of her sisters. In looking at
them, I was reminded of the picture;
in gazing on her, I forgot its exist-
ence. Our confidential and touch-
ing conversation, which still involun-
tarily reverted to the deceased, sank
deep into my heart. Gradually every
uneasy feeling faded from my mind ;
and when she left us at last at her
brother's request, to visit some of
her young acquaintances whom she
had not seen for a long time before,
I gazed after her with a look, the ex-
pression of which was no secret to
her brother.

" His first words shewed that this
was the case. ' At last,' said lie, ' you
have the original, or the true copy of
the picture, which is an enigma even
to myself, even though it be the work
of my own hands. I knew well that
her aspect of spotless purity would
at once banish every feeling of dis-
trust from your mind, as it has done
from mine. If the picture be still
dear to you — if you can love her
and gain her affection, she is yours ;
but hrst listen to that which I have
so long withheld from you. You
must judge, after hearing it, whether
you are still inclined as freely to ac-
cept the offer. We shall be uninter-
rupted from without ; and do not you
interrupt me,' said he, as he drew
the bolt of the door, and seated him-
self by my side.

" ' Mysterious as every thing is apt
to appear, which ordinary experience
does not enable us to explain, do not
expect to hear any thing more won-
derful in this case than admits of a
simple explanation, when tried by
the test of cold and sober reasoning.
My father, without being disposed to
talk much upon the subject, was a
believer in dreams — that is to say,
he frequently dreamt of events which
were afterwards actually fulfilled ;
and in fact, in such cases, his present-
iments were rarely erroneous. While
a candidate, for instance, for a church,
he used to be able in this way to fore-
see, from a vague and undefinable,
but yet distinct feeling, when he
should be called upon to preach for
any of the clergymen in the neigh-
bourhood. He had seen himself, on
such occasions, in the pulpit, and
often, at waking, could recollect long
passages from those ideal sermons

345

he had delivered. In other matters,
he was a person of a lively and
cheerful turn of mind. By his first
marriage he had no children. He
contracted a second with my mother,
a stranger, who had only shortly be-
fore come into the country — very
pretty, very poor — and whose gay,
but innocent manner, had been my
father's chief attraction. She was
passionately fond of dancing, an
amusement for which the annual bird-
shooting, the vintage feasts, and the
balls given by the surrounding nobi
lity on their estates in the neighbour-
hood, afforded frequent opportuni-
ties, and in which she participated
rather more frequently than was al-
together agreeable to her husband,
though he only ventured to rest his
objections on his apprehension for
her health. Some vague reports
spoke of her having, early in life, en-
countered some deep grief, the im-
pression of which she thus endea-
voured, by gaiety and company, to
dissipate.

" ' One day my father was invited
to a party given in honour of the ar-
rival of a nobleman long resident in
the capital, and accepted the invita-
tion only on condition that my mo-
ther would agree to dance very lit-
tle. This prohibition led to a slight
matrimonial scene, which terminated
on her part in tears, on his in displea-
sure. The evening before, they re-
ceived a visit from the nobleman
himself, who being an old college
friend of my father's, had called to
talk over old stories, and enjoy an
evening of confidential conversation.

" ' My father's gift of dreams hap-
pened to be mentioned -, the Count
related an anecdote which had taken
place shortly before in Paris, and
which he had learnt from Madame
de Genlis ; and a long argument en-
sued upon the subject of dreams and
their fulfilment.

" ' The conversation was prolonged
for some time, my mother appearing
to take no particular share in it.
But the following day she seemed
abstracted, and at the party decli-
ned dancing, even though her hus-
band himself pressed her to take a
share in the amusement. " Nay,
on being asked, as she stood by
my father's side, to dance, by the
son of the nobleman above alluded
to, and who was believed to have
been an old acquaintance of hers,

346

slie burst at once into tears. My
father even pressed her to mingle in
the circle ; she continued to refuse ;
at last she was overheard to say —
" Well, if you insist upon it on my
account, be it so."

" ' Never before had she danced
with such spirit ; from that moment
she was never off the floor. She re-
turned home exhausted and unwell,
and out of humour. She was now
in the fifth month of her pregnancy,
and it seemed as if she regretted the
apparent levity which her conduct
had betrayed.

" ' Her husband kindly enquired
what was the cause of her singular
behaviour. " You would not listen
to me," she replied, " and now you
will laugh at my anxiety ; nay, per-
haps you will tell me that people
ought never to mention before wo-
men any thing out of the ordinary
course, because they never hear
more than half, and always give it a
wrong meaning. The truth then is,
your conversation some evenings
ago made a deep impression on me.
The peculiar state of my health had
probably increased the anxiety with
which for some time past I have
been accustomed to think of the fu-
ture. I fell asleep with the wish
that something of my own future
fate might be unfolded to me in my
dreams. The past, with all the me-
morable events of my life, nay, even
our late dispute as to dancing, were
all confusedly mingled in my brain;
and, after many vague and unintel-
ligible visions, which I have now
forgotten, they gradually arranged
themselves into the following
dream: —

" I thought I was standing in a
dancing-room, and was accosted by
a young man of prepossessing ap-
pearance, who asked me to dance.
Methinks, although probably the
idea only struck me afterwards, that
he resembled the Count, the son of
our late host. I accepted his invita-
tion; but having once begun to
dance, he would on no account be
prevailed on to cease. At last I
grew uneasy. I fixed my eyes upon
him with anxiety; it seemed to me
as if his eyes grew dimmer and dim-
mer, his cheeks paler and more
wasted, his lips shrivelled and skin-
ny, his teeth grinned out, white and
ghastly, and at last he stared upon me
with bony and eyeless sockets. His

The Dance of Death.

[Feb.

white and festal garments had fallen
away. I felt as if encircled by a
chain of iron. A skeleton clasped
me in its fleshless arms. Round and
round he whirled me, though all the
other guests had long before disap-
peared. I implored him to let me
go; for I felt I could not extricate
myself from his embrace. The
figure answered with a hollow-
tone, ' Give me first thy flowers.'
Involuntarily my glance rested on
my bosom, in which I had placed a
newly-blown rose with several buds,
how many I know not. I made a
movement to grasp it, but a strange
irresistible feeling seemed to flash
through my heart, and to draw back
my hand. My life seemed at stake ;
and yet I could not part with the
lovely blooming flower, that seemed
as it were a portion of my own heart.
One by one, though with a feeling of
the deepest anguish, I plucked off
the buds, and gave them to him with
an imploring look, but in vain. He
shook his bony head ; he would have
them all. One little bud only, and
the rose itself, remained behind ; I
was about to give him this last bud,
but it clung firmly to the stalk of the
rose, and I pulled them both together
from my bosom. I shuddered; I
could not part with them ; he grasp-
ed at the flowers, when suddenly I
either threw them forcibly behind
me, or an invisible hand wrenched
them out of mine, I know not which;
I sank into his skeleton arms, and
awoke at the same instant to the
consciousness of life."

" ' So saying, she burst into tears.
My father, though affected by the
recital, laboured vainly to allay her
anxiety. From that moment, and
especially after my birth, her health
declined ; occasionally only, during
her subsequent pregnancies, her
strength would partially revive,
though her dry cough never entirely
left her. After giving birth to six
daughters, she died in bringing the
seventh into the world. I was then
about twelve years old. To her last
hour she was a lovely woman, with
a brilliant complexion, and sparkling
eyes. Shortly afterwards I was sent
to school, only visiting my father's
house and my sisters during the
holydays. All of them, as they grew
up, more or less resembled their
mother; till they attained their thir-
teenth or fourteenth year they were

1832.]

The Dance of Death.

347

pale, thin, and more than usually
tall ; from that moment they seemed
suddenly to expand into loveliness ;
though scarcely had they attained
their sixteenth year, when the unna-
tural brilliancy of their cheeks, and
the almost supernatural lustre of
their eyes, began to betray the inter-
nal hectic fire which was secretly
wasting the strength of youth.

" * Seldom at home, I had little idea
of the evil which hung over our
home. I had seen my eldest sister
in her beauty, and her wane; and
then I heard of her death. I was at
the university when the second
died. Shortly afterwards I visited
my home. I found my third sister
in the full bloom of youthful loveli-
ness. I had been dabbling a little in
painting, and felt anxious to attempt
her portrait, but I had made no great
progress when the time for my de-
parture arrived. I was long absent ;
when I next returned, it was on the
occasion of her death. I was now
no longer a heedless boy. I saw
the melancholy of my father, and
ascribed it to the shock of so many
successive deaths. He was silent;
he left me in my happy ignorance,
though even then the death stillness
and loneliness of the house weighed
with an undefinable oppression on
my heart. My sister Regina seemed
to grow up even more lovely than
her deceased sisters. I now found
the sketch which I had begun so like
hery that I resolved to make her sit
to me in secret, that I might finish
the picture, and surprise my father
with it before my departure. It was
but half finished, however, when the
period of my return to the capital
arrived. I thought I would endea-
vour to finish it from memory, but,
strangely enough, I always confused
myself with the recollection of my
dead sisters, whose features seemed
to float before my eyes. In spite of
all my efforts, the portrait would not
become that of Regina. I recollect-
ed having heard my father say, that
she of all the rest bore the greatest
resemblance to her mother; so I
took out a little picture of her, which
she had left to me, and endeavoured
with this assistance, and what my
fancy could supply, to finish the pic-
ture. At last it was finished, and
appeared to possess a strange re-
semblance to all my sisters, without
being an exact portrait of any.

" ' As I had intended it,howe\ er, for
the portrait of Regina in particular,
I determined to take it with me on
my next visit, and endeavour to cor-
rect its defects by a comparison with
the original. I came, but the summer
of her beauty was already past. When
I drew out the picture to compare it
with her features, I was shocked at
the change which had taken place in
her, though it had not yet manifest-
ed itself in symptoms of disease. As
I was packing up my drawing mate-
rials again, under some pretext or
other my father unexpectedly enter-
ed. He gave a glance at the picture,
seemed deeply agitated, and then
exclaimed—" Let it alone."

'That evening, however, as, ac-
cording to our old custom, we were
sitting together in his study, after my
sisters had gone to rest, our hearts
reciprocally opened to each other.

" « I now for the first time obtained
a glimpse into my father's wounded
heart. He related to me that dream
as you have now heard it; and his
firm conviction that almost all his
children, one by one, would be ta-
ken from him ; a conviction against
which he had struggled, till fatal ex-
perience had begun too clearly to
realize it. I now learned that he
had brought up his daughters in this
strict and almost monastic seclusion,
that no taste for the world or its plea-
sures might be awakened in the minds
of those who were doomed to quit it
so soon. They mingled in no gay
assemblies, scarcely in a social par-
ty ; and even I, my friend, have since
that time never thought of dancing
without a shudder. Conceive what
an impression this conversation, and
that fearful prophetic dream, made
upon my mind! Thailand my young-
est sister seemed excepted from the
doom of therest,Icouldnotpaymuch
attention to ; for was not my mother,
at my birth, suffering under that dis-
ease which she had bequeathed to
her children ; and how, then, was it
likely that I should be an excep-
tion ? My imagination was active
enough to extend the sentence of
death to us all. The interpretation
which my father attempted to give
to the dream, so as to preserve us to
himself, might be but a delusive
suggestion of paternal affection; per-
haps, self-deluded, he had forgotten,
or given another turn to the conclu-
sion of the dream, A deep and wild

348

The Dance of Death.

[Feb.

despair seized upon me, for life to
me was all in all ! In vain my father
endeavoured to compose me; and,
finding his efforts unsuccessful, he
contented himself with exacting
from me the promise that this fatal
secret of our house should be com-
municated to none.

" ' It was at this time I became ac-
quainted with you. The conflict
which raged within my bosom be-
tween reason and superstition, be-
tween the struggles of courage and
the suggestions of despair, could not
be concealed from you, though you
could form no idea of its source. I
accompanied you to Lubeck. The
sight of the Dance of Death produced
a remarkable effect upon my mind.
I saw a representation of my mo-
ther's dream, and in that too I thought
I perceived also its origin. A film
seemed.to fall from my eyes ; it was
the momentary triumph of sober rea-
son. It struck me at once that the
idea of this picture, which my mother
had undoubtedly at one time seen,
had been floating through her exci-
ted imagination, and had given rise
to that dark vision, before whose fa-
tal influence my father and I had
prostrated ourselves so long, instead
of ascribing the successive deaths of
our family to their true source, in the
infectious nature of that disease
which my mother's insane love of
dancing had infused into her own
veins, and which had been the omi-
nous inheritance of her offspring.
The advances I had already made in
the study of medicine, confirmed
these views. The confined and soli-
tary life my sisters had led, the total
want of any precaution in separating
those who were still in health from
those who had been already attacked
by this malady, was in itself sufficient
to account for all which had happen-
ed. Animated by this idea, I hurried
home in spite of all your entreaties.
I laboured to make my father par-
ticipate in my views, to induce him
to separate my other sisters from the
already fast declining Regina; but the
obstinacy of age, and his deep con-
viction of the vanity of all such ef-
forts, rendered my efforts and plead-
ings unavailing.

" ' It was only after great difficulty
that I was prevailed upon to part
with my youngest sister, then a mere
child, who, from the close connexion
in which her life seemed to stand

with myself in that singular dream,
had become my favourite, and on
whom I felt impelled to lavish all that
love, which a certain involuntary
shuddering sensation that I felt in
the presence of my other sisters, as
beings on whom Death had already
set his seal, prevented me from be-
stowing fully upon them. It was only
on my assuring my father that my
peace, nay my life, depended on his
granting me this request, that he con-
sented that she should be brought up
in the capital under my eye. I ac-
companied her thither myself. I
watched over her with an anxiety
proportioned to my love. She was
not so tall as her sisters had been at
the same age. She seemed to unfold
herself more slowly, and in all things,
as well as her education, she was the
reverse of them. Her gaiety, her
liveliness, her enjoyment of life,
which often inspired me with a deep
melancholy, gave additional bloom
to her personal appearance ; I could
trace in her no appearance of weak-
ness of the breast ; but she was still
a tender, delicate nature, the blossom,
as I might say, of a higher clime.

" ' It was long before I returned to
my father's house ; but his sickness,
which rendered a dangerous opera-
tion necessary, brought him to the
capital with my two remaining sis-
ters. What I had foreseen was now
fulfilled. Jacoba had become Re-
gina, Lucia Jacoba. I knew it would
be so, and yet it struck me with hor-
ror ; the more so when I observed,
as I already hinted, that during the
bloom of their ephemeral existence,
all my sisters successively acquired
a strong resemblance to their mo-
ther, and consequently to the por-
trait; though not so close as may
have appeared to your excited ima-
gination, who saw them but for a mo-
ment and after a long interval. I can-
not tell how the daily sight of these de-
voted maidens, who inspired at once
pity and terror, wrought upon my
heart. It brought back my old de-
spair, my old fears, which at such
moments reasoning could not sub-
due, that I and all of us, my darling
with the rest, would become the vic-
tims of this hereditary plague. My
situation was the more trying, that I
was obliged to invent a thousand
stratagems and little falsehoods to
keep the sisters, then living in the
same city, apart. I could not alto-

1832.]

The Dance of Death.

gether succeed, and the misery I felt
at such moments how shall I de-
scribe ! Your coming, your mistake,
filled up the measure of my despair.
When you wrote, I found it for a long
time impossible to answer your af-
fectionate letter.

" ' It was only long after the return
of my family to their home that I re-
gained my composure. The theory
of medicine had long been hateful to
me ; though in the course of my re-
searches into that fatal disorder, to
which our family seemed destined, I
had more than once met with in-
stances in which the disease, after a
certain period, seemed to concentrate
itself on its victim, so as not to be
transmitted to her subsequent off-
spring. My father too, who, during
his residence in the capital, had per-
ceived my distracted state of mind,
took the opportunity of giving me, as
he thought, a word of comfort, though
it only wrung from me a bitter smile.
He told me of a dream which he had
had after my mother's death, and
which he had hitherto concealed, be-
cause its import seemed to be of a
threatening nature for me ; although
at the same time it seemed to give
him the assurance, that at least I
should not perish by the same fate
which had overwhelmed my sisters.
He thought he saw me, whether
young or old he could not say, for
my face was covered, lying asleep or
dead in some foreign country. My
baggage was heaped about me, and
on lire ; but the thick smoke which
arose from the pile prevented him
from perceiving whether I was burnt
or not.

" * Though at first much shocked at
this dream, yet, viewed in the light
already mentioned, it had on the
whole a consoling tendency ; and
for this reason he had communica-
ted it to me, though still with some
shrinking sensations at its recollec-
tion. It was now my turn to afford
him consolation, by pointing out to
him that this dream, vague and in-
distinct in its meaning like most
others, had probably been already
fulfilled, since my effects had in fact
been all burnt about me during the
bombardment of Copenhagen, and
I myself, in a diseased and scarcely
conscious state of mind, only extri-
cated from danger by the exertions
of my friends. He seemed struck
with this observation, and was ei-

349

lent; but I saw that his confidence
in the certainty of dreams was in no
shape abated. But my chief source
of consolation lay in the slow and
natural growth of my Amanda, who
did not, like her sisters, resemble a
mere hothouse plant, but a sweet
natural flower, though her light and
ethereal being would render her
equally unable to encounter the rude
breath of earthly sorrow7, or the in-
fluence of a rugged clime ; — and you,
whether accidentally or not — (and
this gives me, I confess, new hope
and courage) — you have a second
time been the preserver of her life,
by sheltering her from the blight of
a stormy and freezing autumnal
night, which would have been enough
to blast at once this delicate pro-
duction of a more genial clime. You,
like a protecting angel, conducted
her to her paternal home ; that home
where the angel of death has now,
I trust, marked the threshold with
blood for the last time, since the
scythe that swept away my venerable
father, with the same stroke mowed
down the last declining life of his
daughters.

" * In truth, I begin to cherish the
best hopes of the future. In her
mild eye that beams with no un-
earthly light, her cheek that glows
with no concealed fever, there are
no traces of the consuming worm
within; only, as J have already said,
the delicacy of her frame requires
the tenderest care. A rude wind
might blast this fragile flower ; and
therefore I give her to you, as the
oldest, the most tried and trust-
ed of my friends, with my whole
heart ; but upon this condition, that
you never yield to her often repeat-
ed wish to learn to dance, for that
too violent and exciting exercise,
which proved fatal to her mother,
which devoted her sisters, even
while yet unborn, to death, and which
is my terror and aversion, her ten-
der frame and easily agitated dispo-
sition, I am sure, are unable to bear.
Will you promise me this ?'

" The picture — her picture, had,
during his relation, lain before me
on the table : its heavenly smile, and,
still more, the tranquil and clear
narrative of my friend, had banished
from my bosom the last remains of
uncomfortable feeling, and awaken-
ed with a still livelier emotion sym-
pathy with this being so lovely, BO

The Dance of Death.

[Feb.

worthy to be loved. What could be
more fascinating than thus to become
the protecting angel of such a crea-
ture ! The very conviction that 1
had already involuntarily been so,
gave a higher impulse to my love
and my confidence. I promised him
every thing.

" Let me be brief — brief as the so-
litary year of my happiness ! Busi-
ness still detained my friend at
home, and regard for appearances
would not allow me to reconduct to
the capital my Amanda, to whom 1
had not declared my sentiments, and
to whom, 'indeed, it would have been
indecent to have done so, while her
dearest relations were hardly con-
signed to the tomb. One plan, how-
ever, suggested itself, which appear-
ed the more advisable from the ad-
vantages which the pure air and
tranquil amusements of a country
life seemed to promise to her who
was the object of our solicitude.

" The Count, with whom her mo-
ther had danced that fatal Dance of
Death, now an old man, had long been
in possession of the situation former-
ly held by his father, and was at this
time an inhabitant of an estate upon
the island. Always attached to the
family of the pastor, he offered
Amanda a residence in his family,
and, on the pretext that her health
might suffer from a longer residence
in this house of death, we had her
i mmediately removed from its gloomy
images to the more cheerful mansion
of the Count.

" Being myself acquainted with
her intended protector, I accompa-
nied her thither, and while I strove,
by every endeavour, to gain her af-
fection, some expressions which es-
caped her made me aware that I was
already possessed of it. The close of
the year of mourning was fixed for our
marriage. I had already cast my eye
upon an estate in the neighbourhood,
which I had resolved to purchase,
instead of that which had fallen to
v me. Partly with the view of resto-
ring the activity of my friend, partly
to escape the pain of being separated
from my love, and partly because
such matters are generally most ad-
vantageously managed by the inter-
vention of a third party, I begged
him immediately to set about the ne-
gotiation for the purchase. He un-
dertook the commission readily, but
hie own affairs soon afterwards sum-

moned him to the capital, and he set
out.

" The bargain was found to be at-
tended with difficulty. The matter
was studiously protracted, in hopes
of obtaining a higher price, and at
last, as the close of the year ap-
proached, I resolved not to wait for
the purchase, but to celebrate our
nuptials at once. Amanda had all
along enjoyed the best health. My
friend engaged for us a simple but
comfortable residence in the city,
but the Count would not hear of the
marriage being performed any where
except in his own house. The day
was at last fixed ; we only waited for
Emanuel, who, for some time past,
had from time to time put off his ar-
rival. At last he wrote that he would
certainly appear on the day of the
marriage.

"The day arrived, and yeUie came
not. The Count's chamberlain en-
tered, and delivered to me a letter,
which had been put into his hands
the day before, under a cover, in
which he was requested to deliver
it to me shortly before the ceremony
took place.

" It was from Emanuel, and ran as
follows. ' Do not be anxious should
I not appear at the marriage, and on
no account put off the ceremony.
The cause of my detention is for the
good of all of us. You yourself will
thank me for it.'

" This new enigma disconcerted
me ; but~a bridegroom must endea-
vour to conceal his uneasiness, and
a singular chance made me at last
regard the unexpected absence of
Emanuel, which, in fact, I attributed
to caprice, as not altogether to be re-
gretted. The Count had, notwith-
standing my entreaties, made prepa-
rations for a ball, at which, after the
ceremony had been quietly perform-
ed in the chapel, our union was to
be publicly announced to the com-
pany. I knew how much the mind
of my friend, so prone to repose
faith in omens of every kind, would
be agitated by the very idea of dan-
cing.

" I succeeded in calming Amanda's
mind as to the prolonged absence of
her brothev ,• but I felt that I began
to regard with a feeling of oppres-
sion the idea of his arrival, which
might momentarily take place.

" The guests assembled. The
young people were eagerly listening

1832.]

The Dance of Death.

to the music, which began to echo
from the great hall. I was intent
only on my own happiness ; when,
to my dismay, the old Count, step-
ping up, introduced his son to my
Amanda, with a request that she
would open the ball, while the young
Countess, his daughter, offered her
hand to me. I scarcely noticed her,
in the confusion with which I ran
up to the Count, to inform him that
Amanda never danced, and had ne-
ver learnt to do so. Father and son
were equally astonished ; the possi-
bility of such an event had never oc-
curred to them.

" ' But,' exclaimed the son, ' can
such a pattern of grace and dignity
require to learn what nature herself
must have taught her ?'

" Amanda, who perhaps attribu-
ted my confusion to a feeling of
shame at her ignorance, looked at
me entreatingly, and whispered to
me, ' I have never tried ; but my eye
has taught me something.'

" What could I say ? and, in truth,
I confess I could not see why, mere-
ly for fear of my absent friend, I
should make myself ridiculous; nay,
I could not but feel a sensation of
pride in the triumph which I anti-
cipated for my bride. The Coun-
tess and I were the second couple ;
some of the more honoured guests
made up the third and fourth, and
the dance began.

" After a few turns, however, the
music, at the suggestion of the young
Count, changed to a lively waltz;
and the dancers began to revolve in
giddier circles. I felt as if lightning-
struck ; my feet seemed glued to the
ground ; the young Countess vainly
endeavoured to draw me along with
her ; my eyes alone retained lite arid
motion, and followed the footsteps
of Amanda, who, light as a sylph,
but blooming beyond aught that I
had ever seen, was flitting round in
the arms of the Count.

-" At once the door opened, and I
saw Emanuel enter in full dress, but
he was arrested on the threshold;
his eyes were rooted on Amanda.
Suddenly he smote his hands to-
gether above his head, and sank at
the same moment to the ground with
a cry that rang through the hall.

" This accident seemed to disen-
chant me. My feet were loosened.
I and others flew towards him like
lightning, raised him, and carried

351

him through the hall, into an adjoin-
ing room, which served as a passage
to the hall. All this was the work of
a moment. Amanda, however, had
observed the confusion, had heard
the name of her brother ; that loud
and piercing cry had echoed through
her heart. As if transported out of
herself, she tore herself out of the
supporting arms of the Count, flew
across the court into the chamber
beyond, and sunk, weeping, implo-
ring, in the most lively agitation, at
the feet of her brother.

" The strange appearance of Ema-
nuel, his cry, his fainting, had created
a confusion which, for a moment, I
confess withdrew my attention from
her. It was when her brother be-
gan to recover his senses, that I first
observed her deadly paleness. Me-
thought I saw again the dying Lucia
in my gaily dressed bride, whose
white robes and myrtle wreath re-
minded me of the ghastly bridegroom
of her sisters, who thus seemed to
step in between me and my happi-
ness. She hung, cold, inanimate,
tottering, upon my arm.

** She was immediately carried to
bed. She never rose from it again.
Her sickness took even a more sud-
den and terrible character than usual,
which, indeed, under the circum-
stances, might have been expected.
Never, I may say, had my poor
Amanda been in so great a state of
excitement as during this, her first
and last dance. The sudden shock
she received, the coldness of the
open room, and the still more open
court, swept by a rude autumnal
wind, at a moment when the general
confusion prevented any measures
of precaution from being taken, had
wrought terrible ravages in her ten-
der frame, and would have been
enough, even without a hereditary
predisposition to the malady, to have
produced the same fatal conse-
quences. The disease seized on her
with that fatal and rapid grasp from
which it derives its name; in a fort-
night she was numbered with the
dead.

" Her decline seemed for a moment
to restore the physical strength of
her unhappy brother. He burst out
into the loudest reproaches against
me, and every one who sought to
withdraw him from the bedside of the
invalid. It was wonderful how his
weak frame bore up against it, but

352

he scarcely ever left her side. She
died in his arms; he covered the
dead body with kisses ; force alone
could detach him from it.

" But almost instantly after, a
strange dull inaction seemed to come
over his mind. He reproached me
no longer, as I had expected, but
asked to know how all had happen-
ed, and in turn told me, with a bitter
and heart-piercing smile, that he had
been prevented from coining by a
serious indisposition. ' I had caught,
as the physicians thought, a cough
arising from cold, but with the na-
tural nervousness of my disposition,
I thought I discerned in it the seeds
of the long- dreaded malady, and as
the physician assured me that a few
days would remove it, 1 resolved to
stay away from the marriage, in order
to give his prescriptions (which were
chiefly rest and quietness) every fair
chance ; and if the truth were as 1
suspected, not to disturb your hap-
piness by any uneasiness on my ac-
count. But the day before the mar-
riage I was seized with an inexpress-
ible feeling of anxiety. I recollected
that your marriage would be cele-
brated in the same mansion, perhaps
in the same chamber, where my mo-
ther, with her yet unborn offspring,
had been devoted to death. I could
not rest; some unknown power seem-
ed to impel me forward, as if to pre-
vent [some great, some inexplicable
evil. I was instantly on my way ;
at the last station on the road, while
waiting for my horses, I dressed,
that I might lose no time. I came —
not to prevent — but every thing was
now too clearly explained. I had
come to fulfil my destiny.'

" My friend remained completely
resigned to his fate. The death of
his sister had convinced him of the
certainty of his own. With her life,
his own relish for life had utterly de-
parted. Already it seemed to lie be-
hind him like a shadow ; he felt an
impatient, irrepressible longing to be
with those who had gone before.

" The physicians at first maintain-
ed that his malady — for he already felt
its influence on his frame — was but
imaginary. And as he submitted
quietly to every thing, it cost me but
little trouble to induce him to travel
with me. I will not trouble you with
my own feelings or sufferings : I
urged him to go to the south of

The Dance of Death.

[Feb.

France, the climate of which was so
generally reckoned beneficial. He
smiled, but as if the dying flame of
love of life had for a moment re-
kindled in his bosom, he expressed
a wish rather to go to Italy. ' There,'
he said, ' he might have an opportu-
nity of seeing and studying the works
of the great masters of art.' We
reached Italy, but here his illness soon
took a decided turn ; he died after a
decline of eleven months in a resi-
dence in the Piazza. Barberini : and,
as if the prophetic dream of his fa-
ther was to be fulfilled to the letter,
his whole effects, according to the
invariable custom in Rome, (for in
Italy consumption is regarded as
peculiarly infectious,) were, on the
same day on which he died and was
buried, committed to the flames,
with the furniture of his apartment,
and even his carpet ; every thing, in
short, except his papers. Nay, a
friend who at that time resided with
us in Rome, and subsequently re-
turned, told me that two years after-
wards the apartments inhabited by
Emanuel still remained unoccupied
as he left them.

" I cared little, as you may imagine,
during these shifting scenes, about
financial concerns, and when I re-
visited this country, it was to find
that lhad returned to it only not ab-
solutely a beggar, and destined, Ifear,
to make all my friends melancholy
about me.

" Thus has a numerous family been
effaced from the earth, though not
from my heart, leaving behind them
nothing but this portrait, which
seems daily to hold forth the lesson,
how vain is beauty, how fleeting is
life 1"

L ceased, and the silence con-
tinued, while the portrait circulated
once more among the now deeply
affected and sympathizing assembly.
The evening, which had begun with
loud revelry, had gradually glided
into the deep stillness of night. The
friends rose, and even the younger
of them, who had proposed the health
of their mistresses with such proud
confidence and frolic vanity, sepa-
rated in silence, after pressing the
hand of the narrator, as if in token
that he had become to all of them
an object of esteem, of sympathy,
and affection,

1832.]

The Philosophy of London.

353

THE PHILOSOPHY OF LONDON,

THE British capital has been call-
ed a province covered with houses;
the chief causeway of the world;
the great estuary of the tide of hu-
man existence ; the empress of all
cities, with whose fame the nations
" ring from side to side;" the Baby-
lon of the west, which in wealth and
population may claim precedence of
contemporary realms !* There is
but one London ; and, take it for all
in all, it is at this day a more inte-
restin01 object of contemplation than
any other spot of similar dimensions
on the surface of the globe. It wants
the gorgeous palaces, the spacious
quays, and the pleasant gardens, of
its neighbour on the Seine ; it par-
takes not of the melancholy magni-
ficence of Rome, " lone mother of
dead empires," the historical sanc-
tuary of hallowed recollections ever
eloquent of olden fame, 'mid ruins
darkened with the crust of centuries;
it is not adorned, like Florence, with
the delicate creations of those won-
drous masters, who left Art's self
effete, and hopeless of an equal ef-
fort ; it boasts not of the glad and
glorious scenery of Naples, rejoicing
in a soil where even the shade is
more generous than our northern
sunshine, and reflected with all its
classic villas and picturesque details
in the limpid loveliness of the sub-
jacent Mediterranean; it is not con-
secrated, like Venice, to the very
genius of poetry, and graced with
beauteous gondolas, that glide along
its liquid thoroughfares through the
stillness of evening, in harmony with
the barcarole and the serenade, the
tabor and the guitar ; nor yet is it
clothed with the romantic grandeur,
surrounded with the goodly pro-
spect, or dignified with the moun-
tain diadem, of Edinburgh : but
still its geometrical immensity, enor-
mous population, immeasurable mo-
ral influence, political supremacy,
indomitable enterprise, tremendous
wealth, and, to sum all, its vast, va-
rious, and comprehensive intellec-
tual capabilities, constitute in the
aggregate a more curious theme for

speculation than any other visible
object throughout the Avorld.

Every feature of the metropolis
appears to be coloured more or less
with the complexion of the national
character, and thus acquires a moral
interest which materially enhances
the dignity of such a topic. The
English, as a people, are essentially
the very reverse of poetical in their
perceptions, or romantic in their
tastes ; and, accordingly, the whole
territory of Cockaigne, even to the
extremest periphery of its environs,
and brick-and-mortar dependencies,
presents a most emphatic negation
of any and every thing that could be
designated by either of those epi-
thets, save and except an occasional
copperplate in a window-pane. In-
deed, wherever Nature seems to in-
dicate the slightest semblance of the
picturesque, the uncongenial sym-
pathies of the inhabitants have ef-
fectually vulgarised the entire local-
ity. The stranger, for example, is
pleased with the site and aspect of
a pleasant little islet adjoining the
classic banks of Twickenham ; but no
sooner has it arrested his attention,
than he is addressed in a cacopho-
nous joafozs, which doubtless must be
meant for the vernacular, — " That
'ere is the ' heel-pie-'ouse,' where the
folk wot lives in Lunnun comes for
to go for to eat heel-pies." Alas for
sentiment ! and this, too, in the im-
mediate neighbourhood of Pope's
villa! Nor is the noble river less
indebted to "Augusta" for dignified
associations, as it flows further east-
ward, for at Blackwall its reputation
is dependent on its gastronomic re-
sources at the savoury season of
" white bait." Dr Paley illustrated
the curious structure of the retina,
by noticing its power to entertain the
various recipients presented to it on
all sides, in the prospect from Hamp-
stead-heath, — by the way, not to be
compared with that from Arthur's
Seat or Killiney,— but how would
the philosopher have nauseated the
fetid advertisement of a loathsome
empiric, (in white-wash capitals,

The single parish of Mary-le-bonne is said to contain actually more riches, and a
greater number of inhabitants, than the principality of Wales.

VOL. XXXI. NO. CXCI. It

354

The Philosophy of London.

[Feb.

about the length of Mr Fyshe Pal-
mer,) that now desecrates the wild
vale in the very foreground! So
much, then, for the Cockney pictu-
resque I

Again, the Sassenach burghers are
so peculiarly sensitive respecting
what Blackstone calls the rights of
persons and the rights of things, and
so selfish withal, that it is with great
difficulty they can ever be induced
to forego any private advantage for
the sake of society as a whole. This
somewhat churlish characteristic is
exemplified oftener than one could
desire in the social arrangements of
the metropolis. The interior of the
squares, and even of the Regent's
Park, is inaccessible to all but a fa-
voured few, to whom accident has
casually given the privilege of ad-
mission; and the extension of the
same pedestrian franchise to their
fellow-citizens would be considered
almost as monstrous as a disruption
of the whole civil system. The re-
sult of similar concessions in St
James's Park, Kensington Gardens,
and also those of the Inner Temple,
on summer evenings, sufficiently
proves that the cessation of the mo-
nopoly would be a benefit to all, and
an injury to no one. The New Road
is precisely the width of the Interior
Boulevards in Paris ; but in the one
case, the whole of the space between
the houses on either side is avail-
able to the public, whereas in the
other, the general thoroughfare bears
only the same proportion to the in-
tervening width, as a poetic text to
a quarto margin, while the remain-
der is apportioned into little plots,
that hardly suffice to contain more
than a couple of boxwood borders
and a barrow-load of brown gravel.
But then it has an air of exclusive-
ness, and that, doubtless, in the esti-
mation of the householders, is pre-
ferable to several rows of stately
elms, with quiet paths between, put-
ting altogether out of consideration
the advantages which would accrue

to society at large were the ground
allocated otherwise. But the civic
world, in general, can much more
readily understand the actual rights
of individuals in detail, than appre-
ciate the abstract generic claims of
the community as a public. The
silvan dignity and leafy honours of
the Hamadryads, however, would be
profaned by the juxtaposition.

In your unsophisticated cit of the
genuine town breed, the grander fea-
tures of external nature produce no
corresponding elevation of senti-
ment ; and it is more than probable
that a sight of the Falls of Niagara, to
the sordid faculties of such an ani-
mal, would only suggest a calculation
as to the feasibility of converting an
integral portion of the flood into a
profitable mill-race.*

The principle of swim cuique is no
less felicitously enforced in that os-
tentatious but rather heavy piece of
architecture, the Regent Quadrant,
the pillars of which exhibit from time
to time different colours, according to
the fancy of the shop-owners to whose
premises respectively they happen
to belong. Thus, Mr Figgins chooses
to see his side of a pillar painted a
pale chocolate, while his neighbour
Mrs Hopkins insists on disguising the
other half with a coat of light cream
colour, or haply a delicate shade of
Dutch pink ; so that the identity of
material which made it so hard for
Transfer, in Zeluco, to distinguish be-
tween his metal Venus and Vulcan,
is often the only incident that the two
moieties have in common.

Furthermore, the affections of John
Bull for the most part originate in
the region of the midriff, and more
especially beneath the peritoneum,
from whence, under favour of the
digestive organs, they ascend to the
bosom, or thorax, where they are
gradually subtilized into something
like sensibility. For proof of this,
it is only necessary to refer to the
many excellent institutions which,
beneath the divine blessing, have at-

* Napoleon has noticed the proximity of the sublime to the ridiculous, arid it so
happens that his aphorism was never more forcibly verified than in a recent posthu-
mous tribute to himself. An ingenious print, entitled " L'Ombre de Napoleon visi-
tant son tombeau," was lately published in Paris, and lithographed in London im-
mediately afterwards, to be cried about the streets as " The Shade of Napoleon
wisiting his tomb, at the moderate charge of one ha'penny !" For sluicing with
vulgarity the sublimest idea that imagination ever conceived, we would pit an illiterate
Cockney against the world.

1832.]

The Philosophy of London.

tained to such prosperity by virtue
of the process, as Mr Bleaden knows
full well, and the ghost of many an
Essex calf that expired at the butch-
er's of a sore throat, could indispu-
tably attest. Were further evidence
required, it would be found at the
theatres, where sausage tartlets, and
stiff bottled punch, are frequently the
most vendible commodities amongst
the second class of visitors, although
the scene may have but just closed
on the death-struggle of Richard, or
the sorrows of Belvidera.

" By day and night, but this is wondrous
strange!"

In Paris, even at such a theatre as
Franconi, dealers of a similar class
would have tendered the hire of a
fan or an opera-glass, and peradven-
ture a goblet of Veau sucree, of which
" he who drinks the most has the
worst share." Perhaps it is by trifles
such as these that the general cha-
racter of a people is most strongly
marked and most accurately estima-
ted.

That sturdy tenacity of purpose,
and irrepressible impatience of sub-
serviency to others, which probably
have contributed not a little to our
political advancement, it must be
owned, are exercised at times with
but slight regard to courtesy or con-
venience. This is particularly evi-
dent at the Babylonian theatres, when
one portion of the audience happen
to desire the repetition of a song,
while the remainder as resolutely
object to it. The vetoists politely
intimate their disapprobation by hiss-
ing the unfortunate performer, even
although the party should be a lady !
and the encore is seldom finally dis-
posed of until after an uproar of se-
veral minutes, the decision, whether
for the ayes or the noes, usually fol-
lowing a practical parenthesis of
" much admired disorder/" This, be
it observed, is not the case anywhere
else. Our more considerate neigh-
bours across La Manche, on such
occasions, invariably, and in a mo-
ment, waive their own inclinations
where they find that more than a
moiety of the audience is opposed
to them, and therefore it becomes
scarcely ever necessary to utter the
words " bis" or " non" a second
time, for no one thinks of demurring
to the declared will of the majority

355

thus enunciated in a single monosyl-
lable.

To do justice to the English cha-
racter, it is necessary to judge of the
people in the gross, instead of in-
specting them in detail, and look ra-
ther to their social institutions, than
to the individual component parts of
the community. The charities of life,
and all the cardinal essentials of phi-
lanthropy, are nowhere more sedu-
lously cultivated, and more thorough-
ly naturalized, than in their well-nur-
tured metropolis, and yet nowhere
is that "benevolence in trifles" which
puts men in good humour with them-
selves and one another, so universally
neglected. To strangers the town-
bred are like a cucumber, cold in the
third degree ; and of all places within
the limits of civilized existence, that
in which John Bull appears to least
advantage, is a modern tavern. He
seems to assume that every one is a
rogue, until the contrary is demon-
strated, as plainly as the fact that the
pigs at Hogsnorton can play upon the
organ. He seems to say with the
Psalmist, not " in his haste," but at
sullen leisure over an unsocial tum-
bler of rum toddy, — " all men are
liars ;" and the slightest overture
towards a conversation, on the part
of his neighbour in the same box,
would infallibly cause a total subver-
sion of his countenance, for he could
only imagine the interlocutor to be
influenced by some such motive as
might induce a church-mouse to make
a leg to a Welsh rabbit. He ejects a
dry but beautiful piece of brevity
from the bottom of his throat by way
of an apology for a reply, and straight-
way assumes as much dignity and
reserve of deportment as if he were
the Gonfaloniere of San Marino, in-
timating by his manner pretty clearly
that the offending colloquialist would
have a much better chance of finding
one of the oaks of Dodona a conver-
sible companion. The stranger haply
bethinks him of the moral inculcated
by the graceful muse of Bunker's
Hill, and therefore attempts no re-
joinder—

" This here monument was built of stone,
Because Lord North wouldn't let the

Americans alone."

To call such a creature a gregarious
animal, it is obvious, would be some-
what of a misnomer ; yet, encounter
the same person in a different atmo-

856

The Philosophy of London.

[Feb.

sphere, his suspicions disarmed, his
frigidity thawed into loving-kindness,
ana perhaps he may prove one of
the worthiest of men " that e'er wore
earth about him."

Those who would see the capital
for its own sake, should perambulate
its deserted thoroughfares at the first
turn of the morning, when " all the
air a solemn stillness holds," and so-
ciety itself is in a state of suspended
animation. They will then more
easily comprehend the import of the
remark that " the grove cannot be
seen for the trees," inasmuch as the
absence of detail enables the eye to
traverse the superficies of the whole,
without being obstructed by merely
factitious incidental objects, or em-
barrassed amid a variety ever chan-
ging and evanescent. The town ho-
rizon is sharp and rigid in a hard
morning sky, for once clarified from
the fumes of traffic, and unpolluted
by the exhalations of a hundred thou-
sand hearths. The buildings are
clearly defined in all their circum-
stantial architecture, " from slabby
pavement even to bossy frieze;" and
the exact statistics of the silent streets,
with their respective appurtenances,
wherever they merit notice, are as-
certained at a glance, and examined
without interruption. It would al-
most appear as though the spectator,
having obtained the power of con-
traction which Milton ascribes to his
fallen angels, were threading his way
through an accurately moulded mo-
del, and the gorgeous edifices which
he discovers on every side around
him, so severely traced against the
pure crystalline sky, suggest to the
fancy those towers delineated by
Chinese artists on a surface of plate
glass, of which the obverse has been
sheeted by quicksilver. Thus it is
not without reason that some great
poet, whose fame has not descended
to posterity with his distich, has ex-
claimed,—

*' The glories of proud London to sur-
vey,

The sun himself shall rise by break of
day !"

About the fifteenth century, the
inhabitants of the metropolis were
themselves so enraptured with the
goodly aspect of their city, that the
proverb, " as fine as London upon the
bridge," in their acceptation was
understood to imply the utmost ple-
nitude of sublunary grandeur;

•^—— " not Babylon,
Nor great Alcairo, such magnificence
Equall'd in all their glories."

This too at a time when the Thames
was allowed to steal through the
town,like Bayes' army, " in disguise,"
although the Seine arid Arno, and
even every dike in Holland, were
adorned with spacious quays, flanked
with superb embankments, and over-
arched with stately bridges. Peo-
ple in those times, (when " the londe
was al ful fill'd of faerie,") it may
naturally be supposed, were a little
given to exaggeration. They com-
pared Cheapside and its sign-boards
(to wit, the Cat and Fiddle, the
Goose and Gridiron,the Bag o' Nails,*
the Pig and Whistle, &c. &c.) with
the Medicean Gallery for its choice
collection of paintings, which they
looked upon as the happiest efforts
of inventive genius. But, alas ! the
era of Green Dragons and Blue
Boars (as the Whigs are wont to say
in Parliament) is now " matter of
history," and the age of " economists
and calculators has succeeded." In
this kind of grandiloquent ostenta-
tion, as in every thing else, the Pari-
sians were emulous competitors, for
the French poets, it appears, in a si-
milar vein, compared the lamps of
Paris to the planets themselves,
" pendant in the vault of heaven,"
although they were neither more
nor less than misshapen tin lanterns,
hung by packthread in the middle
of dirty narrow streets. The notions
of taste which prevailed amongst the
gentle citizens of ancient London,
may be duly estimated from the na-
ture of the discussion in the Com-
mon Council, when it was resolved
to build an official residence for the
Lord Mayor. While the portly dig-

* To trace the origin of signs would be an amusing relaxation for the Society of
Antiquaries. Who could have imagined that " bag o' nails" was a corruption of
the Bacchanals, which it evidently is from the rude epigraph still subjoined to the
fractured classicism of the title ? In the same manner the more modern " Goat
and compasses" may be identified with the text of " God encompasseth us," which
was a favourite ale-house motto amongst the Puritans.

1832.]

The Philosophy of London.

nitaries of the city were debating
this weighty matter, the Lord Bur-
lington, in his zeal for the arts, thought
fit to send them an original design
of Palladio, every way worthy of its
author, for their approbation and
adoption. His lordship's proposal
put the corporation in a prodigious
pucker ; they all met and looked un-
utterable things, (the face of every
man of them, like that of Macbeth,
was " as a book where men might
read strange matters,") they ate a
dinner, and agreed to summon a
special court to consider of it, and it
was moreover darkly hinted thatthey
would eat another afterwards,should
the momentous affair in hand be sa-
tisfactorily disposed of. The ques-
tion, however, which they discussed,
was not, whether the plan suggested
would be suitable or judicious, but
whether this same Palladio was a
freeman of the city. The debate
began to turn entirely on the point
so unexpectedly mooted, and was
carried on with great animation, un-
til at last a worthy deputy observed
that it was of little consequence, as
it had been long notorious that the
party in question was a Papist, whose
design jof course was inadmissible
on principle. Such intelligence was
decisive ; it elicited a burst of ortho-
dox indignation, and the corporators,
with true burgomaster sagacity, at
once adopted the plan of a French
Protestant, who had originally been
a shipbuilder.* The edifice, when
erected, was libelled with the parti-
cularly clumsy name of a "mansion-
house," which every body must per-
ceive is a wretched abuse of lan-
guage ; and such a bulky allegory is
thrust upon the fa9ade, that the ar-
tist has been obliged to place the
plump figure of Plenty on her knees,
because there is not enough of room
for her to stand erect. It is, how-
ever, altogether quite as felicitous
,an exemplification of " fitness of
things," according to civic percep-
tion, as the lonely dwarfish statue to
be seen in the centre of so many of

357

the squares, which is so completely
out of keeping with the sphere in
which it is stationed, as to suggest
.a resemblance to some St Bartho-
lomew gilt gingerbread king, stuck
among turnip-tops in a green-gro-
cer's stall.

This indeed is not absolutely as
offensive as the former system of
cooping up a few frightened sheep,
with sooty fleeces and meagre car-
casses, in a wooden paling, by way of
improving on the rus in urbe, through
the introduction of pastoral associa-
tions. Indeed, the few squares that
existed in London antecedent to
1770, were rather sheep-walks, pad-
docks, and kitchen gardens, than any
thing else. Grosvenor Square in
particular, fenced round wjith a rude
wooden railing, which was inter-
rupted by lumpish brick piers at in-
tervals of every half-dozen yards,
partook more of the character of a
pond than a parterre ; and as for Ha-
nover Square, it had very much the
air of a sorry cow-yard, where black-
guards were to be seen assembled
daily, playingathussel-cap up to their
ankles in mire. Cavendish Square
was then for the first time dignified
with a statue, in the modern uniform
of the Guards, mounted on a charger,
d V antique, richly gilt and burnish-
ed ; and Red Lion Square, elegant-
ly so called from the sign of an ale-
shop at the corner, presented the
anomalous appendages of two ill-
constructed watch-houses at either
end, with an ungainly naked obelisk
in the centre, which, by the by, was
understood to be the site of Oliver
Cromwell's re-interment. St James's
Park abounded in apple-trees, which
Pepys mentions having laid under
contribution by stealth,while Charles
and his queen were actually walking
within sight of him.f

In 1 744 there were only four hun-
dred and twenty-nine houses, and
twenty-one stable yards, on the
whole of the great property called
White Conduit Mead, comprising
New Bond Street, Conduit Street,

* This was somewhat in character with the degree of civilisation which the Ro-
mans had attained in the consulship of Memmius, who, when sending some of the
choicest pieces of Grecian sculpture to Rome, took a receipt from the ship-master,
obliging him to provide as good, should any of them, while in his CMstody, chance
to he damaged or lost.

f The quaint style of this old writer is sometimes not a little entertaining. He
mentions having seen Major- General Harrison " hanged, drawn, and quartered at

358

Brook Street, Woodstock Street,
Silver Street, Great George Street,
Pedley Street, South Molton Row,
Paradise Row, and Lancashire Court.
This simple fact, contrasted with the
present state of the West-end, will
abundantly serve to shew how ma-
terially the metropolis must have in-
creased in extent during the last
century; and yet long before the
period in question, it was described
as " a maiestical citie, which, for
hugenesse, concourse, nauigation,
trade, and populosity, very hardly
might giue place to anie other in
Europe." It is curious to observe
how materially the progress of Lon-
don was influenced, from time to
time, by the interference of the legis-
lature. The question as to how far
the growth of such a capital actually
militated against the interests of the
nation as a political state, occasioned
a controversy that commenced about
the reign of Elizabeth, and perhaps
even now we would be justified in
calling it a moot point, of which it
can only be said, adhuc sub judice
Us est. Some maintained that the
heart could never become too big
for the body, while others rather
compared the capital of a realm to
the head of the human frame, which
indicated weakness and distemper,
if it exceeded the relative propor-
tions of the other members.

In the days of Queen Bess, the
village of Holborn or Oldbourn, was
first joined to London properly so
called, and a great part of High Hol-
born was not then in existence. St
Giles's also was at that time the site
of a village, but it was not consider-
ed even contiguous to London ; and
as for Westminster, it was merely a
small town on the southwest and
south sides df St James's Park.
There were gardens upon each side
of the Strand, while the Haymarket
had a hedge on one side and a ragged
thicket of underwood on the other.
The bills of mortality were first
printed in 1606, and it appears from
them, that there was very little in-
crease in the city during the twenty-
six following years ; for, in 1606 and
1607, there died between six and
seven thousand annually, a number

The Philosophy of London.

[Feb.

which rose only to eight and nine
thousand in 1632 and 1633. This of
course was the natural consequence
of the general outcry against the en-
croachments of brick and mortar
then so prevalent, that the legisla-
ture passed a law in the thirty-eighth
year of the reign of Elizabeth, pro-
hibiting the erection of any further
buildings within the precincts of the
city. The act, it is true, was merely
probationary, as it was to expire at
the close of the next session of Par-
liament ; but its effects were not so
transitory as its nominal duration,
for it discouraged the builders, and
materially obstructed the future pro-
gress of the city.

During the whole of King James's
reign, no houses were erected with-
out the Royal license, and the
people therefore, as they increased,
gradually emigrated to other parts
of the world. Thus, the restriction
upon London was, in fact, one of
the indirect causes to which we may
ascribe the plantation of New Eng-
land, Virginia, Maryland, and the
Bermudas, all of which originated at
the time of its operation. Neverthe-
less, as the population could not be
draughted off to the Trans-Atlantic
settlements in the full proportion of
its increase, the want of houses be-
gan to be so severely felt, that the
people petitioned to take off a re-
straint so inconvenient to the public.
His Majesty acceded to their desire,
and the increase of London, accord-
ingly, within the next seven-and-
twenty years, so much surpassed that
of any former period, as to produce
from twelve to thirteen thousand
burials in 1656 and 1657, although
rebellion and civil wars had oc-
curred within the interval. No
sooner, however, did these results
become manifest, than the former
clamour against the builders was re-
newed; and Oliver Cromwell, glad
of the opportunity of a popular im-
post, laid a tax on the new founda-
tions, from which, as appears by the
records of the Exchequer, not more
than L.20,000 were derived, clear of
all the charges incidental to its col-
lection. At the same time it neces-
sarily retarded the growth of the me-

Charing- Cross, he ( Harrison) looking as cheerful as any man could in that condition."
He also gravely informs us that Sir Henry Vane, when about to be beheaded on
Tower Hill, urgently requested the executioner to take off his head so as not to
hurt a seton which happened to be uncicatrized in his neck!

1832.]

The Philosophy of London.

tropolis, and the people, for want of
houses, again emigrated as before,
and began to plant the flourishing
colony of Jamaica.

The burials after the Restoration,
we find, amounted to near 23,000
yearly, so that the city, under all cir-
cumstances, seems to have increased
one-third.

The interference of Parliament for
the prevention of architectural im-
provements at a time when they
were so much needed, can hardly be
wondered at, when we reflect that
the same enlightened legislators im-
posed a tax upon imported paint-
ings, to be levied at so much per
foot, — a piece of Vandalism which
goes far towards accounting for the
backwardness of the fine arts in
England even at this day.

" Such assemblies, you might swear,
Meet when butchers bait a bear."

We are the contemporaries of a
street-building generation, but the
grand maxim of the nineteenth cen-
tury, in their management of mason-
ry, as in almost every thing else, as
far as we can discover, appears to
lie in that troublesome line of Mac-
beth's soliloquy, ending with, " 'twere
well it were done quickly." It is
notorious that many of the leases
of new dwelling-houses contain a
clause against dancing, lest the pre-
mises should suffer from a mazurka,
tremble at a gallopade, or fall pros-
trate under the inflictions of " the
parson's farewell,"* or "the wind
that shakes the barley." The system
of building, or rather " running up" a
house first, and afterwards provi-
ding it with a false exterior, meant to
deceive the eye with the semblance
of carved stone, is in itself an abso-
lute abomination. Besides, Greek
architecture, so magnificent when on
a large scale, becomes perfectly ri-
diculous when applied to a private
. street-mansion, or a haberdasher's
warehouse. St Paul's Church, Co-
vent-Garden, is an instance of the

359

unhappy effect produced by a com-
bination of a similar kind; great in
all its parts, with its original little-
ness, it very nearly approximates to
the character of a barn. Inigo Jones
doubtless desired to erect an edifice
of stately Roman aspect, but he was
cramped in his design, and, there-
fore, only aspired to make a first-
rate barn ; so far unquestionably the
great architect has succeeded. Then,
looking to those details of London
architecture, which appear more pe-
culiarly connected with the dignity
of the nation, what can we say of it,
but that the King of Great Britain is
worse lodged than the chief magis-
trate of Glaris or Zug, while the de-
bates of the most powerful assembly
in the world are carried on in a
building, (or, a return to Westmin-
ster Hall,) which will bear no com-
parison with the Stadthouse at Am-
sterdam ! The city, however, as a
whole, presents a combination of
magnitude and grandeur, which we
should in vain look for elsewhere, al-
though with all its immensity it has
not yet realized the quaint predic-
tion of James the First, — that Lon-
don would shortly be England, and
England would be London.

In these our times, with an a-
mount of human habitations hardly,
short of two hundred thousand, it
certainly requires some exertion of
fancy to conceive what it must have
been under the dynasty of the Planta-
genets, surrounded as it was with
spacious forests, in which, according
to an ancient chronicle, " were
woody groves of wild beasts; in the
cover whereof did lurk store of
bucks and does, wild boars and bulls,
and other outlandish animals beyond
count." The same authority gives
an elaborate account of the royal
justs in Smithfield, after the suc-
cesses of the Black Prince, " there
beynge present thereat three kyn ges,
that is to say, the Kyng of Engelond,
the Kyng of Fraunce, and the Kyng
of Scotlond, and manye other grete

* This old English dance must have been a remarkably graceful performance. It
was a prime favourite in the Court of Charles II. The figure is as follows : " Meet
all, and take each other's woman, — four slips to the left hand; back all, and four
slips to the right : men rise once; women rise once; rise all four times, and turn
each other's woman. This being repeated , the first woman changes with the second
man, while the last changes with his own. Then change with the last woman ; your
woman changes with the last man ; set all, and turn single."

360

The Philosophy of London.

[Feb.

lordys of diverges regyons, with a
fay re and gentil ladyeledynge every
lordys brydell," a fact certainly little
creditable to the gallantry of our
peerage of the old regime. At the
same time, it is but an act of justice
to John Bull senior to add, that his
chronicler (politely speaking) is not
absolutely " particular to a shade,"
as he gravely assures us in another
part of his diary, that there were
about those days " grete and stronge
batailes of sparwes in Engelond in
diverses places, wherof the bodyes
were founden in ye feldes dede with-
oughte noumbre." He also eulo-
gized the ladies of London as so pre-
eminent for a cardinal feminine vir-
tue much admired in all ages, that
they might be " paralleled with the
Sabirie women," to none of whom
King Solomon's jewel of gold in a
swine's snout can be supposed to
have applied.

The metropolis, as we have already
hinted, presents certain features of
peculiar interest just at thatunpopu-
lar dreamy hour when stars " begin
to pale then-ineffectual fires," and the
drowsy twilight of the doubtful day
brightens apace into the fulness of
morning, " blushing like an Eastern
bride." Then it is that the extremes
of society first meet under circum-
stances well calculated to indicate
the moral width between their se-
veral conditions. The gilded chariot
bowls along from square to square
with its delicate patrimonial possess-
or, bearing him homeward in cele-
rity and silence, worn with lassitude,
and heated with wine quaffed at his
third rout, after having deserted the
oft-seen ballet, or withdrawn in pet-
tish disgust at the utterance of a false
harmony in the opera. A cabriolet
hurries past him still more rapidly,
bearing a fashionable physician, on
the fret at having been summoned
prematurely from the comforts of a
second sleep in a voluptuous cham-
ber, on an experimental visit to

" Raise the weak head, and stay the part-
ing sigh,

Or with new life relume the swimming
eye."

At the corners of streets of traffic,
and more especially

" Where famed St Giles's ancient limits
spread,"

the matutinal huckster may be seen
administering to costermongers,hack-
ney-coachmen, and " fair women
without discretion," a fluid " all hot,
all hot," yclept by the initiated elder
wine, which, we should think, might
give the partakers a tolerable notion
of the fermenting beverage extracted
by Tartars from mare's milk not par-
ticularly fresh. Hard by we find a
decent matron superintending her
tea-table at the lamp-post, and ten-
dering to a remarkably select com-
pany little blue delft cups of bohea,
filled from time to time from a pro-
digious kettle, that simmers uncea-
singly on its charcoal tripod, though
the refractory cad often protests that
the fuel fails before the boiling stage
is consummated by an ebullition.
Hither approaches perhaps an inter-
esting youth from Magherastaphena,
who, ere night-fall, is destined to
figure in some police-office as a
"juvenile delinquent." The shiver-
ing sweep, who has just travelled
through half a dozen stacks of chim-
neys, also quickens every motion of
his weary little limbs, when he conies
within sight of the destined break-
fast, and beholds the reversionary
heel of a loaf and roll of butter
awaiting his arrival. Another un-
failing visitor is the market-gardener,
on his way to deposit before the
Covent Garden piazza, such a pyra-
mid of cabbages as might well have
been manured in the soil with Master
Jack's justly celebrated bean-stalk.
Surely Solomon in all his glory was
not arrayed like one of these. The
female portion of such assemblages,
for the most part, consists of poor
Salopian strawberry-carriers, many
of whom have walked already at
least four miles, with a troublesome
burden, and for a miserable pittance
— egg-women, with sundry still-born
chickens, goslings, and turkey-pouts
— and passing milk-maidens, peripa-
tetic under the yoke of their double
pail. Their professional cry is sin-
gular and sufficiently unintelligible,
although perhaps not so much so as
that of the Dublin milk-venders in
the days of Swift; it used to run
thus, —

" Mugs, jugs, and porringers,

Up in the garret and down in the cellar."

They are in general a hale, comely,
well-favoured race, notwithstanding

1832.]

The Philosophy of London.

361

the assertion of the author of Trivia
to the contrary.*

The most revolting spectacle to
any one of sensibility which usually
presents itself about this hour, is the
painful progress of the jaded, found-
ered, and terrified droves of cattle
that one necessarily must see not
unfrequently struggling on to the
appointed slaughter-house, perhaps
after three days during which they
have been running
" Their course of suffering in the public

way."

On such occasions we have often
wished ourselves " far from the sight
of city, spire, or sound of minster
clock." One feels most for the sheep
and lambs, when the softened fancy
recurs to the streams and hedgerows,
and pleasant pastures, from whence
the woolly exiles have been ejected ;
and yet the emotion of pity is not
wholly unaccompanied by admira-
tion at the sagacity of the canine dis-
ciplinarians that bay them remorse-
lessly forward, and sternly refuse the
stragglers permission to make a re-
connoissance on the road. They are
highly respectable members of so-
ciety these same sheep-dogs, and we
wish we could say as much for " the
curs of low degree," that just at the
same hour begin to prowl up and
down St Giles's, and to and fro in it,
seeking what they may devour, with
the fear of the Alderman of Cripple-
gate Within before their eyes. The
feline kind, however, have reason to
think themselves in more danger at
the first round of the watering cart,
for we have often rescued an unsus-
picious tortoise-shell from the felo-
nious designs of a skin-dealer, who
was about to lay violent hands on un-
offending puss, while she was watch-
ing the process of making bread
through the crevices of a Scotch
grating.f

Another animal sui generis, occa-
sionally visible about the same cock-
crowing season, is the parliamentary
reporter, shuffling to roost, and a more
slovenly-looking operative from sun-

rise to sunset is rarely to be seen.
There has probably been a double
debate, and between three and five
o'clock he has written " a^ column
bould" No one can well mistake
him. The features are often Irish,
the gait jaunty or resolutely brisk,
but neither " buxom, blithe, nor de-
bonnair," complexion wan, expres-
sion pensive, and the entire propriety
of the toilette disarranged and dega-
gee. The stuff that he has perpetra-
ted is happily no longer present to
his memory, and neither placeman's
sophistry nor patriot's rant will be
likely in any way to interfere with
his repose. Intense fatigue, whether
intellectual or manual, however, is
not the best security for sound slum-
ber at any hour, more particularly in
the morning.

Even at this hour the swart Savoy-
ard {filius nullius) issues forth on
his diurnal pilgrimage, " remote, un-
friended, melancholy, slow," to ex-
cruciate on his superannuated hurdy-
gurdy that sublime melody, " the
hundred and seventh psalm," or the
plaintive sweetness of " Isabel," per-
haps speculating on a breakfast for
himself and Pugsomewhere between
Knightsbridge and Old Brentford.
Poor fellow ! Could he procure a few
bones of mutton, how hard would it
be for his hungry comprehension to
understand the displeasure which
similar objects occasioned to Attila
on the plains of Champagne !

Then the too frequent preparations
for aNewgate execution — but enough
of such details; it is the muse of Mr
Crabbe that alone could do them jus-
tice. We would say to the great city,
in the benedictory spirit of the pa-
triot of Venice, — esto perpetua ! Not-
withstanding thy manifold " honest
knaveries," peace be within thy walls,
and plenty pervade thy palaces, that
thou mayst ever approve thyself,
oh queen of capitals,

" Like Samson's riddle in the sacred

song,
A springing sweet still flowing from the

strong !"

* " On doors the sallow milk-maid chalks her gains:
Oh ! how unlike the milk-maid of the plains !"

f They say that no town in Europe is without a Scotchman for an inhabitant. This
trade in London is generally professed by North Britons, and it is always a cause of
alarm to a stranger if he notices the enormous column of black smoke which is emit-
ted from their premises at the first dawn of the morning.

362

The House of Orange.

[Feb.

THE HOUSE OF ORANGE.

THE origin of the illustrious family
was German, and the name Nassau.
They mount to the highest German
antiquity, and the highest European
rank, for they boast of having given
an Emperor Adolphus Nassau to
Germany, at the close of the twelfth
century. There is surer ground for
the possession of the provinces of
Gueldres and Zutphen, by their an-
cestor, Count Otho of Nassau, in
the fourteenth century ; and his de-
scendants either preserved or in-
creased his possessions, until they
stood among the most prominent of
the great northern barons, and were
deemed to be entitled to the first
honours of the general Flemish go-
vernment. In the commencement
of the sixteenth century, on the re-
turn of the Archduke Philip to Spain,
Engilbert, second Earl of Nassau,
was appointed by him Governor-Ge-
neral of the Netherlands ; and from
this period commenced the new for-
tunes of the family, which, after try-
ing them by every difficulty that
could develope courage and talent,
ended by placing them upon the
native throne.

Engilbert died without children,
but he left a brother, John, to whom,
or rather to his able and gallant sons,
lie bequeathed his territories. On
the death of John, Henry of Nassau,
the elder son, inherited the family
possessions in the Netherlands. Wil-
liam, the younger, became master of
those in Germany. Both brothers
were favourites of fortune. The suc-
cession to the crown of Germany
was the grand prize of the time. It
was contended for by the two lead-
ing spirits of the age, Charles the Fifth
and Francis the First, two men of
great abilities, great ambition, and
sharing between them all the re-
sources of Europe. The contest was
made still more striking by the com-
plete contrast of their characters :
Francis, a Frenchman, when France
Was the land of chivalry, and made
by nature to be the representative of
his nation; daring, brilliant, and de-
voted to military fame; but rash,
fickle, and voluptuous:— Charles, the
German, in all the leading features
of his mind, brave, calm, and per-
severing ; but charged with mista-

king obstinacy for firmness, and se-
verity for justice, personal resent-
ment for the rights of his empire, and
personal prejudice for the honour of
his religion.

The governorship of the Nether-
lands had made Henry of Nassau
familiar with the interests of the
empire, and his gratitude to the
Archduke may have bound him to
the cause of Charles. The young
Emperor acknowledged, in the event,
that to this powerful and zealous
friend he was largely indebted for
the crown; and, as a proof of his
gratitude, Henry was selected to
place the diadem of the Csesars on
his head at the coronation. But his
fortunes were not yet complete. On
the conclusion of the peace, he was
deputed by Charles to do the stipu-
lated homage to France for the coun-
ties of Flanders and Artois. The
French king, struck with his accom-
plishments, or anxious to conciliate
so distinguished a noble, offered him
the hand of Claudia, sister of Phili-
bert Chelon, the Prince of Orange.
By this marriage, the principality of
Orange came into the family ; Phi-
libert dying childless, and his terri-
tories descending to his nephew,
Prince Reveus, the son of Henry
and Claudia.

The fortunes of the second bro-
ther, William, were still more me-
morable. He distinguished himself
by his early and intrepid adoption
of Protestantism, when this adop-
tion menaced him with the power of
the most profligate and formidable
tyranny that ever crushed the hu-
man mind; and from him was de-
scended a son, who was to fight the
battle of religious truth with a ge-
nius and courage worthy of the
highest name, and the most illustri-
ous cause. That son was the great
William of Nassau, born in 1533, at
Dillemberg, in the county of Nassau,
and, by the testament of Prince Re-
veus, who died without children,
Prince of Chalons and Orange.

The accession of Philip II. to the
Spanish throne threw the Nether-
lands into universal alarm. It threat-
ened them with all the pressures of
a foreign government, and that go-
vernment wielded by a tyrant with

1832.] The House

but two principles, bigotry and des-
potism. Charles had been stern and
haughty, but he was a Fleming. He
respected the public feelings, if he
was jealous of the public rights; and,
to the last, the people forgot, in the
bravery, the steadiness, and the gran-
deur of their countryman, the casual
oppression by which he made them
feel that he was their lord. But
with Philip they had no tie ; he was
of neither their country, their ha-
bits, nor their language; he disdain-
ed their nation ; he scorned that
commerce on which they prided
themselves ; and he hated the privi-
leges that distinguished them still
more justly than their opulence. He
was a Spaniard; and the character,
in that day, implied haughtiness,
contempt of industry, fiery persecu-
tion, and a passion for carrying all
things by the sword. Spain had ta-
ken the lead for a century in war; but
it was war unmitigated by even those
ruder graces that in other lands con-
cealed its deformity. The Spanish
Bellona wore no embroidered gar-
ment, and no armour glittering from
the hands of the " artificer of the
gods." She was a naked savage,
from head to foot dipped in blood,
stalking through the field with pro-
digious power, but merciless in her
triumphs, and knowing no close to
conquest but massacre. The French
of that day were the cavaliers of
Europe, the Germans the soldiers,
the Italians the hirelings, and the
Spaniards the prize-fighters.

The long duration of the Gothic
and Moorish contests had turned
the people into desperadoes, and the
chieftains into tyrants. A perverted
religion had at once inflamed their
pride and hardened their hearts.
Their seclusion from other countries
had made them ignorant of the gene-
ral progress of manners in Europe,
while their conquest of the Moors
had swelled the national insolence,
by the double triumph over enemies
and infidels. To invest this power-
ful and extraordinary people with
the highest facilities for disturbing
Europe, there was but one thing still
required, — money. The Spaniard
was poor, and the exhaustion of his
country by a war of seven centuries,
not less than his original scorn of
commerce, seemed to place him at
an immeasurable distance from the

of Orange. S63

command of wealth. But there are
resources in the system of things
that singularly baffle the calcula-
tions of man. Suddenly, and by a
change little short of miraculous, a
stream of gold was poured in upon
Spain — an influx of wealth that made
all past opulence poor, covered a
nation to which the poorest commu-
nity of Europe had been rich. The
magnificent discovery of the Western
World opened a treasure-house to
the Spaniard, that, even to our day,
neither national prodigality, nor the
vanity of kings, had been able to ex-
haust ; and which continued pouring
forth its gold and jewels, until the
time came for retaliating tyranny by
rebellion, and the long servitude of
South America was righted by the
sword.

Charles V. had resigned his domi-
nions on the 25th of October, 1555,
in Brussels, in the presence of an
assemblage of princes and nobles
worthy of so solemn an occasion.
The German empire was given to
Ferdinand his brother; but his son
Philip, constituted sovereign of the
remaining and much more powerful
share of his dominions, became in
one day King of Naples, Sicily,Spain,
and Duke of the Netherlands.

All power is comparative ; and, in
the scale of Europe, in the sixteenth
century, the tremendous power of
Philip made all other sovereignty
kick the beam. While England was
rude, still weakened by her civil
wars, and embittered by religious
distractions, — Germany, but the frag-
ments of kingdoms, struggling for
superiority or for existence, and still
more enfeebled by religious distrac-
tions,— France, worn out by foreign
defeat, festering with party struggles,
and already feeling the first throes of
that terrible conflict in which cor-
ruption, the civil sword, and foreign
violence, were to make the name of
the League conspicuous among the
calamities of nations, — Philip, in
Spain, governed a nation of the first
warriors of the world ; in Italy, the
masters of the Oriental trade, the
most brilliant known ; and in the
Netherlands, the most opulent com-
munities, the most unrivalled manu-
facturers, and the most vigorous, in-
telligent, and lordly race of mer-
chants that ever traversed the seas.

But the Spanish King was a native

364

barbarian. He had the haughtiness
of his nation, without their magna-
nimity ; he was by his nature a lover
of human misery. He delighted in
cold blood. All things combined to
make him the most consummate of
tyrants. Education had formed him
for a bigot; the great talents, and
universal power, of his celebrated
father had made him envious of the
fame which he had not the faculties
to reach; and he resolved to be a
conqueror, without military science
or courage, and a despot, without the
art to conciliate, or the power to
bow his people to chains.

The Netherlands were the country
of freedom, and Philip's first exploit
was to overthrow their privileges.
A secret article in the treaty of
Gateau Cambresis bound his late
enemy to assist him with the French
troops in his design ; and thus forti-
fied, he summoned the memorable
assembly of the States at Ghent, in
July 1559. But he was met, at the
first step, by an opposition whose
source he could scarcely develope.
His specious declarations of respect
for the national independence, were
met by plain demands that he should
give effect to his words by realities,
that he should retrench his imposts,
send back the foreign garrisons, and
limit the high offices of state to na-
tives. The last stipulation for once
overcame the political wiliness of
the tyrant. He burst out with the
indignant question — " Am I not a
Spaniard ? Would you deprive
me?"

His first attempt had now obvious-
ly failed, and in wrath he determined
to return to Spain, and there brood
over some new project of dissimula-
tion and revenge. One of those
nobles who waited on him to pay
their homage at his departure was
the Governor of Zealand, William,
Prince of Orange. His last com-
mand was characteristic. It was an
injunction to William to expedite the
death of a number of citizens sus-
pected of Protestantism. This cruel
command could scarcely have been
heard by the noble nature of William
without some cloud on his brow.
Philip's sagacity had probably long
suspected the allegiance of William
to his career of perfidy. But he
seems now to have found instant
confirmation in his countenance. He

The House of Orange.

[Feb.

charged him on the spot with having
been the secret cause of his defeat.
The Prince simply stated, that all
which had been done was " the pub-
lic act of the States." Philip, once
more forgetting his disguise, shook
him by the arm, and furiously ex-
claimed— " No, it was not the States,
but you, you; you!" (No son los
estados, puo vos, vos, vos /) He now
sailed for Spain, never to return.

William, whom his nation still call
by the well-deserved title of Vader
William, the true father of his coun-
try, was the eldest of the numerous
progeny, five sons and seven daugh-
ters, of the Count of Nassau, by
Juliana Countess of Stolberg. It is
no superstition to follow, in the lives
of men destined for great influences
on the world, the training by which
Providence seems to prepare them
for greatness. The grace of William's
countenance, or gratitude for the
services of his family, had made him
in his boyhood a favourite of the
Emperor Charles, by whom he had
been taken to Court, educated in all
the knowledge of that day of pro-
found and active statesmanship, and
trained to military command. Charles
had evidently conceived so high an
opinion of his sagacity, that even
when but a boy, his pupil was ad-
mitted to the most secret councils of
the empire, and was present at the
private interviews with ambassa-
dors. As a more open distinction,
William, at twenty, was appointed
bearer of the imperial crown to Fer-
dinand; and by a still more import-
ant distinction, passing over all his
generals, the Emperor placed him,
still a youth of twenty-two, at the
head of all his troops in the Nether-
lands, with the title of Generalissi-
mo. William's name at the court
was descriptive — it was, Silence.

Philip was a bigot still more than
a tyrant ; and his religious zeal was
more formidable than his thirst of
power. The tyrant strikes but at
those who resist his authority; the
bigot includes in the more sweeping
sentence, all who dissent from his
opinion. The tyrant's violence is
public, the resistance is plain, the
victims are numbered. The bigot's
violence is personal, its grounds are
secret, and therefore undefinable.
Where suspicion constitutes guilt,
no innocence can be secure; and

1832.]

The House of Orange.

where the innocent and the guilty
are incapable of being distinguished
but by the capricious judgment of a
mind impregnated with the love of
blood, the cruelty will be limited
only by the want of power.

Philip felt his despotism restricted
by the great lords and opulent burgh-
ers of the Flemish provinces. But the
populace lay below the sweep of his
sceptre. He declared the Reforma-
tion a crime against the state, and
thus brought the blow down to the
most obscure. At once to signalize
his zeal for Rome, and to scourge a
people whom, both higli and low,
he hated, he resolved to establish
the Inquisition in the Netherlands.

It was established in the year 1566.
The provinces were at first disgust-
ed at the sight of the monks and
familiars of that dreadful tribunal
stalking through the country, and
pronouncing insults to common sense,
and abominations to the spirit of
Christianity, in the name of Heaven.
They were next alarmed by their
cruelty, and finally roused into in-
surrection by the necessity of self-
defence. The whole of the southern
provinces became a scene, first of
Romish execution, and next of po-
pular revenge. The peasants aban-
doned their tillage, the workmen
their manufactories, all armed them-
selves, and all exercised a fierce re-
taliation on the monks, and their at-
tendant ministers. The country was
suddenly in a state of ruin.

To retrieve this ruin, now be-
came the object of the great lords.
The marriage of the Prince of Parma
with the Vice-Queen, brought the
majority of the higher ranks to Brus-
sels. There they communicated their
thoughts on the conduct of govern-
ment ; and the manifesto of a confe-
deracy was drawn up by De Marnix,
Lord of Aldigande, a man of ability
and fame, and signed by the leading
barons. The Inquisition was the
-chief object of complaint in this cele-
brated paper, which concluded with
a solemn pledge never to remit their
efforts for its removal. This bold
measure took the council of govern-
ment totally by surprise. Their de-
cision was fortunately postponed un-
til the confederation had acquired
firmness, and in April 1566, when
the council at last met to give their
final determination, they were para-

t patriots dined together. De
)de, Marquis of Utrecht, a

365

lysed by the sight of the confederates
assembling in Brussels, and march-
ing in procession to lay their re-
monstrance before the Vice-Queen.

The confederates now wanted no-
thing but a connexion with the lower
ranks to give them full vigour, and
they found it in so simple a thing as
a popular title. The transaction
bears a striking resemblance to our
own habits, and reminds us of our
ancient alliance in manners and free-
dom.

The confederates celebrated their
meeting by a public dinner, a thing
so purely free, that under no despo-
tic government has it ever been
adopted. Three hundred of those
eminent
Brederoc

man of the most ancient birth, fond of
distinction, possessed of remarkable
powers of popular address, presided.
It was the complete type of a great
English political dinner. The name
which they should take was the topic,
when one of the members started up,
and indignantly observed of the in-
solence of the government, that on
their remonstrance being presented,
one of the council, the Count de
Berlaimont,had contemptuously told
the Princess of Parma, that " she had
nothing to fear from such a gang of
mendicants" (Gueux.)

The name was caught by instinct.
Scorn for the sarcasm may have done
something in the choice; while poli-
tical sagacity may have done more.
The title was instantly hailed with uni-
versal acclamation. To make the im-
pression unalterable, De Brederode,
without delay, added the deed to
the word, descended from his chair,
re-appeared with a beggar's wallet on
his back, and a beggar's wooden cup
in his hand, swore to the cause, drank
the general health in his cup, and
passed it round. As it circled through
the hall, each man pledged himself
to the cause. The wallet then went
its round, was finally nailed to the
wall in the general presence, and
there, amid shouts of " Vivent les
Gueux /" hung, as the emblem of the
night, the new palladium of Flemish
liberty.

The Prince of Orange and the
Counts Egrnont and Horn had, by a
remarkable exertion, abstained from
adding their names to the confede-
racy ; yet, on this night, by an equal-

3G6

ly remarkable coincidence, they en-
tered the banqueting-room together,
were received with the distinction
due to their high rank, and suffered
themselves to be forced to join in the
festivity. " Vivent les Gueux /" rang
on every side round them. The ta-
lismanic cup was put to their lips,
and they unconsciously allowed
themselves, as they afterwards de-
clared, to give way to this burst of
irregular patriotism.

But the pledge of the night did not
vanish with its festivity,, The con-
federates began by adopting the usual
garb of the mendicant. The citizens
of the Flemish capital, who had ga-
zed, but a few days before, with pride
and admiration on the stately proces-
sion of their native nobility, were
now not less astonished to see them
transformed into pilgrims. The grey
cloak of the bedesman had univer-
sally superseded the velvet and the
sables ; their gold-hilted daggers
were laid aside for the clasp-knife,
their knightly swords for the simple
blade, with the wooden cup in its hilt.
All their ornaments were confined to
a gold medal on the breast, bearing
on one face the image of Philip, and
on the other the expressive emblem
of two hands grasping each other,
with the motto, " Even to the wallet"
(Jusgu'd la besace). Their numerous
servants and retainers were clothed
in the same costume ; and Brussels
in a moment looked like the head-
quarters of a new levy of the Cru-
saders.

Two years of various fortune fol-
lowed. The great sects of Anabap-
tists, Cal vinists, and Lutherans, equal-
ly sustained the popular spirit against
their common terror and hatred, the
Inquisition. Immense prayer-meet-
ings, headed by popular preachers,
began to be held in the fields, to
which the people came from all parts
of the country, and came armed. Fear
produced fanaticism, and fanaticism
produced popular violence. The
Romish churches were robbed, or
torn to the ground. The troops were
let loose to retaliate on the furious
peasantry. The country was cover-
ed with blood and flame. The Spanish
King still dissembled, and the confe-
derates still attempted to negotiate ;
but war was inevitable. The Prince
of Orange, already marked out as the
head of the rebellion, received a let-
ter from Madrid, which gave him full

The House of Orange.

[Feb.

information of the proceedings of the
Council. He decided to retire, until
he could strike a more decisive blow
for his country ; and after vainly en-
deavouring to persuade his friend,
Count Egmont, to retire with him,
and abandon all confidence in Philip's
offers of conciliation, heleft the States,
and withdrew with his family into
his German dominions.

The heaviest scourge of kingly and
monkish persecution was now to fall
upon the unhappy Netherlander. In
August of the year 1567, a year which
wijl be calendared for ever in the an-
nals of massacre, the Duke of Alva
entered Brussels at the head of a
Spanish army. The force was but
fifteen thousand, but they were the
" invincibles" of Europe, a movable
column of the royal force, which,
quartered through the country, and
in possession of all the garrison
towns, had already held the nation in
awe.

Alva was a true Spaniard, and
might be taken for a representative
of his country and his age. He had
great faculties for war and state, ac-
tivity, resource, knowledge of go-
vernment, and the most intrepid va-
lour. But his character was darken-
ed by cruelty the most remorseless,
and his knowledge only urged him
to secure obedience by force. His
political sagacity had but one secret
for every thing, dissimulation while
the victim was not in his power, and
instant execution when it was. Spain,
his native country, had taught him
ferocity ; Germany, where his chief
experience had been acquired, had
taught him war; Italy had taught
him artifice ; and thus gloomy, dex-
terous, and profound, he arrived in
the Netherlands, to put in practice
all the fierce lessons of his life, to
trample down man in the field and
the dungeon, and exercise with equal
and sanguinary delight the scaffold
and the sword.

Alva's first proceeding was to sum-
mon a general meeting of the coun-
cil of state and the Knights of the
Golden Fleece, these including the
chief nobility. The unhappy Counts
Egmont arid Horn, still unwarned
by the parting advice of the Prince
of Orange, and urged by their fate,
attended the summons. They were
instantly seized, and sent off to Ghent
under a strong Spanish escort.
Philip had by this act declared war

1832.]

The House of Orange.

367

against his people ; disguise was
at an end, and lie disclosed the
whole guilty physiognomy of his
system. By a royal proclamation the
decrees of the hated Council of Trent
were made law, the conciliatory
measures of the Vice-queen were re-
voked, and last and most abhorred of
all, the Inquisition was re-establish-
ed in its full atrocity. His next step
was to subvert all law, and place the
lives of the people in the hands of a
council of twelve, before whom
every man who incurred his suspi-
cions was to be tried. We have had
but one tribunal in history that could
rival this chosen seat of murder, the
revolutionary tribunal of France; but
its cruelty was more merciful. The
career of the revolutionary victims
was short ; they perished at the mo-
ment by the bullet or the sabre.
The cruelty of the Spanish tribunal
enjoyed the agonies of its victims
still more than their death. It pro-
tracted pain through every refine-
ment of torture. It enlisted famine,
nakedness, the tardy death of the
dungeon, the miseries of the scourge
and the rack, the terrors of death in
public by the axe and the fagot, the
deeper terror of death in secret — un-
consoled by popular sympathy, or
the glories of having given a heroic
testimony to the truth — into the ser-
vice of a tyranny, which, not con-
tented with infliction here, denoun-
ced the sufferings of a future world,
haughtily claimed the privileges of a
minister of the divine wrath, and by
a daring impiety, beyond the reach
and almost beyond the imagination
of man, asserted the power to kill
alike the body and the soul.

But Alva missed his principal
blow. " Have they," said Cardinal
Granville, the former minister of
Philip to the Netherlands—" Have
they taken Silence?" (William's well-
known name.) On his being answer-
ed, " No."— « Well, then," was the
crafty politician's reply, "if that fish
has escaped the net, Alva's draught
is worth nothing."

But the time was now at hand for
this great patriot and warrior to ap-
pear. Alva's commission had vir-
tually superseded all other authority,
and the Princess of Parma, after
having found herself turned into a
cipher, solicited her resignation, and
withdrew to Italy, to die. The trials

of the imprisoned nobles commen-
ced with a palpable determination
to shed their blood. Between the ar-
raignment and deaths of the Counts
Egmont and Horn, there were but
two days. On the 3d of June they
were brought to trial, and on the 5th,
1568, they were beheaded in the
great square of Brussels. Then fol-
lowed a long course of devastation
among the nobles. The scaffold flow-
ed with the most ancient blood of
the land. The sittings of the tribunal
exhausted even the murderers who
presided. They were often awoke
from stupefaction or sleep to pro-
nounce sentence, and the sentence
was always " to the scaffold."

But all was imperfect without the
seizure of the Prince of Orange. He
was summoned to appear before the
council, on pain of confiscation. He
excused himself, on the plea, " that
as a Knight of the Golden Fleece, he
could not be judged but by the king
and the knights." His estates were
confiscated without delay, his city of
Breda was entered by a Spanish gar-
rison, and, the severest blow of all,
his eldest son, William, whom he had
left at the University of Louvain, in
reliance on the immunity and sacred-
ness of the place, was seized and
sent to Spain, there to be kept as an
hostage, and educated in Popery.

There is a time for all things ; and
history has no more important les-
son, than that the highest abilities,
and the most righteous cause, may
be thrown away by hurrying that
time. During the last ten years from
the accession of Philip, the Prince of
Orange possessed sufficient grounds
for taking up arms, but his sagacity
waited for the ripening of time.
Within the last two years, he had
been personally urged by his friends
and his brother to anticipate the
vengeance of Philip, of which the as-
surance lay before him in documents
on his table, by heading a national
insurrection. Still he felt, by the
strength of his own extraordinary
intellect, or perhaps still more by the
high direction of that Providence
which raises up great men for its
own great purposes, that the time
was not come, and he resisted the soli-
citation. But the time was now fully
come ; he prepared to throw his life
and sovereignty into the scale, and
from this hour never faltered.

368

The House

The scene which the ancient and
opulent provinces of the Netherlands
exhibited under Alva's government,
had already startled and outraged all
the feelings of Europe. The cities
were solitudes — the fields left waste ;
or both city and field were the haunt
by day of famine and beggary, and
by night of armed multitudes, infla-
med by ruin and revenge against the
oppressor, and, in their blind rage,
confounding the innocent with the
guilty. The soldier was now the
only minister of justice — Alva was
the sole master of authority; and
to give the most fearful heightening
of human evil in a word, the spirit
of the government was The INQUISI-
TION.

But powerful elements of resist-
ance as are the despair and wrath of
a ruined people, William had seen
too much of the caprices of popular
feeling, to rely on the multitude for
the firm establishment of liberty. A
more solid foundation was laid for
his building. The Protestant princes
of Germany had taken alarm at the
progress of the Spaniards. Their re-
ligious feelings were pained by the
sufferings of their fellow Christians ;
and under the double impulse of
state necessity and a common faith,
they offered their assistance to the
champion of the Reformed. William
raised an army in Germany, and,
with the prayers of every Protestant
people to aid him in the righteous
cause, entered Flanders at four
points, and marched to meet the ene-
my without delay. The first encoun-
ter of this memorable war was on
the 24th of May 1568, in Friesland.
The division under his brothers,
Louis and Adolphus, fell upon the
Spaniards under the Duke of Arem-
berg,the governor, and Bracamonte,
at Heiligerlee. The impetuosity of
the charge was irresistible, and the
Spaniards were thrown into confu-
sion, and defeated with great slaugh-
ter. The victory was tarnished only
by the loss of Prince Adolphus. In
the heat of the encounter he singled
outD'Aremberg — they both fell mor-
tally wounded. But the victory was
an omen of the fate of the war.

A long succession of combats fol-
lowed, and William experienced the
fickleness of fortune. But he felt
them like one whose strength was in
the conviction that his cause was

of Orange. [Feb.

truth. He never despaired. From
the lowest point of depression, he
often sprang up to unexpected vic-
tory. His genius shone brighter in
the darkness of his circumstances.
Some gallant capture, some daring
surprise, signalized every movement,
until the burden of the war devol-
ved upon his single mind, and he
gave proof that this alone was want-
ing to his victory. Unembarrassed
by the council, or the aid of others,
he at last brought out his own rich
resources with greater vigour; he
was now not merely the soldier, but
the soul of the Reformed cause, and
proved that the higher orders of in-
tellect and heart are never nearer
triumph than when they seem most
undone.

It indulges the natural feeling of
justice to think, that the two authors
of these calamities did not altogether
escape retribution. Philip was the
most unhappy of kings. By his tem-
perament, gloomy and miserable, he
found food for his misery in the dis-
sensions of his house. His son, Car-
los, died during the war, and died
by his command. His queen was said
to have died of poison, administer-
ed probably by his jealousy. Spain,
tortured by the Inquisition, and af-
frighted by the calamities of the pa~
lace, became doubly gloomy ; and of
all the men of Spain, the most self-
tormented was its master.

Alva too suffered in his turn. His
ferocity was at length felt to be im-
politic ; and the Council of Castile,
lessoned into common sense and hu-
manity by the sword of the Prince,
sent an order for his recall. In 1573
he gave up the government, and re-
turned to Spain, to submit to the
frowns of a spirit as tyrannical and
bloody as his own. He was employ-
ed no more ; and retiring to Lisbon,
died in 1582, aged seventy-four. It
was his boast, that in the six years
of his government, he had put eigh-
teen thousand citizens to death on
the scaffold. The boast ought to have
been inscribed on his tomb. It would
alone have entitled him to immortal
infamy.

Peace and war alternated under
the successive governments of Re-
quesens and Don John of Austria,
the hero of Lepanto. But the catas-
trophe still advanced. A more dis-
tinguished victory than was ever

1832.]

The House of Orange.

869

gained in the field, was achieved by
the " Union" of the provinces of
Gueldres, Zutphen, Holland, Zealand,
Friesland, and the Oinmelands ; and,
in 1579, the REPUBLIC was founded
by the twenty-five articles constitu-
ting the Treaty of Utrecht.

A military nation is not always a
manly one; and the meanest and
most atrocious expedients for getting
rid of an enemy, were frequent in the
Spanish councils. Don John of Aus-
tria, the bastard brother of Philip,
was taken off by poison, at the early
age of thirty-three ,• and the murder
was fixed on Philip, who was said to
have suspected a treaty of marriage
between this renowned soldier and
our Queen Elizabeth, by which Don
John was to have assumed the sove-
reignty of the Netherlands. But if
there had been a doubt of Philip's
sanction of the principle of secret
murder, it was decided -by his pro-
clamation against the Prince of
Orange, published June the 15th,
1580. This edict may serve as an
irrefragable evidence of the Prince's
claims to the gratitude of his coun-
try ; for its chief charge was his " ha-
ving introduced liberty of conscience
into the Netherlands." The docu-
ment is a singular combination of
royal wrath with personal malignity.
It reproaches William with having,
in forgetfulness of the favours of
Charles the Fifth, " rebelled against
his son;" and declares him a " re-
bel, heretic, and hypocrite, like to
Cain and Judas ; of an obdurate con-
science, a villain, the source of the
Netherland troubles; a plague to
Christendom, and an enemy to all
mankind." But the practical part of
this unkingly denunciation was more
formidable. It declared that the
King did thereby " prosecute and
banish him out of all his dominions,
forbidding any of his subjects to con-
verse with, or relieve him, giving all
his estates to those who would take
them, and promising, on the word of
a. king, and as the minister of Al-
mighty God, that to the man who
would deliver him alive or dead, or
would take away his life, should be
given, or to his heirs, five thousand
golden crowns, with the free pardon
of all past crimes, with a patent of
nobility, if he were not already no-
ble, and a reward to all who assisted
him in the deed !" And adding, " fur-

VOL. XXXI. NO. CXCI.

thermore, that all the adherents of
the prince should be banished, and
their lives and estates given to who-
soever would take them." To this
document, which sinks the civilized
character below the savage, William
replied by an " Apology," whose
strong facts, and stern contempt,
must have cut the tyrant to the heart.
He declared in the face of Europe,
that all the miseries of the Nether-
lands were due to the Spanish Coun-
cils, as the result of their attempt
" to reduce the country to absolute
slavery, in both religion and civil
rights — acting more like madmen
than politicians — like Rehoboam.
following the advice of a weak wo-
man, and the Pope's creature, Gran-
ville, who had told the King, that the
father had chastised the people with
whips, but the son ought to whip
them with scorpions — and that for
this purpose the Inquisition had been
brought in, which was the cause of
all the public commotions. And if
he had taken up arms against the
King, was there not Henry the Bas-
tard of Castile, the great grandfather
of Philip himself, who had, with his
own hand, slain King Pedro the
Cruel, his legitimate brother, and
taken his kingdom, whose successor
Philip was, and wore his crown to
this day ?"

Having thus galled the tyrant's
pride, the Apology laid down the
scarcely less galling principles of po-
pular allegiance. " Who can doubt,"
says this wise and nervous paper,
" that there is a reciprocal bond be-
tween prince and subject, by which,
when the prince infringes his oath,
the subject is freed from his alle-
giance? If the King of Spain was
admitted to be Duke of Brabant, on
certain conditions which he swore
to maintain, and yet has notoriously
violated, the nobility are called on to
endeavour, by arms, (since no other
means are to be found,) to preserve
and defend their liberties, or be ac-
counted guilty of treachery, perjury,
and rebellion, to the States of their
country."

To the infamy of the proposal for
his murder, the Prince replied by
the most indignant'of all sarcasms, —
" Though the King had offered mo-
ney to take awayjiis life, he did not
doubt of God's protection ; yet that
certainly the man could never be ac-
2 A

370

The House of Orange.

[Feb.

counted a gentleman who would mur-
der for money, except by such Spani-
ards as, being descended from Moors
and Jews, retained that quality from
their ancestors, who offered money
to Judas to betray our Lord and Sa-
viour Jesus Christ into their hands,
that they might crucify him."

The paper closed with an address
to the States-General, pledging him
anew to their cause; " he had al-
ready, for their sakes, lost his estates,
his brothers' lives, and his son's li-
berty; he was now willing to lay
down his own life for the peace of
his country, or to expend it in her
defence." The States answered him
by a high testimony to his merits and
services, and desire that he should
retain their administration, and the
singular and honourable offer of a
body guard.

But the highest value of history
is in its reinforcement to the prin-
ciples that make nations free. The
States signalized their triumph by a
document which deserves to be im-
mortal. It was the chief corner-
stone of our own glorious Revolution.
This admirable paper, which bears
date 1581, just a century before, was
the " Edict of Renunciation against
the King of Spain," and discusses all
the grounds and limits of national
allegiance.

" It being acknowledged by all
mankind that a prince is ordained of
God to preserve his subjects from
all injury and violence, even as a
shepherd defends his sheep, and that
the people were never created to be
bondsmen and slaves to his will and
pleasure, whether his commands are
right or wrong; but that he is ad-
vanced to that dignity to govern them
by equity and re'ason, and to cherish
them as a father doth his children,
even with the peril of his life ; — if a
king fail therein, and, instead of pro-
tecting his subjects, shall strive to
destroy and deprive them of their
ancient laws and privileges, and en-
deavour to make them bond slaves,
his subjects are thereby discharged
from all subjection to such a sove-
reign, and are to reckon and esteem
him a tyrant, and that he is absolute-
ly fallen from his former dignity and
sovereignty ; and the Estates of the
country may lawfully and freely
abandon him, and elect another prince
to protect and defend them, in his

place ; especially when his subjects,
neither by prayers nor petitions, can
soften his heart, nor divert him from
his tyrannical courses, since they
then have no other way to preserve
their ancient liberties, their wives,
children, and estates, which, accord-
ing to the laws of God and nature,
they are bound to defend."

The Edict then proceeds to the di-
rect expulsion of Philip from the so-
vereignty.

'* Now, it being apparent to all the
world that King Philip of Spain, gi-
ving ear to certain wicked counsel-
lors, hath, in every particular, bro-
ken all the oaths and obligations
which he had entered into for the
defence of these Provinces, and hath
determined to enslave, ruin, and de-
stroy them, — WE, the States-Gene-
ral, being pressed by extreme neces-
sity, do, by a general resolution and
consent, declare the King of Spain to
be fallen from the government, do-
minion, and jurisdiction, of these
countries. And we are resolved
never hereafter to acknowledge him
for our prince and sovereign lord ;
but do hereby declare ourselves, and
all the inhabitants of these Provinces,
to be for ever discharged from all
manner of oaths and allegiance to the
said King. July 26, 1581."

The Netherlands had been for
some time contemplated as an open
sovereignty, and the loose ambition
of the princes of Europe was direct-
ed to its crown. The Archduke
Matthias made his proposals, was re-
ceived for a while, and then dis-
missed for a more promising rival,
the Duke d'Alen^on, afterwards
Duke of Anjou, who, with the alli-
ance of France, was presumed to be
on the point of bringing the alliance
of England, by a marriage with Eli-
zabeth. The Prince of Orange, to
whom the sovereignty was the right
of his valour and hazards, again
wisely awaited his time, and merely
secured, by the treaty with Anjou,
the subordinate sovereignty of Hol-
land and Zealand, and the lordship
of Friesland, with the title of Stadt-
holder.

But he was to receive a higher
advance in popularity by an act in-
tended for his destruction. Eliza-
beth had finally rejected Anjou's suit.
Always jealous of her power, per-
haps affected by the levities insepar-

1832.] The House

able from a Frenchman, still more
justly influenced by her regard for
the feelings of her people, which
were all hostile to her marriage, the
queen, now fifty years old, resigned
coquetry, and dismissed her politi-
cal lover. But her rejection was
softened by personal compliment,
and by the still more substantial boon
of an auxiliary fleet. Anjou, thus
sustained, saw all rivalry disappear
before him, entered the Netherlands
in triumph, and was installed Duke
of Brabant in the midst of great
public festivities.

Philip's murderous proclamation
was still without effect, but it had
sunk deep into the heart of Gas-
par de Anastro, a Spaniard, whose
speculations in trade had failed,
and who was living in gloomy po-
verty in Antwerp. The sum of-
fered for the prince's assassination
would retrieve his affairs at once.
He opened his design to the Spanish
governor of Gravelines, through
whom he obtained a promise, under
the king's own hand, of a sum of
money greatly exceeding the ori-
ginal offer.* But Anastro, either
a coward, or afraid of being suspect-
ed and seized, delegated the act to
a clerk in his house, a youth of
twenty-three, called Juanillo, or, by
his Flemish name, Jareguay. Jesuit-
ism, the fruitful mother of guilt,
could not suffer this crime to pass
without taking her share. Juanillo
was first confessed by a friar, and
promised pardon and paradise. He
was further told that a spell should
be put upon him, by which he might
enter the prince's presence invisibly,
and then, disguised in the dress of
one of the Duke of Anjou' s attend-
ants, and blessed with the formal be-
nediction of the priest, he was sent
forward in full saintship to commit
murder.

That such monstrous perversions
of the common feelings of nature,
and the simplest dictates of religion,
could find a way into the human
niind, would be incredible, if it were
fcot proved by many a bloody page
in the annals of Popery.

The 18th of March, the birthday
of the Duke of Anjou, was fixed on

of Orange. 571

for the deed. On that day the Prince
of Orange was to give an entertain-
ment to the Duke in Antwerp, and
among the multitude of guests and
attendants, the stranger might escape
detection. He entered the palace
unobserved. His first purpose was to
shoot the prince while he was at
dinner; and he attempted to ap-
proach the table, but some obstacles
continually occurring, he was then
forced to wait until the guests rose.
He planted himself in a niche in the
hall through which the prince must
pass, and on his coming close pre-
sented a petition, and in the next
instant fired at his head. William
was, at the time, pointing out to a
nobleman some tapestry on which
the Spanish cruelties had been de-
signed, and this slight but character-
istic circumstance probably saved
his life. The pistol was fired so
near, that it burned his ruff and his
beard, but the ball struck obliquely,
entering the throat, breaking one of
his teeth, and coming out at the left
cheek, but without hurting the
tongue.

William fell, covered with blood.
All was confusion. Some of the
guards rushed forward to help the
prince, some to seize the assassin.
Policy would have been satisfied
with his arrest, for the discovery of
his accomplices. But there was no
time to think. One of the halberd-
iers drove his spear through the
murderer, while at the same mo-
ment a page plunged his sword into
his bosom. He was dead, but the
papers, by a singular oversight, left
in his possession, revealed the name
and practices of the conspirators.
Frogs' bones, rags, and the other
components of amulets, were found
upon him, and showed that the
wretched criminal had been wrought
on by superstition, not less than by
avarice. His master, Anastro, fled,
but Venero, his fellow-clerk, to whom
the design had been first proposed,
and Zimmerman, the Dominican,
who had promised him paradise,
were put to death. In the assassin's
pocket the Jesuit catechism was
found, with a prayer to the angel
Gabriel, imploring " his intercession

* The sum is stated by some at 28,000 ducats, by others 2S,000 golden crowns,

372

The House of Orange.

[Feb.

with the Almighty and the Virgin
Mary" to speed him in the murder.
As if the proof of Popish interposi-
tion was not yet sufficiently glaring,
the Jesuits in subsequent years open-
ly recognised the criminals as mar-
tyrs, gathered their remnants, and
exposed them as relics to the wor-
ship of the people.

The news of this atrocious attempt
spread consternation through the
country. The first impression of the
citizens of Antwerp was, that the
Duke of Anjou had taken this un-
worthy means of freeing himself
from a dangerous rival, and the first
impulse was a determination to ex-
pel the French. But William, from
the bed where he expected hourly
to breathe his last, wrote to the ma-
gistrates that the assassin was a Spa-
niard, and entirely exonerated the
Duke. Spain exulted in the belief
that he was slain. The Reformed in
every kingdom lamented for him as
a loss to mankind. No man of his
century was so much the object of
European interest, as a champion or
an enemy. But the grave did not
close upon the panegyric. The
wound was so dangerous, that the
bleeding could be stopped only by
a succession of persons for nine days
pressing their thumbs upon it night
and day. But it was stopped at last,
and the prince, to the wonder and
delight of the people, completely re-
covered.

Anjou had been an unhappy selec-
tion for the head of a free state.
Prodigal, profligate, and despotic,
he determined to overthrow the con-
stitution, and be a sovereign by the
right of the sword. In 1583 he made
a sudden attack upon Antwerp, with
three thousand French troops, was
beaten by the citizens, driven in dis-
grace from the country ; and when,
after long negotiation, he was about
to be suffered within its borders
again, died suddenly, as was sup-
posed, by poison, at an age almost
too early for ambition, power, or vi-
cissitude ; he expired at twenty-
nine.

The Prince of Orange was now
within sight of the rank worthy of
his services and virtues. The Uni-
ted Provinces offered him their so-
vereignty. The time and place of
his inauguration were appointed,
and he had already arrived at Delft,

where this high ceremony was to be
performed, when an event occurred
which put an end to his labours and
his life — to all but his fame.

In May, 1584, a man of a striking
countenance and figure, about twen-
ty-seven, of the name of Balthazar
Gerard, made his appearance at the
prince's palace in Delft, bearing a
letter, signed " Francis Guyon," re-
presenting him as a friend of the Re-
formed, and making offers of intelli-
gence concerning the Spanish coun-
cils. In a few days after, he again
presented himself, and exhibited to
a member of the council deputed to
communicate with him, some blank
passports of Count Mansfeldt, the
Spanish general, as capable of being
turned to the use of the States. The
man's manners, and the detail of his
adventures, attracted the prince.
His address must have been of no
common order ; for William once
suffered him to bring intelligence
even into his chamber, as he lay in
bed, when the villain, as he after-
wards declared, was on the verge of
stabbing him.

He now became affectedly pious,
went perpetually to churches and
chapels, and studied religious books.
Having thus disarmed suspicion, he
applied formoney to fit himself outfor
a journey, which he was directed to
make to Count Biron, in France, re-
lative to some use of the passports.
Ten or twelve crowns were given
him. With these he bought pistols.
Now prepared for the murder, he
waited on the prince as he was go-
ing to dinner, and asked a passport
for his journey. But the bloody busi-
ness in his mind, so near its perpe-
tration, produced a wildness in his
voice and manner which startled
the princess ; and, in her alarm and
aversion, she asked the prince what
he could have to do with such a per-
son. William, strangely unsuspi-
cious in a time of universal treach-
ery, and with a decree of blood out
against himself, gently told her his
purpose, and passed on. After din-
ner, as he was ascending the stair-
case leading to the upper rooms, he
found his applicant again awaiting
him, holding a passport in his right
hand, as if for signature. A cloak was
thrown over his shoulder, conceal-
ing two pistols which he held under
his left arm. The prince had his foot

1832.]

The Mouse of Orange.

373

upon the first step, when the assassin
fired directly at his heart. Three
bullets completely penetrated his
body, entering at the left side, and
coming out at the right. The prince,
standing upright for a moment, but
feeling himself mortally wounded,
exclaimed, with the piety and the
patriotism which had been predomi-
nant through his life, " Oh my God !
take pity of my soul, for I am sore
wounded. My God, take pity of my
soul, and of this poor people !" His
strength now failing, he was support-
ed in the arms of one of his attend-
ants, who placed him upon the stairs.
As he lay evidently struggling with
death, the Countess of Schwartzen-
berg, his sister, knelt beside him, and
asked, if he did not recommend his
soul to the Lord Jesus Christ ? The
answer was a faint " Yes," with his
last breath. He was scarcely car-
ried back into the dinner room, when
he expired.

William died in the profession of
Calvinism, But his education, his
knowledge of mankind, or his vigour
of understanding, had rendered him
practically the Lutheran which he
had been theoretically reared. His
first teachers had been Lutheran;
his residence at the Court of Charles
had made him Roman Catholic ; the
habits of his country and his time
made him, at his maturer age, a pro-
fessor of Calvinism, but his toler-
ance, mildness, and magnanimity, en-
title him to a less exclusive name ;
he was a Christian.

The assassin, on this occasion, was
not sacrificed by the ill-judged zeal
of those who must have looked upon
his crime with repulsion and horror.
He attempted to escape, but was
taken; he even attempted to justify
himself, retorting on those who call-
ed him traitor, " That he was no
traitor, and had done only what
the King of Spain commanded him
-to do;" ending with the ferocious
denunciation, " If I have not slain
him, cursed be my ill fortune !"

But his stubbornness gave way
with the excitement of the hour, and
in prison he lamented that he had
yielded to the delusions of the Je-
suits of Dole, whom he charged as
the instigators of the murder; he
wished that he had remained an
humble tradesman in his own coun-
try of Burgundy, and not fallen into

this fury; but sullenly concluded
with — " What was[done could not be
undone, and he must pay for it!"
He was executed four days after the
murder with the savage severities of
the age, but he bore them with fierce
determination, as he had declared
that he would ; he died without a
groan.

William had left four sons and
eight daughters. But the eldest,
William, was a prisoner in Spain,
since the time of his seizure at the
University of Louvain. From thir-
teen to five-and-forty he was kept in
this captivity, and probably owed his
life only to the accident of having
had Philip himself for his godfather.

Maurice, the second son, was now
but seventeen years old. But the so-
lemnity of the oath which he took
over his father's dead body to follow
his principles, the necessities of the
time, and the genius and gallantry
already transpiring in this illustrious
son of an illustrious sire, made the
transfer of the government to him,
not less a matter of wise policy
than of national enthusiasm.

He found the first step of his ad-
ministration encumbered by difficul-
ties insurmountable to all but the
first rank of talent and intrepidity.
Alexander Farnese, the son of the
former Vice-queen, the Princess of
Parma, was at the head of the Spa-
nish army, 80,000 strong, in the Ne-
therlands, with the first military re-
putation in Europe, and deserving it
by the most consummate tactical
knowledge, followed by the most
unbroken good fortune. A scarcely
less formidable opponent was to be
found in the assistance of Lord Lei-
cester, the deputy of Elizabeth,
whose insolence and inaptitude had
thrown the States into utter confu-
sion. For four years Maurice seem-
ed to be hourly on the point of sink-
ing with his sinking country. But
despair is the heaviest crime that can
be committed in a righteous cause. A
deliverance was at hand from ano-
ther point of the horizon. The va-
nity and religious fury of Spain were
to inflict her own deathblow.

In May, 1587, the celebrated Ar-
mada set sail from Lisbon and Co-
runna for England. Its destruction
forms one of the proudest events in
a history memorable for signal ex-
ploits of conduct and courage. ft

The House of Orange.

374

perished in three days of battle. Of
its 140 ships of the line, but a me-
lancholy remnant ever returned;
and from that day the star of Spain
has gone down. The object of the
Armada was persecution, or exter-
mination. It was baffled by circum-
stances so striking, that even in the
glow of triumph, and the dejection
of overthrow, the combatants on
both sides cried out that the result
was more the work of Heaven than
of man. The cause of England was
holy, and well may she rejoice in
this proof, among a thousand others,
that the faithful defence of her free-
dom and her religion will never be
left without an ally alike superior
to human passion and human power.

With the fall of the Armada fell
the military renown of the Duke of
Parma. He was to have commanded
30,000 troops in the invasion. But
he came to the shore only to witness
the appalling spectacle of the Spa-
nish navy torn to pieces by the Eng-
lish cannon, or flying along in
flames. Mutual recrimination em-
bittered the correspondence between
the Admiral and the Duke ; and his
popularity at Court declined, as an
omen of his discomfiture in the
field.

A darker blight fell upon his name.
His letters were discovered, ac-
knowledging a share in the plot for
murdering the Great Prince of
Orange. This has been doubted, in
defiance of the evidence under his
own hand, on the ground of a great
soldier's honour. But he was an
Italian and a bigot, and a bigot's
slave — sufficient links to have bound
down a more reluctant mind.

Maurice began his career by dri-
ving the Duke of Parma from before
the walls of Bergen-op-zoom. He
followed up his success by twenty
years of battle ; the capture of forty
cities; the overthrow of the Spanish
armies in three general encounters,
the most remarkable of their time,
and by a long series of naval tri-
umphs, which placed the United
States in the first rank of maritime
powers,

Parma's clouded career was clo-
sed at the age of forty-nine. He died
in December, 1592, of the effects of a
wound received the year before, of
vexation, and, as it was asserted and
strongly believed, of poison, adminis-

[Feb.

tered by Philip's jealousy of his in-
fluence with the Spanish troops, and
his military name.

A succession of governors of the
Netherlands fell before the enterpri-
sing spirit of Maurice, but the battle
of Nieuport, (July 2, 1600,) would
alone have established his rank as a
consummate general.

The Archduke Albert had taken
the command of the Spanish forces
on his arrival in September, the year
before Maurice, by a singular no-
velty in Flemish war, attacked him
in the depth of winter, and drove in
the Spanish posts. But this expedi-
tion was merely the disguise for
another of a more decisive order.
Determining to strike a blow at the
heart of the Netherlands, Maurice,
with the most extraordinary secrecy,
embarked the whole movable force
of the States, 17,000 men, at Wal-
cheren, in June, sailed and landed at
Ghent, and instantly marched to the
investment of Nieuport.

The Archduke, indignant at the
surprise, suddenly collected a force
of twelve thousand men, hastened to
repel the invader, and began the cam-
paign by a successful attack on the
vanguard of the enemy, consisting
of three thousand troops, chiefly
Scottish companies under Count Er-
nest of Nassau. Maurice was, for
once, surprised in turn by this da-
ring attack ; but the Scots stood their
ground with national valour, bore
the brunt of the whole Spanish line,
and retreated with the loss of a third
of their force, only when they saw
the army of Maurice prepared and
moving up to action. The forces
were nearly equal on both sides.
But some source of peculiar dismay
seems to have lowered the usual gal-
lant countenance of the Princes of
Orange; for the commissioners of
the States retired from the field to
Ostend, and Maurice, calling round
him his brother Henry, and a circle
of young nobles who had come to
make the campaign, advised them to
retire in time. Henry, then but six-
teen, spiritedly refused his brother's
counsel, and his young companions
followed his example.

The action now began, by a charge
of such desperation on the English
force under Francis Vere, that they
were driven from their ground. But
a column of their countrymen, UH-

1832.] The House of Orange. $75

der Horace, his celebrated brother, portion of Europe. In Waterloo we

rushed forward to their support, and
the Spaniards were kept at bay again.
The conflict that now ensued is de-
scribed as one of the fiercest known
in war. It was one general melee
of the sword and pike along the
whole front. The Spaniards fought
to retrieve their ancient renown;
the English from the natural hardi-
hood of the people ; the Dutch from
national abhorrence of their enemy,
and the conviction that for them there
was no alternative between total vic-
tory and irretrievable ruin. Four-
and-twenty thousand of the bravest
and most practised warriors were
mingled and struggling with each
other for life or death. At length
the Archduke, who had exhibited re-
markable presence of mind and va-
lour during the day, determined to
crush his wearied opponents by a
general charge of the Spanish ca-
valry, the finest in Europe. They
advanced, the struggle of pike and
spear paused, and both armies stood
still, as if to see the effect of this tre-
mendous encounter.
But Maurice had already

for the emergency. While the Spa

nish squadrons were moving through hundred triumphs of Welling
the intervals of their lines, the Prince the transcendent renown of
collected a battery of his heaviest
guns on the spot where he expected
the charge. The cavalry, in full gal-
lop, were received with a deadly
burst of fire. Horse and horseman
were torn into fragments, or flung
into the air. The whole of the cavalry,
overwhelmed by this shower of balls,
recoiled. At the same moment one
of those accidents occurred which
has so often, of itself, turned the fate
of battle. The Archduke's char-
ger, known by its splendid caparison,
was seen, riderless, rushing through
the field. An outcry arose that the
Archduke was slain. The cavalry
were already hastily retiring from
- the storm of fire, upon their own in-
fantry. The outcry produced an evi-
dent confusion in the Spanish lines.
Maurice saw that the victory was in
his grasp. He ordered a general ad-
vance, plunged upon the disordered
enemy, and turned the field at once
into a scene of remediless slaughter.
It is curious to observe how close-
ly the features of this victory re-
semble those of the crowing triumph
of thelatewarj fought, too,in the same

see the same daring valour on both
sides, the same mixture of personal
feelings with the public hostility,
the same rivalry of the two generals.
We see the attack made by one army
with desperate fierceness, and sus-
tained by the other with still more
unexampled fortitude. Even the de-
tails have a singular resemblance;
the commencement of the battle by
an attempt to overwhelm a wing, the
continuance by a general attack
along the line, the final assault by a
charge of horse, the turning of that
charge by artillery, and the gaining
of the victory by a general advance
in the moment of the enemy's con-
fusion. But there the similitude ends.
There canbe no comparison between
the numbers of the contending ar-
mies at Nieuport and the hundred
and sixty thousand who fought at
Waterloo ; between the results, the
partial dispersion of the Spanish
troops, and the forty thousand slain
and prisoners of the French army —
the partial conquest of a province, and
the overthrow of the mighty empire
of Jacobinism ; between the limited
fame of Maurice and Albert, and the
ton, and
that rai-
ser and destroyer of sovereignties,
warrior of warriors, Napoleon.

The course of nature was now be-
ginning to extinguish the hostilities
which neither policy nor humanity
could soften. In December 1598
Philip died, at the age of seventy-
two ; a man who had made his own
misery in a degree almost unequal-
led in the records of despotic and
cruel minds. He died calm and cal-
lous, devoted to the ceremonies of a
superstition which gave his bigoted
and bitter spirit full room for the ex-
ercise of its malignity, and loving it
for its evil. His death was felt as a
relief to mankind.

Elizabeth, our own unrivalled mo-
narch, his perpetual enemy and con-
queror, soon followed him to the
grave, (March 24, 1602,) in the seven-
tieth year of her age, and the forty-
fifth of a reign which, beginning in
the severest trials, was carried on
with combined wisdom and virtue,
and closed in a general triumph of
England, freedom, and Christianity.
In 1609, Henry IV. fell by the hand
of an assassin, leaving behind him

376.

The House of Orange.

[Feb.

the most brilliant character of the
most brilliant people, unequalled
among kings for political science,
among courtiers for personal grace,
and among soldiers for chivalrous
intrepidity ; but degraded in his pri-
vate name by the most dissolute
pursuit of pleasure, and in his pub-
lic honour by the scandal, before
God and man, of apostasy. To gain
a crown, he forfeited his religion, and,
after a few years, darkened by the
scorn and distrust of the gallant men
who had placed that crown upon his
head, he died by the dagger of a
priest of that religion which he had
insulted Heaven to reconcile.

The years of the Prince of Orange,
too, drew to a close. Attaining the
highest honours as the champion of
his country, he had been tempted by
the fatal ambition to become its mas-
ter. The resistance of its patriots
made him suspicious, cruel, and des-
potic. A rival soldier, the famous
Spinola, started up at the head of the
Spanish armies, as if to tarnish the
glories of his declining years ; and
after an unsuccessful attempt to raise
the siege of Breda, the city of his
ancestors,he retired exhausted to the
Hague, and died, (23d April, 1625,)
after a life of fifty-nine years passed
in the highest occupations of state
and war.

Maurice had never married, and
his titles, and the still higher honours
of his public duties, descended to his
brother Henry Frederic, the third
son of the great William. Inheriting
the genius and success of his family,
the States- General in gratitude de-
clared that the honours and employ-
ments of the Stadtholderate should
be thenceforth hereditary in his
house ; and the decree was solemnly
presented in a gold box to his son Wil-
liam, then an infant three years old.
The Nassau line had now risen to the
rank of sovereigns, as the reward of
signal conduct and heroism. But a
still higher rank of sovereignty was
in reserve. In 1641, William, the
only son of the Prince of Orange,
married the Princess Mary, the eldest
daughter of our Charles the First.
But dying in his twenty-fourth year,
he bequeathed his dignities to a son,
William Henry, (born November 4,
1650,) who was to realize on a larger
scale the struggles and the successes
of his illustrious race :— To fight the

battle of civil liberty on the conti-
nent ; to accomplish the still loftier
supremacy of true religion in Eng-
land. But the career of William the
Third belongs to our own history too
intimately to be traced here.

The treaty of Munster, (January
30, 1648,) established the entire in-
dependence of the States- General
of Holland and the United Provin-
ces; then gloriously concluding a
war, which, -with the first intermis-
sion of hostilities in 1609, had lasted
eighty years.

William died childless. He was
the last of the direct line of the great
Prince of Orange, and his estates
were bequeathed to Prince Frison
of Nassau, his cousin, and Stadthold-
er of Friesland.

The defeat of the Armada had be-
gun the fall of Spain, and she gra-
dually sank out of the first order of
nations. France, from the middle
of the seventeenth century, had risen
into her place, and become the great
disturber. But the blows first given
by William, and followed up with
still sterner vigour by Marlborough
and Eugene, at length broke down
the strength of this restless and
powerful people, and the peace of
Utrecht (January, 1712) gave peace
to Europe, wearied with useless
slaughter. A remarkable change
took place at this period in the sove-
reignty of the Netherlands. They
were given by the treaty to Charles
the Sixth, the new Emperor, and
former rival of Philip of France, the
new King of Spain. They were
thenceforth the Austrian Nether-
lands ; and thus the haughty country
which had so long perverted its
power over the Belgian provinces,
saw at once her foreign territories
given to a stranger, and a stranger
wading through her blood to the na-
tive throne.

But the punishment of Spain, the
head-quarters of Popery, was not
yet complete. She sank from ob-
scurity to obscurity, until her once
mighty name became obsolete in
Europe, or known only as^the instru-
ment and victim of France; always
defeated in war, yet suffering in
peace more than the poverty, the
tyranny, and the waste of war, and
finally retaining nothing of herself
but her love of private revenge, her
haughty scorn or industry, her bar-

1832.]

The House of Orange.

barian hatred of knowledge, and her
fierce devotedness to the most mind-
less, melancholy, and cruel of all
superstitions. She was to be roused
from this apathy in our own time,
but it was only by the most terrible
infliction of war on record ; a contest
which mingled all the elements of
civil and foreign hostility. Even this
storm had not the power to stimulate
her to permanent vigour. She grew
tired of the generous labour of free-
dom, cast away the burden of con-
stitution, and has again voluntarily
lain down in chains.

Policy and family alliance still
continued to join the interests of
Holland and England. In 1 734, the
young Prince of Orange,the successor
of his father in the Stadtholderate of
Friesland, married the Princess Anne,
the daughter of George the Second.
The Seven Years' war, in which Fre-
deric of Prussia and Maria Theresa
fought for the German crown, brought
Louis the Fifteenth as a conqueror
to the borders of the States. Their
danger awoke them to a recollection
of the line from which they had so
often derived security. William the
Fourth was proclaimed Stadtholder-
General, and the dignity was finally
made hereditary in both the male
and female descent of Orange Nas-
sau. The Stadtholder died in 1751,
after a reign rendered fortunately
obscure by the general peace of
Europe, and was succeeded by his
son William the Fifth, who connect-
ed his family with Prussia by a mar-
riage with the niece of Frederic the
Great in 1766. All now seemed se-
cure. But a burst of evils, such as
had never shaken Europe before, and
whose shock still vibrates through
all nations, was preparing in the
midst of this profound tranquillity.

Frederic and Maria Theresa,
scarcely released from mutual slaugh-
ter, and Catherine of Russia, whose
-hands were scarcely free from the
chains with which she had been
threatened by her barbarian and half-
mad husband, startled Europe, and
consigned their own names to eter-
nal infamy, by the seizure of Po-
land.

It is as easy to trace, as it is im-
possible to doubt, the tremendous
retribution which followed. The
first blow fell on Austria. A sudden
spirit of change, then new to Europe,

377

started up in the Austrian Nether-
lands. There was something to
praise as well as something to blame
in this revolution. Joseph the Se-
cond, who had succeeded the Em-
press Maria Theresa, was a refor-
mer; but he was a royal reformer,
and his subjects naturally distrusted
the liberty that came enforced by
Austrian dragoons. Joseph was a
Voltairist; and when he proclaimed
religious toleration, the priesthood
and the people alike shrunk from
the boon offered to religion by infi-
delity. The first tumults broke out
in Brussels, headed by Vander Noot,
an advocate of some popular talent
and activity. An Austrian army
marched upon Brabant, and the bay-
onet decided the quarrel of the theo-
logians. Vander Noot fled, returned
in the first relaxation of arms, was
named by his adherents Agent Ple-
nipotentiary of Brabant, and conti-
nued to perplex the philosophy of
the free-thinking emperor.

But a new and more fearful spirit
was now rising from the cloud of
popular commotion. Young repub-
licanism started up by the side of
ancient prejudice, and soon out-
stripped the tardy movements of its
predecessor. The leader of this as-
piring party was also an advocate,
Vanck, a man of vigorous ability,
but inflamed with a passion for over-
throw. One influence more was
alone wanting, and it was found in
Vander Mersch, a soldier of fortune,
who put himself at the head of the
patriot levies, and in a variety of
encounters with the imperial troops
displayed extraordinary conduct and
intrepidity. The Austrian generals,
surrounded by national insurrection,
were paralysed ; Brabant and Flan-
ders were cleared ef their troops;
the leader of revolution made his
triumphal entry into Brussels in
1790; and the seven southern pro-
vinces of the Netherlands, adopting
the example of the northern, pub-
lished their Confederation, by the
title of the United States of Belgium,
to the world.

In later days, we have seen Bel-
gium borrow its revolution from
France, but France had been the
first borrower. The Belgium Revo-
lution of 1790 was the French Revo-
lution of 1793, but on a smaller scale,
and fortunately unstained with royal

37$

The House of Orange.

[Feb.

blood. We find the same commence-
ment in justified popular discontent
— the same sudden mixture of an
aversion to all authority — the same
predominance of perverted law and
unprincipled force — the same eleva-
tion of obscure soldiership to mili-
tary rank — the same defeat of esta-
blished institutions, and the regular
forces of the state— the same crea-
tion of a republic, and the same sub-
mission to a Dictator.

But here the comparison ends, and
France, commissioned first to asto-
nish, and then to scourge Europe,
went on from strength to, strength,
from crime to crime, and from tri-
umph to triumph, with an atrocious
grandeur, which suffered no minor
object to engross the eye — the pa-
rent revolution withered away, and
was forgotten in the shadow of its
gigantic offspring. But short-lived
as it was, it enjoyed the triumph of
having baffled the most powerful
monarch of Europe. Joseph's last
words were, that Belgium had sent
him to his grave, (20th Jan. 1791.)

With this commotion raging at her
gates, Holland could not be long tran-
quil. A party arose which proclaimed
themselves the Friends of the People,
began by attempting the overthrow
of the government. The Stadtholder
was suddenly deprived of the com-
mand of the troops, and removed
from all his offices. The injured
prince justly appealed to his allies.
He was soon redressed. England
declared her strong displeasure; and
Prussia, sending an army of 20,000
men under the Duke of Brunswick,
in a three weeks' campaign swept
the mob of patriotism from the land,
and restored the sovereign.

But revolution was to be conquer-
or at last. The French Republic
poured its troops into the Belgian
provinces. Insurrection had there
already done its work, and the fa-
mous victory of Jemappes, gained by
Dumourier, and the still more fa-
mous victory of Fleurus by Piche-
gru, less conquered the Netherlands
than seconded the wishes of the peo-
ple for the fall of the Austrian supre-
macy. But French republicanism
never forgot French aggrandisement.
To the popular indignation, the Ne-
therlands were finally declared, by
the treaty of Campo-Formio, (17th
October, 1797,) a portion of France,

and the nation was left to feel the
disgrace of political extinction, and
probably to repent the follies of a
too rash zeal for an ill understood
liberty.

The next French conquest was
Holland. A frost of signal intensity
turned the natural defences of the
country, the rivers and morasses,
into bridges for the enemy's march.
Pichegru, at the head of 100,000
troops, exulting with victory, and
still more exulting with the wild
animation of republicanism, swept
all obstacles before him, overpower-
ed, in a series of desperate encoun-
ters, the steady valour of the British
army, commanded by the Duke of
York, with a bravery, and even with
a talent, which nothing but party
could deny, but which were render-
ed fruitless to all but the national
honour by the smallness of his force,
and the irresistible circumstances of
the time ; and, proclaiming universal
freedom, advanced to the capital.
The Stadtholder withdrew, but not
by an ignominious flight. He re-
paired to the presence of the States-
General, then sitting at the Hague,
formally deposited his power in their
hands until better times, and then
embarked for England, the common
refuge of exiled royalty and religion.
The French general proclaimed the
downfall of priestcraft and kingcraft,
and followed the proclamation by
the demand of a hundred millions of

Holland had now to feel the full
caprice of her formidable deliverer.
She was declared the Batavian Re-
public, to please the democracy of
France ; she was next declared a
monarchy, to give a crown to Louis,
the brother of Napoleon; and she
was finally declared a province of
France, to feed the insatiable am-
bition of Napoleon himself. In all
the changes, she was crushed, plun-
dered, and insulted like a bond-
slave.

But the ruin of the French armies
in the great campaign of Moscow,
which revived the hopes of Europe,
awoke the vigour of Holland. In-
surrection spread through the small-
er towns ; deputies were sent to in-
vite the son of the late Stadtholder,
the present King, to resume the go-
vernment. He was proclaimed in
the Hague, (17th November, 1813,)

,1832.]

The House of Orange,

370

and on the 30th, the Prince, escorted
by a small force of 200 English ma-
rines, landed, and was received with
universal joy. The writer of the pre-
sent sketch was in Holland at this pe-
riod, and can give full testimony to
the popular delight. William, the sixth
Stadtholder, was inaugurated by the
title of Sovereign Prince, at Am-
sterdam, in March 1814. The treaty
of Paris, (30th May, 1814,) confirm-
ed by the treaty of London, gave a
new extent to his dominions. It
decided the union of Belgium and
Holland as one monarchy. In 1815,
the Sovereign Prince was proclaimed
William I., King of the Netherlands;
a constitution was framed on free
principles ; and Holland and Bel-
gium, relieved from all danger by
the fall of Napoleon, were pro-
nounced destined to a long repose.

We have lived to see the fallacy
of this political prediction, in the
violent and total upbreaking of that
union. But that it ever was pro-
nounced, is a dishonour to political
sagacity. The Union was formed of
utterly discordant elements ; — differ-
ence of language, difference of com-
mercial interests, and difference of
national habits. But there was one
source of variance still more inca-
pable of being reconciled. Belgium
was Roman Catholic. It is among
the perpetual and singular features

of Popery, that its priesthood, power-
less for national good, is irresistible
in the cause of national evil. With-
out the vigour to rectify a single
popular vice, to clear away a vulgar
prejudice, or to stimulate a personal
virtue, it knows no rival in the art
of rousing the people to the wildest
excesses of popular commotion.
Without the faculty to heal a single
public error of the state, it can over-
throw the state with a word.

A Protestant prince has now as-
sumed the crown of Belgium j it re-
mains for time, and probably for no
long time, to shew the feebleness of
his possession. Popery will not en-
dure the mildest dominion of Pro-
testantism. It must be superior, or
it is nothing. It must have the au-
thority to resist the natural progress
of the human mind, to live on the
spoils of national industry, and to
interpose between man and the right
of choosing his own way to salvation,
or it turns from the most abject flat-
terer of royalty into the most daring
and indefatigable rebel. The Belgian
King may secure his throne, like
Henry IV., by apostasy ; but we
will not insult an honourable man,
and one so nearly allied with Eng-
land, by reminding him of the thorns
which apostasy sowed upon the re-
negade's pillow, and its utter degra-
dation to his name.

IRISH SCENERY J AND OTHER THINGS IRISH.

loveliness

Needs not the foreign aid of ornament,
But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most."

THOMSON'S Seasons.

THERE apj
writers of all grades, an irresistible
passion for introductory mottoes.
From the newspaper essayist to the
author of a novel, historical or hyste-
rical, a quotation from some bygone
retainer of the Muses, must act as a
sort of master of the ceremonies to
the matter of its chapter. I think I
hear my readers ask — " What possi-
ble connexion can existbetweenyour
own quotation above, and the head-
ing or title by which it is preceded ?"
My answer is,—" You shall know in
good time." It was a maxim of an

old friend of mine, that more inform-
ation was often to be had by list-
ening than by asking questions ,• and
the maxim is of peculiar value to
those who wish to get credit for
knowing many things, of which they
really know no more than Lord Al-
thorp of finance, Lord Grey of theo-
logy, (although he can make bishops,)
Hunt of modesty, Lord J. Russell of
constitutional reform, or O'Connell
of the manners, principles, or cou-
rage of a gentleman. To ask ques-
tions is to proclaim your ignorance,
and what man of the world will com-

Irish Scenery ; and other Things Irish.

380

mit so great a mistake ? Let him
wait awhile, and things will come
out of themselves. I was acquaint-
ed twenty years with a man whom
I never suspected of being ignorant
of the dead languages, he always
contrived so well to appear to feel
the application of a classic quota-
tion. If addressed to him in con-
versation, he gave a significant nod of
the head — a " very true" — " nothing
more just" — " quite apt" — a smile
gave qualified assent, and sometimes
he has had even the hardihood to
venture on a decided laugh ! How
he managed the matter I cannot tell,
unless that with the eye of an ana-
tomist he watched the action of the
muscles of the face, connecting them
with the passion or sentiment ex-
pressed, or that he was fortunate in
happy equivocation : deaf people do
wonders this way, and why may not
the same be the instinctive property
of ignorance ?

The poet's mystified definition of
the charm of simplicity in the female
costume, will be fully understood by
the lover of Nature transporting him-
self from trimly dressed and ultra-
ornate England, to the less cultiva-
ted, but more various and strongly
characteristic scenery of Ireland. If
the stirring interest of human life
consists, in a great degree, of ungra-
tified wishes, in like manner, much
of the interest of Irish scenery arises
from the same cause. In England,
Art has done so much, that she has
become more than the " handmaid"
of Nature — she has subdued her mis-
tress to her own power, and so co-
vered her in her own livery, that
scarcely any distinction subsists be-
tween them. The alternations of
the waste and the cultivated, of plea-
sure and surprise, cease to affect us ;
the power of contrast is lost in the
uniform continuity of the richest
cultivation, and the feelings of the
traveller are reduced to a state of
quietude, like the becalmed waters,
losing in rest the animation constitu-
ting sublimity. Look at the scenery
of England (proper), and if asked
what you would add to its richness,
you would answer — " Nothing." If
asked how you would increase its
more striking effect, you would
probably reply, by reducing the ex-
uberance of art, which encumbers
and imparts sameness to its aspect*

[Feb.

This illustrates the power of simpli-
city in the personal decoration of a
female.

Travelling in England awakens less
of the springs of dramatic interest —
will engage the passions less than
travelling in Ireland, where the dark
bleak bog and moor contrast with the
vivid green of her beautiful fields ;
the lofty mountains, the lesser undu-
lating hills, and sequestered vallies —
the intermixture of severest sterility
with tracts of pasturage, which, in
native strength of production, fattens
an ox to the acre — the wild woods
too scantily relieving the heathery
sides of the mountains — the clear and
sparkling streams — the generally re-
spectable and often noble rivers, pas-
toral all ; and the numerous lakes,
diverse and multiform in size, and
shape, and beauty, cast over the sur-
face of Ireland. Then the Danish
raths or forts, crowning almost every
eminence ; the relics of old chapels
mocking calculation of their dates,
and surrounded by the tumuli of a
race who seem destined never to
find repose but in death ; the round
towers equally mocking antiquarian
conjecture of their uses ; the proud
monastic ruins that, relatively to the
state of society, still proclaim the
gorgeous temporalities of the Church
before the period of the Reformation,
and in the rich and happy choice of
their sites, tell of the superior wealth,
power, and worldly enjoyments of
the Popish priesthood through all its
orders. At various points of view
the high lonely castle, and quadran-
gular towers, within whose strong
and gloomy walls the rude Chiefs or
Toparchs of ancient days lived in re-
ciprocal fear and hatred, snatching
their physical enjoyments from the
steeled grasp of danger, and main-
taining their feverish and hazardous
existence — their constantly disputed
and barbarous dominion, by interna-
tional warfare ! Such inanimate me-
morials of the barbaric ages, can
scarcely be said to meet the eye of
a traveller in England. Splendid and
interesting remains of " the olden
time" are there, but they are those
(even the remotest) of a state of ci-
vilisation to which Ireland has not yet
arrived, and never will while Doyles
and O'Connells spring up in her soil,
and we have rulers who regard the
Christianity of the Reformation as

1832.]

Ii-ish Scenery ; and other Things Irish.

little as they do the OATH of their
KING. Unhappily Ireland abounds
in the moral evidences of a barbarity
which has not yet passed away, and
which, with the help of Popery, pro-
mises to bid defiance to the generally
subduing influence of time, upon
whose backward path we shall cast
a furtive glance.

It is now nearly three centuries
since SPENCER the poet lived and
wrote. He bore evidence to the na-
tural beauties of Ireland in his day :
its topographical aspect he thus de-
scribes. " And sure it is yet a most
beautiful and sweet country as any is
under heaven, being stored through-
out with many goodly rivers, reple-
nished with all sorts of fish most
abundantly, sprinkled with very many
sweet islands, and goodly lakes, like
little inland seas, that will carry even
ships upon their waters ; adorned
with goodly woods, even fit for build-
ing or houses and ships, so commo-
diously, as that if some princes in
the world had them, they would soon
hope to be lords of all the seas, and
ere long of all the world." The ri-
vers and lakes remain in spite of
their proprietors, but, for the most
part, the woods have disappeared
before the advances of modern lux-
ury and extravagance. There are
still, however, many districts where-
in the bold and continuous woods
delight the eyes of the traveller for
miles together. Whoever follows the
course of the Suire, as I have, from
" sweet Clonmel" to " rich Water-
ford," as they are named by Spencer,
will see even yet, maugre the devast-
ations of the axe, the mountains
clothed from their bases to their lofty
summits, with trees chiefly of the
monarch oak, viewing themselves,
Narcissus-like, in the mirror of the
beauteous Suire, those on the imme-
diate banks dipping their pendent
branches in her clear and full-flowing
waters. Magic powers of mental as-
sociation, that fill up the wide and
jdeep spaces of time, and bring to the
heart and memory of age the warm
rush of juvenile feeling and circum-
stances! I cannot name Clonmel, and
the beautiful Suire, and not live again
over the days of my boyhood. Read-
er, make it your own case. I went to
school there. Where is my kind
master, honest Tom Chaytor, the
Quaker, who mingled in our sports

381

as a boy, yet never compromised his
authority and his duty as a precept-
or ; who was obeyed more through
love than fear, and who even in fear
was beloved ? Where is he ? Long
laid in a grave which could not en-
tomb the memory of his worth !
Where are my schoolfellows ? Ah !
that is a question nearer home. I
know not that there live one dozen,
out of the fifty who buzzed in the
school-room, and shouted in the play-
ground. I know not if there are
three individuals, whose crispy locks
of youth are turned to grey, who
care one straw whether all the rest
be living or dead! how the living
fare, or how the dead died ! Such is
the world.

I cannot forget that there first flash-
ed on my soul the lightning of a
Curran's eloquence,Duquery's calm-
er advocacy, Toler's precision of lan-
guage, Scott's impudence, Bully
Egan's fierce aspect and storming en-
ergy, who indeed was wont to

" Tear a passion to tatters ;"

and more than all, and above all,
Barry Yelverton, afterwards Lord
Avonmore, certainly the greatest
man of his day. Where are they
all ? Gone ! gone ! gone ! They have
escaped witnessing the degradation
of their country in the triumphs of
Popery; the degradation of the bar in
the prostitution of its honours — and
I have lived to see all.

What a picture of life, now obso-
lete, did an assize week then pre-
sent! Those who think that the
judges, the sheriff, the counsel and
attorneys, the jurors, grand and petit,
the criminals and their accusers, &c.,
constituted all that was necessary to
a " general jail delivery," are great-
ly mistaken. There were other
classes whose attendance was indis-
pensable, not merely to " the head
and front," but to the head and feet
of justice ; these were the hair-dress-
ers and shoe-blaclts, a race now ex-
tinct, and who, from Dublin, (par
excellence,) went circuit as regularly
as did those whose extremities of
understanding they so materially as-
sisted to furnish. The French Revo-
lution of 1789, was, indeed a revolu-
tion to them, and they have feeling
cause to curse crops a la Brutus and
long pantaloons. But I have taken
an excursion out of the direct road,

382 Irish Scenery ; and

for which, Mr Editor, I beg your and
your readers' pardon.

More southerly still, there are the
noble woods which fringe the banks
of the Blackwater, the prime charm
of the scenery of Lismore : those of
Shillela, in the county Wicklow, are
identified with the pugnacity of the
Irish character. Wicklow ! beauti-
ful county ! who that has visited
that Eden of Ireland, can refuse to
it the application of the following
description from the "Fairy Queen ?"
" Fresh shadows fit to shroud from sun-
ny ray ;

Fair lawns to take the sun in seasons due ;
Sweet springs in which a thousand

nymphs did play ;

Soft rumbling brooks, that gentle slum-
bers drew ;
High-reared mounts, the lands about to

view ;

Low-looking dales, disloign'd from com-
mon gaze ;

Delightful bowers, to solace lovers true;
False labyrinth, fond runners' eyes to daze ;
All which, by Nature made, did Nature's

self amaze."

Let no Englishman, who visits
Dublin in summer, and who has
three days to spare, and five pounds
in his pocket, incur the reproach of
not having seen the county Wick-
low, from Enniskerry to Rathdrum.
He will find on the road moral
points of contemplation for his mind,
as well as the beautiful and pictu-
resque in nature to delight his eye,
Owing to the cares of a good and re-
ligious landlord, Enniskerry is now,
not only one of the handsomest, if
not the most handsome, village in
Ireland, but also the happiest ; for,
owing to the untired zeal and pasto-
ral labours of its exemplary rector,
the Reverend ROBERT DALY, it is the
freest from the ordinary vices of so-
ciety. The word of God has been
diligently sown in it, and its fruits
are manifest — industry, sobriety, reli-
gious feeling, and, necessarily, peace,
are in its dwellings; the same bless-
ings pervade the whole of the reve-
rend gentleman's parish, and the
demeanour and appearance of its
people scarcely permit one to be-
lieve that he is in Ireland. The town
of Bray is but three miles from En-
niskerry— the parishes join, yet they
exhibit the strongest moral contrast ;
and why? Perhaps it is, that the
jector of the former is one of those

other Things Irish. [Feb.

liberals of the Church who see little
or no difference between the creeds
of the Protestant and Roman Catho-
lic— one of those shepherds who can
perceive no distinction between the
black sheep and the white; if so,
who can wonder that the character-
istics of Popery prevail ?

The Dargle, one of those roman-
tic glens with which the county
Wicklow abounds, lies close by En-
niskerry— I need not describe it.
The next point of moral reflection is
Tenehinch, the beautifully situated
residence of that once boast and
glory of Ireland, the late Right Ho-
nourable HENRY GRATTAN. Pause,
traveller, on the little bridge that
fronts Tenehinch-house. On your
left hand, the lawn is divided by the
beautiful pastoral stream wherein
its late master was wont to lave his
limbs every morning, winter and
summer: the mansion is a modest
one, but it was, what it is not now,
the domestic temple of a great
mind. It was originally an inn, and
there are yet living those who have
had in it " entertainment for man
and horse." The purchase of it was
among the first fruits of the L.50,000,
the national composition in payment
of the full debt of national gratitude
for the equivocal benefits of 1782.
The last time that I stood on that
bridge, leaning on its battlement,
and looking at the house, a tide of
interesting recollections rushed on
my mind ; the various situations in
which I had seen that man so pro-
minently and honourably identified
with the history of his country,
passed in array before me. His name
and portraits in the magazines of
that day, combined with " free
trade," and " the volunteers," were
familiar to my boyhood. At a more
advanced period I listened to him,
the Demosthenes of the Irish House
of Commons, and every passion ac-
knowledged the irresistible powers
of his eloquence. In 1798 he was
suspected of the O' Connellism of
that period — the unnatural, and
therefore improbable, wish to de-
stroy his own political creation —
the independent federal connexion
between Great Britain and Ireland;
his portraits were removed from
their places of honour — his name
erased from the Privy-Council, and
hie person all but proscribed 1 And

1832.]

Irish Scenery} and other Things Irish.

what was his offence ? No greater, I
solemnly believe, than that now of
the King's Lieutenant — suffering the
enemies of England a too easy access
to his closet. He was not a United
Irishman ; but a man who was, and
who recently and publicly boasted
of the treason, is a privy-counsellor,
a newly appointed Lord-Lieutenant
of a county where almost all were
United Irishmen, and the bosom
friend of the Irish Viceroy ! I was in
the gallery of the House of Commons
the memorable morning when the
exile of obloquy, not of guilt, re-en-
tered the theatre of his patriotic fame,
to revivify his wasted fires at the altar
of his country, and save from its
grave the constitution which he had
nursed in its cradle. The ravages of
ingratitude and calumny were visi-
ble in his attenuated person and fee-
ble steps ; he was supported to the
Speaker's chair by two compatriots,
like himself now no more ; strong
dramatic effect gave all its aids to the
scene — never shall I forget it ! The
morning's twilight mingled with the
flickering of the expiring lamps;
the members, at either side of the
House, occupying the back benches,
were struggling with, or had yield-
ed to, a temporary repose : but the
sound of Grattan's name was elec-
tric; the whisper of his approach
was, in its effect, as the blast of the
trumpet — every reclining head was
raised, every eye open to attention.
The privilege of being seated while
he spoke yielded to his weakness ;
his speech on that occasion — all that
followed — is matter of history. Grat-
tan, Saurin, Plunkett, Bushe — all the
new allies of Irish independence (so
called) vainly brought their great ta-
lents to the contest ; the friends of
permanent British connexion sup-
ported the legislative union in the
full principles and solemn compacts
of Protestant ascendency. Those
principles have been abandoned, the
contracts have been broken ; Protest-
ants are depressed, if not actually
persecuted ; Roman Catholics are
cherished and elevated. But for this
distinction it could not be known
that there is a government in Ire-
land ; and if the policy that now fa-
tally rules the King's councils be not
soon and utterly reversed, it needs
not the prophetic gift to perceive, in
the lurid vista of no distant time,

383

the desolation of Ireland, or her se-
paration from the British Imperial
crown.

I next saw him returned member
for Dublin in the Imperial Parlia-
ment, where, until his death, he was
faithful to imperial interests. Can the
same be said of his sons ? Let public
opinion answer. The old patriot
rode once more on popular favour —
an unsteady and capricious support,
and never better nor more finely de-
scribed than by the late Lord Avon-
more, in his place in the Irish House
of Lords, and in reference to Mr
Grattan (as well as I recollect) while
placed in political abeyance. In the
Imperial Parliament he had honestly
denounced a French party existing
in this country. The O'Connell lea-
ven was then beginning to work
among the Roman Catholic rabble,
and on Mr Grattan's second election
his life was assailed by the wretches
who now worship the arch-agitator
of Ireland's peace; it was attempted
to throw him over the battlements of
one of the bridges into the river, and
with difficulty, and some bruises, he
escaped to his house in Stephen's
Green — such the vicissitudes of a
political life ! Were he alive now,
his noble attributes would avail him
nothing in a competition with the
vulgar beastly-minded Popish dema-
gogue, whose legislative nominee one
of his sons has descended to become.

Here terminated the peristrephic
images of his public life, while I
looked, and thought, and heard the
murmuring of the type of passing
time which flowed beneath me. But
my recollections did not end here.
The private and social hours of a
great man are always deeply inte-
resting, and one loves to see him di-
vested of the rigid panoply in which
he appears before the public eye,
and his mind and manners at ease,
and in the free action allowed by
the dishabille of conversation at his
own or a friend's table. That ad-
vantage was among the social gems
of my life. I passed a summer in
Mr Grattan's beautiful vicinage, and
had the honour of dining with him
at Tenehinch in a small and select
circle. He was very temperate of
table enjoyment. His conversation,
although perfectly easy, partook of
the epigrammatic character of his
public speaking. Mr Hardy, the bio-

Ii'ish Scenery ; and other Things IrisJi.

334

grapher of the Earl of Charlemont,
or rather the historian of that noble-
man's times, was of the party. He
lodged in the neighbourhood under
distressing circumstances of every
kind : he was engaged in two labours
at the time, both not pursued with
equal assiduity. He was writing his
life of Lord Charlemont, while he
was the tender and affectionate nurse
and guardian of a demented wife;
the first was often and willingly in-
termitted, the second never ; he and
the object of his cares are both gone
off the scene. Poor Hardy — he was
faithful to his party, and zealous in
its service. His character gave him
more weight with the public than
other men derived from their wealth
and connexions ; as a speaker, how-
ever, he ranked but in the second
class. He shared with Mr Grattan the
patronage, in early life, of the Earl
of Charlemont, both having been in-
troduced into the Irish Parliament
by that nobleman, who, in this way,
practically refuted Lord John Rus-
sell's arguments against nomination
boroughs ; and should the Reform
Bill pass, to the extinction of those
nurseries and asylums of talent,
farewell to the political patronage
of modest merit, statistical know-
ledge, and high-minded integrity :
the vulgar, the impudent, the bust-
ling and the brutal panders to the
popular passions and prejudices, will
acquire the ascendant. Hardy shared
the too common lot of those who
will not or know not how to make
their public principles subservient
to their private interests — he lived
for a long time poor, andd ied poor.
The same shameful and cruel ne-
glect of the useful partisan is carried
into our own day: but it must be
acknowledged that it is monopolized
here, in Ireland, by the Protestant
party. The assailants of our insti-
tutions pay their instruments well
— there is no lack of liberality, as the
O'Connell tribute testifies ; while,
on the side where wealth most
abounds, and where all is at issue
to defend, pockets appear to be her-
metically sealed, and words to be
accounted the only coin of patriot
currency. But let me bring Hardy
and the reader back to the circle at
Tenehinch.

It was fortunate that Mr Hardy
Was of the company ; he assisted to

IFeb.

call Mr Grattan' s happiest powers
into play; each prompted the other
to political recollections, and the se-
cret history of transactions in which
both were concerned. I was a de-
lighted listener. Hardy played se-
cond fiddle ; but he appeared neces-
sary to the first. Grattan, I thought,
played the patron a little, but with a
delicate touch. Between them they
produced an harmonic combination
of personal anecdote and political
circumstance, which I can never
hope again to be equalled. Mr Grat-
tan reclined on a sofa — the vivacity
of his mind affected his body, which
was in continual motion and change
of position. He was Voltairean in
appearance and in wit ; but he par-
took nothing of the irreligion and
immorality of the philosopher of
Ferney. Mr Grattan was a Christian
of the Reformation. He twisted and
gesticulated as if in the throes of
thought ; but if the mountain was in
labour, it always produced a gigan-
tic birth — apolitical or philosophical
maxim of the first order, was offered
to the admiration and instruction of
his hearers. I never so much wished
the movement of time to be suspend-
ed ; I never heard with such chagrin
the hour strike, which warned me
that I ought to take my leave.

I did take leave, and departed on
my way home. It was a fine moon-
light night — the way led by a back
field, (not the public road,) and
through the romantic glen, the Dar-
gle. My host — splendid being ! went
forth to put me in the pathway — his
head was uncovered — it was intel-
lect personified— and his eye as a
star which could lend light to other
planets, but never needing to bor-
row, nor admitting of eclipse. The
moon shone — he shone brighter. He
accompanied me to the extreme gate
of the Dargle, more than an English
mile, bareheaded as he was. His
chief theme was Hardy and the
book he was writing ; and I thought
I could collect, that his humble
friend was more the amanuensis
than the author. " Hardy is a man
of talent, and I think his work will
shew it; but he is an idle fellow,
and requires the lash of the slave-
driver to quicken his work. He must
live the days of Lord Charlemont to
write Lord Charlemont's life. It is
to him as a schoolboy's task— any

1832.]

Irish Scenery ; and other Things Irish.

thing and every thing will draw him
from it. Hardy is an Epicurean, with
a Stoic's self-denial ; but it is on the
enforcement of necessity. His will
goes along with enjoyment, and he
is ever ready to sip the honey of life
wherever it is to be found. Poor
Hardy ! poor Hardy ! I fear his own
life will end before that of Lord
Charlemont will begin; and we must
all be at the mercy of that History,
which may be only acquainted with
our faults, or unwilling to confess
our virtues — if we had them."

Such was the rich strain of intel-
lectual treasures which this great
man poured forth to the ear of a
very humble auditor and companion,
his eye — his powerful eye — occa-
sionally flashing to the moonbeam,
while the gentle rustling of the trees,
at either side of the glen, and the
murmur of the stream, urging its
broken way through the rocks at the
depth beneath, were the under ac-
companiments which inanimate na-
ture furnished to the emanations of
one of the most powerful minds that
Ireland ever produced. At the ex-
treme gate we parted — he returned
home by the same way, probably, as
it is said was his custom, rehearsing
some Parliamentary oration to the
oaks, the rocks, and rushing floods,
meet auditors of his gigantic corres-
pondent and sympathetic eloquence.

When I last saw him — Heavens,
what a change ! He was stricken by
the hand of the Destroyer. It was a
little before he went to Parliament,
for the last time, to offer his final sa-

385

crifice on the altar of consistency,
and lay down his life for a cause and
a people-^-the one the bane of the
country, the other never grateful for
a benefit received, and never un-
vengeful for one denied. I went to
Tenehinch, not expecting to see him,
but to enquire after his health. Ac-
cident presented him to my aggrie-
ved view; he was slowly and tot-
teringly pacing along a walk at the
southern aspect of the house. It was
warm summer, yet he appeared win-
ter-chilled. The blood was gradu-
ally retreating to its last citadel. He
was enveloped in an old threadbare
cloak — ho was unshaven — hiseyehad
lost its lustre — the power of recog-
nition was faint ; but when I was na-
med, his spirit rallied, and he said
something as like his former self, as
the shadow could be like the sub-
stance. Delicacy forbade to prolong
the painful interview, and I parted
from him for ever ! He went, Cur-
tius-like, draining the last dregs of
life, to the performance of a mista-
ken duty, and to a grave that he
knew was open to him. His apothe-
osis is among the departed greatness
of England — he has taken his place
of everlasting rest among the heroes,
sages, and statesmen, who have con-
tributed to the strength and glory of
the empire, although the phantom,
an aerial one, which he pursued, but
lived not to catch, is now working to
her weakness, humiliation, and per-
haps her ruin. Political idol of my
Smth ! Splendid, but mistaken man !
ENRY GRATTAN, farewell !

VOL. XXXI. NO. CXCI.

586

A Creation of Peers

[Feb.

A CREATION OF PEERS.

MUCH as we have already written
on the Reform Bill, anxiously as we
have contemplated it in all its bear-
ings, the magnitude of the subject is
such, that our only difficulty has
been to compress the considerations
which suggest themselves. Such is
the force of the argument against
the change, that it will admit of al-
most any concession, and becomes
daily more powerful the longer the
subject is considered.

The debate in the House of Lords
brought out one leading feature in
the measure, to which sufficient at-
tention has never yet been paid, and
which, in fact, could not be enlarged
on with confidence till the legal opi-
nions which were then delivered
from the highest authority had be-
come public. This is the unparallel-
ed confiscation of private property
which it threatens to produce, and
the fatal blow at the tenure of every
species of individual right which it
promises to inflict.

It was urged as a serious objec-
tion to the Bill in the House of Com-
mons, that it went to disfranchise
boroughs to an immense extent,
without any compensation to the in-
dividuals who now held the free-
hold ; that this was a private right
of great value, as was evinced by the
anxiety with which it was sought to
be taken from them by the reform-
ing party ; that they openly boasted
that they had gained all that the bo-
roughmongershad lost; that the free-
hold being private property, could
not, on the first principles of justice,
be taken away without an equivalent;
and that if the precedent were once
established of confiscating individual
rights, upon the ground of public
advantage, there was no limit could
be assigned to the extent to which
the invasion of property might, on
the same principles, be carried.

To this it was replied, on the part
of administration, that all this pro-
ceeded on a misconception of the
nature of the right which was thus
made the subject of invasion; that
it was not private property, but a
trust held for the public behoof, and

for the administration of which the
owners were answerable to the coun-
try ; that this trust had been grossly
abused, and had fallen into so few
hands as to be incapable of being
exercised with advantage to the pub-
lic ; and therefore that there was no
injustice in transferring the trust to
other hands, nor any claim for com-
pensation at the instance of the dis-
possessed proprietors.

But when the question was car-
ried to the Peers, the ground was
knocked from beneath this argu-
ment by the legal opinions delivered
on the point of law by the great legal
authorities who were there assem-
bled. Lord Tenterden delivered an
opinion, that the right of the free-
holders and corporations threatened
with destruction was both a right
and a trust, and in this he was strong-
ly supported by Lord Chancellor
Eldon, who quoted Holt and Hale to
the same purpose. Now, whatever
opinion men may entertain on the
merits of those Noble Lords as states-
men, we presume that as lawyers
there is none who will gainsay the
authority of Holt and Hale in an-
cient, and of Lords Tenterden and
Eldon in modern times — the greatest
authorities in point of law which the
last or the present age can boast.
The point, therefore, is fixed : the
freehold rights threatened with dis-
franchisement are both a right and a
trust — a right in the individual who
enjoys it — a trust for the discharge
of a public duty.

Considered as a right, which it is,
though blended with a trust, there-
fore, the corporation freeholds, or
the existing: rights which are to be
disfranchised, are as much entitled
to protection as any other estate in
the realm — as the rights of the Crown,
the estates of the Aristocracy, or the
liberties of the Commons. When
once the law authorities declared
that such rights were private pro-
perty, the matter is at an end. We
may blame the law, if we please,
which conferred such rights — we
may advocate the introduction of a
new and more improved form of

1832.]

A Creation of Peers.

387

government — but as long as the prin-
ciples of justice are attended to by
Government, the existing rights
which the law has suffered to grow
up, and taken under the cover of its
shield, cannot be overturned with-
out compensation being given, or the
system of revolutionary confiscation
openly adopted.

This principle runs through every
department of jurisprudence. The
inhabitants of a city or a county con-
ceive that it would be advantageous
to have a road, a canal, or a rail-road
made in a particular direction — was
it ever imagined that the public ex-
pedience of making such an improve-
ment, would justify its projectors in
applying for an act of Parliament
authorizing them to seize, without
compensation, the whole land re-
quired for its completion, even
though the remainder of the pro-
perty thus intersected will doubtless
be greatly benefited by the change ?
Was ever such an act of Parliament
passed ? Does not every act infrin-
ging on private property for the
public good, contain a clause pro-
viding for the indemnification of
those whose property is taken, and
laying down specific rules for the
ascertaining of its value, if the par-
ties cannot agree upon it without le-
gal interference ? And is this great
and established principle of justice
to be set at nought, merely because
the Ministers of the Crown happen
to be the promoters of the measure ;
and an invasion of private right in-
dulged to the supreme authority,
which would not be allowed to any
humbler parties in the realm ? The
principle of the law of England has
hitherto been the reverse ; it was
the glory, and the deserved glory of
its jurisprudence, that the Crown is
more closely fettered than an ordi-
nary individual ; and that in cases
of treason, an accumulation of evi-
dence is required unknown in the
ordinary transactions between man
and man : it was reserved for a
Whig administration to reverse the
principle, and bring forward a mea-
sure of spoliation, without compen-
sation, which would never have been
tolerated in any court which admi-
nistered the law, and was governed
by the principles of British justice.

The same just and necessary prin-
ciple has regulated all the measures

of Government since the Revolution,
in legislating for the general im-
provement of the state. In 1746, the
recent rebellion having demonstra-
ted the expedience of abolishing the
heritable jurisdictions, as they were
called, of the chieftains in Scotland,
they were extinguished by act of
Parliament; but L.150,000 was at the
same time voted, as a compensation
to the dispossessed proprietors. At
the Irish Union, a great number of
boroughs in that island were disfran-
chised, in order to reduce the num-
ber of its members to something
proportioned to its real importance
in the empire ; and a large sum was
paid to the dispossessed proprietors,
as a compensation for their loss.

The case of the Union with Scot-
land, and the recent disfranchise-
ment of the 40s. Irish freeholders,
by the Catholic Relief Bill, are no
authority on the other side. At the
time of the Union with England, the
right of sending members to Parlia-
ment was regarded by the Scotch,
not as a privilege, but a burden ; and
it was at their own earnest entreaty,
that the number of their members
was reduced from ninety, which
was the number proposed by the
English Government, to forty-five, at
which it was fixed by the Treaty of
Union. The Scotch thought that their
country could not afford to send
more than forty-five gentlemen to
London; and that the burden of a
greater number of representatives
would drain the kingdom of all its
precious metals ! Of course, they
could have no claim to compensa-
tion for the loss of boroughs which
they esteemed and represented as so
burdensome to the country. So also
in the case of the confiscation of the
Irish 40s. freeholders by the Catho-
lic Bill ; the act was accompanied by
a great concession to the Irish Ca-
tholics, which, in their opinion, was
more than worth the price at which
it was purchased. The English Go-
vernment said to the Catholics,—
" You have your 40s. freeholders,
and you are excluded from places in
the legislature — Will you hold by
your freeholders, and retain your ex-
clusion, or give up your freeholders,
and be absolved from your exclu-
sion ?" They replied,—" We will
give up our freeholders, and get quit
of the exclusion." The whole Ca-

388

A Creation of Peers.

[Feb.

tholics of Ireland were sensible that
the disfranchisement of these bog-
trotting freeholders, created for
mere political purposes, was an im-
mense benefit, not only to the coun-
try generally, but the dispossessed
freeholders in particular, by relie-
ving them from a frequent collision
between their landlords and spiritual
guides ; and accordingly, the Catholic
Relief Bill, burdened as it was with
the disfranchising clause, was hailed
as an immense benefit by the whole
Catholic population ; and in particu-
lar by the great Agitator, who decla-
red that it would " reduce him from
a popular demagogue to a mere nisi
prius lawyer;" and that after it passed,
" Othello's occupation 's gone." It
is obvious, therefore, that as the Ca-
tholics were not only satisfied with,
but ardently petitioned for, the Re-
lief Bill, clogged as it was with the
disfranchising clauses, they had made
their election, and had no ulterior
claim for compensation.

But the case is totally different
with the present Reform Bill, which
is not brought forward at the suit
or application of the holders of the
close boroughs, to relieve them of
certain disadvantages with which
their situation is attended, but is ur-
ged on -by other parties, not only
Avithoiit the consent of the freehold-
ers threatened with disfranchise-
ment, but against their most strenu-
ous opposition. These parties do
not say, we call on the Legislature to
relieve us of certain disabilities, and
if they do so, we are willing to lose
our freeholds; but they strenuously
resist the proposed disfranchise-
ment, as a confiscation of their birth-
right, a destruction of their inherit-
ance, and a violation of the rights
which they hold by as sacred a te-
nure as the King does his throne.
How can such parties be deprived
xvithout their consent — nay, against
their will, of their property, without
compensation ? Does their disfran-
chisement stand on the right by
which a robber obtains the purse of
the traveller on the highway —

• ' ' " the simple plan,
That they should take who have the

power,
And they should keep who can."

If not, let the legal or equitable
ground on which their property is
taken away, without either proved
delinquence or compensation, be sta-
ted, for, assuredly, none such has hi-
therto been brought forward. It is
quite in vain, therefore, to disguise the
matter. The proposed disfranchise-
ment, without compensation, is nei-
ther more nor less than legislative
spoliation; and as such it will most
assuredly be stigmatized by history.

Mr Pitt, as all the world knows,
was in early life, and anterior to the
period when the French Revolution
had roused the democratic passions,
and totally changed the grounds on
which a change in the representation
was demanded, a Reformer. He never,
however, proposed the measure of
confiscating private property, with-
out compensation ; on the contrary,
he intended to give full value to all
the dispossessed proprietors. So ten-
der was this great statesman of that
sacred base of all government, the
security of vested rights, that he did
not even venture to propose forcing
the acceptance of compensation on
the owners of the boroughs mark-
ed out for disfranchisement, but left
it to their inclination to accept it or
not. " The plan which he proposed
was, to transfer the right of choosing
representatives from thirty-six of
such boroughs as had fallen into de-
cay, to such chief towns and cities as
were at present unrepresented ; that
a fund should be provided for the
purpose of giving to the owners and
holders of such boroughs as were
disfranchised, an appreciated com-
pensation for their property; — that
the taking this compensation should
be a voluntary act of the proprietor,
and if not taken at present, should
be placed out at compound interest,
until it became an irresistible bait to
such proprietors."* Mr Fox ad-
mitted the justice of the principle of
compensation, but objected to the
mode laid down of purchasing the
boroughs.

Such were the principles on which
those giants of ancient days ap-
proached the subject of freehold
qualification; and such the tender-
ness of vestedrights which they evin-
ced in all their measures for amend-

*Ann, Reg. 1784, p. 190.

1832.] A Creation of Peers.

ing the representation of the coun- pensation ?
try. Compare this with the sweep-
ing measure of the present day,
which, without a shadow of com-
pensation, without any proof of de-
linquence, proposes to' disfranchise
completely fifty-six, and, to the ex-
tent of one half, thirty-one boroughs ;
and say which is the work of just and
cautious statesmen, and which of
reckless and inconsiderate innova-
tors.

This argument is altogether inde-
pendent of any alleged impolicy or
inexpediency in the existing system.
Let it be admitted that the existing
system of close boroughs is the most
prejudicial that can be conceived —
that the claim of the unrepresented
towns for representation is utterly
irresistible ; still, is that any ground
for depriving individuals of their pro-
perty, without either proved delin-
quence, or tendered compensation,
in order to accomplish the change ?
This is not a question of expedience
or policy, it is one of law and justice.
Law decides what the nature of the
right is, justice what the compensa-
tion which should be given for its
being taken away. Both are wholly
independent of any considerations as
to the expedience and necessity of
the removal, and are not diminished
one iota by the strongest case being
made out for that measure that can
be imagined.

A nobleman has a domain in the
neighbourhood of a great town,
which it is thought would form an
eligible acquisition to the inhabit-
ants, by affording room, for their
exercise and recreation. That is a
good reason for the citizens forming
a fund for the purchase of the pro-
perty, and, if they can make out a
strong case, for applying to the Le-
gislature to compel a sale, upon the
value being tendered to the proprie-
tor. But is that any reason for con-
fiscating the domain to the citizens
without any equivalent ? Suppo-
sing even that the right had been
originally acquired by encroach-
ment, and the title of the owner
stands alone on prescription ; or that
it was once vested in a number of
proprietors, and now has fallen into
a few hands; still, is that the slightest

389

This may be done by
act of Parliament on the principle
of the strongest, just as the same
authority may order an innocent in-
dividual to be beheaded; but it is
difficult to perceive any other prin-
ciple on which it can be founded.

" The freehold in the corpora-
tions," say Lord Holt and Hale, "is
both a property and a trust." Con-
sidered as the former, it cannot be
taken away, unless delinquence is
proved, without an equivalent; con-
sidered as the latter, it may justly
be forfeited upon the proof of guilt.
Here, then, are the two grounds on
which disfranchisement can be le-
gally rested : tendered compensa-
tion, or proved delinquence. Let,
therefore, the boroughs which Parlia-
ment thinks fit to abolish, be either
purchased from the owners, or dis-
franchised, like Grampound and East
Retford, on the ground of proved
corruption ; but let not a measure
be entertained, which, without either
the one or the other, violates the
rights of the subjects of the realm.

The. extent to which this arbitrary
confiscation is proposed to be car-
ried, is one of the most enormous
evils which threatens us in these
days of political peril. By the new
bill, about 150 seats are to be dis-
franchised in England alone. Sup-
posing that each seat is worth, to the
persons who now return the mem-
ber, L.30,000, which is certainly a
very moderate allowance, the value
of property thus confiscated in that
part of the island without equivalent,
is L.4,500,000.

In Scotland, the injustice is equal-
ly crying. There are about 5000
electors, according to1 the Lord Ad-
vocate's statement, in Scotland, of
which 2500 are county freeholders.
Supposing each county freehold to
be worth L.800, which it certainly is
at the very lowest computation, the
value of the property thus destroyed
is L.2,000,000. Taking into account
the borough votes threatened with

destruction, the property to be sa-
crificed cannot be computed, at the
lowest rate, at less than L.2,500,000.
The greater part of these votes in-
deed are not, strictly speaking, de-
stroyed; they are rendered of no va-

ground for taking away the right of lue by the immense addition made
the existing owner without any com- to the number of voters. Who will

A Creation of Peers.

390

give any thing for a vote in any Scot-
tish county, when it is shared with
a mob of L.I 0 feuars in all the villa-
ges which it contains ?

This freehold property is legally
vested in the present owners. It is
the subject of marriage contracts,
provisions to children, and all the
lasting obligations between man and
man. It has all been purchased at
one period or another for full value.
It has been recognised as legal pro-
perty in innumerable decisions of
the Court of Law, the House of
Peers, and acts of Parliament. If
property thus solemnly established
is to be destroyed, without an equi-
valent,by the introduction of a whole
army of new voters to the benefit of
the privilege which constituted its
value, there is no security for legal
rights in the kingdom.

On the same principle it may be
maintained, that any other right
which at present is enjoyed by an
individual, or a limited number of
persons, should be spread over a
wider surface, and extended to a
more numerous class in the com-
munity. Why should landed estates
be confined to the existing owners,
when so large a portion of the com-
munity are suffering from want ? It
is clear that the argument for the
extension of the franchise is a for-
tiori applicable to a division of es-
tates, by so much more as the en-
joyment of actual property is more
valuable than the acquisition of a
mere political privilege. Why should
the peerage be confined to four or
five hundred individuals, and not be
diffused, with all its consequent ad-
vantages, over a larger portion of the
community ? Why should the divi-
dends be paid to 264,000 individuals,
and the benefit of these regular pay-
ments be not extended, on a princi-
ple of funded reform, to every indi-
vidual who pays taxes ? Why should
the crown remain on a single head,
and not be divided, as in France in
1789," among 1200 sovereigns, whom,
as Catherine well said, no one obeyed
but the puppet on the throne?" These
consequences are disastrous : they
will startle the most thorough Re-
former, tending, as they obviously
do, to overthrow the whole fabric
of society, and for ever destroy the
glories of modern civilisation : but
on what principle are they to be re-

[Feb.

sisted, if the precedent be once ad-
mitted, that the rights of so large a
portion of the British freeholders
are to be sacrificed without either
proved delinquence or tendered
compensation, merely because those
who do not as yet possess that
species of property, choose to as-
sert that it would be agreeable to
them that their neighbours' pro-
perty should be divided for their
behoof?

The peril to funded property, if
this grand precedent of dividing
other people's estates be once esta-
blished, is peculiarly great, and
eminently worthy of consideration
in a commercial country. The pro-
perty of money in the funds is far
more obnoxious, and more likely to
be made the object of popular exe-
cration, than the exclusive privi-
lege now vested in either the Eng-
lish or the Scotch freeholders. The
public creditor, literally speaking,
lives upon the industry of the peo-
ple : he does not, like the freeholder,
merely exercise a privilege which
they are desirous to share with him.
When, therefore, the storm of de-
mocratic fury is by a revolutionary
press directed against the fundhold-
ers, as it assuredly will be, the topics
presented to inflame the passions of
the people will be infinitely more
powerful than those which have been
used with such fatal effects against
the freeholders. They will say, " the
boroughmonger debarred you from
a privilege, but the fundholder preys
upon your vitals : in shaking him off,
you are not demolishing the giant
who has chained you to the earth,
but the vampire which sucks your
heart'sblood." When considerations
of this sort are presented day after
day, month after month, and year
after year, by the daily press, to the
minds of their indigent and squalid
readers, can it be deemed surprising
if a most vehement outcry is raised
for the destruction of the funds ?
And if the grand precedent be once
established in 1832, that private pro-
perty is to be confiscated, in obedi-
ence, not to proved necessity, or ad-
mitted expedience, but mere popu-
lar outcry, on what principle can the
confiscation of funded property be
averted ?

There are many persons who calm-
ly contemplate such an event, and

1832.]

flatter themselves, because they have
no money in the funds themselves,
that they will escape unharmed in
the general wreck which such a mea-
sure must produce. To such per-
sons we would beg to make the fol-
lowing observation. You are all
either debtors or creditors, landlords
or tenants, buyers or sellers, em-
ployers or workmen. Now, how are
any of these obligations to be dis-
charged, if the funds, the great bank
of the nation, is destroyed ? How is
the landlord to recover his rents
when the banks have all broke, bills
have ceased to be discounted, and
credit is utterly suspended by this
fatal measure ? How is the tenant
to effect his sales, in the universal
consternation consequent on such
an event ? How is the manufacturer
to employ his workmen, when the
banks refuse his bills, and the sale of
his produce is destroyed ? How is
the creditor to recover his debt, whe-
ther in mortgage or chattel, after a
national bankruptcy has destroyed
his debtor's funds? How is the
debtor to get time to discharge his
obligations, when his creditor is him-
self pressed by overbearing necessi-
ty, and forced to exact the last shil-
ling from every one who owes him
money ? It is evident that all must
share in the general calamity : the
rich by the failure of tenants and
debtors, the poor by the stoppage
of their employment, and the cessa-
tion of the market for their indus-
try. But let it never be imagined
that the reality, the near approach
of these perils, will deter the revolu-
tionary party from then, as now, cla-
mouring for the measures which are
to occasion them : it is the nature
of democratic ambition, as of every
other vehement passion, to be blind
to consequences : the measures now
called for, the confiscation of free-
hold property, now the object of
such violent desire, will lead to the
'demolition of the funds, as neces-
sarily, though perhaps not quite so
rapidly, as that dreadful step will
spread famine, devastation, and ruin
through every hamlet in the land.

Farther, we can see no reason
why the nation generally, and, still
more, the dispossessed proprietors,
should be subjected to the burden
of providing the fund which should
be set apart for the disfranchised

A Creation of Peers.

391

proprietors, Cujus est commodum efus
debet esse onus. If an advantage is to
be gained for the whole community,
it is fair that the public should pay
for it. But where the advantage is
confined to a single class of society,
that class, and that class only, should
be burdened with providing the
funds for a change, by which it alone
is to be benefited. Here, then, is a
clear principle, on which reform in
the representation may be brought
about, in perfect unison with the
rules of justice, and in so gradual a
manner, as not materially to en-
danger (for every change must to a
certain extent endanger j the institu-
tions of society. Let the Legislature
fix, upon a survey of the unrepre-
sented towns, what number of bo-
roughs should be in all disfranchised,
and let every unrepresented town,
which is desirous of members, make
up the funds, either by subscription
or assessment, requisite to indemni-
fy the proprietor. This, combined
with the gratuitous disfranchisement
of all boroughs convicted of corrup-
tion, would afford a direct inlet for
commercial and manufacturing in-
fluence in the Legislature, fully as
rapidly as is consistent with the sta-
bility of the other institutions of the
country. It may not be so agreeable,
no doubt, to these reforming gentle-
men to pay for the franchise they
are desirous of acquiring, as to wrest
it from their neighbours by Parlia-
mentary authority, without any equi-
valent ; just as it is sometimes not
so convenient to purchase an estate,
as to obtain a confiscation of it to
the Crown, and a grant for nothing
of the confiscated lands ; but if the
appearance even of justice is to be
preserved in the transaction, no other
method of transfer can possibly be
adopted; and if it be not, no estate
in the kingdom, from the Crown
downwards, is held by any other
than a precarious tenure.

While we are now writing, the
die is probably cast; the Rubi-
con is passed ; an unprecedented
step is about to be adopted, by a
violent exertion of the prerogative
of the Crown ; the means of effec-
tual deliberation is taken away from
one branch of the Legislature, and a
precedent established, which leaves
the liberties of England at the mercy
of the Commons and the Throne.

39-2

A Creation

When this measure is to be made
public, we know not; we speak of the
step pressed upon Government by
the Reformers, and which, it is to be
feared, they are noways unwilling
to adopt.

In approaching this terrible sub-
ject, where strong expressions must
be used, if justice is done to the
cause of freedom and the constitu-
tion, it is our earnest desire to avoid
any thing which is either inflamma-
tory to the passions, or hurtful to
the feelings. We have no cause of
discord with the Administration, ex-
cepting as subjects of the realm, and
interested in the preservation of our
common country ; we say nothing of
them personally, and confine our-
selves to those public measures
which affect every subject, and are
the property of the annalist and the
historian. We address ourselves to
the Conservative Party — to men who
venerate the constitution, and are
attached to the cause of order — who
know the distinction between fear-
less discussion addressed to the un-
derstanding, and inflammatory topics
calculated tor the passions — who feel
that their only chance of salvation is
by a strict adherence to the consti-
tutional means of resistance — and
that the adoption of violent stretches
on one side, is only a reason why
they should be avoided on the other.
We shall point out the true charac-
ter of the measure which has been
adopted, and the only means of
averting its disastrous consequences
which still remain to the country.

The Crown, it is said, possesses
the prerogative of creating Peers,
and therefore the exercise of this
right cannot be objected to, if vindi-
cated by sufficient reasons of state
necessity. There can be no doubt
that the Executive has the power to
create an hundred Peers at a time,
just as it has the power of ordering
a file of an hundred grenadiers to
march into the Chapel of St Ste-
phen's, or the House of Lords, and
expel both branches of the Legisla-
ture. But the question is, whether
the exercise of this power is consti-
tutional ; whether it is vindicated by
any precedent, supported by any ana-
logy, justified by any expedience ?

of Peers. [Feb.

The only example of a similar
stretch, is the creation of twelve
Peers at one time by Queen Anne.
This was done upon occasion of the
fall of the Duke of Marlborough, to
secure a majority against that illus-
trious general in the Upper House.*
Such is national gratitude ! The on-
ly occasions on which this stretch
has been attempted in English his-
tory, have been to secure the over-
throw of the two greatest benefac-
tors of their country; — of that illus-
trious commander who shed the ra-
diance of glory over the commence-
ment of the eighteenth century, and
that unconquered hero, who crown-
ed with immortal renown the open-
ing of the nineteenth century— of
the victor of Louis XIV. and the
conqueror of Napoleon !

During the most arbitrary and des-
potic reigns of English history, no
such stretch of the prerogative was
ever attempted. The proud Elizabeth,
notwithstanding her high ideas of the
royal prerogative, never made any
such attempt; and six Earls and eight
Barons were all that she created du-
ring a reign of more than usual glory
of eight-and-forty years. It was un-
known during the reigns of the Ed-
wards and the Henrys, the Tudors and
the Plantagenets, and never attempt-
ed, even when Ministers were most
pressed, under the House of Hanover.
When Mr Fox, Mr Burke, and Lord
North, in 1 784, had carried the India
Bill through the Commons, and had
reason to anticipate defeat and ruin
in the House of Lords, they never
thought of such an invasion of the
deliberative powers of that Assem-
bly. The haughty coalition, notwith-
standing its uniting all the most pow-
erful parties in the state, resigned the
helm rather than do what Earl Grey
is urged to do. The Duke of Wel-
lington did not create a single Peer,
when he had reason to anticipate a
defeat on the Catholic Question in
the House of Lords. It was reser-
ved for a Whig party, the vehement
declaimers in favour of popular
rights, to urge the Crown to the
adoption of a measure unparalleled,
save in a single instance, in English
history ; to adopt and enlarge upon
that measure of their political oppo-

* Smollett, II.

1832.]

A Creation of Peers.

393

nents, on which they had uniformly
thrown the most deserved odium ;
and after having, for above a centu-
ry, concurred with the voice of his-
tory, in condemning the creation of
twelve Peers in the dose of the reign
of Queen Anne, to endeavour to sig-
nalize the commencement of that of
William by the creation of Thirty !

This measure has always been stig-
matized as the most arbitrary stretch
of power since the Revolution. On
24th June, 1717, it formed an article
of impeachment against Robert, Earl
of Oxford, the leader of Queen Anne's
Tory Ministry, by the Whig party; and
the following is the charge in the im-
peachment : — " In order to obtain
such farther resolutions of that House
of Parliament, on the important sub-
ject of the negotiations of peace, as
might shelter and promote his secret
and unwarrantable proceedings, to-
gether with other false and evil coun-
sellors, did advise her Majesty to
make and create twelve Peers of this
realm and Lords of Parliament ; and,
pursuant to his destructive counsels,
letters patent did forthwith pass and
writs issued, whereby twelve Peers
were made and created; and did
likewise advise her Majesty imme-
diately to call and summon them to
Parliament, which being done ac-
cordingly, they took their seats in
the House of Lords, on or about the
2d of January, 1711, to which day
the House then stood adjourned ;
whereby the gaid Robert Earl of
Oxford and Earl Mortimer did most
highly abuse the influence he then
had with her Majesty, and prevailed
on her to exercise, in the most un-
precedented and dangerous manner,
that valuable and undoubted prero-
gative, which the wisdom of the laws
and constitution of this kingdom
hath intrusted with the Crown, for
the rewarding of signal virtue arid
distinguished merit. By which despe-
rate advice, he did not only, as far as
jn him lay, deprive her Majesty of
the continuance of those seasonable
and wholesome counsels in that cri-
tical juncture, but wickedly pervert-
ed the true and only end of that f/reat
and useful prerogative, to the disho-
nour of the Crown, and the irrepa-
rable mischief to the constitution of
Parliament."

The Whigs, in 1717, deemed a
Tory Minister worthy of impeach-

ment, and actually brought him to
trial in the House of Lords, for cre-
ating twelve Peers to carry a parti-
cular measure — of what would they
deem those worthy who should, for
a similar purpose, create Thirty ?

It is said that they had no alterna-
tive ; that the Reform Question could
not be permitted to remain longer in
dependence ; that all the interests of
the country were suffering under the
effects of the agitation which it pro-
duced; that the Peers could not be
allowed to remain permanently at
variance with the nation ; and that it
is better that their independence
should be destroyed by the sword of
the prerogative, than overturned by
the violence of the people. If this
reasoning were well founded, it
would afford no vindication whatever
of their conduct, but merely shift
the censure upon another part of it.
For who occasioned the violence, or
roused the passions, which they now
represent as irresistible ? Who placed
this Question upon a different footing
from any other that ever was agitated
in English history, and created the
necessity of yielding to the mob, by
appealing to their passions ? Who,
when the country was agitated by
democraticpassions,joined the popu-
lace for the sake of preserving their
power, instead of uniting with their
opponents for the sake of saving
their country ? Who forgot the noble
saying of Sheridan, when the nation
was on the verge of destruction from
the mutiny at the Nore, and he left
Mr Fox to save his country — " Con-
cede to the mutineers? Never — for
that would destroy in a moment
three centuries of glory !" WTho dis-
solved Parliament at a moment of the
highest excitement, and roused the
people to madness by the goading
of a furious press, and forced on the
elections under such circumstances
as rendered the House of Commons
the mirror of fleeting passion, instead
of permanent opinion ? Who brought
forward a measure of Reform so
violent, so sweeping, that it far ex-
ceeded the hopes of the Radicals
themselves, and excited a ferment in
the democratic party, great in pro-
portion to the unexpected and un-
hoped for gift of power which was
tendered to their grasp ? Who
brought a measure into the Legisla-
ture, which they had no hope, on

394

A Creation of Peers.

[Feb.

their own admission, of carrying in
Parliament, but which they trusted
to force upon a reluctant Legislature,
by the vehemence of popular pas-
sion ? Who have adopted measures
which, however intended, have con-
verted a prosperous and happy realm
into a scene of discord, and the the-
atre of fury ; have stained its cities
with blood,and lighted its plains with
conflagration? If the persons who
have done these things now find
themselves overborne by necessity ;
if they feel they cannot check the
current they have urged into a tor-
rent, on whom does the responsi-
bility of such a tremendous state of
things rest, but on those who em-
barked on the stream of innovation ?
In truth, this alleged necessity
which is put forth by the Reformers
as the excuse for so unprecedented
a stretch of power, if it really does
exist, and is not a necessity merely
for keeping themselves in power, is
but another instance of the truth
which we have frequently impressed
upon our readers, and which the
slightest acquaintance with the his-
tory of revolution must have render-
ed familiar to every scholar, that it is
only the first movements and early
stages of the democratic torrent
which are under the control of those
who put it in motion ; and that after
it is set agoing, they are speedily im-
pelled onwards by a force which
they feel to be irresistible. This it
is which renders the rousing of de-
mocratic passion so tremendously
dangerous, and affixes such deserved
execration upon the names of all
those in former ages, who have, for
their own selfish purposes, made use
of that terrific engine. The agita-
tion, distress, and anxiety, which it
produces, is so terrible, that society
cannot endure it, and, to put an end to
suspense, the Executive is impelled
to measures which, at the commence-
ment of the movement, all men would
have recoiled from with horror. —
Quod prius fit voluntatis, postea fit
necessitatis. The plea of necessity is
never wanting in such cases; the
desperate step which is utterly sub-
versive of freedom, is represented as
a measure, deplorable, indeed, but
unavoidable ; and, to extinguish the

effects of former popular concessions,
still stronger and more vehement,
revolutionary measures are felt to
be necessary. It was thus that Louis
XVI., after he had adopted the fatal
measure of convoking the States-Ge-
neral, and doubling the representa-
tives of the Tiers Etat, found himself
compelled to enjoin his faithful nobles
to yield to the torrent, and join with
the deputies of the Commons in one
assembly; a measure which, by giving
anumerical superiority to the popular
party, directly led to all the horrors of
the Revolution. All the most violent
revolutionary measures, the confisca-
tion of the property of the Church,
the execution of the King, the issu-
ing of assignats bearing a forced cir-
culation, the Reign of Terror, the fix-
ing a maximum on the price of pro-
visions, the forced requisitions from
the farmers, the confiscation of two-
thirds of the national debt, were jus-
tified on the plea of necessity; it
was uniformly said that matters had
come to that pass, that they could
not go on unless the new measure
was adopted. Cromwell was not
without asimilar excuse when he dis-
solved the Long Parliament. " He
first addressed himself," says Hume,
" to his friend St John, and told
him that he had come with the inten-
tion of doing what grieved him to the
very soul, and what he had earnestly
besought the Lord, with tears, not to
impose upon him ; but there was a ne-
cessity, in order to the glory of God,
and the good of the nation. It is
you," added he, addressing himself
to the House, " that have forced me
upon this; I have besought the Lord
night and day, that he would slay me
rather than put me upon this work."*

If, therefore, there was a necessity
for this despotic act, it is a necessity
of the Ministers' own creation. They
have voluntarily embarked on this
St Lawrence, and they must answer
to God and man if they send the
vessel of the state to its Niagara.

But before the plea of necessity is
admitted for destroying the consti-
tution, let it be considered whether
Ministers have done every thing
which they could to avert so direful
a catastrophe ? Have they united
with the Conservative Party, as Mr

* Hume, VII. 216, 217.

1882.]

A Creation of Peers.

395

Sheridan so nobly did with Mr Pitt
at the mutiny at the Nore ? Have
they called forth the strength of the
country to resist the danger ? Have
they exerted the might of the Exe-
cutive to restrain the turbulence of
the people ? Have they done all that
men could do, charged with so sacred
a trust as the preservation of the
noblest monument of social wisdom
and prosperity which the world has
ever seen ? — Have they not, on the
contrary, done the very reverse of
these things ? Have they not done
every thing in their power to beat
down and ruin the Conservative
Party? Has not the press, which
they honour with their communica-
tions and theirconfidence,stimulated
the ruffian mobs to plaster the friends
of the constitution with mud; to
strike at their faces ; to strike them
down with brickbats ; to duck them
in horseponds ? Has not under
their rule the reign of terror been
so general, that the expression of
opinion, in opposition to the multi-
tude, required every where more
than ordinary courage ? Have they
not roused and got up petitions in
every part of the country, calling
upon the" King to swamp the Upper
House by a great creation of Peers ?
And how, after having not done any
thing whatever to avert the calamity,
but on the contrary done every thing
to produce it, can they now be per-
mitted to shelter themselves under
the plea of that necessity which ori-
ginated in their measures, and has
been strengthened by such indefati-
gable efforts of their emissaries ?

" The proper use and design
of the House of Lords," says Paley,
" are these — first, to enable the
King, by his right of bestowing
the peerage, to reward the servants
of the public in a manner most
grateful to them, and at a small ex-
pense to the nation ; secondly, to
Fortify the power, and to secure the
stability, of regal government, by an
order of men naturally allied to its
interests ; and, thirdly, to answer a
purpose, which, though of superior
importance to the other two, does
not occur so readily to our observa-
tion ; namely, to stem the progress
of popular fury. Large bodies of
men are subject to sudden frenzies.
Opinions are sometimes circulated
amongst a multitude without proof

or examination, acquiring confidence
and reputation merely by being
repeated from one to another ; and
passions founded upon these opi-
nions, diffusing themselves with a
rapidity that can neither be account-
ed for nor resisted, may agitate a
country with the most violent com-
motions. Now, the only way to stop
the fermentation, is to divide the
mass ; that is, to erect different or-
ders in the community, with separate
prejudices and interests. And this
may occasionally become the use of
an hereditary nobility invested with
a share of legislation. Averse to the
prejudices which actuate the minds
of the vulgar; accustomed to con-
temn the clamour of the populace ;
disdaining to receive laws and opi-
nions from their inferiors in rank,
they will oppose resolutions which
are founded in the folly and violence
of the lower part of the community.
Was the voice of the people always
dictated by reflection ; did every
man, or even one man in a hundred,
think for himself, or actually consi-
der the measure he was about to
approve or censure ; or even were
the common people tolerably stead-
fast in the judgment which they
formed, I should hold the interfe-
rence of a superior order not only
superfluous, but wrong; for when
every thing is allowed to difference
of rank and education, which the ac-
tual state of these advantages de-
serves, that, after all, is most likely
to be right and expedient, which ap-
pears to be so to the separate judg-
ment and decision of a great majority
of the nation; at least, that, in general,
is right for them, which is agreeable
to their fixed opinions and desires.
But when we observe what is urged
as the public opinion, to be, in truth,
the opinion only, or perhaps the
feigned professions, of a few crafty
leaders; that the numbers who join
in the cry serve only to swell and
multiply the sound, without any ac-
cession of judgment, or exercise of
understanding ; and that oftentimes
the wisest counsels have been thus
overborne by tumult and uproar ; —
we may conceive occasions to arise,
in which the commonwealth may be
saved by the reluctance of the nobi-
lity to adopt the caprices, or to yield
to the vehemence of the common
people. In expecting this advantage

396

A Creation of Peers.

LFeb.

from an order of nobles, we do not
suppose the nobility to be more un-
prejudiced than others ; we only sup-
pose that their prejudices will be
different from, and may occasionally
counteract, those of others."*

" By the balance of interest which
accompanies and gives efficacy to
the balance of power, is meant this;
— that the respective interests of the
three estates of the empire are so
disposed and adjusted, that which-
ever of the three shall attempt any
encroachment, the other two will
unite in resisting it. If the King
should endeavour to extend his au-
thority, by contracting the power and
privileges of the Commons, the House
of Lords would see their own dignity
endangered by every advance which
the crown made to independency
upon the resolutions of Parliament.
The admission of arbitrary power is
no less formidable to the grandeur
of the aristocracy, than it is fatal to
the liberty of the republic ; that is,
it would reduce the nobility from
the hereditary share they possess in
the national councils, in which their
real greatness consists, to the being
made a part of the empty pageantry
of a despotic court. On the other
hand, if the House of Commons
should intrench upon the distinct
province, or usurp the established
prerogative of the Crown, the House
of Lords would receive an instant
alarm from every new stretch of po-
pular power, j

It is needless, and it would be
painful, to dwell on the unparalleled
combination of circumstances which
has at this time inverted the order
here described, and brought the
Crown, instead of being united with
the Lords against the Commons, in-
to the condition of being united with
the Commons against the Lords.
But these observations of this emi-
nent sage demonstrate the import-
ance of the Peers as a separate and
independent estate in the realm, and
enable us to appreciate the tendency
of those measures, which, by de-
stroying their power of effectual de-
liberation, prepare the way, at no
distant period, for their formal abo-
lition.

The House of Peers, in every age,

have been the foremost and truest
friends of rational freedom. It is
to them we owe Magna Charta, the
emancipation of England from Papal
usurpation in the time of Henry II.,
and the Revolution against Catholic
tyranny in 1688. They took the
lead in the national movement which
precipitated James from the throne ;
and their firmness saved the liberties
of England from being sacrificed at
the shrine of Eastern ambition in
1784. They have never been insult-
ed, humiliated, or weakened, but
what the most grinding oppression
on the throne, and the most abject
submission in the nation, immediately
followed. The ancient nobility of
England were almost annihilated by
mutual slaughter during the wars of
the Roses, and the tyranny of Henry
VIII. was the consequence ; a reign,
says Hume, in which 72,000 persons
suffered by the hands of the public
executioner, and a greater degree of
tyranny was exercised both over the
consciences, the persons, and the
properties of men, than in any simi-
lar era since the reign of Nero.
The Lords were abolished by the
Long Parliament, and that energetic
assembly soon shared the fate it had
inflicted on its rival ; but the liber-
ties of the people did not long sur-
vive the shock : they were first
crushed beneath the sword of Crom-
well, and then lost amidst the cor-
ruptions of the Restoration.

The reason why public freedom
in an old state cannot subsist for any
time after the degradation of the he-
reditary nobility is, that the Crown
and the democracy, having destroyed
the power which overawed and se-
parated them, are brought into im-
mediate and fierce collision, and in
that struggle liberty has no chance
whatever of being ultimately pre-
served. If the monarch is victorious,
either by the .force of arms or the
influence of corruption, a despotism
is immediately established. If the
people become omnipotent, the tran-
sition is equally certain, though by
a more painful and agonizing pass-
age, to absolute power. Democracy,
unrestrained by aristocracy, never
yet subsisted for any length of time
in any old state upon earth; the evils

* Paley, II. 21(j. f Ibid. 214, 2 la.

1832.]

A Creation of Peers.

397

it induces are so excessive, the suf-
fering which flows from it is so
dreadful, that mankind soon become
weary of their contentions, and will-
ingly submit to any usurper who
promises, by concentrating power in
a single hand, to save them from
" the worst of tyrannies, the tyranny
of a multitude of tyrants." *

But what is the stroke which is
now levelled by the reforming party
at the independence and the privi-
leges of this estate, so vital to the
breath of public freedom ? If they
had marched, like Napoleon, a com-
pany of grenadiers into the Hall of
the Ancients ; or, like Cromwell,
with rude contumely, turned the
Commons out of their seats, history
would have known in what terms to
designate their conduct. They do
not "propose to do so ; they pursue
a more peaceable and covert course;
but in what respect does its result
differ from an open destruction of
their order? They have not march-
ed in thirty grenadiers with fixed
bayonets ; but they are urged to
march in thirty Peers with fixed
votes, which must overwhelm the
decision of that assembly just as
effectually as the rougher hands of
warlike assailants. It is quite evi-
dent that the third estate of the realm
will by such a measure be complete-
ly prostrated by the two others, and
the balance of the constitution irre-
vocably destroyed, by the union of
the Crown with the power it was
destined to repress.

It is in vain to say that the consti-
tutional remedy for obstinacy in the
Upper House is a new creation of
Peers. If so, where are the prece-
dents on which the consuetudinary
practice is founded ? With the ex-
ception of the solitary act of Queen
Anne, no creation of Peers to carry
a particular question ever took place
since the union of the Heptarchy.
That is the important point. The
Reformers, with their usual histori-
cal inaccuracy, argue that a great
number of Peers have been created
since 1763 by the Tory party, and
therefore that they are justified in
this creation, to force through this
particular measure. They might as
well pretend, that, because there is

nothing wrong in troops exercising
with fixed bayonets in Hyde Park,
therefore there can be no objection
to their marching with fixed bayonets
into the chapel of St Stephen's : or,
because it is lawful to discharge a
loaded pistol in an open field, there-
fore it is noways blamahle to fire it
off at the breast of a human being.
The error does not lie in the exer-
cise of the power, but in its exercise
for that particular purpose ; not in
discharging the gun, but in dischar-
ging it at a living creature.

Mr Pitt never created a single
Peer to carry through a particular
measure ; his creations were merely
general, to reward the merit of illus-
trious individuals, or elevate persons
of great property to their proper
rank in the state. If these indivi-
duals were numerous, it was be-
cause, under the administration of
the Conservative party, great actions
were common abroad, noble charac-
ters were frequent at home, and ex-
tensive wealth often rewarded the
protected exertions of industry.
What a contrast do these creations
afford to those proposed in the pre-
sent time, made, not to reward na-
val or military glory; not to illus-
trate civil distinction ; not to ennoble
commercial greatness ; but to over-
whelm free discussion, to extinguish
independent thought, to reward de-
mocratic ambition ! The old Barons
of England won their coronets in the
embattled field ; their titles date
from Cressy and Poictiers, from Fal-
kirk and Azincour : the more mo-
dern Peers draw their descent from
equally glorious deeds, — from the
field of Blenheim, the fight of Cam-
perdown,the glories of the Nile, the
flag of Trafalgar, the rout of Vitto-
ria, the conquest of Waterloo. In
civil greatness, equally honourable
have been the fountains of the Con-
servative nobility ; the administra-
tion of Chatham, the wisdom of
Loughborough, the eloquence of
Mansfield, the vigour of Hardvvicke,
the learning of Eldon, the power of
Thurlow, the energy of Grenville.
Who envies the really illustrious of
the Whig party a similar elevation ?
Who would grudge Baron Brougham
and Vaux his coronet ; or any of the

* Aristotle,

398

A Creation

other Whig leaders their titles for
national services which will survive
themselves ? But what a contrast
to these glorious titles do the crea-
tions now proposed afford ? Done
not to reward merit, not to illustrate
distinction, not to perpetuate ho-
nour ; but to enable a particular
party to remain in power, at the
expense of the constitution — to sink
the illustrious House, of which they
are the youngest members, and
form, not the ensigns of past glory,
but the harbinger of future disaster!

The enormous number of Peers
whom the present Administration
have created since they came into
power, is another most serious con-
sideration. If to the former creation
of twenty-five we add thirty now pro-
posed to be added, we shall have
fifty-five peers created in thirteen
months, all avowedly to carry a par-
ticular question. The Conservative
party have been in power, with two
short intermissions, from 1763 to
1830, or sixty-seven years. If they
had created as many Peers annually
as the present Ministers have done,
and are said to be about to do, the
Upper House would now have con-
sisted of above four thousand mem-
bers ! In other words, that single
branch of the Legislature would have
engrossed all the persons of wealth,
consideration, or respectability in the
country, leaving none to the House
of Commons but furious dema-
gogues, or energetic popular leaders :
the very circumstance which Lord
Brougham has so well shewn was
the cause of the precipitate and fa-
tal career of the French Constituent
Assembly.*

Nor does it in the least alter the
character of the measure, that a large
proportion of the new Peers, it is
said, will be the eldest sons of existing
Barons, who will, in the course of na-
ture, at all events, succeed to the Up-
per House. Thatmay be an important
point to the Peers themselves, who
naturally feel desirous that their or-
der should not be degraded by the
introduction of improper members.
But to the country at large, this con-
sideration, though by no means un-
important, is not the most serious
matter. The great wound which the

of Peers. [Feb.

constitution has received, is that
which arises from the decision of one
branch of the Legislature being over-
turned by the Royal prerogative ; in
other words, the establishment of a
precedent, which at any time enables
the Executive, by whomsoever wield-
ed, to break down the opposition of
one of the constituent branches of
the Legislature. From that wound,
fatal to public freedom, the constitu-
tion never can recover, and it is
called for by the friends of the
people !

" Whenever, during the Revolu-
tion," says Chateaubriand, " an act
of injustice was to be done, it was
urged forward with breathless haste,
and necessity was alleged for its
adoption ; whenever an act of justice
was to be performed, it was said that
delay was expedient." How exact-
ly similar is the revolutionary career
in all ages and countries ! Where is
the necessity for advancing so rapid-
ly ? Did not the Catholic Bill pass the
Peers from the alleged force of reason
at last, though for long it was reject-
ed ? Is the cause of Reform so ut-
terly untenable that it won't bear an
argument, and must dwindle away
and perish, if it is long considered ? Is
the maxim, magna est veritas et prce-
valebit, universally applicable save
to the Reform Bill ? The truth cannot
be eluded; it is pressed by this vio-
lent stretch of the Executive, because
its authors know the universal appli-
cation of this maxim, and feel that,
if not now forced upon the country,
it inevitably will awaken to its real
tendency.

The constitution has subsisted so
long, and general liberty has been so
admirably preserved under it, be-
cause, as Paley has observed, in the
passage quoted above, the Crown has,
in all serious contests with the popu-
lar party, taken part with the Upper
House ; and how great soever the
democratic spirit of the Commons
has occasionally been, it was effect-
ually coerced by the united weight
of the Barons and the Executive; in
other words, by the ruling power
and the great properties of the state.
If a creation of Peers be adopted, it
will be mortally wounded, because a
coalition against its existence has ta-

* Edinburgh Review, Vol, VI. Review of Bailly.

1832.]

A Creation of Peers.

ken place, of a kind which never
has been anticipated, and for which,
accordingly, the constitution has
made no provision, viz. the coalition
of the Executive with the democra-
tic party. It was obvious to every
capacity, that if such a combination
of powers took place, it would be
extremely doubtful whether the aris-
tocracy could maintain their ground
against it ; because the Crown, wield-
ing the military and naval force of
the realm, and possessing the unli-
mited power of creating Peers, and
the Commons having the sole com-
mand of the public purse, stood op-
posed merely to an assembly of dig-
nified and opulent landed proprie-
tors. But such an alliance was deem-
ed impossible by all the sages and
philosophers of the last age, because
it was directly contrary to the inte-
rests and existence of the contracting
parties ; and, therefore, they never
contemplated any peril to the consti-
tution from that quarter. It was re-
served for the modern Reformers to
realize what Montesquieu, De Lolme,
and Blackstone deemed impossible ;
and to pierce the constitution to the
heart by a blow, so reckless and peril-
ous, that it never was thought possi-
ble that men could be found to strike
it.

England, to all appearance, is about
to enter upon the career of degra-
ding the Peerage, and destroying its
independence as a branch of the Le-
gislature; and is there no example
of what such a course leads to ?
Does no voice issue from the sepul-
chral vaults of a neighbouring king-
dom, to warn us of the measure which
proved fatal to their institutions ?
Alas ! the hand of God seems to
press upon our country ; darkness,
thick as midnight, darkness " that
may be felt," to blind our people ;
the examples not merely of history,
but of the present moment, are lost up-
on our rulers ! At the very moment
T;hat the Crown of England is violent-
ly urged to embark on this peril-
ous stream, the Crown of France
is tottering on the head of him who
wears it ; while the new patents for
the creation of English Peers are
making out on one side of the Chan-
nel, the hereditary nobility is ex-
tinguished on the other. What has
led to this overthrow of the French
constitution—to this departure from

899

all the principles of European civili-
sation— to this demolition of the bul-
wark of modern freedom, and near
approach of the greatest civilized
monarchy to the barbarism and the
anarchy of Turkish despotism ? The
fatal union of the Crown and the po-
pulace ; the ruinous precipitance,
forty years ago, of a reforming Ad-
ministration ; the placing the Execu-
tive at the head of the revolutionary
movement; the repeated overwhelm-
ing of independent deliberations by
the creation of Peers to carry parti-
cular questions, and the erection of
a revolutionary throne on the founda-
tion of the barricades. Sixty Peers
were created at one time by Decaze
to force an obnoxious measure
through the Upper House; they
were arbitrarily deprived of their
seats by the lirst act of the Citi-
zen King ; thirty more were created
to ensure the passing of the self-de-
nying ordinance, and the next mea-
sure is the formal abolition of the
hereditary Peerage by the Peers
themselves !

It is impossible it can be other-
wise. When the Assembly of Nobles
is held forth to the country as un-
worthy of effective deliberation;
when their resolutions the most so-
lemn, their deliberations the most
wise, their measures the most mag.
nanimous, are set aside by a simple
stretch of the Royal prerogative, it is
impossible that they can be regard-
ed either with respect or attachment
by the country. The friends of or-
der must cease to regard them as
any effective barrier against the en-
croachments of revolution; the sup-
porters of innovation cannot appre-
hend any effective resistance from a
body, whom, on a previous occasion,
they have discovered so easy a me-
thod of defeating. By both the great
parties into which society in all the
states of Europe is now divided, the
influence of the nobility must be re-
garded as equally extinguished ; and
how, after such a fall in public esti-
mation, is their order and their rank
to be preserved from destruction?
Without inspiring confidence in the
one party, without awakening fear
in the other, they may drag on for a
few years a precarious existence;
but their dignity, their usefulness, is
at an end, and their importance must*
be so much diminished, that their

400

ultimate destruction will be neither
the subject of congratulation to the
one, nor regret to the other.

The whole efforts of the Revolu-
tionary Party will now be directed
to one object, to seize possession of,
and retain in their grasp,'the Execu-
tive power. By so doing they oc-
cupy a position which commands
the Conservative Party in rear, and
enables them to assail the friends of
the constitution in a quarter in
which they have no defence, because
no attack was apprehended. Create
new Peers, — create new Peers, will
be the cry raised on every occasion,
on which any resistance to the ad-
vances of that most insatiable of all
passions, democratic ambition, is ap-
prehended ; and the Upper House,
how anxious soever to discharge
their duty to their country, finding
themselves paralysed by such an ex-
ertion of the Royal prerogative, must
necessarily cease to oppose any se-
rious resistance to the demands of
the people. Thus, if the democratic
party can only succeed in getting
their favourite leaders installed in
administration, there is no limit to
the Revolutionary measures which
they may force upon the country,
or the degradation which they may
impose upon the Crown. And
accordingly, in France, after the
House of" Peers ceased to be a sepa-
rate branch of the Legislature, by be-
ing united with the Tiers Etat in the
Constitutional Assembly, the Revo-
lutionary Party speedily got the di-
rection of the Executive, and the
most fatal blows at public institutions
were levelled by them with the sword
of the Executive. The first measure
of the French upon emerging from
the Revolutionary furnace, in 1795,
was to revive a separate House, un-
der the title of the Ancients ; their
next to restore the Peers to a sepa-
rate share in the Legislature under
Napoleon ; so bitterly had the disas-
trous effects of their abolition been
experienced. The first great mea-
sure of the Revolutionary Party, in
1831, when replaced at the head of
affairs, has been to destroy the dig-
nity of the Peerage, by adding to
their number for a specific purpose ;
their next to complete their destruc-

A Creation of Peers.

[Feb.

tion. And it is with these events
passing before their eyes, that the
Ministers of the Crown, the sworn
guardians of the realm, are urged to
the insane course of destroying the
independence of the Peerage, by
forcing them, by new creations, to
adopt a highly democratic measure.
Quam parva sapientiu regitur mun-
dus I

Hitherto the effects of this vast
creation have been considered as
they affect the Lords ; but the con-
sequences of the measures are, if
possible, likely to be still more dis-
astrous upon the House of Com-
mons.

It is stated by Hume, that at the
time when the civil wars began with
Charles I., the landed property in
the possession of the House of Com-
mons amounted to three, times that
belonging to the Peers.* The rela-
tive proportion between the wealth
of the two Houses has since com-
pletely changed, chiefly in conse-
quence of the large number of com-
moners who have been advanced to
the Peerage during the last seventy
years. The violence of the reform
tempest may be in some degree as-
cribed to that cause; because the
House of Commons has gradually
fallen into inferior hands in respect of
property, and the check on the demo-
cratic principle which arises from
the chance of losing vast possessions,
was proportionally diminished in the
most influential branch of the Legis-
lature. Few great landed proprietors
are now to be found in the House of
Commons; and on no former occa-
sion was their number so materially
diminished as at the Reform Elec-
tion.

. But the recent unexampled crea-
tion has augmented tenfold an evil,
which, of itself, was already beco-
ming sufficiently formidable. The rich
commoners, or at least the rich land-
ed commoners, are almost exhausted
by the enormous addition to the
Peerage made or proposed in the
space of twelve months. The con-
sequences of this change must be to
the last degree prejudicial to the
tranquillity and great interests of the
country. Lord Brougham has clear-
ly pointed them out, as we shewed in

* Hume, vol. vi,

1832.1

A Creation of Peers.

a former number, in his Observations
on the French Constituent Assem-
bly.* It is to the want of what he calls
a " National Aristocracy," of an as-
semblage of the most opulent and
eminent among the landed proprie-
tors of France, in the deputies elect-
ed to the States- General, that he
ascribes the fatal career of passion
and innovation into which they plun-
ged ;f and if any thing were wanting
to prove the justice of his argu-
ments, it has been furnished by the
consequences of his ovyn conduct.

What must be the inevitable re-
sult of the popular branch of the
Legislature, in an age of violent re-
volutionary excitement, being gra-
dually weeded of all its opulent and
influential members, is sufficiently
obvious. The control of the pub-
lic purse will fall into hands which
have no private purse to steady their
operations j the great properties be
represented in an assembly which
has no control over the financial
measures of the country. Adventu-
rers, democrats, demagogues; men
of daring audacity, unceasing energy,
reckless ambition, may be expected
to rise to the head of affairs, support-
ed by popular agitation, and the in-
fluence of' a democratic representa-
tive assembly. The bankrupts in
fortune, the blasted in character,
the ruined in prospects, will take
to patriotism, " the last refuge,"
as Johnson observed, " of scoun-
drels,"— while the persons really in-
terested in the country, by the pos-
session of fortunes permanently
vested in it, will be compelled to
" sit on a hill retired," and await in
impotent silence the approach of the
surge, which they have by this fatal
act been deprived of the means of
resisting.

The French Chambers exhibit in
the clearest manner what may be an-
ticipated from this deterioration of
the House of Commons, arising from
the undue elevation of Peers to the
Upper House. For ten years past,
several great creations of Peers have
taken place to carry particular mea-
sures, and the result has been the
formation of a Chamber of Deputies,
so outrageous, so ridiculous, as to be
incapable of exercising any of the

401

useful functions of legislators. A
scene of indescribable confusion late-
ly took place ; a sitting was broken
up in uproar, because Count Monta-
livet called the French the subjects
of the King ! So deplorably tena-
cious are democratic assemblies of
any thing which touches, however
remotely, on their own authority.
But in useful legislation, in projects
of real utility, we look in vain to their
proceedings for any satisfactory in-
telligence. They appear to be entirely
occupied with alienating the Crown
property, to discharge the expenses
created by their democratic esta-
blishments. It is the same with
the House of Commons ; its useful
labours have diminished just in pro-
portion as its democratic spirit has
increased. The last year has been
an annus nont an absolute blank in
useful legislation or practical im-
provement. This tendency may be
expected to 'increase with the addi-
tional infusion of popular ambition
from the Reform Bill ; and most cer-
tainly nothing will contribute so
much to augment it as the large ab-
straction of influential proprietors,
now so strongly recommended, for
the Upper House.

What all who love their country
have to do now in the Peerage, is per-
fectly clear. Great as is the peril of
the Reform Bill, the peril arising
from this swamping of the House of
Peers is still greater. At all hazards
they should strive1 to remove the
present Ministers from their situa-
tions. This they can easily do, and
do without agitating the country as
to Reform. Let them throw out the
Bill, not on its own merits, but be-
cause it was sought to be carried by
such means. Let them pledge them-
selves at the same time to entertain
a project of Reform founded on ra-
tional principles, and boldly address
the Crown to remove the Adminis-
tration. This is the true way to meet
the danger. " In politics, as in war,"
says Napoleon, " he who takes the
lead is generally sure of success."
The question now is not what degree
of Reform shall be carried ; great as
that question is, it is merged in one
still greater, viz. Whether there shall
be an independent branch of theLegis-

VOL, XXXI,

Dec. 1831. f Edin, Review, vol. vi, Rev. of Bailly

CXCI.

2 c

402

A Creation of Peers

[Feb.

lature separate from the Commons ;
in other words, whether the Crown
is to be made the mere mouthpiece
and weapon of the democratic party,
and the flood of revolution is to over-
whelm the country which has re-
cently deluged the neighbouringking-
dom?

The reforming Administration have
been now above a year in power, and
the following financial return exhi-
bits the progressive fall in the Re-
venue, from the political agitation
which they have introduced into the
country.

The first table exhibits the pro-
gressive decline in the Revenue du-
ring the four quarters of the last year
of the Wellington Administration ; a
year during the two last quarters of
which the reduction in the beer duty,
which produced £3,000,000 sterling,
came into operation.

WELLINGTON ADMINISTRATION.

Decrease.

Year ending 5th April, 1830. £864,000
5th July, . . 690,000
10th Oct. . . 943,000
5th Jan. 1831. 640,000

The next table exhibits the pro-
gressive decline of the Revenue du-
ring the four quarters of the Grey
Administration; in the latter quarters
of which their reduction of taxation,
estimated in all at £2,600,000, came
into operation.

GREY ADMINISTRATION.

Year ending 5th April, 1831. £1,134,000

. . 5th July, . 1,656,000

. . 10th Oct. . 3,072,000

. . 5th Jan, 1832. 3,984,000

Thus, while the year ending with
the concluding quarter of the Tory
Administration, though embracing a
remission of £3,000,000 of revenue,

exhibits only a deficiency of £640,000;
the first complete year of Whig go-
vernment, though embracing only a
reduction of taxation to the amount
of £2,600,000, exhibits a deficiency
of almost four millions. In other
words, supposing the reduction of
taxation by the two governments had
been equal, the loss of revenue ari-
sing from the Whig measures was
nearly three millions and a half!

The Duke of Wellington left Earl
Grey a real sinking fund of £2,900,000
a-year. Where is that fund now?
Gone to the vault of all the Capulets.
The succeeding Administration pa-
red so closely, that in their anxiety
for popularity, they left no surplus
revenue to the country; in other
words, they annihilated the real sink-
ing fund which their predecessors
left them. And now what is the re-
sult of their government ? A defi-
ciency of four millions ! The wisdom
of the Duke of Wellington's adminis-
tration so compensated, by the rise of
other branches of the revenue, the
reduction of the beer duty, that a re-
mission of £3,000,000 produced on-
ly a deficiency in the concluding year
of his administration of £640,000.
The folly of Earl Grey's administra-
tion so aggravated, by the fall in all
other departments, the remission of
£2,600,000 of taxes on coals, candles,
and calicoes, that it augmented the
deficiency to four millions in the
first year of his government.

If the details of this enormous de-
ficit be looked into, they are still
more instructive. Every department
exhibits a deficiency except the Post
Office, the rise in which arose from
the suspension of franking and gene-
ral bustle consequent on the gene-
ral election. The following are the
items :

1831.

Customs .

£16,343,000

Excise

16,895,000

Stamps

6,605,000

Post Office

1,358,000

Taxes

5,013,000

Miscellaneous

601,000

£46,815,000

1832.

£15,336,000

14,330,000

6,500,900

1,391,000

4,864,000

409,000

£42,830,000

Increase.

£.32,000

£32,000

Decrease.
£1,007,000
2,564 000
104,000

149,000
191,000

£4,015,000

It was formerly reckoned that a
general election, by the expenditure
it occasioned, raised the revenue a
million sterling. What must have
been the conduct of the Administra-

tion, which, in spite of that advan-
tage, caused it to decline four ! The
Excise fell off £2,500,000, a clear
proof how much the insanity of de-
mocratic ambition is beginning to

1832.] A Creation

press on the comforts and consump-
tion of the poor.

All this, the Reformers say, is truly
owing to agitation ; but the agitation
rests with the Conservative party who
resisted Reform, and no such cala-
mity would have ensued if they had
quietly submitted to the change.
This is like a husband, who, one
morning, found his wife with the

1. IRELAND, 1829.
Catholic Relief Bill passed — Universal
tranquillity promised — Subsequent
Government more lenient and indul-
gent to that party.

2. FRANCE, 1789.
Revenue ending July, ~)
1789 — Last year of V £24,000,000.
old Constitution, 3

FRANCE, 1829.
Revenue of Charles X. ^
equalling his expendi- V- £40,000,000
ture, 3

3. BELGIUM, 1829.
Ships entering Ant- ^
werp, 1829.— Last V 1031.
year of old regime, 3
Expenditure, 29,000,000 gilders.

In other words, successful Reform
has brought Ireland to the brink of
civil war; it reduced the revenue of
France in one year one-third > in 1790,
and compelled in peace a loan of
£11,000,000, and an increase of re-
venue of £9,000,000 in 1830, and it
lowered to nearly a third of its former
amount the trade of the great empo-
rium of Belgium. And yet we are se-
riously told that Reform, which, when
resisted, has already cost the nation
£4,000,000 in one year, is, when suc-
cessful, to restore the revenue and
revive the commerce of the state.

The deplorable effects of the mis-
government, or rather the cessation
of all government, during the last
year, is equally demonstrated in
other departments. The Assizes
have met, the Special Commissions
have opened, and an universal and
most lamentable increase of crime
is every where conspicuous. The
Scotch papers exhibit a train of
murders, in that once moral and re-
ligious part of the empire, unparal-
elled in all its annals : the English
jails are all overflowing with crimi-
nals,and the contests bet ween poach-

of Peers. 40,3

sheets round his throat, and the pro-
cess of strangulation commencing.
Having struggled to save his life, she
immediately exclaimed, " Lie quiet,
it will soon be over." If any man
supposes that agitation is to cease or
diminish, or do any thing but greatly
increase, with the passing of the Re-
form Bill, we would recommend the
following facts to his consideration.

IRELAND, 1832.

Insurrection almost breaking out — Ca-
tholics in unprecedented state of ex-
asperation— Public suffering unex-
ampled.

FRANCE, 1790.
Revenue ending July, ^
1790.— First year of C £16,000,000
successful reform, 3

FRANCE, 1830.

Expenditure, . . . £49,000,000
Revenue, .... 38,000,000

BELGIUM, 1830. 1831.
Ships entering Antwerp ^
two years after the glo- £ 719 398
rious Revolution, 3

Expenditure of year, 41,000,000 gilders.

ers and gamekeepers have become
so common and desperate, as to
amount almost to a Chouan warfare.
In Ireland, thirteen policemen have
been murdered at once in the at-
tempt to levy tithes ; and a combi-
nation to oust the Protestant clergy,
by resisting payment of tithes, is
universal over a large part of the is-
land. A general dissolution of all
the bonds of authority, of all the re-
straints of power, of all the princi-
ples of morality, seems to have taken
place. All this flows naturally and
inevitably from the reckless mea-
sures of Government, and the in-
flammatory addresses of that portion
of the press which they honour and
support. When Ministers advise
Bishops to put their houses in order,
and the ministerial press indulges,
month after month, and year after
year,in exhortations to every species
of outrage, in ceaseless vituperation
of the order, and declamation against
the wealth of the clergy, it is not
surprising that their ruffian follow-
ers should imagine that the era of
misrule has commenced, that an-
archy is to be the order of the day,

404 A Creation

and the coercion of law and religion
speedily cease throughout the land.

The trial of the Bristol rioters, and
the tragic act with which they have
terminated, must open every man's
eyes, whose heart is not steeled by
democratic fury, to the enormous,
the incalculable danger of the sys-
tem of rousing the passions of the
populace, which the reforming jour-
nals have so long and assiduously
laboured to promote. The pretence
will no longer do, that the rioters
were mere thieves and robbers, who
took advantage of the crowd on Sir
Charles Wether ell's entrance to per-
petrate violence. It is now proved
that nine-tenths of them were men
of sober, honest, and peaceable ha-
bits up to that time; but that they
had been goaded on to a state little
short of insanity by the declama-
tions of the democratic press, and
the exhortations to violence which
for months had been ringing in their
ears. To be convinced of this, we
have only to recollect that the great-
er part even of the ringleaders were
proved to be men of good character,
and who engaged in acts of depre-
dation and incendiarism then for the
first time. If we would see by what
arts this peaceable population has
been roused to such acts of fury, we
have only to recollect the words
proved to have been uttered by Da-
vis when the Bishop's palace was
burning : —

" Down with the blasted Bishops :
down with the Clergy: down with
the Church : we shall in a month
have down every church in England,
and make roads of the ruins. This
is the work we want : I could have
foretold these twenty years it would
come to this : I wish I could set fire
to every church and jail in England:
in six weeks there shall not be one
standing."*

This is exactly what we always
have asserted. The cause of reform,
in the minds of the great mass of
the popular supporters of that mea-
sure, is synonymous with a destruc-
tion of all the fetters of law and re-
ligion ; an universal liberation of the
passions from every physical or mo-
ral control. It is judicially proved
that these were the ideas which rou-

of Peers. [Feb.

sed the Bristol mobs ; and when we
consider the vast pains that have
been taken to inspire them with these
principles, it is not surprising that
in one instance the train took fire.

The tragic fate of Colonel Brere-
tonis a practical proof of the working
of that system of submission to the
mob, which all the Ministers, from
the Premier, have, without one ex-
ception, inculcated. They have uni-
formly held out that the demand for
reform could not be resisted, and
that it must be conceded,not because
it was in itself expedient, but be-
cause the people demanded it. With
such principles incessantly promul-
gated in the highest quarters, it is
not surprising that the head of an
inferior i functionary turned on the
approach of danger. On the one
hand, was the old system of repress-
ing violence the moment it broke
forth, and stemming the torrent of
popular fury, as you would the let-
ting out of waters ; on the other, the
new system of conceding every thing
to the populace, trusting to their
wisdom, justice, and good sense; and,
above all things, avoiding the irrita-
tion of their feelings by any opposi-
tion to their wishes. The command-
er at Bristol, though a gallant officer
in the field, conceived himself bound
to adopt, in civil dissensions, the
new system so strongly recommend-
ed from head-quarters ; he yielded
every thing to the populace, shook
hands with the rioters, bowed to the
majesty of the people, and sent the
troops out of town, because they
promised that if he did so, they
would disperse and go home. The
burning of the city was theimmediate
consequence. His better feelings
returned when the crisis was over ;
and the nation has beheld with hor-
ror with what a relentless hand he
punished himself for having adopted
the ministerial system : but thosa
who corresponded with radical meet-
ings where resolutions to pay no
taxes were passed, and declared to
them that the whisper of a faction
cannot prevail against the voice of
the English people, of course can-
not condemn a proceeding so ex-
actly in unison with the tenor of
their own political conduct.

* Trial of Davis,

1832.]

Ministers, according to Lord Bla-
ney, urged the King in these perilous
days to disband his guards. Reckless
as they have shewn themselves to be,
we can hardly credit this statement :
but if it is true, it is exactly the sys-
tem acted on at Bristol. Send the
dragoons out of the burning city to
conciliate the people; send the guards
out of a burning kingdom for fear of
offending them. The effects of this
concession to the mob in the town
speedily developed themselves : the
effects of the corresponding conces-
sions in a higher quarter promise to
be not less fatal ; with this difference,
that it is not a city but a nation, which
will be consumed.

Let the result be what it may, we
can never be sufficiently thankful
that the Conservative Party have had
no hand in producing it. If the last
hour of the British Constitution has
struck, if the glories and the achieve-
ments of a thousand years are to be
buried for ever, let us be thankful
that the infamy of producing such a
catastrophe rests on the Reformers,

A Creation of Peers.

405

and the Reformers alone. Their
leaders have said, that fame is now
their only object, that they look to
the voice of history for a vindication
of their motives. Let them not be
afraid : History will do them justice.
Their names will never be forgotten.
The destroyers of such a fabric as
the English Constitution are not
likely to sink into oblivion. The
future Tacitus, who is to paint the
corruptions and the vices of the last
days of the British empire ; the un-
born Gibbon, who is to portray its
decline and fall, will consign their
achievements, in just and merited
terms, to futurity: he will contrast
theresplendent empire they received,
with the distracted and falling state
they have surrendered : the glories
of their predecessors with the ruin
and desolation which they occasion-
ed : the immortal days of heroic re-
nown with the strifes and the fury
of revolutionary struggles : the long
era of British freedom with the sla-
very and the corruption of a decli-
ning age.

LETTER FROM PROFESSOR DUNBAR AND MR E. H. BARKER,
TO THE EDITOR OF BLACKWOOD's MAGAZINE.

SIR,— In the last Number (V.) of
the " Quarterly Journal of Educa-
tion," there is an article written by
a scholar evidently of considerable
acquirements, which contains a re-
view of the Greek and English Lexi-
con lately published by Professor
Dunbar and Mr E. H. Barker, and a
comparison between it and the se-
cond edition of Dr Donnegan's Lexi-
con. As there are several strictures
in that review which we, the editors
of the Lexicon, consider both par-
tial and unfair, and as some of the
author's opinions seem to us very
questionable, we trust you will al-
low us, through the medium of your
Journal, to state the views and prin-
ciples we adopted when commen-
cing the work, and to refute some of
the charges that have been brought
against us.

The author of the review has sta-
ted very correctly that Donnegan's
Lexicon is based on that of Schnei-
der, and that ours is founded on the
second and improved edition of a
translation of Schrevelius, publish-

ed at Boston, in the United States,
in the year 1829. It may be asked
why, since Donnegan's first edition
was little more than a translation of
Schneider's, we were not content
with his Lexicon, but chose one for
our basis of an inferior character ?
To this we reply, that we thought
neither of these Lexicons well adapt-
ed to that class of students who stand
most in need of an elementary Dic-
tionary, as they exhibited very few
of the tenses of verbs, not many of the
varieties of dialect, and a very limited
number of apposite quotations from
the classic authors; and they also
left the quantities of doubtful vowels
in syllables undetermined. To these
may be added, the entire omission of
an English and Greek Lexicon. To
supply in some measure these defi-
ciencies, the second edition of the
American Lexicon appeared to us the
most suitable, as a groundwork on
which we might raise a better struc-
ture. When, however, we came to ex-
amine it minutely, we found that a
vast number of words had been omit-

40(3 Letter from Professor Dunlar and Mr E. H. Barker. (Feb.

ted, few references from approved Latin words, acies, acus, acidus, &c.
authors had been recorded, many ten- It certainly appears to us that this ia
ses of verbs and cases of nouns were just going back to Dr Murray's fan-

needlessly repeated, and the etymo-
logical derivations of words were, in
many places, observed to be erro-
neous. To remedy all these defects
in the first edition of an improved
work, appeared impossible, and we
were, therefore, obliged to content
ourselves with pruning redundan-
cies, correcting errors, and introdu-
cing a vast quantity of new matter,
supported by numerous references
and authorities. That our Lexicon
" does not exhibit any systematic de-
velopementof the etymological forms
of the Greek language," cannot be
denied, for very obvious reasons, and
chiefly,because such a developement,
even upon the plan suggested by the
learned Reviewer, would have re-
quired a series of dissertations and
proofs, entirely out of place in such
a manual as we intended our Lexi-
con to be. That far more might have
been done in this department, we
will not dispute ; but some of the
errors and absurdities laid to our
charge, are sins of omission, not of
commission, as most of them are to
be found in the American edition,
which, however, we allow ought not
to have been overlooked by us. Still,
as they did not originate with us, we
ought not to be considered as their
immediate authors.

The author of the review has fa-
voured his readers with some specu-
lations respecting the roots of words,
which, in general, appear to be sound
enough, but which he is egregiously
mistaken if he considers to be either
new, or at all adapted to the forma-
tion of a Lexicon. They may be in-
troduced with much propriety in
lectures on the theory and structure
of languages, and have been carried
to a considerable extent by one of
the editors, in his " Inquiry into the
Structure and Affinity of the Greek
and Latin Languages," &c. ; a work
with which the Reviewer seems to be
wholly unacquainted. Suppose a
lexicographer were to state, accord-
ing to the opinion of the Reviewer,
that a.*/**) was derived from <*«, a
point. It might naturally be asked,
in what Greek author is «'* to be
found ? The enquirer would, per-
haps, be told, that it was so stated in
a certain review, or a certain pam-
phlet, and that he will find it in the

ciful system of deriving all Greek
words from monosyllables, such as
Ag, Bag, Dwag, &c., and is not much
better than the old Hemsterhusian
Duads. Let it not be supposed that
we object to all the Reviewer's deri-
vations, as some of them seem to be
quite correct, a»^«~0j, a,%f*.a£a from
*»?** ; but we are somewhat scepti-
cal about that of a»Eo^a/, unless he
can shew, from good authority, that
the tiTj^of old, made more use of the
lancet than of pharmacy, and did not
deserve the name which the Father
of Poetry has bestowed upon them,
of being voXv^>a,^n»oi. — //. xvi. 28.

Tovg ftev r wrgo

We have also very great doubts
about the soundness of some of his
other dogmas. " When we know,"
says he, " that a very large class
of nouns are formed by adding the
suffix f*n to the stem, of what im-
portance is it to drag the student
through the tedious process of de-
ducing this from a perfect passive in
p*' ?" For no other reason than to
present something intelligible to his
understanding, which the suffix P*
never can do, unless the Reviewer
should condescend to tell him some-
thing more about its nature and ori-
gin than that it is merely a suffix.
But there are many suffixes besides
A*»» and others which the Reviewer
has enumerated, added to monosylla-

bic Words, SUCh as a-gay-/"** W£ay-<nj,

<x ptt.y-TnQ — wom-fta, tfom-ffi?, wom-Tns, ap-
parently formed from the perfect

passive of ^r^da-a-u (w^ayw) and TOM,

What explanation does he give con-
cerning these ? From any thing that
can be gathered from his lucubra-
tions, he considers them as suffixes
thrown at random to the end of mo-
nosyllabic roots, without any definite
signification of their own. Classifi-
cation of the same terminations is
no doubt highly useful, and may, in
many instances, facilitate the study
of the language; but it is a mere
mechanical operation, and gives little
or no insight into the nature and mean-
ing of the terminations themselves.

Having shewn what trifling infor-
mation could be communicated to
students by adopting the etymologi-
cal process recommended by the

4832.J Letter from Professor JJuubur and Mr JS. H. Barker.

Reviewer, we shall now proceed to
notice some particular derivations
on which he has commented. In
our Lexicon, and in Donnegan's also,
«fraj, bread,\s marked as a. primitive.
We agree with the Reviewer in
thinking that it is not a primitive ;
but we must be allowed to assign it
a different origin from what he has
given to it. Donnegan says, " some
take «%«", better, perhaps, Th. *%*>.
with Damm, to render compact." The
Reviewer derives it from *& to fit.
We cannot see any natural or ne-
cessary connexion between «$*•«*,
bread, and «f or <*•% as interpreted
by these gentlemen. We rather
imagine that d^ros is derived from
the primitive verb a.^u, to till or cul-
tivate the around ; hence a.%rasy pro-
bably from <*%oro;, the product, or
what springs from the cultivation of
the ground ; hence food in general,
and then bread. We willingly sur-
render to him Tt<*>za, as being none
of our own; but to make its de-
rivation intelligible, we want some-
thing more than Donnegan's *£> and
his suffix ?«. Of €^aro?, we have said
that " it seems to be derived from
£$»«•*«, to eat." Donnegan, " Th.
probably akin to ^raj, from pogo;y
hence mors." The Reviewer, " There
is no difficulty about preferring the
latter explanation (derivation ?) to
the former, though Dr Donnegan's is
not entirely free from objection as to
the shape in which it is given." —
" As we have the word po^rog in a
fragment of Callimachus, we may
have the word PHOTOS, or fyoros, the
interchange of the /» and € being
a very common occurrence." While
we leave our readers to judge of
the probability of this derivation,
we shall proceed to adduce some ar-
guments in support of our own, at
the same time hinting to them, how
slippery a subject etymology is. It will
scarcely be disputed that the noun
*P$eoriat the food of the gods, (by the
use of which, says Schneider or
Donnegan, immortality was confer-
red,) and *p£{6fiost are derived from
the obsolete verb fy'«, the immedi-
ate parent of fyi«-*«, to eat. The p
in both has evidently been interpo-
sed to make the pronunciation more
easy to the organs of the voice, and
the sound more agreeable to the ear,
as, originally, they must have been,
according to the common analogy,
a,'£(trim and ufywos. In II, v. 369,

407

we have 0"«ga $ 'ap^onov CaXsi/ «i9a^and
threw beside them food, not vulgar
food, (such as was used on earth.)
In II. xiv. 78, we find »u£ afyoVij, the
same as *pfy6r» as the latter adjec-
tive is found with the same noun in

OdySS. Xi. 329. Ilgiv ya^ xiv xal vl>%

Qftir a./tfyoros. Homer employs the
adjective $0*C(ta»« with v«£, with the
very same signification : II. ii. 57,
'Aft£go<rwv $10, VUXTU. We would now
ask any candid enquirer, not wedded
to a particular theory, whether any of
these words can be related to such a
fictitious monster as p^orat, or to a
kind of nondescript as po^ris, and are
not rather derived from the obsolete
verb ^9», the parent of Cg****, ac-
cording to a well-established analo-
gy in the formation of verbs in fx-u ? —
B;U£, and the shad, we shall give up
to him to devour as he pleases, though
we do not think that £xa£ has any con-
nexion with the adjective p«a.«*0*,
passing, according to the Reviewer's
usual theory of reduction, into jwA.«»a
thence into €xax, says he, the transi-
tion is easy, as well as to the Latin
Jlac 'inflaccidus. We can from this,
surely, very easily account for the
English word black, just as readily
as those who derive cucumber from
King Jeremiah. We also make him
a presentof the derivation of €*.s<pa>ovt
as not having been concocted by the
" combined ingenuity of Messrs Dun-
bar and Barker," though we take
some shame to ourselves for having
allowed such an absurd derivation
to have escaped our notice. The
derivation also of $«*W£« shall be
given up, along with several others,
which, we again repeat, did not ori-
ginate with us, but which ought, un-
doubtedly, to have been omitted or
corrected. We could furnish him
with a tolerably extensive list, both
from Schneider and Donnegan, to
match those that he has pointed out
in our Lexicon, though it does riot
appear to have been convenient for
him to bring them before his read-
ers; and we are also of opinion, that
several of his own derivations might
be sent back to the awkward squad,
as not sufficiently drilled to make a
respectable appearance. Who, for
instance, would think of making the
stem of btfv6£a, *«•»•, or of Sto-vis and
biffvstrtos, §ttr# ? We differ a little from
Blomfield, in his derivation of the
latter from $tos and ovis, as we think
that it is from Stis and H, the voice

Letter from Professor Dunbar and Mr E. H. Barker*

408

of the gods. The composition of
avxoas c. «S«, as stated in the Lexicon,
we must also disown, though we
think that the Reviewer's remarks
upon it, and some other adjectives,
are more ingenious than solid. We
are inclined to adopt Dr Blomfield's
opinion concerning the derivation of
it, and several other words of a si-
milar formation, as being far more
simple and intelligible.

On the Reviewer's second division
of his subject, viz. On the Existing
Forms of \Vords in certain Authors,
we have but a very few remarks to
make. " A complete Lexicon of a lan-
guage," says he, " would present us
with those words only which are
found in the authors that the Lexi-
con professes to explain." A Greek
Lexicon, founded on this plan,would,
we imagine, be very incomplete and
unsatisfactory, as there are innumer-
able instances of words, having once
been current in the language, that af-
terwards gave place to others; but
from these obsolete words were deri-
ved many that were employed both
in spoken and written language. We
allude, in particular, to the tenses of
verbs, which, in very few instances,
were formed from the same Presents,
or from Presents in use at a late
stage of the language. There is a very
material difference in this respect
between the Greek and Latin verbs ;
the former having borrowed several
of their tenses from their primitive
usage in different dialects, while the
latter derived theirs from one only.
The construction, therefore, of a
Greek and Latin Dictionary, must
proceed upon different principles,
though they may, and ought to be,
more nearly approximated than they
generally are. While we think the
Reviewer has overlooked this very
material distinction, we perfectly
agree with \mnihatobsolete primitives
ought to be so pointed out as not to
mislead learners. We admit that, in
• our Lexicon, <r«y«, which he has
taken as an example of our reference
to imaginary words, ought to have
been marked as obsolete. But we can-
not agree with him when he says that
«rny« " is as regular as xly® or TV5r(<r)«."
Surely the Reviewer has forgot that
there is such a tense as I«ra'yuv, which
cannot be immediately stuck upon
57777. Homer says, II. x. 374 — ^ov^>;

ax cast*) 'Ev ya.ii} ivdy*. Is it llOt fl'Om the

jrft'yff, the root of the Latin

[Feb.

pango, and differs only from «rwy« in
belonging to a different dialect of the
same language ? We imagine, there-
fore, that both vayo and «r«y« had, at
one period, an existence in the
language, otherwise we cannot per-
ceive how the other tenses of the
verb could have been formed. The
Reviewer seems to consider *V*M as
an imaginary word. We would ask
him, if, in the course of his reading,
he ever lighted upon 'irwrov • and if he
did, by what process he would form it
from TU*V«? If he should consider it
also one of our imaginary tenses, we
beg leave to refer him to Eurip. Ion.
768. Under this verb we have mark-
ed <rv*rhffu from the obsol. <ru7r««, and
have referred to Aristoph. Nub. 1443.
also to rvwriifofAui, as the second fut.
passive, and a reference to the same
play. What says Donnegan respect-
ing rvvrnffv?Simp]yfut.Att.Aristoph.
Plut.2.}, without any reference to
wxrwop.«,t at all. The same observa-
tions apply to yivopKi. We have lit-
tle doubt that y<*« and yw were the
roots of this verb, and that they are
widely scattered in other languages,
under forms stripped of the Greek
inflections. These inflections we
would recommend to the study of
the Reviewer, who seems, as far as
we can judge, to be ignorant of their
nature. We would now ask him, if
ya.tu had no existence, where would
he get y'tya.1*. -, and if ye«, and then
y«», were mere fictions of the ima-
gination, whence came lywpw and
synvapw ? He would probably smile
when we assert, that the Greek verb
€E-«, or £!-«/«*«', is only a different
form of the same verb, (II. xvi. 852.)
and also £a&>, whence €«»'**> and €e£a«y
likewise more immediately 1 aor.
I£W. Perhaps he would look with
astonishment when we still farther
assert, that our Anglo-Saxon verb to
be is the very same word, stripped
of its suffix ap.a.1. If we have omitted
to mark, in some instances, these
primary forms, as having become ob-
solete, it was not because we were
ignorant of the fact, but because we
found it necessary to apply ourselves
to more important matters. From
the Reviewer's remarks, it might be
supposed that we had entirely ne-
glected this branch of Lexicography.
• If he had examined our Dictionary
with any other view than instituting
a comparison between it and Don-
negan's, he would have found many

1832.] tetter from Professor Dunbar and Mr E. H. Barter. 409

I. evil

examples pointed out of obsolete
forms of presents, as well as of other
tenses, generally received in other
Lexicons.

The Re viewer seems to be very well
satisfied with the explanation he has
given of the word pu^os. He compares
ours with Donnegan's, and both with
his' own. We will, no doubt, be accu-
sed of partiality, when we say that
we consider our own to be the best,
though somewhat defective in the
natural arrangement. We would be
glad to know in what Greek author
tvdfMs signifies " the forming of an
outline or figure ? We know of none
such ; and we would also wish to
know what definite idea the explan-
ation of fvSfMs, by "a term applicable
to music, dancing, adjusting the dress,
tranquillity of mind, &c." conveys ?
What information would a student
obtain from these very indefinite ex-
planations, to enable him to translate
the following passage from Xen. Cyr.

~ ~^ti Q> VGC&T&i'fl'TZ 00^YlQ'Q{X'tVQt} f£Yi OW&JS 00~

? — The whole is summed up
by — " Stem pw." Now, we would
ask, in sober earnest, what idea any
one could form from being told, that
the stem of pvfpos is pv ? If he were
to consult all the Greek Lexicons that
were ever published, or if he should
hunt after this fugitive particle
through all the Greek authors that
ever wrote, we doubt much if he
would be able to get even a slight
glance of it. We think that it may
be observed in the equable jftow of
mighty streams, in the regular pro-
gression of time and of the seasons, and
the uniform motion of the heavenly
bodies. We connect it Avith the
verb ps«, to flow, and derive from it
*fA<pipp-jros and fptflppwost as in Odyss.
xix. 173.

The Reviewer has found fault
Avith our translation of MM, which
we have stated to be, * the decision of
a judge.' "Surely," says he, "the
decision of a judge is not that from
which our notions of right andj'ustice
are necessarily derived." We shall
remit him to Westminster Hall for
the decision of this knotty point, to
take " the opinion of the Judges there
upon his demurrer." We have some
doubts as to our own correctness,
but none at all that he is e*«T«v trctim
away from the true meaning; S'*«,
Ave imagine to be, a charge on parole
evidence^ y»«<p>jj a charge on written

evidence. Hence, urlyw SUuv s.\s ™
ltxa,<rrr£iov. We think that it is near-
ly allied to the Latin verb dico ; and
bears a very close resemblance, in
some of its applications, to the Latin
noun ritu ; »wos SU«» — ^Eschyl. ;
ceterafluminisrituferuntur. — Horace.
We might extend our remarks to
various other comparisons which the
Reviewer has made between our
Lexicon and Dr Donnegan's, and to
several of his own opinions, regard-
ing the correct explanation of certain
words, but we imagine we have said
enough to convince every impartial
reader that he has a theory of his
own which he is endeavouring to
support, and that many of his defini-
tions, founded on that theory, are
very questionable. We might, per-
haps, complain that, while he has
frequently compared Donnegan with
Schneider, and us with both, he did
not examine the work on which our
Lexicon was founded, and point out
some of the more important addi-
tions, alterations, and improvements
we have introduced. To the etymo-
logical part of our Lexicon, and the ar-
rangement of the meanings of words,
as primary and secondary, less atten-
tion was given than they certainly de-
serve, in consequence of the deficien-
cies that were to be supplied in other
more important departments. They
form, however, the most difficult
part of a well constructed dictionary,
and require a thorough knowledge
of the language from its very infancy,
of its different dialects, of the changes
it underwent from time to time from
various causes, of the natural scenery
of the country, the customs, laws,
pursuits, and occupations of the inha-
bitants, and also the sagacity to trace
the operations of all these, and many
more circumstances, in forming and
extending the speech of a people
such as that of the Greeks. Our
chief object was to furnish young
men with a manual, to enable them
to read and understand most of the
Greek authors, and to give them
those explanations only which seem-
ed best calculated for this purpose.
One part of our labours, which we
considered of no small importance,
but which has been entirely over-
looked by the Reviewer, was, to in-
troduce as many quotations as our
limits would allow, from the classi-
cal Greek authors, in support of
our explanations. The omission

410

iLctttrfrom Professor Dunbar and Mr E. H. Barker. [Feb.

of these is a defect in most Greek
Lexicons that we have consulted.
When a student has authorities
before him on which he can rely
for such and such explanations, he
knows that he is proceeding upon
sure grounds, and is not left to find
his way through a mass of transla-
tions, very often of synonymous im-
port, and generally extremely vague.
We might also feel disappointed that
the Reviewer has taken no notice of
one feature in our Lexicon, which
we consider of the utmost import-
ance to junior students in particu-
lar, viz. the marking the quantities of
most of the doubtful vowels. When
learners are left without such a guide,
particularly when their knowledge
of the prosody of the language is
defective, they are perpetually get-
ting into blunders, and acquire a
vicious pronunciation which they
seldom get entirely rid of. We ima-
gine the Reviewer could hardly fail
to approve of this additional aid to
students ; and yet in comparing our
Lexicon with Dr Donnegan's, which
exhibits nothing of the kind, he has
not taken the slightest notice of it.

He tells his readers towards the
conclusion of his review, that " Pro-
fessor Dunbar's Lexicon contains,
at .the end, an English and Greek
Lexicon, intended to aid students in
writing Greek. We have not exa-
mined it." Now, although this Lexi-
con is by no means either so full or
so accurate as we intended it to have
been, we yet think that it is an im-
portant addition to a Greek Diction-
ary, and may, when enlarged with
many more words, with various re-
ferences and idiomatic expressions,
prove of great service to the more
advanced students in composing
Greek exercises and themes. To
supply these shall be our endeavour
in preparing for a second edition of
the work. In the mean time, we de-
sire those who may be influenced
by the opinions of the reviewers, to
compare this part of our Lexicon
with any other of a similar nature,
with Grove's, or Dr Maltby's, at the
end of his " Greek Gradus," and we

think, if they are not deeply preju-
diced indeed, they will find ours im-
measurably superior, even in its pre-
sent defective state, to any of them.
In conclusion, we beg leave to ex-
press our obligations to the learned
Reviewer, not only for any favour-
able expressions that may have es-
caped him towards our work, but
also for the criticisms he has be-
stowed upon it, as they will put us
in the way of correcting several
errors that had formerly escaped
our notice. We trust that we shall
be always ready to avail ourselves
of remarks upon any of our publi-
cations, when they are made in the
language and style befitting a gen-
tleman to use, and not, as we have
lately witnessed, for the purpose of
gratifying a malignant disposition.
We allude to an article in the last
number of the Westminster Review,
upon the " State of Greek Litera-
ture in Scotland." The author of
this article is understood to be a Mr
George Milligan,* a private teacher
in this city, a licentiate of the Church
of Scotland, and a writer of some
notoriety in newspapers and maga-
zines. This person has given va-
rious proofs of an inveterate hosti-
lity towards one of us, by petulant
censures, gross misrepresentations,
and offensive sneers. A few years
ago he published, in the Edinburgh
Evening Post, a series of articles on
the State of Greek Literature in this
country, and the mode of teaching
it in our Universities ,• and at the
very commencement of his under-
taking, thought fit to libel the whole
body of the clergy of Scotland, by
asserting that few or none of them
were capable of reading the Greek
Testament. But the principal ob-
jects of his attack were the Profes-
sors of Greek in the Universities of
Edinburgh and Glasgow, particular-
ly the former. Not content, however,
with endangering, as he imagined,
their characters as scholars, his am-
bition aimed at greater objects, the
demolition and reconstruction of our
highest Literary Establishments. His
theories were broached at the time

* It is with very considerable reluctance that we take notice of this person at all ;
and we certainly would never have done so, had he not figured away in his usual
style of flippancy and malignity in so respectable a periodical as the Westminster Re-
view. How such a pitiful article should have got admission there, has created some
surprise. It could only have been in consequence of the zeal he has manifested in
the destruction of ancient establishments. It is necessary to observe, that Mr Barker
is no party to the following remarks. — G. D.

Letter from Pruftssui' JJunbur and Mr E. H. Barker. 41 L

when the Commissioners for visiting
the Universities of Scotland were in
full career of examining all and sun-
dry who had any pretensions to pro-
pose plans of reform in our Colleges ;
and great must have been his disap-
pointment in not having been sum-
moned before these dignified person-
ages to develope plans prepared for
their special approbation. It might
be supposed,that a person, who takes
it upon him, without the least hesi-
tation or apology, to censure others
in the most petulant and offensive
manner, would be particularly dis-
tinguished for extensive knowledge
in literature, and great skill in the
art of instruction. If unparalleled
impudence and gross abuse raise
men to eminence, then the name of
Milligan will be as illustrious as
those of his great prototypes, Zoilus
and Dennis. If commonplace ob-
servations, puerile and petulant cri-
ticisms, insufferable arrogance, and
great contempt for all others who
may rank above Mr George Milli-
gan, constitute a supereminent lite-
rary character, then this person is
fully entitled to such a high distinc-
tion. From the dictatorial manner in
which he has delivered his opinions
respecting the system of education
pursued in the literary classes of our
Universities, we might have expected
that he was a thorough master of the
subject, both in theory and practice.
If, however, we should enquire what
proofs he has given of his ability as
a public instructor, we shall be told
that, when officiating as assistant in
one of his classes to the late Profes-
sor of Humanity in the University of
Glasgow, the students under his
charge broke out into open rebel-
lion against his authority, and set at
nought his instructions ; n y

"

stA.«ip<»j, slxorag rovs avrtioovs rZv rotowrav,

Saj jfiettiis txyneru. We have taken the
liberty to make some slight changes
upon the original to accommodate
the description to this modern trvxo.
Qavrns. And if he should, at any fu-
ture period, provoke us to give a
translation of the passage, we shall
accompany it with a commentary
furnished us by an eye and ear wit-
ness of his inglorious campaign in
the University of Glasgow.

We cannot imagine what incon-
ceivable folly has induced this per-
son to assume the character of an Eng-

lish scholar, in order to vilify the li-
terary establishments of his country.
Does he suppose that there is a mem-
ber of the University, either of Ox-
ford or Cambridge, who would not
think himself degraded in being sup-
posed the author of such a despi-
cable production as that to which we
have alluded in the Westminster
Review? There may be narrow-
minded and prejudiced men among
them, but few, indeed, who do not in
their conduct and writings maintain
the tone and character of gentlemen :
scarcely one, who would be such a
renegade as to defame the institu-
tions of his own country.

E/' o' nff^K f&t) xa,xi(rTO$) oiffoT' a,v vta-Toa.?
Tnv ffftv dri&jv, TtivS' av stiXoys/j voXiV
*£lf iv ys [Aoi xpivofr av ov xet%.£jf

EURIP.

" If you were not a thorough mis-
creant, you would not, slighting your
native country, have eulogized ano-
ther state; as, in my opinion, that man
could not be judged to entertain ho-
nourable sentiments, who, vilifying
his native land, praises another, and
is delighted with its manners." Mr
Milligan strongly reminds us of the
ass in the fable, who clothed himself
with the lion's skin, in order that he
might obtain a more dignified place
among his fellow brutes. The stub-
born animal as surely betrayed him-
self, by his braying, to be an ass, as
our opponent by his criticisms, under
the assumed garb of a graduate of
Oxford or Cambridge. They are
mere " crambe recocta," collected
from newspapers and magazines, arid
served up in a new dish, the West-
minster Review y to tempt the appe-
tites of radicals and reformers.

If we have been silent upon the
repeated and disgusting attacks of
this person for so long a time, it was
because we saw him labouring in the
only vocation for which he seemed
to have a natural aptitude, to support
himself and his family. Now that
better prospects, as we understand,
have opened up to him, in a profes-
sion most alien to the indulgence of
malevolent passions, we trust that he
will henceforth devote his talents to
better purposes than uncharitable
censures on the public conduct and
characters of men, who, however
they may have failed, have at least
endeavoured to deserve well of their
country. We are, &c.

G. D. & E. H. B.

412

The West India Question.

[Feb.

THE WEST INDIA QUESTION.

INTRODUCTION.

NOTWITHSTANDING the large por-
tion of our Miscellany which, for the
last year, has been devoted to politi-
cal subjects, changes the most mo-
mentous to the British empire are
going forward, on which we have
hitherto hardly bestowed an article.
While all eyes have been fixed on
that dreadful malady which has rava-
ged the heart of the empire, its ex-
tremities have gradually been grow-
ing cold ; and while yet stunned by
the shock arising from the destruc-
tion of the constitution, we are doom-
ed to witness, to all human appear-
ance, the dismemberment and disso-
lution of the empire.

Ireland, so long a burden and a
source of anxiety to Great Britain,
is rapidly approaching either a civil
war, or a separation from this islanfl.
In the relaxation of government, and
the general confusion arising from
the demolition and reconstruction of
the constitution, in presence of an
audacious and insatiable democratic
foe, the bonds of authority over that
powerful part of the empire have
been entirely lost. By allowing the
Great Agitator, whose arts have so
long desolated his country, to escape
unpunished after he had pleaded
guilty ,• by permitting agitation of the
most furious kind to go on unre-
strained for a whole year ; by pro-
moting, rewarding, flattering, and in-
dulging the leader of these turbulent
movements, after they had publicly
denounced him as an enemy to the
public weal — Ministers have brought
that unhappy island into such a state,
thac it seems hardly possible that ei-
ther a civil war or a separation can be
avoided. All that the Duke of Welling-
ton unwisely did to pacify, has been
obliterated by what our present rulers
have done to agitate it ; the Protest-
ants, roused to a sense of the immi-
nent peril which threatens them, are
resolved, like brave men, to maintain
their lives and properties, or perish
in the attempt; the Catholics, encou-
raged by the experienced impunity
of former tumults, and the public
rewards of their author, have resol-
ved to extirpate all the traces even
of the established institutions of the
country; and England, wearied with

the incessant disturbances of its peo-
pled neighbour, would view its sepa-
ration without regret, were it not
that it would assuredly lead to the
dismemberment and fall of the em-
pire.

Events of an equally perilous and
fatal kind threaten us in the southern
possessions of Great Britain. Its vast
and splendid colonial possessions,
encircling the globe with their sta-
tions, and nourishing its commerce
by their productions, are menaced
with destruction. The government
of the West India colonies, embra-
cing so many wealthy and import-
ant islands, consuming annually
L.I 2,000,000, worth of British manu-
factures, containing L.I 30,000,000 of
British capital, employing 250,000
tons of British shipping, is silently
slipping from our hands. Should the
present system continue much long-
er, it is more than doubtful whether,
in a few years, the British flag will
wave on any of the Antilles. The
empire of the Atlantic, and with it the
wooden walls of England, the great
bulwark of our freedom, will have
passed to another people.

To shew that these apprehensions
are not exaggerated, we transcribe
the following article from the Jamai-
ca Courant of Nov. 1, 1831 : —

" The period has at length arri-
ved, when the representatives of an
oppressed and deeply injured people
have met in council, to deliberate on
the civil and political economy ; and,
like pilots in a storm, to consult on
the means most advisable to conduct
the tempest-tost bark through the
billows of an agitated ocean. Look-
ing at the conduct of the mother
country to her colonies, we dare
hardly give expression to our feel-
ings on the occasion. What have we
in return from England for the im-
mense duties received upon our pro-
duce— the vast benefits derived of
her industrious artisans from the
almost exclusive supply of British
manufactures — the nursery afforded
her for seamen, that form the bul-
wark of her national existence, be-
sides the wealth drawn from the
wealth of the colony, to be spent in
Britain by our absentee proprietors

1832.]

The West India Question.

413

and mortgagees ? Why, beggary, ruin,
and disgrace, are the barter — we are
left a prey to a discontented and in-
satiate herd of hydras in the mother
country, and exposed to a hell of
opposition from every corner of the
nation. But such a state of things
cannot long exist. The Amor Patrice
of the sons of Britain in the West is
dissipated — is lost. England insult-
ed and persecuted America, and lost
eleven British states at a blow. True,
her 74 and 96 gun-ships could not
whisk around the New World as they
can around her colonies in the West
Indies, but she may secure the loss
of one as certainly as she has effect-
ed the alienation of the other. Ame-
rica at present resembles the sleep-
ing lion. You behold the beauty and
symmetry of the animal, without a
demonstration of its strength and
power. She remains quiet, nurses
her seamen, builds new vessels of
war, and lays them up in dock — hus-
bands her wealth, and secures the
affection of a noble and generous

Eeople. The day is not distant, when,
Deling her influence and power, she
will arise as it were from the womb
of time, and spread confusion and
terror around her. We would say
to our members in Assembly — to
those gentlemen who have been de-
legated by ourselves to rule the des-
tinies of the colony, resist by fair and
constitutional means any further in-
novation upon the rights and privi-
leges of the people. Concession will
follow concession, demand will be
succeeded by demand. If we are to
fall, let it not be by our own hands,
let not the crime of political suicide
attach itself to us. Let the ministers
of England have the glorious satis-
faction of destroying our institutions
and commerce, and rendering our
island a magnificent pyramid of de-
solation and ruin. England holds her
possessions in the East by a thread,
and her colonies in the West by a
threat."

" The case is the same in all the
other West India colonies. In St
Vincent's, Barbadoes, Demerara, and
all the Leeward Islands, the discon-
tent is extreme. Every where the
colonial legislators are remonstra-
ting in the most vehement manner
against the rash innovations of the
mother country, and deliberating on
the means of escaping from so ruin-

ous and ignorant a domination.
Emissaries from them all have more
than once visited America, with what
design we do not know ; and that
ambitious state is not an inattentive
observer of the fair prey which is
thus falling into its hands. Master
of the gulf of Mexico, it is easy to
foresee into whose grasp the domi-
nion of the islands which lie in its
bosom will ultimately fall: if the
firm hand of Britain is once relaxed,
and the wisdom which once ruled its
councils is permanently laid aside —
it is not more difficult to foresee who
will rule these flourishing colonies,
if England is either torn at home
with internal dissensions, or govern-
ed by a rash and ignorant democra-
cy, attentive only to selfish objects,
and ignorant of their dependence on
the colonial interest of its numerous
offspring. And the moment chosen
for agitating the nation, and shaking
all its established interests by the
destruction and remodelling of the
constitution, is the very one, when,
from external causes, its remote
portions were most threatened with
destruction !

It may be presumed, from the
very statement of the West India
Question, that some great and over-
whelming grievances are in opera-
tion to produce the wide-spread feel-
ing of discontent which pervades
these once flourishing colonies. The
sugar islands are bound up, both in
interest and affection, with the mo-
ther country: bound to it by ties
which, but for a course of rash and
perilous interference with establish-
ed interests, never could have been
broken. They are not colonies, in
the proper sense of the word; that
is to say, they are not places in which
a large portion of the European in-
habitants permanently settle — Ubi
lares etfocos habtnt: where they pur-
chase estates on which they reside,
and which they transmit as their
home to their children. They are,
on the contrary, places of temporary
and fleeting occupation — considered
only as objects of profit or subsist-
ence; and cultivated, for the most
part, with the view of being aban-
doned before old age, and the re-
mainder of life passed in the mo-
ther state. The great bulk of W7est
India proprietors reside in Great
Britain, and their extensive colonial

114

The West India Question.

[Feb.

estates, cultivated by means of over-
seers and slaves, transmit their pro-
duce iii the shape of sugar remit-
tances to this country. 'Ihe British
islands are the great market of co-
lonial produce, exceeding to the
plantations that of all the rest of the
world : and any rupture with them
would involve the colonies in ex-
treme temporary embarrassments.
Of all this the colonists are perfect-
ly aware; they see how dependent
they are on the market, the protec-
tion, and the navy of Britain ; and
yet they are coolly, but firmly, con-
templating a separation from this
country. Making every allowance
for the vehemence of passion which
is ripened in these tropical regions,
under the rays of a vertical sun, it
may safely be concluded that such a
disposition could not have arisen, in
opposition to such interests, without
some great and overwhelming cause.

But if the separation of the West
India Islands from this country is pe-
rilous to them, it is far more so to the
mother state. They take off annually
twelve millions worth, or nearly a
third of the whole British exports.
How is this vast and growing market
to be preserved, if our sway over them
is destroyed ? Will the Americans,
those jealous commercial rivals, who
have taken such pains of late years
to exclude the British, and favour
their own manufactures, allow us to
retain a monopoly of the West In-
dian market ? Can it be preserved
amidst the ill-humour and mutual
exasperation which an attempted or
completed separation must produce?
The thing is obviously out of the
question ; and England must make
up its mind, if it will insist, by rash
and absurd legislation, upon losing
these flourishing colonies, to look
elsewhere for one- third of its manu-
facturing exports.

Upon British shipping, and through
it eventually upon the British domi-
nion at sea, and the protection of the
empire from foreign invasion, the
consequences of the threatened se-
paration promise to be still more se-
rious. Experience has proved that
there is no nursery tor seamen, no
feeder of commerce, like extensive
colonial possessions. The colonies
of North America, though only con-
taining 1,300,000 inhabitants, main-

tain a trade with the mother country
which takes off L.2,300,000 a-year of
British manufactures, and employs
one-fifth of the whole shipping of
Great Britain ', while the trade with
the United States of America,
though it possesses a population of
12,000,000, only employs a seventh
of the Canadian trade, or one thirty"
fifth of the foreign commerce of
Great Britain.* The trade to the
West Indies, which now employs
250,000 tons of British shipping,
may be expected to decline as the
ships employed in the trade to the
United States has done since they
declared their independence. The
right arm of the British navy will be
lopped off the moment that the West
India Islands have either become in-
dependent, or passed under the do-
minion of a foreign power. Out of
L.42,000,000, of which the British ex-
ports consist, L.32,000,000, or three-
fourths, are to her colonial posses-
sions.

It is impossible it can ever be
otherwise : and Lord Brougham has
well demonstrated, in his " Colonial
policy," to what cause the vast dif-
ference between colonial arid foreign
trade is owing. Colonies are distant
provinces of the empire; the indus-
try which an intercourse with them
puts in motion at both ends feeds its
own population, and the intercourse
itselt is exclusively maintained in
domestic bottoms. That which is
carried on with an independent state,
on the other hand, maintains domes-
tic labour only at one end, and the
greater part of it is usually carried
on in foreign vessels. If England
exports the muslins of Manchester
to Jamaica, she is benefited both
by the industry which raises the
article in Lancashire, and the labour
which pays for it in remittances of
sugar from Jamaica or Barbadoes ;
and the ships which carry on the
intercourse are exclusively British,
and navigated solely by British sea-
men: but if she exports the same
article to Maryland or New York,
she derives benefit only from the
manufacturing industry in this coun-
try ; and so far from seeing her com-
merce increased by the transmis-
sion of it from one country to the
other, she has the mortification of
beholding the greater part of the in*

* Account of Canada, by Bouchet, Preface, p. 3.

1832.]

The West India Question.

415

tercourse carried on in the vessels
of her formidable rival.

The consequence of a separation
between England and her West India
colonies, however serious to both,
must in the end prove more hurt-
ful to the parent than the infant
state. The old and the young are
mutually dependant on each other :
but the consequences of a rupture
are likely to be more irreparable to
a man of 70 than a youth of 15. The
world with all its hopes and all its
prospects is before the one ; the
weakness of age, the night of the
grave, is closing upon the other. The
West India islands will doubtless
suffer immensely in the first instance
from a rupture with this country;
but the wounds will soon be healed
by the vivifying powers of nature in
those prolific regions, and the mar-
ket for their produce which the en-
creasing population of America must
open. Their land and their labour
will still remain : property may to
a great degree change hands, but it
will ultimately centre in those who
can turn it to useful account, and
under a new regime the fertile soil
and uncultivated regions of these tro-
pical climes will yet abound with
riches and inhabitants. But it is not
thus that age recovers its wounds :
it is not thus that limbs can be se-
vered from the aged trunk of Bri-
tain. Teeming with inhabitants bow-
ed down with debt, overflowing with
capital which cannot find employ-
ment, and paupers who cannot earn
bread, it will never recover the loss
of a portion of the empire, through
which so large an artery of its heart's
blood flows : and the ruinous policy
which severs from its body so fair
a member, will cause it to bleed to
death, or to perish in the attempt
to stanch the wound.

What the West Indians complain
of, and what threatens such deplo-
rable consequences to the whole em-
pire, are, 1. Excessive and perilous
precipitance in forcing upon them
the early and ill-considered eman-
cipation of the slaves ; and, 2. The
continuance of enormous burdens
upon their produce, at a time when
the change in the value of money,
and other causes, have made them
press with unexampled severity up-
on their industry.

The great danger which -has exci-

ted such extraordinary terror through
all the West India Islands, is the in-
cessant efforts of Government, and
ignorant individuals and societies, to
interfere with the management of the
slaves, with a view to their immedi-
ate or early emancipation. This dan-
ger is imminent and excessive : it
places the dagger at every man's
throat j and approaches the torch to
every human habitation. We can
sympathise with the danger of such
charges: they proceed from the same
spirit of rash, ignorant, and impetu-
ous innovation, under which Eng-
land is now suffering so severely at
home, with this difference, that the
danger is greater there than here,
just in proportion as the passions
are more violent, and reason less
powerful, under a tropical sun, and
among an enslaved population, than
under the cloudy atmosphere, and
amidst the free inhabitants of north-
ern regions.

We yield to none in love of free-
dom ; and shall give decisive proof,
on all occasions which may occur, of
our ardent desire to promote any
measures calculated to improve the
condition, elevate the minds, or puri-
fy the morals of the labouring poor.
It is not therefore from indifference
to the Negroes, but from a sincere
interest in them ; not from a love of
slavery, but an anxious wish to do
what may really mitigate its horrors,
that we make the following observa-
tions, the result of long thought and
extensive research into the condition
of the labouring classes in all parts
and ages of the world.

Slavery, though unquestionably an
evil, if it is perpetuated in circum-
stances, and in a population, suscep-
tible of free habits, and capable of
maintaining itself, is not only not an
evil, but a positive advantage, and
a necessary step in the progress of
improvement in the early ages of
mankind. This truth is demonstra-
ted by the universality of slavery in
rude nations all over the world, and
the extremely slow steps by which
the process of emancipation has gone
forward in all the nations which now
enjoy the blessings of general free-
dom. Survey the globe in ancient
and modern times, you will find
slavery co-existent with the human
race, and continuing, though with
mitigated features, through all the

41G

glories of ancient civilisation. The
ages of Pericles and Antonine, of Ci-
cero and Socrates, of Fabricius and
Justinian, were equally distinguished
by the universality of this distinction
among the labouring classes; 20,000
freemen in Athens gave la\v to
400,000 slaves ; and in the decline of
the Roman empire, when it was pro-
posed in the senate that slaves should
wear a particular dress, it was re-
jected, lest, as Tacitus observes, it
should be discovered how few the
freemen were in comparison.

The case was the same in the mo-
dern world. For a thousand years,
slavery was universal in Europe, and
it still obtains in many of the most
extensive of its monarchies. Wher-
ever the Mahommedan rule is esta-
blished, slavery is to be found; it
exists from one end of Africa to an-
other, and is to be seen, with a few
exceptions, over the vast extent and
amidst the countless millions of the
Asiatic continent. It is the influence
of Christianity alone, the long esta-
blishment of civilisation, and the per-
manent subjugation of human injus-
tice by the sway of religion, which
has enabled mankind to get quit of
this painful distinction ; and it will
l>e found, upon examination, that it
never can remain absent for any
length of time, but in those states
whose governments have charity
enough to impose, and power suffi-
cient to collect, a general poor's rate
for relief of the indigent. It is in
vain to say, that an institution so
universal, so unvarying, and so per-
manent, is an unmitigated evil, the
abolition of which would confer no-
thing but blessings upon mankind.
Nothing exists generally, or for ages,
but what is indispensable in the
stage of society in which it is to be
found, and is founded in the univer-
sal and unvarying circumstances of
our condition.

Protection from violence, main-
tenance in sickness and old age, and
secure employment for their off-
spring, are the substantial and im-
mense advantages which more than
compensate to men, in rude or civi-
lized ages, all the hardships of slavery.
If they are free, that is to say, if they
do not belong to some powerful lord,

The West India Question.

[Feb.

they are liable to be massacred,
plundered, and ruined with impuni-
ty ; no one will take care of them, no
one will maintain them, no one will
relieve them, unless he has some last-
ing interest in their labour ; and this
lasting interest can only be obtained
by their becoming his property. Sla-
very is the return made by the la-
bourer for the advantages of perma-
nent protection, maintenance, and
care, which can never be obtained
but in the highest stages of civilisa-
tion on any other conditions. Accord-
ingly, it is observed by Sismondi,*
that when the barbarians settled in
the Roman empire, the great propor-
tion of the free inhabitants, after a
few years, voluntarily submitted
themselves as slaves to some power-
ful lord ; having found, by dear-
bought experience, that, when in the
unprotected condition of freemen,
they could not, in those unruly
times, reckon for a day either on
their lives, their property, or their
employment.

When we say that slavery is such
a dreadful evil, we always figure to
ourselves what slavery would be,
established in a civilized country
such as this, where law is establish-
ed, indigence relieved, violence re-
strained, and industry protected.
That is the source of the greatest
errors in political thought; we ima-
gine, without being aware of it, that
the condition of the people in other
states is similar to what it is in our
own ; and this being done, the sub-
sequent conclusions run upon wheels.
But if we would accurately view the
condition of the unappropriated poor
in the early stages of civilisation,
their condition here is to be taken
not as a portrait, but as a contrast.
Destitute of protection, exposed to
rapine, murder, and violence, un-
able to provide a fund for the main-
tenance of old age, without a market
for their industry, or an employer to
furnish them with bread, they must
speedily perish, or give some power-
ful chieftain a lasting interest in their
preservation, by giving him a right
of property in their labour. So uni-
versally has this necessity been felt,
that in all ages and parts of the world,
slavery, or the right of property in

* Hist, de France, vol. i,

.1832.]

The West India Question.

417

the labouring poor, has been esta-
blished when society existed in this
form.

Nor is it only in the early ages of
civilisation, that the necessity of this
appropriation of the poor exists. Few
are aware of the advanced state of
government which is required, and
the descent of civilisation in the
ranks of society, before it can be dis-
pensed with, or the poor left to shift
for themselves, amidst the injustice
and the storms of the world. The
Greeks and the Romans, the Persians
and the Egyptians, never reached it.
No state in modern Europe attained
that stage till within these three hun-
dred years. A thousand years of a
beneficent religion; the long esta-
blishment of law and regular govern-
ment; the progressive subjugation
for centuries of the passions by a
powerful and impartial central go-
vernment, were necessary to enable
the poor to derive any benefit what-
ever from their emancipation. It
won't do to have civilisation merely
existing in a high degree in the upper
classes of society, to have luxury,
ornament, and opulence among the
rich, or the warlike virtues resplen-
dent amidst a chivalrous nobility ;
it is indispensable beneath them to
have a numerous, opulent, and in-
dustrious middling class of society;
a body of men in whom prosperity
has nourished sentiments of inde-
pendence, and centuries of security
developed habits of industry, and
ages of regular justice extinguished
savage passion, and long established
artificial wants vanquished the indo-
lence of savage life. Till this obtains,
it is in vain to attempt the eman-
cipation of the labouring classes : the
overthrow of the authority of their
lords would only annihilate industry,
unfetter passion, exterminate im-
provement. The accomplished hor-
rors of the Jacquerie in France, the
hunting down of the seigneurs like
wild beasts, the conflagration of their
chateaus, the formation of all the
serfs into bands of robbers, the total
cessation of every species of indus-
try, the resolution of society into its
pristine chaos ; a famine of unex-
ampled severity, a pestilence which
cut off one-third of the population

of that and every other country which
it reached, signalized the growth of
the democratic spirit among the serfs
of that great kingdom, and wrote in
characters of fire the perils of preci-
pitate emancipation.* Dangers not
less dreadful awaited this country
from the same insane spirit; the in-
surrection of Wat Tyler in the time
of Richard II. was begun in the true
spirit of this frightful anarchy, and
had it not been crushed by the efforts
of the feudal chieftains, the glories
of British civilisation would have
been for ever drowned in the waves
of servile insurrection.

Many estimable persons are influ-
enced by the consideration, that the
Christian religion has proclaimed the
universal equality of mankind, and
thence they conclude, that it is not
only wrong but impious to retain any
portion of our subjects in a state of
servitude, or withhold our efforts
from the general emancipation of
the species. There never was a more
mistaken idea; it springs from a be-
nevolent intention, but it is fitted to
devastate society by its consequen-
ces. Considerations of religion lead
to a directly opposite conclusion ;
they support, in a manner the most
convincing, the arguments for which
we contend.

If immediate emancipation from
slavery, or its abolition in the early
stages of civilisation, had been in-
tended by Providence, or deemed
consistent with human welfare in
those ages, why was it not commu-
nicated to mankind at the Tower of
Babel, or amidst the thunders of
Mount Sinai ? Why was a religion,
which declared the equality of man-
kind in the sight of Heaven, and was
fitted ultimately to effect the univer-
sal abolition of private slavery, by
influencing the human heart, re-
served for the highest era of ancient
civilisation, the age of Cicero and
Augustus ? Why was it cradled, not
on the frontiers of civilisation, not
amidst barbarous tribes, but in the
centre of refinement ; midway be-
tween Egyptian learning and Gre-
cian taste : on the confines of Persian
wealth and Rom an civilisation? Why,
when it did come, was it made no
part of that religion to emancipate

* Sismondi, Hist, de France, Vol. IX.
VOL, XXXI, NO, CXCI. 2 D

418

The West India Question.

[Feb.

the slaves by any general or sweeping
measure ; but that change left to be
slowly accomplished during centu-
ries, by the silent influence of reli-
gion on individual hearts ? Why, but
because its author knew that the pre-
cepts it enjoined, the changes in
society it would induce, were suited
not to an infant but an advanced
stage of civilisation ; and that the
equality it declared could obtain only
amidst the safeguards from violence,
which an ancient and highly- cultiva-
ted state of refinement afforded.

Why, if immediate and uncondi-
tional emancipation from servitude
was intended to follow the Christian
religion, did it subsist unmitigated
for fifteen hundred years after its
introduction ? Because the mere
promulgation of its precepts is by
no means sufficient to warrant such
change ; because it is necessary not
only that churches should be built,
and bishops established, and nobles
baptized ; but savage indolence over-
come, and barbaric violence restrain-
ed, and rude depravity covered : be-
cause it is necessary, before such a
change is introduced, not only that
the seed of religion should be scat-
tered over the surface, but its roots
struck and its fruits shed through the
whole strata of society ; because ci-
vil freedom and habits of order, and
the desire of civilisation, must be long
established before it can be either
practicable or beneficial ; and because
these effects require the growth of
many hundred years.

Let, then, the friends of speedy
Negro emancipation follow the steps
of Providence in the past extrication
of the human race from the restraints
of servitude ; let them bring up the
West India Negroes to the level of
ancient civilisation at the period when
the gospel was promulgated ; let
them cause the rude inhabitants to
rival the age of Pericles and Cicero,
of Ptolemy and Darius, of Csesar
and Alexander, and then they have
brought the human mind to that stage
when the Author of nature deemed
it practicable to relax the fetters of
private slavery. Or let them imitate
the workings of the same unseen hand
in modern times : let them establish,
under the sun of the tropics, civili-
sation as deep, order as permanent,
industry as universal, justice as equal,
aristocratic violence as subdued, pri-

vate property as secure, passions as
coerced, central power as resistless
as in England under the reign of
Elizabeth, or in France under that
of Francis I., and then they may with
reason allege that the soil, being duly
prepared by previous culture, the
seeds of universal freedom may be
sown. But let them not urge on im-
mediate or early emancipation under
circumstances which Supreme Wis-
dom has in all past ages deemed unfit
for its introduction; let them not
precipitate those changes in infants,
which have been uniformly reserved
for the most advanced stages of civi-
lisation j or delude themselves with
the idea, that they are preparing the
pacific reign of the Gospel for the
sable inhabitants of the regions of
the sun, when they are only hasten-
ing the horrors of a Jacquerie, or
the flames of St Domingo.

Considered in this point of view,
there can be no doubt that much,
perhaps most, of the misery of Ire-
land is owing to the too early abo-
lition of slavery among its inhabit-
ants, and the premature extension to
its fierce and passionate population
of the passion of English freedom,
without the moderation of English ci-
vilisation. Ireland is not in a state to
be able to bear the relaxation of its
labouring classes from the bonds, or
their deprivation of the benefi ts,of pri-
vate servitude. All travellers concur
in stating that they are incomparably
more miserable than the serfs of
Russia, or the boors of Poland. Pe-
riodical famines, unknown in the rest
of the world ; starvation, unparallel-
ed in modern Europe ; violence and
bloodshed, unexampled even in bar-
barous states, have signalized the fa-
tal gift of personal freedom, to men
still actuated by the passions, and re-
quiring the restraint, of savages. And
that unhappy country affords the
clearest proof, that the mere exist-
ence of the highest refinement, the
most polished manners, and the best
education among the higher, is no
security whatever against the utmost
possible suffering being produced by
the premature extension of freedom
to the labouring classes of society.
To enable mankind to bear this gift,
it is indispensable not merely that
the rich should be refined and civi-
lized, but the poor industrious, pa-
tient, and acquainted with artificial

1832.]

The West India Question,.

419

wants ; that an extensive and opulent
middling class should for a length of
time have formed the connecting link
between the higher and the lower
classes of society; that the firm esta-
blishment of law and justice should
have taught mankind the necessity,
and learnt them the means, of re-
straining their passions ; and that the
emancipation of the labouring poor
from the fetters of private authority,
should have been so gradual, as, like
the growth of a child, or the innova-
tions of time, to have been imper-
ceptible.

What are the great sources of dis-
tress in Ireland; what the causes
which, in the nineteenth century, un-
der British rule, and almost in sight
of the British shores, have perpetu-
ated the reign of anarchy and mis-
rule ; have stained its emerald fields
with murders, and lighted its mid-
night sky with conflagrations j have
precipitated upon this land a squa-
lid and suffering multitude, and left
only in its fertile plains the feel-
ing of suffering, and the passion of
revenge ? They are to be found in
the redundance of the population,
the grievances and vexations of the
poor ; the division of society into two
great casts, the oppressor and the
oppressed j the absence of any mid-
dling rank in the state ; the unsettled,
unequal, and partial administration
of justice ; the want of any legal pro-
vision for the labouring classes, their
utter destitution in sickness and old
age, and the total absence of all arti-
ficial wants, from the experienced
impossibility of purchasing any of the
comforts of life. As these features
unequivocally demonstrate that the
poor are unfit for the enjoyment of
freedom, and that their emancipation
from the restrictions of servitude
would only tear society in pieces, so
the most lamentable of them would
be removed by the poor being the
property of their landlords. We oft-
en hear of the poor in Ireland star-
ving of hunger, or being driven by
the pangs of want to robbery and
murder, but never of the cattle want-
ing their daily meal. The Irish are
in that state where not only they are
incapable of receiving any benefit
from personal freedom, but the state
of destitution which it induces, sub-
jects them to a degree of suffering
and distress, to which there is no-

thing comparable in the situation of
those who are looked after by their
owners, on the principle of private
interest.

All these considerations apply with
tenfold force to the case of the West
India negroes. They are in a situa-
tion so extremely low, when consi-
dered with reference to their capa-
bility of governing themselves, or
acquiring subsistence in a state of
freedom, that it may be foretold with
perfect certainty, that any attempt,
not merely to emancipate them, but
even to instil into their minds the
idea that they are to be emancipa-
ted, would lead immediately to con-
flagration, famine, massacre, and
ruin. They are incapable of under-
standing what freedom is, the duties
with which it is attended, the re-
straint which it imposes, and the la-
bour which it induces. They have
none of the artificial wants which re-
concile men to the severe and unin-
terrupted toil which constitutes the
basis of civilized prosperity, nor of
the power of voluntary restraint
upon inclination and coercion of pas-
sion, which springs from the expe-
rience of the necessity of their exer-
tion among all societies of free citizens.
To them, freedom conveys the idea
of the immediate cessation of all re-
straint, the termination of every spe-
cies of labour, the undisguised in-
dulgence of every passion. It is not
surprising that it should be so. Na-
ture never intended that men in that
stage of society should be free, be-
cause their emancipation from ser-
vitude leads immediately to evils,
both to themselves and to society,
incomparably greater than servitude
itself. The inveterate habits of in-
dolence which always character-
ise savage life, the vehement pas-
sions with which it is attended, the
entire "disregard of the future by
which it is invariably distinguished,
render men, in that stage of civilisa-
tion, as incapable of flourishing or
even of existing as freemen, as a
child of three years of age is of com-
prehending the Principia, or fighting
the battle of Waterloo.
i How is it possible that men in the
condition of African Negroes can
conduct themselves as freemen? —
They see none but their masters, the
owners of the estates on which they
work, and their overseers, and they

420

The West India Question.

[Feb.

expect of course that when they
become free they are to live like
them, and enjoy the same immunity
from personal toil. They little know
that the free labourer is chained by
necessity to severer toil than that
which is wrung from them by the
lash of the overseer; that they re-
ceive no certain provision in sick-
ness or age ; are allowed to beg their
bread through a land flowing with
milk and honey ; and frequently
perish of want amidst the palaces of
heartless opulence. They feel none
of the artificial wants, which sweeten
to the European labourer his uncea-
sing toil ; and are drawn by an irre-
sistible attraction to the indolent
habits, the dreaming existence, the
listless repose, which constitute the
chief enjoyments of savage life. The
indulgence of such habits must be
utterly destructive of the splendid
but imperfectly founded fabric of
industry which the West Indies ex-
hibit. If their labouring classes are
emancipated before ages of civilisa-
tion have given them the habits, the
wants, the self-command, and the
desires of civilized life, society must
instantly be resolved into its pristine
elements; the smiling plantations, the
industrious villages be destroyed;
the human race be reduced to a tenth
part of its present amount, and a few
naked savages gain a precarious sub-
sistence amidst the woods, which will
speedily obliterate, under a tropical
sun, all traces of former cultivation.

This is not mere speculation :—
the truth of these principles have
been demonstrated in the most signal
manner ; the experiment of precipi-
tate emancipation has been tried on
the largest scale, in the greatest, the
richest, and the most flourishing of
the West India colonies; conflagra-
tion, murder, and ruin, signalized its
commencement, and the most fright-
ful dissolution of manners, a rapid
decline of population, a total cessa-
tion of industry, and general suffer-
ing among the unhappy victims of
premature freedom, have been its
lasting effects. It is this dreadful
example which has penetrated the
West India proprietors with a sense
of the danger which threatens them,
and it is in the face of its lamentable

effects that the same deplorable sys-
tem is incessantly pressed forward
by a numerous and well-meaning,
but ignorant and deluded party in
this country.

When the fumes of the French
Revolution had spread the same vi-
sionary ideas of liberty and equality
through its extensive dominions,
which have lately penetrated the
veins of the British empire, the situa-
tion of the Negroes of St Domingo
excited the immediate attention of
the National Assembly. It was strong-
ly urged, that the existence of slavery
was an abomination inconsistent with
the new-born principles of freedom ;
that all men were by nature equal,
and that it would be a lasting dis-
grace to the French Legislature, if,
after having emancipated themselves
from the fetters of slavery, they per-
mitted them to hang upon the wretch-
ed cultivators of their distant colo-
nies. In vain it was urged, by those
practically acquainted with the state
of the Negroes, that such a measure
would, without benefiting the slaves,
involve the whole colony in confla-
gration, and ultimately occasion the
ruin of the very men whom it was
intended to benefit. These wise ob-
servations were utterly disregarded ;
a society, with the title of Les Amis
des Noirs, was instituted at Paris,
under the auspices of Brissot and
the leading Revolutionists, which car-
ried on a correspondence with the
friends of emancipation in the colo-
ny,* and at length, overborne by cla-
mour, and subdued by declamation,
the Colonial Assembly passed several
decrees tending to the gradual aboli-
tion of slavery, f

Nothing could exceed the picture
of prosperity which the colony ex-
hibited when these well-meant, but
fatal innovations, began. The whites
were about 40,000 ; the free men of
colour, 30,000; and slaves, above
500,0004 Above a thousand planta-
tions, in different parts of the island,
nourished its numerous inhabitants
in peace and happiness ; great part of
the most fertile portion of the island
was cultivated like a garden, and the
slaves, indulgently treated, and libe-
rally partaking of the fruits of their
labour, exhibited a scene of rural

May 15th.

fToulanger/IV. 244,

Ibid. IV. 239,

1832.J

The West India Question.

421

felicity and general happiness rarely
witnessed in the freest and most civi-
lized states. Every evening, the whole
slaves, of both sexes, were to be seen
dancing in festive circles; the sound
of music, the voice of gladness, was
to be heard on all sides, and the
traveller, captivated by the spectacle,
blessed the beneficent hand of nature,
which had provided such means of
felicity to the humblest of its family.*

But very different was the state of
the island, when the demon of re-
volutionary innovation found an en-
trance. A variety of laws, tending
to the emancipation of the Negroes,
were first passed in 1790 and 1791 ;
and at length, on 2 1st June, 179?, a
decree emancipated all the slaves
who should take up arms in favour
of the Republic. -f*

The consequences of these well-
meant, but injudicious innovations,
are thus described by the contempo-
rary republican historian :

" The black slaves, greatly more
numerous than their masters, had al-
ready heard the thrilling words, li-
berty and equality, addressed to
them, rather by political ambition
than the spirit of humanity. Insur-
rections broke out so early as 1789,
which were only repressed by mea-
sures of severity. The first negroes
who revolted, acted in the name of
the King. In their savage acclama-
tions they repeated the name of
Louis. At length, after great disor-
ders, a general insurrection took
place in July 1791 ; in a few days
15,000 blacks were in arms; they
chose two chiefs of the name of
Boukman and Auguste. In a single
night, the whole habitations in the
island were in flames ; the sugar
works, the coffee plantations, were
all destroyed; the whites everywhere
murdered, hunted down, or roasted
in the flames; the rich plain of the
Cape, so lately smiling in prosperity,
exhibited only a vast field of carnage
and conflagration.

" When the first fury of the revolt
had evaporated, and the whites were
all shut up in Cape Town, the blacks
spread themselves over the country,
and avenged the executions under
which they had suffered, by all the re-
finements of the most frightful cruel-

ty. Both parties exerted themselves
with the utmost fury ; on the one
hand the habit of power, and an in-
veterate contempt for the Negro race,
on the other the passion of revenge,
prompted to unheard-of atrocities.

" The island remained a prey to
the most complicated disorders, un-
til June 1792, when the whole re-
mainder of the European population
was shut up in the Cape Town. At
the first appearance of an attack, a
portion of the inhabitants had made
their escape by sea ; but a large part
remained, trusting that they would
suffer nothing from a combat in
which they had taken no part. No
sooner, however, had the republican
authorities withdrawn, than the Ne-
gro troops broke in, and finding
neither resistance nor restraint, soon
commenced the most hideous ex-
cesses. Twenty thousand Africans
unchained, mingled with the assail-
ants ; every thing was confounded in
the indiscriminate massacre; inha-
bitants, sailors, slaves, were butcher-
ed without mercy ; the conflagration
which soon arose, augmented the
horrors of the scene ; at the sight of
its illumination in the heavens, the
Negroes in all the neighbouring
mountains descended into the plain,
and rushed in torrents into the de-
voted city, Every excess which ven-
geance, cupidity, brutal insolence,
and unbridled passion could produce,
was speedily committed ; the asy-
lums of young women were forced,
their persons violated, arid after-
wards murdered ; shrieking females,
weeping children, trembling old
men, were to be seen striving to
force their way through the brutal
throng, to gain the ships, or perish-
ing under the ruins of the burning
edifices. In less than twenty-four
hours, Cape Town was destroyed,
and its inhabitants massacred or dis-
persed.

" When fatigue had caused the
disorder and carnage to cease, and
the conflagration had ceased for want
of any thing farther to burn, the re-
maining black inhabitants were or-
ganized into battalions, and the slaves,
not knowing what to do amidst the
general wreck, with their newly ac-
quired freedom, surrendered them-

Humboldt, Voyages, IX. 332.

f Jomini, IV. 403.

4*2

The West India Question.

[Feb.

selves to obtain provisions. Ships
imploring succour were dispatched
to the neighbouring isles and the
continent ; and the remains of a flou-
rishing colony resembled a horde
cast by shipwreck on a desert shore.

" This frightful catastrophe was
the first signal of the abolition of
slavery by the partial emancipation
of the Negroes. This idea of the
liberation of the Negroes had long
been spread in France and the co-
lonies ; the dreams of the philan-
thropist had penetrated even to the
workshops of the slaves. The op-
position of the whites and the men
of colour, speedily accelerated the
evil ; they mutually freed the slaves
who were to be enrolled to com-
bat each other ; and enfranchisement
was always the reward to which
they looked forward, as the result of
their revolt. This was declared uni-
versal, by a decree of the commis-
sioners of France, on the 21st June,
1793, which announced, that all the
Negroes who took up arms for the
Republic, should receive their free-
dom. Such were the effects of this
great measure, dictated by philan-
thropy, but carried into execution
without regard to the capacity of
those for whom it was intended. The
fatal gift involved in one promiscu-
ous ruin the slaves and their op-
pressors." *

Nor has the subsequent fate of
this once flourishing colony been less
calamitous. For ten years after-
wards its history was such a succes-
sion of civil wars, disasters, and con-
fusion, that the most patient histo-
rical research can hardly trace the
thread of the calamities. Their in-
dependence has been established;
but with it they have relapsed in-
to a state of degradation, combi-
ning the indolence and recklessness
of savage, with the vices and the cor-
ruptions of civilized ife. Hardly
caring to cultivate the ground, they
wander through the woods, gaining
a precarious subsistence by shoot-
ing or ensnaring animals : from be-
ing the greatest sugar island in the
Gulf of Mexico, St Domingo is re-
duced to the necessity of importing
both sugar and subsistence ; popula-
tion has rapidly declined ; and such

is the universal dissolution of man-
ners, as to threaten, if such an event
were possible, at no distant period,
its entire destruction. To all ap-
pearance, this beautiful island in half
a century will be tenanted only by
naked savages, more vicious and de-
graded, but not superior in civilisa-
tion or improvement to the Indians
who first beheld the sails of Colum-
bus.f

These facts are worthy of the
most serious consideration. They
demonstrate, that human nature is
the same in the torrid as the tempe-
rate zone ; in the sable breast of the
African Negro, as in the serfs of
France, or the boors of Russia. An
individual does not become a man at
six years of age ;. if we give to child-
hood the indulgences or the freedom
of manhood, a life of unbridled pas-
sion, or useless indolence, may with
certainty be anticipated. It is by
slow degrees, and imperceptible gra-
dations, that all the great changes of
nature are effectual : continents, the
abode of millions, are formed by the
accumulations of innumerable rills ;
empires which are to subsist for
ages, slowly arise out of the strug-
gles and the hardships of infant exist-
ence. Freedom, the greatest gift of
nature, can neither be appreciated
nor enjoyed for a very long period
in the progress of civilisation; if
suddenly bestowed on an enslaved
population, it tears society in pieces,
and subjects men to the worst of
tyrannies, the tyranny of their own
passions and vices. If we would
consult the interests of the slaves
themselves, if we would save them
from the dominion of the most fright-
ful vices, if we would preserve their
race from extermination, we must
admit them, by slow degrees, and
imperceptible gradations, to the ad-
vantages and the destitution of free-
dom. Centuries must elapse before
it can be introduced without the
certainty of destruction to the slave
population. When we see a middling
class formed which connects the up-
per and the lower classes, the pro-
prietor and the Negro ; when we
behold justice regularly, impartially,
and formally administered; when
we see artificial wants prevalent

* Toulouguon, IV. 540-264,

f Mackenzie's St Domingo.

1832.]

The West India Question.

423

among the poor, and industry pur-
sued for its own sake, and from a
sense of the blessings with which
it is attended, and a legal provision
for the labouring classes established,
then and not till then, the bonds of
slavery may be abolished. — When
that period arrives, however, no ef-
forts of fanaticism, no struggles of a
party, will be required for Negro
emancipation; the interests of the
owners themselves will lead, as in.
the feudal ages, to the gradual en-
franchisement of the poor; the
change will be so gradual as to be
imperceptible, and the child will be-
come a man without being sensible
of the relaxation of the parental au-
thority.

The general error on the subject
of the West India Negroes, emanating
from amiable and Christian feelings,
may be traced to the same source as
the political errors which are now
shaking the empire to the founda-
tion ; a disregard of experience, an
inattention to the lessons of history,

and an ignorance of the past pro-
gress of freedom in other parts of the
world. The time, however, has now-
arrived, when good intentions will
not justify insane actions ; nor men
be permitted to toss about fire*
brands, and say it was in sport. —
When men mingle in political con-
cerns, we require from them not only
benevolent wishes, but rational con-
duct and information on the subjects
which they agitate ; we hold it no
excuse for a physician, who has sa-
crificed his patient by his ignorance,
that he meant only to do him good.—
If the boasted spread of knowledge
has effected any thing, it should teach
men distrust of their opinions, if not
fortified by the lessons of experi-
ence ; and it must prove worse than
useless, if it does not inspire a
rooted aversion for every project
which is not founded on the deduc-
tions of history, and a determination
to resist every innovation which does
not imitate the gradual changes of
nature.

WE made a sad mistake, last month, in clean forgetting that it was our
Christmas Number. The world must have thought it strange behaviour in
us not to wish her a happy New Year, and many Returns of the Season.
The truth is, and we frankly confess it, that we hate the idea of our get-
ting old ; and so powerful is the influence over us of that feeling, that it
sometimes renders us insensible to the solar system. It is now, we have
been credibly informed, 1832 A. D.; and we suppose there has been much
snow. In-door people as we are during winter, we care as little about
a fall of flakes as about a fall of the funds — having sold out ; but we still
feel in our frame certain genial symptoms of spring, a budding and a
blossoming, a stir of sap, that precedes, predicts, and produces leaves and
fruits on all our branches, affording shade, shelter, and sustenance to man-
kind. Friends of our soul ! this goblet sip— and may ye live a thousand
years !

It is now, we believe, some two lustres or so, since we began to delight
and instruct the Public. It has become with us a confirmed habit; and that
philosophically explains the ease with which we now effect our benevolent
purpose, and diffuse, like the sun, without fatigue, light all round about the
globe. We differ from our prototype in one particular, that we never set;
and in another, that no astronomer has been so bold as to calculate of Us
an eclipse. An occasional cloud may pass across our disk, but there are on
it no permanent spots. We are an orb of purest Fire, yet we scorch
not, neither do we consume ; 'tis ours but to produce and to preserve ;
from our golden urn all the planets draw light ; and to it return, and into
it are absorbed, the comets.

It is certainly very foolish, then, in us to fear that we are waxing aged;
seeing that we are universally regarded with that love and admiration which
are bestowed only ou the brightness and the beauty of youth- Ours, then

424 V Envoy. [Feb.

must be a perpetual spring involving in mysterious and perfect union the
charms of all the Seasons. This is the wondrous work of— -Duxr.
" She doth preserve the stars from wrong,
And the eternal heavens through her are fresh and strong !"

But let us relapse into a humbler strain. We are human — we are mortal.
But

" If to our share some human errors fall,

LOOK ON OUR FACE AND YOU FORGET THEM ALL."

OUR face I We beat Janus— for we have three faces— the face of Christo-
pher North — the face of George Buchanan — and the face of Maga. 'Twould
be hard to say which is the most prepossessing — of most virtues the most
unerring index. Maga delights to be in the middle, showering her smiles
right and left—like Venus between Phoenix and Nestor. Were man or
devil to threaten with ill the hoary Elders, her eye would wither them ;
were She insulted, her Guardians would annihilate the mightiest by a nod
that trernefies Olympus.

But none now ever venture to say that black is the white of our eyes ; the
good in love, the bad in fear, do homage at our footstool. Ha! who abuses
Blackwood? Not even the " whisper of a faction." The danger now is,
that mankind run into the opposite extreme^and fall into the sin of Idola-
try, as suddenly through the darkness in which too many of the nations are
enveloped, " our fulgent head star-bright appears." They forget what we
have told them in a preceding paragraph — :that we are human, that we are
mortal; " in apprehension how like a God," it is true — but subject to the
same doom — at last — that has smitten so soon and so sudden so many of the
meanest of Periodicals — Death — Burial — perhaps, in the event of another
General Deluge — Oblivion !

Politics, Poetry, Philosophy, Literature, Life — these are our themes-
all inexhaustible ! At this hour they lie almost untouched. There have been
people seriously alarmed at the consumption of fuel. When all the coal in
the earth shall have been burned, the human race will perish of cold on the
cessation of cookery — the vital flame, too, will be extinct. No — not till they
have shewn that there is " reason in the roasting of eggs" on the twigs of
the last tree. There is also much peat. And who knows but that the " che-
mist's magic art" may bring fire from Heaven, without the punishment of
Prometheus, and fill our grates with lustrous air, whose beauty shall burn
with fervent heat, till tales of smoky chimneys in popular tradition grow
dim and die, the last lingering relics of old wives' dreams !

Idler all fears lest the combustible strata of the soul shouldbe consumed,
which the Genii who work Maga's will, dig from its subterraneous regions, for
fuel to the flame that burns for ever on her shrine. Many a many-mile-shaft
must they first send winding away with its hanging terraces, through rock-
ribbed columnar darkness, whose roof supports the booming sea. They have
the genius and the enginery — to explore — to penetrate — and to heave up the
" concealed treasures of the deep" — the vasty deep — into the air of the
common day — till the wonders of the central regions of the soul are spread
far and wide over its surface, which is thereby made to smile with efful-
gence of its own, fit to bear comparison with the " light from heaven," in
which it melts, but is not lost — forming, the two together, one life-warming
and life-ennobling flame.

CHRISTOPHER NORTH,

BLACKWOOD'S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE,

No. CXCIL

MARCH, 1832.

VOL. XXXL

PRESENT BALANCE OF PARTIES IN THE STATE.*

IN and out of the House the Whigs,
on the subject of Reform, as a body,
are nearly dumb. Last session of
Parliament, Ministers wore pad-
locks on their mouths, of such inge-
nious construction that to pick them
(the key having been lost) was be-
yond the skill even of Mr Croker.
Sitting all in a row, with appendages
of that sort dangling from their lips,
the appearance which they presented
to the Fourth Estate in the galleries,
was not a little whimsical ; nor did
the want of speculation in their eyes
serve to add to the dignity of British
senators. The point-blank expres-
sion of their physiognomies remind-
ed one of a congregation of images
looking straight forward, and with
imperturbable patriotism, on the on-
goings of a great city, from the win-
dow of a Hair- dresser's shop. Such
images, with bead-like eyes, painted
cheeks, and well-arranged ringlets,
look as if they could speak would
they but try; promising orators. No
mouths, however, have they ; and
we forgive the eternal taciturnity of
the blockheads, with a feeling of self-
reproach, for having unthinkingly
expected words from wood,

- " Because not of this noisy world,
But silent and divine."

We cannot help suspecting that Mi-
nisters, on the subject of Reform,
may carry too far the imitation of
those their apparent prototypes, and

that the public contempt may prove
fatal to our modern Pythagoreans.
Monkeys, it is believed by simple-
minded people, are deterred from
articulate talk only by the fear of
being set to work ; and som& appre-
hension of that kind seems to be at
the bottom of the silence of our go-
vernment.

True, that the newspapers still
stutter and stammer some spiteful
sedition ; and an occasional pamph-
let, perhaps from the grey -goose
quill of Mr Place, the tailor, emits
a feeble cry, as the jaws of Cloa-
cina open to receive it, almost still-
born, and querulously expiring in
the moment of premature birth. But
their chief periodical organ — the
Edinburgh Review — supports the
Bill now by the mutely-speaking elo-
quence of silence ; and falls back in
graceful repose on the back of tlje
easy-chair of elegant literature, lea-
ving Reform to Fate and Fortune —
to its good or evil stars. The radical
Press, as we predicted, without pri-
ding ourselves on the gift of prophe-
cy, now abuses the mutes. Its di-
rectors had been watching for some
months in their lack-lustre eyes dan-
gerous symptoms of insincerity, and
now denounce the hypocrites. The
Westminster, the Examiner, the Spec-
tator, and other republican organs,
who have to the tune of Ca ira
" wielded at will our fierce democra-
tic," are waxing exceeding wroth that

* On the Present Balance of Parties in the State*
M.P. London: Murray. 1832,
VOL. XXXI, NO. CXCII.

By Sir John Walsh, Bartj

426

Present Balance of Parties in the State.

[March,

the supply of Peers has not answer-
ed to the demand — and from their
grim lips we hear less about our Pa-
triot King. The excellent Atlas no
longer supports them on his should-
ers ; and declares " they are rapidly
sinking in public estimation." The
acute Observer saith, that " rumours
begin to come thick and fast, that the
days of their existence is number-
ed ;" and indeed almost all their or-
gans sound dirgelike, as if over per-
sons pining away to the tomb. They
themselves shew all the symptoms of
Malignant Cholera— the blue nails —
the cramped extremities — the sharp
features — the sunken eyes — the
ghastly faces — the inarticulate whis-
perings— the agonizing convulsions,
that, when life is extinguished, will
continue to render death more dread-
ful than disease, nor let the body
rest even in the coffin. Stick a lan-
cet now into the veins of the Minis-
try, and not a drop of blood will ooze
out — only something like tar. Care
must be taken to have the body bu-
ried deep, deep ; a night-watch must
be kept against resurrection-men ;
we must not suffer it to be dissected;
for though the question of contagion
and infection be still unsettled, pru-
dence dictates that such remains
should be suffered to rot where they
are buried. Let us not be blamed
for being thus metaphorical ; we
mean but to shew how benevolent
genius can improve on malignant dul-
ness, and create poetical imagery out
of the vulgar phrase " boroughmon-
gering corruption," as honey has
been made by bees in the carcass of
the animal that chews the thistle.

Meanwhile, how delightful to ob-
serve the prosperous progress of
political literature among us dread-
less Tories ! With our eloquence the
walls of St Stephen's and that other
hall have resounded to the down-
fall of much spiders. From every
corner has been swept the cobweb
—and, contrary to their use and
wont of old, the creatures are " not at
their dirty work again." Our period-
icals, perennial in their patriotism,
diffuse flowers and herbage wherever
they flow, wide over the land j and
ever and anon is appearing, in the
same cause, some congenial and kin-
dred pamphlet from a Walsh, a Stew-
art, a Fullarton, or an Escot, that like
" another sun risen, on mid-day" of

Maga, illumes the political horizon,
and drives afar off over its verge the
sullen clouds of discontent and sedi-
tion into their native limbo.

We rejoice, at all times, to hail the
Friends of our sacred cause, and to
spread, wherever our pages wing their
way, the treasures of the wisdom of
the Conservatives. It is denied by
none that We constitute one of the di-
visions of the Grand Army — and by
many we are called — like Picton's —
the Fighting Division. Our place is
in the Van ; and though we may have
met occasionally with a check, never
once have we been beaten back in
confusion on the Main Body, nor dis-
ordered the Line of Battle. Indeed,
the Whigs have terminated the re-
treating system in a general flight ;
we have cleared the field of them
down to the last poor devil of a drum-
mer. The Reformers are all Jiors de
combat ; and we have only to rout the
Radicals. To our enemies we always
give and do justice ; and we cheer-
fully acknowledge that the Radicals
are not like the Whigs— cowards.
Queer ones many are among them
— men not born to be drowned; but
the populace of a country are the
dregs of its people, and therefore
the very rabble of England are brave.
They are, at least, fierce, and will
fight viciously ere they fly. But we
are speaking of course now only of
political warfare j in their ranks there
reigns no spirit of subordination —
the non-commissioned officer must
beware of drilling the private, lest
he insult the majesty of the people
— the colonel himself must curry
the favour of his own ragged regi-
ment— the field-marshals are jealous
and quick of each other's honour
rather than of their own ; and pray,
who is generalissimo ?

WTith the Radicals we look for-
ward to many engagements — in
which, let it be agreed, that no quar-
ter shall be given; but for the pre-
sent our business is with the Whigs.
Let us take a review of their cha-
racter and conduct, and then leave
them — if not for ever, for a month —
to the nation's contempt. And let
us do so with only that calm curl-
ing of the lip, which naturally ac-
companies that emotion. We shall
regulate our feelings by those of Sir
John Walsh— often use his very words
*~ and sometimes introduce a para-

Present Balance of Parties in the State.

427

graph or page of our own by way of
variety, as condiment to the substan-
tial dish set before us by the baronet.

In his pamphlet, as in that of Mr
Escot, we find many views present-
ed, which it has been our aim to il-
lustrate monthly since the day on
which Reform dawned on this be-
nighted nation. But we cannot say
that we have discovered any proofs in
the writings of these gentlemen that
they have read ours ; they have tra-
velled over much of the same ground,
but not in our footsteps ; our roads
have lain parallel, but divided and
concealed by hedgerows and gar-
dens; and it is pleasant to meet
them, at the end of our journey, in
an agreeable inn bearing the sign of
the King's Arms — a joyous party of
Conservatives.

The object of the first three sec-
tions of Sir John Walsh's admirable
treatise is, to establish and illustrate
certain propositions which tend, in
his opinion, to elucidate the present
position of affairs in this country.
These propositions are, 1st, That a
Political Party in a state must rest
upon a basis of political principles
peculiar to itself; 2d, That the old
Whigs were a party containing many
aristocratic ingredients and sympa-
thies, but that their political prin-
ciple was a peculiar regard for the
popular parts of the English Consti-
tution ; 3d, That this party sustained
a severe shock at the period of the
French Revolution, both by the se-
cession of many of its most respect-
able members, who threw their
weight into the scale of government,
and by the creation of another party
professing democracy, without any
reservation or respect for the British
Constitution, or for any thing else
which stands in their way j 4th, That
the political principle of the Whigs
has been still farther invaded of late
years by the liberal policy of the go-
vernment; and,5thly, That the Whigs
have continued to cherish, through
all their reverses, a devoted attach-
ment, not merely to the principles,
but to the interests of their party,
and a strong ambitious desire for its
exclusive dominion and ascendency.
Into this retrospect of the past his-
tory of these parties, Sir John Walsh
has been led, by the extreme diffi-
culty he has found in accounting for
their actual state, or m explaining

the extraordinary policy of the pre-
sent Ministry, which appears to him
inexplicable, unless we search for
its causes in a more remote time.
After making every possible allow-
ance for the total absence of official
experience, yet he cannot,without tra-
cing them to some motives origina-
ting many years since, and confined
to a particular political sect, account
for a series of acts so contradictory,
— such perpetual and incomprehen-
sible vacillation — such an exhibition
of inconceivable recklessness and te-
merity at one time, with such tame-
ness and timidity at another. He has
therefore to seek— and seeking he
finds it — in passions and prejudices
to which the present generation are
strangers — in the ranklings of early
disappointments — in the desire to
vindicate forgotten opinions, and to
revive differences which had passed
away — in the utmost fanaticism of
party — a course of conduct irrecon-
cilable with the ordinary results of
human affairs, and the usual springs
of men's actions. This enquiry is
preliminary to the discussion of the
main subject of his disquisition.
And though it is not in our power
to accompany him through it all, we
can give much of its substance, and
perhaps all its spirit.

In his description of party, he places
it, at first, in its most favourable
light, as Burke did, in his Thoughts
on the Causes of the Present Discon-
tents, and then endeavours — and with
success — succinctly to state the ad-
vantages and disadvantages of poli-
tical parties in a state. In doing so—
that is, in fairly bringing forward the
ostensible aims, in tracing the legi-
timate bounds, and in describing the
useful results of party combinations ;
and, on the other hand, in exposing
the errors, the evils, and the vices of
which party spirit may be the cause,
we may form in our minds a standard
to measure the conduct of each par-
ticular party in the State.

First, then, Sir John says, rightly and
forcibly, that we are entitled to re-
quire that a party should be founded
upon some acknowledged adherence
to fixed principles of policy, which
they profess in contradistinction to
their opponents. If they have not a
known creed of political faith, a uni-
form complexion of opinion, they are
a mere band of adventurers in pur-

428

Present Balance of Parties in the State.

[March,

suit of power. An intimate and sin-
cere conviction of the truth and im-
portance of these fundamental points,
is the virtue — is the sole elevating
and ennobling quality of party.

Secondly, we must watch that the
spirit of party does not overpower
the nobler and purer sentiment of
devotion to the national welfare ; we
must be on our guard that the inte-
rests of a party dp not become the
predominating objects of its mem-
bers, to the exclusion of those mo-
tives of patriotism which ought ori-
ginally to have presided at its birth,
and which alone can dignify, or even
excuse its existence.

Thirdly, We must always wish that
the body of the nation should be
spectators— the observant spectators
—but not the actors in political con-
tentions. Parties in politics are ever
possessed with the rage of prosely-
tism. The true interests of good go-
vernment are not advanced by sow-
ing among a whole people the seeds
of bitter strife, and introducing a
war of opinions and of passions. As
long as the great body of the com-
munity continues neuter, it consti-
tutes a court of appeal, to which rival
factions refer, which controls them
within the bounds of moderation
that exercises a salutary influence
over their acts. But let a party suc-
ceed in inoculating a great portion of
the people with their spirit— let a
country be split into divisions — and
this tribunal is dissolved. The pas-
sions of whole classes are roused,
their imaginations are heated ; men
are no longer in that frame of mind
which enables them to examine with
accuracy, or to judge with impar-
tiality. People are no longer the
jealous and vigilant observers of the
conduct of public men. They be-
come the blind followers of the re-
spective leaders of the side they
espouse; their perceptions are cloud-
ed by the heat of controversy ; they
no longer seek for truth, they con-
tend for victory. The production of
such a state of things is one of the
points on which the interests of
party are most directly opposed to
the interests of the nation. If it can
succeed in converting the whole
people from calm judges into eager
disputants and acrimonious parti-
sans, it gets rid of a formidable

check and control, and it gains a
great accession of strength.

If there be truth in these opinions,
and assuredly much truth there is
in them, what is our present condi-
tion, and by whom have we been
placed in it ? What is now the " ab-
stract essence of the Ministry ?" The
Reform Bill. All public measures
now are debated with reference to
their relation to the government, and
their effect on the Bill, rather than
upon their own merits. Can this be
for good ? If for evil — that evil lies
at the door of that Ministry, whose
astounding measures did necessarily
disturb the quiescent state of public
feeling, and induce on all minds an ex-
citement fatal to the beneficial effects
of public opinion, which, for the
safety of the State, should always be
brought to bear coolly, impartially,
and discriminately, upon the acts of
our Rulers.

But not to anticipate — let us quote
—continuously — this writer's cha-
racter of those two great divisions of
Whig and Tory which have for a
century and a half contended for the
government of our mighty nation —
and then accompany him in his re-
marks on the conduct of the Whigs
since the French Revolution of 1789,
down to the concoction and promul-
gation of this portentous Bill, that
we may have a clear and steady view
of the patriots.

" No parties have ever so fixed the at-
tention'of mankind, — of none has the spirit
and the conduct exerted so important an
influence on the fortunes of their country,
and imprinted so marked a stamp on the
character of their age. None have ever
been so distinguished and adorned by the
talents and fame of their members. Ge-
nius, eloquence, ardent zeal, sincere pa-
triotism, have illustrated their course and
hallowed their annals. The greatest
names England has produced, — names
which will ever be associated with her
best remembrances, and cherished while
one spark of feeling for her honour and
her glory survives in the breasts of her
sons, — are to be found in the ranks of
these two celebrated parties ; and each, in
turn, has furnished us with examples of
those inherent vices of party to which I
have alluded above, and has dimmed the
lustre of its records by the faults into
which they have betrayed it. Both pos-
sessed that basis of principle which I have
insisted upon as essential to a character

1832.]

Present Balance of Parlies in the State,

425*

of honour and public spirit, — both took
their stand within the bounds of the Con-
stitution,— both rejected those extreme
extensions of their own doctrines which
might carry them beyond it. The Whig
watched over the more popular parts of
our mixed government, — the privileges of
the Commons, the rights of the people,
the liberty of petition and remonstrance :
the Tory guarded the prerogative of the
Crown, the force and efficiency of the Exe-
cutive, the dignity and security of the
Church. But their differences, wide as
they were, still were restricted within
these acknowledged limits. The Tory
would never have contended for the power
of raising a tax without the consent of
Parliament, or of inflicting punishment
without trial : the Whig would not have
abetted the assumption of a control over
the army by the Commons, or any other
overt attack upon the acknowledged rights
of the other branches of the government.
It is to the existence of these understood
bounds, it is to the tacit convention by
which the hostile divisions fought their
battles within these prescribed lists, that
I attribute their long duration, and the
stability of our institutions which have
not been endangered by their fierce and
angry dissensions. In a form of govern-
ment of the mixed nature of ours, the ex-
istence of two parties in some measure
analogous to these was inevitable; and
neither could be wholly extinguished as
long as both agreed to respect the funda-
mental principles of the constitution.

" The foremost ranks of these two
great political divisions equally consisted
of the highest and most powerful of our
aristocracy ; they were drawn from the
same orders in the community; their
struggles were those of parties, not of
different classes. The colour of their po-
litical opinions became even a sort of he-
reditary faith in their families, and blend-
ed itself curiously enough with the pride
of ancestry. In the Tories, these aristo-
cratic feelings were natural ; they were
in perfect accordance with the general
complexion of their views and policy ; but
in the Whigs they created an anomaly,
and involved, if ever traced fairly up to
their-source, two contradictory and hostile
principles. A proud and exclusive tem-
per, a demeanour somewhat haughty and
reserved, a devotion to the interests of
particular families, a great deference to
the accident of birth, were scarcely recon-
cilable with that extreme attachment to
the spirit and the practice of the democra-
tic parts of our government which they
so loudly proclaimed. Such inconsist-
encies are intimately mixed up with the
very nature of naao, acted upon as he is

in his social state by so many different
circumstances of education, of station in
the community, of early impressions, of
private ties, — all agents of great power,
and influencing more directly his actions
and his feelings than speculative opinions
can be supposed to do. I do not, therefore,
accuse the Whigs of insincerity, or sup-
pose that they merely assumed these prin-
ciples as a means of exciting the people,
or of wielding them for the purposes of
their individual ambition : I notice it only
as an inherent weakness in the Whig po-
sition, as an opposition between their
tenets and their prejudices, their profes-
sions and their interest, which would un-
avoidably end by entangling and embar-
rassing them whenever time and events
should put these discordant elements into
action. In their origin, however, this
was so little apparent, that a great portion
of their hold upon the imagination (a
chief cause of their popularity) arose out
of this very contrast. The liberality of
sentiment which prompted men to espouse
opinions at variance with their immediate
interests, offered at once a pledge of their
sincerity and their public virtue. It is
true that these abstract doctrines were
rarely reduced to practice ; and that the
current assertion of their opponents, that
Whigs were Tories out of place, seemed
partly justified by their conduct. This
circumstance, combined with their proud
bearing in private, and their obvious pre-
possessions in favour of their own aristo-
cracy, inspired a degree of distrust, and
prevented their attaining that unlimited
sway over the popular mind which was
the great aim of their ambition."

In these reflections Sir John Walsh
has principally had in view the state
of parties from our own Re volution to
that of the French in 1 789 : that mighty
epoch in the history of the European
Family placed the Whigs in a totally
new relation with respect to the na-
tion, and to their ancient rivals, the
Tories. Among all the stupendous
consequences of that great moral
convulsion, it produced a complete
change in the previously existing ba-
lance of parties, and, what is of far
more importance, in the political
ground upon which these parties
stood. For a considerable and a per-
nicious party then sprung up, profess-
ing extreme opinions, which has ever
since existed, and which now thrusts
out of dirt and darkness its foul and
frowning front, fiercer than ever on
its late release from the load that had
long lain on the monster. The poll-

Present Balance of Parties in the State.

430

tical principle of the Whigs was the
democratic part of the English consti-
tution ; the political principle of that
new party, whose creation was simul-
taneous with the events of the French
Revolution, was the doctrine of pri-
mitive, natural, inherent rights. We
all know how that doctrine was il-
lustrated by the most brutal of the
wicked; how it was illustrated by
the most enthusiastic of the weak ;
and how it was clothed in beautiful
and gorgeous colours by the imagi-
nations of a few men of genius, who
believed that they beheld the dawn
of the true golden age. But the new
school received, too, says Sir John
Walsh, a great accession of strength
from two different sources.

The first was the demagogues by
profession — the other was compo-
sed of literary men of second-rate
genius and ability connected with
the middle orders. Individuals of
this class, frequently entertaining an
erroneous and excessive estimate
of their own superiority, readily in-
dulged in hostile and depreciating
feelings towards distinctions which
they did not possess. The conven-
tional tone, and the early acquired
manners of the upper ranks, form a
line of demarcation which^those who
have not been educated in them can-
not easily obliterate. Men of such
a stamp, irritated by the conscious-
ness of such deficiencies, and per-
haps still-more mortified by the hau-
teur of manners which has been the
great mistake of the English aristo-
cracy, were readily opposed to a sys-
tem which thus wounded their vanity
and hurt their self-esteem. He has
been — adds Sir John — but a cursory
observer of the spirit of the times,
who is not aware how much the ranks
of disaffection have been recruited
by the mere agency of disappointed
and wounded vanity. But it is need-
less now to dwell on these or other
causes of the birth and growth of
that party whom all good men came
soon to abhor, and whose birth and
growth were so prejudicial to the in-
terests and ascendency of the Whigs.
But on this subject hear again Sir
John Walsh in his own unbroKen and
beautiful words — true as holy writ.

" Hitherto their great source of moral
power had consisted in their being the
constituted and established organs of the
popular feeling. The keystone of their

[March,

political faith had been the innocence, the
beneficial tendencies, and the power of self-
control inherent in popular bodies and in-
stitutions, when allowed an unlimited ex-
pansion. The birth of the Radicals un-
dermined the former; the excesses of the
Reign of Terror shook the latter. The
Whigs, the established and orthodox
champions of the rights of the democra-
cy, found their province invaded, and
their flock led astray, by these sectarians
in politics. On the other hand, the more
sober of their adherents, the most mode-
rate in their opinions, and aristocratic in
their prepossessions, alarmed and disgust-
ed by these dangerous rivals or doubtful
allies, seceded entirely, and threw them-
selves into the arms of the Tories. Never
had their benches exhibited a more bril-
liant union of splendid talents, of distin-
guished names, of statesmen of high re-
putation, than when this storm overtook
them. Fox in the meridian of his pow-
ers, Burke in all the unimpaired vigour of
his extraordinary faculties, Sheridan in
the first dazzling glory of his parliament-
ary career, Whitbread, Tierney, the pre-
sent Lord Grey, Windham, following,
with no distant steps, the track of their
great leaders, formed a catalogue of which
they might well be proud.

" But the great crisis to which I am
reverting, was as injurious to their nume-
rical strength within the walls of Parlia-
ment, as to their moral influence without.
The phalanx I have enumerated was bro-
ken.

" The greatest of that triumvirate of
chiefs, the greatest in the grasp of his in-
tellect, and the philosophic and compre-
hensive powers of his mind, quitted them
for ever. Mr Burke possessed, perhaps,
less Parliamentary tact, less of dexterity
in debate. He had not the piercing wit
of Sheridan ; he had not had the early
House of Commons' education, which
trained the powers, or the accessories of
station and connexion, which augmented
the influence, of Mr Fox. In those im-
portant requisites for the leader of a par-
ty, whose force consists in the control he
can obtain over the opinions and feelings
of a mixed popular assembly, Mr Burke
was probably inferior to his two celebra-
ted associates. In depth and originality
of thought, in the comprehensiveness of
his faculties, in the acuteness of his saga-
city with regard to the future, in the
clearness and profundity of his views on
government, he not only surpassed them,
but approached nearer the perfect union
of the statesman and the philosopher, than
any other instance in the history of the
human mind. There can be no stronger
example of the violence, the injustice, and

1832.]

Present Balance, of Parties in the State.

the prejudice generated by party feelings,
than the obloquy with which he was pur-
sued for changing his political connexions
at this period. That this alteration in-
volved no inconsistency with his previ-
ous opinions, we have the contemporary
testimony of one of the ablest of his op-
ponents,* corroborated by the internal
evidence of his own works.

" No impartial mind can doubt that
the French Revolution, by the novelty of
its theories, by the magnitude of its ef-
fects, by the contagion of its example, and
by the proselytizing spirit of its authors,
did alter the whole surface of politics, and
every relation, whether national or so-
cial, of the European family. It is an
unavoidable inference, that a public man
was at liberty to adopt a new line of con-
duct under such new circumstances. That
a man advanced in age would break all
the ties and friendships of early life-
friendships useful and nattering, as well
as dear to him — for a trifling pension, is
improbable. He who can peruse the
* Reflections on the French Revolution,'
and continue of opinion that its author
wrote them for hire, and belied his own
convictions, libels the highest order of ge-
nius, by severing its intimate union with
sincerity and truth. The only remaining
consideration then is, whether the obli-
gations of party ought to prevail in oppo-
sition to every principle of conscience and
every feeling of patriotism, and to bind
together discordant opinions upon new
and vital questions.

" Diminished in splendour by the se-
cession of its brightest ornaments, Burke
and Windham ; in numbers, by that of
many of the more moderate, yet influen-
tial, of the party in both Houses of Par-
liament j and embarrassed by the novelty
of its position with respect to the power-
ful ultra-democrats springing into exist-
ence, the Whig Opposition maintained a
firm countenance. They continued to ar-
raign the policy, and to scrutinize the
conduct of the Ministry, with equal acute-
ness, with no mitigated severity, and with
a deeper shade of personal animosity. But
no one can read the debates, and the his-
tory of that period, without perceiving in
their tone a consciousness of the difficulty
of their situation, and traces of the incon-
sistencies in which it involved them. At
one time they launch out in eloquent

431

praise of the French Revolution ; at an-
other, they gently blame, while they pal-
liate its excesses. At one time, they in-
dulge in sanguine anticipation of the be-
nefits with which it is pregnant to the
whole human race ; at another, they are
staggered with the enormities which dis-
figured its course. Now they attack with
violent declamation the coalitions of Euro-
pean Powers as conspiracies against the
rights of mankind j and soon after they
are obliged to admit that the intrigues
and military movements of the Republic
are assaults on the existence of govern-
ments, and aggressions on the independ-
ence of nations. At home, they enrol
their names in political societies, and
shrink from the ultimate objects which
those societies have in view. They cen-
sure the dangerous designs and treason-
able projects of affiliated Jacobins ; yet
they loudly and violently stigmatize all
measures of repression, all vigorous po-
licy, as invasions of liberty, and acts of
unwarrantable oppression. They deny
not the existence of the spirit of evil — yet
they insist that, unopposed, it becomes
perfectly innocuous ; and that it is only
when some attempt is made to check and
control it that it is rendered dangerous to
society. Thus did they endeavour to
thread their way through the narrow
space which was left them, seeking to
preserve their distinctness inviolate ; ho-
ping to direct and to restrain the Radi-
cals with one hand,, and to oppose the
firm Ministry of Pitt with the other.
Had it been practicable, they would have
accomplished it ; for they were proud and
able men, long versed in the warfare of
party, devoted to their own : the aristo-
cratic part of our representative system
gave them sure seats in Parliament ; their
high reputation gave them weight in it.
But they attempted an impossibility ;
they were interposed between the shocks
of elements mightier than themselves.
Identified with neither, they were op-
posed to all movement whatever : as they
were in a manner neutralized, they in-
sisted that the nation ought to be neutral ;
as they would not sanction any steps of a
decisive character against sedition, they
argued that it would expend itself : they
maintained that amidst the crash of em-
pires, and in the face of the most active
and powerful agents of destruction, if we

' The late opinions of Mr Burke furnished more matter of astonishment to
those who had distantly observed, than to those who had correctly examined, the sys-
tem of his former political life. An abhorrence for abstract politics, a predilection for
aristocracy, and a dread of innovation, had ever been among the most sacred articles
of his public creed,' "—Introduction to the Vmclicics Gallica,

Present Balance of Parties in the State.

432

were only quiescent, we should be safe,—
as if some one were to counsel a traveller
in the Arctic regions to take a sleep in
the snow to recruit his strength, in a
situation where inaction is death."

Sir John Walsh declines following
the Whigs through all the various
phases of their opposition to the go-
vernment during the eventful strug-
tles of that long war. Entangled —
e mildly says — in a false position
— they persevered in a course which
alienated from them the sympathies
of the better part of the nation ; be-
cause it displayed their indifference
to her noble efforts, their disposition
to undervalue her powers, and to
detract from her hard-won glories.
They exhibited the inconsistency of
a sort of coquetry towards the splen-
did but iron despotism of Napoleon,
a feeling at variance with all their po-
litical professions. To say thus that
their conduct " alienated from them
the sympathies of the better part of
the nation," is saying too little ; for
along with that alienation arose to-
wards the Whigs an universal dis-
gust, that almost.smothered indigna-
tion, and gave way gradually to con-
tempt. Had they had their own way,
at this hour Britons might have been
slaves. They regarded revolutionary
France with fear after their love had
been laid ; and quaked before the
tiger-monkeys.

Some vague reliance they placed
on our navy; but they believed that
were our army ever to see the
French, it would run away; nor was
that abject delusion destroyed even
by the bayonets that skivered the In-
vincibles. Spain was to be the sepul-
chre of our soldiers — or France their
prison ; and till this day the cowardly
Whigs praise Moore chiefly because,
according to their prediction, Soult
drove him to Corunna. That retreat
has been eulogized by them more
enthusiastically than all Welling-
ton's advances — than his hundred
victories. In all their forebodings
of national disaster and ruin, some-
thing worse than mere cowardice
must have been working at their
hearts. For the thunder of the can-
non that used to precede the Ga-
zette, seemed always to stupify as
well as startle the Whig; in those
days he loved not Illuminations ; he
shammed sadness for the killed and
wounded; and tried in vain to

[March,

squeeze out to misery a sulky tear.
To the very last nothing could sa-
tisfy the Whigs but Wellington's
overthrow and Napoleon's triumph.
They have never forgiven the
" Great Lord," — Waterloo. Yet
their anger by their own shewing
was absurd; for never had there
been so ill-fought a battle — but for
Blucher Wellington had been beaten
— and as the infatuated man had
made no arrangements for a retreat,
the whole British army would have
perished like the Babes in the Wood.
Much of folly and wrong will be
forgiven to an Opposition — provided
they have shewn themselves, how-
ever galled and fretted, inspired, on
the whole, with a patriotic spirit.
Their falsehoods will be forgotten,
because uttered in bitterness, if they
have been such lies as might have
been extorted by rage from disap-
pointed and baffled men, who were
yet lovers of their country, and ad-
mirers of its character. But the
falsehoods and lies of the Whigs, all
during the war, were not of that
kind; they all libelled their native
land, and eulogized France, while
she was, with all her revolutionary
energies, striving to extinguish our
liberties, by forcing us to waste our
wealth in foreign subsidies, till our
iron took the place of our gold, and
we lavished other treasures, " trans-
cending in their worth" all that ever
flowed from exchequers, and trea-
sures that we knew were inexhaust-
ible— the blood that circles through
their veins from the hearts of men
whom the earth acknowledges to be
" of men the chief," — blood which,
in profusest outpouring, was never
grudged by the brave.

That was their crime; and it is
inexpiable. It alienated from them
at last all their own friends, whose
English hearts had not been Frenchi-
fied; it arrayed against them all
whom party-spirit had not yet tho-
roughly besotted into admiration of
the outlandish ; and it stamped them
with infamy in the minds of all who
knew that, in that dreadful contest,
we were struggling for all that could
make life — we shall not say desi-
rable— but endurable, to men who
had been reared on the lap of free-
dom, and whom a foreign tyrant had
sworn, for the glory of his eagles, to
make slaves. The Whigs counselled

1832.]

Present Balance of Parties in the State.

433

cowardice and submission — the To-
ries courage and resistance — and yet
at this hour, the government of Eng-
land is in the hands of the dastards
who declare they will set us free !

Of the conduct of the Whigs from
the peace to their accession to office,
we shall not give even a general
sketch. Never for a week was it
magnanimous. How could it be so ?
Who were they? They seemed to
shrink and shrivel up into unnotice-
able insignificance. They now and
then attempted to speechify ; but
even in that they failed ; and the most
eloquent among them could not play
second fiddle to Canning. They were
set on the shelf as so much musty
lumber ; and one rarely heard of a
Whig except when he died. Then
he was suffered to shine in obitua-
ries ; till in a week the farthing-can-
dle lustre of his fame expired — and
he was forgot. The most respectable
among them changed their names, if
possible, by marriage ; and widow-
ers and old bachelors looked kindly
on you when you called them Tories.
Sir John Walsh, whose opinions are
strong, though perhaps hardly so
strong as our own on this subject,
has well shewn how the events of
this memorable period of our history
inevitably trenched upon and di-
minished that basis which the Old
Whigs had so long and so proudly
occupied before the French Revolu-
tion. They were — he says — become
a Middle Term, But to preserve
that sort of intermediate position,
it would have been necessary that
they should have possessed impo-
sing strength ; that they should have
exhibited a political faith, clearly
distinct from that of either of their
rivals ; and, above all, that it should
have been thoroughly consistent
with itself and with truth. The
Whigs were deficient in all these
things. They had been greatly weak-
ened; they had affinities with both
Tories and Radicals ; and they had
mixed feelings of aristocracy, and
principles of democracy, which they
could no longer reconcile with the
circumstances of the times. But
there were many causes which band-
ed them together in fierce opposition
to the Ministry, and made them draw
closer and closer to, and lean more
upon, their dangerous allies. Those
also of their party who inclined most

to Toryism, and who might have
checked their exasperated feelings,
in effect quitted them entirely ; for-
merly they hated the Tories, and de-
termined to use, while they inward-
ly despised, the Ultra democrats;
but circumstances have changed ;
and while they still hate the Tories,
they fear the democrats, by whom
they are in turn hated, and erelong,
if they be not so already, will be
thoroughly despised. For a good
many years, then, before their late
accession to office, it seems to Sir
John Walsh that the condition <of the
Whigs was this — they still possessed
the materials of considerable parlia-
mentary influence within the walls
of the House of Commons — still re-
tained practised and able orators,
whose names carried with them the
weight derived from ancient recol-
lection, yet altogether languishing,
not fixing public attention, or gui-
ding public opinion, and gradually
finding all the ground which they had
exclusively occupied trenched upon
by a mixture of all parties. There
was little of union or identity left ;
they had been at the head of a body of
opinion in the country ; they latterly
scarcely extended beyond the draw-
ing-rooms of the metropolis; they had
formed a great party in the nation ;
they were fast dwindling into a po-
litical coterie ; they had divided Eng-
land; they still possessed Brookes's.
But we must quote, without break
or abridgement, an admirable pass-
age from the Pamphlet, shewing how
all this had come to pass with the
Whigs.

" The country had had, during these
fifteen years, to contend with many diffi-
culties. The revulsion which followed
the termination of the war, the fall of
rents, the decline of trade in the first
years of the peace, the shock to credit in
1825, the fluctuations in the demand for
manufactures, involved us in much em-
barrassment. The increasing evils of the
poor law system ; the vast mass of the
manufacturing population exposed to des-
titution on the slightest check to the de-
mand for their labour ; the complicated
question of the currency, must have
strewed with thorns the pillow of a Mi-
nister. His difficulties were without an
obvious remedy : he was surrounded with
theorists, each offering his explanation
and his panacea — but their arguments
confuted each other ; the statements sup-

434

Present 'Balance of Parties in the State.

[March,

ported by one set of facts, were invalida-
ted by others. The best and purest in-
tentions, and even the highest ability,
were unable effectually to cure evils re-
sulting from a variety of causes, and act-
ing upon a system so tremblingly sensi-
tive, so artificial and complicated in its
structure. Yet, in spite of these dark
shades in the picture, I am inclined to
think that history will look back upon
the reign of George the Fourth as a pe-
riod of national prosperity and advance-
ment. We have enjoyed profound peace,
internal and external; the respect of
foreign nations ; the most perfect indivi-
dual liberty ; the most complete security
of property and person ; — commonplace
and vulgar blessings, perhaps, and the
enumeration of which has a trite and
hackneyed sound. They comprise, how-
ever, almost all that the best government
can bestow ; and I hope I may be excused
for mentioning them,— just as we some-
times turn to old acquaintance with a
feeling of regard, even if they have been
rather dull and wearisome, when we
think that we may probably separate from
them for a long time. Nor have other
evidences of increasing national prosperity
been wanting. Public works extensively
prosecuted ; commercial enterprises on a
great scale successfully undertaken; an
immense developement of our manufac-
turing industry ; a vast diminution in the
prices, and improvement in the quality,
of almost all the materials of clothing ;
an increased revenue in proportion to the
reduction of taxation ; an extended con-
sumption of most articles of general use
and enjoyment, are proofs that the elastic
force of the nation was not destroyed. I
have observed that one of the character-
istics of this period was the decline of
party spirit ; and it is to be attributed to
this circumstance, that the nation bore
with calm firmness and resolution the
evils of one or two of those internal
crises to which I have before alluded.
There was no irritation applied to the
wound, and it healed. Another remark
that I shall venture to offer is, that there
was no decay of the spirit of genuine and
rational liberty. It did not appear that
it required the excitement of party strug-
gles to keep it alive, or the fierceness of
faction to give it strength. Never had
it shewn itself under an aspect more ami-
able, more worthy of our veneration and
love. It seemed tempered with time and
experience. It stood alone in its native
grace and beauty, and had discarded those
followers, — strife, contention, feverish
agitation, — which had heretofore appear-
ed in its train, blemished its purity, and
had seemed almost inseparably associated

with its existence. We had a proof that
the attachment to this noble and elevated
principle pervaded the general character
of Englishmen, — that it did not owe its
preservation to the vigilance of one set of
public men guarding it against the conspi-
racies of others, — that it was engraven in
the hearts of all, — that it nourished in
the breasts of Canning and of Peel, not
less than in those of the most ardent dis-
ciples of Fox.

" While such was the temper of the
whole educated portion of the communi-
ty ; while the tendency of events was to
obliterate these distinctions, and to suffer
these old appellations of party to fall into
oblivion, what was the position of the re-
mains of the Whigs ? For half a century
they had fought a losing game: they had
lost office, popularity, consideration ; their
predictions had been disproved, their er-
rors had been made manifest. Even the
tone of liberality and conciliation in the
Government had trenched upon their pe-
culiar manor, and menaced their sepa-
rate existence. Their young men were
seduced into the camp of the enemy ; and
the influence of this sun of conciliation
was not less powerful upon the rising
generation, and the moderates of their
party, than upon those of the Tories ; but
they still retained the materials of consi-
derable importance. The aristocratic
Whig families clung to their party badges
as to their mottoes or their escutcheons.
They still could confer a high degree of
social distinction. They employed this
species of patronage to recruit their ranks
with men of talent : they likewise pos-
sessed the command of a great number of
those private avenues to the House of
Commons which are now the theme of
such unsparing abuse ; and they introdu-
ced by them clever and aspiring men,
who would not otherwise have obtained
seats. Lastly, they enlisted a parliament-
ary leader not unworthy to fill the place
of the great names he succeeded ; possess-
ing, in addition to eminent powers and
diversified attainments, many qualities
which peculiarly fitted him to exercise
vast influence in a popular assembly.
They still with his mighty aid filled re-
spectably the Opposition benches, pursu-
ing against the Ministry a warfare of de-
tail, and maintaining a useful watch over
the policy of the Government.

" A state of things so destitute of ex-
citement was, probably, distasteful to
many ardent spirits in their ranks. The
languor of inaction and indifference had
succeeded to the mortification of defeat.
Those who had entered upon the stage of
public life within the last twenty years,
felt, perhaps, dissatisfied that their ener-

1832.]

Present Balance of Parties in the State.

gies should be consumed, and their lives
employed in the examination and discus-
sion of subjects requiring much labour,
affording no profit, and attended with
little eclat. Among those older veterans,
who had been actors from the beginning
of this long drama, a more deep-seated
feeling, perhaps, existed. Their whole
course had been a disappointment : their
early youth had been crowned with the
laurels of parliamentary successes : they
had, in the first bright years of manhood,
felt their own powers, established their
own reputation, been associated with
those whose memory they revered. They
had passed the threshold which most men
never reach; they had made that first
step which is, proverbially, the most diffi-
cult ; while ' the first sprightly runnings
of life' still sparkled near their source,
and the sanguine anticipations of that
golden period would appear never to have
rested upon a firmer or better ground.

" They had remained there. Their
subsequent history has been one unvary-
ing tale of efforts without progress, of
contests without triumphs. They courted
popularity ; and popularity ranged itself
on the side of their opponents, who had
not courted it. They had prophesied de-
feat, and the nation refuted them on the
days of Trafalgar and Waterloo. They
proved to demonstration that our armies
must be driven into the Atlantic; and
the banner of England was borne by a
series of victories from Vimeira to Thou-
louse. Their biography was written on
the reverse side of those tablets on which
were inscribed the most glorious passages
of our history.

" They had grown old in waging this
losing war of party, and they prided
themselves upon consistency. It was not
wonderful, that, if among them there had
been some whose tempers were irritable
and imperious by nature, they should
have been still further soured and embit-
tered by such causes. They mistook, per-
haps, for firmness and consistency, the
common pertinacity of age, retentive of
early impressions, and little susceptible
of new ones. They fancied that they
were in full march with the spirit of the
times, while they were reverting to the
days of 1792, playing an imaginary back
game, maintaining the infallibility of
Charles Fox, and ascribing every recent
evil to the dispute on the opening of the
Scheldt."

What brought into power this fee-
ble faction ? Fools and knaves say,
the cry for Reform. The Duke of
Wellington, it is asserted, destroyed
himself by the declaration that there

435

should be nothing of the sort as long
as he was Minister. Not so. Sir
John Walsh shews, in a few senten-
ces, what we have often shewn, how
that Ministry was upset. The Par-
liament was divided at least into four
parties— the Ministerial— the Old
Opposition — the Canningites and
Huskissonians — and the True Tories.
It contained likewise a strong body
of Independents. On Sir Henry Par-
nell's motion for a select committee
to enquire into the items of the Civil
List, the Ministers were defeated;
for all three parties combined against
them, aided by a considerable num-
ber of the Independents. The true
Tories overthrew that government,
and in doing so, they did right ; for
how could they support the men who
had " broken in upon the Constitu-
tion," and audaciously deceived the
nation ? Having done justice to them-
selves, and punished the delinquents,
they are now willing to forgive, and,
as far as may be, to forget ; mean-
while mauling the miserable Minis-
try that now constitute the misgo-
vernment.

It is easily proved, then, from the
lists of divisions, that a great portion
of those who voted out the Welling-
tonians, were adverse to Reform.
Nor did that defeat in the Commons
give any accession of strength to the
Whigs. They were a weak set, weak-
er perhaps than at any other era of
their imbecility; but they were sud-
denly brought forward by the divi-
sions of their opponents, "just as a
ship which has lain for months en-
closed by fields of ice, is at length
released, not by her own strength,
but by the crumbling and breaking up
of the masses by which she has been
imprisoned." — Such a ship !

Having been thus unexpectedly
turned in, what were they to do, to
save themselves from being expect-
edly turned out ? They might pur-
sue " the liberal and conciliating
policy of Mr Canning and the Duke
of Wellington" — too liberal and con-
ciliating by far, Sir John — or they
might throw themselves upon the
democrats. For a while, we believe,
they attempted the first alternative ;
and serious disturbances prevailing
in some parts of England, which it
was necessary to put down, all par-
ties agreed to support the govern-
ment, for the sake of the stack-yards.

Present Balance of Parties in the State,

436

The special commissions did their
duty, and incendiaries were doomed
to die. But even then the new Mi-
nistry, though backed by all the
energy and intellect of England, be-
gan to vacillate and waver; they
conceded, even then, to the clamour
of the Radical press. However, the
Whigs shewed a wish to separate
themselves from the party of the
Movement, and still more so in the
affairs of Ireland. The removal of the
Catholic disabilities had produced
none of those happy effects so weakly
and ignorantly anticipated by the
promoters of that unfortunate mea-
sure— and over Ireland reigned King
O'Connell — whom our new Ministry
seemed resolved to treat as a traitor.
So far— well. With respect to the
affairs of Belgium and Holland, they
seemed to pursue, in all essentials,
the same course with their predeces-
sors. They declared that it was out
of their power lo effect any reduc-
tion in the expenditure of the State
which would materially diminish the
amount of taxation. So far — well.
Then came their memorable Budget.
In it they attempted to satisfy the
public expectation (a foolish attempt
— for who that knows any thing, does
not know that they themselves — the
Whigs — had deluded the great ma-
jority of the ignorant people into a
belief that gross malversation and
prodigality pervaded every branch of
the Government ?) by an extensive
shifting and changing of those bur-
dens which they could not lessen.
It was now seen that they were
blockheads, and not only seen, but
admitted on all sides, and expressed
by an angry, scornful, contemptuous
burst of general laughter, that, spite
of the young self-conceit of the fac-
tion, and its superannuated arro-
gance, must have brought the burn-
ing blush of shame over the unmean-
ing face of the Ministry, as it stood
with its finger in its mouth, sulky
for a while, then blubbering, and
finally confessing, by retractation
conducted on the largest scale, that
they were indeed a conclave of In-
capables. Should our language seem
too strong, take the milder words of
Sir John Walsh. " It is regarded as
an injudicious and crude endeavour
to put in practice certain theoretical
views of taxation, without due refe-
rence to existing interests, without

[March,

respect for rational enjoyments, and
as founded upon errors in calcula-
tion so extensive as entirely to viti-
ate its estimated results." Yet
among them, and instructing them,
and controlling them, are some, for-
sooth, of the" Political Economists ! !"

'Twas pitiable to see the greatest
country on earth governed by such
impotents. The case was singular. In
the Ministry are several men of or-
dinary— one man of extraordina-
ry abilities — few feebler, perhaps,
than you meet with in the common
run of gentlemen — and yet the con-
duct of the whole was such as, in
private life, would have imposed the
painful necessity on the relatives of
the party, of having them cognosced,
as poor Watty was in the " Entail."
And yet these are the Imbeciles who
have had the impertinence to pro-
pose Reform !

They felt they were going — going
— gone, if they did not forthwith
fling themselves upon the democrats.
They therefore lustily roared Re-
form I Reform ! Reform ! and the
many-headed monster grimly laugh-
ed with all his mouths, as he opened
his innumerous arms to clutch them
falling into his foul but not friendly
embrace. Of late years the Demo-
cratic Power had been quiescent,
but it had been secretly gathering
strength. The Populace — the Mob —
now-a-days — have been made more
than ever savagely ignorant by a
base and brutal education. The best
among the lower orders are perhaps
now better than the best of former
times; but the worst are infinitely
more wicked ; and the generality
are more dangerous ; for consider —
how hostile the times to all existing
institutions I

" That formidable influence had been
peculiarly quiescent of late years, but had
secretly gathered the materials of strength.
The wide diffusion of that first step in
knowledge, the art of reading, — which,
when obtained, can only be very partially
used by the working classes, — had given
a great increase of weight to the periodi-
cal publications to which their studies are
confined. The generality of these papers,
— certainly those most in circulation, —
had a democratic bias, and were extremely
hostile to all existing institutions. The
depression and rapid fluctuations which
trade and agriculture had undergone, dis-
seminated such principles. These re-

1832.]

Present Balance of Parties in the State.

verses fell most heavily upon men of small
or no capital, who, by activity or adven-
turous speculations, had advanced their
fortunes. The painful and bitter feelings
which they must have experienced when
the tide turned, could not fail to prepare
them for discontent, and to make them
the willing and reckless agents of change.
The congregated mass of manufactures
perpetually augmenting, exposed to the
severest privations on every variation of
price, and altered proportion between de-
mand and supply, were like so many vol-
canoes in the heart of the country. In
Ireland, the numerical force and weight
of the lower orders had been most skil-
fully combined and directed to the attain-
ment of a certain object : the object was
gained, and the combination remained un-
broken. The example was not lost upon
us. Lastly, the successes of the popula-
tion of Paris and Brussels against regular
troops had set the whole public mind in
a state of the most feverish agitation, and
had roused the passions of the most des-
perate part of the community. In such
a condition of affairs, nothing could be
conceived more hazardous than invoking
the assistance of such auxiliaries. At
every period, it is the especial duty of go-
vernment to avoid excitement, to soothe,
and, if necessary, to restrain the ebullitions
of popular feeling. Under the circum-
stances in which the nation has been
placed since the accession of the present
Ministry to office, this duty has been pe-
culiarly imperative, whether we estimate
it by the importance and value of that
proud fabric of human civilisation which
was intrusted to their custody, or by the
unusual dangers to which it has been ex-
posed. There are moral obligations
which, though binding upon all, acquire
an additional weight in particular instan-
ces. Courage is peculiarly demanded of
a soldier, chastity of a woman, honour
and fidelity of a general. Among these
may be classed that principle which for-
bids a government, directly or indirectly,
to incite, sanction, connive at, or avail it-
self of that lawless brute force, which it
is the first article of the social compact
that it shall subjugate and restrain."

To lay on or to take off a tax the
Ministry had shewn was an achieve-
ment beyond their impotence; but
they supposed it might be easier to
effect a revolution. They took the
country somewhat by surprise. Lord
Grey, it is true, had been a radical
reformer in his youth, but he was
now getting a very old man, had
stood tottering up " for his order,"
and declared more than once, to the

437

displeasure of all Ultras, that though
he still advocated Reform, it was
with very different views and very
different feelings from those that
guided and animated him at the com-
mencement of his career. Lord
Brougham had just been delighting
the ears of Yorkshiremen with elo-
quent avowals of his determination
to carry for them an extremely tem-
perate plan of Reform, which was
all, he said, that the country wished,
and the Constitution required j and
my Lord John Russell's motions in
Parliament had always been in strict
conformity with these sound prin-
ciples, " that the government must
never be placed in the worst of all
hands, the population of large cities,"
—such are his words, — " that a uni-
form qualification for votes is most
pernicious, and that the working of
the constitution would be destroyed
by the destruction of the nomination
boroughs." Almost all the other
members of the government, and al-
most all their friends, had all along
held the same opinions — while some
of them had been the devoted ad-
herents of Mr Canning, who had
sworn to oppose what is called Re-
form, to his dying day, and who kept
his oath. In an hour, all honour, all
truth, all sense, were flung to the
winds ; and round " these liars of
the first magnitude," and their Bill,
rallied every " partisan of extreme
democratic opinions, of every shade
and degree, from Sir Francis Bur-
dett to Mr Cobbett" — aye, and far
darker shades and lower degrees,
down to the slumberers on bulk-
heads, and the snorers in kennels —
thieves, robbers, incendiaries, all the
lawless, yet untransported or un-
hanged, and them the Ministry call-
ed—The People !

What were the immediate effects
of the unprincipled exposition of the
First of March? Sir John Walsh
mentions them in terms almost too
moderate to suit our temper. The
first effect, he says, was to secure
the support of the party of the move-
ment, or ultra -democratic party.
They not only gave the most zealous
co-operation towards aiding the mea-
sure itself, but they afforded a ge-
neral, though guarded and limited,
countenance to the Ministry, whose
defeat upon any other point would
have entailed its loss,

438

Present Balance of Parties in the State.

[March,

The second was to render the Go-
vernment more dependent upon this
party, by causing the most complete
rupture between it and all the inde-
pendent and moderate men, whether
in parliament or in the country, who
were attached to existing institutions
and averse from desperate courses.
The creation of the movement in-
to a party directly influencing the con-
duct of Government, and possessing
a real weight in the Legislature, has
been entirely the work of the pre-
sent Administration. Before their
accession to office, it was confined to
a lower and subordinate sphere.

The third was to lay a sure train
for a collision, the most menacing to
the permanence of the British consti-
tution, between the House of Lords
and a new House of Commons elect-
ed under popular excitement, and
backed by the passions of the demo-
cracy.

Let us look for a few minutes at the
total change of their policy with re-
spect to Ireland. They had assumed,
as we have seen, towards O'Connell,
an attitude of hostility apparently the
most resolute ! they prosecuted, and
they convicted the agitator of a vio-
lation of the law. Will you punish
him, asked the Marquis Chandos ?
Yes — was the answer of Mr Stanley.
" It is the unalterable determination
of the law officers in Ireland to fol-
low up the present proceedings
against him — the law will take its
full course." " The Crown has pro-
cured a verdict against Mr O'Con-
nell, and it will undoubtedly call him
up to receive judgment upon it."
This was said on the 14th and 16th
of February, and on the 28th Mr
Stanley had a brush with O'Connell,
when he charged him with a system-
atic attempt to agitate the minds and
rouse the passions of the people ; an
accusation which he preferred in
language as strong as was consistent
with the usage of Parliament. He
had himself been grossly insulted by
that unprincipled demagogue, and
called, we think, a " shave-beggar;"
but though on this occasion he lash-
ed his libeller like another Christo-
pher, he could not silence the shame-
less brute, who charged Ministers
with a tyrannical and despotic spirit,
compared with whom, he said, the
former administration was a blessing
to Ireland. They were its curse.

On the 8th of March, O'Connell
made, Sir John Walsh says, the ablest
and most effective speech in favour
of the Reform Bill which had been
delivered on that side of the question.
No great praise. Such is the power
of this man in Ireland, that it was
perfectly certain that if he continued
in open enmity with the Cabinet, it
would have been totally impossible
to venture on the expedient of a dis-
solution ; without some understand-
ing that his interest would not be
exerted against them, they must have
resigned. He supported the Bill with
all his influence, and maintained a
truce with the government upon
every other subject of difference;
and the elections passed over much
more quietly in Ireland than in Eng-
land. Were the Cabinet to bring up
for judgment the man who had in-
sulted and saved them? Terrified,
they truckled, and England saw Ire-
land despising them like dirt.

" At this time he adopted a measured
tone of conciliation and partial approba-
tion towards the Ministers, yet carefully
guarding himself from taking a position
among their regular supporters. He pre-
served his separate and independent sta-
tion, assisting the Reform Bill with every
effort, whether by his votes, his interest,
or his talents for debate; yet keeping
aloof from any cordial union with the
Whigs upon the general principles of
their policy. Nor did the session proceed
very far without exhibiting symptoms of
the little real agreement between them,
and evidence of the formidable accession
of influence which the results of the elec-
tions had given to Mr O'Connell. There
arose two subjects of serious difference, in
which the policy of the Government un-
derwent the most pointed animadversion
from him and from the Irish members
who generally concurred with him. These
were Mr Stanley's Registration of Arms'
Bill, and the Yeomanry Corps of Ire-
land. The first was a measure certainly
of an arbitrary character, which could
only be justified on the grounds of press-
ing state necessity, and which the high-
est Tory might well have refused to pass
as a permanent law. In deference to the
strongly expressed opinions of Mr O'Con-
nell and the other Irish members return-
ed on the Catholic interest, this Bill, after
having been postponed repeatedly, was
suffered to drop.

" The question of the Irish yeomanry
involved the whole subject of those un-
happy divisions of party and religion

Present Balance of Parties in the State. 439

1832.]

which have so long distracted that coun-
try. The great remedy of the repeal of
the disabilities has failed entirely in re-
conciling them, to the deep disappoint-
ment of every friend of that country.
Nothing could keep them in check but a
strong and firm executive. A weak, tem-
porizing, vacillating government, allows
both sides to acquire added strength, and
nourishes every feeling of unrestrained
and bitter animosity. The Ministry in
vain endeavoured to fall upon some course
which should satisfy both the contending
divisions. It was placed in a difficult
position : it leaned upon one side for its
maintenance in office, and upon the other
for the preservation of the peace and
integrity of the empire. The Protest-
ants were alarmed and indignant. The
members in the Catholic and popular in-
terest were exasperated to the highest
pitch at the refusal of the government to
allow the printing of a petition from
Waterford, praying that the yeomanry
might be disarmed. They had, in conse-
quence, meetings with Lord Grey, Lord
Althorp, and Mr Stanley ; were very
much dissatisfied with the arrangement
they proposed, and almost threatened te
withdraw their support from them. Thus
did this party, fostered by the present
Cabinet, press upon and dictate to it ;
and such are the unequivocal warnings
it receives of the dangers upon which it
is so obstinately rushing. Nor were the
Protestants less irritated at the regula-
tions proposed, which would, they as-
serted, have the effect of placing the yeo-
manry at the mercy of their enemies, and
utterly destroying their efficiency. I will
only further recall to my readers the sup-
port Mr O'Connell lent to Lord Ebring-
ton's motion for a resolution declaratory
of confidence in the government ; the
compliment paid him of a silk gown and
a patent of precedence; the rumoured offer
to him of the Attorney- Generalship of
Ireland ; and the course he has recently
again reverted to, of which the news-
papers are full ; viz. open war with the
executive. The epitome of Mr O' Cou-
ncil's history for 1831 is, that he was
prosecuted to conviction by the govern-
ment ; that he laid it under essential ob-
ligations to him ; that he supported it,
schooled it, and thwarted it; was honoured
by it, and spurned it. Possibly in 1832,
if indeed the catastrophe of the drama is
not still nearer at hand, he may support
it, and school it, and spurn it again."

Heaven forefend that we should
trace the progress of the misgovern-
ment in our own island. They have
been kicked by the hopfa of every

asinine association, and mulish union,
on whose hide they have awkwardly
attempted to curry favour ; and have
been seen in all directions sprawling
in the dust. Mr Place the tailor has
gone forth against them, with a po-
lished spear, two inches long, and
prevailed; the ship of the state —
permit us the privilege of the ordi-
nary national image — has well-nigh
foundered in attempting to thread the
Needles.

What then are the prospects of the
country ? Many think gloomy in the
extreme — we see streaks of nascent
light dawning on the horizon. It is
cheering to know that the Ministry
are on their last legs ; and it would
be the easiest thing in the world to
nominate — perhaps not to appoint —
their successors. Coming after such
a set, it is impossible to imagine any
Ministry unpopular. They are de-
spised by all who do not detest
them j with the exception of a third
party, [in whom all other feelings
are merged in disgust. Prone as the
people of this country are to unac-
countable fits of admiration, we must
yet do them the justice to say, that
we have never met with any indivi-
dual, however odd, who admired the
present Ministry. The Reformers
themselves have shewn a power of
discrimination, in their liking to the
Bill, and their dislike of the men who
framed it, from which we augur great
good, as soon as this effervescence
has expired, and their blood has
been restored to its natural tem-
perature. They have persuaded
themselves that the provisions of the
Bill are wholesome ; but they feel
no gratitude to the givers of the
feast. This not unfrequently hap-
pens in private life. You yourself
may have been one of a score of
guests gobbling up what you thought
a good dinner, yet all the while in
your heart cursing the host as a stin-
gy and hypocritical old hunks, whose
designs in deviating so widely from
his established system, you cannot
but suspect must be sinister. Should
your stomach be disordered during
the night, you even think of poi-
son.

Hear on this the sober language of
Sir John Walsh.

" No observations have led me to the
conclusion that the present government is
generally popular, TJhey have done much

Present Balance of Parties in the State.

440

to beg and court mob popularity ; but
the immediate leaders of this power are
not disposed to share it. They take their
Reform Bill at their hands as a conces-
sion to their own irresistible strength, —
the footing, indeed, upon which the Mi-
nistry put it, — but it creates no enthu-
siasm for its authors. They are watched,
on the contrary, with jealous vigilance,
and some suspicion. Among the upper
classes of society, there is a widely spread
hostility to men who are considered as
placing in jeopardy all that is valuable in
civilized life. A variety of mercantile
and colonial interests are opposed to them ;
and all Ireland, Protestant and Catholic,
is unanimous on that point alone. These
are formidable masses. The whole con-
duct of the Ministry since they have held
office has been such as to excite against
them a steady and permanent feeling of
distrust and opposition in different influ-
ential classes of the community. They
have not obtained the command, although
they have received the temporary support,
of that fleeting and unmanageable popu-
lar cry which they have themselves cre-
ated into a fourth estate in the realm.
If, as I have argued in preceding parts of
this essay, the Whigs were a party who
had declined in general influence and esti-
mation in the course of the last 40 years,
I do not think that the consequences of
their latter policy have re-established
them in the regard of the educated ranks,
or even in the versatile affections of the
masses. In Parliament they have not
exhibited any of that commanding elo-
quence, those abilities of the first ordei1,
which attach people to the individual,
and which kindle that enthusiasm so ab-
solutely requisite for men to inspire who
hope to lead opinion in times like these.
Their first step was an arrangement by
which they deprived their party of its great
prop and stay in the House of Commons.
If they looked alone to their strength and
influence in that assembly, and their per-
manent authority in the country, they
never committed a .grosser blunder than
in removing Lord Brougham from that
peculiar sphere of his greatness. They
probably felt, that with a seat in the Ca-
binet, and a place on the Treasury bench
of that House, whoever might have been
the titular head of the government, he
would have been the real Prime Minister
of England. This elevation might not
have been agreeable to other members of
the government, or to the high aristo-
cratic families of the Whigs. His remo-
val has left Sir Robert Peel confessedly
without a rival in the Lower House in all
the qualities of Parliamentary eloquence.
The very consciousness of this undisnu-

[March,

ted authority has, perhaps, given to his
speeches a loftier and firmer tone, Whe-
ther from considerations of convenience,
inclination, or necessity, the ministerial
bench during almost all the discussions
seemed to observe a studied silence, and to
impose the same curb upon their adherents.
This policy has not tended to strengthen
their influence with the country at large.
They have not been sufficiently on the
scene before the public."

Did the Ministry shew the slight-
est symptoms of strength, we should
indeed be low-spirited about the
state of our country. But " kicked
and cuffed on all sides" as they are,
(we use the words of the Examiner,)
and unable to ward or return a sin-
gle blow, we are cheery on their
approaching exit. Under a sensible
and strong government, which we
must soon have, the doctrines which
appear now somewhat dangerous,
will be hissed and hooted from the
press as foolish ; and people will be
ashamed of ever having lent an ear,
for a moment, to such paltry preach-
ments. We shall hear no more of
the repeal of the Union — of the se-
paration of England and Ireland — of
one red-hot Irishman holding in his
hands the fate of a British Ministry
— of the abrogation of the law of
primogeniture — of the expulsion of
the Bishops — of the abolition of the
House of Lords — of the change of
our monarchical form of government
into republican — of the majesty of
mobs — and the reign of the rabble.
But for the infatuation of a Whig
Ministry, we should have heard little
or nothing about them now; for
though the spirit of democracy be
sufficiently strong to shew itself with
great audacity when unresisted, and
in the perpetration of the worst
crimes, when encouraged, as it has
been by our weak and wicked rulers,
yet it knows well that it could not
stand one day against the uproused
loyalty of the land, and would shrink
and fade away from the encounter.
Then, with what gladness would my-
riads of worthy people, who had fall-
en into delusion, but whose eyes
have been long opening or opened
to the evils with which our best in-
stitutions are threatened, return from
the error of their ways, as soon as it
was safe to do so, and rejoin — never
again to leave them — the ranks of
the faithful, We are sick of the silly

1832.]

Present Balance of Parties in the State.

441

use of the word reaction. There is
no need of any; the desperadoes
who cling for life to the Bill, will
bellow for it till it has been struck
out of their grasp ; so will the rene-
gades and apostates ; so will the ob-
stinate ignorants who run after all
kinds of quackery; and so will a
few thousand fierce republicans,
whose well-educated leaders are
now among the most powerful or-
gans of the Press. But the energies
of all the factious would be soon
deadened by a vigorous government,
supported as it would be, from the
moment of its formation, by nine-
tenths of the talent, integrity, riches,
and rank of the country ; and their
measures would in a few weeks con-
vince THE PEOPLE that the Reform
now clamoured for was Revolution.
Since the Ministry, then, are on
the brink of dissolution, we can see
little or no reason for alarm. Here
we differ in opinion from Sir John
Walsh, who sees, we think, the pros-
pects of the country through too
gloomy a light. Yet he beautifully
expresses his manly fears, which
are those of a lover of liberty. In
our happy country, he finely says,
where peace, order, and internal
tranquillity have been established by
a long and glorious prescription,
men are ashamed, they tear the ridi-
cule of their hearers, in prognostica-
ting such evils as revolution, civil
war, and anarchy. There are those
who say Old England has ridden
out so many storms, that we fancy
she must get through this somehow
or other. The payment of the divi-
dends seems to the fundholder as
natural as the recurrence of spring,
or the dawn of day. The dominion
of the laws, securing property and
person, appears almost as fixed and
unalterable as that of those which
regulate the movements of the phy-
sical world. The reason of the think-
ing part of the community shews
them the reality of the peril; but
the imagination, which generally is
more excursive, and outruns the
reasoning faculties, has been so dis-
turbed in this particular direction
that it cannot readily picture such
novel scenes. Oh ! splendid testi-
mony— he adds — to the excellence
of those institutions which have so
long preserved to our country a pre-
cious immunity from half the evils

VOL. XXXI. NO. CXCII.

of humanity! Even when those
evils are most menaced, much of our
danger arises from our slowness to
imagine it possible that so sacred a
palladium can be broken, and that
our day can furnish the mournful
exception to the established prece-
dent of centuries !

Such a magnificent fabric may not
be doomed to fall under hands so
mean ; having stood so many blasts,
without bending more than a tree,
and in living growth from age to age
it is a tree, it surely will not sink
before my Lord John Russell, puffing
away at it with a pair of smallish
bellows. In Burke's time it was
assailed, we think, by more potent
engineers; and he had his fears,
which inspired his love with elo-
quence that saved the state. Nobly
did he shew that the whole scheme
of our mixed constitution is to pre-
vent any one of its principles from
being carried as far as, taken by it-
self theoretically, it would go. Al-
low that to be the true policy of the
British system, and then most of the
faults with which that system stands
charged will appear to be, not im-
perfections into which it has inad-
vertently fallen, but excellencies
which it has studiously sought. He
shewed, that it is the result of the
thoughts of many minds, in many
ages ; no simple, no superficial thing,
nor to be estimated by superficial
understandings.

Do our reformers ever read now-a-
days his Appeal from the New to the
Old Whigs — his Observations on the
Conduct of the Minority — his Letters
on the Regicide Peace? They who
truly mean well, he would tell them,
must be fearful of acting ill — that
the British Constitution may have
its advantages pointed out to wise
and reflecting minds, but that it is of
too high an order of excellence to be
adapted to those which are com-
mon. It takes in too many views, it
makes too many combinations, to be
so much as comprehended by shal-
low and superficial understandings.
Profound thinkers will know it in its
reason and spirit. The less inqui-
ring will recognise it in their feelings
and experience. They will thank
God they have a standard, which, in
the most essential point of this great
concern, will put them on a par
with the most wise and knowing.

442

Present Balance of Parties in the State.

[March,

So thought one of the wisest of the
sons of genius; but what knew Ed-
mund Burke of the science of poli-
tics, in comparison with that terrible
Tailor, whose stitches hold together
the Westminster Review ?

Burke has told us that it was com-
mon with all those who were favour-
able to Fox's party, though not at all
devoted to all their reforming pro-
jects, to argue in palliation of their
conduct, that it was not in their power
to do all the harm which their actions
evidently tended to. But what would
he have said had he seen the very
Ministry themselves at the head of
the mob, not perhaps in the burning
of Bristol, which was a trifle, but in
sacking the Constitution ? " I cannot
flatter myself — he said — that these
incessant attacks on the constitution
of Parliament are safe." But he was
then slashing a mere minority—-
not a revolutionizing Ministry with
an old Jacobin at their head, and a
young boroughmonger at their tail.
Hear the Prophet. These gentlemen
— he writes — are much stronger
too without doors than some calcu-
late. They have the more active
part of the Dissenters with them ;
and the whole clan of speculators of
all denominations, a large and grow-
ing species. They have that floating
multitude which goes with events,
and which suffers the loss or gain of
a battle, to decide its opinions of
right and wrong. As long as by every
art this party keeps alive a spirit
of disaffection against the very con-
stitution of the kingdom, and attri-
butes, as lately it has been in the
habit of doing, all the public misfor-
tunes to that constitution, it is abso-
lutely impossible but that some mo-
ment must arrive, in which they will
be enabled to produce a pretended
reform and a real revolution !

With what a masterly hand Burke
elsewhere exposes the folly — the
wickedness, of the conduct of those
factions, who, in order to divest men
of all love for their country, and to
remove from their minds all duty
with regard to the state, endeavour-
ed to propagate an opinion that the
people, in forming their common-
wealth, have by no means parted
with their power over it. Discuss,
says he, any of their schemes— their
answer is — it is the act of the people
*- and that is sufficient, Are we to

deny to a majority of the people the
right of altering even the whole
frame of society, if such be their
pleasure ? But Burke shews that
neither the few nor the many have
a right to act merely by their will, in
any matter connected with duty,
trust, engagement, or obligation.
And that as for number, the number
engaged in crimes, instead of turn-
ing them into laudable acts, only aug-
ments the quantity and quality of the
guilt. No wise legislator, at any pe-
riod of the world, has willingly
placed the seat of active power in
the hands of the multitude, because
there it admits of no control, no re-
gulation, no steady director what-
ever. In England neither has the
original, nor any subsequent com-
pact of the state, expressed or im-
plied, constituted a majority of men,
told by the head, to be the acting
people of their several communities.
Give once a certain constitution of
things, which produces a variety of
conditions and circumstances in a
state, and there is in nature and rea-
son a principle, which, for their own
benefit, postpones, not the interest,
but the judgment of those who are
numero plures, to those who are vir-
tute et honore majores. When the
supreme authority of the people is
in question, he remarks that, before
we attempt to confine or extend it,
we ought to fix in our minds, with
some degree of distinctness, an idea
of what it is we mean, when we say
the people. How grand — how simple
—and how true, the following pass-
age, from the Appeal from the New
to the Old Whigs — and how appli-
cable to our present condition !

" A true natural aristocracy is not a
separate interest in the state, or separable
from it. It is an essential integrant part
of any large body rightly constituted. It
is formed out of a class of legitimate pre-
sumptions, which, taken as generalities,
must be admitted for actual truths. To
be bred in a place of estimation ; to see
nothing low and sordid from one's in-
fancy ; to be taught to respect one's self ;
to be habituated to the censorial inspec-
tion of the public eye ; to look early to
public opinion ; to stand upon such ele-
vated ground as to be enabled to take a large
view of the wide-spread and infinitely di-
versified combinations of men and affairs in
a large society ; to have leisure to read, to
reflect, to converse ; to be enabled to draw
the court ami attention of the wise and

Present Balance of Parties in the State. 443

know that venerable object called the
people."

Seldom now is reference made, iu
political discussion, to the great au-
thorities in political science; when
you do so, the Radical rout scout the
wisdom that has immortalized the
names of the mighty men from whose
lips it flowed like inspiration. The
Gentlemen of the daily Press are not
in general much given to reading — •
they have recourse to a volume ot in-
elegant extracts for stale quotations
to clench their stalest arguments,
and they give the go-by to reason-
ings that would drive them into the
ditch. All Reformers, far from sin-
gle-minded, are one-eyed, and with
it — seldom much of a piercer — they
look at one side of every question —
almost always the wrong one ; some
of them believing, and all of them
swearing, that the question has but
one side, though it may be at the
least octagonal. Why does not Sir-
James Mackintosh give us his edition
of Burke ? The Reformers would
not buy a hundred copies, but the
Conservatives would exhaust it in a
few weeks. How admirably does he
speak of the irresolution and timidity
of those who compose the " middle
order" between the principal lead-
ers in Parliament and their lowest
followers out of doors ! Irresolution
and timidity often perverting the ef-
fect of their controlling situation.
The fear of differing with the autho-
rity of leaders on the one hand, and
of contradicting the desires of the
multitude on the other, induces
them, he says, to give a careless and
passive assent to measures in which
they never were consulted ; and thus
things proceed, by a sort of activity
ofinertnessy until whole bodies, lead-
ers, middle-men, and followers, are
all hurried, with every appearance,
and with many of the effects, of una-
nimity, into schemes of politics, in
the substance of which no two of
them ever fully agreed, and the ori-
gin and authors of which, in this cir-
cular mode of communication, none
of them find it possible to trace. The
sober part give their sanction, at first
through inattention and levity, at
last they give it through necessity ;
a violent spirit is raised, which the
presiding minds, after a time, find it
impracticable to stop at their plea-

1832.]

learned, wherever they are to be found ;
to be habituated in armies to command
and to obey ; to be taught to despise dan-
ger in the pursuit of honour and duty;
to be formed to the greatest degree of
vigilance, foresight, and circumspection ;
a state of things in which no fault is com-
mitted with impunity, and the slight-
est mistakes draw on the most ruinous
consequences ; to be led to a guarded arid
regulated conduct, from a sense that you
are considered as an instructor of your
fellow-citizens in their highest concerns,
and that you act as a reconciler between
Odd and man ; to be employed as an ad-
ministrator of law and justice, arid to be
thereby amongst the first benefactors to
mankind ; to be a professor of high sci-
ence, or of liberal arid ingenuous art ; to
be amongst rich traders who, from their
success, are presumed to have sharp and
vigorous understandings, and to possess
the virtues of diligence, order, constancy,
and regularity ; and to have cultiva-
ted an habitual regard to commutative
justice ; — these are the circumstances of
men, that form what I should call a na-
tural aristocracy, without which there is
no nation.

" The state of civil society which ne-
cessarily generates this aristocracy, is a
state of nature; and much more truly so
than a savage and incoherent mode of life.
For man is by nature reasonable, and he
is never perfectly in his natural state but
when he is placed where reason may be
best cultivated, and most predominates.
Art is man's nature. We are as much at
least in a state of nature in formed man-
hood, as in immature and helpless in-
fancy. Men qualified in the manner I
have just described, form in nature as she
operates in the common modification of
society the leading, guiding, and govern-
ing part. It is the soul to the body, with-
out which the man does not exist. To
give, therefore, no more importance in the
social order to such descriptions of men
than that of so many units, is an horrible
usurpation.

" When great multitudes act together
tinder that discipline of nature, I recog-
nise the PEOPLE. I acknowledge something
that perhaps equals, and ought always to
guide the sovereignty of convention. In all
things the voice of this grand chorus of
national harmony ought to have a mighty
and decisive influence. But when you dis-
turb this harmony; when you break up
this beautiful order, this array of truth and
nature, as well as of habit and prejudice;
when you separate the common sort of men
from their proper chieftains, so as to form
them iuto an adverse army, I no longer

Present Balance of Parties in the State.

444

sure, to control, to regulate, or even
to direct.

Is it not so at this time ? Ask Lord
Brougham and Vaux wherefore he
dropped on his knees and implored
the Peers " to pass this Bill ?"

The following wise passage might
have been written since the new
year : —

" This shews, in my opinion, how very
quick and awakened all men ought to be,
who are looked up to by the public, and
who deserve that confidence, to prevent a
sui'prise on their opinions, when dogmas
are spread and projects pursued, by which
the foundations of society may be affect-
ed. Before they listen even to moderate
alterations in the government of their
country, they ought to take care that prin-
ciples are not propagated for that purpose
which are too big for their object. Doc-
trines limited in their present application,
and wide in their general principles, are
never meant to be confined to what they
at first pretend. If I were to form a prog-
nostic of the effect of the present machi-
nations on the people, from their sense
of any grievance they suffer under this
constitution, my mind would be at ease.
But there is a wide difference between the
multitude when they act against their go-
vernment, from a sense of grievance, or
from zeal for some opinions. When men
are thoroughly possessed with that zeal,
it is difficult to calculate its force. It is
certain that its power is by no means in
exact proportion to its reasonableness. It
must always have been discoverable by
persons of reflection, but it is now obvi-
ous to the world, that a theory concern-
ing government may become as much a
cause of fanaticism, as a dogma in reli-
gion. There is a boundary to men's pas-
sions when they act from feeling; none
when they are tinder the influence of ima-
gination. Remove a grievance, and when
men act from feeling, you go a great way
towards quieting a commotion. But the
good or bad conduct of a government, the
protection men have enjoyed, or the op-
pression they have suffered under it, are
of no sort of moment, when a faction,
proceeding upon speculative grounds, is
thoroughly heated against its form. When
a man is from system furious against mo-
narchy or episcopacy, the good conduct of
the monarch or the bishop has no other
effect than further to irritate the adver-
sary. He is provoked at it as furnishing
a plea for preserving the thing which he
wishes to destroy. His mind will be
heated as much by the sight of a sceptre,
a mace, or a verge, as if he had been daily
bruised and wounded by these symbols of
authority."

[March,

To return to Sir John Walsh. To-
wards the end of his pamphlet he
finds himself led to the following
conclusions — that the late changes on
the Continent have revived the great
struggle of 1792, of a levelling demo-
cracy aspiring to govern society up-
on theoretical principles against the
forms of monarchy, and the laws,
institutions, manners, and habits,
which their feudal origin had so
deeply ingrafted in the nations of
Europe, — that the British Empire is
equally with the Continent the thea-
tre of a conflict between these oppo-
sing principles, — that in England a
spirit of rational and wise freedom, an
infusion of democracy, had been so
happily blended with the feudal laws
and institutions, as to produce the
greatest amount of prosperity ever
enjoyed by a people, — that in pro-
portion to the security so long pos-
sessed, to the stupendous but artifi-
cial structure of wealth, of credit,
and of commercial and manufactu-
ring greatness built upon it, would
be the ruin and the misery, national
and individual, consequent upon eve-
ry convulsion, — that the idea of its
being possible to accomplish the ul-
timate views of the democratic party
with regard to Ireland, the Church, the
magistracy, the poor laws, and a vast
reduction of taxes, without an extra
breaking up of the whole frame of
society,is perfectly chimerical, — that
the present imminent danger of the
country from such a destructive influ-
ence, arises from the alliance which
has been established between this
party and the Executive, — that, feel-
ing itself too weak to stand alone,
the latter has sought some point of
agreement which should unite with
it the democratic leaders, — and that
having found that in the Reform
Bill — or rather, having given them
the great bonus of the Reform Bill,
it has rendered itself absolutely de-
pendent on them ; and that they are
now lying at the mercy of that fac-
tion and its mobs, who could upset
them to-day if they chose, and who
would, if the Bill were to pass, cer-
tainly upset them to-morrow. The
approaching struggle in this country,
then, is one, he thinks, of classes and
divisions of society, not of parties.
It is the attack of the lower and a
portion of the middling classes, in-
cited and led on by demagogue
leaders, against existing institutions,

1832.]

Present Balance of Parties in the State.

445

the gentry, and the property of the
country. And this movement the
Whigs have headed at a time when
every indication by which we can
judge of the future, had revealed to
them the dark course on which they
had voluntarily entered. The Pie-
form Bill, without regarding its ab-
stract consequences or operation, is
a trial of strength, is a great pitched
battle, between the friends of the
existing order of society and the
advocates of indefinite innovation
and revolution.

In this state of things, all good men
and true, we say, ought to look with a
jealous and stern eye on all the move-
ments of any supposed influential
persons of the Conservative Party,
towards any such conciliation with
the Ministry as would infer a com-
promise of principles essential to
the existence of the British Consti-
tution. For our parts, we never
liked the notion of those inter-
views and conferences of which we
heard some time ago ; and we trust
that they never will be renewed ;
for it is impossible they can ever
lead to any result, without sacrifice
of faith and loss of honour. The
Ministers are bound hand and feet
to the Radicals by fetters of their
own imposing ; and though they
might break them with perfect safe-
ty, and without blame except from
the base, yet are they utterly obsti-
nate to pledges which they ought
never to have stooped to give, and
will maintain their position till dri-
ven from it.

The Conservatives can never treat
with such people till they are met at
least three-fourths of the way ; till
Ministers become as moderate as
Lord Brougham was not many
months ago in his plans of Reform.
Let there be a conference on that
basis, or on the basis of one or other
of those schemes which were advo-
cated by some of the most distin-
guished Whigs for nearly thirty years
in the Edinburgh Review. All the
wild and reckless provisions of the
Bill, in its more than Protean chan-
ges always a slippery monster, have
been, over and over again, demolish-
ed in that able Periodical; the rea-
sonings therein contained have pro-
duced a deep, an uneft'aceable im-
pression on the best intellect of the
country j nor is it to be thought that

the patriotic exertions of those then
enlightened men are to be all ren-
dered vain by the mad measures of
a Ministry, incomprehensibly com-
posed of their own inconsistent
selves, and of some others whom
they had for a quarter of a century
held up as dangerous visionaries, or
something worse, to the ridicule or
the indignation of all lovers of ra-
tional liberty. Not a step should be
taken, in an affair of such prodigious
importance, as the pulling down and
building up of the British constitu-
tion, without the most anxious pre-
meditation; not till all the political
philosophy expounded with so much
eloquence and with such powerful
logic in that justly-celebrated work,
be proved false and fatal, and con-
fessed to be so by its various authors,
of whom it will not be too much
then to expect, or rather to demand,
that, clothed in a white sheet, they
read their recantation every Sabbath
during the current year, each in his
own parish-church, and eke every
Wednesday or Saturday in the mar-
ket-place, when crowded with peo-
ple from rural districts, as well ^ as
with the inhabitants of the respective
towns.

As for those who think the Bill
bad, but would yet wish it to pass,
that the country might be quieted,
most of them are such thorough
idiots, that we shall not waste a word
on people in their unfortunate con-
dition ; but as some of them are, we
are sorry to say it, sensible persons
on other subjects, nay, even enlight-
ened, we do earnestly request them
to reflect on their folly, and not, in
their vain anxiety to save the coun-
try from some temporary excitation,
do all in their power to promote the
success of measures which they con-
fess will ultimately afflict or ruin it.
What signifies all the loss caused by
the stagnation of trade, and which
will be made up erelong by natural
processes, after the nefarious Bill
lias been strangled, and buried in the
cross-roads, in comparison with the
everlasting evils that, in their own '
opinion, would disturb and darken
all the land in the event of its beco-
ming law ! They who speak thus call
themselves the Moderates. At this
crisis they are the worst enemies we
have; but as, in spite of their melan-
choly aberration of reason, we re*

Present Balance of Parties in the State.

44(5

gard many of them with affection
and respect, we are not without
hopes that this kindly but strong re-
monstrance with them on a weak-
ness so unworthy their character,
will be kindly taken, and have the
effect of establishing them firmly in
the ranks of the Conservatives, to
which they naturally belong, and in
which they will feel a sudden acces-
sion of mental strength and content-
ment. At present they are sneered
at contemptuously by Reformers ;
and regarded suspiciously by their
own friends, who will hear of no
compromise between expediency
and conscience. It would be wrong
to call them Trimmers; but we can-
not call them True-men. Their
moods of mind are fluctuating and
uncertain; without seeming to know
it, their writings are full of inevit-
able inconsistencies and contradic-
tions; their lucubrations, in their
guardedness, are most vapid; and
ever and anon may be seen that awk-
ward expression of self-imposed
constraint, which, when visible in
people who may be free if they choose,
cannot but inspire a painful suspi-
cion of insincerity, or lukewarmness
in a cause that should be supported
with all the feelings and faculties of
our souls. In this war let there be
no neutrals. Are they waiting to
join the victorious side ? They will
not be suffered to do so ; therefore let
them leave the Shilly-shally School
of Politics, else they may in good
earnest experience the Knout.

The character drawn of themselves
by the Reformers, Radicals, and Re-
volutionists, is surely a caricature.
They have, they say, made prodigious
advances in knowledge of late years,
and outrun the British Constitution.
They must have a system to live un-
der more suitable to their expanded
and exalted souls. The roof of the
one they now seek to demolish is too
low — its walls too narrow — its site
too small — its foundations too super-
ficial— the materials of which it is
built too soft — mouldering away in
weather-stains. Heaven help them
— giants in their own conceit — they
are dwarfs in nature; and among
them, too, are many melancholy spe-
cimens of strange spinal distortion.
Like geese ducking under a gateway
high enough to admit without stoop-
ing a mounted lifeguardsman with

[March,

his waving crest, they complain of
the entrance to Honour and Power ;
and nothing will satisfy their tower-
ing ambition but to subvert the edi-
fice.

Some able men there are among
them, all of whom, as we have said,
are either openly against the present
government, or with it because they
see it blindly co-operating with them
to its own destruction along with
that of the state. But pray where
are we to look for all the enlighten-
ment and wisdom of which we hear
so much now-a-days in the rhetoric
of the Radicals ? What really is the
nature of that spirit spoken of as be-
ing all impatiently afloat over the
land, for a new order of things out-
wardly commensurate with its in-
ward greatness ? It is the spirit, we
are told, of the middle ranks. Mid-
dle ranks ! Between what extremes ?
The answer is, we presume, between
the labouring classes and the aristo-
cracy. Do you mean by the labour-
ing classes, all persons living by the
mere muscular use of their hands,
with or without the aid of improved
machinery in agriculture and manu-
factures ? If so, then according to
your plan of Reform, they are all
excluded — or nearly so — from any
share of direct political power, and
are slaves. Do you mean by the
aristocracy, all persons who, speak-
ing generally, may be called gentle-
men ? At no former period of the
history of Britain have they ever
stood so high, as now, on the scale
of intellect ; never have they enjoyed
the blessings of an education at once
so ornamental and so useful — class-
ical and scientific — as may be seen
in many even of the Whigs, and in
nearly all the Tories. The Bill is to
strengthen their power — is it? So
say some sumphs among themselves,
and so say some of the swindlers
who would prefer cheating them out
of all their privileges to highway rob-
bery, merely to save trouble ; but the
bolder and honester of the Radical
Reformers scorn to hide their hate,
and foresee in the Bill the downfall of
the gentlemen of England. Not but
that there are gentlemen among the
Radical Reformers themselves; butto
what pernicious courses will not dis-
turbed ambition drive strong minds
that have got a twist the wrong way
by accidental circumstances, and

J832.]

Present Balance of Parties in the State.

447

chosen, in moody dissatisfaction, to
cultivate assiduously and skilfully
all the causes from which it springs ?
Their understandings, and, along with
them,theirfeelings,become thorough-
ly perverted ; and they hate with a bit-
ter hatred the very class to which
they naturally belong, and which, had
their better sentiments been allowed
to flow along the natural channels,
their accomplishments would have
graced, and their talents, their vir-
tues, have strengthened and defend-
ed, instead of being a reproach and
a peril.

We find, then, that by the middle
classes, let us say it at once, for it is
undeniable, are meant the L.10 and
L.20 house-renters ! In many places
a most estimable class — in villages and
moderate-sized towns, in large towns
and cities, a class containing many
most worthy, and not a few very en-
lightened persons; but, as a class,
destitute of the qualifications essen-
tial in the character of those who
ought to possess the chief power
over the Representation in a mighty
nation like ours, which stands now on
the summit of civilisation, and has
reached it by moral and intellectual
greatness, placed beyond the sphere
in which they move, and operating
on materials of which they do not
dream the existence. This class —
absurdly called the middle — with
more truth might be called the mean;
it is perhaps of all classes the most
dependent; more open than any
other to corruption, as has been often
so strongly insisted on in the Edin-
burgh Review; of necessity educated
just up to the perilous pitch of imper-
fection; very presumptuous, because
very shallow ; and proud to believe
itself — the People. A more certain
way could not be devised to foster
all the vices and injure all the vir-
tues of this class, than to put into
their hands the prodigious political

power that would be given them by
the " Great Measure;" making them
lords paramount in the State, over
the labour below them, and the light
above them — labour which then'ce-
forth would be paralyzed, and light
which would shine in vain. Already
they are puffed up with the most
ludicrous pride by the mere prospect
of the Bill ; scowl from their shop-
doors on all who fairly estimate
their character and condition ; and
believe what they are told by their
false flatterers — in the face of their
true friends, who are not insensible
to' their worth, or indifferent to their
welfare, always respecting the one
and promoting the other — that they,
forsooth, are the head and heart of
the nation— that they alone can feel
and think for its good and glory — .
that they are foremost in the " march
of intellect" — and that in them re-
sides the spirit of the age, demanding
the reconstruction of all our old es-
tablishments.

But we must conclude our article
with a parting malediction on the
Ministers, unconnected with Reform.
The Chancellor of the Exchequer
cannot count his fingers without be-
ing perplexed by the puzzling occur-
rence of his thumbs; yet trusts that
the sum total is ten. The omission
of such an insignificant item as
L.360,000 or so has not to be apolo-
gized for, he thinks, but merely ac-
knowledged with a panegyric on his
own candour; after his miscalcula-
tions had been exposed by the pro-
duction of papers, which, if they had
not been demanded, had remained
in concealment. While his friend,
the Fructifier, prefers L. 700,000 of a
deficit to L.500,000 of a surplus; and
chuckles, nay, crows over the bank-
ruptcy of the Exchequer. But in
our next Number we shall expose
the portentous ignorance of these
fumbling Financiers.

448

The Belgian Question.

[March,

THE BELGIAN QUESTION.

Abandonment of the Barrier — The Russian Dutch Loan — Guarantee of the
Throne of the Barricades.

THE great danger to European in-
dependence is from France on the
one hand, and Russia on the other.
The march of Napoleon to Moscow,
and of Alexander to Paris, sufficient-
ly demonstrate the formidable nature
of the power which these mighty
states can put forth when they exert
their whole strength ; and the little
chance which European freedom has
of being preserved, when the energy
of Gallic ambition and the weight of
Scythian numbers are fairly brought
into collision. The greatest struggles
of modern times have arisen from
the meeting of these great waves of
mankind ; and the defeat of Attila at
Chalons remained without a parallel
till the overthrow of Napoleon at
Leipsic.

The interests of European free-
dom, therefore, imperiously require
that the intermediate states should be
constantly united in a close alliance
to resist the approaches of these terri-
ble potentates, and save modern ci-
vilisation alike from the encroach-
ments of French ambition, and the
tyranny of Russian power. Liberty
demands, in a voice of thunder, that
the barriers should be closed against
both these fearful invaders, and the
independence of Europe saved alike
from the whirlwind of Attila and the
car of Napoleon.

To support Belgium against France,
therefore, and Poland against Russia,
is the obvious duty, as well as inte-
rest, of every European state. Pub-
lic freedom, national independence,
run no risk but from one or other, or
both of these states. The experience
of ages has proved that France, with
the addition of Belgium, is too pow-
erful for Germany, and that no soon-
er has she got her frontier advanced
to the Rhine, than the liberties of
Europe begin to totter. Recent ex-
perience demonstrates that Russia,
with the addition of Poland, is an
overwhelming power on the east of
Europe, and that when her armies
are stationed, while still within the
Russian frontier, at the distance of
only 170 miles from Vienna and Ber-

lin, the power of independent deli-
beration is taken away from both
these states.

It was early felt, that the preser-
vation of Belgium from French influ-
ence was an object of vital import-
ance to the liberties of Europe ; and
the greatest efforts, both of diploma-
cy and arms, have been exerted for
the last three centuries to prevent
such an acquisition by that ambi-
tious power. When the dominions of
Charles the Bold had descended to
his daughter Mary, and the hand of
that rich heiress, and with her the
sovereignty of the seventeen United
Provinces, was sought after by the
rival monarchs of France and Spain,
all the powers of European diplo-
macy were exerted to prevent her
preferring the former; and the ex-
asperation of that high-spirited mo-
narch at the success of his rival, laid
the foundation of the wars which af-
terwards desolated Europe, and led
to his defeat and captivity at the
battle of Pavia. When Louis XIV.
threatened the liberties of Europe,
and the pride of the Grande Monarque
aimed at universal dominion, it was
in Flanders that his principal efforts
were made. Vauban and his illustri-
ous generals knew well that if that
was gained, every thing was secured ;
and it was there accordingly that he
was encountered and defeated by
Marlborough and Eugene. The vic-
tories of Ramilies and Oudenarde, of
Blenheim and Malplaquet, the sieges
of Tournay and Ypres, of Lisle and
Conde, of Laudrecy and Maubeuge,
at length drove back the invaders
from the vantage-ground they had
acquired, and Europe in consequence
enjoyed comparative peace for an
hundred years.

By the Treaty of Utrecht, it was
provided that a certain line of forti-
fied towns should be kept up as a
perpetual barrier against France;
They were selected with care, and
fortified at an enormous expense ;
and such was their efficacy in bri-
dling the ambition of that military
power, that her armies never sue-

1832.]

The Belgian Question.

ceeded in making any effectual lodg-
ment beyond them as long as they
existed.

This will not appear surprising, if
the situation and nature of these bar-
rier fortresses are considered. Mons,
Menin, Ypres, Philipville, and Mari-
enberg, and the other barrier towns,
formed a line across the front of the
Austrian Netherlands so powerful,
that no ordinary army, how great
soever, could pass them with impu-
nity. Had any one ventured to do
so, the garrisons of these fortresses
would have issued out as soon as
they were passed, formed an army
in their rear, and forced them to re-
tire, by cutting off their communica-
tions, and preventing the supply of
ammunition and stores to their army.
Thus an invading force was reduced
to the necessity either of besieging
two or three of the principal fortress-
es in the line of their advance, or of
leaving them blockaded by troops
superior to the garrisons they con-
tained. The first of these was a work
of time and bloodshed, which gave
Europe ample opportunity to assem-
ble and succour the menaced point;
the last reduced the invading force
to one half of its original amount,
and left the liberties of Europe no-
thing to fear from the advance of the
remainder.

In an evil hour, the Emperor Jo-
seph, yielding to the advice of reck-
less innovators, resolved to demolish
the fortifications of these barrier
towns. " He objected," says Jomi-
ni, " to the expense of maintaining
them ; he was distrustful of the fide-
lity of their Walloon garrisons; and
he imagined, that, in the new era of
wisdom and philosophy which was
approaching, there would be no need
of fortresses to bridle the ambition
of princes."*

The consequences of this fatal step
soon developed themselves; and the
vital importance of that barrier which
-Marlborough and Eugene had won
at so vast an expense of blood and
treasure, was written in indelible
characters. The revolutionary ar-
mies of France found in Flanders a
vast and level plain, without a horn-
work to arrest their progress ; and
before the distant forces of the Era-

449

peror could advance to its relief, the
work of conquest was completed, and
the Low Countries had passed under
the Republican yoke. With unerr-
ing precision they rushed upon the
rich garden of conquest which was
thus laid open to their hands; and
ten days after France was delivered
from urgent danger by the retreat of
the Duke of Brunswick in 1792, the
victorious armies of Dumourier ad-
vanced to the long wished-for con-
quest of the Low Countries.

A single inconsiderable battle deci-
ded their fate. Neither of the armies
which fought at Jemappes amounted
to 40,000 men ; the loss of the van-
quished was not 4000 ; yet this in-
considerable victory decided the fate
of the Netherlands, and brought the
French armies down to Antwerp.
The demolition of the barrier towns
left no obstacle in their way ; there
was not a mountain to arrest the
victors, nor a forest to shelter the
vanquished ; and the same ground
was won in six weeks, which had
been gained inch by inch by Marl-
borough and Eugene in as many
years.

The Austrians retired to Tirle-
mont, leaving Brussels to its fate;
but next year they defeated the
French at Neerwinde, and the re-
conquest of the Low Countries was
the immediate consequence. A
powerful allied army was formed,
the Republicans were defeated in
several encounters, and, but for the
barrier fortresses of France, Paris
would have been taken, and the war
terminated in that campaign. But
the five fortresses of Valenciennes,
Quesnoy, Conde, Maubeuge, and
Landrecy, saved France, when on the
verge of destruction.^ The Allies,
albeit at the head of a vast army,
120,000 strong, flushed with victory,
could not venture to pass the frontier
fortresses: the siege of Valenciennes
was successfully completed, that of
Maubeuge, Landrecy, and Dunkirk,
formed ; and though the two former
fell, the time consumed in their re-
duction proved the salvation of
France. The people recovered from
their consternation ; the vast arma-
ments in the interior had time to be
completed; and when the Allies,

* Grandes Operations Militaires,

f Napoleon and Jomini.

The Belgian Question.

450

after six months spent among their
fortresses, attempted to advance into
the interior, they were met with such
considerable forces, as not only stop-
ped their progress, but drove them
back with disgrace and disaster to
the Waal and the Rhine.

Thus the lessons of experience
were complete on both sides. The
demolition of the barrier fortresses on
the Austrian side of the frontier ren-
dered the Low Countries an easy
prey to the Revolutionary forces:
the preservation of the barrier for-
tresses on the French side saved that
country from otherwise inevitable
destruction. Napoleon has recorded
his opinion, that nothing but the
frontier fortresses of France saved it
from destruction in 1793.

Subsequent events have sufficient-
ly demonstrated, that the preserva-
tion of the Netherlands from the
grasp of France, and the forcing her
back from the line of the Rhine, is
absolutely indispensable for the liber-
ties of Europe ; and that if once she
advances her standards to that river,
universal dominion must be submit-
ted to, or a ten years' war encoun-
tered to drive her back to her original
limits. The reason is plain, and, by
an inspection of the map, must be
obvious to every observer. The pos-
session of the vast and opulent dis-
tricts which lie between the frontier
of old France and the Rhine, inclu-
ding the important fortresses of Lux-
embourg, Mayence, Thionville, and
the towns which complete the de-
fence of that frontier stream, ren-
ders the French altogether irresisti-
ble till they meet the armies of Rus-
sia. The Low Countries form a
salient angle, headed by the great
fortress of Mayence, which enables
the invaders at once to penetrate into
the heart of Germany. All Napo-
leon's armies destined for the sub-
jugation of Northern Europe; those
which crushed Prussia at Jena, hum-
bled Russia at Friedland, and bore
the Imperial Eagle to the Kremlin,
crossed by the bridge of Mayence.
" If the Allies were encamped on
Montmartre," said Napoleon, « I
would not surrender one village in
the thirty-second military division."
Memorable words, indicating the
strong sense he entertained of the
importance of preserving all the
ground he had won in the North of

[March,

Germany, for the maintenance of that
universal dominion, which he valued
more than life itself.

The events which occurred at the
conclusion of the war, have gone far
to withdraw the attention of men
from the great importance of frontier
fortresses in repelling the invasion
of an ambitious power. It is well
known that the vast armies of the
Allies passed the fortresses both on
the Oder, the Elbe, and the Rhine,
and accomplished the subjugation of
France, while yet her garrisons were
unsubdued on those rivers ; and
thence it is concluded that fortresses
are altogether useless against modern
tactics, and their demolition noways
dangerous to the liberties of second-
rate powers. There never was a
greater mistake. It is quite true,
that when passions are excited which
bring millions into the field — when
nations en masse rise up against their
oppressors, and the experience and
skill of twenty years is suddenly ap-
plied to the training of these vast
assemblages of men, fortresses may
be disregarded, and armies precipi-
tated into a state without the reduc-
tion of their frontier defences. The
reason is, that the multitudes of sol-
diers at the command of the inva-
ders, enable them to blockade the
towns, and at the same time advance
with a sufficient head force into the
interior. But neither this nor the
next generation will witness such a
resurrection of armed men. The
passions are worn out which roused,
the money is gone which equipped
them. War hereafter must revert to
its former principles : no landwehr
and landsturm will exist to blockade
the fortresses, while the regular
troops follow up the career of con-
quest; but, like Eugene, and Marl-
borough, and Turenne, generals must
be content to sit down before the
frontier fortresses, and depend for
success upon their reduction.

In proof of these principles, we
shall refer to two masters in the art
of war, whose authority few will
gainsay — Napoleon Bonaparte and
the Duke of Wellington.

During all his campaigns, and in
those in particular in which he had
not at command an overwhelming
superiority of force, this great com-
mander evinced his strong sense of
the advantages of fortresses. No

1832.]

The Belgian Question.

451

sooner had he prostrated, by the vic-
tories of Montenotte and Mondovi,
the Piedmontese monarchy, than he
compelled the surrender, in 1796, of
Tortona, Alexandria, Coni, and Tu-
rin, and from this strong base speed-
ily carried the tide of invasion over
the whole of Lombardy. Nothing
arrested his progress, till he came to
the bastions of Mantua; but that
single fortress detained him five
months before its walls, and gave the
Emperor time to assemble four suc-
cessive armies for its relief. The
first use he made of the victory of
Marengo, was to force the Allies
to surrender the Piedmontese for-
tresses, which Suvvarrow had regain-
ed, in 1799, at so great an expendi-
ture of human life ; and to the weak-
ness of the Austrians in surrendering
those strongholds, is in great part to
be ascribed the disgraceful treaty of
Luneville. The campaigns of Aus-
terlitz and Wagram were so suc-
cessful, because the attack was di-
rected in both at the Austrian mo-
narchy, through the valley of the
Danube ; the quarter in which, as
the Archduke Charles and General
Jomini have convincingly shewn, it
is most easily assailable, from the
want of any frontier towns for its pro-
tection.* Not the battle of Jena, but
the treacherous surrender of Magde-
bourg,andthe fortresses on the Oder,
prostrated the Prussian monarchy in
1 806 ; and had a few more strongholds
like Dantzic existed, to check the
advance of the French armies in the
spring of 1807, the Treaty of Tilsit
would never have enslaved for six long
years the continent of Europe. The
first step of Napoleon in his attack
on Spain, was to gain possession, by
fraud and treachery, of its frontier
fortresses ; and the possession of
Pampeluna, Barcelona, Figueras,and
St Sebastian, enabled him to maintain
his footing within the gates of the
.Peninsula after the disasters of the
first Spanish campaign, and kept at
bay all the efforts of the Spaniards
and English for six years. He ad-
vanced with such rapidity into Russia
in 1812, because no fortresses were
to be encountered on the frontiers of
that vast empire to oppose his pro-
gress; and in all the reverses which

followed, clung to the fortresses of
Germany with a tenacity which af-
fords the most unequivocal evidence
of the vast importance which he at-
tached to their possession. He took
post in Saxony for his final struggles
amidst the strong fortifications of the
Elbe : the possession of the redoubts
of Dresden had well-nigh enabled
him to renew the triumphs of Rivoli j
and even when the Allies were in the
heart of Champaigne, the fortresses
on the Rhine and the Elbe were in
great part unsubdued. The success-
ful invasion of the Allies in 1814 and
1815, is no evidence that he was
wrong : they only shew that a single
nation cannot withstand the world in
arms ; and that in resisting a crusade,
even the greatest abilities and the
most approved military system can-
not always command success. As it
was, the peril run by the invaders
by neglecting the frontier fortresses
was extreme: a considerable disaster
in the plains of Champaigne would,
by accumulating upon the retreating
force all the veteran troops in the
garrisons, have driven them to a re-
treat as ruinous as that of 1812 was
to the French army ; had the move-
ment to St Dezier not been encoun-
tered by skill and resolution equal
to his own, it would have turned the
fate of the campaign ; and Napoleon
was not far from the truth when he
said, in commencing that advance,
that he was nearer Vienna than the
Allies were to Paris.

The Duke of Wellington has given
equal evidence of his high sense of
the value of fortresses in every ordi-
nary system of warfare. He advanced
without hesitation into Spain, in
1809, as the Allies had possession of
Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz; but
no sooner had these fortresses fallen
into the hands of the French, than
he changed his system, and all his
efforts were directed, in the first in-
stance, to regain them from the
enemy. Perhaps the most memo-
rable period of his career, is that du-
ring which, with a force inferior to
either separately, he stormed those
fortresses, in the face of Marmont
and Soult's armies, and thus laid the
foundation of that secure advance
which ultimately expelled the inva-

» Archduke Charles, Vol. I. 279.

452

The Belgian Question,

[March,

ders from the Peninsula. Before he
advanced into France, he stormed St
Sebastian, captured Pampeluna, and1
closely invested Bayonne; and the
want of any other considerable fort-
ress on that defenceless frontier, soon
enabled him to make greater progress
in the conquest of the southern pro-
vinces of that kingdom, with 60,000
men, than the Allies had been ena-
bled to make, in 1793, on the iron
frontier of the Netherlands, with
120,000. The defenceless condi-
tion of the French frontier towns,
after the battle of Waterloo, enabled
Blucher and Wellington to make that
rapid advance into France which
precipitated Napoleon from the
throne ; and the first use which the
victorsmade of that glorious triumph,
was to reconstruct, at a cost of five
millions to this country, the barrier
of Marlborough in the Netherlands,
and thus close against French am-
bition those iron gates which had
kept it at bay for an hundred years.
But what is it to our modern in-
novators that the vital importance of
the fortresses in the Netherlands has
been proved by the campaigns of
Marlborough and Eugene, of Napo-
leon and Wellington, — that they were
framed by the genius of Vauban, and
their importance proved by the argu-
ments of the Archduke Charles and
Jomini, — that their value has been
evinced by a century's experience,
and their necessity demonstrated in
works of immortal endurance, — that
imperishable triumphs, followed by
ages of peace, have signalized their
formation, and that indelible disgrace,
leading to unparalleled disaster, at-
tended their demolition ? All this is
nothing to the new lights which have
opened upon the world since the
triumph of the mob in Paris, and the
accession of innovating rulers to this
country. Without doubt, Earl Grey
and Lord Pal merston, who have taken
upon themselves to undo the work
of Eugene and Marlborough, of
Blucher and Wellington, are able to
shew that these great commanders
proceeded on entirely wrong princi-
ples, and owed their success to
a continued and inexplicable com-
bination of chances. Without doubt,
they have read and thoroughly stu-
died the scientific works of Napo-
leon and St Cyr, of the Archduke
Charles and Jomini ; and are prepa-

red to shew, that the arguments by
which they appear to have proved
the vital importance of the Flemish
barrier are totally unfounded. With-
out doubt, before they threw open
the gates of Flanders to France, they
had fixed upon some other and more
tenable line of defence against its
ambition; and were assured on rea-
sonable grounds, that the possession
of the Netherlands, for which its go-
vernment, whether regal or republi-
can, has struggled with such vehe-
mence for a century and a half, is
nowise dangerous to the liberties of
Europe. Without doubt, they are
ready to demonstrate, that the pos-
session of five fortresses, all but im-
pregnable, on the Flemish frontier,
within 160 miles of Paris , was no ad-
vantageous base for offensive opera-
tions against that ambitious power,
— and no check on its favourite in-
cursions beyond the Rhine, — and
that the advance of its standards to
that river, and the consequent pos-
session of Luxembourg, Mayence,
Antwerp, and Coblentz, is likely to
give it no advantage in an invasion of
Germany. If they are prepared to
prove these things, we are ready and
anxious to consider their arguments;
if they are not, when we recollect
that they have destroyed the barrier,
we are confident history will pro-
nounce them the most reckless and
ruinous race of politicians that the
evil genius of a nation ever yet called
to the helm of its government.

Let it not be imagined, that a new
era is about to open on France and
England, and that these two coun-
tries, united in the bonds of amity,
and struggling for freedom against
the world in arms, are henceforth to
lay aside their mutual jealousy, and
stand in no farther need of checks
upon each other's ambition. Suppo-
sing that the era of republics has
arrived ; let the utmost aspirations
of our democrats be realized, and
France and England be set down as
about speedily to become republican
governments, is that any reason for
supposing that their discord is to
cease, or that the Senate and People
of France are to be less formidable
to the Senate and People of England
than Louis XIV. or Napoleon were
to its regal government ? Who con-
quered the ancient world, and esta-
blished the fabric ruinous to freedom

1832.]

The Belgian Question.

of universal dominion ? Republican
Rome. Who conquered modern
Europe, and all but realized that de-
basing chimera ? Republican France.
Have our rulers, in their fond an-
ticipation of the future and indisso-
luble union of free governments, for-
got the thirty years' struggle and in-
extinguishable hatred of the repub-
lics of Athens and Sparta, — have they
forgot the three long and bloody
Punic wars between Republican
Rome and Republican Carthage, —
have they forgot the desperate ani-
mosity of Florence and Pisa, of Ge-
noa and Venice, of Holland and
Cromwell, — have they lived through
the last age, and not witnessed the
ill extinguished hatred of America
and Great Britain, or the fury of Re-
publican France against the Moun-
taineers of Switzerland, — the Mer-
chants of Holland and the Senators
of Venice ? Is the universal animo-
sity of popular states at each other
likely to be now diminished, because
commercial and manufacturing jea-
lousy has been superadded to the
other and long established sources
of popular hostility? Before this
chimera, of the future amity of men's
minds in free states, is realized, the
future Revolutionists of this coun-
try, in addition to a bill for repeal-
ing so much of the Constitution as
fixes the crown on the head of the
sovereign, must bring in another to
repeal so much of the human mind
as makes merchants jealous of com-
petition, soldiers ambitious of glory,
and nations desirous of warlike ex-
citation.

In truth, the treaty for the demoli-
tion of the barrier, which England
has now signed, is utterly inexpli-
cable on any principle of reason,
and of which no account can be
given but from the blindness of the
innovating passion. One of the ablest
of the Whigs has said that the peace
of Utrecht was a treaty " which the
. execrations of ages had left inade-
quately censured." Why was it
thus stigmatized by the impartial
voice of history an hundred years
after its formation ? Because, though
it provided for the construction of the
barrier, it did not sufficiently coerce
the power of France. But what
would Mr Fox have said of a treaty
which, after the barrier had been
won, provided for its demolition ?

453

What would future ages have said
of such a treaty, if the triumphs of
Marlborough had been closed with
a victory which prostrated France
at a single blow ; if Paris had been
captured by the British arms, its so-
vereign surrendered to British gene-
rosity, and the bones of the Grand
Monarque held as a melancholy tro-
phy in a seagirt isle by the Queen of
the Ocean ? Yet this is what has now
been done : this weakness has now
been felt — this disgrace has now been
incurred ! If the execrations of ages
have inadequately censured the trea-
ty of Utrecht, what measure of pub-
lic indignation will be large enough
for that of London ?

Louis XIV. considered it as the
last and deepest humiliation of his
public existence, that he was obliged
by the treaty of Utrecht to demolish,
the fortifications, and fill up the har-
bour of Dunkirk. To undo at the
bidding of a foreign power what you
have done in self-defence, — to level
the buttresses you have raised against
foreign aggression, is the last act of
humiliation for those who have pass-
ed through the Caudine forks. The
French monarch would not submit
to this disgrace till Landrecy was
taken, the last of the barrier towns
captured, and nothing remained be-
tween the enemy and Paris. But
our innovating rulers have felt no
such compunction ; with one stroke of
the pen they have abandoned the tro-
phies of two centuries of glory : with-
out feeling shame, or being sensible
to remorse, they have surrendered
the fortresses which Wellington and
Marlborough won in a hundred
fights. Victorious England compel-
led vanquished France, as the last
act of national humiliation, in 1714,
to destroy one of her frontier fortress-
es : conquered France in 1832, per-
suades victorious England to demo-
lishyzye, as the price of the friendship
of the throne of the barricades. This
is to be done at the expense of the
conquering power ; after having ex-
pended five millions on the construc-
tion of the barrier, we are to under-
take the burden of destroying it !
What more disgraceful, galling, or
perilous terms could have been im-
posed, if the British fleet had been
swept from the sea, Portsmouth and
Plymouth in ashes, and Marshal Soult,
with 100,000 men, in possession of the

454

Tower of London ? And they have
been agreed to while the flag of Tra-
falgar still floated in the winds, and
the children of France yet started at
the name of Waterloo !

When Mary, Queen of England,
was on her death-bed, she declared
that if her body were opened, the
word " Calais" would be found en-
graven on her heart. Such was the
feeling of a Tudor princess, celebra-
ted only for her coldness of disposi-
tion and hardness of heart, at the
loss of one fortress held by England
as a bridle on France. How marvel-
lously have we changed in so short
a time ! what a stupendous altera-
tion does the fever for innovation
produce on the human mind ! While
the loss of one fortress brought a
queen with a British heart to her
grave, the surrender of five by the
conqueror in the strife is now looked
upon as a matter of no importance.
Truly may we now see the infatua-
tion which the frenzy for innovation
has brought on the country. This
treaty for the demolition of the bar-
rier fortresses will be looked upon
by after ages as the most inexpli-
cable and destructive in the British
annals ; and the mere announcement
of an intention to carry it into ef-
fect, would have hurled from the
helm the most popular administra-
tion since the days of Alfred.

It is said, as an excuse for this in-
explicable piece of diplomacy, that
the fortresses were too numerous
for Belgium after its separation from
Holland: that enough still remains
to check the incursions of France,
and that the erection of the kingdom
of the Netherlands was an absurd
and impracticable change on the
Constitution of Europe.

All this is nothing at all to the
purpose. The frontier towns of Flan-
ders were never intended to be a
covering for Belgium merely ; they
were the barrier of Europe, — the
bridle on that fatal ambition, which
nothing but the catastrophe of Mos-
cow and the crusade of Paris were
able, without it, to coerce. If the
maintenance of that barrier was too
expensive for Belgium in its divi-
ded state, let those answer for that
who promoted the separation, who
debarred the King of Holland from
attempting even to regain his own,
and forced Belgium to become a Be*

The Belgian Question.

[March,

parate power, when a reaction was
preparing, and it was perfectly will-
ing to have awakened from its in-
fatuation, and reassembled under
the House of Orange ? Or if this
could not be accomplished, the sup-
port of these towns should have been
laid as a burden on the Germanic con-
federation; Russia and Great Britain
should have been called on to con-
tribute for the support of the bul-
wark of European freedom ; the
ashes of Moscow, and the battle of
Jena, appealed to as the consequence
of permitting their demolition. When
we gave a revolutionary Monarch to
Belgium, surely we were entitled
and able to exact such terms as the
liberties of Europe required, and the
necessity of averting another twenty
years' war prescribed. Before Leo-
pold left London, it should have been
made a sine qua non, that the barrier
of Europe in his new dominions was
to be upheld.

The idea that enough of fortresses
still remain to coerce France, is too
absurd to bear a moment's argument.
After the plough has passed over the
ramparts of Mons, Marienberg, Phi-
lipville, Ath,andMenin,we should be
glad to see the fortresses which are
to be a bridle on its ambition. The
thing is altogether ridiculous ; the
French journals all agree that it lays
Flanders open to their grasp. In
reply to this objection, we deem it
sufficient to say, that the Duke of
Wellington, no lavish dispenser of
public money, and no mean autho-
rity in the means of arresting an in-
vading army, deemed it absolutely
necessary to fortify all these towns ;
and that, when they were not forti-
fied, Dumourier and Pichegru over-
run the Netherlands in two successive
campaigns; while, when they were,
Marlborough and Eugene were ar-
rested in them for ten years. There
are, indeed, fortresses, and many for-
tresses, still existing in Belgium ; but
they are on the Dutch and German,
not the French frontier; and will be
as ineffectual in preventing the con-
quest of the Low Countriesby France,
as the fortifications of Cadiz or Gib-
raltarwould be in preventingan inva-
sion of Spain through the Pyrennees.

Farther, if the inability of Flanders
to support five fortresses was the real
reason for the demolition of those
which are consigned to destruction,

1832.]

The Belgian Question.

455

where was the necessity of demolish-
ing those only which are on the fron-
tiers of France ? That is the im-
portant point to which we earnestly
request the attention of our readers.
Why, if five required to be destroyed,
were they all chosen on the frontiers
of that ambitious power, and none
on the frontiers of Holland, or
Prussia ? If the object was merely
to save expense to Belgium, could
their finances not be spared as well
by demolishing five fortresses on the
northern, or eastern, as the south-
western frontier ? Is it that a barrier
required to be kept up on the sides
of Holland, or Prussia, while it could
be safely abandoned on that of
France ? Is it from the burgomas-
ters of Amsterdam, and not the
schools of Paris, that the danger of
European freedom is to be appre-
hended? Is Holland, with its
2,500,000 souls, or Prussia, with its
12,000,000, more formidable to the
independence of other states, than
France, with its 32,000,000? The
thing will not bear an argument. The
peril all lies on the other side ; and
yet it is there that all the work of
demolition is to take place.

England is now to pay for the de-
molition of the fortresses which she
erected fifteen years ago. Would
not the money required for this work
of destruction have been fully as
well spent in upholding the barrier
for a few years ? What remains of
the sixty millions of francs provided
by England for their construction,
is, according to the French papers,
to be expended in this demolition.
Why, that sum would have main-
tained the barrier for twenty years !
Could not our rulers have waited
a little before the gates of Europe
were thrown open to French am-
bition? Was it absolutely neces-
sary to commence the work of demo-
lition while the revolutionary pas-
sions in France were still boiling
ever, — when its territory was brist-
ling with bayonets, and its turbulent
millions were clamouring for war?
Can fortresses, which Wellington
deemed necessary for the safety of
Europe, immediately after its ambi-
tion was tamed by the rout of Wa-
terloo, be now safely abandoned, be-
cause anew generation has succeeded
in France, upon whom, as usual, all
former experience is lost,— because
a new revolution has called its tur-

bulent millions into activity, and the
misery consequent on suspended in-
dustry is again, as in 17y4, urging
its government to ravage foreign,
states, and renew the march of Piche-
gru and Dumourier to Brussels and
Amsterdam ?

The conduct of our rulers on the
Belgian question is inexplicable on
all the ordinary principles of human
nature. But one word solves it:
France and Belgium are revolution-
ary powers ; Mr Pitt did his utmost
to coerce the democratic spirit ;
therefore, our present rulers have
done every thing they could to en-
courage it.

In making this charge, we by no
meansmeau to assert that Ministers
are traitors to their country, or intend
in what they do to degrade or injure
Great Britain. We know perfectly
they have no such intention ; we be-
lieve they think they are promoting
its real interests, and advancing the
period of general happiness, by break-
ing down all the barriers of Europe
against revolutionary France. W hat
we say is, that the long habit of op-
position has utterly perverted their
judgment, and the passion for inno-
vation swept away their reason. We
put in for them — what Time will
shew, History will be fain to adopt —
the plea of complete political in-
sanity.

In tracing the causes of their other-
wise incomprehensible policy, we
shall shew, beyond all question, from
what it has arisen : we shall riot im-
merse our readers in a sea of proto-
cols ; but, turning these copious ri-
vers of error by their source, demon-
strate in terms luce mendiana cla-
rioresy the false principles from which
they have flowed, and the ruinous
consequences to which they have
led.

Earl Grey said, and said justly,
in the House of Peers, that the pre-
sent government were not answer-
able for the Belgian revolution ; that
they found it in activity when they
came into office, and cannot be alone
saddled with the dangers which it
threatens to Europe. That is per-
fectly true j but it is not from that
revolution, or the measures of the
Duke of Wellington following on it,
that any evils have arisen. It is from
the forcible interference of the Allied
Powers between Holland and Bel-
gium, and the violent establishment

456

of a revolutionary kingdom in the
latter country, and the elevation of a
stranger to its throne, that the whole
mischievous consequences have flow-
ed. And these acts are chargeable on
Ministers, and Ministers alone. It is
there that the injustice began ; it is
thence that the peril has arisen.

I. When the Belgians, following
the example of their brethren at Paris,
deemed it necessary to have a revolu-
tion of their own, to keep pace with
the march of events in the French
capital, they succeeded, as all the
world knows, in driving the troops
of the King of the Netherlands out
of Brussels ; and Prince Frederick of
Orange failed in an attempt to regain
possession of that capital ; and sub-
sequently all Flanders, with the ex-
ception of Antwerp, shared in the
flame of revolt.

Upon this disaster, the King of the
Netherlands applied to England for
assistance to stifle the insurrection,
and regain the dominions which were
guaranteed to him by the Congress
of Vienna. Nothing can be clearer
than that this was not an occasion on
which Great Britain was either called
upon, or justified in interfering.
When the Allies guaranteed to the
new sovereign his dominions, they
guaranteed them only against exter-
nal violence. They neither had, nor
ought to have, any thing to do with
its internal dissensions.

The obvious course for the Allies
to have pursued on this occasion was,
to have allowed the Belgians and the
Dutch to fight it out between them-
selves, and taken care only that their
hostilities did not involve other coun-
tries in warfare. This is the true
principle of non-intervention — - a
principle which, as the Duke of
Wellington truly said, is the rule,
while interference is the exception.
It is the principle which the Allies
pursued with regard to Russia in its
late contest with Poland — a contest
which has a great similarity, in some
respects, to the Belgian revolt, with
this great difference, that the grievous
and "ill-forgotten wrongs of that un-
happy country gave its gallant de-
fenders an incomparably larger title
to public sympathy than the Belgian
revolutionists, who broke out into
insurrection, not from? .reason or
grievance, but contagion and ex-
ample.

But there was an obvious danger

The Belgian Question.

[March,

in the continuance of hostilities in
Belgium from the inflammable state
of the public mind in France, the jea-
lousy of the other Powers, and the
hazard that the war there, if long
protracted, might involve all Europe
in conflagration. To guard against
these dangers, the Duke of Welling-
ton, at the earnest intercession of the
King of Holland, agreed to use the
influence of Great Britain to pro-
cure a cessation of arms, with a view
to the future and amicable adjust-
ment of the differences of the two
parts of the King of the Netherlands'
dominions.

This was the whole which the Duke
had done before he retired from
office. There was nothing as yet had
taken place to prevent the crowns
both of Belgium and Holland from
being united on one head : nay, there
was nothing done to preclude the
return of the whole Netherlands to
their original allegiance. An armis-
tice and line of demarcation had
merely been established; and the
Allied Powers had partly taken upon
themselves, partly accepted at the
request of the Belligerents, the office
of mediators, or arbiters, in the affairs
of that distracted but beautiful part
of Europe.

II. The first error from which all
our other blunders and injustice on
this subject have flowed, took place
after the accession of the Whigs to of-
fice, in the imposition of iniquitous
terms on the King of Holland, the
recognition of a revolutionary mon-
arch in Belgium, and the fatal gua-
rantee of his whole dominions and
part of the Dutch cities to Prince
Leopold. This took place in July,
1831, eight months after Lord Grey's
accession to office, and amidst the
fumes of Reform in this country.

This palpable interference in fa-
vour of the Belgian insurgents, was
accompanied with a declaration, de-
barring the King of the Netherlands
from making war on his former sub-
jects, either to bring them back to
their allegiance, or obtain better
terms of separation for himself. The
Allies prescribed certain terms with
which both parties were dissatisfied,
and at which the Dutch in particu-
lar were so indignant, that they de-
clared they would rather perish than
agree to them. It is not surprising
they were so : for not content with
compelling the King of Holland to

1832.]

The Belgian Question.

457

relinquish all title to the throne of
Belgium, we required of him to sur-
render to his revolted subjects Lux-
emberg and Limber gt embracing the
fortress of Luxemberg,one of the no-
blest fortified towns in Europe, and
Maestricht, the old frontier town of
the Seven United Provinces. To nei-
ther of these fortresses had the Bel-
gians the shadow of a title ; for
Luxemberg was no part of Flanders
at all, but part of the private patri-
mony of the House of Nassau, and
Maestricht had been, since the rise
of Dutch independence, one of its
principal hereditary bulwarks. With
truth did the King of Holland de-
clare, that Dutch independence could
not exist if such terms were exacted
from him. You might as well have
required from England the surrender
of Portsmouth and Plymouth. Such
is the importance of Maestricht in a
military point of view, that in the
course of one of his campaigns, Mar-
shal Saxe declared, " that the peace
lay in Maestricht ;" being well aware
that if once that great frontier town
were taken from Holland, all the
efforts of the Dutch and English to
protract the war would prove una-
vailing.

Now what did Ministers do ? They
declared in common with the other
Allies, that the first shot fired by the
Dutch at the Belgians would be
considered as equivalent to a decla-
ration of war against all the Allied
Powers ! — This was a piece of the
grossest injustice. What right had
we to debar the King of the Nether-
lands from striving to regain his foot-
ing in the dominions given him by
the Congress of Vienna ? What right
had we to compel him to surrender
his old frontier fortress of Holland to
his revolted subjects, and abandon
his ancient patrimony, with its splen-
did and impregnable fortress, to their
revolutionary grasp? Evidently none :
the act was a piece of downright op-
pression, worthy to be ranked with
the partition of Poland. Ireland re-
volts against Great Britain, and suc-
ceeds, in the first fury of the insur-
rection, in driving her forces out of
all but a few fortified posts in that
island. A mediation of the other
powers in Europe takes place, and in
the ^ course of it they declare, that,
besides abandoning all claims to the
sovereignty of that country, England

VOL, XXXI, NO. CXCII.

must surrender to its rebellious popu-
lation Chatham and Portsmouth ; and
that the first shot fired at the Irish
by the English, to avoid these gall-
ing terms, will be considered as a
declaration of war against the whole
of Europe. What would every man,
having a spark of British valour, or
a drop of British blood in his veins,
say to such conditions ? Yet this is
what we deliberately exacted of the
Dutch, the ancient allies and faith-
ful friends of Great Britain !

The King of Holland refused to
surrender his frontier towns : he pre»
ferred the chances of war to the cer-
tainty of humiliation, and with the
spirit of the illustrious house from
which he sprung, declared he would
die in the last ditch rather than aban-
don them. His armies took the field
— the revolutionary rabble of Brus-
sels, brought out from the shelter of
houses, fled at the first onset : two
defeats, unprecedented for their dis-
graceful circumstances, dissipated
the fumes of the Belgian insurrec-
tion. A counter-revolt was just
breaking out at Ghent. Brussels
was within an hour of falling into
the hands of the Dutch forces : the
Belgian question was about to be
" solved," by the restoration of the
King of the Netherlands to his just
rights, amidst the universal acclama-
tions of all but the Jacobin rabble,
when the armies of France and the
fleets of England advanced together
to support the forces of the insur-
rection, and prevent the all but com-
pleted triumph of justice, fidelity,
and valour.

That was the fatal step which has
engendered all the subsequent diffi-
culties, and involved our rulers in
such a maze of folly. Was there any
thing ever like guaranteeing to a re-
volutionary monarch his dominions,
when yet smoking out of the furnace
of insurrection ? — What business,
what right, had we to guarantee the
throne of Belgium to Leopold ? Is
this the system of non-intervention
which formed one of the pledges of
Ministers when they came into
power ? It is evident that what they
call non-intervention is all on one
side; it means never interfering in
favour of a sovereign against his sub-
jects, but always with the subjects
against a sovereign.

The enormous folly of guarantee-
2 G

The Belgian Question.

458

ing to Prince Leopold a throne so
precarious and tottering as that of
Belgium, can never be sufficiently
reprobated. It was a piece of posi-
tive injustice to Holland; because,
while we declined to guarantee to the
King of the Netherlands his revolted
Belgian subjects, we had no sort of
difficulty in guaranteeing his revolted
subjects against the King of the Ne-
therlands. We guaranteed the revo-
lutionary, but declined to guarantee
the legitimate throne : we supported
the revolted Belgians, but refused to
do any thing in favour of the dispos-
sessed Dutch. And this is called
non-intervention, and holding the
balance even between the aristo-
cratic and democratic divisions of the
world !

What we should have done in these
circumstances, is perfectly obvious.
We had refused, and rightly refused,
to aid the King of the Netherlands
in his quarrel with his Belgian sub-
jects; and on the same principle we
should have refused to aid the Bel-
gian revolutionists in their quarrel
with the King of the Netherlands.
" A clear stage and no favour" should
have been our principle. We should
have said to Leopold — " Go, if you
choose, to Belgium ; make what you
can of the throne of the barricades ;
but do not expect us to aid you
against our ancient ally, or give that
succour to menaced democracy
which we have so recently refused
to endangered royalty." This would
really have been non-intervention;
this would have been acting justly;
this would have kept England free
from embarrassments ; and this
would, long ere this, have extinguish-
ed the flame which threatens to in-
volve the world in its conflagration.
No mortal now doubts that if the
Dutch had been let alone, they would,
last autumn, have easily crushed the
Belgian insurrection, and restored
freedom, order, and happiness to
the beautiful but agonized and wi-
thering provinces of Flanders. —
What paralysed them in the midst of
success, and stayed the uplifted arm
of lawful authority? The army of
Gerard and the fleet of Codrington ;
the power of France and the dread
of England ; the arms of a revolu-
tionary monarch, and the fleets of an
innovating administration.

We looked, and looked anxiously,

[March,

to see what Lord Grey said on this
subject, and how he attempted to
justify so gross an instance of revo-
lutionary interference. He evaded
the difficulty ; he absolutely said
nothing on this the vital point in the
whole" Belgian question. He said
that Belgium and Holland had been
four months separated, and it was
evident they could not be again uni-
ted. " It was evident I" — This is an
easy way of defending a proposition
which is utterly indefensible, and
avoiding an objection which is alto-
gether insurmountable. Is the se-
paration of every country evident,
because for four months it has been
in a state of revolt ? Has Earl Grey
forgot that six long years of warfare,
and the destruction of five great ar-
maments had taken place in Greece,
before the Allied Powers ventured
on the doubtful measure of defend-
ing the Christians of the Moreafrom
Egyptian extermination ? Has he
forgot that France recovered its
dominion in La Vendee, after four
bloody campaigns, and the exter-
mination of a million of men ? If
"four months" is the period assigned
for recovering dominion, under pain
of having a revolutionary sovereign
guaranteed on the throne of the re-
volted province — why was not this
measure of justice dealt out to the
Imperial Autocrat during his nine
months' campaign against Poland ?
Why was army after army allowed
to be precipitated on that heroic
land, at the very time that not a
soldier was allowed to advance from
Holland into Belgium ? Let us take
care that this principle is not applied
against ourselves, and a revolution-
ary monarch installed on the throne
of Ireland, because "four months
have elapsed," and the British autho-
rity is not re-established in that
island. Truly, when we recollect
the long and faithful alliance of Hol-
land with Great Britain, and attend
to the conduct of this country to-
wards her monarch in the period of
his misfortunes, we are not surprised
that the Dutch captains have resol-
ved to blow up their vessels rather
than strike to the flag of England.

It is evident, therefore, that our
conduct towards Holland has been
utterly inexcusable ; that we have,
under the specious name of preser-
ving the peace of Europe, and by the

1832.]

The Belgian Question.

aid of mistifying protocols, veiled
an act of downright spoliation ; and,
with the words of freedom and
liberty in our mouths, engaged in a
system of revolutionary aggression
and despotic partition. History will
class this flagrant oppression towards
the King of the Netherlands, with
the strangulation of Venice and the
partition of Poland, and declare that
the rise of tempestuous democracy
in England has been attended with an
instance of national vacillation, and
an exertion of despotic ambition, un-
paralleled in the long period of its
tranquillity and freedom.

III.— The fatal step of interfering
between the King of the Netherlands
and his rebellious subjects, and
guaranteeing to the latter the revo-
lutionary throne which they had
erected on the foundation of the
barricades, explains at once the
otherwise inexplicable act of aban-
doning the barrier of Wellington and
Marlborough against France. It was
no doubt an object to establish a re-
volutionary monarch in Belgium ;
but it was a still greater object to
preserve the good-will of France —
the great focus and centre of repub-
lican propagandism. But the eleva-
tion of a Prince, with British feelings
and a British connexion, to the throne
of Belgium, necessarily gave um-
brage to French ambition, and might
possibly threaten the ultimate acqui-
sition of the Low Countries by that
ambitious power. Something, there-
fore, required to be done to calm the
effervescence of the Palais Royal-
something to heal the wounded pride
of the heroes of the barricades —
something to give an earnest that
the march of Dumourier to Brussels
might again be renewed ; and Ant-
werp again become the pivot of in-
vasion and aggression on this coun-
try. To accomplish these objects,
the barrier fortresses were sacrifi-
ced ; the fruit of the battle of Water-
loo abandoned ; and Belgium for
ever rendered a revolutionary power,
by throwing down the gates between
it and republican France. With
truth does the Constitutionnel declare,
that this single act has " inverted the
relative position of Flanders to France
and the Allied Powers; instead of
being the advanced post of Europe
against France, it has become the
advanced post of France against
Europe."

459

We again repeat that we do not
accuse Ministers of an intention to
sacrifice the interests of Great Bri-
tain in this unparalleled proceeding.
What we say is, that their under-
standings have become so warped by
opposition to their political oppo-
nents, that they are incapable of per-
ceiving the consequences of their
actions ; and that they have wound
up their political existence so com-
pletely with the cause of revolution
abroad and innovation at home, that
they are unable to extricate them-
selves from the perilous torrent.-—
We have no doubt that Talleyrand
clearly perceives the consequences
of all these measures, and we honour
him as a true patriot for doing what
he has done. It was as much his
duty to urge, by diplomatic art, and
the specious guise of a new era in
human affairs, the demolition of the
fortresses, as it was Wellington's
duty by military force to compel
their formation. What we reprobate
is the fumes of democracy and the
spirit of faction which blind and in-
fatuate the human mind, and make
men adopt measures for the further-
ance of particular interests, or the
support of long cherished ideas,
fraught with lasting disaster, benefi-
cial only to their enemies, and which
their own judgment, if applied im-
partially to the subject, would be the
first to condemn.

Let not the illusion be cherished,
that because Leopold once was inti-
mately connected, and long has resi-
ded in this country, therefore by
placing him on the throne, we esta-
blish British influence in that impor-
tant kingdom, and can afford to de-
stroy the fortresses from the ascend-
ency we have acquired over the go-
vernment. It is not past recollec-
tions, but future expectations or pre-
sent necessities, which govern man-
kind. By placing Leopold on the
throne of Belgium, with the French
armies within three days' march of
Brussels, and an open road unguard-
ed by fortresses between them, we
necessarily threw him into the arms
of that power. Whether he forgets
the Princess Charlotte in the arms of
a Princess of France or not, certain
it is, that he will abandon English
interest in the necessity of maintain-
ing French connexion. What can the
fleets or the money of England do
to protect his open and unfortified

460

frontiers from Marshal Soult, at the
head of 100,000 French soldiers ? Is
it to be expected that he, a revolu-
tionary monarch, is to league himself
with Austria, Holland, Prussia, and
Russia, the heads of the aristocratic
party, to resist the aggressions of re-
publican France ? As well may the
lion be expected to lie down with
the kid, or the wolf with the lamb.
It is obvious, therefore, that Leopold
is permanently and unavoidably made
a revolutionary power; he lives and
breathes only in a revolutionary at-
mosphere, and the moment that the
principles of democracy are over-
turned in France, he falls, as a ne-
cessary appendage, to the ground.
The interest, therefore, the existence
of the present government of Bel-
gium, is indissolubly wound up with
the continuance of the revolutionary
regime, and the ascendency of the
power of France, the chief fountain
of revolutionary propagandism, in the
country which has always been the
grand theatre of the contests of Bri-
tain for European independence; and
we, the ancient bulwark of order and
freedom, have bound ourselves to
guarantee his throne of the barri-
cades on the fields illustrated by the
exploits of Marlborough, and within
sight of the Lion of Waterloo !

IV. But this is not all ; new, and
to this country equally galling con-
sequences, have resulted from this
separation of Holland from Belgium,
which we actually produced, by pre-
venting their reunion when the
Dutch monarch was on the point of
effecting it. This involves the ques-
tion of the Russian Dutch Loan, the
most palpable and evident, though
by no means the most serious, error
committed by the innovating admi-
nistration.

To understand this subject, it is
only necessary to recollect, that in
1815, on occasion of the establish-
ment of the kingdom of the Nether-
lands, a "loan of 50,000,000 of gilders,
or L.5,000,000 sterling, due by Russia
to Holland, was undertaken by the
King of the Netherlands and Great
Britain. The purpose of this en-

fagement was to secure the power-
ul aid of Russia in upholding the
new kingdom of the Netherlands
and the barrier fortresses against
France, and accordingly a part of the
consideration which she gave for the
bond, was discharged in the large

The Belgian Question.

[March,

force which she retained in the Ne-
therlands from 1815 to 1819.

As this was the object of the treaty,
it was obvious that the purpose for
which it was destined, would be en-
tirely at an end if Belgium were se-
parated from Holland. It contained,
therefore, an express clause libera-
ting England in the event of such a
separation taking place. The words
are, " It is hereby understood and
agreed between the high contracting
parties, that the said payments on
the part of their majesties the King
of the Netherlands and the King of
Great Britain, shall cease and deter-
mine, should the possession and so-
vereignty (which God forbid) of the
Belgic provinces, at any time, pass,
or be severed from the dominions of
his majesty the King of the Nether-
lands, previous to the complete li-
quidation of the same."

Nothing could be more express
than this clause. It declares the ob-
ligation of England at an end, if
Flanders should ever be separated
from Holland. When the separation
took place, therefore, not only with
our full knowledge, but by our active
interference; when we had guaranteed
to Leopold his revolutionary throne,
and sent our fleet, in conjunction with
the armies of France, for his defence,
the condition suspensive of the ob-
ligation had occurred. The Dutch
government accordingly viewed the
matter in that light; for as soon as the
separation took place, they ceased to
make any farther payments on ac-
count of "the loan. It is clear Eng-
land was entitled to have done the
same. But this would probably have
embroiled Ministers with Russia;
or the discussion of the subject in
Parliament might have led to awk-
ward disclosures during the trans-
ports of new-born Reform. To avoid
these evils, Government neither laid
the difficulty before Parliament, nor
stopped payment of the dividends on
the bonds, in terms of the conditions,
but went on paying them, as if the
contemplated separation had never
taken place, and the Netherlands
had still formed a compact and united
barrier against France. And this
was done, when so far from having
done any thing to prevent the sepa-
ration of the Netherlands, " we had
been," as the Times expresses it,
" from the very first, the most stre-
nuous advocates for the settlement

1832.]

The Belgian Question.

461

of the Belgium question, on the foot-
ing of a complete divorce"* Indeed,
Government themselves are so far
from attempting to disguise, that they
glory in the share we had in effect-
ing the separation of Holland and
Belgium. " What has England done ?"
says the Solicitor- General,! on the
debate on this question. " Had she
not interfered? She had assisted to
accomplish the separation. Eng-
land had been accessory to the sepa-
ration, and it was not in good faith
to say that a separation which had
been in a manner CAUSED BY HER-
SELF, should have been taken ad-
vantage of to avoid the payment"

It is needless to say any thing on
the legal question, as to whether the
condition suspensive of the bond
had occurred. The greatest legal
authorities of England, Lord Eldon,
Sir E. Sugden, Sir James Scarlett,
are unanimous that it had. There is
an end therefore of the legal ques-
tion.

But it is said that, though free in
law, we were bound in honour and
equity ; and we at once admit that a
debt of honour must be paid. But
why is it said by Lord Brougham
that it was a debt which England was
bound in honour to discharge ? Be-
cause Russia had done nothing to
produce the separation of Holland
and Belgium, and therefore could
not be fairly implicated in the conse-
quences of a proceeding to which
she had not been accessory.

But observe what this argument
implies as to the objects of the bond.
It admits that the object of the un-
dertaking by England was to interest
Russia in the preservation of the
United Kingdom of the Netherlands,
and yet we were avowedly the par-
ties who broke it up. We first un-
dertake a debt of L.5,000,000, in order
to secure the consolidation of a king-
dom ; we then become " the most
strenuous advocates" for, and chief
instruments in effecting, its disloca-
tion ; and then we go on paying the
debt which was contracted to per-
petuate and ensure its consolidation,
in the face of a condition which pro-
vided for its cessation on that event.

This appears to us to be by far the
strongest view of the question of the

Russian Dutch Loan which can be
urged. It drives Ministers into a
dilemma from which it is impossible
to escape. If they were right in for-
warding, by every means in their
power, the separation of Holland and
Belgium, they were clearly wrong
in continuing payment of the public
money on account of the loan ; if
they were right in continuing the
payment of the loan, they were as
clearly wrong in the previous mea-
sures which led to the separation.
But first to urge on the separation,
and hinder the reunion, and then
continue the payment which their
own act had caused to cease being
obligatory, is a concatenation of ab-
surdity rarely paralleled in the an-
nals of diplomacy.

According to Lord Brougham's ar-
guments, we should be bound to con-
tinue the payment though the Ne-
therlands were united to France by
voluntary union; "because," says he,
" it was external conquest, not inter-
nal dislocation, which was the suspen-
sive condition." That is, we should
be bound to continue a conditional
payment, intended to prevent an
event, when the very event meant to
be guarded against has occurred.
Nothing more decisive to shew the
absurdity of the proceeding can be
imagined.

We do not so much blame Ministers
for continuing the payments that
should have been done by Parliament-
ary authority, as for other parts of
the transaction ; the omission of that
which could be supplied by a bill of
indemnity, is a matter of compara-
tively little importance. What we
charge them with is, the enormous
error of having promoted, by such
decisive means as they did, the sepa-
ration of Holland and Belgium, in
the face of the clear interests of Eng-
land, and in the knowledge of the
heavy burdens which they now hold
out as irremovable, which the nation
had undertaken, in order to secure
their union. That is the fatal error ;
the error which is now irremediable,
which has lost to Great Britain the
whole fruit of the battle of Water-
loo, and complicated its foreign di-
plomacy in a way which no human
wisdom will be able to unravel.

Times, Feb. 4, 1832.

Debate, Thursday, 26th Jan. 1832.

462

The Belgian Question*

[March,

The Ministerial Journals, more
candid than their superiors, have
revealed the real reason of this ex-
traordinary proceeding. They say it
was necessary to keep Russia quiet
— that a refusal to pay the dividends
would have embroiled us with that
power, and that therefore it was ex-
pedient to continue the payment, in
order to prevent that great power
from openly espousing the cause of
Holland. In other words, this vo-
luntary and gratuitous undertaking
of the bond, after it had ceased to
be obligatory, was a bribe to Russia
to wink at our forcibly preventing
the King of the Netherlands from re-
gaining his authority over Belgium,
and for preserving a revolutionary
throne in that kingdom, to the im-
minent hazard of European inde-
pendence ; that is, for the pleasure of
establishing the throne of the barri-
cades in the Netherlands, and opening
the gates of that country to France,
we are, besides throwing down the
barrier fortresses, to pay five mil-
lions sterling. One would hardly
imagine, from these proceedings,
that England has seven hundred mil-
lions of debt, and has an income of
L.700,000 a-year less than her ordi-
nary expenditure.

It is urged for Ministers, that if we
had not interfered to arrest the King
of Holland when about to vanquish
the Belgians, the inevitable conse-
quence would have been, that the
newly-erected kingdom would have
been subdued, and that instantly
France would have poured in her ar-
mies, and the peace of Europe would
have been destroyed. We have no
doubt that the French would have
done this, knowing, as they did, that
a Reforming Administration, who
had adopted their visionary ideas of
freedom, was at the head of affairs
in this country. But would they
have done it, if Pitt or Wellington
had been at the helm ? Would they
have ventured to beard Europe in
arms, if England had been at its pro-
per place in the van of independ-
ence and freedom, instead of sink-
ing into the second line behind the
throne of the barricades ? It was the
alliance with England — the know-
ledge that we had guaranteed the
throne of Belgium to Leopold as well
as them, which rendered the French

BO valiant. Had we acted otherwise,
they would never have stirred from
Valenciennes. The Austrians beard-
ed them in Italy — the boasts of de-
mocracy came to nothing, and the
march of revolution was speedily
checked to the south of the Alps.

The original sin of our Belgian in-
terference has been that insane sys-
tem of conceding to the populace,
which lighted Bristol with the fires
of conflagration, and promises, ere
long, to involve the world in its
flames. No revolutionary danger was
ever yet averted by concession to the
demands of democracy, any more
than any mob was dispersed by fly-
ing from its approach. We have seen
what the system of concession led to
at Bristol ; and the conduct of Go-
vernment, in regard to Belgium, ap-
pears to have been founded on the
same principles — " Concede every
thing to the Belgian and Parisian mobs
— avoid every thing which can irritate
them — dismantle the fortresses, to
keep them in good humour." These
are the principles on which we have
acted. The sending the 14th Dra-
goons out of the burning city, is not
without a parallel in sending the
fortresses out of the burning conti-
nent.

What we should have done in this
crisis is sufficiently plain. We should
really have followed out the system
of non-interference : we should have
done nothing either to restore Charles
to the throne of France, or the King
of the Netherlands to that of Bel-
gium ; but we^should have done as
little to prevent them from endeavour-
ing to regain them. We should have
allowed the Belgians to choose what
Sovereign they liked, or adopt what
form of government they preferred,
on the condition only, that Belgium
was to be part of the Germanic Con-
federation, and its fortresses intrust-
ed to the surveillance of the Allied
Powers, and that they were to fight
it out, without foreign aid, with their
ancient Sovereign. We were enti-
tled to demand this, because their
fortresses, though locally situated in
Belgium, were, in fact, the common
property of the Allied Powers, and
the barrier, not of Belgium, but of
Europe. Had we done this, we would
have preserved our good faith invio-
late to our ancient allies j we would

1832.]

The Belgian Question.

have given no just cause of com-
plaint to Holland,* we would have
been embarrassed by no guarantee
to revolutionary powers ; we would
have preserved the important bar-
rier in^the Netherlands; we would
have permitted the King of Holland
to solve the Belgian question, by ex-
tirpating, amidst the applause of all
men of sense in the country, the
fumes of Brussels jacobinism ; and
France, deprived of this advanced
post of revolution, would have cea-
sed to be formidable to Europe. We
should have told that power, in con-
junction with Russia, Prussia, and
Austria, that we would allow no in-
terference by them in favour of the
Flemish insurrection, and that the
first squadron of horse which crossed
the Belgian frontier should be the
signal for 300,000 men crossing the
Rhine. This would have been non-
intervention on both sides ; whereas
the present system has forced us in-
to violent interference in favour of
the revolutionary power, and expo-
sed us to the peril of a war, against
alike all our former allies, and the
real interests of the country, whe-
ther they are to be under republican
or monarchical guidance.

V. — This brings us to the last step
in this concatenation of incapacity
and blindness — the signature of the
late treaty by France, England, and
Belgium, in effect guaranteeing the
revolutionary throne to Leopold, and
binding us to uphold that tottering
and vacillating revolutionary mo-
narch, against the united force of all
the rest of the continent. This treaty
is at present only signed by three
powers ; the ratification of the others
has not yet arrived, and probably
never will. But be that as it may,
England, without its Allies, has cross-
ed the Rubicon, and we are irrevo-
cably pledged to the support of two
revolutionary thrones.

We do not hesitate to say, that the
-signature of this treaty is the most
rash and fatal act of the present Ad-
ministration, teeming as it does with
imprudent and perilous proceedings.
For who can repeal a signed treaty ?
An Act of Parliament may be repeal-
ed; a faulty constitution may be
amended ; but a treaty of guarantee
cannot be got quit of without a vio-
lation of public faith. Its conse-

463

quences must be, to the last degree*
disastrous; and that equally whether
the other powers do or do not ratify
the treaty.

If they do not ratify, the powers
which have plunged into the torrent,
must bear the weight of all Europe.
We know what that is ; we felt it in
the war with Napoleon ; we are now
groaning under its effects. And this
terrible burden is now to be under-
taken a second time, to uphold a re-
volutionary throne; to keep the
eagles of France in the Low Coun-
tries ; to undo all that Marlborough,
and Nelson, and Wellington have
done; to overturn the balance of
power, and prepare the second sub-
jugation of the continent by repub-
lican armies.

If they do ratify it, we have the
satisfaction of having completed the
spoliation of our ancient ally ; of ha-
ving permanently fixed French as-
cendency and republican principles
in the Low Countries ; of having in
effect advanced the tricolor flag to
Mayence and Antwerp ; of having
restored to France the mighty lever
by which she shook and desolated
the world under Napoleon, and im-
posed upon posterity the necessity
of undertaking a long and hazardous
war, to regain what their ancestors
had bravely won, and their rulers in
a moment of infatuation had aban-
doned.

And these disasters are the natural
consequences, and will be the just
retribution, -of the innovating and
revolutionary passions which have
seized upon the nation within the
last fifteen months.

The spirit of Propagandism is the
accompaniment in every age of the
revolutionary fury, and is the excess
which Providence has appointed to
lead to its destruction. A free state
does not disquiet itself about its
neighbours : Switzerland, Holland,
and England, reposed for centuries
without seeking to revolutionize or
disturb any of their neighbours. But
it is otherwise with the revolution-
ary passion. It ever seeks for pro-
selytes, and strives to prop up its
internal weakness by an array of si-
milar passions in all the adjoining
states. Republican France began the
system of surrounding itself with
affiliated republics, and the system

464

The Belgian Question.

[March,

destroyed first its liberties, and then
its independence. We have rushed
into the same system ; we must have
a little advanced work of innovation
on the continent of Europe, in imi-
tation of the great parent of demo-
cracy, and our madness will bring
upon the nation the same punish-
ment.

It has been observed in the outset
of this paper, that to support Bel-
gium against France, and Poland
against Russia, is the obvious policy
of all the European states ; because
it is from these great potentates that
the chief danger to their liberties is
to be apprehended. By our infatua-
ted policy, we have contrived at the
same time to increase both these dan-
gers ; we have opened Flanders to
France at the very moment that the
payment we took upon ourselves to
Russia enabled it to break down the
independence of Poland. Thus this
fatal step, of establishing a revolu-
tionary throne in Belgium, promises
to be equally ruinous to the liberties
of eastern and western Europe; it
has already enabled Paskewitsch to
renew the triumph of Suwarrow at
Warsaw, and it has gained for France
all the advantages of the march of
Dumourier to Brussels.

We tell the people of England, and
they will perhaps remember our
warning voice when the period of
retribution arrives, that they will
suffer, and suffer deeply, for this
desertion of national duty, and this
violation of public right. Europe
will not forget that we strove to
bully second-rate powers into a sus-
pension of all efforts to regain their
dominions, and a surrender of their
ancient possessions to their rebel-
lious subjects, at the very time that
we said nothing in favour of an he-
roic race striving to regain their lost
independence on the shores of the
Vistula; that we aided the cause of
rebellion when we had nothing to
urge in favour of that of independ-
ence, and gave to those who had,
without a shadow of reason, violated
their duty towards their sovereign,
that which we refused to those who
had nobly stood in adversity by their
prostrated country. She will not
forget that, amidst the fumes of inno-
vation, we forgot all the honour of

treaties, and all the gratitude due to
past services ; that we turned fierce-
ly on our Allies who implored our
assistance in the hour of trial, and
to gain the applause of a fickle and
despicable revolutionary mob, for-
got alike all the examples of past
glory and all the anticipations of fu-
ture renown. The consequence of
the sins of individuals fall upon
themselves alone, and their imme-
diate connexions: the punishment
of national delinquencies falls on
whole races of men, and is visited
on the third and fourth generation
of those who have violated their
duty. Already we begin to feel the
punishment of our national offences,
in the consequences to which they
lead at home, and the contempt
which they engender abroad. A new
and burdensome tax, it is said, will
be laid on the nation as the first fruit
and first recompense of its revolu-
tionary passions ; the rich will be
restrained in their enjoyments, the
poor stinted in their subsistence, in
consequence of the perilous and
guilty desires which they have con-
curred in indulging. Already the
character of an Englishman, once
the object of universal esteem, has
shared in every European state in
the odium consequent upon the pro-
ceedings of its government ; and the
national reputation, once the polar
star of honour and fidelity, has been
darkened by the vacillation and in-
capacity of democratic ascendency.
But let us not flatter ourselves that
our punishment is to stop here, or
the character and independence of
England to emerge unharmed from
a crisis so perilous to its fate. Long
and costly wars must be undertaken
to reconquer the barrier which has
been abandoned ; national disaster
and humiliation incurred to expiate
the sins which have been commit-
ted 5 torrents of blood shed to re-
gain the character which has been
lost. Happy if, in this chaos of de-
mocratic passion, the national inde-
pendence and freedom is not de-
stroyed, and we emerge from the
revolutionary furnace without, as in
ancient Rome, having lost our liber-
ties ; or, as in modern Venice, sacri-
ficed our independence.

1832.]

What caused tlie Bristol Riots $

'4G5

WHAT CAUSED THE BRISTOL RIOTS {

THERE is not a city, town, village,
or hamlet, in the King's dominions,
where, if restraint of the law were
removed, the mob would not rise
upon their superiors. That this was
always the case, we are not called
upon to assert ; that it is so now is an
evil sufficient for our day. The hope
of immediate emancipation from pe-
nury or toil, of immediately revelling
in all " good things," of turning over
at once to their grasp and possession
the wealth that in civilized societies
makes its daily display before the
eyes of the needy, springs up in for-
midable excitement upon the least
relaxation of those " bonds of peace,"
the checks of religion and law.
Quench the love " which envieth
not," and set aside fear, the sword
of the law, and the state of social
order is in instant disruption.

We say thus much by way of pre-
face to an investigation into the
causes of the Bristol riots, because
we would vindicate at least the po-
pulace of that city from the necessity
of their bearing the whole of the
odium, which, we believe, they are
entitled to but in common with every
other populace, equally liable, like
them, by incessant agitation, to be
driven and ^maddened into outrage.
Whoever may bear the punishment,
theirs be the shame through whom
such offences come. We think we
shall be able to prove that in Bristol,
more than in any other place, the
democratical fury has been let loose.
Its demagogues and its press have
taken a more active part in revolu-
tionary excitement — have been inde-
fatigable in throwing contempt on its
local authorities — in uprooting re-
spect for superiors, and veneration
for its religious institutions. They
have followed this their unhallowed
vocation, unhappily, under the ban-
ners of pretended loyalty, and with
the sanction of his Majesty's Minis-
ters. They have had all the advan-
tage of the general relaxation of re-
straint, the contempt and defiance of
law, and of the removal of the fear
of punishment; and the mob, with
all their inflammable passions, were
at their mercy, the very slaves of the
tyrant master-magicians, and demons
of The Lamp. We say, without fear

of contradiction from any man of
common sense or common integrity,
that this connexion between the de-
magogues and Government, and the
unconstitutionally allowed free use of
the King's name, gave an authority
to the wildest schemes of democratic
ambition, an unnatural sanction to
the most atrocious slanders, and
threw over conservative principles
the semblance of rebellion. The
mob therefore, flatteringly called the
People, had much reason to believe
that in seeking their " withheld
rights" even by outrage in the King's
name, they would be loyal and pa-
triotic ; that in a revolutionary strug-
gle, they might obtain much if it suc-
ceeded— if it did not, that they had a
lenient Government who would not
punish them as rebels or plunder-
ers. We only say, they, "as a mob,
had reason to believe this; we say
not the Government intended they
should quite reach such a conclusion.
But there were facts before the eyes
of the people, plain and legible
enough, and, as they read them, it is
not to be wondered if they made
their own comments. They had seen
Commissions appointed for Incen-
diarism, and culprits unpunished ;
and thereby an odium thrown on the
judges of the land. They had been
told the press was more powerful
than the King's judges, demanded
and would obtain pardon — and they
saw it was so. They knew the riots
and burnings at Derby, Nottingham,
and Dorchester, had been left without
the notice of Government, and con-
sidered the Ministry had gained a
triumph over a boroughmonger no-
bleman. They had seen the life of
another nobleman attempted, and the
reforming ruffians in ecstasy, and
but small attempt to stop such out-
rages. They had seen O'Connell,the
arch-fiend of agitation, escape from
the net of the law, and rustle his silk
gown in swaggering insolence, and
fling from every fold the boasted
praises of the Prime Minister. When
they had thought to see him in unre-
deemable disgrace, they see him rise
in the grandeur of ministerial ho-
nour. They had seen in Ireland a
convicted conspiracy to defraud the
clergy of their tithes pardoned — and

466

What caused the Bristol Riots ?

[March,

they had seen the consequences, re-
sistance universally successful, the
clergy (the established clergy) vitu-
perated, robbed, and starved, and
were taught to rejoice at the glorious
impunity ; and they recollected the
intimation of Earl Grey, that he could
contemplate the removal of the
Church of England Establishment in
Ireland, unconnected with the repeal
of the Union. They thought they had
hints as strong as those which their
brethren reformers in Ireland had
turned to such good account, given
to them from the Ministerial Delphi,
and what had they to fear, should
they proceed to violence, provided
it were committed in support of their
" beloved Ministry, in the name of
Reform and the King," even though
they should plunder the King's Ex-
cise, and burn an anti- reforming
odious Bishop in his palace ?

The restraints of religion and law
had been greatly removed. Were
they then urged to acts of violence ?
The press, the Ministerial press, had
incessantly recommended extreme
violence, even ruffianism, the use of
bludgeons, brickbats, and stones, the
striking at the faces of the Tories,
the not allowing any such to shew
themselves at the Reform election,
citizen guards and armed associa-
tions against the Tories and the Bi-
shops ; and can we wonder, if the
populace, in their excusable igno-
rance, verily believed it to be the
wish of his Majesty's Ministers, who
had courted illegal assemblies, and
denounced the House of Lords as a
faction, and recommended the Bi-
shops to " put their house in order,"
as persons who were to " die, and
not live," — if they believed it to be
the wish of these vilifiers of our old
constitution, to effect a revolution
even by violence ? Sedition had long
been as it were at a premium. The
Attorney-General had enjoyed his
office as a sinecure. Treason had
been stalking the land, as the school-
master, in open day. The press,
with the power of the torpedo, had
touched the arm of the law, and it
was benumbed and withered ; Poli-
tical Unions, if they had not yet
seized the reins of government, had
rendered the 'hands that held them
inert and powerless; and the Ma-
jesty of England was constrained by
an imbecile Cabinet to issue a pro-

clamation of entreaty for one of
command. There had long been a
general feeling of immunity, as if
pardons were to be had, if worth the
asking, for offences to be committed;
and the ignorant goaded " multi-
tude" were generally throughout the
kingdom in a state of impatient
turbulence and revolutionary hope.
But nowhere were they more impa-
tient than in Bristol, for there, more
than in any other city or town in
the kingdom, had the evil energy of
the press and orators of Reform
been virulently and profusely put
forth.

Bristol had been particularly un-
fortunate in the choice the Reform-
ers had made at their revolutionary
election. Mr Protheroe had been
previously an unsuccessful candi-
date— had shewn himself outrage-
ously arrogant and intemperate, to-
tally without that ballast of the mind
or understanding, requisite in trou-
blesome times, to steady himself, or
those who might look up to him.
The most respectable merchants,
bankers, and citizens, viewed his po-
litical principles with abhorrence;
and being the constant objects of his
abuse, they could scarcely consider
him, under any circumstances that
might arise, their representative. We
very believe the Political Union
chose him for his worst qualities,
that made him their more ready
tool, and tried upon him (seeing he
had but that one determined ambi-
tion, to be returned for Bristol) the
experiment of degradation, to testify
to the world to what a degree of low
subserviency and humiliation they
could reduce a delegate. What man
of gentlemanly feeling would. 'not
have indignantly broken away from
the base submission of their public
and private vulgar examinations, —
their schooling, to use their own
phraseology, and as he, in little re-
verence to the Church, its rites and
services, terms them, his catechism
and confirmation ? But, as it is ever,
the case with a little mind to seek
compensation to itself for its crawl-
ing servility to one quarter, by as-
suming an insolence in another, so
did this slave of the Political Union
rise from kissing their feet, to insult
and slander the late member for
Bristol; a man who had been for
many years singularly and deserved-

1832.] What caused the

ly popular— so much so, that all par-
ties, Whigs and Tories, had vied in
pouring in their votes for him, to put
him at the head of the poll, if a con-
test happened to arise, not in oppo-
sition to him, for that was out of all
thought, but between rival Whig
candidates. Mr Davis had been ever
truly the member for Bristol, inde-
fatigable for the general good, for
the particular interests of the place,
and the acknowledged courteous and
attentive friend to every man, of
whatever party, who required his
time or assistance. As a man of busi-
ness, well acquainted with commer-
cial affairs, it was utterly impossible
a better representative could have
been chosen; and the respect and
influence he enjoyed in the House,
and with every government, reflected
great credit on Bristol. As member
for the city he was of no party — and
this highly honourable man, beloved
by all, was the first object of attack
for the flippant and upstart candidate ;
and so careless was he in his assertions,
that in a short time no less than three
public apologies bore his signature,
and his own party expressed no sa-
tisfaction at the little credit he ob-
tained as a man from his escape from
another antagonist. We ourselves
have remonstrated with some of his
reforming constituents upon their
choice ; their answer was indicative
both of the character of the respect
in which they hold their member,
and of the use they mean to make
of him, and, in the end, of the Reform
Bill and its parents. " The greater
the fool," said they, " the better the
tool; a stick, a stone, any thing, pro-
vided we could bind it down to vote
for the Bill, would suit us; after
that has passed, we will very will-
ingly kick him out if you please, for
we hold him in utter contempt." We
have thought it right to dwell some-
what on this description of the choice
of the Reformers, because we shall
shew that his extreme folly, to speak
in the mildest terms of his conduct,
if it did not produce, encouraged the
riots to a dangerous allowed excess.
We have now come to this point,
that the conduct of the Ministry, at
once insane and imbecile, in throw-
ing put the bait of Reform to demo-
cratic ambition, and in calling to
their fellowship in arms the profli-
gate of all classes, and the whole

Bristol Riots? 467

bedlam of bankrupts, schemers, and
despisers of the laws of God and
man, and in their submission, in ut-
ter impotence, to their daring allies,
had thrown the country into a dan-
gerous state of excitement, that they
were powerless to punish ; and that
the press, in aid of revolution, had
fearlessly encouraged and demand-
ed violence : That to a population
they moved to outrage from with-
out, the local demagogues and press
within were constantly issuing most
inflammatory language, of which we
mean to produce some proof and
specimens : That one member for
the city, at least, was the mere tool
of a Political Union, an illegal Politi-
cal Union, and little likely, from in-
clination, influence, or ability, to
promote sober quietness, and the
decencies of civic order; and here,
we regret to say, that the other mem-
ber, manly and upright as we believe
him to be, seems ready to go the
worst lengths of the philosophers
and scheming economists by whom
our policy is distracted. We must
now speak somewhat of another
party, upon whom the blame of
these riots has been generally and
erroneously thrown, before we come
to the immediate occasion of the
outbreaking, — the magistrates, or, as
they are termed, the corporation of
Bristol.

It has been asserted by the London
press, in atrocious ignorance, that
the corporation are Tories, and, as
such, have unduly influenced elec-
tions; nay, that they have spent the
public money for such base purpo-
ses. It is utterly false. The local
revolutionary press have, indeed,
been lavish in abuse of this body,
partly because they yet hold civic
authority, and partly from other
causes. The foolish London press
have, therefore, concluded them to
be Tories — or, what is equally pro-
bable, knowing what they asserted to
be false, thought them a convenient
body to bear the blame, justly and
solely due to the Reformers. Now,
the fact is, they are in no respects a
political corporation. Until of very
late years, certainly, the majority of
its members were Whigs, and would
probably have so continued, had not
some of them, thinking their party
were running the whole length of a
democracy, become converts to

468

What caused the Bristol Riots?

[March,

other principles. But still they are
a mixed body; have never acted
together as politicians, or exerted
political influence. In proof, the
mayor is a Reformer, and presided
at the meeting held in Bristol for the
congratulating the French on their
revolution. Several of Mr Protheroe's
family are members, all Whigs. Nor
can it be shewn that the corporation
ever issued one political document,
or ever expressed any unity of poli-
tical opinion. But they were an
authority, and therefore to be vili-
fied, and, if possible, put down. They
administered law, and therefore
they were to be contemned ; in pro-
perty were aristocrats, and therefore
were to be detested, and, at the pro-
per time, victims. Corporate pro-
perty promises excellent pillage, arid
we need not say into what hands re-
volution would throw it. Has the
sober citizen no alarm for those cha-
ritable funds, by which his children,
if unfortunately left destitute, may
be educated to habits of industry,
and in the fear of God, when he sees
the characters of the brawling ora-
tors that stretch out their hands for
their grasp ? We will not insult the
present trustees with a comparison.
The attempt, however, has been long
making, and is now making, that this
trustship should change hands; and,
accordingly, every nerve is strained
to render them objects of public
odium, (we are speaking of the cor-
poration of Bristol,) to render their
authority despised — a nullity — and
the first order of persecution has
been issued against them.

In such a state of democratic in-
fluence, among a populace deluded
and goaded to revolutionary fury,
and in such a state of reviled and
despised authority, did the Reform-
ers of Bristol determine, in their
wisdom, to shew the utmost mark of
insult towards Sir Charles Wether-
ell, the manly, sturdy, honest oppo-
nent of Reform, whose duty, as Re-
corder of Bristol, compelled him to
visit the city at the usual jail deli-
very. In this state of things, did
the magistrates do their duty ? — We
shall see. They were aware, in the
general relaxation of law, of their
own diminished power. They were
aware of more than ordinary risk to
themselves; that every movement
they might make would be scruti-

nized with a jealous eye, with all
the eyes of a democratic Argus ; that
every effort they might make to pre-
serve the peace might be hopeless :
and they laid their knowledge and
their fears before the Government,
from whom they expected the pro-
tection of the city. Let us now see
how that protection was afforded.

But, first, let us summarily dis-
miss the charge that has been brought
against one other party, as the cause
ot the riots— Sir Charles Wetherell
himself; nor would this charge be
worth a moment's consideration, had
it not been allowed for weeks to
run the round of all the Ministerial
prints — a sufferance reflecting little
credit on the Secretary for the Home
Department; and had it not been
the object of a pamphlet, dedicated
to Lord Melbourne, by Thomas John
Manchee of Bristol, in which the au-
thor's malignity, overstepping all dis-
cretion, exposes and makes plain his
purpose, while his facts and his in-
ferences are in dismal confusion and
contradiction. We never read any
thing written in a worse spirit. When
we remind the reader that the Mi-
nisters have themselves vindicated
Sir Charles Wetherell, and stated
that he not only met with their con-
currence, but that they should have
considered his absenting himself a
relinquishment of his high duty, no-
thing more need be said on that sub-
ject. The viper is shaken from the
hand, and though bloated with venom,
was innocuous. We will occasion-
ally, perhaps, make some use of the
pamphleteer's admissions, as they
may at least be taken in evidence of
the spirit and motives of his party.

Sir Charles Wetherell had decla-
red that there was a " reaction ;" —
this was a crime to be atoned for only
by his blood — a crime and high mis-
demeanour against the "sovereignty"
that imprinted, says this boaster of
liberality and lover of liberty, on the
minds of " the people, a deep-root-
ed aversion." " The people" — we
quote the pamphlet—" having made
up their minds to express their dis-
approbation of Sir Charles Wether-
ell, should he attempt to enter the
city with the usual parade, affected
no concealment of their intentions.
They proclaimed them at the corner
of every street ; — their denunciations
were not less loud than deep." This

1832.]

determination, then, of "the people,"
and their denunciations loud and
deep, having been proclaimed with
a sovereign authority not to be ques-
tioned, and information of " matter
deep and dangerous" pouring in
upon the magistrates, as we before
stated, with discreet and proper cau-
tion they laid the whole state of the
case before the Government, and,
from that moment, with the Govern-
ment lay the great responsibility.
The Corporation, in what the Re-
former calls " a detestable spirit of
faction," sent a deputation to the Se-
cretary for the Home Department.
How are they received ? They are
thwarted in their urgent solicitation
for aid, by Mr Protheroe, member for
the city, the choice of an. illegal bo-
dy— the Political Union.

From the Morning Chronicle.—'
" The following is an extract from a
letter addressed by Mr Protheroe to
Mr Herapath, the Vice-President of
the Bristol Political Union, after he
(Mr P.) had been informed that Lord
Melbourne had complied with the re-
quest of the deputation, (Sir Charles
having had an interview with Lord
Melbourne, and made some sort of
representation,) to send a body of
soldiers to guard the Recorder into
the city : —

" SIR — on Thursday night I recei-
ved a note from Lord Melbourne to
wait upon his Lordship, as did my
colleague, Mr Baillie. I had bets that
the subject related to the Cholera,
or Wetherell. I found a deputation
in the room for military to protect
the city from riot, and Wetherell
from attack. I argued against the
policy of the proposal, and stated,
that if we could be secured from
thieves arid adventurers from other
places, that I could, with the aid of
friends, (the Union,) keep all in per-
fect order ! I offered my services
to attend Wetherell, and to do all
this, provided I might be allowed to
e'nable the people of Bristol, thus
constrained, to express in some mea-
sure their strong and unalterable dis-
approbation of Sir Charles Wether-
ell's political conduct, that we might
be all insured from the insidious
conduct of the Tories, who, if the
people are quiet, would say there is
reaction against the Bill."

The pamphleteer, lauding Mr Pro-
theroe, says, " He did insist that the

What caused the Bristol Riots ?

469

people should be allowed to express
their opinion in every legal and consti-
tutional way, in order that Sir Charles
might have no pretext for again m isre-
presenting their sentiments on the
subject of reform." This is, we pre-
sume, confirmation from authority.
His bets, forsooth — he had bets on
the Cholera and Wetherell, to an-
nounce in his official letter to the
vice-president! What! a member
of Parliament, sent to represent the
city of Bristol, stipulate with his
Majesty's Secretary for the Home
Department, for having the King's
judge, the representative of the
King's Majesty, insulted ! " He did in-
sist;" and did not Lord Melbourne—-
for wehavenotheard that he had been
tailorized into humble submission —
did not he kick him, as an English
gentleman should have done — kick
him out of his office, though it were
down twenty pair of stairs, for an
impertinent puppy ? Let him make
his bets on Wetherell and the Cho-
lera with his nasty Union people, if
he please, but to stand in the pre-
sence of an English gentleman with
such a proposal, deserves the stocks
or the pillory ! Think too, Christo-
pher North, of his offering the pro-
tection of his person to Sir Charles.
The grandest of the Lions of Eng-
land under the protection of the
Ape ! One honest growl from the
noblest of animals would have fright-
ened the monkey into fits — have an-
nihilated him and his bets on Cho-
lera and Wetherell. Yes; he did
want to ride in the carriage with Sir
Charles, that he might grin with de-
light at the hisses and groans he had
stipulated for, and note them in his
pocketbook ; that he might give a
good account in his place in the
House of the reception of an Anti-
Reformer. He was ambitious, not
to protect, but to bear testimony that
the insult was complete. This scene
was more disgraceful than that be-
tween Lord Grey and the Tailor.
Can it be possible, we ask, that Lord
Melbourne, Secretary of State for
the Home Department, listened to a
proposal to promote or to allow the
King's Majesty to be insulted in the
person of his judge? Yet you have
Mr Protheroe's written word for it.
And to whom does this political
jackanapes send in his official ac-
count of his proceedings? To My

470

What caused the Bristol Riots ?

[March,

Herepath, vice-president of the Po-
litical Union, which Political Union
thereupon demand of the magistrates
abdication, and assume their power,
cause the proclamation of the cor-
poration to be torn down, and put
up their own placards in its place.

But after this deputation of the
magistrates, and this intimation of
the determination of the people, and
this remonstrance from a member of
the city, what is the conduct of the
Government ? Do they send a suf-
ficient force to protect the King's
authority — " to protect the city from
riot" — for that, as the member ad-
mits, was the object of the deputa-
tion ? Not one hundred soldiers
were at any time in the city, " to
keep down" — they are the words of
the pamphleteer — " an insulted po-
pulation of an hundred thousand."
The magistrates provided, it is ad-
mitted, three hundred constables.
If it be asked, why they did not fur-
nish more, let the Reformer tell;
and, indeed, he is either the vile
slanderer of the citizens, or a true
historian of Reform and its conse-
quences— of the spirit of democracy
• — its foul and poisonous influence.
The writer and the Reformers will
settle the pointbetween them. "Now,
let the magistrates state, if they did
not early discover a general indis-
position on the part of the respecta-
ble inhabitants and tradesmen to
enrol themselves among the special
constables. The necessary conse-
quence of this indisposition was, that
only the more violent of the Tory
party were sworn in ; and these were
found so few in number, that it be-
came necessary to hire men to act
with them as special constables."
Now, though we doubt not this is
every word untrue, yet, admitting
the fact, here the Reformers entirely
vindicate the magistracy, unwitting-
ly, for not providing more j if it be
not true, we have no fact to reason
upon, and the respectable inhabitants
are slandered. They likewise vin-
dicate the magistrates, by shewing
that there was no apparent necessity
for a larger force, in an assertion
that " This series of awful calamities
were committed by a mob which
was never in possession of any arms,
and which, it it had been opposed
with judgment and decision, by a
Yery small organized force, had no

moral or combined physical means
of resistance." But mark the further
blundering of this malignant writer
— for he afterwards admits they had
" sledge-hammers," and " that a sol-
dier, we are told, was wounded by a
pistol-ball." In his ill-conditioned
zeal to attack the magistrates, he de-
fends them, for he charges them
with procuring an insufficient force,
while he is proving that a small one
alone was necessary ; that the mob
consisted of but a few wretches, and
that they were " an insulted popu-
lation of an hundred thousand."

But we do assert, without fear of
contradiction, that if the apprehen-
sions of the magistrates were founded
on correct information — and it is now
pretty well proved that they were—-
the responsibility — the whole respon-
sibility of the security, not only of
the King's representative, but of the
city, rested with his Majesty's Minis-
ters. And here a question natural-
ly suggests itself — Were they, toot
willing, in their Reform zeal, that in-
sult should proceed to a certain
length ? We fear their delusion as
to their own power to command their
mobs to go " thus far, and no farther,"
will be as fatal to the constitution, if
this odious Bill be not firmly resisted,
as it has been to the second city in the
kingdom. Forthe present, however, it
may not be improper to direct their
attention to the profitable lesson read
to them, not by their " schoolmas-
ter," but by the Lord Chief Justice.
" A riotous and tumultuous assem-
blage of people gathered itself to-
gether, with an object, and for a pur-
pose, which no honest man or well-
wisher to the laws of his country can
sufficiently reprobate, I mean the
open and avowed purpose of treating
with insult and indignity, if not per-
sonal violence, a gentleman placed in
a high judicial station, bearing the
authority of his Sovereign, in the ad-
ministration of the criminal law
within this city, and during part of
the very time engaged in the actual
exercise of his judicial functions."—
" No honest man can sufficiently re-
probate" ! ! ! Did Lord Melbourne
reprobate such intention ? Did ho-
nest Mr Protheroe reprobate the ob-
ject of his stipulation ? Did the mass
of Reformers, the respectable Re-
formers, honest men, reprobate it ?
Pid his Majesty's Ministers reprobate

1832.]

it in their " Whereas," when they so
nicely omit the name of the King's
judge, and include him among their
" divers persons."

There was another lesson the Lord
Chief Justice read, which, had it
been learned by the Cabinet earlier,
might have averted the calamities of
Bristol.

" For in the case of offences at
once so alarming to the public tran-
quillity, and so dangerous to the pro-
perty and safety of individuals, it is
of the first importance to make it
known to all, that enquiry and pun-
ishment follow close upon the com-
mission of crime, in order that the
wicked and ill-disposed may be de-
terred, by the dread of the law,
from engaging in similar enormities,
whilst the peaceable and industrious
in ay look up to it with gratitude and
affection, for the safeguard which it
extends over their persons and pro-
perty." Did the " enquiry and the
punishment follow close upon the
commission of crime," in the cases of
the outrages at Nottingham, Dor-
chester, and Derby? Had punish-
ment followed close, the Commission
at Bristol might have been unneces-
sary. Had Ministers attended to the
spirited, constitutional recommenda-
tion of Sir Charles Wetherell him-
self, this sack of the city might have
been spared.

In order to do justice to this spi-
rited remonstrance, we will extract
part of the debates.

"That day," Sir R. Vivyan is speak-
ing, " the Marquis of Londonderry
was waylaid a second time, and se-
verely wounded. (Hear.) Those
who were taunted as mock Reform-
ers, had been described as unfriend-
ly to the extension of the liberties of
the people. He denied the charge.
(Hear.) He hoped that Government,
after all that had passed, would see
the propriety of so modifying their
late Bill as to make it a safe mea-
sure, which would not scare and
alarm the advocates of our ancient
institutions ; and he was glad to per-
ceive that Ministers already evinced
symptoms of a disposition to abate
somewhat of their demands. At pre-
sent, he could not forbear complain-
ing of the system by which it was
sought to make converts to Reform.
Handbills were placarded through
the town, fringed with black, and

What caused the Bristol Riots ?

471

bearing the names of the majority of
the Lords, who were thus pointed
out to the vengeance of the public,
and marked as fit objects, if neces-
sary, for the knife. (Cheers.) In
no one instance did he see the police
interfere to prevent the circulation
of such documents ; but Ministers,
he concluded, were but too happy in
their prospect of advantage from
any contingent riots which it was
likely would ensue." (Cheers.)

Lord Althorp said, " With regard
to his letter to the Birmingham Uni-
on, his feelings must be very differ-
ent from what they had hitherto been,
before he could disdain to return a
courteous answer to the communi-
cation he had received."

Mr Bankes " would tell the noble
Lord, that he preferred the whisper
of his (Mr B.'s) faction to the cla-
mour of his Lordship's mob."

Lord John Russell said, " He did
not hesitate to state, that he had not
contemplated the majority of the
Lords in the phrase so often referred
to. But there might be factions in
Parliament notwithstanding, which
looked to their own interests, and
promoted their own ends, by oppo-
sing the Reform Bill. (Hear.) After
this explanation, he should be sorry
if the House thought that any blame
attached to him j and he hoped that
angry discussion might not arise in
the present state of public feeling."

Sir Charles Wetherell said, " Pro-
bably his Lordship's letter was writ-
ten from inadvertence — a word not
unknown to the Cabinet. Let me
ask," said Sir Charles, " would the
noble Paymaster of the Forces recom-
mend merely calmness and soothing-
syrup for the popular irritation, if
Woburn Abbey had been burnt down
instead of Nottingham Castle ? The
Duke of Newcastle's mansion has
been burnt down because he voted
against the Reform Bill; and by a
happy convertibility of public opini-
on, which changes with the utmost
rapidity, and without the possibility
of control, Woburn Abbey, Tavistock
Abbey, Althorp House, and Losely,
may be the next to be sacrificed.'*
Sir J. Wrottesley spoke " to order.
The right honourable gentleman was
pointing out places to be objects of
popular fury." The Speaker con-
ceived that it was out of order. Sir
C, WetherelW I do not apprehendl

472

TWiat caused the Bristol Riots ?

[March,

that the people — the tide of the mob
— ' the turbid flowing base,' will
need my information, if they at any
future period should have a spark of
fire for any of those splendid fabrics.
I was going to conjure Government
not to act on the inferior principle
of soothing popular passion and
calming irritation, but at once to
take offenders into custody, and pun-
ish them. For this purpose I would
remind the noble Lord and his coad-
jutors, that those who are now friend-
ly to Reform, may hereafter be its
enemies, and that the smallest change
in the wind of politics will blow the
flame from the mansions of their op-
ponents to their own. When revo-
lution begins, no man can tell where
it will end, nor whose property may
be sacrificed to the alternation of
popular fury; and every man who
thinks differently from me on such a
point, may have the brains of a cox-
comb, but not the intellect of a man."
(Cheers.)

Bravo, Sir Charles, we most read-
ily cry. Readers, the riots and
burnings at Bristol had not yet taken
place. We have only a remark to
make on the foregoing. According
to Lord John Russell, he did not
mean to call the majority in the
House of Lords a faction. Indeed ! !
And according to his doctrine in po-
litics, any fool or knave that can ex-
cite such a " present state of public
feeling" must gain his ends and ob-
jects, however mischievous, if it be
the rule in such case to stop angry
discussion, and yield to the state of
public feeling the fool or knave have
created. We will not waste words
on such impudent, un-British pol-
troonery. But we think we are ad-
vancing rapidly in tracing the causes
of the Bristol Riots.

That Sir Charles Wetherell must
and would attend the jail delivery
was now well known to Political
Union and stirring Reformers, the
keepers of the merciless mobs —
those bloodhounds to be let loose
at the fitting time ; and that their
pack might be more keen for their
sport, raw and reeking and smelling
fresh of blood was the frequent food
held up to their ravenous gluttony.
They had been put upon the scent,
and were made eager for the game
they had to hunt down, even to the
death. It was now that agitation and

excitement was indeed at work " at
the corner of every street," and that
there should be no mistake, the Po-
litical Union send their orders, under
the signature of the Secretary for the
Council, to the Magistrates, that they
should abdicate, couched in language
insolent with prospective power.
This was not unadvisedly done, it
might answer a double purpose —
Ministerial authority they cared little
about — that was already defunct in
their estimation, and if they were not
secure of, they were at least regard-
less of, its impotent favours. They
might succeed in setting aside the
local authorities, then — with a clear
stage before them, they might be —
Kings, Emperors, demigods in the
pantheon of some Provisional Go-
vernment, to be proclaimed as safety
might allow ; and the example might
have been quickly followed — and we
should never have heard enough of
the heroes of the glorious " Three
Days of Bristol." If they could not
prevail upon the Magistrates to re-
sign— the attempt would at least
have the effect of making them odi-
ous to the people, and thus they
would disarm them of their authori-
ty, and might afterwards condemn
them, in the hour of tyranny, for a
weakness they could not help. *' If
the people are quiet" said the mem-
ber for the city to Mr Herepath, the
Vice-President, "they will say there
is a reaction." They shall not keep
quiet — was the order. What was
the result? Thanks to the brutal
lust of intoxication, the city was
spared from the miseries of success-
ful revolution — the first fruits of the
Reform Bill, that Magna Charta of
thieves, and like the prophetic scroll
of old, written " within and without
with lamentation, and mourning, and
woe."

The Magistrates were now in no
ordinary danger, and in judging of
their conduct we should not, we
must not, shut our eyes to the facts,
and through carelessness in reason-
ing, admit either the outcry, or the
arguments of their previously avow-
ed virulent enemies. The Magis-
trates were in no ordinary danger,
we repeat; they felt themselves al-
most deserted by the Government-
worse than deserted by a great part
of the citizens, who were sick and
poisoned to the soul by the Reform-

1832.]

ers ; and we have no right to expect
from them the exercise of a power
the Ministers and Reformers had se-
dulously taken from them. Law
was a dead letter — it was nowhere
respected; and the magistrate that
might attempt to enforce it, might
have had to fear the scrutiny of the
mob and of the Government. Were
the proceedings in Ireland to pro-
duce no effect in England ? But
there must be a time in scenes of
outrage, when the duty of magis-
trates, as such, ceases, and they merge
into common citizens ; for we have
no right to call upon them to offer
themselves in sacrifice ; — and this
point of time will generally be, when
the riot act has been read, and the
peace of the city delivered over to
the keeping of a military command-
er. It is downright outrageous folly
to expect magistrates, in all cases, to
expose themselves to the same dan-
ger as the military, by heading their
forces — it is not their vocation, but
it is the soldier's ; it is his business
daringly to risk his life, but it is not
the magistrate's. Are Mayors and
Aldermen, with the popular odium
sedulously directed against them,
and that for the sinister purpose of
rendering their authority of no avail,
to be mounted on dragoon horses
without the common protection of
the soldier, his arms and his armour ?
Is it, that they may be the better
marks for the bludgeons, the pistols,
the " sledge-hammers," or the knives,
of an infuriated mob ? At least let
the good Reforming Vituperator, who-
ever he may be, put helmets on then-
heads, and swords in their hands, that
at least, if occasion serve, he may
do his best to hang them for using
them. But do not make a mock of
them, and parade them before the
vulgar abominations and insolent
brutality of ruffians, with a procla-
mation in placards from a Political
Union — "Thus shall it be done to
the man whom the King delighteth
to honour." Sir Charles Wetherell
experienced enough of this distinc-
tion— when the honour of his so-
vereign King was to be sacrificed
to the sovereign mob. It is evident,
even now, that swarms of Revolu-
tionists are in an agony of disap-
pointment that the local Magistrates
were not hunted down ; and there
are exasperated demons in the holes

VOL, XXXI, NO. CXCII.

What caused the Bristol Riots ?

473

of Reform, that would Burke them
and all corporate bodies, all law, all
authority, all religion, and the con-
stitution of Old England. We have
nothing to do with the magistrates,
as individuals; it is in their magis-
terial capacity alone we have to note
them. As individuals, when their
corporate authority is superseded,
they will act according to their vari-
ous characters. Some may have more
courage than others ; some may be
incapacitated by age, or other cir-
cumstances, from enduring the active
service of dragoons, and yet be wise
and discreet men, excellent members
of society, worthy and respectable,
as we know them to be, and fully
capable of performing all their ma-
gisterial functions.

The magistrates of Bristol appeal-
ed to the Government, and appoint-
ed a constabulary force. Were the
troops sent by Government sufficient
to put riots out of the question,
should the civic power be inade-
quate to protect the city or the judge
from insult ? We think not one hun-
dred soldiers were within a due dis-
tance from the city ; were these
soldiers to have prevented insult ? —
or was insult even desired by the
Government as well as the Reform-
ers ? The reader must form his own
opinion.

We have advanced in our investi-
gation— we have shewn what pre-
cautionary steps were taken by the
Magistrates — we have shewn what
steps were taken by the Govern-
ment— we have shewn some of the
steps, for we were not of the secret
councils, taken by the Reformers
and Revolutionists ; their determina-
tion, and their ready means of execu-
ting their purposes. We believe the
jury, the intelligent public, are not
very desirous to investigate further

THE CAUSES.

It is not our purpose to follow the
outbreaking through all its horrid
and disgusting scenes of insult, re-
volutionary organization, and subse-
quent drunkenness, rapine, sack, and
burning. We have little pleasure in
dwelling on either the bloodshed, or
the bowlings of intoxicated demons,
dropping into the furnaces of the
blazing ruins of the mansions and
homes of the ejected and destitute
citizens; nor will our eye follow
them iu their passages over the molt-
2 H

474

What caused the Bristol Eiots V

[March,

en lead, like the " damned" of the
poet driving over " the burning
marl ;" nor shall our pen attempt to
picture to the life the infuriate revel-
lers below, at the magnificent and
costly tables of a mayoralty house,
loaded with feast, and wine, and
plunder, around the equestrian sta-
tue of William III., (surmounted with
a cap of liberty prepared for the oc-
casion, and in honour to their belo-
ved Reforming King, another Wil-
liam, alone left uninjured.) We will
not describe their maniac waste and
wassail ; their cries of insult, of tri-
umph ; their savage sport and laugh-
ter even at the peril of the less for-
tunate wretches of their gangs, drop-
ping from the beams and rafters,
from parapets, roofs, and windows,
into the mass of roaring flames be-
neath them. Moved by an instinct
averse to revolution, we shrink from
the description of blood and confla-
gration. If we feel compelled oc-
casionally to plunge into the fiery
vortex of these infernal regions of
Reform, it will be with disgust and
reluctance, to snatch up a few facts
that establish and strictly belong to

THE CAUSES.

It is with shame for our species,
we are obliged to confess, that a very
great mass of citizens, of a rank even
above ten pound renters, looked up-
on the excesses with a worse feeling
than apathy ; so thoroughly had the
poison from the reservoirs of the
press, and the stores of their local
demagogues, infected their minds.
They were as men " bitten by fiery
serpents." We are assured, from
the indubitable authority of an eye-
witness of the highest character, and
the account has received ample con-
firmation from others, that apparent-
ly respectable people, in various
quarters, expressed satisfaction when
the Jails, the Toll-houses, Man-
sion and Custom House, and the Bi-
shop's Palace, were in flames. " It is
our time now," was no uncommon
cry ; " the tyrants have had their way
long enough." Our informant says,
that he saw one standing, to all ap-
pearance a tradesman, at his own
door, cheer the mob as they were
passing from Lawford's-gate Prison
to the Bishop's Palace to fire it, and
heard him say, " That's right; go it,
my boys, go it." It had been instill-
ed into the minds of tradesmen, that

Custom and Excise Houses were the
receptacles for imposts on their in-
dustry, and taxes levied by borough-
mongers ; that their pockets had been
picked for their maintenance ; that
these taxes had been levied unjustly
by a corrupt Parliament, who had di-
vided the plunder ; — and could even
respectable tradesmen, z/they belie-
ved all this, be expected, in the mo-
ment, too, of excitement, to protect
these establishments of robbery, to
come forthjand extinguish the flames ?
— is it wonderful if they should re-
joice ? The Bishops had been held
up to odium, as " not fit to live,"
(or why were they told to put their
houses in order ?)— their property
claimed as public property — enor-
mous revenues in the grasping hands
of a bloated and selfish clergy — and
if their palaces are burning, are we
to expect the people to extinguish
the flames? Laws had been made
by tyrants, religion was the priest-
craft of an anti-reforming clergy, and
the solemn day, Sunday, was well
hallowed in the destruction of houses
of taxation, authority, and sanctity.
" Down with religion and laws," is
the cry, and they rush forth to burn
cathedrals and jails ; and mark the
significance of the preference — the
jails first, that more ruffians might
be let loose, and that the costly
things of authority, and the sacred
things of the altar, might more fiend-
ishly be trampled into the earth and
the mire, under the hoof of savage
Democracy. The conduct of the truly
Christian, excellent Bishop, is wor-
thy the page of History. He was
in the cathedral, at his religious du-
ties, and was entreated to escape,
that his life was in danger. He was
an old man, he said, and, God will-
ing, he would die in his services,
but he would not forsake them. A
short time before, the Bishop of
Bath and Wells, whilst consecrating
a church close to Bristol, had been
attacked, and in peril from a mob.
Personal danger was therefore ap-
prehended to the Bishop as well as
the Recorder. They were both
great and eminent men, therefore
likely to be marked. " Tempori-
bus quibus sinistra erga eminen-
tes interpretatio, nee minus pericu-
lum ex magna fama, quam ex mala."
But here danger is only to the
good, the noble, the renowned ; the

1832.] What caused the

vilest are in security, whilst the good
and pious must suffer all that the
basest can inflict, and none but the
best, the purest, the religious, can
endure. The Bishop of Bristol voted
against the Bill; therefore, though
directed to " put his house in order,"
he found it a heap of ruins before
the authoritative summons could be
obeyed.

In the reign of Richard the Se-
cond, the Archbishop Sudbury was
murdered by the mob under Wat
Tyler and Jack Straw, as the Catho-
lic writers of that day say, " by a
judgment from heaven," and " that
the voice of God might be fulfilled,"
because he dared to express his dis-
like of one of the grossest of their
superstitious follies.* The Bishop
of Bristol voted against the Bill, and
dared to express his dislike of that
superstitious folly, as it may well be
called. For did not a resolution pass
at least at one political meeting,
charging the Bishops with " impiety
in voting against the People's Re-
form Bill?" Then, Reform is the
God of the People ! ! This, then, is
to be the true interpretation of the
" Vox Populi vox Dei! !" Are we
to seek it in the midst of rapine and
conflagration ? The prophet found
it not in the strong wind, not in the
earthquake, not in the fire, but in the
still small voice. No, if the " Vox
Populi" be the " Vox Dei," it is not
to be heard in the roar and brawling
of a Pandemonium of Reformers, but
it is in that still small voice of hu-
man society, pleading in charity and
prayer, and in the offices of love and
dutiful obedience. But we must for-
bear, and if any apology be neces-
sary for our warmth, it is that the
rulers of our land have gone forth
" with the rewards of divination in
their hands," and have called on the
people to " curse whom God hath
not cursed, and to defy whom the
Lord hath not defied."
- But the working of this widely-
diffused poison has a mischievous
tendency to an evil of no small mag-
nitude. As it infuriates the idle, the
profligate, the abandoned, creates
apathy in the previously well dis-
posed, so does it, in a great degree,
paralyse the Conservative citizens.

Bristol Riots ?

475

As we said of the magistrates that
they were in no ordinary danger, so
must we say of every citizen of cou-
rage and determination to do his
civic duty. Of this we have a very
lamentable proof in the trials. If a
soldier (we as slightly as possible
allude to the unfortunate Colonel
Brereton) of undoubted and tried
bravery, under the benumbing in-
fluence of Reform, became inert, and,
may we not say, incapable ? if he
thought he was doing his duty by
endeavouring to soothe and to " keep
in good humour" mobs in the very
acts of direct outrage, and thought
it right, in civic cases, not to obey
the local magistrates, but to guide
himself by what he considered the
general practice and feeling of the
government, we cannot wonder if
the well-affected citizens felt alarm-
ed, should they take upon themselves
the acts of necessary severity for the
suppression of tumults — at a time,
too, when they well knew that every
the slightest movement, that could
be construed into one of aggression,
would subject them to a persecuting
scrutiny. But should a death unfor-
tunately occur from the hand of the
civil power, however accidental, or
even in self-defence, they knew that
if they could escape summary ven-
geance on the spot, and their homes
and families be saved from massacre
and fire, (for all this might be in the
heat of tumult, when no one could
tell how far it would reach,) yet
still we say, they knew that there
were parties much above the mobs,
of a rabid political enmity, from the
grasp of whose malignity, and parti-
cularly if Tories, they could not
hope to escape ; that they would be
dragged before inquests, formed per-
haps with little discrimination, be
persecuted to imprisonment, indiet-
ed for murder, their lives and pro-
perty at the mercy of a doubtfully
disposed jury ; and they knew that
these their persecutors would be the
loudest to call the hanging of an in-
cendiary, a ringleader, or a robber,
" Legal Murder." Yet, even with
this danger before them, there were
some in the hour of peril at their
posts, and not found wanting.
Able and eloquent is the defence

Wickliff's

476

What caused the Bristol Riots ?

[March,

read to the court by Captain Lewis
— it is a noble proof how a gentle-
man can write, and feel, and act — it
is every word from the heart of a
man of truly noble and generous
feeling; and, would we add one
word more in praise, we would say
of a British officer, that would not
stain his character with a falsehood
to save a thousand lives, if he had
them, and all in jeopardy. But every
word has the continuation of evi-
dence. The material part of the tale
is shortly told. Captain Lewis, after
having felt the ferocity of this "good-
humoured mob," having been knock-
ed down, trampled upon, and se-
riously hurt, arms himself with pis-
tols for self-defence. He is collared
by ruffians, whom he might have
shot ; but out of humanity staid his
hand when holding the pistol. In
this state his arm receives a violent
blow, the pistol goes off, and an un-
fortunate boy is shot. We will make
a few extracts from Captain Lewis's
defence; for the personal narrative
of one man who did his duty is of
value.

4< I had not been in my house half
an hour, when a report reached me
that the Gloucester County Prison
was in flames, and the mob were on
their way to the Cathedral. I again
determined on rendering what aid I
could, and instantly went to the
Bishop's Palace. I found that the
mob had plundered it, and, having
set it on fire, were attempting to
break into the Cathedral, by the door
under the cloisters, near the Chap-
ter House. By the exertions of a
small party whom I joined, they
were repulsed, and the fire appa-
rently extinguished. The alarm was
then given that the mob were break-
ing into the houses in Queen Square,
and firing them. Part of the rioters
went away for a short time, and then
returned, and succeeded in again
setting fire to the palace. I did not
leave it till I saw the smoke issuing
from the roof, and all hope of being
of further service was gone. I then
went to the square, where the mob
were numerous, and carrying all
before them. The Mansion-house,
and the several adjoining houses,
were in flames ; and riot and plun-
der were uncontrolled. I staid and
rendered what assistance I could;
but, in endeavouring to prevent

some ruffians from entering the Cus-
tom-house, I was knocked down and
trampled upon, and so much in-
jured, that I was ultimately obliged
to return home ; which I did, I think,
about two o'clock in the morning. I
had continued to exert myself as
long as my strength lasted. During
the whole of these proceedings I
had no constable's staff- stick, or
weapon of any kind."

After short rest he is called up
again, and says, " From the experience
I had during the night, in different
attempts made to disperse and sub-
due the rioters, I was fully persua-
ded of the necessity of having with
me the means of protecting myself,
and that it was dangerous to face
such an infuriated, drunken, and
lawless mob, unarmed ; I therefore
determined on taking my pistols with
me, and I accordingly placed them
in the inside bosom-pocket of my
upper coat. I did this not with a
view of using them offensively, but
merely as a means of self-defence."
The constables try to turn some men
out of the square, and Captain Lewis
assists, having no staff. Finding a
man lingering behind, he accosts him ;
the man surlily retreats to the left
corner of the square, followed by
Captain Lewis. When — we here give
Cap tain Lewis' sown words — "At the
corner two men came forward and
joined him ; one of them said, ' he was
a fool if he went any farther.' I then
discovered that there were a great
many others round the corner and
on the quay, endeavouring to conceal
themselves. On being joined by the
other two, and after the above re-
mark, the man demanded who I was,
and advanced against me ; I told him
I was a special constable, and desired
him to keep off. On my raising my
arm to keep him from closing on
me, he instantly collared me, and at
the same time I received a severe
blow on the temple from one of his
companions. I felt that my life was
in danger. I drew one of my pistols
from my bosom, and presented it in
self-defence to the man who held
me by the collar. I repeated that I
was a special constable, which he
appeared to doubt. He swore I was
no constable, and immediately I re-
ceived a most severe blow just above
the elbow, on the arm with which I
held the, pistol presented at Inm,

1832.]

What caused the Bristol Riots ?

477

which knocked it down in quite a
different direction from that in which
I stood, and it instantly went off in
my hands. I declare I never inten-
tionally or consciously drew the trig-
ger— the discharge of the pistol was
occasioned by the blow. I imme-
diately heard the cry of a boy, and
saw him sitting about fifteen or six-
teen yards, or perhaps more, on the
ground to my right. I was greatly
shocked, and in moving a few steps
towards him, was surrounded and
beat to the ground. I was rescued
by the body of constables." Again,
"So conscious is the ruffian by
whom I was assaulted of the crime
he had committed and contemplated,
that he has not dared to appear in
that box as a witness against me,
knowing, that if he did, he would
soon be placed at the bar where I
unfortunately stand. Instead of ha-
ving acted with precipitation or pas-
sion, I think, gentlemen, I may take
credit for having displayed some for-
bearance and moderation. I might
easily have shot the man who collar-
ed me. He was in close contact with
me. I could not have missed him ;
but I hoped the threat I held out, and
the menacing attitude I assumed,
might have been sufficient for my
protection. I feel an anguish that I
cannot describe, that an innocentboy,
never seen by me, was the victim.

" I am extremely reluctant to cast
reflections on others, but I cannot
refrain from remarking that the pro-
secutor in this case is not the mother
of the deceased boy, nor connected
with his family, nor can I understand
how his interference can arise from
a pure desire for the due adminis-
tration of justice. What could be
his motive for preferring to the Grand
Jury under this Commission an in-
dictment against me for murder,
when it never could have entered
into the mind of any reasonable man
that I was guilty of that offence?
" The Grand Jury returned that bill of
indictment, not found, as to the
whole, though they might have ne-
gatived it as to murder, and found it
a true bill as to manslaughter, if they
had thought the evidence sufficient
to put me upon my trial, even for
the latter charge. The prosecutor,
nevertheless, preferred to them ano-
ther indictment against me for man-
slaughter.

" The Grand Jury having listened
to all the evidence that could be
advanced against me on the prosecu-
tion, and without even hearing my
defence, returned that indictment, not
a true bill, thereby a second time
recording their deliberate judgment
of my entire innocence. Thus may
I say that I have been twice tried
and acquitted by twenty-three of my
fellow- citizens. My fate is now in
your hands, (the Jury's.) Your ver-
dict of guilty might deprive me of
country, of fortune, of fair fame. But
with the greatest respect for your
discernment and impartiality, I an-
ticipate at your hands an honourable
acquittal, which will restore me to
my afflicted family, and to that ere
ditable station in society which I have
hitherto enjoyed, and which it has
ever been my earnest endeavour
through life to deserve."

We need not add the acquittal was
the signal for the expression of ge-
neral joy and satisfaction. But we
are moved by more important mo-
tives than the praise so justly due to
Captain Lewis, in extracting so much
of his defence. The question must
and will be asked, who were the real
prosecutors ? From whose pockets
did the funds come ? In Bristol there
is a general suspicion. We would not,
through fear of being wrong in our
conjecture, represent any man to be
so black as even to hint at an indi-
vidual. But whoever they or he may
be, we envy not the feelings that will
assuredly attend the closing hour of
life. We understand this trial has
cost Captain Lewis nearly L.800, to
him as a gentleman of ample fortune
of no consequence — but it might hav e
fallen on one whose acquittal even
might have been his ruin. Such, in
these " liberal days," is the hazard to
be endured by one who dares to be
truly loyal, and a good citizen ! ! !
And can we wonder if cities are un-
protected ?

If the Conservative citizens have
to dread the active enmity, open and
secret, of a malignant party, that
overawe, or are at least uncheck-
ed by the government, whose chief
friends and supporters they profess
to be — if the law is in full energy
against the Conservatives, and for
them a dead letter, they are almost
.reducedto a worse state than could
arise from the entire dissolution of

478

What caused the Bristol Riots ?

[March,

social order, which would at least
arm them with a power of self-de-
fence, and remove at least one power
of aggression. Horrible as such a state
must be, it would offer an equality of
tyranny, and, through the common
check of mutual fear, promise some
protection. But in this unfortunate
city of which we are treating, those
who, according to the boast and dis-
grace of the Reformers, were unwill-
ing to be sworn in as special con-
stables, with what arts made unwill-
ing the Reformers well know, were
too many of them the willing spec-
tators of the outrages, which if fully
successful, they had reason, upon
the authority of the master Reform-
ers, to believe would remove from
them taxation, and give them equal
rank and right with the aristocracy of
the land. Too many became the will-
ing spies upon the movements of the
better citizens j convenient traitors,
eager to proffer evidence against spe-
cial constables and soldiers, to rush
unbidden into inquests and commit-
tees of enquiry. If this were not so,
the Bristol Riots are still an enigma
not to be solved by any known rules
of judging of the actions of men.
The fact is fully established— it is the
boast of the Reformers, and this fact,
this complete success of the evil
power of the press and the dema-
gogues, can alone remove the other-
wise inexplicable mystery that en-
velopes the public consternation
over these yet monumental ruins.
But the moral ruin and distraction
effected by these causes will be per-
haps even more lasting. Such is the
state of Bristol. What was the feel-
ing in that city, at the breaking out
of the last French Revolution ? The
Freemen had, with one voice of ap-
probation, returned their long tried
and enthusiastically honoured repre-
sentative, the firm supporter of con-
stitutional principles, nay, because
he was such ; when some doubts had
been expressed of his offering him-
self, they would not hear of any can-
didate in his place, nor could any
influence of any kind have prevailed
against him. His constitutional prin-
ciples were then the principles of
the great body of the citizens. Mr
Protheroe, the present member, was
then an unsuccessful candidate. The
enthusiasm of the city was for loy-
alty and old constitutional principles.

There was then no doubt of the ge-
neral feeling. This was so late as in
August 1830. The French Revolu-
tion had just broke out, but it had
not yet infected the people. There
had not yet been sufficient time to
mature the arts by which sedition
might be most effective. The call had
not yet been made to the people ; the
deluding bribe and the lying pro-
mise had not yet been offered to
them. The slanders of forty years
had not diminished their loyalty or
their trust. With the new Adminis-
tration the bribery of larger promi-
ses was to be tried, and the delusion,
even from authority, of greater libels
on the constitution, was to become
the active agent for perpetuating
their power. They had to uproot old
feelings and old affections j all new
things were therefore to be extolled,
all things were to be changed. The
French Revolution was to be the uni-
versal praise, and French Freedom
as far superior to our own — all was
to be new. The evil Magician was
abroad, crying up "new lamps for
old." Change, a novelty, indeed, was
proclaimed as the one thing desira-
ble, by the authority of a Government}
and loyalty, deluded loyalty, was
put in requisition to pull down and
to innovate. The people were flat-
tered with the parade of their own
power. The sovereign mob was the
idol the rulers had made, and they
bowed, and fell down to it, and wor-
shipped the work of their own hands.
It was a powerful incantation, and evil
were the spirits that have come forth,
and maddened and urged the high rab-
ble and the low to break into the tem-
ple of our constitution, and pollute
with curses th e sanctity of the rel igion
to which ithadbeenconsecrated. The
Reformers sprang up with violence
and hatred. And soon, too soon, the
excitement was sufficient. The
French Revolution was thought a fit
subject to disturb the repose of the
citizens of Bristol. A meeting was
held for congratulation, and from
that day incessant have been the la-
bours of the Press and the Dema-
gogues. And that great change has
been fully effected, which will ren-
der Bristol evej: memorable for ex-
hibiting to the world, in woful hand-
writing on her walls, the true charac-
ter of Reform.
Citizens of Bristol, you have con-

1832.]

What caused the Bristol Riots ?

479

gratulated the French on their Three
Days, and you have had three days
of your own — you have been the ad-
miration of the people of Lyons, who,
in boasted imitation of you, have de-
luged their streets with blood, and
are in a state of suffering, which you
are happily yet spared. We will
pass over the wretched victims that
have been offered up — but reflect
and see what one short year has made
you. You were a happy people
under the old constitution of Eng-
land, that you pronounced blessed ;
you slept in safety in your beds
without fear of conflagration, or the
terrors of infuriated mobs, unscared
by tales of revolutions, which were
to you but as the dreams of fancy
from strange lands — never to be
realized, you fondly thought, in your
own. Have you now no forebodings
of more evil days ? — you may per-
haps yet avert greater calamities.
Your present suffering and shame is
nothing to that which another year
of continuance in the same course
may produce. Even now, perhaps,
you feel more indignation than re-
pentance— you would shake off, if
you well could, the imputations and
charges that stand against you. But
your denial is vain — you have bound
yourselves to " evil workers ;" and
History, the cold Scrivener,will point
to the contract; and the date, and
detail, and stipulations, will be noted
down in the " old almanac," that will
be no longer discarded.

But retrace your steps, reflect
whither they now tend, point to the
ruined homes of your fellow-citizens,
and ask the Reformers if such be the
objects to which they would lead
you, and who are to be your compa-
nions; then bid them beat up for
allies and recruits for Reform where
the riots of Bristol have never been
heard of; and thank God that you
have a church yet left standing, in
. which you may offer up your prayers
that the incendiary and the robber
may not be at your own doors.

An intention has been expressed
in the commencement of this paper,
to furnish some proofs of the inflam-
matory, revolutionary character of
the writings and speeches of the
Press and the Demagogues in Bristol.
We add a few here as an appendix.
And here it may not be amiss to re-

mark, that the reforming orators and
the reforming actors chose the same
arena for the exhibition of their
powers. The most violent attacks
upon the constitution were made in
Queen Square ; there were the
"words that burn," there was the
fire kindled that soon spread in aw-
ful conflagration. We do not pretend
to much order or method, — we take
the specimens from a few papers we
have before us. Previous to the last
election, Mr Protheroe, the present
member, thus addressed the freemen
by letter :—

"Whether that settlement shall
take place through Reform or
through Revolution, whether we
shall at once reap its peaceful fruits,
or be forced to win them through
tempestuous agitation, will depend
upon the promptness and decision
with which the national will is de-
clared." Again he asks, — " Is the
city of Bristol blotted from the map
of England?" — not quite, the attempt
did not fully succeed ! ! On another
occasion, he speaks of the aristocracy
as engaged in a struggle " to obtain
corrupt and obnoxious power, as-
serting their right to treat their de-
pendents as slaves, without freedom
of will or conduct." The people of
Nottingham put their meaning on
words uttered at Bristol,— Notting-
ham Castle burnt, and Three Re-
formers hanged ! ! Among other
evils, he mentions, — " A church ti-
midly clinging to venerable abuses,
instead of sagaciously yielding to
the fair and reasonable requirements
of an enlightened and investigating
era."

After the rejection of the Bill, as
a prelude to a determination to in-
sult the King's representative, he
thus addresses his people : " It is not
a matter of so much importance that
the voices of gentlemen should be
heard, as that a demonstration should
be made of the decided, unaltered, un-
changeable WILL OF THE PEOPLE."

(Cheers, and cries—" the Square.")
" In the meantime he hoped the Lords
would learn a little more virtue from
the people for whom they legislate.
With regard to ulterior measures in
case of the Bill being again rejected,
he did not contemplate the necessity
of any, so confident wa» he that the
Bill would pass; but as the subject
of resisting the taxes had been touch-

4SO

What caused the Bristol Riots ?

[March)

ed upon, he would say that it was
their duty at this moment to support
the King and his Ministers, and not
desist from meeting and petitioning
till the Bill was secured. If this should
be again rejected, to that evil day
they would leave the adoption of any
other measures." (Cheering.) What!
the member for the city instigate the
people, in case of the rejection of the
Bill, to resist payment of taxes ! !
Mark how he is cheered when he
directs the mob against the Bishops.

" OF THE BlSHOPS HE WOULD SPEAK

IN MERCY — their day was nearly gone
by." (Loud and continued cheers.)
" He would again assure them, that if
any obstacle should be presented to
the Bill, he should call on his consti-
tuents for their further operations.
The Lords had not only insulted the
Commons of England by their insane
proceedings with regard to this Bill,
but had put a stop to many other
good measures." (Down with them !)
" When the Bill had passed, the funds
which had been provided for the poor
and needy would no longer be ap-
plied to electioneering purposes."
Now he knew well all the while they
never had been so applied. " Toryism
was a ravenous bird, it had exhaust-
ed the treasury of the state."

We shall only now notice his pro-

?osal, his stipulation, that the King's
udge should be insulted, and that
he thwarted the Magistrates in their
efforts to keep the peace of the city;
for " if the people are quiet," said he,
" they would say there is a reaction."
The people took the advice of their
member, were not quiet, and showed
mercy to the Bishop, as to one whose
" day was nearly gone by," by setting
fire to his palace ! !

Mr Manchee, author of the viru-
lent pamphlet we have before alluded
to, at a public meeting of Reformers,
says, " Corporations were too apt to
tread the people under foot, and it
was time for them to be interfered
with." This author now attacks the
Corporation of Bristol most vehe-
mently, because they could not sup-
press the riots which such language
tends to excite ! !

W. P. Taunton, Esq., chairman at
a Reform Meeting, by way of com-
plimenting the clergy, remarks : —
" Should I shew respect to a magni-
ficent cathedral, by prohibiting the
use of the brush and the shovel, lest

the vermin should be disturbed and
the filth removed?"

We must now introduce an orator
of very extraordinary pretensions,
Mathew Bridges, Esq., in whose
speeches it is very difficult to find
anything tangible. They would bring
a sworn interpreter to disgrace in
any court; yet the confusion of wild
ideas, and jumble of revolutionary
jargon, though powerless as an ap-
peal to common sense, have a very
exciting influence on those, who,
leaving behind them that valuable
quality, bring only already heated
passions to the field of agitation —
and they have the singular property
of fitting any wrong to which the
hearer, in his particular sense of in-
jury, may wish to apply them. He
is, in truth, the very catamaran of
oratory, and when he explodes, he
must be a bold man that can say he
has either body or soul. We content
ourselves with one specimen — a sort
of second-sight view of the horrors
of Bristol, and all other revolutions.

" But take the other alternative —
suppose nothing to be done but to re-
turn to the old regime I That would
be the hour of factious triumph ;
the knell of liberty would be tolled
from one shore to the other; then
there would be one vast uniformity
over the whole surface of our affairs,
but it would be like the waste of a
sandy desert, or the terrific aspect
of the glacier : it would be the hour
when the young earthquake would
be born that was to overwhelm us —
the hour when the monster of cor-
ruption would coil itself to spring
upon its victim — when the magic
circle of conspiracy would be wrought
in darkness — when deep would call
to deep — when all would be uni-
formly ruinous, and the Sun of Eng-
land would go down : it would be a
time of pleasure, mirth, and soag, as
before ; but in the midst of the fes-
tivity a hand would be seen writing
on the wall in characters of fire — the
volcano would soon burst, and the
government would explode in atoms
— (cheers and bravo.)— Civil war
would be at the door, and wailing
and woe be heard, to which the cata-
racts of Niagara would be but whis-
pers.— Thrones, and mitres, and trun-
cheons of office, would go down into
the pit together : and England, which
now set one hand on the river St

1832.]

What caused the Bristol Riots ?

481

Lawrence and the other on the Gan-
ges, would sit down in despair amidst
the awful thunders of Jehovah." —
(Bravo.) The beloved people must
certainly have taken a hint — for it
was at the hour of festivity, at the
Mansion-house, they fixed their cha-
racters of fire on the wall — and the
government did fairly explode when
the Custom-house and Excise, with
all their barrels of spirits, were
blown up — and there was indeed
like to have been an end to thrones,
and mitres, and truncheons of office
— with the Bishop and the King's
Judge. We believe Mr Bridges to
be a very respectable man out of
this delusion, and are quite sure he
did not mean the directions to have
been taken so literally : but it should
be a caution to orators, and shew
them that the people are for matter
of fact, and not for figures of speech.
A Captain Hodges, whose connex-
ion with Bristol was no other than
official, having been of the recruiting
staff — Adjutant,we believe,toColonel
Brereton — so well deserved of theMi-
nistry for his strenuous endeavours
to excite the people, that the Trea-
sury, it is understood, appointed him
(as the condition on which Govern-
ment information was to be obtained)
Editor of the Court Journal. We
hear, from some disagreement with
the proprietor, he has left that situ-
ation, and has joined the armament
to revolutionize Portugal. We can
spare room but for an extract or two
from his speeches. " Moderation
was recommended to them (the peo-
ple ;) but he maintained that the
loudest and strongest languageshould
be used; their infatuated opponents
were not to be moved with reason-
ing ; fear alone would operate with
them." He speaks of " a black dose
for him (Sir Charles Wetherell) and
his Brother Aldermen to swallow ;"
" yet take it he must." The people
" had a great battle to fight;" " if
they should find the struggle going
hard with them, if he were an hun-
dred miles off, though he had no vote,
he would come and throw himself
among them;" and promises " to
shed the last drop of his blood."
After the rejection of the Reform Bill
he tells the people that « he had
heard th em traduced and belied, night
after night, in the two Houses of Par-
liament." « If a Tory Administration

had gained the ascendency, would
they have been allowed to express
their sentiments freely on that day ?
No — they would have had cannons
planted at the several avenues of the
Square, and soldiers drawn up to
overawe them ; though, thank God,
the Tories had not much of the army,
for a majority of them clearly saw
that their interests lay with the King
and the people. — (Cheers.) — He did
not think the King would dare to
place the Duke of Wellington at the
head of his Administration. If ever
that day should arrive, no power on
earth should prevent him from using
his own discretion for the protection
of his person and property."

It is too disgusting a work to make
selection from the mass before us.
Numerous other orators are there
whom we are compelled to leave un-
noticed. The virulence, coarseness,
and ribaldry, so freely let loose
throughout the country, may be found
in excess, by any one who will take
the trouble to refer to the speeches
of the Bristol orators, to be met with
in the local press. We will not pur-
sue the examination. We are not
very well acquainted with all the
abominations of a portion of that
press ; but we cannot help noticing,
that the extracts from the London
press selected by a Bristol paper —
the Mercury — at the very time that it
is publishing to the world the horrid
detail of the riots, are well calculated
to inflame, not to allay, the turbulent
spirit that devastated the unfortunate
city. The following specimens may
shew the animus and judgment : —
" THE BISHOPS.— TheBishops are
an amphibious sort of beings, neither
* fish, flesh, nor fowl, nor good red
herring.' Their idols are silver and
gold, — eyes have they, and see not,
— but I cannot add with the royal
poet, hands have they, and handle
not. How to propitiate such things
is more difficult than expensive ; but
even the Liturgy of their own com-
posing makes them hard of manage-
ment. They have, by grasping all,
lost all; and from their treason to
their high calling, disloyalty and dis-
honesty, the people (not to speak ir-
reverently) * mock when their fear
cometh/ — as come it most assuredly
will, when, as the wise man says,
they shall eat the fruit of their own
way, and be filled with their own

482

What caused the Bristol Riots ?

[March,

devices. (From a correspondent of
the Morning Chronicle.)"—" (From
the News.) — When a spirit of com-
bination appears among the higher
orders to withhold from the people
their rights, it is deemed, even by
the most prudent, proper to meet
this spirit by a similar combination
on the part of the people ; and if the
result should be a conflict, where
will the Anti-reform Spiritual and
Temporal Lords be, in a month ? On
the army they can place no confi-
dence, for that is at the King's dis-
posal ; besides, from the admixture
of the soldiery with the people, the
former are become, three parts out
of four, Reformers ; and would hard-
ly obey their officers, were they call-
ed on to fight for the borough mon-
gers. On the Yeomanry they know
they cannot rely; for, besides that
the ' Unions' would annihilate them
in a week, the bulk of the Yeomanry
would not draw a sword in their fa-
vour. Their only resource is their
tenantry j and to them their conduct
has been such (we instance the Duke
of Newcastle, and Lords Salisbury,
Stamford, Warwick, &c.) that they
could not, for very shame, ask them
to act in the field in their favour.
They have, therefore, nothing to
place in contact with Political Unions
of the people ; and if the latter, in
the event, do, as they no doubt will,
beard them in their halls — thwart
them in their magisterial capacities —
interpose between them and their
game-law victims — make known their
every act of domestic and public
tyranny— in fine, if they make their
country-seats too hot to hold them,
who but themselves will they have to
blame for the whole? Had it not
been for the oppression of the aris-
tocracy— an oppression they will not
even now quietly relinquish — the
people would never have thought of
Political Unions: they have, how-
ever, been in a manner driven into
them ; and the Bishops and the other
Anti-reformers must take the con-
sequences." We would simply ask
Mr Protheroe, the member for Bris-
tol, whom we suppose to be the un-
known president, and Mr Herapath,
vice-president of the Political Union
at Bristol, if such be the objects for
which that Union was established ?
They have certainly " thwarted them
in their magisterial capacities j" and

have made houses too hot to hold
them. If we seek a solution for this
hatred of authority, and combination
to degrade the high, we know where
to find it. " How can one enter into
a strong man's house and spoil his
goods, except he first bind the strong
man,and then he will spoil his house ?"
Under the possibility that these pages
may even meet the eyes of Majesty,
we will not forbear the admirable
conclusion — that "if the goodman
of The House had known in what
watch the thief would come, he would
have watched, and would not have
suffered his House to be broken up."

It is not very extraordinary if
" Agitators," with a touch of con-
science, or any other sympathy,
should be the loudest to make an out-
cry against the punishment of offend-
ers. It can therefore be a matter of
surprise to none, that the execution
of the law should be denominated
" legal murder." But it may not be
amiss to recommend the Reformers,
for the future, abstinence from lan-
guage that is sure to direct to out-
rage ; and that they do not, on every
slight occasion, imitate mad bulls,
who think it the business of their
fury to go ranting and roaring and
tearing away, up tail and down horn,
as if this paradise of earth was only
formed to be blasted with the gust
of their nostrils, and polluted with
the tramp of their hoofs.

But we still trust to the Conserva-
tives of the country, and believe they
are not to be intimidated by the "mad-
ness of the people," or the roaring
of the beast. We trust that the Sun
of England " will not go down," but
will shine bright, and dissipate the
thick and noisome vapours that brood
over us. They are but like the black
and smoky vomitings from the fur-
naces of a Birmingham smithy, that,
though they seem for a while to
blacken heaven, are never at any
time much above the earth, and then,
when they are at their highest, are
nearer their dispersion.

We have brought forward to the
public some of the dramatis persona
of the Bristol tragedy. How shall
we dismiss them? — The facetious
Lord Chancellor has appropriated
to himself the admirable expedient of
Mr Puff in the Critic, of going off
kneeling. The effect of that is, there-
fore, spoiled. Besides, it would be

1832.]

What caused the Bristol Riots?

483

an attitude of penitence we are by
no means certain they feel. Consi-
dering them likewise in the light of
Authors, there is yet a becoming po-
sition as a great critic bespeaks for
them — Mr Bayes — who gave it as his
opinion, that if thunder and light-
ning could not frighten an audience
into complaisance, the sight of an Au-
thor with a rope about his neck might
work them into pity.

On the whole, we congratulate
the country on the Bristol Riots.
They have given a foretaste of de-

mocracy,—-they have opened the eyes
of multitudes of the deluded, — they
have caused the law to be ably ex-
pounded, that it cannot be again mis-
understood. They have shewn spe-
cimens of the arrogance and the pol-
troonery of Political Unions — they
have pointed out to the soldier his
particular duty, and have proved that,
unless checked by superior com-
mand, he will do it ; that when the
word is given, he will repress the
Mob, and not submit to it as his So-
vereign.

THE EXECUTIONER.

[Concluded.]
CHAPTER II.

Many, many months have elapsed
since the day on which the frightful
event I have just recorded occurred ;
but the vision to my senses remains
as perfect as if the scene was still
enacting ; and instead of there being
for me a morrow, and a morrow, and
a morrow, it seems as though my
whole life was a mere repetition of
one day's existence. I am built
round, and confined to one abode of
sensations, as Rome's offending Ves-
tals were encased for their unchaste-
ness in the bondage of entombing
bricks; and whatever outward events
of variance occur, my heart is for
ever reminding me that I am the ex-
ecutioner of Edward Foster. His
care-worn dejected countenance flits
for ever before my eyes : I meet him
amid the desolateness of the far-ex-
tending moor ; he walks by my side
through the streets of the crowded
city ; and when I sleep he stalks be-
fore my fancy, dismal and enshroud-
ed, the hero of my dreams.

But in the earlier days that follow-
ed that which ever haunts me, it
was not my heart alone that remind-
ed me of the hateful deed. I was
the observed of all observers: — the
rabble tracked my every footstep,
and hooted me like some reptile,
disgusting — not dangerous, back to
my solitary den. I was the marked
of men : — they almost disavowed my
affinity to the species; and as I list-
ened to their groans of execration, I
began to feel as if that affinity was

fast melting into air, and leaving me,
in sooth, some monstrous thing that
nature had created only to shew how
beyond herself she had power to act.

My father very soon quitted me. —
" We must part for a while," said he
to me on the second morning after
that which had witnessed the close of
Foster's life — " We must part for a
while ; for I have to provide the
means of subsistence for us both —
and perchance even a still further
revenge. Here is such money as I
can spare for the present; and this
day six months we will meet again
on this spot, that I may make farther
provision for you."

I was not sorry thus to part with
him ; for though he still retained his
power over my mind, it was so uni-
ted with fear and dread, that I rather
looked upon him as a master than a
friend, and felt that obedience to his
will was something beyond choice or
resistance. Besides, his presence
was too intimately connected with
the memory of my deed of death, to
offer me any chance, while he re-
mained, of being able to reject the
painful burden from my mind; and
I hoped that his absence would al-
low me to bury the hangman-image
of my brain in the depths of forget-
fulness.

But, as I have already said, the
hope was vain. Though the author
of the scene had departed, the scene
itself was ever present; and after
finding that I could not get rid either

484

of my own reflections, or the insult-
ing notice of the mob, I determined
to quit Okeham, and not to return
till my appointment with Lockwood
demanded my reappearance there.

Once again, therefore, I became a
wandering outcast, with none either
to cherish or to pity me. Nay, I was
in worse condition than when I first
ventured to present myself to the
mercy of the world on quitting the
cottage in the fens. Then, though
rejected by man, I had something
within to support and assist in bear-
ing me harmless against the attacks
of misfortune. But now that single
consolation had disappeared. I my-
self had struck down honesty in my
heart, and had set up wickedness in
its place. The death of Foster alone
did not stand recorded there. The
hatred of the multitude, expressed
in no equivocal phrase whenever I
appeared in the streets of Okeham,
had driven me to the jail for refuge,
where I learned to assort myself
with those who set decency at de-
fiance, and scouted morality as an
intrusion upon their pleasures. I
gazed upon these associates, and
perceived that drink and debauchery
were their prime pursuits ; and when
I remembered how brandy had help-
ed me, on the night before the exe-
cution, to forget nature, and give
strength to passion, I too resolved to
pursue the gross luxuries taught by
their brute-philosophy ;— and the
deeper I drank, the more firmly did
I implant in my own system the
wickedness of those, who, not being
better, were worse than myself.

These were the changes, then,
that had taken place within me since
I first wandered from the cottage in
the fens ; and though I had not, as
then, to beg for a miserable pittance,
they were sufficient to make me feel
that I was dragging on a useless exist-
ence with no object in view — with no
remedy in prospect. I was like one of
those unfortunates, who, in the olden
time, had the choice given them to
drown by water, or to burn at the
stake ; for I had but the alternative
either to let the recollections of what
had been wring my very heart, or
to drown them in deep intoxicating
draughts, from which, each time that
I awoke from them, I was more and
more hateful to myself.
The one small consolation that my

The Executioner. Chap. II.

[March,

departure from Okeham was intend-
ed to afford, was that of avoiding
the sight of those who knew the

fuilty work in which these hands
ad been engaged, and who, in the
exuberance of their feeling, hesitated
not to let me know that they knew
it. But this consolation was not of
long continuance. After strolling
for some days wherever chance
directed, I reached the city of Peter-
borough, wet, tired, and in deep de-
spondency at the forlorn abandon-
ment which seemed to mark my
destiny. It was in this state of feel-
ing that I found myself at the door
of a mean public-house, and the
sight of it reminded me that there
was still the pernicious refuge of
brandy at my command. I entered,
and called for liquor — drank, and
called again. The fatigue that I had
undergone gave additional strength
to the potations in which I had in-
dulged,* and intoxication followed.
What occurred during the stronger
influence of the liquor I know not —
but on my first beginning to regain
possession of my senses, it seemed
as if I had been wakened into con-
sciousness by a severe blow on my
forehead ; but I had no time to ask
myself any questions, for I found
that I was surrounded by a mob of
the lowest rabble, — pushed from side
to side, with a blow from one and a
kick from another — while universal
execrations rang around. Oh, how
well did I know those sounds ! — and
as they reached my ear I strained my
heavy eyes to see whether some
strange and unaccountable event had
reconveyed me into the streets of Oke-
ham. But no ! — The houses and the
streets were utterly unknown to me
— it was the mob and their outcries
alone that came familiar to my sen-
ses, and that reminded me of the fore-
gone scene of my insults. It was
long before I could escape their
fangs, and when at last, through the
humane exertions of a few, I suc-
ceeded in effecting a retreat, I still
heard, as I crossed fields and sought
infrequent places, the words, —
"wretch," "villain," "hangman,"
echoing in my ears. Hangman !—
Aye, that was the word so uproari-
ously dwelt upon. — Hangman ! —
Then I was discovered — traced! —
Even in Peterborough — miles from
the scene of my fatal revenge, the

1832.] The Executioner.

mob, as it were by instinct, had
translated my character, and had
joined their brethren of Okeham in
expressing their abhorrence of it.

These thoughts urged me on with
fearful speed ; and after creeping,
noiseless and stealthily, for another
three or four days, by any path that
seemed most desolate, I arrived at
Bedford. As I beheld the tall spires
of the town in the distance, I shud-
dered, and twice turned to avoid the
place. But I was half dead with ex-
haustion; night was at hand; and
with a kind of desperate resolution
I slunk into the town, and dived into
the first obscure street that present-
ed itself. Each person that I met, I
turned away my head, slouched my
hat, and endeavoured to avoid his
gaze. But no one seemed to notice
me, and gradually I became more
assured. My sinking strength warn-
ed me that I needed sustenance ; and
again, for the first time since my flight
from Peterborough, I ventured into
a public-house. Tempting brandy
was at hand ; I snu#ed its seductive
flavour as soon as I entered the place,
and the recollection of its exciting,
drowning, oblivious influence, infu-
sed itselt with irresistible power over
my spirit. Brandy was had. Glorious,
destructive drink ! I quaffed it, and
it seemed to resuscitate me, heart
and head. It was to me like the helm,
and the buckler, and the coat of mail
to the knight of crusade, — it armed
me cap-a-pie, and I staggeredjbeneath
the power of my panoply." Fresh
draughts produced fresh intoxica-
tion, and again I was lost to all re-
collection of what was occurring.
But — horror ! horror ! — again I was
awakened from what I deemed my
bliss by a repetition of the same scene
that I had undergone at Peterborough
•—the same insults, the same buftet-
ing, the same execration, awakened
me from my drunkenness, and forced
me to fly for my life.

.What could it mean ? Was I pur-
sued through all my winding paths
and labyrinth of ways by some trea-
cherous spy, that only tracked me to
betray, and hold me up to the detest-
ation of mankind ? I was bewilder-
ed by the confusion of ideas that my
still half-intoxicated brain presented
in solution of the riddle, when a few
words that dropped from one of my
groaning pursuers told me all, Ha-

Chap. II. 485

ving launched after me a deep and fe-
rocious shout, he exclaimed, " Beast,
be wise at least in future ! If you
must drink, do it where there are
none to hear you blab your hangman
secrets."

Powers of hell, this, then, was the
answer to the enigma that maddened
me! I myself was the stupid spy
that had discovered all, and roused
the wrath of thousands against my
guilty confessions. I was he that
proclaimed to the world, " Ambrose
is an executioner !" And what urged
me to such insane disclosure ? Aye,
aye — brandy,brandy ! The only power
to which I could fly to steep me in
forgetfulness of myself, played the
traitor game with me of bidding flow
those words that betrayed me to the
rest of the world.

Farewell, then, to all refuge against
myself, and my own thoughts ! Fare-
well to all oblivion of the thing that
haunted me like a demon-spectre,
each day presenting itself in more
frightful guise than on the last ! Fare-
well ! farewell ! — the deep potations
for which my aching senses yearned
must be forsworn ; and for the sake
of hiding my sin from the gaze of
men, I must be content to expose it
for ever and for ever to the galling
of my own conscience, and the har-
rowing of my own recollections.

From the day of my exposure at
Bedford, I looked upon myself as one
for ever doomed to live apart, not
only from the intercourse of men,
but even from the very sight of them ;
and as I wandered through the coun-
try I was ready to fly, like a frighted
deer, on the first glimpse of a human
figure in the distance; till the all-
subduing pangs of hunger forced me
to encounter man, and even then I
would purchase enough to last me
for days, that I might not too soon
again have to face my enemy.

Thus with various wanderings over
the face of England I suffered the
time to elapse till the day of my ap-
pointment with my father was draw-
ing near. I had seen it gradually-
approaching, as the condemned pri-
soner counts the gliding hours that
are slipping away between him and
his fate ; and it was with sensations
of inexpressible disgust, that I con-
templated the necessity of my once
again appearing in Okeham, where
my face and my crime were so well

486

known. Compulsion, however, ruled
my actions with a strong arm. My
money was nearly exhausted ; and
my heart sickened at the thought of
continuing to wander in dread and
misery through the byways of the
world. I resolved, therefore, to meet
Lockwood as he had directed ; I de-
termined to detail to him all the hor-
rors of thought and deed that I had
undergone ; and to implore him, by
his paternal love for me, to make
some arrangement by which I might
be removed to another country,
where all knowledge of me would be
extinct.

These thoughts somewhat lighten-
ed my heart, as I turned my steps
towards Okeham ; and in obedience
to its suggestions, I tried to persuade
myself that there was only one more
painful struggle to be undergone,
and that after that there might be
something — if not pleasurable — at
least neutral and free from torture,
about to fall to my lot. The same
hope made me regard, with a more
kindly aspect, the prospect of my
reunion with my father. It was he,
indeed, that had given action to my
hatred for man, by moulding it into
revenge towards one individual of
the species ; and it was through that
revenge that the last six months of
misery had been inflicted. But re-
venge was at an end — Foster was in
his grave — Ellen's manes were ap-
peased— and I clung with inexpress-
ible satisfaction to the hope that
my father, when he should hear the
details of my sufferings, would move
heaven and earth to convey'me from
a land that seemed to have nothing
but wretchedness to bestow on the
most unfortunate of her children.

It was well for me that some such
sensations as these stole upon me
as I approached Okeham, or never
should I have been able to have
gathered sufficient courage within
myself to enter that hated town. As
it was, I lingered in the neighbour-
hood till the clouds of night collect-
ed thick and gloomy around, and
even then did not venture amid the
scenes that were too painfully in-
scribed on my memory ever to be
forgotten, without affecting a change
in my gait, and such alterations in
my general appearance as seemed
best calculated to spare me from re-
cognition, At lengtb, I arrived at

The Executioner. Chap. IL

[March,

the obscure lodging that had been
appointed by my father for our ren-
dezvous.—I was there to the very
day, — almost to the very hour of the
reckoning ; and on finding that I had
arrived at the goal of my expecta-
tion without discovery, or its accom-
panying shout of execration, such as
had farewelled me from the place, I
felt as if a huge load of bitterness
had been subtracted from my bosom,
and whispered to myself to welcome
it as the forerunner of still better
tidings.

On enquiring for my father, how-
ever, I found that he was not there ;
but in his stead was presented to
me a. letter which had arrived that
morning. I opened it; and these
were its contents :—

" Do you remember, Ambrose, the
sentiment with which we parted six
months ago ? — c Perchance even a
still further revenge is in prepara-
tion for us !' It is that chance that
I have been watching. It has ar-
rived— but I dare not quit my vic-
tim. Come to me instantly, dear
Ambrose. Come with gladness at
your heart, and brightness in your
eyes; for our mutual cup of ven-
geance will speedily be filled to the
overflowing.'*

The letter then went on to direct

me to meet him at . But no,

no! — I have already specified too
many localities to trace my wretched
progress; and I will not give utter-
ance to that which will betray my
present abode, and bring the callous
and the curious to my receptacle for
the purpose of comparing me with
my distressful story, and so feeding
their depraved and unfeeling appe-
tite.

The few lines that Lockwood had
thus penned, were read by me again
and again, but it was vainly that I
endeavoured to interpret their mean-
ing. What further revenge my fa-
ther had in store was a mystery be-
yond my solution, and seemed to be-
long to some portion of his story
with which I was unacquainted.
I only knew that the very mention
of vengeance struck upon my heart
with a pestilential sickness, such as
can only be felt when the mind itself
is in a state of utter loathing. That
I still hated mankind, my bosom too
keenly felt to admit of any question j
but the sufferings that I had under-

The Executioner. Chap. II. 487

it. Besides, we have that within which

1832.]

gone, in answer to my claim for re-
venge, had been too acute and pene- soars high above the power of any
trating not to excite the deepest an- mortal draught — We have revenge !"
guish when a second scene of the " We have revenge !" I echoed.

same order as the first was offered
to my gaze.

Yet obey his letter I must !— Well-
nigh penniless — entirely friendless,
—it was to him alone that I had to
look!

I set out, therefore, immediately
upon the journey which he had pre-
scribed; but it was with a fearful
heaviness of spirit that I prosecuted
my weary way thither. The gleam
of happiness that had broken in upon
me for a moment, was like the fitful
bursting of the sun through a deep
November gloom, coming but to dis-
appear again, and to make the tra-
veller still more conscious of the
cheerless prospect that surrounded
him.

After the lapse of some days, I
reached the town to which my father
had summoned me ; and with no lit-
tle difficulty discovered the lodging
to which he had directed my steps.
He received me with almost a
shout of delight; and as I gazed up-
on his countenance, all the past events
that Okeham had witnessed crowded
to my imagination with a frightful
verity of portraiture.

" Ambrose, Ambrose," he exclaim-
ed, " all is now complete. The death
of Foster six months since was but
a stepping-stone to this — the most
glorious consummation of the most
glorious passion that ever filled the
heart of man. But you smile not, my
son ! I see not that glow of fervour
that was wont to cross your brow
when I whispered ' revenge' in your
ear, and pointed the certain road to
its accomplishment."

" 1 cannot smile," returned I, with
an inward groan, " nay, I almost feel
as if to expect it of me was an insult.
I am not trie same Ambrose that you
knew six months ago."

" Pshaw ! you are a cup too low.
'Let us discuss a bottle of brandy, and
I warrant there will be smiles enough
dancing in your eyes."

" No, no, no," cried I with terror ;
" No brandy ! I have forsworn the
treacherous liquor that seduces only
to betray."

" Why, that is well too," replied
my father ; « I scorn to do that for
brandy, which I dare not do without

revenge echoed,

and the echo was in earnest, for the
mention of brandy had reminded me
of Peterborough and Bedford, and
my disgraces there united with my
disgraces at Okeham to make callous
and inhuman my heart.

My father looked at me as I re-
peated the word ' revenge,' as if he
would search to my very soul for the
key in which I had uttered it ; and
then, grasping my hand, he whisper-
ed, as if it was something too pre-
cious to be exposed to common par-
lance, " It is ours ! it is ours !"

I returned his pressure in token
that the force of his words was ac-
knowledged. But though my grasp
was firm, my heart palpitated with
uncertainty. I was all in all the crea-
ture of impulse, and was waiting for
its full tide to direct me. At Oke-
ham, at Peterborough, and at Bed-
ford, I seemed ready to burst with
hatred for the whole species; and
felt as if no revenge could be suffi-
ciently extensive to fill the measure
of my rage. But since my exposure
at the latter place, I had wandered
about, solitary and unknown, now
and then encountering an individual,
but oftener creeping along in a coun-
try to me as blank as the South Sea
Island to the shipwrecked Crusoe.
During this time my sensations had
undergone a change. The vehe-
mence of my wrath had been check-
ed for want of fuel, and the innate
propensity of my bosom to love my
fellow-man had been struggling in
spite of myself through the gloom of
my more irritated feelings. But the
hot fit was now again fast gaining on
me, and I perceived that a second
time I was about, through the inten-
sity of my own sensations and the
kindling of my father, to be plunged
into the resistless flood of hot-blood-
ed vengeance. As the suspicion of
this reached my mind, my heart beat
doubtfully, as if beseeching me to
avoid that which in the end would
again torture it so bitterly ; but
against the silent feebly-persuasive
beating of that heart there was a fear-
ful array urging me onwards— my
father's looks and words — my now
bad passions and man-hating recol-
lections, were all united, strong,

488

powerful, and headlong ; and I felt
as if nothing short of a miracle could
save me.

I really believe that Lockwood
chiefly interpreted the truth of the
inward effort my heart was making
to be released from its second thral-
dom of revenge ; for as I was pausing
after his last exclamation, he again
interposed to hurry me on into the
sea of passion.

" What," cried he, " will you echo
my cry of ' revenge,' and then, when
I exclaim * it is ours,' do you desert
me ? Or is it true, that the fearful
story of your parents' undoing, join-
ed to that of the thousand world-
heaped insults yourself have recei-
ved, needs no further avengement ?
For shame, Ambrose, for shame ! —
Grasp that which I now offer j let
this one week make all I desire com-
plete, and the next shall bear us away
from this cursed land for ever, to
begin a new life, with new prospects
and new happiness, in some country
where justice yet lives, and has a
practical acknowledgment."

Yes, yes, my father must have read
my thoughts ; for if any thing could
have confirmed me in the path that
he was dictating, it was that last hope
that he had presented to me ; and I
exclaimed, as I listened to his words,
" You have but to command, for me
to obey. Let us fly this hateful Eng-
land ; and let us, ere we go, make a
fearful reckoning for the injuries un-
der which we have had to writhe."

" My own Ambrose ! now you have
spoken words that make me proud
of my son. It only remains to put
you in possession of my meaning to
make you feel in your judgment, that
which already has impress in your
mind. When I related to you, six
months since, the tale of the suffer-
ings I had received at the hands of
Foster, I was so wrapt in his crimes,
that I forgot to advert to the only in-
dividual that he had made the sharer
of his confidence and the upholder
of his sins ; for when the prime insti-
gator of mischief is within our clutch,
it is the nature of man to overlook
the more humble accomplice. But
no sooner had the monster suffered
retribution by your hands, than my
attention was directed to him, who,
Foster being dead, stalked before my
eyes like his ghost, mowing and chat-
tering scornfully in my ears, as though

The Executioner. Chap. II.

[March,

he would say, * Foster in me lives
again — lives to spurn at Ellen's tomb
— to spit at and disdain your husband-
sorrows.' "

" And what has become of this
wretch '?" demanded I, heated almost
to fury by my father's words.

"Aye, aye," replied Lockwood, " I
like that question; — it bespeaks a
mind panting for justice. This mise-
rable reflector of Foster's enormities
is within our power; he lies hard by
in one of the dungeons of the town-
prison ; he, too, has been caught in
the fangs of the law, and execution
three days hence is to be done upon
him. Ambrose, do you understand
me ? Three days hence he is to be
hanged ; and you are in the town, —
nay, within one little furlong of the
jail ! Do you not comprehend, dear
Ambrose ?"

" More blood for Ambrose, where-
with to stain his soul ! Oh God, my
father, I cannot do it !"

"Not do it!" shouted Lockwood;
" cry shame upon the puling words,
and thank me for having thus a se-
cond time fostered your revenge, till
it has arrived at full maturity. Think
you I have worked only for myself ?
No ; it was you that were the prime
mover of all my efforts, — you, the
only being in this world I have to
love, to care for, or avenge. And
will you now desert the glorious
result that I tender ready to your
hands ?"

" And shall we, this accomplished,
indeed quit England for evermore ?"

" I swear it, Ambrose ! It was for
this last act alone that I have delayed
our departure since Foster's death."

" Then let us go this very day," I
cried. " Is it not enough that we
leave the wretch in the law's all-
powerful grasp, but that I must again
be its executioner ?"

" There lies the sum of all !" ve-
hemently exclaimed my father. " I
pine to stand below the gallows, even
as I did at Okeham, and shout as I
see the body of my foe swing nerve-
less in the air ; — I long to be able to
inform myself with endless repeti-
tion, * It was Ambrose that did this
good deed.' "

" No, no, no !" cried I ; " it will be
that repetition that will kill me."

" Not when you know all !"

" Know all, my father ?"

" Aye," returned he ; " you have

1832.]

not yet heard who this fresh victim
of our hatred is. Did I not tell you,
when first you heard my story, that
it'was with joy I learned that Foster
had dared to marry, that all his ties
of nature might be withered by my
hand ? His wife, alas, escaped me by
dying too early for my schemes ; but
the boy she left behind — Foster's on-
ly son — his dear Charles — his pride
Charles ! — Ha, ha ! it is he that is to
suft'er three days hence ! — it is he that
I call on you to immolate, for the sake
of mine and your mother's wrongs !"

Oh God, how the words of Lock-
wood struck upon my soul ! It seem-
ed to me as if he had felled me with
some mighty mental machine, and
my whole brain staggered beneath
the blow. Charles — the gentle, kind-
hearted Charles, — he, the chosen sin-
gle one of all the human race — the
only being that had ever volunteered
the wretched outcast Ambrose an act
of grace — was to be the victim of my
butchery ! I verily believe, that had
the mere recollection of the youth
occurred while my father had been
prompting me to fresh revenge, that
alone would have been sufficient to
have checked his weightiest word,
to have brought from my lips a stea-
dy refusal to his plans.

And I was to be this angel's exe-
cutioner !

" No, no, no !"— Aye, I screamed
aloud with agony, as again I uttered,
" No, no, no I"

Lockwood appeared astounded at
the sudden change I presented to his
view. He gazed upon me as if to read
my motive; and not meeting with
the solution, he demanded sternly —
" What now, Ambrose ?— what is this,
boy ?"

Again I shouted, " No, no, no !
I would not harm a hair of Charles's
head to serve myself everlastingly !"

" And our revenge"

" Talk not of revenge, father ! It
will be no revenge that Charles should
die. Nay, for mercy's sake, as you
"have plotted his death — now, at my
entreaty, help to save him !"

" Save him !" exclaimed he ; " I
would not save him if I had ten times
the power to do it. But who is to
save him ? He is marked for execu-
tion !"

" I will save him, if Heaven will

The Executioner. Chap. II.

489

give me strength!"
" You, Ambrose !

v OL. xxxi.

and, as he
NO. cxcii.

spoke, Lockwood put on those looks
that once, at the cottage in the fens,
had so overruled my words and very
thoughts. " You save him, Ambrose !
Hark ye, boy ; I know not what this
change portends, but I command that
here it cease. We have met for busi-
ness, not for silly exclamations that
want a meaning."

But the reign of my father's power
was fast growing to an end. Im-
pulse, that till now had been in its
favour, was at last arrayed against it.
Nor was I still the unknowing child
I had been when he had last resorted
to the same means; and even were
I, the image of Charles seemed to
have a supernatural power over my
every sensation. I had picked him,
as it were, from the rest of mankind
— divested him of his mortality — and
enthroned him in my heart, the very
god of my admiration.

It was under this influence that
I replied—" They do not want a
meaning, sir. On my soul, they mean,
that if man can save Charles from
execution, I will accomplish it. And
you, too, must assist. When it was
vengeance on Foster that you asked,
I assisted you ; now, that it is mercy
on his son that I require, you must
assist me."

Lockwood seemed wonderstruck
at my manner ; but the more he mar-
velled, the more was he enraged.

" Dog !" cried he, " do you talk of
mercy when I talk of vengeance?
Down, sir, down on your knees, and
swear to do my bidding ; or I will
curse you with news that shall make
your heart sicken, and the very life
shrink from your bosom."

" You have cursed me with news,"
I exclaimed, half mad ; " news more
bitter than aught else could conjure
into mischief. But Charles shall be
saved. I will go to the magistrates
and tell all I know."

Lockwood absolutely foamed with
passion at the audacity of my words ;
but at length he muttered, as though
he were grinding the words between
his teeth — " Yes, or no — will you do
my office ?"

" No, no !" I exclaimed, with a
fierceness that seemed to excite him
ten times more ; " No, no ! I will
have Charles's life saved, and his
course made happy."

" Then art thou utterly damned !"
shouted Lockwood — " Listen, listen,

490

Tlie Executioner. Chap. It.

[March,

while I curse you with words only
exceeded in their sharpness by their
truth — You are no son of mine !"

" For that I bless God," was my
answer. " Say it again, that I may
humble myself before Heaven in
thanksgiving I"

" I do say it again ; and this time
I add the name of your real parent
— It was Edward Foster ! — Come
with me, thou wretch, through the
streets of this great town, that I may
point out to the multitude aghast,
the man that hanged his father !"

I gazed on him who had uttered
these appalling words; or, rather,
seemed to gaze on him; for my eyes,
though there fixed, saw nothing. "All
my senses flocked into my ear," which
still rang with the dreadful sounds it
had heard.

" Fool," continued Lockwood,
" stand not staring there ! But laugh
— laugh, as I do, to think how deep
in parricidal wickedness your soul is
steeped. — Ha ! ha ! So the puler at
last has qualms ; and he who so
blithely hanged his father, cannot fit
the noose to his brother's neck !
Well, well, poor wretch, the common
hangman must do it instead; and
you shall stand side by side with me
below the gallows, and help me to
count his dying agonies."

The very excess of anguish that
these words inflicted, forced me into
motion. My limbs unlocked, and
my tongue loosened, as I faltered in
reply — "Monster beyond belief, why
has this been done ? How did I
ever injure you, to be exposed to mi-
sery so unutterable ?"

" Can you have heard my story,"
replied Lockwood, " and yet ask
that question ? Are you not the son
of Foster ? and did not Foster steal
Ellen from her husband ?"

"Oh! Lockwood," I exclaimed,
" a minute since, in the folly of my
heart, I blessed Heaven when you
told me that I was not your son. Now,
I will bless you — nay, on my bended
knees, will pray God to bless you, if
you will retract those words, and
once more tell me that I am yours —
or only that I am not Foster's child !"
" Then should I tell a lie !" replied
the fiend — " Have you not had enough
of those already from me ? But you
shall hear all, since this has turned
out to be my day of truth-telling.—
Foster, by all that is sacred, is your

father ; as for the rest of the story, I
altered it a little to allow me to call
you mine. It is true, that I left
Ellen for two years— not exactly on
your father's business, by the by —
but I left no child ; and you were not
born till I had been absent a year. It
was this, fool, and no silly dallying of
parentalnonsense,that made me steal
you from the pony-chaise, and take
such cunning steps that Foster, with
all his anxious search, could never
discover your retreat. All the rest
is true. I watched him till the law
better provided for him; and sent
you as his executioner. The solitary
life that you had led, and the insults
you had received in your short pro-
gress towards Okeham, rendered you
ripe for my scheme, which ever was
to mingle you and Charles in Foster's
ruin ; — and if you do not recollect the
rest, it shall be my daily delight to
remind you of it ; to"

" Never, never !"

" To sit by your side, and tell how
Foster died!"

" Oh God, spare me !"

" To cheer your spirits, by chuck-
ling in your ear an echo of the glad
laugh that burst from me when I saw
his dead body dancing in the wind !"

" Wretch !— Monster !— Devil !"

" To wake you at night with an
imitation of your father's groan ;—
and to welcome you in the morning
with a copy of the execration that
has since attended you."

I could endure it no longer. I was
mad — mad — mad I And, unwitting
what influence ruled me, I rushed
from the room, while he roared after
me — " Stay, good father-killer, your
brother Charles lies waiting for your
further practice !"

From the moment that I thus ex-
tricated myself from the piercing
words uttered by the wretch, who,
under the name of father, had sedu-
ced me to my undoing, I seemed to
be in that state of bewilderment,
when to think would be as easy as
to lift a mountain in my arms. I
stalked along, without noticing aught
of the outward objects that surround-
ed me, and was employed in the end-
less repetition of the words, " good
father-killer." It was well that I
could not think — it was well that I
was so amazed and horror-struck,
that my mind was incapable of reach-
ing any conclusion ; for, had it been

1832.]

The Executioner. Chap. IT.

otherwise, dreadful and instantane-
ous must have been the catastrophe.
But, before I had really re-obtained
the use of my reason, I had added to
the words, " good father-killer," the
rest of the demon's anathema — "your
brother Charles lies waiting for your
further practice." Those words, in-
tended to curse me beyond redemp-
tion, were my salvation. — He waited
for my further practice. — Yes, for
him I would practise ; but it should
be for his life, and not for his death ;
and if I failed, I swore by heaven
and hell, that one hour should be-
hold the end of both.

The thought of the possibility of
my being able to save Charles, made
me for the moment forget the crime
that I had committed at Okeham ; the
hope of preserving his life spread
over my brain as the influence of
brandy had formerly done ; and it
was under a sort of mental intoxica-
tion that I addressed myself to the
labour.

I cannot pause to detail all that
passed. Even now that I write these
events, instead of enacting them, my
brain is on fire, and I am ready to
rend my lungs with shouts of joy, or
tear my hair for maddening grief, ac-
cording as the alternate picture of my
brother or my father flashes across
my mind.

It was Lockwood' s wicked coun-
sel that helped me in my first pro-
gress. I succeeded in getting my-
self appointed executioner to my
brother ; and, subsequently, by dint
of such bribes as my slender means
would allow, and large promises to
the extent of the credulity of my in-
strument, I obtained ingress to his
dungeon by favour of one of the turn-
keys. It was midnight when I en-
tered, and found him gently slumber-
ing on his miserable pallet. As I
leaned over, to watch a sleep such as
I could never hope to enjoy, the
mould of his features brought back
to my recollection, with irresistible
force, the countenance of my father,
when, at the last moment of his ex-
istence, he bestowed on me his for-
giveness. The thought that rushed
into my mind overcame me, and I
burst into a passionate flood of tears.
One of those scalding drops fell
upon the cheek of my brother, and
roused him from his repose. He
looked up, and gently cried—" Is

49t
So be it. I am

the hour arrived ?
ready !"

Oh, merciful Heaven! how his
quiet accents ran through my blood !
— I could not answer him.

As he perceived my agitation, he
rose from his bed — " Who are you,"
he cried, " that come with tears of
pity? — Let me gaze on one that
speaks so comfortably to my spirit."

I had turned away my head ; but
his words were all-persuasive ; and,
forgetting that my face was already
too well known to him, I turned it
towards him at his bidding. A shriek,
that seemed to come from the bot-
tom of his soul, told me how well I
was recognised, and he, in his turn,
averted his countenance, as if in dis-
gust at my presence.

A minute, or perhaps more, elap-
sed before either of us uttered a word.
But at length he cried, — " Why is
this? Or is it necessary that the
executioner should come to tell me
that all is prepared ?"

Words in seeming — daggers in
sooth! The scathing scene of my
father's death was again placed be-
fore me in all the horrid freshness
of reality. But even that was soften-
ed by the influence of the errand that
had brought me to my brother's dun-
geon; and I wept as if my heart
would burst.

Charles seemed astonished; and
the sound of my sobbing again in-
duced him to turn his head towards
me — " Yes, y«s !" said he, after a se-
cond gaze, — " I cannot forget that
face! — You do not come here to
mock me ?"

" To mock you, Charles ?"

" Charles !"

" Dear Charles," I replied," I have
been praying that my tongue might
have power to reveal to you the very
truth of my soul. But it cannot be !
It is beyond the reach of words ; and
I must be content to let my deeds
stand alone. I have stolen hither to
concert means by which you may be
saved."

" Saved !" he exclaimed :— " Who
are you ? Are you not he that"

" Mercy ! mercy !" I interrupted ;
" do not you remind me of that, lest
in my madness I should think that
you were Lockwood, and forego my
task."

" Lockwood !" screamed my bro-
ther \ " aye, that is the villain's

462

The Executioner. Chap. II.

[March,

name, who, not content with robbing
my father, stealing his child, and
murdering Ellen, crowned all by a
dreadful betrayal of him to the scaf-
fold."

I staggered with horror at the
words that were uttered by Charles.
Great God ! could this be possible,
after the story that Lock wood had
narrated to me ? At length I mus-
tered words to exclaim — " Again, —
again, — once more; — was Lock wood
that villain ?"

" Too surely," replied Charles;
" he Avas tried for breaking open my
father's escritoire, and stealing mo-
ney to a considerable amount. His
sentence was two years' imprison-
ment, at the expiration of which he
waylaid his wife, who, ill-used be-
yond endurance, had yielded in the
interim to my father's addresses, and
the next morning she was found
drowned in the park lake. The infant
that was with her could not be tra-
ced ; and though Lockwood was sub-
sequently apprehended and tried, he
met with an acquittal, from the ab-
sence of a link in the circumstantial
evidence, that otherwise carried with
it full moral conviction of his guilt,"

" And the child ?"

" The child was never found!
But my father to his dying day felt
persuaded that the hour would ar-
rive when he would be forthcoming ;
and in this belief he gave me, on his
last farewell, the portrait of the mo-
ther set in diamonds, under a strict
injunction to deliver it, with his bless-
ing, to my brother, when that happy
discovery should be made. Alas,
alas ! he has never been heard of :
— and there will be no friend, no re-
lation, to watch my last moments,
when I am to undergo that death
which has been unjustly awarded
me."

"Unjustly?'^

" Aye, sir, unjustly," returned my
brother ; " I cannot expect you to
believe it; but as there is truth in
heaven, so is the truth on my lips,
when I say — unjustly ! Either by
some extraordinary mischance, or
inhuman conspiracy, the evidence
that could have proved my innocence
was withheld on the trial ; and an
ignominious death will be the re-
sult."

"No, no I" I exclaimed ;— " you

shall live — live to bless — to curse
your brother !"

And in very agony of spirit I clasp-
ed my hands, and sank on my knees
before his feet.

He started, as if afraid to listen to
my words, while I almost uncon-
sciously ejaculated, " Brother, bro-
ther !"

" Call me not by that name," at
length he said; " I would not in
these last moments be at enmity with
any — even you I would forgive. —
But do not insult me with that ap-
pellation, lest I forget my forbear-
ance, and spurn you as the murderer
of my father."

" Yes, yes ; I deserve even that
— but not from you ! Oh, Charles !
if time permitted me to tell you how
bitterly I have been deceived — how
Lockwood has ever brought me up
as his child, and roused me to the
frightful stigma that has just escaped
your lips by a thousand falsehoods,
in the detail of my mother's miser-
able fate, you would not quite hate
me, for the intervention of pity
would prevent it. But the precious
minutes fly ! I have arranged a plan
for your escape"

At this moment our conversation
was interrupted by the friendly turn-
key who had admitted me, shewing
himself at the door, and exclaiming,
in a low whisper, " Come, come, my
lad, your time is up. I dare not give
you more for ten times the sum you
have promised."

" One minute, and I come," I
cried ; and with a sort of growling
assent he withdrew.

" I have not time," I continued,
turning to my brother, " to explain.
One word must do — sustain your-
self even to the last moment ; and
when you get the signal from me,
follow my bidding to the very let-
ter ! I shall be by your side !"

Charles looked at me doubtingly,
and shook his head.

Again I kneeled — " Hear me hea-
ven !" I exclaimed — " as I hope for
mercy — as I do not expect it for the
parricide — as I am a ruined, heart-ri-
ven man — I have not uttered one syl-
lable that is not true ! Farewell, dear
brother — and — and do not refuse me
the precious portrait of my mother,
in token of your belief of my peni-
tence."

1832.] The Executioner.

Charles turned from me, as he
muttered, " It cannot be."

" If it cannot," I replied, " I will
not again ask it. I deserve no consi-
deration ; and I am too guilty to dare
to press for it."

I was about to withdraw, when he
called me back. His eyes were full
of tears.

" I do believe your words," he
said ; " all of them, save those which
would excite in me a hope that you
can save me. Take the portrait. I am
bound by my promise to our father
to bestow it on you. I am more
bound by the softening of my heart,
which tells me that you have been
the most unhappy victim of Lock-
wood's arts. He was wily enough
to betray our father; how could
your young untutored mind escape
him ! Brother, God bless you ! If
we should not meet again, remain in
the assurance that that same * God
bless you,' shall be the last words
these lips will utter."

How I dragged myself away from
him, I know not, but, under the
turnkey's guidance, I soon found
myself on the outside of the prison
walls. Thus set free, I went forth
into the open country, where none
might spy my actions, and gave myself
up to the recall of the scene I had
just shared with Charles. A melan-
choly gladness crept into my soul at
the recollection of his farewell words,
and at the bold resolve with which I
determined to effect his escape. I
pressed my mother's portrait against
my bosom, as I swore to save him,
and it almost seemed to my disturb-
ed fancy, as if the picture whisper-
ed to my heart, " Save him !"

The rest of the day was spent in
maturing my plans for the next co-
ming morning, when I was again to
figure on the public scaffold as an
executioner. But I had thoughts,
and hopes, and expectations, to cheer
me onwards, and I felt as if I could
-submit to a thousand disgraces for the
sake of adding one iota to the chance
of my being able to preserve my
brother's life.

The morning came. My plans
were all well laid— I felt secure of
success — and my heart was lighter
than it had been since the day that
the execrations of the mob drove me
from Okeham to wander far a-fiejd.

Chap. II.

493

Yes, even in spite of the action of
each minute reminding me of the
part that I had there performed, my
thoughts refused to be checked in
their ebullition. I stood within the
dreary outer cell, awaiting the ap-
pearance of my brother — but the
gloom of the dungeon had not power
to overcast my soul. I heard the
solemn tolling of the sullen bell —
but to my ear it was hopeful music
that spoke of Charles's freedom. I
looked around, and the eyes of all
men glouted on me; yet, ere their
gaze could reach me, it fell stillborn
and impotent in the remembrance of
the one cheering glance I was ex-
pecting from him for whom alone I
lived. At length he approached from
the inner prison : I heard the clank-
ing of his chains, and the sound was
welcomed by me with a smile ; for I
had strung my whole energies to the
feat, and 1 was panting to be doing.
But the look and the shudder of
Charles, when he first beheld me
with my hangman hands outstretched
to knock away his fetters, nearly
threw me from my balance ; and I
felt for a moment as if the better
part of my strength had been sud-
denly plucked from me.

" What is this ?" he murmured, as
I leaned over him for the purpose
of supplying the place of his irons
with a cord—-" What is this ? — Have
you spoiled my last moments and
my last hope with a falsehood*? —
Speak, are you my brother, or are
you my executioner ?"

" Hush," whispered I, while my
whole frame shook with emotion —
" I am true, as I hope for pardon. —
Keep your energies bent to their
highest pitch ; the rest is for me to
accomplish."

He gazed on me as though he
could hardly bring himself to the be-
lief of my words; but I looked up
from my odious task with such holy
earnestness in his face, and his
moistened eye so happily perceived
that mine was ready to let fall a tear
of reciprocity, that conviction in
good time arrived, and I felt his
tremulous fingers gently press my
hand in token of his credence in my
honesty.

All was arranged below; and under
pretext of my office I mounted the
scaffold tlmt I might see that every

494

The Executioner. Chap. II.

[March,

thing accorded with the scheme I
had previously formed in my own
mind. The ascending of a score of
steps placed me about ten or twelve
feet above the level of the market-
place, of which the jail formed one
side ; a narrow space of scarcely
more than a yard in width, was railed
off round the spot occupied by the
platform for the reception of the
posse comitatus, and the barriers of
that division were of sufficient
strength to prevent the pressure of
the crowd breaking in upon the con-
stabulary arrangement. The moment
that I reached the scaffold, I cast an
anxious look around to see if every
thing wore the aspect that I had pre-
figured to myself, and on which my
plans were built. Every thing was
as I could wish : the constables, by
means of the barrier, were prevented
from suddenly mingling with the
mob, and could only reach the open
space bv coming quite back to the
wall of the jail, and so passing
through a wicket that formed the
termination of the railing j and even
the very execrations with which my
presence was hailed, were pleasant
to me, for I interpreted the public
hatred towards me into sympathy
towards Charles ; and on the sudden
evolving of that sympathy much of
my success depended.

Thus reassured of the favourable
appearance of the market-place, I
descended again to the jail for the
purpose of summoning the prisoner.
Together we mounted the scaffold ;
and the execrations with which I had
previously been greeted, were chan-
ged to sounds of pity and commiser-
ation for my brother. They vibrated
like heavenly music in my ears —
they made my whole blood throb
with the fever of excitement. I
looked back to see how far distant
we were from those who had to fol-
low us to the platform. Fortune
smiled upon me. The clergyman,
who should have ascended next, was
elderly and decrepit, and as he pla-
ced his foot on the first step he slip-
ped, and seemed as if he had sprain-
ed some limb ; at all events he pau-
sed, while those immediately behind
gathered round him as if to afford
assistance.

One glance told me all this. "Now,
Charles," I whispered, " this is the
moment. Life or death, dear bro-

ther ! Turn more towards the prison
while I cut the cords that bind your
hands— spring forward with a bold
leap into the middle of the crowd,
where you see the man with a red
cap ; he is placed there to make an
opening for you — the multitude will
be with you — they will favour your
flight. — Rush through the opposite
street which takes to the river, where
awaits a boat — that once secured,
there is none other to pursue you,
and your escape to the opposite
bank is certain."

My brother listened attentively,
and shewed by his eye that he com-
prehended all. Never, never was
there such a moment in the life of
man as that in mine when the last
coil of the rope was cut, and my bro-
ther darted forward to the leap. As
I had foretold to him, the man with
the cap suddenly backed, and left an
open space for him on which to
alight, in addition to which he ex-
tended his arms round him so as to
steady his descent. That was the
great moment of my agitation, for
had Charles come to the ground with
a shock, his flight would have been
hopeless. But it was but a moment,
for in another he bounded forward
through the crowd, which, with ex-
hilarating cheers, opened on every
side, and pursued his way with the
speed of a greyhound towards the
river. Meanwhile, my own blood
refused obedience to my reason, and
without plan or project, I too sprang
from the scaffold, unable to resist the
temptation of watching him to the
consummation of his escape. But,
as might well be expected, my mo-
tive was utterly misunderstood, and
ten thousand groans saluted me as I
darted through the passage made for
Charles, and which by the sudden-
ness of my pursuit had not yet had
time to close; to groans succeeded
blows — to blows missiles — but still I
persevered, and exerting, as it were,
a more than mortal speed, I was
within a yard or two of Charles by
the time he reached the river. When
I perceived him thus far on the sure
road to liberty, I could no longer re-
strain myself : I absolutely screamed
with ecstasy j and what with my un-
intelligible shouts of delight, what
with the streams of mud with which
I had been assailed, and which ran
down me on every side, what with

]832.J The Executioner.

my bleeding lacerated face, covered
with wounds from the blows that I
had received, I must have looked
more like a mishapen lump of chaos
than aught in human shape or bear-
ing.

But all was not yet accomplished.
Charles had reached the bank, which
was some two or three yards above
the level of the stream, and was turn-
ing to run down the hard way that
led to the boat that lay ready for him,
when a man suddenly made his ap-
pearance from behind a shed that
stood in the angle formed by the
bank and the jetty, and shewed by
his actions that he was prepared to
dispute my brother's passage.

Powers of hell ! it was Lock-
wood I

Another moment, and he would
have clutched Charles in his brawny
arms, towards which my brother
had unconsciously been running, not
having perceived him till the very
last moment. At the sight, my note
of joy was changed to the yell of de-
spair. It can hardly be said that I
thought ! No ! It was as a mere act
of desperation, that, still at the
height of my speed, I rushed upon
the villain, who had been too intent
in his observations of Charles to no-
tice me, or to prepare himself for
the tremendous shock with which I
assaulted him. I was in time — yes,
even to a little instant, I was in time !
Full with the rage of energy and
speed, I drove against him, and to-
gether we toppled over the bank
into the soft and oozy mud that the
low-tided river had left behind. For
myself I had no care ; and even while
in the act of falling, I shouted to my
brother, " Dear, dear Charles, to the
boat — to the boat ! Row with the
strength of a thousand! Your de-
mon foe is destroyed !"

Chap. II. 495

Charles returned my shout with a
heart-spoken blessing ; and as I lay
over Lockwood, who each moment,
by his effort to disentangle himself
from me, sank deeper and deeper
into the suffocating mire, I could
hear my brother ply the oars with
desperate speed and" vigour, while
ever and anon his thanksgiving to
the wicked Ambrose came on the
wings of the wind, till struggling,
exhaustion, and anxiety deprived me
of all consciousness of existence,
and left me lying senseless on the
corpse of my arch-deceiver.

My story is told! My confessions
are numbered ! Why, I know not —
but so it is ; even as surely as I am
now the inmate of a melancholy cell,
and am counted by my fellow-men
among the maniacs of the earth. —
Mad ! Oh no, I am not mad ! Do I
not remember too well the frightful
scenes of Okeham — the dreadful ca-
jolery of Lockwood, by which he
has made my own thoughts my own
hell?— Mad! Would I were mad;
for then might these things be hid-
den in oblivion; and yet I would
not forget all ! It was I that saved
the gentle Charles from execution;
it was I that earned his blessings by
deliverance ; and though I weep
when I put my hand into my bosom,
and vainly seek my mother's portrait,
the tears change into joyful drops
when dear memory reminds me that
it was to purchase his escape I sold
the precious relic. No, no ! I can-
not be utterly mad, till I shall hear,
which Heaven of mercy avert, that
my brother is again within the peril
of the law, as though the ghost of
Lockwood, yet unsatiated, was still
employed in hunting him into its
toils.

SYPHAX.

496

The Snowing-up of Strath Lugas.

[March,

THE SNOWING-UP OF STRATH LUGAS.

JOLLY old Simon Kirkton ! thou
art the very high priest of Hymen.
There is something softly persuasive
to matrimony in thy contented, com-
fortable appearance ; and thy house,
— why, though it is situated in the
farthest part of Inverness-shire, it is
as fertile in connubial joys as if it
were placed upon Gretna Green.
Single blessedness is a term unknown
in thy vocabulary; heaven itself
would be a miserable place for thee,
for there there is neither marrying nor
giving in marriage.

Half the county was invited to a
grand dinner and ball at Simon's
house in January, 1812. All the young
ladies had looked forward to it in
joyous anticipation and hope, and all
the young gentlemen with consider-
able expectation — and fear. Every
thing was to be on the grandest
scale ; the dinner in the ancient hall,
with the two family pipers discour-
sing sweet music between the cour-
ses, and the ball in the splendid new
drawing-room, with a capital band
from the county town. The Duke
was to be there, with all the nobility,
rank, and fashion of the district ; —
and, in short, such a splendid enter-
tainment had never been given at
Strath Lugas in the memory of man.
The editor of the county paper had
a description of it in types a month
before, and the milliners far and
near never said their prayers without
a devout supplication for the health
of Mr Kirkton. All this time that
worthy gentleman was by no means
idle. The drawing-room was dis-
mantled of its furniture, and the floors
industriously chalked over with in-
numerable groups of flowers. The
larder was stocked as if for a siege ;
the domestics drilled into a know-
ledge of their respective duties ; and
every preparation completed in the
most irreproachable style. I ques-
tion whether Gunter ever dreamt of
such a supper as was laid out in the
dining-room. — Venison in all its
forms, and fish of every kind. It
would have victualled a seventy-four
to China.

The day came at last, a fine sharp
clear day, as ever gave a bluish tinge
to the countenance, or brought tears
* to beauty's eve," There bad been

a great fall of snow a few days be-
fore, but the weather seemed now
settled into a firm enduring frost.
The Laird had not received a single
apology, and waited in the hall along
with his Lady to receive his guests
as they arrived. "My dear, is na
that a carriage coming up the Brose-
fit-knowe ? Auld Leddy Clavers, I
declare. She'll be going to dress here,
and the three girls. — Anne's turned
religious ; so I'm thinking she's owre
auld to be married. — It's a pity the
minister's no coming; his wife's just
dead — but Jeanie '11 be looking out
for somebody — We maun put her
next to young Gerfluin. Elizabeth's
a thocht owre young ; she can stay
at the side-table with Tammy Max-
well— he'sjustahobbletehoy — it wad
be a very good match in time." In
this way, as each party made its ap-
pearance, the Laird arranged in a
moment the order in which every
individual was to be placed at table ;
and even before dinner he had the
satisfaction of seeing his guests
breaking off into the quiet tete-a~titest
which the noise and occupation of a
general company render sweet and
secluded as a meeting " by moon-
light alone." While his eye wander-
ed round the various parties thus
pleasantly engaged, it rested on the
figure of a very beautiful girl whom
he had not previously remarked.
She sat apart from all the rest, and
was amusing herself with looking at
the pictures suspended round the
room — apparently unconscious of the
presence of so many strangers. She
seemed in deep thought; but as she
gazed on the representation of a bat-
tle-piece, her face changed its expres-
sion from the calmness of apathy to
the most vivid enthusiasm.

" Mercy on us a' !" whispered the
Laird to his wife, " wha's she that ?
that beautiful young lassie in the
wnite goon ? an' no a young bache-
lor within a mile o' her — Deil ane o'
them deserves such an angel."

" It's a Miss Mowbray," was the
reply; " she came with Mrs Car-
michael — a great heiress, they say —
it's the first time she was ever in
Scotland."

" Aha ! say ye sae ?— Then we'll
see if we canna keep her amang us

1832.] The Snowing-itp of Strath Lugas.

noo that she is come. Angus M'Leod
— na, he'll no do— he's a gude enough

lad, but he's no bonny. Chairlie
Fletcher — he wad do well enough ;
but I'm thinking he'll do better for
Bell Johnson. Od, donner'd auld
man, no to think o' him before !
Chairlie Melville's the very man—
the handsomest, brawest, cleverest
chield she could hae ; and if she's
gotten the siller, so much the better
for Chairlie — they'll be a bonny
couple."

And in an instant the Laird laid his
hand on the shoulder of a young
man, who was engaged with a knot
of gentlemen, discussing some recent
news from the Peninsula, and drag-

S';ng him away, said, " For shame,
hairlie, for shame ! Do you no see
that sweet,modestlassie a' by hersell ?
Gang up till her this minute — bide
by her as lang as ye can — she's weel
worth a' the attention ye can pay
her. — Miss Mowbray," he continued,
" I'm sorry my friend Mrs Carmichael
has left ye sae much to yoursell —
but here's Chairlie, or, rather I
should say, Mr Charles, or rather I
should say, Lieutenant Charles Mel-
ville, that will be happy to supply
her place. He'll tak' ye into ye'r
dinner, and dance wi' ye at the
ball."

" All in place of Mrs Carmichael,
sir?" replied the young lady, with
an arch look.

" Weel said, my dear, weel said —
but I maun leave younger folks to
answer ye. I've seen the time I
wadna hae been very blate to gie
ye an answer that wad have stoppit
your * wee bit mou', sae sweet an'
bonny.' " Saying these words, and
whispering to his young friend,
" Stick till her, Chairlie," he bustled
off, " on hospitable thoughts intent,"
to another part of the room.

After this introduction, the young
people soon entered into conversa-
tion ; and, greatly to the Laird's satis-
faction, the young soldier conducted
Miss Mowbray into the hall, sat next
her all the time of dinner, and seem-
ed as delighted with his companion
as the most match-making lady or
gentleman could desire. The lady,
on the other hand, seemed in high
spirits, and laughed at the remarks
of her neighbour with the highest
appearance of enjoyment.

497

" How long have you been with
Mrs Carmichael ?'*

" I came the day before yester-
day."

" Rather a savage sort of country
I'm afraid you find this, after the
polished scenes of your own land."

" Do you mean the country," re-
plied the lady, " or the inhabitants ?
They are not nearly such savages as
I expected; some of them seem
half-civilized."

" It is only your good-nature that
makes you think us so. When you
know us better, you will alter your
opinion."

" Nay, now don't be angry, or
talk, as all other Scotch people do,
about your national virtues. 1 know
you are a very wonderful people —
your men all heroes, your peasants
philosophers, and your women an-
gels ; but seriously, I was very much
disappointed to find you so like
other people."

" W7hy, what did you expect ? —
Did you think we were men whose
heads did grow beneath our shoul-
ders ?"

" No — I did not expect that ; but
I expected to find every thing differ-
ent from what I had been accus-
tomed to. Now, the company here
are dressed just like a party in Eng-
land, and behave in the same man-
ner. Even the language is intelli-
gible at times ; though the Laird, I
must say, would require an inter-
preter."

" Ah ! the jolly old Laird— his face
is a sort of polyglot dictionary — it is
the expression for good humour,
kindness, and hospitality, in all lan-
guages."

""And who is that at his right
hand ?"

" What ? the henchman ? — That's
Rory M'Taggart — he was piper for
twenty years in the 73d, and killed
three men with his own hand at
Vimeira."

" And is that the reason he is call-
ed the henchman ?"

" Yes, henchman means, ' The
piper with the bloody hand, the
slaughterer of three.' "

" What a comprehensive word ! —
It is almost equal to the Laird's
face."

But here the Laird broke in upon
their conversation. " Miss Mowbray,

The Snoiviny-up of Strath Luyas.

498

dinna be frightened at a* the daft
things the wild soger is saying to
you." Then he added, in a lower
tone, " Chairlie wad settle doon into
a douce, quiet, steady married man,
for a' his tantrums. It wad be a pity
if a Frenchman's gun should spoil
his beauty, poor fallow."

The young lady bowed, without
comprehending a syllable of the
speech of the worthy host. " Are you
likely to be soon ordered .abroad ?"
she said.

" We expect the route for Spain
every day, and then huzza for a peer-
age or Westminster Abbey !"

" Ah ! war is a fine game when it
is played at a distance ! Why can't
kings settle their disputes without
having recourse to the sword ?"

" I really can't answer your ques-
tion, but I think it must be out of a
kind regard to the interests of young-
er brothers. A war is a capital pro-
vision for poor devils like myself,
who were born to no estate but that
excessively large one which the ca-
techism calls the ' estate of sin and
misery.' — But come, I see from your .
face you are very romantic, and are
going to say something sentimental,
— luckily his Grace is proposing a
removal into the ball-room ; may I
beg the honour of your hand ?"

" Aha, lad !" cried the Laird, who
had heard the last sentence, " are ye
at that wark already — asking a led-
dy's hand on sae short an acquaint-
ance ? — But folk canna do't owre
sune."

The bustle caused by the seces-
sion of those who preferred Terpsi-
chore to Bacchus, luckily prevented
Miss Mowbray's hearing the Laird's
observation, and in a few minutes
she found herself entering with heart
and soul into the full enjoyment of
a country dance.

Marriages they say are made in
heaven. Charles Melville devoutly
wished the Laird's efforts might be
successful, and that one could be
made on earth. She was indeed, as
the Laird expressed it, " a bonny cra»
tur to look at." I never could de-
scribe a beauty in my life — so the
loveliness of the English heiress must
be left to the imagination. At all
events, she was " the bright consum-
mate flower of the whole wreath"
which was then gathered together at
Strath Lugasj and even Lady Cla-

[March,

vers said, " That Miss Mowbray's
very weel put on indeed, for sae
young a lassie. Her hair's something
like our Anne's — only I think Annie's
has a wee richer tinge o' the golden."

" Lord .save us a' !" whispered the
Laird ; " poor Anne's hair's as red as
a carrot."

" An' dinna ye think her voice,"
said her ladyship — " dinna ye think
her voice is something like our Jean-
ie's — only maybe no sae rich in the
tone ?"

" Feth, ma'am," said the Laird,
" I maun wait till I hear Miss Mow-
bray speak the Gaelic, for really the
saft sort o' beautiful English she
speaks gies her a great advantage."

" As ye say, Mr Kirkton," conti-
nued her ladyship, who, like all great
talkers, never attended to what any
one said but herself, " Jeanie has a
great advantage owre her, — but she's
weel enough, for a' that."

In the meantime the young lady,
who was the subject of this conver-
sation, troubled herself very little as
to what Lady Clavers said or thought
on the occasion. I shall not on any
account say that she was in love, for
I highly disapprove of such a speedy
surrender to Dan Cupid in the softer
sex ; but at all events she was highly
delighted with the novelty of the
scene, and evidently pleased with
her partner. No scruple of the same
kind restrains me from mentioning
the state of Charles Melville's heart.
He was as deeply in love as ever was
the hero of a romance, and in the
pauses of the dance, indulged in va-
rious reveries about love and a cot-
tage, and a number of other absurd
notions, which are quite common, I
believe, on such occasions. He ne-
ver deigned to think on so contempt-
ible an object as a butcher's bill, or
how inconvenient it would be to
maintain a wife and four or five an-
gels of either sex, on ninety pounds
a-year ; but at the same time I must
do him the justice to state, that, al-
though he was a Scotchman, the fact
of Miss Mowbray's being an heiress
never entered into his contemplation
—and if I may mention my own opi-
nion, I really believe he would have
been better pleased if she had been
as portionless as himself. But time
and tide wear through the roughest
day; no wonder, then, they wore
very rapidly through the happiest

1832.]

evening he had ever spent. The
Duke and the more distant visitors
had taken their leave ; " the mirth
and fun grew fast and furious" among
the younger and better acquainted
parties who were left ; hut, greatly
to the mortification of the young sol-
dier, his partner was called away at
the end of a dance, just when he had
been anticipating a delightful tete-
a-tete while the next was forming.
With his heart nearly bursting with
admiration and regret, he wrapt her
in her cloaks and shawls, and in si-
lent dejection, with only a warm
pressure of the hand, which he was
enchanted to find returned, he hand-
ed her into Mrs Carmichael's old-fa-
shioned open car, though the night
was dark and stormy, — and after
listening to the last sound of the
wheels as they were lost among the
snow, he slowly turned, and re-en-
tered the ball-room. Their absence,
to all appearance, had not been noti-
ced by a single eye — a thing at which
he, as a lover under such circumstan-
ces is bound to be, was greatly surpri-
sed. " Blockheads !" he said, " they
would not see the darkness if the
sun were extinguished at mid-day."
And he fell into a train of reflections,
which, from the expression of his
countenance, did not seem to be of a
very exhilarating nature. In about
twenty minutes, however, after his
return, he was roused by the hench-
man, whom he had spoken of at din-
ner, who beckoned him from the
hall.

" The bonny cratur ! — the bonny
cratur !" he began,—" an' sic a nicht
to gang hame in ! — the stars a' put
out, the snaw beginnin5 to drift, and
a spate in the Lugas ! Noo, if auld
Andrew Strachan, the Leddy Car-
michael's coachman, doitet auld
body, and mair than half fou, tries
the ford — oh, the lassie, the bonny
bit lassie '11 be lost ! — an* I'll never
hae the heart to spend the crown-
piece she slippit into my hand just
afore the dancin'."

But what more the worthy hench-
man might have said must remain a
mystery to all succeeding time ; for,
long before he had corne to the epi-
sode of the crown, Charles had rush-
ed hatless into the open air, and dash-
ed forward at the top of his speed to
overtake the carriage, in time to
warn them from the ford. But the

The Snowing-up of Strath Lugas.

493

snow had already formed itself into
enormous wreaths, which, besides
impeding his progress, interfered
greatly with his knowledge of local-
ities ; and he pursued his toilsome
way more in despair than hope. He
shouted, in the expectation of his
voice being heard, but he heard no
reply. He stooped down to see the
tracks of the wheel, but the snow
fell so fast and drifted at the same
time, that it was quite undistinguish-
able, even if the darkness had not
been so deep. However, onward he
pressed towards the ford, and shout-
ed louder and louder as he approach-
ed it. The roaring of the stream,
now swollen to a prodigious height,
drowned his cries, and his eyes in
vain searched for the object of his
pursuit ; far and near, up and down,
he directed his gaz«, and in a trans-
port of joy at the hope which their
absence presented, that they had
gone round by the bridge and were
saved, he was turning away to return
home, when he thought he heard, in
a bend of the river, a little way
down, a faint scream above the roar-
ing of the torrent. Quick as light-
ning he rushed towards the spot, and
hallooed as loud as he could. The
shriek was distinctly repeated, and
a great way out in the water, he saw
some substance of considerable size.
He shouted again, and a voice replied
to him from the river. In an instant
he had plunged into the stream, and,
though it was rushing with the great-
est impetuosity, it was luckily not so
deep as to prevent his wading. And
after considerable toil, for the water
was above his breast, he succeeded
in reaching the obj ect he had descried
from the bank. It was, indeed, Mrs
Carmichael's car, and in it he had
the inexpressible delight to find the
two ladies, terrified, indeed, with
their appalling situation, but luckily
in full possession of their presence
of mind.

In a few hurried words he desired
them to trust entirely to him, and
begging the elder lady to remain
quiet in the carriage, he lifted the
younger in his arms, — but in the
most earnest language she implored
him to save her companion first, as
she had such confidence in herself
that she was certain she could re-
main in the carriage till he had effect-
ed his return. Pressing her to his

500

heart in admiration of such magna-
nimity, he laid her gently back, and
lifting Mrs Carmichael from her seat,
he pushed desperately for the shore.
The water even in this short time
had perceptibly risen, and on reach-
ing the bank, and depositing his bur-
den in safety, he rushed once more
through the torrent, fearful lest a
moment's delay should make it im-
practicable to reach the car. That
light equipage was now shaking from
the impetuous attacks of the stream,
and at the moment when the fainting
girl was lifted up, a rush of greater
force taking it, now unbalanced by
any weight, forced it on its side, and
rolled it off into the great body of
the river. It had been carried above
fifty yards below the ford, without,
however, being overturned, and had
luckily become entangled with the
trunk of a tree ; the horse, after se-
vere struggles, had been drowned,
and his inanimate weight had helped
to delay the progress of the carriage.
The coachman was nowhere to be
found. Meanwhile the three, once
more upon land, pursued their path
back to Strath Lugas. Long and toil-
some was the road, but cheered to
the young soldier by the happy con-
sciousness he had saved "his heart's
idol" from death. Tired and nearly
worn out with the harassing nature
of their journey and of their feelings,
they at length reached the hospitable
mansion they had so lately quitted.
The music was still sounding, the
lights still burning brightly, — but
when old Simon Kirkton saw the
party enter his hall, no words can do
justice to the horror of his expres-
sion. The ladies were consigned to
the attention of his wife. He him-
self took especial care of the hero of
the story ; and after having heard the
whole adventure, when the soldier,
refreshed and in a suit of the Laird's
apparel, was entering the dancing-
room, he slapt him on the shoulder
and said, " Diel a doubt o't noo. If
ye're no laird of the bonny English
acres, and gudeman o' the bonny
English leddy, I've nae skeel in spae-
in'; that's a'."

The adventure quickly spread, and
people were sent off in all directions
with lights, to discover, if possible,
the body of the unfortunate Andrew
Strachan. After searching for a long
time, our friend, the henchman,

The Snowing-up of Strath Lugas.

[March,

thought he heard a voice close beside
him, on the bank. He held down his
lantern, and, sure enough, there he
saw the object of their pursuit lying
with his head at the very edge of the
water, and his body on the land ! The
water from time to time burst over
his face, and it was only on these oc-
casions that an almost inarticulate
grunt shewed that the comatose dis-
ciple of John Barleycorn was yet
alive. The henchman summoned
his companions, and on attentively
listening to the groans, as they con-
sidered them, of the dying man, they
distinctly heard him, as he attempted
to spit out the water which broke in
tiny waves over his mouth, exclaim-
ing, " Faugh, faugh ! I doot ye're
changin' the liquor — a wee drap mair
whisky, and a sma' spoonfu' o' sugar.'*
The nodding charioteer had been
ejected from his seat on the first im-
petus of the "spate," and been safely
floated to land, without perceiving
any remarkable change of situation.
It is needless to say, he was con-
siderably surprised to discover where
he was, on being roused by the hench-
man's party. " It's my belief," said
Jock Stewart, the piper, as they help-
ed him on his way, " the drucken
body thocht he was tipplin' a' the
time in the butler's ha'. It wad be a
gude deed to let the daidlin' haveril
follow his hat and wig; and I'm
thinkin' by this time they'll be doon
about Fort George."

The weather was become so stormy,
and the snow so deep, that it was im-
possible for any one to leave the
house that night. The hospitable
Laird immediately set about making
accommodation for so large a party,
and by a little management he con-
trived to render every body comfort-
able. The fiddlers were lodged in the
barn, the ladies settled by the half-
dozen in a room, and a supply of
cloaks was collected for the gentle-
men in the hall. Where people are
willing to be pleased, it is astonish-
ing how easy they find it. Laughter
long and loud resounded through all
the apartments, and morn began to
stand " upon the misty mountain-
tops," ere sleep and silence took
possession of the mansion. Next day
the storm still continued. The pros-
pect, as far as the eye could reach,
was a dreary waste of snow ; and it
was goon perceived, by those who

1832.]

The Snowing -up of Strath Lugas.

501

were skilful in such matters, that the
whole party were fairly snowed up,
and how long their imprisonment
might last no one could tell. It was
amazing with what equanimity the
intelligence was listened to ; one or
two young ladies, who had been par-
ticularly pleased with their partners,
went so far as to say it was delightful.

The elders of the party bore it
with great good humour, on being
assured from the state of the larder
there was no danger of a famine;
and, above all, the Laird himself, who
had some private schemes of his own
to serve, was elevated into the se-
venth heaven by the embargo laid
on his guests.

" If this bides three days there'll
be a dizzen couple before Leddy-
day. It's no possible for a lad and
a lass to be snaw'd up thegether
three days without melting — but
we'll see the night how it's a' to be
managed. Has ony body seen Mrs
Carmichael and Miss Mowbray this
morning ?"

But before this question could be
answered, the ladies entered the
room. They were both pale from
their last night's adventure; but
while the elder lady was shaking
hands with her friends, and recei-
ving their congratulations, the eyes
of her young companion wandered
searchingly round the apartment till
they fell on Charles Melville. Im-
mediately a flush came over her
cheek, which before was deadly pale,
and she started forward and held out
her hand. He rushed and caught it,
and even in presence of all that com-
pany, could scarcely resist the incli-
nation to put it to his lips.

" Thanks ! thanks !" was all she
said, and even in saying these short
words her voice trembled, and a tear
came to her eye. But when she saw
that all looks were fixed on her, she
blushed more deeply than ever, and
retired to the side of Mrs Carmi-
chael. This scene passed by no
means unheeded by the Laird.

" Stupid whelp !" he said, " what
for did he no kiss her, an' it were
just to gie her cheeks an excuse for
growin' sae rosy ? Od', if I had saved
her frae droonin', I wadna hae been
sae nice, — that's to say, my dear,"
he added to his wife, who was stand-
ing near, « if I hadna a wife o' my ain."

The storm lasted for five days.
How the plans of the Laird, with re-
gard to the matrimonial comforts of
his guests prospered, I have no in-
tention of detailing. I believe, how-
ever, he was right in his predictions,
and the minister was presented with
eight several sets of tea-things with-
in three months. Many a spinster
at this moment looks back with re-
gret to her absence from the snow-
party of Strath Lugas, and dates all
her misfortunes from that unhappy
circumstance. On the fourth morn-
ing of the imprisonment, the Laird
was presented with a letter from
Charles Melville. In it he informed
him that he dared not be absent
longer, in case of his regiment being
ordered abroad, and that he had
taken his chance and set off on his
homeward way in spite of the snow.
It ended with thanks for all his kind-
ness, and an affectionate farewell.
When this was announced to the
party, they expressed great regret
at his absence. It seemed to sur-
prise them all. Mrs Carmichael was
full of wonder on the occasion ; but
Miss Mowbray seemed totally un-
moved by his departure. She was
duller in spirits than before, and re-
fused to dance ; but in other respects
the mirth was as uproarious, and the
dancing as joyous as ever — and in a
day the snow was sufficiently clear-
ed away — the party by different con-
veyances broke up — and the Laird
was left alone, after a week of con-
stant enjoyment.

Four years after the events I have
related, a young man presented him-
self for the first time in the pump-
room at Bath. The gossips of that
busy city formed many conjectures
as to who and what he could be —
some thought him a foreigner, some
a man~of consequence incog.; but
all agreed that he was a soldier and
an invalid. He seemed to be about
six-and-twenty, and was evidently a
perfect stranger. After he had stay-
ed in the room, and listened for a
short time to the music, he went out
into the street, and just as he made
his exit by one door, the marvels of
the old beldames who congregate
under the orchestra, were called into
activity by the entrance through the
other of a young lady leaning on
the arm of an old one. Even so sim-

The Snowing-np of Strath Lug as.

502

pie an incident as this, is sufficient
in a place like Bath to give rise to
various rumours and conjectures.
She was tall, fair, and very beautiful,
but she also seemed in bad health,
and to be perfectly unknown. Such
an event had not occurred at the
pump-room for ages before. Even
the master of the ceremonies was at
fault. " As near as he could guess,
to the best of his conjecture, he be-
lieved he had never seen either the
gentleman or the lady."

While surmises of all kinds were
going their rounds in this manner,
the gentleman pursued his walk up
Milsom Street. His pace was slow,
and his strength did not seem equal
even to so gentle an exertion. He
leant for support upon his walking-
stick, and heard, mingled with many
coughs, a voice which he well knew,
calling, " Chairlie! Chairlie Melville !
I say ! pull, ye deil's buckie — ugh —
ugh ! — sic a damned conveyance for
a Kiel and gentleman. Ah Chairlie,
lad," said our old acquaintance, the
Laird, who had now got up to where
his friend was standing, " sad times
for baith o' us. — Here am I sent up
here wi' a cough wad shake a kirk,
ugh — ugh. — An the gout in baith my
feet — to be hurled about in a chair
that gangs upon wheels — ugh — ugh
— by a lazy English vagabond that
winna understand a word I say till
him. — An' you," and here the old
man looked up in the young soldier's
face — " Oh, Chairlie, Chairlie, is this
what the wars hae brocht ye to ? —
ugh — ugh. — Yer verra mither wadna
ken ye — but come awa', come awa'
to my lodgings in Pulteney Street,
and tell us a' about wJhat ye've been
doin' — ugh — ugh — my fit, my fit ! pu'
awa', ye ne'er-do-weel; turn about,an'
be hanged till ye — do ye no ken the
road to Pulteney Street yet ? Come
awa' Chairlie,my man, dinna hurry."
And thus mingling his commands to
his chairman, with complaints of the
gout and conversation to his friend,
the Laird led the way to his lod-
gings.

Chairlie's story was soon told. He
had shared in all the dangers and tri-
umphs of the last three years of the
war. He had been severely wound-
ed at Waterloo, and had come to Bath
with a debilitated frame, and a Ma-
jor's commission, But though he

[March,

spoke of past transactions as gaily as
he could, the quick'eyes of the Laird
perceived that there was some " se-
cret sorrow" which weighed down
his spirits. " An' did ye meet with
nae love adventure in your travels ?
for ye manna tell me a bit wound in
the shoulder would mak ye sae down-
headed as ye are. Is there nae Spa-
nish or French lassie that gies ye a
sair heart ? Tell it a' to me, an' if I
can be of ony use in bringin' it about,
ye may depend I'll do all in my
power to help ye."

" No," replied Charles, smiling at
the continued match-making propen-
sities of his friend ; " I shall scarcely
require your services on that score.
I never saw Frenchwoman or Spa-
niard, that cost me a single sigh."
And here, as if by the force of the
word itself, the young man sighed.

" Weel, it maun be some English
or Scotch lassie then ; for it's easy to
be seen that somebody costs ye a
sigh. I aince thocht ye were in a fail-
way o' winnin' yon bonny cratur ye
saved frae the spate o' the Lugas —
but ye gaed awa' in such a hurry the
plant hadna time to tak' root."

" She was too rich for the poor
penniless subaltern to look to," re-
plied the young man, a deep glow
coming over his face.

" Havers ! havers ! She wad hae
given a' her lands yon night for a
foot o' dry grund. An' as ye won
her, ye had the best right to wear her.
And I'm muckle mistaken if the las-
sie didna think sae hersell."

" Miss Mowbray must have over-
rated my services ; but at all events I
had no right to take advantage of that
fortunate accident to better my for-
tunes by presuming on her feelings
of gratitude to her preserver."

" What for no ? what for no ?"
cried the Laird, " ye should hae mar-
ried her on the spot. There were
eight couples sprang frae the snaw-
meeting — ye should hae made the
ninth, and then ye needna hae had a
ball put through your shouther, nor
ever moved frae the braw Holmes o'
Surrey. Od I wish it had been me that
took her out o' the water ; that is, if
I had been as young as you, and Pro-
vidence had afflicted me with the loss
o' Mrs Kirkton."

" If I had been on a level with her
as to fortune"—"

1832.] The Snoioing-up

" Weel, but noo your brither's
dead, ye're heir o' the auld house,
an' ye're a major — what's to forbid
the banns noo ?"

" I have never heard of Miss Mow-
bray from that hour to this; in all
probability she is married to some
lucky fellow"

" She wasna married when I saw
Mrs Carmichael four months since;
she was in what leddies ca' delicate
health though ; she had aye been
melancholy since the time of the
water business. Mrs Carmichael
thought ye were a great fool for rin-
nin' awa'."

" Mrs Carmichael is very kind."

" 'Deed is she," replied the Laird,
" as kind-hearted a woman as ever
lived. She's maybe a thocht owre
auld, or I dinna doubt she wad be
very happy to marry ye hersell."

" I hope her gratitude would not
carry her to such an alarm ing length,"
said Charles, laughing. " It would
make young men rather tender of
saving ladies' lives."

" If I knew whar she was just now,
I wad soon put every thing to rights.
It's no owre late yet, though ye maun
get fatter before the marriage — ye
wad be mair like a skeleton than a
bridegroom. — But, save us ! what's
the matter wi' ye? are ye no weel ?
— head - ach ? — gout ? — what is't,
man ? — confoond my legs, I cannot
stir — Sit down and rest ye."

But Charles, with his eyes intent-
ly fixed on some object in the street,
gazed as if some horrible apparition
had met his sight. Alternately flush-
ed and pale, he continued as if en-
tranced, and then deeply sighing,
sunk senseless on the floor.

" Rory, Rory !" screamed the Laird
-— " 'ugh, 'ugh ! oh ! that I could get
at the bell ?— Cheer up, Chairlie.—
Fire ! fire !— 'ugh, ugh ! the lad will
be dead before a soul comes near
him— Rory ! Rory !" And luckily
the ancient henchman, Rory Mac-
Taggart, made his appearance in time
to save his master from choking
through mingled fear and surprise.
Charles was soon recovered, and,

of Strath Lugas. 503

when left again alone with the Laird,
he said, " As I hope to live, I saw her
from this very window, just as we
were speaking of her. Even her face
I saw! oh, so changed and pale!
But her walk ! — no two can have such
a graceful carriage 1"

" Seen wha ?" said the Laird ; "Mrs
Carmichael ? for it was her we were
speakin' o' — aye, she's sair changed ;
and her walk is weel kent ; only I
thocht she was a wee stiffer frae the
rheumatism last year. But whar is
she ?"

" It was Miss Mowbray I saw. She
went into that house opposite — "

" What ! the house wi' the brass
knocker, green door — the veranda
with the flower-pots, an' twa dead
geraniums ?"

" Yes."

" Then, just ring the bell, and tell
that English creatur to pu' me in the
wee whirligig across the street — "

" Impossible, my dear Laird ! re-
collect your gout — "

" Deil hae the gout and the cough
too ! Order the chair ; I'll see if it's
her in five minutes."

And away, in spite of all objections
and remonstrances, went the Laird to
pay his visit. Now, if any one should
be in doubt as to the success of his
negotiations, I — the writer of this
story — Charles Melville, late major
— th regiment, will be happy to con-
vince him of it, if he will drop in on
me any day at Mowbray-Hall, by my
own evidence, and also that of my
happy and still beautiful Madeline,
though she is the mother of three rosy
children, who atthis moment are ma-
king such an intolerable noise, that
I cannot understand a sentence I am
writing. I may just mention, that
the Laird attended the wedding, and
that his cough entirely left him. He
does not suifer an attack of the gout
more than once a-year. He has
adopted my second boy, and every
autumn we spend three months with
him at Strath Lugas. Oh ! that all
match-makers were as innocent and
disinterested as jolly old Simon
Kirkton !

504 Gaffer Maurice. [March,

GAFFER MAURICE.

How he would neither be young nor wise, and what he had buckled on his back.

BY THE TRANSLATOR OF HOMER*S HYMNS.

WITH his face to the glade, and his back to the bole

Of a wild ash, amid the leaves so green,
Sat a merry old soul, and his silvery poll

And his cheeks were edged by the summery sheen;
And his few scant locks into sunshine broke,
Like the young bright leaves on an aged oak.

About him there sported gleams of light,

And they linger' d here and there to scan
(As if they were bright with life and sight)

The innermost thoughts of the stranger man
And would say, Sore evil betide thee here,
If thy conscience it be not pure and clear !

Round him, and round him they shone, and again

Athwart, and over the grey fern fell,
And into the glen, and lighted up then

Visions, it were but as dreams to tell — >
Floating in amber and gold and shade,
Like bodiless sprites in ambuscade.

Then thrice the old man rubbed his eyes,

To see if he could see aright —
Quoth he, I surmise more mysteries

May be going on here than suit me quite.
Perchance there be sprites lurk under the fern,
And are doing what I should not discern.

The gleam pass'd on — all was still around,
'Mid the motionless boughs of ash and beech,

And it seem'd the ground with unutter'd sound
Was pregnant, and soon would burst in speech.

First a loud laugh through the wild-wood rang,

Then a voice broke forth, as the sweet birds sang.

FAIRY.
Gaffer Maurice, come hither to me,

In thy merry eye good sooth I read;
Here's a flower for thee, from the fairy-tree,

That will make thee as young as Ganymede ;
And thy days shall flow like sunny brooks,
With lasses and love in bowery nooks.

GAFFER.

Oh ! my good old age, it is better by half,

And I take delight in my frosty pate ;
As I lean on my staff if I merrily laugh,

'Tis because my old Loves are out of date—-
Oh ! the Beauties are aged as Helen of Troy,
And therefore the more have I of joy.

FAIRY.
Oh ! fie on thee now, thou cold Dervise —

But still come thou hither, Gaffer Maurice,
And I'll open thine eyes and make thee wise,

As were ever the seven wise men of Greece,
In sciences, languages, grammarie,
In hieroglyphics and alchemy.

j832.j Gaffer Maurice. 505

GAFFER.

Anan, Anan ! was it ever known,
That aught but a fool would mind such things ?

But there's good wife Joan, the silly old crone,
She has just put on her blue stockings :

Take her, an' ye like, to your knowledge-tree,

For there's small chance now of her tempting me.

FAIRY.

Ah ! no, now, Gaffer Maurice, not so,

Little care we old crones to please,
And the mowers that mow here to and fro,

Would cut off her legs above her knees.
Quoth Gaffer Maurice — To be short of a leg, —
Perchance it would lower her pride a peg.

Then Gaffer Maurice hied home in a freak,

And with the old crone returned he ;
And bade her go seek for roots of Greek,

While he went and hid him behind a tree.
Then Nymco, and Bakkab, and Cacoban,
They cut off the legs of the old woman.

But little wot she, the old crone so blythe,

For she spun as if in her dancing pumps;
For their arms were lithe, and the fairy-scythe,

As it cut off the legs, so it heal'd the stumps ;
Then Gaffer Maurice he laugh'd outright, —
Old Dame, what maketh thee dance so light ?

Hast taken a leaf from the knowledge-tree ?

Then look'd she down— Oh lud ! oh lud !
What is it I see ? — Oh, oh, quoth she,

How understandings get nipt in the bud !
Oh, Gaffer Maurice, since feet I lack,
Thou must carry me now a pick-a-back I

Then the Fairy laugh'd. Oh, Gaffer Maurice,
I thought thou wert free from woman's charms—

A sorry release, when burdens increase,

To bear on your back what you spurn from your arms !

But there's one to teach thy old bones remorse,

For the grey mare's ever the better horse.

So Gaffer Maurice he was burden' d sore,

Till he threw the old crone upon her quilts ;
But her spirit the more it rose therefore,

For she very soon put her stumps in stilts.
Then, quoth Gaffer Maurice, Pride, pride, old crone,
Won't out of the flesh if bred in the bone.

Hence, Ladies, prefer a frosty pate,

And a good old soul, to a whisker'd rake ;
That would leave his mate all disconsolate,

And fifty fine maidens unto him take —
In an old man's arms, your true home confide^
And he'll carry you on his back beside,

VOL. XXXI. NO. CXCII. 2 K

506

Nautical Adventures,

[March,

NAUTICAL ADVENTURES.

DEAR SIR,

You have occasionally intimated a
wish for a detail of some pf the scenes
which I have witnessed. In a life so
diversified as mine, to make a selec-
tion is not easy. Though I could go
farther back into the vale of years,
not without interest, perhaps, to you
and to some of your friends, yet
more recent events, as lying within
the field of general knowledge, and
therefore exciting a livelier interest,
may suffice for the present. The far
bygone scenes may lie aside till more
leisure on my part, and perhaps in-
clination on yours, may invite us to
a retrospection : Olim rneminisseju-
vabit. Nautical adventures seem
more congenial to my present mood,
and with these I have had so much
to do, that I have, as by instinct,
learned, whenever a favourable
breeze springs up, to make the best
of it. With your consent, therefore,
I shall ease off my sheets and square
my yards, after the example ot our
old acquaintance, — Quo me cunque
rapit tempestas, deferor hospes.

Scarcely any thing has made a
more vivid and powerful impression
upon my memory, and perhaps hard-
ly any ever created a stronger sen-
sation throughout the world, or pro-
duced more important results on
the state of society, than the naval
achievements of Great Britain under
her favourite Nelson, against the gi-
gantic strides which proud Gallia, at
the instigation and under the con-
duct of Napoleon Bonaparte, was
beginning to make towards universal
empire. At the time to which I now
refer, I was on board the Leander,
of fifty guns, Captain Thomas Boul-
den Thompson, a gentleman whose
kindness and affability, no less than
his skill and bravery, endeared him
to every officer and man on board
our ship.

The fleet of Earl St Vincent had
now been cruising off Cadiz for up-
wards of a month with twenty-two
sail of the line, hoping that the Spa-
nish fleet, which consisted of twenty-
six, and which were lying at anchor
in that port, would be induced to
make another trial of their prowess,
and endeavour to regain the laurels

they had lately lost off Cape St Vin-
cent. All his hopes were vain. They
were safely moored, and shewed no
disposition to get under way, though
frequently dared to it by insults the
most vexatious and annoying from
the British men-of-war. Towards the
latter end of May, [1797,] St Vincent
determined to make himself as much
at home as his neighbours, and came
to an anchor with his whole fleet, so
as to place the enemy, whose force
by this time amounted to thirty sail
of the line, in a condition of complete
blockade. Nothing now remained
to give even exercise to any part of
his men, except two or three bom-
bardments of the town of Cadiz, and
some of the Spanish ships that were
within range of the British guns, to
provoke, if possible, the Spanish ad-
miral to revenge the injury inflicted.
This was attempted about the begin-
ning of July. No, every effort failed
to dislodge Don Massaredo from his
snug retreat. On the contrary, early
in the morning of the 6th of July, to
the no small merriment of our whole
fleet, whom no restraints could with-
hold from the most vociferous ex-
pressions of scorn and indignation,
ten sail of the line — the flag-ships of
Admirals Massaredo and Gravina
leading the way — with all the haste
they possibly could, were seen warp-
ing their ships out of harm's way.

In the posture in which things now
stood, there seemed no chance of
being able to break the tedious mo-
notony of still life. For, however
honourable it was to the British arms,
after the severe drubbing which the
Spanish fleet had received from our
tars, to debar so superior a force to
their own from doing mischief to
their enemies, by shutting them up
in their own port, such was the im-
patience of the British sailor, that he
could not bring himself to believe he
was of any value, or that he was do-
ing any service, unless he were in
actual conflict with the enemies of
his country. Any enterprise, there-
fore, which looked that way, however
hazardous or seemingly impractica-
ble, was sure to be hailed with en-
thusiasm, both by the officers and
men throughout the fleet.

1832.]

A piece of service was, however,
allotted to a small squadron, of which
our ship was one. Admiral St Vin-
cent had information of a fleet of
merchantmen who had put into the
harbour of Vigo, hear Cape Finis-
terre, under convoy of a Spanish
man-of-war, of seventy-four guns.
For the purpose of cutting these out
and capturing them, the Zealous, of
seventy- four guns, the Leander, three
frigates, and the Aurora, of seventy-
eight guns, were dispatched. On
arriving at the place, we found the
fleet so entirely sheltered by the for-
tifications of the enemy, as to render
the attempt extremely perilous, and
almost hopeless. A council of war
was called by the captain of the
Zealous to consider the subject, —
which, after long and anxious deli-
beration, came to the conclusion,
that such was the hazard to which
his Majesty's ships would be expo-
sed, and the lives of the men, by
running under the batteries, and in
the very teeth of the enemy's fire,
that the object, if even attainable,
wo uld not be of sufficient importance
to warrant the dreadful risk which
in ust be incurred. As soon as this
conclusion was announced to the
men, such was their eagerness to en-
gage, and so great their vexation and
disappointment, that the squadron
was thrown nearly into a state of
mutiny, till more sober thought made
them sensible, that however essential
to successful warfare are the prowess
and daring of the men, the wisdom
and experience of their commanders
are equally so to render bravery
available. Preparations were accord-
ingly made for returning to the fleet
at Cadiz. Captain Hood, however,
found it necessary to replenish the
exhausted resources of the Zealous,
by taking out of the Leander all our
provisions, water, and fuel, directing
us to put into Lisbon for a fresh sup-
ply. This we accomplished in three
days, and immediately followed the
squadron to rejoin the fleet.

Fortunately, to appearance, about
this time the Admiral got scent of
an immense treasure in specie, which
was reported to be on its way from
America to Cadiz, in the Principe
d'Asturias, a Manilla ship; but ha-
ving heard of the state of blockade
in which the British fleet had placed
the harbour of her ultimate destina-

Nautical Adventures.

£07

tion, she had put into Santa Cruz, in
the island of Tenerifte. This was an
inducement sufficiently great, in the
judgment of our Admiral, to endea-
vour to obtain possession— an enter-
prise which seemed to be still more
practicable from the defenceless state
m which the place was represented
to be. No sooner was this subject
broached, than it spread like wildfire
through the fleet; every eye sparkled
with new life ; every bosom beat high
for the adventure. Each man look-
ed forward with desire and eager
expectation to be of the happy num-
ber to whom this golden service
should be intrusted. By anticipa-
tion, the treasure was already theirs ;
the proportion of prize-money was
accurately ascertained; the joyous
doings and advantageous projects for
future life, which the expected
wealth would enable them to realize,
inflamed every imagination, and oc-
cupied their whole discourse : the
'tween decks exhibited all the stir
and bustle, and all the eagerness of
countenance and attitude, of those
who are actually dividing the spoil ;
scenes, alas ! as airy and unreal as
some of those which allure and de-
ceive the votaries of fortune on shore.
To this state of high excitement,
as we speedily learned, the whole
fleet had been raised whilst we were
on our way from Lisbon. A squad-
ron, under the command of Admiral
Nelson, consisting of the Theseus, on
board of which he hoisted his flag;
the Culloden and the Zealous, ships
of the line; the Emerald of forty-
four guns ; the Terpsichore of thirty-
six; the Seahorse of thirty-two ; and
the Fox cutter of fourteen guns, had
taken their departure three days be-
fore our arrival. Scarcely had the
Leander hove in sight, when Admiral
St Vincent made a signal to us to
proceed immediately to Santa Cruz,
to join Admiral Nelson. Fearful,
however, lest the signal should not
be seen by us with sufficient accu-
racy, and with a view to give our
captain more detailed instructions, a
lieutenant was dispatched in a cutter,
with a letter from the admiral. The
moment the object of the expedition
was made known to our crew, their
enthusiasm exceeded all bounds :—

Insequitur clamorque virum, stridorque ru-
dentum.

508

Nautical Adventures,

[March,

From being under easy canvass, in
a few minutes the single reef was
shook out of our topsails, and they
were swayed up to the mast head.
Topgallant sails and royals, studding
sails below and aloft, were expanded
to catch every puff of wind, which
else would have passed by us. Now
she began to slip through the water
at a rapid rate and to talk,* whilst her
impulse on the bosom of the deej>
was " making the green one (white.)'*
On the 24:th of July, we made the
lofty Peak of Teneriffe, and soon
after hove in sight the three line-of-
battle ships of Admiral Nelson's
squadron in the offing. An attempt
had been made on the night of the
22d to land some of the men from
the frigates, which, for this purpose,
had come to an anchor close in shore,
to the eastward of Santa Cruz. A
landing was actually effected, but the
fortifications were found to be so nu-
merous and powerful, and the heights
so inaccessible, as to render success
hopeless. The men therefore re-em-
barked, and happily effected a return
to their ships without detection and
without loss. By this time, the sight
of such an armament hovering on
the coast gave the alarm to the in-
habitants, and rendered the difficulty
of the enterprise proportionably
greater. Nelson, however, had form-
ed his plan, and was determined, if
he could do nothing else, not to re-
turn without giving the Spaniards a
specimen of British daring. He re-
solved to make an assault upon the
garrison of Santa Cruz itself. The
same afternoon on which we joined
the squadron, all the ships came to
an anchor at the distance of six or
eight miles from the town, intending,
under cover of the night, to throw as
many men as could be spared from
the ships on shore to surprise and
take the place. For this purpose,
about a thousand seamen and ma-
rines, together wittyja small propor-
tion of artillery, were got in readi-
ness from the respective ships. All
the boats in the squadron were put

in requisition, and filled with men.
The Fox cutter, containing about two
hundred men, stowed as close as they
could possibly be, was added to the
number. The boats were charged to
keep as close as possible together,
and to preserve the utmost quiet-
ness. Unfortunately for our expedi-
tion, the night proved very unfavour-
able, as the wind blew fresh, and
created a considerable swell. At
about eleven o'clock at night, all the
boats made for the pier, in six divi-
sions, having the Fox cutter in tow,
the whole preceded by Admiral Nel-
son, about two or three miles a-head
of the rest, in his gig, accompanied by
three or four other boats. Dark as
was the night, and stealing as quietly
as possible along the shore, we were
discovered by the sentinels. A scene,
the most sublime I ever witnessed,
ensued. In an instant, from a death-
like silence, all the bells in the place
began to ring ; the shore all along
resounded with their irregular and
discordant peals. At the same mo-
ment, the blazing fire and tremen-
dous roar of upwards of thirty pieces
of cannon, reverberated from the
ocean, in contrast with the imme-
diately preceding silence and dark-
ness of midnight. The sensation was
thrilling. Had it been on any other
occasion, it would have been enchant-
ing. Increasing tumult on shore,
confused shouts of men, and the
rattling of carriages hastening to the
posts of principal danger, were dis-
tinctly heard by us ; whilst our re-
doubled energies were employed in
concentrating our forces to com-
mence the attack. Perceiving our-
selves to be too near the shore and
the range of the enemy's guns, we
were especially anxious to tow the
Fox cutter further out to sea ; this,
however, could not be attempted
without incurring the danger of a ra-
king fire from one of the batteries.
In our endeavour to effect this pur-
pose, several of the enemy's shots
told upon us severely ; one especially
most disastrously struck the Fox cut«

* A significant phrase for the gargling noise made by a vessel when she is boom-
ing through the sea with a favourable gale. The classical scholar will recollect a
passage in Homer, in which this circumstance is described with inimitable beauty,
and will not be displeased at its insertion here :

1832.]

Nautical Adventures.

o09

ter just between wind aud water, and
she almost immediately sunk. Not-
withstanding all our exertions to save
our brave fellows, upwards of one
half of them perished in the waves.

By this time Admiral Nelson's de-
tachment had reached the pier, and
most of the men had effected a land-
ing under a heavy fire from the shore.
Just as he himself was stepping out
of the boat, and in the very act of
drawing his sword, he was struck on
the elbow by a cannon ball, when he
exclaimed, " Oh, Freemantle, I've
lost my arm !" He was immediately
conveyed on board his ship, where,
after the amputation of his arm, he
was put to bed, strong opiates having
been administered to lull the pain.
The statement which obtained cur-
rency of his having written dispatches
with his left hand, in the evening of
the same day when he lost his arm,
is incorrect; it was not till three
days afterwards that he wrote his
dispatches.

In spite of all these discourage-
ments, together with the loss of ano-
ther boat and eight men, our brave
fellows rushed forward in the face
of three or four hundred of the be-
sieged, carried the Mole by storm,
spiked the guns with which the place
was defended, and were advancing
under a heavy fire of musketry and
grape shot ; but in this dreadful con-
flict nearly the whole of our men
fell, amongst whom were Captain
Brown and his first lieutenant. The
other detachment, unable to reach
the point they first intended, effected
a partial landing to the southward of
the citadel. Here, however, the swell
was so great, that many boats were
unable to land their men, and seve-
ral were swamped and stove in. The
men who got on shore made their
way to a monastery, expecting to
meet with the party under Admiral
Nelson. Disappointed as they were,
they had yet the hardihood, to defend
themselves, and even sent a sum-
mons for the surrender of the citadel.
After holding out till daybreak, they
were obliged to send a flag of truce,
of which Captain Hood was the
bearer, stipulating that they should
be allowed to re-embark without mo-
lestation, otherwise that the fleet,
which was before the town, would

destroy it. During the neg'otiation
between our deputation and the go-
vernor, the latter spoke through an
interpreter, with a view no doubt to
detect them in some statement which
might have given him an advantage
against them; for no sooner was the
treaty ended, than he spoke English
as fluently as possible. Glad to get
rid of such troublesome guests, he
consented to all that was proposed
to him, supplying what boats were
necessary to assist our men to reach
the ships ; and exceeding the terms
which were stipulated, by supplying
our men with meat and drink, re-
ceiving the wounded British into
their hospital, and allowing the fleet
to purchase whatever refreshment
they needed whilst they lay before
the place : exemplifying the religion
they professed. — " If thy enemy hun-
ger, feed him ; if he thirst, give him
drink." — Thus, alas! the golden
dream vanished in air ; but the sor-
rowful consequences remained. Bri-
tish valour, like that of Jason and his
companions of yore, had achieved
exploits almost as miraculous as
theirs, and equally deserving of the
Golden Fleece : destiny alone ren-
dered their bravery unavailing.

A mournful service was yet to be
performed. The remains of the gal-
lant Richard Bowen, captain of the
Terpsichore, and his first lieutenant,
were to be brought off the island.
As though our very enemies were
desirous of paying a tribute to their
merit as warriors, and participated
in our grief at their loss, their bodies
were conveyed by the Spaniards, in
one of their own boats, on board our
ship. Preparation was now made for
their funeral. The scene was most
affecting. As brave and deserving
an officer as ever fought the battles
of his country on the deep, and, by
the express testimony of Nelson him-
self, as worthy of the gratitude of the
British nation as any whose memory
is preserved in Westminster Abbey,
together with his Fidus Achates, was
now to be consigned to the inviolable
ocean. We were at this time under
canvass, and out of soundings: all
hands were piped upon deck to add
dignity and circumstance to the fu-
neral. There the graceful warriors
lay stretched out upon the gratings.*

* Several heavy shots were enclosed in each of the coffins, the more readily to sink
them,

510

Nautical Adventures.

[March,

The most solemn and respectful si-
lence was observed, whilst Captain
Thompson proceeded to read the fu-
neral service. Unaccustomed as are
the British tars to shew the softer
passions, unsusceptible as they may
sometimes be thought of the finer
feelings, the hardy features of most
of them were relaxed into pensive
melancholy, and the silent tear was
seen falling by stealth from the eyes
of several whose recollections of
companionship in deeds of valour
overcame, for a moment, their usual
hardihood. The effect was really
solemn, when the corpses were
launched into the mighty ocean, just
as our Captain ended the following
part of the service appointed for the
burial of the dead at sea: — "We
therefore commit their bodies to the
deep, to be turned into corruption,
looking for the resurrection of the
body, (when the sea shall give up
Jier dead,) and the life of the world
to come, through our Lord Jesus
Christ ; who at his coming shall
change our vile body, that it may be
like his glorious body, according to
the mighty working whereby he is
able to subdue all things to himself."
A scene of a very different nature
was soon to engage our attention.
Not long after pur arrival before
Cadiz, the captains of all the ships
in the fleet were summoned on board
the Admiral's flag-ship to form a
court-martial, to try the case of a
mutiny which had been concerted
on board one of the ships of the
equadron on our return from Santa
Cruz. The boatswain of the Eme-
rald frigate, with the purpose of re-
venging some real or pretended in-
jury received from the captain and
officers, had instigated a conspiracy
against their lives. The plot was
arranged, and the time for its exe-
cution was just arrived, when the
following incident providentially
prevented its perpetration. As the
boatswain was in close conversation
with one of his associates below, one
of the sailors happened to be in the
immediate neighbourhood unper-
ceived, and distinctly overheard him
saying, " I tell you what, Bob, I fore-
see we shall have a bloody night of
it." It was enough. Alarmed at
what he had heard, he immediately
went aft and requested a private in-
terview with the captain, to whom he

related the foregoing expression, to-
gether with other suspicious circum-
stances which had lately struck his
attention, and which abundantly cor-
roborated the presumption, that some
treacherous or bloody purpose was
just on the point of being executed.
'The boatswain was instantly seized,
arms were found in his possession
and on his person, and many other
circumstances corroborated the sus-
picion of the guilty purpose of his
breast. He was put in irons, and
in a few days the frigate arrived
in the fleet. The whole of the evi-
dence was carefully sifted by the
court-martial which was called to
sit on the case; his guilt was most
satisfactorily proved, and he was
sentenced to be hung at the yard-
arm. On the third day after, which
was the time appointed for the ex-
ecution, a black flag, as is usual,
was hoisted at the main top-gallant-
mast-head; and a cutter from each
ship in the fleet, fully manned, was
ordered to be in attendance to wit-
ness the execution. A tail-block was
affixed to the fore-yard-arm, and the
fatal rope rove through it, so as to
admit the chief part of the crew
taking hold of it, that at the moment
of the signal being given they might
run the criminal up to the yard-arm.
The boatswain's arms having been
pinioned, and his irons taken off, he
was brought upon deck, and took his
stand on the forecastle, on a tempo-
rary platform provided for the occa-
sion. He was a tall fine-looking man,
and conducted himself with great
propriety and firmness, acknowled-
ging the justice of his sentence, and
expressing his hope that he might
find mercy at the hands of the Judge
Eternal, through the merits of his
Saviour Jesus Christ.

The sight was deeply interesting
and impressive. So large a number
of boats filled with men, stationed at
a proper distance from the Emerald,
to witness the tragical scene, lying
upon their oars in gloomy silence ;
the deck of the frigate crowded with
her crew and officers, quiet and mo-
tionless, waiting for the awful signal ;
whilst in the meantime every eye
was directed towards the scaffold,
and fixed upon the unfortunate cul-
prit, attended by an individual sta-
tioned close by him, reading the bu-
rial service. A white cap was drawn

1832.]

Nautical Adventures.

511

over his face — the fatal rope put
round his neck — the reader was pro-
ceeding with the service — the gun
from the port, just under the scaffold,
was fired, and in its smoke the un-
happy man was run up to the yard-
arm, where, after the smoke had sub-
sided, he was seen hanging. In about
an hour's time he was lowered upon
deck, bound up in his bedding and
hammock, together with a few large
shots, for the purpose of more readi-
ly sinking, and then taken in a sin-
gle boat about eight miles out to sea,
so as to be beyond anchorage ground,
where he was plunged into his wa-
tery grave.

Our intrepid Admiral, subsequent
to the unfortunate affair of Santa
Cruz, had been sent to England for
the purpose of recruiting his strength;
which had suffered materially in con-
sequence of the amputation of his
arm. Towards the end of the year,
[1797,] the surgeon who attended
him pronounced that he was again
fit for service. It was not, however,
till the 1st of April in the following
year that he left his native Albion, in
the Vanguard of seventy-four guns,
to rejoin Earl St Vincent off Cadiz,
where he arrived on the twenty-
ninth. At this time the ever-restless
ambition of the French Republic was
hatching a plot of considerable mag-
nitude and importance. The harbour
of Toulon was soon discovered to be
the centre of operations. All was stir
and bustle in that warlike and cele-
brated depot. It was not long ere a
large fleet of men-of-war was seen
hastily getting in readiness for sea,
together with a great many transports.
Troops in vast numbers were collect-
ing from all quarters, to be under
the command of Napoleon Bona-
parte. Although they were nearly
ready for embarkation, such was the
secrecy of the projected enterprise,
that none could ascertain the destina-
tion of this formidable armament.

As by an infallible presentiment of
the future greatness and glory of
Britain's choicest naval hero, St Vin-
cent directed his attention to Nelson,
and thought this the most suitable
time to draw him forth, as a match
in all respects adequate to the wily
policy and daring prowess of Napo-
leon. He was accordingly detached

in the Vanguard, and, taking with
him the Orion and Alexander, seven-
ty-four gun ships, the Emerald and
Terpsichore frigates, and the Bonne
Citoyenne, sloop of war, which he
found at Gibraltar, proceeded to-
wards Toulon to watch the move-
ments of the French fleet. On his
way thither, he learned that it con-
sisted of fifteen sail of the line, be-
sides frigates, and about two hun-
dred transports for the embarkation
of forty thousand troops. On the
twenty-first of May, not far from
Toulon, a heavy gale of wind from
the north-west carried away the main
and mizen-topmast, and afterwards
the foremast of the Vanguard, which
constrained the squadron, taking Nel-
son's ship in tow, to proceed to the
island of Sardinia to refit.

Whilst lying at Sardinia, Nelson
heard that, on the very day of his dis-
aster, the French fleet put to sea. Not
knowing what course they were
steering, as soon as the squadron was
equipped, he proceeded to his for-
mer station ; and on the 5th of June,
to the no small joy of the squadron,
intelligence was brought by the Mu-
tine brig, that on the 30th she had
parted from a detachment often sail
of the line, and a fifty gun ship, which
last was our ship, the Leander, on
their way to join him. In two days'
time the two squadrons were uni-
ted, which, according to instructions
brought by the Mutine from Earl St
Vincent, were immediately to go in
quest of Bonaparte and the Toulon
fleet. The enthusiasm of the men
was unbounded. They had long
panted for some service by which
they might signalize their valour.
Here was an occasion worthy of the
genius of Nelson, and the high-spi-
rited officers and men under his com-
mand. The eyes of Britain, of Eu-
rope, of the world, were watching
the issue of the expected conflict be-
tween two of the greatest chiefs re-
corded in history, each on his own
peculiar element.

The only clew which seemed like-
ly to conduct us to the enemy, was
the direction of the wind when they
left Toulon, which being to the north-
ward and westward, led to the pre-
sumption, that they had shaped their
course up the Mediterranean. Signal
was accordingly made to pursue the
same track. To exasperate our im-

512

Nautical Adventures.

[March,

patience, we were for a considerable
time becalmed, but at length a breeze
springing up, we made sail along the
coast of Italy. The first information
obtained of the enemy was, I be-
lieve, by our ship. By a small ves-
sel whom we hailed, we were in-
formed, that the fleet of which we
were in pursuit had been seen off the
coast of Sicily. Pursuing our course,
on the 16th of June, we came in sight
of Mount Vesuvius, and standing in-
to the bay of Naples, sent Captains
Tro wbridge and Hardy on shore to ob-
tain, if possible, further information.
All, however, we could learn from
the British ambassador at Naples was,
that the French fleet had not put in-
to the bay, but had coasted along the
island of Sardinia, standing to the
southward. With all possible speed
we made for Sicily, where we touch-
ed, for the purpose of wooding and
watering, and recruiting our provi-
sions. On the 20th of the month
we passed the celebrated Straits of
Messina. Here a scene as imposing
as it was novel presented itself. Al-
ready had the progress of the French
arms excited the dread and the ha-
tred of the inhabitants, and their at-
tention was eagerly directed towards
the only power capable of withstand-
ing French aggression and tyranny.
On taking our departure, we were
greeted with such a display of de-
voted affection and respect, as was,
perhaps, never surpassed. The sea
was covered over with boats filled
with persons of the first distinction,
chiefly of the ecclesiastical order.
It was thought that not less than five
hundred priests were present on the
occasion. These, adorned with their
rich and splendid vestments, and
bearing the insignia of their respec-
tive orders, elevated their crucifixes,
and, with uplifted hands, imploring
the blessing of Heaven upon the Bri-
tish arms, in making them instrumen-
tal in humbling the haughty and pro-
fane enemies of God and men, form-
ed one of the most interesting ob-
jects I ever beheld. Nor was our
fleet behind in acknowledging with
loud and reiterated cheering the
sense we had of their good wishes
and prayers ; the confidence we had
in the goodness of our cause, and the
assurance we possessed, whenever
we should fall in with the stealthy

foe, that British valour would prove
an overmatch for French boasting.

Under these favourable auspices,
with information obtained that the
Toulon fleet had sailed for Malta,
had actually taken possession of
that important island, and were ly-
ing at anchor there, thither we im-
mediately shaped our course with
a steady gale from the north-west,
confidently hoping that a day or two
would lay us alongside of Napoleon
and his myrmidons. On the twenty-
second, however, the Mutine spoke
a Genoese vessel, which informed
her that the French fleet took its
departure from Malta on the eight-
eenth, leaving us scarcely any
thing else to conjecture, but that
as the wind had been steadily blow-
ing from the north-west for several
days, Egypt must be its ultimate
destination. Thither we instantly
directed our way, crowding all the
canvass we possibly could, and in
six days came in sight of Alexandria ;
but to our mortification no French
fleet was there. We sent a message
on shore to the British ambassador ;
but no information could be obtain-
ed. Puzzled to the last degree, we
scarcely knew how to proceed. At
length it was concluded to retrace
our progress, hoping to find the
enemy on his way to Egypt. Still,
however, we were doomed to disap-
pointment. After having beaten to
windward for nearly three weeks,
we again made the island of Sicily,
where we a second time recruited
our provisions ; but no additional
information could we gain, only that
nothing had been heard of the
French fleet in those seas, and that
it was next to certain it had not re-
turned to Toulon or Gibraltar. Sig-
nal was once more made by Admiral
Nelson to shape our course for
Egypt. When we were not far from
the Morea, the Culloden, which ge-
nerally took the lead, owing to her
being a fast-sailing ship, gave chase
to a polacre in the French service,
which she continued to follow round
a headland, till we lost sight of both
for a considerable time. At length
the Culloden reappeared, with her
prize in tow, which, having run into
a harbour of shallow water, was pur-
sued by the Culloden's boats, and
brought out by them. The instant

1832.]

Nautical Adventures.

513

the fleet was in sight, the Culloden
ran up a signal to the masthead —
" Intelligence" The effect upon the
fleet was like electricity ; every bo-
som burned to know the particulars.
The captain of the polacre was taken
on board the admiral's ship, and
gave information, that he had, only
a few days before, seen the French
fleet lying off Alexandria. The joy
with which these tidings were re-
ceived on board our ships, and the
alacrity with which the command
was obeyed, to make all possible sail
to come up with the enemy, are
scarcely credible. In the mean time
Admiral Nelson made a solemn pro-
mise—and which was accordingly
fulfilled — that if the information
which the captain of the polacre
gave proved true, he would restore
him his vessel, and set him and all
his crew at liberty, with a month's
provision ; only taking out the wine,
with which she was laden, for the
use of the fleet.

The French fleet, as we after-
wards learned, had put into Rhodes,
when we were standing for Egypt
the first time, which was the occa-
sion of our missing them. Arrived,
as it appears, off Alexandria, on the
second day after we had left, the
French .admiral learned that we had
just made our appearance, and hasti-
ly departed ; information from which
the arrogance and vanity of our ene-
my led them to infer, that our with-
drawing so speedily was a conse-
quence of fear, at having heard of
their numerical superiority. This
delusion, no doubt, made the French
admiral less careful to be in readi-
ness for action than he might other-
wise have been, had he more justly
appreciated the character of British
seamen.

On the morning of the first of
August, the city ot Alexandria once
more presented itself to our view.
Signal also was made by the ships
which had been dispatched before,
that the harbour was full of trans-
ports, and that the French flag was
floating in the wind from the towers
of the city. Soon afterwards the
fleet itself was descried drawn up
in line of battle in Aboukir Bay. In-
stant signal was made to clear away
for action, whilst our ships steered
direct for the enemy. To give a
description of the general battle is*

needless ; every one knows it ; and
the glory which irradiated the Bri-
tish arms on the memorable night
of the first of August, will shine re-
splendent to the end of time. Such,
besides, was the full occupation and
eagerness with which every man
was engaged from the moment of
beginning to clear away for action,
till nearly the end of the battle, that
but few individuals had opportunity
to take more than a hasty glance of
the process of the engagement; to
say nothing of the darkness of the
night, illuminated only by conflict-
ing fires from the mouths of the
cannon ; and the smoke in which
both fleets were involved. Leaving
this, as most writers have described
it, I shall confine myself to a de-
scription of only such scenes as fell
under my own observation, imme-
diately connected with the Leander,
and which none could so accurately
describe as those who were on
board. In consequence of being
detained in the neighbourhood of
the Culloden — to assist, as far as we
were able, to extricate her from the
unfortunate situation in which she
was placed, having at about seven
o'clock in the evening struck on a
ridge of rocks, two miles from the
scene of action — we '^were late in
coming to an engagement. It ha-
ving been reported amongst the
crew that the admiral had given
strict orders, that the Leander, be-
ing a much smaller ship, and of
much lighter metal, than any of the
French ships of the line, was on no
account to lay any of them along-
side, our men were almost in a state
of uproar at the disappointment,
supposing this prohibition amounted
to an exclusion from participating
in the glory of the conflict ; till they
understood from Captain Thompson,
that if we could find a situation in
which we might " do any good," we
were at liberty to run in our ship.
We were not long before we disco-
vered such a position j and accord-
ingly we ran the Leander betwixt
the stations of the Peuple-Souve-
rain and the Franklin of eighty-four
guns, dropping a stern and boxyer-
anchor, so as to place our ship right
athwart the hawse of the latter ship,
within only a few yards' distance,
into the bows of which we continued
to pour our broadside of twenty*

514

Nautical Adventures.

four pounders so effectually, that in
less than half an hour she was com-
pletely dismasted. The whole of
her bows were soon laid open, and
our shots raked her decks with
dreadful precision, sweeping away
the dense crew which filled them,
so that none of the men could at
length be brought to fight the bow
and forecastle guns ; the only ones
which could be brought to bear upon
us. The stern-cable of the Defence
having been shot away by the Peu-
ple-Souverain, the former ship swung
round, so as to assume an admirable
position upon the starboard quarter
of our antagonist, and dealt her
broadsides with terrible effect. Soon
afterwards we observed a singular
appearance on board of the Franklin ;
on her forecastle an English colour
was hoisted, but a French colour
was flying abaft ! At which our cap-
tain hailed her, and shouted, " Have
you struck ?"

To which the French captain re-
plied, "Yes!"

" What do you mean, then," re-
plied Captain Thompson, " by keep-
ing the French colour flying abaft ?"

" I cannot get any man on my
decks to expose himself while he is
striking it," was the reply ; " but if
you cease firing, I will take it down
myself."

This he forthwith did ; and, bring-
ing it and his sword on board our
ship, presented them to Captain
Thompson, saying, " You deserve
them, for you have done me all the
mischief."

He was, however, conveyed on
board the Defence, as being the
larger ship, to make his surrender ;
but not till he had requested per-
mission to walk round our ship ;
which having done, he expressed
his amazement, " that such a little
box should have conquered so large
a ship !"

It was just after this event, and
not, as has been erroneously stated,
before, that the dreadful catastrophe
of the blowing up of the Orient, in
whose immediate neighbourhood we
were, occurred. We had for a con-
siderable time perceived her to be
on fire, and anticipating the event,
were adopting every precaution in
our power against danger from the ex-
plosion ; removing every thing from
the upper deck which was easily com-

[March,

bustible, wetting the sails, and sta-
tioning men in all directions with
buckets of water in their hands.
Even up to this time, whilst the low-
er deck in the after part of the Ori-
ent was in flames, such was the fury
of the men, that they still continued
to fire the guns on the upper decks.
At length,however, about ten o'clock,
we saw her spritsail yard and bow-
sprit crowded with men, receding as
far as possible from the flames;
whilst hundreds were seen jumping
overboard, and clinging to spars and
other pieces of wreck which were
floating in the neighbourhood. The
next moment the awful explosion
took place, and, in the same instant,
for ever disappeared the hundreds
of human beings who had just before
been seen floating on the bosom of
the deep. Dreadful was the concus-
sion ; it seemed as though every tim-
ber, and joint, and seam of our ship,
was severed ; whilst blazing masses
of rigging and timber, projected an
amazing height into the air, were
seen suddenly descending in all di-
rections, and in a moment extin-
guished in the ocean; producing, in
awful contrast, the tremendous blaze
and explosion of the magazine, with
a silence and darkness which seem-
ed as though the world itself had
ceased to be. Every man in both
fleets appeared paralysed, and for
nearly a quarter of an hour no gun
was fired; no motion was percep-
tible.

Not long after this fearful event
we perceived a few of the unhappy
sufferers, who, contrary to our sup-
position, had not been destroyed at
the moment of explosion, swimming
towards our ship, imploring that aid
which Britons are known never to
refuse to a fallen enemy. The pier-
cing cries of these unfortunate men
seem still to vibrate on my ear, as
some of them approaching near the
Leander, cried out, — " Bon John,
give rop-e ! — O,bon John, give rop-e,
give rop-e !" As many of them as
possible we rescued from a watery
grave; though some of them, after
all our endeavours, sunk to rise no
more. It was wonderful to observe,
notwithstanding the deplorable cir-
cumstances in which these poor fel-
lows were placed, what strength the
amor patrice, or reluctance to ac-
knowledge defeat, exerted in them,

183-2.]

To one of these forlorn creatures,
drenched with water and exhausted
with fatigue, I said — unseasonably I
confess, and it may be thought un-
feelingly, but it was on the spur of
the moment — " Well, Monsieur, what
think you now of your Bonaparte ?"
To which the hapless man, summon-
ing the little energy which remained
in him, replied, " O, Monsieur John
Bull, dis nothing, dis nothing ; vive
Napoleon I"

The issue of this dreadful, and, as
it respects the British arms, glorious
battle of the Nile, is all that needs to
be mentioned on the present occa-
sion, having proposed to myself, in
compliance with your request, to
give a detail of only such occur-
rences as fell under my own obser-
vation, together with such circum-
stances as are not elsewhere to be
met with ; excepting, of course, those
statements which form the necessary
connecting links of the story. Of the
thirteen French ships of the line,
eleven were taken or destroyed. The
only ships which made their escape
were, the Justice and the Diana fri-
gates, and the Guilliaume Tell and
Ge'nereux, of seventy-four guns, with
the last of whom, in little more than
a fortnight afterwards, we were des-
tined to have a severer struggle than
any which had been experienced in
Aboukir Bay; and of which, as it
is closely connected with this part of
my history, I shall, in conclusion,
give you a brief sketch.

It was, you may be sure, no"way
agreeable to the British tars, to see
the two seventy-fours and two fri-
gates, who had sustained scarcely
any damage — except from a few dis-
tinct and occasional shots, just to re-
mind them that they were not for-
gotten by us — effecting their escape.
Admiral Nelson made signal first to
- one ship, then to another, to endea-
vour to intercept their flight, but he
received in reply, — " Disabled — un-
fit," &c. They accordingly proceed-
ed, bearing tidings as unwelcome to
the French nation, as they were joy-
ous to the British. The second of
August was employed by our crew
in getting the Leander in sailing trim.
On the third we were engaged in
affording all the assistance in our

Nautical Adventures.

power to the Culloden ; and, on the
fifth, Captain Barry, of the Van-
guard, charged with the dispatches
from Admiral Nelson to Earl St Vin-
cent, was sent on board our ship, and
we immediately proceeded to con-
vey the intelligence of the glorious
victory of the Nile.

Nothing remarkable occurred, nor
was our progress retarded, till, on
the eighteenth of the month, early in
the morning, being within a few miles
of the Goza di Candia, the man from
the mast-head cried out, " A sail on
the starboard quarter — a large ship."
At this time the Leander was be-
calmed, whilst the sail in question
was evidently bringing up a good
breeze with her. She soon disco-
vered herself to be a sail of the line,
and with a view to decoy us, ran up
Turkish colours. By the shot-holes
in her bows, however, we soon re-
cognised her as one of the seventy-
fours which had effected her escape
from Aboukir Bay ; and, on a nearer
approach, that she was the Genereux,
Captain Le Joille. We had no pos-
sibility of escape from a ship which
was of a force so greatly superior to
our own. Nothing remained but to
clear away for action, and to render
our capture, if unavoidable, as dear-
ly obtained as possible ; else an es-
cape, if practicable, would have been
advisable, and no man on board for
a moment entertained the thought of
striking without a battle.

At the battle of the Nile, — such
was our almost miraculous exemp-
tion from disaster whilst engaged
with the Franklin, — not one of our
men was killed, and only ten were
wounded ; and those were not
wounded by the Franklin's guns,
scarcely any of which could be
brought to bear upon us, but by the
descending wreck and some of the
iron ballast which fell upon our deck,
from the explosion of the Orient.
Still, however, we were nearly a
hundred men short of our comple-
ment. In spite of all these disad-
vantages, the enthusiasm with which
our brave fellows manned their guns,
and held themselves in readiness, at
the word of command, to receive
their tremendous antagonist, was
amazing. The Genereux soon came
within range of her guns, on our lar-
board quarter, and opened a terrible
fire upon us. Instantly hauling our

516

Nautical Adventures.

[Marcli,

wind, so as to bring our guns to bear,
we poured our whole broadside into
her. The shots told severely on both
sides. One single shot of our first
fire, nearly knocked two of the Ge-
nereux's ports into one, killed two
men, and then lodged in her main-
mast. This dreadful struggle was
continued for four hours without in-
termission, hurling the thundering
messengers of death and destruction
into each other, as fast as our guns
could be loaded and fired, at not
more than forty yards distant,

During the heat of the action, a
youth of about eighteen years of age,
an assistant to the captain's secre-
tary, and who was stationed at one
of the guns in the ward-room, was
struck down, to all appearance dead,
by the wind of a thirty-six pound
shot, which passed close by his head.
On examination by the surgeon, al-
though the ball had not struck him,
the concussion seemed to have pro-
duced a sensible indentation in his
scull. Almost as soon as he was
brought into the cockpit — where I
attended him — and placed in a re-
clined posture, the blood oozed from
his eyes and ears, and flowed copi-
ously from his nose and mouth — a
mournful sight. He never spoke af-
terwards, but died in about an hour
and a half after the occurrence.*

Whilst everyone on board that was
able to handle a rammer, or carry a
cartridge, was needed and called
upon to exert every power of his
body and mind in this strenuous con-
flict, I was directed to take charge
of four guns on the upper deck, which
had now been fought with uncom-
mon vigour and effect for upwards of
two hours and a half, Much ex-
hausted with previous care and ex-
ertion, I was greatly in want of wa-
ter, the only drink allowed in British
men-of-war during an engagement,
and hastily ran to the quarter-deck
in quest of a water-cask which had

escaped the general devastation ; for
almost every one on the gun-decks
had been shattered to pieces. Lucki-
ly, I found one half full of water, and
a jug lying by it. This, having been
accidentally concealed, was a prize
indeed. I eagerly seized the jug, and
was just about to drink, when Cap-
tain Thompson, as necessitous as my-
self, stepped across the deck and re-
quested to share the boon. I pre-
sented him with the jug, and having
drank, he repaired to his former sta-
tion, when he was astonished at his
providential escape ; during the few
moments he was drinking the water,
the mizen-shrouds, against which he
was standing the instant before, were
shot away. Nor was this all : an
equal Providence saved my life at the
same moment ; for just as I was has-
tening to my former post, I was met
by a lieutenant who accosted me

with, " Why, , I'm happy to see

you alive ! Where have you been ?
Every man within the last minute
has been killed at the two guns where
you were just standing !" — they were
eleven in number.

All the cartridges on board the Ge-
ne'reux, as we afterwards learned,
being expended, she sheered along-
side with an evident intention to
board us, and came so near as to
carry away two of our ports ; such,
however, was the intrepidity of her
crew, that though the captain gave
the command to board, not one of
his men would obey; at this mo-
ment, indeed, scarcely ten men were
to be seen on her upper-deck. Our
forecastle at this juncture was
crowded with men, seeking the very
object which their opponents shun-
ned, and endeavouriug to grapple
the Genereux for this purpose : one
of our men had actually thrown a
rope over her starboard cat-head,
and was in the act of belaying it,
when she sheered off and broke the
rope. Could we at this instant but
r r/ifttmaf h c firKiga oa

>* rasrfi o/Biu !*'•.'.•

* This brings to my recollection another singular circumstance, which happened
some years afterwards under my own eye. Being on a cruise in quest of some mer-
chant ships, we had to run close under a heavy fire irom a battery on shorp, when
our captain was knocked down on his back in a similar manner, by the wind of a large
shot, and did not recover his senses for eight days. At length he was taken on shore
to an hospital, where, after a careful examination of his body, a small spot, scarcely
larger than a pea, was discovered on his right shoulder. No sooner was this lanced,
than a dark-coloured humour flowed from the incision, and he almost instantly reco-
vered the use of his faculties,

1832.]

Nautical Adventures.

517

have lashed her fast, there is little
doubt but we should have carried
her. So enraged was Captain Le
Joille at the dastardly conduct of
his crew, that he threatened, if his
men did not come upon the upper
deck and board the Leander, he
would blow up his ship. At this
they came upon deck ; but the mo-
ment was gone by; the opportunity
for ever lost.

By this time the Leander had lost
both her fore and main topmasts, and
her mizen-mast ; whilst the Gene-
reux had lost only her mizen-mast :
our ship, therefore, lay like a log in
the water, whilst that of the enemy
was completely under command.
The Genereux then forged ahead,
and ran down considerably to lee-
ward, in order to prepare cartridges
for another assault, which they did
by cutting up their stockings to make
bags for the powder. Whilst she
was effecting this movement, either
through incaution, or supposing our
cartridges were as deficient as her
own, or that as our masts and rig-
ging having fallen on the starboard
side, our guns were disabled ; she
passed down towards our starboard-
quarter, affording us a charming op-
portunity to revenge our injuries.
Our upper-deck guns were, indeed,
utterly disabled with the wreck of
our masts and sails, but our lower
deck was ready ; and accordingly we
brought the whole battery of our
heaviest metal on the starboard side
to bear, and poured two most effi-
cient broadsides into our antagonist
as she passed us.

Having effected her purpose, and
being exasperated to the highest
pitch at our last destructive fire, she
was coming up for a second conflict.
Farther resistance would have been
madness, not bravery. I informed
Captain Thompson of the extent of
our loss of men, and suggested to
him the propriety of yielding the
contest, against so fearful a disparity,
else that the lives of all our brave
fellows would be lost. The com-
mand was given to strike : not, how-
ever, till taking the precaution of
sinking the dispatches, together with
every other valuable document, to
the bottom of the ocean. These,
as is usual in case of danger of being
captured, had been attached to a
heavy shot, and suspended by a cord

out of one of the gun -room ports.
This cord was cut, and the British
flag struck at the same instant, whilst
the tri-coloured flag was hoisted on
the stump of our mizen-mast.

The position of the Genereux at
this moment was such, as to be un-
able to lay us alongside, and all her
boats were so shattered as to be use-
less. In this emergency, in order to
put her men on board our ship, they
constructed a raft of such spars and
planks as were at hand, and a consi-
derable number of men descended
upon it ; but instead of being able to
reach us they were drifted to lee-
ward. At length some of the men who
were able to swim plunged into the
sea, and swimming towards our ship,
laid hold of the wreck which adhered
to us, and scrambled, as well as they
were able, up the sides of the Lean-
der.

Thus ended a conflict, disastrous
indeed in its issue to the Leander,
but than which, perhaps, nothing
more brave or daring was ever at-
tempted on the ocean. That a ship
of only fifty guns, the very largest of
which carried only a twenty-four
pound shot ; whilst that of our an-
tagonist was one of the most power-
ful of the French seventy-fours, whose
large guns carried a thirty-six pound
shot ; the crew of the latter being at
least seven hundred men, whilst that
of the former was only two hundred
and sixty; that such a ship should
have sustained a conflict of upwards
of six hours, at such frightful odds,
will ever redound to the honour of
the British navy, and the intrepidity
of its hearts of oak.

On board the Leander thirty-eight
men were killed and forty-eight
wounded ; whilst the Genereux had
eighty-eight men killed, and one hun-
dred and twelve wounded. Of those
who survived to takepossession of our
ship, such a set of vagabonds, sure,
never before trode the decks of a Bri-
tish man-of-war* The very sight of
them was loathsome to behold, as
they crawled up the sides of our gal-
lant ship, in their filthy rags, dripping
with water, and seemingly half fa-
mished. But their appearance was
even princely, compared with their
conduct. The moment they reach-
ed our deck, lost to all sense of ho-
nour or shame, their only object ap-
peared to be plunder, They were

518

Nautical Adventures.

[March,

seen like so many savages, struggling
with each other who should soonest
reach the officers' berths, in order to
rifle whatever they contained, deci-
ding, in some instances, the partition
of what they had plundered, by sei-
zing each other by the throat.

Complaint was made to the French
officers, and to Le Joille himself, of
the rapacity of the men ; but our re-
monstrances were heard only with a
contemptuous sneer, and an intima-
tion that their men had hardly enough
earned the recompense they were
reaping. Instead of any regard to that
sense of honour which is so sacredly
preserved by every man on board a
British man-of-war,where each consi-
ders himself charged with maintaining
the character of his country for justice
and humanity towards the vanquish-
ed, this Gallic rabble resembled the
bloodhounds of some vile privateer,
or Algerine corsair. One little cir-
cumstance, which redounds as much
to the honour of an English boy, who
attended upon Captain Thompson,
as it reflects disgrace upon Le Joille
and his crew, is not undeserving of
mention. Aware of the plunder to
which his master's property was to
be subjected, as well as that of the
other officers, this faithful lad espied
the captain's quadrant, and endea-
voured to conceal it; unable to ef-
fect his purpose, he snatched it up,
and was chased round the deck by
one of Le Joille's scoundrels, and
when he found all his efforts vain to
elude his pursuer, to the no small
mortification of the Frenchman, he
threw it overboard, through one of
the ports. Whilst the officers were
thus treated on board their own ship,
our common men fared no better
when they were taken on board the
Gene>eux. Whatever little effects
they had endeavoured to rescue on
their persons, "were wrested from
them by the harpies of rapine, as
soon as they reached her execrable
decks, being stripped of every thing
but the clothes which covered their
nakedness.

Of eighteen officers of the Lean-
der, who were allowed to remain on
board our own ship, I was one. We
were then taken in tow by the Gen6-
reux, and proceeded towards the
island of Malta, when we were as
near being recaptured by the British
fleet as possible, Suspecting no

danger, since the capture of the
island by Bonaparte, Le Joille was
standing for the harbour, when, on
the fourth morning after our capture,
a sail, which afterwards proved to
be a French merchant vessel, was
seen in the offing, which, on a nearer
approach, perceiving the Gen&'eux
to be a French ship, made all pos-
sible sail towards us, with the intel-
ligence, opportune enough for our
enemy, though unfortunate for us,
that a British squadron was block-
ading the place. But for this infor-
mation, we had run into the very
bosom of our own fleet, and, being
once descried by them, must have
fallen into their hands ; as the Ge'ne-
reux was in a state too crippled to
have effected an escape.

Instantly altering our course, we
made all possible speed for the island
of Corfu, where after a few days we
arrived. All the British prisoners
on board the G6nereux were detain-
ed in a castle on the island, till an
exchange of prisoners, provided for
by Admiral Nelson after the battle of
the Nile, who stipulated as a condi-
tion of landing in Egypt the prison-
ers he had taken, that an equal num-
ber of British prisoners of war should
be exchanged by cartel. We, on the
contrary, from on board the Leander,
were sent in a small vessel up to
Ragusa, and put on board a lazaretto,
where we performed a quarantine
of twenty-one days. The time we
spent here, however, was far from
being tedious. The inhabitants of
Ragusa having heard of the victory
of the Nile, and that we were part
of the officers who fought and con-
quered on that glorious occasion,
vied with each other who should
shew the greatest marks of kindness
and liberality towards us. Comfort-
able beds were provided for each of
us, and every day we were supplied
with all kinds of the choicest provi-
sions, wines, and fruit : nothing they
could procure was thought too good,
no honour they could confer upon
us too great.

After ending our quarantine at
Ragusa, we were taken across the
Gulf to Barletta, where we were
again obliged to perform quarantine
for fourteen days longer. Prepara-
tion was then made, by order of Sir
William Hamilton, the British am-
bassador at Naples, at the expense

Nautical Adventures.

1832.]

of the British government, to have
us conveyed across the country, in
order to rejoin our fleet. Seven
commodious carriages were got in
readiness for our journey, with di-
rections, that we were to put up at
the very best .hotels in the towns
through which we had to pass, and
that no cost was to be spared in our
entertainment, as a testimony of the
gratitude of our country to the he-
roes of the Nile.

It was perfectly amusing to wit-
ness the commotion created in the
villages and towns through which
we passed ; all was hilarity and
merriment ; especially at the hotels
where we spent the nights. Our
journeys were so arranged, that we
usually arrived where we were to
sleep, about four o'clock in the after-
noon. This afforded us the most
favourable opportunity of pleasant
intercourse with the inhabitants.
More than once we were honoured
with a ball, or public assembly, and
greeted wherever we went as deli-
verers from the hated aggression
and tyranny of France; accosted
ever and anon by the familiar, and,
as it would seem, favourite appel-
lation, of " Mi Lor Jack."

Nothing can exceed the beauty of
the scenery through which we pass-
ed ; the effect was like enchant-
ment. To those unaccustomed to
the sight, the manner in which the
vines are here trained, presents a
most interesting and delightful ob-
ject; extending their ample branches
to adjacent trees, so arranged as to
present their rich dependants most
advantageously to the southern sun ;
whilst the clustering grapes are seen
intermingling themselves, bere with
their own rich foliage, and there with
the leaves and fruit of trees totally
dissimilar. For fifteen or twenty miles
together every variety of hill and dale,
mantled over with foliage the most
luxuriant and variegated, and with

51

fruit of the richest hues, attract and
detain the gaze of the beholder ;
whilst the more elevated ground,
clothed with flocks, and tended by
their musical shepherds, cannot fail
to associate in the mind of the admi-
rer of classic lore, the strains of the
Mantuan Bard, who erst, with his
oaten-pipe, made the woodlands so
sweetly to resound the beauteous
Amarillis !

After a journey of four days, we
once more got sight of the ocean,
and at the same time of a part of
Nelson's fleet, lying at anchor in the
bay of Naples. For once, I acknow-
ledge, the sight of British men-of-
war, did not, as formerly, fill me
with enthusiasm. The recollection
of the perils in which I had so long
been placed, in contrast, perhaps,
with the gleams of pleasure with
which I had been solaced on shore ;
but chiefly the prospect of being
again engaged in foreign service,
and in new perils, without having
once enjoyed the privilege of visit-
ing my native shore, spread a tem-
porary gloom over my mind. Leave,
however, was given us, through the
kind indulgence of Admiral Nelson,
to spend a few days in the city of
Naples, where hospitable entertain-
ment, beautiful scenery, and intelli-
gent company, combined to promote
our happiness. We were then dis-
tributed among the ships, according
to our respective ranks, merit, and
time of service. I and two of my
companions were appointed on board
the Vanguard. Not long after this
appointment, we fell in with and
captured two polacres, on board one
of which I was permitted to return
to. my native home, in beloved Al-
bion. Thus were the cheerless fore-
bodings, in which I had so lately in-
dulged, like many others both before
and since, dissipated by happier oc-
currences than would have been cre-
dited in the hour of despondency.

520

Lord Castkreagh and Mr Canning.

[March,

LORD CASTLEREAGH AND MR CANNING.

LETTER TO THE EDITOR,
FROM THE RIGHT HON. THOMAS PEREGRINE COURTENAY.

SIR, — Two articles in the Foreign
Quarterly Review,* treating of the
Foreign Policy of England, under the
administrations of Lord Castlereagh
and of Mr Canning, have been the
subject of criticism in the New
Monthly Magazine.f As the author
of these Articles, I request permission
to make your far-spread Miscellany
the channel of a reply to this critique.

Postponing the remarks, savouring
of personality and bitterness, with
which the " friend of Mr Canning"
has seasoned his arguments, I pro-
ceed to notice, in their order, his cri-
ticisms upon those parts of my Re-
views upon which he has found it
convenient to observe.

I might perhaps make an objection
to the description which is given of
the purport of my argument. " The
Reviewer argues that there was near-
ly an exact similarity between the
principles of the two statesmen." My
argument would have been more
correctly, or at least more clearly,
explained, by stating, as its objects,
the establishment of these positions :
That no material difference in the
two systems had any practical effect
upon the conduct of England; and
particularly that Lord Castlereagh
did not systematically repress, nor
Mr Canning systematically support,
liberal and popular institutions in
other countries.^

For the "fashionable" denial of
merit to Mr Canning, which is said
to have preceded the publication of
Mr Stapleton's "Political Life of Mi-
Canning," I am not responsible ; and
was assuredly never guilty of impu-
ting to any statesman as a fault, that
his measures were referable to some
general principle. || Yet I will con-
fess, that I always regard with some
distrust, an essay on whatever sub-
ject, which begins by asserting the
superiority of " an enlarged view,"
and speaks contemptuously of " lit-
tle minds," and " a narrow grasp of
intellect." Those only will differ

from me in this distrust, who have
usually found such disclaimers of
littleness, followed by a proportion-
ate liberality and grandeur of senti-
ment.

I questioned the " taste" of Mr
Stapleton, in interlarding his eulogy
upon Mr Canning, with sarcasms
and sneers at Lord Castlereagh. $
" What a notion," says the indignant
critic, " does this convey of the prin-
ciples of some statesmen ! As if the
truths of history were the proper
concern of a master of the ceremo-
nies !"

If I entertained for a moment the
suspicion, that Mr Stapleton himself
was the writer of the letter, this pas-
sage instantly dispelled it. A person
who had peculiar opportunities of
observing, for five years, the daily
operations of an elegant mind, could
not refer the niceties of judgment,
feeling, and propriety, to a common
standard with courtly etiquette ; or
wish to restore to political society
and literature that barbarous rough-
ness, which an imitation of Mr Can-
ning would remove.

Surely, without "concealing his
sentiments with respect to Lord Cas-
tlereagh," Mr Stapleton might have
becomingly avoided expressions of
contempt. The relative situation of
that minister with Mr Canning par-
ticularly called for this forbearance.
Mr Canning felt this, and something
more, when he expressed his hope
that he felt as it deserved, the man-
liness and generosity with which his
rival had voluntarily tendered to
him in 1812 the seals of the Foreign
Office. " What would be thought of
me, what should I deserve to be
thought of by every liberal mind — if
after such a transaction as I have de-
scribed, I could even pause for a mo-
ment to consider in what order, with
respect to each other, my noble friend
and I should march towards one com-
mon object in the service of our
country? In that transaction, any

* No. xv. art. 2. No, xvi. art 5; f No. cxxxiii. f See Foreign Quar-

terly Review, xv. 35. || New Monthly Magazine, cxxxiii. 33. § Foreign

Quarterly Review, xvi, 401,

1832.]

Lord Castlereagh and Mr Canning,

feelings which had previously sepa-
rated my noble friend and myself
were buried for ever. The very me-
mory of them was effaced from our
minds, nor can I compliment the good
taste of those who would call them
up from oblivion."*

He was careful, in his after-life, to
avoid all appearance of the bitter-
ness which it was perhaps not in hu-
man nature perfectly to extinguish.

I will make no objection to the
slight correction which the Letter-
writer makes on what he conceives
to be my description of Mr Staple-
ton's object, the more readily as, in
the passage quoted for this descrip-
tion, I had not Mr Stapleton particu-
larly in view.f Let it be taken, then,
as Mr Stapleton's object to prove,
" that Mr Canning aided the cause of
liberty in Europe, by withdrawing
the powerful support of England
from those who endeavoured to sup-
press all liberal opinions."^!

My objects were to shew, that the
support said to be withdrawn, had
never been given ; and that " the
cause of liberty in Europe" had not
been the object of the policy of Lord
Castlereagh with one intention, or of
Mr Canning with another.

But I am reproached with setting
up my own opinion against those of
more competent persons. Lady
Canning, it is said, must have been
acquainted with the sentiments of
her husband ; Lord Londonderry
with those of his brother. It may be
so ; but each of these eminent per-
sons is the very worst witness of the
thoughts or actions of the other's
Hero ; and is not a good witness of
the merits of his own. The allow-
ance which, with perfect sincerity, I
have made for the partialities and
amiable prejudices of the Secretary,
are due, tenfold, to the widow and
the brother.

So far, therefore, as the alleged
misrepresentation of the policy of
the one statesman depends upon a

misrepresentation of the policy of
the other, those whose exclusive ob-
ject it is to exalt either, ought surely
to be heard with special caution.

But Lord Grey is also quoted.
" He must," as is said, according
to me, " have been ignorant of the
policy of both !" Lord Grey was
ignorant of the policy of both. He
had a full share of that sort of igno-
rance which is produced by conti-
nued opposition, rivalry, and disap-
pointment. And all that I have ta-
ken the liberty of observing upon
Lord John Russell, is applicable to
Lord Grey, who has applauded the
views of the noble historian. But
what has Lord Grey said, and how
far has his treatment of Mr Canning's
policy that character of consistency
without which it is of no value ? Ob-
serve : He had been the opponent of
Mr Pitt, Lord Liverpool, Lord Castle-
reagh ; against Mr Canning he di-
rected, in 1827,} the bitterest effusion
of his own sarcastic eloquence, treat-
ing, as " a ridiculous boast," his pre-
tensions to merit in respect of South
America, and exposing [very justly]
the infatuation of those Whigs who
pretended to consider him as the
special friend of liberty. Recently,
however, speaking from the govern-
ment bench in the House of Lords,
which the friends of Mr Canning had
enabled him to fill, — sitting opposite
to the more peculiar friends of Lord
Castlereagh, and answering Lord
Castlereagh's brother on a point of
foreign policy — he utters a sentence
of approbation of Mr Canning's sys-
tem, "so far as it differed from Lord
Castlereagh's." He excepts from his
commendation the transactions with
Portugal and with Greece. He had
formerly described Mr Canning's
treatment of Spain in ]823, as " be-
traying the interests, tarnishing the
honour, and endangering the pros-
perity of England ;"|| and yet, if Han-
sard be correct, my antagonist has
even underrated the approbation

* Speech on the Lisbon affair, 6th May, 1817. Par). Deb. xxxvi. 222.

t The article in No. XV. was intended for a correction of misrepresentations of
England's policy, from the time of Mr Pitt. It was hi the first instance written
as a review of Lord John Russell's republished Letter.

J New Monthly Magazine, p. 33-4. § 10th May. Parl. Deh. vii. 720.

|| 12th May, 1823. Parl. Deb. ix. 173-4.

VOL. XXXI. NO. CXCII. 2 L

Lord Castlereagh and Mr Canning.

522

which the same Lord Grey has re-
cently expressed. He tells us that he
" zealously supported Mr Canning's
foreign policy in general, not be-
cause it was that of Lord Castle-
reagh, but because it was a step to-
wards retracing the injudicious po-
licy of his predecessor." Now, I
have in vain searched the debates of
the Lords for the proofs of this sup-
port, much less of its alleged founda-
tion. There is nothing upon the
subject till we come to the vitupera-
tive speech of 1827, in which Lord
Grey denied to Mr Canning the
praise of a peculiar and a wiser policy.
" I am sure that he has not himself
led to the holding up of this contrast.
I am sure that it has been owing to
the indiscretion of his friends'"'* Again,
" during the whole course of his pub-
lic career, there is not any man who
has less approved of his conduct
than myself." Lord Grey then men-
tioned South America as the only
point on which the " contrast" could
be plausibly maintained, and pro-
ceeded with characteristic severity
to deprive him of any merit on that
account. No, sir, whatever Lord
Grey may now say, Mr Canning had
not the misfortune, while alive, to
concur in foreign, any more than in
domestic policy, with the leader of
the Whigs !

I rely not so much upon personal
authority, as upon the public acts
and speeches of the Ministers whose
conduct I examine ; yet it is scarce-
ly reasonable, that when Lord Grey,
the head of the Opposition, is to be
quoted, Lord Liverpool, the head of
the Government, is to be rejected !
Although responsible for every mea-
sure of the Foreign Department, from
1812 to 1827, and the expounder of
the Foreign Policy in the House of
Lords, he is supposed to have not
been free to interfere in foreign af-
fairs, because he had been, as it is
said, elected Premier by his col-
leagues. It is true that the late King
gave to the members of the Cabinet
which had been led by Mr Perceval,
an unusual share in the nomination
of his First Minister ; but it would be

[March,

a libel upon the character of Lord
Liverpool to say, that he so far ne-
glected the duties of the office, to
which he had thus succeeded, as to
permit, unconcerned, a total change
of policy in a most important branch
of his administration. That he was,
" for some years before Lord Castle-
reagh's death, uneasy at the state of
foreign affairs"f is probable enough;
Lord Castlereagh himself, there is
little doubt, was not very comfort-
able under all that was going on in
Europe; nor is Lord Grey quite easy
at the present moment ; but to trace
the uneasiness of the Premier to his
disapprobation of the Foreign Secre-
tary, is a gratuitous assumption.

I am far from denying that much
is in the power of the Secretary of
State who writes the dispatches, and
talks to Foreign Ministers : he may
give a different tone to the commu-
nications, and this change of tone
may lead to more substantial altera-
tions. I believe that Mr Canning did
alter the tone ; and I admit that it is
" by an examination of facts alone"
that we can ascertain whether there
was a fundamental change of system.
But surely the burthen of the proof
lies upon him who would maintain
that a Prime Minister of unimpeach-
ed integrity, and acknowledged ta-
lents, permitted, almost without
knowing it, an entire change to be
effected by his subordinates in the
policy of his government.

Let us proceed then to the facts
and deductions which are in dispute.
To shew not only that Mr Canning
came into office without any avow-
ed disapprobation of Lord Castle-
nh's policy, and intention to change
ut " with the decided and un-
equivocal recognition of it as the
principle of his own administra-
tion," J I referred to his adoption
of the Circular of 1821. The first
half of this assertion is readily ad-
mitted^ the second half is denied.
The Letter-writer does not stoutly
contend with Mr Stapleton, that it
was a paper of 1820, not that of 1821,
to which Mr Canning referred. In-
deed the proofs which I adduced on

* Parl. Deb. xvii. 726. f New Monthly Magazine, p. 34.

\ Foreign Quarterly Review, xvi. 401, and New Monthly Magazine, 43,
j New Monthly Magazine, p. 35.

1832.]

Lord Castlereagh

this head are demonstrated.* But
he says that the principle laid down
in the Circular is " not sufficiently
fundamental to establish the fact of
similarity of policy."

Let any impartial man read the
terms in which Mr Canning spoke
of this Circular, and say that he meant
to express any thing but an unquali-
fied adoption of the principles laid
down in it, with the qualifications
annexed, and no others ? Or that it
is not a fundamental, predominant,
and universal rule for governing
the conduct of England in all the
matters to which it referred; that
is, all cases in which a question
might arise, connected with the esta-
blishment or suppression of internal
constitutions amongst any people, and
the interference of other powers there-
with ?

• These are the very cases about
which we are disputing; and it is
in reference to these that the Circu-
lar is adopted as the "political creed"
of Mr Canning and his colleagues.

" Faithful to the principles which
his Majesty has promulgated to the
world as constituting the rule of his
conduct, his Majesty declined being
party to any proceedings at Verona,
which could be deemed an interference
in the internal concerns of Spain on
the part of Foreign Powers"-^

For the plain rule thus sanctioned,
your correspondent would substi-
tute another, at once, as he con-
ceives, comprehensive and intelli-
gible, bearing upon every measure
of foreign policy, and serving as a
test by which all might be tried.
This is " to make England preserve
the balance not only between con-
tending nations, but between con-
flicting principles." Now mark ; this
rule was given by Mr Stapleton as a
quotation from Mr Canning. But he
made a most important addition,
which I took the liberty of substract-
ing from it,J as not to be found in
Mr Canning's speeches. This addi-
tion the Letter-writer does not ven-
ture to restore : — " Giving," sub-
joins Mr Stapleton, " the preference
to neither, but aiding rather the li-
beral side, because the anti-liberals

and Mr Canning. 523

were then the strongest" I must now
carry my correction farther : " the
balance" is a very pregnant expres-
sion, implying the preservation of an
equipoise, by the occasional addition
of weight to one side or the other.
Nothing about a balance is in the
speech of Mr Canning ! Not only did
he not profess the intention of aid-
ing the " Liberals," but he never con-
templated, under any circumstances,
the grant of aid to either party. All
that he did profess was to be " NEU-
TRAL between contending nations,
and between conflicting principles"
Having thus reduced the " com-
prehensive and intelligible rule" of
policy, to a form in which it is com-
prehensive and intelligible, namely,
the form in which it was pronounced
by Mr Canning, I will now, for the
sake, not of detracting from Mr Can-
ning's merit, but of proving his con-
sistency, shew that this same principle
was announced by Lord Liverpool, in.
defending and explaining the Circu-
lar itself. " No one who looked at
the affairs of Europe dispassionately,
could avoid seeing that there were
two conflicting principles in the
world. Never did Russia, Austria, ancj
Prussia, do a more ill-advised act,
than when they put forth that (the
Troppau) declaration. Till then, it
might be doubted whether there
were two extreme principles, the
disposition to crush all revolutions,
without reference to time, to circum-
stances, to causes, or to the situation
of the nations in which they arose.
The other extreme principle, which
he was sorry to see manifested in
the noble Lords opposite, was to up-
hold all revolutions, not looking to
their causes or justification. Revo-
lution seemed to them to be certain
good; the name cheered up their
hearts. Let their Lordships look
then to the constitution of Great Bri-
tain, which they boasted to be as far
removed from despotism on the one
hand, as from wild revolutionary prin-
ciples on the other. They would see
that the policy which the constitu-
tion demanded between two such
principles, was neutrality. Neutral-
ity was our policy — neutrality would

* Foreign Quarterly Review, xvi. 400.

f Lord Commissioner's Speech, February 4th,

J Foreiga Quarterly Review, xvi, 403-4.

Parl. Hist. viii. 1.

524

Lord Castlereagh and Mr Canning.

[Marcli,

command the respect of all the na-
tions, and of all the temperate and
moral men of Europe."*

These were the sentiments of Lord
Liverpool, while Lord Castlereagh
was Foreign Secretary, and Mr Can-
ning was out of office. They agree
entirely with the doctrine of Mr
Canning, when restored to its origi-
nal purity.

This restoration of the pure text
entirely destroys the illustration —
fanciful enough in any case — which
the Letter-writer gives of the supe-
riority of his favourite maxim. " Ab-
stinence," says the Letter-writer,
" from interference in the cause of
Spain, would have been beneficial to
the cause of liberty. In the case of
Poland, it has benefited the cause of
despotism."f Non-interference, it
appears to be thence argued, may be
the principle at one time of one sys-
tem, at another of its opposite.

Mr Canning's principle would ope-
rate in the case of Poland, as it ope-
rated in the case of Spain, to a strict
and impartial neutrality. If he had
lived to this time, he would have ask-
ed, not whether the Poles were op-
pressed, but whether the interests of
England were nearly and surely en-
dangered by the confirmed aggran-
dizement of Russia.

Not a word from Mr Canning jus-
tifies the belief, that he abstained from
interference in Spain, for the sake of
benefiting the cause of liberty. I will
not ask you to insert the speech of
the 30th April, 1823, but I beg that
those passages of it may be once more
perused, in which Mr Canning urges
the possible danger to ensue to Eng-
land from the wider diffusion of li-
beral institutions.^

The Letter-writer suspends his
comments upon the Circular of 1821,
to convict me of a blundering admis-
sion, " in contradiction to my main
argument." I had referred to the
uneasiness of Mr Canning, while in
the Cabinet with Lord Castlereagh,
at the mode in which the diplomacy
of England was conducted. I had
mentioned his jealousy of the too in-
timate union of our representative
with those of the continental powers ;

and his justifiable confidence in his
own ability to " pursue the interests
of England, by measures of a different
style."$ Read, I beg, the very next
line of my review, and you will find
me connecting his contemplated dif-
ference of style, with a perfect con-
formity in principle, more particu-
larly in reference to the institutions
of foreign countries, the principal
subject of alleged distinction. My
admission, far from being inconsist-
ent with any argument which I have
used, is itself, in a new form, my fa-
vourite position.

We return to the famous Circular.
I am accused of " unfairly" omitting
those of Mr Stapleton's criticisms,
which are in commendation of this
state paper ; and he gives the pass-
age at length. After censuring Lord
Castlereagh for his tardiness in re-
monstrating against the objectionable
principles of the Allies, and for avow-
ing, that if those principles had not
been forced upon his notice by a
written communication, he would
not have observed upon them, Mr
Stapleton admits, that "the answer,
when it did come, was in some re-
spects worthy of a British minister,
since it condemned, in strong and ener-
getic language, the most preposterous
of the doctrines of the Alliance ;" and
then again, resuming the tone of
censure, he imputes insincerity to
the opinions tardily promulgated,
and blames the " saving clause of
justification for Austria."

If there be — which I indignantly
deny — unfairness in my citations,
it consists rather in the suppression
of certain expressions of censure,
than in the omission of those few
words of slight commendation which
a curious enquirer may discover in
this criminatory passage.

The Letter-writer shares with
Mr Stapleton a misconception of the
occasion and object of the Naples
Circular, and of one of its particular
expressions, to which, as I noticed
it but briefly in the Review,)) I will
now again advert.

The Circular of the three allied
courts from Troppau,1T after men-
tioning the revolution at Naples, its

* March 2, 1821. Pad. Deb. iv. 1064. f New Monthly Mag. p. 35.

\ Foreign Quarterly Review, xvi. 405, 6. § Ibid, xvi. 398, 9.

|| Ibid, xvi, \ Dec. 8, 1820, Ann, Reg. for 1820, vol. ii. p. 735,

1832.]

Lord Castlereagh and Mr Canning.

dangerous example to legitimate go-
vernments, its inconsistency with the
existing compact between European
states, the right and necessity of in-
terfering by joint measures of pre-
caution, the invitation of the King of
the two Sicilies to Laybach, and
their resolution not to recognise go-
vernments which had been produ-
ced by open rebellion, proceeded
thus : — " France and England have
been invited to participate in this
step, and it is to be expected that
they will not refuse their concur-
rence, as the principles on which the
invitation is founded are perfectly
conformable to the treaties which
they have formerly signed, and be-
sides, offer a pledge of the most just
and peaceable sentiments."

England had hitherto taken no part;
she had been perfectly neutral,* nei-
ther doing nor saying any thing upon
the subject, except that she would be
neutral ; but not interrupting her re-
lations with revolutionized Naples.
When the Allies not only promul-
gated doctrines, with respect to in-
terference for the suppression of a
revolt, to which England could not
assent, but expressed a confidence
that she would participate in these
measures of interference, as to Na-
ples, because her treaties bound her
to interfere, it became necessary to
publish formally, and in the face of
the world, the dissent which we had
alwayst expressed in diplomatic in-
tercourse, from these objectionable
doctrines, and from the construction
put upon our treaties. Moreover,
as the right of interference was stated
generally, and might, therefore, by
possibility be applied to any political
change which might occur in this
country, it was thought necessary to
remind the Allies, and his Majes-
ty's Ministers abroad, that in no case
would any such interference be ad-
mitted by England^ herself, and she,
therefore, could not enforce it upon
others. " The system of measures
proposed, if reciprocally acted upon,

525

would be in direct repugnance to the
fundamental laws of this country.'*

The necessity for denouncing the
principles asserted, arose only when,
they were stated generally, and as
principles which England had pro-
mised to enforce. The misconcep-
tion consists in supposing that the
doctrines of Troppau were in them-
selves repugnant to our laws. As be-
tween Austria, Russia, and Naples,
the doctrine, however preposterous,
could not be in any way affected by
our internal constitution.

Our remonstrance, therefore, was
made, so soon as the occasion re-
quired it.

The Letter -writer, who well
knows that Mr Canning's approba-
tion was applied to this particular
paper, finds himself in a difficulty
when he attempts to reconcile Mr
Stapleton's criticisms upon it with
Mr Canning's unqualified concur-
rence. His mode of extrication is
ingenious. Mr Canning, he admits,
praised " the rule and its exceptions"
and so does Mr Stapleton ; but Mr,
Stapleton agrees with Mr Canning
in his commendation of the rule and
its exceptions, but condemns the
particular application which in the
Circular is made of these exceptions.

He blames it, for that " it volun-
teers to admit that the position of
Austria with respect to Naples came
within the exception, and justified
a forcible interference." Thus, ac-
cording to Mr Stapleton and his
friend, the dispatch, it would seem,
addressed to Naples, is an admirable
paper, full of just principles, quali-
fied with exact propriety ; and only
wrong when it treats of Naples, and
of the events which had occasioned
its issue !

And to this paper, Mr Canning —
precise as he was in notions and in
language, accustomed to an almost
excessive nicety of distinction —
twice appealed publicly as his poli-
tical creed, and "clung with fond
pertinacity !"

* See Lord Liverpool's speeches, 19th Feb. and 2d March, and Lord Castlereagh's
of 21st Feb. and 20th March, 1821. Parl. Deb. iv. 760, 1063, 865, and 1355.

f See Lord Liverpool's speech, iv. 761 ; Lord Castlereagh's speech, p. 871 ; and
the Circular itself.

t See Lord Castlereagh's speech of 21st March, 1821. Parl. Deb. iv. 869.

S-26 Lord CastlereagJi and Mr Canning.

This is absolutely incredible. Now

[March,

here, as throughout the book, the
error lies in misrepresenting not Mi-
Canning, but Lord Castlereagh.

That Minister did not justify the
forcible interference of Austria.
Upon the strictest principle of neu-
trality, he admitted that either party
might be right, but declined giving
an opinion upon the question.*

Now, it may be true — I greatly
doubt it, but I might admit it with-
out any injury to my argument — that
Mr Canning had, in 1823, a more de-
cided opinion against Austria, than
Lord Castlereagh had in 1821.

Nothing could have been more en-
tirely contrary to Mr Canning's
diplomacy, than to promulgate that
opinion, unless he was prepared to
enforce it by war. In this he was
not prepared ; and could, therefore,
with perfect consistency, approve of
the whole paper, even though he did
not concur, in every sentiment, with
its composer.

But, it has happened, strangely
enough, and may at least serve to
shew that if I am guilty of omis-
sions, they are not all on one side,
that I omitted all mention of the
speech in which Mr Canning, then
disconnected with the Government,
gave his opinion of this celebrated
document. The immediate subject
of debate was the instructions given
to Sir William A' Court, to protect
the royal family of Naples.f In
taking his share of the responsibility
attaching to his deviation from the
rule of non-interference, Mr Canning
said, " at that period he entirely
agreed with his colleagues, that the
principle to be acted upon was one

of entire and strict neutrality, — neu-
trality not in word only, but in deed."
And after justifying the exception,
he added, " with this simple excep-
tion, it was the opinion of his Majes-
ty's Government when he was a
member of it, and he had no doubt
that that opinion remained unchan-
ged— that a perfect neutrality should
be preserved, — an entire absence from
any participation in the policy or
councils of the Allies." He then
charged Sir Robert Wilson (the mo-
ver) with a desire for war; and gave
his own opinion for peace. " He saw
that the principles of liberty were in
operation, and should be one of the
last persons who would attempt to
restrain them, but there was a differ-
ence between excusing an action
when done, and using such means as
should incite to that action." He
reprobated the complacency with
which the murder of Charles the
First had been contemplated; and
proceeded thus : — " In stating once
more that he was the advocate of an
unqualified neutrality, he should ad-
vert for a moment to another course
which had been hinted at. It was
said that there were means by which
this country might aid the Neapoli-
tans, without committing itself to the
issue of their struggle ; that it might
at least give the sanction of their opi-
nion to the cause of freedom. Now
it was upon that point more than
any other, that he was at issue with
the gentleman opposite. If it was right
that with a view to favour the pro-
gress of liberty, we should declare
our alliances broken, and make war
against those who are now called the
oppressors of the earth, in God's

* " With respect to the particular case of Naples, the British Government, at
the very earliest moment, did not hesitate to express their strong disapprobation of
the mode and circumstances under which that revolution was understood to have
heen effected ; but they, at the same time, expressly declared to the several Allied
Courts that they should not consider themselves, as either called upon, or justified, to
advise an interference on the part of this country ; they fully admitted, however, that
the other European States, and especially Austria and the Italian powers, might feel
themselves differently circumstanced ; arid they professed that it was not their purpose
to prejudge the question as it might affect them, or to interfere with the course which
such States might think fit to adopt, with a view to their own security, provided only
that they were able to give any reasonable assurance that their views were not di-
rected to purposes of aggrandizement, subversive of the territorial system of Europe,
as established by the late treaties."— See Circular of 19th Jan. 1821. Parl. Deb. iv.
284.

f See Ann. Reg. .1820. Ft. 2. p. 745-6. In my Review, xvi, the date of 1813 is
inadvertently given for 1821.

1832.]

Lord Castlereagh and Mr Canning.

527

name let that course be decidedly
taken." And then he described the
House sitting " day after day, and
night after night," &c. " Of all modes
of support which England could ex-
tend to other countries, a construc-
tive support was the most unfair * *
* # * Was it not romantic to
talk of embarking the country, not
on account of duty, alliance, or obli-
gation, but merely as matter of sym-
pathy and feeling, in a war in which
she had neither interest nor concern ?

* * # The House had been
told that we had arrived at a great
crisis, in which the monarchical and
the democratical opinions were at
war throughout the world, and that
England must make up her mind
which side she would espouse. We
were called upon to espouse ' the
new opinions,' as Queen Elizabeth,
(the heroine of Sir James Mackintosh)
had been supposed to have espoused
those of the Reformation. But he
denied that ' she plunged into wars
of which she could see no end.' No.
Rapin said that she followed those
wars * as long as they served her own
interest.' " The remainder of this in-
teresting speech consisted of reiter-
ated deprecation of war and inter-
ference.

If I had truly been arguing for vic-
tory rather than for truth, it would
have been politic to keep back this
memorable speech, for the purpose
of a triumphant reply. But I use it
for sober truth. It furnishes evidence,
stronger, if possible, than that which
I had before, of every one of my po-
sitions.

Here is a speech, delivered by Mr
Canning out of office, explaining and
defending the foreign policy of the
Lords Liverpool and Castlereagh;
enouncing the same doctrines, and
displaying the same illustrations, as
those which he afterwards adopted,
in explaining his own policy; and
treating, with mingled contempt and
indignation, those notions of chival-
rous patronapo of European liberty,

which have since been imputed to
him.

I have not entered upon the ques-
tion-between the Duke of Wellington
and Mr Canning's representatives, as
to the " moral support"" to be given
to the Constitutionalists in Portugal.
But I would recommend to those
who have invented this novel term
in diplomacy, a perusal of the speech
of March 1821.

It is now with more confidence
than ever that I repeat, that " Mr
Canning came into office with a de-
cided and unequivocal recognition
of Lord Castlereagh's policy, as the
principle of his own administra-
tion." *

I now come to South America. I
had shewn that Lord Castlereagh,
in July 1822, had warned the go-
vernment of Spain, of our eventual
recognition of the revolted pro-
vinces ;f and that thenceforward
there was only a question of time.
Lord Castlereagh died in August
1822.

The writer in the New Monthly ob-
serves, that Lord Castlereagh's notice
was given when there was a Constitu-
tional Government in Spain, and that
after the more absolute government
was restored; and "in consequence of
this change, the question became
one on which the two parties in the
Cabinet maintained a severe strug-
gle for the mastery, and that on its
decision the Holy Alliance and its
agents well knew that the nature of
their intercourse with the British
government depended.''^

So far as Lord Castlereagh is con-
cerned, the whole force of this state-
ment rests upon this assumption;
that Lord Castlereagh would not
have given the warning except to the
Constitutional Government, and that
if he had lived to see the restoration
of the old Government, he would
have retracted it. As this assump-
tion is perfectly gratuitous, I only
say, that I see no reason for belie-
ving it to be justifiable.

* The writer in the New Monthly says that it is nonsense " to recognise a course
of ' policy' as a principle of action." If, in forty pages of close writing, I have fallen
into one error in language, I am sorry for it. The language, however, is unambigu-
ous, and perfectly intelligible ; and I believe it to be quite correct. Perhaps it might
have been a little better to say, " a recognition in Lord Castlereagh's policy of the prin*-
ciple of his own administration."

t Foreign Quarterly Review, xvi. \ New Monthly Magazine, p. 37.

5*28

Lord Castlereagh and Mr Canning.

[March,

The letter ascribes to me a more
intimate knowledge of the proceed-
ings of the Cabinet than I have pos-
sessed or assumed ; but the follow-
ing passage will shew that I was not
altogether ignorant of the disputes
to which he refers, and that although
not bearing directly upon the point
which I was discussing, I thought it
fair to refer to them. " It is certain,
that, not between Mr Canning and
Lord Castlereagh, who died in Au-
gust 1 822, but between Mr Canning
and other members of the Cabinet,
there was a difference of opinion as
to the period of recognition ; there
is much reason for believing that
the indisposition of those Ministers,
which produced no inconsiderable
asperity of feeling, was, in part, oc-
casioned by the objections made to
the recognition, by some of our con-
tinental allies, as tending to counte-
nance revolt. But it was only a
question of time ; the principle was
the same, and must have operated
sooner or later." * I have also said,
that " the recognition was unques-
tionably accelerated by the exertions
of Mr Canning; and that whatever
merit belongs to the acknowledg-
ment of these provinces, at the mo-
ment at which it occurred, may very
fairly be claimed by Mr Canning."

Is there here any unfair suppres-
sion ?

My observations with respect to
Portugal are said " to labour under
the same error which has been al-
ready pointed out. It is evidently
thought all-sufficient to establish con-
formity in principle between the two
Ministers, to shew that Mr Canning,
in his dealings with Portugal, adhe-
red to the non-interference principle
— a position which Mr Stapleton, so
far from denying, proves to be strict-
ly true."f

The reader of my Review will
readily perceive, that in my narrative
of Mr Canning's proceedings with
respect to Portugal, I do not contro-
vert the statements or opinions of
Mr Stapleton ; and " the same error"
is apparent here, as in other parts of
the letter, in supposing that my arti-
cle was solely or principally a review
of " the political life." I wished to
mention all the leading passages of

Mr Canning's administration, for
which I had the materials, in order
to shew, that in none of his measures
or declarations could the evidence
be found, of that emancipation of
Europe from the trammels of despot-
ism, which self-interest and igno-
rance had ascribed to him. The po-
sition which I controvert is always
this, — " that England under Lord
Castlereagh was a party assisting, if
not contracting, to a league of sove-
reigns for the repression of liberal
and popular institutions, under the
name of the Holy Alliance ; and that
Mr Canning disconnected England
from this alliance, and gave her pow~
erful support to the cause of liberty in
Europe."

The next attack is upon the con-
sistency of my statements. " In page
408, it is asserted that ' the political
opponents of Mr Canning, afterwards
so forward in maintaining, perhaps
in originating, for purposes of their
own, the notion of a difference, saw
none in the negotiations with France
and Spain in 1822.' And then, three
lines after, we find, ' It is true, that
even at this early period, they (Mr
Canning's opponents) attempted to
make a distinction between Mr Can-
ning and his less liberal associates.' "

If the whole passage had been
given, its meaning and consistency
would have been apparent ; it might
even have been enough, if the word
attempted had been printed in italics ;
but let the passage be read only a
few lines farther. " They applauded
the warmth with which he breathed
his wishes for the success of Spain,
and the liberality of what he said of
the cause of Spanish freedom ; but
they argued that in what he didt he
imitated his predecessor."

All this is strictly true, perfectly
consistent, and strikingly illustrative
of the nature of the difference be-
tween Lord Castlereagh and Mr Can-
ning. I have never denied that there
might be some difference of senti-
ment, and consequently, of expres-
sion, with respect to the continental
proceedings themselves; my position
is, that there was no difference as to
the conduct of England.

And I must again remind the read-
er, that the " irreconcilable variance of

* Foreign Quarterly Review, xvi. 412.

f P. 37.

1832.]

opinion" between England and the
Allies, on the doctrine of interfe-
rence, existed, and was declared by
Lord Castlereagh, in 1820.*

The next head of attack furnishes,
without any exception, the most out-
rageous instance of word-catching
which I remember to have seen : if
I were as fond of crimination as my
commentator is, I might say, — of wil-
ful and disingenuous misrepresenta-
tion.

In two rather long passages, I had
criticised a somewhat flighty passage,
attributing to Mr Canning the con-
ception and execution of a vast
scheme for "soothing the exaspera-
ted feelings" of some unknown
people, and advancing the cause of
liberty in countries undescribed. I
denied that Mr Canning indulged in
these speculations, and observed,
that if he had so speculated, "he
must have been woefully disappoint-
ed ;" I complained of the omission
to name the countries in which these
mighty works were done; and ob-
served, that " the dispersion of the
danger to arise from the corifliction
of discordant principles, or the col-
lision of two parties, was a legitimate
object, in no way inconsistent with the
policy of Lord Castlereagh. It is," I
said, "an English object, verydifferent
from that of supporting the popular
cause from a mere hatred of despot-
ism. It was, moreover, an object
avowed by Mr Canning, at the out-
set of his administration, — To restore
or maintain England's influence in
Europe. To promote the interests of
his own country, were no doubt also
parts of Mr Canning's policy which
it was scarcely necessary to set forth
as peculiarly his."

The whole object of the first ar-
ticle, (in No. XV.,) and a great part
of the second, (in No. XVI.,) were
employed in proving that Lord Cas-
tlereagh maintained the honour of
England ; but, because, in the pas-
sage cited, in mentioning it as the
object equally of Lord Castlereagh
and Mr Canning, to preserve and
strengthen England's influence, I
coupled the word " restore" with

Lord Castlereagh and Mr Canning.

520

" maintain," I am told that I have
no right to deny, that Mr Canning
retrieved the honour of his country !
I might observe, that not a word
concerning honour, lost or retrieved,
is to be found in the passage trium-
phantly quoted. But it is more im-
portant to remind the reader of the
whole context, which clearly shews
the object to be the assertion and
commendation of the common policy
of the two Ministers.

One only point of controversy re-
mains. It is observed, that Lord
Castlereagh, in the circular of 1821,
expressed a hope that the difference
of sentiment between England and
her Allies, would make no alteration
in the harmony of the alliance ;
" Mr Canning, when adverting to a
similar difference of principle, ob-
served that he would persevere in
refusing, * even though a dissolution
of the alliance should be the conse-
quence of his refusal.' "f

It is asked, whether I choose to
call this a variation in mode only. I
answer, certainly yes; nor could I
find a more striking illustration of
my "favourite" position. In both
cases, the English Minister was in-
vited to take a measure inconsistent
with his sense of the duty and inter-
est of England ; in both, the Minister
refused : nor is there the slightest
ground for believing that the one
would not have been quite as stead-
fast in his refusal as the other. But
the one, habituated to a very courte-
ous diplomacy, and treating with as-
sociates and friends, accompanied his
refusal with soft words of regret, and
hope that there might be no less of
friendship between them. The other
goes at once to the point, to which,
notwithstanding all his courtesies,
the first must have come at last, if
resisted ; and declares peremptorily
and sternly, I will rather quarrel with
you than acquiesce in your demand.
Every man will prefer" the one style
or the other according to his own
feeling and temper ; but the results
are similar.

I have now examined, I believe,
every one of the observations of the

* See Foreign Quarterly Review, xv. 56-7, and xvi. 416-17.

f New Monthly, p. 37. I do not know whence this quotation is made.-**"! have
no reason to doubt its accuracy : but quotation without reference is not quTte fair,
since the context often varies the sense altogether.

530

Letter- wri ter, affecting the statements
or arguments of my two reviews; and
I trust that the main positions which
I have maintained remain unshaken.

Not one of these positions is un-
favourable to Mr Canning, of whom
my commentator styles himself the
friend. I have denied to him no
praise, except such as involved either
a censure upon his predecessor or a
deviation from his own recorded
principles.

The object of my reviews was, to
defend all Ministers, from Mr Pitt to
Mr Canning inclusive, from the at-
tacks of Whigs and Republicans ; to
defend Lord Castlereagh in particu-
lar against the additional hostility of
Mr Canning's exclusive friends ; and
to display Mr Canning as the steady
and consistent friend of Conservative
principles at home, and the upholder
of English interests, and those alone,
in foreign countries.

The defence of Lord Castlereagh
necessarily occupied a great share of
my work; because Whigs, Repub-
licans, and the exclusive Canningites,
all joined against him. I know not,
that in conducting this defence, I
have said one word derogatory to
Mr Canning. If any such can be
found, I apologise for it to his widow,
not to his present champion.

I had nearly finished my observa-
tions on the New Monthly, when I
met with an attack upon the same
reviews, in a new and rival publica-
tion—the Metropolitan.* Will you
allow me to make your Magazine the
channel of my answer to this gentle-
man also ?

It is not for me to account for the
adoption of my articles by the Editor
of the Foreign Quarterly Review. I
suspect that, in the " fair and en-
lightened spirit" which is justly as-
cribed to him, he saw the propriety
of discussing the questions which I
raised, and judged that I treated them
fairly. Our acquaintance began with
these articles ; I trust, in spite of the
Metropolitan, that it will not end
with them.

Much of what I would say on the
accusation of depreciating Mr Can-
ning, has been anticipated.

The present writer charges me
with " denying the merit of Mr Can-

Lord Castlereagh and Mr Canning.

[March,

ning as to those points on which his
fame has been heretofore supposed
to rest with the greatest security."
It is assumed, that what I deny to
Mr Canning is unquestionably meri-
torious. In my opinion, which may
be erroneous, but which is as much
entitled to respect ak those of my
opponents, that from which I vindi-
cate this eminent statesman, is in-
consistency, impolicy, and impru-
dence. I say that he pursued the in-
terests of England ; the supposition,
backed, if you please, by " the pub-
lic voice of Europe," represents him
as having madly intended, and in
contradiction to his sentiments re-
peatedly promulgated, to engageEng-
land in the private quarrels of every
European state.

It is difficult to answer accusations
so desultory and so vague as those
of the Metropolitan. Mr Stapleton
had said, that Mr Canning was of
opinion that we ought not to have a
minister at Verona. Without dispu-
ting the accuracy of the statement, I
thought it fair and " satisfactory" to
inform the reader, on Mr Canning's
authority, that the minister who was
there, did nothing to lower the cha-
racter of England. For this I am
once more reminded of the " large
and statesmanlike" question which
I had before me, and reproached
with " narrowness," because, in the
course of a large discussion, I men-
tioned a small point. If I had turn-
ed the great question upon this small
point, I might have been justly re-
proved; but I did no such thing.
However, I gave an opportunity to
this gentleman, as to his coadjutor,
to talk of greatness, and express con-
tempt for narrow intellects !

Then come " weakness of argu-
ment, want of accurate knowledge,
sophistry !" I only wish that this
writer had accommodated his style
to my narrow understanding, and
had condescended to point out the
instances on which he grounds these
serious imputations, and had " set
me right" as to some of " the facts"
which I am said to misrepresent.

I scarcely know whether seriously
to advert to the passage following,
not being quite certain whether it be
lively wit or dull error. In the New

•No. IX. p. 18.

1832.]

Lord Castlereayh and Mr Canning.

Monthly, I am represented as an
hackneyed politician ; the Metropoli-
tan fancies, or pretends to fancy, me
a youth just rising into fame. I fear
that I must admit the superior cor-
rectness of the New Monthly Maga-
zine.

But the most whimsical of all the
accusations now follows. I presume
that, young or old, I have pretty
clearly described myself as a Tory,
and yet I am gravely reproved for
putting forward the well-known op-
position of Mr Canning to Parlia-
mentary Reform, and for mention-
ing that there was a division among
the Whigs as to the junction with Mi-
Canning in 1827. It is " inexcusable,
to excite heart-burning among those
who have rallied round the reform
question, with a generous oblivion
of the past."

Now attend to the true state of the
case. In my narrative of the pro-
ceedings of the statesman whose
monarchical principles I have endea-
voured to exhibit, in the consistency
and force which belong to them, I ne-
cessarily mentioned, to the immor-
tal praise of his sincerity and his in-
fluence, that he compelled the Whigs,
who eagerly joined him, to follow
his lead on the great question of re-
form. Could I fairly relate this fact,
without acknowledging that some of
the leading Whigs, members of the
present Cabinet, would not join Mr
Canning, upon these terms ? I can
say, with truth, that I had no such
motive as that which is imputed, but
I should not have been ashamed of
it, if it had happened to occur to me.

Why I, who am convinced from
the bottom of my soul, as Mr Can-
ning was before me, that " reform"
will destroy the Monarchy and the
Peerage, should hesitate at sowing
dissensions among the advocates of
that measure, or at exposing the in-
consistency of some of them, it is
beyond my narrow capacity to un-
derstand !

The allusion to the military pseu-
do-historian^ is also too mysterious
for my intellect. The commander
superseded, is now one of the new
Whig Peers, very high in the army.
Between him and the present Marquis
of Londonderry, there was not, and
could not be, any question of com-
mand.

One more explanation, on a per-

531

sonal matter. The anecdote con-
cerning the " complimentary letter,"
was related upon my own personal
knowledge. I was concerned in the
" observation ;" and the letter was
shewn to me by Mr Canning.

Having cleared away, so far as
their own confusedness permitted,
the preliminary observations of this
censorious critic, I come to the only
point on which, in Scottish phrase,
he condescends upon particulars.
Here, I shall treat him with more
candour than he deserves.

I am accused of two errors, evin-
cing " a gross ignorance of facts,"
with respect to the communication
made by Mr Canning to Mr Rush,
in 1823, concerning the South Ame-
rican colonies of Spain. First, in de-
scribing that communication as "pro-
posing concerted measures for the
eventual recognition;" and second-
ly, in stating that the overture fell to
the ground for " want of powers in the
American." The recognition, it is
said, by the United States, had al-
ready taken place; what Mr Can-
ning proposed was, " to resist the
Holy Alliance, in certain contingen-
cies, by arms."

Now, I must first observe, that all
that I have said as to this overture is
taken from Mr Stapleton. I intended
to relate the facts, which were new
to me, from " the political life."

If the author has correctly stated
the overture, it is clear that Mr Can-
ning did not consider the recognition
by the United States as a past event.
He stated " the question of recognition
to be one of time, and of circumstan-
ces/' and proposed that if this was also
the view of the American Govern-
ment, it should be mutually confided,
and declared. And I am enabl ed to add
that Mr Canning, comparing the date
of his subsequent conference with
Prince Polignac, October 1823, with
the speech of the American President
in the December following, boasted,
if I may use the expression, of ha-
ving anticipated the United States.

But, on re-perusing the communi-
cation to Mr Rush, I perceive that I
made my abstract of it too short; and
that I ought to have mentioned, fur-
ther, its 5th head, " that England
could not see any part of the colonies
transferred to any other power with
indifference." I freely confess that
as Mr Stapleton had laid no stress

532 Lord Castlercagh

upon this, and it was not followed up,
I did not sufficiently regard it.

The endeavour to secure the co-
operation of thegreat maritime power
of the other hemisphere, in the resist-
ance to any attempt that might be
made to aggrandize France out of the
Spanish colonies, was a commenda-
ble instance of judicious foresight.
And although there was perhaps at
no time any great probability of the
attempt being made by France — and
Mr Canning very soon brought her
explicitly to disclaim the intention*
—it was impossible that this free com-
munication with the United States
should not greatly conciliate that
jealous government.

Thus far, then, I admit that having
mentioned this communication at all
— though not bearing in any way upon
my discussion — I should have done
better to explain it more fully.

But I am wrong, too, it is said, in
stating that the matter " fell to the
ground ;" because, says the Metropo-
litan, it occasioned much discussion
in America, between Mr Monroe and
Mr Jefferson, and indirectly gave rise
to letters from Mr Brougham to Dr
Parr, and so forth ! What says Mr
Stapleton ? " Mr Canning found that
in the delay which must intervene
before Mr Rush could procure speci-
fic powers, the progress of events
might have rendered any such pro-
ceeding nugatory, and the being en-
gaged in a communication with the
United States, in which a considera-
ble time would have been consumed
before it would have been possible
to have arrived at a conclusive un-
derstanding with them, would have
embarrassed any other mode of pro-
claiming our views, which circum-
stances might have rendered it expe-
dient to adopt. Mr Canning there-
fore allowed the matter to drop." If
I have gone too far in assuming, that
a matter allowed to drop, did fall to
the ground, I can only plead that I
was misled by a certain story of an
apple.

The subsequent remarks of the
Metropolitan upon this subject, are
chiefly directed against Mr Stapleton,
who is accused of having exposed his
patron to " unmitigated ridicule" by
his alleged misrepresentations. Mr

and Mr Canning.

[March,

Stapleton is well able to defend him-
self, if he should think the attack for-
midable. I have no concern but with
the attacks on my own article. I had
denied that " the recognition placed
England in any different position, in
respect of the rest of Europe, from
that in which she stood while the
Holy Alliance was recent, and in full
force." " Here," says the Metropo-
litan, " is only once more the strange
misconception as to the real causes
of Mr Canning's agency in this mat-
ter. The recognition, as it is called,
did not take place until 1825, after
the Holy Alliance had fallen to pieces.
There was nothing offensive in that
act, nor was any principle of policy
involved in it. It was to the princi-
ples acted upon in 1823 that Mr Can-
ning himself went back, and to which
his friends must look in seeking to
justify his lofty pretensions." Refer-
ence is then made to the famous de-
claration (made in 1826) as to "Spain
and the Indies" " And does the cri-
tic in the Foreign Quarterly mean to
deny, that his conduct on that occa-
sion placed England in a different po-
sition in respect of the rest of Europe,
from that which she occupied when
enacting a busy part at Congresses ?
What ! no difference when she tra-
vels across the Atlantic to rear up a
counter alliance against those very
powers by whose side she recently
sat !"

It may perhaps be the opinion of
the reader that all this new specula-
tion of the Metropolitan is not worthy
of the space which I have given to it ;
still, I must observe, that it would
destroy all the argument that has
been raised by Mr Stapleton and the
writer in the New Monthly upon the
difference in the Cabinet concerning
the recognition in 1825; and all the
merit which has been allowed to Mr
Canning for his successful struggle
to produce that recognition, and the
great result ascribed to it.

It ascribes that merit simply and
solely to the communication to the
American minister, about which
there is no evidence of any contro-
versy in the Cabinet.

It places Mr Canning's merit upon
a transaction, in which, it is clearly
proved, he did not persevere ; but of

Stapleton, ii. 30. Prince Polignac's Answer to Mr Canning in October 1823.

1832.]

Lord Castlereagh and Mr Canning.

which he accomplished the object in
another mode.

The " busy part enacted at Con-
gresses" is an idle word, unless it be
shewn, which is impossible, that at
these Congresses England permitted
any thing to be done, or participated
in any thing, injurious to the interests
of England.

And now a few words upon those
angry remarks, which the Monthly
Reviewer has directed against me.

It is said that " my comments are
those of an individual, having a strong
personal interest in making out his
case, of one sensitively anxious that
his political character should not be
deprived of the semblance of con-
sistency, in consequence of his having
supported, with equal energy, Lord
Castlereagh and Mr Canning, and
the Duke of Wellington."*

I know not, I really know not, whe-
ther the writer of this passage was
aware of the name of him to whom
it was applied ; but since, in thirty
years of occasional engagement in
political controversy, I never wrote
a line affecting personal conduct or
character, of which I concealed the
authorship ; since I have unreserved-
ly avowed these two articles, it would
be as inconsistent as it would be use-
less in me to deny, that I did, in sub-
ordinate and secondary stations, sup-
port Lord Castlereagh, Mr Canning,
and the Duke of Wellington.

I was in office before Mr Canning
joined Lord Liverpool 'and Lord
Castlereagh in 1816, and had attach-
ed myself, more by my own deter-
mination, than by any overt act, pe-
culiarly to Lord Castlereagh. I pre-
sume that the "friend of Mr Can-
ning" has no quarrel with me, for
not quitting office, when the power-
ful co-operation of Mr Canning was
given to the government which other-
wise remained unchanged. I feel
equally confident of his approbation,
although I did not quit office, either
- when Mr Canning resigned on the
affair of the Queen, or when he re-
turned upon the death of Lord Cas-
tlereagh— occasions upon neither of
which there was any change of men,
or (as even he has admitted) any
avowed change of measures.

If my critic thinks that it will

533

strengthen his personal argument,
he is welcome to the additional
fact, that while Mr Canning was the
colleague of Lord Castlereagh, I had
opportunities, to which I shall al-
ways look back with pride and gra-
tification, of obtaining a liberal share
of his favour and his confidence.

And as, moreover, I had voted with
him in every division on the Catho-
lic Question, throughout the admi-
nistration of Lord Liverpool, I pre-
sume that I may stand excused for
continuing to hold office, when he
formed his own government in 1827;

It is indeed not very obvious, why
the names of Lord Castlereagh and Mr
Canning are brought together in the
charge framed against me for sup-
porting successive Ministers. Whe-
ther the accuser knows whom he ac-
cuses, or attacks at random, it is clear
that he can found no serious charge
of inconsistency upon the successive
support of these two Ministers. The
most sensitive of politicians would
not have resigned on account of a
posthumous controversy.

The real offence is, the support of
the Duke of Wellington. I avow,
that when, after Mr Canning's death
and Lord Goderich's abdication, the
government was re-formed under
that personage, comprising the lead-
ing friends of Lord Castlereagh and of
Mr Canning also, I did not volunteer
a resignation, which, while it would
have had no plausible ground in any
difference of opinion with the new
administration, would have thrown
me among Whigs, from whom I had
differed all my life.

As for foreign affairs, if I had been
disposed to differ — which I was not
— from the Duke of Wellington, I
should have differed also from him
whom Mr Canning selected as his
successor in that department.

I do not believe that on any one of
the changes hitherto noticed, a sub-
ordinate person like myself could
have resigned, without making him-
self ridiculous — and, I fairly own, I
never thought of it.

I avow, with equal plainness, that
I did not resign on an occasion when
retirement would have had more
plausible reasons, the resignation of
Mr Huskisson and his friends in

* P.

534 Lord Castlereagh and Mr Canning.

1828 ; there is no occurrence at
which I feel greater reason to rejoice,
than the resolution not to follow
these gentlemen, (to whom I owed
no political allegiance,) when they
thought proper to separate them-
selves from the Duke of Wellington
and Mr Peel, on a question, where-
upon Mr Canning's friends adopted
a line, assuredly not sanctioned by
his authority.

I do indeed rejoice, not to have
placed myself in the situation in
which I might have been exposed to
the temptation to which Lord Pal-
merston and Mr Grant have yielded ;
and thus to have become the asso-
ciate and partaker with those " who

have LET LOOSE AGAIN, WITH RASH
HAND, THE ELEMENTS OF OUR CONSTI-
TUTION, AND SET THEM ONCE MORE
TO FIGHT AGAINST EACH OTHER."*

My antagonist has now my whole
history ; I doubt whether he will find
in it much to support his apprehen-
sion, that I write from personal con-
siderations, and that I " argue more
for victory than for truth." The na-
ture of my present communication,
occasioned as it is by a pretty severe
rebuke, not always in very courteous
language, has given to it, I fear, more
of a controversial tone than is con-
sistent either with my intention or
general habits. But I assert, with
much confidence, that these critics
alone have traced a similar fault
among the many which are doubtless
to be found in the Reviews.

It is, it seems, another of my faults,
that " I brag, rather ostentatiously, of
what I know." The ostentation, I
venture to say, is in the writer's fe-
vered imagination ; but I will explain
the meaning of the expression, se-
veral times repeated, in the Reviews
— " We know" All that is thus men-
tioned—all, I believe, without ex-
ception, is derived from personal

[March,

communication with Mr Canning
himself; the style of a review hardly
admitted of any other mode of men-
tioning facts introduced on the au-
thority of an individual.

The concluding sentence of the
letter would induce me to believe
that the writer does not know my
name. When he learns it, he will
know that the expressions, " anger
of disappointment" and " cavilling of
detraction," are quite thrown away;
and that I am as good a friend to Mr
Canning, as he who subscribes him-
self by that honourable title. I trust
that my relation of some passages of
his early life, and my sketch of his poli-
tical history, illustrates the strength
and independence of his character,
and the conformity of his policy with
the principles which he avowed. I
have many apologies to make for the
mention which I have made of my
own concerns. I felt compelled to
it, by the insinuations of the critics.
Indeed if it had been consistent with
my feelings to shelter myself from
such attacks by preserving an anony>
mous character, the public mention
of my name, as the author of these
Reviews, would have rendered it
impossible. It is therefore in the full
assurance that I have not written a
line which is not warranted by Mr
Canning's public acts, and by the per-
sonal communications with which he
frequently honoured me ; in the con-
sciousness of having earnestly la-
boured to defend him against inter-
ested misrepresentation, and injudi-
cious praise, and in the confidence
that his fame will riot be sullied by
an association with the less brilliant,
but equally admirable, name of Cas-
tlereagh, that 1 subscribe myself
His sincere and faithful admirer,
THOMAS PEREGRINE COURTENAY.
London, Feb. 16, 1832.

Mr Canning's Speech of 30th April, 1823.

1832.]

The Papal Government.

535

THE PAPAL GOVERNMENT.

THE extraordinary tumults which
have lately taken place in the Papal
States, the not less extraordinary in-
fluence which Austria is developing
in the Papal councils, the movements
of her troops for the evident purpose
of making that influence paramount,
and the general spirit of insurrection
in the central provinces of Italy, na-
turally turn the eyes of politicians on
the Popedom.

It is now loudly pronounced, that
the temporal dominion of the Papacy
is on the eve of perishing, — that her
financial weakness, her territorial
exposure, and her popular discontent,
render recovery impossible, — and
that the European world, so long
agitated with fears of the predomi-
nance of Popery, may now abandon
those fears, as it abandoned the fear
of ghosts and the laws against witch-
craft.

We doubt the truth of the predic-
tion. The most memorable features
of the Popedom are its independence
of the ways of human power. It
arose in defiance of all human pro-
babilities,— it acquired dominion in
equal defiance of the ordinary means
of empire, — it was sustained in the
midst of the clash and convulsion of
the great military powers of the
centre and south of Europe; and,
debilitated as it may be by time, and
bearing in its frame many an unhealed
wound from the sword of the French-
man and the Austrian, we look for
its fall from no systematic aggression
of imperial cupidity, or insurrection-
ary violence. Fall it will : but not
to aggrandize Austria, nor to lay a
foundation with its ruins for the
throne of a Republican dictator. It
owes a higher lesson to the world.
It will sink in no squabble of spe-
culating cabinets or plunderingmobs;
its fate is reserved for a time when all
-may tremble alike, and when the
throne of Austria, proud as it is, and
firm as it seems, may be shivered
into fragments by the same blow.

The rise of the Popedom was in
defiance of all human probabilities.
It was utterly improbable that a
Christian priest, the disciple of Him
who declared that his kingdom was
not of this world, should be a king
of this world, or should be more— a

King of the" kings 'of this world ;
that the priest, whose master had
commanded the most utter self-de-
nial, abjuration, and restraint of every
impulse of domination over the flock
of Christianity, should have aspired
to the most absolute power ever in-
vested in the hands of man ; that a
priest, commanded to use the most
perfect simplicity and singleness of
heart among men, to abjure all vio-
lence, and to be all things to all men,
"that he might save some," should
place himself at the head of a so-
vereignty, the most memorable for
intrigue of any in the annals of state
stratagem, the most merciless in re-
venging dissent from its opinions,
and the most fiercely contemptuous
of the feelings, opinions, and happi-
ness of mankind.

The Popedom rose on the division
of the Roman Empire under Con-
stantine. The absence of the Empe-
ror in his Eastern capital left no rival
to the influence of the Bishop of the
Western. Sanctity first, superstition
next, and finally the fears of Romau
turbulence and barbarian invasion,
gave the Bishop of Rome a high au-
thority in the eyes of the Eastern
Emperors. It was found essential to
the safety of this deserted portion of
the Empire, to conciliate the zeal of
the monk who ruled the Roman po-
pulace. The fall of the Western Em-
pire, in the year 476, made it still
more important to conciliate the man,
who, in all the shocks of war and
spoil, still held his station ; for on his
influence depended the single hope
of reconquering Italy from the hands
of the barbarians. Every change of
power threw some additional share
of supremacy into the Papal hands.
A quarrel for precedency with the
Bishop of Constantinople, elevated
without fixing his rank. The coun-
cil of Chalcedon declared the Patri-
archate of the five Bishops of Rome,
Constantinople, Alexandria, Antioch,
and Pal estine. The deci sion pleased
no one ; it was looked upon by the
Eastern Bishop as an injustice, and by
the Western Bishop as an insult. Both
prepared for furious hostility,andboth
long maintained that hostility with
the bitterness of human passions.
But the time was approaching when.

The Papal Government.

536

the Popedom was to rule the Chris-
tian world without a rival.

The great feud of Nestorianism
had broken out in Constantinople
early in the reign of Justinian. The
Emperor had the weakness to con-
ceive himself a theologian, and the
still greater weakness to imagine that
his authority could reconcile the
schisms of monks. Among the first
corruptions of Christianity in the
Greek Church had been a propensity
to deify the Virgin Mary. She was
pronounced the Mother of God. This
profanation roused the scorn of Nes-
torius, a Syrian Bishop, distinguished
for his acquirements and virtues. He
protested against the extraordinary
supposition that God could either be
born or die ; and, fully allowing that
the human nature of Christ was born
of the Virgin Mary, reprobated the
superstition of calling a mortal the
mother of the Supreme. Butargument
was not the resource of the monks of
Constantinople ; pampered by the ha-
bits of a luxurious capital, blinded
by their ignorance of the Scriptures
which they neglected, and eager to
make up by their zeal in the cause of
the Virgin for their lapses in the
cause of truth, morals, and religion,
they attacked the holders of the Nes-
torian doctrines with all the weapons
of public persecution. Nestorianism,
however, was not to be trampled with
impunity; disturbances arose in Con-
stantinople and the provinces, and
finally the Nestorians, placed under
the imperial anathema, and justly
declining a tribunal which had thus
already declared its prejudices, ap-
pealed to the Bishop of Rome. The
disturbances of his capital had alarm-
ed Justinian ; the commencement
of the Vandal war made him tremble,
to see religious discontent added to
public difficulty ; and, for the double
purpose of quieting the popular mind
and conciliating the virtual master of
Italy, he sent a deputation to the Ro-
man Bishop, leaving the decision of
the controversy to his will.

But the imperial fame as a con-
troversialist was embarked in the
question ; and this fame was dear to
his bewildered and artificial mind.
To obtain a favourable judgment, he
knew no more direct way than by

[March,

corrupting the judge ; and at once to
give weight to the decision, and to
secure that decision in his own fa-
vour, he declared the Bishop of
Rome " .Head o/ ALL THE CHURCHES."
There can be no doubt of the his-
toric truth of this memorable and
fatal gift. It is recorded in all the
histories of the era, — it is embodied
in the imperial edicts, — and it forms
repeatedly a portion of the laws of
the empire. The supreme dignity
was distinctly assigned to him — not
merely the leading rank of the Orien-
tal Church, but of " all the churches,
east and west." This memorable
concession was made in A.D. 533.
The Emperor further and ominously
designated the objects of Papal su-
premacy; he declared the Pope the
Corrector of all heretical opinions.
This formidable title remained un-
disturbed during the life of Justinian;
but at the close of the sixth century,
it was disputed by the Bishop of
Constantinople, and claimed by him.
The Roman Bishop denounced the
usurpation, and, in his wrath, ob-
viously forgetting Justinian's gift,
pronounced that " whosoever assu-
med supremacy over the universal
Church was Antichrist;" — an uncon-
scious prophecy, like the prophecy
of the Jewish High Priest, " that one
must die for the people," involving
himself in the acknowledgment of
the public crime. But the natural
spirit of Rome was to be quickly dis-
played in the full and unhesitating
assumption of this supremacy.

Phocas, an obscure and profligate
adventurer, made himself master of
the throne by the murder of the Em-
peror Mauritius. The disgustand hor-
ror of the people alarmed him for
his guilty prize; and the authority
of the Bishop of Rome was solicited
to give a sacred sanction to his title.
The usurper received the benedic-
tion of Rome, and the Bishop recei-
ved in return a confirmation of his
long-disputed supremacy. Phocas
sternly repressed the rival claim of
the Bishop of Constantinople ; and,
in the year GOG, Boniface the Third
was declared Head of all the
Churches, as his predecessor John
had been.* He was now " Universal
Bishop" of Christendom .t

* Baronii Annales. B. 7.

f Anastat, Hist. Eccles.

1832.]

The Papal Government.

$37

The eighth century was the era of
the temporal power of Rome. The
spiritual supremacy had been revi-
ved by an alliance with treason and
usurpation. The temporal sove-
reignty was now to be created by
an alliance with treason and usurpa-
tion. Pepin had seized the throne of
Childeric, King of France. Like
Phocas, he felt himself insecure, and
he demanded the Papal benediction.
Pope Zachary pronounced the depo-
sition of the unfortunate king, and
crowned the usurper by the hands of
his missionary Boniface. The Lom-
bard invasion gave Pepin a sudden
opportunity of displaying his sense
of the obligation. He broke the
power of the Lombards in battle,
and gave to the Pope in full sove-
reignty the spoils of the Lombard
kingdom, the territories of Ravenna,
Bologna, and Ferrara, with the Pen-
tapolis. The Lombards made a last
attempt, and were finally ruined
by Charlemagne, who marched to
Rome, was received in triumph by
Pope Adrian, and was crowned as the
successor of the Roman Emperors,
the new master of the world.

This service had its reward. The
Emperor, in the exultation of the
moment, made over to the Popedom
the whole sovereignty of the fallen
Exarchate. But the ambition of the
Holy See had now learned to look
to higher objects. A decree was
produced from the Romish archives,
which was declared to be by com-
mand of the first Constantine, and
which assigned to the Popedom the
sovereignty of Rome, Italy, and the
West. The instrument was a for-
gery ; its falsehood is now notorious
to all historians. But those were not
the times of investigation. Such
learning as had survived the furious
shocks of the Gothic and Greek
wars, was limited to the Romish
priesthood. The Pope asserted his
right derived from the first Christian
Emperor, and from that hour he pro-
ceeded to establish and enforce it by
the sword and the torch in every re-
gion of the civilized world.

The Papal power was the power
of opinion acting on the singular ig-
norance of mankind, in a period when
military violence had alternated
with superstition, first to break
down the freedom of nations, and
then to enslave their minds. The

VOL. XXXI, NO, CXCII.

actual territory has, at all times,
been small ; and one of the most un-
accountable circumstances in the
history of this pre-eminently ambi-
tious and intriguing government,
which, for many an age influenced
every revolution of Italy, and which
openly arrogated dominion over the
princes of the earth, is, that its pro-
vinces have scarcely received any
addition since the donative of Charle-
magne. They are still confined to
the Three Legations, which the Aus-
trians now seem on the point of pro-
tecting for his Holiness, St Peter's
patrimony, Umbria, Spoleto, Peru-
zia, and some other unimportant dis-
tricts. But their position is promi-
sing. They stretch across the Penin-
sula, and have ports on the two seas.
They ought to have long since shared
in the commerce engrossed by the
Venetians, their neighbours on the
north, and the Tuscans, their bor-
derers on the west. The climate is
fine, the soil fertile, the popular
mind subtle, susceptible, and ingeni-
ous. But, by some problem in the
Papal government, all the ad vantages
of nature seem to have been thrown
away in every age. The aspect of
the country strikes the traveller at
once, as afflicted by the double evils
of tyranny and ignorance. The land
lies in sterility, the climate is poison-
ed by neglected marshes, and the
people are proverbially among the
most beggared, discontented, and
disheartened population of Italy.

But the prodigious power which
this government has exercised upon
Europe, and the power which it is
still capable of exercising, and which
it will inevitably exercise in the first
public crisis of opinion in Europe,
make the details of the Papal govern-
ment one of the most curious studies
in political science. The whole sys-
tem is marked by strong contradic-
tions. One .of the weakest of Euro-
pean States in point of territory, it
exhibits an extraordinary influence
over some of the most important
portions of the Continent. One of the
poorest in point of revenue, and with
a population almost totally destitute
of trade and manufactures, a people
of monks and mendicants, no trea-
sury of Europe steers so clear of
bankruptcy. One of the most des-
potic of all governments, in fact, a
government almost wholly depeu-
2M

£38

The Papal Government.

[March,

dent on the will of an individual,
there are few where the people have
so much a will of their own, or, at
least, are so little questionable by
authority for any of their follies.
One of the most discretionary govern-
ments on record, ruled by men of the
cloister, or by Cardinals, who lead
the coxcombry of the capital, and
with a decrepit old priest at their
head, generally chosen expressly for
his decrepitude, Rome has contrived
to wind her way with sufficient secu-
rity through the difficulties of a thou-
sand years ; and though undoubtedly
undergoing a formidable share of the
common calamities of Italy, for she
has been repeatedly sacked, been
claimed by rival Popes, and deeply
smitten by the furious feuds of the
Italian Barons, yet, in the midst of
change, has contrived to preserve
her dominions, scarcely altered,
since the day of their original dona-
tion.

The Papal government, or what
may be entitled the cabinet and the
ministerial officers, is wholly consti-
tuted of prelates. But those pre-
lates are not all priests. The greater
part are laymen, though they wear
the prelatical habit and the tonsure.
They are numerous too, generally
not less than three hundred. From
those prelates the Popes choose the
Cardinals; some of whom are, by
custom, entitled to their rank, from
having, as prelates, served peculiar
public offices. Those are all persons
of considerable trust, and their pla-
ces are termed pasti cardinalizie, as
being, in fact, preparatory to the
red hat. They are the offices of go-
vernor of Rome, treasurer, major
domo, secretary of the consulta, au-
ditor of the chamber, and president
of Urbino, with some others of infe-
rior activity.

Those prelates form a species of
Roman peerage. Their origin dates
as old as the Crusades. On the con-
quest of Palestine, the Papal govern-
ment amply reinforced the ecclesi-
astical part of the invasion. A crowd
of priests, decorated with the titles of
the primitive bishops, were sent out
to take possession, of the sees con-
quered by the swords of the God-
freys and Tancreds. The camp over-
flowed with Bishops of Ephesus, An-
tioch, Ca^sarea, &c. ; but the Saracen
lauces and arrows scon, forbade the

residence of those saints of the
west, and year by year their dioceses
were curtailed, until the whole tribe
were thrown back upon the hands of
their original fabricator. Palestine
was left to darkness and Saladin,
while Rome was fearfully over-
stocked with claimants and complain-
ants, whom she had looked on as
handsomely provided for at least in
this world. Many of those returned
bishops were connected with power-
ful Italian families ; and as connexion
is a natural element of promotion
even in the unworldly Church of
Rome, the Popes were involved in
the dilemma of giving them either
places or pensions. The places were
decided on, and the Italians saw with
some surprise those pious pilgrims
and grave confessors embarked in
all kinds of secular employments.
But in Italy all indignation is dis-
creet; the layman is a proverbial
idler ; the Pope is God's vicegerent ;
and Infallibility and the Inquisition
settle every thing between them.
The bishops are still consecrated for
dioceses in partibus infidelium, wear
imaginary mitres, and have the spiri-
tual watching of provinces in which
they dare not set a foot, and govern
their grim population of Turks and
Arabs at a distance, which amply
provides for safety in life and limb.
The time is confidently expected,
when they shall find the Mussul-
mans strewing the ground before
their triumphant return ; but in the
mean time they draw their incomes
out of the Roman purse, and are dis-
patched to serve the State as nun-
cios, and all the various public and
private diplomacy of the Popedom.
But there are classes and ranks
even in this prelacy. And added to
episcopate in partibus infidelium,are
many prelati whose title depends on
their being unmarried, and being
able to deposit in the Papal stock a
sum whose interest is not less than
twelve hundred crowns (about
L.280 a-year), or who can make an
estate chargeable with this stipend.
Others are appointed by the simple
dictum of the Pope, without the secu-
rity, to which, however, he generally
gives some equivalent, in the salary
of a place. Others are made prelates
in consequence of having a prelacy
left as a rent charge upon the family
estate, as a provision for younger

1832.] The Papal

brothers. The stipend is to be paid
out of the general income, and the
chosen individual is tonsured, frock-
ed, and pensioned accordingly.

There are three Cardinal Legates,
or viceroys, over the provinces, who
are generally chosen from the more
mature and the better-educated of the
prelates ; but the majority are satis-
fied with as little learning as will car-
ry them through the mere routine of
their offices ; a tolerably fluent use of
Latin of a very low temperature, and
a little civil law, are enough for pub-
lic honours ; and if the price is thus
easy, who can wonder at their taking
no further trouble on the subject?
From such men as ministers and ma-
gistrates, he must be sanguine who
should expect any wonders in poli-
tics or legislation. But, to prevent
palpable blunders, they are assisted
in the courts of law by assessors,
who are generally advocates by pro-
fession, and who, if they ,know no-
thing else, are acquainted with the
forms of proceeding. Yet from time
to time a man starts up who, in spite
of every fault of national habit and
personal neglect, exhibits ability.
The late Cardinal Gonsalvi was one
of those. He was intelligent for a
monk, manly for a Roman, and learn-
ed for a priest. As a Cardinal and
Minister he was a miracle. All was
not much. But he transacted the
public business with diligence, co-
erced the fashionable openness of
robbery, tried to coerce the gaming-
tables, but they were too fashionable
for his powers; was civil to strangers,
and had the good sense to feel that
the English were better worth civili-
ty than all Europeans besides j lived
without nephews, and died without
filching fortunes for them from the
public purse.

In all governments, finance is one
of the most essential points, and
among the phenomena of the Pope-
dom has always been reckoned its
being always comparatively rich. The
secret, however, chiefly lay in the
large sums which it gathered from all
Popish Christendom. Previously to
the Reformation, it is notorious that
Rome raised a revenue out of every
community of Europe, out of every
province and parish, and out of the
income of every bishop and priest, as
it is that the remorselessness of her
extortion furnished one of the prin-

Government.

539

cipal weapons against her suprema-
cy. Europe, in the 16th century,
was governed by a nest of tyrants,
and the lay extortioner grew jealous
of the priestly peculator. The po-
pulace, fleeced by both alike, hated
both with the same inveteracy ; but
the first thing to be overthrown was
the Papal plunderer j and for this the
assistance of the princely plunderer
was called on, used, and successful.
Luther's vigour, sincerity, and truth,
did much ; but without the princes
of Germany the cause must have
gone to the bottom. Yet, even so
late as a few years before the French
Revolution, the Papal receipts from
foreign countries amounted to not
less than two millions and a half of
Roman crowns (L.566,000 sterling.)
The list, from the office of the Ro-
man datary, is curious, as somewhat
ascertaining the influence of the Pa-
pacy surviving in the various conti-
nental dominions, even on the verge
of its overthrow. Spain stands at
the head of this pious munificence.

Roman Crowns.

Spain and her colonies, 640,845
Germany and the Nether-
lands, .... 486,811
France, . . „ 357,138
Poland, . . . 180,745
Portugal and her colonies, 260, 100
The two Sicilies, . 136,170
The rest of Italy (exclusive
ofthePopedom,) . 107,067
Switzerland, . , 87,034
The North, , . 87,033
The Sardinian dominions, 60,712
Tuscany, . . » 8,052

2,406,702

We thus see Spain and Portugal con-
tributing nearly one-half of the whole,
and the surviving Popery of the land
of the Reformation contributing near-
ly half a million, — a singular instance
of the tardiness with which the most
obvious truth makes its way, and of
the extraordinary tenacity with which
superstition grasps whatever can
conduce to its profit or its power. A
large portion of this money, how-
ever, went into the hands of the Pa-
pal agents, or spedizioneri, the mana-
gers of all the foreign business of
the Popedom. Yet, though it did
not pass directly into the treasury, it
undoubtedly filled up the chasm
which their salaries must have other-
wise made in the general revenue.

540 The Papal

The revenue arising from the Pa-
pal territory, or, " Income of the
Apostolical Chamber," about the
same period, was full three millions
two hundred thousandRoman crowns
(L.744,186 sterling), arising from the
various heads of

The farming of the lands belong-
ing to the Chamber.

The farming of taxes paid by the
parishes to the state.

The farming of the duties on wines
and brandies.

The tax upon all butcher's meat
consumed in Rome.

The tax upon all the wheat con-
sumed in Rome.

The duties on all foreign goods
imported.

The lottery.

One duty more is levied on a class
of persons, whom we should scarcely
expect to find among the ways and
means of an ecclesiastical state. But
the easy policy of the government,
taking it for granted that license
will exist under all circumstances,
has evidently thought that it may as
well make a profit of it, and thus
those stray members of the com-
monwealth contribute to* the reple-
tion of the priestly pocket.

The lottery had been so long an
expedient of our own finance, that
we can scarcely exclaim against the
foreign governments by which it is
still suffered to exist. But our lot-
tery, for many/years before its ex-
tinction, was so cleansed of its evils
as to be comparatively harmless, and
even in its worst of times held no
comparison with the sweeping al-
lurement and perpetual gaming of
the Roman one. In Rome the lot-
tery is drawn nine times a-year, and,
as there is a lottery going on in Na-
ples, in the intervals of the Roman
drawing, in which, too, the Roman
populace dabble as regularly as in
their own, they, in fact, have eighteen
.drawings in the twelve months. And,
to level the mischief to all ranks,
they can play for about a halfpenny.
The temptation, too, is of the exact
order to inflame the cupidity of the
rabble. A ticket worth three baioes
may win a terno, or sequence, worth
>one hundred and eighty crowns.
This would be a grand affair to the
gamesters of the streets. But the
Chances against the terno are no less
than 117,479 to one.
Or* those conditions, jt may be

Government. [March,

presumed, that the instances of ma-
king a fortune by the lottery are not
many. But the temptation is strong
enough to ruin one half of the popu-
lace by the loss of money, and the
other half by the loss of time. Days
and nights are spent in calculating
lucky numbers, consulting a sort
of lottery astrologers, who predict
numbers that are warranted to win,
and counting over their gains in fu-
turo.

The Roman funding system is as
curious as any other part of this
most curious of all governments. It
has preceded us in all the discover-
ies on which our financiers pride
themselves; a sinking fund — bank
bills to half-a-dozen times the amount
of the capital — a national debt regu-
larly increasing, and without the
smallest hope of ever being dimi-
nished — and pawnbroking on the
grandest scale possible. There is
nothing new under the sun.

The Roman national debt is as old
as the sixteenth century, the me-
morable period when the star of
the Queen City first began to wane ;
and, like all other national debts, it
took its rise in war. Charles V., a
thorough politician, or, in other
words, a thorough hypocrite, was
the champion of the Popedom, for
the purpose of availing himself of
the Papal influence in securing the
fidelity of dominions that already
felt themselves too large for a ty-
rant, and too enlightened for a per-
secutor. But if the battle was
fought in Germany, it was to be paid
for in Rome ; and Clement VII.
soon found, that to have Emperors
for his champions was to the full as
costly as it might be glorious. The
Papal ducats were sent flying about
the world, slaying the twin heretics,
Turks and Protestants. But the trea-
sury was sinking even in this ple-
thora of triumph, and Pope Clement
was at once in sight of universal do-
minion, and in the jaws of bank-
ruptcy. In this crisis the Italian
genius awoke. An invention untried
or unthought of by all the struggling
monarchs of the last three thousand
years, was engendered in the bril-
liant brain of an Italian chairman of
the committee of ways and means.
It was proposed that every man who
put into the treasury one hundred
crowns, should receive an interest
of ten per cent. The idea was in-

1832.]

The Papal Government.

£41

comparably congenial to Italian life ;
in a country where the infinite' ma-
jority— whether through fear, indo-
lence, or avarice, keep their money
in specie. The prospect of an out-
let for this cumbrous deposit, where
the outlet was safe, and the inlet
sure, where the income was grow-
ing, and the possessor had no trouble
in its growth — was the most popu-
lar invention imaginable. Clement
raised the money. His successors
found the simplicity of the expedi-
ent admirably adapted to their tastes,
and they continued to raise the mo-
ney, and swell the debt, until Sixtus
V., a man of vigour, who ought to
have lived in later times, gave the
last finish to the system, by raising a
loan of ten millions of crowns at
once — a prodigious sum in those
times, and hoarding enough of it to
have bought the whole baronage of
Rome.

But the interest must be paid, and
unless he were inclined to bring the
forebodings of the people upon his
head, there must be some prospect
offered of defraying the principal at
some time or other in the course of
futurity. Sixtus had found his go-
vernment thronged with sinecurists.
A duller financier would have at-
tempted to relieve the state by
extinguishing the sinecures. But
Italian subtilty saw further into
things. He put all the sinecures up
to sale. They were all for life —
were named Vacabili from their na-
ture, and brought in a quiet income
of about eight per cent for their pur-
chase money. It was in fact but
another mode of borrowing money
by annuity at eight per cent. Thus
we find all our modern expedients
anticipated. The practical inconve-
nience of having so many placemen
with nothing to do, the contempt
thrown upon all efficient govern-
ment offices by their connexion with
this swarm of idlers, and the gene-
ral degradation of public honours
by this traffic and sale, were matters
of no consideration to the thorough
love of money, and passion for power,
that made the character of Sixtus.

The proceeds of the Vacabili had
been nominally intended to form a
sinking fund. But Sixtus found bet-
ter employment for the money in
intriguing through all the European
-courts with one part, and building
churches and palaces with the other.

He was a bold, proud, and arrogant
priest. But the Italians had no right
to exclaim at his vices ; for he was
Italian to the heart's core ; and the
Romans had some reason to thank
him for his furor of embellishment;
he would have built a new Rome if
he had found the valley of the Tiber
naked ; he found it full of ruins, and
he spent his energies in patching
what he would have taken delight
in creating.

The history of all national debts
is the same ; if we except that of
President Jackson's empire, where,
however, the experiment is too green,
the country too unfinished, and the
precariousness of public power in
cabinets and councils too annual, to
suffer the natural course of things.
But America will yet have her na-
tional debt in full vigour, like her
more civilized ancestors. The Ro-
man treasury never put a ducat in
progress to pay off its debt. The
money of the Vacabili went in feasts
and fasts, in the erection of a new
opera house, or the hire of a new
ballerina, or dresses de chant, or in the
pensions of a whole host of nephews
and nieces, who suddenly came to
light upon the announcement that
their uncle was elected by the Car-
dinals to carry the keys of St Peter,
and for whom the venerable head of
the state felt all the emotions of pa-
ternity. The legacy of public debt
which Sixtus bequeathed for the
perplexity of future generations, to
the amount of twenty millions of
crowns, gradually mounted to thirty,
forty, till at the close of the last cen-
tury it was fifty, or a little short of
twelve millions of pounds sterling.
" And what are twelve millions
sterling?" will the English man of
clubs and coffeehouses say, as he runs
down the tremendous columns of our
Easter budget. Yet even our angry
politician should remember, that
what is but twelve millions in Eng-
land, would be at any period four
times the value in Italy; and that,
from the universal rise of expenses,
public and private, in every country,
forty-eight millions, forty years ago,
would go as far as twice the number
now. On this fair calculation, the
Papal debt, at the close of the eight-
eenth century, would be better re-
presented by a hundred millions of
pounds sterling. 'Tis true, that this
still dwindles beside our eight hun-

The Papal Government.

[March,

dred millions— that it is but a mole-
hill beside our mountain. But we
must recollect, too, the difference in
the grounds of the two accumula-
tions; the pressure of the whole
defence of Europe on England, the
indefatigable labour, the impregnable
resistance, the unequalled triumph;
that we had to support the credit
of every failing exchequer, from the
Pole to the Line ; that we had to re-
cruit every rising army, and refit
every beaten one; to fight for one
king in his last ditch, and to carry
another to his last colony ; to teach
the Russians to stand fire, and to
help the Grand Turk to pay for his
gunpowder ; that we were the sol-
diers and sailors of every shore and
sea, the bottleholders or the cham-
pions of every battle ; that we were
the suppliers of Portugal with port,
of Spain with corn, of Italy with
macaroni, and of Turkey with opium;
that we were the bakers, the brewers,
and the bankers of mankind, busy
with the paupers and patriots of the
earth, from Lima to Labrador, and
from Labrador round the world to
Loo Choo ; England the fighter, the
footman, the factotum of the univer-
sal family of man.

What was this stirring life to the
gilded sofas and lazy purple of Rome,
feeding onbeccaficoes, and cooling its
fingers in vases of rose water, pining
over a picture, or panting after a
canzone ? The nation boutiquiere
has been in the right after all, in spite
of the whole legion of Cardinal! and
Prelati. Foreigners let their money
slip through their fingers. England
may throw it away. But she has
something to remember for it. She
lias name, and fame, and activity, and
health for it. All may be paupers
alike, and this is the natural conclu-
sion of all. But let us be contented
with our fate. Nations are not like
men; no nation ever dies rich. But
let Italy, Germany, and France die
like broken up spendthrifts, wrapped
in the remnants of their finery, in the
workhouse. Let England die, if die
she must, like her own soldiers and
sailors, without a shilling, and not
caring a straw about the matter; die
in action, high and hot-blooded to the
last, and finished by a blow worthy
to end the life of the bold !

This oratio honorifica to the praise
of the " Tellus alma virorum," has

drawn us away from the history of
Papal finance. In what proportion
the glass runs down within the last
few years, is difficult to say, in a
country where there are no commit-
tees of supply open to the world, no
chancellors of the exchequer to make
a hebdomadal discovery of the na-
tional bankruptcy, and no Humes
and Burdetts to threaten them with
the scaffold for the deficit of a far-
thing. But we may follow the in-
stinct of nature, and pledge ourselves
that French visits and Papal restora-
tions, insurrections once a month,
and Austrian marches to put them
down, have not reinforced the ener-
gies of the Papal purse since, and that
the Luoghi di Monte, the national
debt, is swelling as rapidly as ever.
Forty years ago, the interest, even at
three per cent, had reduced the go-
vernment income to a little more
than a million and a half of crowns,
(about L.395,000 sterling.)

Braschi, Pius VI., a graceful and
accomplished man, very ill used by
his enemies the French, and not much
better used by his friends the Aus-
trians, added his own extravagance
to the debt. He was by nature a pro-
jector, and, if he had been without a
shilling of other men's money, would
probably have made a fortune. But
as Pope, he was more naturally amu-
sed in wasting a treasury. Every
government has always some pro-
blem in petto, some peculiar hobby
on which it rides, till poverty forces
it to dismount. The Roman hobby
has been for a thousand years the
draining of the Pontine Marshes.
Braschi's riding this hobby cost
the people nearly half a million of
English pounds, the loss of lives to
a considerable amount, and gained
nothing in return but an obvious in-
crease of the miasmata. The conclu-
sion seems to be, that the pestilence
holds its ground by right of nature,
and that neither Pope nor Cardinal
will ever eject it. We shall not come
to this conclusion, until we see the
question fairly tried by an English
engineer, with English money, Eng-
lish workmen, and an army of steam
engines. But the impression produ-
ced by so many centuries of failure
is, that the Pontine Marshes are ir-
reclaimable. They lie too low for
drainage, and the utmost that can be
done is to make the soil solid enough

1832.]

for the pasturage of cattle, of which
it rears great numbers for the mar-
kets of Rome. But this does not
extinguish the miasmata. The air
which, singularly enough, seems to
have no effect on cattle, is the very
breath of mortality to man ; ague and
consumption hover over the ground
for ever, and the guards, herdsmen,
and few inhabitants, are all but volun-
teers for the grave.

The history of a district that so
stubbornly defies the skill of man,
has had so long and close a connec-
tion with the mother city of Europe,
might make a very ingenious book.
One effectual and easy cure for the
pestilence that perpetually breeds in
this soil, would be to overflow the
marshes at once, which their level
would allow in all directions; but
the value of the pasture acts too for-
cibly on Roman avarice for a mea-
sure which would restore health to
an immense extent of territory, and
probably save Rome itself from the
incursions of the malaria, gradually
spreading over every quarter of the
capital.

Another exploit of Braschi's love
for throwing down and building up,
marked the temper of the age. He
marched a troop of bricklayers and
masons against the old temple of
Venus, standing by St Peter's, a work
so strongly bearing the marks of
ancient genius, that it had earned
the panegyric of Michael Angelo.
There was doubtless some barbarism
in pulling this down to make way for
a new Sacristy to St Peter's. But it
was a barbarism which, the year be-
fore, would not have excited a mur-
mur— a century before would have
been panegyrized, and in the true
ages of Romish supremacy would
have entitled the overthrower to can-
onization. ButBraschi had fallen " on
evil days and evil times." The French
philosophes had been lecturing the
Romans, without much conscious-
ness of their having so classic a pu-
pillage ; piety was no longer to be
found in building sacristies, nor was
Venus thought to be altogether so
disresputable a rival to the St Ur-
sulas and St Bridgets of the most
amusing and apocryphal of all calen-
dars. The whole wit of the rising
generation was poured upon the un-
fortunate Pope's head. Pun and
pasquinade haunted his pillow, flew

The Papal Government.

543

in his face in the streets, glared from
the very walls of his study, and scat-
tered thorns on the embroidered
cushions of his salle de reception.
He was an undone builder ; and the
popular indignation might be taken
as an omen of the march of Na-
poleon, which finally stripped him
of his pictures, his purse, his Pope-
dom,his personal liberty, and loaded
him with all the other alliterative
evils that could weigh down the
tiara of the handsomest and most
luckless of priests and potentates.
He had, for his own misfortune and
the laughter of Rome, inscribed over
the entrance of his sacristy the fol-
lowing characters :—

" Quod ad Templi Vatican! ornamentum

Publica vota flagitabant,

Pius VI. Pont : Max: fecit, perfecitque."

Among a thousand poetic insults,
an angry neophyte of the republic
thus posted up his opinion under
the inscription :—

" Publica ! Mentiris. Non publica vota

fuere,
Sed tumidi ingenii vota fuere tui."

The general Papal administration
is as curious as its finance. All the
provinces have a species of viceroys,
vested with authority to judge in all
cases except capital ones. But the
three important provinces of Bolog-
na, Ferrara, and Romagna (or Raven-
na), called the Three Legations, from
their being governed by Legates a la-
tere, Cardinals delegated by the Pope
every three years, imply powers in
their governors little inferior to those
of the Pope himself. Next to those
is the President of Urbino, a prelate
governor, whose appointment differs
from that of the governors of the
Legations in being " during plea-
sure." Over all the cities, also, there
are governors, prelates, correspond-
ing to our magistrates of the higher
order. Over the towns that are not
honoured with the name of cities are
governors by brief, as being appoint-
ed by the Pope's brief; and over
the villages are commissaries, ap-
pointed by patent of the Secretary
of State. The two latter classes form
almost the only exception to the
monopoly of office by the priesthood.
They are not required to be priests,
and they may even be married men.
They must be doctors of law, but

The Papal Government.

544

this is not a very cumbrous acquire-
ment. Rome sells the diploma as
she sells every thing. The honour
in this case is cheap ; it is sold for
about three guineas.

But the great machine of the state
is the Sagra Consulta, nearly equi-
valent to our Privy Council and
Court of King's Bench combined.
It is a tribunal exercising a judicial
authority over the whole state, ex-
cepting the city of Rome itself, which
is under local governors. This body
consists of a Cardinal Secretary
of State, who acts as president, a
prelate as secretary, and eight pre-
Jates called ponenti, who have all
equal voices in the decision. The
whole state is divided into eight dis-
tricts, for each of which one of those
prelates is the ponente, agent, or
general functionary. Their cogni-
zance is formidable, though solely
over criminal cases. The governor
of the city where a crime is com-
mitted, makes his report to the po-
nente of the district, who examines
the matter, and makes his report to
the body; who again, by a plurality
of votes, decide on the sentence,
The secretary then reports to the
Pope, who signifies his decision by
an order, which returns to the body
to be signed by the president and
secretary.

This shews like deliberation, but
its effects are equivalent to the most
cruel tyranny. The first step in
every instance is to throw the ac-
cused into prison ; and of all loath-
some places an Italian prison is the
most loathsome. There, squalid,
starving, stript of his property, and
wearing away health, intelligence,
and life, the wretched prisoner must
wait for the deliberations of the
Sagra Consulta, deliberations which
linger through years.

The process of the trial is a fac-
simile of the memorable system of
the Inquisition. All is secrecy. The
prisoner is never suffered to confront
the accuser. The depositions of the
witnesses are all taken down in pri-
vate by a notary; the witnesses
themselves are not suffered to read
over their own depositions. The
witnesses for, or against, are never
confronted with the accused ; he is
never suffered even to know who
they are. When the depositions are
complete, the accused is brought up

[March,

to be examined by the same notary
and one of the inferior judges ; in
other words, brought up to be urged
to criminate himself. If the case be
one which might involve a sentence
of death, the accused who pleaded
not guilty, or refused to make him-
self a criminal, was put to the tor-
ture. But this most inhuman pro-
cess has been disused. However,
the dungeon, the bread and water,
and the utter uncertainty of trial, are
still torture enough, if the unfortu-
nate man had never felt a thumb-
screw, nor had a spine dislocated by
the rack. The absurdity of using
torture as an instrument of truth,
could not be more clearly evidenced
than by the Roman practice. If the
most innocent man gave way under
his agony, he was pronounced guilty.
If the most guilty had the hardihood
of nerve to refuse all confession un-
der the torture, he was, after a few
experiments on the toughness of his
sinews, pronounced innocent, and
incapable of being pronounced guilty,
let the proofs be however powerful.
Thus all was in favour of ruffianism.
The hardy constitution of the rob-
ber and highway assassin, was his
defence j while the feebler frame of
the honest citizen, or the man of
study and seclusion, was an evidence
of crime, and betrayed him to ruin.
It forms a striking feature in all
foreign tribunals that their prejudice
is against the accused, and this espe-
cially in countries where espionage
is a common expedient of all classes,
where conscience is solved by six-
pence and a confessional, and where
accusation is notoriously made on
the slightest and the most nefarious
grounds. While, among us, though
accusation is rare, and therefore to
be presumed, not made but on valid
grounds, the prejudice is wholly in
favour of the accused. In the foreign
tribunal, the onus lies on the accu-
sed ; in the English on the accuser.
In the one the business of the judge
is, not to shew that the accused has
justice, but that he cannot escape.
This purpose is evidently less to se-
cure the ends of truth, than to vin-
dicate the strictness of the laws ;
the accuser is the favourite of the
court, the accused is the victim. The
judge performs, the lawyer examines
and cross-examines, browbeats and
terrifies ; the accused, probably in-

1832.]

nocent, is confounded, silenced, beat-
en down, but the judge gains the
honours of a successful minister by
this verbal torture; the accused is
hanged, and the tribunal triumphs in
the proof that it has cleverness
enough to hang. Even in France, the
majesty of justice, which consists in
its fairness, is perpetually insulted
by this passion for conviction. The
judge with us is counsel for the de-
fendant, if he has no other. The
judge in France is counsel for the
plaintiff, if he had a thousand others.
Well may England rejoice in her lot ;
and manly and vigorous may be her
efforts to retain the Constitution
which has made her the depositary of
all the best principles of law, free-
dom, and religion.

There are but few executions in
Rome, for there, as in all other places,
the chief crimes are committedamong
the rabble ; and they seldom wait for
the tardier process of the law. Where
a culprit may be shut up in his dun-
geon for half-a-dozen years from the
time of his sentence till its execu-
tion, rabble vengeance is not much
disposed to trust to the tribunals.
The knife is a speedier mode of set-
tling their injuries. Stab is given
for stab. The oppressor, the betray-
er, or the robber, is run through the
midriff with a stiletto. The matter
is settled, and justice troubles her-
self no more upon the subject.

A remarkable exception is made in
the case of priests and women. Capi-
tal punishment cannot touch them.
The priest, let him be thief, seducer,
conspirator, or assassin, is never to
exhibit on a scaffold. He goes, at the
worst, only into perpetual confine-
ment in the House of Correction —
the Ergastolo. There he has nothing
to do, and does nothing. He wza^read
his breviary, and he must hear mass
once a day ; there end his troubles.
He is fed by the Pope, until bis be-
nefactor grows weary of feeding
* him; as he becomes burdensome, he
becomes virtuous ; his days in this
Roman purgatory now rapidly short-
ten; at last he is discovered to be
clean once more. The padre Cherico
vouches for his saintship, and he is
let loose upon mankind again. If he
dies in confinement, he is still better
off. He is absolved, anointed, wrap-
ped " in the weeds of Dominic," and
sent direct to heaven.

The Papal Government.

£45

The women, too, are sent into con-
finement, but with this difference,
that they have something to do.
Many a fair hand of the Roman don-
zelle is at this hour picking hemp,
spinning wool, and making horse-
cloths. In their casa, to which the
archangel Michael gives his name,
they conquer the enemy by flogging,
bread and water, and masses perpe-
tual,— a sufficient contrast to the
life of a promenader of the Piazza
di Spagnay a free Trasteverina, or a
prima cantatrice of the Theatre of
the Phoenix; but not a bad retire-
ment, after all, for the most calami-
tous of fallen potentates, a failing
beauty. The Sagra Consulta, in ad-
dition to its functions of imprisoning
and hanging, is the board of quaran-
tine. Like the spear of Achilles, if
its point kills, its rust cures ; it slays
and it keeps alive. But as we are
now nationally startled by fears of
pestilence, there is some interest in
even the detail of Roman quarantine.

The Papal States are notoriously
surrounded by pestilence. Maho-
met bequeathed the legacy to his
converts, and in the lands of the
Moslem the plague never dies. If it
is not sweeping the turbans of Con-
stantinople, it is doing justice on the
sheepskin caps of Sliiraz and Tehe-
ran. If it is not breaking up the
Tartar encampments on the shores of
the Baikal, it is waging war against
the harems of Morocco ; if not at
Morocco, it is at" Cairo ; and if not at
Cairo, it is peace-making between
the rival butchers of Tripoli and Tu-
nis, by slaying the population of
both. But it is always alive, always
in action, and always hovering round
the states of his Holiness. Every
wind that blows may bring it, and
by the help of a Mediterranean
sloop, which will bring any thing, a
Levant captain, who will swear any
thing, and a Jew pedlar, who will
buy any thing, a pair of pantaloons
may spread mortality, at any hour,
from the peasant that starves in his
hut to the Pope that revels in his
palace, from Loretto or Civita Vec-
chia to the Vatican.

In the midst of this perpetual peril
even Roman laziness is active, and
Papal slumber is awake; and nothing
can be a more convincing proof of
the value of precaution on such a
subject, than the immunity which

!The Papal Government.

[March,

common vigilance can thus secure
from one of the most horrid of all
evils, as well as the most subtle,
permanent, and apparently uncon-
trollable by man.

The two chief Roman health-of-
fices are those of Civita Vecchia and
Ancona. Immediately on the arri-
val of the vessel, the captain comes
on shore to an appointed spot, which
is palisadoed, to prevent communi-
cation. Then his bill of health is
read to the health-commissary, who,
if he has any suspicion of the vessel,
receives the bill in a pair of tongs,
and smokes it over burning straw
before he reads it. If the report be
favourable, the rest of the crew are
ordered to appear, and are then
singly examined. If all be well, they
are admitted to free pratique. If any
remain sick on board, the port physi-
cian visits them; if they are sick of the
pestilence, the captain and crew are
marched back on board, and the un-
lucky doctor is forced to take up his
quarters with them, until the infec-
tion is fully developed or extinguish-
ed. Guards are set over the vessel,
and on the shore, to prevent commu-
nication. If the plague appears une-
quivocally, the goods are either burnt
in the Lazaretto, or if the captain ob-
ject to that, they are put on board,
and the vessel is ordered to put to
sea, on pain of being fired into and
sunk at her moorings. There is also
a perpetual Board of Health, consist-
ing of the governor of the district,
and five other magistrates, who assist
the Commissary in person, each for
a week. In any peculiar case, the
Commissary has the power to call
them together. Their votes and opi-
nions are transmitted to the secre-
tary of the Sagra Consulta. The af-
fair is taken into consideration by
that body; and in the meantime,
with a wise precaution against con-
sequences, the vessel and crew are
kept in strict quarantine. No bill of
health from the Levant or the coast
of Barbary will avail. All arrivals
from either are looked on as coming
from a land of pestilence ; and are
destined to quarantine. The most
important reflection for us is, that by
the help of these arrangements, plain
and manageable as they are, the Ro-
man States have, for a vast length of
time, been secured from the plague.

The construction of the Papal Ca-

binet is simple; it may be said to con-
sist of three ministers, the Governor
of Rome, the Pope's Auditor, and the
Cardinal Vicar, three officers, each
once possessed of very high personal
functions. The Governor of Rome
is always a prelate. He has a shewy
establishment, and in the streets is
attended with a guard. He may be
considered as the representative of
the Pope's temporal power. But this
chief's present occupations are those
of a head of the police. He decides
in a large extent of civil and crimi-
nal cases ; the majority of which in
Rome, however, have dwindled down
into quarrels between the mob, or
chicaneries between shopkeepers.
One section of the Roman jurisdic-
tion deserves remark for its connec-
tion with the general tendency to cri-
minate the accused. If a servant
charges his employer with withhold-
ing his due, the first process of the
court is to order the employer in-
stantly to deposit the sum demand-
ed in the hands of its officer — diffi-
cult as it may be for him to procure,
or utterly groundless as the demand
may be on the face of it — or he must
give adequate security for the sum,
or be imprisoned at once. The onus
still rests upon the accused, for he
is compelled to prove that the accu-
ser has spoken falsely, instead of
the natural process compelling the
accuser to prove that he has spoken
the truth ; and as the defendant's
own oath goes for nothing, he must
look about for witnesses of a trans-
action, which, in nine instances, has
no witnesses, or be condemned to
pay the whole demand. In this mode
half a dozen rogues, by conspiring
against any man, may lock up his
whole property in the Governor's
hands, and while he is not indebted
a shilling in the world, may strip
him of every shilling. The practice
among a people singularly fraudulent
by nature, and who in all cases pre-
fer the circuitous way to the straight
one, must produce a prodigious
quantity of fraud, offensive and de-
fensive. An amusing story on this
point is told of an Englishman and
his Roman lawyer.

The English *Milor had resided at
Rome but a few months, when he
was waited on by a succession of
dealers in virtu, who, to his astonish-
ment, came, not to solicit commis-

1832.]

The Papal Government.

64*

sions for Venuses and Mercuries,
but to demand payment of " their
bills !" John Bull burst out first into
laughter, and next into rage, gave
them his opinion of their merits in
round English, and, finally declaring
that his only answer would be the
horse-whip or the horse-pond, put
the whole deputation to the rout
down the marble steps of his palazza.
Next day, however, he was waited
on by a more formidable requisition,
in the shape of one of the Gover-
nor's Sbirri, ordering his attendance
with the money in question, on pain
of being sent to jail. There are
no Habeas Corpuses, or Insolvent
Acts, nor any of the English frip-
pery of rights and wrongs, in
Rome ; all is solid payment, plain
prosecution, and jail for life. The
Englishman devoted Pope, Governor,
and dealers in virtu, to the Dii manes,
and drove to a famous advocate.
" You say you never bought this five
hundred crowns of bronzes, nor this
thousand crowns worth of intaglios,
nor this three thousand ? "

"Three thousand furies!" exclaim-
ed the Englishman, " do you take me
for a madman? I have not bought six-
pence-worth of their gewgaws since
I came into Rome, and I intend to
leave it to-morrow, without the pur-
chase of so much as a sleeve-but-
ton."

" Then you intend to pay the money,
of course ?" said the advocate.

« Not a paul," said the English-
man ; " I can swear that I never saw
the yellow visage of one of these ras-
cals before."

The advocate at length, however,
succeeded in bringing his angry cli-
ent to leave the matter to his manage-
ment. The money being paid into
Court, the trial lingered marvellous-
ly, for this was, in the first place, the
genius of the legislature, and in the
next, the enemy's advocate was di-
rected to bring it into the malaria
'season, the period when all foreign-
ers naturally take flight, and when
the innkeepers lay an additional tax
upon the English post-chaises. John
Bull roared in vain, and was on the
point of Diving up the cause, to be
let loose for Albano, Naples, or any
other part of the earth, where he
could escape a six months' ague and
paralysis for life. Fortune favoured
him at last. The malaria fever had

made its way into the Governor's
household, and his prelateship'order-
ed the business of the Court to be
concluded with the utmost expedi-*
tion. The advocate waited on the
Englishman. " You may now order
your horses," said he; " we have
gained our cause."

" Bravo !" said the client, " of course
you shewed that the fellows could
not prove my ever having ordered
their trumpery ?"

" Quite the contrary," said the ad-
vocate; " they proved the fact, and
proved it by no less than twenty
witnesses, who all swore that they
had seen you order them."

The Englishman pronounced that
expression, which makes such a figure
in the mouth of the British sailor,
and which Figaro declares to be " le
fond de la langue"

"But how did you beat them ?"

" Swearing against them would be
of no use, so I brought five-and-
twenty witnesses to swear that they
saw you pay for them. The fellows
were not prepared for this, and you
gained your cause."

The Pope's Auditor is nearly equi-
valent to our Lord Chancellor ; he is
the supreme judge in civil causes,
but is not restricted to the rules or
limitations of the other tribunals. His
usual method is to determine any
peculiar point of law which may have
arisen, and then remit the cause to
the inferior tribunals. He decides all
matters brought before him in equity.
He has another point of resemblance
to the Lord Chancellor, (whose office,
indeed, as it was originally held by
churchmen, may be but an improved
copy of the Roman Auditors.) His
functions are considered to be so im-
mediately connected with those of the
head of the state, or his advisers, that
they cease instantly upon the Pope's
death. He is named by the Pope du-
ring pleasure, and though always a
prelate, he vacates his office on be-
ing appointed a Cardinal, thus giving
the Pope an easy means of getting
rid of him ; or if he is suffered to re-
main in office afterwards, it must be
as pro-auditor, or presumed locum
tenens for the future Auditor ; and
there are few instances where the
first act of a Pope is not to displace
the former Auditor.

The Roman Senate still subsists.
How are the mighty fallen] The

548

Conscript Fathers, the men of the
fasces and the curule chair, are now
a single noble, an attorney, and three
petty justices. The distributors of
kingdoms, and the chastisers of kings,
are now a court for fixing the week-
ly price of butcher's meat, and the
recovery of small debts. Such is a
name !

The Cardinal Vicar, the third great
officer of state, possesses very high
and very active functions. In his
court, constituted of himself, an au-
ditor, a prelate entitled the Vicege-
rent, and a prelate entitled the civil
Luogotenente, he exercises an autho-
rity in civil and ecclesiastical cases
within ten miles of Rome. Under
other modifications he exercises a
similar jurisdiction in criminal cases.
But he possesses one function, per-
sonally and exclusively, which alone
gives a very formidable power. As
Cardinal Vicar, or Vicar-General to
the Pope, he is censor of the public
morals. By this single authority, he
commands the liberty of every man
and woman in the state. Espionage is,
of course, one of the shortsighted arts
of all the continental governments.
But Roman espionage is perpetual
and universal, and, with the restless-
ness arid meanness that belongs to
the unemployed life of monkery, it
makes mischief out of every thing.
The Cardinal Vicar has the power of
arrest and conveyance to the dun-
geon, in all instances of his own ca-
price, or the caprice of others. The
husband who wishes to get rid of his
wife, the wife who plots against her
husband — and in the miserable sys-
tem of Italian matrimony, and the
habitual profligacy of both sexes,
those bitter intrigues and fierce se-
parations are frequent — has only to
influence the Cardinal, or perhaps
the Cardinal's valet, or the valet's
valet, or a clerk in his office j and
the accused is privately seized, pri-
vately consigned to a prison, and
privately kept there for years, or for
life.

In England, a single act of this
kind would overthrow a Ministry,
and the existence of such an office
would set the kingdom in a flame.
But foreigners are satisfied with
shrugging their shoulders, thanking
the Virgin that it is not their own
ill luck,, and wiping out all traces of
the transaction by going to the ope-

The Papal Government.

[March,

ra. The Italian, as long as he has
macaroni, troubles himself but lit-
tle about the deeds of Cardinal Vi-
cars. A cloak that will keep out the
rain, and a cigar that will smoke
away the day, advance him still far-
ther in the road to happiness. But
give him a new punchinello for the
streets, and a new maestro for the
stage, and let dungeons frown, friends
disappear, executioners flog, and
Vicars and Vicegerents ride over the
necks of mankind, the Italian enjoys
the supreme of felicity. Revolutions
in Italy ! There may be a few dis-
banded French bravos, longing for
plunder and full pay again ; or a few
broken commissaries, thinking of
the glorious; times of robbery; but
the people have as little sympathy
with them, as they have with Julius
Csesar and the Tenth Legion. There
will be no more revolution in Italy
than in the bottoms of their own
coffee-cups. The priests are the
masters there, and even if the Pope
should be wntemporalized, which he
will not, by Austria, nor by Europe,
until the final change of all Euro-
pean institutions is at hand, the
priests will twist the chain round
the hands, the feet, and the throat of
the Italian.

Of all states, the Roman is the most
plagued with law. Every function-
ary, from the Pope to the lowest pre-
late, is vested with judicial rights of
some kind or other ; and nothing but
actual experience can conceive the
harassings, the expense, and the per-
petual misery, of this teasing eter-
nity of legislation. Independently of
the Segnatura di Giustizia, a tribu-
nal of law, strictly so called, and the
Segnatura di Grazia, which decides
by equity, is the Rota, a sort of re-
presentative tribunal of the provinces
of Italy, consisting of twelve prelates,
of Rome, the Milanese, Tuscany, &c.,
and the Apostolic Chamber, consist-
ing of fourteen members, headed by
the Cardinal Camerlengo, or Great
Chamberlain, and the Roman Trea-
surer ; — the whole equivalent to our
Commissioners of the Treasury, but
still, like all the rest, exercising judi-
cial functions.

Under a system of government in
which the will of one man is the law,
— for the Pope's personal decision is
considered superior to all written
authorities, and is without appeal;

1832.] The Papal Government

where law, in even its most judicial
form, refuses all oral testimony, all
cross-examination, and all confront-
the accuser with the accused;

349

in

where the chief tribunals receive all
anonymous accusations ; where the
salaries of some of the assessors are
not above five pounds English a-y ear;
and, to complete the picture, where
a lawsuit for half of five pounds may
be driven from court to court for
half-a-dozeii years, — our only won-
der should be, not that one half of
the Romans are on the very verge of
beggary, but that all Rome is not
one aggregate of beggary, one mob
of mendicancy, one huge workhouse.
And this it unquestionably would be,
but for the influx of foreigners, and
especially of the English, who go
there to gaze, be robbed, and be
laughed at for being robbed. In fact,
modern Rome has always lived upon
strangers, — upon Popish strangers
before the Reformation, and upon
the Protestant English since. By a
miracle worth all the miracles of
their breviary, the Romans, on the
strength of their heretic gains, are
beginning to glaze their windows,
whitewash their pestilential cham-
bers, sweep their streets, and occa-
sionally wash their own hands and
faces. But if a war should check the
current of the English, the whole city
will tumble into bankruptcy ; Rome
will be one grand Seccatura, and the
habitual Italian physiognomy will be
restored, squalid and unblenched as
ever. But it is in the provinces that
the misery is most palpable. The
States lying on the Adriatic, Umbria,
the Marca, and the Legations, by their
great natural fertility, counteract the
indolence and the poverty of their
people. But their system of farm-
ing— farms of thousands of acres,
constant fallows, and interminable
copses, for the food of the cattle in
winter, and firing — leave the cultiva-
tors in comparative helplessness. It
is on the Mediterranean side, iheMa-
remma, that the system is completely
felt. The whole is little better than
a desert, though the soil is singularly
fertile ; but it is infected by vapours
which render it unhealthy. This
obstacle, however, might be soon
overcome by a vigorous people, for
the marshes are easily. capable of be-
ing drained; and by planting in ju-

dicious situations, where the south
wind might be excluded, and by cul-
tivating the soil, there is full evidence
that the infection might be totally
extinguished. But the Italians are
not that people. They would rather
smoke the worst tobacco in the world,
sip the worst chocolate, breathe the
worst air, and live under the worst
government, than take spade or
plough in hand, shake off their indo-
lence and rags together, and send the
priests and the pedants to legislate
for the Esquimaux.

Politics are much talked of in Italy;
for they are, like the Athenians in
the days of their degeneracy, prodi-
gious lovers of news, and settlers of
the affairs of all mankind. But even
their lovers of liberty do not under-
stand what they are talking about.
They sigh for Jacobinism, and have
no more conception of a liberty
which could gain its point without
plunder, and live without unsettling
the whole frame of society, than they
have of an eruption of Vesuvius
without fire, or a Pope without a ne-
phew. The elections of the Pope are
now mere matters of form. France
has lost all her weight, or rather has
contemptuously abandoned it ; Por-
tugal and Spain are still powerful in
the conclave ; but Austria is the great
absorbent, — she can make any Pope
she pleases. She, however, is wisely
satisfied with having the substance
of power, without the shew. But day
by day she is binding the Popedom
more to her interests ; she is beco-
ming more and more the habitual re-
fuge of the Popes ; and it altogether
depends on Prince Metternich whe-
ther the next election will or will not
see the last Italian privilege — that of
making an Italian Pope — nullified,
and place an Archduke on the Papal
throne.

In these remarks on the Italian
character, it is spoken of only as
borne down by the vices of its go-
vernments. If men live in a dun-
geon, they must have the habits of a
dungeon. If the Italian is eternally
surrounded by spies, he must be
either a spy or a victim. If his go-
vernment will give him nothing to
do, or will not suffer him to do any
thing for himself, he must be either
a thief or an idler, he must either
beg or carry a barrel-organ. By na-

650 The Papal Government. [March,

ture he has great gifts, perhaps the the noble, and the grand in the arts;

most marked and admirable of any a poet by nature — a musician by in-

man of Europe. His country is the stinct— a victim and a slave only by

soil of genius ; he is singularly acute, the vileness of his governments, and

vivid, and sensitive, with the most the blindness of his religion,
glowing susceptibility of the lovely,

FAMILY POETRY. — NO, III.
THE PLAY,

Quseque ipse miserrima vidi. — Vino.

CATHERINE of Cleves was a lady of rank,

She had lands, and fine houses, and cash in the bank j

She had jewels and rings,

And a thousand smart things,

Was lovely and young,

With a rather sharp tongue,
And she wedded a duke of high degree,
With the star of the order of St Esprit;

But the Duke de Guise

Was by many degrees
Her senior, and not very easy to please ;
He'd a sneer on his lip, and a scowl with his eye,
And a frown on his brow — and he look'd like a GUY— -

So she took to intriguing

With Monsieur St Megrin,
A young man of fashion, and figure, and worth,
But with no great pretensions to fortune or birth ;

He would sing, fence, and dance

With any man in France,
And took his rappee with genteel nonchalance;
He smiled, and he flatter'd, and flirted with ease,
And was very superior to Monseigneur de Guise.

Now Monsieur St Megrin was curious to know
If the lady approved of his passion, or no ;

So, without more ado,

He put on his surtout,
And went to a man with a beard like a Jew,

One Signor Ruggieri,

A cunning-man near, he

Could conjure, tell fortunes, and calculate tides,
Perform tricks on the cards, and heaven knows what besides,
Bring back a stray' d cow, silver ladle, or spoon,
And was thought to be thick with the man-in-the-moon.

The sage took his stand

With his wand in his hand,

Drew a circle, then gave the dread word of command,
Saying solemnly-—" Presto ! — Hey, quick !— Coch-a-lorum /"
When the Duchess immediately popp'd up before 'em.

Just then a conjunction of Venus and Mars,

Or something peculiar above in the stars,

Attracted the notice of Signor Ruggieri,

Who bolted, and left him alone with his deary.—*

Monsieur St Megrin went down on his knees,

And the J)uche<js shed tears large as marrgwfat peas,

1832.) Family Poetry. No. lit—The Play, £51

When — fancy the shock I — •

A loud double-knock
Made the lady cry, " Get up, you fool I— there's De Guise !"

'Twas his grace sure enough j

So Monsieur, looking bluff,

Strutted by, with his hat on, and fingering his ruff :
While, unseen by either, away flew the dame
Through the opposite keyhole, the same way she came ;

But alack ! and alas !

A mishap came to pass,
In her hurry she somehow or other let fall
A new silk bandana she'd worn as a shawl ;

She had used it for drying

Her bright eyes while crying,
And blowing her nose as her beau talk'd of " dying !"

Now the Duke, who had seen it so lately adorn her,
And knew the great C with the Crown in the corner,
The instant he spied it smoked something amiss,
And said, with some energy, " D — n it ! what's this ?"

He went home in a fume,

And bounced into her room,

Crying, " So, ma'am, I find I've some cause to feel jealous.
Look here ! — here's a proof you run after the fellows ! — .
Now take up that pen — if it's bad, choose a better-—
And write as I dictate this moment a letter

To Monsieur — you know who !"—

The lady look'd blue ;
But replied, with much firmness, " Curse me if I do I"-*

Then De Guise grasp'd her wrist

With his great mutton fist,
And pinch'd it, and gave it so painful a twist,
That his hard iron gauntlet the flesh went an inch in !
She didn't mind death, but she could not bear pinching ;

So she sat down and wrote

This polite little note ;
« Dear Mister St Megrin,

The Chiefs of the League in

Our house come to dine

This evening at nine ;

I shall soon after ten,

Slip away from the men,

And you'll find me up stairs in the drawing-room then.
Come up the back way, or those impudent thieves,
The servants will see you ;

Yours,

Catherine of Cleves."

She directed, and sealed it, all pale as a ghost,
And De Guise put it into the twopenny post.

St Megrin had almost jump'd out of his skin
For joy, that day when the post came in :

He read the note through,

Then began it anew,
And thought it almost too good news to be true.

He clapp'd on his hat,

And a hood over that,

\Vith a cloak to disguise him and make him look fat;
So great his impatience, from half after four
He was waiting till ten at De Guise's back-door.
When he heard the great clock of St Genevieve chime,
He ran up the back-staircase six steps at a time,

Family Poetry. No. lit— The Play. [March,

But had scarce made his bow

He hardly knew how,

When, alas and alack !

There was no getting back,
For the drawing-room door was bang'd to with a whack. —

In vain he applied

To the handle, and tried,
Somebody or other had lock'd it outside !
And the Duchess in agony sobb'd, " My poor chap,
We are cotch like a couple of rats in a trap !"

Now the Duchess's Page,

About twelve years of age,
For so little a boy was uncommonly sage ;
And, just in the nick, to their joy and amazement,
Popp'd the gas-lighter's ladder close under the casement;

But all would not do —

Though St Megrin got through
The window, — below stood De Guise and his crew,
And though never man was more brave than St Megrin,
Yet fighting a score is extremely fatiguing;

He thrust carte and tierce

Remarkably fierce,
But not Beelzebub's self could their cuirasses pierce,

While his doublet and hose,

Being holiday clothes,

Were soon cut through and through from his knees to his nose ;
Still an old crooked sixpence the Conjurer gave him,
From " pistol and sword" was sufficient to save him,

But, when beat on his knees,

That confounded De Guise

Came behind with the fogle that caused all this breeze,
Whipp'd it tight round his neck, and, when backwards he'd jerk'd him,
The rest of the rascals jump'd on him and Burk'd him.
The poor little Page too himself got no quarter, but

Was served the same way,

And was found, the next day,
With his heels in the air and his head in the water-butt.

Catherine of Cleves

Roar'd " Murder!" and « Thieves!!"

From the window above

While they murder'd her love,

Till finding the rogues had accomplish'd his slaughter,
She drank Prussic acid without any water,
And died like a Duke-and-a-Duchess's daughter !

MORAL.

Take warning, ye fair, from this play of the Bard's,
And don't go where fortunes are told on the cards!
But steer clear of conjurers ! — never put query
To " wise Mrs Williams," or folks like Ruggieri :
When alone in your room shut your door to, and lock it ;
Above all, KEEP YOUR HANDKERCHIEF SAFE IN YOUR POCKET !
Lest you too should stumble, and Lord Leveson Gower, he
Be call'd on,— sad poet !— to tell your sad story !

1832.]

Chateaubriand.

553

CHATEAUBRIAND.

No. I.— ITINERAIRE.

IT is one of the worst effects of
the vehemence of faction, which has
recently agitated the nation, that it
tends to withdraw the attention alto-
gether from works of permanent
literary merit, and by presenting no-
thing to the mind but a constant suc-
cession of party discussions, both to
disqualify it for enjoying the sober
pleasure of rational information, and
render the great works which are
calculated to delight and improve
the species, known only to a limited
class of readers. The conceit and
prejudice of a large portion of the
public, increase just in proportion
to the diminution of their real in-
formation. By incessantly studying
journals where the advantage of
the spread of knowledge is sedu-
lously inculcated, they imagine that
they have attained that knowledge,
because they have read these jour-
nals, and by constantly abusing those
who oppose themselves to the light
of truth, they come to forget that
none oppose it so effectually as those
who substitute for its steady ray the
lurid flame of democratic flattery.

We have always maintained the
contrary doctrine ; we assert that the
diffusion of useful knowledge, of all
that can dispel prejudice, elevate the
understanding, and purify the heart,
is not in the ratio, but the inverse
ratio, of the reading of newspapers ;
that party politics are to men what
novels are to women, and ardent
spirits to the labouring classes ; that
they agitate the mind with passion,
without storing it with information ;
and call millions to the decision of
questions which neither nature has
given them faculties to understand,
nor study the means of competently
judging. We maintain that preju-
dice is so common, passion so gene-
ral, information so scanty, in this ge^
neration, not because they do not,
but because they do, read to such an
exclusive degree the public jour-
nals ; and that the acrimonious style
in which they are written, the hasty
conclusions which they contain, and
the partial view of human affairs
which they exhibit, are of all other
circumstances those which are most
adverse to the developement or dif-
fusion of truth.

VOL. xxxi. NO. cxcu.

It is, therefore, with sincere and
heartfelt joy, that we turn from the
turbid and impassioned stream of
political discussion, to the pure foun-
tains of literary genius ; from the
vehemence of party strife to the calm-
ness of philosophic investigation;
from works of ephemeral celebrity
to the productions of immortal ge-
nius. When we consider the vast
number of these which have issued
from the European press during the
last fifteen years, and the small ex-
tent to which they are as yet known
to the British public, we are struck
with astonishment; and confirmed
in the opinion, that those WHO are
loudest in praise of the spread of in-
formation, are generally those who
possess least of it for any useful pur-
pose.

It has long been a settled opinion
in France, that the seams of English
literature are wrought out; that
while we imagine we are advancing,
we are in fact only moving round in
a circle, and that it is in vain to ex-

Eect any thing new on human affairs
-om a writer under the English con-
stitution. This they ascribe to the
want of the bouleversement of ideas,
and the extrication of original thought,
which a revolution produces; and
they coolly calculate on the catas-
trophe which is to overturn the Eng-
lish government, as likely to open
new veins of thought among its in-
habitants, and pour new streams of
eloquence into its writers.

Without acquiescing in the justice
of this observation in all its parts,
and strenuously asserting for the age
of Scott and Byron a decided supe-
riority over any other in British his-
tory since the days of Shakspeare
and Milton in poetry and romance,
we must admit that the observation,
in many departments of literature, is
but too well founded. No one will
accuse us of undue partiality for the
French Revolution, a convulsion
whose principles we have so long
and so vigorously opposed, and
whose horrors we have endeavoured,
sedulously, though inadequately, to
impress upon our readers. It is there-
fore with a firm conviction of imparti-
ality, and a consciousness of yielding
only to the tone of truth, that wo are

2N

554

Chateaubriand.

[March,

obliged to confess, that in historical
and political compositions the French
of our age are greatly superior to the
writers of this country. We are not
insensible to the merits of our mo-
dern English historians. We fully ap-
preciate the learned research of Tur-
ner, the acute and valuable narra-
tive of Lingard, the elegant language
and antiquarian industry of Tytler,
the vigour and originality of M'Crie,
and the philosophic wisdom of Mack-
intosh— and if we can find room for
it amidst the whirl of politics, we
shall endeavour to do justice to their
labours in this Miscellany. But still
we feel the justice of the French ob-
servation, that there is something
" English" in all their ideas. Their
thoughts seem formed on the even
tenor of political events prior to 1789:
and in reading their works we can
hardly persuade ourselves that they
have been ushered into the world
since the French Revolution advan-
ced a thousand years the materials
of political investigation.

Chateaubriand is universally al-
lowed by the French, of all parties,
to be their first writer. His merits,
however, are but little understood in
this country. He is known as once a
minister of Louis XVIIL, and ambas-
sador of that monarch in London, as
the writer of many celebrated politi-
cal pamphlets, arid the victim, since
the Revolution of 1830, of his noble
and ill-requited devotion to that un-
fortunate family. Few are aware that
he is, without one single exception,
the most eloquent writer of the pre-
sent age ; that independent of politics,
he has produced many works on mo-
rals, religion, and history, destined for
immortal endurance ; that his wri-
tings combine the strongest love of
rational freedom, with the warmest
inspiration of Christian devotion; that
he is, as it were, the link between the
feudal and the revolutionary ages; re-
taining from the former its generous
and elevated feeling, and inhaling
from the latter its acute and fearless
investigation. The last pilgrim, with
devout feelings, to the holy sepulchre,
he was the first supporter of consti-
tutional freedom in France ; discard-
ing thus from former times their bi-
goted fury, and from modern, their
infidel spirit, blending all that was
noble in the ardour of the Crusades,
with all that is generous in the en-
thusiasm of freedom.

The greatest work of this writer is
his " Genie du Christianisme," a
work of consummate ability and
splendid eloquence, in which he has
enlisted in the cause of religion all
the treasures of knowledge and all the
experience of ages, and sought to
captivate the infidel generation in
which he wrote, not only by the
force of argument, but the grace of
imagination. To us who live in a
comparatively religious atmosphere,
and who have not yet witnessed the
subversion of the altar, by the storms
which overthrew the throne, it is dif-
ficult to estimate the importance of
a work of this description, which in-
sinuated itself into the mind of the
most obdurate infidels by the charms
of literary composition, and subdu-
ed thousands inaccessible to any
other species of influence by the
sway it acquired over the fancy.
Cosi all egro fanciul' porglamo aspersi,
Di soave licor gli orsi del vaso ;
Sucuhi amaria ingannato intanto ei beve,
Et dall inganno suo vita riceve.

It is not however to this immortal
work that we are now to direct the
attention of our readers : that will
form the subject of another article
in a succeeding Number. We intend
at present to confine our attention to
his "Itineraire de Paris a Jerusalem,"
being an account of the author's jour-
ney in 1806, from Paris to Greece,
Constantinople, Palestine, Egypt and
Carthage. This work is not so much
a book of travels as memoirs of the
feelings and impressions of the au-
thor during a journey over the shores
of the Mediterranean ; the cradle, as
Dr Johnson observed, of all that dig-
nifies and has blest human nature,
of our laws, our religion, and our
civilisation. It may readily be an-
ticipated that the observations of
such a man, in such scenes, must
contain much that is interesting and
delightful: our readers may prepare
themselves for a high gratification ;
it is seldom that they have such an
intellectual feast laid before them.
We have translated the passages,
both because there is no English ver-
sion with which we are acquainted
of this work, and because the trans-
lations which usually appear of
French authors are executed in so
slovenly a style.

Of his first night amidst the ruins
of Sparta, our author gives the fol-
lowing interesting account : —

1 838.] Chateaubriand.

" After supper Joseph brought me
my saddle, which usually served for
my pillow. I wrapped myself in my
cloak, and slept on the banks of the
Eurotas under a laurel. The night
was so clear and serene, that the
milky way formed a resplendent
arch, reflected in the waters of the
river, and by the light of which I
could read. I slept with my eyes
turned towards the heavens, and
with the constellation of the Swan
of Leda directly above my head.
Even at this distance of time I re-
collect the pleasure I experienced
in sleeping thus in the woods of
America, and still more in awaken-
ing in the middle of the night. I
there heard the sound of the wind
rustling through those profound so-
litudes, the cry of the stag and the
deer, the fall of a distant cataract,
while the fire at my feet, half ex-
tinguished, reddened from below the
foliage of the forest. I even expe-
rienced a pleasure from the voice of
the Iroquois, when he uttered his
cry in the midst of the untrodden
woods, and by the light of the stars,
amidst the silence of nature, pro-
claimed his unfettered freedom.
Emotions such as these please at
twenty years of age, because life is
then so full of vigour, that it suffices
as it were for itself, and because
there is something in early youth
which incessantly urges towards the
mysterious and the unknown: ipsi
sibi somnia fingenf; but in a more
mature age the mind reverts to more
imperishable emotions: it inclines,
most of all, to the recollections and
the examples of history. I would
still sleep willingly on the banks of
the Eurotas and the Jordan, if the
shades of the three hundred Spar-
tans, or of the twelve ,sons of Jacob,
were to visit my dream's ; but I would
no longer set out to visit lands which
have never been explored by the
plough. I now feel the desire for
those old deserts which shroud the
walls of Babylon or the legions of
Pharsalia : fields of which the fur-
rows are engraven on human thought,
and where I may find man as I am,
the blood, the tears, and the labours
of man."— I. 86, 87.

From Laconia our author directed
his steps by the isthmus of Corinth
to Athens. Of his first feelings in
the ancient cradle of taste and genius

355

he gives the following beautiful de-
scription : —

" Overwhelmed with fatigue, I
slept for some time without inter-
ruption, when I was atlength awaken-
ed by the sound of Turkish music,
proceeding from the summits of the
JPropyleum. At the same time a
Mussulman priest from one of the
mosques called the faithful to pray
in the city of Minerva. I cannot de-
scribe what I felt at the sound ; that
Iman had no need to remind one of
the lapse of time : his voice alone in
these scenes announced the revolu-
tion of ages.

" This fluctuation in human affairs
is the more remarkable from the con-
trast which it affords to the unchange-
ableness of nature. As if to insult
the instability of human affairs, the
animals and the birds experience no
change in their empires, nor altera-
tions in their habits. I saw, when
sitting on the hill of the Muses, the
storks form themselves into a wedge,
and wing their flight towards the
shores of Africa. For two thousand
years they have made the same voy-
age— they have remained free and
happy in the city of Solon, as in that
of the chief of the black eunuchs.
From the height of their nests, which
the revolutions below have not been
able to reach, they have seen the
races of men disappear: while im-
pious generations have arisen on the
tombs of their religious parents, the
young stork has never ceased to
nourish its aged parent. I involun-
tarily fell into these reflections, for
the stork is the friend of the travel-
ler: ' it knows the seasons of hea-
ven.' These birds were frequently
my companions in the solitudes of
America: I have often seen them
perched on the wigwams of the sa-
vage; and when I saw them rise
from another species of desert, from
the ruins of the Parthenon, I could
not avoid feeling a companion in the
desolation of empires.

" The first thing which strikes a
traveller in the monuments of Athens,
is their lovely colour. In our cli-
mate, where the heavens are charged
with smoke and rain, the whitest
stone soon becomes tinged with black
and green. It is not thus with the
atmosphere of Athens. The clear
sky and brilliant sun of Greece have
shed over the marble of Paros and

556

Chateaubriand.

[March,

Pentilicus a golden hue, comparable
only to the finest and most fleeting
tints of autumn.

" Before I saw these splendid re-
mains I had fallen into the ordinary
error concerning them. I conceived
they were perfect in their details,
but that they wanted grandeur. But
the first glance at the originals is suf-
ficient to shew that the genius of the
architects has supplied in the mag-
nitude of proportion what was want-
ing in size; and Athens is accord-
ingly filled with stupendous edifices.
The Athenians, a people far from
rich, few in number, have succeeded
in moving gigantic masses; the
blocks of stone in the Pnyx and the
Propyleum are literally quarters of
rock. The slabs which stretch from
pillar to pillar are of enormous di-
mensions : the columns of the Tem-
ple of Jupiter Olympius are above
sixty feet in height, and the walls
of Athens, including those which
stretched to the Piraeus, extended
over nine leagues, and were so broad
that two chariots could drive on
them abreast. The Romans never
erected more extensive fortifica-
tions.

" By what strange fatality has it
happened that the chefs d'osuvre of
antiquity, which the moderns go so
far to admire, have owed their de-
struction chiefly to the moderns
themselves ? The Parthenon was
entire in 1687; the Christians at
first converted it into a church, and
the Turks into a mosque. The Ve-
netians, in the middle of the light of
the seventeenth century, bombarded
the Acropolis with red-hot shot; a
shell fell on the Parthenon, pierced
the roof, blew up a few barrels of
powder, and blew into the air great
part of the edifice, which did less
honour to the gods of antiquity than
the genius of man. No sooner was
the town captured, than Morosini, in
the design of embellishing Venice
with its spoils, took down the statues
from the front of the Parthenon ; and
another modern has completed, from
love for the arts, that which the Ve-
netian had begun. The invention
of fire-arms has been fatal to the
monuments of antiquity. Had the
barbarians been acquainted with the
use of gunpowder, not a Greek or
Roman edifice would have survived
their invasion ; they would have
blown up even the pyramids in the

search for hidden treasures. One
year of war among the moderns will
destroy more than a century of com-
bats among the ancients. Every
thing among the moderns seems op-
posed to the perfection of art ; their
country, their manners, their dress ;
even their discoveries." — I. 136 —
145.

These observations are perfectly
well-founded. No one can have vi-
sited the Grecian monuments on the
shores of the Mediterranean, without
perceiving that they were thorough-
ly masters of an element of grandeur,
hitherto but little understood among
the moderns, that arising from gigan-
tic masses of stone. The feeling of
sublimity which they produce is in-
describable : it equals that of Gothic
edifices of a thousand times the size.
Every one must have felt this upon
looking at the immense masses which
rise in solitary magnificence on the
plains at Stonehenge. The great
block in the tomb of Agamemnon at
Argos; those in the Cyclopian Walls
of Volterra, and in the ruins of Agri-
gentum in Sicily, strike the beholder
with a degree of astonishment bor-
dering on awe. To have moved such
enormous masses seems the work of
a race of mortals superior in thought
and power to this degenerate age;
it is impossible, in visiting them, to
avoid the feeling that you are behold-
ing the work of giants. It is to this
cause, we are persuaded, that the ex-
traordinary impression produced by
the pyramids, and all the works of
the Cyclopian age in architecture, is
to be ascribed ; and as it is an ele-
ment of sublimity within the reach
of all who have considerable funds
at their command, it is earnestly to
be hoped that it will not be over-
looked by our architects. Strange
that so powerful an ingredient in the
sublime should have been lost sight
of in proportion to the ability of ths
age to produce it, and that the mo-
numents raised in the infancy of the
mechanical art, should still be those
in which alone it is to be seen to
perfection !

We willingly translate the descrip-
tion of the unrivalled scene viewed
from the Acropolis by the same poe-
tical hand : a description so glowing,
and yet so true, that it almost recalls,
after the lapse of years, the fading
tints of the original on the memory.

" To understand the view from the

1832.] Chateaubriand.

Acropolis, you must figure to your-
self all the plain at its foot; bare
and clothed in a dusky heath, inter-
sected here and there by woods of
olives, squares of barley, and ridges
of vines ; you must conceive the
heads of columns, and the ends of
ancient ruins, emerging from the
midst of that cultivation ; Albanian
women washing their clothes at the
fountain or the scanty streams ; pea-
sants leading their asses, laden with
provisions, into the modern city :
those ruins so celebrated, those isles,
those seas, whose names are engra-
ven on the memory, illumined by a
resplendent light. I have seen from
the rock of the Acropolis the sun
rise between the two summits of
Mount Hymettus : the ravens, which
nestle round the citadel, but never
fly over its summit, floating in the
air beneath, their glossy wings re-
flecting the rosy tints of the morn-

557

ing : columns of light smoke ascend-
ing from the villages on the sides of
the neighbouring mountains mark-
ed the colonies of bees on the far-
famed Hymettus; and the ruins of
the Parthenon were illuminated by
the finest tints of pink and violet. The
sculptures of Phidias, struck by a
horizontal ray of gold, seemed to
start from their marbled bed by the
depth and mobility of their shadows:
in the distance, the sea and the Pi-
rseus were resplendent with light,
while on the verge of the western
horizon, the citadel of Corinth, glit-
tering in the rays of the rising sun,
shone like a rock of purple and fire."
—I. 149.

These are the colours of poetry;
but beside this brilliant passage of
French description,we willingly place
the equally correct and still more
thrilling lines of our own poet.

" Slow sinks more beauteous ere his race be run,
Along Morea's hills the setting sun,
Not as in northern clime obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living ligbt;
O'er tbe hushed deep the yellow beams he throws,
Gilds the green wave tbat trembles as it glows;
On old ^Egina's rock and Idra's isle,
The God of Gladness sheds his parting smile ;
O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine ;.
Descending fast, the mountain shadows kiss
Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis !
Their azure arches through the long expanse,
More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance,
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,
Mark his gay course and own the hues of heaven,
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.".

The columns of the temple of Ju-
piter Olympius produced the same
effects on the enthusiastic mind of
Chateaubriand as they do on every
traveller : — But he has added some
reflections highly descriptive of the
peculiar turn of his mind.

" At length we came to the great
isolated columns placed in the quar-
ter which is called the city of Adrian.
On a portion of the architrave which
unites two of the columns, is to be
seen a piece of masonry, once the
abode of a hermit. It is impossible
to conceive how that building, which
is still entire, could have been erect-
ed on the summit of one of these
prodigious columns, whose height is
above sixty feet. Thus this vast
temple, at which the Athenians toil-
ed for seven centuries, which all the

kings of Asia laboured to finish,
which Adrian, the ruler of the world,
had first the glory to complete, has
sunk under the hand of Time, and
the cell of a hermit has remained
undecayed on its ruins. A miserable
cabin is borne aloft on two columns
of marble, as if Fortune had wished
to exhibit on that magnificent pedes-
tal, a monument of its triumph and
its caprice.

" These columns, though twenty
feet higher than those of the Parthe-
non, are far from possessing their
beauty. The degeneracy of taste is
apparent in their construction ; but
isolated and dispersed as they are
on a naked and desert plain, their
effect is imposing in the highest de-
gree. I stopped at their feet to hear
the wind whistle through the Co-

553

Chateaubriand.

[March,

rinthian foliage on their summits :
like the solitary palms which rise
here and there amidst the ruins of
Alexandria. When the Turks are
threatened by any calamity, they
bring a lamb into this place, and con-
strain it to bleat, with its face turned
to heaven. Being unable to find the
voice of innocence among men, they
have recourse to the new-born lamb
to mitigate the anger of heaven." —
I. 152, 153.

He followed the footsteps of
Chandler along the Long Walls to
the Piraeus, and found that profound
solitude in that once busy and ani-
mated scene, which is felt to be so
impressive by every traveller.

" If Chandler was astonished at
the solitude of the Piraeus, I can
safely assert that I was not less
astonished than he. We had made
the circuit of that desert shore ;
three harbours had met our eyes,
and in all that space we had not
seen a single vessel ! The only spec-
tacle to be seen was the ruins and
the rocks on the shore — the only
sounds that could be heard were the
cry of the seafowl, and the murmur
of the wave, which, breaking on the
tomb of Themistocles, drew forth a
perpetual sigh from the abode of
eternal silence. Borne away by the
sea, the ashes of the conqueror of
Xerxes repose beneath the waves,
side by side with the bones of the
Persians. In vain I sought the Tem-
ple of Venus, the long gallery, and the
symbolical statue which represent-
ed the Athenian people ; the image
of that implacable democracy was
for ever fallen, beside the walls,
where the exiled citizens came to
implore a return to their country.
Instead of those superb arsenals, of
those Agorae resounding with the
voice of the sailors ; of those edifices
which rivalled the beauty of the city
of Rhodes, I saw nothing but a ruin-
ed convent and a solitary magazine.
A single Turkish sentinel is perpetu-
ally seated on the coast; months
and years revolve without a bark
presenting itself to his sight. Such
is the deplorable state into which
these ports, once so famous, have
now fallen — Who has overturned so
many monuments of gods and men ?
The hidden power which overthrows
every thing, and is itself subject to
the Unknown God whose altar St
Paul beheld at Phalera."— I. 157—
58.

The fruitful theme of the decay
of Greece has called forth many of
the finest apostrophes of our moral-
ists and poets. On this subject Cha-
teaubriand offers the following stri-
king observations : —

" One would imagine that Greece
itself announced, by its mourning,
the misfortunes of its children. In
general, the country is uncultiva-
ted, the soil bare, rough, savage,
of a brown and withered aspect.
There are no rivers, properly so call-
ed, but little streams and torrents,
which become dry in summer. No
farm-houses are to be seen on the
farms, no labourers, no chariots, no
oxen, or horses of agriculture. No-
thing can be figured so melancholy
as to see the track of a modern wheel,
where you can still trace in the worn
parts of the rock the track of ancient
wheels. Coast along that shore, bor-
dered by a sea hardly more desolate
— place on the summit of a rock a
ruined tower, an abandoned convent
—figure a minaret rising up in the
midst of the solitude as a badge of
slavery — a solitary flock feeding on
a cape, surmounted by ruined co-
lumns— the turban of a Turk scaring
the few goats which browze on the
hills, and you will obtain a just idea
of Modern Greece.

" On the eve of leaving Greece, at
the Cape of Sunium, I did not aban-
don myself alone to the romantic
ideas which the beauty of the scene
was fitted to inspire. I retraced in
my mind the history of that country ;
I strove to discover in the ancient
prosperity of Athens and Sparta the
cause of their present misfortunes,
and in their present situation the
germ of future glory. The breaking
of the sea, which insensibly increased
against the rocks at the foot of the
Cape, at length reminded me that
the wind had risen, and that it was
time to resume my voyage. We de-
scended to the vessel, and found the
sailors already prepared for our de-
parture. We pushed out to sea,
and the breeze, which blew fresh
from the land, bore us rapidly to-
wards Zea. As we receded from the
shore, the columns of Sunium rose
more beautiful above the waves :
their pure white appeared well de-
fined in the dark azure of the distant
sky. We were already far from the
Cape ; but we still heard the mur-
mur of the waves, which broke on
the cliffs at its foot, the whistle of

1832.]

Chateaubriand.

559

the winds through its solitary pillars,
and the cry of the sea-birds which
wheel round the stormy promontory:
they were the last sounds which I
heard on the shores of Greece."— I.
196.

" The Greeks did not excel less in
the choice of the site of their edifices
than in the forms and proportions.
The greater part of the promontories
of Peloponnesus, Attica, and Ionia,
and the Islands of the Archipelago,
are marked by temples, trophies, or
tombs. These monuments, surround-
ed as they generally are with woods
and rocks, beheld in all the changes
of light and shadow, sometimes in
the midst of clouds and lightning,
sometimes by the light of the moon,
sometimes gilded by the rising sun,
sometimes flaming in his setting
beams, throw an indescribable charm
over the shores of Greece. The
earth, thus decorated, resembles the
old Cybele, who, crowned and seat-
ed on the shore, commanded her son
Neptune to spread the waves beneath
her feet.

" Christianity, to which we owe the
sole architecture in unison with our
manners, has also taught how to place
our true monuments : our chapels,
our abbeys, our monasteries, are dis-
persed on the summits of hills — not
that the choice of the site was always
the work of the architect, but that
an art which is in unison with the
feelings of the people, seldom errs
far in what is really beautiful. Ob-
serve, on the other hand, how
wretchedly almost all our edifices
copied from the antique are placed.
Not one of the heights around Paris
is ornamented with any of the splen-
did edifices with which the city is
filled. The modern Greek edifices
resemble the corrupted language
which they speak at Sparta and
Athens; it is in vain to maintain that
it is the language of Homer and Plato ;
a mixture of barbarous words, and
of foreign constructions, betrays at
every instant the invasion of the bar-
barians.

" To the loveliest sunset in nature,
succeeded a serene night. The fir-
mament, reflected in the waves,
seemed to sleep in the midst of the
sea. The evening star, my faithful
companion in my journey, was ready
to sink beneath the horizon; its place
could only be distinguished by the
rays of light which it occasionally

shed upon the water, like a dying
taper in the distance. At intervals,
the perfumed breeze from the islands
which we passed, entranced the
senses, and agitated on the surface
of the ocean the glassy image of the
heavens."— I. 182, 183.

The appearance of morning in the
sea of Marmora is described in not
less glowing colours.
" At four in the morning we weighed
anchor, and as the wind was fair, we
found ourselves in less than an hour
at the extremity of the waters of the
river. The scene was worthy of being
described. On the right, Aurora rose
above the headlands of Asia; on the
left, was extended the sea of Mar-
mora ; the heavens in the east were
of a fiery red, which grew paler in
proportion as the morning advanced;
the morning star still shone in that
empurpled light; and above it you
could barely descry the pale circle
of the moon. The picture changed
while I still contemplated it ; soon a
kind of rays of rose and gold, diver-
ging from a common centre, mounted
to the zenith; these columns were
effaced, revived, and effaced anew,
until the sun rose above the horizon,
and confounded all the lesser shades
in one universal blaze of light."-!. 236.

His journey into the Holy Land
awakened a new and not less inte-
resting train of ideas, throughout the
whole of which we recognise the pe-
culiar features of M. de Chateau-
briand's mind : a strong and poetical
sense of the beauties of nature, a
memory fraught with historical re-
collections; a deep sense of religion,
illustrated, however, rather as it af-
fects the imagination and the pas-
sions, than the judgment. It is a mere
chimera to suppose that such aids
are to be rejected by the friends of
Christianity, or that truth may with
safety discard the aid of fancy, either
in subduing the passions or affecting
the heart. On the contrary, every
day's experience must convince us,
that for one who can understand an
argument, hundreds can enjoy a ro-
mance; and that truth, to affect mul-
titudes, must condescend to wear the
garb of fancy. It is no doubt of vast
importance that works should exist
in which the truths of religion are
unfolded with lucid precision, and
its principles defined with the force
of reason : but it is at least of equal
moment, that others should be found

560

Chateaubriand.

[March

in which the graces of eloquence and
the fervour of enthusiasm form an
attraction to those who are insensible
to graver considerations ; where the
reader is tempted to follow a path
which he finds only strewed with
flowers, and he unconsciously in-
hales the breath of eternal life.

" On nearing the coast of Judea,
the first visitors we received were
three swallows. They were perhaps
on their way from France, and pur-
suing their course to Syria. I was
strongly tempted to ask them what
news they brought from that pa-
ternal roof which I had so long quit-
ted. I recollect that in years of in-
fancy, I spent entire hours in watch-
ing with an indescribable pleasure
the course of swallows in autumn,
when assembling in crowds previous
to their annual migration : a secret
instinct told me that I too should be
a traveller. They assembled in the
end of autumn around a great fish-
pond; there, amidst a thousand evo-
lutions and flights in air, they seemed
to try their wings, and prepare for
their long pilgrimage. Whence is
it that of all the recollections in ex-
istence, we prefer those which are
connected with our cradle ? The il-
lusions of self-love, the pleasures of
youth, do not recur with the same
charm to the memory; we find in
them, on the contrary, frequent bit-
terness and pain; but the slightest
circumstances revive in the heart the
recollections of infancy, and always
with a fresh charm. On the shores
of the lakes in America, in an un-
known desert, which was sublime
only from the effect of solitude, a
swallow has frequently recalled to
my recollection the first years of my
life; as here on the coast of Syria
they recalled them in sight of an
ancient land resounding with the
traditions of history and the voice of
ages.

" The air was so fresh and so
balmy that all the passengers re-
mained on deck during the night.
At six in the morning I was awaken-
ed by a confused hum ; I opened my
eyes, and saw all the pilgrims crowd-
ing towards the prow of the vessel.
I asked what it "was ? they all repli-
ed, * Signer, il Carmelo.' I instantly
rose from the plank on which I was
stretched, and eagerly looked out
for the sacred mountain. Every one
strove to shew it to me, but J could

see nothing by reason of the dazzling
of the sun, which now rose above
the horizon. The moment had some-
thing in it that was august and im-
pressive ; all the pilgrims, with their
chaplets in their hands, remained in
silence, watching for the appearance
of the Holy Land; the captain prayed
aloud, and not a sound was to be
heard but that prayer and the rush
of the vessel, as it ploughed with a
fair wind through the azure sea.
From time to time the cry arose,
from those in elevated parts of the
vessel, that they saw Mount Carmel,
and at length I myself perceived it
like a round globe under the rays of
the sun. I then fell on my knees,
after the manner of the Latin pil-
grims. My first impression was not
the kind of agitation which I expe-
rienced on approaching the coast of
Greece, but the sight of the cradle
of the Israelites, and of the country
of Christ, filled me with awe and
veneration. I was about to descend
on the land of miracles — on the birth-
place of the sublimest poetry that
has ever appeared on earth — on the
spot where, speaking only as it has
affected human history, the most
wonderful event has occurred which
ever changed the destinies of the
species. I was about to visit the
scenes which had been seen before
me by Godfrey of Bouillon, Ray-
mond of Toulouse, Tancred the
Brave, Richard Cceur de Lion, and
Saint Louis, whose virtues even the
infidels respected. How could an
obscure pilgrim like myself dare to
tread a soil ennobled by such recol-
lections I"— I. 263—265.

Nothing is more striking in the
whole work than the description of
the Dead Sea, and the Valley of Jor-
dan. He has contrived to bring the
features of that extraordinary scene
more completely before us than any
of the numerous English travellers
who have preceded or followed him
on the same route.

" We quitted the convent at three
in the afternoon, ascended the tor-
rent of Cedron, and at length, cross-
ing the ravine, rejoined our route to
the east. An opening in the moun-
tain gave us a passing view of Jeru-
salem. I hardly recognised the city ;
it seemed a mass of broken rocks ;
the sudden appearance of that city
of desolation in the midst of the
wilderness had something in it al-

1832.] Chateaubriand.

most terrifying. She was, in truth,
the Queen of the Desert.

"As we advanced, the aspect of the
mountains continued constantly the
same, that is, a powdery white — with-
out shade, a tree, or even moss. At
half past four, we descended from the
lofty chain we had hitherto traversed,
and wound along another of inferior
elevation. At length we arrived at
the last of the chain of heights, which
close in on the west the Valley of Jor-
dan and the Dead Sea. The sun was
nearly setting ; we dismounted from
our horses, and I lay down to con-
template at leisure the lake, the
valley, and the river.

" When you speak in general of a
valley, you conceive it either culti-
vated or uncultivated ; if the former,
it is filled with villages, corn fields,
vineyards, and flocks ; if the latter,
it presents grass or forests ; if it is
watered by a river, that river has
windings, and the sinuosities or pro-
jecting points afford agreeable and
varied landscapes. But here there
is nothing of the kind. Conceive two
long chains of mountains running
parallel from north to south, without
projections,withoutrecesses,without
vegetation. The ridge on the east,
called the Mountains of Arabia, is
the most elevated ; viewed at the dis-
tance of eight or ten leagues, it
resembles a vast wall, extremely si-
milar to the Jura, as seen from the
Lake of Geneva, from its form and
azure tint. You can perceive neither
summits nor the smallest peaks;
only here and there slight inequali-
ties, as if the hand or the painter
who traced the long lines on the sky
had occasionally trembled.

"The chain on the eastern side
forms part of the mountains of Judea
— less elevated and more uneven
than the ridge on the west : it differs
also in its character; it exhibits great
masses of rock and sand, which oc-
casionally present all the varieties of
ruined fortifications, armed men, and
floating banners. On the side of
Arabia, on the other hand, black
rocks, with perpendicular flanks,
spread from afar their shadows over
the waters of the Dead Sea. The
smallest bird could not find in those
crevices of rock a morsel of food;
every thing announces a country
which has fallen under the divine
wrath ; every thing inspires the horror

561

at the incest from whence sprung
Ammon and Moab.

" The valley which lies between
these mountains resembles the bot-
tom of a sea, from which the waves
have long ago withdrawn : banks of
gravel, a dried bottom — rocks cover-
ed with salt, deserts of moving sand
— here and there stunted arbutus
shrubs grow with difficulty on that
arid soil; their leaves are covered
with the salt which had nourished
their roots, while their bark has the
scent and taste of smoke. Instead
of villages, nothing but the ruins of
towers are to be seen. Through the
midst of the valley flows a disco-
loured stream, which seems to drag
its lazy course unwillingly towards
the lake. Its course is not to be dis-
cerned by the water, but by the wil-
lows and shrubs which skirt its banks
— the Arab conceals himself in these
thickets to waylay and rob the pil-
grim.

" Such are the places rendered fa-
mous by the maledictions of Heaven :
that river is the Jordan : that lake is
the Dead Sea. It appears with a se-
rene surface; but the guilty cities
which are embossomed in its waves
have poisoned its waters. Its soli-
tary abysses can sustain the life of
no living thing; no vessel ever
ploughed its bosom ; — its shores are
without trees, without birds, with-
out verdure; its water frightfully
salt, is so heavy that the highest wind
can hardly raise it.

" In travelling in Judea, an extreme
feeling of ennui frequently seizes the
mind, from the sterile and monoto-
nous aspect of the objects which are
presented to the eye : but when
journeying on through these pathless
deserts, the expanse seems to spread
out to infinity before you, the ennui
disappears, and a secret terror is
experienced, which, far from lower-
ing the soul, elevates and inflames
the genius. These extraordinary
scenes reveal the land desolated by
miracles ; — that burning sun, the im-
petuous eagle, the barren fig-tree ; all
the poetry, all the pictures of Scrip-
ture are there. Every name recalls
a mystery ; every grotto speaks of
the life to come ; every peak re-
echoes the voice of a prophet. God
himself has spoken on thebe shores :
these dried-up torrents, these cleft
rocks, these tombs rent asunder, at-

562

Chateaubriand.

[March,

test his resistless hand : the desert
appears mute with terror ; and you
feel that it has never ventured to
break silence since it heard the voice
of the Eternal."— I. 317.

" I employed two complete hours
in wandering on the shores of the
Dead Sea, notwithstanding the re-
monstrances of the Bedouins, who
pressed me to quit that dangerous
region. I was desirous of seeing the
Jordan, at the place where it dis-
charges itself into the lake ; but the
Arabs refused to lead me thither,
because the river, at a league from
its mouth, makes a detour to the left,
and approaches the mountains of
Arabia. It was necessary, therefore,
to direct our steps towards the curve
which was nearest us. We struck
our tents, and travelled for an hour
and a half with excessive difficulty,
through a fine and silvery sand. We
were moving towards a little wood
of willows and tamarinds; which, to
my great surprise, I perceived grow-
ing in the midst of the desert. All
of a sudden the Bethlemites stopped,
and pointed to something at the bot-
tom of a ravine, which had not yet
attracted my attention. Without
being able to say what it was, I per-
ceived a sort of sand rolling on
through the fixed banks which sur-
rounded it. I approached it, and saw
a yellow stream which could hardly
be distinguished from the sand of its
two banks. It was deeply furrowed
through the rocks, and with difficulty
rolled on, a stream surcharged with
sand : it was the Jordan.

"I had seen the great rivers of
America, with the pleasure which is
inspired by the magnificent works of
nature. I had hailed the Tiber with
ardour, and sought with the same in-
terest the Eurotas and the Cephisus;
but on none of these occasions did
I experience the intense emotion
which I felt on approaching the Jor-
dan. Not only did that river recall
the earliest antiquity, and a name
rendered immortal in the finest po-
etry, but its banks were the theatre
of the miracles of our religion. Judea
is the only country which recalls at
once the earliest recollections of
man, and our first impressions of
heaven ; and thence arises a mixture
of feeling in the mind, which no
other part of the world can produce."
—I. 327, 328.

The peculiar turn of hie mind ren-

ders our author, in an especial man-
ner, partial to the description of sad
and solitary scenes. The following
description of the Valley of Jehosh-
aphat is in his best style.

" The Valley of Jehoshaphat has
in all ages served as the burying-
place to Jerusalem : you meet there,
side by side, monuments of the most
distant times and of the present cen-
tury. The Jews still come there to
die, from all the corners of the earth.
A stranger sells to them, for almost
its weight in gold, the land which
contains the bones of their fathers.
Solomon planted that valley: the
shadow of theTemple by which it was
overhung — the torrent, called after
grief, which traversed it — the Psalms
which David there composed — the
Lamentations of Jeremiah, which its
rocks re-echoed, render it the fitting
abode of the tomb. Jesus Christ
commenced his Passion in the same
place : that innocent David there
shed, for the expiation of our sins,
those tears which the guilty David
let fall for his own transgressions.
Few names awaken in our minds
recollections so solemn as the Valley
of Jehoshaphat. It is so full of myste-
ries, that, according to the Prophet
Joel, all mankind will be assembled
there before the'Eternal Judge.

" The aspect of this celebrated val-
ley is desolate ; the western side is
bounded by a ridge of lofty rocks
which support the walls of Jerusalem,
above which the towers of the city
appear. The eastern side is formed by
the Mount of Olives, and another emi-
nence called the Mount of Scandal,
from the idolatry of Solomon. These
two mountains, which adjoin each
other, are almost bare, and of a red
and sombre hue ; on their desert side
you see here and there some black
and withered vineyards, some wild
olives, some ploughed land, covered
with hyssop, and a few ruined cha-
pels. At the bottom of the valley,
you perceive a torrent, traversed by
a single arch, which appears of great
antiquity. The stones of the Jewish
cemetery appear like a mass of ruins
at the foot of the mountain of Scan-
dal, under the village of Siloam.
You can hardly distinguish the build-
ings of the village from the ruins
with which they are surrounded.
Three ancient monuments are par-
ticularly conspicuous : those of Za-
chariah,Josaphat, and Absalom. The

1832.] Chateaubriand.

sadness of Jerusalem, from which
no smoke ascends, and in which no
sound is to be heard ; the solitude of
the surrounding mountains, where
not a living creature is to be seen ;
the disorder of those tombs, ruined,
ransacked, and half-exposed to view,
would almost induce one to believe
that the last trump had been heard,
and that the dead were about to rise in
the valley of Jehoshaphat."— II. 34-35.

Chateaubriand, after visiting with
the devotion of a pilgrim the Holy
Sepulchre, and all the scenes of our
Saviour's suffering, spent a day in
examining the scenes of the Crusa-
ders' triumphs, and comparing the de-
scriptions in Tasso's Jerusalem De-
livered with the places where the
events which they record actually
occurred. He found them in general
so extremely exact, that it was diffi-
cult to avoid the conviction that the
poet had been on the spot. He even
fancied he discovered the scene of
the Flight of Erminia, and the inimi-
table combat and death of Clorinda.

From the Holy Land, he sailed to
Egypt ; and we have the following
graphic picture of the approach to
that cradle of art and civilisation.

" On the 20th Oct. at five in the
morning, I perceived on the green
and ruffled surface of the water a
line of foam, and beyond it a pale and
still ocean. The captain clapped me
on the shoulder, and said in French,
' Nilo ;' and soon we entered and
glided through those celebrated wa-
ters. A few palm-trees and a minaret
announce the situation of Rosetta,
but the town itself is invisible. These
shores resemble those of the coast
of Florida ; they are totally different
from those of Italy or Greece, every
thing recalls the tropical regions.

" At ten o'clock we at length dis-
covered, beneath the palm-trees, a
line of sand which extended west-
ward to the promontory of Aboukir,
before which we were obliged to pass
before arriving opposite to Alexan-
dria. At five in the evening, the
shore suddenly changed its aspect.
The palm-trees seemed planted in
lines along the shore, like the elms
along the roads in France. Nature
seems to take a pleasure in thus
recalling the ideas of civilisation in p
country where that civilisation first
arose, and barbarity has now resu-
med its sway. It was eleven o'clock
when we cast anchor before the city,
and as it was some time before we

563

could get ashore, I had full leisure to
follow out the contemplation which
the scene awakened.

" I saw on my right several ves-
sels, and the castle, which stands on
the site of the Tower of Pharos, On
my left, the horizon seemed shut in
by sand-hills, ruins, and obelisks ;
immediately in front, extended a
long wall, with a few houses appear-
ing above it; not a light was to be
seen on shore, and not a sound came
from the city. This nevertheless was
Alexandria, the rival of Memphis
and Thebes, which once contained
three millions of inhabitants, which
was the sanctuary of the Muses,
and the abode of science amidst a
benighted world. Here were heard
the orgies of Antony and Cleopatra,
and here was Csesar received with
more than regal splendour by the
Queen of the East. But in vain
I listened. A fatal talisman had
plunged the people into a hope-
less calm : that talisman is the des-
potism which extinguishes every
joy, which stifles even the cry of suf-
fering. And what sound could arise
in a city of which at least a third is
abandoned ; another third of which is
surrounded only by the tombs of its
former inhabitants ; and of which the
third, which still survives between
those dead extremities, is a species of
breathing trunk destitute of the force
even to shake off its chains in the
middle between ruins and the tomb ?"
—II. 168.

It is to be regretted that Chateau-
briand did not visit Upper Egypt. His
ardent and learned mind would have
found ample room for eloquent de-
clamation, amidst the gigantic ruins
of Luxor, and the Sphynx avenues
of Thebes. The inundations of the
Nile, however, prevented him from
seeing even the Pyramids nearer than
Grand Cairo ; and when on the verge
of that interesting region, he was
compelled unwillingly to retrace his
steps to the French shores. After a
tempestuous voyage, along the coast
of Lybia, he cast anchor otf the ruins
of Carthage; and thus describes his
feelings on surveying those venera-
ble remains.

" From the summit of Byrsa, the
eye embraces the ruins of Carthage,
which are more considerable than
are generally imagined ; they resem-
ble those of Sparta, having nothing
well preserved, but embracing a con-
siderable space. I saw them in the

564

Chateaubriand.

[March,

middle of February : the olives, the
fig-trees, were already bursting into
leaf: large bushes of angelica and
acanthus formed tufts of verdure,
amidst the remains of marble of every
colour. In the distance, I cast my
eyes over the Isthmus, the double
sea, the distant isles, a cerulean sea,
a smiling plain, and azure mountains.
I saw forests, and vessels, and aque-
ducts ; moorish villages, and Maho-
metan hermitages; glittering mina-
rets, and the white buildings of Tu-
nis. Surrounded with the most touch-
ing recollections, I thought alter-
nately of Dido, Sophonisba, and the
noble wife of Asdrubal ; I contem-
plated the vast plains where the le-
gions of Annibal, Scipio, and Csesar,
were buried : My eyes sought for
the site of Utica. Alas! The re-
mains of the palace of Tiberius still
remain in the island of Capri, and
you search in vain at Utica for the
house of Cato. Finally, the terrible
Vandals, the rapid Moors, passed be-
fore my recollection, which termina-
ted at last on Saint Louis expiring
on that inhospitable shore. May the
story of the death of that prince ter-
minate this itinerary; fortunate to
re-enter, as it were, into my country
by the ancient monument of his vir-
tues, and to close at the sepulchre of
that King of holy memory my long
pilgrimage, to the tombs of illustrious
men."--lL 257—258.

" As long as his strength permitted,
the dying monarch gave instructions
to his son Philip ; and when his voice
failed him, he wrote with a falter-
ing hand these precepts, which no
Frenchman, worthy of the name,
will ever be able to read without
emotion. ' My son, the first thing
which I enjoin you is to love God
with all your heart ; for without that
no man can be saved. Beware of vio-
lating his laws; rather endure the
worst torments, than sin against his
commandments. Should he send you
adversity,receiveitwithhumility,and
bless the hand which chastens you ;
and believe that you have well de-
served it, and that it will turn to your
weal. Should he try you with pros-
perity, thank him with humility of
heart, and be not elated by his good-
ness. Do justice to every one, as well
the poor as the rich. Be liberal, free,
and courteous, to your servants, and

cause them to love as well as fear
you. Should any controversy or tu-
mult arise, sift it to the bottom, whe-
ther the result be favourable or un-
favourable to your interests. Take
care, in an especial manner, that your
subjects live in peace and tranquillity
under your reign. Respect and pre-
serve their privileges, such as they
have received them from their an-
cestors, and preserve them with care
and love. — And now, I give you every
blessing which a father can bestow
on his child ; praying the Father,
Son, and Holy Spirit, that they may
defend you from all adversities ; and
that we may again, after this mortal
life is ended, be united before God,
and adore his Majesty for ever !'" —
II. 264.

« The style of Chateaubriand,"
says Napoleon, " is not that of Racine,
it is that of a prophet ; he has recei-
ved from nature the sacred flame ;
it breathes in all his works."* It is
of no common man — being a politi-
cal opponent — that Napoleon would
have said thesejvvords. Chateaubri-
and had done nothing to gain favour
with the French Emperor; on the
contrary, he irritated him by throw-
ing up his employment and leaving
his country upon the assassination of
the Duke d'Enghien. In truth, no-
thing is more remarkable amidst the
selfishness of political apostasy in
France, than the uniform consistence
and disinterestedness of this great
man's opinions. His principles, in-
deed, were not all the same at 50 as
at 25 ; we should be glad to know
whose are, excepting those who are
so obtuse as to derive no light from
the extension of knowledge and the
acquisitions of experience ? Change
is so far from being despicable, that
it is highly honourable in itself, and
when it proceeds from the natural
modification of the mind, from the
progress of years, or the lessons of
more extended experience. It be-
comes contemptible only when it
arises on the suggestions of interest,
or the desires of ambition. Now,
Chateaubriand's changes of opinion
have all been in opposition to his in-
terest; and he has suffered at differ-
ent periods of his life from his resist-
ance to the mandates of authority,
and his rejection of the calls of am-
bition. In early life, he was exiled

Memoirs of Napoleon, IV. 342.

J832.] Chateaubriand.

from France, and shared in all the our readers,
hardships of the emigrants, from his tyrs
attachment to Royalist principles.
At the earnest request of Napoleon,
he accepted office under the Impe-
rial Government, but he relinquished
it, and again became an exile upon
the murder of the Duke d'Enghien.
The influence of his writings was so
powerful in favour of the Bourbons,
at the period of the Restoration, that
Louis XVIII. truly said, they were
worth more than an army. He fol-
lowed the dethroned Monarch to
Ghent, and contributed much, by
his powerful genius, to consolidate
the feeble elements of his power,
after the fall of Napoleon. Called to
the helm of affairs in 1824, he labour-
ed to accommodate the temper of
the monarchy to the increasing spi-
rit of freedom in the country, and
fell into disgrace with the Court, and
was distrusted by the Royal Family,
because he strove to introduce those
popular modifications into the admi-
nistration of affairs, which might have
prevented the revolution of July;
and finally, he has resisted all the ef-
forts of the Citizen-King to engage
his great talents in defence of the
throne of the Barricades. True to
his principles, he has exiled himself
from France, to preserve his inde-
pendence ; and consecrated in a fo-
reign land his illustrious name, to
the defence of the child of misfortune.
Chateaubriand is not only an elo-
quent and beautiful writer, he is al-
so a, profound scholar, and an en

565

The next is the " Mar-
a romance, in which he has in-
troduced an exemplification of the
principles of Christianity, in the
early sufferings of the primitive
church, and enriched the narrative
by the splendid description of the
scenery in Egypt, Greece, and Pa-
lestine, which he had visited during
his pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and all
the stores of learning which a life
spent in classical and ecclesiastical
lore could accumulate. The last of
his considerable publications is the
" Etudes Historiques," a work emi-
nently characteristic of that superiori-
ty in historical composition, which we
have allowed to the French modern
writers over their contemporaries in
this country; and which, we fear,
another generation, instructed when
too late by the blood and the tears
of a Revolution, will be alone able
fully to appreciate. Its object is to
trace the influence of Christianity
from its first spread in the Roman
empire to the rise of civilisation in
the Western world ; a field in which
he goes over the ground trod by
Gibbon, and demonstrates the un-
bounded benefits derived from reli-
gion in all the institutions of modern
times. In this noble undertaking he
has been aided, with a still more phi-
losophical mind, though inferior fire
and eloquence, by Guizot ; a writer,
who, equally with his illustrious rival,
is unknown, save by report, in this
country ; but from whose joint la-
bours is to be dated the spring of a

lightened thinker. His knowledge pure and philosophical system of re-
of history and classical literature is ligious enquiry in

equalled only by his intimate ac-
quaintance with the early annals of
the church, and the fathers of the Ca-
tholic faith; while in his speeches
delivered in the Chamber of Peers
since the restoration, will be found
not only the most eloquent but the
most complete and satisfactory dis-
sertations on the political state of
•France during that period, which is
anywhere to vbe met with. It is a
singular circumstance, that an author
of such great and varied acquire-
ments, who is universally allowed
by all parties in France to be their
greatest living writer, should be hard-
ly known except by name to the
great body of readers in this country.
> His greatest work, that on which

France, and the

commencement of that revival of
manly devotion, in which the anti-
dote, and the only antidote, to the
fanaticism of infidelity is to be found.
It certainly affords some countenance
to the general opinion on the conti-
nent, that we are an age behind them
in political thought, to find, that
while the master spirits of France,
taught by the sufferings, and emerging
from the flames of a Revolution, are
recurring to the system of Christi-
anity, as the only secure basis of the
social order, we are beginning to
adopt the superficial infidelity which
has brought these disasters upon their
country ; and that while Chateau-
briand and Guizot are following out
the principles of Robertson and But-

his fame will rest with posterity, is ler, we are reverting to the declama-
the "Genius of Christianity," of which tions of Raynal and Voltaire,
we shall soon give some account to

566

The Ministry and their Supporters.

[March,

THE MINISTRY AND THEIR SUPPORTERS,

THE Government have just an-
nounced, through their favourite
evening journal, that they consider
themselves to have scrambled out of
the Slough of Despond, which, it was
on all hands admitted, they had
blundered into. Three or four days
have elapsed without any fresh ex-
posure, and upon the strength of
this, they set up their claims to a
little longer enjoyment of official
power, dignity, and emolument. This
is certainly an amusing piece of con-
fidence in the face of the settled opi-
nion of every man of sense, that it is
only by an extraordinary position of
circumstances, that the patience of
the country admits of their stay,
and that such a set of unaccountably
rash, imbecile, and negligent men,
never held the reins of government
in this country.

It is really difficult to convey by
words an adequate notion of the ge-
neral contempt into which the pre-
sent conductors of government af-
fairs have fallen, or of the danger
arising from this general feeling, at
a time when the popular mania is so
much against government of any
kind, and when more than ever the
superintendence of persons having
the character of wise, vigilant, and
determined men, is required to keep
the popular machine from breaking
in pieces by the violence of its own
action. It is not merely that the po-
licy of the Government is bad, but
the conduct of its members is so
foolish, so contradictory, so childish
almost, that even the weakest crea-
tures feel themselves of consequence
compared with them. Their conti-
nual blunders, too, in the plainest
matters of business, furnish argu-
ments which the cunning partisans
of democracy are not slow to take
advantage of, in demonstrating to
the lower orders the ignorance of
those who rule them in high places.
Those who govern Great Britain,
must be real men of business, if they
look to be potent in any thing save
to destroy. Such Ministers as we
have now, may succeed in pulling
down, but to build up again must be
left to the hands of men of a different
stamp. Whether these are to be
found among the rough disciples of
Republicanism, or the cautious and

energetic supporters of the Monar-
chy and the Constitution as it is, a
little time will now discover.

" There is," says Lord Bacon, " a
great difference between a cunning
man and a wise man, not only in
point of honesty, but in point of abili-
ty. There be that can pack the cards,
and yet cannot play well j so there
are some that are good in canvasses
and factions, that are otherwise weak
men. Again, it is one thing to un-
derstand persons, and another thing
to understand matters j for many are
perfect in men's humours, that are
not greatly capable of the real part
of business." Here is a good de-
scription of the Whig party in gene-
ral, but particularly of the present
Government, which in" the real part
of business," has shewn itself so un-
fit, that it produces, instead of satis-
faction, alternate lamentation and
derision. It requires the most ample
allowance for this distinction so ably
shewn by Lord Bacon between cun-
ning and wisdom, as well as the full-
est consideration for the difference
between playing the game, and cri-
ticising the moves of other players,
to account for the extraordinary and
foolish errors into which our Mini-
sters have fallen, notwithstanding
the character which some of them
possessed for ability when out of
office. It was reasonable to expect
that Lord Grey would attempt to act
upon wrong principles, but who
could have supposed that he would
have shewn himself in every mea-
sure very rash, and almost very stu-
pid ? Who could have imagined that
he would have attempted a measure
of Parliamentary Reform, in which
the Aristocracy are vitally interested,
without having discovered with some
degree of accuracy how far the Aris-
tocracy would consent, and whether
he would not at the eleventh hour
find himself baffled? Who could
imagine that he would assert confi-
dently in the House, and in answer
to the Duke of Wellington too, that
there was a surplus of half a million
in the revenue, when it was to be
proved afterwards from documents
in his own office at the very time, that
when he spoke the revenue was
largely exceeded by the expendi-
ture ? Who could have believed that

1832.]

The Ministry and their Supporters,

he would make a declaration re-
specting Irish Tithes so displeasing
to those by whose sufferance he
holds office, that he would be com-
pelled to get another Minister to ex-
plain away what he said — to retract,
and to apologise ? Yet Lord Grey has
done all these things. Who would
have supposed that the only effort of
legislation, to be acknowledged as
peculiarly Lord Brougham's own,
would be the most egregiously bung-
ling experiment in the art of crea-
ting patronage that ever was known
—a measure never spoken of in the
profession to which his Lordship be-
longs, except with contemptuous ri-
dicule ? Yet such is the fate of his
measure respecting Bankruptcy.

Who would have imagined that
Lord Plunkett should have such [a
story to tell of himself, as that he de-
manded fees from Irish magistrates
which he had no right to demand,
and should acknowledge to have ta-
ken part in the rankest job concern-
ing his own secretary, that ever dis-
graced Ireland, the land of jobbing?
No one ever thought Lord Althorp
very bright; but who would have
imagined that he would have to come
down to the House to confess a finan-
cial miscalculation to the amount of
twelve hundred thousand pounds,
and admit a blunder in a common
arithmetical sum, to the amount of
three hundred and fifty thousand
pounds ? Who would suppose that
Lord Palmerston, with all his known
indolence, would have been guilty of
the follies and neglects which have
placed us in our present condition
with Portugal, with Holland, and
with the Northern Powers, who
hold back from the treaty to which,
through the craft of Talleyrand, and
our Minister's incaution, we are
bound ? Who would have deemed it
possible that the whole Ministry
could have been so indescribably ab-
surd as they proved themselves in
the Russian Dutch loan affair — a
piece of folly without parallel, and
without the shadow of an excuse ?

But with all these damning blots
upon their character as Ministers,
how do they remain in power?—
That may be briefly explained. —
First, the power of any government
is ex-officio considerable, and com-
mands, directly or indirectly, a great
many votes. Secondly, a large ma-
jority of the House of Commons

567

are so bound by pledges extorted
by the mobs of last May, to vote
for the Reform Bill, and Ministers
shelter themselves behind the Re-
form Bill in every extremity. They
cry out, " If you vote against us in
any serious matter, we shall de-
nounce you as enemies to our Re-
form Bill." This cry alone, and
even this but very barely, saved them
on the Russian Dutch loan division.
Thirdly, the partisans of democracy,
who scarcely conceal their desire for
a complete revolution in church
and state, use their best efforts to
keep the present Ministers in their
places, because they see that they
could not have more efficient, though
perhaps unconscious tools. Lastly,
the Ministers are determined not to
quit until they are absolutely turned
out, which is not so very easy a thing
to manage. Ministers generally yield
when they are beaten in Parliament,
but these Ministers have been re-
peatedly beaten, and have not yielded.

It is not only melancholy, but in-
tensely mortifying, to behold the in-
terests and the honour of a great na-
tion falling to the ground, as ours but
too palpably are, in the hands of such
Ministers and such supporters. There
were something glorious even in fall-
ing before the efforts of able men ;
but it is miserable that the Monarchy
of England should be frittered away
by fools. The fate that came upon
Charles and his kingdoms, was the
work of men fit to make or unmake
an empire ; but it is enough to break
the heart, to see the pitiful quacks,
the jabberers of nonsense and impie-
ty, the nauseous fops, and mindless
puppies, who are now dragging this
nation down into destruction. Gulli-
ver made prisoner by an army of
Lilliputians while he slept, is an apt
similitude for Great Britain in its pre-
sent hands. The Revolutionists may
be as grashoppers for multitude, but
among them there is not one man
worthy to tie the shoes of a Reformer
of the olden time. Is it not pitiful
to behold the towers of the constitu-
tion of Great Britain falling, not
amid the shout of battle, with valiant
men dying in their defence,— not by
lightning or tempest.— not by torrent
or earthquake — but that multitudes
of filthy vermin are burrowing under
their walls, and undermining their
foundations ?

The present Ministry of Great

568

Britain are held in complete thral-
dom and subjection by a few Eng-
lish Radicals, with that most gross
and contemptible person, Mr Joseph
Hume, at their head, and between
fifty and sixty members of the House
of Commons sent there through tho
influence of the Roman Catholic
priests of Ireland. These are not
Irish gentlemen, the best of whom
make rather imprudent legislators,
but the coarsest, least respectable
herd, that ever left the Irish shore,
whether on four legs or on two. The
chaff of wild corn, the froth of pud-
dle, the dross of base metal, are si-
milies too good for them, yet the in-
fluence of such as these affects, nay
rules, the destinies of the British em-
pire ! Is it not such oppression as
this that maketh the wise man mad ?
It is not too late to rid ourselves
of the destroying evil of such a Go-
vernment, and the pestilent swarm
of their supporters ; but it must be
done by an exercise of loftier ener-
gies, and more powerful feelings,
than have as yet displayed them-
selves upon the public scene, though
we know they are not extinct, and
the spark is but wanting to light
them up to glories, and in the end
to triumphant action. If there ever
were a time when men were called
upon to stand forth bravely and bold-
ly in defence of the faith and prin-
ciples of their fathers, this is that
time. The period for a parley has
gone by; it is in vain to stand chaf-
fering upon trifles; the ALTAR and the
THRONE — the sacredness of religion
—the respectability of virtue— the
order and gradation in society — the
security of property, are all in im-
minent jeopardy, through the tam-
pering of multitudinous quacks, and
the weakness of sentiment among
those who ought to arise and crush
them. There are who pretend to
see the danger, but love their ease
and their wealth too well to peril
either in the great good cause. They
may, too late, find that that ease will
be disturbed, and that wealth be
taken away wholly, which, if now
sacrificed in part, would overcome
the enemy. It is no ordinary politi-
cal contest that is before us; it is a
struggle between the Monarchy, the
Church, and the Aristocracy of Eng-
land, and a disgraceful Revolution, iu

The Ministry and their Supporters.

[March.

which men, equally coarse and paltry,
will be in the uppermost places.

But to return to the Government
professions of their own excellent
and improving character— they are
merely laughed at in London, even
by those who, in their communica-
tions to the public, affect to treat
them with most gravity. It is not
true, that any declaration, favourable
to the Reform Bill of the Grey Mi-
nistry, has been obtained from those
noblemen who declared themselves
in favour of some measure of Re-
form, in the discussion of last ses-
sion. The declaration of Lord Grey
at the Mansion House is sufficiently
vague to mean anything or nothing,
and even if it were not so, we have
seen and heard enough of Lord Grey
lately to be perfectly well satisfied
that no dependence whatever is to
be placed upon his statements in
political matters. Whether his me-
mory fail him — as when he could
not call to mind his menace address-
ed to the Bishops ; or he has not at-
tended to the matter — as in the case
of his assertion of a surplus revenue ;
or his expressions convey a mean-
ing different from that which he in-
tended— as in his statement regard-
ing Irish Tithes — certain it is, that all
Lord Grey now says must be re-
ceived with more than a few grains
of allowance.

No very sudden change of the Mi-
nistry is to be looked for, nor would
any mere change of Ministers suf-
fice for what is at present wanting.
The heart and the mind of the na-
tion require to be roused up to a
sense of the wickedness, the worth-
lessness, and the littleness of the
buzzing busy bodies who are fly-
blowing the body of the State, and
causing it to stink in the nostrils of
men of sense and feeling. They
must be shaken off by a strong arid
manly enthusiasm, or we shall do no
good. Between the huckstering
economy of our domestic system,
and the prodigal concession to fo-
reign countries, we are become no
more than feeble disputants, when
we should be bold and energetic
actors. Would that the soul of an
Edmund Burke would break forth
amongst us !

London, Feb. 20, 1832.

Printidty Bancmtyni and Company, Paul's Work, Edinburgh

BLACKWOOD'S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CXCIII.

APRIL, 1832.

VOL, XXXI.

THE PROSPECTS OF BRITAIN.*

IT is recorded by Josephus, that
the night before the Roman armies
entered Jerusalem, there were heard
flying overhead, and calling to each
other through the upper spaces of the
Temple, angels and spiritual watch-
ers ; and the words which could be dis-
tinguished, Were ^TO-^^U^V lvnv$sv
— Let us depart hence ! It seems the
Religio loci adhered too closely to
its shrine to be torn away without
some human throes, some protesta-
tion that it suffered violence, and
something like the language of fare-
well : — Even in Christian realities, as
in the fables of old romance,

" The parting genius was with sighing
sent,"

The Pafiai'utav

the dire alalagmos, or war-cry of the
Roman legions, — that herald of tears
and blood, and forerunner of the last
profanations, and in this case the ac-
complisher of the prophetic " abo-
mination of desolation," even that
was necessary to quicken the angelic
motions; and this savage hurraing
had already begun to load the air
with its denunciations of carnage,
whilst the heavenly cohorts were yet
marshalling their shadowy ranks for
.flight.

To Mr Douglas, as to many others,
there 'are signs and portents abroad,
which seem to indicate the same
sullen and reluctant departure of its
ancient tutelary virtues from this
long favoured land. The foundations,
in their eyes, are manifestly giving
way, of that massy system on which
so much of our happiness has repo-

sed for ages. Morals, public and
domestic, political integrity in the
senate, and " pure religion breath-
ing household laws," have seemed
for some time preparing for flight.
The old faith, and the old obligations
of conscience, have seemed to sit
loosely upon all men. Ancient land-
marks have disappeared — new names
are heard, and new hopes are daily
avowed, such as once would have
been held pollution to any cause.
And it is not any longer the sullen
cynicism of a recluse, but the gene-
ral instincts of the world, which be-
gin to apprehend, in the changes at
this time travelling forward on every
side, some deeper and more awful
disorganization of our ancient social
system, than was designed by its first
movers, or suspected, until lately, by
the most jealous and apprehensive
observer.

These anticipations are not limited
by Mr Douglas to Great Britain;
they are coextensive with Europe,
and exclude nothing that we know
of, unless, perhaps, the New World.
That region is not at least super-
annuated, and may be supposed still
moving onward upon the original
impulse which projected its orbit,
and determined the elements of its
paths. But on this side the Atlantic,
all is given over in his calculations
to interminable revolution. If we
understand him rightly, which in a
very desultory, though eloquent
writer, is not always easy to do,
Europe is now hurried forward by
internal causes, leagued with irresist-
ible pressure from without, into a

1 * By James_ Douglas, Esq. of Cavers. 8vo,
VOL, XXXI. NO. CXCIII.

Black. Edinburgh
2 o

1831.

570

maelstrom of chaotic change : the hi-
deous roar is already heard, the fatal
suction is already felt ; and escape is
even already impossible. For Eng-
land, indeed, there is still a reserve of
hope. Chiefly from her greater moral
resources, she has still a choice be-
fore her of two paths ; or if she can-
not wholly avert the blow which, as
a member of European Christendom,
must reach her in many of its conse-
quences, at any rate she has it in her
power to modify its action, and to
reduce within the bounds of a provi-
dential chastisement, what to some
will be absolute destruction.

Such we collect to be Mr Dou-
glas's view. And thus far we go
along with him, that most assuredly
we believe ourselves to stand at the
portals of mighty and far-stretching
.convulsions. The first French Re-
volution was but the beginning of
woes. It was an earthquake; and
Europe has too easily nattered her-
self that its effects had spent them-
selves in the overthrow of Napoleon.
But one earthquake is often no more
than the herald of another. And
signs innumerable convince us that
Europe, in every kingdom and pro-
vince of her populous regions, is ripe
for a long series of changes, to which
no prince, or league of princes — no
nation, or confederacy of nations —
can now fix a limit. Influence from
without, coming in the shape of war,
has visited every part of her terri-
tory, and manured whatever seeds
of change might pre-exist, into a
ranker and a hastier growth. Will
any man maintain that Spain, Italy,
Greece, in the South — or, for the
middle of Europe, France, Germany,
the Low Countries — could now re-
sume that station of quiet and inert
repose which possessed them before
the era of 1788 ? Every nook of these
lands has been inundated for forty
years with revolutionary incitements.
Not a peasant's cottage, not an indi-
vidual shed, but has been separately
appealed to — tempted — provoked —
to change for its own sake, and
change as the means of every other
improvement; to change as the end,
and change as the indispensable in-
strument. Agitation has run its
course, and completed its work : the
apostles of insurrection and revolu-
tion have fulfilled their mission, and
closed their labours : all now stands
ready for the reaper's sickle.

The Prospects of Britain.

[April;

Yes ! Sorrow is at hand for Eu-
rope, and calamity to which the ruth-
less wars of Napoleon have been but
as a prelude. So much we believe,
thus far we assent unwillingly to Mi-
Douglas. But what shape will this
calamity put on? To what issue will
it tend ? What will be its probable
period, or course of revolution?
How far will it involve ourselves ?

These are questions depending
chiefly on the particular theory adopt-
ed as to the nature and causes of the
present condition of Europe. The
author before us insinuates a sort of
hypothesis on this subject, somewhat
too fine-spun for practical use, or for
his own conclusions. " An unseen
power,'' says he, " is smiting the idol
of human dominion at its base. The
feet on which it rests are broken;
the iron and clay are literally sepa-
rating. The composite governments,
which resulted from the union of
barbarian conquerors and Roman
subjects, have lost the cement that
bound them, and are crumbling into
dust." That is to say, whatsoever
ruin or decay now threatens the states
of Europe, is to be considered a
mere process of decomposition, by
which the ancient substratum of Van-
dalism is parting asunder from its
uncongenial ally of Roman civilisa-
tion, and the heterogeneous elements
betraying themselves in the ruins of
that compound edifice which they
had coalesced to form.

But this hypothesis will hardly
sustain itself against the examination
of history. Structures that endure
the wear and tear of fourteen hun-
dred years, cannot be taxed with any
radical vice either of materials or of
workmanship. Spite of names and
words, the materials must virtually
have been homogeneous, and fitted
by nature for union ; or, which is the
sole alternative, the overpowering
excellence of the material on one
side must have neutralized the mor-
tal tendencies on the other. One or
other conclusion is inevitable on Mr
Douglas's premises. On this fugi-
tive earth of ours, it is past all doubt,
that a duration of one thousand years
and upwards bears a testimony, such
as cannot be gainsaid, to the essential
and radical excellence of any insti-
tution.

On a point of this nature, it is his-
tory only which is entitled to speak
authentically. Let us therefore ra-

1832.]

The Prospects of Britain.

571

pidly review the spirit of European
annals, and the main stream of Eu-
ropean revolutions, from the period
at which Rome came into a position
of substantial influence upon the
movements of the northern nations,
or upon the character of their insti-
tutions; and still more attentively
from the period at which these north-
ern nations reacted upon the Roman
south.

Whilst the Western Empire flou-
rished, and original Rome maintain-
ed her mighty supremacy, it was a
matter of necessity that her arts, her
policy, and her institutions, should
make joint progress with her arms.
We know by the testimony of con-
temporary historians, that in differ-
ent degrees, varying with the state of
her military influence, this was in
fact the case. Elegance in the habits
of life, and the arts which ministered
to it, prevailed to a great extent in
Gaul, in Britain, and in Spain. Else-
where, as in Germany, where Rome
maintained only an uneasy frontier,
her influences of this nature were
less ; they were less at any one time ;
and they fluctuated. The reason
was apparent. Gaul, Britain, and
Spain, from the peculiar figure and
situation of their territory, admitted
of a perfect military possession ; but
in Germany a belt of variable breadth
was all that Rome could be said to
possess; beyond this was a savage
country, overshadowed by forests,
and bristling with indignation — vin-
dictive remembrances — and all the
repulsive passions, wheresoever it
was not desolate of men. Anti-Ro-
man passions effectually precluded
an efficient Roman influence. And
even for that age, there was no uni-
versal mirror held up to Roman man-
ners, Roman usages, or Roman max-
ims of jurisprudence. Amongst the
aboriginal Gauls, Britons, and Spa-
niards, such a diffusion of education
might be found, and such a civilisa-
tion, during the Roman domination
in their several territories, as would
naturally correspond to the influence
of the victors, and the ambition or
interest of the conquered.

These relations, however, between
Rome and her European provinces,
in process of time perished. Rome
was gradually bridled in her career
of conquest and offensive warfare;

next was thrown upon the defensive ;
and finally, even for defensive war-
fare, was obliged to concentrate her
entire efforts upon her domestic ter-
ritory. Her legions were gradually
withdrawn to her own gates; and
the alumni of Roman civilisation in all
European provinces, whether many
or few, were now at length thrown
upon their own unassisted energies.

What followed is too memorable,
and too monotonous in its dark tis-
sue of calamity, to leave much room
for question or for distinction. The
same chapter, with very slight varie-
ties, occurs about the same era in
the annals of almost every European
province. Mutatis mutandistt}ie same
tale of a helpless and ineffective re-
sistance to successive hosts of bar-
barous invaders, saddens the page of
history for the whole of Western
Europe. The Gaul crouched before
the Frank, the Briton before the
Saxon and the Angle, the aboriginal
Spaniard before the Visigoth and the
Vandal. Each, in his turn, was aban-
doned by his Roman master ; each
was resigned to his native powers of
self-defence ; and each sank misera-
bly in the contest which followed.
Roman culture had availed for little
else than to prepare them for a
foreign conquest, by weaning them
from those martial habits which had
once proved so potent a bulwark
against the sword of Rome herself
under her first Caesars, and her then
all-conquering legions. All fell ; and
fell perhaps chiefly by the emascu-
lation consequent upon their Roman
connexion. Finally, even the Roman
himself, after many a separate pros-
tration under many a different con-
queror, was finally, and for ever, ab-
sorbed into the dominion of the Goth
and the Lombard.

During the progress of these great
revolutions, which upon the whole
were the greatest that our western
world has undergone, it is probable
that a more awful amount of human
misery was suffered, a more baleful
eclipse and a shadow of deeper pro-
vidential wrath was passed through,
than in any other equal section of
time. The great convulsions which
attended the dying pangs of the West-
ern Empire, if we include the sepa-
rate fates of the mother state, and
her several provinces, lasted through

The Prospects of Britain.

572

nearly two centuries ; for it was not
until the sixth century that the abso-
lute extinction of the Roman name
in the west was accomplished. And
as though war pursued in the spirit
of extermination were not sufficient,
it has been noticed that famine and
pestilence prevailed during the same
period with a fury not paralleled by
any other examples before or since.
Indeed, so marvellous is the spectacle
of desolation which the Europe of
those days presents, so uninterrupt-
ed is the tragedy, and precisely in
those regions which have since be-
come the most flourishing on this
planet, that the eyes of many writers,
from the Christian fathers down-
wards to the most eminent of mo-
dern historians, have been arrested by
the mere fascination of the miserable
spectacle, and, without concert, have
separately come to the very same
conclusion — that, in this period, the
condition of our forefathers had
reached the very lowest point of de-
pression. " If," says a celebrated re-
viewer of history, " a man were call-
ed to fix upon the period in the his-
tory of the world during which the
condition of the human race was
most calamitous and afflicted, he
would, without hesitation, name that
which elapsed, from the death of
Theodosius the Great, to the esta-
blishment of the Lombards in Italy,"
that is, from the year of our Lord
395 to 571. " The contemporary
authors," he goes on, " who beheld
the scene of desolation, labour and
are at a loss to describe the horror
of it."

Readily it may be imagined, that
such a condition of suffering was no
fit matrix for the reception or deve-
lopement of arts and polished insti-
tutions. So far from it, we have the
best reasons for knowing that every
thing of that nature went to wreck
very early in the struggle. Even in
this island, it is certain that the Ro-
man arts and the habits of polished
life, luxury, and the many indirect
results or props of luxury, had struck
root pretty deeply by the third cen-
tury. And as to Gaul, it is evident
enough from the Commentaries of
Caesar, that already in his day civili-
sation was little in arrear of that
which prevailed in Italy. Towns of
regular, architecture, and a pretty ela-

[April,

borate organization for purposes of
war and civil police, evidently were
multiplied in no inconsiderable ex-
tent through the more refined regions
of Gaul, and marked an advanced
stage of civilisation. The leafy and
silvan encampments of the Britons,
in the very neighbourhood of the
Thames, and what were probably
the most civilized (because the most
fertile) parts of the island, shew a
state of things so little beyond mere
savage life — that it is difficult to re-
concile with this great and conspi-
cuous inferiority to Gaul, the well
known facts of a mercantile inter-
course, recorded by Csesar himself,
between Britain and the continent,
and still more of a supreme college
of the Druids seated in this island.
However, let the differences have
been what they might in the early
period of the first Caesar, (differen-
ces which we notice only as matter
of curiosity) — it is pretty certain that
in the two succeeding centuries they
were completely cancelled, both
Gaul and Britain having by that time
very probably advanced to the level
of Italy. Equally certain it is, and
evidenced in our own case by the An-
glo-Saxon literature, by the writings
of Bede, and other documents, that
the hurricane of misery which swept
over the land during the Saxon in-
vasions, utterly abolished all traces
of whatever had been won in these
centuries of intercourse with Roman
masters. There is no doubt that at
the end of that conflict which issued
in the establishment of the Saxon
Polyarchy, Britain was to all intents
and purposes a rasa tabula as regard-
ed the effects or memorials of its Ro-
man connexion. The sole monu-
ments which then survived of the
Roman power, were those imperish-
able military causeways which tra-
versed the marshes and forests, and
here and there a tesselated pavement
of some Praetorian tent. Granite, mar-
ble, and cement, remained, as to this
day in some proportions they still do
remain. But for moral or political in-
fluence, influence of any kind which
acts through the mind, the condition
of Britain, within perhaps two gene-
rations after the earliest appearance
of the Anglo-Saxons, was precisely
what it would have been, had a Ro-
man foot never trod upon our soil,

1832.J

The Prospects of Britain.

The same conclusions, and for the
same causes, apply to the whole em-
pire of Rome in the west. Apart from
those military works by which they
cleared and maintained a path for
their triumphs, and which in dura-
bility are pretty nearly coeval with
the works of nature, — the whole
mighty fabric of their political sys-
tem fell so utterly before the new
tribes of conquerors, these conquer-
ors were so purely barbarous, and
the conquered so irretrievably sub-
dued, that no memory even of any
Roman policy, whether martial or
civil, survived in any place on this
side of the Alps by the middle of the
seventh century.

What then becomes of that rent in
the iron and the clay, on which Mr
Douglas relies for his solution of
this imminent crisis ? Iron, that is,
Roman metal, there was none at all
remaining in the institutions of Eu-
rope which succeeded to the general
migration of the Gothic tribes, and
the foundation of the great king-
doms of the west. Already in the
day of Charlemagne, who would have
been glad to benefit by the relics
of Roman wisdom, none were to be
found. In the following century,*
our own Alfred had the same en-
lightened wishes; andfoundthe same
disappointment in looking backwards
for any fragments of ancestral pru-
dence towards the founding of his
own institutions. Now, if, in the year
800, all traces of the great Roman
edifice had already vanished, much
less could it be possible that any
should still lurk in obscure nooks of
our Western Europe, considering
that the entire century which follow-
ed was filled with fresh devastations
of the Vikingr or sea-kings of the
Baltic, whose power and ferocity
filled the latter years of Charlemagne
with mortification, and occupied the
whole life of Alfred with continual
alarms and anxiety.

Here, then, we have reached a point
at which Rome had indeed become
a mere phantom of a mighty name.
And, through the thousand years
which have followed, we are sure
that no legitimate deduction can be

573

made of any evil which menaces our
days from Roman influence. Com-
posite structures may have arisen
upon the ruins of the Roman polity,
but assuredly in no part of their ele-
ments could they have been Roman.

However, as our purpose is not to
quarrel with Mr Douglas, but grave-
ly to review the past history of Eu-
rope, upon which we differ, with a
view to our present prospects, upon
which, in a general sense, we agree,
— let us proceed with a sketch of the
most material epochs in the history
of Christendom, that, tracing as in a
clear retrospect the whole road we
have passed, we may have more rea-
sonable grounds of conjecture from
analogy as to that which is in rever-
sion.

The first and by far the most influ-
ential (we may add the most widely
diffused) incident in the progress of
European policy, was the establish-
ment of the Feudal System. On the
one hand it has been made a matter
of marvel that so many different na-
tions, by a sort of blind and over-
mastering sympathy, without any di-
rect communication, should have fall-
en at the same time upon the same
system. On the other hand, it has
been replied that the mere identity
of circumstances drove them of ne-
cessity upon a policy as nearly iden-
tical as possible. Similar dangers
prescribed similar remedies. And if
we examine the essential conditions
and paramount purposes of what it
is that we mean by Feudalism, it will
appear that it was a system admira-
bly adapted to meet a situation of
extraordinary peril. Such peril could
not be separated from the circum-
stances of that military colonization
which was pursued upon so vast a
scale by the hordes of semi-barbarous
people, at that time driven west-
wards, under impulses and constraint
which they could as little resist as
they could themselves be resisted.
Whether Germans or Scandinavians,
whether Cz's-Baltic or TVaws-Baltic,
they found themselves under the
same dire necessity of advancing
upon armed and ferocious nations,
already in possession of the soil from

* Charlemagne was saluted Emperor A. ». 800 ; but at this time he had already
reigned as King thirty-three years. Alfred died A. D. 900. So that the first may be
considered as the child of the 8th century, the other of the 9th,

574 The Prospects

which it was their purpose — their
mission — their necessity, to eject
them. Pressed from behind, in many
cases, by other nations not less for-
midable than themselves, in many
cases pressed by the yet sterner com-
pulsion of domestic famine in seats
too narrow for their increasing num-
bers, they were in a dilemma which
allowed them no choice ; to launch
themselves in successive swarms up-
on the nations to the west, was their
one sole resource ; to perish was their
alternative. These nations were uni-
versally found in a condition more
enfeebled by luxury, and, as to every
habit of martial preparation, far less
considerable than their martial inva-
ders. Still they were in possession,
of itself a great advantage, even in
lands without fortresses; and their
numbers were too great for extermi-
nation. These two great obstacles
in the way of a perfect conquest, and
of absolute security, furnished the
motives to the feudal policy, and
prescribed its form. The Feudal
Chief, and his far-stretching depend-
ency of vassals, exhibited the image
of a castra stativa, or a permanent
gens-d'armerie, keeping watch and
ward at all times upon the motions
of the surrounding population, hold-
ing their foot as it were always in
the stirrup, and each looking to his
immediate superior as the guide of
his own conduct, and his best reli-
ance for keeping up the chain of
communication with his supreme
head. Each in his turn was laid un-
der obligations of gratitude to an im-
mediate superior, which he had no
means of testifying but by military
service. The duties and the enjoy-
ments of life were thus reconciled
with the maintenance of a standing
army; and, by one simple but com-
prehensive arrangement, this army
was, once for all, paid, officered, fix-
ed in its allegiance, and made perpe-
tual through all generations, without
needing any renewed establishment.
The nearest approach to this feu-
dal organization, that we any where
meet with in history, was perhaps
the solemn deduction (to use the
technical term) of a legitimate Ro-
man colony. In this, when not (as
sometimes happened) sent out upon
a private authority, or by the in-
fluence of a faction, or upon a
movement of sedition, but conduct-

of Britain.

[April,

ed on the principles sanctioned by
law and ancient usages, there was
maintained the perfect image of an
army ; for they went with the pur-
pose of an army, to dispossess the
ancient possessors of the soil; and
they needed the same entire de-
pendence upon each other, the same
strict discipline for immediate suc-
cess, and the same cultivation of
social affections amongst each other,
for their ultimate prosperity, which
were essential in the most perilous
and remote expeditions. Whenever
these conditions of a perfect colony
were wanting, a true Roman critic
would not allow it any better name
than that of a mob. The historian
Tacitus, for example, speaking of
such a tumultuary and ill-organized
attempt at colonization, describes it
in these terms : — " Ignoti inter se,
diversis manipulis, sine rectore, sine
affectibus mutuis, quasi ex alio ge-
nere mortalium, repente in unum
collecti, numerus magis quam colo-
nia." So necessary, indeed, was
this solemn organization, so indis-
pensable were all the ceremonies
and ritual of a legal deduction, that
where these were wanting, the colo-
nist became in law no more than an
incola of the new colony, and not a
civis ; and the grievous penalty of
that was — that, whilst he assumed
new duties, he was exonerated from
none of his old ones ; but remained
ever after liable to all the burdens
of a citizen in the old city which he
quitted, no less than in the new one
which he adopted. " Nam, ut in
bello," says Goesius, " ita et in hac
profectione omnia ordine fiebant ; et
non tantum dux sed et vexillum
seque ut in bello aderat." So close,
indeed, was the original resemblance
between a Roman colony in its full
ceremonial and a feudal establish-
ment, that, but for one difference,
this latter would have been account-
ed a Gothic propagation of a Roman
original : this difference lay in the
small range of operation and in-
fluence which belonged to the colo-
ny, contrasted with the feudal sys-
tem, applied (as it generally was) to
extensive kingdoms. That single
difference, by speedily dispersing
the small body of hostility which
faced its first introduction, in no
long period took away from the
Roman colony all necessity for keep-

1832.]

The Prospects of Britain.

ing up the military forms of subor-
dination, or the precautions for de-
fence; whereas, in the other case,
as the dangers which it provided
against were not local, but in the
widest sense national, and as they
continued to exist for many genera-
tions— the original necessity which
had dictated the feudal institutions,
maintained them in their integrity
through a long succession of ages.
The enemies of the Roman colonist
were a few weak rural proprietors,
without arms, numbers, or union,
and with nothing to strengthen their
resistance but the sense of that in-
justice which they had suffered;
and of necessity they soon vanished
to seek their livelihood elsewhere.
But the enemies, whom the feudal
organization was designed to meet,
were round about the conqueror
and in all his paths, by night and by
day — cherishing their enmities, and
transmitting them to their children's
children. And hence it was, that,
whilst the Roman colony was but a
system of transitory regulations, for
purposes of convenience and police,
and to meet the necessities of a mo-
ment, the feudal institutions were
built for a duration which they did
in fact attain,": had it been other-
wise, we repeat that, from the close
resemblance in their elementary fea-
tures, the one system would have
been imagined to have descended
by direct imitation from the other.

The feudal system once matured,
next followed throughout Europe
the long contests between two of
its great component members — the
great aristocratic barons on the one
hand, the sovereign on the other.
At first the balance inclined to the
former ; and the barons were gene-
rally encroaching dangerously upon
the crown. But at length came the
Crusades, which threw the final vic-
tory every where into the hands of
the supreme chieftain. The Cru-
' sades were in many ways beneficial
to Europe; but more by indirect
means, than by any which are im-
mediately and palpably traced to
their influence. By drawing off the
most turbulent and martial of the
great feudal vassals to distant and
dangerous lands, by compelling them
to raise money in sudden ways, and
on very injurious terms, not seldom
by leading eventually to the extinc-

575

tion of great fiefs, which had former-
ly been continual thorns in the side
of the sovereign, but still more by
the very many advantages which ac-
crued to him from the long absences
of his most potent enemies — in every
case, the regal power was extended
and strengthened at the expense of
the aristocracy.

In the course of this long struggle,
began silently to emerge the third
estate of the Commons. Under shel-
ter of either party, as either hap-
pened to gain on the other, and avail-
ing themselves of those necessities
for commercial intercourse and for
manufactures, which will force a way
for themselves even amongst the
rudest and most martial people, they
erected the new functions of com-
mercial wealth, and strengthened
themselves by the civil privileges
which all princes are so ready to
grant, in the infancy of finance, to
those who have it in their power to
confer the aid of money and of
movable supplies, so much envied
by the fixed and sedentary power of
mere territorial wealth.

At length, and pretty nearly about
the same period throughout Europe,
these tendencies had so far matured
themselves, that all princes found
themselves in a situation to enact
laws in harmony with that state of
things ; laws which we ought rather
to view as declaratory of a situation
which had long virtually existed,
than as operating to create it. What
happened in our own country, at the
latter end of the 15th century, will
illustrate — if not a general case, at
least a general tendency. At this
era, Henry VII. mounted the throne,
and by that event, followed by his
marriage with the daughter of Ed-
ward IV., put a period for ever to the
wars and jealousy of the two Roses.
Those wars had so conspired with
the general setting-in and tide of po-
litical tendencies, that the great aris-
tocracy were already in a measure
broken, and in a condition to endure
laws which formerly they would
have spurned. They were then first
limited as to the number of their
followers and feudal retainers ; and
they even accepted as a boon that
power to alienate their landed estates,
which in effect completed the ruin
of their political importance.

From these two causes, in con-

576 The Prospect

junction with the dissolution of the
great church aristocracy, as accom-
plished in the following reign, im-
mense effects followed in the con-
stitution of society. And, in parti-
cular, one effect, which has embar-
rassed many political economists —
viz. the vast swarms of vagrants and
beggars, which now began to infest
all countries, and which in England,
after no long interval, led to the sys-
tem of poor-laws. Many writers
have charged this prodigious expan-
sion of pauperism upon the sudden
extinction of the charity exercised
by the religious houses. But that
cause alone is too narrow for the
effect. In reality, the first founda-
tion of this pauperism was laid by
the sudden suppression of the feu-
dal retainers. The next cause was
a direct consequence of this first,
and pretty exactly rehearsed the
course of events, which, under the
very same circumstances, followed
in the Highlands of Scotland after
the struggle of 1745. For when
estates were no longer allowed to
bear a martial tenantry, when ex-
tent of territory no longer expressed
its importance in the numbers of
followers which it could support,
naturally enough all possessors of
such properties sought to reap their
advantages in the only way now left
open to them by the laws. And this
result was aided and quickened by
the new regulations which governed
the alienation of estates. For if, in
any case, an old feudal lord were still
indisposed (as happened also in
Scotland through one or two gene-
rations) to part with his old martial
retainers, though now become a bur-
den on his property — these feelings
had no sort of weight with the com-
mercial man, whom ambition prompt-
ed, and whom the new law of Henry
VII. permitted, to become the pur-
chasers of such estates. Their pur-
pose was to turn the property to as
much account as possible ; and this
was best done by substituting cattle
or sheep for man. Hence the general
complaint* in Edward VI.'s reign,
by which time the effects had be-
come extensive and palpable, of de-
population of estates — of throwing

s of Britain. [April,

small farms into large ones— of sacri-
ficing Christian fellow-creatures to
brutes, &c. Hence also the univer-
sal clamour against beggars as infest-
ing the high roads; and hence the
prodigious multitude of executions
in that age, for acts of robbery or
other violence.

That these results were not con-
fined to England, and that they arose
elsewhere out of the same final pass-
ing away of the feudal system, and
the consequent abolition of all bene-
fit from those services which were
performed by a body of martial vas-
sals, is evident from the contempo-
rary documents of the continent.
For example, a very ample law on
the subject of pauperism, issued by
the Emperor Charles V., and dated
October 9, 1531, states in one part
of its preamble, " That whereas the
poor of our provinces are now much
more in number than formerly they
used to be ; and whereas it is found
by experience that many abuses have
arisen from suffering them to beg
and ask alms," &c. Holland and the
Low Countries generally, with many
great tracts of Germany, were be-
ginning to suffer from this evil pre-
cisely at the same time as England;
and as, in all these countries, its first
great pressure began to be observed
about the dawning of the Reforma-
tion, it need not surprise us that it
was pretty generally and exclusively
ascribed to that great event.

At this crisis, indeed, the condition
of the poor, of those who had nothing
to offer but their labour, was at the
very lowest point of depression
which history records. They were
in the state of transition from a mar-
tial to a civic organization: in the
one direction their services were
cancelled ; and in the other, as yet
there were no modes of industry cre-
ated which could absorb their num-
bers. However, the new political or-
der of Commons was rapidly rising
into importance. By the door re-
cently opened for their admission
into territorial possessions, they soon
became equally connected with the
landed and commercial wealth — with
rural industry and the industry of
towns. A class of gentry rapidly

* See the chronicles and the sermons of that day, especially those of Bishop
Latimer.

1832.]

arose; arid under their intelligent
spirit of enterprise, far greater num-
bers were called for than those who,
in the first stage of the transition,
had been found to be wholly super-
fluous.

These Commons, headed by this
gentry, and standing upon the ruins
of the feudal aristocracy, soon be-
came the most important body in
the state. Their property and their
indirect influence were already at a
prodigious height at the accession of
the Stewarts. But the direct influ-
ence secured to them by the laws,
was in no proportion to the indirect
and virtual power which they al-
ready exercised. They had grown
up silently under a state of laws con-
templating a very different organiza-
tion of society, and originally fitted,
in fact, to a condition of things which
had become obsolete with the de-
cay of feudalism. The letter of the
law said one thing, and the virtual
necessities of society under its new
arrangement said something totally
different. And it was simply because
Charles I. looked to the old super-
annuated forms, and estimated a
House of Commons by its ancient
standard, when either the blind tools
of a fierce aristocracy, or at best in
a pupilar and elementary state of
transition, simply to this original
mistake it was that he owed the se-
ries of his obstinate errors, his mis-
fortunes, and his fate.

Other princes have every where
made the same blunder, and have
put down to the turbulence or ma-
lignity of individual bad men, or to
the general delusions of an age, what
in reality were the inevitable prompt-
ings of liberty and power shifting to
new classes of men, and seeking to
obtain the sanction of law to the
changes in the composition of so-
ciety. With or without the opposi-
tion of princes, however, such chan-
ges for Europe are now wellnigh
matured. Harrington has taught
us — that power passes with the ba-
lance of landed property ; wherever
the balance in that respect is placed,
there lies the balance of political
power. Now at this moment the
true balance of that nature has pass-
ed so immeasurably, so beyond all
powers of calculation, into the hands
of the tiers etat, or what is virtually
such, that we cannot doubt for a

The Prospects of Britain.

577

moment in what quarter it is that the
true and proper forces now rest, by
which the great quarrel which is at
hand will and must be waged.

Here let us pause. Looking to
that question which we have before
us, history presents but one great in-
cident slowly unweaving itself from
the Crusades downwards — and that
is the evolution of the Commons or
third estate. With England for their
model, with Commerce for their in-
strument, and the press for their
common agitator, all parts of Europe
have now reared up a body corre-
sponding in its views and functions
to the English Commons. That they
do not generally resemble their pro-
totype in temper, in wisdom, or in-
telligence, does indeed shed gloom
upon our prospects throughout that
contest which we see approaching,
but cannot avert or retard it. Every
where to the west of Russia, the po-
pular forces are organized in a secret
understanding against the aristo-
cracy, very frequently against the
crown, as now become the natural
ally of that body, and against the an-
cient systems of law, as codes having
their origin in an age when the
crown and the nobility were sepa-
rately or jointly, with or against each
other, the sole depositaries of politi-
cal power.

Hence, from this source, and of
this nature, is the contest, that mighty
European contest, which we in com-
mon with Mr Douglas apprehend.
Privilege, and the children of privi-
lege, are arrayed against the mighty
unprivileged masses, now at length
too fatally made conscious of their
own tremendous power. Of this
contest, what will be the course ?
what the issue ?

Mr Douglas looks for part of his
answer (and naturally he looks with
alarm) to Russia. Too surely that for-
midable name cannot be overlooked
by any speculator in these questions.
Russia, gigantic Russia, broods over
Europe with an incubation friendly
to no aspects of civilisation, and pro-
mising no catastrophe to the great
drama, but such as will bring infinite
carnage and infinite confusion in
its train. And further, it is too no-
torious at this time, that in the ge-
neral pacification of Europe, which
followed the downfall of Napoleon,
the last opportunity was lost that

578

will ever offer for setting bounds
to the aggressions of this empire,
and forming barriers in central Eu-
rope to that inordinate ambition
which cannot else be bridled. The
fatal distinction of Russian ambition
is — that it is not personal. It does
not, nor can it, expire with an indi-
vidual. " Individually, the late and
the present Czar have been amongst
the most amiable of men. But Rus-
sia is self-tempted. In her bound-
less territory lies her summons to
the extension of territory: in the
voices of 300 distinct tribes or na-
tions who salute the Czar as their
liege lord, lies the secret war-cry
-**-' --1-1 "icrs. More

The Prospects of Britain.

[April,

she must have, because she has so
much. And if the ambitious spirits
of that nation be thus under the ob-
ligations of headlong impulse to pur-
sue a career of foreign conquest, the
imperial family bends to an equal
necessity of prudence in the very
same direction. The Russian prin-
ces tremble before a haughty nobi-
lity, and often have no refuge from
conspiracies of the palace, except
in the centre of their armies.

This was known in 1815 : this was
familiar to those who then had the
dictation of European treaties, and
who moved with power in the seve-
ral congresses which succeeded in
the following year. Yet what chan-
ges since then — all favourable to
Russia ! Erivan, the capital of Per-
sian Armenia, and the very citadel
of Persian security, captured in that
quarter; and Persia, both by arms
and by treaties, prostrated at her
feet — gagged and bound, and if not
yet an avowed dependency of the
Russian crown, shorn both of
strength and hope for all future re-
sistance. Southwards again, on an-
other quarter, the Balkan surmount-
ed, and the Crescent chased and dis-
honoured to the gates of that once
mighty Sultan, whose name was a
perpetual panic to the Caesars of the
Rhine and Danube. Poland again,
by her own senseless insurrection,
instead of the barrier that under
other management she might have
become against Russia, now made
her foremost military post, which
opens the gates of the west to her
armies — and by fixing her magazines
on the very frontier line of Prussia,
at one blow, in diminishing the cost,

diminishes the one sole difficulty
which has hitherto crippled the bel-
ligerent propensities of Russia. Then
again in all parts of the west itself,
those which Russia most pants after,
and of which, from past experience,
she retains the most luxurious re-
membrances,— what changes to fa-
cilitate her progress since the day
when Suwarrow led her armies !
Across the Alps roads for the pass-
age of artillery in every direction ;
over the Splugen, over Mount Cenis,
over St Bernard, St Gothard, the
Simplon ! In Italy itself, again,
what provision made for rapid move-
ments upon every one of the great
cities ; and along the whole line of
the Apennines, from Nice to the
Gulf of Spezzia, a corridor carried,
upon which armies may advance in
parade order ; obstacles of nature
every where levelled, aids of art al-
most superfluously accumulated !

Doubtless it is not to be denied
that a dreadful cloud lowers over the
west from this quarter, and the more
so because no armed confederacy
of the west can be hoped for on a
scale commensurate to such a dan-
ger. In our days that must not be
looked for ; because, if the thrones
were awake to their dangers and
their duties, the popular dictation is
every where powerful enough to pre-
vent any effectual concert or league
amongst kings, whether for good
purposes or bad. That danger,
which at one time was supposed to
have been realized in the Holy Alli-
ance, is now already superannuated
by another in a contradictory form.
That spectre has been exorcised by
another more formidable, and more
absolute inits supremacy for evil ends.

Yet in this very complexity of
menacing appearances, there is as
usual some hope, because in any
number of dangers there are gene-
rally some which will not harmon-
ize. If the fervour of democracy
in these days speaks with too pe-
remptory a voice to allow of such
a combination amongst crowned
heads as was easily effected in 1792,
—on the other hand, by thus facili-
tating the aggressions of Russia, in
that degree will the popular and
anti-regal forces have courted and
facilitated a collision with a foe that
will eventually destroy them, unless
itself be previously destroyed,

1832.1

The Prospects of Britain.

The Russian armies are held in
leash to let slip upon the fairest pro-
vinces of our Western Europe; and,
in the eyes of very many, they hold
the same place as the Goths and Van-
dals, the Huns, Heruli, or Lombards,
of early Christendom. Are they —
we again bring the main question to
this issue — are they such? Do they
stand in the true situation of those
conquerors ? Do we occupy that of
their unhappy victims?

For many most essential differ-
ences, thanks be to God ! we are en-
titled to answer both questions em-
phatically in the negative. The Rus-
sians have not the necessities, and
therefore they have not the fell pas-
sions for destroying, of the ruthless
migrators in ancient days ; still less
are we, nations so warlike and ac-
complished, in any parallel condition
to that of the Gauls or Britons. Yet,
were this all the difference between
the two cases, the practical result
would be little in our favour ; for it
would promise only a fiercer or more
protracted warfare.

Starting, however, from what is
identical in the two situations of Eu-
rope at epochs so remote, let us en-
deavour to compute in what diver-
sity of result the acknowledged dif-
ferences of the cases would be likely
to emerge, — still keeping our eye
upon the actual records of history, as
we have rehearsed them in their pro-
minent points, for that one of the two
cases which is past. It cannot be de-
nied, that a lapse of 14 centuries has
replaced Europe in a position in many
points strictly analogous (if in some
it be admitted to be contradictory)
to that which she occupied at the
opening of this period. She then
looked northwards with rueful anxi-
ety to a thick cloud, which was soon
to discharge the wrath of Providence
upon her ; she now looks north-
wards again with anticipations of the
same complexion. And it may be
"urged by those who are disposed to
magnify the terrors of this crisis,
that, if the Europe which now trem-
bles is no longer the same helpless
region which reasonably trembled at
the former era, neither, on the other
hand, was that Europe which then
inflicted the terror, upon a level with
her present representative. Things
have changed upon both sides. As
the resistance would be far more ob-

579

stinate and scientific, so would the
assault. If the great victories on the
part of Russia would not be more
frequent, they would, however, by
means of the press, diffuse a far
more extensive panic; and often-
times it is seen, that the panic of
one battle does the work of three.
Undoubtedly it cannot be denied,
and it is indeed the remark of a Bri-
tish minister of state about four years
ago, that, amongst other scandalous
oversights in the pacific settlements
of the several congresses which met
in 1814, 1818, and 1821, Prussia, Sax-
ony, and, generally speaking, all those
countries upon which the first wrath
of the tempest must be expected to
descend, were left with frontier lines
either undefended, or (from the na-
ture of the changes then made) ab-
solutely indefensible. When we add,
that by the very same treaties Rus-
sia was complimented with the so-
lemn cession (so utterly uncalled for)
of Swedish Finland, we might almost
be tempted to think that the western
potentates of Europe had been in
a conspiracy against themselves. —
" Prussia," said the same intelligent
minister, " has the largest possible
extent of frontier, without any bar-
rier, natural or moral, to defend it j
and, as she now is, she cannot long
continue. She must become either
more or less formidable. At present,
she bounds Russia on the east, and
France on the west. She will be driven
to some desperate step for her own
protection." The same minister adds,
" That to permit, under any circum-
stances, the further aggrandizement
of Russia, was an error of a graver
character; and when, in 1815, Alex-
ander backed his demands of Poland,
by cantoning a hundred thousand
troops within the country whose fate
was under discussion, he furnished
the best possible evidence that his
demands ought not to have been con-
ceded."

But allowing that every thing has
been done which indiscretion could
suggest to facilitate the first aggres-
sions of the Russians, of what nature
will be their ultimate success? Will it
be confined to a few colonial settle-
ments in those sunny spots of Europe
which are most tempting and least de-
fensible; or can we be entitled to an-
ticipate an issue to this warfare in any
respect corresponding to the case of

680

the Goths and Vandals ? Is the re-
newal of such a case, in the circum-
stances of modern civilisation, a pos-
sible event ?

For us of Western Europe, it will
be a sufficient calamity, if by the ag-
gressors it shall be thought so ; for
their plans may be governed by such
expectations. But we shall assign a
few weighty arguments, which weigh
much with us in questioning the pos-
sibility of such a catastrophe. West-
ern Europe, throughout the decline
of the Roman empire of the west,
was probably much underpeopled.
Or at least, allowing for the depopu-
lation made by continual and bloody
combats (a depopulation which, un-
der the circumstances of the case,
could not be made good by any re-
action in the principle of population
— such as redeems the losses of a
modern campaign), there was ample
room for an army with their wives
and children ; and the invading na-
tion was generally no more than an
army. Wheresoever the sword, that
most rapid of pruning-knives,had not
availed to create a solitude, and, by
consequence, a settlement for the
new-comers, there can be no doubt,
that a very slight extension of agri-
culture would meet the emergency.
Much fertile land, it is evident, was
every where left untouched ; and the
victorious invaders, coming in as they
did by gradual detachments, conti-
nued throughout a long tract of years,
would scarcely need to impose more
than a little extra labour upon the
rural industry of the land. It is
doubtful, indeed, considering the
slender indigenous population which
must have occupied the countries of
Britain and Gaul in those days, whe-
ther the conquering barbarians did
much more than fill the places of
those natives whom they had exter-
minated. And thus, at all events,
there were no great physical obsta-
cles to their final settlement amongst
those whom they had conquered.

But in our days, how differently is
all this arranged ! Every where, the
very densest population that can pos-
sibly be carried by resources multi-
plied and unfolded to their very ut-
most capacity by science the most
enlarged, must be pierced as by a
wedge by any military force that
should seek a settlement amongst
them, Unless the spirit and maxims

The Prospects of Britain.

[April,

of modern warfare should be entire-
ly revolutionized, the immediate car-
nage of battle could never be suffi-
cient to create a fund of sufficient
colonization amongst nations who are
themselves obliged annually to throw
off large swarms in'search of Antarc-
tic homes. Colonies there could be
none, of any permanence or extent,
for armies entering under such cir-
cumstances.

Again, when we look back to the
Gothic conquests, we see that they
were maintained only by military
colonizations, in the composition of
which the whole victorious nation
participated ; and we see also, that
this system of colonization in the bo-
som of deadly enemies, could have
been accomplished only by means of
the feudal institutions — practised, no
doubt, in their first rudiments from
the earliest date of the German mi-
grations.

But if circumstances could other-
wise allow of this superfetation of
population, we must be sure, that,
without the protection of a feudal
system, safety there could be none for
those new colonists planted amongst
a potent host of vindictive enemies.

On such a question besides, it is
certain that another element of Euro-
pean warfare, — that is to say, the ma-
ritime preponderance, in whatsoever
hands reposed, could not but have
a final influence of the most decisive
character. There is an old maxim of
Cicero's, Necesse est qui mare teneat,
eum rerum potiri. Now, though this
rule was never meant by its author
for an unconditional maxim, but was
cautiously restrained to one particu-
lar conjuncture of affairs, yet, more
than any partial aphorism whatever,
it is continually revolving into a new
aspect of truth ; the similarity of po-
litical situations having the effect of
recalling it to its original applicabi-
lity. And precisely such a case of si-
milarity it is which will revolve upon
us, under the circumstances of a Rus-
sian descent upon the west. Mari-
time Christendom, in which we com-
prehend the American United States,
possibly other republics of that great
continent, will confederate in an iron
league against this common danger ;
and, balancing against each other all
contingencies, the positions of the
several parties, their interests and
their powers, it is not too much to

1832.]

say, that, excepting in Germany, and
on the German side the Alps, Russia
would not find it possible to main-
tain any great conquests that she
might succeed in making.

Meantime a, power, which should
find itself thwarted and controlled
in its foremost purpose, might for
that reason have all the weightier
motives for conducting its warfare
in the spirit of marauders and de-
stroyers. And if this were other-
wise, supposing even that the ancient
maxims of honourable war should
continue to govern the policy of
Russia, still from the very nature
and scale of this particular war — the
north and the east of Europe pro-
jecting itself in masses upon the
south and the west, and in pursuit
of objects which could not fail to
give a barbarizing character to the
whole course of hostilities— no pos-
sible foresight or vigilance on the
part of the leaders could disarm
their rude followers of ferocious and
Vandalizing habits. The misery and
desolation must necessarily be infi-
nite wherever the banner of the Czar
floats for the time — whether finally
triumphant or not. But, after all,
the ultimate course of this anoma-
lous inundation — whether it shall re-
tire after infinite mischief done, and
suffering inflicted within its native
boundaries, or shall be permitted by
Providence to convert many amongst
the most flourishing seats of human
industry into swamps and deserts —
will be determined chiefly by consi-
derations proper and internal to each
particular country. Let us turn to
our own.

If Great Britain were at this mo-
ment to perish, some are of opinion
that she has already done the work
to which she was primarily appoint-
ed by Providence. She has found-
ed colonies that are grown, or are
growing, into mighty nations : she
-has built up a most magnificent and
original literature; this, with her
noble language, she has dispersed
over the globe ; and finally, which is
the true ground of all the angry and
malicious judgments current against
her, for more than a century she has
stood forth, amongst the waves which
surround her, a Pharos of light and
hope and consolation to all the na-
tions of old and new Christendom ;
imitated by all of them, looked to as

The Prospects of Britain.

i piupuii/iuu as sue was Known

ididly appreciated, admitted to
aost beyond imitation in what-

681

the sole great archetype of excel-
lence in her political institutions :
and in proportion as she was known
or cane

be almost beyond
soever regards the purity of her pub-
lic morals.

Has this sceptre of moral influence
departed from her ? Is she no longer
" that great leading" spirit amongst
the intellectual tribes, of this planet,
which, for beneficent and Christian
ends, exercised that supremacy once
wielded by the Roman, and applied
by him to no ends but those of irre-
sponsible power ?

We will reply ; but (as becomes
the question) thoughtfully, and con-
sulting the signs which are abroad.
Events are crowding thick upon us,
which will soon hurry us onward to
a station from which we shall obtain
"large prospect" of the course which
is before us. Every great crisis,
which is such for a mighty and im-
portant section of the human race,
comes heralded by many signs : these
are large, vague, and ambiguous at
a distance; and they first assume a
general legibility when the dangers
which they announce are close up-
on us : the signs cease to be dispu-
ted, when the things signified cease
to be within control.

We will draw our horoscope of
the destiny which at this moment
hangs over Great Britain from those
circumstances in her situation which
engage the conversation of all Eu-
rope— her plethoric population — her
system of poor laws — her colonies —
her debt, and her Reform Bill — which
last, whilst it is hailed by myriads as
the cure for the rest, is, in the esti-
mate of others, that one which will
invest the others with a destroying
force. These are the maculae in the
disk of this resplendent star. Let
us pass them in review.

" Physician, heal thyself !"— How
full of projects is England, from the
senate to the humblest of her vil-
lage assemblages, how redundantly
philanthropic in schemes for amend-
ing the condition of distant nations
— how negligent of her own child-
ren ! To be the denizen of remote
latitudes — to be coloured by other
climates, seems the one sole postu-
late which she insists upon as an ar-
gument for her benevolence. Mean-
time her own population is in a state

582

which makes vain and desperate all
human aid, for purposes which are
more than palliating. The time is
past in which self-delusions, such as
have governed our policy thus far,
can be anylonger supported. Odious
truth is rapidly forcing its way into
all understandings.' open to convic-
tion; truth — odious, but not to be
put by or gainsaid — that pur long
ascendency in the arts of industry,
has succeeded in forcing a popula-
tion already much ahead of our re-
sources, but still more so by the rate
of their annual increase. Mechanical
discoveries, by which the call for hu-
man labour is continually abridged,
have proved at length a fatal snare
to England. We read in romantic
legends of meddlers with forbidden
arts of demonology, who have gra-
dually become alarmed by their own
unlawful powers, who have revolted
in horror from the meshes which
their own spiritual ascendency was
multiplying around their paths, and
who have prayed, with rueful an-
guish, that it might be possible for
them to exchange their criminal
power and knowledge for the most
pitiable imbecility unembittered by
guilt. That is the condition of Eng-
land. Means have concurred with
opportunity to tempt her forward
on a road, where at length there is
no retreat and no advance, neither
regress nor progress, and where
every step brings up the bitter pe-
nalties of that system which has
been made the paramount spring of
her policy. In earlier stages of her
commercial developement, it hap-
pened naturally enough that any sud-
den excess of population, created by
great mechanical discoveries, was as
suddenly re-absorbed ; for the pro-
digious fall of prices, consequent
upon the prodigious economy of
labour, expanded the circle of buy-
ers so rapidly, as to call back into
this extended scale of production
those very labourers who had been
found too many on the old scale.
Ten times less labour, we will sup-
pose, was required upon each given
portion of production ; that was the
first consequence of the discovery :
but the next was perhaps that fifty
times more production was called
for ; and thus the old labourers, ab-
stracted for the moment, were sum-
moned back in a five-fold proportion.

The Prospects of Britain.

[April,

This process was oftentimes repeat-
ed through the course of the 18th
century ; so often, and to many it is
so familiar as an effect which has
followed, that they allow themselves
to think of it as an unconditional or
absolute effect, which must follow, as
a matter of political necessity, when-
ever time is allowed. But it is not
an unconditional effect: it is one
which depends on various condi-
tions ; foremost among which is the
state of demand for our national
products both at home and from
abroad. Seventy years ago this was
susceptible of enormous expansions
— such that in a practical sense they
might then be counted on as an
infinite resource. But time and the
miracles of human energy exhaust
every thing ; and in this world of
limit and circumscription, infinites
there are none amongst the counters
with which human ability is destined
to play : in that strife all is finite.
At home the demand increased on a
double scale — one which steadily
followed the yearly increase of our
numbers, and another which more
unequally obeyed the changes in our
system of manners. At the acces-
sion of George III. it is well known
that dress was amongst the conven-
tional distinctions of rank j and cer-
tain manufactures were as effectual-
ly confined to the upper orders of
society by the silent authority of
custom and manners, as if their use
had been peremptorily limited by
penal laws. All this has bent to the
sweeping revolutions which have
been wrought in the spirit of the
age. The silks and the veils, &c.,
which some years ago were as ex-
clusively tabooed, and set apart to
the use of the mistress as pearls or
rubies, are now familiarly worn by
the servant. Here is a change in
a single instance, and so trivial a
change, as scarcely to have been
noticed by men in general, which
has had the effect of throwing a vast
nation (the nation of servants), pre-
viously unknown as customers, into
the English silk market. Corre-
sponding changes in other nations,
as they happened to come nearest to
us in wealth and refinement, have
continually fallen in to swell the
great current of our commercial
prosperity j and in all European na-
tions we repeat that these changes

J832.]

The Prospects of Britain.

have followed a twofold impulse,
one in the ratio of the annual in-
crease of numbers, and a second
(sometimes a much greater one) in
the spirit of manners. For all changes
in that respect since the French Re-
volution have tended to elevate the
lower classes, and of necessity there-
fore (as a primary effect) to express
themselves externally in such dis-
tinctions of dress as had previously
been associated in the public feeling
with a superior condition of rank.

Here, then, is a confluent body of
extraordinary aids, some of them
such as to be incapable of any repe-
tition, all setting in with absolute
uniformity of effect to sustain the
British commerce; and to sustain,
through a number of years, sufficient
for the purpose of a general illusion,
its indefinite extension. But that
illusion is rapidly melting away.
Events too, marked and memorable,
have given it a shock from which it
will never rally j and that panic,
which by separate intervals has so
often convulsed the British nation,
may now at length be pronounced
the chronic affection of the public
mind.

Yes ! Panic has struck root
amongst the thoughtful — never more
to be extirpated. Let us image to
ourselves the condition of public
feeling in Rome during those years
of decay/and dishonour, when the
northern barbarians might be pictu-
red as virtually enthroned upon the
Alps, and looking down from that
station upon the fatal beauty of Italy.
A little farther delay, a little fleeting
reprieve — this was all that the saga-
cious could anticipate from such
transitory gleams of sunshine as
might happen to fall upon the Ro-
man banners in the brief pauses of
the storm. Even the less dubious
splendour which attended that last
great general who protected the
throne of Honorius, could not revive
any truly Roman hopes in those who
understood the real condition of

583

Rome, and the hollowness of the
very ground on which all her defen-
ces were built. Such, and little dif-
fering even in degree, is the prophetic
sadness which broods over the con-
templations of British statesmen in
1832; of those who look steadily
upon the phenomena already with-
in their field of vision, who calcu-
late without self-flattery their yet
invisible tendencies, and to whom —
as one result from their faithful
study, and appreciation of the past —
" The aspiring heads of future things ap-
pear."

It is not to many, nor is it even to
the chosen few, more than seldom,
that the future does truly reveal it-
self in any distinctness of lineaments,
or truth of proportions. Yet there
are times, according to the sublime
sentiment which Schiller ascribes to
Wallenstein, when man stands nearer
than usual to the mysterious foun-
tains of his destiny : such a time is
ours. And to us, it seems that the
handwriting on the wall, the hiero-
glyphics of our English destiny, can
scarcely need an interpreter to any
reader of thoughtful habits.

We have already said that our po-
pulation stands in this remarkable
(in some respects, unexampled)
condition : it is increasing rapidly,
when our circumstances require
that it should be stationary ; and the
rate of this increase obeys an im-
pulse, not derived (as in all reason
it should be) from the present, but
from a state of things now utterly
extinct. That, indeed, is the melan-
choly condition entailed upon all
prodigious expansions of national
prosperity consequent upon great
discoveries. Such discoveries arise
in a moment, are adopted in a week,
and come into steady operation as a
stimulus to the population in that
very year which witnesses their own
birth. Inevitably such a stimulus
transcends the occasion, and evokes
a new population* disproportionate
to the occasion. Inevitably also the

* There is, however, one shape in which this national evil manifests itself— which,
as a very great aggravation of that evil, calls for legal correction. In the great ma-
nufacturing districts, it will often happen that a stagnation, either in trade generally,
or in some one branch of it, throws out of employ some tens of thousands. Suppose,
now, that this stagnation is of long duration, and the want of work absolute and

The Prospects of Britain,

584

impulse and excitement continue to
act long after the original causes
have expired or have decayed. On
this, as on other large questions of
a mixed nature, there may be con-
flicting theories abroad : but in none,
and in no quarter of much influ-
ence, is the fact gainsaid— that the
land is sick to repletion, and over-
gorged with excess of men. Men
is now too truly a weed amongst
us. And wherever that happens, we
know what follows : law becomes
unavailing for the protection of rights
and property; insecurity prevails,
except within the immediate range
of the sword ; and even for that wild
distribution of justice, we are now
instructed by the very weightiest of
our state counsellors in all matters
of police — to rely upon no public or
authorized aids, [it is a late Mini-
ster of Police who thus counsels us,
and himself an organizer of a most
effectual police,] but each man up-
on his domestic resources and his
own right hand. Melancholy times
in which such counsel jean be given
(and wisely given) by a man like
Sir Robert Peel !

Now it is upon this feature of the
times, which we hold to be charac-
teristic and peculiar, that we build
our worst auguries. Whosoever uses
history for any valuable purpose of
life and practical admonition, will
find, on turning over our English
records, that in no reign, under no
oppressions, under no political ex-
citements, have there ever been si-
multaneous risings of the labouring
classes, in remote counties, and co-
vering a very large surface of the

[April,

country, excepting only in pur own
days of equal law and righteous
government. What perhaps came
nearest to it in the point of extent,
was the transient confederacy of the
club-men, who rose in many counties
at the same time about the year 1643
or 1644. Their purpose, however,
though chimerical enough, was sub-
stantially pacific. Peace was what
they sought — peace through the
means of war; for their design was
to overpower the two hostile armies
then in the field, and to save their
country from the desolation which
they began to anticipate. But what
has been the purpose and the spirit
of all who have risen in our days ?
Let that question be answered truly,
and our situation will be under-
stood.

We will answer it ourselves.
Some have said that the people were
starving. That is not true. Wages,
such as met the necessities of animal
life, were still generally obtained by
the incendiary peasants of 1830.*
But it is certain that comfortable and
respectable subsistence could be
had no longer ; still less could it be
hoped for in times to come. Had
the case at that time been argued on
behalf of the peasantry of England
by an able advocate, it was there —
in the absolute extinction of hope-
that he would have laid the grava-
men of his apology. The instincts of
men are sure in what regards their
primary interests ; and one sad uni-
formity of downward-looking expe-
rience, since the general pacification
of Europe,t justified the rural popu-
lation of England in a fixed despond-

total for those whom it affects, in that case they are often thrown back upon their
parishes in Wales, Cumberland, &c., or shipped back to Ireland. Possibly in twelve
or in twenty months the trade revives, and a re-absorption takes place of an equiva-
lent population. Equivalent) it is true, but not numerically the same. They are
young and fresh labourers from Ireland, Wales, &c., stimulated by the rumour of
high wages in Manchester or its environs. And thus for want of some measure of
registration or other legal provision, the very same manufacturer in the course of his
life creates several successive sets of paupers ; and unintentionally stimulates the in-
crease of population by perhaps ten times more encouragement to it than he really
needs.

* Perhaps 8s. 6d. and 9s. a-week might be taken as the average wages of agricul-
tural labour throughout Southern England at the period in question.

f In a few years after the peace of 1815, the depression which affected every mode
of industry, whether rural or urban, whether in raw products or in manufactures,
became so excessive, that a question arose universally about its cause ; and the popu-
l#r paralogism of " Cum post hoc; ergo proptcr hoc," was never more abundantly

1832.]

The Pi- aspects of Britain.

ency as regarded the future. For
them, at least, it seemed that no
change was to be expected, except
that in every advancement of steam-
navigation, more and more of Irish
competitors might be looked for to
participate in a miserable strife for
a miserable pittance. This was the
calamity under which the industry
of the land suffered, and was con-
scious that it suffered; and not so
much the immediate pressure, as the
fixed belief that for them time had no
hopes in reversion, and patience no
remedy.

And let us ask of those self-delu-
ders who still cling to the belief that
the case is one of " med'cinable
grief" — what is their remedy ? We
hear of two : " Instruct the people ;
diffuse knowledge and education" —
say one class of speculators. " Re-
form your Parliament, and extend
the basis of your representation" —
is the cry of another. The children
of the soil ask for bread, and these
counsellors would give them a stone.
Such counsels are a mockery, and
will be resented as an insult by those
who are most concerned. Of know-
ledge, so far as it consists in the me-
chanic aids of knowledge — the arts
of reading and writing, we have al-
ready more than a sufficient diffusion
to augment our danger incalculably,
unless it had been better followed up
by systems of religious instruction
than can be generally affirmed of
England. We are no patrons of dark-
ness ; and we readily admit that all
coercion, which depends for its ef-
fect and its permanence upon the
blindness of the governed, is main-
tained by a tenure as brittle and as
liable to fatal shocks, as it is unwor-
thy in its principle. The noble in

heart, those who love noble ends,
must by choice deal with noble
means and instruments ; and it would
be the merest contradiction to sup-
pos3 that a government and a senate,
radiant centres as those of this great
empire have long been of enlighten-
ed sentiments and righteous pur-
poses, could wish for, aid, or coun-
tenance any plans which presumed
upon the ignorance of those for
whose welfare in a political sense
they are responsible. We are bound
to suppose it their wish, as we know
it to be their duty, to spread light
through the nation. Much indeed has
been done in that direction. But to
evils such as those which were the
true moving forces in the late insur-
rection of the peasantry, what re-
dress could be applied by increase
of knowledge? Men cannot suffer
without hope, nor sit in darkness
contentedly, by virtue of any spells
that belong simply to education, or
any knowledge which it imparts.
Merely intellectual powers are here
invoked in vain. Moral evils must be
met, if at all, by moral remedies.
And those are in the sole keeping of
religion; which we heartily agree
with the author before us in regard-
ing as the one sole panacea for every
variety of evil in every order of
men.

Meantime for the other remedy
suggested by the fashion of the hour
— Reform in Parliament — we are
grieved to find that it obtains any the
most oblique sanction from a writer
so enlightened as Mr Douglas. Ha-
ving on other occasions abundantly
opened ourselves on that theme — we
shall here confine ourselves to one
suggestion on that qu&stio vexatissi-
ma, offered exclusively to conscien-

employed. As the depression came after the peace, what could be clearer than that it
was amongst the consequences of peace ? — Meantime, those who escaped this fallacy fell
into another, which equally served to hide the true solution. The taxes, said they,
being so enormously diminished, of necessity the expenditure on the part of the state
was diminished to that amount ; and in the same degree the stimulus was suddenly
withdrawn which had previously been applied to every mode of production. But to
this it was justly replied — If that were all, no such effects could have followed; since
the taxes now remitted to the people were as certainly applied to consumption directly,
and therefore indirectly to production, as though they had passed into the treasury.
The true solution was this : The vast loans of the war season were now withdrawn
from the expenditure ; these, like the taxes, ceased to be spent by the government ;
but were not, like the taxes, spent vicariously by others. Every loan increases the
annual expenditure, and therefore forces production exactly to that amount.
VOL, XXXI. NO. CXCIII. 2 P

The Prospects of Britain.

586

tious men like Mr Douglas, who would
be shocked at suspecting themselves
to be accomplices in precipitating a
national convulsion. Many men of
the purest patriotism looked with
favour and with hope upon the deli-
berations of the States-General in
France, and afterwards upon the
early labours of that reformed assem-
bly into which they soon resolved
themselves. We need not say in what
labyrinths of guilt and bloodshed and
political fanaticism they afterwards
entangled themselves, so that in their
latter stages they came to be regard-
ed as a mere judgment from Heaven
upon France, and a reproach to hu-
man nature. Now, the question which
we would raise upon these historical
facts, with a view to our own domes-
tic problem of Reform, is simply
this : — by what process, or by whose
agency was it, that a deliberative
body, opening its labours under such
happy auspices, fell at length into
this abyss of infamy, and what we
may call political reprobation ? It
was thus : — each several form of this
representative body, when remodel-
ling the shape in which its next suc-
cessor should appear, created for it
new powers, and clothed it with new
and ample jurisdictions, that had
been wisely denied to itself in the
original constitution by which its
functions were defined. In some in-
stances the new body was thus in-
vested with clashing and contradic-
tory powers : in many it invaded the
powers which belonged to other or-
gans of the state ; and in many more
it found itself able to defeat in prac-
tice all the apparent or hypothetic
checks upon its own exorbitances.
By such a process of successive le-
gislation, for the remodelling of le-
gislative assemblies, it is evident that
what no one of these bodies can do
for itself, any may do for its suc-
cessor. Each for itself is bound and
controlled by its own constitution;
but wherever that is found in prac-
tice to lay a restraint upon its mo-
tions, care is taken in shaping the new
model to adjust it to the new and
wildest notions of its own rights. And
of these rights, it is to be observed,
each successive body necessarily
judges upon that advanced station
from which it views them through
the liberality of its predecessor.
Thus it is, and by this graduated

[April,

developement of powers, that a supre-
macy in the state is built up for a
deliberative body, such as the most
encroaching of its original members
under its first constitution could
never have proposed. In fact, it
may be laid down as an immutable
maxim, that no political body is ca-
pable of remodelling itself, or ought
to be trusted with the framing of its
own constitution.

This rule was violated in France ;
and there lies the answer to the ques-
tion which we have raised on the
causes of the revolutionary excesses.
Political bodies, allowed to tamper
with their own constitution, did that
for themselves which others would
not have done. A fortiori, they could
do that for themselves, under the de-
lusive name of successors, which they
could not have done for themselves
directly. New jurisdictions and
powers, unchecked and unbalanced,
were thus created gradually, which
would have been denounced by pub-
lic opinion as capital abuses, had
they been usurped at one blow. And
lastly, men yielded to a force of
temptation acting upon them thus in-
sidiously and by separate stages,
which would in many instances have
been resisted, had the same men been
exposed to the same trials — with
principles as yet undebauched by
power, and virtuous dispositions as
yet unsapped by this graduated scale
of encroachments.

In England what is it that will save
us from treading the same unhappy
circle ? A Parliament, which exercises
the power of remodelling its own an-
cient constitution, and in effect of
placing itself on a new basis of po-
pular influence and popular alliance
— what else does it do than create a
new power in the state — which new
power, with the same evident right
to extend its authority as could be
claimed by its predecessor, will come
to that task with much ampler means
for effecting it ? Once admit a right
in Parliament to revolutionize itself,
then as that body, upon each renew-
al of itself, whether septennial or
otherwise, will accede, by mere ne-
cessity, to the old inheritance of
rights, and, by favour of its'predeces-
sor, to a new legacy of power, — it
cannot be doubted that this vast ex-
pansion in the Commons, already
surmounting: the fellow members of

1832.1

The Prospects of Britain.

our mixed legislature, will soon swal-
low them up entirely. A body, which
is itself the child of revolution, must
be the parent of further revolution,
unless it is fancied that the force of
recent precedent — of equal right —
and of greater power — with the con-
currence of continual temptation —
are all suddenly to be arrested, neu-
tralized, annulled, and by no ade-
quate motive or assignable counter-
agency.

Hence Mr Douglas will understand •
— that, without at all entering upon
the details or present quality of this
pending re volution in the constitution
of Parliament, we find in the mere
fact of any large change (no matter
what its nature) affecting the popular
branch of the legislature, originating
in that branch, and carried through
purelyby popular influence, — merely
in that fact we find a sufficient argu-
ment for anticipating a whole series
and dependency of revolutions. Even
if it could be supposed possible that
future Houses of Commons, armed
with greater powers, should yet be
willing to leave them in abeyance,
and should suffer a precedent to lie
disused, to which their own existence
(qua tails) was due ; presuming even
on all this, — still, where a balance
has once been destroyed, blind ne-
cessity will continually prompt ef-
forts in other quarters to restore it,
or to effect some compensatory
change. The English Revolution was
followed by no counter-revolutions.
Why ? Because it did not destroy,
but create, a balance of forces. The
French Revolution gathered all
power into one arm ; the checks and
balancing powers were merely ver-
bal; and what followed? A host of
counter-revolutions, until an army
put an end to all struggle amongst
the constitutional forces.

But a greater peril awaits us from
a reformed Parliament even than the
abuse of their new power. Left to
itself, such a House of Commons
will be dangerous enough ; but it will
not be left to itself. For let it be kept
in mind that, under its new consti-
tution, the House of Commons,
though too strong as respects its fel-
low-members in the legislature, will
be much weaker than formerly as re-
spects its constituents. It will not
its own temptations; but, if

587

that were possible, how shall it resist
the mandates of its popular masters ?
The electors will now be of a class,
who can possibly value only one kind
of merit in a representative — the merit
of obeying or anticipating the popu-
lar wishes. But this is a topic to
which we must be content to have
alluded. Let it suffice to say, that all
the excess of power in the new le-
gislature will not be so formidable
to our liberties by a thousand de-
grees, as their new tenure of depend-
ence upon the electoral body, and
the new composition of that body.

Meantime, reverting to the fearful
state of our population, for which
some would hold out Reform as the
remedy— this much we concede to
them, that in a certain sense, and to
the slight extent of procuring us a
winter's truce to one form of the evil,
the prospect of Reform has already-
proved itself a remedy. But how ?
Under a delusion so gross as to the
import and amount of the promises
held out under that term, that, beyond
all doubt, a fierce reaction of disap-
pointment may be looked for as soon
as this delusion shall pass away. In
what way that crisis may happen to
be brought about, whether by the
concession or the momentary denial
of Reform, is likely to make little
final difference. Certain it is, that all
the causes which produced the out-
rageous attacks on property in 1830,
are still in the same force as ever;
equally certain we believe it— that
the vindictive temper, which those
causes generated, has been sternly
forced into a temporary suspension,
not by the terrors of the law as then
exhibited, but by an effort of pru-
dential self-control submitted to un-
der this belief — that Reform, if car-
ried eventually, would bring in its
train a comprehensive cure for the
whole variety of evils which afflict
the condition of labouring life in
England. It is as certain that these
monstrous hopes have been generally
cherished, and have exercised a most
potent influence in diffusing tran-
quillity through the land, as it is that
chimeras so windy must soon be ex-
posed and confounded. And it is our
firm conviction — that, under the
maddening rebound of the truth, the
excitement will be greater than ever,
and will give way (if ever it should

588

give way) only to the skilfulness with
which government distributes the
small military force at its disposal.

We are in great danger. Simply from
abroad no danger ever can menace
us, to which we are not equal. But
foreign danger, concurring with do-
mestic,—Irish with both, — these are
the frightful conjunctures, under
which, to acknowledge no alarm is
not to abound in courage, but to be
miserably wanting in discretion or in
sensibility. Let us not disguise the
truth : in England there are many
Bristols — towns equally inflamed —
stung with the same frenzy of Jaco-
binical malice, conscious of deeper
sufferings, and equally blind in their
expectations. Nothing is more stri-
king at this moment than the absolute
harmony in this respect amongst the
poor in districts of the land the most
remote from each other — the perfect
identity of their political delusions
and of their political passions. One
voice is heard, too often not loud and
clamorous, but deep and muttering,
and pretty nearly the same emphatic
words may be caught up by the at-
tentive ear in every street and alley
of our crowded towns — in every
field and farm-yard of our unhappy
land. Not the poor benighted slaves
in the West Indies are under wilder
delusions, who have a fixed persua-
sion that domestic oppressors step in
to intercept the bounties of the Bri-
tish King and Parliament, nor do
they nourish a deeper or a more mis-
directed vengeance. Neither is there,
as once there was, any body of non-
conducting population (so to speak)
interposed amongst these brooding
malecontents — to break their fury, or
to intercept its contagion. Such a
body there once was in the agricul-
tural class : but the entire labourers
in that. class are now foremost in dis-
affection to the State, and in rebel-
lious dispositions. In reality, the doc-
trines current amongst them are not
so much insurrectionary, or directed
against the particular government, as
anti-social and hostile to all govern-
ments alike, and to the very elements
of civilisation.

In this crisis, and when Mr Doug-
las assures us that " Europe will soon
be in flames," can we look for com-
fort to our colonial provinces ? The
heart of our great empire being so ill
at ease, are we at liberty to feel our-

The Projects of Britain.

[April,

selves secure in our extremities? Na-
turally, for a question so comprehen-
sive, we should look for an answer
of proportionate variety. The sun sets
not on our possessions — once the Spa-
nish boast — may at this day, with the
simplicity of truth, be affirmed of
herself by Great Britain. This being
so, we might reasonably expect
chequered reports from our provin-
ces : if one wind brought us tidings
of fear, another should be the mes-
senger of hope. Yet, strange enough
it is, that the coming eclipse of the
mother country seems in one way or
other prematurely to have gathered
within its shadow, exactly those re-
gions which depend upon the British
sceptre. Either they are cursed with
internal wretchedness, as the West
Indies; or with external enmities
multiplying in every quarter, as
Hindostan; or if prosperous, like Ca-
nada, are rising gradually into that at-
titude of defiance which is manifest-
ly destined to turn our own bounties
against ourselves : or, if prosperous
and dutiful, are too remote (like New
Holland, &c.) to assist us efficiently
even in our schemes of emigration.
Of these the first may be considered
as already lost. Between the two
forces of example from their brothers
in Haiti, and precept from their poli-
tical lords in the British Parliament,
the black population of the West In-
dies will never again be reconciled
to a cheerful discharge of their du-
ties. With a reformed Parliament,
however, the present stumbling-
block of compensation will prove
none at all — in the second or third
session of such a body, emancipa-
tion will be proclaimed j and we may
then expect such scenes of bloodshed
and havoc as followed a similar
decree of the French Convention.
For Canada, we heartily agree with
Mr Douglas — that " after wasting
millions of money in giving it that
defensive strength against the United
States, which will inspire it with the
spirit of freedom," we shall find our-
selves in this dilemma — war with
Canada, or war for Canada ; and in
either case alike, we would add,
(though Mr Douglas needlessly has
limited that event to the latter case,)
war against the United States. We
are all familiar with the common
English sneer of a " Folly," as appli-
ed to a useless building. Now, if

1832.J

The Prospects of Britain.

ever there was in this sense a na-
tional folly, it is exhibited, on a Ro-
man scale of magnitude, in the vast
line of defences constructed on the
frontier of Canada. Fine works !
would be the exclamation of a persi-
fleur; but what if the garrison should
happen to be on the wrong side the
question ? And assuredly, if any part
of this line be confided (as it must)
to a Canadian militia, it is scarcely
possible that the question should be
so shaped as not to place them on
the wrong side. Human nature be-
ing what it is, — occasional war is es-
sential to its dignity ; eternal peace
would stifle the germs of many great
qualities in national character. And
therefore could it be supposed likely
that war would be of rare occurrence
in Europe, it might be well, at an
enormous cost, (say half of that ac-
tually spent in Canada,) to buy an
arena for constant exercise on that
vast frontier line ; and the more so,
as it presents a school of practice in
every mode of warfare — whether ma-
ritime, or by land ; and under every
application of the art of engineering.
But, as the hypothesis is hardly in
the way of being realized on this
side the Millennium, which supposes
any dearth of Cis-Atlantic war, we
may venture to adopt the words of
Mr Douglas — that this, like other
American colonies, will be " weaned
by sucking blood;" and that, in a
pecuniary sense, our own ruin will
be consummated by such another
struggle with the United States, on
account of this one costly province
and its appendages, as we had with
her on her own account.

India is a graver theme : — Mighty
continent ! (for so we may truly
hail her)— great wilderness of na-
tions ! When we think of what she
might have been — of what she is —
and what she will needs become un-
der the decrees of a British Parlia-
ment, servile to the sovereign mob,
— we are oppressed with the burden
of contrast in the juxtaposition of
infinite extremes — of what is least
and what is greatest in human things.
That mischief ab infra, that canker-
worm in her vitals, legions of revo-
lutionary hircarrahs, carrying irrita-
tion and frenzy among nations often
sobenightedin morals — in one region
mad with oppression, in another mad
with the havoc and devastations of

continual invasions— every where so
impotent to disarm bad counsels of
their sting by any remembrances of
a purer faith, such as in Europe—
amidst the most awful chaos of bad
passions,everlastinglymaketheirway
to men's consciences both in senates
and in camps, — these scourges will
make of India one vast aceldama;
and, by comparison with the other
effects which will follow, it is almost
a petty thing to add, that assuredly
they must abolish the sovereignty of
England. That indeed is an event
with which they will almost begin :
— what it is in which they will ter-
minate, no eye can venture to fa-
thom. But, considering the central
position of India with regard to all
Southern Asia, we may presume that
ultimately, after a generation of dark-
ness and blood, some aurora will
arise in that quarter of a light for the
human race, never again to be ex-
tinguished, According to this march
of events, the external enemies of
our Indian empire are the less to be
regarded ; else, we should rate them
at a higher value in the scale of pro-
bable destroyers than we find Mr
Douglas willing to do. The native
princes on the frontiers, in a general
concert with the Burman empire,
are not so contemptible as to be al-
together unworthy of notice ; it is
true, that they are not indeed likely
to become formidable, unless (but
then that is likely though) in league
with the advantages of European
science — discipline — tactics — and
engineering, — combined with the yet
greater advantage of a mutiny or re-
volt amongst our own sepoys. Rus-
sia, however, whose farther horn
menaces our Indian system from a
remote station, Mr Douglas takes the
trouble to appraise; but, under a
skilful and more active managemen
of our Persian alliance, he throws
her hostilities to a distance in point
of time, which makes them interest-
ing only to our posterity. In this
again he underrates the means of
annoyance open to Russia, who has
many facilities for co-operating with
the internal troubles of India, by
means of intrigues amongst our fron-
tier neighbours, long before the time
when her policy may dictate more
direct hostilities. Even for those,
however, it must not be forgotten,
that she will find some aids in one

590

or two of her Armenian conquests,
which were not reckoned on a few
years ago by the geographical spe-
culators on the difficulties which
beset all. possible routes to India for
the armies of the Czar. Since then
the sword has done something to
smooth the path.

Inferior colonies need no separate
notices. For the great ones, which
are in fact colonial empires, one
word will express the sum of affairs.
Over each severally its own peculiar
danger is lowering — which, separate-
ly, threatens to extinguish its con-
nexion with ourselves. There are,
also, as a danger common to all,
which throws all other dangers into
shade, the internal struggles of the
mother country — rapidly approach-
ing, and tending ultimately to the
same result. In any case, from the
very strongest of them, we can draw
no aid, whilst all make us vulnerable
in purse and in reputation — and all
operate as a drain upon our military
strength.

These, however, dismissed from
the picture, or retained, as the read-
er may please — what is the general
conclusion to which we are hurried
by the sum of those indications which
we have travelled over ? Is there
hope for England, as Mr Douglas is
willing to believe ? Or, has indeed
the sceptre departed from Judah ?
And is the banner of Great Britain
no more to preside over the great
moral confederacies of Christendom,
bringing hope to the forlorn, and
comfort to the desolate, like the con-
secrated Labarum of the early Chris-
tians, when marshalled against Pa-
gan hosts ?

Hope is so eminent a duty for a
patriot, hope, even against hope, —
and despondency, in any case, so ab-
solutely forbidden to the champions
of great moral interests, that even
the accomplishment for the time, of
the very worst evils which lie in our
path, would not justify the surrender
of our fortitude, or the slackening of
our efforts. The anchors by which
our vessel rides, a vessel freighted
with such immortal hopes, must rea-
sonablybe of proportionable strength
— and may yet pull us up against a
strain, heavy even as that which is
now trying their temper to the ut-
termost. And sometimes it is found
that the very enormity of evil is able

The Prospects of Britain.

[April,

to provide its own remedy, by pro-
voking a more obstinate recoil of
good principles.

In the civil contests and local in-
surrections which we have been pre-
dicting, there is this ground of con-
solation, that they cannot assume the
shape of a civil war. For, in a coun-
try with such an organization of so-
ciety as ours, civil war could not by
possibility arise without the union of
the middle and lower classes. The
latter, we fear, will be found more
strongly united than is generally be-
lieved : not the mob merely, but
many a family at present reputed
quiet and orderly, will be found in
the ranks of rebellion. Few indeed
will have power to resist the tempt-
ing delusions which now govern their
hopes. But on the other hand, when
the struggle has once manifestly de-
clared its character, and when the
war upon property, as such, shall be
too openly proclaimed by acts to be
gainsaid by proclamations, the entire
middle and upper ranks will enter
into a common league of strenuous
opposition. And in this point the
mob would find themselves grossly
deceived, — that the loudest of the
Reformers will be in the very front
rank of their opponents. Multitudes
have clamoured for Reform, under
the hope that, by altering the basis
on which political power or honours
are placed at present, easier access
to distinction might be opened to
themselves : this prospect would now
be more remote than ever; and were
it otherwise, the open scramble for
property would at once unite in its
defence all men, whether previously
Reformers or not, who have any in
possession to lose, or in reversion to
expect.

Such a schism in the body of so-
ciety, placing the two most nume-
rous classes in bloqdy collision with
each other, will be misery enough
for one generation. But it will be
far short of that which would travel
in company with civil war ; and for
this reason, if for no other, — that it
will terminate more speedily. An
open war of the lower orders against
the upper, would in some countries
issue in an endless anarchy, but not
in England. So numerous with us
are the class interested in the defence
of property, and so incomparably su-
perior in all the means of combina-

1832.]

The Prospects of Britain.

591

tion and concert, that in any general
secession of the mere mob and pau-
perism of the land against its pro-
perty and intelligence, we are satis-
lied that with much local bloodshed
and havoc, the open war will termi-
nate speedily in the victory of the
superior classes. That local causes
of peculiar irritation will often revive
it in over-populous districts, and that
life in England will be inseparable,
through the next generation, from
continued alarms and anxiety — this
we acknowledge; and for this we
prepare ourselves as for the sting of
our situation, and the sad memento
of our past prosperity. But we must
still cherish it with gratitude as an
article of our political faith, that a
Jacobinical war — a war which should
divide society on the principle we
have stated — could not long be main-
tained as an open war in the field ;
the victory must soon rest with the
middle orders ; and that it would do
so, is one of the blessings which we
owe to that constitution which we
are now going to proscribe. Under
no less fortunate balance of civil pri-
vileges and civil security, could the
middle classes have attained so pro-
digious an expansion.

Whatever is cheerful, however, —
whatever, at least, there is of mitiga-
ted gloom, in these prospects, will
depend on much forbearance within,
and some good fortune without.
Were it possible that a general Irish
insurrection, and that a large milita-
ry interference of Russia in western
politics, should occur about the same
period, our embarrassments being
so grievously multiplied, their issue
would be more dubious. With these
adverse events were another to coin-
cide— the obliteration, in the whole
or in part, by a reformed Parliament,
of the debts charged upon ths public
faith — a sort of ruin must succeed,
which would go far to break down
- the preponderance of that very mid-
dle order to whom, under Provi-
dence, we look for the possibility of
a favourable issue to our civil strug-
gles. Yet we know that each of these
events is but too probable. And for
the last, in particular, it rests entirely
with the new electoral body, and the
complexion of its political feelings.
Nor in this point have we even the
security founded in general upon the
bias of interest j for to men of small

property there is a conflict possible
of real interest which maybe indirect,
with an interest more immediate and
apparent in the diminution of taxes.

" To sum up all," says Mr Dou-
glas, " if God be against us, the causes
of our ruin are many, and are already
in operation ; but, if God be for us,
there is yet a way for escape."

In that conclusion we also heartily
concur— but not in any spirit which
would justify inertness on our own
part. Energy the greatest that hu-
man means can supply, may be all
too little for the part we are called
to perform. Great changes are in
progress every where ; a hurricane is
sweeping onwards of political revo-
lution ; we must all suffer — and we
must all act. And our first duty is,
to ascertain what sort of action is
required of us, — what is the part as-
signed to ourselves by Providence
in this great drama, that at least we
may act with consistency. Russia,
says Mr Douglas, is evidently the
"hammer" employed by the Supreme
Ruler for crushing the Mohammedan
faith ,• she is perhaps a blind instru-
ment, but in this instance she fulfils
her mission with fidelity. To Eng-
land, on the other hand, as the head
of the Protestant league, is confided
the task of uprooting'Popery — " that
ruin," as Mr Douglas himself admits,
" of all who support it." With what
consistency we have upheld this du-
ty in our Irish policy, let those con-
sider who are to answer for it. — But
the time is at hand when our public
duties will be no longer matters for
dispute. It is one advantage of a
great and alarming crisis, that it
opens broad and determined paths
of action, over which hangs no cloud
of doubt as in more quiet times. The
principles upon which men divide in
such times, are adverse as light and
outer darkness. There will soon be
for all in England, who own any ob-
ligations of conscience, but one duty
— one faith— one interest — one great
fight — and one final fortune. The
struggle will be for the very " sum"
of things ; and upon the ultimate ca-
tastrophe of that struggle will depend
— as we agree with Mr Douglas —
whether this great empire, already
weighed in the balance, be not found
wanting, and her glorious memory
be all that shall remain as a posses*
sion to posterity.

Satan Reformer. [April,

SATAN REFORMER.
BY MONTGOMERY THE THIRD.

PART I.

SATAN laugh'd loud, when he heard that peace

Was sign'd by the Ruling Powers :
He was sipping his coffee with Talleyrand,
And he put down his cup, and he slapp'd his hand,

And cried, Now then the field is ours !

He pack'd his portmanteau — for England, ho ! —

Reach'd Calais — and sailing over
Look'd back upon France ; for he sympathized
With a nation so thoroughly Satanized —

Till he landed him safe at Dover.

He had sported his tail and his horns in a land

Of blasphemy, vice, and treason,
The vast admiration of Monsieur Frog;
But in England, quoth he, I must travel incog.

At least till the " Age of Reason."

So his tail he tuck'd into his pantaloons,
With a Brutus, all stivering and hairy,

He hid his pared horns, or rather the roots ;

And he look'd, with his hoofs in Wellington boots,
Like a Minister's Secretary.

As he travell'd to London, he stared about,

And it caused him some vexation
To see matters looking so very well,
But he went the first night to a noted Hell,

And it gave him consolation.

The Whigs left their cards as a matter of course,

For he'd letters of introduction ;
And a very learn' d Gentleman Devil was he,
In Political Whig- Economy,

And gave them the best instruction.

They feasted him often at Holland House ;

But he found so little to teach 'em,
They were such adepts in the art of misrule,
That he left them to lecture the Radical School,

Lest the Whigs should overreach 'em.

For that, quoth Satan, yet must not be,

And I hold it my chiefest glory,
If I make Whig and Radical coalesce—
And thus bring affairs to a damnable mess —

Then adieu to the reign of Tory.

1832.J Satan Reformer. 593

PART II.

So Satan he labour' d night and day

To unite their political rancour,
Shook hands with Carlisle, made Cobbett his pet,
Stoop'd down to the people, and flatter' d Burdett,

And gave toasts at the Crown and Anchor.

Pamphlets he wrote, and he bribed the Press,

And it work'd to his special wonder,
And soon as he saw the dark sky to lower,
He bribed the Whigs with the hopes of power,

The rabble with hopes of plunder.

Thus Satan went on at a slapping pace,

A Radical rollocking fellow —
Wrote in the Chronicle, slaver'd o'er crimes,
And became the principal scribe in The Times,

And a dab in the " Blue and Yellow."

He prated of Parsons, Bishops, and Tithes,

Economy, Representation,
The Tories, the Debt, March of Intellect, Steam,
Of Aristocrats — and thus laid the deep scheme

Of perpetual agitation.

Republican plans, with a plausible air,

Put forth, growing bolder and bolder;
An acquaintance pick'd with the Treasury clerks,
And mended their pens, and alter'd their marks,

And look'd over the Premier's shoulder.

But his cunningest scheme was to urge the Whigs,

To urge the mobs to combine, sir,
To force on a Tory Government
Most devilish plans of mismanagement,

That the state he might undermine, sir.

To work they went, and the first on the list

Was the Currency alteration,
That increased debt and taxes fifty per cent,
By reduction of credit and profit and rent,

And beggar'd one half the nation.

Then the mortgagee seized houses and land,

And the widow and orphan daughter
Were thrust from their homes to the parish poor,
And the wolf was no longer kept from the door,

But the lamb given up to slaughter.

Then he broach'd Free Trade, and at once it set

The Satanic philosophers Blotting,
It whipp'd off" our wealth to foreigners' hands,
And forced back the poor on the burden'd lands,

And it laid up our ships for rotting.

On our Colonies casting an evil eye,

Then Satan adopted a lingo
Conventicle-bred — and his Proselytes
Went stirring the blacks to murder the whites,

Like the devils at St Domingo.

694 Satan Reformer. [April,

Then Satan he quoted Holy Writ,

And uprose the fanatical fry, sir,
And doom'd the poor planters to instant death,
And they raved, till e'en Satan drew in his breath ;

They did so monstrously lie, sir.

PART III.

Now the country up, the country down,

And around in his vocation,
He travell'd by day and he travell'd by night,
And was very well pleased to see—all right—

And ripe for his AGITATION.

He had thoughts of sailing for Ireland,

To proclaim himself King in Munster ;
But the devils are there so thick, quoth he,
And so stirring, they cannot have need of me,
And there's Moore— he will " Make the Fun stir."

If the King had his Viceroy — so had he—

And a Saintship of Holy Murther ;
But to play off his game according to Hoyle,
He wrote a few orders to Doctor Doyle,

And then troubled his head no further.

Now the Whigs uprose in the Parliament House,

It was done at Satan's suggestion ;
And the Tories gave way in an evil hour
To storm, and to threat, and Papistical power,

And ceded the Catholic Question.

But the pardon-cramm'd Papists the bolder grew,

All was murder, rape, and arson j
The land should be theirs— and no tithe they swore,
And the savages shouted — while dripping with gore —

Oh! 'tis only a Protestant Parson!

Satan leap'd for joy— he clear'd at a bound,
And they still shew the prints in proof, sir,

The whole London University,

And as he descended precipitously,
A professor he kill'd with his hoof, sir.

Then he travell'd afresh the country round,

Proclaim'd Ireland liberty's sample —
If he could but bring things to the very same pass
In England, including both murder and mass,

His success would be more than ample.

So he travell'd and travell'd, distributing Tracts
Through city, through town, through village ;
Swore that governments were but public drains,
That the people should knock out the Parsons' brains,
And wages give place to pillage.

1832.] Satan Reformer. 595

PART IV.

Now Satan set up for a parliament-man,

And scatter' d his bribe and bounty,
But the boroughs were close, and he could not get in,
Though he swore and he lied through thick and thin-
So he tried his luck at a county.

But foil'd a while, in his wrath he raved

Against Parliament, Peers, and Crown, sir,
And swore he'd ride in on the people's necks,
(He'd return'd his own Member for Middlesex,)
And would turn the House upside down, sir.

He scratch'd his head, and he bit his nails,

And his Council of Whigs assembled j
'Twas a capital hit — he utter' d Reform —
And the Devil himself never knew such a storm,

And the ground beneath them trembled.

Away went the sound through the troubled land,

And Satan blew loud the trumpet ,*
'Twas up with the Blackguard — the Gentleman down,
Peer, Parson, and Squire — up Ruffian and Clown,

Up brawler and brazen strumpet.

They call'd for the Whigs; and the Whigs for them,

In the name of the Sovereign People ;
And they bow'd and they cringed to the beastliest mob,
All roaring to burn and to plunder and rob,

With the tri-colour over the steeple.

The Whigs came in and show'd Wellington out ;

Then Satan, in all his glory,

Let loose the whole Press, with their blood-hound pack,
And he mounted Swing on a Treasury hack,

And hark in — to the death of a Tory.

Then Satan walk'd forth in the name of Reform,

To demand an illumination,
To honour the Whigs— and throughout the land
Incendiaries ran with the blazing brand,

For a general conflagration,

PART V.

Now Satan he met his friend Talleyrand,

And, quoth he, Old boy, you're welcome ,•
Let us now put our heads together a bit-
Now, wasn't Reform a most capital hit ?
Quoth the Frenchman, 'Tis very Hell come !

Quoth Satan one day to Talleyrand,

As their coffee they were quaffing,
'Twas a master-stroke, my good Talley, to get
For a Ministry such a contemptible set —

That to think on I can't help laughing.

596 Satan Refonne). [April,

I'd have given, quoth Talley, a thousand-pound
To have father1 d the scheme — nor grudge it.
Then Satan he shook both his sides with glee,
And chuckling — The Impotent cripples, quoth he ;
And oh ! what a damnable Budget !

What breaking of treaties, of contracts, of laws,

What maniac legislation !
Pick'd out of the idiot-Philosophers' schools ;
And a New Rule of Figures I furnish'd the Fools,

And they call'd it Fructification.

The People are lost — they are all gone mad,

Our schemes we are sure to carry;
And besides, quoth Satan, and twitch'd his nose,
I've a friend at Court — but 'tis under the rose,

For the Chancellor's— THE LORD HARRY.

PART VI.

Then the Ministry clear'd the Parliament House,

Though none knew why or wherefore,
Except that the People might rage in the storm,
And send up their Delegates mad for Reform —

And that not a thing else would care for.

Then Satan he posted placards about,

To keep up Satanic delusion —

There was brickbat and bludgeon, for freedom and law,
You'd have thought that grim Satan had stirr'd with his claw

The caldron of all confusion.

Then he wrote in the Times with more ardent rage—

His horns they stuck out of his forehead ;
He hid not his hoofs — he untwisted his tail —
And it bang'd the poor Tories about like a flail,

And the blast of his breath was horrid.

Now the smithies of Brummagem bellow' d and roar'd,

Red-hot was the forge of Sedition ;
And the bolts from the Unions were daringly thrown
At the Peerage of England, the Altar, and Throne ;

— And the scoundrels pretended Petition.

Then Satan he organized Union mobs,

Marching under the tricolour banners,
To insult and to bully their Citizen King,
And offend him, as hypocrite homage they bring,

Still more by their beastly manners.

PART VII.

The Delegates met for the bargain9 d work,
And like " Mutes" they sat to strangle

The Constitution in Parliament ;

And without was a raving rabblement —
All ready to cut and mangle.

j 832.3 Satan Reformer* 597

The Bill of Reform, it pass'd one House,

But was knock'd on the head in the other,
For the Premier had dared to threaten the Peers,
And insult the Bishops with jibes and with jeers—

For his rage he could not smother.

Then Satan he chuckled, the game went well j

But to humble so proud a railer,
He sent him a posse at dead of night,
And made him stoop down from his lordly height,

And cringe to a beggarly tailor.

Oh ! now was the time for Satan's own reign,

With a Ministry all distraction—
So he set up a Brummagem Parliament —
And the edict went forth that the Peers' dissent

Was " The Whisper of a Faction."

Oh ! how Satan rejoiced at the work assigned !

As he enter'd the holy border —

The Bishops— the Bishops— ah, give them new light !—
So a Palace he burn'd on the Sabbath night,
Ere the Bishop could "put it in order"

Oh ! then it was Fire and Fury and Flame

Lighting up the Reformers' revels;
A city was burning, and reeking with blood,
And the Burners dropp'd into the flaming flood,

Like blacken'd and tortured Devils.

Satan stood high upon Brandon * Hill,

With his fiery eyeballs glowing ;
He bang'd the ground with his swinging tail,
And the Demons came round him, and cried, All hail !

See, see, how Reform is going !

Satan he stood in the blazing square,f

In the midst of conflagration j
And shouted, Reform ! — the day's my own,
I've won me on earth another throne —

And this is my Coronation.

Satan he stood by the gallows-tree,

When the noose was tied to sever
The living and dead, 'mid the orphans' groans,
He bent down his head to the widows' moans,

And shouted, REFORM FOR EVER !

* The hill commanding the city of Bristol.

•j- Queen Square, in which the Custom-house, Excise, and upwards of forty houses
"were destroyed.

598

The British Finances.

[April,

THE BRITISH FINANCES.

Abandonment of the Sinking Fund— Repeal of Taxes on Consumption—
The Reform Deficit,

THE subject of taxation is one
which now must soon force itself on
the consideration of the most thought-
less in the country. The time is gone
by when the difficulty could be con-
templated only at a distance, and men
could console themselves with the
idea that they would leave to their
posterity the burden of providing
tor the liquidation of the public debt.
The growing deficiency of the reve-
nue, for many years past, joined to
the improvident haste with which
taxes which oppressed no one have
been repealed, have at length brought
matters to a crisis ; the Sinking Fund
is now abandoned; the revenue is
L.698,000 less than the expenditure ;
and the nation must be content to
sit down under the burden of an an-
nual charge of L.28,000,000, which
there is no prospect, under the pre-
sent system, of either diminishing or
avoiding.

It cannot be either an useless or
an unprofitable task to examine the
causes of this alarming state of the
finances, with a view to determine
whether it is an unavoidable evil
which must be submitted to with
patience and resignation, or a tran-
sient storm, which, by firmness and
judgment, may be weathered. We
confidently expect to prove that it is
the latter ; but we .as confidently be-
lieve that the condition of the nation
is wholly desperate, and a national
bankruptcy unavoidable, unless a
very different system from the tem-
porizing and vacillating finance po-
licy of the last fifteen years is pur-
sued by succeeding governments.

" If I wished," said Frederick
the Great, " to reduce a flourish-
ing province from the highest state
of prosperity to the lowest stage
of misery, I would desire no more
effectual course than to put it for
ten years under the government
of philosophers." — " If an empire,"
said Napoleon, " were made of ada-
manty it would be soon ground to pow-
der by the political economists," In

the observations of these great men,
is to be found the remote cause of
the present disastrous state of our
finances. We shall shortly examine
in detail the causes which have in
so powerful a manner ground down
the prosperity of the British empire ;
but, in the outset, the desperate im-
providence, the incredible reckless-
ness, the unparalleled ignorance of
the firat principles of finance, by our
present rulers, forces itself on the
mind. The result of their measures
is highly instructive as to the gene-
ral system which has been pursued
for a course of years ; it affords a
reductio ad absurdum, from which
the erroneous principles on which
they proceeded, may with certainty
be inferred.

Ministers, in February, 1831,
brought forward the celebrated Whig
Budget, which, fortunately for them,
the exertions of their opponents
brought so rapidly to an end. We
say, fortunately for them, for if the
proposed reductions had taken place
simultaneously with the Reform Bill,
the nation would now have been
landed in a state of desperate and
hopeless insolvency.

When the Duke of Wellington
quitted the helm, it appears from
the Finance Reports, recently pub-
lished under the authority of Mr
Spring Rice, that he had by great
economy brought the finances into a
comparatively flourishing condition.
He left his successors a clear sink-
ing fund of L.2,900,000, and an in-
come exceeding the expenditure by
L. 1,800,000. In the preceding year
of his administration, the clear ex-
cess of the income above the expen-
diture, was L.I ,000,000. This is ad-
mitted by all par ties, however much
they may have been at variance as
to the existence of any surplus at
all, during the preceding years of
Lord Liverpool's and Mr Canning's
administration.

The present Ministers, shortly af-
ter their accession to office, in Fe-

1832.]

bruary, 1831, brought forward their
celebrated budget, in which they
proposed to repeal

The British Finances.

599

The tobacco tax,
Candles,
Coals,
Calico prints,

L.2,400,000
700,000
400,000
500,000

whose joint produce the Chancel-
lor of the Exchequer estimated at
L.4,000,000 a-year j and in lieu of
part of them, to lay on duties on

Transfers of funded pro-

perty,

Transfers of land,
Canadian timber,
Raw cotton,
Cape wine,
Steam boats,

:i

L.I, 200,000
1,200,000

1,400,000

L.3,800,000

The new taxes were so extremely
unpopular and injudicious, and the
outcry against them so universal,
that they were one and all abandon-
ed by the Government, who also
gave up the proposed repeal of the
tobacco tax, and adhered only to the
reduction of the taxes on coals, can-
dles, and calicoes, estimated as pro-
ducing altogether L.I, 600,000. They
held out hopes, that by adhering to a
rigid economy, they would be able
to relinquish these taxes, and still
maintain the Sinking Fund at its
wonted amount.

But what did Ministers do next ?
Having thus abandoned taxes to the
amount of L.I, 600,000 a-year, and
given up all idea of imposing other
taxes in their stead, they brought in
the Reform Bill, the necessary effect
of which, whether it succeeded or
not, every man of sense foresaw,
must be to lower the revenue seve-
ral millions more. And, accordingly,
what has been the result ? Why, they
nave occasioned a deficit of four mil-
lions on the income of 1831, as com-

pared with 1830, converted the Duke
of Wellington's clear surplus of
L. 1 ,800,000 into a deficit of L.698,000,
and totally annihilated the sinking
fund I *

We doubt if there is to be found
in the whole annals of legislation
any thing comparable to this. So
utterly ignorant were our rulers of
the elements of political science ; so
thoroughly were they infatuated by
the absurd principles of Political
Economy which have perverted that
noble science since the time of Adam
Smith; so completely were they
borne away by the fatal torrent of
innovation, that they actually carried
into effect a reduction of taxation to
the amount of a million and a half,
when on the eve of an agitating mea-
sure which was to reduce it four mil-
lions. This indicates not an igno-
rance of the details of office, or an
over-sanguineness of disposition for
which we make every allowance, but
a total ignorance of the first princi-
ples of government, for which we can
find no apology ; and which is as un-
pardonable for a Minister of a finan-
cial country, as it would be for its
Monarch to be ignorant of reading or
writing.

Is it not a principle familiar not only
to every student, but to every school-
boy ; not to every one merely who has
studied the Wealth of Nations, but
every one who has read Sallust or
Livy,that the produce of taxation de-
pends in every country,but especially
a commercial one, upon industry, and
that industry hangs for its existence
on public security ? Is it not univer-
sally known by history, has it not
been demonstrated again and again,
both from principle and experience,
that any thing which shakes public
credit, suspends private expendi-
ture, or curtails individual enjoyment,
must necessarily and immediately
affect the revenue of the state ? Do
our rulers imagine that the public
revenue is to rise while every man's
private revenue is falling? That the

* The total gross revenue of 1830 was,
That of 1831,

L.54,840,000
46,420,000

L. 8,420,000,

so that, after deducting the beer tax, and the taxes reduced by Ministers, the deficit
solely owing to reform is nearly L4,000,000.

coo

The British Finances,

customs are to increase when sus-
pended credit has shaken the springs
of industry; or the excise augment,
when diminished wages have con-
tracted the comforts of the poor ?
Do they suppose that public income
is like pearls, to be thrown up by
the storms of the political ocean ?
And were they ever so complete-
ly deluded as to imagine that a new
constitution could be given to the
State, and no shock experienced in
its hundreds of thousands of chan-
nels of industry ; or the expenditure
of all the rich be lessened from the

WELLINGTON Administration.

Decrease.

Year ending April 5, 1830, L.864,000
July 5, 690,000

Oct. 10, 948,000

Jan. 5, 1831, 640,000

Now this table demonstrates three
things. 1. That the revenue from
the reduction of the beer-duty of
L.3,000,000, and other causes which
shall immediately be noticed, was in
a state of progressive decline when
the Whigs came into office ; and, 2.
That this decline was augmented
from L.640,000, being the falling off
in the last year of the Duke's admi-
nistration, to L.3,9 84,000, being the
deficit at the end of the first year of
the Grey administration. 3. That

[April,

dread of an approaching revolution,
and no suffering be experienced by
the poor, or no decline become ap-
parent in the public revenue ?

The extraordinary deficit which
has taken place in every branch of
the public revenue since the fatal
Reform Bill yvas agitated in the coun-
try, is so singularly instructive as to
the unavoidable effect of the insane
conduct pursued by Ministers, that
though we transcribed it in January
last, we make no apology for again
laying it before our readers.

GREY Administration.

Decrease.

Year ending April 5, 1 83 1 , L. 1 , 1 34,000
July 5, 1,656,000

Oct. 10, 3,072,000

Jan. 5, 1832, 3,984,000

this deficit of four millions took
place on a reduction of taxation by
the Whigs of L.I, 600,000 only; where-
as the Duke's deficit of L.640,000
arose from repealing the beer-tax of
L.3,000,000. It is evident, therefore,
that the last immense deficiency is
owing to the Reform agitation, and
the Reform agitation alone.

This is still more evident if the
items of which this enormous defi-
ciency is composed are considered.
The following are the details :

WELLINGTON Administration. GREY Administration.

Customs,
Excise,

1830.

16,343,000
16,895,000
6,605,000
Post-Office, 1,358,000
Taxes, 5,013,000

Miscellanies, 601,000

1831. Increase.

15,336,000
14,330,000
6,500,000

1,391,000 32,000

4,864,000
409,000

L.46,8 15,000 L.42,830,000

Decrease.

1,007,000

2,564,000

104,000

149,000
191,000

L.4,0 15,000

Thus, it appears, that with the ex-
ception of the Post-Office, where the
suspension of franking, and the bustle
consequent on a general election,
gave them a small excess, every
branch of the revenue has declined.
The Excise, that sure test of national
expenditure and comfort, has fallen
off L.2,564,000 ; a greater falling off
we believe than any on record in tne
British annals.

It is impossible it can be otherwise.
Enter any shop or manufactory from
the Land's End to Caithness, and
they will tell you that they are doing
nothing; that their receipts are hard-
ly a quarter of what they formerly
were, and that, if business does not
improve, they will in a few years be
in the Gazette. In the retail trade
this falling-off is particularly conspi
cuous ; and in those branches of that

1832.]

trade which are devoted to the fur-
nishing of luxuries, as books, haber-
da8hery,wine, furniture, silks, gloves,
&c. it is quite appalling. The silk
trade, which, in 1825, brought to the
Spitalfields weavers 16s. a-week,now
barely yields them 2s. 9d. ; and the
glove-makers in Coventry are liter-
ally starving. Such are the blessings
of reform, agitation, and free trade.
With truth did Napoleon say, that if
an empire were made of adamant, it
would be ground to powder by the
political economists.

The partisans of Ministers allege,
that these disastrous consequences
have followed, not from reform, but
the obstinate resistance it has experi-
enced ; and that, if it had not been for
the desperate phalanx of the Conser-
vative party, the nation would have
been now advancing prosperously
before the gales of democratic ap-
plause, with a popular government
and an overflowing treasury. This
fallacy has been repeatedly refuted,
but we will give its refutation again.
If a proposition is completely true,
and has been clearly demonstrated,
it is not till it has been repeated at
least an hundred times that it begins
to make any impression on those of
an opposite political persuasion.

What is it that now has so deeply
affected the revenue ? It is clearly
a diminution in the springs of indus-
try, a decreased demand for the pro-
duce of labour, and a decline in the
wages which constitute its payment.
What has occasioned this decline ?
Nothing but the diminished expen-
diture of the opulent classes, and
the shock to the credit which sus-
tains manufacturing and commercial
industry. What has given this shock,
and occasioned this marked con-
traction of expenditure ? Evidently
the terror so generally inspired
among the holders of property, by
the revolutionary measures which
are either in progress or apprehend-
ed. ^ Now, is this terror likely to be
diminished, this shock lessened, or
this contracted expenditure increa-
sed, by the success of the very mea-
sures which are so much the subject
of alarm ? It is utterly extravagant ;
it is contrary to every principle of
reason, to every lesson of experi-

The British Finances.

601

ence, to suppose that any of these ef-
fects are to take place. When the
revolutionary surge, after having bro-
ken down the barrier of political
power which at present sustains the
whole weight of the tempest, and
preserves in calm waters the varied
fabrics of national industry, begins
to beat against the bulwarks of pro-
perty; when interest after interest
are successively sacrificed at the
shrine of popular extravagance, and
the suffering they have brought on
themselves is made a reason, as in
all democratic convulsions, for fresh
demands and more extravagant revo-
lutionary proposals by the people, is
it to be expected that credit or indus-
try are to nourish ? It is as clear as
any proposition of geometry, that the
reverse must be the case ; that credit
must be suspended, industry blight-
ed, and expenditure diminished, and
the national income progressively
decline with every victory gained by
democratic violence, and every con-
sequent addition made to popular
suffering.

Here again the conclusions of com-
mon sense, and the experience of
our own times, are perfectly in uni-
son with the lessons of history. In
many othei> countries besides Great
Britain, the system of agitation and
popular concussion has been tried,
but in none was it ever found to pro-
duce any other effect than a vast and
progressive decline of the revenue;
and the more unchecked the march of
innovation, the greater has been the
defalcation of the revenue. In France,
-for example, we have the authority
of the able republican historian Mig-
net* for saying, that the revenue,
which at the opening of the States-
General was L.24,000,000 sterling,
fell down, the very next yeary to
L.I 6,000,000, and continued so to
decline during the years 1790 and
1791 j that Government were driven,
by overbearing necessity, to confis-
cate the property of the church, and
issue the assignats, bearing a forced
circulation, which soon fell to a tenth
part of the value at which they were
forced on the public. Yet that revo-
lution was all accomplished by the
mere force of legislative enactments :
no courageous Peers stemmed the

VOL, xxxi, NO. cxcin.

# Mignet, i. 39.

602

The British Finances.

torrent of innovation ; no blood was
shed on the scaffold,* no resistance
was made to the States-General; but
still, amidst that chaos of unanimity
in favour of reform, the revenue
steadily and rapidly went down, and
revolutionary measuresjpf spoliation
became unavoidable, to uphold the
sinking fortunes of the State.

In like manner, during the three
glorious days of July, the second re-
volution was effected in France,with-
out the least resistance from the

[April,

Peers, or any thing more than a tran-
sient struggle in the capital. What
effect has this change had on the re-
venue and mercantile speculation of
France ? Have they risen and im-
proved with the triumph of demo-
cratic principles, and the immediate
overthrow of all resistance to reform ?
The reverse has been the case; the
reverse is notoriously and avowedly
the case, and it is singularly illustra-
ted in the following tables :—

Successful Reform in France.

1829. 1830. 1831.

Last Year of Charles X. Last Half Louis Philip. Wholly Louis Philip.

Revenue.

591,000,000 francs. . 572,243,000 . 527,033,000
Decrease from 1829 to 1830, 45,220,000 francs.
to 1 83 1 , 63,987,000 francs.

Thus the revenue has progres-
sively declined since Reform tri-
umphed by the erection of the
throne of the barricades ; and in a
year and a half successful demo-
cracy has lowered the revenue six-

ty-four millions of francs, or more
than a tenth of its whole amount !

The returns of the budgets in
France are equally instructive as to
the financial effect of the march of
revolution :

1831.
. Francs.
Budget of expenses, . 1,443,000,000

of receipts, . 947,000,000

Divers extraordinary receipts
by loans, sale of Crown fo-
rests, &c. , . 211,000,000

1832.
Francs.

1,212,000,000
947,000,000 (Estimated.)

Difference, .

Add,

Deficit in two years,

285,000,000

265,000,000
285,000,000

Thus, after all that has been done
for the liquidation of the debt of
the state, by the contraction of
loans, &c., to the enormous amount
of two hundred millions of francs,
or nearly nine millions sterling, in
the first year of the throne ot the
barricades, there remains in the two
first years' accounts a deficit of five
hundred and fifty millions, or twen-
ty-four millions sterling. At this
rate, France will not be long of re-

550,000,000 francs,
Or about L.24,000,000 Sterling.

quiring a third revolution to extri-
cate her from the financial embar-
rassment which produced the first,
and has been produced by the se-
cond.

The returns of the bills discounted
by the bank of France afford the
true clue to this immense deficiency,
by shewing the stagnation which the
Revolution has occasioned in every
species of commercial enterprise.

* The bloodshed began on August 10, 1792, a year after the dissolution of the Con-
stituent Assembly, and when the Revolution was completed by their legislative
labours.

1832.] The British Finances, 603

1830. 1831.

Bills discounted. Value. Bills discounted. Value.

274,570 617,493,000 117,485 222,523,000

Received by bank for )

discounting these > 4,021,000 1,845,000

bills, )

Thus it appears that the bills dis-
counted at the bank of France, fell,
in the first year of successful re-
form, to one-third of their former
amount, and the profit on the dis-
counts was diminished in one year
by no less than 2,175,000 francs,
being more than a half of its former
amount. If this has been the case
at Paris, the seat of government, and
the focus of all the revolutionary
expenditure, it may be conceived
what the stagnation of business, and
consequent distress, must have been
over all France. The revolt at Lyons
is easily explained.

An increasing expenditure and a
diminishing revenue is the invariable
attendant of democratic convul-

WELLINGTON Administration,

1830.

Army, L.6,990,000

Navy, . 5,209,000
Miscellaneous, 1,950,000

sions in all ages and countries, for
this simple reason, that the same
suffering and distress which dries
up the sources of revenue, renders
necessary an increased military es-
tablishment to preserve the public
tranquillity. Thus the expenditure
rises as the income falls ; and hence
the necessity uniformly experienced
of having recourse to arbitrary con-
fiscations to supply the deficiency.

The revenue of Charles I. at the
commencement of the civil wars is
stated by Hume at L.800,000 a-year ;
Cromwell raised it to two millions.*
A similar progress may be observed
in this country, as appears from the
following returns :

GREY Administration,

1831.

* L.7,220,000
5,680,000
2,850,000

Total, L.14.,149,000

L.15,750,000
Deduct, 14,149,OCO

Excess of expenditure by Reforming)
over Conservative Government, {

Thus, after all the outcry which
the Whigs made about economy,
their first measures have been to
increase the expenditure above a
million and a half, and reduce the
income four millions I

This is not surprising; and we
bring forward these facts more in
sorrow than in anger, and rather
with a view to illustrate the false
and unstatesman-like principles on
which the present Ministry are go-
verning the country, than with any
feeling of animosity towards the in-
dividual men. We do not blame
them for increasing the expenditure ;
on the contrary, we suspect prece-
ding governments had reduced it
too low, — lower than was consistent

either with the national safety or the
national prosperity. What we charge
them with, and we invite a reply to
our argument, is the enormous error
of reducing taxation by a great
amount at the very time when they
were bringing forward measures of
innovation which necessarily rendered
an increase of expenditure and a di-
minution of income a matter of cer-
tainty.

This unparalleled proceeding
must have been founded on one of
two grounds : Either the Govern-
ment knew that the revenue must
fall, and the expenditure increase,
from the Reform agitation, or they
did not. If they knew it, they were
guilty of the most culpable reckless-

Hume; iii, chap. 60.

604 The British Finances. [April

ness, and acted on the most ruinous The standing army must be increa

system, when, for the sake of a mo-
mentary popularity, they incurred
so fearful an ultimate responsibili-
ty. If they did not, they were igno-
rant of the first elements of political
science, or they were so warped by
prejudice as to be incapable of per-
ceiving what was familiar to every
tyro in history. We willingly be-
lieve that the last was the case : we
plead for them utter ignorance of
the first effects of their own mea-
sures, to save.tliem from the far more
grievous charge of wilfully deluding
the public as to their necessary con-
sequences.

This evil of an increasing expend-
iture and a diminishing income, is
what must be seriously looked for,
and steadily encountered, if the pre-
sent Reform measure receive the
sanction of the legislature. We
earnestly wish to press this consi-
deration on all who have the slight-
est regard for their country, or the
least wish either to uphold its cre-
dit, or retrieve its fortunes. It is as
certain as that a stone will fall to
the ground, that democratic mea-
sures will at once dry up the
sources of our income, and compel
Government to augment our mili-
tary and naval establishment. This
double effect has universally pre-
vailed hi every past age of the
world from revolutionary changes,
and will continue to do so to
the end of time. Already the em-
pire has taken fire in three different
places from the effects of the Reform
agitation ; the finest parts of Bristol
have been reduced to ashes, Ire-
land has been shaken to its centre,
and payment not only of tithes, but
rent, is suspended, while in Jamaica
the delusive hopes held out by fa-
naticism to the Negroes, coupled
with the injunctions of Administra-
tion, not to publish the King's pro-
clamation till a case of extremity
arose, have given that island over
to the flames, destroyed one hundred
plantations, and lighted a conflagra-
tion which will break out at intervals
till it destroys our whole West India
islands, and with them the market
for L.I 5,000,000 yearly of our manu-
factures.

In this distracted state of the em-
pire, it is chimerical, it is vain, to
talk of a reduction of expenditure.

sed ; measures of severity must be re-
sorted to ; blood must be shed to ex-
tinguish the flames which have burst
forth during the transports of Re-
form. When Government are doing
every thing most calculated, however
intended, to promote agitation; when
they are promoting, flattering, and
rewarding convicted demagogues ;
proclaiming their inability to collect
tithes in future, and pointing out to
every class who have a debt to dis-
charge in the country, the mode in
which they may shake themselves
loose of it, by combining to resist
payment; it is utterly in vain to ex-
pect that either the revenue is to
cease to decline, or the necessary
expenditure to cease to augment.

The increased expenditure of Go-
vernment consequent upon agita-
tion, misery, and rebellion, is very
different from the increased expend-
iture consequent on foreign war,
during which an extraordinary im-
pulse is frequently given to every
branch of industry. It is one thing
for Government to increase taxation
and expenditure when industry, ca-
pital, and expenditure are secure by
the firm protection of a firm and
prudent executive; it is another and
a very different thing to increase it
when terror, distrust, and apprehen-
sion have got possession of every
heart; when wealth has ceased to
expend its riches, and credit to ex-
tend its arms, and industry to aug-
ment its productions. The one en-
courages industry, and draws an in-
creased revenue for Government
from the augmented wealth and
growing prosperity of the country ;
the other feeds upon the public
suffering, and on the agitation conse-
quent on universal distress, founds
the necessity of an augmented and
interminable expenditure. The in-
creased expenditure of England du-
ring the war, led to the most pros-
perous period of the British annals ;
the enormous expenditure of revolu-
tionary France eat into the vitals of
the State, overturned property of al-
most every description, and led una-
voidably to the terrible measures of
confiscating the church property, ex-
tinguishing the national debt, and
deluging the country with govern-
ment paper, bearing a forced circu-
lation.

1832.] The British Finances. 605

It is to these dreadful revolution- was simply and exclusively to save
ary steps that Government must have ourselves from being revolutionized,

and conquered by France amidst the
fumes of democracy : a peril which
was then imminent, and which

recourse, if by passing the Reform
Bill we once plunge irrecoverably into
the stream of revolution. We ear-
nestly entreat attention to this con-
sideration; to the measures of finance
which must follow a constantly in-
creasing expenditure, and a constant-
ly diminishing income. The people
of England cannot pretend that they
have not been fully warned of the
consequences; and when the time
comes that enormous burdens are
wrung out of an impoverished and
wasted land, and every species of
property subjected to revolutionary
confiscations, they will perhaps re-
member the warning voice, which,
when it was yet time, portrayed the
fatal consequences of their actions,
and foretold the devouring progress
of the flame which they had kindled
by their own passions.

The history of the British finances
is one of the most important subjects
that can be brought under considera-
tion. Tt has not been sufficiently en-
larged upon in this miscellany. We
shall first examine the state of the
finances, and the changes which they
have undergone during the last forty
years, and then point out the system
which can alone save us from the al-
ternative of public bankruptcy, or
permanent difficulties.

The whole public debt which now
exists, may be stated as having been
contracted since the revolutionary
war broke out; in other words, the
sinking fund, before it was extin-
guished, had paid off as much as the
debt existing at the period of its com-
mencement. The debt in 1792 was
L 233,000,000, and in 1813, the sink-
ing fund had paid off L.236,000,000.
Such was the burden entailed upon
this country by the French Revolu-
tion.

Great as this burden is, and hope-
less, without a total change of mea-
sures, as is the prospect of ever get-
ting quit of it, there can be nothing
so erroneous as to imagine that the
war should not have been underta-

we

are better abla now to appreciate,
from being placed in circumstances
extremely similar, with a different
system pursued by Government. The
extreme danger of this country being
overthrown by the contagion of the
first French Revolution, would never
have been appreciated by future
ages, had the second revolution not
broken out ; the wisdom of Mr Pitt's
administration would now have been
little understood, had Lord Grey not
succeeded to the helm.

The real reproach against Mr Pitt's
administration, and the one which
the voice of history will pronounce
against it, is not that he carried on
the war too vigorously, but that he
did not carry it on vigorously enough :
that he did not put forth the resour-
ces of the state early in the contest,
when they might have been readily
commanded: arid suffered the ser-
pent to become a dragon, by failing
to strangle it in its cradle. There
can now be no doubt that if this
country had exerted half its strength,
in conjunction with its allies, in 1793,
the revolution might have been put
down, the passion of fear made to
supplant that of democracy, and the
entailing a burden of L.700,000,000
on the nation prevented. But leaving
this extraneous topic, the point at
present for consideration is, the pro-
gressive increase of the debt since
1792, the system which Mr Pitt
adopted for its liquidation, and the
causes which have unhappily frus-
trated its effects.

Mr Pitt's system, as all the world
knows, was to add but little to the
yearly burdens of the nation, in order
to provide for the expenses of the
war, but to contract large loans, for
the current interest of which alone
provision was made in the yearly
supplies. That this system was car-
ried to too great a length, and that,
in one essential particular to be im-
mediately noticed, it was erroneous,
is now generally admitted. But that

ken, and vigorously persevered in till
brought to a successful issue. The
object of that war was not, as is gene- the system of borrowing was una-
rally imagined, to force an obnoxious voidable must be obvious, if the tern-
dynasty upon France, or extinguish per of men's minds on the imposi-
freedom in that country. Its object tion of taxes, and the popular com-

606

The British Finances.

[April,

position of the House of Commons,
is taken into consideration. Suffi-
cient complaint was made at the time
on account of the imposition of taxes
to pay the interest of the debt ; had
there been taxes laid on to cover the
principal, the clamour would have
been irresistible. It is by slow de-
grees, and insensible gradations, that
a nation is brought to bear a heavy
load of taxation ; however great the
advantage may ultimately be of ma-
king the supplies of the year equal
its expenses, this can seldom be at-
tained in the outset of a contest.
Had Mr Pitt proposed in 1 793 or 1 794,
that instead of a loan of L. 1 8,000,000,
taxes to the amount of L.I 8,000,000
should be imposed, he would at once
have been defeated. The clear and
bitter sense which we now entertain
of the ruinous effects which loans
ultimately produce, is no proof that
that great statesman was to blame in
the revolutionary war in contracting
them: but only that in a Govern-
ment so much subjected as this is to
the popular voice, what is wrong
must often be done, not because its
consequences are not perceived, but
because the people will not bear the
present inconvenience of doingright.
Let us take care that we are not now
falling into the same mistake, and,
in obedience to the popular cry,
engaging in measures far more fatal
to the nation than all the debt con-
tracted during the revolutionary war.
The real financial error of Mr
Pitt consisted in his borrowing so
large a portion of the loans in the
three per cents, when, by giving a
somewhat higher rate of interest, he
might have got the same sums in the
five per cents. To understand the
serious consequences of this short-
sighted policy, it is only necessary to
recollect, that, when loans were con-
tracted in the three per cents, the
nation gave a bond for L.100 for
every L.60 received ; whereas when
they were contracted in the five per
cents they only gave a bond for L. 100
for each L.100 truly paid into Ex-
chequer. Now there has been bor-
rowed L.600,000,000 of stock in the
three per cents, and of course in
every L.100 of this large sum there
is L.40 which the nation must pay
by the terms of the loan, though it
never received it. In other words,
L.240,000,000 of the debt must be

paid, more than the nation has re-
ceived from the public creditors.

It is evident that this was a capital
error in finance ; and it is one for
which the same excuse cannot be
urged as for the loan system in gene-
ral, because, by a small addition to
the annual interest, this ruinous ad-
dition to the amount of the debt
which ultimately required to be paid
might have been avoided. No less
than L.I 56,000,000 was at different
periods during the war borrowed in
the five per cents ; in other words,
by giving a bond only for the sum
really paid into the Treasury : and
though the difference of interest was
sometimes as much as one-half or
two-thirds per cent, yet it is evident
that this addition to the annual bur-
den was nothing compared to the
advantage of avoiding the saddling
the nation with a large sum in name
of principal, which it never received.
This must appear perfectly obvious
when it is recollected, that on the
return of peace the state always, and
as a matter of course, acquires the
power of lowering the interest on its
debts to the current rate, by threat-
ening to pay off the principal: an
operation which has been so suc-
cessfully applied by recent adminis-
trations to the five and four per
cents. But it must always be im-
possible to lower the interest on the
three per cents, because by the con-
ception of the bond they cannot be
paid off but at L.100 for each L.60
paid; and therefore, till they rise
above L.100— in other words, till
money is permanently below L.3 per
cent, it never can be for the interest
of Government to pay them off; ac-
cordingly, while the five and the four
per cents have been successively
subjected to this operation of lower-
ing the interest, nothing of the kind
has been attempted with the large
sum in the three per cents. By low-
ering the interest on the five per
cents in 1824 to four, and in 1829 to
three and a half per cent, no less
than L.2,400,000 a-year has been
saved to the nation upon that stock
alone, though it consists only of
L.I 5 7,000,000 : had the L.360,000,000
which was actually paid by the pub-
lic creditors for the six hundred mil-
lion stock in the three per cents been
subjected to the same operation,
which it might have been, if it had

The British Finances. 607

in the same form, subject of universal 'complaint, be-

1832.]

been borrowed

the saving effected to the nation from
this expedient alone, without the
slightest injustice to the public cre-
ditor, would have been L.5,500,000
a-year.

But while the impolicy of Mr Pitt's
financial policy in this particular is
fully admitted, the fault was redeem-
ed by two great excellencies which
distinguish his from other measures
of taxation, and demonstrate the pro-
found reflection and extensive fore-
sight of his great mind, viz. the sys-
tem of indirect taxes and the sinking
fund.

All Mr Pitt's taxes, down to a very
late period, were laid on commodi-
ties chiefly articles of luxury; and
but a small portion, \iz.the assessed
taxes, on individuals directly. Short-
ly before his death in 1805, an in-
come-tax of six per cent was im-
posed, which Earl Grey's adminis-
tration raised in 1807 to ten per cent;
but this was a last resource, foreign
to the policy of his general adminis-
tration, and rested by him on the
ground only of overbearing neces-
sity. Nothing, it is true, can be more
impolitic in theory than taxes on con-
sumption, because the expense of
collection is greater in that form
than when it is extracted directly
from the people's pockets. But all
this notwithstanding, experience has
now abundantly proved, that indi-
rect taxes are incomparably the best.
The reason is, that they are not felt
as burdensome, and being laid on ar-
ticles of luxury, they are not paid,
except by those who, by buying the
article, have afforded evidence that
they are above the pangs of actual
want. These considerations are de-
cisive on the subject. Mankind are
not a mere machine, upon whom, as
on lifeless matter, experiments in
taxation are to be trjed ; they are, on
the contrary, sensitive beings, who
feel most acutely taxes of a certain
description, and are almost totally
indifferent to those of another. Every
body must be sensible of this from
their own observation or experience.
What are the.taxea which are now
felt as burdensome, and against
which the public clamour is always
the most general ? Is it the tax on
sugar, or tea, or spirits, or malt ? No,
it is the assessed taxes, the poor-
rates, and the tithe, which form the

cause these are the burdens which
are directly drawn from the pockets
of the people by the tax-gatherer,
the church-wardens, and the clergy.
When the war was over, England
rose like one man against the income-
tax; but the excise and customs,
though producing twice as much,
excited hardly any attention. So true
it is, that it is not the absolute
amount of what is levied from a na-
tion, but the mode in which the col-
lection takes place, which consti-
tutes the real grievance; and that
one million drawn directly from the
pockets of the people, is frequently
ielt as a greater grievance than ten
obtained by a more circuitous and
less oppressive method.

When a tax is laid on articles of
consumption, the price of the taxed
articles certainly rises, but the ex-
tent to which the rise affects any in-
dividual or family in the country, is
so extremely small as not to consti-
tute any serious grievance; or if it
is more considerable, it can be met,
and compensated by increased eco-
nomy. For example, if by the impo-
sition of a tax the price of tea is rai-
sed from 5s. to 7s. 6d. a-pound,
there is some grumbling at first
about the rise of prices ; but it does
not make the difference of above ten
or fifteen shillings in the expendi-
ture of any individual in the king-
dom in a year; and even this rise
can be compensated by husbanding
the article, or substituting something
else in its room. After a year or two
the tax is forgotten in the price of the
article, and a great revenue flows in
to Government, without those from
whom it is drawn being conscious
that they are paying a tax when they
purchase the article. But it is other-
wise with a direct tax, like that on
income, windows, or houses, which
is not voluntarily incurred, which is
not disguised under any other form,
but recurs annually in the painful
and vexatious form of a large de-
mand from the collector. Nobody
is distrained for the tax on wine, su-
gar, or tea; but they are quietly
levied by wholesale at the harbours,
and drawn by little and little from
the consumers when they use the
articles ; but every day exhibits in-
stances of families ruined, their fur-
niture sold, and their children turned

608

The British Finances.

into the streets, under Exchequer
warrants, for the house-tax. In pay-
ing the tax on articles of consump-
tion, you have at least the satisfaction
of getting something for your money,
and the burden is forgotten in the
comfort or enjoyment of the article
burdened; in paying a direct tax,
you get nothing but a miserable re-
ceipt, which is never looked at, with-
out recalling the recollection of the
vexation which the payment it vou-
ches had occasioned. So strongly do
these principles operate in practice,
that it may safely be affirmed, that
the indirect taxes never have been
felt as burdensome by the nation at
all; and when the weight of taxation
is complained of, what suggests the
idea is the assessed or income-tax,
or some of the other impositions
which go directly from the subjects
into the hands of the tax-gatherer.

The second great merit of Mr Pitt's
system of finance was the establish-
ment and steady adherence to the
sinking fund; an institution of the
most admirable wisdom ; whose im-
portance has been lost sight of du-
ring the financial theories of later
times ; and to the unnecessary and
impolitic abandonment of which, al-
most all our present embarrassments
are to be ascribed.

Mr Pitt had not the merit of in-
venting the sinking fund, but he had
the great merit of engrafting it as an
integral part on our finance system,
and steadily adhering to it through
difficulties which would have shaken
a man of less foresight and resolu-
tion. It has been usual of late years
to talk of this admirable system as a
mere juggle; a sort of pious fraud
practised on the understandings of
men during a moment of peril, but
which cannot bear the light of rea-
son, or the increasing intelligence of
the age. A few observations on the
nature of this system of redemption,
and the objections urged against it,
will at once demonstrate the erro-
neous nature of all these objections.

The principle of the sinking fund
was this — that whenever a loan was
contracted, taxes should be laid on
to a somewhat greater amount than
was required to cover its interest, or
such a surplus should be provided
from some other source, and the
yearly produce of this fund applied
to the purchase of stock, the interest

[April,

of which was to be drawn by the
commissioners, and laid out in pur-
chasing more stock, the interest of
which was in like manner to be ap-
plied in making still greater inroads
upon the principal sum. It is easy
to see that this forms a fund, con-
stantly accumulating for the reduc-
tion of the principal of the debt, and
that within a given period the largest
national debt must be extinguished
by a small annual payment steadily
and religiously applied to that ob-
ject. To understand this, suppose
'L.20,000,000 borrowed, the interestof
which isL.1,000,000 yearly; and that,
instead of providing for this annual
payment only, provision is made for
L.I, 200,000 yearly, leaving a surplus
of L.200,000 to form a sinking fund
for the reduction of the capital sum.
The first year, the commissioners for
the management of this fund buy up
L.200,000 worth of stock, and so get
the command of L.10,000 a-year of
the dividends paid on it. Next year
they buy up, not L.200,000 a-year,
but L.2 10,000, applying the L.10,000
drawn on the stock already purcha-
sed in this way. The third year they
buy L.220,500, the additional L.500
being gained on the L.10,000 bought
with the interest of the first year's
purchased stock. Thus the increase
goes on in a well-known progression,
which doubles the sum annually ex-
tinguished at the end of fourteen,
and quadruples it at the end of twen-
ty-eight years ; in other words, it is
a fund accumulating at compound
interest of five per cent, and eating
into the heart of the original debt.
To exemplify this, take the results
of this system with the debt suppo-
sed for a few years :

First year's surplus
Second,
Third, .
Fourth,
Fifth, .
Sixth,
Seventh,
Eighth,
Ninth, .
Tenth, .

, L.200,000
210,000
220,500
231,250
242,502
253,078
265,654
278,286
292,114
306,661

Total in 10 years, L.2,499,105

The immense rate at which this
fund accumulates must be obvious
to every observer j and it is to be

1832.] The British Finances.

observed that it accumulates without
imposing one farthing additional bur-
den on the country, by the mere force
of an annual fund steadily applied,
with all its fruits, year after year, to
the reduction of the principal debt.
All the loans contracted during
the war had a certain portion of the
taxes destined to meet their interest,
set apart for a sinking fund for the
extinction of the principal sum ; and
this fund, with its immense and grow-
ing accumulations, was religiously
devoted to the absorption of debt
until the year 1813. At that period
the sinking fund amounted in round
numbers to about L.15,000,000 a-

year ; * and if it had been preserved
untouchedyihe reduction of debt in the
next eighteen years it would have ef-
fected would have been as follows :

1813, . L

.15,000,000

1814,

15,750,000

1815, .

16,537,500

1B9V 1816,

17,363,870

1817, .

18,231,973

1818, .

19,143,566

1819, .

20,100,774

1820, .

21,005,033

1821, .

22,055,284

1822, .

23,157,048

1823, .

24,315,572

1824, .

25,530,240

1825, .

26,839,360

1826, .

28,181,423

1827, .

29,590,464

1 828,

31,579,590

1829, .

33,158,577

bnuiJ830, .

•

34,816,505

Total in 18 years, L.422,356,779

It thus appeal's, that if the sinking
fund had been let alone, it would,
since the year 1813, have paid off
above four hundred millions ; and
even after deducting the immense
loans of 1814 and 1815, the national
debt would have been upwards of
three hundred millions less than it is
now. In the year 1847, supposing no
new debt contracted, it would have
been entirely extinguished. .rljd-oiS

It is evident, therefore, that the
sinking fund was formed on the most
profound and just calculations, and
that there was no more of a fallacy
in it, than there is in the duplication

609

of a sum of money in fourteen years
at compound interest. In truth, the
sinking fund is founded upon the
simple principle of turning the accu-
mulation of compound interest in-
ward upon the capital of the debt,
instead of its being turned outward,
as is usually the case upon the estate
of the debtor. In the one case, and
upon the same principle, it occasions
as rapid a diminution, as in the other
it does an augmentation to the amount
of the debt.

It happened, however, unfortu-
nately, that during the pressure of
the revolutionary war, the contrac-
tion of loans to the enormous amount
of L.30,000,000 and L.40,000,000 an-
nually was indispensable for the pub-
lic service, and this gave occasion to
much misrepresentation and error in
regard to the sinking fund. Dr Ha-
milton published his celebrated work,
in which he urged, with perfect jus-
tice, that there was no mode in which
a nation could become richer, any
more than an individual, but by
bringing its expenditure within its
income, and that it was mere delu-
sion to imagine, that when we were
borrowing L.30,000,000 a-year, we
were in a prosperous way, because
we had a sinking fund, which was
paying off L.15,000,000. The obser-
vation, as he made it, was perfectly
just; but unfortunately the Whig
party and the country took it up as
if it meant that there was a juggle in
the sinking fund itself, independent
of the extraneous and simultaneous
contraction of debt; and that that
provident system of accumulation
might be abandoned without any in-
jury to the public service. This idea
rapidly gained ground : the delusion
of the sinking fund — the juggle of
the sinking fund, was in every mouth;
as if Lord Chatham and Mr Pitt could
ever have supposed that a nation
which borrowed annually thirty mil-
lions was in a prosperous way, be-
cause it paid off fifteen.

What these great men contempla-
ted, and what they contemplated with
perfect justice, was this : that while
the war lasted, and loans were an-
nually contracted, what was paid off
by the sinking fund, was a deduction
from the annual increase of the debt,

It was L. 15,500,000. See Col^uhoun on thft, Wealth of Great Britain, p. 277.

G10

The British Finances.

and that when peace came, and loans
ceased, the whole amount of what it
annually paid off was a positive dimi-
nution of it. That these two proposi-
tions are strictly true, is as certain as
that two and two make four. We
have now contracted no loans of any
moment since 181 6; and had the sink-
ing fund been left untouched, it would
have reduced the debt above 300 mil-
lions since that time, and would have
been now diminishing the debt at the
rate of L.35,000,000 a-year. In ten
years this fund would have paid off
above 400 millions more ; so that in
1842, we should have had hardly 100
millions left. What an enormous be-
nefit this would have been both to
the industry and the power of Eng-
land, is too obvious to require eluci-
dation. As a decisive proof of the
practical working of the sinking
fund, it is sufficient to notice the fact,
that when it was broken in upon
in 1813, the sinking fund had paid
off L.236,80 1,000, being the whole debt
existing in 1 792 ; and L.3,000,000 of
that contracted during the revolu-
tionary war.*

It appears, therefore, that there
was nothing chimerical or illusory in
the principle of the sinking fund;
but that it was merely an application
to the extinction of debt of the prin-
ciple of accumulation, so well known
by debtors in the growth of their cre-
ditors' claims. The illusion consist-
ed merely in not attending to the
simultaneous contraction of other
loans, which of course, while that
system went on, extinguished or neu-
tralized the operation of the redeem-
ing establishment. But the moment
the contraction of loans ceased, the
beneficial effect of the sinking fund
appeared in clear and prominent co-
lours ; and if the system had been al-
lowed to go on, it would by this time
have put our finances in a compara-
tively flourishing condition.

The first blow struck at the admi-
rable system of the sinking fund, was
towards the end of the war, when,
tempted by the magnitude of the sum
which then lay, as it were, within
their grasp, and pressed by the dif-
ficulty of providing for the interest of
the enormous loans of L,64,000,000,
which were annually contracted for

[April,

in its last years, Mr Vansittart brought
a series of expedients, which, under
the specious guise of equalizing bur-
dens, and imposing no new taxes for
four years, in effect soon reduced the
sinking fund from 15 millions and a
half to nine millions, and at last three
millions. Subsequently, different ad-
ministrations have still farther dimi-
nished it. In 1820, Parliament so-
lemnly adopted the resolution, that
the sinking fund should be main-
tained at least at L.5,000,000; but
notwithstanding this, it was gradually
curtailed,tillatlength, when the Duke
of Wellington resigned, it amounted
to a clear sum of L.2,900,000. The
present administration have so re-
duced the income by imprudent re-
mission of taxes and Reform agita-
tion, that there is not only no surplus
available to the reduction of the debt,
but a deficiency of L.698,000; and
for the first time since the time of
William III., a notification has ap-
peared from the Commissioners for
reduction of the debt, that they have
no fund to make any farther pur-
chases.

The sinking fund, therefore, is now
extinguished; the means of paying
off the debt are gone, and the nation
is content to sit down with an an-
nual charge of L.28,000,000 for its
interest.

Such a system is as shortsighted
as it is disgraceful to the national
character. Had the sinking fund
been kept up, the debt would have
been all extinguished in 1850; as
matters now stand, we must pay the
whole principal of the debt every 20
years, in the form of interest to the
public creditor. In other words, by
merely sustaining taxation by no
means burdensome, as we shall im-
mediately shew, from 1813 to 1850,
we would have left the nation en-
tirely free I Whereas, by not doing
this, we compel our posterity either
to break faith with the public cre-
ditor, or to pay off the whole debt
Jive times over every century for ever!

Having got a sinking fund of
L.I 5,500,000 in 1813, all that was re-
quired was to keep that sum invio-
late, and contract no new loans, ex-
cept under the pressure of overbear-
ing necessity. In that case, the ex-

* Colquhoun, p.

1832.J The British Finances. 611

tinction of the debt in 1850 would rity, let us attend to the taxes which

have been certain. Now, without have been taken off since the war on

taking into account the income tax, objects of consumption, and from the

which it was impossible to keep on removal of which the nation has de-

from its excessive and unequal seve- rived little or no benefit.

The following is the statement of the taxes which have been repealed
since the peace, with the years of their being taken off.*

1816. Property Tax, War Malt, War Customs, . . L. 18,288,000

1817. English Assessed Taxes, 280,000

1818. Irish Assessed Taxes, 236,000

1821. Agricultural Horse, 480,000

1822. Annual Malt, Hides, Tonnage, 3,355,000

1823. Assessed Taxes (half), Spirits, Customs, . . . 3,200,000

1824. Rum, Coals, Stamps, Wool, Silk, .... 1,727,000

1825. Salt, Hemp, Coffee, Wine, British Spirits, . . . 3,146,000

1829. Beer, &c. 3,500,000

1831. Coals, Calicoes, Candles, 1,600,000

Total repealed since the peace, . . L.35,8 12,000
Of these were direct taxes, . . 18,177,000

Repealed of indirect taxes, . . 17,635,000

It thus appears that even after de- kept up the sinking fund at its pro-
ducting the whole direct taxes re- per amount of L. 15,000,000. To
pealed, which, as a proper and ne- have done this, it would not, it must
cessary boon to the nation, may be be recollected, have been necessary
admitted to have been rightly relin- to have set aside L. 15,000,000 annu-
quished, there has been, since the ally of the taxes to the discharge of
battle of Waterloo, seventeen millions the debt, but only not to have inter-
andahalfof indirect taxes repealed, feredwiih the sinking fund of that
It is true, no doubt, that the addition amount which the wisdom of pre-
that would have been made to the ceding administrations had in 1813
sum total of the revenue, if these provided for its liquidation,
taxes had been kept on, is not to be Had these taxes, so improvidently
measured by the mere amount taken and needlessly repealed, really press-
off, because by the repeals of many ed in any serious degree on the poor,
of these taxes, the produce of other it may be admitted that the removal
branches of the revenue was increa- of some of them was unavoidable.
sed,f but still there can be no doubt But this really was not the case. It
that enough would have remained of may be doubted whether the poor
the taxes already kept on to have have gained any thing by their remis-

* Chancellor of Exchequer's Speech, 13th March, 1826.

f A striking instance of this occurred upon the repeal of the duties on British spi-
rits in 1825. The produce of the tax was as great after the reduction as before it, though
that reduction was not less than from 5s. 6d. to 2s. the gallon. So prodigious was
the increase of the consumption of that poisonous article, that the average of the three
years preceding and following the repeal stood thus.*

1820. )

1821. [ average , 11,974,000 gallons,

1822. 3

1825. }

1826. C average ,„ 23,540,000 gallons.

1827. 3

Year 1828 24,346,000 gallons.

It is not surprising after this that crime has so immensely increased during the same
period in every part of the empire.

* Parliamentary Papere*

612

The British Finances.

[April,

si on. What they have gained in the
cheapness of some of the comforts of
life, has been more than compensa-
ted by the simultaneous decline in
the wages of labour. General misery
has been experienced by the la-
bouring classes during the time that
these taxes have been taken off, while
universal prosperity signalized the
period when they were kept on.
There is a connexion between these
two things ; they do not merely stand
in juxtaposition. The repeal of taxes
compels Government to contract its
expenditure ; and when the great
paymaster of the* nation draws in its
encouragement to industry, the poor
are necessarily the firist and greatest
sufferers. Expenditure may be car-
ried greatly too far, as it was during
the war ; but it niay also be contract-
ed a great deal too much, as it has
been since the peace."

But supposing the people have
gained something by the repeal of so
many taxes on consumption since the
peace, is that transient advantage to
be at all compared to the enormous
evil of having thereby lost the sinking
fund; in other words, incurred the
burden of paying the whole debt
once every twenty years, in the form of
interest, for ever? This, it is to be re-
collected, is the other alternative;
this evil we have fixed on ourselves
and our children/or ever, in order to
experience the doubtful and incon-
siderable relief of these indirect taxes
during the last sixteen years.

The present disastrous state of the
finances is directly to be ascribed to
the great and increasing influence of
the popular voice on the legislature,
and the necessity under which every
succeeding administration has been
laid of making the sacrifice of some
tax at the shrine of popularity. It
may be doubted whether any Minis-
try which went on the principle of
keeping up the burdens on consump-
tion to maintain the sinking fund,
could have maintained their places
for six months. So improvident and
inconsiderate are great bodies of
men ! Still, Government have been
much to blame for not stating the
thing in this clear and lucid manner
to the nation, and putting it fairly to
the people, whether they would fore-
g-o the immense advantage of having
the debt extinguished in 1845, and
the funds kept up nearly at par in

the intervening period, merely for
the elusory boon of reducing taxes,
which in the end had little other ef-
fect than that of consigning the whole
amount repealed into the pockets of
manufacturers and retail dealers ? If
it be said that the people would have
insisted, as we much fear theyjw ould,
on the repeal of the taxes, come of
the debt what may, then wehave on-
ly to reply, that England has been
sacrificed by the popular part of its
constitution; and driven down the
gulf of perdition, not because it did
not possess the means of salvation,
but because its inhabitants were too
improvident, and too much governed
by the elusory advantages of the
moment, to possess the firmness to
maintain them.

Farther, these indirect taxes were
far from burdensome, and their re-
mission has proved hardly any re-
lief to the nation. They were so
blended with the price of commodi-
ties ; their weight was so much coun-
teracted by the effect of machinery,
and the fall in prices, in consequence
of the cessation of the war expendi-
ture, that if they had been kept on,
the burden would hardly have been
perceptible. The only consequence
of their removal has been to extend
to a slight degree the consumption of
the articles relieved; an increase
which would probably have taken
place to an equal extent by an indi-
rect but most powerful effect of the
sinking fund, had it been retained in
operation.

For the steady application of so
large a sum as fifteen, twenty, and
twenty-five millions a-year, to the
purchase of stock, would have had
a most powerful effect in keeping up
the price of the public funds. If it
be only recollected that the sinking
fund from 1813 to*1831 would have
purchased up above four hundred
millions of stock, and diminished the
debt above three, notwithstanding
the great loans of 1814 and 1815, it
is evident that the effect of this great
withdrawal of stock from the mar-
ket by the government commission-
ers every year, must have been to en-
hance to a very great degree indeed
the price of what remained. We do
not think we exaggerate the matter
when we say, that from 1818 down-
wards, the three per cents under
such $ system would have been al-

1832.} The British

most constantly at par. Now, when
it is recollected what a powerful in-
fluence the state of the funds has on
the general industry and prosperity
of the country, and how immensely
every branch of occupation is invi-
gorated and encouraged by such a
state of the money market, as indu-
ces a large portion of the savings of
the nation to turn aside from the
public funds into channels more im-
mediately affecting the demand for
labour, there seems little doubt that
the relief to the country from this
cause would have been much greater
than that which attended a reduction
on the duties on articles of consump-
tion. What has uniformly been com-
plained of for the last ten years, has
been, not that prices were dear, but
that they were ruinously cheap, and
that employment could not be found
for the poor : a striking proof how
little the remission of taxation which
affects the price of articles only is
really beneficial, and what important
consequences might have been an-
ticipated from those measures of
finance which, by sustaining the na-
tional credit, and elevating the price
of the funds, must necessarily have
affected the great market of labour,
by increasing the portion of the na-
tional wealth destined for its em-
ployment.

Farther, the great remission in in-
direct taxes which has taken place
since 1816, has injured the industry
of the country not only indirectly by
depressing the funds, but directly,
by diminishing to a very great de-
gree the expenditure of Government,
and through it of all the individuals
depending on that expenditure for
their subsistence. This has been a
most serious consideration, and which
has of itself, to all appearance, more
than counterbalanced all the relief
derived from diminished taxation.
Every body recollects the vivifying
influence of the great war expendi-
ture, and how little the burden of
taxation was felt when sixty or se-
venty millions were spent by Govern-
ment every year in carrying it on.
There can be no doubt that the
direction of so large a portion of
the national wealth to employments
which for the most part were unpro-
ductive, that is, did not reproduce
themselves, was extremely prejudi-

Finances.

613

cial in its ultimate, however encou-
raging in its primary effects. But it
is equally clear, that the sudden ces-
sation of more than half of the na-
tional expenditure was a most severe
trial upon the national prosperity,
and that the immediate effect of such
a contraction, aggravated to a great
degree the distress necessarily re-
sulting from the transition from a
warlike to a pacific expenditure.
There can be no doubt that ten mil-
lions a-year, spent by Government,
in addition to the expenditure which
they actually carried on, would have
gone far to alleviate the existing dis-
tress which so many causes con-
spired to produce. It is a grievous
mistake, therefore, to imagine, that
every million taken from taxation is
so much relief given to the nation ;
for if it diminishes the price of com-
modities, it diminishes as much the
funds destined for the employment
of labour, and deludes the nation
with a shew of advantage, without
taking into view the corresponding
and unavoidable contraction of the
national industry.

Whether the fifteen millions an-
nually levied through the indirect
taxes, therefore, had been em-
ployed in maintaining the sinking
fund, or in direct expenditure by
Government, the effects must have
been beneficial to the nation. This
money devoted to the sinking fund,
would have been as beneficially
employed for the national indus-
try as that directly spent by Go-
vernment; because, by being direct-
ed to the purchase of stock, it must
have turned loose upon the national
industry all the money received for
the purchase ; in other words, as
large a sum as the stock redeemed.
By curtailing the national expendi-
ture, therefore, in other particulars,
and rigorously protecting the accu-
mulation of the sinking fund, Go-
vernment would have accomplished
at once the double object of relieving
the national industry and diminish-
ing the national debt; the first, by the
price of the stock thrown loose uppn
the country, and necessarily turned
into the channels of productive in-
dustry, the second, by the redemption
of that stock itself.

The complaint that the nation has
derived no benefit from the repeal

614

The British Finances.

of the indirect taxes, is in every
mouth. Above six millions has been
taken off malt and beer, since the
peace of 1815, and yet the price
of small beer is not sensibly dimi-
nished. Eighteenpence a gallon for
common small beer, and two shil-
lings a gallon for table-beer, has
been the price for the last thirty
years. The brewers admit this ; but
they assert that the remission of the
tax made no sensible variation on
the price at which they can produce
that part of their produce, because
the quantity of malt it requires is so
small. If this be true, what can be
so happy a subject of taxation as an
article of general consumption, on
the cost of the production of which
a tax of L.6,000,000 makes no sensi-
ble variation ? — The price of ale or
strong beer, indeed, has fallen, as
well as that of spirits, to the full
amount of the duty remitted; but
surely no one can consider a change
of prices in these articles, which has
so immensely added to the depravity
and crime of the lower orders, as
any thing else but a public cala-
mity.

Lord Castlereagh was fully aware
of the impolicy of letting down the
national taxation too suddenly ; and,
in his manly and vigorous speech on
the repeal of the income-tax, in Feb.
1816, fully pointed them out. His
great error consisted in striving to
uphold the income-tax: an impost
so grievous and unequal in its ope-
ration, that it was impossible to ex-
pect that the nation would continue
to bear it, after the danger of the war
was over. For the income-tax, in
appearance the most fair, is, in reali-
ty, the most unequal of all taxes ;
because it assesses at an equal an-
nual sum persons whose real wealth
is essentially different The landed
proprietor, who has a clear income
of L.1000 a-year, and consequently
is worth L.30,000; the fundholder,
who has the same income from the
public securities, and is only worth
L.20,000 ; the annuitant of 25, whose
life is good, and whose annuity of
that value is worth L.15,000; the
one of 75, whose tenure of the same
income is not worth L.2000; the
professional man, whose income of
L.1000 is not worth five years' pur-
chase j the merchant, who makes

[April,

L.1000 a-year, but may lose it all
next year — are all taxed at the same
annual sum. The extreme injustice
of this must be obvious to every im-
partial observer; and this is the rea-
son, joined to the inquisitorial na-
ture of the tax, and its being directly
drawn from the people, which has
always rendered it so unpopular,
and produced the unanimous effort
which led to its repeal in 1816. Had
Government at that time, instead of
struggling to uphold a tax, produc-
tive indeed but odious, endeavoured
to maintain the indirect taxes which
were injuring no one in any consi-
derable degree, the sinking fund
might have been maintained, and the,
debt of the country by this time re-
duced to half its amount.

The constant repeal of indirect
taxes, with an enormous loss to the
revenue, and no sensible benefit to
the country, which has gone on for
the last fifteen years, is the result
partly of the absurd and theoretical
doctrines on taxation, which the
Whigs have so incessantly promul-
gated, and partly of the fatal demo-
cratic influence, which during that
time has been constantly increasing
in the country. Every successive
administration discovered that the
only way to gain popularity was to
make a shew of alleviating the na-
tional burdens, without any regard
to the ruin which they occasioned
to the sinking fund, and the impossi-
bility which thence necessarily arose
of ever extinguishing the national
debt. If any Minister had come for-
ward and boldly stated the necessity
of maintaining all the indirect taxes,
in order to preserve inviolate the
sinking fund, he would have been
assailed with such a tempest of
abuse, as would have rendered it
extremely doubtful whether he could
have maintained his place. These
successive repeals were so many
instances of homage paid to the ma-
jesty of the people, who, as usual,
were incapable of perceiving the
ruinous ultimate consequences of the
very measures for which at the time
they raised the most violent outcry.
The Radicals say, that the whole
burdens of the country are owing to
the boroughmongers, and the taxes
they contracted during the war. In
truth, however, they are all owing to

1832.]

The British Finances.

615

the vehemence of the democratic
spirit, which first rendered the war
unavoidable to preserve our national
existence, and then insisted upon
the repeal of such a number of taxes,
noways burdensome in themselves,
as renders its liquidation hopeless.

We are by no means insensible to
the necessity which existed of doing
something to relieve the country af-
ter the dangers of foreign war were
over. But the relief which we con-
ceive should have been afforded,
consisted not in repealing the indi-
rect, but taking off what remained of
the direct burdens ; in other words,
in repealing the assessed taxes.

The great benefit of this measure
would have been, that it would have
relieved all classes equally, instead
of, like the repeal of most indirect
taxes, immensely benefiting one class,
without any advantage whatever to
the community at large. The pay-
ment, the odious payment, of mo-
ney directly to the tax-gatherer
would at once have ceased, and the
national burdens been to a great de-
gree forgotten, in the cessation of
the annual payments which brought
them home to every individual. This
is a most important consideration,
which has never received the atten-
tion it deserves from any administra-
tion. We are convinced that the
repeal of the house and window duty,
would have given more general sa-
tisfaction than any measure which
has been adopted by Government
since the extinction of the income
tax. It would have affected equally
the whole community ; put an end
to the most vexatious and harassing
of all imposts, that on lodging and
light, and got quit of the most odious
of all domiciliary visits, those of the
surveyor and the collector.

We are aware of the sacrifice to
the revenue, which the repeal of the
house and window duty would have
occasioned. But considering that
seventeen millions and a half of in-
direct taxes have been abandoned
since the peace, there is surely no
pretence for the assertion, that the
repeal of the house and window tax,
which do not produce in all four
millions, was impossible.

There is no doubt, that much falla-
cious hope has existed, in many in-
stances, as to the repeal of taxes be-
ing compensated by the rise of the

revenue in other quarters. The rea-
son is, that in general the price of
the article has not been sensibly
changed by the remission of the tax,
and, of course, no increased con-
sumption could be looked for where
no diminution in the price had taken
place. But as every farthing saved
by the removal of the assessed taxes
would have remained in the pockets
of the principal dispensers of the
national income, we think it is not
going too far to assert, that great
part, perhaps half of the sum thus
annually lost to the revenue, would
have been made up from other quar-
ters. If a gentleman was saved L.30
a-year by the removal of the assessed
taxes, he would, in almost every case,
have augmented his expenditure by
that amount ; and as every luxury of
life is taxed, such an increase in con-
sumption must have materially af-
fected the revenue in other depart-
ments. It is otherwise with the re-
peal of an indirect tax, such as that
on malt, leather, or tobacco j which,
in general, produces no change on
the retail price of the article, but
merely enables the great dealers in
those commodities to make enor-
mous fortunes at the national ex-
pense.

The removal of the assessed taxes
would have been attended with this
other most important advantage, that,
by enabling the opulent and middling
classes to augment their expenditure,
it would have given a great and equal
encouragement over the whole coun-
try to the industry of the poor. No-
thing is so fallacious as the idea, that
the only way to relieve the poor, is
to diminish taxation on the articles
which they individually consume.
The true way to relieve them, is to
augment the demand for labour, by
enabling the rich to increase their
expenditure. By far the greater
part of the money remitted in taxa-
tion to the rich, finds its way imme-
diately to the pockets of the poor,
by the increased demand for luxu-
ries and conveniences which it occa-
sions. What has uniformly been
complained of since the peace, has
been, not that prices were high, but
that labour was cheap. The re-
peal of the assessed taxes was emi-
nently calculated to have alleviated
this great and general cause of suf-
fering j and, by diffusing an increased

616

The British Finances.

demand for labour over all the in-
dustrious classes, to have spread the
benefit more equally than could poa-
sibly have been effected by the re-
mission of the duty levied on any
particular article of consumption.

It is a most exasperating circum-
stance, when, as is too often the case,
the remission of a tax makes no per-
ceptible difference on the price of
the article burdened, thereby afford-
ing evidence that the whole duty is
fructifying in the pockets of one class
of the community. The repeal of
the assessed taxes would have been
unquestionably free from this enor-
mous evil, because every farthing
lost to the nation would have been
gained to the individuals composing
it; first, in the remission of taxation
to the individuals burdened, and next,
in the increased demand for labour
to the industrious classes of the com-
munity.

It is a curious question, how it
has happened that taxes so univer-
sally burdensome as the house and
window duty, and whose remission
is so clearly recommended by every
principle of justice and policy, should
still remain, while so many others
have been taken away, to the great
loss of the revenue, and the merely
illusory benefit of the people. The
solution of this extraordinary pheno-
menon is to be found in the very cir-
cumstance which to an equitable go-
vernment should most recommend
the abolition, viz. that it presses on all
classes of the community, and no one
has the prospect of making their for-
tune by effecting the abolition. This
is the decisive circumstance. The
real cause of the repeal of many of
the indirect taxes, is to be found,
not in any general views of policy,
but the prodigious clamour raised
by the interested manufacturers and
dealers, who, caught by the glittering
idea of getting the whole tax into
their own pockets, spared neither
trouble, lungs, pens, nor expense, in
effecting the abolition. The assessed
taxes, though far more generally bur-
densome, did not in an especial man-
ner affect any one class of the com-
munity ; and no body of men could
hope to make their fortune by their
removal. Thus, though the most
vexatious of all, they remain on, be-
cause no particular class was pecu-
liarly interested in their abolition,

[April,

and because, in a country so essen-
tially democratic as this has been for
the last fifteen years, it is not the
most important interests, but the
most importunate and clamorous,
which command attention.

Having arrived now at the era of
history, with reference to the events
immediately after the war, we can
appreciate the blindness of many of
the popular outcries which have
been most violent in our recollection.
We all remember the clamour which
was excited against Lord Castle-
reagh for the celebrated expression,
that the " People manifested an
ignorant impatience of taxation."
That the expression was imprudent
in the Minister of a free country,
may safely be admitted ; but that it
was perfectly true, is now demon-
strated beyond the possibility of
doubt. Supposing that, as a conces-
sion to what must be deemed the
reasonable wishes of the people, the
income-tax, and the half of the win-
dow-tax, had been repealed, still had
the people possessed either firmness
or foresight enough to bear the indi-
rect taxes without repining, the na-
tional debt by this time would have
been nearly half extinguished, and
in a train of rapid liquidation. Com-
pare the ephemeral, doubtful, trifling
benefit which has arisen from their
repeal, with the enormous good
which would have resulted from this
state of the finances, both to the na-
tion and individuals, and there can
be no doubt as to the " Ignorance of
the impatience" which imposed such
a course of policy upon Govern-
ment.

This vacillation and weakness, this
perpetual recurrence to temporary
expedients, this living on shifts and
devices, without any steady system
or permanent policy, is the well-
known characteristic of democratic
rule ; and in every age has distin-
guished those periods in mixed or
republican governments, when the
people have acquired the ascenden-
cy, and the fickleness and impatience
of their councils swayed the nation-
al determinations, With grief and
trembling the faithful annalist of
England must recognise in almost
all the measures of our internal po-
licy since the peace, these melancho-
ly marks of popular influence ; and
in the inability of the strongest intel-

1832.J

lect and the firmest hand to steady
the bark, the growing impetuosity
of the current by which we are
swept along. What then may we
expect, now that an administration
have succeeded who have avowedly
abandoned the helm, and suffer the
vessel to be driven by the current
headlong down the cataract ?

The causes hitherto considered as
having brought on the present disas-
trous state of our finances, have ari-
sen from causes over which Govern-
ment had little control, because they
were imposed upon them by the
clamours of the people. But in
addition to this, there is another
cause which has been hardly less
powerful in producing the embar-
rassment of our finances than them
all put together : this is the prodi-
gious diminution in the supply of
the precious metals, from the dis-
tracted state of South America, since

The British Finances.

617

trary effect. Such has been the re-
sult of the contest upon the mining
population, that the inhabitants of
Potosi, who before the war were
150,000, are now reduced to 12,000.*
The effect of this change upon a
state, burdened with public and pri-
vate debt, was necessarily disas-
trous ; because, while the money
debts, both of the nation and indivi-
duals, remained unchanged, the funds
of the debtors in both, necessarily
dependant upon the wages of labour
and the price of commodities, were
constantly declining. It would have
been the part, therefore, of a wise
government in such an emergency,
to have compensated by an addition-
al supply of paper currency, based
on a sound foundation, such as that
which had stood the test of expe-
rience in Scotland, this great reduc-
tion in the precious metals, and
thereby prevented the industry of

the rise of republics in that unhappy the country from receiving that shock
continent, and the simultaneous con- which a constant decline in

traction of our currency by the ex-
tinction of small notes.

Prior to 1808, the annual supply
of the precious metals from the
mines over the world was about
52,000,000 dollars. Such has been
the effect of the long and desolating
wars in South America, that this
annual supply has now fallen to
28,000,000; being little more than
one-half. This great diminution
was simultaneous with a great in-
crease in the consumption of the
precious metals in the form of plate
and articles of luxury, in conse-
quence of the long continuance of
peace, and a very considerable de-
mand for an increasing currency, in
consequence of the extending com-
merce of all the civilized world un-
der its healing influence.

The effect of this change, of
course, was to lower the price ot every
article of life, in consequence of the
diminution of the supply of the pre-
cious metals tobe exchanged for them.
. The discovery of the mines of Po-
tosi, by increasing the supply of the
precious metals through the world,
raised the money price of every ar-
ticle of commerce; the desolating
wars in South America, by in a man-
ner closing those great fountains of
gold and silver, produced just a con-

the value
of its produce must necessarily have
occasioned, and the debts, both pub-
lic and private, from acquiring that
magnitude which was likely to ren-
der them insupportable.

But what did the Government do ?
Driven on by the Whigs and the cla-
mour of the Radical faction in the
country ; misled by the speculations
of the Political Economists, and the
supposed necessity of a metallic cur-
rency, they took that opportunity to
contract to less than half its amount
the paper circulation of England.
By Mr Peel's celebrated act in 1819,
the bank was compelled to pay in
specie, and by the far more ruinous
measure in 1826, passed during the
panic arising from the commercial
crisis of December 1825, the circu-
lation of small notes was totally pro-
hibited in England within two years
after the passing of the act. The
result of these measures has been
the following prodigious reduction
in the circulating medium of the
country.

1819. 1830.

Bank of Eng- ~)

land notes in £ 30,000,000 1 9,900,000

circulation, j
Country banks. 30,000,000 9,000,000

60,000,000 28,900,000

VOL. XXXI. NO. CXCIII.

Head's Journey.

bis

The British Finances.

And this was done at the very
time that the supply of the metallic
circulation in the whole world had
sunk from 52,000,000 dollars to
28,000,000, and that the consumption
of gold and silver from many causes
had so much increased ; andinacoun-
try weighed down with public and
private debt, almost entirely depend-
ant upon the price of the articles of
industry, and where millions were the
holders of commodities upon which
a fall in price was necessarily ruin-
ous ! It may be doubted whether
speculation, miscalled philosophy,
ever yet conferred so disastrous a
gift upon mankind.

The necessary effect of this pro-
digious diminution in the circulating
medium, was a great fall in the mo-
ney price of all articles of com-
merce, a great enhancement in the
weight of all money debts, and a
great contraction in the efforts of
commercial enterprise. Grain, and
with it almost all the articles of com-
merce, fell to nearly half their value ;
wages declined, consumption de-
creased; the holders of commodi-
ties found them constantly getting
cheaper on their hands. Specula-
tion, instead of being profitable, turn-
ed out ruinous, and all dealers with
slender capital speedily found them-
selves in the Gazette. Industry was
blighted by the constant fall in the
price of its produce; and enterprise
cramped by the experienced impos-
sibility of finding the accommodation
requisite to sustain its exertions.
Thus distrust, gloom, and despond-
ency became universal ; credit, that
most sensitive of created things, was
suspended, and successful enter-
prise, confined to the class who could
command considerable capital, was
limited to a comparatively few hands,
and that among the most wealthy,
among the promoters of commercial
undertaking.

The effect of the change upon
public and private debts, was, if pos-
sible, still more disastrous. By re-
ducing the price of every article of
life, and consequently the income of
every person dependant on produc-
tive industry, at least a third, it add-
ed by that amount both to the na-
tional and every private debt. The
debt of L.800,000,000 has become as
burdensome as twelve hundred mil-

[April,

lions ; and every bond for L.I 000
through the kingdom, has become as
heavy as one of L.I 500 would have
been during the war. The univer-
sality of this increase to burdens
from the change in the value of mo-
ney, is the great cause of the des-
perate and almost hopeless state of
insolvency into which debtors have
every where fallen of late years ; of
the immense increase of bankrupt-
cies in trade; the growing embar-
rassments of the landed proprietors,
and the unprecedented extent to
which landed property has changed
hands.

The contraction of credit which
has arisen from this enormous dimi-
nution of the paper circulation of the
country, is one great cause of the
extreme distress which has prevail-
ed in England of late years. Loans
and accommodation of every sort, it
is to be recollected, are plentiful or
scanty just in proportion as paper is
plentifully or scantily issued from
the great fountains of credit. The
moment the Bank of England con-
tract their issues, every bank in
England does the same; credit is
suspended; every man finds his
whole creditors on his back at once,
while he experiences proportional
difficulty in getting payment of his
own accounts. In such a state of
things, industry is necessarily palsied,
and expenditure diminishes from the
contraction of the supplies on which
it is dependant. Every man practi-
cally acquainted with business knows
that this is precisely the state in
which industry has been in England
ever since the suppression of the
small notes fully took effect.

From these considerations we may
perceive the practical wisdom of the
vigorous stand which the Scotch
made against the destruction of their
paper currency in 1826, and the fatal
rashness with which political specu-
lation then threatened to dry up all
the sources of our national prosperi-
ty. By rising like one man against
the ruinous innovation with which
English theory threatened to visit
this land, the blow was averted, and
what has been the consequence?
Scotland has eminently prospered
during the period when England has
so grievously suffered, and till the
Reform agitation commenced, no

1832.]

distress was here perceptible : while
the English revenue has been con-
stantly declining, that of Scotland
has been constantly increasing, and
is now L.5,1 13,000; being L.700,000
more than that derived from Ireland,
though it has at least four times the
extent of arable land, and more than
three times the number of inhabit-
ants. The revenue is indeed now de-
clining, and distress is universal ; but
that is from the agitation of Reform,
which, like a destroying angel, is
wasting all the energies of this once
prosperous land.

We never can be sufficiently
proud of that great national stand
which the Scotch made against the
suppression of their small notes in
Spring 1826, and the defeat of that
stretch of theoretical tyranny which
prompted the English Political Eco-
nomists, and so large a portion of the
Government, to declare Bellum ad
Internecionem against the system of
Scotch Banking. Had their efforts
proved successful : had they not been
met and defeated by a national feel-
ing as strong, and a national union
as complete in this country as that
which defeated Edward II. at Ban-
nockburn, the admirable system of
Scottish Banking, tried by a century's
experience, which had been weighed
in the balance and not found want-
ing, would have been sacrificed at the
altar of English innovation. Be-
cause the English country bank-
notes were on a bad footing, there-
fore they were clear to demolish the
Scotch bank-notes which were on a
good footing ; and because bank-
ruptcies to an alarming extent had
followed the rotten English paper,
therefore sweeping destruction was
to visit the sound Scottish circula-
tion. It may be doubted whether
reckless innovation, blind theory,
ever yet proposed so unnecessary
and perilous a change in any coun-
try. And we tell the innovators of
.England how it was defeated ; not by
reason, not by eloquence, notby facts,
for they were brought in as great
profusion against it, as they have
lately been against the Reform bill j
but by national exertion and stead-
fast resolution. Slowly and reluc-
tantly the English Government were
brought to allow Scotland to retain
the system which had covered its
valleys with harvests, and dotted its

The British Finances.

619

mountains with flocks; which had
multiplied its cities, and quadrupled
its riches; which had studded the
Atlantic with its ships, and covered
the world with its fabrics.

Experience has now abundantly
proved the admirable wisdom of the
Scotch system of banking. It has
stood the terrible trial of December
1825, which produced such wide-
spread misery in the southern part
of the island, as well as of an hun-
dred years before that time. It has
sustained the fortune of this part of
the empire amidst much subsequent
suffering, arising from extraneous
causes ; and while the revenue of
England and Ireland have been con-
stantly declining under the contrac-
tion of industry, consequent on the
destruction of so large a part of
their currency and credit, that of
Scotland has been constantly increa-
sing, under the fostering influence of
the banking establishments ; — a me-
morable example of what can be
effected against the combined force
of philosophers, innovators, and go-
vernment, even by a small portion
of the empire when cordially and
firmly united ; and a lesson to pre-
sent statesmen in a still greater
cause, and in defence of yet more
important interests, never to despair
that the voice of truth will at last
prevail, if sent forth by united bands,
and supported by courageous reso-
lution.

This cause, indeed, is of such uni-
versal and powerful operation, that
it must have produced effects of still
more wide-spread misery than have
actually occurred, if it had not been
counteracted by other circumstances
of an opposite tendency, which help-
ed to support the drooping energies
of the nation under so rude a shock.
The first of these was the vast and
rapid increase of the population,
amounting to no less than 16 per
cent on the last ten years, which has
extended the domestic consumption
of manufactures to a very consider-
able degree, and compensated to
many branches of industry the failure
of the national income. These ad-
ditional mouths behoved to find sub-
sistence : they set themselves ac-
cordingly vigorously to discover
channels of employment ; and thus
under the pressure of necessity have
contrived to bear up the national

620

The British Finances.

[April,

fortunes, even tinder the most ad-
verse circumstances.

The second was the great addition
which this change in the value of
money made to the wealth of all
those who were possessed of fixed
money incomes. This has been a
most important consequence, and
furnishes the true solution to ^the
singular appearances which society
has exhibited in the British empire
for the last ten years. The indus-
trious classes, that is those who live
by their labour, or the sale of its
produce, have generally laboured
under difficulties, and experienced
at intervals great suffering. The
owners of money, on the other hand,
the fundholders, the holders of
bonds, annuities, and all fixed annual
payments, have found themselves
fully a third richer by this change,
and have in the same proportion
augmented their luxuries, their ex-
penditure, and their enjoyments.
The repeal of the income-tax, and
the change in the value of money,
have totally changed the compara-
tive situation of this numerous body.
This must have forced itself on the
observation of the most inconsider-
ate. Universally we see that the
middling ranks in towns, who are,
generally speaking, the holders of
stock, bonds, and debts of every de-
scription, have increased their com-
forts and enjoyments to an unprece-
dented extent of late years ; and that
the vast increase in the inhabitants
of towns is mainly to be ascribed to
their increasing opulence. It has
existed, in strange and painful con-
trast to the extreme Buffering of the
industrious classes, and of debtors
of every description during the same
period; but there can be no ques-
tion that great as the suffering of
these classes has been during^this
period, it would have been incom-
parably greater but for the great ad-
dition made to the means of a con-
siderable portion of the community
by the operation of the same causes.
This reduction of the circulating
medium, however, has told most
seriously on the public revenue. The
following table puts this beyond a
doubt.

Table oftlie British Revenue from
1818 downwards.

1818
1819

54,100,000
53,440,000

1820 . . 55,840,000

1821 . . . 57,000,000

1822 . . . 53,650,000

1823 . . . 51,600,000

1824 (Joint-stock mania) 56,000,000

1825 . . . 57,662,000

1826 . . . 54,895,000

1827 . . . 55,285,000
1828(Smallnoteactbegun)57,485,000

1829 . . . 55,824,000

1830 (Beer tax taken off) 54,840,000

1831 (Reform) 46,420,000

Thus it appears that the revenue
has declined fully eleven millions
since 1821. Much of this decline is
no doubt to be ascribed to the pro-
gressive reduction of taxes during
that period ; but much is also to be
attributed to the change of prices
which has taken place, and the uni-
versal fall in the value of every spe-
cies of industrious property since the
demolition of the bank paper in 1828,
by the operation of the small-note
act passed in 1826.

The question, it is always to be re-
collected, is, not whether the coun-
try banks in England were on a good
footing prior to the catastrophe of
December 1825, or whether some
great change would have been ex-
pedient in the constitution of these
establishments. This may all be,
and to all appearance is, perfectly
true. The real question is, whe-
ther it was either expedient or ne-
cessary, instead of putting the banks
on a solid foundation, to annihi-
late the small notes altogethery and
reduce the national paper circulation
from L.60,000,000 to L.29,000,000 ?
When we consider the enormous
amount of that reduction, and the
simultaneous contraction of the sup-
ply of the precious metals, from the
distracted state of the South Ameri-
can colonies, and the great amount
of indirect taxes which have at the
same time been remitted, the only
thing that appears astonishing is, that
the revenue down to 1830 maintain-
ed its amount so well as it did. The
immense reduction in the last year,
is clearly owing to a totally different
cause, and is to be ascribed to the
Reform agitation drying up the
springs of industry in the country.

It need hardly be observed that no
argument can be drawn from this
consideration in favour of that most
disastrous and infernal of all the pro-
jects of the Radical Reformers, an
equitable adjustment, as it is called,

1832.}

The British Finances.

621

in other words, a direct robbery, of
the national debt. The contract with
the fundholder contemplated no
change on the recurrence to cash pay-
ments ; the bond of the nation con-
tains no clause dispensing with full
payment in the current coin of the
realm. The fundholders have been
better situated than the industrious
classes for the last ten years; but
have they forgot how matters stood
during the war ? Have they forgot
the twenty long years during which
the price of commodities was con-
stantly rising, and the prosperous
state they were in during that period,
while the fundholders and the annui-
tants were languishing in want and
privation ? A similar change would
take place to a great degree on the
recurrence of any considerable war;
and is the nation, on the recurrence
of a long peace, to break faith with
those who supported them during a
period of difficulty and danger? The
first moment that any invasion of the
funded property takes place, is the
last not only of the faith and honour,
but the prosperity and the independ-
ence of England.

It would appear that Ministers are
unable, even on the plainest subject
connected with finance, to avoid the
ruinous tendency of their political
speculations. They proposed to take
off the Tobacco Tax last session,
which burdened no one and injured
no one ; and now they resist the re-
duction of one-fifth on the sugar du-
ties. They cannot afford, they say,
to lose L.900,000 a-year to save co-
lonies on the brink of ruin from de-
struction ; but they did not hesitate
last year to propose to relinquish
double that sum to secure the ap-
plause of the tobacco-chewers of
England. The refusal of relief to the
West Indies is monstrous. If a new
tax were necessary in Britain to sup-
ply the deficiency, it should be im-
posed rather than run the risk of
losing colonies which take off more
than a third of the whole British ex-

Eorts. Their case is the more crying,
ecause they are suffering entirely
under the consequence of British go-
vernment; weighed down with a load
of taxation of 100 per cent, on all their
produce, and burning from the con-
flagration lighted by the flame of Re-
form in this country. Two months
ago we predicted that the delusion
of Reform and fanaticism in the cen-

tre of the Empire would speedily set
the West Indies on fire, as the fumes
of democracy consumed St Domingo
in 1792. How soon, alas ! our pre-
dictions have been verified ! Jamaica
has been sacrificed to the demon of
political innovatioil ; the anguish of
her slaves, the flames of her planta-
tions, the starvation of her people,
have all been owing to the headlong
march of religious and political fa-
naticism. The Ministry of England,
the Reformers of England, were in
an especial manner bound to have
done something to heal the wounds
of that great and once flourishing,
but now smoking and ruined colony,
because it was the victim of their
own political madness ; and yet they
refuse ! But that is what we have
all along maintained; the colonies
are not represented in these demo-
cratic days ; the mobs in the centre
of political influence prevail over the
greatest interest at its extremities,
because they are the depositaries of
power, and the dismemberment of
the Empire must be the consequence.
This puts the enormous folly of
our present rulers in their finance
measures in the clearest light. See-
ing, as they did, as they ought to
have done, that the national income
had been declining at the rate of
above a million a-year, since the
small-note act came into operation
in 1828, they should clearly have
made some provision for that defi-
ciency ; and seeing that their Reform
measure was evidently calculated to
shake the resources of the country
to their foundation, they should have
provided a surplus to meet that con-
tingency also. Instead of this, they
actually proposed a reduction of tax-
ation in the face of that state of the
finances, to the amount of L.4,000,000
a-year, and were only prevented by
their opponents from carrying that
great reduction into effect ; and they
are now astonished that the revenue
has fallen off four millions during their
administration ! And it is after this
experience of their enormous error
in the first effect of their own reform
measures, that they still persist in
the project of giving a new consti-
tution to the empire; and peril the
fate of England upon the ultimate
effect of measures which have alrea-
dy produced consequences diametri-
cally the reverse of those they anti-
cipated from their adoption,

A Poet's Dying Hymn. [April,

A POET'S DYING HYMN.

. Be mute who will, who can,

Yet I will praise thee with impassion'd voice !
Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine
In such a temple as we now behold,
Rear'd for thy presence ; therefore am I bound
To worship, here and every where.

WORDSWOntH,

THE blue, deep, glorious heavens ! — I lift mine eye,

And bless Thee, O my God ! that I have met
And own'd thine image in the majesty

Of their calm temple still ! — that never yet
There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight
By noontide-blaze, or sweeping storm of night :
I bless Thee, O my God !

That now still clearer, from their pure expanse,

I see the mercy of thine aspect shine,
Touching Death's features with a lovely glance

Of light, serenely, solemnly divine,
And lending to each holy star a ray
As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away:

I bless Thee, O my God !

That I have heard thy voice, nor been afraid,
In the earth's garden — 'midst the mountains old,

And the low thrillings of the forest-shade,
And the wild sounds of waters uncontroll'd,

And upon many a desert plain and shore,

— No solitude — for there I felt Thee more :
I bless Thee, O my God !

And if thy Spirit on thy child hath shed

The gift, the vision of the unseal'd eye,
To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings spread,

To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie
Far in man's heart — if I have kept it free
And pure — a consecration unto Thee :

I bless Thee, O my God!

If my soul's utterance hath by Thee been fraught
"With an awakening power — if Thou hast made

Like the wing'd seed, the breathings of my thought,
And by the swift winds bid them be convey'd

To lands of other lays, and there become

Native as early melodies of home :

I bless Thee, O my God!

Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath,

Not for a place 'midst kingly minstrels dead,
But that perchance, a faint gale of thy breath,

A still small whisper in my song hath led
One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne,
Or but one hope, one prayer: — for this alone
I bless Thee, O my God!

That I have loved — that I have known the love

Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs,
Yet, with a colouring halo from above,

Tinges and glorifies all earthly things,
Whate'er its anguish or its woe may be,
Still weaving links for intercourse with Thee :
I bless Thee, O my God !

1832.] A Poet's Dying Hymn.

That by the passion of its deep distress,
And by the o'erflowing of its mighty prayer,

And by the yearning of its tenderness,
Too full for words upon their stream to bear,

I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine,

Well-spring of love, the unfathom'd, the divine :
I bless Thee, O my God!

That hope hath ne'er my heart or song forsaken,
High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, or dread,

Calmly, rejoicingly, the things hath taken,
Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed ;

That passing storms have only fann'd the fire,

Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire,
I bless Thee, O my God !

Now art Thou calling me in every gale,
Each sound and token of the dying day !

Thou leav'st me not, though earthly life grows pale,
I am not darkly sinking to decay ;

But, hour by hour, my soul's dissolving shroud

Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud.

I bless Thee, O my God!

And if this earth, with all its choral streams,
And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies,

And mountain-sanctuaries for poet's dreams,
Be lovely still in my departing eyes;

'Tis not that fondly I would linger here,

But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear :
I bless Thee, O my God !

And that the tender shadowing I behold,
The tracery veining every leaf and flower,

Of glories cast in more consummate mould,
No longer vassals to the changeful hour ;

That life's last roses to my thoughts can bring

Rich visions of imperishable spring :

I bless Thee, O my God !

Yes ! the young vernal voices in the skies
Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine ear,

Seem heralds of th' eternal melodies,
The spirit-music, unperturb'd and clear;

The full of soul, yet passionate no more—

— Let me too, joining those pure strains, adore !
I bless Thee, O my God !

Now aid, sustain me still !— to Thee I come,

Make Thou my dwelling where thy children are !

And for the hope of that immortal home,
And for thy Son, the bright and morning star,

The Sufferer and the Victor-king of Death,

I bless Thee with my glad song's dying breath !
I bless Thee, O my God!

624

The Wet Wooing,

[April,

THE WET WOOING.

A NARRATIVE OF NINETY-EIGHT.

IT was in the autumn of 1798,
when the North of Ireland had set-
tled down into comparative tran-
quillity, that I took up my quarters
at Knowehead, the grazing farm of a
substantial relative, in the remote
pastoral valley of Glen in An-
trim.

The second morning of my stay, I
had fished a considerable distance
up the river ; but having broken my
top in an unlucky leap, was sitting in
impatient bustle, lapping the frac-
ture, and lamenting my ill fortune, as
ever and anon I would raise my eyes
and see the fresh curl running past
my feet ; when I perceived by the
sudden blackening of the water, and
by an ominous but indescribable
sensation of the air, that something
unusual was brewing overhead. I
looked up : there it was, a cloud,
low-hung and lurid, and stretching
across the whole northern side of the
horizon. I had scarce time to ga-
ther my clews and bobbins into a
hurried wisp, and take shelter under
an overhanging bank hard by, when
down it came, heavy, hissing, and
pelting the whole surface of the ri-
ver into spray. I drew myself close
to the back of the hollow, where I
lay in a congratulatory sort of re-
verie, watching the veins of muddy
red, as they slowly at first, and then
impetuously flowed through, and
finally displaced the dark spring wa-
ter— the efforts of the beaten rushes
and waterflags, as they quivered
and flapped aboutunder the shower's
battery — the gradual increase of
swell and turbulence in the river
opposite ; and lower down, the war
which was already tossing and ra-
ging at the conflux, where

" Tumbling brown, the burn came down,
And roar'd frae bank to brae."

But why do I dilate upon an aspect
thus wild and desolate, when I could
so much more pleasantly employ my
reader's and my own mind's eye
with that which next presented it-
self ? 1 confess, so pleasant was the
contrast then, that I still, in recalling

that scene to memory, prepare my-
self, by the renewed vision of its
dreariness and desolation, for the
more grateful reception of an image
than which earth contains none love-
lier— it was a lovely girl. She fled
thither for shelter : I did not see
her until she was close by me ; but
never surely did man's eyes rest on
a fairer apparition. I have, at this
instant, every lineament of the start-
led beauty, as, drawing back with a
suppressed cry and gesture of alarm,
she shrank from the unexpected
companion who stood by her side ;
for I had started from my reverie,
and now presented myself, baring
my head in the rain with involun-
tary respectfulness of gallantry, and
half unconsciously leading her by
the hand into my retreat. She yield-
ed, blushing and confused, while I,
apologizing, imploring, and gazing
with new admiration at every look,
unstrapped my basket, placed it in
the least exposed corner, spread
over it my outside coat, and having
thus arranged a seat, (which, how-
ever, she did not yet accept,) retired
to the opposite side, and reluctantly
ceasing to gaze, gave up my whole
faculties to wonder — who could she
be? Her rich dress, — velvet habit, hat
and feathers, — her patrician elegance
of beauty and manner, at once pro-
claimed her rank; but who could

there be in Glen above the

homely class to which my host be-
longed? And his daughter, Miss
Janet, was certainly a brilliant of a
very different water. But, heavens !
how the water is running down from
my companion's rich hair, and glis-
tening upon her neck with what a
breathing lustre ! — " Oh, madam,
let me entreat you, as you value
your safety, use my handkerchief
(and I pulled a muffler from my
neck) to bind up and dry your hair.
Wrap, I beseech you, your feet in
my great-coat ; and withdraw farther
from the wind and rain."

One by one, notwithstanding her
gracious refusals, I carefully fulfilled
my prescriptions ; and now knelt

183-2r] The Wet Wooing.

before her, lapping the skirts and
sleeves of my envied coat about the
little feet and delicate ankles. Yet
it seemed to me that she received
my services rather with a grateful
condescension, than, as I desired,
with frank enjoyment of them. So,
pausing a moment to account for
such a manner, I recollected, and
the recollection covered me with
confusion, that I must have been, to
say the least, as rough a comrade as
any one need wish to meet with
under a hedge; for, purposing to
leave Ireland in another month for
Germany, I had, during the last
week, allowed my beard to grow all
round ; putting off from day to day
the forming of the moustache, to
which I meant to reduce it, and so
had my face, at no time very smooth,
now covered from ear to ear with a
stubble, long, strong, and black as a
shoe-brush. My broad-brimmed hat
was battered and dinted into strange-
ly uncouth cavities, and the leaf
hung flapping over my brows like a
broken umbrella ; my jacket was
tinselled indeed, but it was with the
ancient scales of trout; my leathern
overalls were black-glazed and grea-
sy ; and my whole equipment bore,
I must confess, the evident signs of
an unexceptionable rascal.

Indignant at my unworthy ap-
pearance, I put myself upon my
mettle ; and after drawing my fail-
companion from her intrenchments
of shyness and hauteur, succeeded
in engaging her in the fair field of a
conversation the most animated and
interesting, in which it was ever
my good fortune and credit to bear
a part. She had at first, indeed,
\vhen I began by running a parallel
between our positions, explained
the circumstances of her being dri-
ven thither alone, in a manner so
general, and with such evident pain-
fulness of hesitation, that I had
hardly expected a few slow com-
monplaces at the most. Such wit,
then, and vivacity, tempered with
such dignified discretion, as she
evinced, when I turned the conversa-
tion from what I perceived to be
perplexing, were by their unexpect-
edness doubly delightful.

Time and the tempest swept on
equally unheeded; topic induced
topic, smile challenged smile, and
when at last, in obedience to her

625

wishes, I looked towards the north
to see whether the sky were clear-
ing, I only prayed that it might rain
on till sunset, when I might accom-
pany her to her home, .which, to my
surprise, I learned was within a few
miles, although I did not ascertain
exactly where. My prayers were
likely enough to be fulfilled; the
sky was still one rush of rain — but,
heaven and earth ! the river had over-
flowed its banks above : a broad
sheet of water was sailing down the
hollow behind; and there we were,
no human habitation within sight, in
the midst of a tempest, between two
rapid rivers, with no better shelter,
during the continuance of a Lammas
flood, than the hollow of a bank
which might be ten feet under wa-
ter in an hour.

I ran down the back of the hill to
the edge of the interposing flood ; a
stunted tree was in the middle, the
fork of which I knew was as high as
my shoulder ; a mass of weeds and
briars was already gathered against
it; the water bad raised them with-
in a foot of the first branch ; then I
might still ford a passage ; no mo-
ment was to be lost ; I ran back for
the lady, but met her half-way in
wild alarm, her head bare, her beau-
tiful hair shaken out into the blast,
her hands clasped, and her figure
just sinking. I caught her in my
arms, and bore her forward with all
my speed ; but before I again reach-
ed the sweeping inundation, insen-
sibility had released her from the
terrors of our passage.

I dashed in, holding her across
my body, with her head resting on
my shoulder ; the first step took
me to the knee. I raised my bur-
den and plunged forward ; the wa-
ter rose to my haunches. I lifted
her again across my breast, rushed
on, and sank to the waist. I felt
that I could not long support a dead
weight in that position ; so lowering
her limbs into the water, I profited
by that relief, and reached the tree.

The flood had now covered me to
the breast, and the lady's neck and
bosom were all that remained unim-
mersed. I leaned against the old
trunk, and breathed myself. I rai-
sed her drooping head on my shoul-
der, and pressed my cheek to her
forehead; but neither lip nor eye-
lid moved. I could not but gaze

620

The Wet Wooing.

[April,

upon her face ; it lay among the
long floating tresses and turbu-
lent eddies, fair as the water's own
lily, and as unconscious. My heart
warmed to the lovely being, and I
bent over her, kissing her lips, and
pressing her bosom to mine, with an
affection so strangely strong, that I
might have stood thus till escape had
been impossible, but that the rustling
of the rubbish, as it crept up the rug-
ged stump with the rise of the wa-
ters, caught my ear— a thunderbolt
smouldering at my feet could not
have sounded so horrible — all my
fresh affections rushed back to my
heart in multiplied alarm for the
safety of their new-found treasure —
I started from my resting-place, and
swinging back the long hair from my
eyes, once more breasted the stream
with clenched teeth and dripping
brows. But still as farther I advan-
ced, the water grew deeper and
deeper, and the current split upon
my shoulder, and twisted through
my legs, still stronger and stronger.
Lumps of black moss, dried peats,
and heavy sods, now struck me, and
tumbled on ; while wisps of yellow
grass and long straws doubled across
my body and entangled me. My
limbs wavered at every step, as I
strained and writhed them through
the current. I gave way — I was half
lifted — the river and the burn met
not a hundred yards below — had I
had the strength of ten men, I could
not have supported her through that
tumult — every step swerved towards
the conclusion of at least her exist-
ence ; yet with love tenfold did I
now press her to my heart, and with
tenfold energy struggle to make good
her rescue — her eyes opened — I
murmured prayers, comforts, and
endearments — she saw the red tor-
rent around, the tawny breakers be-
fore, the black storm overhead ; but
she saw love in my eye, she heard it
in my words ; and there, within her
probable death-bed, and in the em-
brace of her probable companion in
death, she was wooed among the
waters, and was won. Another ef-
fort— but the eddy swung me round,
and I had given up all as lost, save
my interest in that perishing girl ;
when suddenly I heard, through the
dashing of waves and the hissing of
rain, the hoarse cry of a man, " Cou-
rage— hold up, sir — this way, halloo!"

I turned, half thinking it imagination,
but there I really saw a man up to
the breast in the flood, supporting
with arms and shoulders a powerful
black horse which he urged across
the current. Another minute, and I
stood firm behind the breakwater
they formed at my side. My dear
charge had again fainted ; he assisted
me to raise her to the saddle ; but
suddenly as he looked at her, he ut-
tered a wild cry of astonishment, and
kissing and embracing her, exclaim-
ed, " My Madeline, my daughter, my
dear child ! — Why, sir, how is this ?"

" Oh, sir, the river is rising a foot
a-minute — take the bridle, I beseech
you, and let me support the lady and
the horse's flank — I will explain all
when she is out of danger." So say-
ing, I laid my shoulder to the work
and urged him on ; we had an easier
task, and in another minute succeed-
ed in getting safe out of that perilous
passage.

I now looked at our preserver ; he
was a handsome, tall, and vigorous
man, about forty ; evidently a soldier
and gentleman. He lifted his daugh-
ter from the saddle ; and while I re-
counted the particulars of her adven-
ture, unclasped her habit and chafed
her forehead; but all was of no
avail. He looked distractedly, first
at his daughter and then at me ; and
after a pause of contending emotions,
rose, laid her across the pommel,
placed his foot in the stirrup, and
turning to me said, " I am embarrass-
ed by many circumstances — take my
blessings for this day's help — and for-
get us."

" I can never forget."

" Then take this trifling remem-
brance." He pulled a ring from his
finger and handed it to me ; threw
himself into the saddle ; placed his
daughter across his body, and cry-
ing, ere I could say a word for sheer
amazement, " Farewell, farewell !"
and once more, with some emotion,
" Farewell, sir, and may God bless
you !" put spurs to his horse, and
dashed off at full speed for a pass
which leads into the wild country of
the Misty Braes.

Till they disappeared among the
hills, I stood watching them from the
bank where they had left me, bare-
headed, numbed, and indignant; with
the rain still pelting on me, and th(>
ring between my fingers. It was a

1832.]

The Wet Wooing.

627

costly diamond; I pitched it after
him with a curse, and bent my weary
way towards Knowehead, a distance
of full five miles, in a maze of un-
certainty and speculation. She had not
told her name, and she seemed to de-
sire a concealment of her residence ;
her father's conduct more plain-
ly evinced the same motive; many
of the heads of the rebellion were
still lurking with their families among
the mountains of Ulster ; the only
house in the direction they had ta-
ken, at all likely to be the retreat of
respectable persons, was the old
Grange of Moyabel ; and it was the
property of a gentleman then abroad,
but connected with all the chief Ca-
tholic rebels in the North. All this
made me naturally conclude that
these were some of that unhappy
party ; and when I considered that
both daughter and father had been
riding from different quarters to tne
same destination — for, as well as I
could surmise from her vague ac-
count of herself, she had left the ser-
vant, behind whom she had come so
far, to wait the arrival of her father,
who had promised to join them
there. I was able to satisfy myself
of their being only on their way to
Moyabel; and I therefore determined
not to create suspicion by making
useless enquiries as to the present
family there, but to take the first op-
portunity of judging for myself of the
new comers. But how after such a
dismissal introduce myself ? Here lay
the difficulty; andbeyondthis I could
fix on nothing, so with a heavy heart
I climbed the hill before my kins-
man's house, and presented myself
at the wide door of the kitchen, just
as the twilight was darkening down
into night.

I found my host sitting as was
his wont ; his nightcap on his head,
his long staff in his hand, and
two greyhounds at his feet, behind
the fire upon his oaken settle. " I'm
thinkin', Willie," he began as he saw
m"e enter — " I'm thinkin' ye hae
catched a wet sark. — Janet,lass, fetch
your cusin a dram — Nane o' your
piperly smellin' bottles," cried he, as
she produced some cordials in an an-
cient liquor-stand — " Nane o' your
auld wife's jaups for ane o' my name
— fetch something purpose-like ; for
when my nevoy has changed himsell,
we'll hae a stoup o' whisky, and a

crack thegither." In a few minutes
I was seated in dry clothes, before a
bowl of punch and a blazing fire, be-
side the old gentleman on his oaken
sofa. At any other time I would have
enjoyed the scene with infinite sa-
tisfaction ; for the national tipple, in
my mind, drinks nowhere so plea-
santly as on a bench behind the broad
hearth-stone of such a kitchen-hall as
my friend's. Our smaller gentry had,
it is true, long since betaken them-
selves to their parlours and their
drawing-rooms; and the steams of
whisky-punch had already risen with
the odours of bohea, and the smoke
of seaborne coals, to the damask
hangings and alabaster cornices of
many high-ceiled and stately apart-
ments. Yet there were still some of
the old school, who, like my good
friend, continued to make their head-
quarters, after the ancient fashion,
among their own domestics, and be-
hind their own hearth-stone ; for in
all old houses the fire is six feet at
least from the gable, and the space
between is set apart for the homely
owner.

It was strange, then, that I, who
hitherto had so intensely relished
such a scene, should be so absent
now that it was spread round me in
its perfection. The peat and bog-
fir fire before me, and the merry
faces glistening through the white
smoke beyond; the chimney over-
head, like some great minster bell
(the huge hanging pot for the clap-
per); the antlers, broadsword, and
sporting tackle on the wall behind ;
the goodly show of fat flitches and
briskets around me and above, and
that merry and wise old fellow, glass
in hand, with endless store of good
stories, pithy sayings, and choice
points of humour, by my side ; yet
with all I sat melancholy and ill at
ease. In vain did the rare old man
tell me his best marvels ; how he
once fought with Tom Hughes, a
wild Welshman, whom he met in a
perilous journey through the forests
of Cheshire; how Tom would not
let go his grip when he had him
down ("whilk was a foul villainy;")
and how he had to roll into a run-
ning water before he could get
loose (" whilk shewed the savage
natur of thae menseless barbarians.")
In vain he told me that pleasant
jest, how my grandfather " ance

628

The Wet

wiled the six excisemen into a lone
house, and then gaed in himsell, and
pyed them through the windows,
whilk cleared the country-side o'
that vermin as lang as auld Redrigs
was to the fore." In vain he told
me how his old dog Stretcher hunt-
ed the black hare from Dunmoss to
Skyboe. I left him in the subtlest
of the doubles, and in another mi-
nute was in the penthouse of clay,
the river boiling at my feet, and the
rain rushing round my head; but
before me were the rich delighted
eyes and quickening features of my
unknown beauty. Again I bore her
through the flood ; again I bent over
her, and pressed her to my breast,
and once more in fancy I had felt
the thrill of her returned embrace ;
once more I had kissed her lips, and
once more we had vowed to live or
die together, when I was startled
from my reverie by a question which
the unsuspecting old man was now
repeating for the third time. I stam-
mered an excuse, and roused myself
to the hearing of another excellent
jest; but what it might have been I
know not, for the entrance of a young
labourer, an old acquaintance of my
own, with whom he had business,
cut it short. " Aleck," he said, " get
ready to set out for the fair upon
the morn's e'en; and, Aleck, my man,
keep yoursell out o' drink and fecht-
in' — and, my bonny man, I'm say-
ing, the neist time ye gang a courtin'
to the Grange, (I pricked up my ears
all at once,) see that ye're no ta'en
for ane o' thae rebel chiels, wha,
they say, are burrowin' e'en noo
about the auld wa's as thick as mice
in a meal-ark." — "But Aleck," croon-
ed old Mause from the corner,
"whilk ane o' the lasses are you for?"
This was enough. I watched my op-
portunity, slipped out to the stable,
found Aleck, who had retreated thi-
ther in his confusion, and, point-
blank, proposed that he should take
me with him that very night, and in-
troduce me to one of the girls at
Moyabel, as I longed to have an
hour's courting after the old fashion
before I left the country. I con-
cluded by offering him a handsome
consideration, which, however, he
refused; but, sitting down in the
manger, began to consider my pro-
posal, with such head-scratching and
nail-biting, as confirmed me in my

Wooing. [April,

opinion that there was something
mysterious about the family of the
Grange. " Master William," said
he at last, " I canna refuse ye, and
you gaun awa', maybe never to see
a lass o' your ain country again ; but
ye maun promise never to speak
o' whatever ye may see strange aboot
the hoose; for, atween oursells, there
are anes expeckit there this verra
night wha's names wadna cannily
bear tellin' ; and Jeanie trusts me,
and I maunna beguile her ; but the
waters are out, and we will hae a
lang and cauld tramp through the
bogs, sae get a drap o' somethin' for
the road, and I'll hae Tarn Herron's
Sunday suit ready for you after bed-
time. Saul ! ye'll mak a braw wea-
ver wi' the beard ; and wi' a' your
Englified discoorsin', ye can talk as
like a Christian as ever when ye like.
— Nanny will think hersell fitted
at last ; but ye maunna be ower
crouse wi' Nanny, Master William."
I promised every thing ; waited im-
patiently till the family had gone to
rest ; found Aleck true to his engage-
ment ; put on the clothes he had pre-
pared, and we stole out about mid-
night.

It was pitch dark, but fair and
calm ; so, with the hopes of getting
to our journey's end not wet above
the knee, we commenced stumbling
and bolting along the great stones
and ruts of the causeway; this we
cleared without any accident, farther
than my slipping once into the ditch,
and now found ourselves upon the
open hill-side, splashing freely over
the soaked turf and slippery path-
way. I was in high spirits, and
though squirting the black puddle to
my knees at every step, and seeing
no more of the road I was to travel
on than another one in advance, yet
faced onward with great gaiety and

food humour. After some time,
owever, Aleck began snuffing the
air, and, with evident concern, an-
nounced the approach of a mist,
which soon thickened into percepti-
bility to me also. Our path, which
hitherto had swept across sheep-
'grazing uplands and grassy knolls,
now began to thread deep rushy
bottoms, with here and there a qua-
king spot of quagmire, or a mantled
stream, which I knew by the cold
water running sharp below, and by
the thick? dull gathering of the weeds

1832.]

The Wet Wooing.

629

about my legs — for the mist made all
so dark, that I can only give a blind
man's description. The way now
became more intricate and broken,
but still I followed Aleck cheerily,
pushing through all obstacles, and
thinking only of the best measures
to be taken when \ve should arrive
at Moyabel, when I suddenly per-
ceived that my footsteps were tread-
ing down the long wet grass and
heavy sedge itself, and that any dis-
tinct pathway no longer remained to
guide us. I began to doubt Aleck's
knowledge of the road, which he still
maintained to be unshaken ; but the
next two steps settled the matter, by
bringing us both up to the middle in
a running river. We scrambled out
without saying a word, Aleck being
silent from confusion, and I fearing
to increase it by reproaches. He be-
gan to grope about for the path we
had come by; and finding what he
thought our track, pursued it a few
steps to the right. I thought I had
it to the left, and began to explore in
that direction. " Hallo ! where are
you now ?" I cried, as I missed him
from my side. He answered " Here,"
from a considerable distance lower
down. " Where?" I repeated.—
" Hereawa," he answered. — " Here-
awa, thereawa, wandering Willie,"
I hummed in bitter jollity, as I pro-
ceeded in the direction of the voice,
" Hereawa, thereawa, baud your way
hame," when — squash, crash, bolt,
heels over head — plump I went over
a brow into a very Devil's Punch-
Bowl ; for bottom I found none,
though shot from the bank with the
impetus of an arrow. Down I went,
the water closing over me in strata
and substrata, each one colder than
the other, till I expected to find my
head at last clashing against the
young ice wedges of a preternatural
frost below. I sunk at least fifteen
feet before I could collect my ener-
gies and turn. I thought I would
never reach the top. To it at last I
came, sputtering, blown, and fairly
frightened. I never waited to con-
sider my course, but striking despe-
rately out, swam straight forward,
till I came bump against the bank.
I clambered up, and listened. The
first sound I could distinguish, after
the bubbling and hissing left my
ears, was Aleck's voice nearly before
me, on the opposite side. He wag

singing out something between a
howl and a halloo ; for he also had
got into the water, and could not find
bottom any where but on the spot
he occupied. He could not swim a
stroke. There was nothing for it
but to go back and rescue him. The
unexpectedness alone of my first dip
had caused my confusion. That was
gone off, and I again plunged reso-
lutely into the river, which I now
could discern grey in the clearing
mist. A few strokes brought me to
where the poor fellow stood, with
his arms extended upon the water,
and his neck stretched to the utmost
to keep it out of his mouth. I knew
the danger of taking an alarmed man
of greater weight and strength than
myself upon my back; and there-
fore, comforting him with assurances
of safety, I tried, in all directions, for
bottom, which at last I found, and ha-
ving sounded the bed of the river to
the opposite side, returned, and with
some difficulty succeeded in guiding
and supporting him across.

The mist was now rapidly thinning
away, and I could distinguish the
high bank black against the sky. It
was a joyful sight, and induced, by
a natural association, the pleasant
thought of the comforter in my
pocket. I took a mighty dram : then
feeling for Aleck's head, (he had
lain down, streaming like Father
Nile in the pictures, among the rushes
at my feet), I directed the bottle's
mouth to his. He had been making his
moan in an under whine ever since
I first heard him lamenting his con-
dition on the opposite side ; but no
sooner did his lips feel the smooth in-
sinuator's presence, than (his tongue
being put out of the way) they closed
with instinctive affection, and went
together when the long embrace was
past, with a smack quite cheering.
Then slowly rising, and fetching a
deep sigh as he gathered himself to-
gether, " Lord, Lord," said he, " I'm
nane the waur o' that. But, Master
William, to tell God's truth, I dinna
ken whaur we are. That we hae
crossed Glen water, or the Hill-
head burn, or the Marcher's dyke,
I'm positive sure ; but whilk I'm no
just equal to say — but there's some-
thin' black atween us and the lift;
I judge it to be Dunmoss Cairn : let's
haud on to it, and we maun soon
come to biggit wa's," So saying, he

G.')6 The Wet

led me forward in the direction of
what seemed to me also a distant
hill ; but being occupied in placing
my footsteps, I had ceased to look at
it, when all at once there was a crush
of leaves about my head, and I found
myself under a green tree. " When
will this weary night of error have
an end ?" I mentally exclaimed ; but
was surprised by Aleck taking my
hand, rubbing the palm along the
rough stem, and asking in an elate
tone what I felt? " A damnably
rough bark," growled I ; " what do
you mean?" He cut a caper full
three feet into the air. " Here is a
pleasant occurrence now — this rascal
is drunk — he will roll into the next
ditch and suffocate — I shall be the
death of the poor fellow — I shall lose"
—here he broke my agreeable medi-
tations. " I'll tell you how it was,
Master William ; Jeanie and I were
partners at the shearin', (" Evidently
drunk," thought I,) and I canna tell
how it was, (" I well believe you—
you can not — but 'twas all my own
folly," I muttered,) but I found the
maid in a sair fluster that e'en when
we parted : (" You'll be in sorer flus-
ter presently if I begin to you — you
drunken idiot !" was my running
commentary,) and sae just as I came
by this auld thorn" — " Then you do
know where you are — do you ?" I
cried aloud. — " Sure enough," said
he, " for didn't I carve my heart wi'
Jeanie' s heuk stuck out through it
that very night ; and isna it here to
this minute?" — " Oh, ho, lead on
then, in God's name; but tell me
where we are, and how far we have
to go."— " Why," said he, " the bridge
is just a step overby that we ought
to hae crossed ; and troth, I wonner
a dishfu' at mysell for no kennin' the
black moss and the dolochan's hole
that we hae just come through ; for
I hae cut turf in the ane, and weshed
in the ither, since I was the bouk o*
a peat — but here we are at the end
o' the causey that will take us to the
Grange." We entered on a raised
and moated bank, which crossed a
mossy flat to the old house ; but ere
we had advanced a dozen steps, there
suddenly appeared a light moving
about, and giving occasional glimpses
of the white walls and thick trees
at the further end; it then came
steadily and swiftly towards us; I
could presently distinguish the dull

Wooing. [April,

beat of hoofs on the greensward, and
soon after, the figures of two mount-
ed men.

The sides of the old moat were over-
grown with furze and brambles, and
we stole into this cover as they ap-
proached. The foremost bore the
light, was armed at all points, and
mounted on a fresh horse. I started
with exultation where I lay — he was
her father. His companion's black
breeches and canting seat proclaim-
ed a priest. They were conversing
as they passed. " Another month,
good father, and we will be behind
the bastions of Belle Isle ; were it not
for my Madeline's sake, I would make
it six; but this bloodhound having
been slipped upon us" — The sounds
were here lost in the trampling of
their horses ; I heard the man of masses
mumble something in reply, and
they wheeled out of hearing up the
rugged pathway to the bridge. " Now
mind your promise, Master William,"
said Aleck, as we rose and proceeded
to the house. We soon arrived there ;
and he led me to a low wing, repeat-
ing his cautions, and, in answer to my
questions, denying all knowledge of
the strangers. Placing me behind a
low wall, he now stole forward, and
tapped at a window, and presently I
heard the inmates moving and whis-
pering. The door was soon opened,
and a parley took place, in which I
heard my assumed name made ho-
nourable mention of by my intruder.
He led me forward, pushed me gent-
ly before him, and I found myself in
a dark passage, soft hands welcoming
me, and warm breath playing on my
cheek.

The door was closed, and we were
led into a wide rude apartment, dim
in the low glow of a heap of embers.
A splinter of bogwood was soon
kindled, and by its light I saw that
we had been conducted by two girls.
One, whom from her attention to
Aleck I concluded to be her of the
reaping-hook, was a pretty interesting
soft maiden. The other, howevej,
had attractions of a very differei t
class : fine-featured, dark- eyed, coal-
black-haired and tall ; as she stood,
her right hand holding the rude torch
over her head, while the left gather-
ed the folds of a long cloak under
her bosom, with her eyes of coy ex-
pectation and merry amazement, she
seemed more the ideal of a robber's

1832.] The Wet Wooing. 051

daughter in some old romance, than a figure the most extraordinary stand-

a menial in a moorland farm-house, ing at the further end of the apart-

I attempted to salute her, but she ment. A blanket covered the shoul-

held me at bay with her hand. " Hech, ders ; the feet and legs were bare ; a

lad! ye're no blate — is it knievin' red handkerchief was tied about the

troots* ye think ye are ? But, my head ; and, strangest of all, although

stars ! ye are as droukit as if ye had the hairy neck and whiskers argued

been through a' the pools o' the burn ! him a man, yet was he from the

Sit down, my jo, till we dry ye ; and waist to the knees clad in a petticoat !

be qu'et till I get a fire." Peats and I started to my feet, visions of

bogwood were now heaped upon the sleepwalkers and lunatics thronging

hearth ; and kneeling down upon the through my imagination, but was

broad stone, she began puffing away caught hold of by Nanny, who, sha-

with her pretty puckered mouth; king with suppressed laughter, whis-

partly, I suppose, because there are pered me, while the tears ran out

no bellows in Glen ; and partly, and danced upon her long lashes for

I took it for granted, to afford me an very fun, that it was only precious

opportunity of kneeling beside and Aleck, " wham Jeanie had cled in

preeing it. The smoke now rose be- her bit wyliecoat, since she dauredna

fore me in thick volumes, and for a wake the hoose to look for aught

while I lost sight of Aleck and his else;" then, laying her hand upon

Jeanie. By and by, however, on rai- my shoulder (and the wet oozed

sing my head, I started back at seeing from between her fingers), she pro-

* " Knieving trouts" (they call it tickling in England) is good sport. You go to
a stony shallow at night, a companion hearing a torch; then, stripping to the thighs
and shoulders, wade in ; grope with your hands under the stones, sods, and other
harbourage, till you find your game, then grip him in your " knieve," and toss him
ashore.

I rememher, when a hoy, carrying the splits for a servant of the family, called Sam
Wham. Now Sam was an able young fellow, well-boned and willing ; a hard-
headed cudgel-player, and a marvellous tough wrestler, for he had a backbone like a
sea-serpent; this gained him the name of the Twister and Twiner. He had got into
the river, and with his back to me, was stooping over a broad stone, when something
bolted from under the bank on which I stood, right through his legs. Sam fell with
a great splash upon his face, but in falling jammed whatever it was against the stone.
" Let go, Twister," shouted I, " 'tis an otter, he will nip a finger off you." —
" Whisht," sputtered he, as he slid his hand under the water ; " May I never read a
text again, if he isna a sawmont wi' a shouther like a hog !" — " Grip him by the
gills, Twister," cried I. — " Saul will I !" cried the Twiner ; but just then there was
a heave, a roll, a splash, a slap like a pistol-shot ; down went Sam, and up went the
salmon, spun like a shilling at pitch and toss, six feet into the air. 1 leaped in just
as he came to the water ; but my foot caught between two stones, and the more
I pulled the firmer it stuck. The fish fell in a spot shallower than that from
which he had leaped. Sam saw the chance, and tackled to again : while I, sit-
ting down in the stream as best I might, held up my torch, and cried fair
play, as shoulder to shouldei', throughout and about, up and down, roll and tumble,
to it they went, Sam and the salmon. The Twister was never so twined before.
Yet through crossbuttocks and capsizes innumerable, he still held on ; now haled
through a pool ; now haling up a bank ; now heels over head ; now head over heels ;
now head and heels together ; doubled up in a corner ; but at last stretched fairly on
his back, and foaming for rage and disappointment ; while the victorious salmon,
slapping the stones with his tail, and whirling the spray from his shoulders at every
roll, came boring and snoring up the ford. I tugged and strained to no purpose ;
he flashed by me with a snort, and slid into the deep water. Sam now staggered
forward with battered bones and peeled elbows, blowing like a grampus, and cursing
like nothing but himself. He extricated me, and we limped home. Neither rose
for a week ; for I had a dislocated ankle, and the Twister was troubled with a broken
rib. Poor Sam ! he had his brains discovered at last by a poker in a row, and
was worm's meat within three months; yet, ere he died, he had the satisfaction of
feasting on his old antagonist, who was man's meat next morning. They caught him
in a net, Sam knew him by the twist in his tail.

632

posed, with a maidenly mixture of
kindliness and hesitation, that I
should go and do so likewise. Who
knows how I might have stood the
temptation, had she not in time per-
ceived my error, and, blushing deep-
ly, explained, that as Aleck had
done — undressed himself alone— so
should I. Under these stipulations,
I declined parting with more than
my coat, for which she substituted
a curiously quilted coverlet; then
bringing me warm water, insisted on
my bathing my feet. I gladly con-
sented ; but hardly had I pulled off
the coarse stockings, and washed
the black soil from my hands, when
there began a grievous coughing and
grumbling in the room from which
the girls had come.

" Lord, haud a grip o' us I" cried
Aleck; " it's auld Peg hoastin' —
De'il wauken her, the cankered
rush I she'll breed a bonny splore
gin she finds me here."

" Whisht, whisht," whispered
Nanny, " she's as keen as colly i'the
lugs ; and glegger than baudrons i'
the dark."

The libelled Mistress Margaret
gave no farther time for calumnia-
tion ; slamming open the door, she
came down upon us, gaunt, grim,
and unescapable — " Ye menseless
tawpies ! ye bauld cutties ! ye wan-
ton limmers ! ye — who's this?" She
snatched the light from Nannie's
hand, and poked it close to my face
— " Wha's this ? I say, wha's this ?"

" Hoots, woman!" cried Nanny,
spiritedly, yet with an air of conci-
liation, " 1'se bail ye mony a boy has
come over the moss to crack wi'
yoursell when ye were a lassie."

" When I was a lassie !"

I thought she would have choked ;
but her indignation at last made its
way up in thunder upon my devoted
head.

" Wha are ye ? what are ye ? what
fetches ye sornin' here ? ye"

Nanny again interposed. " He's
just a weaver lad, I tell ye, that
Aleck Lowther fetched frae the
Langslap Moss to keep him com-
pany."

" A weaver lad !" (I had raised
my foot to the rim of the tub, and
sat with my chin upon my hand, and
my elbow on my knee, laughing, to
the great aggravation of her anger).

The Wet Wooing.

[April,

" A weaver lad ! — there's ne'er a
wabster o' the Langslap Moss wi'
siccan a leg as that ! — there's ne'er a
ane o' a' the creeshy clan wha's shins
arena bristled as red as a belly rash-
er ! — there's ne'er a wabster o' the
Langslap Moss wi' the track o' a
ring upon his wee finger ! — there's
ne'er a wabster o' the Langslap Moss
wi' aughteen hunner linen in his
sark-frill ! — Jamie, hoi ! Jamie Steen-
son, here's a spy !"

So sudden and overpowering was
her examination and judgment, and
her voice had risen to such a pitch
of clamour, that all my attempts at
interruption and explanation were
lost; while the screams which the
girls could not control when they
heard her call in assistance, prevent-
ed a reply. One after another, five
ruffianly-looking fellows rushed in
at her call ; and ere I could free
myself from the importunate excul-
pations of poor Nanny, they were
crowding and cursing round me ;
while one, apparently their leader,
held a lantern to my face, a pike to
my throat, and demanded my name
and business. That these were one
unhappy remnant of the rebel party
I could not doubt ; if I declared my
real name, I might expect all that
exasperation could prompt and des-
peration execute against a disguised
enemy in the camp; (for the only
one from whom I could expect pro-
tection was, as I had seen, beyond
my appeal.) Again, to give a ficti-
tious name, and keep up the charac-
ter of a country weaver, was revolt-
ing to my pride, and in all likelihood
beyond my ability. Which horn of
this dilemma I might have impaled
myself on, I cannot tell ; for a sud-
den interruption prevented my an-
swer.

Aleck, who had with difficulty been
hitherto restrained by the united ex-
ertions of the three women, here
burst from their arms, tossed off his
blanket, and leaped with a whoop
into the middle of the floor ; — except
the short petticoat about his loins he
was stark naked. " I'm twal stane
wecht — my name's Aleck Lawther
— I'll slap ony man o' ye for four-
an'-twenty tens !" As he uttered
this challenge, tossing his long arms
about his head, bouncing upright,
and cutting like a posture-master at

1832.] The Wet

the end of every clause, while the
scanty kilt fluttered and flapped about
his sinewy hauis, the men fell back
in a panic, as if from a spectre j but
their astonishment soon gave place
to indignation, and my questioner,
clubbing his pike, stepped forward,
and making the shaft rattle off the
white array of ribs, which poor
Aleck's flourish had left unprotect-
ed, reduced his proposals to practice
in a trice. He, wisely making up for
disparity of forces by superiority of
weapon, started back, and adroitly
unhooking the long iron chain and
pot-hooks from the chimney, set
them flying round his head like a
slinger of old ; and meeting his anta-
gonist with a clash, shot him rocket-
wise into the corner: then giving
another whirl to his stretcher, and
leaping out with the full swing of
his long body, he brought it to bear
upon the next. There was another
clattering crash, and the man went
down ; but pitching with his shoul-
der into the tub, upset it, and sent a
flood of water into the fire. Smoke,
steam, and white ashes, whirled up
in clouds ; the lantern was trampled
out, and the battle became general :
for one rascal, lifting his fallen com-
rade's pike, (there was luckily but
one among them,) advanced upon
me. I had just light to see the
thrust, and parry it. Another second,
and we had closed in the midst of
that strange atmosphere, striking and
sneezing at each other across the
pike shaft, as we each strove to wrest
it to himself. My antagonist was a
lusty fellow, and tugged me stoutly,
while I kept him between me and the
main fight, now raging through the
water and the fire : this I could just
distinguish among the vapour and
smoke, dashed about in red showers of
embers, as each new tramp and whirl
of the combatants swept it from the
hearthstone. HowJ Aleck fought his
two opponents I co'uld not imagine ;
yet once, during a minute's relaxa-
tion on our parts, when, having got
the pike jammed between a table and
the wall, we were reduced to the
by-play of kicking one another's shin-
bones, I could hear, every now and
again, above the medley of curses
and screams, (for the women were
all busy,) his lusty " Hah !" as he put
in each successive blow ; and then
the bolt and thud of some one gone
down, far away in the distance j or
VOL. xxxi. NO. cxcin.

Wooing.

633

the rush of a capsize among the loose
lumber at my feet. But I had no
longer an opportunity of noting his
prowess ; for my antagonist, getting
the weapon disentangled, hauled me
after him into the open floor, and
then began upon the swinging sys-
tem. So away we went, sweeping-
down chairs and stools, and rolling
fallen bodies over in our course ;
till tired and dizzy, I suddenly plant-
ed myself, let go both holds, and
dashing in right and left together,
sent him whirling like a comet, im-
petuous and hot, into the void be-
yond. But my own head here fell
heavily upon my breast ; and the
whole scene, smoke, fire, and shifting
shapes, with all their mingled hissing,
and battering, oaths, shrieks, and im-
precations, shut upon my senses.

A Babel of dull sound, chiming and
sawing within my head, announced
my returned consciousness. This is
no dream, thought I; I have been hurt,
but I am afraid to ask myself where.
If my skull should be fractured now,
and I should be an idiot all my life, or
if my arm should be broken — fare-
well to the river ! But can I be still
doubled up among those pots and
pans which I crushed beneath me in
my fall ? No,— dark as it is, I feel
that I am laid straight and soft. I
must be in bed, but where ? where ?
It was some time before I had cou-
rage to confirm my doubts of my
head's condition: it was carefully
bandaged, and doubtless much shat-
tered : I could feel that I was in a
close-paneled bedstead, such as are
usual in old houses; but had too
much discretion to attempt the ha-
zardous experiment of rising without
knowing either my strength or situa-
tion. So I lay, fancying all sorts of
means to account for my preserva-
tion : need I say that the main agent
in all was the fair Madeline ?

My curiosity was at length relie-
ved ; a rude folding-door opened op-
posite, and shewed a low dim sitting-
room beyond, from which there rose
a few steps to the entrance of my
chamber. On these appeared, not,
alas ! the fancied visitant who was to
flit about my bedside, and mix her
bright presence with my dreams;
but stately and severe, with a pale
cheek and compressed lip, her father
— my aversion.

I lay silent, sick at the thoughts of
my own meanness in his eyes ; while
2s

6S4

The Wet Wooing.

[April,

he advanced, shading the light of the
candle from my face, and in a low-
cold tone, asked if I desired any-
thing ?

I shall never forget him as he
stood, the light thrown full upon his
strong features and hroad chest, and
shining purple through the fingers of
his large hand. " I asked, sir, did you
require any assistance ?" he repeat-
ed. " Are you in pain?" he went on.
I now replied that my chief pain was
caused by my own unworthy ap-
pearance; made a confused apology
for my misconduct, and offered my
acknowledgments for the protection
I had received. " You have saved
the life of my child," he said, turn-
ing slightly from me, " and protec-
tion is a debt which must be paid ;
for your follower, he must thank the
same circumstance for what little
life his own mad conduct has left
him." Without another word, he
toolc a phial from the table, and, pour-
ing out a draught, handed it to me ;
I mechanically drunk it off; but ere
I had taken it from my lips, he was
gone. I heard the doors close and
the bolts shoot after him with strange
forebodings; and when the sound
of his footsteps had died away in the
long passage beyond, fell back in a
wild maze of apprehension and self-
censure, till I again sank into a heavy
sleep.

When I awoke, there was a yellow
twilight in my little cabin, from the
scattering of a red ray of the sunset
which streamed through a crevice in
the door. I had therefore slept a
whole day; my fever was abated;
the gnawing pain had left my head,
and I longed to eat. I knocked upon
the boards, and the door was pre-
sently opened; but it was some time
ere my eyes could endure the flood
of light which then burst in. The
figure which at length became visi-
ble amid it, was little worthy so
goodly a birth. The lank, slack, ill-
hinged anatomy of Peg, with a bottle
in one hand, and a long horn spoon
in the other, advanced, and in no
gracious tone demanded what was
iny will. I turned and lay silent; for
I never felt an awkward situation so
embarrassingas then. My gorge rose
at the malignant cause of all my dis-
asters; but interest and discretion
told me to be civil if I spoke at all.
I gave no answer ; she was in no hu-

mour to suffer such trifling with her
time. " Hear till him, Jamie !" she
exclaimed to some one behind her,
" hear till him, the fashious scunner !
he dunts folk frae their wark as if
he was the laird o' the Lang Marches
himsell, and then" " Good Mis-
tress Margaret" « Mistress me

nae mistresses ! there's ne'er a wife
i' the parish has a right to be mis-
tressed, since she deeit wha's wean
ye wad betray! Deil hae me gin I can
keep my knieves aff ye, ye ill-faured
bluid-seller !"— " Ill-faured what ?"
shouted I. " No just ill-faured nei-
ther, blest be the Maker, and mair's
the pity ; ye're a clean boy eneugh,
as I weel may say, wha had the
strippin' and streekin' o' ye ; but I
say that ye're just a bluid-seller, a
reformer, a spy, gin ye like it bet-
ter !" She backed down the steps,
and holding a leaf of the door at each
side, stretched in her neck, and went
on, " Aye, spy, Willie Macdonnell,
spy to your teeth. — Isna your name
upon your sark breast? and arena
the arms that ye disgrace upon your
seal^and daur ye deny them ? daur ye
deny that ye're the swearer away o'
the innocent bluid o' puir Hughy
Morrison, wham ye hangit like a
doug upon the lamp-posts o' Doon-
patrick? Daur ye hae the face to
deny that ye come here e'en noo to
reform upon Square O'More and his
bonny wean ? Daur ye hae the impu-
rence to deny it ?" Here I was relie-
ved by the entrance of Mr O'More
himself. I addressed him in a tone
as cool and conciliatory as I could
command. " I am much relieved to
find, sir, that any harshness I may
have to complain of, has originated
in a mistake. I am Mr Macdonnell
of Redrigs. It was only last week
that I returned from England. I have
not been in this part or the country
for many years ; and can only say,
that if any person bearing my name
deserves the character you seem to
impute to me, I detest him as cor-
dially as you do." He eyed me with
visibly increased disgust. " It will
not pass, sir, it will not pass. I have
had notice of your intentions. Mr
Macdonnell of Redrigs is in Oxford/'
— " I tell you, sir, he is here !" I
cried, starting up in bed. " Back,
back !" he exclaimed to the servants
who were pressing round ; they fell
back, and he came up to me. " Hark

1832.]

The Wet Wooing.

ye, sir, instead of assuming a name to
which you have no right"— The
passion which had been burning with-
iii me all along, blazed out in uncon-
trollable fury. I started with a sud-
den energy out into the floor; dash-
ed backwards and forwards through
the room, stamping with indignation,
while I asserted my honour, and de-
manded satisfaction; but the fire
which had for a minute animated me
failed; my tongue became confused
and feeble ; the whole scene whirled
and flickered round me, and I sunk
exhausted, and in a burning fever,
on a seat.

Every one who has suffered fever
knows what a fiery trance it is. How
long mine had continued I could not
guess ; when the crisis came, it was fa-
vourable, and I awoke, cool and de-
lighted, from a long sweet sleep.
That scene I had already witnessed,
of sunset through the room beyond,
was again before me ; the same grey
and purple haze hung over the moun-
tain, and the same rich sky from
above lit up the river-reaches ; the
dim old room was warm in the mel-
low light; the folding-doors stood
wide open, but on the steps where
the marrer of the whole had stood
before, lo! the radiance revelling
through her hair ; the rich light
flushing warm through the outline
of her face and neck ; the sweet re-
pose of satisfaction and conscious
care beaming over her whole coun-
tenance ; benign and beautiful stood
Madeline O'More, her finger on her
lips. " She, too, thinks me a spy,"
I muttered, in the bitterness of my
heart, and hid my face upon the pil-
low. But who can describe my de-
light when I heard her well-remem-
bered accents murmur beside me,
" Oh no, believe me, indeed I do
not !" I looked up. She was cover-
ed with blushes — I felt them reflect-
ed on my own cheek — there was a
conscious pause. " Then you do
believe that I am what I have told
you ?" I said at last. " Oh yes ! but
indeed you must forgive the error,"
she replied; and readily did I ad-
mit its justifiableness, when she went
on to Jell me that a friend had rid-
den a long journey to warn them
against a person bearing my name,
and answering to my appearance, an
apostate from their own cause, and
a noted spy, who, upon some vague

635

information of their retreat, had set
out with the intention of discovering
and betraying them ; and that their
friend (in whom I at once recognised
the priest I had seen her father con-
duct from the house) had left them
but a few minutes before I arrived.
It was now my turn to apologize
and explain. She listened, with many
pleas of palliation for the indignities I
had endured, to my account of my bu-
siness in Ireland, and the circumstan-
ces which had led me to Glen ;

but when I came to account for my
appearance at Moyabel, her confu-
sion satisfied me that the motive was
already known. I felt suddenly con-
scious of having been dreamingabout
her : and I knew that a fevered man's
dream is his nurse's perquisite : dis-
simulation, after what I knew and
suspected to have passed, would
have been as impossible as repug-
nant. So then and there, among
that mellow sunset in the sick cham-
ber, I confessed to her how my whole
thoughts had been haunted by her
image, since the time when her fa-
ther had hurried her from the scene
of our meeting; how I could not rest
while any scheme, how wild soever,
promised me even a chance of again
beholding her; how this had induced
me to snatch at the first opportunity
of discovering her, and had brought
on that disastrous adventure which
had ended in my wound : but that I
still endured another, which I feared
would prove incurable, if I might
not live upon the hope (and I took
her hand) of gaining her to be my
heart's physician constantly.

Footsteps suddenly sounded in
the passage. I released her hand,
and she hid her confusion, in a hasty
escape through a side-door, just be-
fore her father made his appearance
at that of the hall. He advanced with
a frank expression of pleasure and
concern; took his seat by my bed-
side ; congratulated me on the fa-
vourable issue of my illness, and re-
peated those apologies and explana-
tions which his daughter had already
made ; adding that his first intention
had been to detain me prisoner, so
that I could have no opportunity of
betraying them until their departure
for France ; but that the moment he
had heard my undisguised ravings,
he perceived the injustice of which
he had been guilty; that Aleck's

686

The Wet

speech having returned soon after,
(for the poor fellow was so beaten
that he could not say a word for three
days — but I have taken good care of
him,) another evidence, however un-
necessary, was afforded by his de-
claration ; and that, therefore, a mes-
senger was immediately dispatched
to Knowehead, with private letters,
explaining our situation and its
causes, and resting on the honour of
my friend for the security of all.
The trust had been well reposed:
Aleck, who was able to go home in a
few days, had come the night before
(although returned that morning)
with the intelligence of the real spy
having applied for information to
the old gentleman; but that, loyal
subject and zealous protestant as he
was, he had given him no more than
a civil indication of his door. All
this he told with a gratified and grate-
ful air, and left me to a night of happy
dreams.

Next morning, however, he came
to me, and in a serious, nay severe
manner, told me, that as I had di-
vulged the motive which brought me
thither in my ravings, he felt it a duty
to himself and to me, now that I was
established in my recovery, to inform
me that, while he forgave my intru-
sion on a privacy he had already beg-
ged me not to break, he must desire
that there should be no recurrence
of attentions to his daughter, which
might distract a heart destined either
for the service of a free Catholic in
regenerated Ireland, or for that of
Heaven in a nunnery.

He had laid his hand upon the table,
and it unconsciously rested upon
the seals of my watch. " Look,"
said I, " at these trinkets ; I shall tell
you what they are, and let them be
my answer. That rude silver seal,
with the arms and initials, was dug
from my father's orchard, along with
the bones of his ancestor, who fell
there beneath the knives of free Ca-
tholics, in —41, a greyhaired man,
among the seven bodies of his mur-
dered wife and children. Look again
at that curious ring ; it was worn by
his son, the sole survivor of all that
ancient family who escaped, a maim-
ed and famished spectre, out of per-
ry, after the same party had driven
him to eat his sword belt for hunger.
Look once again at this more antique
locket j it contains the hair of a nia-

Wooing. [April,

ternal ancestor, who perished for the
faith among the fagots of Smithfield ;
and look, here, at my own arm, that
wound I received when a child, from
the chief of a ' Heart of Steel' ban-
ditti, who, under the same banner,
lighted our family's escape from rape
and massacre, by the flames of their
own burning roof- tree; and yet I —
I, every drop of whose blood might
well cry out for vengeance, when
I see these remembrancers of my
wrongs in the hands of my wrongs'
defender, do yet take that hand,
and long to call him father."

I was here interrupted by the sud-
den entrance of a splashed and
wearied messenger : advancing with
a military salute, he presented a let-
ter to Mr O'More. — " Pardon me,"
he said, hastily tearing it open, " this
is on a matter of life and death."
He read it in great agitation; led
the messenger aside ; gave some
hurried orders; took down his arms
from the mantelpiece ; and drawing
his belt, and fixing in his pistols
while he spoke, addressed me: —
" Notwithstanding what you have
urged, my determination remains un-
altered. I must leave Moyabel, for I
cannot now say how long : you shall
be taken care of in my absence : fare-
well, sir, farewell." He shook me by
the hand, and hurried away. I heard
confusion in the house, and thought
I could distinguish the sweet voice
of Madeline, broken by sobs at his
departure. A considerable party
seemed to leave the house ; for there
was a great trampling of horses in
the court-yard, and two or three
mounted men passed by the win-
dows. At length they were out of
hearing, and I determined not to lose
another minute of the precious op-
portunity. My clothes had been
brought from Knowehead, and I was
so much recovered that I found my-
self able to rise, and set about dress-
ing immediately. My continental vi-
sions of beard were more than real-
ized; and if I failed to produce
a shapely moustache, 'twas not for
lack of material. With fluttering ex-
pectation, I selected the most grace-
ful of the pantaloons ; drew on my
rings ; arrayed myself in the purple
velvet slippers, cap, and brocade
dressing-gown; took one lingering
last look at the little mirror, and de-
scended into the parlour. I drew a

1836.]

writing-table to me, and penned a
long letter to Knowehead ; another
to Redrigs, and had half-finished a
sonnet to Madeline. The day was
nearly past, and she had not yet
made her appearance.

For the first time the thought
struck me, and that with a pang
which made me leap to my feet,
that she had accompanied her fa-
ther, and was gone ! gone, perhaps,
to a nunnery in France ! gone, and
lost to me for ever I " Hilloa, Peg !"
and I thumped the floor with the
poker, " Peg, I say ! as you would not
have me in another fever, come
here!" She came to the door: the
poor old creature's eyes were swol-
len and bloodshot : she made a
frightened courtesy to me as I stood,
the papers crumpled up in one hand,
and the poker in the other. — " Peggy,
oh, Peggy! where is your young
mistress ?"

" Save us, your honour ! Ye are na
weel ; sail I fetch you a drap cor-
dial ?"

" Your mistress ? your mistress ?
where is your young mistress ?"

" Oh, sir, dear ! take anither pos-
set, and gang to your bed."

" To the devil I pitch your posset!
where is your young mistress? where
is Madeline O'More ?"

She turned to escape : I leaped
forward, and caught her by the
shoulder — " Since ye maun ken,
then," she screamed, " by God's pro-
vidence, she's on the saut water wi'
the Square, her father." I sank back
upon the sofa. " Wha," she continued
in a soothing strain, " has left me to
take charge o' your honour's head till
ye can gang your lane : A' the ithers
are awa, but wee Jeanie and mysell ;
and ye wadna, surely your honour
wadna gang to frichten twa lane
weemen, by dwamin' awa that gait,
and deein' amang their hands ? But
save us, if there's no auld Knowe-
head himsell, wi' that bauhl sorner,
Aleck Lawther, on a sheltie at his
heels, trottin' doon the causey ! —
Jeanie, hoi, Jeanie, rin and open the
yett."

I lay back — sick — sick — sick. The
old man, booted and spurred, strode
in—

<c I'm thinkin', Willie, ye hae catch-
ed a cloured head ?"

" If I do not catch a strait-waist-
coat, sir, it will be the less mattor.' '

The Wet Wooing 537

" Willie, man," said he, without no"
ticing my comment, " she's weel awa,
and you are weel redd — but toss off
thae wylie-coats and nightcaps, and
lap yoursell up in mensefu' braid-
claith ; for, donsie as you are, you
maun come alang wi' me to Kiiowe-
head — there's a troop o' dragoons
e'en now on Skyboe side, wi' your
creditable namesake at their head,
and they'll herry Moyabel frae
hearth-stane to riggin' before sax
hours are gane— best keep frae un-
der a lowin' king-post, and on the
outside o' the four wa's o' a pre-
vost. — You're no fit to ride, man;
and you couldna thole the joltin' o' a
wheel-car — but never fear, we'll slip
you hame upon a feather-bed — Nae
denial, Willie — here, draw on your
coat: now, that's somethin' purpose-
like — cram thae flim-flams into a
poke, my bonny Jean, and fetch me
a handkerchief to tie about his- head :
Come, Willie, take my arm— come
awa, come awa."

I was passive in his hands, for I
felt as weak as an infant. They wrap-
ped me up in great-coats and blan-
kets, and supported me to the court-
yard. I had hardly strength to speak
to Aleck, whom I now saw for the
first time since the night of his dis-
aster ; the poor fellow's face still bore
the livid marks of his punishment,
but he was active and assiduous as
ever. A slide car or slipe — a vehicle
something like a Lapland sledge —
was covered with bedding in the
middle of the square : a cart was
just being hurried off, full of loose
furniture, with Peggy and Jenny in
front. I was placed upon my hurdle,
apparently as little for this world as
if Tyburn had been its destination :
Knowehead and Aleck mounted their
horses ; took the reins of that which
drew me at either side, and hauled
me off at a smart trot along the
smooth turf of the grass-grown
causeway. The motion was sliding
and agreeable, except on one occa-
sion, when we had to take a few
perches of the highway in crossing
the river; but when we struck off
into the green horse-track again, and
began to rise and sink upon the ridges
of the broad lea, I could have com-
pared my humble litter to the knight's
horses, which felt like proud seas
under them. From the sample I had
had of that part of the country on

638

the night of the flood, I had antici-
pated a " confused march forlorn,
through bogs, caves, fens, lakes, dens,
and shades of death," but was agree-
ably surprised to see the Longslap
Moss a simple stripe along the wa-
ter's edge, lying dark in the deepen-
ing twilight, a full furlong from our
path, which, instead of weltering
through the soaked and spungy
flats that I had expected, wound dry
and mossy up the gentle slope of a
smooth green hill ; so that, although
the night closed in upon us ere half
our journey was completed, we ar-
rived at Knowehead without farther
accident than one capsize, (the beau-
ty of slipping consists in the impos-
sibility of breaks down,) and so far
from being the worse of my " sail,"
I felt actually stronger than on lea-
ving the Grange ; nevertheless I was
put to bed, where I continued for a
week.

Next day brought intelligence of
the wrecking of Moyabel in the
search for the rebel general and the
sick Frenchman : Our measures had
been so well taken, however, that no
suspicion attached itself to Knowe-
head. I learned from Peggy, so soon
as her lamentations subsided, that
Mr O'More was a south country gen-
tleman, who had married her master's
sister, and that Madeline was his on-
ly child ; that this had been his first
visit to the north since the death of
his lady, which had taken place at
her brother's house, but that Moy-
abel had long been the resort of his
friends and emissaries. The old wo-
man left Knowehead that night, and
I learned no more ; for Jenny (who
remained with Miss Janet) had been
so busy with her care of Aleck du-
ring his illness, and afterwards so
unwell herself, that she knew nothing
more than I.

Another week completely re-esta-
blished me in my strength; but the
craving that had never left me since
the last sight of Madeline, kept me
still restless and impatient. Mean-
while Aleck's courtship had ripened
in the golden sun of matrimony, and
the wedding took place on the next
Monday morning. He was a favour-
ite with all at Knowehead, and the
event was celebrated by a dance of
all the young neighbours. After wit-
nessing the leaping and flinging in the
barn for half an hour, I retired to

The Wet Wooing.

[April,

Miss Janet's parlour, where I was
lolling away the evening on her high-
backed sofa, along with the old gen-
tleman, who, driven from his capitol
in the kitchen by the bustle of the
day, had installed himself in the un-
wonted state of an embroidered arm-
chair beside me. We were projecting
a grand coursing campaign before I
should leave the country, and listen-
ing to the frequent bursts of merri-
ment from the barn and kitchen,
when little Davie came in to tell his
master that " Paul Ingram was spee-
rin' gain he wad need ony tay, or
brendy, or prime pigtail, or Virgin-
ney leaf."

" I do not just approve of Paul's
line of trade," observed the old man,
turning to me ; " for I'm thinking
his commodities come oftener frae
the smuggler's cave than the King's
store ; but he's a merry deevil, Paul,
and has picked up a braw hantle o'
mad ballads ae place and another ;

some frae Glen here, some frae

Galloway, some frae the Isle o' Man,
and some queer lingos he can sing,
that he says he learned frae the
Frenchmen."

A sudden thought struck me. " I
will go out and get him to sing some
to me, sir."—" Is Rab Halliday there,
Davie ?" enquired he.

" Oh aye, sir," said Davie ; " it's
rantin' Rab that ye hear roar in' e'en
noo."

" Weel, tell him, Davie, that here's
Mr William, wha has learned to speel
Parnassus by a step-ladder, has come
to hear the sang he made about my
grandmither's wooin'."

Accordingly Davie ushered me to
the kitchen. I could distinguish
through the reaming fumes of liquor
and tobacco about half a dozen ca-
rousers ; they were chorusing at
the full stretch of their lungs the
song of a jolly fellow in one corner,
who, nodding, winking, and flou-
rishing his palms, in that state of per-
fect bliss " that good ale brings men
to," was lilting up

" Till the house be rinnin' round about,

It's time enough to flit;
When we fell, we aye gat up again,

And sae will we yet !"

This was ranting Rab Halliday —
they all rose at my entrance; but
being able to make myself at home
in all companies, I had little difficul-

1832.] The Wet Wooing. 639

ty in soon restoring them to their any lack of skill that might be de-
seats and jollity ; while Davie signi- tected by my learning, sang with
fied what was to him intelligible of great humour the following verses,
his master's wishes to the tuneful which he entitled
ranter. Rab, after praying law for

THE CANNY COURTSHIP.

YOUNG Redrigs walks where the sunbeams fa' j

He sees his shadow slant up the wa' —

Wi' shouthers sae braid, and wi' waist sae sma',

Guid faith he's a proper man !
He cocks his cap, and he streeks out his briest;
And he steps a step like a lord at least ;
And he cries like the deevil to saddle his beast,

And aff to court he's gaun.

The Laird o5 Largy is far frae frame,
But his dochter sits at the quiltin' frame,
Kamin' her hair wi' a siller kame,

In mony a gowden ban' :
Bauld Redrigs loups frae his blawin' horse,
He prees her mou' wi' a freesome force —
" Come take me, Nelly, for better for worse,

To be your ain guidman."

" I'll no be harried like bumbee's byke—
I'll no be handled unleddy like —
I winna hae ye, ye worryin' tyke,

The road ye came gae 'lang !"
He loupit on wi' an awsome snort,
He bang'd the fire frae the flinty court j
He's aff and awa in a snorin' sturt,

As hard as he can whang.

It's doon she sat when she saw him gae,

And a' that she could do or say,

Was — " O ! and alack ! and a well-a-day !

I've lost the best guidman!"
But if she was wae, it's he was wud ;
He garr'd them a' frae his road to scud ;
But Glowerin' Sam gied thud for thud,

And then to the big house ran.

The Glowerer ran for the kitchen door ;
Bauld Redrigs hard at his heels, be sure,
He's wallop'd him roun' and roun' the floor,

As wha but Redrigs can ?
Then Sam he loups to the dresser shelf —
" I daur ye wallop my leddy's delf ;
I daur ye break but a single skelf

Frae her cheeny bowl, my man !"

But Redrigs' bluid wi' his hand was up ;
He'd lay them neither for crock nor cup,
He play'd awa' wi' his cuttin' whup,

And doon the dishes dang ;
He clatter'd them doon, sir, raw by raw ;
The big anes foremost, and syne the sma' ;
He came to the cheeny cups last o' a' —

They glanced wi' gowd sae thrang !

640 The Wet Wooiny.

Then, bonny Nelly came skirlin* butt ;

Her twa white arms roun' his neck she put —

" O Redrigs, dear, hae ye tint your wut ?

Are ye quite and clean gane wrang ?
O spare my teapot ! O spare my jug !
O spare, O spare my posset-mug !
And I'll let ye kiss, and I'll let ye hug,

Dear Redrigs, a' day lang."

" Forgie, forgie me, my beauty bright !
Ye are my Nelly, my heart's delight;
I'll kiss and I'll hug ye day and night,

If alang wi' me you'll gang."
" Fetch out my pillion, fetch out my cloak,
You'll heal my heart if my bowl you broke."
These words, whilk she to her bridegroom spoke,

Are the endin' o' my sang.

[April,

I got this copy of his song since,
else I could not have recollected it
from that hearing ; for I was too im-
patient to put the plan into execu-
tion for which I had come out, to at-
tend even to this immortalizing of an
ancestor.

I knew Ingram at once by his blue
jacket, and the corkscrews which
bobbed over each temple as he nod-
ded and swayed his head to the
flourishes of " the gaberlunzie man,"
(the measure which Halliday had
chosen for his words ;) so when the
song was finished, and I had drank a
health to Robin's muse, I stepped
across to where he sat, and said I
wished to speak with him alone. He
put down his jug of punch, and fol-
lowed me into my own room. I closed
the door and told him, that as I
understood him to be in the Channel
trade, I applied to know if he could
put me on any expeditious convey-
ance to the coast of France. " Why,
sir," said he, " I could give you a cast
myself in our own tight thing, the
Saucy Sally, as far as Douglas or the
Calf; and for the rest of the trip,
why there's our consort, the Little
Sweep, that will be thereabouts this
week, would run you up, if it would
lie in your way, as far as Guernsey,
or, if need be, to Belle Isle." " Belle
Isle !" repeated I, with a start ; for
the words of O'More to the priest
came suddenly upon my recollec-
tion, " Has any boat left this coast or
that of Man for Belle Isle within the
last fortnight?" "Not a keel, sir;
there's ne'er a boat just now in the
Channel that could do it but herself
— they call her the Deil-sweep, sir,
among the revenue sharks; for that's
all that they could ever make of her.

She is the only boat, sir, as I have
said, and if so be you arc a gentle-
man in distress, you will not be the
only one that will have cause to trust
to her — but, d — n it, (he muttered,)
these women — well, what of that ? —
Mayn't I lend a hand to save a fine
fellow for all that?— but harkye,
brother, this is all in confidence."

" Your confidence shall not be
abused," whispered I, hardly able to
breathe for eager hope — the female
passengers — the desire for exclusion
— the only boat that fortnight, all
confirmed me. " Mr O'More and I
are friends ; fear neither for him nor
yourself; let me only getfirst onboard,
and I can rough it all night on deck,
as many a time I've done before : his
daughter and her woman can have
your cabin to themselves." It was a
bold guess, but all right; he gaped at
me for a minute in dumb astonish-
ment; then closing one hand upon
the earnest which 1 here slipped into
it, drew the other across his eyes, as -
if to satisfy himself that he was not
dreaming, and in a respectful tone
informed me that they intended sail-
ing on the next night from Cairn
Castle shore. " We take the squire
up off Island Magee, sir ; he has been
lying to on the look-out for us there
for the last ten days ; so that if you
want to bear a hand in getting the
young lady aboard, it will be all ar-
ranged to your liking."

During this conversation, my
whole being underwent a wonderful
change ; from the collapsing sickness
of bereavement, I felt my heart and
limbs expand themselves under the
delightful enlargement of this new
spring of hope : I shook Ingram by
th<? hand, led him back to the kitchen,

1832.]

and returned to the old man with
a step so elated, and with such a
kindling of animation over my whole
appearance, that he exclaimed, in
high glee, " Heard ye ever sic verses
at Oxford, Willie ? Odd! man, Rab
Halliday is as good as a dozen o'
Janet's possets for ye ; I'll hae him here
again to sing to ye the morn's e'en."

" He is a very pleasant fellow — a
very pleasant fellow, indeed, sir; but
I fear I shall not be able to enjoy his
company to-morrow night, as I pur-
pose taking my passage for the Isle
of Man in Ingram's boat." — " Non-
sense, Willie, nonsense ; ye wadna
make yoursell * hail, billy, weel met,'
wi' gallows-birds and vagabonds —

though, as for Paul himsell" " My

dear sir, you know I have my pass-
port, and need not care for the repu-
tation of my hired servants ; besides,
sir, you know how fond I am of ex-
citement of all sorts, and the rogue
really sings so well"

" That he does, Willie. Weel, weel
— he that will to Cupar maun to
Cupar^!" and so saying, he lifted
up his candle and marched off the
field without another blow.

Ingram and I started next evening
about four o'clock, attended by little
Davie, who was to bring back the
horse I rode next day ; Ingram,
whose occupation lay as much on
land as sea, was quite at home on his
rough sheltie, which carried also a
couple of little panniers at either side
of the pommel, well-primed with
samples of his contraband commo-
dities. We arrived a little after night-
fall in Larne, where we left Davie
with the horses, while Ingram, ha-
ving disposed of his pony, joined me
on foot, and we set off by the now
bright light of the moon along the
hills for Cairn Castle.

During the first three or four miles
of our walk, he entertained me with
abundance of songs echoed loud and
long across the open mountain; but
when we descended from it towards
the sea, we both kept silence and a
sharp look-out over the unequal and
bleak country between. We now got
among low clumpy hills and furzy
gullies; and had to pick our steps
through loose scattered lumps of
rock, which were lying all round us
white in the clear moonshine, like
flocks of sheep upon the hill-side.
The wind was off the shore, and we

The Wet WooiiKj. 641

did not hear the noise of the water
till, at the end of one ravine, we
turned the angular jut of a low pro-
montory, and beheld the image of the
moon swinging in its still swell at
our feet.

Ingram whistled, and was answer-
ed from the shore a little farther on ;
he stepped out a few paces in ad-
vance and led forward ; presently I
saw a light figure glide out of the
shadow in front and approach us.

" Veil, mine Aposte"le Paul, vat
news of the Ephesiens ?"

w All right, Munsher Martin, and
here is another passenger."

He whispered something, and the
little Frenchman touched his hat with
an air; and expressed, in a com-
pound of Norman- French, Manx, and
English, the great pleasure he had in
doing a service to the illustrious ca-
valier, the friend of liberty. Hear-
ing a noise in front, I looked up and
discerned the light spar of a mast
peeping over an intervening barrier
of rock ; we wound round it, and on
the other side found a cutter-rigged
boat of about eighteen tons hauled
close to the natural quay, with her
mainsail set and flapping heavily in
the night wind. Here we met an-
other seaman. In ten minutes we
were under way ; the smooth ground-
swell running free and silent from
our quarter, and the boat laying her-
self out with an easy speed, as she
caught the breeze freshening over
the lower coast. The Saucy Sally
was a half-decked cutter, (built for a
pleasure-boat in Guernsey,) and a
tight thing, as Ingram had said. I did
not go into the cabin, which occupied
all the forecastle, but wrapping my-
self in my cloak, lay down along the
stern-sheets, and feigned to be asleep,
for I was so excited by the prospect
of meeting Madeline, that I could no
longer join in the conversation of the
crew. In about half an hour I heard
them say that we were in sight of
Island Magee, and rising, beheld it
dark over our weather-bows ; I went
forward and continued on the fore-
castle in feverish impatience as we
neared it ; the breeze stiffened as we
opened Larne Lough, and the Saucy
Sally tossed two or three sprinklings
of cold spray over my shoulders, but
I shook the water from my cloak and
resumed my look-out. At last we
were within a quarter of a mile of

642

the coast, and a light appeared right
opposite ; we showed another and lay-
to ; with a fluttering heart I awaited
the approach of a boat ; twice I fan-
cied I saw it distinguish itself from
the darkness of the coast, and twice
I felt the blank recoil of disappoint-
ment ; at last it did appear, dipping
distinct from among the rocks and
full of people ; they neared us ; my
heart leapt at every jog of their oars
in the loose thewels; for I could
now plainly discern two female fi-
gures, two boatmen, and a muffled
man in the stern. All was now cer-
tain; they shot alongside, laid hold of
the gunnel, and I heard O'More's
voice call on Ingram to receive the
lady ; I could hardly conceal my agi-
tation as she was lifted on deck, but
had no power to advance; Nancy
followed, and O'More himself leaped
third on deck — the boat shoved off,
the helmsman let the cutter's head
away, the mainsail filled, and we
stood out to sea.

Here I was then, and would be
for four-and-twenty hours at the
least, by the side of her whom a
little time before I would have given
years of my life to have been near
but for a minute ; yet, with an unac-
countable irresolution, I still delay-
ed, nay, shrunk, from the long-sought
interview. It was not till her father
had gone into the little cabin to ar-
range it for her reception, and had
closed the door between us, that I
ventured from my hiding-place be-
hind the foresail, and approached her
where she stood gazing mournfully
over the boat's side at the fast pass-
ing shores of her country. I whis-
pered her name ; she knew my voice
at the first syllable, and turned in
amazed delight; but the flush of
pleasure which lit up her beantiful
features as I clasped her hand, had
hardly dawned ere it was chased by
the rising paleness of alarm. I com-
forted her by assurances of eternal
love, and vowed to follow her to the
ends of the earth in despite of every
human power. We stood alone ; for
two sailors were with O'More and
the girl in the cabin, and the third,
having lashed the tiller to, was fixing
something forward. We stood alone
I cannot guess how long — time is
short, but the joy of those moments
has been everlasting. We exchan-
ged vows of mutual affection and

The Wet Wooing. [April,

constancy, and I had sealed our

blessed compact with a kiss, witness-
ed only by the moon and stars, when
the cabin-door opened, and her fa-
ther stood before me. I held out
my hand, and accosted him with the
free confidence of a joyful heart.
The severe light of the moon sharp-
ened his strong features into start-
ling expression, as he regarded me
for a second with mingled astonish-
ment and vexation. He did not seem
to notice my offered hand, but saying
something in a low, cold tone about
the unexpected pleasure, turned to
the steersman, and demanded fierce-
ly why he had not abided by his
agreement ? The sailor, quailing be-
fore the authoritative tone and as-
pect of his really noble-looking ques-
tioner, began an exculpatory account
of my having been brought thither
by Ingram, to whom he referred.

Bold Paul was beginning with
" Lookee, Squire, I'm master of this
same craft," when I interrupted him
by requesting that he would take his
messmates to the bows, and leave
the helm with me, as I wished to ex-
plain the matter myself in private.
He consigned his soul, in set terms,
to the devil, if any other man than
myself should be allowed to make a
priest's palaver-box of the Saucy
Sally, and sulkily retired, rolling his
quid with indefatigable energy, and
squirting jets of spittle half-mast
high.

O'More almost pushed the reluc-
tant Madeline into the cabin, closed
the door, and addressed me.—" To
what motive am I to attribute your
presence here, Mr Macdonnell ?"

" To one which I am proud to
avow, the desire of being near the
object of my sole affections, your
lovely daughter; as well, sir, as from
a hope that I may still be able to
overcome those objections which you
once expressed."

He pointed over the boat's side to
the black piled precipices of the
shore, as they stood like an iron wall
looming along the weather-beam. —
" Look there, sir ; look at the Bloody
Gobbins, and hear me— When a set-
ting moon shall cease to fling the
mourning of their shadows over the
graves of my butchered ancestors,
and when a rising sun shall cease
to bare before abhorrinsr Christen-
dom"

1832.1

The Wet Wooing.

643

" Luff, sir, luff," cried Ingram, from
the forecastle.

" Come aft yourself, Paul," I re-
plied in despair and disgust.

O'More retired to the cabin bulk-
head, and leaned against the door,
without completing his broken vow.
Ingram took the helm, and I sat down
in silence. Paul saw our unpleasant
situation, and ceasing to remember
his own cause for ill-humour, strove
to make us forget ours. He talked
with a good deal of tact, but with
little success, for the next half hour.
O'More remained stern and black as
the Gobbins themselves, now rapid-

ly sinking astern, while the coast of
Island Magee receded into the broad
Lough of Belfast upon our quarter.
The moon was still shining with un-
abated lustre, and we could plainly
discern the bold outline of the hills
beyond; while the coast of Down
and the two Copelands lay glistening
in grey obscure over our starboard
bow. No sail was within sight; we
had a stiff breeze with a swinging
swell from the open bay ; and as the
cutter lay down and shewed the
glimmer of the water's edge above
her gunnel, the glee of the glorying
sailor burst out in song.

Haul away, haul away, down helm, I say ;

Slacken sheets, let the good boat go. —
Give her room, give her room for a spanking boom;

For the wind comes on to blow —
(Haul away !)

For the wind comes on to blow,
And the weather-beam is gathering gloom,

And the scud flies high and low.

Lay her out, lay her out, till her timbers stout,

Like a wrestler's ribs, reply
To the glee, to the glee of the bending tree,

And the crowded canvass high —
(Lay her out !)

And the crowded canvass high ;
Contending, to the water's shout,

With the champion of the sky.

Carry on, carry on ; reef none, boy, none ;

Hang her out on a stretching sail :
Gunnel in, gunnel in ! for the race we'll win,

While the land-lubbers so pale —
(Carry on !)

While the land- lubbers so pale
Are fumbling at their points, my son,

For fear of the coming gale !

All but O'More joined in the cho- down the peak halliards ; while they

rus of the last stanza, and the bold
burst of harmony was swept across
the water like a defiance to the east-

brought the boat up and took in one
reef in the mainsail ; but the word
was still "helm a larboard," and the

ern gale. Our challenge was accept- boat's head had followed the wind
ed. " Howsomever," said Ingram, round a whole quarter of the corn-

after a pause, and running his glist-
ening eye along the horizon, " as we
are not running a race, there will be
no harm in taking in a handful or
two of our cloth this morning ; for the
wind is chopping round to the north,
and I would'nt wonder to hear Scul-
marten's breakers under our lee be-
fore sunrise."

" And a black spell we will have
till then, for when the moon goes
down you may stop your fingers in
your eyes for starlight," observed the
other sailor, as he began to slacken

pass within the next ten minutes.
We went off before the breeze, but it
continued veeringround for the next
hour ; so that when we got fairly into
the Channel, the predictions of the
seamen were completely fulfilled ;
for the moon had set, the wind was
from the east, and a hurrying drift
had covered all the sky.

We stood for the north of Man ;
but the cross sea, produced by the
shifting of the wind, which was fast
rising to a gale, buffeted us with such
contrary shocks, that after beating

644

The Wet Wooing.

[April,

through it almost till the break of
day, we gave up the hope of making
Nesshead, and, altering our course,
took in another reef, and ran for the
Calf.

But the gale continued to increase;
we pitched and plunged to no pur-
pose ; the boat was going bows in at
every dip, and the straining of her
timbers as she stooped out to every
stretch, told plainly that we must
either have started planks or an al-
tered course again. The sailors,
after some consultation, agreed on
putting about ; and, for reasons best
known to themselves, pitched upon
Strangford Lough as their harbour of
refuge. Accordingly we altered our
course once more, and went off be-
fore the wind. Day broke as we were
still toiling ten miles from the coast
of Down. The grey dawn shewed a
black pile of clouds overhead, ga-
thering bulk from rugged masses
which were driving close and rapid
from the east. By degrees the coast
became distinct from the lowering
sky ; and at last the sun rose lurid
and large above the weltering wa-
ters. It was ebb tide, and I repre-
sented that Strangford bar at such a
time was peculiarly dangerous in an
eastern gale ; nevertheless the old
sailor who was now at the helm in-
sisted on standing for it. When we
were yet a mile distant, I could dis-
tinguish the white horses running
high through the black trembling
strait, and hear the tumult of the
breakers over the dashing of our
own bows. Escape was impossi-
ble ; we could never beat to sea in
the teeth of such a gale; over the
bar we must go, or founder. We took
in the last reef, hauled down our jib,
and, with ominous faces, saw our-
selves in ten minutes more among
the cross seas and breakers.

The waters of a wide estuary run-
ning six miles an hour, and meeting
the long roll of the Channel, might
well have been expected to produce
a dangerous swell ; but a spring-tide
combining with a gale of wind, had
raised them at flood to an extra-
ordinary height, and the violence
of their discharge exceeded our anti-
cipations accordingly. We had hard-
ly encountered the first two or three
breakers, when Ingram was stagger-
ed from the forecastle by the buffet
of a counter sea, which struck us
or ward just as the regular swell

caught us astern ; the boat heeled al-
most on her beam ends, and he fell
over the cabin door into the hold ;
the man at the helm was preparing
for the^tack as he saw his messmate's
danger, and started forward to save
him : he was too late ; the poor fel-
low pitched upon his head and shoul-
ders among the ballast ; at the same
instant the mainsail caught the wind,
the boom swung across, and striking
the helmsman on the back of the neck,
swept him half overboard, where he
lay doubled across the gunnel,with his
arms and head dragging through the
water, till I hauled him in. He was
stunned and nearly scalped by the
blow. Ingram lay moaning and mo-
tionless; the boat was at the mercy of
the elements, while I stretched the
poor fellows side by side at our feet.
I had now to take the helm, for the
little Frenchman was totally igno-
rant of the coast ; he continued to
hand the main-sheet ; and O'More,
who all night long had been sitting
in silence against the cabin bulk-
head, leaped manfully upon the fore-
castle and stood by the tackle there.
We had now to put the boat upon
the other tack, for the tide made it
impossible to run before the wind.
O'More belayed his sheet, and, as
the cutter lay down again, folded his
arms and leaned back on the wea-
ther bulwark, balancing himself with
his feet against the skylight.

The jabble around us was like the
seething of a caldron ; for the waves
boiled up all at once, and ran in all
directions. I was distracted by their
universal assault, and did not observe
the heaviest and most formidable of
all, till it was almost down upon
our broadsfde. I put the helm hard
down, and shouted with all my might
to O'More — " Stand by for a sea,
sir, lay hold, lay hold." It was too
late. I could just prevent our being
swamped, by withdrawing our quar-
ter from the shock, when it struck
us on the weather-bows, where he
stood : it did not break. Our hull
was too small an obstacle : it swept
over the forecastle as the stream
leaps a pebble, stove in the bulwark,
lifted him right up, and launched
him on his back, with his feet against
the foresail : the foresail stood the
shock a moment, and he grappled
to it, while we were swept on in
the rush, like a sparrow in the
clutches of a hawk ; but the weight

1832.]

of water bore all before it — the sheets
were torn from the deck, the sail
(lapped up above the water, and I
saw him tossed from its edge over
the lee-bow. The mainsail hid him
for a moment; he reappeared, sweep-
ing astern at the rate of fifteen knots
an hour. He was striking out, and
crying for a rope; there was no
rope at hand, and all the loose spars
had been stowed away : He could
not be saved. I have said that the
sun had just risen: between us and
the east his rays shone through the
tops of the higher waves with a pale
and livid light; as O'More drifted
into these, his whole agonized figure
rose for a moment dusk in the trans-
parent water, then disappeared in
the hollow beyond ; but at our next
plunge I saw him heaved up again,
struggling dim amid the green gloom
of an overwhelming sea. An ago-
nizing cry behind me made me turn
my head. " O save him, save him !
turn the boat, and save him ! O Wil-
liam, as you love me, save my fa-
ther !" It was Madeline, frantic for
grief, stumbling over, and unconsci-
ously treading on the wounded men,
as she rushed from the cabin, and
cast herself upon her knees before
me. I raised my eyes to heaven,
praying for support ; and though the
clouds rolled, and the gale swept
between, strength was surely sent
me from above ; for what save hea-
venly help could have subdued that
fierce despair, which, at the first sight
of the complicated agonies around,
had prompted me to abandon hope,
blaspheme, and die ? I raised her
intly but firmly in my arms ; drew
ier, still struggling and screaming
wild entreaties, to my breast, and not
daring to trust myself with a single
look at her imploring eyes, fixed my
own upon the course we had to run,
and never swerved from my severe
determination, till the convulsive
sobs had ceased to shake her breast
upon mine, and I had felt the warm
gush of her relieving tears instead ;
then my stern purpose melted, and,
bending over the desolate girl, I
murmured, " Weep no more, my
Madeline, for, by the blessing of God,
I will be a father and a brother to
you yet!" Blessed be he who heard
my holy vow! — when I looked up
again we were in the smooth wa-
ter,

gei
hei

The Wet Wooing. 645

Drenched, numbed, and dripping
all with the cold spray, one borne
senseless and bloody in his mess-
mate's arms, AVC climbed the quay
of Strangford : the threatened tem-
pest was bursting in rain and thun-
der; but our miserable plight had
attracted a sympathizing crowd. No
question was asked of who ? or
whence? by a generous people, to
wounded and wearied men and
helpless women; till there pressed
through the ring of bystanders a tall
fellow, with a strong expression of
debasement and desperate impu-
dence upon his face, that seemed to
say, " Infamy, you have done your
worst." He demanded our names
and passports, and arrested us all in
the king's name, almost in the same
breath. I struck him in the face
with my fist, and kicked him into
the kennel. No one attempted to
lift him; but he scrambled to his
feet, with denunciations of horrible
revenge. He was hustled about by
the crowd till he lost temper, and
struck one of them. He had now
rather too much work uponhis hands
to admit of a too close attention to
us : three or four persons stepped
forward and offered us protection.

Ingram and the other wounded
sailor were taken off, along with the
Frenchman, by some of their own
associates ; while a respectable and
benevolent looking man addressed
me, " I am a Protestant, sir, and an
Orangeman; but put these ladies
under my protection, and you will
not repent your confidence ; for, next
to the Pope, I love to defeat an in-
former;" and he pointed with a
smile to our arrester, who was just
measuring hia length upon the pave-
ment.

" Is hia name Macdonnell ?"
asked I.

" The same, sir," he replied ; " but
come away with me before he gets
out of my Thomas's hands, and I
will put your friends out of the
reach of his."

I shall never be able to repay the
obligation I owe to this good man,
who received Miss O'More, with her
attendant, into the bosom of his fa-
mily, till I had arranged her journey
to the house of a female relative,
whence, after a decent period of
mourning, our marriage permitted
me to bear her to my own,

646

American Poetry.

[April,

AMERICAN POETRY.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

IF it be seldom safe for one man to
dislike, despise, or disparage another,
it must always be dangerous for one
nation so to regard or judge another
nation, since the causes are then
more numerous, and also more sub-
tle in their workings, by which both
feeling and reason may be perni-
ciously biassed, in the formation of
sentiments permanently cherished
by people towards people, state to-
wards state.

It is hard to know one's own
heart, scarcely possible to know
another's ; and yet how rash are we,
one and all, in attributing characters
to individuals on imperfect know-
ledge even of their outward lives, in
utter ignorance of their inner spirits !
From certain circumstances in which
we suppose we see them placed,
but without understanding what pro-
duced that condition, and from a
certain course of conduct which \ve
suppose that we perceive them to
pursue, but without any acquaint-
ance with their multifarious motives,
we too often confidently pass sentence
on their duties and deserts, classing
them in different orders of moral and
intellectual worth, as we vainly be-
lieve, too, according to the commands
of our conscience. But conscience,
though stern and unrelenting in self-
judgment, is not so when seeking to
see into the impulses of the souls of
our brethren ; and is then indeed the
sister of charity. She tells us to be
less wary in bestowing our praise
than our blame, our love than our
hate, and that in the light of good-
will we shall ever most clearly see
the truth.

A very moderate experience, if
accompanied with very moderate re-
flection, might suffice, one would
think, to shew us that we cannot
otherwise be just. A holy caution
is indeed one of the most conspicu-
ous characteristics of that feeling and
faculty within us that judges right
and wrong ; and we must not grant
to " well-meaning people," as the
weak and narrow- minded are too of-
ten called, the privilege of trying, and
testing and deciding all human con-

duct by reference solely to what
may happen to be the habitual pre-
judices and bigotries of their own
understandings, uninstructed and
unenlightened by that large, that
universal sympathy, without which
there can be neither virtue nor wis-
dom.

Such errors, however, pass un-
heeded by, often with little visible
injury done, in the narrow circles of
private life, haunted, as they are,
by too many foolish fancies and
absurd surmises, whispered in the
idle and empty talk of that confiden-
tial gossiping, which, not contented
with the imaginary evil it condemns,
is restless till it has created a seem-
ing reality out of mere report, and
infused perhaps a drop of pestilential
poison into the otherwise harmless
air of rumour, that circles round the
dwelling of unsuspecting innocence.

How much wilful misunderstand-
ing and misrepresentation of charac-
ter and conduct do we see and hear
every day, in the case of different
professions ! The soldier thinks the
clergyman a hypocrite, because he
wears a black coat ; and the clergy-
man thinks the soldier a profligate,
because he wears a red one; the
cloth is thought to colour the cha-
racter even to the very eye ; and
there is a mutual repulsion between
those who by nature may be kindred
and congenial spirits.

A more commonplace observation
than the above, never trickled from
grey-goose quill; and on that ac-
count we let it trickle from ours ;
for extend the spirit of it from trades
and professions, each of which hangs
together like a small commonwealth,
and is composed of a peculiar people,
to kingdoms separated by seas, and
each swarming with its own life, and
then you will find mighty nations re-
garding each other with just the
same sort of feelings ; millions, when
leagued together under different laws
and institutions, as blindly and
senselessly ignorant of other millions,
as Mrs Grundy of the real character
of Mrs Tomkins.

It is right that every people should

1832.] American

have its own national character, and
the more strongly marked the better,
for in such separation there is
strength. But it is also right that
each people should have large sym-
pathies with the national character of
all the rest. We speak of the good
or the great ; — and all are either the
one or the other, who, with some
vices, possess any strong and dis-
tinguishing virtues. But to have
such large sympathies, there must
be knowledge ; and to have know-
ledge, we must scatter to the winds
that visit us from afar, all such of our
home-born and home-bred prejudices
and bigotries as blind us to the per-
ception of the same qualities in which
we find our own pride and de-
light, when they exist in novel forms
and combinations and habits in the
character of the natives of other isles
or continents, whether of alien, or of
our own blood. If alien, to do so
may be more difficult; if our own,
not to do so is more mean — or base
— or wicked, and now we are
brought to the point — shall English-
men and Scotchmen suffer them-
selves to be divided in soul, more
than by seas, from their brethren the
Americans — by the sullen swell or
angry billows of animosity and hatred,
more perilous far than all the storms
that sweep the bosom of the wide
Atlantic ?

We are the children of one mother.
Not merely of old mother Earth,
though in all cases that considera-
tion should be sufficient to inspire
mutual love into the hearts of her
offspring ; but of the Island of the
Enlightened Free : and never shall
we believe that grfeat nations can
help loving one another, who exult
in the glory of the same origin.
Many passions may burn in their
hearts, as they follow the career as-
signed them by fate, that shall seem
to set them at war. Jealously may
they regard one another in the pride
of their ambition. Should their
'mightier interests clash,fierce will be
the conflict. But if these maybe pursu-
ed and preserved in peace, there will
be a grandeur in the guarded calm with
which they regard each other's power;
and mutual pride, we may be well
assured, in mutual prosperity. They
—our colonists — thought themselves
oppressed, enslaved, and they resol-
ved to be free. We resolved to put

Poetry. 647

them down as rebels. We fought and
—they conquered. We were met by
our own might — and need Old Eng-
land be ashamed that New England
triumphed ? They grudged not after-
wards— though they must have en-
vied— our victories over our and
Europe's foes, at Trafa1gar,Talavera,
and Waterloo. Ask them, the Ame-
ricans, what nation of the Old World
they love best, and that stands
highest in their proud esteem? The
nation from whose loins they sprung.
Alfred, Bruce, and Washington, were
our three great deliverers.

There is great grandeur in the ori-
gin of the civil polity of the Ameri-
cans— in its sudden and strong esta-
blishment; and it is destined, we
doubt not, to long duration, and a
vast accumulation of power — a
boundless empire.

The growth of the human race, in
the course of nature, shews us first
a family, then a tribe consisting of
many kindred families, then a nation
consisting of many kindred tribes.
We find in the world several nations
spread to a considerable extent by
this natural diffusion ; but in tha't
case, the degree of union among the
different tribes seems very loose, and
not sufficient to prevent internal
wars. Thus in Europe, in its pri-
mitive state, the Celtic, the German,
and the Sclavonic nations, have ex-
tended to great numbers, occupying
wide countries ; and the old remem-
brances of consanguinity, marked in
speech, and in external appearance,
with some community of usages, has
maintained a loose union among
them. In Asia, some of the great
Tartar nations, and the Arabs also,
offer similar examples, having re-
mained till this day free from ad-
mixture of blood. These shew how
the traces of the primitive origi-
nation of political society may re-
main indelibly impressed upon it,
through the longest succession of
time.

But to form larger, and yet strong-
ly cemented states, other principles
have been necessary, and have been
employed by nature — chiefly these
two, voluntary Confederacy under a
common head, and Conquest.

Of the permanent states, that have
been formed at any time by volun-
tary Confederacy, the examples are
not numerous, though some of them

648 American Poetry.

are not without splendour in the
history of the world. In Italy, the
Etrurian state appears to have been
so formed, and it made great pro-
gress in early civilisation. Its union,
too, was of considerable duration.
Among the Greeks we find different
occasional leagues, but none that
could be called durable, except the
union of the twelve Ionic cities in
Asiatic Greece, a defensive league
which was managed by a diet of de-
puties from the different towns.
This, however, could not be said to
constitute a state or community,
since each remained governed by its
own independent laws. The Am-
phictyonic Council, in which the de-
legates of the principal states of
Greece itself met to deliberate on
questions of common interest, may
indeed be considered as such a union,
but of an imperfect kind. It shewed
a tendency to such combination, and
how strongly the sense of a certain
natural bond of union remains among
those who still retain in language
and usages the evidence of ancient
consanguinity, since Greece, split
into a hundred states, and divided
by restless and fierce hostilities, still
acknowledged herself as one whole ;
still reverenced that union which
had been indelibly impressed upon
her by the hand of nature. Among
the leagues formed for temporary
purposes, but which still bear evi-
dence to the strongly-felt recogni-
tion of a natural union not to be
abolished, must not be forgotten that
which guarded her liberty and her
rising glories, and which, alike by
its own heroic splendour, and by the
great deliverance it wrought, can
never be separated from the remem-
brance of her deathless renown,—
that warlike league of peace which
purified with the blood of her inva-
ders the soil which their feet had
polluted, when the spear of liberty
daunted barbaric hosts, and earth
and sea, spread with the slain of his
routed nations, justified the prophe-
tic tears of the Persian king.

In modern Europe there are some
instances of such unions by volun-
tary compact, which are remarkable
as having given birth to states firm-
ly knit, and of long endurance ;
though not of great magnitude. Such
was the Confederacy of the Cantons
of Switzerland j a league, in the first

[April,

instance, of defence and deliverance,
and which for centuries was as sacred-
ly maintained, as it was heroically
begun. The State of the United Pro-
vinces was such a league; giving
rise to a well-cemented political
community, which, on different ac-
counts, has made itself a name among
the nations of Europe. The Empire
of Germany is to be considered as
the most illustrious example known
to us of such an union ; yet its his-
tory shews that that union, as it
was more extended, was less strong.
But look now at that part of America
which was colonized from this coun-
try, offering a magnificent instance,
to be distinguished from all others,
of a defensive league terminating in
the establishment of a glorious con-
federated State. If it should be able
permanently to maintain its union,
(which we do not doubt,) it will
shew that, in advanced civilisation,
it is possible for man to effect by
deliberate political prudence that
object, which, in early ages, nature
has accomplished by far more vio-
lent means, of which the most cruel
is conquest,— the establishment of
extensive and well-united States.

That a great nation thus arising
should have established a very dif-
ferent form of government indeed,
from that under which its " Pil-
grim Fathers" and their ancestors
had lived, was inevitable ; and much
modified, doubtless, must now be
the original European character of
the race by the influence of the spi-
rit of all its new institutions. But
its essence is the same; and the
freedom enjoyed by the citizens of
that young Republic is to our eyes
nearly identical with that in which
we have so long gloried with per-
mitted pride under an old Monarchy.
Ours may be violently destroyed, by
sudden revolution; theirs may by
slower change be gradually sub-
dued; but true patriots in both
great lands would be equally averse,
we think, to dismiss from remem-
brance the manner in which arose
each majestic edifice of power, and
fear that any other innovation than
that of nature and time might prove,
in the event, irremediable ruin and
total overthrow.

The Americans wonder, we know,
at the infatuation of our rulers ;
nor, devoted as they are to their

1832.]

own form of government, can the
more enlightened and generous
among them help feeling sorrow to
see the danger that threatens ours.
This conviction, which they have not
hesitated to confess, proves their
sympathy with our love and pride in
our own constitution, and that there
is a community of highest feeling, in
spite of the opposite nature of our
politics, among the most enlighten-
ed lovers of their country, on the
opposite shores of the Atlantic, on
whose waters now meet in amity
their saluting sails. May that ami-
ty be never broken nor disturbed ;
and by what other means may it be
so strongly and sacredly preserved
and secured, as by the mutual inter-
change and encouragement of all
those pure and high thoughts — those
" fancies chaste and noble," which
genius brings to light into one com-
mon literature, eloquent in the same
speech that, for so many centuries,
has been made glorious by the lof-
tiest conceptions of the greatest of
the children of men? No treaties of
peace so sacred as those ratified in a
common tongue; and the tongue
we speak, already known more
widely over the world than any
other, (we do not include the Chi-
nese,) is manifestly destined to com-
municate Christianity to the utter-
most parts of the earth.

The treasures of our literature
have been widely spread, and are eve-
ry year spreading more widely over
America ; and theirs is winning its
way among us, and indeed all over
Europe. It is delightful to see how
the spirit of ours is every where
interfused through theirs, without
overpowering that originality of
thought and sentiment which must
belong to the mind of a young peo-
ple, but which, among those who
own a common origin, is felt rather
by indescribable differences in the
cast and colour of the imagery em-
ployed, than discerned in any pecu-
liar forms or moulds in which the
compositions are cast.

In political, in moral, and in physi-
cal science, the Americans have done
as much as could have been reasona-
bly expected from a people earnestly
engaged, with all their powers and
passions, in constituting themselves
into one of the great communities of
civilized men. Of every other people

VOL. xxxi. NO. cxcii.

American Poetry. 649

the progress has been slow to any
considerable height of power and
extent of dominion ; and imagina-
tion accompanying them all the way
from obscurity to splendour, a litera-
ture has always grown up along with
their growing strength, and some-
times its excellence has been con-
summate, before the character of
their civil polity had been consoli-
dated, or settled down into the stead-
fastness belonging to the maturity
of its might. But soon as her limbs
were free to move obedient to her
own will alone, America was at once
a great country ; there are no great
and distant eras in her history, all
connected together by traditionary
memories embalmed in the voice of
song. Her poets had to succeed her
statesmen, and her orators, and her
warriors ; ^and their reign is only
about to begin. The records of the
nation are short but bright; and
their destinies must be farther un-
rolled by time, ere bards be born to
consecrate, in lyric or epic poetry,
the events imagination loves. Now,
her poets must be inspired by Hope
rather than by Memory, who was held
of old to be Mother of the Muses.
They must look forward to the fu-
ture, not backward to the past ; and
the soul of genius from that mystic
clime may be met by the airs of in-
spiration. True, that the history of
the human race lies open before
them, as before the poets of other
lands; but genius always begins
with its native soil, and draws from
it its peculiar character. Most of
Sir Walter's immortal romances re-
gard his own country — Wordsworth
could have been born only in Eng-
land. His Sonnets to Liberty are
all over English, though they cele-
brate her virtues and her triumphs
in all lands ; his Ecclesiastical Son-
nets could only have been breathed
by a spirit made holy alike by the
humble calm of the chapel not much
larger than a Bowderstone, like that
of Wastdale, and by the lofty awe of
such a cathedral as that of Salisbury,
or of York Minster itself, by twi-
light obscurely glimmering like some
mysterious mountain. Genius, in
America, must keep to America, to
achieve any great work. Cooper
has done so, and taken his place
among the most powerful of the
imaginative spirits of the age. Wash-
2 T

650

American Poetry.

[April,

ington Irving did so in early life, and
was likewise eminently successful,
because intensely national. His la-
ter works are beautiful, but they are
English ; and the pictures they con-
tain cannot stand beside those drawn
of English scenery, character, and
manners, by our great native artists,
without an uncertain faintness seem-
ing to steal over them, that impairs
their effect, by giving them the air,
if not of copies, of imitations. " Yet
that not much ;" for Washington Ir-
ving, as he thinks and feels, so does
he write, more like us than we could
have thought it possible an Ameri-
can should do, while his fine natural
genius preserves in a great measure
his originality, even when he deals
with to him foreign themes, and treats
them after an adopted fashion, that
had been set by our own two most
natural prose-writers, Addison and
Goldsmith.

We shall ere long have other op-
portunities of speaking about the
genius of the Americans; meanwhile,
we turn our attention to the produc-
tions of Bryant, who has for a good
many years been one of their most ad-
mired poets. Many of them have ap-
peared at various times in periodical
publications ; and now collected to-
gether for the first time by Washing-
ton Irving, (it is delightful to see such
service done by one man of genius to
another,) they make a most interesting
volume. " They appear to me," says
the amiable editor, " to belong to the
best school of English poetry, and to
be entitled to rank among the highest
of their class. The British public has
already expressed its delight at the
graphic descriptions of American
scenery and wild woodland charac-
ters, contained in the works of our
national novelist, Cooper. The same
keen eye and just feeling for nature,
the same indigenous style of think-
ing, and local peculiarity of imagery,
which give such novelty and interest
to the pages of that gifted writer, will
be found to characterise this volume,
condensed into a narrower compass^
and sublimated into poetry."

To the American scenery and wood-
land characters, then, let us first of all
turn ; and while here we find much to
please, we must strongly express our

dissent from Mr Irving' s opinion, that
in such delineations Bryant is equal to
Cooper. He may be as true to nature,
as far as he goes; but Copper's pic-
tures are infinitely richer " in local pe-
culiarity of imagery;" and in "indige-
nous style of thinking," too, the ad van-
tage lies with the novelist. But Bryant
is never extravagant, which Cooper
often is, who too frequently mars by
gross exaggeration the effect of his
pictures of external nature. The poet
appears to be " a man of milder
mood" than the romancer; and of
finer taste. But there is nothing in
the whole volume comparable in ori-
ginal power to many descriptions in
the Prairie and the Spy. Neither do
we approve the unconsidered praise
implied in the somewhat pedantic
expressions, " condensed into a nar-
rower compass, and sublimated into
poetry." None of these poems are
long ; but condensation is not by any
means their distinguishing merit,
especially of the descriptive passages;
we see much simplicity, but no sub-
limation; and to us the chief charm
of Bryant's genius consists in a ten-
der pensiveness, a moral melancholy,
breathing over all his contempla-
tions, dreams, and reveries, even such
as in the main are glad, and giving
assurance of a pure spirit, benevolent
to all living creatures, and habitually
pious in the felt omnipresence of the
Creator. His poetry overflows with
natural religion— with what Words-
worth calls the " religion of the
woods."

This reverential awe of the Invisi-
ble pervades the verses entitled
" Thanatopsis" and " Forest Hymn,"
imparting to them a sweet solemnity
which must affect all thinking hearts.
There is little that is original either in
the imagery of the " Forest Hymn,"
or in its language ; but the sentiment
is simple, natural, and sustained ; and
the close is beautiful. The one idea is
that " the groves were God's first tem-
ples," and might have been solemnly
illustrated ; but there is not a single
majestical line, and the imagination,
hoping to be elevated by the hymn
of the high-priest, at times feels lan-
guor in the elaborate worship, This,
however, is very good i.~—

" Father ! thy hand

Hath reared these venerable columns, thou
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look~down

1832.] American Poetry. 651

Upon the naked earth, and forthwith rose
All these fair ranks of trees. They in thy sun
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze,
And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow,
Whose hirth was in their tops, grew old and died
Among their branches, till at last they stood,
As now they stand, massive and tall and dark,
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold
Communion with his Maker."

We said the sentiment was well grove temple, and the sincerity of
sustained ; but not in every part ; nor the grove worship, needed not such
do we hesitate to affirm that the lines paltry contrasts to make them im-
immediately following "have nobusi- pressive.

ness there." Had the poet's soul been possessed,

as it ought to have been, by the

" stilly twilight of the place," his
Rustle, nor jewels shine, nor envious eyes ^^ had £een ^^ ^om BUch

intrusion. But it is restored to a

Such sarcastic suggestions jar and deepening sense of all the surround-
grate ; and it would please us much ing and overhanging solemnities—
to see that they were omitted in a and breathes " here is continual wor-
new edition. The grandeur of the ship!"

" Nature, here,

In the tranquillity that thou dost love,
Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly around,
From perch to perch, the solitary bird
Passes ; and yon clear spring, that 'midst its herbs
Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots
Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale
Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left
Thyself without a witness, in these shades,
Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace,
Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak —
By whose immovable stem I stand, and seem
Almost annihilated."

Again, to us the solemn strain is mi- Can an American Republican not
serably marred by an unhappy — and forget his scorn of European kings
at such a time we must think an un- even in the living temple of God,
natural allusion. embowered before his imagination
" Not a prince in the bosom of the wilderness ?
In all that proud old world beyond the deep, But the piety of the poet prevails
E'er wore his crown as loftily as he over his politics the very next mo-
Wears the green coronal of leaves with ment— and he beautifully says,

which
Thy hand has graced him !"

" Nestled at his root

Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare
Of the broad sun. That delicate forest-flower,
With scented breath, and look so like a smile,
Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould,
An emanation of the indwelling Life,
A visible token of the upholding Love,
That are the soul of this wide universe."

The hymn then expresses the awe newed for ever ! And after some
of the singer's heart when he thinks congenial reflections, and the expres-
of the great miracle that still goes on sion of his religious fear when God
in silence round him — the perpetual " sets on fire the heavens with fall-
work of creation, finished, yet re- ing thunderbolts," a fear which is

652 American Poetry. [April,

very finely conceived stealing in from lieve in early manhood,) and it will

afar upon the hush, he thus concludes be felt, perhaps, that Mr Irving rash-

his " Forest Hymn," which — though ly says that his friend's poems are

very good — might have been of " a entitled to " rank among the highest

higher mood." Compare it with the of their class in the best school of

" Lines on revisiting the river Wye," English Poetry." The close of the

by that great poet whom Mr Bryant hymn, we said, is beautiful,
wisely venerates, (composed we be-

" Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face
Spare m.e and mine, nor let us need the wrath
Of the mad unchained elements to teach
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate
In these calm shades thy milder majesty,
And to the beautiful order of thy works
Learn to conform the order of our lives !"

" Thanatopsis," ('tis a Greek com- noble example of true poetical en-
pound, English reader,) both in con- thusiasm. It alone would establish
ception and execution, is more origi- the author's claim to the honours of
nal; and we quote it entire, as a genius.

" To him who, in the love of Nature, holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language : for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And gentle sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart —
Go forth under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings ; while from all around —
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air —
Comes a still voice. Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourish'd thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements—-
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould ;
Yet not to thy eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world— with kings,
The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good —
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past-
All in one mighty sepulchre ! The hills,
Hock-ribbed and ancient as the sun — the vales,
Stretching in pensive quietness between —
The venerable woods — rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks

1832.] American Poetry. 653

That make the meadows green j and, poured round all,

Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste —

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man ! The golden sun,

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, , f£^ ^

Are shining on the sad abodes of death

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread

The globe are but a handful to the tribes

That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings

Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce,

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods

Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound

Save his own dashings ; yet the dead are there,

And millions in those solitudes, since first

The flight of years began, have laid them down

In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone.

So shalt thou rest. And what if thou shalt fall

Unheeded by the living, and no friend

Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe

Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh

When thou art gone, the solemn brood of Care

Plod on, and each one as before will chase

His favourite phantom ; yet all these shall leave

Their mirth and their 'employments, and shall come

And make their bed with thee. As the long train

Of ages glide away, the sons of men —

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes

In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,

And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man —

Shall one by one be gathered to thy side

By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join

The innumerable caravan that moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take

His chamber in the silent halls of death,

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,

Scourged to his dungeon : but, sustained and soothed

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Would that some of the best Ame- Forests, where youth and eld — all

rican landscape painters would send gigantic — mingle in life, growth, de-

us over some of their best pictures, cay, and death, as if alien in their

that we, who we fear must never own ancient reign from every thing

cross the Atlantic, might see with appertaining, however remotely, to

our bodily eyes shadows of the see- theraceof man. Uninvaded regions of

nery of theNew World ! Isit superior mightynature — yet cheerful with the

in aught but trees to our own High- songs of birds, the hum of bees, the

lands ? They are not inferior in chirp of the squirrel, and brightened

power to any other Alps. Bryant with ground-flowers that " soften the

makes rare and little mention of severe sojourn" with the presence of

mountains; nor in his descriptive the beautiful.

poetry is there often the sound of ca- It is indeed in the beautiful that
taracts. He makes not much even the genius of Bryant finds its prime
of " those great rivers, great as any delight. He ensouls all dead insen-
seas," up one of which Coleridge sate things, in that deep and delicate
makes his wildLeoni sail "to live and sense of their seeming life, in which
die among the savage men;" nor does they breathe and smile before the
he sketch out before our gaze the eyes " that love all they look upon,"
green, wide, interminable savannahs, and thus there is animation and enjoy-
But he makes us feel with himself ment in the heart of the solitude,
the profound stillness — the utter so- Here are some lines breathing a
litude, of the bright and the hoary woodland and (you will understand

654 American Poetry. [April,

us) a Wordsworthian feeling : while in our serene sympathy we love the
we read them, as Burns says, " our poet,
hearts rejoice in nature's joy," and

INSCRIPTION FOR THE ENTRANCE TO A WOOD.

Stranger, if thou hast learnt a truth which needs

No school of long experience, that the world

Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen

Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares,

To tire thee of it — enter this wild wood

And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade

Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze

That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm

To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here

Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men,

And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse

Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth,

But not in vengeance. God hath yoked to guilt

Her pale tormentor, misery. Hence these shades

Are still the abodes of gladness, the thick roof

Of green and stirring branches is alive

And musical with birds, that sing and sport

In wantonness of spirit ; while below

The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect,

Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the shade

Try their thin wings, and dance in the warm beam

That waked them into life. Even the green trees

Partake the deep contentment ; as they bend

To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky

Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene.

Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy

Existence, than the winged plunderer

That sucks its sweets. The massy rocks themselves,

And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees

That lead from knoll to knoll, a causey rude,

Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots,

With all their earth upon them, twisting high,

Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet

Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed

Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the "rocks,

Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice

In its own being. Softly tread the marge,

Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren

That dips her bill in water. The cool wind,

That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee,

Like one that loves thee, nor will let thee pass

Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.

Thereareotherthreepiecesinblank the " Conjunction of Jupiter and

verse (which Mr Bryant writes well Venus." The " Winter Piece" we

—better, as far as we know, than any think the best— and it reminds us—

other American poet,) " Monument though 'tis no imitation — of Cowper.

Mountain," "a Winter Piece," and Here is a splendid picture:

Come when the rains

Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice,
While the slant sun of February pours
Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach !
The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps,
And the broad arching portals of the grove
Welcome thy entering. Look ! the massy trunks
Are cased in the pure crystal ; each light spray,
Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven,
Is studded with its ti'embling water-drops,

1832.] American Poetry.

That stream with rainbow radiance as they move.
But round the parent stem the long low boughs
Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbours hide
The grassy floor. Oh ! you might deem the spot,
The spacious cavern of the virgin mine,
Deep in the womb of earth — where the gems grow,
And diamonds put forth radiant rods, and bud
With amethyst and topaz — and the place
Lit up most royally, with the pure beam
That dwells in them, Or haply the vast hall
Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night,
And fades not in the glory of the sun ; —
Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts
And crossing arches ; and fantastic aisles
Wind from the sight in brightness, and are lost
Among the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye, —
Thou seest no cavern roof, no palace vault :
There the blue sky and the white drifting cloud
Look in. Again the wildered fancy dreams
Of spouting fountains, frozen as they rose,
And fixed, with all their branching jets, in air,
And all their sluices sealed. All, all is light —
Light without shade. But all shall pass away
With the next sun. From numberless vast trunks,
Loosened, the crashing ice shall make a sound
Like the far roar of rivers, and the eve
Shall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont.

655

We have quoted much that is
beautiful ; but do our readers find in
it many " graphic descriptions of
American scenery" — much " indi-
genous style of thinking, and local
peculiarity of imagery," " condensed
into a narrow compass, and subli-
mated into poetry ?" It seems to us,
that by leaving out a very few allu-
sions to objects living or dead, not
native with us, it might be read to
any familiar lover of nature, without
his imagination being moved to leave
the British isles, and fly to America.
We have no right to complain that
Mr Bryant has presented us with
such poetry — for much of it is ex-
quisite ; but is the scenery it paints
as American as the scenery of the
Task is English — and of the Seasons
Scottish ? If it be — then there is
little difference between the charac-
ter of the Old World's aspect and
of the New. But we feel that there
-is much difference—and that dis-
tinctive—while we are reading the
novels of Cooper.

Be this as it may, there are sprink-
led all over this volume felicitous
lines, and half lines, and epithets, that,
independently of the general fidelity
and feeling of his descriptions, shew
that Bryant has learned —
" To muse on nature with a poet's eye."

Not a few such are to be seen in
the passages already quoted — and
here are some charming instances.

" Lodged in sunny cleft
Where the cold breezes come not, blooms

alone
The little wind-flower, whose just-opened

eye

Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at,
Startling the loiterer in the naked groves
With Unexpected beauty, for the time
Of blossoms and green leaves is yet afar."

" Thou shalt look

Upon the green and rolling forest top,
And down into the secrets of the glens,
And streams that in their bordering

thickets strive
To hide their windings.-"

" to lay thine ear

Over the dizzy depth, and hear the sound
Of winds, that struggle with the woods

below,
Borne up like ocean murmurs."

" All is silent, save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee,
Settling on the rich flowers, and then

again
Instantly on the wing."

" JLo ! where the grassy meadow runs
in waves !"

e56 American

" A thousand flowers
By the road side, and the borders of the

brook,
Nod gaily to each other."

(In the Sudden Wind.)

" On thy soft breath the new-fledged

bird
Takes wing, half-happy, half-afraid."

" Lo ! their orbs burn more bright,
And shake out softer fires."

(Jupiter and Venus.)

" Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue — blue — as if there were let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall."

(To the Fringed Gentian.)

Poetry. [April,

These arc a few specimens ; but
there are scores of others that shew
the observant eye and the sensitive
soul of the poetic lover of nature.

But there is much poetry in this
volume of a kind that, to many
minds, will be more affecting than
any thing we have yet quoted — for
it relates to the sons of the soil,
whose races are now so sadly thin-
ned, and as civilisation keeps hewing
its way towards the shores of other
seas, will at last be entirely extinct
— the Red Men of the Woods. Fine
mention is made of them in the
"Ages," the largest, but by no means
the best, poem in the collection. It
contains, however, these stanzas : —

Late, from this western shore, that morning chased
The deep and ancient night, that threw its shroud
O'er the green land of groves, the beautiful waste,
Nurse of full streams, and lifter-up of proud
Sky-mingling mountains that o'erlook the cloud.
Erewhile, where yon gay spires their brightness rear,
Trees waved, and the brown hunter's shouts were loud
Amid the forest ; and the bounding deer
Fled at the glancing plume, and the gaunt wolf yelled near.

And where his willing waves yon bright blue bay
Sends up, to kiss his decorated brim,
And cradles in his soft embrace the gay
Young group of grassy islands born of him,
And, crowding nigh, or in the distance dim,
Lifts the white throng of sails, that bear or bring
The commerce of the world ; with tawny limb,
And belt and beads in sunlight glistening,
The savage urged his skiff like wild bird on the wing.

Then, all this youthful paradise around,
And all the broad and boundless mainland, lay
Cooled by the interminable wood, that frowned
O'er mount and vale, where never summer-ray
Glanced, till the strong tornado broke his way
Through the gray giants of the sylvan wild;
Yet many a sheltered glade, with blossoms gay,
Beneath the showery sky and sunshine mild,
"Within the shaggy arms of that dark forest smiled.

There stood the Indian hamlet— there the lake
Spread its blue sheet that flashed with many an oar
Where the brown otter plunged him from the brake
And the deer drank ; as the light gale flew o'er,
The twinkling maize-field rustled on the shore !
And while that spot, so wild, and lone, and fail',
A look of glad and innocent beauty wore,
And peace was on the earth and in the air,
The warrior lit the pile, and bound his captive there :

Not unavenged. The foeman, from the wood,
Beheld the deed; and when the midnight shade
"Was stillest, gorged his battle-axe with blood.
All died — the wailing babe, the shrieking maid —
And in the flood of fire that scathed the glade,

36 ty

.

American Poetry.

The roois went down ; but deep the silence grew,
"When on the dewy woods the day-beam played ;
No more the cabin smokes rose wreathed and blue,
And ever by their lake lay moored the light canoe.

Look now abroad — another race has filled
These populous borders — wide the wood recedes,
And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are tilled ;
The land is full of harvests and green meads ;
Streams numberless, that many a fountain feeds,
Shine, clisembowered, and give to sun and breeze
Their virgin waters ; the full region leads
New colonies forth, that toward the western seas
Spread, like a rapid flame among the autumnal trees.

Here the free spirit of mankind, at length,
Throws its last fetters off; and who shall place
A limit to the giant's unchained strength,
Or curb his swiftness in the forward race ?
Far, like the comet's way through infinite space,
Stretches the long untravelled path of light
Into the depths of ages : we may trace,
Distant, the brightening glory of its flight,
Till the receding rays are lost to human sight.

657

The mind of the poet kindles, and
rightly, at the prophetic visions of
his country's boundless dominion,
thick-peopled through cultivated re-
gions laid open to all the light of
heaven, and sheltering in the " hor-
rid shades forlorn," the last rem-
nants of the aboriginal hunter and
warrior tribes. There is much of
sadness, but far more of joy, in the
prospect of the various and bound-
less provisions and processes by
which nature raises up the compli-
cated structures of civilized life as
her wildernesses fade before its
march, and their inhabitants pine
away and perish. For look at the
numbers of a savage race, where a
few families or tribes occupy a wil-
derness for their supply of game,
and compare with it the thronging
population of some small spot where
the arts of civilized life are highly
advanced. The savage race is often
noble ; and when we contemplate
the magnificence of the mighty de-
serts which nature has spread out
for his paths, her mountains or her
" forests, one might imagine that she
loved her proud lonely son, roving
in his unmolested solitudes. But
we look at the course she has given
to the Avorld, and we see that she
seems impatient of stretching out
her ample domains for a few pos-
sessors. The nations of the earth
advance incessantly from a rude to

a cultivated state; and where the
savage remains unaltered from age
to age, in immutable barbarism,
she sends her civilized children to
dispossess him of the earth he has
not known how to use, to thin his
numbers, to lay waste the glory of
her majestic reign, and to people and
till her wildernesses. The first rude
tribes that occupy a country, seem
merely to have advanced one step in
winning it from the wild beasts, and
to hold it over for civilized man. Till
he has ploughed his fields, and built
his cities, and unfolded his arts, the
land does not seem properly occu-
pied by man. Then intellect awakens
to its various works. Science and
art arise, and the more complicated
condition of life itself becomes the
subject of thought. The moral nature
of the species is unfolded — his mani-
fold affections arise and spread — all
the charities of life assume a higher
tone — the altars and the temples of
the gods are reared — war no longer
burns around every dwelling — death
hovers no more on sanguinary wings
round every head — peace covers the
land far and wide—and the soul un-
disturbed expands all its heaven-as-
piring affections. The laws them-
selves of great states confirm their
morality ; and only as he is gradually
formed under such institutions does
man appear a moral being. How dif-
ferent is he who sat at his bloody

658

American Poetry.

[April,

feast, rioting with his comrades in
the drunkenness of savage victory,
and he who in the serenity of civili-
zation, thoughtful and mild, maintains
the blameless majesty of private life !
Yet even when surveying such
changes as these, the spirit will
often indulge in melancholy and al-
most regretful dreams of the wild
life that has passed away, ennobled
by the colouring and moulding of
imagination far beyond the truth, till
in the dead it beholds a race of he-
roes. In such a mood the following
fine lines must have been composed
—nor are they false to the nature
which they adorn and dignify in the
dust.

THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR.

Gather him to his grave again,

And solemnly and softly lay,
Beneath the verdure of the plain,

The warrior's scattered bones away.
Pay the deep reverence, taught of old,

The homage of man's heart to death ;
Nor dare to trifle with the mould

Once hallowed by the Almighty's
breath.

The soul hath> quickened every part —

That remnant of a martial brow,
Those ribs that held the mighty heart,

That strong arm — strong nolonger now.
Spare them, each mouldering relic spare,

Of God's own image ; let them rest,
Till not a trace shall speak of where

The awful likeness was imprest.

For he was fresher from the hand

That formed of earth the human face,
And to the elements did stand

In nearer kindred than our race.
In many a flood to madness tost,

In many a storm has been his path ;
He hid him not from heat or frost,

But met them, and defied their wrath.

Then they were kind — the forests here,

Rivers and stiller waters paid
A tribute to the net and spear

Of the red ruler of the shade.
Fruits on the woodland branches lay,

Roots in the shaded soil below,
The stars looked forth to teach his way,

The still earth warned him of the foe.

A noble race ! but they are gone,

With their old forests wide and deep,

And we have built our homes upon
Fields where their generations sleep.

Their fountains slake our thirst at noon,
Upon their fields our harvest waves,

Our lovers woo beneath their moon —
Ah, let us spare, at least, their graves !

Perhaps the verses that follow are
still finer — and we feel their pathos
the more at this moment, from having
just read in that most interesting new
work, M'Gregor's Northern America,
a vindication of the Indian charac-
ter, as it is still seen in Canada. The
remnant of the Indian tribes scatter-
ed over the Canadas, he tells us,
exhibit a state of deplorable wretch-
edness. But a North American In-
dian, except when maddened or stu-
pified by the liquors introduced by
the Europeans, is the most dignified
person in the world. He is never
awkward, never abashed, nor ever
ill-bred or abusive. The grave, dig-
nified, taciturn, yet, when occasion
requires, elegant gentleman of na-
ture, has never been properly re-
spected by Europeans, and least of
all by the English, who, to our dis-
grace, have on almost all occasions
treated with contempt " the Stoic of
the woods, the man without a tear."
The proud heart of the Indian, de-
prived of his fine country, the forests
of which once afforded him abundant
game, and in the rivers of which he
alone fished, rather than submit to the
degradation of working for the rob-
bers who now despise his race, pines
in silent anguish, while he beholds
the melting away of his tribe amidst
the encroachments of Europeans. So
far the excellent M'Gregor, in a work,
the spirit of which may be estimated
by such sentiments, and now for
Bryant, who puts the expression of
the same feelings into the lips of an

INDIAN AT THE BURYINCi-PLACE OF HIS
FATHERS.

It is the spot I came to seek, —
My fathers' ancient burial-place,

Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,
Withdrew our wasted race.

It is the spot — I know it well —

Of which our old traditions tell.

For here the upland bank sends out
A ridge towards the river side ;

I know the shaggy hills about,
The meadows smooth and wide ;

The plains that, towards the southern sky,

Fenced east and west by mountains lie.

A white man, gazing on the scene,
Would say a lovely spot was here,

1832.]

American Poetry,

659

And praise the lawns so fresh and green

Between the hills so sheer.
I like it not — I would the plain
Lay in its tall old groves again.

The sheep are on the slopes around,
The cattle in the meadows feed,

And labourers turn the crumbling ground,
Or drop the yellow seed,

And prancing steeds, in trappings gay,

Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way.

Methinks it were a nobler sight

To see these vales in woods array'd,

Their summits in the golden light,
Their trunks in grateful shade ;

And herds of deer, that bounding go

O'er rills and prostrate trees below.

And then to mark the lord of all,
The forest hero, trained to wars,

Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall,
And seamed with glorious scars,

Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare

The wolf, and grapple with the bear.

This bank, in which the dead were laid,
Was sacred when its soil was ours j

Hither the artless Indian maid

Brought wreaths of beads and flowers,

And the gray chief and gifted seer

Worshipped the God of thunders here.

But now the wheat is green and high
On clods that hid the warrior's breast,

And scattered in the furrows lie
The weapons of his i*est;

And there, in the loose sand is thrown

Of his large arm the mouldering bone.

Ah! little thought the strong and brave,
Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth,
Or the young wife, that weeping gave

Her first-born to the earth—-
That the pale race, who waste us now,
Among their bones should guide the
plough.

They waste us— ay, like April snow
In the warm noon we shrink away ;

And fast they follow, as we go
Towards the setting day, —

Till they shall fill the land, and we

Are driven into the western sea.

But I behold a fearful sign,

To which the white man's eyes arc

blind ;
Their race may vanish hence, like mine,

And leave no trace behind —
Save ruins o'er the region spread,
And the white stones above the dead.

Before these fields were shorn and tilled,
Full to the brim our rivers flowed;

The melody of waters filled

The fresh and boundless wood ;
And torrents dashed, and rivulets played,
And fountains spouted in the shade.

Those grateful sounds are heard no more ;

The springs are silent in the sun,
The rivers, by the blackened shore,

With lessening current run ;
The realm our tribes are crushed to get
May be a barren desert yet.

Mr Bryant has painted some beau-
tiful pictures of the Indian female
character. In " Mountain Monu-
ment" he tells the story of a young
girl pining away in passion for a
youth within the forbidden though
not close degrees of consanguinity,
and in settled sadness and remorse
throwing herself from a rock. It is a
tradition, and very touchingly is it
narrated. But the " Indian Girl's La-
ment" will inspire more universal
sympathy. Into her lips he puts lan-
guage at once simple and eloquent,
such as the true poet fears not to
breathe from his own heart, when in
mournful imagination personating a
sufferer, knowing that no words ex-
pressive of tenderest, and purest, and
saddest emotions, can ever be other-
wise than true to nature, when pas-
sionate in the fidelity of its inno-
cence, nor yet unconsoled in its be-
reavement by a belief that pictures a
life of love beyond the grave,

THE INDIAN GIRL's LAMENT.

An Indian girl was sitting where
Her lover, slain in battle, slept ;

Her maiden veil, her own black hair,
Came down o'er eyes that wept ;

And wildly, in her woodland tongue,

This sad and simple lay she sung :

I've pulled away the shrubs that grew
Too close above thy sleeping head,

And broke the forest boughs that threw
Their shadows o'er thy bed,

That, shining from the sweet south-west,

The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest.

It was a weary, weary road

That led thee to the pleasant coast,

Where thou, in his serene abode,
Hast met thy father's ghost;

Where everlasting autumn lies

On yellow woods and sunny skies,

'Twas I the broidered mocsen made,
That shod thee for that distant land ;

660 American Poetry.

'Twas I thy bow and arrows laid

Beside thy still cold hand —
Thy bo\v in many a battle bent,
Thy arrows never vainly sent.

With wampum belts I crossed thy breast,
And wrapped thee in the bison's hide,

And laid the food that pleased thee best
In plenty by thy side,

And decked thee bravely, as became

A warrior of illustrious name.

Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast past
The long dark journey of the grave,

And in the land of light, at last,
Hast joined the good and brave —

Amid the Hushed and balmy air,

The bravest and the loveliest there.

Yet oft, thine own dear Indian maid,
Even there, thy thoughts will earth-
ward stray —

To her who sits where thou vvert laid,
And weeps the hours away,

Yet almost can her grief forget

To think that thou dost love her yet.

And thou, by one of those still lakes

That in a shining cluster lie,
On which the south wind scarcely breaks

The image of the sky,
A bower for thee and me hast made
Beneath the many-coloured shade.

And thou dost wait and watch to meet

My spirit sent to join the blest,
And, wondering what detains my feet

From the bright land of rest,
Dost seem, in every sound, to hear
The rustling of my footsteps near.

Many of the most delightful poems
in this volume have been inspired by
a profound sense of the sanctity of
the affections. That love, which is
the support and the solace of the
heart in all the duties and distresses
of this life, is sometimes painted by
Mr Bryant in its purest form and
brightest colours, as it beautifies and
blesses the solitary wilderness. The
delight that has filled his own being,
from the faces of his own family, he
transfuses into the hearts of the crea-
tures of his imagination, as they wan-
der through the woods, or sit singing
in front of their forest-bowers. Re-
mote as some of these creatures are
from the haunts and habits of our
common civilized life, they rise be-
fore us at once with the strange beau-
ty of visionary phantoms, and with
a human loveliness, that touch with
a mingled charm our fancy and our

[April,

heart. Our poetic and our human
sensibilities are awakened together,
and we feel towards them the emo-
tions with which we listen to sweet
voices from unknown beings smiling
or singing to us in dreams. For exam-
ple—

A SONG OF PIICAIBN'S ISLAND.

Come, take our boy, and we will go

Before our cabin door ;
The winds shall bring us, as they blow,

The murmurs of the shore ;
And we will kiss his young blue eyes,
And I will sing him as he lies,

Songs that were made of yore :
I'll sing, in his delighted ear,
The island-lays thou lov'st to hear.

And thou, while stammering I repeat,

Thy country's tongue shalt teach ;
'Tis not so soft, but far more sweet

Than my own native speech ;
For thou no other tongue didst know,
When, scarcely twenty moons ago,

Upon Tahite's beach,
Thou cam'st to woo me to be thine,
With many a speaking look and sign.

I knew thy meaning — thou didst praise

My eyes, my locks of jet ;
Ah ! well for me they won thy gaze, —

But thine were fairer yet !
I'm glad to see my infant wear
Thy soft blue eyes and sunny hair,

And when my sight is met
By his Avhite brow and blooming cheek;
I feel a joy I cannot speak.

Come talk of Europe's maids with me,

Whose necks and cheeks, they tell,
Outshine the beauty of the sea,

White foam and crimson shell.
I'll shape like theirs my simple dress,
And bind like them each jetty tress,

A sight to please thee well ;
And for my dusky brow will braid
A bonnet like an English maid.

Come, for the soft, low sunlight calls —

We lose the pleasant hours ;
'Tis lovelier than these cottage walls —

That seat among the flowers.
And I will learn of thee a prayer
To Him who gave a home so fair,

A lot so blest as ours—-
The God who made for thee and me
This sweet lone isle amid the sea.

This is the kind of love-poetry in
which we delight. Such feelings af-
fect us like flowers — pure, bright,
balmy in their bliss, and yet erelong

1832.] American Poetry.

inspiring sadness, because we feel
that, fragile as fair, they must soon
decay. A flower of faultless and glo-
rious beauty, just unfolded, seems as
if it could not live on this earth and
under these skies, if there were not
some feeling for its loveliness to save
it from harm. And this Ariosto must
have felt, when, describing the rose
which the virgin resembles, he says
that sun, and air, and the dewy morn-
ing, and sky, and earth, incline to-
wards it in favour. Such is the emotion
with which our hearts regard Words-
worth's Ruth, " ere she had wept, ere
she had mourned, a young and hap-
py child." It is like a halo round the
head of Spenser's Una. But the
beauty of woman's soul is by the
poets in a thousand ways idealized
— floating before us as between hea-
ven and earth; see Coleridge's Gene-
vieve, Campbell's Gertrude, and the
Shepherd's Kilmeny. In the same
spirit with which you gaze on them,
pray hearken to

THE HUNTER'S SERENADE.

Thy bower is finished, fairest !

Fit bower for hunter's bride—-
Where old woods overshadow

The green savannah's side.
I've wandered long and wandered far,

And never have I met,
In all this lovely western land,

A spot so lovely yet.
But I shall think it fairer

When thou art come to bless,
With thy sweet eyes and silver voice,

Its silent loveliness.

For thee the wild grape glistens

On sunny knoll and tree,
And stoops the slim papaya

With yellow fruit for thee.
For thee the duck, on glassy stream,

The prairie-fowl shall die,
My rifle for thy feast shall bring

The wild swan from the sky.
The forest's leaping panther,

Fierce, beautiful, and fleet,
Shall yield his spotted hide to be

A carpet for thy feet.

I know, for thou hast told me,

Thy maiden love of flowers ;
Ah ! those that deck thy gardens

Are pale compared with ours.
When our wide woods and mighty lawns

Bloom to the April skies,
The earth has no more gorgeous sight

To shew to human eyes.
In meadows red with blossoms,
All summer long the bee

CO]

Murmurs, and loads his yellow thighs,
For thee, my love, and me.

Or, wouldst thou gaze at tokens

Of ages long ago ?
Our old oaks stream with mosses,

And sprout with mistletoe ;
And mighty vines, like serpents, climb

The giant sycamore ;
And trunks, o'erthrown for centuries,

Cumber the forest floor ;
And in the great savannah

The solitary mound,
Built by the elder world, o'erlooks

The loneliness around.

Come, thou hast not forgotten

Thy pledge and promise quite,
With many blushes murmured,

Beneath the evening light.
Come, the young violets crowd my door

Thy earliest look to win,
And at my silent window-sill

The jessamine peeps in.
All day the red-breast warbles

Upon the mulberry near,
And the night-sparrow trills her song

All night with none to hear.

We turn from these sweet love-
lays' to a spirit-stirring composition,
the " Song of Marion's Men." It is a
beautiful ballad— with much of the
grace of Campbell and the vigour of
Allan Cunningham. The exploits of
General Francis Marion, the famous
partizan warrior of South Carolina,
form an interesting chapter in the
annals of the American revolution.
The British troops were so harassed
by the irregular and successful war-
fare which he kept up, at the head
of a few daring followers, that they
sent an officer to remonstrate with
him for not coming into the open
field, and fighting " like a gentleman
and a Christian."

SONG OF MARION'S MEN.

OUR band is few, but true and tried —

Our leader frank and bold —
The foeman trembles in his camp

When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good green wood,

Our tent the cypress tree ;
We know the forest round us,

As seamen know the sea.
We know its walls of thorny vines,

Its glades of reedy grass,
Its safe and silent islands

Within the dark morass,

Wo to the heedless soldiery,
Who little think us near !

662 American Poetry.

On them shall light at midnight

A strange and sudden fear ;
When, waking to their tents on fire,

They grasp their arms in vain,
And they who stand to face us

Are beat to earth again ;
And they who fly in terror, deem

A mighty host behind,
And hear the tramp of thousands

Upon the hollow wind.

[April,

his offers of ransom, drove him mad,
and he died a maniac.

Then sweet the hour that brings release

From danger and from toil :
We talk the battle over,

And share the battle's spoil.
The woodland rings with laugh and shout,

As if a hunt were up,
And woodland flowers are gathered

To crown the soldier's cup.
With merry songs we mock the wind

That in the pine-top grieves,
And slumber long and sweetly

On beds of oaken leaves,

Well knows the fair and friendly moon

The band that Marion leads—
The glitter of their rifles,

The scampering of their steeds.
'Tis life our fiery barbs to guide

Across the moonlight plains ;
'Tis life to feel the night- wind

That lifts their tossing manes.
A moment in the ravaged camp—

A moment — and away
Back to the pathless forest,

Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee,

Grave men with hoary hairs,
Their hearts are all with Marion,

For Marion are their prayers.
And loveliest ladies greet our band

With kindliest welcoming _
With smiles like those of summer,

And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms,

And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the oppressor,

For ever, from our shore.

There is even mpre power in the
" African Chief." The story of the
ballad may be found in the African
Repository for April 1825. The sub-
ject of it was a warrior of majestic
stature, the brother of Yarradee,
King of the Solima nation. He had
been taken in battle, and was brought
in chains, for sale, to the Rio Pongas,
where he was exhibited in the mar-
ket-place, his ankles still adorned
with the massy rings of gold which
he wore when he was captured.
The refusal of his captor to listen to

THE AFRICAN CHIEF.

Chained in the market-place he stood,

A man of giant frame,
Amid the gathering multitude

That shrunk to hear his name _
All stern of look and strong of limb,

His dark eye on the ground : _
And silently they gazed on him,

As on a lion bound.

Vainly, but well, that'chief had fought, —

He was a captive now, —
Yet pride, that fortune humbles not,

Was written on his brow.
The scars his dark broad bosom wore,

Shewed warrior true and brave •
A prince among his tribe before,

He could not be a slave.

Then to his conqueror he spake —

" My brother is a king ;
Undo this necklace from my neck,

And take this bracelet ring ;
And send me where my brother reigns,

And I will fill thy hands
With store of ivory from the plains,

And gold-dust from the sands,"

" Not for thy ivory nor thy gold

Will I unbind thy chain :
That bloody hand shall never hold

The battle-spear again.
A price thy nation never gave,

Shall yet be paid for thee ;
For thou shalt be the Christian's slave,

In lands beyond the sea."

Then wept the warrior chief, and bade

To shred his locks away ;
And, one by one, each heavy braid

Before the victor lay.
Thick were the platted locks, and long,

And deftly hidden there
Shone many a wedge of gold among

The dark and crisped hair.

" Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold

Long kept for sorest need ;
Take it — thou askest sums untold,

And say that I am freed.
Take it — my wife the long, long day

Weeps by the cocoa-tree,
And my young children leave their play,

And ask in vain for me."

" I take thy gold — but I have made

Thy fetters fast and strong,
And ween that by the cocoa shade

Thy wife will wait thee long."
Strong was the agony that shook

The captive's frame to hear,

1832.] American Poetry.

And the proud meaning of his look
Was changed to mortal fear.

Ilia heart was broken — crazed his brain —

At once his eye grew wild —
He struggled fiercely with his chain,

Whispered, and wept, and smiled ;
Yet wore not long those fatal bands,

And once, at shut of day,
They drew him forth upon the sands,

The foul hyena's prey.

That Mr Bryant's poetry may be
seen in all its fine varieties, we quote
three other compositions, inspired
by love and delight in that benig-
nant, bounteous, and beauteous Na-
ture, who all over the earth repays
with a heavenly happiness the grate-
ful worship of her children. One of
them, " To a Waterfowl," has been
long and widely admired, and is in-
deed a gem of purest ray serene, of
which time may never bedim the
lustre. The others are new to us—-
and " beautiful exceedingly."

THE NEW MOON.

When, as the garish day is done,
Heaven burns with the descended sun,

'Tis passing sweet to mark,
Amid that flush of crimson light,
The new moon's modest bow grow bright,

As earth and sky grow dark.

Few are the hearts too cold to feel
A thrill of gladness o'er them steal,

When first the wandering eye
Sees faintly, in the evening blaze,
That glimmering curve of tender rays

Just planted in the sky.

The sight of that young crescent brings
Thoughts of all fair and youthful things—

The hopes of early years ;
And childhood's purity and grace,
And joys that, like a rainbow, chase

The passing shower of tears.

The captive yields him to the dream
Of freedom, when that virgin beam

Comes out upon the air ;
And painfully the sick man tries
To fix his dim and burning eyes

On the soft promise there.

Most welcome to the lover's sight
Glitters that pure, emerging light ;

For prattling poets say,
That sweetest is the lovers' walk,
And tenderest is their murmured talk,

Beneath its gentle ray.

663

And there do graver men behold
A type of errors, loved of old,

Forsaken and forgiven ;
And thoughts and wishes not of earth,
Just opening in their early birth,

Like that new light iu heaven.

THE SKIES.

Ay ! gloriously thou standest there,
Beautiful, boundless firmament !

That, swelling wide o'er earth and air,
And round the horizon bent,

With thy bright vault and sapphire wall

Dost overhang and circle all.

Far, far below thee, tall old trees
Arise, and piles built up of old,

And hills, whose ancient summits freeze
In the fierce light and cold.

The eagle soars his utmost height,

Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight.

Thou hast thy frowns — with thee on
high

The storm has made his airy seat,
Beyond that soft blue curtain lie

His stores of hail and sleet j
Thence the consuming lightnings break,
There the strong hurricanes awake.

Yet~art thou prodigal of smiles —

Smiles sweeter than thy frowns are
stern ;

Earth sends from all her thousand isles
A shout at thy return ',

The glory that comes down from thee

Bathes in deep joy the land and sea.

The sun, the gorgeous sun, is thine,
The pomp that brings and shuts the

day,
The clouds that round him change and

shine,

The airs that fan his way :
Thence look the thoughtful stars, and

there
The meek moon walks the silent air.

The sunny Italy may boast

The beauteous tints that flush her

skies ;
And lovely, round the Grecian coast,

May thy blue pillars rise :
I only know how fair they stand
Around my own beloved land.

And they are fair — a charm is theirs,
That earth, the proud green earth, has
not,

With all the forms, and hues, and airs,
That haunt her sweetest spot.

We gaze upon thy calm pure sphere,

And read of Heaven's eternal year.

6 64 American Poetry.

Oh, when, amid the throng of men,
The heart grows sick of hollow mirth,

How willingly we turn us then.
Away from this cold earth,

And look into thy azure breast

For seats of innocence and rest !

[April,

TO A WATERFOWL.

Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps

of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost tliou

pursue
Thy solitary way ?

Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee

wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink

On the chafed ocean-side ?

There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast —
The desert and illimitable air —

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold thin atmos-
phere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,

Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end,
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and

rest
A nd scream among thy fellows ; reeds

shall bend
Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone — the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet on my

heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast

given,
And shall not soon depart.

He, who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy

certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

All who have read this article will
agree with what Washington Irving
lias said of his friend — that his close
'observation of the phenomena of na-
ture, and the graphic felicity of his
details, prevent his descriptions from
ever becoming general and common-
place ; while he has the gift of shed-
ding over them a genuine grace that
blends them all into harmony, and
of clothing them with moral associa-
tions that make them speak to the
heart. Perhaps we were wrong in
dissenting from Mr Irving's other
opinion, that his poetry is character-
ised by " the same indigenous style
of thinking, and local peculiarity of
imagery, which gives such novelty
to the pages of Cooper." His friend's
descriptive writings, he says, are es-
sentially American. They transport
us, he adds, "into the depths of the so-
lemn primeval forest, to the shores of
the lonely lake, the banks of the wild
nameless stream, or the brow of the
rocky upland, rising like a promon-
tory from amidst a wide ocean of
foliage, while they shed around us
the glories of a climate fierce in its
extremes, but splendid in all its vi-
cissitudes." We object now but to
the last part of this elegant panegyric.
There are no fierce extremes in Mi-
Bryant's poetry. That his writings
" are imbued with the independent
spirit and the buoyant aspirations
incident to a youthful, a free, and a
rising country," will not, says Mi-
Irving, be the " least of his merits"
in the eyes of Mr Rogers, to whom
the volume is inscribed ; and in ours
it is one of the greatest ; for we, too,
belong to a country who, though not
young — God bless her, auld Scotland !
— hath yet an independent spirit and
buoyant aspirations, which she is not
loath to breathe into the bosom of
one of her aged children— CHRIS-
TOPHER NORTH.

1832.1

The Art of Government made Easy.

663

THE ART OF GOVERNMENT MADE EASY— A DISCOVERY OF THE ONLY TRUE

PRINCIPLE —

IN A LETTER FROM SATAN TO THE WHIGS,

Picked up near the Parliament House about a twelvemonth ago, and now
first published without Authority.

IN our last conversation at —
House, it was unanimously agreed
to set aside all the Old Theories of
Government; and the New Prin-
ciple I then laid down was so entire-
ly approved, that there can be no
occasion that I should enforce it by
any new arguments. But, at your
request, I am willing to put those I
then urged into some form on paper,
that they may be for constant refer-
ence ; and you seem to think they
will have an authority, when known
to proceed from me, that will won-
derfully recommend them to Whigs
of every generation.

The difficulties hitherto attending
all Governments have been so appal-
ling, and the results so uncertain, that
rather than continue in the old train,
it was admitted that it would be even
preferable that " Chaos should come
again," that we might take the
chance of what that utter confusion
might produce. There were accord-
ingly advocates for bringing things
to this crisis : But I shewed satisfac-
torily that this has been sufficiently
tried in the system of Conciliation,
in which all parties yielding up some-
thing, brought a very heterogeneous
mass into the political cauldron. But
the result has not been quite agree-
able to the tastes of any. Govern-
ments formed on this plan have been
found to resemble those cheap-soup
repositories established by the hu?
mane ; receptacles of unknown con- "
tributors, where the beggar made
his wry face, and cursed the donors.
Still it was evident that there was
.something new in this Principle, that
rendered it worth an experiment,
and undoubtedly it led to the valu-
able discovery of the Only True
One, which I have had the honour
to develope fully to your satisfac-
tion. For taking from Conciliation
the necessity of reciprocity, or, ac-
cording to a new diction, adapted to
the peculiar circumstances of the
times, keeping the reciprocity all on
VOL. xxxi, NO. cxcin.

one side, and pushing this a little
further, the entire New Principle of
Yielding was put forth and establish-
ed as an undeniable truth, that will
do honour to its enlightened patrons
and this intellectual age,

You were instantly and forcibly
struck with the simplicity of the
plan ; and saw at once that the Art
of Governing was in fact but the Art
of being Governed; that it resem-
bled the genius of the subtle Cartha-
ginian— " Nunquam ingenium idem
ad res diversissimas, parendum at-
que imperandum, habilius fuit." You
were in truth delighted, and with a
praiseworthy zeal set about your
various schemes to procure an op-
portunity to put the grand discovery
to the test of practice. In doing this4
you did not forget that the Principle
itself, so complete is it in all its
parts, would be most effective ; and
so it proved ; for you had but to
give a glimpse of your scheme, and
promise largely, and you instantly
came into power, as you, with great
propriety, expressed it, with extreme
unwillingness, by " yielding to the
public opinion."

You are now established in office,
and in confidence I promise you,
that if you strictly follow the rule I
have laid down for you, you shall
not lose your reward. — You have
begun well — for this Principle, sim-
ple as it is, yet requires discretion
of choice in the outset. For as it
mainly depends on, or indeed con-
sists in, being governed, it is evi-
dently a matter of no small import-
ance to choose well your Governors.
In this respect I am satisfied — I can-
not bestow too much praise on your
selection. For, had you chosen
among the Great, the Wealthy, the
Good, the Wise, you would have had
to contend against a formidable nu-
merical strength, ever in perpetual
warfare with these orders. And
while they would have been weak
to protect you, they might have been
2 U

CG6

The Art of Government made Easy,

[April,

powerful to supplant you, by bring-
ing into play those qualities in which
they manifestly excel, and you do
not. But you have chosen those
who will be content to let you keep
your places, while you are content
to let them really govern; so that
you have all the advantage, without
the trouble or responsibilities that
have been hitherto annoying to every
administration.

Whilst other Governments, in their
weakness or ignorance, have appeal-
ed to the " Sense of the People,"
you have more wisely appealed to
the Non-sense of the People; by
which youhave secured to yourselves
an over whelm ing majority. Youhave
nicely calculated that the numerical
strength lay neither in the very wise
nor very good. Indeed, that the
profligates, the irreligious, the reck-
less, the ruined in fortunes, the bank-
rupts in fame, are ever the most ac-
tive., and that it will not do to leave
them as adversaries. This party,
therefore, you saw, were, at all events,
to be attached to you ; and if once
attached to you, that they should be
strengthened; you therefore judi-
ciously set about schemes, the effect
of which has been, or will be, to
make the numerical strength of this
your party beyond question the chief
population of the country. You saw
that in London alone there is a mo-
ving and movable mass, under the
direction of " The Movement," of
some thirty thousand profligates,
scoundrels, ruffians, desperates,-—
ready for any work. It was there-
fore with you a great object to adapt
the work to their natures, and you
have given them hopes they know
well how to appreciate. You have
formed them into a sort of body-
guard that you can call up at a mo-
ment's notice. They boast them-
selves the Grey's Own, and wear
the tri-color as their badge of Mi-
nisterial favour. These you have so
well trained, that you can send them
in a body, should occasion require,
to overawe Majesty itself, not only
to the foot of the throne, but to put
the throne at their foot — so that you
have, by this one able manoeuvre,
turned the object of others' fear into
substantial means of your own safe-
ty. Nor is there danger of their de-
serting you, until you desert the
New Principle ; for long will it be

ere there will remain nothing for
them to demand, or for you to yield.
And should you occasionally wish
to retard their progress, you have
but to commit some legislative fol-
lies, in finance or otherwise, and they
will be quite delighted by your pay-
ing a deference to their suggestion,
and yielding the points which you
only mooted to give up. In fine,
the more you consider this noble
principle in all its bearings, the more
will you be delighted with its faci-
lity and security of operation. The
choice of your Governors, then, is
made. In this you have shewn great
tact. You have only never to forget
who and what they are — and your
places are secure, till you are satu-
rated with all the good that place
can give. Your only business is now
to know what your Governors (whom
you must be sure to designate " The
People," and, on particular occa-
sions, the " Sovereign People,")
really require or demand at your
hands.

I will not deny, that this will bring
you into closer contact with some
low and despicable wretches than
your pride can well stomach. I can
even foresee, that you may be called
up in the dead of night by a radical
tailor, who chooses to transact pub-
lic business with you ; and if you do
not confirm his account of your con-
versation, he will not hesitate to call
you liar before the world, to shew
his familiarity with you. But you
are too politic not to let your pride
sleep, though you may not be allowed
for a paltry hour or two that luxury ;
and you will recollect, that a tailor
and a master-tailor are two different
things ; and that though, to mark his
insignificance, aristocratic insolence,
in its foolery, may have designated
him the ninth part of a man, it is
not necessary he should be a split
vote, but in this renovated age a
most respectable plumper. But to
be serious. Being of the charac-
ter I have described, your Govern-
ors will require you to encourage
the largest licentiousness ; and in
order to put into their hands that
power at which they aim, they will
demand of you to annihilate the Old
Constitution — indeed, that for many
reasons must be knocked on the
head, as thoroughly inconsistent with
the New Principle. But you have

1832.]

The Art of Government made Easy.

667

long since prepared the way for this
yourselves — for you have been vili-
fying it these forty years, and have
sufficiently thrown contempt upon,
all former acts of legislation that
might stand in your way, by decla-
ring to the people they were made
by a corrupt Parliament, and with-
out their consent. You will there-
fore find little difficulty in setting
aside what you please ; you have
well sneered away the " wisdom of
our ancestors," and all will necessa-
rily go with it. Thus, with regard to
the Constitution, you have half done
for that already — Reform will well-
nigh do the rest, or even the agita-
tion of it will wonderfully strengthen
your hands, by making your Govern-
ors omnipotent. They will require
you, in their love of " Liberty, civil
and religious," and in their hatred
of the useless restraints of religion
particularly, to insult, to bully, and,
if you can, finally to crush the Clergy.
There may be many ways of doing
this — by vilifying them, by bidding
the Bishops " set their houses in
order," for they " shall die and not
live;" or an effectual way may be
found, if you can starve them out, or
encourage others to do it. Any out-
rage against them you must wink at,
and make it a plea to annihilate their
tithes, and for a while, as long as
they are subservient to you and the
People, dole out to them a scanty
pittance, that shall make them com-
plain. Then you may punish them for
contumacy ; or, should you not be
able to proceed in this work with the
desired despatch, you must, while
the patronage is in your hands, fill
the Church with creatures of your
own. Thus will you be able, or it
will be your own fault, (admitting
the familiar phraseology,) to Burke
the Constitution and to Bishop the
Church — and your fame will reach
to the ends of the earth.

In your hands, then, the very name
of the Constitution will soon become
* a farce. You can then make an un-
constitutional use of the King's name,
that " tower of strength," to delude
any that may be yet under the in-
fluence of old prejudices ; and this
will be a master-stroke. You must
make Majesty as much a puppet as
possible, and play antics to please
your mobs, at your pulling the strings.
You must keep the King, therefore,

in utter ignorance of the wishes, the
fears, and remonstrances of those call-
ed the good and the wise ; you must
besiege his ear, that nothing but ab-
solute whiggery have access to it;
in short, excuse the expression, you
must ear-whig him. You must make
him believe the noise of the rabble
is the voice of the people ; and I see
no great harm if you make the peo-
ple your god, and pronounce the
" Vox populi" to be the " Vox Dei."
You must persuade him, that the
protest of the Peers is " the whisper
of a faction ;" accommodating him to
the present tastes and ulterior views
of your Governors, you must tempt
him (bribes may be found even for
kings) to put on the Citizen-king;
in imitation of the French, you must
teach him to " Philippize." And
should he, in his sagacity, discover
that the French nation will not allow
(for strange things will happen) poor
Louis-Philippe to have a will of his
own, you may have an opportunity
of pointing out that he may still be
at liberty to meddle with the wills
of other people.

It is very evident you will not have
much difficulty but with the King
and the Aristocracy; therefore divide
and govern, " Divide et impera" —
separate them by all means. You
must, as occasion shall require, bring
them both into contempt, threaten
the one, and keep the other secluded
from every influence but your own.
I am truly happy to observe, that
you fully persuade yourselves that
you will not thereby endanger the ex-
istence of the monarchy, and wisely
see, that even though large masses of
your followers and panegyrists, and
governors too, will urge you to its
destruction, finding the coronation
oath in the way of their views, you
will be able to satisfy them by an
act of Parliament that shall annul
that objectionable oath; you will thus
not only remove the difficulty, but
reduce the power of the Crown to
your own management, while tho
name and office may still remain.
The Crown, it is true, may hesitate,
but you have an able advocate in the
Lord Chancellor; he tells you he
" knows himself to be honest," you
can doubt it therefore no longer.
He may literally keep the King's con-
science, and that entirely to himself,
and not be.burthened with a double

The Art of Government made Easy.

668

weight — and bear it lightly too. Yet
it is possible that Royalty may take
the alarm, and discover, if the Church
be turned upside down, what will be
the position of the " Head" of it. And
when he shall find the liberality of
the French liberals in a state of re-
pentance, and the Citizen-king

" Un noble Prince, un gontil Roy,
Q.ui n'a jamais ne pife ne croix,"

he may turn round upon you, and
taunt you with his detested citizen-
ship. Take care, therefore, that he
has not a single friend left about his
person, to whom in his distress he
may apply. Remove them all. But
I will draw up some secret instruc-
tions upon this subject — in due time
you will attend to them.

Your danger from the Aristocracy
is not very serious, for though you
may weaken it as a whole, by the infu-
sion of democracy, at least for your
own lives, your own party will be
the more powerful, which will be as
it were a recovery of strength ; and
this will gratify your pride, and hum-
ble the Tories. The people will in-
deed demand of you to abolish the
Peerage, but your very pride will
make you averse to this ; and I am
happy to find you are confident that
in this one particular you will be
able to prevail with your Governors
to yield to you. I doubt not you
have good reasons for this trust.
You may, therefore, with courage
threaten to swamp it j and this will
make it sufficiently subservient to
your views. Your prophetic wisdom
then having overcome the foolish
fears with regard to any abolition of
the Peerage, you will not object, es-
pecially if the power of your own
party in the Upper House be secu-
red by the measure, (and it will be
very popular,) to raggamufnnize that
House a little, even perhaps by
marching your footmen into it, with
ready furnished titles of nobility.
Thus you will please the people, by
a sort of temporary farce of " High
Life below Stairs," and Low Life
above, by exhibiting to them the
brilliant phenomenon — the] Aristo-
cracy democratized, and the Demo-
cracy aristocratized. This will be a
harmonizing measure, enabling the
two branches of the legislature to
keep each other in countenance, in
part. And you will be predominant

[April,

in both. But you will not effect this
without much angry discussion,
which will afford you an opportu-
nity of throwing every odium and
contempt upon the Tory nobility, in
which I may give you some help ;
and 1 shall take it as a personal favour
to myself, if you will make occasion
to abuse the Bishops to the utmost ;
for I abhor them as the man did Aris-
tides the just. 1 am sick of hearing
them called pious — they are my per-
sonal enemies — and as I mean to aid
you against yours, it is reasonable you
should assist me against mine. Thus,
for instance, it may happen that I
may instigate a mob to maltreat your
old antagonist the Duke of Welling-
ton, the Duke of Newcastle, Lord
Londonderry, Wetherall the Re-
corder of Bristol, and a few more,
purely out of compliment to you;
and you in return will take little no-
tice if I burn a Bishop or two, and
ferret them out of their sanctity holes
and corners, or out of the House at
least. This may cost us a few old
castles, perhaps the sack of a city or
two, but the gain will be worth the
cost. And be assured, that if I can
but do all I desire, I will so root up
their nests and scatter the ashes, that
no new Phoenix shall ever rise from
them.

As for the Tories, I surely need not
say much about them. Your long ha-
tred must have sufficiently sharpen-
ed your invention — you will, doubt-
less, designate them tyrants, cut-
purses, malignants, wretches, &c. &c.
You will have a ruffian pack at com-
mand, and if you do not hunt them
down as you would polecats, you
are not fit ever again to take the field
in the Royal Hunt. But I am confi-
dent, having little real business, you
will be delighted with this gentle-
manly recreation ; you may hunt to
the death, and not be taunted with
the Game Laws. As for the religious,
or, according to the new revolution-
vocabulary to be issued by authori-
ty, the enthusiasts, the superstitious
— those whom the cant phrase terms
the sober, quiet, industrious, cau-
tious, discreet part of the communi-
ty, that may feel shocked at your
innovations, you have been accus-
tomed to class them under the tribe
Tory, so that no farther directions
need be given. Indeed, your mobs
will manage them, and after havipg

The Art of Government made Easy.

1832.]

broke into a few of their houses, way-
laid a few of the more resolute, and
perhaps burned a few in their beds,
in terroremy will send you official
and most satisfactory accounts of
their entire submission. You will
find all these insidious distinctions
of the Good, the Pious, the Virtuous,
however of use in discussing anti-
quated systems of the thing called
Moral Philosophy and Ethics, quite
inconsistent with the superior no-
tions of this enlightened age, and
unworthy the approbation of a libe-
ral Ministry. You must take care
that there be but two classes of peo-
ple, Reformers and Anti-Reformers ;
and if you continue long in office,
I have no doubt you will convert
the whole world in a short time to
wish for nothing so much as for Re-
form.

I have shewn you what little you
have to fear from your enemies —
the Principle acts as it goes — you
will have a level road free from all
obstructions. But let us revert to
the requirements of your Governors,
whom we may now entitle the " Sove-
reign People," and let us trace the
shadows of coming events.

You are now in power ; some of
the means that have brought you in
may have been a little crooked, and
occasion at first some little nicety of
conduct. Far be it from me to blame
such means ; indeed, I have suggest-
ed most of them myself, and if there
be those who still taunt me with be-
ing the father of lies, you need not
be afraid but that I will foster and
take care of my own children.

You have certainly made large pro-
mises that you cannot fulfil, you must
therefore balance this failure, by gi-
ving in other points more than you
have promised. It will be a capital
hit. It has been necessary, for you
have made it so yourselves, that you
should promise <c unflinching econo-
my." You are well aware that your
predecessors have left you little to
* do in this way ; however, you may
make a shew of doing something.
You must therefore repeal a few
taxes at all hazards ; and as it is evi-
dent, under these peculiar circum-
stances, that no budget can be over-
wise, you have, doubtless, taken care
that no able financier shall have any
hand in it. The folly of it will, after
all, I fear, be apparent j but you may

still make it of some use for popula-
rity, by founding it upon a breach-of-
contract-principle. You will there-
fore sagaciously attack the Funds and
the Colonies — no matter how trifling
the concern — Cape wines, for in-
stance, or Canada timber. The com-
mencement of the breach-of-contract
system will be sure to give the bud-
get a redeeming quality in the eyes of
your Governors, and thus you will
get out of the scrape, whatever comes
of the budget. And, after all, if it
comes to the worst, you may throw
your blunders on the inexperience
in office of a young adventurer, who
may possibly through his friends, or
in his own person, reap some ad-
vantages from the measures, as a
set off for the disgrace he must en-
dure.

You must likewise make promises
of surplus revenue, which you well
know cannot be ; and when the truth
comes out, it will be easy to swear
the minus to be preferable to the plusy
and boast that the money, is in the
people's pocket, on the fructifying
principle. It will undoubtedly re-
quire some face to say this, as every
man will naturally enough put his
hand in his pocket to find the mo-
ney, but in vain; yet, being your
Governors, they will thank you for
your good intentions, and hope it is
really fructifying somewhere. Just
before this exposure, contrive to
throw out a few hints about Aboli-
tion of Tithes and the Ruin of the
Church, and be sure that Hume will
not notice any errors in your ac-
counts— and you will be safe. In-
deed, upon any difficulty generally,
you have only to give out that the
Principle-Reform is in danger if you
are beat, and you will be sure of
your delegate supporters in all ab-
surdities.

I need not point out the necessity
of altering your whole foreign policy;
if you have no other reason, that it
has been established by the Tories
is enough. Nor will you be dupes
to out of date consistency. Thus, for
instance, though you lay down the
rule of non-intervention whenever,
or wherever, there is a popular or
rabble-rising revolution, insurrec-
tion, and things of this sort, which,
if you manage well, will be* every-
day occurrences, interfere at once ;
and if you can but dethrone a Sove.-

670

The Art of Government made Easy.

[April,

reign and set up another, (if only
with a paper crown,) it will be a
glorious opportunity you will not
lose.

By all means play into the hands
of France, it will be a bold policy to
sacrifice unsparingly the old inte-
rests of Old England ; and the bold-
ness will make it look like some
scheme of deep wisdom. For it is
manifest you ought to do every thing
for a nation where the King is a pup-
pet and the people govern. Having
always, when the French were the
bitterest enemies of your country,
been their ardent admirers, through-
out the Revolution and their ty-
ranny, and ever having thwarted Bri-
tish measures, and sneered at the
success of British arms, which you
could not prevent, you will find now
the less difficulty in bringing your
minds to the sacrifice. This sacri-
fice once made, you will be reward-
ed by that nation marching as it were
before you, and marshalling the way
you should go in all great measures,
leaving you nothing to do but the
easy task of following. It will be
very easy for you, notwithstanding
that you are but letting France play
her own game, and throwing down
your cards as it were before her as
her dumby,to appear extremely busy
in your vocation, by the frequent in-
terchange of couriers, conveyance of
letters, protocols, treaties, notifica-
tions, negotiations, and a thousand
packets which it will not be neces-
sary for you even to open, much less
read, while the French minister has
a carte blanche. You may even send
over chosen and discreet persons of
certain political and religious predi-
lections (this you will never forget)
to examine into the French system
of book-keeping, for all must be as
much French as possible, and it will
be the means of putting a thousand
pounds or so into one or two wor-
thy men's pockets, and my particu-
lar friends. In one word, you must,
while you are really doing nothing,
affect to be very busy, and imitate
the extravagance of the philosopher
who went rolling about his tub,
that he might not appear idle. It
is not worth while to say more about
foreign policy: in all emergencies
consult Talleyrand, he has served all
parties — knows all sides — you can-
not therefore put yourselves into

better hands — and you will be thus
saved the trouble and responsibility
of thinking.

The Home Department will not
require much of your care; "let
alone," is the rule ; do not act until
your Governors direct you, and then
just as they direct you.

I have, from the commencement
of this paper, presupposed that you
have already brought into play the
great measure which we agreed up-
on— Reform as a bonus offered to
your Governors, to induce them to
become your guardians, to insure
you your places. Cherish your Re-
form Bill — the Magna Charta of
thieves, vagabonds, profligates, con-
temners of law, despisers of reli-
gion— that Bill, which will even make
these desperadoes and terrors of all
other governments, not only innocu-
ous, but the very prop and stay of
yours. Look not for difficulties;
hungry though they be, they will be
more easily fed than you imagine ;
and it is a bold policy if you can but
turn them out upon the Tories,
against whom they may expend their
natural fury, and lift up their hands
and voices in plaudits to you. They
are, in truth, like hungry hounds,
that will be satisfied with a tolerable
carcass now and then, but, for the
most part, can be kept in running
condition on windy expectation, and
an occasional fling of raw flesh. Even
Cerberus may be pacified with a sop.

You must of course expect some
opposition from your present Parlia-
ment; you will, therefore, with or
without reason, take offence at some-
thing it may do or say; however
you may adopt afterwards the very
things for which you dismiss them,
turn them out, and this will give an
opportunity for the display of the
power of the mobs, which in fact is
yours. The bludgeon, the brick-bat,
and the placard, will secure all you
will want. You will have delegates,
fair substitutes, considering the times,
for the more complete Parliament
which the Reform Bill will ultimate-
ly introduce, when, excepting the
counties which will become your
own boroughs, the House may per-
chance contain a set of contemptible
wretches, who, from their utter ig-
norance, can never taunt you with
your political blunders. As long as
you pay due regard to the people,

1832.]

The Art of Government made Easy,

671

your Governors, they will send you
a very submissive gentry ; however
you may be ashamed of them, you
must put a good face upon the mat-
ter ; but, in truth, it will be a strange
sight to see the new delegates en-
tering the metropolis, and will per-
chance remind you of your old nur-
sery rhymes—

" Hark, hark, the dogs do bark,
The beggars are coming to town,

Some in rags and some in tags,
But none in velvet gown."

But lest Parliaments should at any
time be troublesome, you will do
well, as a great statesman said, to
" call a new world into existence."
By all means, therefore, set up a
sort of opposition Parliament in
Birmingham, with the privilege of
branch Parliaments elsewhere, and
with this you must be in constant
correspondence — must bandy com-
pliments. They will be seditious
enough, but what is that to you?
Flatter them, even though they threat-
en not to pay taxes; you cannot
well do otherwise, knowing you
have yourselves instigated them. I
have furnished them myself with
ample means of annoying the Tories,
have supplied them with a " black
list," which will make even you
stare. They will circulate it largely,
and you will not be so foolish as to
take any notice of it, even though
it should be the means of immola-
ting a few old Tories on the altar of
liberty. Flatter these new Parlia-
ments, and they will keep the dele-
gates in your own, in check.

I must now, for a while, discuss a
very important matter — the Press.
What is the Vessel of the State, or
any other vessel, without its boat-
swain; and what is he without his
speaking trumpet ? You must have
the " Ship, a-hoy" blusterer. The
Press must be the mouthpiece of
your Governors — the People : it is
through the Press their dictates must
be given. In this, too, I can essen-
tially serve you. You see I have
somewhat the pen of a ready writer,
and you will easily acknowledge the
force of my style in the Times, the
Chronicle, the Globe, Examiner, &c.
And it is hard indeed, if I and the
Lord Chancellor cannot put our
heads together, and write admirable
panegyrics upon your government,

that shall lift you into the seventh
heaven. But you cannot expect the
Press to be quite disinterested ; you
must therefore, in your Reform Bill,
offer them the bribe of at least eight
new places for Members for London,
which they will fill themselves, or
command; and they will so out-
bully all that ever bullied, out-swear
all that ever swore, that they will
lose their senses in the ecstasy of
their own delirium, till they rave of
Liberty, Slavery, Chains, Wretches,
Tories, Aristocrats, a Virtuous Minis-
try, a Ruined Nation, Tithes,, Rats,
Bishops, and Boroughmongers, and
out-babel Babel the Great in the con-
fusion of languages. This will they
do with my and your help. You
will wonder that it should be possi-
ble for some insignificant wretch, in
his vulgar hole of a domicile, with his
paltry pen to indite such marvels; but
give him free scope for sedition, lay
an injunction on the Attorney-Gene-
ral, and you shall see, I promise you,
what England never yet saw. Lend
but the light of your ministerial coun-
tenance, and the diminutive editor
will rise to wonderful dimensions.
He will work his phantasmagoria on
the " broad sheet" — send but the
light of your countenance, I repeat ;
nor is it required that it be very lu-
minous— a dull lantern and a whi-
tened wall will turn the veriest cur
into a terrific monster, and fools and
children take the shadow of an insig-
nificant mongrel for a lion. The
Press is the mouthpiece of your Go-
vernors, to dictate what you are to do,
and as long as you wisely do as you
are bid, to record your praises. The
Press will hold enchained in abject
slavery, send to the gallies or gallows
all that dare oppose you ; and is it
not for this very purpose that you
have ever had in your mouths the
" Liberty of the Press ?" Behold, by
the simple adoption of my Principle,
your ultimate, your complete tri-
umph !

I must say a few words of Ireland ;
having travelled there much, having
dwelt there, and having many very
particular friends there, I cannot but
feel considerable partiality for a
country I have almost considered
exclusively my own. Your Govern-
ors may be said to be many-headed,
and doubt not one of the principal
heads will ever be found there. Che-

The Art of Government made Easy.

[April,

rish it as you would the apple of
your eye. I have passed my word
to the Papists — it must be done, you
understand. I am unwilling to put
on paper what perhaps all of your-
selves may not fully know. But re-
member it must be done. I have
communicated with Dr Doyle, and
he has imported thousands of ready-
made pardons, to send his lamb-like
followers as straight through purga-
tory to paradise, as from the con-
fessional to outrage. Conspirators
against Church and State must be
pardoned — I have engaged for it.
You will magnanimously not punish,
but honour, the Arch-agitator, for he
is King of the Beggars, and has nu-
merous forces.

I have not hitherto dwelt upon
peculiar advantages to accrue to
yourselves. Some you are well
aware of ; for you are not such fools
as to set up for patriots, but in ve-
riest mirth. You know the rewards
of patriotism, or you will soon see
them, when you shall behold the
Conqueror of Waterloo hooted,
hissed, and in danger of his life, and
his house barricaded to guard its
peace from your mobs. Thus will
you overcome the great conqueror,
and this is no little praise. But you
will enjoy substantial benefits too —
you will secure places and offices to
yourselves for life, and with little to
do ; and even if, contrary to your
expectations, things should take ra-
ther a violent turn, you will be able
to save your own, as you will not be
the malignant Tories or " Borough-
mongering Faction." You have some
among you, whose families once
upon a time benefited pretty large-
ly from aristocratic confiscation and
church plunder — an evil name per-
haps; but no bad thing. Besides,
what can you do ? You cannot stop
the hurricane, or bring back the
winds you have let out of the bag.
You are not so silly as to talk of
weathering the storm, which you

have whistled with an evil wind to
raise these last forty years. Weather
the storm, indeed! Go along with
the wind and tide, down the current ;
what matter where it leads you?
Happiness is not local, and the vir-
tue of the thing is neither here nor
there. Fear not — go boldly for-
ward—follow my Principle strictly ;
and if you do not Whig a Whiggery
that shall last longer than England
is England, never trust to me more.

On^hen, and prosper; if you must
be busy, let it be to scatter about the
seeds of dissent, that you may keep
alive the Principle of Yielding, by
always having something to give up
to it. Whatever happens, you will
thus make to yourselves friends of
your mammon; and should you
chance to lose here, I have ample
estates in my dominions at your en-
tire service. Now, then, go boldly
to the Peers with your Bill; and
even should it be possible that you
are kicked out of the Upper House,
I have a lower House to receive
you, which, if it be not a regular
House of Lords, will at least con-
tain all the New Batch. And should
you at any time be weary of office,
and should you unfortunately, from
events we cannot foresee, find the
people are from their hearts wishing
you at the devil, and you would
shun the parade of resignation, I
will not fail to be present with you ;
and be not alarmed if, in compliance
with the general wishes, I affect a
rage, and dismiss you myself. For,
be assured, though I may be com-
pelled to kick you in the breech, it
shall be done after the most received
fashion of politeness, without the
slightest injury to your persons ; and
wherever your fall and exit may be,
rest satisfied that not a slipper shall
be thrown up to testify of youv
abode.

I remain your sincere friend, ad-
mirer, and servant to command,
SATAN.

1832.

Miss Fanny Kembk's Tragedy.

673

MISS FANNY KEMBLE*S TRAGEDY.*

IN youth and prime of manhood
we delighted in theatrical represen-
tations, and were sometimes admit-
ted even behind the scenes — nay,
not uninitiated were we in the dan-
gerous mysteries of the Green-room.
But in our old age, we seldom go to
see a play. In the pit, our knees get
cramped, and our back aches ; those
whift's of wind are bad for our rheu-
matics, that, on the sudden flinging
open of doors, bring the chill of the
antarctic circle of the lobbies into
the torrid zone of the boxes ; inde-
corous would be the appearance of
Christopher North in the slips — and
he is not such a heathen as to take
his place among the gods. We sel-
dom, then, as we said) go now-a-days
to the theatre ; but we still sympa-
thize with those who eagerly flock
thither to see a star, or sit sedately
there surrounded by their boys and
girls, gazing with admiration on less
illustrious lights, and delivering
themselves up in the untamed trans-
port of youthful emotion, to the de-
lusions of joy or grief. We have
never been able, for the souls of us,
to see any sin in looking at a play,
any more than in looking at a picture
— provided there be nothing naughty
in either ; and had we a daughter, we
should not be satisfied till she had
seen Cordelia and Imogen.

We wish well, then, to the stage. Its
history is to us always bewitching
reading; and we are familiar with it
all from Colley Gibber's delightful
Memoirs, to the amusingBiographies
of John Gait. Nay, among our million
manuscript miscellanies, innocently
slumbering in the dovecots of our ca-
binets, are as many papers as, if col-
lected, would make some four vo-
lumes, or so, we guess, of Reminis-
cences of the theatrical world. Ere
long, perhaps, they may see the day :
nor need they shun the sun, for
unstained are they by scandal, as a
virgin's letters to a female friend,
written in the form of a journal, on
her first visit to the Lakes.

The stage owed much, no doubt,
to Garrick. He could not have been
the first manager or actor — as has
been often foolishly said — who stu-
died costume ; but he effected great
improvements in that part of the re-
presentation, which is of ten thou-
sand times more importance than
scenery, and subordinate but to cha-
racter. Genius can overcome any
thing ; and it can effectively person-
ate Hamlet in a kilt, or Macbeth in
breeches. Besides, we get not only
reconciled by the power of habit to
the most absurd and unnatural
usages, but absolutely to like and
admire them ; so that they seem
essential to our delight and delusion.
Thus, we believe all characters on
our stage, whatever their nation,
were at one and for a long time ex-
pected to be in the full dress of
English gentlemen or English heroes.
Any deviation from that established
custom would have been offensive,
for it would have broken in upon
one set of associations without bring-
ing another into their place ; and
Csesar, without a full-flowing wig,
might as well have been without a
Brutus. To break through the fa-
shion, that had given authority to
such custom, required probably
more boldness than we may be
aware of; and to carry a better into
effect infinitely greater skill. For a
knowledge of the costumes of anti-
quity implies much curious learning;
to ignorant spectators they could
give but little pleasure ; and to the
most erudite it must have been
more painful to look on a bungled
toga, whose folds in no measure be-
trayed the fine Roman hand of a
Place, but gave unequivocal symp-
toms of the sire of that tailor since
immortalized by his equestrian ex-
cursion to Brentford.

Whatever improvements, then,
Garrick may have effected in that
way, they could be of little moment
in comparison with what he did in
another— in establishing art on na-

* Francis the First ; an Historical Drama.
John Murray. 1832.

VOL. XXXI, NO, CXCITI.

By Frances Anne Kemble. London :

Miss Fanny Kemble s tragedy.

674

ture. He produced a sudden revo-
lution in acting— and was at once, by
acclamation, crowned King. True
that he wrote but indifferent verses,
though sometimes they were ele-
gant and graceful ; and pity 'tis
that 'tis true he murdered — or what
is almost as bad — mutilated Shak-
speare. But he admired — adored him
too ; and that he rightly felt and un-
derstood him, even in his fairest and
most majestic creations, is putbeyond
all doubt by the effect — never sur-
passed, if equalled, by the power of
any other actor — of his genius on all
hearts and on all minds,

" At every flaah of his far-speaking eye."

He raised the stage, in the estimation
of an age illustrious for its great
men, into an enlightened and intel-
lectual profession, and invested it
with a lustre, which, by his death,
was obscured but not eclipsed ; till,
after some short fits of splendour,
and longer periods " now of glim-
mer and now of gloom," it was re-
stored almost to its pristine glory by
the rising genius of the Kembles.

To John Kemble nature had given
such a face and such a figure as sa-
tisfied imagination's self in its visions
of the majestic, and by his personal
endowments he was formed to be—-
if mind and soul were not wanting
there — a transcendent actor. Nor
were they wanting; for though his
genius may not have been of the
highest, it was of a high order ; he
had a lofty enthusiasm and deep
sensibility ; his natural talents were
great, and assiduously cultivated by
a scholarly education ; and no man
ever studied more thoughtfully the
principles of his art, or with more
consummate skill embodied the the-
ory in the practice of imitation.
His judgment and taste were class-
ical, but not cold ; and there was a
felt charm even in the freedom from
aU offensive faults in his Persona-
tions, that assured the minds of his
audience into a tranquil trust in his
excellence ; the mood in which great
beauties growing gradually before
us, as in all his acting they were sure
to do, finally produce their full ef-
fect, elevating us to higher and higher
admiration, till it reaches its acme
and its close in some affecting or
^prodigious catastrophe, His great-

[April,

ness lay not in sudden bursts of pas-
sion, like Kean's, when he is at his
most pathetic or most terrible ; but
in sustained and swelling emotion,
unflagging till the fall of the curtain;
and when it had fallen, leaving a
sense of the sublime, like some strain
of magnificent music. No other ac-
tor in our day ever was Hamlet. In
reading that tragedy, nobody now
pretends to understand the charac-
ter— in seeing it performed by John
Kemble, every body felt it, gods and
men; and breathless interest held all
hearts, while he parleyed in reve-
rential and superstitious awe with
his father's ghost, or " spoke dag-
gers, but used none," to his mother,
unhappier than she knew, and none
knows how sinful. In Macbeth he
was almost perfect — entirely so in
Coriolanus ; for if in the Highland
Chief and King there wanted some-
thing of the wild grandeur of the
haunted air of the moors and moun-
tains, in the Roman General, the pa-
trician pride in his order, and na-
ture's own haughtiness in conscious
greatness of soul, not unworthy the
glory of the unconquered sons of the
Capitol, were in his matchless Per-
sonation of a patriot expatriated into
a traitor by a course of unendurable
wrong, injury, and insult, so embo-
died to the eye as well as to the
mind, that the whole audience were
aroused as if they had themselves
been Romans, and the theatre had
been in the heart of Rome, while
yet the eternal city gloried in her
republic.

We trust that we have too much
good sense to attempt painting a pic-
ture of Sarah Siddons. In her youth,
'tis said, she was beautiful, even love-
ly, and won men's hearts as Rosalind.
But beauty is a fading flower. It faded
from her face, ere one wrinkle had
touched that fixed paleness which sel-
dom was tinged with any colour, even
in the whirlwind of passion. Light
went and came across those finest fea-
tures at the coming and going of each
feeling or thought ; but faint was the
change of hue ever visible on that

florious marble. It was the magni-
cent countenance of an animated
statue— in the stillness of its ideali-
zed beauty instinct with all the emo-
tions of our mortal life. Idealized
beauty ! Did we not say that beauty
had faded from her face? Yes—

1832.]

Miss Fanny Kemble's Tragedy*

but it was overspread with a kindred
expression, for which we withhold the
name, only because it seemed more
divine, inspiring awe that overpower-
ed while it mingled with delight,—-
more than regal, — say rather immor-
tal. Such an image surely had never
before trode,nor ever again will tread,
the enchanted floor. In all stateliest
shews of waking woe she dwindled
the stateliest into insignificance ; her
majesty made others mean; in her
sunlike light all stars " paled their
ineffectual fires." But none knew
the troubled grandeur of guilt, till
they saw her in Lady Macbeth, walk-
ing in her sleep, and, as she wrung
her hands, striving in pain to wash
from them the engrained murder.
" Not all the perfumes of Arabia
could sweeten this little hand !" The
whisper came as from the hollow
grave, and more hideously haunted
than ever was the hollow grave,
seemed then to be the cell of her
heart ! Shakspeare's self had learned
something then from a sight of Sid-
dons.

Those were great creatures, and
they glorified the stage. They are
gone ; and we must put up without
them — beholding them sometimes in
dreams like ghosts.

But there are Kembles alive among
us still, and they are among the high-
est ornaments of their profession.
Stop — we had forgotten Stephen
the Fat, who used to play Falstaff.
He had a fine face of his own — but
that boundless belly spoiled every
thing. Yet we have seen him enact
Hamlet to his own benefit—

" O that this too, too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew,"

was a wish, that, if granted, had
drowned the pit. Had he been a
slim youth, he had been a capital
actor, and could have played well
Hanger or Young Norval. For Ste-
phen Kemble was a man of excel-
lent talents and taste too; and we
have a volume of his Poems, present-
ed to ourselves one evening after the
play in the shades at Whitehaven,
in which there is considerable powers
of language, and no deficiency either
of feeling or of fancy. He had hu-
mour, if not wit, and was a pleasant
companion and worthy man. He
was among the best of our provincial
managers.

As for his wife, there were few-
more delightful actresses in her
day than Mrs Stephen Kemble. In
speaking, she had a clear silver
voice, " most musical, most melan-
choly;" (though she was not a little
of a vixen, and in pure spite, once
almost bit a piece out of the shoul-
der of Henry Johnston, in Young
Norval, while bending over " my
beautiful, my brave," in the maternal
character of Lady Randolph;} and
she sung with the sweetest pathos.
From many fair eyes, now shut, have
we seen her Ophelia draw tears in
the mad scene ; and she was a deli-
cious Juliet, and an altogether incom-
parable Yarico. Not so lovely as the
fair O'Neill, nor so romantic ; for she
had borne children; but her eyes
had far more of that unconsciously
alluring expression of innocence and
voluptuousness which must have
shone through the long fringes of the
large lamping orbs of the fond Ita-
lian girl, who at fourteen was a bride,
and but for that fatal sleeping
draught, ere fifteen would have been
a mother. In Catherine, again, we
have more than once been delighted
to see her play the Devil. To her it
was not every man, we can assure
you, that was able to be a Petruchio.
In all the parts she played, she was
impassioned; and all good judges
who remember her, will agree with
us in thinking, that she was an actress
not only of talent, but of genius.

Mrs Siddons left a son, to whom
nature had denied " outward grace,"
and given no great gift of expression
either in form, face, or voice. But
he was a man of feeling and talent,
and understood well the principles
of his art, though unable in his own
person to exemplify them with any
distinguished success. Yet in some
characters, in spite of natural disad-
vantages, he was, by the force of
true feeling, very effective, — as in
the Stranger. In private life no man
could be more esteemed ; and many
among us in Edinburgh here cherish
his memory, both for the sake of
his own virtues, and for the virtues,
the accomplishments, and genius of
his widow, Mrs Henry Siddons.

Well do we remember her when
Miss Murray, and for a while more
admired for her mild and modest
beauty, than for any conspicuous
j)ower or genius as au actress, She

676

seldom or never had then appeared
in any very prominent part, and with
true taste and fine feeling, had al-
ways acted up to the part assigned
her, and never beyond it; so that she
always inspired pleasure, although
not admiration. Applause she always
received ; but it seemed given to her
young and lovely self, rather than to
her acting; and at that time was, on
that account, probably the more
grateful — and not the less encoura-
ging—as she must have felt that she
had with her the hearts of her audi-
ence.

Miss Murray, though easy in natu-
ral elegance, seemed, we remember,
to be often affected with diffidence,
itself not without a charm, and the
more so on account of the rarity of
that feeling which, on the London
stage, shone in her as a native and
peculiar virtue. Yet, for some time
before her marriage, she had, as an in-
teresting actress, won upon the ad-
miration of the audience who had al-
ways with respect regarded the spot-
less woman ; and a very few years
elapsed till Mrs Henry Siddons was
universally acknowledged as one of
the brightest ornaments of the stage.
The charm of her performance, whe-
ther in comedy or tragedy, was still its
simplicity ; but her gladness had now
more brilliancy, and her grief more
pathos; and shebecame more captiva-
tingin her smiles,more overpowering
in her tears. She exhibited, too, great
versatility of talent; and ere long be-
came the fixed star of the Edinburgh
stage. Above all the actresses of her
time,ber demeanour was distinguish-
ed by that charm which sometimes
has imparted power even to medio-
crity, but which, when joined, as it
was in her case, with the finest fa-
culties, adds a perpetual power to
genius, and ensures its resistless tri-
umphs— Mrs Henry Siddons was in
all things the perfect lady. But in
Ophelia and Desdemona, even that
look, though there, is lost sight of, or
it is merged in misery. We think not
of the gracefulness of the stalk when
it is crushed — flower and all; but
feel only that there is an end — or
extinction of something we hadloved;
and so was it with her, as we looked
and listened to her, singing her
strange snatches of songs, or smo-
thered by the murderous Moor, and
restored for a moment from seeming

Miss Fanny Kemble's Tragedy.

[April,

death, with a few fond forgiving last
words to declare him innocent. As
Kean in Othello fiercely howled —

" She's like a liar gone to burning hell !"

who felt not assured, while the
body lay still and white on the couch,
in night-clothes like a shroud, that
her spirit had flown to heaven !

Charles Kemble is not so fine a
man as John — and we cannot choose
but call him rather clumsy, espe-
cially about the ankles; but then he
has a noble natural air, and has
studied successfully the art or the
science of manner, demeanour, car-
riage, so as to make the most of his
figure, which is cast in almost Hercu-
lean mould. His face, though far in-
ferior in heroic expression to John's,
is yet noble ; and he has a voice
mellow and manly, and of much
compass, though incapable of those
pathetic and profound tones which,
in spite of his asthma, used to issue
forth from that broad chest of his,
when " Black Jack was in power to-
night," in volume that surprised
those who had heard him only on
more common occasions, or when he
was indisposed to make, or incapa-
ble of making, his highest efforts.
For many years Charles, though al-
ways a favourite with a London au-
dience, could justly be said to be
but a second-rate actor, even in his
best characters ; and in his worst, he
was hardly a third-rate one. But
the acting of all the Kembles is of
slow growth in its rise towards ex-
cellence or perfection. It was so —
though less so with her than her bro-
ther— even with the Siddons. About
twenty years ago, when Charles
Kemble could not have been much
under forty, his acting brightened up
into a brilliancy, and expanded into
a breadth of manner, that shewed he
was, even at that somewhat advan-
ced period of life, though its prime,
about to enter on a new era. He
did so ; and ere long, in some cha-
racters, had no equal among his con-
temporaries, and we suspect few,
if any, superiors among his prede-
cessors. In parts of very deep or
very high tragedy, he is not great —
and in these a man must be aut Cce-
sar aut nullus — a John Kemblo, a
Kean, a Young, or no better than a —
but we wish not to be severe — so let
the alternative be anonymous. But

1832.]

Miss Fanny Kemblrfs Tragedy.

in all parts between, where the in-
terest is still tragic, he is as good as
can be, performing with energy and
spirit. Indeed spirit is the very
word, and it has infinite varieties
and a wide range of significance. In
comedy — we were going to say gen-
teel— but we dislike the word — in
such comedy as Shakspeare's, where
the parts played are by nature's gen-
tleman, such as Faulconbridge, Hot-
spur, (we use the word comedy,) Or-
lando, Mercutio, Benedicty Petruchio,
and the like, a better actor than
Charles Kemble never trode the
stage.

But we remember us of the image
of a delightful, dark-eyed, dark-hair-
ed girl, whose motion was itself mu-
sic ere her voice was heard, and the
glance of her gleaming eyes, ere yet
her lips were severed, itself speech.
In all melodramatic representations
— in that exquisite species of histo-
rical narrative, Pantomime, where
face, frame, and limbs have all to be
eloquent, and to tell tales of passion
beyond the power of mere airy words
— in the dance that is seen to be the
language of the exhilarated heart,
when it seeks to communicate, to
cherish, or to expend its joy in move-
ments of the animal frame not mere-
ly quickened by the spirit, but seem-
ingly themselves spiritualized, and
that, too, into attitudes and outlines
of nature's own gracefulness, that
needs no teacher but the impulses
from which it springs, and the " in-
nocent brightness of the new-born
day"of bliss in which it prolongs its
gliding, and floating, and flying being,
— in all this, O gentle and middle-
aged reader, (pardon our perhaps
too poetic style, though ornate yet
unambitious,) who was once com-
parable in her sparkling girlhood,
to that dangerous yet un wicked
witch, the charm-and- spell-bearing
enchantress, Decamp ?

Morgiana has long been changed,
-by the touch of Hymen's magical rod
into a matron — and Mrs Charles
Kemble has swallowed up Miss De-
camp. Of such parentage, it would
have been strange if the soul of Miss
Fanny Kemble had not turned in-
stinctively towards the stage. We
have heard it said that but for
the misfortunes of Covent Garden
Theatre, (which her genius has glo-
riously retrieved,) this extraordinary

677

girl would never have been an act-
ress. People may think so — perhaps
her very parents — perhaps her very
self; but they must pardon us for
saying that we know better ; for a
bird sung it to us in a dream, that
she was to continue the fame of her
family, so long illustrious in the an-
nals of the theatre, and to equal, if
not surpass that of them all, except
the Unapproachable — the Sole Tra-
gic Queen.

Emerging suddenly, not from the
gloom but the shade, this gifted
young creature came forth at a time
at once trying and propitious ; and
gratulating acclaim arose when first
" her fulgent head star-bright ap-
peared." She showed, on her first
night, that she was worthy of her
lineage ; and the fine features of
her intellectual countenance silently
spoke her relationship to the Sid-
dons. She established herself at
once, by the unanimous consent
of the best judges, as well as bythe
award of the public, in the highest
order. That was enough; triumph
was won by power; and she has in
her future career but to evolve under
noblest studies all the finished forms
of her genius.

We could wish to say much even
now of that genius, and to speak of
Miss Kemble, young as she is, as al-
ready a great actress. But the in-
troduction or preface to our article
has run on to an alarming length ;
and we must break off from that
theme, and turn to one even moro
delightful, her genius as a poet — and
that, too, in the highest province of
the art, the tragic drama.

We confess, that when first we
heard of her having adventured up-
on that walk, our heart, interested
in all her successes, had many mis-
givings ; but we took courage on
learning, months before the appear-
ance of her play, that it had won the
admiration of Joanna Baillie. It has
been published, and it has been per-
formed ; and already the public voice
has declared, that it is not only for
one so young — but in itself — a great
achievement.

Let us, then, give an analysis of
the drama, accompanied with copi-
ous extracts — more copious proba-
bly than may be found in any other
periodical — for so only can genius
be fairly judged, — and conclude our

67g Miss Fanny Ktmbles Tragedy.

article with some criticism on the
character of the power displayed in
its creation.

The three chief characters are the
Queen Mother, Gonzales her con-
fessor, and the Duke de Bourbon.
The Queen Mother having conceived
a violent passion for the Duke, had
persuaded her son that the Consta-
ble's power was "growing strongly
in the Milanese;" and the King, at
her instigation, had recalled him trom
the government, that his high ambi-
tion might be checked, " beneath the
shadow of the throne."

The second scene of the first act is
in the Queen Mother's apartment—
and that imperious personage preci-
pitately appears before us, solilo-
quizing on the passion that fevers her
blood.

[April,

( Trumpets without— shouts of " DE

BOURBON !")
" And now he is arrived — hark how the

trumpets

Bray themselves hoarse with sounding wel-
come to him !

Oh, could I join my voice to yonder cry,
By heavens, I think its tones would rend the

welkin

With repetition of the hero's name,
Who's dearer far to me than life or fame."

" Queen. So— I am glad Gonzales is not
here;

I would not even he should see me thus

Now out upon this beating heart, these

temples,
That throb and burn so ; and this crimson

glow

That rushes o'er my brow : now, by this light,
I had not dream'd so much weak womanhood
Still slumber'd in my breast ! — I must re-
member me. —

Mother of France, and wellnigh Queen of it,
I'll even bear my love as royally,
As I have borne my pow'r : — the time is near,
Oh very near, when he will kneel again
Before my feet ; the conqueror to the con-

quer'd !—

I am ashamed of this ill timed relapse, —
This soft unnerving pow'r which thus en-
thrals me."

Gonzales enters, and seeing the
paleness of her cheek, and the qui-
vering of her lip, asks, "Is your
highness ill?" a question to which
she is too much absorbed to reply —
but says —

" Queen. Hush ! 'twas a trumpet, was it

not? — and now—-
Surely it is the tramp of horses' hoofs
That beat the ground thus hurriedly and

loud ;—
I pray thee, father, throw the casement

wide —
The air is stifling."

She then boldly and energetically
avows her passion to the astonished
Monk — and leaves him to ruminate
on the strange confession, exclaim-
ing as she goes—

From Gonzales' soliloquy, we ga-
ther that he is not what he seems, a
mere priest, but an emissary from
the Emperor, for the purpose of
political intrigues at the court of
his great rival. He is, in truth, a
Spanish warrior of noble birth, and
distinguished reputation, Don Gar-
cia ; and had been instigated to as-
sume the part he plays, by desire
to revenge the dishonour of his sis-
ter, who had been shamefully se-
duced by the father (now dead) of
Laval, a young Frenchman, who
must pay the penalty of his parent's
crime.

" Gonz. In love with Bourbon ! by this

living light,

My mission here is wellnigh bootless, then.
Now might I back to Spain, since Charles'

objects

Are all defeated by this woman's passion,
Were there not yet another task, the dearest.
The labour that is life — mine own revenge !
Till I have reached that goal, my foot shall

never

Tread its own soil ! or, freed from its dis-
guise,—

This noiseless sandal of slow-gaited priest-
hood,—

Resume its manly garb. Oh, very long
Is the accomplishment ; but it is sure,—
Sure as the night that curtains up each day, —
Sure as that death which is the end of life.
Lie still, thou thirsty spirit, that within
CalTst for the blood that shall allay thy cra-
ving !
Down, down with thee, until the hour be

come

When I can fling this monkish treachery by,
Rush on my prey, and let my soul's hot

flame

Lick up his blood, and quench it in his life !
Time, and the all-enduring soul that never
Shrinks from the trial, be my speed ! and

nought

My hope, my spur, my instrument, my end,
Save hate — eternal hate — immeasurable
hate !''

Meanwhile, De Bourbon has ar-
rived in Paris, and all unconscious of

1332.]

Miss Fanny Kemlle's Tragedy.

he real cause of his recall, his fiery
spirit is burning with indignation on
his disgrace, and cannot control its
wrath, even in the apartment of the
Princess Margaret, his lady-love.
Ere she, the sister of the King, had
again seen her lover's face, she had
been told of his return by Triboulet
(the court fool,) and had given vent
to her emotions, in these beautiful
lines —

" .He is return'd ! he will be there ! and yet
Though meeting, after long eventful ab-
sence,—

We shall not in our meeting be half blest :
A dizzy, whirling throng will be around us,
'Mid whose loud jar the still small voice of

love,

"Whose accents breathe their soft enchant-
ment best
In whisper'd sighs, or but half-whisper'd

words,
Will die unheard. Oh that we thus should

meet!
But, then, there is" love's eye to flash his

thought

Into a language, whose rich eloquence
Beggars all voice ; our eyes at least may meet,
And change, like messengers, the loving

freight
That either heart sends forth. "

The Colloquy between the lovers
at their first interview is very cha-
racteristic— and it requires all the
mild persuasion and dignified com-
posure of the Princess to calm the
storm of rage in De Bourbon's bo-
i?om,as it is ready to burst forth upon
the Queen. She succeeds in doing
so, by a mixture of seriousness, fond-
ness, and playful raillery, very skil-
fully combined ; and the lovers part
thus —

" Bour. I'faith I must ; the storm is over

now ;

And having burst, why, I shall be the calmer.
Farewell, sweet monitress ! I'll not forget.

Marg. Oh, but I fear —

Sour. Fear not— she is thy mother !"

De Bourbon is then ushered by
.Gonzales into the presence of the
Queen-Mother, who has resolved

" To try the mettle of his soul,
And tempt him with the glitter of a
crown."

She plays her part with v«ry great
address, and having at length, as she
imagines, let the Duke into the se-
cret of her passion, and found him,
though rather perplexed, eager for

679

perfect light, she throws off her veil
(the veil of widowhood,) and to the
young hero, who had flung himself at
her feet, exclaiming,

" Madam, in'pity speak but one word more,
Who is that woman ?" —

she passionately cries,
" I AM THAT WOMAN 1"

The feelings of the old, or at least
elderly lady (somewhere, we believe,
about forty-five) may be more easily
imagined than described, on hearing
on the deafest side of her head the
Constable's more than uncourteous
acknowledgment of the honour!

" Bour. (starting up). You, by the holy

mass ! I scorn your proffers j —
Is there no crimson blush to tell of fame
And shrinking womanhood ! Oh shame !

shame ! shame !

( The QUEEN remains clasping her hands

to her temples, while DE BOURBON

walks hastily up and down : after a

long pause the QUEEN speaks.)

Queen. What ho ! Marlon ! St Evreux !

Enter two Gentlemen.
Summon my confessor ! (Exeunt.) — And

now, my lord,

I know not how your memory serves you j
Mine fails not me— If I remember well,
You made some mention of the King but
now —

No matter — we will speak of that anon.

Enter GONZALES.

Sir, we have business with this holy father ;
You may retire.
Sour. Confusion !
Queen. Are we obeyed?
Sour, (aside). Oh Margaret ! — for thee !
for thy dear sake !
[Rushes out. The QUEEN sinks into

a chair.
Queen. Refus'd and scorn'd ! Infamy ! —

the word chokes me !

How now ! why stand' st thou gazing at me
thus ?"—

Gonzales answers — coolly and cut-
tingly— " I wait your highness' plea-
sure !" What that pleasure must
now be, the simplest may conjecture
aright—" Oh ! sweet revenge !" It
is, we believe, a general law of na-
ture, that proffered love, in all such
cases, is soured suddenly, as by a
flash of lightning, into hate. So is it
now with Louisa of Savoy. She is
savage as an old tigress— not robbed
of her whelps— but of a young tiger
beautifully striped, who had shewn
himself with a bland pur for a mo-

680

ment at the mouth of her cave, as if
ready for dalliance, and then with
an angry growl all at once had leapt
away into a wood. She resolves to
ruin De Bourbon, and hints, if we
mistake not, at depriving him of his
vast possessions by forgery. Gon-
zales, who is delighted to know that
her suit has been rejected, (for, had
it been accepted, his master, Charles,
would have suffered from the genius
of the Duke made king, and he him-
self probably been baffled in his
schemes for revenge,) expresses his
willingness to aid her in all her de-
signs— " it rests but with your grace
to point the means." The infuriated
Queen-Mother has a great command
of speech.

" Not dearer to my heart will be the day
When first the crown of France deck'd my

son's forehead,

Than that when I can compass thy perdi-
tion,—

When I can strip the halo of thy fame
From off thy brow, seize on the wide do-
mains,

That make thy hated house akin to empire,
And give thy name to deathless infamy."

But a woman of her great talents
could control the expression of her
rage; and she enters with dignity
the council-chamber thronged with
the nobility, and, led by her son the
King, takes her seat on the throne.
Bourbon is there, and ere she deals
him the blow, the Queen-Mother
taunts him with cutting sarcasms in
an under-tone, which the courtiers,
if they chanced to overhear it, must
have thought the sweetest royal con-
descension. Francis declares Count
Lautrec Governor of Milan — and, as
he is about with " our own royal
hand to buckle on the sword," the
Queen interposes haughtily, and
says,

" Queen. Not so.

Your pardon, sir ; but it hath ever been
The pride and privilege of woman's hand
To arm the valour that she loves so well :
We would not, for your crown's best jewel,

bate

One jot of our accustom'd state to-day :
Count Lautrec, we will arm thee, at our feet :
Take thou the brand which wins thy coun-
try's wars, —

Thy monarch's trust, and thy fair lady's fa-
vour.—

Why, how now ! — how is this ! — my lord of
Bourbon !

Miss Fanny Kemblds Tragedy.

[April,

If we mistake not, 'tis the sword of office
Which graces still your baldrick ; — with

your leave,
We'll borrow it of you.

JBour. (starting up,} Ay, madam ! 'tis

the sword

You buckled on with your own hand, the day
You sent me forth to conquer in your cause;
And there it is ! — (breaks the sword) — take

it — and with it all
Th' allegiance that I owe to France ! ay,

take it ;

And with it, take the hope I breathe o'er it :
That so, before Colonna's host, your arms
Lie crush'd and sullied with dishonour's

stain ;

So, reft in sunder by contending factions,
Be your Italian provinces ; so torn
By discord and dissension this vast empire ;
So broken and disjoin'd your subjects' loves ;
So fallen your son's ambition, and your

piide !

Queen (rising). What ho! a guard with-
in there ! Charles of Bourbon,
I do arrest thee, traitor to the crown !

Enter Guard.
Away with yonder widemouth'd thun-

derer !
We'll try if gyves and strait confinement

cannot
Check this high eloquence, and cool the

brain

Which harbours such unmanner'd hopes."
[Bourbon is forced out.

De Bourbon is imprisoned, and, as
his offence is nothing short of high
treason, his doom is to be death. But
the passion of the Queen, who, as
Principal Robertson well says in his
History of Charles Vth, was " as
amorous as she was vindictive,**
again burns like a furnace to the
wind, and she sends Gonzales to him
in his dungeon to offer him pardon
and liberty, on condition of his yet
ascending her bed. With joy he
goes on the mission — but to in-
flame the fury of Bourbon, and cun-
ningly to instigate him to forsake
France, and join his master, who
will be happy to appoint him, if not
generalissimo of his armies, com-
mander, with equal power with Lan-
noy and Pescara.

Meanwhile, and ere Gonzales
reaches the prison, the Princess Mar-
garet is comforting Bourbon—or ra-
ther striving to soothe him into sub-
mission that may save his beloved
life. But he is stern — almost savage
of mood — and remains obdurate to
the gentle but high-souled lady's
prayers.

1832.]

"Hour. My life is little worth to any now^
Nor have I any, who shall after me
Inherit my proud name.

Mar. Hold there, my lord ! —
Posterity, to whom great men and their
Fair names belong, is your inheritor.
Your country, from whose kings your house

had birth, ;
Claims of you, sir, your high and spotless

name !—
Fame craves it of you ; for when there be

none

Bearing the blood of mighty men, to bear
Their virtues also, — Fame emblazons them
Upon her flag, which o'er the world she

waves,

Persuading others to like glorious deeds.
Oh ! will you die upon a public scaffold ?
Beneath the hands o' th' executioner !
Shall the vile rabble bait you to your death !
Shall they applaud and make your fate a tale
For taverns, and the busy city streets ?
And in the wide hereafter, — for the which
All warriors hope to live, — shall your proud

name

Be bandied to and fro by foul tradition, —
Branded and curst, as rebel's name should be ?"

That, we think, is very fine ; and
gives such a revelation of the charac-
ter of the Princess, as at once fills
our heart with sentiments towards
her of pity and admiration. The
pity becomes almost too painful,
when De Bourbon, in the bitterness
of his exasperation, cries

" A tenfold curse
Light on that Royal Hai-lot !"

In his fury he tells the daughter her
mother's shame ; and as Gonzales is
heard about to enter, the horrified
and humiliated Princess leaves the
prison, uttering these words —

" The pulse of life stands still

Within my veins, and horror hath o'er-

come
My strength ! Oh ! holy father ! to thy

care
Do I commend this wayward man !"

And we see the Princess Margaret
no more !

Then comes the best scene by far
in the tragedy — nor do we hesitate
to say that in dramatic power and ef-
fect it is equal, if not superior, to any
thing in our language since the days
of the great masters. Bourbon has
said sternly — " Sir monk, be brief —
thy business here ?"

" Gonz. Look on these walls, whose stern
time- stained brows

Miss Fanny Kcmble's Tragedy.

681

Frown like relentless justice on their inmates.
Listen ! — that voice is Echo's dull reply
Unto the rattling of your chains, my lord : —
What should a priest do here ?
Sour. Ay, what, indeed ! —
Unless you come to soften down these stones
With your discourse, and teach the tedious

echo

A newer lesson : trust me, that is all
Your presence, father, will accomplish here.
Gonz. Oh sinful man ! and is thy heart

so hard,

That I might easier move thy prison stones ?
Know, then, my mission — death is near at

hand !
The warrant hath gone forth — -the seal is

set;

Thou art already numbered with those
Who leave their names to lasting infamy,
And their remains to be trod under foot
Of the base rabble.

JBour. Hark thee, in thine ear : —
Shall I hear when I'm dead what men say

of me ?

Or will my body blench and quiver 'neath
The stamp of one foot rather than another ?
Go to — go to ! I have fought battles, father,
Where death and I have met in full close

contact,

And parted, knowing we should meet again ;
Therefore, come when he may, we've look'd

upon

Each other far too narrowly, for me
To fear the hour when we shall so be join'd,
That all eternity shall never sunder us.
Go prate to others about skulls and graves ;
Thou never didst in heat of combat stand,
Or know what good acquaintance soldiers

have
With the pale scarecrow — Death !

Gonz. (aside.') Ah, think'st thou so?
And thou didst never lie wrapp'd round so

long

With death's cold arms, upon the gory field,
As I have lain. (.4/erac?)-~-Hear me, thou

hard of heart !

They who go forth to battle are led on
With sprightly trumpets and shrill clamorous

clarions ;

The drum doth roll its double notes along,
Echoing the horses' tramp ; and the sweet

fife
Runs through the yielding air in dulcet

measure,
That makes the heart leap in its case of

steel !
Thou shalt be knell'd unto thy death by

bells,
Ponderous and brazen-tongued, whose sullen

toll
Shall cleave thine aching brain, and on thy

soul

Fall with a leaden weight : the muffled drum
Shall mutter round thy path like distant

thunder :

iss Famy KemMs Tragedy.

[April,

'Stead of the war-cry, and wild battle-roar —
That swells upon the tide of victory,
And seems unto the conqueror's eager ear
Triumphant harmony of glorious discords ! —
There shall be voices cry foul shame on thee !
And the infuriate populace shall clamour
To heaven for lightnings on thy rebel head !
Sour. Monks love not bells, which call

them up to prayers
I'the dead noon o' night, when they would

snore

Rather than watch : but, father, I care not,
E'en if the ugliest sound I e'er did hear —
Thy raven voice — croak curses o'er my grave.
Gonz. What ! death and shame ! alike

you heed them not !

Then, Mercy, use thy soft, persuasive arts,
And melt this stubborn spirit ! Be it known
To you, my lord, the Queen hath sent me

hither.
Sour. Then get thee hence again, foul,

pandering priest !

By heaven ! I knew that cowl did cover o'er
Some filthy secret, that the day dared not
To pry into. I know your holy church,
Together with its brood of sandall'd fiends !
Ambition is your God ; and all the offering
Ye bring him, are your vile compliances
With the bad wills of vicious men in power,
Whose monstrous passions ye do nurse and

cherish,

That from the evil harvest which they yield,
A plenteous gleaning may reward your toils.
Out, thou unholy thing !

Gonz. Hold, madman ! hear me !
If for thy fame, if for thy warm heart's blood
Thou wilt not hear me, listen in the name
Of France thy country. —

Sour. Tempter, get thee gone !
J have no land, I have no home, — no

country, —

I am a traitor, cast from out the arms
Of my ungrateful country ! I disown it !
Wither'd be all its glories, and its pride !
May it become the slave of foreign power !
May foreign princes grind its thankless

children !

And make all those, who are such fools, as yet
To spill their blood for it, or for its cause,
Dig it like dogs ! and when they die, like dogs,
Rot on its surface, and make fat the soil,
Whose produce shall be seized by foreign

hands !
Gonz. (aside.) Now, then, to burst the

last frail thread that checks
His headlong course, — another step, and then
He topples o'er the brink ! — he's won — he's

ours. —
(Aloud) — You beat the air with idle words ;

no man
Doth know how deep his country's love lies

grain'd
In his heart's core, until the hour of trial !

Fierce though you hurl your curse upon the

land,

Whose monarchs cast ye from its bosom ; yet,
Let but one blast of war come echoing
From where the Ebro and the Douro roll ;
Let but the Pyrenees reflect the gleam
Of twenty of Spain's lances, and your sword
Shall leap from out its scabbard to your hand !
Sour. Ay, priest, it shall ! eternal heaven,

it shall !

And its far flash shall lighten o'er the land,
The leading star of Spain's victorious host !
But flaming, like some dire portentous comet,
I'th' eyes of France, and her proud governors !
Oh, vengeance ! 'tis for thee I value life :
Be merciful, my fate, nor cut me off,
Ere I have wreak'd my fell desire, and made
Infamy glorious, and dishonour fame !
But, if my wayward destiny hath will'd
That I should here be butcher' d shamefully,
By the immortal soul, that is man's portion,
His hope, and his inheritance, I swear,
That on the day Spain overflows its bounds,
And rolls the tide of war upon these plains,
My spirit on the battle's edge shall ride ;
And louder than death's music, and the roar
Of combat, shall my voice be heard to shout,
On — on— to victory and carnage !

Gonz. Now,

That day is come, ay, and that very hour ;
Now shout your war-cry ; now unsheath

your sword!

I'll join the din, and make these tottering walls
Tremble and nod to hear our fierce defiance !
Nay, never start, and look upon my cowl —
You love not priests, De Bourbon, more than I.
Off ! vile denial of my manhood's pride !
Off, off to hell ! where thou wast first in-
vented,—

Now once again I stand and breathe a knight.
Nay, stay not gazing thus : it is Garcia,
Whose name hath reach'd thee long ere now,

I trow ;

Whom thou hast met in deadly fight full oft,
When France and Spain join'd in the battle-
field :

Beyond the Pyrenean boundary
That guards thy land, are forty thousand men :
Their unfurl'd pennons flout fair France's sun,
And wanton in the breezes of her sky :
Impatient halt they there; their foaming

steeds,

Pawing the huge and rock-built barrier,
That bars their further course : they wait

for thee ;
For thee whom France hath injured and cast

off;
For thee, whose blood it pays with shameful

chains,
More shameful death ; for thee, whom Charles

of Spain

Summons to head his host, and lead them on
( Gives him a parchment. )

1832.]

Miss Fanny Kemllcs Tragedy.

To conquest and to glory !

Sour. To revenge !
What tells he here of lands, and honours !

Pshaw !

I've had my fill of such. Revenge ! Revenge !
That is the boon my unslaked anger craves,
That is the bribe that wins me to thy cause,
And that shall be my battle-cry ! Ha ! Ha !
Why, how we dream ! why look, Garcia ;

canst thou
With mumbled priestcraft file away these

chains,

Or must I bear them into Spain with me,
That Charles may learn what guerdon valour

wins
This side the Pyrenees ?

Gonz. It shall not need—-
What ho ! but hold — together with this garb,
Methinks I have thrown off my prudence !

{Resumes the Monk's dress. )
Sour. What!

Wilt thou to Spain with me in frock and cowl,
That men shall say De Bourbon is turn'd

driveller,

And rides to war in company with monks ?
Gonz. Listen. — The Queen for her own

purposes

Confided to my hand her signet-ring,
Bidding me strike your fetters off, and lead you
By secret passes to her private chamber :
But being free, so use thy freedom, that
Before the morning's dawn all search be

fruitless.—
What, ho ! within.

Enter Gaoler.
Behold this signet-ring ! —
Strike off those chains, and get thee gone.

[Exit Gaoler.
And now

Follow — How now,— dost doubt me, Bour-
bon?

JBour. Ay,

First, for thy habit's sake ; and next, because
Thou rather, in a craven priest's disguise,
Tarriest in danger in a foreign court,
Than seek'st that danger in thy country's

wars.
Gonz. Thou art unarm'd: there is my

dagger; 'tis

The only weapon that I bear, lest fate
Should play me false : take it, and use it, too,
If in the dark and lonely path I lead thee,
Thou mark'st me halt, or turn, or make a sign
Of treachery ! — and now, tell me, dost know
John Count Laval ?

Bour. What ! Lautrec's loving friend—-
Who journeys now to Italy with him ?
Gonz. How ! gone to Italy ! he surely

went

But a short space from Paris, to conduct
Count Lautrec on his way.

Sour. I tell thee, no !
He's bound for Italy, along with him.

Gonz. Then the foul fiend hath mingled

in my plot,

683

And marr'd it too ! my life's sole aim and

purpose !

Didst thou but know what damned injuries,
What foul, unknightly shame and obloquy,
His sire— whose name is wormwood to my

mouth—
Did heap upon our house, — didst thou but

know —

No matter — get thee gone — I tarry here.
And if three lingering years, ay, three times

three,

Must pass ere I obtain what three short days
Had wellnigh given me, e'en be it so —
Life is revenge ! revenge is life ! Follow ;
And, though we never meet again, when thou
Shalt hear of the most fearful deed of daring,
Of the most horrible and bloody tale,
That ever graced a beldame's midnight legend,
Or froze her gaping listeners, think of me
And my revenge ! Now, Bourbon, heaven

speed thee !" [Exeunt.

And now let us turn — not to the
under-plot — but to the other part of
the double-plot — which, while it is
very skilfully united, or rather blend-
ed with the main current, is yet by
itself a touching and a tragic tale, and
therefore we have chosen hitherto to
keep it apart, and shall present it,
at this point, in its entire beauty.

In the first act there had been a
tournament, in which the King had
run a- tilt with Count Lautrec and un-
horsed him, of course amid loud ac-
clamations. The Count's sister,
Fran^oise de Foix, was in front of the
Princess's gallery, and had leant for-
ward with every mark of intense in-
terest, so that her beauty had at-
tracted the eyes — the dangerous eyes
— of Francis, " that champion of the
dames."

" Fran. De Bonnivet, who is yon lady ?

look-
in front of the Princess's balcony ?
Is she not passing fair ?

Son. Indeed, my liege,
She's very fair. I do not know her, though.
(To LAVAL.) Who is yon lady, leaning

forth, Laval?

Laval. Count Lautrec's sister.
Fran. Had a limner's hand
Traced such a heavenly brow, and such a

lip,
I would have sworn the knave had dreamt

it all

In some fair vision of some fairer world.
See how she stands, all shrined in loveliness ;
Her white hands clasp'd ; her clust'ring

locks thrown back
From her high forehead ; and in those bright

eyes
Tears ! radiant emanations ! drops of light !

684

Miss Fanny Kemble's Tragedy.

That fall from those surpassing orbs as

though

The starry eyes of heaven wept silver dew.
( To LAVAL.) Is yonder lady married, sir ?

Laval. My liege,
Not yet j but still her hand is bound in

promise —
She is affianced.

Fran. And to whom ?

Laval. To me, sire.

Fran. Indeed ! (Aside to BONNIVET.)
Methinks I was too passionate in my praise,
Eh ? Bonnivet — and yet how fair she is !"

The heart of Frai^oise is lost and
won ! True that Laval had told the
King that she was affianced to him ;
but he had only yet had her brother's
promise, and poor Fran^oise, in
yielding up her innocent love to Ma-
jesty, in a visionary dream of aim-
less, and therefore harmless delight,
was unfaithful to no plighted troth.
We next find her in a gallery in the
palace with her brother, who is
about to bid her farewell ere he sets
off for the Milanese. Although Fran-
^oise had not been sorry when told
that the King had overthrown Lau-
trec in the tourney, (the fears of love
having seemed to shew to her fright-
ened eyes a different issue of the en-
counter,) yet she most tenderly loves
her brother, and Miss Kemble has
painted, with the finest and most de-
licate touches, their mutual affec-
tion. As if her " prophetic soul" al-
ready had some gloomy glimpse of
fate, on meeting with him now about
to part — perhaps for ever — she is op-
pressed with melancholy, which
breathes in all she says, while he
speaks to her of what should awaken
only dreams of joy.

SCENE III.— A GALLERY IN THE PALACE.

Enter FRANCOIS DE Foix AND LAUTREC.

" Lattt. Nay, nay, my pretty sister, be

not sad !
And that thou better mayst endure this

parting,
I'll give thee hope, shall make thee think of

nought

Sare my return — what sayst thou to a hus-
band ?

One fear'd in battle-field, and no less full
Of courtesy, and other noble virtues,
Than high in birth, and rank, and fortune ;

—eh?
Fran. I could be well content that such

a man
Had sought a meeter bride. Oh, there be

many

[April,

Maidens, of nobler parentage than mine,
Who would receive so brave a gentleman
With more of joy than I.

Laut, Why, my sweet sister !
This is a strange unnatural coldness hangs
Upon thy brow, and in thy measured speech.
I know not much of maiden state and pride,
But, by the mass ! thy words seem less in

coyness
Than in indifference.

Fran. Oh say in love,
In true and tender love to thee, my brother ;
Trust me, I'm not ambitious ; and would

rather

Live ever by thy side unwooed, unwon, —
With nought to think or live for, but for

thee, —

On whom, since earliest infancy, my heart
Hath spent its hopes and fears, its love and

pride.

Oh do not give me to another ; do not,
Dear Lautrec, send me from thee, and at

once

Sever the ties of sweet and holy love
That live between us !

Laut. To the man, whom best
On earth I value, I resign thee, Francoisc :
My word was plighted to thy glad consent,
And unless thou wilt break the faith I gave,
And cancel thus one of my fondest hopes,
Thou wilt be his.

Fran. I thank him for the honour
He doth our house, and my unworthy hand ;
I thank thee, too, in that thy love hath made
So proud a choice for me. Oh, do not think
That, by one word, I will unknit the friend-
ship

Of so long years. Where'er it seemeth thee
Best to bestow me, there will I endeavour
Humbly to bend my heart's untried affec-
tions ; —

There love, if it be possible, — at least
There willingly obey.

Laut. Then, dearest love,
If that, indeed, this offer please thee well,
Think on it as the fondest wish I have,
And look to see me come from Italy,
Bringing _thee home a bridegroom, proudly

crown' d
With war's victorious wreaths ; and who

shall woo

The better, that he previously hath won
Fortune's hard favours, who, if I guess right,
Is coyer e'en than thou, my pretty sister.
Farewell a while, I go to meet Laval.

[JExit.
Fran. Farewell ! Oh, Heaven be praised

that thou art blind
To that which, could thine unsuspecting

heart
Once dream, would blast and wither it for

ever.
I must not dwell on this sad theme j and

though

1832.}

Miss Fanny KeinbWs Tragedy.

I have read rightly in those dangerous eyes
Which gazed so passionately on me, I
Must e'en forget love's first and fondest les-

son,

And write another in my lone heart's core.
What though the King — oh, very full of

danger-

Is solitude like this — and dangerous
These thoughts that flock around me, melt-

ing down

Each sterner purpose. By thy trusting love,
My brother ! by thy hopes, that all in me
Centre their warmth and energy, I swear,
That while one throb of strength remains,

Fit bear

This torture patiently, and in my heart
Lock love and misery until life depart.

Francis, smitten with passion, had
employed Clement Marot, the poet,
to deliver a scroll to the Countess
de Foix, which, " by his knightly
word, he declared was such as any
gentleman might bear to any lady,"
— and on that assurance the minstrel
had consented to go on an unhallowed
errand— an unconscious pander. The
scroll contained a precious jewel,
and, of course, an avowal of love.
No wonder that Fran9oise was sad
at the thoughts of her brother's de-
parture for" Italy — about to be left
alone to the temptation of such a se-
ducer. Her emotions — worthy of
such a maiden — on discovering the
nature of the poet's packet, are de-
scribed by Clement Marot himself to
the King, in a strain of tempered in-
dignation at the insult inflicted on
him by such a service, in violation
of the " knightly word." But the
King treats his remonstrances light-
ly, and scoffs at his panegyric on fe-
male purity as mere inspiration of
his own muse,

" Whose heavenly perfections
He fain would think belong to Eve's
frail daughters :"

and declares exultingly,

" With my own ardent love I'll take the

field,
And woo this pretty maid until she yield."

Thus surrounded with snares, and
the more fearful of falling into them
from the consciousness of the state
of her own heart, yet knowing her
own innocence, and without any
taint of sinful thought, Fran9oise
meets him who is now indeed her af-
fianced love,? Laval— and 'tis then

685

they part in sadness, doomed to meet
in rueful agonies and ghastly death.

Enter FRANCOISE.

" Laval. Lady, you're welcome as the joy-
ous sun,

And gentle summer airs, that, after storms,
Come wafting all the sweets of fallen bios-

Through the thick foliage; whose green
arms shake off,

In gratitude, their showers of diamond drops,

And bow to the reviving freshness.

Fran. Oh, my dear brother, have I fonnd
theehere?

Here will I lock my arms, and rest for ever.
Laut. My dearest love ! what means this
passionate grief;

These straining arms and gushing tears ? for
shame !

Look up and smile ; for honour crowns our
house.

Dost know that I am governor of Milan ?
Fran. They told me so ; but oh ! they
told me, too,

That ere to-night be come, thou wilt go
hence ;

And the anticipated grief let forth

The torrent of my tears to sweep away

All thoughts of thy promotion. Is it so—-
Post thou, indeed, forsake me ?
Laut. Maiden, no ;

'Tis true we march for Italy to-night ;

'Tis true that this embrace must be the last

For many a day. But for forsaking thee !

I leave thee with the Princess Margaret ;

I leave thee here at court — nay, silly girl —
Laval. Oh, peace !

Prithee upbraid her not : see where she
stands,

Bow'd with the weight of mourning loveli-
ness :

Canst thou, with sharp reproving words,
wound one

Who gems the lustre of thy new-made ho-
nours,

With such rare drops of love !
Laut. My gentle sister !

- Fran. Oh, Lautrec ! blame me not ; we
twain have been

E'en from our birth together and alone ;

Two healthful scions, of a goodly stock,

Whose other shoots have wither'd all — we've
grown,

Still side by side ; I like some fragile aspen—

And thou a sturdy oak, 'neath whose broad
shelter

I rear'd my head : then frown not, that the
wind

Doth weigh the trembling aspen to the
earth,

While the stout oak scarce owns the power-
less breeze.

Laut. Oh, churl ! to say one unkind word
to thee ;

686

Miss Fanny Kemble's Tragedy*

[April,

Look up, sweet sister ; smile once more on.

me,

That I may carry hence one gleam of sun-
shine t

Come, dearest, come ; unlock thy hands, La-
val!

Take her, in pity, from my arms J for sense
Js wellnigh drown'd in sorrow.

Fran. Yet one word ;
I do beseech thee, leave me not at court ;
But let me back to our old castle walls-
Let me not stay at court !

JLaut. E'en as thou wilt :
But, dearest love, methinks such solitude
Will make of grief a custom ; whilst at

court-
No matter ; use thine own discretion ; do
E'en as it seemeth unto thee most fitting.
Once more, farewell ! Laval, thou'lt follow ?
[Exit Laut.
Laval Ay.

But ere I go, perchance for ever, lady,
Unto the land, whose dismal tales of battles,
Where thousands strew'd the earth, have

christen'd it
The Frenchman's grave ; I'd speak of such a

theme
As chimes with this sad hour, more fitly

than
Its name gives promise. There's a love,

which, born

In early days, lives on through silent years,
Nor ever shines, but in the hour of sorrow,
When it shews brightest — like the trembling

light

Of a pale sunbeam, breaking o'er the face
Of the wild waters in their hour of warfare.
Thus much forgive ! and trust, in such an

hour,

I had not said e'en this, but for the hope
That when the voice of victory is heard
From the far Tuscan valleys, in its swell
Should mournful dirges mingle for the dead,
And I be one of those who are at rest,
You may chance recollect this word, and say,
That day, upon the bloody field, there fell
One who had loved thee long, and loved thee

well.
Fran. Beseech you, speak not thus : we

soon, I trust,
Shall meet again^— till then, farewell, and

prosper ;

And if you love me— which I will not doubt,
Sith your sad looks bear witness to your

truth, —

This do for me— never forsake my brother !
And for my brother's sake, since you and he
Are but one soul, be mindful of yourself.

[Exit LavaL

Defenceless, and alone ! ay, go thou forth,
For hope sits sunnily upon thy brow,
My brother ! but, to me, this parting seems
Full of ill-omen'd dread, woe's sure forerun-
ner.
I could, have, told thee how seduction's art**

E'en 'neath the bulwark of thy fond protec-
tion,

Have striven to o'erthrow my virtue— ay,
That letter and that ring — they Were the

king's.

Oh ! let me quickly from this fatal court,
Beneath whose smiling surface chasms lie

yawning,

To gulph alike th* unwary and the wise.
I'll bid farewell to the Princess Margaret,
And then take shelter in my ancient home ;
There brood on my vain love, till grief be-
come

Love's substitute — till foolish hope be dead,
And heav'n shall grant me patience in its
stead. [Exit."

And now we return, in the course
of the incidents leading towards the
catastrophe, " a tale of tears, a mourn-
ful story," to the Queen, who in en-
tering the royal apartment, where
Francis is seated, asks him if he has
heard the tidings that Milan is lost ?

" Prosper Colonna has dissolved our host
Like icicles i' the sun's beams, and Count

Lautrec,
Madden'd with his defeat and shame, fled

from it,
The night Colonna enter'd Milan."

Francis enraged dooms him un-
judged to the worst punishment short
of death. And now the cloud of des-
tiny gathers blacker as it descends
on the head of Fra^oise de Foix.
She is sitting in an apartment in the
Chateau de Foix, ignorant of the evil
that has befallen her beloved brother,
and starting at the sound of a horn
heard without, fears that the sudden
summons may be to call her forth to
behold him returning with Laval, her
promised husband, whom she shud-
ders to think of, so overcome is her
innocent heart by its passion for the
King. 'Tis a messenger bearing for
her a letter from Lautrec, beseeching
her to go to Francis and intercede
for mercy. Distracted and desperate
with fears for his life, she flies to the
palace.

" Enter FRAN<?OISE.
" Frang . (aside) Oh, heav'n ! be merci-
ful!

My eyes are dim, and icy fear doth send
My blood all shuddering back upon my

heart.
Fran. Close veil'd, indeed: mysterious

visitant !
Whom curious thought doth strive to look

upon,
Despite the cloud that now enshrines you ;

1832.]

If failing in its hope, the eager eye
Doth light on every'point, that, unconceal'd,
Tells of the secret it so fain would pierce :
That heavenly gait, whose slow majestic mo-
tion

Discloses all the bearing of command ;
That noiseless foot, that falling on the earth,
Wakes not an echo ; leaves not e'en a print —
So jealous seeming of its favours ; and
This small white hand, I might deem bora

of marble,
But for the throbbing life that trembles in

it : —

Why, how is this ? 'tis cold as marble's self;
And by your drooping form !— this is too

much — i
Youth breathes around you; beauty is

youth's kin :
I must withdraw this envious veil-*.

Franf. Hold, sir !

Your highness need but speak to be obey'd ;
Thus then — (unveils) —

Fran. Amazement ! oh, thou peerless

light !

Why thus deny thy radiance, and enfold,
Like the coy moon, thy charms in envious

clouds ?
Franf. Such clouds best suit, whose sua

is set for ever ;
And veils should curtain o'er those eyes,

whose light
Is all put out with tears : oh, good my

liege !

I come a suitor to your pardoning mercy.
Fran, (aside) Sue on, so thou do after

hear my suit.
Franf. My brother ! Out, alas ! — your

brow grows dark,

And threateningly doth fright my scarce-
breathed prayer
Back to its hold of silence.

Fran. Lady, aye,

Your brother hath offended 'gainst the state,
And must abide the state's most lawful

vengeance ;

Nor canst thou in thy sorrow even say
Such sentence is unjust.

Franf. I do, I do ;
Oh, vengeance ! what hast thou to do with

justice ?

Most merciful, and most vindictive, who
Hath call'd ye sisters ; who hath made ye

kin?
, My liege, my liege, if you do take such

vengeance

Upon my brother's fault, yourself do sin,
By calling yours that which w heaven's

alone :

But if 'tis justice that hath sentenc'd him,
Hear,me ; for he, unheard, hath been con-

demn'd,

Against all justice, without any mercy.
Fran. Maiden, thou plead'st in yain,
Frany, Oh, say not so ;

Miss Fanny Kemble's Tragedy. C87

Oh, merciful, my lord ! you are a soldier ;
You have won war's red favours in the field,
And victory hath been your handmaiden :
Oh! think, if you were thrust away for

ever
From fame and glory, warrior's light and

And left to feel time's creeping fingers chill
Your blood ; and from fame's blazonry efface
Your youthful deeds, which, like a faithless

promise,
Bloom'd fair, but bore no after-fruit—

Fran. Away !

Thou speak'st of that no woman ever knew.
Thy prayer is cold; hast thou no nearer

theme,
Which, having felt thyself, thou mayst ad-

More movingly unto my heart?

Franf. None, none,
But what that heart itself might whisper

you.

Where is the Princess Margaret ? my liege !
As she loves you, so have I loved my brother :
Oh, think how she would be o'ercome with

woe,
Were you in hopeless dungeon pent ? Oh,

think!

If iron-handed power had so decreed
That you should never clasp her, or behold
Her face again !—

Fran. Farewell, fair maid, thy suit
Is bootless all — perchance — but no, 'tis vain:
Yet had'st thou pleaded more, and not so

coldly —
Franf. Oh, good my liege! turn not

away from me !
See, on the earth I kneel ; by these swift

tears

That witness my affliction ; by each throb
Of my sad heart ; by all you love !— ~

Fran. Ah, tempter !
Say rather by these orient pearls, whose

price

Would bribe the very soul of justice ; say,
By these luxuriant tresses, which have

thrown
Eternal chains around my heart—

(FBAN90ISE starts up.)
Nay, start not j

If thou, so soon, art weary of beseeching,
Hearken to me, and I will frame a suit
Which thou must hear. (Kneels.) By the

resistless love

Thou hast inspired me with !-— by thy per-
fections,——

Thy matchless beauty !— Nay, it is in vain,
Thou shalt not free thyself, till thou hast

heard ;
Thou shalt not free thy brother,

Franf. Unhand me !
Sir, as you are a man—

Enter the QlrfcfcK.
Queen, Oh; excellent !"

•688 Mies Fanny KembWs Tragedy.

Fra^oise retires from the scorn I'll rend the veil,
of the Queen ; but Triboulet, the
fool, soon comes to her in a gallery
in the palace, and gives her another
fatal letter from the destroyer, who
promises, if she will give him an in-
terview, to save her brother's life.
The fool is as much ashamed of his
errand, as soon as he clearly under-
stands the import of the letter, as the
poet was; but Francoise, who had
fainted, on recovering from her
swoon, is delirious with fear for her
brother's life, and commands and im-
plores Triboulet to lead her to the
King.

" Franf. The night grows pale, and the

stars seem

To melt away, before the burning breath
Of fiery morn. If thou art born of woman,—
If thou hast but one drop of natural blood
That folly hath not frozen, — I beseech thee
Lead to the king, whiles I have strength to
follow !

Trib. Then heaven be with thee, lady !

for I can no more.

Follow ! and may I in this hour have been a
greater fool than e'er I was before. [ Exeunt. "

[April,

that fo'r so long hath
shrouded me,

And, bursting on him from my long dis-
guise,

Reveal the hand that hath o'ershadow'd him
With such a deadly and eternal hate !

[Exit."

The King had effected the ruin of
Fran9oise, and thus opens Act IV.

ACT IV.

SCENE I. — AN APARTMENT IN THE CHA-

TEAU-DE-FoiX.

FRAN^OISE is discovered sitting, pale and
motionless, by a table— FLORISE is kneel-
ing by her.

Fran. How heavily the sun hangs in the

clouds,—
The day will ne'er be done.

Flor. Oh, lady, thou hast sat
And watch'd the western clouds, day after day,
Grow crimson with the sun's farewell, and

The Queen Mother from the hour in
which she had detected her son woo-
ing Francoise, felt that her own power
over him was endangered, and the
more for reason of the rage with which
he had visited her intrusion. To avert
that evil — the loss of her imperial
state — she had called Gonzales to her
—-and asked him " didst ever look
upon the dead?" Having received
a satisfactory answer, she commis-
sions him to murder the girl she now
hates and fears, and he, on being told
that Francoise is betrothed to Laval,
with grim joy swears to do the deed.

" Gonz. Rejoice, my soul! thy far-off

goal is won !
His bride, — all that he most doth love and

live for, —

His heart's best hope, — she shall be foul cor-
ruption
When next his eager arms are spread to clasp

her!

I'll do this deed, ere I go mad for joy :
And when her husband shall mourn over

her

In blight and bitterness, I'll drink his tears ;
And when his voice shall call upon his bride,
I'll answer him with taunts and scorning

gibes,

And torture him to madness : and, at length,
When he shall deem some persecuting fiend
Hath 'scaped from hell to curse and ruin

him,

Each day, the night will never come : yet night
Hath come at last, and so it will again.
Fran. Will it, indeed ! will the night come

at last,

And hide that burning sun, and shade my eyes,
Which ache with this red light — will dark-
ness come
At last?

Flor. Sweet madam, yes ; and sleep will

come :

Nay, shake not mournfully your head at me, —
Your eyes are heavy j sleep is brooding in

them.
Fran. Hot tears have lain in them, and

made them heavy ;
But sleep — oh, no ! no, no ! they will not

close :

I have a gnawing pain, here, at my heart :
Guilt, thou liest heavy, and art hard to bear.
Flor. What say you, madam, guilt !
Fran. Who dare say so !
(Starting up) 'Twas pity, — mercy, — 'twas

not guilt ! and though
The world's fierce scorn shall call it infamy,
I say 'twas not! Speak, — speak, — dost

thou ? Oh ! answer me !
Say, was it infamy?

Flor. Dear lady, you are ill !
Some strange distemper fevers thus your

brain.

Come, madam, suffer me at least to bind
These tresses that have fallen o'er your brow,
Making your temples throb with added

weight :

Let me bind up these golden locks that hang
DishevelTd thus upon your neck.

Fran. Out, viper !

Nor twine, nor braid, again shall ever bind
These locks ! Oh ! rather tear them off,
and cast them

1832.1

Miss Fanny Kemble's Tragedy.

689

Upon the common earth, and trample them, —
Heap dust and ashes on them, — tear them

thus,
And thus, and thus ! Oh, Florise, I am

mad !

Distracted ! — out alas ! alas ! poor head !
Thou achest for thy pillow in the grave, —
Thy darksome couch, — thy dreamless, quiet

bed!
Flor. These frantic passions do destroy

themselves

With their excess, and well it is they do so :
But, madam, now the tempest is o'erlaid,
And you are calmer, better, as I trust,
Let me entreat you send for that same monk
I told you of this morn : he is a leech,
Learned in theory, and of wondrous skill
To heal all maladies of soul or body.

Fran. Of soul— of soul — ay, so they'd

have us think :

Dost thou believe that the hard coin we pour
Into their outstretch'd hands, indeed buys

pardon

For all, or any sin we may commit ?
Dost thou believe forgiveness may be had
Thus easy cheap, for crimes as black in hue
As — as —

Flor. As what ? I know no sin whatever
The church's minister may not remit :
As — what were you about to say ?

Fran. Come hither ;

Think'st thou a heap of gold as high as Etna
Could cover from the piercing eye of heaven
So foul a crime as — as— adultery?
Why dost thou stare thus strangely at my

words,
And answerest not ?

Flor. I do believe indeed,
Not all the treasury of the wide world,
Not all the wealth hid in the womb of ocean,
Can ransom sin — nothing but deep repent-
ance-
Austere and lengthened penance— frequent

tears.
Fran. 'Tis false! I know it— these do

nought avail :

To move relentless heaven it must be bribed.
And yet go call thy priest ; I'll speak with

him.

I will cast off the burthen of my shame,
Or ere it press me down into the grave !"

Gonzales is introduced to the penitent
—as if to confess or to murder her.
She confesses her sin— and now he
knows how to wring and stab the
heart of the man on whom he has so
long burned to wreak his revenge.

Laval, who has retrieved the loss
sustained by Lautrec's discomfiture,
and been victorious in Italy against
Lannoy, returns to France, and flies
on the wings of love to the Chateau
tie Foix. The King, too, had a little

VOL, XXXI. NO. CXCIII.

while before succeeded in finding
entrance there in disguise through
means of Florise, the attendant of
Fran9oise, and has concealed himself
behind the tapestry.

" Enter FKANCOISE.
" Franc. Now, ye paternal halls, that frown

on me,

Down, down, and hide me in your ruins — ha !
(As LAVAL and GONZALES enter,

FRANCOISE shrieks. )
Lav. My bride ! — my beautiful! —
Gonz. Stand back, young sir !
Lav. Who dares extend his arms 'twixt

those whom love
Hath bound ? whom holy wedlock shall, ere

long?
Gonz. The stern decree of the most holy

church,

Whose garb I wear ; and whose authority
I interpose between you ; until I
Interpret to your ears the fearful shriek
That greeted you, upon your entrance here :
Look on that lady, Count Laval, — who stands
Pale as a virgin rose, whose early bloom
Hath not been gazed on yet by the hot sun ;
And fair —

Lav. Oh, how unutterably fair !

Gonz. Seems not that shrinking flower the

soul of all

That is most pure, as well as beautiful?
Lav. Peace, thou vain babbler ! is it unto

me

That thou art prating ? — unto me, who have
Worshipp'd her, with a wild idolatry,
Liker to madness than to love?

Gonz. Indeed !

Say, then, if such a show of chastity
E'er sat on lips that have been hot with

passion ?

Or such a pale cold hue did ever rest
On cheeks, where burning kisses have call'd

up

The crimson blood, in blushes all as warm?
Look on her yet ; and say, if ever form
Show'd half so like a breathing piece of

marble. —

Off with thy spacious seeming, thou deceiver !
And don a look that better suits thy state.
Oh, well-dissembled sin ! say, was it thus,
Shrinking, and pale, thou stood'st, when the

King's arms
Did clasp thee, and his hot lip sear'd from

thine
Their oath to wed thy brother's friend ? —

Lav. Damnation

Alight upon thee, thou audacious monk !
The blight thou breath'st recoil on thine own

head ;

It hath no power to touch the spotless fame
Of one, from whom thy cursed calumnies
Fly like rebounding shafts j — Ha ! ha ! ha !
ha!

2 Y

690

The king ! a merry tale, forsooth !

Gonz. Then we

Will laugh at it, ha ! ha ! — why, what care I?
We will bo merry ; since them art content
To laugh and be a — —

Lav. Franchise — I — I pray thee
Speak to me, — smile — speak, — look on me,

I say —
What, tears ! what, wring thine hands !

what, pale as death ! —
And not one word — not one !

Franc. ( To GONZALES) Oh deadly

fiend !
Thou hast but hasten' d that which was fore-

doom'd.
( To LAVAL) My lord, ere I make answer

to this charge,
I have a boon to crave of you — my bro-
ther

Lav. How wildly thine eye rolls ! thy

hand is cold
As death, my fairest love.

Fran?. Beseech you, sir,
Unclasp your arm ; — where is my brother ?

Lav. Lautrec ? —

In Italy ; ere now is well and happy.
Franc. Thanks, gentle heaven ! all is not

bitterness,

In this most bitter hour. My Lord Laval,
To you my faith was plighted, by my bN,

ther;

That faith I ratified by mine own vow. —
Lav. The oath was register'd in highest
heaven.

Thou'rt mine !

Franf. To all eternity, Laval,
If blood cannot efface that damning bond ;

(Snatches his dagger and stabs herself. )
Tis cancell'd, I've struck home — my dear,
dear brother ! [Dies.

Gonz. (aside. ) It works, it works !
Lav. O horrible! — she's dead !

(FRANCIS rushes from his conceal-
ment at the word. )
Fran. Dead !

(LAVAL draws his sword, and turns
upon the KJNG, icho draics to de-
fend himself.)

Lav. Ha ! what fiend hath sent thee here ?
Down ! down to hell with thee, thou damn'd
seducer !

Enter QUEEN, followed by Altendants.
Queen. Secure that madman !

(Part of the Attendants surround

and disarm LAVAL.)
Qnecn (aside to GONZALES.) Bravely

done, indeed !
I shall remember. — (aloud. )"

Gonzales enjoys now the full tri-
umph of his revenge, and gloats on
the agonies of Laval, who, humbled
and heart-broken, has hardly power
to return look or word to his fero-

Miss Fanny Kembk's Tragedy. [April

cious and insulting destroyer. The
fine, free, generous, and brave spirit
of the noble youth, a moment before
in enjoyment, as he believed, of life's
dearest happiness, love and glory,
is humiliated by sudden access of
most miserable calamity almost into
a slave. He weeps before his dead-
liest foe, and is not ashamed ; when
Gonzales says — " Tears, my lord ?"
he answers, without seeking to smite
him dead, " Aye, tears ! thou busy
mischief!" And on learning from
Gonzales, now Garcia, the history of
his revenge, he has strength of soul
but to say mournfully, not fiercely,

" These were my father's injuries, not

. mine,
Remorseless fiend !

Gonz. Thy father died in battle ;

And as his lands, and titles, at his death,

Devolved on thee, on thee devolved the
treasure

Of my dear hate ; — I have had such re-
venge !

Such horrible revenge ! — thy life, thy
nour,

"Were all too little ; — I've had thy tears !

I've wrung a woman's sorrow from thine
ey<w,

And drunk each bitter drop of agony,

As heavenly nectar, worthy of the gods !

Kings, the earth's mightiest potentates,
hav ? been

My tools and instruments: you, haughty
madam,

And your ambition, — yonder headstrong
boy,

And his mad love, — all, all beneath my
feet,

All slaves unto my will and deadly pur-
pose."

The Queen- Mother cries, " Ho ! lead
out that man to instant death ;" but
the undaunted Spaniard accuses and
convicts her of her many crimes,
and of her last and worst, her mur-
derous design against Fran^oise;
and the King, seeing his mother's
guilt, commands her

" Give me that ring,
Strip me that diadem from off thy brows,
And bid a long farewell to vanity!
For in a holy nunnery immured,
Thou sbalt have leisure to make peace
with heaven.

( To the lady.}— And for thce,
Thou lovely dust, all pomp and circum-
stance

That can gild death shall wait thee to thy
grave ;

1832.]

Miss Fanny Kemble's Tragedy,

Thou shalt lie with the royal and the

proud ;

And marble, by thedext'rous chisel taught,
Shall learn to mourn thy hapless fortunes.

Lav. No !

Ye shall not bear her to your receptacles ;
Nor raise a monument, for busy eyes
To stare upon : no hand, in future days,
Shall point to her last home ; no voice

shall cry
' There lies King Francis' paramour !'

In life,
Thou didst despoil me of her; but in

death,

She's mine ! I that did love her so,
Will give her that my love doth tell me

best

Fits with her fate — an honourable grave :
She shall among my ancestral tombs re-
pose,

Without an epitaph, except my tears.
Fran. Then now for war, oh ! ill to

end, I fear,
Usher'd with such dark deeds and fell

disasters!

[Exeunt FRANCIS, followed by the QUEEN
and Attendants on one side, and LA-
VAL, with the others, bearing the body.

The Tragedy here ends. But there
is a fifth act, full of fine description,
in which is fought the famous battle
of Pavia.

We find that we have left ourselves
too little room for any thing like a
right critique on this admirable pro-
duction ; and, indeed, after so much
heart-moving and spirit-stirring poet-
ry, most probably our readers might
turn away coldly from any lengthen-
ed remarks of ours on its beauties or
defects. In the first place, it will be
allowed by all, that there is great
grasp of intellect, extraordinary, in-
deed, in so young a person, shewn in
the handling of an historical subject
of such magnitude and variety, and
in moulding somewhat complicated
materials, necessarily of difficult
management, into cohesive and con-
sistent form. The main plot, in which
the Queen-Mother, Bourbon, and
Gonzales figure, is, on" the whole,
planned and executed powerfully
and skilfully; and the under plot,
as we may perhaps rathe? inaccu-
rately call it, in which the King and
Franchise are the chief parties, hangs
well together, and appertains closely
to that to which it may be said to be
subordinate. Great ingenuity, at
least, is displayed in the union of the

691

two ; and more than ingenuity in the
way in which they are made to move
on together towards the final catas-
trophe.

Secondly, the characters are nu-
merous, and all either well brought
out, or distinguished and discrimi-
nated by a few happy touches, so as
to move before us, creatures imbued
with peculiar life. There is no dim-
ness or faintness in the colouring;
and whether interesting or other-
wise, the actors stand well out from.
the canvass, and, coming or going,
do their work directly, with energy,
and without delay. The inferior
personages in plays are often lame
and halt — though walking gentle

men; but not so here

ng ge
, alth

ouh

some of them have but little to do
certainly, or say either ; nor would it
have mattered much had they never
been born — either by their mothers,
or the muse of Miss Kemble.

Thirdly, the sentiments and de-
scriptions, though frequent, are al-
most always appropriate, both to the
characters and the situations, and are
rarely, if ever, too eloquently ex-
pressed or too elaborately painted,
the besetting sin of all our modern
dramatic poems, which therefore
are, for the most part, poems and not
plays. Many of the sentiments, too,
are in themselves fine and noble ; and
many of the descriptions extremely
beautiful — proving that in Miss Kem-
ble's genius there is a rich vein
of poetry — besides great dramatic
power.

But the prime merit of the play is
the composition. We mean thereby
the language and the versification.
The structure of both is admirable —
quite after the immortal fashion of
the great old masters. Yet it is no
mimicry of theirs — no patch-work
imitation. Miss Kemble's ear — and
it is a fine one — is tuned to the music
of their harmonious numbers; and
she uses it as if it had long been her
familiar speech. It flows along easily
arid naturally, as well in the humbler
as in the higher moods; and some-
times, when the passion is violent, it
proceeds with a powerful and liead-
long energy not far short of the
sublime. It is on her command of
an instrument so powerful, but so
difficult to wield as dramatic blank
verse of the true and high temper,

692

that we rely, when we predict that
she is destined for much greater
achievements.

On these her merits it would be
pleasant to us to expatiate, and to
illustrate them ; but we desire to say
some words, not on her defects, but
on those of her drama— and care not
if they should assume the shape of
advice, which will at least be taken
kindly, even if not followed, from an
old man.

Would then that in her future
plays — and we trust they will not be
few nor very far between — though
like angel-visits — Miss Kemble may
choose or create heroes and heroines
of a nobler nature. The character of
the Queen-Mother is strongly, and
we dare say truly drawn ; but it is
odious and repulsive. Strong intel-
lect she has, and strong passions ; so
while wehate we cannotperhaps abso-
lutely despise her; but, what is as bad
or worse, the hag, in her lust of man,
might, and murder, inspires us with
disgust. There is no grandeur in
her guilt, as in that of Clytemnestra, or
Medea, or Lady Macbeth, yet her
disposition is as cruel; and had Bour-
bon been bribed by a crown to wed
her, the life of her son would have
been in jeopardy. The cold-blooded
murder of Fran?oise, commanded to
the monk, is revolting ; from first to
last never do we for a moment sym-
pathize fully with one emotion by
which she is actuated ; and when she
is doomed to be immured for life in a
convent, we hear the sentence with
the same indifference as if Lady
Barrymore were about to be sent
once more to Bridewell.

Francis the First is not, in this
drama, a king to our mind. He is
too much under the dominion of his
mother. 'Tis amiable to be a duti-
ful son, but a full-grown king should
not be in leading-strings. We can-
not ennoble him to our imagination,
by thinking on the pageantry of
the Field of the Cloth of Gold. He
jousts successfully with Lautrec;
but we hear loud cries of Oh! oh! oh!
against his conduct to Fran9oise de
Foix. In what does it differ from
that of the infamous Colonel Kirke ?
It is impossible to look at him du-

Miss Fanny Kemble's Tragedy.

[April,

ring any part of the play without
contempt and abhorrence. Such a
crime as his may be forgotten as we
read the history of a man's whole
life. There may have been peni-
tence, remorse, expiation; but we
see him here before us only as a
selfish, cruel, and unprincipled se-
ducer ; and what punishment was it
for such a sin, that he was taken
prisoner at Pavia ? But there is no
connexion shewn or hinted at be-
tween the violation and the over-
throw ; and, indeed, such an idea is
preposterous, and was not, we think,
in the mind of the fair author.

Great power is displayed in the
character of Gonzaks — but we fear
it is not a character fit to figure in
the legitimate drama. We presume
not to say what is natural or not
natural in such a passion as revenge.
Yet there is to us something per-
plexing in the union of zeal in the
cause of his master, Charles, and
his hellish hatred of Laval. Yet
that may be a mistake of ours or a
misconception; but we almost be-
lieve it is no mistake of ours to say
that Garcia could not have expe-
rienced the same immitigable pangs
of murderous revenge, from looking
on the son of the man who had stained
the honour of his house by the se-
duction of his sister, as if he had be-
held the face of the man himself
black with the guilt and the insult.
Yet incomprehensible creatures are
we all, men and women ; and, on
looking down at his feet, we see
neither hoofs nor claws belonging to
lago.

Even Bourbon's self might, we
think, have been made a nobler re-
bel, and certainly, before he joined
the enemy, a higher hero, without
violence to the truth of history or
nature.

We earnestly hope, then, that the
heroes and heroines of her future
plays will be such, with all their
human frailties, as we may follow
with our sympathies ; nor, if so, can
there be a doubt that from Miss
Kemble's genius will arise far nobler
creations, and worthy of immortal
admiration.

1 832.] Nodes Ambtosiana. No, LXL 693

No. LXL

XPH A'EN STMIIOSin KTAIKHN IIEPINISSOMENAftN
HAEA KliTIAAONTA KA0HMENON OINOHOTAZEIN.

2.
PHOC. ap. Ath.

[ This is 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 J
BUT GAILY TO CHAT WHILE DISCUSSING THEIR TIPPLE."

An excellent rule of the hearty old cock 'to's—
And a very Jit motto to put to our Noctes.]

C. N. ap. Ambr.

SCENE— The Slue Parlour— Time, Six <? Clock— Occupation, Wine, Des-
sert, $c. $c.— Present, NORTH, TICKLER, YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

NORTH.

German literature, Hal, is all very well in its way, and Maga was the first
periodical work in this country that did any thing like justice to it. She
confined not herself to mere criticism, but gave specimens — translations of
many of the finest things executed in the finest style by Lockhart, DC
Quincey, Gillies, Blair, Mrs Smythe, Mrs Busk, and other ladies and gentle-
men of genius and erudition, who in general improved upon their originals,
often changing geese into swans, and barn-door fowls into birds of Paradise.

TICKLER.

Some years having elapsed since the last of those articles, I begin to
breathe more freely now, North, in reliance on your promise to afflict the
world no more with such visitations.

NORTH.

They were indeed severe.

TICKLER.

Yet such is the natural buoyancy of my spirits, that, even during those
dismal days, when no man could assure himself for a month against the
Black Vomit, a burst of sunshine would occasionally make me happy in the
midst of the misery of all your readers ; or if happy be too strong a word,
pleased with life, in spite of the liability of my existence to the embitter-
ment breathed from the conviction, too often recurring, that Goethe was
not yet dead, but growing more grievously garrulous as he continued to
write his way to the grave.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

I beseech you, Mr Tickler, not to be so sarcastic on " The Master."

TICKLER.

Aye, there is an appellation sufficient to sicken a horse. He has little
credit in his scholars, for, with two or three brilliant exceptions, they are
sumphs.

NORTH.

It is indeed laughable to hear obscure and muddy dunces acknowledge
in jargon that would have seemed queer even among the builders of the
Tower of Babel on the day of the confusion of tongues, the obligations
their intellects, forsooth, aye, their intellects, labour under to the " Illustri-
ous Sage."

694 Nodes Ambrosiance. No. LXL [April,

TICKLER.

Old Humbug. Such jargon is not so laughable, Kit, as loathsome. The
intellect of a Fungus. Thomas Carlisle I excuse — he is entitled to be crazy
—being a man of genius.

NORTH.

And of virtue — as Cowper said of his brother — " a man of morals and of
manners too !"

TICKLER.

But oh ! sir, the impudent stupidity of some of the subscribers to that
Signet-Seal !

NORTH.

Hopeless of achieving mediocrity in any of the humbler walks of their
native literature, the creatures expect to acquire character by acquaintance
with the drivel of German dotage ; and, going at once to the fountain-head,
gabble about Goethe. " The Master !"~Yes — and I beseech you, Hal, look
at the flunkies.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

In the soul of every " British man" delight in his own country's genius
ought, I grant, to be paramount ; nor can I comprehend how idolatry
of Goethe could from any enlightened mind banish worship of Shak-
speare.

NORTH.

Superstition sometimes steals into consecrated shrines, Hal, putting to
flight religion.

TICKLER.

Oh ! the old Humbug !

NORTH.

Thomas Carlisle, my lads, has a soul that sees all that is good and great,
beautiful and sublime, in the works of inspiration. And old Humbug, as
you rightly call him, Tickler,— Goethe, — is, you know, a man of extraordi-
nary genius.

TICKLER.

I know no such thing, North. Millions of men have some genius — thou-
sands much — hundreds more — scores great — dozens extraordinary — " the
stars are out by twos and threes" " in the highest heaven of invention" —
and one only — need I name his name — by night the moon — by day the sun

— SHAK

NORTH.

SPEARE !

TICKLER.

Now, why, pray, should any " British man," with the devotion of a
disciple, prefer making mental pilgrimages to Weimar, rather than to Strat-
ford-upon- Avon ?

NORTH.

With Thomas Carlisle obvious is the reason. Shakspeare has been long
enthroned in instellation. The glory of Goethe is yet—

TICKLER.
Won't do— won't do—

NORTH.

Carlisle's eloquent eulogiums on the Man of many Medals-— for he is be-
dizened, I have heard, with paltry orders, and proud as a Punch of knots
of ribbands — shew that his fine mind is more possessed by the author of
Faust than of Hamlet, of Charlotte and Werter than of Cordelia and Lear.
He always writes as if 'twere impossible to be ignorant of Goethe and to
know Nature. In that sphere alone will his mind deign to move — nor can
you deny, North, with all your admiration of a friend so admirable, that
he cannot conceal his pity, perhaps his contempt, for all whose vision is
confined within the limits of the horizon of England's poetry.

NORTH.

Enough. No man need be melancholy whose spiritual eyes have swept
that range. Germany cannot bear comparison — for a moment — in great-
ness— with England, Set Shakspeare aside—

1832.] Noctes Ambrosiana. No.LXr. 695

TICKLER.

Suppose that he had never been born ! Then had human nature not
known " how divine a thing a woman may be made."

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

" Two will I mention dearer than the rest,
The gentle Lady married to the Moor."

NORTH.
" And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb 1"

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Bless Wordsworth for the exquisite beauty of these immortal lines!
They link him with the poets whose divinest creations they memorize —
Shakspeare, Spenser, Wordsworth.— Knowing well their works, I can recon-
cile myself to an imperfect knowledge of Goethe

NORTH.

" The Master"

TICKLER.

Oh ! the Old Humbug !

NORTH.

Setting Shakspeare aside, think of the Old English Drama. What has
Germany to shew in competition with that glory of the golden days of good
Queen Bess ?

TICKLER.

Golden days, indeed — before and after the rise of the Virgin Queen of
the West, whom none but dolts despise, because she was not so fair as
that beautiful Murderess

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Whom she beheaded.

NORTH.

Shew me the German Spenser

TICKLER.

The High Dutch Fairy Queen.

NORTH.

The German Milton.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Klopstock.

NORTH.

As Coleridge said, " a very German Milton; indeed !"

TICKLER.

A German Dryden, or Pope. All the fire of human passion that ever
burned in all German bards, concentrated into one focus, would be extin-
guished by one flash from the Fables of glorious John ; and indulge me so
far as to imagine for a moment their misty metaphysics glimmering beside
the clear common sense, an ethereal brightness, that pervades, like cloudless
daylight, the noble Essay on Man!

NORTH.

Germany has never had — nor ever will have — her Ramsay, her Burns,
her Bloomfield, her Hogg, her Cunningham, her Clare.

TICKLER.

Such flowers spring not from her sluggish soil.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

" Igneus est ollis vigor et coelestis origo."

NORTH.

These are the representatives of the genius of our people. The " school-
master is abroad j" but he made not these men. They are Nature's chil-
dren— and she gave them an education such as Saxon never had by the
Rhine.

TICKLER.

Much they say and much they sing of that river. Its water seems to in-
duce a drowsiness unfavourable to poetic dreams — and I should be slow to
suffer any considerable quantity of it to get into a jug of toddy intended
for my own tipple, In great quantities, it would kill unchristened Glenlivet.

606 Noctes Amlrosiana. No. LXI. [April,

NORTH.

Germany has no Crabbe. There is not sufficient passion in all her lower
orders to furnish subject-matter for one such tale as those in which that
good old man delighted, so full at times, in their homeliness, of strong or
simple pathos. Of what variegated texture, rough and tough, and fitted
for the wear and tear of this weary work-day world, is the web of life in
England, that it could furnish such patterns to such a poet ! The hero of
one of his most touching tales is absolutely a tailor, who, I believe, served
his time with Mr Place.

TICKLER.

No Dung, but a Flint.

NORTH.

The Germans admire Byron.

TICKLER.

And Scott.

NORTH.

All right. But do they understand those prevailing poets ? Not they.
Byron they imagine mystical — which he never is ; and of all his works they
least esteem the noblest far, Childe Harold. But where is the German
Byron? That is the question. Such a " child of strength and state "—they
cannot shew among all their nobles. Yet probably Puckler Muskaw con-
ceits that he is like Don Juan.

TICKLER.

There's a vulgar beast.

NORTH.

Very.

TICKLER.

Begotten — one might conjecture — by some grovelling Irish bog-trotter
on the body of some burgomaster's Frow, who had shifted in her wanton
widowhood from Amsterdam to Vienna.

NORTH.

The Baron de la Motte Fouque and his wife — I mention their names
with the utmost kindness — are all that Germany has got to shew by way of
Sir Walter Scott — they are her " mighty magician."

TICKLER.

Like a big boy and a grown girl riding on sticks — equally astride — in imi-
tation of knights at a tourney.

NORTH.

And no bad imitation either — the cane worthy of the Cavalier — and the
mop a palfrey suitable to his lady-love, who scorneth a side-saddle.

TICKLER.

Of all German poets, Schiller is the best. His Wallenstein is a fine
drama.

NORTH.

It is ; but rather the work of a great mind than of a great genius. His
soul was familiar with exalted sentiments, and beheld the grandeur of the
character of him he chose to be his hero. But Schiller had not a creative
imagination. If he had, it at least gave forth few products; his muse had
to follow the muse of history; and even then had power given to her
over no wide range of events or variety of characters. He was no Shak-
speare.

TICKLER.

With more philosophy, he was in other respects not superior, perhaps, to
Otway or Rowe.

NORTH.

And in many respects inferior to both those best dramatists of our middle
tragic school.

NORTH.

If the Germans really were what their most enthusiastic admirers imagine
them to be, they would worship Wordsworth, the most philosophical of
poets. But they do not. Some of his lyrical ballads are esteemed for.

1831.] Nodes Ambrosidna. Xo. LXL 697

their simplicity, and not for the beautiful pathos in which they are steeped,
like violets in dew, "by the mossy stone, half hidden to the eye ;" but few
have read more than extracts from the Excursion. His poetry is too true
to universal nature, to be understood by the disciples of " the Master."
He is a magician — but has no dealings with the devil. He confines himself
to earth and heaven.

TICKLER.
And leaves the Gentleman in Black to George Cruikshank.

NORTH.

His angels and fiends are human Thoughts and Feelings, and he can
awake them at will from the umbrage of the old Rydal woods.

TICKLER.
Young Gentleman I are you dumb ?

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

No, sir— nor deaf. But my knowledge of German literature, poetry, and
philosophy, is but slight — and through the medium chiefly of translation —
and I hope that I know when it is my duty to be silent. To listen to such
speakers, is to learn.

NORTH.

We have a host of illustrious living poets besides the few I have alluded
to, to whom Germany can shew no equals — Southey, Coleridge, Camp-
bell

TICKLER.

We are their superiors out and out in criticism, and in the Philosophy
of Taste.

NORTH.

And in all the Fine Arts, except music. There they excel — why or where-
fore I know not — but music, though celestial, is sensuous rather than intel-
lectual or moral, and is a mystery, from Handel and the organ, to the
black servant of the late Sir Michael Fleming and the Jew's harp.

TICKLER.
The Germans are dabs in Divinity.

NORTH.
Yes— dabs.

TICKLER.

Michaelis and Eichhorn and

NORTH.

Whish. Jeremy Taylor, Isaac Barrow, and old South, knew more " of
man and nature and of human life," and of the BIBLE WHICH is THE BOOK,

than all the German Theologians

TICKLER.

That ever grunted.

NORTH.

I call upon Thomas Carlisle to contradict Christopher North and Timo-
thy Tickler.

TICKLER.

He can't. And then, O mercy! what shoals of silly, shallow, shilly-shal-
lyers in all the inferior grades of the subordinate departments of the low-
est walks of literature overflow all the land ; flocking annually to the great
fair of Leipsic to deposit their spawn upon the stalls !

NORTH.

A flitter of spawn that, unvivified by genial spirit, seems to give for a
time a sort of ineffectual crawl, and then subsides into stinking stillness, un-
productive of so much as the scriggle of a single tadpole. I shall take a
sweeping survey soon, in a series of articles—

TICKLER.

Oh! not ies 1

NORTH.

Of the German mind. In Natural History they have done a good deal
—a good deal, too, in illustration of the Classics—

698 Nodes Ambrosiana. No. LXt [April,

TICKLER.

I back Bentley, Person, and Parr, against Wolfe, Heyne, and Herman.

But what will you make of their metaphysicians, Kit, Schelling, Kant

NORTH.

Shew that they are as mice to men, when compared with Bacon, Berkeley,
Locke, Hume, and Reid, whom they plunder, rob, murder, and in vain try
to bury in mud—

TICKLER.

Come, come, we must loosen the tongue of this younker. Yet it may be
perilous to set it going ; for good listeners are sometimes, when solicited to
open, interminable talkers — and we sup at ten.

NORTH.

I love the society of young people. What is your age, Hal ?

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Twenty-one.

NORTH.

Youth's glorious prime. Child — boy — lad — youth — man — all in one.
Passions keen but unpolluted — sensibility sound but delicate — imagination
bright and bold as an angel's wing — reason strong in intuition — the light of
the soul tender as dawn, clear as morn, and shining more and more unto
the meridian lustre of the perfect day. Twenty-one ! and you and I, Ti-
mothy, both entering on our

TICKLER.

Whish. Curse chronology when it becomes personal.

NORTH.

Thine, O Hal, is the world of Hope — ours of Memory — the dazzling
lights of nature all are thine — ours, alas ! but the pensive shadows !

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

I am ambitious, sir, to attempt an Essay on Hope for Maga—

TICKLER.

Oh! Oh! Oh! Sink the shop.

NORTH.

An Essay on Hope ? First, perhaps, of a series— No. I. on the Passions ?
In verse or prose ?

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

In prose, Sir.

TICKLER.

In the true Blackwoodian style— full of the splendida vitia of the au-
thor

NORTH.

Silence, Tim.

TICKLER.

Of

NORTH.

Silence, you sinner.

TICKLER.
NORTH.

Whish. Let me suggest a few hints, Hal, which you can expand and
work up into a regular philosophical disquisition.

TICKLER.

Alas ! alas ! poor young gentleman I and is thine — with its fine, free, bold

sunny smile — the face of a wretch doomed to be a contributor ! I pity

your poor mother.

NORTH.

Yes, my good boy, Hope is, as David Hume I believe says, though I for-
get perhaps his precise words, Joy alternating with and overpowering Mis-
trust. The Joy which is produced by the possession of the Good, by the
immediate foresight of its possession, and by the trusting expectation, is es-
sentially the same Joy. Is it not so, my son ?

1832.] Nodes Atnbrosiana. No. L'Xl. 699

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

I cannot doubt it, sir. Your explanations of all states of mind are equally
perspicuous and profound. I

TICKLER.

Socrates and Alcibiades !

NORTH.

Silence, sir. It has been commonly and truly said, my dear boy, that
Hope attends us through life. It may be likened in this respect to that
supposed good Genius, or Guardian Angel, which has been thought to be
attached to every human being at his birth, and faithfully to accompany
him till he drops into the grave.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

And then, sir,

Hope, with uplifted foot, set free from earth,
Pants for the place of her ethereal birth ;
On steady wings sails through the immense abyss,
Plucks amaranthine flowers from bowers of bliss,
And crowns the soul, while yet a mourner here,
With wreaths like those triumphant spirits wear.

TICKLER.

Well recited, Hal, though with somewhat of a sing-song, after the lilting
elocution of the Lakers.

NORTH.

So should such poetry be said and sung — elevated in musical modulation,
in which the harmony of the verse flows sweetly and strongly along, like
the composite voice of a river that loses not the undertone of still streams
and murmuring shallows even in the mellowed thunder of its waterfalls.

TICKLER.

Pretty enough image, and not unillustrative — yet if sifted, probably non-
sense. What are you glowering at, you young gawpus ?

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Beg your pardon, sir. But to hear such a word applied, even in jest,

TICKLER.

Downright, absolute nonsense. Have you the vanity to believe, lad, that
you spout like the Tweed ? I would have you to know, boy, that he is no
Methodist Preacher.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN {smiling through a blush.)

TICKLER.

No farther apology, child. Your style of recitation, though peculiar, is
not unpleasant — like the drone of the bagpipe. But remember that there
are other kinds of music besides the Coronach. The lays, though solemn,
were not lugubrious — liker a hymn than a dirge — yet you wailed them as
if at a funeral.

NORTH.

He recited the lines like a young poet—-" most musical, most melan-
choly,"-—like a nightingale singing to the stars.

TICKLER.

Meanwhile I shall replenish the jug.

NORTH.

Hope is often spoken of, my dear Henry, as the chief good of life, with-
out which it would be miserable, since there is so little of actual good
given to it; so little in possession; but Hope, the promiser of good never
or seldom realized, beguiles us of our real cares, and blesses us, it is said,
with a delusive happiness.

TICKLER.

The sugar.

NORTH.

But believe, on the word of an old man, that this is false and ungrateful
doctrine. This life is full of enjoyment, Hal, to those who do not destroy

700 Nodes Ambrosiana. No. LXL [April,

enjoyment by restless and intense desires, But it is true that Hope covers
from us much of the calamity of life — sometimes by a golden mist— —

TICKLER (bruising the lumps.)
Which is any thing but a Scotch one.

NORTH.

Yet this is not so much by nursing in us fallacious expectations, as by
true anticipations, speaking generally, of the longed-for Future.

TICKLER.

True it is, and of verity, that Hope meddles not with the Past.

NORTH.

She does. She brightens her to-morrows with the sunrises of yester*
days

TICKLER.

A commonplace truth in queer apparel — like a sumph at a masquerade
in the character of a sage.

NORTH.

Some minds perhaps there are, my son, but yours I know is not among
the number, that are fed chiefly on fallacious hope. They are bent with
eager and passionate desire on some object which is hardly within their
reach, and make it the chief or sole purpose of their life. Their pleasure,
perhaps, is more in desire than enjoyment, and the hopes which lead them
on they do not attain. They pursue a preternatural chase, in which phan-
toms dance before their eyes, and elude their grasp. This chase is rightly
compared to the race of a child pursuing the rainbow,

TICKLER.

I remember having more than once catched a rainbow ; one, in parti-
cular, that appeared to arch half the Highlands. By a dexterous counter-
march, I cut it off from the sea, and turned it, towards the evening, into
Glenco. I caught it on the cliff, and by the clutch disturbed a sleeping
eagle, who, with a crash of wings, had nearly driven me into that black
pool — before, with a calm sugh majestically oversailing the woods of Bal-
lehulish, he vanished in the sunset beyond the rim of the sea.

NORTH.

Tim ! — But these surely are a small portion of human kind. And even
to these, if the whole play and power of their minds could be discovered and
analyzed, it would appear that though brighter objects which have captiva-
ted their imagination, are of this nature, unrealized, and leading them on
with all illusion of hope, yet that to them too, insubordinate forms, and in
the continual process of life, Hope serves as a spring of energy, not by its
delusive and distant allurements, but by constant anticipations constantly
realized. For in the vain pursuit of one great unattainable object, how
many thousand subordinate objects, my dear boy, are attained I each of
them inspiring the spirit with its own delight ! Is it not so ?

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

I am sure it is so, sir.

NORTH.

dazzling possibili

human being with all his powers along his destined path in the world, and
forget its daily and assiduous service, when it urges on and sustains the
heart at every moment with immediate expectations justified by reason in
their joy. I speak this to you, young man, for I see, nor am I sad to see it,
that thou art an enthusiast.

TICKLER, (emptying his tumbler.)

Nay— that old proser must not have all the talk. Is it not Hope, my boy,
that commits the seed to the earth, that rejoices in the sun and shower, and
watches over the growing harvest? That sees the braird in the seed — the
sheaf in the braird— and in the sheaf the quartern loaf surrounded in his
sovereignty by his tributary rolls ?

1832.] Nodes Ambrosiana. No.LXL 701

NORTH.

Is it not Hope that freights the vessel, and long afterwards looks into the
sky for the winds that are to fill its homeward sails ?

TICKLER.

Tis your turn soon, Harry— tip us a touch.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN (bashfully.}

Is it not Hope that plies the humblest trade which earns bread for human
lips ?

TICKLER.

Good.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN (more boldly.)

Not Hope distant and fallacious, but present and sustaining, still fulfilled
and rarely deceived — the calm, rational, solacing forethought of prosperous
success, of good speed granted to present toil, the vital spirit of homely in-
dustry— the — the

TICKLER.

Stop— don't stutter,

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

The song of the heart which beguiles the hours of labour, and like the
lays of the lark more joyful the nearer heaven.

TICKLER.
North— my old boy ? Eh ?

NORTH.

Well-Harry ?

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

The poor man sees his wife's and child's face before him in his solitary
toils — in the silent thoughts of his unrelaxing employment — while they are
preparing his meal for him in his cottage, and the little one is about to take
it to her father in the field during the midday hour of rest — and — and —
Hope—

NORTH.

Yes— my dear boy

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Is religion, as, with the pretty child sitting beside him with the basket on
her lap, he blesses ere he breaks the bread, and includes her and her mo-
ther in his prayer.

TICKLER.

Aye, there is something very touching, my laddie, in the thought of the
children of poor people, sons and daughters, separated from their parents
in very early life, and working far off, perhaps on very small wages, laying

by a little pose, even out of such earnings, to help them in their old age

NORTH.

What an exquisite line that is, in the " Cottar's Saturday Night," and how
the heart of Burns must have burned within him, as the feeling was parent
to the thought, and beautified the vision of the cottage-girl, that will live
for ever in that simple strain,

" AND DEPOSIT HER SAIR-WON PENNY-FEE !"
TICKLER.

Hope trims the student's midnight lamp.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Rocks the cradle.

NORTH.

. Digs the grave.

TICKLER.

And into each successive tumbler drops the sugar — plump after plump
—just so. (mingles.)

NORTH.

In this view of human life, the nature of Hope may be said to be this—-
that man is dependant for all issues, partly on himself, and partly on uncom-
manded events ; he has, therefore, in his own true and good exertion a
ground of trust, and in the uncertainty of all human events a ground of
fear j hence his always fluctuating, yet still rising hope— like the flow of

702 Nodes Ambrosiance. No. LXI. [April,

the tide, where every wave that advances falls back, and yet the waters still
swell on the shore,

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Sometimes, sir, the soul seems to itself like the sea-sand, cold, bleak, and
desolate; but in a few hours it overflows with joy, just as does that bay,
when the tide has again reached the shell-wreaths on the silvery shore,
— and on the merry music of the breaking billows the sunny sails of long-
absent ships are seen coming homewards from the main.

NORTH.

Yes — just so, my young Poet. And as thou art a young Poet, though I
have seen none of thy verses, what sayest thou of that Hope which is more
airy and illusive ; that visionary Hope which adorns the distance of life,
filling the mind with bright imagery of unattainable good, promising grati-
fication to desires which cannot be realized ?

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

I fear to speak — I love to listen,

NORTH.
And I, Hal, am on the verge— I know— I feel it— of garrulous old age.

TICKLER.

Which verge ?

NORTH.

The mind, my son, cannot rest, for it was not made to rest, in realities.
It lives on the Future even more than on the Present. It lives by Hope
even more than enjoyment. How then shall Reason confine that spirit
which is to live in the future, to the unknown realities even of the future ?
It cannot — we must hope beyond the truth.

TICKLER.

Don't puzzle the boy, North.

NORTH.

I am not puzzling the boy, Tickler. Am I, Hal ?

YOUNG. GENTLEMAN.

Not yet, sir.

NORTH.

Why flies the mind into the future ? Because it is an escape from the
present. The mind is thereby relieved from the immediate consciousness of
all bitterness, restraint, irksomeness, disappointment, sorrow, fear, which
may be in the present. And that is one reason, strong as a storm, to drive
the mind, on the wings of hope, soft as a dove's, bold as an eagle's, into the
future.

TICKLER.

Speak plain, Christopher. Remember you are not a young poet, but an
old proser.

NORTH.

Another reason is, my dear boy, that the whole of life which is yet unact •
ed and uncertain, lies in the future. Man looks on that part of his life
which is yet before him, as a gamester looks on the remaining throws of
his game.

TICKLER.

Aye — what shall the hours bring forth ? From the bosom of futurity
Fortune throws her black and white lots.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

How throbbed my little heart with hopes and fears,
To learn the colour of my future years !

TICKLER.

There again— why you drawled that like a Presbyterian precentor giving
out the lines of a psalm.

NORTH.

The past is over, and has less than imagination and desire ; but the fu-
ture is yet undetermined, and is equal to their largest measure. With
whatever passion, therefore, Oh ! Hal ! thy soul hangs upon this life, with
that passion will it hang on the yet^undeeided future.

1832.] Noctes Ambrosiana. No. LXL 703

TICKLER.

So must it be with all men — to their grand climacteric.

NORTH.

Does he long for those pleasures which fortune may give ? Then he looks
into that future which is still under the dominion of fortune.

TICKLER.

Does he desire that good which depends upon himself — his own achieve-
ments, his own virtues ? He will look into that future which he can fill
with his powers, because, Hal, and Kit, there is no reality there to give
him the lie. But in the present he meets with many things to make him
sing small — and for my single self, gents, I confess, that though six feet four
on my worsteds, on looking back on the Timothy of the past, he seems di-
minished to his head, a Pech among the pigmies.

NORTH.

Then think, my excellent young friend, that all present action tends to the
future. It springs up and ripens in the future. In itself the present is
nothing j it is subservient only to the years to come.

TICKLER.

Alas ! alas ! North — methinks — me feels — that my whole life has been
but a disconnected series of broken fragments.

NORTH.

So oft do I. But in the presence of this eaglet here, my youth is mo-
mentarily restored, and like a swan, whose plumage, though tempest-proof,
is yet softer than the snow, I seem to have alighted from some far-off clime
on the bosom of a pellucid stream, winding away from its source among the
mountains, till the region around grows magnificent with forest-woods.

TICKLER.
Said you, sir, a swan ?

NORTH.

No sneers, sir ; original sin never seems so baleful as in a sneer. Adam
did not sneer till long after the fall. Not till he had outlived both remorse
and penitence, did the old sinner grow satirical.

TICKLER.
I meant no offence, and ask your pardon.

NORTH.

Granted. We speak of man, my dear Timothy, as discontented, and re-
vile him, because, when the time of enjoyment is come, he still looks, as
before, into the future. Why, I say to you, Hal, that is the nobleness of
his nature. He is a being of action ; and every step of his progress only
discovers to him wider and farther regions of his action lying outstretched
before him, still or stormy as the sea.

TICKLER.

I wonder how many thousand times, during our innumerable Noctes,
you have taken in vain the name of Neptune.

NORTH.

It don't matter. Yes, my fine young fellow, man can measure the present,
but he always feels that on the present the unmeasured future rests. To
him, a being of powerful and ever- enlarging action, the hour ministers to
the years. In the moment he thinks for eternity !

TICKLER.

You have proved your point, Kit. Man's real action, you have shown,
and well too, even eloquently, by its own necessary tendency and nature,
-carries the mind into unreal futurity. What say you to all this, younker ?

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

I listen with delight.

NORTH.

Once carried into the future, are there not reasons enow why the mind
should believe in impossibilities? What shall bind down its belief? It
seeks enlargement. Here, in this waking work-day-world of ours, we are
humbled in our will. It is subjected — not predominant. But from that
thraldom we take refuge in the free unbounded future. There we can feel
our virtues without our frailties ; there we can exert our powers unfettered

704 Nodes Ambrosiance. No. LXI. [April,

by our weaknesses ; there we can mould even the capriciousness of fortune
and the course of events to our will; there we can act and command suc-
cess ; there we can wish, and sure is the consummation ; there are we lords
indeed of our own life and our own destiny; and there may we sit on gor-
geous thrones of state, overshadowed by immortal laurels.

TICKLER. — (To Hal aside.}
Cut.

NORTH.

Thus the mind for its own wilful gratification, my dear young friend,
overleaps impossibility ; it has power given to it over the future — it uses it
lavishly for its own delight — and in the intoxication of

TICKLER — (SOMO VOC6.).

Yes — cut to a moral.

NORTH.

What? what if this be carried to excess ? Yet is it to a certain degree
unavoidable — and I fear not to say to you, Hall, necessary ; for the know-
ledge of that which will be, would often crush the heart with its own worth-
lessness and impotence. The knowledge of that which is possible, would
be premature, and blighting wisdom.

TICKLER.

Dangerous doctrine, North, thus infused into the ardent spirit of an en-
thusiastic youth.

NORTH.

No — safe and salutary. Let the young heart, I say, strive awhile with
impossibilities ; and do the utmost for itself that nature will permit. It is
only by hoping beyond nature, that it can ever reach at last to the utmost
grandeur of nature.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Yes, sir; thus may it be said that the soul's first reason for hoping beyond
possibility is the force of its own great desires.

TICKLER.
As the old cock crows, the young chick—

NORTH.

Aye, Hal ; and the second, my dear lad, is its — Ignorance. For how
should it know these limits ? That is what it has yet to learn. It may err
as much in anticipating as in overlooking them ; it may imagine impossibi-
lities where they do not exist. It may yield to difficulties which it might
have overcome. The future, oh ! thou enlightened lad ! is, in the truest
sense of the word, uncertain ; for not only are the events which may be
dealt to us unknown, but, Hal, the measure of our powers is undeter-
mined, till we exert them; they are greater or less by our own act ; and by
that mystery of mysteries, our own free will.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

It makes me happy, sir, to hear you own that creed.

NORTH.

It makes me happy, Hal — for I loved your father— to see that thy soul,
my dear boy, is alive to — Admiration.

TICKLER.

What do you mean, old man ?

NORTH.

Admiration, Timotheus, is an act of the understanding ; but of the un-
derstanding acting in concert with various emotions.

TICKLER.
Umph.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

I do indeed devoutly trust that my mind will never be induced to think
and feel on the principle of " Nil admirari."

NORTH.

It does my heart good to look on the open and glowing countenance of
a youth with thy endowments, Hal, about to start on the career of rejoi-
cing life. Vividly dost thou feel now, my son, that man is a being placed
in the midst of a system ordained by divine wisdom and goodness, inhabit-

1832.] Nodes Ambrosiana. No. LXI. 703

ing a world full of wonder and beauty, which in every part is indeed
but a manifestation to human sense of the wisdom and goodness in which
it was made. When, therefore, he opens the eye of his understanding to
receive the impressions that will flow in upon him from all surrounding
things, from works so framed it is that all these impressions come.

TICKLER.

Beware of preaching, Kit.

NORTH.

But to fit him for such contemplations, Hal. are given him, not only
senses to perceive, and intellect to comprehend, but the faculties of delight
and admiration, without which sense and intellect were vain.

TICKLER.

Are you, sir, the author of the Natural History of Enthusiasm ?

NORTH.

I wish I were. This is the source from which the nobler delight of
knowledge springs — admiration blending in all unpolluted, unperverted
minds, with the impressions of sense, and the workings of intellectual
power — a spirit, my son, which may it live vivid and inviolate in thy
bosom to thy dying day !

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

As I am sure, sir, it will in yours—and glorify to your closing eyes the
last setting sun.

NORTH.

Good lad. He, Hal, who resolves by powerful agencies the combinations
of bodies, and forces their elements to discover themselves to his sight; he
who lays bare with delicate anatomy the structure of an insect's wing; and
he who compasses and scans in thought the motion of worlds; he, too, who
surveys the soul of man with all its passions and powers, and learns to ob-
serve the laws of the moral world, all are led on by the same wonder
blending with their knowledge ; the admiration of beauty and of wisdom
exalts their intelligence, and science, poetry, and piety, become one, in that
mood which makes us feel our connexion with our native heaven.

TICKLER.

You must be the author of the Natural History of Enthusiasm.

NORTH.

Well — I am — and of the Saturday Evening — two noble productions. Who,
Hal, has heard the deeds of his country's heroes told in the rudest simplest
phrase? Who has ever read the tale of some gallant crew sailing on bold
discovery through unknown seas, or of humble good men, cheerfully bear-
ing a hard lot, contented while they could impart wisdom, virtue, or suc-
cour under hard necessity to the wants of others ? Who has ever con-
templated high qualities of any kind in the minds of his fellow-men, and
not known — as you have, my bright boy, many million times — that emo-
tion of admiration with which the mere conception of excellence is formed,
and that transport of sympathy and love which attends it ?

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

'Tis kindled now, sir, by your noble words.

NORTH.

Yes, Hal, with no other spirit leading you along but your mind's gene-
rous admiration, you feel, I know you do, the transport of affection towards
one and then towards another of those great creatures whose works have
guarded their memory from oblivion. Now towards some sage who for-
sook the splendours of this world to devote his soul to the meditative dis-
covery of truth, and his life to imparting it in his precepts for the instruc-
tion of dark and bewildered men ; now towards some warrior, whose great
soul sustained the fortunes of his country on his single arm, and whose
courage and achievements were equal to the weight laid upon them; now
to him whose genius reared temples and statues ennobling the land, or
whose voice sung the deeds to which the land had given birth ; now to
some mighty ruler, who swayed the spirits of a fierce intractable nation^by
the wisdom of his controlling will ; now to some lawgiver, who left the im-
press of his own mind on that of his people; now to some sufferer in a

VOL, XXXI. NO. CXCIII. 2 Z

706 Nodes Ambrosiana. No. LXl. [April,

righteous cause, who counted his life nothing in comparison with that pure
good for which he cheerfully resigned it; to all these, thou, O Hal, dost
give, by turns, thy love and the transport of thy desire, because to all does
thy soul give its passionate admiration.

TICKLER.

Now, draw your breath, and permit me to attempt a slight sentiment. It
is by this principle, North, that examples have their power. They are pic-
tures that speak to admiration, and, through admiration, call upon all the
powers of the awakened and uproused spirit.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

" Ecquid in antiquam virtutem, animosque viriles,
Et Pater jEneas, et avunculus excitat Hector."

TICKLER.

" Tu longe sequere, et vestigia semper adora."

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Poets are the guardians of admiration in the spirits of a people.

NORTH.
Good.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Their songs, sir, emblazoning heroic achievements, and memorizing the
spirit of lofty thoughts, make virtue a perpetual possession to the race,

TICKLER.
Good.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Thus such actions can never die. They continue to shine brighter and
brighter through the golden mist of years.

TICKLER.

Bad— and borrowed.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

The power of this spirit, to whatever influences a nation may be sub-
ject, still survives to it, through all changes ; the spirit of the greatness of
departed time living in its perpetual admiration.

TICKLER.

I am beginning to get sick of the word.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

See what wealth, sir, we possess at this hour, gathered from all ages,
nations, and tongues, of the greatness that has ennobled our race ! What
should we be without it ? It is now lifted up above the region of passion,
purified by Death and Time, even as the heroes of the old world were
changed into stars.

[Silver Time-piece smites eight — Enter PICARDY, sivitclting his Tail. — Tea

Tea, and Coffee Tea, with mountains of Muffin.]

NORTH reclines on his Tiroclinium — TICKLER tahes the Chair — and YOUNQ
GENTLEMAN is promoted to TIMOTHY'S small settee.

NORTH.

You have thrown much " green light," as Ossian says, Hal, on those two
powerful principles of human nature, Hope and Admiration. — \Vhat have
you to say, my imaginative moralist, on Desire and Aversion ?

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

I scarcely feel prepared, sir, to speak on such themes.

TICKLER.

How should you? North has lugged them in by head and shoulders,
having crammed himself with Seneca and Cicero, and being desirous to
shew off— so, with permission, I shall don my nightcap.

[TICKLER mounts his Kilmarnoch, and lies bach, composing him-

self for sleep.

Pray waken me, my boy, should I snore so as to render you two mu-
tually inaudible.

NORTH.

Pull the cap over his face.

1832.] Nocfet Ambrosiancts. No. LXI. 707

TICKLER,

And, for goodness sake, release Gurney. I would not that you should
expose yourself, Kit, before the public, But to be sure nobody now reads
the Noctes.

NORTH.

Nor the Waverley Novels.

TICKLER.

Well, proceed, old Proser — I am prepared.

. NORTH.

Desire and Aversion, Hal, are the two most general affections of the mind
towards good and evil, and are the proper opposites to each other. Desire
being the inclination of the mind towards any good, which is not absolutely
possessed ; and Aversion the disinclination ot the mind towards any evil,
with which it is in any degree menaced.

TICKLER,

Who ever doubted that ?

NORTH.

Not you; for you never knew it till this moment— nor wiser men,

TICKLER.

Indeed !

NORTH.

In deed you have always exemplified it ; but you have never been con-
scious of it in thought — for, Tickler, you are no metaphysician.

TICKLER.

Are you ?

NORTH.

Yes. The habitual use of the term, Desire, in our metaphysical language,
to describe certain principles of our nature, as the desire of power, the
desire of esteem, the desire of knowledge, and so on, has led, my dear
Harry, in some degree, to a partial conception of its true character.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Has it, sir ?

NORTH.

Dr Brown, in his Moral Philosophy, ranks all these principles as pros-
pective emotions, and calls their opposite, Fears. But as principles of feel-
ing, they may be affected towards the past, the present, or the future. I do
not know why the pain with which an ambitious man looks back upon his
disappointment, is to be separated in speculation upon the mind, from the
desire which accompanies his expectation. Both belong equally to one
pain, to which time is indifferent ; and therefore all these principles, such
as ambition, love of glory, &c. ought to be considered under some title
which is generic as to time, and includes past, present, and future.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Dr Brown proceeds, I believe, sir, on a theory that the Desire is first, and
that the Pleasure is only felt because there has been Desire, and it is a gra-
tification of it, sir.

NORTH.

You say well— He does. But can you imagine a desire that is independ-
ent of the pleasure felt ?

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

I cannot, sir. But I can easily conceive that a very slight degree of
pleasure felt may give occasion to very strong Desire, from the capacity of
the soul, sir, to bring infinite multiplications of a small pleasure into its
imagination, and so to frame Desire without end. Prodigious, indeed, seems
to be the soul's capacity of Desire ; but I humbly think, sir, that it must
always begin from pleasure or pain actually experienced.

TICKLER. .

Are you positive, young gentleman, that you know the meaning of what
you have now said ?

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

No, Mr Tickler, I am not positive— I said " I humbly think."

708 Nodes Amlrosian®. No. LXL [April,

NORTH.

Therefore, Hal, in good metaphysics, the sensibility to such pleasure or
pain ought to be first characterised, and the desire to be afterwards super-
added ?

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

I wished to have said so, sir.

NORTH.

To consider Desire only in its most ordinary sense, as the inclination of
the mind to that which is to be attained, and therefore as prospective
merely, as Dr Brown has done, is to give a most imperfect description of
those principles he analyses, which are principles of enjoyment and regret,
as well as of desire, affected, all of them, by the present and past as well as
the future. But, farther, please attend to this, Henry, — Desire itself, as
thus represented by Dr Brown, a prospective emotion merely, is imperfect-
ly described, for to speak absolutely and truly of this emotion, Time is not
that which it regards; it is incidentally only that it has respect to Time, by
which, therefore, it is not to be characterised.

TICKLER.

You have repeated that dogma a dozen times.

NORTH.

Not once. What then, Hal, is the circumstance truly essential to Desire ?

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

I wait, sir, for your elucidation.

NORTH.

Simply — the state of separation of the soul from its object.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

It can be nothing else, I believe, sir.

NORTH.

Now, it is true that our Mind and Life are such, that our Desire does, for
the most part, look into futurity ; both from the active nature of the Mind,
which chiefly fixes its desire on those objects which by exerted power it
can obtain, and because all such attainment necessarily lies in the future.
But this, though it happens for the most part, is incidental, and not essen-
tial to the nature of Desire.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

I see clearly that it is not, sir. The separation of the soul from the good
which is lost, may be the subject of Desire ; hence all those bitter and
miserable yearnings towards irrecoverable good — bitter and miserable, be-
cause, alas ! sir, useless. " We weep the more, because we weep in vain !"

NORTH.

Ay, ay, my dear boy, with fond and impotent longings looks back our
desiring soul, as if that which time had swept away into its abysses might
yet be restored. So too, with hopeless and idle desire, doth she look back
remorselessly on lost innocence, cleaving in imagination to that which has
passed away for ever.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Scenes and faces arise, and lofty thoughts and pure feelings return, for
one moment of illusion. Is this not Desire ?

" She looks ! and her heart is in heaven ; but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
The stream will not flow, and the mist will not rise,
And the colours have all past away from her eyes !"

NORTH.

Poor outcast !— And what is it, my son, but vain Desire, which throws its
longing arms round an illusive phantom that slips from its embrace ? Does
it not knock at the gates of death, and demand back the dead? or leave the
living to live with the dead, till they too die of passion unrequited in the
dust?

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

This meaning of the word, sir, which you have so beautifully illustrated,
is preserved in its original the exquisite Latin word desiderium, which pre-
eminently expresses this desire to the past— to the lost. " Quis dosiderio sit

1832.] Noctes Ambrosiance. fro. LXl. 709

pudor aut modus tarn cari capitis ?" This idea of desire, in simple separa-
tion, not looking to the past or the future, but centred in the present mo-
ment, has also a beautiful Latin exemplification in the words of Tacitus,
describing Agricola dying, and looking round as it were to find those who
were not present, " desideravere aliquid oculi tui ?"

NORTH.

Thank ye, my good boy. Now mark, Harry, that this longing which arises
in the soul by separation from the object of its love, is one of the great
principles by which the soul is moved in all its action and passion. Very
sublime views accordingly have been entertained of this principle, by which
sages saw it is capable of carrying itself out of that by which it is surround- v
ed, and to conceive of good from which it is absent. Desire has been,
therefore, called the wings of the soul. So may it be detached from the
senses, and flying upwards, draw empyrean air.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

In Love, the Soul unites itself to its object ; in Desire it seeks that
Union.

NORTH.

It is indeed essential to all greatness, enlargement, and strength in the
soul. For here we must live among many objects, which are not of a
nature to satisfy our highest powers; but objects which are, do exist in hea-
ven or earth, or have existed, or may exist. If it were necessarily wedded to
those objects which are present with it, it would soon be sunk and lost. But
having power, under all circumstances, to lift itself up to its just and natu-
ral elevation, it forsakes this dim spot which men call earth, and sojourns,
for short seasons of perfect felicity, in its native heaven.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

The influence of Desire, then, sir, seems in some respects akin to that of
Hope ?

NORTH.

The two principles are allied in nature. By Desire the soul is enabled
to hope. By Desire the soul is faithful to its object in separation. Nay, by
Desire it can pursue through many even hopeless years one aim, and reach
it at last. By Desire the mother hopes her son's return, when all others
have given him to the deep or the grave.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

By Desire the unconquered patriot hopes his country's deliverance.

NORTH.

By Desire the good man hopes that his just purpose shall succeed, against
the opposition and division of the world. Finally, my dear Hal, this is
the principle which distinguishes all minds that attain pre-eminent success.
Each is capable of its own good, and may attain it if it has Desire ; but
filled as the world is with thwartings and impediments, not else — that is
the Law.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Sir, your noble and exalted sentiments inspire me with highest hopes of
the whole human race. The world is yet young — for what to the mind
seem sixty centuries in that mood, which, as Wordsworth sublimely says,
" makes our noisy years seem moments in the being of the eternal silence !'*

NORTH.

No — no — no — my dear Hal, the doctrine of the perfectibility of mail
is but an empty dream.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN-

Not scriptural.

NORTH.

Antiscriptural.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Yet I hope, sir, that you believe there is decreed foreman some mighty
amelioration of his life, even on this earth ?

NORTH.

No, my dear boy. I have no such belief. I see, indeed, some scattered
gleams of a " redeeming happiness," but melancholy clouds hang over and

710 Nodes Ambrosiana. No. LXI. [April,

envelope our life that is visited with such irradiations. The spirit of earth
has seized on a celestial visitant, and bound him with itself in the chains of
strong inexorable necessity.

TICKLER.

Don't pitch the tone of your talk, North, to too high a key. Yet I am
willing that we should be serious — nay solemn — for 'tis Saturday evening
— and we are both fast ageing ; and I am aware we have got among us a
young philosopher. Let us have, then, a grave, but, for heaven's sake, not
a melancholy Noctes.

NORTH.

Who but must be melancholy, my friend, contemplating the lot of man !
By the bondage of mortal pain he is linked with all his powers to this ma-
terial nature, to render bitter service for bitter hire. Hunted and scour-
ged by an inclement sky, shaken back from the cold breast that yields to
his aching desire a painful and scanted nourishment, he sees himself the
thrall of a heavy law, and in the midst of a subjection from which there is
no escape nor deliverance ; looking around and above in vain for help, he
knows that there is no succour for him but in his own strength. And those
proud powers, that high capacious intelligence, that burning spirit of de-
sire, that will which was made only for heavenly obedience, that form
which was framed for a heavenly spirit to dwell in, he bows down to the
task of his mortal servitude. He turns their strength on the breast of this
unyielding earth, and rends from it the sustenance and the safeguards of his
life. In the sweat of his brow he eats his bread. He toils that he may live
in toil. He reaps the fruits of his service, protracted years, which shall
yield the same service, till the hand that gave him to this bondage release
him from its chains.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

It is some solace, sir, to the kind who thus range the walks of the earth
in their pain, that some portion of the nations have earned a brighter lot ;
that generation upon generation accumulating their labour, have built up
out of the pain of their mortal condition a wealth that nature had not given,
and releasing a few from the burthen of the common lot, have reared and
guarded, in the heart of their civilized strength, a sovereignty of intellect,
a little world of peaceful happiness, where thoughtful virtue may yet walk
on earth in love I

NORTH.

Alas ! let us look back upon the ages of the world, and know what man
has done for man. Time that has swept away the works of the generations
from their place of remembrance, has yet guarded the splendid shadows of
their recollections for instruction to the successive ages. We can unroll
the memory of the world of old — we can behold the cities that are fallen —
and hear the hum of the mingling multitudes that swarm in all their gates.
The glory of their empire, the pride of their unimaginable might rises up
in its dream-like pomp from the night of the past — and we are spectators of
the works and the destinies of men whom thousands of years have buried in
the dust. We read the annals of human glory. We ask what those happier
brothers of mankind, whose enviable lot lifted them above the condition of
the race, were moved to do for their toil-bowed brethren ? To what ser-
vice of the race they gave their unmeasured power ? We know too well the
answer. They were the desolating conquerors of the world, Hal, ensla-
ving their people, through them to enslave the nations.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Better, perhaps, for the species, had there been no such empires !

NORTH.

The release from the servitude of life could never release the will from
the bondage which it renews for ever within itself. The lords of the earth
were slaves within their own corrupted spirit — they were servants to a direr
necessity than that which bowed the heart of the least among their innume-
rable multitudes ; for the lawless will of the slave is tamed by the yoke
that bows him down— but the will of the lord of the nations is mad with

1832.] Nodes Ambrosiana. No. LXL 71 1

power, and the source of human evil swells over in his bosom unceasingly
and uncontrollably.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Yes— my dear sir — we look on them, and ths frailty of our own nature
draws us for a moment to believe that the bright ease of their lives was a
happiness won to them from the severity of our mortal condition; but we
look again, and we know that the bitter evil of our nature was there ; and
that while they seemed to roll off on others their own part of the burden of
human calamity, the invisible chain of suffering which binds down together
all the brotherhood of mankind had wound its fatal links around their
hearts.

NORTH.

But it may be said that I am giving a false representation of the glory of
mankind.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN,

Alas ! I fear, too true.

NORTH.

It is not, it may be said, to wealth and empire, once stately and flourish-
ing, and now passed away, that our imagination turns with desire to disco-
ver the pride of our race, and to honour the recovered glory of the human
spirit amidst the light and guarded peace of happy civilisation. There have
been nations on the earth, whose name brightens the story of mankind — na-
tions in whose bosom genius sprang up and worshipped wisdom — where
liberty guarded the pride of life within her invincible arms. But if we
indeed desire to see in the sad and serious light of truth the condition of
our kind as they have lived upon this earth — it is in vain that we delight
our imagination in these bright remembrances. Did the earth, indeed, see
her children rejoicing and free ? No ; SLAVES tilled the soil of liberty — the
deliverer of his country dashed cities of men into the dust, and scattered
their inhabitants through the slavery of the world.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

But look again, sir, over the earth ; and under the shadow of the cloud
that broods over it, there is seen a still small light which hangs its lamp in
every human heart — LOVE. Within the circling walls of every human
dwelling, beneath its sheltering roof, is guarded a little world which love
has knit together. Within the circuit which that presence hallows, pleasure
springs up with innocence. Peace is there— and the light which sin had
shut out, breaks again upon the spirit.

NORTH.

Mingled brightness and blackness — therein lies the mystery. What is it
that huddles them all together — the high and the low — and gives them over
to a common doom — almost to a common grave— while the sun of life yet
shines brightly on them all ? There is a capacity of good confessed by all*
and none realize it. We seem to bring one destination with us into the
world, and to accept another. We seem to be the fools of life. Ask the
philosopher who has spent his life within his own mind, — ask the man of
power who has spent it in moulding the will of others to his own, — ask the
poet who has lived in the beauty of dreams, — ask the soldier of life who has
lived in the warfare of realities, — what have they made of it — what have
they made of themselves — what have they done with that good which they
brought with them into the world — and which has vanished from them al-
together, or floats like an unembodied spirit in the breath of imagination,
still ? — Is it that we have not power to bring down good among men ?
— No, we have the power; but we do not use it; we do not know where
to find it. There have been those who have found the power, and have
used it. Men simple in their spirit ; — not radiant with genius nor strong in
power ; not pouring out the dazzling and exuberant wealth of their own
minds before men's eyes ; but pouring out their spirit through their hearts*
Men unconscious of themselves — and of their destination — but who have
brought down good into the life of men, by bringing it first into their own.

712 Nodes Ambroaiancei No*LXI,

—Christians, Hal— Christians— but how few in this wicked and weary
world deserve that holy name ?

TICKLER.

Come, come, my dear friend, though it be Saturday night, let's be a leetle
more lively — and surely, surely, North, it is not for us to say that there is

no happiness in this world of ours

NORTH.

No, it would be false to say so —yet what I have said is true. If great
suffering and heavy duties are taken out of the lot, and the mind is left free
to seek its own enjoyment, it is impossible to say how many modes of
pleasure it will discover.

TICKLER.

True, Kit. Why, pursuits and gratifications so unimportant, that they
have scarce a name in our greater estimates of the human condition, do
yet, by continual supplies of small pleasure, contribute largely to the ac-
tive state of happiness. For, do they not bring with them renovation and
refreshment, keeping up the alacrity of the spirit, and protecting it from
that languor which often turns it against itself, Endless are they as
fancy !

NORTH.

It might be said, from the contemplation of a great part of mankind, that
action of some kind, pressing forward continually to an aim, was an essen-
tial constituent of the state of happiness. Yet, what thousands are satisfied
in perfect tranquillity of enjoyment, one day flowing after another in mere
repetition — the peaceful sameness, like some sweet monotone in music, still-
ing all uneasy passion, and keeping all thought and feeling within the quiet
domain of contentment !

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Some I seem to see satisfied in the love they feel for others, and that is
felt for them, and happy without desire.

NORTH.

It might be said, that Hope could not be dispensed with j yet there are
those without hope, whose happiness is altogether in remembrance.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Others — not few, but many — who, without hope, are happy in resigna*
tion.

TICKLER.

We all see how much of the richest joys of humankind are given them in
their strong affections. We can imagine nothing, indeed, that should leave
the lot of man more desolate than if these were taken away ! Yet shall we
say that the human being without them cannot know happiness ? That the
philosopher, with a soul dwelling apart from human loves, and entranced in
the research and contemplation of nature, has not a happiness all Ins own,

" Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine !"

NORTH.

For are not beauty, and wisdom, and truth, and power, all poured in for
ever into one soul, sufficient for entire bliss !

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Aye, my bold bright-eyed boy. We look on the light of day, we hear the
voice of love, and it appears to us as if it must be miserable to bear night
on the eyes, and silence on the ear. Yet the blind and the deaf have their
own full and unstinted joy, that does not forsake their spirits.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

When oppression plunges her persecuted victim in the dungeon's depth,
she seems, indeed, sir, in cutting him off from air, and light, and liberty,
from the condition of living nature, to heap on him, in part, by mere pri-
vation, the misery she calls the wretch to endure. She seems, sir, in se-
vering him from human faces, to break off his human ties; and inhumed in
the prisons of her wrath, he may be said to dwell already with the dead,

1832.] Nodes Ambrosiana. No. LXL 713

and to house in the grave. But is there no spirit that can descend into that
buried and gloomy cell, to visit with her illumination that uncompanioned
heart ?

NORTH.

Yes, my noble Hal, conscience may sit there an angel of light at his side,
whispering peace and hope and lofty consolation.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

The patriot who has raised his voice or his hand too soon, in redress of
his country's wrongs ; the martyr who bears withjiim in his bosom the faith
on which he will pour out his blood; the just man who has offended by his
virtue high-seated crime — all these, in that woeful and dreary seclusion can
find their own happiness not less calm and self-consoled in that long dark
expectation, than when the last act of unjust power sets them free from the
bonds of life, and they feel on the brink of death that they have a foretaste
of immortal happiness.

TICKLER.

The lad is an eloquent lad — and will one day be an orator.

NORTH.

Events nor condition are in our power, but the mind, with which we all
receive them, is, Hal.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

" Fallen cherub ! to be weak is miserable,
Doing, or suffering."

NORTH.

Suffering ! Our lot may be such that we can do nothing — that we have to
be merely passive. In that case all depends on our will. If we receive pain
with a shrinking and impatient mind, we give it its full power over us.

TICKLER.

True, Kit. But though any body may triumph over the toothach, what
man of woman born but must shriek at the tic doloreux ?

NORTH.

The Indian undergoing torture, in which he sings war-songs, and laughs
to scorn his tormentors, horrible to nature as his condition is, is surely not
to be judged of by the mere imagination of what we ourselves should suffer
in his place. That spirit which has been enured to pain, and which, in ut-
most agony, can feel its accustomed pride rise unconquerably above it all,
must be regarded as, by the power of its own will, casting off from itself
great part of natural suffering. It is a spirit no longer penetrable to suffering
— invulnerable ; pride, or whatever other feeling, truly

" arms th' obdured breast
\Yith stubborn patience, as with triple steel."

TICKLER.

My temper is none of the best ; yet I acknowledge that almost at any
hour of one's life, there is opportunity given of determining for oneself
what the tenor of his feelings shall be, whether for pleasure or for pain.

NORTH;

Neither is mine; yet 1 see, sometimes not without self-upbraiding, that
those who cannot command themselves, draw from the continual stream of
the incidents of life, uneasiness and vexation, while it would have been
easier to draw from them cheerfulness and satisfaction.

TICKLER.

The common remark, Kit, that great part of the happiness and unhappi-
ness of life depends upon its petty occurrences, a remark which, when
simply stated, appears degrading to the pride of our mind, acquires a more
reasonable meaning when we consider that the mind exercising itself, as it
must do, on these little events, finds in them the occasion of yielding to the
temper of pain and dissatisfaction, or of sharing the temper of pleasure and
contentment.

NORTH.

True, Timothy. The mind is not subject, as the remark would intimate,
to such events. They are not of magnitude to force on it either pleasure

714 Noctes Ambrosiana. No. LXI. [April,

or pain. But because the ordinary state in which it exists must be either
of the one character or the other, and as, in the absence of great and con-
straining occurrences, that ordinary state must be derived from its own
disposition, therefore those slight and petty circumstances appear thus im-
portant, when in truth the mind does no more than exercise its faculty of
throwing itself into the pain, or of sustaining in itself its natural spirit of
joy and vigour.

TICKLER.

JTis but a shallow apologue, that of the Caliph who on his death-bed de-
clared that in his long reign of prosperity and glory he had known but three
days of happiness.

NORTH.

He must indeed have been a poor devil.

TICKLER.

He has not told us — has he— what constituted the happiness of the three
days ? What do you conjecture was the business of the blockhead ? Sen-
sual ?

NORTH.

No. But our Alfred, I warrant him, knew many hundreds of happy days.
For though subjected to horrid convulsion-fits, that often all at once made
him fall down on the floor of his palace, like a beggar in the street mire,
he was happy in genius and virtue. But who ever supposed that a mise-
rable despot could enjoy one hour's true happiness ? Yet the Caliph ought
not to have been ungrateful for his pleasures. For the joys of the harem,
the slavery of bended knees, and of faces sweeping the floor in humilia-
tion, the insidious flatterer and the deadly mute — all these may have been,
during their hour, instruments of base, luxurious, or cruel pleasure — but
such remembrances could bring no peace to a dying bed, and therefore he
became at last a querulous moralist.

TICKLER.

Do you ever envy the condition of any man, North ?

NORTH.

Not often now. Yet, 'tis not unnatural to do so, for we always look on
the lot from which we are removed, my friend, with imagination ; and some-
times the sense of the real disadvantages of our own lot turns our thoughts
with something of envy, with a regretful comparison at least, towards those
whose lot by its nature, whatever else may be its disadvantages, is exempt
from that particular disturbance under which we may suffer.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Who is there, sir, that, till he has read again and again the history of Ge-
nius, does not believe that the mind in which such beautiful creations were
born, and which dwelt among them, was happy ?

NORTH.

Alas ! alas ! Burns, Byron, Cowper. I think of writing the lives of these
three in one volume.

TICKLER.

Do. In like manner, Master Henry, we imagine the wealthy and the
powerful to be happy, not merely because they are visibly exempted from
many troubles, but because we know that there are principles in our nature
to which superiority over our fellow-men is grateful, and that such posses-
sions seem to enlarge the domain of the will. Does he wish for knowledge ?
The learning of ages lies open|before his mind. Will he have luxury ? A
thousand hands are ready to*minister to his delight. But he may be a
coward — a scrub— or a dolt— -'andgends, perhaps, a life of slavery to some
slut, by suicide.

NORTH.

I purpose writing a volume to be entitled, Compensation.

TICKLER.

Do. Ay, Kit, the sword hung by a single hair over the royal banquet is
much in point. That was the hidden ill of the heart which the courtier
could not have divined,

1882.] Nactes Ambrosiana. No. LXL 715

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Methinks no man can be miserable who loves his country. I become
happy in a moment when I think on Scotland.

TICKLER.
Why?

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Because of the — the — —

TICKLER.

North — help him out.

NORTH.

The love of our country, my good boy, is not so much an attachment to
any assignable object, as it is our participation in that whole spirit which
has breathed in the heart of the whole race of men of which we are sprung ;
and, therefore, without strong and fine sympathies, no man can be a patriot.
That is our country, not where we have breathed alone — not that land which
we have loved, because it has shewn to our opening eyes the brightness of
heaven and the gladness of earth — but the land for which we have hoped
and feared— for which our bosoms have beat with the consenting hopes
and fears of thousands of heroic hearts — that land, of which we have loved
the mighty living and the mighty dead.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

That land, sir, the Roman or the Greek would say, where the boy had
sung in the pomp that led the sacrifice to the altars of the ancient Deities
of the soil.

TICKLER.

Very fine. You are a brace of incomparable orators. But if declama-
tion is still to be the order of the night, I beg to be heard, for I can harangue,
if I have a mind, like one of the Lake Poets. Why, the Campus Martius,
and the Palaestra, where the youth exercised heroic games, what were
they, gentlemen, but the Schools of Patriotism ? For were not the youth
taking part, then and there, in the passions, the power, the hope, the glory,
that flowed through all the spirit of the nation ?

NORTH.

True, Tim. Old warriors, and gowned statesmen, that frowned in brass
or in marble, in public places, and in the porches of noble houses, — tro-
phied monuments and towers, riven with the scars of ancient battles, — the
Temple raised where Jove had stayed the flight, — or the Victory, that with
suspended wings still seemed to hover over the conquering bands, — what
were all these to the eyes and the fancy of the young citizen, but characters
speaking to him of the great secret of his hope and desire, in which he
read the union of his own heart to the heart of the heroic nation of which
he was one ?

TICKLER.

True, Kit. And what if less noble passions must hereafter take their
place in his mind, — what if he must learn to share in the rivalries and hates
of his house or of his order, — these far deeper and greater feelings had been
sunk into his spirit in the years when it is most susceptible, unsullied, and
pure ; and afterwards, in great contests, in peril of life and death, in
those moments of agitation, or profound emotion, in which the higher soul
jagain rises up, those high and solemn affections of boyhood and youth
would return upon him, and consecrate his warlike deeds with the noblest
name that was known to those ancient states.

NORTH.

Therefore, Timothy, how was the oaken crown prized, which was given
to him who had saved the life of a citizen ! Yet, perhaps, he loved not the
man whom he had preserved; but he had remembered in the battle, that
it was a son of his country that had fallen, and over whom he had spread
his shield. He knew, that the breath he guarded was part of his country's
being.

TICKLER.

Woe to the Citizen of the World ! The man can have neither heart nor
imagination, The natak solum is not on its own account dear; but dear

716 Noctes Ambrosiance. No. LX1. [April,

as that by which the present and the past generations are all bound toge-
ther.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

And hence the exiles carry with them the names of the mother country.
The fugitives from Troy had formed a little Ilium, and named a little
Xanthus — " et arentem Xanthi cognomine rivum."

NORTH.

The character of the mind of this country, Hal, is not to be spoken of
lightly — yet 'twould be unsafe to say that it is sound at the core. It pre-
sents to our eyes a spectacle of energy and ardour in all the ordinary pur-
suits of life.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Indeed, the life of no order, sir, is that of repose.

NORTH.

So far well. Repose is stagnation. But the agitations of the late eventful
years have occupied the minds of all men with interests, which, though of the
utmost importance and magnitude, were, nevertheless, in one respect tempo-
rary. For every new event that arose, or was in preparation, seemed as if the
fate of a nation, or, I might almost say, of mankind, were involved in its issue,
and therefore no excess of passionate expectation which could be fixed on
it could appear misplaced. Thus have we been accustomed to live in a suc-
cession of vivid emotions which were all but the birth of the times, and could
only have the duration of the events with which they had arisen. The
events passed away, and with them our thoughts took wing into oblivion.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

I can, indeed, understand, sir, from your pregnant words, that the strong
and pervading sympathies with the fortunes of nations and humanity, how-
ever ennobling to the minds which it filled—

NORTH.

Aye, Hal, and accompanied with lessons of the highest instruction—

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

May have been injurious to the highest faculties of thought,

TICKLER.

How the deuce may that be ?

NORTH.
Tell him, Hal.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Because they may have withdrawn the imaginations of men, sir, from the
great objects which to the self-collected mind, wrapped in meditation, have
always appeared of paramount importance

TICKLER.

And, what, pray, are they ?

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

They are the— they are the — the

NORTH.

It seemed, indeed, Tickler, as if the more thoughtful mind turning itself
to those remote objects—-

TICKLER.

Confound ye, Kit, what objects ?

NORTH.

Those remote objects and their shadowy speculations, were deserting the
great hazards of mankind to busy itself with the dreams of a fantastic and
indolent philosophy.

TICKLER.
Very fine, indeed, sir, very fine.

NORTH.

We have found, Timothy, almost ever since the great French Revolu-
tion—

TICKLER.

The small one was a shabby concern.

NORTH.

We have found, Timothy, in the occurrences and scenes of a shifting

1832.] Noctes AmbrosiaticB. No. LXI. 717

world, the full scope for all our capacity of hope and desire ; and hence it
may be difficult for the soul of the nation to turn itself to higher and more
lasting contemplations ; and if it were to do so, impossible perhaps to re-
cover that zeal and those devout convictions of their eternal worth, which
belonged to them of old, and have been easy and habitual to men who lived
in calmer times of the world.

TICKLER.

I am where Moses was when the candle went out.

NORTH.

No high philosophy, Hal, pervades our literature— and I fear none is
in

TICKLER.

The nation's soul, as you call it, Kit. Yet the nation is a decent body
enough.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Surely, sir, the arts of imagination

NORTH.

Cannot supply, Hal, that kind of continued strength which the mind now
requires

TICKLER.

The soul of the nation.

NORTH.

For in the luxury of a people, their arts, Hal, take the tone of the times.
Imagination is too much in sympathy with pleasure; it yields itself too
easily to the enchantment from which the mind itself seeks deliverance.

TICKLER.

Now let him alone, Hal, and you shall hear the inconsistent old sophist
contradicting all he has said to-night.

NORTH.

No. All the arts to which imagination gives birth have greatly changed
their character, Tickler, with the changing genius of a people. Strong,
masculine, and rude in older times, and bearing the stamp of the bold spirit
which created them, they have at a later period become enervated and ef-
feminate, and tainted with the weakness of a luxurious age — breathing

back on the soul of the people

TICKLER.

There again — for people, say nation.

NORTH,

The indolent softness they had already received from it.

TICKLER.
Oh ! dear ! oh ! dear !

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Yet in their power and beauty, how they exalt— —

TICKLliR.

The national soul.

NORTH.

In the work of the painter or sculptor, Hal, you see finely exemplified
the process by which conception, imagination, and intellect kindle, " even
at the forms themselves have made.'1

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Yes— Sir ?

TICKLER.

What?

NORTH.

Think — feel — do ; think — feel — and do again ; and how glories the spirit
in the beholding of what itself creates ! The Painter begins to work — his
hand performs the bidding of his thought, and the forms of beauty which
arise in his mind dawn on the tablet before his eyes.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Now he sees what he has conceived — and his imagination takes fire
from its own product.

718 Nodes Ambrosiance. No.LXI. [April,

NORTH,

Yes. And no sooner does he behold the forms in palpable representa-
tion, than his conception itself changes ; for his feelings, Hal, are warmed
by that beauty as by " touch ethereal of Heaven's fiery rod ;" his thoughts
glow as in a spiritual furnace

TICKLER.

A spiritual furnace !

NORTH.

And that first imperfect conception is invested with purer brightness,
and moulded to shape divine. From unknown dwelling-places in his genius
the fair ideas come nocking—

TICKLER.

All birds of a feather,

NORTH.

And then indeed, Tickler, his mind teeming with a thousand unembodied
conceptions, all ready to burst into life, he understands in his joy what
creative mind itself may owe to the works it would frame for others' de-
light, and perceives that his ewn art is the only muse he must invoke to
inspire his genius.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

How much, sir, have the best, the most sacred conceptions of men's souls,
been affected by edifices reared at their own bidding! How vast the
power of a Gothic Cathedral ! There, all is subjected under its one use of
a house of religious worship. There are found all that serves to the many
ministrations of religion ; and there too is another important use, not neces-
sarily connected with them, it is a repository of the dead. Its natural
sanctity, as a house of worship, has made it a fit mansion of expecting rest,
a dormitory of the living dead !

TICKLER.

Be intelligible, sir.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

And again, sir, all these uses, and all that appears extrinsic to them, in
the elaborate and prodigal beauty of its forms, are subjected to the one great
purpose, the one imagination of the whole structure, religious awe. It is
thus, sir, that the human being gives his own spirit to the insensate stone,
till it breathe back again upon him a still loftier and more divine inspira-
tion.

NORTH.

Well said, my good lad. That which the works of the Fine Arts effect
partially, speech may be said to effect to the human species. Suppose us
from the creation all dumb !

TICKLER.

Well for us had it been so with women.

NORTH.

Savage ! — We should have lived in an obscure dream haunted by shape-
less phantoms. Silent people often get insane. It is not safe to have too
many dealings with wordless thoughts. You cannot discover what they
would be at — they are at the best suspicious characters — and sometimes
vagrants that would not scruple to murder you at midnight in your bed.

TICKLER.

The thought uttered in speech [don't keep staring at North] is embodied,
young gentleman, in a sort of distinct reality, and is thus made apparent to
the mind itself in a palpable form, just as its beautiful conceptions of visi-
ble things become defined and strong in the colours and lineaments of the
growing picture.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

And hence it is, sir, that the orator, as the torrent of his speech rushes
on, kindles in his eloquence, just like the painter in his work of creation*

NORTH.

You are thinking, I perceive, Hal, of one of those great men, who, inspired
with the zeal of their holy cause, have stood up to speak fearlessly before
the face of kings and in the presence of corrupted courts, those truths

1832.] Nodes Ambrosiana. No. LXL 719

which bow down courts and kings to the level of the peasant and the beg-
gar.

TICKLER.

That race is extinct.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

He heard himself the voice that thundered in the ears of his audience ;
the fervour of passion which was pouring forth in the sound, urged on and
bore along his own spirit — the —

TICKLER.

Stop— pull up— hold fast. All that and much more applies to extempo-
raneous eloquence— but not to MSS., much less to printed sermons— or to
discourses got by heart and spouted forth by a hypocrite, not ashamed by
assumed fervour to swindle you into a belief that all his sedulously got
up paragraphs are sudden inspiration.

NORTH.

I would have the great minds among us, and there must be many, study
more profoundly the laws of thought and feeling.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Of all studies, sir, surely the most ennobling ! Higher far such science
than those that deal with mere matter — but, alas ! more difficult far, as is seen
in the results, sir. The mind is as great a mystery now as it was to Plato.

TICKLER.

Or Pythagoras.

NORTH.

To the observer of Physical Science, it may be said truly, the subject is
uniform and constant. Gold, iron, are the same metals now and hereto-
fore— here and in every place. The races of living nature have continued
unchanged. The growth of every plant is a constant process. Every spring
brings the same blossoms— every autumn the same fruit. The same air
breathes — the same showers fall — the same ocean rolls to all nations
through all time. The stars keep their place, and the planets their motion,
and astronomy, from the sun's latest eclipse, can read back the heavens to
the moment when his orb was first darkened in the sky.

TICKLER.

North — I am not given to compliments — but douse my daylights, if that
be not spoken like a poet and a philosopher.

NORTH.

It is evident what is the result to science of this unchangeableness in the
subjects of observation. Every enquirer knows that the same matter is
before him which was before the eyes, or under the hands, of all his prede-
cessors in enquiry ; he knows that he has but exactly to follow definite
methods of observation which they have pursued and prescribed, and all
the means of which are as constant and unchangeable as the matter itself,
and the result which they found must discover themselves too to his sight.
All that has been gained is possessed ; every province that is won is at the
same time secured; and the empire of science, continually enlarging, de-
scends an unimpaired inheritance to each new generation of enquirers.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

The only change, perhaps I may be permitted to say, sir, that is possible,
is improvement ; because the methods of Physical Science, which are too
definite in their nature to be lost when they are recorded, are yet suscep-
tible of endless amelioration ; and by those only erring knowledge is set
aside.

TICKLER.

Nothing in this world, therefore, so easy as to be a chemist.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

And more so to be a mathematician.

NORTH.

Compare with this the condition of Moral Science. To it there is but
one subject— assuming endless modifications. One part of it is — the Pas-
sions. Love, ambition, revenge ! We give, indeed, one name to a passion,
supposed to be one in different minds. But examine that one passion in
different minds, and see where is its unity.

720 Noctes Ambrosiana. No. LXL [April,

TICKLER.

O'er the hills and far away. What say you, Hal ?

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Nothing, sir.

NORTH.

We see love in one mind a fierce, self-willed, devouring passion, that
seeks nothing but its own gratification at all consequences. In another we
see it pure, generous, and heroic, in its every height of strength sacrificing
itself to its object, or to solemn duties, and enabled by its own intense
strength to make that sacrifice. In another we see it humble and meek, the
sorrow and the solace of a gentle, patient, uncomplaining life. Is this the
same passion to which we have given the same name ?

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

Vain delusion, indeed !

NORTH.

We read the story of two men who have signalized themselves by their
giant usurpation of power over the obedience and destinies of their kind.
We call both ambitious. Yet I find Julius Caesar shedding no blood but as
a soldier in the field, dropping tears to see the pale mangled head of his
mightiest foe, and taking those, in the frankness of generous affection, to his
unmistrusting confidence, who were erelong to whet their daggers against
his life.

TICKLER.

He was a tyrant.

NORTH.

We may live—nay, not we— but Hal here—to see worse. We find an-
other to whom ambition supplies a very different heart ; whose spirit it
steels against remorse ; to whom it makes the paths of peace and of blood
alike on the way to empire, from whose own heart it shuts out peace,
sowing fear, suspicion, and hate in its place; to whom it makes the happi-
ness and life of one man and those of millions a matter of like indifference,
in the calculations of that sole arbiter of Will and Destiny. Can we think
that in the two men we have understood the passion of their ambition, be-
cause we have given it one name in both ? The truth is, Hal, that the Poets
have done great and glorious things with the Passions — the Philosophers
little— and the Metaphysicians nothing.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

In that field, reyered sir, as in others, you are born to work wonders
that shall make the name of North immortal.

NORTH.

Turn to those with whom you live, Hal, and see how the same affection
towards yourself is different in different breasts. Is intellect, is judgment,
is memory, the same ? The entire mind is different by the complex differ-
ence of the thousandfold variety in all its faculties and powers.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

" A mighty maze, but not without a plan."

NORTH.

Nay, it is different to itself. Every new passion that enters, each suc-
cessive year's longer experience of life, changes all that was before — the
whole mind, through all its feelings and all its thoughts.

TICKLER.

Aye — every mind undergoes metamorphoses more miraculous than any
sung by Naso.

[Silver Time-piece smites Ten — Enter AMBROSE with roasted
Goose, Turkey Ditto, and the accustomed etceteras,}

[Curtain drops.}

Printed by SaW'tntyxt *wd Company. P/w!'*' Work,

BLACKWOOD'S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No, CXCIV.

MAY, 1832.

VOL. XXXI.

TENNYSON'S POEMS.*

ALMOST all men, women, and
children, are poets, except those who
write verses. We shall not define
poetry, because the Cockneys have
done so j and were they to go to
church, we should be strongly tempt-
ed to break the Sabbath. But this
much we say of it, that every thing
is poetry which is not mere sensa-
tion. We are poets at all times when
our minds are makers. Now, it is
well known, that we create nine-
tenths at least of what appears to
exist externally; and that such is
somewhere about the proportion be-
tween reality and imagination. Mil-
lions of supposed matters-of-fact are
the wildest fictions — of which we
may mention merely two, the rising
and the setting of the sun. This be-
ing established, it follows that we
live, breathe, and have our being in
Poetry — it is the Life of our Life —
the heart of the mystery, which, were
it plucked out, and to beat no more,
the universe, now all written over
with symbolical characters of light,
would be at once a blank obscurely
scribbled over with dead letters; or
rather, the volume would be shut
up — and appear a huge clumsy folio
with brass clasps, bound in calf-skin,
and draperied with cobwebs. But
instead of that, the leaves of the living
Book of Nature are all fluttering in
the sunshine ; even he who runs may
read ; though they alone who sit,
stand, or lie, pondering on its pages,
behold in full the beauty and the

sublimity, which their own immor-
tal spirits create, reflected back on
them who are its authors, and felt, in
that trance, to be the spiritual sound
and colouring which vivifies and ani-
mates the face and the form of Na-
ture.

All men, women, and children,
then, are manifestly poets, except
those who write verses. But why
that exception ? Because they alone
make no use of their minds. Versi-
fiers— and we speak but of them —
are the sole living creatures that are
not also creators. The inferior ani-
mals— as we are pleased to call them,
and as indeed in some respects they
are — modify matter much in their
imaginations. Rode ye never a horse
by night through a forest? That
most poetical of quadrupeds sees a
spirit in every stump, else why by
such sudden start should he throw
his master over his ears ? The black-
bird on the tip-top of that pine-tent
is a poet, else never could his yellow
bill so salute with rapturous orisons
the reascending Sun, as he flings over
the woods a lustre again gorgeous
from the sea. And what induces
those stock-doves, think ye, to fill
the heart of the grove with soft,
deep, low, lonely, rar-away, mourn-
ful, yet happy— thunder ; what, but
Love and Joy, and Delight and De-
sire, in one word, Poetry — Poetry
that confines the universe to that
wedded pair, within the sanctuary
of the pillared shade impervious to

Poems, chiefly Lyrical, by Alfred Tennyson.
VOL. XXXI. NO. CXCIV.

London, Effinghatn Wilson, 1830.
3A

722

meridian sunbeams, and brightens
and softens into splendour and into
snow divine the plumage beautify-
ing the creatures in their bliss, as
breast to breast they croodendoo on
their shallow nest !

Thus all men, women, and child-
ren, birds, beasts, and fishes, are
poets, except versifiers. Oysters
are poets. Nobody will deny that,
who ever in the neighbourhood of
Prestonpans beheld them passion-
ately gaping, on their native bed,
for the flow of tide coming again to
awaken all their energies from the
wide Atlantic. Nor less so are snails.
See them in the dewy stillness of
eve, as they salute the crescent Dian,
with horns humbler indeed, but no
less pointed than her own. The
beetle, against the traveller borne
in heedless hum, if we knew all his
feelings in that soliloquy, might safe-
ly be pronounced a Wordsworth.

Thus are we all poets — high and
\ow — except versifiers. They, poor
creatures, are a peculiar people, im-
potent of good works. Ears have
they, but they hear not — eyes have
they, but they will not see— nay,
naturalists assert that they have
brains and spinal marrow, also or-
gans of speech; yet with all that
organization, they seem to have but
little feeling, and no thought; and
but by a feeble and monotonous fizz,
are you made aware, in the twilight,
of the useless existence of the ob-
scure ephemerals.

But we fear that we are getting
satirical, than which nothing can well
be more unbecoming the character
of a Christian : So let us be serious.
Many times a month do we hint to
all such insects, that Maga looks
upon them as midges. But still will
they be seeking to insinuate them-
selves through her long deep veil,
which nunlike she Avears at gloam-
ing ; and can they complain of cruel-
ty, if she brush them away with her
lily hand, or compress them with
her snow-white fingers into unlin-
gering death ? There is no such pri-
vileged place in this periodical world
now as the fugitive Poets' Corner.
All its regions are open to the in-
spired ; but the versifier has no spot
now wherein to expand his small
mealy wings ; and you see him sit-
ting disconsolate as one of those
animalculse, who, in their indolent

Tennyson's Poems.

[May,

brownness, are neither flies, bees, nor
wasps, like a spot upon dandelion
or bunweed, till he surprises you by
proving that he has wings, or some-
thing of that sort, by a feeble fare-
well flight in among nettles some
yards off, where he takes refuge in
eternal oblivion.

It is not easy to find out what sets
people a-versifying ; especially now-
a-days, when the slightest symptoms
of there being something amiss with
them in that way, immediately sub-
ject them not only to the grossest
indignities, but to the almost certain
loss of bread. We could perhaps
in some measure understand it, were
they rich, or even tolerably well-off;
in the enjoyment, let us suppose, of
small annuities, or of hereditary
kail-yards, with a well in the corner,
overshadowed with a bourtree bush ;
but they are almost always, if in at
the knees, out at the elbows; and
their stockings seem to have been
compiled originally by some myste-
rious process of darning upon no-
thing as a substratum. Now nothing
more honourable than virtuous po-
verty; but then we expect to see
him with a shuttle or a spade in his
hand, weaving " seventeen hunder
linen," or digging drains, till the
once dry desert is all one irrigated
meadow, green as the summer woods
that fling their shadows o'er its hay-
cocks. He is an insufferable sight,
alternately biting his nails and his
pen, and blotching whitey-bro wn with
hieroglyphics that would have puz-
zled Champollion. Versifying ope-
ratives are almost always half-witted
creatures, addicted to drinking ; and
sell their songs for alms. Persons
with the failing, in what are some-
times called the middle-classes, or
even in more genteel or fashionable
life, such as the children of clerks of
various kinds, say to canal or coal com-
panies, are slow to enter upon any
specific profession, trusting to their
genius, which their parents regard
with tears, sometimes of joy, and
sometimes of rage, according as their
prophetic souls see the brows of
their offspring adorned with laurels,
or their breeches with tatters. Sen-
sible parents crush this propensity
in the bud, and ruthlessly bind the
Apollos apprentices to Places; but
the weaker ones enclose contribu-
tions to Christopher North, as if they

1832.]

Tennyson's Poems.

7-23

had never heard of his crutch,
and thus is the world defrauded of
many a tailor. What becomes of all
the versifiers when they get old — if,
indeed, they ever do get old — we ne-
ver yet heard any plausible conjec-
ture; though we have ourselves seen
some in middle age, walking about,
each by himself, looking as if he were
sole survivor of the Seven Young
Men, with his unmeaning face, and
his umbrella under his arm, though
the dust may have been lying three
inches thick, and laughing to scorn
the thin-spurting showers of the
water-carts, that seemed sent there
rather to raise than to lay the ghost
of a dry summer. 'Tis said that
from this class is drawn the supply
of theatrical critics.

Now and then, by some felicity of
fortune, a versifier enjoys a tempo-
rary revenge on stepdame Nature,
and for a while is seen fluttering
like a butterfly among birds ; or ra-
ther heard cheeping like a mouse
among a choir of nightingales. Peo-
ple take it into their heads to insist
upon it that he is a poet. They so-
licit subscriptions, get him into print,
and make interest with newspaper
editors to allow him to review him-
self twice a-week through the sea-
son. These newspapers he files;
and binds the folio. He abuses
Blackwood, and is crowned King of
all the Albums.

We had no intention of being so,
but suspect that we have been some-
what, severe; so let us relieve all
lads of feeling and fancy, by assuring
them that hitherto we have been
sneering but at sumphs and God-h el p-
you-silly-ones, and that our hearts
overflow with kindness towards all
the children of genius. Not a few
promising boys have lately attempt-
ed poetry both in the east and west
of Scotland, and we have listened
not undelighted to the music. Stod-
,dart and Aytoun — he of the Death-
Wake, and he of Poland — are gra-
ciously regarded by Old Christopher;
and their volumes — presentation- co-
pies— have been placed among the
essays of those gifted youths, of
whom in riper years much may be
confidently predicted of fair and
good. Many of the small poems of
John Wright, an industrious weaver,
somewhere in Ayrshire, are beauti-
ful, and have received the praise of

Sir Walter himself, who, though kind
to all aspirants, praises none to whom
nature has not imparted some por-
tion of the creative power of ge-
nius.

One of John's strains we have com-
mitted to memory — or rather, with-
out trying to do so, got by heart; and
as it seems to us very mild and
touching, here it is.

THE WRECKED MARINER.

Stay, proud bird of the shore !

Carry my last breath with thee to the cliff —

Where waits our shattered skiff,

One that shall mark nor it nor lover more.

Fan, with thy plumage bright,

Her heaving heart to rest, as thou dost mine,

And, gently to divine

The tearful tale, flap out her beacon light.

Again swoop out to sea,

With lone and lingering wail, then lay thy

head,

As thou thyself wert dead,
Upon her breast, that she may weep for me.

Now, let her bid false Hope
For ever hide her beam, nor trust again
The peace-bereaving strain —
Life has, but still far hence, choice flowers
to crop.

Oh ! bid her not repine,

And deem my loss too bitter to be borne ;

Yet all of passion scorn,

But the mild, deepening memory of mine.

Thou art away ! — sweet wind,

Bear the last trickling tear-drop on your

wing,

And o'er her bosom fling
The love-fraught peai'ly shower, till rest it

find.

England ought to be producing
some young poets now, that there
may be no dull interregnum when
the old shall have passed away ; and
pass away many of them soon must
—their bodies, which are shadows,
but their spirits, which are lights —
they will burn for ever— till time be
no more. It is thought by many that
almost all the poetical genius which
has worked such wonders in our day,
was brought into power — it having
been given but in capacity to the
Wordsworths, and Scotts, and By-
rons — by the French Revolution.
Through the storm and tempest, the
thunder and the lightning, which ac-

724 Tennyson's Poems.

companied that great moral and in-
tellectual earthquake, the strong-
winged spirits soared ; and found in
their bosom, or in the " deep serene"
above all that turmoil, in the imper-
turbable heavens, the inspiration and
the matter of immortal song. If it
were so, then shall not the next age
want its mighty poets. For we see
" the deep-fermenting tempest brew-
ed in the grim evening sky." On the
beautiful green grass of England may
there glisten in the sun but the pear-
ly dewdrops ; may they be brushed
away but by the footsteps of Labour
issuing from his rustic lodge. But
Europe, long ere bright heads are
grey, will see blood poured out like
water j and there will be the noise
of many old establishments quaking
to their foundations, or rent asunder,
or overthrown. Much that is sacred
will be preserved ; and, after a trou-
bled time, much will be repaired and
restored, as it has ever been after
misrule and ruin. Then — and haply
not till then — will again be heard the
majestic voice of song from the reno-
vated nations. Yet, if the hum which
now we hear be indeed that of the
March of Intellect, that voice may as-
cend from the earth in peace. Intel-
lect delights in peace, which it pro-
duces ; but many is the mean power
that apes the mighty, and often for
a while the cheat is successful — the
counterfeit is crowned with conquest
— and hollow hymns hail victories
that issue in defeats, out of which
rise again to life all that was most
lovely and venerable, to run a new
career of triumph.

But we are getting into the clouds,
and our wish is to keep jogging along
the turnpike road. So let all this
pass for an introduction to our Arti-
cle—and let us abruptly join com-
pany with the gentleman whose name
stands at the head of it, Mr Alfred
Tennyson, of whom the world, we
presume, yet knows but little or
nothing, whom his friends call a
Phoenix, but who, we hope, will not
be dissatisfied with us, should we
designate him merely a Swan.

One of the saddest misfortunes
that can befall a young poet, is to be
the Pet of a Coterie ; and the very
saddest of all, if in Cocktieydom.
Such has been the unlucky lot of
Alfred Tennyson. He has been ele-
vated to the throne of Little Britain,

[May,

and sonnets were showered over his
coronation from the most remote re-
gions of his empire,even from Hamp-
stead Hill. Eulogies more elaborate
than the architecture of the costliest
gingerbread, have been built up into
panegyrical piles, in commemoration
of the Birth-day ; and 'twould be a
pity indeed with one's crutch to
smash the gilt battlements, white too
with sugar as with frost, and be-
gemmed with comfits. The beset-
ting sin of all periodical criticism,
and now-a-days there is no other, is
boundless extravagance of praise ;
but none splash it on like the trowel-
men who have been bedaubing Mi-
Tennyson. There is something wrong,
however, with the compost. It won't
stick; unseemly cracks deform the
surface ; it falls off piece by piece
ere it has dried in the sun, or it hard-
ens into blotches ; and the worship-
pers have but discoloured and disfi-
gured their Idol. The worst of it is,
that they make the Bespattered not
only feel, but look ridiculous ; he
seems as absurd as an Image in a tea-
garden; and, bedizened with faded
and fantastic garlands, the public
cough on being told he is a Poet, for
he has much more the appearance
of a Post.

The Englishman's Magazine ought
not to have died ; for it threatened
to be a very pleasant periodical. An
Essay " on the Genius of Alfred
Tennyson," sent it to the grave. The
superhuman — nay, supernatural —
pomposity of that one paper, incapa-
citated the whole work for living one
day longer in this unceremonious
world. The solemnity with which
the critic approached the object of
his adoration, and the sanctity with
which he laid his offerings on the
shrine, were too much for our irreli-
gious age. The Essay " on the ge-
nius of Alfred Tennyson," awoke
a general guffaw, and it expired in
convulsions. Yet the Essay was ex-
ceedingly well-written — as well as if
it had been " on the Genius of Sir
Isaac Newton." Therein lay the mis-
take. Sir Isaac discovered the law
of gravitation ; Alfred had but writ-
ten some pretty verses, and mankind
were not prepared to set him among
the stars. But that he has genius is
proved by his being at this moment
alive ; for had he not, he must have
breathed his last under that critique,

1832.]

Tennyson* s Poems.

725

The spirit of life must indeed be
strong within him ; for he has out-
lived a narcotic dose administered
to him by a crazy charlatan in the
Westminster, and after that he may
sleep in safety with a pan of char-
coal.

But the Old Man must see justice
done to this ingenious lad, and save
him from his worst enemies, his
friends. Never are we so happy —
nay, 'tis now almost our only happi-
ness— as when scattering flowers in
the sunshine that falls from the yet
unclouded sky on the green path
prepared by gracious Nature for the
feet of enthusiastic youth. Yet we
scatter them not in too lavish"profu-
sion; and we take care that the
young poet shall see, along with
the shadow of the spirit that cheers
him on, that, too, of the accompany-
ing crutch. Were we not afraid that
our style might be thought to wax
too figurative, we should say that
Alfred is a promising plant ; and that
the day may come when, beneath
sun and shower, his genius may
grow up and expand into a stately
tree, embowering a solemn shade
within its wide circumference, while
the daylight lies gorgeously on its
crest, seen from afar in glory — itself
a grove.

But that day will never come, if
he hearken not to our advice, and, as
far as his own nature will permit,
regulate by it the movements of his
genius. This may perhaps appear,
at first sight or hearing, not a little
unreasonable on our partj but not
so, if Alfred will but lay our words
to heart, and meditate on their spi-
rit. We desire to see him prosper ;
and we predict fame as the fruit of
obedience. If he disobey, he assu-
redly goes to oblivion.

At present he has small power over
the common feelings and thoughts of
men. His feebleness is distressing at
all times when he makes an appeal
to their ordinary sympathies. And
* the reason is, that he fears to look
such sympathies boldly in the face,
— and will be — metaphysical. What
all the human race see and feel, he
seems to think cannot be poetical ;
he is not aware of the transcendant
and eternal grandeur of common-
place and all-time truths, which are
the staple of all poetry. All human
beings see the same light in heaven

and in woman's eyes ; arid the great
poets put it into language which ra-
ther records than reveals, spiritual-
izing while it embodies. They shun
not the sights of common earth — wit-
ness Wordsworth. But beneath the
magic of their eyes the celandine
grows a star or a sun. What beauty
is breathed over the daisy by loving-
ly blessing it because it is so com-
mon ! " Sweet flower! whose home
is every where !" In like manner,
Scott, when eulogizing our love of
our native land, uses the simplest
language, and gives vent to the sim-
plest feelings —

Lives there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land ?

What less— what more, could any
man say ? Yet translate these three
lines — not omitting others that ac-
company them equally touching —
into any language, living or dead—
and they will instantly be felt by all
hearts, savage or civilized, to be the
most exquisite poetry. Of such
power, conscious, as it kindles, of its
dominion over men, because of their
common humanity, would that there
were finer and more frequent exam-
ples in the compositions — otherwise
often exquisite— of this young poet.
Yet two or three times he tries it
on — thus,

NATIONAL SONG.

There is no land like England,

Where'er the light of day he ;
There are no hearts like English hearts,

Such hearts of oak as they be.
There is no land like England,

Where'er the light of day be;
There are no men like Englishmen,

So tall and bold as they be.

CHOKDS — For the French the Pope may

shrive 'em,

For the devil a whit we heed 'em :
As for the French, God speed 'em

Unto their heart's desire,
And the merry devil drive 'em

Through the water and the fire.
FULL CH.— Our glory is our freedom,

We lord it o'er the sea ;
We are the sons of freedom,

We are free.

* * * * > f&itf

There is no land like England, M srij

Where'er the light of day be;
There are no wives like English wives,
So fair and chaste as they be,

726

There is no land like England,

Where'er the light of day be ;
There are no maids like English maids,

So beautiful as they be.
CHOR. — For the French, &c.

A national song that could be cha-
racteristically sung but by — Tims.
Tims, too, would be grand in the
following war-song — and an encore
would assuredly be called for in a
voice of thunder sufficient to sour
small-beer.

ENGLISH WAR-SONG.

WHO fears to die ? Who fears to die ?
Is there any here who fears to die ?
He shall find what he fears ; and none shall
grieve

For the man who fears to die ;
But the withering scorn of the many shall
cleave

To the man who fears to die.
CHOR.— Shout for England !
Ho ! for England !
George for England !
Merry England !
England for ayel

Think of Tims going off the stage,
with right arm uplifted, shouting
so—

There standeth our ancient enemy ;

Will he dare to battle with the free?
Spur along ! spur amain ! charge to the fight ;

Charge ! charge to the fight !
Hold up the Lion of England on high !
Shout for God and our right !

CHOR. — Shout for England, £c.

Miserable indeed.

These are almost the only lines in
the volume in which Mr Tennyson
condescends to be patriotic; and
they do not by resemblance remind
us of Tyrtseus. It would not be
safe to recite them by the sea-shore,
on an invasion of the French. Yet
our friend is a lover of liberty, as he
leaves us to gather from the follow-
ing strain, which must have been
composed before he had acquired
much skill in the " sedentary art of
penmanship," or experienced the
painful awkwardness which every
man-child must pass through on his
first entrance into breeches. Samuel
Johnson, long before he was a doc-
tor, and but in his fourth year, indi-
ted some stanzas to a duck, after
which " We are Free" will, we fear,
be read at a disadvantage. Here is
the whole concern :

Tennyson's Poems.

(May,

WE ARE FREE.

The winds, as at their hour of birth,

Leaning upon the ridged sea,
Breathed low around the rolling earth

With mellow preludes, " We are free."
The streams through many a lilied row

Down-carolling to the crisped sea,
Low-tinkled with a bell-like flow

Atween the blossoms, " We are free."

That is drivel.

But there is more dismal drivel
even than that — and as seeing is said
to be believing — here it is.

LOST HOPE.

You cast to ground the hope which once was

mine ;

But did the while your harsh decree de-
plore,
Embalming with sweet tears the vacant

shrine,

My heart, where Hope had been and was
no more.

So on an oaken sprout

A goodly acorn grew ;
But winds from heaven shook the acorn
out,

And filled the cup with dew.
But there is more dismal drivel
even than that — and as seeing is be-
lieving— here it is,

LOVE, PRIDE, AND FORGETFULXESS.

ERE yet ray heart was sweet Lbve's tomb,

Love laboured honey busily.

I was the hive, and love the bee,

My heart the honeycomb.

One very dark and chilly night

Pride came beneath and held a light.

The cruel vapours went through all,

Sweet Love was withered in his cell ;

Pride took Love's sweets, and by a spell

Did change them into gal! ;

And Memory though fed by Pride

Did wax so thin on gall,

A while she scarcely lived at all.

What marvel that she died ?

The only excuse for such folly —
and it is so bad a one as to be indeed
an aggravation of the guilt — is, that
it is a poor imitation of a wretched
model mouldered away to dust in a
former age.

The worst of all the above is, that
they betray a painful and impotent
straining after originality — an aver-
sion from the straight-forward and
strong simplicity of nature and truth.
Such cold conceits — devoid of inge-
nuity— would seem to us of evil
omen— but for our faith in genius,

1832.] Tennyson'

which can shake itself free even from
the curse of Cockney ism, under the
timeous administration of the exor-
cising crutch. But for that faith, we
should have no hope of the author
of the following sonnet:

Poems.

727

SONNET.

Shall the hag Evil die with child of Good,
Or propagate again her loathed kind,
Thronging the cells of the diseased mind,
Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered

brood,

Though hourly pastured on the salient blood ?
Oh ! that the wind which bloweth cold or

heat

Would shatter and o'erbear the brazen beat
Of their broad vans, and in the solitude
Of middle space confound them, and blow

back
Their wild cries down their cavern-throats,

and slake
With points of blast-borne hail their heated

eyne !
So their wan limbs no more might come

between

The moon and the moon's reflex in the night,
Nor blot with floating shades the solar light.

In cases of rare inspiration, the
two gifts may go together ; but most
commonly it is one thing to be idio-
tic and another oracular. Not thus
spoke the oaks of Dodona; we
should expect a more sensible re-
sponse from one of Sir Henry Steu-
art's thirty-times-transplanted syca-
mores, that are no sooner in the
ground than they are out again, and
have not a single small spot on all
the estate of Allanton they can call
their own.

Yet Mr Tennyson is manifestly
prouder of his lays, than of his laws
was Alfred the Great; and he is ready
with his shafts of satire, tipped with
fire, and barbed with fury, to shoot
all that sneer at his songs.

THE POET'S MIND.

VEX not thou the poet's mind

With thy shallow wit :
Vex not thou the poet's mind,
, For thou canst not fathom it.
Clear and bright it should be ever,
Flowing like a crystal river ;
Bright as light, and clear as wind :
Clear as summer mountain-streams,
Bright as the inwoven beams,
Which beneath their crisping sapphire
In the midday, floating o'er
The golden sands, make evermore
To a blossom-starred shore.
Hence away, unhallowed laughter ! -

Darkbrowed sophist, come not anear ;

The poet's mind is holy ground ;
Hollow smile and frozen sneer

Come not here.
Holy water will I pour
Into every spicy flower
Of the laurel shrubs that hedge it round.
The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer.
In your eye there is death,
There is frost in your breath
Which would blight the plants.
Where you stand you cannot hear
From the groves within
The wild bird's din.
In the heart of the garden the merry bird

chants,

It would fall to the ground if you came in.
In the middle leaps a fountain
Like sheet lightning,
Ever brightening
With a low melodious thunder ;
All day and all night it is ever drawn
From the brain of the purple mountain
Which stands in the distance yonder :
It springs on a level of bowery lawn,
And the mountain draws it from heaven

above,

And it sings a song of undying love ;
And yet, though its voice be so clear and full,
You would never hear it — your ears are so

dull;
So keep where you are : you are foul with

sin;
It would shrink to the earth if you came in.

Most of that is silly — some of it pret-
tyish— scarcely one line of it all true
poetry; but as it has been admired,
we quote it entire, that, should we
be in error, the Poet may triumph
over the critic, and Christopher
North stand rebuked before the su-
perior genius of Alfred Tennyson.

Our young friend is a philosopher
— sometimes a crying, sometimes a
laughing one — and sometimes " says
a smile to a tear on the cheek of my
dear;" but what it says can only be
given in its own words. We offer to
match the following composition for
a cool hundred, against any thing
alive of the same inches — and give a
stone.

THE " HOW" AND THE " WHY."

I am any man's suitor,
If any will be my tutor :
Some say this life is pleasant,

Some think it speedeth fast :
In time there is no present,
In eternity no future,
In eternity 110 past.

We laugh, we cry, we are born, we die,
Who will riddle me the hoiv and the why ?

728 Tennyson's Poems.

The bulrush nods unto its brother,
The wheatears whisper to each other :
What is it they say ? What do they there ?
Why two and two make four ? Why round

is not square ?
Why the rock stands still, and the light

clouds fly ?
Why the heavy oak groans, and the white

willows sigh ?

Why deep is not high, and high is not deep ?
Whether we wake, or whether we sleep ?
Whether we sleep, or whether we die ?
How you are you ? Why I am I ?
Who will riddle me the how and the why 9

The world is somewhat ; it goes on some-
how ;

But what is the meaning of then and now ?

I feel there is something ; but how and what ?

I know there is somewhat ; but what and
why?

I cannot tell if that somewhat be I.

[May,

The little bird pipeth — ( why ? why ?'
In the summer woods when the sun falls low ;
And the great bird sits on the opposite bough,
And stares in his face, and shouts, ' how ?

how ?'
And the black owl scuds down the mellow

twilight,
Aad chaunts, ' how ? how ?' the whole of

the night.

Why the life goes when the blood is spilt ?
What the life is ? where the soul may lie ?
Why a church is with a steeple built ;
And a house with a chimney-pot ?
Who will riddle me the how and the what ?
Who will riddle me the what and the why ?

Mr Tennyson opines, that in these
verses he displays his genius before
an admiring, a delighted, and an in-
structed world, in the garb of an or-
thodox philosophy venturing for a
while sportively to give utterance to
its sense of the nothingness of all
human knowledge, which is but an-
other word for our ignorance of the
mysteries of creation. But it is from
beginning to end a clumsy and un-
wieldy failure, and shews no fancy
in the region of metaphysics; though
it is plain from many a page that he
has deluded himself, and suffered
others to delude him, into the belief
that there lies his especial province.
To some of his queries Thomas
Aquinas himself, or any other ce-
lestial doctor, might be puzzled to
give a satisfactory answer; but the
first little boy or girl he may meet will
set his mind at rest on the last two,
though no man who has ever walked

the streets of Edinburgh in a high
wind, will be able to bring his mind
to believe in the propriety — what-
ever he may think of the necessity —
of a house with a chimney-pot, for
which there is no substitute like an
Old Woman.

Mr Tennyson's admirers say he
excels wondrously in personating
mermen and mermaids, fairies, et id
f/enus omne, inhabiting sea-caves and
forest glades, " in still or stormy
weather," the " gay creatures of the
element," be that element air, earth,
fire, or water, so that the denizens
thereof be but of " imagination all
compact." We beg of you to hear,
for a few sentences, the quack in the
Westminster. " Our author has the
secret of the transmigration of the
soul. He can cast his own spirit into
any living thing, real or imaginary.
Scarcely Vishnu himself becomes in-
carnate more easily, frequently, or
perfectly. And there is singular re-
finement, as well as solid truth, in
his impersonations, whether they be
of inferior creatures, or of such ele-
mental beings as sirens, as mermen,
and mermaidens. He does not mere-
ly assume their external shapes, and
exhibit his own mind masquerading.
He takes their senses, feelings, nerves,
and brain, along with their names and
local habitations ; still it is himself
in them, modified but not absorbed
by their peculiar constitution and
mode of being. In the ' Merman,'
one seems to feel the principle of
thought injected by a strong volition
into the cranium of the finny worthy,
and coming under all the influences,
as thinking principles do, of the phy-
sical organization to which it is for
the time allied : for a moment the
identification is complete ; and then
a consciousness of contrast springs
up between the reports of external
objects brought to the mind by the
senses, and those which it has been
accustomed to receive, and this con-
sciousness gives to the description a
most poetical colouring." We could
quote another couple of critics — but
as the force of nature could no farther
go, and as to make one fool she joined
the other two, we keep to the West-
minster. It is a perfect specimen of
the super-hyperbolical ultra-extrava-
gance of outrageous Cockney eulogis-
tic foolishness, with which not even a
quantity of common sense less than

1832.]

Tenny sorts Poems.

nothing has been suffered, for an in-
divisible moment of time, to mingle ;
the purest mere matter of moonshine
ever mouthed by an idiot-lunatic, sla-
vering in the palsied dotage of the
extremest superannuation ever in-
flicted on a being, long ago, perhaps,
in some slight respects and low de-
grees human, but now sensibly and
audibly reduced below the level of
the Pongos. " Coming under all the
influences, as thinking principles do,
of the physical Organization to which
it is for the time allied !" There is a
bit of Cockney materialism for you !
" The principle of thought injected
by a strong volition into the cranium
of the finny worthy !" Written like
the Son of a Syringe. O the specu-
lative sumph ! 'Tis thus that disho-
nest Cockneys would fain pass off in
their own vile slang, and for their
own viler meaning, murdered and
dismembered, the divine Homeric
philosophy of the Isle of Circe.
Was not Jupiter still Jove — aye, every
inch the thunderous king of heaven,
whose throne was Olympus — while
to languishing Leda the godhead
seemed a Swan '? In the eyes of a
grazier, who saw but Smithfield, he
would have been but a bull in the
Ptape of Europa. Why, were the
Cockney critic's principle of thought
injected by a strong volition into the
skull of a donkey — has he vanity to
imagine, for a moment, that he would
be a more consummate ass than he
nowbrays? Orif into that of theGreat
Glasgow Gander, that his quackery
would be more matchless still ? O
no, no, no ! He would merely be
" assuming their external shapes ;"
but his asinine and anserine natural
endowments would all remain un-
changed— a greater goose than he
now is, depend upon it, he could
riot be, were he for a tedious life-
time to keep waddling his way
through this weary world on web-
feet, and with uplifted wings and
outstretched neck, hissing the long-
red-round-cloaked beggar off the
common ; a superior ass he might in
no ways prove, though, untethered
in the lane where gipsy gang had
encraal'd, he were left free to roam
round the canvass walls, eminent
among all the " animals that chew
the thistle/'
Here is most of the poem which

729

" proves that our author has the
secret of the transmigration of the
soul."

Who would be
A merman bold
Sitting alone,
Singing alone
Under the sea,
With a crown of gold,

On a throne ?

I would be a merman bold ;
I would sit and sing the whole of the day ;
I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power;
But at night I would roam abroad and play
With the mermaids in and out of the rocks,
Dressing their hair with the white seaflower,
And holding them back by their flowing

locks,

I would kiss them often under the sea,
And kiss them again till they kissed me

Laughingly, laughingly ;
And then we would wander away, away,.
To the pale green seagroves straight and high,
Chasing each other merrily,
All night, merrily, merrily :
But I would throw to them back in mine
Turkis and agate and almondine.
Then leaping out upon them unseen
I would kiss them often under the sea,
And kiss them again till they kissed me
Laughingly, laughingly.

'Tis, after all, but a sorry affair —
and were fifty of the 'o< ?roxx<j/ to
compose prize verses on " the Mer-
man," Oxford and Cambridge must
be changed for the worse since our
days, if two dozen copies did not
prove about as bad as this — one do-
zen rather worse — one dozen far bet-
ter, while the remaining brace, to the
exclusion of Mr Tennyson's attempt,
had the prize divided between them,
the authors having been found enti-
tled to an«quality of immortal fame.
The pervading character of the verses
is distinguished silliness ; and Alfred
cuts a foolish figure, " modified but
not absorbed by the peculiar consti-
tution and mode of being" of a mer-
man. He kisses like a cod-fish, and,
we humbly presume, he is all the
while stark-naked under the sea;
though, for the sake of decency, we
recommend next dip a pair of flan-
nel drawers. Poetry and criticism
must be at a low ebb indeed on the
shores of the Thames. Should he
persist in writing thus to the end of
the Dean and Chapter, Alfred Ten-
nyson may have a niche in the West-
minster Review, but never in West-
minster Abbey,

730

Tennyson's Poems.

[May,

" The Mermaid," we are told by
the Tailor's Trump, " is beautifully
discriminated and most delicately
drawn. She is the younger sister of
Undine; or Undine herself before
she had a soul." Here is a specimen
of the sea-nymph without a soul, who
is younger sister to herself, that is
Undine. Her mother ought to keep
a sharp look out upon her ; for she
is of an amorous temperament, and
a strong Anti-Mai thusian.

And all the mermen under the sea
Would feel their immortality
Die in their hearts for the love of me.
But at night I would wander away, away,

I would fling on each side my low-flowing

locks,
And lightly vault from the throne and play

With the mermen in and out of the rocks ;
We would run to and fro, and hide and seek,

On the broad seawolds i' the crimson shells,
Whose silvery spikes are uighest the sea.
But if any came near I would call, and shriek,
And adown the steep like a wave I would
leap,

From the diamond ledges that jut from

the dells ;

For I would not be kist by all who would list,
Of the bold merry mermen under the sea ;
They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter

me,

In the purple twilights under the sea ;
But the king of them all would carry me,
Woo me, and win me, and marry me,
In the branching jaspers under the sea.

So much for Mermen and Mer-
maidens, and for the style in which
the Westminster Pet of the Fancy
" takes their senses, feelings, nerves,
and brain, along with their local ha-
bitations and their names." " And
the Sirens, — who could resist these
Sea-Fairies, as the author prefers
calling them ?" And pray what may
be their alluring enticements '?

Drop the oar,
Leap ashore,
Fly no more !
Whither away wi' the sail ! whither away

wi' the oar ?
Day and night to the billow the fountain

calls •
Down shower the gambling waterfalls

From wandering over the lea ;
They freshen the silvery-crimson shells ;
And thick with white bells the clover-hill

swells

High over the full- toned sea.
Merrily carol the revelling gales
Over the islands free :

From the green seabanks the rose down-
trails

To the happy brimmed sea.
Come hither, come hither, and be our lords,

For merry brides .are we :
We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet

words.

Oh listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten
With pleasure and love and revelry ;
Oh listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten,
When the sharp clear twang of the golden

chords

Runs up the ridged sea.
Ye will not find -so happy a shore,
Weary mariners ! all the world o'er ;

Oh ! fly no more !
Harken ye, harken ye, sorrow shall darken

ye,

Danger and trouble and toil no more ;
Whither away ?

Drop the oar ;
Hither away,

Leap ashore ;

Oh fly no more — no more.
Whither away, whither away, whither away

with the sail and the oar ?
Shakspeare— Spenser— Milton-
Wordsworth — Coleridge —The Et-
trick Shepherd — Allan Cunning-
hame, and some others, have loved,
and been beloved by mermaidens,
sirens, sea and land fairies, and re-
vealed to the eyes of us who live in
the thick atmosphere of this "dim
spot which men call earth," all the
beautiful wonders of subterranean
and submarine climes— and of the
climes of Nowhere, lovelier than
them all. It pains us to think, that
with such names we cannot yet rank
that of Alfred Tennyson. We shall
soon see that he possesses feeling,
fancy, imagination, genius. But in
the preternatural lies not the sphere
in which he excels. Much disap-
pointed were we to find him weak
where we expected him strong; yet
we are willing to believe that his
failure has been from " affectations."
In place of trusting to the natural
flow of his own fancies, he has fol-
lowed some vague abstract idea,
thin and delusive, which has escaped
in mere words — words — words. Yet
the Young Tailor in the Westminster
thinks he could take the measure of
the merman, and even make a ri-
ding-habit for the sirens to wear on
gala days, when disposed for "some
horseback." 'Tis indeed a jewel of
a Snip. His protegee has indited
two feeble and fantastic strains enti-

1832.]

Tennyson's Poems.

tied " Nothing will Die," " All things
will Die." And them, Parsnip Ju-
nior, without the fear of the shears
before his eyes, compares with
L' Allegro and II Penseroso of Mil-
ton, saying, that in Alfred's " there
is not less truth, and perhaps more
refined observation !" That comes
of sitting from childhood cross-leg-
ged on a board beneath a sky-
light,

The Young Tailor can with diffi-
culty keep his seat with delight,
when talking of Mr Tennyson's de-
scriptions of the sea. " Tis barba-
rous," quoth he, " to break such a
piece of coral for a specimen ;" and
would fain cabbage the whole lump,
with the view of placing it among
other rarities, such as bits of Der-
byshire spar and a brace of manda-
rins, on the chimney-piece of the
shew-parlour in which he notches
the dimensions of his visitors. So
fired is his imagination, that he be-
holds in a shred of green fustian a
swatch of the multitudinous sea;
and on tearing a skreed, thinks he
hears him roaring. But Mr Tenny-
son should speak of the sea so as to
rouse the souls of sailors, rather than
the soles of tailors — the enthusiasm
of the deck, rather than of the board.
Unfortunately, he seems never to
have seen a ship, or, if he did, to have
forgotten it. The vessel in which
the landlubbers were drifting, when
the Sea- Fairies salute them "with a
song, must have been an old tub of
a thing, unfit even for a transport.
Such a jib! In the cut of her main-
sail you smoke the old table-cloth.
To be solemn — Alfred Tennyson
is as poor on the sea as Barry
Cornwall — and, of course, calls him
a serpent. They both write like
people who, on venturing upon the
world of waters in a bathing machine,
would ensure their lives by a cork-
jacket. Barry swims on the surface
of the Great Deep like a feather;
Alfred dives less after the fashion of
a duck than a bell ; but the one sees
few lights, the other few shadows,
that are not seen just as well by an
oyster-dredger. But the soul of the
true sea-poet doth undergo a sea-
change, soon as he sees Blue Peter;
and is off in the gig,
While bending back, away they pull,
With measured strokes most beautiful —

There goes the Commodore !

731

" Our author having the secret of
the transmigration of the soul,"
passes, like Indur, into the bodies of
various animals, and

Three will I mention dearer than the
rest,

the Swan, the Grashopper, and the
Owl. The Swan is dying; and as
we remember hearing Hartley Cole-
ridge praise the lines, they must be
fine ; though their full meaning be
to us like the moon " hid in her va-
cant interlunar cave.'' But Hartley,
who is like the river Wye, a wan-
derer through the woods, is aye
haunted with visions of the beauti-
ful ; and let Alfred console himself
by that reflection, for the absent syjn-
pathy of Christopher. As for the
Grashopper, Alfred, in that green
grig, is for a while merry as a crick-
et, and chirps and chirrups, though
with less meaning, with more mono-
tony, than that hearth-loving insect,
who is never so happy, you know,
as when in the neighbourhood of a
baker's oven. He says to himself
as Tithon, though he disclaims that
patronymic,

Thou art a mailed warrior, in youth and
strength complete.

a line liable to two faults ; first, ab-
surdity, and, second, theft ; for the
mind is unprepared for the exagge-
ration of a grashopper into a Tem-
plar ; and Wordsworth, looking at a
beetle through the wonder-working
glass of a wizard, beheld

A mailed angel on a battle-day.

But Tennyson out- Words worths
Wordsworth, and pursues the knight,
surnamed Longshanks, into the fields
of chivalry.

Arm'd cap-a-pie,
Full fain to see ;
Unknowing fear,
Undreading loss,
A gallant cavalier,
Sans peur et sans reproche,
In sunlight and in shadow,

THE BAYARD OF THE MEADOW ! !

Conceived and executed in the spi-
rit of the celebrated imitation —
" Dilly— dilly Duckling ! Come and
be killed !" But Alfred is greatest
as an Owl.

SONG. — THE OWL.

When the cats run home and light
And dew is cold upon the ground,

732

And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whining sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round ;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

When merry milkmaids click the latch,

And rarely smells the new mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay :
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

SECOND SONG. TO THE SAME.

Thy tuwhits are lulled, I wot,
Thy tuwhoos of yesternight,
Which upon the dark afloat,
So took echo with delight,
So took echo with delight,

That her voice untuneful grown,
Wears all day a fainter tone.

I would mock thy chant anew ;

But I cannot mimic it,
Not a whit of thy tuwhoo,
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit,
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit,
With a lengthened loud halloo,
Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o.

All that he wants is to be shot,
stuffed, and stuck into a glass-case,
to be made immortal in a museum.

But, mercy onus! Alfred becomes
a — Kraken ! Leviathan, " wallowing
unwieldy, enormous in his gait," he
despises, as we would a minnow;
his huge ambition will not suffer him
to be " very like a whale ;" he must
be a — Kraken. And such a Kraken,
too, as would have astounded Pon-
toppidan.

THE KRAKEN.

Below the thunders of the upper deep,
Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep,
The Kraken sleepeth : faintest sunlights flee
About his shadowy sides : above him swell
Huge sponges of millennial growth and

height; ^ *

And far away into the sickly light,
From many a wondrous grot and secret cell
Unnumbered and enormous polypi
Winnow with giant fins the slumbering

green. .

There hath he lain for ages, and will lie,
Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep,
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep ;
Then once by man and angels to be seen,
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface

die.

The gentle reader who under-
stands that sonnet, will perhaps have

Tennysorfs Poems.

[May,

the goodness to interpret for us the
following oracular sentence, which
from childhood has been to us a
great mystery. — " An old horse came
in to be shaved ; curse you, where's
the suds ? The estate was entailed to
male heirs ; and poor Mrs Molly lost
all her apple-dumplings."

Thin as is this volume we are now
reviewing, and sparse the letterpress
on its tiny pages, 'twould yet be easy
to extract from it much more un-
meaningness; but having shewn by
gentle chastisement that we love Al-
fred Tennyson, let us now shew by
judicious eulogy that we admire
him ; and, by well-chosen specimens
of his fine faculties, that he is worthy
of our admiration.

Odes to Memory are mostly mum-
meries; but not so is the Ode to
Memory breathed by this young
poet. In it, Memory and Imagina-
tion, like two angels, lead him by
the hands back to the bowers of
paradise. All the finest feelings and
the finest faculties of his soul, are
awakened under that heavenly gui-
dance, as the " green light" of early
life again blesses his eyes; and he
sees that the bowers of paradise
are built on this common earth,
that they are the very bushes near
his father's house, where his boy-
hood revelled in the brightening
dawn. We have many quotations
yet to make — and therefore cannot
give the whole ode, but the half of
it ; and none will deny, all will feel,
that, with perhaps the exception of
some harmless mannerisms- affecta-
tions we shall not call them— the
lines are eminently beautiful.

.tf -/rr

ODE TO MEMORY.

Come forth, I charge thee, arise,

Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes !

Thou comest not with shows of flaunting

vines

Unto mine inner eye,
Divinest memory !

Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall,
Which ever sounds and shines

A pillar of white light upon the wall
Of purple cliffs, aloof descried,
Come from the woods that belt the gray

hillside,

The seven elms, the poplars four
That stand beside my father's door.
And chiefly from the brook that loves
To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand,
Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves,
Drawing intg his narrow earthen urn,

1832.]

Tennyson's Poems.

In every elbow tlnd turn,
The filter'tl tribute of the rough woodland.

O ! hither lead thy feet !
PouV round mine ears the livelong bleat
Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds,

Upon the ridged wolds,
When the first matin-song hath waked loud
Over the dark dewy earth forlorn,
What time the amber morn
Forth gushes from beneath a lowhung cloud.

Large doweries doth the raptured eye

To the young spirit present
When first she is wed ;

And like a bride of old
In triumph led,

With music and sweet showers
Of festal flowers,

Unto the dwelling she must sway.
Well hast thou done, great artist Memory,

In setting round thy first experiment

With royal framework of wrought gold ;
Needs must thou dearly love thy first essay,
And foremost in thy various gallery

Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls

Upon the storied walls,

For the discovery

And newness of thine art so pleased thee,
That all which thou hast drawn of fairest

Or boldest since, but lightly weighs
With thee unto the love thou bearest
The firstborn of thy genius. Artist-like,
Ever retiring thou dost gaze
On the prime labour of thine early days :
No matter what the sketch might be ;
Whether the high field on the bushless Pike,
Or even a sandbuilt ridge
Of heaped hills that mound the sea,
Overblown with murmurs harsh,
Or even a lowly cottage, whence we see
Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enormous

marsh,

Where from the frequent bridge,
Emblems or glimpses of eternity^ f*i£ &
The trenched waters run from sky to sky ;
Or a garden bower'd close
With pleached alleys of the trailing rose,
Long alleys falling down to twilight grots,
Or opening upon level plots
Of crowned lilies, standing near
Purplespiked lavender :
Whither in after life retired
From brawling storms,
From weary wind,
With youthful fancy reiuspired,
We may hold converse with all forms
Of the many-sided mind,
The few whom passion hath not blinded,
Subtle-thoughted, myriad- minded,
My friend, with thee to live alone,
Methinks were better than to own
A crown, a sceptre, and a throne.

0 strengthen me, enlighten me !

1 faint in this obscurity,
Thou dewy dawn, of memory.

733

There is fine music there ; the ver-
sification would be felt delightful to
all poetical ears, even if they missed
the many meanings of the well-
chosen and happily-obedient words ;
for there is the sound as of a various-
voiced river rejoicing in a sudden
summer shower, that swells with-
out staining its translucent waters.
But the sound is echo to the sense ;
and the sense is sweet as that of
life's dearest emotions enjoyed in
" a dream that is not all a dream."

Mr Tennyson, when he chooses,
can say much in few words. A fine
example of that is shewn in five few-
syllabled four-lined stanzas on a De-
serted House. Every word tells;
and the short whole is most pathetic
in its completeness — let us say per-
fection— like some old Scottish air
sung by maiden at her wheel — or
shepherd in the wilderness.

THE DESERTED HOUSE.

Life and Thought have gone away

Side by side,

Leaving door and windows wide :
Careless tenants they !

All within is dark as night :

In the windows is no light ;

And no murmur at the door,

So frequent on its hinge before.

Close the door, the shutters close,

Or through the windows we shall see

The nakedness and vacancy
Of the dark deserted house.

Come away : no more of mirth
Is here, or merrymaking sound.

The house was builded of the earth,
And shall fall again to ground.

Come away : for Life and Thought
Here no longer dwell ;

But in a city glorious —
A great and distant city — have bought
A mansion incorruptible.

Would they could have stayed with us !

Mr Tennyson is sometimes too
mystical; for sometimes we fear
there is no meaning in his mysticism;
or so little, that were it to be stated
perspicuously and plainly, 'twould
be but a point. But at other times
he gives us sweet, still, obscure
poems, like the gentle gloaming
saddening all that is sad, and making
nature's self pensive in her depth of
peace. Such is the character of

«19fmi» O«: A DIRGE'

Now is done thy long day's work ;
Fold thy palms across thy breast,

734

Tennyson's Poems.

[May,

Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest.

Let them rave.
Shadows of the silver birk
Sweep the green that folds thy grave.

Let them rave.

Thee nor carketh care nor slander ;
Nothing but the small cold worm
Fretteth thine enshrouded form.

Let them rave.

Light and shadow ever wander
O'er the green that folds thy grave —

Let them rave.

Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed ;
Chanteth not the brooding bee
Sweeter tones than calumny ?

Let them rave.

Thou wilt never raise thine head
From the green that folds thy grave —

Let them rave.

Crocodiles wept tears for thee ;

The woodbine and eglatere

Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear.

Let them rave.
Rain makes music in the tree
O'er the green that folds thy grave —

Let them rave.

Round thee blow, self-pleached deep,

Bramble roses, faint and pale,

And " long purples" of the dale —
Let them rave.

These in every shower creep

Through the green that folds thy grave-
Let them rave.

The gold-eyed kingcups fine ;
The frail bluebell peereth over
Rare broidry of the purple clover —

Let them rave.

Kings have no such couch as thine,
As the green that folds thy grave —

Let them rave.

Wild words wander here and there ;
God's great gift of speech abused
Makes thy memory confused —

But let them rave.
The balm-cricket carols clear
In the green that folds thy grave-
Let them rave.

Many such beautiful images float
before us in his poetry, as " youth-
ful poets fancy when they love."
He has a delicate perception of the
purity of the female character. Any
one of his flesh and blood maidens,
walking amongst flowers of our own
earth, is worth a billowy wilderness
of his Sea-Fairies. Their names and
their natures are delightful— sound
and sight are spiritualized — and yet,
as Wordsworth divinely saith, are
they

Creatures not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and
smiles !

We are in love— as an old man ought
to be — as a father is with his ideal
daughters — with them all — with Cla-
ribel, and Lilian, and Isabel, and
Mariana, and Adeline, and Hero, and
Almeida, and the Sleeping Beauty,
and Oriana. What different beings
from King Charles's beauties ! Even
in bodily charms far more loveable ,•
in spiritual, pure

As heavenly Una with her milk-white

lamb-
objects, for a moment's thought, of
passion; but of affection, for ever
and a day. In face, form, figure, cir-
cumstance and character, delicately
distinguished from one another are all
the sweet sisterhood. " Seven lilies
in one garland wrought"—" alike,
but oh, how different 1" Budding,
blossoming, full-blown; but if on
leaf or flower any touch of decay,
'tis not the touch of time but of sor-
row, and there is balmy beauty in the
very blight — lovely to the last the
lily of the garden, of the field, or of
the valley. The rose is the queen of
flowers — but should she ever die,
the lily would wear the crown — and
her name is

ISABEL.

EYES not dowu-dropt nor over-bright, but fed
With the clear-pointed flame of chastity,
Clear, without heat, undying, tended by

Pure vestal thoughts in the translucent fane
Of her still spirit : locks not wide dispread,
Madonna-wise, on either side her head,

Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign
The summer calm of golden charity,
Were fixed shadows of tby fixed mood,

Revered Isabel, the crown and head,
The stately flower of female fortitude,

Of perfect wifehood and pure lowlihead.

1832.] Tennyson's Poems.

The intuitive decision of a bright

And thorough-edged intellect to part

Error from criine — a prudence to withhold —

The laws of wifehood character'd in gold
Upon the blenched tablets of her heart —
A love still burning upward, giving light
To read those laws — an accent very low-
In blandishment, but a most silver flow

Of subtle-paced counsel in distress,
Right to the heart and brain, though undescried,

Winning its way with extreme gentleness
Through all the outworks of suspicious pride—
A courage to endure and to obey —
A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway,
Crown'd Isabel, through all her placid life
The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife.

The mellowed reflex of a winter moon—

A clear stream flowing with a muddy one,

Till in its onward current it absorbs

With swifter movement and in purer light

The vexed eddies of its wayward brother—
A leaning and upbearing parasite,
Clothing the stem, which else had fallen quite,
With cluster'd flowerbells and ambrosial orbs

Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each other —
Shadow forth thee : — the world hath not another
(Though all her fairest forms are types of thee,
And thou of God in thy great charity)
Of such a finish'd chasten'd purity.

735

There is profound pathos in " Ma-
riana." The young poet had been
dreaming of Shakspeare, and of Mea-
sure for Measure, and of the gentle
lady all forlorn, the deserted of the
false Angelo, of whom the Swan of
Avon sings but some few low notes
in her distress and desolation, as she
wears away her lonely life in solitary
tears at " the moated grange." On
this hint Alfred Tennyson speaks ;
" he has a vision of his own ;" nor
might Wordsworth's self in his youth
have disdained to indite such melan-
choly strain. Scenery— state— emo-
tion— character — are all in fine keep-
ing; long, long, long indeed is the
dreary day, but it will end at last ;
so finds the heart-broken prisoner
who, from sunrise to sunset, has been
leaning on the sun-dial in the centre
. of his narrow solitude !

" Mariaiia iu the moated grange."

Measure for Measure.

With, blackest moss the flower -plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all,

The rusted nails fell from the knots

That held the peach to the garden wall.

The broken sheds look'd sad and strange,
Unlifted was the clinking latch,
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch,

Upon the lonely moated grange.

She only said, ' My life is dreary,

He cometh not,' she said :
She said, ' I am aweary, aweary ;

I would that I were dead !'

Her tears fell with the dews at even,
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried,

She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.

After the flitting of the bats,

When thickest dark did trance the sky.
She drew her casement curtain by,

And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, ' The night is dreary,

He cometh not,' she said :

She said, ' I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead !'

Upon the middle of the night,

Waking she heard the nightfowl crow .
The cock sung out an hour ere light :

From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her : without hope of change,

In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn,

Till cold winds woke the grey-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.

She only said, ' The day is dreary,
He cometh not,' she said :

She said, ' I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead !'
About a stonecast from the wall,

A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,

The clustered marishmosses crept.

736

Hard by a poplar shook alway,

All silver green with gnarled bark,
For leagues no other tree did dark
The level waste, the rounding grey.
She only said, ' My life is dreary,

He coraeth not,' she said :

She said, ' I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead !'

And ever when the moon was low,

And the shrill winds were up an' away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,

She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low,

And wild winds bound within their cell,

The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.

She only said, ' The night is dreary,
He cometh not,' she said :

She said, ' I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead !'

All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd,

The blue fly sung i' the pane ; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,

Or from the crevice peer'd about.

Old faces glimmer'd through the doors,
Old footsteps trode the upper floors,

Old voices call'd her from without.
She only said, * My life is dreary,

He cometh not/ she said :

She said, ' I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead !'

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound

Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound

Her sense ; but most she loath'd the hour
When the thickmoted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day

Downsloped was westering in his bower.
Then, said she, ' I am very dreary,

He will not come,' she said :

She wept, ' I am aweary, aweary,

Oh God, that I were dead !'

It is not at all necessary that we
should understand fine poetry to feel
and enjoy it, any more than fine mu-
sic. That is to say, some sorts of
fine poetry — the shadowy and the
spiritual ; where something glides
before us ghostlike, " now'in glim-
mer and now in gloom," and then
away into some still place of trees
or tombs. Yet the poet who com-
poses it, must weigh the force of
every feeling word — in a balance true
to a hair, for ever vibrating, and obe-
dient to the touch of down or dew-
drop. Think not that such process
interrupts inspiration ; it sustains

Tennyson's Poems.

[May,

and feeds it ; for it becomes a habit
of the heart and the soul in all their
musings and meditations ; and thus
is the language of poetry, though hu-
man, heavenly speech. In reading
it, we see new revelations on each
rehearsal — all of them true, though
haply different — and what we at first
thought a hymn, we may at last feel
to be an elegy — a breathing not about
the quick, but the dead. So was it
with us in reading over and over
again " Claribel." We supposed the
lady slept beneath the " solemn oak-
tree, thick-leaved, ambrosial ;" and
that the " ancient melody" was dimly
heard by her in her world of dreams.
But we know now that only her dust
is there ; and that the character of
her spirit, as it dwelt on earth, is sha-
dowed forth by the congenial scene-
ry of her burial-place. But " Ade-
line" is alive — faintly-smiling — sha-
dowy— dreaming — spiritual Adeline
— such are the epithets bestowed by
the poet on that Lady of Light who
visits his visions — though doomed to
die — or rather to melt away back to
her native heaven.

MYSTEJIY of mysteries,
Faintly-smiling Adeline,
Scarce of earth, nor all divine,
Nor unhappy, nor at rest ;
But beyond expression fair,
With thy flouting flaxen hair,
Thy roselips and full blue eyes

Take the heart from out my breast ;
Wherefore those dim looks of thine,
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ?
Whence that aery bloom of thine,

Like a lily which the sun
Looks through in his sad decline,

And a rosebush leans upon,
Thou that faintly smilest still,
As a Naiad in a well,

Looking at the set of day,
Or a phantom two hours old

Of a maiden past away,
Ere the placid lips be cold ?
Wherefore those faint smiles of thine,
Spiritual Adeline ?••

What hope or fear or joy is thine ?
Who talketh with thee, Adeline ?
For sure thou art not all alone.

Do beating hearts of salient springs
Keep measure with thine own ?

Hast thou heard the butterflies "
What they say betwixt their wings ?
Or in stillest evenings
With what voice the violet woos
To his heart the silver dews ?

1832.]

Tennyson's Poems.

737

. Or when little airs arise,
How the merry bluebell rings

To the mosses underneath ?

Hast thou looked upon the breath
Of the lilies at sunrise ?
Where/ore that faint smile of thine,
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ?

Some honey-converse feeds thy mind,
Some spirit of a crimson rose
In love with thee forgets to close

His curtains, wasting odorous sighs
All night long on darkness blind.
What aileth thee ? whom waitest thou
With thy softened, shadowed brow,
And those dewlit eyes of thine,
Thou faint smiler, Adeline ?
Lovest thou the doleful wind

When thou gazest at the skies ?
Doth the low-tongued Orient

Wander from the side o' the morn

Dripping with Sabsean spice
On thy pillow, lowly bent
With melodious airs lovelorn,

Breathing light against thy face,
While his locks a-dropping twined

Round thy neck in subtle ring,
Make a carcanet of rays,

Ami ye talk together still,
In the language wherewith spring

Letters cowslips on the hill ?
Hence that look and smile of thine,
Spiritual Adeline.

The life of Claribel was shadowed
forth by images of death— the death
of Adeline seemed predicted by
images of life— and in the lovely
lines on the Sleeping Beauty, life and
death meet in the stillness of that
sleep — so profound that it is felt as
if it were immortal. And is there
not this shading and blending of all
feeling and all thought that regards
the things we most tenderly and
deeply love on this changeful earth ?

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.

Year after year unto her feet,
The while she slumbereth alone,

Over the purpled coverlet

The maiden's jet black hair hath grown,

On either side her tranced form
- Forth streaming from a braid of pearl ;

The slumb'rous light is rich and warm,
And moves not on the rounded curl.

The silk star-braided coverlid

Unto'Jier limbs itself doth mould
Languidly ever, and amid

Her full black ringlets downward roll'd
Glows forth each softly shadow'd arm,

With bracelets of the diamond bright;
Her constant beauty doth inform

Stillness with love and day with light.
VOL. XXXI. NO. CXCIV.

She sleeps ; her breathings are not heard

In palace chambers far apart ;
The fragrant tresses are not stirred

That lie upon her charmed heart.
She sleeps ; on either side upswells

The gold fringed pillow lightly prest;
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells

A perfect form in perfect rest.

Some of our old ballads, breathed
in the gloom of forests or glens by
shepherds or woodsmen, are in their
earnest simplicity inimitable by ge-
nius born so many centuries since
they died, and overshadowed by
another life. Yet genius has often
delighted to sink away into such
moods as those in which it imagines
those lowly men to have been lost
when they sang their songs, " the
music of the heart," with nothing
that moved around them but the
antlers of the deer, undisturbed by
the bard lying among the breckens
or the broom, beneath the checkered
light that came through the umbrage
of the huge oak-tree, on which spring
was hourly shedding a greener glory,
or autumn a more golden decay.
Shepherds and woodsmen, too, there
have been in these later days, and
other rural dwellers, who have some-
times caught the spirit of the antique
strain — Robert, James, and Allan —
whose happiest " auld ballants" are
as if obsolete forest-flowers were
brought back to life on our banks
and braes. Perhaps the most beau-
tiful of all Alfred Tennyson's com-
positions, is the " Ballad of Oriana."

THE BALLAD OF ORIANA.

My heart is wasted with my woe,

Oriana.
There is no rest for me below,

Oriana.
When the long dun wolds are ribbed with

snow,
And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow,

Oriana,
Alone I wander to and fro,

Oriana.

Ere the light on dark was growing,

Oriana,
At midnight the cock was crowing,

Oriana,

Winds were blowing, waters flowing,
We heard the steeds to battle going,

Oriana ;
Aloud the hollow bugle blowing,

Oriana.

3B

788

Tennyson* s Poems.

[May,

In the yew-wood black as night,

Oriana,
Ere I rode into the fight,

Oriana,

While blissful tears blinded my sight
By starshine and by moonlight,

Oriana,
I to thee my troth did plight,

Oriana.

She stood upon the castle wall,

Oriana :
She watched my crest among them all,

Oriana ;

She saw me fight, she heard me call,
"When forth there stepp'd a foeman tall,

Oriana,
Atween me and the castle wall,

'Oriana.

The bitter arrow went aside,

Oriana :
The false, false arrow went aside,

Oriana :

The damned arrow glanced aside,
And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride,

Oriana !
Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride,

Oriana !

Oh ! narrow, narrow was the space,

Oriana.
Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays,

Oriana.

Oh ! deathful stabs were dealt apace,
The battle deepen'd in its place,

Oriana j
But I was down upon my face,

Oriaua.

They should have stabb'd me where I lay,

Oriana !
How could I rise and come away,

Oriana ?

How could I look upon the day ?
They should have stabb'd me where I lay,

Oriana—
They should have trode me into clay,

Oriana.

Oh ! breaking heart that will not break,

Oriana,
Oh ! pale, pale face, so sweet and meek,

Oriana,

Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak,
And then the tears run down my cheek,

Oriana :
"What wantest thou ? whom dost thou seek,

Oriana?

I cry aloud : none hear my cries,

Oriana.
Thou comest atween me and the skies,

Oriaua.

I feel the tears of blood arise
Up from my heart unto my eyes,

Oriana.
Within thy heart my arrow lies,

Oriana.

Oh ! cursed hand ! oh ! cursed blow !

Oriana !
Oh ! happy thou that liest low,

Oriana !

All night the silence seems to flow
Beside me in my utter woe,

Oriana.
A weary, weary way I go,

Oriana.

When Norland winds pipe down the sea,

Oriana,
I walk, I dare not think of thee,

Oriana.

Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree,
I dare not die and come to thee,

Oriana.
I hear the roaring of the sea,

Oriana.

But the highest of all this young
poet's achievements, is the visionary
and romantic strain, entitled, " Re-
collections of the Arabian Nights."
It is delightful even to us, who read
not the Arabian Nights, nor ever
heard of them, till late in life--
think we must have been in
tenth year ; the same heart-

we
our

soul -mind -awakening year that
brought us John Bunyan and Robin-
son Crusoe, and in which — we must
not say with whom — we first fell in
love. How it happened that we had
lived so long in this world without
seeing or hearing tell of these fa-
mous worthies, is a mystery; for
we were busy from childhood with
books and bushes, banks and braes, -
with libraries full of white, brown,
and green leaves, perused in school-
room, whose window in the slates
shewed the beautiful blue braided
skies, or in fields and forests, (so we
thought the birch coppice, with its
old pines, the abode of linties and
cushats — for no long, broad, dusty,
high-road was there — and but foot-
paths or sheep-walks winded through
the pastoral silence that surrounded
that singing or cooing grove,) where
beauty rilled the sunshiny day with
delight, and grandeur the one-star-
red gloaming with fear. But so it
was; we knew not that there was
an Arabian Night in the whole
world. Our souls, in stir or still-
mess, saw none but the sweet Scot-

1832.]

Tennyson's Poems.

539

tish stars. We knew, indeed, that
they rose, and set, too, upon other
climes ; and had we been asked the
question, should have said that they
certainly did so; but we felt that
they and their heavens belonged to
Scotland. And so feels the fond,
foolish old man still, when standing
by himself at midnight, with wither-
ed hands across his breast, and eyes
lifted heavenwards, that shew the
brightest stars somewhat dim now,
yet beautiful as ever; out walks the
moon from behind a cloud, and he
thinks of long Loch Lomond glitter-
ing afar off with lines of radiance
that lift up in their loveliness, flush
after flush — and each silvan pomp is
statelier than the last — now one, now
another, of her heron-haunted isles !
But in our egoism and egotism we
have forgot Alfred Tennyson. To his
heart, too, we doubt not that hea-
ven seems almost always an English
heaven ; he, however, must have
been familiar long before his tenth
year with the Arabian Nights' Enter-
tainments; for had he discovered
them at that advanced period of life,
he had not now so passionately and
so imaginatively sung their wonders,

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS.

WHEN the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free

la the silken sail of infancy,

The tide of time flowed back with me

The forward-flowing tide of time ;
And many a sheeny summer morn,
Adown the Tigris I was borne,
By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold,
High-walled gardens green and old ;
True Mussulman was I and sworn,

For it was in the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Anight my shallop, rustling through
The low and bloomed foliage, drove
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove
The citron shadows in the blue ;
By garden porches on the brim,
The costly doors flung open wide,
Gold glittering through lamplight dim,
And broidered sofas on each side :
In sooth it was a goodly time,
For it was in the golden prime •
Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Often, where clear stemmed platans guard
The outlet, did I turn away
The boat-head down a broad canal
From the main river sluiced, where all
The sloping of the moonlit sward
Was damask work; and deep, inlay

Of breaded blosms unmown, which crept

Adown to where the waters slept.

A goodly place, a goodly time,

For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid !

A motion from the river won
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on
My shallop through the star-strown calm,
Until another night in night
I entered, from the clearer light,
Imbowered vaults of pillared palm,
Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb
Heavenward, were stayed beneath the dome
Of hollow boughs. — A goodly time,
For it was in the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid!

Still onward ; and the clear canal
Is rounded to as clear a lake.
From the green rivage many a fall
Of diamond rillets musical,
Through little crystal arches low
Down from the central fountain's flow
Fall'n silver-chiming, seemed to shake
The sparkling flints beneath the prow.
A goodly place, a goodly time,
For it was in the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid !

Above through many a bowery turn
A walk with vary-coloured shells
Wandered engrained. On either side
All round about the fragrant marge,
From fluted vase, and brazen urn
In order, eastern flowers large,
Some drooping low their crimson bells
Half-closed, and others studded wide
With disks and tiars, fed the time
With odour in the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Far off", and where the lemon grove
In closest coverture upsprung,
The living airs of middle night
Died round the bulbul as he sung.
Not he : but something which possessed
The darkness of the world, delight,
Life, anguish, death, immortal love
Ceasing not, mingled, unrepressed,
Apart from place, withholding time,
But flattering the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Black-green the garden bowers and grots
Slumbered : the solemn palms were ranged,
Above, unwooed of summer wind.
A sudden splendour from behind
Flushed all the leaves with rich gold green,
And flowing rapidly between
Their interspaces, counterchanged
The level lake with diamond plots

Of saffron light, A lovely time,
For it was in the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid I

740

Tennyson's Poems.

IMay,

Dark blue the deep sphere overhead,
Distinct with vivid stars unrayed,
Grew darker from that under- flame ;
So, leaping lightly from the boat,
With silver anchor left afloat,
In marvel whence that glory came
Upon me, as in sleep I sank
In cool soft turf upon the bank,

Entranced with that place and time,
So worthy of the golden prime
Of good Harouu Alraschid.

Thence through the garden I was borne —

A realm of pleasance, many a mound,

And many a shadow-chequered lawn

Full of the city's stilly sound.

And deep myrrh thickets blowing round

The stately cedar, tamarisks,

Thick rosaries of scented thorn,

Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks

Graven with emblems of the time,
In honour of the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.

"With dazed vision unawares
From the long alley's latticed shade
Emerged, I came upon the great
Pavilion of the Caliphat,
Right to the carven cedarn doors,
Flung inward over spangled floors,
Broad-based flights of marble stairs
Ran up with golden balustrade,
After the fashion of the time,
And humour of the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.

The fourscore windows all alight
As with the quintessence of flame,
A million .tapers flaring bright
From wreathed silvers, look'd to shame
The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd
Upon the mooned domes aloof
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd
Hundreds of crescents on the roof

Of night new-risen, that marvellous time,

To celebrate the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Then stole I up, and trancedly

Gazed on the Persian girl alone,

Serene with argent-lidded eyes

Amorous, and lashes like to rays

Of darkness, and a brow of pearl

Tressed with redolent ebeny,

In many a dark delicious curl,

Flowing below her rose-hued zone ;
The sweetest lady of the time,
Well worthy of the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Six columns, three on either side,
Pure silver, underpropped a rich
Throne o' the massive ore, from which
Down drooped, in many a floating fold,

Engarlanded and diapered

With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold,

Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirred

With merriment of kingly pride,
Sole star of all that place and time,
I saw him — in his golden prime,
THE GOOD HAROUN ALRASCHID !

Our critique is near its conclu-
sion ; and in correcting it for press,
we see that its whole merit, which
is great, consists in the extracts,
which are " beautiful exceedingly."
Perhaps, in the first part of our ar-
ticle, we may have exaggerated Mi-
Tennyson's not unfrequent silliness,
for we are apt to be carried away
by the whim of the moment, and in
our humorous moods, many things
wear a queer look to our aged eyes,
which fill young pupils with tears ;
but we feel assured that in the se-
cond part we have not exaggerated
his strength — that we have done no
more than justice to his fine faculties
— and that the millions who delight
in Maga will, with one voice, con-
firm our judgment — that Alfred Ten-
nyson is a poet.

But, though it might be a mistake
of ours, were we to say that he has
much to learn, it can be no mistake
to say that he has not a little to un-
learn, and more to bring into prac-
tice, before his genius can achieve
its destined triumphs. A puerile
partiality for particular forms of ex-
pression, nay, modes of spelling and
of pronunciation, may be easily over-
looked in one whom we must look
on as yet a mere boy; but if he
carry it with him, and indulge it in
manhood, why it will make him seem
silly as his sheep; and should he
continue to bleat so when his head
and beard are as grey as ours, he
will be truly a laughable old ram,
and the ewes will care no more for
him than if he were a wether.

Farther — he must consider that
all the fancies that fleet across the
imagination, like shadows on the
grass or the tree-tops, are not en-
titled to be made small separate
poems of — about the length of one's
little finger ; that many, nay, most of
them, should be suffered to pass
away with a silent " God,bless ye,"
like butterflies, single or in shoals,
each family with its own hereditary
character mottled on its wings ; and
that though thousands of those grave
brown, and gay golden, images will

1832.]

Tennyson's Poems.

be blown back in showers, as if
upon balmy breezes changing sud-
denly and softly to the airt whence
inspiration at the moment breathes,
yet not one in a thousand is worth
being caught and pinned down on
paper into poetry, " gently as if you
loved him" — only the few that are
bright with the " beauty still more
beauteous" — and a few such belong
to all the orders — from the little silly
moth that extinguishes herself in
your taper, up to the mighty Emperor
of Morocco at meridian wavering
his burnished downage in the uncon-
suming sun who glorifies the won-
drous stranger.

Now, Mr Tennyson does not seem
to know this; or if he do, he is self-
willed and perverse in his sometimes
almost infantile vanity; (and how
vain are most beautiful children !)
and thinks that any Thought or
Feeling or Fancy that has had the
honour and the happiness to pass
through his mind, must by that
very act be worthy of everlasting
commemoration. Heaven pity the
poor world, were we to put into stan-
zas, and publish upon it, all our
thoughts, thick as mots in the sun,
or a summer evening atmosphere of
midges I

Finally, Nature is mighty, and
poets should deal with her on a grand
scale. She lavishes her glorious gifts
before their path in such profusion,
that Genius — reverent as he is of the
mysterious mother, and meeting her
at sunrise on the mountains with grate-
ful orisons — with grateful orisons
bidding her farewell among the long
shadows that stretch across the glens
when sunset sinks into the sea — is
yet privileged to tread with a seem-
ing scorn in the midst of imagery
that to common eyes would be as a
revelation of wonders from another
world. Familiar to him are they as
the grass below his feet. In lowlier
moods he looks at them — and in his
love they grow beautiful. So did

741

Burns beautify the daisy — "wee mo-
dest crimson-tipped flower !" But in
loftier moods, the " violet by the
mossy stone," is not " half-hidden
to the eye" — it is left unthought of
to its own sweet existence. The
poet then ranges wide and high, like
Thomson, in his Hymn to the Sea-
sons, which he had so gloriously
sung, seeing in all the changes of the
rolling year " but the varied god," —
like Wordsworth, in his Excur-
sion, communing too with the spirit
" whose dwelling is the light of set-
ting suns."

Those great men are indeed among
the
" Lights of the world and demigods of

fame ;"

but all poets, ere they gain a bright
name, must thus celebrate the wor-
ship of nature. So is it, too, with
painters. They do well, even the
greatest of them, to trace up the
brooks to their source in stone-basin
or mossy well, in the glen-head,
where greensward glades among the
heather seem the birthplace ot the
Silent People — the Fairies. But in
their immortal works they must
shew us how " red comes the river
down ;" castles of rock or of cloud —
long withdrawing vales, where mid-
way between the flowery fore-
ground, and in the distance of blue
mountain ranges, some great city lifts
up its dim-seen spires through the
misty smoke beneath which imagina-
tion hears the hum of life—" peace-
ful as some immeasurable plain,"
the breast of old ocean sleeping in
the sunshine — or as if an earthquake
shook the pillars of his caverned
depths, tumbling the foam of his
breakers, mast-high, if mast be there,
till the canvass ceases to be silent,
and the gazer hears him howling over
his prey — See — see! — the founder-
ing wreck of a three-decker going
down head-foremost to eternity.

With such admonition, we bid Al-
fred Tennyson farewell.

742 Homer's Hymns. No V. [May,

HOMER'S HYMNS. NO. v.
CERES.

OF venerable Ceres would I sing,

Golden-hair' d, and her daughter Proserpine,

Light-tripping maiden, seized by Dis, stern King,
Seized with consent of Thunderer Jove, not thine,

Ceres ! Far absent was a mother's care,

Though the deep-bosom'd nymphs of Ocean all were there.

Sportively gathering they, the sunny hour

On verdant bank, the rose and violet,
Crocus and hyacinth, and, chiefest flower,

Narcissus, beautiful enticement, set
Full in her path by Earth, through wile of Jove,
To catch the Virgin's eye, and favour Pluto's love.

Sweet, joyous flower, by Gods and men beheld,
Then first with gaze of rapture, from whose root,

Each one with odoriferous balsam fill'd,
An hundred graceful heads did upward shoot—

The perfumed Heaven laugh'd with unwonted glee,

Laugh'd the glad Earth beneath, and the blithe-waving Sea.

Both hands outstretch' d, the admiring Virgin bent
To pluck the treasured flower. The Nysian plain

Open'd — dire Pluto, from the gaping rent,
Lash'd his immortal steeds, with loosen'd rein

Rush'd forth, and in his golden chariot bore

The maiden shrieking loud to Jove and wailing sore.

She call'd on Jove, supremest, best, in vain—-
For neither God nor mortal heard ; nor one

Of Ocean's many daughters in her train,
Though piercing were the cries she utter' d, none,

Save Hecate the forlorn, within her cave,

Persseus' daughter heard, and mute attention gave.

Pale Hecate, fillet-crown'd, and Helius, he,
Hyperion's wondrous son, was sitting then,

Glorious, within his solemn sanctuary,
Receiving proffer'd gifts from mortal men,

And heard the shouting maid, when Tyrant Dis,

With his immortal steeds, plunged down the black abyss.

While yet she saw the land and sun-lit sky,
And teeming sea that sparkled with his ray,

She still perchance her mother might descry,
Or one of heavenly race might cross her way.

Her big-swoln heart, while thus she sought relief,

Hope soothed, and half assuaged her agony of grief.

The mountain tops and the deep ocean bed
Echo'd her cries — her mother heard — dismay,

Keen anguish struck her heart, and from her head

And her ambrosial locks she tore away
. The wreath — a dark veil o'er her shoulders threw,

And moving as a bird, o'er land and sea she flew.

1832.] Homer's Hymns. No. V.

She sought— nor God nor man the truth declared,
Nor came there winged harbinger ; but o'er

The earth, nine days incessant, Ceres fared,
And in her hand two blazing torches bore.

Nine days ambrosia, food of gods supreme,

And nectar she refused, nor bathed her in the stream.

But soon as the tenth morning shone serene,
Came Hecate, and a torch her hand sustain'd,

And thus her tidings gave—" Say, beauteous Queen
Of the sweet season, who thy heart hath pain'd,

Who borne thy gentle Proserpine away ?

I heard — but saw him not — or God or mortal, say—

" The cries I heard."— She spake— and no reply
Made Rhcea's daughter, but with Hecate flew

Swift onward, while the torches, blazing high,
Waved — till they came to Helius. Him they knew,

Th' investigating King to Gods and man :

Before his steeds they stood, and Ceres thus began,-—

" Helius, if ever yet, by word or deed,

I made thee glad, my sanctity revere ;
A Goddess claims — whose heart is doom'd to bleed

For a sweet daughter lost — fair plant — and dear
As beautiful ; through air I heard the cry,
As of one torn away, yet nought could I descry.

" But thou, for with thy beams through divine air
Thou searchest lands and seas — O, tell me true,

If thou hast seen my dearest child, and where ?
What ravisher accurst hath met thy view ;

Or be it God or man hath seized my child ?"

She spake. Hyperion's son returned this answer mild.

" Learn, Rhoea's daughter — nor regardless I
Of thy deep anguish — learn this painful truth,

Nor throw reproach on other Deity
But Jove, cloud-gatherer. He, with little ruth,

Hath given thy daughter — he, and none beside —

To his own brother's arms, to be his beauteous bride.

" Her, shrieking, in his chariot far away,
Under the shadowy west, hath Pluto borne ;

Yet, goddess, soothe thy woe, thy griefs allay,
Nor be thy heart with fruitless passion torn,

Nor an unworthy son in Pluto see,

For potent in his reign — a son of Saturn he ;

" And, where his lot appointed, rules revered,

As when was made division tripartite
Of sovereign power." Thus Helius spake, ajid cheer'd

His steeds, that like wing'd birds the chariot light
Bore swiftly on ; — deep anguish pierced her heart,
Then Ceres in her wrath from heaven withdrew apart,

Incensed with cloud-girt Jove : Olympus then
And Gods' assembly left — and many a town

Sought, and fair fields of rich laborious man,
Her majesty of beauty wasting down.

By woman and by man unknown she pass'd,

And wander'd, till she reach'd good Celeus' home at last.

744 Homer's Hymns. No. V. [May,

O'er rich Eleusis Celeus then was king:

By the wayside she sat, sore vex'd, and sad,
At the Parthenian well, to whose sweet spring

Come frequent citizens; under a shade,
Thrown by an olive-tree, she sat, that spread
Its leafy branches out, and waved above her head.

In form she seem'd like one advanced in age,

And past the days of childbirth, such as are
In palaces of princes wise and sage,

Their children nurse, or make the house their care.
Her saw the daughters of Eleusis' king,
As, with their brazen urns, they sought the pleasant spring,

The royal mansion to supply. These were

In bloom of youth — and four, Callidice,
Clesidice, and Dymo ever fair,

And she of elder birth, Callithoe, —
They saw, but knew her not; for hard to know
Are the immortal race by mortals born below.

They, standing near her, these soft words addressed : —
" Who art thou, dame ? and whence, thus far from town

And home ? — most aged like thee, and younger, rest
Within cool shady halls, and sit them down

Beneath the sheltering roof; and such there are

Will give thee welcome kind, and proffer friendly care." ;(j[g

The venerable Ceres thus replied : —

" Sweet friends, and gentle maids, my thanks you claim,
Nor be the truth you ask of me denied.

My mother call'd me Doris, such my name —
From Crete — and o'er the broad sea's spine a prey
By pirates was I seized, and wretched, borne away.

" At Thoricus the vessel came to land.

Then all the women disembark'd ; the board
Prepared for pleasant feast upon the strand,

And close beside where lay the vessel moor'd.
Nor thought had I of feast, but hastening flew
O'er the dark land — and thus escaped the tyrant crew,

" Lest they should sell me as a slave, and turn

To ample profit what they never bought. —
Thus came I hither; now from you would learn,

What people, and what land is this. I've sought,
And may the gods that in Olympus dwell
Give you good husbands all, and children that excel,

" And such as parents wish ! — Then let me claim ]9Ifj
Your gentle pity, my sweet daughters, — till

The house of honourable man or dame

I reach — where I may serve with ready will,

And in such useful offices engage

As I may well perform, and best may suit my age.

" As, in these arms to nurse, and lull to rest
A new-born infant, or with housewife care

To keep the house, to see the chambers drest,
And strew the master's bed with coverings rare, ..? OT

Such as by female hands are oft supplied."

She spake — and thus in turn Callidice replied, —

1832.] Homer's Hymns. No. V. 745

Callidice most beauteous she of all —

" Good nurse, what it shall please the Gods bestow
We must receive, or be their bounty small,

Or be it large, or be it weal or woe ;
For this necessity at least is sure,
Theirs is the sovereign power, 'tis ours but to endure.

t •,

" But let me point thee out and numerate

What men we boast, in whom we chiefly trust,
Conspicuous mong'st the people, who the state

Defend by counsels sure, and judgments just.
Look o'er the town, see where the mansions rise.
That first its master owns Triptolemus the wise.

" There dwells Diocles, Polyxenes there,

Blameless Eumolpus next, then Dolichus,
And our best sire ; beneath a matron's care

Each mansion is, discreet, and sedulous.
These statesmen's wives : all, e'en when first they see
Thy mien, thy looks divine, will gladly honour thee,

" And give good welcome, each within her gate :

Or wouldst thou here remain until we reach
Our Father's mansion, where we may relate

To our kind mother, all the present speech,
(The noble Metanira) to our home
She may perchance invite, nor let thee further roam.

" For in her polish'd chamber cradled lies

Her darling late-born son, for whom she pray'd.

Him shouldst thou nurse, to manhood till he rise,
Seeing a recompense so largely paid

As it will be (such honour will be thine),

There's not a woman lives but might with envy pine."

The maiden ended — Ceres bow'd her head—-
They with their well-filled urns of shining gold

Exulting to their father's mansion sped, -
And to their mother all the adventure told;

Who bade them quick return, and in her name

To proffer payment large, and bring the stranger dame.

Like joyous calves, or sleek fawns from their lair
Bounding in spring, they, holding high each one

The crisp fold of her mantle, while the hair
Over their shoulders floated to the sun,

Like flowers of yellow crocus glistening bright,

Over the wheel-scoop' d road the virgins bounded light.

And there reclining by that pathway side,

They found the glorious Goddess, lone and sad.

Conducting to their father's home, they hied,
Behind walk'd Ceres, veil'd and deeply clad

In sable stole, that, coil'd in many a pleat,

Still rustled as she moved, around her gentle feet.

And straight to Jove-loved Celeus' house they came
And cross'd the porch, where sat beside the hall,

Her infant at her breast, the royal dame :

To her they ran— then Ceres, large and tall^jft

The threshold trode, while her head reach'd the beams,

And all the palace gates shone bright with golden streams.

746 Homer's Hymns. No. V. [May,

Pale fear and reverence Metanira seized j

Her seat she proffer'd, as she rose in haste ;
Mute Ceres stood — nor yet the splendour pleased,

But to the ground her mournful eyes she cast,
Until discreet lambe for her placed
A seat of beauteous work with white fleece covering graced.

Then Ceres sat, and close around her veil
And closer drew, nor took she note the while,

Of aught by word, or thought, or look, — but pale
With parch'd untasting lips, without a smile,

Mourn'd her fair bosom'd daughter, borne below;

Till all in merry guise lambe soothed her woe.

With many a jest, and gibe, and cheering voice,
She moved sad Ceres, her deep grief appeased,

To smile, and then to laugh, and e'en rejoice j
And thus, in after days, lambe pleased.—

—Then Metanira, pouring luscious wine,

Presented the full cup to th' unknown guest divine.

Ceres refused, and the red wine declared

Unlawful to her lips, — and bade her take
The herb call'd Glecho, bruised, and meal prepared

With water, and a pure potation make —
This done, the draught she drank, well pleased to see
The pledge of future rite and holy mystery.

Then Metanira converse thus began :
" Welcome, good dame, of no mean parents sprung !

Thy sire, perchance, was some wise princely man,
And truth and justice issued from his tongue j

For in thine eyes I see, and all thy face,

Sweet modesty resides, and ever noble grace.

" Whatever gifts it please the Gods bestow,

We must receive, nor let vain cares perplex
Our souls, — for be it weal, or be it woe,

The yoke of Fate lies heavy on our necks ;
But here rejoice, whatever good is mine,
Nurse thou my child with care, and half that good is thine.

" This darling child, last born, unlook'd for joy,
Last blessing of the Gods, cherish thou well,

And bring to riper age, this dear-loved boy—
And every female tongue shall envious tell

How large the gifts of nurture I provide."

She ended, and the sheaf-crown* d Ceres thus replied:—

" And hail thou, gracious Queen, — the Gods enlarge
Thy house with bounteous store, — this child I take

Willing, not thoughtless of a nurse's charge—
Nor evil incantation, harm, nor ache

Shall reach him; every potent charm I know,

That can avert all ill, and every good bestow."

She took in her immortal hands, and laid

Upon her fragrant bosom, the fair child :
Glad was the mother. — Henceforth Ceres made

Young Demophon her care, and griefs beguiled,
And with her charge, sage Celeua' son, withdrew
Within the royal house, — and wondrously he grew,—

1832.] Homer's Hymns. No. V. 74?

Grew like a God j not that from fruit of earth,
Or infants' common fare, she nurtured him— •

But an ambrosial unguent, as of birth
Divine, she pour'd, and breathed o'er every limb

Immortal breath, and in her bosom bore

The infant day by day, and loved him more and more.

But when the nights came on, far from the eye

Of parents then removed — him like a brand
Deep in the fire she cover' d secretly.

And when they saw his vigorous limbs expand,
His parents, wond'ring, thought there needs must be
Some mighty miracle, — so like a God was he.

She would have purged with fire all mortal stain,

And given the child celestial temperament,
Ageless, that might immortal youth attain ,•

But Metanira marr'd the kind intent :
One night, too indiscreetly fond, she came
Forth from her scented room, and watch' d, and saw the flame.

And seeing, both her thighs she struck, and shriek' d —
" Save thee, my Demophon, my child, my child !

What vengeance hath thy nurse upon thee wreak' d—
Thy stranger nurse, with frenzy, frantic, wild —

And hides thee in the fire." The Goddess turn'd —

She heard, and in her breast, her wrath, her anger burn'd.

With passion seized, forth from the blazing brands

Raising, her Metanira's child she drew,
And from her far with her immortal hands

Before her on the ground indignant threw ;
The words of wrath came crowding in her speech—
" O foolish senseless race, how short thy boasted reach,

" Unknowing of the coming good or ill !—

Thy folly has but heap'd an age of pain.
Be witness, Styx, implacable and chill,

I would have purified from mortal stain
This, thy dear son, and given him ageless days,
Incorruptible life, and never-ending praise.

" But he must die, nor are there potent charms
To rescue him from fate — This boon I claim,

(For on my knees he lay, and in my arms,)
Be his to win an everlasting fame ;

For soon as he shall reach maturer age,

The Eleusinian race a civil war shall wage.

" Ceres am I, an honour'd Goddess see,

At once a joy and blessing to mankind ;
But speed, and let thy people gather'd be,

And be Callichorus' famed hill assign'd
Fast by the city walls, on jutting ground,
A temple proudly great, and a rich altar found.

"Myself will point, the solemn rites arranged,

T appease the Queen, of tresses gold-enwreath'd."

She spake — at once her form and stature changed,
Shook off her age, all beauty round her breath'd,

Sweet odours from her perfumed garments flew,

icr sacred presence threw.

•748 Homer's Hymns. No. V. [May,

She shone— her yellow hair like golden rays
Waved o'er her shoulders, as the lightning's sheen

Burst through the solid walls a sudden blaze,

As from the house she pass'd. The fainting Queen

Long speechless lay, and gazed around her wild,

Nor look'd upon, nor sought to raise, her darling child.

His sisters heard his cries, and springing, flew
From their rich beds — one stretch' d her arms to lift,

Then lull'd him on her breast. The fire anew
One kindled — one with light feet, softly swift,

Hasten'd to raise her mother where she lay,

Restore to sense, and from the chamber lead away.

The sobbing boy, the sisters gathering round
Fondled endearingly and wash'd. — The child,

Nursed by a Goddess, in each sister found
A far inferior nurse, unreconciled.

And still he sobb'd — they, trembling with affright,

The mighty Goddess soothed with prayer the livelong night.

And at the dawn, to Celeus they convey'd
The purpose of great Ceres golden-crown'd;

And he, assembly of his people made,

Spake of the temple and the chosen ground,

And altar on the far-projecting hill,

And they attentive heard, obedient to his will :

The task by Celeus' speech assign'd, they chose,

And by the power divine the temple grew,
Admired, and into perfect order rose —

And, toil completed, homeward all withdrew —
And there the sheaf-crown'd Ceres sat apart,
Far from the blessed gods, deep wounded in her heart.

For her fair bosom'd daughter lost, she grieved,

Sad was the year and dire upon the earth
By vengeful Ceres made, the seed received

She hid — and no return — all, all was dearth.
Then many oxen dragg'd their ploughs in vain,
And the white barley fell to earth a useless grain.

Man's wretched race on earth thus famine-curst

Had died — the gods that in Olympus dwell
Had of their richest victims been amerced,

But mighty Jove perceived, and porider'd well,
And sent down Iris on her golden wing,
Ceres sheaf-crown'd, august, before Heaven's court to bring.

Iris obey'd the cloud-girt Jove, sped down

Upon her swift wing, cutting the space between,

And straight Eleusis, incense-breathing town,
She reach'd, and Ceres saw, celestial Queen,

The Goddess in her beauteous temple found,

Clad in a sable stole, that reach'd the solemn ground, —

And thus she spake—" Great Jove, that knoweth all,

And governs all, Ceres, now bids me bring
Thee to the Gods above, nor let there fall

Command of Jove an unperformed thing —
Haste to the Gods." — Thus Iris spake — besought ;
Yet was entreaty vain, nor moved the Goddess aught.

1832.] Homer's Hymns. No. V. 749

Then all the Gods, upon entreaty vain,

Each in his turn with promise large he sent,
Of privilege supreme, and such domain

Among the Gods as might her best content;
Yet none prevail'd, not one her heart could reach,
For nought regarded she their promise or their speech.

Thus she resolved, never to tread again

Fragrant Olympus, ne'er permit to rise
The fruits of earth, nor loose th' imprison' d grain,

Till her fair daughter meet her longing eyes.
The Thunderer heard, and summon'd to his side
Him of the golden wand, the herald Argicide,

And bade him to dark Erebus descend,

And Pluto with soft soothing words persuade

His chaste and gentle Proserpine to send

Up to the Gods in light, from realms of shade,

That the fond mother's eyes might see once more

Her daughter long deplored, and direful wrath be o'er.

Swift Hermes left Olympus at a bound,

And far below the depths of earth he hied,
And on his couch, within, the King he found.

And by him sat his- chaste yet mournful bride,
Lamenting her lost mother's absence still,
"Who 'gainst the blessed Gods yet meditated ill.

Argicide, standing near him, boldly spake —

" Thou black-hair' d Pluto, Monarch of the dead,

Great Jove, my sire, now bids me upward take
Thy lovely Proserpine from regions dread

Of Erebus that Ceres thy fair bride

Once more might see and lay her bitter wrath aside,—

" And reconcilement with th' Immortals seek.

For her deep mind resolves, and dire the deed,
To doom to death man's race, earth-born and weak,

And waste the dues of Gods — hiding the seed
Obstructed ; whilst at rich Eleusis' shrine
Sullen apart she sits, and spurns the choirs divine."

He spake, and Pluto under his stern brows

Smiled, nor the will of Jove he disobey' d,
But straight address'd fair Proserpine, his spouse

Discreet — " Go, seek thy mother, woe-array'd
In sable stole— thy gentle mind retain ;
Go, Proserpine, nor grieve, like one that grieves in vain :

" Go, gentle Proserpine, nor view in me

Unseemly spouse : the brother I of Jove.
Here shalt thou dwell, here Queen and Mistress be,

And govern all, aye all that live and move ;
And 'midst th' immortal Gods thyself shalt share
Th' allotted dues, and claim what best and greatest are ;

" And they, the impious, that refuse the rite,

Shall pay due penalty, aye all their days,
If any there shall be, in thy despite,

Regard not sacrificial prayer and praise,
Or offerings stint," He spake— The Queen, discreet,
Leap'd up with sudden joy delighted from her seat.

750 Homer's Hymns. No. V. [May,

He, his spouse softly drawing to his side,

Gave her the rare pomegranate seed, that so,
Tasting, she might not evermore abide

With her wan mother, clad in garb of woe.
That ta'en, great Dis his golden chariot sped,
And to their wonted yokes his steeds immortal led.

Her seat she took, and Hermes sat beside,
Bold Argicide. The lash and rein he seized,

And swiftly gallop'd through the portals wide
Of Erebus ; nor flew the steeds unpleased,

O'er the long lines they stretch'd, nor heeded they

Or seas, or rivers deep, or vales that cross'd their way.

Nor rivers, seas, nor hills, nor valleys fair,

The course of the immortal steeds delay'd;
But over all, through the deep brooding air,

Their way they cut, till down their speed they staid
Fast by the odorous temple. There they stood,
Where the crown'd Ceres sat, and grieved in sullen mood.

She saw — upleaping from her seat — and rush'd,
Rush'd like a Mcenad through the dusky wood.

Then Proserpine

Of her own mother

Leap'd down to run

To her .

" My child no more dishon ......

Offood

For so returning,

Dwell with thy sire and me, by all the Gods revered.

" But if thou aught hast tasted, thou again
Must under earth's concealing depths return,

And there one-third of the whole year remain,
Two-thirds with me and all the Gods sojourn ;

When earth shall bloom with springtide flowers array'd,

Lavish'd in sweetness, thou shalt rise from realms of shade,

" A miracle to wond'ring Gods above

And men below — but tell me by what wile,

By what deceit, what subtle craft of love,
Stern Pluto did my gentle child beguile ?"

" Listen, dear mother, while the tale I tell,"

Fair Proserpine replied, " and learn how it befell.

" Soon as th' ingenious Hermes, herald wise
Of the Olympian Gods, and mightiest Jove,

Bade me from Erebus once more to rise,
That thou, beholding with a mother's love

Thy child long lost, shouldst let thine anger die ;

I rose, I leap' d for joy, to meet a mother's eye.

" But ere I reach'd the chariot, mighty Dis
Forced me the sure pomegranate seed to eat ;

Unwillingly I ate. — But leave we this,
And tell how first he seized me, by deceit

Of Jove my father seized, and bore away,

Under the depths of earth, and far from light of day,

1832.] Homer's Hymns. No. V.

" But hear the tale, nor the plain truth I slight ;

We were all sporting in a meadow free,
Leucippe, Phceno, and Electra bright,

lanthe, Melete, and lache,
Ro3a, Calliroe, Tyche, floweret sweet,
Ocyroe, and fair Melobote discreet,

" Cryseis, lanira, and the fair

Acaste, with Adenete, and divine
Rodope, Pluto, and Calypso there,
Styx and Urania, whose soft features shine,
Loved Galaxaure, Pallas, warrior maid,
And Dian with her bow — in the soft mead we play'd.

" There gather'd we fresh flowers, the loveliest,
Crocus, and hyacinth, and deep-cupp'd rose,

Marvellous lilies, and narcissus, best
Treasure of earth, that on its surface blows.

These was I gathering, when earth's black descent

Open'd, and Dis rush'd forth wide thundering as it rent.

" He seized me, shrieking loud and wailing sore,
And in his chariot flaming bright with gold,

To Erebus and his dark mansion bore.

All else my mother knows — the tale is told."

Thus, all day-long in fond discourse they pass'd j

Oft they embraced, till grief and anger ceased at last.

Whilst thus with mutual bliss their bosoms moved,
Came Hecate, (and her richest fillet wore,)

For Ceres' pure sweet daughter long she loved,
Her ministress, and of her train, before.

Then Thunderer Jove, whose eyes all space survey,

Sent bright-hair'd Rhcea down, his pleasure to convey.

That Ceres now should take her wonted place
Amid the gods, with gift, and recompense,

Large as herself might wish, and might efface
Her former wrongs — and gave his nod that thence

Her daughter, Proserpine, below remain,

And of the rolling year, one third with Pluto reign j

With her fond mother, too, amid the bright

Immortal gods — Jove spake, nor spake in vain j

Nor Rhcea disobey'd, but from the height

Of Mount Olympus rushing, reach'd the plain

Of Rarum, once a fertile soil, now bare,

For Ceres hid the grain, nor blade, nor beard was there,

Where soon both blade and ear would wave around
In glowing spring, and bursting furrows bear

Abundant grain, and thickest sheaves be bound:—
Thither she came, down through the fruitless air.

Th' immortals met, and joy was in each breast,

And Rhosa, fillet-crown' d, thus Ceres first address'd.

" Haste, daughter, haste, th' all-seeing thunderer god,
Jove, calls thee heavenward, offers recompense

Large as thy soul might choose, and gives his nod
That thy sweet daughter Proserpine from hence

Shall each succeeding year one-third remain

In realms of shade below, and there with Pluto reign,

752 Homer's Hymns. Aro. V. [May,

" And two with thee ; for this his head he bow'd —
The fiat pass'd — But, daughter, haste, release

(Nor rage with Jove the mightiest, cloud-begirt)
The constrain'd earth, and let her fruits increase,

That men may live." — Ceres sheaf-crown'd obey'd,

And from the loosen'd ground sent forth the rising blade.

Then all the earth with flower and foliage
Freshen'd above — And Ceres straight went forth

And did to wise Triptolemus, and sage
Diocles, and Eumolpus of high worth,

And Celeus, leading chief of all, recite

Her ministerial forms, and each mysterious rite.

Those awful rites 'twere impious to contemn,

Nor uninitiated seek to know ;
Rites that the gods immortal guard, and hem

With reverent silence — blest of men below,
The favour'd, who those holy rites may see !
Theirs, 'mid the shades of death, eternal jubilee,

And pleasures such as none beside may share.

All this enjoin' d, to the Olympian height
They fared, and to the gods assembled, where

Still solemn and revered in mansions bright
They dwell with Jove supreme, flame-hurling Jove,
And blest of mortal men whom most they deign to love !

For whom they love — rich gifts on him they pour,
And to his home and hearth send Plutus down,

Giver and god of wealth; — O ye that o'er
Eleusis' fair and incense-breathing town

Preside, ye guardian pair of Paros' isle

And rocky Antron, deign on me your bard to smile.

Thou goddess Ceres, bounteous and serene,

With thy fair daughter loveliest Proserpine,
Boon-loving Ceres, the sweet season's queen,

Receive this homage, and this song of mine ;
Grant me a life of peace, the meed of verse,
So in my varying strains thy praise will I rehearse.

1832.]

Human? s Recollections ofMirabeau.

753

DUMONT'S RECOLLECTIONS OF MIRABEAU.*

" IT is a melancholy fact," says
Madame de Stael, " that while the
human race is continually advancing
by the acquisitions of intellect, it is
doomed to move perpetually in the
same circle of error, from the in-
fluence of the passions." If this ob-
servation was just, even when this
great author wrote, how much more
is it now applicable, when a new ge-
neration has arisen, perfectly blind
to the lessons of experience, and we
in this free and prosperous land,
have yielded to the same passions,
and been seduced by the same de-
lusions, which, three-and-forty years
ago, actuated the French people, and
have been deemed inexcusable by
all subsequent historians, even in its
enslaved population !

It would appear inconceivable,
that the same errors should thus be
repeated by successive nations, with-
out the least regard to the lessons of
history ; that all the dictates of ex-
perience, all the conclusions of wis-
dom, all the penalties of weakness,
should be forgotten, before the ge-
neration which has suffered under
their neglect is cold in their graves ;
that the same vices should be re-
peated, the same criminal ambition
indulged, to the end of the world;
if we did not recollect that it is the
very essence of passion, whether in
nations or individuals, to be insen-
sible to the sufferings of others, and
to pursue its own headstrong incli-
nations, regardless alike of the ad-
monitions of reason, and the expe-
rience of the world. It would seem
that the vehemence of passion in
nations, is as little liable to be in-
fluenced by considerations of pru-
dence, or the slightest regard to the
consequences, as the career of intem-
perance in individuals ; and that in
like manner, as every successive age
beholds multitudes who, in the pur-
suit of desire, rush headlong down the
gulf of perdition, so every successive
generation is doomed to witness
the sacrifice of national prosperity,
or the extinction of national exist-

ence, in the insane pursuit of demo-
cratic ambition. Providence has ap-
pointed certain trials for nations as
well as individuals; and for those
who, disregarding the admonitions
of virtue, and slighting the dictates
of duty, yield to the tempter, cer-
tain destruction is appointed in the
inevitable consequences of their cri-
minal desires, not less in the govern-
ment of empires, than the paths of
private life.

Forty years ago, the passion for
innovation seized a great and power-
ful nation in Europe, illustrious in
the paths of honour, grown grey in
years of renown : the voice of reli-
gion was discarded, the lessons of
experience rejected : visionary pro-
jects were entertained, chimerical
anticipations indulged: the ancient
institutions of the country were not
amended, but destroyed : a new con-
stitution introduced, amidst the una-
nimous applause of the people : the
monarch placed himself at the head
of the movement, the nobles joined
the commons, the clergy united in
the work of reform : all classes, by
common consent, conspired in the
demolition and reconstruction of the
constitution. A new era was thought
to have dawned on human affairs; the
age of gold to be about to return from
the regeneration of mankind.

The consequence, as all the world
knows, was ruin, devastation, and
misery, unparalleled in modem
times : the king, the queen, the royal
family were beheaded, the nobles
exiled or guillotined, the clergy con-
fiscated and banished, the furidhold-
ers starved and ruined, the mer-
chants exterminated, the landholders
beggared, the people decimated.
The wrath of Heaven needed no de-
stroying angel to be the minister of
its vengeance : the guilty passions of
men worked out their own and well*
deserved punishment. The fierce
passion of democracy was extin-
guished in blood : the Reign of Terror
froze every heart with horror : the
tyranny of the Directory destroyed

* Souvenirs sur Mirabeau, et sur les Premieres Assemblies Legislatives. Par
Etienne Dumont, de Geneve. 8vo. London: E. Bull. 1832.— We have translated
the quotations ourselves, not having seen the English version.

VOL. XXXI. NO. CXCIV. 3 O

Dwnonfs Recollections of Mirabcau*

754

the very name of freedom : the am-
bition of Napoleon visited every cot-
tage with mourning, and doomed to
tears every mother in France ; and
the sycophancy of all classes, the na-
tural result of former license, so
paved the way for military despo-
tism, that the haughty Emperor could
only exclaim with Tiberius—" O
homines ad servitutem parati ! "

Forty years after, the same unruly
and reckless spirit seized the very
nation who had witnessed these hor-
rors, and bravely struggled for twenty
years to avert them from her own
shores: the passion of democracy
became general in all the manufac-
turing and trading classes: a large
portion of the nobility were deluded
by the infatuated idea, that by yield-
ing to the torrent, they could regu-
late its movements : the ministers of
theCrown put themselves at the head
of the movement, and wielded the
royal prerogative to give force and
consistence to the ambition of the
multitude : political fanaticism again
reared its hydra head : the ministers
of religion became the objects of
odium; every thing sacred, every
thing venerable, the subject of op-
probrium, and, by yielding to this
tempest of passion and terror, en-
lightened men seriously anticipated,
not a repetition of the horrors .of the
French Revolution, but the staying
of the fury of democracy, the still-
ing of the waves of faction, the calm-
ing the ambition of the people.

That a delusion so extraordinary,
a blindness so infatuated, should have
existed so soon after the great and
bloody drama had been acted on the
theatre of Europe, will appear alto-
gether incredible to future ages. It
Is certain, however, that it exists,
not only among the unthinking mil-
lions, who, being incapable of judg-
ing of the consequences of political
changes, are of no weight in a philo-
sophical view of the subject, but
among thinking thousands who are
capable of forming a correct judg-
ment, and whose opinions on other
subjects are highly worthy of con-
sideration. This is the circumstance
which furnishes the real phenome-
non, and into the causes of which
future ages will anxiously enquire.

[May,

It is no more surprising that a new
generation of shopkeepers, manufac-
turers, and artisans, should be de-
voured by the passion for political
power, without any regard to its re-
cent consequences in the neighbour-
ing kingdom, than that youth, in
every successive generation, should
yield to the seductions of pleasure,
or the allurements of vice, without
ever thinking of the miseries it has
brought upon their fathers, and the
old time before them. But how men
of sense, talent, and information;
men who really have a stake in the
country, and would themselves be
the first victims of revolution, should
be carried away by the same infa-
tuation, cannot be so easily explain-
ed; and if it cannot be accounted
for from some accidental circum-
stances, offers the most gloomy pros-
pects for the cause of truth, and the
future destinies of mankind.

" The direction of literature and
philosophy in France, during the
last half of the 18th century," says
Madame de Stael, " was extremely
bad; but, if I may be allowed the
expression, the direction of igno-
rance has been still worse ; for no
one book can do much mischief to
those who read all. If the idlers in
the world, on the other hand, occupy
themselves by reading a few mo-
ments, the work which they read
makes as great an impression on
them, as the arrival of a stranger in
the desert ; and if that work abounds
in sophisms, they have no opposite
arguments to oppose to it. The
discovery of printing is truly fatal
to those who read only by halves or
chance; for knowledge, like the
Lance of Argail, inflicts wounds
which nothing but itself can heal."*
In this observation is to be found
the true solution of the extraordi-
nary political delusions which now
overspread the world ; and it is
much easier to discern the causes
of the calamity, than perceive what
remedy can be devised for it.

If you could give to all who can
read the newspapers, either intellect
to understand, or taste to relish, or
money to buy, or time to read,
works of historical information, or
philosophical wisdom, there might

De 1' Allemagne, iii, 247,

1832.]

Dumont's Recollection s of Mirabeaii.

7.55

be a reasonable hope that error in
the end would be banished from
thought, and that political know-
ledge, like the Thames water in the
course of a long voyage, Avould work
itself pure. But as it is obvious to
every one practically acquainted
with the condition of mankind, that
ninety-nine out of the hundred who
peruse the daily press, are either
totally incapable of forming a sound
opinion on any subject of thought,
or so influenced by prejudice as to
be inaccessible to the force of rea-
son, or so much swayed by passion
as to be deaf to argument, or so
destitute of information as to be in-
sensible to its force, it is hardly pos-
sible to discern any mode in which,
with a daily press extensively read,
and political excitement kept up, as
it al ways will be by its authors, ei-
ther truth is to become generally
known, or error sufficiently com-
bated. Every one, how slender so-
ever his intellect, how slight his in-
formation, how limited his time for
study, can understand and feel gra-
tified by abuse of his superiors. The
common slang declamation against
the aristocrats, the clergy, and the
throne, in France, and against the
boroughmongers, the bishops, and
the peers, in England, is on the level
of the meanest capacity ; and is cal-
culated to seduce all those who are
" either," in Bacon's words, " weak
in judgment, or infirm in resolu-
tion ; that is, the greater proportion
of mankind."

It is this circumstance of the uni-
versal diffusion of passion, and the
extremely limited extent oif such in-
tellect or information as qualifies to
judge on political subjects, which
renders the future prospects of any
nation, which has got itself involved
in the whirlwind of innovation, so
extremely melancholy. Every change
which is proposed holds out some
immediate or apparent benefit, which
-forms the attraction and inducement
to the multitude. Every one can see
and understand this immediate or
imaginary benefit ; and therefore the
change is clamorously demanded by
the people. To discern the ultimate
effects again, to see how these
changes are to operate on the frame
of society, and the misery they are
calculated to bring on the very per-

sons who demand them, requires a
head of more than ordinary strength,
and knowledge of more than ordi-
nary extent. Nature has not given
the one, education can never give
the other, to above one in an hun-
dred. Hence the poison circulates
universally, while the antidote is
confined to a few ; and therefore, in
such periods, the most extravagant
measures are forced upon govern-
ment, and a total disregard of expe-
rience characterises the national
councils.

It is to this cause that the ex-
tremely short duration of any insti-
tutions, which have been framed
under the pressure of democratic
influence, is to be ascribed, and the
rapidity with which they are termi-
nated by the tranquil despotism of
the sword. Rome, in two genera-
tions, ran through the horrors of
democratic convulsions, until they
were stopped by the sword of the
Dictator. France, since the reform
transports of 1789 began, has had
thirteen different constitutions ; none
of which subsisted two years, except
such as were supported by the power
of Napoleon and the bayonets of the
allies. England, in five years after
the people ran mad in 1642, was
quietly sheltered under the despot-
ism of Cromwell j and the convul-
sions of the republic of South Ame-
rica have been so numerous since
their struggles began, that civilized
nations have ceased to count them.

Historians recording events at a
distance from the period of their
occurrence, and ignorant of the ex-
perienced evils which led to their
adoption, have often indulged in
eloquent declamation against the
corruption and debasement of those
nations, such as Florence, Milan,
Sienna, and Denmark, which have
by common consent, and a solemn
act, surrendered their liberties to a
sovereign prince. There is nothing,
however, either extraordinary or de-
basing about it; they surrendered
their privileges, because they had
never known what real freedom was;
they invoked the tranquillity of des-
potism, to avoid the experienced ills
of anarchy ; they chose the lesser, to
avoid the greater evil. Democracy,
admirable as a spring, and when
duly tempered by the other elements

756

of society, is utterly destructive
where it becomes predominant, or
is deprived of its regulating weight.
The evils it produces are so exces-
sive, the suffering it occasions so
dreadful, that society cannot exist
under them, and the people take
refuge in despair, in the surrender
of all they have been contending for,
to obtain that peace which they have
sought for in vain amidst its stormy
convulsions. The horrors of demo-
cratic tyranny greatly exceed those
either of regal or aristocratic op-
pression. History contains nume-
rous examples of nations, who have
lingered on for centuries, under the
bowstring of the sultan, or the fet-
ters of the feudal nobility; but none
in which democratic violence, when
once fairly let loose, has not speedi-
ly brought about its own extirpa-
tion.

But although there is little hope
that the multitude, when once in-
fected by the deadly contagion of
democracy, can right themselves, or
be righted by others, by the utmost
efforts of reason, argument, or elo-
quence, nature has in reserve one
remedy of sovereign and universal
efficacy, which is as universally un-
derstood, and as quick in its opera-
tion, as the poison which rendered its
application necessary. This is SUF-
FERING. Every man cannot, indeed,
understand political reasoning ; but
every man can feel the want of a
meal. The multitude may be insen-
sible to the efforts of reason and elo-
quence ; but they cannot remain
deaf to the dangers of murder and
conflagration. These, the natural
and unvarying attendants on demo-
cratic ascendency, will as certainly
in the end tame the fierce spirits of
the people, as winter will succeed
summer ; but whether they will do
so in time to preserve the national
freedom, or uphold the national for-
tunes, is a very different, and far
more doubtful, question. It is sel-
dom that the illumination of suffer-
ing comes in time to save the peo-
ple from the despotism of the
sword.

It is in this particular that the su-
perior strength and efficiency of free
constitutions, such as Britain, in re-
sisting the fatal encroachments of
democracy, to any possessed by a
despotic government, is to be found.

Dumonfs Recollections of Miraleau.

[May,

The habits of union, intelligence, and
politicaL-exertion, which they have
developed, have given to the higher
and more influential classes such a
power of combining to resist the dan-
ger, that obstacles are thrown in the
way of change, which retard the fatal
rapidity of its course. Discussion
goes on in the legislature ; talent is
enlisted on the side of truth ; honour
and patriotism are found in the post
of danger ; virtue receives its noblest
attribute in the universal calumnies
of wickedness. These generous ef-
forts, indeed, are totally unavailing
to alter the opinion of the many-
headed monster which has started
into political activity ; but they com-
bine the brave, the enlightened, and
the good, into an united phalanx,
which, if it cannot singly resist the
torrent, may, at least, arrest its fury,
till the powers of nature come to its
aid. These powers do come at last
with desperate and resistless effect,
in the universal suffering, the far-
spread agony, the hopeless depres-
sion of the poor ; but the danger is
imminent, that before the change
takes place the work of destruction
has been completed, and the national
liberties, deprived of the ark of the
constitution, are doomed to perish
under the futile attempts to recon-
struct it.

There never was a mistake so de-
plorable, as to imagine that it is pos-
sible to give to any nation at once a
new constitution ; or to preserve the
slightest guarantee for freedom, un-
der institutions created at once by
the utmost efforts of human wisdom.
It is as impossible at once to give a
durable constitution to a nation, as
it is to give a healthful frame to an
individual, without going through the
previous changes of childhood and
youth. " Governments," says Sir
James Mackintosh, " are not framed
after a model, but all their parts grow
out of occasional acts, prompted by
some urgent expedience, or some
private interest, which in the course
of time coalesce and harden into
usage ; and this bundle of usages is
the object of respect, and the guide
of conduct, long before it is embo-
died, defined, or enforced in written
laws. Government may be, in some
degree, reduced to system, but it
cannot flow from it. It is not like a
machine, or a building, which may

1832.]

Dumont's Recollections of Mirabtau.

757

be constructed entirely, and accord-
ing to a previous plan, by the art and
labour of man. It is better illustra-
ted by comparison with vegetables,
or even animals, which may be, in
a very high degree, improved by skill
and care — which may be grievously
injured by neglect, or destroyed by
violence, but which cannot be pro-
duced by human contrivance. A
government can, indeed, be no more
than a mere draught or scheme of
rule, when it is not composed of
habits of obedience on the part of
the people, and of an habitual exer-
cise of certain portions of authority
by the individuals or bodies who con-
stitute the sovereign power. These
habits, like all others, can only be
formed by repeated acts ; they can-
not be suddenly infused by the law-
giver, nor can they immediately fol-
low the most perfect conviction of
their propriety. Many causes having
more power over the human mind
than written law, it is extremely dif-
ficult, from the mere perusal of a
written scheme of government, to
foretell what it will prove in action.
There may be governments so bad
that it is justifiable to destroy them,
and to trust to the probability that a
better government will grow in their
stead. But as the rise of a worse is
also possible, so terrible a peril is
never to be incurred except in the
case of a tyranny which it is impos-
sible to reform. It may be neces-
sary to burn a forest containing much
useful timber, but giving shelter to
beasts of prey, who are formidable
to an infant colony in its neighbour-
hood, and of too vast an extent to be
gradually and safely thinned by their
inadequate labour. It is fit, however,
that they should be apprised, before
they take an irreparable step, how
little it is possible to foresee, whe-
ther the earth, stripped of its vege-
tation, shall become an unprofitable
desert or a pestilential marsh."*

The great cause, therefore, of the
devastating march of revolutions, and
the total subversion which they in
general effect in the liberties of the
people, is the fundamental changes
in laws and institutions which they
effect. As long as these remain un-
touched, or not altered in any consi-
derable degree, any passing despo-

tism, how grievous soever, is only of
temporary effect; and when the ty-
ranny is overpast, the public free-
dom again runs into its wonted and
consuetudinary channels. Thus the
successive tyrannies of Richard the
Third, Henry the Eighth, and James
the Second, produced no fatal effects
on English freedom, because they
subsisted only during the lifetime of
an arbitrary or capricious sovereign;
and, upon his death, the ancient pri-
vileges of the people revived, and
the liberties of the nation again were
as extensive as ever.

The great rebellion hardly par-
took at all, at least in its early stages,
of a democratic movement. Its lead-
ers were the House of Commons,
who possessed four-fifths of the land-
ed property of the kingdom, and were
proprietors of three times as much
territory as the Upper House ; hence
no considerable changes in laws, in-
stitutions, or customs, took place.
" The courts of law," says Lingard,
" still administered law on the old
precedents, and, with the exception
of a change of the dynasty on the
throne, the people perceived little
change in the administration of go-
vernment." f Power was not, during
the course of the Revolution, trans-
ferred into other and inferior hands,
from whence it never can be wrench-
ed but at the sword's j>oint; it re-
mained in the House of Commons,
the legal representatives of the king-
dom, till it was taken from them by
the hand of Cromwell. The true
democratic spirit appeared at the
close of the struggles in the Fifth
Monarchy men, but their numbers
were too inconsiderable to acquire
any preponderance before the usurp-
ation of Cromwell, that daring sol-
dier. Accordingly, on the Restora-
tion, the first thing that government
did, was to issue writs for all persons
to return members to Parliament
who were qualified prior to 1640;
and after an abeyance of twenty
years, the blood of the constitution
was again poured into its ancient
veins. The Revolution of 1688, as
it is called, was not strictly speaking
a revolution ; it was merely a change
of dynasty, accompanied by an una-
nimous effort of the public will, and
unattended by the least change in

* Mackintosh's History of England, 1, 73,

t Lingard, id, 11,

758

the aristocratic influence, or the ba-
lance of powers in the state.

The wisdom of our ancestors is a
foolish phrase, which does not con-
vey the meaning which it is intended
to express. When it is said that in-
stitutions formed by the wisdom of
former ages should not be changed,
it is not meant that our ancestors
were gifted with any extraordinary
sagacity, but that the customs which
they adopted were the result of ex-
perienced utility and known neces-
sity ; and that the collection of
usages, called the constitution, is
more perfect than any human wis-
dom could at once have framed, be-
cause it has arisen out of social wants,
and been adapted to the exigencies
of actual practice, during a long
course of ages. To demolish and
reconstruct such a constitution, to
remove power from the hands in
which it was formerly vested, and
throw it into channels where it never
was accustomed to flow, is an evil
incomparably greater, an experiment
infinitely more hazardous, than the
total subversion of the liberties of
the people by an ambitious monarch
or a military usurper, because it not
only destroys the balance of power
at the moment, but renders it im-
possible for the nation to right itself
at the close of the tyranny, and raises
up a host of separate revolutionary
interests, vested at the moment with
supreme authority, and dependent
for their existence upon the conti-
nuance of the revolutionary regime.
It is to government what a total
change of landed property is to the
body politic ; a wound which, as
Ireland sufficiently proves, a nation
can never recover.

As the Reform Bill proposes to
throw the whole political power in
the State into new and inexperienced
hands, the change thereby contem-
plated is incomparably greater and
more perilous, than the most com-
plete prostration of the liberties,
either of the people or the aristo-
cracy, by a passing tyranny. It is
the creation of new and formidable
revolutionary interests which will
never expire ; the vesting of power
in hands jealous of its possession,
in proportion to the novelty of its
acquisition, and their own unfitness
to wield it, which is the insuperable
evil. Such a calamity is inflicted as
effectually by the tranquil and pacific

Damon? s Recollections of Mirabeau.

[May,

formation of a new constitution, as
by the most terrible civil wars, or
the severest military oppression. The
liberties of England survived the
wars of the I\oses, the fury of the
Covenant, and the tyranny of Henry
VIII. ; but those of France were at
once destroyed by the insane inno-
vations of the Constituent Assembly.
And this destruction took place
without any bloodshed or opposi-
tion, under the auspices of a re-
forming king, a conceding nobility,
and an intoxicated people, by the
mere votes of the States-General.

The example of France is so ex-
tremely and exactly applicable to our
changes — the pacific and applauded
march of its innovations was so pre-
cisely similar to that which has so
long been pressed upon the Legisla-
ture in. this country, that it is not
surprising that it should be an ex-
tremely sore subject with the Re-
formers, and that they should endea-
vour, by every method of ingenuity,
misrepresentation, and concealment,
to withdraw the public attention from
so damning a precedent. It is for-
tunate, therefore, for the cause of
truth, that at this juncture a work
has appeared, flowing from the least
suspicious quarter, which at once
puts this matter on the right footing,
and demonstrates that it was not un-
due delay, but over rapidity of con-
cession, which brought about its un-
exampled horrors.

M. Dumont, whose " Souvenirs
sur Mirabeau" is prefixed to this ar-
ticle, was the early and faithful friend
of that extraordinary man. He wrote
a great proportion of his speeches,
and composed almost entirely the
Courier de Provence, a journal pub-
lished in the name of Mirabeau, and
to which a great part of his political
celebrity was owing. The celebrated
declaration on the Rights of Man,
published by the Constituent Assem-
bly, was in great part composed by
him. He was the intimate friend of
Brissot, Garat, Roland, Vergniaud,
Talleyrand, and all the leaders of the
popular party, and his opinion was
deemed of so much importance, that
he was frequently consulted by the
Ministers as to the choice of persons
to fill the highest situations. In this
country he was the intimate and
valued friend of Sir Samuel Romilly,
Mr Whitbread, Lord Lansdowne,
Lord Holland, and all the party at

1832.]

Damon? s Recollections of Mirabeau.

759

Holland House. Latterly, he was
chiefly occupied in arranging, com-
posing, and putting into order the
multifarious effusions of Mr Bent-
ham's genius ; and from his pen al-
most all the productions of that great
and original man have flowed. Half
the fame of Mirabeau, and more than
half that of Bentham, rest on his la-
bours. He was no common person
who was selected to be the coadjutor
of two such men, and rendered the
vehicle of communicating their va-
ried and original thoughts to the
world.

Before quoting the highly interest-
ing observations of this able and im-
partial observer on the French Con-
stituent Assembly, and comparing
them with the progress of Reform in
this country, we shall recall to our
reader's recollection the dates of the
leading measures of that celebrated
body, as, without having them in
view, the importance of M. Dumont's
observations cannot be duly appre-
ciated. Such a survey will at the
same time bring to the test the accu-
racy of Mr Macauley's and Sir John
Hothouse's assertion, that it was not
the concession, but the resistance, of
the privileged orders, which precipi-
tated the fatal cataract of their revo-
lution. The abstract is abridged from
Mignet, the ablest historian on the
republican side of which France can
boast, and Lacretelle, the well-known
annalist of its events.

In Aug. 1788, Louis, in obedience
to the wishes of the nation, agreed
to assemble the States-General,
which had not met in France since
1614.

In Sept. 1789, the King, by the
advice of Neckar, by a royal ordi-
nance, doubled the number of the
representatives of the Tiers Etat;
in other words, he doubled the House
of Commons of France,* while those
of the clergy and nobles were left at
their former amount.

The elections in April 1789 were
conducted with the utmost favour
to the popular party. No scrutiny of
those entitled to vote took place;
after the few first days, every person
decently dressed was allowed to vote,
without asking any questions.!

When the States-General met in
May 6, 1789, the King and his mi-
nister Neckar were received with
cold and dignified courtesy by the
nobles and clergy, but rapturous
applause by the Tiers Etat, who saw
in them the authors of the prodigious
addition which the number and con-
sequence of their order had re*
ceived.J

May 9. No sooner had the States-
General proceeded to business, than
the Tiers Etat demanded that the
nobles and clergy should sit and vote
with them in one chamber} a proceed-
ing unexampled in French history,
and which it was foreseen would
give them the complete ascendency,
by reason of their numerical supe-
riority to those of both the other or-
ders united.^

May 10 to June 9. The nobles and
clergy resisted for a short while this
prodigious innovation, and insisted
that, after the manner of all the
States- General which had assembled
in France from the foundation of the
monarchy, the orders should sit and
vote by separate chambers ; and that
this was more especially indispensa-
ble since the recent duplication of
the Tiers Etat had given that body
a numerical superiority over the
two other orders taken together. ||

June 17. The Tiers Etat declared
themselves the National Assembly
of France, a designation, says Du-
mont, which indicated their intention
to usurp the whole sovereignty of
the State.

June 21. The King, terrified at the
thoughts of a collision with the Com-
mons, and thinking to put himself at
the head of the movement, first per-
suaded, and at length, through the
medium of Marshal Luxembourg,
commanded the nobles to yield to
this demand of the Tiers Etat.f

The nobles and clergy gradually
yielded. On the 19th June 1789,
one hundred and forty-seven of the
clergy joined the Tiers Etat, and on
the 25th, the Duke of Orleans, with
forty-seven of the nobles, also desert-
ed their order, and adhered to the
opposite party. The remainder
finding their numbers so seriously
weakened, and urged on by their

Mignet, 5. 2$. •{• Dutuont, $ lui^net, i. 306 § Mignet, i. 37.

Ibid, i. o7. ^ Lacretelle, PJ-. lii.t. r, 3.

700

Damon? s Recollections of Mirabeau.

LMay,

Reforming Sovereign, also joined the
Tiers Etat, and sat with them in one
assembly on 27th June.* " On that
day (says Dumont) the Revolution
was completed."

On the 23d June 1789, the King
held a solemn meeting of the whole
estates in one assembly, and while
he declared the former proceedings
of the Tiers Etat unconstitutional,
granted such immense concessions
to the people, as never, says Mira-
beau, were before granted by a king
to his subjects. All the objects of
the Revolution, says Mignet, were
gained by that royal ordinance.f

July 13. The King ordered the
troops, who had been assembled in
the vicinity of the capital, to be with-
drawn, and sanctioned the establish-
ment of National Guards.^

July 14. The Bastile taken, and
all Paris in an insurrection.

July 16. The King appointed La-
fayette commander of the National
Guard, and Bailly, the president of
the Assembly, mayor of Paris.

July 17. The King visited Paris in
the midst of a mob of 200,000 re-
volutionary democrats.

Aug. 4. The whole feudal rights,
including tithes, abandoned in one
night by the nobility, on the motion
of the Duke de Noailles.

Aug. 13. Decree of the Assembly
declaring all ecclesiastical estates na-
tional property.

Aug. 20. The Declaration of the
Rights of Man issued.

Aug. 23. Freedom of religious opi-
nions proclaimed.

Aug. 24. The unlimited freedom
of the press established.

Aug. 25. Dreadful disturbances in
Paris on account of famine.

Sept. 13. A new decree on account
of the extreme suffering at Paris.

Oct. 5. Versailles invaded by a
clamorous mob. The King and Queen
nearly murdered, and brought cap-
tives by a furious mob to Paris.

Nov. 2. Decree passed, on the mo-
tion of the Bishop of Autun, for the
confiscation and disposal of all eccle-
siastical property.

Feb. 24, 1790. Titles of honour
abolished.

Feb. 26.

________

dom into departments; and all ap-
pointments, civil and military, vested
in the people.

March 17. Sale of 400 millions of
the national domains authorized, and
assignats, bearing a forced circula-
tion, issued, to supply the immense
deficiency of the revenue.^

It is unnecessary to go farther.
Here it appears, that within two
months of the meeting of the States-
General, the union of the orders in
one chamber, in other words, the
annihilation of the House of Peers,
was effected, the feudal rights abo-
lished, and the entire sovereignty
vested in the National Assembly. In
three months, the church property
was confiscated, the Rights of Man
published, titles annihilated, and the
unlimited freedom of the press pro-
claimed. In jfive months, the King
and royal family were brought pri-
soners to Paris. In six months, the
distress naturally consequent on
these convulsions had attracted the
constant attention of the Assembly,
and spread the utmost misery among
the people; and in ten months, the
total failure of the revenue had ren-
dered the sale of church property,
and the issuing of assignats bear-
ing a forced circulation, necessary,
which it is well known soon swal-
lowed up property of every descrip-
tion throughout France. We do not
know what the reformers consider
as tardy concessions of the nobility
and throne ; but when it is recollect-
ed that all these proceedings were
agreed to by the King, and passed by
the legislature at the dates here spe-
cified, it is conceived that a more
rapid revolutionary progress could
hardly be wished for by the most
ardent reformer.

The authority of Madame de Stael
was appealed to in the House of Com-
mons, as illustrative of the vain at-
tempts of a portion of the aristocracy
to stem the torrent. Let us hear the
opinion of the same great writer, as
to who it was that put it in motion.
" No revolution," she observes, " can
succeed in a great country, unless it
is commenced by the aristocratical
class. The people afterwards get pos-
session of it, but they cannot strike
jfift* ^batata ^DBQ fin JJ

* Lacretelle, Pr. Hist. i. 42. f Ibid, i, 43, f Ibid, i. 3,

§ See Ibid. Pr. Hist. p. 1—9, Introduction.

1852.]

Dumont's Recollections of Mirabeau.

the first blow. When I recollect that
it was the parliaments, the nobles, and
the clergy of France, who first strove
to limit the royal authority, I am far
from insinuating that their design in
so doing was culpable. A sincere
enthusiasm then animated all ranks
of Frenchmen — public spirit had
spread universally ; and among the
higher classes, the most enlightened
and generous were those who ar-
dently desired that public opinion
should have its due sway in the di-
rection of affairs. But can the pri-
vileged ranks, who commenced the Re-
volution, accuse those who only car-
ried it on ? Some will say, we wish-
ed only that the changes should pro-
ceed a certain length; others, that
they should go a step farther; but
who can regulate the impulse of a
great people when once put in mo-
tion?" * These are the words of
sober wisdom, and coming, as they
do, from the gifted daughter of M.
Neckar, who had so large a share, by
the duplication of the Tiers Etat, in
the raising of the tempest, and who
was so devoted a worshipper of her
father's memory, none were ever
uttered worthy of more profound
meditation.

This is the true principle oh the
subject. The aid of the Crown, or
of a portion of the aristocracy, is
indispensable to put the torrent of
democracy in motion. After it is
fairly set agoing, all their efforts are
unavailing to restrain its course.
This is what we have all along main-
tained. Unless the French nobility
had headed the mob in demanding
the States- General, matters could
never have been brought to a crisis.
After they had roused the public
feeling, they found, by dear-bought
experience, that they were altoge-
ther unable to restrain its fury. In
this country, the revolutionary party
could have done nothing, had they
not been supported in their projects
of reform by the ministers of the
Crown and the Whig nobility. Ha-
ving been so, we shall see whether
they will be better able than their
compeers on the other Bide of the
Channel to master the tempest they
have raised. .jucf c

It has been already stated, that a

large portion of the nobility sup-
ported the pretensions of the Tiers
Etat. Dumont gives the following
picture of the reforming nobles, and
of the extravagant expectations of
the different classes who supported
their favourite innovations.

" The house of the Duke de Roche-
foucauld, distinguished by its simplicity,
the purity of its manners, and the inde-
pendence of its principles, assembled all
those members of the nobility who sup-
ported the people, the double representa-
tion of the Tiers Etat, the vote per capita,
the abandonment of all privileges, and the
like. Condorcet, Dupont, Lafayette, the
Duke de Liancourt, were the chief per-
sons of that society. Their ruling pas-
sion was to create for France a new consti-
tution. Such of the nobility and princes
as wished to preserve the ancient constitu-
tion of the States- General, formed the aris-
tocratic party against which the public
indignation was so general ; but although
much noise was made about them, their
numbers were inconsiderable. The bulk
of the nation saw only in the States- Ge-
neral the means of diminishing the taxes ;
the fundholders, so often exposed to the
consequences of a violation of public faith,
considered them as an invincible rampart
against national bankruptcy. The deficit
had made them tremble. They were on
the point of ruin ; and they embraced
with warmth the hope of giving to the
revenues of the state a secure foundation.
These ideas were utterly inconsistent with
each other. The nobility had in their
bosom a democratic as well as an aristo-
cratic pr rty. The clergy were divided in
the same manner, and so were the com-
mons. No words can convey an idea of
the confusion of ideas, the extravagant
expectations, the hopes and passions of all
parties. You would imagine the world
was on the day after the creation." — Pp.
37, 38.

We have seen that the clergy, by
their joining the Tiers Etat, firstgave
them a decided superiority over the
other orders, and vested in their
hands omnipotent power, by com-
pelling the nobles to sit and vote
with them in an assembly where they
were numerically inferior to the po-
pular party. The return they met
with in a few months was, a decree
confiscating all their property to the
service of the state. With bitter and
unavailing anguish did they then look

Revolution Fi'angaise, i,

Dumonfs Recollections ofMirabeau.

762

back to their insane conduct in so
strongly fanning a flame of which
they were soon to be the victims.
Dumont gives the following striking
account of the feelings of one of their
reforming bishops when the tempest
they had raised reached their own
doors.

" The Bishop of Chartres was one of
the Bishops who were attached to the
popular party ; that is to say, he was a
supporter of the union of the orders, the
vote by head, and the new constitution.
He was by no means a man of a political
turn, nor of any depth of understanding ;
but he had so much candour arid good
faith that he distrusted no one; he never
imagined that the Tiers Etat could have
any other design but to reform the exist-
ing abuses, and do the good which appear-
ed so easy a matter to all the world. A
stranger to every species of intrigue, sin-
cere in his intentions, he followed no
other guide than his conscience, and what
he sincerely believed to be for the public
good. His religion was like his politics,
he was benevolent, tolerant, and sincerely
rejoiced to see the Protestants exempted
from every species of constraint. He was
well aware that the clergy would be call-
ed on to make great sacrifices ; but never
anticipated that he was destined to be the
victim of the Revolution. I saw him at
the time when the whole goods of the
church were declared national property,
with tears in his eyes, dismissing his old
domestics, reducing his hospitable man-
sion, selling his most precious effects to
discharge his debts. He found some re-
lief by pouring his sorrow into my bo-
som. His regrets were not for himself,
but he incessantly accused himself for ha-
ving suffered himself to be deceived, and
embraced the party of the Tiers Etat,
which violated, when triumphant, all the
engagements which it had made when in
a state of weakness. How grievous it
must have beea to a man of good princi-
ples to have contributed to the success of
so unjust a party! Yet never man had
less reason, morally speaking, to reproach
himself."— Pp. 66-67.

This spoliation of the clergy has
already commenced in this country,
even before the great democratic
measure of Reform is carried. As
usual also, the supporters of the po-
pular party are likely to be its first
victims. We all recollect the deci-
ded part which Lord Milton took in
supporting the Reform Bill, and the
long and obstinate conflict he main-
tained with Mr Qartwright, and the

[May,

Conservative party in Northampton-
shire, at the last election. Well, he
gained his point, and he is now be-
ginning to taste its fruits. Let us
hear the proclamation which he has
lately placarded over all his exten-
sive estates in the cotinty of Wick-
low—

" Grosvenor Place, March 10.
" I was in hopes that the inhabitants of
our part of the country had too deep sense
of the importance of respecting the rights
of property, and of obeying the laws, to
permit them to contemplate what I can
call by no other name than a scheme of
spoliation and robbery. It seems that the
occupier proposes to withhold payment of
tithe, &c. ; but let me ask, what is it that
entitles the occupier himself to the land
which he occupies ? Is it not the law
which sanctions the lease by which he
holds it ? The law gives him a right to
the cattle which he rears on his land, to
the plough with which he cultivates it,
and to the car in which he carries his pro-
duce to the market ; the law also gives
him his right to nine-tenths of the pro-
duce of his land, but the same law assigns
the other tenth to another person. In this
distribution of the produce of the land,
there is no injustice, because the tenant
was perfectly aware of it when he enter-
ed upon his land; but in any forcible
change of this distribution there would
be great injustice, because it would be a
transfer of property from one person to
another without an equivalent — in other
ivords, it would be a robbery. The occu-
pier must also remember that the rent he
pays to the landlord is calculated upon the
principle of his receiving only nine-tenths
of the produce — if he were entitled to the
other tenth, the rent which we should
call upon him to pay would be propor-
tionably higher. All our land is valued
to the tenants upon this principle ; but if
tithes, &c. are swept away without an
equivalent, we shall adopt a different prin-
ciple, and the landlord, not the tenant,
will be the gainer.

" MILTON."

There can be no doubt that the
principles here laid down by Lord
Milton are well founded j but did it
never occur to his lordship that they
are somewhat inconsistent with those
of the Reform Bill ? If the principle
be correct, " that the transfer of pro-
perty from one person to another
without an equivalent is robbery,"
what are we to say of the disfran-
chising the electors of 148 seats in
Parliament, and the destruction of

1832.]

Dumonfs Recollections of Mirabeau.

property worth L.2,500,000, now
vested in the Scotch freeholders ?
Lords Eldon and Tenterden, it is to
be recollected, have declared that
these rights " are a property as well
as a trust."* They stand therefore on
the same foundation as Lord Fitz-
william's right to his Irish tithes. No
more injustice is done by confisca-
ting the one than the other. But this
is just an instance how clear-sight-
ed men are to the " robbery" of re-
volutionary measures when they ap-
proach their own door, and how
extremely blind when it touches up-
on the freeholds of others. Lord Mil-
ton was a keen supporter of schedule
A, and disregarded the exclamations
against " robbery and spoliation,"
which were so loudly made by the
able and intrepid Conservative band
in the House of Commons. Did his
lordship ever imagine that the sys-
tem of spoliation was to stop short at
the freehold corporations, or the
boroughs of Tory Peers ? He will learn
to his cost that the radicals can find
as good plunder in the estates of the
Whig as the Conservative nobility.
But when the day of reckoning comes,
he cannot plead the excuse of the
honest and benevolent Bishop of
Chartres. He was well forewarned
of the consequences ; the example
of France was before his eyes, and it
was clearly pointed out to his atten-
tion; but he obstinately rushed for-
ward in the insane career of innova-
tion, which, almost under his own
eyes, had swallowed up all the re-
forming nobility and clergy of that
unhappy kingdom.

The vast importance of words in
revolutionary convulsions, of which
Napoleon was so well aware when
he said that " it was by epithets that
you govern mankind," appears in the
account given by this able and im-
partial writer on the designation
which the Tiers Etat chose for them-
selves before their union with the
other orders.

" The people of Versailles openly in-
sulted in the streets and at the gates of
the Assembly those whom they called
Aristocrats, The power of that word be-
came magical, as is always the case with

763

party epithets. What astonishes me is,
that there was no contrary denomination
iixed on by the opposite party. They were
called the Nation. The effects of these two
words, when constantly opposed to each
other, may readily be conceived.

" Though the Commons had already
become sensible of their power, there were
many opinions on the way in which it
should be exerted, and the name to be
given to the Assembly. They had not as
yet all the audacity which they have since
evinced ; but the men who looked into
futurity clearly saw that this determina-
tion would have been of the most import-
ant consequences. To declare themselves
the National Assembly was to count for
nothing the king, the noblesse, and the
clergy ; it was equivalent to a declaration
of civil war, if the government had had
sufficient vigour to make any resistance.
To declare themselves the Assembly of
the Commons, was to express what un-
doubtedly was the fact, but what would
not have answered the purpose of com-
pelling the clergy and nobles to join them.
Many denominations were proposed which
were neither the one nor the other of
these ; for every one as yet was desirous
to conceal his ultimate pretensions ; and
even Sieyes, who rejected every thing
which tended to preserve the distinction
of orders, did not venture to table the ex-
pression, National Assembly. It was ha^
zarded for the first time by a deputy
named Le Grand; there Was an imme-
diate call for the vote, and it was carried
by a majority of 500 to 80 voices." — Pp.
73-74.

This is the never-failing device of
the democratic party in all ages.
Trusting to the majority of mere
numbers on their side, they invaria-
bly represent themselves as the
whole nation, and the friends of the
constitution as a mere fragment, ut-
terly unworthy of consideration or
regard. " Who are the Tiers Etat ?"
said the Abbe Sieyes. " They are the
French nation, minus 150,000 privi-
leged individuals."—" Who are the
Reformers ?" says the Times. " They
are 24,000,000 of men, minus 200
boroughmongers." By such false
sweeping assertions as these, are
men's eyes blinded not only to what
is honourable, but to what is safe
and practicable. By this single de-
vice of calling the usurping Com-

* In debate on Reform Bill, Oct. 8, 831,

Damon? s Recollections of Mirabcau.

[May,

mons the National Assembly, the
friends of order were deterred from
entering into a struggle with what
was called, and therefore esteemed,
the national will ; and many oppor-
tunities of stemming the torrent,
which, as Dumont shews, afterwards
arose, irrecoverably neglected.

This matter is worthy of the seri-
ous consideration of the Conserva-
tive leaders in this country. We
frequently hear it said that " the
people" are for Reform, and there-
fore it is in vain to strive against
them. The fact is not so ; and the
expression should never be used by
any one who is a friend to his coun-
try. Say, if you please, that the
whigs are for Reform ; that the ra-
dicals are for Reform ; that the re-
formers are for Reform ; but do not
let the sacred word, " the people,"
be prostituted to the mere purposes
of a faction, or the revolutionists be
permitted to keep out of view the
vast and powerful party who sup-
port constitutional principles by the
mere device of calling themselves
the nation. The opinion of Napoleon
is never to be forgotten, that it is by
nicknames and epithets that mankind
are governed. It is of the highest
importance, therefore, to adopt and
permanently affix to the revolution-
ary party some epithet which shall
at once distinctly shew that they are
not the nation, but only a part of the
nation, and in what light the other
part regard their extravagant pro-
ceedings.

Of the fatal weakness which at-
tended the famous sitting of the 23d
June, 1789, when Louis made such
prodigious concessions to his sub-
jects, without taking at the same
time any steps to make the royal au-
thority respected, the opinion of
Dumorit is as follows :—

" Neckar had intended by these con-
cessions to put democracy into the royal
hands; but they had the effect of putting
the aristocracy under the despotism of the
people. We must not consider that royal
sitting in itself alone. Viewed in this
light, it contained the most extensive coil-
cessions that ever monarch made to his peo-
ple. They would, at any other time, have
excited the most lively gratitude. Is a,
prince powerful? Every thing that he
gives is a gift, every thing that he does
not resume is a favour. Is he weak ?
everything that he concedes is considered

as a debt ; every thing that he refuses, as
an act of injustice.

' The Commons had now set their
heart upon being the National Assembly.
Every thing which did not amount to
that was nothing in their estimation.
But to hold a Bed of Justice, annul the
decrees of the Commons, make a great
noise without having even foreseen any
resistance, or taken a single precaution
for the morrow, without having taken
any steps to prepare a party in the As-
sembly, was an act of madness, and from
it may be dated the ruin of the monarchy.
Nothing can be more dangerous than to
drive a weak prince to acts of vigour
which he is unable to sustain ; for when
he has exhausted the terrors of words he
has no other resource; the authority of
the throne has been lowered, and the peo-
ple have discovered the secret of their mo-
narch's weakness." — P. 87.

The Reformers in this country say,
that these immense concessions of
Louis failed in their effect of calming
the popular effervescence, because
they came too late. It is difficult to
say what they call soon enough, when
it is recollected that these conces-
sions were made before the depu-
ties had even verified their powers ;
before a single decree of the Assem-
bly had passed, at the very opening
of their sittings ,• and when all their
proceedings up to that hour had been
an illegal attempt to centre in them-
selves all the powers of government.
But, in truth, what rendered that so-
litary act of vigour so disastrous was,
that it was totally unsupported ; that
no measures were simultaneously
taken to make the royal authority
respected; that the throne was worst-
ed from its own want of foresight in
the very first contest with the Com-
mons, and, consequently, unbounded
encouragement was afforded to their
future democratic ambition.

The National Assembly, like every
other body which commits itself to
the gale of popular applause, expe-
rienced the utmost disquietude at the
thoughts of punishing any of the ex-
cesses of their popular supporters.
How exactly is the following de-
scription applicable to all times and
nations I

" The disorders which were prolonged
in the provinces, the massacres which
stained the streets of Paris, induced many
estimable persons to propose an address
of the Assembly, condemnatory of such

1832.]

Dumont's Recollections ofMirdbeau.

proceedings, to the people. The Assem-
bly, however, was so apprehensive of of-
fending the multitude, that they regarded
as a snare every motion tending to repress
the disorders, or censure the popular ex-
cesses. Secret distrust and disquietude
was at the hottom of every heart. They
had triumphed by means of the people,
and they could not venture to shew them-
selves severe towards them ; on the con-
trary, though they frequently declared,
in the preambles of their decrees, that
they were profoundly afflicted at the burn-
ing of the chateaux and the insults to the
nobility, they rejoiced in heart at the pro-
pagation of a terror ivhich they regarded
as indispensable to their designs. They
had reduced themselves to the necessity
of fearing the noblesse, or being feared by
them. They condemned publicly, they
protected secretly ; they conferred com-
pliments on the constituted authorities,
and gave encouragement to license. Re-
spect for the executive power was no-
thing but words of style ; and in truth,
when the ministers of the crown revealed
the secret of their weakness, the Assem-
bly, which remembered well its own ter-
rors, was not displeased that fear had
changed sides. If you are sufficiently
powerful to cause yourselves to be re-
spected by the people, you will be suffi-
ciently so to inspire us with dread; that
was the ruling feeling of the Cote
Gauche."— P. 134.

This is precisely a picture of what
always must be the feeling in regard
to tumult and disorders of all who
have committed their political exist-
ence to the waves of popular sup-
port. However much, taken indivi-
dually, they may disapprove of acts
of violence, yet when they feel that
intimidation of their opponents is
their sheet-anchor, they cannot have
an insurmountable aversion to the
deeds by which it is to be effected.
They would prefer, indeed, that
terror should answer their purposes
without the necessity of blows be-
ing actually inflicted; but if mere
threats are insufficient, they never
.fail to derive a secret satisfaction
from the recurrence of examples
calculated to shew what risks the
enemy runs. The burning of castles,
the sacking of towns, may indeed
alienate the wise and the good ; but
alas ! the wise and the good form
but a small proportion of mankind j

765

and for one whose eyes are opened
by the commencement of such deeds
of horror, ten will be so much over-
awed, as to lose all power of acting
in obedience to the newly awakened
and better feelings of his mind.

" Intimidation," as Lord Brougham
has well observed, " is the never-
failing resource of the partisans of
revolution in all ages. Mere popu-
larity is at first the instrument by
which this unsteady legislature is
governed; but when it becomes ap-
parent that whoever can obtain the
direction or command of it must
possess the whole authority of the
state, parties become less scrupu-
lous about the means they employ for
that purpose, and soon find out that
violence and terror are infinitely more
effectual and expeditious than persua-
sion and eloquence. Encouraged by
this state of affairs, the most daring,
unprincipled, and profligate, proceed
to seize upon the defenceless legis-
lature, and, driving all their antago-
nists before them by violence or in-
timidation, enter without opposition
upon the supreme functions of go-
vernment. The arms, however, by
which they had been victorious, are
speedily turned against themselves,
and those who are envious of their
success, or ambitious of their dis-
tinction, easily find means to excite
discontents among the multitude,
and to employ them in pulling down
the very individuals whom they had
so recently elevated. This disposal
of the legislature then becomes a
prize to be fought for in the clubs
and societies of a corrupted metro-
polis, and the institution of a national
representation has no other effect
than that of laying the government
openj to lawless force and flagitious
audacity. It was in this manner that,
from the want of a natural and effi-
cient aristocracy to exercise the func-
tions of hereditary legislators^ the
National Assembly of France was
betrayed into extravagance, and fell
a prey to faction ; that the Institu-
tion itself became a source of public
misery and disorder, and converted
a civilized monarchy first into a san-
guinary democracy, and then into a
military despotism."* How exactly
is the progress, here so well de-

Edinburgh Review, vi. 148.;

766

scribed, applicable to these times !
" Take this bill or anarchy," says
Mr Macauley. — " Lord Grey," says
the Times, " has brought the coun-
try into such a state, that he must
either carry the Reform Bill or incur
the responsibility of a revolution."*
How exactly is the career of demo-
cratic insanity and revolutionary am-
bition the same in all ages and coun-
tries !

Dumont, as already mentioned,
was a leading member of the com-
mittee which prepared the famous
declaration on the Rights of Man.
He gives the following interesting
account of the revolt of a candid and
sagacious mind at the absurdities
which a regard to the popular opi-
nion constrained them to adopt : —

" Duroverai, Claviere, and myself,
were named by Mirabeau to draw up
that celebrated declaration. During the
course of that mournful compilation, re-
flections entered my mind which had
never before found a place there. I soon
perceived the ridiculous nature of the
undertaking. A declaration of rights, I
immediately saw, may be made after the
proclamation of a constitution, but not
before it ; for it is laws which give birth
to rights — they do not follow them. Such
general maxims are highly dangerous ;
you should never bind a legislature by
general propositions, which it afterwards
becomes necessary to restrain or modify.
' Men,' says the declaration, ' are born
free and equal;' that is not true; they
are so far from being born free, that they
are born in a state of unavoidable weak-
ness and dependence : Equal— where are
they ? where can they be ? It is in vain
to talk of equality, when such extreme
difference exists, and ever must exist, be-
tween the talents, fortune, virtues, in-
dustry, and condition of men. In a
word, I was so strongly impressed with
the absurdity of the declaration of the
Rights of Man, that for once I carried
along with me the opinions of our little
committee; and Mirabeau himself, when
presenting the report to the Assembly,
ventured to suggest difficulties, and to
propose that the declaration of rights
should be delayed till the constitution was
completed. ' I tell you,' said he, in his
forcible style, * that any declaration of
rights you may make before the constitu-
tion is framed, will never be but a one
year's almanack.' Mirabeau, always sa-

Dumonfs Recollections of Mirabeau.

[May,

tisfied with a happy expression, never
gave himself the trouble to get to the
bottom of any subject, and never would go
through the toil to put himself in posses-
sion of facts sufficient to defend what he
advanced. On this occasion he suffered
under this : this sudden change became
the subject of bitter reproach. < Who is
this,' said the Jacobins, ' who seeks to em-
ploy his ascendant over the Assembly, to
make us say Yes and No alternately ?
Shall we be for ever the puppets of his
contradictions?' There was so much rea-
son in what he had newly advanced, that
he would have triumphed if he had been
able to bring it out; but he abandoned
the attempt at the very time when seve-
ral deputies were beginning to unite
themselves to him. The deplorable non-
sense went triumphantly on, and gene-
rated that unhappy declaration of the
Rights of Man which subsequently pro-
duced such incredible mischief. I am in
possession at this moment of a complete
refutation of it, article by article, by the
hand of a great master, and it proves to
demonstration the contradictions, the ab-
surdities, the dangers of that seditious
composition, which of itself was sufficient
to overturn the constitution of which it
formed a part; like a powder magazine
placed below an edifice, which the first
spark will blow into the air." — Pp. 141-2.
These are the words of sober and
experienced wisdom ; and coming, as
they do, from one of the authors of
this celebrated declaration, are of
the very highest inportance. They
prove, that at the very time when
Mirabeau and the popular party in
the Assembly were drawing up
their perilous and highly inflamma-
tory declaration, they were aware of
its absurdity, and wished to suppress
the work of their own hands. They
could not do so, however, and were
constrained, by the dread of losing
their popularity, to throw into the
bosom of an excited people a fire-
brand, which they themselves fore-
saw would speedily lead to a confla-
gration. Such is the desperate, the
hopeless state of slavery, in which,
during periods of excitement, the
representatives of the mob are held
by their constituents. The whole
purposes of a representative form of
government are at once destroyed ;
the wisdom, experience, study, and
reflection of the superior class of

* Times, March 27, 1832.

1832.]

Dumonfs Recollections of Mirabeau.

statesmen are trodden under foot;
and the enlightened have no chance
of keeping possession of the reins of
power, or even influencing the legis-
lature, but by bending to the pas-
sions of the ignorant.

This consideration affords a deci-
sive argument in favour of the close,
aye, the nomination boroughs. Their
existence, and their existence in con-
siderable numbers, is indispensable
towards the voice of truth being heard
in the national councils in periods of
excitement, and the resistance to
those measures of innovation, which
threaten to destroy the liberties, and
terminate the prosperity, of the
people. From the popular repre-
sentatives during such periods it is
in vain to expect the language of
truth ; for it would be as unpalatable
to the sovereign multitude as to a
sovereign despot. Members of the
legislature, therefore, are indispen-
sably necessary in considerable num-
bers, who, by having no popular con-
stituents, can venture to speak out
the truth in periods of agitation, in-
novation, and alarm. The Reformers
ask, what is the use of a representa-
tive of a green mound, or a ruined
tower, in a popular Parliament ? We
answer, that he is more indispensa-
ble in such a Parliament than in any
other. Nay, that without such a class
the liberties of the nation cannot ex-
ist five years. Representatives con-
stantly acting under the influence or
dread of popular constituents, never
will venture, either in their speeches
to give vent to the language of
truth, nor in their conduct to support
the cause of real freedom. They
will always be as much under the
influence of their tyrannical task-
masters, as Mirabeau and Dumont
were in drawing up, against their
better judgment, the Rights of Man.
It is as absurd to expect rational or
independent measures from such a
class, as it is to look for freedom of
-conduct from the senate of Tiberius
or the council of Napoleon. We do
not expect the truth to be spoken by
the representative of a mound, in a
question with its owner, or his class
in society, nor by the representatives
of the people, in a question which
interests or excites the public ambi-
tion. But we expect that truth will
be spoken by the representatives of
the people, as against the interests

767

of the owner of the mound ; and by
the representatives of the mound, as
against the passions of the people ;
and that thus, between the two, the
language of reason will be raised on
every subject, and that fatal bias
the public mind prevented, which
arises from one set of doctrines and
principles being alone presented to
their consideration. In the superior
fearlessness and vigour of the lan-
guage of the Conservative party in
the House of Lords, to what is exhi-
bited in the House of Commons, on
the Reform question, is to be found
decisive evidence of the truth of these
principles, and their application to
this country and this age.

Of the fatal 4th August, " the St
Barthelemy of properties," as it was
well styled by Rivarol, and its ruin-
ous consequences upon the public
welfare, we have the following stri-
king and graphic account : —

" Never was such an undertaking ac-
complished in so short a time. That
which would have required a year of
care, meditation, and debate, was propo-
sed, deliberated on, and voted by accla-
mation. I know not how many laws
were decreed in that one sitting; the
abolition of feudal rights, of the tithes, of
provincial privileges; three articles, which
of themselves embraced a complete sys~
tern of jurisprudence and politics, with
ten or twelve others, were decided in less
time than would be required in England
for the first reading of a bill of ordinary
importance. They began with a report
on the disorders of the provinces, cha-
teaux burnt, troops of banditti who at-
tacked the nobles and ravaged the fields.
The Duke d'Aguillon, the Duke do
Noailles, and several others of the demo-
cratic part of the nobility, after the most
disastrous pictures of these calamities, ex-
claimed that nothing but a great act of
generosity could calm the people, and that
it was high time to abandon their odious
privileges, and let the people taste the
full benefits of the Revolution. An in-
describable effervescence seized upon the
Assembly. Every one proposed some sa-
crifice : every one laid some offering on
the altar of their country, proposing either
to denude themselves or denude others ;
no time was allowed for reflection, ob-
jection, or argument ; a sentimental con-
tagion seized every heart. That renun-
ciation of privileges, that abandonment of
so many rights burdensome to the people,
these multiplied sacrifices, had an air of
magnanimity which withdrew the atten-

768

tion from the fatal precipitance with
which they were made. I saw on that
night many good and worthy deputies
who literally wept for joy at seeing the
work of regeneration advance so rapidly,
and at feeling themselves every instant
carried on the wings of enthusiasm so far
beyond their most ardent hopes. The
renunciation of the privileges of pro-
vinces was made by their respective re-
presentatives; those of Brittany had en-
gaged to defend them, and therefore they
were more embarrassed than the rest;
but carried away by the general enthusi-
asm, they advanced in a body, and decla-
red in a body, that they would use their
utmost efforts with their constituents to
obtain the renunciation of their privi-
leges. That great and superb operation
was necessary to confer political unity
upon a monarchy which had been suc-
cessively formed by the union of many
independent states, every one of which
had certain rights of its own anterior
to their being blended together.

" On the following day, every one be-
gan to reflect on what had been done,
and sinister presentiments arose on all
sides. Mirabeau and Sieyes, in particu-
lar, who had not been present at that fa-
mous sitting, condemned in loud terms its
enthusiastic follies. This is a true pic-
ture of France, said they; we spend a
month in disputing about words, and we
make sacrifices in a night which over-
turn everything that is venerable in the
monarchy. In the subsequent meetings,
they tried to retract or modify some of
these enormous concessions, but it was
too late ; it was impossible to withdraw
what the people already looked upon as
their rights. The Abbe Sieyes, in parti-
cular, made a discourse full of reason and
justice against the extinction of tithes,
Avhich he looked upon with the utmost
aversion. He demonstrated, that to ex-
tinguish the tithes, was to spoliate the
clergy of its property, solely to enrich the
proprietors of the lands ; for every one ha-
ving bought or inherited his estate minus
the value of the tithe, found himself sud-
denly enriched by a tenth, which was
given to him as a pure and uncalled for
gratuity. It was this speech, which never
can be refuted, which terminated with
the well-known expression : — * They
would be free, and they know not how to
be just.' The prejudice was so strong,
that Sieyes himself was not listened to ;
he was regarded merely as an ecclesiastic,
who could not get the better of his per-
sonal interest, and paid that tribute of
error to his robe. A little more would
have made him he hooted and hissed, T

Dumonfs Recollections of Mirabeau »

[May,

saw him the next day, full of bitter indig-
nation against the injustice and brutality
of the Assembly, which in truth he never
afterwards forgave, He gave vent to his
indignation, in a conversation with Mira-
beau, who replied, * My dear Abbe, you
have unchained the bull ; do you expect he
is not to gore with his horns 9'

" These decrees of Aug. 4, were so far
from putting a period to the robbery and
violence which desolated the country, that
they only tended to make the people ac-
quainted with their own strength, and
impi'ess them with the conviction that all
their outrages against the nobility would
not only not be punished, but actually re-
warded. Again I say, every thing which
is done from fear, fails in accomplishing
its object; those whom you expect to dis-
arm by concessions, only redouble in confi-
dence and audacity." — Pp. 146-149.

Such is the conclusion of this en-
lightened French Reformer, as to the
consequences of the innovations and
concessions, in promoting which he
took so large a share, and which
it was then confidently expected,
would not only pacify the people
but regenerate the monarchy, and
commence a new era in the history
of the world. These opinions co-
ming from the author of the Rights of
Man, the preceptor of Mirabeau, the
fellow- labourer of Bentham, should,
if any thing can open the eyes of our
young enthusiasts, who are so vehe-
ment in urging the necessity of con-
cession, avowedly from the effects
of intimidation, who expect to " let
loose the bull and escape his horns."

It is on this question of the effects
to be expected from concession to
public clamour, that the whole ques-
tion of Reform hinges. The support-
ers of the bill in both Houses have
abandoned every other argument.
" Pass this bill, or anarchy will en-
sue," is their sole principle of ac-
tion. But what says Dumont, taught
by the errors of the Constituent As-
sembly ? " Pass this bill, and anarchy
will ensue." "Whatever is done,"
says he, " from fear, fails in its ob-
ject; those whom you expect to dis-
arm by concession, redouble in con-
fidence and audacity," This is the
true principle; the principle con-
firmed by universal experience, and
yet the Reformers shut their eyes to
its application. The events which
have occurred in this age are so de-
cisive on this subject, that nothing

1832.]

Dumonfs Recollections of Mirabeau»

769

more convincing could be imagined,
if a voice from the dead were to pro-
claim its truth.

Concession, as Dumont tells us,
and as every one acquainted with
history knows, was tried by the French
government and Assembly, in the
hope of calming the people, and ar-
resting the Revolution. The monarch,
at the opening of the States-General,
made " greater concessions than ever
king made to his people ;" the nobles
abandoned, on their own motion, in
one night, all their rights ; and what
was the consequence ? The revolu-
tionary fervour was urged into a
fury ; the torrent became a cataract,
and horrors unparalleled in the his-
tory of the world ensued.

Resistance to popular ambition, a
firm opposition to the cry for Reform,
was at the same period, under a lion-
hearted King and an intrepid Mi-
nister, adopted in the midst of the
greatest dangers by the British go-
vernment. What was the conse-
quence ? Universal tranquillity-
forty years of unexampled prosper-
it}'— the triumph of Trafalgar — the
conquest of Waterloo.

Conciliationandconces8ion,in obe-
dience, and with the professed de-
sign of healing the disturbances of
that unhappy land, were next tried in
Ireland. Universal tranquillity, con-
tentment, and happiness, were pro-
mised from the great healing mea-
sure of emancipation. What has been
the con sequence ? Disturbances, mas-
sacres, discord, practised sedition,
threatened rebellion, which have
made the old times of Protestant rule
be regretted.

Conciliation and concession were
again put in practice by the Whig
Administration of England. What
was the result ? Perils greater than
assailed the monarchy from all the
might of Napoleon ; dissension, con-
flagration, and popular violence, un-
exampled since the great rebellion;
a falling income and an increasing
expenditure; the flames of a servile
war in Jamaica; and general distress
unequalled since the accession of the
House of Brunswick.

Resistance, bold determined re-
sistance, was made by the barons of
England to the fatal torrent of inno-
vation, and what has been the con-
sequence? A burst of fury excited

VOL. XXXI. NO. CXCIV.

and kept alive by the partisans of
Reform to support a sinking admi-
nistration, followed by a torpor and.
indifference to the objects or popu-
lar ambition, from which all the fury
of the reforming journals has sought
in vain to arouse the great body of
the people. Within six months after
the concessions of Louis and the
French nobility, the whole institu-
tions of the monarchy were over-
turned, and the career of revolution
rendered inevitable ; within six
months after the rejection of the
bill by the House of Peers, in Octo-
ber last, the public fervour, and with
it the public danger, has so much
subsided, that you can hardly be-
lieve you are living in the same age
of the world.

The character of Mirabeau, both
as a writer and orator, and an indi-
vidual, is sketched with no ordinary
power by this author, probably bet-
ter qualified than any man in exist-
ence to portray it with accuracy : —

" Mirabeau had within bis breast a
sense of the force of his mind, which sus-
tained bis courage in situations wbich
would have crushed a person of ordinary
character : his imagination loved the
vast ; his mind seized the gigantic ; his
taste was natural, and had been cultivated
by the study of the classical authors. He
knew little ; but no one could make a bet-
ter use of wbat he had acquired. During
the whirlwind of bis stormy life he had
little leisure for study; but in his prison
of Vincennes he had read extensively, and
improved his style by translations, as well
as extensive collections from tbe writings
of great orators. He had little confidence
in tbe extent of his erudition ; but his
eloquent and impassioned soul animated
every feature of his countenance when he
was moved, and nothing was easier than
to inflame bis imagination. From his
youth upwards he had accustomed him-
self to tbe discussion of the great ques-
tions of erudition and government, but he
was not calculated to go to the bottom of
thorn. The labour of investigation was
not adapted to his powers ; he had too
much warmth and vehemence of disposi-
tion for laborious application ; his mind
proceeded by leaps and bounds, but some-
times they were prodigious. His style
abounded in vigorous expressions, of
which he had made a particular study.

" If we consider him as an author, we
must recollect that all his writings, with-
out one single exception, were pieces of
3 D

770

Diimonfs Recollections ofMirabeait.

[May,

Mosaic, in which, his fellow-labourers had
at least as large a share as himself, but
he had the faculty of giving additional
eclat to their labours, by throwing in
here and there original expressions, or
apostrophes, full of fire and eloquence.
It is a peculiar talent, to be able in this
manner to disinter obscure ability, en-
trust to each the department for which
he is fitted, and induce them all to labour
at a work of which he alone is to reap the
glory.

" As a political orator, he was in some
respects gifted with the very highest ta-
lents— a quick eye, a sure tact, the art of
discovering at once the true disposition of
the assembly he was addressing, arid ap-
plying all the force of his mind to over-
come the point of resistance, without
weakening it by the discussion of minor
topics. No one knew better how to
strike with a single word, or hit his mark
with perfect precision ; and frequently
he thus carried with him the general
opinion, either by a happy insinuation, or
a stroke which intimidated his adversa-
ries. In the tribune he was immovable.
The waves of faction rolled around with-
out shaking him, and he was master of his
passions in the midst of the utmost vehe-
mence of opposition. But what he wanted
as a political orator, was the art of dis-
cussion on the topics on which he en-
larged. He could not embrace a long se-
ries of proofs and reasonings, and was
unable to refute in a logical or convin-
cing manner. He was, in consequence,
often obliged to abandon the most im-
portant motions, when hard pressed by
his adversaries, from pure inability to
refute their arguments. He embraced
too much, and reflected too little. He
plunged into a discourse made for him
on a subject on which he had never re-
flected, and on which he had been at no
pains to master the facts; and he was, in
consequence, greatly inferior in that par-
ticular to the athletae who exhibit their
powers in the British Parliament."-—
P. 277.

What led to the French Revolu-
tion? This question will be asked
and discussed, with all the anxiety
it deserves, to the end of the world.
— Let us hear Dumont on the sub-
ject.

" No event ever interested Europe so
much as the meeting of the States- Gene-
ral. There was no enlightened man
who did not found the greatest hopes
upon that public struggle of prejudices
with the lights of the age, and who did
not believe that a new moral and politi-

cal world was about to issue from the
chaos. The besoin of hope was so strong,
that all faults were pardoned, all mis-
fortunes were represented only as acci-
dent ; in spite of all the calamities which
it induced, the balance leaned always to-
wards the Constituent Assembly. — It
was the struggle of humanity with des-
potism.

" The States- General, six weeks after
their convocation, were no longer the
States- General, but the National Assem-
bly. Its first calamity was to have owed
its new title to a revolution ; that is to
say, to a vital change in its power, its
essence, its name, and its means of autho-
rity. According to the constitution, the
commons should have acted in conjunc-
tion with the nobles, the clergy, and the
king. But the commons, in the very
outset, subjugated the nobles, the cleryy,
and the king. It was in that, that the Re-
volution consisted.

" Reasoning without end has taken
place on the causes of the Revolution ;
there is but one, in my opinion, to which
the whole is to be ascribed ; and that is,
the character of the king. Put a king of
character and firmness in the place of
Louis XV L, and no revolution would
have ensued. His whole reign was a
preparation for it. There was not a sin-
gle epoch, during the whole Constituent
Assembly, in which the king, if he could
only have changed his charactei', might
not have re-established his authority, and
created a mixed constitution far more so-
lid and stable than its ancient monarchy.
His indecision, his weakness, his half
counsels, his want of foresight, ruined
every thing. The inferior causes which
have concurred were nothing but the
necessary consequence of that one moving
cause. When the king is known to be
weak, the courtiers become intriguers,
the factious insolent, the people auda-
cious; good men are intimidated, the
most faithful services go unrewarded,
able men are disgusted, and ruinous
councils adopted. A king possessed of
dignity and firmness would have drawn
to his side those who were sgainst him ;
the Lafayettcs, the Lameths, the IVlira-
beaus, the Sieyes, would never have
dreamed of playing the part which they
did ; and, when directed to other objects,
they would no longer have appeared the
same men."— Pp. 313, 344.

These observations are of the very
highest importance. The elements
of discord, rebellion, and anarchy,
rise into portentous energy when
weakness is at the head of affairs.
A reforming", in other words a de-

foumonfs Recollections ofMirabeau.

mocratic, administration, raise them
into a perfect tempest. The progress
of time, and the immense defects of
the ancient monarchical system, ren-
dered change necessary in France ;
but it was the weakness of the king,
the concessions of the nobility and
clergy, which converted it into a
revolution. All the miseries of that
country sprung from the very prin-
ciple which is incessantly urged as
the ruling consideration in favour of
the Reform Bill.

No body of men ever inflicted such
disasters on France, as the Consti-
tuent Assembly, by their headlong in-
novations and sweeping demolitions.
Not the sword of Marlborough nor
the victories of Wellington — not the
rout of Agincourt nor the carnage of
Waterloo — not the arms of Alexander
nor the ambition of Napoleon, have
proved so fatal to its prosperity.
From the wounds they inflicted, the
social system may revive— from those
of their own innovators recovery is
impossible. They not only destroyed
freedom in its cradle — they not only
induced the most cruel and revolt-
ing tyranny; but they totally destroy-
ed the materials from which it was
to be reconstructed in future, — they
bequeathed slavery to their children,
and they prevented it from ever being
shaken off by their descendants. It
matters not under what name arbi-
trary power is administered : it can
be dealt out as rudely by a reform-
ing assembly, a dictatorial mob, a
Committee of Public Safety, a tyran-
nical Directory, a military despot, or
a citizen King, as by an absolute
monarch or a haughty nobility. By
destroying the whole ancient insti-
tutions of France — by annihilating
the nobles and middling ranks, who
stood between the people and the
Throne — by subverting all the laws
and customs of antiquity — by extir-
pating religion, and inducing general
profl igacy, they have inflicted wounds
upon their country which can never
be healed. Called upon to revive
the social system, they destroyed it :
instead of pouring into the decayed
limbs the warm blood of youth, they
severed the head from the body, and
all subsequent efforts have been un-
availing to restore animation. It is
now as impossible to give genuine
freedom, that is, complete protection

to all classes, to France, as it is to
restore the vital spark to a lifeless
body by the convulsions of electricity.
The balance of interests, the protect-
ing classes, are destroyed : nothing
remains but the populace and the
Government : Asiatic has succeeded
to European civilisation j and, in-
stead or the long life of modern
freedom, the brief tempests of anar-
chy, and the long night of despotism,
are its fate.

The Constituent Assembly, how-
ever, had the excuse of general de-
lusion : they were entering on an un-
trodden field : the consequences of
their actions were unknown : enthu-
siasm as irresistible as that of the
Theatre urged on their steps. Great
reforms required to be made in the
political system : they mistook the
excesses of democratic ambition for
the dictates of ameliorating wisdom:
the corruption of a guilty court, and
the vices of a degraded nobility, called
loudly for amendment. But what shall
we say to those who adventured on
the same perilous course, with their
fatal example before their eyes, in a
country requiring no accession to
popular power, tyrannized over by no
haughty nobility, consumed by no
internal vices, weakened by no fo-
reign disasters ? What shall we say to
those who voluntarily shut their eyes
to all the perils of the headlong reform-
ers of the neighbouring kingdom ;
who roused passions as impetuous,
proposed changes as sweeping, were
actuated by ambition as perilous, as
that which, under their own eyes,
had torn civilisation to pieces in its
bleeding dominion ? What shall we
say to those who did this in the state
where freedom had existed longer,
and was at their accession more un-
fettered, than in any other country
that ever existed j where prosperity
unexampled existed, and virtue un-
corrupted was to be found, and glory
unparalleledhad been won? Who ad-
ventured on a course which threaten-
ed to tear in pieces the country of
Milton and Bacon, of Scott and
Newton, of Nelson and Wellington ?
History will judge their conduct :
no tumultuous mobs will drown its
voice : from its decision there will be
no appeal, and its will be the voice of
ages,

772

Tory Misrule.

[May,

TORY MISRULE.

SIR, — Among the artifices exten-
sively used by the adherents of the
present Ministers, is the attempt to
familiarize anunthinkingpeople with
this notion,— that all the evils with
which, in the midst of many bless-
ings, this country is afflicted, are to
be attributed to the misrule of Tory
governments. The allegation is
usually made without any precision
as to persons, time, or measures ;
though we sometimes hear of forty
years, and Mr Pitt ; and occasional-
ly of seventy years, to embrace the
whole reign of George the Third.
This glance at names and periods is
just sufficient to procure for the al-
legation, from those who will not
read history, the merit of a founda-
tion in fact ; and thus to dispose them
to receive favourably the second part
of the story, much the more import-
ant to those who spread it, wherein
the present Ministers are represented
as Whigs, differing, and having always
differed from the Tories, professing
principles opposed to those of Tory
misrule ; guiltless, therefore, of all
their country's wrongs, and likely to
redress them !

I propose, with your permission,
to expose the fallacies of this repre-
sentation, which might, indeed, with
some truth, be styled " the whisper
of a faction ;" because no man ven-
tures to enunciate it in an audible
voice, still less to justify it by facts.

The first fallacy — indeed that is a
very mild word— consists in the as-
sumption, that there have been, for
the whole period under considera-
tion, two parties of Whig and Tory,
totally distinct and opposed, in per-
son, principle, and conduct ; that the
measures adopted or espoused by the
two have been totally different— that
the Tories have had the government
of the country, uninterruptedly,
through a long period, and that their
Tory measures have been uniformly
unsuccessful and ruinous ; and, above
all, that the present Ministers inherit
and represent all the virtues of the
Whig party, while their opponents,
consisting of the late Ministers, are
in like manner responsible for all the
alleged misdeeds of the Tories. The
greater part of all this is a mere
fancy 1

I will take the~more remote of the
periods assigned for Tory misrule ;
namely, the commencement of the
reign of George the Third, when the
Jacobites were conciliated, and a
good-hearted king endeavoured to
get rid of those unmeaning names,
which had been during four reigns
the watchwords of faction. I will ad-
mit, that from this period there has
been in the government of the coun-
try a greater portion of those who
would not respond to the name of
Whig, and were not ashamed of that
of Tory ; perhaps, it would be more
correctly said, that during this pe-
riod the distinction did not exist,
but I will, for the present argument,
consent to describe as Tories the
several Ministers who governed the
country in the reigns of George the
Third and George the Fourth. On
the same principle, we must assume,
as we may much more correctly, that
the Ministers of George the First and
George the Second were Whigs.

Now, then, for the " misrule" of
the Tories. I must be permitted to
demand, in the name of justice and
of accuracy, that this " misrule" be
tried by comparison with something
which has had actual existence. If
we were merely lamenting the infir-
mity of human nature, or "the limita-
tion of human wisdom, we might
try former Ministers by a standard of
perfection furnished by the heroes
of imagination, or (which is much
the same) of antiquity; but as the
very point in dispute is the compa-
rative merit of two parties in this
state, we cannot appreciate the
misdeeds of the one, without esti-
mating the worthier actions of the
other.

Now, who will say that the Whigs,
who were superseded in the govern-
ment by the Tories about the middle
of the last century, had distinguished
themselves by their sympathy with
the people ; by the absence of cor-
ruption; by religious toleration ; by
freedom in commercial regulations ;
by the mildness of their criminal
code ; by the declaration, or the pa-
tronage, of liberal sentiments in po-
litical science?

The revolution of 1(588, undoubt-
edly, was a very strong and success-

1832.]

Tory Misrule.

773

ful measure in behalf of the Protest-
ant religion, and in opposition to the
arbitrary power of the crown. And
the memorable declaration then
made, assumed, in its reference to
" the original contract," and in other
expressions, an air of republican
theory. But nothing was done for
the people, in the sense in which
their rights and interests are now
understood; and the arrangement
was any thing but "liberal." The
king's power to dispense with laws,
as it had been lately exercised, was
denied. That recent exercise con-
sisted in a declaration of liberty of
conscience; and the revolution, so
far from establishing that liberty of
conscience which the Whigs are sup-
posed to love, marked even more
peremptorily and distinctly the line
of separation between the old reli-
gion and the new; and denied to
those who professed the religion of
their forefathers, even the right of
carrying arms for their defence. I
remind you of these doings of 1688,
because the Whig is perpetually re-
ferring to that epoch, for the prin-
ciples which give him a superiority
over the Tory.

But the truth is, that the Whigs
have no right to the Revolution of
1688. In that measure the Tories
had their full share. I shall be told,
then, that it was the Tories who gave
to the Revolution the character
which I have ascribed to it. Be it so.
I am not ashamed, as a Tory, of ac-
knowledging descent from those
who, impelled by the necessity of the
occasion to resist and drive away
their King, studiously made the
smallest possible change in the laws,
and adhered as closely as possible to
the forms and principles of the con-
stitution. I do not deny that if the
Whigs had on this occasion been left
to themselves, the Revolution — if,
without the Tories, effected at all —
might, perhaps, have been a little
more republican in appearance; all
that I deny is, that the Whigs dis-
played any sort of inclination to any
one practical measure on behalf of
the people, either by giving a more
liberal tendency to the laws, or by
extending the. basis of Parliamentary
representation.

But it was well observed by Sir
Robert Inglis, that the Tories of the
present day are the true descendants

of the Whigs of the Revolution ; the
remark is assuredly just, if you sepa-
rate such Whigs as Lord Somers
from the republicans with whom the
occasion compelled them to asso-
ciate and co-operate.

I shall not pursue the history of
Whigs and Tories through the reigns
of William and of Anne, during which
they held the government alternate-
ly ; or during which, I should say
more correctly, two factions assu-
ming those names, and fluctuating
much in their composition, frequent-
ly succeeded each other in the ad-
ministration of affairs. For it is only
by a pure fiction that we say, that
there have been for a century and a
half two parties in the state, so dis-
tinct in person and in principle, that
no man who had belonged to one
could be afterwards found in the
other, without an avowed or imputed
dereliction of principle. My obser-
vation is just, as applied to the Har-
leys and Godolphins of Anne. I will
not now name the Whigs of William
the Fourth, who must feel much
obliged to me for making it. Perhaps
it was in matters of religion that
there was the more real and marked
difference of principle. The Tories,
in and out of office, were less dis-
posed than the Whigs towards in-
dulgence to Protestant dissenters ; —
but the Whigs cannot have credit for
liberality m their favour to the dis-
senters, seeing the bondage in which
they held the professors of the an-
cient faith.

As for the now popular topics of
reform and retrenchment, it would
be idle to discuss the merits of either
party ; in all these points Whigs and
Tories were, as we say in Devon-
shire, much of a muchness. It hap-
pened that when party ran high in
Queen Anne's reign, the Whigs, who
were in office, were in the midst of
an extensive war ; the Tories, out of
office, found this war a useful topic
of opposition, and, among the evils
which they imputed to it, they na-
turally included the expense. The
general was a Whig, and they ob-
jected to the amount of his reward,
and even to his integrity in pecuni-
ary matters. I shall certainly not,
Sa these grounds, claim for Lord
olingbroke or Dean Swift the cha-
racter of economical reformers, but
neither, surely, can the Whigs appeal

774 Tory Misrule.

to those times as exhibiting their su-
periority in conducting a war, with-
out profusion, favouritism, or corrup-
tion ! I might make the same remark
as to political honesty. If in one
page of Dalrymple or Macpherson,
a zealous Whig should shew me the
double correspondence of a Tory
with Hanover and St Germains, I
would only beg him to turn over the
leaf, where he will find perhaps his
own ancestor professing equal at-
tachment to James and to George.

But let us now come to those
times of the first Georges, in which
the practice of our Constitution,
especially Parliamentary, began to
work with a little more similarity to
present practice.

The Riot Act and the Septennial
Act were the earliest measures of
the triumphant Whigs, after the ac-
cession of the House of Hanover.
By the first, all persons were expo-
sed to capital punishment who should
remain assembled one hour after
having been called upon by a magis-
trate to disperse; by the other, a
House of Commons, elected by the
people for three years, prolonged,
with the aid of the more aristocra-
tical branches of the Legislature, its
own existence to seven years. These
were strong measures; the last a
most outrageous one. Still, I men-
tion them only that they may be as-
cribed to the right authors.

The most eminent Minister, in
both of these reigns, was Sir Robert
Walpole. I am curious to know,
whether it is to be the administra-
tion of this celebrated Whig that we
are to be referred to, for the excellent
and pure system of administration
which Tory misrule has superseded?
Are we to look to this period for a go-
vernment, liberal, cheap, successful,
popular, incorrupt ? I am no enemy
to Sir Robert Walpole ; he had great
qualities as a Minister ; and many of
his faults were those of the times.
But the most bigoted Whig will not
pretend that he or any Whig of that
age, shewed any disposition to im-
prove it.

It may, perhaps, be owing more to
the long duration of this administra-
tion, than to any real eminence of evil,
that it is always named as the era
of bad government and corruption.

[May,

Perhaps the aphorism attributed to
Walpole — " every man has his price"
— if ever uttered by him, might not
have been true ; or it may have only
meant, that there isadegree of tempt-
ation, whether in the shape of wealth,
flattery, or concession, which no man
is stout enough to resist. But it is
certain that Walpole had more am-
ple means of corruption than exist
now ; and he is indeed much belied, if
they were not applied directly among
Members of Parliament as well as
electors. Numerous placemen, even
down to clerks in the Treasury, sat
in the House of Commons. Officers
in the army lost their commissions
for votes in Parliament. Elections
were avowedly determined upon con-
siderations of party. In short, every
thing connected with the abuse of
Ministerial influence, that is now
doubtfully insinuated and suspected,
was in those days extensively prac-
tised and avowed ; — always for car-
rying on the King's government, ne-
ver for procuring any advantage to
the People !

In religion, in commercial policy,
in law, there was no relaxation of
restraint or severity. And what was
our foreign policy ? Certainly, under
Walpole in particular, it was pacific ;
his disposition, and the circumstances
of France, and the remembrance of
bloody and expensive wars, produ-
ced a long interval of peace. But
was there in this policy a character
peculiarly whiggish ? Was it the
policy of the People ?

I am not going to tell you the
story of Captain Jenkins and his ear,
or to call Hosier's ghost from the
vasty deep ; but I will ask any can-
did W7hig, whether the occasions on
which the People have called for war,
and the Government have remained
at peace, are not more numerous
than those in which a Government
has undertaken a war against the
opinions or feelings of the People ?
The period is even now recent, when,
if not the People, those at least who
pretended to be their peculiar re-
presentatives, exhorted the House of
Commons to enter upon a war, when
a Minister no less energetic than Mi-
Canning counselled peace.*

One word more as to finance.
Unquestionably the greater portion,

* 1823.

1832,]

Tory Misrule.

by much the greater portion, of the
existing national debt has been in-
curred under administrations which,
in the present discussion, must be
designated as Tory. But it was with
the Whigs that the system of bor-
rowing on anticipated funds com-
menced, and the foundation thus
laid of the enormous mass of debt.
Amounts of debt, like every thing
else, are comparative. It might, per-
haps, not be easy to point out in the
good old Whig times, a period in
which the debt, the revenue, and
the resources of the country, bore a
more satisfactory relation to each
other, than when a Tory government
handed over the country to the
Whigs in November 1830. But I
must not anticipate.

Having enumerated the circum-
stances under the Whig government
of George the Second, which, ac-
cording to all reformers of the pre-
sent day, constitute misrule, I will
ask, whether there is any one of
them, any single one, which has not,
under Tory governments, been miti-
gated or destroyed ?

Do I therefore contend, that the
Tories are more inimical than the
Whigs to these abuses and encroach-
ments ? No. Out of office, I know,
they exposed and attempted to re-
move many of them ; but I give to
the Bolingbrokes, the Wyndhams,
and the Pulteneys of those days, no
more credit for the denunciations of
abuse, or their advocacy of the sup-
posed interests of the people, than I
give to the Tierneys, the Broughams,
and the Greys of modern times, for
their opposition to Mr Pitt and Lord
Liverpool. Nor do I claim for the
Tories any peculiar merit for the
remedies which they applied to many
of the Whig abuses. I am satisfied,
that the alteration which took place
under Tory governments, must have
been brought about under any govern-
ment whatever, with the progress of
intelligence and discussion. All that
I maintain is this, that, except as to
representation alone, which both par-
ties left nearly as they found it, the
last seventy years, and more particu-
larly the last forty years, have been
much more free from the abuses im-
puted to all governments, than the
period of Whig domination.

I may be told, that during the se-
venty years, or during the forty, the

Tories have not, in fact, held conti-
nual sway— that the Whigs have been
occasionally in office, and that they
have during those periods done much,
and suggested more. As to their sug-
gestions I have already said enough;
they have the merit of the opposi-
tion Tories of George the Second,
and nothing more. But if it be true,
which it is, that during the period
which they assign to the Tory mis-
rule, the Whigs have sometimes had
the upper hand as a party, and have
some of them held office individual-
ly ; and if, therefore, the correction
of Whig abuses which I have claimed
for this Tory period, is properly to be
in part ascribed to the Whigs, be it so.
But then, away with the designation
of the period, as one of Tory misrule !
Let the Whigs have, and* welcome,
their share or the improvements and
glories of the reigns of George the
Third and Fourth ; but let them take
with it their portion of the obloquy,
and abandon their attempt at invi-
dious contrast.

Let us now endeavour to ascer-
tain, though it must be rather guess-
work, wherein has consisted this im-
puted misrule of the Tories.

Does not the imputation rest upon
the allegation of those abuses and
corruptions which I have noticed
in considering the government of the
Whigs ? So far it is disposed of; but
there appear to be two important
additions, war, and burdensome tax-
ation ; and I should perhaps add, the
mismanagement of Ireland.

In truth, the only point of political
conduct in which there is a plausi-
ble ground for imputing to high Tory
principles an erroneous and unsuc-
cessful policy, is the American War.
I know not with what accuracy
Lord North, under whom the war
began, is designated as a Tory. But,
did the contest begin with him ?

The first resolution to tax America
was adopted by the Ministry which
took its name from the head of the
house of Russell, though George
Grenville, also a Whig, was the effi-
cient leader. The declaration (by
which the repeal of the stamp act
was accompanied) of the right to
tax unrepresented America, was
passed by the administration of Lord
Hocking ham ; after an interval of
deliberation, which will not be cited
for proofs of the manliness and effi-

776

Tory Misrule.

[May,

ciency of Whig government. And
it was under the administration of
Lord Chatham, who had censured
Lord Rockirigham for insufficient
concession, that those acts were pass-
ed which led to the proceedings in
Massachusetts, and afterwards to the
resistance of Boston. The subse-
quent measures of Lord North may
have been unwise; but surely the
misrule of America is not to be im-
puted altogether to the Tories. 1
will only add, that except some peti-
tions from Manchester, complaining
of the commercial effects of the
troubles in America, there was not,
at the commencement of the war,
any indication of strong popular
feeling against it.

And how was it in 1793? Was
ever war more popular, or under-
taken with a more complete concur-
rence of the gentry, tradesmen, and
all those on whom we are told to
depend as the legitimate representa-
tion of the wisdom of the people ?
So much, indeed, did this war ap-
pear just and necessary, that of a
large portion of the Whigs, some
who had been the most violent op-
ponents of the American War, part-
ed from their friends in opposition,
in order to co-operate with Mr Pitt
in carrying on this war. Mr Fox, it
is true, the able and eloquent leader
of the Whigs, denounced the minis-
terial policy. Admit, for a moment,
that he was right, you raise his cha-
racter as a great and sagacious states-
man, or a politician fortunate in his
opposition, but you destroy him as
the representative of the People's
Will.

The war ceased, and recommen-
ced in 1803. Was the renewal po-
pular ? So much so, that fresh de-
fections from the Whig party took
place ; and at the commencement of
this, the most expensive of our wars,
that Whig party, whose function it
is, according to the theory which we
are considering, to preserve the na-
tion from war, was neither numerous
nor popular. Was this the fault of
the Tories ? Certainly not ; it might
be the fault of the Whigs themselves,
it might be the fault of the People ;
and, indeed, the cause was in the
People. There was at the time a
government peculiarly weak and
open to factious attack, but the Peo-
ple willed war, and there was no

support for the opposition of a po-
pular party.

There was one more renewal of
war. Was the war of 1815 unpopu-
lar ? Assuredly not.

I shall rest no longer upon this
ground so often trodden in the de-
bates on Reform j but I must make a
remark, which, obvious as it is, is
often neglected — if the popular voice
is responsible for the war, it must
answer, too, for all its consequences.
A war may be conducted with more
or less extravagance; but a cheap
war, upon a large scale, is an impos-
sibility. If the taxes occasioned by
the French wars have produced dis-
tress, those who approved the wars
are as much answerable for the tax-
ation, as if they devised the taxes.
It is in vain to say, that the war was
politic, and worthy of Whig appro-
bation, but that the cost was the re-
sult of Tory misrule.

I cannot advert to war and its con-
sequences, without alluding to the
currency. Most assuredly the bank
restriction, the commencement of all
the evils, and imputed evils, con-
nected with currency, was a conse-
quence, necessary or otherwise, of
the war. Let it be deemed unne-
cessary and unwise. To be ascribed
to Tory misrule, it must be shewn
to be connected with some principle
peculiarly Tory. The attempt would
be absurd. In fact, that close con-
nexion with the monied men of the
city, which some persons thought
wrong in Mr Pitt, and to which some
ascribed many errors in finance, was
certainly rather an attribute of Whigs.
And if the evil consequences of the
restriction are to be ascribed chiefly
to its continuance, the Whigs are not
quite guiltless, who in office availed
themselves of the facilities which it
afforded to the government. But
there are those who have persuaded
themselves into a belief, that a great
portion of the expensiveness of these
wars arose from a desire of patron-
age ; I have even read somewhere of
wars undertaken by the Tories, to
enrich themselves and their depend-
ants. I can hardly make a serious
answer to this ridiculous charge.
The origin of Lord North's war is
well enough known. Mr Pitt began
life an economical reformer; he made
great reductions in time of peace ;
and was constantly employed during

1832.]

the war, into which he most unwil-
lingly entered, in devising new checks
upon expenditure ; but it is true
enough that the tendency to profu-
sion, especially in distant regions,
got the better of all his efforts, and
there was unquestionably great ex-
travagance. Great fortunes were
made, many in the fair way of trade,
some perhaps less honestly ; but in
neither way, more particularly by
persons whom government wished to
favour ; a full share went to their po-
litical enemies. And a systematic al-
teration which he made in the mode
of effecting loans and contracts, made
it impossible to be otherwise. Nor
was Mr Pitt at any time so pressed
by opposing members as to call for
the increase of corruption; he had
always a majority of country gen-
tlemen and independent members.
Perhaps in proportion to the extent,
the skilfulness, and the success of
the exertions made, the war of J803
was less extravagant; and the one
campaign of 1815, was really the
cheapest of altanmo

In the course of these wars, the
Whigs were only once in power.
Does this little era of 1806-7 distin-
guish itself from the dark years of
Tory misrule among which it fell ?
Let any man, who happens to have
forgotten dates, read the history of
twenty years without the names of
the actors, and lay his finger upon
this period of Whig ascendency!
Except that, of several warlike expe-
ditions which they sent forth, it did
so happen that not one was success-
ful, and that they were more than
ordinarily unfortunate in being de-
feated upon their taxes, he will find
nothing whereby he may know that
at one favoured period Tory misrule
was superseded by Whig excellence !
1 have hitherto gone upon the as-
sumption, that the Whigs and Tories
have been definite and distinct par-
ties in the state ; and have compared
- their respective merits, as if they
were really represented by the leaders
on the two sides. But it is time to
enquire how far the argument in
favour of the Whigs, supposing it to
be supported, can serve the present

Tory Misrule. 717

Ministers ;•— how, therefore, they can
claim the merit of all that has been
done under the name of Whiggery
for the last century and a half; and
in what degree they are entitled to
the confidence of those who profess
an attachment to the rights, and a
deference to the wishes, of the peo-
ple ; and, above all, how reasonably
they can be expected to deliver the
country from the effects of " Tory
misrule !"

The Ministers are in number fif-
teen.* Of these, two only have any
right to be considered as Whigs
equally uncontaminated by union
with Tory Ministers, and uncompro-
mised by the adoption of Tory mea-
sures. Lord Durham and Lord John
Russell were too young for office in
1806, and in 1827 did not join the
anti-reforming administration of Mi-
Canning. If, therefore, I have suc-
cessfully combated the argument
drawn from the history of the Whig
party ; if it be true, that your pure
Whig is the only man by whom the
country can be saved, I admit that
the Lords Durham arid John Russell
have a right to demand our confi-
dence. If, indeed, we were dealing
with Parliamentary Reform, the case
of Lord John Russell would not be
quite clear, since he has condemned
and ridiculed, with a strength of ar-

fumentarid power of sarcasm, which
e has on no other occasion display-
ed, propositions of Reform similar in
principles and extent to that now
before Parliament. Strictly speaking,
therefore, the country has only Lord
Durham, upon whom to rely in this
dangerous exigency. — I beg pardon,
Sir James Graham is also pure, and
may be associated with Lord Dur-
ham in the mighty task of renovation !
Lord Grey and Lord Althorp are
equally guiltless of participation in
the resolution of 1827, against Re-
form, and against a repeal of the Test
Act ; but they were in office in 1806 ;
Lord Althorp, I admit, was only a
subordinate ; but Lord Grey was a
Cabinet Minister, and leader of the
House of Commons. His adminis-
tration, as we have seen already, did
nothing to correct the evils of Tory

* Lord Brougham, Lord Lansdowne, Lord Durham, Duke of Richmond, Lord
Carlisle, Lord Grey, Lord John Russell, Lord Palmerston, Lord Melbourne, Lord
Goderich, Lord Althorp, Lord Holland, Mr Grant, Mr Stanley, Sir James Graham.

778 Tory Misrule.

Misrule; the only measure which
might be classed under the modern
head of liberality, was no corrective
of the misrule peculiarly Tory, un-
less the Whigs disclaim the laws
against popery, which were former-
ly their favourite reliance. And even
this slight approach to a liberal sys-
tem, in admitting the Roman Catho-
lics to the army and navy, was
abandoned when put in competition
with their offices ;— for, however
boldly the partisans of Lord Grey,
and the Whigs of 1807, have since
asserted, that they resigned because
they could not carry this measure,
it is a fact, quite undeniable, that
they did abandon the measure ; and
only shrank when pressed, perhaps
too hardly, for a pledge against its
re-introduction at any future period.

Lord Brougham, on the other hand,
is guiltless of 1806, at which period
he was neither in Parliament nor in
office, but he was a participator with
Mr Canning in 1827. True, he held
no office known in the red book, but
he was dictator over the adhering
Whigs, and was a party to all their
pledges, or rather to their forfei-
tures.

Lord Lansdowne, Lord Carlisle,
Lord Melbourne, Mr Stanley, were
all members of the government of
1827 ; Lord Holland was an adhe-
rent of the government of Mr Can-
ning, and was near becoming a mem-
ber of the government of Lord Gode-
rich.

I do not wish to push beyond truth
and propriety, the argument drawn
from their junction with Mr Canning
in 1827. I do not identify all those
who belonged to it, with all the mea-
sures of all the governments in which
Mr Canning had had a principal
share. But I do contend that those
Whigs, who consented to serve un-
der Mr Canning, without obtaining
any one concession to Whig princi-
ples, but on the other hand pledging
themselves to oppose some favourite
Whig measures, have no right to talk
of Tory rule, as the abomination
from which Whigs delivered us. Oh !
but, say they, Mr Canning was a libe-
ral. Will they mention any one mea-
sure of restraint upon liberty adopt-
ed by Mr Pitt or Lord Castlereagh, —

[May,

any one measure of these which have
been considered as hostile to the
people's rights, of which Mr Canning
was not the defender or adviser ?
That, in commercial policy, he was
on the liberal side, I admit ; read
his well-known speech of 1826, and
say whether this is part of the Whig
system. To Mr Canning's exposi-
tion of the anti-liberal policy of the
Whigs, I beg to add the fact, which
escaped his observation, that the pro-
hibition of Foreign Silks, the very
point lately in dispute, was the work
of Lord Rockingham'and his Whig
colleagues in 1766.* But upon all
the questions which separate Whig
and Tory, he was a stanch and un-
compromising Tory. The Whigs,
who joined him, may be blameless,
or meritorious ; but they cannot, in
common honesty, assert the exclu-
sive purity of Whig principles, or
flourish upon the abolition of Tory
Misrule.

If this be true of these conforming
Whigs, how much more so is it of the
Tories, who have reciprocated the
compliment, by joining the Whig go-
vernment,— Lord Palmerston, Lord
Goderich, and Mr Grant! I know
that Lord Goderich was in the habit
of calling himself a Whig; but he
was the bosom friend of Lord Castle-
reagh, and was, as well as the other
two, a steady co-operator in the mea-
sures, which, according to the posi-
tion which I combat, constituted mis-
rule. Are these three gentlemen
ready to admit that they had hereto-
fore been the advocates of a system
of error ? If so, the people may per-
haps be satisfied to have their ser-
vices as able men, but certainly will
not rely upon them with confidence
for the maintenance of their new
principles. And really this Cabinet
is a curious piece of political ma-
chinery, if one set of Ministers aban-
doned their Whig principles to a
Tory chief, and another sacrificed
their Tory predilections at the com-
mand of a Whig leader !

Let any man infer from this, if he
pleases, Uiat WThiggery and Toryism
are nonsensical and fanciful distinc-
tions ; but then let us not hear pf
Tory Misrule.

I fear that I have omitted one Mi-

* 6 Geo. III. c. 28.

1832.]

Tory Misrule.

779

nister, who belongs to none of the
classes which I have described—

" None but himself can be his parallel"—
the Duke of Richmond, — but I will
not expose you to the danger of a
prosecution for libel !

Such being the Whig Ministers, let
us consider, who and what are the
leaders of the Opposition ? Have
they, when in power, been guilty of
that misrule, which ought to place
them below the Whigs in public con-
fidence, or exclude them from the
government of the country ?

Sir, I ask the least candid Whig
who writes for the Edinburgh Re-
view, to name to me the administra-
tion, from the days of Lord Burghley
to those of Earl Grey, which, judged
by their acts, have stronger claim to
the appellation of "Liberal," in its
most modern and extended sense,
than that of the Duke of Wellington ?
Let me not be told, that the illustrious
Duke was the associate of Metter-
nich, that he carried into the Cabinet
the discipline of the camp, that he
is abrupt in his manner, or peremp-
tory in his commands. I must not
be told that he might have done this
thing a little better, or carried that
measure somewhat farther ; my de-
mand is for a comparison ; and I
would be told of the Minister, who
did more for religious liberty, more
for public economy ; less for minis-
terial patronage, less for arbitrary
power.

He carried the Catholic question,
which no Minister, however pledged,
had attempted; — he did not, it is
true, until compelled by the House
of Commons, repeal the Test Act.
Did Lord Rockingham? did Mr Fox?
and did not Lord Lansdowne, and
the conforming Whigs of 1827, pledge
themselves to oppose it ?

He reduced salaries, and abolish-
ed places, so largely, according to the
plea of his successors, as to leave
them little to do ; but certainly more
'largely than any of his predecessors.
Was his administration marked by
one arbitrary measure ? Was there
in practice, or in legislation, any one
extension of prerogative; — one coun-

teraction of commercial freedom ; — •
one extension of criminal law ?

The Duke's most captious accuser
can only rest upon East Retford,
and the Navy Board pensions. I do
not intend to discuss Reform, which,
in truth, is not a point of compari-
son with former times; but East
Retford is simply this: It was de-
termined, of two franchises expected
to be disposable, to grant one to a
town, and the other to the country;
the bill for disposing of the former
franchise, was lost in the Lords'
House, and Ministers did not change
the destination of the other! This
is the simple story, divested of its
posthumous importance. There may
have been a mistake, or an untoward
event, but certainly no comparative
misrule.

The other grand instance of the
Tory Misrule of the Duke of Wel-
lington, I am almost ashamed to
mention among matters of import-
ance. Trusting that the business of
the navy might be conducted by a
smaller number of Commissioners,
he reduced two : — and to these two,
according to an invariable practice,
he assigned pensions, to be held so
long as they should remain unem-
ployed. No committee of enquiry
had recommended the reduction; it
was a spontaneous act of a retrench-
ing government; and if these gentle-
men had been left in possession of
their unnecessary offices, and their
full salaries, the Wellington adminis-
tration would have been without
reproach. But they happened to be
the sons of Cabinet Ministers ; that
is, they were, first, persons whom a
government inclined to favouritism,
and patronage would have left in the
enjoyment of their emoluments ;
and, secondly, they were persons,
whose pensions could not operate for
the influence of Government — and
this is an aggravation ! I beg par-
don for taking up so much time with
this piece of trifling.

Passing to the other great leader
of Opposition, I ask, wherein consists
the instances of misrule exhibited by
Sir Robert Peel ?* Will any member

* The late Cabinet consisted of Lord Lyndhurst, Lord Bathurst, Lord Rosslyn,
the Duke of Wellington, Lord Aberdeen, Lord Melville, Lord Ellenborough, Sir
Robert Peel, Mr Goulburn, Mr Herries, Sir George Murray.

780 Tory Misrule.

of the present Government, from
Lord Brougham downwards, assert
that his principles were otherwise
than wise, liberal, and successful ?
Of the other members of the Cabi-
net, the greater part also belonged,
with him, to the government of Lord
Liverpool. Of the Ministers who
were newer in office, one is a most
respectable Whig; and, unless in
respect of Free Trade, wherein there
may have been a slight shade of dif-
ference, not, however, interrupting
the uniformity of measures, the late
Government was eminent for its una-
nimity. But comparison of prin-
ciples between the late and the pre-
sent Government is unnecessary;
seeing that the more considerable
among their Whig successors had
certainly no indisposition to unite
with them, and that they did, in fact,
concur with them upon all, except
small matters of detail; trivial in
themselves, though important in
their consequences. I cannot advert
to this concurrence without one
word on foreign affairs. Observing
that in the administration of domes-
tic affairs, Lord Grey's Cabinet at-
tempted no improvement or change
in the supposed misrule of the Duke
of Wellington, and availing itself of
the secrecy used in diplomacy, the
Whig press lamented, day by day,
the embarrassment occasioned by
the Tory management of the affairs
of Belgium; little dreaming that
Lord Grey was preparing an ample
though tardy acknowledgment of
concurrence and approbation in the
whole course of the negotiation
conducted by the Duke of Welling-
ton and Lord Aberdeen ! Where,
then, shall we look, in principle or
in practice, for the superiority of
Whiggish rule ?

It may be true, that Sir Robert
Peel had not, on the Treasury bench,
as much assistance in debate as he
himself had rendered to Mr Can-
ning; the Tory Ministers, it is ad-
mitted, supplied but one great speak-
er ; — how many are now to be count-
ed among the Whigs ? The present
Government, in the House of Com-
mons, is scarcely equal in oratory,
and far inferior in every other sort
of parliamentary qualification, to the
superseded and calumniated Tories.
Assuredly, there are those among the
present Ministers who owe their pro-

[May,

motion to their eloquence ; but it is
gone] From some, because they
cannot accommodate it to the change
of principle and vote ; from others,
because, having only that low species
of talent which feeds upon misrepre-
sentation and obloquy, they are
powerless in defence, and weak in
explanation.

Those among the Ministers who
do speak, have wisely discontinued
the practice, in which they shewed,
at first, some disposition to indulge,
of tracing their difficulties to the
misrule of former governments. But,
of the absence of any real excuse for
them, they have afforded evidence,
more effectual than their silence.
They have not proposed a single
measure for correcting the supposed
abuses; they have not altered the
system of government, or the course
of policy. A few retrenchments of
expenditure, some of them of ex-
tremely questionable propriety, fur-
nishes the whole history of their do-
mestic administration. They have in-
creased the forces, upon the grounds
upon which former augmentations
have been defended ; they have up-
on them, and in every other topic,
fallen at once into precisely the same
course of argument, which for years
they had reprobated or ridiculed, as
the common-place of Ministers. They
have even found it necessary to match
what they used to call the Dundas
and Bathurst job, in giving a pen-
sion of L.2000 a-year to a Whig ad-
herent, who had recently been pla-
ced in the high office of Chief Baron
of the Exchequer in Scotland, for
which, however, he gave up no pro-
fession, or other office; and there-
fore might, much more reasonably
than the dismissed Commissioners of
the Navy, have been left to his own
resources. hsifl

Their management of foreign af-
fairs has been ably exposed in your
pages ; it is, however, rather diffi-
cult to treat this topic, because they
have adopted a system of reserve,
going far beyond Lord Castlereagh
or Mr Canning. It is enough for me,
that Lord Palmerston, so long a mem-
ber of a Tory government, has not
ventured to justify himself at the
expense of lory policy. I do sus-
pect, that when we are at last in-
formed of his proceedings in respect
of Belgium, Portugal, and the Papal

1832.] Tory

legations, it will be found that a new
policy has J>een adopted ; and that
he has set himself, not so much
against the mismanagement of an-
cient Tories, as against the declara-
tions of modern Whigs ; that he has
thrown aside that rule of non- inter-
vention which Lord Grey establish-
ed or avowed ; and has mixed up
this country in continental affairs, as
intimately as when the Tories made
that intermeddling a charge against
the Walpoles and the Whigs. If his
intervention should lead to war, the
war and its consequences Avill not
be owing to Tory Ministers or Tory
politics ; if war do not ensue, it will
be because our high-minded Minis-
ters have taken care, in maintenance
of the " Balance of Power" — the old
watchword of the Whigs — to ally
themselves with the more powerful
states for the oppression of the
weaker. If herein they cannot shew
that they have improved upon Tory
policy, we shall find it, I candidly
admit, quite as difficult to find their
prototypes in the catalogue of Whig
statesmen. It is only by the unna-
tural union between the disciple of
Mr Canning and his bitter adver-
sary, that this unmanly policy could
have been produced.

<?'Ifi97 TOt

Hfi b^UOibh 'I-

Misrule.

781

I have already, perhaps, taken up
too much space in combating a sense-
less notion ; had I been less unwill-
ing to occupy pages, which, but for
me, might have served more usefully
our great cause, I could have multi-
plied the proofs of that corporate
self-delusion which characterises the
Whigs, to which there is nothing
similar on this side of the Atlantic.
But I hope that the sketch which I
have given of Whig and Tory his-
tory, will shew that his Majesty's
present Ministers must stand or fall
by their own merits. They cannot
claim the honours, if any there be,
belonging to exclusive Whigs; nor
honestly boast of being guiltless of
former misrule. Whigs and Tories
have in their turn done well ; and
both have at times done ill. Adopt-
ing the designation of Tory, as a sim-
ple symbol of abhorrence of revolu-
tionary measures, and of disgust with
the vain pretensions of the Whigs,
I, for one, remain,

Sir,
Your faithful servant,

A TORY.

London, April 9, 1832.

-.
i f>n:

THE SONG OF THE GIFTED.

-neq K •sai'ri-g a'i •

BY MRS HESIANS.

-nlq fl99(f xfifwosi bsrf o

nn'lRli 1f)frO 1o S^rfku That voice re-racasures

Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures

The thing- of naturft utter; birds or trees,
-O'lQ On qu 87mi M\ Of where the tall gr;>,ss 'mid the heath-plant waves,

rsrfj bie ; aoffio M™ <™d mu8ic thin of 8"dden b^e ' COL£RIDGE.

Xl<teaor;fi<vi 8-foai thuai tM%iia oiot 10 si,.

I heard a song upon the wandering wind,
A song of many tones— though one full soul
Breathed through them all imploringly ; and made
All nature as they pass'd, all quivering leaves oa
And low responsive reeds and waters thrill,
As with the consciousness of human prayer, frfcrf
)3UB09d ,ou_At times the passion-kindled melody

Might seem to gush from Sappho's fervent heart,
Over the wild sea- wave ;— at times the strain
lot lijJuon^FJow'd with more plaintive sweetness, as if born
0190115 gaol 03 .<f)f Petrarch's voice, beside the lone Vaucluse ;

isoioAnd sometimes, with its melancholy swell,
Ibaraid A graver sound was mingled, a deep notef iciialai IB! b
Of Tasso's holy lyre ;— yet still the tones
Were of a suppliant ;— " Leave me not /" was still
The burden of their music ; and I knew
.

5

782 The Song of the Gifted. [May,

The lay which genius, in its loneliness,

Its own still world amidst th' o'erpeopled world,

Hath ever breathed to Love.

They crown me with the glistening crown,

Borne from a deathless tree ;
I hear the pealing music of renown—

0 Love ! forsake me not !
Mine were a lone dark lot,

Bereft of thee !

They tell me that my soul can throw

A glory o'er the earth;

From thee, from thee, is caught that golden glow !
Shed by thy gentle eyes
It gives to flower and skies,
A bright, new birth !

Thence gleams the path of morning,
Over the kindling hills, a sunny zone !

Thence to its heart of hearts, the Rose is burning
With lustre not its own !
Thence every wood-recess
Is fiU'd with loveliness,
Each bower, to ringdoves and dim violets known.

I see all beauty by the ray
That streameth from thy smile ;
Oh ! bear it, bear it not away I

Can that sweet light beguile ?
Too pure, too spirit-like, it seems,
To linger long by earthly streams j

1 clasp it with th' alloy

Of fear 'midst quivering joy,
Yet must I perish if the gift depart—-
Leave me not, Love ! to mine own beating heart !

The music from my lyre
"With thy swift step would flee ;

The world's cold breath would quench the starry fire
In my deep soul — a temple fill'd with thee!
Seal'd would the fountains lie,
The waves of harmony,
Which thou alone canst free!

Like a shrine 'midst rocks forsaken,

Whence the oracle hath fled ;
Like a harp which none might waken

But a mighty master dead;
Like the vase of a perfume scatter'd,

Such would my spirit be ;
So mute, so void, so shatter'd,

Bereft of thee I

T ./. , •

Leave me not, Love ! or if this earth

Yield not for thee a home,
If the bright summer-land of thy pure birth

Send thee a silvery voice that whispers — " Come /"
Then, with the glory from the rose,

With the sparkle from the stream,
With the light thy rainbow-presence throws

Over the poet's dream ;
With all th' Elysian hues
Thy pathway that suffuse, '• "

With joy, with music, from the fading gt'tfve*

Take me, too, heavenward, on thy wing, sweet LoVe !

1832.]

Impressions of Edinbro*. By P. Rooney, Esq.

783

IMPRESSIONS OF EDINBRo'. BV P. ROONEY, ESQ.

LETTER FIRST,

TO THADEUS MCVANE, ESQ. GLO'sTER STREET, DUBLIN.

EDINBURGH, April 3, 1832.

DEAR THADY, — I promised when
last we parted, to send you my first
impressions of " Auld Reekie." In
the name o' God take them then, but
let me beg that you will give me all
credit for candour, and believe that
I, at least, set down nought in malice.
I am well aware that this might be
doubtful to you, unaccompanied by
the above profession, when you call
to mind our last long talk over this
subject-matter. You cannot have
forgotten your incredulity on that
occasion, or my half sneer over the
Scotch description of the Hyperbo-
rean Athens, which we perused to-
gether, and our recapitulation, by
way of comparison, of all the splen-
did points of our own Duab-lin.

I need not say to you, Thady dear,
how I doat upon every foot of that
most glorious amphitheatre, within
whose capacious bosom our island's
pride lies nestled; nor to you need I
speak of the love I cherish for every
green valley, dark loch, and bold
hill, from Wexford to " Ould
Howth;" — apropos of hills, we'll e'en
begin with them, because on that
head we beat this country hollow.
I'm not going, mind, to say a word
about elevations, or the number of
feet above sea level ; to the devil
or any other engineer with all such
formalities! When I once fix my eyes
upon the mountain top, it never oc-
curs to me to regulate my admira-
tion, by trigonometrical survey, or
calculate the sum of my admiration
to a foot.

In my mind, then, Thady, these
Scottish hills are tame, when com-
pared with those tossed so plenti-
fully about the counties of Wicklow
and Dublin, lacking their rich ver-
dure when clothed, their decided
and iron aspect when naked. Here,
no tall trees shoot up, as with us,
green, bright, and living, from every
cleft; nor do you see any of our
perpendicular masses of unleavened

swart rock, glowing against the sun
like walls of solid metal.

These hills, too, lack the endless
variety of outline, the Asiatic aspect,
which those of Wicklow so striking-
ly display, where one sees some, lift-
ed towards heaven graceful and
spire-like, bearing their sharp cone
crowns proudly erect, — others, well
canted over to one side, as if reeling
from a debauch — some, saddle-back-
ed, undulate along, green, smooth,
and soft, — others, in the same group,
flat and table-topped, cut the bright
blue sky with their hard level lines.
It occurred to me, Thady, as I com-
pared these hills of ours, so well re-
membered, with those of Lothian,
amongst which I journeyed in ap-
proaching Edinburgh — it struck me,
I say, as I gazed upon those before
me, and recalled the others so far
away, that they afforded no such ill
example of the widely differing cha-
racteristics of the two nations. Our
hills, taken separately, offering a
thousand charms, a thousand attrac-
tions, to the passing stranger, when
more closely viewed are found to
be unlinked and riotous, fantastic
and loose in the detail, having one
common origin, it is true, but seem-
ingly but ill adjusted for any com-
mon purpose.

Those of Scotland, on the other
hand, although far less pleasing, and
also, on a first glance, far less im-
posing, being each more like the
other, are yet felt, upon closer in-
spection, to be true part and parcel
of one well-jointed design. Like
their sons in their awakened might,
they rise, dark, stern, and stubborn,
the immovable guardians of the
soil that bears them ; little attractive,
if taken in detail and singly viewed,
but most admirable indeed, when
contemplated in their banded ma-
jesty. Mind, I speak only of my irn-
pressions, and that these are strictly
limited to what fell beneath my ken,

784 Impressions of Edi>tbro\

on the line of march I followed,
which was by way of Carlisle, and
across the Esk, through Evvesdale, to
Hawick, &c.

One grateful word I must give in
passing to the Esk, for but rarely
have I looked on any more attractive
river. In some places its bed is
even, and its banks verdant to the
very water edge ; in others, a deep-
cut, rugged course, strewn with the
wreck of ages, giving to the stream
an altered character at each short
turn.

Here, it sweeps by, smooth, deep,
and dark, shadowed by its antique
trees ; a little way further on, it
ruffles hurried, and vexed, over a
high bank of small round pebbles,
that shine through the limpid ripple
like any diamonds. Again, a few
yards onward, and you meet the
river rushing towards you with a
changed aspect. It now foams and
roars in its anger, cumbered, like
other conquerors, by its own tri-
umphs; it now boils against, and
whirls about, huge masses of fallen
rock, the proud trophies of many a
winter war, when, in its gathered
strength, it battles with the moun-
tains, through which it ever " bear-
like" must fight its seaward course.

You cannot imagine, my dear
Thady, any thing more lovely, more
lonely, than some bits about this
river. God forgive me, but, as we
journeyed by it, I caught myself in-
wardly wishing, more than once, that
four red wheels, picked out black,
had never yet rattled over its course ;
and truly, in this, I found that the
bridges at least sympathized with
my reeling, for nothing can well be
more determined than the opposition
they offer to these newfangled ma-
chines, for which, it is plain to be
seen, they never were designed.

I involuntarily blessed their old
grey Tory faces, for their sturdy re-
jection of this Reform, and again
wished that the ground was yet de-
bateable, and Johnny Armstrong's
grey tower in his own good keeping.

Oh, Thady ! man, f hady ! what a
glorious sight it must have been, in
the wild manfu' days of raid and reft,
to have beheld on a spring morning
a band of hungry Scotch Borderers,
hurruishing a drove of fat Saxon
cattle through some ford of this same
stream !

By P. Rooney, Esq. [May,

In the valley, the night dew, yet
sprinkling chilly from every shaken
leaf and blade, and overhead the
newly risen sun, changing the lifted
mist on the mountain to a mantle of
silver — whilst, hurrying through the
pass, come Home and Heron, Max-
well and Scott, braid bonnets and
bared legs, waving plaids, and glit-
tering pikes.

The wild gillies, scrambling about
in the water, fiercely pricking on-
ward the weary unwilling kine, yet
looking anxious back, and lowing
mournfully for their native pasture;
the gentler horsemen closing up
the rear, ami making many a care-
ful cast behind, well knowing that
keen eyes and ready hands were on
their spur.

Picture to yourself at such a mo-
ment a sudden clatter of fast coming
riders, and then the shout of "«
Thirlwall" or " an Armstrong" or
other bold Border name, ringing
from the English bank, and right
promptly answered by the Scottish
Horns, and the various slogan of the
septs, till the mountain echoes, start-
led in their caves, shriek back the
fierce defiance.

Fancy the — but where the devil
am 1 galloping to ? I set out by
promising, and intending simply to
give you my impressions of " Edin-
bro' town," and her"e I am, dashing
through the waters of the Esk, yell-
ing barbarous cris de guerre, and
striking in, with close-set teeth,
amidst a Border onslaught, where for
every bullock to be knocked in the
head, two tall men were presently
brained.

Marry, were oxen as high-priced
in these degenerate days,' it would
be needful to lengthen Lent, since I
fear me there would be few bidders.
Beef would, doubtless, be a great
rarity amongst us peaceable folk ;
or, as Mr Hood would say, we should
soon fall short of even a short-rib.

But to go onward — having paid
tribute to the fair Esk, the which I
could not resist. If old surly Sam
o' Litchfield marched into the land
by this route, I could almost pardon
the learned Bear his jaundiced pic-
ture of Scotia's barrenness; for sure-
ly nothing, in appearance, can be
less fertile than the succession of
bare mountain and bleak valley,
which, if we except the passage of

1832.] Impressions of Edinbro\

the Ettrick, is little varied from hence
to " Fushie Inn" where, by the way
of nota, let me say there is to be seen
a very pretty Scotch lassie, a very
picturesque-looking old landlady,
with Whiggery enough for the whole
Covenant, devoted to posting and
reform, and bearing for her sign a
very quaint conceit, for painted
thereon is a dog, by name " Bucli"
who is made, nothing loath, to wish
Fushie " Good-luck" a wish which
every looker-on is, at least, sure to
repeat.

From the hill above this place the
pulse begins to increase its action,
and every added mile gives birth to
some new interest. To the right
towers Arthur's lofty seat, up comes
on the mind, Holyrood, Anthony's
Chapel, and the hundred other ima-
ges they conjure in their train. To
the left darkles the Castle, recalling
the Bruce — the Douglas — Kirkaldy's
loyal defence and luckless end.

Beyond range the Pentlands, the
stern witness of Clavers' murders,
and the eternal monument of his vic-
tims. I wonder did the Church's
Captain ever dream that time might
come when the humble Covenanters'
graves would be remembered and
famous, whilst that of the proud Dun-
dee should afford a subject of dis-
pute to the antiquary alone ?

But I must pull in, and not di-
late so; the fact is, Thady, a man
feels fairly inspired in this region,—
at least I pity him who does not so
feel. It is a land of romance, and
one yields helplessly and wholly to
its influence.

Nearing the city, I was at first
hugely reminded of dear Dublin ;
the low stone-cabins, cherished dirt-
heaps, and duck, or pig-puddles,
light-haired unkempt maidens, and
sturdy shoeless urchins, all filth and
frolic, together with the lofty gar-
den-walls, and square-built houses
of the better sort, all came in aid of
the resemblance; but, once within
the suburb of Newington, the com-
parison would be " odorous," as Mrs
M. says.

Such plain good taste in design,
such neatness, such cleanliness^ such
a general air of comfort, in short, is,
in'my mind, offered by no other en-
trance to any capital city it has been
my lot to visit, and they have not
been few. Well, from this onward
VOL, XXXI, NO, CXCIV.

By P. Rooney, Esq. 765

the scene gradually changed, beco-
ming more and more striking, and
also more inspiring ; for it was Sab-
bath-day, and hitherto all had been
quiet, voiceless, and even solitary ;
but, as the Mail drove leisurely on,
the churches were pouring forth
their congregations ! — Oh, Thady, my
dear fellow, when shall we feast our
eyes and hearts, in our own city, on
such an unmixed assemblage of well
clad people, as that which I then
beheld crowding the wide streets of
this !

I turned to all sides ; I lifted my
eyes from one well-dressed group,
and they lighted only upon the like.
I was sensibly moved by this air of
general and equal ease and comfort.
" Where," I asked of a person seat-
ed behind me, who had been civilly
pointing out the lions, — " where," I
asked, " are your poor ?"

" They're just here, about you !"
he replied, accompanying his an-
swer, as I thought, with a smile of
pride, which I at once envied and
admired. " These," he went on,
" are all, or mostly, artisans, and
work-people of one kind or other ;
we are not yet come to the fashion-
able end of the town."

Well, on we rolled. We passed
along the vast dry bridge that crosses
the North Loch, connecting the Old
with the New Town. We turned
short by the right, halting at the
Post-office.

Full before me rose the Calton-
hill. My eyes swept upwards along
the noble street, glanced by the mo-
nument of Dugald Stewart, and rest-
ed on the front of the Parthenon;
they were feasted, filled full with
beauty. Nelson's Monument I might
also have seen ; but, after one glance,
I would not again see it — I forgot it
— I shut it out from my soul's sight,
and the retina refused again to reflect
the only blot on a scene so perfect-
so matchless. 'Twas the only fault,
and, like the Recording Angel, (not to
speak it profanely,) I feel that I ought
to drop a tear upon the page, and blot
out its remembrance for ever ; but,
alas, / am no angel, Ted, as you well
know; besides, I promised you my
true impressions, and false recorder
you shall never call me, — tasteless
you may, perchance, when one day
you look on this object of my dis-
like, To which I answer, each man
3E

786 Impressions of Edinbro* .

to his humour ; and perhaps I may
yet return to this same monument,
when in one more reasonable than
at present,

Well, I at length was set down at
the coach-office. I clomb the steep
hill, stared at the Record-hall, wend-
ed at the heels of my Hielan porter
up Prince's Street, looking mighty
like a Kerry cow in the middle of
College-green, all dust and bewilder-
ment.and at length was safely housed
at Mackay's Hotel, after bumping
against several gude folk, through
star-gazing at the near Castle, and
thinking of " Oliver Cromwell, that
did it so pummel," as he did poor
Lady Jeffries, " till he made a great
breach, right into her battlement."

By P. Rooney, Esq.

[May,

So ends my first chapter; and
whether I " go an" or no, must de-
pend upon your gratitude, my hu-
mour, Scottish sunshine, and a few
other chances, all equally uncertain
and undependable.

Adieu, Thadeus, darlin' — Excuse
much of this, as, in serious truth,
I'm not yet quite sane; I'll strive to
sober me down by my next, making
this strange gay garment cleave bet-
ter to me " by the aid of use."
Always yours,

PATRICK ROONEY.

Mackay's Hotel,

Prince's Street.

LETTER II.

DEAR THADY,— Since writing my
last, I have become as familiar with
Edinbro', as a man may well be with
BO large a space in so short a time.
But with cities as with men, an agree-
able first impression mightily facili-
tates intercourse, ripening the ac-
quaintanceship of a day into an ease
and cordiality which a knowledge of
years fails to produce, when, on the
other hand, coldness or formality
chances to cloud the introduction.

It is pleasant, either in the case of
men or cities, to feel that closer ac-
quaintanceship has failed to undo the
charm, which novelty at first, per-
chance, helped to weave ; and still
more pleasant to be able to assert,
that familiar intercourse has but
served to confirm the predilection.

Just in this humour, then, do I sit
down to pen for you, my second
batch of Impressions. I have, then,
Thady, wandered about here ac-
cording to my restless habit, and
have seen more to admire than might
justly be described under the head I
have selected, as best suited to a fly-
ing traveller : comprehending a light
but vigorous glance, that, aided "by
an imagination alive to the subject,
and prepared to deal with it, snatches
most of what is boldest and most at-
tractive, and if fearlessly and fairly
transferred to paper, often affords a
sketch as satisfactory as more la-
boured efforts, checked, as these must
be, by that weight of responsibility
which pretension always incurs—
But to my task.

In the first place, my own quar-
ters— most happily situated — in no
slight degree, as it chanced, served
to keep the flame alive, which a first
glance on Edinburgh had kindled.
Immediately opposite my window,
but at some distance, stand groups
of buildings, which one might fancy
belonging to some Italian city of the
middle ages — when each family re-
sidence was a stout fortress, planned
and raised in contemplation of a
siege from Guelph or Ghibellirie,
where all showed solid, stern, and
safe, the citizens' only aim space and
security; and when the church alone,
sanctified and shielded by its holy
purpose, could venture safely to in-
dulge the genius of the architect, and
revel in luxuriant external orna-
ment, fearless and fancy free — such
were my first impressions, as, on the
evening of my arrival, I stood at my
window communing with all which it
commanded.

The country, at this point, was
wholly shut out. On my left hand
the North Bridge, crossing the loch,
with the tall houses which form the
tete dupont, limited my view in that
direction. Immediately in front,
looking across the deep chasm of the
once loch — half veiled in the grow-
ing mist of evening, and by the
smoke of the houses below, whose
roofs were barely visible — ran en
echellon, a succession of towering

Sibles, marking the course of the old
igh street ; broken at certain dis-
tances by long lines of heavy ma-

1832.] Impressions of Edinlro*. By P. Rooney^ Esq.

sonry, pierced with small square win-
dows; in many of which lights al-
ready glimmered ; some, as it were,
rising brightly from out the very
earth, others twinkling pale and star-
like, at an elevation of fifteen stones.
Here and there a conical roof, to-
gether with numberless stacks of
chimneys, chequered the line, and,
marked against the clear sky, pro-
duced the effect of crenelled battle-
ments.

On the extreme right, the view was
flanked high overhead by the Castle,
a more picturesque mass than which
it would be difficult to find. Below,
on the same line of sight, I could
just include the building of the So-
ciety of Artists, looking like some
temple of antiquity, escaped from
the ravages of Goth and Frank ; the
solitary evidence of a happier age —
all else speaking more of security
than beauty, except, as I before re-
marked, in the church's case ; for on
the middle ground of this very pic-
ture, at once giving birth to, and con-
firming the recollection, the old Tow-
er of St Giles proudly reared its
head, imperially crowned, and rich
in the rnopt florid Gothic tracery, im-
parting a finish and relief to the dense
group, which no single object less
happily appropriate could have done.
Fancy, in addition to the whole, my
dear Ted, the last rays of a heaven-
ly day yet lingering in a cloudless
sky, giving brightness to the more
prominent points, and investing the
numerous deep shadows with a
breadth and grandeur, that was most
admirably in keeping with the cha-
racter with which my imagination
had invested this striking scene.

On these objects, of which my
hasty sketch will, at best, afford you
but a very meagre impression, I con-
tinued untired to speculate, until
forms became gradually indistinct,
and the various and brightly dotted
lines of lamps alone remained, mark-
ing the singular irregularities of the
site, and giving no ill idea of just such
a rude city, suddenly illuminated for
the night entree of its feudal lord
and his array.

In the morning of next day, which
was happily a fine one, I strolled about
the New Town, which offers a suc-
cession of nobly planned streets, ter-
races, and squares, all stone-built,
and deriving from that circumstance

787

a solid air of grandeur and durabi-
lity on which the eye rests with
pleasure, and which mere brick and
mouldy stucco never can impart.

From every point here, the blue
waters of the Forth are seen rolling;
beyond, a wild background of moun-
tains, over all of which, in a fine day,
the lofty Ben Lomond may be clear-
ly distinguished, braving the sun with
his snowy head, and looking down
on the fleecy clouds, where they
sleep upon the summits of his less
ambitious compeers.

I find I must confine my notices
to what most especially struck me,
else you will have no end to my im-
pressions, and they will weary, in-
stead of, as I design, amusing you.
One word more, therefore, only, to
the New Town.

With St Andrew Square I was
especially taken, as I looked across
it, and along the vast line of George
Street, closed by the noble dome
of St George's Church, for I pass
over the equivocal-looking statue
standing at the head of Hanover
Street, since, although it in reality
cuts this fine line, it hardly inter-
feres with the effect, the eye will-
ingly passing it by, and reposing only
on the nobler and true termination.
There can be nowhere, I think, a
street more finely imagined than this,
and how the plague the designer
contrived to select, or carve out,
such a continuous level at such an
elevation, does hugely perplex my
simplicity. Viewed from the Church
of St George, Melville's column in St
Andrew's Square offers a termina-
tion equally to be admired. Near to
the latter object one is less satisfied;
the base appears too mean and inse-
cure for its great office, standing as
it does upon the soft green-sward,
whilst the ill-looking birds which
preside over the corners have pla-
guily the air of attendant harpies,
roosting under the auspices of the
ex-great man.

But I must hurry away from this
noble quarter, where all things, how-
ever presently grand, serve only to
impress one with a sense of the grow-
ing greatness of the Scottish capital ;
the which I trust may be fairly
viewed as typical of that of the whole
nation ; and next give you my impres-
sions of that quarter, which as plain-
ly speaks to its former, and if less

788 Impressions ofEdinbro\

prosperous and secure, to me, far
more interesting condition.

In this latter perambulation, then,
Thady, it was my good fortune to be
companioned with one of the fore-
most of the band of worthies which
Scotland has given to art. One,
under whose conduct it was impos-
sible to pass any thing admirable,
unseeing, or look on, uninstructed ;
whose imagination seems equally re-
gulated by truth, whether gaily lux-
uriating amongst the groves of the
Bachtcha serai,* or darkly brooding
over the bleak muir of Maugusjv
where the Covenant was irrevocably
sealed in the best blood of the hier-
archy.

I stood iii the chamber of Mary
Stuart in Holyrood,' rested by her
very bed, in the warm early sun-
beams, streaming full in at the same
window through which her bright
eyes had so often greeted them.
Truly, Thady, one has need here of
all the sun's warmth, for the place
has but a chilly effect, backed by the
recollection of the deeds enacted
therein. I, almost fancied, as the
tapestry was lifted, and the low door
heavily opened on the dark stair-
head by which the murderers of
Rizzio entered; that I had a glimpse
of old Ruthveii's scowling brows,
blackened by the iron shade of his
helmet ; close to the door is the little
closet where the Queen and the
Countess of Argyle supped in com-
pany with the gentle musician. It is
not above fifteen feet long, by twelve
broad, and with the addition of the
ruffians who burst in upon that hap-
py party, must have been as fear-
fully filled as ever was the like space
in any land or time. What has ro-
mance, my dear Thady, to offer,
equal in horror to a tale like this, of
whose verity such fearful evidences,
such speaking proofs, yet exist to
harrow up the blood, and make the
looker-on wish for free breathing
space, with his lungs panting, and
his heart thumping against his ribs,
as if himself under the very gripe of
the noble bravoes, who so basely
outraged nature, and disgraced true
chivalry!

Faith, Thady, the envied privileges

By P. Rooney, Esq. [May,

of a lady's favourite were held by a
desperate tenure in those days. The
sword, film-sustained, was ever ripe
for a fall; and, as poor Rizzio found,
even the person of the sovereign was
no safe shield, opposed to the will of
such subjects, whose ears were as
ears of adders to the commands of
the Queen ; their hearts, as hearts of
marble to the tears of the woman.

In the Duke of Hamilton's apart-
ments are some interesting portraits.
One of Darnley, loutish, small-eyed,
and brutal, affording no trace of
that beauty for which he was re-
markable. A smaller one of Mary,
bearing every mark of authenticity.
The features petite and regular ; and
the lines betraying the heaviness of
mid-age, with a tendency to fat.
Here, however, a likeness of our
James the Second drew more large-
ly on my notice than any other ; it
was most likely placed here by him-
self, when, as Duke of York, he held
at Holyrood the most brilliant court
probably that Scotland ever boasted,
and won " golden opinions" from
all sorts of people, laying the broad
foundations of a love, which, cleaving
to his ill-fated descendants, cost
Scotland much of her best blood. It
is impossible for the least imagina-
tive person to look upon this portrait,
and not marvel at the turn of for-
tune's wheel, which makes the once
master of St Germain's a twice exiled
lodger in the palace of the once mas-
ter of Holyrood.

Anthony's Chapel was the next
point I made ; and in walking to it,
I was truly surprised by the deep soli-
tude into which five minutes plunges
one. Look towards the city, and every
object bespeaks the refinement of cul-
ture and civilisation ; turn your back,
and all is uncultured, natural, and
savage. You might as well be in a
desert : not a sound, not a soul ; not
a sign of husbandry, not a domestic
animal within ken ; dark glens and
rocky heights stretch in unbroken
lines as far as the sight can penetrate.
The ruined Chapel only speaks of
man, and looking on this, you might
fancy it the mouldering altar of some
Cenobite of the wilderness, and your-
self the first modern discoverer.

* Garden of the seraglio, in the Crimea.
| Maug us-moor, where Sharpe was slain,

1832.]

Impressions ofEdinbrd*. By P. Rooney, Esq.

789

The day was fitful, the wind east
by north, loose banks of fog rose
from the sea, and kept flitting land-
ward, wholly veiling many objects,
and leaving others hard by in bright
sunshine. My companion, with the
feeling of a painter, was regretting
this — a regret in which I joined. Yet
do I owe to this chance the most
unalloyed long look on the Calton
Hill I have enjoyed at all, and Thady,
my boy, what a soul-stirring sight
it was ! The Parthenon and the Mo-
numents stood out bright and clearly
defined in dazzling sun-light, whilst
on the intervening space rested a
thick cloud, enveloping and conceal-
ing that tea-garden tower, to which I
cannot be reconciled, whilst it is left
standing in such a place and so com-
panioned.— What an idea was that
of a sailor, whom my friend one day
encountered, brought-up close by
this Nelson's tower, and looking
quietly upon it.

" What do you think of the Admi-
ral's Monument ?" enquired the art-
ist, attracted by the thoughtful air
of the old tar.

" Not much, master ; it's a queer
sodger-looking place, in my mind,"
was the cool reply.

" Why, what would you have for
his monument ?"

" What would /have !" cries Jack,
musing for a little, with a quiet smile ;
" Why, I'll tell you, I'd have som'at
a leetle more ship-shape — I'd a took
one them taunt pillars, stuck it up
like the main-lower-mast of the
Victory, rigged a thing like the main-
top on to it, and clapped the old boy
over all, bow-on to the Firth, his right
arm adrift, a cannon-ball in his left
hand, and his one eye looking well-
up among the scud, flying across his
bare head."

It was a grand, a generous thought,
to make this hill the site of their
monuments who have deserved well
of their country ; and what a perpe-
tuity of fame does a man bid for, who
fights to gain place thereon ! What
would a Scotchman not attempt, to
earn one foot of a soil hallowed to
such an end — to stand boldly out an
honoured landmark in the eyes of
generations—to feel that your child-
ren, come they east or west, or north
or south, may stretch forth their
hands, and proudly say, " There
stands the monument of our father!"
What the devil is a hole in St Paul's

to this, Thady ? Only think of having
your shell crushed within a month
after your burial by the huge carcass
of some stinking alderman, and your
bit of shining marble shewn1 by a
beef-fed rascal, in a red gown, to
curious country schoolboys, at a
charge of " only twopence a-piece !"
Faugh on such fame, when compa-
red to an urn based by the free moun-
tain !

But my impressions gain on me,
I find, and must not be let to circle
in such wide flights. The subject is,
in fact, over much for me, Thady,
and the recollections linked with the
subject throng upon my imagination,
confounding and bewildering it.

Of the Canongate I shall only re-
mark, that it is a street of romance,
one long line of ancient poetry tell-
ing in imagery, rude, but rich and
true, of memorable bygone times,
and of the actors therein. One thing
I must name to you ; — fancy the house
of John Knox, tenanted by a Dryden,
that Dryden a Barbatic, and one who
swears by the covenant, and, maugre
idolatry, worships the grim bust of
the Scotch Reformer, stuck in a
niche by his door, as his patron saint.

What a book is " the Heart of Mid-
Lothian!" Follow in this book the Por-
teous mob, and you have every house
yet standing, from St Giles down to
the Grassmarket. These made the
less impression on me, for I already
knew, and, in those pages, had often
looked upon them<

On the extent and beauty of the
prospects from the Castle, and every
other elevation, I am silent for the
like reason ; the same graphic pen,
the only one which could truly image
forth such scenery, having already
made most of them familiar to all
lovers of nature. Alas ! that her
faithfulest painter should have for-
sook his honoured function to play
the truant in far off sunny lands !
Yet so it is ! — The weary Magician
has cast his wand aside, bequeathing,
like his mighty wizard namesake, his
achievements to the wonder of com-
ing ages, and like him, too, bearing
to the unrevealing silent tomb, the
secret of the spell by which he
wrought his wonders.

Adieu, dear Thady, yours always,
abroad or at home, dead or alive,
PATRICK ROONEY,

Mackay's Hotel,
April Uth, 1832,

790

The Castle of the Isle of Rug en.

[May

THE CASTLE OF THE ISLE OF RUGEN.

THE traveller who looks for won-
ders always turns his face to the
south. There he first finds among
the Swiss hills, romance, and the
Ranz de vaches. Still onward he
finds Roman ruins, Etruscan frag-
ments, the dust of the Scipios, and
the living Lazaroni. Still onward,
if he has the hardihood, which Ho-
race professes that he had not, he
throws himself and his curiosity on
board a sparonaro,rests on his oars in
the centre of the Bay of Naples,
drinks in sea-air and sunshine, dis-
covers that the sky " never produced
such a sun before," nor the breeze
filled his organization with such a
superfluity of aromas; and lingers
there, sketching Vesuvius in his port-
folio, recording his raptures in his
tablets, or describing the undescri-
bable, until he catches the night
dew, which, to a novice, is as fatal
as a cannon shot; or is carried
out of the bay by the current that
insidiously steals round Capra3a, and
finds himself at once in breakers, in
the dark, and in the hands of a row-
boat full of Algerines. All this many
a Roman lover has enjoyed within the
course of his first Neapolitan twelve
hours; and all this he may enjoy
still, notwithstanding the presence
of General Savary and his French
heroes in the ancient seat of the Dey.
Piracy is too native to the Algerine,
to be eradicated by even the vigor-
ous surveillance of the first police
officer of Napoleon himself. The
Algerines still launch their row-
boats, sweep across the glassy Me-
diterranean, float along the Italian
shores, and carry off priests and prin-
cesses in the original style. Whether
the French braves are cognizant of
this revival of the national habits, is
not clear. But France is a nation
of such infinite good-breeding, that,
while it uniformly respected the
manners of its allies in America too
much to prevent them from roasting
or eating each other, whenever they
thought proper, we can scarcely con-
ceive that its legislators, who still ho-
nour the slave-trade, and its warriors,
who wither in the fires of a land of
the most intolerable sunshine and
merciless ennuiy • that ever made

Frenchmen miserable, would alto-
gether extinguish the only inter-
course with European faces, which
visits his soul with a recollection of
human nature.

The more profound traveller pushes
still to the south ; mounts a camel,
breakfasts with the Bashaw of Benin;
is robbed by the majesty of the Man-
dingoes; is bastinadoed, flogged,
starved and dungeoned, by a relay of
kings, at every "five miles, until he
reaches the " empire of Timbuctoo;"
finds, as usual, that there is no em-
pire; gets a coup de soleil; finds his
liver Bulamized, his pulses in the
black fever; lives just long enough
to see himself robbed to the last
scrap of his journal and his ward-
robe, and thus bequeathing his ex-
ample to a posterity whom he is sure
of finding blockheads enough to emu-
late his absurdity, and long to share
a shred of his fame.

On setting out upon my travels, I
neither looked for wonders, nor
turned my horse's head to the south.
My way was to the north, where
I had some concerns of both study
and business with St Petersburgh.
I went through Mecklenburgh, fa-
mous for the best-humoured peo-
ple and the worst highways in the
world; and after seeing the Sove-
reign Prince and the other curiosi-
ties of the place, I followed the shore
of the Baltic, through Pomerania, and
in due time passed through Wismar,
renowned for the best beer in Ger-
many, and reached Rostock, equally
renowned for having the worst ; two
characteristics which go a prodigious
length in the land of the Cimbri and
Teutones.

But Rostock had better things for
me than its beer. I there found my
excellent friend, Major Von Her-
mand, with whom I had made half a
dozen campaigns in the Lichenstein
hussars, in the Napoleon wars, and
who, after gaining honours and
wounds in very different proportion,
had retired Major from the service
of Mars to matrimony, and was now
husband of a handsome Mecklen-
burgher, and father of a little corpo-
ral's guard of boys and girls.

My old Major welcomed me with

1832.]

The Castle of the Isle ofRugen.

701

soldierly hospitality ; but it was soon
clear enough that the household was
in some state of confusion. And
when we were left to take our bottle
of Rhenish after supper, the story
came out in the shape of a reluctant
apology for the necessity of leaving
me next morning. " The awkward-
ness of this breach of good fellow-
ship is increased," said he, " by my
being scarcely able to say where I
am going, or for what object. But
the truth is, that I think my family
have been grossly insulted in the
person of one of my sisters by an
adventurer, as I pronounce him, but
by a sort of angel in disguise, as all
the women here have resolved, with
one voice, including my unlucky
sister, who took him for better for
worse a year ago, and who will now
probably have time enough to repent
of relying on the plausible tongue,
of what I must acknowledge to have
been a very showy scoundrel."

" Where did he come from ?" was
my question.

" Oh, from Berlin, of course," was
the answer ; " all our Cupids in the
north come from the German Paris."
"His name?" — "Steinfort — a good
travelling name. He gave himself
put for a Captain in the Zieten hus-
sars ; knew every body everywhere —
received perpetual letters with fine
names on them — talked as if he had
been presented in every court of
Europe — spoke half-a-dozen lan-
guages— fiddled, fluted, and sang, till
he drew all the brains out of the wo-
men's heads; and when he led my
sister to church, was reported to
have left, I can't tell how many hun-
dreds of our belles in a state of de-
spair."

" But how went on the matrimo-
nial year ?" I asked.—" Nothing
could be better," was the reply j" all
adoration for the first month, as is
the etiquette. Then came fondness ;
friendship followed; every thing was
done with the regularity of a master
of the whole ceremonial. Then came
paternity ; a new revival of his rap-
tures; never was father fonder —
never was infant so caressed — never
was wife so worshipped. It must
be owned that the fellow performed
his part to perfection."

' But the explosion, the catas-
trophe— How did they occur ?" said
I»— •" That I can scarcely tell," said

the Major. " He received a letter
by an odd-looking courier about a
fortnight ago, and from that time he
became prodigiously fond of staying
at home. His wife at length urged
him out, for the mere benefit of a
morning's shooting in the fir groves
round the town. He suffered him-
self to be persuaded; took his gun
and his dog, and from that time to
this no soul in Rostock has seen his
face. The dog came duly home, the
gun was found in the, wood, but the
sportsman was gone. We were about
to send out our people to scour
the country, but the knave, not to be
deficient in politeness to the last,
contrived, how I know not, to dis-
patch a letter to his unfortunate wife,
apologizing, with the grace of a Ber-
lin coxcomb, for the delay of his re-
turn, stating Borne nonsense about
business, &c., promising that he
should c throw himself at her feet at
the earliest opportunity,' and in fact
clapping his wings, and quitting his
wife and the country for life, I sup-
pose. There is the fellow's billet-doux.
It smells so confoundedly of perfumes
that I cannot bear to touch it. See
if you can make any thing more of it
than we can."

His note was produced ; it had alt
the guilt of the perfumes strong
upon it; but it was an eloquent, and,
as I should have conceived, a stri-
kingly sincere performance. It was
long, and seemed to have been writ-
ten under great depression of mind;
but there was evidently some story
in the matter which the writer had
not the power to disclose. "And
your journey is to find the letter-
writer ?" I asked. " I know of no-
thing else to be done," was the an-
swer. " On gathering up a few scraps
of his papers, for he seems to have
spent all his late retired hours in
destroying his correspondence, I
found an account of some kind, Swe-
dish, with the Scania postmark, and
to Sweden I make my first move-
ment, though probably the fellow is
by this time fighting, fiddling, or
marrying, among the heroes and he-
roines of South America."

For my part, I had nothing better
to do in my three months' leave
from my regiment; Sweden was new
to me, and I might as well go there
as any where else ; I had also seen
the bright eyes and pale cheeks of

792

the deserted wife ; gallantry, novel-
ty, and old friendship, were all en-
gaged in the affair : I offered to ac-
company Von Hermand; and my
offer, after some deprecatory civili-
ties, was accepted.

Between soldiers who have stood
the fire of a French battery together,
there is not much ceremony; and
the hussar, who is a wild man by
profession, and sleeps oftener in a
bush than a bed, seldom requires
much preparation. Von Hermand
and I were accordingly on horse-
back by six the next morning, and,
with a pair of stout valets, if not
very accomplished ones, they being
old dragoons who had received their
discharge and retired with the Ma-
jor, we galloped off, followed by
prayers, sighs, and tears enough to
have wafted an army of crusaders.

Pomerania is, as but few of the
world know, excepting the Baltic
smugglers, a rough country, though
as flat as a Tartar's face ; its rough-
ness consisting in roads axle-deep ;
in a most prodigious fertility of
thorns and thistles, and in, I think,
an unrivalled scorn of all civility
among its people. I am not ultra-
aristocrat, but heaven defend me
from eating, drinking, or sleeping,
from living or dying, among a nation
of peasants ! After having tried the
towns, from Demmin to Usedom, and
being half starved in them all, our
next experiment was the country.
Here we had the barbarism of man-
ners, united to the barbarism of soli-
tude. And here we might have
roved till the great day which finish-
es all things, without getting a civil
word, or an ounce of white bread.
The Major was beginning, I saw, to
be rather weary of the adventure.
The valets, honest fellows as they
were, were all but in a state of mu-
tiny ; nothing but my military adroit-
ness in supplying them with double
rations of tobacco, on the first symp-
toms of discontent, could have pre-
vented them from dropping the reins
on their chargers' necks ,• which
would, in that case, have inevitably
turned their heads home. But what
German, from the Tyrol to Holstein,
could ever resist tobacco, the nation-
al ambrosia, the original temptation
of the German Eve ? They follow-
ed j I drew up our order of march,

The Castle of the Isle of Rug en.

[May,

put the Major in the centre, the dra-
goons in the rearguard, and took
upon myself the parts of outpost,
vidette, general patrol, and univer-
sal purveyor. In this campaigning
style we ranged the whole coast of
Swedish Pomerania, intending to
make our next incursion into the
Prussian part of the province, and
then regularly proceeding over our
human hunting-ground.

From time to time we had re-
ceived some of those encourage-
ments to pursue the chase, which,
though the most frivolous things
imaginable in the sight of common
reason, yet, to men embarked in any
peculiar pursuit, always seem to give
such prodigiously solid encourage-
ment for going on and continuing to
be fooled. We seldom attempted to

five a hint of our object without
nding that shewy swindlers were a
commodity rife in the coldest cor-
ners of the north ; nor described our
adventurer, without hearing that
his very counterpart had " passed
through the town the night before,"
and was at that moment supposed
to be sitting at breakfast, dinner, or
supper, at some village within the
next half dozen miles. Of course,
while we were yet novices, on these
occasions we put spurs to our
steeds, and had the simple advan-
tage of the exercise for our trouble.
It was, however, a season in which a
gallop across a wild country might
not be reckoned among the severest
trials of human philosophy. It was
the close of autumn; and the last
days of autumn in the north are
not to be undervalued beside its
finest and fairest hours in the south.
Even the weeds put on their robe
of colours, the pines and thickets
were regally invested with gold and
purple, and the skies were all in
grand gala. The Baltic is but a salt
water lake at best, and in its days
undisturbed by Odin and his chariot
of the whirlwind, is as fine a mirror
for the sunsets and evening stars of
the Pole, as the waters of Italy for
the hanging forest and the cluster-
ing vineyard.

Nature, rich, lovely, and luscious,
in the south, is calm, solemn, and
superb in the north; but, like the
fair sex, she is fair every where : and
the eye must be singularly dim that

1832.]

The Castle of the Isle of Rug en.

would not bow to her autumnal
beauty, even on the shores of Pome-
rani a.

But one of those loveliest of even-
ings exhibited the caprice of beauty ;
a breeze, soft as ever breathed in
Paphos, suddenly swelled into a
gale ; clouds that lay floating on the
Avest in pavilions of vermeil and
violet, suddenly congregated into
pillars of rolling smoke, mountains
of conflagrations, and chaoses of
flame, wind, water, and thunder-
bolts. The trumpet of Odin was
sounded over the horizon, and all
his windy legions came flocking on
all their watery wings. We were
drenched in a moment ; our horses
reared, groaned, and ran wherever
it liked them best ; mutiny was again
in the camp, and the Major gravely
declared his thorough conviction
that swindler-catching was out of
his department. But, however wise
the determination might be for the
future, the only thing worth think-
ing of for the present was, where to
find a roof for ourselves and our
horses.

No spot in the province could
have been worse calculated to give
a man comfort in a storm. We were
riding along the shore of the Kleine
Hoff, in which nothing but an oys-
ter could live, and nothing but an
otter could find a place to hide its
head. As far as the eye reached
landward was weed, yellow, blue,
and green, perfectly picturesque,
but the picturesque unbroken by
any vestige of the dwelling of man.
Seaward, to the extremity of the
horizon, all was a bed of dim-
coloured billows, rolling and tossing
before a tough and rough north-
wester. The earth was a deluge,
and the sky was a reservoir from
which the deluge poured. Night,
too, fell rapidly. The good old
times when we should have wrap-
ped ourselves up in our cloaks,
kindled the first tree we met, roast-
ed the first sheep, and lain down
beside our chargers to sleep out the
night, till sunshine or an enemy's
shot broke our slumbers, were pass-
ed away. The excitement of cam-
paigning,— and there is no excitement
on earth that can be its equal for ma-
king men forget every thing of per-
sonal annoyance,— was not to be

793

found on the shores of this sandy
armlet of the brown Baltic. I be-
gan fully to coincide in the logic of
the Major, and to think with a fond-
ness fatal to heroism of all kinds, of
the delights of a fireside, a supper
to eat, and a bed to lie on.

While I was soliloquizing on this
vexatious contrast, one of our valets,
whose horse had probably grown
tired of his rider's grumblings or his
tobacco, dropped him over his ears
into a streamlet, now swelled to a
torrent, which rolled into the sea.
The old dragoon rolled with it, and
had nearly found a fatal result from
adopting the old courtier policy of
following the stream. Through all
the howling of the tempest we heard
his roar for help, or for the loss of
his pipe, I forget which ; the meer-
schaum being in all probability as
dear to his Keyserslautern soul as
any part of his configuration. We
lost sight of him for a moment ; till,
by a flash of the blue flame that was
darting about us in a thousand spiky
fantasies, we saw him and his horse
climbing up the opposite bank ; and
heard him, in another moment, cry-
ing out that he saw a light in a hut,
but how many leagues off he could
not venture to guess. The news, so
far as it went, was cheering. We all
plunged into the stream, found it
fordable, saw the light, and push-
ed our tired steeds gallantly through
moss and mire, to wards this new har-
binger of bed and board.

The hut turned out to be a kind
of country inn, or large farm-house ;
and if we were to judge from the
blaze through the windows, which
gave signs of a good fire in the kitch-
en, and the roar of song and laughter
that echoed along this windy wilder-
ness, we had fallen in with some
place of remarkably festive entertain-
ment in a remarkably festive time.
The prospect cheered us infinitely,
and the Major fairly outstripped me
in a race for the door. But there
our charge was brought to a full
stop ; — the entrance was as fast shut
up as the dungeon of Spandau. The
Major knocked, all in vain; vocife-
rated, equally in vain ; threatened to
break every casement in the house,
still in vain ; swore by the shade of
Marshal Daun, and the beard of the
Grand Turk, equally in vain; and

794

at length, like all puzzled generals,
had no alternative for it but to hold
a council of war. The very name
is, in all instances, but another word
for despair j and though the two dra-
goons were invited to the council,
the only expedient that our united
wisdom could devise, was either to
storm the house, to set it on fire, or
to ride away and take the chances
of the world, which probably meant,
being drowned in some quagmire, or
beaten to pieces by some falling fo-
rest, before the next half hour.

I confess I heard this decision with
more repugnance than became due
notions of military obedience; and
the prospect of quitting this world,
when I had got three months' leave
from the parades and patrolings of
garrison life, of all lives the most
tiresome, or of cutting short the vow
that I had made, of spending that
night in particular over a good fire
and a better bottle, made me a re-
volter at once. I accordingly, in my
character of vidette, lingered a few
hundred paces behind our retreating
force, and pondered on the possibi-
lities of finding the bed and the bot-
tle after all. One of the oddities of
the affair was, that the moment of
our knocking at the inexorable door,
seemed to have the effect of sudden
mortality on all within. It was the
knock of death, and the Major the
ministering angel. Every sound had
sunk at once — every light had per-
ished; there was neither song nor
shout, fire nor candle, in the tene-
ment; and the suddenness of the
change from boisterous merriment
to silence worthy of an assembly of
mummies, had undoubtedly been
among the more secret motives
which moved our two dragoons to
acquiesce so submissively in the or-
der for bivouacking on the moor.
Fond as the German is, whether sol-
dier or citizen, of the good things of
this world, he is not disposed to buy
them at more than their value. He
will venture his brains against a bat-
tery, for the buttons of the artillery-
man that points the guns at him ; he
will run the chance of the rope in
the most friendly country, for a pul-
let ; but he will have nothing to do
with skirmishers recruited from the
world of ghosts. The dire impres-
sion on our valets was, that the farm-
yard was some outpost of Beelze-

The Castle of the Isle of Rugen. [May,

bub, and that it was not in their or-
ders to attack any of his pickets.
Von Hermand himself, though as
brave as his own sword, had seemed

particularly struck with the extraor-
dinary change from Pacchanalianism
to dumbness; and his philosophy,
for the time, was evidently not of a
very different altitude from that of
the dragoon school. However, while
I gazed on the mansion, I perceived
a renewed twinkle through one of
the shutters ; the view considerably
cheered the gloominess of my spe-
culations, and taking post in silence
under a projection of the wall, I
drew the reins tight, and waited for
further developements. Presently
the shutter opened a little more wide-
ly; and this was soon after followed
by the projection of a head and neck.
As I was still in my saddle, I was
just on the elevation which gave me
an opportunity of seizing both the
head and the opportunity. I did
both, and, notwithstanding a vigorous
struggle, held fast my prize. We
were pretty evenly matched, for the
prisoner, though meagre, was tall
and bony, and his fixed position gave
him a manifest advantage over my
moving one. My horse, too, soon
began to make himself a party in
the melee, and in another moment I
should have been hanging in mid
air ; when perceiving I had lost one
chance for victory, I plucked out a
pistol, and ordered my captive to
surrender without loss of time. Whe-
ther the result would have been that
I should have shot him, or he hanged
me, was still unsettled, until another
party was involved, to which sol-
diers and philosophers alike lay
down their arms.

Roused, I presume, by my most
solemn protestations that I should
fire, a form rushed out of the cham-
ber nearest the casement in an in-
stant, and implored mercy for " her
dear uncle." Feeble as the light
was, I could discover that the sup-
plicant was an uncommonly pretty
creature, who spoke German with
the purest accent of Saxony, had the
bluest eyes shaded with the most
luxuriant auburn curls, and that I
should be a monster of the blackest
dye to withstand her opinion on any
subject under the ftars. I instantly
released my prisoner, leaving it to
his honour and the lady's feelings,

1832.1

The Castle of the Isle ofRugen.

whether it were becoming that a sol-
dier of the Zieten should be left to
die supperless on such a tremendous
night.

The uncle was still disposed to be
sullen enough, but the niece was
still irresistible; and whether she
thought that there might be some
variety in the news of the world,
which might be brought even by me,
or moved by the compassion that
belongs to the whole sex, but which
I have found at all times especially
vivid in proportion to their beauty,
she at length prevailed on the dear-
est of uncles, and most reluctant of
landlords, to unbar his doors, arid
give me shelter for the night. But
now a fresh cause of parley arose.
I demanded quarters for the whole
party. The commandant of the gar-
rison would allow entrance to none
but the attacking force. The pre-
sence of the lady prevented a re-
turn to hostilities on my side. But
the Major, either more unsuscepti-
ble of the deference due to the finest
of blue eyes, and the most luxuriant
of auburn curls, or infuriated by
bodily fear of being starved or drown-
ed in the course of the night, made
a rush at the half-opened gate, car-
ried it in full charge with the force
of a petard, and was master of the
place before a preliminary syllable
ccyild announce his appearance and
possession.

We were ushered into an apart-
ment, or rather ushered ourselves,
for ceremony was at an end. But
where were the jovial fellows who
had made the desert ring ; and where
was the supper that had inspired
them with such festivity ? Or were
they indeed spectres, and the uncle
of the fairest of nieces but the magi-
cian who called them up to their
revels, and sent them down again to
the place from which they came?
The house looked the very dwelling
of loneliness. There was not a ves-
tige of the long table, where we had
fancied that some score of smug-
glers, or bandits, must have been
drinking their deep potations of
Rhein-wine or Mecklenburg beer.
A dying brand or two were in the
fire-place, a crazy table lay in a cor-
ner, a few stools were scattered
through the room ; there was furni-
ture enough for a ghost, but no
more. We began to fear that our

795

supper would be on the same ghost-
ly scale. But the entrance of the
Zungfraut basket in hand, happily
relieved us from this share of the
catastrophe. Bread, some fragments
of one of the sheep that grazed the
weeds of the moor, and a couple of
flasks of tolerable wine, which seem-
ed to constitute the family cellar,
stood between us and death by fa-
mine for the time ; and the Major,
in his exultation, panegyrized my
capture of the fortress as an exploit
worthy to eclipse half the coups-de-
main, from the storm of the lines of
Weiss emburg to the assault of Smo-
lensko.

As the flasks went their rounds,
and the brands blazed, both essen-
tial to the recovery of our good-hu-
mour, we began to enquire into the
causes which could have fixed any
human being in so unpalateable a
spot. But the hermit was superior
to all hints ; and we were at length
forced to try the simpler mode of di-
rect questioning. " The stars," was at
length the wild answer. Von Her-
mand and I glanced at each other ;
and I could see in the Major's face
that the solemnity of tone in which
this was pronounced, was not lost
upon my gallant, but very spectre-
hating friend. I burst into an invo-
luntary laugh. The grim lord of the
mansion turned his eye on me ,• and
whether it was the illusion of the
moment, or that some strange lustre
shot from it, the emanation of an
inflamed mind, I think that I never
saw an eye so difficult to sustain.

" Yes, the stars !" exclaimed the
enthusiast. " You, and beings like
you, the children of clay, untaught
the sublime mysteries of these glo-
rious lights, scoff at their science;
but it is true, proudly, splendidly
true, though it be hid in clouds and
the veil of impenetrable darkness to
the eyes of the multitude."

The energy with which he poured
out this tirade, gave, it must be own-
ed, a singular force to his counte-
nance. His features, which had been
hitherto dim and withered, now
seemed to fill out, and shape into an
expression, which was all but over-
powering, and at last had the look of
singular mental vigour. His voice
had lost its hollowness. It was now
powerful and full volumed. But
those are the usual miracles of en-

The Castle of the Isle ofRugen.

790

thusiasm, let the subject be what it
may. The wine, too, or the time,
for it was now fully the witches'
hour, or the natural excitement of
finding that he had human beings to
listen to him, and possibly to be con-
verted into stargazers like himself,
increased his animation, and we
found in this wild man of the woods
a highly informed, though undoubt-
edly an extremely eccentric compa-
nion for the hour.

Our flasks were already traver-
sing the table with a much lighter
freight, than when we began disbur-
dening them; perhaps some glances
exchanged between Von Hermand
and myself, certainly less in regret
for the low state of the Rhenish,
than for the omen which it gave,
and our breaking up for the night,
caught the astrologer's eye in the
midst of a harangue mixed of all
sorts of topics, from the discovery of
the longitude to the length of the
Queen of Sheba's slipper; or the
etiquette of the court of Vienna at
the last imperial birth-day. A touch
on a bell conjured up another flask
without delay ; but not self-moved,
but brought in by what, in my poetic
days, I should have dreamed into a
sylph, or a fairy princess. It was a
pretty being, dressed in some wild
but uncojnmonly picturesque cos-
tume, with a wreath of lilies, or
white roses, or some such pretty em-
blem of her own innocence, in her
ringlets, a light veil floating behind,
an embroidered girdle round her
slender waist, and youth, beauty,
and archness enough in her coun-
tenance to have made Socrates him-
self marry a second time. She came
in with a solemn step, and singing,
in a sweet voice, but scarcely above
a whisper, the Incantation from
Faust. Her sparkling eye was suffi-
ciently at war with the gravity of the
strain ; but the pantomime was too
graceful for us to disturb it. She
made an obeisance to the table and
the guests, then turned to the astro-
loger, and, with a bending of fore-
head worthy of an attendant spirit
to the Lord of Solomon's seal, paid
her homage, and instantly glided out
of the room. The whole movement
was too expeditiously over for us
to have the power of doing any thing
but looking and wondering, what-
ever might have been our wish to

[May,

secure the sylph as an ornament to
our board. There was something
too visionary in the entire, to leave
us in the ordinary state of honest
hussars over the table ; and I am not
sure that Von Hermand, to this hour,
is perfectly satisfied that the little
flask-bearer was not a creature of
the elements, made for the occasion
by a whirl of the magician's wand.

However, when the first surprise
was over, I ventured to ask, whe-
ther our landlord was fortunate
enough to have many such attendants
in his establishment. But the ques-
tion was too late ; he was absorbed
in higher fantasies. He had thrown
open one of the casements, and was
gazing with a pair of eyes that flash-
ed with either frenzy or inspiration
on the face of the night. The storm
had passed off, or lived only in the
deep murmurs that told, from time
to time, of the thunder-clouds that
floated away over the Baltic. The
air breathed in deliciously cool, and
with the living freshness and frag-
rance of the wild plants after rain ;
but the heavens wore the true pomp
of the scene ; the clouds and mists
had been swept away alike, and the
skies were like a Turkish beauty
that had suddenly dropt her veil to
enamour the daring gazer. Beauti-
ful at all times, they were more beau-
tiful still from their sudden display
after such an envelopement. The
whole horizon was one splendour, —
planet and fixed star burned side by
side in every coloured brilliancy, and
the meteors of the north flashed and
darted among them, like showers of
gigantic pearls and rubies. The
astrologer continued gazing, as if
his eccentric soul was in his gaze ;
then dropping on one knee, and lift-
ing his hands to their highest stretch,
he burst into a long invocation of
Sirius, Aldeboran, and the 'hundred
other presidencies of the hemisphere,
into whose names my inferior science
could not presume to follow him.

" There," said he, in a tone of ge-
nuine adoration ; " there, ride on in
your fiery cars, ye kings of the des-
tinies of nations ! Abused as your
mighty science long has been to the
purposes of base artifice, of low illu-
sion, of popular folly, ye ride on still
unstained, still the sovereigns of the
high things of empire. But the time
of your glory is at hand, Ye are al«

1832.]

The Castle of the Isle ofRugen.

ready no longer insulted by being
supposed the arbiters of the trifling
fates of individuals. The ageof super-
stition is past ; the age of science is
come. Ye bear in your courses the
message of the King of All through
all his dominions. Ye write in let-
ters to be read only by the favoured
sons of philosophy, the solemn events
by which thrones are raised or sub-
verted; by which the armies of the
oppressed are created out of the
dust, and the armies of the oppressor
are turned into the grave. Even now
the hour is striking in the turrets of
that temple, whose foundations are
as deep as the centre, and whose
pinnacles sparkle in the heavens,
the temple of Virtue, Holiness,
Strength, and Freedom."

Von Hermand and I involuntarily
exchanged looks at these words. We
had heard something like them be-
fore; and the editors of certain of
our northern journals had been sent
to study them, for the benefit of pos-
terity, behind the bars of Spandau
and Magdeburgh. Were we in com-
pany with a madman or an impos-
tor ? with a regular illumine or a
professional spy ? was our voyage to
end in being astrologers, or in trying
the atmospliere of a Prussian dun-
geon?

By the instinct that belongs to
every man who has nd appetite for
writing a second part or the Me-
moirs of Trenck, we made up our
minds to be as silent as we could,
and choose another billet for our
next night, let the Kleine Haff rage
as it may.

But the astrologer was in the full
flight of his science still. " Divine
Regent of Kebir !" he exclaimed,
with his thin and quivering finger
pointing to a star of the first magni-
tude, that blazed in the front of the
host, " thou knowest in what the
throes and troubles of the earth will
end; pour some of thy effulgence
on the soul of him who now pros-
trates himself in all humility before
thy immortal knowledge !"

He stooped his forehead to the
ground, and remained there, like a
Persian, worshipping. Then sud-
denly springing on his feet, and
taking a hand of each, he led us
to the casement. " What is this
world," said he, " but a mist, a fleet-
ing cloud, a gathering of darkness,

797

that wraps the man and the mind, and,
after a few years of doubt and diffi-
culty, of thankless toil, and feverish
trouble, consigns him to the bed,
where he lies down with the worm ?
But Avhat is he without futurity ? but
what is he not with futurity ? And
there is the book in which the golden
words of all time to come are regis-
tered by the hand that holds the uni-
versal sceptre. Yes," he exclaim-
ed with still wilder solemnity, " if
man will know what is to be known,
let him seek it, not in the impure
and frail records of human intellect,
but in the imperishable page of
Heaven. Let him read the volume
written from all eternity, living with
splendour and instinct with wisdom.
Let him worship the astral spirits,
whose form is" intelligence, and
whose essence is truth. If all be a
dream, is this not a dream worth all
the waking knowledge of earth ? Is
it nothing to see the spirits of those
mighty orbs each throned on his own
sphere, and through that eternal day,
which is not measured by sun or
shade, flooding the surrounding
heavens with light, sending the higher
summons of uncreated wisdom from
world to world, penetrating the infi-
nite kingdom of space with their
own essence, which is light, and
pouring out their knowledge through
all sentient things, which i^joy ? If
this be a crime, is it not worthy to
be the crime and ambition of angels !
if it be a virtue, is it not the fitting
employment of the soul made for
immortality !"

He paused for a moment, evidently
exhausted by the ardour of his con-
templations. Neither of us felt much
inclined to interrupt him. Von Her-
mand was already half a convert, and
as for me I was at least amused by
the wild animation of the orator. A
brilliant globe that shot across the
horizon, suddenly rekindled all his
enthusiasm. " There," he exclaimed,
" is one of the astral messengers fly-
ing with the speed of light to some
world whose distance is unmea-
sured and immeasurable by mortal
numbers. Height and depth, space
and time, to its powers are alike no-
thing ; it rushes by the gates of pa-
radise, hearing the hymns of the
blest; it rushes through the mingled
dominion of light and darkness, suiv
veying the wonders that there every

The Castle of the Isle of Rugen.

798

hour summon up beneath the crea-
ting hand ; it rushes by the gates of
the kingdom of evil and woe, listen-
ing to the echoes of punishment that
would throw all but its essential
glory into eclipse; still it speeds on-
ward, bearing the mandate of Omni-
potence to the nations of eternity !"

By a curious coincidence, imme-
diately on the departure of the me-
teor below the horizon, double dark-
ness fell, the storm howled across
the Kleine Haff; the soft air came
impregnated with the powerful
smells of all things belonging to the
sea; thunder again bellowed, light-
ning swept in trains of yellow and
scarlet across the sky; the pomp of
the stars was lost in tenfold cloud,
and the Astrologer's night was utter-
ly at an end. The meteor had been
the parting spirit of the scene, and
the glory had departed with it. The
Astrologer stood for a while gazing,
half in despondency, and half in
homage, on the closing of the gates of
his temple. Then, suddenly turning
from the casement, made us a pro-
found bow, and with a gesture to-
wards the door of an apartment, by
which we presumed he intimated our
quarters for the night, solemnly, and
without a word, stalked from the
room.

It might not be true to say, that all
this performance had produced any
very permanent impression upon
either of us ; but it would be idle to
say that we did not feel very differ-
ently disposed with reference to both
the mansion and its lord, from any
thing that we had expected to feel
when we entered. We lingered for
some time in the room, not quite sa-
tisfied as to the incivility of our ha-
ving originally taken the house by as-
sault, and as little satisfied as to the
actual character of our entertainer,
though he was evidently a man of
polished life, of certain attainments,
and of extraordinary enthusiasm.
The little sylph, too, ran in my head
— I was then five-and-twenty — and I
felt some curiosity to know whether
she and the lovely niece were one,
or a pair of beneficent genii, or a
part of a tribe of those pretty phan-
toms which the master of the spell
had the power of calling from the
clouds or the waters at will, to hand
him his sherbet. The thought was
of the very nature to perplex one,

[May,

for it brought in the head and the
heart together, and two more puz-
zling counsellors never embroiled a
question in any court of Teutchland.
I had even begun to imagine that
I saw the bluest eyes in the world
twinkling through the many crevices
of the wainscot, and that I heard sweet
accents, which, though the merest
whispers, I should have sworn to
in any breathing of rose and balm
bowers in Christendom.

But Von Hermand had his senses
more about him, and he brought me
to mine, by the undeniable observa-
tion, that our week's tour had pro-
duced nothing in the way of dis-
covery of the object of our pursuit;
that all we had hitherto reaped from
it was a great deal of hard riding,
hard language, and hard living ; that
even the hospitality of the Astrolo-
ger, whether he were veritable star-
gazer or actual spy, whether mad
magician or established smuggler,
was not altogether sufficient to atone
for the thorough taste of the Pome-
ranian climate which that night had
supplied; that winter was coming
on ; that we might be robbed, or shot,
with complete impunity, in any five
hundred yards of the whole pro-
vince; that we had been saved to-
night from famine by little short of
miracle; and that he would be safe in
betting his three chargers, dragoons
and all, that we should not find three
more such flasks of good sound hock
within the borders of the princi-
pality.

To this logic I had nothing to an-
swer. My hopes of catching the gal-
lant fugitive had not been ardent
from the beginning ; I had seen full
as much of the Pomeranian land-
scape as I ever desired to see ; and I
acknowledged that I thought the
wisest act of both would be to make
our way back to Rostock by the short-
est road.

When men have little to talk about
they generally talk the longest, and
we examined the bearings of the
question with such deliberation, that
the only sound audible in the man-
sion was the snoring of the two dra-
goons. The Major at length moved
an adjournment of the debate till
breakfast, if we should be fortunate
enough to find any thing of the kind
in this house of moonshine. " One
thing, however," said I, " is settled.

1832.]

The Castle of the Isle of Rug en.

We turn our horses' heads home ?"
The Major gave his full consent in
the most hussar-like form. But at
the instant of our parting, I heard a
sound which threw the organs of the
dragoons quite out of the field ; and
stopped us both at the foot of the
steps up to our chamber. It was
neither distinctly voice nor instru-
ment, but a compound of each, and
singularly sweet. The tone was in
complete accordance with the vision-
ary nature of all that we had seen
and heard in the course of the night;
it flashed up and down the room, as
if it had been travelling on some post
fairy's wing, or been dropt from the
strings of some troubadour sylph's
guitar. It was above our heads, it
was under our feet, it was lingering
beside our ears, it was gushing
against our faces. It was everywhere
and nowhere, wild, sweet, and fluc-
tuating as the wave of a rosebud, or
the glancing of a sunbeam through
the shade of a vine. While we were
listening in some perplexity and high
delight to this midnight minstrelsy,
my eyes were caught by an odd
change in the lineaments of a por-
trait some centuries old, and dis-
playing the graces of one of the
great-grandmothers of the mansion,
I presume. The brown visage began
to look fresh and fair-coloured, the
fur and ruff, each of which had pro-
bably seen the days of Gustavus
Adolphus, spread, grew more glossy,
and presented a more shewy con-
trast of white satin and Siberian
sable ; the whole costume, from the
studded stomacher, stiff as the walls
that once enclosed Danae herself, to
the coroneted wreath of pearls that
stood in grave dignity on the sum-
mit of her massive wreaths of hair
all grew more costly and captivating;
in short, the magician, who stole
Tycho Brahe's famous mill, and of-
fered to pay off the national debt of
all Germany, for a year's patent of
-its use, in restoring faded beauty
and ancient limbs to their original
charms, seemed to have been work-
ing his wonders upon the venerable
lady in her frame. But while we
were amusing ourselves with this
pretty phantasmagoria, for such we
could have no doubt that it was, we
saw a motto, which had hitherto
lurked among the shades of the pic-
ture, assume a touch of light; it

799

gradually grew clearer, and at length
presented to our eyes the distinct
words, " Steinfort, Jaxmund" Our
astonishment was undisguised. How
the object of our mission could have
been ascertained, — for, among the
hundred subjects which had passed
over the bottle that night, this had
never been touched on, — gave us a
new problem to resolve, and cer-
tainly by no means diminished my
old Major's reliance on his original
theory, that our entertainer had deal-
ings with forbidden things. How-
ever, as the Castle of Jaxmund was
a well-known spot, though every
turret of the fortress had been a ruin
for a hundred years back ; and as it
was not above a dozen miles from
the place where we were, though
separated by the arm of the sea
which runs between the Duchy and
Rugen, the hint was not to be thrown
away ; and for Jaxmund accordingly
we made up our minds to move at
the first dawn.

But what are the resolutions of
mankind ?• The first intimation I had
of daylight on the following day was
from the view of a superb sunset,
flourishing the whole multitude of
western clouds with colours that
would put a hundred Sultan Soly-
mans, in all their glory, to shame. I
started up. We were all in the same
condition. The Major was in a
slumber so deep that it was difficult,
and so delicious that it was almost a
crime to awake him; our two old
valets were like two valets in Ely-
sium, and equally unwilling to be
roused from their paradise. The
next thing to ascertain was, whe-
ther our entertainer was equally en-
chained with ourselves. But not a
soul was to be found within the
walls. The whole house was tenant-
less ; and had evidently been evacu-
ated in the most military style, with-
out beat of drum. Yet we had not
been forgotten. The magician, or
his attendant genii, were clearly not
untouched with a sense of mortal
weaknesses ; and in the room which
had witnessed our symposium the
night before, we found a table laid
out by airy hands, and laid out with
a prodigality which supplied us at
once with breakfast, dinner, and sup-
per. We drank the ghost's health ; I
filled an additional bumper to the
sylph of the brown ringlets. The

soo

The Castle of the Isle of Rug en.

[May,

dragoons pledged the memory of
their night's repose, in some incom-
parable mixture of beer and brandy,
and, with three huzzas for the ho-
nour of the necromantic giver of
such schnapps, and slumbers, we
moved in procession from the Man-
sion of the Moor.

The sun was still above the hori-
zon, when we reached the strait that
separates Rugen from the mainland.
It was calm, and the skies were re-
flected so nobly in the blue waters
of the Baltic, that I could have turn-
ed astrologer for the half hour of the
passage. But terra firma always
humbles my ethereal speculations.
Our horses, too, no sooner felt their
feet on the grass, than they became
irrestrainable, snuffed up the air,
galloped through wood and -brake,
and before total darkness had fallen,
brought us in sight of the famous
Castle of Jaxmund. Nothing could
be more delightful to a lover of ruins,
or more alarming to a lover of a
night's rest. On right and left, for
a space that deepened into night,
the ground was covered with frag-
ments of arches and buttresses ; ca-
verns that seemed profound enough
to have held all the biers of ten gene-
rations of Vandal kings ; pillars, solid
enough to have served their centuries
in Odin's hundred and thirty thou-
sand piles of the Palace of Valhalla ;
remnants of turrets, that frownea the
traveller into terror, before falling on
him; immense masses of stone, rising
here and there from the general heap
of ruins, like pyramids in the desert,
nl! covered, carpeted, and coloured
over with lichens, weedy hangings,
and branches of the weeping birch,
of all trees the most graceful, with a
richness that must have enraptured
the most fastidiously picturesque
eye; but terribly ill-looking to the
tired, the sleepy, and the famishing.
A broad, wild palace, of forgotten
times, which nature had claimed for
her own, in default of other tenants,
and had furnished in the most sump-
tuous manner, at her leisure, during
a hundred and fifty years of -undis-
turbed possession.

But for us, and our dragoons,
there was evidently not the slightest
preparation. We reconnoitered the
whole enceinte, with a glance as
keen, perhaps, as ever engineer cast
on the horn work that was destined '

to blow him and his caissons into
the limbo of Vanity before morn-
ing. But nothing was to be got by
our gallop, but the certainty that our
bivouac, for the next half dozen
hours, must be under the polar star.
There still rose, spread, waved, and
frowned before us, the same huge,
picturesque, interminable, and inex-
tricable desert of stone, weeds, and
weeping birch, with inhospitality
legibly inscribed on every stone of
the structure. Night, too, was fall-
ing rapidly. Another quarter of an
hour would leave us bewildered,
in the midst of a labyrinth, that it
was an achievement of no small de-
licacy to wind through by day. Our
last night's storm, also, gave symp-
toms of its revisiting us with no di-
minished vigour. The north-wester
spoke many a cutting promise,
through the branches that oversha-
dowed the grand avenue of this
temple, where Desolation might have
set up her high altar, and been wor-
shipped by the ghosts of a hundred
courts, and a thousand chambers.
The mists began already to sparkle
in frosty embroidery round our furs.
The billows of the Ruganische sea,
which here spread out a sullen
sweep of ocean, with nothing be-
tween us and Lapland, rolled, top-
ped with liver-coloured foam, from
the whole round of the horizon, and
never did the Astrologer himself
draw a surer conclusion from the
luminaries above, than that we were
perfectly likely to spend as uncom-
fortable a night as any Tartar on this
side of the Ural.

In this dilemma I heard a loud
knocking at a distance, accompanied
by tones which told me that our
valets had slipped away under cover
of the dark, and, probably, inspired
with no very high conception of their
officers' sagacity, were endeavouring
to make terms for themselves. A
blaze of lightning, that tore up the
bosom of a cloud just over our heads,
and filled the horizon with a flood
of scarlet flame, showed us the two
old soldiers laying siege to a hovel,
which had, by some unaccountable
oversight, escaped all my sagacity.
Von Hcrmand and I were on the spot
in an instant. But all the information
which we could get there was, that
a lamp had been seen moving either
on the roof, or on the ground, but

1832.J

The Castle of the Isle of Rug m.

on which was by no means decided,
and that on its being hailed, it had
suddenly disappeared. Philosophy
would have said, that it was one of
the meteors that so often glide round
old houses ; superstition would have
given the lamp, at least, a ghost to
carry it. But there is nothing so hos-
tile to meditations of this kind, as
necessity ; and we were resolved,
one and all, to ascertain the full va-
lue of the phenomenon before we
stirred from the spot. As all our
usual means of in vocation were found
useless, we began a regular cannon-
ade of the fragments of stone, which
strewed the ground in every direc-
tion. But the hovel, though dilapida-
ted, was strong, and our artillerists
grew tired before they could effect
any thing in the shape of a practical
breach. Another expedient was still
to be tried. Von Hermand had re-
membered the effect of my pistol the
night before ; and advancing close to
the door, he fired into the lock, an
old contrivance among hussars for
saving the trouble of carrying keys.
The lock was heard tumbling off
within, but no opening followed. All
was despair. But all was rejoicing
again, when what seemed a huge
stone in the side of the hut, but what
was in reality a window, was drawn
back, and a head as wild as a Rus-
sian bear's, looked down upon our
group. We all assailed this grim por-
ter at once. Lodging for the night,
supper, fire, bed — let him charge his
own price; but all those we must
have, on pain of storming his castle.

" You are welcome to do your
worst," said a voice not unworthy of
the head ; " but this is no inn."

We looked blank at each other.
But the case admitted of no delay.

" Inn or not, my good fellow,"
shouted the Major, " we will not lie
in the open air to-night, while such
hounds as you have a roof to lie un-
der. Fair means or foul ; take your
choice. Here's a rixdollar a-head
for clean straw ; be a rogue and make
your fortune."

" If I am to be turned into a rogue,
I don't know an uglier tempter than
a hussar,' said the voice. " But, for
to-night, I defy Satan and all his
works, Major Von Hermand and all
his rixdollars."

Our astonishment was theatrical.
How could this caitiff have known

VOL. XXXT. NO. CXCJV.

SOI

the name? The Major proposed
blowing up the house. I tried the
softer art of eloquence. The grim
visaged fellow still hung out of the
window, evidently watching our mo-
tions. " You are the first man in all
the duchy," said I, " who ever refu-
sed our rixdollars. But if you are
too high for silver, we have gold."

" I never doubted it," said he, with
a laugh. " You are too quick at your
pistol firing not to pick up whatever
is going on the road ; and too well
mounted to be caught all at once.
But the time will come to all in turn ;
and there were just five highway rob-
bers hanged last week in Scania."

" What, in the name of all that is
impudent, are you ?" said I, nearly
losing my temper. " If this hovel
is noifan inn, and you are not an inn-
keeper, are you to leave gentlemen
to lie in the open air, when all they
ask is shelter for a few hours ?"

" I am a gentleman myself," said
the fellow ; " and to show you that I
am, I have given my word of honour
to myself, that not one of you shall
enter this door within the next twen-
ty-four hours, and I shall keep it."

With these words, and a loud laugh,
he closed the window. But our blood
was now up ; and what is equal to
anger in awaking the invention ? I
recollected to have seen a pile of
brushwood among the ruins. I com-
municated my idea to our troop. The
dragoons were instantly on the track,
and in three minutes we had a bun-
dle of brambles heaped against the
door, that would have made a Swe-
dish beacon. In half the time, we had
struck a light, laid it in the heart of
our combustibles, and had the whole
in a blaze. It was evident that the
operation was not unobserved, for
the first gush of flame that curled
up the door, was followed by screams,
entreaties, and a struggle within. In
the mean time the crazy door began
to blaze, and the crazy house would
have speedily followed the example,
but for the opening of the window,
where the grim fellow,, who had kept
garrison so sturdily, now craved a
capitulation. A treaty was conclu-
ded, Justin time for both parties, for
the fortress would have been a cinder
in a quarter of an hour ; and the skies
began to perform their promise to us
in the most energetic manner. First
came a few drops of rain, large ai
3 p

802

The Castle of the Isle of Rugen.

[May,

grape-shot, then a blue twinkle that
looked the very spite of fire; then
came the slow, solemn roll of thun-
der j then a column of chilling wind,
that made the old walls round us
shake and shiver; thenlightning again,
but of ten times the keenness, the
red malignity, and the ragged forki-
ness ; then groans, peals, and roarings
of the thunder ; then a cataract of
rain, as if the fountains of the firma-
ment were let open once more. Then
a general field-day of the whole ar-
tillery of tempest; a mingled howl,
hiss, flash, burst and bellow of fire,
air, earth, and water, the whole four
elements each and all in full and
furious collision.

But fortunately we were now on
the right side of affairs, and, with
whatever distrust of our guide, we
followed into the penetralia of this
extraordinary dwelling. And extra-
ordinary it was. On the outside it
was a low half ruin ; in the inside
it was a succession of low passages,
obstructed by fragments and bars,
but leading to apartments which evi-
dently had once seen the brave and
fair. The hovel was the broken
down portal of a palace, or a succes-
sion of palaces, such seemed the lof-
tiness of the halls, and the general
costliness, though long faded, of their
scattered furniture. Our curiosity
was awake, of course, but our guide
had all the merits of a mute ; and
from him we could extract nothing
but the discovery of a stable large
enough to have held a regiment of
cavalry, and in which we tied up
our tired horses. The next consider-
ation was naturally for ourselves.
" Suppose now," said Von Hermand,
slipping a couple of Frederics d'or in-
to his swarthy hand, — "Your money
Is of no use here, gentlemen," was
the reply, " You have got what I
promised to give you, shelter, and
you are entitled to no more. Even
if you were, I have nothing more to
give"— He turned round his lantern
full on the party — " except a piece
of advice, that you would keep as
quiet as you can — for though you are
five or maybe • fifty, you may be
matched here, and with all your pis-
tols you may find the house too hot
to hold you." We all burst into a
laugh at this high style from a figure
between bandit and pauper, but the
fellow never heeded our opinions on

the point ; but slowly threading his
way through half a dozen more ca-
verns, which, from the roar above,
seemed to be actually dug under the
sea, he threw open a heavy door,
and shewed us our salle de reception
for the night.

The place was huge, dreary, and
totally unfurnished with any thing
better than a deal table and a few
benetres; the fire-place, in which our
whole party might have sat, seemed
not to have had a blaze in it since its
foundation; and the excessive chill
of the whole establishment struck to
our bones. The Major was again
vociferous for food, fire, and some-
thing that at least resembled a bed.
I joined in the cry with all rny soul,
and the old dragoons were evidently
on the stretch for a signal to force
hospitality from our rugged host by
any thing short of strangling him.
At length we tried the foraging plan
again, divided our party, explored
some of the passages through which
we had already dragged our weary
limbs, found here and there a broken
chair, a shattered door-post, or a dila-
pidated pike-shaft, converted them
by Hussar law to our own behoof, and
succeeded in making such a fire as
our grim hotel had not seen in the
memory of marauders. But this
night, we resolved, " was to be the
last." Human exploration could go
no farther; and Von Hermand easily
brought the house to his opinion that
Steinfort's capture, in the best of
times, was not worth another such
bivouac. The place, too, looked sus-
picious. It was evidently never meant
for the dwelling of the single poor
devil who held the garrison. A her-
mit would have died of its loneliness,
and a community of monks would
have been lost in its magnitude. It
was quite clear that the hovel by
which we entered had communica-
tion, probably subterraneous,with the
famous castle, and that we were now
in one of the castle halls, by what-
ever means we got there. The moon
too assisted our lucubrations. The
storm had blown off to the Arctic ;
and the skies were left to all their
frosty beauty. The moonlight rather
flashed than gleamed through the
old high windows of the hall, and its
light streaked with silver the wild
sculptures and flourished escutche-
ons of a hundred knights and princes,

The Castle of the Isle of&ugeft.

long since gone where neither blood
nor banquet disturbs them in their
caparison. Between the blaze from
the fagots, and the lustre from the
skies, lighting up those grotesquely
carved walls, and storied roofs, the
whole might have been taken for one
of the Indian caverns, with all its
gods quivering on the walls; and
with ourselves for the worshippers
at the altar fire, or the victims to be
thrown into it.

Time and place make half the
mind of every man. The time was
late, the place was phantomish. The
two dragoons were, as usual on all
emergencies, as fast asleep as if they
had been two Berlin watchmen, and,
stretched upon the ground at a little
distance, looked like two corpses
waiting for transmission to their last
bed.

We ourselves were at least so-
lemn. Hussars, though they are
gallant fellows, par metiery yet have
a curious natural propensity to ghost
stories ; a thing to be accounted for
from their being so often posted in
lonely places, so often half asleep
there, and so often half hungry and
half drunk. Those causes of the
imaginative faculty in the hussar
brain may not be the most sublime,
but the theory is not the less true.
Von Hermand, a capital fellow in
his way, and who would have taken
a lion by the beard in the plains of
Bilidulgerid, firmly believed in a
variety of these phantasms which
would have done honour to the in-
vention of Wieland. The music of
the last night came upon the tapis,
the sylph that made it received my
most animated panegyric, and at the
moment of my expressing a wish,
possibly made more potent by a
lover-like sigh, for its return, lo,
came the music, the very strain that
we had heard twenty-four hours
before, and twenty-four miles off I
We looked at each other in blank
astonishment. But we had other
surprises. The wall against which
the Major had fallen back, as a sort
of rearguard, in case of a preterna-
tural attack, proved treacherous to
his hopes, and suddenly giving way,
slipped him, completely culbutted,
down a passage, where I lost sight
of him at once. I of course sprang
after my vanished comrade ; but the
fall was short, the mischief was no-

803

thing, and we discovered that we
had both descended half a dozen,
steps, and were lying lovingly to-
gether against a door. The Major
was first on his feet, and in his in-
dignation he gave the invisible ene-
my a kick furious enough to have
broken down half the ancient doors
of Jaxmund.

More of the sylph's wonders still.
The door flew back, and a hall was
opened before us, the very scene for
a spell ; it was of striking size, but
filled and furnished as if the touch
of decay had never been felt there.
A long table stretched down the
centre, covered with a princely en-
tertainment j plate and ornaments
in profusion glittered on the board;
the walls were hung with fine folds
of tapestry, old, but retaining the
fresh dyes of yesterday, with the
lavish richness and stately flourish-
ings of the lovely looms of Arras
and Artois, Lamps of silver and
crystal were hung from the roof, and
a whole constellation of then! threw
life among the pictures of a whole
genealogy of Teutonic knights and
sovereigns, loaded with chains of
gold and jewels, and frowning
through the bars of helmets that
had been the terror of the Saxon
infidel and the Saracen five hundred
years before. All was magnificence;
but all was solitude. That guests
either had been there, or were to be
there, was certain ; for chairs were
placed down the length of the table,
and on the back of each was hung a
sword, one of the large, old, two-
edged blades of the Teutonic knights,
in a belt of blackened steel.

All this was the very costume of
necromancy, and the Major's honest
countenance was obviously length-
ened prodigiously. However, the
beauty and richness of the hall, the
equipment, and the entertainment,
satisfied us that the ghosts, however
feudal and formidable on other occa-
sions, meant us no harm in the present
instance. The wine, too, was true
wine; no demon started from the
flask of Johannisberg, of which my
presumptuous hand dared to pluck
out the gilded stopper. The huge
covers concealed nothing more spi-
ritualized than fish and venison ; and,
after a brief recognisance of the
supper, I felt myself justified in pro-
nouncing, that the shades of our an-

804

cestors cultivated hospitality in very
good style, and kept excellent cooks.
Von Hermand also rapidly dropped
from his spiritualities into a mere
human creature, took his place in the
pompous velvet-covered and lion-
clawed chair, at the head of the
table, and did the honours with the
skill of a court chamberlain.

The change was incomparable,
from the hungry cell in which we
had expected to pass the night, to
this rich-cushioned, crystal-lighted,
proudly pictured, and banquet-laid
gallery; and before our progress
could have been perceptible through
the wilderness of good things which
rose inglorious impedimentupon our
table, we had infused a courage into
our souls that would have done battle
against a whole army of electors,
sworded and shrouded as haughtily
as Charlemagne.

But we were recalled from this
Elysium of heroism to a sense of the
shortness of mortal enjoyments, by
another wonder. The music floated
round us again, and through a min-
gling of words, wild as an invocation,
we heard the name of Steinfort, and
a summons to follow the invisible
minstrel. I cordially wished the
scoundrel in the fosse at Magde-
burgh for the interruption, and Von
Hermand, now proof to all interfe-
rences from the clouds, loudly se-
conded my resolution. But then
carne the music again, floating so
tremblingly, stealing with such sweet
and dying cadences, melting round
us with such bewitching tenderness
of entreaty, such preternatural me-
lody of supplication, that my hero-
ism gave way, and in the full expect-
ancy of catching the sylph and her
guitar, in propria persona, in the next
apartment, 1 silently laid down the
glass that I had just filled to her
health, whatever she might be, stole
to the door, opened it, stole along a
passage, where a faint light glimmer-
ed, whether from earth or heaven ;
and before I had made three steps,
felt the ground shake under me, give
way, slip down, I dp not know how
many feet or fathoms, and myself,
with a cord twisted round my arms,
and a handkerchief tied across my
mo.utb, b,y a whole bevy of invisible
hands, but stron.g as ever were flesh
and Wood.

I must confess tli: it 1 v/r.s not pro-

The Castle of the fsh of Runt*.

pared for this catastrophe ; and that
in the uncertainty whether I was to
be dungeoned for life, or murdered
and thrown among the 'umber of
the hundred and one caverns of
Jaxmund, I cordially wished for the
time that my love of music and
swindler-hunting had stopped on the
other side of the walls. But where
was the use of penitence now ? I
could not move a limb, I could not
utter a word. I gathered the frag-
ments of my fortitude about me once
more; made a virtue of necessity,
and tried to persuade myself, that as
I was made to be shot, I might as
well meet my natural fate by a ban-
dit's bullet as a French tirailleurs.
While I was thus pondering, a pale
light began to creep along the wall,
distended, grew brighter, gleamed
through the dungeon — for dungeon
it evidently was; and, finally, rested
upon something fixed high up in the
rack, but which soon appeared to be
a large mirror. The wonder grew,
the mirror was peopled with figures,
sitting apparently in some kind of
legislature, and in deep deliberation.
All were wrapped in cloaks and furs,
and in the old costume of Germany,
but all with their caps drawn over
their brows ; and so far as counte-
nance was concerned, completely-
concealed. What their deliberations
might be, was equally hidden from
all'ears, but those of the world of
spirits, of which they seemed to be a
privy council. But they were evi-
dently by no means passively em-
ployed. Individuals rose from time
to time, gesticulated with great ear-
nestness, and on certain gestures, the
whole session seconded their senti-
ments by a general rising, and a
drawing and brandishing of swords.
But what was my alarm and astonish-
ment, when I saw my unlucky friend
Von Hermand dragged forward, in
the arms of a group of masks, bound
hand and foot, and forced to the foot
of this formidable table, evidently to
answer with his life. A dozen swords
were hanging over his head, and it
ivas soon clear that the unlucky Ma-
jor, no great orator by nature, and
amazingly puzzled by the novelty of
his situation, was making a disas-
trous business of the defence. All
movement on my part was impossi-
ble. I was inexpressibly grieved- ft t
the imminent peril of my old friend.

18-32.]

The Castle of the Isle of Rug en.

But there stood I, tied hand and foot,
and not unconscious that ray own
defence was to come next, though
without the slightest possible idea of
the nature of our crime. The trial
was soon closed. Von Hermand was
forced out. A few words from the
President collected the opinions of
the assembly. My friend was drag-
ged in again, a crape tied over his
eyes, and a block brought to the foot
of the table, before which he was
compelled to kneel. A mask, with a
naked two-handed sword, now ad-
vanced,' and in another instant I
should have seen the horrible spec-
tacle of his death, when a shriek, a
struggle, and a door bursting open,
sjhewed me the apparition, for so it
looked, of one of my most gallant
comrades in the Tyrolese war — Fre-
deric Von Walstein, rushing in,
tearing the crape from the kneeling
man's eyes, throwing its arms round
him, and flinging the sword of death
to the farthest end of the hall.

Alt was instant confusion. All
rose, and every sword was out of
its sheath; but there was palpably
a division of sentiment in the strug-
glej for while the majority crowded
round the president, and seemed dis-
posed to assert his sentence, a con-
siderable number formed a circle
round the culprit and his protector,
and held the court at bay. The tumult
grew high, and while not a sound
could reach my ears, yet passions,
by no means spiritual, were clearly
making wild work with the gravity
of the tribunal. Swords began, to
be busy, and a sweep of a huge
blade that fell on the President's
cap, and narrowly escaped shearing
the head off his shoulders, developed
his face, and shewed, to my immea-
surable surprise, the actual features
of the Astrologer ! Another wonder
— the necromancer's danger brought
in another party, in the shape of a
beautiful girl, fantastically dressed,
who threw her arms round his neck,
disarmed him of the sword with
which he was about to return the
blow, and led him from the chair.

In the midst of the vision a sud-
den explosion shook the cell around
me. Utter darkness veiled all to
my eyes. I was again seized, again
led througk a passage of many steps,
and dark as Erebus, where, how-
ever, my fetters were cut away, and

the handkerchief untied from my
mouth, and, with stern injunctions of
silence while on the spot, and of se-
crecy for ever after, I was ushered
from dungeon to dungeon, until I
found myself once more under the
open sky, which I had, I will ac-
knowledge, almost given up the idea
of ever seeing again.

My horse was there tied to a pil-
lar, but I could discover no vestige
of my friends. The Major and the
two old dragoons were vanished from
the face of the land. Had they va-
nished from the, face of the earth,
too ? The question was beyond my
powers of settlement. I yet resolved
not to leave the place without doing
all that could be done, by scrutini-
zing every spot where any sign of
them might be discoverable. But no-
thing was to be seen for miles round
but ruin heaped on ruin ; and of
whom was I to ask questions but
of the hawks and cormorants that
screamed round me, and often stoop-
ed so close that they evidently took
me for some vagrant grampus dal-
lying on shore ?

I gave a week to the search, gal-
loped miles without number, fret-
ted myself into a fever, and rode my
horse into a skeleton. Still all was
as dark as the riddle of the Sphinx ;
and, in deep vexation and serious
fear of meeting the faces of my
unhappy friend's household, I at
length turned my horse's head to-
wards Rostock. The last day of my
journey was actually one of the
most depressing I had ever expe-
rienced, and I prolonged my journey
late into the evening, that I might
leave as little leisure to tell my me-
lancholy tale on this night as pos-
sible. But to my utter surprise, I
found his house lighted up, as if for
a grand gala. It struck me that the
widow was making the earliest use
of her liberty. I made my way into
the house. The first man I met was
Von Hermand himself; the next
Walstein ; then came the two wives.
But the enigma was still unexplain-
ed and inexplicable. I could get not
a syllable on the subject from any
pair of lips in the room. But Von
Hermand took me aside, and made it
his gravest request, that nothing of
our castle adventure should be men-
tioned until I had his permission.
All this was infinitely perplexing

806

but there was no time for quarrel-
ing with the world, for Madame Von
Hermand summoned me to hand one
of her fair friends to the supper
table. I was angry with man, though
scarcely knowing why, and my
wrath was rapidly extending to the
better portion of the species; but,
after all, was I to be discontented
because,instead of sorrow and sables,
I met good humour and cotillons;
and, instead of being summoned to
follow somebody's funeral, I was
only ordered to join the general pro-
cession to supper ? I was introduced
to the lady in question, and at the
first glance instantly forgot my
wrath, my reflections, and, I am
afraid, my prudence. The sylph, the
niece, the fairy queen — the, I know
not what — the being of the blue eyes
and chestnut curls, stood laughing,
blushing a little, and looking the bril-
liant picture of life and loveliness
before me ! I was fairly entranced,
and for the first time in my long ad-
miration of beauty, I felt no inclina-
tion to be free. I felt, by fatal in-
stinct, that the true enslaver was
come at last, and that my day of
liberty was done. Before the hour
was over, I had made my confession,
and found that my fair saint was
Madelina Steinfort, sister of the lost
lover, the invisible fugitive, the re-
turned husband.

But, further than this knowledge,
no adjuration could force a word
from her coral lips. My destiny,
however, was decided. As to leave
Madelina I found to be utterly im-
possible, and to continue sighing
and making fine speeches to her was
hors de modey I offered her, without
circumlocution, all the good or ill
that was contained in a captaincy of
cavalry, a little Silesian domain, and
a heart in a state of the most furious
conflagration. The sex are compas-
sionate, and she had compassion.
We were married within the month,
and from that hour I found her more
tyrannical than ever in her com-
mands, that I should never, byword,
glance, or even by thought, ask her
a syllable about mask, cavern, or
castle. At the end of a year, and a
year of as much happiness as I sup-
pose is generally to be found in this
round and wicked world, she made
me the father of a beautiful boy, and
offered to tell me the whole true his-
tory of Jaxmund and its wonders.

The Castle of the IsleofRugen.

[May,

The castle had been the rendez-
vous of a number of Prussian officers
and men of rank, who had fallen in-
to the new theory of constitutions
and charters. The solitude of the
place allowed of their meeting in
security, and the formalities of the
old Teutonic knighthood were car-
ried on as a disguise for the changes
of the state. Von Walstein, who had
taken the name of Steinfort for a
Brandenburg estate, had been ena-
moured of their opinions, and dis-
patched to carry on their correspond-
ence in Rostock. There, however,
he had fallen in love, forgot his com-
mission, and married. A menace
from the Secret Council recalled
him, and he was spirited off to Jax-
mund. The Astrologer was his uncle,
a man of rank and fortune, but wild
with extravagant science, a real en-
thusiast, and full of fantasies of free-
dom. My sylph had followed him,
partly to reclaim him from his visions,
and partly to recall her brother. Our
arrival had given her additional hopes
of effecting both purposes, and by a
magic lantern, fairy music, and the
common contrivances of her uncle's
apparatus for discovering what they
were doing in the stars, she had con-
trived to draw us on. The seizure
of Von Hermand was the conse-
quence of his having been deemed
a spy; and, as the nature of their
deliberations laid them at the mercy
of government, my poor friend was
very near paying for his knowledge
with his head, "in the critical mo-
ment Steinfort had recognised him,
rushed forward, and attempted to
save his life. On his liberation, an
oath had been exacted from all the
parties, that the whole transaction
should be kept in the strictest se-
crecy for a time. The time was now
elapsed ; the seal was now taken from
the bond, by the reconciliation of
the leaders of the Council to Govern-
ment, and the discovery, as being
safe for the principals, now became
common property.

The banquet in Jaxmund had been
prepared for the reception of some
distinguished converts on that night,
and the whole tissue of mystery,
magnificence, harmony, and repul-
sion, was the natural work of a de-
sign at once to keep away all intru-
sion, and to impress the new initiated
with the mysticism that turns the
German into a hero.

1832,]

The Great West India, Meeting,

807

THE GREAT WEST INDIA MEETING.

PUBLIC meetings are one of the
most important parts of the British
constitution* We allude not to those
meetings, where large masses of the
lower and ignorant classes of the
community are brought together, for
no other objects but to excite still
farther their already inflamed minds,
or poison by additional falsehood
their already perverted judgments ;
not to those in which artificers and
mechanics are called on to dictate to
legislatures on subjects requiring as
profound study, and as extensive in-
formation, as the Principia of New-
ton, or the Calculus of La Grange ;
not to those in which ambition is to
be awakened by flattery, and truth
stifled by violence, and prejudice
confirmed by applause. From such
meetings no good can be anticipated;
and the nation which has the misfor-
tune to be governed or overawed
by their dictates, is on the high-road
to perdition. But the meetings we
allude to are of a totally different
character ; those in which the rela-
tive situation of the different classes
of society to each other is not invert-
ed but preserved ; in which men as-
semble, headed by their natural lead-
ers, under the influence of a com-
mon feeling, or the pressure of a
common necessity, to deliberate on
matters in which they have a com-
mon interest; in which the object
in view is not to awaken passion,
but to state facts ; not to flatter am-
bition, but to draw attention to suf-
fering; not to overawe the will, but
to convince the understanding, or
melt the heart. Public meetings of
such a character are the true re-
source of a free people ; they are
the great instrument in which the
public voice is sounded, when it re-
quires to speak in its loudest tones ;
the means by which the interests
and the calamities of the remoter
parts of the empire may be made
known at its centre, and the preju-
dices or local interests of the govern-
ing legislature moulded according to
the wants or necessities of its remote
dependencies.

Meetings of this description are in
a peculiar manner required in regard

to our colonial, and especially our
West India possessions. Such is the
disposition of mankind to be govern-
ed by what they see, in preference to
what they hear ; by clamour at home,
rather than, suffering abroad j by pre-
judiced or impassioned declamation
from the depositaries of power in
the centre of the empire, rather than
the strongest facts, or the most con-
vincing appeals, from mere individu-
als in its extremities ; so that it is im-
possible that the colonies should not
be sacrificed, when they come in col-
lision with domestic prejudice, if
their cause is not occasionally sup-
ported by the united influence of
rank, wealth, information, and ta-
lent, at such great assemblages. This
position, true of all our distant colo-
nies, is, in an especial manner, appli-
cable to the West India islands. The
cause of the planters there has to
contend, not only with the natural
inattention to their interests, which
arises from their being wholly un-
represented in Parliament, situated
at a great distance from this island,
and placed in circumstances of civi-
lisation, industry, and climate, wholly
different from what is here known,
and utterly unintelligible to a great
proportion of its inhabitants; but,
with the additional and far more for-
midable, because more sincere and
respectable feelings, arising from the
love of freedom and the influence of
religion.

Slavery in itself, and considered
without regard to the slow changes
and imperceptible progress by which
its abolition is prepared in the eco-
nomy of nature, is a state of society
so abhorrent both to the feelings of
freemen, and the spirit of Christi-
anity, that it is not surprising that
a numerous and sincere, though ill-
informed and mistaken, party in this
country should regard it as an evil,
which should at all hazards, and
without vouching a reply to the West
India proprietors, be at once extin-
guished. The true answer to this
argument is, that the West India pro-
prietors are as desirous as any sect-
arians in this country for the extir-
pation of slavery; that they wait

808

only for the time, and claim only
delay, to make the preparation which
is necessary to prevent k from being
the destruction of the slaves them-
selves; and that, when the burden
of the slave population can be taken
oil' their hands, without anarchy,
conflagration, and murder being its
necessary consequence, they will be
the first to get rid of it for their own
interests, if not from a more gene-
rous motive.

Few are aware of the vast length
of time, however, which is indispen-
sable to prepare society for the eman-
cipation of a numerous slave-popu-
lation; of the slow acquisition of
the habits, the gradual growth of the
middling class, the necessary acqui-
sition of artificial wants which are
indispensable towards the safe re-
moval of this coercive system on the
lower ranks of society; and that,
wherever any attempt is made to
outstep the progress of nature, and
hasten the changes of time, horrors
unutterable are the consequence, and
centuries of additional slavery are
necessarily imposed upon the peo-
ple. To those who are acquainted
with historical facts, it is sufficient
to mention that slavery never could
be got rid of in the Greek and Ro-
man empires; that it subsisted till
within these three centuries both in
France and England, as well as all
over Europe ; that its ultimate era-
dication was so gradual, that it was
imperceptible; and that, wherever
sudden emancipation was attempted,
it led to horrors similar to the Ja-
maica revolt; the atrocities of the
Jacquerie in France, in the reign bf
Edward III. ; the insurrection of the
Boors in Germany, in the time of
the Emperor Charles V. ; and the
revolt of Wat Tyler in England, in
the reign of Richard II.

Three months ago, while yet Ja-
maica, so far as we knew in this
country, was in a state of undisturb-
ed tranquillity, we foretold that the
mingled tempest of political and re-
ligious fanaticism which had lately
overspread these Islands, would soon
involve the West Indies in servile
revolt, and all the horrors of confla-
gration ; and that unless a remedy
was speedily applied by Govern-

The Great West India Meeting.

[May,

ment, that right arm of British
wealth and power would be severed
from the Empire.* It is needless to
say, how completely, to the very let-
ter, our prophecy has been verified.
We founded our opinion on the ex-
perience of what the fumes of phi-
lanthropy and the transports of re-
form had done to St Domingo at the
commencement of the first French
Revolution ; and we predicted that
the same caus'es would produce the
same results, if a total change of
system was not immediately adopt-
ed in regard to those invaluable co-
lonies. The efforts of " Les Amis du
Noirs" headed by Brissot and the
leading Revolutionists at Paris
prepared the soil for the explosion
in St Domingo, exactly in the same
manner as those of the friends of
Negro emancipation have done in Ja-
maica within these few years ; and
the spark was communicated to both
colonies by the same cause, viz. the
extravagant hopes of immediate
emancipation, excited by the acces-
sion of a reckless and reforming ad-
ministration to the head of aft'airs in
their respective kingdoms^nisDaarn
Those who will take the trouble
to look back in the journals of the
day to the speeches of the leading
popular orators in the spring and
summer of 1830, will be at no loss
to discover the remote cause of the
late deplorable insurrection. Negro
emancipation, speedy unconditional
Negro emancipation, was then the
ladder by which the Whigs endea-
voured to scramble into power; the
lever by which they expected to
shake the Duke of Wellington's ad-
ministration, and work on the gene-
rous and inconsiderate feelings of
the English peasantry. Petitions so
numerous on the subject flowed into
both Houses of Parliament, that a
resolution was passed applicable to
them alone, that they should not be
printed. To speak to any of these
fervid orators, of time, of changes in
character, compensation to the plan-
ters, ruin to the negroes, was as
hopeless as it would be to speak to
the present Reformers of the conse-
quences of the Reform Bill. If any
man had foretold to the numerous
and enthusiastic petitioners to Par-

sii

* See No. 191. Feb. 1832.

The West India Question,

•

1832.]

Great West India Meetiny.

liament at that period, that in less
than t\vo years 50,000 Negroes
should be in open revolt, an hundred
plantations in flames, and damage to
the extent of several millions ster-
ling incurred from their rash and
ignorant measures, he would have
been stigmatized as a cold-blooded
tyrant, who was desirous only to
wring their last drop of blood out of
his suffering fellow creatures.

This extravagant passion for im-
mediate and unconditional Negro
emancipation, arrived at a perfect
climax in July 1830, when the
speeches preparatory to a general
election were in the course of deli-
very. Emancipation of the slaves
was the incessant cry of all the po-
pular party at that time : Lord
Brougham thundered on the fruitful
theme in the Palace- Yard at York,
and found in the sympathy of the
religious freeholders of that great
county, the means of securing his
return to Parliament as its represen-
tative. The most moderate of the
friends of the Negroes only urged
the propriety of putting off the com-
mencement of the system of eman-
cipation till the end of 1831, and
they were looked upon by their
more ardent brethren as somewhat
lukewarm, and indifferent in the
cause. JB ed iliw ,088 i

It was in the midst of this tu-
mult of emancipating frenzy that
the three glorious days at Paris ar-
rived, which was so soon followed
by the fall of the Duke of Welling-
ton's Administration, and the acces-
sion of our present rulers to office in
this country. Since that time no-
thing has been heard of Negro eman-
cipation. Popular ambition having
got a new and more alluring object
of ambition, the poor slaves have
been neglected, and the seeds of
conflagration transferred from the
West India Islands to the heart of
the Empire.

But while this change in the phan-
tom of popular ambition entirely
drew the attention of this country
from the condition of the Negroes, it
nourished in these simple and de-
luded men the most fatal expecta-
tions as to the deliverance which
speedily awaited them. They saw
their former and steadfast advocates
raised to the highest offices in the
Btate ; heard the voice which had so

809

long and eloquently pleaded their
cause in the Chapel of St Stephen's
and on the Hustings, on the Wool-
sack, and were told from every
quarter, that under the auspices of
a reforming King, and a popular ad-
ministration, a new constitution was
to be given to the Empire, and a new
era of freedom and happiness to
arise upon all its vast possessions —
what conclusion could they draw
from this? what conclusion would
any man have drawn in the same cir-
cumstances, but that Reform was to
be to them emancipation, andi that
the same sublime patriotism which
extricated the inhabitants of Great
Britain from the tyranny of the bo-
rough-mongers, was to snatch them
from the lash of the slave-driver V

The speeches of ministers when
the West Indies were brought for-
ward, were so extravagant and vio-
lent that it is no wonder that the
West Indies were fanned into a
flame. On 15th April 1831, Lord
Howick, Under Colonial Secretary of
State, said in his place in the House
of Commons: — "The honourable
and learned gentleman (Mr Burge,
the agent of Jamaica) asks, if we
mean to abandon the policy of 1823,
and to sacrifice property V For my-
self, I have no hesitation in answer-
ing in the negative. I would, un-
questionably, preserve the rights of
property, but I would not preserve
them at the expense of the rights of
the slave. I object to immediate
emancipation, for the sake of the
slaves themselves; but were I con-
vinced that immediate emancipation
could be effected with safety to the
slaves, I should say, let it take place
at once; the planter might then, in-
deed, have a just claim on the Bri-
tish nation, by whose encourage-
ment and sanction he has been in-
duced to acquire the property of
which he would be deprived. It
would be unjust that the whole
penalty should fall on those who
have only shared the crime by which
it has been incurred. But, however
large the claim of the West Indian
for compensation may be* I do not
hesitate to say that it should not
stand in my way for a moment, as
weighed against the importance of
putting an end to the sufferings of
tfre slaves. T consider the wKoTe
system of slavery one of such deep

810

oppression, and iniquity, and cruel-
ty, that, if I could be satisfied it was
safe to emancipate the slaves now, I
would say, * Do soy and do it at once ;
and we will settle scores among our-
selves afterwards, and determine in
what proportion the penalty of our
guilt is to be paid ; but the victim of
that guilt must not continue for one
hour to suffer, while we are haggling
about pounds, shillings, and pence.' "
When such sentiments were utter-
ed by the organs of government, is
it surprising that the West Indies
caught fire ?

The imminent danger of this delu-
sion gaining ground, which was pre-
cisely the cause of the great revolt of
the St Domingo slaves in 1789, which
at length destroyed that noble colo-
ny, was fully explained to govern-
ment, and they, in consequence, pre-
pared the folio wing proclamation, cal-
culated to extinguish such chimeri-
cal expectation.

" By the King — A proclamation.—
William R. Whereas it has been repre-
sented to us, that the slaves in some of
our West India colonies, and of our pos-
sessions on the continent of South Ame-
rica, have been erroneously led to believe,
that orders have been sent out by us for
their emancipation : and whereas such be-
lief has produced acts of insubordination,
which have excited our highest displeasure :
We have thought fit, by, and with the
advice of our privy council, to issue this
our royal proclamation : And we do
hereby declare and make known, that the
slave population in our said colonies and
possessions will forfeit all claim on our
protection if they shall fail to render en-
tire submission to the laws, as well as
dutiful obedience to their masters : And
we hereby charge and command all our
governors of our said West India colonies
and possessions, to give the fullest publicity
to this our proclamation, and to enforce,
by all the legal means in their power, the
punishment of those who may disturb the
tranquillity and peace of our said colo-
nies and possessions.

" Given at our court at Saint James's,
this third day of June, one thousand
eight hundred and thirty-one, and in the
second year of our reign. — God save the
King."

But what did Government do at
the same time ? Afraid during the
reform struggle of injuring them-
selves in the eyes of their emancipa-
ting supporters in this country, they
sent out along with this declaration

The Great West India Meeting/.

{May,

an injunction, " that it should not be
made use of unless a case of necessity
arose" And, accordingly, Lord Bel-
more did not feel himself authorized
to publish it till the *2±th December,
when the insurrection was just break-
ing out. This delay, Sir Willoughby
Cotton justly iemarks, was " most
astonishing, as it would appear to
have been known on almost all the
estates that it was the determination
of the Net/roes not to work after New
Year's day without being made free"
Now what, in the name of justice,
of humanity, of common sense, can
be urged in favour of this prohibi-
tion ? If the proclamation was not
required, why issue it ? If it was,
why send it to the colonies with an
injunction not to use it? "A case
of necessity" must arise, it seems,
before it is to be used. Is the burn-
ing of an hundred plantations, the
slaughter of thousands of Negroes,
the loss of four millions, the " case
of necessity" to which it alludes ?
It sets out with stating that it had
been represented to them in June
1831, that the slaves in the West In-
dia Colonies " have been erroneously
led to believe, that orders have been
sent out by us for their emancipation,
and whereas such belief has produ-
ced acts of insubordination, which
have excited our highest displea-
sure." Here then the existence of
commenced insurrection, and the
causes to which it was owing, are ad-
mitted; the governors are ordered
" to give the fullest publicity to this
our proclamation;" and yet private
orders are sent out NOT to publish
the proclamation ; not to dispel the
illusion under which the slaves la-
boured, but to allow them to go on,
infatuated by the idea that their
emancipation had been granted to
them, and was withheld by the local
authorities! One would imagine
from such conduct, that it was the
design of government to entice the
slaves on to commit themselves to
acts of insurrection, in order that
they should be subjected to the
severer and prompter punishment,
— in the same way as when intelli-
gence of an intended housebreaking
is received by the police, they fre-
quently allow the offenders to get
into the house, and commit the ca-
pital felony, before they rush from
their hiding-places and arrest the

The Great West India Meeting. ^ ^

From any such nefa- which is to be dreaded. That the
Gospel itself is perfectly consistent
with a due subordination on the part
of slaves to their masiers, is evident,
only from

1832.]

delinquents.

rious design we fully acquit our
well-meaning and sincere, but weak
and ill-informed Colonial Ministers;
but from whatever motive their con-
duct proceeded, certain it is that it
had precisely this effect, and led on
the slaves to insurrection as effectu-
ally as if they had purposely design-
ed to deliver over these once flou-
rishing islands to rapine and confla-
gration.

The slaves, it is to be recollected,
are not the ignorant body which they
once were. Forty thousand emanci-
pated Negroes, chiefly in respectable
stations in society, are to be found in
Jamaica alone, the greater part of
whom can read and write; and
though the conduct of this body du-
ring the late trying disturbances has
been exemplary in the extreme, yet
it is evident that they formed a cer-
tain channel of communication by
which the rash and ignorant efforts
of the emancipating party in this
country were speedily made known
to their enslaved brethren in the
West Indies. Without ascribing to
these freedmen any but the most be-
nevolent and philanthropic motives,
it is impossible to conceive that they
would not read with avidity the in-
flammatory harangues in favour of
speedy or immediate emancipation
with which Great Britain resounded,
and the popular journals were filled,
during the whole of 1829 and 1830;
nor is it surprising that these eman-
cipated Africans, on the threshold of
civilisation, were misled as to the
effects of rapid emancipation, when,
with the example of St Domingo be-
fore their eyes, they were overlooked
by such men as Lord Brougham,
Lord Goderich, and Mr Charles
Grant.

A large proportion of the Negroes
themselves are now able to read and
write, and doubtless this opened an
additional and wide channel for the
reception of seditious and inflamma-
tory doctrines, either from reckless
and ambitious popular leaders in this
country, or ignorant and fanatical
Missionaries in the West Indies. It
is from the efforts of such men, how-
ever, not the mere diffusion of reli-
gious instruction, that any danger is
to be apprehended — it is not Chris-
tianity, but Christianity iiscd as the
organ of revolution or fanaticism,

not only trom its precepts, which
every where enjoin a scrupulous
discharge of their duty by the slave
as well as the master, and no where
give the slightest encouragement to
insurrection or revolution, but from
the historical fact that it co-existed
with slavery for fifteen hundred years
without any disturbance further than
what occasionally arose from the
frenzy of democracy ; and that it is
now to be found, side by side, with
the Evangelists in one half of the
Christian world.

Religion, indeed, is fitted ultimate-
ly to effect the greatest changes in
society ; but the mode in which they
are effected is, as Guizot has just-
ly remarked, by coercing the pas-
sions, and softening the feelings of
the human heart, not by any changes
in the elements of civilisation. Pre-
scribing no changes for the frame of
society ; enjoining no innovation in
the relation between man and man ;
convulsing nations by no sudden al-
terations in their government and
institutions, it confines all its efforts
to purifying the life and the con-
science; and effects great ultimate
changes in society by the improve-
ment which it has effected in the
disposition of its members. Such
changes are necessarily extremely
gradual and perfectly safe ; because
they imply that the necessary change
is effected in the human mind before
any alteration is attempted in socie-
ty, and measures of severity render-
ed unnecessary by the altered ideas
of those who are subjected to them.
Under the influence of this blessed
and Christian spirit, the bonds drop
from the hands of the slave without
his being conscious of it; the num-
ber of manumissions enlarges gradu-
ally from the conscientious scruples
of the slave-owners, and the increased
habits of order and industry in the
labouring population; a numerous
mixt class arises, partly servile and
partly free; the advantage of free
labour becomes obvious, from the
spread of artificial wants among the
slaves having induced them to sub-
mit to the severe and unceasing toil
which is the attendant of freedom,
by the unvarying decree of Provi-

810

aence; and by common consent and

ty a sense of mutual advantage, slavery
' gradually dies out, like an ancient
and now forgotten language, in a few
remnants of the people. Such was
the pacific and unobserved extinc-
tion of slavery in Great Britain,
France, Germany, and Italy, in the
sixteenth century, under the silent
influence of Christianity on the hu-
man heart. But very different have
been the results, in every age and
country, from all attempts to com-
bine religion with revolution, and
convert the unseen spirit, which
walks in the silver robe of innocence
through the human heart, into the
armed and reckless innovator, which,
by the aid of sovereign or sacerdo-
tal power, at once effects great and
perilous changes in the frame of so-
ciety. From all such attempts utter
ruin both to master and servant have
arisen in all ages of the world ; and
by such attempts, the silent and pa-
cific process of emancipation has
been more retarded than by any
other events which history records.
There is but one lesson of experi-
ence on this subject, and it is told in
characters of fire in the Jacquerie of
France, the great slave revolt of Ger-
many, the ashes of St Domingo, and
the flames of Jamaica.

We are unwilling to prejudice
even in the remotest degree, and in
any quarter where it may prove in-
jurious to them, the cause of the
Baptist and Missionary priests, who
are to stand their trial for seditious
practices, and instigations tending to
produce revolt. The matter will be
investigated by the legal tribunals ;
and it will soon be seen whether
well-meaning fanaticism has had as
large a share as political ambition,
popular enthusiasm, or ministerial
weakness, in producing the desperate
suffering, the deplorable scenes, the
heart-rending punishments, which
have been the unavoidable conse-
quence of the late insurrection.
When this matter is elucidated by
the proper evidence, we shall return
to the subject.

But there is another topic of still
greater importance, in which the
conduct of government appears in
equally deplorable colours, and that
is, the tyrannical use which they have
made of the distresses of the West
India islands, to endeavour to force

The Great West India Meeliiiy*

[May,

upon their local legislatures an Order
in Council totally unsanctioned by
Parliament, and which, in the opi-
nion of all those possessed of any
local information, will prove fatal
to all the West India estates, by the
extravagant, ruinous, and useless
stipulations in favour of the Negroes
which it contains. The oppressive
means which were to be adopted to
force this obnoxious Order in Coun-
cil upon the refractory Colonial Le-
gislatures, were thus detailed by
Lord Howick, Under Colonial Se-
cretary of State, on 15th April, 1831,
in the debate above alluded to.

" Such an Order in Council is now
in preparation, embodying every im-
provement which has already been
tried with success, either in our own
colonies or in those of any other
power, and, without adopting any
new principle, supplying any defects
which have been discovered in the
manner of carrying into execution
what has already been attempted.
This Order in Council will be sent
out to the colonies with the intima-
tion that, to entitle them to the indul-
gence which it is intended to hold out,
they must adopt it word for word,
without addition or alter ation^^Rta >*j

Now, observe Avhat this amounts
to. The government say to the Co-
lonial Legislatures, who alone possess
the legal power of legislating for their
respective islands, " We know you
are ground to the dust by long con-
tinued and overpowering distress;
we are aware of your necessities ;
we know that you are threatened
with an insurrection among your
slaves, and crushed by burdensome
taxes on every part of your produce ;
but unless you will surrender your
chartered liberties, and adopt an Or-
der in Council, a royal ordinance, as
an act of your own parliament, we
will not give you the relief which
we know you indispensably require."
And this is the conduct of Whig
statesmen, the descendants of the
opponents of Lord North, the cham-
pions of North American freedom,
the vehement condemners of the
royal ordinance of Charles X., and
the advocates of Parliamentary le-
gislation and the representative sys-
tem all over the world !

This intention was too completely
carried into execution. The pro-
posed Acts in Council were issued

The Great West India Meeting.

1832.]

on 20th June, and 2d November,
1831, and immediately sent out to
all the colonies, accompanied with
the intimation, that " government
had resolved to adopt certain fiscal
regulations for the relief of the co-
lonies, but that they would do so
only on condition of the regulations
of this Order in Council being expli-
citly complied with, and that, to
avoid all dispute as to what might
or might not be deemed compliance,
nothing would be deemed sufficient
by government, but an act of the lo-
cal legislature, declaring the Act in
Council to have the force of a law."

The way in which this outrageous
attempt to elude the rights of the lo-
cal legislatures in the colonies has
been received, will appear from the
following extracts :

The inhabitants of Dominica have
unanimously signed a protest, bear-
ing among other statements,

" That the inhabitants of this colony
challenge the minutest investigation into
the treatment of their slaves, provided
that recourse is not again had to the
grossest system of intimidation, and a
harassing cross-examination of witnesses,
to make out a case in accordance with the
views of those persons in the mother
country who so unremittingly seek the
destruction of these colonies.

" That the surprise is only equalled by
the indignation with which the inhabi-
tants of this colony have heard published,
by the voice of a. policeman, in the market-
place, two documents purporting to be
Orders of his Majesty in Council — one
subverting their dearest rights and privi-
leges as British subjects, and the other
robbing them of the miserable wreck of
their already wasted fortunes.

" That the said Order in Council of
the 20th of June, constituting a judicial
system, as stated to be for improving the
administration of justice, must have been
framed in mockery of the unfortunate in-
habitants, whose lives and fortunes it has
placed at the mercy of salaried judges,
holding office only during the pleasure of
a saintly cabal, who notoriously rule the
colonial department, and whose creatures
appear thrust into office in the colonies as
spies and informers, to calumniate and
traduce the unfortunate slave-holder.

" That the Order in Council of the 2d
November is utterly destructive to our
rights and property in our slaves ; vests
an individual in the character of a slave
protector, with an inquisitorial arid des-
potic power over every free inhabitant,

which they have never exercised over the
slaves ; deprives the planter of the means
of reaping the produce of his land, yet
compels him to furnish his labourers daily
with double the quantity of provisions
supplied to the King's troops, and to give
them clothing such as their masters are in.
many instances destitute of.

" That the inhabitants, convinced of
the impracticability of carrying into effect
this unjust and ruinous measure, find
themselves forced to oppose, by every con-
stitutional means, the execution of these
enactments.

" That they can yield obedience only on
compulsion, protesting solemnly before
God and man against this most gross and
shameless spoliation, and carrying with
them into poverty and privation the con-
solation that they have not lent them-
selves to their own destruction."

The feeling in St Kitts is equally
strong : —

ST KITTS " This House, after a long

period of forbearance and suffering, deem
it an incumbent duty to declare their firm
determination to withhold any grant of
money whatever, nor adopt any recom-
mendation of his Majesty's government,
until such government not only evidences
a desire to, but actually does, adopt some
measure for our relief, and enables us to
know that in future our properties are to
he held sacred and inviolable."

DEMERAHA. — " We, the undersigned,
proprietors or representatives of the se-
veral plantations set opposite our names
respectively, and owners of slaves in this
colony, do hereby solemnly declare, each
for himself, that we consider the Order in
Council, dated the 2d of November, 1831,
and published in the Royal Gazette of
this colony on the 12th day of this pre-
sent month of January, 1832, by his Ex-
cellency the Governor of British Guiana,
purporting to alter and modify the rela-
tions heretofore existing between the
slaves in this colony and their lawful
owners, and the rights under which we
have lawfully possessed and enjoyed the
services of our slaves — to be wholly ruin-
ous to the just interests of each of us the
said persons, and to be a direct violation
of the sacred rights of private property
— rights which were and are sacred by
law, and ought to be inviolable.

" We declare that the necessary effects
of the said Order will be to inflict an ir-
reparable and extensive injury on all the
agricultural and other interests of this
colony — will lead to the rapid decay of
its sugar plantations in particular — and:
will inevitably cause the speedy ruin of
a large proportion of the present proprie-

814 The Great West India Meeting.

tors — which the undersigned are prepared

to prove."

At St Lucie the following Resolu-
tions were unanimously passed : —
" One otily opinion can be entertained

respecting the Order in Council of the2d

of November : it must be the final ruin of

the whole colony — it is the miserable re-
sidue of our rights and properties that it

seeks to annihilate.

" The inhabitants of this colony are

convinced that the ministers of the Crown

who have counselled their Sovereign to

sanction such a law have exceeded the

power vested in them ; that they appeal to

the Parliament of Great Britain tor the

decision oi' this important question. But

if they were even disposed to set aside the

question of right, and weakly to yield up

their properties and all guarantee for their

creditors, by entering into the views of

their present rulers, it is clear, from the

preceding statements, that it is impossible

for the inhabitants to carry into effect

these unjust and ruinous measures.

" Under these circumstances, as the
Order in Council of the 2d November is

to come into operation on the 8th instant,

your committee consider it necessary to

make this public declaration of the line of

conduct they have decided on adopting.

" They will oppose a passive resistance
to the various enactments contained in the
two Orders in Council of the 20th June
and2d November, 1831 ; will continue to
govern themselves in the treatment of
their slaves by the Order in Council of
2d February, 1830, and the two supple-
mentary local ordinances of the 26th
April and 3d May, 1830, on every point.
" That they will pay no taxes voluntarily
for the support of public officers, whom
they consider illegally charged on the co-
lony; that they will refuse every employ-
ment under government, tending in any
way to assist in the execution of these
Orders in Council; and that they will
contribute to the extent of their means to
the expenses that may be incurred in car-
rying these measures into effect."
[Here follow the signatures. J

[May,

At Trinidad, the orders were re-
ceived in the same manner. The
protest of the inhabitants bears, —

" That the inhabitants of this island,
in concurrence with all the other pro-
prietors of West India property, have
called upon his Majesty's ministers to in-
stitute a parliamentary enquiry into the
condition and treatment of Ne^ro slaves
under the existing laws, in order that the
necessity for further legislative interfer-
ence between the master arid slave might

he fairly examined, and the principles and
extent of such interference, if judged to
be necessary, exactly determined :

" And considering — That his Majesty's
government have refused to institute or to
encourage the institution of such parlia-
mentary enquiry, and in the stead thereof
have adopted the false and exaggerated
statements, and are proceeding to act on
the unjust and injudicious principles, of a
party who avowedly aim at the destruc-
tion of all West India property:

" And considering — That his Majesty's
ministers have obtained and promulgated
in this colony an Order of his Majesty in
Council, whereby a vexatious and most
injurious interference with the authority
of the master over his slave is authorized
and encouraged, whereby the proprietor
is prevented by unnecessary restrictions
from exacting such a portion of labour
from his slaves as is consistent with their
health and comfort, and whereby he is
obliged to furnish them with more cloth-
ing than they require, and to provide for
them more food than they can consume,
while the regulations in respect thereof
will be productive of the utmost dissatis-
faction amongst the slaves, and that by
the said Order in Council his Majesty's
faithful subjects in this island are subject-
ed to the jurisdiction of extraordinary tri-
bunals, arid are deprived of their undoubt-
ed right of appeal to his Majesty in cases
of fines exceeding L.100 sterling; and
that for these reasons and to this extent
theenforcement of the said Order in Coun-
cil, without the consent of the proprietors,
and without any previous compensation
to them, will be an unlawful exercise of
the power intrusted to the government,
and a direct violation of the rights of pri-
vate property •

" Therefore we, the capitulants, pro-
prietors, merchants, planters, and others,
whose names are here underwritten, for
the purpose of protecting ourselves and
our properties from the evil consequences
which might ensue from a silent andun-
opposing obedience to the said Order in
Council, have solemnly protested, and do
hereby most solemnly protest, against the
several clauses in the said Order in Coun-
cil herein before mentioned, and the enact-
ments and provisions therein contained,
protesting and solemnly declaring the
same to be a direct violation of our rights,
and a forcible and unlawful invasion of
our properties, inconsistent with the treaty
of capitulation, contrary to the first prin-
ciples of natural justice, and totally null
and void in law."

[Here follow the signatures.]

f$uch is the spirit which these ty*

1832.]

The Great West India Meeting.

ftl,

rannical Orders in Council have
excited in the Leeward Islands.

Antigua also has rejected the Or-
der, assigning as a reason that they
have it not in their power to com-
ply.

Jamaica is equally firm.
" Resolved, That the means devised by
a faction in the House of Commons to de-
prive us of our property, if carried into
effect, cannot fail to create a servile war
of too horible a nature to contemplate,
and that any person who attempts to pro-
duce or promote such war is an enemy to
his country.

" Resolved, That the conduct of the Bri-
tish government in taxing us higher than
other subjects; in fostering our enemies,
and listening to their falsehoods against
Us ; in rejecting statements from impar-
tial persons in our favour ; in allowing
designing men, under the saintly cloak of
religion, not only to pilfer our'peasantry
of their savings, but also to sow discon-
tent and rebellion amongst them ; in
threatening to withdraw troops, for whose
protection we have doubly paid, and which
we might claim as our right, at a time
a servile war may be apprehended ; is
most heartless, and in violation of justice,
humanity, and sound policy."

The resolutions proceed to state, that
" thrown," as they are about to be, " as a
prey before misguided sarages, we have
no other alternative than to resist ;" and
to pray the King " that we may be ab-
solved from our allegiance, and allowed
to seek that protection from another na-
tion which is so unjustly and cruelly
Withheld from us by our own."

It is not surprising that the Orders
in Council should have been so re-
ceived. Besides authorizing a con-
stant and ruinous interference be-
tween the master and slave, they
compel the latter to receive double
the rations daily of a British soldier,
and that under the sun of the tro-
pics !

All the other Colonies have re-
ceived the obnoxious ordinances in
the same manner.
- Thus it appears that Ministers have
combined to accumulate upon our
West India Colonies the evils at once
of the St Domingo revolt, and the
war of North American independ-
ence. By their rash and vehement
speeches, both in and out of office,
in favour of immediate or early
emancipation, coupled with their in-
explicable suppression of the Pro-
clamation, calculated to put down

the dangerous hopes which their
speeches and the rash efforts of the
Missionaries had occasioned, they
have precipitated Jamaica into mas-
sacre and conflagration ; while, by
their tyrannical and unconstitutional
promulgation of an Order in Council,
which is to be thrust down the
throats of the local legislatures like
a royal ordinance, as the price of
their receiving any relief from the
Parliament or Great Britain, they
have awakened in these colonies a
spirit of resistance, which must ulti-
mately, as in the case of the North
American Colonies, lead to the dis-
memberment of the empire.

The question on which the West
Indies are now at issue with the mo-
ther country, is one of the utmost
moment, and in which the colonies
are agitated by the most vital of all
interests. It is substantially the same
as that which, under Lord North, lost
for this country the whole of its North
American colonies, with this differ-
ence, that, instead of its being an act
of Parliament, which is now sought
to be imposed, it is an order of the
King in Council, which the local Par-
liament are to be compelled to adopt
literatim, as the price of their recei-
ving the assistance, without which
their existence would not be worth
preserving. This is a stretch of
power which has never yet been ex-
hibited in this country, nor indeed
by any other having the remotest re-
gard for the preservation of their co-
lonial possessions. The Crown colo-
nies, that is, such of the islands that
have no local legislature, are ordain-
ed at once to adopt this royal ordi-
nance, and those which have Parlia-
ments of their own, are ordered to
do so under pain of receiving no
relief whatever from the mother
country, at the time when it is dealt
out to the more obsequious colonies,
which give to the royal proclamation
the force of law.

Ministers, therefore, stand com-
mitted to a contest with the West In-
dia Islands, far more formidable, be-
cause their pretensions are incom-
parably more unjust, than those of
Lord North with North America.
And what is the time which they
have selected to agitate our colonial
empire by such an unprecedented
stretch of power ? That, when,
according to their own confession

816

contained in the royal proclamation
of June 3, 1831, they were aware
that delusive hopes of immediate
emancipation pervaded the slave po-
pulation, and acts of insubordination
had commenced, requiring the sharp-
est coercion; when a jealous and
watchful potentate, in the close vici-
nity, is eagerly watching the progress
of British insanity, to lay his hands
on that fair portion of the British do-
minions ; when the revenue and re-
sources of the empire are daily sink-
ing under the stagnation of domestic
danger, and the flames of servile re-
volts, provoked by a similar course
of conciliation and mismanagement,
are breaking out in the Irish pro-
vinces ! — " Quos Deus vult perdere
prior dementat."

We are aware that all statements
of the ruin which is likely to ensue
to our West India possessions, is a
matter of no sort of concern either to
our fanatics in religion, or our zealots
in reform ; but possibly they maybe
somewhat more alive to the dangers
which threaten themselves, the perils
to the very existence of the British
empire, in consequence of the mea-
sures which are now in progress in
the West India Islands. To such
persons we cannot do better than
earnestly recommend the considera-
tion of the two first of the admirable
resolutions of the great West India
meeting, lately held in the city.

" 2. That the value of the West India
colonies to the revenue, manufacturing
industry, and mercantile marine of Great
Britain, may he at once ascertained by
reference to Parliamentary documents,
whereby it will appear that the duties an-
nually collected from West India produce,
amount to seven millions sterling ; that
the annual official value of British manu-
factures exported to the colonies is about
L.5,500,000; and the amount of ship-
ping employed in the direct trade, about
250,000 tons ; altogether exhibiting a
branch of commerce, almost unequalled
in point of extent, and peculiarly import-
ant on account of its national character ;
the whole emanating from British capital,
being conducted by British subjects in
British vessels, and finally returning the
whole value of cultivation in the colonies
into the general resources of the mother
country, while the cultivator is suffering
the extremity of distress.

" 3. That, in addition to the direct in-
tercourse of Great Britain with her Wtst

The Great West India Meeting. [May,

India colonies, an extensive cross trade
is maintained between those colonies and
the British possessions in North America,
which affords employment to upwards of
100,000 tons of British shipping; and,
by furnishing a market for the fish, corn,
salted provisions, and lumber of British
America, contributes essentially to the
prosperity of that other vast branch of
colonial dominion, on which, jointly with
the West India trade, Great Britain de-
pends for the employment of at least one-
third of her whole mercantile marine,
and, consequently, for her station amongst
the nations of the world.

" 4>, That the loss of the colonies, or
the abandonment of interests thus power-
fully contributing to the resources of the
mother country, would inflict upon nu-
merous branches of manufacturing indus-
try, as well as upon the revenue, an in-
jury of incalculable magnitude, which
would never be compensated by foreign
trade. So great a destruction of com-
merce, essentially domestic in all its re-
lations, must not only entail ruin upon
numberless private families, but would
withdraw from the manufacturers of cop-
per, iron, mill- work, hardware, woollen
and cotton goods, the fisheries, the col-
lieries, the salt provision trade of Ireland,
and all the various trades connected with
shipping, a source of employment on
which these industrious classes have been
accustomed to rely in war as well as in
peace. A great commercial convulsion
must follow this loss of employment,
while, at the same time, the revenue
would be seriously affected by a great «li-
minution of consumption, arising out of
the diminished ability of the people to
purchase taxable commodities, and the
enormous advance of price of all colonial
articles which must attend the abstrac-
tion of the produce of the British West
Indies from the general market of Eu-
rope."

These facts speak volumes. It is
evident that a great proportion of
our revenue, a large part of our ex-
port trade, the best nursery for our
seamen, is on the point of being lost.
And lost for what ? for more arbi-
trary stretches of power than lighted
the fire of North American inde-
pendence, and more reckless inno-
vations than kindled the flames of
the St Domingo revolt. The thirteen
provinces of America were lost to
Britain in consequence of adopting
one part of this system ; St Domingo
was lost to France, and has been pre-
cipitated into the lowest stage of

1832.} The Great West India Meeting.

misery and barbarity, by adopting
another; our present rulers have
combined at the same time both !
No idea can be more absurd than

817

that which is frequently brought for-
ward by those who are favourable to
early emancipation, viz. that even if
we lost the colonies as dependencies
on ourselves, we would derive the
same benefit from them by laying an
impost on their produce, and their
consumption of our manufactured
industry, as we now do, without be-
ing subjected to the burden of their
maintenance or defence. Experi-
ence proves the reverse. The sum
total of British exports is about
L.44,000,000. Of these, to the colo-
nies, L.32,000,000 ; all the rest of
the world, L.I 2,000,000..

And while the shipping employed
to Canada, with a population little
exceeding a million, is 400,000 tons,
or a sixth of the whole British ton-
nage, that to the United States, with
a population of twelve millions, is
only a seventh part of that amount,
or 59,000 tons.

The reason is obvious, and was
long ago explained, with perfect
clearness, by Mr Brougham, in his
able and well informed work on Co-
lonial-Policy. Colonies are distant
provinces of the empire. The in-
dustry they put in motion, encou-
rages domestic labour at both ends of
the chain; that with an independent
state, at one end only. Trade with
Jamaica encourages British industry,
and adds to British wealth, both in
the West Indies, and at Glasgow, or
Manchester; that with New York or
Baltimore encourages that half only >
which is resident only in the British
isles. The whole trade to Canada,
and the West Indies, is carried on in
British bottoms : that to North Ame-
rica for the most part encourages
the shipping of a rival power. Hence,
while the tonnage engaged in the
North American trade is only 60,000
tons, that to Canada, and the West In-
'dies, taken together, is 650,000 tons,
being above ten times as much, though
their united population is hardly a
sixth of that of the United States.

It is the same with the exports of
Britain to these distant dependencies.

The exports to the West Indies,
are, . . . L.5,500,000

Those to Canada, 2,400,000

Together,

L.7,900,000

VOL. XXXI. NO. CXGIV.

So that two millions of souls, in
our own colonies, take off nearly
L.8,000,000 worth of manufactures ;
whereas the twelve millions in North
America only take off L. 6,000,000. The
reason obviously is, that indepen-
dent nations early adopt the system
of encouraging their own fabrics,
and loading, by heavy duties, all im-
ports from foreign states. The Ame-
ricans have vigorously commenced
this system ot self-defence; while
we, proceeding on the vague idea of
free trade with nations who will
give us no corresponding return, are
daily losing our exports to independ-
ent states, and saved from complete
stagnation at home, only by the rapid
growth and increasing wants of our
colonial dependencies.

But this is not all. A most im-
portant fact, as regards the shipping
interests, was stated by Mr Palmer,
which demonstrates how necessary
practical knowledge is to correct the
conclusions drawn from mere cus-
tom-house returns. As a shipowner,
and conversant with shipping busi-
ness from his earliest years, he was
probably able to say as much upon
the importance of that subject as
any other man.

" He meant to draw the atten-
tion of the meeting particularly to
the comparative importance of the
West India shipping with that of the
shipping of the country to every
other part. Upon this he would re-
fer to the returns which had been
made lately to the House of Lords —
returns in themselves requiring a
great deal of explanation to render
them at all intelligible to the com-
munity at large. By those returns
it appeared that the whole amount
of tonnage which had entered the
various ports of the United King-
dom in the course of last year was
2,367,322 tons ; of which that from
the British West India ports was
249,079 — in this way appearing to be
little more than a tenth part of the
tonnage engaged in the foreign trade.
This was not accurate ; because the
two millions and a fraction of a ton-
nage included the entry of every
vessel, from whatever port in the
world she might have arrived. To
the East Indies a ship could scarcely
make one voyage within the twelve
months, whilst from the ports in Bel-
gium she was able to make no less
than from six to eight in the course
3 G

818

of the year. In each case the vessel
was entered as many times as she
made voyages. Therefore, an entry
of 700 tons from Belgium, by a ship
making seven voyages in the course
of the year, gives, in reality, but the
employment of 100 tons, and six or
seven men; whereas, a vessel from
the East Indies employs 700 tons
during the year, and 50 seamen.
Upon this principle, he had dissected
the whole of the returns made to
Parliament, and the result was, as
regarded the West India trade, that
instead of there being 2,367,322
tons of British shipping employed in
the foreign trade, the whole did not
exceed 1,324,780 tons, of which the
West India trade composed one-sixth
part, and which undoubtedly was a
most important consideration. What-
ever political economists might say,
no one attending this meeting would
deny that such a difference in view-
ing the returns was of importance to
this country. In the time of war it
was to the foreign trade the country
had to look for seamen. It was the
foreign trade and long voyages which
alone made perfect seamen."

Thus, it is a sixth part of the whole
foreign trade which is at stake in the
West Indies : another sixth is at stake
in Canada: in other words, one-third
of the whole foreign trade is. invol-
ved in the intercourse with these
two colonies alone. And it is the
whole of this immense branch of our
wealth and strength which Ministers
have brought into jeopardy, first by
their absurd proposal to ruin the
staple trade to Canada by the tim-
ber duties; then by their rash and
despotic acts in regard to the West
India colonies.

When Mr Canning, in 1823, un-
dertook to legislate for the West In-
dia Colonies, his Resolutions were as
follows, which breathe the cautious
spirit of a British statesman.

" That it is expedient to adopt effec-
tual and decisive measures for meliorating
the condition of the slave population in
his Majesty's Colonies.

" That through a determined and per-
severing, but at the same time judicious
and temperate, enforcement of such mea-
sures, this house looks to a progressive
improvement in the character of slave
population, such as may prepare them for
a participation in those civil rights and
privileges which are enjoyed by other
Classes of his Majesty's subjects.

The Great West India Meeting.

tMay,

" That this house is anxious for the
accomplishment of this purpose at the
earliest period that shall be compatible
with the well-being of the slaves them-
selves, with the safety of the colonies, and
with a fair and equitable consideration of
the interests of private property, "

Such were the principles on which
Parliament proceeded, such the faith
to which they were pledged in the
most liberal days of Lord Liverpool's
administration. Contrast this with
the despotic act of our Whig rulers,
forcing an Order in Council at once
on the Crown Colonies, and leaving
to starvation and ruin all those pos-
sessed of a local legislature, who
would not adopt this Royal Procla-
mation as equivalent to an act of
Parliament! Mr Warrington truly
stated what every one who recollects
the occasion, or will turn to the Par-
liamentary debates, will find to be
strictly true.

" Mr Canning at the same time de-
clared, that the legislature and the
government would be ever access-
ible to fair argument, and would ne-
ver close their ear upon strong facts,
feeling convinced that it was almost
impossible for the British . Parlia-
ment to legislate satisfactorily for the
economy of colonies, so different in
the moral and physical relations of
their inhabitants as the West Indies
from those of the mother country.
And yet, in the teeth of these reso-
lutions, and of the explicit comment
which accompanied them, ministers
had issued several orders in council,
each more contradictory and uncon-
stitutional than the other, and only
agreeing in being directly opposed
to resolutions which had received the
solemn sanction of Parliament. Each
Order in Council was a censure upon
the preceding, and afforded strong
grounds for questioning the policy of
the last issued, and for doubting whe-
ther it would not shortly be super-
seded by one if possible more uncall-
ed for and mischievous. He said
those Orders in Council were uncon-
stitutional, being directly opposed to
the resolutions of 1823, to which Par-
liament, in the name of the nation,
had pledged itself. He would add,
that they were cruelly mischievous
in their tendency." (Hear.)

Earl St Vincent, with a spirit
worthy of the name, immortal in Bri-
tish fame, which he bore, put the
matter in the true light, " He would

1832.]

The Great West India Meeting.

819

entreat those who had any interest
in the West Indian Colonies to con-
sider one moment the general cala-
mity that would ensue, if any pro-
perty of any description whatever,
which had been consecrated hy the
laws, should be invaded and broken
down. (Hear.) If colonial property
were thus to be sacrificed, what pro-
perty would be safe? (Applause.)
If one species of property were to
be invaded, on account of some pe-
culiar shade of distinction, who could
say where such invasion would stop '?
(Hear.) If, upon the doctrine of ori-
ginal rights, or abstract principles,
West India property, consecrated by
law, was to be invaded, every man
might approach them with the same
argument. In adverting to these Or-
ders in Council, I am led to a reso-
lution of Parliament in the year 1823,
and I must say, that those who were
parties to that resolution, and to the
decision of the House of Commons
in 1823 respecting the slave manage-
ment, ought not to be parties to the
Order in Council of 1 83 1 . We were
living in times of great colonial dis-
tress— we were living in times when
great colonial agitation was on foot
—when it would have been policy
and Wisdom to have conciliated ra-
ther than to have inflamed. But
whathas been the effect of the Orders
in Council of 182], bearing on the
face of them irritation towards the
colonies and injustice to the proprie-
tors ? (Hear.) To dictate to the Co-
lonial Assemblies, not from Parlia-
ment, but from the Council, is un-
just and illegal, and to state what ap-
pears to me very extraordinary, to
say the least of it, is that they shall
say to these legislatures, * We have
certain benefits to confer on those
islands, and if you do not agree to
what we dictate, you shall not re-
ceive the benefits, even in the dis-
tressed and sinking condition of
your interests,' But to say on one
,side, this is the reward of your non-
obedience, and we will sink the Co-

lonies if you do not do so ; and on
the other, here is the premium on
your sycophancy, is the height of in-
justice. Can you sink the Colonies
without sinking also the interests of
the mother country ? It was saying,
if you don't follow this advice, we
will punish the mother country
through the medium of the colonies."
The point at issue between the
colonies and the mother country is
very clear, and as simple as that for
which John Hampden contended
with Charles I. The colonies say,
" we are overwhelmed with a tax of
100 per cent on our produce ; threat-
ened with insurrection among our
negroes; devoured by mortgages
which the prodigious fall in the va-
lue of our produce has rendered
overwhelming; we have done every
thing consistent with our own exist-
ence for the amelioration of our
slave population, but the injudicious
interference of government, and the
Orders in Council recently issued,
threaten us with instant destruction,
and will ruin both the slaves and
ourselves, and are directly contrary
to the faith of Parliament, solemnly
pledged in 1823; and all this we offer
to prove at the bar of the House of
Commons." — The government reply,
" We know your distresses; we are
aware of your dangers ; but we will
not allow you to prove your allega-
tions ; and unless you adopt our re-
gulations, framed on this side of the
Atlantic, and give to a royal procla-
mation the force of law, we will al-
low you to sink in the ocean of per-
dition." This is the justice and equal
measure of a Whig administration.
Unless the investigation demanded
by the West India proprietors is
granted by Parliament, there is an
end of the fair rule of British jus-
tice; and if relief is much longer
delayed, there will speedily ensue,
as the righteous retribution of Pro-
vidence, the dismemberment and fall
of the British empire.

920 The Jewess of the Cave, [May,

THE JEWESS OF THE CAVE. A POEM IN FOUR PARTS.
PART I. — THE RECOGNITION.

MANASSEH wakes ; a lamp's soft light is shed,

But where he knows not, on his humble bed.

The fight remembered — at the close of day

Sore wounded he amidst the slaughtered lay.

His fiery swoon recalled ; his melting dream

Of flowing waters and the moon's mild beam,

That struck cold healing through his flaming throbs,

And thrilled his bosom to delicious sobs,

Recalled, suggests that man with pitying glance,

But who unknown, had seen his thirsty trance;

His brow had bathed, his lips with drops so dear ;

Had borne him thence ; refreshed had laid him here.

As now his eye to his conjecture gave

The walls around him of a rock-ribbed cave,

Came muffled steps ; an aged man in view

Was seen, a virgin nearer to him drew.

Above him bowing, where he lowly \ay,

Soft as the Night and beautiful as Day,

Cold oil she poured into his wounded breast ;

Then went they both, and left him to his rest.

Had he those faces unremembered seen,
That by his couch had now so kindly been,
In days foregone ? He knew not ; yet to him,
Becalmed in soul midst scenes of childhood dim,
Forgetting courts, forgot th' obdurate strife
Of war, and manhood's sternly-governed life,
Those looks still rising, softening to his view,
The pleasing dreams of boyhood still renew.

Healed by their care, that damsel for his guide,
He left their cavern in the mountain's side :
A space she forth will walk with him, and find
The aged prophet by the tombs reclined ;
He o'er the mountains with the youth shall go,
His onward path to Babylon to shew.
" Behold him yonder," said the maid, " but stay,
Not now can he conduct you on your way ;
The fit is on him, but th' unfailing shower
Of tears shall heal his spirit in an hour."
They paused as, looking to the vale below,
They saw that old man striding to and fro.
Then turned Manasseh with enquiring eyes,
And thus the Virgin answered his surprise :—
" Jared his name, my mother's father he ;
And grieved were I that you his pangs should see,
Did not our God with fury or control <fftio:
Of madness check or fire his prophet's soul.
In youth, the shaggy deserts were his range,
Unscathed by all the seasons in their change.
Where bare red suns on sandy mountains beat,
'Midst fiery dust he braved the strokes of heat.
On stubborn hills of frost, when winter came,
With storms he wrestled, yet unhurt his frame.
Nor when the harsh wild withs of frenzy bound
His naked body to the naked ground,
Long days and nights in caverns murk and rude,
His vigour languished; up he sprung renewed.

1832.] The Jewess of the Cave. 821

But, lo ! he goes into yon grove : the tombs

Are there : subdued aye comes he from their glooms.

Oft even at hollow midnight does he dare

Death's caves ; the dull trees ; the infested air ;

The shuddering ground; the ghosts uprising through ^

In hoary, bloodless, thin-compounded de\v,

"With baleful blots, whose shivering lips emit

A feeble whistling as around they flit.

But let us down; thou waiting, from the wood

To thee I'll bring him in his softened mood :

Thine the desire to thank him ; his the will

And power to guide thee safely o'er the hill,"

She said, and left him. From the doleful trees
With her advancing Jared soon he sees ;
Forth stepping meets them ; near the old man came,
Woe in his aspect, trembling in his frame.
" Sire," said the youth, " my blessing be on you
For all the care to which my life is due !
My name Manasseh ; as that blood is thine,
So is the sacred blood of Israel mine.
With Cyrus high in favour, me he sent
To conquer this Chaldean discontent
Amidst these hills, that love not yet his reign
Since he their city, Babylon, has ta'en.
The foe fled routed ; on the field I fell ;
Nor, save for you, had lived my name to tell,
To bless you both, to pray you but to shew
What Cyrus' favour shall on you bestow :
Mean gold you scorn ; yet something you may ask,
Glad were your servant if you him would task."
" Your name Manasseh ?" Jared thus exclaimed,
" How know you this ? By whom thus were you named ?
The blood of Judah yours ? It should be he !
How came you midst these Elamites to be "?"
" Scarce," said the youth, " remembered is the day
When horsemen bore me from green hills away,
I guess not why. My name perchance I knew,
My birth, and told them ; I was styled a Jew.
As such I lived, to Persia borne afar.
God gave me valour and renown in war.
Too late I learned that me a Persian band
Stole from the mountains of some western land, —
Too late, since slain in war each soldier who
Could take me back to where my life I drew.
Grief made me bold ; thus gained my orphan fate
The love of Cyrus which has made me great.
But speak — you tremble ! ha ! you know me then ?
Nor vain my visions, laid within your den ?
What means all this ? Stay ! stay, a form comes back ;
I see her comb her tresses long and black."
" Who but thy mother, famed for beauteous hair ?
Her name," cried Jared, " could you but declare !

Think was it Esther ?"

" O ! my God ! the same.
And tell me now, is Jared not thy name ?
Sweet Virgin ! thee I know not ; O ! if Heaven
In thee a sister to my heart has given !"

Silent, the prophet bares with trembling hands
Manasseh's neck, as passively he stands.
" Bathsheba, look," the old man whispered, " see
Thy brother's scar oft spoken of to thee !"
Shrieking, she kissed it, kissed her brother's face j
And sobbed for joy within his dear embrace.

The Jewess of the Cave,

PART II. — THE CONFESSION.

LIKE one, the purpose of whose life was o'er,
No more to look for, and to do no more,
Since found that brother, with an altered eye,
The stricken prophet laid him down to die.
Came madness, came wild penitential fears;
Till calm he lay with spirit-cleansing tears.
Bathsheba soothing him, Manasseh near,
Joy should be his for those young watchers dear.

They o'er him bowed. Uprising with a groan,
" Why here ?" he cried : " From me ye should be gone,
Me, ne'er your mother's father, nought to you
Save one to whom your curse alone is due.
My sins untold, I dare not look to heaven ;
I cannot die till you have me forgiven :—
In youth I Sarah loved ; denied my prayer,
She wed my foe, she left me to despair.
Crime came not first, that darkly came at last :
In guiltless speed let me my heart exhaust !
Swift plans I named, our Council liked them not ;
Then be the traitor's hurried life my lot!
Dash Sarah's bliss ! Let Judah's general ill
Within wide vengeance special hate fulfil !
I sought, I stirred the King of Babylon,
Once more against Jerusalem set him on;
Within our walls I helped him. In the gate,
Unseen, I slew my rival in my hate.
The city won, I sought his widow'd wife ;
Too late, forestalled by the victorious strife :
The war had reached her in her ransacked hall ;
There slain — 'twas well — she saw me not at all.
Not knowing death, her daughter by her side,
With infant arts, to wake her mother tried.
With pity struck, with horror for my deed,
The babe upsnatch'd away I bore with speed;
And, knowing Zion should be captive led,
Far to these mountains of the East I sped.

" Fair grew the child — your mother — in this cave.
To her a name I, deemed her father, gave.
Till to a noble hunter of our race
She went a wife from out this dwelling-place.

" Wild wax'd my life : O'er seas and lands away,
I bore my penance many a weary day ;
Long periods dwelling on the cold-ribbed piles
Of desolation far in stormy isles ;
Surviving oft the shipwrecked miseries
Of ghastly sailors on benighted seas ;
Still building up, oh ! never making less
The vast proportions of my wretchedness !
Back driven, I sought our prophets ; changed my name,
(Remorse had altered well my face and frame,)
So shall I not be known, if known my sin ;
And thus my new career did I begin : —
I learned the visions of Ezekiel's soul ;
To me he gave each prophet's written scroll.
Long in the hidden deserts I abode
To be a Seer, waiting for my God :
For much I longed to issue from my den,
To tell great judgments to the sons of men
For I was tired of peace. In madness' hour
I felt or feigned the prophet's awful power.

1832,] The Jewess of the Cave. 823

Lord God, forgive! I dread that I have been
The dupe of pride, or swift denouncing spleen.

" Yet guilt, distraction, fear, could ne'er remove
My spirit, settled with paternal love,
Here, on your mother, who, her husband slain,
With you, sweet pair, was back to me again.
Here bloomed your childhood. In that vale below
You strayed, Manasseh, doomed from us to go.
Stolen from her heart, for you your mother pined ;
For you to death her comely head resigned.

" O I had she lived ! this night, O ! had she met
Her lost one, doubtful o'er her long regret \
Till the assurance of her own found boy
Filled all the vessels of her heart with joy !
And then so found ! for he high fame has won,
Each noblest warrant to be styled her son.

" Fierce was my grief for her, as for a child,
Till you, Bathsheba, left, my pangs beguiled.
Sweet daughter, ever dear! I am a man
Of blood, and nought for thee my blessing can ;
Yet fain, fain would I bless thee ! I would give
My very soul in joy to make thee live !
Blessed be that battle ! blessed that prompted night,
When we, Bathsheba, sought the field of fight ;—
By thy sweet pity prompted, that our aid
Might help the wounded, in our cavern laid !
We saw you lie, Manasseh, in that place,
And such th' effects of pain upon your face,
So like your mother's sire, I pitied you
For him whom fiercely in my wrath I slew.
Thence borne, we healed you. Joy ! you live the stay
Of that dear virgin when I go away.
I go ! I go ! forgive my bloody hand,
My guilt that keeps you from your father's land !
I look to you ! O save me ! ease the load
That draws my spirit downward from her God I
Am I not here a very poor old man ?
What would you more ? You view my closing span.
No more the men and women shall I see
Walk in the world ; their beauty's dark to me.
No more shall I the sacred light of noon
Behold, or the fair ordinance of the moon.
Dear is your mother's tomb ; O, children, swear,
When I am dead, to lay my body there !"

They swear. But chiefly o'er him bowed with tears,
With filial love his soul Bathsheba cheers.
He died in peace, forgiven. His body they
Laid down to mingle with their mother's clay.

PART III.— THE PICTURES OF THE PROPHETS.

God lifts his prophets up ! O, their's a power

Honoured and great beyond an angel's dower !

If, mortal still, their spirits must descend,

To dwell. with things of earth their will must bend;

Yet have they borne th' Almighty's counsels : hence

To them a new, a keen intelligence,

Nature to know ; for they have learn'd to scan

Its great relations to the fate of man.

They see the hosts of stars, young, fresh, and pure ;

No old familiarities obscure

824 The Jewess of the Cave. [May,

The moon : its beauty's more than beauty. They

See types and symbols in the opening day.

They knew the soul that melts spring's gracious cloud.

They hear vast terrors in the thunders loud,

Unheard before : the lightnings round their path

Fly out like written sentences of wrath.

War and the pestilence tell them their design ;

The earthquake shews the secrets of her mine;

To them the comet his wan hair unbinds ;

They know the errands of the mighty winds,

Hail, rain, and snow, and meteors of the storms,

That plough the dark night with their fiery forms.

Though dread their visions oft, their power austere,

Their hearts enlarged o'ermaster human fear.

Then, then they wait not through Time's dull delay,

They see the glories of the future day;

Their spirits taste the first-born things of joy,

Yea, bliss unborn, unmix'd with Earth's alloy.

But bring the balance. Here wide-glorying Crime
Slays half the kingdoms of man's mortal time.
There Pleasure's form belies the ancient pest,
For whom in sackcloth must the worlds be dress'd.
She drugs the earth ; then by fierce gleams of haste,
The false allurements of her eye displaced
By scorn, by cruel joy her prey to win,
The hoary shape of disenchanted Sin,
Above the nations bowed beneath her spell,
Seals the pale covenant of Death and Hell.
Hence wo to man, all evils : Oh ! they be
Too many for the good which Earth must see.
Hence joy is his, o'erbalanced far by pain,
Whose spirit kens the future's coming train;
Unblessed by hope where certainty appears :
And knowledge saddens through protracted years.
For he is human still. Then scorn and hate
Too oft the prophet's warning voice await
From those for whom the awful charge he bears,
T' instruct his spirit in their future cares :
So fierce their hate, he scarcely can repress
Unhallowed joy at their ordained distress.
If right his heart, yet his the growing wo,
Their ills increasing with their scorn to know ;
Whilst new commissioned threats from God on high
Still tell their worth, who turn not, but will die.
A giant's strength is o'er him in the ties
That bind to man his yearning sympathies, —
To man sublime in his uncertain fate,
So linked to God, and Hell's inglorious state :
And thus his large heart's but prerogative.
With deeper awe, with trembling still to live, ^rf

Those solemn pleasures, these majestic woes,
Beseem the forms that young Bathsheba shews,
Pourtrayed in tapestry round a far recess,
Within that cavern of the wilderness :
Torch-lit, she leads her brother by the hand,
And points the prophets of his father's land.

Moses he saw, come down from Sinai dread,
Throughout the vail was seen his burnish'd head ;
As streams the sun, when mist his forehead shrouds,
Tumultuous glory through the scatter'd clouds.

Young Samuel there, with lustrous feet, abroad
Walks on the holy mountains of his God ;

1832.] The Jewess of the Cave. 825

No stain of fear or sin his clear eye mars,
As ether pure, that feeds the vivid stars.

Here Judah's Shepherd-King : he bore with grace
A golden harp ; high looked his regal face ;
As if, before his sceptre made to bow,
The gaze of empires glorified his brow.

Winged with prophetic ecstasies, behold
The Son of Amos, beautifully bold,
Borne, like the scythed wing of the eagle proud,
That shears the winds and climbs the storied cloud,
Aloft, sublime ! And through the crystalline
Glories upon his lighted head down shine.

But near him, wrapp'd upon a sombre hill,
Stood Jeremiah, sad for Zion's ill.
She, far removed upon the mountains back,
Was faintly seen beneath the heavens of blade.
Crushed thunders loud, the lightning's thwart blue stroke,
Those seemed to roll, this o'er her summits broke.
Red mortal fires are in her sainted towers;
A wild reflection forth her temple pours,
There darkly ruddy, and here dimly brightening,
Like Tophet's ancient melancholy lightning : —
" Lord, God ! how long ? When shall that better morn
Shine on salvation's high-exalted horn ?"
Thus pray'd the prophet's eyes: And patriot shame,
And patriot grief, his manly brow became.

Behold ! behold, uplifted through the air,
The swift Ezekiel by his lock of hair !
Near burn'd th' Appearance undefinedly dread,
Whose hand put forth upraised him by the head.
Within its fierce reflection cast abroad,
The prophet's forehead like a furnace glow'd;
From terror half, and half his vehement mind,
His lurid hair impetuous stream'd behind.

But lo ! young Daniel, in a twilight dim !
And round that den the lions glared on him.
Seemed one, as headlong plunged he to devour,
In difficult check caught by a viewless Power :
Bowed his curbed neck, his wrenched head subdued,
Half turned he hung in dreadful attitude.
Another slept; but still his front was racked
With lust or blood, his form was still unslacked ;
As if at once his hungry rage had been
In slumber quenched by that dread Power unseen.
The rest, with peace upon their massive brows,
Gaze on the prophet as in prayer he bows.

Nor had an instant sympathy forgot
Those noble brethren of his captive lot.
Within the burning bars, Manasseh saw
The three who scorned a monarch's impious law.
Around their limbs unloosed, and scatheless hair,
Was seen a cloud of soft and lucid air.
Beyond, the red and roaring haze but showed
More beautiful these children of their God.
A fourth was with them : glowing were his feet
As iron drawn from out the boiling heat :
An angel form : And white was his attire,
As with them walk'd he on the stones of fire.

In solemn beauty more young seers he saw;
And ancients laden with prophetic awe,
O'er whose old heads, with snows upon them cast,
Had many a visionary winter passed.

8?<5 The Jewess of the Cave. [May,

The name, the theme, the character of each
How to her brother joyed that maid to teach !
Joyed to believe, to doubt not, in his eyes
That people's glory would exalted rise,
For whom Jehovah in his ceaseless care
Inspired those men his dread will to declare !

" Such," said Bathsheba, " such my work for years,
My heart beguiling of a thousand fears,
When far from me his madness Jared swept,
And I our flocks upon the mountains kept.
Those prophet shapes conceived, I wrought to please
His spirit yearning for their ecstasies ;
Yea more, to keep before our scattered race,
That in these wilds have their abiding-place,
Our sins, that forth those seers commissioned sent
To tell our judgments, and to cry * Repent;'
That we no more might sin, might humbled be,
If we would hope our land again to see.
Nor less, the prophets' scrolls, that Jared brought,
I joyed to read to those our rock who sought."

" My sister now," Manasseh said, " would shew
The same to me, that I the Lord may know ?
Fear not, dear One I my lineage early known,
I sought, learned, loved our fathers' God alone.
O ! sweet those tears of joy within thine eyes,
To have me with you to Jehovah's skies!"

"With silent love thence led, she shewed to him
The Prince forenamed to raise Jerusalem,
Predestined Cyrus, saviour of their land,
Wrought by the skill of her pourtraying hand.
Within the west, a mountain based in night,
And robed with shadows, rises to the sight.
Thence flies a mighty Angel, swift to bear
A wreath of light from Judah darkened there
Towards the steed-borne prince ; his farther hand
Back points to Salem with a glittering wand.
And now — you see it now — from Heaven one beam
Has touched her summit with the faintest gleam.
But now your kindred sympathy can see
That touch of light shall soon a splendour be,
Shall blaze, devour that darkness, shall disclose
Mount Zion's pomp of beauty and repose.
And nearer look, before its darkling base
A choral band of virgins you may trace :
Still nearer — 'tis Bathsheba in the van ;
And they with timbrels greet the godlike man.
Dark are they all ; yet seems one moment more,
To floods of glory shall the scene restore.
O ! such shall be the crown of living light
For him illumined o'er a kingdom's night,
Who yet shall save Jerusalem ; for this
Her stag-eyed daughters forth in grateful bliss
Shall come, with songs shall their deliverer meet ;
Bathsheba first to kiss his kingly feet.

PART IT.— THE INTERVIEW WITH CYRUS.

Now Spring, the leafy architect divine,
Was in the woods, and built her green design.
Forth walked Bathsheba with her brother: they
From memory piece the scenes of childhood's day.

1832.] The Jewess of the Cave. 827

Much asks he of his mother : still in vain

They try their father's image to regain

From memory's blank. Her youth to him she told;

To her his life he hastened to unfold :

Together wandering still in broad green ways,

Dear was their love, and happy were their days.

But he must go : Her fears first prompted this :
Him recognised, destruction shall not miss
From those Chaldeans routed : They may meet,
Thus know, thus slay him in that dear retreat
Yes, he must go : Though slighting not her fear,
A loftier motive prompts his higher sphere :
The time is come for Judah's help decreed,
And Cyrus but his favoured hints may need ;
Nor such a sister long must languish there,
For glory fashioned, and for duties rare.
Would he could take her with him ! but the way,
Beset with toils, demands her present stay,
Till he with pomp of safety back shall come
To take her with him to a fitter home.
It but remains to be assured that she
The while may safely in these mountains be :
O ! yes; for even the robber of the wild
Unharmed would pass, would guard the prophet's child
Such awe had Jared, in his strange distress,
Even on the children of the wilderness.
Yea more, a few of Israel's people near
Will let her be no lonely liver here :
For Jared's sake, her own, they love her well ;
Or they with her, or she with them, shall dwell :
No fears for her ! With joy he'll come anon I
Yet Oh ! she weeps — her dear Manasseh gone.

She climbs the mountains; far for him she strains
Her eye at morn, at noontide, o'er the plains ;
Till wind the white sheep, when the dew distils,
In pearly strings around the twilight hills.

Here standing now on her accustomed height,
O'er many lands she casts her longing sight.
The sun down burns among the western trees;
The windings she of old Euphrates sees
Far in the south unrolled. But, ha! her eye
A company coming northwards can descry.
It left the flood ; as on it swiftly drew,
Forth came detached two horsemen to her view.
Adown the mountain hastes she : from his steed
The nearer springs — it must be he indeed !
He meets her fast ; his arms around her pressed,
She weeps glad tears upon her brother's breast.

Her hand he took, with dignity the maid
He led to where that other horseman stay'd,
Dismounted, them to greet, yet pausing he,
That unrestrained their meeting joy might be.
" Great Cyrus ! see the sister by our God,
From out the deserts, on my heart bestowed."
Manasseh thus, forth leading her : But she,
• With youthful reverence, knelt upon her knee.
" Rise !" Cyrus said, and raised her; " Honoured maid,
We come to have thee to our court conveyed.
Judean virgins, high their excellence,
Are in our train to wait upon thee hence.

28 The Jewess of the Cave. [May,

Thy presence well shall dignify our state;

Great is thy beauty as thy heart is great.

But first, instructed by thy brother, we

The figured arras of your rock would see :

Come to your cave ; there night shall o'er us go : nb b^d

Our tents shall wait us in the vale below."

Her grateful eyes upraised, Bathsheba saw
His form majestic, and his head of awe.
With manlier gifts of tenderness and grace
He led the damsel to her dwelling-place,
Her brother near walked softly in his joy,
As if he fear'd some glad dream to destroy.

•:r SIB 7,9/ij

With scented lights, the maiden round her cave ante
To Cyrus' eyes the pictured prophets gave ;
Forbearing not, at his command, to tell
Their words commissioned unto Israel.
With holy hope, she, eloquently bold,
Jehovah's doings for his people told :
Early he chose them his peculiar care;
From Egypt bore them with his arm made bare ;
Came down on Sinai with devouring fire,

And thundered o'er them in preventive ire ; oattf uroaag 9<f

The nations melted in his wrath away, u{ ^(iifov a

That stablished Judah in their land might stay; *d <»enqi9Jfl9
Till, sin-provoked, despised his day of grace, or* u of

He drove her forth a captive from her place.

Now smiles the monarch, as Bathsheba shews -, gnol avfid sqoi
Himself prepared to end that captive's woes.
But he with awful dignity demands

Isaiah's book, when mentioned, from her hands; Urns 10 mob
Till, pointed out, he saw his name ordained,
His power, for Zion's sake, by God sustained.
Whence came this book ? She told : He, pleased, declaredfo-) & ni
'Twas rightly writ, with Daniel's scrolls compared.
" Great Sovereign !" thus the Jewess of the cave,
" Thy grace has given me leave a boon to crave:— io sJnaoiaoiib
Approved by thee, these hangings worthy are >T bus aofrfioube
To deck thy palace or thy tent of war.
Deign, let thy handmaid "in thy kingly sight
Keep long memorial of this honoured night#ftio:> adl idi asonprfq

" Wise virgin dignified! it shall be so;

They with us hence to Babylon shall go : •- I jfwfofob sJ .

The Queens of earth shall see the fair design,
Shall imitate thy needle-work divine.
This greater hope to thy exalted heart

*Tis mine this moment freely to impart s-feh bnus ;&unedxirx9 bins
God-given to me the kingdoms, I to him IUOD bos agaii!
Will build a house in his Jerusalem.
His people lifted from their exiled woe, ; dii

Thou up with them a princely one shalt go. io arr> j^iq srfl 03
Retire, till with Manasseh here we trace > 3iff

The planned redemption of your ancient race."

He said. But she glad nature could not check ;
She rushed, she sobbed upon her brother's neck.
Abashed she turned. But her the King of men on jrt
Supported trembling from that inner den.

o TpmttiWdgu" -i inn

.

1332.]

Domestic Manners of the Americans.

829

DOMESTIC MANNERS OF THE AMERICANS.*

WERE any one to regard the mere
quantity of matter which has been
published during the last quarter of
a century concerning the United
States, he might be led hastily to
conclude, that ample foundation had
been laid for the gratification of all
liberal curiosity in relation to that
interesting people. Verily the name
of American travellers is Legion, for
they are many; but looking rather
to the value than the volume of their
works, we are forced to confess, that
in regard to most of the higher and
more important objects of enlighten-
ed enquiry, the United States are
yet unvisited, and that the wide field
they present for philosophical obser-
vation has hitherto yielded no har-
vest. All this, however, may easily
be accounted for. The Americans
are a young people, full of energy
and enterprise, but necessarily sub-
ject to a variety of disadvantages,
which the older communities of Eu-
rope have long since overcome. They
have little to boast of native litera-
ture or science; nothing of splen-
dour or antiquity to captivate the
imagination, and, bating a few ob-
jects of unrivalled natural grandeur,
in a country the scenery of which is
in general tame and monotonous,
there exist few of the ordinary in-
ducements of travel, to lead men of
education and refinement to select
the United States as the sphere of
their observation. Then their ap-
pliances for the comfort and conve-
nience of travellers are understood
to be deficient ; their roads are con-
fessedly detestable ; their social ha-
bits rough and unfinished ; their love
of democracy perhaps too obtrusive
and exuberant ; and their contempt
for kings and courtiers somewhat
more openly expressed, than is quite
consistent with a charitable regard
to the prejudices of their European
visitors. The consequence of this
has been, that few English gentle-
men have visited the United States,
and of these few the greater portion
have left no record of their impres-
sions, being unwilling, perhaps, to
incur the certainty of giving offence

to a people of whose hospitality they
entertain a grateful sense, and to
whose morbid sensibility to censure
there can be found no parallel in
other nations.

The great body of our informa-
tion, therefore, has been derived
from persons of narrow minds and
limited acquirements, who have ge-
nerally visited the United States,
with views rather connected with
pecuniary profit, than the gratifica-
tion of liberal curiosity. It has
thus happened, that men, whose opi-
nions on the condition, moral, lite-
rary, or political, of any European
nation, would be treated with me-
rited contempt, have yet been greed-
ily listened to, when discoursing of
a country, in no point of view less
interesting, and with which our com-
mercial relations are even more wide-
ly extended. The result of this has
been, a vast mass of exaggerated and
inconsistent statement — of truth an-
swered by denial — falsehood exposed
by blunder — prejudice on one side
accusing prejudice on the other — of
conclusions without premises, and
premises that admit of no conclu-
sion,— in short, such a jumble of
folly, ignorance, stupidity, and per-
version, as makes it very clear, what-
ever may be the case with counsel-
lors, that in the multitude of such
travellers there is not wisdom.

Merchants, Farmers, Manufactu-
rers, Bagmen, Half-pay Officers, bro-
ken-down Radicals, impatient of the
restraints of English morality and
English law, have all visited the
United States, and favoured the
world with the result of their obser-
vations. Of these different classes,
the three first have, perhaps, done all
we were entitled to expect. They
have communicated a great deal of
valuable information relative to soil
and climate, railroads and canals,
steamboats and stagecoaches, wages
of labour, prices of provisions, faci-
lities for commerce, and other mat-
ters which, in a country situated like
Great Britain, are very essential to
be understood. The lucubrations
of the Bagmen on manners, politics,

By Mrs Trollope. 2vols. London, Whittaker, Treaclier, and Co. 1832.

830

and morals, have been less available.
They are, perhaps, somewhat too in-
dignant at the national deficiency of
polish and refinement, to be consi-
dered altogether impartial in their
reports. They cannot bring them-
selves to pardon the transatlantic in-
novation of picking teeth with a
pocket-knife instead of a table-fork,
according to ancient and recognised
precedent in the hostelries of Leeds
and Birmingham. Then English
" commercial gentlemen" excrete in
spit-boxes; those of America dis-
charge their saliva on the carpet, or
their neighbour's boot, or, in short,
wherever it may happen to suit their
convenience. Then in an American
hotel, a Bagman of the most impo-
sing aspect, with " a voice like Mars
to threaten and command," may ac-
tually bellow for Boots and Cham-
bermaid for an hour on end, without
creating the smallest sensation in
any one individual from the garret
to the cellar. Should he at length
lose patience, and go in search of
the delinquents, ten to one he will
find Boots lolling in a rocking chair,
and coolly smoking a cigar, with his
legs on the kitchen dresser; while
the coffee-coloured chambermaid,
taking advantage of the twilight, is
in the back-yard arranging matters
of importance with black Caesar,
jack- of -all-trades to Lycurgus F.
Tompkins, storekeeper on t'other
side of the street. Such differences
of habit are no doubt quite sufficient
to divert the whole current of human
sympathies, and annihilate all chari-
ties, national and particular.

Next come the Radicals, whose
associations with the memory of
their own country are those of jails
and gibbets, and who, comparing the
realities of the United States with
their former anticipations of Botany
Bay, are naturally well satisfied with
their change of prospect. Believe
thesepolitical philosophers, and Ame-
rica is a heaven upon earth, a region
of flowers and fruits, and of sweet
airs, where corruption is unknown,
and man lives in a state of primeval
innocence and unbroken happiness.
The rulers of this delightful coun-
try are, of course, all virtue, wisdom,
and strength, and the people by whose
free voices they are elected, distin-
guished above all experience in de-
graded Europe, by honour, high prin-

Domestic Manners of the Americans.

[May,

ciple, sagacity, and talent. Your
Tory travellers, on the other hand,
who consider nothing good that is
not founded on British precedent,
deny altogether the justice of these
praises. They tell you, and are ready
to swear to it, that the United States
are a mere Pandemonium of brutal
manners and bad government; that
the soil is barren and unfruitful, the
climate sickly and detestable, the
rulers time-serving and corrupt; and
the people, made up of the sweep-
ings and refuse of Europe, are fickle*
and turbulent in politics, mean arid^
fraudulent in their dealings, igno-
rant, yet puffed up with the conceit
of knowledge; and, in short, the
most unfit possible depositaries of
political power.

While by the successive and op-
posite impulses of these contradic-
tory statements, our wavering opi-
nions are driven from pillar to post, to
be reimpelled with equal vehemence
and velocity from post to pillar, we
are glad to call in the weight of fe-.
male testimony, to give permanence
to our convictions, and decide, if pos-
sible, whether the Americans are a
nation of angels or of demons, some-
thing more than men, or less than
brutes. Women, thank Heaven, are
no politicians, or life would be un-
bearable. They are gifted, too, with
a finer observation, and more deli-
cate discrimination of character, than
nature has thought proper to bestow
on the coarser sex; and therefore
their evidence, as to every thing con-
nected with manners or domestic
morals, is not only more likely to be
unbiassed, but is intrinsically more
valuable. It was with pleasing an-
ticipation, therefore, that we direct-
ed our attention to the volume of
Miss Frances Wright, a lady whose
fame is already so widely spread on
both sides of the Atlantic, as to be
incapable of receiving additional ex-
tension, even from emblazonment
in the pages of this Magazine. Some
dozen years ago, we believe, Miss
Wright, having directed her talents
to the stage, produced a tragedy,
which the London managers had the
bad taste to reject This insult de-
termined the offended damsel at
once to repudiate her country ; and
she accordingly lost no time in cross-
ing the Atlantic, to enrol her name
among those of the fairest citizens of

1832.]

Domestic Manners of Hie Americans.

this nobler, younger, freer, and more
discriminating community. Miss
Wright came prepared to be plea-
sed, and she naturally finds the peo-
ple all that youthful poets fancy ,when
they visit a foreign country with a
play in their pocket. Nor are the
Americans on their part ungrateful.
They act her tragedy, and, as in duty
bound, admire its captivating author.
Every thing goes on smoothly. The
New York porters refuse to take
money for carrying her portman-
teaus, and we are consequently as-
sured that these high-souled opera-
tives toil in their laborious vocation,
uninfluenced by vile thirst of lucre,
and animated by the sole and disin-
terested object of conferring obliga-
tion on their wealthier neighbours.*
Being a lady of considerable fortune,
Miss Wright finds suitors in every
city, and even receives offers in
steamboats and stagecoaches; but
having, as Leigh Hunt says, " stout
notions on the marrying score," and
being in principle somewhat of a
polygamist, and adverse to mono-
polies of all kinds, she consistently
declines the unjust appropriation of
a whole free-born American, for her
own exclusive use and behoof. Like
a timid speculator in the lottery, she
has no objections to a sixteenth, but
cannot be induced to venture " the
whole hog." It becomes us not to say,
whether, in spite of all the insinua-
ting gallantries of her numerous and
gifted admirers, this fair republi-
can

• " votaress pass'd on,
In maiden meditation, fancy free."

We only know that her virgin appel-
lation remained unchanged, and that
however individually cruel, her col-
lective gratitude was assuredly very
great. The men of the United States,
she assures us, are noble, manly, ge-
nerous, and intelligent ; the women
tender, elegant, beautiful, and accom-
. plished. Of course, such a popula-
tion require little government; but
what they have, realizes all her ideas
of perfection. Indeed, the only fault
she can discover in the whole coun-

831

try, is, that the people are somewhat
too religious, — a failing which, by
delivering public courses of lectures
against Christianity in most of the '
cities, it is only justice to confess,
she did her utmost to abate.

Thus far, then, the influence of
female testimony was decidedly in
favour of the angelic character of the
Americans ; and notwithstanding the
weight of Captain Hall, who jumped
very boldly into the opposite scale,
there was every prospect of its kick-
ing the beam, when out pops Mrs
Trollope with her two very enter-
taining volumes, and produces as
great and sudden a change on the
aspect of events, as the appearancer
of old Blucher and his troops did on
the field of Waterloo. We now learn
that Mrs Trollope's own personal
friends constitute the only portion
of the population who can advance
the smallest claim to the character
of gentlemen. The rest are a mere
set of brutal barbarians, filthy, im-
moral, and disgusting, and carrying
the most sordid selfishness into all
the relations of life. The United
States, she informs us, is a country
yet ignorant of the blessings of civil-
ized society ; and the European who
would live there, must cast off the
memory of all the delicacies, and
even decencies, which he may pre-
viously have considered as forming
part of the very condition of exist-
ence.

Such is a short, though tolerably
accurate precis, of the inconsistent
and conflicting statements of British
travellers, in regard to the condition,
moral, social, and political, of the
Americans. But the Americans them-
selves have not been backward in
urging their own claims to admira-
tion and respect. In turning to their
works, we can no longer complain
of irreconcilable discrepancies of
fact and opinion, which puzzle and
distract the judgment. The unani-
mity of these gentlemen is really
quite wonderful, and reading their
pages is like listening to a concert
of musical snuif-boxes of the same
precise mechanism, an hundred of

* We wish we could procure a cross of this breed of American porters, to improve
that of our Edinburgh caddies, whose motives, we regret to say, are of the very basest
description, but fear, from the silence of recent travellers, they must have become ex-
tinctt Such porters are evidently too good for this wicked world,

832

Domestic Manners of the Americans.

[May,

which being wound up, start off with
the same cuckoo tune, pitched in the
same key, to the utter exhaustion of
ear and patience. They are all loud
in their praises of themselves, and
their institutions, — of their prowess
by sea and land, — of their achieve-
ments ia science, literature, and phi-
losophy,—-of the intelligence, high
principle, and sagacity of their popu-
lation,— of the beauty and salubrity
of their climate, and the unrivalled
fertility of their soil. It is the fashion
with these writers to speak of Euro-
peans as men of pigmy stature and
besotted minds ; and, as a proof of
their own incontestable superiority,
they appeal to the magnitude of their
lakes and rivers, and find cause of
triumph in their exuberance of tim-
ber and fresh water. In short, what-
ever virtues may attach to the Ame-
rican character, it is abundantly clear
that modesty is not of the number ;
and it is scarcely possible, we fear,
to form a very high estimate of the
good sense of a people, whose judg-
ment of themselves and others is so
egregiously at fault.

But be the merits of American wri-
ters what they4ftay, their works on
politics and legislation have had little
circulation in this country, and cer-
tainly have not at all contributed to
direct the current of opinion with re-
gard to the United States. It is not
probable that English readers, who
would assuredly be set asleep by
any long-winded panegyric on their
own institutions, could discover
much attractive matter in a dull
and dogmatical eulogium on those
of a distant republic. Mr Cooper
and Mr Walsh, therefore — we men-
tion these as the Coryphaei of the
band — had the mortification of be-
holding their works drop still-born
from the press, and John Bull had
still the good fortune to escape from
the unpleasant conviction, that an-
other country was in any respect
more happily situated than his own.
From the tone of bluster and brava-
do, however, in which the American
champions considered it becoming
to indulge, it was abundantly evident
that they had no overweening con-
fidence in their own pretensions.
The great and distinguishing mark
of strength is tranquillity ; its other
attributes may be counterfeited, this
cannot. Meaner animals may put on

the skin of the lion, and imitate his
roar, to the great terror of the forest,
but the deception is soon found out.
The impostors will inevitably make
inordinate display of tusk and claw ;
there will be too much bristling of
the mane, and brandishing of the
tail; in short, an utter absence of that
repose which can alone result from
the security of conscious strength.
This we doubt not is trite enough,
but still we wish the Americans
would remember it. They may rest
assured, that should the day ever
come, (and we are far from sneering
at those who consider it to be ap-
proaching,) when the United States
shall assume the leading station
among the great powers of the world,
her pretensions will be urged in a
tone very different, from any which
her advocates have yet felt strong
enough to adopt. In exact propor-
tion to the strength of her claims,
will be their calmness in supporting
them ; and we venture to prophesy,
that as their own conviction of su-
periority becomes more confident
and assured, that fluttering sensibi-
lity to foreign censure, and that in-
ordinate vanity which exposes them
to present ridicule, will cease to tar-
nish the American character.

Though the discrepancies of state-
ment in the works of British travel-
lers with regard to the United States,
be confessedly irreconcilable with
fair and impartial observation, still
there exist few instances in which
we feel disposed to attribute the blun-
ders and inconsistencies of these wri-
ters to intentional misrepresentation.
There is no other country in the
world, perhaps, in which, to the
eye of an Englishman, a little preju-
dice may so easily pervert the whole
colouring and proportions of the pic-
ture which it presents. He finds in
America so much that is admirable
mingled with so much that is offen-
sive, so much that contributes to the
physical necessities of man, and so
little that can be made to minister to
his higher enjoyments, and is alter-
nately shocked and gratified by so
much arrogance, energy, intelligence,
weakness, folly, wisdom, and imper-
tinence, that the character of the im-
pression produced by this apparently
incongruous aggregate, must depend
in a great measure on the peculiar
temperament of the observer. By

1832.1

merely throwing out of view one
class of qualities which distinguish
this singular people, and fixing atten-
tion on another, it becomes abun-
dantly possible to communicate an
impression of the national character
which is utterly unjust, though every
statement from which conclusions
have been drawn be substantially
correct. The charge, therefore, to
which those travellers who have in-
ordinately praised the Americans,
are quite as obnoxious as those who
have followed an opposite course,
consists less in the suggestio falsi,
than in the suppressio veri. Yet even
this crime, we are charitably inclined
to believe, has not often been wilfully
committed. For so constituted is the
mind of man, so much is the judg-
ment of the wisest among us influ-
enced unknown to itself by prejudice
and feeling, that we are rarely able
to take a wide and impartial view of
all the circumstances and relations
of a question, essential to a sound
conclusion. But instead of dealing
in wise saws, let us illustrate our
meaning by a modern instance. Two
armies fight a battle. It shall be
Maida,Barossa, Talavera, or any other
you may like better. The affair is
no sooner over, than each commander
seizes the pen, and transmits to his
government a full, true, and parti-
cular account of the engagement,
These afterwards appear in the Ga-
zette, and having read both, we ask
whether any thing can be more ut-
terly and hopelessly irreconcilable
either in fact or inference. If
Lieutenant-Gen. Sir Frizzle Pump-
kin " have writ his annals right,"
then have the Frenchmen received
a complete drubbing. But unless
•Soult or Junot lie most egregiously,
this ia far from the case ; for they as-
sure us, that the attack of John Bull
was gallantly repulsed, and that all
the honours of the engagement, inclu-
ding three brass guns and a howitzer,
remain on their side. In short, each
general claims the victory, and each
brings forward the particular details
by which his pretensions are sub-
stantiated ; yet both are men of high
honour, and either would sooner die
than suffer his fair fame to be tar-
nished by the imputation of a false-
hood. What, then, is the key to all
this, and how are we to escape from
the apparently inextricable maze of

VOL, XXXI. NO. CXCIV.

Domestic Manners of the Americans.

833

contradictory assertion ? The key is
this. Neither of the accounts are
positively false, and neither abso-
lutely true. Looking at the engage-
ment as a ivhole, neither Soult nor
Sir Frizzle give an impartial narra-
tive of all its circumstances. Both
bring forward some favourite pass-
ages ia prominent relief, while
others, equally important, are either
thrown into the background, or kept
altogether out of view. Yet we
do consider it as highly probable
that each commander, at the moment
of committing his account to paper,
wrote under the delusion, that no-
thing cxnild be more full, fair, and
impartial than his own statement.
The truth is, that both were anxious
to regard the battle as affording
ground for certain favourable con-
clusions, and, by a very trifling and
unintentional perversion of vision,
they arc both successful. Thus in-
timate is the connexion between
our judgment and our feelings, and
thus it is, that

— — — " things outward
Do draw the inward quality after them,".

and we propagate deception in
others, from having first achieved it
in ourselves.

Were we disposed to philosophize,
it would be easy, by an extension of
this simple hypothesis, to account
for those differences in politics, re-
ligion, and philosophy, by which the
waters of the human mind have been
stirred into a troubled activity, and
mixed up with the sediment of pas-
sion, which might well be suffered
to remain at the bottom. But our
present concern is exclusively with
travellers in America, about whom,
and whose works, we have still a few
observations to make. In the first
place, it is only justice to confess,
that there exists no other people,
whose advantages, prejudices, and
foibles come so directly and pro-
vokingly into collision with our own.
An Englishman may traverse Europe
from Moscow to Cadiz, and encoun-
ter nothing, in the whole course of his
journey, which does not tend to con-
firm the justice of his own previous
convictions, in favour of those insti-
tutions, and that condition of society,
to which he has been accustomed
in his own country. On the conti-
nent, he finds the government of

834

England uniformly mentioned by en-
lightened men with admiration and
respect ; and the evils of despotism,
whether political or religious, are so
manifest and pervading, that few-
points of similarity can be discover-
ed, to afford footing even for compa-
rison. He therefore speaks and
thinks of these countries with per-
fect impartiality, — their defects he is
disposed to consider less as crimes
than misfortunes, — and he regards
them generally with those feelings
of charitable benevolence, which men
conscious of their own strength can
afford to extend to the failings of
their weaker brethren. In short, he
sees nothing in the condition or struc-
ture of society which can excite
jealousy; he is not called upon to
resign a single prejudice or opinion,
and the slumber of his self-love re-
mains unbroken. But in the United
States, the case is very different.
For the first time he mingles with a
people, who, so far from possessing
any reverence for the British Con-
stitution, do not hesitate to pro-
nounce it a very bungling and un-
workmanlike contrivance, while they
point to their own institutions as the
proudest effort of human genius, and
to their own laws as embodying
every thing of excellence in legisla-
tion which human wisdom has yet
been able to devise. It is an old
proverb, that he who claims too much
stands a fair chance of getting too
little. The Englishman feels little dis-
posed to accord a praise, somewhat
too imperiously demanded, by men
who scruple not to express their con-
tempt for all that from his very in-
fancy he has been accustomed to
hold sacred. His prejudices and self-
love are up in arms. He not only
sees all the defects in the American
character, but he becomes blind to
its virtues. He writes a book, and
represents them as a nation of dis-
gusting savages ; and, under the sem-
blance of love of country, gives vent
to the whole volume of his spleen
and bigotry. The Americans, on
their part, are by no means patient
under such inordinate chastisement.
They have recourse to recrimination,
rake up all the filth from British
newspapers, and array it in the form
of national charges, and thus is the
foundation laid, for a rooted antipa-
thy between two countries, whose

Domestic Manners of the Americans.

[May,

mutual interest it is to regard each
other with affection and esteem.

This is but poor work at best ; yet
truth compels us to say, that however
impartial a traveller may be in re-
cording his impressions of American
society, he will find it impossible to
avoid giving desperate offence to that
most sensitive people. The Ame-
ricans demand unqualified praise;
they require, most unreasonably, that
every foreigner on visiting their coun-
try, should cast off the prejudices and
opinions of his former life, and at
once appreciate the full and unrival-
ed excellence of their national cha-
racter and institutions. The mon-
strous inconsistency of this, it is un-
necessary to expose. The Americans
are, par excellence, a free people.
Unlimited freedom of opinion forms
the very corner-stone of their consti-
tution, and yet the liberty which con-
stitutes their national boast, they
would willingly deny to others. What
right have the Americans to expect
that an Englishman should prefer
their institutions to those of his own
free, great, and glorious country,
which he has been taught to reve-
rence from his very cradle, and
under which the whole habits of his
life have been formed? When an
American visits England, no one is
so unreasonable as to demand any
such sacrifice of opinion. He is left
free as air, to approve or disapprove,
to praise or censure, to applaud or
condemn; and though his opinions
may possibly be received with some-
thing of mortifying indifference, he
will assuredly excite no preju-
dice, in any quarter, by their most
public expression. No man in this
country could regard it as a matter of
charge against an American, that he
does not think like an Englishman ;
and why such liberty of thought and
expression should not be enjoyed by
travellers from this side of the water,
as well as those from the other, we
own ourselves somewhat puzzled to
understand. We Englishmen, it will
be confessed, are accustomed to
write and speak freely enough about
our own government and institu-
tions ; through France, Italy, or Ger-
many, we travel yet ungagged, and
it really seems too much to expect
that we should keep our mouths shut,
when pleasure or business may lead
us to the United States.

1832.]

Domestic Manners of the Americans.

The fact is, that, wince under it as
she may, America must learn to hear
the truth. Falsehood and exaggera-
tion she may despise ; and in this re-
spect, if in no other, she may advan-
tageously take a lesson from John
Bull. Let her only observe how
wonderfully cool John is, under the
misrepresentations of foreign travel-
lers. The Chevalier Fillet has de-
clared to the world, that the domes-
tic relations of Englishmen are made
the cover of the most disgusting and
degrading pollution, and that every
English lady keeps her private bran-
dy bottle, on the contents of which
she gets drunk at least once a-day.
A Monsieur Charles Nodier, of whose
book we remember to have written
a review many years ago in this very
Magazine, among other statements
equally veracious, scrupled not to
assert, seipso teste,tli3it Scottish ladies
always go barefoot ; and that though,
on occasions of ceremony, shoes are
certainly to be seen, the toes of a
northern spinster feel exceedingly
awkward under their compression,
and she uniformly seizes the earliest
opportunity of kicking them off. But
to come to the present day, let any
American take the trouble of read-
ing the travels of Prince Puckler
Muskaw, and then glance over the
different reviews of the work in the
various periodicals, and he will find,
we think, that the Prince, whose
strictures on our manners and fail-
ings are by no means lenient, gets
quite as much credit as he deserves.
We are at least certain that the book
has awakened no feeling approach-
ing to that intense and extravagant
indignation which has been excited
in America by the work of Captain
Hall, and which, we doubt not, in at
least equal measure, is destined to
follow the still more amusing vo-
lumes of Mrs Trollope, to which it
is our present object to direct the
attention of our readers.

Mrs Trollope, then, we beg leave
to intimate, is an English lady, who,
being instigated by the devil and
Miss Fanny Wright — (we imagine
she will not deny the agency ot ei-
ther)— was induced, with the appro-
bation of her husband, to accompany
that lady to the United States, with
what precise object we are not in-
formed, but apparently with the in-
tention of establishing part of her
family in these western regions. It

83d

appears that Miss Wright—to whom,
in spite of all her failings, it is im-
possible to deny the praise of active
benevolence — had embarked in some
visionary project for emancipating
negroes ; and with this view, had
formed an establishment in the state
of Tennessee, in which, by judicious
preparation, the slaves were not only
to become free, but to astonish the
world by issuing forth in the charac-
ter of scholars and gentlemen. To-
wards the scene of this interesting
experiment were the steps of the
fair wanderers directed ; and accord-
ingly, after a tedious voyage, we are
glad to find them safely landed at
New Orleans, where Mrs Trollope
commences her task of observation.
The disgusting immorality by which
this city is distinguished above all
others in the Union, would, of course,
remain in a great measure invisible
to the eye ot a lady. New Orleans
is not French, and it is not American,
but a melange of both — and the result
is, something worse than either. Mrs
Trollope is exceedingly struck, how-
ever, by the scene of wild desolation
which distinguishes the delta of the
Mississippi. Nothing but intermi-
nable brakes appear on either side,
covered by forests of tall canes ; and
the broad muddy river, with its vast
masses of drift wood, completes a
picture more sombre and depressing
to the heart and imagination, than
can well be conceived by any one
who has not felt its effect. The city
stands upon a bed of diluvial matter
some dozen feet below the level of
the river, so that should the levee
which at present confines its waters
give way, New Orleans, " with all its
bravery on," may probably, some
fine morning, make an aquatic excur-
sion into the Gulf of Mexico. Mrs
Trollope admires the Quadroon la-
dies very much — and no doubt many
of them are very pleasing to the eye ;
but we remember once being present
at what is called "a Quad ball," with
the thermometer above 90, and we
returned with the full conviction that
there are worse odours in the world
than that of sanctity. Should any of
our readers be led to visit New Or-
leans, we caution them to beware of
crawfish, which they will meet in
many tempting forms, at almost every
table. These animals are carnivo-
rous, and in vast numbers burrow
in the churchyards. Vtrb. sap. Tha

Domestic Manners of the Americans.

836

Creole ladies are handsome, though
Mrs Trollope does not think so. They
are indebted for their beauty, we
imagine, to the admixture of Spanish
blood, and are certainly, in a great
measure, exempt from that prematu-
rity of decay which makes sad havoc
with the charms of the northern
ladies.

Having remained long enough at
New Orleans to recover from the
fatigues of their voyage, Mrs Trol-
lope and her party proceed up the
Mississippi in one of those magnifi-
cent steamers which are to be found
only in the western world. The ac-
commodations of these vessels are
on the most superb scale, though,
being furnished with high-pressure
engines, a trip in them is not unac-
companied with danger. On an ave-
rage, two or three explosions take
place in a season, so that travellers
are at least exempt from the dulness
of perfect security. The manners of
the passengers, however, appear by
no means captivating in the eyes of
Mrs Trollope. How should they ?
Slave- dealers, traders from the West-
ern States, land-jobbers and cotton*-
growers, are no 'doubt very far from
being polished gentlemen. But we
shall allow the fair traveller to speak
for herself, which she always does
far better than we can do for her.

" On the first of January, 1828, we
embarked on board the Belvidere, a large
and handsome boat; though not the lar-
gest or handsomest of the many which
displayed themselves along the wharfs;
but she was going to stop at Memphis,
the point of the river nearest to Miss
Wright's residence, and she was the first
that departed after we had got through
the custom-house, and finished our sight-
seeing. We found the room destined for
the use of the ladies dismal enough, as its
only windows were below the stern gal-
lery ; but both this and the gentlemen's
cabin were handsomely fitted up, and the
former well carpeted ; but oh ! that car-
pet ! I will not, I may not describe its
condition ; indeed it requires the pen of
a Swift to do it justice. Let no one who
wishes to receive agreeable impressions of
American manners, commence their tra-
vels in a Mississippi steam-boat ; for my-
self, it is with all sincerity I declare, that
I would infinitely prefer sharing the
apartment of a party of well-conditioned
pigs to the being confined to its cabin.

" I hardly know any annoyance so
deeply repugnant to English feelings., as
the incessant, remorseless spitting of

[May,

Americans. I feel that I owe my read-
ers an apology for the repeated use of
this, and several other odious words ; but
I cannot avoid them, without suffering
the fidelity of description to escape me.

" We had a full complement of passen-
gers on board. The deck, as is usual, was
occupied by the Kentucky flat-boat men,
returning from New Orleans, after ha-
ving disposed of the boat and cargo
which they had conveyed thither, with no
other labour than that of steering her, the
current bringing her down at the rate of
four miles an hour. We had about two
hundred of these men on board, but the
part of the vessel occupied by them is so
distinct from the cabins, that we never saw
them, except when we stopped to take in
Wood ; and then they ran, or rather
sprung and vaulted over each other's
heads to the shore, whence they all assist-
ed in carrying wood to supply the steam-
engine ; the performance of this duty be-
ing a stipulated part of the payment of
their passage.

" From the account given by a man-
servant we had on board, who shared
their quarters, they area most disorderly
set of persons, constantly gambling and
wrangling, very seldom sober, and never
suffering a night to pass without giving
practical proof of the respect in which
they hold the doctrines of equality, and
community of property. The clerk of
the vessel was kind enough to take our
man under his protection, and assigned
him a berth in his own little nook ; but
as this was not inaccessible, he told him
by no means to detach his watch or monoy
from his person dui'ing the night. What-
ever their moral characteristics may be,
these Kentuckians are a very noble-look-
ing race of men ; their average height con-
siderably exceeds that of Europeans, and
their countenances, excepting when dis-
figured by red hair, which is not unfre-
quent, extremely handsome.

" The gentlemen in the cabin (we had
no ladies) would certainly neither, from
their language, manners, nor appearance,
have received that designation in Eu-
rope ; but we soon found their claim to
it rested on more substantial ground, for
we heard them nearly all addressed by the
titles of general, colonel, and major. On
mentioning these military dignities to an
English friend some time afterwards, he
told me that he too had made the voyage
with the same description of company,
but remarking that there was not a single
captain among them : he made the obser-
vation to a fellow-passenger, and asked
how he accounted for it: ' Oh, sir, the
captains ax*e all on deck,' was the reply.

" Our honours, however, were not all
military, for we had a judge among us,

1832.1

Domestic Manners of the Americans,.

837

I know it is equally easy and invidious
to ridicule the peculiarities of appearance
and manner in people of a different nation
from ourselves ; we may, too, at the same
moment, be undergoing the same ordeal
in their estimation ; and, moreover, I am
by no means disposed to consider what-
ever is new to me as therefore objection-
able ; but, nevertheless, it was impossible
not to feel repugnance to many of the no-
velties that now surrounded me.

" The total want of all the usual cour-
tesies of the table, the voracious rapidity
with which the viands were seized and
devoured, the strange uncouth phrases
and pronunciation; the loathsome spit-
ting, from the contamination of which it
was absolutely impossible to protect our
dresses ; the frightful manner of feeding
with their knives, till the whole blade
seemed to enter into the mouth j and the
still more frightful manner of cleaning the
teeth afterwards with a pocket knife,
soon forced us to feel that we were not
surrounded by the generals, colonels, and
majors of the old world ; and that the din-
ner hour was to be any thing rather than
an hour of enjoyment.

" The little conversation that went
forward while we remained in the room,
was entirely political, and the respective
claims of Adams and Jackson to the pre-
sidency were argued with more oaths and
more vehemence than it had ever been my
lot to hear. Once a colonel appeared on
the verge of assaulting a major, when a
huge seven-foot Kentuckian gentleman
horse-dealer, asked of the heavens to con-
found them both, and bade them sit still
and be d — d. We too thought we should
share this sentence ; at least sitting still
in the cabin seemed very nearly to in-
clude the rest of it, and we never tarried
there a moment longer than was abso-
lutely necessary to eat."

Though devoid of every thing akin
to beauty, there is no scenery more
striking than that of the Mississippi.
The dreary and pestilential solitudes,
untrodden save by the foot of the
Indian ; the absence of all living (ol)-
jects, save the huge alligators which
float past, apparently asleep on the
drift wood, and an occasional vulture
attracted by its impure prey on the
surface of the waters ; the trees, with
a long and hideous drapery of pen-
dent moss fluttering in the wind;
and the giant river flowing onward
in silent grandeur through the wil-
derness— form the features of one of
the most dismal and impressive land-
scapes on which the eye of man ever
rested. Mrs Trollope's voyage con-

cludes at Memphis, where she ar-
rives without accident from " snags"
or " sawyers," or, in other words,
trees rooted in the bottom of the
river, by striking on which, steam-
boats are not unfrequently lost.
With some difficulty she reaches
Miss Wright's settlement at Nashoba,
which she finds very different from
the woodland paradise she expected.
The situation being unhealthy, and
her friend's accommodations by 110
means tempting to a longer resi-
dence, Mrs Trollope determines on
proceeding to Cincinnati, in the state
of Ohio, with the intention of there
awaiting the arrival of her husband.
The scenery on the Ohio, up which
her course was directed, though pos-
sessing few very striking features,
yet appears beautiful to eyes for
weeks accustomed to gaze on that
of the Mississippi. There is a plea-
sure in being wafted along on clear
water, to say nothing of the still
greater enjoyment of being enabled
to swallow the pure element, instead
of the muddy compost furnished by
the " father of rivers." Our travel-
lers reach their destination without
moving accident by flood or field,
and after some difficulty, get esta-
blished in a house. Of the extent
of its appliances for cleanliness or
comfort, a tolerably vivid notion
will be conveyed by the following

" We were soon settled in our new-
dwelling, which looked neat and comfort-
able enough, but we speedily found that
it was devoid of nearly all thfe accommo-
dation that Eui'opeans conceive necessary
to decency and comfort. No pump, no
cistern, no drain of any kind, no dust-
man's carts, or any other visible means of
getting rid of the rubbish, which vanishes
with such celerity in London, that one
has no time to think of its existence ; but
which accumulated so rapidly at Cincin-
nati, that I sent for my landlord to know
in what manner refuse of all kinds was
to be disposed of.

" ' Your Help will just have to fix
them all into the middle of the street, but
you must mind, old woman, that it is the
middle. I expect you don't know as we
have got a law what forbids throwing
such things at the sides of the streets ;
they must just all be cast right into the
middle, and the pigs soon takes them off.'

" In truth, the pigs are constantly seen
doing Herculean service in this way
through every quarter of the cityj and

Domestic Manners of the Americans.

[May,

though it is not very agreeable to live sur-
rounded by herds of these unsavoury ani-
mals, it is well they are so numerous,
and so active in their capacity of scaven-
gers, for without them the streets would
soon be choked up with all sorts of sub-
stances in every stage of decomposition."

Then commence all the torments
of housekeeping, in a country where
subordination of any kind is un-
known. The servants insist on do-
ing exactly as they please, and of
course the master and mistress can-
not. The liberty, it appears, is all
on one side, a sort of Irish recipro-
city, which one of the parties gene-
rally discovers to be unpleasant.

" The greatest difficulty in organizing
a family establishment in Ohio, is getting
servants, or, as it is there called, ' getting
help,' for it is more than petty treason
to the Republic, to call a free citizen a
servant. The whole class of young women,
whose bread depends upon their labour,
are taught to believe that the most abject
poverty is preferable to domestic service.
Hundreds of half-naked girls work in the
paper-mills, or in any other manufactory,
for less than half the wages they would
receive in service ; but they think their
equality is compromised by the latter, and
nothing but the wish to obtain some par-
ticular article of finery will ever induce
them to submit to it. A kind friend,
however, exerted herself so effectually for
me, that a tall stately lass soon presented
herself, saying, ' I be come to help you.'
The intelligence was very agreeable, and
I welcomed her in the most gracious man-
ner possible, and asked what I should
give her by the year.

" ' Oh Gimini !' exclaimed the damsel,
with a loud laugh, ' you be a downright
Englisher, sure enough. I should like to
see a young lady engage by the year in
America ! I hope I shall get a husband
before many months, or 1 expect I shall
be an outright old maid, for I be most
seventeen already ; besides, mayhap T may
want to go to school. You must just give
me a dollar and half a-week, and mother's
slave, Phillis, must come over once a
week, I expect, from t'other side the
water, to help me clean.'

" I agreed to the bargain, of course, with
all dutiful submission ; and seeing she
was preparing to set to work in a yellow
dress par seme with red roses, I gently
hinted, that I thought it was a pity to
spoil so fine a gown, and that she had
better change it.

''Tisjust my best and my worst,'
^he answered, ' for I've got no other.'
" And in truth I found that this young

lady had left the paternal mansion with
no more clothes of any kind than what
she had on. I immediately gave her
money to purchase what was necessary
for cleanliness and decency, and set to
work with my daughters to make her a
gown. She grinned applause when our
labour was completed, but never uttered
the slightest expression of gratitude for
that, or for any thing else we could do for
her. She was constantly asking us to
lend her different articles of dress, and
when we declined it, she said, ' Well, I
never seed such grumpy folks as you be ;
there is several young ladies of my ac-
quaintance what goes to live out now and
then with the old women about the town,
and they and their gurls always lends
them what they asks for ; I guess you
Inglish thinks we should poison your
things, just as bad as if we was Negurs.'
And here I beg to assure the reader, that
whenever I give conversations they were
not made u loisir, but were written down
immediately after they occurred, with all
the verbal fidelity my memory permitted.

" This young lady left me at the end of
two months, because I refused to lend her
money enough to buy a silk dress to go to
a ball, saying, ' Then 'tis not worth my
while to stay any longer.'

I cannot imagine it possible that such
a state of things can be desirable, or bene-
ficial to any of the parties concerned. I
might occupy a hundred pages on the sub-
ject, and yet fail to give an adequate idea
of the sore, angry, ever wakeful pride that
seemed to torment these poor wretches.
In many of them it was so excessive,
that all feeling of displeasure, or even
of ridicule, was lost in pity. One of
these was a pretty girl, whose natural
disposition must have been gentle and
kind ; but her good feelings were soured,
and her gentleness turned to morbid sen-
sitiveness, by having heard a thousand
and a thousand times that she was as
good as any other lady, that all men were
equal, and women too, and that it was a
sin and a shame for a free-born American
to be treated like a servant.

"When she found she was todine irtthe
kitchen, she turned up her pretty lip, and
said, ' I guess that's 'cause you don't
think I'm good enough to eat with you.
You'll find that won't do here.' I found
afterwards that she rarely ate any dinner
at all, and generally passed the time in
tears. I did every thing in my power to
conciliate and make her happy, but I am
sure she hated me. I gave her very high
wages, and she staid till she had obtained
several expensive articles of dress, and
then, im beau matin, she came to me full
dressed, and said, ' I must go.' ' When

1832.J

Domestic Manners of the Americans.

shall you return, Charlotte ?' ' I expect
you'll see no more of me.' And so we
parted. Her sister was also living with
me, but her wardrobe was not yet com-
pleted, and she remained some weeks
longer, till it was."

A thousand other vexations assail
our new settler, which, how flesh
and blood could stand, surpasses
our imagination to conceive. That
Mrs Trollope did not die is remark-
able ; that she returned in health and
undiminished attractions to her own
country, is a fact which almost tran-
scends the utmost verge of credibi-
lity ; yet here we have her book, full
of grace, talent, and vivacity, to speak
for itself and its fair author. It ap-
pears that the unanointed Christians
of Cincinnati thought proper to dis-
tinguish her by the title of " the old
English woman," on the principle,
we presume, of lucus a non lucendo,
for Mrs Trollope, we believe, is yet
under middle age, and in point of
bloom might certainly stand compe-
tition with any lady of five-and-
twenty in the United States. Thus
one day when she calls at a farm-
house in search of poultry, the farm-
er's son or daughter, we forget which,
somewhat unceremoniously calls
out, " Mother, here's an old woman
as wants chickens;" and the very
wayfaring beggars, who march into
her house, and take possession of the
arm-chair, have the impudence to
adopt the same disgusting address.
Alas, the sun of chivalry has evident-
ly not yet dawned in the horizon of
the United States !

Before proceeding further with
our extracts, however, we think it
necessary to caution our readers
against adopting the representations
of this gifted lady, as a fair criterion
of the manners of the American peo-
ple. Let it be remembered that by
far the greater portion of these vo-
lumes relates to the Western States,
in which the standard, both of man-
ners and morals, is decidedly lower
than in those which border the At-
lantic. Then fully admitting the
accuracy of all the facts which Mrs
Trollope alleges to have come with-
in the sphere of her own personal
experience, we confess ourselves by
no means prepared to join in the very
sweeping conclusions she is often
disposed to draw from them. Nor
ought it to be forgotten that of nine-

839

tenths of the United States she saw
nothing ; that of the Central Atlantic
States she saw little ; and that within
the boundaries of the New England
States, which may emphatically be
called the very heart of the Union,
her foot was never planted. The
only three cities of which Mrs Trol-
lope's personal observations entitle
her to speak, are New York, Phila-
delphia, and Baltimore; and we pre-
sume to say, that her experience of
the best society in either of these, or
in Washington, was very limited.
Nor ought we, in candour, to lose
sight of the fact, that these volumes
are the production of a lady whose
hopes in visiting the country had
been grievously disappointed, and
who, suffering from a thousand un-
foreseen vexations, was perhaps natu-
rally led to view every thing con-
nected with it in a less favourable
light, than that in which it might
have been presented to a more in-
different observer. In the two vo-
lumes before us, Mrs Trollope has
unquestionably made out a very
strong case against the high praise
which is so often lavished on Ame-
rican society, and the advantages,
real or pretended, which the country
holds out to European emigrants;
and had she only written two more,
containing the facts and arguments
on the other side of the question,
urged with equal talent and sincerity,
the reader would have been in pos-
session of full materials for a sound
and impartial judgment on the Ame-
rican character. But tj»is she has
not done. We have at present only
the ex parte statement of one who is
evidently not an unprejudiced wit-
ness, and who, though far above the
imputation of intentional falsehood, is
yet often led, unconsciously perhaps,
to give a colouring to facts which
tends grievously to distort their fair
and natural proportions.

Once for all, therefore, we desire
our readers to bear in mind, that
though the volumes of Mrs Trollope
are by no means to be considered as
embodying the conclusions of a dis-
interested and enlightened observer,
they contain much truth, undoubt-
edly, but truth very palpably var-
nished and exaggerated for the pur-
pose of impression. Nor, perhaps,
is this to be regretted. Had the work
been written in a more cautious spi-

840

Domestic Manners

rit, and under a deeper sense of re-
sponsibility, it would undoubtedly
have been far less amusing, and pro-
bably have lost much of that grace,
freedom, and vivacity of description,
which constitute its present charm.
Most happy are we, therefore, to take
Mrs Trollope as she is, for better and
for worse. She is not a philosopher
in petticoats, like Miss Fanny Wright;
and when considered as a traveller,
we are very sure that
" If to her share some female errors fall,
Read but her book, and you'll forgive them
all."

Mrs Trollope's residence in Cin-
cinnati was not unenlivened by mo-
ving accidents by flood and field,
which are very spiritedly detailed.
She and her whole family narrowly
escape drowning in a forest swamp ;
and on their way home, are nearly
devoured by musquittoes. Then she
falls sick of a fever j and, notwith-
standing the treatment of an Ameri-
can doctor, recovers. Had her ma-
nuscript fallen in his way, during the
course of his visits, we have no doubt
Inatters would have been ordered
differently. By the by, these western
sons of Galen deal somewhat inor-
dinately in calomel. Thirty, and
even forty grains, are no uncommon
dose. Thirty grains of calomel to an
European constitution, are about
equal, we should imagine, to ten of
arsenic.

From our author's description, we
pronounce Cincinnati to be, next to
Berwick-upon-Tweed, the stupidest
town on the* surface of the habitable
globe. There are no balls, no bil-
liards, no cards, no concerts, no din-
ner parties. Gentlemen and ladies
go to church of an evening, as people
in less barbarous regions to the
theatre or opera. Methodism pre-
vails to a great extent, and the influ-
ence of the ministers of the innu-
merable sects throughout America, is
great beyond example in this coun-
try. The modification of hospitality
most in vogue at Cincinnati, is " tea
and prayers ;" and the feelings of a
pious hostess, fortunate enough to
have secured a favourite itinerant
preacher for her party, very much
resemble those of a first-rate London
Blue, equally blest in the presence
of a fashionable poet. Mrs Trollope
was often present at these parties,
and appears to have found the even-

ofthe Americans. [May,

ings pass heavily, notwithstanding
the appliances of stuffing and psalm-
singing. There is annually a sort of
religious festival called a Revival,
which is found very instrumental in
making converts. Our author was
an eye-witness of the following ex-
traordinary and disgraceful scene in
one of the churches: —

" It was in the middle of summer,
but the service we were recommended to
attend did not begin till it was dark.
The church was well lighted, and crowd-
ed almost to suffocation. On entering,
we found three priests standing side by
side, in a sort of tribune, placed where
the altar usually is, handsomely fitted up
with crimson curtains, and elevated about
as high as our pulpits." We took our
places in a pew close to the rail which
surrounded it.

" The priest who stood in the middle
was praying ; the prayer was extrava-
gantly vehement, and offensively familiar
in expression ; when this ended, a hymn
was sung, and then another priest took
the centre place, and preached. The ser-
mon had considerable eloquence, but of a
frightful kind. The preacher described,
with ghastly minuteness, the last feeble
fainting moments of human life, and then
the gradual progress of decay after death,
which he followed through every process,
up to the last loathsome stage of decom-
position. Suddenly changing his tone,
which had been that of sober accurate
description, into the shrill voice of hor-
ror, he bent forward his head, as if to
gaze on some object beneath the pulpit.
And as Rebecca made known to Ivan-
hoe what she saw through the window,
so the preacher made known to us what
he saw in the pit that seemed to open be-
fore him. The device was certainly a
happy one for giving effect to his descrip-
tion of hell. No image that fire, flame,
brimstone, molten lead, or red-hot pin-
cers could supply ; with flesh, nerves,
and sinews quivering under them, was
omitted. The perspiration ran in streams
from the face of the preacher : his eyes
rolled, his lips were covered with foam,
and every feature had the deep expression
of horror it would have borne, had he, in
truth, been gazing at the scene he de-
scribed. The acting was excellent. At
length he gave a languishing look to his
supporters on each side, as if to express
his feeble state, and then sat down, and
wiped the drops of agony from his brow.
" The other two priests arose, and began
to sing a hymn. It was some seconds
before the congregation could join as
usual j every turned-up face looked pale

1832.]

and horror bti'iick. "When the singing
ended, another took the centre place, and
began in a sort of coaxing affectionate tone,
to ask the congregation if what their dear
brother had spoken had reached their
hearts ? Whether they would avoid the
hell he had made them see ? ' Come then !'
he continued, stretching out his arms to-
wards them, ' come to us, and tell us so,
and we will make you see Jesus, the
dear gentle Jesus, who shall savo you
from it. But you must come to him !
You must not be ashamed to come to
him ! This night you shall tell him that
you are not ashamed of him ; we will
make way for you ; we will clear the
bench for anxious sinners to sit upon.
Come then ! come to the anxious bench,
and we will shew you Jesus ! Come !
Come ! Come !'

" Again a hymn was sung, and -while
it continued, one of the three was em-
ployed in clearing one or two long benches
that went across the rail, sending the
people back to the lower part of the
church. The singing ceased, and again
the people were invited, and exhorted
not to be ashamed of Jesus, but to put
themselves upon * the anxious benches,'
and lay their heads on his bosom. ' Once
more we will sing,' he concluded, ' that
we may give you time.' And again they
sung a hymn.

" And now in every part of the church,
a movement was perceptible, slight at first,
but by degrees becoming more decided.
Young girls arose, and sat down, and
rose again ; and then the pews opened,
and several came tottering out, their
hands clasped, their heads hanging on
their bosoms, and every limb trembling,
and still the hymn went on ; but as the
poor creatures approached the rail, their
sobs and groans became audible. They
seated themselves on the ' anxious
benches;' the hymn ceased, and two of
the three priests walked down from the
tribune, and going, one to the right, and
the other to the left, began whispering to
the poor tremblers seated there. These
whispers were inaudible to us, but the
sobs and groans increased to a frightful
excess. Young creatures, with features
pale and distorted, fell on their knees on
the pavement, and soon sunk forward on
their faces; the most violent cries and
shrieks followed, while from time to time
a voice was heard in convulsive accents,
exclaiming, ' Oh Lord!' ' Oh Lord Je-
sus !' « Help me, Jesus !' and the like.

" Meanwhile the two priests continued
to walk among them ; they repeatedly
mounted on the benches, and trumpet-
mouthed proclaimed to the whole congre-
gation, ' the tidings of salvation,' and
then from every corner of the building

Domestic Manners of the Americans.

841

arose in reply, short sharp cries of
* Amen !' * Glory !' ' Amen !' while the
prostrate penitents continued to receive
whispered comfortings, and from time to
time a mystic caress. More than once I
saw a young neck encircled by a rever-
end arm. Violent hysterics and convul-
sions seized many of them ; and when the
tumult was at the highest, the priest who
remained above, again gave out a hymn
as if to drown it.

" It was a frightful sight to behold in-
nocent young creatures, in the gay morn-
ing of existence,, thus seized upon, horror-
struck, and rendered feeble and enerva-
ted for ever. One young girl, apparently
not more than fourteen, was supported in
the arms of another, some years older; her
face was as pale as death ; her eyes wide
open, and perfectly devoid of meaning ;
her chin and bosom wet with slaver ; she
had every appearance of idiotism. I saw
a priest approach her, he took her deli-
cate hand, ' Jesus is with her ! Bless the
Lord !' he said, and passed on.

" Did the men of America value their
women as men ought to value their wives
and daughters, would such scenes be per-
mitted among them ?

" It is hardly necessary to say, that all
who obeyed the call to place themselves
on the ' anxious benches' were women,
and by far the greater number, very young
women. The congregation was, in gene-
ral, extremely well dressed, and the
smartest and most fashionable ladies of
the town were there; during the whole
Revival the churches and meeting-houses
were every day crowded with well dressed
people."

Mrs Trollope, we must confess, is
a great deal too severe in her cen-
sures of the American ladies. They
are often handsome, and generally
modest, delicate, and retiring. High-
ly educated they are not, and cannot
be ; but with all the peculiar and en-
dearing attributes of women, they
are eminently gifted. As wives and
mothers, they are exemplary. No-
where are the domestic moralities
less frequently violated than in the
United States. Yet true it is, that a
mistaken delicacy is often carried so
far as to indicate latent grossness^of
imagination. At Cincinnati, for in-
stance, picnics are discountenanced,
because it is considered indelicate
" for gentlemen and ladies to sit down
together on the grass." At Phila-
delphia, it is considered highly im-
proper, should ladies be present, to
ask at table for the leg of a fowl. No
young lady is supposed to b« aware

Domestic Manners of the Americans.

842

of the existence of such members,
la that quaker city, the common din-
ner question of " leg or loin," would
cause every spinster's flesh to creep
with horror and amazement. The
apophthegm is old as the days of
Dean S \vift, that "a nice man is a
man of nasty ideas," and we fear
that the overstrained delicacy of
some American ladies, is scarcely
reconcilable with a high degree of
genuine purity. The following anec-
dote is worth extracting, though we
protest against its being made the
foundation of any extended infer-
ence—

" A young married lady, of high stand-
ing and most fastidious delicacy, who had
been brought up at one of the Atlantic
seminaries of highest reputation, told me
that her house, at the distance of half a
mile from a papulous city, was unfortu-
nately opposite a mansion of worse than
doubtful reputation. ' It is abominable,'
she said, 'to see the people that go there ;
they ought to be exposed. I and another
lady, an intimate friend of mine, did
make one of them look foolish enough
last summer ; she was passing the day
with me, and, while we were sitting at
the window, we saw a young man we
both knew ride up there ; we went into
the garden and watched at the gate for
him to come back, and when he did, we
both stepped out, and I said to him, * Are
you not ashamed, Mr William D., to ride
by my house and back again in that man-
ner ? I never saw a man look so fool-
ish!'"

As ill ustrative of the female cha-
racter, we must give one more anec-
dote, which is told with infinite spi-
rit and carries with it intrinsic evi-
dence of being a sketch from the
life. We wish we could also trans-
fer to our pages the admirable iU
lustration by which it is accompa-
nied—

" Among other instances of that spe-
cies of modesty so often seen in America,
and so unknown to us, I frequently wit-
nessed one, which, while it evinced the
delicacy of the ladies, gave opportunity
for many lively sallies from the gentle-
men. I saw tha same sort of thing re-
peated on different occasions at least a
dozen times; e.g. a young lady is em-
ployed in making a shirt, (which it would
be a symptom of absolute depravity to
name), a gentleman enters, and presently
begins the sprightly dialogue with ' What
are you making, Miss Clarissa ?'

" ' Only a frock for my sister's doll,
Sir.'

[May,

'•'A frock? not possible. Don't I
see that it is not a frock ? Come, Miss
Clarissa, what is it?'

" "TJs just an apron for one of our
negroes, Mr Smith.'

" ' How can you, Miss Clarissa ! why
is not the two sides joined together? I
expect you were better tell me what it
is.'

" ' My ! why then, Mr Smith, it is just
a pillow-case.'

" ' Now that passes, Miss Clarissa !
'Tis a pillow-case for a giant then. Shall
I guess, Miss?'

"' Quit, Mr Smith; behave yourself,
or I'll certainly be affronted.'

" Before the conversation arrives at
this point, both gentleman and lady are in
convulsions of laughter. I once saw a
young lady so hard driven by a wit, that
to prove she was malting a bag, and no-
thing but a bag, she sewed up the ends
before his eyes, shewing it triumphantly,
and exclaiming, 'there now! what can
you say to that ?' "

After about two years residence,
Mrs Trollope quits Cincinnati, with-
out regret implied or expressed, and
visits Baltimore, Philadelphia, Wash-
ington, and part of Virginia. This
change of scene is not unaccompa-
nied by a diminution of interest in
her work, for the Atlantic states have
been so often described, and the ge-
neral features of their society are so
much less striking, that we should
willingly have detained our fair tra-
veller on the banks of the Ohio. In
Washington, the singular capital of
an extraordinary people, and its ano-
malous society, she does not seem
to have discovered much interesting
matter for observation. Baltimore
receives high credit for the beauty of
its women, a praise in which all tra-
vellers agree. Philadelphia is a stu-
pid place, and Mrs Trollope finds it
so. How we detest these regular
and unchanging paralellograms of
decent houses, the succession of
streets as like each other as leaves on
a tree, the utter absence of life and
bustle, and the quaker-like dulness,
coldness, and insipidity of the inha-
bitants Then their empty claims to
science, their great men of whom
nobody ever heard, and their eternal
water-works, the praises of which
are never-ending, still beginning.
We trust no English traveller will
ever visit them ; and should any one
dare to indulge in a description
of their miraculous mechanism, we

Domestic Manners of the Americans.

1832.]

promise, on the honour of an editor,
to cut up his book, without mercy,
in this our magazine.

On the offensive and brutal cus-
tom of spitting, Mrs Trollope is very
eloquent. There can be no distinc-
tion of ranks in a country where a
habit so filthy is even tolerated.
Spitting is your true leveller; it re-
duces high and low, rich and poor,
educated and uneducated, to the
same equality of degradation. No
traveller can be expected to smother
his disgust and abhorrence at a prac-
tice, which, from the moment of his
arrival in the United States to that
of his departure, is continually ob-
truded on his observation. An Ame-
rican may be philosophically distin-
guished as a spitting biped. He spits
from the cradle to the grave, at all
times, in all places, in all circum-
stances, in youth and in age, in health
and in sickness, in joy and in sor-
row, in prosperity and adversity, at
sea and on land, in storm and in
calm, on foot and on horseback, in
town and in country, in the house of
his father, at the board of his friend,
in the drawing-room of his Presi-
dent, at the feet of his mistress, at
the altar of his God. The discharge
is as necessary to him as the air he
breathes ; he salivates for some three-
score years, and when the glands of
his palate can secrete no longer, he
spits forth his spirit, and is gathered
to his fathers, to spit no more. Mrs
Trollope, we think, rather inclines
to the opinion, that this extraordinary
peculiarity is the effect of some phy-
sical idiosyncrasy, nor do we see on
what other hypothesis it is possible
to account for the phenomenon. We
regret, however, that on a subject so
important, her zeal for science did
not lead her to ascertain, by careful
enquiry, whether the other secre-
tions of this interesting people, in-
cluding the lumbar, alvine, biliary,
and pancreatic, exist in equal pro-
fusion. Certain we are, that in the
present age of enlightened research,
this great physiological problem can-
not long remain unsolved, and that
an anomaly of the animal economy
so striking, will soon cease to be
ranked among those unaccountable
mysteries of nature, which excite
enquiry in the wise, and astonish-
ment in the ignorant.

We have already said something
of American ladies, but we must now

843

return to the subject, and add, that
in no country in the world, are wo-
men treated with greater respect
than in the United States. In steam-
boats and stage-coaches the best
places are uniformly assigned themj
and the man would excite indigna-
tion who, under any circumstances,
should hesitate to prefer their con-
venience to his own. Notwithstand-
ing this deference, it is unquestion-
ably true, that their influence in so-
ciety is far less than that of our fair
countrywomen. In America the lot
of husband and wife seems to have
been cast apart. Both have their
peculiar sphere of usefulness and
exertion, and choice seldom leads
either to encroach on the province
of the other. Few women know
any thing of the peculiar pur-
suits, pleasures, or pecuniary trans-
actions of their husbands ; and, con-
tent with the undivided manage-
ment of their domestic concerns,
they are unenquiring, unparticipa-
ting, in all beyond. Thus it is, that
society is more effectually divided
by difference of sex, in America,
than in England; and the wholesome
influence which women exercise in
all social relations in the latter coun-
try, is comparatively unfelt in the
former. We give the following jour-
nal of the day of a Philadelphian
lady, in illustration of our remarks.

" Let me be permitted to describe the
day of a Philadelphiau lady of the first
class, and the inference I would draw
from it would be better understood.

" It may be said that the most import-
ant feature in a woman's history is her
maternity. It is so j but the object of
the present observation is the social, and
not the domestic influence of a woman.

" This lady shall be the wife of a sena-
tor aud a lawyer in the highest repute
and practice. *She has a very handsome
house, with white marble steps and door-
posts, and a delicate silver knocker and
door-handle ; she has very handsome
drawingrootns, very handsomely furnish-
ed ; (there is a sideboard in one of them,
but it is very handsome, and has very
handsome decanters and cut glass water
jugs upon it) ; she has a very handsome
carriage, and a very handsome free black
coachman ; she is always very handsomely
dressed ; and, moreover, she is very hand-
some herself.

" She vises, and her first hour is spent
in the scrupulously nice arrangement of
her dress j she descends to her parlour, neat,

844

stiff, and silent; her breakfast is brought
iu by her free black footman; she eats her
fried ham and her salt fish, and drinks
her coffee in silence, while her husband
reads one newspaper, and puts another
under his elbow ; and then, perhaps, she
washes the cups and saucers. Her car-
riage is ordered at eleven ; till that hour
she is employed in the pastry-room, her
snow-white apron protecting her mouse-
coloured silk. Twenty minutes before
her carriage should appear, she retires to
her chamber, as she calls it, shakes, and
folds up her still snow-white apron,
smoothes her rich dress, and with nice
care, sets on her elegant bonnet, and all
the handsome et cetera ; then walks down
stairs, just at the moment that her free
black coachman announces to her free
black footman that the carriage waits.
She steps into it, and gives the word,
' Drive to the Dorcas Society.' Her foot-
man stays at home to clean the knives,
but her coachman can trust his horses
while he opens the carriage door, and his
lady not being accustomed to a hand or an
arm, gets out very safely without, though
one of her own is occupied by a work-
basket, and the other by a large roll of all
those indescribable matters which ladies
take as offerings to Dorcas Societies. She
enters the parlour appropriated for the
meeting, and finds seven other ladies, very
like herself, and takes her place among
them ; she presents her contribution,
which is accepted with a gentle circular
smile, and her parings of broad cloth, her
ends of ribbon, her gilt paper, and her
minikin pins, are added to the parings of
broad cloth, the ends of ribbon, the gilt
paper, and the minikin pins with which
the table is already covered ; she also pro-
duces from her basket three ready-made
pincushions, four ink- wipers, seven paper-
matches, and a pasteboard watch-case ;
these are welcomed with acclamations,
and the youngest lady present deposits
them carefully on shelves, amid a prodi-
gious quantity of similar articles. She
then produces her thimble, and asks for
work ; it is presented to her, find the eight
ladies all stitch together for some hours.
Their talk is of priests and of missions ;
of the profits of their last sale, of their
hopes from the next ; of the doubt whe-
ther young Mr This, or young Mr That
should receive the fruits of it to lit him
out for Liberia ; of the very ugly bonnet
seen at church on Sabbath morning, of
the veryhandsomc preacher who perform-
ed on Sabbath afternoon, and of the very
large collection made on Sabbath even-
ing. This lasts till three, when the car-
riage again appears, and the lady and her
basket return home ; she mounts to her

Domestic Manners of the Americans.

[May,

chamber, carefully sets aside her bonnet
and itsappurtenarices,putson her scalloped
black silk apron, walks into the kitchen to
see that all is right, then into the parlour,
where, having cast a careful glance over
the table prepared for dinner, she sits
down, work in hand, to await her spouse.
He comes, shakes hands with her, spits,
and dines. The conversation is not much,
and ten minutes suffices for the dinner ;
fruit and toddy, the newspaper and the
work-bag succeed. In the evening the
gentleman, being a savant, goes to the
Wister Society, and afterwards plays a
snug rubber at a neighbour's. The lady
receives at tea a young missionary and
three members of the Dorcas Society. —
And so ends her day."

Mrs Trollope's favourite city is
evidently New York, and in this re-
spect her taste squares pretty accu-
rately with our own, There is more
literature in Boston, but literature
in the United States is seldom quite
untinctured by pedantry; and if
the pedantry of great scholarship
be disagreeable, that of little scholar-
ship is detestable. New York is
full of bustle and animation, and the
pulse of life seems to beat there
more strongly than in the other cities
of the Union. Society, too, is less
exclusive, and less broken into petty
coteries ; and there is consequently
less of that mannerism, and those
provincial modes of thinking, which
strike somewhat unpleasantly on the
observation of a traveller in the
United States.

One great peculiarity of all the
American cities, is their boarding-
houses, to which strangers resort
for temporary convenience, and in
which young married persons, with-
out means to set up an establish-
ment of their own, take up a more
permanent abode. Many families
have private apartments for the re-
ception of visitors, but all assemble
at meals, which are dispatched as
compendiously as possible. The
mode of life imposed on all the in-
mates of these establishments, is
dull, formal, and monotonous. We
agree perfectly in Mrs Trollope's
observations.

" For some reason or other, which
English people are not very likely to un-
derstand, a great number of young mar-
ried persons board by the year, instead
of ' going to housekeeping," as they call
having an establishment of their own. Of

1832.]

Domestic Manners of the Americans,

course this statement does not include
persons of large fortune, but it does in-
clude very many whose rank in society
would make such a mode of life quite im-
possible with us. I can hardly imagine
a contrivance more effectual for ensuring
the insignificance of a woman, than mar-
rying her at seventeen, and placing her
in a boarding-house. Nor can I easily
imagine a lifts of more uniform dulness
for the lady herself; but this certainly is
a matter of taste. I have heard many
ladies declare that it is * just quite the
perfection of comfort to have nothing to
iix for oneself.' Yet, despite these assu-
rances, I always experienced a feeling
which hovered between pity and con-
tempt, when I contemplated their mode
of existence.

" How would a newly-married Eng-
lishwoman endure it, her head and her
heart full of the one dear scheme —

' Well-ordered home his dear delight to make >'

She must rise exactly in time to reach
the boarding table at the hour appointed
for breakfast, or she will get a stiff bow
from the lady president, cold coffee, and
no egg. I have been sometimes greatly
amused upon these occasions by watching
a little scene in which the by-play had
much more meaning than the words ut-
tered. The fasting, but tardy lady, looks
round the table, and having ascertained
that there Avasno egg left, says distinctly,
' I will take an egg if you please.' But
as this is addressed to no one in particu-
lar, no one in particular answers it, un-
less it happen that her husband is at table
before her, arid then he says, ' There are
no eggs, my dear.' Whereupon the lady
president evidently cannot hear, and the
greedy culprit who has swallowed two
eggs (for there are always as many eggs
as noses,) looks pretty considerably afraid
of being found out. The breakfast pro-
ceeds in sombre silence, save that some-
times a parrot, and sometimes a canary
bird, ventures to utter a timid note.
When it is finished, the gentlemen hur-
ry to their occupations, and the quiet la-
dies mount the stairs, gome to the first,
some to the second, and some to the third
stories, in an inverse proportion to the
number of dollars paid, and ensconce
themselves in their respective chambers.
As to what they do there it is not very easy
to say ; but I believe they clear-starch a
little, and iron a little, and sit in a rock-
ing-chair, and s:>w a great deal. I al-
ways observed that the ladies who board-
ed wore more elaborately worked collars
and petticoats than any one else. The
plough is hardly a more blessed instru-
ment in America than the needle. How
could they live without it ? But time

845

and the needle wear through the longest
morning, and happily the American
morning is not very long, even though
they breakfast at eight.

" It is generally about two o'clock that
the boarding gentlemen meet the board-
ing ladies at dinner. Little is spoken,
except a whisper between the married
pairs. Sometimes a sulky bottle of wine
flanks the plate of one or two individu-
als, but it adds nothing to the mirth of
the meeting, and seldom more than one
glass to the good cheer of the owners. It
is not then, and it is not there, that the
gentlemen of the Union drink. Soon,
very soon, the silent meal is done, and
then, if you mount the stairs after them,
you will find from the doors of the more
affectionate and indulgent wives, a smell
of cigars steam forth, which plainly in-
dicates the felicity of the couple within.
If the gentleman be a very polite hus-
band, he will, as soon as he has done
smoking and drinking his toddy, offer
his arm to his wife, as far as the corner
of the street, where his store, or his of-
fice is situated, and there he will leave
her to turn which way she likes. As
this is the hour for being full dressed, of
course she turns the way she can be most
seen. Perhaps she pays a few visits ;
perhaps she goes to chapel ; or, perhaps,
she enters some store where her husband
deals, and ventures to order a few no-
tions ; and then she goes home again —
no, not home — I will not give that name
to a boarding-house, but she re-enters the
cold, heartless atmosphere in which she
dwells, where hospitality can never enter,
and where interest takes the manage-
ment instead of affection. At tea they
att meet again, and a little trickery is
perceptible to a nice observer in the man-
ner of partaking the pound-cake, &c.
After this, those who are happy enough
to have engagements, hasten to keep
them ; those who have not, either mount
again to the solitude of their chamber, or,
what appeared to me much worse, remain
in the common sitting-room, in a society
cemented by no tie, endeared by no con-
nexion, which choice did not bring toge-
ther, and which the slightest motive would
break asunder. I remarked that the gen-
tlemen were generally obliged to go out
every evening on business, and, I confess,
the arrangement did not surprise me.

" It is not thus that the women can.
obtain that influence in society which is
allowed to them in Europe, and to which,
both sages and men of the world have
agreed in ascribing such salutary effects.
It is in vain that 'collegiate institutes' are
formed for young ladies, or that * acade-
mic degrees' are conferred upon them. It
is after marriage, and when these young

846

Domestic Manners

attempts upon all the sciences are forgot-
ten, that the lamentable insignificance of
the American women appears ; and till
this be remedied, I venture to prophesy
that the tone of their drawing-rooms will
not improve."

There is no country in the world,
perhaps, in which a gourmand
would find a greater abundance of
the elements, or raw material, of
good living. Several kinds of fish
are excellent, but the oysters are
each as large as a breakfast plate,
and without flavour. Venison is
a lottery. It is often admirable,
but sometimes dry and lean and
stringy, as the cutlets of horse flesh,
which, in the course of our campaign-
ing, we were, on one occasion, driven
by hunger to devour. Mutton the
Americans never eat ; their veal is
perhaps inferior to that of England,
but the beef is first-rate. The forests
and waters of the United States af-
ford great variety of game, some
kinds of which are entitled to high
praise, but the true glory of Ameri-
ca is bestowed by the canvass-back
duck. These exquisite birds are
found only in Chesapeake Bay and
the neighbouring waters. In regard
to their natural history, ornithologists
differ, some asserting that the can-
vass-back is a distinct variety of the
duck, others that it is indebted for
its delicious peculiarities solely to
the nature of the food in which the
Chesapeake abounds. No.n nostrum
estt tantas componere lites. We ne-
ver saw the bird until divested of
its plumage, and subjected to a ro-
tatory motion of fifteen minutes be-
fore the kitchen fire. But in that
state we feel we should be guilty of
gross injustice, were we to compare
its merits as an esculent with those
of any other of the feathered tribe,
which wing the upper or nether at-
mosphere, or float upon the surface
of the deep. No. The canvass-back
stands alone, in proud and unap-
proached pre-eminence. It is
" Like to a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky."

And never surely did created sub-
stance float so meltingly in the mouth,
or leave an impression on the pa-
late so luxurious and imperishable.
The occasion when he first received
this new and exquisite sense oi
the beneficence of nature forms
an era in the life of every Ame-
rican traveller. The place, the day,

of the Americans. [May,

the hour, nay the very minute, re-
main for ever imprinted on his me-
mory. It will form a lasting point
for reference and comparison. It
will mingle unbidden with all his
sympathies and affections. It will
enlarge and elevate his views of the
dignity of his own nature, and he will
cherish the proud conviction that the
man who has feasted on canvass-back
ducks, cannot philosophically be said
to have lived in vain.

Entertaining these opinions, it has
always appeared to us somewhat
extraordinary that the Americans
should prefer resting their national
claims to the envy and admiration
of the world on matters of science,
literature, and accomplishment,
which, to say truth, afford but slen-
der footing for their pretensions,
instead of arrogating the higher and
more incontestable praise, that the
country of their nativity is likewise
the country of canvass-back ducks.
Though our intercourse with Ame-
ricans has been very considerable,
we do not remember even one indi-
vidual who, in discoursing on the
favourite subject of his country, in-
cluded this high and uriparticipated
honour in the long catalogue of its
perfections. Looking, however, to
the rapid progress of intelligence on
both sides of the Atlantic, we can-
not permit ourselves to doubt that
the time is rapidly approaching when
this prosperous and favoured people
will be led to the adoption of juster
views of national distinction, and
estimate the glory of their country
by a more enlightened criterion.

The travels of Mrs Trollope con-
clude with an excursion in the State
of New York, during which she
visits the Falls of Niagara. She has
too much taste to fall into the ordi-
nary blunder of travellers, who at-
tempt a minute description of this
transcendent wonder of nature. (In
truth, neither the pen nor the pen-
cil can convey to the imagination
any true or adequate idea of the
stupendous and overwhelming sub-
limity of a spectacle which makes
the muscles of the strong man to
quiver, and his heart to be still and
motionless as that of the dead. We
know not, however, that we can
leave our readers with a more fa-
vourable impression of the powers
of this accomplished lady, than by
proving, by our parting quotation,

Domestic Manners of the Americans.

that she possesses a mind which,
though perhaps too keenly alive to
the annoyances of petty vulgarity, is
yet eminently endowed with sensi-
bility to the beauties and sublimities
of nature.

" At length we reached Niagara. It
was the brightest day that June could
give ; and almost any day would have
seemed bright that brought me to the ob-
ject which, for years, I had languished to
look upon.

" We did not hear the sound of the
Falls till very near the hotel which over-
hangs them ; as you enter the door you
see beyond the hall an open space, sur-
rounded by galleries, one above another,
and in an instant you feel that from thence
the wonder is visible.

" I trembled like a fool, ami my girls
clung to me, trembling too, I believe, but
with faces beaming with delight. We en-
countered a waiter, who had a sympathy
of some sort with us, for he would not
let us run through the hall to the first
gallery, but ushered us up stairs, and an-
other instant placed us where, at one
glance, I saw all I had wished for, hoped
for, dreamed of.

" I wept with a strange mixture of
pleasure and of pain, and certainly was,
for some time, too violently affected in the
physique to be capable of much pleasure ;
but when this emotion of the senses sub-
sided, and I had recovered some degree
of composure, my enjoyment was very
great indeed.

" To say that I was not disappointed,
is but a weak expression to convey the
surprise and astonishment which this long
dreamed of scene produced. It has to me
something beyond its vastness ; there is a
shadowy mystery hangs about it, which
neither the eye nor even the imagination
can penetrate ; but I dare not dwell on
this, it is a dangerous subject, and any
attempt to describe the sensations produ-
ced must lead direct to nonsense.

" Exactly at the Fall, it is the Fall
and nothing else you have to look upon ;
there are not, as at Trenton, mighty
rocks and towering forests, thei-e is only
the waterfall ; but it is the fall of an
ocean, and were Pelion piled on Ossa on
either side of it, we could not look at
them.

" The noise is greatly less than I ex-
pected ; one can hear with perfect dis-
tinctness every thing said in an ordinary
tone, when quite close to the cataract.
The cause of this, I imagine to be, that
it does riot fall immediately among rocks,
like the far noisier Potomac, but direct
and unbroken, save by its own rebound.
The colour of the water, before this re-
bound hides it in foam and mist, is of the

847

brightest and most delicate green ; the
violence of the impulse sends it far over
the precipice before it falls, and the effect
of the ever- varying light through its
transparency is, I think, the loveliest
thing I ever looked upon.

" We descended to the edge of the gulf
which receives the torrent, and thence
looked at the horseshoe fall in profile ;
it seems like awful daring to stand close
beside it, and raise one's eyes to its im-
mensity. I think the point the most
utterly inconceivable to those who have
not seen it, is the centre of the horse-
shoe. The force of the torrent converges
there, and as the heavy mass pours in,
twisted, wreathed, and curled together,
it gives an idea of irresistible power, such
as no other object ever conveyed to me.

" The following anecdote, which I had
from good authority, may give some no-
tion of this mighty power.

" After the last American war, three
of our ships, stationed on Lake Erie,
were declared unfit for service, and con-
demned. Some of their officers obtained
permission to send them over the Niagara
Falls. The first was torn to shivers by
the rapids, and went over in fragments ;
the second filled with water before she
reached the fall ; but the third, which was
in better condition, took the leap gallant-
ly, and retained her form till it was hid
in the cloud of mist below. A reward of
ten dollars was offered for the largest
fragment of wood that should be found
from either wreck, five for the second,
and so on. One morsel only was ever
seen, and that about a foot in length,
was mashed as by a vice, and its edges
notched like the teeth of a saw. What
had become of the immense quantity of
wood which had been precipitated ? What
unknown whirlpool had engulfed it, so
that, contrary to the very laws of nature,
no vestige of the floating material could
find its way to the surface ?"

We have now done; and having
already so fully stated our opinion
of the present work, we have little
to say in conclusion. Its faults are
those of hasty induction and preju-
diced observation; yet even these,
we think, will contribute to its po-
pularity ; and it is impossible not to
admire the spirit with which this
literary Amazon throws down the
gauntlet, and defies a whole nation
to the combat. At all events, she
has given ample proof with what
vigour and effect she can wield her
lance, and assuredly the American
will be something better than a car-
pet knight, who shall come off victor
in the contest.

848

The Reform Debate in the Lords.

[May,

THE REFORM DEBATE IN THE LORDS.

THIS debate, which has concluded
in a manner so little creditable to the
Upper House of Parliament, did not
excite the extreme attention, either
within or without the House, which,
from the high importance of the oc-
casion, and the expressions of the
London papers, those at a distance
may have imagined. Whether it was
that the Lords were weary of the
question, and that many of them
were ashamed of the parts which
they had, nevertheless, made up their
minds to play ; whether the public
had ceased to feel the vivid interest
in the decision of the question which
once they felt, or were satisfied that
enough of the pliancy and cowardice
of the House had been found out
by the keen scent of the Minister, to
make the decision certain, it is unde-
niable, that neither among the Peers
within, nor among the people with-
out, was any thing like the same ea-
gerness and anxiety displayed which
marked the discussion of last Octo-
ber. It was whimsical enough to
hear Peer after Peer on the Go-
vernment side of the House, and
some waverers on the [other, rising
up and continually repeating the
same dull fiction of the irresistible
and overwhelming popular anxiety
for this Bill, when, if one might judge
from appearances in Palace Yard
and Whitehall, the populace felt no
more concern in the matter, than
if their Lordships had been deba-
ting a clause in a turnpike act, touch-
ing the breadth of waggon wheels.
The whole argument, in favour of
the Bill, from the beginning to the
end of this great discussion, was
simply this, that the populace were
so fearfully urgent for the Bill, that
nothing less than a violent and ge-
neral convulsion was to be appre-
hended, not only from refusing to
grant, but even from delaying the
proposed measure ; but when the
evidence of this terrible passion for
the Bill was sought for out of doors,
it was only to be found in two or
three more policemen than usual,
find sundry porters who strayed
about, waylaying country-looking
people, and seducing them into the
gallery of the House of Lords, at the

small charge of half-a- crown. The
meanest object of Parliamentary dis-
cussion that ever excited popular
attention, was not suffered to go on
with apparently so little notice by
the populace, as this late debate in
the House of Lords ; and yet men of
deliberative habits, such as the Peers
of England, have allowed themselves
to be so clamour-stricken by the news-
papers, so bawled and bothered out
of their senses by the perpetual iter-
ation of egregious falsehood, that, in
the midst of perfect tranquillity, they
have voted away the ancient repre-
sentative system of the country,
through fear of the yells and brick-
bats of the mob.

It is very humiliating to have to
trace the progress of a discussion, in
which on one side was all the rea-
soning, and almost all the eloquence,
supported by the authority of the
most eminent men of our time ; and
on the other, pitiful subserviency to
a supposed will of the populace;
with the recollection, all the while,
that the victory has been to the lat-
ter. But it is desirable to preserve in
these pages, some record of a dis-
cussion having so important a result;
and we must to our task of a rapid
sketch of the debate, and a remark
here and there of what occurs to us
as we go along.

It may be as well to observe, that
before the regular debate upon the
discussion of the second reading of
the Reform Bill began, the Duke of
Buckingham gave notice, that if that
Bill were not read a second time,
(a consummation devoutly wished
by his Grace,) he would propose a
bill of a moderate and reasonable
description for their Lordships' con-
sideration. This circumstance is ne-
cessary to be kept in mind, in esti-
mating the reasonableness of certain
Peers, spiritual as well as temporal,
who avowed their intention to vote
for the Ministerial Bill, not that they
it, or in the least doubted

that a much more moderate would
be a much better reform ; but that as
some reform was necessary to satis-
fy the people, they would vote for
the Bill, which they acknowledged to
be bad, and would not wait for that

1832.]

The Reform Delate in the Lords.

which would la all probability exact-
ly meet their wishes. It would be a
pity to omit a trait so highly credit-
able to the patience and reasoning
faculties of those who made up the
glorious majority of Nine in favour
of the Bill.

Lord Grey's opening speech was
" prosy, dull, and long," and devoid
of that sharp seasoning of threats
which gave piquancy to his opening
harangue upon the same subject last
session. He did not denounce the
Bishops to the mob, (perhaps he
thought of the " setting in order" of
the Bishop's palace at Bristol, which
had taken place in the interim,) nor
did he indulge in much fierceness of
any kind. He talked lengthily of the
principles of distranchisement, en-
franchisement, and extension of the
suffrage, and seemed to persuade
himself, that whoever consented to
the admission of these in any degree
must consent to his Bill. He might
with as much reason argue, that the
man who allows the wayfaring tra-
veller to shelter in his barn for the
night, and repose himself upon good
straw, is bound, by the same princi-
ple of concession, to let his best bed-
chamber be violently taken posses-
sion of by an unbidden guest, while
he himself is driven to the garret, or
the great arm-chair in the hall. The
inference is absurd, as are almost all
the inferences of those theoretical
politicians who, when they find a
proposition suggested as applicable
in a particular degree, or to a parti-
cular state of circumstances, treat it
as though it were given out for an
abstract, universal principle. After
three hours of very unentertaining
discourse, concluding with a hope,
for which we give his Lordship all
imaginable credit, that if any misfor-
tune should follow the measure, it
might fall only on himself, he sat
down, to the marked satisfaction of
all present.

- Lord Ellenborough replied. His
lordship, without much pretension
to oratory, is a clear, straightforward,
and shrewd speaker; he is a hard
hitter in debate, with but little orna-
ment or flourish; and he shewed, with
great force and spirit, the combina-
tion of factions by which the Reform
Bill had been promoted, and the va-
rious practical benefits which, under
the present system of representation,

VOL. XXXI. NO, CXC1V,

pursued throughout the most part
his speech; he would not delude

• 849

were actually enjoyed; and which,
under the proposed system, must be
relinquished.

When Lord Ellenborough con-
cluded, it seemed that there was no
champion ready on the other side,
and it was not until the third sound
of the trumpet, singing out the awful
notes, " divide, divide," in a very
unmistakeable manner, that Lord
Melbourne stepped forward with ap-
parently the same sort of willingness
that a man comes out to be hanged.
He stated that he was extremely un-
willing to trouble the House, an
avowal which, we believe, met with
universal credence. This candour
he
of

the people, he said, by expressing a
belief that this Bill would afford re-
lief to the distresses which they ex-
perienced, but that he was for the
Bill, " because the people demanded
it" He added, that " the Govern-
ment were not responsible for the
measure, but the people who requi-'
red it." This is, indeed, a notable
method of shifting responsibility. So
scandalous an acknowledgment of
the subserviency of a Minister to
the voice of the multitude, was never
made by a British Minister. We
might be as welL without any Go-
vernment at all, and save Lord Mel-
bourne's salary, and that of his col-
leagues, if the people are to dictate
to Government what they shall do;
and the responsibility is to lie with
the multitude, and not with those
whose especial office it is to govern
and control them. The Bishop of
Durham followed, in an excellent
speech, full of dignity and wisdom ;
and these were the principal speeches
of the evening. There were, how-
ever, very good, but short speeches
from the Marquis of Salisbury, Earl
Bathurst, the Earl of Wicklow, and
Lord Londonderry ; a common-place
mob speech from Lord Stourton,
and a feeble defence of semi-rattery
from the Earl of Haddington, who
avowed his intention of voting for
the second reading of what he called
the " unhappy Bill."

The prevailing characteristic of
the first night's debate was languor
and heaviness, of which the dull im-
pression lasted until the following
evening, when a preliminary skir-
mish, in which the Duke of Rich-
3 i

850

mond and the Marquis of Cleveland
affected indignation at their consist-
ency being questioned, occasioned
some excitement and amusement.
No doubt they are very worthy and
consistent personages, and a high
honour to the Ministry they support.
The noble Duke was a professed ultra-
Tory, and is a Minister in the Whig
mobocratic cabinet of Lord Grey;
the noble Marquis has been, as Lord
Londonderry told him, the earnest
supporter of all the various and con-
flicting governments since March,
1827. The adjourned debate on the
Reform Bill was commenced in a
speech from the Earl of Shrewsbury,
a Roman Catholic Lord, who was
introduced to the House by the bill
of 1829, the supporters of which
thought they foresaw, in the grati-
tude of the Roman Catholics, the
best guarantee for their earnest sup-
port of the Protestant Church and
State. This worthy Papist abused the
British Constitution as the parent of
national discontents, civil wars, an-
archy, revolution, and commercial
embarrassment. Crime and starva-
tion were also to be laid to its charge.
The government, in his popish Lord-
ship's opinion, was formerly carried
on by robbery (this compliment re-
ferred to the government which car-
ried Catholic Emancipation.) The
Bishops were allied with the worst
enemies of the country ; they con-
curred in profligacy, and partici-
pated in spoliation. After a series
of remarks in a similar spirit of gra-
titude, fairness, and gentlemanly pro-
Sriety, his Lordship sat down, and
nmediately received such a casti-
gation from the Earl of Limerick
(himself one of the many who voted
for Roman Catholic Emancipation,
and who now repent it), as will, we
trust, cause him to bridle his tongue,
and keep his insolence for some more
congenial assembly in future.

The Earl of Mansfield followed in
an admirable speech, full of ener-
getic reasoning, clothed in the most
correct language. He shewed the
suddenness of the demand which had
sprung up for Reform, proving there-
by that it had not arisen out of any
growing necessity. He dwelt upon
the means taken by the Government
to excite the people — the inadmis-
sibility of the doctrine that the de-
cision of the House of Lords was to

The Reform Debate in the Lords.

[May,

be governed by the will of the peo-
ple—the extravagance of the mea-
sure proposed as contrasted with
that of previous Reformers, and the
various practical injuries to the pub-
lic business which must inevitably
flow from this measure, were it to
become law. After a short speech
from Lord Colville, Lord Harrowby
commenced his justification of his
change of vote upon the question,
while he admitted, not only the bril-
liancy of the eloquence, but the
soundness of the logic of Lord Mans-
field, who had just argued in favour
of the views from which he (Lord
Harrowby) had changed. The ar-
gument of his Lordship's speech
was to this effect, that though it was
right to resist clamour and intimi-
dation once, it was not prudent to do
so twice, and that no Government
could go on without Reform; where-
fore he was of the mind to support
this Government in a very bad Re-
form, though he knew that it was by
the great misconduct of this Minis-
try, that the state of things had been
brought about which had made it im-
possible that a government could be
carried on without Reform. This is
a degree of complaisance which it is
not easy either to understand or to
forgive.

The Duke of Wellington, in a very
powerful speech, answered Lord Har-
rowby, by quoting his own arguments
of last Session against himself, and
then entered into an examination of
the measure, shewing the inconsist-
ency of its various provisions, and
the danger arising from the extent
of change which it contemplated — a
change which involved nothing less
than a complete subversion of the
present system of representation in
the country.

Lord Grantham spoke against the
Bill ; he objected to it as having been
pushed on with violence, and sup-
ported by intimidation.

Lord Wharncliffe delivered a
speech, which, as might have been
expected, was in every respect more
objectionable than that of his brother
waverer. It was in many passages,
which referred to the Duke of Wel-
lington, and what had been said by
him, not a little impudent. Lord
Wharncliffe has such a convenient
estimation of himself, that he does
not feel ashamed for that which

1832.]

The Reform Debate in the Lords.

851

would produce a sense of shame in
almost any other man. He seemed,
however, very anxious to reserve his
right of turning round again upon
the third reading, and we may pre-
sume, that having tried the vote in
favour of the Bill, byway of variety,
he may, on the next division, go back
to the old way again, unless pains
are taken to shew him that he will
make himself of more consequence
by continuing a Reformer.

On the third evening Lord Win-
chilsea commenced the debate, a-
vowing himself still a reformer, as
he had formerly declared himself,
but opposed to the present Bill, from
the violent manner in which it had
been proceeded with, and the erro-
neous provisions it contained.

The Duke of Buckingham follow-
ed him, and opposed the Bill, in a
speech full of eloquence, of lively
and graceful allusion, and of point
and circumstance. He came to the
conclusion, that it was impossible to
keep up the present form of legisla-
ture with such changes as were pro-
posed. There were to be found in
the House of Commons the repre-
sentatives of every interest and al-
most every feeling in the country,
and what more could be required ?

The Earl of Radnor supported the
Bill with less folly than most of its
supporters; he chiefly laboured to
prove that some mistakes had been
made in the statements of the noble
Lords who opposed the Bill, and he
referred, as he unfortunately does
but too often, to his own borough of
Downton, and his reforming magna-
nimity as connected therewith. He
did not attempt to shew any good
which was to arise from the Bill.

The Bishop of Lincoln, although
disapproving of the Bill, stated his
intention of supporting the second
reading, because the people were
becoming indifferent to Reform ! He
explained, that had they last Session
sent the Bill into committee, the en-
thusiasm of the people was such, that
they would not have been able to
have made it a good bill with the
people's assent, but now they might
do what they pleased with it, and
the people would not care. What
strangely conflicting reasons drive
men into the same course! One
man votes for the second reading
because the people's desire for the

Bill is too strong to be resisted ;
another, because the people have be-
come passing indifferent about the
matter.

Lord Falmouth made a speech of
great vigour and vivacity, in which
he raked the Earl of Radnor and
the Lord Wharncliffe fore arid aft, in
a style much more agreeable to us,
than we are persuaded it was to them.
The Marquis of Bristol also made a
very powerful speech against the
Bill, and the Bishop of London a very
feeble one hi its favour — it was so
extremely dull that it defies criticism;
there is nothing in it even to wage
war with.

The Bishop of Exeter followed in
a speech, which, since the best days
of Sheridan, has not been surpassed
for striking impressiveness. It were
in vain to attempt to detail here the
various points which told with such
wondrous effect against the authors
and promoters of the Bill, and the
plans by which they supported their
own influence, and inflamed the pub-
lic mind. The speech may be best
judged by its effects. It excited the
very warmest admiration of the op-
ponents of the measure, and the bit-
terest enmity of all the Government
and their friends. It was the knout
in good earnest, and they felt it into
their very marrow.

The Bishop of Llandaff said he
would support the second reading,
because the excitement was less now
than it had been six months before,
when he voted against it, but he
would not pledge himself to votejfor
any clause whatever of the Bill in
Committee. This is a wise legisla-
tor ! The Marquis of Lansdowne con-
cluded the debate of the third even-
ing by a very able speech in favour
of the Bill. In direct opposition to
Lord Melbourne's statement, he ad-
mitted that there lay upon his Majes-
ty's government a mighty responsi-
bility in this matter, and he argued
that there was an estrangement, ra-
pidly approaching to alienation, be-
tween the higher, and the middle and
lower classes of society, which this
Bill was an attempt to avert. He fur-
ther argued generally, that a change
had taken place in society which re-
quired a change of institutions. We
do not agree with the noble Marquis,
either as to the fact, or the efficacy
of the remedy, if the fact were as he

852

The Reform Debate in the Lords.

[May,

represents it; but we look upon his
argument with some respect, as he
made no foolish assertions about the
" enlightenment," and " advance-
ment," and so on, of the mass of the
people, which is abominable cant,
and very false to boot ; nor did he
advance the cowardly doctrine of the
necessity of yielding to the popular
will. We think him wrong ; but then
he talked like an erroneous Marquis,
not like Mr Place the tailor, nor
Lord Durham, nor any one of that
set.

The debate of the fourth evening
was opened by Lord Wynford, who
displayed his industrious study of
the Bill in all its various bearings, by
a forcible and detailed exposition of
the public evils and inconveniences
which were likely to grow out of it.
After him arose Lord Durham, with
his saffron-hued juvenility of coun-
tenance, and hair parted on his fore-
head like a milk-girl, or like the en-
graving of Leigh Hunt in his book of
" Reminiscences." He did not long
keep the viper that lives and moves
within him down. Out it came with
forked tongue, and hissed and spit
its venom against the Bishop of Exe-
ter. As soon as it reached the climax
of " false insinuation" and " pamph-
leteering slang," (the last a singu-
larly elegant flower of invective,) the
House interfered — the words were
taken down, and after a little, his
lordship was permitted to resume
his discourse, when he repeated the
same hackneyed rigmarole about im-
provement of the middle classes,
and necessity of yielding to their de-
mands, which Mr Place & Co. have so
often repeated at the meetings of the
Political Union in Leicester Square.
As to his attack on the Bishop of
Exeter, it was merely biting against
a file. To call such writing as that
of Doctor Phil potts' pamphleteering
slang, is too absurd for any commen-
tary save that of loud laughter.
When Lord Durham can produce
euch English composition, he will,
in this respect, be as far above what
he is at present, as the most admira-
ble writer in England of sarcastic
prose, is above the most puny whip-
ster who practises bitter speaking
in a public place. Lord Caernarvon
opposed the Bill in a speech of pow-
er, of various information, and viva-
city of style, only to be surpassed by

his own speech on the same subject,
and on the same side of the question,
last session. We mention the latter
particular, because some friends of
his, who last session vied with him
in the excellence of their speeches,
thought fit, in the present, to try the
other side of the question, perhaps
for the sake of the evident advantage
of variety which it afforded.

The next speaker was Lord Gode-
rich, who devoted his eloquence to
another attack on the Bishop of Exe-
ter. It did not appear that the Bishop
was any the worse.

Then came Lord Eldon, the great-
est of equity lawyers, and Lord
Tenterden, the greatest of common-
law lawyers, both steadily testifying
against the pernicious Bill. The
Bishop of Gloucester next opposed
it, and administered a rebuke to the
Earl of Shrewsbury, of which we
wish we could believe he was capa-
ble of feeling the dignity as well as
the force.

The Lord Chancellor next arose,
concerning whose speech, in com-
mon charity, let us be silent. He
has been a great orator; and if, as
we have heard, indisposition of body
or sadness of mind have rendered
him unable to be what he was, it is
meet that we notice his falling off
with silence and a sigh.

The speech of Lord Lyndhurst,
which followed, was beyond ques-
tion the finest speech delivered du-
ring the debate. In sterling sense,
and close convincing argument,
clothed with all the graces of ele-
gant language, and graced with a
certain courteous dignity, which
Lord Lyndhurst more than any
other speaker of our day possesses,
he outshone even the best of the
excellent speeches which had pre-
viously been made against the Bill.

It seemed to rouse the slumbering
rhetoric of Lord Grey, whose con-
cluding speech was much abler than
that with which he commenced. He
resented the assault of the Bishop of
Exeter in elegant language, and ex-
pressed his vexation in the manner
of an indignant gentleman of the old
school. It was a brave effort for a
man of his years, at five o'clock in
the morning.

The result of this debate is suffi-
ciently notorious. The Peers, who
had six months before rejected a

1832.]

TJie Reform Debate in the Lords.

Bill essentially the same as that now
before them, by a majority of forty-
one, now accepted it by a majority
of nine. There was nothing in the
progress of the debate to account for
this. It was, upon the whole, a less
able, and a less spirited debate than
the former one ; but the falling off
was more conspicuous on the side of
the supporters of the Bill, than on
the side of its opponents. The cause
of so remarkable a change must be
sought for in circumstances which
preceded the discussion, and unfixed
the determination of men whose
principles were sufficiently pliable
for adaptation to a real or fancied
alteration of circumstances. It is
not our purpose here to venture an
essay upon Reform ; but in viewing
this debate, and its important results,
some remarks have occurred to us
connected with them, which may not
be unacceptable by way of commen-
tary and explanation.

By the previous division and ma-
jority against the Bill, it was doubt-
less the expectation of many of those
who voted, that the Ministry of Earl
Grey would have been demolished,
and that another Ministry would
arise, from whom a reasonable Re-
form, and not a sweeping revolution,
would have come. But Earl Grey,
having the populace on his side, and
thirteen relatives in good places,
held fast, in spite of the " standing
or falling" pledge, and gave every in-
dication or determining to hold fast
as long as there was any thing left to
surrender to the mob, and thereby
earn their " hoarse applause." It is
not to be denied, that this had a pro-
digious effect; there are many men
whose political valour (when in the
opposition) is like the courage of
Acres in the play, which brought him
to the place of combat, but began to
ooze away very fast, when he was
obliged to wait: — it is one thing to
be brave in the onslaught, and an-
other to behave well during the
whole course of a long pitched bat-
tle. Those who shrunk from the
prospect of long warfare with men
whose friendship is at times so con-
venient as that of Cabinet Ministers,
were not indisposed to give way on
the subject of the Bill. But in so
respectable an assembly as the Bri-
tish House of Lords, these would
have hardlybeen enough to convert a

853

majority of forty-one into & minority,
were it not that they were assisted,
as well as furnished, with a decent
excuse, by the turning round of a
man of Lord Harrowby's reputation.
This nobleman seems to have been
panic-struck by the non-conversion
of the mobs, after his speech was
spoken ; and by the belief, which,
on the representation of Lord Grey,
he received as an incontrovertible
certainty, that if he did not turn
round, the House of Peers would be
swamped by the degradation of
many respectable Commoners to the
situation of Lordship, and subser-
viency, in the Upper House.

He certainly persuaded himself, and
endeavoured to persuade others, that
it would be a less dangerous course
to vote for the second reading, than
to continue to oppose it, and his ex-
ample and his argument were taken
advantage of by those who, finding
the Ministry not disposed to evacu-
ate, felt themselves disposed to rat.
In the House of Lords are a good
many persons, who, half from con-
stitutional timidity and love of quiet,
and half from the effect of years, are
mightily afraid of any thing like a
stiff battle _upon any subject what-
ever. Their nerves were more sen-
sible to the immediate turmoil of
resistance to the Reform Bill, than the
remote resistance to the democracy
which must one day or other be un-
dertaken, if it pass; they would have
been glad had the Ministry gone out;
but as they remained in, it seemed
to those easy persons, that, perhaps,
things would go on smoothly enough
with this Reform Bill, notwithstand-
ing all the reasons which appeared
to the contrary — at all events, they
might vote for the second reading,
and then " see what could be done—-
they might still vote against it on the
third reading." So they availed
themselves of the opportunity of
Lord Harrowby making a move, and
went off with him.

Thus was the disgraceful com-
plement of deserters made up. And
this brings us to the consideration
of the most remarkable circumstance
attending this curious Ministerial
majority. The second reading is
carried by those who are notorious-
ly and avowedly hostile to the Bill.
It is composed of men who are re-
luctantly dragged by what is, or

854

The Reform Debate in the Lords.

[May,

what appears to them to be, the irre-
sistible force of unfortunate circum-
stances. They vote with the Minis-
ter whom they abhor, because he is
the author of the measure for which
they vote. The Minister triumphs
in the support of those who detest
his measures. His majority give
their assent, as a traveller assents to
let his pockets be rifled by a high-
wayman, rather than be shot through
the head. It is " the lesser of two
evils" which are forced upon him
for his choice. The parallel may be
carried a little farther. As men have
been known to take purses by the
threat of firing a pistol which had
nothing in it, or would not go off,
Lord Grey has prevailed by talking
of doing that which it now seems
pretty certain he could not have
done, if left to the alternative. If
the Irishman's reply to the footpad,
" Fire away, and be damned to you,"
had been made to the Premier, when
he talked of gazetting Peers, it would
have been found, as it was by the
Hibernian, that the threatened pistol
was only a painted stick.

Among those who have deserted,
there are none whose personal weight
upon such a question ought to avail
much. The great men of the Con-
servatives have remained firm. Those
whose opinion upon a subject so
closely interwoven with constitu-
tional law should be paramount to
other men, remain unmoved from
their former decision. Two Ex-
Chancellors of Great Britain, and
one of Ireland — the late Chief- Jus-
tice of the Common Pleas— the
present Chief-Justice of the King's
Bench, are among the most conspi-
cuous opponents of the Bill. Those
arrayed in its favour are men who
have never been distinguished for
judgment, nor discretion, nor success.
Their highest praise is that of emi-
nence in Parliamentary speaking,and
even there they are distanced by
their opponents. Considered as
pieces of Parliamentary eloquence
merely, there were no speeches
made in favour of the Bill, on the late
occasion, which were not surpassed
by Lord Mansfield and Lord Lynd-
hurst.

What prospect does the debate
hold out for the Bill in committee ?
We should say a very doubtful one,
though we are fully aware of the

strong hold which, in ordinary cases,
the second reading gives to any bill
in Parliament. It would be ridicu-
lous to deny that, by the late divi-
sion, the Ministry have gained a great
advantage, if they can be said to gain
by that of which the success would
soon undo themselves and the coun-
try together : but the circumstances
under which the majority for the se-
cond reading has been obtained are
so peculiar, that except by the re-
newed operation of the influences
which produced the ratting of so
many in the late division, the Mi-
nister will find himself in a minority
on some clauses which hitherto the
Government have affected to con-
sider essentially important to the
measure.

But it is unquestionable that the
main thing still wanting is a sure and
certain hope of a powerful protecting
party to take up the reins of Govern-
ment, in the event of turning out the
present men. We want a Tory Go-
vernment, identified in principle, in
feeling, and in spirit, with the Tory
people — with a hope of this, the
people would bestir themselves, and
would make the babble of the Re-
volutionists, about the " resistless
demands of the multitude" for this
Reform Bill, practically ridiculous in
a very short time.

Judging from the principles of hu-
man nature, and the experience of
history, we have all along been
clearly of opinion, and we are more
than ever so now, that the safer as
well as the braver course would have
been to have rejected the Bill on the
second reading. Knowing that the
revolutionary spirit feeds on con-
cession, and becomes more impetu-
ous with every advantage it gains,
nothing is clearer than that a bold
front arid a determined resistance
was the way to have met the dan-
ger. Dumont has told us that the
whole French Revolution was
brought about by the concessions
and weakness of the King; and that
down to his imprisonment in the
Temple, if he had ever put himself at
the head of the Conservative party,
he would have stemmed the torrent.
If any man doubt the truth of this,
let him consider how manifestly the
Revolutionary spirit drooped in
England after the rejection in Oc-
tober, and how hopeless the cause

1832.1

The Reform Debate in the Lords.

of Reform would have been, but for
the democratic legislature created
during the frenzy of April 1831,
and the possession of power by an
administration dependant for its ex-
istence on its success.

But it was a wise maxim of Napo-
leon Bonaparte's — " II ne faut pas
nous facher des choses passes."
To the historian will belong the
consideration of the causes which
forced on the English Revolution
at a period when the nation had
ceased to be solicitous about the
matter; and a more instructive les-
son for future ages never was pre-
sented to mankind. It will be found
all to consist in one circumstance,
the unhappy weakness which crea-
ted revolutionary interests : the ele-
vation to power and importance of
a body of men on the passions of
the moment, whose interests and
power were dependant on forcing on
innovating measures. This it is
which in all ages has rendered the
progress of democracy, when once it
gains a place in the legislature, irre-
sistible. The people speedily tire
of changes which bring them only
misery : but while passion is fleet-
ing, interests is permanent ; and the
masters they have chosen for them-
selves never cease to struggle for
the maintenance of a system which,
though it has desolated their country,
has elevated themselves.

To us belongs a different task.
We have to consider how the mis-
chief done may be repaired : how
the vantage ground lost may be re-
gained.

That it may be done, if the Peers
have the courage, or the firmness to
engage in the conflict, is self evident.
When the Bill was carried by a ma-
jority of two present Peers in the
House, where there was formerly a
majority of forty-one against it, it is
clear that their Lordships have the
means of stemming the torrent and
- saving the country, if they are not
wanting in the inclination. Victory
is in their hands, if they will only use
it. If the nation is to be ruined ; if
the long line of British splendour is
about to set ; if the waves of demo-
cracy are to overwhelm the country
of Alfred, history will know on whom
to fix the infamy of having occasion-
ed it. .

What the Conservative Peers have

855

to do, therefore, is clear. They must
extract all the democratic clauses
from the Bill in the committee; they
must render it a Bill consistent with
existing rights ; they must mould it
into the Duke of Buckingham's Bill.
Nothing short of this will do. It
would not do to make a few nominal
changes; it would not do to reject the
metropolitan members, change the
L.10 clause into a rate instead of a
rent, or cut off the whole of schedule
B. All these are improvements, but
they leave the Bill substantially the'
same as before. If schedule A and
the L.10 clause stand, there is an end
of the Monarchy, the Aristocracy, the
Church, and the Funds. Universal
misery must ensue, if these portals
of Pandemonium stand open. No ex-
isting rights must be extinguished
without compensation, or the King's
title to his throne may, on the same
principle, be destroyed. No mob of
electors in the great towns must be
permitted to banish every man of re-
spectability from the poll ; none of the
existing avenues to colonial repre-
sentation must be closed. The only
changes which can safely be made,
plainly are, the consolidation of the
decayed boroughs in proportion to
the extension of the franchise to great
towns now unrepresented, upon ma-
king full compensation to the sub-
sisting freemen for the contraction,
or diminution of their rights, and the
formation of a class of freemen in
the new places at a different rate ac-
cording to the size of the town. Ten.
pounds would be a high franchise in
some small boroughs ; forty pounds
would be too low in most of the great
towns. All the other boroughs must
be allowed to stand on the subsisting
rights, or the colonies will cease to be
represented, and the empire will be
dismembered.

The Conservative party, all those
who, in October 1831, voted against
the second reading, must strike at
these pillars of democratic ascend-
ency, the L.10 clause, and schedule
A, or they do nothing. If these
stand, all they may now gain is not
worth contending for. It will all
be rescued from them in the first
session of a Reformed Parliament.

No danger, no threats must be per-
mitted to stand between them and
the discharge of this great duty to
their descendants, their country, and

856

the human race. No threatened
creation of Peers must be allowed
to shake their resolution. What
does it signify, if the bill is carried
with these clauses, whether it is car-
ried by a creation of five, or five
hundred ? There will be no Peerage
in existence in five years. The result
will be the same, with this difference,
that if they yield they will receive the
lasting execrations of mankind for
their pusillanimity : if they hold out,
they may yet regain the day, by the
admiration which their firmness will
excite.

Nothing could be imagined so fa-
vourable to the ultimate restoration
of British freedom, as that the Re-
form Bill, if it is to be carried at all,
should be thrust upon the country
by such a violent act. That at once
commits the reformers into an ille-
gal course : it stamps usurpation and
tyranny upon their colours. Let
them thus go on, then, with the flag
of usurpation flying : we shall see
whether British feeling do not at last
recoil against the loss of their liber-
ties; and when the day of legal and
constitutional reaction comes, the
creation of Peers will point to the
period from which the work of demo-
lition is to commence. Every thing
following on it may be swept from
the statute-book, and the constitu-
tion will be restored to its ancient
freedom.

We do not now arraign the motives
of the vacillating Peers, whose con-

TJie Reform Delate in the Lords.

[May.

version has opened the flood-gates
of the constitution to the torrent of
democracy. We shall judge of them,
as history will do, by their actions.
If they succeed in new-modelling
the Bill in its essential parts in
Committee, they may yet deserve
well of their country ; if they do
not, they will incur the infamy of
having betrayed it. But let them
recollect, their countrymen and
their descendants will judge of
them by a sterner rule than they ap-
ply to those who always supported
Reform. They have shewn by their
speeches arid their conduct that they
were fully aware of the dangers of
passing the Rubicon; their opponents
have all along been insensible to
their existence. If the Bill passes,
history will have no mercy for the
men, who, seeing the danger, would
not resist; who, appreciating the
misery, would not avert it. It will
stigmatize the reformers as rash and
insane, but the waverers as weak
and wicked men. It will condemn
them out of their own mouths ; and
hold them up to the latest posterity
as those who, gifted with talent, po-
lished by rank, and enlightened by
knowledge, were seduced by am-
bition, or intimidated by imagina-
tion ; who yielded when the danger
was over, who volunteered to man
the breach, and fled upon the assault;
who might have saved England, and
by their weakness were overwhelmed
in its ruins.

Printed by Ballantyne and Company, Edinburgh.

BLACKWOOD'S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE,

No. CXCV.

JUNE, 1832.

VOL. XXXI,

CHRISTOPHER AT THE LAKES.

FLIGHT FIRST.

THE time was when we could de-
scribe the Spring — the Spring on
WINDERMERE. But haply this weary
work- day world's cares "have done
our harp and hand some wrong;"
and we must leave that pleasant task
now to Hartley Coleridge, or some
other young Poet of the Lakes.
Were we not the best-hearted hu-
man beings that ever breathed, we
should hate all the people that dwell
in that Paradise. But we love while
we envy them ; and have only to
hope that they are all grateful to
Providence. Here are we cooped
up in a cage — a tolerably roomy
one, we confess — while our old
friends, the North of England eagles,
are flying over the mountains. The
thought is enough to break a weaker
heart. But one of the principal
points in Christopher's creed is —
" Pine not nor repine ;" and perfect
contentment accompanies wisdom.
Three lovely sisters often visit the
old man's city-solitude — Memory,
Imagination, Hope ! 'T would be
hard to say which is the most beau-
tiful. Memory has deep, dark, quiet
eyes, and when she closes their light,
the long eyelashes lie like shadows
on her pale pensive cheeks, that
smile faintly as if the fair dreamer
were half-awake and half-asleep; a
visionary slumber which sometimes
the dewdrop melting on its leaf

VOL, XXXT. NO, CXCV.

will break, sometimes not the thun-
der-peal with all its echoes. Imagi-
nation is a brighter and a bolder
Beauty, with large lamping eyes of
uncertain colour, as if fluctuating
with rainbow-light, and features fine,
it is true, as those which Grecian
genius gave to the Muses in the
Parian marble, but in their daring
delicacy defined like the face of
Apollo. As for Hope — divinest of
the divine — Collins, in one long line
of light, has painted the picture of
the angel —

" And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved
her golden hair !"

Thus is the old man happy as a
humming-bird. He sits on the bal-
cony of his front parlour, dimly dis-
cerned by the upward eye of stranger,
while whispers Cicerone — " this is
thehouse" — dimly discerned through
flowers ; while the river of his spi-
rit " wandereth at its own sweet
will" through all the climes of crea-
tion. At this blessed moment he is
sitting, at the leaf-veiled, half-open
window, pen in hand — pen made of
quill of Albatross, sent him from afar
by one whom Maga delighteth be-
yond the Great Deep,— and lo !
Edina's castled cliff becomes the
Langdale-Pikes — Moray Place, Win-
derm ere— Stockbridge, Bowness —
and No, 99 the ENDEAVOUR, on the
SK

858

Christopher at the Lakes. Flight First. [June,

The squadron enters the Straits—
and we see now but here and there
gaff -topsail -peak, or ensign, gli-
ding or streaming along the woods
of the Isle called Beautiful; while
hark, the merry church tower-bells

First of May re-launched from her
heather-house on the bay-marge, her
hull bright as Iris, and yellow her
light-ringed raking masts, now hid-
den on a sudden by the unfolding of
her snow-white wings, as Condor-
like she flies to meet her mate, the
VICTORY, coming down along the
woods of the Beautiful Isle under a
cloud of sail !

What! can this be Regatta-day,
and is there to be a race for a cup
or colours ? Not for that radical rag,
the Tricolor, but for St George's En-
sign, or the

" Silver Cross, to Scotland dear" —

bright mimicry woven by lovely
hands of the famous Flag, that

« has braved a thousand years,

The battle and the breeze."

Bowness Bay is the rendezvous for
the Fleet. And lo! from all the
x airts come flocking in the sunshine
flights of felicitous wide-winged crea-
tures, whose snow-white lustre, in
bright confusion hurrying to and
fro, adorns, disturbs, and dazzles the
broad blue bosom of the Queen of
Lakes. Southwards from forest Fell-
Foot beneath the Beacon-hill, ga-
thering glory from the silvan bays
of green Graithwaite, and the tem-

n" i promontory of stately Stores,
ore the sea-borne wind, the wild
swans, all, float up the watery vale
of beauty and of peace. Out from
that still haven, overshadowed by
the Elm-grove, where the old Par-
sonage sleeps, comes the EMMA mur-
muring from the water-lilies, and as
her mainsail rises to salute the sun-
shine, in proud impatience lets go
her anchor the fair GAZELLE. As
if to breathe themselves before the
start, cutter and schooner in amity
stand across the ripple, till their
gaffs seem to cut the sweet woods
of Furness-fells, and they put about
—each on less than her own length
— ere that breezeless bay may shew,
among the inverted umbrage, the
drooping shadows of their canvass.
Lo ! Swinburne the Skilful sallies
from his pebbly pier, in his tiny
skiff, that seems all sail; and the
Norway NAUTILUS, as the wind slack-
ens, leads the van of the Fairy squa-
dron which heaven might now cover
with one of her small clouds, did
she choose to drop it from the sky.

hail the Victory, gathering the green
shore round rushy Cockshut-point ;
and lo ! ere you could count your
fingers, the whole Southern Fleet is
in Bowness Bay, now filled with
light, music, and motion, glorifying
the day, as if meridian yet bore in
its bold bosom all the beauty of
morn.

But what means that exulting
cheer, while all the hats and hand-
kerchiefs of the village are waving
along the beach ? Ha! slips from her
moorings, between garden and rock,
with no other emblazonry but the
union-jack at the peak of her main-
sail, bold and bright as that bird when
he has bathed his pinions in sun and
sea, the swift-shooting OSPREY. Helm
down — Garnet ! if you wish not to
be capsized— for ere yet the snow-
wreaths have garlanded your cut-
water, a squall — a squall ! Bearing
up withouten fear in the pitchy black-
ness, the Osprey suddenly shews to
the sunshine the whole breadth of
her wings— hark ! they for a moment
rustle, but they flap not— and then
right in the wind's eye she goes, dis-
dainful of the tempest that sweeps
past her on her foamy path, steady
as a star.

From Kirkstone and Rydal Cove,
the clouds disparting let loose the
northern winds, who have been
lunching in those saloons after their
journey from Scotland, which they
left soon after sunrise— and hovering
a little while delighted over Amble-
side, the Village of the Pine-Groves,
they join the fresh Family of Favo-
nius, blowing and blooming in their
flight from the Great and Green
Gabels, where all the summer long
are singing the waterfalls. All the
boats at Waterhead had been lying for
hours on their shadows; but now, just
as a peal of rock-blast thunder from
Langdale Quarry sends a sound mag-
nificent, by way of signal gun,the black
and white'buoys are all left bobbing by
themselves on the awakened waves,
and the astonished Lakers on Lo wood
Bowline-green behold an Aquatic
Procession of sails and serpents, as
if some strong current in the middle

1832.]

Christopher at the Lakes. Flight First.

of the lake were bearing at ten knots
the gaudy pomp along — for not a
breath fans the brows of the gazers
from the shade of tent or tree, the
winds being all in love with Winder-
mere, and a-murmur on her breast,
leaving on either shore, without a
touch, the unrustling richness of the
many-coloured woods.

Broad between Bell-Grange and
Miller-Ground — with no isle to break
the breadth of liquid lustre — but
with an isle anchored to windward, on
whose tall trees are seen sitting some
cormorants — broadest of all its bend-
ing length from the Giants of Bra-
thay to the humble holms of Landing,
where in mild metamorphosis it nar-
rows itself into a river, the lucid
Leven — lies the bosom of Winder-
mere. 'Tis a tightish swim across —
experto crede Christophero — from
the chapel-like farmhouse, half-hid-
den among the groves that enzone
Greenbank on the eastern, to the
many-windowed villa that keeps
perpetually staring up into Trout-
beck, on the western shore. Gazing
on it from some glade in the Calgarth-
woods, you might say it was the
Upper Lake ; for the Isle called
Beautiful seems to lie across the
waters from Furness- Fells to the
church- tower of Bowness, and in-
tercepts all the sweet scenery beyond
the Ferry-House — though there is no
danger of your forgetting it — seeing
that you have got it by heart. Here
then is the Mediterranean — and lo !
the Mediterranean Fleet! The
Grand Fleet I For seven squadrons
have formed a junction — and it con-
sists of thirty sail— all of the line—
the line of peace.

No shape so beautiful as the crescent
— " sharpening its mooned horns."
So thinks that living fleet. See how
it is bending itself into Dian's bow
—and gliding along too, like that ce-
lestial motion. Still liker must it
seem to the eyes of the Naiads, now
all looking up from their pleasant
palaces through water pure as air.
But you look now at the flags, and
your thoughts are of the rainbow.
And like the rainbow it breaks into
pieces. 'Tis confusion all. No— out
of momentary seeming disorder
arises perfect regularity ; — and in two
Divisions,— with the NIL TIMEO and
her train of barges between, lady-
laden, and moving in music,— the

859

Grand Fleet is standing on, under
easy sail, bound dreamward, so it is
felt, for some port in Paradise.

We have often promised that Maga
should, in a few pages, give a guide
to the Lakes. All we want to do,
gentle lover of Nature, is to land
you in the Region of Delight, and
with a few directions, from which
you will deviate as frequently and
as far as you please, to send you
with our blessing, like pilgrims to-
wards her shrine among the sacred
mountains.

Lets us begin soberly then with
WJNDERMERE. For our sake, and
its own, love Bowness. There is not
in all the world a more cheerful old
church. The tower has ceased to
deplore the death of her noble pine-
trees, and ever looks lovingly down
on the limber larches that here and
there break the line of the low laurel -
wreathed churchyard wall. In the
heart of the lively village, pleasant
is the Place of Tombs. 'Tis a village
of villas. Yet the native Westmore-
land cottages keep their ancient sites
still, nor, entrenched within their
blossoming orchards, seem to heed
the gay intruders. Lo ! on every
knoll above and around " the Port,"
proud of its own peculiar architec-
ture, a pretty edifice. We find fault
with nothing there — houses nor their
inhabitants — the cut of their coats,
nor the shapes of their chimneys —
their faces nor their figures, though
some of these are droll enough ; and
as for the Westmoreland dialect, it
wants but to be accompanied with
the Scotch accent, to be the language
of gods and goddesses. Pretty nymphs
peep out of latticed windows and
porched doors ; nor could Camilla's
self, had her feet been clogged like
their's, have clattered more neatly
across the blue-slate floors of their
parlour-kitchens. 'Tis impossible to
imagine any mode more elegant than
their's of tying up their hair ; and
the maidens, with a natural grace-
fulness, can put on and off their
large shady bonnets, pink-lined and
rosy-ribanded, without disarranging
the snooded trefoil in its glossiness
crowned mayhap with a comb of
ivory ; auburn, mind ye— not red—
for though to vulgar eyes there is a
constant confusion of these two co-
lours, different in nature are they,
a« a bunch of carrots on a stall, and

Christopher at the Lakes. Flight First. [Ju ne,

half-a-dozen places at one time; and
should he happen to be at Lowood,
Waterhead, the Ferry, and Newby-
bridge, you will be in good hands
should you for the day engage Tom
or Jack Stevenson. There is no such
thing as a bad boat on Windermere.
The SNAIL herself would have been
in the superlative on the pond in
your " policy ;" but we entreat you
just to cast your eye on these wher-
ries. You are a Cockney,we presume,
and you talk of the Thames. Why,
that craft there — lying on the green-
sward— in Mr Colinson's field yon-
der— with her bottom in the sun-
shine— for she is about to get a soap-
ing— some call her the Nonpareil,
and .some the Grashopper — Billy's
deaf nephew's chef d'ceuvre — and
he is the lad to lay a plank — if pull-
ed by the Stewartsons, we would
back for fifty against any thing at any
of the Stairs, and you -may take
Campbell and Williams for your
skulls. We remember the first
Thames wherry that ever shewed
her rowlocks in Bowness Bay —
and did not Will Garnett and our-
selves give her the go-by like wink-
ing round the rock of Pull-wyke, in
Cowan's Swift? But that is an old
story — and the famous Swift was the
precursor of a race of Rapids that
now shoot like sunbeams along the
Lake.

If you are so fortunate as to be
yet a bachelor, take a wherry or a
skiff — if a Benedick, then embark
with Betsy and the brats in that bum-
boat, and Billy, with a grave face, will
pull you all away round by the back
of the Great Island, and in among the
small ones, requesting you with much
suavity to pay particular attention to
the Lily of the Valley, and ere long
landingyou at the Ferry-house, where
he can be assisting at the tap of a
new barrel, while in a family way
your worthy woman and you are
ascending the hill to the STATION, co-
vered with laurels. But 'tis unne-
cessary to give you any farther in-
structions— for we perceive lying in
the stern a three-year-old number
of Ebony — and you have only to- act
over that " DAY ON WINDERMERE."

We remember a man in a coach,
but forget his face and name, who, of
all the Lakes, asserted most strenu-
ously that the most beautiful was
COMSTON. After a few miles we

860

the

en the crest of the golden oak

Having strolled, but not stared,
through the village, — for quiet steps
should have quiet eyes, and such
will see more in an hour than in a
year a traveller who behaves like a
surveyor of window-lights, and looks
at every domicile as if he were going
to tax— nay, to surcharge it — step
up to the hill behind the school-
house, and ask your own stilled or
stirred heart what it thinks of Win-
dermere,
" Wooded Winandermere, the river lake !"

That is a line of our own ; and we
cannot help feeling, even at this dis-
tance, that it is characteristic. All
the islands you see lie together, as
if they loved one another, and that
part of the Mere which is their birth-
place. No wonder. Saw ye ever
such points and promontories — capes
and headlands — and, above all, such
bays ? In lovelier undulations lay not
the lands, where

" Southward through Eden went a river
large,"

than the banks and braes of WINDER-
MERE, from Fell-foot to Brathay ; but
the spirit of beauty seems concen-
trated between Storrs and Calgarth,
diffusing itself so as to embrace El-
leray and Orerstead apart on their
own happy hills, yet feeling them-
selves, and felt by others, to belong
to the Lake on which glad would
they be to fling their shadows ; and
sometimes they do so, for reflection
and refraction are two beautiful mys-
teries, and we have ourselves twice
seen, with our own very eyes, those
happy hills, those happy houses, and
those happy horses, and cows, and
sheep, hanging among

" all that uncertain heaven received
Into the bosom of the steady Lake ;"

but that miracle must be rare— -in all
ordinary. atmospheres those delight-
ful dwellings are out of the reach of
that Mirror, which seems not, in the
midst of all the shadowy profusion,
to miss the loveliness that would ren-
der more celestial still that evanes-
cent world of enchantment.

After Christopher North, the best
guide on Windermere, unquestion-
ably, is Billy Balmer. But Billy can
not, any more than a bird, be at abov

1832.]

Christopher at the Lakes. Flight First.

became curious to know the reason
of his passionate predilection for
that respectable sheet of water —
when, putting his mouth close to
our ear, he enunciated in a low but
distinct and confidential whisper —
" Char ! Sir ! Oh ! those incompa-
rable Char ! They are the fish for
my money, sir — Oh ! Char I Char !
Char !"

But, independently even of Char !
Char ! Char ! CONISTON is a good
Lake. Nay, the fundamental fea-
tures of the OLD MAN of the Moun-
tains, especially when seen at sun-
rise, may be safely said to be su-
blime. But you must forget Win-
dermere, before you can feel this
her sister Lake to be very beautiful,
and you never will for a moment
suppose them Twins. It is easy,
however, to forget Windermere ; for
the divinest things of earth are those
of which, in ordinary moods, the
soul soonest loses hold ,• so, having
crost the FERRY, lay yourself back
in the corner of your carriage, and
smoke a cigar. In a few minutes
your mind, will be in a mood of
amiable and equable composure, al-
most approaching stupidity ; and by
the time you reach HAWKSHEAD you
will be a fit companion for the man
in the boat, and may be croaking in
soliloquy— Char ! Char ! Char ! The
country between the Ferry-house
and Hawkshead is of the most plea-
sant and lively character — not un-
like an article in Maga — full of ups
and downs — here smooth and culti-
vated— there rough and rocky — pas-
ture alternating with corn-fields, ca-
priciously as one might think, but
for good reasons known to them-
selves— cottages single, or in twos
and threes, naturally desirous to see
what is stirring, keep peeping over
their neatly-railed front-gardens at
the gentleman in a yellow post-chay
— and as he thrusts his head out of
the window to indulge in a final spit
that might challenge America, his
sense of beauty is suddenly -kin-
dled by the sight of sweet ESTH-
WAITE, whose lucid waters have, all
unknown to that lover of the pic-
turesque, been for a quarter of a mile
reflecting his vehicle, and the small
volume of cigar- smoke ever and anon
puffed forth as he moves along among
the morning reek of the stationary
cottages. Nothing pleasanter than

861

" A momentary sliock of mild surprise j"
and our traveller becomes at once
poetical on the stately church-tower
of the clustering village, bethinking
himself fancifully of Hen and Chick-
ens. Perhaps it is market-day morn-
ing ; and the narrow streets are made
almost impassable by bevies of moun-
tain nymphs, sweet liberties, with
cheeks lovely bright as the roses that
are now letting slip the few unmelt-
ed dewdrops from the glow-heaps
clustering in the eye of nature around
the now lifeless porch of many a
mountain-dwelling, deserted at dawn,
but to be refilled with mirth and mu-
sic at meridian; for all purchases of
household gear are over long before
dinner-time. This is not Hawkshead
Fair, and there is no dance at even-
ing ; nay, man and wife are already
jogging homewards, in the good old
fashion, on long-backed Dobbin ;
lasses are tripping over bank and
brae, unaccompanied by their sweet-
hearts j and shrill laughter is wafted
away into the coppice woods by the
wicked, that is, innocent gypsies, as
they fling a kiss to you, enamoured
Cockney, wheeling along at the rate
of eight miles an hour, and fifteen
pence a mile, thereby shewing you
how much dearer to their hearts than
man's love at times is woman's
friendship. The Lancashire Witches!
What's here ! 'Tis a profound abyss
— and for a little while you see nought
distinctly — only a confused glimmer
of dim objects, that, as you continue
to gaze, grow into fields, and hedge-
rows, and single trees, and clumps,and
groves, and woods, and houses send-
ing up unwavering smoke-wreaths,
and cattle in pastures green as eme-
rald,allbusy atlong-protracted break-
fast, and people moving about at la-
bour or at leisure, an indolent and an
industrious world — and lo ! now that
your eyes, soon familiarized with the
unexpected spectacle, have put forth
their full power of vision, distinguish-
able from all the material beauty,
serenely smiles towards you, as if to
greet the stranger, the almost imma-
terial being of an isleless Lake !

That is CONISTON. Now that you
see the Lake, for a while you see
nothing else— nothing but the pure
bright water and the setting of its sil-
van shores. So soothed is the eye,
that the eye itself is the same as one's
very soul. Seeing is happiness ; and

Christopher at the Lakes. Flight First.

862

the whole day is felt to be, as Words-
worth finely says,

" One of those heavenly days that cannot

die."

Never-never may it pass away— so
profound the peace, that it is belie-
ved in the spirit's bliss to be immor-
tal— the heavens are more heavenly
in those mysterious depths — more
celestially calm the clouds hang there
unapproachable to sky-borne airs—-
alas! alas! the whole world of ima-
gination is gone in a moment, and as
a gust goes sughing over the gloom
that blackens above" the bed of fugi-
tive lustre, you think of the man in
the coach, without face or name, and
cry with that sagest of bagmen, —
" Char is the fish for my money —
char ! char ! char !"

And you have them potted to
breakfast — nay, not only potted —
but one " larger than the largest
size" fried— while his flesh of pink
or crimson — we confuse the names
of colours, but not the colours
themselves— blushes like the dawn-
ing of morn through the cloudlike
skin-flakes that, not only edible, but
delicious, browned and buttered,
make part and portion of a feast
such as Neptune never granted to
Apicius, though that insatiate Ro-
man caused search for fish all the
bosom-secrets of the finny sea.

The Inn at Coniston Waterhead is
a pleasant Inn. Sitting in this par-
lour one might almost imagine him-
self in the cabin of a ship, moored in
some lovely haven of some isle in
the South Seas. But a truce to
fancy—and let this brawny boat-
man, with breast like the back of
an otter, row us down the Lake,
while we keep poring on the break-
ing air-bells, and listening to the
clank and the clank's echo of the
clumsiest couple of oars that were
ever stuck on pins, and which, if
found lying by themselves in a wood,
would puzzle the most ingenious to
conjecture what end in this world
they might have been designed by
art or nature to serve — for not a
man in a million would suspect
them to be oars. Yet the barge,
glad to have got rid of some tons of
slate, by those muscular arms is pro-
look ! how the Inn has retired with
all its sycamores far back in among
the mountains. Here is an old al-
manack—let us see who were minis-

[June,

ters during that year. Poo ! poo !
a set of sumphs. Over the many
thousand names pompously printed
on these pages, and not a few enno-
bled by numerals, setting forth the
amount of their pensions, and by
italics telling the dignity of their of-
fices, the eye wanders in vain that it
may fix itself on that of one truly
great man !

Or, shall we peruse some poetry
we have in our pocket? No, no-
print cannot bear comparison with
those lines of light, scintillating
from shore to shore, drawn by the
golden fingers of the sun, the most
illustrious of authors, setting but to
outshine himself, and on every reap-
pearance as popular as before, though
Dan repeats himself more audacious-
ly than Sir Walter. All we have to
do is to keep our eyes open ; at
least not to fall quite asleep. If the
senses slumber not, neither will the
soul, and broad awake will they be
together, though dim apparently,
and still as death. Images enter of
themselves into the spirit's sanctuary
through many mysterious avenues
which misery alone shuts up, or
converts into blind alleys; but no
obstruction impedes their entrance
when filled with the air of joy, and
they wend their way to the brain,
which sends notice of their arrival
to the sentiments slumbering in the
heart. Then all the chords of our be-
ing are in unison, and life is music.
But who would have thought it ? we
are at the very foot of the Lake — and
suppose we send back our barge to
order dinner at six, which most un-
accountably we forgot to do — that
char must have been at the bottom
of our forgetfulness— and stretch
our legs a bit by a walk up Conis-
ton-water, by the eastern shore.
You may take the western, if you
choose — but stop a bit — let our
barge gather the shore, and take us
in again at any point at the waving
of a signal — so that we may thus
command the choice of both banks —
beginning with yonder rocky knoll
above Nibthwaite — that most rural of
villages and farms — for from it, and
several eminences beyond it, the
Coniston mountains are seen in full
glory and grandeur. Nobody can
calculate the effects of a few pro-
montories. From some places the
shores of this Lake look common-
place enough ; almost straight — and

1832.]

Christopher at the Lakes. Flight First.

you long for something to break the
tame expanse of water. But here —
are you not surprised and delighted
to see those two promontories pro-
jecting finely and boldly across the
Lake, changing its whole character
from monotony into variety infinite,
while two simple lines seem to alter
the position of the far-off mountains ?
The broadest is our favourite — ter-
minated nobly by steep rocks, and
wearing a diadem of woods. We
have seen them both insulated — and
a stranger seeing them for the first
time when the lake was high, would
doubt not that they were permanent
islands.

But they are bedimmed by the
shadows of those large clouds which
seem to be dropping a few hints of
thunder ; and see ! my dear boy !
beyond them, another far-projecting
promontory lifting up its two emi-
nences in the sunshine, and forming
a noble bay, itself a lake. In five mi-
nutes you might believe you were
looking at another Mere. Ah ! we re-
member poor dear Green's vivid de-
scription of the scene now before
our eyes, in those two volumes of
his — labours of love — in which he
has said a few kind words of almost
every acre in the three counties.
" The water here is pleasantly em-
bayed, and Peel Island, beyond which
little of the lake is seen, stretches
boldly towards the western shore,
beyond which green fields, rocks,
woods, and scatterings of trees, har-
moniously diluting into pretty dera-
tions, are seen — a few fishermen's
cottages and farmhouses give life to
the scene; above which, an awful
elevation, you see the Man-Moun-
tain, or, as it is more frequently call-
ed, the Old Man, beyond which is the
summit of the greater Carrs, which,
with Enfoot on the right, and Dove
Crag on the left, are the principal
features of this admirable range ;" —
and heavens and earth what colour-
ing ! Nor Claude nor Poussin ever
worshipped such an " aerial me-
dium." We think we hear the spirit
of the enthusiastic artist whisper in
our ears his own impassioned words
— " Hills and rocks, woods and trees,
and the haunts of men, by the all-
clarifying rays of the sun, are drag-
ged from purple obscurity, andpaint-
ed in burnished gold."

Looking long on water always

863

makes us exceedingly sleepy; and
we have our suspicions — shrewd
ones — that we have been taking a nap
on this knoll — a siesta beneath the sy-
camores. Nothing so good for a rou-
ser as a range of mountains. As the
eye traverses them, the limbs feel as
if they clomb, and the whole man
like a shepherd starting from slum-
ber in his plaid to seek the sheep-
paths on the greensward that sweeps
round the bases of the hawk-haunted
cliffs. The Char of Coniston— let
the anonymous man in the coach,
without any particular expression of
face, say what he will — are less il-
lustrious than her mountains. They
belong to her, and she to them — and
whom God hath joined not all the
might of man may sunder. She is
wedded, for ever and aye, to her own
OLD MAN ; and bright and beauteous
bride though she seem to be — not
yet out of her teens — 'tis thousands
of years ago since their union was
consummated during an earthquake.

And must we confess that Conis-
ton may bear comparison even with
Windermere ? She may ; else had
not the image — the idea of the Queen
of Lakes now painted itself on the
retina of our eye-soul, till our heart
beat within our bosom, as if we were
but three-and-twenty, and over head
and ears in love with some angel.
Such comparisons are celestial. And
out of two Lakes arises a third, a
perfect Poem, which, the moment
the Reform Bill is Burked, we shall
assuredly publish, and forthwith take
our place with Thomson and Words-
worth, with our heads striking the
stars.

Each Lake hath its promontories,
that, every step you walk, every stroke
you row, undergo miraculous meta-
morphoses, accordant to the " change
that comes o'er the spirit of your
dream," as your imagination glances
again over the transfigured moun-
tains. Each Lake hath its Bays of
Bliss, where might ride at her moor-
ings, made of the stalks of water-
lilies, the Fairy Bark of a spiritual
life. Each Lake hath its hanging
terraces of immortal green, that,
along her shores run glimmering far
down beneath the superficial sun-
shine, when the Poet in his becalmed
canoe among the lustre could fondly
swear by all that is most beautiful
on earth, in air, and in water, that

Christopher at the Lakes. Flight First.

864

these Three are One, blended as they
arc by the interfusing spirit of hea-
venly peace. Each Lake hath its en-
chantments, too, belonging to this
our mortal, our human world — the
dwelling-places, beautiful to see, of
virtuous poverty, in contentment ex-
ceeding rich — whose low roofs are
reached by roses spontaneously
springing from the same soil that
yields to strenuous labour the sus-
tenance of a simple life. Each Lake
hath its Halls, as well as its huts —
its old hereditary halls (Coniston
Hall! Calgarth Hall! seats of the
Le Flemings and the Phillipsons, in
their baronial pride!) solemn now,
and almost melancholy, among the
changes that for centuries have been
imperceptibly stealing upon the a-
bodes of prosperous men — but merry
of yore, at all seasons of the year, as
groves in spring; nor ever barred
your hospitable doors, that, in the
flinging aside, grated no "harsh thun-
der," but almost silent, smiled the
stranger in, like an opening made
by some gentle wind into the glad
sky among a gloom of clouds.

Now, as that honest Jack Tar. said
of the scenery of the stage on which
Parry's crew got up plays, when
snugly benighted for months in their
good ship among the polar snow —
" I call that philosophy." And its
principle should be applied to all
criticism of character — conduct —
countenance — figure — and the Fine
Arts. You have two friends, and
you hear their respective merits dis-
cussed in a mixed company — which
has always a decided leaning to the
censorious. The euloglums on the
good qualities of the one are mani-
festly meant for libels on the suppo-
sed bad or indifferent qualities of the
other ; and, by and by, certain virtues
of the other, or pretty points in his
character, are enlarged on with ac-
companying candid admissions, that,
on taking into account not a little
vicious or repulsive about the one,
there is not much to choose between
the two — and thus you leave off with
an equally poor opinion of Damon
and Pythias. The talk turns upon
two pretty girls — rival beauties; and
an elderly gentleman so plays off the
face of Phyllis against the figure of
Medora, that the only conclusion to
be legitimately drawn from his pre-
mises is, that the one is a dowdy,

[June,

and the other a rantipole. Or the
prosing is about a pair of poets ; and
a pompous person, with the appear-
ance of a sub-editor, perpetrates such
an elaborate parallel, proving that
one bard has no taste and the other
no genius, that you begin to be per-
plexed with the most fearful suspi-
cions that neither of them has either,
and are obliged at last to set both
down as a brace of blockheads. The
truth being, all the while, that Damon
and Pythias are not only faithful
friends, but famous fellows ; that
Phyllis and Medora are equally god-
desses— this the Venus Anadyomene,
and that the Medicean ; and that the
poets, who had come insuch question-
able shapes thatyou felt inclined to cut
them, were Spenser and Wordsworth,
whom you now see sometimes sailing,
sometimes rowing in the same boat —
and sometimes, without aid of sheet
or oar, dropping down the river with
the tide, each in his own vessel, and
casting anchor together amicably off
the Nore, where, in the distance, they
loom like Four-deckers.

We are sorry that we cannot j oin the
dinner-party at the New Inn, Conis-
ton Waterhead, being engaged at Pen-
ny-bridge; but before seeing you into
your barge, which is crawling along
there like a crocodile, and now that
we have hailed her, rushing like a
rhinoceros, we shall advise you how
to spend the afternoon and the even-
ing. Stroll into Yewdale and Til-
berth waite — and without a guide.
The main-road is easily lost and easi-
ly found ; and it is delightful to di-
verge— as you dauner alang — into
tributary paths, some of them almost
as wide as the main current, which
in truth is but narrowish, and still
retaining marks of the wood-cart-
wheels, or the cars of the charcoal-
burners — and others slender as if
made — which is probably the case-
by hares limping along at dawn or
evening — and leading you sometimes
into a greenery of glade, and some-
times into a bloomery of sweet-bri-
ars, and sometimes into a brownery
beneath an aged standard's shade,
where, lying down on the moss, you
may dream yourself into a Druid.

True, that a rivulet winds through
Yewdale; but as you have lately
been rather gouty, and are still sorne-
Avhat rheumatic, pray plunge in, and
you will seldom find the water much

183-2.]

Christopher at the Lake's. Flight First.

865

above the waistband of your express-
ibles — breeches. Mild as milk flows
the soothing stream — in temperature
so nearly the same as the summer
air, that ere you are half across, you
know not, but by the pressure on
your knees, that you are in the wa-
ter. What has become of you, my
friend ? Abuse not the bank for be-
ing treacherous — it has violated no
trust — broken no promise ; but the
beautiful brown gravel,
" Mild as the plumage on the pheasant's

breast,"

has been hanging by a precarious
tenure over that " shelving plum" —
as says that old Scottish ballad of
the Mermaid — and you are suddenly
in her embraces. And now that you
rise to the surface, we assure you on
our word of honour, that never be-
fore saw we you so like a salmon — beg
your pardon — an otter. Nankeens in
less than no time dry in the sun-
shine. At present you are yellow
as ochre — but by and by will be
whitish as of yore ; you are drying
visibly to the naked eye ; why, you
are like a very wild-drake who flaps
himself out from the tarn, and up
into the air — crying Quack, quack,
quack — as merrily as a moistened
horn sounding a reveillie !

Yewdale is but a small place — a
swallow, all the while catching flies,
could circle it in two minutes— that
hawk — do you see him — has shot
through it in one — but then it is inter-
sected by all the lines of beauty, and
circumscribed by all the lines of gran-
deur. We have a sketch-book — of
some threescore pages — filled with
views of Yewdale — and they might
be multiplied by threescore — nor
yet contain a tithe of its enchant-
ments. Walk for a few seconds
with your eyes shut, and on opening
them, you find they are kaleido-
scopes. The houses are very few in
number, but virtually many ; and
seem to have not only sloping but sli-
ding roofs. You create new cottages
at every step out of the old materials
— yet they all in succession wear
the grey or green garb of age, or hoary
are they in an antiquity undecay-
ed ; and when the sunshine smites
them, cheerful look they in their so-
lemnity among younger dwellings,
like sages smiling on striplings, and
in their lifefulness forgetting all
thoughts and feelings that appertain

to death. So for trees — you see at
once that every sycamore-clump is
cotemporary with its cottage —
here and there among the coppice-
woods, a noble single stem has been
suffered to wear his crown sacred
from the woodman's axe — tortuous
and grotesque shoots the ash from
the clefts of the rocks, long ago in-
capable of being pollarded— beloved
by bjackbirds, the bright holly beats
his yew-brother black and blue —
and the pensile birch— say not that
she weeps — looks on the gloaming
like a veiled nun — as we in mid-day
do like a ninny for saying so—for
the truth is, that she is the mother of
a fair family at her feet, at this mo-
ment waving their hair in the sun-
shine, on a small plot of greensward
inaccessible to the nibbling of sheep,
hare, or cony, but free to the visit
of the uninjuring bee, that steals
ere sunrise but the honey-dew that
sparkles on the fragrant tresses. In
spite of the associations connected
with some of our earliest and most
painful impressions, we all of us
love the birch — and especially poets
— though of all children that ever
were fathers of men — they bear, in
general,such impressions the deepest,
and could exhibit, if need were, their
most ineffaceable traces !

Of Tiiberthwaite, again, " much
might be said on both sides," espe-
cially the right, as you walk up it from
Yewdale. We prefer it to the Pass
over the Simplon — just as we prefer
a miniature picture of the Swiss Gi-
antess to the giantess herself — an
eyeful for one to an armful for ten.
Our mind and its members are, like
our body and its members, but of
moderate dimensions — its arms are
unfit for a vast embrace. No woman
in humble life should be above five
feet five, and a mountain ought to be
in the same proportion ; what that is
we leaveyou to discover who have not
yet been in Tiiberthwaite. The rule to
go by with respect to a precipice is,
that it be sufficiently high to ensure
any living thing being dashed into
nothing, in the event of falling from
summit to base j but not so high as
to make it impossible for ordinary
optics to see the commencement of
the catastrophe. For these purposes,
we should think fifteen hundred feet
an adequate height; particularly with
a rocky bottom. Hawks and kite*>

866

command cliffs of that class, as they
shoot and shriek across the chasms,
or soaring above them all, look down
into the cataracted abysses from their
circles in the sky. But when the rocky
range is loftier far, to you who look
up like a mouse from below, they
seem like sparrows — or the specks
evanish. True that an Eagle re-
quires—demands three thousand feet
at the lowest — but the Royal is a
reasonable Bird, and is as well satis-
fied with his eyrie on Benevis as on
Chimborazo. The Condor can cry
where you could not sneeze — can
live for ages where you could not
breathe an instant — can shoot swift-
er horizontally when forty thou-
sand feet high, than you could drop
dead by decades down to the highest
habitation of men above the level of
the sea. But the Condor is a vulture.
We love him not — though he was
the Roc, no doubt, of the Arabian
Nights, and of Sinbad the Sailor.

Try Tilberthwaite, then, by the
Test Act, and few places indeed
will be found superior for the pur-
poses of poetry. You feel yourself
well shut out and in among cliff and
cloud; and though a cheerful and
chatty companion when the " glass
is at fair"— is he, the rivulet— "down
by yonder," in some of whose pools
no angler ever let drop a fly — yet, after
a night's rain, he is an ugly customer,
and would make no bones of a bridge.
By and by there is an end of preci-
pices ; and you get in among heights
all covered with coppice-wood mag-
nificently beautiful ; ever and anon
the vast debris shot from slate-
quarries, still working, or worked
out, giving a chaotic character to the
solitude.

Some people will, on no account
whatever, if they can help it, return
the way they came ; and such, hav-
ing once turned their backs on Co-
niston, will pass through Tilberth-
waite, impatient to get into little
Langdale, half-forgetful of all the
grandeur and the loveliness they
have ungratefully left behind among
the woods and rocks. But you are
not people of that character; so
right-about-face, and back with the
wind in your bosom — how delicious !
— along the same five multitudi-
nous miles, " alike, but oh ! how dif-
ferent!" enjoying the long gloaming
.—till again the Lake of Coniston

Christopher at the Lakes. Flight First.

[June,

lios before you in undazzling lustre,
and, looking upwards in your hap-
piness, you behold rising without a
halo the bright Queen of Night !

" Early to bed, and early to rise,
Is the way to be healthy, wealthy, and
wise."

And you are up next morning at four.
A cup of coffee, made in a moment
of a tea-spoonful of Essence, and a
biscuit, and you are broad awake,
and fit to face the mountains. You
set out to walk up towards heaven,
as if to meet the sun.

The OLD MAN expects you to
breakfast — SEATHWAITE Chapel to
dinner — and supper will be ready
for you in the parlour, where you
have slept on a sofa-bed. For a
mile you pace the lovely level of the
lake, and then, leaving the church and
bridge of Coniston, you commence
the ascent to LEVERS WATER. The
road is steep and irregular ; and ere-
long, on turning round, you will dis-
cern, beyond the lake, stretching
westward from the mouth of the
river Leven, a long stripe of sea.
The copper-mines are passed, and
in an hour or so — after having mas-
tered easily about two miles of as-
cent— you reach the north side of
Levers Water, a tarn that is justly
proud of its rocks. From it there is
a road to Low Water, a little lake
just under the Old Man; and the
devil's own road it is — only more
difficult to find. But to-day you
have a guide with you ; and in about
half an hour you bathe your fore-
head in the liquid gloom. We know-
not how it is with you, but in ascend-
ing long rough steeps we are very
sulky ; silence is then with us the
order of the day, and we set down
him who breaks it by interrogatory
— ejaculations are venial— a block-
head for life. Two great slate quar-
ries, east and west of the Old Man,
are seen near its summit, and from
Low Water the guide will conduct
you to the eastern one, and thence
to the top of the Man. We know
not if either be worked now; the
western quarry has been silent for
fifty years— and its brother may have
given up the ghost. Green, in a few
words, gives the character of such
a place : " It was then in high work-
ing-condition— it was one grand scene
of tinkling animation, noisy concus-

1832.]

Christopher at the Lakes. Flight Firtt.

867

sion, and thundering explosion. But
now all is at rest ; the aspiring cliff
has tumbled to the area, and inva-
ded it with rubbish so ponderous as
to make all future attempts at profit
useless." You have surveyed, not
without awe, these magnificent ex-
cavations so high in heaven, so-
lemn but not gloomy, like temples
of the sun, or sacred to the winds ;
and now, having reached the sum-
mit, you make your obeisance to the
Old Man, and glance your eyes hur-
riedly over his kingdom.

We have never been able to sym-
pathize with the luxury of that almost
swooning sickness, that assails the
stranger in Switzerland, some ten or
twelve thousand feet up the side of
Mont Blanc, as the greedy guides
drag the sumph along sinking knee-
deep in the snow — nor with that dif-
ficulty of breathing which alarms the
above sumph with dread of his lungs
being at the last gasp of that rarified
air — nor with the pleasure of bleeding
at nose, ears, and eyes, from causes
which the poor philosopher is after-
wards proud to explain — nor with
that lassitude of soul and body, which
terminates on the top of the achieve-
ment in pitiable prostration of all his
faculties, or in a driveling delirium,
in which the victor laughs and weeps
like a born idiot, his cracked lips co-
vered with sanguinary slaver, from
which no words escape but " Poor
Tom's a-cold !" Pretty pastime for
a Cockney in the region of Eternal
Snow ! Commend us, who are less
ambitious, to a green grassy English
mountain, or a purple he'athery Scotch
one, of such moderate dimensions as
thine— O Coniston Old Man ! There
is some snow, like soap on thy beard ;
but thy chin is a Christian chin — and
that cove is a pretty little dimple,
which gives sweetness to thy smile.
Strong are we on this summit as a
Stag — aye, we are indeed a hearty
old Buck — and there goes our Crutch
.like a rocket into the sky. Hurra!
hurra ! hurra ! Maga and the Old
Man for ever !-— hurra ! hurra ! hurra !
The very first thing some people
do, on reaching the top of a high
mountain, is to unfold a miserable
map — and all maps are miserable,
except Mudge's, which, we believe,
will be happy — and endeavour to
identify each spot on the variegated
scrawl, by reference to the original.

For a while they are sorely puzzled
to accommodate the cracked canvass
to the mighty world, nor know they
whether, in consulting the lying linen
oracle, they should insult the sun, by
turning their back upon him, or by
affronting him in his pride of place.
There is sad confusion for a long
time about the airts, and the per-
plexed " Monarch of all he surveys"
grossly errs in his guesses — parti-
tioning England anew into provinces,
according to a scheme that sets all an-
cient distinctions at defiance. Mean-
while, the poor man, by poring over
the provinces, produces a determi-
nation of blood to the head; and
alarms his friends by an appearance
of apoplexy, which, however, is not
permanent, but gives way to a change
of posture, as soon as the topogra-
pher has been lifted to his feet. The
truth is, that to make any thing of a
map, on the top of a mountain, a man
must have been Senior Wrangler.
'Tis as difficult as to set a Dial in a
garden— an exploit which, judging
by the audacious falsehoods of all
such time-tellers, would appear to be
impossible. The loss of time, too,
in attempting to put your finger ap-
propriately on the Isle of Man, can
be ill afforded on the top of a high
mountain, by a person whose usual
residence is far below ; life is pro-
verbially short ; and to verify Mogg
by the circumference, would be the
work, not of a day but a year.
Pocket the northern counties then ;
and forget the wonders of Art in
those of Nature.

" My soul leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky !"

Leaps up! Seeing the beautiful
apparition from below, the soul, in
the power of its love and joy, is sud-
denly with it in heaven. But our
soul needs not to leap up now—for
we are standing in close connexion
with the cerulean — the celestial con-
cave ; and earth lies far below our
feet. Therefore, our soul leaps down
— not like a chamois — but like a bird
—and that bird an eagle, — who, un-
hungering for aught else but flight,
weighs anchor from the cliff, and
away — away — away — wide over his
wing-commanded world.

How we glory while we gaze!
Not in ourselves — but in all creation.
There is expansion and elevation of

868

Christopher at the Lakes. Fliyht First.

[June,

spirit, yet no pride. Self is the centre
of our joy, but it radiates to the cir-
cumference, shooting out on all sides
bright lines of love over the bound-
less beauty of earth, till imagination
loses itself in what seems the obscure
sublimity of the far off uncertain
sea. Yes! it is the sea! sunshine
brightens the blue deep into belief;
and God be with her on her voyage !
Yonder sails a single ship — for one
moment — gone already — as white as
snow ! But as a blank be ocean and
all her isles. And let us lavish our
loves on these lakes, and vales, and
glens, and plains, and fields and
meadows, woods, groves, gardens,
houses of man and of God — for con-
spicuous yet in every deep-down
dwindled village is the white church-
tower— and the heart blesses that
one little solitary chapel, where you
may see specks that must be sheep,
lying in the burial-place, for there
are no tombstones there, only grassy
heaps !

Nine o' clock o' morning, all through
the year, is a strong hour — and, be
the season what it may, the best time
for breakfast. It is nine now; we
conjecture that we have been gazing
half an hour; so four hours have
been consumed in ascending the Old
Man. You might ascend him from
Coniston Waterhead in two, or less,
were it a matter of life or death ; but
we have been graciously permitted
to be for a month strollers and idlers
on the earth ; and a long day of de-
light is before us, ere thou, O Sun !
shalt be again o'er Langdale Pikes
empurpling the west.
" To-morrow for severer thought— -but

F

or n.
Jonathan — Long Jonathan — best of
guides since old Bobby Partridge died
— disembowel the haversack. You
are a great linguist, Jonathan ; you
have got — the gift of tongues. A
HAM ! None of your minnikin March
chicken for mountain breakfast with
the Old Man of Coniston — these two
are earochs — alias how-towdies —
and the colour contrasts well with
that of a most respectable pair of
ducks. A fillet of veal ? It is. Per-
haps, Jonathan, it may be prudent
to postpone that pigeon pie. Well,
well, take your own way — put it
down alongside that anonymous arti-
cle, and distribute bread.

IMPRIMIS VENKRARE DEOS !
Ere we commence operations,what
would not we give for a smoking
gurgle of ginger-beer, or of Imperial
Pop ! Jonathan — thou Son of Saul —
are these stone-bottles ? How Hun-
ger exults in the extinguishment of
Thirst! There are four of us — we
believe ; so let us first discuss the
cacklers and the quackers — a dimi-
dium to each ; and thus shall we be
enabled, perhaps, to look without
any very painful impatience on the
pigeon-pie; which we ventured hesi-
tatingly to express an opinion might
be postponed — though from that
opinion we retain liberty to diverge,
without incurring the charge of apos-
tasy, should we feel reason to do so
from the state of Parties. There is
no possibility of being gluttonous on
the top of a high mountain. Tem-
perance herself tells you to take the
full length of your tether — to scorn
knife and fork, and draw the spawl
of the how-tOAvdy through the shiver-
de-freeze of your tusks. That tongue
might have been larger, we think,
Jonathan, without incommoding the
mouth of the Stot. The fourth part
of a tongue has an insignificant look ;
— aye — that's right — we prefer the
root to the tip. Why, it tastes like
ham ! It is ham ! You have given
us ham, Jonathan — but we pardon
the mistake— for now that the sur-
prise has subsided, be the ham West-
moreland or Westphalian, a richer
never bore bristle since the progeni-
tor of all porkers descended from
the Ark.

The silence — the stillness — is sub-
lime ! Broken but by the music and
the motion of our jaws. Yet they
too, at intervals, rest ; shut — or wide
open for a few moments, as our eyes,
spiritually withdrawn from that"ma-
terial breakfast," wander round the
visionary horizon, or survey steadily
the lovely landscape, to return with
keener animation to the evanescent
scenery immediately under our nose.
Evanescent !— for tongue and to wdies,
ham and ducks, have disappeared !
The fillet is fast going the way of all
flesh ; and under a fortunate star
indeed must that pigeon-pie have
been baked, if it escape this massacre
of the Innocents.

Tin-lined is the leathern belt round
the shoulders of Jonathan — and 'tis
filled with water from the spring in

1832.]

Christopher at the Lakes. Flight First.

869

that old slate-quarry— and here is a
" horn full of the cold north" The
Cogniac .tames without killing it —
miraculous mixture of Frost and
Fire I And here goes the flash of pre-
servation into our vitals to a sentiment
that can be understood but on the
mountain-top, The Cause of Liberty
— a// OVER THE WORLD.

We are all intoxicated — but not
with brandy — for each took but one
gulp of unchristened Cogniac and a
horn of the baptized ; we are divine-
ly drunk with ether — not the ether
purchased from Apothecaries' Hall,
but the ether given gratis by Apollo
— the Sun-God — to all who visit his
palace in the regions of Morn.

Down the stone-strewn greensward
we dancingly go, and like red-deer
bound over rocks. The proper place
for a guide is in the rear ; and Jona-
than follows astonished, with the Re-
mains. We are again at Levers Wa-
ter before any of us has said Jack
Robinson — no need of scaling lad-
ders in descending precipices — but
that our beards are only about an
inch long — and none of us by possi-
bility can have horns — the sheep
might suppose us goats. But here
let us pause. How magnificent in
full view the rocks called Dove Crag
rising above Goat's- Tarn ! and how
beautiful the wavy windings up the
breast of WALNA SCAR ! We have
gloriously enjoyed the morn — it
wants centuries yet of meridian —
let us not " lose and neglect the
creeping hours of time," in pottering
about on a level with the silly sea —
but let's up to the above Goat's Tarn
— to SEATHWAITE TARN too, over
Walna Scar — and then down to the
chapel, and see what sort of a stream
that DUDDON is, to which " the Bard"
has addressed an eulogistic Libel of
Sonnets.

Jonathan never was at Goat's Wa-
ter, but Christopher has many a time;
and this is its rivulet. The last as-
* cent to it is very steep ; but our lungs
laugh now at all difficulties — and we
are soon at the foot of the Tarn. In
sunshine such as this, 'tis a sweet
spot — nay, one might almost, without
offence to the genius loci, call it pret-
ty— " sweetly putta !" True, that the
margin on the east is a rude assem-
blage of stones — and that on the op-
posite side the towering rocks are
nuBhed in a sort of " grim repose,"

But then the water is clear as a well
— and that knoll of birches is admi-
ring itself in the mirror. There are
some sheep and lambs — and yonder
a " bit birdie" is hopping from spray
to spray, who could sing if he chose
—but he has manifestly got us in his
eye, and, laying his head on his shoul-
der, gives us a sly glance as if he was
quizzing the whole party. Last time
we stood here — facing these cliffs —
some dozen years ago— how they
frowned by glimpses through the
driving rack! The tarn itself was
pitch, which grew blacker still on
tempest-stricken spots — while now
and then a wave gave a walloj) like
an animal, and broke in brown foam,
with a savage murmur. There was
a continual hissing somewhere — and
as for croaking, we could have be-
lieved that some old raven had esta-
blished a croaking-school up among
the hidden cliffs, and that he and his
pupils were trying to sing psalms—
probably to a dead horse. We declare
there is one of the devils tugging at
something on a ledge at the mouth
of that fissure ! He views us— but
he won't budge. A gruff old tyke,
with a bill, no doubt, like a weaver's
shuttle. And see — a fox.

We are on our way, you know, to
Seathwaite. From Coniston Water-
head, our pleasant inn, there are three
ways to that vale— one by Broughton
for all manner of carriages — and a
noble one it is, leading over elevated
ground, and commanding a view of
the river Duddon, at high water it-
self a lake, " having the beautiful
and fertile lands of Lancashire and
Cumberland stretching away from
its margin. In this extensive view,
the face of nature is displayed in a
wonderful variety of hill and dale,
wooded grounds, and buildings ;
amongst the latter, Broughton Tower,
seated on the crown of a hill, rising
elegantly from the valley, is an object
of extraordinary interest. Fertility
on each side is gradually diminished,
and lost in the superior heights of
Blackcoomb in Cumberland, and the
high lands between Kirkby and Ul-
verstone. The road from Broughton
to Seathwaite is on the banks of the
Duddon, and on its Lancashire side
it is of various elevations. The river
is an amusing companion, one while
brawling and tumbling over rocky
precipices, until the- agitated water

Christopher at the Lakes. Flight First.

870

becomes again calm by arriving at a
smoother uiid less precipitous bed ;
but its course is soon again ruffled,
and the current thrown into every
variety of form which the rocky
channel of a river can give to water."
So far Green, whoso eye was ever
that of a painter. The middle way
deviates on the right about four
miles from Broughton, and leads
to Seathwaite over some fine hilly
ground from Broughton Mills. The
most laborious way of the three is
over Walna Scar — the way cf the
present heroes. A fourth is up Til-
berthwaite, over Wrynose, and so
down Duddon, from near its source.
All are good — but ours is the best —
and there are few grander walks in
the North of England. What is the
name of that giant ? Blakerigg. He
seems to have drawn himself up to
his full altitude to oppose our pro-
gress— but we must turn his flank.
Yet his forehead is mild and placid —
smooth, seemingly, as that of a small
pastoral hill. But what a burly body
hath the old chieftain, surnamed
Ironsides ! Such ribs ! a park of ar-
tillery would in vain batter in breach
there — 'twould scarcely smite off a
splinter. In what sort of scenery
does he set his feet ? By and by you
shall see — between him and us there
is a wide and a deep abyss. We
have reached the summit of this long
ascent, and you behold Blakerigg in
all his majesty — a foreground to
Scafell and its Pikes, the highest
land in England, softened by some
leagues distance, and belonging to
another region — another province —
another kingdom — another world of
the sublime. For the intercepting
sky sometimes divides the great ob-
jects of nature in a mountainous
country, into districts so distinct,
that they lie without confusion be-
fore Imagination's eyes, while of each
some mighty creature seems to be
by right divine the monarch, and to
bear sway in calm or tempest. Let
us descend into the gulf profound,
till we touch the foot of Blakerigg,
and then shall we skirt his king-
ship all the way to the head of Sea-
thwaite Tarn.

We are now in a lonesome region
— nor is it easy to imagine a much
better place for a murder.

But lo ! the Tarn. What should
you call its character ? Why, such a

[June,

day as this disturbs by delight, and
confounds all distinction between
the Sublime and Beautiful. These
rocky knolls towards the foot of the
Tarn, we should say are exquisitely
picturesque; and nothing can be
supposed more unassuming than
their quietude, which is deepened
by the repose of that distant height
beyond — can it be Blackcoomb ? And
then how prettily rise out of the
Tarn, on the farthest side, those lit-
tle islands, under the shadow of the
first range of rocks that may be safe-
ly called majestic; while the second
— as slowly your eyes are venturing
up the prodigious terraces— justify
the ejaculation — magnificent !

Let's strip and have a swim.
'Tis all nonsense about danger in
" dookin' " when you are hot. Be-
sides we are not hot ; for, in disappa-
relling, the balmy breezes have alrea-
dy fanned our bosoms, till we are cool
as leeks. Saw you ever my Lord
Arthur Somerset ? Here he goes.

No bottom here, gents. Where
the devil are you ? All gone ! You
have taken advantage of our absence
down below for a few minutes, and
descended to Seathwaite. Well, we
cannot call that handsome behaviour
any how; and trust you will lose
your way in the wilderness, and find
yourselves among the quagmires of
the Black Witch. Whew ! are you
there, ye water-serpents, snoring
with your noses towards Ill-Crag !
Save us— save us — save us ! The
cramp — the cramp — the cramp !

Gentlemen, we confess that was
an indifferent joke — and we return
you our best thanks for your alert-
ness in diving to " pull up drowned
Honour by the locks." But you
seem flustered; so let us land and
rig — Mercy on us, what hulks J-rwuf

Now for the Pigeon-Pie. Give us
the crown of crust. Behold with
what dignity we devour the diadem !
A queer pigeon this as one may see
on a summer's day — as flat's a pan-
cake. Ho ! ho ! a beefsteak we per-
ceive— about the breadth of our palm
— let us begin by biting off the fin-
gers— and the thumb. Spicy! But,
friends, we must beware of dining ;
let us remember this is but a lunch.
And a lunch, recollect, is but a whet.
They must be cushats — they must
be cushats ; and now let us finish the
flask.

1832.]

Christopher at the Lakes. Flight First.

We smell Seathwaite. Below that
aerial blue it lies — and were this the
Sabbath, we might hear— Fine-ears
as we are for all words of peace— the
belfry of the old church-tower. We
are about to descend into the vale by
the access beloved by nature's bard.
Here is volume fourth of Words-
worth— and since Jonathan declines
" readin' oop," we shall give the pas-
sage the benefit of our silver speech.
" After all, the traveller would be
most gratified who should approach
this beautiful stream, neither at its
source, as is done in the sonnets, nor
from its termination ; but from Co-
niston over Walna Scar; first de-
scending into a little circular valley,
a collateral compartment of the long
winding vale through which flows
the Duddon. This recess, towards
the close of September, when the
after-grass of the meadows is still of
afresh green, with the leaves of many
of the trees faded, but perhaps none
fallen, is truly enchanting. At a point
elevated enough to shew the various
objects in the valley, and not so high
as to diminish their importance, the
stranger will instinctively halt. On
the foreground, a little below the
most favourable station, a rude foot-
bridge is thrown over the bed of the
noisy brook foaming by the wayside.
Russet and craggy hills, of bold and
varied outline, surround the level val-
ley, which is besprinkled with grey
rocks plumed with birch-trees. A few
homesteads are interspersed, in some
places peeping out from among the
rocks like hermitages, whose site has
been chosen for the benefit of sun-
shine as well as shelter ; in other in-
stances, the dwelling-house, barn,
and byre, compose together a cruci-
form structure, which, with its em-
bowering trees, and the ivy clothing
part of the walls and roof like a
fleece, call to mind the remains of an
ancient abbey. Time, in most cases,
and nature every where, have given
"a sanctity to the humble works of
man, that are scattered over this
peaceful retirement. Hence a har-
mony of tone and colour, a perfection
and consummation of beauty, which
would have been marred had aim or
purpose interfered with the course
of convenience, utility, or necessity.
This unvitiated region stands in no
need of the veil of twilight to soften
or disguise its features. As it glistens

871

in the morning sunshine, it would
fill the spectator's heart with glad-
someness. Looking from our chosen
station, he would feel an impatience
to rove among its pathways, to be
greeted by the milkmaid, to wander
from house to house, exchanging
' good-morrows' as he passed the
open doors; but, at evening, when
the sun is set, and a pearly light
gleams from the western quarter of
the sky, with an answering light' from
the smooth surface of the meadows ;
when the trees are dusky, but each
kind still distinguishable ; when the
cool air has condensed the blue smoke
rising from the cottage-chimneys;
when the dark mossy stones seem to
sleep in the bed of the foaming
brook ; then, he would be unwilling
to move forward, not less from a
reluctance to relinquish what he be-
holds, than from an apprehension
of disturbing, by his approach, the
quietness beneath him. Issuing
from the plain of this valley, the
brook descends in a rapid torrent,
passing by the churchyard of Sea-
thwaite. The traveller is thus con-
ducted at once into the midst of the
wild and beautiful scenery which
gave occasion to the sonnets from the
14th to the 20th inclusive. From the
point where the Seathwaite Brook
joins the Duddon, is a view upwards,
into the pass through which the river
makes its way into the plain of Don-
nerdale. The perpendicular rock on
the right bears the ancient British
name of THE PEN ; the one opposite
is called WALLOW-BZ\RROW CRAG, a
name that occurs in several places to
designate rocks of the same charac-
ter. The chaotic aspect of the scene
is well marked by the expression of
a stranger, who strolled out while
dinner was preparing, and at his re-
turn, being asked by his host, ' What
way he had been wandering?' re-
plied, ' As far as it is finished!' '

But before indulging our own eyes
with the Duddon, let us, in view of
the very scene thus beautifully paint-
ed in " Prose, by a Poet," look at
its spirit as it haunts these Sonnets.
The series— thirty-four— we are told,
was the growth of many years. Mr
Wordsworth says, he had proceed-
ed insensibly in their composition,
" without perceiving that he was
trespassing upon ground pre-occu-
pied— at least as far as intention went

872 Clwistoplicr at the

— by Mr Coleridge ; who, more than
twenty years ago, used to speak of
writing a rural poem, to be entitled
* The Brook,' of which he has given
a sketch in a recent publication.
But a particular subject cannot, I
think, much interfere with a general
one ; and I have been further kept
from encroaching upon any right Mr
Coleridge may still wish to exercise,
by the restriction which the frame
of the Sonnet imposed upon me,
narrowing unavoidably the range of
thought, and precluding, though not
without its advantages, many graces
to which a freer movement of verse
would naturally have led.

" May I not venture, then, to hope,
that, instead of being a hinderance,
by anticipation of any part of the
subject, these Sonnets may remind
Mr Coleridge of his own more com-
prehensive design, and induce him
to fulfil it ? — There is a sympathy in
streams — * one calleth to another;'
and I would gladly believe, that
' The Brook5 will, erelong, murmur
in concert with * The Duddon.' But,
asking pardon for this fancy, I need
not scruple to say, that those verses
must indeed be ill-fated which can
enter upon such pleasant walks of
nature, without receiving and giving
inspiration. The power of waters
over the minds of Poets has been
acknowledged from the earliest ages;
— through the ' Flumina amem syl-
vasque inglorius' of Virgil, down to
the sublime apostrophe to the great
rivers of the earth, by Armstrong,
and the simple ejaculation of Burns,
(chosen, if I recollect right, by Mr
Coleridge, as a motto for his embryo
' Brook,')

' The Muse nae Poet ever fand her,
Till by himsell he learn'd to wander,
Adown some trotting burn's meander,
And na' think lang.'"

This reminds us of the title of one of
Shakspeare's plays — Much ado about
Nothing. Mr Coleridge is an original
Poet; but there is nothing original
in the idea of " a Rural Poem, to be
entitled the Brook;" and if there
were, it would be hard to deter all
other Poets from writing about
brooks, and should they do so, to
punish them as trespassers " on
ground pre-occupied" by the Ancient
Mariner, " at least as far as inten-
tion went, more than twenty years
ago " This would be carrying com-

Lakes. Flight First.

[June;

plaisance to Mr Coleridge, and cruel-
ty to the rest of mankind, too far ;
and would subject us to transporta-
tion for our article " Streams."
Were this principle of appropriation
and exclusion once admitted, why,
an indolent or dreaming man of ge-
nius might put an end to poetry,
by imagining all kinds of subjects,
and annually publishing a list which
nobody else was to meddle with, on
pain of death. Such tyranny far
transcends even our ultra-Toryism —
and we hereby declare all the rills,
rivulets, brooks, streams, and rivers
on the globe, free to all the poets
and poetasters on its surface or in
its bowels.

Neither is there any thing at all
original — nothing daring — in com-
posing a series of sonnets on the Ri-
ver Duddou. Many a river has been
celebrated in song — and there are
poems in almost all languages, on par-
ticular rivers. The difficulty, indeed,
of singing of a stream from source
to sea, in one continuous strain, is
considerable; and Mr Wordsworth
has given it the go-by, in a series of
sonnets. This he states — but he puts
it on strange grounds. " I have been
farther kept from encroaching on any
right Mr C. may still wish to exer-
cise, (poo !) by the restriction which
the frame of the Sonnet imposed
upon me, narrowing unavoidably the
range of thought, and precluding,
though not without its advantages,
many graces to which a freer move-
ment of verse would naturally have
led." Fudge!

But some hundreds of fine son-
nets have been distilled from the
pen of Mr Wordsworth ; and had he
written nothing else — an absurd sup-
position— hia fame had been im-
mortal. Some of the most beauti-
ful are to be found in this series-
perfect gems.

" I seek the birth-place of a rwtivo
stream,"

is a simple line in the first sonnet—

and these conclude the last —

" And'may thy Poet, cloud-born stream !

be free,

The sweets of earth contented! y resign'd,
And each tumultuous working left be-
hind

At seemly distance, to advance like thee,
Prepared, in peace of heart, in calm of

mind
And soul, to mingle with eternity !"

1832.]

ChristopJier at the Lakes. Flight First.

873

What " fancies chaste and noble"
imbue with beauty the strains of
music that float between those open-
ing and concluding words ! The river
shews

" The image of a poet's heart,

How calm, how tranquil, how serene !"

But let us have the course of the
Duddon given, in the first place, in
Green's plain but picturesque prose.
" The Duddon is a fine river, and its
feeders flow precipitously in their
descent to the valley. It rises at the
Three County Stones on Wrynose,
from which place to its junction with
the Irish Sea, it separates the coun-
ties of Cumberland and Lancashire.
Mosedale, which is in Cumberland,
though appearing the-highest part of
Seatliwaite, is, from its head down to
Cockly-beck, a tame unmeaning val-
ley, and would be wholly void of
interest, were it not for the grand
mountains of Eskdale, which are
seen over its northern extremity ;
but from Cockly-beck by Black
Hall to Goldrill Crag, which is about
two miles, the scenery improves at
every step ; but not the river, which,
though occasionally pretty, is, upon
the whole, tamely featured and lazy.
At Goldrill Crag, it brightens into
agitation, and, after various changes,
becomes at Wallow-barrow Crag one
scene of rude commotion, forming
in its course a succession, not of
high, but finely formed waterfalls.
But these furious waters suddenly
slumbering, become entranced, dis-
playing little signs of life along the
pleasant plains of Donnerdale. At
Ulpha Bridge suspended animation
is again succeeded by the clamorous
war of stones and waters, which as-
sail the ear of the traveller all the
way to Duddon Bridge. From that
place to the sea it passes on in an
uninterrupted and harmonious calm-
ness."

.Nothing can be better than that—
except, perhaps, some of Green's
etchings, which you may purchase
almost paper-cheap from his excel-
lent widow or daughter at the Exhibi-
tion cither at Ambleside or Keswick.
We remember an exquisite one up
the river with Wallow-barrow Crag
— and another, not less so, down the
river with Goldrill Crag. Here they
are in words. " The river at Wallow-
barrow is opposed to many rude im-

VOL. XXXT, NO. CXCV.

pediments, which are exhibited in
an elegant diversity of rocks and
stones, some of them of considerable
magnitude, and all peculiarly and
hfippily adapted as accompaniments
to the many-shaped waterfalls, dis-
played in the short space of little
more than half a mile. From this
desirable bottom, the rocks on both
sides ascend in individual wildness,
and a beautifully undulating assem-
blage, to a good height ; wood is not
here in profusion, but it occasionally
appears in picturesque association
with the rocks and waters. A well-
formed mountain terminates this
craggy vista, by which the whole is
rendered additionally interesting."
Of the view down the river, again,
with Goldrill Crag, Green says—-" It
is a beautiful scene, and different in
its character to any other about the
Lakes ; the rocks are elegant, and
the trees spring from their fissures
in picturesque variety. The second
distance is composed of rocks, with
soft turf and trees delightfully scat-
tered over its surface; these rocks
have the appearance of rising ground
considerably lower than the level of
the waters in sight, which is proved
by the noise produced after leaving
their peaceful solitudes above."
Green goes on describing away, with
pen as with pencil, the vale which was
the darling of his honest heart. He
tells us truly, that perhaps the finest
part of this vale is between Sea-
thwaite Chapel and Goldrill Crag —
about two miles; that from Goldrill
Crag to Cockly-beck — about two
miles — the beauties diminish every
step you take northward ; and that
from Cockly-beck to the county-
Btones all is insipid. How fondly he
speaks of the cottages ! Especially
of Throng, the hereditary property
of the Dawsons, where never stran-
ger found a scanty board. How af-
fectionately of the trees ! Almost
every sort of tree, says he, is fine
when aged, even the larch, and all
the species of the fir. In Seatliwaite,
he adds, untutored nature seems to
have held her dominion with a sway
more absolute than in any other dale
in the country ; exotics have been
sparingly introduced ; and though
there is rather a want than a redun-
dancy of wood, the valley is better
without them. From almost every
point of this secluded bottom, (he ia
8 L

674 Christopher at the Lakes.

speaking of Throng1, under the sha-
dow of its wood-covered hill,) rocky
knolls of various elevation, graced
with the native beauties of the
country, oak, ash, and birch, rise
sweetly from the lower grounds ; and
over them, in many waving windings,
the craggy mountains swell upon the
eye in grand sublimity. The passion- fant Duddon,
ate painter is even yet loath to leave
the vision — and concludes expres-
sively saying with fine feeling, that in
every engulfed valley in this country,
there is, to his mind, somewhat of a
melancholy solemnity,* and that, un-
less it be in Ennerdale-dale, in none
more than in Seathwaite. Though
the Vales of Langdale are narrow,
yet they possess an air of cheerful-
ness, probably as being bounded less
stupendously than Seathwaite. In
diversifiedbeautytheyrivalallothers,
even Borrowdale. Yet Borrow-
dale to its beauty adds an invariable
grandeur, not so uniformly seen in
Langdale. Seathwaite occasionally
exhibits a vastness of desolation, ex-
ceeded only in Ennerdale-dale ; but
in magnificence of mountain-preci-

Plight First.

piece, Ennerdale-dale, Wastdale, and
Eskdale, excel all others in the coun-
try. So far Green— and kind, cour-
teous, ingenious, and enthusiastic
spirit, farewell !

Let us turn now, after no unde-
lightful delay, to Wordsworth. In
the second sonnet, he says of the In-
fant Duddon,

" Child of the clouds ! remote from every

taint

Of sordid industry thy lot is cast ;
Thine are the honours of the lofty waste ;"

and in the fourth, he speaks, we may
say, of the Boy Duddon, playfully
appearing like

" a glistering snake,
Silent, and to the gazer's eye untrue,
Thridding with sinuous lapse the rushes,

through
Dwarf willows gliding, and by ferny

brake."

But how beautiful is the lad Duddon
now — a stripling on the verge of viri-
lity— making almost a prime mur-
mur, erelong from his manly bosom
to emit a full-grown roar ?

" Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played
With thy clear voice, I caught the fitful sound
Wafted o'er sullen moss and craggy mound,
Unfruitful solitudes, that seemed to upbraid
The sun in heaven I — but now to form a shade
For Thee, green alders have together wound
Their foliage ; ashes flung their arms around ;
And birch-trees risen in silver colonnade.
And thou hast also tempted here to rise,
'Mid sheltering pines, this Cottage rude and grey;
Whose ruddy children, by the mother's eyes
Carelessly watched, sport through the summer day,
Thy pleased associates : — light as endless May
On infant bosoms lonely Nature lies."

Then sings the Bard of old remains
of hawthorn bowers, and all the va-
ried sweets of the Pastoral Flora.
Not like a mere botanist, the assassin
of the Hortus Siccus— but like philo-
sophical and religious Bard as he is,
with whom Poetry is Piety— and the
inspiration breathed from things of
earth connects them all with heaven.

" There bloom'd the strawberry of the

wilderness j
The trembling eye-bright show'tl her

sapphire blue,
The thyme her purple, like the blush of

even;

And, if the breath of *ome to no caress

Invited, forth they peep'd so fair to view,
All kinds alike seem'd favourites of hea-
ven !"

You have seen, we dare say, Step-
ping-stones across a stream, and have
stepped from one to the other lightly
or clumsily, as it may have happen-
ed, without any other thought than
that they were useful, and saved you
from the necessity of being wet-shod.
We have heard more blockheads than
one ask the meaning of those often
quoted lines in Peter Bell—

" A primrose by the river's brim,
A yelloic primrose was to him,
ivas nothing wore,"

1832.] Christopher at the Lakes. Flight First. 875

Such sumplis cannot conceive how But thou ! slim-ankled maiden, with

it should be any thing more to any pensive face wilt peruse the first,

body ; nor of Stepping-stones can and with sparkling eyes the second

they form any other opinion as to the of these sonnets, entitled " STEPPING-

excellence, than whether they are STONES."
sufficiently close, and not shoggly.

" The struggling rill insensibly is grown

Into a Brook of loud and stately march,

Crossed ever and anon by plank and arch ;

And, for like use, lo ! what might seem a zone

Chosen for ornament; stone matched with stone

In studied symmetry, with interspace

For the clear waters to pursue their race

Without restraint. — How swiftly have they flown,

Succeeding — still succeeding ! Here the Child

Puts, when the high-swoln Flood runs fierce and wild,

His budding courage to the proof; — and here

Declining Manhood learns to note the sly

And sure encroachments of infirmity,

Thinking how fast time runs, life's end how near !"

" Not so that Pair whose youthful spirits dance
With prompt emotion, urging them to pass;
A sweet confusion checks the Shepherd-lass ;
Blushing she eyes the dizzy flood askance,—
To stop ashamed — too timid to advance ;
She ventures once again — another pause !
His outstretched hand He tauntingly withdraws—-
She sues for help with piteous utterance !
Chidden she chides again; the thrilling touch
Both feel when he renews the wished-for aid ;
Ah ! if their fluttering hearts should stir too much,
Should beat too strongly, both may be betrayed.
The frolic Loves who, from yon high rock, see
The struggle, clap their wings for victory I"

The Fairies are sometimes seen " Calm abysses pure,

yet in Seathwaite. And there is a Bright liquid mansions, fashioned to en-
sonnet on the Faery Chasm — about dure

the sky-blue stone, within the sun- When the broad oak drops, a leafless ske-
less cleft, bearing the footmarks of leton,

the tiny elves. Fancy thus awaken- An<J the solidities of mortal pride,

ed will not be soon set asleep ; and Palace and Tower, are crumbled into
in another sonnet, she sees dust •"

« Objects immense pourtray'd in minia- ?ut the .hurniatn hear* of *e Poet
ture longs again for human life ; and,re-as-

Wild shapes for many a strange compa- cending from those sunless chasms,
rison i" hear how he sings the " Open Pro-

Niagaras, Alpine passes, and abodes
of Naiads—

" Hail to the fields — with Dwellings sprinkled o'er,
And one small hamlet, under a green hill,
Clustered with barn and byre, and spouting mill I
A glance suffices ; — should we wish for more,
Gay June would scorn us ; but when bleak winds roar
Through the stiff lance-like shoots of pollard ash,
Dread swell of sound ! loud as the gusts that lash
The matted forests of Ontario's shore
By wasteful steel unsmitten, then would I
Turn into port, — and, reckless of the gale,
Reckless of angry Duddon sweeping by,
While the warm hearth exalts the mantling ale,

Christopher at the Lake's. Flight First. [June*

Laugh with the generous household heartily,
At all the merry pranks of Donnerdale !"

But the Duddon is a strange stream ; a thousand to one you don't know

and should you happen to walk half him — so sternly is he transfigured

a mile by his side, in a reverie, on from a sweet-singer into a Boaner-

coming to yourself again on your ges, or Son of Thunder,
return perhaps from Jerusalem, 'tis

« O mountain Stream ! the Shepherd and his Cot

Are privileged Inmates of deep solitude ;
-Brie b9b Nor would the nicest Anchorite exclude

A field or two of brighter green, or plot

Of tillage-ground, that seemeth like a spot
iBfifT'i :-Of stationary sunshine : — thou hast viewed
uoifj'jiiM These only, Duddon J with their paths renewed

By fits and starts, yet this contents thee not.

Thee hath some awful spirit impelled to leave,

Utterly to desert, the haunts of men,

Though simple thy companions were and few ;

And through this wilderness a passage cleave

Attended but by thy own voice, save when

The Clouds and Fowls of the air thy way pursue !"

BflUJte

But if we go on at this rate, Jona- lonely, of this barren and bounteous
than—we shall soon have " read oop" land, where desolation lies in the
the whole volume. And what better close neighbourhood of plenty, and
might we do, lying here, all four of where the Hermit might find a se-
ns, carelessly diffused on the green- cret cell within hearing of the glad
sward, far from the noisy world, en- hum of life. Let us recite two son-
veloped in the visions of a great nets more — and then be up and go-
poet's soul ? This is the way to know ing— away to the objects of which
and feel the spirit of this lovely and the Poet sings — how holily !
Jsdwsmos 'ifiT

<UO,1T U SEATI1WAITE CHAPEL. ^ „

t99ii-i iillw j" iiov

te t^ot! " Sacred Religion, ' mother of form and fear,'
rBi&tls lsub< Dread Arbitress of mutable respect,

New rites ordaining when the old are wreck'd,
^(iix Or cease to please the fickle worshipper;
If one strong wish may be embosom'd here,
Mother of Love ! for this deep vale, protect
Truth's holy lamp, pure source of bright effect,
^J>o0 Gifted to purge the vapoury atmosphere
That seeks to stifle it ; — as in those days
iitti 0W .BsrWhen this low Pile a Gospel Teacher knew,
8 'ode friB« Whose good works form'd an endless retinue:
*ta9nafft$^ Such Priest as Chaucer sang in fervent lays;

Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew;
a-ior{ to Jarfj el&nd tender Goldsmith crown'd with deathless praise !"
¥roa <torgiliwj ^doflBicf m J.qsfa fiiia u'Fufe-rfioomB »*

-91U*9iq bflB X«b «l 8i*H*HA KIRK.

" The Kirk of Ulpha to the Pilgrim's eye

t i K o i THJ Dlot u-i «jtiHiu» an a

XiOttigra -ii: Is welcome as a Star, that doth present

•od 989ilt 1 Its shining forehead through the peaceful rent

&di HB iaf>; Of a black cloud diffused o'er half the sky :

-nu bnaffovjoOt* as a fruitful palm-tree towering high

Oflisa 9ifo 3- O'er the parch'd waste beside an Arab's tent;

-IBIIII boe— Or the Indian tree whose branches, downward bent, ,. JWO1

in93ftiirgBm Take root again, a boundless canopy.

^ How sweet were leisure ! could it yield no more ^^yy 9^

1832.] Christopher at the Lakes. Flight First. ~W7

Than 'mid that wave-wash' d Churchyard to recline,
From pastoral graves extracting thoughts divine ;
Or there to pace, and mark the summits hoar
Of distant moonlit mountains faintly shine, aobbua aifo iuS.
Sooth'd by the unseen River's gentle roar.1? -« «o^ bluorfe bna
no (9H9Y91 B ni C9bie afd ^d slim a
prime, was with thee so oft of
yore in thy silvan solitudes! Much
changed — thou seest — are we — in
face and figure so sorely changed
that haply we seem to thee a stranger,
and must pass by a disregarded sha-
dow .' Alas ! we feel as if we were
forgotten I we, and all those dawns,
morns, days, eves, and nights! In-
sensate Seathwaite! what art thou
but an assemblage of rocks, stones,
clods, stumps, and trees ? Our
imagination it was that vivified
thee into beauty — till thou becamest
symbolical of all spiritual essences,
embodied Poetry of a paradisaical
state of being, which, on this fair re-
presentment, transcendently returns
— but overspread now, and inter-
fused with a profoundest pathos that
almost subdues the glory of nature
into the glimmer of the grave, so-
lemnizing life by death, and subject-
ing the dim past and the bright pre-
sent to the mysterious future, till
faith flings herself humbly at the
feet of God.

And thou, too, art somewhat
changed, sweet Seathwaite I Thou,
too, art getting old ! But with thee,
age is but a change into " beauty still
more beauteous." A gradual altera-
tion, during all the while of our long
absence, has been silently taking
place upon the character of thy groves.
Glades are gone like overshadowed
sun- spots. We see rocky pastures

190509 J3

Prevailing poet ! here, among the
scenes thou hast so finely sung,

"'Fit audience find, though ftw.j' frp

Few, indeed ! for the Three have
vanished ; and in Seathwaite Tarn,
the shadows of no Christians are to
be seen but those of Christopher
arid Jonathan. He informs us, that
ere we had " read oop taa haf o't,"
the graceless, mannerless, fancyless,
unfeeling, unprincipled, and unini-
tiated cubs had scampered over the
knowe, and have probably been for
an hour, at least, in another county !
Yes, Jonathan — you say right — they
are to be pitied ; but we have reap-
ed—

" The harvest of a quiet eye,
That broods and sleeps on its own
heart."

Surely the winner will have the
sense to order dinner at the Chapel
Alehouse.

" Wherever God erects a house of

prayer,
The devil always builds a chapel there."

" In this"— quoth Mr Green, who,
you know, Jonathan, was the most
sober and industrious of God's crea-
tures— " Mr Daniel is not quite cor-
rect; such houses, particularly in
thinly inhabited countries, are abso-
lutely necessary to the comforts of
distant parishioners." Now, we are

distant parishioners ; so put his vo- * - *

lume into the haversack —and the where then the coppice- wood grew—
" Bard's" we return to our bosom, smooth fields of barley-braird that
Now let's be off.

Descent may be adverse to young-
er knees — but to ours it is natural ;
and,

" Smooth-sliding, without step,"

down the sward, we feel like an aged
eagle skimming in easy undulations,
ere he alights to fold up his wings.

Sweet Seathwaite ! for, spite of all
thy sternness, art thou, indeed, most
sweet — may we believe from that
sunny smile kindling up thy groves
into greenness that obliterates the
brown of thy superincumbent cliffs
— that thou rejoicest to see again
the Wanderer, who, in life's ardent

mrley-

then were rocky pastures. We miss
that bright blue river — heard above
the Alder Ford — where hung the nest-
hiding hazels ; we hear, not see, the
Fairies' waterfall. Pools that of yore
still slept in branchy twilight, now
shine in day and picture -passing
clouds. Some oaks have fallen that
should have lived for ever ; and
strange confusion in our memory
grows from the whole of these be-
wildering woods. B lit amidst all the
change of unceasing growth and un-
ceasing decay, thou art the same
sweet Seathwaite still — and unal-
tered for ever the lines magnificent
now drawn by thy multitudinous

878

Christopher at the Lakes. Flight First.

[June,

mountains .along the peaceful hea-
vens.

The wallet is empty of all viands
now- — Jonathan — and in the chapel
alehouse it may happen that the sole
fare may be but ham and eggs. You
see this crutch. We unscrew the
cross, and out of the bole emerges a
fishing-rod, of which the pieces may
be put up so as to suit minnow,
trout, grilse, or fish. Now for trout.
One of the seals dangling at our
watch-chain is a reel. 'Tis an en-
snaring seal, Jonathan — and on all
our love-letters it leaves its irresisti-
ble impress. A silk reel-line you
observe, Jonathan, and gut like gos-
samer, to whose invisibility in wa-
ter are attached the murderous mid-
ges with black half-heckle on the
yellow bodies, and brown mallard-
wings, adjusted by the microscopic
eye and fairy finger of Margaret—
that is, Mrs Widow Phin. Not a
breath of air— the river is low — and
bright the sun — nor will he reach
for an hour to come those castellated
clouds. But let us lay our lures
among the lucid murmurs, and in a
minute shall you see the silver-shi-
ners in various sizes dancing on the
gravel or the greensward, up from
the not unsuccessful imitation of
the minnow to what might seem-
nay, may be — the salmon's self.

Aye — there are two to begin with—
one at the tail-fly, and one at the top-
bobber. We always angle with five
hooks, Jonathan, on an. occasion like
this, when to garnish the grosser we
desire some fry. Why, they seem
smoults ! How can that be in the
Duddon in May ? Trouts. But born
and bred in this gravelly shallow,
their scales are as silver, and you
almost suppose you see through
them, as you hold up their twisting
slipperiness between you and the
sun. Ha! there's a two-year-old
off-at-score, as if on a half-mile race
with a swarm of subscribers. But
he will soon lose his fastness, Jona-
than— and we have him hard in hand
— that he may not bolt off the course
in among those birch-roots. You
see that small circle of sand, " sharp-
ening its mooned horns" — thither
shall we persuade the sumph to sail ;
—Jonathan, don't you almost find
him already wallopping in your wal-
let? There he has swum himself
ashore— and there, like a serpent
isd aiJIalsd *q9jl tBdt adftrrafiffij
vtimal ** sdJ ,98uorf sldtaud

wriggling about, his own mother
would not know him, so enshrouded
is he in sand. That comes of one's
suffering himself to be led by the
nose — even in retirement— -during
these troubled times. Yes, Jonathan,
about a pounder.

You seem surprised, Jonathan, at
our incessant sport. 'Tis the tackle
as much as the touch. In such
clear, warm water as this, the very
sight of a great, big, fat fly, like a
drowned bummer, would sicken a
trout — and if tied to the end of a ca-
ble, four horse-hairs thick, 'twould
frighten a pool out of its seven senses.
But these flies — scarcely flies — these
midges, moving like motes on the
water, solicit the fishy stomach
with almost airy allurement, which
the largest lobbers — as you see —
even when lying indolently beneath
the bank, retired from the glare of
noon that stupifies their panting
brethren in the unprotected chan-
nel, have not the philosophy to re-
sist. They sail slowly up to the slow
speck, and just putting put their
tongues— so— lick in the inextrica-
ble barb. It gives them no pain,
Jonathan — merely a puzzle j and you
may well think, that, for a while,
they can with difficulty believe their
eyes, when they see, by the receding
stones, that they are journeying to-
wards the opposite " banks and braes
o' bonnie Duddon," from which, al-
most before some of them have lei-
sure to distinguish the sward from
the stream, they are transferred into
thy wallet, Jonathan, that seems
quick with child.

You think we have killed some-
where from ten to twelve pound ;
and such slaughter — pretty well in a
sunbright hour — will suffice to eke
out the ham and eggs into no despi-
cable dinner. Bless us — Seathwaite
Chapel ! and there are our friends
sitting with the landlord in the honey-
suckled porch of the alehouse, each
with what seems a jug in his dexter
hand. The scamps ! that would not
stay for the sonnets, though recited
by an angel's tongue. Alas 1 there is
little love of poetry left in this low
life of ours — so now for the Ham and
Eggs.

The kitchen clock is striking six
as we stoop our anointed head be-
neath the slate-roofed door-way—
and at six, to a second, stands our

flf

siir worf 93(9 ; vfib-od s

1832.]

Christopher at the Lakes. Flight First.

watch, such is the sympathy between
the worthies. We cheerfully con-
fess that we have occasionally seen
a clean tablecloth in a Scotch small
wayside or hedgerow inn. But nine
hundred and ninety-nine times in the
thousand, they have shewn mustard.
In England, again — the dirty is sup-
posed to be as one to a million.. April
snows are tolerablywhite, and so are
April clouds and April lambs — but
they are grey in comparison with this
cloth bleached in May sun and
shower, whose drapery descends in
graceful folds from this Round Table
standing as firm on one leg as if
it had four, at equal distance from
hearth and door, bed and window.
Such bread! baked of finest flour
for the nonce in a pan-oven that rai-
ses the light-brown crust almost into
the delicacy of the coating of bride-
cake, while close-grained even as that
" mighty magic," kythes, as you break
it, the crumbling inconsistency of the
fair interior! Graceful from the grid-
iron that crump circle of oatmeal
wafers, broad as the bottom of a bee-
hive ; and what honey-comb ! The
scent is as of thyme, and by some con-
juration, preserved has been the cel-
lular framework all winter through,
and therein lies the dewy flower-dis-
tilment, as clear as when the trea-
sure was taken at harvest-close from
the industrious people, who in a mo-
ment hushed their hum. That is our
pot of porridge ; and oh ! it is exqui-
site when supped with cream ! Of
all liquid lustres, the loveliest sure
is that of elder-flower wine. And
delicately blending hospitality with
the welcome due to all who peace-
ably enter here, the Mistress has
placed that crystal at the Elder's el-
bow, saying, with a smile, that "qua-
lity have commended it," and 'tis in
truth delightful sma' drink, and tastes
racily of the tree. Aren't these pretty
patterns of suns and sun-flowers, stars
and roses,impressed on theglistening
countenance of that glorious butter ?
Till now never saw we yellow. Put a
spoon into that cream — it stands for
a few moments straight — and then
slowly declining, leans on the edge
of the jug, like a young lady about
to go into a swoon. The sight re-
minds us of the phial of concentrated
Essence of Coffee in the fob of our
jacket. There it is, and nobody must
mistake it for the ketchup. All the
hens in Seathwaite must have been
laying to-day j else how these plates

870

of poached, and these bowls of boil-
ed ? Seldom to be seen such a Tea-
pot. But for the stroop, you might
mistake it for a Tureen. Who ex-
pected to see you here ? Yes — it is
THE ROUND — towering by himself
on that chest of drawers. No — not
by himself — beneath his shadow re-
poses an unmistakeable Brandy-bot-
tle j nor will the froth on that ale-jug
melt, till into it Christopher has dip-
ped his Roman proboscis.

'Tis pleasing thus to compress all
the meals that are usually scattered
over the day into One mighty ano-
nymous meal, in matter multiform,
multifarious, and multitudinous, as
in spirit the myriad-minded Shak-
speare. Hark ! how deliciously sa-
lutes our ears the hissing, and the
fizzing, and the pabbling of the great
pan in which the basted trouts are
writhing as if in torments, while the
gudewife herself, though she has had
her tea and toast, feels herself called
on now, as she values her temporal
and eternal welfare, to bring house-
hold honour and conjugal pride to the
aid of conscience and religion, that
the Christian heroine may prove vic-
torious over the temptation of the
fish, and gain an immortal conquest
over the savoury sin soliciting her,
as Satan did Eve, with insidious
whispers from the heart of that sedu-
cing Fry ! She turns, but tastes them
not — and just putting the fork to
her lips, with a scientific whawmle
empties the great pan into the great
platter, and bearing the feast at arm's
length and bosom-high, makes her
entree into the Parlour like a Queen.

Assuredly, next to the satisfaction-
of a good conscience is that of a well-
filled stomach. They are likewise
kindred. So are hunger and remorse.
We feel now that we have well per-
formed our part in life — and are will-
ing to leave the world to write our
epitaph. Seem made for us, as if the
carpenter had taken our measure,
back and bottom of this easiest of all
easy-chairs. Yet we see from these
quaintly carved numerals 'tis a hun-
dred years old. Contemporary with
it all the rest of the oaken furniture ;
for we know that the wife of the land-
lord of New-Field was sole heiress
of a statesman, and though the Hill-
Farm and all its sycamores were sold
to pay " ten mortgages rolled into
one," in consequence of many strange
calamities that kept befalling her
bumble house, the " family plenish

Christopher at the Lakes, might First.

ing" was preserved, and fortune
smiles now on the worthy pair, yet
in the prime of life, though with sons
and daughters ripe for love or war.
That was a pretty creature who now
took away the cheese — and the strip-
Jing who shook hands with Jonathan,
when he has filled up a bit, will be a
likely lad for the Belt at Carlisle.

The scene shifts to the seat be-
neath the sycamore that hangs its
twilight o'er the inn, ere it has touch-
ed the open atmosphere, which be-
gins, however, to breathe of the stilly
spirit of the late afternoon. Cuckoo !
cuckoo ! cuckoo ! The mellow mono-
tone is not unmusical — but what
means Shallow-bill by that flitting
cry ? " With soul as strong as a
mountain river," from the top of the
pine beside the chapel-tower bursts
out the bold blackbird into a delirium
of song — and seems delighted at in-
tervals, to listen to its echoes tink-
ling hurriedly among the rocks. Who
shall sing a second to that song? Not
Sontag's self — though surnamed the
Nightingale.

" In nature," says Coleridge, " there
is nothing melancholy," wisely mean-
ing that no living thing is created for
unhappiness, and that the ordinary
language of inferior life is expressive
of pleasure. We wish we could say
that in nature there is nothing dis-
cordant ; but were we to say so, the
bray of that ass would give us the
lie. If he be gifted by nature with
a musical ear, there must be some
peculiarity in his throat and lungs
that prevents him from carrying his
ideas into execution. The distin-
guished donkey has finished his solo,
and we trust will not be offended by
our declining to call " encore." Yet
he has been unconsciously exerting
his vocal powers to enhance the de-
light of the ensuing silence : and in
the hush, how pleasant the lowing
of the kine, for 'tis the season of
calves ; the milky mothers are musi-
cal in their affection, and seldom
have we heard a more harmonious
concert of cowmoa ewooi •:

But now 'tis gloaming — at least so
thinks that bat — as dips the flitter-
mouse fearlessly within a foot of our
heads, and then keeps wavering to
and fro between the sycamore and
the barn. The most cheerful objects
seem almost solemn in the dusk-
while

oiifl yr&A Ilja^s nooa woT

" The day is placid in its going,
To a lingering stillness bound,
Like a river in its flowing,
Can there be a softer sound ?"
The loveliest of all light is that
which precedes the moon, while yet
her unseen orb is journeying up
from behind the hill, and you are
uncertain over what place she will
raise her silver rim. Expect her
rising as you will, the suddenness
always adds a slight surprise to your
delight, and for a moment you are
doubtful if it be indeed the moon.
Full seen now in slow ascension, how
she deepens the whole blue serene
of heaven ! For a while you know
not that there are any stars. But
look ! there is one large and lus-
trous— and now is the sky bedropt
with diamonds, dim as if dewy ; but
there will be no rain to morrow, for
no aerial tresses are dishevelled
along the " lift;" and the few
clouds there are braided into folds
of perfect peace. From heaven
we withdraw our eyes, and they
fall quietly on the house of God.
Troutbech Chapel — Langdale Chapel
— Wythburn Chapel — Buttermere
Chapel— Wastdale .Chapel — -Seatb-
waite Chapel — we bless you all ! And
every other holy edifice that cheers
the Sabbath-silence of the moun-
tains with its single bell. Children are
ye of one mother-church, and true
to her religious faith, in your hum-
ble ritual, as minster or cathedral,
" Where, through the long-drawn aisle

and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of

praise. "

A sort of slumbrous softness seems
as if it were dewily sealing our
eyes, and sleep whispers us to steal
away with her into the land of
dreams. Seven long leagues of a
mountain-walk are something to a
man of seventy — 'tis seventeen hours
since Christopher and the Sun arose
—and more than an hour ago " the
wearied sun betook himself to rest."
The remaining luminary — not the
Moon— must follow the example ;
his age entitles him to the single-
bedded-room — and his night's rest
is broken by the mildest snore.
Good-night, boys — and, Jonathan, see
they do not get into mischief when
their guardian has gone to roost.
" To-morrow for fresh fields and pastures
new."

Jsmcne and Zcattrfew

ladJfiflol dJiw ebriBd rfoode odv/

And found, one day, where crystal streams

Through flowery meads meander,
Asleep, and dreaming golden dreams

Of future bliss, Leai»der. ^dj

i ni bxofilq *> QttUi'lol bflB tb9Y1983'/q 8BW "gui

. I Nil AND LEANDER. IN THREE BALLADS, no V/OH 89liffla

.IsucdJ ,9lil lo 9raiiq 9dJ ni

(From the German of Holty.}\ Qqh tntriityusb ba&
.ir.di bl id^tl He 1?.- orfw euj}jR9'i3 xW9'iq & a^w ^BriT

FIRST BALLAD

qu giai^dfiratfot B* ^'IO H9980U i9it ,a£d!fii
SiA'CE Adam did the fruit receive moil

Of sin, there ne'er has been a .:.
More beauteous progeny of Kve 08IBT

Than was the fair Isrnene* gg ^Sfiigil
She was — just in her eighteenth year— •

A sight that quite entrances,
Full-heaving breast, and auburn hair,

And fire in all her ghmccs^jjg^jjy'.j

Her figure all the grace bespeaks

That was to Venus given ;
Two blushing roses were her cheeks,

Her eyes the blue of heaven.
Her mouth a blooming Paradise,

With ceaseless smiles abounding,
And when she sung there scem'd the voice

Of angel choirs resounding.

And yet— if fame be not a liar,

In deeds Ismene boasted,

For which she now, at Old Nick's fire,
Is broil'd, I ween, or roasted :

For spawn of frogs, and hairs she threw
Into the parson's churn,

Diseased the flocks, and with mildew
Im^She blasted all the corn.

B'lUfJnS Jfidt 9J}} '
And every charm, from Satan, she

Of witchery inherits,
And at her call attendant be

Swarms of infernal spirits.
Swifter she cuts the liquid air,

Upon her broomstick sailing,
While loosely streams her waving hair,

Than steam-coach on a railing.

)<> 9tOf

And always on the first of May,
She danced, upon the Brocken,

The merry midnight hours away,
; -, With scarce a muslin frock on.

And then, at times, was wont to rise,
And olay the beau, Old Clooty ;

And feast, with lustful look, his eyes
On the half-naked beauty.

aaoiB ring 9dt bajj isrfqoJaridO

Then kiss'd so greedily her hand,?,^.^
As if he would devour it?,.* bangtfuy

And lay, ev'n on the sulphur strand,
With love quite overpowered.

And many a weary hour he spent,
Poor soul ! a-billet-douxing ;

And when, at length, to bed he went,

His dreams were all of wooing.
99a(aBnjfiaoi(Dfl£ — -

But fair Ismene scorn'd the clown,
And laugh'd at his effrontery ;

And sought her lovers in the town,
And sought them in the country :

He dreamt of lovely AdelaS4ao QI(j

To him her hand extending ;
And blessedness the marriage bed

And honey-moon attending.
Already seem'd the priest to join

The loved with the lover ;
And marriage-ring, and vestments fine,

Before his fancy hover.

J .'IfOiII

And bridal maids already plait

The garlands for the wedding ;
And to the dance of neighbours met

Are pipe and fiddle aiding.
What think you then ? the cunning witch,

As she this way did wander,
Approach'd and gave his ears a twitch,

And said, " Get up, Leander."

And she was like in every whit

To her whose love he courted ; yni
Leander from his dreaming

Bewitch'd with joy, upstarted j i
And round her neck his arms he threw,

And many a kiss imprinted ;
And " Are you here, my own love true ?"

He cried, like one demented.

Then hied they thence to shady trees,

Because the sun's heat fried them,
And there the swain bewilder'd sees

A sight that quite surprised him ;
A splendid car before him stood,

With gold and silver flashing,
And coachman gay, in merry mood,

The milk-white horses lashing.

Of ivory the car was made,

With purest opal blended,
Nor mayor nor monarch ever had

A chariot half so splendid.
They mount, and seat themselves within

The curricle together ;
The horses rush through thick and thin

Leander knows not whither.

oa l*ssl 1« — $«i«iBoIa ail* won JuS
'Tis strange, but authors are agreed —

They soar aloft to heaven,
And eagle's flight, with lightning's speed

Unto their heels is given. .

But we will let our couple steer

Their airy flight together,
And if this ballad good appear,

You soon shall have another.

683

Ismene and Leander.

SECOND BALLAD.

[June,

The car its airy voyage steer'd

With never-ceasing motion,
Until at length an isle appear'd

Green glittering in the ocean.
Jn distant southern seas it lay,

Which never Cook sailed over,
Nor those so famous in their day,

Great Dampier and Vancouver.

And sure it was a paradise,

All earthly bliss unfurling;
Joy murmur'd sweet in every hreeze,

And in the streams was purling.
A dwelling fit for gods, I ween,

So famed in ancient story ;
In thousand dancing floods was seen

Bright Phcebus' golden glory.

And zephyrs bland from op'ning flowers

In every mead snatch'd kisses ;
Such love as in our youthful hours

Is wont at times to bless us.
And round about, in magic glare,

The hyacinths were blooming,
And apricots and peaches fair

All fragrant and perfuming.

And angel-voices in the breeze

Were accents sweet expressing ;
And turtle dovelets on the trees

Were cooing and caressing.
Beneath the shade of matted vines,

O magical creation !
Out-gush'd the most delicious wines

Into a golden basin.

And in the lawn was distant seen

A splendid palace towering,
All proudly built of beryls green,

And rays of glory showering ;
The windows were of purple hue,

All set around with garnet ;
Wide folding-doors of sapphires blue

Did mightily adorn it.

More bright than mortal mind conceives,

The roof with gold was cover'd,
And round about the drooping eaves

An emerald glory hover'd.
A magic castle, sure it was,

Erected by the devil ;
God save us ! where the fairies pass

Their days and nights in revel.

Within, a large saloon received

Ismene and her lover,
Where tapestries the sight deceived,

All gaily pictured over ;
Jove, changed into a milk-white swan,

Among the reeds was skulking,

And by the hand of Titian

Mars put to shame by Vulcan.

The mighty Sultan eke was seen

His concubines caressing,
And masks, array'd in motley sheen,

In Venice were grimacing ;
And Mussulmans in paradise

With fairest houris gamboling,
And Dian through the forest trees

With all her virgins rambling.

And here they lived a life of glee,

Beside the smiling ocean,
And every morning was bohea

Or chocolade their potion.
And when the summer sun at noon

Had reach'd the highest heaven,
A banquet in the large saloon

With festal pomp was given.

Ismene winks and straight appear,

Obedient to her wishes,
Before Leander was aware,

All sorts and shapes of dishes.
And sturgeons rich, and lampreys fair,

Were brought in at her bidding,
And roasted beef, and roasted hare,

And last of all, plumb-pudding.

And jellies bright, with seedcake baked

By skilful hand of fairies,
And more than you could well expect

Of currants and strawberries.
And glasses stood in close array

Of beer and ale and perry,
And after dinner good tokay

And claret made them merry.

And then they spent sweet hours of bliss

Beneath an arbour shady,
Where cards, backgammon-board, and
chess,

And lemonade were ready ;
And waited till the evening's red

Wide o'er the west was streaming,
And to their supper then they sped.

From golden dishes gleaming.

And when the groves, in silent night,

Selene silver'd over ;
Then wander'd forth in bright moonlight,

Ismene with her lover.
Beneath a branching myrtle's shade

They laid themselves reclining,
Where Phoebe's silver glory play'd

Betwixt the leaflets shining.

And arm in arm entwined they lay,
Their heart's desire indulging ;

1832.]

Ismene and Leander.

8SO

And more they did than modest lay

Is fitted for divulging.
And round about were myrtle groves,

Their sweet retreat surrounding ;
With notes of birds that chirp'd their

loves,
Melodiously resounding.

And softest breezes from the west
Were through their ringlets waving,

And o'er their gently heaving breast
Ethereal unguents laving.

And when at length night's dewy rain

Love's ardours had abated,
They hied them to the house again,

Where softer pillows waited.

And sung, instead of evening prayer,

Were songs anacreontic,
And loves of knights and damsels fair,

In days of yore romantic.
And then their weary limbs they threw

On downy couches ample :
We, with your leave, shall bid adieu,

And follow their example.

THIRD BALLAD.

Thus passed the fleeting hours away,

'Mid every earthly joyance,
Throughout the smiling months of May

And June, without annoyance.
But, like each thoughtless wight, I wot,

In luxury that wallows,
Leander, with the witch, forgot

The misery that follows.

With sweetmeats and confects was so
Disorder'd his digestion,

That whether he would live ano-
ther week, it was a question.

His face was pale, and to the core
His worn-out frame was shatter'd ;

And like a man of eighty-four,'
His palsied members totter'd.

And rubies and carbuncles play

Upon his swoln proboscis ;
Of pimples bright, a thick array,

His bloated cheek embosses.
With dainty bits, and sauces rich,

His appetite was sated ;
The magic music of the witch

Upon his senses grated.

Then to the lonesome strand he fled,

His revelry atoning ;
With many bitter tears, he made

A pitiable moaning.
And " Adelaide," he cried, " my first,

My tr^Bfe love," without ceasing,
And wrung his hands, while sudden burst

A flood of tears increasing.

i( Perhaps yet in her mem'ry she

Leander's name is keeping,
With sobs and sighs mostwofully

His cruel absence weeping.
O • could I kiss those tears away

Approving my affection,
And of the months of June and May

Blot out the recollection !

" Alas ! alas ! who could have thought

Of such a sad miscarriage !
The wedding-garments all were bought,

And waiting for the marriage.
The bans of wedlock had been cried

Twice in the church already ;
My bride with tenderness I eyed,

And said, ' Next week I wed ye. '

" The day was fixed, and to the feast

The neighbours were invited,
And with an offering the priest

Already was requited ;
But now our golden hopes are gone,

Our airy vision fled is •
My lovely bride is left alone,

And dying, if not dead, is."

Nor were his wofnl cries, I ween,

By haughty gods neglected,
But in the distant sea was seen

A sail, when least expected.
The captain, pitying his case,

With welcome summons hail'd him ;
And brought him to the selfsame place,

Where first the witch beheld him.

Ismene stood quite petrified

When first she set her eyes on
The sail, whose winged flight defied

Pursuit, in the horizon.
And tore her hair, and beat her breast,

And scratch'd her visage over,
And threw her down with grief oppress'd

Where late had slept her lover.

And spread her broomstick to the wind,

And o'er the earth did wander,
But never never could she find

Again her lost Leander.
And after many a year had pass'd,

In many a strange adventure,
They burnt her for a witch at last,

And to the devil sent her.

884 Tom Crtnytes

.LHlhfifflBJ 1)117,' Jfl9Dllhf;-:

(-01^ wtt'to bSYITIB I
fiBV/ <

TOM CRINGLE S LOG,

6T9dW

SCENES IN JAMAICA.
3 <fU3m Yli

I CONFESS that I did not promise
myself much pleasure from my cruise
ashore; somehow or other I had made
up my mind to believe, that in Ja-
maica, putting aside the magnificence
and natural beauty of the face of the
country, there was little to interest
me. I had pictured to myself the
slaves — a miserable, squalid, half-fed,
ill-clothed, over-worked race — and
their masters, and the white inhabi-
tants generally, as an unwholesome-
looking crew of saffron- faced tyrants,
who wore straw hats with umbrella
brims, wide trowsers, and calico jack-
ets, living on pepper pot and land
crabs, and drinking sangaree and

f*aivbB eiil

[June,

b "jfliJaacridB

•

smoking cigars the whole day ; in a
word, that all that Bryan Edwards
and others had written regarding the
civilisation of the West Indies was a
fable. But I was agreeably undecei-
ved; for although I did meet with
some extraordinary characters, and
witnessed not a few rum scenes, yet
on the whole I gratefully bear wit-
ness to the great hospitality of the
inhabitants, both in the towns and in
the country. In Kingston the society
was exceedingly good, as good, I can
freely affirm, as I ever met with in
any provincial town anywhere ; and
there prevailed a warmth of heart,
and a kindliness both in the males
and females of those families to
which I had the good fortune to be
introduced, that I never experienced
out of Jamaica.

At the period I am describing, the
island was in the hey-day of its pros-
perity, and the harbour of Kingston
was full of shipping. I had never
before seen so superb a mercantile
haven; it is completely land-locked,
and the whole navy of England might
ride in it commodiously.

Oil the sea face it is almost im-
pregnable, for it would be little short
of a miracle for an invading squadron
to wind its way through the labyrinth
of shoals and reefs lying off the mouth
of it, amongst which the channels are
so narrow and intricate, that at three
or four points the sinking of a sand
barge would effectually block up all

ingress ; but, independently of this,
the entrance at Port-Royal is defend-
ed by very strong works, the guns
ranging the whole way across, while,
a little farther on, the attacking ships
would be exposed to a cross fire from
the heavy metal of the Apostles' Bat-
tery; and even assuming all these
obstacles to be overcome, and the
passage into the harbour forced, be-
fore they could pass the narrows to
get up to the anchorage at Kingston,
they would be blown out of the
water by a raking fire from sixty
pieces of large cannon on Fort Au-
gusta, which is so situated that they
would have to turn to windward for
at least half an hour, in a strait which
at the widest, would not allow them
to reach beyond musket-shot of the
walls. Fortunately, as yet Mr Can-
ning had not called his New World
into existence, and the whole of the
trade- of Terra Firma, from Porto
Cavello down to Chagres,the greater
part of the trade of the islands of
Cuba and San Domingo, and even
that of Lima and San Bias, and the
other ports of the Pacific, carried on
across the Isthmus of Darien, centred
in Kingston, the usual supplies
through Cadiz being stopped by the
advance of the French in the Penin-
sula. The result of this princely
traffic, more magnificent than that of
Tyre, was a stream of gold arid silver
flowing into the Bank of England, to
the extent of three millions of pounds
sterling annually in return for British
manufactures; thus supplying the
sinews of war to the government at
home, and besides the advantage of
so large a mart, employing an im-
mense amount of British tonnage,
and many thousand seamen; and in
numberless ways opening up new
outlets to British enterprise and ca-
pital. Alas ! alas ! where is all this
now ? The echo of the empty stores
might answer " where!"

On arriving at Kingston, my first
object was to seek out Mr ***, the
admiral's agent, and one of the most
extensive merchants in the place, in
order to deliver some letters to him,

1832.]

Tom Cringle's Log,

and get his advice as to my future
proceedings. Mr Callaloo undertook
to be my pilot, striding along a-beam
of me, and leaving in his wake two
serpentine dottings on the pavement
from the droppings of water from his
voluminous coat -skirts, which had
been thoroughly soaked from his re-
cent ducking.

Every thing appeared to be thri-
ving, and as we passed along, the hot
sandy streets were crowded with
drays conveying goods from the
wharfs to the stores, and from the
stores to the Spanish Posadas. The
merchants of the place, active, sharp-
looking men, were seen grouped un-
der the piazzas in earnest conversa-
tion with their Spanish customers,
or perched on the top of the bales and
boxes just landed, waiting to hook
the gingham-coated, Moorish-look-
ing Dons, as they came along with
cigars in their mouths, and a train of
negro servants following them with
fire buckets on their heads, filled with
pesos faeries. The appearance of
the town itself was novel and plea-
sing ; the houses, mostly of two sto-
ries, looked as if they had been built
of cards, most of them being sur-
rounded with piazzas from ten to
fourteen feet wide, gaily painted
with green and white, and formed by
the roofs projecting beyond the brick
walls or shells of the houses. On the
ground-floor these piazzas are open,
and in the lower part of the town,
where the houses are built contigu-
ous to each other, they form a co-
vered way, affording a most grateful
shelter from the sun, on each side of
the streets, which last are unpaved,
and more like dry river-courses,
than thoroughfares in a Christian
town. On the floor above, the bal-
conies are shut in with a sort of
movable blinds, called "Jealousies,"
like large-bladed Venetian blinds
fixed in frames, with here and there
a glazed sash to admit light in bad
.weather when the blinds are closed.
In the upper part of the town the ef-
fect is very beautiful, every house
standing detached from its neigh-
bour, in its little garden filled with
vines, fruit-trees, and stately palms,
and cocoa-nut trees, with a court of
negro houses and offices behind, and
a patriarchal-looking draw-well in
the centre, generally overshadowed

885

by a magnificent wild tamarind.
When I arrived at the great mer-
chant's place of business, I was
shewn into a lofty cool room, with a
range of desks along the walls, where
a dozen clerks were quill-driving.
In the centre sat my man, a small
sallow, yet perfectly gentlemanlike
personage. " Dat is massa," quoth
my black usher. I accordingly walk-
ed up to him, and presented my let-
ter. He never lifted his head from
his paper, which I had half a mind
to resent ; but at the moment there
was a bustle in the piazza, and a
group of navy officers, amongst
whom was the admiral, came in. My
silent friend was now alert enough,
and profuse of his bows and smiles.
" Who have we here? 'Who is that
boy, L — ?" said the admiral to his
secretary. " Young Cringle, sir, the
only one except Mr Splinter saved
from the Torch ; he was first on the
Admiralty list 'tother day."

" What, the lad Willoughby spoke
so well of?"

" The same, sir, he got his pro-
motion by last packet."

" I know, I know. I say, Mr Crin-
gle, you are appointed to the Fire-
brand, do you know that ?"

I did not know it, and began to
fear my cruise on shore was all up.

" But I don't look for her from
Havanna for a month ; so leave your
address with L — , that you may get
the order to join when she does
come."

It appeared that I had seen the
worst of the agent, for he gave me a
very kind invitation to stay some
days with him, and drove me home
in his ketureen, a sort of sedan chair,
with the front and sides knocked out,
and mounted on a gig body. Before
dinner we were lounging about the
piazza, and looking down into the
street, when a negro funeral came
past, preceded by a squad of drunk-
en black vagabonds, singing and
playing on gumbies, African drums,
made out of pieces of hollow trees,
about six feet long, witli skins bra-
ced over them, each carried by one
man, while another beats it with his
open hands. The coffin was borne
along on the heads of two negroes —
a negro carries every thing on his
head, from a bale of goods to a wine-
glass or tea-cup, It is a practice for
o *

88D

Tom Cringle's Log.

[June,

the bearers, when they come near
the house of any one against whom
the deceased was supposed to have
had a grudge, to pretend that the
coffin will not pass by, and in the
present case, when they came oppo-
site to where we stood, they began
to wheel round and round, and to
stagger under their load, while the
choristers shouted at the top of their
lungs.

" We beg you, shipmate, for come
along — do, broder, come away;"
then another reel. " What, you no
wantee go in a hole, eh ? You hab
grudge gainst somebody lif here,
eh!" — Another devil of a lurch
— " Massa * * * housekeeper, eh ?
Ah, it must be!" — A tremendous
stagger — " Oh, Massa * * * dollar
for drink j someting to hold play"
(negro wake) " in Spring -path,"
(the negro burying-ground ;) "Be-
diacko say him won't pass less you
give it." And here they began to
spin round more violently than be-
fore ; but at the instant a drove of
bullocks coming along, they got en-
tangled amongst them, and down
went body and bearers and all, the
coffin bursting in the fall, and the
dead corpse, with its white grave
clothes and black face, rolling over
and over in the sand amongst the feet
of the cattle. It was immediately
caught up, however, bundled into
the coffin again, and away they stag-
gered, drumming and singing as loud-
ly as before.

The party at dinner was a large
one j every thing in good style, wines
superb, turtle, &c., magnificent, and
the company exceedingly companion-
able. A Mr Francis Fyall, (a great
planting attorney, that is, an agent for
a number of proprietors of estates,
who preferred living in England, and
paying a commission to him for ma-
naging in Jamaica, to facing the cli-
mate themselves,) to whom I had an
introduction, rather posed me, by
asking me during dinner, if I would
take any thing in the long way with
him, which he explained by saying
he would be glad to take a glass of
small beer with me. This, after a de-
luge of Madeira, Champagne, and
all manner of light wines, was rather
trying ; but I kept my countenance
as well as I could. One thing I re-
member struck me as remarkable,
just as we were rising to go to the

drawirigroom,a cloud of winged ants
burst in upon us through the open
windows, and had it not been for the
glass shades, would have extinguish-
ed the candles ; but when they had
once settled on the table, they deli-
berately wriggled themselves free of
their wings, as one would cast off a
great coat, and crept away in their
simple and more humble capacity of
creeping things. Next day I went to

wait on my relation, Mrs S ;

I had had a confoundedly hot walk
through the burning sandy streets,
and was nearly blinded by the re-
flection from them, as I ascended the
front stairs. There are no carpets in
the houses in Jamaica ; but the floors,
which are often of mahogany, are
beautifully polished, and shine like a
well-kept dinner table. They are,
of course, very slippery, and require
wary walking till one gets accustom-
ed to them. The rooms are made
exceedingly dark during the heat of
the day, according to the prevailing
practice in all ardent climates. A
black footman, very handsomely
dressed, all to his bare legs, (I thought
at first he had black silk stockings
on,) preceded me, and when he reach-
ed the drawingroom door, asked my
name. I told him, " Mr Cringle"—
whereupon he sung out to my dis-
may— " Massa Captain Ringtail to
wait pan Misses."

This put me out a leetle — especial-
ly as I heard some one say — '* Cap-
tain who — what a very odd name ?"

But I had no time for reflection,
as I had not blundered three steps
out of the glare of the Piazza, into
the palpable obscure of the darkened
drawingroom, black as night from the
contrast, when I capsized headlong
over an ottoman in the middle of the
apartment, and floundered right in-
to the middle of a group of young
ladies, and one or two lapdogs, by
whom it was conjointly occupied.
Trying to recover myself, I slipped
on the glasslike floor,and came down
stern foremost, and being now regu-
larly at the slack end, for I could not
well get lower, I sat still scratching
my caput in the midst of a gay com-
pany of morning visitors, enjoying
the gratifying consciousness that I
was distinctly visible to them, al-
though my dazzled optics could as
yet distinguish nothing. To add to
my pleasurqable sensations, I now

1832.]

Tom Cringle's Log*

perceived from the coldness of the
floor, that' in my downfall the catas-
trophe of my unmentionables had
been grievously rent, but 1 had no-
thing for it but sitting patiently still
amidst the suppressed laughter of
the company, until I became accus-
tomed to the twilight, and they, like
bright stars, began to dawn on my
bewildered senses in all their love-
liness, and prodigiously handsome
women some of them were, for the
Creoles, so far as figure is concerned,
are generally perfect, while beautiful
features are not wanting, and my tra-
vel had reconciled me to the absence
of the rose from their cheeks. My
eldest cousin Mary (where is there
a name like Mary?) now approached,
she and I were old friends, and many
a junketing we used to have in my
father's house during the holidays,
when she was a boarding-school girl
in England. My hardihood and self-
possession returned, under the dou-
ble gratification of seeing her, and
the certainty that my blushes (for my
cheeks were glowing like hot iron)
could not have been observed in the
subdued green light that pervaded
the room.

" Well, Tom, since you are no
longer dazzled, and see us all now,
you had better get up, hadn't you—-
you see mamma is waiting there to
embrace you ?"

" Why, I think myself I had better;
but when I broached- to so sudden-
ly, I split my lower canvass, Mary,
and I cannot budge until your mother
lends me a petticoat."

" A what ? you are crazy, Tom" —
" Not a whit, not a whit, why I
have split my — ahem."

" This is speaking plain, an't it ?"
Away tripped the sylph-like girl,
and in a twinkling re-appeared with
the desired garment, which in a con-
vulsion of laughter she slipped over
my head as I sat on the floor; and
having fastened it properly round my
waist, I rose and paid my respects
to my warm-hearted relations. But
that petticoat — Itcouldnothave been
the old woman's, there could have
been no such virtue in an old wo-
man's petticoat ; no, no, it must ei-
ther have been a charmed garment,
or — or — Mary's own ; for from that
hour I was a lost man, and the devo-
ted slave of her large black eyes, and
high pale forehead. " Oh, murder—

887

you speak of the sun dazzling, what
is it to the lustre of that same eye of
yours, Mary ?"

In the evening I escorted the ladies
to a ball, (by the way, a West In-
dia ball-room being a perfect lantern,
open to the four winds of heaven, is
cooler than a ball-room any where
else,) and a very gay affair it turned
out to be, although I had more trou-
ble in getting admittance than I bar-
gained for, and was witness to as
comical a row (considering the very
frivolous origin of it, and the quality
of the parties engaged in it) as ever
took place even in that peppery
country, where, I verily believe, the
temper of the people, generous
though it be in the main, is hotter
than the climate, and that, God
knows! is sudoriferous enough. I
was walking through the entrance
saloon with my fair cousin on my
arm, stepping out like a hero to the
opening crash of a fine military band,
towards the entrance of the splendid
ball-room filled with elegant com-
pany, brilliantly lighted up and orna-
mented with the most rare and beau-
tiful shrubs and flowers, which no
European conservatory could have
furnished forth, and arched over-
head with palm branches and a pro-
fusion of evergreens, while the po-
lished floor, like one vast mirror, re-
flected the fine forms of the pale but
lovely black-eyed and black-haired
West Indian dames, glancing amidst
the more sombre dresses of their
partners, while the whole group was
relieved by being here and there
spangled with a rich naval or milita-
ry uniform. As we approached, a
constable put his staff across the
doorway.

" Beg pardon, sir, but you are not
in full dress."

Now this was the first night where-
on I had sported my lieutenant's uni-
form, and with my gold swab on my
shoulder, the sparkling bullion glan-
cing in the corner of my eye at the
very moment, my dress-sword by
my side, gold buckles in my shoes,
and spotless white trowsers, I had,
in my innocence, considered myself
a deuced killing fellow, and felt pro-
portionably mortified at this address.

" No one can be admitted in trow-
sers, sir," said the man.

" Shiver my timbers !" I could not
help the exclamation, the transac-

888

tions of the morning crowding on my
recollection ; " shiver my timbers !
is my fate in this strange country to
be for ever irrevocably bound up in
a pair of breeches ?"

My cousin pinched my arm.—
" Hush, Tom; go home and get
mamma's petticoat."

The man was peremptory ; and as
there was no use in getting into a
squabble about such a trifle, I hand-
ed my partner over to the care of a
gentleman of the party, who was for-
tunately accoutred according to rule,
and, stepping to my quarters, I equip-
ped myself in a pair of tight nether
integuments, and returned to the
ball-room. By this time there was
the devil to pay ; the entrance saloon
was crowded with military and naval
men, high in oath, and headed by no
less a person than a general officer,
and a one-armed man, one of the
chief civil officers in the place, and
who had been a sailor in his youth.
I was just in time to see the advance
of the combined column to the door
of the ball-room, through which they
drove the picket of constables like
chaff, and then halted. The one-
armed functionary, a most powerful
and very handsome man, now de-
tached himself from the phalanx, and
strode up to the advanced guard of
stewards clustered in front of the
ladies, who had shrunk together into
a corner of the room, like so many
frightened hares.

The place being now patent to me,
I walked up to comfort my party,
and could see all that passed. The
champion of the Excluded had taken
the precaution to roll up the legs of
his trowsers, and to tie them tightly
at the knee with his garters, which
gave him the appearance of a Dutch
skipper ; and in all the consciousness
of being now properly arrayed, he
walked up to one of the men in
authority — a small pot-bellied gen-
tleman, and set himself to intercede
for the attacking column, the head of
which was still lowering at the door.
But the little steward speedily inter-
rupted him.

" Why, Mr , rules must be

maintained, and let me see," — here
he peered through his glass at the
substantial supporters of our friend,
— " as I live, you yourself are inad-
missible."

The giant laughed.—" Damn the

Tom Cringle's Loty.

[June,

body, he must have been a tailor! —
Charge, my fine fellows, and throw
the constables out of the window,
and the stewards after them. Every
man his bird ; and here goes for my
Cock Robin." With that he made a
grab at his Lilliputian antagonist, but
missed him, as lie slid away amongst
the women like an eel, while his
pursuer, brandishing his wooden arm
on high, to which I now perceived,
for the first time, that there was a
large steel hook appended, exclaim-
ed in a broad Scotch accent, " Ah, if
I had but caught the creature, I
would have clapt this in his mouth,
and played him like a salmon/'

At this signal, in poured the mass
of soldiers and sailors ; the consta-
bles vanished in an instant ; the stew-
ards were driven back upon the
ladies ; and such fainting and scream-
ing, and swearing and threatening,
and shying of cards, and fixing of
time and place for a cool turn in the
morning, it had never been my good
fortune to witness before or since.
My wig! thought I, a precious coun-
try, where a man's life may be peril-
ed by the fashion of the covering to
his nakedness !

Next day, Mr Fyall, who, I after-
wards learned, was a most estimable
man in substantiate, although some-
what eccentric in small matters, call-
ed, and invited me to accompany him
.on a cruise amongst some of the estates
under his management. This was
the very thing I desired, and three
days afterwards I left my kind
friends in Kingston, and set forth on
my visit to Mr Fyall, AV!IO lived about
seven miles from town.

The morning was fine as usual,
although about noon the clouds, thin
and fleecy and transparent at first,
but gradually settling down more
dense and heavy, began to congre-
gate on the summit of the Liguanea
Mountains, which rises about four
miles distant, to a height of near
5000 feet, in rear of the town. It
thundered too a little now and then
in the same direction, but this was
an every-day occurrence in Jamai-
ca at this season, and as I had only
seven miles to go, off I started in a
gig of mine host's, with my portman-
teau well secured under a tarpaulin,
in defiance of all threatening appear-
ances, crowding sail, and urging the
noble roan, that had me in tow, close

1832.]

Tom Cringles Log.

889

upon thirteen knots. I had not gone
above three miles, however, when
the sky in a moment changed from
the intense glare of a tropical noon-
tide, to the deepest gloom, as if a bad
angel had suddenly overshadowed
us, and interposed his dark wings
between us and the blessed sun ,• in-
deed, so instantaneous was the effect,
that it reminded me of the withdraw-
ing of the foot-lights in a theatre.
The road now wound round the base
of a precipitous spur from the Li-
guanea Mountains, which, far from
melting into the level country by
gradual and decreasing undulations,
shot boldly out nearly a mile from
the main range, and that so abrupt-
ly, that it seemed morticed into the
plain, like a rugged promontory run-
ning into a frozen lake. On looking
up along the ridge of this prong, I
saw the lowering mass of black
clouds gradually spread out, and de-
tach themselves from the summits of
the loftier mountains, to which they
had clung the whole morning, and
begin to roll slowly down the hill,
seeming to touch the tree tops,while
along their lower edges hung a fringe
of dark vapour, or rather shreds of
cloud in rapid motion, that shifted
about, and shot out and shortened
like streamers.

As yet, there was no lightning nor
rain, and in the expectation of esca-
ping the shower, as the wind was with
me, I made more sail, pushing the
horse into a gallop, to the great dis-
composure of the negro who sat be-
side me. " Massa, you can't escape
it, you are galloping into; don't Massa
hear de sound of de rain coming
along against de wind, and smell de
earthy smell of him like one new
made grave?"

" The sound of the rain." In ano-
ther clime, long, long ago, I had often
read at my old mother's knee, " And
Elijah said unto Ahab, there is a
sound of abundance of rain, prepare
thy chariot, and get thee down, that
the rain stop thee not; and it came to
pass, in the meanwhile^ that the hea-
ven was dark with clouds and wind,
and there was a great rain."

I looked, and so it was, for in an
instant a white sheet of the heaviest
rain I had ever seen, (if rain it might
be called, for it was more like a Ava-
ter-spout,) fell from the lower edge
VOL. xxxi, NO. cxcv.

of the black cloud, with a strong
rushing noise, that increased to a
loud roar like that of a waterfall. As
it came along, it seemed to devour
the rocks and trees, for they disap-
peared behind the watery ekreen the
instant it reached them. We saw it
ahend of us for more than a mile
coming along the road, preceded by
a black line trom the moistening of
the white dust, right in the wind's
eye, and with such an even front,
that I verily believe it was descend-
ing in buckets full on my horse's
head, while as yet not one drop had
reached me. At this moment, the
adjutant-general of the forces, Colo-
nel F , of the Coldstream.

Guards, in his tandem, drawn by
two sprightly blood bays, with his
servant, a light boy, mounted Creole
fashion on the leader, was coming
up in my wake at a spot where the
road sank into a hollow, and was
traversed by a water course already
running knee deep, although dry as
a bone but the minute before.

I was now drenched to the skin,
the water pouring out in cascades
from both sides or the vehicle, when
just as I reached the top of the oppo-
site bank, there was a flash of light-
ning so vivid, accompanied by an
explosion so loud and tremendous,
that my horse, trembling from stem
to stern, stood dead still; the dusky
youth by my side jumped out, and
buried his snout in the mud, like a
porker in Spain nuzzling for acorns,
and I felt more queerishthau I would
willingly have confessed to. I could
have knelt and prayed. The noise of
the thunder was a sharp ear-piercing
crash, as if the whole vault of heaven
had been made of glass, and had
been shivered at a blow by the hand
of the Almighty.

It was, I am sure, twenty seconds
before the usual roar and rumbling
from the reverberation of the report
from the hills, and among the clouds,
was heard.

I drove on, and arrived just in
time to dress for dinner, but I did
not learn till next day, that the flash
which paralysed me, had struck dead
the Colonel's servant and leading
horse, as he ascended the bank of
the ravine, by this time so much
swollen, that the body of the lad
was washed off the road into the
3 M

Tom Cringle's Log.

900

neighbouring gully, where it was
found, when the waters subsided,
entirely covered with sand. I found
the party congregated in the piazza
around Mr Fyall, who was passing
his jokes, without much regard to
the feelings of his guests, and exhi-
biting as great a disregard of the
common civilities and courtesies of
life as can be well imagined. One of
the party was a little red-faced gen-
tleman, Peregrine Whiffle, Esquire,by
name, who, in Jamaica parlance, was
designated an extraordinary master in
Chancery, the overseer of the pen,
or breeding- farm, in the great house
as it is called, or mansion-house, of
which Mr Fyall resided, and a merry,
laughing, intelligent, round, red-faced
man, with a sort of Duncan Kuock-
dunder nose, through the wide nos-
trils of which you could see a cable's
length into his head ; he was either
Fyall's head clerk, or a sort of first
lieutenant; these personages and
myself composed the party. The
dinner itself was excellent, although
rather of the rough-and-round order ;
the wines and food intrinsically good;
but my appetite was not increased by
the exhibition of a deformed, bloated
negro child, about ten years old, which
Mr Fyall planted at his elbow, and,
by way of practical joke, stuffed to
repletion with all kinds of food and
strong drink, until the little dingy
brute was carried out drunk.

The wine circulated freely, and
by and by Fyall indulged in some
remarkable stories of his youth, for
he was the only speaker, which I
found some difficulty in swallowing,
until at length, on one thumper be-
ing tabled, involving an impossibility,
and utterly indigestible, I involunta-
rily exclaimed, " By Jupiter !"

" You want any ting, massa,"
promptly chimed in the black ser-
vant at my elbow, a diminutive kiln-
dried old negro.

" No," said I, rather caught.

" Oh, me tink you call for Jupi-
ter."

I looked in the baboon's face—
"Why, if I did; what then V"

" Only me Jupiter, at massa sar-
vice, dat all."

" You are, eh, no great shakes of
a Thunderer; and Avho is that tall
square man standing behind your
master's chair ?"

" Daddy Cupid, massa."

[June,

" And the old woman who is car-
rying away the dishes in the Piaz*
za?"

" Mammy Weenus."

" Daddy Cupid, and Mammy Wee-
nus—Shade of Homer !"

Jupiter, to my surprise, shrunk
from my side as if he had received
a blow, and the next moment I could
hear him communing with Venus in
the Piazza.'

" For true, dat leetle man of war,
Bucra, must be Obeah man ; how de
debil him come to sabe dat it was
stable boy, Homer, who broke de
candle shade on massa right hand,
dat one wid de piece broken out of
de edge ;" and here he pointed to-
wards it with his chin — a negro al-
ways points with his chin.

I had never slept on shore be-
fore ; the night season in the coun-
try in dear old England, we all know,
is usually one of the deepest still-
ness— here it was any thing but still ;
— as the evening closed in, there arose
a loud humming noise, a compound
of the buzzing, and chirping, and
whistling, and croaking of number-
less reptiles and insects, on the earth,
in the air, and in the water. I was
awakened out of my first sleep by
it, not that the sound was disagree-
able, but it was unusual ; and every
now and then a beetle the size of
your thumb would bang in through
the open window, cruise round the
room with a noise like a humming
top, and then dance a quadrille with
half a dozen bats ; while the fire-flies
glanced like sparks, spangling the
folds of the muslin curtains of the
bed. The croak of the tree-toad, too,
a genteel reptile, with all the usual
loveable properties of his species,
about the size of the crown of your
hat, sounded from the neighbouring
swamp, like some one snoring in
the Piazza, blending harmoniously
with the nasal concert got up by
Jupiter, and some other heathen dei-
ties, who were sleeping there almost
naked, excepting the head, which
every negro swathes during the night
with as. much flannel and as many
handkerchiefs as he can command.
By the way, they all slept on their
faces — I wonder if this will account
for their flat noses.

Next morning we started at day-
light, cracking along at the rate of
twelve knots an hour in a sort of

1832.]

Tom Cringle's Log.

gig, with one horse in the shafts, and
another hooked on a breast of him
to a sort of studding-sail-boom, or
outrigger, and followed by three
mounted servants, each with a led
horse and two sumpter mules.

In the evening we arrived at an
estate under his management, having
passed a party of maroons immedi-
ately before. I never saw finer men
— tall, strapping fellows, dressed ex-
actly as they should be, and the cli-
mate requires ; wide duck trowsers,
over these a loose shirt, of duck also,
gathered at the waist by a broad
leathern belt, through which, on one
side, their short cutlass is stuck, and
on the other hangs a leathern pouch
for ball; a loose thong across one
shoulder, supports on the opposite
hip a large powder-horn and haver-
sack. This, with a straw-hat, and a
short gun in their hand, with a sling
to be used on a march, completes
their equipment. In better keeping
this with the climate, than the pad-
ded coats, heavy caps, tight cross-
belts, and ponderous muskets of our
regulars. As we drove up to the
door, the overseer began to bawl,
" Boys, boys !" and kept blowing a
dog-call. All servants in the coun-
try in the West Indies, be they as
old as Methuselah, are called Boys.
In the present instance, half-a-dozen
black fellows forthwith appeared,
to take our luggage, and attend on
" massa" in other respects. The
great man was as austere to the poor
overseer, as if he had been guilty of
some misdemeanour, and after a few
short, crabbed words, desired him to
get supper, " do you hear?"

The meat consisted of plantation
fare — salted fish, plantains and yams,
and a piece of goat mutton. Another
" observe," — a south-down mutton,
after sojourning a year or two here,
does not become a goat exactly, but
he changes his heavy warm fleece,
and wears long hair ; and his progeny
after him, if bred on the hot plains,
never assume the wool again. Mr
Fyall and, I sat down, and then
in walked four mutes, stout young
fellows, not over-well dressed, and
with faces burnt to the colour of
brick-dust. They were the book-
keepers, so called because they ne-
ver see a book, their province being
to attend the negroes in the field,
and to superintend the manufacture

901

of su^ar and rum in the boiling and
distilling-houses.

One of them, the Head Bookkeep-
er, as he was called, appeared lite-
rally roasted by the intensity of the
sun's rays. " How is Baldy Steer ?"
said the overseer to this person.

" Better to-day, sir — I drenched
him with train-oil and sulphur."

" The devil you did," thought I—
" alas ! for Baldy."

" And Mary, and Caroline, and the
rest of that lot?"—" Are sent to
Perkins's Red Rover, sir ,* but I be-
lieve some of them are in calf already
by Bullfinch — and I have cut Peter
for the Lampas."

The knife and fork dropped from
my hands. What can all this mean ?
is this their boasted kindness to their
slaves ? One of a family drenched
with train-oil snd brimstone, another
cut for some horrible complaint ne-
ver heard of before, called Lampas,
and the females sent to the Red Ro-
ver, some being in calf already !
But I soon perceived that the baked
man was the cowboy, or shepherd
of the estate, making his report of
the casualties amongst his bullocks,
mules, and heifers.

" Juliet Ridge will not yield, sir,"
quoth another. " Who is this next?
a stubborn concern she must be."
"The liquor is very poor." Here
he helped himself to rum and water,
the rum coming up about an inch in
the glass, regular half and half, fit
to float a marlinespike.

" It is more than yours is," thought
I ; and I again stared in wonderment,
until I perceived he spoke of the
juice of a cane patch. — At this time
a tall, lathy gentleman came in, wear-
ing a most original cut coatee. He was
a most extraordinary built man ; he
had absolutely no body, his bottom
being placed between his shoulders,
but what was wanted in corpus was
made up in legs, indeed he looked
like a pair of compasses, buttoned
together at the shoulders, and sup-
porting a yellow fiz half a yard long,
thatched with a fell of sandy hair
falling down lank and greasy on each
side of his face. Fyall called him
Buckskin, which, with some other
circumstances, made me guess that
he was neither more nor less than an
American smuggler. After supper,
a glass of punch was filled for each
person j the overseer gave a rap on

Tom Cringle's Log.

902

the table with his knuckles, and off
started the book-keepers, like shots
out of shovels, leaving the Yankee,
Mr Fyall, the overseer, and myself,
at table.

I was very tired, and reckoned on
going to bed now — but no such thing.
Fyall ordered Jupiter to bring a case
from his gig-box, containing some
capital brandy ; a new brewage of
punch took place, and I found about
the small hours, that we were all
verging fast towards drunkenness, or
something very like that same. The
Yankee was specially plied by Fyall,
evidently with an object, and he soon
succeeded in making him helplessly
drunk.

The fun now " grew fast and fu-
rious,"— a large wash-tub was order-
ed in, placed under a beam at the
corner of the room, and filled with
water ; a sack and a three inch rope
were then called for, and promptly
produced by the Blackies, who, ap-
parently accustomed to Fyall's
pranks, grinned with delight. — Buck-
skin was thrust into the sack, feet
foremost ; the mouth of it was then
gathered round his throat with a
string, and I was set to splice a bight
in the rope, so as to fit under his arms
without running, which might have
choked him. All things being pre-
pared, the slack end was thrown over
the beam. He was soused in the tub,
the word was given to hoist away,
and we ran him up to the roof, and
then belayed the rope round the body
of the overseer, who was able to sit
on his chair, and that was all. The
cold bath, and the being hung up to
dry, speedily sobered the American,
but his arms being within the sack,
he could do nothing for his own
emancipation; he kept swearing,
however, and intreating, and dancing
with rage, e very j erk drawing the cord
tighter round the waist of the over-
seer, who, unaware of Ms situation,
thought himself bewitched as he was
drawn with violence by starts along
the floor, with the chair as it were
glued to him. At length the patient
extricated one of his arms, and lay-
ing hold of the beam above him, drew
himself up, and then letting go his
hold suddenly, fairly lifted the drunk-
en overseer, chair and all, several
feet from the ground, so as to bring
him on a level with himself, and then,
in mid air, began to pummel his coun-

[June,

terpoise with right good- will. At
length, fearful of the consequences
from the fury into which the man
had worked himself, Fyall and I
dashed out the candles, and fled to
our rooms, where, after barricading
the doors, we shouted to the servants
to let the gentlemen down.

The next morning had been fixed
for duck-shooting, and the overseer
and I were creeping along amongst
the mangrove bushes on the shore to
get a shot at some teal, when we saw
our friend, the pair of compasses,
crossing the small bay in his boat to-
wards his little pilot-boat-built
schooner, which was moored in a
small creek opposite, the brushwood
concealing every thing but her masts.
My companion, as wild an Irishman
as I ever knew, hailed him, —

" Hillo, Obadiah — Buckskin — you
Yankee rascal, heave to. Come
ashore here — come ashore."

Obed, smoking his pipe, delibe-
rately uncoiled himself. I thought, as
he rose, there was to be no end of him
— and stood upright in the boat, like
an ill-rigged jury-mast.

" I say, Master Tummas, you ben't
no friend of mine, I guess, a'ter last
night's work; you hears how I
coughs," — and he began to wheezle
and crow in a most remarkable fa-
shion.

" Never mind," rejoined the over-
seer ; " if you go round that point,
and put up the ducks, by the piper,
but I'll fire at you !"

Obed neighed like a horse expect-
ing his oats, which was meant as a
laugh of derision. " Do you think
your birding-piece can touch me here
away, Master Tummas ?" Where-
upon he nichered more loudly than
before.

" Don't provoke me to try you,
you yellow snake, you !"

" Try, and be d — d, and there's a
mark for thee," unveiling a certain
part of his body, not his face.

The Overseer, or JBusha, to give
him his Jamaica name, looked at me
and smiled, then coolly lifted his
long Spanish barrel, and fired. Down
dropped the smuggler, and ashore
came the boat.

" I am mortally wounded, Master
Tummas," quoth Obed ; and I was
confoundedly frightened at first,
from the unusual proximity of the
injured part to his head j but the

utfoo-A ywctafHiO til *-W9&

Tom Cringle's Log.

183-2.]

overseer, as soon as he could get
off the ground, where he had thrown
himself in an uncontrollable fit of
laughter, had the man stripped and
laid across a log, where he set his
servant to pick out the pellets with
a penknife.

Next night I was awakened out
of my first sleep by a peculiar sort
of tap, tap, on the floor, as if a cat
with walnut shells had been moving
about the room. The feline race, in
all its varieties, is my detestation,
so I slipped out of bed to expel the
intruder,butthe instant my toe touch-
ed the ground, it was seized as if by a
smith's forceps. I drew it into bed,
but the annoyance followed it ; and
in an agony of alarm and pain, I
thrust my hand down, when my
thumb was instantly manacled to the
other suffering member. I now lost
my wits altogether, and roared mur-
der, which brought a servant in with
a light, and there I was, thumb and
toe, in the clinch of a land-crab.

I had been exceedingly struck
with the beauty of the negro villages
on the old settled estates, which are
usually situated in the most pictu-
resque spots, and I determined to
visit the one which lay on a sunny
bank, full in view from my window,
divided on two sides from the cane
pieces by a precipitous ravine, and
on the other two by a high logwood
hedge, so like hawthorn, that I could
scarcely tell the difference, even
when close to it.

At a distance it had the appear-
ance of one entire orchard of fruit-
trees, where were mingled together
the pyramidal orange in fruit and in
flower, the former in all its stages
from green to dropping ripe, — the
citron, lemon, and lime-trees, the
stately, glossy-leaved star-apple, the
golden shaddock and grape-fruit,
with their slender branches bending
under their ponderous yellow fruit,
•—the cashew, with its apple like
those of the cities of the plain, fail-
to look at, but acrid to the taste, to
which the far-famed nut is appended
like a bud, — the avocado, with its
brobdignag pear, as large as a pur-
ser's lantern, — the bread-fruit, with
a leaf that would have covered Adam
like a Bishop's apron, and a fruit for
all the world in size and shape like
a Blackamoor's head; while for un-
derwood you had the green, fresh,
dew-spangled plantain, round which

903

in the hottest day there is always a
halo of coolness, — the coco root, the
yam and granadillo, with their long
vines twining up the neighbouring
trees and shrubs like hop tendrils, —
and pease and beans, in all their end-
less variety of blossom and of odour,
from the Lima bean, with a stalk as
thick as my arm, to the mouse pea,
three inches high, — the pine-apple,
literally growing in,and constituting,
with its prickly leaves, part of the
hedgerows, — the custard apple, like
russet bags of cold pudding, — the
cocoa and coffee bushes, and the de-
vil knows what all that is delightful
in nature besides; while aloft, the
tall graceful cocoa-nut, the majestic
palm, and the gigantic wild cotton-
tree, shot up here and there like mi-
narets far above the rest, high into
the blue heavens.

I entered one of the narrow wind-
ing footpaths, where an immense
variety of convolvuli crept along the
penguin fences, disclosing their de-
licate flowers in the morning fresh-
ness, (all that class here shut shop at
noon,) and passion flowers of all sizes,
from a soup-plate to a thumb ring.
The huts were substantially thatch-
ed with palm leaves, and the walls
woven with a basket work of twigs,
plastered over with clay, and white-
washed; the floors were of baked
clay, dry and comfortable. They all
consisted of a hall and a sleeping-
room off each side of it; in many of
the former I noticed mahogany side-
boards, and chairs, and glass decant-
ers, while a whole lot of African
drums and flutes, and sometimes a
good gun, hung from the rafters; and
it would have gladdened an Irish-
man's heart to have seen the adjoin-
ing piggeries. Before one of the
houses an old woman was taking
care of a dozen black infants, little
naked, glossy, black guinea-pigs,
with parti-coloured beads tied round
their loins, each squatted like a little
Indian pagod in the middle of a large
wooden bowl, to keep it off the damp
ground. While I was pursuing my
ramble, a large conch shell was
blown at the overseer's house, and
the different gangs turned in to din-
ner; they came along dancing and
shouting, and playing tricks on each
other in the little paths, in all the
happy anticipation of a good dinner,
and an hour and a half to eat it in,
the raen well clad in Osnaburg frocks

904

and trowsers, and the women in baize
petticoats and Osnaburg shifts, with
a neat printed calico short gown
over all. " And these are slaves,"
thought I, " and this is West Indian
bondage ! Oh that some of my well-
meaning anti-slavery friends Were
here, to judge from the evidence of
their own senses !"

The following night there was to
be a grand play or wake in the negro
houses, over the head cooper, who
had died in the morning, and I de-
termined to be present at it, al-
though the overseer tried to dis-
suade me, saying that no white per-
son ever broke in on these orgies,
that the negroes were very averse to
their doing so, and that neither he,
nor any ot the white people on the
estate, had ever been present on such
an occasion. This very interdict ex-
cited my curiosity still more ; so I
rose about midnight, and let myself
gently down through the window,
and shaped my course in the direc-
tion of the negro houses, guided
by a loud drumming, which, as I
came nearer, every now and then
sank into a low murmuring roll,
when a strong bass voice would
burst forth into a wild recitative;
to which succeeded a loud piercing
chorus of female voices, during
which the drums were beaten with
great vehemence; this was succeeded
by another solo, and so on. There
was no moon, and I had to thread
ray way along one of the winding
footpaths by star-light. When I ar-
rived within a stone-cast of the hut
before which the play was being
held, I left the beaten track, and
crept onwards, until I gained the
shelter of the stem of a wild cotton
tree, behind which I skulked un-
seen.

The scene was wild enough. Be-
fore the door a circle was formed
by about twenty women, all in their
best clothes, sitting on the ground,
and swaying their bodies to and fro,
while they sung in chorus the wild
dirge already mentioned, the words
of which I could not make out ; in
the centre of the circle sat four men
playing on gumbies, or the long drum
already described, while a fifth
stood behind them, with a conch

Tom Cringles Log.

[June,

shell, which he kept sounding at in-
tervals. Other three negroes kept
circling round the outer verge of
the circle of women, naked all to
their waist cloths, spinning about
and about with their hands above
their heads, like so many dancing
dervishes. It was one of these three
that from time to time took up the
recitative, the female chorus break-
ing in after each line. Close to the
drummers lay the body in an open
coffin, supported on two low stools
or tressels ; a piece of flaming resin-
ous wood was stuck in the ground
at the head, and another at the feet,
and a lump of kneaded clay, in
which another torch -like splinter
was fixed, rested on the breast. An
old man, naked like the solo singer,
was digging a grave close to where
the body lay. The following was the
chant : —

" I say, broder, you can't go yet."

CHORUS OF FEMALE VOICES.

" When de morning star rise, den we
put you in a hole."
CHORUS.

" Den you go in a Africa, you see Fetish
dere."

CHORUS.

" You shall nyam goat dere, wid all your
family."

CHORUS.

" Bucera cant come dere ; say, daai ras-
cal, why you no work?"

CHORUS.

" Bucera can't catch Duppy,* no, no."
CHORUS.

Three calibashes, or gourds, with
pork, yams, and rum, were placed on
a small bench that stood close to the
head of the bier, and at right angles
to it.

In a little while, the women, sing-
ing men, and drummers, suddenly
gave a loud shout, or rather yell,
clapped their hands thre« times, and
then rushed into the surrounding
cottages, leaving the old gravedigger
alone with the body.

He had completed the grave, and
had squatted himself on his hams be-
side the coffin, swinging his body as
the women had done, and uttering a
low moaning sound, frequently end-
ing in a loud peek, like that of a pa-
vior when he brings down his ram-
mer.

Duppy, Ghost.

1832.]

Tom Cringle's Log.

I noticed lie kept looking towards
the east, watching, as I conjectured,
the first appearance of the morning
star, but it was as yet too early.

He lifted the gourd with the pork,
and took a large mouthful.

" How is dis ? I cant put dis meat
in quacco's coffin, dere is salt in de
pork ; Duppy can't bear salt," ano-
ther large mouthful — " Duppy hate
salt too much," — here he ate it all up,
and placed the empty gourd in the
coffin. He then took up the one
with boiled yam in it, and tasted it
also.

" Salt here too— who de debil do
such a ting? — must not let Duppy
taste dat." He discussed this also,
placing the empty vessel in the cof-
fin as he had done with tlie other.
He then came to the calibash with
the rum. There is no salt there,
thought I.

" Rum ! ah, Duppy love rum— if
it be well strong, let me see — Massa
Niger, who put water in a dis rum,
eh ? Duppy will never touch dat "
—a long pull — " no, no, never touch
dat." Here he finished the whole,
and placed the empty vessel beside
the others; then gradually sunk back
on his hams with his mouth open,
and his eyes starting from the sock-
ets, as he peered up into the tree,
apparently at some terrible object.
I looked up also, and saw a large
yellow snake, nearly ten feet long,
let itself gradually down, directly
over the coffin, with its tail round a
limb of the cotton tree, until its head
reached within an inch of the dead
man's face, which it licked with its
long forked tongue, uttering a loud
hissing noise.

I was fascinated with horror, and
could not move a muscle; at length
the creature swung itself up again,
and disappeared amongst the branch-
es.

Quashie gained courage, as the
rum began to operate, and the snake
to disappear. " Come to catch
Quacco's Duppy, before him get to
Africa, sure as can be. De metody
parson say de devil, old sarpant, dat
must be old sarpant, for I never see
so big one, so it must be devil."

He caught a glimpse of my face at
this moment ; it seemed that I had
no powers of fascination like the
snake, for he roared out, " Murder,
murder, de devil, de devil, first like
'; see him

905

white face behind de tree ; see him
white face behind de tree;" and then,
in the extremity of his fear, he popt
headforemost into the grave, leaving
his quivering Jegs, and feet sticking
upwards, as if he had been planted
by the head.

A number of negroes ran out of
the nearest houses, and, to my sur-
prise, four white seamen appeared
amongst them, who, the moment they
got sight of my uniform, as I ran
away, gave chase, and immediately
pinioned me. They were all armed,
and I had no doubt were part of the
crew of the smuggling schooner, and
that they had a depot amongst the
negro houses. " Yo ho, my hearty,
heave to, or here goes with a brace
of bullets."

I told them who I was, and that
curiosity alone brought me there.

" Gammon, tell that to the marines;
you're a spy, messmate, and on board
you go with us, so sure as I be Paul
Brandywine."

Here was a change with a ven-
geance. An hour before I was sur*
rounded by friends, and resting com-
fortably in my warm bed, and now I
was a prisoner to a set of brigands,
who were smugglers at the best, and
what might they not be at the worst ?
I had no chance of escape by any
sudden effort of strength or activity,
for a piece of a handspike had been
thrust across my back, passing under
both of my arms, which were tightly
lashed to it, as if I had been trussed
for roasting, so that I could no more
run, with a chance of escape, than a
goose without his pinions. After we
left the negro houses, I perceived,
with some surprise, that my captors
kept the beaten tract, leading direct-
ly to, and past the overseer's dwell-
ing. " Come, here is a chance, at all
events," argued I to myself. " If I
et within hail, I will alarm the
ieges, if a deuced good pipe don't
fail me."

This determination had scarcely
been framed in my mind, when, as
if my very thoughts had been audi-
ble, the smuggler next me on the
right hand drew a pistol, and held it
close to my starboard ear.

" Friend, if you tries to raise the
house, or speaks to any Niger, or
other person we meets, I'll walk
through your skull with two ounces
of lead,"

" You are particularly obliging,"

g
li

Tom Cringle a Log.

906

said I ; " but what do you promise
yourselves by carrying me off?
Were you to murder me, you would
be none the richer; for I have no
valuables about me, as you may
easily ascertain by searching me."

" And do you think that freeborn
Americans like we have kidnapped
you for your dirty rings, and watch,
and mayhap a few dollars, which I
takes you to mean by your walu-
boles, as you calls them ?"

" Why, then, what, in the devil's
name, have you kidnapped me for ?"
And I began to feel my choler over-
powering my discretion, when Mas-
ter Paul Brandywine, who I now
suspected to be the mate of the
smuggler, took the small liberty of
jerking the landyard, that had been
made fast to the middle of the hand-
spike, so violently, that I thought
both my shoulders were dislocated ;
for I was fairly checked down on
my back, just as you may have seen
a pig-merchant on the Fermoy road
bring an uproarious boar to his mar-
rowbones ; while the man, who had
previously threatened to blow my
brains out, knelt beside me, and
civilly insinuated, that " if I was
tired of my life, he calculated I had
better speak as loud again."

There was no jest in all this; so I
had nothing for it but to walk si-
lently along with my escort, after
having gathered myself up as well
as I could. We crept so close un-
der the windows of the overseer's
house, where we picked up a lot of
empty ankers, slung on a long pole,
that I fancied I heard, or really did
hear, some one snore — oh how I en-
vied the sleeper! At length we
reached the beach, where we found
two men lying on their oars, in what,
so far as I could distinguish, appear-
ed to be a sharp swift-looking whale
boat, which they kept close to, with
her head forward, however, to be
ready for a start, should any thing
suspicious appear close to them.

The boat-keeper hailed promptly,
" Who goes there," as they feather-
ed their oars.

" The Tidy little wave," was the
answer.

No more words passed, and the
men who had, in the first instance,
pulled a stroke or two to give the
boat way, now backed water, and

[J UHC ,

tailed her on to the beach, when we
all stepped on board.

Two of my captors now took each
an oar ; we shoved off, and glanced
away through the darkness, along
the smooth surface of the sparkling
sea, until we reached the schooner,
by this time hauled out into the fail-
way at the mouth of the cove, where
she lay hove short, with her mainsail
hoisted up, riding to the land-wind,
and apparently all ready to cant and
be off the moment the boat returned.

As we came alongside, the cap-
tain of her, my friend Obediah, as I
had no difficulty in guessing, from
his very out of the way configura-
tion, dark as it was, called out, " I
says, Paul, who have you got in the
s tarn-sheets there-?"

" A bloody spy, captain ; he who
was with the overseer when he pep-
pered your sheathing t'other morn-
ing."

" Oh 3, bring him on board — bring
him on board. I knows there be a
man-of-war schooner close aboard
of the island, somewheres here-
abouts. I sees through it all, smash
my eyes ! — I sees through it. — But
what kept you, Paul ? Don't you see
the morning-star has risen."

By this time I stood on the deck
of the little vessel, which was not
above a foot out of the water ; and
Obediah, as he spoke, pointed to the
small dark pit of a companion, for
there was no light below, nor indeed
any where on board, except in the
binnacle, and that carefully masked,
indicating by his threatening man-
ner, that I was to get below as
speedily as possible.

" Don't you see the morning-star,
sir ? Why the sun will be up in an
hour, I calculate, and then the sea-
breeze will be down on us before
we get any thing of an offing."

The mention of the morning-star
recalled vividly to my recollection
the scene I had so recently witness-
ed at the negro wake; it seemed
there was another person beside
poor Quacco, likely to be crammed
into a hole before the day broke, and
to be carried to Africa, too, for what
I knew ; but one must needs go
when the devil drives, so I slipped
down into the cabin, and the schoon-
er having weighed, made sail to the
northward,

1832.1

M{ Gregorys British America.

907

MCGREGOR'S BRITISH AMERICA.*

WE are summoned, by the import-
ant labours of Mr M'Gregor, to a
duty which has something of a pa-
triotic value at all times, and at this
time, for many parts of our domestic
empire, something of a local interest
— the duty of exposing to British eyes
the great field of enterprise which is
annually expanding before us in our
British American dependencies. Ne-
ver was so vast a system of such de-
pendencies so little known in any
national sense, or so inadequately
valued. System we call them, mean-
ing that, as their natural advantages
are gradually coming forward to our
knowledge, they betray such several
and partial endowments of wealth
and situation, as prove them to have
been designed for mutual depend-
ence and co-operation : singly, they
are all weak ; jointly, they compose
the framework of a strong empire.
Were it, indeed, possible [we abo-
minate so sad an augury] that the
mixed polity of our glorious country
should ever be dissolved by the ef-
forts of anarchy taking the shape of
reformation, or that, by any other
unhappy revolutions, the House of
Brunswick (like that of Braganza)
should be expatriated and thrown
upon its American possessions, we
affirm that a powerful empire might
be developed to the north of the
United States, out of no other rudi-
ments than those which at present
compose our colonial territory on
the American continent. The simple
discovery in Nova Scotia of coal fit-
ted for the steam-engine [which the
anthracite coal of the United States
notoriously is not], — this one dis-
covery, in connexion with that of
iron-mines in the same province, at
one blow lays the foundations — broad
and deep — of power and commercial
pre-eminence. Coal and iron are the
two pillars on which our domestic
grandeur has rested. The same ele-
ments of power, unfolded under the
same protection of equal laws [for,
excepting Canada, the British juris-

in our Transatlantic realm], will
doubtless tend to results the same
in kind, however differing in degree,
on the gulf of St Lawrence as on the
Thames or on the Clyde. One dan-
ger only would threaten such a con-
summation— the possible want of a
sufficient internal cohesion. Left to
themselves, several provinces might
find a momentary interest, or might
imagine a lasting one, in disclaiming
their British allegiance; and might
pass over to the Federal Union of the
great American Republic. But ex-
actly this danger it is for which we
have it in our power to provide by
good policy, by paternal government,
and by those institutions for nursing
a civic and patriotic spirit, which hi-
therto we have but too much neglect-
ed. Even the use of the French lan-
guage in the Canadas has been too
indulgently treated by the British
government. Of all barriers in the
way of civic sympathy arid unity of
national feeling, language is the most
difficult to surmount. But in three-
fourths of a century, by means of
schools, and by provisions for annex-
ing important civil privileges to the
use of the English language, much
mighthavebeenaccomplished. Much
may yet be accomplished ; and some-
thing, indeed, has been accomplished
by the general equity of our govern-
ment in the midst of its many errors.
It is probable, also, that the tide of
emigration being in so large an over-
balance British, may have the effect
of diffusing and sustaining a British
state of political feeling. British, we
say, as not easily perceiving under
what other name or presiding influ-
ence it would be possible to create
such a unity of feeling amongst these
provinces as would avail to bind them
into one federal whole. However,
if any other principle of cohesion
could be found, and by whatsoever
means, if the end were but attained
of knitting these provinces into one
political system, pursuing the same
interests, and animated by one na-

prudence has every where taken root tional feeling, they have, we repeat

at ,&Bii Oiivf adli

..„! V^l .V .

* British America. By John M'Gregor, Esq. In tsvo volumes, Edinburgh V
W. Black wood. London ; T. Cad«ll,

908

within them and amongst them the
stamina of a powerful state, equal to
all purposes of self-defence. In mere
extent of territory, could that be ap-
pealed to as a fair exponent of their
importance, they would be entitled
to take rank as a first-rate power.
How magnificent a country must that
appear, one of whose lakes is 480
miles long, and pretty nearly the
same breadth, and whose principal
river pursues a course of 3000 miles !
How impressive, again, to hear of a
single province (that of Labrador)
" equal in square miles to France,
Spain, and Germany1.1' It is true, that
this vast province is miserably ste-
rile wherever it has been examined,
and does not support a resident po-
pulation of more than 4000 souls.
But in these regions nature has so
regulated her compensations, that
what the land in some parts refuses
the sea makes good. Along the coast
even of this inhospitable region, 300
schooners, manned by 20,000 British
subjects, are annually employed in
fishing ; and the estimated value of
the total produce is considerably
above a quarter of a million sterling.
Other fisheries in this same region
are of such surpassing importance,
that, according to the opinion of
many able men, (of whom Mr M'Gre-
gor is one,) without them Great Bri-
tain never could have attained that
naval supremacy which has so re-
peatedly been applied to the salva-
tion of Europe. Even at present,
when they are necessarily considered
" in their infancy," these North Ame-
rican possessions support a popula-
tion of 1,350,000 people. And that,
which they may be made capable of
supporting, " by cultivation and im-
provement," Mr M'Gregor estimates
at thirty millions ; " and, including
the countries west of the great lakes,
at probably more than fifty millions."
The aggregate register tonnage of
all the shipping employed to and
from, or in any way on account of,
these North American colonies, is
not less than 780,000 tons ; and the
number of sailors and fishermen em-
ployed, at least 65,000. The estima-
ted value (considerably below the
real value) of the British exports to
these colonies, is annually about two
millions and a half sterling j and
the fixed capital (including the cat-
tle) which they possess, is estima-

M' Gregorys British America.

[June,

ted at forty-two millions and a half
sterling.

Of a colonial empire, thus far de-
veloped already, and potentially so
unspeakably magnificent, we might
presume that some knowledge would
be pretty generally diffused in this
country. Yet so far otherwise is
this, that Mr M'Gregor is obliged to
tax even our government with the
most scandalous ignorance of every
thing relating to these colonies, their
interests, and their most notorious
characteristics. The most injurious
manifestation of this ignorance ap-
peared in the general treaty of peace
which followed the overthrow of
Napoleon, of which more hereafter.
But a more ludicrous instance is the
following, recorded by Mr M'Gre-
gor. We have all heard of the sa-
pient factor who sent out a cargo of
warming-pans to Brazil (in which,
by the way, the blunder was not ab-
solutely indefensible, hot climates
having sometimes chilly nights) ; but
in the following case, [vol. ii. p. 533,]
our government seem to have plan-
ned an illustration, upon a large
scale, of sending coals to Newcastle.
" Beside the vast expenditure of the
commissariat department, the pre-
parations for naval warfare were
managed in the most extravagant
manner. The wooden work of the
Psyche frigate was sent out from
England to a country where it could
be provided on the spot in one-tenth
of the time necessary to carry it from
Montreal to Kingston, and at one-
twentieth part of the expense. Even
wedges were sent out ; and, to ex-
emplify more completely the infor-
mation possessed at that time by the
admiralty, a full supply of water-
casks were [was] sent to Canada for
the use of the ships of ivar on Lake
Ontario, where it was only necessary
to throw a bucket overboard with
which to draw up water of the very
best quality" Wood exported from
England to Canada ! and water ex-
ported from Downing Street to Lake
Ontario ! Is this possible ? And could
Sir James Yeo, who doubtless had
many an audience at the Admiralty,
furnish no better advice ? But let
the truth be told. Our own British
Cabinet, at all times the most ho-
nourable and the best educated in
Europe, has the least benefit of what
we may call a professional appren-

1832.]

M'GregoS* British America.

ticeship. No where will you find
ministers with one half of their ge-
neral knowledge. But the specific
knowledge of their stations — where
should they gain it ? At the univer-
sities they learn what gives expan-
sion and elevation to their minds,
but nothing which presupposes any
particular destination of their powers
in the paths of real life. Now, on
the Continent the case is otherwise.
There the education of statesmen is
purely diplomatic; and, having little
to do with transatlantic politics, or
generally with colonial politics, they
have, by comparison with British
statesmen, two great advantages : —
the professional knowledge required
of them is less; and secondly, it is re-
gularly taught to them in early youth.
Continental statesmen receive a pro-
fessional education. But with us,
education is in the widest and va-
guest sense general; and practical
life, upon which is devolved, in Eng-
land, the whole burden of tuition as
regards the duties of a statesman,
brings with it too many distractions
of its own to allow of any tranquil
studies. Moreover, in candour, it
ought not to be forgotten that a Bri-
tish statesman has a much wider
cycle of duties, and a catechism of
political knowledge much ampler to
traverse, than his brother-statesman
on the Rhine or the Elbe. One half
of his energies is spent upon the ma-
nagement of a popular assembly;
this, in the first pjace. And second-
ly, he has a colonial duty to learn,
and a colonial interest to administer,
which to his continental brother (if
we except a very few of the South-
ern European states) have no sort
of existence. Our Oriental colonies,
it is true, do not make any large de-
mands on the time of ministers at
home; mere distance forbids that.
But all those on this side the Cape
of Good Hope, and especially the
. West Indies, have, in our days, oc-
cupied and harassed our domestic
government even more than our do-
mestic affairs.

This palliation, however, in one
view, is but an aggravation of the
blame in another; for, if Colonial af-
fairs are amongst the burdens which
oppress them, the more imperatively
should it weigh upon their conscien-
ces to make themselves acquainted
with the relations of these colonies

909

to European politics and their real
interests. Yet, from Mr M'Gregor's
work, we collect every where that
their policy has been at the best wa-
vering and indecisive, and, in some
instances, fatally blind ; of which we
cannot need a better evidence than
the fact of their having, by express
treaty, co-operated in the re-esta-
blishment of the French at the en-
trance of the St Lawrence ; thus wil-
fully restoring a baleful influence,
whose expulsion from those regions
makes so memorable a page in our
British Colonial history.

Such being the darkness which
prevails even in the highest quarters
upon these great interests, we have
all reason for peculiar gratitude to
any writer who labours effectually
to disperse it. That task is neither
easy nor pleasant -. it can rest secure-
ly only upon strong arguments sup-
ported by numerous facts, and upon
facts in the largest extent improved
into their true bearing by arguments
the strongest. A book of mere sta-
tistics is blind; a book of mere rea-
soning is weak. In the first, very few
readers can find their road ; in the
second, where the road is officiously
pointed out, the reader distrusts his
guide. Mr McGregor's book is, in this
respect, constructed upon the right
plan. It is not, as might perhaps
have been expected in a case where
details so copious had been collected
so laboriously, a book stuffed merely
with the dry bones of statistics. Yet,
on the other hand, the opinions and
leading doctrines of the writer are
every where .sufficiently supported
by massy facts and numerical calcu-
lations— giving a basis to what other-
wise were pure hypothesis, and
bringing within the light of palpable
evidence what might else have ap-
peared mere conjectural specula-
tion. Coming at this time, such a
book discharges a critical service.
For the colonies of British America
are now making gigantic strides,
such as will soon antiquate and su-
perannuate the feeble and indeter-
minate policy which has hitherto
conducted their affairs in the British
Cabinet; and it is only in the inter-
val between wars, that any powerful
efforts can be made at home for
breathing a new life into the coun-
sels which should watch over their
developement,

910

It is more for her own sake than
for any danger whicn her influence,
howsoever abused, can ultimately
menace these colonies, that we have
reason to pray for the triumph of
sound Counsels in this chapter of the
British policy. The loss of so im-
portant a limb as her North Ameri-
can provinces, would inflict a heavy
wound upon the reputation of Eng-
land, and the European estimate of
her power. She would suffer ; but
on them such a separation would fall
lightly. They would soon manifest
their self-sufficing powers for repel-
ling aggression, and for exercising
all the functions of an independent
state. To them no power could be
really formidable in a military sense,
except the great Republic on their
frontiers. But as her purpose could
be no other than that of incorpora-
tion into her own federal system,
there would be no reason for appre-
hending a sanguinary war of devas-
tation. France, from the advantages
of her position amongst the parties
concerned, might sow momentary
dissensions by means of intrigues.
But eventually it would be the great
domineering interests on each side
which would determine the result;
and both parties would make their
final election with the dignity of an
independent choice, and according
to the pure balance of political in-
terest. England, therefore, apart,
there is not much to chequer the
prospects, or to throw gloom upon
the e#feni«/ relations, of these provin-
ces. It is, therefore, by a double ob-
ligation the duty of a power which
stands in this predicament, and holds
its influence by a sort of filial suffer-
ance and prescriptive reverence, to
wield it for none but the most bene-
volent purposes, and in a spirit of
parental tenderness. Towards this
(as indeed towards any consistent)
end, the first step is — to make our-
selves well acquainted with the real
interest of the provinces which we
are undertaking to benefit and foster.
Without us they have sufficient in-
ternal sources of prosperity : let us
be cautiously on our guard that they
lose none through our interference.

On such a line of policy perhaps
no book, before Mr McGregor's,
could furnish us with any adequate
assistance. His challenges our espe-
cial notice from this cause— that it

M' Gregorys British America.

[June,

is thoroughly comprehensive. Any
former work that we know of, sup-
posing even that its information were
sufficiently recent, is liable to this
great objection — that, by confining
itself to one province or two at the
most, it foregoes the possibility of
rising to a general survey of the
foreign relations which connect the
whole of these provinces with Great
Britain and Europe. Viewed as an
aggregate, our North American co-
lonies present a character and a po-
litical position which cannot be
ascribed to any one of them indivi-
dually. And it is necessary that they
should be considered collectively, in
order to appreciate the importance
which even each singly may attain.
Nova Scotia, for instance, taken sepa-
rately, and resting on her own re-
sources, will hardly be supposed en-
titled to any very magnificent pros-
pects; yet, as Mr M'Gregor ob-
serves, so great is her capacity for a
higher destiny in combination with
a state already powerful — that she
alone, by supplying one capital want,
would render the great American
Republic independent of Europe.
All of these provinces in fact have
some natural adaptation to the im-
perfection of each other. And this
it is which makes a comprehensive
view, like that before us, no less es-
sential to the truth and accuracy of
the several parts than of the total re-
sult. In point of correctness also,
as respects the great mass of the in-
formation furnished, we may pre-
sume Mr M'Gregor to have had one
advantage peculiar to himself — that
much of it has been obtained from
the records of the Chamber of Com-
merce in Halifax, an authentic source
of such details not previously laid
open to any traveller.

In the first, or Introductory Book,
Mr M'Gregor gives a general sketch
of American History, from the
period of its discovery. This was
perhaps necessary to impress an air
of completeness and rotundity on his
plan ; yet, in this part of his work,
he travels over ground which has
been trodden by so many predeces-
sors, that it was scarcely possible
within his limits to bring forward
much absolute novelty. In one point,
however, the spirit of reciprocal feel-
ing between this country and Ame-
rica in general, we are glad to find

1832.]

M' Gregorys British America.

911

him taking a tone which has unfor-
tunately been too little familiar to
our printed works on America,
though it tallies with all that we
have heard in conversation from
grave and temperate travellers : —
" It is common to believe," says he,
" that the Americans cherish a bitter
hatred to the people of England.
Many circumstances have certainly
planted sentiments of dislike to Eng-
land, or more properly to the go-
vernment, pretty generally among
the citizens of the United States:
but they are, notwithstanding, more
kind to Englishmen individually
than to the people of any other
country. I may also observe further,
that there is much truth in a reply
made to me by a member of the Le-
gislature of Maine, when conversing
with him on the subject: ' Sir,' he
said, ' if I were to punish men for
abusing countries, I would first
knock down the person who stigma-
tized my own, and immediately after
the one that abused yours ; and you
may depend upon it, sir, that the
feeling is more general amongst us
than even we ourselves think.' " Mr
M'Gregor justly goes on to account
for this secret leaning to England,
from the common literature — the
common language — and, until lately,
the common history — which connect
them with the country.

In the Second Book it is that Mr
M'Gregor, properly speaking, opens
his subject. The British possessions
in North America, are the islands of
Newfoundland, Cape Breton, and
Prince Edward; together with the
provinces of Nova Scotia, New
Brunswick, and the Canadas. Three
less considerable possessions we
omit — viz. Anticosti, Labrador, and
the territory west of Hudson's Bay,
the first as deficient in extent, and all
as deficient in population. To each
of the more important possessions
Mr M'Gregor dedicates a book : we
shall follow him according to the or-
der of his own arrangement.

At the outset of the subject, it is
painful to find that the very boun-
dary line which separates us from
the United States, has been left open
to endless dissensions, by the mere
ignorance and carelessness of the
British Commissioners. The ques-
tion was — to determine what river
had originally been designated by

the name of the St Croix. A short
investigation would have cleared up
that point in a sense favourable to
this country. But to save a little
personal trouble, this was resigned
to the interpretation of the American
party : and thus, to evade a day's li-
tigation, matter has been left for fu-
ture wars, the territory in dispute
being of first-rate importance to
either side of the frontier; for, in
extent, it is not less than seven mil-
lions of acres, and in fertility it is
almost unrivalled.

In characterising the general as-
pect of American scenery in these
northern regions, Mr M'Gregor no-
tices, with the surprise which be-
longs to such a feature of dispropor-
tion, the dwarfish size of the moun-
tains, few of which are so high as
some in Great Britain. The White
Mountains in Hampshire, it is true,
ascend to an elevation of 6800 feet,
and the Rocky Mountains to nine or
even eleven thousand feet — a Pyre-
nean altitude : but they constitute a
solitary exception. The highest part
of the Alleghanies is but 2958 feet
above the level of the sea; and no
mountain to the north of the St Law-
rence, not even the Algonquin, is re-
puted much above 2000 feet high.
Dr Johnson said of Miss Knight, the
author of Dinarbas, upon hearing of
her intention to settle in France, that
she was in the right ; for that " she
was too big for an island." And,
seriously, such puny hills as these
seem too little tor a continent. In
reality, it is the lakes and the forests
which compose the noble part of the
American scenery. With respect to
these last, Mr M'Gregor affirms—
" that it is impossible to exaggerate
their autumnal beauty ; nothing un-
der heaven can be compared to its
effulgent grandeur. Two or three
frosty nights in the decline of au-
tumn, transform the verdure of a
whole empire into every possible
tint of scarlet, rich violet, every
shade of blue and brown, vivid crim-
son, and glittering yellow. The stern
inexorable fir tribes alone maintain
their external sombre green. All
others, in mountains or in valleys,
burst into the most glorious vege-
table beauty, and exliibit the most
splendid and most enchanting pano=
rama on earth."

Mr M'Gregor's sketch of the zoo-?

912

lo»y of these regions, is executed

ith a hap
stances. But he is mistaken in sup-

M1 Gregorys British America.

[June,

with a happy selection of circum-

posing it to be not generally known,
that the characteristic superiority of
American birds is in the splendour of
their plumage, whilst those ofEurope
find a natural compensation in the
beauty of their song j this distinction
is familiar to most people, and, in
fact, is noticed in as common and as
early a book as Thomson's Seasons.
In the Chapter on the Climatology
of North America, we find it remark-
ed, that the winter is commonly
supposed to be shorter and milder
than a century or two ago. And this
effect, supposing it to have a real
existence, is ascribed to the progress
made in throwing open and clearing
away the woods. But Sir Alexander
M'Kenzie, the American traveller,
than whom no man was more com-
petent to speak on that question, de-
nied the tendency of such changes to
produce any result of the kind ; and
the result itself, as a mere fact, is
made very questionable by Mr
M'Gregor, who cites some anecdotes,
which do certainly throw much
doubt upon the statements common-
ly received. The most disagreeable
peculiarity of the climate, if it ought
not more probably to be charged
upon the diet or other habits of life,
presents itself in the premature de-
cay of the teeth. " It is truly dis-
tressing," says the author, " to see a
blooming maid of eighteen, or a
young wife, either without front
teeth, or with such as are black and
decayed."

The first of our North American
possessions, which Mr M'Gregor
treats of circumstantially, is New-
foundland. To this he assigns his
Third Book. It seems strange that
this island, though the first discover-
ed of our possessions, should be the
least known ; and it is still stranger
to add, that, until a very few years
since, the interior had never been
explored by Europeans.

The two points most notoriously
interesting in the circumstances of
Newfoundland are its dogs, and its
great fishing bank. With regard to
the former, it appears to be true (as
we had often heard) that the dogs,
valued as the Newfoundland breed
in this country, are not of the genuine
race, Though a cross, however, they

are admitted to be in the highest de-
gree valuable.

The Great Bank is in every view
one of the most astonishing pheno-
mena on our planet. In length it
is 600 miles, in breadth about 200.
Some have imagined that it was ori-
ginally an island, whose pillars had
been shaken by an earthquake, and
had in consequence given way.
Others suppose that it has been
formed by accumulations of sand
carried along by the Gulf-stream, and
arrested by the currents of the north.
It appears, however, to be one mass
of solid rock. The Gulf-stream, by
the way, is in itself a very interesting
feature of these seas. The current
is so powerful as to retard a vessel
on its outward voyage from Europe
from forty to sixty miles a day;
whilst on a homeward voyage it in-
creases the rate of sailing so much,
that the sailors say they are " going
down hill" when they are returning
to Europe.

There is one page in the History
of Newfoundland which is fitted to
awake a more distressing and per-
plexing interest than any the most
impressive of those innumerable re-
cords which trace the downward ca-
reer of the poor perishing aboriginal
tribes of the New World, in their vain
conflict with white invaders. The
details of this case, as they are
brought together from a great variety
of sources by Mr M'Gregor, are not
less stimulating to our curiosity than
they are distressing, and sometimes
even revolting to our humanity : they
are attractive from the circumstances
of mystery which still hang about the
closing scenes of the tragedy, and
yet, deeply repulsive from the dis-
honour which they attach at every
step to countrymen of our own, pro-
fessors of civilisation and Christian
truth. The original inhabitants of
Newfoundland, at the period of its
earliest discovery, were a tribe of
savages distinguished by the name of
Red Indians. This was their appel-
lation amongst Europeans, and was
derived from the circumstance of
their being painted universally with
red ochre. But they styled themselves
Bceothics. Even at this early period
it is probable that some foundation
had been already laid of that jealous
hatred which has ever since marked
their intercourse with strangers ; for,

1832.]

" Gregorys British America,

in 1574, when Martin Frobisher was
driven upon their coast by ice, he
sent five of his sailors ashore in the
company of a native, whom he had
persuaded to come on board him.
These five sailors were never more
heard of; and Frobisher retaliated
by carrying off an Indian, who died
shortly after his arrival in England.
Acts, such as these, of reciprocal
outrage and injustice, compose the
links of a chain which has been pro-
pagated from that time to this in one
unbroken line of succession; for,
through a space of nearly three cen-
turies, the hand of these poor Bceo-
thics has been against every man,
and every man's hand against them.
Presenting a character of fierce in-
hospitality to strangers, they have
been generally regarded as absolute-
ly irreclaimable, and incapable of any
impression favourable to the views
of their civilized neighbours. Yet
even in the earliest stages of our in-
tercourse with them, they must have
exhibited a happier phasis of charac-
ter to more equitable observers : for
Whitbourne, in 1620, speaks of the
" poor infidel natives of Newfound-
land" as " ingenious, and apt, by a
moderate and discreet government,
to become obedient." However, un-
fortunately for all parties, none but
the fiercer and more intractable fea-
tures of their character were brought
forward by the circumstances of
their position. The neighbours,
amongst whom their evil destiny had
thrown them, civilized and uncivili-
zed alike, all acted in a spirit of law-
less spoliation ; and for nearly three
centuries these poor people were
hunted like wild beasts both by their
brother savages and by the European
settlers.

For the next 130 years, after Whit-
bourne's book, that is, from 1620 to
1750, the scanty annals of this un-
happy people, as respects their exter-
nal relations, that is to say, their rela-
tions to ourselves, Englishmen and
Christians, yield one unvarying re-
port : " they were frequently shot by
the fishermen and furriers. That,"
says Mr M'Gregor, " is all we can
trace of the history of the tribe."
It may be supposed that no people,
red or white, will be apt to discover
any law of nature which should point
it out as the primary purpose of their
earthly existence to offer a mark to

British rifles. Occasionally, we may
well believe, there would be retalia-
tion, as opportunities might chance
to offer. And it is recorded, that in
the lapse of these 130 years the Bceo-
thics " were in the habit of coming
suddenly from the unfrequented
parts, and stealing nets, iron, or what-
ever they could lay their hands on."
In fact, to shoot or to be shot, to rob
or to be. robbed, composed at this
era the practical vade-mecum for the
life of a Boaothic — the two tables of
his law and morality.

Thus passed a period of more than
two centuries, filled with bloodshed
and misery ; outrage without provo-
cation in the van, and revenge creep-
ing stealthily in the rear. It is the
sad effect of any solitary act of vio-
lence perpetrated in the very thresh-
old of our intercourse with a savage
nation incapable of communication
by writing, that inevitably, and by a
mistaken obligation of duty, it pro-
vokes some corresponding act of re-
taliation : and as this is seldom re-
ferred to its true and original cause,
(forgotten perhaps or never general-
ly known,) standing in a state of in-
sulation, and viewed simply for itself,
this act of pure revenge, that is, (ac-
cording to Lord Bacon's remark,) of
" wild natural justice," passes for a
wanton ebullition of wild natural
malice. Nay, it will often happen
from circumstances, that it will pass
for an indication of treachery; for
savage warfare being reduced very
much to a contest of stratagem and
ambush, wheresoever an act of vio-
lence is otherwise justified to an
Indian's conscience, it will but ap-
pear the more meritorious for being
connected with circumstances of sur-
prise and deception. Revenge, in his
morality, is good, unconditionally;
revenge, into which stratagem enters
as an element, and where the victim
is trepanned by disarming his suspi-
cions, comes recommended by an
additional grace of scientific execu-
tion. Allowance must be made for
that characteristic part of Indian
ethics which has grown out of his
situation, and which is consecrated
to his judgment by the immemorial
usage of his ancestors. Whilst upon
this ground also, we may notice one
oversight common to all the great
voyagers, Cook even, and those who
have been the most judicious and

914

equitable in estimating uncivilized
nature : — Theft, so generally practi-
sed upon their European visitors
by savages, these voyagers have
all appraised according to the tariff
of our domestic morality. Now, it
ought to have been remembered
that, every tribe of savages viewing
itself as an independent nation, and
in some respects justly so, — it will
follow that every case of intercourse
between themselves and the Euro-
pean tribe who visit them in ships,
rises to the dignity of an international
act ; and whatsoever rules apply to
their intercourse with any other in-
dependent tribe, must in their minds
be applicable to the case between
themselves and the nautical visitors.
It cannot be doubted, then, that sava-
ges have often viewed themselves as
in a belligerent state with their visit-
ors, only not openly proclaimed, but
conducted by mutual stratagem.
Whatever rights are supposed to be
conferred by such a state, doubtless
they claim tacitly, and imagine to be
tacitly understood ; and amongst the
rights of war, on its most honourable
footing in the savage estimate of ho-
nour, stratagem (as we have obser-
ved above) holds a foremost rank.
But, if this were otherwise, and sup-
posing even that acts of theft, under
the circumstances stated, were held
to be criminal, still it should not have
been overlooked that the criminality
will not take that ignominious shape
with which it is invested by our code
of petty police, but will rise (as we
have said) to the dignity of an inter-
national act of spoliation. Hence,
the explanation of a fact which has
raised much astonishment, that even
chieftajns, otherwise of elevated and
noble sentiments, should sometimes
in the Pacific Islands have been found
capable of abetting acts of petty theft
(as they would seem to us) by con-
nivance, or even by direct personal
participation.

This translation into a higher and
more dignified jurisdiction of all acts
of intercourse between themselves
and their European visitors, agree-
ably to which they are universally
raised from a municipal to an inter-
national rank, is in itself very natu-
ral ; and, amongst other effects natu-
rally derived from it, v^ Iiich has been
equally overlooked, we may reckon
this— that what would have seemed

McGregor's British America.

[June,

to us mere personal or individual
wrongs, have been treasured up in
the recollections of Indian tribes, and
traditionally propagated to remote
generations, as wrongs between na-
tion and nation, and devolving there-
fore upon the whole tribe a sacred
duty of revenge, subsisting even after
the injured individual or his family
might long have passed away. Some-
times, therefore, it will doubtless
have happened, that ferocious out-
rages upon unoffending white men,
which have appeared to us demoniac-
ally wanton and capricious, are re-
ferred back by Indian consciences to
some yet unavenged case of Euro-
pean outrage, traditionally sent down
perhaps from some past generation.
With such bloody recollections,
therefore, attached to such stern
duties of retribution, and these con-
tinually refreshed by new violences
and wrongs, multiplied in every di-
rection as European colonization con-
tinued to advance and to molest them,
it cannot be wondered that the Bceo-
thics should have retired into the
thickest cloisters of what they view-
ed as their own forests, and should
have signalized their occasional emer-
sions (so to speak) into the light of
the sea-coast by sanguinary memo-
rials of their wrath — doubtless meant
by them as speaking and lively pro-
testations against that unmerited per-
secution which had dogged them
for centuries, which had gradually
chased them in like wild beasts to
their lairs, and had placed their
" free unhoused condition" within
the circumscription of so many foxes'
covers. In this spirit we must in-
terpret their else diabolical conduct,
about the year 1750, when an ef-
fort was made on the part of govern-
ment to draw them out to an amica-
ble intercourse. Connecting, as they
must have done, the outrages of many
generations, and the private marau-
ders who had committed them, with
one general system of white men in
league against red men, — it was na-
tural that they should view such ef-
forts as belonging to the same chain
of purposes acting by a change in the
means. Treachery such efforts must
have seemed to them, immediate or
final ; and by treachery they thought
themselves entitled to countermine
treachery. In pursuance of the gover-
nor's plans, " one Scott, a shipmaster.

1832.]

Ms Gregorys British America,

with some others, went from St John's
(the capital) to the Bay of Exploits,
where they built a place of residence,
much in the manner of a fort. Some
days afterwards, a party of Indians
appeared, and halted near the place.
Scott proceeded unarmed to them,
contrary to the advice of his people;
shook hands with them, and mixed
among them. An old man, who
pretended friendship, put his arms
round Scott's neck, when another
immediately stabbed him in the back.
The horrible yell, or war-whoop, im-
mediately resounded; a shower of
arrows fell upon the English, which
killed five of them ; and the rest
fled to their vessel, carrying off one
of those who had been killed — with
several arrows sticking in his body."
This bloody answer to the gover-
nor's pacific overtures, in which,
undoubtedly, the Indians conceived
themselves to have revenged ancient
treasons,andtohaveforestalled others
in reversion, again closed the gates
upon all prospect of accommodation.
Two generations of fresh atrocities
succeeded half a century of dark-
ness and of guilt, during which the
Bo3othics continued (in Mr M'Gre-
gor's words) " to be hunted and shot
like foxes, by the northern furriers
and fishermen." But who, meantime,
was governor ? Was it possible, the
reader will ask indignantly, that a
British governor should look pas-
sively upon such enormities ? We
may be sure that the very feeblest of
our governors would not. Duff, Mon-
tague, and other governors, did their
utmost to protect the poor Indians.
But their utmost was confined to
proclamations. And those, under the
circumstances of the colony — a slen-
der population, and scarcely the ru-
diments of a police, were a mere
willow sceptre of authority against
the licentious appetites for blood of
monsters, who had been swept out
of the very kennels of great Euro-

,915

pean cities, and whose very excess of
ignorance armed them with cruel
contempt against a race of poor sa-
vages, whom they classed with the
beasts of chase. " The destruction
of the Red Indians," says Mr M'Gre-
gor, " appeared to afford them as
much sport as hunting beavers."

In this hideous condition of tri-
umphant wrong, and of extermina-
tion, gradually eating its way into the
heart of the once numerous nation,
matters continued for the next fifty
and odd years. But early in the pre-
sent century, accident seemed to of-
fer an opening for another attempt at
conciliation. Lord Gambier had offer-
ed a reward for the capture of a na-
tive. Stimulated by this, in 1803, one
Cull, a fisherman, surprised a Bceo-
thic woman, " whilst paddling her
canoe towards a small island in quest
of birds' effes." This woman was

taken to St John's, and kindly treat-
ed by the governor. She was ad-
vanced in years ; and nothing is re-
corded of her habits or feelings,
except that " she admired the epau-
lets of the officers more than any
thing she saw," and that under every
sort of temptation " she would never
let her fur dress go out of her hands."
In pursuance of the policy which
had led to her capture, she was sent
back, loaded with presents, " to the
woods whence she came." She was
placed under the guidance of Cull,
the man who surprised her: and
what became of her — has never been
learned. Under these circumstances,
it is not very wonderful* that Lieu-
tenant Chapell, in his book upon
these colonies, should have charged
Cull with having murdered her. The
amount of public belief on this sub-
ject, however, is merely negative-
viz, that in some way or other, she
never rejoined her tribe. And if she
had, Mr M'Gregor is of opinion, that
the jealousy of the Indians would
have interfered with any good re-

* Whether probable or not, however, it seems, that in certain latitudes, Lieute-
nant Chapell would find this charge not particularly safe. For a correspondent of
Mr M'Gregor's, in answer to some enquiries of his about this old woman, says — " I
take it for granted^ that the old woman never joined her tribe, whatever became of
her : but if the man who charged Cull with her murder ever comes within the reach
of Cull's gun, [and a long duck gun it is, that cost L.7 at Fogo,] he is as dead as arty
of the Red Indians that Cull has often shot." The mode of valuing the certainty of
Lieutenant Chapell's death does not seem particularly-unfavourable to the probability
of his assertion.

VOL, XXXI. NO. CXCV. 3 N

916

suit that might else have been anti-
cipated.

This attempt having failed, in six
years after Government made an-
other. In 1809, they sent a ship to
Exploits' Bay, under the command
of a lieutenant ; and, by way of re-
medying the defect which was ap-
prehended in all means of oral com-
munication, this officer carried with
him a sort of hieroglyphic painting —
"representing the officers of the royal
navy shaking hands with an Indian
chief; a party of sailors laying par-
cels of goods at his feet ; Indians —
men and women — presenting furs to
the officers; an European and Indian
mother looking at their respective
children of the same age, and a sail-
or courting an Indian girl." All this
labour of preparation, however, was
rendered abortive; for the expedi-
tion did not so much as meet with
any members of the tribe.

In this one respect, the next mis-
sion, under the orders of Lieutenant
Buchan,in a schooner of his Majesty's,
had better success. In other points
it was more tragically unfortunate.
In 1805-6, Lieutenant Buchan ef-
fected an interview with the natives;
and persuaded two of them to return
with him to a depot of baggage in his
rear, where his presents were laid
up: 'not, however, without leaving
amongst the Indians, two marines of
his own party as hostages for their
friends. Why—is not stated, (but it
must be presumed that Lieutenant
Buchan had a strong justification to
plead,^ the time fixed by that officer
for his return was not punctually
kept. The consequences were fatal :
instructed by endless experience to
be suspicious, the Boeothics looked
upon this delay as treachery, and
actually " tore the heads of the ma-
rines from their bodies." On Lieu-
tenantBuchan's return to the ground,
the hostages escaped to the woods,
so that even the single benefit was
thus lost, which might have been
reaped, from contrasting our treat-
ment of prisoners, after recent pro-
vocation, with their own. He soon
after found the bodies of the marines,
the Indians " having run off with the
Jieads."

No further communication was
opened with this extraordinary tribe
until the winter of 1819, when a
party of furriers met a Bceothic

McGregor's British America.

[June,

woman and two men. The woman
they took prisoner: "but her hus-
band, who became desperate, and de-
termined to rescue her single-hand-
ed, was most cruelly shot by the
brutal party ! He was a most noble-
looking man, about six feet high."
The other man was also shot. But
the woman, whom they called Mary
March, from the month in which this
tragedy was acted, was carried to St
John's, and, in the following winter,
sent back to the parts frequented by
her tribe, under the care of Captain
Buchan. She died on board his ves-
sel ; but he carried her body to a
place within the haunts of her coun-
trymen, and there left it in a coffin.
It has since appeared that the natives
observed these motions of Captain
Buchan's; and that, having taken
away the body of Mary March, they
laid it by the side of her husband.

In the winter of 1823 occurred
the last communication that has been
had with this people ; and very pro-
bably the last that ever will be had.
Three women, at that period, gave
themselves up in a starving condi-
tion to a party of furriers : one of
these died of consumption, in a hos-
pital at St John's, a year or two ago.
A few days before, and in the same
neighbourhood, " two English fur-
riers shot a man and woman of the
tribe, who were approaching them,
apparently in the act of soliciting
food. The man was first killed :
and the woman, in despair, remained
calmly to be fired at, when she was
also shot through the back and chest,
and immediately expired." The ac-
count of this affair, which there is
now reason to think exterminated the
last remnants of this ancient nation,
was communicated to Mr M'Gregor's
informant, by the very hell-hound
who committed the murders.

Some years after this a society was
formed at St John's, calling itself the
BcBOthic Institution, with the general
purpose of investigating the antiqui-
ties of this people, and the more im-
mediate one of opening an inter-
course with any of their number who
might yet survive. In autumn of
1827, a Mr Cormack conducted an
expedition into their country, with
the view of pushing all the objects
for which the institution had been
formed. In this search for antiqui-
ties, he was not altogether unsuc-

1832.]

M( Gregorys British America.

917

cessful : but, as to the people them-
selves, he could find none : — " My
party," says he, " had been so exci-
ted, so sanguine, and so determined,
to obtain an interview of some kind
with these people, that on discover-
ing from appearances every where
around us— that the Red Indians,
the terror of the Europeans, as well
as of the other Indian inhabitants of
Newfoundland, no longer existed,
the spirits of one and all of us were
very deeply affected." A line of
country, forty miles at least in ex-
tent, was found occupied with the
fences prepared by the Boeothics, for
stopping the deer in their periodical
migrations from different regions of
the island : no better proof could be
given of their demand for food, and
consequently of their great numbers,
even in very recent times. But at this
period, the whole of these vast pre-
parations were neglected and decay-
ing: the deer passed unmolested:
the wigwams were, without one ex-
ception, deserted : the entire terri-
tory, within a ring of 220 miles, was
silent, and without a smoke : and Mr
Cormack closed his labours with the
conviction, that, if any solitary indi-
viduals of this once powerful nation
have succeeded in escaping from the
merciless extermination of the whites,
they must exist in the most hidden
and wild places, among deep ravines,
or in dark inaccessible solitudes, de-
termined never to appear again in
the presence of Europeans.

There have been, doubtless, other
Indian nations consumed, like these,
by the continued violence of Euro-
pean encroachers, but rarely, we ima-
gine, under circumstances of the
same interest. The Boeothics were
so peculiar a race, and persecuted so
equally by Indians and by the Euro-
pean settlers, that some persons
(amongst whom is Mr Pinkerton)
believe them to have been descend-
ants of Norwegians, and in no re-
spect connected with the Indian
blood. Even Robertson supposes
the Norwegians to have settled colo-
nies in Newfoundland ; and the
' winlandy mentioned in the early
records of Iceland, is by some ima-
gined to have lain either here or in
Labrador. Mr M'Gregor rejects the
notion of a European origin altoge-
ther, and we think rightly. Christi-

anity could not so utterly have pe-
rished amongst them in the course of
a few centuries. And we may add,
that all the features of their moral
character were eminently Indian—
their haughtiness, Spartan endurance
of suffering in extremity, their ob-
stinacy in rejecting all terms of ac-
commodation from their persecutors,
and the unbending heroism with
which, to the very last, they retreat-
ed from the mercy of those whom
they regarded as the foulest of op-
pressors. For three centuries, they
carried on the contest : they suffer-
ed themselves at the last to be worn
down by mere famine, to the wreck
of perhaps a single family ; and even
of that wreck only three females, en-
feebled by disease, surrendered to the
enemy. Few chapters in the history
of man illustrate more powerfully
the grandeur of fortitude ; and no
cases of national ruin and extinction
are better entitled to our admiring
sympathy. We are grateful to Mr
M'Gregor for having brought toge-
ther the details of so profound a tra-
gedy, from the records of authentic
history; and the more so, as they run
a risk of soon perishing in a colony
which can have so little leisure for
literary tasks.

In Newfoundland there is now a
sufficient and a growing attention
paid to agriculture. That is well for
the colonists, and will prove the best
course for ensuring to them a per-
manent prosperity. But our own
interests are chiefly connected with
the fisheries of that region. These
are luminously traced through their
past history, in the work before us.
This review naturally points our at-
tention with peculiar energy to the
present condition of our own inter-
est, in possessions which are almost
essential to our naval greatness.
Mr M'Gregor is justly severe in cri-
ticising the policy of our statesmen
on this commanding subject. The
treaty of Utrecht has been a standing
theme of abuse for upwards of a cen-
tury ; chiefly from their concern in
that treaty it is that Bolingbroke and
Oxford have suffered in history, as
dead to the calls of patriotism. Yet
this treaty, bad as it may have been
in some other respects, guarded our
interests by wise stipulations in the
Newfoundland fisheries. De Witt,

918

Gregorys British America.

[June,

whose anxious jealousy had been di-
rected to the grounds of our naval
greatness, ascribed it chiefly to " the
discovery of the inexpressibly rich
fishing bank of Newfoundland:" and
the authority of De Witt was still
great in the early years of Boling-
broke. It was the capture of Louis-
burg, however, in 1745, which gave
the greatest shock to the French in-
fluence in that region. The peace of
1748, it is true, again sacrificed our
American interest to that in the East
Indies : for Cape Breton was resto-
red to France, by way of equivalent
for Madras, which she had recently
conquered. However, the splendid,
though brief career of Wolfe, availed
to re-establish our American empire
on a basis more extended than ever.
In 1759, the French power in this
quarter was destroyed in the amplest
manner, by the reduction of Cape
Breton and Canada : with sufficient
firmness in the diplomatic policy
which followed, it was then destroy-
ed for ever.

It is notorious, however, that too
often what we have gained by the
sword, we lose by our diplomacy.
The treaty of Fontainbleau, in 1762,
conceded to France some restricted
rights of fishing on these coasts, and
above all, under the mask of pro-
viding a shelter for the French fisher-
men, it gave up the islands of St
Pierre and Riquelon. Now, it has
been often enough asserted, that
these islands are incapable of being
fortified ; and that pretence was set
up in Parliament, by way of apology
for this article of the treaty. But
certainly, had that been so, it is dif-
ficult to understand why France
should have entered into express
covenants, " not to fortify the said
slands." [±th Art. Treat. Fontainb.}
We suspected how the matter stood:
and we now find, from Mr M'Gre-
gor, that " both these islands are in
an eminent degree, not only capable
of being made impregnable, but that
their situation alone would command
the entrance to the Gulf of St Law-
rence, if put into such a state of
strength as it is in the power of
France to put them."

These islands, however, were lost
to France by the first war of the Re-
volution. The peace of Amiens, as
we might be sure, restored them
both; and again, as we might be

equally sure, the next war transfer-
red them to Great Britain. 'And,
finally, in the treaties which followed
the fall of Napoleon, not contenting
ourselves with restoring for the third
time these most important islands,
we have solemnly created in favour
of France various privileges of fish-
ing, which were as ruinous for us to
frant, as they were unreasonable for
er to claim.

With how true and long-sighted
a policy France has cultivated her
fishing interest, obstinately insisting
in peace upon all, or more than all
that she had lost in war, may be
judged from this statement of Mr
M'Gregor's : — Even so early as 1745,
one year's fishing in the North Ame-
rican seas was valued at L.982,000.
But this was looked to as a mere col-
lateral trifle. The direct and par-
amount purpose, which France pur-
sued in this policy, was the support
and aggrandisement of her martial
navy. This purpose she secured, by
a domestic provision, which exacted
for the crews of all vessels fitted out
for the fisheries, one-third, or at the
least one-fourth of green men, that is,
men who had never before been at
sea. The result of this one regula-
tion was — that annually she threw
from four to six thousand recruits
into her maritime service.

What is the consequence? In
1829, France employed from 250 to
300 vessels on the coasts of British
America, and 25,000 fishermen.
And the more effectually to drive
these men, when trained, into her
domestic navy, she binds them all
by treaty not to become residents.
Nay, so keen and unsleeping is her
vigilance in this direction, " that
strict naval discipline," (as we
learn from Mr M'Gregor,) " is not
lost sight of on board of the fishing-
vessels." So that, by this egregious
oversight of our British statesmen,
France has been enabled to create
the most perfect apprenticeship in
the world for a vast and permanent
body of sailors, and in a quarter so
remote from Europe, as hardly to
attract attention.

With an evil of this magnitude be-
fore us, it becomes by comparison
almost a trifle to mention, that the
island of St Pierre, where the French
governor resides, is made a depdt for
French manufactures, which are af-

1832.]

M* Gregorys British America.

terwards smuggled into our colonies;
that, simply as regards the commer-
cial value of the fisheries, the French,
by means of cheaper outfits andlower
wages of labour, enjoy a preference
in " the markets of the world," as
well as in their own market at home ;
and, finally, that, having obtained in
those parts ceded to them, on the
coasts of Newfoundland, nothing less
than " half the shores of the island,"
and "the best fishing grounds," they
have thus secured the further advan-
tage of having actually expelled our
own fishermen, and driven them from
two to four hundred miles further
north, where, again, they are met by
other competitors.

And who are these ? The Ame-
ricans of the United States. And
whence comes their right to intrude
upon our fishing stations? Simply
from our own concessions. By a
convention with this country, con-
cluded in 1818, the United States
have obtained a modified privilege of
fishing in these latitudes ; this pri-
vilege they have greatly abused, not
only by too partial a construction of
the terms allowed, but by the most
tyrannical usurpations of powers,
which no construction, however par-
tial, could justify, and neither side
could have contemplated. Acting
much more in concert than our own
people, the Americans frequently
occupy the whole of the best fishing
banks, to the exclusion of our fisher-
men ; they fish by means of seines,
which they spread across the best
places along the shores, and thus
intercept all chances of success for
the British fisherman ; they have
even presumed to anchor opposite
to a British settlement, to cut the
salmon- net of the inhabitants, to set
their own in its stead, and, finally,
have threatened to shoot any one
who approached it. Nay, as the cli-
max of their outrages, Mr M'Gregor
assures us, that they have driven by
force our vessels and boats from
their stations — have torn down the
British flag in the harbours, and
hoisted in its place that of the United
States.

The other consequences are pret-
ty much the same as those which
have followed the French encroach-
ments. The Americans annually em-
ploy from fifteen hundred to two
thousand schooners, of 90 to 130

919

tons, with crews amounting to thirty
thousand men. As to the quantity
of produce, it may be conjectured
from this — Their export of cod-fish
alone averages 400,000 quintals an-
nually, which is about half the quan-
tity exported by the British from
Newfoundland and Labrador; and
their home consumption is equal to
three times as much more.

These are the consequences which
indirectly and remotely affect our
own interests, by rapidly promoting
the commercial and political im-
portance of those who are always
our rivals, and too often our enemies.
Meantime, the direct and immediate
consequences to ourselves, has been
the depreciation of fish in the foreign
markets, a ruinous reduction in the
demand for fish oil, and the almost
total destruction of our great nur-
sery for seamen. With respect to
this last evil, Mr M'Gregor tells us,
that the fishermen, particularly in
Newfoundland, now confine them-
selves to a shore or boat-fishing ;
and, from the circumstances under
which that is pursued, it seems that
it furnishes no regular school for
training sailors. British interests
have in general been confided too
exclusively to the support of the
sword ; but we believe that no in-
stance can be produced in which
they have been — neglected, we can-
not say — but systematically sacrificed
in an equal degree by our diplomacy.
For it must not be forgotten that this
very Newfoundland, thus wantonly
trifled away in recent times, was
" for at least two centuries and a
half after its discovery by Cabot in
1479, of more mighty importance to
Great Britain than any other colony;"
and Mr McGregor justly doubts
whether " the British Empire could
have risen to its great and superior
rank among the nations of the earth,
if any other power had held the pos-
session of Newfoundland ; its fishing
having ever since its commencement
furnished our navy with a great
proportion of its hardy and brave
sailors."

Prince Edward Island and Cape
Breton occupy the two next books.
Neither of these islands can pretend
to any considerable rank amongst
our American possessions. Yet this
is not so much from any want of
natural resources that can be charged

920

upon either of them, as from the ex-
traordinary neglect which they have
experienced from government. It is
true, that private enterprise has done
something within the last thirty years
to remedy this neglect. All the world
remembers the late Lord Selkirk's
intelligent plan of colonization in
Prince Edward Island ; and a good
deal has been done for Cape Breton
by English settlements since the
close of the American revolutionary
war. Yet, when the French possessed
this island, the inhabitants employed
upon the fisheries near 600 vessels,
exclusive of boats, and from twenty-
seven to twenty- eight thousand sea-
men ; and the French Ministry con-
sidered this fishery " a more valuable
source of wealth and power to France
than the possession of the mines of
Mexico and Peru." Indeed Louis-
burg, the old French capital of the
island of CapeBreton,and at that time
the capital of all the French posses-
sions, of itself sufficiently indicates
the importance of this settlement.
The inhabitants were 5000, without
reckoning the garrison ; and the re-
duction of the place by General Am-
herst, in 1758, required a powerful ar-
mament of twenty-three ships of the
line, eighteen frigates, 157 sloops of
war and transports, together with a
land force of 16,000 men. For more
than twenty years, however, after this
event, the island was abandoned to
a few fishermen, whose existence was
scarcely known. At this time the
colony, if such it could be called,
was treated as an appendage of Nova
Scotia. After the American war, it
is true, promises appeared of a better
system. A new capital, named Sid-
ney, was founded by the first go-
vernor, Louisburg having been rased
to the ground; and the colony of
Cape Breton was then gratified by a
distinct and independent govern-
ment. This gleam of prosperity, how-
ever, appears to have been transitory;
the succeeding governors did little
to promote the welfare of the island ;
and since 1820 it has been re-an-
nexed, as a dependency, to the go-
vernment of Nova Scotia.

We are not without hopes that the
present work will once more call the
attention of government to a posses-
sion with such extended capacities,
both for internal improvement, and
for external aid to the whole system

{ Gregorys British America*

[June,

of colonies amongst which it is
placed. The abundant fisheries on
its coasts, its numerous harbours, its
great plenty of wood for ship-build-
ing, a soil sufficiently fertile, and
excellent land for grazing, are alone
ample elements of a vast internal
developement which waits only for
a sufficient population; and that
ought long since to have been fur-
nished from our own shores. But
beyond all other constituents of a
nourishing colony, Cape Breton has
that of coal mines, which must
sooner or later raise it to a first-rate
importance. This fact we have first
learned from the work before us.
And really, when we lay all these
considerations together, we- cannot
but agree with Mr M'Gregor, that it
is " difficult to account for this colony
having been so long neglected, while
the attention of government has
been directed to the colonization of
countries so distant as the Cape of
Good Hope and Van Dieman'sLand."
The only solution of this difficulty
is to be found, as he suggests, in the
general ignorance of the advantages
held out by this colony— an ignorance
common to government and to all
those who are speculating on emi-
gration. Hence we shall not be sur-
prised, if Mr M'Gregor should him-
self prove the greatest of all bene-
factors to Cape Breton, by causing
the current of emigration to turn for
a time into that direction. Certain
it is that not one of our colonies is
so much coveted by the United
States ; and if they should once ob-
tain possession of it, there is every
reason to believe with Mr M'Gregor,
that, as a position for commanding
the surrounding seas and coasts, it
would protect the nursery for their
navy until it would have " sufficient
strength to cope with any power in
Europe, not even excepting Eng-
land." Thus it will be seen that we
have graver reasons for attending to
the condition of Cape Breton, than
merely those which respect the in-
terests of our emigrants. Yet it is
certain that the same measure would
provide for all these objects at once.
Let government select a proper body
of emigrants; grant them suitable
encouragements; and have them
trained, according to Mr McGregor's
suggestion, as a militia; — in that
case the internal prosperity of this

1 832.] M' Gregorys British America . 92 1

valuable island, and its defence dockyard out of England. Hitherto,
against the Americans, would be se- indeed, it has been the great central
cured at one blow, and with an ex-

pense in the utmost degree insignifi
cant by comparison with the great
ends attained.

At present it is probable enough
that the whole attention of the go-
vernment at home, which is disposa-
ble in this direction, settles upon the
two principal colonies/)f Nova Scotia
and Canada. Yet even these suffer
in some degree from neglect. And
apparently this neglect has pursued
them from the earliest times. Nova
Scotia, which had been one of the ear-
liest British acquisitions in right of
Cabot's discovery on behalf of Henry
VIL, for a long period was carelessly
resigned to the French. That active
nation zealously profited by our tor-
por;* but misfortunes blighted their
efforts, after a brief prosperity of
eight or ten years. This catastrophe
was followed by various changes of
fortune, alternately establishing the
French and British sovereignty, until
in 1713 the Treaty of Utrecht finally
secured this colony to the British
crown. In that allegiance it has ever
since continued ; and, according to
Mr M'Gregor, no colony is less likely
to throw it off. So long, however,
as the French were in possession of
Prince Edward Island, (then called
St John's,) of Cape Breton, and the
Canadas, this colony was never at
ease from French intrigues ; nor was
it until Wolfe's expedition to Quebec
that a perfect state of security was
established. Up to that era, it is no-
torious that the British settlers were
frequently scalped by Indian tribes,
instigated and bribed by France ; an
atrocity which has stamped the me-
mory of the French governors in
that age with everlasting infamy. At
present this colony possesses all the
civil establishments which are essen-
tial to its own welfare, and suitable
to its connexion with so great a
mother country. Halifax, the capital,
has a population of sixteen thousand
people, the best harbour in North
America, and the most respectable

rendezvous for his Majesty's shipping
in those seas, and the head-quarters
of the troops in the Lower American
provinces. Yet at this time it seems
there is a ruinous job going on for
transferring these establishments to
the Bermudas, that is, from a station
with every natural advantage to one
with none at all.

Intellectually speaking, that is, with
a view to the blessing of cultivated
society and of education, Nova Sco-
tia stands at the head of our North
American colonies. During the go-
vernment of Lord Dalhousie a col-
lege was established, and endowed
with funds to the amount of nearly
ten thousand pounds, as a measure
of relief to the class of students who
decline subscribing the Thirty-nine
Articles; students of the Church of
England were already provided for
by the College of Windsor. The same
enlightened nobleman established an
agricultural society. And, upon the
whole, there is perhaps no settlement
in the world where equal culture of
mind is combined with the same sim-
plicity of manners.

Until the year 1785, the province
of New Brunswick formed a part of
Nova Scotia ; and we may properly
enough, therefore, notice its present
circumstances in this place. Mr
M'Gregor supposes that it is capable
of maintaining "at least three millions
of inhabitants;" which single state-
ment is a sufficient indication of its
importance. Yet with all these im-
mense resources, it was not until 1 762
that this country attracted any British
settlers. In that year a few families
made the first attempt at coloniza-
tion. Their sufferings were great;
but still greater (if we may trust a
pamphlet written by a gentleman at
Fredericton, in the same province)
were the sufferings of those who fol-
lowed in the spring of 1784. They
were American loyalists, who were
obliged to leave comfortable homes
in the United States after the close
of the war of independence. "Scarce-

* There is a truly characteristic anecdote connected with this French possession
of Nova Scotia, (or Acadia, as it was then called.) De Monts, who had a commis-
sion from Henri IV. of France, constituting him governor of this and other coun-
tries, under the general name of New France, thought proper to confiscate the pro-
perty of one Rossignol ; hut, on the other hand, by way of consoling the unhappy
Frenchman for his loss, he called a certain harbour, now known as Liverpool harbour,
by the flattering name of Port Rossignol.

92-2

British America.

[June,

ly had these firm friends of their
country (meaning Great Britain) be-
gun to construct their cabins, when
they were surprised by the rigours
of an untried climate ; their habita-
tions being enveloped in snow before
they were tenantable. The climate
at that period being far more severe
than at present, they were frequently
put to the greatest straits for food
and clothing to preserve their exist-
ence; a few roots were all that tender
mothers could at times procure to
allay the importunate calls of their
children for food. Sir Guy Carleton
had ordered them provisions for the
first year at the expense of govern-
ment; but food could scarcely be
procured on any terms. Frequently
had these settlers to go from fifty to
one hundred miles with handsleds or
toboggans, through wild woods or on
the ice, to procure a precarious sup-
ply for their famishing families. Fre-
quently in the piercing cold of win-
ter, a part of the family had to remain
up during the night to keep fire in
their huts to prevent the other part
from freezing. Some very destitute
families made use of boards to supply
the want of bedding ; the father or
some of the older children remaining
up by turns, and warming two suita-
ble pieces of boards which they ap-
plied alternately to the smaller chil-
dren; with many similar expedients."
However, in spite of these hideous
difficulties, already in 1785 a royal
charter was granted to New Bruns-
wick, as a distinct province inde-
pendent of Nova Scotia. Fredericton
is now the seat of government ; but
the largest town is that of St John's,
which has a population of twelve
thousand people.

No town, however, is more heard of
in this country, on account of its im-
mense timber trade, than that of Mira-
michi. We mention it here as connect-
ed with one of those tremendous fires
which sometimes arise in the Ameri-
can forests, and spread havoc by
circles of longitude and latitude. In
the autumn of 1825, such a calamity
occurred on the river Miramichi,
which extended 140 miles in length,
and in some places 70 in breadth.
It is of little consequence that no
wind should be stirring at the time ;
for, as Mr M'Gregor observes, the
mere rarefaction of the air creates a
wind, " which increases till it blows

a perfect hurricane." In the present
case, the woods had been on fire for
some days without creating any great
alarm. But, " on the 7th of October,
it came on to blow furiously from
the westward; and the inhabitants
along the banks of the river were
suddenly surprised by an extraordi-
nary roaring in the woods, resembling
the crashing and detonation of loud
and incessant thunder, while at the
same instant the atmosphere became
thickly darkened with smoke. They
had scarcely time to ascertain the
cause of this awful phenomenon, be-
fore all the surrounding woods ap-
peared in one vast blaze, the flames
ascending from one to two hundred
feet above the tops of the loftiest trees;
and the fire, rolling forward with in-
conceivable celerity, presented the
terribly sublime appearance of an
impetuous flaming ocean." Two
towns, those of Douglas and New-
castle, were in a blaze within the
hour; and many of the inhabitants
were unable to escape. Multitudes of
men, on lumbering parties, perished
in the forest ; cattle were destroyed
by wholesale; even birds, unless
those of very strong wing, seldom
escaped, so rapid was the progress
of the flames. Nay, the very rivers
were so much affected by the burn-
ing masses projected into their
waters, that in many cases large
quantities of salmon and other fish
were scattered upon their shores.
Perhaps the plague of fire has never
been exhibited, or will be, till the final
destruction of this planet, on so magni-
ficent a scale. Such disasters, how-
ever, are repaired in wonderfullyshort
space of time ; wooden cities being
easily rebuilt in a country where tim-
ber is a weed. Weed, however, as it
is in a domestic sense, by means of
exportation to English markets, tim-
ber has turned out a more valuable
possession to New Brunswick than
diamond mines could possibly have

Soved to a country in her situation,
r M'Gregor gives us a very impres-
sive picture of the mode in which tim-
ber is cut, hauled to the banks of rivers,
and finally floated in the shape of
rafts to Miramichi or other ports. The
class of people engaged in these la-
bours are called lumberers ; they live
like Indians in the woods ; and a life
of greater hardship than theirs, or la-
bours carried on under circumstances

1832.]

M ' Gregorys British America,

of more romantic peril and difficulty,
we do not suppose to exist anywhere
on this planet.

Mr M'Gregor's account of these
people has all the interest of a ro-
mance with the truth of history. Yet
they are cheerful; and as passionately
attached to their own mode of life,
though entailing upon them a prema-
ture old age, as the chamois-hunters
of the Alps. Danger, like the risk
in gambling, comes at length to be
loved for its own sake.

It is urged, however, that this pur-
suit has a tendency to demoralize
the people engaged in it; and on that
ground chiefly has been raised a pro-
ject by our present Ministers for
loading the colonial timber with an
additional duty of ten shillings a-load,
and at the same time reducing the
duty on foreign timber by five. On
this point, Mr M'Gregor makes a
powerful representation, on the one
hand, of extravagant follies connect-
ed with this new financial plan,
and, on the other, of the benefits to
this country from the timber trade
as now conducted. The heads of his
statement are these : First, it employs
about three hundred thousand tons
of British shipping, and sixteen thou-
sand seamen. Secondly, it supplies
to England annually about four hun-
dred thousand loads of timber.
Thirdly, it takes off, in payment for
this, British manufactures to the va-
lue, at first cost, of more than two
millions sterling. Fourthly, the tim-
ber ships having a home freight find
it to be in their power to carry out
emigrants at one half the fares which
would otherwise be required. And
accordingly in 1830 alone, out of
forty thousand British settlers in
North America, more than three-
fourths were carried out at these re-
duced rates by the timber ships. With
these and other facts before him, lu-
minously stated in the present work,
Lord Althorp must be a bold man
indeed if he can seriously proceed
with his financial changes, which will
have the effect of destroying this im-
portant branch of industry at one blow.

Yet these interests, vast as they
are, sink in importance by the side
of those which are connected with

923

Canada; so much larger is the scale,
and so much more comprehensive,
upon which these last arc expand-
ing. In 1763, about the time when
our possession of Canada was finally
secured by treaty, its total popula-
lation was rated at seventy thou-
sand. It is now, according to Mr
M'Gregor, nine hundred thousand ;
of which one-third belongs to the
upper province, and the other two
to the lower. The total militia of
Canada consists of eighty-five thou-
sand men. In 1830, the imports of
Canada amounted to L. 1,7 7 1,345;
and the exports to nearly two mil-
lions. Twenty years ago, all the
vessels of every description which
arrived in Canada, amounted to 341,
registering about 52 thousand tons.
At present, without enumerating
coasters, or fishing-vessels, river or
lake craft, Canada gives employ-
ment to about one thousand ships,
registering about 220,000 tons, and
navigated by eleven thousand sea-
men. These items in the account
of its prosperity we mention as ex-
pressing, in a shape easily under-
stood, the amount of advance which
she has made ; and it must be recol-
lected that this expansion is conti-
nually going on. In reality, if Great
Britain had no other possession than
this in North America, she would
have the basis of a great empire.
The mere river St Lawrence is a
sufficient exponent of the great des-
tiny which the hand of nature has
assigned to this region. Perhaps few
readers are aware that the river St
Lawrence is the greatest in the
world. Mr M'Gregor asserts this ;
and, considering the breadth of this
river in connexion with its length,
and the prodigious size of the lakes
into which it continually opens, we
believe that he is right.* At Cape
Rosier, which is considered its
mouth, the St Lawrence is eighty
miles broad ; and at Cape Chat, 100
miles up the stream, it is still forty.
Even at the point where its waters
are perfectly unaffected by the sea,
it is still twenty-two miles broad,
and twelve fathoms (that is, 72 feet)
deep. Nay, 100 miles below Que-
bec, it is nearly 300 feet deep ; for

* Even the river of the Amazons appears, by Mr M'Gregor's measurement, to be
inferior to the St Lawrence, as respects length j and that it is very much inferior, as
respects breadth, every body is aware.

M( Gregorys British America,

924

its depth increases upwards. Such
a rivor was an appropriate basin for
receiving the vast timber-ships called
the Columbus and the Baron of Ren-
frew— " those mammoth ships," (as
Mr M'Gregor happily styles them,)
" the largest masses, in one body,
that human ingenuity, or daring en-
terprise, ever contrived to float on
the ocean." Both, by the way,
crossed the Atlantic; and both were
lost. Of the Columbus we have the
following account from Mr M'Gre-
gor : — " The length on deck was
about 320 feet; breadth something
more than 50; and the extreme
depth of the body about 40 feet.
There was then about 3000 tons put
on board before launching. Every
thing was on a gigantic scale. The
launch-ways were laid on solid ma-
son-work, embedded in the rock.
The chain and hemp-cables, capstan,
bars, &c. exceeded the dimensions
of common materials, in the same
proportion as the Columbus did
other ships. Yet this huge four-
masted vessel was strongly framed,
timbered, and planked, on the usual
principles, and not put together like
a raft, as many people imagined."*

One pledge for the future prospe-
rity of Canada is found in her mine-
ral wealth. Even petalite, the rarest
of fossils, is yielded by her soil,
(near York ;) iron of the best quali-
ty, copper, lead, tin, plumbago, &c.,
and all the metals predominant in
the useful arts, have been found al-
ready; nor do we recollect a single
mineral which is indispensable to
manufacturing industry, except only
coal, which has not been discovered
in Canada. Salt and gypsum are
now produced in abundance. Even
coal would probably have been de-
tected long ago, had the woods been
less infinite. And, should it even
happen that coal were never detect-
ed, still the vast coal-fields in the
neighbouring province of Nova Sco-
tia (to say nothing of what might be
had from New Brunswick, or Cape
Breton, or Nova Scotia,) are known
to be sufficient for the consumption
of all America, through very long pe-
riods of time.

Meantime, as a place of residence

[June,

for those who seek quiet, and the en-
joyments of social life, no one of our
colonies seems equal in attractions
to this magnificent region. Provi-
sions are cheap ; though, it is true,
that, in Quebec and Montreal, the
style of living, in other respects, is
allowed to counteract that advan-
tage. The scenery, and the style of
rural architecture adopted in the
Canadian cottages, is such as pecu-
liarly to delight English eyes. And
perhaps, in no part of the world is
the style of manners so courteous
and winning, as amongst the old in-
digenous Canadian peasantry, de-
scended from the original French
settlers. On these points we can-
not have more accurate information
than that of Mr M'Gregor.

<c The houses of the habitans (i. e. the
peasantry) are sometimes built of stone,
but generally of wood, and only one story
high. The walls outside are white-
washed ; which imparts to them, parti-
cularly in summer, when almost every
thing else is green, a most lively and
clean-looking appearance. Some of the
houses have verandas ; and. an orchard
and garden is often attached. We can-
not but be pleased and happy while tra-
velling through them. They assuredly
seem to be the very abodes of simplicity,
virtue, and happiness. We pass along
delighted through a beautiful rural coun-
try, with clumps of wood interspersed,
amidst cultivated farms, pastures, and
herds ; decent parish churches, and neat
white houses or cottages. The inhabit-
ants are always not only civil, but polite
and hospitable ; and the absence of beg-
gary, and of the squalid beings, whose
misery harrows our feelings in the Uni-
ted Kingdom, is the best pi-oof that they
are in comfortable circumstances. Thefts
are rare, and doors are as rarely locked.
You never meet a Canadian, but he puts
his hand to his hat, or bonnet rouge ; he
is always ready to inform you, or to re-
ceive you into his house ; and, if you are
hungry, the best he has is at your service.
The manners of the women and children
have nothing of the awkward bashfulness
which prevails amongst the peasants of
Scotland, nor the boorish rudeness of
those of England. While we know that
each may be equally correct in heart, yet
we cannot help being pleased with the
manners that smooth our journeys ; and

* The reader must riot suppose that three thousand tons was the complement of
her loading. She ran out a mile by the impetus of her launch, and took in the rest
of her cargo, which was far more, at the Falls of Moutmorenci,

1832.]

Ml Gregorys British America,

often have I compared the easy obliging
manner of the Canadian habit (fits, with
the rough « What d'ye ivant ?' of the
English boor, or the wondering ' What's
your wull?' of the Scotch cotters. At
the auberges or inns, many of which are
post-houses, we find civility, ready at-
tendance, and have seldom to complain of
what we pay for. The post-houses, which
are established along the main roads, are
regulated by an act of the Provincial
Parliament ; and the maitre de poste is
obliged to keep a certain number of
horses, caleches, and cabrioles, ready at
all hours of the night or day for the ac-
commodation of travellers. There is sel-
dom any delay; fares are fixed by law;
there is nothing to pay the driver ; and a
paper is given, stating the charge from
stage to stage — which is, for a caleche or
cabriole, (in which two can travel,) fif-
teen pence per league. — The priest's
house is always close to the church ; and
you never see him except in his sacer-
dotal robe. Enter his house, and you
are welcome ; nor will he let you depart
hungry,"

" A Sabbath morning in the Scotch
parishes, most remote from the towns,
bears the nearest resemblance to a Sunday
before mass in Canada. But the evenings
of Sunday are far more cheerfully spent
than in Scotland. The people of the pa-
rish often meet in small groups, or at
each other's houses, for the sake of talk-
ing ; and on these occasions they some-
times indulge in dancing."

And, on the whole, Mr M'Gregor
concludes, that

" If we look for a more correct or mo-
ral people than the Canadian habitans, we
may search in vain."

Such is the picture of rural life.
On the other hand, if a man seeks
for the pleasures peculiar to towns,
Quebec offers more attractions, and
of a more varied kind, than most
cities in Europe. Here are monas-
teries * of ancient foundation, diffu-
sing solemnity and the tranquil peace
of religion upon a place, else so tu-
multuous with the stir and enter-
prise of a capital, and through the
temperament of its native popula-
tion. Here are prospects the most
ample and magnificent in the world ;
in Mr M'Gregor's opinion, much
transcending those from Edinburgh
or Stirling castles. Above all, this
is the capital where winter puts on

926

its gayest apparel. In a cold climate,
it should always be remembered that
extremity of cold is a great advan-
tage; because, under the circum-
stances which that produces, all the
out-door pleasures take a tone more
emphatically characteristic of a high
latitude ; and because home is thus
trebly endeared. Winter at Quebec
is much severer than at Montreal ;
and, in that proportion, every true
connoisseur in luxury would pro-
nounce a Quebec Christmas happier
than one at Montreal. We may add,
as one of the agremens of Canada, if
the visitor should choose to seek it,
the society of the old Canadian no-
blesse, (or, properly speaking, gentry.)
" These noblesse," says the earliest
British governor of Canada, (Gen.
Murray,) " are seigneurs of the
whole country ; and, though not
rich, are in a situation, in that plenti-
ful part of the world, where money
is scarce, and luxury still unknown,
to support their dignity." They have
been too much neglected by the
haughty English ; but hear what Mr
M'Gregor says of them :— " The
Canadian gentry all over the pro-
vince, consisting chiefly of the old
noblesse and gentry, or their de-
scendants, retain the courteous urba-
nity of the French school of the last
century. They speak French as
purely as it is spoken in Paris.
Many of them also speak English
fluently; and, although their politi-
cal jealousies may be objected to,
yet their society is very agreeable,
and not sufficiently courted by the
English." Finally, there is a college
and professors at Quebec; two good
libraries ; four newspapers, of which
three twice-a-week ; banks; one or
two good hotels ; and, in short, every
possible accommodation that Euro-
ropean habits of luxury can de-
mand.

With respect to the connexion of
Canada with this country, that de-
pends upon ourselves. Assuredly
it is noways essential to Canada,
which is now sufficiently developed
to take upon herself her own defence,
and her own burdens of every kind.
Under these circumstances, we can-
not but think with Mr M'Gregor, that
our Government at home have been

* In one of these it is worth mentioning, on the authority of Mr M'Gregor, that the
nuns have an undoubted secret for curipg cancer,

926

greatly injudicious in the attempts
to create splendid revenues for the
Church of England, where so very
large an overbalance of the popula-
tion is Catholic or Presbyterian. On
this point it is possible that we are
more impartial than Mr M'Gregor,
who, though liberal and tolerant in
the very highest degree, has pro-
bably been bred up in sentiments of
somewhat hostile feeling towards the
English church. We, on the con-
trary, profess the highest veneration
for that great bulwark of Protestant-
ism, and everlasting gratitude to her
for the services she has rendered.
But it would be a bad mode of testi-
fying these feelings — to make her the
object of perpetual murmuring, jea-
lousy, and hatred, amongst a people
who are under no absolute necessity
(a fact of which they will continu-
ally become more sensible) to endure
her predominance. The Roman Ca-
tholic church is in effect the ruling
church in Canada ; the parish priests
of that church are very handsomely
provided for, having severally, upon
an average, L.300 a-year ; and, con-
sidering that the whole of the origi-
nal Canadian population, and a very
large proportion of the Irish emi-
grants, are passionately attached to
this church, and personally to this
priesthood, it is expecting too much
of human forbearance, to require of
the Provincial Parliaments that they
should be continually taking mea-
sures for securing ample revenues,
and a civil precedency, to a church
which in this region is militant at any
rate, and which has been too gene-
rally misrepresented to hope for any
indirect opportunities of counteract-
ing that elementary disadvantage, by
conciliating to itself a body of disin-
terested attachment. From the qua-
lity of the immigration (to use that
neologism) now setting in to Canada,
there is no rational prospect for any
alteration in this state of feeling fa-
vourable to the Church of England.
So far from that, the hostility which
she already provokes will grow an-
nually more embittered, as the num-
ber increases of her Catholic ene-
mies, and as their consciousness be-
comes more distinct of the independ-
ent power which they possess. A
church, or any institution whatever,
which exists substantially upon suf-
ferance, must moderate her tone, and
cease to court opposition by a scale

M* Gregorys British America.

[June,

of pretensions suited only to a con-
dition of absolute supremacy.

The same spirit of forbearance
ought to govern us in all other acts
of interference with the internal
affairs of Canada. Where we can-
not eventually command, we should
be content to know our own situa-
tion, and to act by the gentle mini-
strations of parental influence ad-
dressed to adult and independent
children. The chief use to ourselves
in future times of our North Ameri-
can possessions .will be this — that
they will oppose a barrier on one
side to the United States sufficient
to break the unity of her efforts
against our own maritime supremacy,
and that, through the fisheries, by a
more direct service, they will avail
to keep up the succession of our in-
comparable seamen. But it is evi-
dent that a policy of this nature,
even more than a system of rigorous
despotism supported by armies, de-
mands an intimate acquaintance with
the interests which we undertake to
guide. A system, entirely our own,
might be coherent in all its parts,
though it were composed in Great
Britain upon merely British prin-
ciples, and with a mere British know-
ledge of Canadian wants. But, if
we consent to know our own place,
and to interpose only the weight of
paternal counsels and the benefit of
our occasional aid, in that case, as
mere co-operators, we must submit
to study those interests minutely, in
which we pretend to interfere. We
have contrived to ruin the West
Indies by our factious theories: let
us abstain from all similar attempts
upon the Canadian prosperity; know-
ing that in this case they will recoil
upon ourselves. For the Canadians
have a larger influence in their Pro-
vincial Parliaments than we can over-
balance ; and under any settled con-
viction that we are not consulting
for them, but for ourselves, they will
have a sufficient motive for throwing
off the allegiance which at present
they are content to maintain.

With purposes so important, and
a duty so paramount, calling upon
us to acquire a comprehensive know-
ledge of these American colonies, we
have national reasons to be thankful
to Mr M'Gregor for the immense
labour with which he has brought
together the materials requisite
for placing our public counsels in

1832.]

M< Gregorys British America.

927

this great chapter of policy upon a
sound basis. The government at
home, and their representatives in
the colonies, are under the greatest
obligations to him ; and, next after
them, all those who are now specu-
lating on emigration. There is a
separate chapter of valuable advice
to this class : but in fact every page
of both volumes may be considered
as specially addressed to them, since
the innumerable details which are
collected ; upon every new settle-
ment, its situation, advantages, diffi-
culties, wants, and ultimate pros-
pects, compose a vast thesaurus of
information far more accurate and
comprehensive than any which an
emigrant could ever hope to gather
for himself by many years of per-
sonal travel. Sitting by his own fire-
side in England, he may now make
up his plans ; he may assort the ma-
terials of the baggage which he may
find it prudent to carry with him;
he -may, in short, make every pos-
sible provision for his future comfort
and prosperity, in a higher degree of
perfection than would formerly have
been possible, until after a long, pain-
ful, and very costly experiment on
the different modes of colonial life,
conducted at his own peculiar risk.

Never was there a time when coun-
sel and assistance of this quality
were so clamorously called for. Emi-
gration from this country is going on
by gigantic strides ; and in no very
distant period the advanced posts of
civilisation will have established a
communication between the Gulf
of St Lawrence and the Pacific Ocean.
Mr M*Taggart,an engineer employed
on the canals of Canada, and there-
fore little liable to the reproach of
countenancing visionary specula-
tions, declares that " steam-boats
may go up from Quebec to Lake Su-
perior ere three years from this time ;"
whence they will pass " through the
notch of the Rocky Mountains, and be
locked down the Columbia to the
Pacific Ocean." The town of Nootka,
on the Sound of that name, from
mere advantages of situation, he be-
lieves " is likely to be as large as
London ; as the trade between it and
the Oriental world may become won-
derfully great in a short time. Then,
when the steam-packet line is esta-
blished between Quebec and Lon-
don, as it soon will be, we may come

and go between China and Britain
in about two months."

These are magnificent prospects,
but not more so than we have reason
to think warranted by the mere sta-
tistics of the case. The route of a
prodigious commerce will be across
these regions. They will soon be
inundated by a vast population.
Christian temples, cottages rich in
comfort, and the best gifts of civilisa-
tion, colonies rising rapidly into cen-
tres of knowledge and power ; these
elements of a potent national con-
federation, will speedily rise to dis-
possess the roving deer of their pas-
tures and the wolf of his den. Rising
under the auspices, and forwarded
by the assistance of Great Britain,
composed also in a very large pro-
portion of a population originally
British, they will inherit our lan-
guage, literature, and historical re-
collections; under wise treatment
at this time, they will look with gra-
titude and veneration to the mother
country ; and, from habits of ancient
intercourse,will continue to strength-
en our foreign policy as allies, long
after that era when the maturity of
their own developement shall have
silently dissolved their allegiance to
the British crown.

These great prospects are not in
every part dependent upon our jus-
tice and wisdom. In defiance of us,
and all that our folly can accomplish,
Canada, with the far-stretching coun-
tries to the west, will eventually com-
pose a great empire. But we can do
much at this crisis to forward that
consummation, and to found lasting
remembrances favourable to our own
foremost interests. And considering
the critical moment at which the pre-
sent work has come forth ; consider-
ing also the fulness and remarkable
accuracy of the information which it
offers to our governors at home, we
believe that few men in this genera-
tion will prove greater benefactors to
our vast establishment of North Ame-
rican colonies than John M'Gregor.
And when it comes to be superan-
nuated, as that can happen only
through the rapid progress of the co-
lonies to which it relates, we are
sure that no man will rejoice more
in a depreciation of his labours so
produced, than the able and patriotic
author.

928

Calaspo, the Republican.

[June,

CALASPO, THE REPUBLICAN.

FROM the commencement of the
French Revolution, the whole Ita-
lian peninsula was in a state of dis-
turbance. A lingering recollection
of the glittering days of the free,
fighting, conquering, and lavish re-
publics of the Middle Ages, has al-
ways prompted the Italian. He is,
of all idlers, the most idle. No man
living has a more habitual fondness
for beginning the day without an ob-
ject, and ending it without a recol-
lection. Sunshine and his cigar are
his luxuries — macaroni is his main-
tenance— time his enemy—- love-ma-
king his business — sonnetteering his
talent — and sleep his resource against
all the calamities of the four-and-
twenty hours.

That the peninsula inhabited by
heroes of this calibre, should have
been for the last thousand years a
toy for the ambition, the avarice, or
the tyranny of every power on its
borders, is a mere natural conse-
quence ; that its people should be at
once the most querulous of subjects,
and the most submissive of slaves, is
a principle; and, that the national
soul should think itself made for the
conquest of the earth, and yet be not
large enough to keep the foot of every
or any intruder from its own fireside,
belongs to the plainest page of the
great'chapter of truisms.

Of all nations, Italy is the most
contemptuous of foreigners. But its
contempt for them varies by curious
shades. By the Italian, the Spaniard
is held as the most ludicrous of pe-
dants—the Englishman as the most
intolerable of boors — the Austrian as
the most incapable of existing ani-
mals, biped or quadruped ; but the
Frenchman brings down the whole ac-
cumulation of scorn, and which whole
is summed up in the phrase, dancing-
master. To the sensitive, still-life
Italian, the Frenchman's catlike rest-
lessness is a perpetual suffering; to
his fine faculty for sounds, the French-
man's tongue utters nothing but dis-
cords, less the human voice than the
representative of a forest of mon-
keys ; to his natural rich tide of lan-
guage, the Frenchman's abrupt, epi-
grammatic labour to shine, his speech
of smartnesses, and his shrugs, is un-

remitted torture. Yet to the French
the Italians have always turned with
a languishing look for liberty, which
the French have always returned by
promises, pillage, and the abandon-
ment r of every soul who was fool
enough to trust them. The light-
headed nation has always been out-
witted, betrayed, and plundered by
the light-heeled.

In 1793, the old game which had
perplexed the world, and pilfered
Italy a hundred years before, was be-
gun again. The gallant name of Re-
public covered, like charity, all sins.
The Italian was superstitious beyond
all living animals — the Frenchman
had abolished even the fragment of
belief that served for religion under
the Bourbons; the Italian bowed
down before a whole army of Virgins
and Saints — the Frenchman had bro-
ken up the Virgins for firewood, dug
up the Saints for nitre, stript holy
ears and noses, as countless as the
sands of the sea, of their pearls and
diamonds, and turned churches and
cathedrals by the score into cavalry
stables ; the Italian honoured a nun,
and worshipped a priest, and never
thought of the Pope without crossing
himself — the Frenchman had routed
nuns by the hundred thousand out
of their dormitories, harnessed the
priests to their baggage-waggons,
and made no secret of their con-
sidering the Pope as a personage
whom they would speedily visit at
Rome for the purpose of bringing to
Paris as a curiosity. Still the magic
of liberty reconciled all the quarrels
of the national characters. The
name of Republic found an echo in
every bosom of beggary, from Genoa
to Venice ; the Savoyard, whose dis-
tinction it was to brush chimneys
and shoes through all his generations
— the Lombard, who, after the man-
ner of his forefathers, was born to
play the usurer on farthings, and
raise an agio upon the rejected pan-
taloons of mankind — the Piedmon-
tese, the Man of the Milanese, whose
thoughts were of oxen, and whose
cerebellum was, beyond all question,
but a more dexterous compound of
butter and cheese — all were sud-
denly enamoured of liberty, and all

1832.]

exhibited the popular operation of
the panacea in burning their land-
lords' mansions— refusing to pay
rents, tithes, or taxes — in cheating
all who would bear to be cheated,
and in shooting those who remon-
strated. The whole country was in
the most furious yet fantastic con-
fusion.

Among the crowd of landlords
who were thus put in perplexity,
was the Marquis Spinola, a descend-
ant of the famous officer of Philip the
Second, and, like him, a gallant sol-
dier, without being, like him, a lover
of blood, plunder, and persecution.
Spinola was an Italian of three ge-
nerations, a noble of quarterings
enough for the Golden Fleece, and
rich enough to have purchased the
whole cabinet of Turin. But he had a
treasure which he valued above the
jewel-house of the Great Mogul, and
which he was right in so valuing — a
daughter fair, whom an ancient Greek
would have called Hebe, or lole, if
not Venus, but whom the archbishop
of Spoleto had christened Melanie
Isadora, the united names of her
mother and her patron saint. She was
a Spanish beauty, lightened by an
Italian birth ; the fiery glance of
the south, softened by Italian lan-
guors; the highly pronounced ex-
pression of Andalusia, touched with
the delicious sensibility of Naples.
But what is the use of attempting to
describe beauty, or who has ever
succeeded in the attempt ? Is it not
enough to say, that the Signora Me-
lanie was lovely, and what can be
said more ? Or if the world will in-
sist on having more, let it be satis-
fied with knowing that her charms
actually withheld a German arch-
duke three successive evenings from
the Loto table, stopped a French
prince in the midst of a quadrille,
and disturbed the sensibilities of a
Spanish Infant, to the extraordinary
extent of his moving his royal lips
to ask who she was ?

The Marquis Spinola had become
a diplomatist when he had grown
weary of leading the Piedmontese
grenadiers, with all the honours of
war, in their march from their bar-
racks to the cathedra], and from the ca-
thedral to their barracks. He thought
that at forty he had seen high masses
enough, and became an ambassador.
At the court of France he had at-

Calaspo, the Republican.

929

tended ten years of levees, until even
in France weariness seized him, and
he thought that a man and a noble
might have something better to do,
even in this worthless world, than
eternally dressing for court days,
playing ecarte with superannuated
Duchesses, and poring over the jour-
nals to discover the secrets of the
cabinet. He solicited his recall ; but
rejoiced as the Minister of Savoy was
at the opportunity of patronage, so
many were to be patronised, such a
conflux of young Dukes, and old
Field-Marshals, found in themselves
the diplomatic faculties at the mo-
ment, that to decide was impossible,
without an insurrection of the whole
bed-chamber. The gravest courts are
sometimes absurd things, and the
court of his Sardinian Majesty was
not graver than the rest of the earth.
During the decision, the Marquis was
compelled to remain at his post. But
the Parisians soon gave him subjects
for his despatches, undecorated by
the epigrams of the journals, or the
whispers of the royal saloon. Blood,
fury, and -rebellion, were spreading
their sullen wings over the gayest po-
pulation of the gayest land under the
moon. War was engendering in the
streets against the throne; the coffee-
houses were cabinet councils, and
the harangues of the cobblers and
craftsmen~of the thousand dens and
hovels of Paris, filled the trumpet
with a breath that blew all nations
into a flame.

The Marquis Spinola had now no
alternative but to withdraw without
even making his bow to the Conven-
tion, or be shot by the first friend of
human rights who objected to his ex-
istence.

He was an Italian, and the word
implies much. He accordingly kept
his own secret, left diplomacy to
make its excuses for him, ordered the
four fleetest horses that could be
found in Paris to be in readiness for
him outside the barrier, took an
evening promenade through the Pa-
lais Royal, with his daughter on his
arm; admired every thing that he
saw there ; applauded a harangue by
a half-naked orator, who proclaimed
the downfall of all the despots of the
globe, and flourished a red flag, bear-
ing the effigy of the unfortunate king
in^the centre, as a general warning ;
and then gliding away from the height

Calaspo the Republican.

930

of republican gala into a bypath in tho
Champs Elys&es, handed the Signora
into his chaise de poste, and was
gone at full speed.

But what is more rapid than free-
dom ? He found the French, cavalry,
artillery, and chasseurs, on every
spot from Nice to Turin. His Pied-
montese grenadiers, heroes to a
man on parade, and six feet two in
their rear-ranks, had been so long
out of the habit of fighting, that on
the appearance of the Frenchmen,
they had marched off by whole bat-
talions to exchange the spear for the
reaping-hook, and wait for better
times. The court had fled, the King
leading the van, the Cardinal Legate
bringing up the rear, and the whole
army in the centre, for security. A
whole autumn of banquets, and a
whole winter of balls, were utterly
broken up, and the noble circles of
Turin began to feel, for the first time,
the misery of being compelled to
fight, fly, or labour ; to use their own
limbs, and the remnant of under-
standings that time and levees had
spared to them.

Spinola drove through the long
and lofty streets of the capital, and
was astonished at their desertion;
he drove to the palace, and was asto-
nished still more. There was neither
Count nor Countess, petition in hand
for a dozen sequins more to be added
to their salaries ; the old mob of no-
bles, distinguishable from their own
footmen only by their greater profu-
sion of bows, and their more perpe-
tual smile — all were gone. The grand
gallery from which the aides-de-camp
and the guards hung like the show
of a mountebank's caravan, a basket
of apes chattering and grimacing at
the world below, was all deserted.
Guards, King, Queen, and their
whole menufretin, the whole starred
and ribboned ring that live upon the
smallest possible pensions, and shine
like the flowers of the field, all were
stricken by the blast of the French
trumpet from the hills of the Argen-
tiese, all faded away, all vanished
like the flowers of spring under the
scorchings of summer.

But Spinola, though an Italian and
an ambassador, was a man of sense.
He at once decided on the absurdity
of staying where his only enter-
tainers would soon be a brigade of
sans-culottes j of fighting for those

[June,

who would not fight for themselves ;
and of flying, with the chance of be-
ing starved, and the certainty of be-
ing robbed if overtaken. His estates
lay on the side of the Col de Vars, an
extensive district among the moun-
tains, but which is memorable to all
travellers for the magnificent pano-
rama of the Alps which it commands,
and to all historians for the variety
of gallant exploits which it has wit-
nessed in the French and Italian in-
vasions. In this stately wilderness
no French general could find either
pictures or plate, and therefore there
was the strongest human probability
that it would not be the scene of a
French general's ambition. The soil
was barren, the people were few but
fierce, the noble mansions were scat-
tered, and the sequins none ; and for
these reasons there was an equal
probability that it would be scorned
by the eye of the Grand Republic,
which,in its hatred of Kings, involved
a love of their property, and dis-
dained to bestow liberty on those
who were not worth robbing.

The Marquis instantly turned his
horses' heads from the deserted city,
and drove up his mountains. But
what is an Alpine journey without a
storm, an overturn, and an adven-
ture ? They were all in reserve for
him. As the snowy top of the Ar-
gentiese came in view, it was crowned
with one of those turbans of cloud,
which make so frequent and so su-
blime a finishing to the Alpine pic-
ture. The sun threw its colours
with the infinite richness of the Ita-
lian sunset among those wreaths and
folds, and the Argentiese in his
frontal of purple, scarlet, and gold,
looked like the Grand Turk of moun-
tains. But to the experienced tra-
veller, this picturesque sight is a for-
midable warning, and the postilions
were ordered to gallop. The vehicle
went on at full speed, but the tem-
pest began to be angry in his domi-
nions among the higher Alps, and
after a few fantastic murmurs and
flights among the clouds, which
threw them into still lovelier shapes
and dyes, on came the gale. The
sunset, so prodigal of beauty, like an
earthly spendthrift, exhausting all its
wealth in one pre-eminent burst of
splendour, flooded the sky with car-
nation, bathed the mountain tops in
a sea of gold, showered down pur-

1832.]

Calaspo, the Republican.

pie richer than all the amethysts of
Persia, upon the long valley of the
Riumonas ; and after pausing for a few
moments, as if to admire what it had
done, plunged into abottomless abyss
of vapour, and was no more. Then
came the battle of the elements, the
thunder opened all its batteries from
cloudy mountain top to the highest
heavens. The mists rushed in black
battalions along the valleys at their
feet; the rivers swelled instantly to
torrents, and roared like encounter-
ing armies. All was war. Evening
was dead and buried ; it was follow-
ed by a pale procession of gloomy
shades, the long, livid vapours which
belong to tempests among the Alps;
then came darkness, midnight dark-
ness, which suddenly covered all like
a shroud let down from the skies, and
under this shroud the battle still
went on, deeper and deeper still,
pealing, crashing, roaring.

In this scene further progress was
impossible. The postilions were
worn out with the quantity of sacres
which they had poured upon their
horses during the last half hour of
the ascent ; the horses were so weary
of the struggle, that between the
storm and the postilions, they at
length refused to stir a step in ad-
vance, though they gave sufficient
signs of being willing enough to let
the chaise de poste roll back, or roll
over the precipice, two thousand feet
above the white torrent of the Riu-
mouas. The next expedient was, to
take shelter under the first rock that
was large enough to cover them,
and wait until the gale was tired
out.

But even this resource was not
easily obtained. The road was in
the state which had distinguished
Sardinian road-making since the ac-
cession of the first Amadeus, and
which would not have put to shame
the original Rhseti or Vindelici. It
had all the characteristics of an Ita-
lian dynasty upon it, and was monk-
ish and Sardinian in every rut and
rock, for an ascent of three leagues.
The houses of the cantonniers, who
had been in earlier days stationed
for the relief of travellers, were now
devoted to the cultivation of the
mosses and ferns of the province ;
the dweller within had disappeared
a hundred years before, and Nature

VOL, XXX. NO, CXCV,

931

was left to supply the repairs of the
edifice, which she did, after her own
manner, by a handsome tapestry of
weeds and wild-flowers. To lead
the horses was the last expedient,
and the Marquis and the postilions
dismounted for the purpose ; but the
sheets of lightning which alone shew-
ed the road, so startled the horses at
the same time, that to lead them was
as impracticable as to drive. In this
extremity, a bridge lay before them.
The foul fiend was once the esta-
blished bridge-builder of the Alps,
and well it was for them that he was,
for he appears to have sometimes
made passable ones. The bridge that
now lay before the travellers unluck-
ily was Sardinian, and it gave palpa-
ble evidence of its inferior architec-
ture, by creaking and quivering in
every rush of the blast. Still they
went on, for the fall of the pines
from the heights rendered their stay
under the brow of the mountain a
matter of the most formidable ha-
zard. The tired horses were drag-
ged to the foot of the little bridge, and,
in the pause, the Marquis left his
post at their heads to speak a word
of cheer to his daughter, to which
she made no other answer than by a
prayer for her father's safety. He
lingered at the door with double fears
for the peril of a creature so lovely
and so dear ; but this painful indul-
gence was brief ; a burst of thunder,
that seemed to peal round his very
head, deafened him — a sheet of light-
ning, red as the flame from a fur-
nace, swept and crackled round him.
In momentary blindness and terror he
still stretched out his hands to save
his daughter, but a general shriek, and
a crash heard through all the roar of
the elements, told him that some fear-
ful catastrophe had happened. With
his sight still seared by the lightning,
he struggled forward to grasp the
carriage. But it was beyond his
grasp. Utter darkness was round
him ; he felt his way a few steps on-
ward, by clinging to the roots of the
trees. Still all was vacancy. He
cried aloud ; he was answered only
by the storm. He threw himself on
his face, determined to follow his
child, whose name he now shouted
out in accents of despair; still in
blindness and agony, he crept on,
when lie felt himself suddenly grasp-
3 o

Calaspo, the Republican.

932

ed and flung back on the bank by a
strong hand. The action was cour-
teous, but the tone of the actor might
have suited a rougher service. " In
the name of all the saints, where is
the fool going?" was the exclama-
tion. " Do you not see that the old
bridge is broken down at last ; and
in two steps more you must have
gone along with it ?"

There was a time when Spinola
would have answered this speech
with his hand on the hilt of his sword,
like the Frenchman when he lectures
his wife, or when his coiffeur perpe-
trates an erroneous curl. But he
now had voice but for, " My daugh-
ter, my daughter, my child, lost, lost,
lost!" The intelligence evidently
produced a pause in his rescuer's
tone; he asked a hurried question
about the misfortune. Spinola could
tell him no more, than that the car-
riage had been lost in attempting the
bridge. But before even this brief
communication could be completely
delivered, the stranger was gone.
The sounds of horns, and voices
shouting among the hills, followed ;
but they soon passed away again.
The unhappy father was again left to
solitude, and the misery of heart that
can be felt only by a father.

Towards midnight the fury of the
tempest began to go down, and the
moon, then in her wane, threw a
touch of silver on the tops of the
Alps of Chamouni. As she advan-
ced, the storm seemed to shrink be-
fore her, the gale died away, and her
light, reflected from the immense
piles of cloud that still hung over the
hills, threw a wavering and melan-
choly, but a clear gleam over the val-
leys and ravines innumerable, that
make such network of an Alpine re-
gion. Guided by the rising light,
some of the mountaineers had found
Spinola where he sat, almost uncon-
scious of existence, and murmuring
in broken tones the language of
true sorrow, — " My Melanie, my
child, my child ; lost, lost, for ever !"

But there were better tidings in
store for him. A concourse of the
peasants were seen gathering on the
side of one of the ravines, exchan-
ging signals of horns and shouts with
a group far below. In another half
hour, the lower group had ascended,
the two now combined,and the whole
party ascended the mountain. Two

[June,

figures now started from the crowd,
and were seen rushing towards the
spot where the Marquis lay, unable
to move. In another moment he felt
himself clasped in the arms of the
one who was dearer to him than the
world besides. His Melanie's lips
were pressed to his forehead, her
voice was whispering consolation to
his ears, he felt her, tears streaming
on his cheeks, and in a rapture of
piety and gratitude he loudly thank-
ed heaven for the restoration of his
child.

The next and most natural enqui-
ry was, how she had been restored ?
To this she could make no answer
further than that she had fortunately
fainted when the bridge gave way
under the weight of the carriage, and
that her first sensation of life was
finding herself in the hands of the
peasantry, as her first joy was in
once more returning to her father.
But this brief history was fully made
up by the tongues of the mountain-
eers. " It was all the work of Ca-
laspo. It was Calaspo, whose horn
had brought them from their cot-
tages ; it was Calaspo who had sprung
down a precipice, which nothing but
a goat or his infernal majesty ever
sprang down before ; it was Calaspo
who by main strength had stopped
the carriage on the brink of a decli-
vity of a thousand feet ; it was Ca-
laspo's knife that had cut the harness,
and let the whole four restive ani-
mals go down the precipice in the
midst of their kicking and rearing,
at the moment when they were drag-
ging the carriage after them ; it was
Calaspo's hand that had extracted the
lady from the carriage door, like a
bird from the eagle's nest; it was
Calaspo's arms that had carried her
up the cliff; it was Calaspo above,
below, beginning and end, Calaspo
every where."

" But where is this Calaspo ?" said
the Marquis ; " send him here that
I may reward him."

No Calaspo came. He was, at last,
found lurking in the outskirts of the
crowd, and forced forward. Spi-
nola, feeble as he was, advanced to-
wards him, took him by the hand,
and telling him the name of those to
whom he had rendered such essen-
tial service, offered him his protec-
tion, and, as a beginning, presented
him with his purse.

1832.]

Calaspo, the Republican.

The mountaineer was a tall slight
figure, with a stern countenance ;
the tempest seemed made for his
grave features, and the rough obei-
sance with which he declined the
purse, was obviously that of one un-
used to cities. Spinola, proud but
not haughty — as is the custom of men
conscious of high birth and office,
but not vain of either — was pleased
with the refusal of the money; but
he had another trial to make. " I
have offered you my protection,"
said he. " If you prefer remaining
where you are, I can give you a farm ;
but if you prefer living in my house-
hold, I can give you employment.
I have a mountain on which I mean
to raise a forest, and you shall be the
planter." The mountaineer was evi-
dently a man of few words. But he
as evidently had the faculty of making
up his mind without loss of time.
Throwing his cloak over his shoul-
der, and shaking hands with the pea-
sants round him, he came forward,
and taking off his hat, with a perfect-
ly untutored bow to the Marquis,
and a still deeper, but equally untu-
tored one to the fair lady, he told
them that he was ready.

The procession moved forward. It
was a dolorous display. One of the
postilions had broken his arm, — the
other had lost his whip, one of his
jackboots, and all his tobacco, and
with it, apparently his senses, for he
continued roaring out prayers to the
Virgin that had saved his life, and
anathemas against the King of Sar-
dinia, who had endangered it. In
other times, the latter portion of his
prayer would have made more than
the Virgin's assistance necessary, and
plunged him down a precipice of 600
feet, from which all the Calaspos of
the Alps could not have brought him
up again with a sound neck. But
times, luckily for the orator, were
altered ; and while the tri-color was
.kissing the breeze along the moun-
tain tops of Piedmont, postilions and
patriots of all dimensions mightlaugh
at the dynasties of Italy, with the full-
est security of caricature.

Spinola was still helpless from ex-
haustion ; the fair Melanie was help-
less from terror ; the peasantry were
not much more effective, from the
blundering and brainlessness that be-
long to all life outside the walls of
cities. But Calaspo, the redoubtable

933

Calaspo, was every thing and every
where. Like a general, he was in
front, van, and rear, ordering this
clown, lecturing the other, pointing
out the route, sending his c'etach-
ment of lampbearers to points from
which they might act as beacons to
the party, still cruelly buffeted, and
more than half blinded, by the storm,
— dispatching videttes to find out the
paths, which the storm had prodigi-
ously mingled, — and sending forward
a solid patrol to take possession of
the next hamlet, rouse the popula-
tion of Benefico to a sense of hospi-
tality, and lay an embargo on all the
guinea-fowl eggs and Florence coffee
in their possession, for the behoof of
the most magnificent the Lord Mar-
quis of Spinola, sovereign of the lands
of Montellano, Vastimiglia, and Giu-
liestre.

This day concluded the disasters
of the journey. Calaspo's arrival ope-
rated like a spell. Every thing went
on prosperously from that moment.
The series of miracles that carried
them through the rest of their jour-
ney, deserved to be painted on the
walls, if not of every Italian church,
of every Italian post-house. The
horses never foundered, the harness
never cracked, the postilions never
got drunk, lazy, or insolent, and,
finally, the carriage never broke
down. Calaspo's eye wrought all
the magic. All was system where
he applied his keen glance. The
Marquis, weary and enfeebled, was
delighted with having engaged so
useml a serf ; the servants were ut-
terly astonished ; the Signora Mela-
nie was much amused; and, by the
time that their train reached the bot-
tom of the declivity from whose side
the noble castle of Spinola looked
over fifty leagues of forest, moun-
tain, and cascade, like the Spirit of
the feudal age throned in the midst
of a world of its own — desolate, yet
proud, bold, and kingly — the disas-
ters of the night were thought of only
as the natural produce of the wild,
and to be remembered only for the
wonder of the circle of marshals and
ambassadors when the world came
round again, and kings and court
circles were what they ought to be —
the rapture of mankind.

For two years, Spinola felt the wis-
dom of the choice which had brought
him to the Col de Vars. Aftairs at

934

Turin were as dreary as ever. The
French had plunged into Savoy like
u thunder-shower, taken Chamberri,
unhoused the nuns, pillaged the cha-
pels, and yoked the father confessors
to their cannon, as was the custom
of the people of liberty. The King
Lad summoned the Austrians, who,
always rejoicing at an opportunity of
dipping their hands in Italian plun-
der, came at his call by tens of thou-
sands, and, to the inconceivable as-
tonishment and indignation of the
French, beat them, republicans as
they were, in every direction. This
was always the history of Italian war.
The Gaul first threw himself into the
bosom of the land, — swept every
thing before him, — robbed, shot, ate,
drank, and danced, — then threw off
his musket and knapsack, proclaim-
ed the war at an end, and prepared
for a course of perpetual fete and
festino. The German was always
six months too late ; but, though tor-
pid, he was not utterly dead. About
the time when his lively rival had
thrown away his accoutrements, the
man of the north had contrived to
button on his. He marched across
the Tyrol hills, found the Gaul all
astonishment, fell upon him with ho-
nest Gothic vengeance, and sent him
flying back across Alp and Apennine
without shirt, shoe, or sequin.

This had happened in regular
course in the first years of the French
war. The light Frenchman carried
every thing before him for a sum-
mer. Then came the heavy Austrian,
who drove the Frenchman from his
prey, as a clown's huge hand drives
off a swarm of gnats from a fallen
sheep, — the race of stings and wings
is put to flight, but the sheep is not
the less sure of losing its fleece for
the operation. Italy realized the part
of the sheep on this occasion, as on
all, for the last three centuries ; and
the Austrian was now imbedded in
Savoy, Piedmont, and every spot
where he could sleep and smoke, in
full indulgence of every appetite that
could animate the most solid repre-
sentative of the tortoise among men.
Spinola cared for neither, suspected
both, kept himself within his moun-
tain empire, and heard of wars, and
rumours of wars, as if the echo be-
longed to the moon.

Life has many a pleasure never
dreamed of by those who look for

Calaspo, the Republican.

[June,

paradise in the capital. The glare of
orders and embroidery is, after all,
not much brighter than the stars when
they come out in full muster on a fine
night of June. The gayest dance in
the gayest palazzo that lifts its gild-
ed turrets within sight of the Super-
ga, is not much livelier than the wild
measures of the mountain boys and
girls, even with no better orchestra
than their own voices, and the chant
of the thrushes and nightingales that
keep time on every bough above
them. The Marquis had fully dis-
covered this, and regretted that he
had not made the discovery twenty
years before. All was happiness,
plenty, and peace, round the borders
of this little kingdom, while noble
lords and ladies, princes and prin-
cesses, legates and arch -prelates,
were trembling at every streak that
marked the coming sky, as the an-
nouncement of a conflagration ; start-
led from their beds at every sound,
as the braying of an enemy's trum-
pet, and running from end to end of
Italy, alike in terror of the French
dragoon and the German hussar.

In the midst of this region of grand-
eur and tranquillity, this world above
the clouds, the Signora Melanie, too,
sported like one of those gay crea-
tures of the element that in the co-
lours of the rainbow live. Her beauty
grew more intellectual — there was a
deeper light in her fine eyes — her
cheek had more of the crimson that
flushes and fades with every emotion
of the mind. The unequalled mag-
nificence of the scenes around her,
was gradually modelling all her per-
ceptions. In Greece she would
have been copied by some Alcame-
nes or Praxiteles as a Mountain God-
dess, a Genius of the hills and
streams. A Titian would have made
her a Seraph or a Saint; and all the
rustic poets who dared to cast their
eyes on the " track of light," which
all their sonnets declared to mark
every spot consecrated by her tread,
versified her into a combination of all
indescribable excellencies, enough to
have broken the hearts of all the
dames d'honneur from Milan to
Naples.

But what tranquillity could long
be looked for in this whirling world !
An estafette, a formidable animal,
with mustaches worthy of a royal
tiger, and epaulets fitted for the as-

1832.]

tonishmcnt of all the race of woman-
kind, suddenly made his appearance
at break of day in one of the grey
mornings of an Alpine summer, with
a letter to the Marquis from the Aus-
trian commandant of Turin, inform-
ing him, that within twelve hours a
column of three thousand would be
in motion by the road to the Col de
Vars, to take possession of the Fort
Dauphin and the pass of the Barri-
cades, both well-known features of
the pass of the Argentiese, and both
famous for being marked with many
a torrent of French blood.

The officer who bore the despatch
was himself entitled to Spinola's hos-
pitality, on the plea of family con-
nexion. He was the Count Fiorenzo,
the son of a distant relative of the
Marquis, who had followed the Arch-
duke Leopold from Tuscany to Vi-
enna, had shared in his master's rise,
and was now high in the favour of
the Emperor Francis. Count Ca-
rolo Fiorenzo had served in the Rus-
sian army, in Suwarrow's last cam-
paign against the Ottomans ; he had
been an aide-de-camp to Prince Co-
bourg in Transylvania; he was a rich
man, a handsome man, and a high-
born man ; he was also an universal
lover, and before he had swallowed
his first glass of champagne that day
at the Marquis's table, his eyes had
made a full, complete, and unequi-
vocal declaration of his approval of
the person, face, and manners of the
Signora Melanie.

The Austrians arrived. The hills
were dotted with tents, the valleys
groaned to the groans of waggons
and gun-carriages, the woods echoed
the rattle of drums and the winding
of bugles, bayonets flashed down so-
litudes as wild and as unused to man
as the wilds of Mount Ararat, and
the Castle was crowded, morning,
noon, and night, with epaulets, or-
ders, and colonels of Hulans. Spi-
nola was delighted; his early tastes
revived, and he entertained those
showy personages like an old knight
of the Crusades. Balls, wolf-hunts,
and carousals among the hills and
dales, made hill and dale ring. Love
was the natural consequence. The
Austrian soldiers, tardily awakened
to the dark eyes of the mountain
girls, began to marry them in great
abundance; and, first of the first,
Count Carolo, with a fine speech and

Culaspo, iltc Republican.

a gesture of consummate eloquence,
laid his heart at the feet of the fair
heiress of the House of Spinola. The
Signora was first amused, then dis-
pleased, then indignant. Count Ca-
rolo professed his intention of ap-
pealing from his unfeeling mistress
to her rational father. The Signora
anticipated him there, by appealing
in her own person; but to her in-
finite vexation, thatfather had already
heard the lover's tale, and, to her
equally immeasurable surprise, he
had given his entire approval to the
suit. In other times, a daughter
thus thwarted would have flung her-
self down a precipice or run to a nun-
nery ; but the days for those cures
of sorrow were obsolete, and the
Signora, almost without knowing
why, felt the world darkened round
her at once, and went out into the
open air of the forest to weep and
walk away her woes.

The cloud on her brow had in-
stantly communicated itself to all;
her waiting-maids began to quarrel
with the quarter-masters and drum-
majors, who had aspired to the ho-
nour of their hands, and an universal
feeling seemed to have turned the
temple of Hymen into the house of
Discord. Other causes, too, began
to operate ; the Austrian column had
not been advanced without reason,
for it soon became known, that the
French along the frontier were be-
ginning to stir; that forage and guns
were arriving from Provence, and
that a new general had made his ap-
pearance at Nice. It was equally
discoverable that the French, with
their usual tactique, were preparing
their way by peasant emissaries,
who scattered their proclamations,
and their more persuasive money,
among the lower orders of Italy. The
mountaineers of the lende and the
Argentiese, primitive as they were,
had soon learned to compare the
Austrian yoke with the French pro-
mise of universal freedom ; the spirit
broke out in quarrels ; the Austrians
used the cane and the flat of the
sabre, to modify the public ideas; the
peasants argued in turn with the
stiletto and the carabine. Even Ca-
laspo, the soul of good-humour, had
grown sullen, and in one or two
frays with the drunken Austrians,
his prowess had made him the sub-
ject of a formal representation to the

936

Marquis Spinola. Calaspo was now
a changed man. From the time of his
having incurred the displeasure of
the Marquis, he had relapsed into
gloom ; the original activity of his
nature had departed from him ; he
wandered listlessly through the
woods, a great portion of which had
been planted by his own hand, and
been a source of acknowledged pride
to him ; he abjured guitar and man-
doline, smiled no more, and shrank
from association with all but his fo-
resters. This conduct was suspicious,
the times were suspicious, the posi-
tion of the castle, almost on the
frontier, was supicious, and Spinola,
urged by his Austrian guests, was
considering in what way he should
best win Calaspo and his forest
brotherhood from the ways of repub-
licanism, when he saw the bold pea-
sant standing before him. " I come,"
said Calaspo, " to ask my dismissal,
and to thank my Lord Marquis for
his three years' protection." Spinola
was struck with the determined
countenance of his head forester,
and asked his reason. " I am weary,"
was the stern answer; " I wish to try
my chance with the world." As the
dialogue proceeded, the Signora Me-
lanie accidentally passed through the
apartment. She expressed her sur-
prise at the determination, and re-
gretting the loss of one who had ren-
dered herself and the Marquis such
essential service, requested to know
whether the late quarrels of the sol-
diery had any share in his resolution.
The tone of her request softened his
proud heart, and in a voice which
shewed how deeply he felt this mark
of condescension, he thanked her,
but still solicited his dismissal. The
energy which he threw into his ex-
pressions of gratitude, and the co-
lour which mounted into his brown
cheek, when he protested that neither
time nor distance should make him
forget the generous kindness of that
noble roof, showed that nature can
sometimes give eloquence to the
tongue, and feeling to the features,
without reverencing the laws of he-
raldry; and even the high-spirited
Signora herself acknowledged that
the three years had produced a pro-
digious change for the better in the
handsome man of the woods. She
had heard with a degree of regret,
which seemed totally unaccountable

Calaspo, the Republican.

[June,

to herself, that Calaspo was to leave
the castle at daylight next day, and
her last work before she retired to
rest, was to make up some pecuniary
memorial of her gratitude for the
preservation of her life.

The night was calm and lovely, and
she lingered for some time at her
casement counting the stars, and
wondering in which of them the
souls of disappointed lovers took up
their rest. But low murmurs, like
the gathering of thunder in the dis-
tant hills, gradually came on her ear,
and, chilled with the dew, she was
about to close the casement, when
she observed in the shadow of the
trees a figure gazing upwards, and
evidently wrapped in deep reverie.
He spoke a few unconscious words,
but she instantly knew the voice ; it
was Calaspo's. To this she suddenly
felt that she must listen no longer,
and she was again withdrawing,
when the wave of plumage emer-
ging into the moonlight caught her
eye, and in the next moment high
words were heard. The words were
followed by the clash of steel ; and
in infinite terror she hastened to
send some of her attendants to sepa-
rate the combatants. They arrived
too late; the Count Carolo was
found with his sabre broken, and a
wound in his side, from which the
blood flowed profusely. The castle
was thrown into confusion, patrols
were dispatched to seize the assas-
sin, the Count was conveyed to bed,
raging at his ill-luck, furious at " the
obscure villain," who, he said, had
waylaid him, and urging the Aus-
trian officer in command to have the
culprit shot without delay.

That culprit was declared to be
Calaspo; and the Marquis, in high
indignation at the attack on his guest,
and offended by the idea that his
sagacity had been so much mistaken
in the instance of his protege, or-
dered a general pursuit. A favourite,
proverbially, has no friend. And
Calaspo's sudden rise and position
in his lord's confidence, had irritated
enough of the self-love of the corri-
dors to make enemies, not the less
bitter for being menial. The Aus-
trian patrol went to the right, up
the pass towards Fort Dauphin. The
dozen valets, with pistol at belt, and
carabine in hand, went to the left,
down the ravine, which leads to

1832.]

Calaspo, the Republican.

Lombardy. But neither had been
absent an hour, when a low rattling
of musketry was heard ; at intervals
it spread round the whole circle of
the mountains. The Austrians were
on the alert in a few minutes, and
drawn up in battalions on the side of
the Col. They had not waited long
when their patrol came rushing
back, declaring that they had been
attacked by a superior French force.
Almost at the same moment, the
troop of valets came flying up the
ravine, breathless, terrified, and one
half of them wounded ; their intelli-
gence was that they, too, had fallen
into an ambush of French, who at-
tacked them, and notwithstanding
" a resistance worthy of a troop of
lions," or Amadis de Gaul himself,
they had thought it prudent to retire
to the castle.

The pursuit of Calaspo was ob-
viously at an end for the night. The
Austrian brigadier had other pur-
poses to provide for before morn-
ing ; and, on an express from Fort
Dauphin, the whole force was moved
up the mountain. From this time
all was terror in the castle, and the
thunder of cannon upon the en-
trenchments of the hills. During
the whole night the air was filled
with the huge trails of the shells
throwing fire over the enemy's co-
lumns, the keen rattle of musketry,
and the roar of artillery swelling
upon every gust of the Alpine wind.
It was now evident that the action
was more than an affair of picquets.
Some of the prisoners, who were
brought into the castle by the Aus-
trian chasseurs, declared that the
whole French, whose head-quarters
had been at Jaorgio for the last six
months, and who were reported to
be perfectly disorganized, had been
in march for the last three days ;
that a general, an Italian, had been
sent from Paris to take the com-
mand, who had pledged his head for
the conquest of Italy; and that a
hundred thousand men were follow-
ing them from Nice. This intelli-
gence was at first looked upon as
French rhodomontade ; but the pri-
soners had scarcely been consigned
to the care of the rearguard, when a
burst of fire circling the whole base
of the hills, shewed that the enemy
had burst through the entire Aus-
trian position, and were forcing the
passes in irresistible numbers.

937

The si^ht was now one of the
most striking that battle can furnish.
As far as the eye reached, volumes
of fire were incessantly rolling out,
the only indication of the spots
where the chief struggle lay ; from
time to time the explosion of an am-
munition-waggon, or the blaze of a
village, threw a fearful splendour on
the night; and the advancing peal
of the musketry, the sure mark of
the enemy's gaining ground, shewed
where the Austrians were giving
way. Spinola's experience told him
what must be the result ; and, with
Melanie by his side, he remained on
the ground in front of the castle
from the commencement of the ac-
tion, like a traveller above the
clouds, looking at the lightnings and
the storm beneath his feet.

But a dispatch from the Austrian
genera], which reached him before
dawn, broke up all his military reve-
ries. The dispatch contained but
the words: — " The French have
beaten us, will beat us again, and
will beat us every day, till they beat
us over the Tyrol. They are com-
manded by Bonaparte, a Corsican,
who has more brains than the Aulic
Council, and all our generals put to-
gether. Fort Dauphin will be taken
by daybreak, and then nothing can
save your chateau from being plun-
dered, and your family, perhaps,
from being massacred. Fly instant-

The advice was not thrown away.
Spinola knew the course of things
too well, and knew that the farther
he placed himself out of the line of
a French campaign, the more wisely
he consulted for his comfort; pressed
his lip to his daughter's white fore-
head, felt that with her he still had a
treasure worth all the chateaus that
could be left behind ; and gave in-
stant orders for a general flight across
the hills. A few packhorses bore
all the luggage, that this hurried
movement allowed him to carry with
him. Melanie bore her mother's
jewels, the Marquis, Melanie's pic-
ture. The valets gathered what the
confusion of the hour suffered them
to bring away. The melancholy train
set out in the midst of a renewed roar
of battle, and moving along the sum-
mit of the Col, by the blaze of shells
and howitzers, paused for a moment
on the summit, to give a last look to
the scene which had witnessed so

938

many peaceful hours. There they
saw, with anew outcry of mingled sor-
row, wrath, and vengeance, the blaze
of musketry, which shewed them
a strong French column bursting like
an eruption of lava through every
fissure of the precipices above and
round the castle. The Austrians,
surrounded by this unexpected ad-
vance, evidently defended them-
selves with great obstinacy; and
fighting step by step, at last retreated
to the walls, which now began to
feel the effects of the French guns.
The windows of the unfortunate
Chateau now poured forth vollies of
musketry, and the spots which had
once heard nothing louder than the
tones of the Signora Melanie's harp,
or the songs of the birds in answer,
were now sending into all the moun-
tains a fierce and perpetual uproar,
which they echoed with their thun-
der. The contest fluctuated long, and
in every moment of it the hearts of
the unhappy gazers, from the summit
of the pass, vibrated with some new
agitation. At length, from the very
casement, among whose lilies and
roses the fair arm of the mistress of
the mansion had rested the evening
before, and where she had sat watch-
ing the moon, with the delight of one
of those spirits of the Persian para-
dise that inhale their life from flow-
ers, whirled forth a volume of livid
flame with a loud explosion. A shell
from the French batteries had fallen
upon the chamber, and, blowing up,
had set every thing in it instantly in
a blaze.

This was a chamber of recollec-
tions deep and dear; the old me-
morials of a dead parent, the pre-
sents of living friends, the thousand
fond remembrances of hours of love-
ly and lonely thought, of brilliant
acquirement, of intellectual joy, and
perhaps of those dreams of young
passion that hover on pinions of
more than mortal power and bright-
ness round the solitude of genius
and beauty. The attendants, as they
saw the whole mansion rapidly ab-
sorbed by the flames, exhibited the
frenzy of Italian grief, called on
their saints with furious reproba-
tion of their negligence, tore their
hair, flung themselves on the ground,
gnashed their teeth, and threatened
all the Frenchmen on the face of the
globe with severe retribution from
the dagger, Spinola, in deep dejec-

Calaspo, the Republican.

[June,

tion, only pressed his daughter to
his breast, and wiped away her tears.
Melanie promised to be calm, and
only wept the more. One expres-
sion of her father alone roused her.
After a pause of thought, he burst
out with, " That ungrateful villain,
Calaspo ! It was he, who, I am now
confident, drew this night's attack
upon us. The French could never
have found their way through the
hills without a guide ; and his flight
furnished them with just the one
which they wanted." Melanie
doubted ; Spinola was strong in his
opinion. " The villain knew every
spot of the ground ; and I even recol-
lect his having talked to me, not
twelve hours since, of the proba-
bility of their surprising the Aus-
trians."

Melanie listened with surprise,
but without conviction. She was
not then in the mind to argue. But
she could affirm, and without hesi-
tation she declared her belief, that
the fugitive forester was totally guilt-
less. Spinola smiled at the generous
incredulity of youth; but repeated
his conviction, pronouncing aloud
that Calaspo was at once " an assas-
sin and a traitor." As he spoke the
words, a rustling in the thicket be-
hind startled him, he laid his hand
upon his sword, and in the next mo-
ment Calaspo stood before him. He
had evidently been in the engage-
ment, for his arm was in a sling,
and the blood from a sabre wound
was still trickling from his forehead.
He was as evidently worn out with
fatigue, and it was some time before
he could recover breath. He eager-
ly waved his hand, every feature of
his powerful visage writhed, but
speech would not come. At length
he uttered with difficulty, " Signor,
you have named me an assassin and
a traitor. I am both, and yet nei-
ther. But the time is short. I am
wounded, perhaps mortally. I have
come to tell you, that in five minutes
more you will be surrounded by a
battalion of the French chasseurs,
whom I left marching up the pass."
Spinola looked full in his counte-
nance, and pronounced in a stern
tone, " Begone, sir. How am I to
trust you ? Is not this a new attempt
to betray your master ?" Calaspo's
cheek flushed as red as the blood
that dropped down it. He staggered
back a few paces and fell, then,

1832.)

Calaspo, the licpubtican.

throwing open his cloak, shewed his
bosom covered with gore, and said,
" Sir, if I am dying, let me have jus-
tice. It was I who wounded the
Austrian Count, because he drew
on me, and would have taken my
life. It was I who led the French
through the ravines, because in my
departure from a castle, where,
whether I deserved friends or not, I
had left none, I was taken prisoner,
and dragged along with them. But
it was in defence of that castle, that
I received these wounds, and to save
this portrait for the Lady Melanie,
that I escaped through the midst of
the enemy's fire, and followed you
up the mountain." He gave the por-
trait to the lady, who received it
with deep gratitude. It was her fa-
ther's, and set round with brilliants
that had once adorned the portrait of
a king.

But there was now no time for
thanks. For the sound of the tirail-
lade was rising at the roots of the hill.
" Fly for your lives," said Calaspo,
with a faint attempt to rise. Spinola
had felt his oldcompassion alive again,
and paused. " How can we ever re-
pay you ?" said Melanie, leaning for-
ward from her father's arm, and in a
voice soft as the dew that fell round
her. " Suffer me to kiss your hand,"
sighed the victim. The hour was
dark — the world's eyes were sight-
less— Spinola himself was wrapt in
reverie on consenting to this simple
kindness to the dying. Melanie gave
the hand, and felt it clasped with a
wild pressure, that thrilled unac-
countably through her frame. She
attempted to withdraw it. But it
was clasped still closer, it was press-
ed to the lips, to the cheeks, to the
forehead, as if to convince her that
it had kindled a flame in every fea-
ture. She felt her own cheeks burn.
Neither spoke a syllable. But in
that hour a secret voice told her that
she had never loved before, and that
she then loved for ever ; a new light
seemed to have dawned upon her
mind. A new stream of existence
seemed to have been poured into
her being. She seemed to have
found a new soul.

A volley of bullets showered on
them through the trees, striking
down branch and leaf, and covering
them with fragments of the rocks.
" Away, away," exclaimed Calaspo,
starting from his trance. " Away,

939

away," exclaimed Spinola, drawing
his sword, and not knowing where
to turn for his life. " Away, away,"
exclaimed the crowd of attendants,
overthrowing each other and every
thing else in the general confusion.
There was but one voice which ut-
tered no word, and one step which
made no movement. The Sig-
nora Melanie continued with her
eyes fixed on the form of their friend,
protector, and victim. In that mo-
ment, years passed through her mind.
She remembered the night of her
preservation from death, the night
of the storm, the precipice, the he-
roic intrepidity with which Calaspo
had flung himself down from tree to
tree, and from rock to rock, until he
arrested her fall, on the edge of a
chasm a thousand feet deep. She
remembered, too, the noble qualities
which not even his peasant cloak
could hide, the manly bearing, the fine
physiognomy, the sweet impressive
tongue ; the talent for all and every
thing. Even a new key was given
by that hour to looks and sighs, to
the sudden dejection and extrava-
gant joy, which till then had been
enigmas to her. Genius and beauty
had made their impression on her
unconscious mind, and it was only
on this night, that the depth and
glow of that impression was revealed
to her eye.

But for these feelings of young
passion, the most feverish and poig-
nant that can sting the human heart,
what an hour was chosen ! All around
them was dismay, plunder, flight,
ruin. The labour of years was tram-
pled by the hoofs of the French ca-
valry— the wealth of generations was
burnt up before their glance. Even
if this night was not to end their
career, where were they to turn ?
France was a horde of hostile barba-
rians— Italy was a region of terror
— Germany was falling to pieces with
invasionand insurrection ; and where,
was the lord of a castle in ashes, of
domains in the hands of the French
commissaries, and of hopes only be-
yond the earth, to hide his hoary
head, and shelter his daughter ? But
with that daughter all was concen-
trated in the dying man. To leave
him to perish by the enemy, was sud-
denly felt to be the greatest of human
crimes; all calamity seemed to be
bound up in the single one of seeing
his face no more on this side of the

940

grave. Life seemed at once to have
become worthless without him ; and
death at his side, but a simple act of
duty, a natural fulfilling of the law of
her being, a calm and hallowed ter-
mination of a career of truth, feeling,
and happiness. Melanie loved like
an Italian, with her whole spirit
touched by lightning.

But the more earthly flame of a
howitzer, which had just been drag-
ged to the brow of the precipice above
their heads, to play upon the retreat-
ing columns of the Austrians in the
valley, at once shewed the whole
party to each other, and shewed the
madness of lingering there. Calas-
po's resolution was taken. He had
heard, in the broken confessions of
those lips, whose words to him were
oracles, " that he must not be left
behind." His sagacity knew, that
the attempt to carry him off must
cause the inevitable capture of all.
His generosity determined to save
them at all personal risk. And by
an extraordinary effort, more of mind
than body, he rose from the ground,
and tottering a few steps down the
hill, threw himself into the midst of
the advancing battalion. The ene-
my, startled by his appearance, pau-
sed for a moment, and, in the next,
recognising him for one of the moun-
taineers, ordered him to the front as
a guide. He was mounted on a mule,
and sent forward to lead the 7oth
demi-brigade of the republic, one and
indivisible, to glory. He led up paths
where they might have gained glory
from the goats, for no other faces
would have taken post there ; he led
them down ravines, where they might
have fought pitched battles against
the bears and the wolves, if their
wiser devastators had been bellige-
rent enough to wait for them. But
no human being did the warriors of
freedom disenthral from either dun-
geon or castle, from the tyranny of
kings, or the troubles of this world.
The 75th demi-brigade returned, af-
ter a week's tour among marble pin-
nacles, forests of pine, silver foam-
ing cataracts, and fountains dark,
deep, and cool, as the bottom of a
mine. And Calaspo, on his mule,
rode home at their head to Barcelo-
nette, to leave his fellow tourists
shoeless, footless, and heartless, load-
ing the Alps with maledictions, to
which only the tourists had been en-
titled, and sick of castle-hunting for

Calaspo, the Republican.

[June,

the rest of their lives. Calaspo did
not escape without the honours of
war. The enthusiasm of the demi-
brigade for gathering laurels among
the rocks had no sooner cooled, than
the Frenchmen began to suspect that
they were deceived ; the next idea
was, that they were laughed at — an
affront never pardoned, nor pardon-
able, by any Gaul from Picardy to
Provence. Calaspo was accordingly
degraded from his office as guide,
and brought back with the corps as
a prisoner.

Those were times when justice, if
not always wise, was expeditious ;
and the drumhead-tribunal, before
which the prisoner was carried with-
in the next twenty-four hours, con-
tenting itself with the simple pro-
cess of asking him his name, coun-
try, and pursuit, found him, on the
strength of these facts, guilty of be-
ing a " spy, an assassin of French-
men," and a beguiler of their steps
on an expedition which otherwise
must have covered the 75th demi-
brigade with dory. The prisoner
made his defence with sufficient
earnestness, and denied all intention
of laughing at a nation so impervious
to all ridicule as the French. But
the defence had the misfortune of
aggravating the charge. He was re-
manded to the dungeon without de-
lay, but with the notice, that within
twelve hours he was to be shot on
the glacis of Barcelonette.

There had been periods in Ca-
laspo's career, when this intelligence
would have been as welcome as any
other. But the night of the battle on
the hills had thrown a new light on
him, and strangely altered his theory
of existence. He felt that he had
only just begun to live, when life
was to be torn from him. He grew
indignant, gloomy, furious, and asha-
med of his fury. He reckoned and
measured one by one the stones in
the wall of his dungeon ; he sounded
the vault under it with his heel, to
discover some weaker part, some
crevice, through which he might
evade the jailer and the platoon,
and escape to the sun and air again.
He climbed up to the casement,
tried the strength of its bars, found
them, as he might have expected, not
to be moved by either his strength
or his sorrows ; and fell back upon
the pavement again, envying the beg-
gar that whined at the prison gates,

1832.]

Calaspo, the Republican.

041

or the deserter who was shot the
day before. But all these experi-
ments did not retard the progress of
day and night, and the town-clock of
Barcelonette at length gave signal of
the beginning of the last twelve hours
that were to be spent by him in
meditations or murmurings in this
world.

In the evening, the French com-
mandant, mellowed probably by din-
ner, and the captured champagne of
the Piedmontese field-marshal whom
he had ejected from the governor-
ship, ordered one of his aides-de-
camp to enquire, whether " the Ita-
lian scoundrel who was to be shot
next morning, had any thing to ask
for himself, or any one else ; a father
confessor for his sins, if such must
be the everlasting folly of his coun-
try ; or any message to send to his
wife, or his dozen wives."

The aide-de-camp was dispatched ;
the keeper of the dungeons dispatch-
ed his subordinate, at the sight of
the commandant's signature and the
aide-de-camp's epaulets, and the
deputy of the deputy ushered the
aide-de-camp into the cell where
Calaspo was lying on the pavement,
wrapped in his cloak, and thinking
of the parting pressure of the Sig-
nora Melanie's hand. The aide-de-
camp announced his business, but
the prisoner had too nearly done
with the business of this earth, to
venerate even the plumage of the
etat major of the most gallant and
plumaged army under the sun.

He, too, had sensations new to
him, but solemn, high, and absorb-
ing, beyond all other that besiege
the mind of man. Although accus-
tomed to a career of hazard, and
leading the wild life of a mountain-
eer, a hunter, and a soldier, he now,
for the first time, felt himself within
the grasp of death. He had faced
death often, but it was in hot blood,
with that glow and enterprise which
-almost extinguishes danger with the
extinction of the sense of danger.
He had leaped the precipice, where
a false step would have dashed him
to atoms ; he had swam the torrent,
where the strength of man seemed
but as a weed on the waters ; he had
fought in the face of batteries, every
discharge of which laid hundreds
low. He had but within a few days
rushed into one of the hottest actions

of the war, and, though desperately
wounded, yet had never felt the
image of death before him. But
now, in the loneliness of his cell, in
the dreary silence that seemed made
to let his bitter thoughts have their
full revel in his heart; in the sullen
sounds that, at intervals, broke that
dreary silence, the knell of the tur-
ret chime, the watchword of the jail-
ers, the measured tread of the sen-
tinels, he had time and subject for
meditation that let in a new world
of ideas upon him.

Of all the influences on the mind of
man, there are two paramount, and
but two, that awake him a totally
new tribe of sensations Passion,
which comes at the period when man
is about to enter on the great career
of active life, when his understanding
is on the point of acquiring its vigour,
and he is summoned to .substantiate
his claim to the honours of society;
— the sudden sense of beauty, — the
high consciousness stirred up in the
human heart, of the capability of do-
ing all and suffering all for the pos-
session of a being whom imagination
resistlessly invests with all the attri-
butes that enchain the human feel-
ings,— one of the noblest fountains of
the noblest efforts of the spirit of
man, — the great summoner of genius,
of generous sacrifice, of gallant self-
denial, of heroic ambition. But this
first career had long been run by the
heart of the being who now lay silent
upon the pavement of the dungeon,
but with his mind darting, as if it
were already disembodied, from hea-
ven to earth, and from earth to hea-
ven. The second grand stage of hu-
man sensation had now come upon
him — the solemn conceptions, which,
coming at the close of life, and open-
ing the gates of the grave, are per-
haps sent to prepare the mortal for
his first step into the world of im-
mortality. A flood of strange and
intense thought was rolling through
his mind, and sweeping away all its
old landmarks. The wildness and
capricious vigour of his past hours
were extinguished in the presence
of the grave. The dreams of earthly
distinction found a loftier object in
the magnificence and power of things
above the stars. The world assumed
to him a new aspect; he felt like one
lifted above its sphere on a spiritual
wing, and with a consciousness that

942 Calaspot the liepublican.

he was to tread it no more. The
earth, which had never been so vast
to his thought, so magnificently co-
loured with pomp and beauty, so
opulently filled with life, lustre, and
power, was now to him the speck in
the universe that it is. He felt that
he could now die, and die willingly,
— embrace the axe, or welcome the
bullet, that put an end to his disas-
trous experiment of existence, and,
offering but one fond and mortal re-
gret to the memory of her whom he
had already less mingled with his
human hopes, than identified with
his future and boundless being, re-
joicingly feel the blow that dismiss-
ed him from the world.

The aide-de-camp waited in vain
for an answer. Calaspo, disturbed
in thoughts that now seemed to him
the only fitting dwellers of the mind,
simply waved his hand to him to re-
tire. But the visitant was not to be
so repelled. He approached the pri-
soner, and leaning down, whispered
in his ear the name of Spinola. Ca-
laspo started from the ground at the
word. Spinola himself stood before
him. His explanation was brief, but
sufficient. " I had done you wrong,
Calaspo," said he, " and I had found
it out only when it was too late. The
Austrian coxcomb whom you wound-
ed has since acknowledged the truth,
and I find that you behaved like a
man of sense and honour. I had done
you wrong, too, in the charge of your
having led those French brigands to
the castle ; and I have now come to
save you from the consequences of
my unjust judgment. The command-
ant's aide-de-camp has been indebted
to me for some early favours, which
he now returns by giving me this
disguise. I have ventured into the
fortress to save you. You have no-
thing more to do than to throw this
cloak over you, and follow me."

Light and life flashed in the dark
eyes of the Italian at the word. He
sprung from the ground, kissed his
benefactor's hand, threw on the mi-
litary cloak, and followed. The gates
of the dungeon were passed, — the
gates of the citadel were closed be-
hind the prisoner and his friend. The
gates of the fortress were opened for
the passage of " M. PAide-de-camp
of M. le General Caftorelli, Com-
mandant de la Place de Barcelo-
nette j" and Calaspo's heart beat

[June,

high with the thoughts of being once
more among the valleys and moun-
tains, free and vigorous as one of
their own eagles, when a troop of
cavalry arriving, as the escort of
General Desaix, stopped up the en-
trance. The Frenchman's eye fell
upon Spinola. Nothing could be
more unlucky, for Desaix had been
well acquainted with his person in
the Parisian embassy. An enquiry
followed. The protector and the
protected were, of course, put un-
der arrest ; and Calaspo had the
agony of heart to hear the order
issued for Spinola's being shot as a
spy, at the same time with himself,
who was now charged with the va-
rious offences of spy, traitor, and
deserter. They were thrown into
the same cell for the few hours that
were to interpose between them and
the future world. Their conference
was solemn, but calm. Those were
hours when mystery is no more, and
Calaspo revealed the secret of his
wild and lonely life. He was the
only surviving branch of a noble tree,
the Counts Ottaviani of the Val di
Noto. The Sicilian viceroys, jealous
of their influence in the island, had
denounced them to the court ; and
Neapolitan cruelty, always the link
of Neapolitan fear, had thrown the
last ancestor of Calaspo into the dun-
geons of St Elmo, where he expired.
His son had been conveyed away an
infant by some friends of his house ;
and in the confiscation of the family
estates, and in the proscription of the
family name, he had disdained to re-
turn under a government of injustice
and ingratitude.

The mountains of the north, which
had sheltered his infancy, became
the dwelling of his manhood. " He
had lived a wild man, and a wild
man he would have died, but for
the accidental rencontre with the
Marquis Spinola on the night of the
tempest; there a finer feeling was
infused into his nature, and in the
impulse of that feeling, to enjoy the
presence of one dearer to him than
life itself, he had stooped to the will-
ing obscurity, which alone could
have secured to a broken and an ex-
iled man the happiness of her pre-
sence. But all was now over. He
had never offended her ear with his
feelings, and he must expire, with
the added misery of soul, of having

Calaspo, the Republican.

1832.]

dragged down with him the noble
parent, whose loss to her the world
could not repay." The confession
was made, and the voice that made
it had sunk into sighs and silence,
when Calaspo, to his surprise, felt
his hand clasped by the old man, and
heard himself pronounced to be —
the very son whom he would have
desired; the man whom, under the
princely roof of the Ottaviani, he had
united in their cradles to his Me-
lanie ; the descendant of his first and
fastest friend, whom he had sought
in every part of Europe, and whom,
if they were but set free, he would
wed to his daughter at the moment,
in spite of fate or fortune.—" But
where are we now ?" murmured Ca-
laspo.— " Where are we now?" echo-
ed Spinola.

A low sound, like distant thunder,
or the fire of artillery, followed the
words, as if prolonging them through
the earth and air. The bells in all
the churches began suddenly to ring.
The cell was instantly darkened. Cries
arose on every side in the prison.
Muskets were heard; the garrison
were evidently alarmed, and all was in
tumult and terror. The earthquake of
1796 is still remembered in the Pied-
montoise. It tore up hills, scattered
forests, and filled valleys. Castles
were laid in ruins, where they lie in
ruins to this day. The whole moun-
tain country was heaved from its
foundations. Barcelonette shared
the fate of Fort Dauphin, Saluces,
and a hundred towns and villages.
The citadel was shaken like a basket
of osiers on a mountain lake. The
solid walls cracked and tore up like
paper. Calaspo and Spiriola saw
their dungeon split from top to bot-
tom, and the remnant of the fortress
rolling down the hill like a stream of
water. All was darkness, dissonance,
confusion, and cries of agony and
horror. But what was death to
others, to the prisoners was freedom.
Calaspo sprang through the ruins,
bearing the less active Marquis
along with him; they reached the
bank of one of the small rivers of the
country. The Valita had been a run-
ning streamlet the day before, it was
now a cataract, roaring and rushing
down, loaded with the wrecks of the
forest along its side. Calaspo urged
his companion to plunge in, but the

943

attempt could be scarcely less than
death. Spinola paused for a mo-
ment, to discover a safer passage.
But that moment was fatal ; a shower
of balls from one of the French
pickets, tore up the ground at their
feet. Calaspo fell, desperately
wounded, and saw no more.

In 1797, two years after Bonaparte
had beaten the Austrians from the
whole of the Piedmontoise, and
was under the walls of Milan, his
triumphal entry was the most mag-
nificent display that the citizens had
ever witnessed ; and in testimony of
their rejoicing, they resolved that a
day's food should be distributed to
all prisoners who sent for it to the
Town-hall. Among those who at-
tended there, was one young female,
attired in the very relics of penury,
yet with a look of such peculiar dig-
nity and loveliness, that the guards
instinctively made way for her to the
place of distribution. The report of
her loveliness reached the ears of
the French officers, and they came
crowding out to see this perfection
of Italian beauty.

She passed along, fully sustaining
all that fame had said of her face and
form. But an outcry was suddenly
heard, a confusion was evident
among the officers; and the Gene-
ral commanding the brigade was
seen, to the universal astonishment,
rushing through the crowd, and
kneeling before the fair stranger.
She scarcely could recognise in the
plumes and showy uniform of the
republican staff, the wild counte-
nance of the mountaineer, which,
wild as it was, had yet first taught her
to love. But she recognised it at
last, and showed her memory by
fainting in his arms.

The story of both was one of a few
words. Calaspo had been found on
the bank where he fell ; on his re-
covery he had been offered service
in the French army. Napoleon ob-
served his talents, and raised him ra-
pidly, until he had made him a ge-
neral. Spinola, too, had been taken,
but by the Austrians, been thrown
into a dungeon, and had lived on the
industry of his incomparable daugh-
ter. But the storms were now past
— the sunshine had come, and their
sky was clouded no more.

944

The Hour of Fortune.

THE HOUR OF FORTUNE.

IN THREE NICKS.

METHOUGHT I was present with
Quevedo when he paid one of his
visits to Elysium. Jove seemed to
be in a most towering passion, and
grumbled and growled amazingly ;
interlarding his discourse with sun-
dry expletives, not fit to be mention-
ed to ears polite. Many of the Im-
mortals came running up to ascer-
tain the cause of his indignation.
Apollo, with a flaming crown upon
his head, made of highly burnished
brass, rose from a table where he had
been puzzling for a rhyme, and ap-
proached with the pen still in his hand ;
Bacchus was disturbed at his fifteenth
tumbler, and resigned the whisky
bottle with a sigh. The ladies, too,
drew near in a state of great agita-
tion. Venus came first, wondering
what could have put her father
into such a rage, and hiding a
billet-doux she had just received
from Mars. That gallant deity also
approached, dressed like a captain
in the yeomanry ; and while all the
rest stood in silence, wondering at
Jupiter's exclamations, he looked as
bold as a bully after a beating, and
said, " How now, governor ! what's
the meaning of all this ? What mare's
nest have you discovered now?"
Jupiter who, by the by, very need-
lessly, as I thought, held a flaming
thunderbolt in his hand, though it was
now the height of summer, frowned
upon his impertinent questioner, and
said, " Hold your tongue, you bab-
bling Bobadil, or Til crack your
skull with this thunderbolt. Send
little Mercury here, some of you."
In a moment Mercury was at his
side, dressed in the Olympian livery,
sky-blue, turned up with sable, as
tidy a sort of footman as ever I
saw, and bowing, waited his mas-
ter's command. " Go," said Ju-
piter, " and bring that infernal old
jade Fortune here, as fast as you
can ; and don't stay tippling in the
pothouses by the way, or making
love to the bar- maids." In an in-
stant the shoulder-knots expanded
into wings, the gold-headed cane
changed into a caduceus, and the
clocks in his stockings sprang out

into well-feathered pinions ; and be-
fore you could see that he was gone,
he was back again, dragging an old-
looking woman by the ear, who squall-
ed terribly under the operation, and
uttered many complaints against him
for his roughness. She rolled in
upon a curious sort of wheel, round
which an innumerable multitude of
strings were twisted in all possible
directions ; and she was attended by
a tall strapping-looking woman as
her servant. This domestic was al-
most bald, except that there was one
lock of rich glossy hair hanging over
her brow j and the story went, that
whoever could lay hold of that lock,
had not only h er, but her mistress also,
entirely in their power. The maid's
name was Opportunity. I had scarce-
ly time to make these remarks, when
Jupiter, in a voice of thunder, ex-
claimed, " So, madam ! you are here
at last. I have fifty complaints sent
up to me every day, that you neglect
your duty, and, what is worse, they
cast all the blame of your negligence
upon me. Now, that's what I won't
stand — it would wear out the pa-
tience of Job." Upon this the old
lady cast an angry look on her at-
tendant, and said, " How is this, you
good-for-nothing baggage ? Is it for
this that I pay you such wages, and
feed you so well ; that I should be
snubbed before company after this
fashion ?" Then turning to Jupiter,
who had laid down the thunderbolt
by accident, on his neighbour Apol-
lo's lap, and almost burnt up the thin
nankeen breeches in which he was
drest, she said, " Indeed, indeed,
sir, it is none of my fault. I go my
rounds, and keep my eyes about me,
as well as I am able ; but if people
won't take the trouble to tell me
what they want, or even to give

their cards to my servant here"

" Yes, indeed," interrupted the dam-
sel thus referred to, " if gemmen
won't mind us poor servants, and
give us a small token now and then,
I wonder how we are to get on, on
the wages we get." — " Ah, certain-
ly," said Mars, who had been a sad
gallant in his time, " I always found

1832.]

in my young days that a tip to the
Avaiting-maid was the surest way to
the heart of the mistress ; and so, as
I was saying, my pretty maid, here's
half-a-crown for you, to help to'buy"

" Paws off, Pompey," cried the

maid, " and keep the half-crown to
bribe the next blacksmith. — Isn't that
master Vulcan I see limping this way
with a net in his hand ?" The gentle-
man slipt back to his place as quickly
as he could, while even Jupiter could
scarcely help laughing at his crest-
fallen appearance ; however, putting
on a terrible frown, he continued—
" I don't care how it has happen-
ed; but by the Lord Harry, if it ever
takes place again — if I hear any more
complaints made against your admi-
nistration, I'll turn you out of office
in a twinkling, and give the seals to
the Opposition."
Terrified by this threat, the old

The Hour of Fortune.

945

lady promised the strictest attention,
and said, " Ladies and Gentlemen,
if you will wait for a short time, you
shall see some wonderful sights.
What's o'clock just now ?" Half-a-
dozen watches were pulled out in an
instant, but no two of them were
precisely agreed. However, Apollo,
whose time-keeper goes on a dia-
mond, assured her it was exactly a
quarter to six. " Wait, then, just fif-
teen minutes,and whenever your jolly
countenance makes every dial-plate
point to six o'clock, you shall see the
sports begin. High and low, rich and
poor, every man, woman, and child,
shall, for once at least, have what they
deserve" Saying this, she tumbled
off upon her wheel, creaking and
crackling as if it had not been greased
for a century, and going at such a
rate, that she was out of sight in a
moment.

NICK THE FIRST.

" We have still a home, my Emily,
though it is a poor one," said Ernest
Darley to his beautiful young wife,
the first day they took possession of
their lodgings in a humble alley in
London. " I little thought, when we
used to wander in the old woods at
Balston, that I should take you to
such a miserable abode as this."

" I am happier here, dear Ernest,
than in the woods of Balston."

" Now, by heavens, it makes me
angry to see you happy ! I believe
you would continue to smile and be
contented if we were in jail."

" If we were in jail together, Er-
nest."

" Ah ! bless you, my own dearest.
Fortune cannot continue to frown
on so much goodness."

« The Christian calls Fortune by a
different name. He calls it Provi-
dence."

" Well, providence, fortune, fate,
chance, or whatever other name it
rejoices in, cannot surely persecute
us for ever. We are guilty of no
fault."

" We married against your uncle's
will. He spurned us from the mo-
ment we were united. He must have
some reason surely for his detesta-
tion of me."

" What reason can any one have
to detest you ? You were poor — had

he not told me over and over again
that he did not care for wealth in
the object of my choice ? You were
young, beautiful, accomplished, rny
equafin birth — it can't be — it can't
be ! I tell you it must be something
that I have done which makes him
so enraged."

" Ana* what have you done, Ernest,
that can make him your enemy? You
bore with all his humours and capri-
ces ; you were affectionate to him as
a son ; he loved you better than any
thing else upon earth. How kind he
was to you in your youth, and how
well you deserved his kindness !
No, no, it is me he persecutes — me
he hates."

" Then may the God of",

" Hush ! hush ! dear Ernest. He
may yet relent."

" Relent! Ha, ha! Sir Edward
Darley relent ! I tell you he makes
it one of his boasts, that he never
forgave, and never will forgive, even
an imaginary offence. Relent ! I tell
you, he is of that stubborn, obstinate
nature, the feeling of repentance is
unknown to him."

" Try him, dear Ernest; he can-
not be so immovable. Ask him in
what we have offended him, and tell
him we are anxious to atone for our
offence."

" Have I not written to him ?—

946

Have I not begged an interview, in
terms which I never thought I should
have meanness enough to address to
mortal man ? Have I not besought
him at least to inform me what I
have done to draw down his indig-
nation, and has he ever even deign-
ed to send an answer ? I have left
our address here with his scoun-
drelly attorney, in case he should con-
descend to favour me with a reply."

At this moment a knock was heard
at the door, and in answer to the
" Come in" of Mr Darley, a lawyer's
clerk presented himself, and with no
very respectful demeanour, held out
a letter.

" A letter ? From whom ?"

" From Mr Clutchem. Does it
wait an answer ?"

Ernest hurriedly glanced it over.

" No. There— there," he said, as
soon as they were again alone. " Re-
lent, indeed ! Read it."

Emily took the letter and read.

" Sir, I am desired by Sir Edward
Darley, Bart., to inform you, that no
begging letters will be received ; and
farther, I am desired to inform you,
that Sir Edward Darley holds ac-
knowledgments from you for the
sum of L.3400, advanced to you while
at Oxford. Measures will be taken
to exact payment of the full amount
forthwith. Your obedient servant,
" SEMON CLUTCHEM."

" Then we are indeed entirely
ruined !" said Emily, with a sigh.

" Do you doubt it ? so we have
been any day these three months."

" But can he really claim that
money ?"

" I suppose so. He always took
my acknowledgments for the amount
of my year's allowance, solely, he
said, to enable him to keep his books.
As he had always taught me to con-
sider myself his heir, I never thought
he would produce them against me ;
but stay, have you looked on the
other page of the note ?"

" P.S. I am farther requested to
beg your presence to-day, at half
past five, to be witness to an import-
ant deed."

At the appointed hour Ernest was
punctually at Mr Clutchem's office.
There, sitting in an easy chair, to his
great surprise he saw his uncle.
He approached with a gush of old
feelings at his heart, but the baronet
fiercely ordered him back,

The Hour of Fortune.

June,

" Stand there," he said, " till I tell
you the reason for which I have sum-
moned you here to-day. You recol-
lect the old long-tailed pony you
rode when you were a little boy at
school, which I turned out for life at
your request ?''

" I do," said Ernest, wondering to
what this address tended.

" I had him shot the day before
yesterday. Your dogs ? you no doubt
recollect them well ! Bruno, and
Ponto, and Ccesar— and the old New-
foundland that brought Miss Meri-
vale — I beg your pardon, Mrs Ernest
Darley, your amiable wife, out of the
lake, when your awkwardness upset
the boat ?"

" I do— the faithful affectionate
creature."

" I hanged them all at the same
time.— You recollect Abraham An-
drews whom you installed in the
fancy cottage in the park, and his
mother, and his family, that you were
so much interested in ? They have
left the cottage ; they have been pau-
pers on the parish for some time."

" Sir !" cried Ernest, " if you only
summoned me here to listen to the
recital of such infamous, inhuman" —

" Spare your heroics, young man,
you will listen to something more
before we part. But come, we're
wasting time. Now hear me. You
married that girl. You asked no leave
of me. Do you know, sir, who her
mother was — who her father was, —
and do you know, sir, what reason I
have to hate them ? Answer me that,
sir."

" Her father and mother have long
been dead, sir. I never knew any
cause you could have to dislike
them."

" Dislike ! — use better words, sir.
Say hate — detest — abhor them. Oh !
you did not! — you ought to have
asked, sir — you would have known
that the mother ruined my happiness
— that the father attempted to take
my life — that I loved her, sir — fierce-
ly— truly — and that she taught me to
believe that she returned my love ; —
till — till it suited her purposes, and
she proved herself a"

" Stay, sir. I will hear no such
language applied to the mother of
my wife."

" Your wife ! Oh, is she your wife,
sir ? and has her equipages, no doubt,
and her country house, and her town

1832.]

The Hour of Fortune.

house — your lady wife, sir — and her
mother was"

" I shall stay here no longer, sir."

" Wait, wait!— Mr Clutchem,is the
deed all properly prepared ? worded
so that the law can find no flaws
in't ?"

" It is, Sir Edward."
" Then give me a pen, Mr Clutchem,
it wants but my signature to make it
efficient.

" This deed, Mr Ernest Darley, is
my will — by which I bestow irrevo-
cably, land, houses, money, goods,
mortgages, &c. &c., on certain chari-
ties, for which I care nothing, sir,
but that I know my bequest will be
less beneficial, so applied, than by
any other means; and I leave you,
sir, and your inestimable wife, the
baronetcy — oh ! I would not have
you deprived of that! — and a jail,
sir ; and here, sir, I have called you
to be a witness. The ink, the ink,
Mr Clutchem," he continued, and
held out the pen to dip it in the ink-
stand, keeping his eye still savagely

947

fixed on his unfortunate nephew.
The clock struck six— a sudden light
flashed into the room— and Ernest
thought he heard, for one moment,
the creaking of a wheel.

The Baronet's hand continued in
the same position — his eye still gla-
red upon the countenance of his ne-
phew, and dead silence reigned in
the room. At last Mr Clutchem ad-
vanced— " How's this ? bless me !
Sir Edward is quite cold. Help, there
— run for Sir Astley. Ah ! the pas-
sion was too much for him — gone off
in a fit. Dead as an unsigned parch-
ment.—Sir Ernest, I shall be happy,
sir, to continue in the service of the
family. The rent-roll is in my desk,
sir — fourteen thousand a year. How
would you like the funeral conduct-
ed ? Quite private, of course. Ho-
nour me by accepting the loan of
this two thousand pounds for your
immediate expenses. I wish you
long life, Sir Ernest, and joy of your
title, Sir Ernest. Sir Edward shall
be carefully buried this-day-week."

NICK THE SECOND.

" DOWN the road,— down the road,
— ya! hip! there goes the bang-up
tippers! — that 'ere in the snowy Ben-
jamin is Jem Larkins, as drives the
Funny Woman, all the way from
Cheltenham, thirteen mile an hour."

" Oh ! a rare fight it will be, von't
it, Jem ?"

" Veil, I'm blow'd if that ben't a
turn out, however. Who is them
coves in the brishky ?"

" Oh, them's the backers; that
'ere on the near side is Sir Philip
Pudgil, and this here on the far side
is the Honourable Mr Augustus
Scamp. Sir Philip backs Bill for a
couple o' hundreds."

The two gentlemen thus described
by the hostler of the Queen's Head,
proceeded rapidly on their way to
Hurly Bottom, where a grand pugi-
listic contest was appointed to take
place. Their conversation on the
road was brief, as both seemed to
prefer their private cogitations to the
interchange of speech. When they
drew near the place of contest, they
began to look out with considerable
anxiety for their respective men.
The crowd collected was immense ;
but leaving their carriage, they had
no great difficulty in making their
VOL, XXXI. NO. CXCV.

way to the little alehouse where the
combatants remained till the hour
fixed on for entering the ring. Here
the gentlemen separated, Sir Philip
proceeding to the apartment of Bill,
and Mr Scamp repairing to that of
the other combatant.

" I'll ' tell you what it is, Tom,"
said the Honourable Augustus, when
he foundhimself alone with his cham-
pion, " you must make a cross of it,
and lose."

" Why so, sir? I've posted the
blunt on my own side, and must do
my best to win."

" Nonsense; I'll make up your
losses — the odds are six to four on
you. I've taken them all, to the tune
of eight thousand pounds. I'll pay
your bets, and make it a five hundred
screen in your favour besides."

" Oh, as to that, I can wap Bill
or lose to him, for sartain, — but are
you sure he's not bought to lose
too ?— for, if so be, you know he may
give in the first blow, and we must
win in spite of ourselves."

" No danger of that; Sir Philip's
fresh in the ring, and orders him to
do his best. Now, he's a regular glut-
ton, so you may give him as much as
you like the first four or five rounds,
3 P

948

The Hour of Fortune.

[June,

and take as much as he'll give you.
You had better sprain your wrist in
the seventh or eighth round, when
the odds have risen to twelve to one,
and give in about the twelfth."

" Well, sir, I'm always ready to act
as the gentleman to any gentleman as
is a gentleman. Can I have the five
hundred down, sir?"

" No, no, Tom, — do the work first,
— you and I know each other. I'll
give you no chance of selling me
too. But come, time's up,— do as I
say, and your money's safe."

The whole cavalcade now went up
to the place where the commissary-
general had extended the ropes.
Sir Philip, the backer of the opposite
party, dexterously slipped across,
and whispered in Tom's ear, — " Win
the battle, Tom, and I give ye half a
thousand."

" The fool!" whispered our friend
Tom to his bottleholder, as the baro-
net turned away, " if he had clapped
on another hundred I would have
won the battle in ten minutes."

It is useless to describe the for-
tunes of the fight. The odds rose to
23 on Tom; Bill to all appearance
was dead beat, when, in the ninth
round, the winning man dislocated
his wrist, and, after taking an extra-
ordinary quantity of punishment,
and losing three of his teeth, went

down, and was deaf to the call of
time. Both men were most terribly
bruised, the eyes of both were cut
and swelled amazingly, and the vic-
tor and vanquished were carried off
upon shutters, and carefully put to
bed. Meanwhile the two patrons
of the ring got into their carriage
once more, and returned quickly to
town. They agreed to dine toge-
ther that day. The Honourable Au-
gustus Scamp paid over the two
hundred pounds to Sir Philip, and
cursed his bad luck in always back-
ing the loser. They were in a private
room, and both impatient for their
dinner. " What the devil's the mat-
ter with Scott to-day? — he's gene-
rally as punctual as clock-work,"
said Sir Philip, " and I hear six
striking in the coffee-room." As he
said these words, the influence of
the hour began ! — with a bolt, and a
shock of inconceivable pain, his
three front teeth fell on the floor —
the Honourable Mr Scamp's eyes
became darkened — his body became
a mass of contusions — and when the
waiter opened the door to announce
dinner, he found the two gentlemen
extended on the floor, writhing in
pain, and in every respect punished
and bruised the same as their two
champions in the morning.

NICK THE THIRD.

"And this young man you talk
of, this aristocratic plebeian, sir, re-
sides at the Western Farm"

" He does, Mr Froth, and I don't
at all like his appearance, I assure
you."

" How so ? — I thought you said his
appearance was very prepossess-
ing ?"

" Too much so, I'm afraid. I can't
persuade myself he is the rustic in
reality he pretends to be."

" Romance for a thousand ! — ah !
what a lucky dog I am ! I shall go
this moment and make his acquaint-
ance, hear all his story, add a few
items from my own imagination, and
furbish up a three-volume novel di-
rectly, * The Sentimental Unknown,'
or ' The Rustic in the Wilds'— a
good thought, ain't it, sir ?"

" I'm no judge, Mr Froth — but
all that I can say is, I don't like his
rambling so much in my park ; and
I rather suspect my. daughter Maria

knows more about him than we do."

" Hem ! — indeed ! — that makes it
a different matter ; but you know,
sir, I have your consent j as to the
heart, it is a mere trifle in these mat-
ters. Miss Maria shall be Mrs Froth
in three days j — for, a word in your
ear, Sir Timothy— I think I shall
make a bold push for it, and carry
her off."

" Carry her off ! How, sir !— carry
off my own daughter when you have
my consent to marry her ?"

" Just so. I hate such common-
place marriages, where fiddling old
fellows of fathers give the obedient
couple their blessing, and every thing
is carried on with the precision and
solemnity of a funeral ! No ; give
me the runaway match, — the gallop-
ing horses, — the pursuit, — the para-
graph in the newspapers ! Zounds !
the name of Froth shall make some
noise in the world !"

(( Mr Froth— sir— what do you

1832.]

The Hour of Fortune.

mean, sir, by inculcating such doc-
trine in my presence, talking disre-
spectfully or the paternal benedic-
tion"

" I beg pardon — don't get into a
heat — 'tis unpoetical"

" What do you mean, sir, by talk-
ing to me about poetical ?"

"'Tisunromantic, sir— 'tis absurd."

" Oh, I see— I see. Mr Froth, I
certainly promised you my daugh-
ter's hand ; but, sir, this is not the
way to gain it." — Exit.

" The old gentleman seems in a
rage to-day ; so much the better for
my work. A novel never takes with-
out a choleric old gentleman. But
I must hie me to the Wester Farm,
and hold commune with this rustic.
In the meantime I shall keep my eye
on Miss Maria. I shall hire some
simple fellow to watch her, and give
me notice of what she has been doing
during my absence. — Here, rustic —
pastoral — clod !"

" Ees, zur, here I bees," said the
peasant thus addressed.

" 'Tis a fine day, peasant. — Now,
respond to my interrogatories."

" Thank ye, zur— the zame to you,
zur."

" The name of this estate ?"

" We calls un Morland Hall."

" Right. Thou art of an acute
understanding. — Knowest thou who
resides in yonder mansion ?"

" Ees, zur— it be old Zur Timothy,
and his young woman."

" Woman! — Aroint, thou unso-
phisticate ! Elevate thy plebeian un-
derstanding to the empyrean heights
of Apocalyptic glory, and call her
angel."

" Ees, zur."

" Well, now, this is my command
to thee — keep strict watch here in
my absence, and on no account per-
mit the beautiful Miss Maria Mor-
land, to whom I ana going to be mar-
ried shortly — you need not jump so,
but listen to what I say — on no ac-
count, I say, allow her to go towards
the Wester Farm. There is some
scoundrel hiding himself there,whom
I suspect to be some lover or other
she must have met with at her aunt's
in Leicestershire. I am going to find
out his disguise, and lull his watch-
fulness to rest, — for this very even-
ing I have ordered my carriage to the
corner of the hazel copse to carry
her off."

" Ees, zur— surely,"

949

" So now be watchful, and silver

coin shall chink in each pocket"

Exit.

« To-night !— this very night 1 Oh,
my Maria, is this your constancy —
after all the protestations you have
made to me, to elope with such a
paltry, contemptible blockhead ! But
how lucky he told me of their plans !
I'll disconcert them. — Ha ! Maria
herself, coming this way. Who
would believe that falsehood could
dwell with so much beauty ?"

" Rawdon, dear Rawdon, I have
only this moment been able to escape
—What ! you don't seem glad to
see me."

" You talk of making your escape,
Miss Morland, — you are an adept at
making an escape."

" What mean you ? Have I done
any thing to offend you ?"

" Mr Froth, madam, has this mo-
ment informed me of your projected
elopement this evening."

" Elopement ! — this evening — you
are dreaming."

" I was not dreaming when I heard
the conceited fool declare he was to
carry you off to-night ; that his car-
riage was to be at the door — and that
he was to marry you immediately."

" Ha ! ha ! — it is only some con-
temptible invention of my miserable
admirer — Elope with him ! no, never
with him."

" Is it with any one else, then ? I
may have misunderstood."

" With any one else ? Why, how
should I know? no one else has asked
me."

" Eh ? what ? Fool, fool that I have
been all this time ! Forgive me, dear-
est Maria, — but I am worried past
endurance by the concealment which
you yourself recommended; why
not let me reveal my name and rank
at once to your father, and claim"' —

" Oh, he can't hear of it ! I tell
you he is under a solemn obligation
to give Mr Froth his vote and inte-
rest for my hand ; but — but"—

" But what, my angel ? Speak on."

" But— if— you know— if I were
fairly marr— I mean if— you know-
why, how slow you are, Rawdon !"

" Slow ! — never was such an an-
gelic, dear, delightful — we'll elope
before them; Froth may elope by
himself, if he likes. We'll be off this
very day — this very hour — but, con-
found my ill-luck, I left my carriage
twenty miles off, at the Falcon."

The Hour of Fortune.

950

" Ah! how unfortunate \ could you
not have brought your carriage to
the farm ?"

" With these clothes ? in this dis-
guise, Maria?"

" No ; I see it was impossible.
Hush, here's Mr Froth."

" Ha ! Bumpkin, still here ? that's
right, my boy, there's a crown for
you — abscond, but wait at a little
distance; I shall discourse with thee
anon. Your admirer, Miss Morland,
at the farm, is one of the cleverest
fellows in England."

" My admirer at the farm, Mr
Froth ! you surprise me."

" I knew I should ; I always like
to surprise the ladies. But positively
he's a capital hit ; he'll carry through
the third volume swimmingly ; such
a power of face ; such a twang ; and
such matchless impudence in deny-
ing that he was anything but what he
seemed. I told him I knew it all ;
that he was a gentleman ; that he was
in love with you, and to all that I
said, he only opened his great saucer
eyes and said, * Zurely, zurely, zur.'
Oh, 'twas infinitely provocative of
cachinnation !"

" It must have been very amusing
to hear a Devonshire peasant talk in
the patois of his county."

" Exactly — Very amusing. But it
was not a peasant, Miss Maria ; no,
no ; it was the acting I admired ; it
was a gentleman, Miss Maria ; and a
friend of yours, too. But we'll trick
him ; your father is in favour of my
claims upon your hand ; but it is an
exceedingly prosaic way of being
married. Don't you think so ?"

« Very."

" And you would prefer a more
spirited match ?"

" Yes."

" An elopement ?"

" Perhaps"

" Capital ! thank ye, thank ye —
'twill be an admirable incident to-
wards the conclusion."

" What, sir ?"

" Why, the elopement to be sure,
and the disappointment of the suitor,
who is no doubt quite confident of
success — won't it be capital V"

« Yes."

" How like a fool he'll look when
he finds his angel gone off with an-
other— won't he ?"

" Yes — very."

" Well—but let us arrange it. My
carriage shall be at the hazel copse

[June,

at half-past five — get all your things
into it — slip quietly out yourself —
four admirable posters — pistols in
the pockets. I have already put a
purse under the seat, to pay as we
go along. Ha! that's your sort! —
you'll do it ?"

" Perhaps."

" Thank ye, thank ye — here by
this kiss I swear !"

" Zur, zur, here be Zur Timothy."

" Shepherd, never interrupt people
on the point of kissing, 'tis cruel—
ha ! Miss Morland gone ! — Well,
clodpole, what didst thou remark in
my absence ?"

" Efaiks ! the young woman an'
me — uz got on prodigious foine —
ees."

" You did? but she seemed to
have no inclination to go on to the
farm?"

5 " Noa — she stayed where she was
— she zeemed well enough pleased
wi' I."

" She is a lady of great discernment.
But stay — I shall need your services
again. Be punctually at the hazel
copse at half-past five. You will
there see a carriage and four — help
Miss Morland into it, and allow no
one to go near her except yourself,
till I come. You may stay beside
her to protect her in my absence."

" Ees, zur, I'll purtect she wi' my
life."

" Good — rustic, thou art not the
greatest fool in the world."

" Noa, zur— I be next to un,
tho'."

" Thou'rt modest ; be punctual—
be faithful, and another crown re-
wards thy fidelity."— Exit.

" Well, this is better than I could
possibly have expected — let me see
— four o'clock. I'll go to the farm,
make all my arrangements, and be
ready to take advantage of my good
fortune at half-past five."

At half-past five a carriage with
four posters was waiting at the ap-
pointed place. Miss Morland trip-
ped quickly from the hall, and was
received by her disguised admirer.
" Dearest Maria, this is so kind."

" Hush, hush— Mr Froth will be
here instantly. I saw him with papa
in the shrubbery, as I passed."

" Well, jump into the carriage, we
must borrow Mr Froth's. Now, I'm
in after youj shut the door, posti-
lion, and drive like a whirlwind."

" Please, sir," said the postilion,

1832.]

' be you the gemman as hired the
horses ?"

" Here, my good fellow, there's a
sovereign — drive well, it shall be
doubled."

" I thought you was Mr Froth.
Jack, mind this here gemman is Mi-
Froth — a sovereign, Jack."

" Mum's the word," said Jack,
and put foot in stirrup.

" Ho ! ho ! wo ! stop there !" cri-
ed Mr Froth, running at the top of
his speed, followed in the distance
by Sir Timothy ; " stop, you cursed
postilion, that rustic is not I — that's
my carriage. Miss Morland, for God's
sake, stop ! Rustic ! bumpkin !"

" Hark ye, Mr Froth, I'm rustic
and bumpkin no longer. This young
lady has consented to be my wife,
and my wife she shall be, thanks to

The Hour of Fortune.

95 i

your carriage and well-laid scheme.
My name is Sir Henry Rawdon, and,
by the light of heaven, if you move
one step nearer, I'll blow out your
brains with your own pistol — drive
on!"

The carriage swept along at the
rate of sixteen miles an hour, and
Mr Froth could only say to Sir Ti-
mothy as he approached, " Done, by
Jupiter ! my carriage, my pistols, my
money, my plan, my every thing — it
will be a brilliant event before the
Finis. Can't we pursue them, sir ?"
" My horses are lame, Mr Froth."
" But mine are in the stable."
" My carriage is broken, Mr
Froth."

« Hell and the devil !"
" Dinner is waiting, Mr Froth — it
is now exactly six."

LETTER FROM THE RIGHT HON. THOMAS PEREGRINE COURTENAY.

SIR,

CONTROVERSY must have an end.
Looking only to the main subjects
of that which you allowed me to
conduct in your number of March,
I might indeed be well content to
leave it where it is ; because, in the
few remarks which are to be found
in the last number of the New
Monthly Magazine, the other party
has not attempted to controvert any
one single fact, or to dispute any one
argument, of those which I had ad-
duced. If, then, that writer be deem-
ed a competent champion, I have a
perfect right to assume, that I have
established beyond dispute the posi-
tions for which I contended in the
Foreign Quarterly Review, and in
your Magazine. In hard words, I
fear, I must acknowledge myself
beaten ; but, in facts and deductions,
I am confessedly triumphant. I
should therefore leave the matter
here, if my opponent had not at-
tempted to vilify my personal con-
duct. It is not because I apprehend
that my character can suffer from an
anonymous attack, that I notice this
assault, but chiefly because I am al-
ways desirous of coming to close
quarters; and as I never write a
paragraph which I am not ready to

defend, so neither will I willingly
permit one to be directed against
me, without meeting it, point by
point, openly, and without evasion.

It is first said, that in stating that
Mr Stapleton's error consisted in
misrepresenting, not Mr Canning,
but Lord Castlereagh, I have aban-
doned the most important position
of my reviews ; and have admitted
that Mr Stapleton's description of
Mr Canning's management of affairs
is accurate. In reference to the point
to which I was referring, (the Naples
circular,) Mr Stapleton's error lay,
certainly, in misrepresenting Lord
Castlereagh rather than Mr Canning ;
but it is absolutely impossible that
he who read my letter, could really
doubt that I continued to impute to
Mr Stapleton, also, a misrepresenta-
tion of Mr Canning's principles and
conduct.* This is an ingenious me-
thod of evading a dispute which it is
inconvenient to prolong.

I ask, what position, which is to be
found in my reviews, have I abandon-
ed ? — what statement, made by me,
have I recanted ?

The writer then, using the figure
of speech called Omission, expresses
his readiness to pass by my " sneers
at the amiable prejudices"! of Mr

* See particularly p. 520 — " Mr Canning did not systematically support liberal
and popular institutions in other countries ;" and p. 523, as to the balance between,
conflicting principles. All this is quite in keeping with the reviews.

| I cannot immediately find the passage here quoted j but I dare say that I used
th e expression.

952 Letter from the Right Hon. Thomas Peregrine Courtenay. [June,

Stapleton. I do not much expect
the present writer to understand or
believe me ; but it is nevertheless
true, that I intended no sneer at Mr
Stapleton. I did and do believe, that
the feelings which prompted that
gentleman, in exalting Mr Canning
at the expense of Lord Castlereagh,
were amiable feelings. In his, as in
many other instances, such feelings
have been displayed without judg-
ment, and applied without justice.

As to the remainder of this para-
graph, I have only to deny, most per-
emptorily and positively, that I have
attempted to injure Mr Canning's
reputation ; and I reject with scorn
the imputation, that I have effected
that purpose by " unworthy insinua-
tions." I must here have recourse
to my accustomed mode, and ask —
as I have before asked in vain — for
the when, the how, and the where ?

Now, I am charged with dexter-
ously pretending to consider as my
real offence in the eye of my oppo-
nent, the support which I gave to the
Duke of Wellington. I practised no
such dexterity. I was told that my
object in this controversy was, to de-
fend the part which I had taken in
the governments of Lord Castle-
reagh, Mr Canning, and the Duke of
Wellington. I said, and truly, that
the last was the proceeding under
this head of charge, most offensive f,o
my critic, as I knew it to be the only
one upon which a plausible question
could be raised. As such, I met it
fairly ; but I did not use it to divert
attention from other charges against
me.

I knew well that I was also charged
with displaying " the anger of disap-
pointment," and with*' the cavilling of
detraction." Certainly I treated this
charge lightly, because I felt that no
man who knew any thing about me,
could seriously apply these expres-
sions to me ; and I still feel, that he
who now accuses me of unfairly dis-
paraging Mr Canning through design,
writes, either in ignorance occasion-
ed by my unimportance, or in self-
delusion, occasioned by some disap-
pointment or discomfiture which has
befallen him. 'Much more readily,
indeed, would I acknowledge " obli-
quity of intellect," than plead guilty

to a charge of unfairness or ingrati-
tude !

For his proofs, however, of my
designed unfairness, he refers to a
page in the Review,* in which I com-
ment on Mr Canning's speech on
sending troops to Portugal. I re-
joice even at the approach to preci-
sion and distinctness which this re-
ference indicates; but it is still so
general, that I am not certain of ha-
ving rightly conceived it. The cri-
mination applies, as I suspect, to my
observations on the celebrated pas-
sage as to the creation of the new
world. Mr Stapleton had treated it
as containing a deliberate exposition
of Mr Canning's views. I cannot so
consider it; and I believe that no
man who was present at the enunci-
ation of those memorable words will
deny that they deemed it at the time,
as I still deem it, a bold flight of elo-
quence. I have endeavoured to shew
that it could be nothing more. If to
think it possible that a great orator
may sometimes be carried by the tor-
rent of his own eloquence into a po-
sition not easily tenable, be an inju-
rious disparagement, 1 plead guilty,
and sue for mercy. It is my con-
scientious belief that Mr Canning
was thus led away. I am sure that
a detraction so minute will be im-
perceptible in his posthumous fame.
Had I desired to injure his reputa-
tion, I should have evaded the topic :
still, so anxious am I to clear myself
from the charge of injustice towards
Mr Canning, that I will, even at the
call of the querulous and unfair critic
by whom 1 am assailed, express the
deep regret which I should feel, if
any person more worthy of regard
should find, in the expressions in
which I have conveyed my view of
this singular occurrence, any thing
injurious to Mr Canning.

For the other instance of unfair
disparagement,f I offer no apology.
It is not Mr Canning who is dispa-
raged, when it is denied that his po-
licy had effects which it was neither
calculated nor intended to produce.
Praise undeserved is censure in dis-
guise. The passage on which I com-
mented is a mere piece of romance,
which no man would have treated
with so much severity as Mr Can-

Foreign Quarterly, acvi.

f Ibid. xvi. 428.

1832.] Letter from the Right Hon. Thomas Peregrine Courtenay. 953

ning himself, from whom it detracts
that entirely English policy of which
he boasted, and to whose measures
it ascribes effects ridiculously exag-
gerated.

I have some difficulty in noticing
the next paragraph, because I am
not anxious to disclaim obligation to
Mr Canning ; yet, thus challenged, I
must say, that when I mentioned the
confidence and kindness which I had
experienced at Mr Canning's hand,
I described the whole obligation. I
was not under obligation to him in the
sense in which that word is com-
monly used, as between a placeman
and a patron.

The quotation from the " New
Morality," is the only part of this
letter in which there is any merit
or cleverness. I only wish that the
whole poem may be read, including
a passage which I took the liberty of
citing elsewhere,* in which the " pa-
triot of the world," is described. I
am the defender of Mr Canning
against those who would put on his
head the cap of folly, which he fitted
to the Frenchified English of 1797.
But, surely, my opponent's quotation
is somewhat whimsically applied, by
an anonymous assailant, to one who
publishes his name !

Will that assailant stand erect and
avow himself? He must indeed be
an unfortunate man, if his name
would add nothing to the severity of
his rebuke. For, though one who
conceals his name, often assumes to
himself a purity, of which no man
whose mortal deeds are known can
safely boast, yet the world will be
apt, and not unnaturally, to ascribe
to the anonymous writer even less
of merit than belongs to him. Known,

my antagonist might prove to be my
superior in claims to public confi-
dence ; concealed, I shall beat him.
However, I tell him frankly this ; if
I cannot persuade him to unmask,
I shall not find him out. I have no
suspicion of his name. I have al-
ready given reasons against suspect-
ing Mr Stapleton ; and I feel quite
sure that he knows me too well, to
ascribe to me the motives, or apply
to me the epithets, which are to be
found in these letters. He could not
suspect me, of all men, of intention-
ally injuring Mr Canning's memory.
Nor is it probable that one who has
in his own name so boldly attacked
men of much greater importance than
mine, should be so partial to anony-
mous proceedings, as to shrink from
the avowal of himself, when char-
ging with calumny one, whom he has
known as the friend of Mr Can-
ning.

The writer, assuredly, has " mis-
taken the character of Mr Courte-
nay's article," and the character of
Mr Courtenay himself. On the lat-
ter point I say no more; for proofs
of the former, let him read the arti-
cle with this in his mind — what the
Whigs and Mr Stapleton impute to
Mr Canning as meritorious, has in
my view a different character. I
have painted the Mr Canning whom
I loved and supported, consistent,
patriotic, and conservative ; they de-
scribe him as inconsistent, cosmopo-
litan, and almost Jacobinical. Are
they, or am I, the true friend of Mi-
Canning ?

I am, sir,

Your faithful servant,
THOMAS PEREGRINE COURTENAY.
London, May 9, 1832.

LINES WRITTEN AT KELBURNE CASTLE, AYRSHIRE,
BY DELTA.

A LOVELY eve — though yet it is but spring,

In April's verdure— a refulgent eve,

With its soft west wind, and its mild white clouds,

Silently floating through the depths of blue j

The bird from out the thicket sends a gush

Of song, that heralds summer, and calls forth

The squirrel from its fungus-covered cave

In the old oak. Where do the conies sport ?

Lo ! from the shelter of yon flowering furze,

In the House of Commons, Feb, 9, 1832. See Mirror of Parliament,

954 Lines written at Kelburne Castle, Ayrshire. [June,

O'ermantling like an aureat crown the brow

Of the grey rock, with sudden bound, and stop,

And start, the mother with her little ones

Crops the young herbage in its tenderest green j

While overhead the elm, and oak, and ash,

Weave, for the hundredth time, their annual boughs,

Bright with their varied leaflets.

Hark the bleat

From yon secluded haunt, where hill from hill
Diverging leaves, in sequestration calm,
A holm of pastoral loveliness ; the lamb,
Screen'd from the biting east, securely roams
There, in wild gambol with its dam, and starts
Aside from the near waterfall, whose sheet
Winds foaming down the rocks precipitous,
Now seen, ana now half hidden by the trunks
Of time and tempest-ruin' d woods.

Away

From the sea murmur ceaseless, up between
The green secluding hills, that hem it round,
. As 'twere their favourite, Kelburne Castle stands,
With its grey turrets in baronial state,
A proud memento of the days when men
Thought but of war and safety. Stately pile,
Magnificent, not often have mine eyes
Gazed o'er a scene more picturesque, or more
Heart-touching in its beauty. Thou wert once
The guardian of these mountains, and the foe
Approaching, saw, between himself and thee,
The fierce down-thundering, mocking waterfall ;
While, on thy battlements, in glittering mail,
The warder glided, and the sentinel,
As near'd the stranger horseman to thy gate,
Pluck'd from his quiver the unerring shaft,
Which from Kilwinning's spire had oft brought down
The mock papingo.

Mournfully, alas !
Yet in thy quietude not desolate,
Now, like a spectre of the times gone by,
Down from thine Alpine throne, upon the sea,
Which glitters like a sheet of molten gold,
Thou lookest thus at eventide, while sets
The day o'er distant Arran, with its peaks,
Sky-piercing, yet o'erclad with winter's snows
In desolate grandeur ; while the cottaged fields
Of nearer Bute smile, in their vernal green,
A picture of repose.

High overhead,

The gull, far shrieking, through yon stern ravine, —
Roclis wild and rude — where brawls the mountain stream-
Wings to the sea, and seeks, beyond its foam,
Its own precipitous home upon the coast
Of fair and fertile Cumbrae : while the rook,
Conscious of coming eventide, forsakes
The leafing woods, and round thy chimneyed roofs,
Caws as he wheels, and, ever and anon,
Renews his circling flight in clamorous joy.

Mountains that face bald Arran ! though the sun
Now, with the ruddy light of eventide,
Gilds every pastoral summit, on which Peace,
Enthroned, forth gazes on a scene as fair
As Nature e'er outspread for mortal eyej
And, but the voice of distant waterfall

1832.] Lines written at Kelburne Castle, Ayrshire. 955

Sings lullaby to bird and beast, and wings
Of insects, murmurous, multitudinous,
That in the low, red, level beams commix,
And weave their sportive dance — Another time
And other tones were yours, when, on each peak,
Startling black midnight, flared the beacon fires ;
And when, from out the west, the castled height
Of Brodwick reddened with responsive blaze.
Then dawn looked out, to see along these shores
' The Bruce's standard floating on the gale,
A call to freedom — barks from every isle
Pouring with their bright spears ; from every dell
The throng of mail-clad men ; horsemen and horse ;
The ponderous curtal-axe, and keen broad-sword ;
The vassal and his lord : — while, heard afar,
And near, the bugles rang amid the rocks,
Echoing in wild reverberation shrill,
And scaring from his heathery lair the deer,
The osprey from his dizzy cliff of rest.

But not alone, by that fierce trumpet call,
Through grove and glen, on mount and pastoral hill,
The bird and brute were roused — again, again,
Then once again the sons of Scotland heard,
With palpitating hearts, and loud acclaim,
That summons, and indignantly cast off
The inglorious weeds of thraldom : Every hearth
Wiped the red rust from its ancestral sword,
And sent it forth avenging to the field :
Yea, while the mother and the sister mourned ;
And while the maiden, half despairingly,
Wept for her love, who might return no more —
The grey-hair 'd father, leaning on his staff
Infirm, sent, from his patrimonial door,
A blessing after his departing boy,
Arm'd for the battles of his native land,
Nor hoped him back, unless with freedom won !
While thrill'd, from Bruce's war-cry, through each heart
The pulse that throbb'd for Liberty or Death !
Nor days were many, till the sun went down
On Edward's overthrow at Bannockburn.

To olden times my reveries have roam'd,
To glory and war, red tumult, and the day
Of Scotland's renovation. Like a dream,
Fitful and fair, yet clouded with a haze,
As if of doubt, to memory awakes
The bright heart-stirring past, when human life
Was half-romance ; and, were it not that yet,
In stream, and crag, and isle, and crumbling wall
Of keep and castle, still remain to us
Physical proof, that History is no mere
Hallucination, oftentimes the mind —
So different is the present from the past-
Would deem the pageant an illusion all.

Sweet scenes or beauty and peace, farewell ! The eyes
But of a passing visitor are mine
On thee ; before this radiant eve, thou wert
Known but in name ; but now thou art mine own,
Shrined 'mid the pictures, which fond memory
In musing fantasy will ofttimes love
To conjure up, gleaning, amid the stir
And strife of multitudes, as 'twere repose,
By dwelling on the tranquil and serene I

956 What is an English Sonnet ? [June.

WHAT IS AN ENGLISH SONNET ?
BY S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ.

WHAT is an English Sonnet ? Down with Theory — Facts, facts, facts
must decide. And some myriad of these, with deliberate rhymes, if not
metre or reason, perpetrated facts, have established that a copy of verses,
consisting of exactly fourteen lines, is an English Sonnet. What have
our Reading Public, what has our enlightened Press, to do with the
Literature of the NATION ? With such a bigoted Aristocrat as MILTON,
who contradistinguished the Populace, the Political Unions, from the
PEOPLE, as the Vermin, the Ascaddes, and Lumbrici, from the skin and
bowels of the Man — though numerous in proportion to the dirt and ill-diet
of the animal so tenanted ; and who regarded the PEOPLE itself, thus contra-
distinguished from the Populace (Populus a Plebe), but as the tan and
dung-bed for the production of the Pine-apple — a NATION. — And as to
Petrarch — otherwise called Plutarch — the TIMES would soon dish up his
business with Laura, and finish him in the Duke of Cumberland style. —
Ergo — it is demonstrated that fourteen lines, neither more nor less, give
the Procrustes Definition of an English Sonnet — rhymes being the ordi-
nary, but not necessary accompaniment. From all which it is demon-
strated, that the following Out-slough, or hypertrophic Stanza, of a certain
poem, called " Youth and Age," having, by a judicial Ligature of the Verse-
maker's own tying, detached itself, and dropt off from the poem aforesaid,
assumes the name and rank of an integral Animal, and standing the test of
counting the lines, twice seven exactly, is a legitimate English Sonnet,
—according to the critical Code established since the happy and glorious
separation of the British Press (four-fifths Scotch and Irish) from the Lite-
rature of England — and the virtual extinction of the latter in the noonday
blaze of the former.

S. T. COLERIDGE.

THE OLD MAN'S SIGH. A SONNET.

Dewdrops are the gems of Morning,
But the tears of mournful Eve :
Where no Hope is, Life's a warning
That only serves to make us grave

In our old age,

Whose bruised wings quarrel with the bars of the still narrowing cage— •
That only serves to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking-leave,
Like a poor nigh-related guest,
Who may not rudely be dismiss'd ;
Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while,
And tells the Jest without the smile.
O ! might Life cease ! and Selfless Mind,
Whose total Being is Act, alone remain behind !

S. T. COLERIDGE.
18th May, 1882— Grove, Highgate.

1882.]

Living Poets and Poetesses.

957

LIVING POETS AND POETESSES.*

WE glory in being the slave of des-
potical nationalities — and our justi-
fication is, that we are sons of Scot-
land. We blandly smile to hear the
silly Southrons laugh at our Mighty
Mother ; and with a cheerful coun-
tenance we castigate the contume-
lious Cockneys. Like Jupiter Plu-
vius " subridens ollis," we launch
our storm-showers of Scotticisms on
the heads of the quaking coxcombs.
The people are delighted to see how
the infatuated fools shrink from the
chastisement they persist in provo-
king, and admire the attitudes in
which the various victims receive
the crutch. Of these attitudes " cus-
tom cannot stale the infinite variety."
One ninny claps his paw on his poll,
and another on his posteriors, ac-
cording as he is conscious of its be-
ing the peccant part. But they soon
find that they are playing a losing
game of cross purposes ; for of the
defender of the poll — thwack comes
the crutch across the unsuspecting
posteriors ; and of the protector of
the posteriors — crack comes the same
weapon upon the too simple poll. A
third more circumspect assailant la-
vishes all his anxiety on the preser-
vation of his midriff; but the torpedo
touch of the Timber benumbs his
elbow, and all down along that side,
from nape to heel, he is a paralytic
for life. A fourth fool judges that
our aim is his jugular ; but that flou-
rish of ours is all a feint j and on legs
from which the shinbones have spun
in splinters, never more shall the
lameter limp up Ludgate or Hamp-
stead-Hill.

Here the question naturally arises
— is such conduct cruel ? The an-
swer arises as naturally — it is hu-
mane. Rather than insult any hu-
man being, how humble soever he
may be, we would submit hence-
forth to write all our articles, not
with a sharp-nibbed pen, as we now
do, but with a round-nosed pinion,
just as it is plucked from the gan-
der's wing. The case is the reverse
with Cockneys. You surely cannot

be justly accused of insulting a cur,
when you merely, and perhaps re-
luctantly, without pausing on your
path, kick the heel-snarler into the
kennel. He, it is true, may make
a pathetic appeal to the passengers,
or with hanging ears and hidden tail
yelp his wrongs to the skies. But
deaf to his clamours are heaven and
earth, and all that move therein ; and
the only wonder with them is, that
he does not terminate in a kettle.

Of course, they are not included
in the late population returns ; but
we believe, on the authority of a cu-
rious and credible enquirer, that the
breed of Cockneys is on the increase
in England. The females are mar-
riageable long before, and continue
prolific long after, the season usually
assigned to our species. The period
of gestation, too, we understand, is
shorter, varying from four to five
months ; nay, we have been assured
that there are well authenticated in-
stances on record, in the hospitals,
of quick Cockneys, half a span long,
having been produced some weeks
within three moons from the mo-
ther's original conjecture. True,
such instances of ante-natal precocity
among the Cockneys are rare; but
still they would be sufficient, even in
the absence of stronger evidence, to
establish the fact, that the creature
bears but a very distant analogy in-
deed to the human race. We beg
it, however, to be distinctly under-
stood, that we attribute not to him
a common origin with the ape. The
ourang-outang is an animal of a to-
tally different order. His stature
alone should save the Man of the
Woods from the malicious imputa-
tion of being even Highland cousin
to a Cockney ; and no disciple either
of Lavater or Spurzheim, when he
considers the facial line, and the
craniological developement of the
creature of the city, would venture,
for a single instant, to class him
with the Blue-faced Baboon.

Here is one — who calls himself on
his title-page—Nicholas MichelL

* Living Poets and Poetesses ; a Biographical and Critical Poem. By Nicholas
Michell, Author of « The Siege of Constantinople." London ; William Kidd,

958

Never was there such a small insig-
nificant libel on the name of Old
Nick. To prove that he has horns, he
quotes Horace — " Cave ! — Parata
tollo cornua." He may have deluded
himself into a rooted conviction that
the knobs on his numskull are horns ;
but he has only to knock his head
against a wall to disenchant his cock-
neyship out of that audacious dream.
Horns hath he none — either in esse
or posse ; he has been deceived by
the shadow of his ears in the New
River.

; Proof is patent on the title-page
that he has not — as we erroneously
said — deluded himself into the above
rooted conviction. It is not possible
to silence the voice of nature. In
vain would he assume the outward
bull — the inward ass is triumphant
— and the bellow goes off, to his own
astonishment, in a bray. Hear him
in an extract from what he calls his
" Mountain Ramble." " A critic,
my friend, in these days, must plunge
his probe deeply ; let him not, how-
ever, be a Zoilus: he may detect
spots in the sun, yet still extol its
splendour ; modest flowers must en-
gage his peculiar attention, but the
proud, rank thistle he must root up."
O, the thoughtless Donkey ! impro-
vident of the future. The " animal
that chews the thistle" is privileged
to crop it ; in doing so, the wisdom
of instinct is equal to that of rea-
son ; but " to root up the proud, rank
thistle," would be as foolish conduct
on the part of a cuddy, as it was on
that of a Christian to kill the goose
for the golden eggs.

Nicholas tells us that " satire is
not excluded from the following
poem, although it does not form its
prominent feature." He might as
well have said that the nose does not
form the most prominent feature on
the face that happens to have none
— in which case the most prominent
feature is probably the cheeks — or
possibly the mouth. It is so with
Nicholas. He is all mouth — not bull-
and-mouth — but mere jaw. We say
not so in disparagement of his organ,
which is well adapted for his chosen
task — " to silence the Cerberus of
puffs, to break the molten calves of
blind adoration." The one will die
beneath his jaws — the other fall into
pieces beneath his hoofs. Who may
be the Cerberus of puffs ? Nicholas

Living Poets arid Poetesses.

[June,

says " the modern Cerberus, forty-
five of whose fifty heads guard the
Burlingtonian kingdom" Let them all
bark at once, Nicholas will bray them
down ; but the remedy, we fear, will
be more intolerable than the disease.
A neighbourhood gains nothing, and
may lose much, from the abatement
of one nuisance by another ; under
the tyranny of a new stink, it may
sigh in vain for the old engine that
could not, even by the threat of an
indictment, be induced to consume
his own smoke.

" In our language," quoth Ni-
cholas, " we have three great satires."
Pope's Dunciad — Gifford's Baviad
and Mseviad — Byron's English Bards
and Scotch Reviewers. The Dun-
ciad, he tells us, " is distinguished for
arch wit, and the powerful, though
kindly, castigation of its victims."
Our excellent friend must have sin-
gular notions of the meaning of
" arch" and " kindly." For example,
he would esteem it " arch and kind-
ly" in us, were Christopher North,
like a second Peter Bell, to take him
by the tail, and " bang his bones"
for any given number of hours, by
Shrewsbury or any other well-regu-
lated clock, with the Crutch. " Arch
and kindly," according to his con-
ceit, is the demeanour of that chosen
Russ who knouts the back of the
post-bound culprit, till its flesh " falls
off in gory flakes," and with his red-
hot pincers tears out the nostrils of
the nobleman about to be goaded
across the steppes into Siberia.

Besides these three great satires,
there are, it seems, two small ones,
" in our language" — Churchill's Ros-
ciad — which, " although directed
against the stage, (there's a discove-
ry !) approaches in its nature the pale
of our school." He, too, it seems, is a
Knight of the Thistle. The other
" small satire," is called the " Siamese
Twins." But Nicholas is somewhat
inconsistent in his note upon these
pal try performances — for, quoth he —
though it is possible he may be sar-
castic— " A GREAT SATIRE, llOWCVer,

flavouring of literature, as it casti-
gates Captain Hall, &c., not long
since appeared — it is called the Siam-
ese Twins" There is something
very solemn in this formal announce-
ment of the existence of that ingeni-
ous Poem. But we are at a loss to
see why a satire should be charac-

1832.]

Living Poets and Poetesses.

959

tensed by "flavouring of literature,"
because it castigates in particular the
gallant captain. Nicholas spiritedly
avers, that " Mr Bulwer's scourge is
a silken thread." But here he falls
into a very natural and excusable
mistake. He does not discern the
obvious distinction between the fine-
ness of a scourge, and the coarse-
ness of the hide on which it may be
inflicted. Yet in art and nature they
are, he may depend on't, two totally
different things. True, that Mr Bul-
wer's weapon is whipped with silk,
but the stem or staple is whalebone ;
applied to the flank of a " high-met-
tled racer," the generous steed, fling-
ing up his heels, neighs haughtily,
and then scours the course in dis-
dain, like Smolensko or Priam — but
on the hurdies of a donkey, 'tis Love's
Labour Lost, and the insensate brute
obstinately retains his position, illus-
trative of the motto of his tribe,
" The proud rank thistle he must
root up."

Nicholas now looks about him
from the *' pale of our school," and
espies what he opines to be a gang
of animals in no degree cognate to
himself — for he does not possess In-
tellect, the Faculty which perceives
relations — a gang of asses. These
are the living Poets and Poetesses.
He resolves forthwith to have a shy
at them — after the fashion of a lout
playing at Roley-ppley, and trucu-
lently exclaims, " Will no one lash the
dunces ? THEN, I WILL !" This is
savage. At a time when the whole
world — Christian and Pagan — is at
peace with the Dunces — outleaps
old Nicholas from the " pale of our
school," and lays about him right
and left— not indeed like a bull in a
china shop, but like an ass among
Staffordshire pottery — and after Act
First of the tragico- comic farce, pro-
claims, in a bray that would have
dismounted Balaam, " who flutter'd
the Volsces in Corioli ? I DID IT."

Nicholas Michell is at a loss what
to make of Thomas Campbell. Yet
we acknowledge that he bestows
appropriate, judicious, and finely
discriminating praise, on Gertrude
of Wyoming. That poem, in the opi-
nion of Nicholas, displays "Warton's
lore" — whether Tom's or Joe's, or
both, it is no great matter — for our
critic means to eulogise the rich dis-
play of classical and antiquarian lore

pervading the strain that sings the
scenery on " Susquehanna's side-
sweet Wyoming." He then compli-
ments Mr Campbell on the purity of
his English —

" All innovation on our tongue he spurns ,"

but adroitly taxes the Bard of Hope,
at the close, with a crime which can-
not be characterised as either carnal
or capital.

" Opposed to Wordsworth's drawl, Mont-
gomery's roar ;

His GREATEST CRIME is — he hath writ no
more."

This great crime does, indeed, stand
out in bold relief from the peccadil-
loes stated in the text— the drawl of
one bard, and the roar of another,
which, it might be said across the Irish
Channel, exhibit the enormity of the
silence of the too tacit Thomas in
the most glaring colours.

From the Bard of Hope turn we
to the Bard of Memory. What saith
Nicholas Michell of Samuel Rogers?
He makes him the subject of an ori-
ginal moral reflection on Time.

" How swiftly time's life-sapping waters

flow!
FOR thou we'rt lorn just seventy years ago."

The logic of this " for" is neatly
wrapped up, and concealed ingeni-
ously from the public eye. We ad-
mit the conclusion — but cannot per-
ceive the source from which it flows
in the premises. Adam was created
six thousand years ago, and appears
a person more in point than Mr Ro-
gers. In one respect, however, per-
haps the worthy Banker has the ad-
vantage over the unhappy Horticul-
turist, as an illustration, or argument-
urn ab homing of Pollok's Course of
Time. For of him Nicholas says what
could not be said of our First Parent,
without sacrificing the principles of
the bill, that he was

" Born, not 'mid haunted dells, or rocks

that lean
O'er dashing floods, or mountains far from

men,

But on fair Newingtoris smooth level green. "

We are then presented with a few
interesting anecdotes of this elegant
poet's childhood, which seems, how-
ever, to have differed little from that
of ordinary persons who have devo-
ted themselves chiefly to prose,

960

" At times he was a headstrong lad, in

sooth,

And loved to take a lawless, truant trip,
Wandering where wild birds build, and

streamlets flash,
For which he felt th* unsparing master's

lash."

The " unsparing master" must have
been " an arch and kindly" charac-
ter. Nicholas then tells us, in refer-
ence to Mr Rogers, that genius pines,
like an imprisoned eagle," still turn-
ing from dull pedants and their
books ;" a fine simile, conceived in
the true spirit of my Lord Castle-
reagh's celebrated sentiment, that the
nation should not stand weeping
like a crocodile, " with its hands in
its breeches pockets ;" and inade-
quately imitated by a writer in an
Edinburgh newspaper, giving an ac-
count of the unanimity of the Radi-
cal Meeting in our King's Park — that
no Tory reptile was there to hiss
like a serpent " with his hat held up
before his face."

Having recovered from his wounds,
and escaped " all the disastrous
chances which his youth suffered,"
the lad Samuel

— "sought, erelong, not Oxford walls,
But an academy, where science, grace,
Are taught as well" —
and there
" He dived 'mid. Greek and Latin, Euclid

slighting,

Then, like a priest to banquet, fell to wri-
ting."
" His ode was thunder, dew his Human

Life,
Pathetic Jacqueline MADE THEE ALL RAIN."

We should have thought rain more
natural after thunder — but Mr Mi-
chell ought not thus " to change the
drink upon us" — and we are curious
to know, Human Life being dew,
what gifted individual is alluded to
by the personal pronoun in the accu-
sative case " thee," as being " all
rain." He must be a wet Quaker.

" Lo ! Wilson comes ! the king of Noctial
jokes,

Of late most saltless, tame, and melan-
choly."

But, in spite of the stupidity of those
dullest of all dialogues, Nicholas
prays for a long life to the Profes-

Lwing Poets and Poetesses. [June,

And the amiable satirist adds,

" Whether thy ipsc dixit damn or praise
My harmless rhymes, I still must laud

thy own,
And call thee right good-hearted, though

to me,
Who cannot bite, thou shouldst a snarler

be."

" Sage Wilson ! health to thee ! and
length of days !"

Wherefore, asks Nicholas, with sweet
simplicity, does not this gentleman
" bethink himself of Satire?"

The most contemptible versifier
of the present day, according to
Nicholas, is Sir Walter Scott. " De-
spite his puny numbers," however,
Nicholas ranks the baronet very
high as a novelist. As a poet,

" Why ? he's all tameness, sameness,
through and through,

From ' Marmion,' down to watery Wa-
terloo."
* * # # # #

" Doth ' Lady Lake' or Rokeby this ?
'Tis clear

The first is Cape-wine, and the last
small beer."

Now we say that is barely civil.
Pray, who is Lady Lake ?

Mr Campbell's " greatest crime"
is, that he " hath writ no more ;"
and the chief enormity laid, in a
note, to the charge of Sir Walter, is
that " with him a tree is a tree, and
a river a river." This appears to
be more atrocious, in the eyes of
old Nicholas, than Peter Bell's opi-
nion about the yellow primrose,
which we have explained in our
Flight First to the Lakes. The sole
apology we can offer for Sir Walter
at present, is a conjectural supposi-
tion, that he believes a tree to be a
tree, and a river to be a river, on the
same high Tory principle that we,
Christopher, believe a fool to be a
fool, and a Cockney a Cockney.

Nicholas Michel! most seriously
and solemnly believes that Samuel
Taylor Coleridge is no poet. — His
" Wallenstein" is a f mere transla-
tion," Nic being doubtless a great
German scholar — and " Zapolya"
and " Remorse" are " decided fail-
ures." " Christabel" he cannot en-
dure— " than which was never thing
penned, not excepting Jack the Giant-
killer and Tom Thumb, more mon-
strously absurd." We beg that Ni-
cholas would reconsider that sen-
tence. There is, we fearlessly main-

1832.]

Living Poets and Poetesses,

tain, in opposition even to his autho-
rity, nothing monstrously absurd in
Jack the Giant-killer and TomThumb.
Let him not suffer the feelings and
judgment of his innocent and there-
fore enlightened infancy, to be over-
laid by the nightmares of his, alas !
no longer immaculate and therefore
obfuscated manhood. True, it is
too much the fashion of these super-
cilious and sophisticated times, to
laugh at the orient day-dreams of
the yet unbreeched man-child, who
is, nathless, the High Priest of Na-
ture, and knows more of her myste-
ries than he may do when he be-
comes Bishop of Chichester. Let
old Nic, then, become young Nic;
let him throw off the man-and-devil,
and be once more the angel-and-child j
and we offer to lay a gallon of Glen-
livet to a saucer of saloop, that, re-
stored to his original capacities and
powers, his regenerated mind will
see the full effulgence of the glory of
those two poems ; that

" A settled smile of stern vindictive joy
Kindling one moment Nicky's burning
cheek,"

will testify the enthusiasm with
which he reads the Tale of all those
Giants by Jack so righteously slain ;
that a gush from

" The sacred source of sympathetic tears"

will bear witness to the pathos of that
pity with which he hangs o'er that
other tale, alas ! " too tender and too
true," of the unterrified Thomas,
who, by a heroic death, illustrated
that affecting Scriptural image, " flesh
is grass."

Nicholas must be the son of an
Usher — of the Gentleman in Black.
He is for horsing all the poets. The
son of the schoolmaster waxes savage
— the bottom-brusher breaks out in
his boy — at sight of an unlucky bard
mounted for punishment.

" Oh, Coleridge ! when at school where

Avon flashes,
Hadst thou, if bidden to rhyme, scrawl'd

lines so bad,
Thy master would have given thee fifty

lashes,
Deeming such might beat brains into the

lad;
And now a man, such jargon canst thou

write ?
And boast it too ? The rod shall slay thee

quite /"

961

Inhuman monster I and to dare to use
such threats on the eve of the pass-
ing of the Reform Bill ! Does Nicho-
las Caligula Nero Domitian Michell
imagine that the Mob will permit the
March of Intellect to be accelerated
by such sanguinary " means and ap-
pliances to boot" as these— means
that make the flesh of the leanest
shudder, and the sinews of the
strongest crawl like spiders on their
bones, while he, the Epitome of the
Four most diabolical of the Twelve
Caesars, murmurs his murderous sug-
gestions in a lisping whisper, as soft
as if he were soliciting an assigna-
tion with the Hebe of some suburban
tea-garden, to have surrendered to
his virgin embrace those beauties
which have been bandied about, for
time immemorial, from Hyde Park
Corner to St Paul's ?
" And this is Christabel! Oh ! shame ! oh !

shame !

The Mariner is worse, if such can be ;
Which, certes, bedlamites might blush to

claim :

Where vessels sail without or wind or sea,
Birds to be slain, track barks through

thin and thick,
And slimy things with legs — Tm choked

—I'm sick ! /"

To prevent Nicholas from being
choked, the best recipe is also the
readiest — let the person next him
give him a vigorous thump on the
back between the shoulders, till the
dust flies from his bottle-green, and
the bit of poetry he has been attempt-
ing to bolt, out of his orifice will jump
like bacon. But what shall we do
for the poor fellow, seeing he is so
sick? An emetic or a purge — or
both ? BOTH , Which first ? Emetic.
What ? Ipecacuanha. And what then ?
Calomel — in such a dose as might
pass current in the United States.
How do you feel now, Nicholas ?
Any easier ? Why, you look as lank
as a grey hound ', you who within
these ten minutes were as dumpy as
a pug.

Cross-bred curs, it is well known
to dog-fancierB, take causeless dislike
to particular persons, whom they
never see without shewing their
teeth, and whom, but for fear, they
would bite. It is uniformly the most
placid and pleasing persons, at whom
the misbegotten miscreants from
Hockley in the Hole and Marybone
make the mouths we mention ; they

962

Living Poets and Poetesses*

[June,

crouch on their bellies before the feet,
and lay their muzzles on the knees
of scamps. Now, without meaning to
apply personally this strong illustra-
tion to Nicholas, we may remark, that
there exists not a more inoffensive
man than the author of Christabel ;
that it has been found so difficult to
dislike him, that the most malignant
out of pure spite have given up the
attempt; and therefore the enigma
we propose for solution in the next
number of the Halfpenny Magazine
is, " Why delighteth Nicholas Michell
to insult S. T. Coleridge ?" That he
has a diseased and depraved plea-
sure in doing so, is manifest not only
by the disgusting doggerel which he
has drivelled above, but by the inso-
lent saliva which he slavers below —
" Art thou the bard whose brows the

laurel wear ?

When shall a cap and bells be mounted
there ?"

Now, we inform the correspond-
ents of the Penny Magazine, who
will be inundating that prosperous
periodical with their solutions, that
they must not expect to gain the
prize by any such vague generalities
as the following— that " gentle dul-
ness ever loves a joke;" that stupi-
dity is spiteful; that the obscure
" choke and sicken" with envy of
the illustrious, beyond the cleansing
power of bastinado, ipecacuanha, and
calomel ; or that Nicholas is a ninny.
They must favour us with some-
thing more recherche — else we shall
have no credit in our charade.

But—

" He comes! lo ! Words worth comes!
back, sons of men !"

Nicholas seems to have a sad pre-
sentiment of Peter Bell and his cud-
gel.

" Hark! from his manly breast that loud
alas!

As { east and west' brays Peter's cudgel-
led ass."

Why, Peter's cudgelled ass has as
good a right, perhaps not so strong a
reason, to bray as Christopher's cud-
gelled ass, and who he may be, we
leave the reader to conjecture.

" Yes, rear an arch of triumph to the

skies ;
First let great Wordsworth, then the

Pedlar pass ;

Like Quixote, Sancho, they're on high

emprise,
Although, ah me ! they lackjboth steed

and ass."

And Nicholas has kindly provided
them with the latter animal. He is
no longer a deficit ; the " Vagrant
Merchant," had he not sent his pack
a-packing, might, on rising a hill,
have rested himself, by laying the
load on Nicholas, Avho would have
considered himself richly rewarded
by an additional docken.
" O Wordsworth! was it not at full of

moon
Thou framedst thy system, frantic every

part ?
Think'st thou that prose is poetry, as

soon
As rhymed by ear, and metred out by

art?
That bright imaginings, and thought'pro-

found,
Are plants that flourish most in barren

ground ?
But worse, immortal Bard ! oh, worse

than all,

Thy dulness and obscurity we deem ;
For if the senses brave sleep's leaden

thrall,

The spirit wanders in a wildering dream :
We read, we ponder, pause, peruse again —
'Tis too sublime for us, the sons of men !"
The penultimate line of this extract
is exceedingly picturesque. We see
Nicholas striving to escape sleep.
" His senses brave sleep's leaden
thrall ;" but still his face has that ab-
surd expression that Morpheus, even
when kept at some distance, con-
trives to impart to the features of
the yawner, by squirting over them
a preparation of poppies. His eyes
are oysters. The flies make their
exits and their entrances, without
his mouth being aware of their Say-
ings and Doings. He reads the pas-
sage for the tenth time — compre-
hending at each perusal but a tithe
of the meaning that appeared to ap-
pertain to its predecessor, so that he
at last masters but the hundredth
part of that of which at first he had
no idea; — he ponders, he perpends,
he is observed to shake his head,
and with hesitating hand slightly to
raise his Caxon, to let the air circu-
late round " the dome of thought,
the palace of the soul ;" — he pauses,
and looks around the room with a
countenance from which the most
innocent no-meanings have, on evi-

1832.]

Living Poets and Poetesses.

dence merely circumstantial, been
sentenced to transportation, or at
least banishment, for life; — in the
midst of all this woe-begone appeal
to the pity of an unsympathizing
world, nothing will satisfy the un-
conscionable idiot, but to " peruse
again ;" and, finally, finding that the
case is hopeless, he sinks back on
the Free and Easy chair which had
been vacated an hour ago by the
President of the Dirty Shirt, and, as
if spying for spiders in a corner of
the ceiling, emits out of a puckered-
up mouth, Avhose pomposity sur-
passes that of his paternal peda-
gogue,

" TlS TOO SUBLIME FOR Us, THE SONS OF

MEN !"

But nothing else will satisfy the
inexorable Nicholas than to hang
Wordsworth. He confesses, that

" Beauties, like flowerets scatter'd o'er

the wild,
Th' Excursion grace, nor is thy Duddon

bad j"

and we were not without hopes that
he was about to propose getting a
medal struck in honour of the Bard ;
when to our dismay, and, we must
add, our indignation, he thus de-
nounces doom on the " sole king of
rocky Cumberland" —

" But these will not atone for countless

crimes,
So suffer on the gallows of my rhymes."

What ! has the author of the Lyrical
Ballads, Mr Wordsworth, been con-
victed of robbery, arson, and mur-
der ? Yet there will be some diffi-
culty in carrying the sentence into
execution. For the gallows of Mr Mi-
chell's rhymes consists of a number
of bare poles of unequal lengths, that
have shot up without sap ; and could
we even suppose them formed into
something like a scaffold and 'a gib-
bet, the crazy concern would not
support the weight of a personable
felon like Mr Wordsworth, till he had
finished the prayers appointed for
that morning's service ; and then, of
the many hundred lines of this sati-
rist's spinning, the strongest would
not sustain a ny. So feeble are they,
that a midge would ,so stretch even
a picked line, that if suspended by it
for a moment, his feet would be
touching the ground, and the eman-

VOL. XXXI. NO. CXCV.

9C3

cipated animalcula would escape
from justice.

We begin to have a feeling that we
have been too contumelious on Mr
Nicholas, and cannot be happy at the
thought of parting company with him,
till we have made the amende hon-
ourable. It is our belief that there
is little or no harm in him, and that
he might be made, by a judicious and
strict regimen of chastisement, in
some of the inferior departments, not
of literary, but of manual labour, a
not altogether useless member of the
community. We fear his talents are
not quick enough to qualify him for
a tailor. No — he could never be a
Place. Nor is his eyesight suffi-
ciently sharp, we suspect, for either
of those two occupations which Adam
Smith mentions in illustration of the
wonderful effects of the division of
labour — we mean, sharpening the
points, or rounding the heads, of
pins. We must find for him some
broader employment, of which the
work requires no nicety of touch,
and may be slobbered over, in a ge-
neral way, to the satisfaction of the
industrious capitalist. What does he
think of that handicraft devoted to
the affixation, on the walls of tho-
roughfares, of advertisements and an-
nouncements, at once useful and or-
namental, of political or philosophical
intelligence to the lieges inhabiting
towns and cities, and suffering under
an unappeasable hunger and thirst
for News— News— News ? Yes! Ni-
cholas must be a BILL-STICKBR !

But he must not expect to retain
the situation which we have in our
eye for him, and which, in the event
of a dissolution on the passing of
some Reform Bill or other, will be
a most lucrative one, unless he for-
swear Satire, and let Poetry go to the
pot. He must adhere to his batter.
There is a fine opening now in Edin-
burgh in that department for an ac-
tive young man ; and though hereto-
fore, perhaps, the habits of Nicholas
may have been rather too sedentary,
his constitution, on the other hand,
has not been impaired by his having
been, [like many less fortunate but
equally meritorious lads, appren-
ticed to the trade before his sinews
were strung and his joints knit ; and
as he is in the prime of life, after a
few weeks' " training on the sly,"
there cannot be the least doubt in

Living Poets and Poetesses,

964

the world that he would prove him-
self an accomplished — a consummate
master.

But should he in the pride of ge-
nius refuse the appointment, let him
at least accept our advice. We are in
the dark as to his present profession,
and should suppose from the symp-
toms that he has none at all. Now
idleness is the fruitful mother of
vice and folly ; and we beseech Ni-
cholas to turn to an honest calling,
and think no more of the Living
Poets, or of the Living Poetesses.
Those Ladies of the Lay are a peril-
ous people ; and the mildest of them
all more than a match for old— a
fortiori, for young Nic. He must
positively discontinue his addresses
to the Muses, if he indulges the fond
hope of continuing to wear a coat de-
cently roughish in the nap. The most
forlorn sight on the hopeless earth
seems to us, in our m elan choly moods,
to be the nether integuments of a
email critical versifier without any
brains. Much shabby-genteel wretch-
edness, no doubt, often accompanies
a life of petty prose ; but still there
seems something wanting to com-

Elete the picture. That something
j the " accomplishment of verse."
That is felt to lend the finishing
touch to the feebleness ; and as Tho-
mas the Rhymer totters by, we hear
the supplicating shadow say,

" For I am poor and miserably old !"

But independently of all these con-
siderations, Nicholas should cease to
be satirical, simply because of the
absurdity of the silliest sumph being
so, that has, during the present cen-
tury, taken his station among the
scribblers. We can charge our me-
mory with nothing approximating
him in that way; there is a silliness
within a silliness in much he writes,
that has sometimes almost persuaded
us that we have been seeing triple ;
we have been tempted to say " there
is a depth of shallowness here which
we cannot fathom ;" " how pro-
foundly -superficial !" " In all this
creeping and crawling there is some-
thing sublime!" Unquestionably so
— our author is a man of distinction ;
without reluctance, we announce Mr
Nicholas Michell— the Weakest Man
of the Age.

We shall suppose him tolerably

[June,

well-off in the world, with two meals
per diem, and in his wardrobe a
change of raiment. In such easy cir-
cumstances, why satirical ? Grati-
tude should make him in love with
the " great globe, and all which it
inherits." If he must write, then, let
him dribble Thanksgiving Odes. One
so sleek must not be so satirical.
Why run about with his plumage
all ruffled like a peevish Friesland
capon, always complaining of some-
thing or other, as if no cinders were
to his mind, when he might be per-
mitted to play the part for which the
ornithologist sees he is designed, that,
namely, of the bantam about his
own doors, with the feathers down
to his heels, and indeed far beyond,
lying in the natural way; his own
little dunghill undisturbed by any
alien crow, and his own " shrill
clarion" heard through several closes
all leading into a common centre,
the Court where Dandy, not unat-
tended by dames and damsels, en-
joys his hereditary reign ?

We cannot, as our readers will see,
help having a " kindly" as well as
an " arch" feeling towards Nicholas.
And we cannotbid him good-by with-
out requesting his attention to the
following short statement. Words-
worth, Coleridge, Southey, Scott, of
whom, in their character of poets, he
writes with supercilious scorn, are
men of the highest order of intellect
and imagination. He is of the lowest
—or rather he belongs to no order.
His height is three inches and a half
below the level of the sea. The first
sight of such a pigmy doing the su-
percilious, that is, drawing up its
eyebrows into a curve, inflating its
nostrils, and curling its lip, is merely
ludicrous; the second rather irritates;
the third, in spite of the smallness, gets
disgusting— and we think of an ear-
wig. We have seen some impudent
stir lately in quarters where the
Cockneys were wont to be mum as
mice. The vermin had better be
quiet ; and now that they have taken
sweet counsel together, retreat in
time to their holes. Should a certain
Red Rover of a Grimalkin, who shall
be nameless, leap out upon them,
what a topsy-turvy of tails and whisk-
ers ! We should like to see an Archi-
bald Bell-the-Cat arising among the
Cockneys,

1832.]

Salvandy on the late French Revolution.

965

8ALVANDY ON THE LATE FRENCH REVOLUTION.*

EVER since the late French Revo-
lution broke out, and at a time when
it carried with it the wishes, and
deluded the judgment, of a large
and respectable portion of the Bri-
tish public, we have never ceased
to combat the then prevailing opi-
nion on the subject. We asserted
from the very outset that it was cal-
culated to do incredible mischief to
the cause of real freedom; that it
would throw back for a very long
period the march of tranquil liberty ;
that it restored at once the rule of
the strongest; and, breaking down
the superiority of intellect and
knowledge by the mere force of
numbers, would inevitably and ra-
pidly lead, through a bitter period of
suffering, to the despotism of the
sword.

We founded our opinion upon the
obvious facts, that the Revolution
was effected by the populace of Pa-
ris, by the treachery of the army, and
the force of the barricades, without
any appeal to the judgment or wishes
of the remainder of France ; that a
constitution was framed, a King
chosen, and a government establish-
ed at the Hotel de Ville, by a junto
of enthusiastic heads, without either
deliberation, time, or foresight ; that
this new constitution was announced
to the provinces by the telegraph, be-
fore they were even aware that a civil
Avar had broken out ; that the Citizen
King was thus not elected by France,
but imposed upon its inhabitants by
the mob of Paris ; that this convul-
sion prostrated the few remaining
bulwarks of order and liberty which
the prior revolution had left standing,
and nothing remained to oppose the
march of revolution, and the devour-
ing spirit of Jacobinism, but the force
of military despotism. That in this
way no chance existed of liberty be-
ing ultimately established in France,
because that inestimable blessing
depended on the fusion of all the
interests of society in the fabric of
government, and the prevention of
the encroachments of each class by

the influence of the others ; and such
mutual balancing was impossible in
a country where the whole middling
ranks were destroyed, and nothing
remained but tumultuous masses or
mankind on the one hand, and an
indignant soldiery on the other. We
maintained that the convulsion at
Paris was a deplorable catastrophe
for the cause of freedom in all other
countries ; that by precipitating the
democratic party every where into
revolutionary measures or revolu-
tionary excesses, it would inevitably
rouse the conservative interests to
defend themselves; that in the
struggle, real liberty would be equal-
ly endangered by the fury of its in-
sane friends and the hostility of its
aroused enemies ; and that the tran-
quil spread of freedom, which had
been so conspicuous since the fall
of Napoleon, would be exchanged
for the rude conflicts of military
power with popular ambition.

Few, we believe, comparatively
speaking, of our readers, fully went
along with these views when they
were first brought forward ; but
how completely have subsequent
events demonstrated their justice ;
and how entirely has the public
mind in both countries changed as
to the character of this convulsion
since it took place ! Freedom has
been unknown in France since the
days of the Barricades ; between the
dread of popular excess on the one
hand, and the force of military power
on the other, the independence
of the citizen has been completely
overthrown ; Paris has been periodi-
cally the scene of confusion, riot,
and anarchy ; the revolt of Lyons
has only been extinguished by Mar-
shal Soult at the head of as large an
army as fought the Duke of Wel-
lington at Toulouse, and at as great
an exnense of human life as the re-
volt of the Barricades; the army, in-
creased from 200,000 to 600,000 men,
has been found barely adequate to
the maintenance of the public tran-
quillity; 40,000 men, incessantly

* Seize Mois, ouLa Revolution et La' Revolutionaires, par N, A. Salvandy, auteur
de 1'Histoire de la Pologne/ Paris, 1831.

Salvandy on the late French Revolution.

966

stationed round the capital, have, al-
most every month, answered the
cries of the people for bread by
charges of cavalry, and all the seve-
rity of military execution ; the an-
nual expenditure has increased from
L.40,000,000 to L.60,000,000 ; fifty
millions sterling of debt has been
incurred in eighteen months; not-
withstanding a great increase of
taxation, the revenue has declined a
fourth in its amount, with the uni-
versal suffering of the people ; and a
pestilential disorder following as
usual in the train of human violence
and misery, has fastened with unerr-
ing certainty on the wasted scene
of political agitation, and swept off
twice as many men in a few weeks
in Paris alone, as fell under the Rus-
sian cannon on the field of Borodino.
Externally, have the effects of the
three glorious days been less deplo-
rable ? Let Poland answer; let Bel-
gium answer; let the British Em-
pire answer. Who precipitated a
gallant nation on a gigantic foe ; and
roused their hot blood by the pro-
mises of sympathy and support, and
stirred up by their emissaries the
revolutionary spirit in the walls of
Warsaw ? Who is answerable to God
and man for having occasioned its
fatal revolt, and buoyed its chiefs up
with hopes of assistance, and stimu-
lated them to refuse all offers of ac-
commodation, and delivered them
up, unaided, unbefriended, to an in-
furiated conqueror? The revolu-
tionary leaders; the revolutionary
press of France and England; the
government of Louis Philippe, and
the reforming Ministers of England ;
those, who, knowing that they could
render them no assistance, allowed
their journals, uncontradicted, to sti-
mulate them to resistance, and de-
lude them to the last with the hopes
of foreign intervention. Who is an-
swerable to God and man for the
Belgian revolt ? Who has spread fa-
mine and desolation through its
beautiful provinces, and withered its
industry with a blast worse than the
simoom of the desert ; and sown on
the theatre of British Glory those
poisoned teeth, which must spring
up in armed battalions, and again in-
volve Europe in the whirlwind of
war ? The revolutionary leaders ; the
revolutionary press of France and
England ; the government of Louis

[June,

Philippe, and the reforming Minis-
ters of this country ; those who be-
trayed the interests of their country
in the pursuit of democratic sup-
port; who dismembered the domi-
nions of a faithful ally, and drove
him back at the cannon mouth, when
on the point of regaining his own
capital ; who surrendered the barrier
of Marlborough and Wellington, and
threw open the gates of Europe to
republican ambition after they had
been closed by British heroism ?
Who are answerable to God and
man for the present distracted state
of the British Empire ? Who have
suspended its industry, and shaken
its credit, and withered its resources ?
Who have spread bitterness and dis-
trust through its immense popula-
tion, and filled its poor with expecta-
tions that can never be realized, and
its rich with terrors that can never
be allayed ? Who have thrown the
torch of discord into the bosom of
an united people ; and habituated
the lower orders to license, and in-
flated them with arrogance, and sub-
jugated thought and wisdom by the
force of numbers, and arrayed
against the concentrated education
and wealth of the nation the masses of
its ignorant and deluded inhabitants ?
The reforming Ministers ; the revo-
lutionary press of England; those
who ascended to power amidst the
transports of the Barricades; who
incessantly agitated the people to
uphold their falling administration,
and have incurred the lasting exe-
cration of mankind, by striving to ar-
ray the numbers of the nation against
its intelligence, and subjugate the
powers of the understanding by the
fury of the passions.

To demonstrate that these state-
ments are not overcharged as to the
present condition of France, and the
practical consequence of the Revo-
lution of the Barricades, we subjoin
the following extract from an able
and independent reforming journal:

" If a government is to be judged of by
the condition of the people, as a tree by
its fruits, the present government of
France must be deemed to be extremely
deficient in those qualities of statesman-
ship which are calculated to inspire pub-
lic confidence and make a people happy —
for public discontent, misery, commotion,
and bloodshed, have been the melancholy
characteristics of its sway, If the minis-

1832.]

Salvandy on the late French Revolution.

967

try of Louis Philippe were positively de-
voted to the interests of the ex-royal fami-
ly, they could not take more effective steps
than they have hitherto done to make the
vices of that family be forgotten, and to
reinforce the ranks of the party which
labours incessantly for their recall.

" With short intervals of repose, Paris
has been a scene of emeutes and disturb-
ances which would disgrace a semi-civi-
lized country, and to this sort of inter-
mittent turbulence it has been doomed
ever since Louis Philippe ascended the
throne, but more especially since Casimir
Perier was intrusted with the reins of
responsible government. It is a melan-
choly fact that, under the revolutionized
government of France, more blood has
been shed in conflicts between the people
and the military, than during the 15 years
of the restoration, if we except the three
days of resistance to the ordinances in
Paris, which ended in the dethronement
of Charles the Tenth.

" Yet we do not know if we ought to
except the carnage of those three days, for
we recollect having seen a communication
from Lyons, soon after the commotions
in that city, in which it was stated that a
greater number of persons, both citizens
and soldiers, fell in the conflict between
the workmen'and the military, than were
slain during the memorable three days of
Paris. Let us add to this the slaughter
at Grenoble, where the people were again
victorious, and the sabrings and shootings
which have taken place in minor conflicts
in several towns and departments, and it
will be found that the present government
maintains its power at a greater cost of
French blood than that which it has su-
perseded."— Morning Herald.

We have long and anxiously look-
ed for some publication from a man
of character and literary celebrity
of the liberal party in France, which
might throw the same light on the
consequences of its late revolution
as the work of M. Dumont has done
on the proceedings of the Consti-
tuent Assembly. Such a work is
now before us, from the able and
eloquent pen of M. Salvandy, to
whose striking history of Poland, we
have in a recent number requested
the attention of our readers. He has
always been a liberal, opposed in the
Chamber of Deputies all the arbitrary
acts of the late government, and is
a decided defender of the revolution
of July. From such a character the
testimony borne to its practical ef-
fects is of the highest value.

" The restoration," says he, " bore in,
its bosom an enemy, from whose attacks
PYance required incessant protection.
That enemy was the counter revolutionary
spirit ; in other words, the passion to de-
duce without reserve all its consequences
from the principle of legitimacy j the
desire to overturn, for the sake of the an-
cient interests, the political system esta-
blished by the revolution, and consecrated
by the charter and a thousand oaths. It
was the cancer which consumed it ; the
danger was pointed out for fifteen years,
and at length it devoured it.

" The revolution of July also bore in
its entrails another curse : this was the
revolutionary spirit? evoked from the
bloody chaos of our first revolution, by the
sound of the rapid victory of the people
over the royalty. That fatal spirit has
weighed upon the destinies of France,
since the revolution of 1830, like its evil
genius. I write to illustrate its effects ;
and I feel I should ill accomplish my task
if I did not at the same time combat its
doctrines.

" The counter revolution was no
ways formidable, but in consequence
of the inevitable understanding which
existed between its supporters and the
crown, who, although it long refused
them its arms, often lent them its shield.
The revolutionary spirit has also a power-
ful ally, which communicates to it force
from its inherent energy. This ally is the
democracy ivhich now reigns as a despot
over France ,• that is, without moderation,
without wisdom, without perceiving that
it reigns only for the behoof of the spirit
of disorder — that terrible ally which causes
it to encrease its own power, and will ter-
minate by destroying it. It is time to
speak to the one and the other a firm
language ; to recall to both principles as
old as the world, which have never yet
been violated with impunity by nations,
and which successively disappear from
the midst of us, stifled under the instinct
of gross desires, rash passions, pusillani-
mous concessions, and subversive laws.
Matters are come to such a point, that no
small courage is now required to unfold
these sacred principles ; and yet all the
objects of the social union, the bare pro-
gress of nations, the dignity of the human
race, the cause of freedom itself, is at stake.
That liberty is to be seen engraven at the
gate of all our cities, emblazoned on all
our monuments, floating on all our stand-
ards ; but, alas ! it will float there in vain
if the air which we breathe is charged
with anarchy, as with a mortal contagion,
and if that scourge marks daily with its
black mark some of our maxims, of our

Salvandy on the late French Revolution.

968

laws, of our powers, while it is incessant-
ly advancing to the destruction of society
itself.1'

" What power required the sacrifice of
the peerage ? Let the minister answer it,
he said it again and again with candour
and courage. It is to popular prejudice,
democratic passion, the intoxication of
demagogues, the blind hatred of every
species of superiority, that this immense
sacrifice has been offered. I do not fear
to assert, that a nation which has enforced
such a sacrifice, on such altars; a nation
which could demand or consent to such a
sacrifice, has declared itself in the face of
the world ignorant of freedom, and per-
haps incapable of enjoying it.

" That was the great battle of our re-
volutionary party. It has gained it. It
is no longer by our institutions that we
can be defended from its enterprises and
its folly. The good sense of the public is
now our last safeguard. But let us not
deceive ourselves. Should the public spi-
rit become deranged, we are undone. It
depends in future on a breath of opinion,
whether anarchy should not rise triumph-
ant in the midst of the powers of govern-
ment. Mistress of the ministry by the
elections, it would speedily become so
of the Upper House, by the new creations
ivhich it would force upon the crown. The
Upper House will run the risk, at every
quinquennial renewal of its numbers, of
becoming a mere party assemblage : an
assembly elected at second hand by the
Chamber of Deputies and the electoral col-
leges. The ruling party henceforth, in-
stead of coming to a compromise with it,
which constitutes the balance of the three
powers, arid the basis of a constitutional
monarchy, will only require to incorporate
itself with it. At the first shock of parties,
the revolutionary faction will gain this
immense advantage ; it will emerge from
the bosom of our institutions as from its
eyrie, and reign over France with the
wings of terror.

" In vain do the opposing parties repeat
that the revolution of 1830 does not re-
semble that of 1789. That is the very
point at issue ; and I will indulge in all
your hopes, if you are not as rash as your
predecessors, as ready to destroy, as much
disposed to yield to popular wishes, that
is, to the desire of the demagogues who
direct them. But can I indulge the hope,
that a people will not twice in forty years
commence the same career of faults and
misfortunes, when you who have the
reins of power, are already beginning the
same errors ? I must say, the revolution
of 1830 runs the same risk as its prede-
cessor, if it precipitates its chariot to the

[June,

edge of the same precipice*. Every
where the spirit of the 1791 will bear the
same fruits. In heaven as in earth, it can
engender only the demon of anarchy.

" The monarchy of the Constituent
Assembly, that monarchy which fell al-
most as soon as it arose, did not perish,
as is generally supposed, from an imper-
fect equilibrium of power, a bad defini-
tion of the royal prerogative, or the weak-
ness of the throne. No — the vice lay
deeper j it was in its entrails. The old
crown of England was not adorned with
more jewels than that ephemeral crown
of the King of the French. But the
crown of England possesses in the social,
not less than the political state of Eng-
land, powerful support, of which France
is totally destitute. A constitution with-
out guarantees there reposed on a society
which was equally destitute of them,
which was as movable as the sands of
Africa, as easily raised by the breaths of
whirlwinds. The revolution which
founded that stormy society, founded it
on false and destructive principles. Not
content with levelling to the dust the an-
cient hierarchy, the old privileges of the
orders, the corporate rights of towns,
which time had doomed to destruction, it
levelled with the same stroke the most
legitimate guarantees as the most artifi-
cial distinctions. It called the masses of
mankind not to equality, but to supre-
macy.

" The constitution was established on
the same principles. In defiance of the
whole experience of ages, the Assembly
disdained every intermediate or powerful
institution which was founded on those
conservative principles, without attention
to which no state on earth has ever yet
flourished. In a word, it called the
masses not to liberty, but to power*

" After having done this, no method
remained to form a counterpoise to this
terrible power. A torrent had been
created without bounds — an ocean with-
out a shore. By the eternal laws of na-
ture, it was furious, indomitable, destruc-
tive, changeable ; leaving nothing stand-
ing but the scaffolds on which royalty and
rank, and all that was illustrious in talent
and virtue, speedily fell ; until the people,
disabused by suffering, and worn out by
passion, resigned their fatal sovereignty
into the hands of a great man. Such it
was, such it will be, to the end of time.
The same vices, the same scourges, the
same punishments.

" When you do not wish to fall into
an abyss, you must avoid the path which
leads to it. When you condemn a prin-
ciple, you must have the courage to con-

1832.]

Salvandy on the late French Revolution.

969

demu its premises, or to resign yourself
to see the terrible logic of party, the au-
stere arms of fortune, deduce its conse-
quences ; otherwise, you plant a tree, and
refuse to eat its fruits ; you form a volcano,
and expect to sleep in peace by its side.

" With the exception of the Constitu-
ent Assembly, where all understandings
were fascinated, where there reigned a
sort of sublime delirium, all the subse-
quent legislatures during the revolution
did evil, intending to do good. The abo-
lition of the monarchy was a concession
of the Legislative Assembly; the head of
the King an offering of the Convention.
The Girondists in the Legislative Body, in
surrendering the monarchy, thought they
were doing the only thing which could
save order. Such was their blindness,
that they could not see that their own
acts had destroyed order, and its last sha-
dow vanished with the fall of the throne.
The Plain, or middle party in the Con-
vention, by surrendering Louis to the
executioner, thought to satiate the people
with that noble blood; and they were
punished for it, by being compelled to
give their own, and that of all France.
It was on the same principle that in our
times the peerage has fallen the victim of
deplorable concessions. May that great
concession, which embraces more interests,
and destroys more conservative principles
than are generally supposed, which shakes
at once all the pillars of the social order,
not prepare for those who have occasioned
it unavailing regret and deserved punish-
ment !

" The divine justice has a sure means
of punishing the exactions, the passions,
and the weaknesses which subvert society.
It consists in allowing the parties who
urge on the torrent, to reap the conse-
quences of their actions. Thus they go
on, without disquieting themselves as to
the career on which they have entered ;
without once looking behind them ; think-
ing only on the next step they have to
make in the revolutionary progress, and
always believing that it will be the last.
But the weight of committed faults drags
them on, and they perish under the rock
of Sisyphus.

" I will not attempt to conceal my sen-
timents : the political and moral state of
my country fills me with consternation.
When you contemplate its population in
general, so calm, so laborious, so desirous
to enjoy in peace the blessings which the
hand of God has poured so liberally into
the bosom of our beautiful France, you
are filled with hope, and contemplate with
the eye of hope the future state of our
country. But if you direct your look to

the region where party strife combats ; if
you contemplate their incessant efforts to
excite in the masses of the population all
the bad passions of the social order; to
rouse them afresh when they are becoming
dormant ; to enrol them in regular array
when they are floating ; to make, for the
sake of contending interests, one body, and
march together to one prey, which they
will dispute in blood : how is it possible
to mistake, in that delirium of passion,
in that oblivion of the principles of order,
in that forgetfulness of the conditions on
which it depends, the fatal signs which
precede the most violent convulsions ! A
people in whose bosom, for sixteen months,
disorder has marched with its head erect,
and its destroying axe in hand, has not
yet settled its accounts with the wrath
of Heaven.

" While I am yet correcting these lines;
while I am considering if they do riot
make too strong a contrast to the public
security — if they do not too strongly ex-
press my profound conviction of the dan-
gers of my country — the wrath of heaven,
has burst upon that France, half blinded,
half insane. Fortune has too cruelly
justified my sinister presages. Revolt,
assassination, civil war, have deluged with
blood a great city ; and it would be absurd
to be astonished at it. We have sown the
seeds of anarchy with liberal hands ; it is
a crop which never fails to yield a plenti-
ful harvest.

" It is to the men of property, of what-
ever party, that I now address myself: to
those who have no inclination for anarchy,
whatever may be its promises or its me-
naces ; to those who would fear, by run-
ning before it, to surrender the empire to
its ravages, and to have to answer to God
and man for the disastrous days, the dark
futurity of France. I address myself to
them, resolved to unfold to the eyes of my
country all our wounds ; to follow out,
even to its inmost recesses, the malady
which is devouring us. It will be found,
that, in the last result, they all centre in
one ; and that is the same which has al-
ready cleft in two this great body, and
brought the country to the brink of ruin*
We speak of liberty, and it is the govern-
ment of the masses of men which we labour
to establish. Equality is the object of our
passionate desires, and we confound it with
levelling. I know not what destiny pro-
vidence has in reserve for France ; but I
do not hesitate to assert, that, so long as
that double prejudice shall subsist amongst
us, we will find no order but under the
shadow of despotism, and may bid a final
adieu to liberty." — Pp. 20 — 36.

There is hardly a sentence in this

Salvandy on the late French Revolution,

970

long quotation, that is not precisely
applicable to this country, and the
revolutionary party so vehemently
at work amongst ourselves. How
strikingly applicable are his observa-
tions on the destruction of the here-
ditary peerage, and the periodical
creations which will prostrate the
Upper House before the power of the
democracy, to the similar attempt
made by the revolutionary party in
this country ! But how different has
been the resistance made to the at-
tempt to overthrow this last bulwark
of order in the two states ! In France,
the Citizen King, urged on by the
movement party, created thirty Peers
to subdue that assembly, and by their
aid destroyed the hereditary peer-
age, and knocked from under the
throne the last supports of order
and freedom. In Great Britain, the
same course was urged by an insane
populace, and a reckless administra-
tion, on the Crown ; and an effort,
noble indeed, but, it is to be feared,
too late, was made by the Crown to
resist the sacrifice. The " masses "
of mankind, those immense bodies
whom it is- the policy of the revo-
lutionary party in every country to
enlist on their side, are still agita-
ted and discontented. But, thanks
to the generous efforts of the con-
servative party, the noble resistance
of the House of Peers, and the ulti-
mate effort for liberation by the
Crown, the flood of revolution has
been at least delayed ; and if the con-
stitution is doomed to destruction,
the friends of freedom have at least
the consolation of having struggled
to the last to avert it.

Salvandy gives the basis on which
alone, in his opinion, the social edi-
fice can with safety be reconstruct-
ed. His observations are singularly
applicable to the future balance
which must obtain in the British
empire :

" The more democratic the French
population becomes from its manners and
its laws, the more material it is that its
government should incline in the opposite
direction, to be able to withstand that flux
and reflux of free and equal citizens. The
day of old aristocracies, of immovable and
exclusive aristocracies, is past. Our social,
our political condition, will only permit
of such as are accessible to all. But all
may arrive at distinction, for the paths to
eminence are open to all ; all may acquire

[June,

property, for it is an acquisition which
order and talent may always command.
In such a state of society, is it a crime to
insist that power shall not be devolved
but to such as have availed themselves of
these universal capabilities, and have ar-
rived either at eminence or property ; to
those who have reached the summit of
the ladder in relation to the commune,
the department, or the state, to which
they belong ? No, it is no crime ; for if
you cast your eyes over the history of the
world, you will find that freedom was
never yet acquired but at that price»

" It is the law of nature that societies
and nations should move like individuals ;
that the head should direct the whole.
Then only it is that the power of intel-
ligence, the moral force, is enabled to go-
vern ; and the perfection of such moral
and intellectual combinations is freedom.
The party in France who support a re-
public, do so because they consider it as
synonymous with democracy. They are
in the right. Democracy, without the
most powerful counterpoises, leads neces-
sarily to popular anarchy. It has but one
way to avoid that destiny, and that is
despotism ; and thence it is that it inva-
riably terminates, weary and bloody, by
reposing beneath its shade." — P. 44-, 45.

Numerous as have been the er-
rors, and culpable the recklessness,
of the Whig rulers; their constant
appeal to the masses of mankind ;
their attempt to trample down in-
telligence, education, and property,
by the force of numbers; their atro-
cious endeavours to sway the popu-
lar elections, in every part of the
country, by brutal violence and rab-
ble intimidation, is the most crying
sin which besets them. It will hang
like a dead weight about their necks
in the page of history ; it will blast
for ever their characters in the eyes
of posterity ; it will stamp them as
men who sought to subvert all the
necessary and eternal relations of
nature ; to introduce a social, far
worse than a political, revolution ;
and subject England to that rule of
the multitude, which must engen-
der a Reign of Terror and a British
Napoleon.

Our author gives the following
graphic picture of the state of France
for a year and a half after the revo-
lution of July. How exactly does it
depict the state of the British islands
after eighteen months of Whig domi-
nation !

" For eighteen months the greatest po-

Salvandy on the late French Revolution.

1882.]

litical lessons have been taught to France.
On the one hand, we have seen what it
has cost its rulers to have attempted to
subvert the laws ; on the other, what such
a catastrophe costs a nation, even when it
is most innocently involved in it. The
state, shaken to its centre, does not settle
down without long efforts. The farther
the imagination of the people has been
carried, the more extravagant the expec-
tations they have been permitted to form,
the more difficulty have the unchained
passions to submit to the yoke of consti-
tuted authority, or legal freedom. Real
liberty, patient, wise, and regular, irri-
tates as a fetter, those who, having con-
quered by the sword, cannot conceive any
better arbiter for human affairs. To in-
surrection for the laws, succeeds every-
where, and without intermission, insur-
rection against the laws. From all quar-
ters," the desire is manifested for new
conquests, a new futurity ; and that de-
vouring disquietude knows no barrier,
before which the ambitions, the hatreds,
the theories, the destruction of men, may
be arrested. It appears to the reformers,
that all rights should perish, because one
has fallen. There is no longer an insti-
tution which they do not attach, nor an
interest ivhich does not feel itself com-
promised. The disorder of ideas becomes
universal; the anxiety of minds irresist-
ible. A city, with 100,000 armed men
in the streets, no longer feels itself in
safety. Should the public spirit arouse
itself, it is only to fall under the weight
of popular excesses, and still more dis-
quieting apprehension. For long will
prevail that universal and irresistible
languor ; hardly in a generation will the
political body regain its life, its security,
its confidence in itself. What has occa-
sioned this calamitous state of things ?
Simply this. Force — popular force, has
usurped a place in the destinies of the na-
tion, and its appearance necessarily in-
flicts a fatal wound on the regular order of
human society. Every existence has been
endangered when that principle was pro-
claimed."—Pp. 50, 51.

" England has done the same to its
sovereign as the legislators of July ; and
God has since granted to that nation one
hundred and forty years of prosperity
and glory. But let it be observed, that
when it abandoned the principle of legi-
timacy, England made no change in its
social institutions. The Aristocracy still
retained their ascendency ; though the
keystone of the arch was thrown down,
they removed none of its foundations.
But suppose that the English people had
proceeded, at the same time that they
overthrew the Stuarts, to overturn their ci-

971

vil laws and hereditary peerage — to force
through Parliamentary Reform, remodel
juries, bind all authorities beneath the
yoke of the populace, extend fundamental
changes into the State, the Church, and
the Army : had it tolerated a doctrine
which is anarchy itself, the doctrine of
universal suffrage : suppose, in fine, that
it had been in the first fervour of the re-
volutionary intoxication, that Parliament
had laid the axe to all subsisting institu-
tions : then, I say, that the Revolution of
1688 would most certainly have led the
English people to their ruin; that it
would have brought forth pothing but
tyranny, or been stifled in blood and
tears."— Pp. 59, 60.

The real state of France, under the
Restoration, has been the subject of
gross misrepresentation from all the
liberal writers in Europe. Let us
hear the testimony of this supporter
of the Revolution of July, to its prac-
tical operation.

" The government of the Restoration
was a constitutional, an aristocratic, and
a free monarchy. It was monarchical in
its essence, and in the prerogatives which
it reserved to the Crown. It was free,
that is no longer contested. Inviolability
of persons and property ; personal free-
dom ; the liberty of the press ; equality
in the eye of law; the institution of ju-
ries ; independence in the judiciary body ;
responsibility in the agents of power ;
comprised every thing that was ever
known of freedom in the universe. Pub-
lic freedom consisted in the division of
the legislative authority between 'the
king and the people — the independence of
both Chambers — the annual voting of
supplies — the freedom of the periodical
press — the establishment of a representa-
tive government.

" Democracy, in that regime, was,
God knows, neither unknown nor dis-
armed. For in a country where the
aristocracy is an hotel, open to whoever
can afford to enter it, it as necessarily
forms part of the democracy as the head
does of the body. The whole body of so-
ciety has gained the universal admissibi-
lity, and the real admission of all to every
species of public employment ; the com-
plete equality of taxation ; the eligibility
of all to the electoral body; the inevita-
ble preponderance of the middling orders
in the elections ; in fine, the entire com-
mand of the periodical press.

" At the time of the promulgation of
the charter, France had not the least idea
of what freedom was. That Revolution
of 40 years' duration, which had rolled
over us, incessantly resounding with the

972 Salvandy on the late French Revolution.

name of liberty, had passed away with-

[June,

out leaving a conception of what it really
was. Coups d'etat : that is, strokes by
the force of the popular party, composed
all its annals, equally with all that was to
be learned from it ; and these violent
measures never revolted the opinion of
the public, as being contrary to true
freedom, which ever rejects force, and re-
poses only on justice, but merely spread
dismay and horror through the ranks of
the opposite party. The only struggle
was, who should get the command of
these terrible arms. On the one hand,
these triumphs were called order ; on the
other, liberty, No one gave them their
true appellation, which was a return to
the state of barbarous ages, a restoration
of the rule of the strongest." — Pp. 115,
116.

These observations are worthy of
the most profound meditatiou. His-
torical truth is beginning to emerge
from the fury of party ambition.
Here we have it admitted by a libe-
ral historian, that throughout the
whole course of the French revolu-
tion, that is, of the resurrection
and rule of the masses, there was
not only no trace of liberty establish-
edy but no idea of liberty acquired.
Successive coups d'etat, perpetual
insurrection; a continued struggle
for the rule of these formidable
bodies of the citizens, constituted its
whole history. They fell at last
under the yoke of Napoleon, easily
and willingly, because they had
never tasted of real freedom. That
blessing was given to them, for the
first time, under a constitutional mo-
narchy and a hereditary peerage;
in a word, in a mixed government.
How instructive the lesson to those
who have made such strenuous en-
deavours to overturn the mixed go-
vernment of 'Britain; to establish here
the ruinous preponderance of num-
bers, and beat down the freedom of
thought, by the brutal violence of
the multitude.

The following observations are
singularly striking. Their applica-
tion need not be pointed out ; one
would imagine they were written to
depict the course to which the Re-
forming Administration is rapidly
approaching.

" There is in the world but two courses
of policy : the one is regular, legitimate,
cautious : it leans for support, not on the
physical strength, but the moral intelli-

gence of mankind, and concedes influence
less to the numbers than the lights, the
stability, the services, the love of order, of
the superior class of citizens.

" This lofty and even policy respects
within the laws, and without the rights
of nations, which constitutes the moral
law of the universe. It conducts man-
kind slowly and gradually to those ame-
liorations which God has made as the end
of our efforts, and the compensation of
our miseries ; but it knows that Provi-
dence has prescribed two conditions to
this progress, — patience and justice.

" The other policy has totally different
rules, and an entirely different method of
procedure. Force, brutal force, consti-
tutes at once its principle and its law.
You will ever distinguish it by these
symptoms. In all contests between citi-
zens, parties, or kingdoms, in every time
and in every place, it discards the autho-
rity of justice, which is called the safety
of the people ; that is to say, the prevail-
ing object of popular ambition, or, in other
words, mere force, come in its stead.
Would you know its internal policy :
difference of opinion is considered as a
crime; suspicion is arrest; punishment,
death : it knows no law but force to go-
vern mankind. Regard its external po-
licy. It regards neither the sanction of
treaties nor the rights of neutrals, nor the
inviolability of their territories, nor the
conditions of their capitulations : its di-
plomacy is nothing else but war ; that
is to say, force, its last resource in all
emergencies. In its internal government
it has recourse to no lengthened discus-
sion, to no delays, no slow deliberations ;
caprice, anger, murder, cut short all
questions, without permitting the other
side to be heard. In a word, in that
system, force thinks, deliberates, wishes,
and executes. It rejects all the authority
of time and the lessons of experience ;
the past it destroys, the future it devours.
It must invade every thing, overcome
every thing, in a single day. Marching
at the head of menacing masses, it com-
pels all wishes, all resistance, all genius, all
grandeur, all virtue, to bend before those
terrible waves, where there is nothing en-
lightened which is not perverted, nor worthy
which is not buried in obscurity. What it
calls liberty consists in the power of dicta-
ting its caprice to the rest of mankind ;
to the judge on the seat of justice, to the
citizen at his fireside, to the legislator in
his curule chair, to the hing on his throne.
Thus it advances, overturning, destroy-
ing. But do not speak to it of building ;
that is beyond its power. It is the mon-
ster of Asia, which can extinguish but
not produce existence."— 230, 231.

Salvandy on the late French Revolution.

1832.

At the moment that we are transla-
ting this terrible picture, meetings of
the masses of mankind have been
convened, by the reforming agents, in
every part of the country, where by
possibility they could be got to-
gether to control and overturn the
decisions of Parliament. Fifty, sixty,
and seventy thousand men, are stated
to have been assembled at Manches-
ter, Birmingham, Glasgow, and Ed-
inburgh: their numbers are gross-
ly exaggerated; disorders wilfully
ascribed to them ; menacing lan-
guage falsely put into their mouth,
in order to intimidate the more sober
and virtuous class of citizens. The
brickbat and bludgeon system is in-
voked to cover the freedom of the
next, as it did of the last general
election, and obtain that triumph
from the force of brutal violence,
which it despairs of effecting by the
sober influence of reason or justice.
Who is so blind as not to see in this
ostentatious parade of numbers, as
opposed to knowledge; in this ap-
peal to violence, in default of argu-
ment ; in this recourse to the force
of masses, to overcome the energy of
patriotism, the same revolutionary
spirit which Salvandy has so well
described as forming the scourge of
modern France, and which never
yet became predominant in a coun-
try, without involving high and low
in one promiscuous ruin ?

:: England," says the same eloquent
writer, " has two edifices standing near
to each other : in the one, assemble from
generation to generation, to defend the
ancient liberties of their country, all that
the three kingdoms can assemble that is
illustrious or respectable : it is the chapel
of St Stephen's. There have combated
Pitt and Fox : there we have seen
Brougham, Peel, and Canning, engaged
in those noble strifes which elevate the
dignity of human nature, and the very
sight of which is enough to attach the
mind to freedom for the rest of its life.
At a few paces distance you find another
arena, other combats, other champions :
physical force contending with its like :
man struggling with his fellow-creature
for a miserable prize, and exerting no ray
of intelligence, but to plant his blows
with more accuracy in the body of his
antagonist. From that spectacle to the
glorious one exhibited in Parliament, the
distance is not greater, than from revo-
lutionary liberty to constitutional free-
dom."—P. 233.

973

To what does the atrocious system
of popular intimidation, so long en-
couraged or taken advantage of by
the Reforming party, necessarily
lead, but to such a species of revo-
lutionary liberty ; in other words, to
the unrestrained tyranny of the mob,
over all that is dignified, or virtuous,
or praiseworthy, in society ? It will
be the eternal disgrace of that party ;
it will be the damning record of the
reforming administration, that in the
struggle for power, in the pursuit of
chimerical and perilous changes, they
invoked the aid of these detestable
allies, and periled the very existence
of society upon a struggle in which
they could not be successful, but by
the aid of powers which never yet
were let loose without devastating
the world with their fury.

" In vain," continues our author, " the
movement party protest against such a
result, and strive to support their opi-
nions by the strange paradox, that the
anarchy, towards which all their efforts
are urging us, will this time be gentle,
pacific, beneficent: that it will bring
back the days of legitimacy, and bring
them back by flowery paths. This bril-
liant colouring to the horrors of anarchy
is one of the most deplorable productions
of the spirit of party. For my part, I
see it in colours of blood ; and that not
merely from historic recollection, but the
nature of things. Doubtless we will not
see the Reign of Terror under the same
aspect : we will not see a Committee ef
Public Safety holding France enchained
with a hand of iron : we will not see
that abominable centralization of power :
but what we will see is a domiciliary
terror, more rapid and more atrocious :
more destructive than on the first occa-
sion, because it will be more nearly allied
to the passion for gain and plunder.
What will ultimately come out of it, God
only knows ; but this we may well affirm,
that when the revolutionary party shall
become master of France, it will slay and
spoil as it has slain and spoiled ; that it
will decimate the higher classes as it has
decimated them. I assert, that those of
the present leaders of the party who shall
oppose themselves to this horrible result,
and assuredly the greater number will do
so, will be crushed under the wheels of
the chariot which they have so insanely
put in motion. I maintain that this is a
principle of its existence — a law of na-
ture ; in fine, the means destined by Pro-
vidence for its extinction. Existing solely
on the support of the masses of mankind,

974

having 110 support but in their aid, it can
admit of no genius to rule its destinies
but their genius. Thenceforward it is
condemned, for its existence and its power,
to model itself on the multitude ; to live and
reign according to its dictation. And
the multitude, to use the nervous words
of Odillon Barrot, is ' characterised by
barbarity throughout all the earth.'

" Thence it is that every state, which
has once opened the door to democratic
doctrines, totters under the draught, and
falls, if it is not speedily disgorged.
Thence it is that every society which has
received, which has become intoxicated
with them, abjures the force of reason,
devotes itself to the convulsions of anar-
chy, and bids at once a long adieu to
civilisation and to freedom. For the
revolutionary party, while they are in-
cessantly speaking of ameliorations and
of perfection, is a thousand times more
adverse to the progress of the social order
and of the human mind, than the party
of the ancient regime, which at least
had its principal seat in the higher re-
gion of society ; a region cultivated,
fruitful in intelligence, and where the
progress of improvement, however sus-
pended for a time by the spirit of party,
cannot fail speedily to regain its course.
But our Revolutionists do more : they
bring us back to the barbarous ages, and
do so at one bound. All their policy may
be reduced to two points : within, Revo-
tion ; without, War. Every where it is
the same — an appeal to the law of the
strongest ; a return to the ages of bar-
barism."— P. 24*8.

Salvandy paints the classes whose
incessant agitation is producing
these disastrous effects. They are
not peculiar to France, but will be
found in equal strength on this side
of the Channel.

" Would you know who are the men,
and what are the passions, which thus
nourish the flame of revolution ; which
stain with blood, or shake with terror,
the world ; which sadden the people, ex-
tinguish industry, disturb repose, and
suspend the pi'ogress of nations ? Behold
that crowd of young men, fierce republi-
cans, barristers without bri^fjs, physicians
without patients, who make a revolution
to fill up their vacant hours,— ambitious
equally to have their names inscribed in
the roll of indictments for the courts of
assizes, as in the records of fame. And
it is for such ambitions that blood has
flowed in Poland, Italy, and Lyons ! The
rivalry of kings never occasioned more
disasters."—?. 270.

One of the most interesting parts

Salvandy on the late French Revolution.

[June,

of this valuable work, is the clear
and luminous account which the
author gives of the practical changes
in the constitution, ideas, and mo-
rals of France, by the late Revo-
lution. Every word of it may be
applied to the perils which this coun-
try runs from the Reform Bill. It
is evident that France has irreco-
verably plunged into the revolution-
ary stream, and that it will swallow
up its liberties, its morals, its exist-
ence.

" The constitution of the National
Guard," says our author, " is monstrous
from beginning to end. There has sprung
from it hitherto more good than evil, be-
cause the spirit of the people is still better
than the institutions which the revolu-
tionary party have given it ; and that they
have not hitherto used the arms so insane-
ly given them,*without any consideration.
But this cannot continue ; the election of
officers by the privates is subversive of all
the principles of government. The right
of election has been given to them ivithout
reserve, in direct violation of the Charter
on the precedent of 1791, and in confor-
mity to the wishes of M. Lafayette.

" In this National Guard, this first of
political powers, since the maintenance
of the charter is directly intrusted to it,
— in that power, the most democratic that
ever existed upon earth, since it consists
of six millions of citizens, equal among
each other, and possessing equally the
right of suffrage, which consists in a
bayonet and ball-cartridges, we have not
established for any ranks any condition,
either of election or of eligibility. It is
almost miraculous, that the anarchists
have not more generally succeeded in sei-
zing that terrible arm. They have done
so, however, in many places. Thence
has come that scandal, that terrible cala-
mity of the National Guards taking part
in the insurrections, and marching in the
ranks of anarchy with drums beating and
colours flying. The sword is now our
only refuge, and the sword is turned
against us ! While I am yet writing
these convictions in the silence of medi-
tation and grief, a voice stronger than
mine proclaims them in accents of thun-
der. Lyons has shewn them written in
blood. It is the handwriting on the wall
which appeared to Belshazzar." — P.391.

Of the changes in the electoral
body, and the power of Parliament,
effected since the Revolution of July,
he gives the following account :—

" The power of Parliament has been
strengthened by all which the royal au-

Salvandy on the late French Revolution.

1832.]

thority has lost. It has gained in addi-
tion the power of proposing laws in either
Chamber. The elective power, above all,
has been immensely extended ; for, of the
two Chambers, that which was esteemed
the most durable, and was intended to
give stability to our institutions, has been
so cruelly mutilated by the exclusions
following the revolution of July, and the
subsequent creations to serve a particular
purpose, that it is no longer of any weight
in the state. The whole powers of go-
vernment have centred in the Chamber
of Deputies."

The right of election has been ex-
tended to 300,000 Frenchmen; the
great colleges have been abolished ;
the qualification for eligibility has
been lowered one half as the qualifi-
cation for electing ; and the farmers
have been substituted for the great
proprietors in the power of a double
vote. The power of regulating the
affairs of departments has been de-
volved to 800,000 citizens ; that of re-
gulating the communes to 2,500,000.
The power of arms has been surren-
dered to all ; and the power of elect-
ing its leaders given to the whole
armed force without distinction.

" In this way property is entirely ex-
cluded from all influence in the election
of magistrates ; it has but one privilege
left, that of bearing the largest part of the
burdens, and every species of outrage,
vexation, and abuse. As a natural con-
sequence, the communes have been ill
administered, and nothing but the worst
passions regulate the election of their
officers. The municipal councils are com-
posed of infinitely worse members than
they were before the portentous addition
made to the number of their electors. To
secure the triumph of having a bad mayor,
a mayor suited to their base and ignorant
jealousies, they are constrained to elect
bad magistrates. A.byssus abyssum vo-
cat.

" In the political class of electors, the. ef-
fects of the democratic changes have been
still worse. The power of mobs has become
irresistible. The electoral body, which for
fifteen years has struggled for the liberties
of France, has been dispossessed by a body
possessing less independence, less intelli-
gence, which understands less the duties
to which it is called. Every where Ihc
respectable classes, sure of being outvoted,
have stayed away from the elections. In
the department in which I write, an hun-
dred voices have carried the election, be-
cause 300 respectable electors have not
made their appearance, In all parts of

975

the kingdom, the same melancholy spec-
tacle presents itself. The law has made
a class arbiters of the affairs of the king-
dom, which has the good sense to per-
ceive its utter unfitness for the task, or
its inability to contend with the furious
torrent with which it is surrounded ;
and the consequence every where has
been, that intrigue, and every unworthy
passion, govern the elections, and a set
of miserable low intriguers rule France
with a rod of iron. In the state, the de-
partment, the communes, the National
Guard, the prospect is the same. The
same principle governs the organization,
or rather disorganization, throughout the
whole of society. Universally it is the
lower part of the electoral body, which,
being the most numerous, the most reck-
less, and the most compact, ivhich casts
the balance ; in short, it is the tail which
governs the head. There is the profound
grievance which endangers all our liber-
ties. On such conditions, no social union
is possible among men.

" Recently our electors have made a
discovery, which fixes in these inferior
regions, not merely the power of election,
but the whole political authority in the
state ; it is the practice of exacting from
their representatives, before they are
elected, pledges as to every measure of im-
portance which is to come before them,
By that single expedient, the representa-
tive system, with all its guarantees and
blessings, has crumbled into dust. Its fun.,
damental principle is, that the three great
powers form the head of the state ; that
all three discuss, deliberate, decide, with
equal freedom on the affairs of the state.
The guarantee of this freedom consists
in the composition of these powers, the
slow method of their procedure, the
length of previous debates, and the con-
trol of each branch of the legislature by
the others. But the exacting of pledges
from Members of Parliament destroys
all this. Deliberation and choice are
placed at the very bottom of the political
ladder, and there alone. What do I say ?
Deliberation ! the thing is unknown even
there. A hair-brained student seizes at
the gate of a city a peasant, asks him if
he is desirous to see feudality with all its
seigneurial rights re-established, puts into
his hands a name to vote for, which will
preserve him from all these calamities,
and having thus sent him totally deluded
into the election hall, returns to his com-
panions, and laughs with them at having
thus secured a vote for the abolition of
the peerage.

" As little is the inclination of the
electors consulted in their preliminary
resolutions, It is • in the wine-shops,

Salvandy on the late French Revolution,

976

amidst the fumes of intoxication, that the
greatest questions are decided ; without
hearing the other side, without any
knowledge on the subject; without the
smallest information as to the matter on
which an irrevocable decision is thus ta-
ken. This is what is coiled the liberty of
democracy; a brutal, ignorant, reckless
liberty, which cuts short all discussion,
and decides every question without know-
ledge, without discussion, without exa-
mination, from the mere force of pas-
sion."

Of the present state of the French
press, we have the following empha-
tic account. Democracy, it will be
seen, produces every where the same
effects.

" At the spectacle of the press of
France, I experience the grief of an old
soldier, who sees his arms profaned. The
press is no longer that sure ally of free-
dom, which follows, step by step, the de-
positories of power, but without contest-
ing with them their necessary preroga-
tives, or striving to sap the foundations of
the state. It is an Eumenides, a Bac-
chante, which agitates a torch, a hatchet,
or a poniard ; which insults and strikes
without intermission; which applies it-
self incessantly, in its lucid intervals, to
demolish, stone by stone, the whole social
edifice; which seems tormented by a de-
vouring fever ; which requires to revenge
itself for the sufferings of a consuming
pride, by the unceasing work of destruc-
tion. In other states, it has been found
that calumny penetrates into the field of
polemical contest. But France has gone
a step farther ; it possesses whole work-
shops of calumny. Insult possesses its
seats of manufacture. We have nume-
rous journals, which live by attacking
every reputation, every talent, every spe-
cies of superiority. It is an artillery in-
cessantly directed to level every thine;
which is elevated, or serves or honours its
country. It is no wonder that the obser-
vation should be so common, that society
is undergoing an incessant degradation.
A society in the midst of which a disor-
der so frightful is daily appearing, with-
out exciting either attention or animad-
version, is on the high road to ruin. It
is condemned to the chastisement of hea-
ven."— Pp. 394—399.

One would imagine that the fol-
lowing passage was written express-
ly for the state of the British revolu-
tionary press, during the discussion
of the Reform Bill.

!• The more that the progress of the

[June,

revolution produced of inevitable conces-
sions to the passion for democracy, the
more indispensable it Avas, that the press
should have taken an elevated ground, to
withstand the torrent. The reverse has
been the case. Thence have flowed that
perpetual degradation of its tendency, that
emulation in calumny and detraction, that
obstinate support of doctrines subversive
of society, those appeals to the passions of
the multitude, that ostentatious display of
the logic of brickbats, that indignation at
every historic name, those assaults on
everything that is dignified or hereditary,
on the throne, the peerage, property itself.
Deplorable corruption ! permanent cor-
ruption of talent, virtue, and genius ! to-
tal abandonment of its glorious mission
to enlighten, glorifv, and defend its coun-
try."—P. 402.

The radical vice in the social sys-
tem of France, our author considers
as consisting in the overwhelming
influence given to that class a little
above the lowest^ in other words, the
L.10 householders, in whom, with
unerring accuracy, the revolution-
ists of England persuaded an igno-
rant] and reckless administration to
centre all the political power of this
country. Listen to its practical work-
ing in France, as detailed by this li-
beral constitutional writer : —

" The direct tendency of all our laws,
is to deliver over the empire to one single
class in society : that class, elevated just
above the lowest, which has enough of
independence and education to be inspi-
red with the desire to centre in itself all
the powers of the state, but too little to
wield them with advantage. This class
forms the link betiveen the upper ranks of
the Tiers Etat and the decided Anarchists ,•
and it is actuated by passion, the reverse
of those of both the regions on which it
borders. Sufficiently near to the latter
to be not more disturbed than it at the
work of destruction, it is sufficiently close
to the former to be filled with animosity at
its prosperity : it participates in the envy
of the one, and the pride of the other : a
fatal union, which corrupts the mediocrity
of their intelligence, their ignorance of
the affairs of state, the narrow and par-
tial view they take of every subject.
Thence has sprung that jealous and tur-
bulent spirit which can do nothing but
destroy : which assails with its wrath
every thing which society respects, the
throne equally with the altar, power
equally with distinction : a spirit
equally fatal to all above and all below
itself, which dries up all the sources of

1832.]

Salvandy on the late French Revolution*

prosperity, by overturning the principles,
the feelings, which form the counter-
poise of society ; and which a Divine le-
gislator has implanted on the most an-
cient tables of the law, the human con-
science.

" Thus have we gone on for eighteen
months, accumulating the principles of de-
struction : the more that we have need of
public wisdom for support, the more have
we receded from it. The evil will be-
come irreparable, if the spirit of disorder,
which has overthrown our authorities,
and passed from the authorities into the
laws, should find a general entrance into
the minds of the people. — There lies the
incurable wound of France." — Pp. 4-05.

It was in the face of such testi-
mony to the tremendous effect of
rousing democratic ambition in the
lowest of the middling class of so-
ciety ; it was within sight of an em-
pire wasting away under their wither-
ing influence, that the Reformers
roused them to a state of perfect
fury, by the prospect of acquiring,
through the L.10 clause, an irresisti-
ble preponderance in the state. We
doubt if the history of the world ex-
hibits another instance of such com-
plete infatuation.

Is the literature of France in such
a state as to justify a hope, that a
better day is likely to dawn on its
democratic society ? Let us hear
what the friend of constitutional
freedom says on that vital subject —

" There is a moral anarchy far worse
than that of society, which saps even the
foundation of order, which renders it
hardly consistent even with despotism :
utterly inconsistent with freedom. We
have seen political principles and belief
often sustain the state, in default of laws
and institutions ; but to what are we to
look for a remedy to the disorder which
has its seat in the heart ?

" Were literature to be regarded as the
expression of thought, there is not a hope
left for France. Literary talent now
shews itself stained with every kind of
corruption. It makes it a rule and a
sport to attack every sentiment and inte-
rest of which society is composed. One
would imagine that its object is to restore
to French literature all the vices with
which it was disgraced in the last century.
If, on the faith of daily culogiums, you
go into a theatre, you see scenes represent-
ed where the dignity of our sex is as much
outraged as the modesty of the other.
Every where the same spectacles await
you. Obscene romances are the model

077

on which they are all formed. The muse
now labours at what is indecent, as for-
merly it did at what would melt the heart.
How unhappy the young men, who think
they ape the elegance of riches by adopt-
ing its vices, — who deem themselves ori-
ginal, merely because they are retrogra-
ding, and who mistake the novels of Cre-
billon and Voltaire for original genius !
It would seem that these shameful excess-
es are the inevitable attendant of ancient
civilisation. How often have I myself
written, that that degrading literature of
the last century flowed from the corrup-
tions of an absolute monarchy ! And now
Liberty, as if to turn into derision my
worship at its altars, has taken for its
model the school of Louis XV., and im-
proved upon its infamous inspirations." —
Pp. 408-9.

This revolutionary torrent has bro-
ken into every department; it has
invaded the opinions of the thought-
ful, the manners of the active, the
morals of the young, and the sanctity
of families. The fatal doctrine of a ge-
neral division of property, is spread-
ing to an extent hardly conceivable
in a state possessing much property,
and great individual ability.

" When the spirit of disorder has thus
taken possession of all imaginations, when
the revolutionary herald knocks with re-
doubled strokes, not only at all the institu-
tions, but at all the doctrines and opinions
which hold together the fabric of society,
can property, the corner-stone of the edi-
fice, be respected ? Let us not flatter our-
selves with the hope that it can.

" Property has already ceased to be the
main pillar of the social constitution. It
is treated as conquered by the laws, as
an enemy by the politicians. Should the
present system continue, it will soon be-
come a slave." — Pp. 416.

" The proof that the revolutionary tor-
rent has overwhelmed us, and that we are
about to retrograde for several centuries,
is, that the principle of confiscation is
maintained without intermission, without
exciting any horror. An able young man,
M. Lherminier, has lately advanced the
doctrine, that society is entitled to dispos-
sess the minority, to make way for the
majority. Well, a learned professor of
the law has advanced this doctrine, and
France hears it without surprise. Nay,
farther, we have a public worship, an
hierarchy, missionaries — in fine, a whole
corps of militia, who go from town to town,
incessantly preaching to the people the
necessity of overturning the hereditary
descent of property ; and that scandalous

Salvandy on the late French Revolution.

978

offence is openly tolerated. The state per-
mits a furious association to be formed in
its very bosom, to divide the property of
others ! Yet more— the French society
assists at that systematic destruction of its
last pillar, as it would at a public game.
Lyons even cannot rouse them to their
danger, — the conflagration of the second
city in the empire fails to illuminate the
public thought."— Pp. 418-19.

In the midst of this universal fu-
sion of public thought in the revolu-
tionary crucible, the sway of reli-
gion, of private morality, and pa-
rental authority, could not long be
expected to survive. They have all
accordingly given way.

" Possibly the revolutionary worship
has come in place of the service of the
altar, which has been destroyed. Every
religious tie has long been extinguished
amongst us. But now, even its semblance
has been abandoned. A Chamber which
boasts of having established freedom, has
seriously entertained a project for the abo-
lition of the Sunday, and all religious
festivals. That would be the most com-
plete of all reactions, for it would at once
confound all ages, and exterminate every
chance of salvation.

" Such is the estimation in which reli-
gion is now held, that every one hastens
to clear himself from the odious aspersion
of being in the least degree attached to it.
The representatives in Parliament, if by
any chance an allusion is made to the
clergy, hurst out into laughter or sneer;
they think they can govern a people,
while they are incessantly outraging their
worship ; that cradle of modern civilisa-
tion. If a journal accidentally mentions
that a regiment has attended mass, all the
generals in the kingdom hasten to repel
the calumny, to protest by all that is
sacred their entire innocence, to swear
that the barricades have taught them to
forget the lessons of Napoleon, to bow
the knee at the name of God." — P. 420.

" In this universal struggle for disor-
ganization, the fatal ardour gains every
character. The contest is, who shall de-
molish most effectually, and give the
most vehement strokes to society. M. de
Schonen sees well that less good was
done by his courage in resisting the at-
tacks on the temples of religion, than evil
by the weight lent by the proposition for
divorce, to the last establishment which
was yet untouched, the sanctity of pri-
vate life. To defend our public monu-
ments, and overturn marriage, is a pro-
ceeding wholly for the benefit of anarchy;
I say overturn it ; for in the corrupted
state of society where we live? to dissolve

[June,

its indissolubility, is to strike it in its
very essence." — Pp. 4-13, 413.

" The recent Revolution has exhibited
a spectacle which was wanting in that of
1789. Robespierre, in the Constituent
Assembly, proposed the abolition of the
punishment of death : no one then thought
of death, none dreamed of bathing them-
selves in blood. Now, the case is widely
different— We have arrived at terror at
one leap. It is while knowing it, while
viewing it full in the face, that it is se-
riously recommended. We have, or we
affect, the unhappy passion for blood.
The speeches of Robespierre and St
Just are printed and sold for a few stftis,
leaving out only his speech in favour of the
Supreme Being. All this goes on in
peaceable times, when we are all as yet
in cold blood, without the double excuse
of terror and passion which palliated

their enormities Poetry has taken the

same line. The Constitutionel, while
publishing their revolting panegyrics on
blood, [expresses no horror at this ten-
dency. Incessantly we are told the reign
of blood cannot be renewed ; but our days
have done more, they have removed all
horror at it."— P. 421.

On the dissolution of the heredi-
tary Peerage, the great conquest of
the Revolution, the following stri-
king observations are made.

" The democrats, in speaking of the
destruction of the hereditary Peerage,
imagine that they have only sacrificed an
institution. There never was a more
grievous mistake ; they have destroyed
a principle. They have thrown into the
gulf the sole conservative principle that
the Revolution had left; the sole stone
in the edifice which recalls the past ; the
sole force in the constitution which sub-
sists of itself. By that great stroke,
France has violently detached itself from
the European continent, violently thrown
itself beyond the Atlantic, violently mar-
ried itself to the virgin soil of Pennsyl-
vania, whither we bring an ancient, dis-
contented, and divided society ; a popula-
tion overflowing, which, having no de-
serts to expand over, must recoil upon
itself, and tear out its own entrails ; in
fine, the tastes of servitude, the appetite
for domination and anarchy, anti-reli-
gious doctrines, anti-social passions, at
which that young state, which bore Wa-
shington, nourished freedom, and believes
in God, would stand aghast.

" The middling rank has this evil in-
herent in its composition ; placed on the
confines of physical struggle, the inter-
vention of force does not surprise it ; it
submits to its tyranny without revolt,

1832.]

Saloandy on the late French Revolution.

Has it defended France, for the last six-
teen months, from the leaden sceptre
which has so cruelly weighed upon her
destinies ? What a spectacle was exhi-
bited when the Chamber of Peers, re-
splendent with talent, with virtues, with
recollections dear to France, by its con-
scientious votes for so many years, was
forced to vote against its conviction ; for-
ced, I say, to bend its powerful head before
a brutal, jealous, and ignorant multitude.
The class which could command such a
sacrifice, enforce such a national humilia-
tion, is incapable of governing France ;
and will never preserve the empire, but
suffer it to fall into the jaws of the pitiless
enemy, who is ever ready to devour it."
—P. 487.

" No government is possible, where the
mortal antipathy exists, which in France
alienates the lower classes in possession of
power from the ascendant of education
or fortune. Can any one believe that
power will ultimately remain in the
hands of that intermediate class which is
detached from the interests of property,
without being allied to the multitude ? Is
it not evident, that its natural tendency
is to separate itself daily more and more
from the first class, to iinite itself to the
second? Community of hatred will occa-
sion unity of exertion ; and the more that
the abyss 5s enlarged which separates the
present depositaries of power from its na-
tural possessors, the more will the masses
enter into a share, and finally the exclu-
sive possession, of power. Thence it will
proceed from demolition to demolition,
from disorder to disorder, by an inevit-
able progress, and must at length end in
that anti-social state, the rule of the mul-
titude.

" The moment that the opinion of the
dominant classes disregards established in-
terests, that it takes a pleasure in viola-
ting those august principles which con-
stitute the soul of society, we see an abyss
begin to open ; the earth quakes beneath
our feet—the community is shaken to its
very entrails. Then begins a profound and
universal sense of suffering. Capital disap-
pears ; talents retreat — become irritated
or corrupted. The national genius be-
comes intoxicated — precipitates itself into
every species of disorder, and bears aloft,
not as a light, but a torch of conflagration,
its useless flame. The whole nation is
seized with disquietude and sickness, as on
the eve of those convulsions which shake
the earth, and trouble at once the air, the
earth, and the sea. Every one seeks the

979

causes of this extraordinary state ; it is to
be found in one alone — the social state is
trembling to its foundations.

" This is precisely the state we have
been in for sixteen months. To conceal
it is impossible. What is required is to
endeavour to remedy its disorders. France
is well aware that it would be happy if it
had only lost a fifth of its immense capital
during that period. Every individual in
the kingdom has lost a large portion of his
income. And yet the revolution of 1830
was the most rapid and the least bloody
recorded in history. If we look nearer,
we shall discover that every one of us is
less secure of his property than he was
before that moral earthquake. Every one
is less secure of his head, though the Reign
of Death has not yet commenced ; and in
that universal feeling of insecurity is to
be found the source of the universal suf-
fering. "—I I. 491.

But we must conclude, however
reluctantly, these copious extracts.
Were we to translate every passage
which is striking in itself, which
bears in the most extraordinary way
on the present crisis in this country,
we should transcribe the whole of
this eloquent and profound disquisi-
tion.

If it had been written in this coun-
try, it would have been set down as
the work of some furious anti-re-
former ; of some violent Tory, blind
to the progress of events, insensible
to the change of society. It is the
work, however, of no anti-reformer,
but of a liberal Parisian historian, a
decided supporter at the time of the
Revolution of July ; a powerful op-
ponent of the Bourbons for fifteen
years in the Chamber of Deputies.
He is commended in the highest terms
by Lady Morgan, as one of the rising
lights of the age;* and that stamps
his character as a leader of the libe-
ral party. But he has become en-
lightened, as all the world will be, to
the real tendency of the revolution-
ary spirit, by that most certain of all
preceptors, the suffering it has occa-
sioned.

One would have imagined, from
the description he has given of the
state of France, since the Revolution
of July, that he was describing the
state of this country under the dis-
cussion of the Reform Bill; the pro-

* France, II, 342.

VOL, XXXI. NO, CXCV.

Satvandy on the late French Revolution.

980

bable tendency of the L.10 franchise ;
the universal languor and suffering
which has followed the promulgation
of that fatal change. Yet he is only
describing the effects of triumphant
reform in France. The inference is
twofold; that the spirit now con-
vulsing this country under the name
of Reform, is the true revolutionary
spirit, and that yet more acute and
lasting distress may be confidently
anticipated from its final triumph,
than has attended the long and he-
roic resistance made to its progress.
Salvandy, like all the liberal party
in France, while he clearly perceives
the deplorable state to which their
revolution has brought them, and the
fatal tendency of the democratic
spirit which the triumph of July has
so strongly developed, is unable to
discover the remote cause of the
disasters which overwhelm them.
At this distance from the scene of
action, we can clearly discern it.
" Ephraim," says the Scripture, " has
gone to his idols; let him alone."
In these words is to be found the
secret of the universal suffering, the
deplorable condition, the merciless
tyranny, which prevails in France.
It is labouring under the chastise-
ment of Heaven. An offended Deity
has rained down upon it a worse
scourge than the brimstone which
destroyed the cities of the Jordan —
the scourge of its own passions and
vices. The terrible cruelty of the
Reign of Terror — the enormous in-
justice of the revolutionary rule, is
registered in the book of fate ; the
universal abandonment of religion
by all the influential classes, has led
to the extirpation of all the barriers
against anarchy which are fitted to
secure the well-being of society. Its
fate is sealed; its glories are gone ;
the unfettered march of passion will

r [June,

overthrow every public and private
virtue ; and national ruin will be the
consequence. We are following in
the same course, and will most cer-
tainly share in the same punishment.
In this melancholy prospect let us
be thankful that the conservative
party have nothing with which to
reproach themselves; that though
doomed to share in the punishment,
they are entirely guiltless of the
crime. Noble indeed as was the
conduct of the Duke of Wellington,
in coming forward at the eleventh
hour, to extricate the Crown from
the perilous situation in which it
was placed, and the degrading thral-
dom to which it was subjected, we
rejoice, from the bottom of our
hearts, that the attempt was frus-
trated. Had he gone on with the
Bill as it stood, from a sense of over-
whelming necessity, all its conse-
quences would have been laid on
its opponents. The Whigs brought
in the Reform Bill— let them have
the execrable celebrity of carrying
it through. Let them inscribe on
their banners the overthrow of the
constitution; let them go down to
posterity as the destroyers of a
century and a half of glory; let
them be stigmatized in the page of
history as the men who overthrew
the liberties of England. Never
despairing of their country, let the
great and noble conservative party
stand aloof from the fatal career of
revolution ; let them remain for ever
excluded from power, rather than
gain it by the sacrifice of one iota of
principle ; and steadily resisting the
inarch of wickedness, and all the
allurements of ambition, take for
their motto the words of, ancient
duty, "Fais ce que dois: advienne
ce que pourra."

1833.]

The Maid of Etvar.

981

THE MAID

POETRY, which, though not dead,
had long been sleeping in Scotland,
was restored to waking life by THOM-
so\. His genius was national; and
so, too, was the subject of his first
and greatest song. By saying that
his genius was national, we mean
that its temperament was enthusias-
tic and passionate ; and that, though
highly imaginative, the sources of its
power lay in the heart. The Castle
of Indolence is distinguished by
purer taste, and finer fancy; but with
all its exquisite beauties, that poem
is but the vision of a dream. The
Seasons are glorious realities ; and
the charm of the strain that sings the
" rolling year" is its truth. But what
mean we by saying that the Seasons
are a national subject ? — do we assert
that they are solely Scottish ? That
would be too bold, even for us ; but
we scruple not to assert, that Thom-
son has made them so, as far as might
be without insult, injury, or injustice,
to the rest of the globe. His suns
rise and set in Scottish heavens j his
" deep-fermenting tempests, are
brewed in grim evening" Scottish
skies; Scottish is his thunder of
cloud and cataract ; his " vapours,
and snows, and storms," are Scottish ;
and, strange as the assertion would
have sounded in the ears of Samuel
Johnson, Scottish are his woods, their
sugh, and their roar ; nor less their
stillness, more awful amidst the
vast multitude of steady stems, than
when all the sullen pine-tops are
swinging to the hurricane. A dread
love of his native land was in his
heart when he cried in the soli-
tude—

" Hail, kindred glooms ! congenial hor-
rors, hail !"

The genius of HOME was national
- —and so, too, was the subject of his

OF EL v AIL*

. i if

first and greatest song — Douglas.
He had studied the old Ballads.
Their simplicities were sweet to
him as wallflowers on ruins. On the
story of Gill Morice, who was an
Earl's son, he founded, 'tis said, his
Tragedy, which surely no Scottish
eyes ever witnessed without tears.
Are not these most Scottish lines ? —

" Ye woods and wilds, whose melancholy

gloom
Accords with my soul's sadness !"

And these even more intensely so,—

" Red came the river down, and. loud

and oft
The angry Spirit of the waters shrieked !"

The Scottish Tragedian in an evil
hour crossed the Tweed, riding on
horseback all the way to London.
His genius got Anglified, took a con-
sumption, and perished in the prime
of life. But on seeing the Siddons in
J^ady Randolph, and hearing herlow,
deep, wild, wo-begone voice ex-
claim, " My beautiful ! my brave !'*
" the aged harper's soul awoke,"
and his dim eyes were again lighted
up for a moment with the fires of
genius — say rather for a moment be-
dewed with the tears of sensibili-
ty, re-awakened from decay and do-
tage.

The genius of BEATTIE was nation-
al, and so was the subject of his great-
est song — The Minstrel. For what is
its design ? He tells us, to trace the
progress of a poetical genius born
in a rude age, from the first dawn-
ing of reason and fancy, till that pe-
riod at which he may be supposed
capable of appearing in the world as
a Minstrel ; that is, as an intinerant
poet and musician, — a character
which, according to the notions of
our forefathers, was not only re-
spectable, but sacred.

" There lived in Gothic days, as legends tell,

A shepherd swain, a man of low degree ;
Whose sires perchance in Fairyland might dwell,

Sicilian groves and vales of Arcady ;
But he, I ween, was of the North Countrie ;

A nation famed for song and heauty's charms j
Zealous yet modest ; innocent though free ;

Patient of toil, serene amid alarms ;

Inflexible in faith, invincible in arms.

* The Maid of Elvar.
Edward Moxon, London.

A Poem, in Twelve Parts. By Allan Cunningham,

The Maid ofElvar.

" The shepherd swain, of whom I mention made,

On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock ;
The sickle, scythe, or plough, he never swayed :

An honest heart was almost all his stock ;
His drink the living waters from the rock ;

The milky dams supplied his board, and lent
Their kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock ;

And he, though oft with dust and sweat besprent,

Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er they went !"

[June,

Did patriotism ever inspire genius
with sentiment more Scottish than
that? Did imagination ever create
scenery more Scottish ? Manners,
Morals, Life? Never. What ! not
the following stanzas ?

1108

" Lo ! where the stripling rapt in wonder

roves
Beneath the precipice o'erhung with

pine ;
And sees, on high, amidst th' encircling

groves
From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents

shine :
\Vhile waters, woods, and winds, in con-

cert join,

And echo swells the chorus to the
skies !"

Beattie pours there like a man who
had been at the Linn of Dee. He
wore a wig, it is true; but at times,
when the fit was on him, he wrote
like the unshorn Apollo.

The genius of GRAIIAME was na-

tional, and so too was the subject of
his first and best poem — The Sab-
bath.

" How still the morning of the hallow-
ed day !" .:{{wt|

is a line that could have been utter-
ed only by a holy Scottish heart.
For we alone know what is indeed
Sabbath silence — an earnest of ever-
lasting rest. To our hearts, the very
birds of Scotland sing holily on that
day. A sacred smile is on the dewy
flowers. The lilies look whiter in
their loveliness; the blush-rose red-
dens in the sun with a diviner dye ;
and with a more celestial scent the
hoary hawthorn sweetens the wild-
erness. Sorely disturbed of yore,
over the glens and hills of Scotland,
was the Day of Peace !
" O, the great goodness of the Saints of
Old!"

the Covenanters. Listen to the Sab-
bath-Bard.

" With them each day was holy ; but that morn

On which the angel said, See where the Lord

Was laid, joyous arose ; to die that day

Was bliss. Long ere the dawn by devious ways,

O'er hills, through woods, o'er dreary wastes, they sou

The upland muirs where rivers, there but brooks,

Dispart to different seas. Fast by such brooks

A little glen is sometimes scooped, a plat

With greensward gay, and flowers that strangers seem

Amid the heathery wild, that all around

Fatigues the eye : in solitudes like these,

Thy persecuted children, Scotia, foiled

A tyrant's and a bigot's bloody laws:

There, leaning on his spear, (one of the array

Whose gleam, in former days, had scathed the rose

On England's banner, and had powerless struck

The infatuate monarch, and his wavering host !)

The lyart veteran heard the word of God

By Cameron thundered, or by Ren wick poured

In gentle stream : then rose the song, the loud

Acclaim of praise. The wheeling plover ceased

Her plaint ; the solitary place was glad ;

And on the distant cairn the watcher's ear

Caught doubtfully at times the breeze-borne note.

But years more gloomy followed ; and no more

The assembled people dared, in face of day,

To worship God, or even at the dead

Of night, save when the wintry storm raved fierce,

• ffc 8BW

d 'fto
3 ifodl fo

Off

-

832.]

to

.

The Maid ofElvar.

And thunder-peals compelled the men of blood
To couch within their dens; then dauntlessly
The scatter'd few would meet, in some deep dell
By rocks o'ercanopied, to hear the voice,
Their faithful pastor's voice : He hy the gleam
Of sheeted lightning oped the sacred book,
And words of comfort spake : over their souls
His accents soothing came, as to her young
The heathfowl's plumes, when, at the close of eve,
She gathers in, mournful, her brood dispersed
By murderous sport, and o'er the remnant spreads
Fondly her wings ; close nestling 'neath her breast
They cherished cower amid the purple bloom."

The genius of SIR WALTER SCOTT,
it will not be denied, is pretty na-
tional, and so are the subjects of all
liis noblest works, be they Poems, or
Novels and Romances by the Author
of Waverley. Up to the era of Sir
Wai ter,living people had some vague,
general, indistinct notions about dead
people mouldering away to nothing
centuries ago, in regular kirk-yards
and chance burial-places, " 'mang
inuirs and mosses many O," some-
where or other in that difficultly dis-
tinguished and very debateable dis-
trict called the Borders. All at once
he touched their tombs with a divi-
ning rod, and the turf streamed out
ghosts. Some in woodmen's dresses
— most in warrior's mail — green arch-
ers leapt forth with yew-bows and
quivers — and giants stalked shaking
spears. The grey chronicler smiled ;
and, taking up his pen, wrote in lines
of light the annals of the chivalrous
and heroic days of auld feudal Scot-
land. The nation then for the first
time knew the character of its ances-
tors ; for those were not spectres —
not they indeed — nor phantoms of
the brain — but gaunt flesh and blood,
or glad and glorious; — base-born cot-
tage-churls of the olden time, because
Scottish, became familiar to the love
of the nation's heart, and so to its pride
did the high-born lineage of palace-
kings. The worst of Sir Walter is,
that he has harried all Scotland.
Never was there such a freebooter.
He harries all men's cattle — kills
themselves off hand, and makes
bonfires of their castles. Thus has
he disturbed and illuminated all
the land as with the blazes of a
million beacons. Lakes lie with
their islands distinct by midnight as
by midday ; wide woods glow glo-
riously in the gloom ; and by the
stormy splendour, you even see ships,
with all sail set, far at sea. His themes

- O'iom V1
in prose or numerous verse, are
still " Knights and Lords and mighty
Earls," and their Lady-Loves— chief-
ly Scottish— of Kings that fought
for fame or freedom — of fatal Flod-
den and bright Bannockburn — of the
DELIVERER. If that be not national
to the teeth, Homer was no Ionian,
Tyrtseus not sprung from Sparta, and
Christopher North a Cockney. Let
Abbotsford, then, be cognomen'd by
those that choose it, the Ariosto of
-the North — we shall continue to call
him plain, simple, immortal Sir Wal-
ter.

We are confining our affection at
present, you perceive, to those great
or good poets, to whom, from the
nature of their genius and its sub-
jects, we are induced to apply, with
all propriety of speech, the delight-
ful and endearing term, Scottish.
Our enlightened neighbours, the
Transtweeddalecarlians, cannot feel
the works of those worthies as we
do — the racy flavour of the Scottish
spirit either produces no impression
on their palate, (the organ of taste,')
or an unpleasant one — like the breath
of the heather bloom in the dark
delicious Highland honey— like the
twang of the peat-reek in the moun-
tain dew, when it rejoices in those
tempting trissyllables, Farintosh and
Glenlivet. Still the Southrons suck
the one and sip the other with wry
faces; and they were wont to be
curious exceedingly about the Great
Unknown. We have, however, among
us Poets and Poetesses, who — God
bless them — though far from anti-
national, are Scottish chiefly by birth;
not but that a fine, free, pure Cale-
donian air hovers around their ge-
nius— not but that its bright consum-
mate flower blushes, to our eyes at
least, as if coloured by the boreal

Of such high and clear class, look

984

The Maid ofElvar.

[June,

at two glorious living specimens —
THOMAS CAMPBELL and JOANNA BAIL-
LIE. In his boyhood, Campbell wan-
dered " to distant isles that hear the
wild Corbrechtan roar," and some-
times his Poetry is like that whirlpool ;
the sound is as of the wheels of many
chariots. Yes — happy was it for the
author of the Pleasures of Hope,
that in his youth he " walked in
glory and in joy/' along the many-
mountain-based, hollow- rumbling
western coast of that unaccountable
county, Argyllshire. The sea-sound
cultivated his naturally fine musical
ear, and it sank, too, into his heart.
Hence is his prime Poem a glad,
sad, sweet, solemn, grave, and glo-
rious production, bright with hope
as is the sunny sea, when sailors'
sweethearts on the shore are look-
ing out for ships, and from a foreign
station, lo ! down before the wind
comes the fleet, and the very shells
on the sand beneath their footsteps
seem to sing aloud for joy. As for
Joanna, she is our Tragic Queen ; but
she belongs to all place as to all time ;
and Scott hath said — let them who
dare gainsay it — that he saw her ge-
nius, in a similar fair shape, sailing
by the side of the Swan of Avon.
Yet Joanna loves to touch the pas-
toral reed ; and then we think of the
tender dawn, the clear noon, and
the bright meridian of her life, past
among the hanging cliffs of the silvan
Calder, and in the lonesome heart
of the dark Strathaven muirs.

Not a few other sweet singers or
strong, native to this nook of our isle,
might we now in these humble
pages lovingly commemorate; and
" two shall we mention, dearer than
the rest," for sake of that virtue,
among many virtues, which we have
been lauding all along, their nation-
ality;— these are Mom and POL-
LOK.

Of our own " delightful Delta," as
we once called him— and the epi-
thet now by right appertains to his
name — we shall now say simply this,
that he has produced many original
pieces which will possess a perma-
nent place in the poetry of Scotland.
Delicacy and grace characterise his
happiest compositions; some of them
are beautiful in a cheerful spirit that
has only to look on nature to be
happy ; and others breathe the sim-

plest and purest pathos. His scenery,
whether sea-coast or inland, is al-
ways truly Scottish; and at times his
pen drops touches of light on minute
objects, that till then had slumbered
in the shade, but now " shine well
where they stand" or lie, as compo-
nent and characteristic parts of our
lowland landscapes. Let others la-
bour away at long poems, and for
their pains get neglect or oblivion ;
Moir is immortalized in many short
ones, which the Scottish Muses may
" riot willingly let die." And that
must be a pleasant thought when it
touches the heart of the mildest and
most modest of men, as he sits by
his family-fire, beside those most
dear to him, after a day past in
smoothing, by his skill, the bed and
the brow of pain, in restoring sickness
to health, in alleviating sufferings
that cannot be cured, or in mitiga-
ting the pangs of death.

Pollok had great original genius,
strong in a sacred sense of religion.
Such of his short compositions as
we have seen, written in early youth,
were but mere copies of verses, and
gave little or no promise of power.
But his soul was working in the green
moorland solitudes round about his
father's house, in the wild and beau-
tiful parishes of Eaglesham and
Mearns, separated by thee, O Yearn !
sweetest of pastoral streams that
murmur through the west, as under
those broomy and birchen banks and
trees, where the grey-linties sing, is
formed the clear junction of the rills,
issuing, the one from the hill-spring
far above the Black-waterfall, and
the other from the Brother-loch. The
poet in prime of youth (he died in
his twenty- seventh year) embarked
on a high and adventurous em-
prise, and voyaged the Illimitable
Deep. His spirit expanded its wings,
and in a holy pride felt them to be
broad, as it hovered over the dark
abyss. The " Course of Time," for
so young a man, was a vast achieve-
ment. The book he loved best was
the Bible, and his style is often scrip-
tural. Of our poets he had studied,
we believe, but Young, Milton, and
Byron. He had much to learn in
composition; and, had he lived, he
would have looked almost with hu-
miliation on much that is at present
eulogized by his devoted admirers.

1832.]

The Maid of Elvar.

But the soul of poetry is there, though
often dimly enveloped, and many
passages there are, and long ones
too, that heave, and hurry, and glow
along in a divine enthusiasm.

<{ His cars he closed, to listen to the

strains

That Sion bards did consecrate of old,
And fix'd his Pindus upon Lebanon."

But there now arises before us
such a Brotherhood of Bards as could
have been born and bred — nay, frown
not, fair or gallant Southron — only
in Scotland. The Bards belonging
by divine right to the People — the
household Bards of hut and shieling,
dear to the dwellers on the hill and
river sides, and to those who, like
the cushats, have their nests in the
woods. Allan Ramsay, Michael
Bruce, Robert Fergusson, ROBERT
BURNS, James Hogg, and though last,
not least, Allan Cunningham — the
Barber, the Schoolmaster, the She-
riff's Clerk Engrosser, the Plough-

man, the Shepherd, the Stone-Ma-
son ! And has not Scotland reason to
be proud of her wigs, her taws*
her very charges of horning, her
plough-coulters, and the teeth of her
harrows, her gimmers and her " tar-
ry woo," her side walls and her ga-
ble-ends— seeing that the same minds
that were busied with such matters,
for sake of a scanty and precarious
subsistence, have been among the
brightest on the long roll which
Fame, standing on the mountains,
unfolds to the sunshine and the winds,
inscribed with the names of some
of the wide world's most prevailing
Poets ?

Theocritus was a pleasant Pasto-
ral, and Sicilia sees him among the
stars. But all his dear Idyls toge-
ther are not equal in worth to the
single Gentle Shepherd. Habbie's
Howe is a hallowed place now among
the green airy Pentlands. Sacred
for ever the solitary murmur of that
waterfa' !

" A flowerie howm, between twa verdant braes,
Where lasses use to wash and spread their claes ;
A trotting burnie, wimpling through the ground,
It's channel pebbles, shining, smooth, and round :
Here view twa barefoot beauties, clean and clear,
'Twill please your eye, then gratify your ear ;
While Jenny what she wishes discommends,
And Meg, Avith better sense, true love defends !"

" About them, and sicklike,1' is the
whole Poem. Yet " faithful loves
shall memorize the song." Without
any scenery but that of rafters, which
overhead fancy may suppose a grove,
'tis even yet sometimes acted by rus-
tics in the barn, though nothing on this
earth will ever persuade a humble
Scottish lass to take a part in a play;
while delightful is felt, even by the
lords and ladies of the land, the sim-
ple Drama of lowly life ; and we our-
selves have seen a high-born maiden
look " beautiful exceedingly" as Pa-
tie's Betrothed, kilted to the knee in
the kirtle of a Shepherdess.

FERGUSSON'S glory lies in his Far-
mer's Ingle being the rude proto-
type of the Cottar's Saturday Night.
It suggested the theme to Burns, and
from his genius came forth that heart-
born poem in its perfection. Poor
Fergusson ! he grew mad ! When
committed— says Campbell, follow-
ing Irvine — to the receptacle of the
insane, a consciousness of his dread-

ful fate seemed to come over him.
At the moment of his entrance he
uttered a wild cry of despair, which
was re-echoed by a shout from all
the inmates of the dreadful mansion,
and left an impression of inexpressi-
ble horror on the friends who had
the task of attending him. His mo-
ther, being in extreme poverty, had
no other mode of disposing of him.
A remittance, which she received a
few days after from a more fortunate
son, who was abroad, would have
enabled her to support the expense
of affording him attendance in her
own house ; but the aid did not ar-
rive till the poor maniac had expired.
On his first visit to Edinburgh, Burns
traced out the grave of Fergusson,
and placed a Monument over it at his
own expense, inscribed with verses
of appropriate feeling. And thus
honoured, his name, though some-
what dim now, survives, nor ever
will wane away utterly the melan-
choly light.

The Maid ofElvar.

[June,

Like a strong man, rejoicing to
run a race, we behold BURNS, in his
golden Prime; and glory gleams from
the Peasant's head, far and wide over
Scotland. See the shadow tottering
to the tomb ! frenzied with fears
of a prison — for some five pound debt
— existing, perhaps, but in his disea-
sed imagination — for, alas ! sorely dis-
eased it was, and he too, at last, seem-
ed something insane, — he escapes
that disgrace in the grave. Buried
with his bones be all remembrances
of his miseries ! But the spirit of song,
which was his true spirit, unpolluted
and unfallen, lives, and breathes, and
has its being, in the peasant-life of
Scotland ; his songs, which are as
household and sheepfold words, con-
secrated by the charm that is in all
the heart's purest affections, love
and piety, and the joy of grief, shall
never decay, till among the people
have decayed the virtues which they
celebrate, and by which they were
inspired; and should some dismal
change in the skies ever oversha-
dow the sunshine of our national
character, and savage storms end in
sullen stillness, which is moral death,
in the poetry of Burns the natives of
happier lands will see how noble
was once the degenerated race that
may then be looking down disconso-
lately on the dim grass of Scotland
with the unuplifted eyes of cowards
and slaves.

Among hills that once were a
forest, and still bear that name, and
by the side of a river not unknown
in song, lying in his plaid on a brae
among the " woolly people," see an-
other true son of genius — THE ET-
TRICK SHEPHERD.

We are never so happy as in prai-
sing James ; but pastoral poets are
the most incomprehensible of God's
creatures; and here is one of the
best of them all, who confesses the
Chaldee and denies the Noctes !

The Queen's Wake is a garland of
fair forest flowers, bound withaband
of rushes from the moor. It is not
a poem — not it — nor was it intended
to be so; you might as well call a
bright bouquet of flowers a flower,
which, by the by, we do in Scotland.
Some of the ballads are very beau-
tiful ; one or two even splendid ;
most of them spirited ; and the
worst far better than the best that

baB^iio raid

ever was written by any bard in
danger of being a blockhead. " Kil-
meny" alone places our (aye, our)
Shepherd among the Undying Ones.
London soon loses all memory of
lions, let them visit her in the shape
of any animal they please. But the
Heari of the Forest never forgets.
It knows no such word as absence.
The Death of a Poet there, is but the
beginning of a Life of Fame. His
songs no more perish than do flowers.
There are no Annuals in the Forest.
All are perennial ; or if they do in-
deed die, their fadings away are in-
visible in the constant succession —
the sweet unbroken series of ever-
lasting bloom. So will it be in his
native haunts with the many songs
of the Ettrick Shepherd. The lochs
may be drained — corn may grow
where once the Yarrow flowed — nor
is such change much more unlike-
ly than in the olden time would
have been thought the extirpation of
all the vast oak-woods, where the
deer trembled to fall into the den of
the wolf,and the wild boar barrowed
beneath the eagle's eyrie. All ex-
tinct now ! But obsolete never shall
be the Shepherd's plaintive or
pawky, his melancholy or merry,
lays. The ghost of " Mary Lee"
will be seen in the moonlight coming
down the hills; the "" Witch of
Fife" on the clouds will still be-
stride her besom ; and the " Gude
Grey Cat" will mew in imagination,
were even the Last Mouse on his last
legs, and the feline species swept off
by war, pestilence, and famine, and
heard to pur no more !

And now, thank heaven ! — you
will say with us — we are brought
within touch of the broad back and
shoulders of ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
For a long time past we have seen
them in the gloom of the vista. We
knew not but that it might be a sha-
dow— but we have come in contact
with firm flesh and blood. Honest
Allan ! So was the mighty minstrel
pleased to call him, in spite of that
wild youthful trick of his on poor
Cromek. " Remains of Nithsdale
and Galloway Song" indeed ! Some
snatches of old strains there were ;
and these were sufficient to inspire
a kindred genius, which whispered
many more "so sweetly, complete-
ly," in the ear of Love, i^i

4oa ilouin

1832.]

The Maid o/Elvar.

All persons— in Scotland, and they
are too few in our cities — of any
poetical feeling, or knowledge of
poetry, who, took the trouble of ca-
ring about the produce of native ge-
nius that might not have yet gained
itself a name, saw in these "Re-
mains," so many fine touches of na-
ture, so many sweet glimpses of
fancy, that they desired to learn
something of the obscure, but mani-
festly no common man, who had in
this strange way ventured, with
doubts and fears, to try what the
world might think of such verses as
his, composed, perhaps, during the
very hours of labour, or at gloaming,
when his hand had let down the mal-
let, and as his heart was free. All
the initiated soon saw through the
harmless disguise; and the name of
Allan Cunningham soon began to be
known, though a good many years
elapsed before it was familiar to the
public. Mark Macrabin, or the Cove-
nanter, a prose tale of great power,
which appeared in this Periodical,
was highly appreciated ; so were a
series of tales and traditions which
he published in the London Maga-
zine, and afterwards in a separate
form, in two volumes. We believe
that they have not had a very wide
circulation; but nobody can read
them without admiration of the
author's genius.

All their scenes are laid in the
south of Scotland, and almost all in
his native district; an intimate know-
ledge, of course, is shewn in them
of all that is most interesting and
impressive in the life and character
of their inhabitants now, or of old ;
and some of them, in respect of cir-
cumstance, incident, and event, as
well as sentiment, passion, and cha-
racter, are admirable Stories too, al-
though they are, in general, more
distinguished by excellence of the
latter than of the former kind. Their
chief fault is, we think, too much
elaboration both of imagery and pas-
sion ; and included in that, a style
of language not sufficiently varied,
so as to suit the different characters
and conditions of the interlocutors
in the dialogues, which are lavishly
introduced, and which, though al-
ways very eloquent — indeed often
too much so— and frequently most
poetical — perhaps sometimes too
much so, likewise — do, oftener than

987

we could wish, get a little wearisome
from the monotony of their manner,
and a certain rich sameness which
palls upon the sense of beauty, till
it longs for a barer board and sim-
pler fare. Mr Cunningham some years
ago produced a dramatic poem, Sir
Marmaduke Maxwell, imbued with
a fine, bold, martial spirit, and full
of fresh descriptions of natural ob-
jects ; but his reputation as a poet
has, perhaps, been raised higher,
and more widely spread, by songs
and ballads occasionally appearing
in the Annuals, and other periodi-
cals, than by any of his other and
more ambitious efforts ; and no
wonder — for the most felicitous of
them are exquisite, and a few that
have been set to music, have become
blended with the popular poetry of
Britain.

But highly as the Public had by
this time estimated Allan Cunning-
ham's talents, it was not prepared,
we suspect, to receive from his hands
such a work as the " Lives of the
Painters, Sculptors, and Architects."
In these volumes (five, we think, in
number ?) he has shown the most
searching sagacity, the finest and
truest taste — the taste of genius —
and wide and accurate knowledge
of the works and peculiar faculties
of the most eminent artists. In treat-
ing of their personal characters,
which it was his duty to do, he has
spoken as man should speak of man,
boldly and freely, in all cases where
moral qualities lie in the open light,
and where there can be " no mis-
take." But, at the same time, Allan
is reverential; and never unautho-
rizedly lifts up the veil from before
those frailties incident to all human
virtue, and surely not to be exposed
to the eyes of the world then only
when to virtue it has pleased God to
add the gift of genius. Allan's style,
in these volumes, is wonderfully im-
proved since the time he wrote his
Tales and Traditions. It is terse,
precise, and compact ; but animated,
too, earnest, and eloquent. Nor is it
without the charm of a certain quaint-
ness, characteristic of a man who
loves to take his own way in feeling,
thinking, speaking, and writing; and
who, knowing that there is no self-
conceit in that, cares not though
"small critics, wielding their deli-
cate pens," accuse him of it, and even

988

set down to the score of affectation,
mannerisms which are the growth,
and the genial growth too, of a strong
and fearless nature. We regard the
work of which we now speak, as,
under all circumstances, one of the
most remarkable in our literature.
It is already one of the British class-
ics.

In the midst of all this present
ferment, Allan has not hesitated to
publish — a poem — a rustic tale — in
twelve parts. For a while, its course
may be impeded by a press of poli-
tical pamphlets. But though such
trash may for a while obstruct its
progress, nay, overlay itself, yet in
due season, and that erelong, it will
reappear, moving victoriously on. It
will not be in the power of that dead
weight to smother the Maid of Elvar.

But now for our critique.

Sir Ralph Latoun, a Cumberland
Chief, having obtained, in reward for
his services, agrant from Henry V1IL,
of as much land as he can conquer
in Scotland, crosses the Solway, and
making sad slaughter among the
Maxwells and Kirkpatricks, finds
himself, as he thinks, in possession
of a principality in fair Nithsdale.

" His golden casque he took,

And waved it glittering ; on his brow the

steam
He gladly fanned, and out his tresses

shook,
Then eyed his martial shadow in the

stream,
And looked of Nith's green vale lord in

his own esteem."

But Eustace Grame, a dalesman

The Maid of Elvar.

[June,

of low degree, gathers his peasant-
peers, and surprising Sir Ralph and
his power with sudden onslaught on
briar y, broomy, and boughy ground,
" when England's practised squad-
rons strove in vain," the invaders
sustain a total overthrow. Sir Ralph
flies to the Frith, and as he is about,
without any followers, to re-embark,
sees on the shore Fair Sybil Lesley
of Elvar-Hall, who disdains the fugi-
tive, but whom he swears he will
woo and win on a brighter day.
" Proud looked the lady — prouder was her

word,

' I'll live a slave unto the humblest hind,
Or with my life's blood stain my father's

sword,

Before that Ralph Latoun is Sybil Les-
ley's lord.'"

Meanwhile Eustace Grseme, "with
all his comrades free," returns to his
father's house in Dalgonar Glen, the
principal scene of the poem. His
advent and arrival are hailed by
maids and matrons, who shower
flowers over the head of the hero.
Part First is occupied with animated
and picturesque descriptions of all
these daring doings and their happy
rewards.

Sybil Lesley, the Maid of Elvar,
has a heroic spirit; and she sends a
summons far and wide for all min-
strels to come to her castle by the Sol-
way, to sing how the " Scottish spears
did tame the pride of Sir Ralph La-
toun," vowing " with gold to bind
the brow" of him whose strain is
victorious.

" By pure Dalgonar, Eustace sat alone,
And sighed, and said, ' This green and gladsome earth
Has given me neither land nor lofty birth ;
Fame knows me not by either deed or word :
Then shall I to the poet-strife go forth,
'Mongst golden-mantled minstrels; me, the lord
But of an ivory pipe and a well-tempered sword?'

" So by the rirer Eustace sat, and took
Drink from the stream, and from the wild-tree fruit :
Nor e'er before was shadowed in the brook
A fairer figure or a fleeter foot ;

His bright looks spoke e'en though his lips were mute,
And when he talked, his voice was sweeter far
Than song of lark, or sound of harp or lute.
Straight as a rush, and pure as morning star
He shone ; sweet song he loved far more than strife and war.

" He bathed his temples white, and lightly placed
His plumed bonnet on his shining brow j

1 832.] The Maid of Elvar. 989

And on his limbs his buskins tighter laced.
Forth from his pouch an ivory pipe he drew,
And on the breeze some charmed notes he threw ;
Then down the glen he bounded like a roe :
He leapt one brook, another waded through,
And like a sunbeam o'er the mountain, lo !
As swift, and scarce less bright, see the enthusiast go.

" He with his spirit as he went communed —
* I go — for surely it is sweet to hear
The harp to songs of inspiration tuned
By some bold minstrel, soldier, priest, and seer ;
And her of Elvar, men, too, far and near,
Report so passing lovely, none may look
On her but love. Poor Eustace, slender fear
Of thee! what high-born damsel e'er forsook
Her golden hall to grace a peasant's clay-built nook ?'

" Dalgonar Glen he leaves behind, and Dee
Glimmers before him, dark and deep and loud,
Lifting his voice and calling on the sea ;
Threive his broad banner 'gainst the sun hangs proud ;
Above the eagle mingles with the cloud ;
The heath below the moor-cock's bosom brushes;
Old Criffel mountain from his morning shroud,
Touched with the sunbeam into glory rushes,?!
While like a maiden's cheek the fieaven above him blushes.

" He clomb up Falconhill, and distant down
Looked on a valley strewn with herb and flower,
Close girdled in with uplands high and brown,
Deep fenced with groves and many a holly bower :
High in the middle rose an ancient tower,
Round which a stream kept singing in its flowing ;
Upon the whole the sun bui'st, and a shower
Of radiance fell ; tower, stream, and tree were glowing,
Arid wild birds' carollings mixed with the milch-cows' lowing.

" But other sights and other sounds were there ;
Poets and harpers, raven-locked or hoary,
Sat mantled proud amid the sunny air,
To sounds divine to add inspired story,
And sing of heroes' deeds, of patriot glory —
And Scotland saved from thraldom. All about
Stood warriors famed in many a border foray :
The Herries, Halliday, the Maxwell stout,
With sandalled beadsmen bald, all silent and devout.

" The minstrel strife called forth ten thousand feet.
Ae sent her maids demure and meek as nuns,
And moorland Annan sent her damsels sweet ;
Romantic Nith poured forth her stately sons :
And men who dwell where haunted Cluden runs,
That morning treading on the unsunned dews,
Came with their looks all bright as summer suns ;
Mute on the far-seen Solway much they muse,
Her bosom white with foam and sunshine and sea-mews.

" The men were there too of the rocky Orr,

With those who sing along the pastoral Dee ;

They came from lake and stream, and vale and shore,

The inland mountain, and the greenwood tree.

It was a proud sight, Eustace thought, to see

. /wnuitf

990 The Maid of Eh ar. [June,

Maidens and youths in many a lusty throng,
All in the sunshine mirthsome as a bee,
And like the bee, too, as they stream along,
Raising a joyous din, and humming many a song."

Young Eustace joins the throng; ambuscade. " On a green knoll hem-
but not before he has held short con- med with broom as with a garland,"
verse with a visorcd horseman, in between two fair handmaidens, stands
whom the reader, but not the min- the Maid of Elvar, in beauty that is
etrel, recognises the bold Sir Ralph, eclipse. Her eyes fall on Eustace,
who in a near glen has placed an

... i A r t. •

" A peasant surely, yet or such an air
As spoke high nobleness of soul : his mien
Was modest, and his garb a deep sea-green.
Just then his bonnet from his brow he took,
And shook his glossy ringlets back: I ween

That lady read in his enthusiast look
_ ,, ,,,, ,.» t • * -,

Of bards and heroes thoughts as clear as in a book.

" She read right. For though to the pastures green
He drove his flocks in summer time, and took
Them from the mountains when the frost came keen,
To warm and sunward lairs by bank and brook •
Though sword, scythe, ploughshare, and the sharp rcap-hook,
He knew them all; his chief, his soul's delight,
Was pondering deep on Nature's mystic book ;
On elves, and fays, and shapes which haunt the night,
He mused, and limned their looks by Fancy's wizard light."

The lady is now aware that there that may soon be love. She en-
stands before her the young hero courages him to try his fortune and
who saved the land ; and the heart his skill in minstrelsy, saying with a
in that fair bosom — but proud as smile —
fair — begins to beat with admiration

" « Foifme

The rudest sough of nature hath a charm ;
Her voice untamed, untutored, frank, and free,
Comes from the heart, and comes forth wild and warm.
Sing what thou wilt — let no vain fears alarm-
Thy spirit, take this sculptured harp and try
Its strength — a bard can work its strings no harm ;'
He bowed — he took the harp with downcast eye,
Unclasped his mantle green, and laid his bonnet by."

And after " doing her spiriting" simple tradition, toucliingly told, if

gently and strongly, among all such we mistake not, by Allan himself, in

matters as these, Allan brings plea- plain prose, in a note to one of the

sant Part Second to a close. Four Volumes of his " Scottish

Part Third opens with the Prize- Songs," a collection of our antique

Poem sung by Eustace to a sculp- native ballads, enriched by numerous

tured harp given into his hands by notices by the most enthusiastic of

those of Sybil. It is founded on a commentators.

" When Eustace ceased, he sought away to go — •
But from the knoll-heads and the holly bowers,
There came upon him like the drifting snow,
Green plaited wreaths, while garlands of ripe flowers
O'er him by white hands shaken were in showers;
And ever and on there came a gladsome shout —
* Where is a warrior and a bard like ours ?
Go, minstrels, break the harp and burn the lute,
And in the strife of song for evermore be mute.'

1832.] The Maid of Elvar. 991

" There with the golden chaplet in her hand,
And her long ringlets reaching nigh her feet —
Did the young veiled Sybil Lesley stand ;
Beside her two handmaidens, grave, discreet,
Mute, hearkening to the strain so sadly sweet—
Of that true tale her cheek took every hue,
Her heart smote sore against her side, and beat
Till it was heard— her large eyes, bright and blue,
Flowed with the tender strain, and dewed her white veil through.

" She said, ' Young hard, while woods grow green, and while
Flowers bloom in summer, waters fill the Dee ;
Birds sing, fish swim, and maids on mankind smile,
And heath has honey for the murmuring bee ;
So long shall men delight in naming thee,
In palace, cottage, tower — on stream and lake ;
Far as that brook's exceeded by yon sea —
So doth thy song surpass all others ; take
This golden chain, and say you wear it for my sake.'

" Around his neck the long and linked gold,
Warm with her own white bosom's heat, she hung ;
* The bold in song may be in all things bold,'
She said, and back her flowing veil she flung.
I've seen the looks of which blest poets sung —
The faces monarchs knelt to : I have known
The loveliness from dreams and visions sprung —
But she transcended all — fair Sybil shone
Like to a new-found star, all lovely and alone.

" He knelt, and as he knelt she turned away,
And like a sunbeam down the vale she flew
With all men's praises with her : twilight grey
Descended glad, and o'er her beauty threw
A veil sedate, dipt in the scented dew —
The grass o'er which her painted mantle swept,
Seemed proud to be so touched ; nor rein she drew,
Nor glanced behind, but sometimes sighed, and kept
Her way to Elvar Hall, where Solway's waters slept."

The grand musical and poetical ged way, through Ruthwell's pine-
festival dissolves ; Eustace Greeme trees dark, where in a fire-scorched
hies homeward to Dalgonar Glen, tower he holds a confabulation about
and Sir Ralph, whom the minstrel has his future fate, with a strange shape
vanquished and braved, offering to surnamed Sir Goblin,
shew against the knight's three hun- In Part Fourth the poet paints ad-
dred horse with southern blade in mirably the festivities of Harvest-
yonder glen, four hundred Scottish home Eve, within the proud towers
lances, spurs down an eerie and rug- of Elvar.

" There is no want of gladness and great mirth ;
The harper with a merrier hand the strings
Sweeps, and the pride of blood and lordly birth
Is slumbering with all other slumbering things.
Loud joy hath lost its feet and found its wings ;
Where Lady Sybil dances in the hall
The old men gaze, young men lean round in rings; '"'
The portraits of her lineage on the wall
Seem touched with sudden life, rejoicing one and all.

" And she hath called to mind an Interlude
Or rustic play, where Waste makes war on Thrift.
Forth to the floor there steps'a peasant shrewd,
Who of each national drollery knows the drift.

992 The Maid of Elvar. [June,

With lighted torch he sings and dances swift ;
Soon by his side a maiden o'er the floor
Moves grave, and scarce her foot at first can lift ;
She bears a distaff in her hand, and sure
Draws out the thrifty thread, and sings a song demure.

" Thrift dances as she sings, and all her strain
Is of domestic gladness, fireside bliss,
And household rule ; nor thought loose, light or vain,
Stains her pure vision of meek happiness;
Religion's comforts, wedlock's holy kiss,
The white web bleach'd by maiden's whiter hand,
The lisping children in their homespun dress,
The wealth which gathers 'neath Thrift's magic wand,
The fame of a chaste life amid a virtuous land.

" Waste danced, and sang a free strain and a light ;
Of young Joy's foot which gaily out can measure
Life's weary way; of Love, whose fingers white
Strew all youth's way with fresh flowers pluck'd from pleasure ;
And Laughter loud, who never yet found leisure
To pause and think ; and Merriment, who coins
The tears of sadness into current treasure ;
And Wantonness, his hot lips moist with wines,
And Pleasure ever gay, with loose ungirded loins.

" They danced with many an antique touch and turn,
And like wild levin flashed and flew about ;
Waste with his torch strove aye the roke to burn,
While Thrift as nimble as the starting trout,
When slacks the sharp shower and the sun shines out,
Turn'd, wheel'd, and flew — and there rose such a clamour :
* O well done, Thrift!' the hoary-headed shout;
While young men's tongues rung sharp as a steel hammer —
* Waste,, well done, Waste! now nought will save the roke but glamour.'"

Sir Ralph the Reaver, who has Weary she seemed, like one strayed far

crossed the roaring Sol way in a spec- frae hame,

tre- vessel, built by some necroman- And no one knew her face, and no one
tic shipwright, bursts in upon the knew her name."
Morality with fifty warriors ; but the Who she be but s bil Lesl ?
Maid ot Elvar, with such presence But in that lowl peasant garb, none
ot mind as becomes her line evades discover the highborn Maid of El-
Rape m the confusion, and by a se- yar> In a fevvfo words the han

£',etiSt2!r/SCa.Pu8 mtV,he ^oods' tells her state, veiling, but not vio-
The baffled ravisher sets Elvar Tower lati the trutb the fine feel} that

on fire, and recrosses the Solway. belongs to tbe household of Miles
The sun rises again, and is again Grseme is not inquisitive; and she
about to sink on Dalgonar Glen and tbat cam6j ]ike Rufchj to tbe harvest.
Hill, when, to the wonder of the fieldj fillds herseif received into the
reapers, family less as a hired servant than
" o'er the new-shorn field a Maid- a daughter. This scene is very beau-
en came ; tiful.
Her feet the short sharp stubble filled
with pain;

" ' O reverend Sir!' — thus said the stranger maid-
No reap-hook rustled while she meekly spoke —
' Far from my home in sore distress I've strayed ;
To pastures green, say, can I lead thy flock,
Or dress ripe corn, or twine the white hause-lock?
The churchyard turf on my dear mother lies ;
My father sailed and perish'd.' 'Gainst a shock
She leaned, arid few and bitter were her sighs,
And half she turned her round to hide her glistening eyes.

1832.] The Maid of Elvar. 993

" Her by the hand Miles Graeme affectionate took — •
Said, ' Weep not, maiden, thou shalt with me go,
And like a daughter grace my cottage nook ;
Eupheme loves eyes which are acquaint with woe.
In twining flax or fleeces white as snow,
Or pressing fragrant curd, come, shew thy skill ;
Or add that sweet voice, musical and low,
To tender songs which make the heart-strings thrill ;
Or to the glad pipe dance, when snowy winds are shrill.'

" She looked up ruddy as the rose of June,
And thanked him with her eyes. Horns told aloud
That day was done; stars glimmered; shearers soon
Dropt their reap-hooks, and in the crystal flood
Cooled their hot hands and hrows, all toil bedewed :
Homeward they went, and as they went they sung
Of holy love, or some unholy feud;
Or told sad tales which live but on the tongue
Of hinds, and made us weep when we were soft and young.

<{ Even while he spoke, he at his open door
Arrived, and o'er the threshold led the maid ;
A peat-fire sparkled on the smooth stone floor,
And round the house a twinkling twilight made;
Which first the form and then the thrift display'cl
Of his Eupheme, who toiled that she might tell
How with her wheels her husband she arrayed
For kirk or fair : she looked up — she knew well
It was a stranger's foot that on the threshold fell.

" She smiled a welcome as she looked, and met
A look all loveliness. ' Eupheme, I say,
Haste thee, and sweetest of all sweet things get,
For this young thing hath walked a weary way ;
God's hand hath ta'en her kindred all away —
She goes unfriended through this world alone.'
' O welcome to me as the light of day,'
The matron said ; ' Cheer thee, thou beauteous one,
Old eyes like mine should weep' — nor made she farther moan."

But where is Eustace ? which Pride hesitates not to assume

" Far from the pasture moor at the bidding of a first affection.

He came ; the fragrance of the dale and Such cheat might not be in these

wood passionless and unimaginative days

Was scenting all his garments green and of ours ; but though there be little

good. or no poetry now in the ongoings of

A sudden flush, when he the maiden saw, life, either high or humble, there is

Burned through his temples, kindled up surely still some in people's hearts ;

his blood ; and Fancy, that has ever delighted

His stifling breath waxed nigh too light in such metamorphosis, will delight

to draw, in it still, when wrought as it is here

He bowed, and silent stood in wonder- by genius, trusting, in its homeliness,

ment and awe." to tne pOwer of nature.

Part Fifth begins with an ingeni- But what of Miles Gneme, the

ous shadowing forth of her own con- father ? Why,

dition, and her love for Eustace, for " That old man is richer than he seems ;"

whose sake she has sought Dalgonar r

Glen in her flight from the sack of for h.e fo1* many a year had been a

the Tower of Elvar, and Allan con- wanderer far from Scottish land—

trives to let sweet Sybil "say her say" " Had Heshbon-hill, Sinaij and Carmel,
with so much artlessness in her art, tr°d »"

so much sincerity in her hypocrisy, and home returning, had, with good
that we love the lovely lady all the Lord Maxwell, battled for Scotland's
better^ for her wiles, and feel that right. But when " right was over-
there is no loss either of dignity or come by might," lie had been stript
of modesty in the innocent disguise of his proud inheritance —

994 The Maid of Eh ar. [Jutie,

" he cared

Not who was king, or triumphed in the land ;
Brave Holyrood, and all its glittering guard,
Seemed less to him than did a grain of sand ;
The shepherd's crook, more than proud knighthood's brand
He prized, and in Dalgonar Glen he took
Health by the left, and Peace by the right hand ;
More than red wine loved he the murmui'ing brook,
And deemed himself unknown and blotted from the book

" Of Scotland and her chivalry. « Now look,
Fair Sybil,' said he, Eustace Graeme, ' and mark
O'er many a farm-house, many a ranked stook,
Our pastoral country's upland barrier dark,
Where flocks graze numerous and the sheep-dogs bark ;
Along yon moorland brown with heather bells,
There swarm the honey-bees and sings the lark ;
While grouse, which summer saw burst from their shells,
Rough-footed run o'er knowes where moss-bees build their cells.

" ' Nor deem, because it wants the cowslipped knolls,
The white swans grazing the flower-bordered flood,
The lily beds which scent the naked soles
Of pilgrims, witk the scallop-shell and rood,
That it is desolate utterly and rude :
The bracken y dells, the music of the rills,
The skipping lambs — e'en the wild solitude —
The crystal tarn, where herons droop their bills,
The mute unchanging glory of the eternal hills :

" ' Mute, save for music of the many bees,
And dead, save for the plover and the snipe ;
Such scenes and sounds would thee, young maiden, please,
And all those souls escaped from Mammon's gripe.
To pluck blae-berries luscious, black, and ripe ;
To reap the snowy fleece with sharpen'd shears,
To dance — to listen to the shepherd's pipe,
To drink his tales in with delighted ears
The deeds of other days, and thoughts of other years.

" * All these are lovely, and*" I've proved them all.
Or is thy heart touched and delighted more
With the glad farmer when he strews his hall
With rushes, and, like Ceres' self of yore,
The corn-crowned maiden ushers o'er the floor ;
With shout and clap of hand, and sound of horn,
And dames behind upon her ringlets pour
All odorous things, as thick as dews at morn,
To honour her whose hand cut the last stalk of corn^?' "

The impassioned Eustace thinks, lie knows not why, of the face of the
Maid of Eivar, while she bound the garland round his brow; but his de-
scription, continued through several glowing stanzas, of the joys of rural
life, is addressed to the humble Maiden, who is already at her allotted task.

" Young Sybil bared her arms, her tresses wound
Above her brow, laid out the wool, and lo !
Like swarming bees the big wheel sends a sound,
And there came yarn like satin smooth and round :
E'en while the damsel plies her pleasant task,
She sings of love that knows no let nor bound, — ,
Love that speaks every tongue, wears every mask,
And fills the heart with joy, as sweet wine tills the flask."

1832.] The Maid of Elvar. 995

We are now in the heart of the " In some small kirk upon the sunny brae,

Poem. And it beats with a fine, free, That stands all by itself on some sweet

bold, and healthful spirit. Along with Sabbath day."
the growth of the mutual love of

Eustace and Sybil, Allan paints with . *?fl memory and the imagination

pen as with pencil (it often reminds °f Eustace are haunted still by the

us of Wilkie's) Peasant-Life. He is jW«.« the Lady of the Tower;

as familiar with it all as Burns ; and bu.t 8Pj!« ot that sorcery, coming and

Burns would have perused with g°m£ llke a shadow, the beauteous

tears many of these pictures, even the bondmaid is stealing her way into

most cheerful— for the flood-gates ^ heart, and on her humble bed

of Robin's heart often suddenly flung she Ves smil,mg> through the mght-

themselves open to a touch, while 1 watches, at the thought of that other

rushing gush — wondering gazers se"» ner onv rlval- .

knew not why— bedimmed the lamp- .Many charming pictures might be

like lustre of his large black eyes. Al- selected from parts sixth, seventh,

Ian gives us descriptions of Washings eighth, ninth, and tenth— but though,

and Watchings o' claes, as Homer has when we do revl.ew P°etry, we al-

done before him in the Odyssey, and ways grace our critique— else vain—

that other Allan in the Gentle Shep- Wlth larger and more numerous ex-

herd-of Kirks and Christenings, and tracts than any other periodical— all

Hallowe'ens, and other Festivals, critics but ourselves being loath to

Nor has he feared to string his lyre be eclipsed even by the poets they

—why should he ?-to such themes praise— still, even our articles have

as the Cottar's Saturday Night— and their limits ; and besides, though we

the simple ritual of our faith, sung borrow, we do not rob; and our aim

and said 18 but to gl°rify the giver. The fol-
lowing stanzas are exquisite : —

" They prayed, they slept, they rose. The Sabbath morn
Is sweet — all sounds save nature's voice is still ;
Mute shepherd's song-pipe, mute the harvest horn :
A holier tongue is given to brook and rill.
Old men climb silently their cottage-hill,
There ruminate and look sublime abroad ;
Shake from their feet, as thought on thought comes still,
The dust of life's long dark and dreary road ;
And rise from this gross earth, and give the day to God.

" Dalgonar kirk her warning bell hath rung,
Glade, glen, and grove, sound with the solemn strain,
Wide at the summons every door is flung,
And forth devout walks many a hoary swain,
Their spouses with them ; while a gayer train
Their daughters come, and gladden all the road.
Of laughing eyes, ripe lips, and ringlets vain,
And youths like lambs upon the sunny sod,
Come light of heart and foot, and seek the house of God.

" It was a gladsome thing, up hill and glen
Upon the morn of the Lord's-day to look ;
For every place poured forth its stately men
And matrons with staid steps and holy book.
Where'er a cottage stood or streamed a brook,
Or rose a hall, or towered a castle grey,
Youth left its joys, old age its care forsook :
Meek beauty grew, and looked sedately gay,
Nor at her shadow glanced as she went on her way.

" There Eustace came as nature comes, all clad,
In homely green, and much with hoary men
VOL, XXXI. NO. CXCV, # S

996* The Maid of El car. [June,

He cams conversing, and sedately glad,
Heard stories which escaped historic pen,
To live with hinds on hill or pastoral glen ;
And much they talked upon their kirk ward way
Of ancient heroes, who hy Hood and fen,
Triumphed, or fell to English swords a prey ;
Then paused, and held their hands towards their tombstones grey.

" Before them walked young Sybil, as a beam
Strayed from the sun upon creation's morn ;
Pure as the daylight in the running-stream
By which she walked, sweet as a rose new born
To summer. * Eustace,' thus said John of Some,
' What maid is she, who goes thy mother by ;
Comes she to watch the fold or reap the corn ?
See, now she glances hitherward her eye, —
Aye, aye ! I read her look, and understand thy sigh.'

" ' Ye read both wrong, perchance. All woe-begone,
On Roodsmass eve she to my father came,'
Thus Eustace said, * and with her orphan moan
Won so his heart, that to my mother hame
He took her. Sitting by our chamber flame
I found her — while her cheeks with blushes dyed,
She told her sorrows, and she told her name :
And as she spoke, the rose and lily tried
Which best became her looks.' — ' Peace, peace,' the old man cried,

" ' And heaven forgive us, if to think and speak

Of heaven's best works in purenessbe a crime.'

He spoke, and passed the churchyard gate, and meek

Trod with a foot religious through the clime,

Where mortal might had closed accounts with time ;

And every footstep measured kindred dust.

There poets slept 'rieath unmelodious rhyme ;

There misspelt prose of matron fame took trust,

The rough graved igger's spade stood there red o'er with rust. > isrfj baA

;>q Qd3 no — *

" Filled was each seat, and thronged was every pew; 'ftasbififfl.

A sea of foreheads, tresses waving grey,

White necks and eyes of heaven's divinest blue

Were there. Arose the preacher up to pray :

A learned and bold man of the elder-day,

With Rome he warred and struck her idols blind,
And wooed much sin and levity away

From lord and peasant, bondmaiden and hind
And poured o'er all the strength and fulness of his mind.

" And well and wisely preached he in that hour
Of virtue's glory, which can never fade ;
And sweetly sung the people, roof and tower
Rung with the mournful melody they made ;
Their heart and soul lent matron and lent maid ;
The wild were awed, the souls of sinners shook :
Her swelling bosom cambric-zoned, she laid
Fair Sybil o'er the bless'd inspired book :
Faith glowed upon her brow; heaven lightened in her look.

iltr§ootfl"j&nd there were eyes the sacred page forsook,
To gaze enraptured on the stranger fair ;
Hearts with love's fever for the first time shook,
And even the preacher, in his parting prayer,
-9« Ollt iir- Shut his dark eyes, and warned men to beware
Of beauty. 'Midst them like a star she shone,

'biiivs ri!

1 832.J The Maid of El-oar.

Or a pure lily born in May-morn air,
Or rose the moment of its opening : none
Could look on her but wished to look on her alone.

" All looked on her, save Eustace Grseme, for he
Had his heart full of other love ; when, tall
And fair before him Sybil rises, see
Whiter than snow she lets her white veil fall
O'er face and form, and walks forth 'mongst them all :
Eustace looked up, and looked up with a start ;
He thought her sure the maid of Elvar-hall,
And love of her rushed through him like a dart ;
But ere three burning throbs were numbered by his heart,

" He saw 'twas Sybil. Straight he 'gan to muse
On tales of yore, when high-born dames did pass
From tapestried halls unto the greenwood boughs,
And trimm'd their ringlets in some fountain glass ;
And supt and sung with shepherd lad and Inss,
To cool their bosoms kindled with love fire :
Or with the twin lambs, seated on the grass,
Twined garlands, while the birds' assembled choir
Sung over-head of love, and kept alive desire."

997

Ere mid-winter, there are no more
misgivings in the heart of Eustace ;
and the orphan bondmaid has quench-
ed there all dreamy desires for the
Maid of Elvar ; her living loveliness,
for ever before his eyes, has eclipsed
that other beauty in its visionary
brightness, and in a clasp of agoni-
zing bliss at the solitary mid-day
hour there is Betrothment. Allan
writes about love like a strong man.
And there is fire in the Confession
— on the part of Eustace— on Sybil's
maidenly shamefacedness, and the
shedding of much tears. Thence-
forth Dalgonar Glen is Paradise —
and in its midst is the garden of
Eden; though blocked up now by
the snow-drifts perhaps twenty
feet high, and though the white-
mottled air sing savagely beneath
the chill obscure of the disappearing
skies,

" There glows within the summer of the
soul !"

The bridal day is not, perhaps,
fixed ; but Eustace has left the glen
for the town to " buy the marriage
gear," and on his return meets cer-
tain dim ominous circumstances,
which alarm his imagination with
forebodings of some wild calamity,
lluffians have carried off Sybil. He
knows at once that Sir Ralph Latoun
is the ravisher, and flies with a bold
band to cross the Sol way Frith. They
burst in upon the Reaver in his fast-
ness, just as Sybil is about to under-

go the marriage ceremony from the
hands of a vile abbot, and in the con-
fusion of the onset she escapes to
the shore, the Scots shewing stout
light with the Cumbrians to cover
her retreat. Eustace kills Sir Ralph
in single combat on the sand ; and
the shallop, with rescued Sybil on
board, recrosses the Solway to the
Tower of Elvar. The gates open
to receive them ; the Discovery,
which is well managed, ensues, and
Eustace embraces his noble bride.
But a Pilgrim, who had been with
the rescue, steps forward and forbids
the banns. He declares himself Sy-
bil's father, come from afar, and
long thought dead; and swears that
" never churl's son shall be of Elvar
lord." Miles Graeme, the father of
Eustace, now thinks it his turn to
take up the topic, and proclaims him-
self " the Good Lord Herries," who,
long ago, had lost rank and land,
warring with the Lord of Elvar. The
course of true love now runs smooth;
and the Palmer says —

" ' Come here, my Sybil ; Eustace, then,

my son ;
, Each other love, and long by Solway

Frith
Be blest together, and your thoughts be

one ! '
He blest them ; they Avere blest. My

Rustic Tale is done."

And let us now, free from the pe-
dantic formality that usually charac-
terises written criticism, which is

998

The Maid of Elvar.

[June,

nothing unless, forsooth, elaborate,
discuss conversationally, as it were,
with ourselves the merits of this
" Rustic Tale." To appreciate them
properly, we must carry along with
us, during the perusal of the poem,
a right understanding and feeling of
that pleasant epithet — Rustic. Rus-
ticity and Urbanity are polar oppo-
aites — and there lie between many
million modes of Manners, which
you know are Minor Morals. But
not to puzzle a subject in itself suf-
ficiently simple, the same person
may be at once rustic and urbane,
and that, too, either in his character
of man or of poet, or in his twofold
capacity of both; for observe that,
though you may be a man without
being a poet, we defy you to be a
poet without being a man. A Rustic
is a clodhopper ; an Urban is a pa-
viour. But it is obvious that the
paviour in a field hops the clod ;
that the clodhopper in a street paces
the pavee. At the same time, it is
equally obvious that the paviour, in
hopping the clod, performs the feat
with a sort of city-smoke, which
breathes of bricks; that the clod-
hopper, in pacing the pavee, over-
comes the difficulty with a kind of
country air, that is redolent of broom.
Probably,too,Urbanus through a deep
fallow is seen ploughing his way in
pumps ; Rusticus along the shallow
stones is heard clattering on clogs.
But to cease pursuing the subject
through all its illustrations, suffice it
for the present (for we perceive that

we must resume the discussion in
another article) to say, that Allan
Cunningham is a living example
and lively proof of the truth of our
Philosophy — it being universally al-
lowed in the best circles of town and
country, that he is an URBANE RUS-
TIC.

Now, that is the man for our love
and money, when the work to be
done is a Poem on Scottish Life. For
observe, that though there are towns
and cities in broad Scotland, such as
Edinburgh, Glasgow, Paisley, Green-
ock, Ayr, and Dumfries, yet she con-
sists chiefly in hills and valleys ; nor
need we tell you, that, without dis-
paragement to the architectural ge-
nius of her Hamiltons, her Burns,
and her Playfairs, any one of her
hills or valleys is worth all her towns
and cities jumbled together in one
mighty metropolis. Look at Edin-
burgh— and look at Clydesdale ; and
with a holy fervour you exclaim with
Cowper,

" God made the country, but Man made
the town."

Allan has often visited Dumfries,
but he was born in Dalgonar. Dum-
fries is a pretty town, and genteel
are its inhabitants. But Dalgonar is
a glorious glen, and its natives are
" God Almighty's gentlemen and la-
dies." And thus it is that our Poefc
delighteth in both — and both in our
Poet; and that, by the waters of the
Nith, the green Tree of his fame
shall be eternal.

" Vale of Dalgonar, dear art thou to me !
Dearer than daylight to the sick at heart ;
Hills rise atween us and wide rolls the sea,
Only to prove how passing dear thou art ;
'Tis with my feet not with my heart ye part,
Dear are your fairy dales and flowery downs,
Your woods, your streams where silver fishes dart ;
Your martyrs' graves, your cots, your towers, your towns,
Grey sires and matrons grave, with their long mourning gowns."

It may be shewn from Horace, we
understand, and other classical au-
thorities, that Rustic and Rural are
not synonymes. We never said they
were ; but we do say they are near
akin — freres — brothers uterine — in
truth, twins. Had Allan called The
Maid of Elvar a Rural Tale, we
do not know that we should have
quarrelled with him on that score ;
we remember Milton's " Rural Vil-
lages and Farms ;" but we feel that

he has chosen the more appropriate
term, Rustic. It comprehends not
only the scenery of the country, but
its inhabitants and their occupations ;
and is instinct with spirit. All this
is very questionable doctrine, on land
debateable ; but supposing it to pass,
is the Poem rustic? Intensely so,
and therein lies its power. We can
say of Allan, what Allan says of
Eustace —

1832.]

The MaidofElvar.

999

<( far from the pasture moor

He comes ; the fragrance of the dale and

wood
Is scenting all his garments, green and

good."

The rural imagery (mark how we
observe our distinction) is fresh and
fair ; not copied Cockney- wise, from
pictures in oil or water-colours—
from mezzotintoes or line-engravings
— but from the free open face of
day, or the dim retiring face of eve,
or the face, " black but comely," of
night — by sunlight or moonlight, ever
Nature. Sometimes he gives us —
Studies. Small, sweet, sunny spots
of still or dancing day — stream-gleam
— grove-glow — sky-glimpse — or cot-
tage-roof in the deep dell sending
up its smoke to the high heavens.
But usually Allan paints with a
sweeping pencil. He lays down his
landscapes, stretching wide and far,
and fills them with woods and rivers,
hills and mountains, flocks of sheep
and herds of cattle ; and of all sights
in life and nature, none so dear to
his eyes as the golden grain, ebbing
like tide of sea before a close long
line of glancing sickles — no sound
so sweet as, rising up into the pure
harvest-air, frost-touched though sun-
ny— beneath the shade of hedge-
row-tree, after their mid-day meal,
the song of the jolly reapers. But
are not his pictures sometimes too
crowded? No. For there lies the
power of the pen over the pencil.
The pencil can do much, the pen
every thing; the Painter is impri-
soned within a few feet of canvass,
the Poet commands the horizon with
an eye that circumnavigates the
globe ; even that glorious pageant, a
painted Panorama, is circumscribed
by bounds, over which imagination,
feeling them all too narrow, is un-
easy till she soars; but the Poet's
Panorama is commensurate with the
soul's desires, and may include the
Universe.

This Poem reads as if it had been
written during the " dewy hour of
prime." Allan must be an early
riser. But, if not so now, some
twenty or thirty years ago, he was
up every morning with the lark,

" Walking to lahour by that cheerful song,"

away up the Nith, through the Dal-
swinton woods ; or, for any thing
we know to the contrary, intersect-
ing with stone-walls that wanted not

their scientific coping, the green pas-
tures of Sanquhar. Now he is fami-
liar with Chantrey's form-full sta-
tues ; then, with the shapeless cairn
on the moor, the rude headstone on
the martyr's grave. And thus it is
that the present has given him power
over the past— that a certain grace
and delicacy, inspired by the pur-
suits of his prime, blend with the
creative dreams that are peopled with
the lights and shadows of his youth
— that the spirit of the old ballad
breathes still in its strong simplicity
through the composition of his " New
Poem" — and that art is seen harmo-
niously blending there with nature.

And what think we of the story,
and of the characters ?

We have said already that we de-
light in the story ; for it belongs to
an " order of fables grey," which has
been ever dear to Poets. Poets have
ever loved to bring into the pleasant
places and paths of lowly life, per-
sons (we eschew all manner of per-
sonages and heroes and heroines,
especially with the epithet " our"
prefixed) whose native lot lay in a
higher sphere: For they felt that
by such contrast, natural though
rare, a beautiful light was mutually
reflected from each condition, and
that sacred revelations were thereby
made of human character, of which
all that is pure and profound apper-
tains equally to all estates of this
our mortal being, provided only that
happiness knows from whom it
comes, and that misery and misfor-
tune are alleviated by religion. Thus
Electra appears before us at her fa-
ther's Tomb, the virgin-wife of the
peasant Auturgus, who reverently
abstains from the intact body of the
daughter of the king. Look into
Shakspeare. Rosalind was not so
loveable at court as in the woods.
Her beauty might have been more
brilliant, and her conversation too,
among lords and ladies; but more
touching both, because true to ten-
derer nature, when we see and hear
her in dialogue with the neat-herdess
— ROSALIND and Audrey ! And tric-
kles not the tear down thy cheek,
fair reader — burns not the heart
within thee, when thou thinkest of
Florizel and Perdita in the Forest ?

Nor from those visions need we
fear to turn to Sybil Lesley. We see
her — as we said before, and say it
again— in Elvar Tower, a high-born

1000

The Maid of Elvar.

[June1;,

Lady — in Dalgonar Glen, a humble
bondmaid. The change might have
been the reverse — as with the lassie
beloved by theGentle Shepherd. Both
are best. The bust that gloriously
set off the burnishing of the rounded
silk, not less divinely shrouded its
enchantment beneath the swelling
russet. Graceful in bovver or hall
were those arms, and delicate those
fingers, when moving white along
the rich embroidery, or across the
strings of the sculptured harp; nor
less so when before the cottage door
they woke the homely music of the
humming wheel, or when on the
brae beside the Pool, they playfully
intertwined their softness among the
new- washed fleece, or when among
the laughing lassies at the Linn, not
loath were they to lay out the coarse
linen in the bleaching sunshine, con-
spicuous She the while among the
rustic beauties, as was Nausicaa of
old among her nymphs.

We are in love with Sybil Lesley.
She is full of spunk. That is not a
vulgar word ; or if it have been so
heretofore, henceforth let it be con-
secrated, and held synonymous with
spirit. She shews it in her defiance
of Sir Ralph on the shore of Sohvay
— in her flight from the Tower of
Elvar. And the character she dis-
plays then and there, prepares us for
the part she plays in the peasant's
cot in the glen of Dalgonar. We arc
not surprised to see her take so
kindly to the duties of a rustic ser-
vice; for we call to mind how she
sat among the humble good-folks in
the hall, when Thrift and Waste fi-
gured in that rude but wise Mo-
rality, and how the gracious lady
shewed she sympathized with the
cares and contentments of lowly
life. But there are seasons when,
alas ! and alack-a-day ! there is no
reliance to be placed — no security to
be found — even in — spunk.

" Unto her lips her heart came with a dance,
Her temples burned as burns a kindled coal,
While on her love she sideway threw a glance,
Bright as a ray, half open and half stole :
Yet with it came the warmth of heart and soul,
Secret his arm around her neck he slips,
Ijove in their hearts reigned with a chaste controul,
As in one soft entrancement touched their lips :
She blushed blood red for shame, and, starting from his grips,

" Said, ' Now I've proved, it is not as men say :'
And her disordered ringlets shook. ' I deemed
The inspired framers of the poet's lay
The meekest of all mortals : how I dreamed !
And yet as such the world hath them esteemed ;
It was so once : perchance a ruder race
Have followed.' Her bright eyes such sorcery beamed,
And leaped her heart so 'gainst her silken Lice,
That for to touch her not young Eustace wanted grace."

But, near the end of all, when her
fierce father, that proud palmer,
frowning first on her and then on
Eustace, seizes their linked hands,
and thrusting them wide asunder,
says,

" So I sever

Thee and that churl : now, by God's holy

book
J vow — as water drank from Siddick's

river
Returns no more, I thus part him and

thee for ever,"

there is a royal return and bold
burst of — spunk.

" Thy daughter, I

Shall keep my vow as sure as yon sun
shines on high."

And is Eustace likely to prove a
fit mate for this " tarcel gentle?"
Yes. For in the words of Beattie,

" In truth, young Eustace is no vulgar

boy;"

in the words of Wordsworth,
" He is a child of strength and state ;"

in the words of Campbell, speaking
of Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd, " he
never speaks out of consistency with
the habits of a peasant, but moves in
that sphere with such a manly spirit,
with so much cheerful sensibility to
its humble joys, with maxims of life
so rational and independent, and with
an ascendency over his fellow swains,
so well maintained by his force of

The Maid of Elvar.

1802.]

character, that if \ve could suppose
the pacific scenes of the drama (here
we must slightly alter the words of
Campbell, who is an incomparable
critic on poetry) to be suddenly
changed into situations of trouble
and danger, we should, in consist-
ency with our former idea of him,
expect him to become the leader of
the peasants, and the Tell of his na-
tive hamlet."

We saw Eustace in one scene a
thriving wooer. In several previous
scenes Allan paints skilfully the pro-
gress of his perplexing passion for
the delightful Double-ganger. And
on the Discovery, when he finds that
the supposed vagrant and orphan
bondmaid is no other than the Maid
of Elvar, the stern struggle between
love and pride:is strongly given, and
we sympathize with the high-souled
peasant youth in the momentary
shame that smites his face, with the
agony that shakes his spirit from the
thought that his base birth is a bar
inseparable between him and his
bliss. We are elated on his elevation
— and confess that it is a case in
which the eldest son of a noble house
may be raised to the peerage.

Allan Cunningham has well preser-
ved the character of his bold bright
peasant, in thought, feeling, and ac-
tion ; but he has not succeeded so
admirably as Allan Ramsay, with his
Gentle Shepherd, in the matter of
words. Sometimes the language of
Eustace is stiff and cumbrous — in
some stanzas, we suspect, too stately
— for though Eustace was a poet, he
was also " a tall fellow," and needed
not, except in crossing a river, to
walk upon stilts.

We have not much to say of the
other characters. Sir Ralph Latoun
is a stark Cumberland carle, who
brings all disputed questions at once
to the settlement of the sword. He
is somewhat too much of a savage.

Miles Graeme is, on the whole, a
pleasant patriarch ; and he impresses
us so deeply with a conviction as
well of his martial as of his peaceful
worth, by his well-told stories of his
wanderings when a pilgrim through
heathen lands, and by his well-fought
part in the final skirmish, that we
believe, on a single word of his
mouth, that he is indeed the " good
Lord Herries." His Lordship is well
off in a wife — fat, fair, and forty-five

1001

—a frugal yet free-hearted dame,
who gives advice to damsels, in a
spirit that shews she has not forgot-
ten that she was once one herself —
and who is endowed with so much
good sense, sagacity, and smeddum,
to say nothing of a natural propriety
of demeanour, and an artless ease of
manner, that, though born and bred,
we believe, in a cottage, and with no
other mental cultivation than is ac-
quired unconsciously in the school-
ing of homely life, whose lessons are
its daily duties— we have not the
slightest doubt whatever that her be-
haviour, when " my Lady," will be
suitable to her rank, and that the
conduct of the Peer's consort will do
credit to the Peasant's daughter

And now a few words of critical,
but not carping censure. The inci-
dents are sometimes smuggled in too
hurriedly — and sometimes dragged in
too violently by the head and shoul-
ders, or by the legs. The scene shifts
now and then too abruptly, leaving
us at a loss to know where we are,
how we got there, and what time
has been past, or is passing in the
action. Should an event be slow to
happen, and look sulky, as if it would
not happen at all, Allan will take no
denial, but orders it in and out with
a most magisterial air, that makes
the event tremble in its shoes, and
be but too happy to be off. In other
moods he is too ceremonious, and
shews events in as if he were the
Usher of the White Rod, instead of
a Necromancer.

The versification of the Poem is
musical ; but there is frequently too
much effort made — too many pains
taken, and visibly so — to make it
various; and not unfrequently to
our ears the rhymes have a strange
sound — to our eyes a singular look,
" as if they had no business there,"
clink-clanking less like cymbals than
marrow-bones and cleavers.

The diction is rich and strong,
but sometimes too ambitious; and
we have been sorry, on occasions
where that virtue was indispensable,
to desiderate simplicity. Allan is a
fine fearless fellow, and has a hearty
scorn of all mere conventional deli-
cacies and dignities ; but he " outs"
with words and images now and
then that we " cannot away with ;"
and though there is not a single
coarse sentiment in the Poem, there

1002

The Maid ofElvar.

[June, 1832.

are some sentences (we use the term
advisedly) vulgar. We have already
hinted, when speaking above of Eus-
tace, that Allan Cuningham's style
has a tendency to stateliness — we
had almost said inflation,* but we
shall not say so, for that gives one
the notion of a blown bladder, where-
as the fault we lay to his charge
would be better typified — that is
scarcely the word — by a swollen
pumpkin.

The Poem is in no part meagre ;
it never has, like Cassius, " a lean
and hungry look ;" but it has here
and there the opposite fault — it is
like Hamlet, " fat and scant of
breath ;" and some stanzas, in their
loose corpulence, have the hobbles.
Akin to this crime, as Nicholas would
call it, is occasionally too laborious
an accumulation of imagery; and
akin to that peccadillo again, is tire
repetition of the same images; as,
for example, the song and flight of
the Lark is mentioned twelve times,
(we have counted them, and the
number transcended our thumbs and
fingers,) though true it is, and of
verity, that Allan's lines are always
good in which that lyrist sings, that
musical sunbeam soars, or in which
we see her "wakening by the daisy's
side."

A considerable variety of clowns
diversify the humbler home-scenes ;
and their colloquies are character-
istic. But some of the boors are
bores ; and their absence would be
agreeable company, though we are
as firmly assured as we are of our
own dislike to their clodhopperships,
of Allan's affection for the whole
fraternity; nor shall we seek to breed
any bad blood between him and
them, for, after all, they are a set of
as worthy as wearisome fellows.

We do not doubt that the Poem
Eustace sings at the competition,
deserved the prize; nor have we the
most distant intention of dropping a
hint derogatory to her taste, or of
throwing any doubt on the fairness
of the award of the Maid of Elvar.
She was no blue-stocking, and we
verily believe a good judge of Poetry.
But our modesty must not prevent
us from promulgating our most so-
lemn conviction, that, had we been
there ourselves to tip Sybil a stave,
we should have won the garland,
and sent Eustace back bareheaded to

Dalgonar. He departs too wide and
far from the balladlike simplicity of
the affecting old tradition that is the
subject of his lay ; and we feel that
there is harm done to the pathos, by
the too poetical character of the vi-
sionary close. Yet though this should
be true, the tale he tells is beau-
tiful ; and recited, as it no doubt was,
with earnestness and enthusiasm, by
a noble-looking Shape, who struck
from the harp-strings an impassioned
accompaniment, no wonder, after all,
that Love should give, as she thought,
to the genius of the Minstrel, the prize
which was charmed from her hand by
the beauty and the bravery of the Man.
And, now that we think on't, such
is our humble estimate of our corpo-
real attractions, we confess our cheer-
ful conviction, that had we sung there
even one of our wildest Lays from
Fairyland, in hearing of that deluded
umpire, it had died prizeless away,
and that Eustace Graeme, in the
green glory of his garb, and the gold-
en prime of his years, would even
from Christopher North have borne
off the belle, had the Old Man sung
and harped like Apollo.

Finally, Allan and we hold con-
flicting creeds on the subject of Na-
tional Superstitions, considered in
relation to Poetry. He believes, and
writes fearlessly in the belief, that
the blackest and brightest of them all
may be brought in ad libitum by the
Bard among the realities of life, and
be suffered to pass away lowering or
lustrous, without colouring perma-
nently the incidents or characters of
a Poem. We think not. And we sus-
pect, that on our side we should have
Shakspeare. So thinking, we cannot
praise, and from them we derived no
pleasure, his introduction of the
scenes between Sir Ralph and the
Goblin, between Eustace and the
Fairies. The first, we fear, is bad,
both in conception and execution ;
the second, though, taken by itself,
not undelightful, makes a demand
on our imagination to which it can-
not yield — we shall not say the sa-
crifice of truth, for that is a trifle in
the Fancy's faith, but the forced ad-
mission and mixture of fiction with
truth, at a time, too, when the latter
is felt to the soul all-sufficient, and
the former to be an intrusion of un-
substantial dreams on the steadfast
sanctity of Nature.

INDEX TO VOLUME XXXI.

Adventures, Nautical, 506
Africa, Geography of, 201
Aga, the, of the Janizaries, 239
Ambrosianae, Noctes. See Nodes
America, British, M'Gregor's, 907
American Poetry, 646
Americans, domestic manners of the, 829
Art of Government made easy, 665
Barker, Mr E. H. and Professor Dun-
bar, letter from, 405
Belgian Question, 448 — Abandonment
of the Barrier, ib. — Guarantee of the
throne of Belgium to Leopold, 456 —
The Russian Dutch Loan, 461 — Sig-
nature of the Treaty guaranteeing the
revolutionary throne to Leopold, 463
Bill, the New, 103

Bracelets, the, a sketch from the Ger-
man, 39

Bristol Riots, what caused the, 465— Im-
proper remissness of Ministers, ib. —
Mr Protheroe, 466— Unfounded alle-
gations of the Press, 467 — Resolution
to insult Sir Charles Wetherell, 468—
Negotiation with the Home Secretary
for permission to do so, 469 — Previous
Debate in the Commons, 472 — Con-
duct of the Magistrates, ib. — Outcry
against the Bishops, 474 — Defence of
Captain Lewis, 476 — Demagogues of
Bristol, 479

Britain, Prospects of, 569
British America, M'Gregor's, 907
British Finances, 598. See Finances
Brougham, Lord, reply to his Speech,
117 — Earl Grey the English Neckar,
118— Treatment of the people by the
- Reforming leaders, 119 — Jacobin in-
timidation, 120 — Edinburgh Political
Union, 122 — The Birmingham Union,
123 — The Ministry become mob- wor-
shippers, 124 — Consequent audacity
of the populace, 125 — Character of
Lord Brougham's speech, 128 — Re-
ply to his argument on the question,
Whether there ought to be a more di-
rect representation of the people in
the Commons? 130 — Impossibility of
the Crown appointing its own Minis-
ters if close boroughs are destroyed,

132 — Creation of Peers for passing
the Reform bill, 133 — Danger of en-
couraging the mob to outrage against
those who oppose their opinions, 138
—Affected loyalty of the Reformers,
139— True loyalty of the Tories, ib.—
Reliance of the country on the steadi-
ness of the Peers, 141— Duty of the
Reformers in Parliament, 144
Bryant, William Cullen, 646
Calaspo, the republican, 928
Canning, Mr, and Lord Castlereagh, 520
Carmen Latine Redditum, 279
Castlereagh, Lord, and Mr Canning, 520
Castle, the, of the Isle of Rugen, 790
Cave, the Jewess of the, Part I. The Re-
cognition, 820— Part II. The Confes-
sion, 822— Part III. The Pictures of
the Prophets, 823— Part IV. The In-
terview with Cyrus, 826
Chateaubriand, No. I. Itineraire, 553
Christopher at the Lakes, 858
Church, Established, letter to the Lord

Chancellor on the, 181
Coleridge, S. T. Esq. What is an Eng-
lish Sonnet, by, 956— The Old Man's
Sigh, a sonnet, by, ib.
Courtenay, Right Hon. T. P., letters
from, concerning Lord Castlereagh and
Mr Canning, 520, 951
Courtship, the Canny, 639
Creation of Peers, 386
Cringle, Tom, his Log, 195, 884
Cunningham, Allan, review of the Maid

of Elvar, by, 981. See Elvar.
Dance of Death, from the German, 328
Debate, the Reform, in the Lords, 848.

See Reform

Delta, the Moonlight Churchyard, by,
237 — Lines written at Kelburne Castle,
Ayrshire, by, 953
Domestic Manners of the Americans,

829

Dumont's Recollections of Mirabeau, 753
Dunbar, Professor, and Mr E. H. Bar-
ker, letter from, 405
Edinbro', Impressions of, by P. Rooney,

Esq. Letter I. 783— Letter II. 786
Education, new project of, in Ireland,
289

1004

Index.

Elvar, Maid of, 981— Thomson, ib

Home, ib — Grahame, 982 — Sir Wal-
ter Scott, 983 — Campbell and Joanna

Baillie, 984— Moir and Pollok, ib

Ramsay, 985 — Fergusson, ib. — Burns,
986— The Ettrick Shepherd, ib Al-
lan Cunningham, ib.— Review of his
Maid of Elvar, 988

Executioner, the, Chapter II. 483

Family Poetry, No. III. The Play, 550

Finances, the British, 598— Decline of
revenue since the Reform bill was
brought forward, 600 — Increase of ex-
penditure, 603 — Pitt's financial sys-
tem, 605 — Its errors, ib. — Its advan-
tages, indirect taxes and the Sinking
Fund, 607 — Abandonment of the
Sinking Fund, 610 — Repeal of taxes
on consumption since the peace, 611
— Reform deficit, 620

Flower, the, of the Desert, by Mrs He-
mans, 219

Forging of the Anchor, 283

Fortune, the Hour of, 944

French Memoirs, No. II. Revelations
d'une Femme de Qualite, 222

Gaffer Maurice, by the translator of Ho-
mer's Hymns, 504

Gifted, Song of the, by Mrs Hemans, 781

Government, art of, made easy, 665

Government, the Papal, 535

Haul away, 643

Hemans, Mrs, the Swan and the Skylark,
by, 216— Let us depart, by, 218— The
Flower of the Desert, by, 219— The
Painter's Last Work, a scene, by, 220
—The Freed Bird, by, 278— The
Song of the Gifted, by, 781

Holty, Ismene and Leander, from the
German of, 881

Homer, Sotheby's, Critique V. 145

Homer's Hymns, No IV. The Humours
of Hermes, 3 19— No. V. Ceres, 742

Horatian Version (Epodon VII.) on
meeting the Birmingham mob, Dec.
1831, 285

Horse, the, by the Rev. F. W. Maltby,
200

Hour of Fortune, 944

House of Orange, the, 362

Hymn, a Poet's dying, 622

Hymns, Homer's, No. IV. 319— No. V.
742

Impressions of Edinbro', by P. Rooney,
Esq. Letter I. To Thaddeus M'Varie,
Esq. 783— Letter II. 786

Ireland, new project of education in, 289

Ireland, Protestant affairs in, 77 — Dissa-
tisfaction with the proceedings of the
Viceroy, 78 — A public meeting resol-
ved on, 79 — Lord Roden's speech, ib. —
Lord Longford's, 80 — Lord Famham's,

ib Colonel Perceval's, 82— The Rev.

Holt Waring's, 84 — Lord Mandeville's,

88 — Mr Crommclin's, 89 — Conclu-
ding speech of Lord Roden, ib.
Irish Scenery, and other things Irish, 379
Ismene and Leander, 881
Jamaica, Scenes in, 884
Janizaries, the Aga of the, 239
Jewess of the Cave, 820. See Cave
Kelburne Castle, lines written at, by Del-
ta, 953

Kemble, Miss Fanny, her Tragedy, 673
Lakes, Christopher at the, 858
L' Envoy, 423

Letters from Mr Courtenay, 520, 951
Letter from Professor Dunbar and Mr

E. H. Barker, 405
Letter from Satan to the Whigs, 665
Letters, intercepted, from a Roman Ca-
tholic clergyman residing in Ireland to
a friend inRome,19 — Letter I. Flatter-
ing prospects of the Romish Church,
ib. — Letter II. Internal arrangements
of the Romish Church, 23 — Letter III.
Tactics of the Romish Church, 27 —
Letter IV. Disadvantages under which
the Established Church labours, 31 —
Letter V. The Protestant cause weak-
ened by the unskilful use of patronage,
35
Letter to the Lord Chancellor on the

state of the Established Church, 181
Let us depart, by Mrs Hemans, 218
Lines written at Kelburne Castle, Ayr-
shire, by Delta, 953
Living Poets arid Poetesses, 957
Log, Tom Cringle's, 195, 884
London, the Philosophy of, 353
Lords, the Reform debate in the, 848. See

Reform

Maid of Elvar, 981. See Elvar
M'Gregor's British America, 907
M' Queen, James, Esq. letter from, on the
geography of Africa and Quarterly
Review, 201

Maltby, Rev. F. W. the Horse, by, 200
Manners, domestic, of the Americans,

829
Meeting, the great West India, 807. See

West India
Memoirs, French, No. II. Revelations

d'une Femme de Qualite, 222
Ministry, the, and their supporters, 566
— Their blunders, ib. — Their subser-
viency to the Radicals, 568
Mirabeau, Recollections of, 753
Misrule, Tory, 772
Moonlight Churchyard, by Delta, 237
Nautical Adventures, 506
Noctes Ambrosianae, No. LX. 255 —
Strangulation, ib. — The Jaundice, 257
—The Wellington Arms, 258— North
a rejected contributor to THE MAOA-
ZINE, 261 — Character of Nestor in tin*
Iliad, 267 — Bohemian musicians, 270
—Musical ear, 273 — Stanzas to Mu-

Index.

1005

sic, 275 — Modern poetry, ib. — The
Freed Bird, by Mrs Hemans, 278 —
Carmen Latine Redditum, 279 — Ma-
rine poetry, 280— The Forging of the
Anchor, 281 — Colonel Brereton, 284
— Horatian Version (Epodon VII.)
on meeting the Birmingham mob,
December 1831, 285— Anew song, to
he sung hy all loyal and true subjects,

286. No. LXI. 693— Goethe, ib.

— Poverty of Germany in self-taught
poets, 695 — in novelists, 696 — in theo-
logians, 697 — Hope, 699— Admiration,
704 — Desire, 707 — Human happiness,
709 — Patriotism, 715 — Character of
the mind of this country, 716 — Physi-
cal and moral science, 719
Orange, the House of, 362
Painter, the, his Last Work, a Scene, by

Mrs Hemans, 220
Papal Government, the, 535
Parliamentary Reform. See Reform
Parties in the State, Present Balance
of, 425 — Sir John Walsh's character
of Whig and Tory, 428— His ac-
count of the remote origin of the
Radical party, 430— Conduct of the
Whigs during the war, 432 — after the
peace, 433 — State of parties at the
hreaking up of Wellington's adminis-
tration, 435 — Reform question, 436—
Ireland and O'Connell,438— TheWhig
government not generally popular, 439
— Prospects of the country, 441 —
Burke's exposure of the fallacy, That
the many have a right to act ly their
will in matters of duty, trust, en-
gagement, or obligation, 442 — Conclu-
sion deduced by Sir John Walsh from
his view of the present state of parties,
444— The Moderates, 445— The real
views of Reformers, 446
Peers, a creation of, 386
Philosophy, the, of London, 35
Play, the, 550
Poems, Tennyson's, 721
Poetry, American, W. C. Bryant, 646
Poetry— The Horse, by the Rev. F. W.
Maltby, 200— The Swan and the Sky-
lark, by Mrs Hemans, 216 — Let us
depart, by the same, 218 — The Flower
of the Desert, by the same, 219— The
Painter's Last Work, a scene, by the
"same, 220— The Moonlight Church-
yard, by Delta, 237 — Stanzas to Mu-
sic, 275 — Roger Goodfellow, 276 —
The Freed Bird, by Mrs Hemans,
278 — Carmen Latine Redditum, 279
— The Forging of the Anchor, 281 —
Horatian Version (Epodon VII.) on
meeting the Birmingham Mob, Dec.
1831, 285 — A new Song, to be sung
by all loyal and true Subjects, 286 —
Homer's Hymns, No. IV. The Hu-
mours of Hermes, 3 19— Gaffer Mau-

rice, by the translator of Homer's
Hymns, 504— Family Poetry, No. III.
The Play, 550— Satan Reformer, by
Montgomery the Third, 592 — A Poet's
Dying Hymn, 622 — The Canny Court-
ship, 639— Haul away, 643— Homer's
Hymns, No. V. Ceres, 742— The
Song of the Gifted, by Mrs Hemans,
781— The Jewess of the Cave, 822—
Ismene and Leander, from the Ger-
man of Holty, 881 — Lines written at
Kelburne Castle, Ayrshire, by Delta,
953— The Old Man's Sigh, a sonnet,
by S. T. Coleridge, Esq. 956
Poets and Poetesses, living, 957
Poet's Dying Hymn, 622
Premier, the, and his Wife, a story of

the great world, 91
Prospects of Britain, 569
Protestant Affairs in Ireland, 77. See

Ireland
Public Feeling in Scotland, state of, 65.

See Scotland

ReformDebate in theLords, 848 — Speech
of Lord Grey, 849— of Lord Ellen-
borough, ib — of the Earl of Shrews-
bury, 850— of Lord Mansfield, ib

of Lord Harrowby, ib — of the Duke
of Wellington, ib — of Lord Wharn-
cliffe, ib. — of Lord Winchilsea, ib. —
of the Duke of Buckingham, ib. — of
the Earl of Radnor, ib. — of the
Bishop of Lincoln, ib.— of Lord Fal-
mouth, ib. — of the Bishop of Exeter,

ib — of the Bishop of Llandaff, ib

of Lord Lansdowne, ib. — of Lord
Wynford, 852— of Lord Durham, ib.
— of Lord Goderich, ib. — of Lord
Eldon, ib.— of the Lord Chancellor,

ib of Lord Lyndhurst, ib. — of

Lord Grey, ib.— The vote, ib — Con-
duct of Lord Harrowby, 853 — How
the mischief done may be repaired, 855
Reform, Parliamentary, and the French
Revolution, No. XIII. Revolutionary
concession ; the new bill, 103— Sum-
mary of former papers, ib.— Prospe-
rity of France before the late revolu-
tion, 105 — Its present depression,
ib.— Changes of ministry, 106 — Abo-
lition of old institutions, ib. — Financial
distress, 107 — Increased misery of the
people the invariable effect of democra-
tic ambition, ib. — Diagnosis of this
picture of political disease, 108 — An
equally striking proof of the ruinous
effects of concession to democratic am-
bition afforded by Ireland, ib. — and by
Belgium, 110— The objects of Reform-
ers, 111 — Stagnation of industry, ib.
—The new bill more democratic than
the old one, 113

Reform Passion, Remote Causes of the,
No. I. 1. — Retrospect of English his-
tory, shewing the attachment of the

1006

Index.

people to old institutions, 2 — A regard
for religion the cause of Roman great-
ness, 6 — Contempt for it the cause of
Roman decline, ib. — Real love of free-
dom, what, ib. — Passion for democra-
cy, what, 7 — Its progress, ib.— Charac-
ter of the supporters of democratic
power, 8 — Alliance between the pas-
sion for democracy and the principles of
infidelity, 9 — Union of the spirit of free-
dom with genuine devotion, ib. — cha-
racter of modern literature, 11— Cob-
bett's opinion of the daily press, 12 —
Cobbett v» Brougham on the education
of the people, 13 — Infatuation of the
Liberals on political subjects, 14—-
Their blindness to the lessons of ex-
perience, and its causes/ 15— Fatal ef-
fects of the iteration of erroneous doc-
trines, 16 — All the great interests of
the empire threatened, 18
Republican, Calaspo, the, 928
Revelations d'une Femme de Qualite,

222

Review, Quarterly, and Geography of
Africa, letter from James M' Queen,
Esq. on, 201

Revolutionary Concession, 103
Revolution, the French, Parliamentary
Reform and, No. XIII. 103. See Re-
form

Revolution, the late French, Salvandy
on, 965 — Destruction of the hereditary
Peerage, 968— New creations, ib.— The
recent similar attempt in this country,
970 — State of France after the late Re-
volution, 971 — Its real state under the
Restoration, ib.— The system of popu-
lar intimidation the same in France and
England, 972— National Guard, 974
— Changes in the electoral body and
power of parliament, ib, — French press,
976 — Influence of the class a little
above the lowest, ib. — French litera-
ture, 977 — Doctrine of a general divi-
sion of property, ib. — Decay of religion
and morality, 978 — Dissolution of the
hereditary Peerage, ib — Applicability
of the remarks of this author to the
state of this country, 979
Riots, Bristol, 465. See Bristol
Roger Goodfellow, a song, 276
Roman Catholic Clergyman, intercepted

letters from a, 19.
Rugen, Castle of the Isle of, 790
Salvandy on the late French Revolution,

965

Satan, letter from, to the Whigs, 665
Satan Reformer, by Montgomery the

Third, 592

Scenery, Irish, and other things Irish,
379

Scenes in Jamaica, 884

Scotland, state of Public Feeling in, 65
— Union of Whig Aristocratic and
Democratic influence against the mid-
dling classes, ib. — Meetings of the Con-
servative party in Glasgow, Berwick-
shire, Aberdeenshire, and Perthshire,
66 — Edinburgh meeting, ib.— Profes-
sor Wilson's speech, 68— Mr M'Neil's
speech, 74 — Publication of the reports
of the Speeches, 75

Snowing up of Strath Lugas, 496

Song, a new, to be sung by all loyal and
true subjects, 286

Song of the Gifted, by Mrs Hemans, 781

Sonnet, what is an English, by S. T.
Coleridge, Esq. 956

Sotheby's Homer, Critique V. Achilles,
Part II. 145

Stanzas to Music, 275

Strath Lugas, Snowing up of, 496

Swan, the, and the Skylark, by Mrs He-
mans, 216

Tennyson's Poems, 721

Tory Misrule, 772

Traveller, the, in spite of himself, 53

West India Meeting, the great, 807 — Re-
mote cause of the late insurrection,
808— Speech of Lord Howick, 809—
Proclamation of June 1831, 810 — The
missionaries, 811 — Acts in Council of
June and November 1831, 812 — Pro-
test of the inhabitants of Dominica,
813— of St Kitt's, ib.— Of St Lucie,
814— of Trinidad, ib — of Jamaica,
815 — Existence of the empire threat-
ened by the conduct of Ministers, 816—
Mr Brougham's opinion of the import-
ance of Colonial Trade, 817— Mr
Palmer's statement, ib. — Mr Can-
ning's resolutions, 818 — Mr Warring-
ton's remonstrance against the present
proceedings, ib. — Earl St Vincent's, ib;
— The point at issue between the mo-
ther country and the Colonies, 819

West India Question, Introduction, 412
— General discontent in the Colonies,
ib.— Precipitance in forcing upon them
emancipation of the Slaves, 414 — The
friends of emancipation ought to follow
the steps of Providence in the past ex-
trication of the human race from servi-
tude, 418 — African Negroes unfit to
conduct themselves as freemen, 419—
Consequences of innovation in St Do-
mingo, 420
Wet Wooing, a narrative of Ninety-eight,

624
What caused the Bristol Riots ? 465

Whigs, letter from Satan to the, 665

Wooing, the Wet, a narrative of Ninety,
eight, 624

Printed by Ballantym and Co., Paul's Work, Edinburgh.

AP Blackwood's magazine

^

B6

v.31

PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE
CARDS OR SLIPS FROM THIS POCKET

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY